"Peter Watts - Blindsight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watts Peter)

than I could see into my own; he was scared that his attackers
might think those hands were coming up to hit back, that they'd
read it as an act of defiance and hurt him even more. Even then, at
the tender age of eight and with half my mind gone, I was
becoming a superlative observer.
But I didn't know what to do.
I hadn't seen much of Pag lately. I was pretty sure he'd been
avoiding me. Still, when your best friend's in trouble you help out,
right? Even if the odds are impossibleтАФand how many eight-year-
Peter Watts 7 Blindsight

olds would go up against six bigger kids for a sandbox buddy?тАФat
least you call for backup. Flag a sentry. Something.
I just stood there. I didn't even especially want to help him.
That didn't make sense. Even if he hadn't been my best friend, I
should at least have empathized. I'd suffered less than Pag in the
way of overt violence; my seizures tended to keep the other kids at
a distance, scared them even as they incapacitated me. Still. I was
no stranger to the taunts and insults, or the foot that appears from
nowhere to trip you up en route from A to B. I knew how that felt.
Or I had, once.
But that part of me had been cut out along with the bad wiring. I
was still working up the algorithms to get it back, still learning by
observation. Pack animals always tear apart the weaklings in their
midst. Every child knows that much instinctively. Maybe I should
just let that process unfold, maybe I shouldn't try to mess with
nature. Then again, Pag's parents hadn't messed with nature, and
look what it got them: a son curled up in the dirt while a bunch of
engineered superboys kicked in his ribs.
In the end, propaganda worked where empathy failed. Back then
I didn't so much think as observe, didn't deduce so much as
rememberтАФand what I remembered was a thousand inspirational
stories lauding anyone who ever stuck up for the underdog.
So I picked up a rock the size of my fist and hit two of Pag's
assailants across the backs of their heads before anyone even knew
I was in the game.
A third, turning to face the new threat, took a blow to the face
that audibly crunched the bones of his cheek. I remember
wondering why I didn't take any satisfaction from that sound, why
it meant nothing beyond the fact I had one less opponent to worry
about.
The rest of them ran at the sight of blood. One of the braver
promised me I was dead, shouted "Fucking zombie!" over his
shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
Three decades it took, to see the irony in that remark.
Two of the enemy twitched at my feet. I kicked one in the head
until it stopped moving, turned to the other. Something grabbed
my arm and I swung without thinking, without looking until Pag
Peter Watts 8 Blindsight