Tag: 2020

Beyond the Dragon’s Gate by Yoon Ha Lee

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Beyond the Dragon’s Gate by Yoon Ha Lee (Tor.com, 20th May 2020) opens with Anna, an ex-academic who used to work in AI research, arriving at an orbital fortress after being abducted by the military. After seeing the wreckage of several spaceships she learns from the Marshal commanding the military that the AIs that control these vessels have been committing suicide. He then tells her that he wants her to communicate with them mind to mind to find out why (even though her academic partner Rabia died from this process during their research).
When the Marshall takes her to see one of the surviving ships, Proteus Three, Anna sees how radical the previously discussed modifications have been:

They’d emerged above what Anna presumed was a ship’s berth, except for its contents. Far below them, separated from them by a transparent wall, the deck revealed nothing more threatening—if you didn’t know better—than an enormous lake of syrupy substance with a subdued rainbow sheen. Anna gripped the railing and pressed her face against the wall, fascinated, thinking of black water and waves and fish swarming in the abyssal deep.
[. . .]
“You’re going to have to give me an access port,” Anna said after she’d taken two deep breaths. She stared at the beautiful dark lake as though it could anesthetize her misgivings. “Does it—does it have some kind of standard connection protocol?”
The Marshal pulled out a miniature slate and handed it over.
Whatever senses the ship/lake had, it reacted. A shape dripped upwards from the liquid, like a nereid coalescing out of waves and foam, shed scales and driftwood dreams. Anna was agape in wonder as the ship took on a shape of jagged angles and ragged curves. It coalesced, melted, reconstituted itself, ever-changing.
“Talk to it,” the Marshal said. “Talk to it before it, too, destroys itself.”

The story ends (spoiler) with Anna communicating with the ship until she starts having convulsions. The Marshal breaks the link and then, after Anna recovers, she tells him the modifications that they have made to the spaceships have left the AIs with suicidal levels of dysphoria.
This story has a colourful setting and some interesting detail (the background war, the fish-dragon pets, the orbital fortresses, etc.), and the amorphous, water-like spaceships are intriguingly strange—but the resolution is too abrupt, and leaves the story feeling like an extract from a longer work. I’d also add that the reason for the AIs’ suicides reduces what is here to a simplistic trans message.
** (Average). 3,900 words. Story link.

Magnificent Maurice or the Flowers of Immortality by Rati Mehrotra

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Magnificent Maurice or the Flowers of Immortality by Rati Mehrotra (Lightspeed #126, November 2020) concerns a cat and a witch that live in a cottage between the roots of Yggdrasil:

It stands at the nexus of worlds, dark matter coiling around its roots, the rim of the universe held aloft by its ever-expanding crown. Its branches bend spacetime, its cordate leaves uphold the laws of physics, and its tiny white flowers grant immortality.
Let us be more specific. One flower grants immortality, two flowers cause a prolonged and painful death, three flowers the obliteration of an entire species. It does not pay to be greedy.

The story is mostly about Maurice the cat who, apart from having to defend the tree from various interlopers, has other problems to deal with:

Time flows differently here. Maurice is not immortal, and neither is the witch. They are also not as young as they used to be. There are other cats now, milling about the cottage, meowing for the witch’s attention. One day, one of them will take his place.
But not yet. Oh, not yet. Maurice raises his head and casts a yellow-eyed glare at the tortoiseshell that has just landed on the edge of the roof. To his astonishment, she does not retreat. He allows his fur to stand up, his lips to curl away from his sharp white teeth.
“Good morning, Maurice,” she says smoothly. “Surely the roof is big enough for both of us?”
Maurice’s astonishment turns to rage. A mere kitten, challenging his territory! The roof is his. The tree is also his. He will die defending it. The witch knows this, knows how good he is at his job, and yet she has allowed these . . . these . . . children to invade his home!
He rises in all his torn-eared, ragged-furred glory and arches his back, hissing like a storm of bees.
The tortoiseshell regards him, unfazed, out of bright green eyes. “There’s chopped sardines for snack. In case you want to join us.” She turns to leave. “My name is Butterscotch,” she tosses over her shoulder. She leaps down, as silently as she came.

The next part of the tale sees Maurice telling the other cats about his first battle, and how he used one of his nine lives to create a doppelganger that helped him defeat the demon beetles that attacked the tree (we also learn that subsequent battles mean he now has only one life left). Then Time passes: a God visits the tree in an attempt to steal one of its fruit so it can form a new Galaxy; meanwhile, Butterscotch and the other cats bring Maurice treats and try to ingratiate themselves.
The story eventually comes to a climax when a human called Ulhura visits the tree to steal a flower which will grant her dying lover immortality. When Maurice defends the tree, she manages to imprison him in a cage. Maurice is conflicted and does not know whether to use his last life to burst out of his enclosure and attack her, or grant her wish—then, after considering the matter, he decides to offer her a job (the witch is old like him, and would welcome an apprentice). As Maurice and Ulhura discuss the pros and cons of immortality (mostly cons, according to Maurice) and the job offer, the tree is attacked by vampire corpses: Maurice manages to convince Ulhura to release him, and the other cats also join the battle to repel the invaders. All ends well.
This is a charming, if slight, tale. But definitely one for cat lovers.
*** (Good). 4,550 words. Story link.

Songs of Activation by Andy Dudak

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Songs of Activation by Andy Dudak (Clarkesworld, December 2020) is set in a Galactic Empire future, and opens with Pinander at college reciting one of his set texts. After this, he meets his friends for lunch:

Pinander’s mind expands with activated Lore. He sits with Jain and Philo.
“Alright?”
A penitent Jain hunches over her steaming bowl.
Philo studies a scroll. “I’m not going to make it,” he says.
“Where are you?” Pinander says.
“The Temple Odes.”
Pinander explains the Temple Odes were songs. “Some verse lends itself to silent reading, but not the Odes. You should be reciting or singing.”
Jain giggles in her soup steam.
Pinander reckons Philo is doomed. Intelligence goes a long way in the imperial service exam, but shyness can hobble you. There are soundproofed study rooms for students like Philo, but to pass the exams you must study constantly: at meals, in showers, in the loo, to and from study groups, as you drift off to sleep. There’s a lot of verse like the Odes. If you don’t recite or sing, Lore will go un-activated, remaining useless noise in your skull.

We learn that the students spend several years in an aestivation facility dubbed “The Crypt” before they come to college, during which time a huge body of knowledge called the Lore is downloaded into them. Afterwards they have to activate it by reading or reciting or singing various texts.
The rest of the story sees Philo commit suicide, and Jain drop out, but only after she passes on the revolutionary idea that there was another context written for the Lore by a poet called Sinecure. Further academic and counter-revolutionary intrigue follows (a Professor makes a cryptic remark that takes root in Pinandar’s “activated mind”) and the story eventually proceeds to an ending (spoiler) where Pinander manages to track down a scroll written by Sinecure and uses it to gain a dual view of his Lore and the Empire.
The core idea of this story is a bit unlikely, and much that follows is either a hand-wavey development of that idea or a rather over-elaborate description of college students and parental pressure and revolutionary intrigue in a far-future Imperial Empire (i.e. too much description and not enough story). It also has an ending that seems a bit unfocused. Ultimately, I guess I liked this, but it takes some getting into, and I’d understand if people bounced off it.1
*** (Good). 5,850 words. Story link.

1. This story got a mixed response in one of my Facebook groups.

The Garden Where No One Ever Goes by P. H. Lee

Posted on by Paul Fraser

The Garden Where No One Ever Goes by P. H. Lee (Beneath Ceaseless Skies #373, 3rd December 2020) sees a young girl meet her lover in a deserted garden in the middle of a city; there, she gives them a pale red rose and they make love.
Later, as the young girl and her sister are getting magic lessons from their mother, the sister mentions that there are pale red roses growing in the deserted gardens, and that it appears like “the sort of magic a foolish young girl might make, if she were slipping away from her house to meet her lover in the middle of the night.”
The young girl continues to meet her lover there (the deserted garden is now full of roses) until, eventually, the Inquisition comes to question her about her liaison. The story then ends (spoiler) with the lover being hanged and the girl witnessing the event, whereupon her magic causes water to pour out of her and wash everything away.
This tale of forbidden and doomed love was too slight and too dreamlike for me.
* Mediocre. 1500 words. Story link.

Burn or the Episodic Life of Sam Wells as a Super by A. T. Greenblatt

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Burn or the Episodic Life of Sam Wells as a Super by A. T. Greenblatt (Uncanny #34. May-June 2020) opens with the would be “Super” (superhero) of the story, an accountant called Sam Wells (who has some ability to produce fire, although not always in a controlled fashion), interviewing to join his local “Super Team”. Most of the assembled superheroes seems unimpressed or uninterested in him:

 “I would really be grateful if I could join you,” Sam says, clasping his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking.
Twenty-four pairs of eyes turn to look at him again. But this time they aren’t empty stares. This time, they are filled with heartache and grief and despair.
“Okay,” says the man in gray, “I’ll go get the papers you need to sign.” He drops his gaze and in an afterthought adds, “Congratulations.”
And just like that, Sam’s a member of the Super Team.
The hours of standing in front of the mirror, practicing control, paid off. Except there are no introductions or chocolate cake. No smiles or welcomes.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman in magenta tells him before heading to the exit.
Twenty-four pairs of eyes have found something else to look at. Twenty-four pairs of feet shuffle out. And soon all that’s left in the room are twenty-four empty chairs and Sam.
Watch Sam burn.

This uninspiring beginning to Sam’s superhero career takes another nose-dive when he finds out from Miranda, the Supers’ Office Manager, that they have hired him to be their accountant. However, over time, and with the help of Miranda, he learns to control his talent and slowly integrates into the team. After further complications (e.g., he is refused service in a shop because of what he is, then Lance, the team precognitive, warns him that he shouldn’t stay with the team), he becomes the hero of the piece (spoiler) when he rushes into their burning headquarters after it has been set alight by an arsonist. After this Sam learns to accept what he is and how his life has worked out.
I’m not really interested in superhero stories (especially movies, which are usually endless and violent power fantasies), but this is a reasonably well-done variation on the trope—and one which views super powers (especially only partially controllable ones) as a curse or disability more than a boon. And, of course, the story still manages to squeeze in a couple of scenes where the Team use their superpowers!
*** (Good). 10,200 words. Story link.

Laws of Impermanence by Ken Schneyer

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Laws of Impermanence by Ken Schneyer (Uncanny #36, September-October 2020) is set in a world where text is never permanent but constantly changes:

In his Physics, Aristotle declared that textual transmutation accelerates over time, and that its rate depends on the length of the manuscript. No one questioned this doctrine until after Gutenberg, when it was found that even moveable type metamorphosed on its racks. Galileo Galilei was the first to test Aristotle’s assertion by rigorous experiment, creating multiple copies of manuscripts of various length, as well as printed books, and examining them against correctors’ copies repeatedly over a period of a decade. He determined, first, that all texts transmute at the same rate, roughly one word out of every fifty in a year; second, that this rate does not change with time; and third, that all changes are what he called “sensible,” meaning that they fit logically within the framework of the larger document and do not betray themselves by presenting apparent gibberish. Indeed, it was his assertion that the Holy Bible would be no less prone to sensible transmutation than secular texts that eventually led to his censure and permanent house arrest.
But it was Isaac Newton who demonstrated that textual transmutation was an inherent property of writing itself, devising his three Laws of Impermanence and describing mathematically the forces that make them inevitable.

Interwoven with the conceptual development of this idea are two other narrative threads: one is a story of a lawyer and a client family who have only two original copies of their father’s will (both of which have suffered 25 years of transmutation); the other concerns a letter from the estranged wife of Philip, the grandfather of that family, to her friend:

I’m writing this in a hurry and I’m going to put it someplace safe. I hope to God that you’ll never have to read it, that I’ll be able to tell you in person. But I thought I’d better get it down on paper in case the worst happens.
I’m frightened that Philip wants to kill me. He threatened to do it right after the divorce, and I almost went to the police, but he never repeated the threat, and I thought I was safe.
But today I’m not so sure. A neighbor on the island who’d been down at the port said she saw a tall man with a beard and a coat that sounded just like Philip’s, and I’m afraid he’s come here to do what he said he’d do.
I’m going to try to get away right now, to hide somewhere on the other side of the island. But if, God forbid, I wind up dead, remember: it’s Philip who killed me.

During the story (spoiler) this letter metamorphoses into one that is more vague (this second version suggests that, if anything happens to her, Philip is “morally responsible”) and then, finally, into a suicide note.
This is a conceptually clever piece of ideation that is well developed (I liked all the scientific references to scientists we know for other discoveries) and has a neat twist ending. I suspect it will appeal to, among others, admirers of Ted Chiang’s work.
***+ (Good to Very Good). 4,100 words. Story link.

The Past, Like a River in Flood by Marissa Lingen

Posted on by Paul Fraser 3 Comments on The Past, Like a River in Flood by Marissa Lingen

The Past, Like a River in Flood by Marissa Lingen (Beneath Ceaseless Skies #311, 27th August 2020) sees a geomancer returning to the magical university where she studied twenty years after a disaster that occurred there. She meets her former tutor/advisor, and they go to the walled up “Vault of Potions”—the site of two recent deaths—with the with the aim of opening it and forcing the university to deal with the contamination that has been festering inside ever since:

I’d handed those very stones to the professors who were standing in the entrance walling up the Vault, me and Ev Minor, shin-deep in the floodwaters with that eerie pink glow from the spilled potions’ ill-fated summonings getting brighter every second. That was the night everything I owned washed away and it was the least of my troubles. That was the night we lost Alden Glasshand, my first-year Incantations professor, and two students whose names I’ll never forget but whose faces I can never remember, pulled under the waters by the vortices that had suddenly surged beneath their feet when the powerful magics in the potions were accidentally combined. That was the night we slept on the top floor of the Library and didn’t know if we’d get down in the morning.

The only complication in this otherwise straightforward account is (spoiler) an alchemy professor who intervenes and stabs the narrator’s tutor as they are in the process of opening the vault (the alchemist wants them to leave it alone so the university can continue on as before). The narrator subdues her, and then makes what I presume in the story’s point:

“Putting something behind you doesn’t mean ignoring it. It means making sure it can’t hurt you anymore. It means making sure it can’t hurt anybody anymore.”

The setup/resolution structure of this piece is too simple,1 and seems constructed with the sole purpose of delivering the story’s message. That said, the setting and events are evocatively described.
** (Average). 4,450 words. Story link.

1. I’ve found that a lot of BCS stories feel rather fragmentary.

Silver Door Diner by Bishop Garrison

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Silver Door Diner by Bishop Garrison (FIYAH #16, Autumn 2020) opens with an unaccompanied young boy going into a diner. Tammy the waitress offers him some apple pie if she’ll tell him who he is and who looks after him. He replies that he is on his own, and then she gets ever more enigmatic answers to further questions, including the fact he is studying “how this world ended”. Then, when Tammy asks the boy what game he is playing, he tells her this:

“Susan Culpepper. Eighth grade. In the lunchroom. You made fun of her clothes in front of a group of girls. You said she looked poor and homeless. All of you laughed. At the end of lunch before class, you were in a restroom stall and saw her come in crying. She sobbed for a solid two minutes. Then she left. You wanted to apologize and didn’t. The next week she transferred schools. You never hung around that group of girls again, and to this day you regret never telling her you were sorry. You looked her up on social media more than a dozen times.”
Tammy’s eyes are the size of the saucers sitting behind her on the counter. “I—I never told anymore that story.”
“You told it to me. Susan is married now with two children in a lovely brownstone in Flatbush, Brooklyn. She’s a wealthy author married to an anesthesiologist. Funny how life works. Writing about the abject poverty she survived as a child made her a millionaire. This world loves its irony nearly as much as it does its war.”

The rest of the story details Tammy’s reaction to the above, further personal information about her (apparently the man who comes into the diner every day is secretly in love), and (spoiler) that the boy is an alien being from far, far away.
We finally learn that Earth will be destroyed the next day by two mad dictators, one of whom will fire a burrowing thermonuclear device which will fall into the ocean and tunnel into the Earth’s crust, destroying the planet. This will cause a rift in space-time that creates a thirty-six hour time loop, which the alien/boy will then repeatedly use to visit Earth before its destruction so that it can study humanity. The story closes with the alien saying that this will be its last trip, and Tammy responds (uniquely) by going to track down the man who is in love with her.
This has an intriguing first half, but the more that is revealed the less engaging it becomes. Not bad overall, though.
*** (Good). 4,700 words. Story link.

Egoli by T. L. Huchu

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Egoli by T. L. Huchu (African-futurism, 2020) is an autobiographical piece about an old Shona1 woman which is told in an almost stream-of-consciousness second person:

You remember [Grandfather Panganayi] was proud of that house, the only one in the compound with a real bed and fancy furniture, whose red floor smelled of Cobra and whose whitewashed walls looked stunning in the sunlight compared to the muddy colours of the surrounding huts, just as he was proud of the wireless he’d purchased in Fort Victoria when he was sent there for his training. Through his wireless radio with shiny knobs that no one but he was allowed to touch, the marvels of the world beyond your village reached you via shortwave from the BBC World Service, and because you didn’t speak English, few of you did, the boys that went to school, not you girls, Grandfather Panganayi had to translate the words into Shona for you to hear. In one of those news reports, it was only one of many but this one you still remember because it struck you, they said an American—you do not remember his name—had been fired into the sky in his chitundumuseremusere and landed on the moon.

This is the first of many cultural and technological changes that we see her live through, and in the rest of the piece we see her get married, have children (who later go to work in the egoli, gold mines, of South Africa), and eventually get a mobile phone—something that opens up the world to her (she learns English through online comics, and receives weather reports and farming advice that help her make the most out of her crops).
The story (spoiler) finally morphs from a contemporary piece to an SFnal one when she looks up at the southern night sky and sees a steadily moving dot of light—a spaceship taking her grandson to mine the asteroid belt.
An absorbing story of generational social and technological change, told from an African viewpoint.
*** (Good). 3,450 words. Story link.

1. According to Wikipedia most Shona people live in Zimbabwe.

Yellow and the Perception of Reality by Maureen F. McHugh

Posted on by Paul Fraser

Yellow and the Perception of Reality by Maureen F. McHugh (Tor.com, 22nd July 2020) opens with the narrator visiting her brain-damaged sister, Wanda:

The doctors say that Wanda has global perceptual agnosia. Her eyes, her ears, her fingers all work. She sees, in the sense that light enters her eyes. She sees colors, edges, shapes. She can see the color of my eyes and my yellow blouse. She can see edges—which is important. The doctor says to me that knowing where the edge of something is, that’s like a big deal. If you’re looking down the road you know there’s a road and a car and there is an edge between them. That’s how you know the car is not part of the road. Wanda gets all that stuff: but her brain is injured. She can see but she can’t put all that together to have it make sense; it’s all parts and pieces. She can see the yellow and the edge but she can’t put the edge and the yellow together. I try to imagine it, like a kaleidoscope or something, but a better way to think of it is probably that it’s all noise.

The laboratory accident which caused her injury (and killed two others) may have been Wanda’s fault—we subsequently learn that she was a physicist doing research with a group that had developed a pair of “reality goggles”, a device designed to see the true quantum reality that lies beyond our own perceptions. Or at least I think that what they were designed to do, as the story only tangentially addresses the subject: the closest we get is a meeting between a physics researcher and the narrator towards the end of the story where the physicist attempts to quiz her about her sister’s work. The narrator does not reveal her suspicion that Wanda used the goggles herself.
What we get instead of a development of the core idea is a well written and characterised—but definitely mainstreamish—story that provides, variously: an account of the two sisters’ childhood; an interview with a detective who quizzes her about the two men who got killed in the accident; Wanda having a bad episode at the care home; and a visit to Claude the octopus, the team’s experimental subject who is now living in an aquarium.
This piece has an intriguing idea at its heart but, as with a couple other stories I’ve read by McHugh, it is a road to nowhere.1
**+ (Average to Good). 8,750 words. Story link.

1. Useless Things (Eclipse Three, 2009), for example.