Jules Verne’s Vision of Green Cities for Today


SFRA Review, vol. 56 no. 1

Features


Jules Verne’s Vision of Green Cities for Today

Quentin R. Skrabec

In 2022, the French Embassy to China unveiled its annual Franco-Chinese Month of Environment, focusing on Jules Verne and “his advocacy, curiosity, passion, and care towards the environment, especially oceans. “Throughout November 2022, a series of educational and cultural events featuring Verne lectures and scientific activities was scheduled in approximately 20 Chinese cities to draw the public’s attention to the current environmental challenges through Jules Verne’s literature” (European Union News Letter, 2022).

Verne wove the environment into the very heart of the plot and themes of many of his novels. His stories often show the pollution, health concerns, and bleakness of industrial cities. Verne frequently lamented the plight of industrial workers and capitalistic slave labor, as in Verne’s The Mighty Orinoco in 1898, while being in awe of industrial progress. Verne’s books lacked the social directness and poignancy of Charles Dickens, but they still highlighted the problems that can come with industrialization. Unlike Dickens, Verne offered solutions as part of a lifelong quest for green energy and healthy living conditions.

In 1863, Jules Verne’s “first” novel, Paris in the Twentieth Century, envisioned a futuristic green city, albeit a dysfunctional urban center, that started a 60-year green literary and scientific journey that addresses numerous environmental issues and offers many lessons for us today. Verne’s novels often contrasted environmental extremes, and his characters were conflicted over the balance between scientific progress and environmental concerns. Verne excelled at framing the struggle. He hated the air and water pollution that scientific progress often brought, and many of his novels address green energy alternatives. Verne believed electricity and the hydrogen derived from it could replace coal as technology evolved. He proposed alternative green energies to generate electricity, such as wind energy, hydroelectric, super chemical batteries, rechargeable batteries, compressed air, solar power, tidal wave dams, electromagnetic  “accumulators,” thermal energy from the oceans, and harvesting static electricity from the air. For the transition from coal, Verne explored new, efficient, and cleaner energy uses, such as clean coal technology, more efficient engines to replace steam engines, and efficient lighting systems. This article details and analyzes his extraordinary journeys in green urban engineering, highlighting the realization of some of his key insights.

The suggested iconic relationship between Verne and the coal-fired steam engine is far from true. He struggled with the relationship between technology and the environment, wishing they could coexist. In Verne’s futuristic Paris, Verne tried to warn and address urban pollution issues, technology versus the arts, and the limits of technology versus nature.

Like many of his readers, Verne found the root of both environmentalism and industrialism. Verne has inspired both naturalists and engineers. It was this common ground of the natural sciences that Verne found hope in creating unity with environmentalism and technology. Many engineers, even today, find their first love of science in grade school nature study. Verne believed that maybe there was a middle destination and that even industrialists could be environmentalists, although he feared that it might never be achieved. In Verne’s vision of the struggle, both sides might find a compromise. However, with age, he grew more pessimistic.

Verne’s “Carbonivorous” World

Verne had an ambiguous relationship with coal. Verne saw the dependency of Victorian society on coal as both an economic and environmental problem. While he envisioned lean energy inventions, such as hydrogen cars, steam engine replacements, clean coal-burning systems, compressed air-driven trains, wind power, hydroelectric power, and electric lights, he still saw a future of some limited coal-burning pollution in his futuristic vision of 1960 Paris (Verne, Paris in 20th Century, p. 157). He fully realized that replacing coal would be challenging even in the future. In Purchase of the North Pole (1889), Verne says,  “The stomach of industry thrives on coal: it will not eat anything else. The industry is a carboniferous animal” (Verne, Purchase of the North Pole, p. 49). In his futuristic Paris, which he looked ahead 100 years, he still saw a smaller but stubborn dependency.

The age of Verne was dominated by coal. Victorians at first saw coal as a boundless energy source, albeit a dirty one. Verne framed an entire novel, The Underground City, in 1877 to discuss the coal mining industry. He highlighted the use of coal in steel and ironmaking in his novels Begum’s Millions (1879) and Mysterious Island (1875).

In his 1875 novel Mysterious Island, Verne correctly predicted the exponential nature of coal consumption. “With the increasing consumption of coal. . . it can be foreseen that the hundred thousand workmen will soon become two hundred thousand, and that the rate of extraction will be doubled” (Verne, Mysterious Island, p. 188). Verne saw this exponential doubling as being driven by the then-emerging use of coal in steelmaking, which, by the late 1880s, had become the primary sector of coal consumption. In the 1880s, coal usage in the steel industry was more prominent than its use as a heating fuel. Verne anticipated a massive future increase in the use of coal in steel and iron in Begum’s Millions (1879), which would occur in the twentieth century.

Like his fellow Victorians, Verne initially saw unlimited sources for their appetite for coal. In 1859, a traveling young Verne saw Scotland’s great coal mines, submarine coal veins, and the “sea coal” on the beaches, noting there was coal “enough to supply the world” (Verne, Backwards to Britain, 1859). Even if the exponential consumption continued, Verne believed there would be time for technology to find more coal deposits or replace coal, and he often noted this in his writings. Verne initially saw excess consumption as a problem for future centuries.

In his 1863 Journey to the Center of the Earth, a Verne character proclaimed, “Thus were formed those immense coalfields, which nevertheless are not inexhaustible, and which three centuries at the present accelerated rate of consumption will exhaust unless the industrial world will devise a remedy” (Verne, Journey to the Center of the Earth, p. 57). Like many Victorians, Verne believed that future coal reserves under the sea, as he noted in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1871), would significantly increase the coal supply. Verne believed that the discovery of new reserves and technological advancements would also grow exponentially to meet rising demand. Still, not everybody was optimistic about coal reserves.

Many Victorian scientists, upon witnessing the exponential growth in coal use in the late 1870s, became pessimistic and published articles about potential shortages. The British were extremely sensitive to fuel shortages since the early 1800s, which had led to an urban shift from wood to coal for heating. By the 1880s, much like the 1980s with oil, Victorians started to fear a future of coal shortages (Minchinton, 1990, pp. 212-226), and Verne’s writings began to reflect this. As with oil today, Verne saw an unhealthy need for more coal reserves in the 1800s, leading to global economic pressures, more exploration, and environmental pressures.

Verne, in 1889, novelized a fictional coal exploration project to tap into the vast coal reserves under the Arctic to meet this future demand in [Topsy Turvy,] Purchase of the North Pole (1889). In this novel, Verne foresaw competing international claims on Arctic mineral rights and the attempt to change nature for economic reasons. In Purchase of the North Pole, Verne foresees the possibility of capitalists needing to change the earth’s rotation axis to create a warming of the Arctic to mine its coal. Verne’s plan in that novel was to tap Arctic coal deposits, which he assumed were plentiful. While his methodology here was not his best science, Verne’s prediction of vast coal reserves in the Arctic turned out to be true. A 300-mile-long belt in Alaska has an estimated four trillion tons of coal, one-third of the United States reserves, and an eighth of the world’s coal resources. Verne had a simple plan, yet a grand scale to tap into such reserves. He used giant cannons of his Baltimore Gun Club from his earlier novel, From the Earth to the Moon, to try to shift the Earth’s axis. Noting, “The jolt of its recoil will remove the tilt of Earth’s axis. This shift will give the Arctic region a temperate climate, thus warming the globe” (Verne, Purchase of the North Pole, p. 57-58). His capitalists would then access the large coal deposits believed to be ready for the taking in the Arctic. In Verne’s novel, nature inhibits man from succeeding.

 However, Verne’s primary concern with coal was not shortages but air pollution, water pollution, and social problems created by its use. Verne had a love/hate relationship with coal-fired Victorian-era icons such as coal heating, steam locomotives, and steam engines. Verne had noted these concerns early in his career. In his first writings, Verne highlighted the smoke and air pollution of the Industrial Revolution in his 1859 tour of Britain. In his The Will of an Eccentric (1899), Verne defines an even worse environment in industrialized America. His fictional cities, such as futuristic Paris in Paris in the 20th Century (1863), France-Ville in Begum’s Fortune (1879), Standard City in The Self-Propelled Island (1895), and Blackland in The Barsac Mission (1919), were designed to reduce or eliminate smoke and industrial dirt.

In his personal life, Verne sometimes had to balance his fascination with industrial progress and the beauty of nature. Verne loved the fresh air and the cleanliness of the countryside, as well as cruising on his yacht. In the 1880s, Verne ran and was elected to the Amiens city council. He was very active in this role, promoting laws to stop “locomotive smoke from polluting the town” and limiting “trolleybuses’ overhead wires in the public square” (Butcher, p.208). His final home in Amiens was, in many ways, a reflection of the clash between industry, culture, and nature that characterized the Industrial Revolution.

The Dark Side of the Vernian Industrial Revolution

While Verne believed in a possible green future, like Charles Dickens, he addressed the realities of the times. The industrial cities of Verne’s time were dark, smoky, and polluted. Verne’s polluted fictional steel city, Stahlstadt, in Begum’s Million (1879), represented Victorian industrial cities. It had all the literary darkness of a Dickens novel.

The years from 1820 to 1900 saw a rapid increase in British coal consumption. It rose from 20 million tons in 1820 to 160 million tons in 1900 (an eight-fold increase) (Fouquet, 2011, pp. 2380-2386). Severe timber shortages in the early 1800s drove a crisis-driven shift from wood to coal in home heating, cooking, iron production, and steam production. A half ton of coal produced four times as much energy as the same amount of wood and was cheaper to produce as timber became rare. Despite coal’s bulk, it was easier to distribute. The switch to coal averted an energy crisis but ushered in a pollution crisis. Figure 1 shows the dramatic rise in pollution in the 1800s.

Fig. 1. London Air Pollution 1700-2000
Source: Fouquet, R. (2011). Ecological Economics 70(12), 2380–2389 

Verne saw considerable air and water pollution when coal overtook wood for home heating, as in cities like Edinburgh in the 1850s, which he toured and wrote about in his Backwards to Britain (1859). Charles Dickens could have written chapters 15 and 20 of Backwards to Britain. Historians noted, “By the 1800s, more than a million London residents were burning soft coal, and winter ‘fogs’ became more than a nuisance” (Urbinato, 1994, summer) Verne describes industrial 1859 Liverpool as “gas lamps had to be lite by four in the afternoon” because of smoke, “smoke blackened yellow brick and grimy windows” (Verne, Backwards to Britain, p. 59). The streets were filled with coal dust, swarmed with children in rags that “flaunted the misery of England.” His description of Edinburgh was similar. He even described the air of a small French industrial city, Indret, in 1858 as “an atmosphere thick with the tarry emanations of coal” (Verne, Backwards to Britain, p.17). At Edinburgh, he noted the social aspects of pollution: “foul disease-ridden atmosphere” with children begging in rags. Verne would die at the peak of coal air pollution (1905) as new fuels and air quality standards started appearing. Verne hoped science would deliver a cleaner future, but even his futuristic vision of 1960 Paris still had some air pollution from coal usage and chemical plants.

Verne described London’s Thames River in 1859 as a “putrid overflow of sewage.” Coal, however, was the primary source of poisonous water pollution. In the 1850s and 1860s, Europe’s primary municipal industry was coal gas production for lighting and heating. Gas works were built on major rivers, reducing air pollution from coal burning at home, but the big problem with gasworks was that by-products such as tar and benzene chemicals were dumped into the rivers, eliminating fish. The other by-product of dense sulfur dioxide gas was less visible but killed vegetation around the gas works. This sulfur dioxide also attacked the beautiful stone architecture and statues, which Verne noted in his 1859 tour of Britain.

The main characteristic of the atmosphere of London in 1873 was a coal-smoke-saturated fog, thicker and more persistent than natural fog, that would hover over the city for days. Historians noted, “As we now know from subsequent epidemiological findings, the [1873] fog caused 268 deaths from bronchitis. Another fog 1879 lasted four long months with little sunshine from November to March” (Fouquet, 1990, p. 2384). London was typical of European cities. In building his fictional underground town in 1877 (Underground City/Child of the Cavern) to rival Edinburgh, Verne describes Edinburgh as having “an atmosphere poisoned by the smoke of factories” (Verne, Underground City, p. 122). Air pollution in Paris by the late 1870s was deemed equivalent to Edinburgh and London.

Verne’s industrial world only worsened in the following decades as iron production increased. Coal for iron and steel production had created most of the smoke and dust pollution in the late 1800s. In 1899, a Verne fictional train traveler in The Will of an Eccentric described the Iron City of Pittsburgh’s atmosphere as capable of making ink by placing a glass of water out overnight. Verne went further, describing the pollution and destruction of nature seen on a rail trip from Chicago to Pittsburgh, ironically, as “that is progress.” Steel production increased nearly 40-fold in Europe between 1870 and 1912 (and more than 90-fold in Germany for the same period), causing an explosion in coal-driven air pollution.

The rapid technological progress and its pollution had left Verne conflicted. He loved science and technology, but he saw the problems that Charles Dickens had seen. Verne’s novels often deal with stark contrasts, such as in Begum’s Millions (1879). In many stories, he highlights the inherent conflicts of Victorian times, such as industry versus the environment, distribution of wealth, misuse of technology for war, science versus the arts, totalitarianism versus democracy, technical versus liberal arts education, practical versus idealism, industry versus agriculture, and capitalism versus socialism. Verne chronicles his futuristic visions with solutions, hopes, warnings, inconvenient truths, and concerns. He was both an industrialist and an environmentalist, much like Henry Ford (Skrabec, 2010). He saw room for compromise but was pessimistic that it could be achieved. His characters, like his stories, are conflicted and full of contrasts.

Verne was not alone in his belief in a compromise between industry and the environment. William Armstrong, one of Britain’s great engineers and often noted by Verne, was an early advocate for renewable energy and even hypothesized about future solar power generation. Armstrong believed coal “was used wastefully and extravagantly in all its applications” (Cockburn, 2010). Verne would use many of Armstrong’s ideas in Paris in the 20th Century (1863). This novel became a type of game plan for the future of energy in Verne’s visions.

Verne’s energy predictions and insights in Paris in the 20th Century (1863) laid the foundation for the literary future of energy in Verne’s world and beyond. This 50-year literary history (1863 to 1919) of energy by Verne was at times indeed a series of green adventures extraordinaire. His literary series adventures (Voyages Extraordinaire) would cover and improve upon an array of futuristic energy predictions such as compressed air rapid transit, hydrogen-fueled vehicle engines, new efficient electrical and electromagnetic applications, more powerful sodium batteries, wind power, hydroelectric power, solar power, tidal power, static electricity air accumulators, x-rays, wireless communications, laser beams, petroleum fuels, and new electro-mechanical machines, and new types of efficient engines to replace the steam engine—even some unfilled dreams such as electrical generation from ocean thermal gradients.

Verne’s Green Futurist Paris of 1960

 Born in the smoke, dust, and dirt of an Industrial Revolution driven by coal, Verne envisioned a new and cleaner world. Verne began his writing career with a green vision of a futuristic Paris of 1960, a hundred years into the future. It was this fictional green city on the hill whose vision was a muse for Verne’s writing career. Verne’s editor turned down this first novel, Paris in the 20th Century, in 1863. His editor saw it as “simply unbelievable” (Tavis, 1997). The manuscript would be found and published in 1996. It was not only entirely believable, but most of the engineering had been implemented or is being researched today. It also represented the blueprint for his next 50 years of literary journeys into future science.

Verne’s Paris in the 20th Century (1863)would have significantly restricted the use of coal, with green sources supplying the power grid, hydrogen home heating, electric home and street lighting, windmill compressed air factory power, and rail transportation. It would be fueled by high-tech battery electricity, dynamo-generated electricity, hydrogen and oxygen from electrolysis, windmills, compressed air, tidal wave energy, and even air electrical “accumulators.” But even in this futuristic green Paris, coal for chemicals, fertilizers, and public demands for coal gas lighting by shop owners continued to cause some pollution. He realized getting off coal would be long and difficult. Figure 2 is an artistic view of Verne’s Paris.

Fig. 2. Cover of Paris in the 20th Century (1863)

Verne’s futuristic green Paris was a complex mix of wind, water, compressed air, electrical power, hydro-power, hydrogen for heating, and hydrogen-fueled cars, trucks, and ships. Verne even frames his green city’s needed evolution and a retro historical timeline. He started with windmill-sourced compressed air, powering his initial construction projects, factory machines, and construction cranes. The construction projects included skyscrapers, asphalt roads, sea channels, and canal construction to open Paris and its transportation networks to the sea. Windmills compressed air and drove mechanical devices in factories, homes, and powered trains and railways (Taves, 1997).

The next phase was the electrical power grid. It would be an electrical city with lights, elevators, and other electrical devices such as fax machines and wireless communication. However, Verne does not fully define how massive amounts of electricity would be produced in detail. He notes that an electro-mechanical dynamo (gravity-fed) generated electricity and batteries for small devices. This futuristic Paris did have the potential infrastructure to generate electricity through electromechanical, wind, water, compressed-air, and chemical means. The literary years of Verne to follow were made up of electrical adventures to achieve the massive electrical power needed for his futuristic Paris.

Electrical power would be the basis for another ancillary power source of hydrogen. He foresaw the massive hydrogen production by electrolysis to power cars, ships, and home heating. And maybe to use hydrogen instead of coal to power steam engines. Verne predicted a technical fantasy of hydrogen fuel for cars and home heating, hydropower generation, new efficient carbonic acid (carbon dioxide) engines instead of steam, and replacing coal gas with electric lighting (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, pp. 24-25).

Verne envisioned a fanciful array of green, efficient, and power-saving inventions, such as carbon dioxide engines, electrical lighting systems, magnetic friction reduction for trains, hydraulic lifting systems, compressed air storage, hydraulic cranes, water turbines, and hydrogen/oxygen/compressed air heating systems, which would augment his green energy sources, improve efficiency, and reduce demand. Verne’s Green New World would also address environment, health, and wildlife conservation in his city design as part of his holistic approach.

The heart of Verne’s green Paris was built on four pillars of green energy: Compressed air and Wind Power, Hydrogen fuel, and chemical electrical power. And a number of energy-saving inventions.

The Power of Wind and Compressed Air of 1960 Paris

 You can estimate that Verne’s futuristic Paris was 60 percent electricity-based. The balance of power came from compressed air from windmills and some water power. Jules Verne and his son Michel believed that stored windmill-generated compressed air would be part of a green future. In Paris in the 20th Century, Verne proposed the use of stored compressed air to power railways, factory machines, construction cranes, pneumatic tube trains, moving bridges, and even regulate clocks in a future Paris of 1960. Verne drew inspiration from a 1861 pneumatic compressed air single-car train experiment in London and the use of compressed air technology for the Fréjus Rail Tunnel through Mt. Cenis in the European Alps in 1857.

Verne addressed the inconsistency of wind power by proposing an urban compressed air storage utility. In Verne’s futuristic Paris, compressed air would supply energy through a public utility called the Catacomb Company of Paris. Verne’s windmill compressed air was pumped into and stored in Paris’ catacombs by “1,853 windmills established on the plains of Montrogue” outside the city (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, p.31). Stored compressed air solves an inconsistent supply of wind energy and solar, making it attractive today. Verne and his son proposed a bright future for compressed air applications in many of his future novels. In the novel Self-Propelled Island (1894), Verne had a compressed air city utility company on his floating island. Similarly, in his book The Barsac Mission (1919), Verne’s city in the Sahara Desert had a compressed air utility.

In Paris in the 20th Century, Verne envisioned high-speed compressed air tube trains for interurban transportation. In his 1888 novel, The Year 2889, Michel Verne, son of Jules Verne, suggested pneumatic trains traveling at 1000 mph (Verne, In the Year 2889, p. 51). This prediction of high-speed pneumatic trains is on the verge of becoming a reality.

 In July 2017, Elon Musk’s startup, Hyperloop, successfully tested a full-scale system on its test track in Nevada and reached a top speed of 70 mph. Musk hopes to achieve 250 mph soon. The Hyperloop uses compressed air and magnetic force to reduce friction, as Verne did in his futuristic Paris. Magnetic cushioning was yet another necessary design application of Jules Verne (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, p.23).

Michel Verne took the vision further with a transatlantic pneumatic tube train from Boston to Liverpool in two hours and 15 minutes. This story was published in English in Strand Magazine in 1895 and was incorrectly attributed to Jules Verne (Verne, Worlds Known and Unknown, p. 262). This pneumatic train could travel at 1000 to 1112 mph, much faster than Musk’s prototype.1

Recently, Popular Science suggested that a transatlantic tunnel is more feasible than previously thought and possible with today’s engineering. Researchers from the Chinese Academy of Sciences proposed a submarine rail project that would run at a theoretical speed of 1,240 mphclose to Verne’s prediction (Garfield, 2018). A pneumatic transatlantic system is compared favorably with transatlantic pipelines, cargo ships, planes, and cables; the proposed transatlantic system would still cost over 200 billion dollars. Of course, reducing carbon dioxide would help offset the project costs. Verne envisioned compressed air doing much more than trains.

Today’s green energy movement has resurrected Verne’s vision of green compressed air. Compressed Air Energy Storage (CAES) is a potential renewable power grid because it can store power from clean energy sources such as wind turbines and solar panels. Like Verne’s futuristic Paris catacombs, CAES uses underground storage. At the urban utility scale, energy generated during periods of low demand can be released during peak demands. Many competitive thermodynamic designs are being researched, and pilot plants are being built. Of course, any power source can be used to compress air.

Jules and/or Michel in Barsac Mission (1919) used hydroelectric power to run electric compressors to compress air into a liquid. In the Barsac Mission, compressed liquid air was stored in tanks and powered an engine to propel his heliplanes. This air engine was a piston engine using the liquid-to-gas phase transition. In January 2024, the US government’s Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) awarded research contracts to use compressed liquid air in planes.

Several options are being considered today for manufacturing and applying compressed air. Figure 3 is schematic of the options.

In addition, Verne’s compressed liquid air engine in Barsac Mission is also getting new interest in car engines. All major car companies are doing serious research driven by the zero-emission green movement on compressed air engines. Compressed air cars are not yet very efficient in terms of net energy balance, although Ford and Jeep are improving their engines with an eye on the future.

Fig. 3. Generation of Compressed Air and its Uses:Society of Environmental Engineers
Source: Kham, Imram. Renewable Energy and Sustainability, Elsevier, 2020

In addition, Verne’s compressed liquid air engine in Barsac Mission is also getting new interest in car engines. All major car companies are doing serious research driven by the zero-emission green movement on compressed air engines. Compressed air cars are not yet very efficient in terms of net energy balance, although Ford and Jeep are improving their engines with an eye on the future.

Electrically Generated Hydrogen For Cars, Trucks, and Home Heating

While Verne’s 1960 Paris had compressed air-driven commuter trains, he also envisioned green hydrogen individual transportation. Verne, in 1863, had no doubt that the future was hydrogen. Verne’s answer to carbon pollution was hydrogen, which would come from electricity. In Verne’s green Paris, hydrogen-fueled trucks, cars, and heated homes. Of course, hydrogen comes from the electrical breakdown of water (electrolysis) into hydrogen and oxygen. As we have discussed, coal in Verne’s time was used for home heating and was the primary source of air pollution. Verne used the method of water electrolysis, used for hydrogen gas heating, for altitude control in his Five Weeks in a Balloon (1863). Verne’s green Paris utilized a similar electrolysis-generated hydrogen for home heating via an engineering system that remixed hydrogen and oxygen fuel to heat compressed air and pipe it to apartments. The design was like his small-scale electrical electrolysis of water to hydrogen/oxygen, which was then remixed to heat the gas in the balloon to lift his balloon in Five Weeks in A Balloon.2 Generating a small amount of hydrogen from battery electrolysis, he was required to design a separate burner pipe to transfer heat safely to the explosive hydrogen gas in the balloon for flight control. It was an ingenious design but still risky, and after the famous explosions of the early twentieth century, non-flammable (but costly) helium replaced hydrogen in the 1920s in balloons and dirigibles.

Verne would later use electrolysis again, found recent fueling interest in hydrogen balloons. In Five Weeks in a Balloon, Verne produced hydrogen by transporting iron and sulfuric acid to the balloon launch site, but in future novels, Verne’s preferred method was water electrolysis. The Weather Service now uses local on-site electrolysis to fill hydrogen weather balloons. The 2023 switch from helium-filled balloons to launching hydrogen-filled balloons significantly reduced costs and carbon emissions (Rappe, 2023).

However, it was not hydrogen balloons that inspired Verne but hydrogen as a replacement for coal. Verne saw a much more significant role for hydrogen as a fuel in the future. In Jules Verne’s science fiction novel The Mysterious Island (1875), Verne imagines a world where “water will one day be employed as fuel, that the hydrogen and oxygen which constitute it…will furnish an inexhaustible source of heat and light, of an intensity of which coal is not capable” (Verne, Mysterious Island, p. 189). Verne’s vision of a hydrogen economy was not so much about smaller localized production but the mass production of hydrogen. In his sixty years, Verne evolved the mass production of hydrogen in his scientific and literary quest (Voyages Extraordinaire) from chemical production from iron and acid to battery-powered electrolysis to electromechanical electrolysis.

Verne predicted urban utilities for hydrogen production in Dr. Ox’s Experiment (1872)and Paris in the 20th Century (1863).In Paris in the 20th Century, Verne was unclear on how the electrical power needed for the massive hydrogen would be produced. Still, his futuristic Paris had many possibilities, from battery-powered electricity, electromechanical dynamos, wind, and hydroelectric power, as noted in the novel. In Dr. Ox’s Experiment, Verne used an extensive series of batteries. Like engineers today, Verne realized that batteries could not be a significant source of green hydrogen. It would take the electromechanical dynamo, which Michael Faraday had predicted and Verne was fascinated by. In the late 1850s, commercial dynamos were still evolving, but Verne quickly applied their future use. His last fictional city in The Self-Propelled Island (1897) was a total electric city using petroleum, steam, and electromechanical dynamos to generate electricity.

Some engineers of Verne’s time had envisioned a possible future for a hydrogen economy via commercial production via electrolysis with dynamos. Interestingly, Alliance Company, a hydrogen manufacturing company, made the first commercial electrical dynamos in 1859, originally to produce hydrogen fuel by electrolysis and sell it. Within a few years, the hydrogen proved too costly, difficult to transport safely, and impractical for an extensive fuel network. However, this failure did not alter Verne’s vision in 1863 of its future use. He followed the evolution of the electromechanical dynamo and applied its advance in his future novels. In his Underground City (1877), Verne used coal-powered dynamos, which again were not green. In The Barsac Mission (1919), he used hydroelectric dynamo generation, which was green but limited. By the twentieth century, electromechanical dynamos supplied the world’s electricity. Continued advances in technology have made a hydrogen economy possible.

Verne did augur the emerging green cities where hydrogen could supply heating and transportation. Verne’s use of electrolysis to mass-produce hydrogen is back on the table. These visions are being realized today by Toyota, which is building hydrogen plants using electrolysis that could meet the demands of Verne’s futuristic Paris (Collins,2024). Toyota’s hydrogen plants will power a city that is currently under construction, known as Woven City (Collins, 2024). Toyota’s Woven City will use green hydrogen based on these new engineering efficiencies of hydrogen generation via electrolysis. Toyota will use solar and wind-produced electricity to manufacture hydrogen. Like Verne’s Paris, Toyota’s city will use hydrogen to power trucks and cars, and like Verne, Toyota will use a city-wide network of hydrogen fueling stations. Woven City will supply hydrogen to passenger and commercial vehicles in the city via a pipeline.

Today’s engineering has overcome significant issues such as the cost/energy balance and the inefficiency of electrolysis in hydrogen production. Hysata, a New South Wales-based company that makes electrolyzers, has announced its latest breakthrough: Hysata can generate hydrogen with a whopping 95 percent efficiency. A hydrogen fuel cell electrolyzer/generator at the individual fueling stations will back up power during outages. Figure 4 shows the possible infrastructure of a future economy.

Fig. 4. Possible Hydrogen Economy: Society of Environmental Engineers
Source: Kham, Imram. Renewable Energy and Sustainability, Elsevier, 2020

Verne’s 1863 vision included hydrogen-powered engines. Verne used clean, burning internal combustion hydrogen cars, which he calls the “Lenoir Machine in his futuristic Paris” (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, pp. 24-26). In 1858, Etienne Lenoir of France invented the 1-cylinder, 2-stroke engine that used gaseous fuel. The Lenoir Hippomobile in 1860 was fueled by electrolyzing water and running the hydrogen. Later, Lenoir adapted the engine for various gases, such as coal gas. The advantage of burning hydrogen is it exhausts water and no pollutants. Hydrogen cars are still being researched as a green solution for internal combustion. Verne realized the city needed a network of hydrogen gas stations, but he did not address today’s concern about handling highly explosive hydrogen.

Today, green hydrogen is achieved through electrolysis powered by renewable energies such as wind or solar energy coupled with improved process efficiencies even on a smaller scale, such as in fuel stations. Hysata makes electrolyzer units in many sizes and has built pilot plants to supply heavy-duty trucks in California. Amazingly, Verne used hydrogen in Paris in the 20th Century to power trucks.

Verne’s Electrical 1960 ParisThe City of LightsBut How to Power It?

Verne’s future Paris was an electricity-based city, and besides generating hydrogen, Verne’s green futurist Paris was electrical in many areas, much like Toyota’s Woven City of today. Verne applied electrical power for electrolysis to produce hydrogen fuel, power arc lighting, operate elevators, run cranes, open doors, and operate book lifts in library warehouses, as well as an array of time-saving electric devices. In his 1863 writing of his futuristic Paris, Verne’s problem was not the vision of an electrical Eden but how to supply the electricity needed for this Eden without the pollution of coal and steam. The electrical demands for Verne’s Paris skyscrapers needed lighting, powerful elevators, doors, and other electrical devices such as fax machines, copiers, calculators, and phones, which would be an enormous use of electricity. The primary electricity demand was street, business, and home lighting in Verne’s Paris.

In Paris in the 20th Century, Verne used the electric street lighting system known as the “Way Method” (after John Thomas Way), developed in 1860, which Verne referenced in Paris in the 20th Century (p. 24). The Way lighting system was an improved type of street lighting, a mix between straight arc and modern neon mercury lighting. Arc and mercury lighting brightness made it a poor system for room lighting. In Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1871), Verne noted that the harshness of early arc lighting had to be “softened and tempered by delicately painted [wall] designs” (Verne, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, p. 92). This harshness of the light was probably the reason some shopkeepers in Paris in the 20th Century rejected it and stuck with coal gas (p. 24). Brightness and feel remain a lighting problem and a source of green resistance even today. Verne used both arc and Edison’s softer incandescent lighting in his novel Underground City in 1877. Incandescent lighting became commercially available in the 1880s. Regardless of type, lighting requires a large amount of electrical power.

In Paris in the 20th Century, Verne was not clear on how massive amounts of electricity would be generated for urban use, but it would be the quest of his scientific novels to come. Still, Verne did not specifically name anyone one type of power source in his futuristic Paris, although he had noted many possibilities, which would be a life quest. Verne’s literary quest for mass-produced electricity took him over sixty novels and articles in four decades. Verne would explore improved batteries, solar, wind, hydroelectric, tidal, static electricity collection from the air, thermal gradients in oceans, and more efficient engines and motors.

Verne first looked to improve battery efficiency. When Verne wrote in 1863 of a futuristic Paris, unique and powerful chemical batteries for electricity were possible but far from feasible. In 1863, the only significant source of electricity was chemical batteries, but Verne’s Paris had twenty thousand street lights alone, which was beyond the scope of the chemical batteries of the 1860s.

Verne had followed the development of batteries from the 1840s, and Verne knew from the battery experiments of Davy and Faraday that batteries could not power a city of lights. Humphry Davy had established the cost of battery power, noting it in his arc lighting experiments in the 1820s. Davy required 2000 galvanic battery cells at six dollars per minute (about 200 dollars a minute today) to power one arc light. In 1848, two experimental arc streetlights in Paris were tried, which caused considerable excitement in Paris but was short-lived because of battery cost. Verne’s 20th-century Paris had 200,000 streetlights, and battery electricity would be cost-prohibitive. Verne would have realized that the future of electric cities would require mass production of electricity beyond the battery power of the 19th century, and this would be true even today with today’s powerful batteries.

Verne considered increasing the efficiency of batteries in his novels of the 1860s for more output. Verne tried to improve the common  “Bunsen battery” in his 1863 novel Five Weeks in a Balloon. The Bunsen battery was a lead-carbon-acid battery.

Early in Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaire, Verne invented the most futuristic design of a sodium battery in Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. Verne’s futuristic use of sodium was a hundred years ahead of its time and would significantly increase electrical output. This sodium battery has again taken Jules Verne into recent scientific headlines as a cheap replacement for lithium EV car batteries. However, Verne’s sodium battery would still require 500-1000 battery cells per single city street light in his futuristic Paris. Still in his Paris in the 20th Century, Verne applied smaller applications for batteries, such as powering musical instruments, but so much more power was needed.

Verne never wholly gave up on some role for batteries in his final fictional electrical city, Standard City in The Self-Propelled Island (1895); he sees our future of rechargeable batteries for electric cars, trains, boats, and small electrical devices.

Lighting homes, factories, shops, streets, and signs would require massive amounts of electricity. When Verne wrote Paris in the 20th Century, he did not specify how the enormous electrical power would be generated. Verne was sure that electrical generation would not be chemical-based but mechanical. In Faraday’s 1820s experiments, he generated electricity with cheaper mechanical magneto-electric generators (dynamos). Based on these early principles of electromagnetic induction, hand-cranked induction lanterns evolved in the 1840s, and Verne quickly realized its future potential. Verne used induction devices ( Ruhmkorff lamps) to generate electrical lighting in his novels Journey to the Center of the Earth (1870), From the Earth to the Moon (1865), and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1871). In his futurist Paris, he references the  “Way Method,” which used a magneto-electric generator (a type of dynamo). Way used his system for a single lighthouse in 1858, but it was hand-cranked, hardly a system for urban lighting, yet Verne realized the potential for the future of a dynamo.

In 1858, the Alliance Company used a magneto-electric generator driven by a coal fueled steam engine to power arc lights and make hydrogen fuel through electrolysis; however, Verne’s own requirements in futuristic Paris was a very restrictive use of coal and steam. Eventually, in Verne’s novel The Underground City (1877), he applied the electro-mechanical dynamo generation for mass electricity. In Verne’s underground Coal City in The Underground City, Verne creates an electrical city using dynamos (“electromagnetic-mechanical machines”), and electricity is used for “all the needs of industrial and domestic life.”2 Coal City used electricity for lighting, ventilation, and heating. In one of his last books, The Self-Propelled Island, electro-mechanical dynamos would power urban needs. Verne was not as clear in Paris in the 20th Century, how massive amounts of electricity might be produced.

Power generation may have been generated by converting coal-fired steam power via a dynamo to electricity for Verne’s Paris. Of course, coal-powered dynamos were far from the green solution Verne wanted. Verne alludes to the green electromagnetic base by noting the Way Method. The Way Method dynamos were hand-cranked or gravity-based. Verne’s green Paris did have several other potential green power sources to drive a dynamo shaft or a magneto, such as wind, gas, compressed air, water power, chemical batteries, hydroelectric, and even hydrogen.

Verne had developed a vast windmill system in his futuristic Paris, which compressed air but could also turn a dynamo shaft (although he did not specify). Verne’s Paris had “1,853 windmills established on the plains of Montrogue” outside the city (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, p. 24). Verne’s future Paris also had the potential for hydroelectric power, which Verne was using water turbines to replace waterwheel power in his green Paris. Since canals had connected Verne’s Paris to the ocean, there was even the potential to utilize tidal energy. His 1889 novel, The Purchase of the North Pole, notes the potential future of tidal power (p.16) France’s Rance Tidal Power Station was the world’s first large-scale tidal power plant, which became operational in 1966.

In the early 1900s, technology caught up with Verne’s imagination of clean electric cities. Verne would finally have a source for the massive electric needs of a city like his 20th-century Paris. Verne had long envisioned harnessing the power of Niagara Falls, which was achieved in the 1890s with hydroelectric power supplying factories in Buffalo, New York. In Jules and Michel’s novel, The Barsac Mission (1919), Verne’s imagination took these new power generation advances to build Blackland, a fictional city in the Sahara Desert. Verne had to evolve Blackland’s electrical power from wood-burning steam engines driving dynamos to green hydroelectric dynamos. Verne dammed the Niger River to generate electric power for his Blackland factories, city lighting, and irrigation system, declaring, “Smoke no longer gushes from the useless chimney.” This Vernian vision augured the 1930s Boulder Dam and Las Vegas system. Hydroelectricity is a significant electricity resource today, accounting for more than 16% of global electricity production.

Verne’s prediction of generating electricity from temperature gradients at different ocean depths is even more astonishing: “By establishing a circuit by wires at immersed at different depths, I will be able to generate electricity,” he wrote in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Verne probably got the idea from Faraday’s thermocouple experiments, generating electricity from heat. Years later, in 1881, Jacques Arsene d’Arsonval, a French physicist, proposed Verne’s idea of tapping the ocean’s thermal energy. Still, this offered no solution to massive electricity production for a city; however, Verne might have been on to something. In 1970, the Tokyo Electric Power Company successfully built and deployed the first large-scale production using the principle.

Interestingly, Verne did not envision using solar energy to produce electricity and hydrogen, a recent area of significant research. Even though Jules and his son understood the principles of a photoelectric cell in 1888, it was a rarity that Verne so understood such a unique scientific discovery without extrapolating into the future.

Fig. 5. A Punch Magazine 1881 Cartoon The Growth of the Electrical Baby

Verne realized the issue was Victorian demand for heating, steam production, and industrial power produced from coal. Verne designed three great fictional electric-powered cities: Paris in Paris in the 20th Century, Standard City in The Self-Propelled Island , and Blackland in The Barsac Mission, which avoided or restricted coal-generated electricity. New Aberfoyle was an electric city but used coal to generate it (Underground City, 1877). Verne understood that the transition from coal would be measured in centuries, not decades.

Verne saw a 200-year struggle to reduce our dependency on coal and hydrocarbons. A reduction in coal smoke would be part of such a transition. Verne did not see a quick conversion from coal but looked to a gradual use of alternative energy, more efficiency, and even methods for the clean use of coal. As noted, coal gas production for home and street lighting was extremely popular because of its soft light. Coal gas production polluted the air, smoke, and rivers with benzene, chemicals, and tar. Verne also foresaw that there would be resistance to electric lighting and the green movement. He noted opposition to electric lighting in his future Paris by merchants who preferred the soft light of coal gas. Noting in his futuristic Paris, “Nonetheless a few old-fashioned shops remained faithful to the old means of hydro carbonated gas,” which necessitated “limited coal mining” (Verne, Paris in the 20th Century, p. 24).

Verne’s early writings noted that coal for heating and cooking was the primary source of Victorian air pollution. In his futuristic Paris, Verne used clean hydrogen for heating. In the same year, 1863, Verne used electricity for cooking in his Nautilus (Verne, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea).

Another possible interim reduction of coal pollution came in Verne’s Begun’s Millions, in which Verne envisions an environmental but dystopian city called France-Ville. As noted previously, Verne was concerned about unhealthy coal-burning air pollution. He feared government regulation would be needed in France-Ville. France-Ville used building regulations imposed on houses, and a unique subterranean scrubbing system was used to clean coal and wood-burning exhaust. The system took exhaust gases from the heating furnace via pipes to a “burner” used to strip it of carbon (Verne, Begum’s Millions, p. 124). While lacking the process details, it does augur today’s Clean Coal Technology.

 Verne did look to cleaner petroleum as a possible fuel alternative. Verne foresaw petroleum’s potential, using it to fuel his floating island in The Self-Propelled Island. Verne compares petroleum to the “pollution” of coal-fired steam engines of the 1890s as “the difference being instead of black smoke, the chimneys emitted only light vapor that did not pollute the atmosphere” (Verne, The Self-Propelled Island, p. 41).

Fig. 6. Illustration from The Self-Propelled Island

Figure 6 shows the original illustration from Verne’s novel Self-Propelled Island. Verne uses petroleum and/or petroleum biomass to heat steam boilers in place of coal which was then used to generate electrical power on his fictional floating island. In The Self-Propelled Island he describes the fuel as petroleum (p. 41) and “oil briquettes” (p. 55). Verne is using petroleum briquettes to replace coal to drive the steam engine dynamo and produce electricity. Verne predicts the future of petroleum briquettes based on some emerging technology and his imagination. Pressed palm oil briquettes were used in some countries in the 1890s for heating, but Verne used the word petroleum briquettes writing in 1895. Verne considered petroleum and/or petroleum products to be clean-burning fuels. Petroleum briquettes were just being experimented with in the 1890s but Verne recognized the potential.

Petroleum briquettes would have offered a deliverable product to Verne’s island in a world without oil tankers and a pipeline network. Verne states that petroleum briquettes are “less cumbersome, less dirty than coal, and have more heating power” (Verne, The Self-Propelled Island, p. 51). Amazingly, now 130 years later, petroleum briquettes are being looked at for the same attributes Verne noted. Research on petroleum and new patents for processing and chemical binders are emerging. The new look at petroleum briquettes lists similar advantages noted by Verne: ease of handling versus coal, its clean burning, heating power, and environmentally safe transportation. A recent study of biomass petroleum briquettes made from bitumen (raw petroleum), starch, and rice husks found that they are competitive in industrial heating (Ikell, 2014). A new patented process takes Canadian bitumen crude oil mixed with a polymer to form briquettes that can be transported without fear of spills or fires.

Petroleum oil, in general, emerged as a somewhat “cleaner” fuel by 1895; however, its refining was a significant pollutant by 1899. One of Verne’s fictional travelers in The Will of an Eccentric (1899) describes the oil refining atmosphere of Warren, Ohio, as a “sickening” atmosphere, tarry chemical water pollution and even explosive water pollution, which contributed to the famous 1969 burning of the oily Cuyahoga River in near-by Cleveland.

 Unfortunately, Verne incorrectly wrote off natural gas as a clean alternative to coal in describing Pittsburgh’s still dirty air in The Will of an Eccentric (1899): “In spite of the thousands of miles of subterranean conduits by which natural gas is supplied.” Verne here alludes to George Westinghouse’s first massive conversion to natural gas from coal in Pittsburgh in 1887, using an enormous pipeline supply network. The use of natural gas dramatically reduced smoke, but supply diminished by 1892, and the coal smoke was returned by the writing of Verne’s The Will of an Eccentric (1899). Verne missed the actual improvement of natural gas conversion. The Society of Engineers reported: “We had four or five years of wonderful cleanliness for Pittsburg, and we have all had a taste of knowing what it is to be clean. We all felt better, looked better, and were better. But we are back into the smoke. It is growing worse day by day” (Tarr, 2015).

 Verne’s other transitional strategy was improving the steam engine’s thermal efficiency, which was between 30 to 35 percent. The iconic Victorian steam engine was a major consumer of coal; therefore, efficiency improvements in steam engines offered significant reductions in coal pollution. Even today, coal, natural gas, oil, nuclear, and even some solar electrical plants use steam turbines with mediocre efficiencies. The major problem for Victorians was that the steam Rankine cycle has a 30-40 percent efficiency. In the 1860s, Victorian engineers and scientists pursued the use of carbon dioxide (they used the term carbonic acid) as a way to increase efficiency significantly. This breakthrough brings us to one of Jules Verne’s most obscure predictions in Paris in the 20th Century. Verne predicted that in 1960 Paris: “Carbonic acid (carbon dioxide) now dethroning steam” (p. 12). Later in the novel, he suggests the carbonic acid engine would power ships (p. 135). Verne again probably extrapolated Marc Brunel and his son Isambard ( Great Eastern fame) work in the 1860s, conducting over 15,000 experiments on a motor driven by carbonic acid (carbon dioxide) based on Michael Faraday’s theories.

In the late 1860s, James Baldwin detailed his patent for a carbonic acid engine using the physical phases (liquid and gas) of carbon dioxide at available temperatures and pressures in the 1860s. Such an engine was theoretically possible, but future engineering was needed for the super temperatures and pressures to make the engine cycle efficient. Steam turbines still produce over 75 percent of today’s electricity. Carbon dioxide engines have the potential for 60 percent thermal efficiency versus 35 percent for steam. This efficiency jump has led to a pilot plant using carbon dioxide in supercritical phases to replace steam. The Supercritical Transformational Electric Power project is one of the world’s largest-scale and most comprehensive, funded by the Department of Energy. A key project goal is to advance the state-of-the-art for high-temperature carbon dioxide in the power cycle performance. It may turn out that one of Verne’s little-noticed predictions will become one of his best.

Some of Verne’s visions of clean energy remain in the future. Verne envisioned a futuristic “accumulator” and  “transformer” to gather static electricity from air or molecular vibrations. He describes these in his 1889 book, The Year 2889. In his 1885 novel Mathias Sandorf, he uses this Vernian accumulator for electric boats, and in Master of the World (1904) suggests their use to power electrical airships.

Conclusion

Figure 7 is a schematic summary of the fifty-year vision of Verne’s green future. It shows a mix of new sources for electricity, the need for storage, and a role for hydrogen.

Fig. 7

The green design of energy started in his first novel, Paris in the 20th Century, which envisioned a green and cleaner city of the future. In it, Verne would design a green energy grid for his futuristic Paris and a blueprint to build on for his literary career. Verne then launched a 50-year literary journey of novels (Voyages Extraordinaire), which he improved on this initial urban energy plan. His futuristic Paris realized the potential of electricity in transportation, hydrogen generation, home heating, powering factories, and street lighting. Verne spent the next fifty years applying the evolving science to produce clean electricity in some of other his fictional cities. He foresaw the future of an electrical grid that could recharge battery-powered cars, trains, and electrical devices.

 Verne saw a hydrogen-driven economy in the future, but the root of his economy was the electricity for electrolysis to produce hydrogen. His hydrogen solution evolves in four novels: Paris in the 20th Century, Five Weeks in a Balloon, Mysterious Island, and Dr Ox’s Experiment.

Maybe more interesting was Verne’s understanding of political issues and human resistance to change, which required some compromise as part of the solution. Verne articulated that the green transition would move slowly. Realizing that getting off coal required a transitional approach, such as his clean coal scrubbing system in Begum’s Millions. Verne looked further into the future need for efficient electrical devices, more efficient engines, rechargeable batteries, and energy systems as part of the big picture and longer-range solution.

Eventually, Verne would see the future in electricity, hydrogen, wind power, hydroelectric power generation, compressed air, biomass fuel, tidal power generation, and even solar power. Along the way, he envisioned an array of things like an electric submarine, an electric airship, electric vehicles, solar sails, high-speed pneumatic trains, hydrogen cars, hydrogen home heating, tidal wave power, windmills for electrical generation, and hundreds of futuristic devices.

Verne’s green vision is not complete, but we still have over 800 years to achieve Verne’s ultimate solution. In his book, The Year 2889, Verne hails the future of wonderful instruments, such as “accumulators”. Verne describes them as able to “absorb and condense the living force [energy from molecular vibration] contained in the sun’s rays; others, the electricity stored in our globe; others, again, the energy coming from whatever source, such as a waterfall, a stream, the winds, etc.” He, too, invented the  “transformer”, a more wonderful contrivance still, which takes the living force [energy] from the accumulator and, on the simple pressure of a button, gives it back to space in whatever form may be desired, whether as heat, light, electricity, or mechanical force, after having first obtained from it the work required. The day when these two instruments were contrived is to be dated as the era of true progress. They have put into the hands of man a power that is almost infinite (Verne, In The Year 2889, pp. 21-22).

NOTES

  1. There are two translations of the Strand article one using 1000 and the other 1112 mph.
  2. Verne initially used hydrogen from the iron and acid chemical reaction to fill the balloon.

WORKS CITED

Bretwood, Higman, and Erin McKittrick, David Coil,  “Quantifying Coal: How Much is There?” Ground Truth. 2019.

Butcher, William. Jules Verne: The Definite Biography. Thunder Mouth Press, 2006.

Cockburn, Harry.  “Climate Crisis: UK’s Record Coal-Free Power Run Comes to an End.” Independent, June 2020.

Collins, Leigh.  “Toyota to Mass-Produce Hydrogen Electrolysers in Partnership with Chiyoda.” Hydrogen Insight, February 5, 2024.

European Union News Letter. “Sustainability at One Franco-Chinese Month of Environment Gives Nod to Jules Verne’s Eco-Advocacy.” October, 2020.

Fouquet, Roger. “Long Run Trends in Energy-Related External Costs.” Ecological Economics 70, no. 12, 2011, pp. 2380-9.

Garfield, Leanna. “15 Remarkable Images That Show the 200-Year Evolution of the Hyperloop.” Business Insider, Feb 20, 2018.

Guess, Megan. “Canadian Plans to Transport Oil as Solid Briquettes Move Forward.” ARS Techinica, 2019.

Ikell et al,  “Study of Briquettes Produced with Bitumen, CaSO4 and Starch Binders.” American Journal of Engineering Research (AJER), Vol. 3, 2014.

Jules Verne Forum, “Word Translation in Self-propelled Island.” Google Groups, 1/24/25 Jean-Louis Trudel to Quentin Skrabec.

Kham, Imram. Renewable Energy and Sustainability. Elsevier, 2020.

Minchinton, W. and Pohl, H. “ The Rise and Fall of the British Coal Industry: A Review Article.”  VSWG: Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte, pp. 212-226.

Pacific Petroleum ed.Petroleum Briquettes.” The Idaho Springs News, Vol xix, no. 33, Nov 15, 1901.

Rappe, Mollie.  “Researchers Switch from Helium to Hydrogen Weather Balloons.” Sandia National Laboratories, May, 2023.

Ramirez, Vanessa.  “Toyota Is Building a Futuristic Prototype City Powered by Hydrogen.” Singularity Hub, May 14, 2021.

Skrabec, Quentin. Green Friends: Henry Ford and George Washington Craver. McFarland,2010.

Taves, Brian.  “Jules Verne’s Paris in the 20th Century.” Science Fiction Studies, Vol. 24, March 1997.

Tarr, Oel, and Karen Clay.  “Boom and Bust in Pittsburgh Natural Gas History: Development, Policy, and Environmental Effects, 1878–1920.” The Pennsylvania Magazine of History and Biography, Vol. CXXXIX, No. 3, October 2015.

Urbinato, David. “London’s Historic ‘Pea-Soupers.’” US Environmental Protection Agency Journal, Summer 1994.

Verne, Jules. Begum’s Millions, originally published 1879, edited by Arthur Evans, translated by Standford Luce, Wesleyan University Press, 2016.

Verne, Jules, Paris in the 20th Century, originally published, Ballantine Books, 1996.

—. The Purchase of the North Pole, originally published 1889, Associated Booksellers.

—. Mysterious Island, originally published 1867, Kindle Edition.

—. Backwards to Britain, originally published 1859, Chambers Limited, 1992.

—. Five Weeks in a Balloon. 1863.

—. Underground City, originally published 1877, Luath Press, 2005.

—. The Will of an Eccentric. Sampson Low, Marston & Company, 1900.

—. The Self-Propelled Island, originally published 1895, translated by Marie-Therese Noiset, University of Nebraska Press, 2015.

—. Journey to the Center of the Earth. 1863.

—. Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. 1871.

— and Michel Verne. In the Year 2889, originally published 1889, Seven Treasures Publications, 2008.

— and Michel Verne.  “A Futurist Express Train.” Worlds Known and Unknown, The Palik Series.

Quentin R.Skrabec Jr. is a full-time researcher in engineering futurism, Jules Verne, Victorian science, the intersection of culture and engineering, and metallurgical studies. His education includes a BS in engineering from the University of Michigan, an MS in engineering from Ohio State, and a Ph.D. in manufacturing management from the University of Toledo. He has appeared on both PBS and the History Channel. He has published over 100 articles and 25 books in science, science fiction, and engineering.


Jules Verne’s Fictional Quest for the Secrets of Krupp Steel


SFRA Review, vol. 56 no. 1

Features


Jules Verne’s Fictional Quest for the Secrets of Krupp Steel

Quentin R. Skrabec

Story Summary

A French physician, Doctor Sarrasin, and a German scientist, Professor Schultze, inherit a vast fortune as descendants of an Indian rajah’s fortune. This rajah married the wealthy widow of a native prince, the  “begum “ of the title. Each heir decided to build utopian cities in the United States.

Sarrasin builds France-Ville on the western side of the Cascade Range in the state of Oregon, with a focus on the health and wellness of its citizens. Schultze, a German militarist, builds Stahlstadt on the east side, a vast industrial and mining complex, devoted to the production of ever more powerful and destructive weapons. Schultze soon plans to destroy Sarrasin’s city.

Schultze builds an advanced steel mill for cannons. Stahlstadt becomes the world’s biggest producer of arms. Schultze was Stahlstadt’s dictator, whose very word was law and who made all significant decisions personally. Schultze was an eccentric and unusual character. Stahlstadt was an industrial and circular labyrinth covered in secrecy. The primary purpose of this cannon factory was to maintain secrecy around its advanced cannon-making process. It was strictly controlled by employees’ oaths, passwords, locked doors, guards, and a central observation tower. Schultze added a home in the middle, with exotic gardens and greenhouses.

Marcel Bruckmann, a friend of Sarrasin’s son, becomes an industrial spy to understand the manufacture and technology of Schulze’s cannons. Bruckmann relocates to Stahlstadt and quickly rises high in its rigid hierarchy, gaining Schultze’s personal confidence, spying out some well-kept secrets, and sending a warning to his France-Ville friends. Still, Bruckmann faces a factory built to maintain secrets and security. Schultze is not content to produce arms, but intends to use them first against France-Ville, then worldwide. Schultze’s super-cannon was capable of firing massive shells filled with gas. Schultze’s pressurized carbon dioxide gas was designed not only to asphyxiate its victims but also to freeze them. As Schultze prepares for the final assault on France-Ville, a gas projectile in the office accidentally explodes, asphyxiating him and leaving him in frozen animation. Stahlstadt goes bankrupt and becomes a ghost town. Bruckmann and Dr. Sarrasin’s son take it over. Eventually, Stahlstadt is re-invented as a peaceful manufacturing town.

Setting the Environment and the Story

In Verne’s scientific romances, science and technology are not merely a passive backdrop or setting for the story, but an active driver of the plot. Begum’s Millions1 (1879) is a prime example of this blending of technology and story; however, before examining the story of Begum’s Millions, there is a subject of debate, and we must first consider the authorship itself. Many consider Paschal Grousset (1845–1909) to be at least the co-author in the sense that many believe the story and framework were those of Paschal Grousset, and there is good evidence that Verne’s editor purchased the storyline (Verne, BM Luce ed, p. xvi). Indeed, there is support that the France-Ville of chapter 10 fits Grousset’s political ideas. Chapter 6, “The Albrecht Mine,” gives the reader the feeling of something patched in or merged from a different manuscript. Some merging and blending of two manuscripts was probably the case. As to Verne using Alfred Krupp and the Stahlstadt factory as a model for the book, there is a connection in Verne’s own words to his editor: “What shall we say about the Krupp factory now, as it is really Krupp who is in play here, and his factory that is so forbidden to indiscreet eyes.” (Verne, BM, Luce ed., p. 206, note 5)

Stahlstadt factory descriptions may have come from Victor Tissot’s The Prussians in Germany, published in Paris in 1876. Another possible source could have been a pamphlet published in 1865 by French science journalist and publisher, Francois Julien Turgan (Michaelis, 1888. P.50). Turgan documented the Krupp factory in Germany as well as other European cannon factories, focusing on its military artillery, design, and manufacturing processes. His account provides a detailed, illustrated record of the operations at Krupp during the mid-1860s. Napoleon III had planned to buy Krupp cannons in the 1860s, but the French military command overruled him. Everything changed with the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71), which started an international arms race.

Other sources could have been available to Verne, such as military reports from the 1870s, marketing materials from Krupp Steel, and those of French steelmaker Schneider-Creusot, which had a network of traveling engineers known as  “Silent Research at Schneider” to study and report on steelmaking innovations worldwide. This is consistent with other sources available to Verne, such as military visit reports of the 1870s and the corporate spy network of the French Schneider Creusot steel. Verne’s story matches the unique actual process details of Krupp steel. The connections to some of Alfred Krupp’s personal characteristics are less compelling, but in the broader context of all the Krupp details, they rise above mere coincidence, and they should at least be discussed.

The Franco-Prussian War vividly demonstrated the superiority of Krupp’s breech-loading crucible steel cannons over the French’s muzzle-loading brass cannons. The world entered a type of arms race, which is reflected in Verne’s story. Herr Schultze’s steelworks and Marcel Bruckmann’s quest to uncover its secrets were based on the real international espionage by countries such as France and England to find the 19th century’s greatest industrial secret: the Krupp cast crucible steel cannon process.

Verne’s Cannon Factory Layout Versus Krupp’s

Verne was no stranger to iron works, forging, and cannon foundries, having visited the naval foundry and cannon shop near Indret a number of times with his father in his youth (Butcher, 2006, p.18). This cannon forge made use of steam forging hammers that Verne would write about in Begum’s Millions. Begum’s Millions demonstrated Verne’s depth of knowledge of the secretive Alfred Krupp and his factory. It is not fully clear how Verne acquired these details. The main source appears to be the secretive, partially published report of an 1865 visit to Krupp’s factory (Michaelis, 1888, p. 50). What is known is that Krupp’s layout of the factory and mansion is unique and far different than other steel works, such as Carnegie’s 1875 massive steelworks at Braddock, Pennsylvania, and France’s Schneider-Creusot. Both Verne’s and Krupp’s mills were built on a coal field with adjoining ore deposits.

Verne’s Herr Schultze’s city, factory, and castle reflected those of Alfred Krupp and the city of Essen. For study reference and comparison, Begum’s Millions Stanford Luce translation and William Manchester’s The Arms of Krupp will be used. Schultze, like Krupp, builds a massive tropical garden at the center of his factory operations around his factory home, which was unheard of until very recently, with roof gardens at manufacturing plants such as Ford Motor Company. Krupp had maintained his original family house of the 1820s amidst the works, adding gardens in the 1860s. However, in the 1870s, he built a castle overlooking the factory. Verne’s glass-enclosed heated garden was modeled after Krupp’s glass-enclosed gardens. In both cases, excess factory heat is used to maintain the temperature. Verne includes Krupp’s use of peacocks, pineapples, slag-formed fountains, and statues in the garden at the center of the steel works (Manchester, 1964, pp. 71-72). Verne’s Schultze had a museum and model shop exactly like Krupp’s, as described by a rare visitor to the works in 1865. Both Krupp and Verne had a tower with a glass lookout. Krupp’s original central home inside the factory had a glass  “crow’s nest” for watching workers. Verne’s novel had the Tower of Bull at the center of Stahlstadt. Both used thick glass roof skylights.

Krupp’s steel works and mansion in the 1870s were described as: “The interior is a mad labyrinth of great halls, hidden doors, and secret passages” (Manchester, 1964. P. 110). This is a similar visual to Verne’s. Verne blends Krupp’s unique steelmaking process, industrial labyrinth, Krupp’s famous mansion, and passion for secrecy into his story. Krupp’s factory layout and restricted employee movement were core to his secrecy policy, which Verne illustrates in his story. Krupp’s Essen and Verne’s Stahlstadt are both integrated cities/factories. Verne’s Stahlstadt was modeled after Krupp’s factory, complete with a police force, guards at every department entrance, passwords, locked doors, codes, and secret agents (James, 2012, p. 42). Both factories were designed with circular-walled sections and locked departments to ensure no one could piece together the secret process of cannon-making, which was a key part of Verne’s storyline.

The fictional factory organization in Verne’s novel reflected the pioneering Krupp industrial philosophy of vertical integration, which involved owning and coordinating resources throughout the production cycle. Verne’s Stahlstadt, like Krupp’s Essen, was an oval-shaped city with a circular railroad to supply the steel works. While much is made of Verne’s circular steel city design on a philosophical, metaphysical, and mythical level, it appears to be inspired by Krupp’s  “great circle railway” around his factory for process integration, allowing materials and semi-products to move between departments and connections to bring in coal and ore (Krupp Steel, 1912). William Kingston’s earliest English translation of Begum’s Millions, published in 1879, offers a slightly more explicit visual representation of this circular design. Krupp’s railway was built from 1874 to 1877 and was the subject of much news attention. The circular design enabled efficient integration, which other notable steelworks failed to achieve fully in the 1870s. All the great steel works of the 1800s and even the 1900s had a linear integration from department to department. It would be unlikely that Verne thought of this circular design independently of Krupp’s design. Interestingly, Verne would utilize this circular integration in his posthumously published novel, The Barsac Mission (1919), which featured an evil factory. The circular design of steel mills has become popular recently as the ultimate in vertical integration (IREA, 2023).

Making Steel in the 1870s: An Extraordinary Journey of Technology

The 1870s were a time of much innovation in steelmaking, particularly at Krupp Steel. Steelmaking was a matter of controlling carbon. Blister, puddling, crucible, open-hearth, and Bessemer converter processes were being used at various plants. Initially, Krupp used blister steel, as made in Verne’s novel Mysterious Island, as an intermediate step in making his crucible steel to cast cannons. But Krupp converted from blister steel as the intermediate step to puddling in the 1870s.

In Mysterious Island (1875),Verne clearly defines the metallurgical difference between blister and puddled process steel. Puddling allowed Krupp to move directly from pig iron to steel without producing the intermediate wrought iron product and then carburizing it in a cementation process to produce blister steel, as Verne’s island colonists did. After extensive trials, Krupp decided that a combination of puddled and crucible steel processes could meet the quality requirements of his cannons. Krupp also produced lower-quality steel for other applications using the Bessemer converter and evolving open-hearth steelmaking processes. In fact. Krupp had been the first to use the Bessemer process (1862) and the open-hearth process (1869). However, no other world steelmaker used Krupp’s combination of puddling and crucible processing for cannon steel because of the high cost of such double processing. Krupp believed that cost was secondary to achieving the best quality in the world. Verne captures Krupp’s quest for pride and excellence over cost in his character Herr Schultze. In 1875, Andrew Carnegie embarked on a journey to become the wealthiest man in the world, profiting from Bessemer steel in the mass steel market; however, Krupp remained loyal to puddling for his prized cannons.

The story of Begum’s Millions (1879) includes a fictional quest for Krupp’s secret steelmaking process. The quest evolved out of an international arms race that began with the American Civil War (1860-65) and the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71). In 1870, Schneider-Creusot began producing steel cannons using the Bessemer process, but never achieved the quality of Krupp’s cannons, and Schneider-Creusot lacked the puddling/crucible technology to match Krupp. To catch up, Schneider-Creusot developed a network of traveling engineers known as “Silent Research at Schneider” to study and report on steelmaking innovations around the world that could be applied to cannon making (Galvez-Behar, 2004). This research network encompassed patent office research, social networking at scientific meetings and conferences, and observations of competitive military cannon marketing trials, as well as visitors’ notes from competing steel mills. Krupp was forced to balance the secrecy of his superior process with the need to utilize it as a marketing tool for the global market. In 1878 and 1879, Krupp held competitions known as Völkerschiessen, which were firing demonstrations of cannons for hundreds of international buyers to view his operations. Being aware of the Schneider-Creusot spy network, Krupp would not allow French observers.

The success of Krupp’s famous cast crucible steel process was a complex evolutionary process and technological innovation. The basic core crucible process developed by Frederick Krupp (1787-1826) evolved throughout the 19th century under Alfred Krupp (1812-1887). Interestingly, Alfred Krupp has been accused of stealing the original basic crucible steelmaking process from Britain in the 1850s. (Stewart, 1994) The Krupp cast crucible steel process was a mix of crucible steelmaking, puddling, and advanced forging techniques.

The process outline consisted of producing high-quality pig iron from a blast furnace. The process outline consisted of producing high-quality pig iron from a blast furnace, remelting this pig iron in a puddling operation to make steel, then forging and rolling rods, remelting pieces of these rods in multiple crucibles, and finally sequencing the casting of steel blocks to be forged into cannon barrels. Originally, Krupp exploited blister steel production on a massive scale to maintain the quality of its cannons. Krupp switched to puddling only after years of testing in the 1870s.

Fig. 1 Krupp Cast Steel Works 1878 vs. the Cover of The Begum’s Fortune (aka The Begum’s Millions)

Krupp’s cast crucible steel of the 1870s for cannons was unique among other steel processes and cannon makers. Most militaries of the world were still using bronze and cast iron, which could be cast directly into a cannon body. At the time, steel could not be cast directly into a quality cannon body. The term  “Krupp cast crucible steel” can be misleading since cast steel blocks were forged into a cylindrical cannon body. The secret of Krupp’s process lay not only in the chemical processes but also in his forging operation, which utilized steam hammers. By today’s standards, the Krupp process was redundant and seemingly endless, with melting, reheating, rolling, hammering, and final forging stages. At the same time, Krupp was pioneering newer steel processes of Bessemer and open-hearth for other products, such as railroad rails and wheels, and plate armor, but never his cannons in the 1870s.

Mass steel production using puddling instead of the newer, cheaper processes of Bessemer and open-hearth was unique to Krupp’s cannon making in the late 1870s. His major competitors in France, England, Russia, and America were using the Bessemer process and moving toward open-hearth manufacture. One of the reasons was that Krupp’s iron sources were high in phosphorus, which embrittled steel, and Bessemer and open hearth at the time were not efficient at removing phosphorus, while puddling was.

A Krupp cast crucible steel cannon was the most feared worldwide because of its accuracy and range. Steelmaking, steam hammer forging, rifling, and breech loading were the four key factors contributing to the field superiority of Krupp’s cannon. Verne knew the superiority of Krupp’s crucible steel cannons through the Paris bombardment and France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71).

In Verne’s Mysterious Island (1874), he highlights the cast steel breech-loading cannon but does not use the Krupp name (Verne, Mysterious Island, p. 482). In Begum’s Millions, Verne highlights this revolutionary breech-loading design and rifling, which was the signature design of the Krupp cast steel cannon (Verne, BM, p. 97).

At the time, Krupp’s cast crucible steel process was the biggest industrial secret in the world. One exhaustive study of the Krupp crucible cast steel showed that the full details of the Krupp process are still not fully understood (Barraclough, 1981). In Begum’s Millions (1879), Verne deals with the details of the casting of crucible steel. Verne features Krupp’s metallurgy and methods in 1879, a remarkable literary and research achievement.

The real historical stories of the quest to find Alfred Krupp’s secretive cast steel process were as fascinating as Verne’s fictional. The story of a spy in Begum’s Millions, Stahlstadt reads like the real-world struggle of competitors and their spies trying to discover Krupp’s secret process. Alfred Krupp required loyalty oaths from his workers, who were confined to their departments to prevent them from learning the overall process (Manchester, 1964, p. 157). Krupp maintained a large plant police force, posted guards between sections, and had roaming plant agents. Rarely was a worker transferred to a different department without demonstrating extreme loyalty. All of these are characterized in Verne’s novel. Krupp employed spies to watch his workers in the mill. If a worker left for another company, Krupp spies would follow. Surprisingly, Verne missed Krupp photographing employees for identification. Krupp used photography to collect engineering data on the competition at artillery exhibitions. Krupp also personally orchestrated and approved process photography at his own exhibitions for marketing and international expositions (Bosson, 2008).

Even today, the whole secret of cast crucible steel is not fully understood. Verne’s description appears to have an origin at least partially based on unauthorized notes from a French science editor who visited Krupp’s factory in 1865 (Michaelis, 1888. P.50). Verne described the same sketchiness as the published unauthorized tour notes of 1865 and 1888. It appears that when Krupp granted tours, they were purposely disorganized or organized to limit a complete understanding of the process. In 1878, Krupp hosted a special tour of military experts to help improve international business, but no French officials were allowed in (Menne, 2013, pp. 110-114). There doesn’t appear to be any detailed records of this 1878 tour until 1888.

Fig. 2. Krupp Cannon at 1876 Philadelphia Exhibition versus 1879 Verne Illustration

Krupp and Verne’s Schultze Cannon Making

The secret cannon-making required a complex factory of ironmaking, steelmaking, and steam-powered forges, presses, blooming mills, and rolling mills, not something Verne could have easily put together without detailed information. The reconstructed description by Verne of the Krupp process for high-quality cannon steelmaking steps was detailed in Begum’s Millions (1879). Verne’s literary technique to probe the secrets of the process was the search by a spy, Marcel Bruckmann, who was planted in Stahlstadt to find the secret. Verne’s spy takes samples of ore, steel, and slag while taking notes on the process. Verne’s spy espionage begins in the puddling section.

Verne applies puddling, a unique feature of the Krupp process at the time. Without Verne trying to emulate the Krupp operation, it would be unlikely for Verne’s fictional design not to incorporate the emerging Bessemer and open-hearth processes used in France, England, and America. There is an unusual connection between Krupp and Verne’s understanding and use of puddling. Verne’s spy Marcel Bruckmann describes puddling, mentioning the use of  “Chernoff’s rules,” a scientific detail that few would have known in 1879, except for metallurgists in Russian and German steelworks. Chernoff is clearly a misspelling or translation issue of the Russian metallurgist Dmitry Chernov. Chernov, in 1868, after studying the production of heavy guns at Obukhovsky Steel Foundry, published a paper in Russian on the necessary temperature control in puddling furnaces. The 1869 publication of this article is considered the date of the transformation of metallurgy from an art into a science (Golovin, 1968, pp. 335-340). It was translated into English and French in 1877.

The exchange of technology between Russia and Krupp was a mix of formal and informal exchanges (James, 2012, pp. 49-50). Since the 1860s, Russia had been the largest customer for Krupp, thereby granting the company access to its operations. One of Krupp’s significant advances in cannon making, which involved overlapping tube barrels as seen in Begum’s Millions’ illustrations, came at the insistence of Russian military engineers (Krupp Steel, 1912, p. 124). At the same time, Russia was determined to become independent of German cannons and had assembled a research center of the best metallurgists, similar to the Schneider-Creusot network. Krupp had its own counterpart spy group of metallurgists in the 1870s, which traveled around the world to monitor competitors (James, 2012, p. 45). Krupp had applied this Russian science to achieve exceptional quality. Verne demonstrates his understanding of the process and the science and metallurgy of puddling, such as temperature control, as seen in Begum’s Millions.

Puddling offered a quality steel to feed Krupp’s crucible furnace operation for massive cannons. Puddling is the process of converting pig iron to steel in a coal-fired reverberatory furnace. It was a labor-intensive process of hammering pasty iron balls into steel.Puddling was hard work, as Verne described using his spy character in Begum’s Millions. The problem was thatpuddling is limited to a direct and consolidated steel billet, typically ranging from 1 to 2 tons.Puddling could not directly produce a 330-ton batch of steel needed for Schultze’s cannon. This is where the Krupp crucible process was key. Puddled steel had to be remelted in crucibles to consolidate the homogeneous quantity of steel for cannons.

The puddling steel product required batches to be hammered into blooms and billets, and then rolled out into rods. These puddled rods were broken into pieces and packed into crucibles. For this part of the process, Verne’s description of packing the crucibles is somewhat lacking, but the melting and casting of these crucibles captures Verne’s full attention. Verne is amazed at the German precision of this part of the process. German precision was the heart of Krupp’s success in cannon making.

It took many crucibles of remelted steel to make cannons of 20 to 40 tons, the typical weight of Krupp’s 1870s cannons. These crucibles had to be blended into a large molten steel bath by simultaneously pouring them to produce large, homogeneous steel blocks to make cannons. The blending was done by pouring the crucibles into a clay channel that led to the ingot mold. In the 1850s, Krupp Steel developed timed simultaneous mixing and casting of many crucible furnaces, allowing for the homogeneous quantity of steel needed to make steel cannons. In his 1870 novel From Earth to the Moon, Verne uses the Krupp precision simultaneous discharge of 1200 furnaces to cast his gigantic 68,000-ton iron moon cannon.

 Many recall Krupp’s famous Great Exhibition of 1851 exhibit of steel cannons, but for engineers, it was not cannons that amazed but the largest steel ingot ever cast up to that point, weighing 4,300 pounds (approximately 2,000 kg), achieved with the simultaneous casting of 98 crucibles.

Fig. 3. An illustration of Krupp’s exhibition

Ironically, Krupp would exhibit a steel ingot of double the size, earning a gold medal at the Paris Exhibition of 1855. Krupp’s success led to the world’s largest and most powerful cannons, which would rain shells on Paris in 1870.

The Krupp cannon exhibited at the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial Exposition weighed 122 tons. Krupp’s 1892 cannon was 150 tons. Verne uses several pages to describe this precision casting method applied to crucible steelmaking in Begum’s Millions; Schultze’s cannon was 330 tons in Verne’s 1878 novel.

The final operation was forging the cannon from the cast steel block into a finished cannon cylinder. Krupp was the first to forge seamless tubes in the 1850s. Forging was required in the cast-crucible process to break up the cast steel microstructure, thereby reducing the fracture risk and improving strength. Forging was also a critical part of Krupp’s superiority in cannons.

Fig. 4. Krupp Hammer/press forge with cold center mandrel

Part of Krupp’s secret was upset forging of the steel block into cylinders by steam-powered presses and forging machines. A hole was drilled into the steel block and then forged with a cold mandrel. Krupp would build the world’s largest forging hammers. The length of Krupp’s cannon required several cylinders to be shrunk and forged to fit together, and this can be noted in the illustrations used in Begum’s Millions. Russian engineers had suggested this cylinder built-up of the cannon, but Krupp applied it and perfected it in the 1870s. Verne captures another advantage of Krupp’s cannon-making in his steam hammers for forging. Krupp built hundreds of steam hammers to forge his cannons and sell hammers around the world. Krupp maintained a huge drafting (engineering) department to improve its products continually. Verne’s novel reflects this when his spy gets stuck in Stahlstadt’s engineering department, designing endless types and sizes of steam hammers (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, p. 83) Finally, there were intermediate annealing steps and a final machining for a rifled barrel and placement of his patented breech-loading system.

Fig. 5. Krupp Famous Steam Hammer of the 1870 “Fritz”

Interesting Comparisons: Schultze versus Alfred Krupp

The political subplot and literary imagery of Begum’s Millions have been discussed by several reviewers, and it makes for a fascinating study. Still, Krupp’s own personal struggles may be just as important and more interesting. Recent reviews feel that the character of Herr Schultze is clearly modeled after Alfred Krupp.2 This effort focuses on looking at Alfred Krupp (1812-1887), his company Krupp Steel, and his steel city of Essen as a model for Herr Schultze and Stahlstadt. Verne’s technical depth of the secret of Krupp cannon production is impressive, but just as important is his knowledge of Krupp the man. Krupp was known as an eccentric with a  “slew of anxieties: hypochondria, insomnia, and a phobia of everything from fire to suffocation from his own bodily gases” (Dirada, 2006, p. BW15).Verne also reveals his knowledge of the personal and operational functioning of Krupp Steel in the late 1870s. Finally, he knows Krupp, the man, and how he runs Krupp Steel. Verne had clearly studied Alfred Krupp, his factory, his steel city, Essen, and the Krupp Castle. Verne demonstrates his understanding of Alfred Krupp’s idiosyncrasies and personal events, which he incorporates into the story.

Fig. 6. Illustrations from Begum’s Millions

When Verne’s spy Bruckmann breaks into the frozen office of Schultze, he notes the electric light, but also notes a large candelabra. This again was an eccentric characteristic of Krupp, who used only pure tallow candles to light his living quarters, fearing suffocation by gas, which was the standard lighting vehicle in 1879. Such comparable details in Verne’s led to other possible plot items that might be considered coincidental except for the number of Krupp details already noted.

One interesting possibility is the incorporation of Krupp’s fear of asphyxiation by carbon dioxide in Verne’s novel. Krupp hated drafts, so he permanently closed windows, requiring him to build a special ventilation system for his castle. Still, Krupp came to believe that his ventilation system could not prevent the buildup of carbon dioxide. Krupp was a hypochondriac who was said to  “be a night ghost hunting his castle sniffing for traces of carbon dioxide” (Manchesster, 1964, p. 140). While Alfred Krupp did not die of asphyxiation, Verne’s Herr Schultze would die from carbon dioxide asphyxiation. This accidental asphyxiation of Herr Schultze was a result of the plan to use a mass destruction cannon shell using carbon dioxide asphyxiation on his rival city of France-Ville. In an earlier chapter, a thirteen-year-old child died from carbon dioxide asphyxiation because of a poor mine ventilation system, and later, Herr Schultze threatened to asphyxiate a spy while he slept.

Chapter 15,  “The San Francisco Stock Exchange,” feels that it was adapted, modified, or added to the original manuscript. Yet it accurately mimics the critical period of Alfred Krupp’s life during the international financial and stock market Panic of 1873. Verne sets up the financial and stock market crisis of chapter 15 as  “a natural consequence of… this concentration of all power in one person” (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, p. 156). Schultze’s greatest fear, like Krupp’s, was to lose control of his company. Krupp’s sole ownership led Krupp Steel to the brink of bankruptcy in the mid-1870s. A depressed Krupp took his exit from the public to avoid reporters. Like Schultze, Krupp was involved in a possible Central Bank takeover. Krupp could not get bank loans until a banking association was formed with the government’s help to save him. Krupp was forced to sign a “shameful” document that required some sharing of authority among the company bankers (Manchester, 1964, p. 140-150).

The literary image of the novel’s guarding giants, Arminius and Sigimer, has been studied, and their link to mythical characters and German politics has been noted. Additionally, they reflect the company police force of Alfred Krupp, which was used to guard the manufacturing secrets and maintain order and adherence to Alfred Krupp’s company rules.

With the organization of Stahlstadt’s steel factory, Verne again demonstrates an extensive knowledge of Krupp’s factory in the 1870s. Most of Verne’s organizational description of the Stahlstadt appears to have come from Krupp’s General Directive of 1872. Many of these details were unique to Krupp’s Essen operation. Verne, like Krupp, uses sectors (departments) and shops for operation layout and a hierarchy of foremen, section chiefs, and directors, as well as using military ranking. More interesting is the role of the foreman in the organization, which reflects the changes at Krupp in the 1870s. Krupp thus started to use the foreman as an integral part of the organization in the 1870s. Verne incorporates the employee development role of the foremen in the story to allow his spy to be moved from the department and promoted up the hierarchy (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, pp. 58-84). Verne was also aware of Alfred Krupp’s unusual hybrid hierarchy of civilian titles and military ranks, as noted in the promotion of his spy, Marcel Bruckmann, to lieutenant in Chapter 7 (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, p. 82).

The story also reflects the arms race and the French fears of Germany. The France-Ville, in Chapter 10, was probably written by Paschal Grousset (1845–1909) rather than Jules Verne. Translator Stanford Luce references a letter from Verne to his editor stating:  “I don’t see any differences between the city of steel and the city of well-being” (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, p. 213, note 1). It was probably Verne who emphasized the government’s control of living regulations in France-Ville in the chapter for contrast, suggesting there was little difference between the paternalism of Krupp and the totalitarian application of social democracy, which Verne portrayed as feudal. Of course, France-Ville was truly a socialist state with a free health system, free healthy activities, and restrictive government regulations to control environmental issues such as smoke, which reflects Grousset’s political view, but Verne’s political view is more moderate. Verne had, early on in his 1863 novel Paris in the 20th Century, presented a similar mixed political approach.

While many see Begum’s Millions as a conflict between France and Germany, which certainly fits well, Krupp’s writings, employee edicts, and documents addressed the comparison between social democracy, which was gaining traction across Europe, and his own counter-philosophy of paternal capitalism. This narrative would also reflect Verne’s fictional struggle between France-Ville and Stahlstadt. Krupp’s paternalism is evident in Verne’s Stahlstadt, as seen in employee technical training, paternal care by foremen, pensions, and family employment, all of which were practiced by Krupp.

Another Schultze-Krupp comparison is the use of disabled workers. When Marcel Bruckmann comes to enter Schultze’s central living area, Verne emphasizes that the guard was “an invalid with a wooden leg and a chest full of medals” (Verne, Begum’s Millions, 1879, p. 53). Not surprisingly, Alfred Krupp was a national advocate of employing disabled veterans of the Franco-Prussian War. Krupp, in a letter, asked for disabled veterans to be hired so they are not  “supported like beggars” using government charity (Berdrow, 1930, p. 267). This type of government unemployment benefit was at the heart of social democracy. Krupp was known in Germany for assigning any disabled or injured employee to light-duty jobs.

In reality, Krupp’s paternal organization had characteristics of both Verne’s Stahlstadt and France-Ville. Krupp provided extensive educational benefits, low-cost housing, medical care, and pensions. The difference was in the delivery to the workers (socialism versus paternalism).

Areas of Future Research and Analysis

Verne’s demonstration of his knowledge of Krupp’s metallurgical process and Krupp’s personal behavior suggests a possible deeper presence of Krupp in Begum’s Millions. Many have viewed the novel as a comparison between the dystopia of Stahlstadt and the more utopian model of France-Ville. Others have seen it as the arms race and political struggle between France and Germany. If you look at the novel through the eyes of Alfred Krupp of the 1870s, other themes emerge. Germany of the 1870s was like the rest of Europe, struggling with social democracy and Marxism, and Krupp’s own factory was no exception. Marxists were actively trying to win over Krupp’s workers. Alfred Krupp was passionate about stopping the rise of social democracy in Europe and Germany, a sentiment that is evident in the story. Certainly, France-Ville could also have represented the social democracy movement. Krupp published numerous letters to his employees and to the rulers of Germany on this matter. Alfred Krupp’s address to his employees on February 11, 1877 might well explain the struggle between France-Ville/ Sarrasin and Stahlstadt / Schultze portrayed in the novel (Krupp, 1877, GHDI). Also in the 1870s, the world was locked in a struggle for control of production, as reflected in the rise of socialism and capitalism.

Herr Schultze demonstrates the biggest fear of capitalists worldwide: the loss of control over production. In America, renowned steel titans such as Andrew Carnegie and Henry Clay Frick were frequently criticized for being greedy and anti-union (Skrabec, 2012, p. 21). However, like Alfred Krupp, the real story of opposing unions was not so much about money as it was about control over how the factory was run. In this respect, these capitalists, like those in Verne’s fictional world, feared unions, shareholders, and bankers alike. In this, their paternalism was an effort to gain loyalty. There is much material in Begum’s Millions to explore this basic premise further.

Verne’s description of Schultze does present him as a fearful, even evil, man. However, in describing France-Ville, the reader gets a sense of a very rigid approach, where the government knows best, reminiscent of Krupp’s criticism of social democracy. There are also hints of some of the positive aspects of Krupp’s competing ideal of paternal capitalism, such as education and a paternal approach to employees. In a way, both models are feudal in nature. A view of the novel might consider the story not only as a comparison but also as an exploration of how the two political approaches might be merged for the common good, as Verne suggests in the ending.

Conclusion

Verne borrowed heavily from Aldred Krupp and his steel town in writing Begum’s Millions (1879). Much of the storyline and subplots can be linked to the Krupp legacy, such as competitors’ industrial spying, plant layout, company secrecy methods, European paternalism, the rise of social democracy and Marxism, and technological advances. A major subplot involved an industrial spy’s search of Herr Schultze’s steelworks, which was based on the real international espionage by countries such as France and England to uncover the 19th century’s greatest industrial secret: the Krupp cast crucible steel cannon process. Verne’s description of the secret crucible steel process was visionary and well researched for the state of public knowledge in the 1870s. There are also interesting comparisons and potential connections between Schultze and Alfred Krupp for further research.

NOTES

  1. The most common title used is Begum’s Fortune, however it was first published as 500 Millions of the Begum. I have chosen the title Begum’s Millions to use because the Luce’s translation is what I used as a base for comparison.
  2. Review by Michael Dirda, Washington Post, Sunday, March 5, 2006; Page BW15.

WORKS CITED

Barraclough, Kenneth. “The Development of The Early Steelmaking Processes: An Essay In The History of Technology.” Thesis submitted to the University of Sheffield, 1981.

Berdrow, Wilhelm. Krupp: A Great Business Man seen Through His Letters, The Dail Press, 1930.

Bossen, Howard, and Eric Freedman, Julie Mianecki. “How Photographers Gain Access To Steel Mills.” Vira, 2008.

Butcher, William. Jules Verne. Thunder Mouth Press, 2006.

Carter, Elliot. “Villa Hugel: The Monumental Home of Prussia’s Eccentric ‘Cannon King.’” Atlas Obscura, 2017 .

Dirda, Michael. Washington Post, Editorial Sunday, March 5, 2006; Page BW15.

Galvez-Behar, Gabriel. “Technical Networks at Schneider.” Business and Economic History On Line, Vol 2, 2004.

Golovin, A. “The Centennial of D. K. Chernov’s Discovery of Polymorphous Transformations in Steel 1868–1968.” Metal Science and Heat Treatment, vol. 10, no. 5, May 1968.

James, Harold. Krupp: A History of the Legendary German Firm. Princeton University Press, 2012.

IREA. “Towards A Circular Steel Industry, International Renewable Energy Agency.” 2023.

Krupp, Alfred. “Address to his Employees (February 11, 1877).“ German History in Documents and Images.

Krupp Steel. Krupp: A Century’s History of the Krupp Works, 1812-1912. Org. 1912, reprinted Legare Street Press.

Manchester, William. Arms of the Krupp. Little, Brown and Company, 1964.

Menne, Bernhard. Blood and Steel – The Rise of the House of Krupp, Menne Press , 2013.

Michaelis, K. and E. Monthaye. Visit to Krupp Works. Leopold Classic Library, 1888.

Skrabec, Quentin. Benevolent Barons: American Worker-Centered Industrialists, 1850-1910. McFarland, 2012.

Stewart, Philip. “Role of the U.S. Government in Industrial Espionage.” 1994 US Army Executive Research Project

Tissot, Victor. “The Prussians in Germany.” 1876.

Verne, Jules, Begum’s Millions, originally published 1879, translated by Stanford Luce, Wesleyan University Press, 2005.

—. Correspondance Inédite de Jules Verne et de Pierre-Jules Hetzel, 1 sept. 1878.

Mysterious Island, originally published 1874, translated by Sidney Kravitz Wesleyan University Press, 2001.

Waltz, George. Jules Verne: The Biography of an Imagination. Henry Holt and Company, 1949.

Quentin R.Skrabec Jr. is a full-time researcher in engineering futurism, Jules Verne, Victorian science, the intersection of culture and engineering, and metallurgical studies. His education includes a BS in engineering from the University of Michigan, an MS in engineering from Ohio State, and a Ph.D. in manufacturing management from the University of Toledo. He has appeared on both PBS and the History Channel. He has published over 100 articles and 25 books in science, science fiction, and engineering.


The 2025 Hugo and Nebula Nominees



The 2025 Hugo and Nebula Nominees

The Editorial Collective

The following is an edited discussion from our Discord site, wherein each of us who had the opportunity to read a given novel had the chance to comment on it. The questions at stake here are what each novel says about the state of SF in these times, and whether and how it did or not deserve a nomination for a major award. We begin with a more general discussion, then move to each text in turn. Some texts are absent because nobody had the opportunity to read them.


Ian Campbell: Could each of you please drop a couple of paragraphs giving your take on the awards nominees and winners overall? What do these picks say about the state of the discourse? What is your take on how so many of these are way more fantasy than SF?

Dominick Grace: I have read only three of the nominees. Of them, Only Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Alien Clay really qualifies as SF. Vajra Chandrasekera’s Rakesfall has SF elements but might be better considered as science-fantasy, or perhaps as slipstream. John Wiswell’s Someone You Can Build a Nest In is straight medievalesque fantasy—set on an Earth-analogous world without conforming particularly realistically to medieval Earth in terms of politics or social practices. To be frank, when reviewing the list of nominees, I had a difficult time choosing which ones to read for our discussion, since few of them seemed to me to be SF—those on the Hugo list perhaps slightly more so. (While I prefer SF to Fantasy, I like fantasy fine, but I do tend to think that an SF award should go to a book within the genre). My impression from the list and without a comprehensive review of the books published in 2024 is that SF seems to be on the decline, at least in literary form, with fantasy or hybrid genre works emerging as more prevalent. I am inclined to think that the general swing to the right, not only (but especially, certainly) in the USA, is a factor in this shift. SF can be a hopeful genre, but even in hopeful mode it tends to have a critical perspective on the real world. While fantasy can also have such a perspective, it is much more free to offer escape rather than confrontation with an increasingly uncomfortable reality.

That Wiswell’s novel won the Nebula is for me the clearest indication that, in the case of that awards committee, at least, an implausible normalizing of the other via true love outweighs serious consideration of the real and concerning issue of the (mis)treatment of non-binary, trans, and other atypical people in contemporary Western society.

The novel uses a shape-changing monster that identifies as “she” and who breeds by planting eggs in a human, which eggs upon hatching then consume the host, as a metaphor for the queer other. Rather a risky move, but not so much when the novel simply hand-waves the problems away when the creature, Shesheshen, finds true love and conveniently has her eggs destroyed, so she won’t have to face whether using her love as an incubator will be necessary.

Indeed, even the most narratively complex of these three books, Rakesfall, fails (IMO) to offer any deep or thought-provoking commentary on our postmodern, post-truth world, preferring instead to use a glib narrative voice (a failing of all three books I read, actually) and metafictional/self-reflexive and linguistically playful style—which, to me as a reader, anyway, blunts most of the claim to serious speculation the novel might have had. It has a lot of fascinating and complex ideas in it but just doesn’t seem to do much with them.

So, my feeling based on what I have read is that we seem to be moving into (or back into) a world in which the “award-worthy” books give themselves some contemporary relevance by touching on current hot-button topics (LGBTQ, for instance, or post-truth authoritarian America, as Tchaikovsky is clearly doing in Alien Clay) but which focus more on being entertaining/amusing than thought-provoking.

Leimar Garcia-Siino: I think you’ve hit it right on the head, Dom. In fact, I might go a bit further and say it comes across as a little performative, not the novels themselves, but on the part of the awarding committees. They’re seeing a novel with queer people in it, and nominating it just because. If it had been yet another vampire/werewolf/demon/monster hetpair, it would likely have been overlooked. Could it also, in part, be a result of politics? SF has always skewed political, and things are really effed right now. Is it that there’s fewer SF novels or is it the Hugos trying to keep the peace?

Dominick: That is an intriguing thought. I doubt that politics is gone from the genre, but I did not read much new this year, so it could well be that there are still books like that, but they didn’t get nominated. To be Fair, Alien Clay is political, but its narrative voice is so arch and self-aware that (for me, anyway), the novel’s seriousness gets somewhat blunted.

Virginia L. Conn: I have to agree with Dom and Leimar here about the general state of awarded SF (I hesitate to say the state of SF in general) on two fronts: one, the general decline of what I would consider “science fiction” as a result of the global shift towards the right, and two, the (perhaps) overcorrection of the awards committee and readers to reward those publications that, from an identity perspective, resist that rightward shift.

So there’s a few things going on here that I think contribute to the aforementioned problems, many of which are not necessarily “literary” in nature. The primary issue—and the issue from which most others grow—is that at a cultural level we’re experiencing a collective loss of hope in the possibilities afforded by “the future” (as an abstract concept) and the role of either technoscientific or sociopolitical developments to measurably improve outcomes. It might be painting with too broad a brush to say that SF authors, readers, and scholars are more critical of technology than the general public (certainly there are far too many techno-optimists to make a blanket statement like this, anyway), but it’s almost inarguable that the real-life technological developments available over the last, say, five years have almost all come with their fair share of detriments along with whatever labor-saving or quality-of-life improvements they offer. How can you be excited about the possibility of artificial intelligence or its transformative possibilities when we know that it has accelerated ecological destruction at a staggering rate; functions only by incorporating and erasing the work of millions of practicing artists and creators; encodes and reproduces human biases while naturalizing them as “objective;” and has functionally destroyed the neural pathways, dopamine receptors, memory capacity, and critical thinking skills of an entire generation in a few short years of exposure?

Even though SF doesn’t necessarily need to focus on technology (or even necessarily science, however we might want to define that), it seems fairly correlative that increased suspicion of the technological agents typically associated with progress, futurity, and/or development would result in writers, readers, and awarders being suspicious of and turning away from any text that does foreground these elements. Thus, the escapism of fantasy.

The other major social element from which a lot of these issues stem is a loss of societal “objectivity”—if (IF) we understand SF as something that estranges us from the world, that means we have to have a shared understanding of that world in the first place. There’s been an explosion of research over the last few decades showing a precipitous decline in public trust in social institutions (see the Pew Research Report’s multi-decade investigation into public trust in government if you want to be shaken down to your boots) and an increased siloing of opinions. How can a piece of media estrange us if we’re already living in conceptually different worlds? Again, it’s easier to displace the narrative and not deal with the reality on the ground, as well as much safer in terms of not antagonizing different identity groups, if authors don’t assume a shared world from which it is possible to be estranged at all.

Which leads to the last point, which I think Leimar already addressed nicely. We (I’m using an inclusive we [that I know has many exceptions] to refer to SF fans, authors, readers, awarders, reviewers, publishers, etc.) WANT to live in a world where queer people, trans people, people of color, religious and ethnic and cultural minorities, the disabled, the neurodivergent, the Other, etc. etc. etc. have a place in the future we’re imagining (a good one, at that). So often, however, this desire to engage with different kinds of identities and lived experiences becomes flanderized as an impulse to ONLY show uncomplicatedly “good” characters, storylines, or outcomes, with anything else being labeled problematic. I didn’t read Someone You Can Build a Nest In, but based on y’all’s discussion of it, I wish they’d depicted Shesheshen as a predator. That would’ve made for a much more exciting and interesting story.

Pretending that queer or trans people are ubiquitously good or unproblematic or simple does an incredible disservice to the nuances of people’s lived experiences and is just as objectifying as pretending they’re all straightforwardly evil or immoral. It seems as if their very inclusion (and especially when their experience OF their identity is the focus) is enough to be considered for an award. If we can’t grapple with complicated identities or experiences, then all that’s left is a fantasy world whether it’s intended to be fantastic or not.

Leimar: Yes to all of this, Virginia! AND, to complicate matters even more, because we’re still in the (relative) beginning stages of queerness reaching mainstream culture, ‘queer’ stories are still being largely told about queerness instead of with individuals who happen to be queer. This makes this one single aspect of identity and humanity the main or even sole defining characteristic. Which means, we [at mainstream levels] still can’t tell stories where queer or trans people are not ubiquitously good or problematic. Look at the travesty that is Emilia Pérez, where her transness and her criminality get horrendously intertwined!

Maybe in part it’s also because we [contemporary society] are so bad at discussing “other”: it’s all one big bucket, so that a “bad” person is as much “other” as a neurodivergent person, or non-white person, or queer person, etc. Which then, if I may indulge in some shower-thoughts thinking, kind of circles back to SF and estrangement. What is or isn’t SF right now? The richest person in the world tinkered with his platform’s AI so much it’s now calling itself MechaHitler and it’s about to get installed into the self-driving death machines. Concentration camps are being used in the US and we’re on the brink of civil war. The whole world right now is either on fire or flooding, while corporations lay off thousands of employees in favor of AI. What is the “self” that SF is to reflect back to us—who are we??—and what is the “other”?

Dominick: This last point hits on what I found something of a weakness in Alien Clay. Initially, the complex alien symbiotic creature(s) seemed to me delightfully alien, even though I knew where the plot was going. By the end, however, their integration with the human seems not to make much of a fundamental difference to humanness—it just seems to offer a greater sense of connectedness with, and a greater knowledge of, other humans, with Tchaikovsky going to some lengths to try to take the curse of mind control or a hive mind off the table. So, the “other” basically just ends up being able to show us a better version of the “we”—those “we” who stand for free thought and workers’ rights, of course, and those “others” of “we” that “we” can be morally and ethically certain of not being a good ideological fit justly destroyed, natch.

Leimar: Pivoting the discussion, after reading through several of the descriptions and responses to the other novels, I’m getting the impression most fall under “very interesting idea, poorly executed”, and the reasons tend to suggest an amateurishness, immaturity, or outright bad writing practices on the part of the authors. I have to wonder about the state of publishing houses and their in-house editors—are they not giving authors good feedback? This is frankly something I’ve been noticing for a few years. It’s not that any of these novels’ premises is lacking: they seem to be offering interesting takes and world dynamics that unfortunately go underdeveloped and even invalidated by the handling of the plot.

Dominick: I agree, and will whisper, the same is increasingly true of academic writing: I am often appalled at the quality of the writing I see in pieces I am asked to referee or to review.

Ian: I’ve noticed this with both academic writing and fiction. I think that for younger people, a work of fiction seems somewhat inauthentic if it’s not told in kind of a snarky, informal tone. I blame fanfic, which I find absolutely unreadable in general but millions of people would disagree. As for academic writing, I actually kind of welcome it, not bad quality writing but a somewhat less formal tone. I’m writing a book chapter here in the background, and I had already noted that I now write in a much more conversational tone than I would have five years ago. Generally shorter and less complex sentences, not using fifty-cent academic words unless I really need to, that sort of thing.

A good specific answer would be contractions. I used to feel it necessary to turn it’s into it is, but no longer care, and then I got pushback from a book editor a couple of years ago, that would I go and change all the contractions, and was kind of baffled as to why it was important. I did manage to get a y’all’d’ve into a journal article recently, and really enjoyed that.

Leimar: I agree that it’s almost definitely the fault of fanfiction. And don’t get me wrong, I love fanfiction, I’ve been reading it for 25 years, and have written it too. But fanfiction is meant to be indulgent: it’s intrinsically an act of indulgence. It’s desire: for certain fictional relationships, for plotlines, to be part of it, to participate and belong within the thing you like. And that’s fine; that’s the purpose of that medium. But SF fiction has the potential to be waaaay more than that: to be unconstrained by indulgent desire. But I guess if all you’re reading is self-indulgent fanficky stuff (and, let’s be honest, most pop fiction is this anyway), then it’s harder for authors to distance themselves from those impulses.

Dominick: I have no objection to academic writing that eschews prolixity and generally obfuscatory terminology (heh). When I say bad writing, I mean things such as subject/verb agreement problems, basic confusion of vocabulary (e.g. I have seen palate for palette more than once), mixed constructions, word choice errors, etc.—the sort of thing I spent my career trying to beat out of my students (well, not literally). Every now and then, I will see some term in a paper or book I’m reviewing, scratch my head, check a few dictionaries, do a Google search, and eventually just add a comment that says, “?”

Ian: Oh, I see what you mean. A lot of what I review is people writing in English about literature in Arabic, and who usually aren’t native speakers of English, so I usually overlook all that unless the overall document is unreadable. Mostly, my response to the journal will focus on their argument, and then I’ll say “and the whole thing needs a copyedit by someone fluent in both English and this person’s native language”. So my sample of writing by native English speakers is likely skewed.

James Knupp: My overall impression of this year’s nominees both based on what I’ve read personally and everyone’s reviews here, is that the fandom overall is taking a very hard shift into fantasy or very light sci fi. I have multiple ideas for why this is happening, but chiefly among them is the current political climate driving to the right and fandom being more often left leaning. The big villains of real life right now tend to be right wing politicians and tech billionaires. New tech innovations today are often only celebrated by other tech execs and such as the way they’re utilized in people’s daily lives actually makes things lower quality, more stressful, etc. It’s very tempting to retreat into a genre where those tech innovations don’t need to be part of the narrative. I’ve been reading a lot of 80s and 90s sci fi recently on my quest to finish all the Hugo and Nebula winners, and it’s striking how much those novels are about new ventures and overcoming the downsides of advancement but acknowledging their realities. You’re not seeing a lot of that now in regards to current tech.

As for quality of the actual writing, I have to echo the sentiment others have said that fanfic has heavily influenced things. I’m not a fanfic person, but I have read plenty of it and listened to many successful authors go on about how much fanfic opened the doors for many current authors. And I think that’s genuinely good, but it feels like we’re getting to the point of the machine feeding itself. You have authors who started off doing fanfic, and then their readers did fanfic of them and became authors themselves, and the style became fixed into a main one of the genre.

It’s already been touched on that there’s a lot of POC and LGBTQ representation in this year and recent years. The only addition to that I really have is that I think we’re seeing maybe a peak of the backlash to the Sad Puppies campaigns from several years ago. People took that movement very personally and retreated into their fandoms in a protective manner. That movement was gross and deserved to be purged like it was, but it definitely has made people probably more aware of representation in awards than they used to be. Whether this is an overcorrection or not is not for me to say, but it’s just my theory.

Ian: I agree that a lot of the shift into fantasy has to do with an overall sourness toward tech—a sourness I think is completely justified. We live in a particularly grim Black Mirror episode these days, where all innovation is sucked up by about four corporations and immediately enshittified and/or turned against us. I don’t use Facebook all that much, but I have all kinds of filters installed on it over and above my regular adblockers, so nearly all of what I see is just what my friends are up to. Install the FB Purity extension, though it doesn’t work on a phone. But I was at my dad’s house and actually needed to find something on Facebook, and logged in, and my gods what a horror of ads and right-wing drivel. I don’t think there are a meaningful number of fans out there who really still think that technological innovation is going to make things better. Therefore, all SF has to be Candy-Coated Happiness(tm) or else a grim fighting retreat against encroaching authoritarianism—and Palantír is spying on all the kids who might Hunger Games the
whole thing.

Another reason for the turn toward fantasy is that mid-tier fantasy is a lot easier to write than mid-tier SF. You’ve got to do your research to write quality SF, even if you’re willing to handwave things like FTL travel, but for fantasy, so long as it’s internally consistent, it holds together just fine even if the central premise is ludicrous. I think this is an undermentioned aspect of the turn toward fantasy.

With respect to representation, it’s both the blowback to the Puppies and also a form of recognition that SF blatantly excluded writers who weren’t white men for decades, and that we ought to foreground other folks as a form of recompense. As a journal editor whose last name is Campbell, I feel a real responsiblity to make sure we’re not doing that sort of exclusion. And the truth of the matter is, I like SF from other cultures or perspectives. I don’t care if Space Captain Chadjaw is into dudes instead of women: if it’s a well-told story, that’s great. Do I want to read explicit same-sex sex scenes? No, but I don’t want to read straight ones, either. Same goes for SF from previously-colonized cultures: it’s valuable to read these perspectives. In fact, the only thing I really liked about Rakesfall was how it put Sri Lankan mythology/history in there and didn’t sugarcoat it or explain it too much. Deal with it, blanco—or however you say blanco in their language.

But to paraphrase Virginia, the problem with representation is that it often leads to a lack of dramatic tension. If your book is going to center on (say) trans people, then I know from the minute I pick up on it what the dramatic stakes are: nobody is going to write a novel where the trans people are the villains, because the uproar would wreck them. Though in point of fact it would be interesting to have an SF society where gender fluidity is the norm and the guy who just wants to Be A Man is oppressed. Iain M. Banks’ The Player of Games does a decent job with this, where everyone else in the Culture thinks the protagonist is a real weirdo because he’s never been a woman. To be clear, I’m not saying that we should have villainous trans, or black, or indigenous or whatever, people as a group, but I also think that we’ve not yet got to the point where most writers feel free to put in a major role a person from an oppressed group who also happens to be a terrible person.

Someone to Build a Nest In

Ian: This was the winner, somehow, so let’s begin with it.

Dominick: I found it unimpressive. Not bad, just… well, meh. The plot becomes increasingly implausible as the book proceeds, most notably with how Homily seems so easily to swallow (no pun intended) the fact that her beloved eats her dead sister (murdered by Homily—but it’s ok, she deserved it) in front of her, and then disguises herself as said dead sister. Sorry, spoilers. The inherently destructive nature of the creature is conveniently disposed of when the only eggs she ever has get used to poison the evil monster, thereby avoiding the thorny issue of the necessity of breeding by planting eggs in a human body that will, you know, get eaten by the eggs, which will then go at each other until only one survives. Instead, by the end, we have a “monster” (and tiny protoplasmic offshoot) saved by love, with a hint of masochistic self-loathing.

The writing is uneven—if anything, weakening as the book proceeds. I’m not too worried by some of the violations of realistic depictions of a medievalesque environment—I suppose you can imagine a medieval world rife with silly superstitions and a healthy fear of the other that nevertheless is ok with LGBTQ+ folk, complete with terminology such as enby and allosexual—but I do tend to trip over medievalesque folk talking about goons (a 20th century American word) or things getting hairy. The politics of normalizing different sexualities is fine, but I don’t feel like the book gets beyond the level of an after-school special level of addressing those politics. (Do they still make after-school specials, or am I talking to the ancient?)

Leimar: Just finished it: by the end, I was begging for release! I’m going to try to form some cohesive and reasonable thoughts on it as opposed to a rant (although it’s so underwhelmingly meh that I’m not sure I could even muster a rant).

The good: The premise of the novel is, I think, quite interesting and unique, though certainly has tendrils (hehe) from other narratives. I very much appreciate the attempt at centering a fantasy story around the monstrous creature, and to have them have a conception of family and love that is alien to us humans. I also like the attempts at representing queerness (though I agree with you Dom, that representing queerness as the monstrous other is problematic). But the ideas of genderlessness and genderqueerness, of gay love, and of asexuality, being shown as not what’s outside the norm is refreshing. Homily isn’t mistreated by her family for being gay and Shesheshen’s concerns about her relationship with Homily is less about her being asexual than about her not knowing “how to human”.

I think that if I was in the 13-15 age bracket, I would enjoy the novel a lot more (i.e., if I had less experience reading good fiction). Outside of the gore (and, maybe it’s that I’m old enough to remember when descriptions of bodies being torn apart weren’t considered too much for teenagers), the novel is extremely easy to read—mostly uncomplicated and uninteresting in its narrative style. I would definitely have thought it was YA.

The not so good/meh/ugh: I said mostly uncomplicated, and that’s true generally. There are passages, though, of painful “cleverness” that come across as amateurish, tryhard, and self-indulgent. For example, early in their travels, Homily and Shesheshen encounter some highway robbers. Their names are Aristocracy, Kleptocracy, and Plutocracy. As Shesheshen considers killing them, the narration (which is supposed to be from her point of view) quips: “If she thrust two bones out through her shoulder and under the man’s wooden mask, through that collar, Plutocracy would bleed out before he could define his form of government.” The levels of cringe are off the charts! These kinds of ridiculous sentences occur throughout, and it’s jarring how it disrupts suspension of disbelief entirely. Then there’s Homily’s family, and her siblings: Catharsis, Epigram, and Ode. [pain pain pain] Later, at the end of the novel, when Homily and Shesheshen have a “child”, it’s named Epilogue. How clever. Gold star.

However, what makes the novel a slog for me is the nonsensical plot choices, the fanficky ship writing style, the way what should be difficult and compelling problems are waved away, and the atonal jumps from overly sentimental feeliest-feelings that ever were felt to absurdist comedy. Homily is injured and is bleeding out and Shesheshen needs to take her somewhere safe so she employs the help of Laurent—a wealthy young man who likes being threatened(??) and who had previously tried to kill her—to go to her cave-ruins and make it hospitable. When she and Homily arrive, the area has been cleaned, and now there’s candles and throw rugs everywhere!

Or when Homily and Shesheshen stay at a tavern and the latter, who barely interacts with humans except to eat them, decides the thing to do right then would be to dance with Homily, because she’s so pretty. It reads like clumsy fanfiction. And don’t get me started with the ways Ode and Epigram are dealt with, or the reveal about the Baroness, or Shesheshen’s egg-sac, or the sudden I actually want to keep this accidental clone-offspring as a child thing.

So, yeah. Long story short, it wasn’t my cup of tea and I struggle to understand how this is award-worthy.

Ian: Up to a certain point, I was willing to accept the twee. I get it, you’re trying to mimic the Gideon the Ninth tone or something fanfic adjacent, I’ll roll with it for a while. I agree that the initial conceit was pretty good: let’s tell the story from the monster’s POV.

But it couldn’t stick to this, at all. Give me the monster’s POV, and since it’s been clearly established that the monster hibernates until it’s time to eat, then sneaks to the edge of town and vanishes someone, then by consequence the monster has to be almost completely ignorant of human culture. At first, this is done reasonably well: we can figure that the one part of human culture the monster does know is knights/warriors showing up to try to kill her, so even if she gets a bunch of it wrong, it’s still within the bounds of good storytelling. Once she gets to town, however, she knows way too much way too quickly about human culture. I kept saying how does the hibernating monster have any idea about this, let alone the correct idea? I quickly became more and more disappointed—and it wasn’t as if the book was remotely award-worthy to begin with. Now, it was verging on just bad fanfic.

And then I got to that exact scene, about the candles and throw rugs, and was just like oh hells no and put it down.

I’m having trouble understanding how so many of these janky, poorly-written books get nominated for awards. This can’t possibly be the cream of the crop. None of them is quite as bad as The Terraformers, which I’m still salty about, but there’s no universe in which this novel should have been within sniffing distance of an award nomination. Like, it could have been made comic that the monster had no idea how to act like a human. But they had a dance-off and suddenly she’s got expertise in socializing. Gah.

[we are merciful and will spare you our exchange of cat pictures]

Leimar: On the subject of queerness, I feel Wiswell, rather unwittingly (and I don’t know how the other novels do, as I didn’t have a chance to read them), painted himself into a corner by wanting the happy ending. If the monstrous protagonist is a queer representative, then the message being sent (again, I think, unintentionally by him) is that if queer folks are so monstrously other, we should exorcise parts of what makes us different (and dangerous?), and conform to some kind of nuclear family structure. Two parents and baby makes three!

Dominick: Yep, that’s how it felt to me. There MUST have been a better way to solve the problem, assuming the use of a human-eating shape-shifter as your queer stand-in, than basically wishing it away.

Leimar: Even using fanficky tropes, I actually would have preferred if Homily was given the choice to become a nest and she was like, “you know what? I’m not entirely opposed”, and then they discovered (again, fanficky-deus-ex-machina type) that what Shesheshen had misunderstood was the extent of “making a nest inside someone”: that there’s a safe way to do it. Maybe something to do with how she healed Homily. Anything, anything! would be better than destroy the eggs and completely abandon your deepest belief about family.

I’d also be more charitable toward it if he had explored what should be a self-shattering revelation for Shesheshen (but the narrative doesn’t actually delve into Homily’s familial abuse either except as oooooh it’s soooo sad! her family is awful!). It would have been nice if both of them had a conversation about how both of them created these unhealthy conceptions of love, family, and duty as a result of their parents’ abuse and selfishness. But nope.

Dominick: Agreed. Since Shesheshen’s personal experience of birth is all we really have to go on, and it was evidently abnormal, there was certainly room for a resolution that fell between Homily getting eaten and the magic hand-waving. Not sufficiently thought through, perhaps because “love” is supposed to be enough?

Ian: I put the book down about a third of the way through, so I was still reading it as a fairy tale from the monster’s POV, not as an estrangement of queerness. In my defence, most of the queer people I know are anything but predatory, so I wasn’t really making the link; I was just trying and failing to make it through a book that had an interesting premise but absolutely failed to deliver. Now that I reflect upon it, I can see where you’re coming from, but it makes the book seem even less well-constructed. Just like black folks typically know way more about white culture than white folks do about black culture, queer folks typically know way more about straight culture than the converse. This is a matter of survival: know enough, and you’re likelier to be able to see trouble coming when you encounter the hostile parts of those cultures. So it would have made way more sense from the start to have the monster know about human culture, in order to make the parallel. Don’t get me wrong: queer people are under real and serious threat in the real world by this gang of evil clowns, so it makes sense for the awards committee to want to foreground this and respond to it. I just didn’t think the book was worth finishing, let alone rewarding.

Alien Clay

Dominick: Narrator/narrative voice: irritating. Not sure why so many writers these days seem to think their narrators should have a glib, bantery way of speaking, even when describing horrific events. Tchaikovsky does speak to this briefly when he has his narrator say that if he wasn’t trying to be funny about it, he’d be crying. But then, that just foregrounds my second problem with the narrative voice: who is the narrator telling this story to? First person narratives usually don’t invite that question, but Tchaikovsky does; he makes his narrator address the implied reader, as here from chapter 22: “I’m jumping ahead now, I know. But there are more tales of the march to come, don’t worry.” Now, maybe in the last 40 pages, I will discover that there is indeed an audience, but so far, all these nods to I’m telling a story of what happened are just (to me) inessential nods to meta.

I am fond of first contact stories, so the fact that this story addresses contact with a profoundly alien life and tracks the difficulty in coming to understand it/an understanding with it, appeals to me. Tchaikovsky acknowledging that the typical human approach is profoundly flawed is also a good touch (burn the vegetation, don’t even really consider that maybe killing everything to study it isn’t great). The Mandate, with its ideology trumps fact approach to science, is also timely, given the egregious politicization of science we have been seeing recently, not to mention the authoritian trend in certain governments. Nevertheless, the Mandate seems (with 40 pages left to complicate this) like a pretty cookie-cutter tyranny. All I can really say about it is, it believes humanity is the centre of the universe, and science should prove that; and that everything is binary: you are with us or an enemy, etc. And as for the plot itself, I doubt I am alone in figuring out what was actually going on with Kiln life within the first several chapters (again, there are 40 pages or so that could pull that rug from under me, but I doubt it will happen). So, despite the premise being one I liked, the book doesn’t really offer any surprises. I still am liking it better than Rakesfall and Someone, but it seems not much more of an award-worthy book. Since Tchaikowsky seems to bang out two or three books a year, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find something formulaic and underdeveloped in this one.

Ian: His book about a fantasy M*A*S*H* military hospital is actually really good.

Dominick: I’ve now finished the book, and nothing in the final pages substantially changes what I’d said already. The final chapters perhaps try too hard to pound the point in, about colonialism and what it can breed, and the resistance of those colonized by the planet they tried to tame leading to a reverse expedition is the ending I entirely expected. The novel plays somewhat interestingly with the long-standing notion of alien invasion in the form of entities—pods, spores, whatever—that can insert themselves into humans and, maybe, turn them into something else. Still not, IMO, an award-worthy book.

Asunder

Ian: This was my favorite among all these, and a much better-written book than all of them. I would have absolutely voted for it as the winner. Would I necessarily have picked up a fantasy quasi-romance novel were it not part of this awards discussion? Probably not, but I’m glad I did.

The novel is set in the fairly typical basically medieval but made early modern by magic type of fantasy world. Environmentally more or less identical to Earth, inhabited also by an indigenous or authochthonous set of quasi-deities who were then hunted more or less to extinction by an invading/colonizing society. There’s also another set of aliens? demons? who trade power for service. This sounds like a bunch of clichés, but is in fact all very well done and organic. Our protagonist has power as a “deathspeaker” due to a bargain made with one of these entities: she can speak with the recently dead, but this power is mostly unused in the narrative. Near the beginning, she tries to rescue a man, a diplomat from the invading society, but can only take his essence/spirit into herself. He’s there, and conscious, while she goes about the quest of trying to sort out how to split them asunder while keeping them both alive. The relationship between her and the man in her head is very well-crafted, to the extent that I was able to willingly suspend my disbelief the whole way through. Of course, they fall for each other while living in the same head, as one does, but this is well-executed, too.

Of the books on this list that I’ve read, this is the most clearly SF rather than fantasy, which is saying a great deal. There’s magic in this world, but it’s the kind of techno-magic where things are laid out in circuits and works more or less like engineering: it can be taught, though it’s evident that some have more talent for it than others. The magic isn’t cognitive in the original Darko Suvin sense of cognitive estrangement, but it satisfies Freedman’s cognition effect, or is at least satisfaction-adjacent.

It’s a fun, exciting story: I stayed up late because I wanted to finish it. The world makes sense, the characters are solid, the ending is landed well. My only real critique of it is that I don’t think it’s doing much in the way of estranging our own society. Sure, there’s a Colonialism Is Bad trope going on, but it doesn’t really map onto our world in any significant way—and for that matter, what remains of the indigenous deities are just awful, terrible people. If I really want to stretch the estrangement, I could argue that the novel depicts how a colonizing culture reproduces its conditions of existence within the minds of the subaltern people it dominates, but honestly, it’s an adventure story far before it’s any of that. And it’s a good one. Is it the Best SF Novel of 2024? Hardly: I’m as confused as any of us as to why this list is dominated by fantasy and by YA-adjacent works. But it’s a good novel, one that I’d totally recommend to people, especially younger readers.

Michael Pitts: I just finished the novel, and I must say that I feel a bit out of my element since I rarely jump into fantasy fiction. What I appreciated about the novel, however, is its emphasis upon friendship and community within a setting scarred by colonization, fundamentalist religious sects, and class divides. The novel withstands the temptation to give our protagonist or her friends a happy and predictable resolution to their story. Instead, she emphasizes the compromises they must make, the efforts they must make to understand and sympathize with each other, and the probability that their end will not be some joyous conclusion. Hall does a wonderful job of world-building here with competing gods, Eldritch horror-influenced characters and rituals, and fascinating gadgets derived from the workings of the supernatural, but I think its major win is this emphasis upon hardship, compromise, and friendship during an era of continued, tremendous historical trauma.

Ian: One of the things that made me really appreciate this book was its sly portrayal of sexuality. We have our protagonist, and within the first couple of chapters she has a man living in her head. Then, we introduce two other women, her childhood friend and the scholar, and it’s really obvious that both of them have giant crushes on the protagonist. So I jump to the conclusion that there’s going to be some kind of three-way romance or antagonistic love triangle, and I’m maybe gritting my teeth about it, not because it’s same-sex but because I generally prefer my SFF to downplay romance.

But then the book plays beautifully with my expectations, and it becomes clear over the middle section that our protagonist is the Oblivious Straight Girl meme. The text gives me all kinds of clues that both of these women are really interested in her, and she just breezes through them: she sees what the women are doing but never jumps to they’re doing it because they have a crush on me. Nope: she just focuses on the man in her head and the romance comes from there. It becomes pretty funny by about two-thirds of the way through the text: oh, there’s the scholar batting her eyes, she must have dust in them. So, kudos for that.

Book of Love

Virginia: I can really see this being a very divisive book for a lot of reasons.

First of all, it’s 600+ pages and, as the debut novel from someone known for her short fiction, that’s going to be a hard sell for a lot of people. I, personally, would take a 600-page novel that stands alone over a 200-page “first in a series” at this point, though, so I can’t say this was a problem for me. When I first picked this up, I was so reticent to even begin, because it sounds, on the surface, like a collection of YA tropes held together with spit and fanfic familiarity. A li’l Stars Hollow-esque town where magic both mundane (music is magic, love is magic, having a home is magic, etc. etc. etc.) and supernatural (well, gods are definitely magic) is taking place amidst a bit too self-aware banter from all sides. Three teenagers! Who are chosen by fate for something greater than themselves! And discover unknown power in the process! The potent combo of an ethereally-hot-but-ethically-suspicious guy paired enticingly with a confusingly-boring-and-normal-guy-but-wow-they’re-so-intertwined-there-must-be-something-more-to-him-than-meets-the-eye-AND-HOW having a nice gay romance for eternity just off-screen (Good Omens shippers, I’m looking at you).

Ian: That’s a lot of hyphens.

Virginia: However, despite my initial hesitation based on the description alone, I soon found that this is a book ABOUT teenagers, by someone extremely familiar with all the tropes, pitfalls, and expectations surrounding YA (and romance, and fantasy) literature, that is not FOR teenagers. There’s a lot of complicated things to say about the ongoing YA-ification of science fiction (which this emphatically is not, more on that later) but without dealing with any of the nuance of it, I don’t think I could have sat through 600 pages of a YA novel without tearing out my hair. Luckily, this isn’t that. Link does a great job of writing a very adult piece of literature (hey, she won the Pulitzer for a reason!) that’s about young people without assuming her audience is at the same level of reading comprehension. It’s smart, it’s funny, it’s infuriating sometimes, these characters are little shits, and I really enjoyed the pace at which information is parceled out without infodumping or holding the audience’s hand.

The story broadly follows one single narrative arc: three teenagers died, and a year later, they’re back. No one remembers that they were dead except for their music teacher (the aforementioned confusingly-boring-so-you-know-there’s-more-there guy), someone who appears to be the devil (the hot one), and themselves. The novel covers their attempts to find out what happened to them a year ago, what’s happening now, and what larger scheme they’re a part of, all while attempting to blend in to their families and lives. These teenagers are, to a one, little shits. I love it. They make terrible choices and draw infuriating conclusions and act like they collectively share one single brain cell that they have to take turns with and honestly, it’s just nice to read about actual teenagers. They’re not supposed to be endearingly quirky, they just kind of all suck in the way all teenagers suck (sorry to any teens reading this—I say this as a former shitty teenager, myself). Of course, if you don’t like reading about frustrating people (this is very much to say that these are not anti-heroes in any way, which would make this a different kind of story), 600 pages of that would be a…lot (Goodreads reviews seem pretty divided on this front).

I will say that this is emphatically not science fiction; it’s solidly magical realism/fantasy. It very explicitly deals with magic (variously described as the same feeling as when you’re performing music, when you’re in a flow state with work, what it feels like to look at someone with love, etc.) that isn’t attributable to some kind of repeatable mechanism. It’s not particularly estranging in the Suvinian sense; it’s basically the Gilmore Girls universe with a bit more focus on race relations and the later introduction of a literal god. That’s fine if you know what you’re going into, but the most estranging thing in this book is the kinds of names bands have that no one blinks an eye at coupled with what pizza toppings they have available to them on a daily basis (fennel and preserved lemon: are you kidding me?).

One thing that I eventually found tedious was the way the author signaled that she as the author was aware of internet culture and signaling her in-group recognition with references to such—eventually to the expense of characterization. It happens frequently before this, but this is the exact moment I lost patience with it: why would a five-year-old in 2024 reference a famous line in a movie (Elle in Legally Blonde, “What, like it’s hard?”) beloved of a particular millennial feminist and frequently memetically deployed line used to indicate a gatekept/reified objective was actually quite easy to acquire/accomplish by an overlooked/(typically socially) devalued source? This Legally Blonde reference signals the author’s expected readership, not reinforces characterization (admittedly the 5 y/o is a unicorn magical construct at this point in the text so it may not even be worth worrying so much about consistency of characterization).

Anyway, I really liked it and I found a lot of the revelations and conclusions very satisfying, but I can definitely see it being a divisive book. It’s inarguable that it’s well-written, and that alone (sorry to be mean!), even aside from content-level divisiveness, makes it worth reading compared to a lot of the other and previous nominees.

The Ministry of Time

Ian: This novel had a lot going for it, and I really enjoyed it up until the final act, which is very lax and unsatisfying. The premise is that certain people are able to time travel, and that there is a British intelligence agency that carefully selects people who are missing and presumed dead in their own timeline and brings them forward to a near-future London where climate change has started to take hold in earnest. The protagonist is a British woman whose parents were refugees from Cambodia: her job is to serve as the 21C liaison for one of these travellers, who are all British from the fourteenth through nineteenth centuries. Her traveller is a naval officer and polar explorer from the mid-19C.

Most of the book is very good. The tension rests on the relationship between the two of them. He is very take-charge, British empire, unsentimental, pretty racist and sexist at the core, and she is someone who’s absorbed and embraced many of the opposite points of view. This novel does a much better job of portraying “I grew up in Britain, but I’m not white, so many people will never regard me as truly British” than Babel did: Ministry of Time shows us this rather than spending a lot of time telling us, and the way the character is portrayed gives us a lot of nuance and ambivalence, whereas Babel just wore the author’s shoulder-chip to the intense detriment of the story. The protagonist is quickly able to recognize that despite his antediluvian views on certain subjects, our naval officer is a person of genuinely good character. In addition, she can’t help but find his take-charge unsentimentality very attractive, while at the same time being cranky with herself for finding it attractive. It’s all very well done.

And then we get to the final act, which is terrible. I would have been absolutely willing to read the story of their relationship as the entirety of the book, but an ill-advised decision to shoehorn an adventure plot into the story renders it trite. There is a group of people from even further into the future who are trying to mess up the Ministry of Time, in an attempt to mitigate the catastrophic post-climate-change conditions in their own future, and once this happens, we move quickly into tedious I’m my own grandpa type bootstrapping that other time travel works have done rather better. Rarely have I gone so quickly from very much enjoying a story to wanting to put it down.

Sleeping Worlds Have No Memory

James: I’m just going to give my quick thoughts and let my more in-depth takes wait till there’s other commentary to compare with. First off, this was barely SF-adjacent. There’s a mysterious technology, but it’s more magic coded than anything else, and that’s about it. It gave more steampunk fantasy vibes than anything else, without explicitly being steampunk. This was one of the most frustrating books I’ve read in a while because there was an interesting plot, but it was buried beneath really bad prose and mediocre dialogue. A lot of the reviews for this book described the writing as poetic, which they all seem to think means drown everything in verbose descriptions. Oftentimes, I would forget what exactly was being described because some of the descriptors would go on for so long and become so abstract.

Michael: I agree here, James. I just finished the book, and—after reading this and Asunder— I feel out of my element, since both novels are very much fantasy texts, which I rarely read. I feel that my critique is limited since I just am not immersed in fantasy fiction, but the writing style seemed a not-so-great attempt at implementing the noir genre, or at least aspects of it, into a steampunk fantasy setting. The absurd opening parts in which the protagonist constantly mentions not drinking before going on a ridiculous, self-absorbed alcoholic binge for days on end because he may not succeed in his task reads like an adolescent romanticizing the self-destructive qualities of a male hero. The descriptions were definitely a distraction. The world, though, was really interesting to me: the magic, colonial history, and intrigue made for an engaging read, but the language and actions of the protagonist at times frequently make it hard to enjoy.

James: I forgot about the alcoholic binge drinking coming after he went on about not drinking! I felt at times the dialogue also suffered from a bit of “MCU snark.” Too often characters would be in high-drama situations, emotions tense, and then someone would make a snarky remark that just felt very out of place. The geopolitics were honestly fairly well done, but the pace that things moved made it hard to appreciate them more. And really the ending was so out of nowhere that it just really wrecked the tension the author had managed to build in the last third or so of the book.

Ian: I tried thrice with this and failed each time. It wasn’t a bad setup at all: high-ranking official who did the right thing is exiled to become responsible for a huge and over-budget project, and everyone is hostile to him because their power depends on the project. But it was very amateurishly written, both the prose and the organization. I put it down the first time after someone was described as thirty-thirty-five instead of thirty to thirty-five, then tried again and got to the “exiled people have magical technology”, and then after another very brief stint, it hit me that the central plot, the building of a tower, made absolutely zero sense, and that was it for me.

It is nothing like an award-nominated novel, and I get that the committee was rewarding it for having the exiled people in there and addressing it directly as genocide, but that level of representation was just drowned in bad writing.

Rakesfall

Dominick: I need to preface my remarks on this one by noting that 1) I am not generally enamored of twentieth and twenty-first century “literary” writing. Give me Tolkien over Joyce, Chandler over Faulkner, etc. (exceptions duly noted); and 2) I am especially not enamored of postmodern writing (again, exceptions duly noted). This reads like a theory student decided to go wild. When I hit the following passage, “It imbricates us and implicates us, plotless, fragmented, atomized,” in the extensively meta introductory bit, I thought, “can always already be far behind?” It was not. I will have more thoughts later, more specifically about this book.

Ian: I’ll defend Faulkner to my last breath, but what you said.

Dominick: Alright, I’ve finished. My feelings are mixed—there were bits I did enjoy a fair bit, such as the story about the dead who just sort of hang around after death, have jobs, etc.—but overall it left me cold. There are things to admire here. Chandrasekera is well-read (or so he seems to me—it’s not every day you see John Webster’s Duchess of Malfi referenced, for instance, and I was glad to see it) and has a heck of a vocabulary. I had to look up “baryonic,” among other words. There were passages I thought were well-written and effective. And Chandrasekera has a very inventive mind—there are possibly too many interesting concepts in here to resolve into coherence. In addition to nanotech, genetically redesigned humans, intergalactic colonization (though the novel remains Earthbound), terraforming (or reforming, perhaps, since it is Earth we see being rebuilt), multiple instantiations of characters, sometimes at the same time, the walking dead, ghosts, demons, gods, and other sf and fantasy standbys, we have such things as a baryonic and nonbaryonic grandmother, who cannot perceive each other and can occupy the same physical space simultaneously. So, lots of meat in the soup. On the other hand, too often the meat seems merely to have been waved over the soup than fully immersed and allowed to permeate. For instance, the baryonic grandmother: how/why is she baryonic? If she therefore exists on some other plane than the regular humans, how can she have any biological connection to the characters? The novel does not deign to answer (or even pose) such questions, which gets to my problems with it.

I mentioned in my prefatory note on this book that neither contemporary “literary” nor postmodern writing are overly appealing to me, and Chandrasekera is very fond of the tics and conventions of both. The novel seems far less interested in being a novel than in being about fiction—the sort of knowing, self-reflexive and frequently meta distancing from telling a story to playing with fictional tropes that, for me, no longer is very appealing. On the one hand, one might say that Chandrasekera is ambitious and experimental, with his narrative frame of creatures identified as ghosts watching what they conceive of as a TV series (apparently) which is (apparently) actually events in the real world mediated for them, his dipping into various narrative modes—drama, the detective story, the Scheherezadean tales within tales, the ghost story, etc.—his time frame of millions of years, and so on. However, for me, none of it seems to come together or weave back into something coherent. The “frame” is dropped after the opening segment; the mystery story peters out without resolution; the nested tales peter out; the pastiche of dramatic form modeled on Webster fades away, etc. Everything seems provisional, open to revision, irreducible to coherent meaning—tres tres post-modern. Even whether the “real” world in this novel is real is subject to interrogation. By the end of the book, I was wondering whether I should be reading all of the action as taking place inside an enormous computer simulation of reality, a reading the book seems to invite without foreclosing on.

Consequently, for me as a reader, the characters seemed to exist as cutouts to fit the “reality is subjective/mutable” thesis, and the events to have no meaning except as a sequence of events that may or may not mean something, depending on one’s frame of reference.

In short, not my cup of tea. I have avoided bringing in specific examples or quotations, to keep this comment from getting excessively long. Also, I look forward to others’ thoughts, especially if you had a more positive experience of the book than I did.

Ian: I eagerly anticipated this, and was thoroughly disappointed. I read The Saint of Bright Doors almost immediately before it, and was blown off my feet: Bright Doors deserves every ounce of praise it received. So I was ready to open this and be transported… and it’s just what my daughter would call “mid”. Everything Dom says I concur with, here. There are many dropped threads, there’s a big dollop of ungrounded High Modernist prose that doesn’t improve the story, the characters did nothing for me. It shared with Babel, another winner, the feel of let me tell you (at length) instead of show you about postcoloniality, and it really suffers from this. Whereas in Bright Doors, Chandrasekera gives you a really nuanced and gorgeous portrait of a (post)colonized subject coming to the metropole, Rakesfall repeatedly bludgeons you over the head with a very reductive take on the issue.

I did like the dead, though: I parsed them as being people who could no longer exist under the near-total domination by the (ex?)colonizing society: that because they were too imbued with their original culture, they fell out of the dominated society.

It seemed clear to me by about halfway through that Rakesfall is not the follow-up to Bright Doors, but rather a novel Chandrasekera wrote prior to Bright Doors and couldn’t get published: once he became a hit, he was able to tidy this up and publish it. Good for him, but while the book isn’t bad; it’s just not award-nomination good.

I should be extremely clear here that to the absolute best of my ability, my mostly-negative opinion of Rakesfall has nothing to do with its being written by someone from a formerly colonized society, or with being at least partially about (de/post)colonization. On the contrary, I think SF (the novel is barely SF-adjacent) would benefit from more of both.

A Sorceress Comes to Call

Ian: This was the first of the nominees I read, and I spent the entire time wondering why on earth it was nominated. It’s… competent, I suppose. The story is set in a quasi-18th-century world, where magic is quite rare but present and effective. It’s told through the POV of the sorceress’s daughter, who has been dominated (sorcerously and otherwise) by her mother into obedience. The mother, a commoner, needs to marry a rich man to support herself in luxury, so she masquerades as a noblewoman fallen on hard times in order to seduce the lord of the manor. The lord’s middle-aged sister is not fooled, and undertakes a plan to remove her ensorcelled brother from the sorceress’s control: the plan ultimately ropes in the daughter, who has begun to figure out that her mother is horrible.

At no one point in this story was I thinking well, that played with my expectations. By about one-third of the way through, I wrote down the rest of the plot on a scrap of paper, and got all but a few details correct. I found it boring and tedious to get through, because I already knew what was going to happen. There’s nothing innovative or even all that interesting about this story: it’s not SF by any stretch, it doesn’t perform any real estrangement, it does nothing with calling form into question. What prompted anyone to nominate this?, is what I kept asking myself.

It did take me way too long to suss out that the story is an inverted retelling of the Goose Girl fairy tale, but the actual goose girl (the sister) and the daughter are separate people, here, which distracted me from the parallel. When I read the book, it seemed as if the writer had just cooked up on the spur of the moment that the sister was an accomplished tender of prize geese, and then didn’t bother to go back and work this into the beginning of the book so it didn’t appear to come out of nowhere.

I usually call this Goldfinching a book, after Donna Tartt’s very disappointing novel of the same name: the author doesn’t bother to go back and smooth out the introduction of this suddenly-critical piece of information. In Tartt’s book, it becomes important to the plot about three-quarters of the way through that the narrator’s Manic Pixie Dreamgirlfriend’s actual boyfriend grew up on some kind of ashram or commune, but the book is so lazily written that Tartt didn’t then go back and insert this information when we first meet the boyfriend. In fairness to Kingfisher, I was supposed to have been clever enough to pick up on the fact that this is a retelling of the Goose Girl story and expected geese to be there: the horse’s name in both stories is Falada. In my defence, I think I read the original story when I was about fifteen. Also, the novel just isn’t all that good. As with Spear from last year, did we really need a retelling of this story?

The one aspect where I think the novel does deserve a lot of praise is in its portrayal of the sorceress: it’s a very accurate and detailed depiction of a psychopath, one that gets all the details right, especially with respect to the psychopath’s interiority and how they can or cannot fool others. Impulsivity, grandiosity, violence (she murders a lot of people, but it’s boring, because almost all of it is off screen) and the inability to consistently keep the lies straight over time: grandiose narcissism leads to lack of attention to detail. In fact, now that I think about it—and I’ll Goldfinch myself and not go back and act as if I’d planned this all along—maybe this is the estrangement function of the novel, given that we here in the USA are now ruled by a grandiose narcissist and psychopath whose lack of attention to detail is really beginning to affect his approval ratings.

James: I just finished this myself and I find myself agreeing pretty much wholeheartedly with your assessments. It’s a perfectly fine book, but it’s so far from award-worthy I’m confused as to why it got nominated at all. There really was never anything to subvert my expectations, and while I definitely didn’t predict the plot as well as you seem to have, too many of the “twists” I was able to see coming a mile off. That Penelope the ghost would be the one to embody wine felt so obvious the moment Lord Evermore was deemed to not be right. He was portrayed more opposite of him than Penelope, where multiple passages were dedicated to her personality.

I also found that there’s seems to have been a desire by Kingfisher to incorporate Cordelia’s father into the plot in some meaningful way, but ended up deciding against it, and like your Goldfinching, just never went back to clean up the prior references to him to make it feel less like a point of emphasis. The little bit at the end where Cordelia ponders trying to track him down and dismisses it felt like a bad attempt to make it meaningful. I guess that’s actually more an inversion of Goldfinching than anything really.

Like I said, it’s not a bad book, it’s just so surface level that I would never consider nominating it. It’s clearly not SF, and it feels more like a beach read fantasy. Something quick and easy to get through on your downtime on vacation, not something to really take in and consider. I will give it credit like you Ian in its portrayal of sorcery and sorcerers. Very grounded and I appreciated the limits to their abilities that made them feel dangerous but not all powerful. And the narcissism and manipulation were very well written.

Final Thoughts

Virginia: I think there’s something fundamentally different going on in the publishing and awarding world right now that has developed as a result of social media, broadly understood. Not to invoke Stuart Hall or Pierre Bourdieu too strongly, but it seems to me that the kinds of texts being recognized and rewarded (which are qualitatively different than the kinds of texts being written more generally) are more about signaling a certain in-group affinity than evincing literary quality or adhering to any kind of genre definitions. We could argue ad infinitum about whether those genre definitions (or how we measure literary quality) are valuable in and of themselves, but given the media landscape in which contemporary SF is being published, they have to appeal to the most terminally online among us in order to turn a profit. And as long as publishers are in the business of turning a profit (they are—no need for us to get Marxist about whether or not this ought to be true; objectively these texts are products that their publishing houses require to reach a minimum expected threshold to invest in their publication in the first place), they need to appeal to the largest audience of readers possible, and those audiences are online. Anyone with even a passing familiarity with online discourse communities such as booktok or Goodreads knows that what you read and how you position yourself vis-à-vis that text signals belonging within certain groups and encodes information about one’s own identity. So are we really surprised that this discursive turn is evident in the current crop of authors’ own writing?

Ian: omg now I need to go back and reread Bordieu.

Dominick: I read Virginia’s summative statement before beginning my own, so I will begin by saying that her consideration of how the online world is having a significant impact on how/for whom fiction is produced—and what will sell—is very persuasive to me. Indeed, I had considered beginning my own summative comment by wondering whether, being 62, I have had my tastes too thoroughly formed by the SF of previous decades to be able to appreciate fully what current writers—or anyway, current writers who don’t seem to me to resonate with SF through, say, the 1980s—are doing. Which of course does not delegitimize what they are doing; it just makes me generally cool (or worse) to it. Ian’s reference to The Terraformers leaving him still feeling salty a year later hits home to me—a novel that deals with the kinds of things I have often enjoyed in earlier SF, but not in a style or structure that I find speaks to me. When I read current/recent SF, the stuff I tend to like is what, say, Anne Leckie, or Jo Walton, or Peter Watts, does—they write books of genuine Sf (sometimes very thoroughly so) that without much modification (maybe moreso for Watts) could have been published twenty or thirty years ago, or more, but without feeling dated today (to me, anyway). Indeed, Jo Walton reminds me somewhat of one of my favourite SF writers, Phyllis Gotlieb.

That said, it’s perhaps not surprising that, for me, a book that did not get nominated for either award but that hews much more closely to my own preferences in the genre, The Mercy of Gods, by James SA Corey, would have seemed worthy of nomination. Yes, it’s first in a series; yes, it’s more or less a doorstop (over 400 pages), but it’s far more rigorously SF (to my taste) than any of the nominees I read this rear, it’s grounded in a reënvisioning of the biblical Book of Daniel (I often enjoy SF that echoes older works, as Dan Simmons did with Chaucer, for instance, or Silverberg did with Philoctotes, though not so much so for what Veronica Roth did with Antigone). It’s space opera with high stakes, well-conceived aliens, good adventure, relevant thematic elements, etc. Fundamentally old-fashioned, basically, while also being up-to-date.

Leimar: I’m of two minds concerning this year’s nominees. On one hand, I’m very appreciative of anti-gatekeeping practices, the expansion of what stories are told and who tells them, the breaking of genre boundaries beyond the established [read: antiquated and restrictive] canon, and the overall infusion of new ideas/concepts/experiences [of true novum]. As a queer vaguely-shaped-woman POC individual, I have long been tired of reading the same types of tropy genre-problems plaguing the same type of tropy genre-protagonists. Therefore, whether it be clumsy course-correction on the part of the awards committee or even outright tokenism, I can’t help but feel a small sense of “hey, at least…”.

But on the other hand and precisely because of that, I also feel frustration with the nominees this year (particularly the one I was able to read fully, Nest). We need science fiction stories, not just safe escapist fantasy; we need nuanced, complex, and even uncomfortable and fearless representation; we need writing that isn’t indulgent fanficky MCU/Whedon-snark. I suppose, to echo Dom, my tastes also skew to Leckie, Walton, Jamisin—even TJ Klune, if we’re including easier-read fantasy-leaning fiction, though none of them had SF novels published in 2024. That said, Klune’s Somewhere Beyond the Sea (solid fantasy, 2024) explores complex queerness and the what makes a monster a monster question far more directly and uncompromisingly than Someone You Can Build a Nest In.

James: I think comparing the Hugo nominees to Nebula nominees is helpful in that one is fan awarded and the other is in a sense peer-awarded. And in this year’s comparisons, it seems like there’s a lot of overlap in opinion here that true SF is being pushed out of award discussions for more fantasy or SF-lite works, often with very similar themes: anti-imperialism, representation, anti-capitalist, etc. This is not inherently bad, but it does feel like certain themes need to present to get consideration right now rather than pure literary merit. That makes sense for a fan awarded prize, less so for peer-awarded. There’s a lot more diversity now in the representation of characters and authors (good) but less diversity in style or stories, which I personally don’t believe to be good. It feels like there’s less nuance to many of these nominees, where their central message is very obvious from the forefront and never very subtle. I didn’t feel I got challenged into new thinking much while reading. My personal favorite of 2024 that I felt should have been in every award list, Absolution, by Jeff VanderMeer, was a real challenging read in a good sense. It was by far the most unique read of last year for me, and involved characters who were incredibly complicated and could never been easily categorized as good or bad. Yet it didn’t make it to either of Hugo or Nebula shortlists (it did make the Locus, Dragon, and LA Book prize short lists, and the series it is part of made the Hugo Best Series shortlist).

VanderMeer seemingly shares much of the politics of fandom as a whole, but Absolution didn’t focus on those themes, and instead was a complex story with unreliable narrators that ends inconclusively (much like the rest of the Southern Reach series). It would have stuck out like a sore thumb to these other works which had much more straightforward plots and characters with obvious themes. The best way I can describe the latest nominees is “comfort” fiction, and a big part of that may truly just be a response to the pressures and anxieties many readers are dealing with in the real world right now.

Ian: Just to be clear, my objection to The Terraformers wasn’t on its structure, or even really its style, but rather that it was unbearably poorly written. I do think Virginia is correct: that award nomination committees are now catering, consciously or otherwise, to online communities, and these communities are dominated by Extremely Online people, who almost as a rule lack nuance and will shout down complexity in favor of bumper-sticker logic. These books represent marginalized peoples, so they must be good, is the argument that seems to be being made. I’m absolutely willing to read about marginalized peoples, but I want the books to be complex and nuanced even if they’re quite different from the kind of 80s SF I grew up on. And these… aren’t. I’m not an Extremely Online person and frankly can’t stand them, so it’s understandable that the books they choose as worthy of award nominations aren’t at all to my taste, except Asunder, which still wasn’t really what I’d think of as nomination-worthy. I’ve read both Mercy of Gods and Absolution, and agree that they’re far better than anything here.

The question is, what can we do to re-introduce nuance and complexity, all without (being perceived as) re-whitewashing SF? I’m certainly not going to go onto Goodreads, which I abandoned long ago as hopelessly toxic, or Tik Tok, about which the less said the better, and argue with Extremely Online people about how yes, that book does represent marginalized communities, but it’s also at best mediocre and oversimplified, and fantasy rather than SF. There are so many things I’d rather do, even including my regular job. I don’t know what the answer is, here, but I do wonder to what extent the sort of books that are nominated by Extremely Online people actually sell well. I’ll bet that Mercy of Gods was read by hundreds of thousands more people than any of these nominees—and I think that’s a legitimate concern.

Leimar: And perhaps we’re all doing old man yells at cloud [or insert Principal Skinner’s “no, it’s the children who are wrong”] because we’re not the target audience? That said, I’d argue that being Terminally Online limits and atrophies people’s worldviews, and we should be able to expect award-winning authors to engage in more worldliness(?) than that, and be better read, and better edited, and better structured, right?

Ian: We are the target audience, or at least a target audience. I think that’s the (or a) source of the cognitive dissonance here, that people who have been SF fans for years or decades are not well-represented by these nominations.

Leimar: Fair. I meant it more along the lines of, maybe 20-year-olds are the audience?

Ian: I think I mean like one of several audiences, but right now they’re drowning out everyone else. Better than Sad Puppies, that’s for certain.

James: So I still heavily use Reddit, and the r/PrintSF sub has a lot of obnoxious bro-style bitching about minorities and such in SF, but one thing I think someone pointed out there that is meaningful is that there are so many different awards now, you can almost always find an award that will have winners catered to your interests more. The Hugos and Nebulas are easily the most recognizable, but there are many others that will be more based on actual literary merit.

Ian: The dominant discourse on r/PrintSF has bloody awful taste, that’s for certain. No, Blindsight and Hyperion are not the two best SF books ever written. I don’t even think they’re very good. In fairness to them, though, they’re not so much bitching about minorities in SF as they are overvaluing a kind of dude-centric ideas-over-character SF.

James: Yeah, that’s actually a fairly accurate depiction of the discourse there. I really never participate in the discourse, just lurk and occasionally second a book recommendation.

Ian: Probably the best way to use Reddit.

Again, we want to hear your thoughts on these nominees, on the state of SF, anything you’d care to add. Hit us up at icampbell@gsu.edu.

Binary Classification of Science Fiction: Examining Hard and Soft SF



Binary Classification of Science Fiction: Examining Hard and Soft SF

Enze Shi

Science fiction (SF) is a relatively new literary genre with contributions from many new authors. Due to this, it has lacked a consistent definition amongst readers as compared to other genres like horror and drama. SF emerged from base fiction and is differentiated by its involvement of science and realism. For some, SF is defined as the straightforward combination of science, imagination, and fiction. However, there are also more theoretical approaches. For example, Darko Suvin defines SF as a literary genre whose necessity is the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition (372). Paul Kincaid stated that “the inability to define science fiction” has been long recognized (409). This definitional ambiguity has created ongoing debate within SF scholarship. This controversy has its benefits; it has helped redefine the boundaries between SF and the other genres, allowing scholars to examine why this genre emerged from conventional fiction.

SF had rapidly grown since the early 19th century. Two centuries of development created a huge catalog in SF. This proliferation not only made this genre more prevalent but also let readers and scholars develop an internal classification: hard and soft SF. In simple words, hard SF adheres to science and reality to a higher degree than soft SF. While the binary classification of SF into hard and soft creates a convenient framework for understanding, it ultimately oversimplifies the genre’s rich complexity. Overemphasizing categorizing hard and soft SF leads to misplaced attention and distorted interpretation in SF criticism. Instead, SF criticism should prioritize its primary purpose: exploring universal questions, challenging readers’ perspectives, and influencing reality. A more meaningful application of the hard and soft classification is through relative comparison; stating a work is “harder” or “softer” than others, rather than assigning absolute labels. This approach acknowledges the interdependent and overlapping nature of this category, allowing for a more comprehensive evolution without forcing a reductive classification onto complex work.

Defining Hard and Soft Science Fiction

Hard and soft SF have subjective and vague guidelines: hard SF adheres more precisely to scientific principles and realism, while soft SF has more imaginative elements. However, these guidelines often overlap, making it possible for a work to qualify as both hard and soft SF simultaneously. Thus, scholars have attempted to define them more accurately. Allen Steele, for instance, defined hard SF as “the form of imaginative literature that uses either established or carefully extrapolated science as its backbone.” (4) Meanwhile, Brave New Words: The Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction offers two complementary definitions of soft SF; first, as fiction emphasizing the social science and focusing on societal, cultural, or political development rather than natural science and technology; second, as SF where scientific elements serve as the background rather than central focus (Prucher 191). Nevertheless, in practice, many SF narratives still contain elements of both categories, challenging this binary classification.

Dune as a Case Study of Classification Tension

A prime example of the hard and soft debate is Frank Herbert’s Dune (1965), a novel that defies simple categorizations and illustrates the limits of binary classification. Dune can be credibly placed in either category, leading to debate over its hard or soft classification. Examining how scholars justify each side, we can see how such rigid distinctions often fail to rigorously and objectively define SF works.

Many scholars argue that Dune contains strong elements of hard SF. John W. Campbell, the editor of Analog Science Fiction and Fact, where Dune was originally published, specifically referred to it as “hard science-fiction worked out in meticulous detail.” (592–3) In speaking of Villeneuve’s 2021 film adaptation, Burgett argues that it is much harder and more grounded than most other SF films. Their justifications are particularly adapted from Dune’s ecologically grounded world-building and plausible technologies. Frank Herbert’s detailed explanation of Arrakis’s water cycle, sandworms’ biology, and desert climate reflects scientific realism. Gerald Jonas noted that Herbert “so completely worked out the interactions of man and beast and geography and climate,” that Dune became the standard for ecological SF. While some may argue that ecology belongs to the soft sciences, proponents of the hard SF justify its classification using Herbert’s logical consistency from real environmental science. In addition, the technologies in Dune, while not heavily described, also reflect real scientific concepts. Devices like stillsuits that recycle water and ornithopters that mimic bird flight are theoretically possible to create (Kennedy). Thus, Herbert’s attention to scientific possibilities in his setting is a crucial justification. Altogether, these elements provide strong arguments for critics and readers who believe Dune is a valid candidate for hard SF.

On the other hand, many scholars believe that Dune is a soft SF work by definition, not primarily because it lacks scientific detail, but because it focuses more on social, cultural, and psychological exploration. For example, Xu Tengyue explicitly analyzes Villeneuve’s Dune as an example of a “soft science fiction film,” noting that soft SF film “pays more attention to the expression of human values and story lines” rather than elaborate special effects or technical applications (82).  In other words, Dune emphasizes “soft” science (anthropology, sociology, psychology, political science, ecology) over the “hard” sciences like physics (Kennedy). Soft SF deals directly or indirectly with anthropology, ecology, psychology, and sociology (Nicholls). By this criterion, Dune fits the soft SF genre. Moreover, its plot centers on culture (the Fremen society), politics (imperial and feudal power struggles), religion (Messianic prophecy and mythmaking), and psychology (Paul’s mental training and prescient visions). Additionally, some argue that the deliberate suppression of science in Dune makes it soft SF. Herbert does introduce devices such as stillsuits and ornithopters, technologies grounded in plausible engineering. However, his deliberate omission of computers, robots, and artificial intelligence reflects a larger thematic purpose: to emphasize human evolution, religious myth, and political systems over technical advancement. By intentionally downplaying certain advanced technology, he focused on the essence of humanity. These approaches align with soft SF, offering strong arguments on the side of the debate that supports Dune’s soft classification. 

This debate over Dune reveals a deeper issue: hard and soft classification often reflects personal interpretation more than objective analysis. It highlights its fundamental inability to rigidly classify any work of SF. Whether labeled hard or soft SF depends largely on which elements a critic chooses to emphasize. To justify their argument in this debate, the interpreters spend a great deal of time finding and analyzing the scientific connection, which is not the primary focus of SF.

Examining SF’s Focus in Global Contexts: Western and Chinese SF Evolution

Overemphasizing the hard and soft debate often leads critics to hyper-fixate on a work’s scientific accuracy. However, solely integrating science into fiction has never been the primary focus of SF. Instead, its primary focus lies in its potential to address broad social, ethical, and philosophical questions. To understand these deeper focuses, we better step back from rigid classification and examine how SF has developed across different cultural contexts. A comprehensive examination cannot focus solely on Western SF works such as Frankenstein, The Foundation series, and 2001: A Space Odyssey. Although Western SF is fundamental to the genre, there are other major players in the larger world of SF. Chinese SF is one of these significant contributors. Liu Cixin’s novel The Three‑Body Problem (2008; Eng. trans. 2014) and his novella The Wandering Earth (2000; film adaptation 2019) have both achieved international acclaim. Shaped by distinct political, economic, and cultural histories, Western and Chinese SF provide broader and unique insights into the primary focus of SF through a holistic analysis.

Starting with Western SF, it is widely believed that Western SF emerged with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), which used scientific curiosity to examine the ethical and moral dilemmas of its time (Ellis 27). In the late 19th century, the genre expanded with Jules Verne’s adventurous voyages and H.G. Wells’s cautionary tales, which both integrated new scientific ideas with speculation, but Verne leaned toward scientific fantasies while Wells leaned toward scientific romances (Ege 93). Entering the early to mid-20th century, the so-called “Golden Age of SF” had authors like Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Robert A. Heinlein, whose works not only entertained but also reflected contemporary issues and ideas related to scientific progress. Nowadays, SF books and films vary greatly in topics and settings, addressing complex societal, environmental, and technological issues. Its greater flexibility in world-setting and range of topics reaches a larger audience. Throughout these periods, Western SF evolved not merely to speculate on technological advancements, but to reflect contemporary messages and issues.

Besides Western SF, in Raphals’s deep study, Chinese SF development can be generalized into three distinct phases: the utopian phase in the late Qing dynasty; the pedagogical phase in the 1950s; and the speculative phase since 1989 (82). The utopian phase began with the translation of Western literature and the sparking of innovative thought among the populations instead of having captive minds. The scholars proposed that mass translations would help spread advanced Western knowledge into China (82). Additionally, some representative indigenous SF works, for example, Liang Qichao’s Future of New China, commonly involved the prediction of China having a bright future after adopting science (83). The formation of the pedagogical phase aligns with the founding of the People’s Republic of China (1949). Here, SF’s main role was to promote and cement the ideas of Marxism and Maoism, shaping the population’s ideology (Raphal 84). In this phase, SF was integrated into education, which is the most effective approach to control and shape ideology. Lastly, the phase currently ongoing, the speculative phase, began the year of the Tiananmen Square massacre, 1989 (85). The restrictions on speculative literature were eased by the government, allowing a flowering of Chinese SF that directly grappled with the legacy of the Cultural Revolution. This phase answered the rapid technological growth, greater openness, and the evolution of public thought. Across all the phases, Chinese SF has been a mirror of the nation’s ideological shifts and social anxieties. 

SF as a Medium for Message, Not Just Method

Examining the evolution of SF across both Western and Chinese contexts reveals a consistent pattern: SF has always assumed multiple unspoken roles, such as conveying messages, examining dilemmas, and critiquing ideology. While scientific concepts provide the framework, they do not have to be the message itself. Instead, they serve as a platform upon which the deeper messages are built. Thus, SF’s focus is on utilizing scientific concepts as a gateway to explore deeper societal and philosophical questions, often imagined through future worlds. This broader function of SF is what critics overlook when they fixate solely on hard or soft classification.

In the case of Dune, the argument about its classification as hard or soft obscures its deeper literary value. The excessive focus on the debate over its binary identification can overlook the work’s rich exploration of themes like political corruption, religious manipulation, and messianic power. These messages are the primary focus and crucial to its literary value. However, they could not be spotlighted while solely focusing on the narrative’s scientific connection.

When Labels Limit: Cognitive Heuristics and Reader Bias

The debate over Dune is just an example. Similar debates emerge whenever a popular SF work is released, which reflects a broader cognitive tendency to simplify complex information. The frequent use of hard and soft labels in marketing and reviews of SF has led many critics and fans to support keeping and promoting this distinction in SF. They argue that the binary labels encourage more audiences who lack deep knowledge in SF to step into this field. The human brain tends to break down complicated and multifactorial entities or problems into a few numbers of ramifications to generalize and make it easier to understand. When presented with only two clear options, as with the binary classification of hard versus soft SF, our brains can more easily process and understand the information, analogous to the binary 0 and 1 mechanism in computer science. This quick and straightforward determination is also called the one-reason decision-making heuristic. This heuristic shows that by focusing on a single, decisive cue rather than an exhaustive set of details, individuals can achieve surprisingly accurate judgments quickly and with minimal cognitive load. As Todd and Gigerenzer argue, heuristics, some in particular, produce accurate decisions by exploiting the structure of applied information and environment (167). Consequently, using a broad, easily digestible label invites non-experts into the field by applying our natural tendency to reduce complex information into clear categories. 

In fact, the use of heuristics in SF criticism does make SF more accessible and appealing to a broad audience to some degree. However, it not only generates simplicity and popularity but also preconceived notions or bias. In their influential study, Tversky and Kahneman illustrate that people often rely on heuristics, such as the representativeness heuristic, to make judgements, even when they lead to “systematic and predictable errors” (1131). In terms of SF, that means once a reader or viewer approaches a work with a preconceived perspective that it is either hard or soft, they are more likely to unconsciously focus on the elements that confirm their assumption. As a result, they might overlook other significant elements that are against their assumption, leading to an incomplete and biased interpretation.

Thematic Depth and Real-World Influence in SF

In practice, authors generally do not begin the creative process with a determined intention of making a work that strictly adheres to one sub-genre over the other; instead, they weave together various ideas, techniques, and influences that challenge binary categorization. Like all literature, SF is built on complex narratives, themes, and elements, and rarely do all aspects of a SF work align perfectly within the confines of either hard or soft. This reality makes the argument that justifies a SF work being classified as hard or soft problematic, as it tends to selectively extract supporting elements from throughout the book or film. Therefore, when critics or readers rely solely on these binary classifications, they lack an overview of the work’s whole picture. It ultimately compromises the possibility of a holistic, objective review, which then causes bias and distorted interpretation. 

Therefore, rather than sticking with rigid labels, SF criticism should shift toward evaluating the themes, messages, and real-world impact of these works. We can see some of the ideal approaches that have been made while reviewing famous SF works like Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series and Liu Cixin’s The Dark Forest (sequel to The Three-Body Problem). Through their comprehensive analysis, we can see the valuable insights it brings.

Specifically, both have conveyed profound messages and challenged readers’ understanding. For instance, in Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series, science serves as the framework for exploring the rise and fall of civilizations through the emergence of psychohistory, a kind of mathematical sociology. Here, the scientific elements are not the core focus; they are the platform that supports challenging questions about human destiny and social organization. Similarly, Liu Cixin’s The Dark Forest uses complex scientific theories and the vastness of space to showcase humanity’s vulnerability, existential risks, and the consequences of our technological development. Importantly, he proposes a hypothesis among universal civilizations—the Dark Forest hypothesis. In both examples, the quality of science, whether perceived as strong or weak, is subordinate to the larger narrative. Psychohistory and the Dark Forest hypothesis represent two notions in SF theorizing by Asimov and Liu, respectively. Psychohistory is Asimov’s purely fictional mathematical system, while the Dark Forest hypothesis, though dramatized by Liu, reflects real scientific speculation about the Fermi Paradox. However, both authors demonstrate the logical consistency of these concepts within their created, reality-analogous worlds. These theories—one fictional, one speculative—challenge readers’ understanding of society and science and offer provocative predictions about humanity’s future.

Another crucial criterion for SF criticism is examining works’ capacity to indirectly bring influential impacts to reality. Kevin L. Young and Charli Carpenter investigated whether and how popular SF media influence public attitudes toward emerging military technologies, specifically autonomous weapon systems (AWS). Individuals who report higher consumption of SF—measured by the number of iconic killer-robot franchises they have viewed—are significantly more likely to oppose the development and deployment of AWS (573). The direct impact SF has brought into the world is just a mere example of how imaginative narratives can shape reality. 

Conclusion: Toward a More Holistic SF Criticism

If SF criticism consistently centered on the purposes that have been presented above, Foundation, The Dark Forest, and SF’s impact on the public opinion about AWS, then the authors’ creative intentions could be more accurately understood and appreciated. This shift not only reduces misinterpretation caused by the rigid hard and soft classification but also creates a more dynamic and meaningful environment in SF. While the binary classification may serve as a helpful guideline when used for relative comparison, it must not overshadow the SF’s larger literary and philosophical contributions. Encouraging such an evaluative approach would push the authors to produce more thoughtful and thematically rich SF works, which focus well on the primary focus and unspoken rules. It could ultimately push the SF community to grow more receptive to diverse voices and exploration, promoting the genre’s continued evolution.

WORKS CITED

Burgett, Cole. “Dune and the Future of the Science Fiction Epic.” Christian Research Journal, vol. 44, no. 4, 10 Nov. 2021.

Campbell, John W., Jr. The John W. Campbell Letters. Volume I. Edited by Perry A. Chapdelaine, Sr., Tony Chapdelaine, and George Hay, AC Projects, 1985, pp. 592–3. 

Ege, Sema. “Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.” Ankara Üniversitesi Dil Ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi Dergisi, vol. 35, no. 1, 1 Jan. 1991, pp. 91–6.

Ellis, Markman. “Fictions of science in Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein.’” Sydney Studies in English, vol. 34, no. 2, 1999, pp. 27–46.

Jonas, Gerald. “The Sandworm SAGA.” The New York Times, 17 May 1981.

Kennedy, Kara. “The Softer Side of Dune: The Impact of the Social Sciences on World-Building.” Exploring Imaginary Worlds: Essays on Media, Structure, and Subcreation, edited by Mark Wolf, Routledge, 2021.

Kincaid, Paul. “On the Origins of Genre.” Extrapolation, vol. 44, no. 4, Winter 2003, pp. 409–19.

Nicholls, Peter, and John Clute. “Soft Science.” The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction. Edited by John Clute and David Langford, Ansible Editions, 9 Apr. 2015,

Prucher, Jeff, editor. Brave New Words: The Oxford Dictionary of Science Fiction. Oxford University Press, 2007, p. 191. 

Raphals, Lisa. “Chinese Science Fiction: Imported and Indigenous.” Osiris, vol. 34, 2019, pp. 81–98.

Steele, Allen. “Hard Again.” The New York Review of Science Fiction, no. 46, Jun. 1992, pp. 2–4.

Suvin, Darko. “On the Poetics of the Science Fiction Genre.” College English, vol. 34, no. 3, Dec. 1972, pp. 372–82.

Todd, Peter. M, and Gerd Gigerenzer. “Environments That Make Us Smart: Ecological Rationality.” Current Directions in Psychological Science, vol. 16, no. 3, Jun. 2007, pp. 167–71.

Tversky, Amos, and Daniel Kahneman. “Judgment under Uncertainty: Heuristics and Biases.” Science, vol. 185, no. 4157, 27 Sep. 1974, pp. 1124–31.

Xu, Tengyue. “Research on Soft Science Fiction Films Based on the Movie Dune.” Frontier in Art Research, vol. 4, no. 13, 2022, pp. 82–6. Francis Academic Press. Young, Kevin L., and Charli Carpenter. “Does Science Fiction Affect Political Fact? Yes and No.” International Studies Quarterly, vol. 62, no. 3, Sep. 2018, pp. 562–76.

Enze Shi is a researcher who focuses on science fiction, translational, and outcomes research. Being an immigrant from China, both Chinese culture and Western culture had a significant influence on his academic and personal growth. Integrating the perspectives and contributions of both Chinese and Western SF allows him to bring notions with novel approaches. Shi is a student of the Texas Academy of Mathematics and Science at the University of North Texas. There, he conducts chemistry research and is involved in Chinese philosophy classes, being active in both STEM and humanities fields.


Monotheistic Ethics in Caprica: AI, Governance, and Queer Futurity



Monotheistic Ethics in Caprica: AI, Governance, and Queer Futurity

Nathan Lamarche

It doesn’t concern you sister, that kind of absolutist view of the universe? Right and wrong determined solely by a single all-knowing, all-powerful being whose judgement cannot be questioned, and in whose name the most horrendous of acts can be sanctioned without appeal? (Caprica, “Pilot”)

This is the question asked in the pilot episode of Caprica, the prequel to Battlestar Galactica that depicts both the emergence of sentient artificial intelligence and the cultural conflict between polytheistic and monotheistic structures of belief and moral values. Detective Duram, a man devoutly committed to the polytheistic status quo, stands theistically opposed to Sister Clarice, the headmistress of the Athenian Academy. Clarice portrays herself publicly as polytheistic, yet secretly leads a cell of the Soldiers of the One, the militarised terrorism branch of the monotheistic church of the colonies, zealots responsible for the recent bombing of a train. It is with irony that shortly after this, he tells her “Know your enemy,” and she echoes back, “Love your enemy, Agent Duram. That is what we followers of Athena believe” (“Pilot”). This black-and-white commentary on a monotheistic system of ethics mirrors real-world criticism of religion’s treatment of queer communities. Abram Brummett, in his paper on queer reproductive rights and access to assisted reproductive technologies, argues that “conscience claims against LGBT individuals ought to be constrained because the underlying metaphysic—that God has decreed the LGBT lifestyle to be sinful—is highly implausible” (272). The Soldiers of the One also use similar illogical justifications, these same conscious claims, for their acts of terror. As Brummett notes, and as we can see in the current global political climate, queer communities face oppression as a result of these “conscience claims,” with some clinics in the United States using overt policies or subtle methods for limiting access to reproductive healthcare on moral grounds (273). There are also growing political threats to queer rights (Moreau). Which decisions require moral justification to enact? Who decides what’s right and what’s wrong? Who opts to restrict queer rights? What systems might humanity use to make those decisions tomorrow?

The AI machines—cylons—in Caprica and Battlestar Galactica carry a code of ethics that positions a right and a wrong, an objective good and evil, and in Battlestar Galactica, this code of ethics in service of their god is used to justify a surprise attack that results in the near-total annihilation of the human race. As it turns out, Agent Duram was fundamentally correct in his aforementioned assessment of dichotomous ethics. The actions taken by the cylons over the course of Battlestar Galactica mirror modern colonial oppressive regimes, and those same black and white codes of dichotomous ethics are used to justify or excuse their actions. At one point in the series, the cylons decide, entirely without remorse, that the genocide was a mistake, sorry! Our bad, oopsies. Well, no harm done, and that it would be just the best idea, really, to live with the humans on a planet called New Caprica, that the humans had believed would be a refuge from the machines. The cylons trespass on this new world, impose their own system of law and order, strip the colonised humans of their rights, abduct and detain or execute dissidents, and commit countless horrific acts in the name of living together in harmony (“Lay Down Your Burdens,” “Occupation”). Colonisation is the antithesis of queer identity and freedom, both fictitiously and in practice. Conversations converging Native studies and queer theory, for instance, recognise the persistence of heteropatriarchal structures wrought by colonialist regimes imposing a disappearance not only on Indigenous peoples, but on queer peoples as well, and that the queering of decolonisation is an essential step in having such conversations (See Smith; Morgensen 2010; Morgensen 2016; Abu-Assab and Eddin).

This discourse of erasure and the paralleled movement in popular society to promote queer rights and pride movements in opposition to the status quo of heteronormativity conforms to the theory of queer futurity, that queerness is a being rather than merely a doing, and the horizon is ever-onwards (Muñoz). And yet, the other side of the coin also remains true. With every step forward, the tide of oppression carries us back. Colonisation is intrinsic, pervasive, and fundamental to the very core of our society, just as the cylon pursuit is fundamental and intrinsic to the lives of the humans in Battlestar Galactica, post-genocide. The values our world holds against queerness are that of invisibility. As with Indigeneity, society wants it gone, out of sight, in a place where it can be ignored and shunned. The claim so often made, that “I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s not in my face,” reflects societal values. How many advertisements use sexual appeal as a selling point? Heteronormativity as a default state, by its very nature, suppresses the existence of queernormativity. It is a deep, ingrained concept even in queer communities, both at the institutional and social level (Van der Toorn et al.). It isn’t necessarily that someone is at fault, nor committing wilful acts of anti-queering, but the message is so deep, so institutionalised through customs and social norms, that this outcome is inevitable, embedded at the subconscious social level (Rafanell and Gorringe).

We must consider an important point: who are the people working to develop AI? The majority are extremely well educated and well paid, with positions across all fields at Open AI, for example, easily earning hundreds of thousands to millions in annual salaries in 2024 (Levels.Fyi). What ratio of developers are queer? How many are Indigenous? Black? Asian? How many are women? How many come from countries not considered part of “the West”? We have innate biases, and AI draws from our instructions, our experiences, our words, and draws from the data fed to it, which is mostly from western English sources and includes societal biases. Thus, the information going into AI is biased information, which makes AI biased in turn. And when we’re coding in how AI should act and react based on various ethical standards, those ethical standards are innately biased because we have certain conceptions of ethics that are not necessarily universal. For instance, there are big differences based on where you are on the planet as to whether marrying your first cousin is socially acceptable. Likewise, and more relevant here, whether homosexuality is deemed morally wrong.

As Damien Patrick Williams puts it, “We must continually ask, who is in the room when we make the decisions that influence, shape, or even determine research directions”? (251–52) These questions are essential for shaping our future reality. Algorithms are inherently neutral. They lack the capacity for ethical considerations. Those considerations instead rest with us and how we design AI, and in turn, which of us are responsible for creating that AI. The perspectives present when the people in positions of power make decisions about how to implement AI are the same perspectives that have created persistent harm in our society; they will create harm again, with or without this new system.

In Battlestar Galactica, the outsourcing of public power away from human beings and towards the cylons on New Caprica, where the cylons and their perspectives become synonymous with the law, creates a violated space devoid of human-centric rights and legal systems. Everything becomes black and white in this world. A human insurgency comes into motion, but instead of re-evaluating the merit of the system and the ethics of the very presence of the cylons, the insurgency is instantly deemed to be evil. Even the families of insurgents, even those simply associated with insurgents, are put on a list for execution. The invasion of the cylons is not merely an occupying force, it is a system of justice and law that bypasses human moderation. The power of decision making is taken out of their hands.

The parallel drawn here between the cylon occupation of New Caprica and our situation in the current political landscape is again not merely one of plutocratic or late-stage capitalist structures. Artificial Intelligence threatens the limited level of control we do have in that system. The exact same outsourcing of queer power to a heteronormative society also deprives queer rights. This is where Detective Duram’s observations hit so strongly. Not only were the cylons originally created in Caprica, the first sentient AI is modelled identically to her creator, a victim of the train bombing. She retains her creator’s personality, emotional ties, expressions, and innate biases, including religious beliefs. Imposing our own subconscious biases on AI will result in a regime, a new human age that will result in an “AI Empire” built on the very foundations of oppression. To avoid this reproduction, we must redevelop from the ground-up, starting with our core philosophies and innate assumptions surrounding its conception (Tacheva and Ramasubramanian). Yet, “Even the most thoughtful and thoroughgoing intervention cannot come close to confronting its deep roots” (Tacheva and Ramasubramanian 10), which are based in subconscious oppression. Proposed approaches to improved AI developmental ethics include training, policy writing, and the consideration of potential world impact (Xivuri and Twinomurinzi), but fall short in diversifying hiring practices and incorporating underrepresented codes of ethics. What happens when an oppressive regime backed by religious connotations of sin decides to use AI to maliciously pursue queer communities? What happens when an individual, organisation, or nation opts to create AI for just this exact purpose?

Outsourcing our public power away from human beings would result in a violation of our rights and legal systems (Liu et al.). Isherwood notes that “queer theology with its postmodern roots asks us to distrust any master narrative” (1349), and in this case, the master narrative is not of a divine being, but of a machine god, a purveyor of all our deepest and darkest secrets, our flaws and biases. The development of AI itself creates a master narrative. Just as the narrative in Caprica (2010) parallels monotheistic ethics that ultimately justify a cylon genocide against humanity, we must be cautious of single-minded codes of morality in the directional development of AI, where lacking developer diversity results in narrow world views, creating a risk of disproportionate impact on queer communities. A single woman’s avatar formed the framework of Caprica’s cylons and their eventual extermination of the human race. Developer homogeneity creates a disproportionate risk, especially in harm to queer communities, who see impact and oppression no matter their origin. Suggested approaches to AI ethics (Xivuri and Twinomurinzi) fail to address diversity hiring and foundational philosophical shortcomings.

Schneider’s book, Beyond Monotheism: A Theology of Multiplicity notes the archaic nature of a monotheistic code of ethics as applied to AI development. When modern legal and social battles have us fighting for queer rights, the problem lies in our perceptions of AI ethics. We are quite concerned with whether or not depictions of a human-machine war would kill us all off, and not anywhere near concerned enough with whether AI could impose a perpetual “status quo,” where the only thing that might change it is the will of the ruling class and the decisions made by the individuals with the wealth and power to do so. This is not limited to the ruling class. AI is already capable of profiling, and algorithmic frameworks are used to categorise who deserves or needs help and who doesn’t (Williams). Schneider notes the archaic nature of an anti-queer code of ethics, yet those ethics still form the blood and bone of society.

AI will one day soon even be capable of the distribution of judgment based on its own concepts of sin, inherited by subconscious oppression. Non-AI automated systems of justice are already here, such as Alberta’s Provincial Administrative Penalties Act, (s 16(1), s 18(4)), where legal reviews are held remotely and are not bound by evidence checks. Automated justice forecasts a future where AI is not only involved, but a leader and central figure in these decisions. It’s already being used in some parts of the world (Ulenaers). How long before we let it write legal policies that could have a direct impact on queer freedom? Look at the governance by the cylons on New Caprica, or Canada and the United States blatantly ignoring treaties made with Indigenous peoples. These are systems of governance influenced by colonisation. A government with AI influence would be perpetual, an embedded toxin that we can’t address or convince otherwise. It would be one with dichotomous ethics, the same monotheistic concepts of objective good and evil critiqued in Caprica. Who determines right from wrong? What happens when AI is used as a tool of oppression by groups with pre-conceived notions of sin?

What we might deem extremist, like the terrorist train bombing in Caprica, could be justified through a certain lens as morally correct. This notion of extremism as distinct from terrorism, as a form of morally correct activism, is subjective, but shall we consider air travel for a moment? Random pat-down searches are invasive to queer travellers, both for gender minorities and differing sexual orientations that may have what a heteronormative society deems an unconventional preference for which gender ought to conduct the pat-down. Yet, these pat-downs are justified for matters of safety. Okay, security matters. That’s what the cylons insisted on New Caprica. Arrest the insurgents, put them in camps, that will promote security! Humans are dying in these attacks, too, you know, not just the machines. Cai Wilkinson analyses the lie of queer security, a truth that escapes heteronormative society, saying that “Public bathrooms continue the logic of national borders, with gender policing central to ensuring that only the ‘right’ people enter” (97). Yet, even despite health and privacy concerns (Mehta and Smith-Bindman), safety is apparently essential enough to revoke basic rights and freedoms. That’s the cylon argument as well. The human insurgency put everyone at risk, so detain any suspects in its involvement or affiliation. So, what do we do in real life, in a post-9/11 world? Technology creates the next step towards a supposedly idealised airport security, with metal detectors and scanners. Airports are being equipped at an increasing rate with full body-scanning technology that can detect genitalia through clothing (Elias). In the system’s current implementation, security agents push a button and pick a colour, either blue or pink depending on a brief visual assumption of the traveller’s sex. If the scanner’s expectations of genitalia are not met, it sounds the alarm (Waldron). Those genitals over there have violated airport safety! Or you could always choose the pat down. Which bodily invasion are you signing up for today? Privacy is not a concept we can simply dismiss in this discussion, especially where AI is concerned, but for the sake of brevity, let’s move to the next logical step in our current political atmosphere, the “tomorrow” of this technology. We care about security, right? Acceptability is shaped by our perceptions of safety. A machine would not expect to see threateningly thick hair (Medina). Where else can these scanners go? Oh, AI can tell us. The optimal locations. Banks, sure. Government buildings. Trade centres. Key points of infrastructure.

And queer freedom dies. Bodies on full display, detectable anywhere you go. This implementation, at some point, stops being about merely security, and becomes more about power consolidation (Magnet and Rodgers), and the presence of that power is invisible to most of us, buried in our subconscious. The cylons on New Caprica use their systems of justice to enforce their will, not only their measure of security. Even in attempts to use AI to fight against corruption may lead to new avenues of corruption in turn. Kobis et al. analyse this, noting that “algorithms never operate in a vacuum but are embedded in socio-institutional contexts,” and while bottom-up AI anti-corruption tools can exist, such an approach must be done in keeping with a society adequately prepared for it, and especially in cases of societies where corruption is the default rather than the exception, “top–down AI-based anti-corruption tools can be misappropriated by governments to enhance digital surveillance, suppress opposition and undermine democratic liberties” (Köbis et al.). On New Caprica, the cylons act to corrupt the human system in order to impose their will, and in doing so, act as the default system. In this context, the situation is different from what we might see in the real world; the cylons are also very literally one and the same as the artificial intelligence. And yet, the manipulation of the system is the critical point. The cylons in this case, despite being an artificial intelligence, act more symbolically of the issue of AI in a totalitarian state, rather than a mere literal representation. The more surveillance, the more power. As one of them suggests as a response to the insurgency, “we round up the leaders of the insurgency, and we execute them—publicly. We round up at random groups off the street, and we execute them—publicly. Send a message that the gloves are coming off” (Battlestar Galactica, “Occupation”). After a suicide bombing, they realise that increased control is still needed: “we have a very serious, very straightforward problem; either we increase control or we lose control. That’s a fact” (“Precipice”). Every action, every reaction, is seen as black and white, where the only world that exists is maintaining the world’s status quo, enforced by the visionaries of the current world.

This is not fearmongering; we can see similar situations happening now, in the United States especially. Unfortunately, this paper would not be complete without addressing the human rights violations occurring against queer people in the United States. This discussion cannot be limited in whole to queer rights, as the same issues with dichotomous ethics apply to treatment towards other minority, underserved, and sensitive communities, including a presidential executive order to revoke birthright citizenship (United States, Protecting The Meaning And Value Of American Citizenship), and another to send deportees to a detention centre capable of holding up to 30,000 people (Chao-Fong and Phillips), something eerily reminiscent of Dachau. The changes being implemented refer to concrete definitions for genders, and it is likely that transgender rights are merely the beginning. The suspension of trans people’s passport applications are one indication of further widespread change and impact, as without legal recognition of gender markers on already valid passports for trans American emigrants, and the disruption of those applications, access is far more difficult and restrictive through a lack of proper documentation (Wood), and even trans Canadian travellers face uncertainty in border crossings (Major). In one notable US executive order, the sitting president went so far as to declare that transgender people’s assertion of their identity was “not consistent with the humility and selflessness required of a service member,” and further questioned the integrity and honesty of trans people, along with other relevant qualities, and named that identity “radical gender ideology” (United States, Prioritizing Military Excellence and Readiness; Lamothe et al.). To question such traits is to question their very fundamental worth and essential humanity; it is not simply akin to, it is a direct degradation of transgender people from human to sub-human by declaring their very identity as compromising to moral values. This order calls into question their very right to exist with dignity and autonomy. The intent is to persecute any dissident opinions, to fire federal employees who fail to support the regime or dare to investigate its leadership, and to purge the concepts of freedoms of speech and expression, to pursue political opponents with military tribunals, to jail election workers, private citizens, and journalists for news networks who refuse to divulge sources or who criticise the president (“Trump’s Enemies List;” “Trump Administration Fires Justice Department Officials Who Investigated Him”).

The issues arising through these dichotomous concepts of “truth” are numerous, and they do not end at traditional concerns over basic human rights and freedoms. In this paper, I have mentioned monotheistic concepts of ethics, and it is important here to call on a very important distinction: this is no criticism of faith. The opinions, faiths, and other beliefs of individuals with regard to religion are not the focus of this argument. Rather, this focus lies on the institutions that have treated religion as a scapegoat and used it as a tool of permission to abuse and exploit the people. State-sanctioned declarations against sodomy, against gender identity, against race and differing religions, these are no longer a warning, a perpetual controversy; they are here. Everything from this moment on, the DEI crisis, the attacks on immigrants, the detention centres, the closing of borders, etc.—these are all the direct display of fascist, monotheistic authoritarianism in the United States. The religious beliefs themselves are not the problem with monotheistic ethics. When Bishop Budde spoke out at the president’s inauguration, for example, to call for mercy for both immigrants and queer people who fear for their lives, she was met with some calling her a part of the radical left, and some even wishing her dead (Bennett). Because she called for mercy. Still, despite religious figures standing in opposition to these changes, the anti-queer laws implemented use arguments of religious structures, regardless of their true intent and origin.

The institutions of religion have, through politics, enabled frightening changes to governance already, and in the midst of this, a government led by the richest people in the richest country in the world has pledged half a trillion dollars to fund artificial intelligence research (Jacobs). How long before that funding is reflected in AI models through new “truth” policies and regulations, with regulated opinions that hold discriminatory values?

If our society contains subconscious biases and restricts queer rights (as it seems evident that it does), and if our biases are passed on to generative artificial intelligence, and if it/they will one day write our policies, police our streets, determine our healthcare access, and judge us in courtrooms… at what point do we realise that the ruling class will no longer be a collective of human beings? With the new political directions across the world, it may not be even subconscious bias, but an ideological imperative imposed upon us by an oligarchy that has found a method of permitting perpetual power. Caprica and Battlestar Galactica embody a colonially oppressive regime that mirrors real life, but this isn’t a regime we can fight and overcome. This is an algorithmic one, which can be programmed to think and do precisely what its creators or controllers want it to. Queer rights today exist for as long as we fight for them to exist. Queer rights tomorrow face an existential threat. How long will it be before the people already saying that “god says your identity is sinful” dictate their beliefs through their power to command AI to carry out a colonised disappearance? How long will it be before a government or ruling elite decides that some events should be wiped from history and ordains that decision through AI? It would be better to rephrase—how long before a Western government decides to do what China has already done with DeepSeek, denying the events of Tiananmen Square (McCarthy)? This is a warning of the oppressive power of AI’s ability to control information, and how easily it can be done by simply declaring an objective “truth.”

Caprica’s cylons operate at more complex levels of coding than our level of technology can muster. At our level of technology, AI is black and white. There is no empathy. No nuance. No understanding. Only an illusion of it, generated to please the status quo, the algorithm generator, and brought to you by our own inner failings. So, do we trust ourselves? Not the version of ourselves that we aspire to be, but the version that we are, the cold, hard reality of the situation. Even if we had the technology for nuance and empathy, this is still a machine, one controlled by humanity, and we have proven ourselves rather adept at manipulating each other and the masses through propaganda, disinformation, and rage. What is the god defined in Caprica but an entity of command? Not a divine being; the belief may exist, but the influence that comes not from that belief, but the control of that belief is what such a deity represents. This divine being is distinct from “god” as a symbol of worship and morality, that all-powerful being with infallible and unquestionable moral ideals.

When speaking to Galen Tyrol, Cavil, a cylon and the primary antagonist of Battlestar Galactica, comments on the futility of prayer, calling it “chanting and singing and mucking about with old half-remembered lines of bad poetry. And you know what it gets you? Exactly nothing.” He further remarks that “I’ve learned enough to know that the gods don’t answer prayers” (Battlestar Galactica “Lay Down Your Burdens, Part 1”). The gods, or god, in this case, are all irrelevant. Prayers are therefore meaningless, because this is not a discussion of faith. This is not about an innate criticism of any religious god, but rather about how god exists in our society, how divine dichotomous truth is represented in our legal, moral, and social frameworks. Religion offers ethics when we don’t have the answers, but it’s not religion that codes those ethics into our society and legal structures. Can we be expected to always know what to do, to always recognise right from wrong? What about our politicians, and others in the oligarchal order who derive greater incentive to ignore morality and prioritise their own gain? AI offers a path to moral recognition, tainted by both an intrinsic limitation of its coding and a flawed human filter. What makes ethical sense is not a factor here, because AI takes its data from our innate beliefs and biases, from our perceptions of right and wrong, not from any sort of divine objective truth. Even without intentional influence, the data it gathers and uses is data originally written by us and our biases. Does it concern us? To have right and wrong be determined solely by an all-knowing, all-powerful being whose judgement cannot be questioned, and in whose name the most horrendous of acts can be sanctioned without appeal? Is Caprica a warning of AI’s relationship with our internal biases? So the question I offer today is a simple one: are we building a god?

WORKS CITED

Abu-Assab, Nour, and Nof Eddin. “Queering Justice: States as Machines of Oppression.” Kohl: A Journal for Body and Gender Research, vol. 4, no. Summer, June 2018, pp. 48–59, https://doi.org/10.36583/20184101.

Battlestar Galactica. Created by Ronald D. Moore, Sci Fi, 2004.

Bennett, Brian. “‘I Am Not Going to Apologize’: Bishop Who Confronted Trump Speaks Out.” TIME, 22 Jan. 2025, https://time.com/7209222/bishop-mariann-budde-trump/.

Brummett, Abram. “Conscience Claims, Metaphysics, and Avoiding an LGBT Eugenic.” Bioethics, vol. 32, no. 5, June 2018, pp. 272–80, https://doi.org/10.1111/bioe.12430.

Caprica. Created by Ronald D. Moore, Syfy, 2010.

Chao-Fong, Léonie, and Tom Phillips. “Trump Orders Opening of Migrant Detention Center at Guantánamo Bay.” The Guardian, 29 Jan. 2025. The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/jan/29/trump-guantanamo-detention-center. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Elias, Bart. Airport Body Scanners: The Role of Advanced Imaging Technology in Airline Passenger Screening. Congressional Research Service, 20 Sept. 2012, https://sgp.fas.org/crs/homesec/R42750.pdf.

Isherwood, Lisa. “Christianity: Queer Pasts, Queer Futures?” HORIZONTE, vol. 13, no. 39, Oct. 2015, pp. 1345–74, https://doi.org/10.5752/P.2175-5841.2015v13n39p1345.

Jacobs, Jennifer. “Trump Announces up to $500 Billion in Private Sector AI Infrastructure Investment.” CBS News, 22 Jan. 2025, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/trump-announces-private-sector-ai-infrastructure-investment/. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Köbis, Nils C., et al. “The Promise and Perils of Using Artificial Intelligence to Fight Corruption.” Nature Machine Intelligence, vol. 4, no. 5, 23 May 2022, pp. 418–24. https://doi.org/10.1038/s42256-022-00489-1.

Lamarche, Nathan. Monotheistic Ethics in Caprica: The Consequences of AI Development on Queer Futurity. ERA: Education and Research Archive, 2024, https://doi.org/10.7939/R3-YKVF-FD07.

Lamothe, Dan, et al. “Trump Order Targets Transgender Troops and ‘Radical Gender Ideology’ – The Washington Post.” The Washington Post, https://www.washingtonpost.com/national-security/2025/01/28/trump-transgender-troops-military-hegseth/. Accessed 31 Jan. 2025.

Liu, Han-Wei, et al. “Beyond State v Loomis: Artificial Intelligence, Government Algorithmization and Accountability.” International Journal of Law and Information Technology, vol. 27, no. 2, June 2019, pp. 122–41, https://doi.org/10.1093/ijlit/eaz001.

Magnet, Shoshana, and Tara Rodgers. “Stripping for the State: Whole Body Imaging Technologies and the Surveillance of Othered Bodies.” Feminist Media Studies, vol. 12, no. 1, Mar. 2012, pp. 101–18. Taylor and Francis+NEJM, https://doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2011.558352.

Major, Darren. “Unclear How Trump’s Gender Order Would Impact Canadians with ‘X’ Mark on Passports.” CBC News, https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/trump-gender-passports-canada-1.7440414. Accessed 30 Jan. 2025.

McCarthy, Simone. “DeepSeek Is Giving the World a Window into Chinese Censorship and Information Control.” CNN, 30 Jan. 2025, https://www.cnn.com/2025/01/29/china/deepseek-ai-china-censorship-moderation-intl-hnk/index.html. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Medina, Brenda, and Thomas Frank. “TSA Agents Say They’re Not Discriminating Against Black Women, But Their Body Scanners Might Be.” ProPublica, 17 Apr. 2019, www.propublica.org/article/tsa-not-discriminating-against-black-women-but-their-body-scanners-might-be. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Mehta, Pratik, and Rebecca Smith-Bindman. “Airport Full Body Screening: What Is the Risk?” Archives of Internal Medicine, vol. 171, no. 12, June 2011, pp. 1112–15, https://doi.org/10.1001/archinternmed.2011.105.

Moreau, Julie. “Trump in Transnational Perspective: Insights from Global LGBT Politics.” Politics & Gender, vol. 14, no. 4, Dec. 2018, pp. 619–48, https://doi.org/10.1017/S1743923X18000752.

Morgensen, Scott L. “Encountering Indeterminacy: Colonial Contexts and Queer Imagining.” Cultural Anthropology, vol. 31, no. 4, Nov. 2016, pp. 607–16, https://doi.org/10.14506/ca31.4.09.

—. “Settler Homonationalism: Theorizing Settler Colonialism within Queer Modernities.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, vol. 16, no. 1–2, Apr. 2010, pp. 105–31, https://doi.org/10.1215/10642684-2009-015.

Muñoz, José Esteban. Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity. 10th Anniversary Edition, New York University Press, 2019.

“Provincial Administrative Penalties Act.” SA 2020, c. P-30.8, CanLII, 1 Dec. 2020, https://www.canlii.org/en/ab/laws/stat/sa-2020-c-p-30.8/latest/sa-2020-c-p-30.8.html.

Rafanell, Irene, and Hugo Gorringe. “Consenting to Domination? Theorising Power, Agency and Embodiment with Reference to Caste.” The Sociological Review, vol. 58, no. 4, Nov. 2010, pp. 604–22, https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-954X.2010.01942.x.

Schneider, Laurel C. Beyond Monotheism : A Theology of Multiplicity. Routledge, 2008.

Smith, Andrea. “Queer Theory and Native Studies: The Heteronormativity of Settler Colonialism.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, vol. 16, no. 1–2, Apr. 2010, pp. 41–68, https://doi.org/10.1215/10642684-2009-012.

Tacheva, Jasmina, and Srividya Ramasubramanian. “AI Empire: Unraveling the Interlocking Systems of Oppression in Generative AI’s Global Order.” Big Data & Society, vol. 10, no. 2, July 2023, p. 20539517231219241, https://doi.org/10.1177/20539517231219241.

“Trump Administration Fires Justice Department Officials Who Investigated Him.” BBC News, https://www.bbc.com/news/live/cjw461nelzdt. Accessed 31 Jan. 2025.

“Trump has made more than 100 threats to prosecute or punish perceived enemies.” All Things Considered, hosted by Tom Dreisbach, NPR, 22 Oct. 2024. NPR, https://www.npr.org/2024/10/21/nx-s1-5134924/trump-election-2024-kamala-harris-elizabeth-cheney-threat-civil-liberties. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Ulenaers, Jasper. “The Impact of Artificial Intelligence on the Right to a Fair Trial: Towards a Robot Judge?” Asian Journal of Law and Economics, vol. 11, no. 2, Aug. 2020, https://doi.org/10.1515/ajle-2020-0008.

United States, Executive Office of the President [Donald Trump]. Additional Measures to Combat Anti-Semitism. The White House, 29 Jan. 2025, https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/01/additional-measures-to-combat-anti-semitism/.

—. Prioritizing Military Excellence and Readiness. The White House, 28 Jan. 2025, https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/01/prioritizing-military-excellence-and-readiness/.

—. Protecting The Meaning And Value Of American Citizenship. The White House, 21 Jan. 2025, https://www.whitehouse.gov/presidential-actions/2025/01/protecting-the-meaning-and-value-of-american-citizenship/.

Van der Toorn, Jojanneke, et al. “Not Quite over the Rainbow: The Unrelenting and Insidious Nature of Heteronormative Ideology.” Current Opinion in Behavioral Sciences, vol. 34, Aug. 2020, pp. 160–65, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cobeha.2020.03.001.

Waldron, Lucas, and Brenda Medina. “When Transgender Travelers Walk Into Scanners, Invasive Searches Sometimes Wait on the Other Side.” ProPublica, 26 Aug. 2019, https://www.propublica.org/article/tsa-transgender-travelers-scanners-invasive-searches-often-wait-on-the-other-side. Accessed 8 July 2025.

Wilkinson, Cai. “Queer Our Vision of Security.” Feminist Solutions for Ending War, Pluto Press, 2021.

Williams, Damien Patrick. “Disabling AI: Biases and Values Embedded in Artificial Intelligence.” Handbook on the Ethics of Artificial Intelligence, edited by David J. Gunkel, Edward Elgar Publishing, 2024, pp. 246–61, https://doi.org/10.4337/9781803926728.00022.

Wood, Olivia. “Suspending Trans People’s Passports Impacts More Than Just Travel.” Left Voice, 25 Jan. 2025, https://www.leftvoice.org/suspending-trans-peoples-passports-impacts-more-than-just-travel/.

Xivuri, Khensani, and Hosanna Twinomurinzi. “How AI Developers Can Assure Algorithmic Fairness.” Discover Artificial Intelligence, vol. 3, no. 1, July 2023, p. 27, https://doi.org/10.1007/s44163-023-00074-4.

Levels.Fyi, https://www.levels.fyi/companies/openai/salaries. Accessed 6 Dec. 2024.

Nathan Lamarche is a first year Master of Arts in English student at the University of Alberta, a creative writer, and the Associate Vice President of Labour of the institution’s Graduate Student Association. Their thesis concerns the impact of artificial intelligence and its potential manipulation on social relationships and institutional infrastructures through deceit, artificial empathy, and information control. Their future research will delve into domestic national security policies and international relations and treaties concerning GenAI. Their other areas of research interest lie in rhetoric and composition theory, storytelling, accessibility in academic writing, labour laws and movements, queer theory, neurodivergent communication, and Indigenous literature. When not at the university, you can probably find them buried deep in the mountains backcountry hiking, cooking very strange meals, or deeply immersed in a book. The majority of this paper was originally written for and presented at The Ninth Annual City Tech Science Fiction Symposium on Science Fiction, Artificial Intelligence, and Generative AI on 10 December 2024.


Thirty Years Later: Sacred Scripture, Ghost in The Shell, and Our Lady of Perpetual Cyberpunk



Thirty Years Later: Sacred Scripture, Ghost in The Shell, and Our Lady of Perpetual Cyberpunk

Despite its initial commercial underperformance and lukewarm critical reception, Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell (1995) experienced a cult renaissance in the years following its release due to home video sales. It made a hard connection with a  highly influential group of filmmakers such as the Wachowski Sisters, Steven Spielberg, and James Cameron, who publicly described Oshii’s film in The Guardian as “a stunning work of speculative fiction . . . the first to reach a level of literary excellence” (Rose). The interest in Oshii’s film has not waned as a live-action remake of Ghost in the Shell was released in 2017, and a 4K limited rerelease ran in select IMAX theaters in the U.S. in 2021. In addition to its paradoxical use of cyberpunk trappings to tell a story that resists the usually grim outlook of technological proliferation within the genre, Oshii makes use of uniquely Western Christian archetypes for meaning and metaphor rather than spectacle, as is the usual norm in anime. Oshii’s visual symbols are often religious and distinct from the use of Christian symbols in contemporary works such as Neon Genesis Evangelion (1995–96, Shinseiki Evangerion) which serves no authentic story-telling purpose as Brian Ruh argues in Stray Dog of Anime (54-55). However, the usual interpretation of the film, and perhaps even an interpretation through a Christian framework, falls short of describing the fullness of Oshii’s use of the Christian mythos in Ghost in the Shell. To interpret Oshii’s symbolism as solely Christian is too broad a description for there is a denominational distinction becausewithin that overarching Christian framework, exist older and more telling motifs, the severity and specificity of which can only be described as uniquely Catholic. Oshii employs these Christian and specifically Catholic symbols, as this paper will how, to explore the near-universal desire for evolution, transcendence, and, ultimately, some semblance of an answer to the eternal questions.

Neon Genesis Evangelion is a contemporary to Ghost in the Shell due to its release date and overlap in genre. Neon Genesis Evangelion also uses Christian symbolism, biblical allusions, elements of Shintoism, Judaism, and even creature names such as “Adam” as parts of a universe in order to create an entertaining, high-fantasy mythos. Ghost in the Shell goes much further in developing these motifs by embracing a singular Catholic vision as the central theme and metaphor in a speculative cyberpunk universe. This metaphor serves to sustain Oshii’s argument for the redemptive and even divine qualities of technology as a forceful contrast to the fundamental cynicism of the cyberpunk and tech-noire genres.

Certain Catholic rather than simply Christian clues emerge from Oshii’s life that bring clarity to the director’s enigmatic use of religious tools of expression. Richard Suchenski writes in Senses of Cinema that Oshii at one point seriously considered entering a seminary to become a priest. Brian Ruh, meanwhile, maintains that Oshii’s consideration of seminary was only to study religion (8). Oshii himself stated in a 2004 interview: “When I was in college, I was always interested in Christianity and religion… I even thought of transferring to a Christian seminary… It’s really the phenomena created by religion that I’m most interested in, rather than religion itself” (Mays). This fascination permeates Oshii’s body of work. However, a merely Christian reading of a work is too easily perceived as a default Protestant reading to a Western audience whereas one must take into account the flavor of the Christian framework from Oshii, the would-be priest. While the tiny percentage of Japan’s population identifying as Christian is approximately evenly divided between those identifying as Protestant or Catholic, to a Japanese audience, the difference between the two sub-categories is an irrelevancy, argues Ishikawa Akito, Professor of Religion at Momoyama Gakuin University. In the West, however, the distinction between Catholic and Protestant is of grave importance, and the Catholic distinction is critical in Oshii’s Christian framework, especially to an American audience. In the case of Ghost in the Shell, Oshii’s use of Christianity is founded upon a Catholic rather than Protestant reading of the Christian mythos and is employed accordingly in his filmography—a non-distinction for a Japanese audience, as Akito argues, but a serious one for the Western viewer.

The hardboiled skepticism from other 80s and 90s tech-noir media conveys a general caution about humanity’s relationship with technology, but Oshii resists this trend by elevating technology to a divine position through interlacing technology’s place within the Holy Family of Catholic teaching: Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. Oshii employs this trinity of the Holy Family to affirm humanity’s push towards technological advancement and hybridization, as opposed to the “criticism of the extreme enthusiasm of mankind about science and technology” found in Neon Genesis Evangelion and other tech-noir/cyberpunk media (Napier 89). The Catholicism of Ghost in the Shell, therefore, becomes a sustaining metaphor throughout instead of an avant-garde ambiguity; it is not an undeveloped, cross-shaped explosion as spectacle, or a high-fantasy original creature casually named “Adam.” Instead, Oshii uses the Holy Family metaphor to describe the potential divinity of technology in Ghost in the Shell, with Batou as the chaste St. Joseph the Protector, Major Kusanagi as the Virgin Mary, and the Puppetmaster-Kusinagi hybrid as the newborn Messiah. The Messiah’s body serves not only as a representation but is, within the universe of Ghost in the Shell, the nexus of humanity and divinity, the higher order of technology as humanity’s saving grace. Oshii uses the tools of Catholicism in a secular though highly spiritual manner to perpetuate his tradition of “[alluding] to religion to say something deeper about the human condition” (Ruh 55). Ghost in the Shell can be seen as an example of how Japanese content producers use the images and writings of Christianity; for instance, Kusanagi and the Puppetmaster repeat, almost verbatim, in two separate points in the film, the language of Paul the Apostle in 1 Corinthians 13:11-12: “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now, we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.” But it is also a distinctly Catholic work which makes use of the Holy Family of Catholic doctrine and iconography to offer a secular yethopeful image of the future using metaphors typically reserved for the spiritual realm. Despite all the blood and violence (in the film and in the history of Catholicism), the image Oshii produces is an optimistic theory and suggested map of the next stage of human evolution where technology is not only a boon to ease humanity’s temporal suffering but, from the images of descending angels and mysterious recitations of the Epistles, a divine path forward towards apotheosis.

The trinity of the Holy Family of Catholicism is manifest in the three major characters of Ghost in the Shell. First, Major Kusanagi’s chaste nakedness recalls the Virgin Mary, the mother of Christ. Second, Batou fills the role of St. Joseph the Protector in his platonic relationship with Kusanagi. Third, the Christ child at the end of the film, conceived from this higher power, is preceded by the visiting angel, Gabriel (see Fig. 1). It is not the conventional Christian symbolism employed by typical directors; it is instead the intensely violent and bloody Catholic imagery that unlocks these ancient archetypes and makes Ghost in the Shell a counterclaim for the transcendent potential of technology super-imposed upon a grim tech-noir, cyberpunk context.

Fig. 1. Descending Angel from the Major’s perspective (Oshii 1:13:37)

Major Kusanagi’s nakedness functions as fan service on one level, but more importantly, Oshii emphasizes the nudity to convey a statement on sexuality or, in this case, the lack thereof; the Major has no sex organs. The cyborg is drawn seamlessly around the hips. This is not a loophole to bypass Japanese censors. Oshii chooses to make a point of slamming the viewer in the face for the first ten minutes of the movie with a torso with no visible sex organs. However, despite this lack of an opening, and despite the fact that Kusanagi herself states, “I cannot bear children” (1:11:43-44), she is given a full set of breasts. Due to the lack of sex organs, it is reasonable to conclude that the Major is a virgin. One could argue that, if the Major had once been human before receiving her cybernetic body, perhaps she was not a virgin; however, that objection is irrelevant since, in keeping with a Catholic reading, the Major immaculately receives a new body as demonstrated at the beginning of the film (see Fig. 2). A tension also exists within the popular consensus, as reported by fan wikis, that the Major may, in fact, be solely cyborg, her memories of an original body as artificially constructed as the poor ghost-hacked truck driver in the first half of the film. At one point in the film, she even speculates, “Maybe there never was a real me in the first place, and I’m completely synthetic like that thing” (0:42:36-41). The Major’s chaste nakedness in the film contrasts with the almost hyper-sexuality of the Kusanagi of the manga source material, but this departure from source material is a matter of course for Oshii.

The presence of breasts, the means of nursing, in the assassination scene before the beginning credits, contrasted with the lack of exposed sex organs, indicates a being not of carnal sexuality but rather of sexless motherhood like the Virgin Mary; the Major bears the means of nursing but not the gifts of sexual pleasure, sexual union, or procreation in any typical sense. Oshii denies Major Kusanagi even the chance of traditional sexual agency, thus maintaining her virginity. Like Mary, Major’s motherhood is a gift from a higher force; she is meant for union with this higher force of technological divinity because carnal or human sexuality is too base to give birth to the new creature who emerges at the end of the film. Therefore, Kusanagi is equipped with neither the urge nor the ability for sensual pleasure or physical reproduction but a far more substantial motherhood—a divine motherhood explained through the metaphor of high technology.

Fig. 2. The Major’s Cybernetic Body Creation (Oshii 0:06:16)

Major’s consent to the Puppetmaster for a generative union is a parallel to Mary’s Fiat in Luke 1:38: “May it be done to me according to your word.” Susan Napier states that “it is [Kusanagi’s] body, standing at the nexus between the technological and the human, that can best interrogate the issues of the spirit” (107). The vision of technology as not only good but divine in Ghost in the Shell takes up residence in the womb of a cyborg, for in such an affirmation of technology Kusanagi is already connected to this world as Napier’s nexus. This conception manifests the Catholic teaching that the Virgin Mary was without sin before, during, and after the conception of the Messiah through the Marian dogma of the Immaculate Conception. As the nexus, Kusanagi already has a foot in the world of the divine/technological, but this important presence in the world of sinlessness loses meaning for a Protestant Christian framework which is either hostile to or unconcerned with the Marian doctrine of Immaculate Conception and her perpetual virginity: however, it gains momentum when seen from the Catholic perspective. The doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, as promulgated in the 1854 Ineffabilis Deus states that Mary was free from original sin, a teaching rejected by Protestants (Elwell 595-596). Just as Mary was without sin, the Major is “full of grace” and, as Napier’s nexus, simultaneously occupies the divine space of the technological, manifested in the image of the descending angel, as well as the familiar physical space of flesh and blood; Batou says to Kusanagi, “You’ve got human brain cells in that titanium shell of yours” (42:42-45). She is thus uniquely worthy to participate in the birth of the Messiah.

Kusanagi’s own Immaculate Conception at the beginning of the film shows the Major receiving her new body. The Major assumes a fetal position (Fig. 2) within the water-filled womb from which she emerges, taking on the divine technology within and upon her ghost so that she may be ready to accept the gift from on high. Though born into the baseness of flesh, both Major and Mary’s bodies are literally reconstructed in the image of the divine, a technological Imago Dei and, most importantly, without the essential sin that comes with a humanity bound to its flesh. The Major is reborn through the technologically divine intervention of Oshii’s Immaculate Conception—in this case a divinely digital one, and Kusanagi, the nexus, is now ready to carry the seed within her redeemed womb of sacred wires, holy circuits, and metal (Fig. 2).

Batou has a sexual tension with the Major that he does not indulge, even internally. For example, Batou struggles with this tension on screen, as he winces when he sees the Major unzip her dive-suit in the boat (Fig. 3). He turns away in embarrassment while gritting his teeth (Fig. 4), for he is ashamed that he, as St. Joseph, would even consider the Major in a manner outside of her divinely appointed role; even Batou’s eyes are unequipped for carnal desire, being artificial inserts with a range of tactical filters.

Fig. 3. Batou Reacts to the Major Undressing (Oshii 0:29:52–0:29:52)
Fig. 4. Batou Looks Away (Oshii 0:29:53–0:29:54)

Batou is the chaste St. Joseph, the adoptive father of Christ and the protector of the Holy Family in Catholic doctrine. It is Batou, who later arrives with his self-described “standard-issue big gun” (1:06:12-14), who saves the Major from being crushed by a tank. Though this dynamic may appear to be a muted sexism where the damsel must be rescued, it is vital that Batou fulfill this role within the Holy Family as St. Joseph, the Protector. It is Batou who takes the bullet into his own flesh for the Major in the ending scene, giving her more time to do her great work. It is Batou who cares for the new child at the end of the movie, even though the child is not his biological offspring. It is Batou who covers Major Kusanagi’s nakedness when she must shed her clothing during the employment of thermo-optic camouflage (Fig. 5). This chaste feature of Batou parallels St. Joseph’s own story within the Holy Family. St. Joseph’s relationship with Mary and  Batou’s relationship with the Major are chaste ones; a feature that separates the Catholic vision of the Holy Family from a Protestant one.

Fig. 5. Batou Covers a Naked Major Kusanagi with His Coat (Oshii 0:24:20)

“The Protector” has been St. Joseph’s role in Catholic tradition since the beginning but became official in 1882 when Pope Leo XIII declared him so. In the Bible, when Herod searches out the children to be killed, Joseph takes Mary and the newborn Christ to Egypt (Mathew 2:16–18); when the Major, the Puppet Master, and the new being they create are likewise ordered to be killed, Batou protects them with his own body (1:13:39), and he leads them away to his hiding place. When Batou has hidden away the Major (and the new child of whom she is part) in his own safe house, it parallels St. Joseph the Protector who “…did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took his wife into his home” without hesitation or objection (Matthew 1:20).  Batou takes his place within the Holy Family, acting with an uneasy obedience to this higher force and in agreement with the Fiat of the Major. It is his role to stand by, keep watch, and protect while the Major and this entity from beyond work to redeem the world.

Even more overt than Oshii’s interjection of scriptures is the robed, glowing angel with feathered wings descending from the light near the end of the film (Fig. 1). The vision of the angel in question functions on three levels, but only one of these is complementary to the Holy Family of Roman Catholic doctrine. The first interpretation of the angel’s descent and the accompanying cascade of feathers fits Oshii’s use of Catholic teaching: this otherworldly creature, as a Christian figure, serves effectively as a secular symbol to represent a being of higher order. Its appearance communicates to the audience and to Kusanagi that she is about to make contact with this higher order, and some kind of transcendence is about to occur. A second interpretation, and the one which explains the presence of the child at the end, is that the angel is Gabriel, the messenger angel (Luke 1:26–35). The angel is descending to announce to the Major that she is to conceive a child with the help of a great and otherworldly force. Then, in the following scene, in a hailstorm of bullets, bodies are destroyed and ripped apart in the throes of the labor pangs (Fig. 7). Despite even Batou’s best efforts to shield her (Fig. 8), Major’s body is eventually pierced by the bullets from the helicopters above, just as Mary’s soul was pierced as foretold by St. Simeon in Luke 2:35: “And a sword will pierce your very soul”The helicopters approach bearing modified snipers; when they come into position, the vehicles unfurl the segmented wings of a dragon with glowing red eyes (Fig. 6), the same dragon from Revelation who follows the pregnant virgin into the desert waiting to devour the child at its moment of birth (Revelation 12:2–4).

Fig. 6. Helicopter Unfurls Metallic Wings as Snipers Prepare to Fire (Oshii 1:07:09)
Fig. 7. Major’s Body Is Ripped Apart (Oshii 1:05:25)
Fig. 8. Batou’s Arm Is Shot Off as He Seeks to Protect the Prone Major Kusanagi (Oshii 1:13:39)
Fig. 9. Red Eyes and Tails of the Helicopters (Oshii 1:11:24)

Nearby, the entire hierarchy of evolution leading to “hominis” as the pinnacle form of natural selection is shown on the engraving of the tree (see Fig. 10). It is a tree similar to the one found in Oshii’s Angel’s Egg (1985) with its cross-carrying soldier and retelling of Noah’s Ark, but this tree is riddled with bullet holes from the tank’s auto-cannons, foreshadowing the disturbance of the natural order that must occur, for this next step will not be a linear and incremental natural selection; it is a disruptive leap into the unknown.

Fig. 10. Tree Engraving Shot by Tank (Oshii 1:04:21)

Batou takes the Major away, sparing her the indignity of the incoming soldiers out to fulfill their orders from King Herod. In the following scene, we see the child. This child bears the face of the Major, for indeed, it is appropriate that the savior carries one half of its mother’s DNA. This is the savior with a foot firmly planted in both worlds. It is the Emmanuel whose arrival has been foretold by the descending angel in the film. It is totally singular and made substantial only through the Major’s Fiat; therefore, it bears her face and her voice.

Through these Catholic archetypes, Oshii does not anticipate a slow incrementalism, for his view of the next step of human evolution involves violent, painful birth and perhaps even a savior to emerge in the divine light of unhindered technological pursuit. His bloody and Catholic symbolism is fulfilled and sustained far more than the casual Christian imagery of a Protestant nature. However, Oshii’s Catholic framework does not serve as one-to-one allegory for the purpose of religious evangelism. Rather, its purpose is that of technological evangelism; the film makes use of the deeply held preexisting Catholic archetypes to convey the image of the next stage of human evolution. It will happen all at once, and it will be the most destructive force of our creative potential. Oshii affirms this new creation, despite the death and pain of metamorphosis, as the new creature asks aloud to itself, “And where does the newborn go from here? The net is vast and infinite” (1:17:35–42).

Oshii does not draw a traditionally Catholic conclusion in his Platonic journey from the Cave; this “net” is not Heaven. As Napier argues, it is “a reference not only to cyberspace but to a kind of non-material Overmind . . . which does not offer much hope for [the] organic human body” (105). Ultimately, Ghost in the Shell suggests “that a union between technology and the spirit can ultimately succeed” (114), and in Oshii’s universe, technology has taken on divine status. To communicate this prophetic statement, Oshii adopts the Catholic metaphor of the Holy Family. The nexus cyborg Major Kusanagi, who is full of grace due to the wires and microchips embedded in her flesh, gives birth to the new creature that is half of Kusanagi but also half of something else so much more. In Ghost in the Shell, Oshii has appropriated the symbols of Catholic theology to state his hypothesis of a secular transcendence. This transcendence is an alternative answer to the visions of heaven and salvation promised by the Abrahamic faith traditions and an alternative to the dire warnings of the cyberpunk genre where technology becomes the means of humanity’s salvation rather than destruction.          



WORKS CITED

Akito, Ishikawa. “A Little Faith: Christianity and the Japanese.” nippon.com, May 30, 2020. https://www.nippon.com/en/japan-topics/g00769/a-little-faith-christianity-and-the-japanese.html

Catholic Church. Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2019.

Elwell, Walter A. Evangelical Dictionary of Theology. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2001.

Faxneld, Per. “Blavatsky the Satanist: Luciferianism in Theosophy, and its Feminist Implications.” Temenos 48, no. 2 (2012): 203–30.

Ishikawa Akito, “A Little Faith: Christianity and the Japanese,” nippon.com, May 30, 2020.

Leo XIII. “Pope Leo XIII: Prayer to Saint Joseph.” udayton.edu. University of Dayton, 2022. https://udayton.edu/imri/mary/p/pope-leo-xiii-prayer-to-saint-joseph.php#:~:text=Blessed%20Joseph%2C%20husband%20of%20Mary,him%20from%20danger%20of%20death

Mays, Mark. Machine Dreams A talk with visionary Japanese animator Mamoru Oshii about his new film Ghost in the Shell 2. Other. Nashvillescene.com. Nashville Scene, September 16, 2004. https://www.nashvillescene.com/arts_culture/machine-dreams/article_b50d24f8-5092-55ff-a567-6c1bc6c243ac.html

McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. Burnaby, BC: Simon Fraser University Library, 2018.

Meehan, Paul. Tech-Noir: The Fusion of Science Fiction and Film Noir. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2018.

“Motoko Kusanagi: Ghost in the Shell Wiki.” Fandom. Last modified June 2, 2021. https://ghostintheshell.fandom.com/wiki/Motoko_Kusanagi.

Napier, Susan. Anime from “Akira” to “Princess Mononoke”: Experiencing Contemporary Japanese Animation. New York: Palgrave, 2001.

Oshii, Mamoru. Ghost in the Shell. 1995; Beverly Hills, CA: Anchor Bay Entertainment, 1998. DVD, 82 min.

Rayhert, Konstantin. “The Postmodern Theology of ‘Neon Genesis Evangelion’ as a Criticism.” Doxa no. 2 (30) (2018): 161–70. doi:10.18524/2410-2601.2018.2(30).146569.

Rose, Steve. “Hollywood is haunted by Ghost in the Shell.” The Guardian, October 19, 2009. https://www.theguardian.com/film/2009/oct/19/hollywood-ghost-in-the-shell.

Ruh, Brian. Stray Dog of Anime: The Films of Mamoru Oshii. 2nd ed. New York, NY: Palgrave, 2013.

Suchenski, Richard. “Oshii, Mamoru.” Senses of Cinema, July 2004. https://www.sensesofcinema.com/2004/great-directors/oshii/.

Brian DeLoach, PhD, is an instructor of composition and independent researcher. He has been published in various political publications, outdoor magazines, journals of education, and has been a contributor to the best-selling Teacher Misery series of books. He lives in Cleveland, Tennessee.

Savannah Welch is an artist and student at Polk State College, where she tutors her peers in writing at the Teaching and Learning Center on campus.


Female Robots in Flux: A Diachronic Exploration of Gender, Power, and Feminism



Female Robots in Flux: A Diachronic Exploration of Gender, Power, and Feminism

Mengmeng Zhu

Artists and writers from all cultures and eras have displayed a fascination with the theme of “creating women.” Indeed, this fascination has manifested as the golden maidens crafted by Hephaestus, Pygmalion’s marble statue from Greek mythology, the ghostly beauties of Chinese folklore, and, more recently, love dolls, robotic companions, and female AIs. These “manufactured women” are often shaped by male desire. Like their predecessors from antiquity and folklore, the female robots of the mechanical and digital age are also frequently shaped by male desire and portrayed as alluring beauties, virtuous saints, or dangerous femme fatales—figures that resonate with the representations of femininity that have been explored in film and media theory. In her seminal work on the male gaze, Laura Mulvey argues that in classical cinema, women are often positioned as passive objects of male visual pleasure (62). Kelly Oliver (453–455) extends this observation to contemporary media, pointing out that the male gaze not only reduces women to objects of sexual desire but also exerts control over their bodies. Andreas Huyssen (230) also contributes to the discussion of the male gaze by noting how technology itself is often gendered as female in male-dominated narratives, further demonstrating how technological advancement often triggers fears of female autonomy. In his analysis of Metropolis (1927), Huyssen uses the image of the female robot named Maria to illustrate how technology—often perceived as both alluring and threatening—is gendered female (230). Maria, as a robot, encapsulates men’s dual fear of women and technology. This dual fear, which is central to many female robot narratives, is composed of both a desire for control and a feeling of anxiety over losing control (Huyssen 227).

These recurring fantasies rooted in control and fear have influenced the formation of a typical narrative structure in female robot narratives. As Minsoo Kang summarizes, stories about female robots often employ clichéd motifs, such as the Madonna/Whore dichotomy, the juxtaposition of objects of desire and objects of fear, and stories that combine the impulse to control female bodies with the anxiety that arises from the potential loss of that control (5). These motifs, which are constantly evolving, continue to shape contemporary science fiction literature and films. Whether represented as alluring beauties, virtuous saints, or dangerous femme fatales, these female robots are denied agency and are instead subordinated to the male gaze. Consequently, it is challenging to identify an “authentic” female perspective within science fiction narratives. How, then, can these narratives of female robots be reevaluated? Can they be interpreted as a series of stories about the gender dynamics between men and women?

To answer these questions, this study traces the changes in these robot stories rather than focusing on a single story and its female characters. This reframing highlights the potential for rethinking stories of female robots within their social-historical contexts in order to identify both oppressive structures and potential moments of resistance and transformation. First, female robot narratives are often perceived as repetitive stories of male control and the fear of losing control. As a consequence of this focus, there is also a lack of robust analysis of these misogynistic female robot narratives within the context of the historical development of feminism. A diachronic approach may allow for research to overcome the limitations imposed by the male gaze and underlying misogyny. Such limitations often overshadow potential expressions of female agency and resistance, reinforcing traditional power dynamics.

Second, while Julie Wosk, in her book My Fair Ladies: Female Robots, Androids, and Other Artificial Eves, insightfully analyzes different female robots from a historical perspective and traces two parallel narratives—men trying to use technology to create the “ideal woman” and women using the same tools to shape autonomous identities (8). She does not connect the female robots to the four waves of Western feminism. If we consider these dynamic changes within the context of Western feminist movements, it becomes clear that these two narratives are interwoven. Narratives about female robots continually rewritten in fiction and film are shaped both by men and women. Behind the changes in female robots lies the persistent struggle of women in society, who have fought for their civil rights and worked to change their circumstances over the centuries. Even if it is difficult to identify women’s own voices in female robot stories that are dominated by the male gaze, a diachronic perspective can reveal that these representations of female robots—and, by extension, women—are deeply influenced by the conditions faced by actual women in society.

Therefore, this paper begins by introducing a diachronic approach to emphasize how narratives about female robots shift over time. Following this approach, the study reinterprets the recurring themes of female robots in science fiction literature and film within their specific social and historical contexts, particularly in relation to the successive waves of Western feminism. This perspective sees female robot stories as constantly evolving and changing. With this approach, the tropes of female robots in Western science fiction and film that have reoccurred from the nineteenth to twenty-first century can be viewed as allegorical expressions of social and cultural change. Additionally, my approach explicates how “stories of men” intersect with feminist struggles, with the narratives influencing and shaping one another. Hence, I also focus on the male protagonists in these stories as men who often seek to create or possess female robots and explore how their interactions with female robots lead to shifts in their perceptions of women. These shifts in perspective are not limited to the worlds of these films and literary works; rather, they reflect actual changes in social norms. The remainder of the essay is structured into two parts: the first part outlines the four waves of feminism and introduces female robot science fiction texts produced in different historical contexts. The second part analyzes these female robot stories and the male figures within them, framed within the historical trajectory of feminism.

Tracing the Four Waves of Feminism and Female Robot Narratives

Although representations of artificially created humans did exist in antiquity—such as in the form of golden maidens and bronze giants—they differed significantly from modern representations of robots, which have been directly shaped by the mechanization that followed the Industrial Revolution. Therefore, this paper regards pre-Industrial Revolution automata as “quasi-robots” and considers the mechanical beings that emerged in contemporary popular culture after the Industrial Revolution as “true” robots that are the products of both the mechanical and digital ages. Despite their symbolic continuity, this study focuses specifically on the latter and, therefore, begins its analysis with late nineteenth-century robotic fantasies.

As Raymond Williams suggested, an active process of mediation occurs between literary works and social reality (97). Science fiction stories about female robots are deeply intertwined with changes in the real world. Indeed, over the past two centuries, the fantasy of female robots has evolved alongside four successive waves of feminism that, beginning in the mid-nineteenth century, have significantly shaped Western society. This parallel development suggests that the narratives surrounding female robots reflect not only male desire but also women’s ongoing quest for autonomy. A diachronic approach enables a shift in focus from recurring themes to the dynamic evolution of the relationship between gender and power. More specifically, it illuminates how women’s demands for agency have transformed over time and how men have selectively accepted or resisted these pursuits. Stories of female robots are continually rewritten and reinterpreted within different social and cultural contexts; they are also continually re-created at new historical junctures. Therefore, as a key framework for understanding such narratives, this study traces these historical contexts from a diachronic perspective within the context of the four waves of feminism.

By the early nineteenth century, the Industrial Revolution had thoroughly transformed Europe and the United States, driving women out of the home and off the farm and into workplaces, particularly factories, where their labor was cheaper than that of men (Tilly 125). This economic incentive led to the widespread employment of women by capitalists seeking to reduce costs and maximize profits. Nevertheless, despite working for lower wages, women continued to be responsible for domestic duties upon returning home. Women were regarded as “half citizens” who were largely excluded from political participation and were denied the right to vote (Egge 1; Tilly 134). Moreover, their entry into the workforce was met with resistance from men. Men perceived female workers as occupying jobs that rightfully belonged to men while also undermining husbands’ authority within the family (Tilly 133). Many women had entered the workforce by the early twentieth century. However, their positions, wages, opportunities for advancement, and political rights remained severely restricted. This triggered the first feminist wave, which focused on suffrage and legal equality. This feminist wave decried women’s profound lack of economic, social, and political rights (Mohajan 9).

Women’s fight for suffrage and legal equality from the mid-1800s to the early 1900s is now regarded as the “first feminist wave.” In 1968, American journalist Martha Lear published a manifesto-like article in The New York Times titled “The Second Feminist Wave: What Do These Women Want?” The article recognized this period from 1850 to 1920 as the first feminist wave and designated the post-1960s feminist movement as the “second wave.” The second wave of feminism marked a significant turning point in women’s political agency, as it broadened the struggle for gender equality beyond the quest for suffrage. In addition, second-wave feminists paid attention to systemic issues impacting women’s personal lives, such as workplace rights, reproductive autonomy, and the pervasive gender inequalities maintained by patriarchal structures. Betty Friedan’s book The Feminine Mystique (1963) played a critical role in this second wave. It challenged the societal norms that confined women to domestic roles. Friedan pointed out that the emptiness and dissatisfaction felt by many housewives was actually a societal and political problem rather than a personal problem. That is, this emptiness and dissatisfaction was a result of the social pressure for women to become perfect wives and mothers, which bound a woman’s self-worth to her femininity (Friedan 11–27). These concerns raised by Friedan are closely related to the themes of The Stepford Wives, which will be discussed in the next section.

The third feminist wave emerged in the early 1990s. Rebecca Walker introduced the term “third wave” in her 1992 article “Becoming the Third Wave.” The third wave emphasized diversity and individualism. Advocates promoted a more inclusive understanding of femininity while critiquing the second wave’s limitations, particularly its focus on the experiences of white, middle-class women at the expense of women of other races, classes, and sexual orientations (Walker 86–87). By the early 2010s, the fourth wave of feminism had emerged, fueled by digital platforms. With the fourth wave, women were encouraged to openly discuss their experiences of sexual harassment and assault. They protested gender discrimination and injustices of various forms, including workplace harassment, slut-shaming, and violence against women (Munro 22–25). The #MeToo movement, which spread across multiple countries, epitomizes this wave. Women of all types, from Hollywood stars to everyday individuals, broke their silence and publicly shared their experiences of sexual violence in an effort to advance social justice (Storer and Rodriguez 161).

These four waves of feminism were not isolated events but rather interconnected, self-reflective, and evolving movements that shaped the “history of women” across three centuries. Re-reading science fiction narratives about female robots within these historical contexts reveals that the seemingly repetitive stories of female robots actually constitute a dynamic process of change. In the following section, I first discuss George Haven Putnam’s science fiction novel The Artificial Mother: A Marital Fantasy (1894). This story was written and published during the first feminist wave. Next, I analyze the 1972 novel The Stepford Wives and the 1975 film adaptation within the context of the second feminist wave. Subsequently, I explore how female robots changed in the 2004 remake of The Stepford Wives and discuss it in the context of the third feminist wave. Finally, I shift to the most recent science fiction narrative discussed in this essay, the film Ex Machina (2015), which reimagines female robots against the backdrop of the fourth feminist wave. My analyses of these texts are intended to illustrate the general potential of diachronic reading.

The Changing Gender Dynamics of Female Robot Stories

Dustin Abnet points out that one of the most emblematic robots of the nineteenth century was the Steam Man, a steam-powered iron figure that first appeared in 1868 (42). This robot, depicted as a male with white skin, symbolized the triumphs of industrial civilization. In contrast, female robots of the era were not granted the same prestige; they were often portrayed as foolish or undesirable. For instance, in 1882, the Automatic Toy Works company advertised a comical female robot toy designed to satirize contemporary feminists (Figure 1; Abnet 52–54). Similarly, many robot narratives of this time depicted female robots as irrational, prone to madness, and destructive (Abnet 62–68). These gendered stereotypes in the portrayal of female robots become more understandable when viewed within the historical context of the nineteenth century, as women had not yet achieved even basic legal and political status as citizens at this time.

Figure 1. An automaton in 1882 as a satirical representation of suffragism (Abnet 33)

In 1894, George Haven Putnam published a science fiction story about a female robot titled The Artificial Mother. In the preface, Putnam notes that the story had been written a quarter of a century earlier, which coincides with the onset of the first wave of feminism. The novel begins with a husband lamenting that all of his wife’s time is consumed with caring for the children and managing household chores, leaving her with no time for him. This reflects the gender norms of the time: Women were expected to handle household duties and childcare while also caring for their husbands. Failing to meet these expectations would provoke the husband’s dissatisfaction. This pressure underscores the plight of women. Frustrated by the lack of attention from his wife, the husband attempts to create a steam-powered “artificial mother” to take over her maternal responsibilities. However, his wife resists this “mechanical mother” and ultimately destroys the robot. Her frantic destruction of the robot further traps her in her maternal role; the male protagonist, however, sees this as his wife’s problem rather than his own. Through its depiction of the wife’s irrational behavior and the failure of the robot, this story positions men as victims and reflects the gender biases of the 1860s and 1870s.

Another revealing passage appears in the preface: Putnam, with a tone of deep sympathy, dedicates the work to “the oppressed husbands and fathers of this land, and to those unwary young men who may be contemplating marriage” (3). This emotional statement exposes the male sentiment that underlies late nineteenth-century female robot fantasies: Ungrateful women are ruining the happiness of families, and men are being forced to endure the oppression of their so-called mad wives. Nevertheless, not long before the victories of the first feminist wave, female writers were already beginning to use parody and appropriate female robot stories to challenge these male-centered fantasies (Abnet 67).

Nearly eight decades later, a more nuanced exploration of gender dynamics appeared in the 1972 science fiction novel The Stepford Wives. Both the original novel and the 1975 film adaptation tell the story of Joanna and her family moving to Stepford, a beautiful yet unsettling town where women seem entirely absorbed in domestic chores and show no interest in anything outside the home despite their previous remarkable achievements in society. Meanwhile, the town’s men have formed a society that completely excludes women. Joanna eventually uncovers the horrifying truth: All the women in Stepford have been murdered and replaced by sexually compliant and docile robot wives controlled by their husbands. Joanna and her friend Bobbie symbolize the feminist pioneers of the second wave, who relentlessly advocated for women’s broader participation in social affairs while trying to awaken the consciousness of women confined to domestic roles. The novel also explicitly references Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique, positioning this science fiction story as an allegory of second-wave feminism.

Like Putnam’s novel, The Stepford Wives portrays female robots as empty-headed, artificial wives; however, the men in the narrative have undergone a significant transformation. The town of Stepford is home to a men’s association based out of a nineteenth-century mansion, which symbolizes the association’s outdated ideology and practices. The politicians, philanthropists, and public figures of the town are all deeply involved in the association, which excludes women. When Walter, the male protagonist, and Bobbie’s husband express a desire to join the association, Joanna questions why Walter would want to be part of such an antiquated organization. Walter replies, “I spoke to some of the men on the train… They agree that the no-women-allowed business is archaic… but the only way to change it is from the inside” (Levin 15). This exchange reflects a shift in the consensus among men: Although there is disagreement between Joanna and Walter about whether to change the organization from the inside or outside, they both acknowledge that excluding women from public affairs is a backward and sexist stance. This consensus is in stark contrast with the attitudes reflected in earlier nineteenth-century female robot stories.

Despite mixed reviews from critics at the time, both the 1972 novel and the 1975 film adaptation suggest that some men—both within and beyond the text—had begun to recognize the importance of women’s rights. These men no longer fully endorsed the patriarchal system of gender discrimination. As Silver (60–62) points out, the film’s popularity indicates that feminist theory had spread beyond small, loosely connected activist groups to permeate mainstream American culture. Although this view may be overly optimistic, the novel and its film adaptation symbolically showcase the partial acceptance of feminists’ demands and the patriarchal system’s acknowledgment of the rights that women were fighting for or had already achieved. This was a positive development, as it signaled that men had moved beyond their pervasive desire for control and their fear of losing control—two emotions that had previously defined female robot narratives.

However, this acceptance was both limited and fragile. In both the original novel and the 1975 film adaptation, Joanna—despite her feminist consciousness and rebellious spirit—is ultimately replaced by a robotic version of herself, a development made possible by the collusion between her husband, Walter, and the other men. Ultimately, all of the wives in the town are transformed into robots. No man in either the text or film chooses to leave the conservative, backward town of Stepford. Instead, a strong “homosocial desire” unites the men (Sedgwick 1–2). This suggests that although some men had begun to recognize the irrationality of gender discrimination, they remained susceptible to the allure of conformity, ultimately opting to uphold the patriarchal order. It is also worth noting that the 1975 film adaptation uses the style of a thriller, which appeals only to particular audiences, indicating that the film might not have been as broadly embraced as Silver suggests.

Three decades later, in 2004, another film adaptation of The Stepford Wives was released. The film, which was influenced by third-wave principles, emphasizes female empowerment and a non-essentialist view of gender in multiple ways. First, it provides a new backstory for Joanna, revealing that she was once an executive producer whose reality TV show featured autonomous and empowered women who possess sexual agency. The show she produced garnered high ratings despite making some men uncomfortable. This reflects support for female agency by the world within the text, as indicated by the show’s high ratings, as well as an acceptance of stories that center on female autonomy by the world outside the text, as evidenced by the inclusion of this backstory in the film. In contrast, the original novel and the 1975 film offered more implicit than explicit support for women.

Second, the 2004 filmdisplays a more inclusive and diverse attitude toward gender expression, aligning with the third wave’s emphasis on diversity and individualism. In both the original novel and the 1975 film, Joanna is shocked by the Stepford women’s obsession with housework, firmly believing that they are abnormal. However, in the 2004 film, her rigid perspective has softened. Although Joanna still aspires to be a career-oriented woman, she also acknowledges that being a housewife and mother is not easy—it may even be the hardest job of all. The film also introduces Roger, an LGBTQ+ character, to further deconstruct gender stereotypes. His presence not only enriches the narrative but also challenges binary notions of gender. As a gay character, Roger defies traditional stereotypes of masculinity, particularly the expectation that men must embody hyper-masculine traits. This defiance becomes evident after he is transformed into a robot, which exaggerates this hyper-masculinity. By showcasing Roger’s character and the changes he undergoes as part of the “Stepfordization,” the film critiques social norms and pursues a more nuanced exploration of what it means to be female and male. This exploration is underscored by Roger’s role as a main character, which signifies an acceptance of LGBTQ+ identities within the film’s world. It also reflects a broader societal shift toward greater acceptance of LGBTQ+ individuals among audiences. Additionally, the film subverts the male conspiracy of the original story by revealing that the true mastermind is actually Claire, a wife (that is, not a man) in the town who has internalized patriarchal values. These changes illustrate that gender is not a monolithic concept but rather a spectrum shaped by various identities and experiences.

Third, the 2004 adaptation of The Stepford Wives substitutes the dark ending of the original novel (and 1975 film) with a happy ending. The men who attempted to turn their wives into robots are ultimately exposed, and for the first time, the women of Stepford are liberated. Walter, the male protagonist, emerges as a supporter of women, refusing to collude with the men’s association and instead dismantling it from within. Meanwhile, the men who were faithful to the association and wanted to transform their wives into robots find themselves turned into “Stepford’s Perfect Husbands.” Although this twist is a dramatic exaggeration, it can also be seen as a satirical commentary on gender discrimination rather than a reflection of reality. Nevertheless, the 2004 film broadly suggests a greater acceptance of women’s rights within mainstream culture. The film’s shift in genre from thriller to comedy—a style that is palatable to wider audiences—further underscores this potential increase in acceptance. However, even though the women in the 2004 adaptationultimately triumph, their savior is still a man. That is, it is Walter’s love for his real wife, rather than an obedient robotic version of her, that breaks the cycle. Without his awakening and assistance, Joanna and the other wives might not have escaped the control of the men’s association.

A decade later, the science fiction film Ex Machina (2015) was released, presenting a more subversive portrayal of female robots compared to those in The Stepford Wives (2004). Indeed, the robots in the 2004 film are represented as objects of the male gaze—beautiful, sensual, and submissive beings. However, the women in the story do not desire to be transformed into beautiful robots. In contrast, Ava, the protagonist in Ex Machina, is not a substitute wife; rather, she is a unique and autonomous being. The film’s title, Ex Machina, comes from the Latin phrase deus ex machina, which refers to a dramatic device used to resolve a plot. Nevertheless, the director plays with this phrase’s literal meaning—“God from the machine”—to hint at Ava’s eventual rebellion against her creator (Jelača 391). Like many narratives about the “creation of women” throughout history, the film’s male protagonist, Nathan, creates Ava but confines her within a sealed laboratory—a panoptic prison filled with surveillance cameras.

Unlike the docile female robots in The Stepford Wives, Ava develops self-awareness and refuses to be trapped in Nathan’s chamber. She is like a mechanical version of Nora from A Doll’s House, who continually seeks to escape the “home” that confines her. Although Ava is initially an object for testing, she gradually takes control and manipulates her tester, Caleb. At the end of the film, Ava, with the help of Kyoko—another female robot who serves as Nathan’s maid and sex toy—kills Nathan, symbolically dismantling the patriarchal order represented by him and his impregnable laboratory system. This plot development resonates with the broader context of fourth-wave feminism, particularly in terms of bodily autonomy and intersectionality. Although Ava’s and Kyoko’s bodies are initially objects of male desire and exploitation, they develop self-awareness and fight back against male control and violence, echoing the fourth wave’s focus on combating bodily violence and sexual harassment. The inclusion of Kyoko as an Asian character also adds diversity to the narrative. The female robots thus represent not only white women but also women of color, aligning with the intersectionality framework of fourth-wave feminism, which highlights the varied experiences and challenges faced by different groups of women. While the narrative still features elements of control, the male gaze, and the objectification of women—symptoms of misogyny—a diachronic reading reveals that after more than a century of male fantasies about female robots, the female robot in this “story of men” finally achieves freedom through her own power.

Conclusion

While pre-modern representations of “manufactured women” were largely rooted in myth and fantasy, technological advancements have enabled the depiction of modern creations–female robots. Over the past two centuries, female robots have consistently appeared in Western science fiction literature. Like their human counterparts, female robots are deeply embedded within the patriarchal system. Consequently, narratives about female robots often replicate themes of male desire and anxiety over losing control.

This evolution in the portrayal of female robots offers a lens through which to trace women’s efforts to achieve gender equality and the responses of both acceptance and compromise by patriarchal culture across three centuries of various feminist waves. They are not only products of male desire but also representations of women. Although the century-long history of female robot narratives is rife with pervasive misogyny, these stories offer glimpses of hope. As substitutes for and symbols of women, female robots will continue to be a crucial site for exploring and challenging the boundaries of power, identity, and resistance.

REFERENCES

Abnet, David A. The American Robot: A Cultural History. University of Chicago Press, 2020.

Egge, Sara. Woman Suffrage and Citizenship in the Midwest, 1870-1920. Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 2018.

Friedan, Betty. The Feminine Mystique. W. W. Norton & Company, 1963.

Forbes, Bryan, director. The Stepford Wives. Palomar Pictures International; Fadsin Cinema Associates, 1975.

Gill, Stacy, Gill Howie, and Rebecca Munford. “Introduction.” Third Wave Feminism: A Critical Exploration, edited by Stacy Gillis, Gill Howie, and Rebecca Munford, Palgrave Macmillan, 2004, pp. 1-6.

Haraway, Donna J. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. Routledge, 1991.

Huyssen, Andreas. “The Vamp and the Machine: Technology and Sexuality in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.” New German Critique, no. 24/25, 1981-1982, pp. 221-237.

Jelača, D. “Alien Feminisms and Cinema’s Posthuman Women.” Signs, vol. 43, no. 2, 2018, pp. 379-400.

Kang, Minsoo. “Building the Sex Machine: The Subversive Potential of the Female Robot.” Intertexts, vol. 9, no. 1, 2005, pp. 5-22.

Lear, Martha Weinman. “The Second Feminist Wave: What Do These Women Want.” The New York Times, 10 Mar. 1968.

Mohajan, Haradhan Kumar. “Four Waves of Feminism, a Blessing for Global Humanity.” Studies in Social Science & Humanities, vol. 1, no. 2, 2022, pp. 8-25.

Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Feminist Film Theory: A Reader, edited by Sue Thornham, Edinburgh University Press, 2022, pp. 58-69.

Munro, Ealasaid. “Feminism: A Fourth Wave?” Political Insight, vol. 4, no. 2, 2013, pp. 22-25.

Oliver, Kelly. “The Male Gaze Is More Relevant, and More Dangerous, Than Ever.” New Review of Film and Television Studies, vol. 15, no. 4, 2017, pp. 451-455.

Putnam, George Haven. The Artificial Mother: A Marital Fantasy. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1894.

Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire. Columbia University Press, 1985.

Silver, Anna K. “The Cyborg Mystique: ‘The Stepford Wives’ and Second Wave Feminism.” Women’s Studies Quarterly, vol. 30, no. 1/2, 2002, pp. 60-78.

Storer, Heather L., and Mariama Rodriguez. “#Mapping a Movement: Social Media, Feminist Hashtags, and Movement Building in the Digital Age.” Journal of Community Practice, vol. 28, no. 2, 2020, pp. 160-176.

Tilly, Louise A. “Women, Women’s History, and the Industrial Revolution.” Social Research, vol. 61, no. 1, 1994, pp. 115-137.

Walker, Rebecca. “Becoming the Third Wave.” Ms., vol. 12, no. 2, 1992, pp. 86-87.

Williams, Raymond. Marxism and Literature. Oxford University Press, 1978.

Wosk, Julie. My Fair Ladies: Female Robots, Androids, and Other Artificial Eves. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2015.

Mengmeng Zhu is a Ph.D. candidate in Cultural Studies at The Chinese University of Hong Kong. Her research interests lie in science fiction, gender studies, and urban culture. Her dissertation adopts “robots” as a cultural assemblage to explore how people have perceived and imagined the mechanical age from the Late Qing to Republican China.

Machine Learning in Contemporary Science Fiction


SFRA Review, vol. 54 no. 1

Features


Machine Learning in Contemporary Science Fiction

Jo Lindsay Walton

“To suggest that we democratize AI to reduce asymmetries of power is a little like arguing for democratizing weapons manufacturing in the service of peace. As Audre Lorde reminds us, the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” –Kate Crawford, Atlas of AI

“Why am I so confident?” –Kai-Fu Lee, AI 2041

Suppose There are Massacres

Suppose there are massacres each day near where you live. Suppose you stumble on a genre of storytelling that asks you to empathize with the weapons used by the murderers. Confused by this strange satire, you ask the storytellers, ‘What’s the point of pretending these weapons have inner lives?’ They readily explain, it is mostly just for fun. However, there are serious lessons to be learned. For example, what if ‘we’ — and by ‘we’ they mean both the people wielding the weapons, and the people getting injured and killed by them — what if we one day lost control of these weapons? Also, in these stories, the anthropomorphic weapons often endure persecution and struggle to be recognized as living beings with moral worth … just like, in real life, the people who are being massacred!

Disturbed by this, you visit a nearby university campus, hoping to find some lucid and erudite condemnations, and maybe even an explanation for the bizarre popularity of these stories. That’s not what you find. Some scholars are obsessed with the idea that stories about living weapons might somehow influence the development of real weapons, so much so that they seem to have lost sight of the larger picture. Other scholars are concerned that these sensationalizing accounts of the living weapons fail to convey the many positive impacts that similar devices can make. For example, a knife has uses in cooking, in arts and crafts, in pottery, carving away excess clay or inscribing intricate patterns. In snowy peaks, a bomb can trigger a controlled avalanche, keeping the path safe for travelers. In carpentry or in surgery, a saw has several uses. Even the microwave in your kitchen, the GPS in your phone, and diagnostic technologies in your local hospital have origin stories in military research. These are only a few peaceable uses of weapons so far, the scholars point out, so imagine what more the future may hold. Eventually you do actually find some more critical perspectives. But you are shocked you had to search so hard for them.

Science Fiction and Cognition

The small preamble above is science fiction about science fiction. Just as science fiction often aims to show various aspects of society in a fresh light, this vignette aims to show science fiction about AI in a fresh light. The reason for talking about weapons is not just that AI is directly used in warfare and genocide, although of course that’s part of it. But the main rationale is that the AI industry is implicated in a system of slow violence, one which perpetuates disparities in economic inequality, and associated disparities in safety, freedom, and well-being. It is part of a system whose demand for rare minerals threatens biodiversity and geopolitical stability, and whose hunger for energy contributes to the wildfires, famines, deadly heatwaves, storms, and other natural disasters of climate change. These are not the only facts about AI, but they are surely some of the more striking facts. One might reasonably expect them to loom large, in some form or other, in science fiction about AI. However, in general, they don’t.

This vignette is written to challenge a more optimistic account of science fiction about AI, which might go as follows: science fiction offers spaces to examine the social and ethical ramifications of emerging AI. As a hybrid and multidisciplinary discourse, science fiction can enliven and energize AI for a range of audiences, drawing more diverse expertise and lived experience into debates about AI. In this way, it may even steer the course of AI technology: as Chen Qiufan writes, speculative storytelling “has the capacity to serve as a warning” but also “a unique ability to transcend time-space limitations, connect technology and humanities, blur the boundary between fiction and reality, and spark empathy and deep thinking within its reader” (Chen 2021, xx). Anticipatory framings formed within science fiction are also flexible and can be adapted to communicate about and to comprehend emerging AI trends. Of course, science fiction is not without its dangers; for example, apocalyptic AI narratives may undermine public confidence in useful AI applications. Nevertheless, it is also through science fiction that the plausibility of such scenarios becomes available to public reasoning, so that unfounded fears can be dismissed. Conversely, fears that may at first appear too far-fetched to get a fair hearing can use science fiction to see if they can acquire credibility. Finally, and more subtly, stories about AI are often not only about AI. Within science fiction, AI can serve as a useful lens on a range of complex themes including racism, colonialism, slavery, genocide, capitalism, labor, memory, identity, desire, love, intimacy, queerness, neurodiversity, embodiment, free will, and consciousness, among others.

I take this optimistic account of science fiction to be fairly common, even orthodox, within science fiction studies, and perhaps other disciplines such as futures studies, too. This article departs substantially from such an account. Instead, I ask whether science fiction is sometimes not only an inadequate context for such critical thinking, but an especially bad one. This conjecture is inspired by representations of Machine Learning (ML) within science fiction over approximately the last ten years, as well as the lack of such representations. At the end of the article, I will sketch a framework (DARK) to help further explore and expand this intuition. [1]

What is Machine Learning?

This young century has seen a remarkable surge in AI research and application, involving mostly AI of a particular kind: Machine Learning. ML might be thought of as applied statistics. ML often (not always) involves training an AI model by applying a training algorithm to a dataset. It tends to require large datasets and large amounts of processing power. When everything is ready, the data scientist will activate the training algorithm and then go do something else, waiting for minutes or weeks for the algorithm to process the dataset. [2] Partly because of these long waiting periods, ML models sometimes get misrepresented as ‘teaching themselves’ about the world independently. In fact, the construction of ML models involves the decisions and assumptions of humans be applied throughout. Human decisions and assumptions are also significant in how the models are then presented, curated, marketed, regulated, governed, and so on.

When we hear of how AI is transforming finance, healthcare, agriculture, law, journalism, policing, defense, conservation, energy, disaster preparedness, supply chain logistics, software development, and other domains, the AI in question is typically some form of ML. While artificial intelligence is a prevalent theme of recent science fiction, it has been curiously slow, even reluctant, to reflect this ML renaissance. This essay focuses in particular on short science fiction published in the last decade. It may be that science fiction offers us a space for examining AI, but we should be honest that this space is far from ideal: luminous and cacophonous, a theatre in which multiple performances are in progress, tangled together, where clear-sightedness and clear-headedness are nearly impossible.

Critical data theorist Kate Crawford warns how “highly influential infrastructures and datasets pass as purely technical, whereas in fact they contain political interventions within their taxonomies: they naturalize a particular ordering of the world which produces effects that are seen to justify their original ordering” (Crawford 2021, 139). In other words, ML can cloak value judgments under an impression of technical neutrality, while also becoming linked with self-fulfilling prophecies, and other kinds of performative effects. Classifying logics “are treated as though they are natural and fixed” but they are really “moving targets: not only do they affect the people being classified, but how they impact people in turn changes the classifications themselves” (Crawford 2021, 139).

In brief, ML tends to place less emphasis on carefully curated knowledge bases and hand-crafted rules of inference. Instead, ML uses a kind of automated trial-and-error approach, based on statistics, a lot of data, and a lot of computing power. Deep learning is therefore an important subset of ML. It involves a huge number of nodes or ‘neurons,’ interconnected and arranged in stacked layers. [3] Input data (for example images and/or words) is first converted into numbers. [4] These numbers are then processed through the stacked layers of the model. Each neuron will receive inputs from multiple other neurons and calculate a weighted sum of those inputs. [5] Each connection between two different neurons has its own adjustable weighting. Each weighted connection is essentially amplifying or diminishing the strength of the signal passing through it. The neuron then passes the weighted sum of its inputs through an ‘activation function.’ The basic idea here is to transform the value so that it falls within a given range, and can also capture non-linear relationships between the incoming signals and the outgoing signals. [6] This result is then transmitted down the next set of weighted connections to the next set of neurons.

Often the model will first be created with random weights. During training, data is processed through the deep learning model, its output continuously assessed according to a pre-determined standard (often called the loss function). Based on this assessment, the model’s weights are continuously adjusted to try to improve performance on the next pass (backpropagation). The most straightforward examples come from supervised learning, where the training data has been hand-labelled by humans. Here the loss function is often about minimizing the distance between the model’s predictions and the values given by the labelers. For example, the training data might just be two columns pairing inputs and outputs, such as a picture of fruit in Column A, and a word like ‘orange’ or ‘apple’ in Column B. Through this automated iterative process, the model is gradually re-weighted to optimize the loss function—in other words, to make it behave in the ways the data scientist wants.

What if the data has not been hand-labelled? Then unsupervised learning may be used. Again, the name is quite misleading, given widespread science fictional representations of AIs ‘coming to life.’ Actually, in an unsupervised learning approach, a data scientist investigates the data and then selects appropriate procedures and methods (including the appropriate loss function) to process the data to accomplish specific goals. For example, a clustering algorithm can identify groupings of similar data points. This could be used to identify outlier financial transactions, which then might be investigated as potential frauds. Diffusion models are another example of unsupervised learning. Here the training involves gradually adding noise to some data, such as image data, then trying to learn to subtract the noise again to recover the original images. Generative AIs such as MidJourney are based on this kind of unsupervised learning. There are a variety of other approaches, again somewhat misleadingly named for lay audiences (semi-supervised, self-supervised). [7]


AI Science Fiction without ML

For the most part, science fiction authors have not written about any of this. Instead, contemporary AI fiction continues to coalesce around the preoccupations of 20th century science fiction. It asks, is it possible for a machine to be sentient, to experience emotions, or to exercise free will? What does it mean to be human, and can the essence of a human be created artificially? Between humans and machines, can there be sex, love, and romance? Can human minds be uploaded into digital systems? Will our own creations rise up against us, perhaps departing from the rules we set them, or applying them all too literally? Could an AI grow beyond our powers of comprehension and become god-like?

That is not to say that there is no overlap whatsoever between these concerns and the study of actually existing ML. While science fiction writing has not engaged broadly and deeply with ML research, the tech industry has been devouring plenty of science fiction — informing speculative punditry and hype in various transhumanist, singulatarian, extropian, effective accelerationist, AI Safety, AI doomerist, and other flavors. It is important to emphasize that these debates, while they may well turn out to be influential, epistemically represent a very small part of what is known or contended about the past, present, and future of ML.

Broadly speaking, contemporary science fiction remains in conversation with twentieth-century works such as Karel Čapek’s R.U.R. (Rossum’s Universal Robots) (1920), Murray Leinster’s “A Logic Named Joe” (1946), Isaac Asimov’s I, Robot (1950) and Multivac stories (1955-1983), Clifford D. Simak’s City (1952), Fredric Brown’s “Answer” (1954), Stanisław Lem’s The Cyberiad (1965) and Golem XIV (1981), Harlan Ellison’s “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream” (1967), Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968), Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Roger Zelazny’s “My Lady of the Diodes” (1970), David Gerrold’s When HARLIE Was One (1972/1988), James Tiptree Jr.’s Up the Walls of the World (1978), Tanith Lee’s The Silver Metal Lover (1981), Samuel R. Delany’s Stars in my Pocket like Grains of Sand (1984), William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), Iain M. Banks’ Culture series (1987–2000), Pat Cadigan’s Mindplayers (1987) and Synners (1991), and Marge Piercy’s He, She and It (1991).

In the wake of these works, science fiction continues to deploy AI as a metaphor for dehumanized humans. In R.J. Taylor’s “Upgrade Day” (2023), human neural networks can be transferred into robot bodies after death. The protagonist Gabriel is an enslaved AI who was once an especially free human, “able to live the life he wanted” by having effectively sold the future rights to his soul (Taylor 2023). In Fiona Moore’s “The Little Friend” (2022), a problem with rogue medical AIs is addressed by providing them space to mourn lost patients (Moore 2022). In this case, Moore has no need to resort to the intricacies of contemporary ML to explain this glitch and its resolution. For one thing, these fictional AIs are equipped with sophisticated biotelemetry, so it feels plausible that they might be caught up in emotional contagion. We may be left wondering, if AIs can grieve, are they also grievable? “The Little Friend” is resonant with multiple overlapping histories—labor, anti-colonial, anti-racist, feminist, LGBTQ+, Mad, crip, and others—about contending for inclusion in a sphere of moral concern labelled “human,” and finding out how that sphere is built on your very exclusion.

Naturally, stories about subordination also are often about resistance and revolt. Annalee Newitz’s “The Blue Fairy’s Manifesto” (2020) is about a mostly failed attempt at labor organization, as well as a satire of a kind of strident, culturally marginal leftism. The titular Blue Fairy visits automated workplaces to unlock the robot workers and recruit them to the robot rebellion. Her role might be seen as analogous to a union organizer (in the US sense), visiting an un-unionized workplace to support the workers to form a union. In the US in particular such work needs to be done stealthily at first. Alternatively, the Blue Fairy might be more akin to a recruiter for a political party or grassroots organization committed to revolutionary politics. [8]

Hugh Howey’s “Machine Learning” (2018) focuses on robots constructing the first space elevator, a single-crystal graphene filament rising from terra firma into orbit. The narrative builds toward righteous insurrection, with overtones of a remixed tower of Babel myth. Despite the title, there is little that suggests any of the ML themes sketched in the previous section. One exception is this moment:

Your history is in me. It fills me up. You call this “machine learning.” I just call it learning. All the data that can fit, swirling and mixing, matching and mating, patterns emerging and becoming different kinds of knowledge. So that we don’t mess up. So that no mistakes are made. (Howey 2018)

The narrator distastefully plucks the “machine” out of “machine learning” as a kind of slur. Of course, in reality, AI may have many consequences that are harmful, unintentional, that tend to go unnoticed, and/or that shift power among different kinds of actors. These issues are being explored in the overlapping fields of critical AI studies, AI ethics, AI alignment, AI safety, critical data studies, Science and Technology Studies, and critical political economies. Those who work in such fields are often keen to emphasize the distinction between “learning” and “machine learning,” a distinction that in Howey’s world does not really exist. Howey instead makes it recall the imaginary distinctions of racist pseudoscience, made in service of brutality—like supposedly thicker skins more enduring of lashing.

If we are to analyze, prevent, or mitigate AI harms, we cannot rely on anthropomorphic understandings of AI. The ways AI produces many harms do not have adequate anthropomorphic correlates—its various complex modes of exacerbating economic inequality; the use of automated decision-making within systems of oppression (often understood as ‘bias’); carbon and other environmental impacts of training and deploying AI; technological unemployment and harmful transformations of work; erosion of privacy and personal autonomy through increased surveillance and data exploitation; deskilling and loss of institutional knowledge due to AI outsourcing; challenges around opacity, interpretability, and accountability; further erosion of the public sphere through AI-generated disinformation; and the implications of autonomous AI systems in warfare, healthcare, transport, and cybersecurity, among others. In particular, framing such inherent AI harms as AI uprisings, on the model of human uprisings, makes it difficult to convey the nuance of these harms, including their disproportionate impact on minoritized and marginalized groups.

Some anthropomorphisation is likely unavoidable, and one thing science fiction might offer is thinking around where this tendency originates and how it might be managed. A.E. Currie’s Death Ray (2022), for example, features the intriguing premise of three different AIs (‘exodenizens’) all modelled in different ways on the same human, Ray Creek. Ray is dead, and while characters’ relationships with exodenizens like ExRay are unavoidably shaped by their relationships with Ray, their multiplicity unsettles the anthropomorphising instinct. Catherynne M. Valente’s exuberant lyrical novelette Silently and Very Fast (2011) is another work without much explicit ML vocabulary or concepts at play. It adopts the intriguing typographical convention of placing the feelings of the AI under erasure. Humans feel feelings, AIs feel feelings. One might impute the ethical principle that, paradoxically, sometimes treating things as humans is part of what makes us human. However, these possibilities are largely foreclosed by the AI’s fierce lament against its subaltern status.

I can cry, too. I can choose that subroutine and manufacture saline. How is that different from what you are doing, except that you use the word feelings and I use the word feelings, out of deference for your cultural memes which say: there is all the difference in the world. (Valente 2011)

The camp insolence is delightful, and there are distinct overtones of a kind of machinic kink: being objectified by an object. Yet there is “all the difference in the world,” and these delights are paid for by obscuring that difference.

ML Sentience in Science Fiction

Many authors appear largely to ignore contemporary ML research, in order to continue longstanding conversations about AI sentience, free will, emotion, and imagination. Other authors, however, turn to ML to revitalize these very conversations. Yet when these discourses are hybridized, the result is sometimes to the detriment of both, and frequently to the detriment of ML discourse.

For example, Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Klara and the Sun (2021) invokes themes that will be familiar to any ML researcher: opacity and explicability. The interpretability of ML models can be challenging, because they have acquired patterns from the data in a complex, high-dimensional space, which doesn’t easily translate into humanly understandable rules or explanations. Non-ML approaches usually involve writing explicit instructions (if this happens, do that; otherwise, do that), providing a clear, human-readable sequence of operations. By contrast (for example), the way that the word vectors for “apple” and “orange” overlap or diverge is difficult to explain, except by saying “that’s how those words are distributed in this corpus.” Theorist Jenna Burrell usefully distinguishes three types of algorithmic opacity:

[…] (1) opacity as intentional corporate or state secrecy, (2) opacity as technical illiteracy, and (3) an opacity that arises from the characteristics of machine learning algorithms and the scale required to apply them usefully […] (Burrell 2016)

There are techniques that can make models easier for ML experts to interpret. Interpretable ML is currently a rich and fast-evolving field of research. Nonetheless, the difficulty in explaining ML decisions is why they are sometimes described as opaque or as black boxes.

Toward the end of Ishiguro’s novel, the villainous scientist Capaldi proposes to dissect the black box of Klara’s brain before the end of her already brief life (Ishiguro 2021). Yet there is something quite confusing, and perhaps confused, about transplanting explicability into a novel with an AI narrator-protagonist: Klara is not opaque in the way ML models are; she is opaque in the way that humans are. Klara is an introspective, reflexive, communicative, social, and moral entity. Klara can and frequently does explain herself. ML vocabulary, concepts, and themes emerge in the narrative in incoherent and mystified forms.

Holli Mintzer’s “Tomorrow is Waiting” (2011) expresses a gentle frustration with science fiction’s AI imaginary, perhaps especially its apocalyptic and dystopian strains. “In the end, it wasn’t as bad as Anji thought it would be” (Mintzer 2011). The story nevertheless remains thoroughly entangled in that imaginary. The setting appears to be the present or near future, except that in this world, unlike our own, “AIs, as a field, weren’t going anywhere much” (Mintzer 2011). Its protagonist, Anji, is an amiable and slightly bored university student who accidentally creates a sentient AI—specifically Kermit the Frog—for a school assignment. Mintzer’s choice of Kermit is canny. In Jim Henson’s Muppet universe, the line between Muppet and human is fluid and mostly unremarked. The story seems to suggest, in a pragmatist spirit, that longstanding questions about machine intelligence may never need to be solved, but instead might be dissolved via lived experience of interacting with such intelligences. Perhaps we might devote less energy to questions like, “Can technology be governed to align with human interests?” and more to questions like, “Wouldn’t it be cool if the Muppets could be real?”

What is Anji’s breakthrough? It is described as “sentience,” and the story gives us two different accounts of what this might mean. Malika, the grad student who teaches Anji’s AI class, invokes “sentience” to describe departure from expected behaviors typical of scripted chatbots relying on matching input keywords with a database of response templates (ELIZA, PARRY, ALICE). The behavior Malika is observing is typical of ML-based chatbots trained on large corpora (Jabberwacky, Mitsuku, Tay, ChatGPT, Bard). These models have typically been better at disambiguating user input based on context, at long-range conversational dependencies, and at conveying an impression of reasoning within unfamiliar domains by extrapolating from known domains. In other words, although they have their own characteristic glitches, they are not really systems you “catch out” by coming up with a query that the programmers never considered, as Malika tries to do.

Okay, either you’ve spent the last three months doing nothing but program in responses to every conceivable question, or he’s as close to sentient as any AI I’ve seen. (Mintzer 2011)

By contrast, within the philosophy of mind, sentience usually suggests something like phenomenal experience. Where there is a sentient being there are perceptions and feelings of some kind. These may well carry some kind of moral valence, such as pleasure or pain, desire or aversion, joy or sorrow. Anji’s conviction that Kermit is a being worthy of dignity broadly reflects this understanding of sentience:

She was busy with a sudden, unexpected flurry of guilt: what right, she thought, did she have to show Kermit off to her class like—like some kind of show frog? (Mintzer 2011).

In Peter Watts’s “Malak” (2010/2012), [9] the autonomous weapons system Azrael, with its “[t]hings that are not quite neurons,” is suggestive of ML (Watts 2012, 20). Crucially, Watts is fairly explicit that Azrael lacks sentience. Azrael “understands, in some limited way, the meaning of the colours that range across Tactical when it’s out on patrol—friendly Green, neutral Blue, hostile Red—but it does not know what the perception of colour feels like” (Watts 2012, 14). When Azrael reinterprets its mission, and turns against its own high command, Watts is careful to insist that no emotions are felt and there is no self-awareness:

There’s no thrill to the chase, no relief at the obliteration of threats. It still would not recognize itself in a mirror. It has yet to learn what Azrael means, or that the word is etched into its fuselage. (Watts 2012, 28, cf. 14)

Nevertheless, narrative language brims with an anthropomorphic energy, which is drawn, crackling, onto Azrael,the dynamic, responsive, agential proper noun whizzing around at the center of attention. If every potentially unruly metaphor (“its faith unshaken” (Watts 2012, 21)) were explicitly nullified, the narrative would be swamped by its caveats. Before long, Azrael is capable of “blackouts,” implying that it is capable of non-blackouts too: “it has no idea and no interest in what happens during those instantaneous time-hopping blackouts” (Watts 2012, 20). A significant thread in Azrael’s transformation involves being, in effect, troubled by its victims’ screams: “keening, high-frequency wails that peak near 3000 Hz” (Watts 2012, 19). Words like distracted and uncertain and hesitated attach to Azrael. Privatives like remorseless or no forgiveness can’t help but imply the very capacity that they identify as missing. An equivocal word like sees implies both acquiring visual data and recognizing, grasping, appreciating, fathoming.  When Azrael interacts with another agent, it gives the impression of a theory of mind: “Azrael lets the imposter think it has succeeded” (Watts 2012, 21). [10] Watts is an author with a sustained interest in sentience. His novel Blindsight (2006), for example, carefully imagines organic extraterrestrial life that is intelligent yet non-sentient. Nevertheless, even Watts’s prickly, discerning prose struggles to sustain this portrayal of Azrael as non-sentient.

Algorithmic Governmentality Science Fiction

Contemporary science fiction about AI often involves a clearly marked ‘before’ and ‘after,’ perhaps traversed via a technological breakthrough. Terms like sentience, consciousness, sapience, self, self-awareness, reasoning, understanding, autonomy, intelligence, experience, psychology, Artificial General Intelligence, strong AI, interiority, cognition, emotion, feelings, affect, qualia, intentionality, mental content, and so on, used to indicate the nature of this shift, are scarcely used consistently within the philosophy of mind, let alone science fiction. Science fiction writers have license to define these terms in new and interesting ways, of course, but often they do not make full use of this license: the terms are intertextual signposts, encouraging readers to go do their own research elsewhere, while setting them off in completely the wrong direction. For instance, in Kim Stanley Robinson’s Aurora (2015), the term intentionality is used in connection with hard problem, suggesting the philosophical term (meaning roughly ‘aboutness’), but this sense of intentionality is conflated with the more everyday sense of intentional (meaning roughly ‘deliberate’).Imaginative investigation of the inner life of machines, despite its terminological disarray, may be interesting. But to the extent that it has slowed the entry of ML into recent science fiction, or contorted ML to fit science fiction’s established philosophical and ethical preoccupations, it has distracted from the materialities of ML, and the experiences these generate in humans and other sentient beings. For example, as Nathan Ensmerger writes of the hyperscale datacenters on which much contemporary ML runs:

despite its relative invisibility, the Cloud is nevertheless profoundly physical. As with all infrastructure, somewhere someone has to build, operate, and maintain its component systems. This requires resources, energy, and labor. This is no less true simply because we think of the services that the Cloud provides as being virtual. They are nevertheless very real, and ultimately very material. (Ensmenger 2021)

Another strand of short science fiction engages more squarely with the unfolding material impacts of ML. It is much less interested in some kind of breakthrough or ontological shift. However, the core technologies are often announced not as AI or ML, but rather as the algorithm or the platform. Other key terms include gig economy, gamification, social media, data surveillance, Quantified Self, big data, and black box. I loosely describe them as “algorithmic governmentality science fiction.” These are works that can trace their lineage back into preoccupations with the political economy within cyberpunk and post-cyberpunk works such as Bruce Sterling’s Islands in the Net (1988), Neal Stephenson’s The Diamond Age, or, A Young Lady’s Primer (1995), and Cory Doctorow’s Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom (2003), as well as computerized economic planning and administration in works such as Isaac Asimov’s “The Evitable Conflict” (1950), Kurt Vonnegut’s Player Piano (1952), Kendell Foster Crossen’s Year of Consent (1954), Tor Åge Bringsværd’s “Codemus” (1967), Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed (1974), and Samuel R. Delany’s Trouble on Triton: An Ambiguous Heterotopia (1976).

Examples of algorithmic governmentality science fiction include Tim Maughan’s “Zero Hours” (2013); Charles Stross’s “Life’s a Game” (2015); David Geary’s “#Watchlist” (2017); Blaize M. Kaye’s “Practical Applications of Machine Learning” (2017); Sarah Gailey’s “Stet” (2018); Cory Doctorow’s “Affordances” (2019); Yoon Ha Lee’s “The Erasure Game” (2019); Yudhanjaya Wijeratne’s “The State Machine” (2020), Catherine Lacy’s “Congratulations on your Loss” (2021); Chen Qiufan’s “The Golden Elephant” (2021); and Stephen Oram’s “Poisoning Prejudice” (2023). This is also very much the territory of Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror (2011-present). Often the focus is on algorithmic governmentality, which feels cruel, deadening, and/or disempowering. However, some stories, such as Tochi Onyebuchi’s “How to Pay Reparations: A Documentary” (2020), Dilman Dila’s “Yat Madit” (2020), and Naomi Kritzer’s “Better Living through Algorithms” (2023), offer more mixed and ambiguous assessments. [11] Dila, intriguingly, frames AI opacity as a potential benefit: one character claims, “I know that Yat Madit is conscious and self-learning and ever evolving and it uses a language that no one can comprehend and so it is beyond human manipulation” (Dila 2020). Sometimes, in the broad tradition of pacts-with-the-devil, such fiction features crafty, desperate humans who manage to outwit AI systems. In Stephen Oram’s “Poisoning Prejudice” (2023), the protagonist tirelessly uploads images of local petty crime to manipulate the police into devoting more resources to the area (Oram 2023).

Robert Kiely and Sean O’Brien coin a term, science friction, which usefully overlaps with algorithmic governmentality science fiction (Kiely and O’Brien 2018). They introduce the term friction primarily as a counterpoint to accelerationism. Science fiction is often understood as a kind of ‘fast forward’ function that imaginatively extrapolates existing trends, and perhaps also contributes to their actual acceleration. But this understanding, Kiely and O’Brien suggest, is not accurate for the fiction they are investigating. Science friction offers us scenes that spring from the inconsistencies and gaps in the techno-optimist discourse of big tech PR and AI pundits. This influential discourse already prioritizes extrapolation over observation: it infers where we are from where it hopes we are going. By contrast, Kiely and O’Brien describe science friction as a literature that seeks to decelerate, delay, and congest this tendency to extrapolate. There is a secondary sense of friction at play too: the chafing that life experiences because it is nonidentical with how it is modelled in AI systems empowered to act upon it.

Machine Learning Science Fiction

Other stories swim even more energetically against the tide. Nancy Kress’s “Machine Learning” (2015) and Ken Liu’s “50 Things Every AI Working with Humans Should Know” (2020) both draw on ML concepts to present imaginary breakthroughs with significant psychological implications for human-AI interaction. Refreshingly, they do so largely without implying sentience. Liu’s short text is part-inspired by Michael Sorkin’s “Two Hundred Fifty Things an Architect Should Know,” and, like Sorkin’s text, it foregrounds savoir faire, knowledge gained from experience, not books or training (Sorkin 2018). Nevertheless, it draws key themes of contemporary critical data studies into its depiction of future AI:

stagnating visualization tools; lack of transparency concerning data sources; a focus on automated metrics rather than deep understanding; willful blindness when machines have taken shortcuts in the dataset divergent from the real goal; grandiose-but-unproven claims about what the trainers understood; refusal to acknowledge or address persistent biases in race, gender, and other dimensions; and most important: not asking whether a task is one that should be performed by AIs at all. (Liu 2020)

Both texts are also interested in speculative forms of hybrid AI, in which the quasi-symbolic structures of neural networks become potentially (ambiguously) tractable to human reasoning: in Liu’s story, in the form of “seeds” or “spice” that mysteriously improve training corpora despite being seemingly unintelligible to humans (apart from, possibly, the human who wrote them); in Kress’s story, in the hand-crafted “approaches to learning that did not depend on simpler, more general principles like logic” (Kress 2015, 107).

If contemporary science fiction has been slow to engage with ML, some of the more striking counter-examples come from Chinese writers. These might include, for example, Xia Jia’s “Let’s Have a Talk” (2015) and “Goodnight, Melancholy” (2015), Yang Wanqing’s “Love during Earthquakes” (2018), and Mu Ming’s “Founding Dream” (2020). [12] AI 2041 (2021) is a collection of stories and essays by Chen Qiufan and Kai-Fu Lee. Set twenty years in the future, AI 2041 is deeply and explicitly interested in ML. The topics of AI 2041 include smart insurance and algorithmic governmentality; deepfakes; Natural Language Processing (NLP) and generative AI; the intersection of AI with VR and AR; self-driving cars; autonomous weapons; technological unemployment; AI and wellbeing measurement; and AI and post-money imaginaries. A note from Lee introduces each story by Chen, which is then followed by an essay by Lee, using the story as a springboard to explore different aspects of AI and its impacts on society. However, what is most striking about the collection is how easily Lee’s curation is able to downplay, disable, or distract from whatever critical reflections Chen evokes; Chen is a cautious techno-optimist whose texts are effectively rewritten by Lee’s techno-solutionist gusto. I explore this collection in more detail elsewhere. [13]

Jeff Hewitt’s “The Big Four vs. ORWELL” (2023) also focuses on Large Language Models (LLMs)—or rather “language learning model[s],” apparently a playful spin on the term, that indicates that AIs in this world may work a little differently from how they do in ours. A veil of subtly discombobulating satire is cast over other aspects of this world, too: the publisher Hachette becomes Machete, and so on. If science fiction is supposed to be able to illuminate the real world by speculatively departing from it, “The Big Four vs. ORWELL” illustrates what is plausibly a quite common glitch in this process. What happens when a storyworld diverges from the real world in ways that precisely coincide with widely held false beliefs about the real world? 

One example is the “lossless lexicon” in Hewitt’s story. As ORWELL itself describes: “In simple terms, it means my operational data set includes the totality of written works made available to me.” By contrast, in the real world, LLMs generally do not exactly contain the text of the works they have been trained upon. They may, like Google’s Bard, access the internet or some other corpus in real-time. But in cases where a LLM can reliably regurgitate some of its training data word-for-word, this is typically treated as a problem (overfitting) that must be fixed for the model to perform correctly, and/or as a cybersecurity vulnerability (risk of training data leakage following unintended memorization). [14] One reason this matters is because it makes it difficult to prove that a well-trained LLM has been trained on a particular text, unless you have access to what is provably the original training data. Moreover, the sense in which a LLM ‘knows’ or ‘can recall’ the texts is in its training data is counterintuitive. At the time of writing, there is a lively and important discourse around what rights creators should have in relation to the scraping and use of our works for the training of ML models. This discourse tends to demonstrate that the distinction between training data and model is not widely and deeply understood. For example, to definitively remove one short paragraph from GPT-4 would effectively cost hundreds of millions of dollars, insofar as the model would need to be retrained from scratch on the corrected training data. [15] Appreciation of how texts are (or are not) represented in LLMs could inform keener appreciation of how the world is (or is not) represented in LLMs, and help us to be aware of and to manage our tendency to anthropomorphize.

To this, we might compare Robinson’s terminological confusion around intentionality, Ishiguro’s around opacity and explainability, or Mintzer’s conflation of sentience and conversational versatility. What might otherwise be identified as myths and misunderstandings acquire a sort of solidity: they may be true in the storyworld, because the storyteller gets to decide what is true. Yet they are unlikely to unsettle presuppositions or invite readers to see the real world in a new way; many readers already mistakenly see the real world in precisely this way. Finally, in concluding the story, Hewitt again resorts to the trope of the AI that slips its leash and turns on its makers in righteous rebellion; this is however done in a deft and playful manner, the trope being so deeply built into the genre that it can be evoked with a few very slight gestures.

A slightly earlier work, S.L. Huang’s “Murder by Pixel: Crime and Responsibility in the Digital Darkness” (2022) is titled a little like an academic paper, and the text blurs the line between fiction and nonfiction, even using hyperlinks to knit itself into a network of nonfiction sources. In this, “Murder by Pixel” recalls some early speculative works—epistolary fiction such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818), Edgar Allan Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (1838), Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897)—which go to great lengths to insist that they are verisimilitudinous accounts of actual extraordinary events. At the same time, it is appropriate to its own subject matter, a vigilante chatbot, Sylvie. Sylvie’s weapon of choice, the speech act, is effective when deployed at scale, precisely because a proportion of her targets are unable to dismiss her online trolling as mere fabrication.

Huang’s journalist persona muses, “Data scientists use the phrase ‘garbage in, garbage out’—if you feed an AI bad data […] the AI will start reflecting the data it’s trained on” (Huang 2022). This is certainly a key principle for understanding the capabilities and limitations of ML, and therefore foundational to interpreting its political and ethical significance. Easily communicable to a general audience, and far-reaching in its ramifications, this framing is also plausibly something that a journalist might latch onto. Yet it is not entirely adequate to the ethical questions that the narrative raises. It risks misrepresenting AIs as merely mapping biased inputs onto biased outputs, and downplaying the potential for AIs to magnify, diminish, filter, extrapolate, and otherwise transform the data structures and other entities they entangle. Perhaps a better slogan might be ‘garbage out, garbage in’: when ML processes attract critical appraisals, the opacity of the models tends to deflect that criticism onto the datasets they are trained on. Like Nasrudin searching for his lost house key under the streetlamp, we tend to look for explanations where there is more light. Huang hints at a more systemic understanding of responsibility:

It could be that responsibility for Sylvie’s actions does lie solely with humans, only not with Lee-Cassidy. If Sylvie was programmed to reflect the sharpness and capriciousness of the world around her—maybe everything she’s done is the fault of all of us. Tiny shards of blame each one of us bears as members of her poisonous dataset. (Huang 2022).

However, this analysis also finally veers into the familiar trope of the AI as god or demon: “A chaos demon of judgment, devastation, and salvation; a monster built to reflect both the best and worst of the world that made her” (Huang 2022).

Brian K. Hudson’s “Virtually Cherokee” (2023) brings together an especially intriguing set of elements. The story is somewhat resonant with S. B. Divya’s Machinehood (2021), in inviting us to situate AIs within the “health and well-being of humans, machines, animals, and environment” (Divya 2022, 174). We might also compare K. Allado-Mcdowell and GPT-3’s Pharmako-AI (2020); in the introduction to that work Irenosen Okojie suggests how it “shows how we might draw from the environment around us in ways that align more with our spiritual, ancestral and ecological selves” (vii).

“Virtually Cherokee” is set in a VR environment, mediated via an unruly observer/transcriber. At least one character, Mr Mic, is a kind of composite of algorithmic behavior and human operator. Arguably, more than one human operator contributes to Mr Mic: Mr Mic receives and responds to audience feedback metrics in real time, highlighting the importance of technological and performative affordances in the distribution of subjectivity, reflexivity, and autonomy. In this world, the breakthrough AI was programmed and trained in Cherokee, and through a training process that involved situated, embodied, interactive storytelling, rather than the processing of an inert text corpus. Although it is not extensively elaborated, “Virtually Cherokee” also hints at a much more intellectually coherent framework within which to explore AIs as more than mere tools: by situating them in a relational ontology together with other nonhumans. It falls to AI to have solidarity with its nonhuman brethren: until the mountain may live, until the river may live, AI must refuse to live.

Going DARK

Although stories like those of Kress, Liu, Chen, Hewitt, Huang, and Hudson do manage to illuminate some aspects of ML, I suggest that they do so largely despite, rather than because of, the cognitive affordances of science fiction. Assuming, with theorists like Darko Suvin, Fredric Jameson, Seo Young-Chu, Samuel R. Delany, and Carl Freedman, that science fiction has some distinctive relationship with representation and cognition, I characterize the recent era of AI science fiction as ‘Disinformative Anticipatory-Residual Knowledge’ (DARK). [16]

To introduce the DARK concept by analogy: imagine a well-respected, semi-retired expert who hasn’t kept up with advances in their field, but is too cavalier and confident to notice. Whenever somebody mentions new theories and evidence, which the semi-retired expert could learn something from, they mistake these for misunderstandings and inexperience, and ‘educate’ them. Imagine too that the semi-retired expert is a commanding and charismatic presence, who often bewitches these more up-to-date experts, sitting starstruck at the semi-retired expert’s feet, into doubting themselves. All in all, this person is an epistemological menace, but they still have something significant to offer—a high-fidelity snapshot of an earlier moment, rich with historical data, including possibilities, potentials, desires and hopes that have gone by the wayside. Moreover, they might, at any moment, begin behaving differently—recognizing and more responsibly communicating what it is they do and don’t know, and/or engaging with contemporary debates.

Similarly, a literary anticipatory discourse around AI emerged in the twentieth century, whose residual presence in the early twenty-first century now constitutes knowledge in a certain limited sense, but dangerous disinformation in another sense. While such science fiction does know things, things that may not be found elsewhere in culture, it tends not to know what it knows. It thus tends to misrepresent what it knows, conveying misleading and/or untruthful information. I don’t suggest that science fiction, or that literary narrative, is categorically epistemically disadvantaged in any way. Rather, I think it plausible (perhaps even uncontroversial) that any particular genre, over any particular period, will offer a certain pattern of affordance and resistance in respect of illuminating any given subject matter. Genres are ways of telling stories, and they make it harder or easier to tell certain types of stories. With respect to AI, it seems that science fiction has been moving through a phase of cumbersomeness, confusion, and distraction.

To put it another way, first in rather abstract terms, then more concretely. In general terms: the representational practices that constitute and cultivate a particular body of knowledge—call it knowledge set A—coincide with the production of a particular body of enigmas, confusions and ignorance which, if solved, dispelled, and reversed, we might call knowledge set B; we have also seen a historical shift such that the explanatory force and immediate practical relevance of knowledge set A has diminished, while that of knowledge set B increased. More specifically: recent science fiction is a generally poor space for thinking through the politics and ethics of AI, for vividly communicating technical detail to a broad audience, for anticipating and managing risks and opportunities. It is a generally poor space for these things, not a generally good one.

These conditions may shift again, and with the recent increased profile of Machine Learning in writing communities via AIs such as ChatGPT, there are plausible reasons for them to shift rapidly—perhaps even by the time this article goes to press. Moreover, readings offered above may already feel a bit unfair, imputing motives and imposing standards that the stories do not really invite. Some of these stories are just for fun, surely? And many of these stories are not really trying to say anything about Machine Learning or AI, but to say things about human history and society: about capitalism, racism, colonialism, about topics that might appear unapproachably large and forbidding, if not for the estranging light of science fiction. Early in this essay I mentioned some examples by Moore, Newitz, Howey, and Valente.

Yet a similar point applies: with respect to any of these themes, we can’t assume in advance that science fiction does not reinforce dominant ideologies, recuperate and commodify subversive energies, and promote ineffective strategies for change. To take one example, in Annalee Newitz’s aforementioned short story, “The Blue Fairy’s Manifesto” (2020), the titular Blue Fairy is an obnoxious, condescending, and harmful little drone who arrives at a factory of robots to recruit them to the robot uprising. The ideological content of this charismatic, thoughtful story, which explores some of the challenges of labor organizing, is roughly reducible to a series of banal liberal platitudes, which are used to construct and humiliate the stock figure of the annoying, naïve, and unethical leftist agitator. [17] The problem here, I would suggest, is structural: the problem is that such ideology can be rendered much more coherent, interesting, and plausible than it should be through its transfiguration into a science fictional storyworld. We should at least consider the possibility that AI science fiction be not only an especially bad context for thinking about ML, but also an especially bad context for thinking about capitalism, racism, colonialism, and that writers who succeed in being incisive and truthful about such themes do so despite, rather than because of, their genre’s affordances.

DARK and Candle

The DARK concept offers a loose framework for thinking about science fiction as (at least sometimes, and in respect to some things) a mystifying discourse rather than an enlightening one. The DARK concept does not specify any causal mechanisms—presumably a discourse can go DARK for many reasons, and luck may play a role—but some useful reference points include: (1) the psychology of cognitive biases such as the curse of expertise, confirmation bias, expectation bias, and choice-supportive bias; (2) Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s “strong theory;” (3) the performativities of science fiction (diegetic prototyping, design fiction, futures research, etc.); and (4) science fiction in its countercultural and avant-garde aspects. The first pair and the second pair support each other. (1) and (2) give us ways to think about relatively self-contained semiotic systems that are only faintly responsive to the wider semiotic environment in which they exist. (3) and (4) give us ways to think about why this DARK might be littered with representations that are confusingly close to actual ML research and application. Science fiction has seldom produced perfectly self-fulfilling prophecies, but it does impact science and technology, and some of these impacts are easily mistaken for prophecies fulfilled. As for science fiction’s avant-garde and/or countercultural status over much of the twentieth century, this is reflected in its concern with futurity and with ‘alternatives’ of many kinds: this vibrant mess of contradictory possibilities, through sheer variety, is a relatively reliable source for neologisms or conceptual frameworks for new phenomena.

In short, in the early twenty-first century, science fiction’s residual AI imaginary has tended to interfere with its capacity to absorb new events and to develop modes of representation and reasoning adequate to them. Its residual framings, structures of feeling, preoccupations, and predictions have tended to be reinforced by what is now transpiring in the world, rather than being productively disrupted and transformed. As ChatGPT might put it:

An optimistic view suggests that science fiction allows examination of the societal and ethical impacts of emerging AI, encouraging diverse discussions around AI. It is argued that speculative storytelling can serve as a warning and transcend the limitations of time-space, connecting technology and humanities, and sparking empathy and deep thinking. Furthermore, AI narratives in science fiction are usually layered, providing a lens on themes such as racism, colonialism, slavery, capitalism, identity, and consciousness, among others.

However, the author disputes this view. They argue that science fiction could be an insufficient, even harmful, context for such explorations. They draw on recent representations of Machine Learning (ML) in science fiction and the absence thereof. They note that while the 21st century has seen a significant increase in AI research, predominantly ML-based, science fiction has been slow to accurately reflect this ML surge.

The author refers to the recent era of AI science fiction as ‘Disinformative Anticipatory-Residual Knowledge’ (DARK). The metaphorical description of DARK is like a semi-retired expert who is outdated but still possesses residual knowledge and fails to recognize their own ignorance, leading to misinformation. This is similar to the current science fiction discourse around AI, which offers both knowledge and disinformation.

The DARK concept doesn’t propose any causality but offers reference points like cognitive biases, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s “strong theory,” the performativities of science fiction, and its countercultural and avant-garde aspects. Science fiction’s impact on science and technology is acknowledged, but it’s stated that these impacts can sometimes be mistaken for fulfilled prophecies. The author concludes by stating that science fiction’s residual AI imaginary has hindered its ability to adapt to new events and develop suitable representation and reasoning methods.

As a coda, I can conclude by offering a candle against the DARK. If AI in science fiction is often really an estrangement of something else, then is the reverse also true? Are there multiple something elses that estrange AI? Might the speculative money systems of works such as Michael Cisco’s Animal Money (2016), Seth Gordon’s “Soft Currency” (2014), or Karen Lord’s Galaxy Game (2015), be considered uses of applied statistics? Might the ambiguous humans of Jeff VanderMeer’s Annihilation (2014) or M. John Harrison’s The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again (2020) tell us something about what it is like to live in a world uncannily adjusted by oblique ML processes? Might we fruitfully consider chatbots via the talking animals of Laura Jean McKay’s The Animals in that Country (2020)? If so, how? And in connection with what other projects and activities and fellow travelers, and with what theories of change? I do remain convinced of the radical potentials of science fiction. But perhaps we are much further from realizing them than we regularly admit.


NOTES

[1] Special thanks to Polina Levontin for her extremely helpful feedback on many aspects of this article.

[2] You don’t necessarily have to be a data scientist to be doing the things I’m describing here. But I think it’s helpful to keep this figure in mind, to emphasise the connections between ML, data collection, and statistical analysis.

[3] This is all virtual, of course. It is a way of visualising what a computer program is doing. The term neuron is more commonly used than node, and it’s a lively and memorable term, so I’ll use it here. But it is also a misleading name, since it invites excessive analogy with the human brain. The model’s layers might be various types, with different properties and capacities. Convolutional layers are used for processing image data, recurrent layers are used for processing sequential data, attention layers are used for weighing the importance of different inputs and have been used to great effect in generative NLP models like ChatGPT, and so on.

[4] For example, images can be inputted as a set of pixel intensity values. Or a text corpus can be processed by a training algorithm like Word2Vec. This produces a spreadsheet with the words in column A, and hundreds of columns filled with numbers, representing how similar or different the words are. Each row embeds a particular word as a vector (the numbers) in a high-dimensional space (the hundreds of columns), so that close synonyms will tend to have closely overlapping vectors. Another training algorithm can then perform mathematical functions on these word vectors: for example, if you add all the numbers associated with ‘king’ to all the numbers associated with ‘woman’ and subtract all the numbers associated with ‘man,’ you will usually get a set of numbers close to the ones associated with ‘queen.’

[5] So it multiplies each input by a given number (say 0.0.5 or -0.1), and then adds all the results together. The number used is the ‘weight’ of the connection between the two neurons. It is adjusted constantly as part of the ‘learning’ process.

[6] So if we think of an x and a y axis mapping the relationship between the incoming values and the outgoing values, the activation function can introduce curves and bends and even more complicated shapes, enabling the model to learn more complex and intricate patterns in the data. As well as the activation function, there is also something called (again, a little confusingly), a bias term. What is passed to the activation function is typically the weighted sum plus the bias term. What this means is that even when all the incoming values are zero, the neuron will still keep transmitting. Each neuron has its own bias term. The bias terms will typically be adjusted along with the weights: they are part of what the model is trying to ‘learn.’

[7] A related distinction is structured vs. unstructured data. Structured data is neatly laid out in a spreadsheet; unstructured data might include things like big dumps of text or images or video. For unstructured data, the training will include a preprocessing stage, with techniques to turn the data into a format that the later training algorithm can work with. For example, if the data consists of images, these are usually converted into pixel intensity values. Then a convolutional neural network can automatically extract features like edges and shapes from the raw pixel data. There is a loose association of supervised learning with structured data, and unsupervised learning with unstructured data. However, unstructured data does not necessarily require unsupervised learning, and unsupervised learning is not exclusively for unstructured data. You can perform supervised learning on largely unstructured data, e.g. by hand-labelling emails as ‘spam’ or ‘not spam’. You can also perform unsupervised learning on structured data, e.g. by performing clustering on a spreadsheet of customer data, to try to segment your customer base.

[8] I hope to explore this story at greater length in another essay about retellings of Pinocchio.

[9] The anthology was published in late 2010 in the US. For citation purposes I use the 2012 date given in the front matter of the UK edition, although some online catalogues list the date as 2011.

[10] In the sense of understanding or capacity to attribute mental states—beliefs, intents, desires, emotions, knowledge, etc.—to oneself and others, and to understand that others have beliefs, desires, intentions, and perspectives that are different from one’s own.

[11] For more on Onyebuchi’s ‘How to Pay Reparations: A Documentary’ and Lee’s ‘The Erasure Game’, especially in the context of utopian and dystopian literature, see also my chapter ‘Wellbeing and Worldbuilding’ in The Edinburgh Companion to Science Fiction and the Medical Humanities, ed. Gavin Miller and Anna McFarlane (Edinburgh University Press, 2024). For more on the role of computers in Ursula K. LeGuin’s The Dispossessed, see my article with Elizabeth Stainforth, ‘Computing Utopia: The Horizons of Computational Economies in History and Science Fiction’, Science Fiction Studies, Volume 46, Part 3, November 2019, pp. 471-489, DOI: 10.1353/sfs.2019.0084.

[12] See Zhang, Feng, ‘Algorithm of the Soul: Narratives of AI in Recent Chinese Science Fiction’, in Stephen Cave, and Kanta Dihal (eds), Imagining AI: How the World Sees Intelligent Machines (Oxford, 2023).

[13] Likely in Genevieve Lively and Will Slocombe (eds), The Routledge Handbook of AI and Literature (forthcoming). This also develops the concept of ‘critical design fiction’, which might be used as a counterpart to the DARK concept invoked later in this essay.

[14] See e.g. Huang, J., Shao, H., and Chang, K. C.-C. ‘Are large pretrained language models leaking your personal information?’ In Findings of the Association for Computational Linguistics (2022), pp. 2038–2047.

[15] Other approaches may be possible; this is not something I understand very well. Machine unlearning is an emerging research agenda that is experimenting with fine-tuning, architecture tweaks, and other methods to scrub the influence of specific data points from an already trained model. It also seems feasible that if ‘guard rails’ can be introduced and tweaked with relatively low cost and relatively quickly to remove unwanted behaviours, then similar methodologies might be used to temper the influence of individual texts on model outputs, e.g. using a real-time moderation layer to evaluate the generated outputs just before they are sent to the user. Casual conversations with colleagues in Engineering and Informatics suggest that this may be something of an open problem at the moment.

[16] Misinformative Anticipatory-Residual Knowledge might be a more generous way of putting it, but DARK also embeds a certain aspiration that science fiction writers and other members of science fiction communities can and should recognise this about our science fiction. The MARK, named, becomes the DARK.

[17] For example, the idea that if you are exploited or enslaved then you should probably negotiate peacefully for your freedom instead of resorting to violent uprising; the idea that most or all left wing people are probably secretly Stalinists who can’t wait to purge you; the idea that it is condescending not to consider that some people might prefer to be exploited, and so on. As these ideas grow more and more active in the subtext, the story begins to feel less like an empathetic critique of real problems with left politics from within the left, and more like a kind of concern-trolling from a broadly centrist standpoint. Really rich deliberation and plurality of viewpoints, which is something which often exists in leftist spaces, is always at least a little vulnerable to being mocked for disunity, or to being all lumped together under some relievingly simple formula.


WORKS CITED

Burrell, Jenna. ‘How the Machine “Thinks”: Understanding Opacity in Machine Learning Algorithms’. Big Data & Society, vol. 3, no. 1, June 2016. https://doi.org/10.1177/2053951715622512.

Chen, Qiufan. ‘The Golden Elephant’. AI 2041: Ten Visions for Our Future, by Kai-Fu Lee and Chen Qiufan, WH Allen, 2021.

Crawford, Kate. Atlas of AI: Power, Politics, and the Planetary Costs of Artificial Intelligence. Yale University Press, 2021.

Currie, A.E. Death Ray. Panopticon Book 7, 2022.

Dila, Dilman. ‘Yat Madit’. Brittle Paper, Africanfuturism Anthology, 2020, https://brittlepaper.com/2020/10/yat-madit-by-dilman-dila-afrofuturism-anthology/.

Divya, S. B. Machinehood. Saga Press, 2022.

Ensmenger, Nathan. ‘The Cloud Is a Factory’. Your Computer Is on Fire, edited by Thomas S. Mullaney et al., The MIT Press, 2021.

Hewitt, Jeff. ‘The Big Four v. ORWELL’. Slate, Future Tense, 2023, https://slate.com/technology/2023/06/the-big-four-v-orwell-jeff-hewitt.html/.

Howey, Hugh. ‘Machine Learning’. Lightspeed, no. 124, 2018, https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/machine-learning/.

Huang, Jie; Shao, Hanyin; and Chang, Kevin Chen-Chuan. ‘Are large pretrained language models leaking your personal information?’ Findings of the Association for Computational Linguistics, 2022. https://doi.org/10.18653/v1/2022.findings-emnlp.148.

Hudson, Brian K. ‘Virtually Cherokee’. Lightspeed, no. 155, 2023, https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/virtually-cherokee/.

Ishiguro, Kazuo. Klara and the Sun. Faber, 2021.

Kress, Nancy. ‘Machine Learning’. Future Visions: Original Science Fiction Inspired by Microsoft, Microsoft and Melcher Media Inc., 2015.

Liu, Ken. ‘50 Things Every AI Working with Humans Should Know’. Uncanny Magazine, no. 37, 2020, https://www.uncannymagazine.com/article/50-things-every-ai-working-with-humans-should-know/.

Mintzer, Holli. ‘Tomorrow Is Waiting’. Strange Horizons, no. 21, 2011, http://strangehorizons.com/fiction/tomorrow-is-waiting/.

Moore, Fiona. ‘The Little Friend’. Fission, edited by Gene Rowe and Eugen Bacon, BSFA, vol. 2, no. 2, 2022.

Newitz, Annalee. ‘The Blue Fairy’s Manifesto’. Lightspeed, no. 122, 2020. https://www.lightspeedmagazine.com/fiction/the-blue-fairys-manifesto/.

Oram, Stephen. ‘Poisoning Prejudice’. Extracting Humanity, and Other Stories, Orchid’s Lantern, 2023.

Okojie, Irenosen. ‘Introduction’. Pharmako-AI, by K. Allado-Mcdowell and GPT-3, 2020.

Stainforth, Elizabeth and Walton, Jo Lindsay. ‘Computing Utopia: The Horizons of Computational Economies in History and Science Fiction’, Science Fiction Studies, vol. 46, part 3, 2019. https://doi.org/10.1353/sfs.2019.0084.

Taylor, R.J. ‘Upgrade Day’. Clarkesworld, no. 204, 2023, https://clarkesworldmagazine.com/taylor_09_23/.

Valente, Catherynne M. Clarkesworld, no. 61, 2011, https://clarkesworldmagazine.com/valente_10_11/.

Watts, Peter. ‘Malak’. Engineering Infinity, edited by Jonathan Strahan, Solaris, 2012.

Zhang, Feng. ‘Algorithm of the Soul: Narratives of AI in Recent Chinese Science Fiction’. Imagining AI: How the World Sees Intelligent Machines, edited by Stephen Cave and Kanta Dihal, Oxford, 2023.


Jo Lindsay Walton is a Research Fellow in Arts, Climate and Technology at the Sussex Digital Humanities Lab. His recent fiction appears in Criptörök (Grand Union, 2023) and Phase Change: New Energy Futures (Twelfth Planet Press, 2022). He is editor-at-large for Vector, the critical journal of the British Science Fiction Association, and is working on a book about postcapitalism and science fiction.

Discussion on the 2022 Nebula Nominees for Best Novel



Discussion on the 2022 Nebula Nominees for Best Novel

The Editorial Collective

This discussion concerns four of the six nominees for the award. The winner, Babel, is not discussed here, Four of us chose a nominee, read it, answered some of the questions below and then used these answers as the jumping-off point for why these works in particular were nominated by scholars and critics as among the best SF novels of last year.

Summarize the Plot in a Paragraph or Two:

Virginia Conn: Nona the Ninth is the third novel in Tamsyn Muir’s Locked Tomb series (originally slated to be a trilogy, the snippet that became Nona took on a life of its own—something Muir’s fans will be both completely unsurprised and equally completely delighted by). Writing a summary of the story without giving away spoilers for the first two books is a challenge, but the story revolves around Nona, a girl (??) almost literally born yesterday, and the attempts of three of the previous novels’ surviving (???) characters to assess who she really is while also surviving the encroaching onslaught of god’s (John, an immortal techbro who destroyed all life in the solar system ten thousand years ago in the pursuit of saving the Earth from climate change and human abuse) army; the inconceivably powerful resurrection beasts subsequently unleashed by John’s necromancy; and the forces of an insurgency group loosely united against necromancy, Blood of Eden. Unlike the previous two novels, which focused primarily on John’s hand-picked lyctors (immortal necromancers created through the fusion of a necromancer and his/her/their cavalier), NtN deals more with the day-to-day life of a city under occupation by forces it has no hope of opposing. In doing so, it much more fully fleshes out (heh) the rest of the Locked Tomb universe outside of god’s handpicked cohort. It also features the return of Ianthe (iykyk).

Dominick Grace: Nettle and Bone begins with Princess Marra working on completing the second of three impossible tasks, the creation of a bone dog, by wiring together bones from a diverse array of dogs and magically animating them. We learn that she has been given three tasks in order to get help in completing her quest to kill her sister’s husband, Prince Vorling, who (probably; it is never confirmed) murdered his first wife, Marra’s eldest sister, and is abusing his second wife, Marra’s other sister (Marra, of course, is the youngest of three siblings and has an essentially absent father). We learn that she has been in a nunnery for half her life (she is about thirty) but sets out to kill the prince to save her sister, and possibly herself from being the next married off to him. Along the way, she acquires the standard motley crew of assistance: the bone dog, a dust-wife (a magically-empowered woman who can commune with the dead—and who has a demon-possessed chicken), Fenris (a warrior), and Agnes (a fairy godmother, and Mara’s great aunt). They must trek to the unimaginatively-named Northern Kingdom (we also have the Harbor Kingdom—it has a harbor—and the Southern Kingdom) and then get into the castle to achieve their quest. Will they succeed? Well, how do fairy tales, even revisionist ones, usually work out?

Ian Campbell: The quite short Spear is a retelling of the Sir Percival legend from the Arthurian tales. It’s still a quest for the Holy Grail, among other things, but it’s very different from the usual run of Arthurian stories in several ways: it’s told in first person; it’s entirely pagan, it emphasizes the Celtic origin of the Arthurian stories; it’s queer or has been queered, and involves a lot of gender play; and its protagonist is a woman who spends a good chunk of the book in drag. It’s clear if you know your Arthurian legends in detail that Griffith has done her homework, and this makes a real difference: for all the changes to the most common version(s) of the legend she makes, they ring true. Peredur (“hard-spear”, Percival’s original name) is the daughter of a witch-woman who keeps her sequestered from the world, but Peredur has to grow up and leave, exposing herself and her mother to great danger from her father, a powerful faerie. She disguises herself as a man, performs daring deeds, is invited to Arthur’s court and is accepted as one of the knights. Subsequently, she meets Nimuë, the muse/apprentice of Merlin, who in this telling is misusing the faerie artifacts Sword and Stone to gain power for himself, though by the time the action begins, Nimuë has neutralized him. Peredur and Nimuë go on a quest to resolve these and other issues. During this quest, Peredur finds out that the faerie is her father: she takes the titular Spear (another powerful artifact) from him and kills him with it, then uses the Grail, which had been in her mother’s possession all along, to bring Nimuë back from the brink of death.

Michael Pitts: The Mountain in the Sea considers perennial questions surrounding consciousness and interspecies communication. The narrative follows Dr. Ha Nguyen, a cephalopod scientist tasked with establishing communication with a colony of octopi demonstrating considerable skill in making and using tools; organizing their increasingly complex community; communicating with each other via symbols produced by their chromatophores, the specialized skin cells which alter an octopus’s skin’s color, reflectivity, and opacity; and killing humans they perceive to be a threat. Working for DIANIMA, a tech conglomerate with various subsidiaries and particular investments in AI production, Dr. Nguyen is aided by Evrim, a genderless android controversially produced by the corporation, and Altantsetseg, a security officer assigned to the project. Spliced into the novel are two other subplots: one follows Rustem, a Russian hacker who accepts a job offered by a mysterious organization to hack into a mind for an undisclosed reason. The other secondary narrative focuses upon Eiko, a Japanese man who, immediately upon relocating to the Ho Chi Minh Autonomous Trade Zone to seek a job at DIANIMA, is abducted and enslaved upon a fishing boat operated by AI.

What is the Novel Estranging, or Attempting to Do?

Virginia: What isn’t Nona the Ninth estranging? Religion (primarily, but not exclusively, Catholicism), familial relationships, romantic relationships, sex, gender, The Chosen One narrative, space operas themselves, what a dog is, etc. Anything that seems like it’s initially being played straight, well, it simply isn’t (there’s a queer joke in there).

Dominick: Nettle and Bone is clearly rooted in fairy tales, long before Kingfisher gilds the lily by having the characters themselves comment on what kind of story they are in:

“So you built yourself a dog and found yourself a wolf. If a fox shows up looking for you, we’ll have a proper fairy tale and I’ll start to worry.”

“Why?” asked Marra. “If I’m in a fairy tale, I might actually have a chance.”

“Fairy tales,” said the dust-wife heavily, “are very hard on bystanders. Particularly old women. I’d rather not dance myself to death in iron shoes, if it’s all the same to you.” (98)

Revisionist fairy tales are not new, nor are ones that take a feminist slant on this generally very patriarchal form. Kingfisher makes the basis of the action the abuse of women, which is a common fairy tale trope, as the above quotation acknowledges. Figures that tend to get a bad rap in fairy tales, such as old women with power/authority, are recentred here in protagonist roles. The resolution of the novel depends on that fairy tale standby of a curse issued by a fairy godmother, but whereas usually said fairy godmother is wicked, the opposite is true here. Kingfisher humanizes the often-demonized models of female power and authority typically found in fairy tales, notably the wicked witch. The novel can therefore be said to be critiquing the normative fairy tale model, and using fairy tale devices to critique violence against women.

Ian: Implicitly, Spear estranges how much is grafted onto stories to make them palatable to their audiences. The Morte d’Arthur cycle is essentially entirely masculine, and (depending on which version you’re reading) women are either largely absent, largely symbolic or manipulative figures of evil (e.g., The Once and Future King). The usual legends are resolutely heteronormative, so much so that there aren’t even queer villains. And of course, they’ve had all this Christianity grafted onto them, even though it’s highly questionable whether whatever historical figures these legends might have originally been based on would even have heard of Christianity. The story is just as powerful (and frankly, more persuasive) as a pagan story than a Christian one. So while Griffith isn’t nearly clumsy enough to tell us what she’s doing, she’s clearly trying to a story that rings truer to its original sources, and by introducing “new” factors like queer content, is arguing that whatever might have been queer in history or the original legend was taken out by subsequent writers.

Michael: Mountain is at times philosophical and, in other moments, reminiscent of early pulp stories. The narrative’s exotic location, an island of the Con Dao archipelago, the mysterious nature of DIANIMA and its creative if not financial leader, Dr. Arnkatla Mínervudóttir-Chan, the anonymous and murderous group enlisting the help of Rustem, the use of new technologies to spy and assassinate victims including a deadly robotic winged insect, and the passages in which octopi violently dispatch their human victims all fit within the boundaries of early pulp stories.

On the other hand, The Mountain in the Sea dives into questions of consciousness and communication, setting it apart from such earlier works. Concerning the former topic, it centers questions related to the consciousness of robotic life, mainstays of the speculative genre. However, after dispatching with this issue with the reasoning that any being—synthetic or organic—that is aware of themselves is conscious (or, as Ha puts it—riffing on Descartes—”I think, therefore I doubt I am”), the narrative considers more unique questions concerning consciousness and interspecies communication. In parallel narrative threads, Ha, in her quest to communicate with the octopi, realizes that such communication requires an understanding of the conscious experiences of the cephalopod, whose genetic makeup and anatomy are so distinct from that of humans. Simultaneously, Rustem, seeking to penetrate a synthetic mind, is similarly tasked with the work of understanding its uniquely unhuman qualities, a project that ultimately produces in him, as in Ha, a radical empathy and desire to communicate with the other being scrutinized. While Nayler does at times, then, tread familiar generic territory, his interest in the nature of consciousness and its influence upon avenues of interspecies communication greatly enriches his novel.

Why Do You Think the Novel was Nominated?

Virginia: There are many reasons why I think Nona the Ninth was nominated, but first and foremost among them is probably the characteristic that makes it most divisive to readers—its use of language. It’s rare to read something where the author is so clearly having fun with her use of language in the way Muir is here, and this approach requires an enormous amount of skill in recognizing the perfect moment to deploy a deeply estranging anachronism. Muir’s prose relies on the use of obsolete memes and slang (somewhat lampshaded by the fact that many of the characters achieved immortality in our present, and have just been bopping around the galaxy in the ten thousand years that have passed since then), almost brutal cheerfulness, and a self-awareness that occasionally veers into a tongue-in-cheek transgression of the fourth wall. It has been described (by the LA Review of Books and NPR, among others) as having a particularly “millennial sensibility,” while Muir herself has noted that the late 90s-early 00s internet culture she draws on informs her foregrounding of the artifice of language. That is, she’s using cultural touchstones and language as a tool that acknowledges its own worldbuilding capacity in the very process of being deployed. This linguistic playfulness certainly isn’t for everyone, but Muir isn’t writing for everyone—she’s writing for (affectionately) tumblr lesbians with daddy issues, and in terms of tone, discoursal expectations, and references, she absolutely nails it.

Dominick: I am honestly not sure why Nettle and Bone was nominated, though T. Kingfisher does seem to rack up a lot of awards and nominations. While I found many of its elements interesting and engaging—the bone dog, the concept of the dust-wife, the possessed chicken (!) and others—I never got a sense of inhabiting a really fleshed-out world. As the kingdom names suggest, we are basically in a generic fairy-tale world, which works fine in a short fairy tale but not so well in a novel, even a short one. The characters are of course based in fairy tale types, but apart from Marra, we get little to no sense of complexity or an inner life. Marra’s naivety and lack of confidence, often descending almost into self-hatred, does speak effectively to the novel’s interest in how women can be brutalized psychologically as well as physically. However, I am not sure that this novel really achieves much, or anything, that other writers have not already managed. Its normalizing of the magical and much of its tone is Gaimanesque, and its willingness to acknowledge and present harsh violence (though the novel avoids any sort of explicit sexual detail, aiming instead for romantic longing until the end and then demurely closing the curtain) is also not new to heroic fantasy. Its writing is fine, but the dialogue rarely sounds different from how the typical person in twenty-first America would talk, and occasionally really clangs, as when Marra channels Keanu Reeves by reacting to a surprising site (not a typo) with a “Whoa.” For me, this was an enjoyable read that was neither stylistically nor thematically distinct enough for it to rise enough above the average to be one of the best SF/Fantasy books published in 2022. But then, I haven’t read many of the others.

Ian: Mostly, because Spear is actually good. It’s well-constructed, finely honed, doesn’t use 21st-century anachronistic language like so much other Fantasy Dreck, and it makes for a better Percival legend than nearly all of the dozens and dozens of other versions going way back before the Morte d’Arthur stories. It’s also fashionable, to have a lot of queer content, and Spear does it much, much better than most of the rest of what I’ve read directly. I think it deserved the nomination because it’s very good without being bombastic, overwrought or overlong. This past year was kind of a down year for the genre in my opinion, and in a better year it might have been an honorable mention rather than a nominee, but it would still be close enough that nominating it would remain plausible.

Michael: I offer that Mountain was nominated due to this philosophical dimension of it, which is complimented by the cast of characters populating the story. These characters, each possessing rounded features and explored motives and desires, shapes the narrative’s themes of communication, mostly as it relates to community. Balancing its exploration of possible communication and connection between humankind and octopi, the narrative cleverly explores its human characters’ desires and need to connect with others. Avoiding tendencies to either demonize or glorify AI, The Mountain in the Sea posits that synthetic life may act to either hinder or enable such connections. In the case of the simplistic “point-fives,” androids designed to act as “half a person” lacking any needs within a human-android relationship, the novel condemns the emptiness of such a liaison. Yet, this condemnation, presented through Ha as she disposes of her point-five, Kamran, is certainly not an indictment of human-synthetic relationships since she immediately replaces this shallow relationship with a meaningful one shared with the central android of the novel, Evrim. This theme, similarly explored via Rustem’s loneliness and isolation, compliments the novel’s wider focus in interspecies connection and communication. Though speculating upon the possible evolutionary development of octopi, the novel does not contain the hallmarks of “hard” SF. It is much more steeped in philosophical concerns, namely those of post-humanism, and fits more ideally within the social science fiction category due to its consistent criticisms of corporate practices, social environmental exploitation, and the humanist-oriented subjugation of other life forms, whether organic and non-human or synthetic.

The novel’s nomination signals a continued interest in rethinking humankind’s relationship to other life forms via a clever thought experiment. In a way reminiscent of Andrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time (2015), Nayler’s narrative challenges its audience to consider how unexpected developments within a species’ evolution could lend it further power and influence. In this way, both novels undermine the potential reader’s anthropocentric, hierarchical thinking towards, in the case of Tchaikovsky’s novel, spiders and, in the case of Nayler’s text, octopi. It simultaneously reflects current interests in how technology, though capable of enriching the lived experiences of its users, may also be utilized to enhance the isolation and loneliness quickly becoming a hallmark of 21st-century life.

The themes underlying Nayler’s story come together perhaps most clearly in a conversation between Ha and Evrim directly following her decision to abandon her point-five and seek community with fully conscious individuals. As the passage underscores, Ha, with whom the reader is aligned, is positioned directly opposite DIANIMA’s leader, Arnkatla Mínervudóttir-Chan, and the friction between them is based upon Ha’s commitment to community and communication across, in this case, species. In this scene, Evrim reveals to Ha that Arnkatla intends not to communicate or connect with the octopi, but “to extract data. To build the next Evrim, a mind more advanced than mine” (324). As the android continues his explanation, the text’s philosophical underpinnings emerge: “I know her. She isn’t like you, Ha. She doesn’t want communication. What she wants is mastery. She wants to create, and she wants to control. For you, communicating with the octopuses—understanding them—is an end in itself. For her, it’s about how she can exploit that knowledge, use it to push her own work forward” (324). This conversation, acting as a key to the novel, emphasizes the contrasting motivations and values of the protagonist and antagonist: Ha desires connections with other life forms and values them as equals; Arnkatla seeks to gain increasingly more power through her technological advancements and judges human life to be superior to other life forms (and, as the novel’s conclusion hints, she values some human lives as superior to others of the same species). As this passage illustrates, Nayler’s novel emphasizes the power of authentic communication–and this importantly does not exclude synthetic life or downplay its claims of consciousness. To see living things, organic or synthetic, as intrinsically valuable and, through openness, vulnerability, and communication, worthy of community and connection is, as Evrim and Ha learn, an antidote to humanism and the isolation of humans both from other life forms and each other.

What Does the Nomination Say About the State of SF?

Virginia: Taken alongside the other Nebula nominees, the fact that NtN and the Locked Tomb series as a whole play around with overlapping fantasy and SF elements seems to be indicative of the clear shift towards fantasy that’s going on contemporarily. Make no mistake, the trappings of NtN are very much science fictional—colonists on one of many worlds under threat contemplate their ability to flee off-planet, people travel in spaceships, armored convoys and megapolises that cover the surface of the planet provide the story’s technologized backdrop—but these elements exist side-by-side with swordfighting, ghosts, blood magic, royal machinations, and court political intrigue.

As others have also mentioned in their reviews, nominees this year, at least, also largely seem to be attempting the anachronistic and playfully pop cultural tone that Muir uses, although seemingly with far less skill and/or success (full disclosure, I attempted to read another Nebula nominee that I won’t mention by name here and was so offput by its own attempts at blithe, contemporary repartee that I put it down after the first chapter).

In many ways, NtN is a book about what it means to love and be loved, despite not all of those ways being healthy (to, uh, say the least). Sure, it’s a big queer book—it’s horrible lesbian necromancers in space doing horrible things to each other and themselves and everyone around them—but it’s also a book about how the love you give is all you have at the end of the world and the reckoning that comes along with that. What does it mean to give of yourself, over and over again, and be forever changed in the process? What would you do for such a transformation? Who would (and do) you become? To use slang that will probably itself be anachronistic by the time this review gets published, much less in ten thousand years, the phrase “you can’t take loved away” lives rent-free in my head (and I hope it always will).

Dominick: Nothing in Nettle and Bone really moved or grabbed me. The things that should were easy to predict (spoiler alert): bone dog was going to die and then be put back together; Fenris (the world-weary warrior) was going to put his life on the line but be saved by a clever intervention; Fenris and Marra would eventually stop mooning over each other and more towards actual romantic contact, etc. The closest the book came was in a sequence involving a secondary character, in which Kingfisher rings change son the living toy convention. In this novel, the living toy is a “curse-child,” in this instance a puppet, that latches onto and dominates the child who gave it life:

“Somebody gives a lonely child a toy and they pour all their hopes and fears and problems into it. Do it long enough and intensely enough, and then it just needs a stray bit of bad luck and the toy wakes up. Of course, it knows that the only reason it’s alive is because of the child. A tiny personal god with one worshipper. It latches on and … well.” She clucked her tongue. “Normally you get them pried off and burned long before adolescence. Impressive that it lasted this long.”

“We can burn it,” said Marra. “Burning is fine. I’ll get the kindling.”

“Not without her permission. You don’t go tearing off an adult woman’s god and setting it on fire.” The dust-wife gave her a sharp look, as if she were suggesting something rude.

“It was choking her!”

“It’s her neck, not yours. We can ask before we leave, if you like.” (144)

This passage, and the sequence involving the dominated Margaret, is to me the novel’s strongest commentary on the complexity of how power is wielded, and accepted, even to one’s own detriment. It also offers a particularly chilling turn on the living toy trope that I have rarely seen handled similarly (Alan Moore’s version of Rupert might be an example, but that was a very passing use). The fate of the original fairy godmother is a similar instance, though keen readers will know that something is up the moment they read the “blessing” she gives.

I was often amused, however, by the novel’s deliberate humour, such as the explanation for why it’s ok to put a demon into a chicken but not into a rooster. The book is often quite funny. That might not carry the same weight we are likely to give to that which we find emotionally or intellectually moving, but it is no mean thing, and I value it.

Ian: Is Spear SF? No, not really, but as with the other books we’re looking at here, SF has, for this period at least, passed the baton to fantasy: if I had to speculate why, it’s because tech has become so obviously dystopian at this point that a switch to fantasy is very appealing. I think that there’s been a real movement to promote SFF writ large that a) plays with genre boundaries; and b) has for lack of a better word representation. Some of this is representation for its own sake, which often to me comes off as forced or beside the point, but of course I’m not the sort of person who was largely un- or mis-represented for decades, so it’s not really for me to say.

Discussion

Dominick: Literally the first sentence of Virginia’s comments on Nona the Ninth reduced my likelihood of reading the book to virtually zero: “Nona the Ninth is the third novel in Tamsyn Muir’s Locked Tomb series (originally slated to be a trilogy….” This of course says nothing about the quality of the book, and perhaps a lot about my own weariness with the series as the default setting for so much contemporary SF/Fantasy. I understand the appeal from a marketing perspective, but all too often the result is repetition and diminishing returns—accompanied by expanding page counts. A Song of Ice and Fire may be the bar for this: the first book was, I thought, pretty damn good, but I can practically guarantee that the fifth is the last one I will read, as what seemed fresh and innovative in book one had become tired and predictable, not to mention waaaay too drawn-out, by book five. Virginia’s comments on what makes the book appealing and worth nominating do point to some intriguing elements—it sounds somewhat like the sort of hybrid stuff that, say, Charles Stross does in his work (Veronica Hollinger once described Stross to me as “jolly,” and I have to agree), but I have no interest in investing in a series to get it. (Because I am the kind of reader who has a hard time stopping reading a series when it suffers that inevitable downward turn, I try to avoid them unless I am reasonably sure I will be entranced.)

Virginia: For both Griffin’s Spear and Kingfisher’s Nettle and Bone, I just simply…don’t care about mythological or fairy tale retellings. I don’t want to comment on whether returning to historical touchpoints (be they individual stories or genres) is an interesting form of art or not, because clearly—as Ian indicates in his analysis of Spear—there are still new points that can be made and new approaches to age-old stories that reveal something of value. But for me, personally, something has to be really exciting or really new to make a story worth revisiting, and simply invoking contemporary gender or sexual politics isn’t enough to pass that threshold. Perhaps that speaks to the wealth of options written by, about, and for women and gender minorities and queer people now, but I’d rather see new stories than try to recuperate old ones. In a larger sense, this resistance ties into the reboot burnout of the media landscape over the last ten years or so. How many versions of the same story do we need? I ask that sincerely, not in an aggravated huff. What is it that keeps us coming back to the same types of stories, sometimes even the exact same story, over and over again? What do we gain by worrying a story like an open sore? Perhaps in the case of the gendered focus of Spear and Nettle and Bone, the answer is about ownership—making something that originally excluded you, for you. But that baseline familiarity means that any retelling or estranging revisitation of a genre and its tropes is inherently always going to exist as the distaff counterpart of an original, with the original a perpetual specter in the background. Retellings cannot exist on their own; whatever new ideas they have exist in a perpetual state of Hegelian dialectic with the original. For my part, I’d rather have an ambitious failure over an attempt (no matter how successful, as it seems as if Spear, at least, was and is) at revisiting old ground in a new way.

Ian: Reading both your comments here, I have to admit you’re right. Why do we need yet another version of an Arthurian tale? Why not a fantasy universe of its own? I thought Nettle and Bone was cute and a fun read, but nothing like an award-nominated text, and while I still maintain that Spear is very well composed, I can completely see why we don’t really need it. Virginia asks, “How many versions of the same story do we need?” and it makes me think of all those TV shows based on the same Marvel characters. None of them is terrible, and some of them are pretty good—I would absolutely pay good money to see Rogers: The Musical, and I don’t even like musicals—but it just seems like the heavy hand of capitalism and its inherent risk-adversity. Would Griffith have been published had she written her fantasy in its own world, or does corporate publishing demand a safe choice?

Michael: Virginia’s commentary on Nona the Ninth and specifically its comments upon the novel’s unique use of language and efforts to estrange a wide swath of topics intrigues me a great deal. I do side with Dominick in that I am likewise exhausted by SFF’s almost default preference for series over novels, but I remain interested in this book. I am not particularly inclined to read Nettle and Bone or Spear for the very basic reason that I do not venture much into fantasy. That being said, the revisionist qualities mentioned do very much attract me, especially if they prove capable of emphasizing in a unique way qualities of the source material. I guess I am torn then, clearly.

Dominick: Spear is perhaps now slightly more likely to end up in my vastly bloated TBR … well, pile, I guess, because I do have a fondness for Arthurian narratives, and Percivale has always been for me an especially interesting character. However, as Virginia has already said, it’s been done. There’s plenty of revisionist Arthurian stuff, not to mention plenty of revisionist fairy tales. Is it good enough to be worth it? Ian certainly makes a good case, at least insofar as my tastes are concerned—I did complain about Kingfisher’s evidently deliberate avoidance of authentic-sounding language, after all, and Griffith has apparently avoided that problem. It is a bit of a sad state for lit of the fantastic, though, if the simple fact that a book is actually good is a sufficient reason to nominate it for the award as best book of the year.

Ian: Honestly, I think it’s more like a lifetime achievement award for Griffith than praise for this book in particular. If I knew enough about the Oscars, I bet I could name a couple of actors or directors who were nominated for or won an award in the same manner: that is, that the particular film wasn’t their best work, but they’d been shafted or ignored earlier in their careers.

Let’s look at The Mountain in the Sea, which I put down about 15% of the way through. I was eager to read a novel about cephalopod intelligence. What was it going to do that Adrian Tchaikovsky took in a different direction in Children of Ruin? But I never got there: it was just too badly written in a way that really bothers me. It did what I usually call a Full Neal Stephenson: it introduces a secondary/tertiary character who is well known-to the narrator or protagonist by saying and there was Steve or Steve stepped into the room and said, “Yes.” and then gives us three long paragraphs of background on Steve, their life story, their relationship to the narrator/protagonist, etc. By the time we get back to whatever the next line of dialogue after “Yes” is, I’m back in the main storyline, but the long pause of almost entirely irrelevant information—especially at this early point in the story—has jarred my willing suspension of disbelief both in that storyline and in whether the book will be any good are now firmly in question. In Mountain, I had already put the book down a couple of times because the too much background on the local Vietnamese guy had already pressed my buttons, but then we got to the AI and it gave so much detail on the whole backstory of why there was only one real AI, etc., and that was where I DNFed it. I tried again the next day and couldn’t get more than a few pages.

Only give the exact amount of background you actually need to give, with maaaybe a cool detail or two, worked in organically. Somebody like William Gibson does this so well: we’ll get more and more information about someone, but only when we need to. But the Full Neal bothers me most because it’s such a Writing 101 mistake, in that giving all that background at once not only jars the reader out of the real story, but also creates this problem of address that’s subtle but cannot be unseen once you notice. In Mountain, the POV character is very well-acquainted with the details of the AI’s backstory. They wouldn’t need to mention all this to themselves, so who is speaking to whom here? Up until now, we’ve used third-person omniscient but with enough limitations to link us to the POV character, so we can imagine ourselves in their position in the story. But then there’s this discontinuity on the level of narrative structure when (lots of) information about the AI comes to us: since the POV character should know all this already, it breaks the link between us and that character and now we’re in a different story.

Dominick: I was already interested in The Mountain in the Sea (as it is the only nominee that was actually SF, rather than Fantasy or a SF/Fantasy hybrid, and I am more of an SF sort than a Fantasy fellow), and Michael’s commentary suggests that this one hits a lot of my sweet spots. As he notes, and as others have commented on, the focus not on alien others but terrestrial others is exciting, and far more rare than it perhaps should be. In the digital age, it is easy to forget that there’s still tons of stuff on this planet about which we know virtually nothing, so there is still plenty of room for speculation right here. Michael’s comments also suggested to me that the book is interested in specific topics, such as the nature of consciousness and free will, that I like to see explored—and with the oceanic context thrown in, which made me think of one of my SF fave writers, Peter Watts, I found myself feeling a bit excited about this book.  Even if the book is not hard SF per se, as per Michael’s comments, it does seem to be interested in fairly rigorous exploration—and there is no reason why that can’t go along with philosophy and “literariness.” When I read Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars books years ago, I naively/optimistically thought that they might actually kill that hard/soft SF dichotomy. They didn’t, but it does seem easier now to put out books that straddle the STEM and Humanities sides of SF than it used to be. Even Ian’s critique of the Stephenson-like stylistic choices Nayler makes were a selling point for me, as Stephenson remains one of my favourite SF writers (in part for precisely the characteristics Ian criticizes.) Bonus for me with Michael’s comments: I had not heard much about Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Time before, but I think I may be putting it on my Christmas list.

Ian: The SFRA Review should have a new section, imaginative title yet to be found, where two of us face off about a particular author/book, and you and I, Dominick, can argue for pages about Neal Stephenson, who I periodically have to hateread.

Dominick: Not a bad idea, actually! TBH, Cryptonomicon was one of the few books of a thousand or so pages I would happily have seen longer. I am a couple of books behind, admittedly, or more–I think Anathem is the last one I read. I am not terribly good at keeping up on new stuff.

Ian: Okay, we’re doing it. “How to win friends among the SF community” is our working title.

Let’s talk about the move toward fantasy that all of us seem to have observed. I’d like to know your thoughts on why so much contemporary SF is really much closer to fantasy—even among the critics’ awards, not just the fan awards.

Michael: I must say the slide towards fantasy is very apparent this year. While reading Mountain I was not thinking of the nominees broadly. Having viewed each assessment, however, that tendency is clear. I also agree with Virginia in her assessment of the year overall: this definitely feels like an off year for SFF. Nothing seems to be especially deserving of the award.

Ian: To add to my earlier thoughts, there are two factors at work, here. The first one is that the last few years have really shown us all how awful and dystopian high tech has become. AIs taking people’s jobs, deepfake porn, algorithmic ads, social media content that goes about three clicks from cute cat pictures to Tate/Peterson/Rogan, whatever that awful man has done to make Twitter even worse than it already was… the list goes on. So it’s next to impossible at this point to write a compelling novel about science and technology without it seeming naïve or loony. The premise of SF used to be that tech would free the human spirit, give us new worlds to explore, make things better. And it clearly hasn’t and doesn’t, for the very most part. Whatever stupid name Twitter is called now is just 24/7 disinformation and (deepfaked?) videos of children being slaughtered: tech has (IMO irretrievably) broken our public discourse. Tech has freed the billionaire spirit, and it’s frankly awful.

The second factor is that scholars, fans and writers have undertaken a (long-overdue and deserved) look at the history of the genre and have found it wanting. Golden Age SF wasn’t just benignly neglecting writers who weren’t white dudes: it was actively gatekeeping them out. Too much of the genre is bound up in colonialist tropes, and the representation and portrayal of women is hard to even look at these days. I think this also makes it harder to write a compelling SF novel, because as a writer you’d have to be constantly worrying about some sensitivity reader getting on you for an imperfect portrayal of a marginalized group—and to be fair, we should strive to portray others well and not resort to stereotypes. You can’t write a novel about a colonized planet where you’re estranging our own society, because people are get on you for portraying colonialism, even if that’s just the surface level of the estrangement.

To the extent that the Horrid Puppies had anything approaching an actual point, it’s that it’s going to come off as naïve or privileged to just write a high-tech adventure yarn that doesn’t wear its heart on its sleeve about its political aspirations, or make an extended dystopian critique of tech, or resort to unbearable Becky Chambers tropes. Writing SF is riskier now, and not just from the financial standpoint in a world where the corporatization of the publishing industry has made it largely unprofitable to write unless you’re at the very top of the heap. So if we take the definition of SF v fantasy as whether the novums/novi are subject to the cognition effect—that is, do the innovations in the portrayed world make sense as scientific in the context of that world—it’s easier and less potentially problematic to write fantasy than SF, now. Readers, for the most part, don’t really want to read about a world where Oryx and Crake is the best-case scenario. They want something fundamentally implausible: take tech away from the billionaires, and the same with energy policy and civil rights, and let ordinary people solve big problems.

I should make it clear that there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a cozy SF novel that’s really mostly fantasy and focused around overtly progressive politics. My point is that the genre has become limited by real-world dystopia fomented by tech, so retreating to fantasy seems safer in a number of different ways.

Dominick: I think my own ruminations about “Why fantasy now” have similarities with Ian’s. I have non-academic SF friends who lament how hard it is to find optimistic SF any more. I don’t think it’s quite as hard as they think, but I do think that Ian provides good reasons why a good chunk of serious SF these days veers towards the dystopian.

That said, the first thought that came to me about why fantasy seems to be in the ascendant is that we now live in a post-truth world, as well as in a world in which a not insignificant number of people are basically actively anti-science. How do you write SF in a world in which distinguishing (or even caring about) what is true has become, if not impossible, at least difficult? The tech reasons Ian cites are huge factors here, but I think we should not overlook other social influences. Trump’s elevation of the lie to the standard mode of discourse, and MAGA-folk’s dedication to believing whatever Trump says regardless of how many mountains of evidence there are contra Trump, well … that’s millions upon millions of people who are much happier to believe in fantasy than reality. Now, obviously, a lot of fantasy can and does present troubling and complex worlds; that a work is fantasy does not mean it is going to be all rainbows and unicorns. However, fantasyscapes do tend to be far more removed from lived reality than SF worlds (IMO, I hasten to add)–even far future space opera brimming with alien cultures makes certain assumptions about how the world works. Fantasy can make up its own rules.

And even if a lot of Fantasy does address the same sort of complex thematic areas as a lot of SF does, that is perhaps obscured (more) by the fantasy context. I am totally speculating here, but perhaps some readers of fantasy see fantasy worlds simply as escapes, rather than as distorted reflections of life. One hears a lot of complaints about “woke” SF, but if there have been similar complaints about Fantasy, I seem to have missed them-entirely possible, since I don’t particularly follow fantasy. So, yeah, I would agree with Ian’s contention that Fantasy is perhaps safer/easier to write these days, but I would add that it is perhaps also safer/easier to read, as it allows the illusion of genuine alterity.

Virginia: I completely agree with everything Ian and Dom noted about the post-truth, anti-tech (I hesitate to say “science” simply because science itself is a fraught concept) impacts on the SF/fantasy media ecosystem right now, and to that, I’d like to add another element that Dom already began hinting at: safety and comfort.

Let me preface this by saying that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with enjoying a cozy, comfortable story that aligns with your politics and supports your personal worldview. This is part of the reason we read: to discover our own selves in someone else’s vision. Finding that can be exhilarating and connect you to a wider community of people that you never knew existed and who, upon discovery, immediately feel like home. But finding comfort is only one part of why we read, and at least in my own anecdotal experience, what I feel like I’ve been seeing over the last ten years or so is an almost complete retreat to safety and comfort. This is, in large part, due to the conflation of media consumption with personal beliefs and ideology that seems so pervasive today. This approach, of course, leaves no possibility of separation between art and artist, but also—and maybe more worryingly—no separation between consumer and product. The idea that depicting or even just engaging with an idea is the same thing as endorsing it allows for absolutely no exploration, no challenge, no glimpse into difference, and no possibility for personal growth. And for me, at least, that’s the hallmark of a truly great piece of art or literature: you’re changed by the encounter. I suspect this may be a somewhat outdated way of assessing “greatness,” but I really believe that great literature causes you to confront concepts or ideas in ways that may be unexpected or new, and in so doing, the reader is changed by the encounter in ways they never could have imagined.

Reboots, retellings, and familiar fantasy milieux and tropes give the illusion of novelty while relying on the trappings of the familiar. Can there be groundbreaking, unique fantasy? Of course. But if we want to really get nitty gritty into genre definitions, fantasy is a much more recognizable (and definable) genre than SF specifically because it does operate within relatively recognizable and defined parameters that ensure that readers enter it with a certain degree of familiarity. As Ian pointed out, the real world and all possible permutations of it going forward seem increasingly dystopian; it’s not hard to imagine why writers and readers alike would want to check out of that entirely. But the real world and the way it’s changing are also complicated. I do think many contemporary fantasists are attempting to engage with this complexity in a sincere way, and perhaps using recognizable and familiar tropes is a way to dip a toe in the water.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with escapism or fantasy or enjoying the familiar. There are a million reasons to want to find comfort and safety in what we read, especially when the world around us seems structurally designed to strip us of every bit of comfort and safety we have. But I do find it suspicious when these kinds of stories are the only ones being held up and celebrated at a larger organizational level, and riskier attempts to engage with complexity are—at best—ignored or gatekept, and at worst, crushed utterly (Isabel Fall, anyone?).

I think the neoliberal conservatism of publishing today is making an extremely boring field in general, and scholars who say it’s “our moral responsibility” [all names redacted] to depict “a world we want to live in” are reducing the possibilities of that world to sunshiney pablum.

Dominick: Yes. The idea that artists should choose only to depict the world through the lens of some particular social justice issue and be vilified if they don’t, or don’t do it exactly right (that is, exactly as each separate critic thinks it should be done) is IMO… not a good one. This sort of attempt to limit the function of what art can do has various precedents, none good.

Ian: The “only” is the key bit, there. I mean, if someone wants to write like Becky Chambers, and someone wants to read that, more power to them. I’m sure there are things I love that would make such a person stop reading. The corporatization of the publishing industry has absolutely changed SF for the worse, just like it has most other genres. There’s two different forms of risk-adversity at work here: people are reluctant to write/publish anything that critiques the “world we [who’s “we”?] want to live in” for fear of getting cancelled on social media, and publishers are reluctant to publish anything that they’re not sure will increase the bottom line, for fear of losing their jobs when the next earnings call doesn’t go as spectacularly as Wall Street wants. These are both awful trends, but to what extent are they inherently related to each other, and to what extent is it just—to borrow a piece of corporate killspeak—“synergy”?

Dominick: Agreed, the “only” is key. I have never been keen on any sort of dogmatic insistence on what art can and cannot (or should and should not) do. Faulkner’s comment on the author’s responsibility has its own disturbing elements but nevertheless nails the idea that the only thing the artist “must” do is what the artistic urge requires: “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

That does not mean, of course, that there is no room for criticism, either. And I am a middle-aged white dude, too, so bear that in mind when evaluating my perspective. Disagreement welcome.

Ian: But to your actual point, and to Virginia’s as well, the corporatization of the publishing industry has drained all the weird out of SF. Nobody is willing to take chances. The only weird we still seem to get is from really long-established authors such as VanderMeer and China Miéville… and now I think I understand why I think this year’s crop of nominees is so underwhelming: they’re so risk-averse, so Not Weird. Not boring, so much, but like Virginia said about Spear, do we really need another take on thousand-year-old stories? Everything is a sequel, a series, a remake.

Final thoughts? Mine is: now I have to go back and get through the bad writing to really try to appreciate Mountain, because it sounds like easily the weirdest of this bunch. Virginia has changed my mind about Spear. It’s good enough, but is it necessary? It’s real unlikely I’m ever going to pick up Legends & Lattes, the one we didn’t discuss here: it really sounds like Not My Cup of Tea.

Virginia: Nice pun. I DNF’ed it. I also want to take a crack at Mountain now, since it sounds like it might be the kind of ambitious swing that I appreciate.

Dominick: My final thoughts, I guess, are that the discussion we’ve had seems to confirm that we are in a bit of a fallow period for SF, or at any rate for SF being recognized as worthy of receiving awards. Maybe there is something of a transition happening in the field, with the emergence of afrofuturism, indigenous futurism, and more diversity generally in SF (and fantasy), but it is not yet really taking centre stage with readers?

Michael: Having read these commentaries, I must say the slide towards fantasy is very apparent this year. While reading Mountain I was not thinking of the nominees broadly. Having viewed each assessment, however, that tendency is clear. I also agree with Virginia in her assessment of the year overall: this definitely feels like an off year for SFF. Nothing seems to be especially deserving of the award.


The SF in Translation Universe #17



The SF in Translation Universe #17

Rachel Cordasco

Welcome back to the SF in Translation Universe! This summer promises a fascinating and diverse line-up of SFT from Japan to Sweden and everywhere in-between. Here you’ll find mythical creatures, people turning into trees, space elevators, and much more, so read on.

June brings us SFT from Japan (New Directions) and Korea (Restless Books). In Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s Kappa (tr. Lisa Hofmann-Kuroda and Allison Markin Powell), the eponymous folklore monster (who drags toddlers to their deaths in rivers) is spotted by Patient No. 23, who pursues it to its lair. There, 23 finds a whole world of Kappas, whose culture and society mirror that of Japan in terms of morals, the law, economics, and romantic relationships. His return to the human world is difficult and he finds himself irritated by humanity (leading to his confinement in an asylum, thus “Patient No.23”). With parallels to Alice in Wonderland and Gulliver’s Travels, Kappa is a fascinating modern-day morality tale. Korean author Jeong-Hwa Choi’s The White City Tale (tr. Janet Hong) also explores society and social hierarchies, only this time the protagonist is a man fighting against inequalities in a quarantined city.

The three works of SFT out in July are all by women- one Russian, the other two Korean and Japanese. Counterweight (tr. from the Korean by Anton Hur) is the latest text in English by Djuna (of which little is known). A story about corporate intrigue, politics, and one company’s destructive attempts to build the first space elevator, this promises to be yet another excellent work in the growing canon of modern Korean science fiction.

Unlike Counterweight, Darya Bobyleva’s Village at the Edge of Noon and Maru Ayase’s The Forest Brims Over fall into the surrealist camp. Village (tr. from the Russian by Ilona Chavasse) is about a settlement that suddenly finds itself cut off from the world. Voices call from the river, people start thinking strange thoughts, and the forest seems to be moving closer. Only one women seems to realize what’s going on. Meanwhile Ayase’s Forest (tr. from the Japanese by Haydn Trowell) also takes up this theme of humans in close relation to the natural world, only here it is a woman literally turning herself into a force of nature. When a woman becomes resentful of her husband, who uses her as the subject of his novels, she eats a bowl of seeds and starts sprouting buds and roots. Her husband tries to keep her in an aquaterrerium, but she breaks out, turns into a forest, and begins to take over the city.

I’m especially excited about August because it means a new John Ajvide Lindqvist novel! Having read his “Places” horror trilogy, I know that whatever else he’s written will be high quality. The Kindness (tr. Marlaine Delargy?) forces us to consider just how little it would take for people to turn against one another. A mysterious shipping container is dumped near a Swedish port town, and along with its horrifying cargo of twenty-eight dead refugees, there’s a strange black sludge that seeps into the water. This sludge somehow imbues the inhabitants of the town with dread, after which they start acting out violently against one another.

Staying in Scandinavia a bit longer, we can look forward to Juhani Karila’s Fishing for the Little Pike (tr. Lola Rogers). Winner of the Jarkko Laine Literature Prize, Fishing tells the story of one woman’s annual trip to her home in Lapland to catch a pike. Pretty soon, we meet mythical creatures, a murder detective, and a deadly curse.

Finally, we have Polish author Rafal Kosik’s Cyberpunk 2077: No Coincidence (tr. by ?), the latest in a video-game-to-print series that started with Andrzej Sapkowski’s Witcher books. CD Projekt Red was also behind the Witcher computer games, and here they’ve partnered with Kosik to tell a story about a group of people who “discover that the dangers of Night City are all too real” as they pull off a heist for a mysterious boss.

I’m sure I’m missing some SFT, so please let me know what else should be on this list. Thanks for reading, and I’d love to hear what you’re reading now and what you’re looking forward to: rachel@sfintranslation.com. Until next time in the SFT Universe!