Blindsight

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s right, or maybe scramblers are ritual cannibals, or — they’re aliens, Keeton. What do you want from me?”

“But they’re not really aliens. At least not intelligent ones. War implies intelligence.”

“Ants wage war all the time. Proves nothing except that they’re alive.”

“Are scramblers even alive?” I asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“You think Rorschach grows them on some kind of assembly line. You can’t find any genes. Maybe they’re just biomechanical machines.”

“That’s what life is, Keeton. That’s what you are.” Another hit of nicotine, another storm of numbers, another sample. “Life isn’t either/or. It’s a matter of degree.”

“What I’m asking is, are they natural? Could they be constructs?”

“Is a termite mound a construct? Beaver dam? Space ship? Of course. Were they built by naturally-evolved organisms, acting naturally? They were. So tell me how anything in the whole deep multiverse can ever be anything but natural?”

I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s a meaningless question. Get your head out of the Twentieth Century.”

I gave up. After a few seconds Cunningham seemed to notice the silence. He withdrew his consciousness from the machinery and looked around with fleshly eyes, as if searching for some mosquito that had mysteriously stopped whining.

“What’s your problem with me?” I asked. Stupid question, obvious question. Unworthy of any synthesist to be so, so direct.

His eyes glittered in that dead face. “Processing without comprehension. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“That’s a colossal oversimplification.”

“Mmm.” Cunningham nodded. “Then why can’t you seem to comprehend how pointless it is to keep peeking over our shoulders and writing home to our masters?”

“Someone has to keep Earth in the loop.”

“Seven months each way. Long loop.”

“Still.”

“We’re on our own out here, Keeton. You’re on your own. The game’s going to be long over before our masters even know it’s started.” He sucked smoke. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps you’re talking to someone closer, hmm? That it? Is the Fourth Wave telling you what to do?”

“There is no Fourth Wave. Not that anyone’s told me, anyway.”

“Probably not. They’d never risk their lives out here, would they? Too dangerous even to hang back and watch from a distance. That’s why they built us.”

“We’re all self-made. Nobody forced you to get the rewire.”

“No, nobody forced me to get the rewire. I could have just let them cut out my brain and pack it into Heaven, couldn’t I? That’s the choice we have. We can be utterly useless, or we can try and compete against the vampires and the constructs and the AIs. And perhaps you could tell me how to do that without turning into a — an utter freak.”

So much in the voice. Nothing at all on the face. I said nothing.

“See what I mean? No comprehension.” He managed a tight smile. “So I’ll answer your questions. I’ll delay my own work and hold your hand because Sarasti’s told us to. I guess that superior vampire mind sees some legitimate reason to indulge your constant ankle-nipping, and it’s in charge so I’ll play along. But I’m not nearly that smart, so you’ll forgive me if it all seems a bit naff.”

“I’m just—”

“You’re just doing your job. I know. But I don’t like being played, Keeton. And that’s what your job is.”

* * *

Even back on Earth, Robert Cunningham had barely disguised his opinion of the ship’s commissar. It had been obvious even to the topologically blind.

I’d always had a hard time imagining the man. It wasn’t just his expressionless face. Sometimes, not even the subtler things behind would show up in his topology. Perhaps he repressed them deliberately, resenting the presence of this mole among the crew.

It would hardly have been the first time I’d encountered such a reaction. Everyone resented me to some extent. Oh, they liked me well enough, or thought they did. They tolerated my intrusions, and cooperated, and gave away far more than they thought they did.

But beneath Szpindel’s gruff camaraderie, beneath James’s patient explanations — there was no real respect. How could there be? These people were the bleeding edge, the incandescent apex of hominid achievement. They were trusted with the fate of the world. I was just a tattletale for small minds back home. Not even that much, when home receded too deeply into the distance. Superfluous mass. Couldn’t be helped. No use getting bothered over it.

Still, Szpindel had only coined commissar half-jokingly. Cunningham believed it, and didn’t laugh. And while I’d encountered many others like him over the years, those had only tried to hide themselves from sight. Cunningham was the first who seemed to succeed.