I have been rapidly making my way through '21st Century Science Fiction', and find it delightful. It is an interesting exercise to ask yourself why these stories could only have been written today, and not fifty years ago. There is no one answer to that question, but there is no doubt that all of the writers take their science fiction and its metaphors very very seriously: their style and tone indicate a fearless and respectful internalization of the conventions of science fiction which, in malicious hands, can be made out to be twee and at best, charming. There is, indeed, a lot of charm in all of these stories, but only the best kind of charm, that comes of not having to apologize for what you're doing to the world. 'Tideline' encapsulates all of these qualities, and is a magnificent exercise in brevity and restraint.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Coming Attraction, by Fritz Leiber
A staple in most SF anthologies, this is a very cool look at a beaten, run-down and paranoid America teetering under insecurities and complexes which have, among other ways, manifested in how women dress: specifically, they have taken to concealing their faces. Misogyny is rampant too, perhaps, as is suggested by Leiber, having been aggravated by such a stance towards women. However, I'm at odds with myself regarding how the story ends. It's written in a way so as to deliberately invoke the kind of ready thrills you would find in a pulp, hard boiled detective yarn, but what might lead you to believe is Leiber's brand of feminism suddenly falls apart and reveals an aspect to the story you didn't see coming. Curious. More on 'What did Leiber mean?!' soon.
Even the Queen, by Connie Willis
I think I am finally getting around to realizing why Willis is important, or has been important to the field. She is very much a disciple of Heinlein, but thankfully her politics don't make me cringe, and she is far less confrontational. In fact, a story like this is a winner because of the very many viewpoints it shows, and while Willis's stance is very clear, she does not shove it down your throat. It's also one of the most witty science fiction stories I have read. If I were to come up with a list of 'feminist' SF stories, it would most definitely include this one.
Monday, September 22, 2014
The Island, by Peter Watts
Suppose you're on a ship. This ship is travelling towards the horizon, hoping that it's the edge of the world, and that it drops off. It also hopes against hope that it lands on the ocean of some other world, and do the same on that world. And so on. The ship needs no destination. It's sole purpose is to seek out horizons and drop off edges.
Now suppose there's something very large blocking the way. A giant, gorgeous whale, for that's what it must be. It belches out large, beautiful groans which take your world weary ear by surprise. You have seen many worlds, you have dropped off many edges, jagged and otherwise. You have passed by countless races and waved at a few, but seldom stayed for a drink or a conversation. There is no time. And all of a sudden, this beautiful creature calls to you. And makes you stay a while and wonder.
You realize, too, that it is bang in the middle of your ship's trajectory. You can obviously change your route, but you have received word that the world you had planned to visit is right underneath this particular route, and changing your road now would mean not getting there at all, or for at least a few million years. There's no compulsion to change your route. If you slam into this magnificent thing, (you call it a thing because something inside your world weary self will not let you call it anything reminding you of human beings), you will kill it. And no one would blame you. No one would feel good about it, but no one would particularly care. How many anthills have been crushed to pave giant roads? You'd thought you'd become cold to the world, and now this happens.
The cabin boy, the only other person on the ship, your only other friend whom you don't much care for, calls upon you to tell you that the Captain has telephoned. He wants you to stick to your course. You quietly tell the cabin boy to inform the Captain that not only will you not do that, but, if you are forced to, you will kill the cabin boy, and thus have him risk turning you insane. For he's the only company you have. And you'll do it too. You're certain.
The Captain, after a long while of deliberation, gives in, setting your mind at ease. Would you really have killed the boy? You don't want to go there. Not yet. You change course, turning the ship around to a route along which the whale would not lie. The cries die down. You're at peace again.
And after a few hours, you're awakened by the cabin boy. He looks frantic, desperate. He tells you that there's a giant, beautiful beast in the way. He remembers, in his panic, to mention 'beautiful'. You've never seen him this way. You wonder to yourself as you grab your telescope, how could your calculations have been wrong? And then, when you see it through the lens, you realize it must have been a conspiracy of some sort. Someone had wanted that beast killed. Someone had transmitted that noise from the route opposite to the one you took, knowing you'd turn and drive straight into this other beast. Who was it? Some other consciousness who wanted it dead. It seems too ludicrous to be true. Who would benefit from this?
But it's too late. There is very little to be done. You watch helplessly as the ship continues on its fated path. The cabin boy puts a hand on your shoulder. You let him rest it there. You need human touch now, human proximity, above everything. You realize something you had run away from all your life.
Now suppose there's something very large blocking the way. A giant, gorgeous whale, for that's what it must be. It belches out large, beautiful groans which take your world weary ear by surprise. You have seen many worlds, you have dropped off many edges, jagged and otherwise. You have passed by countless races and waved at a few, but seldom stayed for a drink or a conversation. There is no time. And all of a sudden, this beautiful creature calls to you. And makes you stay a while and wonder.
You realize, too, that it is bang in the middle of your ship's trajectory. You can obviously change your route, but you have received word that the world you had planned to visit is right underneath this particular route, and changing your road now would mean not getting there at all, or for at least a few million years. There's no compulsion to change your route. If you slam into this magnificent thing, (you call it a thing because something inside your world weary self will not let you call it anything reminding you of human beings), you will kill it. And no one would blame you. No one would feel good about it, but no one would particularly care. How many anthills have been crushed to pave giant roads? You'd thought you'd become cold to the world, and now this happens.
The cabin boy, the only other person on the ship, your only other friend whom you don't much care for, calls upon you to tell you that the Captain has telephoned. He wants you to stick to your course. You quietly tell the cabin boy to inform the Captain that not only will you not do that, but, if you are forced to, you will kill the cabin boy, and thus have him risk turning you insane. For he's the only company you have. And you'll do it too. You're certain.
The Captain, after a long while of deliberation, gives in, setting your mind at ease. Would you really have killed the boy? You don't want to go there. Not yet. You change course, turning the ship around to a route along which the whale would not lie. The cries die down. You're at peace again.
And after a few hours, you're awakened by the cabin boy. He looks frantic, desperate. He tells you that there's a giant, beautiful beast in the way. He remembers, in his panic, to mention 'beautiful'. You've never seen him this way. You wonder to yourself as you grab your telescope, how could your calculations have been wrong? And then, when you see it through the lens, you realize it must have been a conspiracy of some sort. Someone had wanted that beast killed. Someone had transmitted that noise from the route opposite to the one you took, knowing you'd turn and drive straight into this other beast. Who was it? Some other consciousness who wanted it dead. It seems too ludicrous to be true. Who would benefit from this?
But it's too late. There is very little to be done. You watch helplessly as the ship continues on its fated path. The cabin boy puts a hand on your shoulder. You let him rest it there. You need human touch now, human proximity, above everything. You realize something you had run away from all your life.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
The Winter Market, by William Gibson
Probably my favourite Gibson short story, I rank this higher than Johny Mnemonic and Burning Chrome, but when it comes to the latter, only just. Largely because there's not much action happening in this one. It's more an elaborate examination of what the cyber era can do to us, taking its sweet time filling you in on everything. I like it when Gibson takes his time. I wish more cyberpunk dealt with the why rather than the what and the how. This is a nuanced look at the genre. Loved it.
A Pail of Air, by Fritz Leiber
A Pail of Air by Fritz Leiber uses a child narrator. I am reminded instantly of two other stories which use a child narrator brilliantly: The Fifth Head of Cerberus, by Gene Wolfe, and The Comet, by Bruno Schulz. The former is a tale of slow reveal: the things the child sees in a colony world and comments upon casually enough opening up the world for the reader too. The Comet, by Schulz, while more surrealist fiction than SF, does the same but in a lush, heightened, exaggerated way. Much like a child sees the world, one could argue.
A Pail of Air feels remarkably fresh for a story written so long ago. And this freshness can be largely attributed to the child narrator. Earth has been captured by a dead star which has ensnared it in its orbit. Now the atmosphere is almost non-existent and the air has condensed into ice. The apparently sole surviving members of the human race, composed of the narrator and his family, make do by scooping up air by the bucketful and heating it to generate oxygen. They don't live in an air tight compartment, but somehow make do.
The science, I'm sure, is very patchy. But who reads Fritz Leiber for the science? One of Leiber's pet themes had been the dichotomy of magic and science, and when he isn't writing about such a dichotomy explicitly, you can still see it coloring his view of science fiction 'proper'. The key to understanding the genius behind A Pail of Air is by allowing yourself to visualize the 'science' in it as a (dare I say it) mood.
How could it be interpreted as a mood? Well, this is a story that very conveniently sidesteps all the social and moral ambiguities that SF of the New Wave would churn up by the truckload. The calamity is a non-human one, and the human race is not to blame. This opens up a mental space that needs to be interpreted as a kind of conceptual playground for the working out of certain human impulses, all seen through the eyes of a chid.
This is difficult, for to take this story seriously is to ask the reader to inhabit the head of a child, fresh and equipped to be gosh-wowed at the mysteries of Nature. That is the first hurdle. The next is to channelize that enthusiasm to make sense of the strong sense of loneliness that Leiber invokes, when the family turns down the offer by the other survivors to come join them. They're very much human, but somewhat typically, they have grown used to a life they are proud of, because they have survived. Leiber calls for a definition of life free from distraction: in survival, in the most basic necessities lie a joy that just might be enough. Or so he suggests.
A Pail of Air feels remarkably fresh for a story written so long ago. And this freshness can be largely attributed to the child narrator. Earth has been captured by a dead star which has ensnared it in its orbit. Now the atmosphere is almost non-existent and the air has condensed into ice. The apparently sole surviving members of the human race, composed of the narrator and his family, make do by scooping up air by the bucketful and heating it to generate oxygen. They don't live in an air tight compartment, but somehow make do.
The science, I'm sure, is very patchy. But who reads Fritz Leiber for the science? One of Leiber's pet themes had been the dichotomy of magic and science, and when he isn't writing about such a dichotomy explicitly, you can still see it coloring his view of science fiction 'proper'. The key to understanding the genius behind A Pail of Air is by allowing yourself to visualize the 'science' in it as a (dare I say it) mood.
How could it be interpreted as a mood? Well, this is a story that very conveniently sidesteps all the social and moral ambiguities that SF of the New Wave would churn up by the truckload. The calamity is a non-human one, and the human race is not to blame. This opens up a mental space that needs to be interpreted as a kind of conceptual playground for the working out of certain human impulses, all seen through the eyes of a chid.
This is difficult, for to take this story seriously is to ask the reader to inhabit the head of a child, fresh and equipped to be gosh-wowed at the mysteries of Nature. That is the first hurdle. The next is to channelize that enthusiasm to make sense of the strong sense of loneliness that Leiber invokes, when the family turns down the offer by the other survivors to come join them. They're very much human, but somewhat typically, they have grown used to a life they are proud of, because they have survived. Leiber calls for a definition of life free from distraction: in survival, in the most basic necessities lie a joy that just might be enough. Or so he suggests.
Suicide Coast, by M John Harrison
Suicide Coast is written in the same sharp, cold prose style that Harrison is now (in)famous for. It is then a very strange conjunction, because the story itself deals with human passion, specifically pursuits like extreme sports, one of the few pursuits which can be said to be free from any utilitarian motive. What motive could be there for something like mountain climbing, except for the thrill of the exertion and the sound of all your muscles screaming out loud against you, in your head? Where a single wrong move could mean the end of your life, Harrison's short story silently, and in an apparently dispassionate manner, champions one of the last vestiges of human temerity and spirit, in the face of world given to seeking these pleasures vicariously, at the expense of skill. I read it in a Gardner Dozois collection, and it seemed like an odd one out amidst stories which were explicitly estranging. Harrison here is practicing Mundane SF (to use Geoff Ryman's term): SF with the slightest hint of speculation, SF that won't seem out of place with our present reality. In its very ordinariness lies a satisfaction that is as rewarding as Harrison's crystal clear, and cool, prose.
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