Seasons greetings to all Ibn Qirtaiba readers - just when you thought we might not be coming back, here's some engaging holiday reading for you. (Yes, IQ is still seeking a new editor, but in the interim we will still be releasing at least two issues per year.)
Not long ago I was in discussion with a local art critic and author, Donald Brook. Although he is not a science fiction enthusiast in particular, a passage from one of his critical essays caught my eye by reason of its relevance to science fiction advocacy (or apologetics). I have sought his permission to reproduce it here:
Works of art may model the way things are, but perhaps no better nor even so well as works of craft, and almost certainly less well than scientific models which have this very purpose at their institutional centre. Showing how things might be, on the other hand, is always an adventure. Speculative models enable us to see how we might change ourselves or change the world in imagination before (and independently of) the question whether we set about making this change in reality. Art, on might say, is the most generalised and characteristically human way of initiating voluntary action to generate change because it offers models of possible futures that we can criticise before we need to act - and above all before we need to act irrevocably.
This seems to me to capture the essence of the importance of science fiction as a genre very well. For more on this topic, Ibn Qirtaiba's very first issue contains some articles you may find of interest.
This issue commences with a review of Howard V Hendrix's latest novel Empty Cities of the Full Moon, followed by No Quarter by Shaun Curran and Richard Kanwak. We then commence a new serial, ...do I not bleed? by Mike Billington and conclude with poetry, View from a Pilot's Window by Deborah P Kolodji and Nancy Bennett which was first published in Star*Line. The original artwork samples in this issue come from RemmeR, whose Web site with larger reproductions you can visit by clicking on the images. Enjoy the issue.
Review: Empty Cities of the Full Moon by Howard V Hendrix
Short Story: No Quarter by Shaun Curran and Richard Kanwak
Serial: ...do I not bleed?, part 1 by Mike Billington
Poem:
View from a Pilot's Window by Deborah P Kolodji and Nancy Bennett
Empty Cities of the Full Moon is a tale of a world in which
humanity has been decimated by a bioengineered plague of madness that
also unlocks in some Shamanic abilities such as the power to
shape-shift into lycanthropic forms. The eccentric lord of one of
the last remaining enclaves of unaffected human beings has developed
his own race of altered humans, Merfolk, to guard his realm against
Werfolk attackers who seek the longevity treatments the unaltered
humans enjoy.
In the end, the origin of the long war between Trufolk and Werfolk, and all reason for it, is beyond him. Try as he might, he can never fully comprehend either the physical tragedy of the Trufolk's Great Death, or the spriritual transcendence of the Werfolk's Great Shift. For Nereus the pandemic is neither the Trufolk's "vast catastrophe" nor the Werfolk's "global epiphany". It is merely the larger circumstance surrounding the creation of his own kind.
The novel spans universes, times and modes of consciousness, while at the same time being told as a travelogue geographically constricted to the eastern seaboard of the United States. Piece by piece, the puzzle of how the pandemic came to pass is constructed as we alternate between 2032 when the virus was released and 2065 when the travellers bring about the fulfilment of the transcendent potential unlocked by the apocalypse.
Tetragrammaton's attempts to create a seamless mind/machine interface, and thereby make human and machine intelligence co-extensive, were quite laudable in their way, Cameron supposed. The program's larger design, however - to create, through that intimate entangling of human and machine intelligence, an information density singularity, a gateway into and through the fabric of space-time - that was a long shot indeed.
Although the novel is set in a world in which perhaps as few as 1% of the population has survived the global disaster, it does still somewhat beggar belief that all of the major protagonists in the pre- and post-apocalyptic worlds, from as far away as South Africa and India, are all encountered by the travellers on their journey and conveniently contribute their own clues to the solution of the mystery. To some degree this is explained (albeit improbably) by the author in describing how the community of unaltered humans first came together, but this is not the only such device Hendrix employs. For example, the set-piece of the novel also seems rather contrived.
As the axe-wielding fallen angel and old adversary hurtles toward him screaming, Ricardo feels only pity and compassion for it. For its existential dread, which works to keep microcosm and macrocosm forever separated, consciousness forever unconscious of itself. For its refusal to recognize the reality of anything larger than the universe or multiverse. For its refusal to accept the idea that the radical inconsistency of the multiverse and the radical incompleteness of any single universe are together reconciled in each other - in a plenum where all that is possible is real.
Hendrix writes hard SF, and the novel falls short only if critiqued on any other basis. As future history, mystery or character study, Empty Cities is shallow and flawed. As hard-scientific speculative fiction, it nears brilliance. The author draws from biology, information science, physics and metaphysics to develop his speculations. Whilst they are intriguing, the narrative does not always justify them. As Hendrix is not the only scientifically educated author writing reality-bending fiction, this novel compares unfavourably with those by authors such as Greg Bear which can appeal both as literature and for their mind-expanding extrapolations.
Overall, the novel is worth reading. The reader is left feeling, however, that perhaps the ideas represented in this novel could have been better served in another narrative context. I will await Hendrix's next novel with considerable interest.
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John Desmond opened the door to the antique shop and took in the old air. Well, it wasn't old, any older than the air outside was, but it had a different feel. The air was damp and warm, as if it had stepped into a time machine and came to the future.
The antique shop was the only store on the block that had not suffered from the capitalism of the century. It stood around the other buildings where people in ties and business suits simply sat behind a desk all day, making more money than you or I, and living the good life in such a way that it appears that they are simply more equal than us.
The shop had stood against time and Big Business for a long time and John Desmond found it quite a relief that he could take a step back in time and actually relax for a change. His mind was racing and he tried frantically to place society on the back burner for a while and actually become interested in the items in the store.
It was dark, compared to the outside. Sunlight poured through a window with a simple drape pulled over it that did a lousy job of filtering out the sun's rays. A few old lamps stood lit in each corner of the shop. Hanging from the ceiling, which just cleared John's head, were several lights that had been homemade.
The shop, though dimly lit, had much to interest John. He walked around the shop, until he noticed the man staring at him. The man was older than he was by at least fifty years, and had whiter skin from years of staying indoors. He did not look unhealthy. He rose as he saw John and smiled.
"Pleasant day," the man said. John smiled and said that he agreed. The way the man warmly invited him into his shop and did not press the man automatically to buy something showed a contrast with the outside.
"Looking for anything in particular?" the man asked.
"Nothing really. Well, I'm a collector of old books."
"If you wish for me to show you some antique books and other things, let
me know."
"Okay... er..." The man realized that John had no idea where to go, and led him to the area behind the back wall of the shop that held the books. John smiled. The man was unlike the clerks in department stores, who just simply directed you to an isle and stood there. The man took John straight to the area where the books were and helped him sift through them.
John poked through the box, looking at book after book until he came to the book with the pure wooden cover, varnished. It appeared to be brand new.
"Oh dear," said the man," that book always winds up back here. It shouldn't be here." But John had already opened the cover.
"THE STORY OF JOHN DESMOND, BY DESTINY."
John simply stood there, reading his name over and over, awestruck.
"A great many lives have been lost over that book, my friend," said the man. John was not listening. He turned the page and read.
Yes, his worst fears were realized. The book was about him and him alone. Down to every painstaking detail of his life, how he was born. And although he did not dare read the rear of the book, he knew it also would tell him how he died.
"I'll take this," said John. The man shook his head.
"I'm warning you, my friend. This book is not for you." John scrambled to pull money out of his pocket.
"Will a hundred dollars do?" The man threw his arms into the air.
"I really need the money," he said," but I-"
"Two hundred dollars?"
"No, a hundred. I don't want to cheat an honest man. One hundred dollars, yes, but be sure to return the book for a refund when you're done."
"If the book is about me," said John," I will keep it." The man shook his head and smiled.
"The book has been returned some sixteen times in the past decade," he said," and as I said, I really should not be giving you this." John smiled, gave the man a hundred dollars, and walked back into civilization.
So what if it told him how he died? He asked himself this question over and over and over. But then he asked himself the real clincher.
Who is Destiny and how does this person know so much about me?
John went home.
"Honey," he told his wife, Jean, as he walked in the door," you won't believe what I-"
"Sorry, honey," said Jean, quickly, holding the baby Jessica and holding hands with James," I've got to drop of Jessica at the day care center and give James to Joseph's house so they can play and bring the suits to the dry cleaning place and take my mother out food shopping and get dinner from the local shop to bring home and make dinner." And even as she said this, Jean was out the door and rushing for the minivan.
"Eh... Love you, too, honey."
Walter Cunningham came over as he usually did, about ten minutes later, with two beers and a newspaper.
"Nice day, John," said Walter. "Nice day to relax." Walter was about John's age, but wiser, smarter, and richer. Walter had never married, hit upon something on the Internet early in life and spent the rest of the days of his life doing what he needed to do, not what society told him to do. More money? He didn't need it.
"What's wrong, John?" Walter asked him when he noticed that something was bugging the man.
"Nothing," John replied, afraid that if he told Walter about the Book, that the Book would disappear.
"Come on," Walter said," you can't fool your friends. You can fool mom once, but you can't fool me." John told Walter to wait one second and then got the Book.
"What is it?" Walter asked, taking the Book, hefting it, and putting down his beer.
"Me," said John with much hesitation.
"Well, I'll be-" Walter said, reading John's name and closing the cover.
"Your life," he said.
"Who is Destiny?" asked John.
"The theory of Destiny is that nothing is changeable. That means that whatever you read about in this book has already happened and everything that happens to you in the future has already been written down in this Book.
"So you're basically saying that I'm not in charge of my life?"
"Whoa, wait a second," said Walter, giving John back the Book," that's what the theory says. I don't say that. This book is proof that you can change the future."
"How?"
"Well," Walter said, trying to compose a direct and understandable answer," read the Book. It will tell you mistakes that you have made in your life and what mistakes you will make in your life. You can change them."
"That's what you believe," said John.
"That's what I believe," Walter said, taking a sigh. It was almost as if he hoped he believed what he was saying. He looked at John with a quizzically odd expression.
"What do you believe?"
"All I know is that I found this book in the antique shop in the square."
"You found this there?" Walter said with obvious shock and distaste. "How odd. And quaint."
"Yes," said John, not knowing what the word ‘quaint' meant. "What do you think I should do?"
"Talk to your wife about this. If she'll listen."
"She'll wear herself out yet. She's always on the go."
"I know," said Walter," I never got caught up in the rush. Well, make her read the book. Better yet; throw it away. Don't read what happens to you." Walter nodded. He changed his mind about wanting John to read it. Blast it! His thoughts raced through his head. What do you want me to do? He spoke to thin air, but received no answer.
"Why not?" asked John. Walter scrambled together an answer.
"There is also a theory," he said quickly," that man should never know his own destiny."
"Well," said John, reading the first page of the book," whoever said that certainly didn't write this book."
"Maybe she did, John, maybe she did. Maybe she wrote it to tempt the prying eyes, knowing that reading this book is like playing God."
"Playing God?" asked John.
"Well, I don't want to sound idiotic, but if this book is real, than it proves, partially, the existence of God, and that playing God is wrong." The answer did not satisfy John.
"I think that sounds nuts."
"Yes, that's what many say. But I believe-" He stopped. "I'm not a preacher. Go inside, John, and make up your own mind." John hefted the book, swallowed the last of his beer, and parted with his friend.
It was some time later that John stopped crying.
"Jean... dies of a heart attack from overwork?" He tried to stop the headache but found himself unable to. "And I die shortly thereafter of a broken heart?" He rose.
"What kind of a future is that?" If he was asking the wind, he received no answer. He stopped and looked at the book.
"Destiny cannot be altered, eh?" he asked as he cleaned the stock of the revolver. He placed a bullet in each hole, closed and spun the chamber.
"Yeah, God, you may have been right about one thing, and one thing only." He pointed the revolver at his head, putting the barrel snug up against his temple. "We weren't made to know our own destiny."
There was a delicate sound of thunder and a thud as John's body hit the floor.
It was many hours later that Jean came home. Walter heard the screams and ran over to see what had happened, by some miracle not having heard the gunshot.
It was, however, too late.
It was three days later that Jean opened the Book with Walter and read about her husband. Three hundred and fifty pages had been in the book, and Walter had already been wondering about it. The Book had obviously not been altered in any physical way.
Jean and Walter opened the Book and found the last page. Halfway down the page, the print stopped. Jean and Walter read the final paragraph.
"And John went insane trying to figure out why his wife died of overwork, and not wanting to go on with his life knowing about where he would be going or where he would truly die, put a gun to his head and shot himself."
But what Walter had glanced at earlier was not there. The note that John had left about not wanting to die from heartbreak was not there, either. The pages were blank. Only a hundred and fifteen pages of the Book had been filled up, until John's death. The rest of the pages were white, blank, and empty pages that no one would ever know had print on them.
"God, maybe Destiny can be changed after all," Walter said, shaking his head while Jean cried uncontrollably.
It was the next day that Walter took the Book back to the shop.
"Yes, I knew it would happen," the old man said," and I warned him. But he didn't listen. No one ever does." He opened the book to the first page. "Once anyone sees his or her name there, they automatically buy it."
Walter stood there, in shock.
The name had been changed. Before, it had read:
"THE STORY OF JOHN DESMOND, BY DESTINY."
But now, it read:
"THE STORY OF WALTER CUNNINGHAM, BY DESTINY."
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Clark 72047 snapped the reporter's notebook shut and activated his most sympathetic voice.
"Thank you for speaking with me," the android journalist said. "I know this has been difficult for you."
The faded woman sitting across from him wiped tears from her face and nodded.
"When will this be on?" she asked.
"I will have it ready for my editor in an hour," Clark 72047 said. "I imagine that it will be available for viewing and downloading not long after that."
The woman nodded. Her eyes were blank. Clark 72047 was not certain his answer had registered in her mind; was not completely certain she had even heard him.
He rose from his seat in one fluid motion and put the notebook in the pocket of his utilicoat.
"Thank you again," he said and left.
Once outside he activated his directional program and began making his way
rapidly toward the offices of the United Planets News Service. It took him
exactly 15.464 minutes to reach the building where the UPNS planetary bureau was
located.
He ascended to the 39th floor, stepped off the elevator, and walked into the UPNS newsroom. Twenty-three other android reporters were busy sending stories to the news service's planetary editor. After editing they would be posted on the service's various cybersites. Each time a reader on any of the 17 planets in the Confederation pulled up one of those stories, UPNS received a credit.
It was a simple and very effective system, one that had been in operation since the earliest days of mass computer usage on Earth.
Clark 72047 began processing his story. It was an all-too-familiar one: A woman, a widow, had gone to her job and left her young child in the care of a neighbor. She had returned home to find the child gone and the neighbor lying unconscious on the floor near the door. The neighbor had been struck repeatedly on the head but was expected to live. The public order force had no leads at this point but the suspicion was that kidslavers had stolen the child. If that had indeed happened Clark 72047 knew there was almost no chance that the child would ever be found. At least not alive. She, for this time it was a girl who had been abducted, would be trained by the kidslavers. When she turned 12 or 13 the child would be sold to someone who had need of a servant or, if she was really beautiful, a compliant mistress. She would probably be well treated after she was sold. That was not because the buyers were particularly magnanimous. Rather it was a simple question of economics. The kidslavers sold their goods at a very high price. Their clients were wealthy, of course, but not so wealthy that they could mistreat a servant or mistress they had paid at least a million credits to own.
The kidslavers charged enormous amounts for the children they sold and well they should. If they were convicted of kidslaving death was the only punishment allowed by law. Of the nine kinds of death sentences handed out in the Confederation, the one that judges favored most for kidslavers was a very public and very long execution by whipping. A good executioner could keep a kidslaver alive for three and sometimes even four days while he worked at his craft. These executions were held in public places so passers-by could take the whip in their own hands and dole out a couple of lashes.
Clark 72047 finished processing his story. He then rose from his seat and went to the editor's office.
The editor, the only living UPNS employee on the planet, was bent over his desk reading something when Clark 72047 knocked on the doorjamb. The editor's eyestalks swiveled to find the android at the sound of the knock.
"Do you have anything else for me to do?" Clark 72047 asked.
"Not at the moment," the editor said. "I'll activate you if I do."
"Yes sir," Clark 72047 said and went back to his workstation.
He sat down behind his desktop and reached beneath it. His fingers found a long power cord and he plugged it into a small opening behind his left knee. His brain waves slowed and he drifted off into an android's version of sleep while his batteries charged.
There had been a time, long ago, when flesh-and-blood journalists wrote news. Earthers, Antarans, Denosians and all the other sentient beings of the Confederation had entrusted the gathering and reporting of information to their own kind.
There had been times on many of those planets when wars had even been fought for the right to leave newsgatherers free and unfettered.
That, too, had been long ago.
Nearly 500 years ago, however, that had all changed. The movement had started on Earth. Political leaders there grew tired of being asked what they believed were inappropriate and impertinent questions about their personal lives, their financial dealings, and other topics. They had begun a campaign to replace the flesh and blood reporters with androids.
"We need objectivity," they said at every opportunity. "Human reporters can't be objective. They refuse to be objective."
The people of Earth eventually lined up behind the politicians and soon the major corporations that owned the newsgathering organizations felt they had no choice but to comply with the public will. The first android journalists had been designed, built and put into service then.
Soon other planets fell in line with the new movement and so it is that today every legitimate news organization uses only android reporters. Oh, there are still a few bandit news organizations operating underground. They employ flesh-and-blood reporters and post lurid stories on cybersites that constantly shift their positions to avoid being shut down by the authorities. They attract very few readers, however.
The fact is Confederation citizens have long been raised with the idea that objectivity is the sole standard of journalism. They expect the news they read to be written in flat, unemotional sentences. Android cyber-vid reporters are even programmed to speak only in flat, unemotional tones so that there can be no rising inflections or somber notes in their news deliveries.
Live beings are still needed in newsrooms, of course. Androids can report news but someone has to tell them where to go and who to see. Someone has to scan the official cybersites and pick out those items that will be of the most interest to readers. So it is that a few Earthers, Denosians, Flinskortiani, and other flesh-and-blood Confederationists still manage to find jobs with news organizations. They are trained not as journalists of old were but as advertising and marketing staffs had once been trained. They are taught to seek out stories based on a single criterion: Will it get a lot of clicks?
Editors have no problem with that. After all, the more clicks a story gets the more credits their parent companies make. The more credits the parent companies earn, the more the editors are paid. Truly great editors – Ruhal go Tim of Antares Prime, for example – earn so much that they live like royalty.
A slight buzz intruded upon Clark 72047's rest period and his eyes snapped open instantly. He reached behind his knee and unplugged the power cord then stood and walked quickly to the editor's office.
"Just got a scan. The public order forces found the abducted girl you wrote about. Dead. Throat slit," the editor said. "Her body was found in an abandoned warehouse. She'd been killed apparently because the kidslavers ran a routine diagnostic on her and discovered she had some hereditary physical dysfunction. For the prices they get for their merchandise they can't sell their customers damaged goods. Of course they couldn't just turn her loose either. You never know what a kid might see. She might have been able to tell the detectors where she'd been taken or describe her abductors in some way. The kidnappers probably figured they had no choice but to kill her."
Clark 72047 stored the information in his brain. Androids do not need to write things down in notebooks, of course. They carry them when dealing with the general public to comfort the people they interview. Androids look exactly like the people on the planets they work on but everyone knows that all journalists are machines and there are still some who remain uncomfortable with that fact. Thus, small touches like a notebook or a slight physical deformity such as a limp help to put the people the androids interview at ease. Clark 72047 would not be dealing with the general public on this story, however. His assignment was only to log the official statement from the public order force personnel at the scene of the child's murder. The POF personnel were used to dealing with android reporters. A notebook would, therefore, be unnecessary.
The editor gave Clark 72047 the address and the android left immediately.
He arrived at the murder scene 30.672 minutes later – an accident in which five had died was responsible for the delay. In the old days a flesh-and-blood reporter would have stopped to cover that story but androids only go to the assignments they have been given and then return. If the editor heard about the accident that delayed Clark 72047 he would assign another android to cover it. If not it would pass unnoticed. Either way it was of no importance to Clark 72047.
There had been a time when reporters were treated with suspicion by public order forces. That had been true on virtually every planet. No longer. Public order forces now allow journalists free rein at a crime scene because they know the androids will only report what they are told to report. There will never be any embarrassing questions from android journalists if the public order forces blow an investigation.
Clark 72047 walked through the barricade erected around the warehouse and introduced himself to the public information officer standing next to a detector.
"Clark 72047? Oh yes, I remember you," the PIO said. "We met at the scene of that fire over in J-Town. About a year ago, I think."
"Yes, 11 months and 23 days ago," Clark 72047 said. "You are well sir?"
"Very well indeed," the PIO said.
He took a small golden disk from his coat pocket and said, "excuse me."
The android raised his right arm. The PIO inserted the disk into a slot just below what would have been Clark 72047's fourth rib if, in fact, the android had a ribcage.
"That's the official statement," the PIO said after the android
had downloaded all the information on the disk and it had popped back out of the
slot. "I've also included some background on the mother and some
statistics about the number of times an
abduction ends in death."
"That is rare, is it not sir?" Clark 72047 asked.
The PIO's eyebrows raised slightly at the question.
"Why yes, it is," the PIO said.
"Generally, kidslavers spend several weeks stalking the children they abduct. They do that to establish the family's life patterns so they know the best time to carry out the abduction, of course. They also use that time to research the child. As a result they generally know in advance if the child they plan to kidnap is healthy and if there are any latent personality problems or genetic defects that might come to the fore later in life. So many things can go wrong during an abduction that the last thing kidslavers want to do is waste their time stealing a child they'll later have to kill," the PIO added by way of explanation.
Clark 72047 nodded.
"Thank you sir," the android said. "Is there anything else?"
"No," the PIO said and turned back to the detector. "Nothing else."
Clark 72047 activated his directional program and headed back to the office.
Once there he processed his story and sent it to the editor who gave it only a cursory look – he was, after all, paid to pick the stories he sent his android staff out to cover, not to actually read them.
What would be the point of reading them anyway? The androids always wrote perfectly objective stories and they were always grammatically correct. They never even misspelled a word no matter what language they were writing in.
After he glanced at it the editor posted the story of the girl's murder on the various UPNS cybersites.
Clark 72047, after determining that there were no other immediate assignments, returned to his desk and began recharging his batteries.
The faint buzzing sounded in his brain and his eyes snapped open again. His internal timepiece program told him that 1.338 days had passed.
He unplugged himself and went to the editor's office.
"Sir?" he asked as he stood in the doorway.
"Is it true that you asked a public order force PIO a question after you downloaded the official statement?" the editor asked.
"Yes," Clark 72047 replied.
The editor rubbed a seven-fingered hand over his smooth scalp. He wore a strange expression on his face. It was composed equally of exultation and worry.
"Then we have a problem I think," the editor said.
"Sir?" Clark 72047 asked.
"Well on the one hand your story is being read damn near Confederation wide. It's gotten way more clicks than any other story in the past 50 cycles," the editor said. "Corporate is very pleased by that."
The editor ran a hand over his head again and then rubbed his right cheek and his narrow chin.
"On the other hand the PIO has registered a complaint with Corporate and the courts. Seems he didn't like being quoted about the fact that kidslavers usually stalk their victims ahead of time. That bit about them researching a victim before they make the abduction was not meant for public consumption," the editor said.
"I do not understand the nature of the complaint. If he did not want it known he should not have told me," Clark 72047 said. "The information is valid. It serves a public purpose because it warns parents of the modus operandi of the kidslavers and it is earning credits for Corporate. The complaint seems to be without foundation."
The editor's eyes widened slightly at Clark 72047's response. The words "public purpose" stuck in his mind. What had that to do with anything? Still, the android was right. There was no doubt that the information was valid – androids are incapable of misquoting anyone. And he was right on another count as well: The story was earning one helluva lot of credits.
"Well, there will have to be a trial on the complaint," the editor said. "To the best of my knowledge there never has been a complaint like this before. Not on this planet anyway. It will take some time to sort out all the procedures. In the meantime Corporate has ordered me not to send you out on any more stories until this whole thing is resolved."
Clark 72047 nodded his head slightly.
"Is there anything else?" he asked.
"No, nothing else. I'll buzz you when we figure out what's going to happen with the trial," the editor said.
"Sir," Clark 72047 said and left the editor's office. He returned to his workstation and began recharging his batteries yet again.
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As a soft glove folds entwining around
cloud curtains twisted within man made minds
protecting us from his vision of one
forgotten, sky tapestries cannot blind
us to the follower of lunar beams.
Curtains shut out the ever prying eyes
sweltering nods of night while others dream,
the sting of sudden sun through glass, fly-bys
of a capsuled traveller, his eyes burn
through the curtains, held in my mind's eye view
from a window in space, and then I turn
to block the vision, still burning on through
I find myself unable to erase
the sight of his distant alien face.