Some in-universe thing (like 'comet' could be the in-universe colloquial name for some weird sci-fi thing that all the characters would know about and we wouldn't) A metaphor for something (like maybe someone's eyes moving back and forth looked like a comet to the protagonist)ģ. A literal comet streaked through the skyĢ. The book might say something like 'the comet streaked through the black'.ġ. I would even consider it close to a sci-fi classic like 'Andromeda Strain'.īut, I had to give it a low rating because of the strange style the writer chose to write this. It ha some very interesting ideas and execution. I really liked the story parts of this book. But you'd give anything for that to be true, if you only knew what was waiting for them. You fear they may be more alien than the thing they've been sent to find.

You send them all to the edge of interstellar space, praying you can trust such freaks and retrofits with the fate of a world. And you send a synthesist-an informational topologist with half his mind gone-as an interface between hereand there, a conduit through which the Dead Center might hope to understand the Bleeding Edge. 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. You send a pacifist warrior in the faint hope she won't be needed, and the fainter one she'll do any good if she is. You send a biologist so radically interfaced with machinery that he sees x-rays and tastes ultrasound, so compromised by grafts and splices he no longer feels his own flesh. So who do you send to force introductions on an intelligence with motives unknown, maybe unknowable? Who do you send to meet the alien when the alien doesn't want to meet? You send a linguist with multiple personalities, her brain surgically partitioned into separate, sentient processing cores. Or perhaps to something closer, something en route. It's talking to some distant star, perhaps. Whatever's out there isn't talking to us. 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. Two months of silence, while a world holds its breath. Two months since that moment of brief, bright surveillance by agents unknown. Two months since sixty-five thousand alien objects clenched around the Earth like a luminous fist, screaming to the heavens as the atmosphere burned them to ash.

Blindsight sci fi