Postscripts, #14, Spring 2008

PS Publishing must have one of the most diverse lists in the independent press; and their magazine, Postscripts, reflects that diversity: reading an issue is like reaching into the PS bran tub and pulling out a random selection.

Opening issue #14 is “Blackbird” by Robert Reed which, according to its introduction, arose from “wondering what it would take for people to feel for” alien beings sending signals across the universe. Reed’s answer (and I suspect he’s right) is the equivalent of a “reality show” (my interpretation, not necessarily the author’s): although many signals of extraterrestrial origin have been intercepted and translated, those of one entity in particular have captured the imaginations of the people of Earth more than any other. Dubbed Blackbird, the alien’s periodic broadcasts show the fabulous world she lives on and her efforts to find a lover. Reed’s chronicle of this and the effect it ultimately has on humankind is written well enough, but the tale is told from a distance, so it’s easier to appreciate intellectually than fully engage with emotionally.

Also featuring messages from outer space—but otherwise very different—is “Flecks from the Isle of Chrome” by Rhys Hughes. This is actually a set of three separate (though linked) stories taking place on the Isle of Chrome (which appears to be the present-day Isle of Wight) and starring Gregor Pontoon, house-husband to Sonja Peterson, who works at a radio telescope searching for alien signals. Within Hughes’s piece, the two of them variously face the ultimate energy bill; go on holiday for the experience of contracting diseases; and find themselves in a robot theme park. The author’s introductory notes reference John Sladek, a writer I really haven’t read enough to be able to make a direct comparison; but I have read enough to see the point, and the details of “Flecks”—right down to the characters’ names—put me in mind from the very beginning of SF stories from the 1960s and ’70s. The work of Hughes’s that I’ve encountered previously has tended towards pastiche and absurdity (no technical definition intended), which are two things that I personally don’t often get along with in fiction. “Flecks from the Isle of Chrome” falls into a similar bracket; and, no, I can’t say I fell in love with it. But Hughes throws so much strangeness into the mix that it’s almost impossible not to be carried along, and his satire has some considerable bite. I laughed at ideas like fashions that come and go in a matter of hours, and “disease tourism” (come and be infected with your choice of malady! don’t worry if it’s fatal: we’ll download your personality into a new body!). They’re ridiculous, but there’s also that nagging feeling that, if these things were possible, someone might try them out…

Jeff VanderMeer contributes another cluster of shorter stories in the form of “Island Tales,” four “re-imagined” folktales from Fiji, Hawaii, and the Philippines. Amongst them, you’ll discover how a giant turtle belonging to the Sky King led to people arriving on the island of Kandavu, how a giant’s accident turned the sea salty, and how the god Maui found the Hawaiian isles during a fishing contest. “Island Tales” took me back to the books of myths, legends, and folktales I read as a child; VanderMeer’s piece could fit right in amongst them and is just as enjoyable to read now as an adult.

“Salve” by Robert Weston reads as a short, sharp satire on the contemporary fad for taking some sort of supplement, even if it’s not necessary. Weston writes of a family get-together in a world where people are clean if they are taking something. It would be inappropriate to reveal much more, but “Salve” is an uncomfortable glimpse into the kind of fictional world that feels only a few steps away from reality and really ought to stay at that remove.

“The World Without Sleep” by Sarah Monette is a story of museum curator Kyle Murchison Booth. Kyle is an insomniac who has taken to wandering the city at night, but he begins to suspect he might be falling asleep during his excursions. To test his theory, Kyle decides to walk to a specific and familiar destination—only to lose his way and enter a version of the city that may (or may not) be a dream. This city is inhabited by such creatures as vampires, goblins, and demi-angels called dominies. One of these latter charges kyle with recovering a relic known as St Christopher’s Glass from the goblins; but the curator finds that the goblins didn’t steal it, and that the city holds yet more secrets. Monette’s story is certainly interesting, but there are two factors in particular that prevent me from being more enthusiastic about it. The first is that I found Kyle Murchison Booth a very difficult narrator to like, especially at the beginning. I felt that if I met him in real life, I’d be begging him to shut up after five minutes because his voice was so irritating. Of course, this made it hard to care about what happened to him; but, given time, an intriguing mystery unfolds against a fascinating background. Which brings me to the second problem with “The World Without Sleep.” I really felt that the setting and story needed more room to breathe. The background is so complex that I had trouble taking it all in within just 25 pages. And, since the solution to the mystery emerges from that background, it was harder in turn to “play along” with that aspect.

“City Beneath The Surface” by Jetse de Vries is another story with a mystery at its heart. Cherry Hall, an agent of the HIR (I don’t think it’s revealed what this stands for), is sent to the underwater Coral City to investigate the “D-pandemic,” a sickness that induces surreal hallucinations in its victims. There’s a great deal of pleasure in discovering the fishy world that de Vries has created, so I will not spoil it for you. Suffice it to say that the author avoids going down the obvious routes; his humour, for example, does not consist of bad puns (for the most part: I did groan at one joke), but something subtler, as when Cherry discovers that the human attributes of her mermaid body are not as attractive as she thinks in the world of fish. As far as the plot goes, I missed some of the connections in the latter parts of the story, which meant I didn’t enjoy the ending as much as I did the rest; be that as it may, the whole is a fine read.

In Guy Immega’s “A Little Knowledge,” Oskar Lutz, a mathematician in the initial stages of early-onset Alzheimer’s, is referred to a company carrying out an experimental treatment, aimed at encoding information in a person’s “junk” DNA. The disease has taken away Oskar’s understanding of the proof he was working on; perhaps, he hopes, this technique could restore his knowledge. The story is a little top-heavy with exposition, but that’s a common issue with hard SF. Beyond this, Immega skilfully explores the human implications of the science, contrasting Cora, the doctor who treats Oskar and comes to view him more as a person than a patient, with Rakesh, the engineer who sees only the technology. By letting events run their course, the author highlights the complex choices we will have to face as technology develops. And develop it will. An addendum to the story reveals that since “A Little Knowledge” was written, scientists have successfully inserted one of Einstein’s equations into a bacterium’s DNA.

Barry Wood’s story, “Nowhere To Go,” also revolves around Alzheimer’s, though there are no new treatments here, just a writer, Bob, caring for his wife, Maggie, who is dying from the disease. It’s a tale of remembering the glorious past, comparing it to the present, and reflecting that there is indeed nowhere to go. Though poignant in its careful juxtaposition of detail, in a way this story is hampered by being in the same company as “A Little Knowledge,” which covers similar ground with the added dimension of the junk DNA technique. But, taken on their own merits, the two stories are emotional equals.

“Something Borrowed, Something Red” by William Alexander also gains power from its small details. It’s the story of Maru, who has to deal with the possibility that at any day, the changelings might take her child away and Change him into…well, who knows? Her husband has previously Changed, and now his eyes are a different colour and his skin is cold to the touch. The great strength of this story is the atmosphere that Alexander creates. Maru’s constant counting of things, repetitions in the prose, and all the small details build up a picture of an obsessive existence. One imagines that this is exactly what it would be like to live under the shadow of such enigmatic creatures who had their own rules, if you didn’t know what those rules were.

The story highlighted on the cover on the magazine (and deservedly so, for it’s my favourite one in the issue) is “The Ghosts We Have Become” by Paul Jessup. According to the introduction, it’s about “war from the viewpoint of civilians, and the results of what happens when the little people try to survive a devastating attack.” I was charmed by the story’s weirdness (for example, it’s set in and around a hotel built from the bones of a ballet dancer, whose ghost is still hanging around), but thought at first that it would only detract from the harsh reality of the war theme. How wrong I was. Jessup covers so much ground, examining how war can distort even the most decent people, the perils of living in the middle of a conflict you neither control nor understand, and a great deal more besides. The more I think about this piece, the more I like it, and one can’t ask for much more from a story than that.