This issue marks the first anniversary of Ibn Qirtaiba and the SF SIG. What do you think so far? Judging from the comments I've received it seems the SIG and magazine are adequately fulfilling their mandate as a forum for intelligent discussion about SF. The first SIG event, a video marathon held in Perth, went down well with the few who attended, and another event is being planned as we speak. The number of members is on the modest side (partly due to the recurrent and inexplicable failure of the SIG to appear in the list of SIGs in Tableaus), so if you have any Mensan friends who might be interested in joining, please encourage them to do so!
Our anniversary issue continues the "Worlds of Fandom" series on cult media SF with a look at Blake's 7, gives you a taste of the current news-stand and bookshop offerings with a feature on reviews, and concludes with part 2 of Other People's Flesh. Yes, I know, the second installment is even pulplier than the first, but fear not, the point of the story will be revealed in part 3. (Besides, if you people are as intelligent as you're supposed to be, you should have worked it out already!)
Does anyone remember the episode of Couchman from a few years back which dealt with the topic of science fiction? I watched it again on video the other day. Apart from the spectacle of a psychiatrist delivering his professional judgment on a brood of demented Rocky Horror fans, and an hilarious mime interpretation of Captain Scarlet, the programme raised a few interesting points. For instance: is science fiction nothing more than escapism? And: is science fiction a modern substitute for religion?
Before the academic who raised the latter question was booed off the floor, he noted that the "cults" which form around SF TV series and movies (not so much books) are actually described by a religious term. Devotees of Barbara Cartland novels, football and stamp collecting, by comparison, don't seem to go to such cultic lengths in the appreciation of their interests. There is something about SF which inspires fanaticism of an entirely different order, certainly to any other literary genre. This "something" may indeed be the feeling of awe which only religion used to be able to muster. If so, it would be ironic that the primary cause of the downfall of the religious paradigm in Western society - scientific enlightenment - has also served, through literature, to replace the loss that downfall has left in the human soul. Hopefully some of you will disagree, and will write in to tell me so.
Worlds of Fandom: Blake's
7
In 1978, the first episode of Britain's second most famous SF series (after Doctor Who) went to air. Created by Terry Nation, who was best known for creating the Daleks, Blake's 7 was a gritty, violent and character-driven space drama that has been called both the BBC's answer to Star Wars, and, less accurately, the British Star Trek.
In a nutshell, the series began as follows: Roj Blake, a leader of an underground resistance movement, was captured by the intergalactic Federation against which he fought, and purged of his memories. Contacted by the resistance again, he was instructed to abstain from food and drink, so as to lessen the effect of the tranquillising drugs with which they were spiked by the Federation to keep its populace docile. He was taken to a secret meeting with his old colleagues, but the meeting was invaded by Federation troops and his friends gunned down. He escaped but was captured on his return, convicted of a trumped-up charge, and sentenced to serve time on a penal planet. En route, the ship transporting the prisoners came across an abandoned craft of astounding alien technology. The captain of the ship decided to claim it for his own, and sent his crew to check it out. Inexplicably, they did not survive. His options reduced, the captain decided to send some of the criminals to check it out instead. They did survive, and not only checked the craft out, but took off in it to become the Federation's most wanted band of rebels, dedicated to overthrowing its corrupt and repressive rule.
The original crew of the Liberator and the Blake's 7 of the title were Blake, Avon, Vila, Jenna, Cally, Gan and Orac. The last of these was notable for having been stolen by the others - he was a unique computer which was networked throughout the galaxy. He had electronic company in the ship's computer Zen, who, as the name suggests, was an altogether more taciturn creature. Much of the series followed their pursuit by the principal villainess of the series, Supreme Commander Servalan, initially through the agency of her brutal henchman Travis.
However little more can be said of Blake's 7 which did not change over the course of the series' four seasons and 52 fifty minute episodes. For instance, the Liberator was destroyed, and Scorpio became its replacement (with Slave as Zen's successor). New members joined; others, including Blake himself, left.
One of the most popular aspects of the series is that its characters, being mostly criminals, are not the clean-cut heroes we are used to from Star Trek, or even the loveable rouge type, such as Han Solo. Avon, a computer expert, is cold, cynical and selfish. Vila is a coward. Orac is annoying. Even Blake, whose principled hate of the Federation is what holds the crew together, is distrusted and disliked by most of them (especially Avon).
But the brutality displayed by the Federation in the first episode - and throughout the series - never leaves us in any doubt about who the bad guys really are. Instead, the faults that the main characters display only help the audience to suspend their disbelief about what, it must be said, is on the surface a fairly hackneyed SF scenario (especially post-Star Wars, which, having debuted the previous year, was an obvious influence).
Another distinctive attribute of the series was that one could not always be sure that Blake's 7 would win out. Unlike the stars of many SF series, they were demonstrably mortal. In fact, the last episode of the series is infamous for having the entire crew gunned down by the Federation (except for Blake, the manner of whose death I will not reveal, for those who are not aware of it). On the other hand, fans of the series have written numerous fictional accounts of how the entire crew, despite appearances, managed to survive this incident!
As is the tradition with SF TV series (at least pre-Star Trek: The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine), Blake's 7's budget was rather pitiful. But what the production team had, they put to effective use. Existing futuristic-looking locations such as factories were employed as Federation facilities, and model work was of a standard never before seen on television. It has to be said that Blake's 7 outshone the Doctor Who of the same period (viz. the downhill run of Tom Baker's era).
With the recent release of the entire set of original episodes on video, Blake's 7 has gained more new fans. Its continued popularity makes the current dearth of new British television SF all the more difficult to comprehend.
"Alright, we know you're in there! But let me tell ya, Algenon, no laboratory rat has ever left here alive!"
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As promised last issue, a feature on reviews; two literary and two media. (OK, so the media reviews are literary also, but hey, my VCR's on the blink!)
The New Doctor Who Adventures - No Future, by Paul
Cornell: If you thought that the Doctor's adventures had
wound up with the last episode of Survival in 1989, you
must have missed the 25 New Adventures which have been published
since then. In many ways they have actually surpassed the TV
series, excellent as it was (and, if Amblin Entertainment have
anything to do with it, will be). 
The New
Adventures are dark, cutting edge 90s SF, both more complex and
less predictable than the TV series ever was. However since many
of their authors are fans rather than professional writers, the
literary technique of the novels often leaves something to be
desired.
No Future is an exception. It makes up the concluding chapter of the five novel Alternative Universe Cycle, which has seen the Doctor pitted against an unknown protagonist who has been changing the course of history around him. This mystery gentleman (who should be familiar to long-time fans of Doctor Who) is revealed early on in No Future, along with a couple of other of well-known Doctor Who foes for good measure. These and numerous other references to Who lore (including UNIT, once again) are fully explained in the text, and don't detract from the flow of the plot for those not versed in the series.
The story takes place in London, 1976, at the dawning of the Punk movement. But unlike the 1976 we know, anarchy really has hit the UK, at the hands of a terrorist group known as Black Star. As the Doctor arrives on the scene, riots are breaking out, Big Ben is blown up and an assassination attempt on the Queen narrowly fails. Worst of all, the CD player is invented a decade too early. Knowing as little as anyone about what is really going on, the Doctor has only his deteriorating wits to to halt the tide of decay and discover who has been meddling with his history.
The Brigadier and RSM Benton join Ace and Benny as the Doctor's companions in No Future (Benny being Bernice Summerfield, who debuted in Cornell's Love and War). Benny, who becomes the lead singer of a punk band for the course of the adventure, remains the more likeable companion, while Ace (whose personality has taken a sharp turn for the homicidal since her return from Dalek killing in Deceit) offers the Doctor more hostility than support:
The Doctor paused, and made a decision. "I did wonder, would you like to go home, back to where you'd be if you'd stayed on Earth? We could make a short hop -"
"Piss off! You think I'd want to go back there now? You don't know me that well, do you?"
The Doctor handed her a cup. "Perhaps not. I wondered why you'd come back. You seem... distant. Not really here."
"Cos I'm not blubbering all the time and running to you for help? Yeah, right, I'm not here. You can just treat me like I'm not here, and I'll get off at the first place I like, okay?" (p.59)
Thankfully the TARDIS crew leave the adventure reconciled to each other somewhat; whether permanently or not remains to be seen.
Paul Cornell's third New Adventure is a complex book, which, despite its recourse to the hackneyed New Adventure themes of Gallifreyan politics, returning enemies, New Age metaphysics and VR, also manages to pull a few surprises. Without revealing any of them here, suffice it to say that No Future is an engaging, well written and fast-paced read.
If you are a fan of the series and are finding the wait for Amblin's new season hard to take, I recommend No Future as therapy. Even if you didn't follow Doctor Who on TV, maybe you should give the books a try. You could do worse than starting with No Future.
Eidolon, Autumn 1994: Eidolon is one of Australia's two well-respected semi-prozines of science fiction and fantasy; the other, of course, being Aurealis. The latest issue of the former contains the usual mixed bag of stories, and the quality is as high as it ever has been.
The issue begins with Sean Williams' oddly-titled
but clever The Jackie Onassis Swamp-Buggy Concerto, which
concerns a race between modified dropships on an isolated methane
moon. Exactly what possesses the participants to risk life and
limb in this race composes the twist in the tail of the story.
Next, an intelligently cynical conversation between Australian authors Sean McMullen and Terry Dowling about that perennial convention topic, cyberpunk. Like me, they are distinctly underwhelmed. Terry describes it as "little more than a carefully reified storm in a chipped and retro-fitted teacup" (translation: nothing new or original, but given a trendy name for the media to latch onto). Sean agrees, noting that "cyberpunk's most important characteristic is its language".
In the Half-Light by Marguerite Lawrence is a melancholy fantasy which treads the fine line between enchanting and cute. It tells of the changelings (mythical creatures such as mermaids and unicorns) who live among us, but go unrecognised by ordinary humans.
Waiting for Godzilla is a critical essay in the form of a Socratic dialogue, largely concerned with the director's cut of Blade Runner. The rhetorical conversants conclude rather pessimistically that "violent self-parody is establishing itself as the the standard sci-fi". This is probably true, at least on the silver screen. What we need is a genre-busting film from left field to reinvigorate the SF movie scene, as Star Wars did (for better or for worse) almost two decades ago. Perhaps the second Star Wars trilogy, foreshadowed for the near future? Perhaps not.
Robert Hood's Rotting Eggplant on the Bottom Shelf of a Fridge is my pick for the best story of the issue. Consider a fridge whose contents, pristine after three weeks unattended, decay in a matter of seconds (except for the eponymous eggplant), and the city of Sydney which appears to be doing the same...
Mary Denison's To Dream of Those Elysian Fields is a VR story with a twist. In the author's vision, it's neither the idle rich nor young techno-brats who make the most use of cyberspace, but the patrons of retirement homes, who either don't want to spend their last years in the real world, or whose children can't afford to keep them there.
Terry Dowling's A Woman Sent Through Time is another VR story, but like no other. It involves Aboriginal cyberculture, whereby AI simulations are used as a way of bringing back the Dreamtime. As usual for Mr Dowling, there are a book full of other ideas thrown into the mixture too, including some interesting speculation on the future structure of Australian society.
Amongst the books reviewed in this issue are the excellent Terry Dowling and Van Ikin edited compilation Mortal Fire, and Greg Egan's long-awaited Permutation City. The latter is not only a mind-blowing read, but incidentally a conclusive critique of Michael LaMoreaux's article "Human Consciousness" in May's Mensa International Journal Supplement, in which he denies the possibility of artificial consciousness. (LaMoreaux appears to be contending that since the thoughts of an artificial mind would be capable of representation in a book, and since a book cannot be conscious, neither can the computer responsible for the generation of those thoughts. But since when is a conscious mind no more than the sum of its thoughts?)
If you haven't discovered Eidolon yet, you're missing out. The Autumn issue is available now at specialty bookshops, and the Winter issue should be out by the time you read this.
Star Trek The Official Fan Club of Australia, Winter 1994: It's taken 28 years, but Paramount have finally cashed in on their flagship franchise down under by establishing "Star Trek The Official Fan Club of Australia". It may be an awkward title for a club, but Paramount like it so much that they've called the club magazine by the same name. The premiere issue hit the news-stands this month.
For your $6.50 (news-stand price) you get 42 full colour pages containing news, four interviews, a feature on Deep Space Nine and no less than eight pages of merchandise to order (have no doubts about Paramount's motivation for establishing the club!) The presentation of the magazine is uniformly excellent, in stark contrast to Data, the fanzine which it effectively replaces, but which is edited by the same team. The pages are glossy, photographs abound, and the colour palette appropriately recalls the designer pastels of the Next Generation Enterprise.
"Star Trek Communique" begins the proceedings with more news on the upcoming series Star Trek: Voyager, which is slated for its US debut next January. Yes, there will be a female captain, as well as a Vulcan and a holographic character. This last will no doubt be a springboard for more stories on the nature of virtual consciousness, which to date has only really been touched on in the TNG episodes 11001001, Elementary My Dear Data and the Dixon Hill stories. News is also given of the Generations feature film and the final double episode of Next Generation, All Good Things....
The feature article of
this issue is an interview with Brent Spiner, alias Lieutenant
Commander Data, the android from Star Trek: The Next
Generation. In a surprisingly candid interview for a
Paramount-approved publication, Spiner seems pleased to see the
end of the show after seven years, saying "178 hours of
anything is quite enough"!
Terry Farrell, a relative newcomer as Lieutenant Jadzia Dax from Deep Space Nine, is a little more positive, as, of course, is Michael Piller, Executive Producer of Star Treks TNG, Deep Space Nine and Voyager. Any readers who wish to become immediately rich and famous may be interested to hear that Michael's staff make a point of reading every storyline pitched at them.
The aforementioned merchandise pages will be a godsend for anyone who has ever longed for a $127 bookend, a $62 cardboard stand-up model of your favourite TNG character, or a $60 copy of Captain Picard's console bank which says such things as "Away team, prepare to energise" in Data's voice. (Query: why Data's voice, when it is Picard's console bank?)
The feature on Deep Space Nine is effectively a reprint of a two year old Paramount press release describing the major characters. If you don't know them by now, I advise you to wait until mid-July when CIC will be releasing the first four sell-through videos at the highly reasonable price of $20.
More interesting is the interview with Production Designer Herman Zimmerman, who reveals that he was called upon to design Star Trek-style interiors for the US Defence Department's crisis control centre! And these people are supposed to be protecting us from nuclear attack?
For a first issue, the magazine is extremely impressive and worth the high cover price. However there are pros and cons to all Paramount sanctioned material, as hard-core Trek fans will attest. On the pro side, you get interviews with all of the biggest stars and production personnel, and colour photos galore. On the con side, you're never going to get the full story. Don't cancel your Data subscription just yet.
Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, June 1994: The sister publication of Analog: Science Fiction and Fact, Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine has a reputation for publishing new and emerging SF writers, and it has garnered much praise and several awards for doing so. The latest issue of Asimov's is of typical quality, and available now at your local newsagent.
The novella this issue is The Mermaid's Comb by Mary Rosenblum. It continues the tale of the genetically engineered sea creatures owned by the Tanaka corporation. Leta is a Selkie (similar to a mermaid), who falls in love with Arlo, a genetically altered human who is interfaced with a submarine-like body. Leta is faced with a dilemma when an act of arson is committed. It's kind of nice, but ultimately unmemorable.
In a similar vein is the novelette, Steven Popkes' Whistle in the Dark. (Incidentally, what is the difference between a novelette and a short story? It sure ain't the word length, judging from this issue). Much like his novel Slow Lightning, this story isn't so much based around plot, as the integration of human and profoundly alien cultures. A new twist to this tale is the question of what happens when a human being "goes alien"?
Things really start to pick up with Terry Bisson's Dead Man's Curve, an off-the-wall story about a pocket universe that one enters by travelling around a certain corner, at a certain speed, in a certain type of car, at night. And it actually contains some pseudo-science by way of explanation of this phenomenon!
On Dreams: A Love Story by Maggie Flinn is a gentle speculative fiction number concerning an author who finds his dream woman (literally), achieves happiness, and suffers writer's block in quick succession.
The pick of the issue is The Logic Pool by Stephen
Baxter. OK, I admit it, I'm a sucker for hard SF. 
And
this one's as hard as a titanium-graphite composite. A brilliant
physicist dies alone on a moon of Neptune, an electronic implant
wired to his brain. But how did he die? Might it, per chance,
have had anything to do with the sentient metamathematical
organisms he was breeding? And what the hell are sentient
metamathematical organisms?
James Patrick Kelly's Big Guy is standard VR fare, about what night workers like to do with their virtual bodies in cyberspace. More interesting, in a bizarre sort of way, is Steven Boyett's The Madonna of Port Lligat. The major characters are an American animator and an obvious caricature of Salvador Dali, but interposed between their interactions (in a different typeface) are the most surreal passages Asimov's has ever published. If Dali had written SF, this is what he would have written. Weird.
Reviews and letters round off what strikes me as an average, but perfectly acceptable issue. Nevertheless, I encourage you not to buy it. Buy Eidolon instead. It's just as good as Asimov's ever is, but it's local. I tell you, Egan, Dowling, and McMullen are going to be the Asimov, Heinlein and Clarke of tomorrow, and you'll be able to tell people that you read them first!
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The story so far: Mark Heydon was about to make a routine transmat journey to Singapore when the operator of the transmat, who had been having trouble with the machine, inexplicably started shooting at him. A fight ensued and Heydon accidentally killed her. As two tourists entered the transmat cell to find him with blood on his hands, Heydon fled through the building in a panic...
To his right was a grey door marked "Generator Room - Authorised Personnel Only". Heydon found it unlocked and went through it, taking refuge in the dark and the cold beyond. He collapsed onto a pile of cotton waste, and hugged his legs to his chest. For the first time, Heydon wondered what he should do next. If the operator had mistaken him for a terrorist, or something, couldn't he just give himself up, reveal his true identity, and explain that he had killed her in self defence? Or maybe she was a terrorist. That would explain a lot. He might even get a medal for taking her on. But why would she target him? No, that couldn't be right. She looked more like a lunatic than a terrorist. And for all the brutality of her attack, he couldn't help feeling that she hadn't really wanted to kill him.
Heydon's frenzied thoughts were interrupted by an electronic tone from the corridor outside, and then an emotional voice:
"Attention all staff and passengers. A suspected murderer is loose in the terminal. Please do not panic. If you see a man approximately 160 centimetres tall, with brown hair, wearing tan pants, and a green and white short-sleeved shirt, please alert the staff at the information desk. Do not approach or try to detain him. The police will be arriving shortly. Thankyou for your cooperation."
Mark Heydon picked at his shellfish platter with faint distaste. He had realised shortly after he called room service with the order that he had never really liked shellfish. For some reason he had assumed that he would enjoy it more because his employer was paying for it. Giving up on the dish, he rang room service again to ask for a burger.
As he replaced the phone on the bedside table near the window, Heydon's eyes were captured by the magnificent vista outside. Towers of glass and steel shimmered in the heat haze. The green and blue which framed them ran together with the fine rain which spattered the glass. Singapore.
A sharp rap on the door roused him from his contemplation. Evidently his burger had arrived already. When he opened the door, two policemen stood outside, one with hand on holster. "Mr Mark Heydon?", this officer addressed him in unaccented English.
Heydon blinked, still half expecting them to present him with a burger, and depart. They didn't, so he nodded dumbly.
"I am arresting you for the murder of Fay Harper. I must caution you that you do not have to say anything, and that anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand the caution?"
Mark Heydon awoke with a start from dreams of murder and blood. He had no idea what time it was - he hadn't dared leave the dark generator room since he had been branded a criminal over the public address system. Eventually, he had fallen asleep on the cotton waste. Rising and brushing it from his clothes, Heydon elected to risk looking outside. Cautiously, he eased open the cold metal door of the room. The light outside had changed - it was entirely artificial now. It must be night. The transmat terminal didn't close at night, of course, but if he was lucky it might be a little quieter. It was incredible that the police hadn't found him earlier. He closed the door again and considered his options. First, he would have to clean the blood off his hands. He spat on them and rubbed them on the cotton waste. And he would have to change his clothes somehow, or he would have no chance of getting out. His luggage was already in Singapore, presumably, so he would have to improvise. He took off his green and white shirt and put it back on inside out. He had a little trouble with the buttons, but at least the green didn't show from the inside. Next, the pants. He rolled the legs up as far as he could. They didn't look much like shorts, but he wasn't planning on giving anyone a close look. Trying not to think of his chances of fooling anybody, Heydon opened the door and stepped into the light.
The corridor was deserted. With no real idea of which way to go, Heydon set off briskly, passing corner after corner and door after door. This section of the building seemed devoid of passengers. He increased his pace. As he rounded another corner, Heydon began to recognise where he was, before he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
A security officer. Damn! Too late to turn back; the officer had seen him. Two-way radio in hand, the man strode towards him.
"Evening sir," the officer said amiably. "You look lost. Can I help you?"
"Err... yes. Lost. Sorry," Heydon stammered.
The officer gave him directions which Heydon didn't hear. When he had finished, Heydon muttered his thanks and disappeared around the nearest corner, convinced that he would never make it out of the terminal now. The officer must have suspected, surely!
Entering the hub of the terminal, he passed a long row of identical doors with transmat cells behind them. The door to the cell he had used that morning was now criss-crossed with blue and white plastic tape. Almost running now, Heydon emerged without further incident in the lobby of the building. There were no police in sight; not even so much as a security officer guarding the doors. Various staff went about their business, most of them ignoring him, one yawning in his direction. Surely if they believed there was a murderer in the terminal, the place should be crawling with police! Heydon didn't stop to think about it. He fled from the terminal into the night without looking back.
"So let me get this straight," Heydon confronted his arresting officer, while tearing shreds off a coffee-stained polystyrene cup. "Fay Harper was murdered in cell 25 of the Perth transmat terminal at around 10:15am, which was around the time when I left that cell and arrived here in Singapore. Right?"
"Correct. And a man fitting your description was sighted leaving the scene of the crime by two eye-witnesses."
"Leaving the scene of the crime! But if I had already left the transmat cell, how the hell did I use it to get here?"
"The eye-witnesses left the cell to raise the alarm soon after you ran out. You must have gone back in..."
"And operated the transmat myself? Or did I have an accomplice?"
"That's what we want to know." The policeman smiled, almost. "Perhaps you have a device that allows you to operate a transmat by remote control. You're a computer technician."
Heydon threw down his tattered coffee cup in disgust. "This is absurd. Maybe these so-called eye-witnesses murdered her after I'd left!"
"That has been considered. They have been questioned at length, and they are no longer on our list of suspects."
"And they said the killer had blood on his hands?" Heydon shoved his palms in the officer's face. "Show me the blood."
"You washed it off in the men's toilets. That was why you had to leave the cell before you used it to get to Singapore."
Heydon sighed in resignation and rested back in his chair. "This will never stand up in court," he spat.
"I am not familiar with Australian courts," the Singaporean replied non-committally. "You're going back there for further questioning as soon as we get authorisation."
There was a long silence. But when Heydon eventually spoke, his voice was more animated than dejected. He had thought of something. He sat up again in his chair. "You said that shots were fired. Who fired them?"
"The gun is still being analysed for fingerprints."
"Assume that mine are found."
"Oh, I do."
"Then why did I end up having to strangle her? Surely if I'm the premeditated murderer you say I am, I could at least have secured an opportunity to shoot her at close range."
The officer considered this. "Perhaps Miss Harper suspected something, and didn't give you the chance. What does it matter?"
"Because maybe the gun didn't belong to the killer at all. Only an incompetent murderer could lose a gun to an unarmed female victim."
"Your sexism betrays you, Mr Heydon. But again, what does it matter? If the gun belonged to the victim and she tried to defend herself with it, she failed. You killed her all the same."
"I'm not sure that she was the victim. What kind of murderer would attempt an attack with his bare hands, against a victim with a gun?"
"Are you suggesting that Miss Harper intended to murder the person who killed her? If that were true, the charge against you could be reduced from murder to manslaughter."
"Not only that. The charge against me would have to be dropped. If the person who killed her did so in self defence, it couldn't possibly be me."
The Singaporean pondered this for a moment, before conceding defeat. "Why not?"
"Because then I truly wouldn't have been able to operate the transmat myself. There could be no question of an accomplice, or a gadget. If I killed her in self-defence, then I'm not here. I'm back in Perth."