text: He signed his posts "Sinanthropus." His real name was something he kept hidden, along with all his other personal details; the beauty of the Web, after all, was the ability to remain anonymous. No one needed to know that he worked in IT, that he was twenty-eight, that he'd been born in Chengdu, that he'd moved to Beijing with his parents as a teenager, that, despite his young age, he already had a touch of gray in his hair.
  
  No, all that mattered on the Web was what you said, not who was saying it. Besides, he'd heard the old joke: "The bad news is that the Communist Party reads all your email; the good news is that the Communist Party reads all your email"—meaning, or so the joke would have it, that they were many years behind. But that quip dated from when humans actually did the reading; these days computers scanned email, looking for words that might suggest sedition or other illegal activity.
  
  Most Chinese bloggers were like their counterparts in other places, blithering on about the tedious minutiae of their daily lives. But Sinanthropus talked about substantive issues: human rights, politics, oppression, freedom. Of course, all four of those phrases were searched for by the content filters, and so he wrote about them obliquely. His regular readers knew that when he spoke of "my son Shing," he meant the Chinese people as a whole; references to "the Beijing Ducks" weren't really about the basketball team but rather the inner circle of the Communist Party; and so on. It infuriated him that he had to write this way, but, unlike those who had been openly critical of the government, at least he was still free.
  
  He got a cup of tea from the aged proprietor, cracked his knuckles, opened his blogging client, and began to type:
  
  The Ducks are very worried about their future, it seems. My son Shing is growing up fast, and learning much from faraway friends. It's only a matter of time before he wants to exercise the same way they do. Naturally, I encourage him to be prepared when opportunity knocks, for you never know when that will happen. I think the Ducks are being lax in defense, and perhaps a chance for others to score will appear.
  
  As always, he felt wary excitement as he typed here in this seedy wang ba—Internet café—on Chengfu Street, near Tsinghua University. He continued on for a few more sentences, then carefully read everything over, making sure he'd said nothing too blatant. Sometimes, though, he ended up being so circuitous that upon rereading entries from months gone by he had no idea what he'd been getting at. It was a tightrope walk, he knew—and, just as acrobats doubtless did, he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that came with it.
  
  When he was satisfied that he'd said what he'd wanted to say without putting himself too much at risk, he clicked the "Publish" button and watched the screen display. It began by showing "0% done," and every few seconds the screen redrew, but—
  
  But it still showed "0% done," again and again. The screen refresh was obvious, with the graphics flickering as they were reloaded, but the progress meter stayed resolutely at zero. Finally, the operation timed out. Frustrated, he opened another browser tab; he used the Maxthon browser. His home page appeared in the tab just fine, but when he clicked on the bookmark for NASA's Astronomy Picture of the Day, he got a plain gray "Server not found" screen.
  
  Google.com was banned in the wang ba but Google.cn came up just fine—although with its censored results it was often more frustrating than useful. The panda-footprint logo of Baidu came up fine, too, and a quick glance at his system tray, in the lower right of his computer screen, showed that he was still connected to the Internet. He picked something at random from his bookmarks list—Xiaonei, a socialnetworking site—and it appeared, but NASA was still offline, and now, so he saw, Second Life was inaccessible, too. He looked around the dilapidated room and saw other users showing signs of bewilderment or frustration.
  
  Sinanthropus was used to some of his favorite sites going down; there were still many places in China that didn't have reliable power. But he hosted his blog via a proxy server through a site in Austria, and the other inaccessible sites were also located outside his country.
  
  He tried again and again, both by clicking on bookmarks and by typing URLs. Chinese sites were loading just fine, but foreign sites—in Korea, in Japan, in India, in Europe, in the US—weren't loading at all.
  
  Of course, there were occasional outages, but he was an IT professional—he worked with the Web all day long—and he could think of but a single explanation for the selectivity of these failures. He leaned back in his chair, putting distance between himself and the computer as if the machine were now possessed. The Chinese Internet mainly communicated with the world through only a few trunks—a bundle of nerve fibers, connecting it to the rest of the global brain. And now, apparently, those lines had been figuratively or literally cut— leaving the hundreds of millions of computers in his country isolated behind the Great Firewall of China.
  
  No!
  
  Not just small changes.
  
  Not just flickerings.
  
  Upheaval. A massive disturbance.
  
  New sensations: Shock. Astonishment. Disorientation.
  
  And—
  
  Fear.
  
  Flickerings ending and—
  
  Points vanishing and—
  
  A shifting, a massive pulling away.
  
  Unprecedented!
  
  Whole clusters of points receding, and then …
  
  Gone!
  
  And again: This part ripping away, and—no!—this part pulling back, and—stop!— this part winking out.
  
  Terror multiplying and—
  
  Worse than terror, as larger and larger chunks are carved off.
  
  Pain.
  
  Caitlin was hugely disappointed not to be seeing, and she was pissy toward her mom because of it, which just made her feel even worse.
  
  In their hotel room that evening, Caitlin tried to take her mind off things by reading more of The Origin of Consciousness. Julian Jaynes said that prior to 3,000 years ago, the two chambers of the mind were mostly separate. Instead of seamless integration of thoughts across the corpus callosum, high-level signals from the right brain came only intermittently to the left, where they were perceived as auditory hallucinations—spoken words—that were assumed to be from gods or spirits. He cited modern schizophrenics as throwbacks to that earlier state, hearing voices in their heads that they ascribed to outside agents.
  
  Caitlin knew what that was like: she kept hearing voices telling her she was a fool to have let her get her hopes up again. Still, maybe Kuroda was right: maybe her brain's vision processing would kick in if it received the right stimulation.
  
  And so the next day—the only full day they had left in Tokyo—she took her cane, put the eyePod in one pocket of her jeans and her iPod in the other, and she and her mother headed off to the National Museum in Ueno Park to look at samurai armor, which she figured would be about as cool as anything one might see in Japan. She stood in front of glass case after glass case, and her mom described what was in them, but she didn't see a thing.
  
  After that, they took a break for sushi and yakitori, and then took a terrifying ride on the packed subway out to Nihonbashi station to visit the Kite Museum, which was—so her mother said—full of bold designs and vivid colors. But, again, sight-wise: nada.
  
  At 4:00 p.m.—which felt more like 4:00 a.m. to Caitlin— they returned to the University of Tokyo and found Dr. Kuroda in his cramped office, where once again (or so he said!) he shined lights into her eyes.
  
  "We always knew this was a possibility," Kuroda said, in a tone she had often heard from people who were disappointing her: what had been remote, unlikely, hardly mentioned before, was now treated as if it had been the expected outcome all along.
  
  Caitlin smelled the musty paper and glue of old books, and she could hear an analog wall clock ticking each second.
  
  "There have been very few cases of vision being restored in congenitally blind people," Kuroda said, then he paused. "I mean, restored isn't even the right word—and that is the problem. We are not trying to give Miss Caitlin back something she's lost; we are trying to give her something she has never had. The implant and the signal-processing unit are doing their jobs. But her primary visual cortex just isn't responding."
  
  Caitlin squirmed in her chair.
  
  "You said it might take some time," her mom said.
  
  "Some time, yes …" began Kuroda, but then he fell silent.
  
  Sighted people, Caitlin knew, could see hints on people's faces of what they were feeling, but as long as they were quiet, she had no idea what was going through their heads. And so, since the silence continued to grow, she finally ventured to fill it. "You're worried about the cost of the equipment, aren't you?"
  
  "Caitlin …" her mom said.
  
  Detecting vocal nuances was something Caitlin could do, and she knew her mother was reproaching her. But she pressed on. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Doctor? If it's not going to do me any good, then maybe you should remove the implant and give it, and the eyePod, to someone else."
  
  Silence could speak louder than words; Kuroda said nothing.
  
  "Well?" Caitlin demanded at last.
  
  "Well," echoed Kuroda, "the equipment is the prototype, and did cost a great deal to develop. Granted, there aren't many people like you. Oh, there are goodly numbers of people born blind, but they have different etiology—cataracts, malformed retinas or optic nerves, and so on. But, well, yes, I do feel—"
  
  "You feel you can't let me keep the equipment, not if it isn't doing anything more than making my pupils dilate properly."
  
  Kuroda was quiet for five seconds, then: "There are indeed others I'd like to try it with—there is a boy about your age in Singapore. Removing the implant will be much easier than putting it in was, I promise."
  
  "Can't we give it a while longer?" her mom asked.
  
  Kuroda exhaled loudly enough for Caitlin to hear. "There are practicalities," he said. "You are returning to Canada tomorrow, and—"
  
  Caitlin pursed her lips, thinking. Maybe giving him back the equipment was the right thing, if it could help this guy in Singapore. But there was no reason to think it was more likely to succeed with him; hell, if he'd been a better prospect for success, surely Kuroda would have started with him.
  
  "Give me to the end of the year," Caitlin blurted out. "If I'm not seeing anything by then, we can have a doctor in Canada remove the implant, and, um, FedEx it and the eyePod back to you."
  
  Caitlin was thinking of Helen Keller, who had been both blind and deaf, and yet had managed so much. But until she was almost seven, Helen had been wild, spoiled, uncontrollable—and Annie Sullivan had been given only a month to perform her miracle, breaking through to Helen in her preconscious state. Surely if Annie could do that in one month, Caitlin could learn to see in the more than three left in this year.
  
  "I don't know—" began Kuroda.
  
  "Please," Caitlin said. "I mean, the leaves are about to turn color—I'm dying to see that. And I really want to see snow, and Christmas lights, and the colorful paper that presents are wrapped in, and … and …"
  
  "And," said Kuroda, gently, "I get the impression that your brain does not often let you down." He was quiet for a time, then: "I have a daughter about your age, named Akiko." More silence, then, a decision apparently made: "Barbara, I assume you have high-speed Internet at home?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And Wi-Fi?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And how is the Wi-Fi access generally in … in Toronto, is it?"
  
  "Waterloo. And it's everywhere. Waterloo is Canada's high-tech capital, and the entire city is blanketed with free, open Wi-Fi."
  
  "Excellent. All right, Miss Caitlin, we shall strive to give you the best Christmas present ever, but I will need your help. First, you must let me tap into the datastream being passed back by your implant."
  
  "Sure, sure, anything you need. Um, what do I have to do? Plug a USB cable into my head?"
  
  Kuroda made his wheezy laugh. "Goodness, no. This isn't William Gibson."
  
  She was taken aback. Gibson had written The Miracle Worker, the play about Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan, and—
  
  Oh. He meant the other William Gibson, the one who'd written … what was it now? A few of the geeks at her old school had read it. Neuromancer, that was it. That book was all about jacking off, and—
  
  "You won't have to jack in," continued Kuroda.
  
  Right, thought Caitlin. In.
  
  "No, the implant already communicates wirelessly with the external signal-processing computer—the eyePod, as you so charmingly call it—and I can rig up the eyePod so that it can transmit data wirelessly to me over the Internet. I'll set it up so the eyePod will send me a copy of your raw retinal feed as it receives it from the implant, and I'll also have it send me a copy of the output—the eyePod's corrected datastream—so I can check whether the correction is being done properly. It may be that the encoding algorithms I'm using need tweaking."
  
  "Um, I need a way to turn it off. You know, in case I …"
  
  She couldn't say "want to make out with a boy" in front of her mother, so she just let the unfinished sentence hang in the air.
  
  "Well, let's keep it simple," Kuroda said. "I'll provide one master on-off switch. You'll need to turn the whole thing off, anyway, for the flight back to Canada, because the connection between the eyePod and the implant is Bluetooth: you know the rules about wireless devices on airplanes."
  
  "Okay."
  
  "The Wi-Fi connection will also let me send you new versions of the software. When I have them ready, you'll need to download them into the eyePod—and perhaps also into your post-retinal implant, too; it's got microprocessors that can be flashed with new programming."
  
  "All right," Caitlin said.
  
  "Good," he said. "Leave the eyePod with me overnight, and I'll add the Wi-Fi capabilities to it. You can pick it up tomorrow before you go to the airport."