Beyond Magenta

I read Beyond Magenta: Transgender Teens Speak Out, by Susan Kuklin, for this year’s Banned Books Week, since it has popped up in the American Library Association’s Top 10 Challenged Books list several times since it was published in 2014.

The book is fairly short, only 182 pages in hardcover. Six teens talk about their gender identities and journeys towards transitioning. Two of them (Jessy and Luke) transition from male to female, two from female to male (Christina and Mariah), and two (Cameron and Nat) are non-binary, using they/them pronouns and not identifying as either male or female. Of those two, Cameron—the teen pictured on the cover—presents as more feminine or more masculine depending on their mood, while Nat is intersex and apparently asexual, preferring to present as neutral/ambiguous.

The reasons given for the book being challenged include its LGBTQIA+ content and because it is considered to be sexually explicit. There are some passages that mention sex and anatomy, but that’s hardly surprising, given the subject matter, and they don’t seem unreasonable given the context. Besides, the odds are good that any teen with access to the internet or who has ever been in a high school gym locker room has been exposed to a lot worse. The adults who worry that books like this will “give kids ideas” really need to get a grip. It seems unlikely to me that most teens would be interested in reading this book unless they were already experiencing gender dysphoria, and if they are, withholding information about similar people’s experiences—including the impacts on their physical bodies—is simply cruel.

That said, this didn’t strike me as a particularly good book. For one thing, it isn’t really clear who the expected audience is; it feels as if it is targeted more towards cisgender adults trying to understand transgender teens rather than the teens themselves. For another, the organisation is less than ideal; the most interesting chapters (at least, to me) are all in the second half of the book, and some readers will bail before they get that far.

And then there are the narratives: they are in the teens’ own words, but are drawn from interviews by the cisgender author, so there was non-trivial editing involved on her part. Since she doesn’t give us the questions she asked, it’s hard to tell how much she drove the direction the interview took, or where the subject was more or less forthcoming. In addition, in the first chapter, Jessy and his girlfriend talk about their relationship. He claims he’s happy, but his girlfriend refuses to refer to him by his chosen pronouns (he/him). That makes me wonder if his claims that his family and friends are supportive are overstated in an attempt to convince the author—or perhaps even himself—and left me with persistent doubts about the emotional honesty throughout the book.

There were also some really unfortunate gender stereotypes expressed. I suppose it isn’t fair to expect a high degree of self knowledge and articulation from a group of otherwise rather ordinary teens who are still struggling to come to terms with their own identities, but I have little patience for the idea that loving to shop for pretty clothes equates with being a girl. (I never have enjoyed shopping for clothes. I hardly ever wear a dress. I despise pantyhose and heels. I’m not trans.)

Before reading this book, I had hoped it would illuminate a gender dysphoria strong enough to drive someone to transition. Unfortunately, it didn’t give me any new insights into what makes someone do something so life-altering.

But just because this book doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be useful to someone else.

A few notes on the chapters I found most interesting:

  • They include the ones about the non-binary teens, Cameron and Nat, possibly because they were less invested than the others in gender stereotypes.
  • Nat’s story was the one that resonated the most with me, although as much for their efforts to be taken seriously as a musician as for their story about gender identity.
  • Similarly, Luke’s involvement in theatre gave an extra dimension to his story.
Posted in LGBTQIA+ | Leave a comment

Banned Book Week 2022

It is, once again, Banned Book Week: the American Library Association’s yearly campaign to draw attention to efforts to remove certain books from classrooms and libraries. Their current list of the most frequently challenged books is here.

As far as I can tell, the books most at risk fall into two categories:

  • Any that challenge gender essentialism (the idea that male and female roles are fixed and innate) or a hierarchical view of society and families with men at the top, and women and children subservient. That would include medically factual information that would empower teens by helping them understand their own bodies.
  • Any that make the United States look bad, by, say, covering the real history of slavery, race relations, police brutality, depopulation of indigenous peoples, etc.

As I have commented on in earlier posts, in the United States “challenged” has been a more appropriate term than “banned.” Unfortunately, that may soon no longer be true. Radical right-wing extremists are in full roar, and with the courts stacked in their favour, they may succeed in implementing governmental bans in some states. They’re certainly trying hard in Florida, Texas, and Virginia. In the Virginia case, Republicans attempted to use an old law, unused in decades but still on the books, to have a pair of books declared obscene and illegal to sell or lend in the state. That law would have allowed a challenge in one district to ban the book in the entire state. A Virginia judge ruled against them, but similar laws in other states may find more receptive judges.

Censorship was a hot topic at the recent Chicon8, the 2022 World Science Fiction Convention. As a virtual attendee, I listened to a session that included Ada Palmer, a historian at the University of Chicago, who is an expert on the history of censorship. She made an interesting observation (I’m summarising/paraphrasing here, so if I mis-represent her, it’s my fault, not hers):

For hundreds of years, attempts at censorship have come in waves every 25 to 30 years, and historically they have always censored the wrong things, because the cat is out of the bag. The censors don’t perceive the next threat coming down the line, which would have been easier to deal with if they could have nipped it in the bud. Censorship is a panic reaction to a perceived threat, but the things we’re afraid of now aren’t necessarily the ideas that are powerful in retrospect from a hundred years later.

What I took from this is that the current furore over books by or about non-gender-conforming people or people of colour will eventually die down, because they can’t put the genie back in the bottle. The information in the books they want to suppress is already out there, on the internet, in Little Free Libraries, in donations from Friends of the Library groups, etc. Ideas are notoriously hard to kill. And the fact that there are so many more challenges in recent years of children’s books with LGBTQIA+ characters underscores the fact that there are so many more of those books being published; you can’t challenge something that doesn’t exist.

(Of course, Dr Palmer’s observation also implies that the fight against censorship will just move on to something else not even on the conservative radar yet. Legal rights for non-humans, perhaps? But that’s a worry for another day. She also said that the panics come from the grassroots, but then are harnessed from above to advance elite and governmental interests, which squares with Republicans pushing for book bans.)

But even if the would-be censors lose in the long run, that doesn’t mean they won’t make life miserable for lots of people before the current conflagration is extinguished. They can. They will. But there are ways to fight back:

  • Campaign for non-extremists (or run yourself) in your local school board elections.
  • Get to know your local school board members and let them know what’s important to you.
  • Stock a Little Free Library with challenged books.
  • Join your local Friend of the Library group.
  • Spread the word about the Brooklyn Public Library’s Books Unbanned project, which includes giving teens anywhere in the United States access to their full eBook collection and learning databases.
  • And most important: VOTE! Lots of people don’t pay attention to local elections, but sometimes they matter even more than national elections, because the margins can be very slim. If you don’t know who is up for election, here are good places to start: for the US, ballotpedia , and for New Zealand,
Posted in On Reading, Politics | Leave a comment

The Hands of the Emperor

I am conflicted about The Hands of the Emperor, by Victoria Goddard. I’m giving it three stars on, a compromise between five stars (It’s wonderful! You have to read it!) and two (meh).

Let’s start with the part I loved. This fantasy novel contains a beautiful, riveting story about a man—His Radiancy, Lord Artorin Damara, the Last Emperor of the Astandala, a god come to Earth—who is trapped by responsibilities and ritual, and slowly dying in the gilded cage of his position. It is strictly taboo for anyone to touch him; if or when the strictures protecting him are violated, people die. In all the years he has been emperor he has not felt the comforting touch of another human being. Even the Royal Physician and the people who dress him have magical instruments to assist them in doing their jobs from a respectful distance.

Cliopher (Kip) Mdang—His Radiancy’s secretary, the man who sees that things get done—realises that His Radiancy needs a vacation, and organises a trip away from the capital city. The subsequent voyage across the South Seas Wide Seas and holiday in a beach house near Kip’s hometown set in motion cascading events that lead to hard choices His Radiancy must make, and a possible way out. They also lead to deepening friendships between and among His Radiancy and his senior attendants.

His Radiancy is a terrific character, exuding compassion, empathy, and gravitas, mixed with frustration and an impeccable sense of humour. I enjoyed nearly every scene in which he was the central character. Unfortunately, he isn’t the book’s main character; Kip Mdang is. His Radiancy makes his momentous decision less than a third of the way into this long book, and then the focus shifts to Kip and his problems with his family and the civil service. Except for one health crisis (chapters 36 through 49, out of 80), His Radiancy fades into the background in the rest of the book. The longer it went on, the more irritated with it I became, and it’s a very long book indeed.

Kip is the book’s biggest problem. At the beginning he comes across as a self-effacing civil servant, a workaholic policy wonk in late middle age who reads all the reports that come across his desk and has an encyclopaedic memory for detail. He appears set on a course headed for either burnout or a heart attack from overwork. Although the first chapter says he is head of the Imperial Bureaucratic Service, he seems more comfortable with massaging data than in dealing with actual people. So far, so good. This is someone I can understand, and accept as a real person.

But then it gradually becomes clearer that Kip really is the Secretary in Chief: a capable administrator of a large bureaucracy, and the second most important person in the empire’s government, after only His Radiancy himself. This is where he started to bother me. In my view (admittedly making sweeping generalisations here), detail-oriented bureaucrats and people-savvy, politically-adept executives tend not to appear in the same person, and people who climb to the highest levels of government service tend to have inflated egos, but hey, extraordinary people do appear occasionally. I was willing to accept this version of him, too, for the sake of the story.

Unfortunately, the author wasn’t done building up Kip, and the longer the book went on the less I liked him[1]. By the end, he was the most glaring example I have see in years of a Gary Stu—a character whose existence deforms the universe around them to show how wonderful they are. Goddard lays an unbelievable list of accomplishments on him—reform of the postal service, implementation of a progressive tax system and a universal basic income, hospitals, … a liberal’s dream agenda—until at the end he is being lauded as the most important person in the history of the Astandalan government, and I’m ready to heave the book across the room.

That brings us to the second problem: Kip doesn’t seem to have encountered any serious friction in implementing his reforms. People and governments just don’t work like that. People don’t like change, even when it’s good for them, and the societal changes Kip is credited with would have been massive. After the aforementioned crisis, I kept waiting for blowback from Kip’s assault on the religious hierarchy, but it was never mentioned again. Seriously? Besides the priests, there are the nobles. They wouldn’t all be stupid; somebody would have grasped how he was undercutting them and would be pushing back. (Not to mention that any one of those reforms would be a life’s work for a normal person; reformers don’t often get things right on the first try.)

Kip’s problems with his family aren’t believable either. Yes, I understand that, at the start of the book, the provincial islanders he comes from might not understand that “Secretary in Chief” is a different beast from a secretary/clerk assisting his boss with his correspondence and calendar, but they should have gotten the message after he was promoted to Lord Chancellor. We are told over and over again what gossips the members of his huge family are, and how he’s related to half the population of Gorjo City, so why is it that they don’t talk about him? Half a dozen members of his family are visiting him when His Radiancy’s health crisis occurs, but a few years later Kip’s best friend from childhood, living only two or three blocks from his mother and sister and seeing them on a regular basis, hasn’t heard any of the details of that visit? Not credible. Just, not.

Did I mention that this is a long book? At 900 pages (hardcover) and 319K words (according to Kobo), it’s a doorstopper. (For comparison, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell—another doorstopper—is 332K words. For the Nebula Awards, the dividing line between novella and novel is 40K words.) Most of the second half of The Hands of the Emperor is either Kip losing his temper and telling someone off, or some wide-eyed relative being reminded of how important he is. (They seem to forget that with astonishing regularity.) One or two of these scenes can feel satisfying, even cathartic. After that, the repetition gets tedious. I skimmed a lot of the second half, looking for His Radiancy’s appearances. I would have liked this book twice as much at half the length, and at 160K words, it still would have been a long book.

On looking back at what I’ve written, I realise it turned into a rant. (And I didn’t even get into  the cultural appropriation, or the time slippage inconsistencies.) So why have I bothered to write about it? Because the beauty of some parts of it make the disappointments of the rest harder to bear. As I said earlier, there are parts of it I loved: His Radiancy’s vacation; the emphasis on kindness, empathy, friendship, and respect; the image of a communist islander in a grass skirt and shell necklace winning his case before the assembled nobles; middle-aged protagonists; Kip’s story of his voyage across the Wide Seas in a boat he built himself; great world building; …

I would happily read other stories Goddard has written about His Radiancy. I’m just not interested in hearing any more about Kip.

If you want to read His Radiancy’s story, I suggest you read chapters 1 through 20, 36 through 49, and skim or skip most of the rest.

Trigger warnings: a brief discussion of cannibalism, and one also brief incidence of violence. Otherwise, nothing. No sex, no bad language. People behave themselves and are polite to each other. How refreshing.

[1] If Kip is so brilliant, why did it take him so [insert-your-favourite-expletive] long to realise His Radiancy needed a holiday? Oof.

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A Trio of Short Reviews

A trio of books, all by New Zealand authors:

Ten Acceptable Acts of Arson: and other very short stories, by Jack Remiel Cottrell, is a collection of flash or micro fiction; the longest stories are a page and a half, most stories are less than a page, some are just a sentence or two. Perfect for dipping into while waiting for the bus, or on hold with the bank’s help line.

It is a bit of a mixed bag. Some of the stories don’t quite work, or aren’t fleshed out enough to be engaging—ideas I would have shoved in the plot-bunny drawer to expand on later. But the format lets the writer cover a lot of ground—fantasy, sci-fi, horror, politics, sports, religion, and more—in ways that are both fun and surprising. Some of the stories that did work were splendid, and pack a punch in a small space. I will be looking forward to seeing more from this writer.

Here are titles of a few of the stories that I found particularly amusing, or that kept me thinking long after I’d put the book down. Note that the descriptions are my synopses, not the stories themselves!

  • But the graffiti is amazing: Fae wars in train station tunnels.
  • The flour dealer: Black market dealing during a supply chain crisis.
  • Changeling: As seen from an autistic kid’s point of view.
  • Phantoms: A twist on the phantom limb syndrome.
  • An unfortunate legacy: An unusual spin on the story of Doubting Thomas.
  • And there are so many to choose from: A compassionate view on conspiracy theorists. “…that there are people with enough faith in their elected officials that they believe government is capable of orchestrating huge, elaborate intrigues and keeping the secret for decades. Kind of touching, when you think about it.”

You will probably have different favourites. Go find a few for yourself.

I’ve written about Grace Bridges’ YA Earthcore fantasy series in earlier posts (RotoVegas and Volcano City). The 4th entry in the series, High Tide, foregoes the paper-thin megalomaniacal villain of the earlier books, and the story is, in my opinion, stronger without him.

The starting point is when Maori elders on an island near Auckland call in the Earthcore team to investigate a series of earthquakes that don’t follow any established pattern. The team dig into long-forgotten tunnels under World War II gun emplacements, and have to deal with cave-ins, people lost in the tunnels, and two girls trapped in a cave at the tide line with the tide rising. The enemies in this story are time and upset taniwha, with the tension rising the longer the Earthcore team is underground.

There are a few too many people to keep track of easily, but I like stories emphasising teamwork, and this is a good entry in that category.

I’m a sucker for stories with librarians as the romantic leads. What can I say?

In Jamie Sands’ Overdues and Occultism, Basil, a librarian, and Sebastian, a ghost hunter, fall for each other while searching for the secrets behind a haunted library in the Mount Eden suburb of Auckland. This is another novella in the Witchy Fiction brand, which I have reviewed a few of before, and it’s a short, sweet, and charming M/M romance. There’s a sequel available, too: Monsters and Manuscripts, where Basil and Sebastian continue their adventures with a monster that likes chocolate biscuits.

Posted in Fantasy, Kiwi author, LGBTQIA+ | Leave a comment

The Quicksilver Pool

This was a pleasant surprise.

The blurb on my copy of The Quicksilver Pool by Phyllis Whitney paints it as a somewhat cliché gothic novel. When I paid a couple of dollars for this vintage (1955) novel at a used book sale, I wasn’t expecting much, perhaps a knock-off of Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. (There are several points of connection, including a character in The Quicksilver Pool named Rebecca.) The ingredients indicating horrors ahead for the main character, Lora, are certainly there: a marriage of convenience between two near strangers (Lora and Wade Tyler); a gloomy, stifling family mansion; the mother-in-law from hell; a stepson described as “strange”; a trouble-making Other Woman; a husband still deep in mourning for his first wife; suspicious circumstances around the first wife’s drowning. But The Quicksilver Pool doesn’t follow the gothic novel conventions, and goes off in surprising directions.

But if it isn’t a gothic novel, what is it?

A solid historical novel: The story takes place in the middle of the American Civil War (December 1862 to July 1863), and captures the some of the ambivalence—or often, outright hostility—many Northerners exhibited towards the Union cause. It is set on Staten Island (before it became part of New York City) against the backdrop of resistance to the imposition of the draft, culminating in the (real) New York City draft riots and a (fictional) confrontation with a mob looking for a Black scapegoat.

A study of healing and reconciliation in a dysfunctional family: I haven’t seen a good term for the primary driver of the action in this story. “Novel of manners” perhaps, as it is concerned with social conventions and mores, but that seems a flabby term for the sort of muscular, active acts of kindness that Lora exhibits. Another, rather unfortunate, term I’ve seen is “kindness porn”, referring to stories like The Goblin Emperor or Becky Chamber’s Wayfarers series, where the theme is the power of seeing every person one encounters as an individual of with inherent worth and dignity.

Lora jumps in without hesitation—sometimes rashly—in defence of the powerless: her neglected stepson; the neighbour’s mistreated Black servant; even Wade who, in his thirties, is still tyrannised by his mother. Her actions naturally lead to some fireworks, but equally important, she has a grounding in pragmatic good sense, and learns to defuse a tense situation with a smile and soft words, without giving ground on what she believes is important. As she feels her way into the centre of the household, old misunderstandings are resolved, tensions loosen, and the gloom lifts. And Wade develops more of a spine.

A romance: This is the weakest part of the story. Lora is an appealing character, but Wade is much less so. (But then I can’t imagine my dear husband ever daring or even wanting to tell me I’m better off being ignorant of the news or what he does with his time. I’m very glad I don’t live in an era when women were expected to be uninformed.) The last fifty pages (out of three hundred) falls back on that old, tired trope of romantic difficulties arising simply because the two people involved don’t tell each other what they want. Sigh.

Aside from my quibble about the romance, this was a lovely story, and better than I expected. I’m glad I took a chance on it.

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Winter’s Orbit

Irresponsible Prince Kiem isn’t ready to be married. But his cousin, Prince Taam, died in a crash, tearing a hole in the carefully arranged structure of alliance marriages binding the seven-planet Iskat Empire together. Someone has to salvage the situation by marrying Taam’s widowed partner, Count Jainan. (Yes, the relationships are male/male.) When the emperor orders him to, Kiem finds himself signing a marriage contract with someone he’d met only hours earlier. Irresponsible he may be, and in a state of shock, but he’s enough of a gentleman to give the still-grieving Jainan time and space to recover.

Romances where the plot hinges on simple communications failures usually make me toss the book unfinished in the giveaway box by the back door. Why can’t these people just talk to each other? (No one is a mind reader. If you don’t get what you want because you never took the time and trouble to articulate what that is, that’s on you, not on them.) But in Winter’s Orbit, Everina Maxwell’s debut novel, the communications failures actually make sense for once. Over the course of Jainan’s toxic five-year marriage to the sadistic, domineering Taam, he had been trained to never rock the boat, to be self-effacing, to never say what he wanted or do anything to trigger Taam’s contempt or volatile temper. Kiem, unaware of the abuse Jainan suffered, is determined not to pry into his relationship with Taam.

As the plot unfolds, of course, they have to learn to communicate. The stoic Jainan has to learn to trust the effervescent Kiem, and Kiem has to uncover depths of diplomatic skills no one (including himself) believed he had, because there’s a good deal more at stake than one relationship. Prince Taam’s death was not an accident. Jainan is accused of the murder. Someone attempts to kill Kiem. Jainan and Kiem grapple with the military and the emperor’s Internal Security, two forces at odds with each other. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking down on negotiations for renewal of the treaty that gives the Iskat Empire access to the larger galaxy, and that provides protections against encroachment by far larger and hungrier expansionist empires. If they can’t uncover who is behind the deadly events, and why, everything around them is in jeopardy.

There’s quite a bit going on in this space opera/murder mystery/romance: blackmail, piracy, military hubris, stolen alien artifacts, etc. Apparently it started out as a web serial romance on AO3 (, but was reworked to give more emphasis to the mystery and space opera aspects of the plot when picked up by Orbit books. The balancing act isn’t entirely successful and it gets off to a slow start, but it’s still a fairly light-weight, enjoyable read whether you’re more interested in nicely-plotted mystery with a side of romance (as I am) or a heart-warming romance with a side of space opera and mystery.

Trigger warning: domestic abuse.

Posted in Contemporary Romance, LGBTQIA+, Space Opera | Leave a comment


Piranesi’s house is no ordinary building: its rooms are infinite, its corridors endless, its walls are lined with thousands upon thousands of statues, each one different from all the others. Within the labyrinth of halls an ocean is imprisoned; waves thunder up staircases, rooms are flooded in an instant. But Piranesi is not afraid; he understands the tides as he understands the pattern of the labyrinth itself. He lives to explore the house.

Piranesi’s world seems like something from a fable, or perhaps a fever dream: a vast, world-encompassing building filled with statues, like some monumental European art museum. The only things outside the House are the sun, moon, and stars. It rains inside, and snows in winter. Some parts of the House are in ruins. The upper floors are lost in the clouds and the lower floors are awash in salt water. As far as he knows, there have only ever been fifteen people in the world, thirteen of them dead. He does not often see the other living person, a well-dressed man he calls “The Other.” Piranesi spends his time harvesting seafood from the ocean in the lowest level, or wandering the halls, recording what he finds in a series of journals. He is alone, but not unhappy.

At first glance, categorising the novel Piranesi as a fable or allegory might make sense, because otherwise there are too many questions: Who built the House? If the narrator has been alone all his life, how did he survive? If he’s never been outside of the House, how did he recognise the subjects of statues like Woman Carrying a Beehive, or An Angel Caught on a Rose Bush?

But if this is a fable or allegory, it is an odd one. The current entries in his journal are dated in “The Year that the Albatross came to the South-Western Halls”, but earlier journals are dated 2011 and 2012. His possessions include a sleeping bag, plastic bowls, and bottles of multivitamins. He meets The Other at 10 o’clock on Tuesday and Fridays mornings to discuss his progress in their mutual search for the Great and Secret Knowledge hidden somewhere in the House. In their meetings, The Other gazes at a shining device that is clearly a cell phone or tablet.

There are gaps in Piranesi’s journals, and in his memory. He tells us that The Other is his friend, but The Other doesn’t treat him like one, berating him for his lack of diligence in their quest. As Piranesi re-reads and tries to make sense of the older journals, other scraps of knowledge about our world trickle in, raising more questions about his relationship with The Other. And then The Other warns him that a third person—a very dangerous person—may be wandering about the House. The story takes on urgency and a more sinister cast, and it is now obvious that this story is both fantasy and mystery.

Piranesi, by Susanna Clarke, was a nominee for Best Novel in the 2021 Hugo Awards, sixteen years after Clarke’s earlier novel, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, won in that same category. The books share a common theme: the silencing of marginalised people. In Jonathan Strange…, none of the other characters recognise Lady Pole’s or Stephen Black’s entrapment by the uncaring fairy. In Piranesi, well, that’s a spoiler. Unlike Jonathan Strange…, however, Piranesi is not an 800-page glacially-paced doorstop. The print versions are around 250 pages/64K words—quite small, by fantasy standards—and there are no footnotes. It does start off a little slowly, but once it gets going, it’s compelling. I read three-quarters of it in one day.

Piranesi, by the way, is a nickname given the narrator by The Other, even though he knows it is not his name. It’s a joke at the narrator’s expense; Giovanni Battista Piranesi was an 18th-century Italian artist whose most notable output was a series of prints called Imaginary Prisons.)

A canny reader will figure out at least a few of the answers to the mystery long before the narrator does—and perhaps want to give him a good, hard shake for his naïveté—but that’s okay; the story is captivating even when you know where it’s going.

When Piranesi was published in 2020, the descriptions of it didn’t encourage me to read it. What I gleaned from the early reviews made it sound like an over-hyped exercise in writerly indulgence. And then I read an excerpt, and was intrigued enough to get a copy and read the full thing. I’m quite happy to say that my initial impression was wrong. Piranesi is a magnificent exercise in world building, but it is much more than that, with excellent characterisations and a satisfying plot. However you want to categorise it—speculative, literary, alternate worlds, mystery—this is first-rate fiction, lyrical, imaginative, and haunting.

Posted in Fantasy, Mysteries | Leave a comment

Elder Race

Lynesse Fourth Daughter, the last and therefore least important of the queen’s daughters, is her family’s wild child. The one who gives the tutors ulcers and tries her mother’s patience. She is also the only one who takes seriously the stories of a demon rampaging through the Ordwood. Who believes it is her family’s responsibility to do something about it.

Nyr Illim Tevitch, anthropologist second class, is the sole remaining member of a scientific expedition sent out as part of a far future Earth’s second, and extremely technologically advanced, wave of galactic exploration. Their mission was to study the descendants of the colonists from the first wave’s slower generation ships. When news came that things were going wrong at home, he volunteered to stay while the rest of the team travelled back to Earth in their faster-than-light ship. They were supposed to return soon. That was centuries ago, and unsurprisingly Nyr is quite depressed. He spends decades at a time in suspended animation, waking only occasionally to check his automated outpost’s maintenance logs, or when one of the locals appears on his doorstep.

Lynesse believes in magic. To fight a demon, she asks a sorcerer for help.

Nyr is a scientist. He doesn’t believe in magic, or demons. He also has a mandate not to interfere in the local’s society.

Together, they have a communication problem.

Arthur C. Clarke’s Third Law—Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic—is the driving idea in Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Elder Race, one of the contenders for this year’s Hugo award in the Best Novella category. This culture clash has been done before, frequently, but it’s an idea that’s still fun when done well, because there are so many possible choices in how or even whether the magician attempts to explain the magic, and in how the other party reacts to it. Here, Nyr does attempt to explain, but Lynesse lacks the vocabulary to make sense of his explanations, a situation compounded by translation software that transforms his technical language without him realising it. The story is told in alternating chapters, her viewpoint and then his, except for one chapter where we are shown side-by-side what he says and what she hears:

Nyr: Your ancestors came to this planet from another, a place called Earth. They came in a spaceship…
Lynesse: The ancients brought men into this world from the otherworld, ferrying them upon a boat through the seas of night…

Nyr: And when I’ve said all that, when I’ve committed that unconscionable betrayal of all the non-contamination rules they pounded into me at anthropology HQ… Lyn says, “Yes, that is how we tell it.”

Nyr is a more fully fleshed-out character than Lynesse, with the book’s secondary focus on his struggles with depression, and his innate decency at odds with the Explorer Corp’s non-interference policy. He copes with his depression with the aid of an “Dissociative Cognition System”, which lets the higher order parts of his brain continue to reason even while aware that his body is suffering emotional stress. The drawback is that he has to regularly shut off the dissociation, and cope with his feelings, before the buildup of emotional stress overwhelms him.

There isn’t much of a plot, and the explanation of the “demon” left me scratching my head, but those are minor quibbles. From the point of view that all science fiction is about the intersection of technology and culture, and interesting only in so far as it has something to say about the human condition, this is a fine story, with a delightful blending of the fantastical and the technological.

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Right Wing Fairy Tales

Once upon a time…

That’s the start of a fairy tale, right? Well…

Once upon a time, a position espoused by the American right wing—the Republicans, the conservatives—was that the government should keep its nose out of personal life, that it had no business getting involved in decisions people make regarding their families.

What decision could possibly be more intimately connected to family life than whether or when to have children?

But if the religious zealots making up the majority of the U.S. Supreme Court strip away the right to abortion, more than half of the state governments will soon be making very intrusive decisions about what pregnant women can and can’t do.

So here’s the fairy tale: that the anti-abortion movement is pro-life. It isn’t. [1] Their theology is debatable, too. [2]

Here are a few more fairy tales: that the right wing is conservative. It isn’t. [3] That America is the land of the free. It isn’t. [4] That the move to restrict abortion rights is anything other than a naked power grab to control women.

Life in the U.S. is already damned hard on transgender children, people of colour, and anyone carrying an unwanted foetus. If the Supreme Court axes abortion rights that are based on an implied right to privacy in the 14th Amendment, other related rights could also be stripped away. They already have their sights on gay marriage. And contraception. [5]

I live in New Zealand, so why should I care about the U.S. Supreme Court? Because—even if I didn’t have family and friends in the U.S., quite a few of them either queer, trans, or women of childbearing age—the U.S. is the 800-pound gorilla. Whatever happens there spills over into the rest of the world. You have to look no further than the MAGA-hat-wearing, Trump-flag-waving covidiots present in the recent NZ parliament occupation to see that. Right wing authoritarian campaigns all over the world have been emboldened by the decline in American democracy.

That’s why this poem seems particularly pertinent right now:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

— Friedrich Gustav Emil Martin Niemöller, German Theologian writing about the Nazi’s rise to power.

I’m a woman, a feminist, a liberal, a Unitarian. Authoritarians don’t like me, either.

So, my American friends, in this year’s elections, get out and vote as if your life depends on it. Because it does.

[1] Pregnancy is dangerous, especially for poor women. Do the anti-abortionists care about the life of the mother? Apparently not, given the proposed laws that don’t allow for any exceptions—not for rape, not for incest, not for the mother’s health. And they don’t appear to give a shit for babies once they’ve been born, either.

Here are a few things that would be pro-life: Abolition of the death penalty. Strict gun control laws. Widespread access to inexpensive pre-natal health care. Parental leave commensurate with parental leave in other wealthy countries. Continuation of 2021’s expanded Child Tax Credit. Don’t hold your breath waiting for any of those.

[2] The Christian Bible doesn’t outlaw abortion. The few places it says anything related (not nearly as many references as, say, explicit passages stating the government’s obligation to help the poor), some can be read as pro-choice, some as anti. But, their argument goes, we know more science now than we did when the Bible was written, and we now know that life begins at conception.

But here’s the thing: this “scientific” argument only goes halfway into what we now know from the science. Only about one-third of fertilised eggs ever come to term. Most are flushed before the mother ever knows she’s pregnant. So tell me again that it’s God’s will that every fertilised egg should produce a baby?

[3] The right wing has ruined the word conservative. The Cambridge English dictionary’s first definition of conservative is “not usually liking or trusting change, especially sudden change.” By that definition, stripping away a right the American public had until the mid 1800s, and has had again for the past fifty years, is hardly a conservative position. The right wing wants to turn America into something it has never been: a religious theocracy. The Founding Fathers—many of them Deists or Unitarians, not believers in the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth—were quite clear about the separation of church and state. (And I won’t call their theocracy a Christian one, because their theology bears little resemblance to the compassion at the heart of Christ’s teachings.)

[4] The so-called Land of the Free has the highest incarceration rate in the entire world. And then there’s this, by David Bentley Hart in Commonweal magazine, who says it much better than I can:

Americans are, of course, the most thoroughly and passively indoctrinated people on earth. They know next to nothing as a rule about their own history, or the histories of other nations … Chiefly, what they have been trained not to know or even suspect is that, in many ways, they enjoy far fewer freedoms, and suffer under a more intrusive centralized state, than do the citizens of countries with more vigorous social-democratic institutions. … An enormous number of Americans have been persuaded to believe that they are freer in the abstract than, say, Germans or Danes precisely because they possess far fewer freedoms in the concrete. They are far more vulnerable to medical and financial crisis, far more likely to receive inadequate health coverage, far more prone to irreparable insolvency, far more unprotected against predatory creditors, far more subject to income inequality, and so forth, while effectively paying more in tax (when one figures in federal, state, local, and sales taxes, and then compounds those by all the expenditures that in this country, as almost nowhere else, their taxes do not cover). … One has to ask, what state apparatus in the “free” world could be more powerful and tyrannical than the one that taxes its citizens while providing no substantial civic benefits in return, solely in order to enrich a piratically overinflated military-industrial complex and to ease the tax burdens of the immensely wealthy?

[5] You would think, wouldn’t you, that the people the most concerned about eliminating abortions would have a stake in reducing the number of unplanned, unwanted pregnancies? And that the logical steps towards that would be making inexpensive contraception and real sex education (proven to be more effective than that abstinence-only rot) widely available? Apparently logic isn’t their strong suit. The fact that many of them consider contraception itself a sin gives away the game that this is about controlling sexuality, not saving babies.

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Anna Pigeon is enjoying her temporary assignment as Acting Supervisory Ranger of the Dry Tortugas National Park. The Dry Tortugas, seventy miles further into the Gulf of Mexico than Key West, is one of the U.S. National Park System’s least accessible parks; a perfect place for someone needing time to think over one of life’s big decisions in a low stress, thinly populated environment.

And then, on a hot, calm night, a blast rips through the silence. A boat sinks, taking at least one body with it to rest on the sea floor. A park ranger vanishes. As Anna directs the hunt for the missing ranger and the investigation of the accident, she soon learns that those are just the beginnings of a series of disturbing and deadly incidents.

Explosions, near drownings, body parts, bullets, a brewing tropical storm… These are not a recipe for a low-stress assignment, but they do make for an exciting story. Flashback, by Nevada Barr, gets off to a bit of a slow start, with the first few chapters just exploring the setting and establishing the main characters, but once it cranks into high gear it stays there.

The book contains two intertwined stories, told in alternating chapters. The first one, involving Anna, is a thriller set in the near present-day (2003). The second story, also a mystery/thriller, takes place in the late 1860s, and is told in a series of letters from the fictional wife of the Union Army officer in command of the real Fort Jefferson, the park’s centrepiece. The gimmick tying the two stories together is that the letters have been handed down in Anna’s family from her great-great-aunt, and her sister sends them to her to make her stay in Fort Jefferson more interesting.

The letters build a mystery around a real historical event. Fort Jefferson is massive, the largest brick masonry structure in the Western Hemisphere, containing more than 16,000,000 bricks, and almost completely encloses the island it is built on. It was built in the mid 1800s to protect the shipping lanes to and from the Mississippi River. It stayed in Union hands throughout the war, and after the war it was used as a federal prison. (It would have been even harder to swim away from than Alcatraz.)

Its most famous prisoners were the men convicted of conspiracy to assassinate President Abraham Lincoln. Those prisoners included Dr. Samuel Mudd, who remains a controversial figure, as his role in the conspiracy has never been fully established. The actions in the story told by the letters, including torture and murder, are driven by his attempt to prove his innocence. This second story doesn’t have quite the same momentum as the first, but it is still interesting on its own.

Flashback is the 11th in a series with Anna working in a variety of locations as a law enforcement officer for the National Park Service. This is the second I’ve read, and had no difficulty reading them out of order. Anna is a bit of a quirky character, not entirely likeable, but the depictions of the national parks makes up for her shortcomings. Barr’s writing has a strong sense of place; I feel almost as if I’ve experienced the sand, the heat, and gone diving in the waters of the Dry Tortugas, even though I’ve never been, and probably never will be, close to the Florida Keys.

A couple of minor quibbles: I’m not sure exactly how old Anna is supposed to be, but she must be at least in her mid-forties, if not older. She is described as being a physically active person, but it still strains the imagination a bit when she takes one beating after another over the course of a few days and still manages to kick ass. Short, middle-aged, female action hero? Yeah, right.

Also, the short section where Anna speculates on the nature of the pair of lesbian, possibly trans, lighthouse keepers was squicky, unnecessary, and heavy on stereotyping.

And on a side note: book blurbs frequently seem to have been written by marketing people who have, at best, skimmed the book, if they looked at it at all. The blurb for this one talks about unidentifiable body parts. Um, no. I think I would have preferred if some of the collected body parts had been a little less clearly identified.

Trigger warnings: Violence and gore, lots of it. Drugs. Near drownings. Mention of rape. Claustrophobia-inducing situations.

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