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The Memoirist by Neil Williamson

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In a future dominated by omnipresent surveillance, why are so many powerful people determined to wipe a poignant gig by a faded rock star from the annals of history? When Rhian is hired to write the memoirs of Elodie Eagles, former singer with the politically charged, electro-rock band, The HitMEBritneys, she has no idea of the dangerous path she is treading…
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Britain is one of, if not the, the most heavily surveilled place in the world; figures from 2013 suggested there was a CCTV camera for every fifteen people in the country. Add to that the way we share information about ourselves on social media and are both rewarded for it and used by marketing departments because of it, and a novella about the Panopticon society becomes incredibly timely…

The Memoirist is a near-future science fiction novel set in a society where surveillance of all, by all, at virtually all times (except where specific opt-outs have been applied) is the rule. Williamson doesn’t go into the way this society came about, instead handwaving at terrorism, safety concerns, and social media universalisation as having led to this point; he’s not particularly interested in how we get to the society he’s putting under the microscope, instead wanting to talk about how it functions when we get there. It’s an interesting thought experiment and extension of where society is now; universal surveillance and social media ranking as determining friendships and job prospects, given that people have lost jobs over social media posts, aren’t outlandish prospects, and The Memoirist isn’t optimistic about where that might go given human nature and prurience.

The reaction against this society drives much of the plot of The Memoirist; indeed, what starts as a minor theme, over the course of the novella, becomes the dominant melody. Williamson is interested in different factions’ takes on the society this creates, especially the uneven distribution of information – inevitably, government and government officials still have secrets; the richer one is, the more privacy one can afford. The Memoirist sees different people approaching how to deal with that reality in very different ways; it’s a thoughtful and intelligent meditation, and doesn’t come to any easy answers on the topic, insteead suggesting a multiplicity of futures.

That only really defines one strand of the plot, in which Rhian is drawn into a factional fight between different groups of people who have different ideals of how the pseudo-panopticon society they live in should develop. The other strand is a historical attempt to unearth the last concert by Elodie Eagles, to curate her memoir from the information about her out there; this is the strand that names The Memoirist. It’s an interesting one, and the way Williamson engages with the mutability of memory, and the preciousness and personal nature of individual recollection of even group experiences and of the ephemerality of individual memory is brilliant. However, it’s not given very much weight when compared to the other strand, and the way Williamson ties it into the broader societal topics of the novella seem overdone and unnecessary; rather than being neat, they make The Memoirist feel a little overcontrived.

The emotional core of The Memoirist is Rhian and her relationships, and that’s where Williamson really shines. Rhian is a brilliant character, flawed and constantly curating her online presence and persona, always aware of the surveillance she’s under; her reactions feel intensely familiar to anyone who has lived under the scrutiny of online peers. Her relationships are deeply human – the strained and complicated relationship with her mother, whose reaction to the society they live in is so different; her off-the-grid sometime-lover and friend Pawel, whose connections to extralegal conspiracies drive so much of the plot; and the way she constantly sands down her spikier edges when talking to people professionally.

In the end, The Memoirist might be somewhat flawed, but it’s a fascinating novella; I want to spend more time in Rhian’s spiky company, although I wouldn’t want to live in the society she does…

Disclaimer: Neil Williamson is a personal friend and a regular host of events at my place of work.

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Amatka by Karin Tidbeck, trans. Karin Tidbeck

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Vanja, an information assistant, is sent from her home city of Essre to the austere, wintry colony of Amatka with an assignment to collect intelligence for the government. Immediately she feels that something strange is going on: people act oddly in Amatka, and citizens are monitored for signs of subversion.

Intending to stay just a short while, Vanja falls in love with her housemate, Nina, and prolongs her visit. But when she stumbles on evidence of a growing threat to the colony, and a cover-up by its administration, she embarks on an investigation that puts her at tremendous risk.

In Karin Tidbeck’s world, everyone is suspect, no one is safe, and nothing—not even language, nor the very fabric of reality—can be taken for granted. Amatka is a beguiling and wholly original novel about freedom, love, and artistic creation by a captivating new voice.
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Karin Tidbeck first came to my attention through Cheeky Frawg’s publication of Jagganath a few years back; it feels like even then we were all waiting for a novel by this multitalented multilinguist who translates her own fiction from Swedish into English, including this novel. So perhaps it is no surprise that Amatka is such a linguistically involved novel…

Amatka is on the surface of it a novel in the tradition of Ursula Le Guin mixed with a good dash of George Orwell; The Dispossessed meets 1984. At the start, it seems like a fictionalised version of the Soviet Union with a dash of the Weird, with its intrusive government presence, communist and communal system, dismal dreariness, spartan tendencies, and general bureaucratic and depersonalising approach. Tidbeck sets us up to expect one kind of novel, very much in the mode of 1984, where love as resistance leads to a more generalised resistance against an unjust authority; but Amatka goes in a different direction, with its weirder elements.

Those weirder elements are also present almost from the very start, with the labelling of everything; it’s implied that in the world of Amatka, naming things helps them or forces them to keep their form. It’s an interesting concept on the face of it, and that’s before Tidbeck goes further with the idea, playing with it and pushing it to weird and strange places. Tidbeck uses Amatka to play with, and literalise, the ideas of form and function as defined by language, and reality being what we describe it as; there are fantastic unspoken parts of the book about the way poetry versus prose describe things, and fiction versus fact, that are really interesting and could have been almost a whole novel in themselves.

Amatka is an entry in a long discussion in fiction about dystopia and the way strictures are enforced on society. Tidbeck builds her Soviet-reminiscent setting before explaining at all why it is necessary or how it came about; we see everything from the perspective of Vanja, and her status in society, which influences our reactions to everything, for reasons which only become clear as the book continues. Amatka plays with the necessity of the strictures of oppression, requiring the reader to ask whether freedom is worth the price, in this context, of that freedom, or whether order is worth the cost of order; there aren’t easy answers here.

The characters of Amatka are the weak link here. While Vanja’s outsider status and feeling of being a universal outsider is well written, and her doubts and anguish at the oppression of the communes well conveyed, the rest of the cast have a tendency to feel a bit flat, like ciphers or game-pieces moved into place for the sake of the plot and the sake of Vanja rather than people in their own right. Nina comes closest to breaking this pattern, and Tidbeck conveys her various conflicts between ideology and personal relationships very well, although at times, especially when they’re most strongly opposed, it can feel a little forced.

In the end, despite the weakness of characterisation, Amatka is an absolute masterpiece of a novel, and Tidbeck’s writing and ideas spark off the page and engage the reader wholly. An intellectual, literary piece of brilliance.

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Transcendent ed. K. M. Szpara

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There are fantastical stories with actual transgender characters, some for whom that is central and others for whom that isn’t. And there are stories without transgender characters, but with metaphors and symbolism in their place, genuine expressions of self through such speculative fiction tropes as shapeshifting and programming. Transgender individuals see themselves in transformative characters, those outsiders, before seeing themselves as human protagonists. Those feelings are still valid. Cisgender people can never quite understand this distancing. But though the stories involve transformation and outsiders, sometimes the change is one of self-realization. This anthology will be a welcome read for those who are ready to transcend gender through the lens of science fiction, fantasy, and other works of imaginative fiction.
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K. M. Szpara, in his introduction to Transcendent, explains where this anthology came from: a submission to Lethe Press’s Wilde Stories 2015, their year’s best of gay speculative fiction. As a result of that, Steve Berman of Lethe Press gave Szpara a call, and asked him to edit a similar anthology, but trans themed… to which, thankfully for us and for history, Szpara said yes. Collecting the year’s best trans speculative fiction must be an incredible challenge, and to narrow that down from however many submissions Szpara received to the fifteen he eventually chose must have been a monumental task; I don’t intend to comment on all fifteen stories, but to highlight those I think are best – and those that I think don’t fit so well into the collection, for whatever reasons.

It’s hard to pick out the best stories to talk about in a collection where the standard is so high; but one of the best is E. Sexton’s ‘The Librarian’s Dilemma’, which is barely speculative fiction (and increasingly mimetic as time advances), and that is absolutely brilliant. It’s a relatively short story that draws on queer love to help boost the tension felt by its central character between preserving texts and ensuring access for as many as possible; Sexton walks that tightrope without ever providing an answer to the titular dilemma, and the transness of the central character matters but isn’t what the story is about.

Transcendent is full of stories like that; Bogi Takács’ story ‘The Need For Overwhelming Sensation’ is a queer, kinky space fantasy that looks at assumptions, power, and politicking, whilst also being about a beautiful and sweet queer sub-dom relationship. The presentation of nonbinary gender is natural, as one might expect from eir work, and the way e challenges assumptions about kink is fantastic, but the transness of the story is almost incidental. The same is true of A. Merc Rustad’s ‘Where Monsters Dance’, in which the protagonist’s girlfriend is a trans woman; the story is largely about parental abuse of the protagonist by their step-father, and the psychological protective mechanisms one builds to deal with abuse, among other things, and it is a fascinating, powerful, and moving story.

A few of the stories in Transcendent are very directly engaging with being trans. The volume opens on one, ‘The Shape of My Name’, by Nino Cipri. Their story is a fascinating take on time travel and on the emotional complexities it can lead to, with the mixture of certain fate and changing destiny a major theme; Cipri writes about being trans powerfully in the story, and is interested in the circularity a time travel narrative can allow. Everett Maroon’s ‘Treasure Acre’ also plays with time travel, but rather more simply; it’s a very short story, about the way that the struggles we have to face as trans people make us who we are, and although we could wish them away, it might not actually be better to not have them. Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam’s ‘Everything Beneath You’ is the most personal to me; it engages directly with the wish to be neither male nor female, and the possible consequences of that, whilst also telling a tragic love story in a very mythic fashion. Stufflebeam’s embrace of myth is powerful, and her use of mythic motifs works excellently.

One theme I singularly dislike that runs through a number of these stories is nonhuman, magical transformations as a metaphor for trans experiences; this is strongest in Alexis A. Hunter’s ‘Be Not Unequally Yoked’, but Transcendent also sees it occur in ‘The Thing On The Cheerleading Squad’ by Molly Tanzer, ‘into the waters i rode down’ by Jack Hollis Marr, and ‘Contents of Care Package to Etsath-tachri, Formerly Ryan Andrew Curran (Human English Translated to Sedrayin)’ by Holly Heisey. Each of these stories has their own strengths, and some of them, notably Marr’s, also have trans characters outside their metaphors, but at the same time, it is still frustrating to see selected as some of the best trans fiction stories that conceptualise being trans as essentially not human.

That said, of that set of stories, Heisey’s ‘Contents of Care Package to Etsath-tachri, Formerly Ryan Andrew Curran (Human English Translated to Sedrayin)’ really does convey powerfully and movingly a lot about the experience of transition and the reactions to it of different people; the three parts of the story are fascinatingly written with different approaches to transition, with the last being cathartic and heartbreakingly beautiful in its simplicity.

There are also a couple of stories which are simply not up to the same standard as the rest of the anthology; Benjanun Sridungkaew’s ‘The Petals Abide’ has the potential to be a fascinating piece, and the way she uses gender in the story is important in its straightforward acceptance of a variety of gender identities, but the whole thing should have been about half the length, and the literary quality of the language is such that it tends to tip into convolution and self-parody rather than beauty. E. Catherine Tobler’s story, ‘Splitskin’, feels like it isn’t sure quite what it’s trying to be; somewhere between a circus tale and magical realism about the gold rush, it never really works as a piece of fiction until the very ending, which is beautifully written.

The anthology closes on a very interesting story which brings together multiple themes discussed above; Penny Stirling’s ‘Kin, Painted’ in one sense is a metaphorical discussion of being trans and trying to find one’s gender, and in another sense, given the explicit inclusion of trans characters of a variety of genders, is not about that at all. Stirling’s story is a fascinating meditation on art, and how art derives meaning from its context; ou writes about growing up, discovering oneself and one’s community, and about the idea of family, whilst also having built an incredibly queer world in the background.

Transcendent isn’t perfect, as no anthology can be; I think there’s too many stories which treat being trans as a metaphor, and some which just aren’t up to scratch in here. But overall, Szpara has done a fantastic job of selecting stories to showcase a range of trans narratives and voices, and his work should be applauded.

Disclaimer: I am a friend of Bogi Takács, one of the writers in the anthology, and of K. M. Szpara, the editor. Transcendent 2, also published by Lethe Press, is forthcoming, edited by Bogi Takács.

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Love Beyond Body, Space & Time ed. Hope Nicholson

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Love Beyond Body, Space, and Time is a collection of indigenous science fiction and urban fantasy focusing on LGBT and two-spirit characters. These stories range from a transgender woman undergoing an experimental transition process to young lovers separated through decades and meeting in their own far future. These are stories of machines and magic, love and self-love.
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Love Beyond Body, Space & Time occupies an important place in science fiction: not only centring queer voices and narratives, but also centring Indigenous voices and narratives, a group all too often left out of discussions of the genre. Not all the writers in the anthology are themselves Indigenous, a point Nicholson acknowledges in her Editor’s Letter, but all the stories feature Indigenous characters, cultures, and themes.

Love Beyond Body, Space & Time opens with three nonfiction pieces. Nicholson’s opening letter is largely a disclaimer about this not being her story to tell, but the others are more interesting; a piece on two-spirit stories as survivance stories in science fiction by Grace L. Dillon, and a piece on the historical and present day role of two-spirit people in Indigenous communities by Niigaan Sinclair. Both are fascinating essays, situating some of the things the anthology is doing in a wider cultural discourse and a wider social model, and providing multiple possible frameworks with which to approach the stories within.

There are a couple of absolutely outstanding stories in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time. Daniel Heath Justice’s ‘The Boys Who Became The Hummingbirds’ reads as a fable, with a very obvious moral; it’s well written and beautiful, as the best fable are, and with the poetic style and lack of specificity that much living myth has. Its queerness is explicit, varied in kind, and powerfully central to the story, and to the model of diversity in which Heath Justice is invested in the tale.

In stark contrast, ‘Né Łe!’ by Darcie Little Badger is straightforward science fiction, albeit with mythic resonance; it’s also a sweet lesbian romance story, that is impressively moving in its simplicity and with very strong characterisation over its short length. In similar vein is ‘Valediction At The Star View Motel’, a lightly fantastic story of young love, passion, and memory; Nathan Adler takes on the racism faced by the Indigenous community, including some of the racist policies applied to them, whilst also keeping at the core of the story the simplicity of young love.

The strongest story in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time, by my lights, is Gwen Benaway’s ‘Transition’. Benaway writes a transition narrative that deals with the difficulties of being trans in a cis world; the way every day involves armouring up and self-defence strategies to keep cis violence from breaking out against one. It’s also a story of community and history; Benaway builds into the very bones of the story the acceptance of trans people by at least the Indigenous community she chooses to present. The mythic fantastic creeps in around the edges of the story, which is essentially mimetic, and ‘Transition’ emerges as emotionally resonant and incredibly powerful.

At the other end of the spectrum, ‘Aliens’ by Richard van Camp is a frustrating piece, which if the reader accepts and enjoys the voice in which it is told might well work. However, it feels too mannered for the attempt at naturalism it is making, and the treatment of gender diversity as a big secret and major revelation at the end of the story is a frustrating one, playing into a number of harmful tropes and a deeply problematic presentation of gender diversity. Similarly, in ‘Imposter Syndrome’, Mari Kurisato writes a transition narrative that uses an alien transitioning to human as a metaphor for gender transition; seeing human trans people in fiction is powerful, whereas in this collection especially, this treatment of transness felt painfully out of place. Kurisato’s style and characterisation are excellent, and there are some really brilliant ideas in the piece, which makes the fundamental failure all the more frustrating.

Failing in a different way, ‘Perfectly You’ by David Robertson just doesn’t emotionally connect. This attempt to tell a romantic story feels strained and emotionless, essentially empty of real content; there isn’t really enough ground on which to build the payoff Robertson wants to give, and the strongest parts of the story are those in which he is building that ground.

In the end, Nicholson has engaged in an important project in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time, centring Indigenous queer people, but it’s a deeply flawed execution of that project; we need more anthologies like this, but next time, more stories like Heath Justice’s and Little Badger’s, please!

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Defying Gravity by Corey J. White

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Before she escaped in a bloody coup, MEPHISTO transformed Mariam Xi into a deadly voidwitch. Their training left her with terrifying capabilities, a fierce sense of independence, a deficit of trust, and an experimental pet named Seven. She’s spent her life on the run, but the boogeymen from her past are catching up with her. An encounter with a bounty hunter has left her hanging helpless in a dying spaceship, dependent on the mercy of strangers.


Penned in on all sides, Mariam chases rumors to find the one who sold her out. To discover the truth and defeat her pursuers, she’ll have to stare into the abyss and find the secrets of her past, her future, and her terrifying potential.
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Child soldiers, kids turned into psychic weapons, found families, government conspiracies? We’ve seen all this before hundreds of times, perhaps most notably in Joss Whedon’s Firefly. Corey J. White’s Killing Gravity is another entry into this long tradition: so, what does it bring to the field?

Killing Gravity‘s great strength is its voices. Despite the fact that almost every character is of a type we’ve met before – the friendly soldier who went AWOL, the extremely unfriendly and violent merc (female, in this case, though that’s becoming less rare), the AIs with a slightly warped approach to the world, and the psychic who was experimented on by the government to make her into a weapon – this isn’t a book where are two-dimensional or simple archetypes without any flesh on that bare bone framework. White not only gives each one a distinctive cadence and approach to the world, but distinctive mannerisms too, which very rapidly establish their characterisation. This is most obvious with the way Mars pushes people away and struggles with herself, but even supporting characters like Trix’s violence and her anger at the world and the situation she’s in. Where Killing Gravity does break free of archetypes a bit more is in the captain, Squid; they are calm, meditative, open, and rather fascinating in their whole characterisation. They’re also genderqueer, something that the book never really makes a big deal of and just allows to be a thing that is unremarkable.

The plot of Killing Gravity isn’t so strong: if you’ve seen Serenity, you already know it, really. A supersecret research group engineered girls to be psychic warrior-witches, and one escaped; inevitably, the group wants to track her down and recapture her. White’s story is concerned with that; it starts in media res, in the immediate wake of an attempt to capture Mars, and plays out the consequences of that attempt and the experiments done to Mars. It’s not a flashy story in that regard, but what White does do is give it some emotional resonance, with Mars’ original liberator, and with the family she finds along the way. That’s slightly let down at the very close of the novella: any sense of resolution is undermined by White’s determination to set up a sequel in the most obvious and inevitable way possible. While it fits with what’s gone before, the heavy-handedness of it still frustrates.

Killing Gravity doesn’t have the most complex plot, and White matches it to simple writing style; this is a breeze to get through, a very quick read. That isn’t to say the prose is bad; far from it. The simplicity of the prose, and the way White lets it do its thing without adding layers of complexity of verbosity to it, means there’s nothing coming between reader and characters. This is especially true of action sequences, which are fast paced, bloody, and visceral. White doesn’t shy away from the emotional consequences of action sequences, and wounds actually mean something in the novella, but the cinematic nature of the action is what we’re really here for: this feels at times like it was written for adaptation onto the big screen, with its sweeping vistas, weird visuals, and pitched battles.

In the end, Killing Gravity isn’t doing anything new in the genre; that’s not where its strength lies. Instead, White’s skill is in doing things we’ve seen before, and doing them very well indeed. I could wish for a more original plot, though…

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The Switch by Justina Robson

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In Harmony, only model citizens are welcome.

A perfect society must be maintained. The defective must be eradicated. For orphans like Nico and Twostar, this means a life that’s brutal, regulated and short.

But Nico and Twostar are survivors, and when they’re offered a way out of the slums, they take it.

Unfortunately, no one told Nico the deal included being sentenced to death for the murder of one of Harmony’s most notorious gang leaders.

Or that to gain his freedom, first he must lose his mind.
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Justina Robson is well known for two different strands of writing: a paranormal science fiction romantic action series, the Quantum Gravity books, and also hard far-future science fiction like Natural History and her BSFA shortlisted Glorious Angels. The Switch is her latest novel, and comes with a cover which suggests continuity with the former, but content much more in line with the latter…

The Switch is a slightly odd book, formally. It starts in media res, before jumping back for a number of chapters to give the backstory to how we got to the point we started at, and then continuing from that starting point. Robson’s first-person narration notes things in the retrospective section that would, had the character marked them at the time, been foreshadowing, emphasising how much it’s a looking back on his life, but when we catch back up to the narrative, those things still sometimes appear: The Switch is told in a very immediate style but in the past tense, which gives it a slightly odd feel. That’s not helped by Robson’s first person narration slipping into omniscient third at times, knowing not just how other characters appear to feel but how they actually do, a strange slip of the narrative wrist.

The plot itself is, on the surface, very simple: orphans cast out for their flaws (homosexuality) by a twisted and repressive religious society seek escape from the society, through criminal cartels and then off-world. The Switch takes that very basic idea and makes of it a twisty, turny plot with all kinds of things going on inside of it, all kinds of slips sidewise, adding in extra complications, additional motivations, and deceit; Robson ends up with a kind of heist plot that is part revolution and part selfishness. The big problem is how messy it all gets; The Switch relies on layers and layers of deceit to pull off an overcomplicated scheme, and Robson never really makes clear why characters trust each other despite betrayals, or why the complexity of the scheme is the easiest approach they could take, instead of anything more straightforward.

Despite all that, there are compelling characters in here. Nico, the protagonist and viewpoint character of The Switch, is a gay man in a society with an extremely homophobic underpinning; he’s simultaneously rejecting of, and yet unable to entirely escape, that socio-religious programming, and Robson really conveys that internal tension well. Similarly, his armour against the abuse society heaps on him is shown as both a survival measure and something that does do harm; Robson is really good at writing his emotional intimacy with his chosen partner, later in the book. Twostar is less well-written, seen only through Nico’s eyes, but she’s still a compelling character in her own right, with some fascinating contradictions about what she wants and needs. The problem of character arises in much of the rest of the cast; every antagonist is incredibly simplistically portrayed and two-dimensional, whereas the meddling agent Tishan who creates much of the complexity of the plot seems to switch almost at random between genius mastermind and someone who can’t even see the obvious implications of their decisions.

In the end, The Switch is a fun book, with some great characters, but it could really have used some pruning of the complexity of the plot, or at least explanation of it; this is not Robson’s best work.

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All Systems Red by Martha Wells

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In a corporate-dominated spacefaring future, planetary missions must be approved and supplied by the Company. Exploratory teams are accompanied by Company-supplied security androids, for their own safety.

But in a society where contracts are awarded to the lowest bidder, safety isn’t a primary concern.

On a distant planet, a team of scientists are conducting surface tests, shadowed by their Company-supplied ‘droid — a self-aware SecUnit that has hacked its own governor module, and refers to itself (though never out loud) as “Murderbot.” Scornful of humans, all it really wants is to be left alone long enough to figure out who it is.

But when a neighboring mission goes dark, it’s up to the scientists and their Murderbot to get to the truth.
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AIs and personhood are issues which have a long science fictional heritage, one that is again in the air as AI appears to be an ever-more-achievable goal; what would the implications of the personhood of AIs be? All Systems Red is Martha Wells’ injection into that discussion, although there’s more to this novella than just an ontological discussion.

Before we go further, it should be noted that Murderbot is a person who appears to prefer the pronoun “it” for itself, hence I will refer to Murderbot by that pronoun in this review.

All Systems Red is narrated by the titular Murderbot, who hacked its own AI governor unit to give it a fully independent, rather than externally regulated, intelligence; it has to keep this carefully under wraps because the society Wells has created isn’t keen on AIs as independent, self-directed beings, only as property. Murderbot’s own sense of self is somewhat defined by that: while seeing itself as sentient, and even self-directed, it also sees itself as not human, not a true person, and has social anxiety about itself. Wells writes Murderbot sympathetically and interestingly, and the obsession with serials – shared with a number of other similarly liberated AIs, such as Ancillary Justice‘s Breq – provides some brilliant comic moments.

The rest of the cast of All Systems Red, seen through Murderbot’s eyes, is brilliantly vivid too; each one has a very distinct character and role in the group, from the leader and the one who has most sympathy towards the particular psychology of Murderbot to the augmented human who is deeply suspicious of Murderbot and doesn’t trust it. Wells drops in humanising details all over the places, such as characters randomly testing Murderbot, or their discussions among themselves which we overhear snatches of revealing their own fears and neuroses. What Wells also does is background a very queer world; there are a mix of sexualities on display in relationships that are mentioned between people on the mission, and with those they’ve left behind; and polyamory is a perfectly accepted life, with multiple marriage and extended complex family units something mentioned completely without comment.

The plot of All Systems Red is almost secondary to all the character moments and gracenotes, but it’s also what enables all those things. Wells has constructed a locked room mystery on a survey planet, and Murderbot has to simultaneously solve it while protecting its charges; the way Wells balances the plot between high drama and light moments is exquisite, and the way they can heighten the tension is incredible. The plot is a little contrived and doesn’t ever really resolve – there is an extent to which the motives of the antagonists are opaque and ill-defined, and All Sustems Red also suffers from Wells’ tendency to hold back information for later revelation in a way that feels very contrived, especially given the apparent conceit of the novella as being written by Murderbot for someone who already knew all the events it contains.

In the end though, plot is really a secondary consideration for All Systems Red, which is really about Murderbot’s developing sense of itself, and in that particular regard, Wells has done a spectacular job. I really look forward to meeting it again in future work.

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