"Charles Stross - Missile Gap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

Misha Gorodin is the only man on the ship who doesn’t have to give a shit whether the captain offers him a
seat, but he’s grateful all the same: a little respect goes a long way, and Gagarin’s sunny disposition and
friendly attitude is a far cry from some of the fuckheads Misha’s been stuck with in the past. There’s a class
of officer who thinks that because you’re a zampolit you’re somehow below them, but Yuri doesn’t do that: in
some ways he’s the ideal New Soviet Man, progress personified. Which makes life a lot easier, because Yuri
is one of the very few naval commanders who doesn’t have to give a shit what his political officer thinks, and
life would be an awful lot stickier without that grease of respect to make the wheels go round. Mind you, Yuri
is also commander of the only naval warship operated by the Cosmonaut Corps, which is a branch of the
Strategic Rocket Forces, another howling exception to the usual military protocol. Somehow this posting
seems to be breaking all the rules…
“What was it like, boss?”
“Hot as hell. Humid, like this. Beautiful women but lots of dark-skinned comrades who didn’t bathe often
enough–all very jolly, but you couldn’t help looking out to sea, over your shoulder. You know there was an
American base there, even then? Guantanamo. They don’t have the base now, but they’ve got all the rubble.”
For a moment Gagarin looks morose. “Bastards.”
“The Americans.”
“Yes. Shitting on a small defenseless island like that, just because they couldn’t get to us any more. You
remember when they had to hand out iodine tablets to all the kids? That wasn’t Leningrad or Gorky, the
fallout plume: it was Havana. I don’t think they wanted to admit just how bad it was.”
Misha sips his tea. “We had a lucky escape.” Morale be damned, it’s acceptable to admit at least that much
in front of the CO, in private. Misha’s seen some of the KGB reports on the US nuclear capabilities back
then, and his blood runs cold; while Nikita had been wildly bluffing about the Rodina’s nuclear defenses, the
Americans had been hiding the true scale of their own arsenal. From themselves as much as the rest of the
world.
“Yes. Things were going to the devil back then, no question: if we hadn’t woken up over here, who knows
what would have happened? They out-gunned us back then. I don’t think they realized.” Gagarin’s dark
expression lifts: he glances out of the open porthole–the only one in a private cabin that opens–and smiles.
“This isn’t Cuba, though.” The headland rising above the bay tells him that much: no tropical island on earth
supported such weird vegetation. Or such ruins.
“Indeed not. But, what about the ruins?” asks Misha, putting his tea glass down on the map table.
“Yes.” Gagarin leans forward: “I was meaning to talk to you about that. Exploration is certainly in line with our
orders, but we are a trifle short of trained archaeologists, aren’t we? Let’s see: we’re four hundred and seventy
thousand kilometers from home, six major climactic zones, five continents–it’ll be a long time before we get
any settlers out here, won’t it?” He pauses delicately. “Even if the rumors about reform of the penal system
are true.”
“It is certainly a dilemma,” Misha agrees amiably, deliberately ignoring the skipper’s last comment. “But we
can take some time over it. There’s nobody out here, at least not within range of yesterday’s reconnaissance
flight. I’ll vouch for lieutenant Chekhov’s soundness: he has a solid attitude, that one.”
“I don’t see how we can leave without examining the ruins, but we’ve got limited resources and in any case I
don’t want to do anything that might get the Academy to slap our wrists. No digging for treasure until the
egg-heads get here.” Gagarin hums tunelessly for a moment, then slaps his hand on his thigh: “I think we’ll
shoot some film for the comrade general secretary’s birthday party. First we’ll secure a perimeter around the
beach, give those damned spetsnaz a chance to earn all the vodka they’ve been drinking. Then you and I, we
can take Primary Science Party Two into the nearest ruins with lights and cameras. Make a visual record,
leave the double-domes back in Moscow to figure out what we’re looking at and whether it’s worth coming
back later with a bunch of archaeologists. What do you say, Misha?”
“I say that’s entirely logical, comrade general,” says the political officer, nodding to himself.
“That’s so ordered, then. We’ll play it safe, though. Just because we haven’t seen any active settlement
patterns, doesn’t mean there’re no aborigines lurking in the forest.”
“Like that last bunch of lizards.” Misha frowns. “Little purple bastards!”