Peter Watts - Echopraxia

A WHITE ROOM,innocent of shadow or topography. No angles: that’s crucial. No corners or intrusions of furniture, no directional lighting, no geometries of light and shadow whose intersection, from any viewpoint, might call forth the Sign of the Cross. The walls—wall, rather—was a single curved surface, softly bioluminescent, a spheroid enclosure flattened at the bottom in grudging deference to biped convention. It was a giant womb three meters across, right down to the whimpering thing curled up on the floor.

A womb, with all the blood on the outside.

Her name was Sachita Bhar and all that blood was in her head, too. By now they’d killed the cameras just like everything else but there was no way to take back the images from those first moments: the lounge, the Histo lab, even the broom closet for chrissakes, a grungy little cubby on the third floor where Gregor had hidden. Sachie hadn’t been watching when Gregor had been found. She’d been flipping through the channels, frantically scanning for life and finding only the dead, their insides all out now. By the time she’d cycled through to the closet feed the monsters had already been and gone.

Gregor, who was in love with that stupid pet ferret of his. She’d shared an elevator with him this morning. She remembered the stripes on his shirt. Otherwise she’d have had no idea what to call the mess in the closet.

She’d seen some fraction of the carnage before the cameras went down: friends and colleagues and rivals cut down without remorse or favoritism, their gutted remains sprawled across lab benches and workstations and toilet stalls. And with all those feeds running through the implants in her head—with all her access to all that ubiquitous surveillance—Sachita Bhar had not caught so much as a glimpse of the creatures who’d done this. Shadows, at most. A flicker of darkness cast by some solitary stalker from a blind spot in the camera’s eye. They’d done it all without ever being seen, without ever seeing each other .

They’d always been kept isolated. For their own good, of course: stick two vampires in the same room and their own hardwired territoriality would put them at each other’s throats in an instant. And yet they were working together, somehow. At least half a dozen, confined, incommunicado, acting in sudden precise concert. They’d done it all without ever meeting face-to-face—and even at the height of the slaughter, in those last moments before the cameras died, they had remained invisible. The whole massacre had happened from the corner of Sachie’s eye.

How did they do it? How did they survive the angles?

Someone else might have enjoyed the irony; she hid in a refuge for monsters, one of the few places in the whole damn building where they could open their eyes without risking a death sentence. Right angles were verboten here. This was where Achilles’ heels were put to the test, a cross-free zone where geometry was precisely controlled and neurological leashes optimized. Elsewhere, civilized geometry threatened on all sides: tabletops, windowpanes, a million intersections of appliance and architecture just waiting for the right viewpoint to send vampires into convulsions. Those monsters wouldn’t—

— shouldn’t —

—last an hour out there without the antiEuclideans that suppressed the Crucifix Glitch. Only here, in the white womb—where poor, stupid Sachita Bhar had run when the lights went out—could they dare to open unprotected eyes.

And now one of them was in here with her.

She couldn’t see it. Her own eyes were shut, squeezed tight against the butchery flashburned into her head. She heard no sound but the endless animal keening in her own throat. But something drank a little of the light falling on her face. The swirling red darkness inside her eyelids dimmed some infinitesimal, telltale fraction, and she knew .

“Hello,” it said.

She opened her eyes. It was one of the females: Valerie, they’d named her, after some departmental chairman who’d retired the year before. Valerie the Vampire.

Valerie’s eyes red-shifted the light and threw it back at her, blood-orange stars in a face flushed with aftermath. She towered over Sachie like an insectile statue, motionless, even her breathing imperceptible. Moments from death and with nothing better to do, some subroutine in Sachie’s head ticked off the morphometrics: such inhumanly long limbs, the attenuate heat-dissipating allometry of a metabolic engine running hot . Subtly jutting mandible,lupine as a hominid’s could be, to hold all those teeth. Stupid turquoise smock, smart-paper/telemetry composite weave: Valerie must have been scheduled for physio work today. Ruddy complexion, the bloody flash-flood vasodilation of the predator in hunting mode. And the eyes, those terrifying luminous pinpoints—

Finally it registered: Contracted pupils.

She’s not on Auntie U…

Suddenly Sachie’s cross was out, last-ditch kill switch, the talisman everyone got on Day One along with their ID: empirically tested, proven in the crunch, redeemed by Science after uncounted centuries spent slumming as a religious fetish. Sachie held it up with sudden desperate bravado, thumbed the stud. Spring-loaded extensions shot from each tip and her little pocket totem was suddenly a meter on a side.

Thirty degrees of visual arc, Sachie. Maybe forty for the tough ones. Make sure it’s perpendicular to line of sight, the angles only work when they’re close to ninety degrees but once this little baby covers enough arc the visual cortex fries like a circuit in a shitstorm…