Bryan Murphy's Blog - Posts Tagged "science-fiction"
Noir
From Calabria with love. And death. Meet Daria Rigoletti: http://www.bryanmurphy.eu/ebooks.asp
Heresy
Heresy hits the Internet! Please go here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view... and take a look at my new speculative fiction e-book. It is short, free and thought-provoking. I hope you will download a copy, read it and, if you like it, “like” it and recommend it both by word of mouth and by word of mouse.
Dan O'Brien's Cerulean Dreams blog tour
Today I'm proud to welcome fellow dystopian author Dan O'Brien on his Cerulean Dreams tour. Without more ado, I shall hand straight over to Dan.
Welcome to the second day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:
Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers.
A few questions for the author:
What are you ashamed of?
Probably by the fact that I slip into a place where I am ashamed of anything. I find that shame, guilt, and the like are not conducive to a happy life. Actions have consequences.
What's the loveliest thing you have ever seen?
Too numerous to count. There was an overcast and cold day on the Mendocino coast that stands apart. Something about the waves and the desolation and beauty of the sea was breathtaking.
Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?
I write little bits here and there. I’ve been known to dance poorly when people are looking. I am a Whovian. I love to watch foreign films and I have been known to publish a book now and again.
What do you do when you are not writing?
Editing, and when I am not editing, publishing. There are down times between bouts of being a pen monkey when I like to train and spend time with my wife, but writing (and all that goes with it) is a powerful force in my life.
Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:
Chapter II
The night was a sweltering one. Marlowe sauntered across Messiah, which ran parallel to 48th. He watched the street trash as they dodged in and out of public housing.
Dark deals made in the false utopia.
The need for recreational pharmaceuticals survived the Water Rights War. Humanity had so many problems and seemingly such little time to deal with them; a chemical intervention seemed inevitable.
Messiah Avenue was a mosaic of shattered dreams and rundown buildings. They climbed into the heavens as well. Thick smog hung above their peaks, threatening disease and malnutrition to those who dared ascend them. The visor whirred angrily. Giving in, Marlowe activated it with a press of his finger to his temple.
The imaging module crackled, red lines inhabiting corners of his vision. The pixels spread quickly, forming a singular picture. Mountains far in the distance, the night air hung with stars and a brilliant mammoth moon that seemed to smile. Grassy fields as far as the eye could see and in azure letters, the words CERULEAN DREAMS.
“Map. Messiah District,” barked Marlowe.
The Messiah district was the grid name for what was lovingly referred to as the Hole. The image of the city shifted from overhead to a blueprint cast in a broad section of colors.
The voice was no longer feminine, but instead a middle-aged man. “Messiah District map incomplete, loading closest match.”
Marlowe sighed. The Messiah District was one of many districts that were scheduled for renovation through the Orion Improvement Program.
“Load thermal imagery and voice/facial recognition modules for Messiah District,” spoke Marlowe clearly, each word enunciated so as not to confuse the software.
A red dot in the corner throbbed angrily as the network was processing. All information was transferred directly from a feed at the Cerulean Dreams compound at the center of the city, but sometimes the signal was much slower in the peripheral districts. “7.93 million registered citizens, 7,930,001 thermal signatures collected.”
Marlowe smiled at the discrepancy.
There was no denying the efficiency of the network.
Every citizen of Orion was implanted in their temple with a motherboard chip from Cerulean Dreams as a way to monitor their wants and needs, cataloguing all information within the city.
Marlowe felt for the bulge along the left side of his trench. He drew his weapon methodically, the steel cold to the touch. His fingers were sweaty, his grip greasy as he flexed his hand a few times to get a grip he liked.
“Location of unknown thermal signature,” spoke Marlowe quietly, aware that there were other humans standing all around him, moving about their business. Had one of them had their visor down, his words would have sailed to their ears.
The software whirred again, the voice crackled this time. “Location is corner of 48th and Messiah, edge of Messiah district.” The voice paused and then resumed. “Upgrade immediately, network connection weak.”
Gripping the weapon low in one hand, he crossed into one of the back alleys on Messiah, moving past transients and shifters who held their hands out for charity. Even those on the lowest ring of society retained access to the main network.
However, their ability to function was still powered by economics. The visor controlled the monetary system, the pleasure system, nearly every function of being; sometimes even governing thought if one was not careful to step away from its thrall on occasion.
Marlowe considered disengaging the visor, but stopped suddenly as the screen filled angrily in row after row of crawling red script. Upgrade was repeated over and over again.
“System failure imminent,” crooned the fading voice.
Marlowe shook his head, wiping at the air.
“Deactivate.”
“Command overridden. Upgrade immediately. Voice protocol required.” Had the visor been an animate creature, he would have struck it, perhaps even fired a round into it. He reminded himself that it was little more than an automated voice and a network of images.
“Fine. Upgrade approved. Could we please carry on?” he asked, knowing that his sarcasm would be lost on the programmed entity.
The red script dissolved back into a street map occupied by throbbing yellow dots that represented the people around him. He moved carefully across the alley until he came to the building marked on the imaging map.
“Deactivate. Upgrade in the background,” he ordered.
The visor dissipated and returned to a bobbing sphere. Within the sphere, a green light shone brightly, announcing the status of the upgrade. When it changed from green to blue, the upgrade would be complete.
48th Street looked eerily similar to Messiah, which was not entirely surprising. Lights were on in a scattered pattern across the buildings. Some citizens stood staring upward. Mouths moving, their visors donned.
Cedars Tower: that was the location of the anomaly.
There was nothing remarkable about the building; same black steel construction and tinted gray windows that climbed into the dusty atmosphere. Marlowe approached the steps. Taking each one deliberately, the thick grip of his boots found sure footing.
A man sat to the side of the double-door entrance.
His visor was down and his voice was a high cackle as he talked to himself. The words he spoke were alarmingly similar to what Marlowe was doing. “I told her that he was coming, but that girl never wants to listen.”
Marlowe couldn’t see his face.
The visors had a way of dehumanizing people, reducing them to a voice and a body covered in similar monotonous clothing; everyone analogous in their creature comforts. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man. Marlowe held his weapon tight in his hand, wondering if it was only paranoia.
“You talking to me?” he croaked at the seated citizen.
The man continued, as if Marlowe had not spoken. “Then he showed up and she wasn’t there.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, she doesn’t ever listen. Even her mama told me not to marry her. Yeah, she was too much trouble.”
Marlowe’s grip slackened on his weapon.
He moved past the man through the swinging double doors and into the darkened interior. The everlasting gloom that seemed to permeate from Orion was due in part to the draw of electricity to billboards and signs, as well as the amount of energy required to keep the network active. That coupled with most citizens being logged in the majority of their lives made the necessity for lighting in housing seem something of a waste of energy and time.
A few flickering lights cast shadows across the antiquated furniture in the lobby. Twin elevators lay at the far end of the empty room. No light resonated from them, convincing Marlowe that they were indeed out of commission.
The left side of the room was occupied by a large wraparound desk that probably had been used to welcome guests to the tower. There was no sound except the scratching of rodents moving about. Messiah district was by far the poorest of the city, and the most populated; almost eight million crammed into a few city blocks.
Many lived below ground, in the warmth of the sewers as they could not get heat in the winter. Food trucks no longer came into the district. Thus, they created a diet rich in rodents and other creatures that crawled or slithered deep beneath the city.
He moved forward through the lobby.
Chairs and couches were scattered around. Some were overturned. Others had the cushions and padding ripped from them, no doubt for shelter or clothing. Marlowe backed against the wall, the rhythmic hum of runner lights following him as he peered into the stairwell. The bleached stairs were covered with muddy prints; footsteps covered, and then covered again over time. Using his free hand to push open the door, he sucked his breath in: nothing, no sounds.
He moved through the doorway and closed the thick door behind him. Looking up at the flights of stairs, he sighed. The building was easily a hundred flights high.
“Activate.” The clear blue wrapped around his face once more. The emerald bar had nearly reached half, a little script above it scrawled out that it was 54 percent complete. “Site location of thermal anomaly.”
The visor whirred and the progress minimized, finding a place in a distant corner of his vision. “49th Floor, Room 4918,” responded the voice. Marlowe nodded as he looked up the endless flights of stairs and began his slow ascent.
Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.
Bitten (US)
End of the World Playlist (US)
Cerulean Dreams (US)
The Journey (US)
The Path of the Fallen (US)
The Twins of Devonshire (US)
The End of the World Playlist (UK)
Bitten (UK)
Cerulean Dreams (UK)
The Journey (UK)
The Path of the Fallen (UK)
Follow My Blog
Follow Me On Twitter
Like Me On Facebook
Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?
All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.
Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!
Welcome to the second day of the Cerulean Dreams blog tour. It will run until July 24th and will feature excerpts, new author interviews each day, and a video blog by the author. But first, here is the obligatory blurb about the novel to settle you into this dystopian world:
Orion, the last city of men. Deep within the desert, a secret lay waiting. Young women found dead in the street. A corporation that controls the sleep of a populace that never sees the light of day. Alexander Marlowe seeks to unravel the mysteries of Orion as he helps a young girl, Dana, flee the city. The closer they come to the truth, the greater the danger that hunts them. Follow them as they search beyond the boundaries of everything they have ever known for answers.
A few questions for the author:
What are you ashamed of?
Probably by the fact that I slip into a place where I am ashamed of anything. I find that shame, guilt, and the like are not conducive to a happy life. Actions have consequences.
What's the loveliest thing you have ever seen?
Too numerous to count. There was an overcast and cold day on the Mendocino coast that stands apart. Something about the waves and the desolation and beauty of the sea was breathtaking.
Can you tell us a little bit about yourself?
I write little bits here and there. I’ve been known to dance poorly when people are looking. I am a Whovian. I love to watch foreign films and I have been known to publish a book now and again.
What do you do when you are not writing?
Editing, and when I am not editing, publishing. There are down times between bouts of being a pen monkey when I like to train and spend time with my wife, but writing (and all that goes with it) is a powerful force in my life.
Here be an excerpt for your enjoyment:
Chapter II
The night was a sweltering one. Marlowe sauntered across Messiah, which ran parallel to 48th. He watched the street trash as they dodged in and out of public housing.
Dark deals made in the false utopia.
The need for recreational pharmaceuticals survived the Water Rights War. Humanity had so many problems and seemingly such little time to deal with them; a chemical intervention seemed inevitable.
Messiah Avenue was a mosaic of shattered dreams and rundown buildings. They climbed into the heavens as well. Thick smog hung above their peaks, threatening disease and malnutrition to those who dared ascend them. The visor whirred angrily. Giving in, Marlowe activated it with a press of his finger to his temple.
The imaging module crackled, red lines inhabiting corners of his vision. The pixels spread quickly, forming a singular picture. Mountains far in the distance, the night air hung with stars and a brilliant mammoth moon that seemed to smile. Grassy fields as far as the eye could see and in azure letters, the words CERULEAN DREAMS.
“Map. Messiah District,” barked Marlowe.
The Messiah district was the grid name for what was lovingly referred to as the Hole. The image of the city shifted from overhead to a blueprint cast in a broad section of colors.
The voice was no longer feminine, but instead a middle-aged man. “Messiah District map incomplete, loading closest match.”
Marlowe sighed. The Messiah District was one of many districts that were scheduled for renovation through the Orion Improvement Program.
“Load thermal imagery and voice/facial recognition modules for Messiah District,” spoke Marlowe clearly, each word enunciated so as not to confuse the software.
A red dot in the corner throbbed angrily as the network was processing. All information was transferred directly from a feed at the Cerulean Dreams compound at the center of the city, but sometimes the signal was much slower in the peripheral districts. “7.93 million registered citizens, 7,930,001 thermal signatures collected.”
Marlowe smiled at the discrepancy.
There was no denying the efficiency of the network.
Every citizen of Orion was implanted in their temple with a motherboard chip from Cerulean Dreams as a way to monitor their wants and needs, cataloguing all information within the city.
Marlowe felt for the bulge along the left side of his trench. He drew his weapon methodically, the steel cold to the touch. His fingers were sweaty, his grip greasy as he flexed his hand a few times to get a grip he liked.
“Location of unknown thermal signature,” spoke Marlowe quietly, aware that there were other humans standing all around him, moving about their business. Had one of them had their visor down, his words would have sailed to their ears.
The software whirred again, the voice crackled this time. “Location is corner of 48th and Messiah, edge of Messiah district.” The voice paused and then resumed. “Upgrade immediately, network connection weak.”
Gripping the weapon low in one hand, he crossed into one of the back alleys on Messiah, moving past transients and shifters who held their hands out for charity. Even those on the lowest ring of society retained access to the main network.
However, their ability to function was still powered by economics. The visor controlled the monetary system, the pleasure system, nearly every function of being; sometimes even governing thought if one was not careful to step away from its thrall on occasion.
Marlowe considered disengaging the visor, but stopped suddenly as the screen filled angrily in row after row of crawling red script. Upgrade was repeated over and over again.
“System failure imminent,” crooned the fading voice.
Marlowe shook his head, wiping at the air.
“Deactivate.”
“Command overridden. Upgrade immediately. Voice protocol required.” Had the visor been an animate creature, he would have struck it, perhaps even fired a round into it. He reminded himself that it was little more than an automated voice and a network of images.
“Fine. Upgrade approved. Could we please carry on?” he asked, knowing that his sarcasm would be lost on the programmed entity.
The red script dissolved back into a street map occupied by throbbing yellow dots that represented the people around him. He moved carefully across the alley until he came to the building marked on the imaging map.
“Deactivate. Upgrade in the background,” he ordered.
The visor dissipated and returned to a bobbing sphere. Within the sphere, a green light shone brightly, announcing the status of the upgrade. When it changed from green to blue, the upgrade would be complete.
48th Street looked eerily similar to Messiah, which was not entirely surprising. Lights were on in a scattered pattern across the buildings. Some citizens stood staring upward. Mouths moving, their visors donned.
Cedars Tower: that was the location of the anomaly.
There was nothing remarkable about the building; same black steel construction and tinted gray windows that climbed into the dusty atmosphere. Marlowe approached the steps. Taking each one deliberately, the thick grip of his boots found sure footing.
A man sat to the side of the double-door entrance.
His visor was down and his voice was a high cackle as he talked to himself. The words he spoke were alarmingly similar to what Marlowe was doing. “I told her that he was coming, but that girl never wants to listen.”
Marlowe couldn’t see his face.
The visors had a way of dehumanizing people, reducing them to a voice and a body covered in similar monotonous clothing; everyone analogous in their creature comforts. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man. Marlowe held his weapon tight in his hand, wondering if it was only paranoia.
“You talking to me?” he croaked at the seated citizen.
The man continued, as if Marlowe had not spoken. “Then he showed up and she wasn’t there.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, she doesn’t ever listen. Even her mama told me not to marry her. Yeah, she was too much trouble.”
Marlowe’s grip slackened on his weapon.
He moved past the man through the swinging double doors and into the darkened interior. The everlasting gloom that seemed to permeate from Orion was due in part to the draw of electricity to billboards and signs, as well as the amount of energy required to keep the network active. That coupled with most citizens being logged in the majority of their lives made the necessity for lighting in housing seem something of a waste of energy and time.
A few flickering lights cast shadows across the antiquated furniture in the lobby. Twin elevators lay at the far end of the empty room. No light resonated from them, convincing Marlowe that they were indeed out of commission.
The left side of the room was occupied by a large wraparound desk that probably had been used to welcome guests to the tower. There was no sound except the scratching of rodents moving about. Messiah district was by far the poorest of the city, and the most populated; almost eight million crammed into a few city blocks.
Many lived below ground, in the warmth of the sewers as they could not get heat in the winter. Food trucks no longer came into the district. Thus, they created a diet rich in rodents and other creatures that crawled or slithered deep beneath the city.
He moved forward through the lobby.
Chairs and couches were scattered around. Some were overturned. Others had the cushions and padding ripped from them, no doubt for shelter or clothing. Marlowe backed against the wall, the rhythmic hum of runner lights following him as he peered into the stairwell. The bleached stairs were covered with muddy prints; footsteps covered, and then covered again over time. Using his free hand to push open the door, he sucked his breath in: nothing, no sounds.
He moved through the doorway and closed the thick door behind him. Looking up at the flights of stairs, he sighed. The building was easily a hundred flights high.
“Activate.” The clear blue wrapped around his face once more. The emerald bar had nearly reached half, a little script above it scrawled out that it was 54 percent complete. “Site location of thermal anomaly.”
The visor whirred and the progress minimized, finding a place in a distant corner of his vision. “49th Floor, Room 4918,” responded the voice. Marlowe nodded as he looked up the endless flights of stairs and began his slow ascent.
Bio: A psychologist, author, editor, philosopher, martial artist, and skeptic, he has published several novels and currently has many in print, including: The End of the World Playlist, Bitten, The Journey, The Ocean and the Hourglass, The Path of the Fallen, The Portent, and Cerulean Dreams. Follow him on Twitter (@AuthorDanOBrien) or visit his blog http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com. He recently started a consultation business. You can find more information about it here: http://www.amalgamconsulting.com/.
Bitten (US)
End of the World Playlist (US)
Cerulean Dreams (US)
The Journey (US)
The Path of the Fallen (US)
The Twins of Devonshire (US)
The End of the World Playlist (UK)
Bitten (UK)
Cerulean Dreams (UK)
The Journey (UK)
The Path of the Fallen (UK)
Follow My Blog
Follow Me On Twitter
Like Me On Facebook
Would you like to win a copy of Cerulean Dreams?
All you have to do is comment on a post during the tour. Two randomly drawn commenters will be awarded either a physical or digital copy of Cerulean Dreams.
Visit http://thedanobrienproject.blogspot.com/ and follow the blog for a chance to win a Kindle Fire!
Writing Process Blog Tour
My friend Marta Merajver-Kurlat (http://www.martamerajver.com.ar/marta...), author of Just Toss the Ashes and Why Can't I Make Money?, among other works, kindly invited me to participate in this blog hop tour and answer four questions about my writing process.
1) What am I working on?
My first novel. Its provisional title is Revolution Number One. Usually I write short stories, which I set in an imagined future in order to write more freely about the present. The novel, in contrast, is set in Portugal back in the 1970s, where a young English businessman struggles to survive and thrive during the world’s coolest Revolution. I’ve just finished the first draft, so I guess that the real work is about to start.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, in the novel, I use the past to write essentially about the present and the future. I don’t read enough historical fiction to know how different that makes it.
Most of my work, though, is set in the near future. It’s really too low-tech to be true science fiction. My philosophy is that the problems of the near past, the present and the near future are similar: what is important is how we deal with them, irrespective of technology. Perhaps a better descriptor is social science fiction.
Whatever the setting, I hope to write literature first and genre fiction second.
3) Why do I write what I do?
I like to set my stories in places where I have lived and worked, like England, Italy, Portugal and China, but to move away from the present in order to get a clearer perspective on it. I have always been future-oriented, but advancing age has successfully tempted me to look backwards as well.
4) How does my writing process work?
Writing a novel changed this. Before, I would write a short story or poem on paper. Then I would type it on to the computer, print it out and revise it several times using pen on paper, before keying in the changes to leave a final version on the computer.
For the novel, the first version of each chapter went straight on to the computer, and so did some of the revisions. That saved time and sped me towards the goal of a completed first draft. I have reached that particular target way ahead of schedule, so I’m prepared to spend a great deal of time turning it from a finished novel into a good novel - if I can.
The wonderful Andea Buginsky is taking up the baton next week and explaining her writing process, on Monday 7 July.
Andrea Buginsky is a freelance writer with a BA in Mass Communication-Journalism from the University of South Florida. She has always wanted to be a published writer, and decided to try to write children's fantasy books a few years ago. The Chosen is her first book, and was released on December 14, 2010, to her delight.
Andrea has written three more books since:
• My Open Heart, an autobiography of growing up with heart disease.
• Nature's Unbalance: The Chosen, Book 2
• Destiny: New Avalon, book 1, a YA fantasy
She is currently writing the second book in the New Avalon series and editing the third book of The Chosen series.
Andrea lives in Kansas with her family, which includes her two precious puppies.
You can visit Andrea on her website or Google+. Her blog is at: http://www.andreabuginsky.com/.
1) What am I working on?
My first novel. Its provisional title is Revolution Number One. Usually I write short stories, which I set in an imagined future in order to write more freely about the present. The novel, in contrast, is set in Portugal back in the 1970s, where a young English businessman struggles to survive and thrive during the world’s coolest Revolution. I’ve just finished the first draft, so I guess that the real work is about to start.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, in the novel, I use the past to write essentially about the present and the future. I don’t read enough historical fiction to know how different that makes it.
Most of my work, though, is set in the near future. It’s really too low-tech to be true science fiction. My philosophy is that the problems of the near past, the present and the near future are similar: what is important is how we deal with them, irrespective of technology. Perhaps a better descriptor is social science fiction.
Whatever the setting, I hope to write literature first and genre fiction second.
3) Why do I write what I do?
I like to set my stories in places where I have lived and worked, like England, Italy, Portugal and China, but to move away from the present in order to get a clearer perspective on it. I have always been future-oriented, but advancing age has successfully tempted me to look backwards as well.
4) How does my writing process work?
Writing a novel changed this. Before, I would write a short story or poem on paper. Then I would type it on to the computer, print it out and revise it several times using pen on paper, before keying in the changes to leave a final version on the computer.
For the novel, the first version of each chapter went straight on to the computer, and so did some of the revisions. That saved time and sped me towards the goal of a completed first draft. I have reached that particular target way ahead of schedule, so I’m prepared to spend a great deal of time turning it from a finished novel into a good novel - if I can.
The wonderful Andea Buginsky is taking up the baton next week and explaining her writing process, on Monday 7 July.
Andrea Buginsky is a freelance writer with a BA in Mass Communication-Journalism from the University of South Florida. She has always wanted to be a published writer, and decided to try to write children's fantasy books a few years ago. The Chosen is her first book, and was released on December 14, 2010, to her delight.
Andrea has written three more books since:
• My Open Heart, an autobiography of growing up with heart disease.
• Nature's Unbalance: The Chosen, Book 2
• Destiny: New Avalon, book 1, a YA fantasy
She is currently writing the second book in the New Avalon series and editing the third book of The Chosen series.
Andrea lives in Kansas with her family, which includes her two precious puppies.
You can visit Andrea on her website or Google+. Her blog is at: http://www.andreabuginsky.com/.
Progress Report
I launched into my self-publishing adventure on 3 July 2012 with my first short e-book, “Linehan’s Trip”. My total sales + downloads now stand at over 7,000. “Linehan’s Trip” accounts for over 1,600 of these. I must confess that, unfortunately, the vast majority of these are free downloads rather than sales. I should also say that my marketing strategy is to build up a following before I release my first full-length novel, the first draft of which I have just joyfully completed. If you had these figures, how would you feel about them? And if you have any tips for making them better in future, I am all ears (as perhaps befits a writer of science fiction). Linehan's Trip
The Hardest Word
To write science fiction, even the dystopian kind, is to express optimism, for inherent in all science fiction is the claim that there will actually be a future.
The future in whose existence we can have most confidence is of course the near future, which has been shaped mostly by us old-timers. Because it is likely in many ways to be a dark future, today’s young people deserve an apology from us. So here comes one: “Sorry!” On behalf of my whole generation.
From my generation of Brits, it has to be even more heartfelt, because we had things so much easier than most people elsewhere, and therefore have more to answer for. We were born after the Second World War had ended; we had the National Health Service but no National Service; our politicians declined to send us to kill and die in Vietnam; we were nurtured on free school milk, given grants to study and found jobs if we wanted them. Naturally, we wanted more, though for everyone, not just ourselves. Indeed, we got more, but mostly for ourselves.
The end of those days of plenty was foreshadowed when a Minister of Education stopped milk being offered to the nation’s children and thereby earned herself the nickname “The Milk Snatcher” to rhyme with her surname: Thatcher, a word no longer connected with roofing so much as with a longing to return to feudal levels of inequality, a phenomenon that tends to favour the older generation, at least while pensions still exist.
To my eyes, today’s young people are showing amazing creativity, coupled with a superior resistance to bullshit, so maybe we can claim their education as our one success. Will that creativity and perspicacity be enough to guarantee them a future? Frankly, I doubt it. Our problem as a species, in my view, is that our technological evolution has far outpaced our social evolution. Nihilists who see the continued existence of human life as an optional irrelevance, from the left-behind “Neo-Cons” of yesterday to today’s “Islamic State”, are more than happy to use the former to forestall the latter, and their successors will have an even better chance of finishing the job.
So, probably, no future for anyone. That means that today’s science fiction is sheer fantasy. Dammit, I never set out to write Fantasy. To paraphrase Oliver Hardy: “This is a fine mess we’ve got you into”. Joking apart, to the youngsters, once again, sorry.
The future in whose existence we can have most confidence is of course the near future, which has been shaped mostly by us old-timers. Because it is likely in many ways to be a dark future, today’s young people deserve an apology from us. So here comes one: “Sorry!” On behalf of my whole generation.
From my generation of Brits, it has to be even more heartfelt, because we had things so much easier than most people elsewhere, and therefore have more to answer for. We were born after the Second World War had ended; we had the National Health Service but no National Service; our politicians declined to send us to kill and die in Vietnam; we were nurtured on free school milk, given grants to study and found jobs if we wanted them. Naturally, we wanted more, though for everyone, not just ourselves. Indeed, we got more, but mostly for ourselves.
The end of those days of plenty was foreshadowed when a Minister of Education stopped milk being offered to the nation’s children and thereby earned herself the nickname “The Milk Snatcher” to rhyme with her surname: Thatcher, a word no longer connected with roofing so much as with a longing to return to feudal levels of inequality, a phenomenon that tends to favour the older generation, at least while pensions still exist.
To my eyes, today’s young people are showing amazing creativity, coupled with a superior resistance to bullshit, so maybe we can claim their education as our one success. Will that creativity and perspicacity be enough to guarantee them a future? Frankly, I doubt it. Our problem as a species, in my view, is that our technological evolution has far outpaced our social evolution. Nihilists who see the continued existence of human life as an optional irrelevance, from the left-behind “Neo-Cons” of yesterday to today’s “Islamic State”, are more than happy to use the former to forestall the latter, and their successors will have an even better chance of finishing the job.
So, probably, no future for anyone. That means that today’s science fiction is sheer fantasy. Dammit, I never set out to write Fantasy. To paraphrase Oliver Hardy: “This is a fine mess we’ve got you into”. Joking apart, to the youngsters, once again, sorry.
The music of the future
When you write science fiction, you tend to extrapolate current trends to picture the future. If you write social science fiction, you will look keenly at cultural trends. Last night, the BBC (which is watchable because they are prevented by statute from bombarding you into submission with commercials every few minutes) provided a neat juxtaposition of one aspect of culture, popular music, 50 years ago and today. What struck me most was the change in the clothing of the musicians. The men in “Sounds of the Sixties” were seen as alpha males at the time, but they'd only dress so flamboyantly these days if they were striving for recognition as gay icons. And almost every part of their body was clothed. On next was the Reading Festival, where the headliners were all stripped to the waist. So how about 2066? Will the disrobing have continued, perhaps to the point of musicians of all sexes appearing starkers except for high-tech tattoos, the shyer ones preserving their modesty with hologram pixelation? Or will a reaction have set in, with performers only appearing as holograms, perhaps not even of themselves but of depersonalised avatars?
Banks and Culture
Review of “Consider Phlebas” by Iain M. Banks, "Culture #1"
Is there something inherently fascistic in Space Opera?
Like in the “Star Wars” film, where a whole world gets annihilated, but what we are supposed to focus on is a lion getting a smile from an aristocrat. In “Consider Phlebas”, I find a similar attitude, even though I believe the author was a noted anti-fascist.
I love sci-fi, especially social sci-fi (which I sometimes write), and the social aspects of the universe Banks portrays here are deeply interesting, but the focus is on the unremitting series of improbable escapes from impending doom.
The fascistic element is that except for the protagonists, individuals are treated as expendable. However, in the end all the characters whose state of mind we were encouraged to consider more important than the lives of their many innocent victims get their come-uppance, and the whole inter-species conflict gets put into perspective.
Nevertheless, I wish I had chosen one of his literary novels instead.
Is there something inherently fascistic in Space Opera?
Like in the “Star Wars” film, where a whole world gets annihilated, but what we are supposed to focus on is a lion getting a smile from an aristocrat. In “Consider Phlebas”, I find a similar attitude, even though I believe the author was a noted anti-fascist.
I love sci-fi, especially social sci-fi (which I sometimes write), and the social aspects of the universe Banks portrays here are deeply interesting, but the focus is on the unremitting series of improbable escapes from impending doom.
The fascistic element is that except for the protagonists, individuals are treated as expendable. However, in the end all the characters whose state of mind we were encouraged to consider more important than the lives of their many innocent victims get their come-uppance, and the whole inter-species conflict gets put into perspective.
Nevertheless, I wish I had chosen one of his literary novels instead.
