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Superposition and overlapping probabilities disappeared whenever humans came close. Consciousness turned probability into reality. The goal of the Homo quantus project had been to engineer humans capable of discarding their consciousness and subjectivity so as not to collapse quantum phenomena.
“Hold this,” she said, slapping the yellow putty into his palm and turning to the hyperbaric chamber. Then she stopped and turned back. “While you’re holding that, don’t make any sparks.” Belisarius moved to put whatever this was on the workbench behind him. “It doesn’t like metal either,” she said. “Just hold onto it. And don’t squeeze it or sweat. It doesn’t like pressure or salt.”
It wouldn’t take more than one moon-buster to turn Bachwezi into a breakfast slurry. And less than a casse 'a face would take care of Kitara, their orbital habitat. The warships the Union had in service right now around Bachwezi wouldn’t be able to stop retribution. Congregate political commissars stationed on each warship had lots of jobs like nag and snitch, but only one real important one: flick the fucking scuttle switch if the client nation ever went rogue.
