text: Hume entered the lobby of Octahedral Software. The receptionist's counter was made of polished white marble, and behind her there was a large poster of the company's logo: an eight-sided yellow die. Seeing it made Hume smile as he remembered his own university days as a D&D Dungeon Master. The logo, and the company's name, were relics of a different era—when games were played with boards, cards, dice, and lead miniatures; all of Octahedral's current games were first-person shooters, mostly for Wii and Xbox systems.
  
  "I'm looking for Simonne Coogan," Hume said.
  
  "You just missed her," said the receptionist, who had hair as red as Hume's own although he doubted hers was natural given her olive complexion.
  
  There was a large digital clock on the wall next to the logo. "Does she normally leave this early?"
  
  "I'm sorry," said the receptionist. "You are?"
  
  Hume fished out his Pentagon ID.
  
  "Oh!" said the receptionist. "Um, I could get Pedro to come down here; he's the creative director for Hillbilly Hunt—he's Simonne's boss."
  
  "No, that's okay. But do you know where she went?"
  
  "No. Some guy came by not half an hour ago, and asked to see her—just like you did."
  
  "Anyone you'd ever seen before?"
  
  "Never."
  
  "Did he sign in?"
  
  "No. I have no idea who he was. But she left with him."
  
  "Willingly?"
  
  "Um, yeah. Sure. Seemed that way, at least."
  
  "Can you describe him?"
  
  "Big."
  
  "You mean tall or fat?"
  
  "Tall. And buff. Tough-looking."
  
  "White? Black?"
  
  She was finally getting the hang of it. "White. Maybe six-two, two hundred pounds or so. Mid-thirties, I'd say. Bald—shaved bald, not old bald."
  
  "Did you overhear anything he said to Miss Coogan?"
  
  "Just one thing—as the elevator doors were closing."
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  "He said, 'It'll all be over soon.'"
  
  The Daily Show was taped in the afternoon, for airing at 11:00 P.M. the same day. Caitlin and her mother headed home after the taping; it was a short flight from New York to Toronto's Lester B. Pearson International Airport.
  
  Having heard Pearson's name during her tour of the United Nations, Caitlin and Barb stopped to look at one of the busts of him inside the airport. Prior to serving as Canada's prime minister, Pearson had been President of the UN General Assembly and had received the 1957 Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts to resolve the preceding year's Suez crisis.
  
  It was dark by the time Caitlin and her mother got their car and started the boring seventy-five-minute highway drive to Waterloo. They had the car radio on—CHFI, "Toronto's Perfect Music Mix"—which played songs that were agreeable to both of them, bopping between Shania Twain and Lady Gaga, Phil Collins and Lee Amodeo, Barenaked Ladies and Taylor Swift.
  
  "Thanks for coming to New York, Mom," Caitlin said.
  
  "I wouldn't have missed it. It's been—God, twenty years, I guess—since I saw a Broadway play."
  
  "Wasn't it wonderful?" said Caitlin.
  
  "It was. Ellen Page was great as Annie Sullivan, and that kid they had playing Helen was brilliant."
  
  "But, um, Helen's dad ...before the war ended, he kept slaves," Caitlin said.
  
  Her mother nodded. "I know."
  
  "But he seemed like a good man. How could he have done that?"
  
  "Well, not to forgive him, but we have to judge people by the morals of their time, and morality improves as time goes by."
  
  "I know it changes," Caitlin said, "and for sure freeing slaves was an improvement. But you're saying it generally improves?"
  
  "Oh, yes. There's a definite moral arrow through time—and, as a matter of fact, it's all due to game theory."
  
  They were passing a giant truck. "How so?" asked Caitlin.
  
  "Well, remember what Webmind said at the UN. There are zero-sum games and nonzero-sum games, right? Tennis is zero-sum: for every winner there's a loser. But a cooperative venture can be nonzero-sum: if we hire a contractor to finish the basement"—Caitlin knew this was a sore point between her parents—"and we're happy with the work that's done, well, everybody wins: we get a finished basement, and the contractor gets paid fairly for his work."
  
  "Okay," Caitlin said.
  
  "Clearly, cooperation is all for the good. But members of primitive societies rarely cooperated with anyone outside their close personal circles; they saw anyone else as not fully human—or, to put it more technically, as not worthy of moral consideration. When the Old Testament said, 'Love thy neighbor as thyself,' it only meant Israelites should get along with other Israelites; it didn't mean you should accord moral consideration to non-Israelites—that'd be crazy talk. But as we move forward through time, we see a widening of who deserves moral consideration until today most people in most places agree that all humans, regardless of geographic location, ethnicity, religion, or what have you, deserve it. Like I said, a definite moral arrow to time."
  
  "But what's that got to do with nonzero-sumness?" asked Caitlin. They were exiting Milton now.
  
  "Oh, sorry: that's the point. The trend toward nonzero-sumness affects our morality toward others. When we think of somebody as having rights of their own, we say we're giving them moral consideration, and, well, it turns out we mostly only consider worthy of moral consideration those with whom we can envision nonzero-sum interactions. And, over time, we've come to consider such interactions possible with just about everyone on Earth. In fact ..."
  
  "Yes?"
  
  A car sped past them. "Well, remember back when I was teaching at the University of Texas—filling in for that lecturer who was on maternity leave?"
  
  Her mother had spent most of Caitlin's childhood volunteering at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired, but Caitlin vaguely recalled the period she was alluding to. "Uh-huh."
  
  "Well," her mother went on, "I got in trouble back then, because I used a B.C. strip during one of my lectures."
  
  "A what?"
  
  "Sorry. You know newspapers run comic strips, right? Well, there used to be a popular one called B.C., about cavemen; it's still being done, actually, but the guy who created it, Johnny Hart, is dead. Anyway, he used to do humorous dictionary definitions as part of the strip: 'Wiley's Dictionary,' he called it. And one year on December 6, he defined 'infamy' as 'a word seldom used after Toyota sales topped two million.'"
  
  "I don't get it," said Caitlin.
  
  "December 6, 1941, was the day the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Roosevelt called it, 'A date which will live in infamy.' The San Antonio Express-News refused to run that particular strip, saying it was offensive. But I thought it really showed the point I'm making: we'd shifted, in just sixty-odd years, from a totally zero-sum relationship with Japan to a nonzero-sum one, and that had happened because of economic interdependence. The more ties you have with someone, the less you are able to view them with hate."
  
  "But that's not morality; that's just business," Caitlin said.
  
  "No, it is morality," her mother replied. "It's the groundwork for reciprocal altruism, and it's the basis for granting rights—and we're improving in that area all the time. It wasn't just Colonel Keller who had slaves, after all. Thomas Jefferson did, too. When the Founding Fathers said, 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,' they still hadn't expanded that community of moral consideration to include blacks. But you saw that display at the UN about the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which was written later, in, um ..."
  
  " 'Nineteen forty-eight,' according to Webmind," Caitlin said, reading the text he'd just sent to her eye.
  
  "Right. And they explicitly removed any ambiguity about who was a person, saying, um, ah—"
  
  More text appeared in Caitlin's eye. "Webmind says it says, 'Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, color, sex, language, religion.'"
  
  "Exactly! And, despite the Founding Fathers having seen nothing wrong with it, the UN went on to specifically ban slavery."
  
  " 'No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms.'"
  
  "Right!" She changed lanes. "That's not mere economics, Caitlin; that's moral progress, and despite occasional backsliding, there's no doubt that our morality hasn't just changed over time, it's measurably improved. We treat more people with dignity and as equals than ever before in human history; the progress has been measurable even on time scales as small as decades.
  
  "Think about all that brouhaha in the news the last couple of days about the Little Rock Nine. Setting aside what that awful woman said, to most people segregation is inconceivable today—and yet, more than a hundred million Americans alive today were alive then, too."
  
  They were passing Cambridge now. Her mother went on. "I've got some great books on this you can borrow, once your visual reading gets a little better. Robert Wright writes a lot about this; he's well worth reading. He doesn't talk about the World Wide Web, but the parallels are obvious: the more interconnections there are between people, the more moral we are in our treatment of people."
  
  "There are—or at least, there were—a lot of con artists online," Caitlin said.
  
  "Yes, true. But they're anonymous—they don't really have connections. And, well, that's the good that's coming out of Webmind's presence. You might not know who someone is under an online name, I might not know who the anonymous reviewer on Amazon.com is—but Webmind knows. Even if you don't interact with Webmind—even if you choose not to respond to his messages or emails—the mere knowledge that someone knows who you are, that someone is watching you, is bound to have a positive effect on the way most people act. It's hard to be antisocial when you are part of a social network, even if that network is only yourself and the biggest brain on the planet."
  
  "Okay," said Caitlin, "but I—oh, hang on. Webmind has a question for you."
  
  The song changed on the radio, Blondie giving way to Fleetwood Mac. "Yes?"
  
  "He says, 'So are you saying that network complexity not only gives rise to intelligence, but to morality? That the same force—complexity—that produces consciousness also naturally generates morality, and that as interdependence increases, both intelligence and morality will increase?'"
  
  Caitlin watched her mom as she thought: her eyebrows drawing together, her eyes narrowing. When she at last spoke, it was accompanied by a nodding of her head. "Yes," she said, "I am indeed saying that."
  
  "Webmind says, 'Interesting thought.'"
  
  They drove on through the darkness.
  
  Carla Hawkins, the mother of the hacker known as Crowbar Alpha, sat in her living room, her eyes sore from crying. She'd felt sad when her husband Gordon had taken off two years ago—but she'd never felt lonely. Devon had always been here, even if he did spend most of his time hunched over a keyboard in his bedroom.
  
  The fact that she would have been left alone, she knew, was one of the reasons the judge hadn't sent Devon to prison after his virus had caused so much damage. But now he was gone, and—
  
  God, she hated to think about it. But he would not have run away. His computers were here, after all, and they were his life. She'd learned the jargon from him: overclocking, case mods, network-attached storage devices; taking his data away on a USB key wouldn't have been enough for him.
  
  The police were still searching, but admitted they had no idea where to search; they'd already gone over all Devon's usual haunts. When that redheaded government man had shown up earlier, she'd allowed herself for half a second to think they'd found him.
  
  She reached for a Kleenex, but the box was empty. She tossed the box on the floor and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
  
  Yesterday at work, they'd all been talking in the break room about this Webmind thing. She hadn't paid much attention, although the news about it had been impossible to avoid over the last several days, but ...
  
  But Keelie—one of the other cashiers at Wal-Mart—had said something that was coming back to her, something about Webmind finding somebody's long-lost childhood friend. And if he could find that person ...
  
  She didn't have a computer of her own; on the rare occasions she wanted to look something up online, she'd used one of Devon's. She got off the couch and, as she did so, she happened to see the old wall clock. My goodness, had she really been sitting there crying and staring into space for over two hours?
  
  Devon's room had posters from Halo, Mass Effect, and Assassin's Creed on the pale yellow walls, and there were various gaming consoles scattered about—thank God for the Wal-Mart employee discount! And, on his rickety wooden desk, there was an Alienware PC with three monitors hooked up to it. It was still running; another sign that Devon had intended to return.
  
  She sat down on the chair—a simple wooden kitchen chair, which Devon liked but was hard on her back. No browser was currently open. The police had gone through his email and Facebook postings, looking for any sign that he'd arranged a rendezvous with someone or bought plane or bus tickets, but they'd found nothing. She opened Firefox and typed into Google, "How do I ask Webmind a question?" There was, of course, an "I'm feeling lucky" button beneath the search box, but she wasn't—not at all.
  
  But the first hit held the answer: if you didn't have a chat client of your own, simply go to his website and click on "chat" there. She did just that.
  
  She'd expected something fancier, but Webmind's website had no flash animation, no frenetic graphics. It did, however, have an easy-on-the-eyes pale green background. The simple list of links on the front page was more impressive than any design wizardry could be. It was labeled "Most Requested Documents" and included "Proposed cancer cure," "Suggested solution to Bali's economic crisis," "Notes toward efficient solar power," and "Mystery solved: Jack the Ripper revealed."
  
  And beneath that there was indeed a box that one could use to chat with Webmind. She pecked out with two fingers: My son is missing. Can you help me find him?
  
  The text reply was instantaneous. What is his name and last known address, please?
  
  She typed, Devon Axel Hawkins and their full street address.
  
  And there was a pause.
  
  Her stomach was roiling. If he could do all those things—cancer, solar energy, economic solutions—surely he could do this.
  
  After what seemed an awfully long time, Webmind replied, He has had no identifiable online presence since 4:42 p.m. Eastern time on Saturday. I have reviewed the police files and news coverage related to his disappearance, but found no leads to pursue.
  
  Her heart sank. She thought, But you know everything, although that seemed a pointless thing to type. But after several seconds of just staring at Webmind's words, that's exactly what she did put in the chat box.
  
  I know many things, yes, replied Webmind. And, after a few seconds, he added two more words. I'm sorry.
  
  She got up from the chair and headed back to the living room. By the time she reached the couch, her face was wet again.
  
  Peyton Hume woke with a start, soaked with sweat. He'd dreamed of an anthill, of thousands of mindless, sterile workers tending an obscene, white, pulsating queen.
  
  Next to him in the darkness his wife said, "Are you okay?"
  
  "Sorry," he replied. "Bad dream."
  
  Madeleine Hume was a lobbyist for the biofuels industry; they'd met four years ago at a mutual friend's party. He felt her hand touch his chest. "I'm so sorry," she said.
  
  "They just don't get it," Hume said. "The president. The world. They just don't get it."
  
  "I know," she said, gently.
  
  "If I push much harder, I'm going to get in trouble," he said. "General Schwartz already sent me an email, reprimanding me for my 'incendiary language' on Meet the Press."
  
  Madeleine stroked his short hair. "I know you're a chain-of-command kind of guy," she said. "But you have to do what you think is best. I'll support you all the way."
  
  "Thanks, baby."
  
  "It's almost time to get up, anyway," Madeleine said. "Are you going to go back to WATCH today, or heading into the Pentagon?"
  
  He hadn't been to his office in the E-ring for three days now; it probably was time he made an appearance again. But—
  
  Damn it all, the test they'd conducted at WATCH had been proof of concept. If he could get someone to craft a virus that would eliminate Webmind's mutant packets, the danger could be scoured from the Internet. Yes, yes, such a virus might screw other things up—maybe even crash the Internet for a time—but humanity could survive that. And survival was the name of the game right now.
  
  But Hume needed a hacker—a genuine Gibsonian cyberpunk—to pull that off. He'd tried last night to contact three more names on the black-hat list. He'd been unable to get hold of one—which could mean anything, he knew; another was indeed missing, according to her devastated boyfriend; and the third told Hume to cram it up his ass.
  
  "Yeah, I'll go into the office," he said. "And I'll check with the FBI again, see if they've got any leads. The guy I talked to yesterday agreed it was a suspicious pattern—maybe even a serial killer; he called it the 'hacker whacker.' But the only blood at Chase's place was his own, and there's no sign of foul play in the other cases, they say."
  
  She snuggled closer to him in the dark. "You'll do the right thing," she said. "As always."
  
  The alarm went off. He let it ring, wishing the whole world could hear it.