Rule 34 - Charles Stross [11]
There is a sudden downward lurch, a jolt that rattles the teeth in your head, a loud bang, and a screech of tyres. One of the overhead luggage bins has sprung open, and there is an outbreak of outraged clucking from the economy-class area behind the curtain as a small, terrified pig hurtles up the aisle towards the cockpit. Now you see one of the cabin crew, her beret askew as she makes a grab for the unclean animal—she wrinkles her nose, and a moment later a horrible stench informs you that the animal has voided its bowels right in front of the cabin door.
“Bzzzt.” Your phone helpfully fails to translate the electronic throat-clearing noise. “Welcome to Issyk-Kul Airport, gateway to the capital of the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan. This concludes today’s Aeroflot flight from Manas International Airport, Bishkek. Adhere to your seats until she reaches the terminal building. Temperature on the ground is twenty-nine degrees, relative humidity is 80 per cent, and it is raining.”
The Antonov grumbles and jolts across cracked ex-military tarmac, its turboprops snarling rhythmically at the sodden atmosphere. At least it’s Aeroflot. You’re not a total numpty: You did your leg work before you came here and you know that the local airlines are all banned from European airspace on grounds of safety (or rather, the lack of it). And you’re up to date on your shots, thanks to Auntie Sam’s abortive attempt to arrange a family reunion in Lahore last year. You also know that the unit of local currency is the som, that it is unsafe to wander round the capital at night, and that your hosts have booked you a room in the Amir Hotel.
The only important bit of local nous you’ve not got straight is what the capital’s called—is it Karakol, or Przewalsk? They change the name whenever there’s a coup d’état, as long as there’s an “r” in the month. It should be Przewalsk—but how do you pronounce Przewalsk, anyway?
As the airliner taxis the short distance to the stand, you take enough shuddering breaths to get over your conviction that you are about to die—but now a new anxiety takes hold. You’ve been told you’ll be met at the airport, but . . . What do you really know? A dodgy Skype connection and the promise of a car ride: that and five euros will buy you a Mocha Frescato with shaved glacier ice and organic cream to go. For all you know, the Gnome’s idea of an amusing jape is to ship your sorry ass to an ex-boy-friend of his who runs a leather bar in Almaty frequented by former US Marines, where they’ll steal your passport and tie you face-down to a pommel horse—
You’re walking through the humid rain-spattered air towards a terminal building, your shirt sticking to the small of your back. I must have zoned out, you realize nervously. You can’t afford to do that: not here, not with the job interview that’s coming up. Ahead of you the doors are flung open on a dusty arrivals hall. A porter shuffles past you, leading a motorized baggage trolley out towards the small Antonov. There’s a bored-looking crowd just beyond a rope barrier at the far side of the hall, and among them you see a man with an upraised sign: ANWAR HUSSEIN.
“Mr. Hussein?” A broad grin and a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache: firm handshake pumping up and down. “I am Felix Datka.” He speaks English with a heavy Russian accent. “Welcome to Przewalsk!” So that’s how you pronounce it. “Have you had a good journey from Scotland? Please, let’s fetch your suitcase, and I will drive you to your hotel.”
You have arrived in the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan. And you relax: Because now you know you are among friends.
“And that was the worst part of it,” you tell him, wiping your moustache on the back of your wrist.
“It was?” The Gnome blinks rapidly, as if there’s a mote in his eye.
“Yes. Once he told the porter to give my suitcase back and we escaped from the pickpockets, or the police—I’m not sure who were which—he had a black Mercedes SUV! Well, it