The body inflates in painful increments: blood vessels dilate flesh peels apart from flesh ribs crack in your ears with sudden unaccustomed flexion. You can feel your blood, syrupy with dobutamine and leuenkephalin, forcing its way through arteries shriveled by months on standby. You wake in an agony of resurrection, gasping after a record-shattering bout of sleep apnea spanning one hundred forty days. You fear they may be more alien than the thing they’ve been sent to find - but you’d give anything for that to be true, if you knew what was waiting for them.įor more information on this title visit the Peter Watts website. Send them to the edge of the solar system, praying you can trust such freaks and monsters with the fate of a world. Send a man with half his mind gone since childhood. Send a pacifist warrior, and a vampire recalled from the grave by the voodoo of paleogenetics. Who to send to meet the alien, when the alien doesn’t want to meet? Send a linguist with multiple-personality disorder, and a biologist so spliced to machinery he can’t feel his own flesh. Something talks out there: but not to us. The heavens have been silent since - until a derelict space probe hears whispers from a distant comet. It’s been two months since a myriad of alien objects clenched about the Earth, screaming as they burned.
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