In 2012 Steve Pinker published a book, The Angels of Our Better Nature, whose premise was that violence was declining. Ten years and some change on, and it doesn’t look like that’s the case. We could be on the brink of what the old game theorists used to call MAD—Mutually Assured Destruction.
So as sad as it is to contemplate, it’s starting to look like war is a permanent part of the human condition. It’s just that the toys and tools change over time. Let’s hope that Einstein was right, though, that the war after this one will be fought with sticks and stones.
Future War, curated by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois, collects ten or so speculative tales of war, from several of the genre’s better-known practitioners. At least one of them, the great Joe Haldeman, actually served in combat. The rest probably only served as slush pile readers at various mags, but, if you’ve ever read unsolicited manuscripts, a tour in the ‘Nam might seem comparatively painless.
The best of the tales seem to come from the better-known writers. The aforementioned Haldeman turns in a good one with The Private War of Private Jacobs. The whole things turns on one of those darkly ironic reveals that was the meat of Rod Sterling, but its familiarity didn’t bother me. I guess I’ve got a weakness for the classics, or a lot of residual love for Haldeman on account of what he bequeathed the world in The Forever War.
Philip Dick’s Second Variety is also fairly straightforward and relies on grim irony to deliver its body blow. Once again, though, I’m not complaining. These two stories were sort of the science fiction equivalent of comfort food, or hearing someone strum the three chord blues. You know mostly how it’s going to go, but the fills and little grace notes give the old songs new life.
The weaker entries are those from the younger writers. Many suffer from what I call “cyberpunk syndrome,” which I define as a fear of exposition and explanation so great that you conflate confusing the reader with worldbuilding. You’re thrown into the stories in media res and everyone uses an impenetrably thick slang and your narrator is usually high and thus beyond unreliable. It’s supposed to integrate you seamlessly into a plausible, usually-dystopian future. If anything, though, it makes it easy to tune out and skim-read, to get so disoriented you need a Dramamine, or whatever the mohawked kids in Cybertown call it these days.
Still, “success is buried in the garden of failure,” and you can’t fault a writer for experimenting, especially in science fiction, which itself is a kind of meta-experiment. That said, you can definitely blame the editor(s) for their poor curation, sequencing, and selection. But if you really want to hold the editor’s feet to the fire, you need to do it for including his own story in the collection. Especially when it’s as interminable as the one that caps this anthology.
Forget that it’s no good, or that it’s much longer and self-indulgent than all the other ones put together. There’s a whiff of the genuinely unethical about an editor selecting their own work for inclusion, and giving it such prominence, even if it were good.
It’s not like the editor in question didn’t have a surfeit of stories in the subgenre to choose from. Couldn’t Dick or Haldeman have been represented by two tales rather than one, and Gardner Dozois stayed the hell out of it? Nothing against him, as I have enjoyed some of his work before. But this time he spreads himself too thin with the multitasking. His hubris wasn’t quite promethean, but it did really spoil the already-tepid showing. If this were a stage play, the rafters would have literally collapsed, the sandbags hit the stage, some time late in the third act.