Wilson is known for his funny science writing about robots and general science, always packed with tons of pop culture references. So it makes sense that he would eventually turn to writing fiction. Especially fiction about robots.

Set in a kind of Bladerunner-esque world of implants and synthetic creatures, the story captures a scary, melancholy moment in the relationship between a man and his grandson. With a very cool twist. Here's how it starts:

He was an old man who lived in a modest gonfab, and over the last eighty hours his Eyes™ and Ears™ had begun to fail. In the first forty hours, he had ignored the increasingly strident sounds of the city of Vanille and focused on teaching the boy who lived with him. But after another forty hours the old man could no longer stand the Doppler-affected murmur of travelers on the slidewalks outside, and the sight of the boy's familiar deformities became overwhelming. It made the boy sad to see the old man's stifled revulsion, so he busied himself by sliding the hanging plastic sheets of the inflatable dwelling into layers that dampened the street noise. The semitransparent veils were stiff with grime and they hung still and useless like furled, ruined sails.

The old man was gnarled and bent, and his tendons were like taut cords beneath the skin of his arms. He wore a soiled white undershirt and his sagging chest bristled with gray hairs. A smooth patch of pink skin occupied a hollow under his left collar bone, marking the place where a rifle slug had passed cleanly through many decades before. He had been a father, an engineer, and a war-fighter, but for many years now he had lived peacefully with the boy.

Everything about the old man was natural and wrinkled except for his Eyes™ and Ears™, thick glasses resting on the creased bridge of his nose and two flesh-colored buds nestled in his ears. They were battered technological artifacts that captured sights and sounds and sanitized every visual and auditory experience. The old man sometimes wondered whether he could bear to live without these artifacts. He did not think so.

You know you want more. You can read the whole story for free online, thanks to Tor.com!

Illustration by Sam Weber.

I love the "fast elves." Oh my. But you shouldn't let covers get in the way of checking out the books - there's a bunch of good stuff in there, including an Elizabeth Moon novel and a bunch of Mercedes Lackey and David Drake.

via Baen Free Library

The thing I love about "Poison" is that it conveys perfectly the confusion and chaos that follows the chemical disaster. The story's protagonist is one of the last people to evacuate:

Over the previous two days, TV news had shown pictures of the N1 and N2 jam-packed for fifty kilometres out of town. It had taken a day for most people to realise the seriousness of the explosion; then everybody who could get out had done so. Now, Lynn supposed, lack of petrol was trapping people in town. She herself had left it terribly late, despite all the warnings. It was typical; she struggled to get things together. The first night she'd got drunk with friends. They'd sat up late, rapt in front of the TV, watching the unfolding news. The second night, she'd done the same, by herself. On the morning of this the third day, she'd woken up with a burning in the back of her throat so horrible that she understood it was no hangover, and that she had to move. By then, everybody she knew had already left.

Lynn still isn't quite sure how seriously to take the problem, and she clings to the idea that the authorities will sort things out soon. As the story goes on, she becomes less and less sure of that notion, especially after she gives up her seat on one of the last taxis out of the disaster zone. It's a sort of mini-post-apocalyptic storyline, which conveys a lot of the breakdown of the usual order through telling details.

By winning "Africa's Booker" with a science fiction story, Rose-Innes has sparked a discussion about the state of African science fiction as a whole. Kenyan-born London writer Liz Ng’ang’a questions whether "Poison" really qualifies as SF, and then writes:

I wonder why science fiction has not taken root among African writers. During the early part of the 20th century, Africa was a popular setting for foreign science fiction writers.

The continent has since lost its edge, as the unexplored home of exotic, strange and previously undiscovered creatures, to the outer space. A few Africans have since endeavoured to create African-inspired science fiction.

She cites Ghanian-born film director, whose film Last Angel Of History includes time travel, and Kenyan playwright John Rugoiyo Gichuki, whose play Eternal, Forever is set in the year 2410 and won the BBC African Playwriting Competition in 2006. Gichuki says science fiction is encouraging, because it's possible that in 100 years, Africa will replace the United States and China as the world's rising economy.

Another encouraging sign: Science Fiction South Africa (SFSA) is holding a science fiction writing contest for local authors.

Cape Town image from Iran Daily.
[Guardian and BD Africa via Books SA]

Vinge writes that these scenarios include:

The AI Scenario: We create superhuman artificial intelligence (AI) in computers.

The IA Scenario: We enhance human intelligence through human-to-computer interfaces—that is, we achieve intelligence amplification (IA).

The Biomedical Scenario: We directly increase our intelligence by improving the neurological operation of our brains.

The Internet Scenario: Humanity, its networks, computers, and databases become sufficiently effective to be considered a superhuman being.

The Digital Gaia Scenario: The network of embedded microprocessors becomes sufficiently effective to be considered a superhuman being.

Later, he writes about how the singularity will probably be a "hard takeoff," or a very rapid transformation, rather than a gentle, gradual shift:

What I'm thinking of would probably be the result of intentional research, perhaps a group exploring the parameter space of their general theory. One of their experiments finally gets things right. The result transforms the world—in just a matter of hours.

I base the possibility of hard takeoff partly on the known potential of rapid malcode (remember the Slammer worm?) but also on an analogy: the most recent event of the magnitude of the technological singularity was the rise of humans within the animal kingdom. Early humans could effect change orders of magnitude faster than other animals could. If we succeed in building systems that are similarly advanced beyond us, we might experience a similar incredible runaway.

His essay also sums up many of the other essays in this special issue of IEEE Spectrum, so it's a great place to dive in. Image via IEEE Spectrum.

Signs of the Singularity, by Vernor Vinge [from IEEE Spectrum's Special Issue on the Singularity]

I love how "Rasmussen and Heartley" manage to evoke and satirize the whole forced marriage plot here:

Andrinara knew that her marriage to Crown Prince Alistair would not forestall the conquest of her beloved planet, Neridan, for long. Emperor Jakrung clearly intended to bring Neridan into his empire, and had simply chosen her marriage to his only surviving son as the most expedient method. But Andrinara would not give up her planet without a fight! Yes, she would go docilely to the altar, and yes, she would seem to perform her duties as a wife to the Crown Prince, but when the time was right...!

She had more than enough of the oki venom to dispose of two men. And as an Empress, she could protect not only her beloved Neridan, but all of the many other planets that had fallen under the despotic rule of the rapacious and cruel Jakrung of the House of Dorg . . .

Andrinara, for her part, was calm. She tuned out much of the ceremony, and used the time to study her soon-to-be husband, finding little fault with what she saw, though she tried. Crown Prince Alistair was tall and well-proportioned, with broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips, and the outlines of his lean muscles were visible even through the heavy cloth of his ceremonial tunic. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his aquiline nose was set above full, sensuous lips. His golden hair curled slightly, and brushed the collar of his tunic, making a soft contrast to his firm jaw. Andrinara observed that the tawny skin of his hand made a pleasing contrast against her own pale fingers, bound to his now by the golden rope of matrimony.

The Crown Prince obviously took after his mother, a common woman who had been the Emperor's fourth wife, prized for her beauty even though her lineage was of no account. Jakrung himself, squat and as well-favored as a gargoyle, had little in common with his golden son, Andrinara thought. Despite herself, she felt a stirring of attraction to the handsome man who would be her husband.

Crown Prince Alistair felt something similar, if the hungry look in his eyes when Andrinara pushed back her triple veils was any indication. He clasped her hands warmly, and leaned forward to give his bride the customary kiss with an unexpected heat that made Andrinara blush. Emperor Jakrung chuckled at her discomfiture, and she pressed her lips together in annoyance before remembering the role she must play.

Of course, you can read the whole story for free on LiveJournal. Or you can buy it, along with "other tales of the Dorgian Galaxy" on Lulu.com.

I love the boys' literal interpretation of science fiction as a guide to alien species. They spend a lot of time trying to figure out if the alien is a Predator or something out of Star Trek. One of the kids, Gordie, has Sky, the British satellite TV system, and lords it over the other kid because he's seen more episodes of The Next Generation. At one point, they actually watch a whole season of TNG hoping to spot the "Gadgey," the alien they've met.

Alien in tow, they straggle up the ranks of their small, closed-off world, finally invoking the help of Jim, the laid-off council worker who has a legendary power tool, the "Hing," which is supposed to be as big as a house and all-powerful. They try to use the Hing to unlock the secrets of the alien's spaceship, but what happens next is shocking and disturbing. I won't spoil the rest of the story — including the whole drugs-for-disruptor trade — but it's well worth spending your lunchbreak checking it out. (And to our East Coast readers, sorry this is so late. Next time, "lunchtime reading" will be closer to your actual lunchtime, I promise.)

Detail from cover of Campbell's Iron Angel. [Strange Horizons]

In "Any Given Day," reporter from National Public Internet (which has replaced NPR) interviews a teenager in 2018, and the transcript has the feeling of a real interview from All Things Considered, including little musical segues. In McHugh's future world, the Baby Boomers are all getting into their 70s and are desperately availing themselves of genetic treatments to restore their lost youth and gain a second chance at being kids. (But you can always tell a rejuvenated Boomer, because they're not young on the inside.)

Our teen hero has had sex with a Boomer named Terry, and then contracts a weird new STD. It seems "contaminated batches of genetic material associated with the telemerase" used in Terry's rejuvenation therapy has converted itself into a proto-virus called pv414. And now the teenager, Emma, has had to take grueling treatments to guard against possible cancers and "hairy cell leukemia." Even after she's pronounced cured, she's constantly worried about getting sick and feels all slowed down and cautious. It's as if Terry, in his selfish quest to stay young another 50 years, has stolen Emma's youth inadvertently. Emma, meanwhile, belongs to a new youth subculture called "Culture Freaks," which tries to borrow from specific non-white cultures, like India or Egypt, as much as possible.

This being NPI, whenever we get to a particularly intense skein of Emma's memories, we suddenly cut to a piece of Baby-Boomer easy listening music, as in this section, where Emma narrates losing her virginity to an older teenager:

Emma: I was fourteen when I lost my virginity. I was drunk, and there was this guy named Luis, he was giving me these drinks that taste like melon, this green stuff that everybody was drinking when they could get it. He said he really liked all my Egyptian stuff and he kept playing with my slave bracelet. The bracelet has chains that go to rings you wear on your thumb, your middle finger, and your ring finger. "Can you be my slave?" he kept asking and at first I thought that was funny because he was the one bringing me drinks, you know? But we kept kissing and then we went into the bedroom and he felt my breasts and then he wanted to have sex. I felt as if I'd led him on, you know? So I didn't say no.

I saw him again a couple of times after that, but he didn't pay much attention to me. He was older and he didn't go to my school. I regret it. I wish it had been a little more special and I was really too young.

Sometimes I thought that if I were a boy I'd be one of those boys who goes into school one day and starts shooting people.

(Music—"Poor Little Rich Girl" by Tony Bennett.)

It would be easy to make a story like "Any Given Day" into a polemic or a flat-out satire, but McHugh gives the story more emotional resonance. The real focus of the story isn't even Emma's disease, but the relationship between Emma, Terry, and the rest of Emma's friends — which leads up to an explosive conclusion. "Interview: On Any Given Day" is part of McHugh's story collection Mothers And Other Monsters, which is now a free Creative Commons download from Small Beer Press. [Small Beer Press]

I don't want to give away too much of the plot of "Fulcrum," but I will mention a few of the things that were cool about it. Its main characters, Orlando and Grace, are aliens who look just human enough that they have to keep reminding everyone that they're not human. There are also some hints that their sexuality doesn't quite work the same way as ours, including a great scene involving tea.

A lot of the story's "noir" comes from two thuggish guys who hang around the Kuiper Belt station, waiting to be shot out into deep space on a probably deadly prospecting run: Jack Solo and Draco Fujima. They both have virtual-reality sex bots that follow them around, and Jack's sex-bot, Anni-mah, is a quivering masochist. She literally follows him around asking him to hurt her, and it's disturbingly creepy. But then it's only much later that Jones reveals that "A softbot sextoy (and this was why the bots had been only a passing phase on earth) inevitably reflects the owner's secret identity."

There's a lot more twisted and unsettling but fascinating stuff — including a murder mystery and a weird quasi-creature that could be the most valuable object in the universe — in "Fulcrum." [Fulcrum by Gwyneth Jones]

Writes Seward in his introduction to the book:

Unlike Dick or Spinrad, sci-fi writers who confined Nazis to a book or two, Britton and Butterworth have pursued their theme with a probably disturbing intensity that can be quantitatively measured in the sheer volume of Lord Horror productions. What's more, they do not tack a moral to the end of their tales. This is not to say that there are no morals but rather that there are no easy answers, seals of approval, rubber stamps, calmatives ("don't worry, it's just fiction, the jackboots won't hurt you"). Their work is not ideological, like a hate tract, but is rather a deliberate collision of seemingly incompatible ideologies: death camp + dream factory = ? Satire, hyperbole, and reductio ad absurdum work to energize, anger, inspire, offend, but the one thing they do not do to readers is pacify. And why should anyone be pacified by Nazis, even fictional ones?

Horror Panegyric [Supervert]

Image from Randa Mirza.

In "Holiiday In Hot Zone 16," a group of tourists fly over a battle between warlords in the U.N. designated hotzone of "Lower Hazmatistan." (And yes, it's a broad satire, as well as a vicious one.) The tourbus includes a couple on honeymoon, a family with small kids, an older couple... and the tourbus driver, who has a shady business on the side. Safe in their shielded bus, 50 feet above the ground, they watch the Donites and the Khaffis slaughter each other with primitive AK-47s and big knives. When the mass murder is over, that's when things get really nasty. Here's a sample passage:

He was cut down in a burst of gunfire before he could raise [his rifle.] The bullets slammed him backwards into the campfire, where his blood sizzled and his clothes and hair burst into flames. He was dead before he could scream.

"Oh, how delightful!" a woman exclaimed. Gus glanced up at his mirror again with another satisfied smile. The lady was peering out the window with a tiny pair of opera glasses.

Here's a snippet from the story's opening:

We stood on a hill overlooking the meadow. A bunch of other kids ambled behind us, rags and bones, scruffy faces, some little ones on the shoulders of the bigger. Bit by bit, as Uxo and the damn machine cleared the meadow, we'd advance to the new safe zone for a better look.

It was a comical sight, if not for the stakes: Volkovoy, dull gray heap, like a breaching whale, trundled and pivoted, roared and smoked, extruding claws and spades and hammers. It plowed up the sod. Now and then, if it couldn't defuse a dinger, Volkovoy flashed and shook, encasing and detonating the thing, then dropping it out the back, busted metal dung. Meanwhile, Uxo, sweetie, his tail curled back like the tongue of a letter "Q," walked and sniffed and walked. His smart flat face was matted and dirty, but when he yipped and looked back at me and the kids - "A bomb here, boss!" he seemed to say. "Look how good I am!" - his eyes were full of light. Then I'd tiptoe out to fetch the dinger and disable it. He knew not to lick me then.

The whole story is free online. Check it out. Photograph by Sarah Pickering.

"Uxo, Bomb Dog" [via Futurismic]