Lights in the Deep (22 page)

Thus the 21st century reader has a bit of a blind spot for Science Fiction in ways his or her grandparents did not. When the Golden Age was under way, it was still common for many rural households to lack the kind of plumbing, heating, air-conditioning, and electricity that many of us in our time consider to be basic essentials. Our science has literally made the fiction into reality, thus the “magical” shine of what was once dreamed of in the Golden Age, has slowly faded into the hum-drum of every-day existence.

Secondly, the reality of science and the emergence of a science-dependent, technological society—as different from 17th and 18th-century pastoral and agrarian times as the Roman Empire was from pre-historic tribal life—has somewhat robbed modernity of the mysticism and sense of otherworldly wonder that most of our ancestors had. So that while the emergence of modern science—courtesy of the Enlightenment, and all that followed on—has given us an amazing and vital number of improvements, not the least of which are medicine, electricity, mechanical means of performing laborious and repetitive tasks, and an explosion in both life spans and the amount of time freed for leisure, science has also effectively pulled the curtain back on much which was previously mysterious and otherwise attributable to the Divine.

There are no more Gods, no more Devils, no more Angels nor Demons, and also no more
magic
—the intangible sense that there are deeper forces and destinies at work in the universe; the clashing of cosmic Goods and Evils.

Yet, as humans, we still long for these things. Well, a good many of us long for them, anyway. I believe that part of the reason why Fantasy continues to swell and Science Fiction has somewhat shriveled, is that Fantasy is a genre where we as a society can recapture what we miss: wizards and warlocks and necromancers, Dark Forces allied to battle the numerically-inferior but heroic Light Forces, and above all else a sense that life has
meaning
and
purpose
beyond the merely material, or the tangible. That there is a universal justice operating in the world, and while it is not always readily-accessible or apparent, it exists just the same. Not all is random. Not every meaning is a man-made, artificially-imposed meaning.

Consider
Star Wars,
which still ranks as one of the most financially-dominant film franchises of all time. Ostensibly technological—spaceships, laser guns, robots with artificial intelligence, interstellar travel—
Star Wars
survives and thrives not because it’s a picture of a very-advanced, polyglot interstellar civilization, but because
Star Wars
uses that civilization as a canvas for what is, essentially, a classically-legendary tale about Cosmic Good and Cosmic Evil. There is magic—in the form of The Force—and there are both good and evil wizards—in the form of the Jedi and the Sith. Seemingly random events often have the scent of deep destiny about them, and the technological aspects of Star Wars often take a back seat during Star Wars’ most triumphant—and tragic—moments.

Consider also the
Dune
saga, begun with the novel of the same name. Much like
Star Wars, Dune
is a story about a very-advanced, almost super-technological future interstellar society. But also like
Star Wars, Dune
is a story about mystical forces, the coming of a messianic savior, events which seem predestined and foretold, the triumph of ordered good over chaos and evil, and more deeply, how these triumphs can sometimes presage an even greater evil amidst even greater chaos. And so forth. Not technological themes at all. The Spice Melange is as otherworldly and magical as any tincture brewed by Merlin in the court at Camelot, and Paul Atreides is very much an Arthurian figure: the boy-king come to set the world to rights, and unify the land. At least for a short time.

Even the movie
Avatar
relies on mysticism and legendary aspect for its success, since all the stunning 3D special effects in the world could not have held up a plot sustained purely by natives-versus-invaders. Jake Sully is another Paul Atreides: a young outlander who must first prove himself to the Na’vi (Fremen) and then master the Toruk sky dragons (sand worms) before leading the Na’vi (Fremen) against the corporatized and despotic, not to mention debased and immoral, Company with its mercenaries (Harkonnens and the Imperial Sarduakar) seeking to strip Pandora (Arrakis) of its singularly-vital commodity, Unobtanium (Melange.)

In each case, both
Dune
and
Avatar
employ
fantastic
story elements and underpinnings to tell what are essentially
fantastic
and legend-like tales. The technology that infuses both is merely a vehicle for the deeper, more mystical (spiritual?) elements which are both present and apparent—if you look for them.

Yet, Science Fiction has staked its claim as the anti-mystical genre. A great many of its practitioners are outspoken or otherwise avowed secularists. As are a great many of Science Fiction’s fans—not all of whom share an overlapping love for Fantasy, the way many Fantasy fans share an overlapping love for Sci-Fi. So it’s perhaps not surprising then that much of the Science Fiction being written in the 21st century concerns itself strictly with materialistic concerns: climate change, global warming, the decay of governments and the onset of dystopian hegemony, or anarchy, and an overriding message that humans are small, flawed, puny creatures living on a small, flawed, puny planet in a lost corner of a gargantuan galaxy, which is itself lost in still some other corner of the much greater and enormous universe.

True or not—I won’t debate the evidence, one way or another—this “small” view of the human being is often at odds with the “large” view offered in works like
The Lord of the Rings.
In fact, Tolkien’s main thrust in the telling of the tales of Middle-Earth seems to be that even the smallest of us can have the most vital importance, and that great deeds and great destinies await even the most unlikely and innocent of people. Bilbo and Frodo are the “everymen” of the world, thrust quite against their wills into a wider, more dangerous arena. Doubtless Tolkien would dislike the application of allegory, since he is on record as having stated that he disliked allegory in his time and especially disliked seeing it draped over his books. Still, I think the point is made: the most timeless and successful and memorable Fantasy work of the last 100 years is a work which takes humble, ordinary folk and sets them up as extraordinary and heroic.

Science Fiction? Science Fiction often seems less sure about its mission. Since the so-called New Wave which brought literary aspects to the genre, Science Fiction—at least in print—has gradually become more and more concerned with the meaninglessness of life, the random and even hopeless nature of our existence, and while the vistas and landscapes offered can only be described as wondrous and vast, the impact on the human psyche is often the opposite: we do not matter, we are not important, nothing of us has any great impact on the universe, therefore the only meaning available to us is that which we create artificially, and then often with much struggle and ultimate futility.

Orson Scott Card’s memorable and famous novel,
Ender’s Game,
breaks from this significantly. Ender Wiggin being much like Paul Atreides and Jake Sully: the young “changer” who overturns the tables of the “game”, while vanquishing great evil in the process. Card goes one step further in that the Buggers have their time, too. In fact much of the Ender saga concerns itself with the ramifications of what Ender does in the first book, and how Ender—and humanity—seek redemption when faced with a very terrible—sinful?—legacy. So, in that sense, Ender’s Game is not about the war with the Formics. It is not even about the (current, by our standards) remotely-operated video-game-like nature of future war in space. It’s about the desperation of survival against the odds, and the realization that sometimes the ends do not necessarily justify the means; that even heroes have much for which they should atone. In one form, or another.

It is often said of the Writers of the Future Contest that Science Fiction stories have a better chance of succeeding than Fantasy stories, and this is true. But only because Fantasy is so popular with many new writers that the amount of Fantasy received by the judges is larger than the amount of Science Fiction.

I suspect this is because Fantasy is a more accessible and emotionally-meaningful genre for new writers, many of whom have grown up steeped in the Fantastic most of their lives. Books, movies, and sometimes television: Fantasy stories and Fantasy tales which elevate the human being to an important place in the world, in much the same way all children and teenagers wish to be elevated—and all “ordinary” men and women, too. Thus when a new writer sits down and thinks, “Aha, I shall enter this Contest and win,” he or she is much more likely to start with Fantasy. It’s the familiar thing, and it’s the thing about which new writers most naturally feel compelled to tell meaningful stories.

It’s harder with Science Fiction. Seventy years ago, the mere act of landing on the Moon possessed its own meaning: it was an imagined technological triumph foretold in an era replete with technological triumphs, all mounting towards a transformation of society and the human condition. But now? We landed on the Moon, and we came back, and despite all of our numerous technological and material advantages in our time, society and the human condition aren’t that much different. In fact, we seem to be more ourselves than ever before.

I think that perhaps Science Fiction’s road has taken it down an uneasily-traveled path. The number of readers for whom a Fantastic tale like
Harry Potter
is meaningful is much larger than the number of readers for whom a Science Fiction tale like John Varley’s
Steel Beach
is meaningful. And while the combined effort of Science Fiction and Fantasy is made richer and more complex by the
Steel Beach
books of the co-genre, I also suggest that pursuing a
Steel Beach
course—while seeing the readership peel away and find interest in happier, maybe even simpler imaginary lands—is problematic at best. Science Fiction won’t survive forever if all but the most hard-core readers decide that there’s just not enough emotional (moral?) uplift in Science Fiction for them to keep reading it.

In order for Science Fiction to have value and meaning—to say nothing of an audience—I think it could stand to go back to the “mythic” tropes more than it has of late. Re-explore some of the more classic, more time-honored themes. Re-elevate the human to a place of dignity and power. Re-embrace themes that are hopeful, optimistic, perhaps even spiritual in nature. The movie industry seems to have it: they have profited mightily from exploiting Science Fiction’s sunny-side disposition and prognostication. I think Science Fiction writers could do similarly, but first it’s going to take a little unconventional thinking, and a willingness to break with established preconceptions about what Science Fiction is for, the kinds of stories you can and
cannot
tell, and having the courage to know when it’s worth it to be optimistic—even when scientific evidence or political reality or industry forces may dictate otherwise.

The Chaplain’s Assistant

I was putting fresh oil into clay lamps at the altar when the mantis glided into my foyer. The creature stopped for a moment, his antennae dancing in the air, sensing the few parishioners who sat on my roughly-hewn stone pews. I hadn’t seen a mantis in a long time—the aliens didn’t bother with humans much, now that we were shut safely behind their Wall. Like all the rest of his kind, this mantis’s lower thorax was submerged into the biomechanical “saddle” of his floating mobility disc. Only, this one’s disc didn’t appear to have any apertures for weapons—a true rarity on Purgatory.

Every human head in the building turned towards the visitor, each set of human eyes smoldering with a familiar, tired hate.

“I would speak to the Holy Man,” said the mantis through the speaker box on its disc. Its fearsome, segmented beak had not moved. The disc and all the machines within it were controlled directly by the alien’s brain.

When nobody got up to leave, the mantis began floating up my chapel’s central aisle, the mantis’s disc making a gentle humming sound. “Alone,” said the visitor, his vocoded voice approximating a commanding human tone.

Heads and eyes turned to me. I looked at the mantis, considered my options, then bowed to my flock, who reluctantly began to leave—each worshipper collecting handfuls of beads, crosses, stars, serviceman’s bibles, and various other religious items. They exited without saying a word. What else could they do? The mantes ruled Purgatory as surely as Lucifer ruled Hell.

I waited at the altar.

“You are the religious officer?” said the mantis.

“The Chaplain is dead. I am—was—his assistant.”

“We must speak, you and I.”

Again, I noted the mantis’s lack of armament.

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“I wish to understand this entity you call God.”

I stared at the alien, not quite sure if I should take him seriously.

“To understand God,” I said slowly, “is a skill that requires ongoing mastery.”

“Which is why the other humans come here, to this structure. To learn from you.”

I blushed slightly. In the year since I’d built the chapel—some two years after our failed invasion and subsequent capture—I’d not given so much as a single sermon. Preaching wasn’t my thing. I built the chapel because the Chaplain told me to before he died, and because it seemed obvious that many humans on Purgatory—men and women who had landed here, fought, been stranded and eventually imprisoned—
needed
it. With the fleets from Sol departed, and our homes many thousands of light-years away, there wasn’t much left for some of us to turn to—except
Him.

“I don’t teach,” I said, measuring my words against the quiet fear in my heart, “but I do provide a space for those who come to listen.”