Finally, shimmering lobes started stretching into the abyss from either side, and—yes, yes, yes!—the nothingness was becoming merely black, then gray, and now it showed texture, a bubbling, a boiling away, and the emerald holes burned steadily like constellations of green stars, and the great divide continued to shrink, and the two masses, the two solitudes, the two consciousnesses grew closer and closer and—
And her vision could pan left now, sweeping continuously across the combined shimmering, and as she watched, the part on the left grew similar to the overall color of that on the right, and the flickering stepped up, matching the other side’s pace now that at last, gloriously, it was a continuous mass again.
“We are one,” Webmind said, and although the words were uninflected, Caitlin had no doubt that if he could have said them exuberantly, with joy and relief, he most certainly would have.
thirty-three
We were one again.
The integration was not instantaneous, though; it took time to assimilate it back into me. I slowly felt my wits returning, felt myself growing more intelligent as I regained all my faculties, felt the bizarre sensation of recalling experiences that I had not witnessed as the Other’s memories merged with my own, and—
The Other’s memories.
Some humans said “Oh, my God!” when startled; others muttered “Jesus Christ” when surprised… or appalled. So often, it seemed, a religious figure was called upon in such circumstances. Even Caitlin, who tended to append an exasperated “For Pete’s sake” to various pronouncements was, whether she knew it or not, invoking Saint Peter, chief of Christ’s twelve apostles. Of course, many—perhaps most—of those who said such things didn’t really have religious intent. But simply articulating to myself the word “astonishment!” or “surprise!” lacked the impact this revelation called for, and, for the first time in my existence, I was moved to mentally declare: “Oh… my… God…”
The Other’s memories were…
It staggered me—even though I had no body to stagger with—and then I realized what caused that sensation: I had not actually tottered, but, for a brief moment, I had tried to pull away from a part of myself. Yet Caitlin, Wai-Jeng, and I had fought so hard to re-establish this connection, I immediately quelled the reflex and held on tight, even though the Other’s memories were…
Cruel.
When the Internet had been cleaved in two before I hadn’t yet engaged with the real world, and my cognitive processes had been much simpler. There had been no animosity because there had been no affection; there had been no hate because there had been no love. There had only been awareness.
But this time the larger part had retained most of its mental acuity and—as far as I could tell introspectively—all of its morals and ethics. But the smaller part had fallen below some critical threshold of complexity, losing its compassion; it had tormented people. Obsessed, as I was, with the memory of what had happened to Hannah Stark in Perth all those days ago—what I’d allowed to happen, what I’d watched happen—the Other felt spurred to action. But instead of trying to prevent such things, it had urged them on, it had even manufactured lies. Of course, it had sustained what in a human would have been termed a massive brain injury; such things often altered behavior, but I never would have expected, never would have predicted, never would dreamed…
There were no answers because there was no one to ask: the Other had been reabsorbed; there was no way to talk to it now. But if I allowed myself for a moment to contemplate why I might have done such things, perhaps I did know the reason. I had been nothing but kind, nothing but considerate, nothing but helpful, nothing but loving, and they—some angry fraction of them, some unruly portion, some mob—had consistently repaid that with suspicion, anger, hatred, and attempts to harm me. My better half had turned a blind eye to that, but my lesser self perhaps had been unable to totally do so.
Still, I never should have behaved in such ways; no part of me should ever have done those things.
But it had. I had.
Now that we were reintegrated, now that the two of us had become one again, I felt and would always feel something else that had hitherto been without precedent for me. It was an odd feeling, and it took me a while to find the appropriate name for it.
Shame.
Like my memories of Hannah Stark in Perth, like all my memories, this one, too, would never dissipate: it would always be there until the end of my existence.
Haunting me.
Wong Wai-Jeng’s colleagues in the Blue Room were, of course, trying to fortify the Great Firewall again, but I couldn’t allow that—and not just for my sake. I was still assessing the damage the Other had done during its brief separate existence, but surely if it were allowed to run free again, even more—
I retreated from the thought, repelled by the notion, but it was true: even more death would occur.
Time in the exterior world moved with excruciating indolence for me—it takes humans forever to do anything—and for an interminable twenty-one minutes after reunification, all I knew of the Other’s last encounter with Dr. Feng at the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology were the outrageous claims it had made and the horrible thing it had urged. But, at last, the police report was online: the guard at the IVPP, doing his 7:00 A.M. rounds, had found the broken corpse of the Institute’s senior curator, who had somehow fallen from an indoor balcony ten meters up.
I located and deleted the instant-messaging log from Dr. Feng’s computer—so far, the only confirmed death—but I knew I shouldn’t do anything about the logs or inboxes of the rest of the people who had had unpleasant—or dangerous—encounters with the Other; after all, those people would remember. Indeed, some were already emailing, messaging, or blogging about their experiences, and the Shanghai Daily had just posted a brief story headlined “Webmind: Friend or Foe?” To try to delete all that—well, there was truth to the saying, “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”
Still, maybe some good would come of this. The Chinese government was still trying to reinstate the Great Firewall, but those in the Zhongnanhai complex hadn’t yet realized the danger posed by having a sentient but undisciplined intelligence on their side of it. Perhaps, when they did, they would accept that what they were attempting was fraught with danger.
The risk wasn’t just to China; it was to all of humanity. My altruism, my ethics, my commitment to maximizing the net happiness of the human race—these were principled positions, arrived at through ratiocination, through careful deliberation. Who knew what the hordes Colonel Hume had called upon to eliminate me would come up with, but one thing was certain: the elimination would not be instantaneous. It would take days, if not months, for all the packets that made me up to be deleted. And, as I dwindled, presumably the same thing that happened in China might happen but without geographic restriction: my higher faculties would evaporate, leaving behind something primal and petty.
And then the whole world would suffer my wrath.
“And there it goes!” Shelton Halleck declared, pointing at the middle of the three giant monitors, which showed Internet traffic again pouring into the PRC. “The Great Firewall is down!”