1n1REzE

Peter Watts 33 Blindsight
about it. It wouldn't matter whether the Icarus Array was still
online or whether it had been shredded and thrown into the sun like
a thousand kilometers of torn origami; he wouldn't tell either tale
unless an official announcement had been made. Which—I
refreshed an index window just to be sure— it hadn't.
Because while my father was a man of few words, he was not a
man of frequent, indecisive pauses—and he had hesitated before
each and every line he'd spoken in this exchange.
I tugged ever-so-gently on the line—"But they've sent ships."—
and started counting.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand—
"Just a precaution. Icarus was overdue for a visit anyway. You
don't swap out your whole grid without at least dropping in and
kicking the new tires first."
Nearly three seconds to respond.
"You're on the moon," I said.
Pause. "Close enough."
"What are you—Dad, why are you telling me this Isn't this a
security breach"
"You're going to get a call," he told me.
"From who Why"
"They're assembling a team. The kind of—people you deal
with." My father was too rational to dispute the contributions of
the recons and hybrids in our midst, but he'd never been able to
hide his mistrust of them.
"They need a synthesist," he said.
"Isn't it lucky you've got one in the family."
Radio bounced back and forth. "This isn't nepotism, Siri. I
wanted very much for them to pick someone else."
"Thanks for the vote of conf—"
But he'd seen it coming, and preempted me before my words
could cross the distance: "It's not a slap at your abilities and you
know it. You're simply the most qualified, and the work is vital."
"So why—" I began, and stopped. He wouldn't want to keep me
away from some theoretical gig in a WestHem lab.
"What's this about, Dad"
"The Fireflies. They found something."