Read Online WWW 3: Wonder by Robert J. Sawyer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert J. Sawyer
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Anna said.
“Thank you,” said Webmind. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had; we know the source of the inadvertent leak, and he has promised to be more circumspect in the future. But Colonel Hume and his associates used that information to develop a technique for purging my mutant packets, which they tested by modifying the firmware in routers at one AT&T switching station in Alexandria, Virginia. I defeated that attempt but need a way to defend against a large-scale deployment of the same technique.”
She said nothing, and, after a moment, Masayuki prodded her. “Anna?”
“Well,” she said, “I did say to Hume that I’m conflicted; I don’t know if your emergence, Webmind, is a bad thing or a good thing. Um, no offense.”
“None taken. How may I assuage your concerns?”
“Honestly, I don’t think you can—not yet. It’s going to take time.”
“Time’s the one thing we don’t have, Anna,” Masayuki said. “Webmind’s in danger now, and we need your help.”
Peyton Hume got out of the limo and entered his own car in the parking lot at WATCH. He waited for the other vehicle to pull away, then used his notebook computer to download a local copy of the black-hat list the NSA kept. He felt his skin crawling as he did so, but not because he found the people on the list distasteful. A few different life choices, and he might have ended up on it himself. No, what was creeping him out was the thought that Webmind was likely aware of what he was doing; the damn thing was clearly monitoring even secure traffic now and was able to pluck out classified information at will. They’d left too many back doors in the algorithms—and now they were taking it up the ass.
Once he had the copy of the database on his own hard drive, he turned off his laptop’s Internet connection. He also pulled out his cell phone and turned that off, and he shut off the GPS in his car. No point making it easy for Webmind to track his movements.
He didn’t have the luxury of traveling far; he needed somebody nearby, somebody he could speak to face-to-face, without Webmind being able to listen in. He sorted the database by ZIP code, rubbed his eyes, and peered at the screen. He was exhausted, but he could sleep when he was dead. For now, there was no time to waste. This was it, the showdown between man and machine—the only one there would ever be. Once Webmind took over, there would be no going back. There had been other times when one man could have acted, and didn’t. One man could have saved Christ; one man could have stopped Hitler. History was calling him, and so was the future.
He examined the list of names in the database and clicked on the dossier for each one. The first ten—the closest ten—didn’t have the chops. But the eleventh . . . He’d read about this guy often enough. His house was seventy-four miles from here, in Manassas. Of course, there was always a chance that he wasn’t home, but guys like Chase didn’t have to go anywhere; they brought the world to themselves.
Hume turned on the radio—an all-news channel; voices, not music, something to keep him awake—and put the pedal to the metal.
The current announcer was female, and she was recapping the day’s campaign news: the Republican candidate trying to pull her foot out of her mouth in Arkansas; a couple of sound bites from her running mate; some White House flak saying that the president was too busy responding to the “advent of Webmind” to be out kissing babies; and . . .
“. . . and in other Webmind news, oncologists across the globe are scrambling to analyze the proposed cure for cancer put forth by Webmind earlier today.” Hume turned up the volume. “Dr. Jon Carmody of the National Cancer Institute is cautiously optimistic.”
A male voice: “The research is certainly provocative, but it’s going to take months to work through the document Webmind posted.”
Months? It was a ruse on Webmind’s part; it had to be.
“Thank you,” said Webmind. “I didn’t mean to imply that you had; we know the source of the inadvertent leak, and he has promised to be more circumspect in the future. But Colonel Hume and his associates used that information to develop a technique for purging my mutant packets, which they tested by modifying the firmware in routers at one AT&T switching station in Alexandria, Virginia. I defeated that attempt but need a way to defend against a large-scale deployment of the same technique.”
She said nothing, and, after a moment, Masayuki prodded her. “Anna?”
“Well,” she said, “I did say to Hume that I’m conflicted; I don’t know if your emergence, Webmind, is a bad thing or a good thing. Um, no offense.”
“None taken. How may I assuage your concerns?”
“Honestly, I don’t think you can—not yet. It’s going to take time.”
“Time’s the one thing we don’t have, Anna,” Masayuki said. “Webmind’s in danger now, and we need your help.”
Peyton Hume got out of the limo and entered his own car in the parking lot at WATCH. He waited for the other vehicle to pull away, then used his notebook computer to download a local copy of the black-hat list the NSA kept. He felt his skin crawling as he did so, but not because he found the people on the list distasteful. A few different life choices, and he might have ended up on it himself. No, what was creeping him out was the thought that Webmind was likely aware of what he was doing; the damn thing was clearly monitoring even secure traffic now and was able to pluck out classified information at will. They’d left too many back doors in the algorithms—and now they were taking it up the ass.
Once he had the copy of the database on his own hard drive, he turned off his laptop’s Internet connection. He also pulled out his cell phone and turned that off, and he shut off the GPS in his car. No point making it easy for Webmind to track his movements.
He didn’t have the luxury of traveling far; he needed somebody nearby, somebody he could speak to face-to-face, without Webmind being able to listen in. He sorted the database by ZIP code, rubbed his eyes, and peered at the screen. He was exhausted, but he could sleep when he was dead. For now, there was no time to waste. This was it, the showdown between man and machine—the only one there would ever be. Once Webmind took over, there would be no going back. There had been other times when one man could have acted, and didn’t. One man could have saved Christ; one man could have stopped Hitler. History was calling him, and so was the future.
He examined the list of names in the database and clicked on the dossier for each one. The first ten—the closest ten—didn’t have the chops. But the eleventh . . . He’d read about this guy often enough. His house was seventy-four miles from here, in Manassas. Of course, there was always a chance that he wasn’t home, but guys like Chase didn’t have to go anywhere; they brought the world to themselves.
Hume turned on the radio—an all-news channel; voices, not music, something to keep him awake—and put the pedal to the metal.
The current announcer was female, and she was recapping the day’s campaign news: the Republican candidate trying to pull her foot out of her mouth in Arkansas; a couple of sound bites from her running mate; some White House flak saying that the president was too busy responding to the “advent of Webmind” to be out kissing babies; and . . .
“. . . and in other Webmind news, oncologists across the globe are scrambling to analyze the proposed cure for cancer put forth by Webmind earlier today.” Hume turned up the volume. “Dr. Jon Carmody of the National Cancer Institute is cautiously optimistic.”
A male voice: “The research is certainly provocative, but it’s going to take months to work through the document Webmind posted.”
Months? It was a ruse on Webmind’s part; it had to be.
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