2008 Science Fiction Year in Review
It’s 10pm Dec 31st, 2008, and I’m a little tipsy on a shot of whiskey, but stuck in bed, sick with a tummy ache. Since I’m not able to attend any New Years Eve parties, why not invest a moment in reflecting on the past year in science fiction?
The following list of events is not exhaustive and is based only on what’s at the forefront of my thoughts at this particular moment. If you have any additions to make to my list, please feel free to add them in the comments section.
Books
The single biggest news in the world of science fiction books was death of the final old school Grand Master of SF, Sir Arthur C. Clarke. Along with Asimov and Heinlein, Clarke was one of the pioneers of skiffy in the so-called golden age of the 1950s. Clarke was not just a leader in this genre, but also a societal thought leader. He is credited by many as the philosophical inventor of the communications satellite, and certainly was a driving inspiration in the development of Project Spaceguard, a programme for the detection of near-Earth asteroids that could prove possibly dangerous to our planet.
Clarke’s biggest contribution to popular culture was, of course, his penning of the screenplay for the movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, which was in turn based on his short story, “The Sentinel.”
Clarke’s additional masterpieces included Rendezvous With Rama and the various sequels to 2001. I was particularly pleased that Clarke was able to give us a trilogy of so-called “orthoquels” to 2001 before he died: Time’s Eye, Sunstorm and Firstborn, all part of a series he called “A Time Odyssey.”
Sunstorm in particular was a fitting conclusion to Clarke’s career, as it told a very exciting and believable –and inspirational– tale of mankind preparing itself for a storm of Apocalyptic solar flares.
My personal Clarke favourite remains Songs of Distant Earth. I recommend that all true skiffy fans find a moment to peruse it spages.
Movies
It was not a particularly exciting year for skiffy in movies. No, I do not include The Dark Knight as a science fiction title, though the audiences for both comic books and science fiction products often overlap. Thus, Ironman also does not qualify.
Possibly the best skiffy title this year was Hellboy II: The Golden Army. I’m hesitant to include it, since it’s more fantasy than science fiction
While I hated the movie, I must admit that the latest M. Night Shyamalan, The Happening, presented an interesting science fiction premise: that plants could be made so “upset” by ecological degradation that they would emit a substance that reduces animals’ inhibition against self-harm.
Television
It was in television that the skiffy genre really flew this year. I am a fan of Heroes, but its science is laughable. Lost, the finest show on network American television, finally revealed itself to be a pure science fiction show with the addition of time travel. And the champion of the space operas continued to be Battlestar Galactica, whose climax this coming year will be the reveal of the so-called “final cylon.” I’m willing to put money on that cylon being Felix Gaeta.
Other big news included the cancellation of Stargate: Atlantis and the successful transfer of Stargate:SG1 from TV to dvd movies. But the big triumph in TV skiffy this year was the further maturation of the modern incarnation of Britain’s Doctor Who.
David Tennant is, for my money, the finest Doctor ever. Yes, the show is still cheesy at times, and doesn’t engender the same gravitas as American offerings of the same genre. But remember that the Doctor saves the galaxy every week without ever wielding a weapon or uttering a foul word; he’s a timeless hero.
The brilliance of the Who writing this year was in the realization that the show is called Doctor WHO. Who is this man? Why do we care? Transforming the decades old vehicle from a campy kids show into a character drama was brilliance.
I don’t know what to expect from 2009, but I’m pretty sure there will be plenty of skiffy for us all.
The Andromeda Strain (Part 1)
The Andromeda Strain (2008)
Released as a miniseries by A&E in the spring of 2008, The Andromeda Strain is based on Michael Crichton’s classic 1969 science fiction novel of the same name. TAS-08 is written by Robert Schenkken (who played David Deaver in the 1990 film Pump up the Volume), and is directed by Denmark’s Mikael Salomon, more famously known as the cinematographer on several Oscar winning films (Far and Away, Back Draft, Arachnophobia).
The narrative opens with a botched recovery of a NASA satellite that has unexpectedly fallen from orbit and crashed to earth near Piedmont, Utah in the present day United States. Curious Piedmontians discover the satellite before the arrival of a US Army recovery team and decide to look inside; releasing a toxin of unknown origin on unsuspecting townsfolk. While moving quickly to quarantine Piedmont, the Department of BioDefence scrambles Wildfire – an elite team of scientists providing the evidence in The President’s evidence-based decisions on biological crises (talk about your science fiction…). Operating under the indirect supervision of General George W. Mancheck (Andre Braugher); Dr. Jeremy Stone (Benjamin Bratt), Dr. Angela Noyce (Christa Miller), Dr. Tsi Chou (Daniel Dae Kim), Dr. Charlene Barton (Viola Davis) and Major Bill Keane MD (Rick Schroder) retrieve data from the contaminated area and are seconded to a top secret, underground government laboratory. On the outside, all this secret/not-so-secret activity draws the attention of journalist Jack Nash (Eric McCormack) who tries to figure out what is really going on.
As the first of a two disk release, disk one is almost completely context; introducing characters, new technology, and describing the cultural and political environment the plot unfolds in. The story is portrayed using five different perspectives – the scientific team sequestered in the underground lab, the decision-maker president and his white house staff who while being decisive have to run everything through the “how-will-this-play-out-in-the-election” filter, the US Army, the ultra-secretive National Security Agency (NSA), and (of course) the media.
Schenkken taps into real world events and popular culture by drawing repeatedly from the endless list of individual and institutional failures that lead to the war in Iraq – primarily the dysfunction surrounding the US Military, intelligence agencies and the Oval Office – with a sideways reference to rogue nations, economic greed, the environment and “Area-51.” All of this is presented through the use of short vignettes that introduce characters, outline personal relationships and establish institutional dynamics; effectively creating a patchwork of information that may or may not allow the viewer to grasp what is going on.
Some of the reviews I have read have been critical of the cast, the story and the interpretation of the novel. As I am reviewing this in a bubble so to speak – having not seen the first theatrical release, nor having read the book – I’m inclined to disagree with this criticism in a state of blissful ignorance. The cast comes across as reasonably real – I found the performances to be authentic. No one steals the show, and at no point did any of the actors’ performances remind me of a previous role.
The story has a very current feel to it – contentious ideologies, hot-button issues, public cynicism for those in charge. At its heart is the portrayal of competing bureaucratic entities in the face of a serious crisis – can these bodies be trusted to set aside their partisan nature when decisions need to be made; or will they be constantly distracted from the real issues while playing an obtuse game of perception manipulation?
Technically, the special effects are well done and used relatively sparingly. I did find the medical computer in the Wildfire lab to be a little far-fetched for a story that is supposed to be contemporary. I’m all for voice-directed, diagnostic tools that can provide real-time patient data (right down to hematology results) in addition to performing all kinds of medical tests at the verbal request of a doctor – I’m just not sure if it exists yet!
One thing I wished the writers had done is explain the animosity between some of the main characters. This history is referred to abstractly in dialogue, but has an impact on the plot development. Perhaps more will be revealed in part 2.
Taking part one of The Andromeda Strain at face value, and not comparing it to the original or other interpretations – I recommend it. Nothing exists in a vacuum however, so once having seen part 2, reading Crichton’s original and checking out the 1971 movie this opinion could change.
Review: Star Trek – Of Gods and Men
Official Movie Poster
Fan-made movies/installments/episodes of any show are the ultimate expression of both love and hardcore geekery. And no franchise in the history of science fiction has inspired more such productions than Star Trek; not just any version of Star Trek, either, but the mothership– James Kirk’s original vehicle. There’s something about that pioneering show that continues to inspire enormous dedication and passion from thousands of fans, nearly five decades later.
Prime among such fan efforts is the New Voyages series, which in many ways was a philosophical precursor to the upcoming new “official” Star Trek movie, in that both visions have re-imagined the original iconic characters with new actors, something unthinkable a few years ago. But New Voyages, despite its admirable efforts, good stories and impressive special effects, was always an amateurish fan production. Simply put, the acting sucks and the dialogue and direction are highschoolish. I still heartily recommend all the New Voyages episodes to anyone who adores the orginal Shatner/Nimoy series, but beware that this is just well funded fan fiction.
Enter something called Star Trek: Of Gods and Men. It’s a genuine fan-made full-length Star Trek motion picture, supported by the New Voyages cast and crew, but driven by hardened industry professionals, including actors from all four official Trek series: Star Trek, Deep Space Nine, Voyager and Enterprise. It’s even directed by Tim Russ, who played the Vulcan Tuvok in Star Trek: Voyager.
My understanding of the legalities of such production is limited. But I believe that Paramount lets fans get away with making these video love letters so long as no one tries to disrespect the core material or, more importantly, make any money off of the effort. Therefore, both the New Voyages episodes and this epic Of Gods and Men movie are completely free of charge. To view the latter, just visit the production’s official website, download a bittorrent, or watch the streaming content on Youtube. I recommend the latter. You can begin here:
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=wEl0vq0CCLU
Now, I am very pleased to report that the movie is good. In fact, I found it more enjoyable that the last couple of official Paramount Star Trek movies (Nemesis and Insurrection)… That is, if you keep reminding yourself that this is a free production put out by mostly amateurs in their free time. Be prepared to forgive some sloppy writing, cheap special effects, sometimes problematic acting and odd pacing and you will be presently surprised by the quality of your overall viewing experience.
The story is set 12 years after Captain Kirk has presumably been killed on the Enterprise B (see Star Trek: Generations), even though we all know he was actually sucked into the Nexus, and would not be killed until Malcolm Mcdowell gets his hands on him 80 years into the future. Suddenly there arrives a mysterious man from the past, a man with strange godlike powers, who is looking menacingly for Kirk. It’s not too much of a spoiler to reveal that this man is the now sexagenarian Charlie Evans from the original series episode Charlie X, in a role played by William Wellman, Jr., who looks eerily like a grown-up Robert Walker, Jr, the original actor who filled Charlie’s shoes.
Charlie lures Uhura, Chekhov and Captain John Harriman (Allan Ruck from Star Trek: Generations) to the planet where still stands the Guardian on the Edge of Forever, that weird time-travelling structure that first wowed us in the best ever Star Trek episode, City on the Edge of Forever. There, Charlie goes back 70 years into the past and murders James Kirk’s pregnant mother, thus preventing the birth of our hero.
Fans of science fiction know what happens next. One pivotal individual, if removed from the soup of factors that establishes causality, can be the difference between the Utopia of the Federation and the nightmare tyranny of the so-called “Galactic Order”, an evil empire led by a mysterious, godlike being whose identity will please and thrill hardcore fans of the original series.
Garret Wang as a tough guy
The movie is driven by a handful of main characters: All Ruck (Harriman), Nichelle Nichols (Uhura), Walter Koenig (Chekhov), Gary Graham (from Enterprise) and to a lesser extent Tim Russ. Also contributing important scenes are Garret Wang (Harry Kim from Star Trek: Voyager), the babe-tastic Chase Masterson (Leeta from Deep Space Nine) and J.G. Hertzler (also from DS9). For the dedicated fanboy, there is literally an armada of cameos from other Trek actors, and part of the fun of this movie is trying to identify the various random aged faces.
Nichols and Koenig are famous not only for their iconic roles, but also for never having been given starring vehicles. Nichols’s timing is a bit off in some of the dialogue, but she does an admirable job nonetheless, and it’s great to see a strong, older, black woman be given something meaty to do on screen, as well as a complete back story. But the real standouts are Koenig and Ruck. These two could, in my opinion, carry their own big budget, cerebral action movie. As Of Gods and Men shows us, you don’t need to be young and spry to be an action star. Both Nichols and Koenig are in their 70s, while Ruck is just under 60. Their dynamic is believable and sometimes even touching.
It’s difficult to put a finger on exactly why I found this admittedly cheap and sloppy production so engaging. Maybe because it was cheap and sloppy? You can only do so much with volunteer labour and private funding, with no expectation of profit or even of recouping your investment. I think that a big part of the movie’s appeal is that it’s not trying to steal our cash; it doesn’t care about attracting viewers or sponsors. There will be no one trying to hock models of the spaceships designed for the film. There is no Burger King tie-in or on-screen product placement. There are no superfluous characters who have been added in the background only because they “look cool” and thus can be marketed as an action figure. There is no focus-group casting or test audience re-editing. This is a pure, though flawed, artistic effort with a singular intent: to express love for the core material and to share that love with the fans.
If you need to see $10 million on the screen, you will not enjoy this film. If you need your acting and dialogue to have been workshopped and test marketed, you will not enjoy this film. If you’ve only seen a couple of the original Star Trek episodes, you will not enjoy this film. But if you are over 25 years old (preferably over 40!) and have spent a goodly chunk of your life watching and re-watching the various incarnations of Roddenberry’s greatest brainchild, then I strongly suspect that Star Trek: Of Gods and Men will be an enjoyable experience for you, and may even bring you some closure for the lesser characters on whom the major motion pictures could not afford to waste valuable screen time.
I, for one, hope there’s a sequel.
Bloody Immortals
I’m oficially sick of immortals. Really. They’re all over TV science fiction, and frankly it’s getting a bit stale.
Now, in literary science fiction, immortality has a proud and dignified history. My favourite contender in this sub-genre is This Immortal by Roger Zelazny. But in the medium of television, it’s all quite too much.
The most famous case, of course, is that of the Highlander and its various spin-offs (Highlander: The Raven, The Methos Chronicles, and even the freakin’ Animated Series.) A pale imitator and contemporary that was even worse than the worst of the Highlander offerings was Lorenzo Lamas’s The Immortal.
Then there’s the Vampire meme: Dark Shadows, Angel, Forever Knight, Moonlight, Blood Ties, and so on.
Currently, we have BBC’s big hit Torchwood, which features as its main character the mysterious Captain Jack Harkness, who ages but who cannot die. (This fact was strangely forgotten by the writers in the season 2 finale, in which Jack is buried alive for 2000 years, but emerges unscathed and un-aged, both mentally and physically.) We also have New Amsterdam, about a (sigh) immortal detective living in New York.
And now, Zod save us, comes news that Sci Fi is about to launch Sanctuary, starring perennial American science fiction stalwart Amanda Tapping as –wait for it– an immortal.
As I explored earlier, I believe the source of literary fascination with immortality transcends that of our intrinsic fear of death. For a storyteller, the lure of the undying is not in the immortal’s ability to bypass that which awaits us all, but rather, firstly, as a plot device to ensure several lifetimes of conflict and characters; and secondly, as a recapitulation of the original motivations underlying all of Western fiction, the Greek myths.
The Greeks presented their gods has shallow, jealous and scheming immortals who nonetheless envy us weak and vulnerable humans, because we can be hurt and can die, and can therefore risk. And with risk comes heroism, and with heroism crisis and conflict.
The genius of this literary style is that the immortals must play in the background. It is the mortal men and women who become the centres of the tales. Perseus slew the Gorgon. Jason retrieved the Golden Fleece. Theseus mastered the labrynth and defeated the Minotaur. And even Hercules (Herakles), greatest of all the heroes of Greco-Roman lore, could not be allowed to be a full god; his human half provided his mortality, which was eventually literally burned away by fire, till all that remained was the divine bits.
Indeed, the tale of Hercules is a parable for all storytelling involving immortals. There is divinity and an immortal spark within each of us, which pushes us to great and heroic feats. Upon death, it is the mortal that dies, while the divine is granted a seat by the throne of Zeus. As hero to all heroes, Hercules showed that physical risk and sacrifice are dreadfully painful, but eventually drives us to oneness with the immortals.
But to be an immortal without the experience of risk and vulnerability is to be devoid of that drive, that spark. The gods are dot draped across the heavens in the form of constellations. No, only mortal heroes were granted that status: Orion, Andromeda, Cassiopeia, etc. For it is they, not the gods, who are heroes.
And this is the bit that has somehow been missed by modern tellers of the immortals’ tales. For reasons of marketing, modern TV shows cast the immortal in the role of hero. But where is the heroism in not risking one’s life? The various protagonists of Highlander toyed with the idea of their tragedy being that they must witness the passing of their mortal loved ones. At least those particular overacting swordsmen ran the risk of literally losing their heads, so there is some heroism implicit in their risk-taking.
The vampires are a less defensible lot. Much has been written of the innate romanticism of an undead creature of the night who must suck blood to survive. This strikes me as a great perversion of even the most earnest stereotypes of the male ideal within the eye of the naive teenage girl. But it certainly explains why pale, emaciated, unsmiling rock stars are still seen as sex symbols.
Beyond obvious marketing concerns, there’s a reason that Captain Kirk, and not Mr Spock, was the star of Star Trek. Spock was smarter, stronger, had extreme longevity and mysterious powers. But Kirk was human and vulnerable, short-lived and short-tempered. In today’s lore, Kirk is dead and Spock lives on. But Kirk remains immortally heroic, for he bled and fought and risked, while his godlike first officer pontificated in divine recline.
Bring back the days of heroic vulnerability, and leave these immortals be.
Science And Science Fiction
This article was first published in The Podium on Nov 5, 2001, under the title, “Science’s Interdependent Relationship With Science Fiction”.
by Raywat Deonandan, PhD
This article was produced from a presentation given by Dr. Deonandan at the “Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Symposium”, held at the University of Ottawa on May 5, 2001. It appears in the academic anthology, Worlds of Wonder: Readings in Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Literature (University of Toronto Press, 2004) with the title, “A Scientist’s Relationship with Science Fiction” (pages 131-139).
INTRODUCTION
Science fiction as a genre of literature, film and television has evolved from fantastical explorations of imagined worlds and technologies to dire sociological predictions about the ways in which human modes can be transformed by changing scientific ethics. With this evolution has come a shift in audience demographics, and a change in the attitude of the mainstream toward those who enjoy this genre. There is some evidence that the art itself has served to influence changes seen in the foci and timbre of research scientists over the past century, reflecting and perhaps initiating the evolution of Western science from its Newtonian and Darwinian observational origins to its modern mosaic of metaphysical concerns, quantum imprecisions, chaotic systems and psychophysics, etching a spidery spread of the scientific ethic to embrace the previously unrelated fields of economics, politics and philosophy. The history of science fiction is one of necessary dependence upon science, causing it to evolve into a kind of analytical tool, and potentiating a stronger influence on greater society.
SCIENCE FICTION PRODUCES ITS OWN AUDIENCE
Science fiction has certainly inspired many members of the present generation of Western research scientists to pursue their calling. The increasingly scientifically literate audience has, in turn, compelled the genre to evolve. This synergy has spurred some interesting developments, such as the rise of so-called “hard” science fiction, a genre appealing to technological sticklers. The response of the mainstream has been to sometimes ridicule those who enjoy this genre, though that ridicule is clearly tinged with respect for the stereotype of those with presumed technical proficiency, the fabled “science nerd.” The relationship between modern scientists and science fiction is therefore a complex one embodying both pride and embarrassment, inspiration and dismissal.
Within the context of science fiction, the synergy between product and consumer is a fascinating one. The so-called “Golden Age” of science-fiction, presided over by the domineering figure of John W. Campbell in the 1950s, saw the arrival of authors who would one day boast the title of Grandmaster: Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke. This era benefited from a growing public awareness of science and technology, spurred by the recent “triumph” of the atomic bomb and by the first steps into space, courtesy of the Soviets’ Sputnik probe. Readers in this era had a cursory knowledge of science. They knew, for example, that Mars is another plant that orbits the sun, and that one requires a rocketship to get there. Hence, a classic like Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles could be readily contextualized by the masses; its exotic locale on Martian surface was considered only mildly fanciful, its happenstance fully imaginable given the impressive technological achievements of the time.
But Bradbury was able to take great liberties with his novel, his own scientific illiteracy notwithstanding. At the time of the book’s writing, it was already well known to astronomers that Mars did not have a breathable atmosphere, that the Martian surface was much too cold and inhospitable to support human life, and that the fabled Martian “canals” imagined by astronomer Percival Lowell in the previous century did not truly exist. Yet The Martian Chronicles was not to be slowed by mere fact.
There is no denying, however, that simply having situated his novel on Mars allowed Bradbury to inspire within the hearts of his legion of mostly male, prepubescent readers a strong yearning for things Martian, much like how the wild west stories of a previous generation inspired an identical demographic. Bradbury’s tale is a simple pioneer frontier story; it was its otherworldliness that made it a best-seller.
As the 1950s drew to a close, the vision of Jules Verne, H.G. Wells and Johannes Kepler was becoming reality: humankind was venturing into outer space. The content of novels by Bradbury, Heinlein and Asimov was no longer fanciful musing, but was newsworthy fact. President Kennedy proclaimed that the American people would “do the other thing” and send a man to the moon, ushering in an era in which the previous generation’s fictional flights of fancy became anchored in realpolitik. Greater awareness of scientific issues necessitated a growing sophistication of the population.
From this maturation came a generation of writers for whom the “otherworldliness” of Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles was insufficient. Engagement of this new audience required finer subtleties of storytelling, and grander ideas to explore. The twisted realities of Phillip K. Dick are among the children of this era, made possible by the deeper education of the audience. As the 1970s dawned, Western society was knee-deep in the language of science, with popular science magazines like Omni enjoying the cross-genre fruits of the marketing machinery of the Penthouse corporation, belying the growing sexiness of technology. Science sophistication was sufficiently advanced among thegeneral readership that the “hardest” of science fiction writers felt free to evoke images of dizzying technical grandeur and precision.
Larry Niven is a fine example of this breed. Niven’s classic Ringworld describes the construction of a massive ring around a sun-like star. The ring’s trillions of inhabitants exist on the inner edge of the ring, providing a infinitely diverse set of loci for scripting adventure. Such a novel could not have been written before this era. While admittedly niche-marketed to a specialized scientifically literate audience, the very existence of that ready-made audience allowed Niven to bypass the minutiae of space construction issues. He did not have to explain that planets orbit stars, or that the ring must revolve in order to simulate gravity, to list but two minor points; such information was already in the public domain.
With the close of the twentieth century came unparalleled audience sophistication. Science education had become a mantra of social need, the necessary path for every student to achieve full participation in modern society. Within the generally more literate milieu had arisen a sub-population of intensely scientifically literate individuals, made so in large part by the hard writing of the previous generation. Young physics students are known to read the science fiction classics of the previous decades, such as Ringworld, Neuromancer and the many on-going works of Arthus C. Clarke – the work inspires future science professionals, in essence creating and educating its own audience, enabling an increasingly sublime, glib and technically evocative body of science fiction work.
Perhaps the best example of this trend is the award-winning Mars Trilogy of Kim Stanley Robinson. The following selection is from the second tome of the trilogy, Green Mars:
Perhaps, he thought, they had gone polyploidal, not as individuals but culturally –an international array, arriving here and effectively quadrupling the meme strands, providing the adaptability to survive in this alien terrain despite all the stress-induced mutations…
The books were New York Times best-sellers, clearly reaching an audience larger than the traditional niche science fiction crowd. Yet, Robinson did not bother to explain genetic terminology, such as “polyploidal” or “meme strands”. Nor did he need to name the moons of Mars –Phobos and Deimos– or define “regolith,” the astrophysical term he frequently uses which describes the nature of surface rock on many intrasolar bodies. That Robinson could wield a complex scientific vocabulary so unapologetically is testament to his understanding of the audience that science fiction had wrought: a very large population intimately familiar with the touchstones of the genre — space travel, genetics and even many of the more obscure and atypical nuances of speculative science.
SCIENCE FICTION AS SCIENCE ANALYSIS
The intimate relationship between science and science fiction is often characterized by the latter’s history of having predicted developments in the former. The novels of Jules Verne, for example, adequately described advances in undersea exploration and air travel years before such things were actualized. Without question, this tendency is not true prescience, but rather a fanciful interpretation of the prevailing thought of the time. While the science of Verne’s era could describe, but not build, submarines the likes of his “Nautilus,” Verne was nonetheless able to construct the machine within his virtual fictional world and run it through adventurous applications and simulations. In this way, literature provides a convenient venue for the safe exploration of extant theory. Many stories can be considered a coalescence of pure scientific thought into a contextualized semi-reality.
Johannes Kepler is thought by some to have written the first science fiction story in the 17th century. In it, he described a dream in which he flew to the moon and observed astrophysical phenomena about which he, as an astronomer, could only theorize. The art form provided him with an instrument for understanding his science in a more passionate and less analytical mode.
In a similar way, Arthur Conan Doyle’s legendary adventures of Sherlock Holmes are fine examples of fiction used to push the functional bounds of scientific analysis. These tales are not typically lumped into the science fiction category. But if one accepts a definition of the genre as fictional narrative in which the core events of said narrative are dependent upon the existence of science or technology that does not (yet) exist, then the tales of Sherlock Holmes belong alongside those of Conan Doyle’s contemporaries, Jules Verne and H.G. Well, as well as those of the Grandmasters Asimov and Clarke. As a medical doctor, Conan Doyle was able to entertain developments at the cusp of medical technology to empower his super-sleuth with analytical techniques that were not yet in employ by the police of the time.
Similarly, it is not surprising that the man often credited with having “invented” the communications satellite is Arthur C. Clarke, who wrote about the concept in a 1945 letter to Wireless World magazine, thirteen years before the first artificial satellite was actually launched. Clarke’s abilities and experiences as a science fiction writer enabled him to “think outside of the box,” to consider scientific possibilities that were minutely beyond the technological capabilities of the day. Like Kepler, Clarke’s unique position astraddle the worlds of both literature and science afforded him the necessary perspective to not only consider a technological possibility, but to run through fictionalized simulations of how the potential technology would affect larger society –a thought experiment rarely engendered upon by scientists of the day.
However, in the world of strict science, simply exploring an idea or technological precept does not qualify as analysis, but merely as the initial phase of the fabled scientific method. Two remaining elements must be incorporated: a controlled experimental environment and the reproducibility of results. The former is easily achieved in literature (more so than in actual laboratory conditions, to be sure); variables in a virtual fictional experiment can be instantly constrained by simply defining the environment a priori. The issue of reproducibility is more problematic, as it requires independent researchers (writers) to obtain the same solutions to reasonably identical problems.
The constraint of extraneous and spurious variables was notable in the responses to a foolhardy decree by John W. Campbell. The guru of the Golden Age of science fiction had declared that a science fiction detective story could never be written, since in fantastical worlds an assailant could always “death wish” his victim from behind a locked door. Through this statement, Campbell betrayed his lack of familiarity with the laboratory scientific method. The obvious solution, expounded with gusto by the likes of Harry Harrison and Larry Niven, was that an author could preclude the possibility of “death wishing” and other problematic elements by simply defining the extent of his fictional world a priori. Harrison’s various novels and anthologies concerning his character, the “Stainless Steel Rat”, and Niven’s The Long Arm of Gil Hamilton are but two examples of science fiction crime stories made possible by the constraining of spurious variables through the construction of thick, detailed fictional worlds whose social rules, physical laws and technological levels remain internally consistent.
In contrast, the reproduction of results is not a traditional goal of literature. Indeed, writers strive to explore new worlds, scenarios and situations, preferring not to tread the same ground travelled by others. One example, though, is of the concept of the “space elevator” or “orbital tether.” Originally conceptualized in the early 20th century by the legendary Russian physicist Tsiolkovsky, an orbital tether is a device that extends from the surface of a planet outward to a geostationary satellite, providing a cheap and efficient means of transporting people and goods to and from orbit. It goes without saying that such a device cannot be constructed in today’s economic and technological climate: the materials, expertise and wealth do not yet exist to enable its erection. Indeed, a functional orbital tether is likely to be at least a century away. Yet it has proven to be an attractive topic for several science fiction writers.
The most thorough treatment of the tether was given by Arthur C. Clarke in The Fountains of Paradise (1978). Clarke would revisit the concept in 3001: Final Odyssey two decades later. In Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars Trilogy (1993, 1994, 1996), an orbital tether was erected in Martian orbit. Larry Niven would reproduce the device on both Earth and Mars in his Rainbow Mars (1997).
The differences in approaches to constructing the tether are interesting. Clarke described a traditional bottom-top engineering project, while Robinson suggested converting an asteroid into a self-replicating titanium cable that is dropped down from orbit. Niven, meanwhile, gave his space elevator life, making it an enormous alien tree that is grown simultaneously top-bottom and bottom-top. All of the writers foresaw the unique stressors to such a structure, and strove to suggest solutions in the context of fictional narrative. Both Niven and Robinson had the foresight to realize that Mars’ secondary moon Phobos would prove a navigational menace to a tether. Both writers struck upon the same solution, to oscillate the tether in sync with Phobos’ orbital period. These elements of problem solving, technical precision and fine detail are quite appealing to professional scientists, hence these novels have proven to be particularly popular among that technical subsector of the population.
Of course, both Niven and Robinson were inspired both by Clarke’s landmark work and by Tsiolkovsky’s initial theorems. Moreover, Niven credits Robinson for having first explored the Martian tether idea. These “experiments” are therefore not independent statistical events, and as such cannot be considered true scientific investigations. But neither are they mere fictional tales to be consumed without technological context or a nod to potential impact. Because of their unique nature, their preferred position between the planes of art and science, they must be considered a sort of “meta-experiment” in which analyses can be reproducible but not unique or independent. This in no way diminishes their value, but rather accentuates their important role in the hypothesis-generation phase of the formal scientific method.
CONCLUSION
The relationship between scientists and science fiction is a unique one in the literary world. The art reflects the activities of its audience while simultaneously inspiring that same audience to further its explorations. In engineering, this is called a feedback loop; in psychology, mutual dependence. This intertwining of interests has repercussions for wider society, increasingly so as Western civilization evolves into a genuine technocracy. How we will sustain ourselves in a world jolted by genetic engineering, for example, has already been examined in the realm of science fiction, while the treatment of the topic in such books as Brave New World no doubt informed and inspired the scientists who initially developed the technology. Moreover, our many possible responses to contact with alien civilizations have also been lain out and dissected in the pages of this unique genre, potentially providing a behavioural template for the real event. Since we are rapidly becoming aware that the projection of technological developments is vital for the effective preparation of public policy, the role of science fiction writers becomes heightened in the public eye.
In the novel Flying to Valhalla, scientist cum science fiction writer Charles Pellegrino succinctly presents the laws which would dictate present concerns regarding contact with an alien species:
- The dominant species of any world, like humanity, is necessarily ruthless and predatory;
- In any disagreement, an alien species will consider its own needs above ours; and
- An alien species will assume that these same laws apply to us.
Using these laws, Pellegrino defies the optimistic and dogmatic outlook of Carl Sagan, predicting that any interstellar contact would necessarily become violent. Pellegrino’s ideas have spurred much debate in the world of speculative science, and may yet influence formal governmental policy with regard to space transmissions and exploration.
Without a doubt, the aforementioned relationship between genre and readership grows in its intimacy and potency. With the ever accelerating scientific sophistication of the general public, this relationship expands to meet those individuals previously uninterested in science fiction. This will likely lead to a growing mainstream acceptance of the genre, allowing both its spirited vision and its analytical precision to touch and affect an expanding population of scientifically literate fans.
The Novels of Charles Pellegrino
This article is reprinted from an original post on The Podium, published back in Jan 8, 2000.
by Raywat Deonandan
For some years now, Charles Pellegrino has been one of my favourite science-fiction writers. His lack of fame is not easily understood, but I would suggest that it has something to do with his ability to straddle too many worlds at once: he is too reality-based to rank among the SF masters (Niven, Clarke, Asimov), and too technically oriented to cross into the mainstream lists. His closest mainstream parallel is Michael Crichton (Jurassic Park, The Andromeda Strain, etc.). But Pellegrino’s encyclopaedic knowledge of history and many sciences transcends Crichton’s medical specialization and Hollywood sensibility. Reading Pellegrino’s books is more of an educational experience than a literary one. His novels are textbooks disguised as entertainment.
My exposure to Pellegrino thus far has been via three novels: Flying To Valhalla, its sequel The Killing Star, and now Dust. It’s clear from this sample that the man has a morbid fascination with global catastrophes and the end of the world. Whether it be via alien invasion or ecological collapse, Pellegrino has the scientific clout to make Armageddon believable and terrifying.
I was first struck by Pellegrino’s pervasive, insidious and fatalistic rationality when, in The Killing Star, he provided a compelling counterargument to Carl Sagan’s famous premise of “any alien civilization we encounter will necessarily be peaceful since they will have solved their own domestic quarrels before venturing to the stars.” Pellegrino responded with three rules:
- Wimps don’t become top dog (i.e., the dominant species of a planet is never a passive vegetarian, but an expansionist, carnivorous warrior)
- The top dog will always ultimately consider his interests above your own
- He will assume the same of you
With that logic, Pellegrino argued that interstellar meetings will invariably become violent. It’s therefore in everyone’s best interest to destroy every alien space-faring civilization we encounter, ‘cause they’ll be doing the same. This, he suggested, explains why project SETI has heard no sign of interstellar intelligence: they’re all smart enough to stay quiet; the loud ones shouting “We’re here! We’re here!” were wiped out early on.
This sounds like paranoid fluff, I know. But the man’s inventive genius compels pause. He describes a doomsday device he calls a “relativistic missile” which physicists now concur can be built. He was the first to describe a recipe for cloning dinosaurs, long before Jurassic Park. He has designed a viable interstellar rocket drive, and was involved in the early 1970’s debates on whether a comet impact could have killed the dinosaurs. A genuine polymath, Pellegrino demands admiration.
Dust is by far Pellegrino’s most terrifying novel. In it, he suggests a mechanism for the periodic spates of global extinction (having occurred 33 million and 65 million years ago) having less to do with meteors than with a “genetic time bomb” built into insect species. With the sudden die- off of insects around the world, a chain reaction of ecological catastrophes ensues, culminating with nuclear war brought about by environmental insecurity.
As is his wont, Pellegrino has peppered Dust with fascinating scientific trivia: for example, the rapid evolution of a filter-speeding sponge into a predacious carnivore, the link between prion diseases and the origins of life, and the unexplained global spontaneous crystallization of almost all laboratory glycerin molecules in 1910.
Pellegrino is no literary master. His characters are not compelling creations who evolve through life journeys —mostly because his characters are his real-life scientist buddies! He does not pretend to explore the human condition as would a Rushdie, Conrad, Hemingway or Forster. But he provides hard supportable science, and surrounds it with plausible scenarios that cannot fail to compel greater thought.
Time spent reading Pellegrino is time well-spent indeed.
