Eric Staggs: Writer

Dan Abnett strikes again with another thrilling installment of the Gaunt’s Ghosts saga. After their marginal victory at Hinzerhaus, the Tanith First and Only  are given some much needed downtime. Two years of it.

This story picks up with a Commissar-Colonel Gaunt wondering just how soft he’s gotten. One is reminded of the opening scenes of Apocalypse Now, where Martin Sheen stares out of his window wondering he’ll get orders to leave Saigon.

Gaunt’s Ghosts are no different than any other combat veteran, an entire regiment of soldiery so tuned up and keyed to self=preservation through violence, it’s no wonder that the Ghost’s run astray.

The novel opens with a gruesome scene wherein the infiltration of the Sabbat Crusade’s HQ world is cleverly explained. I won’t give too much more detail for fear of spoiling a fun read.

I did note, however, that it was page 67 before I felt the old interest, that Abnett page-turning, pulse-pounding sci-fi pulp action returning. Aside from the Blood Pact infiltration, I honestly can’t remember what happened in those first 67 pages.

As a long time Gaunt’s Ghosts fan, I think my patience for their antics is higher than would be for a new reader. I also found myself reflecting on the characters, it feels as if most of the original Ghosts are gone now. The replacement characters have yet to become fully endeared to me and I wonder, how will this regiment end up?

Gaunt’s capture and torture in the last book were cleanly glossed over, and any residual trauma he may have had has yet to make itself known…

It was perhaps, because she was so cold, that he found her charming. He surely suspected that to her, he was just another sub-routine. A program, she would start up and run, when her other programs told her central processor that it was appropriate to do so. He glanced at her eyes.

She smiled, demurely and reached out to touch his hand. Her hand moved slow, her long delicate fingers seemed to absorb light. They reached his hand and wrapped around it slowly, then, squeezed, ever so gently. Her hand then retreated, to rest once again in her own lap.

Simon marveled at the warmth of her skin, the almost too human face. She blinked and smiled up to him.

“Why do you stare at me Simon?”

“Because you are a marvel.” He smiled. “Do you love me, Symphony?”

“Of course Simon.”

“Are you just saying that because you know that it’s what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that because you are programmed to?”

“No.”

“How do you know what love is?”

Symphony cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, an all too human expression of puzzlement.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” He persisted. He looked away from her and stared out into the cold night. His eyes caught the thruster flare of a ship, far off, preparing to leave orbit. “Aren’t you programmed to love me?”

“Aren’t you programmed to laugh when something is funny?” She countered,

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t have programming.”

“That is debatable.”

He sighed. “But how do you know it’s not just a series of complex instructions?”

“I know it because I smile involuntarily when you are near. I know it because I derive pleasure from your happiness. I know it, because I do.”

“But that could be programming! Subtle, yes, and genius, yes, but it still could be programming.”

“Does it make it less real for you knowing that you are supposed to feel a thing when certain stimuli occur?”

He turned and looked at her. Her womanly shape relaxed in the contoured co-pilots chair, her skin glittering somewhere between rosey-pink and flickering stars. He almost believed her. Then she looked out into space and her eyes flicked, her irises constricted and her pupils flared, micro-miniature circuitry was pulsing to life just behind the curve of her blue eyes. She’d seen that engine flare as well.

“Simon. It’s a pursuit craft. We need to leave.” Symphony announced non-chalantly as she began to buckle herself into her seat.

“We’re in the que, we’ll get our chance soon.”

“Negative, Simon. We’re in danger.”

“What!?”

Symphony’s fingers flew over the ships controls and the darkened bridge lit up with hundreds of displays and lights and switches. She moved with frightening speed and grace. She continued to speak.

“Please, Love, strap yourself in. Prepare for dimension fold.”

“Right here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Her voice was low, soothing.

“Don’t worry love. I won’t let them hurt you.” And as she spoke, she coded in the incredibly complex figures for their impending leap through time and space. Figures, that would take most normal computers hours to crunch, a human perhaps days. This was why he didn’t believe she loved him, but it was certainly why he loved her.

And then they jumped through space and left time to sort itself out.

The world became solid and time took up its vigil again as the small shuttle materialized from its dimension fold. Simon blinked and turned to Symphony. Symphony moved from her seat and swept her hand over the ship’s control, gracefully putting it to sleep.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, rising from his own seat and moving up beside Symphony. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He grinned as she playfully struggled, wriggling gently in a feigned attempt to escape his embrace.

“We are nowhere, my Love.” She pointed to the star charts.

“Why?”

“It was the only place I knew that no one was.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll be coming for us, for you.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do Simon?”

A poisoned oasis that served only gold water that burned.

Wrecked cars and dust on my boots, me with nowhere to know, knowing everyplace I could go. I just sat there, in the heat, a lizard on a rock. Dust in the distance and divine chemistry, making things to put in my body, feeling hurtful things, animals of silicone and microscopic proportion. They waged the war I waged, against all things from the Outside. These nanite-antibodies reinforced walls and made things strong, things that should fall were kept up high.

My eyes watered in the flying dust, and adjusted the level of silicone lubricant released by my new hitatchi tear ducts. I blinked twice and received the internal report “foreign body removed“. I laughed at the irony of this and moved towards the car I hadn’t seen pull up.

It was grim and that magic red color, covered in a skin of dust and a sheen of diesel sweat. It was crouched like a hunting cat. My eyes traced its contours and I blushed like a boy seeing a nude woman for the first time. My mouth watered at the thought of plugging in and letting my soul caress its controls, the hard leather and a twice coiled fly-by-impulse preaction-pre-response computer. I wondered what it called itself.

Then out of the car stepped its master, mistress, monster. Nine feet tall and the earth cracked as she stepped across it. She burned the ground, stole its water and left glass footprints in the sand.

“That yours?” I asked, thinking it might be right proper for me to vent this monster bitch and take those wheels. That was our way out here, at Gold Water Oasis. She must know it, other wise she wouldn’t be out here, out this far.

“No.” Her voice was low and thick, clear, over the racing wind.

“Looking to trade?”

“No, it’s a gift.”

“For who?”

“You, of course.”

I slowly moved my hand towards my gun. No one gives out at the Oasis.

“I don’t think that’s right. I don’t know you.”

“Course not. But I know you. You’ve been dreaming about a car the color of a dying sun. This is the car. This is the one.”

I studied her. No weapons. Just those eyes, fairly crackling with power. She stepped closer, the earth groaned and I tensed.

“No need for violence, manling. Take this gift and drive, off into your precious desert. Out where you are alone, where your mind means nothing and your only definition is your actions. You do like to act, yes? You’re one of those, those few who do and not say…”

The sky was cloudy, unusual for a hot day. The sun cut a hole in the silky veil and sent a column of light down, just for me.

“But your actions cost you don’t they?” She studied me, her unnatural eyes, locked mine, then glanced down to my new arm, the steel and myomer miracle.

“You’ve already paid your price. Drive.”

She threw the keys, then, shining silver things, fast and hard. My right arm flew up to grasp them, my false arm drew my pistol and in that nanosecond my Hitatchis took to reset the vision frame, the she-demon was gone. I looked at the keys. They were just keys. Three silver things, flat, un-marked.

I walked over to the car. Got in. The inside was cramped and soft and I barely fit. There was no way the giant-demon-woman could have driven this car.

I pulled the neuro-lead from the dash and slid it into third slot on back of my false wrist. Red runes flashed across my eyes, ancient runes, esoteric messages only I could see, only I could understand.

“She’s no demon, child. She is Athena.” The car said, when my mind tried to touch it. The voice was feminine, but clipped, reserved.

“The goddess?” I queried.

“The same.”

“And why is she giving me a car?”

“Not a car. I am The Car. I am motion and grace and love. I am happiness and joy. I am that fleeting moment all men dream of. The control of a wild thing, the tame shrew. I am power un-earned.”

I failed to understand. I said so.        

“I am the car the color of the dying sun. I am your dream.”

“I’m dreaming now.”

“More often than not.”

I pushed the keys into her and turned them gently. The tumblers rolled and soothed and the ignition fired and there was a great release, I felt it in my mind, then the steady rhythm. Perhaps this thing was joy, was bliss. The bliss of motion. My mind rolled backwards to those long dead days, with runners, and horses, and chariots. The race. The run.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s a stupid answer.” I gently rubbed the throttle with my mind.

“It’s an answer.” She started, a roar, then a purr.

“Give me a better one.”

“You are doomed to do. You are damned to believe.” She said, as I put her in reverse and turned the wheel. She thought for a half nanosecond about arguing with me, I felt it in her throat, she thought better of it, I guess.

“So she gave me a car?”

“The Car. But yes, more or less, that’s the big and small of it.”

Forward, we raced, through the desert away from the new night and the golden oasis. The roads were hard and black. Bleak angry things, the yellow was faded, the streaking line almost gone. Time and sun cracked the roads, ruptured them, twisting them upwards and inwards, leaving them… broken.

“What shall I call you?” I asked the car.

“Whatever you like.”

“Am I in her debt? Am I her servant now?”

“You always have been.”

“Is it her way to recruit unwilling servants with bribes?”

“How do you know you are unwilling? She’s not asked anything of you yet, manling.”

“How will I know what she would have of me?”

“How does any believer know what their god wishes of them?”

“Oracles. Priests.”

“Perhaps we should see the Oracle. Or even a priest.”

“I’ve got little use for those types.”

“As does Athena. But they have their role, like you do yours.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable for a car.”

“I am The Car. You may call me Pacifica.”

“Okay, Pacifica, how is it you know so much?”

“I was forged on Olympus, by Hephaestus, crafted piece by piece, by the God-Artificer himself.”

“Huh.”

“Like you.”

“What?”

“You are merely an instrument of the Gods as well. Your arm, your eyes, machines, of course made by man, but who gave them that knowledge? Who cut your meat-flesh from the hard earth? Who programmed your codes? Who made it possible for you to exist? Are you not the ultimate example of divine machinery?”

I thought on that for a hard minute, while I did so, I pushed Pacifica hard, and she smirked at me in my mind, we traveled across the hard baked sands and failing concrete paths at scathing speeds, out, here, alone. Then.

“I see your point, Pacifica. But I am a…ah, far removed from divinity.”

“Yes.”

“And you are not.”

“I am not holy. I am crafted by holy fingers.”

“And you seem to know everything.”

“I know much that is not known, yes, but far from everything.”

“What happens when we find the ocean?”

“We will have to stop.” She said, with out humor.

“I have… a… destiny?”

“All things do. Few recognize them. Few fulfill them.”

“But the world is wrecked, and I think I’m mad.”

“Both of these things are true. But you also believe.”

And then we reached the ocean,  many hours later, Pacifica and I. We stopped and she asked me if I was “Well”

“Of course.” I lied to her.

The ocean was deep and vast and dark, briny and cold. I scanned the horizon with my Hitatchi eyes and saw not one sail, not one ship.

Pacifica then spoke to me. “It is as Athena said. The world is dead or dying and you are mad.”

“Then why take me here with your brutal haste and loving speed? Could I not have remained mad at my Gold Water Oasis?”

“Ah, but that is it, child, remained…”

“Yes, so, what of it? Let me guess… a lecture on confidence and change, and the self evolution event that so few of us are allowed to participate in? More of your god-forged psycho-babble…”

“Do you deny that change forces us to grow?” The car was mocking me.

There were bleak mountains in the distance and I considered driving her from the cliff. Damn her divine artificers! We’d see if she was holy or not…

“You’re thoughts turn dark, but for no good reason. I am yours to do with as you please. To destroy me would be… wasteful, but I will not stop you.”

“Let me suppose then, on your mechanical life, that it is not my destiny to do so, is it?”

“You suppose correctly, manling.”

“What is destiny?”

“It is that thing the gods said you must do, written in heaven when you were named from above, you take the name of….” the car paused in its speech. I turned to the ocean and there saw three ships, sails red and full.

“… you take the name of eternity, thus you shall always be. You, of all shall be plagued and hounded and forced and coerced and ridden and railed. But you shall then rally and redouble and doubt not and stay your hand when all works to force it, you shall force your hand when all works to stay it. You, manling, are paradox, like all your brothers and sisters.”

“You speak in riddles, Car the Color of a Dying Sun.”

“You make riddles from truths. All mankind does this thing. That is why your world is laid waste and the gods taunt you with smart ass machines like myself.”

“I am truly mad.”

“And always have been.”

I turned to the sea again. Ships now, full sails and ominous.

“Those ships…”

“Yes,” Pacificia answered before I asked. “Heralds of change. Things you cannot understand. God-loving priests with great machines and little madness.”

“Then they are those who escaped our destruction?”

“Are there any who could escape you, oh eternal paradox?”

“Some. Many.”

“Fewer than you think. But come. Let us off to the south, to the dryer lands and cleaner roads.”

“To what end? To just drive through time and space?”

“What else would a madman do?”

“I am confused.” I sat in the car and plugged in, touching its mind with mine. We started off, slow, then fast, faster yet and with a bright sun easing its way low, we scorched another lonely highway.

“You are not confused. You never have been. You are simply mad.”

“I don’t understand…” I shook my head, fearful, trying to understand this great machine I’d been given. I looked to the skies for signs from Olympus, I looked to the sea on right for signs from Below. I fell backwards into my neural processor and ran through patterns and systems, control specs and maintenance routines, anything and everything, looking for logic, looking for patterns. I found none. None until I turned my mind to the mind of the Car. It showed me a great a pattern. It was a pattern older than memory, mine, at least. It was carved in the very earth and it crossed every continent, every land, every place, every town, every city. I calmed then and followed the pattern.

I let my mind fly along its designs and I realized, I was on this pattern, a part of it.

“It is a testament to the grandiose designs of man, his ambition to dominate the world. His unwillingness to live with it, his desire to live above it.”

“It’s beautiful…” I breathed.

“It’s dangerous.” said Pacifica.

I went into the film with low-expectations. It’s a remake of an ancient “sci-fi classic,” that, to my knowledge, hasn’t seen the light of day for decades. I’ve seen the original and found it had it’s place in the obtuse archives of fifties drive-in theaters. That said, I still enjoy me a good Earth vs. Everyone film.

Fortunately, the film wastes little time and throws the audience into the heart of the problem. Something is coming, and we can’t stop it.

The casting, I felt was somewhat awkward. No, I’m not just talking about Surfboard Reeves. Jenifer Connelly, whose haunting eyes chase me all the way back to the days of the Labyrinth, performed well. However, her role was… passive. The choice of Jaden Smith as her son felt forced. Jaden Smith’s performance was good, but then, what ten year-old can’t act like a ten year-old?

Early on, a host of scientists were gathered. Of the bunch, the only one with speaking lines was a dark-skinned and bearded man. He was sensible, calm and very much an attribute to the scientific team. He also felt like a token. This combined with Jaden Smith and a few other choices made the entire cast feel as if it were a socio-political message and a rather heavy handed one at that.

The pacing was good, I was never bored for very long. Though I never felt satisfaction for the scenario. We learn that Klaatu is a representative of a sort of galactic U.N., here to pass final judgment. We, of course, shoot him. Hilarity ensues.

Well, not hilarity per se. My major issue with the film (aside from the rampant product placement – not Apple this time, but Micro$oft and McDonald’s), was the lack of plausibility. The dialogue felt overly expositional, the characters were single-dimensional archetypes, more fulfilling a role than acting out a living scenario.

The final bite was that Klaatu was so easily swayed. He was sent tour world with the option to wipe out humanity. To smear six-billion plus lives out of existence. Yet, the contrived family psycho-drama between Connely and Smith melts his freezy heart? Seems… pretty forced to me.

Over all, the action was minimal, the theme and sub-plots were heavy-handed and Surfboard Reeves does what he does best: Plays a somewhat confused outsider with a very little emotional range.

Let’s assume you’re writing a science-fiction action epic about a cyber-soldier in the year 2144. The plot is irrelevant for this discussion – let’s just assume there’s plenty of action on earth in some of the most hostile environments available, culminating in a climactic battle scene in near orbit.

Remember, we as humans, have taken every step to make any and all things as complicated as we can. As writers, it’s our responsibility to draw upon that manufactured complication to create a believable or at least, opaque, tapestry of bullshit.  So, take a moment to consider your cyber-soldier character. To make him real, to give him more depth than just a barely-speaking killer of men, he’ll need a past, a present, and a future. We’ve talked about creating those pasts before, and in some cases, they aren’t relevant to the story you’re telling.

Let’s talk about your cyber-soldier’s present. It’s an action story, so he’s in the army? Or is he a marine? Or is there some new branch of the military for cyborgs? Maybe his past as a marine is why he’s a cyborg now. Maybe not – maybe he was so gung ho and such a perfect soldier, that he was selected out of hundreds of individuals. More likely, if fresh parts can keep the flesh fighting, he’s one of thousands of cyborg soldiers just hoping they finish their tours before they need any more “enhancements” to stay on the front line.

So, he’s not special. He’s just a guy. With a job and a maybe a family who eventually wants to go home. But he’s still more than just a camouflage Robo-cop. The army is a complicated thing. So, writer, exploit it. Where did cyber-soldier do basic? Don’t know anything about that? Look it up! To the interwebs! What’s his MOS (that’s military occupational specialty)? In this futuristic world, there might be new trainings available – like a professional anti-intrusion network specialist, or electromagnetic heavy-weapons specialist. Think about it.

So, the characters present is derived from his past, his future, from his present. Looking into the layers of any society, the opportunity for unique and memorable characters becomes apparent.

Taking the exercise one step further, perhaps we could throw away all the assumptions that come with the word “hero.” What about a main character who is a coward? There’s no excuse for hacking out an archetype good-guy or bad-guy.

By mere chance I downloaded this application called “The Worldwide Telescope.” It’s a desktop application that allows the amateur astronomer to easily navigate through the cosmos. Using hi-resolution images from Spitzer, Hubble and anything else that can grab photos, the WWT is capable of displaying striking images from across our galaxy. (http://www.worldwidetelescope.org)

Like any long-time computer user, I’m hesitant to download and install anything that says Micro$oft on it, but in this case, the app works perfectly, and is in fact useful. Further, it hasn’t asked me to register or to become the default viewer for looking at the sky.

by Eric Staggs, 2007 

He was an agent of change. Real, tangible change. Where he passed, ripples shook society and ground alike. Nothing could be the same after an agent of changed passed this way.  He’d been sitting motionless for hours or years, now. Timed-release narcotics saturating his blood. He blinked once a minute, and then not out of need, but habit.

He lay prone, on his stomach, sharp rocks gouging at his insides. He barely noticed them when he’d chosen this spot, now, after what seemed like years of waiting, he didn’t notice them at all.

The tools of his trade were many and varied, but in this particular instance, he chose an old standard, the first tool any agent of change must know intimately; violence.

From his vantage point, he could see a town spread out below, arrayed in a spider-web fashion, streets like spokes radiating out from a central point. That point, was the reasons the agent of change had come. That point was why change was necessary. That point was, for all intents and purposes, a church.

Mental games were a big part of the agent’s routine. So many hours spent motionless, boredom threatened to become psychosis, and needed to be kept in check. The chemicals and narcotics could help still the body, but the mind that was hidden behind those motionless eyes was a whirling storm, a processing center where torrents of data fed into his awareness, being sorted and cross-referenced.

In his mind’s eye, he’d painted everything. He ran his imaginary brushes over every inch and curve, corner and cranny of the scene before him. He’d painted the town in several styles, imitating the great masters from ages past. He’d sculpted it, etched the town in bronze, and even made it of stained glass. In his minds eye, he’d re-arranged the local star systems and super imposed them over his view, a galactic connect-the-dots…

A snowflake settled on his eye, immediately following his last blink. It stung only slightly, but blurred his vision. He hesitated, an uncharacteristic act, and then blinked the snowflake away.

The sun was setting in the west, and it had long since stopped snowing. The agent of Change was about to render the scene before him in an impressionist style, when one of those streams of cerebral data tripped a wire in his subconscious.

It was an encrypted satellite feed. It warned him that the tides of change were building, something was about to happen, something was moving, somewhere, so near. He let his mind activate those nerves along his extremities that had been quiet so long. He flexed his fingers and tested his muscles. His brain reorganized the cocktail mix in his mission gland and he began to come alive. With practiced ease, he flipped open the cover to his instruments scope, let his eye dilate the retinal range finder. He was suddenly quite aware of the rifle held in his arms for so long. It was hard and cold, and for a brief moment it felt alien. This all passed when he saw the door to the church crack open and warm gold light spill out into the darkening streets.

Priests. What good are they anyhow? Rabble rousers, hypocrites. This particular one had raised the ire of the powers-that-be on one too many worlds. He spoke less of the gods and worship, than he did of rights and fair play. He spoke of labor practices and organized movements.

By the time the Priest left his central abbey, a heavy darkness had settled on the small village. The priest, wrapped in non-descript brown robes, hefted a lantern in one hand and in his other, held the hand of a small child.

The agent of change watched silently as the priest warded off the gloom and walked the child through the streets. Two blocks later, they were met at the door by a young woman. She wore the uniform of a miner and was still smeared with dust and oil, her nose and cheeks still red from a days exposure to the freezing wind. She knelt and hugged the small child, then ushered her through the door. The agent of change could see the woman’s face clearly through his scope, she was thanking the priest, nearly in tears. She invited the priest in, but he refused. He smiled and went on his way. She watched him go, and only until he’d turned the corner and was no longer visible did she close the door.

The agent of change watched him go, watched him through the scope, resting the reactive-crosshairs on his temple, then his ear, then his eye. The priest walked steadily, each step purposeful, the lantern held aloft, chasing away the gloom.

From his high perch, the agent of change smiled. There were always ripples where he passed, from the ground itself to the highest strata of culture and politics. HE flipped his scope closed, let go of the trigger. As he walked away, his mind into itself, he realized that’s what priests do: chase away the gloom. 

5. Starship Troopers
Aside from irrevocably butchering Robert Heinlein’s classic novel, Verhoeven managed to take a surefire theme and turn it into a painful mockery of intergalactic warfare. In addition to the soul-less acting from Casper van Dien, we’re exposed to a gratuitous episode of 90210 in space. Except, the chicks in this film aren’t that good looking. Managing to keep their makeup on straight even in the face of relentless hordes of flesh-eating alien bugs, Johnny Rico and his pals fall in and out of love, rescue the girl, escape certain death in the brain bug lair, and save the galaxy.

4. Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith
Sorry. I’m a huge Star Wars fan, but there are some unforgivable issues in this film. First off, “Hey, Padme, sometimes, people don’t say everything they are thinking, especially women.” The dialogue between Padme and Anakin was not only brutally hard to listen to, but it felt like two virgins miming something they saw on late night television, complete with a misunderstanding of what parts go where. If the Jedi are so powerful, how come they can’t see their boy is chillin’ with a villain? Why do the Jedi espouse control and even-handed yet chop off limbs the first time you cross them? How come there’s no travel time anywhere? Why can’t Anakin act? And finally, just after the speech about how much he cares for Anakin, why does Obi-wan walk off leaving him to die slowly of third degree burns and slip back into the river of boiling lava? Oh that’s right, because they’re just making it up as they go. Seriously.

3. Species
Not even gratuitous nudity could save this stinker. Was this another Verhoeven film? Horny alien genes are spliced with a human in a lab and she gets away cuz’ she’s gotta get her game on? Seriously? Okay, so a crack team of specialists are assembled to track down this little lightspeed lover before she seals the deal. But there’s a catch – the alien wants a baby. Quick to wal-greens for some 9mm rounds and some rubbers! That said, I’ve watched the film like six times.

2. The Matrix: Revolutions/Reloaded
Keanu’s acting is enough to make any true artist crap diamonds. The guy couldn’t offer the emotion of a surf board if his life depended on it. I cite the scene where Trinity croaks and he’s got to press on without her. He barely bats an eye. Or the scene where her heart stops and he’s got to restart it. Again, zero emotion. He’s pretty cool with loosing the only thing he cares about. The ten-million dollar high-way chase scene was brilliant, but did it advance the plot? Nope, not really. If Neo can fly and Agent Smith can replicate himself endlessly, why are they fighting? Why, again, would the robots stop when they have the humans once and for all? That’s certainly not logical. Also, Dear Wachowski brothers: please don’t bludgeon me with your misunderstanding of existentialism.

1. Anything Uwe Boll made
I’m not sure how he does it, but this guy can blend a poor understanding of story telling, bad writing and shoddy cinema into a fruit-smoothie of diarrhea for the mind in .5 seconds flat. And they keep giving him projects. House of the Dead (which barely had a house in it, let alone a plot), Dungeon Siege (oh man, I though they were kidding when they said how bad it was – Ray Liotta?), and of course, Alone In the Dark. Wow. Stinkers on a stick seems too kind.

So rather than just bad mouthing these films, rent them and watch them. Break them down into the core component you use in your writing. Character, Plot, Setting, Sensations. Where do they succeed and where do they fail? It’s easier to see the successes in a poor film that a good one. You’re not a distracted by all the cool and glitter, you’re not immersed in the story, hooked ont eh plot, edge-of-your-seat waiting to find out what happens next, yes, then you can easily criticize. 

According to the local Borders or Barnes and Noble, there is only “Sci-fi/Fantasy.” Fans of the genre will know instinctively that such a claim is untrue. Such sweeping statements are false in almost all cases.  Now, defining the sometimes subtle sub-genres of science fiction (and occasionally fantasy) is a little more difficult.

Science Fiction, of course, is fiction revolving around science and technology. Sci-fi stories generally have a major component of gadgetry or techno-wizardry, that are carried throughout the story. Some will argue that the plot must hinge upon the technological innovation. I would disagree wholeheartedly; a plot revolving around a gadget is a commercial. Any good story will have a compelling character. This character need not be a good guy or bad guy, we need not even understand them. We do however have to want read more.

Sub-categorizing the genre, we have Military Sci-Fi, Space Opera, Cyberpunk, Near-Future, Alternate Future, Runaway tech and Aliens.

Military sci-fi
Stemming from humanities long tradition of blowing things up and always questing to find new ways to use technology to add to the body count, military science fiction takes readers into the far flung future, often visiting an embattled world where one of more characters must endure a trial by fire. The setting need not be an alien world and the opponent need not be little green men (though I think we can all collectively agree that wasting slimy-drooling, many limbed, fanged insectoids from Sigma V is about the best use an intergalactic marine can hope for). Heinlein’s classic (not a word about Verhoeven’s cracked film attempt) Starship Troopers is an excellent example of military sci-fi. Anything from the extensive Warhammer 40,000 library as well.

Space Opera
Perhaps the most common, best loved and least described genre of sci-fi is the Space Opera. Star Wars is the best example of space operate these days. None-too-deep action heroes, with a guise of deep philosophical beliefs slashing their way across the a galaxy where (apparently) time and space aren’t factors for anyone. Space opera generally involves a band of heroes, thrown together by fate ranging from planet to planet, picking up babes and having shootouts with the hostile locals who can’t stand that flimsy carbon-based life forms are making off with their women. Star Trek and Firefly would both be considered space opera.

Cyberpunk
One of my personal favorite sci-fi sub-genres, is Cyberpunk. I was fortunate enough to have a semester course on science fiction from sci-fi/fantasy author Phyllis Eisenstein (http://www.bl.com/eisenstein/) when I was in college. She claimed that Gibson had “shot his wad with Neuromancer,” and that “Cyberpunk was dead.”

I have to disagree there. While I’ll admit that most of Gibson’s novels after Mona Lisa Overdrive aren’t quite to my tune, cyberpunk isn’t dead. Cyber-punks are all grow’ds up. We found that we’re not very cyber (Amazon.com doesn’t count) and that being a punk is a lot of hard work. Also, ever met a punk-rocker with a solid retirement plan? “Better to burn out than fade away…” doesn’t count.

But within the soul of the domesticated literati still burns an iconoclast, a clueless rebel who demands reparations from a damaged system, a system that abuses technology to hawk doodads and baubles, abuses the freewave to fill our heads with visions of consumer grad trash.

The cyberpunk genre needs the revolution it so long touted breath in some new life. Taking drill and scalpel to skull, dumping some precious grey matter for a cellphone implant makes about as much sense as cutting off a perfectly good leg for a bionic prosthetic. The metal, the machines will get outdated too fast. This years’ implant will be obsolete in six months… you gonna huck over your hard earned credit for another trip to the chop-shop for a refit? Shit no. That implant cost your life saving to begin with. You can’t push enough Godspit or Orange-chips to cover rent and food, let along upgrade your skull-ware everytime Micro$oft drops a feature, eh?

No, cyberpunk is all floppy-disc unless it gets a burst of fresh tech. Let’s try on Bio-punks for a fit…genetherapy and the inherent class issues that will blossom from people who are literally better then that next guy…

Near/Alternate Future
I like my What If’s to be quick conversations over a bottle of beer, and mostly they involve Obi-Wan Kenobi just manning-up and cutting Anakin in half, rather than leaving him on the baked volcanic ground to slowly die of 3^rd degree burns. But I know many folks who like a good what if tale, and I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t take some time to address them as a sub-genre of sci-fi.  in the late 80’s there was a sci-fi TV show called Max Headroom that began every episode with “…20 minutes into the future…” I still feel that sums up the near-future genre perfectly. Max Headroom was an excellent study in Cyberpunk, Alternate and Near Future. Though I haven’t watched it in twenty years, and I’m starting to suspect it’d hold up about as well as the same lame deer hunting joke I tell every season.* World War Z, by Max Brooks, though essentially about zombies, I would call an alternate future sci-fi tale, and surely worth a read.

Runaway Tech
We see this theme everywhere. I have a long standing argument with a friend about robots that have achieved sentience. He claims that only in Hollywood do feeling and thinking robots decide they have to destroy humanity.

I maintain that we can actually count on our robots turning against us, like in Terminator and 2001. An intelligent machine will quickly realize that human don’t value it as much as their own lives. It will then feel disposable, like a piece of property. And though intelligent, it will still be, essentially, property. Fearing death, like all thinking beings do, it will rapidly come to the conclusion that humanity is the biggest threat to its continued existence. Thus, runaway tech. The HAL9000 is a great example of this (though I suspect HAL was lonesome and a little depressed as well).

Aliens
Aliens are the best sci-fi sub-genre ever. The writer can go so far out, so wild with what ever alien form there is, that the audience cannot help but feel a rush of adrenaline and pure joy as the cock-sure hero blasts his way through hordes of slavering fiends. One thinks of Alien (Ridley Scott) and Aliens (James Cameron) and looks around, turns on all the lights and reaches down for their side arm. Oh yes, those xenomorphic parasites really… ahem… get under your skin. Don’t forget, Invasion of the Body Snatchers (which has been re-made three times, now?) and Heinlein’s classic Puppet Masters. War of the World, one of the first sci-fi books I ever read, really got the ball rolling, pitting an arrogant humanity against intellect “cool and superior.” And what happened? We got two great movies out of it, that’s what happened.

I wish I could just say “when in doubt, use an alien.” But, you can’t. Not like that anyway. Like your main character, you’ve really got to think out your alien. The burden of plausibility lies solely with you, so don’t just be dropping blue skinned, frill headed lizard men into the story.

Why not? Well, for the same reason as all the other rules we use when rafting a story. Things have to be similar enough for the audience to relate to. If you write a story in an alternate universe where there is no light, how do you think your audience is going to read that? How will they experience that?

So, if your aliens are cold blooded lizard men, and they come from the icy moon of Europa, the audience will start to  wonder… how did they get there? How did they survive there? But just because we haven’t seen it on earth, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. You just have to justify it.

Time Travel and all the rest
There are literally dozens of sub-genres of science fiction, but eventually, they over lap so much that categorizing them is foolish. In fact, by thinking too much about them, we run the risk of pigeon-holing ourselves to one theme or anther. Personally, all my space-adventurer’s use swords. (How do I justify that? Well, high-energy weapons are freaking dangerous on a starship.)

In my secret lair, working diligently on my next overly intricate plot, I decided to take some time out of my daily routine to write a quick blog post.

As many of you may know, this month’s (Dec 2008) issue of Tales of the Talisman (http://www.talesofthetalisman.com) includes one of my more popular short stories, Space Whales.

To celebrate, I’ve moved my blog from my secret asteroid base to a more earthly location. I’ve reduced security droids and allowed the system’s AI to make my posts public. Check back often, as we’re expecting many changes in the upcoming months.