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PeterWatts_Blindsight

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Peter Watts 158 <strong>Blindsight</strong><br />

develop into contracting irises, into complete septa, lazy as warm<br />

candle wax. We seemed to be witnessing the growth of the<br />

structure in discrete segments. Rorschach grew mainly from the<br />

tips of its thorns; we'd made our incursion hundreds of meters from<br />

the nearest, but evidently the process extended at least this far<br />

back.<br />

If it was part of the normal growth process, though, it was a<br />

feeble echo of what must have been going on in the heart of the<br />

apical zones. We couldn't observe those directly, not from inside;<br />

barely a hundred meters towards the thorn the tube grew too lethal<br />

even for suicidal flesh. But over those five orbits Rorschach grew<br />

by another eight percent, as mindless and mechanical as a growing<br />

crystal.<br />

Through it all I tried to do my job. I compiled and collated,<br />

massaged data I would never understand. I watched the systems<br />

around me as best I could, factored each tic and trait into the mix.<br />

One part of my mind produced synopses and syntheses while<br />

another watched, incredulous and uncomprehending. Neither part<br />

could trace where those insights had come from.<br />

It was difficult, though. Sarasti wouldn't let me back outside the<br />

system. Every observation was contaminated by my own<br />

confounding presence in the mix. I did my best. I made no<br />

suggestions that might affect critical decisions. In the field I did<br />

what I was told to, and no more. I tried to be like one of Bates's<br />

drones, a simple tool with no initiative and no influence on the<br />

group dynamic. I think I pulled it off, for the most part.<br />

My nonsights accumulated on schedule and piled up in Theseus's<br />

transmission stack, unsent. There was too much local interference<br />

to get a signal through to Earth.<br />

Szpindel was right: the ghosts followed us back. We began to<br />

hear voices other than Sarasti's, whispering up the spine.<br />

Sometimes even the brightly-lit wraparound world of the drum<br />

would warp and jiggle from the corner of my eye—and more than<br />

once I saw boney headless phantoms with too many arms, nested in<br />

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