1n1REzE

Peter Watts 168 Blindsight
I nodded and coughed. My throat was sore. The nausea had
grown heavy enough to sink below my diaphragm.
"Michelle." Sarasti repeated.
"I see some more here," Cunningham continued. "Along the
bottom of your brain pan. Only a few dozen cells so far, they're not
worth burning yet."
"Here." Michelle's voice was barely audible, even through
ConSensus, but at least it was the voice of an adult. "I'm here."
"What do you remember, please"
"I—I felt—I was just riding Mom, and then she was gone and
there was no one else, so I had to—take over…"
"Do you see the septum close"
"Not really. I felt it going dark, but when I turned around we
were already trapped. And then I felt something behind me, it
wasn't loud or harsh it just sort of bumped, and it grabbed me, and
—and—
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I'm a bit—woozy..."
Sarasti waited.
"Isaac," Michelle whispered. "He..."
"Yes." A pause. "We're very sorry about that."
"Maybe—can he be fixed"
"No. There's brain damage." There was something like
sympathy in the vampire's voice, the practiced affectation of an
accomplished mimic. There was something else, too, an all-butimperceptible
hunger, a subtle edge of temptation. I don't think
anyone heard it but me.
We were sick, and getting sicker. Predators are drawn to the
weak and injured.
Michelle had fallen silent again. When she continued, her voice
only faltered a little: "I can't tell you much. It grabbed me. It let
me go. I went to pieces, and I can't explain why except that
fucking place just does things to you, and I was—weak. I'm sorry.
There's not much else to tell you."
"Thank you," Sarasti said after a long moment.
"Can I—I'd like to leave if that's okay."
"Yes," Sarasti said. Michelle sank below the surface as the
Commons rotated past. I didn't see who took her place.