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Peter Watts 208 Blindsight
It sounded almost like a prayer...
He must have heard me. His topology went flat and hard and
almost impossible to decipher. It was increasingly difficult getting
a fix on anyone these days, but even through those topological
cataracts Cunningham— as always— was a tougher read than
most.
"Keeton," he said without turning.
"You're not Jewish," I said.
"It was." Szpindel, I realized after a moment. Cunningham
didn't do gender pronouns.
But Isaac Szpindel had been an atheist. All of us were. We'd all
started out that way, at least.
"I didn't know you knew him," I said. It certainly wasn't policy.
Cunningham sank into his chair without looking at me. In his
head, and in mine, a new window opened within a frame marked
Electrophoresis.
I tried again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intru—"
"What can I do for you, Siri"
"I was hoping you could bring me up to speed on your findings."
A periodic chart of alien elements scrolled through the feed.
Cunningham logged it and started another sample. "I've
documented everything. It's all in ConSensus."
I made a play for ego: "It would really help to know how you'd
thumbnail it, though. What you think is important can be just as
vital as the data themselves."
He looked at me a moment. He muttered something, repetitive
and irrelevant.
"What's important is what's missing," he said after a moment.
"I've got good samples now and I still can't find the genes. Protein
synthesis is almost prionic—reconformation instead of the usual
transcription pathways—but I can't figure out how those bricks get
slotted into the wall once they're made."
"Any progress on the energy front" I asked.
"Energy"
"Aerobic metabolism on an anaerobe budget, remember You
said they had too much ATP."
"That I solved." He puffed smoke; far to stern a fleck of alien