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Peter Watts 117 Blindsight
looked nothing like they do in real life.
There was only one familiar landmark anywhere in the whole
sensorium. My mother's heaven smelled of cinnamon.
I beheld her luminous avatar and imagined the corpus soaking in
a tank of nutrients, deep underground. "How are you doing"
"Very well. Very well. Of course, it takes a little getting used to,
knowing your mind isn't quite yours any more." Heaven didn't just
feed the brains of its residents; it fed off them, used the surplus
power of idle synapses to run its own infrastructure. "You have to
move in here, sooner better than later. You'll never leave."
"Actually, I am leaving," I said. "We're shipping out tomorrow."
"Shipping out"
"The Kuiper. You know. The Fireflies"
"Oh yes. I think I heard something about that. We don't get
much news from the outside world, you know."
"Anyway, just thought I'd call in and say goodbye."
"I'm glad you did. I've been hoping to see you without, you
know."
"Without what"
"You know. Without your father listening in."
Not again.
"Dad's in the field, Helen. Interplanetary crisis. You might have
heard something."
"I certainly have. You know, I haven't always been happy about
your father's—extended assignments, but maybe it was really a
blessing in disguise. The less he was around, the less he could do."
"Do"
"To you." The apparition stilled for a few moments, feigning
hesitation. "I've never told you this before, but—no. I shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what"
"Bring up, well, old hurts."
"What old hurts" Right on cue. I couldn't help myself, the
training went too deep. I always barked on command.
"Well," she began, "sometimes you'd come back—you were so
very young—and your face would be so set and hard, and I'd
wonder why are you so angry, little boy What can someone so
young have to be so angry about"