For our final story, it’s back to Beneath Ceaseless Skies, for “Throwing Stones” by Mishell Baker.
Discussion will be on Sunday as usual. To pick up on a suggestion from a couple of weeks ago, though, I’m also inclined to do a general overview-of-short-story-club discussion later in the week — next Friday, maybe?
Some quite divergent opinions for this story. We start with Rich Horton, in the June Locus:
I was impressed last year by Paul M Berger’s Interzone piece “Home Again”. Now he contributes a brilliant story to Fantasy, one of the stories of the year so far, “Stereogram of the Gray Fort, in the Days of Her Glory”. Loran, an old elven warrior, has taken Jessica, a young human, as his wife, and the pair visit a tourist attraction, the ruins of the Gray Fort, one of the last human redoubts in the long war that ended with humans enslaved. We learn of the pair bond between the two, such that they both feel and sense what the other does, and some of human/elf history that led to the current debased state of humans. The title artwork is a very clever invention, and nicely reflected in the story’s two parts, one from the POV of each character. The direction the story takes is on the one hand predictable, but nicely executed, and with some ambiguities and surprises that give it freshness and depth.
For Pam Phillips the story is
the sort of story I was hoping to find when I decided to join the Short Story Club at Torque Control.
A elf, Loran, and his human wife, Jessica, visit a ruined fort. From the first words, the story does an excellent job of portraying how the bond between them allows them to share sensory input, but not thoughts.
Their conversation is filled with suggestions of an epic history, war, conquest, and resistance. Loran is so arrogant, you just know he has underestimated his wife. That we confirm when we read Jessica’s side of the story. I like the Rashomonization in getting different meanings from the same events, but I could live without the verbatim repetition of dialogue.
Only after the story is allowed to take shape, do we get to the conceit that spawned it: a stereogram that can only be comprehended by a bonded pair. This stereogram is wonderful enough, but the best part is the way it pays off in the ending.
Excellent.
And for Matt H it’s the best so far:
Perhaps the most interesting part of the setting, and probably the concept the author meant to actually show in the story’s “stereogram”, is the nature of the colonial government. Loran’s narrative makes it very clear that the Elves only respect strength and were in fact disappointed when they finally defeated humans. Unlike the colonial powers of our world, they don’t seem to be extracting labor or natural resources. There’s likewise no equivalent of the White Man’s Burden, or at least, not since the war ended, since they see humans as only being worthy of respect when they are capable of fighting the Elves. Yet Loran says that in his role as a sort of regional governor he is responsible for “teaching” the humans under his control. What could he want to teach them, then, if not to fight back again? It seems like we are meant to conclude that he has essentially planned his own murder. Although this level of manipulation seems well beyond his ability to comprehend human psychology, even Jessica’s despite the link between them, at least we can say he shaped the outline if not the detail of what happened. Thus what might have seemed like a rousing stick-it-to-the-man ending becomes fairly ambiguous. As readers we’re predisposed to be sympathetic to Jessica’s stand, but when we realize that in doing so she’s adopting the values of the colonial power, suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Loran has made her into a William Wallace when humanity would be better served by a Mahatma Ghandi.
But Lois Tilton is ambivalent:
The narrative follows the stereogram pattern by relating the story first from Loran’s point of view and then Jessica’s. What’s going on here is subversion of the notion of the noble High Elf, as Loren regards himself, revealing them as a race that would destroy another civilization to give its people the perverse gift of recovering their own capacity for martial glory – and themselves a partner for war that they could consider worthy even as they destroy them. Loren’s own words indict him even more thoroughly than Jessica’s version of the events. I love the vision of the ruined fort, the scene of former glories, even knowing that the vision is false. But too much of this story depends on the notion of the marital pair-bond, which I can’t help finding contrived.
As is Chad Orzel:
I ended up being unimpressed with this, and I’m not sure exactly why. Mostly, it’s that I could see exactly where it was headed from about the point where the brain-sharing thing was explained, and knew it exactly by the time she picked up the dagger. The shift in perspectives was not that much of a revelation, and the whole thing unfolded with a sense of inevitability rather than a sense of wonder.
But again, as I say, I’m not really sure why my reaction to this is a jaded “Meh”– it’s not like there’s a huge glut of psychically linked elf stories on the market, and as a technical matter, it’s well done. Berger also deserves credit for having a return of magic without turning it into a My Awesome Werewolf Boyfriend kind of story.
It’s just… Something about the way it all unfolded wound up feeling, for me, more like the completion of a checklist than a compelling story. Remark about technology making humans weak, check. Remark about our world being too amazing to be true, check. Change in perspective making “courtship” seem really creepy, check. One of linked couple able to hide thoughts and plans from the other, check. And so on.
I’ll be interested to see where everyone else comes down on this one.
Can it be the penultimate short story club already? It seems so. This Sunday, we’ll be discussing Paul M Berger’s Stereogram of the Gray Fort, in the Days of Her Glory.
The story is here; let’s kick off the comment round-up with Matt H, this time.
Boiled down like this, this seems like a parody of the post-apocalypse genre. This apocalypse makes no sense whatsoever, but really, do they ever? Meanwhile it literalizes what is usually implicit in the subgenre: the loss of humanity, the emergence of animal instincts, and the destruction of the artifacts of civilization. It’s a situation, and in fact a whole world, that the reader can’t possibly take seriously. Even the characters–the hard-edged father, the naive son, the mother whose death haunts both of them–are right out of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
But the story is completely deadpan. The cartoon world around the characters isn’t even remotely as frightening as McCarthy’s, but the relationship between the narrator and his son is far more dysfunctional. […]
An interesting story, and well written I thought, but while it’s clearly a story in dialogue with the rest of the post-apocalyptic subgenre, I don’t understand what it’s saying. It feels a little like steampunk, having fun indulging in unusual scenery, but ultimately telling an overly familiar story.
It didn’t work for Pam Phillips:
Ugh. I feel like I’m being hit over the head. Even a talking animal can’t overcome my hate for depressing post-apocalypse settings. Sorry guys, I really don’t want to read this one.
Lois Tilton also sees echoes of…
It’s impossible to read this without hearing overwhelming echoes of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a father and son trekking through a post-apocalyptic landscape. It is a slightly more humane, less desperate scenario, in that there actually is an economy of sorts and cannibalism is not the only food option, despite most of the creatures at large being predatory. There seems to be unexplained purpose at work. Still, while the author treats the narrator’s mouseness seriously, the echoes of the more realistic work make this one less credible.
And apparently Chad has posted about the story here, but I can’t get the page to load. While I hit refresh a few more times, over to the rest of you.
This week’s story is “The Heart of a Mouse” by KJ Bishop. Discussion to kick off on Sunday afternoon, as usual.
As those who were at the BSFA AGM earlier this year may remember — for that is where it was first announced — my time as features editor of Vector is coming to an end. Specifically, I’m standing down at the end of 2010, which means there are two more issues with my name on left to go (the first of which should be printed this week, and the second of which is not far behind). I’m feeling pretty good about the run, on balance; it’s been a rewarding experience, a privilege to curate a journal with such a fine history, and I hope has produced some things worth reading. Of course, everyone else who’s worked on Vector during the last five years must get credit as well: reviews editors Paul Billinger, Kari Sperring, and Martin Lewis; production editors Tony Cullen, Liz Batty, and Anna Feruglio dal Dan; my co-editor for the first year, Gene Melzack; and everyone who wrote an article or a review or a letter of comment. My thanks go to all.
But, while I’m in no danger of challenging Andrew M Butler for the title of longest-serving editor, five years feels about the right point to stand aside and let someone else have a go. The incoming features editor will be known to many of you, and certainly anyone who regularly attends the London Meetings, and I have no doubt that Shana Worthen will do an excellent job. I’m certainly looking forward to reading her first issue.
Meanwhile, things are also changing in another part of my sf life. As of today, I take over from Susan Marie Groppi as editor-in-chief of Strange Horizons; you can read her announcement of the handover here.
I’m extremely proud to be part of Strange Horizons. It stands for a lot of things I believe in — say, for speculative fiction, rather than sf and fantasy narrowly; for new voices, both in fiction and non-fiction; for diversity of all kinds — and is produced by a group of people I respect and admire. It’s the longest-running online sf magazine out there, and it’s entirely volunteer run and donation-funded. (One week left in this year’s fund drive! Prizes to be won! Just for mentioning the fund drive!) It is, so far as I’m concerned, a Good Thing.
And so I’m proud to be taking over the organisation and running of the magazine, while being conscious that I’ll be following in big, World Fantasy Award-winning footsteps. As Matt Cheney eloquently describes, Susan’s presence has been a huge part of what’s made Strange Horizons what it is, and while she’ll still be around as fiction editor, it’s going to be different. Still, I have things I want to do, even things that could be described as plans, and I’m excited about getting down to them. I’m also excited to be able to say that my replacement as reviews editor will be Abigail Nussbaum, because I can’t imagine anyone I’d feel more comfortable leaving that department with, and I can’t wait to see how it develops with her guidance.
One downside of all this change is that, as things move on, I’ll be posting less here, since it’s a BSFA venue — although I won’t be scaling back until after the women and sf week in December, at the earliest. But I might well be posting elsewhere. Further updates, as they say, as events warrant.
Best Novel: The City & The City by China Mieville
Best Novella: “Sea-Hearts” by Margo Lanagan
Best Short Fiction: “The Pelican Bar” by Karen Joy Fowler
Best Anthology: American Fantastic Tales ed. Peter Straub
Best Collection: TIE: There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried To Kill Her Neighbor’s Baby: Scary Fairy Tales by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya and The Very Best of Gene Wolfe by Gene Wolfe
Best Artist: Charles Vess
Special Award — Professional: Jonathan Strahan (for editing anthologies)
Special Award — Non-Professional: Susan Marie Groppi (for Strange Horizons)
Not, perhaps, the most surprising list of winners there’s ever been, but a good list for all that. Congratulations to all. I’m much more a fan of giving The City & The City awards as fantasy than as science fiction, although in my heart of hearts I’d still have liked In Great Waters to take it. And I am, of course, absolutely delighted with Susan’s win, which is both thoroughly deserved personally, and a brilliant cap to the magazine’s tenth year.
The discussion for this week’s story might be interesting. Chad thinks it’s the best of the club so far:
This story’s a little difficult for me to approach objectively, because it hits a little close to home, in that I grew up in a small town, and went off to college, and when I go back nothing is the same as it was. […]
With that as a disclaimer of sorts, I thought this was an excellent story. It nails the emotional target it’s aiming for, that sense of a difference that has grown up and can’t quite be overcome. Unlike a lot of first-person narratives, I can actually imagine a real person telling this story in more or less this way. The outlines of the future world are there in the background, but as the narrator says at one point, that’s not this story, so we don’t get the changes spelled out for us in any great detail.
It’s subtle and restrained, but all the more powerful for it. And I think this is the best story of the lot so far, by a good margin. Both the SF elements and the human elements are handled deftly, and fit together really well. Whether I read any more award-eligible short fiction or not, this will almost certainly be going on my Hugo nominating ballot next year.
Evan had some problems:
The embedded assumptions are maybe going to be less apparent or obnoxious to the non-American people; it might even be West Coast specific. Capitalist/libertarian-oriented, dully US-centric, assuming that each tech boom will be followed by another, the country is better than the city, manual work better than intellectual work, government is evil when not incompetent, etc., etc., so on and so forth. It circumscribes the world declaring that while it might be different, it can never really be better. I am against the golden age, as a human concept. The fact that we all feel it says something about us, rather than something about the world. If the story had been a dissection of this feeling through its blinkered and backwards-looking main character, it might have been something interesting, but it doesn’t even remain unexamined; it seems to be the explicit position of the story. […]
Even putting aside the ideological underpinnings of the story, the failures of character would be enough to damn it, all on their own. Prose-wise, it feels under-baked, larded with a few too many stock phrasings.
Lois is in the positive camp:
This is a tale of loss, inevitable but unbearably sad. Here is another story in which the well-wrought characters are its heart. The emotion is genuine, the situation universal, the future too familiar in its disappointment.
And Pam Philips liked it:
The payoff moment comes when his father crosses a singularity of his own. All the technology at Paul’s command can’t undo the effects of age. While the situation is poignant, the tone of the story is restrained, as if it were asking permission to tug on my heartstrings.
It’s all right. You can tug.
But it didn’t work for Matt H:
Two major elements of the story, namely its narrator Paul and the future he’s moving into, are left mostly to the reader’s imagination. Paul comes off as a fairly cold fish with apparently no emotional attachments except a weak sense of filial duty. We are encouraged to think that Paul, after initial difficulties, has completely left his rural past behind and become wholly modern, but the world around him is given such scanty detail that the reader is left to guess what, if anything, that might imply. His father, theoretically the subject of the story, is given even less time. We learn he likes science fiction books, dogs, farming, and that’s about it. You’d think a man who read science fiction would have some sort of opinion about gene therapy or whatever the magic medicine of Paul’s future is, but the reader isn’t told anything that would clue us in to what he thought. Paul and Mona probably knew, but it doesn’t occur to either of them to mention his preferences when discussing his treatment.
Given how unimpressed I was with Paul, it’s not surprising that I didn’t find the conclusion of the story very moving. Paul, who only a moment ago was saying nothing bad ever happened to him, spends about three sentences coping with the fact his father (a man he was so close to he couldn’t bear to spend more than a day with him) can’t recognize him now. Then the story ends on a vaguely distasteful note by suggesting that getting Alzheimer’s is a singularity in the opposite direction from the SF kind. Perhaps it’s one last bit of characterization: Paul is so self-centered that he feels someone who no longer recognizes him has become something less than human.
So: which side are you on?
So much for last week’s promise. (Interesting discussion, though.) Maybe I’ll do better with Brenda Cooper’s story this Sunday, “My Father’s Singularity“.
The guest at tonight’s BSFA London meeting is NK Jemisin, author of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, its forthcoming follow-up The Broken Kingdoms, and the Hugo- and Nebula-nominated short story “Non-Zero Probabilities.” I’ll be doing the interview — so I hope to see you there, but if you can’t make it and have a question you’d like asked, feel free to leave a comment here.
As usual, the meeting will be head in the upstairs room of The Antelope: 22 Eaton Terrace, London, SW1W 8EZ. The closest tube station is Sloane Square, and a map is here.
There will be people in the bar from 6-ish, with the interview starting at 7. The meeting is free, and open to any and all — not just BSFA members — and there will be a raffle with a selection of sf books as prizes.
vector-bsfa.com 