The Island - Peter Watts

Peter Watts 12 The Island
nerves have not been so thoroughly cauterised. Childish, I know.
The damn thing already knows I'm up; it may be blind, deaf, and
impotent in here, but there's no way to mask the power the crypt
sucks in during a thaw. And it's not as though a bunch of clubwielding
teleops are waiting to pounce on me the moment I step
outside. These are the days of détente, after all. The struggle
continues but the war has gone cold; we just go through the
motions now, rattling our chains like an old married multiplet
resigned to hating each other to the end of time.
After all the moves and countermoves, the truth is we need each
other.
So I wash the rotten-egg stench from my hair and step into Eri's
silent cathedral hallways. Sure enough the enemy waits in the
darkness, turns the lights on as I approach, shuts them off behind
me— but it does not break the silence.
Dix.
A strange one, that. Not that you'd expect anyone born and
raised on Eriophora to be an archetype of mental health, but Dix
doesn't even know what side he's on. He doesn't even seem to
know he has to choose a side. It's almost as though he read the
original mission statements and took them seriously, believed in
the literal truth of the ancient scrolls: Mammals and Machinery,
working together across the ages to explore the Universe! United!
Strong! Forward the Frontier!
Rah.
Whoever raised him didn't do a great job. Not that I blame
them; it can't have been much fun having a child underfoot during
a build, and none of us were selected for our parenting skills. Even
if bots changed the diapers and VR handled the infodumps,
socialising a toddler couldn't have been anyone's idea of a good
time. I'd have probably just chucked the little bastard out an
airlock.
But even I would've brought him up to speed.
Something changed while I was away. Maybe the war's heated
up again, entered some new phase. That twitchy kid is out of the
loop for a reason. I wonder what it is.
I wonder if I care.