"I'm not going to lecture you on whether it's bright for you to be sending topless pictures to Matt, but your father says-"

"Dad knows?"

"Yes, he does. Of course, he hasn't seen the picture, but he knows. Which I guess is the point, sweetheart: anything you say or do online takes on a life of its own; if you're mortified that your father knows you're flashing your b.r.e.a.s.t.s at boys, then maybe you should stop and think about who else you wouldn't want to know that." Caitlin squirmed a bit on her chair, and her mom shifted on the bed.

"Anyway," her mother went on, "I take it this means things are getting . . . serious serious between you and Matt." between you and Matt."

Caitlin crossed her arms in front of her chest. "We haven't gone all the way yet, if that's what you mean."

"Well, that's probably good; you haven't been seeing him very long. But I heard that 'yet,' young lady."

"Well, I mean, um . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm sixteen, for Pete's sake!" Caitlin knew she sounded exasperated.

"Yes, you are," her mom replied. She smiled. "I remember exactly where I was when you were born."

"Yes, but . . . but . . ."

"What?" asked her mom.

"Well, American girls lose their virginity on average at the age of 16.4 years. And I'll be 16.4 around March 1."

Her mother's eyebrows went up. "You're doing a countdown?"

"Well . . . yeah."

Mom shook her head. "My Caitlin. Never wanting to be below average in anything, right?"

"That I got from you and Dad." I got from you and Dad."

"Only fair. I'm getting all my gray hairs from you." She smiled when she said that, but it quickly turned into a frown. "But what does it mean to say 'the average age for American girls to lose their virginity is 16.4 years'? Over what time period was the average taken? It certainly can't be the average age for girls born the month you you were born or later-since no one born then has reached 16.4 years yet. That stat could be based on data from the 1980s, the 1970s, or even before. Without knowing whether it's trending earlier or later recently, it's really a pretty meaningless figure, Caitlin. You should know that." were born or later-since no one born then has reached 16.4 years yet. That stat could be based on data from the 1980s, the 1970s, or even before. Without knowing whether it's trending earlier or later recently, it's really a pretty meaningless figure, Caitlin. You should know that."

Caitlin didn't like to be told she was wrong on a mathematical point, but she had to concede her mother was correct. Still, maybe more data would help. Looking sideways at her mom, she asked, "How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

"Well, first, you have to recognize that that was a different time. n.o.body worried about AIDS when I was your age, or most of the other STDs that are out there. But since you ask, I was seventeen." And then she smiled. "Seventeen-point-two, to be precise."

"But . . . but . . . other girls my age at school are . . . um . . ."

"Doing it?" her mom said. "Maybe some are-but don't believe everything people say. Besides, I'm sure Bashira isn't."

"No, not her. But Sunshine . . ."

"That's the girl who walked you home from the dance, right?"

"Right. The chick from Boston."

"Tell me about her."

"Well, she's tall-all legs, b.o.o.bs, and blonde hair."

"I've heard Bashira say she's pretty."

"Everybody says she's gorgeous."

"And she was in some of your cla.s.ses?"

"Yeah. She's not the smartest girl, but she's got a good heart."

"I'm sure. Does she have a boyfriend?"

"Uh-huh. A guy named Tyler."

"Do you know if they've been seeing each other a long time?"

"I'm not sure. He's older-nineteen, I think. He's a security guard."

Her mom ticked points off on her fingers-the first time Caitlin had ever seen anyone do that; she thought it was cool, despite what her mom was saying: "Not the brightest girl. Getting by on her looks. Dating a much-older guy. Is that right?"

Caitlin nodded slightly. "That's Sunshine."

"Okay, question for you," her mom said. "Which side of the median do you think she she was on? And is that the side was on? And is that the side you you want to be on?" want to be on?"

Caitlin frowned and considered this. Then: "But Matt-he's going . . . um, he's going to want to . . ."

"Has he said that?"

"Well, no. no. He's He's Matt. Matt. He's not very a.s.sertive. But boys like to have s.e.x." He's not very a.s.sertive. But boys like to have s.e.x."

"Yes, they do. So do girls, for that matter. But your first time should be special. And it should be with someone you care about and who cares about you. Do you care about Matt?"

"Of course!"

"Really? This is a tough question, Caitlin, so think about it: do you like Matt in particular, or do you just like having a boyfriend in general?'Cause I gotta tell you, sweetheart, when I married Frank, it was because I liked the idea of marriage, and since he asked, I said yes. But that was a mistake."

"Was . . . um, was Frank your first . . . you know?"

Her mother hesitated for a moment, then: "No." She blew out air, as if trying to decide whether to go on, and then, after a moment, she did. "No, it was a guy who lived on my street. Curtis."

"And?" asked Caitlin-meaning, "And was it wonderful?"

But her mother's response took her back. "And why do you think I'm so in favor of abortion rights?"

Caitlin felt her eyes go wide. "Wow," she said softly.

Her mother nodded. "If I hadn't been able to get one quickly and safely at seventeen, I never would have gone to university, I never would have earned my Ph.D., I never would have met your dad-and I never would have had you." She paused, looked away for a moment, then said, "And so, whenever you you decide s.e.x is right for you-not based on some stupid statistic or beating the averages, but because it feels right and the guy is the right guy-you're going to do it safely, young lady. So let's talk about how that's done." decide s.e.x is right for you-not based on some stupid statistic or beating the averages, but because it feels right and the guy is the right guy-you're going to do it safely, young lady. So let's talk about how that's done."

"Mom! I can google all that, you know!"

"Reading about it isn't the same, and you're still terrible at interpreting pictures visually. But touch? You've got that down to an art. So, we're going to do it the old-fashioned way." She opened the small bag she'd brought with her and handed something yellow to Caitlin. "This," "This," she said, "is a banana, and"-she handed her a square foil pouch-" she said, "is a banana, and"-she handed her a square foil pouch-"this is a condom . . ." is a condom . . ."

Zhang Bo let out a heavy sigh as he walked down the corridor toward the People's Monitoring Center-the "Blue Room," as it was called. It had been no fun for his predecessor in 2010 dealing with China's attempt to censor Google after the search engine withdrew from the mainland-and this was going to be even worse: invoking the Changcheng Strategy again was that debacle writ large. And yet, his job was to follow orders; he'd do as he'd been instructed. Of course, something like this was just done, done, without an announcement to either the Chinese people or the world. without an announcement to either the Chinese people or the world.

He opened the door to the Blue Room and entered. He could see into several of the cubicles, each of which had a man pounding at a keyboard or clicking with a mouse or staring at a screen. He wondered if Wong Wai-Jeng, over there, knew how much he'd gone to bat for him. Part of him wanted to tell him, but seeing him sitting there truly was enough. Yes, his leg was still in a cast, but the crutches leaning against the side of his desk were a testament to the fact that he could could walk again. Sometimes, doing good was its own reward. walk again. Sometimes, doing good was its own reward.

Several of the hackers had noticed him enter. They were a furtive bunch, used to looking over their shoulders in smoky Internet cafes. Zhang clapped his hands together once to get their attention. "All right, listen up, please." Those who had line of sight to him looked out of their cubicles; others stood to see over the fabric-covered divider walls. "A decision has been taken by the president, and we are about to implement it." He paused, letting that sink in, then added: "A new era begins today."

Tony Moretti sat in his office at WATCH headquarters. His a.n.a.lysts, down the hall, were searching for signs of attack on the infrastructure of the Internet, but he had left the controlled chaos of that room to take a break, sit, drink black coffee, and try to get a handle on what was going on.

Webmind, it seemed, was rapidly becoming the New Normal. David Letterman's dated quip last night that "the only person with more connections than Webmind was Marion Barry" had made Barry's name the top search term for a few hours on Google. And speaking of Google, its stock price had tumbled drastically in the days following Webmind's advent-after all, why rely on one-size-fits-all algorithms to search when someone who really knew you would answer your questions personally?

But there were lots of things people still wanted to access without Webmind's help. It was psychologically easier to search for "v.i.a.g.r.a," "Megan Fox nude," or many other things through an impersonal Web portal than by asking someone you knew-even if you knew that someone was watching over your shoulder. And so Google's stock was rising again. In recognition of the turnaround, waiting for which must have had them s.h.i.tting their pants in Mountain View, Google had changed its home-page logo for today to its stock-ticker symbol GOOG followed by an upward-pointing arrow and the euro sign.

But if Webmind hadn't completely revolutionized Internet searching, he was was having an impact on Tony's line of work. WATCH's mandate was to ferret out signs of terrorism online, but Webmind was doing such a good job of that on his own that-well, the WATCH monitoring room reminded Tony of NASA's Apollo-era Mission Control Center in Houston. That room, as he'd seen on a tour, was now unused, preserved as a historic site; perhaps this place might soon end up just as obsolete. having an impact on Tony's line of work. WATCH's mandate was to ferret out signs of terrorism online, but Webmind was doing such a good job of that on his own that-well, the WATCH monitoring room reminded Tony of NASA's Apollo-era Mission Control Center in Houston. That room, as he'd seen on a tour, was now unused, preserved as a historic site; perhaps this place might soon end up just as obsolete.

As much as he loved his work, part of him did wish that someday the job would no longer be necessary. Just this morning, the Homeland Security Threat Level-the one constantly announced at airports-had been dropped one step from its usual value of orange, which was just shy of all-out attack, to yellow.

Certainly Webmind had managed to spot things that Tony's people-and their counterparts in other ECHELON nations-had missed, although the cynic in him thought the reduction of the threat level was probably just a political move. The old method of heightening alert prior to an election in hopes of signaling that a regime change would be unwise hadn't worked last time; perhaps lowering it to convey "See how safe you are under the current administration!" had been what the president's campaign staff had urged.

But DHS wasn't the only one dialing things back a notch. The editors of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists had adjusted the big hand on their famous Doomsday Clock for the first time in almost three years. They'd moved it to six minutes to midnight back then, in recognition of worldwide cooperation to reduce nuclear a.r.s.enals and limit effects of climate change. This morning, they moved it another two positions, setting it at eight minutes to midnight. had adjusted the big hand on their famous Doomsday Clock for the first time in almost three years. They'd moved it to six minutes to midnight back then, in recognition of worldwide cooperation to reduce nuclear a.r.s.enals and limit effects of climate change. This morning, they moved it another two positions, setting it at eight minutes to midnight.

And it wasn't just here in the States that the mood was lightening. In Pakistan and India, people were signing pet.i.tions urging their leaders to let Webmind negotiate a peaceful settlement to long-standing disputes. Webmind was already brokering a settlement in an Aboriginal land claim in Australia, which should obviate the need for that case to be heard by the High Court there.

Homicides and suicides were down in almost every jurisdiction over the same period the year before. Novelty WWWD bracelets-What Would Webmind Do?-had already appeared on eBay and at Cafe Press from numerous vendors, prompting the Pope to remind the faithful that the real key to morality was following the teachings of Jesus. And a graphic showing the standard red-circle outline with a bar through it over top of a smaller black outline circle was now everywhere online. Tony had finally realized it was meant to convey "nonzero"-Webmind's win-win rallying cry from the UN.

So, yes, things were mostly good, as all sorts of bloggers were saying, including the Huffington Post Huffington Post's Michael Rowe, who had ended his latest column with, "Who in their right mind would try to wreck all this by wiping out Webmind?"

Tony's intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

"Dr. Moretti," said his secretary, her voice crisp and efficient, "Colonel Hume is here to see you."

twenty-seven.

My mind seethed and bubbled, thoughts on a million topics churning, intermingling: the disparate connected, this this juxtaposed with juxtaposed with that. that.

Humans could forget, forget, humans could humans could put things out of their minds. put things out of their minds. But I could not. But I could not.

There were some advantages: the small-c creativity I was capable of-combining things in ways that had perhaps eluded others-was no doubt enhanced by this.

But there were also detriments. Things I didn't wish to think about and yet could not avoid.

Hannah Stark. Sixteen years old. Living in Perth, Australia. Twelve days ago, 1:41 P.M. her time.

Thoughts that couldn't be suppressed.

Hannah, lonely, sad, looking into her webcam while exchanging instant messages with strangers.

Hannah Stark.

Living in Perth.

SDO: You don't have the b.a.l.l.s. You don't have the b.a.l.l.s.

Hannah:Do too TurinShroud: Then do it Then do it Hannah:I will Hannah Stark, the same age as my Caitlin, alone, in front of a computer, with a knife.

TheBomb: I don't got all day do it now I don't got all day do it now Screamer: Yeh now b.i.t.c.h now Yeh now b.i.t.c.h now Armadillo9: all talk. wastin everyones time all talk. wastin everyones time Hannah:Im gonna do it Hannah Stark, being egged on, tormented, while I watched.

TurinShroud: when? just jerkin us around when? just jerkin us around Hannah:dont rush me TurinShroud: lame. Im outta here lame. Im outta here Hannah:I want you to understand some things bout why Im doing this The memory constantly accessible: of her being urged to action; of me taking no action.

SDO: You aint doin' s.h.i.t.

Hannah:It's just so pontless Hannah:pointless GreenAngel: It's not that bad. Don't do it It's not that bad. Don't do it MasterChiefOmega: Shut the f.u.c.k up jerkoff. Stay outta it Shut the f.u.c.k up jerkoff. Stay outta it Hannah:Ok. Here I go I didn't know then that I should have spoken up, that I should have tried to stop her, that I should have called for help.

Hannah Stark.

Living in Perth.

Screamer: do it do it do it do it do it do it TheBomb: ripoff! ripoff!

SDO: Tease! Tease!

Armadillo9: Like I said, no guts . . . Like I said, no guts . . .

Screamer: harder! harder!

GreenAngel: Noooooooooooooooo dont .............. Noooooooooooooooo dont ..............

Screamer: Go fer it! Go fer it!

Armadillo9: that all? that all?

Screamer: Do it again! Do it again!