This collection of stories is a harbinger, I think, of the direction science fiction will continue to take in the 21st century, and Bacigalupi will likely be remembered as one of its guiding forces. Call it biopunk, or environmental science fiction, or maybe it already has a name - either way, it is literature that deals directly with humanity's current methods of organizing itself, and what effect those methods will have on the planet and on itself. But it's not just that. Bacigalupi is also a glorious writer, an expert at balancing plot and character and setting and theme, of creating tension and shock and horror and, above all, believability, and it is these skills more than anything else for which he should be cherished. To read these early stories is to witness Bacigalupi get a handle on his craft, master it, and then raise it to the level of high art. Not every story in the collection works, but about 2-3 of them are outright masterpieces, and the rest are all very worth spending time with. The direction they take the genre is an important one, and a welcome one.
Pocketful of Dharma: In Bacigalupi's first published story, I was struck by the contrast between the cutting edge biotechnological jargon he uses to describe the living edifice, and the ancient tropes of the tale itself, a story of a poor beggar boy come to the city to make his way, gazing at the tallest building and dreaming the lives of the rich. This is, really, a tale as old as civilization, dressed up in 21st-century bio-punk clothes. The beggar boy is even given a package to deliver to a man "with white gloves," and soon finds himself, as the age-old tale necessitates, in a situation far larger than himself. In tone, it's very film noir, with all the characters interested in locating a datacube that might as well be the Maltese Falcon. A plot gradually reveals itself about a Tibetan rebellion trying to gain leverage over the Chinese and the uploaded AI remnants of the Dalai Lama, but it never really registers. What does register is the vivid imagery of this living architectural monstrosity, a massive animal structure of struts and arteries spreading itself disgustingly throughout the city, literally becoming the city, and the beggar boy's climactic descent down one of its outer surfaces. The "wet organic passageways" and the "damp spongy wall" that bleeds "milky blood" are all intensely visual details, hints of the splendid visual mind that would go on to create the glorious The Windup Girl. Not a bad beginning at all.
The Fluted Girl: This story also feels like a trial run for his later novel, because the titular character, like the windup girl, is a slave girl, a sexual toy, and an "investment." She can fold herself into the tiniest spaces, but also shatters bones too easily. The fairy tale tropes of the castle, fiefs, and glassblowers rest uneasily, I think, with the science fictional aspects, the genetic manipulations and surgeries, and while we do get some exposition about the world beyond the castle walls, it all feels rather artificial, never gelling into a believable and coherent setting. We have a decadent woman straight out of J. G. Ballard's Vermilion Sands, or perhaps Sunset Boulevard, and the story is about her cruel hold over the two "fluted girls" who will perform their art tonight at a social gathering for the amusement of her guests. It is when we learn that "fluted girl" is a term to be taken literally that the story provides its most striking moments. The rest of the story is window dressing for that central reveal, the dance of the fluted girls and the revelation of the torturous alterations inflicted on their bodies in order to create beauty and art. In both these early stories, Bacigalupi seems to be experimenting with the kind of imagery he would later match with more effective plot construction and more masterful world-building, but his plots thus far have been mainly placeholders to showcase some of that wonderful imagery.
The People of Sand and Slag: A knockout punch. This story plunges us immediately into a military-tinged cyberpunk world of miner/soldiers whose body modifications are so extreme and revolting to us that the narrative risks alienating us altogether, and yet doesn't; against all reason, these people strike us as undeniably human, and that the story manages to make us recognize these people, even feel for them, despite the almost cosmic existential horror they represent, is its greatest feat. There are many. Bacigalupi stretches the definition of human further than I would have expected; some of the shocks evoke laughs; others make your jaw drop. All the while, we are being conditioned to understand that, with enough time, humans can become accustomed to absolutely anything. This is a terrifying and topical message, delivered with both confidence and great imaginative force. The plot line follows this group’s debates and fumblings after they encounter a normal, old fashioned 21st century dog; the results are both comical and terribly sad. This is true science fiction in that almost every sentence that appears here could never appear in a “realistic” story, and yet it is the first story in this collection, and thus in Bacigalupi's career, that speaks powerfully about and to us. Outstanding.
The Pasho: This densely written tale begins with the smell of shit in the desert, which is a promising beginning. The rest of the story, though, is a bit harder going. It is set in one of those archaic villages that exist, as far as I can tell, only in precisely these types of stories, where the people are simple folk of the earth and their every action and interaction are proscribed and ritualized and imbued with grave and unchanging significance that reaches back into the mists of time. We discover that these rituals, staying a certain number of meters away from another person, for example, are remnants of a defensive policy ingrained into their minds long ago against some kind of Scourge that destroyed civilization. Now they practice these "old ways" religiously, without awareness of their original intent or when it's time to quit. The villagers are visited by a man who left the village as a child who is now a Pasho, a member of a group dedicated to preserving and re-distributing knowledge back to the people of the Earth. He is characterized somewhat like a monk, the irony being that rather than preaching God, he is here more or less to preach Einstein. In this mission, he finds himself in conflict with the stubborn conservatism of his grandfather, who wants nothing of these newfangled gadgets, like running water. The majority of the tale consists of a debate between these two characters, articulated in a kind of formal and stilted speech meant to symbolize, I suppose, importance and high seriousness. Intermittent excerpts from the Pasho organization presenting its philosophy for how to bring civilization back anchor the story effectively, but I found the characters sketchily-drawn and the attack against ignorance and fear too easy. A genuinely complex ethical question is posed: is it right for one group of people to withhold knowledge from the rest of the world and only give it out piecemeal, when it sees fit, for humanity's own protection? Unfortunately, the grandfather is portrayed as such an ignoramus, and the Pasho so wise and right, that the answer to that question seems to be a simple "yes."
The Calorie Man: Set in the vivid dystopian future of The Windup Girl, this is one of those stories that shakes us out of our easy, arrogant faith in the substructures that hold up our world. In this future, it is impossible to grow food naturally - it all dies. Bacigalupi is a master at word-pictures. He creates devastating imagery within seconds that somehow evokes the entire history of mankind's failures. What is so effective about Bacigalupi's dystopia is how inevitable it feels. The only edible food in this world is genetically-modified, as well as mediated through massive corporations that hold all the patents and technologies to produce and distribute this food, thus essentially holding a hungry world hostage. These calorie companies can be read as metaphors for all corporations on which we depend for essentials, and which, over time, transform our perspective of reality until it aligns with and serves their profit motive. The characters remember a time of unbridled growth called "The Expansion," the excessive era of ever-increasing productivity and natural resource exploitation that led to the following "Contraction," and it is a humbling moment when the reader realizes that this mythical "Expansion" before the fall is our present world, a way of life we come to understand JUST CAN'T LAST. The reader is made to feel a sense of nostalgia for the present, as if it has already slipped away from us. The plot follows two men as they try to rescue a third, a geneticist who has discovered a way to grow natural food independently, a man on the run from the calorie companies, hoping to defeat their monopoly through the power of human ingenuity. The tight plot, engaging point-of-view character, and haunting setting all make this one a great addition to a compelling fictional world.
The Tamarisk Hunter: A short, and rather inaccessible story that begins like a sort of nature documentary. See the tamarisk hunter stalk his prey...we soon learn, though, that tamarisk is a kind of tree, and that we're in the depths of a water shortage stemming from a drought that has gone on for over a decade. Perhaps the story is too short to feel consequential. I found the prose congested, the logistical details confusing, the characters distant. Given how much of Bacigalupi's fiction is "message"-based, it is actually surprising how little of it feels like "message fiction," but this one does. Government oppressively controlling water supply is bad. Government distributing water unfairly is bad. The common theme from Bacigalupi's other work is of a higher authority holding a monopoly and absolute control over the distribution of some limited but essential natural resource, in other cases food, in this case water. But the story gave me no entrance, no reason or way to care. And it offers nothing in the way of theme that, say, The Calorie Man didn't already explore, and more compellingly.
The Pop Squad: And knockout punch number two. It begins with a film noir-tinged crime scene that reminded me somehow of the film Seven (I think it has something to do with the spaghetti). But it soon widens into a harrowing tale of a future Earth populated by high-living immortals, artists and vacationers and concert goers, who have made it illegal to bear children. Bacigalupi seems to be at his best when his stories are told by unreliable narrators, people whose thoughts and assumptions are alien to our own, and we get to follow them as they approach, perhaps reach, perhaps fail to reach, an epiphany about the horror inherent in the way they see the world. Here, that narrator is something like Ray Bradbury's fireman, except instead of burning books, he murders children. The final scene, with the man at a kitchen table with a woman he is about to arrest and a toddler he is about to shoot in the head, is tension of the highest order. This story stylishly and compellingly explores questions about why we live, and why we procreate, and why we sometimes don't. And it's a hell of a read.
Yellow Card Man: Another story set in Bacigalupi's Windup Girl universe, and another reminder of how good he is at weaving together character, setting, imagery, and theme. This one is more of a world-building exercise than a story, perhaps, and more of a character exploration than a plot, but it is a great character piece. The man of the title is explored with wonderful insight and powerful sympathy, and like many of Bacigalupi's well-realized characters, he is a natural outgrowth of his environment. By this point in the collection, one may be inclined to start taking Bacigalupi's excellent prose and storytelling abilities for granted - but one shouldn't. These stories are starting to feel effortless, but I'm sure they weren't. Another immersive slice of future horror.
Softer: This is the only story in the collection that doesn't feel like it had to come from Bacigalupi's pen. It could have been written just as well by Harlan Ellison, or Stephen King. The opening sentence feels like an attempt to shock, and maybe this idea was shocking to readers of Robert Browning's "Porphyria's Lover" back in 1836, but now it comes off as cliche, like an undergraduate creative writing student's idea of a hook. The premise is entirely unoriginal, though the story is written well. The murder scene itself is of course excellent, since Bacigalupi excels at capturing believable, if repulsive, psychology, but the man is clearly a sociopath, so any identification with the character is impossible. Basically, Bacigalupi perceptively captures some daily frustrations we all feel, and then presents a character who kills his wife because of them, and then feels nothing. Cute, but we've been here before. This is Beethoven doodling a limerick.
Pump Six: The experience of reading this story is one of a gradual widening of perception. Each movement of the story removes an outer ring blocking our view, until the end when we, and the protagonist with us, suddenly see the whole world exactly as it is. We start with a bizarre domestic dispute; then we meet the trogs, the "mash-faced monkey people" who hang out on New York intersections having orgies and grinning at passersby; we find ourselves in a future New York of filth, backed-up sewage, contaminated drinking water, drug-infused parties, and mutated children. The trogs are a brilliant invention, funny and gross and unnerving, but the protagonist's mental journey here is even better. His job is to man the pumps that keep millions of New York City toilets from overflowing. But the pumps are breaking down, and he doesn't know why. Shockingly, it has never occurred to him before (or to his boss) to go to the pumps directly and check the maintenance warnings. So now he does this. And he finds he has no idea how to follow them. Neither does his boss. They look up the company that services the pumps. It turns out it went bankrupt almost half a century ago. So, the protagonist sets out for Columbia University's Engineering department - surely someone there knows how to follow maintenance instructions! The tone up to this point has been a sort of dark comedy of errors, but those rings blocking our perception are being removed one by one, and what he finds at his destination is chilling, its implications horrifying. The library’s doors are mostly padlocked. He finds a way in. He walks through the abandoned library and corridors of the university. He meets an old woman among the dust and condom wrappers and piles of ashes who informs him that the Engineering department shut down 20 years ago. Outside the windows, university students who have joined the trogs in their orgiastic madness are grinning and waving at him to come outside and join them. This is when the world outside finally comes into focus: this is not a functioning city at all, the protagonist and the reader realize all at once, but the shell of one, its builders’ descendants living in the ruins. There is no one alive with the intelligence to run the city. The inmates have taken over the asylum not through force, but merely through living long enough and being the only ones left. Bacigalupi is a master at these limited, unreliable narrators who gradually learn to see the true horror of their world, and here in this last story of the collection, he gives us one of his finest.
Together, these stories are like a statement about what the genre ought to be writing about. It reminds me of the sprouting cyberpunk movement of the early 80's announcing its presence, but Bacigalupi does this without the fanfare, or the 40-page introductions. He just does it by writing amazing stories. We should read them, and then follow him wherever he wants to take us next.