PeterWatts_Blindsight

Peter Watts 231 Blindsight
magnetosphere was orders of magnitude weaker here than within
the structure itself, who knew if the alien might find us too
tempting a target—or too great a threat—at this range? Who knew
when it might choose to plunge some invisible spike through
Theseus's heart?
Any pulse that could penetrate the ship's shielding would
doubtless fry Theseus's nervous system as well as the wiring in our
heads. I supposed that five people in a dead ship would have a
marginally greater chance of survival if their brains weren't
sparking in the bargain, but I doubted that such a difference would
make much difference. Sarasti had obviously figured the odds
differently. He'd even shut down the antiEuclidean pump in his
own head, resorted to manual injections to keep himself from shortcircuiting.
Stretch and Clench were even closer to Rorschach than we were.
Cunningham's lab had been kicked free of the ship; it floated now
just a few kilometers from the artefact's outermost spires, deep
within the folds of its magnetic field. If the scramblers needed
radioactive magnetite to function, this was the most they were
going to get: a taste of the fields, but not of freedom. The lab's
shielding was being dynamically fine-tuned to balance medical
necessity against tactical risk, as best the data allowed. The
structure floated in the watchful crosshairs of our newborn gun
emplacements, strategically positioned to either side. Those
emplacements could destroy the hab in an instant. They could
probably destroy anything approaching it as well.
They couldn't destroy Rorschach, of course. Maybe nothing
could.
Covert to invulnerable. As far as we knew that hadn't happened
yet. Presumably Theseus could still do something about the
artefact accreting off our bow, assuming we could decide which
thing to do. Sarasti wasn't talking. In fact, I couldn't remember
the last time any of us had even seen the vampire in the flesh. For
several shifts now he had confined himself to his tent, speaking
only through ConSensus.
Everyone was on edge, and the transient had gone quiet.
Cunningham muttered to himself, stabbed at unfamiliar controls