Post-modern science fiction etc.

Although I posted the quote from Overheard in the Office for a laugh, the idea of there being "no such thing" as post- or after modern does make you think.
I'm working my way slowly through Gardner Dozois' 22nd annual collection of the best SF, and as usual it's an absolute treat. Also as usual, non SF fans would be puzzled as to why many of the stories are even considered to be SF, but that's the beauty of it.

Some of the stories are moving, some intense, some funny. Some of them are weirder than weird, and others just do what so much SF does and extrapolate something that's going on now into an advanced (or nearer than we think) future.

Like the War on Terror and all it entails. Last night, I read the story "Leviathan Wept" by Daniel Abraham. If you follow that link, you can read the whole thing, it looks like, on scifi.com, which is pretty amazing.

Set in an indeterminate future, it features a "cell" of anti-terrorists who are targeting a "cell" of terrorists. So we're immediately at a stage when, to fight fire with fire, the forces of government set up semi-autonomous cells of agents to fight semi-autonomous terror cells. That's immediately an idea that gets you to sit up and pay attention. The members of the cell are networked together electronically with heads-up displays, watching - literally - each others' backs.

A sub-plot features on agent whose wife/girlfriend is dying from an immuno-deficiency disease. Her own white cells are attacking her healthy cells. Sound familiar? She's wasting away, and says at one point that it sometimes feels like being two people: one healthy person who wants to live being killed by the other, who is attacking for no reason, and wants to die.

A metaphor, of course, for the war on terror, and the sickness in our society it exemplifies.

Early in the story, the anti-terror cell undertakes an operation. In escaping the scene, they notice a young girl emerging from a building.

"Pauel! The stairs!" Renz said almost before he realized he'd seen something. There in Paasikivi's window, coming down from the building. He watched as Pauel shot the girl—five years old? six?

Time slowed. If they had been compromised, Renz thought, the girl could be wired—a walking bomb. There wasn't enough room in the parking structure to avoid her. If she went off, they were all going to die. Fear flushed his mouth with the taste of metal.

He heard Thorn exhale sharply, and the van sped past the stairway. The dead girl failed to explode. A dud.

"Jesus," Marquez said, relief in the sound of the word. "Oh, sweet Jesus."

Later, talking to his sick partner, the agent discusses her support group, and how they are coping with the disease:

"That's a matter of perspective. I mean, his immune system thinks it's being pretty heroic. Little white cells swimming around high-fiving each other. Hard to convince those guys to stop doing their jobs."

Renz shook his head. Anna's fingers found his, knitting with them. The air purifier let out a pop and then fell back to its normal grinding.

"Is everyone in your group that grim?"

"They haven't gotten to a place where they divide children into wireds and duds, but yes, there's a grimmish streak to them."

It's a moving story, and quite thought-provoking, so worth taking the time to read it. As to the Dozois collection, whatever the number on the jacket, they're always worth having, and you'll discover more great writing in one of them than you will in a whole year of newspaper literary supplements.