There had been eight Lazy Guns. A Lazy Gun was a little over half a meter in length, about thirty centimeters in width and twenty centimeters in height. Its front was made up of two stubby cylinders which protruded from the smooth, matte-silver main body. The cylinders ended in slightly bulged black-glass lenses. A couple of hand controls sitting on stalks, an eyesight curving up on an other extension, and a broad, adjustable metal strap all indicated that the weapons had been designed to be fired from the waist.
There were two controls, one on each hand grip; a zoom wheel and a trigger.
You looked through the sight, zoomed in until the target you had selected just filled your vision, then you pressed the trigger. The Lazy Gun did the rest instantaneously.
But you had no idea whatsoever exactly what was going to happen next.
If you had aimed at a person, a spear might suddenly materialize and pierce them through the chest, or some snake's spit fang might graze their neck, or a ship's anchor might appear falling above them, crushing them, or two enormous switch-electrodes would leap briefly into being on either side of the hapless target and vaporize him or her.
If you had aimed the gun at something larger, like a tank or a house, then it might implode, explode, collapse in a pile of dust, be struck by a section of a tidal wave or a lava flow, be turned inside out or just disappear entirely, with or without a bang.
Increasing scale seemed to rob a Lazy Gun of its eccentric poesy; turn it on a city or a mountain and it tended simply to drop an appropriately sized nuclear or thermonuclear fireball onto it. The only known exception had been when what was believed to have been a comet nucleus had destroyed a city-sized berg-barge on the water world of Trontsephori.
Rumor had it that some of the earlier Lazy Guns, at least, had shown what looked suspiciously like humor when they had been used; criminals saved from firing squads so that they could be the subjects of experiments had died under a hail of bullets, all hitting their hearts at the same time; an obsolete submarine had been straddled by depth charges; a mad king obsessed with metals had been smothered under a deluge of mercury.
The braver physicists--those who didn't try to deny the existence of Lazy Guns altogether--ventured that the weapons somehow accessed different dimensions; they monitored other continua and dipped into one to pluck out their chosen method of destruction and transfer it to this universe, where it carried out its destructive task then promptly disappeared, only its effects remaining. Or they created whatever they desired to create from the ground-state of quantum fluctuation that invested the fabric of space. Or they were time machines.
Any one of these possibilities was so mind-boggling in its implications and ramifications--provided that one could understand or ever harness the technology involved--that the fact a Lazy Gun was light but massy, and weighed exactly three times as much turned upside down as it did the right way up, was almost trivial by comparison.
Against A Dark Background, Iain M. Banks, pages 135 and 136.
And then, for the next year or so, I did. But practice hones one's talent.
The product of many hundreds of years' worth of evolution since George Washington's tree-killing ass went in the dirt, the obvious answer.
--from Transmetropolitan, by Warren Ellis. Happy President's Day.
Boing Boing references an essay by Pam Noles about the lack of race in science fiction and fantasy.
I think Noles has a real point, but she (perhaps intentionally) avoids one of the implications of pulp-derived literature like SF. While there isn't, generally speaking, a lot of variety in human race in the genre, aliens/monsters/metahumans often stand in for other ethnicities. They undergo discrimination, taboos against miscegenation, racial stereotyping.
That doesn't excuse the lack of non-White people, in my opinion. In fact, it worsens the situation. When authors use that kind of metaphor to examine real-life racial tensions, it also carries the message that there's something non-human--or less than human--about anyone who's not a Caucasian. The common use of stereotypical attributes to define aliens and monsters (like Tolkien's noble elves and hateful orcs) only worsens the problem--I'm sure other people have noticed that the violent, brutish, sexually aggressive Klingons of Star Trek fame were also darker-skinned, practically parodies of Black stereotypes. Eventually, if I remember correctly, even the show's writers noticed. But by that point they were hamstrung by 30 years of backstory.
There's a lot of room in science fiction to explore these kinds of contemporary issues, which is why it can be so frustrating to read "post-human" books which dismiss and jump past our reference frame. It's unfortunate that the tropes of the genre have made it so easy to explore them badly.
First Judah thinks the bounty man is human, but he accepts his commission with a guttural alien chuckle, flexes his neck and closes his eyes in ways that mark him as abnatural. He rides something that is not a horse but a vague equine semblance, the impression of a horse, a horse burr under the skin of the real. He shoots with a matchlock pistol that spits and mutters and is sometimes a rifle and sometimes a crossbow. He will not tell Judah his name.
They run together on their horse and their horse-bruise through the plainlands in the ripples of the rails, lands not colonised but infected, as life once infected rockpools. Four days of tracking with ideograms of hexed dust and the bounty-man finds Oil Bill, confronts him in a quarry. The white stone is marked, crosshatched with chisel lines, which make a grid behind the bandit's head.
--You, he shouts at Judah with the rage of the stupid betrayed, and the bondsman kills him and his weapons eat the corpse.
Iron Council, China Mièville, page 188-9
Apparently visitors to the Clarendon Barnes and Noble are not at all interested in having their books wrapped by two attractive young things practically radiating holiday cheer and pleasant banter. So Belle worked on Mario Kart, and I read the first 150 or so pages of Neil Gaiman's most recent book, Anansi Boys. It's very good, and very funny--Belle can attest to my distracting snickers at various passages. It is, however, very reminiscent of Douglas Adams in tone, with a comfortable level of exaggeration and many meandering asides. If it weren't for the obsession with myth and a skill with juggling points of view that Adams never really mastered, you might even mistake the author. This isn't entirely surprising, since Gaiman knew Adams, and wrote the definitive history of the Hitchhiker's Guide. It is a bit out of character. I've enjoyed Gaiman's books and think he's a fine writer, but I've never thought of him as "funny."
There is a subtle difference between Gaiman and Adams that proves telling, however. It concerns their approach regarding a main character. Both here and in other titles, Gaiman writes about someone who comes into contact with weirdness, and is changed. The protagonists become more adventurous, lose their tolerance for a tedious normal life, and eventually lead a fuller life. We are meant to see this as an improvement. In American Gods, the change is even framed as "becoming alive."
In contrast, the main character of Adams' Guide books was Arthur Dent, a profoundly normal and slightly boring man, who really only wanted to go back to being normal and slightly boring. It is one of Adams' finest subtle jokes, in reflection, that Dent is not only heroic by complete accident, but he wouldn't really want to be any different and he doesn't attempt to become so. We are used to characters that grow more outgoing, distinctive, and ambitious. Western cultures, as I was saying earlier, encourage that kind of individualist approach. Of course, Adams probably didn't mean anything profound by it. More likely he found that a steady, stereotypically-British straight man was the best foil for his particular comedic strength of satiric set pieces and off-beat conversation. Gaiman can clearly write those, but his aim is for a different target.
The lesson that I'm taking away from it is that sometimes the best characters don't have to be heroic. I know that sounds cliched, but it's often hard to remember when writing because we want to root for someone. It's hard to write fiction that's comfortable enough to slack off a little. I think Anansi Boys does take itself less seriously, and the protagonist is stronger for it. In contrast to the bland hero's journey of Richard in Neverwhere, or Shadow's drift through American Gods, Fat Charlie has a better dynamic with his surroundings (particularly with Gaiman's clever use of embarrassment as a motivation), even if he must eventually become less of a mark (I couldn't resist peeking at the last few pages before we left). I'm looking forward to finishing the other 150 pages, and finding out if my theory's correct.
There is a certain amount of shame and dismay to reading science fiction. I can get away with it because I am a Journalist and a Rock Musician of Note, but for someone with more self-doubt and less god-like power, I can understand how it would be difficult to admit reading SF, and there's simply no hope for those who read fantasy. It's pure societal guilt, of course: while there's a lot of crap out there, there's also a significant amount of science fiction that may even (grab the rails, kids, this is rough) be better than traditional fiction. I read the good and the bad about equally, myself.
Meanwhile, I'm in two book clubs, one run by my girlfriend and another by a coterie of frustrated intellectual friends. The latter reads Nietzche, Freakonomics, and Johnny Got His Gun. The former, on the other hand, is a more recent development and has only completed Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Which I hated.
My problem with EL&IC is the sheer amount of gimmickry that packs the book. It certainly doesn't need it: although he's a little bit precious (and precocious), the 9-year old main character is charming and very well written. His name is Oskar, and his dad died in 9/11, turning an almost-autistic kid into a rambling weirdo. Foer doesn't need to mark up certain pages with red ink (Oskar's father was a compulsive proofreader) or include lots of grainy black-and-white pictures (supposedly an Oskar-eye view). With Oskar's voice so strong, it's surprising that his grandparents, blind and mute respectively, are so two-dimensional and rely on more typographical tricks. And Foer's closing pages, a reversed flipbook of a man falling from the WTC buildings, undermine what otherwise was a passably weighty ending.
The final impression is that the book, supposedly about September 11, is really all about Foer. I'd have rather read an actual story rather than watch a man jump through increasingly precarious flaming hoops. You may disagree, of course. The rest of the book club certainly did, with one member saying something I thought was interesting: these were ways of going beyond the novel form, of stretching the medium.
Well, maybe. I'm still not buying it. And I think it's frustrating that narcissistic styles like Foer and Dave Eggers get more respect than Iain Banks or William Gibson. But I'm curious about the concept of going "beyond the novel" in literature, especially since I don't think that clever typesetting is anything to write home about (pardon the pun). What would it take to rewrite the novel? At the book club, I proposed hypertext, which got a bunch of blank looks. In retrospect, that's probably just another tricky font choice, although you could probably do some interesting work with timelines or footnoting.
If a science fiction novel did that, would anyone care in the same way? Would it be called (perhaps) a heartbreaking work of staggering genius? Or would they just say it's another toy for the geeks? Why do I think that it would be the latter? I'm a little bitter about that. Never mind.
More importantly, does the novel need a new way to tell a story? I guess I'm a bit of a traditionalist, but what exactly is a novel lacking? If your job is to present a narrative, the simple power of words on paper, one after another and without external embellishment, seems hard to argue with. Readers of literary fiction are looking for something different than I am--the next book for the club is Wickett's Remedy, which apparently contains margin notes from the dead.
It stings a little, knowing that margin notes from the dead are probably better received than, say, American Gods or Perdido Street Station. Doesn't it?
I'll say this much: I don't think we need to reinvent the novel. I like it the way it is, and I like tricks to be in the story, not on it. But I find it curious how few science fiction books I can think of that employ literary fiction's games--and I wonder if there's a link between that lack and the perception of triviality.
In the middle of Charlie Stross's Iron Sunrise, I realize what annoys me so much about a lot of modern sci-fi authors: they never explain anything. The reader is cast into the setting, completely adrift, with only side comments by various characters and tiny throw-away sentences to explain what's going on. Eventually, you'll figure out what they're talking about, but by that point it's 200 pages in.
Stross is terrible about this. There's a lot of talk about light-cones and temporal causality, and nothing ever explains what the hell any of it means. At one point, without any further elaboration as to why, he states that the term light cone wasn't fully understood until FTL travel became available. Perhaps I have to go invent a warp drive before I can read this book, but I like to think that's a little excessive.
Dan Simmons builds whole books around uninforming his readers. Alastair Reynolds is bad with details, but will at least take the time to explain the hard stuff. Bruce Sterling straddles the line, as does Vernor Vinge, sometimes saying too much and sometimes too little. Cory Doctorow wants to write this way, but his characters are too chatty, and consequently a lot of exposition tends to slip in. Yet all of these authors are relatively new additions--Asimov and Heinlein certainly didn't delight in leaving you in the dark.
On the contrary, I see this style of SF as having two causes. The first is the cyberpunk movement--specifically, William Gibson. Gibson's novels will often deal with the technical aspects of the setting purely in subjective or poetic terms. This is because he isn't interested in the technology per se, he's interested in what it means (and because he's a great writer). I don't mean to denigrate that decision, because I actually think it's very important for the genre. It signalled a move away from technofetishism, and placed more stress on the human nature of science fiction. It also makes his work age better.
Which brings us to the second cause for this mystery meat of sci-fi settings. Namely, it defies explanation. Nowadays, after years of X-ray beams and nuclear hamsters, fans expect more than just a catch-phrase if there's an explanation offered. You can't just say that the "gamma particles" did it and move on--that's old-fashioned. Instead, writers have figured out that if they treat technology the same way we do in real life (where few people really understand or care how their computer or toaster or DVD player work), they can dodge the pressure to actually explain the strange things they're showing us.
(Of course, the third, and possibly most likely cause, is that someone started doing this, it caught on, and now it's just the hip thing for hot young authors--or aspiring hot young authors-to-be--to do.)
You could argue that the lack of intrusive exposition is good for story, and sometimes I would buy that. It's true that the minor character (a passing engineer or salesman, for example), who just happens to know how the Wormhole Squeezer or Nano-befuddler works, has become a bit of a cliche. This was the role that Geordi LaForge played on Star Trek. And it's true that the story becomes more realistic--for the characters. Meanwhile, I'm flipping back and forth around the pages, trying to find out there's a description for the Wormhole Squeezer or if I should just keep reading. It stresses me out.
Hence my firm belief that removing exposition just to make the prose read faster was a huge mistake. Anything that confuses your reader is a mistake. Confused readers do not enjoy your writing(the fact that this is my second Stross book to the contrary). And if you're good, the exposition is actually a reason to keep reading. Take it from the master, Neal Stephenson. The following excerpt is from Snow Crash, which I still describe to anyone who will listen as "rock and roll on a page." It follows the introductory paragraphs, which describe a sword-carrying, black-clad driver called the Deliverator:
So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved -- but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.
Oh, they used to argue over times, many corporate driver-years lost to it: homeowners, red-faced and sweaty with their own lies, stinking of Old Spice and job-related stress, standing in their glowing yellow doorways brandishing their Seikos and waving at the clock over the kitchen sink, I swear, can't you guys tell time?
Didn't happen anymore. Pizza delivery is a major industry. A managed industry. People went to CosaNostra Pizza University four years just to learn it. Came in its doors unable to write an English sentence, from Abkhazia, Rwanda, Guanajuato, South Jersey, and came out knowing more about pizza than a Bedouin knows about sand. And they had studied this problem. Graphed the frequency of doorway delivery-time disputes. Wired the early Deliverators to record, then analyze, the debating tactics, the voice-stress histograms, the distinctive grammatical structures employed by white middle-class Type A Burbclave occupants who against all logic had decided that this was the place to take their personal Custerian stand against all that was stale and deadening in their lives: they were going to lie, or delude themselves, about the time of their phone call and get themselves a free pizza; no, they deserved a free pizza along with their life, liberty, and pursuit of whatever, it was fucking inalienable. Sent psychologists out to these people's houses, gave them a free TV set to submit to an anonymous interview, hooked them to polygraphs, studied their brain waves as they showed them choppy, inexplicable movies of porn queens and late-night car crashes and Sammy Davis, Jr., put them in sweet-smelling, mauve-walled rooms and asked them questions about Ethics so perplexing that even a Jesuit couldn't respond without committing a venial sin.
The analysts at CosaNostra Pizza University concluded that it was just human nature and you couldn't fix it, and so they went for a quick cheap technical fix: smart boxes. The pizza box is a plastic carapace now, corrugated for stiffness, a little LED readout glowing on the side, telling the Deliverator how many trade imbalance-producing minutes have ticked away since the fateful phone call. There are chips and stuff in there. The pizzas rest, a short stack of them, in slots behind the Deliverator's head. Each pizza glides into a slot like a circuit board into a computer, clicks into place as the smart box interfaces with the onboard system of the Deliverator's car. The address of the caller has already been inferred from his phone number and poured into the smart box's built-in RAM. From there it is communicated to the car, which computes and projects the optimal route on a heads-up display, a glowing colored map traced out against the windshield so that the Deliverator does not even have to glance down.
If the thirty-minute deadline expires, news of the disaster is flashed to CosaNostra Pizza Headquarters and relayed from there to Uncle Enzo himself -- the Sicilian Colonel Sanders, the Andy Griffith of Bensonhurst, the straight razor-swinging figment of many a Deliverator's nightmares, the Capo and prime figurehead of CosaNostra Pizza, Incorporated -- who will be on the phone to the customer within five minutes, apologizing profusely. The next day, Uncle Enzo will land on the customer's yard in a jet helicopter and apologize some more and give him a free trip to Italy -- all he has to do is sign a bunch of releases that make him a public figure and spokesperson for CosaNostra Pizza and basically end his private life as he knows it. He will come away from the whole thing feeling that, somehow, he owes the Mafia a favor.
The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And how would you feel if you had to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and kiss the feet of some sixteen-year-old skate punk whose pepperoni was thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea.
But he wouldn't drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way. You know why? Because there's something about having your life on the line. It's like being a kamikaze pilot. Your mind is clear. Other people -- store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America -- other people just rely on plain old competition. Better flip your burgers or debug your subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we're in competition with those guys, and people notice these things.
What a fucking rat race that is. CosaNostra Pizza doesn't have any competition. Competition goes against the Mafia ethic. You don't work harder because you're competing against some identical operation down the street. You work harder because everything is on the line. Your name, your honor, your family, your life. Those burger flippers might have a better life expectancy -- but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself. That's why nobody, not even the Nipponese, can move pizzas faster than CosaNostra. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the car, proud to march up the front walks of innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or 15:15 or the occasional 20:43.
See what he's done there? Stephenson's just talking about Hiro's job, but already he's clued us into several important points: a) this is a future that's more technologically advanced, but more economically poor and globalized; b) the Mafia is now a pizza company, a move that has important philosophical/societal implications and which will be explained further at a later time; and c) this future is clearly a satire of current corporate/capitalist business, so there will be many points of congruity with the reader's own experience. More importantly, you got all that information from a passage that was fun to read.
You are never confused as to the setting in Snow Crash. You may find the ideas presented within to be far-fetched or even outlandish, but you never have to slow down or look back to understand them. Stephenson understands that his ideas are more important than a cryptic writing style, and he knows that's why we're reading his story. We want to see what he'll do next. Perhaps this is what's most frustrating about the likes of Stross and Reynolds: the ideas that they try so hard to obfuscate are not really that difficult to understand. We've seen omnipotent AIs, time travel, and nanotech before. I don't mind if the author wants to do something interesting with them or not--they can be scenery or scene-stealing, for all I care. But don't dress up the former in fancy costume and assume that we'll mistake it for the latter.