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BLINDSIGHT (Firefall, 1) Paperback – March 4, 2008
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Hugo and Shirley Jackson award-winning Peter Watts stands on the cutting edge of hard SF with his acclaimed novel, Blindsight
Two months since the stars fell...
Two months of silence, while a world held its breath.
Now some half-derelict space probe, sparking fitfully past Neptune's orbit, hears a whisper from the edge of the solar system: a faint signal sweeping the cosmos like a lighthouse beam. Whatever's out there isn't talking to us. It's talking to some distant star, perhaps. Or perhaps to something closer, something en route.
So who do you send to force introductions with unknown and unknowable alien intellect that doesn't wish to be met?
You send a linguist with multiple personalities, her brain surgically partitioned into separate, sentient processing cores. You send a biologist so radically interfaced with machinery that he sees x-rays and tastes ultrasound. You send a pacifist warrior in the faint hope she won't be needed. You send a monster to command them all, an extinct hominid predator once called vampire, recalled from the grave with the voodoo of recombinant genetics and the blood of sociopaths. And you send a synthesist―an informational topologist with half his mind gone―as an interface between here and there.
Pray they can be trusted with the fate of a world. They may be more alien than the thing they've been sent to find.
- Print length384 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherTor Trade
- Publication dateMarch 4, 2008
- Dimensions5.5 x 0.96 x 8.25 inches
- ISBN-100765319640
- ISBN-13978-0765319647
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“Watts explores the nature of consciousness in this stimulating hard SF novel, which combines riveting action with a fascinating alien environment. Watts puts a terrifying and original spin on the familiar alien contact story. ” ―Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"A brilliant piece of work, one that will delight fans of hard science fiction, but will also demonstrate to literary fans that contemporary science fiction is dynamic and fascinating literature that demands to be read.” ―The Edmonton Journal
“Astonishingly readable book. . . . [Watts is] one of the two or three best hard SF writers around, and this is his finest book to date.” ―Interzone
"Blindsight is fearless: a magnificent, darkly gleaming jewel of a book that hurdles the contradictions inherent in biochemistry, consciousness, and human hearts without breaking stride. Imagine you are Siri Keeton. Imagine you are nothing at all. You don't have to; Peter Watts has done it for you.” ―Elizabeth Bear, author of Hammered
“Peter Watts has taken the core myths of the First Contact story and shaken them to pieces. The result is a shocking and mesmerizing performance, a tour-de-force of provocative and often alarming ideas. It is a rare novel that has the potential to set science fiction on an entirely new course. Blindsight is such a book.” ―Karl Schroeder
“Blindsight is a tour de force, redefining the First Contact story for good. Peter Watts' aliens are neither humans in funny make-up nor incomprehensible monoliths beyond human comprehension -- they're something new and infinitely more disturbing, forcing us to confront unpalatable possibilities about the nature of consciousness. It's good, and it'll make your skin crawl when you stop to think about it. Strongly recommended: this may be the best hard SF read of 2006.” ―Charles Stross
“Blindsight is excellent. It's state-of-the-art science fiction: smart, dark and it grabs you by the throat from page one. Like a C J Cherryh book it makes you feel the danger of the hostile environment (or lack of one) out there. And unlike many books it plays with some fascinating possibilities in human development (I like the idea of some disabilities becoming advantages here) and some disconcerting ideas about human consciousness (understanding what action preceding though actually means). What else can I say? Thanks for giving me the privilege of reading this.” ―Neal Asher
“It seems clear that every second Peter Watts is not actually writing must be spent reading, out at the cutting edge of all the sciences and all the arts at once. Only that can't be so, because he obviously spends fully as much time thinking about everything he's read, before he sits down to turn it into story. His latest starts by proving that there are circumstances in which half a brain is better than one, or even a dozen-and then builds steadily in strangeness and wonder with every page. If Samuel R. Delany, Greg Egan and Vernor Vinge had collaborated to update Algis Budrys's classic Rogue Moon for the new millenium, they might have produced a novel as powerful and as uniquely beautiful as Blindsight. Its narrator is one of the most unforgettable characters I have ever encountered in fiction.” ―Spider Robinson, co-author of Variable Star by Robert A. Heinlein and Spider Robinson
About the Author
Peter Watts is a former marine biologist, flesh-eating-disease survivor and convicted felon whose novels―despite an unhealthy focus on space vampires―have become required texts for university courses ranging from Philosophy to Neuropsychology.
His work is available in 21 languages, has appeared in over 350 best-of-year anthologies, and been nominated for over 50 awards in a dozen countries. His (somewhat shorter) list of 20 actual wins includes the Hugo, the Shirley Jackson, and the Seiun.
Peter is the author of the Rifters novels (Starfish, Maelstrom) and the Firefall series (Blindsight, Echopraxia).
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Blindsight
By Watts, PeterTor Books
Copyright ©2008 Watts, PeterAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9780765319647
Chapter One
Blood makes noise.
—Suzanne Vega
Imagine you are Siri Keeton.
You wake in an agony of resurrection, gasping after a record-shattering bout of sleep apnea spanning one hundred forty days. You can feel your blood, syrupy with dobutamine and leuenkephalin, forcing its way through arteries shriveled by months on standby. The body inflates in painful increments: blood vessels dilate, flesh peels apart from flesh, ribs crack in your ears with sudden unaccustomed flexion. Your joints have seized up through disuse. You’re a stick man, frozen in some perverse rigor vitae.
You’d scream if you had the breath.
Vampires did this all the time, you remember. It was normal for them, it was their own unique take on resource conservation. They could have taught your kind a few things about restraint, if that absurd aversion to right angles hadn’t done them in at the dawn of civilization. Maybe they still can. They’re back now, after all—raised from the grave with the voodoo of paleogenetics, stitched together from junk genes and fossil marrow steeped in the blood of sociopaths and high-functioning autistics. One of them commands this very mission. A handful of his genes live on in your own body so it too can rise from the dead, here at the edge of interstellar space. Nobody gets past Jupiter without becoming part vampire.
The pain begins, just slightly, to recede. You fire up your inlays and access your own vitals. It’ll be long minutes before your body responds fully to motor commands, hours before it stops hurting. The pain’s an unavoidable side effect. That’s just what happens when you splice vampire subroutines into Human code. You asked about painkillers once, but nerve blocks of any kind compromise metabolic reactivation. Suck it up, soldier.
You wonder if this was how it felt for Chelsea, before the end. But that evokes a whole other kind of pain, so you block it out and concentrate on the life pushing its way back into your extremities. Suffering in silence, you check the logs for fresh telemetry.
You think: That can’t be right.
Because if it is, you’re in the wrong part of the universe. You’re not in the Kuiper Belt where you belong: you’re high above the ecliptic and deep into the Oort, the realm of long-period comets that only grace the sun every million years or so. You’ve gone interstellar, which means (you bring up the system clock) you’ve been undead for eighteen hundred days.
You’ve overslept by almost five years.
The lid of your coffin slides away. Your own cadaverous body reflects from the mirrored bulkhead opposite, a desiccated lungfish waiting for the rains. Bladders of isotonic saline cling to its limbs like engorged antiparasites, like the opposite of leeches. You remember the needles going in just before you shut down, way back when your veins were more than dry twisted filaments of beef jerky.
Szpindel’s reflection stares back from his own pod to your immediate right. His face is as bloodless and skeletal as yours. His wide sunken eyes jiggle in their sockets as he reacquires his own links, sensory interfaces so massive that your own off-the-shelf inlays amount to shadow puppetry in comparison.
You hear coughing and the rustling of limbs just past line of sight, catch glimpses of reflected motion where the others stir at the edge of vision.
“Wha . . . ” your voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper, “. . . happ . . . ?”
Szpindel works his jaw. Bone cracks audibly.
“. . . Sssuckered,” he hisses.
You haven’t even met the aliens yet, and already they’re running rings around you.
So we dragged ourselves back from the dead: five part-time cadavers, naked, emaciated, barely able to move even in zero g. We emerged from our coffins like premature moths ripped from their cocoons, still half-grub. We were alone and off course and utterly helpless, and it took a conscious effort to remember: They would never have risked our lives if we hadn’t been essential.
“Morning, commissar.” Isaac Szpindel reached one trembling, insensate hand for the feedback gloves at the base of his pod. Just past him, Susan James was curled into a loose fetal ball, murmuring to herselves. Only Amanda Bates, already dressed and cycling through a sequence of bone-cracking isometrics, possessed anything approaching mobility. Every now and then she tried bouncing a rubber ball off the bulkhead; but not even she was up to catching it on the rebound yet.
The journey had melted us down to a common archetype. James’s round cheeks and hips; Szpindel’s high forehead and lumpy, lanky chassis—even the enhanced carboplatinum brick shit house that Bates used for a body—all had shriveled to the same desiccated collection of sticks and bones. Even our hair seemed to have become strangely discolored during the voyage, although I knew that was impossible. More likely it was just filtering the pallor of the skin beneath. Still. The pre-dead James had been dirty blond, Szpindel’s hair had been almost dark enough to call black, but the stuff floating from their scalps looked the same dull kelpy brown to me now. Bates kept her head shaved, but even her eyebrows weren’t as rusty as I remembered them.
We’d revert to our old selves soon enough. Just add water. For now, though, the old slur was freshly relevant: The Undead really did all look the same, if you didn’t know how to look.
If you did, of course—if you forgot appearance and watched for motion, ignored meat and studied topology—you’d never mistake one for another. Every facial tic was a data point, every conversational pause spoke volumes more than the words to either side. I could see James’s personae shatter and coalesce in the flutter of an eyelash. Szpindel’s unspoken distrust of Amanda Bates shouted from the corner of his smile. Every twitch of the phenotype cried aloud to anyone who knew the language.
“Where’s—” James croaked, coughed, waved one spindly arm at Sarasti’s empty coffin gaping at the end of the row.
Szpindel’s lips cracked in a small rictus. “Gone back to Fab, eh? Getting the ship to build some dirt to lie on.”
“Probably communing with the Captain.” Bates breathed louder than she spoke, a dry rustle from pipes still getting reacquainted with the idea of respiration.
James again: “Could do that up here.”
“Could take a dump up here, too,” Szpindel rasped. “Some things you do by yourself, eh?”
And some things you kept to yourself. Not many baselines felt comfortable locking stares with a vampire—Sarasti, ever courteous, tended to avoid eye contact for exactly that reason—but there were other surfaces to his topology, just as mammalian and just as readable. If he had withdrawn from public view, maybe I was the reason. Maybe he was keeping secrets.
After all, Theseus damn well was.
She’d taken us a good fifteen AUs toward our destination before something scared her off course. Then she’d skidded north like a startled cat and started climbing: a wild high three-g burn off the ecliptic, thirteen hundred tonnes of momentum bucking against Newton’s first. She’d emptied her Penn tanks, bled dry her substrate mass, squandered a hundred forty days’ of fuel in hours. Then a long cold coast through the abyss, years of stingy accounting, the thrust of every antiproton weighed against the drag of sieving it from the void. Teleportation isn’t magic: the Icarus stream couldn’t send us the actual antimatter it made, only the quantum specs. Theseus had to filterfeed the raw material from space, one ion at a time. For long dark years she’d made do on pure inertia, hording every swallowed atom. Then a flip; ionizing lasers strafing the space ahead; a ramscoop thrown wide in a hard brake. The weight of a trillion trillion protons slowed her down and refilled her gut and flattened us all over again. Theseus had burned relentlessly until almost the moment of our resurrection.
It was easy enough to retrace those steps; our course was there in ConSensus for anyone to see. Exactly why the ship had blazed that trail was another matter. Doubtless it would all come out during the post-rez briefing. We were hardly the first vessel to travel under the cloak of sealed orders, and if there’d been a pressing need to know by now we’d have known by now. Still, I wondered who had locked out the Comm logs. Mission Control, maybe. Or Sarasti. Or Theseus herself, for that matter. It was easy to forget the Quantical AI at the heart of our ship. It stayed so discreetly in the background, nurtured and carried us and permeated our existence like an unobtrusive god; but like God, it never took your calls.
Sarasti was the official intermediary. When the ship did speak, it spoke to him—and Sarasti called it Captain.
So did we all.
He’d given us four hours to come back. It took more than three just to get me out of the crypt. By then my brain was at least firing on most of its synapses, although my body—still sucking fluids like a thirsty sponge—continued to ache with every movement. I swapped out drained electrolyte bags for fresh ones and headed aft.
Fifteen minutes to spin-up. Fifty to the post-resurrection briefing. Just enough time for those who preferred gravity-bound sleep to haul their personal effects into the drum and stake out their allotted 4.4 square meters of floor space.
Gravity—or any centripetal facsimile thereof—did not appeal to me. I set up my own tent in zero g and as far to stern as possible, nuzzling the forward wall of the starboard shuttle tube. The tent inflated like an abscess on Theseus’s spine, a little climate-controlled bubble of atmosphere in the dark cavernous vacuum beneath the ship’s carapace. My own effects were minimal; it took all of thirty seconds to stick them to the wall, and another thirty to program the tent’s environment.
Afterward I went for a hike. After five years, I needed the exercise.
Stern was closest, so I started there, at the shielding that separated payload from propulsion. A single sealed hatch blistered the aft bulkhead dead center. Behind it, a service tunnel wormed back through machinery best left untouched by Human hands. The fat superconducting torus of the ramscoop ring; the antennae fan behind it, unwound now into an indestructible soap bubble big enough to shroud a city, its face turned sunward to catch the faint quantum sparkle of the Icarus antimatter stream. More shielding behind that; then the telematter reactor, where raw hydrogen and refined information conjured fire three hundred times hotter than the sun’s. I knew the incantations, of course—antimatter cracking and deconstruction, the teleportation of quantum serial numbers—but it was still magic to me, how we’d come so far so fast. It would have been magic to anyone.
Except Sarasti, maybe.
Around me, the same magic worked at cooler temperatures and to less volatile ends: a small riot of chutes and dispensers crowded the bulkhead on all sides. A few of those openings would choke on my fist: one or two could swallow me whole. Theseus’s fabrication plant could build everything from cutlery to cockpits. Give it a big enough matter stockpile and it could have even built another Theseus, albeit in many small pieces and over a very long time. Some wondered if it could build another crew as well, although we’d all been assured that was impossible. Not even these machines had fine enough fingers to reconstruct a few trillion synapses in the space of a human skull. Not yet, anyway.
I believed it. They would never have shipped us out fully assembled if there’d been a cheaper alternative.
I faced forward. Putting the back of my head against that sealed hatch I could see almost to Theseus’s bow, an uninterrupted line of sight extending to a tiny dark bull’s-eye thirty meters ahead. It was like staring at a great textured target in shades of white and gray: concentric circles, hatches centered within bulkheads one behind another, perfectly aligned. Every one stood open, in nonchalant defiance of a previous generation’s safety codes. We could keep them closed if we wanted to, if it made us feel safer. That was all it would do, though; it wouldn’t improve our empirical odds one whit. In the event of trouble those hatches would slam shut long milliseconds before Human senses could even make sense of an alarm. They weren’t even computer-controlled. Theseus’s body parts had reflexes.
I pushed off against the stern plating—wincing at the tug and stretch of disused tendons—and coasted forward, leaving Fab behind. The shuttle-access hatches to Scylla and Charybdis briefly constricted my passage to either side. Past them the spine widened into a corrugated extensible cylinder two meters across and—at the moment—maybe fifteen long. A pair of ladders ran opposite each other along its length; raised portholes the size of manhole covers stippled the bulkhead to either side. Most of those just looked into the hold. A couple served as general-purpose airlocks, should anyone want to take a stroll beneath the carapace. One opened into my tent. Another, four meters farther forward, opened into Bates’s.
From a third, just short of the forward bulkhead, Jukka Sarasti climbed into view like a long white spider.
If he’d been Human I’d have known instantly what I saw there, I’d have smelled murderer all over his topology. And I wouldn’t have been able to even guess at the number of his victims, because his affect was so utterly without remorse. The killing of a hundred would leave no more stain on Sarasti’s surfaces than the swatting of an insect; guilt beaded and rolled off this creature like water on wax.
But Sarasti wasn’t Human. Sarasti was a whole different animal, and coming from him all those homicidal refractions meant nothing more than predator. He had the inclination, was born to it; whether he had ever acted on it was between him and Mission Control.
Maybe they cut you some slack, I didn’t say to him. Maybe it’s just a cost of doing business. You’re mission-critical, after all. For all I know you cut a deal. You’re so very smart, you know we wouldn’t have brought you back in the first place if we hadn’t needed you. From the day they cracked the vat you knew you had leverage.
Is that how it works, Jukka? You save the world, and the folks who hold your leash agree to look the other way?
As a child I’d read tales about jungle predators transfixing their prey with a stare. Only after I’d met Jukka Sarasti did I know how it felt. But he wasn’t looking at me now. He was focused on installing his own tent, and even if he had looked me in the eye there’d have been nothing to see but the dark wraparound visor he wore in deference to Human skittishness. He ignored me as I grabbed a nearby rung and squeezed past.
I could have sworn I smelled raw meat on his breath.
Into the drum (drums, technically; the BioMed hoop at the back spun on its own bearings). I flew through the center of a cylinder sixteen meters across. Theseus’s spinal nerves ran along its axis, the exposed plexii and piping bundled against the ladders on either side. Past them, Szpindel’s and James’s freshly erected tents rose from nooks on opposite sides of the world. Szpindel himself floated off my shoulder, still naked but for his gloves, and I could tell from the way his fingers moved that his favorite color was green. He anchored himself to one of three stairways to nowhere arrayed around the drum: steep narrow steps rising five vertical meters from the deck into empty air.
The next hatch gaped dead-center of the drum’s forward wall; pipes and conduits plunged into the bulkhead on each side. I grabbed a convenient rung to slow myself—biting down once more on the pain—and floated through.
T-junction. The spinal corridor continued forward, a smaller diverticulum branched off to an EVA cubby and the forward airlock. I stayed the course and found myself back in the crypt, mirror-bright and less than two meters deep. Empty pods gaped to the left; sealed ones huddled to the right. We were so irreplaceable we’d come with replacements. They slept on, oblivious. I’d met three of them back in training. Hopefully none of us would be getting reacquainted any time soon.
Only four pods to starboard, though. No backup for Sarasti.
Another hatchway. Smaller this time. I squeezed through into the bridge. Dim light there, a silent shifting mosaic of icons and alphanumerics iterating across dark glassy surfaces. Not so much bridge as cockpit, and a cramped one at that. I’d emerged between two acceleration couches, each surrounded by a horseshoe array of controls and readouts. Nobody expected to ever use this compartment. Theseus was perfectly capable of running herself, and if she wasn’t we were capable of running her from our inlays, and if we weren’t the odds were overwhelming that we were all dead anyway. Still, against that astronomically off-the-wall chance, this was where one or two intrepid survivors could pilot the ship home again after everything else had failed.
Between the footwells the engineers had crammed one last hatch and one last passageway: to the observation blister on Theseus’s prow. I hunched my shoulders (tendons cracked and complained) and pushed through—
—into darkness. Clamshell shielding covered the outside of the dome like a pair of eyelids squeezed tight. A single icon glowed softly from a touchpad to my left; faint stray light followed me through from the spine, brushed dim fingers across the concave enclosure. The dome resolved in faint shades of blue and gray as my eyes adjusted. A stale draft stirred the webbing floating from the rear bulkhead, mixed oil and machinery at the back of my throat. Buckles clicked faintly in the breeze like impoverished wind chimes.
I reached out and touched the crystal: the innermost layer of two, warm air piped through the gap between to cut the cold. Not completely, though. My fingertips chilled instantly.
Space out there.
Perhaps, en route to our original destination, Theseus had seen something that scared her clear out of the solar system. More likely she hadn’t been running away from anything but to something else, something that hadn’t been discovered until we’d already died and gone from Heaven. In which case . . .
I reached back and tapped the touchpad. I half-expected nothing to happen; Theseus’s windows could be as easily locked as her Comm logs. But the dome split instantly before me, a crack then a crescent then a wide-eyed lidless stare as the shielding slid smoothly back into the hull. My fingers clenched reflexively into a fistful of webbing. The sudden void stretched empty and unforgiving in all directions, and there was nothing to cling to but a metal disk barely four meters across.
Stars, everywhere. So many stars that I could not for the life of me understand how the sky could contain them all yet be so black. Stars, and—
—nothing else.
What did you expect? I chided myself. An alien mothership hanging off the starboard bow?
Well, why not? We were out here for something.
The others were, anyway. They’d be essential no matter where we’d ended up. But my own situation was a bit different, I realized. My usefulness degraded with distance.
And we were over half a light-year from home.
Copyright © 2006 by Peter Watts
Continues...
Excerpted from Blindsight by Watts, Peter Copyright ©2008 by Watts, Peter. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- Publisher : Tor Trade; First Edition (March 4, 2008)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 384 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0765319640
- ISBN-13 : 978-0765319647
- Item Weight : 12 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.5 x 0.96 x 8.25 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #59,529 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #606 in Hard Science Fiction (Books)
- #624 in Contemporary Literature & Fiction
- #2,645 in Science Fiction Adventures
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About the author
This is awkward and a little creepy. They tell me I have to do it for promotional purposes, but I've already got a blog. I've already got a website. Being told that setting up an author page on fcuking *Amazon* is essential to success? A company that treats us all like such goddamn children it doesn't even allow us to correctly spell an epithet with a venerable history going back 900 years or more? That just sucks the one-eyed purple trouser eel.
Also the bio information above is fucked. For example, my work has only appeared in 36 BoY collections, not 350; the noms and awards info is out of date too, but apparently it was all written by some publishing house and I can't change it from this interface.
Still, here I am. But if you're really all that interested, go check out my actual blog/website. Google is not your friend (any more than Amazon is), but at least it'll point you in the right direction.
I'm the one on the left, by the way.
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First let me introduce you to the eclectic cast:
Theseus - a ship with AI whose "body parts" (such as hatches) have reflexes. She's the Captain of the expedition.
Siri Keeton - Half of Siri's brain was removed when he was young, a dramatic cure for epilepsy that left him incapable of emotions such as empathy. Through observation, he can almost psychically predict the actions and thoughts of others. He's known as a Synthesist.
Isaac Szpindel - The crew's biologist, a mostly human looking cyborg
Susan James - The crew's linguist with surgically induced multiple personality disorder (known as The Gang, including Susan, Sascha, Michelle (Meesh) the Synesthete, and Cruncher)
Major Amanda Bates - The crew's "security", a professional soldier who's career defining moment involved consorting with the enemy. She shaves her head.
Jukka Sarasti - A sociopathic, genetically engineered vampire with the ability of conjoined intelligence with the Captain.
Robert Cunningham - Another biologist, also a cyborg, who doesn't use pronouns and chain smokes.
After an event called Firefall on Earth, when thousands of probes fell from the skies, Theseus was sent out into space to follow the trail back to the source of the probes. The crew comes out of "the crypt" where they have been kept inert and death-like for the trip, near Big Ben - a failed disc-shaped, black star. Orbiting Ben's chaotic field is an alien vessel unlike anything ever seen before. Then the ship makes contact, speaking their language and calling itself the Rorschach. Susan and "The Gang" communicate with Rorschach until, unbelievably, Susan cuts off communication, announcing that it's not a sentient presence they are speaking with. So what exactly is Theseus and the crew dealing with? Sarasti, working with the Captain, decides to send the crew over to the alien ship though from every aspect they have viewed it from, the Rorschach seems uninhabitable, uninviting, and possibly unfriendly. What they find, or what they don't find, will keep you reading right up to the very end. Between Scramblers, vampires, constructs, and AIs, the crew has their hands full.
The story is told in first person by Siri, and though it sometimes seems to slide to a different POV, its simply Siri using his talents as a Synthesist to project their thoughts through translating their speech and behavior. Believe it or not, Watts makes the concept work. There's even a first person glimpse from Theseus's POV. Siri also uses flashbacks to his relationship with his ex-girlfriend Chelsea to give us deep glimpses into who and what he has become after his childhood surgery.
Within the book, intriguing issues of sentience and intelligence are brought up. What defines sentience or consciousness for that matter? Free thought? Self-awareness? Speech? Higher brain? Brain stem? Reproduction? What separates a dandelion from a human? The story is rich and complex without losing any entertainment value, even when delving deep into these subjects.
The book is 362 pages, with acknowledgments following. There's also a section titled Notes & References, covering vampirism, human sight, "telematter", sun types (the "superJovian") Scrambler anatomy and physiology, Sentience/Intelligence, and misc notes. This section includes bibliography footnotes.
I think it would be fantastic if they made a movie from this book. I highly recommend it, whether you're a fan of hard sci-fi or not. Enjoy!
First, the bad: this is one of the densest, hardest to like books I've read in quite some time. The author seems to delight in needlessly upping the reading level on this book ... for example, there was a word I can't remember, and I've never seen before, that basically means "to give birth". Given how obscure and/or specialized this word must be (my Kindle tagged it as "ZOOLOGY"), I can only imagine the author must have had a Thesaurus at hand during the writing of this book. And some of the scenes get especially muddled with uncommon or rarely used jargon-ish words, so much so that at times it took me a minute or two to read through one paragraph due to having to look up a word in each sentence. There are times when, yes, a very technical or obscure term was warranted; there is, afterall, a lot of bleeding edge science talk in this book. At other times, when merely commenting on general events, the use of these words borders on pretentious.
Second, editing is the next worst thing about this book. At times, the scene descriptions are aggravatingly obtuse. I found myself having to re-read ... and in some cases, re-re-read, events to understand what actually happened. Sometimes it's just a case of not enough detail. Other times it's that the author uses so many metaphors, and at times, metaphors on top of story-specific metaphors, that it was like peeling apart an onion and ... oh God, I just made a meta-review or something. Anyway, the author's style in this sense is on and off ... at times it's atrocious, and at others, it's just clever and creative.
Final negative aspect: this is a space sci-fi book, but the author somehow found it necessary to re-invent the concept of the vampire. Yes, THOSE vampires. On the one hand, I have to give it to the guy: he presents possibly the most scientific, believable accounting of how vampires could actually exist I've ever read, bar none. He even explains why Crucifixes (or specifically, sets of intersecting lines) would be problematic for them. But on the other hand ... why? Why was this necessary? We know of lots of real-world animals with genes or biological tricks that allow them to survive near-lethal environments, or go into an "undead" state to conserve resources (the original reason for vampires as something to do with making people survive long treks through space, rather than doing the cliched cyrogenic thing). In fact, the author even expounds upon this at the back of the book, relenting that he kind of did the vampire thing just to be original. Well, it was original ... but also very non sequitor.
But the thing that brought the whole story back around for me was the mystery and horror of the alien artifact in this story. Let me put it this way: if you've read Michael Crichton's "Sphere", it's a lot like that, but amped up and thrown into space. The plot twist surrounding the nature of the artifact is brilliant, and really I can't say much more without potentional spoilers, but the resulting intellectual exploration of humanity versus non-humanity ... brilliant. Let me just say it blew my mind. I can forgive the rest of the book's shortcomings just based upon the last third of this book.
It's hard to get into ... like, really hard. The author doesn't make it a very approachable book, and part of that is needlessly throwing around high-concepts of a sci-fi future without providing a whole lot of needed context (if you have to provide a half-dozen explanations at the back of your book, chances are you were a little too dense with your concept presentation). However, I would urge you to push past the first few chapters ... or 10 ... of the book. If you can keep track of a lot of jargon, ignore some vague descriptions, and stick with it, this book is pretty good.
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Reviewed in Mexico on August 10, 2023