There is also an argument to be made that this trend need not be relevant: there will always be space for novels that build themselves around action and adventure, and there will always be readers. The young are not the only demographic worth pursuing, and nor are they the only demographic who, to put it hyperbolically, enjoy having their adrenaline raced.

John Trevillian’s first novel, and the first of a trilogy, is what I would consider pulp fiction for the modern SF reader. It’s full of ideas, many of them – as is inevitably the case in a culture saturated with media production – familiar. It picks and chooses from sub-genres; the decadent megalopolises and megacorps of cyberpunk, the iconic villains and heroes of the more light-hearted end of post-apocalyptic fiction (an oxymoron, yes, but a highly entertaining sub-genre), the gun-porn and gung-ho attitude of MilSF, plus a smattering of satire.

The novel focuses around five characters, between whose viewpoints it regularly switches, chapter by chapter. Some such chapters are very short, seemingly present mostly so that we don’t forget about a character and to help them along with their baby steps toward plot relevance. The character who receives far and away the most attention is Jack, aka. The Nowhereman (the core cast all possess catchy monikers that are included on the inside sleeve, although it’s not until well past the halfway point that most of these nicknames are adopted – but humour this, it is the first part of a trilogy after all). He’s that most common of tropes, an amnesiac with a mysterious history just at the edge of his understanding. What is a bit unusual is that he apparently arranged this himself, about three hours before he and a platoon of megacorp soldiers are dropped into a city on the cusp of anarchy.

The other four characters all tie in to the city and Jack in various ways. Esther, aka. Sister Midnight, is Jack’s field commander, and one of the last remaining Christians in a secular future. Benji and uplifted dog Dingo/Elliot, aka. 23rdxentury Boy and Phantom the Wonder Dog (these names are taken from a comic and TV series they like, as Benji is a very young boy, and yes, the dog has three names), escape from a corporate genetic research facility and eventually fall in with Jack’s crowd. Susie, aka. Pure, is a street-level drug addict, socialite and sometime prostitute who is also pulled into Jack’s orbit (although for about two thirds of the novel she doesn’t do much more than drift from minor setpiece to setpiece). Finally, there is Nathaniel Glass, aka. D’Alessandro, whose latter identity is a secret but apparently not to the reader, as it’s given away in every chapter heading. He’s a super-rich scientist working on experimental artificial intelligence – unofficially and quite illegally, which is how he misses the evacuation of the city.

Over the course of the novel we see Jack and Esther fall to Earth, engage in a rapidly overwhelmed “peacekeeping” mission, and then form a gang out of the few abandoned survivors. The other core characters all join this gang or, in Glass’s case, are somehow tied in to Jack’s mysterious past – which he is every bit as eager to uncover as he is to assert the authority and survival of his gang. It’s the survival of the eponymous A-Men, and Jack’s unhinged efforts to alternately hold them together and abandon them, that concerns the latter half of the novel (there is another plot element but it only becomes apparent towards the end, and I shan’t give it away). If you’d guess that this means the novel takes a long time to get going, you’d be right: a lot of the early chapters do an acceptable job with worldbuilding, introducing us to characters and picturing the city’s collapse as its rulers and accoutrements of government and law are abruptly removed, but this is only moderately engaging reading.

I’ve grappled for a while about why this might be, and my conclusion is that the story lacks an emotional core. The self-destruction of a city is a terrible thing, but when its residents are presented as an anonymous mass of violent looters and victims it is difficult to generate empathy. Similarly, the five core characters are difficult to care about. Take Jack, who is the best example. The role he occupies within the novel tells us that he is charismatic – he draws these disparate characters to him – and a natural leader – he holds them together and, mostly, ensures their survival and success. The problem is that he is not charismatic – he is a rampant narcissist with no sense of loyalty who repeatedly abandons his cherished gang in order to pursue his own ends. His solipsism is almost infantile, at times, as he reacts only to what is immediately in front of him and cares little about anything else, bigger picture be damned. Now, for me he’s an easy character to despise, but that doesn’t make him a bad character – what produces this effect is that he does not fit into the role the novel has for him. He is not a convincing leader, he is not a convincing hero, and he’s about as charismatic as a vaginal fart.

Esther is more sympathetic, a genuinely conflicted character who is a perpetual outsider. She is tugged along by the currents around her, occasionally taking a stand but eventually she is worn down. Simultaneously directed and directionless, she’s an interesting individual, but she is also cold and unaffectionate, and her one moment of romance with Jack (occurring after hundreds of pages of setup between the two) occurs a couple of pages before he abandons her for the hot new blonde on the scene. “Couple of pages” is not an exaggeration, by the way.

Dr. Glass is a conniving wanker who spends much of the novel locked in a lab, and Pure is another emotionally retarded idiot (although she is also a possessive and terrified addict / ex-addict so it’s hard to hate her for it), but by contrast Benji and Dingo are wonderful characters. They’re equal parts pragmatic and obsessed with the fantasy of their comic heroes, every bit the streetwise yet naive streetrat. Their chapters are also among the most memorable; all five viewpoints are presented differently, although Trevillian’s prose style creeps wide and deep into the narration for all of his characters. Benji’s chapters, however, are presented in a semi-pidgin English. His vocabulary is way too large for a kid who’s no more than ten, but hey, he’s the 23rdxenturyboy, and he did sort-of work in a genetic research facility.

But if one of the core rules of action-adventure is to encourage the reader to root for the protagonist, it’s obvious to me that The A-Men doesn’t accomplish this. I didn’t care for Jack, and as a result I didn’t care either for his personal quest for knowledge or the survival of his gang (individuals therein, yes, but not the gang). This is a bit of a problem as it constitutes the bulk of the tale.

The novel also, alas, meanders. I’ve already noted that about half of the novel is spent getting Jack and Esther into the city and cut off from their employers, and similarly a half to two-thirds is spent getting the other characters to the same place as him (only Dr. Glass plays any significant role in the plot before encountering Jack). Jack’s own jaunts off the beaten track – notably once to a villa in the countryside to rest for a week and locate a plot coupon – are a tiresome distraction. It’s not until near the very end of the book that any sort of significant conflict is set up, and it’s given little room to breathe. There are a few asides that serve some narrative purpose; Esther briefly joins the “weirdie-beardies”, an amalgamation of every cult and religion out there led by a prophet named Dai-80. This event is supposed to represent a moment of internal conflict for Esther, where she abandons her friends and nascent gang and submerges herself in the trappings of religion generica. Unfortunately this serious scene is somewhat undermined by the crude satiric representations of Dai-80 and his followers, who to a man and woman are a few cutlery drawers short of a cutlery drawer.

In many ways, it seems that The A-Men is unsure what it wants to be. Its satiric moments are among the weakest, and if it’s intended satirically overall – which I doubt – it’s not clear what its targets are. It’s not a remotely serious attempt to look at what might happen to a city if law, order and government were removed without warning or planning – there is only passing acknowledgement of the necessity of food and water, and despite the production and import of both ceasing entirely no one starves or dies of thirst. Perhaps it wants to be a pulpish adventure yarn with brains. It has the adventure, but its characters are often inadequate or misplaced – or more generously, just too damaged to play hero. It has ideas, but too much of its worldbuilding lacks depth and authenticity for it to feel like a real attempt to explore ideas. This is not to mention the action-thriller archetypal violence, in which Jack’s gang – no more than a dozen in number – can fend off other gangs thousands strong. At one point a ten year-old boy kills about a dozen grizzled bike-riding gang members. How? Well, he’s a goodie, and apparently that’s all you need in a world that’s half Mad Max and half Warhammer 40,000.

The A-Men has some respectable strengths. Trevillian’s writing is impressive in its assured confidence. His narrative voice is often striking, and occasionally his imagery is startlingly vivid. At times a sly referential wit emerges: in one example, an experiment into whale/AI sentience punnily nicknamed the “X-Isle” because of its clandestine nature is preceded by musings on its uncanniness, producing “the uncanny X-Isle”, a gag which also recalls the eponymous gang “the A-Men”, which in turn is a pun on both modes of worship and playing god. Trevillian’s presentation of deeply broken characters is often very convincing, with Pure every bit the irrational and erratic addict and Esther’s conflicted nature mostly working very well.

But, overall, the novel’s flaws are too many. It is a case of death by a thousand cuts, because despite the inherent problems I’ve already described they are not in themselves enough to derail what might otherwise be a pedestrian-with-inspired-moments pulp SF tale. But there are many other little embarrassments. A pair called Cleatus & Bubba, who are every bit the backwater stereotype… fish out of water in the middle of this city and story. The repeated and awkward references to Esther’s skin tone: “Her chocolate knuckles straining to cream around the hot handle of her weapon.” The same treatment of Baseeq, the only other black character. Black black black black black. No one is described as “white” or exoticised on that basis. The two consecutive chapters which portray the same action performed by Jack, then Esther (not a case of unreliable narrator, just an instance of confused author). The laughably non-threatening rival gangs; the Grim Reapers single-handedly define the term “mooks“. The inexplicable movement of characters (one soldier appears alongside his platoon then soon after appears aboard a dropship, and there is no way he could have gotten there). Not to mention the fact that I can’t see, and the novel never tries to explain, how a corporate entity abandoning an entire city of workers and consumers makes any kind of economic sense whatsoever.

I wanted to like The A-Men. There is a good novel beneath these many cuts, and a potentially very good author, but on the basis of what I’ve read here I’d say both need more work. If it seems like I am harsh on the novel, it is only because I felt it contained so much promise.

John Trevillian’s official site | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Matador

The cover art for #231 is the final piece of a 6-part series that has provided IZ with covers for the past year. The inside cover shows the complete work – it’s a very cool and striking piece of work that still stands up well chopped into bits. The visual style and use of colour make it really stand out, and it’s obviously not taking itself too seriously – giant robot loaded for bear, carrying bike in one hand and small girl in the other, apparently hunting down some submachinegun-toting schoolboys who are cowering behind a wall whilst spaceships and birds fill the yellow skies. Works for me. There’s been some valid criticism about the slight fetishisation/sexualisation of the only woman present (she’s wearing a gas mask, trench coat, long boots and not much else) and I can see that to an extent. But still, it’s an eye-catching and modern collection of covers and hopefully it has attracted a few new interested readers.

I should also comment briefly on the design: it has solidified into a clear vision over the years and now strikes a fine balance between being both striking and inobtrusive when it needs to be. Along with sister Black Static it’s the best-designed genrefic mag I’m aware of.

Anyway, #231 is a Jason Sanford special issue. (Who he?) He’s had six stories published in Interzone in the past including several which appeared in reader polls and one which was a Nebula finalist. Of these the one I remember best without looking through old issues (my memory is terrible) is ‘The Ships Like Clouds, Risen By Their Rain’, which I remember being a wonderfully strange and endearing fantasy of the type that blends the very humble lives of its initial cast with epic strangeness of the sensawunda variety. (Apologies to the non-SF nerds in the house, I will try to link to the stupid neologisms and slang I use.)

But first, we have several stories by other authors – including one introduced to Interzone by Sanford himself. Matthew Cook’s ‘The Shoe Factory’ is written from a young man’s perspective and partially told through flashbacks. In the present he is alone aboard a spaceship, which is experiencing serious technical trouble, and as is usual with these situations his life begins to flash back before his eyes. The parts of the story set in the past are much more evocative than the vaguely described ‘present’: the protagonist and his girlfriend, Emily, live in an abandoned factory in Guangzhou, China. They’re scavengers, picking what they need to survive from the derelict parts of the city. The time period is undefined but not too far in the future, set in China after the industrial/export-based boom has died and manufacturers have moved to cheaper places (“Somalia, or Haiti, or Mississippi”). Alas, the life of a hood rat is a cruel and brutish one. The events of past and present come together in a somewhat unexpected conclusion that will seem familiar to readers of space opera. Regardless, it’s a good story, well-envisioned and tautly self-contained. I look forward to reading more by Cook.

Next up is Aliette De Bodard’s ‘The Shipmaker’. This is another story from her Xuya continuity, an interesting alternate history series where China discovered America before Columbus and the Aztec civilization still exists – although it has declined, it has taken a different path, as has China, which is now the world’s dominant superpower[*]. ‘The Shipmaker’ incorporates elements of Eastern philosophy into the idea of designing a starship; both the ship’s pilot and the ship itself must be carefully made for another. Pilots are carried to term within volunteers (whose social status differs interestingly from culture to culture; the story’s main characters are women, and their experiences are also contrasted) and ships are designed by a team led by a Grand Master of Design. Dac Kien is one such Grand Master, but her efforts are put under strain by the early arrival of the Mind-bearer and the ship’s future pilot. ‘The Shipmaker’ is another fine example of De Bodard’s talents; an organic story with a fascinating setting, cultures and characters introduced and portrayed with great sensitivity and depth, and an interesting plot concept that plays second fiddle to characters and their place in the world.

The first of the three stories by Jason Sanford is ‘Peacemaker, Peacemaker, Little Bo Beep’. This is a curious story that may be slightly spoiled by its opening introduction by the author. I wonder how I would have reacted to the story had I not been previously introduced to the idea that it is based upon the analogising of sheep, sheepdogs and wolves for the public, police and criminals. The introduction characters slip into established roles earlier than they perhaps should; I wonder if some elements of tension within the story would have been heightened had I not suspected from the beginning who was and was not to be trusted in the circumstances (which are always what they seem, even if the why remains a mystery). All the same, Sanford introduces some good characters and does a decent job of portraying some of the morally grey aspects of his characters – although describing a serial killer-turned-halfway hero as “morally grey” is perhaps a bit of a stretch. This story reminds me of the recent remake of The Crazies, although here the explanation behind the weird behaviour of faceless masses is derived from pulp SF rather than zombie horror tropes. A second story in this setting is hinted at and could be interesting – although perhaps I’m just curious as to how Sanford might follow this story up thematically.

His second offering, ‘Memoria’, is a better story, one deeper in SFnal weirdness. Its theme is broader – memory, as is obvious from the title – and it is set in a multiverse where one Earth is surrounded by some sort of godlike entity that prevents anything non-organic from leaving. It also forces the souls – or complete memories and personalities, if you prefer – of the dead into the minds of those who attempt to leave Earth. Human ingenuity has produced the following solution: organic starships and human ablative armour in the form of criminals who have volunteered to accept the minds of the dead in place of the ship’s more valuable crew. The protagonist is one such volunteer, on his fifth and final tour, whose mind remains relatively intact. The personalities of everyone ever forced into him are still present, and he segues between interacting with – or being controlled by – them and the rest of the crew. The ship is engaged in visiting other versions of Earth elsewhere in the multiverse, and during one such visit the crew find themselves inadvertently bringing something back. It’s a tense story where the stakes gradually become higher at the same pace at which the reader’s comprehension grows, a solid mix of mystery and excitement. The conclusion is gratifying, too, on both a personal level for its damaged and sympathetic characters, and the way in which threat is tackled. It’s very much a deus ex machina, but one which had been sitting upon the mantlepiece all along.

The third and final piece by Sanford is ‘Millisent Ka Plays in Realtime’, which in terms of ideas is the most interesting story in this issue. It reimagines the world’s economic system as one in which all anyone can spend, loan or owe is time, literally the time of their lives, with their balance recorded by some convenient tech. Of course, the nature of economics hasn’t been wholly reimagined, and in fact the capitalism that birthed this alternative economic system has ironically produced a reversion to a fuedal system of vassalage and indentured servitude. The inventors of both the tech and the new economic system are among the most powerful lords of the new world, and their obsession is with music, so they focus most of their vast wealth upon acquiring and breeding talented musicians. Oh yes, children raised in this world must eventually repay the generosity their benefactors have shown them in feeding and educating and owning them – it is truly a horrible future to imagine, especially as it is one where music, a traditional panacea for slavery and servitude in all their forms, is the focus of the loss of liberty. The story’s protagonist is the daughter of two moderately successful musicians (not successful enough to be free or retire, of course) but displays little musical talent herself. The story follows her as she grows up, befriends a eunuch (a truly enchanting singer and one of the great prizes of their little kingdom’s lord), and – thankfully – finds a way to challenge the status quo. The story’s ending is a too upbeat to be entirely convincing, but thematically it feels quite right to me. “This is the only future we have. Might as well make the most of it.” It is change that makes music what it is, not the notes themselves but the transitions between them, and in a world informed by both music and power it is not impossible that the latter might learn something from the former.

Leading the non-fiction there’s an interview with Sanford by Andy Hedgecock which is of the usual solid standard, being a mix of biographical, exploration of theme and influence, the present state of literature and where SF can go from here. Apparently Sanford has identified an “emergent storytelling form, ‘SciFi Strange’, which sets high literary standards, experiments with style, is infused with a sense of wonder, takes the idea of diverse sexuality for granted, focuses on human values and needs and explores the boundaries of reality and experience through philosophical speculation.” This doesn’t sound particularly unusual to me; in fact it sounds more or less like the sort of slipstreamish SF that Interzone has been publishing for many years, but I’ll leave such judgements to more informed commentators. Regardless, the only thing in that quote that I think unnecessary would be the label.

There are the usual mix of book reviews, with the best as usual provided by old hands like Paul Kincaid and Maureen Kincaid-Speller, but none of them are bad and there’s a pleasant mix of personalities among the reviews (or so it seems to me, but then I have been reading this mag for years). Nick Lowe’s ‘Mutant Popcorn’ is, as always, the non-fiction highlight for me, combining his insightful criticism, cheery disposition and gentle wit in examining recent cinema releases with more kindness and thought than some of them might deserve.

Next: Tony Lee’s Laser Fodder. Disorienting quick-fire reviews, conjunctions mostly dispensed with. Hard to keep up at points, especially with lengthy run-on sentences compressing plot of film into unwieldy clauses upon clauses, but better method of conveying hefty quantities of information and interesting, well-supported if not always agreeable opinions about new DVD releases I don’t know. Recommended? Recommended.

A conclusion feels unnecessary as I don’t think I’ve said anything particularly negative above. Interzone is a good mag and well worth the price of admission, and if you need to start somewhere then #231 is a good place to do so, as I feel it’s a fairly strong issue overall.

Interzone | TTA Press

[*] China is a major player in a lot of Interzone stories, perhaps more so than the USA or any EU nations, but my favourite story about a new world superpower was one that put a high-tech African nation front and centre. I was sure this was an Interzone story, perhaps in an optimistic SF issues, but I’ve just flicked through a year and a half of back issues and not spotted it. Does anyone recognise this story? Not knowing will vex me…

Winter Song is set on a partially terraformed human colony that is structured around the emulation of old Icelandic cultures (the novel, in fact, is inspired by the old Icelandic Sagas as well as contemporary Icelandic fiction), with the planet’s scattered population gathered into small clans under the leadership of “Gothis”. The clans exist in a perilous and freezing environment in which scraping out a living is a challenge that occupies every waking moment, to which must be added the danger of local fauna. The terraformers who once oversaw the planet’s development are long gone, political and economic factors leading to abandonment of the colony and its inhabitants. The novel’s protagonist, Karl Allman, is plunged into this world when his starship is ambushed and destroyed by a faction of humanity that opposes modified Radicals like him.

For much of the novel Karl is nursed back to health by the clan that found him. Principally he’s cared for by Bera, the unmarried mother of a dead bastard child, under the watchful eye of the Gothi Ragnar, a harsh and pragmatic man prone to fits of rage. Ragnar is determined that the stranger pay his dues and work off his debt to the clan. Karl is eager only to leave the planet and return home, where his wife is expecting a child. Bera, desperately unhappy among her adoptive clan, first transfers her mothering instincts to the wounded Karl and later develops more complex feelings for him. Ultimately Karl and Bera set out to find a shrine known as Winter Song, a relic of the colony’s murky past that may be the only way Karl can find his way home.

There’s some interesting background detail to the setting: space-age humanity has fractured into warring factions. As previously mentioned there are Radicals – technologically enhanced humans – and Traditionals who eschew such enhancement. There is some fluidity of definition here, illustrated by Karl who considers himself mostly Traditional despite his extensive – to a baseline human – modifications. There are less grey areas when it comes to the use of planets; Traditionals are terraformers who believe in adapting planets to suit human life. Radicals are often more inclined to modify themselves to be able to survive on a planet – geoformers, basically. Then there is a third faction, the Ayes, an incrutable collection of machine intelligences.

It’s a potentially interesting background but unfortunately ends up being little more than a backdrop for the sfnal setting. The philosophical conflict between Traditionals and Radicals does tie in with the plot of the novel (which I shan’t give away as it involves a twist which is one of the novels most entertaining surprises), but beyond that it feels like fluff to make the canvas feel a little larger than it is, and to justify Karl’s outsider status.

The first half of the novel, after Karl comes crashing to Earth, is mostly about establishing the setting of the planet, critters and ecology included, as well as building the relationship between Karl and Bera. Tying into this is an apparent schizophrenic tendency in Karl. At times he’s lucid and self-conscious, but at others that personality disappears and the story shifts to second-person perspective as another personality surfaces with its own desires and motives. This helps keep the first half of the novel reasonably exciting, although most readers will probably guess what’s going on before Karl himself does. Regardless, this shift in perspective is handled well, given that second-person is a comparatively rare and difficult form.

For the second half we shift into pulpy sf adventure territory as Karl and Bera hunt for Winter Song, gaining an unexpected ally along the way (gasp!), with Ragnar and a warband from the village in pursuit. Underpinning this is a steady drip-fed reveal of the planet’s history and how it ties into the aforementioned clashes between human factions and philosophies.

The development of the relationship between Karl and Bera’s is a major part of the book but at times I felt the dialogue they shared was painfully stilted. Bera I can perhaps forgive for this, as she’s little more than a teenager who’s grown up too fast in a harsh world, but Karl is supposedly 90 years old and his alternation between matter-of-fact distantness and occasionally cringeworthy cooing doesn’t really convince. That said, there are only scattered instances of this.

All told Winter Song is a fairly strong novel and one I found a pleasant surprise, especially as it was a freebie. It’s stronger on the world-building and questing than it is the relationships and dialogue, but I’m still interested enough that if Harvey writes a sequel I’ll pick it up.

(One final note unrelated to the novel itself – despite the unspectacular cover art I do quite like the design. It feels fairly modern with book recommendations, “extras” and some bulletpointed elements of the story listed on the back. Kinda snazzy!)

But it wasn’t all bad, particularly if you’re not me, because British SF & fantasy e-zine Hub Magazine published its hundredth issue. If you’re not in the know about the general life expectancy of magazines built around genre fiction it may not be clear what an achievement this is, particularly given that Hub boasts 10,000 subscribers (or, at least, is sent to 10,000 email addresses, which is not quite the same thing) and thanks to sponsorship deals with publishers is both solvent and a paying market for writers.

I’ve written about Hub before (#12-18 here, and #35-38 for The Fix Online) and have generally found it an entertaining if hit and miss read since then. So, as a landmark issue what does #100 exemplify about its run to date and what does it indicate for the future?

The issue opens as you might expect; with retrospectives from its editor, Lee Harris, and other regular staff/contributors Alasdair Stuart, Ellen J. Allen and Phil Lunt. It’s interesting to read Harris’s potted history of the e-zine, which began (as the name indicates) as a print magazine. It folded after two issues, a source of much disappointment for many in the genre scene, but was soon reborn in the form we know today. As was presumed to be the case at the time, the reason for the shift was cold, hard economics.

I hate to harp on about a relatively minor point, but if the author is somehow not familiar with Valve’s multi-million dollar gaming franchise then this is an amazing coincidence that has defied the odds of both Occam’s Razor and the nature of the Internet. So, maybe, gloss over the plagiarism a bit more in future?

There’s an almost orgiastic scene of violence as striders and soldiers turn guns on civilians, and then the story gets going as orbital satellite strikes knock out the weapon platforms. It emerges that this is a far-future Earth that has suffered two further world wars – the “stupid wars” – and was collapsing into total barbarity until posthumans stepped in. Thought dead, these children of mankind have changed themselves and developed their technology far beyond terrestrial humans, and as the story begins have spent some years trying to win the nations of Earth over to the benevolent dictatorship of their AIs.

‘Under a Closed Sky’ focuses on an agent of the posthumans, Alicia, although she spends most of the story in the stolen identity of a corrupt politician’s pampered daughter. The tale is set in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a nation that violently resists posthuman intervention despite the will of most of its impoverished and brutalised population. Alicia’s mission is to assassinate the president – presumably as part of a larger posthuman plan for takeover. The bulk of the story concerns her efforts to assume and maintain her false identity, which must be maintained through convincing contact with friends and family as well as demonstrating adherence to routine for the benefit of the inevitable surveillance. These parts of the story demonstrate Paget’s confident writing and eye for detail, as well as foreshadow the tale’s conclusion.

The conclusion, the pay-off for the story, almost works for me. On the back of knife-twisting betrayal it portrays a clash between two distinct mindsets, both with strong arguments to be made for them. Clean drinking water and life without fear of murder and oppression, or for a species to reach for the stars, grow and change? Cleverly, one of the two arguments mirrors the intellectual theory underpinning a lot of colonial activity in the 18th and 19th century: benevolent dictatorship for the peoples’ own good. Once you make this connection that argument seems a lot less attractive; humanitarianism as an excuse for oppression and resource extraction is a long-discredited idea, if one still popular today. The other argument, well, it is more selfish than selfless, but it has the virtue of not being what it is up against.

Unfortunately this clash is built on a foundation comprising shaky understanding of international relations. Not wanting to give too much away with my criticisms, I’ll point at some background examples to highlight my argument. Why does the author posit that 51 American Nation-States would be at peace, existing in serene co-operation, as opposed to a Union that squabbled and infought? Not one US state – indeed hardly any nation in the world today – could exist in isolation. Without extensive international trade, not to mention intellectual cross-pollination, immigration and emigration, the idea of a modern, healthy and wealthy nation-state is absurd. And it is from the necessity of such agreements, put up against the scarcity of resource flow or the desire to not be left behind in economic, social or technological terms, that generates the majority of large-scale modern conflict.

The author even presents a diametrically opposed example within the same story: the argument that a nation-state established in the 1900s as a colonial territory, historically composed of many distinct tribal and ethnic groups, works better together as a group united by suffering and oppression under a dictator than it would as an atomised and warring confederation of component groups. Not only is this contradictory, it also overlooks a fairly central tenet of authoritarian politics and class theory: divide and rule. Whilst I know little of Congolese politics I would not be surprised that smaller ethnic minorities were used as a scapegoat by other groups or those holding power. So, unfortunately, with these and other examples undermining the ideas that thematically underpin the story, it doesn’t quite work for me.

But even if the story opens with plagiarism and ends with political naivete, despite this I like it. It’s well-written with a plethora of skilful small touches, the plot is sufficiently gripping to hold one’s attention to the end, the twist is cleverly foreshadowed but not signposted, it is set in an environment that sets it apart from many genre short stories, and it engages with big ideas even if it is a partial failure on that account.

The farmer Rayf Hamner is a retired soldier; a hero, really, albeit one who has been forgotten by those he left behind in city life, in politics and the army. He has his friends and his family, now, though they don’t seem to be enough for him. He projects his hopes and desires onto his son, Nile, hoping that the stolid, reliable boy can achieve the metropolitan success that he never did.

Nile, on the other hand, is perfectly comfortable working on the farm. The very picture of an unimaginative, loyal and honest farmhand, he is not enthusiastic about his father’s plans, but nor is he unfaithful enough to argue against or otherwise resist them. It is what his father wants, he supposes, so it is what his father shall have.

When an elderly teacher of devices – a sorcerer in all but name – is secured by Rayf for Nile, the family are pleased to have him with them. A humble yet charismatic man, he professes to be pleased to enjoy a simple country life for his retirement in exchange for teaching the young man. Nile puts his all into his education, and although he does not understand what it is that he is supposed to be learning, both he and his teacher are surprised at his success, despite his age being far in excess of what is considered ideal for a magical education.

But, of course, all is not as it seems.

It’s a stronger if less ambitious story than ‘Under a Closed Sky’. The pastoral environment is simply described and evocative for it; the archetypical characters a reflection of the uncomplicated nature of their lives. Both the conflict that arises and the manner of its resolution emerge organically and in keeping with the nature of the story’s characters, and it’s possible that it will leave a smile on your face. The latter is dependent on whether you regard striving for greater personal accomplishment in the eyes of the great and good, or being at peace with one’s surroundings and close friends and relatives, as the more worthy goal.

After that we have another article about the iconic nature of the Doctor from, of course, Doctor Who, which appears to be a quite detailed mini-history of the character and the actors playing him. I admit to only skim-reading it due to lack of interest; I’m under thirty and didn’t really encounter the TV show until last year when I was finally convinced to try watching the post-2005 version. Then there is a little puff piece about role-playing that doesn’t really say anything beyond “role-playing is good”; perhaps its author could have collaborated with the writer of the piece about erotica. And, finally, there is a competition. Best get your answer in before October 24th 2009, readers!

So, not a great non-fiction showing – the only strong-looking piece being one of no interest to me. But Hub is read for its fiction, and #100 made a good impression on that front. So what says this of the future? Well, with the benefit of eight issues having been published since I started writing this review, I can state with confidence that it says “more of the same”. The e-zine is still publishing stories that include a decent number of gems among them, and is sticking to the same formula that has seen it through its first hundred issues. It has changed sponsors, which makes for a change in banner ads. Stylistically it’s also identical; perhaps this is an area where Hub could innovate? Consistently finding good or at least mediocre SF or fantasy artwork on a limited budget cannot be easy, although half an hour on DeviantArt proves that it’s possible, but sprucing up the design a little would require little investment outside of time with software. But hey, since #3 Hub has been exemplifying the maxim of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” – so perhaps that wisdom should be respected. Here’s to another 100 issues.

Back at the outset of August I promised to post one of my book reviews for Vector every Saturday, and then repeatedly forgot to queue up the reviews for the rest of the month. Duh. Here’s the first of the two, of an understated and clever space opera by Paul McAuley.

The Overturn, a period of catastrophic political and climatic change which saw the deaths of hundreds of millions throughout the solar system, lies several centuries passed, yet its shadow still hangs over humanity. Earth’s old nations have conglomerated into three international super-states under authoritarian and militaristic systems of rule, pursuing ecological doctrines and endeavouring to restore their planet to some of its former natural glories. Elsewhere in the solar system the loosely affiliated networks of democratic Outer colonies pursue their own agendas, be they posthumanism, scientific research, or the simple pursuit of pleasure.

The conflict and atrocities of the Overturn left many tensions between Earth and the Outers, but tensions also lie between their internal factions. On Earth, the super-states still squabble for power at every level. The most established players uneasily eye the Outer colonies, afraid that as the Outers continue to evolve and expand Earth will lose any ability to exert influence over them. Among the Outers the older and younger generations disagree about their future: the old are conservative, desiring controlled populations on already established colonies, whereas the young argue for change and expansion further out into the unknown.

The super-state of Greater Brazil is foremost among Earth’s players in its interactions with the Outer colonies. A last effort towards peace has been initiated by Brazilian politicians and the representatives of a high-tech, horizontally-democratic Callistan colony. Together they are constructing a secure biome on the small moon’s surface as a symbol of co-operation between two peoples. Yet among those sent to Callisto to oversee the project are bit players whose masters would prefer war to peaceful trade and co-operation, and conflict is easy to engineer between two groups of people who struggle to understand one another.

‘The Quiet War’ is billed as a space opera but, as should be obvious from the preceding scene-setting, readers expecting clashes between vast fleets of spacecraft will be disappointed. Almost from the outset McAuley’s focus is on the intrigue and power-plays among the Terran factions, as well as the more varied interactions of the atomised, argumentative and often idealistic Outers. In many ways ‘The Quiet War’ is a portrait of a clash of civilizations as, for the most part, the people who populate the novel think in genuinely different ways. Macy, an engineer forced into exile from Greater Brazil, illustrates this perfectly as she is passed between Outer colonies who struggle to decide what to do with her. In one case Outer utopianism is demonstrably cruel and unfair, although these Outers genuinely believe that it is Macy who refuses to integrate. Then there are the genetically-engineered or modified soldiers and pilots of Greater Brazil. The former are drilled with patriotic anti-Outer fervour from birth, whereas the latter are ordinary human pilots who agree to lose something of themselves to become superior warriors. In both cases their attitudes towards the Outers are illuminating, as are their actions when war does come.

McAuley shows us the cynical manipulation that drives Greater Brazil’s politicians and top-ranking military officials, as well as how this affects the smaller players who are dragged into the Machiavellian melee through choice or accident. This damning focus isn’t restricted to the authoritarian Terran super-states; if anything, they are presented more neutrally, perhaps because everyone now knows that authoritarian and militaristic national blocs are callous, destructive and riddled with corruption. The Outers are subjected to more criticism, presumably because their lives are more unusual and thus interesting to readers of SF. Sociological considerations are paramount as the novel questions assumptions implicit in social structures and patterns of thought. Impressively this is all grounded in story and character, with authorial opinion never obviously creeping in. The many criticisms made towards the Outers are the result of career diplomats, politicians and other ambassadors drawing attention to the flaws they see in their visits to Outer colonies. No Outer ever visits Earth, and what criticism they do direct towards their Terran counterparts is usually crude propaganda based on ignorance.

Two classic SF novels came to mind whilst reading ‘The Quiet War’. The first was Frank Herbert’s ‘Dune’, with its feudal struggles for economic and political power and its “wheels within wheels” approach to the same. At first I found the intrigue of ‘The Quiet War’ shallow – not stupid, but lacking the multiple layers and angles such a story demands. In retrospect I think it was a deliberate conceit to not throw the reader in at the deep end, and as I read on I was left simply impressed with the tale’s rigorous complexity.

The second novel is Ursula K. Le Guin’s ‘The Dispossessed’, with its considered exploration of two very different systems of social organisation, language, and methods of interaction. This comparison is less close as McAuley devotes less time to exploring the details of his societies, preferring instead to focus on the conflicts between them, the more abstract ideas underpinning them, and also the themes of change and social evolution. Still, I think any serious critical examination of ‘The Quiet War’ would do well to turn its eyes to these classics.

The scientific rigor present throughout, in various disciplines, is impressive. I am no scientist but I found the lucid descriptions illuminating, if not always directly relevant to the story itself (for the record, I regard this as no bad thing). The prose is less impressive: it is more than workmanlike, but the emphasis is clearly on clarity above beauty. I feel that this is only worth mentioning as it exacerbates the apparent simplicity and dullness of the book at its beginning; later, this clarity is something of a boon.

Overall I found ‘The Quiet War’ a highly rewarding read, with my opinion of it continually revised upwards as I read on. By the novel’s midpoint the societies it portrayed genuinely felt like the confused, messy systems of social organisation and power they are. The ideas presented by the novel are interesting and the conclusions drawn by several of the surviving characters by its close provide intellectual and philosophical payoff. I have no qualms recommending ‘The Quiet War’ to those seeking to be intellectually provoked as well as thrilled by their space operatic fare.

Disclaimer: these aren’t formal reviews so much as musings on what I’ve read. Full reviews can be found here.

Previously: Books 1-2, Books 3-4.

5 – Marc Ellerby & Jamie Rich – Love the Way You Love Vol. 4, 5 & 6

I finished reading the series back in January, but I’ve been procrastinating over finishing one of the books I subsequently picked up for so long that I’ve not posted about them until now. Fortunately it’s a pleasure rather than a chore to revisit them to refresh my memory.

Volume 3 ended on a high note, with Tristan and Isobel mutual attraction seemingly leading towards a more solid relationship – although Isobel’s fiancee, Marcus, remained in the picture, and was stepping up his vendetta against Tristan’s band, Like A Dog (do you know, I’ve warmed to the name, even though it being terrible becomes a running joke in the comic). Without wanting to spoil the story, volume 4 sees Marcus’ campaign against Like A Dog bear fruit as well as Tristan and Isobel’s relationship becoming rockier. Various other characters continue to emerge from the background and their stories develop into entertaining and/or sweet subplots.

The story, the characters and the writing in general does become fleshier as the story goes on; the same is true of the artwork, which becomes more confident and bold in each volume. This is particular obvious in the action scenes, where the dynamic sequences and images compare favourably to the more static snapshots on the earlier volumes. (Coo, look at me talking about artwork like I know a damn thing.)

I really can’t comment extensively on the series as a whole without issuing spoilers, and even though this isn’t a review so much as my initial thoughts and reactions, I don’t want to do that. Suffice to say that while I like the final volume, think it ties up the various threads of the earlier volumes nicely, and ends on a suitably upbeat note, I’m not too sure about the way that resolution is delivered in the form of deus ex machinae. One is definitely more convincing than the other; the latter essentially dispenses needed wisdom like a tap, and drags the Tristan und Isolde subtext into plain light, where I’m as yet unconvinced it needs to be. But it’s thematically satisfying and the resolution to the central plot is, as I said, well-handled, and I’ve got only warm feelings toward the series as a whole.

P.S. As recompense for mentioning another Oni Press series in my last post, I hereby resolve to order some more books from Oni and resist lazy comparisons.

6 – Guy Adams – DCI Gene Hunt’s Rules of Modern Policing

I picked up this frivolous media tie-in book in a charity shop. Guess where it’s going back to?

Okay, in the interests of putting some effort into this, I’ll add that it’s far too knowingly ironic. Life On Mars managed to crowbar a lot of humour into its formula primarily because the clash between the inherent bigotry of 1970s Britain with “modern man” Sam Tyler wasn’t played ironically. These characters genuinely just didn’t understand each other at times. The humour is derived by the audience as voyeur, not because the bigotry is hammed up. This clearly rapidly-put together book leaps beyond that basic subtlety to repeatedly nudge you in the ribs and wink at the ribaldry.

I’d possibly forgive that were the book actually amusing, but sadly it’s not. In fact, the funniest thing about it is that one of the photographs in it that isn’t a still from the show was clearly taken at a second-hand bookshop. For no apparent reason the shelves are full of books on Irish history, and most of the volumes on display quite obviously postdate the ’70s. Smooth.

7 – Michael Crichton – State of Fear

You may be thinking that I’m not a likely Crichton reader, and you’d be right. Beyond reading the Jurassic Park books as a young teen I’ve mostly avoided his work. As a pretentious slightly older teenager I looked instead to “more serious” science fiction, an an older and still pretentious 20-something I sneered at his simplistic prose and antagonism towards the scientific community.

Still, over Christmas my dad gave me this book to read, and he said he was interested in what I thought of it, so I figured I’d give it a go. After all, I reasoned, it can’t possibly be worse than the Da Vinci Code, and I got through three chapters of that before the laughter overwhelmed me.

Having now actually /finished/ this 700-page airport thriller (if you’ve been wondering why it’s been so long since I posted a P52 update, it’s because I found this novel a struggle to get through)… I find myself in two minds. One of these minds occupies a position of relative ignorance. Allow me to elucidate.

This is a polemical novel, but not quite in the way I initially expected. Whilst Crichton’s (many) mouthpiece characters are presented as rational, intelligent human beings and his straw men… are not, there isn’t the simple climate change real / climate change faked dichotomy I’d expected. Crichton has at the very least put a lot of effort into fairly representing his argument and supporting it with data and footnotes. Unfortunately because the argument in the novel is so very one-sided it’s hard to feel like this is a debate or dialogue rather than an extremely persuasive misrepresentation. This has the further unfortunate result of somewhat undermining the central thrust of the point Crichton is trying to make in the last 100 pages of the novel: that idealistic zealotry, mis- and over-representation of research and data, and the intrusion of self-interested politics and self-reproducing bureaucracy into science, all do serious harm to our ability to understand the world in which we live, the ways in which we are exploited, and the unique ability humans have to consciously manage their home planet. It is a good point and one I can’t possibly argue with, even if I don’t share all of the author’s other opinions.

As to the arguments Crichton makes about climate change… well, climate change, resource scarcity and environmental concerns have occupied my thoughts and guided my life choices for many years now. But I’m no idealogue, and I have to admit that I have no means of countering a lot of the information he represents. I often found myself thinking that Crichton could have been quite selective with what information he put into his arguments, but that’s unfair as I have no basis for thinking it other than that he is violating my preconceptions. Hence the ignorance I mentioned just above. I have a few germinal arguments but I would have to go away and spend some time doing some research (which I may yet to do, but right now I’m easing out of a week of alcoholic and musical excess). Still, I’m impressed by the fact that insofar as Crichton’s position is concerned, it seems well-presented and it has made me question my preconceptions and opinions, which is always a good thing.

I mentioned the other mind in which I find myself. This is well positive. Put simply, this is a simply written novel and really quite shallow. Crichton’s prose is clearly consciously intended to be parsed quickly and easily; I’m sure it’s the reason for his success. Everything is presented very literally, very matter-of-factly, and this grates long before 700 pages have passed. His characters, too, are utterly flat. Only a few exhibit some occasional moment of humanity; even these spend most of their time as automatons marching to the twin beat of Plot and Argument. The book’s female characters are laughable, almost all either hyper-competent hotties with the smarts to match, eye-candy bimbos or just rather useless. All the stuff I talked about in the paragraphs above works okay as a polemic, but as a novel the book is disjointed and oddly constructed. And, of course, the central conceit is utterly ludicrous, although I did find the super-science villainy of the ELF zealots very amusing. They have machine guns and create flash floods to sensationally drown children, and do not fear death! Grrrr!

Still… it was hard work, but I’m glad I read this. I’m less looking forward to discussing the above with my dad, haha…

8 – J. G. Ballard – Kingdom Come

Believe it or not this is the first Ballard I’ve ever read. And to think I occasionally review books, eh? Talk about being underqualified.

This novel sets its sights on a cultural monolith that has attracted criticism for decades, ever since its inception: the shopping mall, and more broadly the effects of consumerism on human society and psychology. The protagonist, a sacked ad-man, comes to one of the orbital M25 towns that ring London. Here, in true suburbia, lie the heartlands of mall culture. In the latest and greatest of these creations, the Metro-Centre, his father met an untimely demise at the point of a gunman’s bullet. In searching for the truth behind his father’s killer the protagonist uncovers both the promise and the darkness that lie at the heart of the people and towns that align themselves with the life and culture of consumerism… and gives birth to a monster.

That’s a bit of a shallow summary, but it highlights all the key points. At first the novel focuses on unpacking a murder mystery set against a sinister backdrop of racism and football hooligan violence, but soon this is put to the sidelines as the protagonist turns his own skills to breathing life into the nascent beast of hyper-consumerism. Both threads slam together for an impressive climax.

This is a good novel, and Ballard’s prose is delightfully well-observed. His ability to highlight the sinister and the intimate in the everyday is superb. Any criticisms I have are either political or superficial: on the most shallow level, early on there are some geographical transitions that don’t work. I wondered if these were deliberate and supposed to make a point, but this isn’t the case. It’s not a major problem but it broke the flow for me as I flipped back and forth trying to see if I’d missed something. As for the political criticisms, these aren’t really relevant as they’re subjective. I’m also not entirely sure if the ideology of consumerism could work in the way this novel posits; it’s an overarching structure and a lifestyle, but not one to which people owe any loyalty beyond habit. As a conceit it’s convincing, and its easy to suspect disbelief while Ballard tells this story and explores the ideas related to it, but it lends the book a veneer of unreality. Which, all things considered, is actually quite appropriate.

9 & 10 – John Allison – Scary Go Round Books 4 & 5 (The Retribution Index, Great Aches)

Whew. After writing about ‘State of Fear’ at length I don’t really have the energy to go into these. In short, they’re collections of John Allison’s webcomic Scary Go Round, I’m a really big fan, and I wish I’d bought books 1 to 3 before they sold out as they will NEVER BE REPRINTED. Sobs!

Scary Go Round is a very English and extremely whimsical comic strip with wonderfully likeable characters, truly fine dialogue, and adorable artwork. I absolutely love the way the stories, concepts and characters range from slightly-askew surrealism to the cartoonishly silly (killer robots, minotaurs, midget vampires, Paninatu the volcano demon, etc.). I’m a little bit in love with several of his characters, which just goes to show how warm and human the comic strip is because falling for fictional characters is DISTURBING AND WRONG.

If you’ve never read Scary Go Round, go correct yourself. Personally I like Allison’s hand-drawn art a lot more than the computer stuff, so would recommend starting with one such story. You may want to just pick a random storyline and begin there since even if you go right back to the first strip you might still be puzzled; Scary Go Round features many characters and settings from its predecessor, Bobbins.

9.5 – Marc Ellerby – Ellerbisms Vol. 1

A short comic, so it gets a half-entry! I ordered this alongside Vols. 2 and 3 and Ellerby’s latest comic, Chloe Noonan: Monster Hunter. I’ll do these in a later round-up.

It’s interesting reading Volume 1 of Ellerbisms as the strips are a couple of years old now and (I think) mark Marc’s first foray into diary comics. The tone, composition and art is less consistent than the strips you’ll now find on his website, but there are still plenty of gems in here. Particular favourites include Marc wondering if he’ll ever live up to the heritage of Moleskine notebooks and contemplating napkins instead, the one about the joys of making mixtapes, and all of the strips about ATP.

Whilst reading this I was repeatedly beset by the vague recollection that I may have been slightly rude to Marc at the Wired UK launch. Oh dear. If I was, and he’s reading this, I apologise. I’d just been tricked into drunkenly fanning at Warren Ellis and was overcome with a desire to flee.

9.647839320 – John Allison – Ghosts

A lovely short comic featuring Scary Go Round regulars Shelley, Amy and Ryan, along with a ghost who likes to play the trombone. <3

Today’s story is fairly lightweight, I’m afraid, as I’m a bit idea’d out after a busy week and managing to fling myself off my bike yesterday (thus, I feel like I’ve been beaten up… by tarmac).

The title is shamelessly stolen from the excellent Fuck Buttons.

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Colours Move

The itch begins behind his eyes as it always does. Gerard moves through his usual rituals in preparation of the transition. He blinks repeatedly to moisten his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He shuffles his feet at the same time, shaking each leg in turn to limber up the muscles. None of it has any effect on his retinal webs or the neural spike, but the habits are comforting and soothe the sensations that even after two years do not feel familiar.

He hears a voice telling him that the system is ready for integration. The words sound like they come from his left, but intellectually Gerard knows that the room is silent apart from the humming of electricity and computer fans. He stops blinking and reaches out his arms, turning the limbs this way and that to stretch his muscles.

The room around him smells sterile, with only the faintest intruding scent of burning ozone and hot organoplastics. Small moulded bubbles containing cameras are dotted every few metres on the walls. There are no windows or screens anywhere, just a door and smooth walls and power cables. The cables run around the sides of the room and into the equipment in front of Gerard. The ground beneath his bare feet is painted red, leading up to the base of the same shrine-like device.

He drops his arms, feeling the thin fabric of his tabard brushing against his skin, and walks forward. With each step he feels the waves crashing against and inside his skull. He closes his eyes momentarily and sees colours flare kaleidoscopically. The pulse and hiss of the data is overwhelming. With his eyes shut he can feel his fingertips tracing waves in the satin fabric of raw information.

He is standing inside the frame of the datashrine now. Smooth metal appendages, coated in rubber, grasp his limbs and trunk and position him carefully and delicately. Now he is spreadeagled like the Vetruvian Man, and he relaxes his muscles knowing that the shrine will hold his body in place while he works.

Initiating, he hears the voice say, and then the datanet flares into life. Gerard’s last bodily sensation before he shifts into dataconsciousness is of his lips turning upwards, because as always the colours are beautiful.

Kudos to James Hunt for suggesting the title – bet he didn’t think I’d actually write it – and also to Seb Patrick for some other awesome suggestions. They were all much better than my original idea of trying to do Transamerica, and almost certainly would have involved less appalling failure.

If, like me, you’ve never actually seen Space: 1999, then the Wikipedia plot summary may help make sense of this story.

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MYSPACE: 1999

Suzii Roquette is updating her blog:

My dads away again. other side of the moon, drivinng those big transports. booooring! I tried usin his comp to do some synth tunes but i cant work it out. Ant, will u come over n show me how to use it? Its too hard!!!

Still hate bein here. cant believe they dragged us all up here. the moon sucks, i miss london. Even miss Hammersmith lol.

Miss u all, com see me soon xxxxxxx :)

She sits back and picks at her fingernails. Frowning, she wishes she had more than three types of nail varnish with her. She hadn’t been allowed to bring any more. Her father had said something about weight limitations, and she’d said something about his beer belly, and they had shouted at each other a bit, and he’d let her bring three instead of two. But still, three was social suicide.

Peering out of a porthole onto the dull, motionless grey landscape aside, Suzii snorts and reminds herself that everything about this place is social suicide. There are only a couple of other teenagers in the colony and they’re spread between the pre-fabricated habitats that dot the lunar surface. The only thing they do have is access to their own portion of the lunar extranet – a parental concession to their demands for privacy and socialising.

Suzii’s blog auto-refreshes and, spotting the screen flicker, she turns back to the terminal to read the new reply. Her smile falters a bit when she sees that it’s not Antony who has replied but Fae, who Suzii is sure thinks everyone else is stupider than her:

Hey Suzii. I know how you feel. My dad’s over there too. It must be some big operation, huh? My mum’s been stuck in the hydroponics lab for days now. I’m so bored, here. I must’ve read all my books a dozen times. It feels like a thousand!

What was Hammersmith like? I bet it was more fun than Dunstable…

xx Fae

Suzii picks at her nails again, feeling slightly unsettled. Fae has never tried to be friendly to her before, and now she’s being conversational. Even chatty. She must be playing at something, but Suzii doesn’t know what.

Or maybe she is just being friendly. Maybe, just maybe, the fact that she’s one of only seven teens on this dead rock means that she doesn’t want to hold any grudges or push away people she thinks she’s better than. Did she ever think she was better than people? Or was Suzii just envious of Fae’s smarts? She has always wished she went to a better school…

Sighing, Suzii puts her fingers down to the keyboard. A year ago the answer would’ve been simple: she and her friends would’ve blanked anyone they decided was a snob and walked away making catty remarks. But here, on the cringe-worthily named Moonbase Alpha, life is too short for that.

Hiya Fae whats up?! Yeah hammersmith was ok i guess. we use to laugh at it and get the tube right out evry fri but at least it was a dump with ppl you didnt kno lol. and u cud leave. I never went to dunstable wot was it like? its in kent yeah? x Suz

Stretching, Suzii gets up from the little metal chair in front of her terminal and walks across her bedroom. It’s small and cramped like everything here, but she’s made it as cosy as she can. She brought her bedsheets up from Earth and some posters which already look dated, but she can’t get any more. To make up for the no-longer cool popstars who adorn her walls she’s been using some of the coloured paper she brought up to make big patterned sheets. Once or twice Dad has even praised her “artistic impulses”, although Suzii just rolled her eyes at him. Making pretty patterns isn’t art.

She also has a tank with some differently-coloured goldfish but they’re not real, just little robots. Real fish don’t stupidly bump into the sides of the tank every few minutes. Suzii taps the tank and watches one of the little machines obediently swim over. It blinks vacantly like a real fish, at least.

Fae’s next reply arrives:

Dunstable was dead. There was NEVER anything to do. Like, NOTHING. So I guess in some ways nothing has changed. Haha.

I was wondering… could I borrow some of your music? I only brought a few gigs with me which was really stupid.

xx Fae

Maybe that’s why Fae is being friendly: she’s just bored and wants something out of Suzii. Either that or borrowing some tunes is just an excuse, a peace offering. Still, it doesn’t cost Suzii anything, and it’s not like she has to send Fae the best stuff.

Sure fae thats fine! ill stream some over to ur account now. I dont know wot u like so ill just send over a bunch of stuff. x Suz

After a moment’s thought, Suzii adds “let me kno if theres any u like so I kno nxt time. :)” If Fae’s being genuine, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t also go the extra mile. It’s one extra person to talk to after all.

The screen auto-refreshes again and Suzii is surprised that Fae has replied so quickly. She hasn’t even started transferring any music yet. Then she realises that it’s not Fae this time but Ant, and her heart begins to beat a little faster. She starts to read his message.

Without warning, the ground shakes. It feels like thunder sounds: violent and powerful. Suzii falls straight off the chair and yelps in surprise. She hears crashes and clattering noises from all around the habitat.

Fighting to her feet, holding onto the desk to remain stable, she struggles over to the porthole. Behind her she hears a smashing noise as the fishtank slips and breaks. This doesn’t register because outside, over the moon’s curving horizon, she can see the Earth. It is moving away, becoming more distant by the second.

Suzii’s eyes widen. It’s not the Earth that’s moving: it’s the moon. The moon is flying through space.

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Other theme participants:

Gareth D Jones – The Man in the Iron
Neil Beynon – Full Meta Jacket
Sarah Ellender – From Tusk ‘Til Dawn
Gaie Sebold – The Remains of the Clay

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TOTAL CAMPAIGN DOMINANCE

I run my fingers over the pitted superplastics of her canopy, feeling the slight crevice where it meets the fuselage. Each scar, each burn carries a memory, some that I so dimly recall that they are little more than emotion: the elation of a victory, the rush of fear at a narrow escape, the shame or self-loathing of a defeat. The intensity of my physical state often feels more real than the wounds inflicted on my war machine, but in these precious few minutes before an engagement I feel a bond between us. All the moments that have made us who we are are shared, and at no other point is the evidence of this more real.

‘Orders have come in, sir. Time to get you suited and booted.’

I nod without turning, acknowledging my tech’s message. He’s good, a valued asset and a friend. But this moment is for me and the machine, a rare and special moment that must be savoured. I spread my hands wide like a pair of stars and push against her skin. I feel my soft flesh squeezing into pits as I apply pressure. I close my eyes and breathe in, slow and assured. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. And… exhale.

‘Who am I up against this time?’ I ask, finally turning. I lean against the war machine, her reassuring coldness at my back.

My tech holds up a sheaf of papers and says ‘Heavy hitters. D’Angelo Powerworks. We don’t know who they’re fielding: they’ve kept it close to their chests. Analysis says they’re publicly confident, but it could be a front. It may be that this is a feint to distract us from a more significant campaign.’

‘So be it,’ I tell him. ‘There’s no gain in us second-guessing. We’re the foot soldiers on the front line. We take what we’re given and we make it work.’

‘You always put it so well, sir.’

I grin wildly, exposing teeth bleached pearly-white in a confidence man’s smile. ‘That’s why I’m where I am today. Okay, start the final diagnostics. I’m plugging in.’

I climb into the canopy as he moves toward the war machine’s attendant console. I connect up my neural feeds and watch as the weapon and defence systems greenlight: five levels of viral strains, direct pulses that run straight through the eyeballs and to the back of the brain, the latest memes that our cultural people have cooked up, ARG clusterbomblets, experiential brand identification and placement, proximity broadcasts, and more. The full spectra of audio, visual and subliminal ordnance. Finally, there are the standard munitions for the final blow: the coup de grace as I claim this contract.

The canopy closes over me and I grit my teeth in readiness. This is marketing, and I’m going to war.

1. Our Bright Horizons – A deliberate stylistic and thematic departure from much of what I’d written before. Difficult, but fun.
2. We’re Never Going Home! – the first of a series of latter-’08 tales with titles stolen from my favourite bands, and an attempt to fuse my love of punk rock with my love of surreal fantasy/horror.
3. Interdiction Zone – a mildly amusing – and slightly inhumane – piece of post-apocalyptic SF set in the same dying world as several other F3 tales.
4. Love Story – an experimental piece of fiction that tries to bind language directly into the narrative, a trick I freely admit I stole from Ellis Sharp (who does it much better than me).
5. My Mother the Robot – yet another stylistic experiment, this was written in the style of a young girl’s diary. You can either take it literally, or regard it as the sort of fantasies children develop to deal with parental divorce.
6. Watching the Valves – another post-apocalyptic SF piece which is inspired by both Mad Max 2 and The World Without Us (specifically the chapter about the Texas oil refineries).
7. This Urban Aesthetic – probably one of the few F3 stories I wrote that works well as a stand-alone story. One of only a few of my stories to receive a positive response in Zinos-Amaro’s review of Illuminations.
8. Bitterness the Star – it’s very recent but, to paraphrase Neil, I like the macro/micro scale juxtaposition. Has some thematic similarities with ‘Love Story’, above. I wonder why that might be!
9. Earthbound – the other F3 writers who commented like this quite a lot, perhaps more than I did. Just goes to show that writers oughtn’t listen to themselves too often.
10. Releasing Moments – a flawed 2nd-person perspective experiment that revisits the concept central to Carry These Songs Like a Comfort Wherever You Go.

I think the calibre of my writing has improved greatly over the last 12 months, especially where flash fiction is concerned. I’m proud of these stories.

This year I’ve written 23 pieces of fiction, which is a bit less than one every fortnight. I think my poor output over the last three months has really dragged this figure down. So it goes. Still, ‘Bitterness The Star’ last Friday brought my overall total to 39 pieces (or 40 if you include Excerpts from Eastercon as two, or 39 again if you exclude the over-long Half-day of the Dead). Roll on F3 ’09.