"Commerce?"

This speaker, too, was on camera: an Asian fellow who looked like he might be as young as fifteen: "I'm in! I'm in!"

"Ag-" But then, maddeningly, the sound dropped out.

Hume used the laptop's trackpad to adjust settings, but the panning video remained silent. He slapped the palm rest with his hand, there was a crackle of static over the headphones, then the audio resumed, with a man speaking: "-to go."

Webmind's voice again, saying two ominous words: "National Defense?"

"I'm good," replied one man, and "Me, too," added another.

Hume's heart was pounding so hard he thought for a second he was having a coronary. Jesus H. Christ! He had given the hacking community what he'd thought was the ultimate challenge, for what could be more impressive than taking down a world-spanning AI? Why, nothing short of taking over the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned United States government-and nowhere better to do it from than right here in the capital region. No wonder Webmind had remained silent during the lead-up to the US election-it didn't make any f.u.c.king difference to him who won on November 6; he he was going to be in charge. was going to be in charge.

Rat-tat-tat!

Hume's heart actually stopped for a moment. He'd been so intent on watching the screen and straining to listen that he'd missed the man approaching his car out of the darkness from the right; that man had rapped his knuckles against the pa.s.senger-side window.

Hume felt his stomach clenching as he looked up at him. The man was white, six-two, two hundred muscular pounds, perhaps thirty-five-and his head was shaved bald. He motioned for Hume to roll down the window; Hume pressed the b.u.t.ton that did that, opening it only an inch so they could speak.

"Colonel Hume," the man said, lifting a Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol and pressing it against the sheet of gla.s.s between them, "won't you come inside?"

thirty-five.

Caitlin left the gym and headed out to find the girls' room. She knew the feel of the corridors well enough from when she'd been a student, but walking them now without her white cane was difficult. It took her much longer than it should have to find the right room; she'd never had cause to use the first-floor washroom before.

Canadians were forever pointing out their inventions to her, and someone had told her that the stylized male and female silhouettes used on washroom doors-which she'd now seen in several buildings-had been originally designed for the 1967 World's Fair in Montreal, which explained why the woman was wearing a miniskirt.

When Caitlin was finished, making her way back to the gym was easier. Just as when she'd been blind, she'd unconsciously taken note of the distance she'd traveled-and, of course, the blaring music coming from the gym served as a beacon.

She re-entered the vast, warm room. Mr. Heidegger and redheaded Mrs. Zehetoffer were both right by the gym door; they said someone from another school had tried to get in unaccompanied, so they were now standing watch here. Caitlin crossed the gym, but- It took her a few seconds to figure out what had happened. The door leading directly outside was closed now. She located it, found the handle, opened it, and headed out into the evening; it was no brighter out here than it had been in the gym, and- And something was very wrong.

"I told you to stay away from her." It was the Hoser's voice. It was the Hoser's voice.

Caitlin looked around, trying to pa.r.s.e the scene. There were fifteen people here, standing on concrete in the back of the school next to what she knew was a large athletic field.

Matt was to her left, and near him was Trevor Nordmann, who had blond hair and wide shoulders. Others, who had presumably been standing about chatting earlier, were now facing Trevor. He apparently hadn't seen Caitlin yet, and, for that matter, neither had Matt, who had his deer-in-the-headlights face on.

"Well?" demanded Trevor. "Didn't I?"

Matt spoke up, but, of course, his voice cracked by the third word. "You don't have the right to-"

"The f.u.c.k I don't," said Trevor.

Caitlin's heart was pounding, and she was sure Matt's must be, too. Of course, he could run away; Trevor might chase after him, or he might let him go, but- But Matt caught sight of Caitlin and he looked-well, a way that Caitlin had never seen before, but it might have been mortified or humiliated, and- And it must be bad enough to be confronted by a bully in private, but to have it occur in front of the girl you're trying to impress probably made Matt want to curl up and die. Caitlin looked at the faces, but she'd only been a student here for a few days after gaining sight; she might very well have known most of these people, but she didn't recognize them-oh, wait, except for Sunshine; her platinum hair and the low-cut red top were quite distinctive.

Matt made a noise-maybe a sigh?-but then he caught sight of something else. Caitlin was even worse at following people's gazes than she was at extrapolating what they were pointing at, but she soon realized that Matt was looking above her-above the dark red door that Caitlin had closed behind her.

Trevor must have caught the glance, too. "Whatcha going to do, Reese? Go running for a teacher?"

But Matt shook his head slowly, deliberately. "What are you you going to do, Trevor?" His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "Hit me? Kick me? Cut with me with a knife?" And then he lifted his arm and pointed at Caitlin, and- going to do, Trevor?" His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "Hit me? Kick me? Cut with me with a knife?" And then he lifted his arm and pointed at Caitlin, and- No! No, again it wasn't at her; it was above above her. "You see that?" There was a black hemisphere attached to the bottom of an overhang above the door. "That's a security camera." He turned and pointed again. "There's another over there." her. "You see that?" There was a black hemisphere attached to the bottom of an overhang above the door. "That's a security camera." He turned and pointed again. "There's another over there."

He then reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. "And, if that's not enough, this has a five-megapixel camera." Matt stood defiantly. "The day of the bully is over," over," he said. "I don't have to fight you; I don't have to become you to defeat you." he said. "I don't have to fight you; I don't have to become you to defeat you."

Trevor's voice was a snarl. "You want a record of you being s.h.i.tkicked? Fine." Fine."

But Matt kept his own tone even. "And look at Caitlin," he said, nodding in her direction. "Everything you do is being seen by her eye-and everything her eye sees is instantaneously transmitted to servers in j.a.pan. What you do here tonight will be recorded permanently. What you do here tonight will be accessible until the end of time. What you do here tonight will become part of the permanent record of who Trevor Nordmann is."

Matt looked around at the motionless crowd. Caitlin was terrified. He was expecting someone like Trevor to listen to reason, when- "Go ahead, Trevor," said Matt. "Hit a guy who weighs twenty kilos less than you do. Hit a guy who has half the muscle ma.s.s you do. Prove to the world-for all time, Trevor, in a record that your children and your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren will be able to access on down to the heat death of the universe-that you're a real man because you can beat up someone smaller than you. Make that case for posterity."

Trevor's face contorted; Caitlin figured that that was what being livid looked like, although it was dark enough that she couldn't actually see if his skin had changed color. was what being livid looked like, although it was dark enough that she couldn't actually see if his skin had changed color.

Matt went on. "And, of course, what Caitlin sees, Webmind sees. He's He's watching." watching."

The words Indeed I am Indeed I am flashed in Caitlin's vision. flashed in Caitlin's vision.

Caitlin was terrified; Trevor looked like he was going to explode. But Matt pressed ahead, his voice somehow both shaky and firm at the same time. "And, just so you know, we live in a world of laws. Hitting someone is battery, and it's a criminal-code offense here in Ontario-and if you hit me, I will will press charges, Trevor Nordmann, and I will win. That's not a threat: that's press charges, Trevor Nordmann, and I will win. That's not a threat: that's information information so you can plan your own next move more effectively." so you can plan your own next move more effectively."

"My next move," Trevor said, his eyes locked on Matt, "is going to be to kick your f.u.c.king a.s.s."

In the circle around them, one of the students said, "Fight . . ." "Fight . . ." and and "Fight . . ." "Fight . . ." echoed another. echoed another.

Caitlin had read scenes like this in books, but although the blind were no less violent than anyone else, there hadn't been many schoolyard brawls at the TSBVI. "Webmind," Caitlin said softly, "how long would it take for the police to get here?"

a.s.suming they dispatched the nearest car immediately, six minutes.

Caitlin scowled; an eternity-and she doubted the cops would consider this a high priority.

"Fight . . ." said someone else, and said someone else, and "Fight . . ." "Fight . . ." added another. added another.

Of course, she could run inside, get one of the teachers, but- But Matt must have been thinking the same thing, for he looked right at her, and firmly shook his head; he didn't want that.

More voices now as others joined in: "Fight . . . fight ... fight . . ." "Fight . . . fight ... fight . . ." The chant was low, rhythmic, almost tribal. Caitlin looked from face to face, unable to identify anyone. She could recognize voices when people were speaking normally, but this chanting was guttural and low. The chant was low, rhythmic, almost tribal. Caitlin looked from face to face, unable to identify anyone. She could recognize voices when people were speaking normally, but this chanting was guttural and low.

"Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ."

Trevor's posture changed. He hunched over a bit, and his hands balled into fists. The light, coming mostly from a lamppost set into the concrete, was harsh, and it made his features look sharp.

"Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ."

Caitlin had read about women who got excited when men fought over them, as if their own self-worth was tied up in such a battle. But she didn't want this-not at all. She didn't want Matt hurt; she didn't want anyone anyone hurt. hurt.

"Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ."

Not everyone was chanting. Sunshine wasn't; several other boys and girls weren't, either.

Caitlin pulled out her red BlackBerry and activated the video function. She aimed it at Matt and Trevor as they slowly circled each other.

The chanting of "fight" "fight" continued, but Caitlin spoke overtop of it, clearly and firmly, holding her BlackBerry out like a small shield: continued, but Caitlin spoke overtop of it, clearly and firmly, holding her BlackBerry out like a small shield: "Sight!" "Sight!" She began to pan it left and right, taking in the whole chanting crowd. She began to pan it left and right, taking in the whole chanting crowd.

She looked over at Sunshine, partway around the circle to her left. The tall girl seemed baffled for a moment, but then Caitlin saw her open her purse and fish out her own cell phone. She swung it left and right, too.

"Sight!" Caitlin said again, and Sunshine echoed it: Caitlin said again, and Sunshine echoed it: "Sight!" "Sight!"

Next to Sunshine, a boy Caitlin didn't recognize pulled out his phone and held it in front of him. "Sight!" "Sight!" he said, and the three of them repeated it. he said, and the three of them repeated it. "Sight! Sight! Sight!" "Sight! Sight! Sight!" It wasn't guttural; their voices were clear and strong. It wasn't guttural; their voices were clear and strong.

But others were still chanting, "Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ." "Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ."

Two girls on Caitlin's right pulled out their phones, and a boy had something bulkier in his hand that Caitlin guessed must be a video camera, which he slowly panned over the tableau. They added their voices to Caitlin's chorus: "Sight! Sight! Sight!" "Sight! Sight! Sight!"

"Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . ."

More phones and cameras came out. "Sight!" "Fight . . ." "Sight!" "Fight . . ." "Sight!" "Fight . . ." "Sight!" "Fight . . ."

A few flashes went off, one after the other. They reminded Caitlin of the lightning bolts from that night when everything had changed, and- And the chanting of "Fight . . ." "Fight . . ." began to fade away. Caitlin let began to fade away. Caitlin let "Sight!" "Sight!" be repeated five more times, then she spoke loudly to Trevor, indicating all the cell phones being held out-all the little rectangles glowing in the gathering darkness. "Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree coverage," she said. "The police could reconstruct the scene in 3-D if they wanted to." be repeated five more times, then she spoke loudly to Trevor, indicating all the cell phones being held out-all the little rectangles glowing in the gathering darkness. "Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree coverage," she said. "The police could reconstruct the scene in 3-D if they wanted to."

Trevor looked at Caitlin, then back at Matt.

"So," said Matt, his voice holding steady, "what's it going to be, Trevor? Who are you-for the record?"

Trevor looked around the circle, and it reminded Caitlin of that moment in 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey 2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey in which the lead australopithecine had first encountered the monolith; he'd stared at it, and slowly, ponderously, worked out in his dim fashion that the world had changed. in which the lead australopithecine had first encountered the monolith; he'd stared at it, and slowly, ponderously, worked out in his dim fashion that the world had changed.

Trevor's head nodded up and down a little. Caitlin was still learning to gauge these things, but it seemed to her that it wasn't meant as a signal to others; rather, it was a sign that he was thinking.

And, at last, Trevor unclenched his fists. He glared at Caitlin and then at Matt, and then he turned, and slowly started walking. The crowd parted. Caitlin wondered if they hadn't opened quite so large a hole whether Trevor would have made a show of b.u.mping into someone-an a.s.sault he could dismiss as accidental. But they didn't give him that opportunity, and he continued on. At first Caitlin thought he was heading for the door to the gymnasium, but he walked right past it, heading out into the chilly night.

Caitlin surged forward and gathered Matt in a hug. His body was shaking, and she could feel his heart beating as they pressed together. After a moment, she released him enough so that she could kiss him on the lips-and she didn't care one whit how many records of that that were being made. were being made.

When they separated, Sunshine loomed in, and she squeezed Caitlin's upper arm affectionately. "That was awesome," awesome," she said. she said.

Caitlin found herself grinning. "Yeah, I guess it was."

She took Matt's hand, and they opened the heavy red door and walked back inside. A new song was playing, and- And, no, no, it wasn't a new new song. It must have been somebody's request-maybe one of the teachers, because it was an old song, one her mother sometimes listened to. But Caitlin liked it, too. song. It must have been somebody's request-maybe one of the teachers, because it was an old song, one her mother sometimes listened to. But Caitlin liked it, too.

And yes, as she draped her arms around Matt's neck again and they started to dance, she supposed you could could say she was a dreamer-but she was sure she wasn't the only one. say she was a dreamer-but she was sure she wasn't the only one.

thirty-six.

The President of China stood looking out the window behind his desk. The gla.s.s was bulletproof, and covered by a special film to prevent those outside from seeing in. Spread before him was the Forbidden City, the vast area that housed the palaces of former Emperors. It had been closed to the public-hence the name-until 1912, but now tens of thousands of ordinary Chinese, and comparable numbers of foreign tourists, visited it each day.

The president's computer bleeped, signaling a priority email; he stood at the window a moment longer, then turned and lowered himself painfully onto his red leather chair. Neither acupuncture nor Enbrel had helped his arthritis.

The president disliked his computer monitor. In an office in which everything else was historic, ornate, and beautiful, the monitor was merely functional. He clicked on his inbox and read the message, which was from Zhang Bo, the Minister of Communications: "Just a reminder, Excellency. Your presence is requested in the auditorium at 11:00 A.M." The president glanced at the lacquered wall clock, which read 10:45. It would be an interesting meeting, to say the least: in his earlier email, Zhang had promised a full accounting of why the Changcheng Strategy had failed.

The president got up again, stepped into his private bathroom, looked at himself in the gold-framed mirror mounted above the jade sink-and scowled. His jet-black hair was showing a millimeter of white at its roots. He sighed. No matter what appearances one tried to put forth, the reality of who you were always pushed out into the light of day.

Peyton Hume considered his options. He was in a car, although the motor was off. He could call the bald thug's bluff and try to speed away, hoping that he wasn't really going to fire the Glock. He could try to throw the car door open, as he'd seen on so many cop shows, smashing it into the man's torso-but the door was locked and if he moved rapidly to unlock it, Baldy would still have time to react. Or he could try to get his own sidearm, which was in the glove compartment, but, again, the other man could easily take him out before he did so.

Hume shrugged as philosophically as he could under the circ.u.mstances, moved slowly to unlock and then open the car door, exited the vehicle, and stood at attention on the side of the road. The man had a Bluetooth cellular earpiece in his left ear-no doubt feeding him instructions directly from Webmind.

"Wise," said the goon. It was dark out, and he was making no particular attempt to hide the fact that he was pointing a gun at Hume. "Your cell phone, please?"

Hume gave it to him.

"And your gun?"

"I don't have one."

A red LED on the earpiece flashed repeatedly. "That's not true," the man said. "I can call others out to search your person or your car, but why waste time? Where is it, please?"

Hume considered, then shrugged again. "The glove compartment."

The bald man had no trouble fetching the pistol without giving Hume a chance to attack him or escape. He then motioned toward the office building, and Hume started walking in that direction.

Hume didn't know if he was supposed to raise his hands over his head, but, in the absence of a specific instruction to do so, he decided to march on with as much dignity as a man with a gun to his back could muster.

"I don't suppose it'll do me any good to ask what your name is?" Hume said.

"Why not?" said the voice behind him. "It's Marek." Hume had a.s.sumed that was his last name, but Marek's next comment suggested it might be his first. "And I understand your given name is Peyton."

"Yes."

"Unusual name," Marek said, as if they were chatting at a party.

This from a guy named Marek, thought Hume, but he said nothing. Peyton had been his mother's maiden name, but the year after he'd been born, the long-running soap opera thought Hume, but he said nothing. Peyton had been his mother's maiden name, but the year after he'd been born, the long-running soap opera Peyton Place Peyton Place had premiered, resulting in much teasing. His sister had once suggested that he'd worked so hard to earn the right to be called both "Colonel" and "Doctor" because he wanted people to have two reasons to avoid using his first name. had premiered, resulting in much teasing. His sister had once suggested that he'd worked so hard to earn the right to be called both "Colonel" and "Doctor" because he wanted people to have two reasons to avoid using his first name.

They came to a steel door with a square brown access-card scanner next to it. Hume thought this might be his chance: Marek would have to occupy his other hand with his card and lean past him to open the door. All he'd have to do is- Click. The door unlocked of its own volition-or, more precisely, at Webmind's volition. The door unlocked of its own volition-or, more precisely, at Webmind's volition.

"Grab the handle, won't you, Peyton?" said Marek.

Hume sighed and opened the door. It revealed a long corridor with pea green walls, fluorescent ceiling panels, chocolate brown floor tiles, and dark wooden doors set on either side in a staggered arrangement. Partway down the hall, another large man was standing guard. He looked their way, then nodded, presumably at some sign Marek had given from behind Hume.

They continued down the corridor, pa.s.sing the man. He had a few days' growth of beard, which Hume guessed wasn't an affectation but rather evidence that he'd been here for some time without a razor. Some of the doors were open, and Hume saw that offices had been converted into makeshift bedrooms. He supposed it only took a few thugs like Marek and this other one to keep anyone from leaving the building.