Paul Cornell clearly liked the short-novel-which-lots-of-people-insist-on-calling-novella length he used for the Lychford series, because he deploys it again for his new SF outing – and thank heavens publishing economics now allow that, because I can easily picture the saggy slog Rosebud would have become if stretched to twice or thrice this natural length, or how much impact would have been lost were it a short story. Advanced blurbs included praise from the likes of Tamsyn Muir, Adrian Tchaikovsky and Daniel Abraham, but for the front cover he's gone with the more niche, less buzzy Peter Watts. Still, you can see why: "A scream disguised as a giggle" is the perfect summary. Think Watts' Freeze-Frame Revolution, but replayed as a sitcom performed at gunpoint. “The crew of the Rosebud are, currently, and by force of law, a balloon, a goth with a swagger stick, some sort of science aristocrat possibly, a ball of hands, and a swarm of insects." And if you think that's ridiculous, just wait until they need bodies for a mission off the ship. Like so many SF crews before them, they're exploring space on behalf of the Company when they find something deeply puzzling out in the black. However, in defiance of science fiction convention but compliance with dull old science, both the ship itself and the mysterious object it's investigating are microscopic. Which is not to say the discoveries of big dumb object stories are unavailable here; between how much of the story takes place in digital spaces and the exotic technologies in play, there's plenty of exploring to be done. At times the story feels like the Metaverse if it weren't just a place for Zuckerberg to look even creepier – but was still a dystopian vision of corporate control lightly sheathed in a veneer of user choice. The crew are all coded to love the Company, even if some of them have set the obligatory thoughts to fast-forward, this being about the closest to actual rebellion permitted even to the designated rebel – at least until something goes awry. One thing which surprised me was that the book has a trigger warning for incidents of in-world transphobia, which are present and horrible (and to my mind not even that necessary: we already get that the corporate regime is nightmarish, but if anything I'd find it even more plausible as the sort of behemoth happy to profit off Pride branding while the world goes to shit). But there's no equivalent warning regarding coercion or gaslighting, both much more prevalent, with none of the characters' thoughts entirely their own and even their memories not to be trusted.
Now, unless one is dealing with the most recalcitrant litfic bores or genre traitors, it should obviously come as no surprise to say that science fiction can use non-human characters to say important things about the human condition. But – and again, this is where the Watts parallel is strong – what Cornell is mostly doing here is using our descendants to show us quite how wretched that condition is, a Larkinesque cycle of abuse passed down from prehistory to posthumanity, with the species' addiction to hierarchy a big part of it. Even our attempts to get around that proving predictably prone to grotesque failure; at one point a character looks upward "in the same way humans have always addressed assumed higher powers, which says a lot about where humans have always assumed they are on the food chain, when actually they're on top." This is not the first time I've seen the problem with the whole punching up/down discourse, namely that everyone on some level thinks they're the underdog, but this was one of the times I've really felt it as a cold hand in my chest. One way or another, the characters all turn out to have origins tied to the stupid, nasty things that humans do when they feel threatened, which is always. This is a future where we've got a little further out, though not beyond the solar system, because we're stupid chimps who lack the attention span, though maybe that's for the best, because we're still fucking up everything we touch: "there is global warming on Mars now. And there are whole moons which have vanished into the furnaces of Earth. And there is only so much water in comets." Set against that, the faint hope of the crew that they might actually have made that elusive, definite, first contact, although "over the centuries Haunt has watched the human condition, the condition of actual humans, as it went from hoping and dreading alien contact in equal measure to feeling...he thinks as a mass they no longer feel they deserve it. That aliens would be disappointed in them." Hopefully it isn't a spoiler to note that certain themes from Cornell's Saucer Country recur in what follows, but either way, all of it is told from the point of view of the Earth-descended. "And so here he is, partly written and partly accidental. Here they all are. Ridiculous. Suspended. Falling toward a thing from somewhere else with only an enormous pile of inherited trivia to protect them, trivia they do not own but have adopted and wear wrapped around them as if it could possibly keep them warm." Relatable content, in other words. In an interview about the book, Cornell said "I always have felt the future is better than the past, on a personal basis, and that dystopias are just hurdles on the way to better things", and by the end the story does work around to that, but I confess that's not what will stay with me from Rosebud, not least because the elements required for the resolution seem so much further beyond our reach than the ones already leading us towards the preceding horrorshow.
Anyway, that was a massive downer, wasn't it? So instead, let's finish up on the bit where Cornell spells bagsy 'bagsee' instead. Post-human argot, or regional variation? Either way, it ain't right (I say in jest, having just finished a novel which reminds us how we're such a nasty pack of beasts that that sort of sentiment can so easily lead to centuries of bloodshed – would 'bagsee' really be much dafter than 'filioque'?).