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Category: book reviews (Page 2 of 3)

Doc Savage at 90: Fear Cay

DATELINE – SEPTEMBER 1934 – NEW YORK CITY/THE CARRIBBEAN – Doc Savage, walking down the street, is ambushed by the old “wallet with a hidden hypodermic needle of mickey left lying in the street” gag! How many times have we seen that old hat? Abducted by two sinister shysters, the fat Hallet and the sweaty Leakey, Doc is transported to their law offices for interrogation. Doc springs into action, having foreseen the old “wallet with a hidden hypodermic needle of mickey left lying in the street” gag, by moving his thumb just so. He out-and-out mindfucks both men, applying a variant of the Ginger Beer Trick seventy years before Sam Vimes, and discovers that they’re working for Fountain of Youth, Inc., and they kidnapped him to keep a particular sample of the species of heroine in these stories from getting to him – Kel Avery. Proactive villains, these boys are. He calls up some of his men, but Leakey and Hallet escape.

They raid the offices of Fountain of Youth, despite the best efforts of a mustachio with a red silk sash across his chest named Santini and his gang of ruffians. Doc also unearths an invisible note that Kel Avery is out in Flushing, at an address on Fish Lane. On their way out, Pat Savage makes her entrance, to the delight of Monk and Ham in particular, and Doc makes pro forma protests against her insistence on joining the adventure and defending their car from Santini and his men.

Doc, the Five, and Pat head out for Fish Lane in Flushing, an unpaved lane in a bog, the address a shack barely worthy of being called a chicken coop. Kel Avery isn’t there – but someone is. An old man hanging from a noose in the rafters introduces himself as John Thunden, 131 years young, draws two blue-steel revolvers, jumps down, accuses them of working for Santini, and beats the tar out of the boys – including both fighting Doc to a standstill and escaping when Santini’s crew show up. After a brief shootout where Pat saves all their lives (but especially Monk’s), they return to the eighty-sixth floor to use highly advanced telephone party lines to contact some of Fountain of Youth’s clients.

One of them, an incredibly rich banker that Monk wants to bash in the face of because he’s an asshole rich banker in the Great Depression, swears he can’t reveal anything…except that what’s on offer is apparently the secret of eternal life at a price of one million 1933 dollars a pop. Then the man is shot by Fountain of Youth operatives.

And nothing of value was lost.

Discovering that Kel Avery is arriving by plane that night, Pat disguises herself in Ham’s best topcoat, dons a pair of Doc’s glasses, and arranges her hair to become totally unrecognizable at the airport. And a damn good thing, too – the boys are waylaid by a bunch of randos paid off by Fountain of Youth to shout “I’m Kel Avery!” like they’re Spartacus and start a fight. But Fountain of Youth just goes ahead and kidnaps both Pat and Kel Avery (secretly the movie starlet Maureen Doreen). The boys meet up with her bodyguard, the overbuilt da Clima, and take him along for poorly-articulated reasons.

It’s-a me! Da Clima!

They find Kel Avery by the side of the road, and it all comes spilling out: her great-grandfather, Dan Thunden, sent her a mysterious package and when Santini entered the picture, she decided to hunt down Doc Savage for help. She and Pat were kidnapped, but Pat stepped up to the plate and insisted she was Spartacus Kel Avery so Santini kicked the real Kel to the curb. She mailed the package to Doc, and could use the help. They return to the eighty-sixth floor where Doc casually manipulates Kel, da Clima, Monk, Santini, and the US Postal Service for reasons to be explained later.

Johnny, disguised as a hack cabby, follows Santini retreating with the package, all the way out to the most fetid, rank, decaying, villainous spot within driving distance – the Jersey shore! He sneaks up on the seaside cabin where Santini, Leakey, Hallet, and his men regularly keep their hostage(s) and loudly discuss their double-cross of Dan Thunden. The man himself appears just in time for Santini to realize that, like disappointed college kids thirty years later, all they had in the package was oregano. A brawl ensues, with Thunden felled after killing three men, Johnny shot, and Pat at one point temporarily in control of the situation while bound and gagged with a gun in her hands. But Johnny wore his bulletproof vest, and while the bad guys take off in their plane to Fear Cay with Pat, he overhears everything, and when Monk shows up, passes out.

Johnny awakes in one of Doc’s own planes, en route to Fear Cay following Santini and his men, with a few cracked ribs for all his trouble. They are able to land on the forgotten yet strangely verdant coral islet unmolested, but not for long. After discovering a fully-dressed skeleton, Dan Thunden leads them on a merry chase to a shootout with Santini’s men at his plane, and they discover some of Thunden’s history. After washing ashore on the island in the 1830s, Dan Thunden settled in for a 90-year Caribbean vacation, taking up wholesome hobbies like hunting, fishing, and constructing fiendish death-traps in the conveniently provided cave complex beneath the surface of Fear Cay (despite the water line being almost above ground). Various parties are captured, escaped, rescued, recaptured, and always the “sound of frying fat” presaging death that leaves only a fully-dressed skeleton behind. Petards are hoisted by each of the bad guys in turn as all their secrets come out. It is all as over-the-top pulp as it sounds, but I won’t spoil it.

Maybe one thing.

At the end, triumphantly, Johnny and Doc jointly announce the cause of all the trouble:

Spoiler
SYLPHIUM! The Roman medicinal thought extinct grows wild on Fear Cay, with Dan Thunden its exhibit A. But Thunden’s longevity was from clean living under the Caribbean sun, though Doc takes samples home to advance medical science. And then, onto the next adventure!

AN EERIE TRILLING SOUNDED – Doc is in top form here, even getting unusually playful for a man usually a grave-faced cipher and Very Serious Tom-of-Finland model. His top-tier bullshit of the adventure has to be untying the knots he’s tied in at the base of his ribs behind his back with his toes, after removing his boots and socks with them. It’s so over-the-top you have to laugh.

FISTS OF GRISTLE – Renny: 1. Doors: 0. He throws those fists around with a “Holy Cow!” or two, but Renny is somewhat out-of-focus for this adventure. He mostly pals around with Johnny and swings some fists to take out Santini’s mooks.

SUPERAMALGAMATED! – Johnny gets almost more play here than in any other book in the series. The gaunt archaeologist/geologist is the one to infiltrate the cabin on the Jersey shore, taking the brunt of Dan Thunden’s damage and visibly suffering for it, making two attempts to rescue Pat, and pressing through his broken ribs all over Fear Cay. Doc, as always, plays the invincible Schwartzenegger action hero, but today, Johnny shines as the John McClane-style action survivor straight outta the Harrison Ford school of action acting. He’ll be superamalgamated, indeed.

“YOU SHYSTER CLOTHES-HORSE!” – The sword-cane gets a little use, and Ham’s banter with Monk is even more homoerotic than usual (although not to the level it would reach in a later book where they were both absent from the adventure because they were in their upstate private New York cabin for the week to go fishing). Ham’s topcoat being cut like a woman’s suit-top was pretty funny though.

“YOU MISSING LINK!” – Monk’s bashful in the presence of Kel Avery the movie starlet, and, frankly, why wouldn’t he be? He also gets his once-a-book going absolutely apeshit (pardon the pun), though this time he doesn’t kill anybody for Doc to admonish him over later. I get the impression Doc kind of misses it.

WIZARD OF THE JUICE – Long Tom is also here! …I’m gonna be saying that a lot, Lester Dent kind of ran out of ideas for the electrical wizard early on. At least in this adventure, he actually gets to put his wizardry to good use, rigging up radios and triangulating Fear Cay.

STAY IN THE SALON! – This is Pat Savage’s second adventure, back by popular demand, and though she spends most of it captured, it’s because she volunteered for the job to shield the real Kel Avery from harm. Because, hey, it’s not like Pat isn’t a trained professional at being a hostage. She leaps at adventure and although Doc puts up a token protest that she should Go Back in the Salon, It’s Too Dangerous for a Girl, even he gives up in the face of her cheerful insistence of going in harm’s way. She even pops off a few rounds from Granddad’s Colt .45, although she uncharacteristically misses her target because the plot needs Santini to get away.

WHERE DOES HE GET THOSE WONDERFUL TOYS? – Doc’s plane is SOUNDPROOFED! So you can have a conversation at NORMAL VOLUME INSIDE! Can you even imagine?

All of Doc’s standard toys are firmly in play here, and by now, Dent is perfectly comfortable with them. The superfirers with their semi-automatic firing of “mercy bullets” that can leave cuts and bruises and deploy a soporific on contact but never kill, with their “bull fiddle moan” and their “ram’s horns” cartridges, get special ammo today of rounds that leave traces, “tracer rounds” if you will, to assist in aiming. Doc’s glass marbles (that never break in his pocket, no matter how many punches and bruises he takes to the chest) with their soporific gas that last for exactly one minute (so you can hold your breath!) get use against Doc and his friends, and cunningly, too. Even his high-tech vests that have been proofed against bullets get plenty of action!

CRIME COLLEGE MATRICULATES – Leakey, Hallet, and Santini are some of the best broad-strokes villains of the series – everyone who’s read Fear Cay can remember them if you jog their memory a little. They each have their tags and their traits, their two-note personalities, they twirl their mustaches and tie people to train tracks entertainingly.

But today’s Crime College valedictorian is absolutely Dan Thunden. The 131-year-old boy-man with his white whiskers and baby face is one of exactly two villains to fight Doc to a standstill in hand-to-hand combat, and the other is Doc’s evil twin! Thunden is cunning, crafty, almost kills Doc twice, talks like a weird Southerner, and effortlessly runs rings around  the Fabulous Five and Pat, whether for or again’ ‘em. The only downside is that his petard-hoisting death is relatively underplayed and pro forma, compared to the vitality of his live performance. He’s one of the handful of villains any fan of Doc’s can absolutely name without prompting, and for damn good reason.

AGED LIKE FINE MILK – Boy oh boy are Santini and da Clima excellent case studies of anti-Italian bigotry in the Fascist era. Da Clima is a blowhard miles gloriosus that Monk correctly identifies as “all talk, no steak” who gets tagged as “over-muscled” and “muscle-bound,” unable to fit through doors even Doc’s six-foot-from-shoulder-to-shoulder frame can navigate with eas. Santini is a faux-aristocrat with radio mustaches and a red sash for no damn reason across his chest except to make him an easier target for Pat’s Colt .45. Both backstab their respective allies at the first opportunity, and both get hoisted on their own petards for it. It’s a wonder neither of them pulls out a rosary or mutters an Ave Maria to work in some good, old-fashioned Know Nothing anti-Catholicism while they’re here.

Hallet’s weight and bulk are aging increasingly poorly, especially as they form his tag and the only note to his character except his cowardice. I give it another five to ten years before he’s a liability for the discerning reader.

All in all though, this book has aged really well for a series that also sports Danger Lies East, The Infernal Buddha, and Land of Long Juju. No one does blackface, no shifty Chinese show up to predictably betray the upstanding white characters at the dumbest possible time, Kel Avery and Pat both have agency and dynamism. This is one of the most approachable of the books for a reader in 2023, and that is much to its advantage.

BACK MATTER – After Pat’s first appearance, a 10-year-old fan wrote in to say that he hates when “girl characters” show up in his adventure pulps, because they’re always weak, simpering dead weights for the boys to fight over and rescue. “But if Pat Savage ever wants to come back, that’s A-OK with me!” That 10-year-old boy is the reason Pat comes back here, and for her handful of future appearances.

And he wasn’t the only reader that thought so. Dent (and his editors) downright encouraged girls to read Doc Savage too, remarkable in the sea of boy adventurers and men’s adventures that composed the (non-Romance) pulps in those days. This essay, “Are Only Men Men?”, from the back of December 1933’s The Phantom City, well spells out their opinion of girl readers who saw something of themselves in Pat Savage when the likes of Dale Arden or Pauline had left them cold.

THE VERDICT – What can be said that hasn’t been said? Fear Cay is the consensus favorite of all 181 adventures, like “City on the Edge of Forever” for Star Trek: The Original Series. Even if it’s not your favorite (and it’s not mine), you nod in understanding when it comes in first on everyone’s list. It’s got creative action, adventure, cleverness, some of it unbelievable and over-the-top just the way we want it, most of it just believable enough to pass (like Johnny’s cracked ribs dogging him the whole second half the book).

This book is also one of the two traditional gateway drugs to the series (along with the first book, The Man of Bronze). And it benefits from how well it aged like fine milk. The main brunt of Dent’s bigotry are the Italians, suspect in the 30s, but like the québécois, no longer suffering the brunt of prosecution today. Hallet the fat lawyer may make this book increasingly unpalatable, but it has nothing on the paternalistic treatment of Latin Americans, especially indigenous Latin Americans (there are six million Mayans alive today, Les, and they’re not all lost tribes in lost valleys either) in The Man of Bronze. And yet it has the vigor and virility and breezy language of Dent at his best, the things that right-wingers like to decry the loss of when you strip out the racism and misogyny.

It’s not my favorite, but I do love Fear Cay, for the uniqueness of the New York half (Doc gets captured! The bad guys are the ones to hunt him down! There’s no milksop victim! Doc viciously mindfucks motherfuckers!), for the creative action bits, and for Pat having something to do and getting to be proactive.

A top-shelf Doc Savage adventure, and the best place to start for fans new and old of the Man of Bronze.


Doc Savage at 90

Introduction – The Man of Bronze

Fear Cay

The Lost Oasis

The Munitions Master

The Land of Terror

Bonus post: The Doc Savage Method of Personal Development

The Czar of Fear

Doc Savage …at 90

Doc Savage at 90: Introduction – The Man of Bronze

I think the thing I hate worst about the querying process is the comps.

These are messages along the lines of “FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST: BROTHERHOOD x THE MURDERBOT DIARIES” that you see on pitch events on Twitter and in the query letters crossing agents’ and editors’ desks. There are a bunch of asinine “rules” that have sprung up in the five or six years since they were invented and became mandatory, and I hate them.

Partly because the most perfect comp I have is 90 years old this very month, and the once tens-of-thousands-strong fandom is so forgotten, there isn’t even a wiki for it.

And yet, we’ve all stolen from him. Doña Ana Lucía gets her language, her standards, her aristocratic mien, her physical and intellectual development, even her sword-cane from this one towering figure, this Man of Bronze.

I’ve talked about the solar, I think it’s a good day to talk about the pulp.

And if pulp has a name, that name is…

Doc Savage Magazine, March 1933. 10c

Doc Savage.

“Doc Savage!” Said the eccentric first character. “I hear some funny stories about that bird. Supposedly, him and his gang go all over the world, righting wrongs and punishing the wicked!”

“I don’t believe a word of it!” A cynic with some forgettable yet memorable physical disfigurement groused.

“Supposed to be a miracle of science,” explained the explainer, “and his crew are no slouches either. Each best in their field – except for him. Young [man|lady], if you got trouble, you can find him up on the eighty-sixth floor of that skyscraper there.”

A requisite passage in every of the first fifty Doc Savage novels. I think one of them uses this exact wording.

Doc Savage hit the newsstands in March 1933, the brainchild of Lester Dent (writing under the house name Kenneth Robeson), fresh off The Shadow, and for over a decade, Doc was the greatest adventure hero in American media. His bastard children litter our pages and spangle our screens – Superman stole his Fortress of Solitude, James Bond his suit and his suite of toys, Indiana Jones his globe-trotting quests. Dent conceived of Doc as “[taking] Sherlock Holmes with his deductive ability, Tarzan of the Apes with his towering physique and muscular ability, Craig Kennedy with his scientific knowledge, and Abraham Lincoln with his Christliness,” all rolled into one package, a hero for the Modern age.

Doc is also, both in person and in writing, a product of his times and subject to damn near every single  bigotry, prejudice, and intolerance of the 1930s except (as near as I can tell) open anti-Semetism. With the sterling exception of cousin Pat Savage, the female characters are wilting flowers and forgettable milquetoasts, the Asian characters interchangeably shifty, the Latin characters lazy, the Spaniards/Italians/Greeks both, and the Black characters always worse. Dent appears to have no particular hatred for anybody (as opposed to, say, Lovecraft or Ian Fleming) but was merely relaying every unthinking bigotry in his New York head – and that is plenty bad enough.

I refuse to apologize for the (sometimes horrifyingly) racist, misogynist, classist, bigoted content. It is wrong now, and it was wrong then, but I also refuse to pretend it isn’t there, and that some of it hasn’t followed Doc’s bastards even to the present day. Everyone has to decide what they have the stomach for and where they draw the line. There are some I refuse to read a second time, like The Infernal Buddha, but the only one I refuse to read at all is Land of Long Juju – an adventure in Darkest Africa where the only civilized tribe are the ones descended from the Lost Roman Legion, and the others are all extras from a Tarzan book.

Despite their multitude of moral and aesthetic flaws, some of them glaring, I do love these books, especially the early run from ’33 to the outbreak of World War II. Doc’s physical/intellectual regimen (an obsession of Dent’s) fed into Learning to Think, the prose is punchy yet florid and breezy as only the old 30s hacks could manage, and the technology is almost a fascinating alternate reality at this point – spectacular prop planes that go 300 miles per hour, glass balls of instant sedation, wristwatch radios, Doc’s bull-fiddle superfirers. And they’re pablum. Glorious pablum. There’ve been months of my life where about all I could do was drink citronade and read Doc Savage. Earlier this month, someone asked what I was reading these days – “When I can brain, Midnight Robber by Nalo Hopkinson. When I can’t brain, Doc Savage.”

Originally aided by his Fabulous Five and Dent’s many, many personal quirks and scientific interests, over the course of his sixteen-year career, the Great Depression, the World War and the oncoming of the Cold War, Doc slowly whittled down until he took his last bow in his Summer 1949 issue. He got a new lease on life with the 1964 reissue of The Man of Bronze, followed by the other 180 issues, an unpublished story, and a few extras from Dent’s outlines finished by modern writers, all legendarily cover-illustrated by James Bama.

Legend.

But who is Doc Savage?

Clarke Savage, Jr., is a scientific miracle, raised by his father and a coterie of scientists using the latest scientific techniques and advanced training to near-superhuman abilities. He has photographic memory, immense strength and endurance, a mastery of martial arts, vast knowledge of all sciences, precisely honed senses, mastery of disguise and psychology, and preternatural skill in medicine. About the only field of which Doc has no mastery* is women, who politely confound him due to the “lack of maternal influence” in his childhood**. His father also trained him in compassion for all the world, requiring the oath of him we call the Doc Savage Oath:

Let me strive every moment of my life to make myself better and better, to the best of my ability, that all may profit by it. Let me think of the right and lend all my assistance to those who need it, with no regard for anything but justice. Let me take what comes with a smile, without loss of courage. Let me be considerate of my country, of my fellow citizens and my associates in everything I say and do. Let me do right to all, and wrong no man.

During the Great War as a young man, Doc comes into contact with the “Fabulous Five,” stalwart aides and adventure-seekers each of whom emerges as the foremost man in his field short of Doc himself.

Colonel John Renwick – better known as Renny – is a giant of a man with fists of gristle like Virginia hams, which he loves to blast through doors for entertainment. A construction engineer of great renown, he’s never at his happiest than when violence is about to ensue and his “Puritanical face” is long and drawn.

William Harper “Johnny” Littlejohn is an archaeologist and geologist with limitless knowledge of rocks and ancient peoples, and apparently swallowed a dictionary because he won’t use a small word where at two-bit mot will do. His exclamation – “I’ll be superamalgamated!” – says it all. Originally equipped with a loupe-monocle over his blind left eye, Johnny put it in his pocket as a magnifier and memento after Doc performed experimental surgery in The Man Who Shook the Earth.

(Despite Dent’s racial biases, for some reason I always pictured Johnny as a Black man, a son of the Talented Tenth doing his part for the human race)

Major Thomas J. Roberts – “Long Tom” to his friends – is the electrical engineer, a “wizard of the juice” as Dent always insists, and the sick man of the group – at least to judge by his looks. Short, wizened, he looks like he’d fall over in a headwind and takes out men twice his size with his tenacity and hard fists. He got that name wielding an ancient artillery piece against the Hun and saving a French village in the War.

Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks – nicknamed “Ham” after a certain amusing incident during the War – is “one of the finest legal minds Harvard ever turned out” and is so sartorially perfect that tailors follow him down the streets of New York to see how clothes should be worn. He carries a sword-cane*** with a fast-acting anesthetic of Doc’s design on the tip. He is in an eternal private war of words, women, and sometimes blows with his milleur enemi, the last of Doc’s five aides…

Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair – called “Monk” for obvious reasons – is short, squat, covered in red hair, with arms longer than his legs, a brow that looks like “it wouldn’t contain a spoonful of brains”…and one of the greatest chemical minds alive. Squeaky-voiced and homely, Monk loves a good dust-up, killing bad guys, and the ladies – and is usually the once to win the heart of the latest damsel in distress (much to Ham’s dismay).

In the best of the books, they are joined by a seventh member –

Patricia “Pat” Savage, the spitfire sole family Doc has left after Brand of the Werewolf, grew up in the Canadian wilderness with her father wielding rifles and her grandfather’s antique Colt .44 to defend her land and her rights. She joined Doc in New York, where she runs one of the most exclusive salons in the Big Apple, a testament to the inherent adaptability of the Savage clan. But, despite Doc’s best efforts, she’d much rather be tagging along for a fistful of trouble and putting her dead-eye to good use saving the boys’ bacon.

Together, Doc, the Fabulous Five, and sometimes Pat light out from Doc’s eighty-sixth floor penthouse to cover New York and uncover the first clues of some sinister and far-reaching plot, before globe-trotting it in one of Doc’s fabulous conveyances (usually airplanes from his Hidalgo Trading Company hangar on the Hudson), to the depths of the Amazon, forgotten islands in the South Pacific, the Arctic, or (surprisingly often) the American southwest. They battle mook after mook, evade trap after trap, get captured (often, and Pat no more than anyone else), Doc does some wildly improbable thing with his toes or utility belt, and (especially in the early days) uncover the mysterious masked leader of the cult was one of the people they met in chapter 2 the whole time!

To give you a better idea of what it is I see in this yellowed old proto-Scholastic series, I’m going to be reviewing some of my favorites, breaking down plots and prose of the pulps. To start with, everybody’s favorite but mine – Fear Cay (featuring Pat Savage!!!).


Doc Savage at 90

Introduction – The Man of Bronze

Fear Cay

The Lost Oasis

The Munitions Master

The Land of Terror

Bonus post: The Doc Savage Method of Personal Development

The Czar of Fear

Doc Savage …at 90


* Like a third of the SUPER-racist moments are when Doc does blackface to play a New York cabbie, or yellowface to pass for an opium dealer.

** I warned you.

*** What? You think I didn’t steal something off Doc? Keep reading, see how much of Doña Ana Lucía descends lineally from Doc and his Five

Linghun, by Ai Jiang 江艾

I don’t read much in the way of horror these days. This is normally the part where the cultural critic decries how THE REAL HORROR IS LIFE or KIDS THESE DAYS and, nah, I’m just not usually in the mood. It’s a me thing, not a Catonian stand against o tempora o mores.

But when Ai Jiang told me her upcoming novella, Linghun, was ghosts among Chinese-Canadians where the real horror is the living…well, how could I say no?

(though reading it over the course of a hospital stay for a double pulmonary embolism may not have been the most copacetic circumstances ever)

Though Ai Jiang switches up viewpoints (and persons – more on that later), the main viewpoint is Wenqi, the Chinese-Canadian teenage daughter of a family that just moved to HOME. HOME is somewhere out in the Plains Provinces, presumably not far from the Fitzgerald sisters’ Bailey Downs, a small town with only one (revolting) realtor where each house is haunted. They aren’t haunted by a specific ghost, but the ghosts that the occupants bring with her. At least, I don’t think they’re house ghosts – there’s some indication that the ghosts are a bit like small gods and take on the form you’re thinking of, but other indicators they really are the shades of the people the families have lost. But there’s only so many houses in HOME, so the charismatic realtor convinces folks to hand her their life savings, sell their earthly possessions, live in their cars or on the lawns of the houses in the fervent hope that one day, they may have a house. One day, they might see their loved ones again.

Wenqi gets the “I” of first person, as her mother (and, to a lesser extent, her father) obsess over her eternally six-year-old older brother, while she herself counts down the days she can graduate high school and split. At risk of another Ginger Snaps reference, “out by eighteen or dead on the scene” is a very apt description of HOME, where the ghosts are more vital than the living. And “together forever” comes in with Liam, son of a couple of technically-living zombies on Wenqi’s front lawn, and Wenqi’s slow …romance?… with him. I won’t spoil, but, well, with this kind of story, it’s no spoiler to say she’s not going to make it out. Not for long.

But Wenqi’s viewpoint isn’t the only one we get. I’ve described Ai Jiang before as a stylist, lyrical and experimental like Bradbury, and in Linghun that comes out in the different persons of the three viewpoint characters. Wenqi is first person. Liam’s sections are a depersonalized, denatured third-person, fitting the boy who’s “been here awhile” and sleepwalking through his few remaining days among the technically living. His parents maneuver and manipulate him into that …romance?… with Wenqi, but he has his own ideas. To start with, escaping with Wenqi, the one other person who seems to want to get out.

Especially after the auction. Most lively I see the living. That’s not a compliment.

The third viewpoint is a character referred to as “Mrs.,” another Chinese immigrant who is housed but unhaunted by her husband’s ghost. Here, Ai Jiang is at her most experimental – actual second person prose, and outside of interactive fiction yet! It is uncomfortably personal and incredibly close. I can’t reveal much about Mrs. without spoiling, and, frankly, I still don’t understand how she fits into the plot and ongoing story of Wenqi and Liam. Except…she does. Her sections are the most lyrical and disturbing, and somehow thematically encapsulate everything else in Linghun in vivid color. I found myself thinking of Mrs. in particular days and weeks later, long after Wenqi and Liam had faded from memory. Mrs. is a ghost that haunts.

She never gets a person-perspective of her own, but I feel like the real protagonist of Linghun is Wenqi’s mother. She uprooted her family from Fujian all the way across a sea to Canada to get away from Tianqi’s ghost…then, a decade later, dragged her family to HOME to worship his shade, cooking him youtiao until they rot in the fridge. What happened to this woman? How did she break this hard? Tianqi was her first and her son…but what made her turn around and bask in his reflected glow? What is her story?

Ai Jiang, based on what I’ve read of her so far, excels at experimental style, at sketches of diverse character, and at sfumato. What other writers would explicitly spell out (as the second-generation sacrifice of heritage in Ken Liu’s “Paper Menagerie” compared to Ai Jiang’s “Give Me English”), Ai Jiang dribbles so slowly you can’t really tell when the horror set in, when it became too late, when one thing became another…if it ever really did. Hers is a world of shadow, at the dappled places at the corners of the Mona Lisa’s mouth or the face of the Madonna in the Meadow. May she continue experimenting in the shadows, those places are her métier.

You may notice this review is a collection of characters and viewpoints within a single conceit. That’s because, essentially, that’s what Linghun is. How different people react to this quietly horrifying town, obsessed with the dead and ghosts. Joss Whedon described Firefly as “nine people looking out into space, and seeing nine different things.” I feel like, more than plot or story, that’s what Linghun is fundamentally about – how we live, or fail to live, with the dead, each person looking into the house and seeing a different ghost. Not even Wenqi and her mother see the same Tianqi, and her father would have to have enough personality to see a ghost at all.

And I wonder…what ghost does Ai Jiang see, when she looks into HOME?

The Future So Bright, by Water Dragon Press

I only read four-star reviews on Amazon. Let me tell you why.

The five-star reviews are all glowing praise that makes a J. J. Abrahms joint look dim, and in their worst cases, are bought and paid for. The one- and two-star reviews are just unrelentingly negative, often miss the point, and though sometimes entertaining on their own for the reviewer’s semi-coherent tangents, are rarely actually informative. If I clicked on the book’s page, I’m generally interested. I want to buy, but I want an honest look at what I’m getting first, and the four-star reviews actually tell you what they like, and a few things they didn’t.

So here’s my four-star review of The Future’s So Bright.

Some of the stories in here are real gems. I’ve highlighted the ones I loved over the past few weeks – but when you read it, you might fall in love with “The Salvage at the Selvage” or “The Repairwoman” or maybe even “Scars of Satyagraha” instead. You might find “The Comforting” leaves you cold and you got no love for “Lady Jane.” But it’s the kind of anthology where there’s a favorite for everyone in here somewhere.

And as for the rest? Hell, it’s in the title. Even the mediocre stories (and there are mediocre stories and a few out-and-out duds) are trying to do something new, trying to imagine a future so bright, you gotta wear shades. No tacked-on sad ending, no cheap cynicism, no sudden twist that they were actually all terrible people the whole time. In a world of, as I called the possible future of “Lady Jade,” rising tides, rearing storms, and political intrigues, sometimes you want the comfort of knowing the author’s either optimistic, or tryin’ real hard to be. And, intellectually, there really are new ideas here, new ways of looking at old problems. Even the worst duds in here have a one weird idea or two.

There’s a couple of typos, a few spots where the italics clearly got away from the proofreader and never came back, and I hope they’ll be fixed for the second edition. But they don’t much interfere with the reading, they’re just irritating.

And, to address the delicate question a few of you have raised in my DMs and emails, here’s my mini-review-in-a-review of “Scars of Satyagraha”.

“Scars of Satyagraha” is the most Quaker story I’ve ever told. Originally intended for an anthology on gender, the prompt made me think of the often opposing genders of Gentleman and Real Man, and Sam caught between them. The rest, the meditation on violence, ahimsa, gender, bodysurfing, and Mafia movies, happened quite naturally. I’m particularly proud of Babuji’s nails, they are splendid.

Sami Chaturvedy is a young woman we would recognize as trans, on an Indian-Nigerian independent Mars where switching bodies is as easy as getting a tattoo, torn between the nonviolent Martian values of her Babuji and the tarnished, violent honor she imagines of her deceased mother’s Yankee heritage. But her childish wishes to connect to her heritage through mafia movies and the Yankee Militia underworld of Mars lands her in hot water faster than you can say Colt .45, and she finds herself forced to choose where she stands in the worst way.

In a lot of ways, this story feels like a trial run for Doña Ana Lucía and …To The Future!. Sam’s Mars feels like an earlier age of the Six Worlds, more open, less dense, but just as eerie. Sami herself is grappling with the same issues of ethnic identity, otherness, and integration that underlie Doña Ana Lucía’s psychology, and, for that matter, mine as a franco-americain, even if she isn’t literally grappling with actual bad guys all that much. But it’s also very much a story unto itself. Sami’s inner conflict is front-and-center, and she an unwilling participant in the action after her youthful disillusionment. Her world is less a spicier Star Trek utopia than it is an alien, weird thing unto itself – a Mars that separated nonviolently but with great vigorousness, inspired by the postcolonial liberations of its two founding cultures.

I hope you like it.

I hope you like the other stories, too. Typos and the occasional dud (but what anthology doesn’t have the occasional dud? Even Dangerous Visions had “Lord Randy, My Son”) aside, The Future’s So Bright is an anthology I’ll be thumbing through again in the future. However bright it turns out to be.


The Future So Bright

“Emergence,” by A. M. Weald

“Night Circus,” by Regina Clarke

“The Comforting,” by Kevin David Anderson

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden

The Future So Bright four-star review

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden

Check this out:

DOCTOR LADY and her FLYBOY EX have JUST TWELVE HOURS to get THE ANTIDOTE to THE PRESIDENT or what remains of South America will fall to THE WARLORDS.

Of course they are. You knew that just reading the slugline.

In less than a page, I knew I’d found a kindred spirit.

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden, is solarpulp. Such pure, undiluted solarpulp that I absolutely know she watched Only Angels Have Wings the night before she started this story. And, much like knowing that of course they make it in time, that’s no bad thing. Bowden has the breathless pace and suddenly-exotic climate changed environs I want from my pulps, breathing new life into old twists (La Paz is an island, the big storm is really big).

Cressida Jade, one of formerly-North-America’s foremost experts on snake venom, is the only one who can save President Ricarda, whose life is the only thing holding South America together by a thread, from the mysterious snakebite that may have been deliberately set on her by regional warlords. But she can’t possibly make it in time, until Jack Lacy

Whadda guy!

steps in with his trusty flying rig the Lady Jade. But Jack and Cressida have a history behind them, and the mother of all storms ahead. Though the mission to save the president is never in doubt, will Jack and Cressida be able to save themselves? Rounding out the cast are Cressida’s beau Luke Araba and Vice President Waru Dangati.

My only complaint about this story is that there’s too little of it! Having made just these kinds of cuts myself in the past, this story cries out that it was a fantastic ten or fifteen thousand words, full of derring do and strange adventures, but had to get cut down to size to submit to this anthology. I’d love to see whatever original version might be floating around on Ms. Bowden’s hard drive, or more adventures in this universe or one just next door. The world could certainly use mere derring-do and strange adventure in the wake of rising tides, rearing storms, and political intrigues.

But that’s, hopefully, a nice problem to have. At any rate, I was thoroughly surprised and delighted to find two-fisted solarpunk escapades between the pages of The Future So Bright. It’s kind of future that, if there were enough like Cressida Jade and Jack Lacy in it, it would be safe to live in, yet not too dull to be worth living in.

Next time, bringing it all together (including a review of “Scars of Satyagraha, by R. Jean Mathieu).


The Future So Bright

“Emergence,” by A. M. Weald

“Night Circus,” by Regina Clarke

“The Comforting,” by Kevin David Anderson

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden

The Future So Bright four-star review

“The Comforting,” by Kevin David Anderson

Last week, I mentioned the no-nonsense prose most of the other stories had, in contrast to Regina Clarke’s lyrical dream-voice. Here, just as Clarke’s dreamlike language works for “Night Circus,” that no-nonsense, hard-boiled prose works for Kevin David Anderson’s “The Comforting.” Both are featured in The Future’s So Bright, now available wherever better books are sold.

Detective Lentil sits in his faded office, a gruff cop of the old schools, who knows better how to get information out of people than computers, and prefers it that way. This time, though, it’s not the leggy blonde who walks in and breathlessly asks after her dear, disappeared husband (though I’m sure Lentil would have preferred it that way), but a beardless boy name of Jasper Casper, who’d like to report an assault by his plaid comforter.

Yes, the blanket.

“Just the facts, man.”

And as Lentil tries his damnedest Joe Friday to get this kook’s report so he can go home to his empty apartment, more reports start coming in (and walking in) of a crazed plaid comforter, loose on the town, who’s finally snapped his last thread and  taking it out on an indifferent world. Soon, instead of going home, Lentil, Jasper, and Ms. Peaches are racing across town, where the rogue blanket is atop the towering Skyrell Corporation building, and everyone but Lentil are taking selfies. What follows is a hilarious, Adamsian-but-not-quite-as-dense satire of misapplied high technology, misanthropic blankets, and one very misguided corporate turtleneck.

Which makes sense, Anderson specifically mentions “a scene by the late great Terry Pratchett” as his inspiration for the piece. While his voice is unmistakably American, in that New York minute sort of way, he does have something of both Pratchett’s and Adams’ absolute poker-faced voice going for him. Although he affirms his distrust of technology (like Detective Lentil, he still exclusively plays the vinyl he bought in the eighties, and refuses to own a cell phone), Anderson’s criticism of technology and the culture it breeds lacks the cruelty and mean-spiritedness of a lot of similar “satires.” I work in a tech company, own an iPhone, and handle tech support for a living, and I was laughing my ass off at the dialogue even when it wasn’t silly, because I know these people. For someone who despises tech, Anderson seems to spend a lot of time with tech heads.

It makes me wonder exactly which Pratchett scene it was, the one that has nothing to do with technology, that he read.

Next week, the wild, unexpected ride of “Lady Jade.”

“Night Circus,” by Regina Clarke

“What even was that de tabernak?”

Those were the first words out of my mouth when I finished this story.

…that’s a good thing.

I still haven’t figured out if Regina Clarke‘s “Night Circus” is magical fantasy, wondertech sci-fi, or something like Jack Vance’s Dying Earth, where the distinction long ago grew moot. It starts with the short paragraph:

It was said the girl-child dreamed worlds into being. Arain ran to me with news of her arrival from Rengal.

And the entire story is very dreamlike. The narrator, Silla, wanders past flamevines and figs, under the psychic eye of the never-sleeping Preceptor, meets his weirding red-and-green eyes, follows in her father’s otherworldly footsteps, and encounters the golden couple of a disappearing mound beyond dreams out in the wastes of desert quadrant Forty-Two.

That’s not even a third of the way through the story.

Silla must confront the Night Circus, the realm that binds her father, Arain’s mother, and the Preceptor, be offered a choice, and make it freely. That is the way of things, and only her and Arain’s choices will make things different again (possibly by dreaming a new universe into being).

And what of the girl-child?

This Night Circus is second cousin to Bradbury’s Pandemonium Shadow Show, the way his Mechanical Hound is to the Hound of the Baskervilles. There are nightshades of Jim and of Will Halloway in Arain and Silla, though who is Halloween’s child is rather less clear here. There’s a lot that’s unclear here, lost in shadows of poetry, give or take a simile, gain or lose a metaphor, disappearing in the smooth sands of Forty-Two like Rea and Tamis’ mound and its Builders. And the thing is – it works. It helps make the story what it is, to create a peculiar taste on the tongue that lingers but never quite settles. Whether I liked them or not, the other stories I’d read had a certain no-nonsense air to them. “The Night Circus” very much does not, and it still had me thinking on it days later.

“Night Circus” is available in The Future’s So Bright, and Regina Clarke’s page can be found here. When I finish the anthology, I’m thinking of picking up “Out of Time,” and see what dreams may come…

Next week, “The Comforting.”


The Future So Bright

“Emergence,” by A. M. Weald

“Night Circus,” by Regina Clarke

“The Comforting,” by Kevin David Anderson

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden

The Future So Bright four-star review

“Emergence,” by A. M. Weald

Bonjour! I’m happy to report I am no longer sick, and even more happy to report that The Future’s So Bright is now available wherever better books are sold! To celebrate, after my felicitous cigar, I’m taking some time here to review a few of my favorite stories in the anthology. Read short fiction, hein?

“Emergence,” by A.M. Weald, took me by the first line, same as it took its author.

A duster bot was stuck again.

“Emergence” is that rarity of rarities, a post-apocalyptic story I actually enjoyed (otherwise pretty much limited to “By the Waters of Babylon”, “When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth”, and “Darkness”). The nature of the apocalypse is background radiation – mentions of long-gone nuclear winter and environmental conservation. The focus here is on the present, and on the future.

The duster bot is the responsibility of Kelle, of undergrounded Pod North, one of the four remaining centers of population on the North American continent. After removing the stuck duster and replacing it on the solar panels with a fresh robot, she flirts by phone with Arjun, of Pod West, who announces with a breathless “Guess. What.” that “they” are planning to link the disparate domes together – maybe even open them completely. They are interrupted by their compulsory time in the sun, where the politely-coercive authorities mandate mingling. Kelle pointedly doesn’t meet anybody, but Arjun does…

This story almost feels like a realistic, solarpunk-ish take on the Fallout vaults, scraped clean of their affected hypercynicism and sickly green filter of over-the-top human suffering. The authorities do seem a tad Orwellian, and the state of the surface and of technology (undergrounded telephone is the only form of communication except with the few hundred people you grew up smelling, and if you want electricity in your room, you better get biking on your post-Pelaton) give pause. But as disruptive as the hour of sunbathing is (repeatedly), and as awkward as the mandatory mingling is, these are recognizably ordinary people living ordinary lives, not beat-down sufferers like Winston Smith or exceptional culture rebels like John the Savage. The casual polyamory (with its attendant little dramas) just seems an extension of their ordinary lives.

Spoilers

And seeing the happy family out on the surface, reseeding the Earth with rich life, was sweet as can be – a victory for the common man.

What really gets me is the little details – the landline phones like Battlestar Galactica, Kelle’s touch starvation, Arjun’s casual romance with another man and how this interacts with his feelings for “his person” Kelle, the description of the sun room (which sounds exactly like coffee hour at St. Peter’s-by-the-Sea[tm]), the way they guess the ineffeable intentions of “them.” Per Carla Ra’s recent article, I very much write solarpunk as if it were fantasy, and I get the feeling Weald does too. These little details make Pod North feel not only real, but somehow familiar. I feel like I could live there.

This was first, but far from only, story I enjoyed from The Future’s So Bright… Tune in Thursday for a midnight visit to the “Night Circus.”


The Future So Bright

“Emergence,” by A. M. Weald

“Night Circus,” by Regina Clarke

“The Comforting,” by Kevin David Anderson

“Lady Jade,” by Maureen Bowden

The Future So Bright four-star review

“Knitting Weather,” by Wendy Nikel

“Knitting Weather” – Wendy Nikel

This is a perfect little exemplar of science fiction. It is a precisely-cut, perfect cameo of how modern literary science fiction works, breathes, and executes. If any of your friends ask “what is science fiction?” or, more precisely, “what is short science fiction?” then show them this story. Like it or don’t, they will understand.

The story is about Mary, last resident of Dusty Creek, AZ. Dusty Creek has been slowly clearing out because while cities like Phoenix and Albuquerque can buy weather machines, giving them tourist weather and perfect crop-growing seasons, the pent-up weather dumps on little places who can’t afford their own weather machines. Places like Dusty Creek.

Mary refuses to leave, either in the face of the common sense (which is neither) of the townspeople or the appeals of her Aunt Bea. Mary keeps thinking of her grandmother, the “tornado in size five boots,” what Gran would have done, how Gran would have responded, how Gran would have had the personality and the will to bring the town back from the dead. Gran had helped build this town.

Until Aunt Bea silently reminds her that Gran had come from somewhere else. Mary looks up from her furious, stubborn knitting to look on the photo of Gran and Aunt Bea in the refugee camp, over across the sea, from whence the two women had come to Dusty Creek. She looks down in her hands, at the ugly, too-tight stitches on the sock she’d started, and goes to join Aunt Bea on the road to Flagstaff and a new life.

What I love about this story is twofold. First is that it is a true science fiction story – the story would not work without the super-science of the weather machines wreaking havoc on the American Southwest. Second is that it is a true character story – the turning point of the story isn’t the flipping of a switch or the punching of the one Big Bad, it’s looking at a photograph and realizing the world was bigger than she thought it was. It’s the main character seeing the world differently.

The fact that the details of the photograph require us, the reader, to reevaluate Gran and Mary in the light of the new revelation of Gran’s refugee status is just icing on the cake.

I gave “Knitting Weather” seven rocket dragons when I read it, a rating I dole out maybe once a year. I’m keeping an eye out for Wendy Nikel both in Daily Science Fiction and elsewhere. I can’t wait to see her next story.

2020 Nebula Nominees: Short Stories (part II)

Here are the final three stories nominated in the Short Story category. Part I here. Now, we look in the face of storms, go back to the worst of the British Raj, and walk the stacks of alien libraries. Stick around to the end, where I unveil my favorite.


And Now His Lordship is Laughing
Shiv Ramdas

As a rule, I don’t particularly like “wrong and revenge” stories. Death Wish lingers way too long on the horrors of the wrong and then on the horrors of the revenge, and it’s not the only one by a long shot.

But I like this one.

The wrong: The British “Denial of Rice” policy, which was sadly and horrifically real.

The revenge: A doll.

That’s really all you need to know to know why you need to read this story. It navigates the narrow line between the two extremes of this kind of revenge story, it neither forgives its offenders and tries to make them somehow likable, nor does it fetishize either the violence each side does. It doesn’t shy away from it either, the list of trigger warnings is half as long as my arm, but it describes the grim details without lust in its voice. I hammer on this because so, so, so many revenge fantasies fail this, and then you have to shower afterwards.

Instead, “And Now His Lordship Is Laughing” contributes to the ongoing conversation about the British presence in India, especially during World War II, and whether or not they were as bad as the Nazis and fascists they opposed. I can’t weigh in on this conversation, except to say the British in this story are not doing themselves any favors there. But this story is every bit as engaging, and troubling, as Harry Turtledove’s “The Last Article” or Orwell’s obituary of Gandhi.

You should read it.

Moon Phase:
Gibbous

A Catalog of Storms
Fran Wilde

I won’t lie, I didn’t like this story much at first.

I mean, the opening line is excellent:

“The wind’s moving fast again. The weathermen lean into it, letting it wear away at them until they turn to rain and cloud.”

A Catalog of storms

That’s some “clocks were just striking thirteen”-grade opening material.

But that seemed to be where this particular cli-fi/fantasy stopped. Characters came and went, we danced between lists and narrative, it was very emotional, but it just didn’t seem to go anywhere, even when it finally went somewhere.

So what changed my mind? The power of names, and how Fran Wilde uses them, the way A. C. Wise did with titles in “How the Trick is Done“, only more developed? The weird, off-kilter, Bioshock: Infinite air? Or maybe just the power of that opening line?

It was the way I kept hearing snatches of narrative, a day later. The way I could see Lillit go in my mind several days later. The way I started making lists of social and spiritual storms as my prayer beads sat to one side.

Good stories stick with you. Good stories stick with you long after the title and author have fled your mind, so much detritus in the wind and weather. I don’t particularly like this story, still, but I have to admit it is a good story.

Moon Phase:
Quarter

Give the Family My Love
A. T. Greenblatt

I’ve saved this one for last, because I think this story is going to win the Nebula. It sure as Hell deserves it.

It’s an epistolary little tale, all one-sided, from Hazel “the last astronaut” to her brother Saul (and his wife Huang) as she treads across a barren planet and into an alien Library. She talks about the barren planet, and about the aliens, and about her research, and about the information she’s looking for and why.

She also talks a lot about how badly humanity has doomed itself, because she’s an anthropologist and has read a lot of history. She watched the Great Plains burn and the Pacific Northwest with it. She’s the last astronaut, not because she wants to, but because she was the only one qualified and because there’s not enough resources for astronauts. She doubts whether there’ll be resources for a government in the near future.

And she talks about hope, because in the end, that’s what this story is about. Whenever anyone talks about ‘hopepunk,’ they can refer to this story as their Exhibit A. It treats Saul’s hope as a subversive stance, Hazel’s pessimism as the only sound and sensible approach. We don’t get to hear Saul’s side, but we hear his influence, feel the shadow of his long arm.

And in the end, it might just save the world. Might. Ya gotta have hope.

And, honestly, it’s stories like this that made me read science fiction in the first place.

Moon Phase:
Full

Next time: Novelettes, the forgotten length. Tune in next week, same time, same channel!

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