Year's Best SF 17

Karl Schroeder (www.kschroeder.com) lives in Toronto, Ontario, where he divides his time between writing fiction and consulting—chiefly in the area of Foresight Studies and technology. His work of forecasting fiction, Crisis in Zefra, was published by the Directorate of Land Strategic Concepts of the National Defense Canada in 2005. He began to publish stories in the 1990s, and he has, beginning with Ventus (2000), published seven science fiction novels and a collection of earlier stories. His most recent novel is the final Virga novel, Ashes of Candesce, published in 2012. Recently, he has begun to develop his Bruce Sterling-esque character, Gennady the Russian agent, as the protagonist of a series of stories, including “To Hie from Far Cilenia” in last year’s volume of this book. We hope for a collection of these excellent stories, including the one that follows here.

“Laika’s Ghost” is another story first published in Engineering Infinity. Laika was of course the name of the canine Russian cosmonaut who died in space prior to the first human spaceflight. Somewhere in the arid, radiated steppes of the former Soviet Union someone may have perfected the portable nuclear bomb that would destabilize the world for the forseeable future. Gennady, so cool and yet so socially timid, is forced to take along an American kid recently returned from Mars, even though it is a surefire recipe for extra trouble.

The flight had been bumpy; the landing was equally so, to the point where Gennady was sure the old Tupolev would blow a tire. Yet his seat-mate hadn’t even shifted position in two hours. That was fine with Gennady, who had spent the whole trip trying to pretend he wasn’t there at all.

The young American had been a bit more active during the flight across the Atlantic: at least, his eyes had been open and Gennady could see coloured lights flickering across them from his augmented reality glasses. But he had exchanged less than twenty words with Gennady since they’d left Washington.

In short, he’d been the ideal travelling companion.

The other four passengers were stretching and groaning, Gennady poked Ambrose in the side and said, “Wake up. Welcome to the ninth biggest country in the world.”

Ambrose snorted and sat up. “Brazil?” he said hopefully. Then he looked out his window. “What the hell?”

The little municipal airport had a single gate, which as the only plane on the field, they were taxiing up to uncontested. Over the entrance to the single-story building was the word “CTeΠHOᴦOpck.” “Welcome to Stepnogorsk,” said Gennady as he stood to retrieve his luggage from the overhead rack. He travelled light by habit. Ambrose, he gathered, had done so from necessity.

“Stepnogorsk … ?” Ambrose shambled after him, a mass of wrinkled clothing leavened with old sweat.

“Secret Soviet town,” Ambrose mumbled as they reached the plane’s hatch and a burst of hot dry air lifted his hair. “Population sixty-thousand,” he added as he put his left foot on the metal steps. Halfway down he said, “Manufactured anthrax bombs in the cold war!” And as he set foot on the tarmac he finished with, “Where the hell is Kazakhstan … ? Oh.”

“Bigger than Western Europe,” said Gennady. “Ever heard of it?”