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Category: reviews (Page 3 of 3)

“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.

Short Stories: “Timekeepers’ Symphony” by Ken Liu

I forgot these sorts of stories ever existed, ever could exist.

Ken Liu needs no introduction – here is the man who translated and advocated for The Three-Body Problem, who showed us paper tigers and dandelion kings, the man who I jokingly referred to as the eight-foot tall invisible giant of Chinese-American science fiction. But the story, the story could use introducing. “Timekeepers’ Symphony” just debuted this September 1, in the pages and electrons of Clarkesworld. It takes just enough time (ha) to make its point, and leaves you to contemplate it for days after. It is the riveting story of…

No one.

There is no protagonist here, no character development that Dostoevsky would recognize. It is a description of approaches to time, on various of humanity’s colony worlds and back on Earth in Hawai’i. How some people live an entire lifetime in an afternoon, others over centuries with a deliberateness and gravity far beyond kings. The troubles of trying to import time from one locale to another. J. Robert Oppenheimer’s contributions to divisions of time. The elaborate timepieces, fast and slow, each world prizes as part of its identity, Earth included. And the harmonious whole of this cacophony, the cosmos underlying the chaos, Earth’s precisely-kept atomic second, the fundamental block of all human timekeeping, wherever in the cosmos it is.

That’s it. That’s the whole story.

And you’ll walk away from it wondering at your watch, and wondering how to import time from your home to your workplace, since they so clearly operate on different clocks.

Clarkesworld, Sept. 1, 2022

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go write a tour of various planets’ tea cultures…

Short Stories: “Animale dei Morti” by Nick DiChario

Bonne année à tous!


Hopefully the New Year is treating us all well. One of the things I’d like more of this year is talking about short stories. Outside award season (or major controversies), we don’t talk much about short stories, novellas, and novelettes compared to novels, even when they’re as innovative, or as thought-provoking, or as startling. So, starting this year, I’m going to talk about the short stories I think are cool.

And first up is a fantastic one that had me alternately sighing and bursting out laughing: Nick DiChario‘s “Animale dei Morti,” from this month’s issue of The Magazine of Science Fiction & Fantasy.

I’m clearly not the only one who loved it, since Franco made the cover.

In his introduction, DiChario explained that he wanted to write an “Italian fairy tale,” and the fairy tale notes are all over the work. But this isn’t the Brothers Grimm by a long shot. It’s ribald and funny and clearly delights in the startling details and the imagined squeamish reactions of its listeners. You can clearly imagine, say, Sonny Corleone telling this story, and bursting out laughing at the over-the-top bits. I’d say he did his homework, but DiChario clearly enjoys reading Italian fairy tales the way I enjoy reading Chinese tales, and it makes it a delight to read.

Marco is about to get married to Marianna, the prettiest girl in the Villaggo delle Ombre, when his older brother Franco gets killed. This is a problem for Marco, since family traddition demands the elder brother stand as best man for the younger. It’d be bad luck if Franco weren’t there. So he goes to the village witch, Brunilda, to bring Franco back from the dead. La strega agrees, on three conditions: that he defend her honor whenever she is slandered, that he take full responsibility for Franco, and that he deliver her a bottle of his best, by hand, every day of his life.

The meat of the story is the next forty eight hours as Franco lives it up as much as an undead man can, Marco tries desperately to keep him in check, and Marianna grows furious with her new in-laws. And, always in the ombres, Brunilda, whose magic weaves through the tale.

Obviously, I love this story. I love the interactions between Franco and Marco and Marianna, I love how sardonic and self-aware (but still serious) Brunilda is. Most of all, I love the life in these lines, the sheer joie de vivre. It really does feel like Sonny Corleone is telling it over a couple glasses of wine, laughing at the funny bits and sometimes (like the requirements to put Franco back) laughing so hard he can barely keep telling it. It was an absolute joy to read just for the telling of it.

But the reason I’m highlighting this story is, ironically, the reason the next paragraph’s un-highlighted and in shadows.

(Spoilers ahead)

With fairy tale retellings or fresh tales, there’s an almost-obligatory twist ending. It’s why I don’t enjoy fractured fairy tales very much, because too many of them either contort the rest of the story around the twist, or the twist is an afterthought that falls flat. This Italian fairy tale has its twist ending – of course Marco loses Maria and his estate on account of his brother, that’s old as Aesop. The twist ending is just as expected: he becomes betrothed to the witch instead.

The neat part is what happens next: Marco isn’t happy. DiChario makes a point of describing his sunken cheeks, the loss of his good looks, his loss of will or verve.

Indeed, the narrative switches almost seamlessly into a discussion of witches, and this witch Brunilda in particular, and it ends as her story as Marco is subsumed into her own will. And maybe it’s always been her story, not Marco’s. A conventional twist ending on this kind of fractured fairy tale would be for Marco to discover that the witch was his fate after all, and that is not how DiChario plays it.

This is what made this whole amusing story keep bouncing around in my brain, days later, when the more serious stories were all muddying together. This twist on a twist and the way it really does make me rethink the entire tale up to that point. I don’t want to say it’s punching above its weight class, but it’s not what you expected of the ribald, funny story in this month’s issue, is it?

(End of spoilers)

Pick up a copy of F&SF this month because Sheree Renée Thomas knows her stuff, because other stories like Maiga Doocy‘s “Salt Calls to Salt” and Innocent Chizaram Ilo‘s “The City and the Thing Beneath It” are moving and well-done…but especially because “Animale dei Morti” calls to you like the call of the unquiet dead who want to sing and drink a little wine again before they go, no matter who they burn down.

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