Laika

By Stephen Frame

---

Sasha ran her thumb down the list of names in her notebook, Belka, Strelka, Chernushka, coming back to the first name, always the first name. Closing the book, securing it with the snap of an elastic band, she stowed it in her rucksack.

“Papa?”

She leaned in the doorway, into air layered with stale odors and a wash of light from the near-silent TV, the dawn sunshine diffusing through drawn curtains.

“Papa, I’m going now. We spoke about this, remember?”

A raised hand, flopping back down. A sigh of drawn-in breath. An exhalation. The TV whispered on; an anchor wearing too much make-up recited a litany over a map of the Special Economic Zone, its outline swollen by an area cross-hatched in stripes.

“Papa.”

Sasha crouched by his chair. He stared at the television. She reached for him, not knowing whether to smooth the lank fringe away from his eyes or wipe the smear of food from his beard. She did neither, setting her hands on the chair’s armrest. Her papa placed his hand over hers. “You are a good girl, Sasha. A good daughter.”

She shifted her gaze to the television. “I have left soup in the refrigerator. Eat it first, the power is sure to go off again. There is bread and cheese in the pantry. You understand?”

He nodded, the light from the screen reflected in his eyes. The anchor read a statement from the chief executive of the Special Economic Zone.

Sasha swallowed. “I will be gone for two days. Peter says so.”

An uncertain smile crept onto her papa’s face. “Peter, he is a good man. He will look after you.”

“If you say so, papa.”

“I do.” He gripped her hand, giving it a little shake. “I do.”

She stood, pulling her hand out from under his. The strong, capable hands that had carried her as a girl. Now no more than rags of flesh and sticks of bone. “How many days am I going away for, papa?”

“Peter. A good man, my sergeant. A good man.”

“Two days, papa.” Sasha’s voice hitched. “Then things will be better. I promise.”

---

Damp air and thin sunshine. Sasha shouldered her rucksack. The men would not wait for her. Her place on the carrier was conditional, the bus to the rally point, unreliable at best. So she ran, losing herself in the rhythm of her body, glad to be free of the apartment, its smells, the greasy feel of it. Papa, please understand. I had to say yes. She ran, but the scent of the apartment still clung to her.

---

Most of the men had arrived. Two of them nodded, the rest ignored her. She tracked Peter’s monotone to the far side of the armored personnel carrier.

“Shift, you whoreson, you bastard, you awkward cow of a thing. Shift.”

Peter, buried past the shoulders under an access panel, overalls rolled down to his waist, his torso clad in a filthy vest, skin puckered in reptilian burn scars. An oil-blacked hand was stuck out, fingers snapped at her. “Bolt. There. And a wrench, twenty millimetre.”

Sasha passed them over. Grunts of effort, then Peter withdrew, slamming the panel shut. “You came.”

“I did.”

“Huh. How is the captain?”

She knew these men. They asked but they didn’t listen. “Well enough.”

“Good. He deserves as much. Bring your shit, you’re in the cab with me.”

“My seat is in the back.”

“Was in the back. Now it’s in the cab. With me.” He wiped his hands on a rag, watching her as she watched the men loading jerrycans through the rear doors of the carrier. “It bothers you? Because of where you sit, they might think less of you than they do now?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t.”

“So why the face?”

“It’s different from before.”

But he had turned away, calling to the men, “You saw the announcement on the news. The zone has been extended. So that’s where we go. To the spaceport. Half a day to drive there. The same to drive back. A day to salvage what we can.”

The men looked at each other. One spoke up. “Why? Why so far?”

Peter’s sly grin. “I have intelligence. Purchased at some cost. So, you will pay an additional tariff for your seat on this trip.”

Frowns amongst the men. “What intelligence?”

Peter grinned wider, showing gold fillings. “The place has been abandoned now the government has passed authority to the zone. I was there during the war. There is a command bunker I remember. A secret place. It will have electronics, tinned food. It was for the elite, so who knows what else there might be. Anyone who isn’t interested can fuck off now. No refund on your seat.” He looked around. “Huh. No-one. Good. Finish loading.”

“Is the girl coming?”

Peter halted on his journey to the front of the carrier. “She’s paid, same as you.”

“She paying with the purse between her legs?”

He was still for a moment, then he laughed. “This skinny bitch? When I can get better at the market for far less?” His laughter died. “Five minutes. Whether you’re on board or not.”

Sasha followed him towards the cab. “Is it risky?”

“What do you think?”

Her hand ghosted into her pocket, to clasp her notebook. “Yes.”

“Good. Then you’re thinking it through. Here’s a better question. Do you still want your seat?”

She worried at the elastic holding her notebook closed. “I need it.”

He gestured towards the carrier. “Yes, there are risks. Surveillance by the zone authority. There are insurgents in that territory. Other salvage gangs will be interested. I’ve taken what precautions I can. Stripped out the GPS and net connection, so we can’t be tracked. I’ve no travel permit. If we get picked up by satellite?” He shrugged. “They won’t know who we are, and we’ll be gone by the time they come to look.”

“And these insurgents and gangs. What if we meet them?”

His smile was no more than a twitch. “Then there’s this.” He whistled a single note, loud and piercing. “Cerberus, heel.”

The sleek turret on the carrier’s roof spun around, bringing its multi-barrel cannon to bear on them. Sasha took an involuntary step back. The turret shifted, tracking her movement. She stared up at the weapon. “I thought it was for show.”

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets. “It works fine. I’ve never had cause to switch it on before.”

“It only answers to your voice?”

“Yes.”

“Cerberus, the guardian.”

“You know classical myth?”

“No. I like dogs, is all.”

He laughed and slapped her on the arm. “Cerberus, sit.” With an electric purr, the turret returned to its forward-facing stance.

---

The cab smelled of rubber and dust. Dashboard gauges held in place with duct tape. Behind the seating, an alcove laid for sleeping with patterned blankets, clean and neat. Above her seat, a hole in the roof big enough to climb through, capped by a transparent dome.

Peter cranked the starter. The big machine whined like a wounded animal. He cursed it and the engine caught, the vehicle shuddering as it shook itself to life. He slapped the wheel. “Huh. Good.” As he pulled away, he rummaged in a compartment under the dash, steering with one hand, barely looking at the road. “Here. Your job. Navigator.” He tossed over a dog-eared map.

She held it up by one corner. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Why are you complaining? It cannot be hacked, it will not crash.”

“It might blow away.” Sasha wrestled with the folds. “Why did you tell me, but not the men, where we were going? You don’t trust your men?”

He tapped a dirty fingernail tapped on the steering wheel. “I do, up to a point. I thought, perhaps, it was important to give you a choice. For the captain’s sake.”

“Not for mine?”

He grunted a reply, then said nothing more.

---

Hours later, on a grassy plain bisected by the vector of the road, he slowed the carrier to a halt and spoke again. “I have to piss.”

“So do I.”

They sat in silence for a moment. He sucked at his teeth. “Are you going to piss on the seat or were you planning to get out first?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Huh.”

Peter swung down from the cab, calling to the men disembarking from the rear. “Five minutes. No longer. Unless you wish to walk home.”

Checking the men were gathered on Peter’s side of the carrier, Sasha climbed down. The landscape offered nothing more than scrubby grass to the knee, stretching further than she imagined she could run in a day. With a sigh, she tugged down her jeans and squatted by the front tire. As her water spattered on the cracked tarmac, one of the men wandered around, smoking a cigarette. He watched with mild interest until she stood up, scraped her jeans up, and buttoned up.

“Get enough of an eyeful?”

The man grinned, took a last draw, and flicked his cigarette butt at her. It crashed down, showering orange sparks.

She said nothing as she returned to the cab and Peter said nothing back. The big vehicle rolled towards the horizon, alone on the highway but for the occasional autonomous transport slipping past. Sasha drew out her notebook, running down the list of names. Chernuska, Zvezdochak, Dezik. Over the page, Lisa 1, Tsygan, both names underlined in red. She pressed on. Lisa 2, Ryzhik.

“What are you reading?”

She closed the notebook, trapping her thumb in it. “Nothing.”

Peter switched his attention between her and the road. “It is writing. So, it is not nothing. What is it? Your laundry list? Your lovers?” A smirk creased his face. “A list of those you wish dead?”

“No.” Sasha looked down at the cover, worn grubby by her touch. “Not those.”

All Peter’s attention was on her now. Sasha watched as the nose of the vehicle drifted to the side of the road. “Nothing important.”

“Huh.” Peter straightened the vehicle up. “All going well, this is the last trip I will make. I’ll have enough to buy my citizenship back, enough to leave the zone.”

“Oh.” She squeezed pages together. “I thought…”

“You thought this was a job. Where you get up in the morning and go to work, then come home and eat and sleep and fuck until it’s time to go to work again. Day upon day. Year upon year. You thought you could make a career of this.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“You’re a poor liar, daughter of my old captain.”

“Why am I in here with you? Why this time?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Away from the men. I thought about giving you the carrier before I leave. But one of the men would take it from you.”

The notebook lay in her lap, clutched in her two hands.

“That book, those lists, tell me.” His voice was soft. Not the bark of the old soldier.

Sasha dropped her gaze. “Stories. They’re stories.”

“Tell me one.”

“They’re stupid, they don’t mean anything.”

“Tell me anyway. I’ll be the judge of what is stupid and what is not.”

“ZIB,” Sasha said.

“Huh?”

“ZIB. In Russian, it was an acronym. It meant Substitute for Missing Bobik.”

“ZIB. Missing Bobik. I am intrigued. Go on.”

“This was 1951, the earliest days of the Soviet space program. When they were launching dogs on sub-orbitals.”

“Soviet space dogs? I like this tale more and more.”

“Bobik was one of these dogs. She escaped and ran away days before her flight.”

Peter gave an easy laugh. “Fucking idiots.”

Sasha smiled. “Soldiers were sent out around the barracks. An untrained stray, a street dog, was found and caught. It made the flight instead. Successfully. It was called ZIB.”

Peter slapped the wheel. “Substitute for Missing Bobik. Good story.”

They drove in silence for some minutes.

“If you stayed in the back, one of the men, or perhaps all of them, would want to fuck you tonight. They wouldn’t care if you wanted to fuck them back or not. You see?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.”

---

Peter drove until after midnight, Sasha switching between the map and staring into solid darkness. He pulled over, the carrier rocking as it left the highway. “We go no further. Here.” He slung a ration pack at her. “Stay inside. Eat. I will see to the men.”

When he left, Sasha set the pouch of food aside and climbed from the cab. Taking a few steps away, she looked to the cloudless sky, the harsh scatter of stars, seeking a moving point of light that might be a satellite. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Peter walked past her, stopped to look, grunted, and returned to the cab.

Her teeth were locked, her fingers numb, when she made her way back. Peter paused from spooning out cold stew. “Did you find Bobik?”

Sasha stifled a laugh. “She is still missing.”

Peter pointed his spoon at the notebook. “Tell me of the first name. The one in red.”

“You looked in my book?”

“You left it in my transport. That makes it mine. Now you are back, makes it yours again.”

“Don’t read my notebook.”

“Then don’t eat my rations.”

“Fine.”

She dug her spoon into her ration pack. It made a sucking noise as she drew out. Eating without tasting, staring at the list of ingredients on the ration pack without reading, she told him. “Laika. The first living creature to orbit the earth. Aboard Sputnik 2. Two thousand five hundred and seventy orbits completed. The spacecraft, that is. Laika died on the fourth orbit. She never made it home. Sputnik 2 burned up on re-entry. The Soviets chose stray dogs over house-trained dogs. They chose female dogs over male dogs.” She looked at Peter. “They thought stray females had the better temperament for the stress of space travel.”

Peter licked his spoon clean and tucked it in the pocket of his overalls, next to a dirty screwdriver. “Have you finished eating?”

Sasha considered the sachet in her hand. “I never started.”

He laughed as he heaved himself into the sleeping alcove. Laying herself down across the front seat, she pointed at the perspex bubble above her berth. “Why this?”

“Used to be a turret for the secondary weapon. I couldn’t get it to work, so I took it out.”

“Why didn’t you just weld a plate over it?”

“Because sometimes we need to see further.”

“Why did you want to give me the carrier?”

The soft rustle of cloth as Peter rolled over. “Go to sleep, daughter of my captain. We have a long day ahead of us.”

---

Pre-dawn gloom. The men stamping and coughing. Sasha shivered, glad to be clear of the fug in the cab. Her clothes, scratchy for having been slept in. Her teeth, filmy from needing a clean. She licked her tongue around her mouth and wrapped her arms over her chest.

“Here.” Peter offered her a tin mug. Steam rose from it, aromatic coffee aroma flooding her nose. Impossibly hot. She sipped and reveled in the taste.

The sun broaching the horizon, casting the sky in lurid orange. Two of the men stared at her, not hostile, but not friendly either. Sasha drank her coffee and stared back. The carrier’s engine cranked diesel fumes into the cold morning air. Peter called them all to heel. She finished her coffee and climbed into the cab.

---

“This is it,” Peter said.

A chain-link fence, sway-backed and sagging, bordered the highway. Nudging the carrier through it brought into view skeletal buildings, distance making a lie of their size. Sasha shifted in her seat, catching sight of a launch gantry, now rusted and broken. But still, it stopped the breath in her throat.

While the men got out, Sasha walked off, turning her back on the carrier. Picturing herself walking to the gantry, laying her hand on its cold steel. Her alone. The noise of approaching vehicles dispelled her fantasy. She shouted to her crew. “Company. We’ve got company.”

Three pick-up trucks disgorged a greater number than their own, who came forward in a ragged line, some with assault rifles slung across their chests. Peter stood easy by the carrier. Sasha came up beside him as the men gathered behind.

“Trouble?” she said.

“Perhaps.”

“Shouldn’t we do something?”

“I already am. I’m waiting to see what they’ve got to say. You have other options in mind?”

“Something more positive?”

Peter never took his gaze off the approaching gang. “Your idea has merit. Cerberus, heel.”

Nothing happened. The gun turret stayed put.

“Fuck,” Peter said. The strangers came on with easy assurance. “Good boy, Cerberus. Good dog.”

“Is that it?” Sasha said.

Peter gave her a tight grimace. “Reset. Waiting for it to boot.”

The approaching line stopped. One man, bearded and dressed in faded combat fatigues, stepped forward, drawing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took his time lighting up, taking a draw, and pulling a strand of tobacco from his lip. “You’re on our land. We’ll take the vehicle and the girl. The rest of you can go with no trouble.” He held out his cigarettes. “Smoke?”

Peter grinned. “Don’t mind if I do.” When his own was lit, he blew out a cloud and nodded. “Good. An offer. A trade, if you will.” His slow gaze fell on the bearded man. “My counter-offer. Cerberus, heel.”

The turret whined around. The men in the line jerked their weapons to readiness, making the turret click-clack between them in mincing steps. Peter pointed over his shoulder. “Auto-cannon. Linked to my vitals. It’ll put out about six thousand rounds a minute. If I call out, if I go down, everyone here is so much red mulch. I don’t like your offer. I’m fond of the carrier. And the girl, to some extent.”

The bearded man’s gaze flicked from the cannon to Sasha to Peter. “Perhaps I spoke in haste.”

Peter drew on his cigarette. “Understandable. Given the circumstances.”

Sasha folded her arms around herself, squeezing tight. “So, what do we do now?”

Peter rubbed at his temple. “I don’t know. What is your counsel, daughter of my captain?”

“Is this your bullshit?”

“No bullshit. Give me a solution.”

Sasha looked to the empty expanse of the spaceport. Came back. “A compromise. We all walk away with something.”

Peter laughed and clapped his hands. “You see why I like her? Okay, there is a hidden bunker nearby. Good salvage, if it’s intact. Give us a few hours, then the rest is yours.” He paused for a moment. “Or we can all die here.” His arm snaked around Sasha’s shoulders, pulling her close. “What do you say?”

She pushed him away. “Piss off with the hands, you old goat.”

The bearded man gave a rueful smile. “Who wants to die?” He took a step back.

“I’ll flag the site,” Peter said.

They watched as the band of men departed. Sasha drew in a breath. “Thanks for nearly getting me killed by your machine.”

Peter shrugged. “Not much chance of that. No bullets in it.”

She whacked him on the arm. “Fuck you. You know?” She chewed at her lip for a second. “Just fuck you.”

He turned away. “I know. I get that a lot. And now you know why I would give you the carrier.”

---

“Smelaya ran away, found the next day. Malyshka. Otvazhnaya, 1959. Damka, 1960.” Sasha whispered the names under her breath as she stood over the entrance to the bunker.

Footsteps gritted on concrete stairs. The man who had watched her urinate clambered out, gifting her a crate of electronics and a leery grin. She took the proffered salvage. He smacked his lips in a kiss, then reached to touch her hair. She ducked her head and he cackled a dirty laugh.

“So pretty.”

“Fuck off, pig.”

He laughed, harder and longer, until he wheezed and coughed and spat.

These men, their lives. Like a patchwork of disconnected pieces. Each piece taken out at need, used, then put away. I will never understand.

Tramping to the carrier, the crate heavy against her, she took up her recital once more. “Pchyolka and Mushka. Zvyozdochka, Sputnik 10, March 1961.” She stopped to catch her breath. “April 1961. Gagarin.”

“Enough,” Peter said. “Close it up. Get yourselves on board.”

The carrier bumped onto the highway. “Was it worth it?” she said.

“I have what I need.”

---

The road home ran straight and monotonous. Sasha dozed, lulled by the thrum of the engine.

“There is enough for a second,” Peter said.

She blinked, rubbing at her eyes to clear the sleep-stupid from them. “Uh?”

“After today, I have enough to pay another out of the zone. It would mean spending all my reserve, but it is there.”

Twisting round, she stared at him. “Are you offering?”

“Perhaps.”

“I won’t be your bed warmer.”

Peter snorted. “If I wanted to fuck a hat rack, I’d buy a hat rack to fuck. I like a woman with some meat on her bones. No, I have no wish to have you as a bed warmer.”

“Yet you want me to come with you. Why?”

He drew in a breath through his nose. “It would take too fucking long to explain, and besides, that is what women do. I’ve neither the energy nor the inclination.”

“So, what would our relationship be, if I am not to be your bed-warmer?”

“Who gives a fuck? Do you want to come with me?”

She touched her notebook. “There is papa.”

“I know.”

“Left on his own.”

Peter nodded, scratching a hand through his grey stubble. “The captain, more than most men, understands the nature of sacrifice.”

Sasha opened her notebook, rubbing her thumb across the name at the top. “For years they lied. They said Laika died painlessly. That she was euthanized. She wasn’t. She died when her cabin overheated. She died a miserable death, locked in a box she was never meant to escape from.”

“So?”

“I’m giving you my answer.”

---

Stephen Frame lives in the far north of Scotland. At an impressionable age he picked up the first issue of 2000AD, the galaxy’s greatest comic, which is as much explanation as he’s giving for everything that happened next. He’s keen on anything with elves or robots or both. His writing has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Tall Tale TV, Judge Dredd Megazine, Elegant Literature, and anthologies from Parallel Universe Publications, Brigids Gate Press, and the Scottish Book Trust, amongst others.  His debut fantasy novel, The Festival of Hungry Ghosts, featuring the big bad wolf working as a private eye in 1930’s Los Angeles, is available on Amazon, Nook and Kobo. 

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Back to Issue 13

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