The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, July 2008

As the fourth issue of my run reviewing The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, I was keen to see how the July, 2008, edition measured up against my expectations. To date, I have taken equal parts inspiration and frustration from the magazine. Would the latest installment tip the balance in one direction or the other?

Matthew Hughes is a regular contributor to the pages of F&SF with his Majestrum stories. Chronicling the adventures of Hengis Hapthorne, foremost freelance discriminator of old Earth, the stories are a spicy mix of H. Rider Haggard and Jack Vance, and in the case of “Fullbrim’s Findings,” a dash of Jean Paul Satre. Taking on the task of locating the eponymous Doldan Fulbrim as a light diversion from dealing with the cyclical readjustment of the universe, Hapthorne embarks on a short adventure that will see him comprehend one of the universe’s deepest, most profound, and, in Hapthorne’s own words, most inane secrets. The secret itself is less important that the journey to find it, which is made engaging by the dry, ironic narration of Hughes/Hapthorne. The thing to love about the Majestrum stories is how they capitalise on science fiction’s right to make sweeping philosophical statements about the universe with no basis in fact but simply for the hell of making them. That’s a refreshing ambition in the face of so many timid, domestic stories coming out of the genre at the moment.

“Reader’s Guide” by Lisa Goldstein is a formally experimental piece that plays around with metatext by adopting the format of a reader’s guide. The guide in question is to an imaginary novel, Winter Swan by Mary Bainbridge. Over the course of 23 questions, the reader’s guide creates a literary negative of the story it describes. How does Winter Swan let us know that Donny is unhappy? What is the significance of the single swan on the lake? How would the story be different if the characters were lemurs? Around the story of Winter Swan unfolds that of the guide itself, which may or may not be the Lord of Story. This kind of metatextual approach is designed to give the reader’s imagination free reign over the story. If the average story exists as 50% in the words of the author and 50% in the mind of the reader, then “Reader’s Guide” has a ratio of 10% author to 90% reader. Readers who want more substance to their story, in response to Goldstein’s work, will range from dissatisfaction to intense annoyance, but anyone who prefers to use fiction simply as a framework for their own imaginary meanderings may well find “Reader’s Guide” a magical gateway to wherever their imagination takes them.

“The Roberts” by Michael Blumlein is the longest story in the issue and the most problematic. Although the central conceit is cloning, “The Roberts” is a story about relationships between men and women. Robert Fairchild is an ambitious and self-centred man, with grand intellectual ambitions. Through the course of his life he works his way through numerous relationships, never returning the love that is given to him. Later in life, Robert realises his mistake, but instead of addressing it, he uses his scientific contacts to have a number of clones of himself made—the Roberts—to keep his darling wife company. Any reader averse to protracted exposition will want to speed read or entirely skip the first ten thousand words of “The Roberts,” which Blumlein uses to laying out a complex backstory for his central character that only serves to drag the story down and make the plot once it arrives seem almost redundant. But worse, for a story about relationships between men and women, “The Roberts” has a poor grasp on one half of that equation. The female characters are caricatured as adoring lovers with no real emotional needs beyond the love and attention of their husbands. Taken in all, “The Roberts” feels like a slice of 1950s propaganda painted as a 21st century exploration of relationships.

Writing a story in second person is a brave, some might say foolhardy, endeavour, unless you are writing a text adventure game or Fighting Fantasy novel. But it’s a task Scott Dalrymple throws himself into with gusto with “Enfant Terrible.” You are the agent of a secret government security force. You are on a mission to locate mysterious alien creatures that disguise themselves as children. You will take ruthless action to achieve your higher cause. To his credit, Dalrymple manages the unusual narrative perspective well, and the story has none of the cringe inducingly bad characteristics of most attempts to tame second person prose. But the question “Enfant Terrible” left me asking was why Dalrymple had bothered? Narrative perspectives have their uses; first person can take a reader deep into the psyche of a character; third person allows bigger, more epic storytelling. But second person, far from bringing a reader into the thick of the action, generally serves to distance them from it. In the end, the second person perspective doesn’t add anything to “Enfant Terrible,” and I suspect the story would have been more engaging without it.

“Poison Victory” by Albert E. Cowdrey is a brilliantly imagined and wonderfully well constructed alternative history. It is the late 1940s, and Nazi Germany stands victorious over all of Europe and Russia. Like many good alternative histories, “Poison Victory” starts by theorising a turning point in the historical record and extrapolating the consequences. In this case, the turning point is the battle for Stalingrad, which in Cowdrey’s story is won by the Germans with the use of poison gas. But where many alternative histories become exercises in political and military theorising, Cowdrey’s unfolds a meaningful and emotionally resonant story. Narrated by a hero of the German people rewarded with great wealth and living like a lord in the feudal system established by the Nazi’s over the conquered Russian peoples, the narrator is actually one of the silent majority who do not truly support the Nazi’s but simply play along for their own benefit and out of fear for their lives. “Poison Victory” is an insightful assessment of the way violence and brutality turn otherwise civilised people into collaborators and perpetrators of violence for self-preservation and how these forces are only defeated by individuals willing to sacrifice their own lives and risk the most horrific tortures. It’s a story made all the stronger by the fact that beyond its speculative elements, it describes brutalities common in history and still inflicted upon millions of people today.

What do you feed a sick brachiosaur? Eighty gallons of Dr. Pepper boiled with a hundredweight of cabbage leaves, that’s what! Or at least that’s the case in the fun and inventive “The Dinosaur Train” by James L. Cambias. Sullivan’s Dinosaurs are a travelling sideshow featuring—you guessed it—dinosaurs. And the star of the show is Brenda the Brachiosaur, the eighth wonder of the world. “The Dinosaur Train” has a clever premise, building on the standard speculative trope of the isolated tropical island paradise found to be populated with dinos and conjecturing where some of the big lizards would end up. Threaded through the premise is the story of Sean Sullivan and his grandfather, the shows proprietor. When Brenda falls sick, a clash of ideals arises between the generations, and a classic coming of age story unfolds. Cambias’s tale is great entertainment, genuinely heartfelt in places.

One of the great strengths of F&SF is its willingness to take on so many of the differing areas of contemporary genre fiction. In any given issue, a reader can expect to find traditional, even nostalgic stories harking back to the pulp roots of genre fiction, right alongside more contemporary fiction with greater literary influences. The magazine isn’t afraid to take on stories from the more experimental end of the spectrum either, which contrast well against the more fan oriented, TV, and manga influenced tales the magazine also gives a home. Taken as a whole, the magazine does an impressive job of encapsulating much of what is best about genre fiction today.