Free WWW 2: Watch by Robert J. Sawyer Page A

device’s single switch and held it down until it came on, and then—
    And then webspace blossomed around her: crisscrossing glowing lines in assorted colors, radiant circles of various sizes.
    She was pleased that she could still visualize the Web this way; she’d thought perhaps that the ability would fade as her brain rewired itself to deal with actual vision, but so far it hadn’t. In fact—
    In fact, if anything, her websight seemed clearer now, sharper, more focused. The real-world skills were spilling over into this realm.
    She concentrated on what was behind what she was seeing, the backdrop to it all, at the very limit of her ability to perceive, a shimmering—yes, yes, it was a checkerboard; there was no doubt now! She could see the tiny pixels of the cellular automata flipping on and off rapidly, and giving rise to—
    Consciousness.
    There, for her, and her alone, to see: the actual workings of Webmind.
    She was pleased to note that after a night of doubtless continued growth in intelligence and complexity, it looked the same as before.
    She yawned, pulled back her sheet, and swung her bare feet to the dark blue carpeted floor. As she moved, webspace wheeled about her. She scooped up the eyePod, disconnected the charging cable, and carried it to her desk. Not until she was seated did she push the eyePod’s button and hear the low-pitched beep that signified a switch to simplex mode. Webspace disappeared, replaced by the reality of her bedroom.
    She picked her glasses up from the desktop; her left eye had turned out to be quite myopic. Then she reached for the power switch on her old monitor, finding it with ease, and felt about for the switch on her new one. They both came to life.
    She had closed the IM window when she’d gone to bed, and, although the mouse was sitting right there, its glowing red underbelly partially visible through the translucent sides of its case, she instead used a series of keyboard commands to open the window and start a new session with Webmind. She wasn’t awake enough yet to try to read text on screen, so she activated her refreshable Braille display. Instantly, the pins formed text: Otanjoubi omedetou.
    Caitlin felt it several times. It seemed to be gibberish, as if Webmind were getting even for her father’s games from yesterday, but—but, no, no, there was something familiar about it.
    And then she got it, or thought she did. Grinning, she typed, Konnichi wa! But—fair warning!—I only know a few words of Japanese.
    The reply was instantaneous. That’s “ happy birthday.”
    Caitlin smiled. Thank you!
    I had some spare time after figuring out how to interpret graphics, so I learned Japanese; it seemed inappropriate to make Dr. Kuroda converse with me in something other than his native language.
    Just like that, she thought. Overnight, on top of, doubtless, a million other things, it had learned Japanese.
    So you can see images now?
    Still images, yes. Dr. Kuroda continues to work on giving me access to moving images. Or, at least, he was doing that; he is sleeping now, I believe.
    Hey, typed Caitlin, you’re no longer all “ hitherto” and “perchance.”
    I have read much more widely now than just Project Gutenberg. I understand the distinctions between colloquial and archaic English—and colloquial and archaic Japanese, too, for that matter.
    Caitlin frowned. She actually considered its old way of speaking rather charming.
    Webmind went on: I know it’s traditional to give a gift to one celebrating a birthday. I can’t buy you anything, but I do have something for you.
    Caitlin was startled. OMG! What?
    A link, underlined and colored blue, popped up in the IM window on her screen. You’re supposed to click on it, Webmind added, helpfully.
    Caitlin smiled, found her mouse, fumbled to get the pointer over the link, and—
    And text started to appear on her larger monitor, but, paradoxically, her Braille display didn’t change, and—
    And the text was . . .