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Peter Watts 167 Blindsight
Michelle, I guess. Never thought she had it in her. I couldn't even
see."
"But you don't lose consciousness."
"I was awake the whole time, far as I know. Just completely in
the dark."
"Smell Tactile"
"I could feel it when Michelle pissed in the suit. But I didn't
notice anything else."
Cunningham was back at my side. The inevitable cigarette had
appeared between his lips.
"Nothing touches you," the vampire surmised. "Nothing grabs
your leg."
"No," Sascha said. She didn't believe Michelle's stories about
invisible monsters. None of us did; why bother, when dementia
could so easily explain anything we experienced
"Cruncher."
"Don't know anything," I still wasn't used to the maleness of the
voice now emanating from James's throat. Cruncher was a
workaholic. He hardly ever surfaced in mixed company.
"You're there," Sarasti reminded him. "You must remember
some—"
"Mom sent me patterns to parse. I was working on them. I'm
still working on them," he added pointedly. "I didn't notice
anything. Is that all"
I'd never been able to get a good read on him. Sometimes
Cruncher seemed to have more in common with the dozens of
nonconscious modules working in James's head than with sentient
hubs comprising the rest of the Gang. "You feel nothing" Sarasti
pressed.
"Just the patterns."
"Anything significant"
"Standard phenomath spirals and gratings. But I haven't
finished. Can I go now"
"Yes. Call Michelle, please."
Cunningham stabbed at my wounds with anabolisers, muttering
to himself. Faint blue smoke curled between us. "Isaac found
some tumors," he observed.