Blindsight

“Trust Michelle’s,” Sarasti said. He opened a window as I grew heavier: a grunt’s-eye view of a fuzzy, bright blob weaving behind the translucent waxed-paper fibers of the skinned septum. James’s headlight, from the wrong side of the barrier. The image wobbled a bit as the drone staggered through some local pocket of magnetism, then replayed. Wobbled, replayed. A six-second loop.

“See something next to the Gang.”

Non-vampires saw no such thing. Sarasti froze the image, evidently realizing as much. “Diffraction patterns aren’t consistent with a single light source in open space. I see dimmer elements, reflective elements. Two dark objects close together, similar size, scattering light here—” a cursor appeared at two utterly nondescript points on the image — “and here. One’s the Gang. The other’s unaccounted for.”

“Just a minute,” Cunningham said. “If you can see it through all that, why didn’t Su — why didn’t Michelle see anything?”

“Synesthesiac,” Sarasti reminded him. “You see. She feels.”

BioMed jerked slightly, locking into spin-synch with the drum; the guard rail sank back into the deck. Off in some far-off corner, something without eyes watched me watching it.

“Shit,” Bates whispered. “There’s someone home.”

* * *

They never really talked like that, by the way. You’d hear gibberish — a half-dozen languages, a whole Babel of personal idioms — if I spoke in their real voices.

Some of the simpler tics make it through: Sascha’s good-natured belligerence, Sarasti’s aversion to the past tense. Cunningham lost most of his gender pronouns to an unforeseen glitch during the work on his temporal lobe. But it went beyond that. The whole lot of them threw English and Hindi and Hadzane into every second sentence; no real scientist would allow their thoughts to be hamstrung by the conceptual limitations of a single language. Other times they acted almost as synthesists in their own right, conversing in grunts and gestures that would be meaningless to any baseline. It’s not so much that the bleeding edge lacks social skills; it’s just that once you get past a certain point, formal speech is too damn slow.

Except for Susan James. The walking contradiction, the woman so devoted to Communication As Unifier that she’d cut her own brain into disunified chunks to make the point. She was the only one who ever seemed to care who she was talking to. The others spoke only for themselves, even when they spoke to each other. Even James’s other cores would speak their own minds in their own way, and let everyone else translate as best they could. It wasn’t a problem. Everyone on Theseus could read everyone else.

But that didn’t matter to Susan James. She fit each of her words to their intended recipient, she accommodated.

I am a conduit. I exist to bridge the gap, and I’d bridge nothing if I only told you what these people said. So I am telling you what they meant, and it will mean as much to you as you can handle.

Except for Susan James, linguist and Ringleader, whom I trust to speak for herself.

* * *

Fifteen minutes to apogee: maximum safe distance, in case Rorschach decided to hit back. Far below, the artefact’s magnetic field pressed into Ben’s atmosphere like God’s little finger. Great dark thunderheads converged behind it; turbulent moon-sized curlicues collided in its wake.

Fifteen minutes to apogee, and Bates was still hoping Sarasti would change his mind.

In a way, this was her fault. If she had just treated this new travail as one more cross to bear, perhaps things would have gone on more or less as before. There would have been some faint hope that Sarasti would have let us grit our teeth and keep on going, besieged now by spring-loaded trapdoors as well as the usual gauntlet of Seiverts and magnets and monsters from the id. But Bates had made an issue out of it. It wasn’t just another piece of shit in the sewer to her: it was the one that clogged the pipe.

We’re on the brink as it is, just surviving the baseline environment of this thing. If it’s started taking deliberate countermeasures…I don’t see how we can risk it.

Fourteen minutes to apogee, and Amanda Bates was still regretting those words.

On previous expeditions we’d charted twenty-six septa in various stages of development. We’d x-rayed them. We’d done ultrasound. We’d watched them ooze their way across passages or ebb slowly back into the walls. The iris that had snapped shut behind the Gang of Four had been a whole different animal.

And what are the odds that the first one with a hair-trigger just happened to also come with antilaser prismatics? That was no routine growth event. That thing was set for us.