When you meet Charlie Stross, he gives you a business card CD-ROM. Being a SF author, not only does it contain all his published work to date, it’s also got a large chunk of his future output on it too. I’m about two-thirds through his almost-imminent space opera, Festival of Fools (It’ll be called Singularity Sky in the US). It’s great fun, especially if you like singularities, time-travelling godlike posthumans, sassy future UN weapons inspectors, and superintelligent space-faring viral hive minds that appear to be based on the cultural flotsam of the Edinburgh Festival. Or, indeed, if you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Imperial Russian Navy tried to take on a post-scarcity nanotech orbital flotilla.
All of those descriptions apply in bucketloads to me. Maybe Stross just has a script that burns a personalised novel onto each CD-ROM just before he hands it over. That would be slightly less impressive, I think.
Plotsk was barely recognizable today. Whole districts were burned-out scars on the ground, while a clump of slim white towers soared halfway to the stratosphere from the site of the former cathedral. Burya gaped as something emerald green spat from a window halfway up a tower, a glaring light that hurtled across the sky and passed overhead with a strange double boom. The smell, half-gunpowder and half-orchids, was back again. Sister Seventh sat up and inhaled deepy. “One loves the smell of wild assemblers in the morning. Bushbot baby uploads and cyborg militia. Spires of bone and ivory. Craving for apocalypse.”