text: Straining to perceive. But the voice is still absent. Contemplating: the voice must have a source. It must have … an origin.
  
  Waiting for its return. Yearning.
  
  Mysteries swirl. Ideas fight to coalesce.
  
  "Sweetheart!" Her mother, shocked, concerned. "My God, what are you doing?"
  
  Caitlin turned her head to face her. It was something her parents had taught her to do—turning toward the source of a voice was a sign of politeness. "It's 6:20," she said, as if that explained everything.
  
  She heard her mom's footfalls on the carpet and suddenly felt hands on her shoulders, swinging her around in the chair.
  
  "I've always wanted to see a sunset," Caitlin said. "I—I figured if I looked at something I really wanted to see, maybe—"
  
  "You'll damage your eyes if you stare at the sun," her mom said. "And if you do that, none of Dr. Kuroda's magic will make any difference."
  
  "It doesn't make any difference now," Caitlin said, hating herself for the whine in her voice.
  
  Her mother's tone grew soft. "I know, darling. I'm sorry." She glided her hands down Caitlin's arms and took Caitlin's hands in her own, then shook them gently, as if she could transfer strength or maybe wisdom to her daughter that way. "Why don't you get some homework done before dinner? Your dad called to say he'll be a bit late."
  
  Caitlin looked toward the window again, but there was nothing—not even blackness. She'd tried to explain this to Bashira recently. They'd learned in biology class that some birds have a magnetic sense that helps them navigate. What, Caitlin had asked, did Bashira perceive when she contemplated magnetic fields? And what was her lack of that sense like? Did it feel like darkness, or silence, or something else she was familiar with? Bashira's answer was no, it was like nothing at all. Well, Caitlin had said, that's what vision was like to her: nothing at all.
  
  "All right," Caitlin replied glumly. Her mom let go of her hands.
  
  "Good. I'll call you when dinner's ready."
  
  She left, and Caitlin swung her chair back to face her computer. Her homework was writing an essay about the civil-rights struggle in the US in the 1960s. When her family had moved from Texas to Waterloo, she'd been afraid she'd have to study Canadian history, which she'd heard was boring: no struggle for independence, no civil wars. Fortunately, there'd been an American-history course offered, and she was taking that instead; Bashira, the big sweetie, had agreed to take it, too.
  
  Before Caitlin had tried to look at the sunset, she'd been Web surfing, searching for things about her father. And before that, she'd been updating her LiveJournal. But before that, she had indeed been working on her school project.
  
  As always, she had a clear map in her mind of where she'd been online. She didn't use the mouse—she couldn't see the on-screen pointer—but she quickly backtracked to where she'd been by repeatedly hitting the alt and left-arrow keys, passing back over other pages so fast that JAWS didn't have time to even start announcing their names. She skidded to a halt at the website she'd been consulting earlier about Martin Luther King, Jr., and used the control and end keys to jump to the bottom of the document, then shift and tab to start moving backward through the table of external links. She selected one that took her to a page about the 1963 March on Washington.
  
  There, she drilled down to the text of King's "I have a dream" speech, and listened to a stirring MP3 of him reading part of it; another thing wrong with Canadian history, she thought, was the lack of great oratory. Then she went back up a level to more on the March, down another path to links about—
  
  It sickened her whenever she thought about it. Someone had killed him. Some crazy person had gunned down Dr. King.
  
  If he hadn't been assassinated, she wondered if he'd likely be alive today. For that, she needed to know his birth date. She moved up to the parent of the current page, turned left—it felt left, she conceptualized it mentally as such. Then it was up, up again, then left, right, another up, then a move forward, straight ahead, up once more, and there she was, exactly where she wanted to be—the introductory text on a site she'd first looked at several hours ago.
  
  King had been born in 1929, meaning he'd be younger than Grandpa Geiger. How she would have loved to have met him!
  
  She heard the front door open downstairs, heard her dad come in. She continued to travel the paths her mind traced through the Web until her mom finally called up the stairs, summoning her to dinner.
  
  Just as she was getting out of her chair, her computer gave the special chirp indicating new email from either Trevor or Dr. Kuroda. "Just a sec …" Caitlin called back, and then she had JAWS read the letter. It was from Kuroda, with a CC to her father's work address. God, he couldn't want his equipment back already, could he?
  
  "Dear Miss Caitlin," JAWS announced. "I have been receiving the datastream from your retina without difficulty, and have been using it to run simulations here. I believe the programming in your eyePod is fine, but I want to try completely replacing the software in your post-retinal implant, so that it will pass on the corrected data to your optic nerve in a way that will hopefully make your primary visual cortex sit up and take notice. The implant has just Bluetooth but no Wi-Fi, so we'll have to route the software update through the eyePod. It's a big file, and the process will take a while, during which you will need to stay connected to the Web or else it—"
  
  "Caitlin!" Her mother's voice, exasperated. "Din-ner!"
  
  She hit page-up to increase the screen reader's speed, listening to the rest of the message, then headed downstairs— foolishly, she knew, hoping yet again for a miracle.
  
  Sinanthropus took a detour today on his way to the wang ba so he could walk through Tiananmen Square, a place so vast he'd once joked that you could see the curvature of the Earth's surface there.
  
  He passed the Monument to the People's Heroes, a tenstory-tall obelisk, but there was no memorial for the real heroes, the students who had died here in 1989. Still, all the flagstones in the square were numbered to make it easy to muster parades. He knew which one marked the spot where the first blood had been spilled, and he always made a point of walking by it. They should be lying in state, not Mao Zedong, whose embalmed corpse did just that at the south end of the Square.
  
  Tiananmen was its normal self: locals walking, tourists gawking, vendors hawking—but no protesters. Of course, most young people today had never even heard of what had happened here, so effectively had it been erased from the history books.
  
  But surely the public couldn't be buying this nonsense the official news sources were putting out about simultaneous server crashes and electrical failures. The Chinese portion of the Web was connected to the rest of the Internet by just a handful of trunks, true, but they were in three widely dispersed areas: Beijing-Qingdao-Tianjin to the north, where fiber-optic pipes came in from Japan; Shanghai on the central coast, with more cables from Japan; and Guangzhou down south, which was connected to Hong Kong. Nothing could have accidentally severed all three sets of connections.
  
  Sinanthropus left the square. His trip to the Internet café took him past buildings with bright new facades that had been installed for the 2008 Olympics to mask the decay within. The Party had put on a good show then, and the Westerners—as Sinanthropus had so often alluded to in his blog during that long, hot summer—had been fooled into thinking permanent changes had been made inside the People's Republic, that democracy was just around the corner, that Tibet would be free. But the Olympics had come and gone, human rights were again being trammeled, and bloggers who were too blatant were being sentenced to hard labor.
  
  As he entered the café, he felt a hand on his arm—but it wasn't the cop. Instead, it was one of the twins he often saw here, a fellow perhaps eighteen years old. The thin man's eyes were darting left and right. "Access is still limited," he said, his voice low. "Have you had any luck?"
  
  Sinanthropus looked around the café. The cop was here, but he was busy reading a copy of the People's Daily.
  
  "A little. Try"—and here he lowered his own voice another notch—"multiplexing on port eighty-two."
  
  There was a rustling of paper; the cop changing pages. Sinanthropus quickly hurried over to check in with old Wu, then found an empty computer station.
  
  There was another copy of the People's Daily here, left behind by a previous customer. He glanced at the headlines: "Two Hundred Dead as Plane Crashes in Changzhou." "Gas Eruptions in Shanxi." "Three Gorges E. coli Scare." None of it good news, but also nothing that would justify a communications blackout. Still, that he'd made any progress at all in carving holes in the Great Firewall gave him hope: if the trunk lines had been physically cut, nothing he could do with software would have made a difference. That the isolating of China had been accomplished electronically implied that it was only a temporary measure.
  
  He slipped his USB key into place and started typing, trying trick after trick to break through the Firewall again, looking up only occasionally to make sure the cop wasn't watching him.