Blindsight

Susan James — congenital optimist, high priestess of the Church of the Healing Word, was best qualified to design and execute the protocols. Now, at her command, the scramblers writhed. They pulled themselves around their cages in elliptical loops, desperately seeking any small corner free of stimulus. James had piped the feed into ConSensus, although there was no mission-critical reason for Theseus’ whole crew to bear witness to the interrogation.

“Let them block it at their ends,” she said quietly, “If they want to.”

For all his reluctance to accept that these were beings, intelligent and aware, Cunningham had named the prisoners. Stretch tended to float spread-eagled; Clench was the balled-up corner-hugger. Susan, playing her own part in this perverse role-reversal, had simply numbered them One and Two. It wasn’t that Cunningham’s choices were too cheesy for her to stomach, or that she objected to slave names on principal. She’d just fallen back on the oldest trick in the Torturer’s Handbook, the one that lets you go home to your family after work, and play with your children, and sleep at night: never humanize your victims.

It shouldn’t have been such an issue when dealing with methane-breathing medusae. I guess every little bit helped.

Biotelemetry danced across the headspace beside each alien, luminous annotations shuddering through thin air. I had no idea what constituted normal readings for these creatures, but I couldn’t imagine those jagged spikes passing for anything but bad news. The creatures themselves seethed subtly with fine mosaics in blue and gray, fluid patterns rippling across their cuticles. Perhaps it was a reflexive reaction to the microwaves; for all we knew it was a mating display.

More likely they were screaming.

James killed the microwaves. In the left-hand enclosure, a yellow square dimmed; in the right, an identical icon nested among others had never lit.

The pigment flowed faster in the wake of the onslaught; the arms slowed but didn’t stop. They swept back and forth like listless, skeletal eels.

“Baseline exposure. Five seconds, two hundred fifty Watts.” She spoke for the record. Another affectation; Theseus recorded every breath on board, every trickle of current to five decimal places.

“Repeat.”

The icon lit up. More tile patterns, flash-flooding across alien skin. But this time, neither alien moved from where it was. Their arms continued to squirm slightly, a torqued trembling variation on the undulation they effected at rest. The telemetry was as harsh as ever, though.

They learned helplessness fast enough, I reflected.

I glanced at Susan. “Are you going to do this all yourself?”

Her eyes were bright and wet as she killed the current. Clench’s icon dimmed. Stretch’s remained dormant.

I cleared my throat. “I mean—”

“Who else is going to do this, Siri? Jukka? You?”

“The rest of the Gang. Sascha could—”

“Sascha?” She stared at me. “Siri, I created them. Do you think I did that so I could hide behind them when — so I could force them to do things like this?” She shook her head. “I’m not bringing them out. Not for this. I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy.”

She turned away from me. There were drugs she could have taken, neuroinhibitors to wash away the guilt, short-circuit it right down in the molecules. Sarasti had offered them up as if he were tempting some solitary messiah in the desert. James had refused him, and would not say why.

“Repeat,” she said.

The current flickered on, then off.

“Repeat,” she said again.

Not a twitch.

I pointed. “I see it,” she said.

Clench had pressed the tip of one arm against the touchpad. The icon there glowed like a candle flame.

* * *

Six and a half minutes later they’d graduated from yellow squares to time-lapsed four-dimensional polyhedrons. It took them as long to distinguish between two twenty-six-faceted shifting solids — differing by one facet in a single frame — as it took them to tell the difference between a yellow square and a red triangle. Intricate patterns played across their surfaces the whole time, dynamic needlepoint mosaics flickering almost too fast to see.

“Fuck,” James whispered.

“Could be splinter skills.” Cunningham had joined us in ConSensus, although his body remained halfway around BioMed.

“Splinter skills,” she repeated dully.

“Savantism. Hyperperformance at one kind of calculation doesn’t necessarily connote high intelligence.”

“I know what splinter skills are, Robert. I just think you’re wrong.”

“Prove it.”

So she gave up on geometry and told the scramblers that one plus one equaled two. Evidently they knew that already: ten minutes later they were predicting ten-digit prime numbers on demand.