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Peter Watts 272 Blindsight
"It matters," she said, "because it means we attacked them before
Theseus launched. Before Firefall, even."
"We attacked the—"
"You don't get it, do you You don't." Sascha snorted softly. "If
that isn't the fucking funniest thing I've heard in my whole short
life."
She leaned forward, bright-eyed. "Imagine you're a scrambler,
and you encounter a human signal for the very first time."
Her stare was almost predatory. I resisted the urge to back away.
"It should be so easy for you, Keeton. It should be the easiest gig
you've ever had. Aren't you the user interface, aren't you the
Chinese Room Aren't you the one who never has to look inside,
never has to walk a mile in anyone's shoes, because you figure
everyone out from their surfaces"
She stared at Ben's dark smoldering disk. "Well, there's your
dream date. There's a whole race of nothing but surfaces. There's
no inside to figure out. All the rules are right up front. So go to
work, Siri Keeton. Make us proud."
There was no contempt in Sascha's voice, no disdain. There
wasn't even anger, not in her voice, not in her eyes.
There was pleading. There were tears.
"Imagine you're a scrambler," she whispered again, as they
floated like tiny perfect beads before her face.
Imagine you're a scrambler.
Imagine you have intellect but no insight, agendas but no
awareness. Your circuitry hums with strategies for survival and
persistence, flexible, intelligent, even technological—but no other
circuitry monitors it. You can think of anything, yet are conscious
of nothing.
You can't imagine such a being, can you The term being
doesn't even seem to apply, in some fundamental way you can't
quite put your finger on.
Try.
Imagine that you encounter a signal. It is structured, and dense
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