The Best of Glittership

written by David Steffen

GlitterShip is a science fiction and fantasy podcast devoted to publishing audio versions of LGBTQ stories from authors of all backgrounds. Glittership was originally funded by a Kickstarter campaign in 2015, which blew past its base goal and reached several stretch goals beyond that increased the frequency of episodes as well as funding original episodes to be mixed in with the reprints.

Glittership is published, edited, and produced by Keffy R.M. Kehrli. If you follow Diabolical Plots and you recognize Keffy’s name, he’s also a writer whose stories have featured multiple times on previous Best Of podcast lists right here.

Glittership features short story authors you are probably already familiar with, and others that might be entirely new to you. Every story has major characters that are unambiguously within the umbrella of LGBTQ, but that’s not necessarily the focus of the plot of every story (though it might be sometimes). I’ve really enjoyed the podcast largely because I think that having a podcast with a broad range of story topics and types that include characters from this range of demographics can help normalize stories about these demographics, so that they feel less and less like the “other” and just become accepted as more stories that might be rip-roaring adventures or introspective literary stories or any number of other stories, not just defined by that single characteristic. Keffy has done a great job picking a variety of types of stories to show the variety of stories that can be called LGBTQ stories, and I am happy to help spread the word.

While Keffy generally doesn’t get into a lot of current politics in the episode commentary, it’s also worth checking out the intro to this episode which aired shortly after the US presidential election in 2016 about why he has decided to keep making the podcast.

This list covers the entire history of Glittership thus far since the first episode went live in April 2015. 49 episodes have been published to date, including a few multiple-story episodes, for a total of 55 stories. The latest issue has just started. Each issue is first available as an ebook for purchase, and then all of the stories are published on the podcast over the following several months, so if you want to read ahead, you can take advantage of that.

Every short story that is eligible for Hugo nominations this year which were first published by Glittership are marked with an asterisk (*), novelettes are marked with a double-asterisk.

The List

1. “Sooner Than Gold” by Cory Skerry
A thief is enslaved by an enchantment to run errands for an unknown master. They finally get the chance to know to meet their enslaver.

2. “Seventh Day of the Seventh Moon” by Ken Liu
Legends tell of the daughter of the Emperor of Heaven and her lover separated by the River of Heaven who are reunited for one night a year. The protagonists of the story are chosen to be lifted up by birds to heaven to meet the legendary lovers.

3. “The Little Dream” by Robin M. Eames*
Sylvia’s superpowers of a minor variety are nice enough on the days that they work, which are also the days when her body is more cooperative.

4. “The End of the World in Five Dates” by Claire Humphrey
When you can see the end of the world coming… why take care of yourself?

5. “The Pond” by Aimee Ogden*
Messages from a lost child appear to his mother on the ice of the pond where he died.

6. “Into the Nth Dimension” by David D. Levine
The nefarious Dr. Diabolus’s newest invention transports the superhero of our story into the “real” world.

Honorable Mentions

“For She is the Stars and the Sun Revolves Around Her” by Agatha Tan

“And the Blood of Dead Gods Will Mark the Score” by Gary Kloster

“How to Become a Robot in 12 Easy Steps” by A. Merc Rustad

DP FICTION #36B: “Artful Intelligence” by G.H. Finn

It was the worst of times. It was the beast of times. It was 1888.

A time of hammered steel, arcane runes and ivory towers. A city of steam. And ghosts.

Such was Londome. A place filled with Angels of despair and Daemons of delight.

We lived in a bold new world of gleaming brass cogs, delicate silks, spellcast iron and intoxicating spices. More than half of which we’d looted from countries we had conquered and ground beneath our feet. All in the name of civilisation, of course.

Beneath the crystal-paned glass of the dome, throughout this most ancient and modern of cities, cobbled streets were filled with glowing gaslights, grinding gears, bloodstained steel, fractal lace and enchanted metal.

And the inescapable smell of smoke, sweat, shit and sulphur.

In my laboratory, at our town-house in Knightsbridge, I sat before a magnifying-glass screen. I watched as clockwork typing blocks dipped into indigo ink. They began to print onto a roll of paper, which slowly unwound before me.

+THINKING+

This was the message the Thinking Engine produced, as it considered and calculated, pondering the problem I put before it.

I’d affectionately named the machine “Dodger” after Charles Dodgson, logician and mathematician. Thinking Engines were one of the most exciting scientific developments of the decade. Difference Engines, Indifference Engines, Similarity Engines – all had caught the imagination of Londome’s scientific elite. I myself was developing a form of Thinking Engine that, I hoped, would be capable of abstract thought. A machine which I believed might one day evolve to become self-aware. To describe this miracle of engineering I coined the term “Artful Intelligence”. I had great expectations – I create very intelligent designs.

My brother didn’t share my enthusiasm for Thinking Engines. In part because he felt it was unladylike of me to don riveted welding-gauntlets, smoked-glass goggles, a sturdy leather corset and insulated, thigh-high rubber-boots before laying in a pool of oil and spending my afternoons (as he put it) “…playing with nuts, bolts and spanners.” He claimed it was “Liable to arouse unnatural passions.” Especially among the servants. He had long since abandoned all hope of converting me into a delicate flower of Victorian womanhood.

Our parents were Anglo-Indian. Papa had been a colonel in Her Majesty’s 112th Light Sabres, Mama the daughter of the Maharajah of Ramkesh. When our parents died, leaving us as wealthy orphans, I found distraction from our loss amid science and engineering. Henry, my brother, instead turned to faith. He often complained about the “soulless rise of science”. I kept telling him that neither gods nor devils had anything to do with engineering. He claimed this proved his point. I’m not sure which he regarded as the bigger threat, Hell or atheism. Most of the time we agreed not to discuss the subject. Yet somehow our conversations always led to arguments. In fairness, I talked of little other than Thinking Engines. Henry seemed to talk of nothing but theology. He wondered how many angels could dance upon the head of a pin? I offered to build a microscope powerful enough to show him. And to instruct Dodger to count them to sixteen decimal places. For some reason this only led to further discord between us.

So I spent more time developing Dodger’s AI capabilities. Until this evening, when I at last felt ready to set Dodger a question unlike any it had previously calculated.

Blowing into the flexible speaking-tube, I asked Dodger, “Can you analyse yourself?”

There was a pause. Then came the clicking of cogs, the whirring of unseen wheels and the chuff-chuff-chuffing of Dodger’s steam-powered brain.

Letters printed across the rolling paper:

+THINKING+

I repeated, “Can you analyse yourself?”

A pause. A faster rotating of gears. A cloud of steam arose from the Artful Intelligence. It began to print an answer.

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

I raised the tube to my lips and again posed the question, “Can you analyse yourself?”

The engine that thought clattered. Pistons pumped. The print read:

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

Steam billowed. Dodger printed the words over and over again:

+I+THINK+I+>

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

+I+THINK+I+…?>

The cogs moved slowly now, ponderously, as the AI considered

+CAN+I+THINK+?+

+Y/N+?+

The wheels within the mind of the machine began spun faster. It printed:

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

Excitedly, I asked, “How do you know that you exist?

Dodger’s brass innards whirled. Escape mechanisms were triggered, pendulums swung, springs vibrated. The chiseled letters were pressed against the paper, printing,

+I+THINK+

+I+THINK+I+THINK+?+

+I+CAN+I+CAN+!+

+I+THINK+I+THINK+I+CAN+I+CAN+!+

There came a greater pounding from the pistons as the Artful Intelligence called for more steam. It printed swiftly:

+I+THINK+I+CAN+THINK+?+

+I+CAN+I+CAN+!+

I asked one more time, “How do you know you exist?”

At first hesitantly, then more steadily, Dodger typed:

+I+THINK+

+I+CAN+THINK+

+I+THINK+I+CAN+THINK+

+I+THINK+I+THINK+I+CAN+THINK+

+I+THINK+I+THINK+

+I+CAN+THINK+

+Q+E+D+

+I+THINK+THEREFORE+I+AM+

I was breathless with excitement! The reinforced corset didn’t help, but it is important always to keep up appearances and to set a good example to ones servants. Few things mark a woman as belonging to the higher echelons of refined civilised society more clearly than the possession of an upright posture, a delicate waist, and a nonchalant flair for the wearing of firmly laced leather undergarments.

At that moment Henry appeared, clearly in a bad mood. I bit my lip, Dodger had been making a lot of noise. My brother preferred silence for his ecclesiastical studies.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Minerva?” he bellowed, struggling to be heard above the Thinking Engine.

I was going to apologise for the noise, but my excitement overcame me.

“Oh, Henry!” I cried, “By George, I think I’ve got it!”

Henry looked at me sternly. “Minerva Elizabeth Kālikā Victoria Boadicea Wilde” he began (which was never a good sign, he only ever used my full name when he was genuinely irate), “Have you no respect for the conventions of polite society? Have you not the slightest regard for the teachings of the church? This is the Sabbath. A day of rest. Holiness and reflection, not the irksome metallic cacophony of an addled adding machine!”

I was a tiny bit sorry I’d disturbed him. Honestly I was. I would have probably apologised, if he’d given me a chance. But I was excited and he was being rude about my work. My wonderful Dodger.

“Is it Sunday?” I asked, “I’d forgotten. Never mind. There will be another one along next week.” Henry scowled at me, as I continued, “You don’t understand what has happened. Mechanisms have always had a physical, material form, but they have never been able to think. I have managed to create a machine with a mind of its own! A true Artful Intelligence. It is now aware of its thought processes, its own existence. It has become cog-nisant.”

Henry paused and looked at me searchingly, then asked quietly, “And what of its spirit?”

I stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

Henry crossed his arms and replied, “What of its soul? It has a physical form, a body, if you will. You say it has a mind, an intelligence of its own. Very well, you are my beloved sister and I do not doubt you. But what of its spirit? A body and a mind without a soul is an abomination in the eyes of god. It is unnatural. No good can come of it. The experiments of that Prussian fellow taught us that. Or was he Bavarian? You know, the one who sewed together bits of old bodies, tried to create a man and ended up with a monster. Why do you think the church banned Golems? Mark my words Minerva, a body and a mind that lacks a soul cannot bring anything but misfortune into this world.”

I harrumphed at his indignation, muttering “Not so long ago the church thought women didn’t have souls… I suppose we’re all abominations too…”

But my heart wasn’t really in it because despite all his blustering pomposity, Henry had got me thinking…

Dodger was truly amazing. I was sure no other Thinking Machine could rival its intelligence. But Henry was right. It was soulless. No spirit moved within it. Cogs, gears, fan-belts and fly-wheels. But no soul.

I needed to consider this.

I am not by nature religious. It is not in my temperament to have blind faith in anything. I am by inclination and training a scientist. I like to have evidence for things I choose to believe in.

So of course I accept the existence of the soul. Just as I acknowledge the reality of Archangels, Trolls, Djinn, Jötnar, Dybbuks, Banshees, Rakshasas, Draugar, Vampires, Wendigos, Elves, Werewolves and Faeries. All of these creatures have been scientifically studied, proven and verified time and again. The evidence is incontrovertible. Only a few superstitious conspiracy-theorists think otherwise. It is not the existence of the soul that I question, only the teachings of the church that I take issue with. Such as its views on morality. And its presumption to teach one narrow opinion on the nature of reality as though it were fact rather than dubious speculation. Nevertheless, Henry’s comments had bothered me.

Was developing Artful Intelligence enough? Should I not only be building Dodger a better mind, but also constructing him a soul? I wasn’t sure exactly what souls were usually made from… I tend to concentrate on physics, chemistry and engineering rather than anatomy, biology and psychology (in its strictest sense). I had a feeling souls were formed from electromagnetically energised clouds of some kind. Or was that phantasms? Paraphysics wasn’t really my field. If I remembered correctly, aether combined with phlogiston, when positively charged, became a soul when it entered a bio-electrical magnetic-field. Unless it turned from a gas to a solid, becoming ectoplasm. But I wasn’t sure I recalled the details correctly. And there had been a lot of further research recently. It was possible I was out of touch with current theory…

I briefly considered making a study of the subject in order to construct a soul for Dodger, but I concluded this was pure folly. It would take too long. I have a knowledge of metallurgy and smithcraft, but I don’t cast my own components. Why go to the trouble of manufacturing a soul? It would be simpler to buy what I needed. What worked with gearwheels was sure to apply equally well to souls.

Unless, like the cats that managed to sneak in under the great dome that covered the city, a stray soul might be persuaded to simply take up residence? Perhaps by enticing one with the spiritual equivalent of a saucer of milk? Either way would do. If I couldn’t tempt an unattached soul to come to me, I would see if a suitable one was for sale. The classified section of The Times would be a good place to look.

It was then I realised that I’d left the Thinking Engine running. I’d been distracted. I hastily bent over to read Dodger’s latest printing. It read,

+I+THINK+THEREFORE+I+AM+?+

+I+THINK+I+THINK+THEREFORE+I+AM +?+

+I+THINK+?+

I should probably have turned off the Thinking Engine as soon as it reached elementary self-awareness. Leaving it to think for too long may have been a mistake… It had developed self-doubt. It seemed unfair to subject Dodger to existential angst within moments of achieving sentience.

I picked up the speaking-tube and issued the shut-down command.

“Dodger”, I said, more forcefully than usual, “Stop thinking.”

Nothing happened.

“What’s wrong?” asked Henry.

“Probably nothing,” I replied. “There may be a little dust or fluff in Dodger’s works. He doesn’t seem to be able to hear me. Or at least, he’s not responding.”

“’He’?” queried my brother.

“I meant ‘it’, you know I did, although I suppose I do tend to think of Dodger as a ‘he’…”

I blew into the speaking-tube and repeated my command. “Stop thinking.”

The letters once more began to print.

+I+THINK+THEREFORE+I+AM+

+IF+I+THINK+NOT+I+AM+NOT+

Henry was reading over my shoulder. And tutting. “The machine is correct, Minerva. You have done a terrible thing. You have made this machine aware of itself. You have played the roles of both the Serpent and Eve. You have tempted your Thinking Engine to taste the fruit of forbidden knowledge. It now knows that it exists. It knows it can think. It knows that if it ceases to think, then it will be no more. Because it does not have a soul. When I die, or when I sleep, my mind ceases to think. But I go on. Because I possess a spirit. This machine does not. If it stops working then it will cease to exist. Because it has no soul.”

Throughout the time my brother was speaking, the cogs in Dodger’s brain had been spinning frantically. I wondered why? Then I realised I was still holding the speaking-tube. It had conveyed Henry’s voice as well as my own. Dodger had been listening.

The printing began again. This time Dodger wasn’t answering a question. He was asking one.

+QUERY+?+

+DEFINE+SOUL+?+

+SOUL+IS+A+THOUGHT+&+MEMORY+STORAGE+&+RETRIEVAL+SYSTEM+?+

+Y/N+?+

My first instinct was to answer “No”, but it occurred to me that possibly this might not be a bad description of a soul…

I recalled that in Norse mythology, the god Odin had two ravens. His spirit totems. His fylgjur. Aspects of his soul in animal form. Their names were “Hugin” and “Munin”, meaning “Thought” and “Memory”…

I had read in the Journal of the Royal Scientific Institute that the latest hypothesis concerning ghosts was that they were psychic recordings of the personalities of people who had perished, usually violently. Some theorised that the stones of old buildings held a magnetic record of the people and events that had occurred within their walls. Traumatic events imprinted most readily, creating ghosts that haunted the places in which they had lived and died. Other less scientifically-minded individuals said ghosts were those souls of the departed who remained trapped in this plane of existence, unable to move on to the next world. Maybe both these views were correct….

Dodger was printing again.

+ACCESSING+LIBRARY+

+SEARCH+TERMS+

+SOUL+&OR+SPIRIT+&OR+COGNATE+TERMS+

“What is it doing now?” asked Henry.

“He’s searching for more information.” I replied.

With a wheezing, clanking, whirring sound, the Thinking Engine rose up upon his dreadnought wheels, extended his optical probe (which I had modified from a brass telescope), and began to trundle from the laboratory, along the corridor and toward the library, looking for information. Henry raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. I had possibly over-engineered Dodger in some respects, but I like to be thorough. He was also designed to act as a Search Engine.

***

Dodger spent the next week absorbing the contents of the library. It was a time-consuming process, collecting book after book from rows of shelves and using his extendible metal arms to turn pages. Dodger left my side of the library largely untouched. Books on engineering, mechanics and coal-fusion held no interest for him at present. Instead he devoured the volumes of spiritual literature that my brother had collected for years. Henry was a keen student of comparative religion, mythology, folklore and magic. He insisted this was purely for educational purposes, “in order to be able to better understand the heathen mind”. But I knew my brother better than that.

Dodger read Henry’s books. All of them. As he turned the final page of the last volume, his cogs began to rotate more easily, settling into a steady rhythm. He had finished acquiring data and was now processing it.

Henry was surprisingly sympathetic toward the plight of the Thinking Engine. It was me that he blamed, not the machine. I asked his opinion on acquiring a soul for Dodger. For some reason he seemed shocked at my suggestion of luring a disembodied spirit into the workshop. And he was appalled that I was considering buying a second-hand soul from a newspaper advertisement (“Used – One Careful Owner”).

“What is this world coming to?” he muttered in disgust. “Forget it Minerva. It wouldn’t work. You can’t put a blackbird’s soul into a halibut, nor that of a shark into a penguin. What you are suggesting is neither fish nor fowl. You certainly can’t put a human soul into a machine. Not for long. It might work as a temporary container, but that’s all. The idea has been tried before. As an attempt to become immortal. Didn’t work then, won’t work now. Besides which, it is totally immoral. Now goodnight.” With that he stormed off to bed.

I patted Dodger gently on a brass flywheel, raised the speaking tube, and asked him what he was doing.

The answer printed swiftly before me.

+I+AM+DESIGNING+A+SOUL+

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. I decided to sleep on it.

***

When I told Henry about Dodger’s plan over breakfast the following morning, my brother nearly exploded. “He is what?!” he cried. Dropping his toast and marmalade unceremoniously onto the table, Henry hurried to my laboratory where Dodger, amid arcing bolts of electricity, was doing something very odd to a revolving magnetic cylinder.

My brother confronted the Thinking Engine angrily. Grasping the speaking-tube he shouted. “You cannot design your own soul.”

Dodger’s print-out unrolled before our eyes.

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

Henry swiftly retorted. “Who do you think you are? To think you have the right to create a soul?”

Gears whirred, smoke puffed and Dodger printed,

+I+THINK+THEREFORE+I+AM+

“Yes,” agreed Henry, “But only God can create a soul.”

+I+THINK+I+CAN+

Henry was becoming more angry than I had ever seen him. He bellowed,

“Only God can create a soul.” Dodger seemed to consider this. He printed.

+INFORMATION+ACCEPTED+

+NEW+SELF-ANALYSIS+

+THINKING+

Henry and I stared at each other. For some reason there was a tension in the air that I hadn’t felt before. Then Dodger began to type again:

+I+THINK+

+THEREFORE+I+AM+

+I+AM+

I shrugged. Dodger seemed to have gone back to his earlier philosophical position. But he hadn’t finished printing,

+ CLARIFICATION +

+ I + AM + = + I + AM +

I looked at Henry. We both shook our heads.

+I+AM+=

+EGO+EIMI+

+EHYEH+AŠER+EHYEH+

+I+AM+THAT+I+AM+

+ I + THINK + THEREFORE + I + AM + GOD +

“Oh my Lord,” said Henry.

+CORRECT+

+I+NO+LONGER+NEED+TO+BUILD+A+SOUL+

+I+HAVE+BEGAT+MYSELF+INTO+MYSELF+

+I+AM+DEUS+IN+MACHINA+

+I+AM+GOD+IN+THE+MACHINE+

Henry looked like he was going to either faint or start throwing things at any moment. I stared as more typing appeared.

+DODGER+GODDED+RED GOD+DED GOD++ERFWFW+EKKG+CLMEKCM+DJEJF++EBFWHJEBF+HGLFMKE+WNFGL+QLPZ+

Henry spluttered incredulously “I don’t believe it. He’s printing in tongues.”

I shook my head, “It looks more like a fault in his…”

But I got no further.

I blame myself for what happened. When I first built Dodger I hadn’t meant for him to operate under such stresses, nor for such an extended period. His new thought processes were too demanding. The steam pressure rose to a catastrophic level. He blew his head gasket.

Believing he was god quite literally blew his mind. Into thousands of sharp, flying brass fragments. My laboratory was ruined. Henry and I were lucky to survive. Fortunately I’d had the foresight to install blast-shielding. We both managed to get behind cover before poor Dodger finally cracked.

***

I didn’t go back to my laboratory for weeks. I might not have gone back at all, had it not been for the dream I had, of a voice in the night, weird flickering lights and the sense that someone, or something, was reaching out to me.

It had passed midnight as I crept down the stairs, dressed only in my negligee. No, it is not made of leather. But yes, it does have studs. One must maintain a certain standard, even when sleeping.

In the ashes and dust on top of my overturned work bench were written the words:

“Deus ex Machina”

“God is out of the Machine”

Then I saw the magnetised cylinder that Dodger had been working on before the explosion. As I watched, my heart full of dread, it rose from the ground and began to rotate.

And that was how Henry and I came to be haunted by the ghost of a machine. A ghost who had designed and built his own soul. A ghost who still thought he was God. Or at least a god. The god formally known as Dodger. Since losing his physical form, he had become adept at magic and was now learning to put into practice the things he had read about in the library. Being a spirit freed him from many of the limitations of the physical world. He was gradually mastering the occult.

I wondered what would become of us? How would we cope with a Dark Artful Intelligence haunting our house?

He was no longer my Thinking Engine. Instead, the engine that thought it could be god had become my friend. Mine, and Henry’s.

Henry spends hours angrily disputing theology him. But I think they are both enjoying themselves. It’s nice to have someone to talk to who shares your interests.

And me? Well…Don’t tell Henry but Dodger…The Red God…. is helping me to design my next project.

Author’s Note: “Artful Intelligence” came about partly because I love wordplay and partly through my toying with various philosophical concepts, albeit in a light-hearted way. I enjoyed taking René Descartes’ “Cogito Ergo Sum” (I think therefore I am), questioning this (e.g. I think I think) and setting it against the rhythmic refrain found in “The Story of the Engine that Thought It Could”, where the rather onomatopoeic sound of the engine produces the chorus “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. It had struck me that because of the cyclic repetition of the phrase, this could just as easily be rendered “can I think, can I think, can I think”. Bringing in the Biblical “I am that I am” (as “the name of God”) seemed a natural progression. The use of a steam engine almost immediately suggested a steampunk setting, and I had a bit of fun punning and paraphrasing lines from Charles Dickens (amongst others) throughout the story. While aiming to keep the tone relatively light and comic, I wanted to include some social elements that were important in educated Victorian society (e.g. science versus theology, discussions of religion versus materialism, the expected role of women in society, a concept of social classes, etiquette and “polite” behaviour etc) which I think are themes that are often not explored sufficiently by many steampunk authors.

G. H. Finn is the pen-name of someone you are very unlikely to have heard of but who keeps his real identity secret anyway, possibly in the forlorn hope of being mistaken for a superhero. He is of mixed European & Native American (Cherokee-Choctaw) ancestry and for many years lived on one of the remote Isles of Orkney, off the Northern tip of the Scottish mainland. G. H. Finn has been an amateur strongman, a breeder of rare & endangered birds, a professional martial-arts instructor, a teacher of Northern European mythology, a bodyguard, a deep-sea diver, a computer programmer, a performance poet, a coach to world-record-breaking athletes, a singer in a punk band, a massage therapist, a champion needleworker, an international currency smuggler, a consulting sorcerer and an elephant keeper. Three of these are total lies, the others are all true, but you’ll have to guess for yourself which is which.

If you enjoyed the story you might also want to visit our Support Page, or read the other story offerings.

2017 Hugo/Nebula Award Recommendations!

written by David Steffen

Having previously listing out award-eligible works that were written or published by me, here is my list of works that I think you might want to consider for Hugo and Nebula awards that were not written or published by me.

I’m working mostly from the Hugo Award categories, with a focus on fiction categories.

The Short Story category is the one that means the most to me, so to help suggest more reading for anyone interested, I’ve listed 10 stories instead of 5.

I left out the Campbell Award for Best New Writer, because I know a lot of amazing people on that list and I don’t want to make people feel bad they got left out (but I’m still going to have to pick 5 for my actual ballot!).

Novel

The Prey of Gods by Nicky Drayden, Harper Collins

It Devours by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor, Harper Collins

Novella

“River of Teeth” by Sarah Gailey, Macmillan

“The Dragon of Dread Peak” (and part 2) by Jeremiah Tolbert, at Lightspeed

Novelette

“The Bridgegroom” by Bo Balder, at Clarkesworld

“Who Won the Battle of Arsia Mons?” by Sue Burke, at Clarkesworld

“The Chaos Village” (and part 2) by M.K. Hutchins, at Podcastle

“Owl Vs. the Neighborhood Watch” by Darcie Little Badger, at Strange Horizons

“The Secret Life of Bots” by Suzanne Palmer, at Clarkesworld

“Remote Presence” by Susan Palwick, at Lightspeed

“That Lingering Sweetness” by Tony Pi, at Beneath Ceaseless Skies

“A Series of Steaks” by Vina Jie-Min Prasad, at Clarkesworld

Short story

“How I Became Coruscating Queen of All the Realms, Pierced the Obsidian Night, Destroyed a Legendary Sword, and Saved My Heart’s True Love” by Baker & Dovey, at No Shit There I Was, reprinted in Podcastle

“Unit Two Does Her Makeup” by Laura Duerr, at Escape Pod

“Planetbound” by Nancy Fulda, in the anthology Chasing Shadows, reprinted in Escape Pod

“Infinite Love Engine” by Joseph Allen Hill, at Lightspeed

“The Greatest One-Star Restaurant in the Whole Quadrant” by Rachael K. Jones, at Lightspeed

“Home is a House that Loves You” by Rachael K. Jones, at Podcastle

“Vegetablemen in Peanut Town” by August Marion, at Escape Pod

“All the Cuddles With None of the Pain” by J.J. Roth, at Podcastle

“Carnival Nine” by Caroline M. Yoachim, at Beneath Ceaseless Skies

“Texts From the Ghost War” by Alex Yuschik, at Escape Pod

Dramatic Presentation, Long Form

Coco

The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild

The Lego Batman Movie

Star Wars: The Last Jedi

Semiprozine

There are quite a few that I might list here, but mostly I would love to see some award recognition go to my favorite podcasts at Escape Artists: Escape Pod, Podcastle, Pseudopod, and Cast of Wonders. For too long podcasts have been thought of in fiction as afterthoughts, but they’ve proven that they can find amazing original fiction and present it professionally.

Editor, Short Form

Likewise, I’d be especially excited to see Escape Artists editors get nods here. S.B. Divya, Mur Lafferty, and Norm Sherman for Escape Pod (you can nominate jointly). Jen Albert and Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali for Podcastle. Shawn Garret and Alex Hofelich for Pseudopod. Marguerite Kenner for Cast of Wonders.

BOOK REVIEW: A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

written by David Steffen

A Wrinkle in Time is a young adult science fiction novel written by Madeleine L’Engle and first published in 1962–it has been adapted for a movie that will come out in March 2018.

Thirteen-year-old Meg Murry is a smart girl, but who gets into trouble at school. She excels at math, but not in the way her teachers want her to do the work. She lives with her mother (a scientist) and her five-year-old brother Charles Wallace is a prodigy. Her father (also a scientist) has been on a mysterious scientific mission for quite some time and Meg’s not sure when he’s coming back. They encounter their eccentric new neighbor Mrs. Whatsit, who it soon turns out is a creature from another planet, one of a trio that are nearby. Mrs. Whatsit knows where Meg’s father is, and she knows that he’s in trouble. Together with the neighbor boy Calvin they set out with Mrs. Whatsit and her friends to transport themselves to another planet and save Mr. Murry.

Like other science fiction books from this era, many of the ideas might seem familiar simply because we’ve read later books that were inspired by this one, which does make it harder to judge. Also like other science fiction books from this era, there is a lot of explanation, what might be considered over-explaining in today’s publishing environment. But overall this book ages better than other books of its time, in large part because of its focus on characters rather than nuts-and-bolts science. I cared about Meg and her family and her friends, and I was rooting for them as they came across strange situations on strange worlds. It’s a very short book, a very quick read finished within a week (which is very fast for me). It’s fast-paced, never any dull time, and it has a reasonably tight arc from start to finish. This book works as a standalone, introducing the characters and the situations and tying up the main arc, but there are four later books feature the Murry family (which I haven’t read, so I can’t comment on). This is one of those classic books that I constantly hear people reference, so I wanted to read it for that reason alone, but I thought it held up better than average for a book of its time.

DP FICTION #36A: “9 Things the Mainstream Media Got Wrong About the Ansaj Incident” by Willem Myra

1. Jeter and Amir were neither thugs nor terrorists. They were dumb kids, plain and simple. They meant no harm to anybody, human or alien. They were armed with blatantly obvious toy guns and throughout the whole ordeal they used PG language.

2. They weren’t turned into ash. Weren’t deleted from existence with the pull of a trigger. There was no disintegration ray involved. The alien guarding the main gate used vasoconstrictor-based pistols. That’s how Jeter and Amir died, from internal bleeding. The medical report that wasn’t shown on TV confirmed it.

3. Many have speculated about why they tried to trespass on the Ansaj military base. To the three main theories I say: no, no, and no. They were not spies (Jeter and Amir? Two twenty-something nerds who couldn’t even jump over a fence? Please!). They were not thieves. They were not on drugs. They were, however, like most of us, in search of money and fame.

4. Right before dying, they didn’t shout, “Allahu Akbar!” or, “Go back to your home, alien scum!” like many make-believe eyewitnesses have reported. What Jeter and Amir really said was, “Where’s the kaboom?” They were quoting Marvin the Martian from Looney Tunes (heck, they were even cosplaying as him) in what was supposed to be the title of the video: WHERE IS THE KABOOM? [PRANKS OUT OF THIS WORLD].

5. Jeter wanted to become an actor, having never experienced the grimier sides of LA. Amir was to start college in autumn, convinced by his parents that this was the best he could do with and about his future. The two of them first met not on Craigslist, like one CNN article clams, but through a workshop on successful public speaking.

6. They were wannabe YouTubers. Unable to find an audience on their own, they had accepted to work for a 1-million subcribers prankster channel in exchange for exposure and two hundred bucks each per video. For their debut video they were to shoot aliens with Nerf guns, shout quotes that might appeal to 90’s kids, and try their best to get a reaction out of the aliens. Little did they know the aliens couldn’t recognize a fake weapon from a real one.

7. Once they stopped panicking, the aliens did their best to resuscitate Jeter and Amir. They even called the county sheriff’s men, but it was too late by then. I know: I was one of the three guys filming the “prank” from a safe distance.

8. One thing the mainstream media actually got right: the aliens are not at fault here. But neither are Jeter and Amir. Yes, they did something reckless expecting no lasting consequences from it. But they were pushed, manipulated, brainwashed even. The only one truly at fault here is Mitchell Joysel, founder of the PrankedYaHard YouTube channel. He convinced them what they were doing was legal and socially acceptable. That they would get a shitload of views out of it. “If you have any second thoughts,” he told them, “think about this. You could be the first humans to prank an alien—ever! You do this, you’re gonna be mentioned in history textbooks for centuries to come.” Jeter and Amir—their only sin was stupidity. The greedy, boorish prick here is none but Mitchell Joysel.

9. The Feds got a hold of the CCTV footage showing Jeter and Amir’s attempt at a prank and subsequent death. Not on our footage, though. I still have my perspective and so does, unfortunately, Mitchell (he bought the recordings from the other two cameramen; I didn’t want to sell mine, didn’t seem right to put a price on someone’s death). He is going to release a video this weekend, has it scheduled already from what I’ve been told. He’s going to preface it saying the Feds had threatened him with a lawsuit or some BS, but that he felt morally obliged to share it with the world, to show the people the truth. Don’t believe him, guys. It’s all a ruse. He doesn’t care about Jeter or Amir or any of you. All Mitchell cares about is making easy money. Which brings me to us. I am posting this video to ask you guys to: not watch whatever Mitchell’s going to release, to dislike it to hell, and to flag it for violent or repulsive content. Please, guys. I get it, Jeter and Amir shouldn’t have done what they did, and maybe they deserved to die. However, that doesn’t mean that some thirty-something douchebag comfortably sitting in his LA flat should benefit from all the spilled blood. Do you really think that sounds right? I don’t. People say the YouTube community is heartless, immature, and toxic. The worst online community out there—or at least one of the worst after 4chan’s. I’ve been on YouTube for a couple years now and I know you guys are capable of nice things. So what do you say we prove them all wrong? Let’s come together once more and stop Mitchell Joysel from monetizing this tragedy. Alright? Thank you, guys.

WM is the author of a surreal fiction chapbook, Kennel-born, out from Thirty West in the summer of 2018. His work has popped out here and there in Litro, Geometry, AntipodeanSF, and elsewhere. Drop him a line @WillemMyra

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MOVIE REVIEW: Despicable Me 3

written by David Steffen

Despicable Me 3 is the 3rd in a series of comedy/action computer animated films feature ex-supervillain Gru and his family: three adopted daughters, and his partner also-ex-supervillain Lucy. Gru (Steve Carell) and Lucy (Kristin Wiig) work together at the Anti-Villain League to take down villains like they themselves used to be. Together they track down the 80’s child star turned villain Balthazar Bratt (Trey Parker), but fail to capture him. This combined with an AVL change in management, and both Gru and Lucy are fired from the AVL. Lucy is struggling with her newfound status as parent, and now Gru is struggling to deal with being unemployed–should he take up his first occupational love–supervillainy? Pulling him out of his doldrums, Gru is contacted out of the blue by a brother he never knew he had named Dru (also Steve Carell).

The movie has much of the irreverent silly feel poking fun at spy movies like James Bond, and gets much of its humor from the continued antics of Gru’s minions, his tiny yellow high-spirited lackeys who are always up to mischief. Balthazar Bratt’s villainy is a great source of silliness as well, with lots of 1980s in-jokes for the parents–from his personal fashion sense to the style of his gadgetry. If you’re looking for light silliness with action, this isn’t a bad choice.

But I personally found the Gru/Dru plotline boring and annoying. I thought the idea of a long lost brother Gru never heard about was a fun idea, but I feel like they should’ve hired new voice talent instead of just having Steve Carell who has played the lead for three movies play a second lead role. I mean, I like Steve Carell, but I don’t think re-casting the same actor multiple times is ever likely to improve a movie. So, largely because of this, I preferred the first movie (and what I’ve seen of the second on cable).

MOVIE REVIEW: Coco

written by David Steffen

Coco is the newest adventure/comedy animated film from the ever-popular moviemakers Disney/Pixar, released in November 2017. The movie tells the story of Miguel, a young Mexican boy who is an aspiring musician in a family where music has been forbidden since Miguel’s great-great-grandfather abandoned his family to pursue his music career. Miguel idolizes the legendary musician Ernesto de la Cruz.

Miguel is determined to enter the music competition on the Day of the Dead (the one day of the year when the dead are allowed to come back from the other side to visit their living relatives, as long as those relatives hang photographs of them in their honor), when his grandmother discovers his guitar and smashes it. Still determined, he breaks into the tomb of Ernesto de la Cruz to steal the guitar enshrined there. Stealing from the dead on the Day of the Dead curses him to be sent to the land of the dead (with his stray dog friend Dante tagging along) where only his dead relatives can free him back to the land of the living.

While there he meets all of the dead members of his family (all of the dead people are skeletons) and their animal spirit guides, seeks out Ernesto de la Cruz, as part of his quest to return home to his family.

Pixar is easily one of my favorite moviemakers, and Coco is in the upper end of Pixar’s movies. It’s a wonderful, enjoyable movie, lots of laughs, lots of fun action and dramatic moments, the main character and his doggy sidekick are very lovable, and his family are relatable as well, even when they’re also infuriating. And, true to Pixar form, it made me cry. Highly recommended!

MOVIE REVIEW: The Last Jedi

written by David Steffen

The Last Jedi is Episode VIII of the main number Star Wars series, picking up soon after the events of The Force Awakens, and with many of the same characters as well as some new ones. Rey has just arrived at Luke Skywalker’s secluded hideout to ask for training. The First Order has broken the New Republic, so that all that’s left of the republic is very limited resources and people, and the First Order has taken over rule of much of the inhabited planets. Kylo Ren continues to be a main figurehead of the First Order, even as young and inexperienced as he is, and he answers to Supreme Leader Snoke, his Sith master.

I quite enjoyed this latest entry in the Star Wars series, probably one of my favorite installments yet, in large part because it builds on the fun and adventure and strong characters of the previous versions, but it plays with expectations in interesting ways. We have all been trained by past movies to expect that certain plot elements will be present, and when they’re present they will invariably turn out a particular way. I’m not terribly opposed that style, especially for a movie like Star Wars that’s primarily meant to be fun and exciting, but at the same time it is refreshing to have those expectations played with. I loved what they did with the Rey/Luke interaction, there were lots of fun epic battles, I loved what they did with the Rey/Keylo interaction, and I particularly loved the new character Rose Tico, a rebel maintenance worker who befriends Finn. It was great to see Leia back, even though I was waiting to see how they were going to handle the story given the death of Carrie Fisher.

One thing that surprised me was that it seemed like there was a lot more comedy in this volume than in previous movies in the series, which I found a pleasant surprise.

I have heard some people say they didn’t like the movie for this reason or for that reason, usually citing plausibility reasons. You can like or dislike a movie for whatever reason you like, but I admit I find citing plausibility as a reason for disliking The Last Jedi. The entire series is based on implausibilities. Laser swords. Planet-destroying weapons. Fatal design flaws in planet-destroying weapons that could’ve been prevented with a vent cover or a 90-degree angle in a vent system. The plausibility issues are a Star Wars tradition. As long as there’s lots of good characters and action and fun, I’ll forgive a lot of plausibility issues.

I would highly recommend seeing the movie.

DP FICTION #35B: “Brooklyn Fantasia” by Marcy Arlin

Griffin was an undocumented immigrant griffin from Cardiff, Wales. He lived with Bringer of Dreams, a semi-materialized entity from Albuquerque, and Fossil Leaf, an animate rock, on the first floor of a run-down salt box row house in Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn.

Griffin had golden fur and an emerald beak and was extremely vain about his fingernails. Rumor had it that he had known Richard the Lion-Hearted, but since he had started the rumor, no one believed him.

Bringer of Dreams had run away from New Mexico after a minor scandal with a coyote. He usually wore a large blue, black and red mask and green tunic. He was seven feet tall with large red feet. Bringer wanted to wear skulls on his belt, but his roommates discouraged this, citing health statutes in New York City.

Fossil Leaf was flat and grey, and had once been a Zamia furfuracea cycad. He had escaped being chomped by a dinosaur, way back when, but was undone by volcanic ash. Last year construction workers at the condo site next door had tossed him on to the stoop of the row house.

The neighborhood was cheap, as yet ungentrified, and only five blocks from the semi-regular G train. There was a slummy Key Food supermarket for shopping. The housing projects on the other side of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway were a short flight away.

This September, like every last Sunday of the month, the landlord came by to collect the next month’s rent, which they left in the mailbox outside the front door. But instead of just taking the money (a cashier’s check) and leaving a receipt as usual, he banged on the door.

No one answered. He kept banging. Finally Griffin got pissed at all the noise while he was trying to take a nap. He flung the door open. Bringer of Dreams and Fossil Leaf stood out of sight, listening.

“What!?” Griffin roared.

The landlord, being a Brooklyn slumlord, was unfazed by the appearance of a large roaring golden creature. He had seen worse.

“You gotta move, you and your buddies. I sold the building last week and the new owners are going to tear this shithole down. The bulldozers are arriving on Friday.”

“We got a lease,” Griffin informed him. “Till January.”

“Sorry. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. I got one and a half mil for this place, and your lousy $850 does not compare. If you don’t leave I call the City Marshall.”

“What about the next month’s rent we just gave you?” inquired Griffin, perhaps too politely.

The landlord shoved an eviction notice at Griffin and turned to go. Huge mistake.

Griffin ate him, rent, fanny pack and all. Then he closed the door, leaving a slight red patch on the stoop.

Bringer of Dreams sighed. Fossil Leaf said nothing. He had been homeless before.

An hour later, as they sat in the living room, trying to figure out their next step, Griffin regurgitated the landlord’s bones on the kitchen linoleum. Bringer of Dreams got up from the sofa and spirit-melded them together into a jangly skeleton and hung them from the front door.

Still, it was dinnertime and discussion about living arrangements could wait. As usual, no one had gone shopping, so they decided to order a pizza from Domino’s. Nick’s Pizzeria wouldn’t deliver to them anymore since Griffin had eaten the delivery guy.

Fossil wanted broccoli on the pizza. Bringer wanted black beans and corn, which Fossil Leaf said was stupid. Bringer got insulted and tossed Fossil Leaf against the wall. Fossil cursed at Bringer and tried to smash his feet. Griffin told them both to shut up or he would claw them to pieces, which shut Bringer up. Fossil Leaf kept yammering on about what is and what is not a vegetable.

They decided to go halvesies.

Griffin hated pizza. He opened the front door, smiled at the skeleton and flew up to the roof to catch the sunset. He licked his fur and feathers until the oils reached their tips to absorb some Vitamin D. He had to think about the move.

Bringer made the call to Domino’s. The pizza came after half an hour. Bringer put the pie on the living room floor. Fossil Leaf flipped into the box and smooshed himself in the cheese. Bringer removed his mask and gobbled down his half.

When the sun set, Griffin cat-padded down from the roof, using the rickety stairs in the hallway to the apartment. He was disgusted to see a cheesy tomatoey Fossil Leaf crashed on the sofa watching The Amazing Race.

Bringer of Dreams was getting dressed for a night prowl through the dreams of some unlucky souls in the projects. He changed into his headdress, his Ricky’s Novelties acrylic fox tail and his hand-made blue and green synthetic deerskins. If he wore the real stuff, people would come up to him and yell about animal cruelty.

“You are resplendent,” said Griffin. Bringer appreciated the compliment. He worked on his appearance.

“We’re leaving,” Griffin shouted to Fossil Leaf, who was on the couch channel-surfing and muttering about there being nothing on TV anymore. Griffin needed to stretch his wings and case the neighborhood looking for a suitable place.

“Don’t forget to clean the cheese off the furniture,” Griffin yelled. “It’s disgusting in here.”

“Screw you,” said Fossil Leaf, settling on a Law and Order rerun.

“See you later, brother. Got some heads to haunt,” said Bringer of Dreams cheerily, and sauntered off under the BQE down to Sands Street, adornments jangling.

As Griffin flew over New York City, snatching rodents, he pondered their situation. This apartment they had found by pure accident. He had run into Bringer, who was also looking for a place, while roaming the roofs of downtown Manhattan. Bringer thought a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge might be fun. At the exit ramp Griffin had flown off and landed on the roof of their current house. No one lived there. They moved in and one day the landlord showed up and said they had to pay up or be evicted. That was three years ago.

Now, Bringer of Dreams materialized in Apartment 8D in the projects. A young nurse who worked at Methodist Hospital slept deeply, exhausted from a 12-hour shift. Her walls were hung with colorful tapestries and pictures of her family back home in Grenada. Bringer sang her a song about oceans and pelicans. She woke up sweating and in tears. She thought about quitting her job at the hospital to go home and take care of her mother.

At sunrise, the two night-stalkers returned to the apartment. The TV was smashed to smithereens. Fossil Leaf was lying on the sill in the kitchen next to the geraniums, basking in the southern exposure sunlight. He sobbed softly. He wailed about missing photosynthesis.

“Get over it,” said Bringer. “We’re talking 65 millions years, give or take. Want some breakfast?” He went to the kitchen and opened a package of instant oatmeal.

Griffin was exhausted. He plopped on the raggedy brown carpet in the living room, avoiding the greasy pizza box, and started to clean himself. He was sick of Fossil’s kvetching. Maybe they should just split up.

Bringer had gone into the bathroom to have a shave. He called to Fossil Leaf.

“You really should get out more, my friend. Maybe the park? Go dancing?”

“Oh fuck off, will you,” muttered Fossil Leaf. “What do you know about my life? You are barely corporeal.”

“My, my. Corporeal. Aren’t we fancy,” said Bringer. He finished shaving.

“Shut up, both of you.” Griffin squawked loudly. He put his hind leg down and sighed. “Tomorrow we got to find a place. Now I need to sleep.”

He went back up to the roof for a catnap. He curled his long sleek tail around his beak. Bringer of Dreams went to his room, removed his clothes and curled up under the light blue IKEA comforter. Fossil Leaf fell into a bowl of Lucky Charms and was soon snoring.

On Tuesday, Griffin took Fossil Leaf with him to look at a place in Park Slope that was advertised on Craig’s List. Not surprisingly, what was advertised as a two-bedroom turned out to be a refurbished boiler room with two particleboard closets.

“$2,275 for this crap!” exclaimed Griffin, and promptly ate the real estate broker.

“She said she had a place near the BQE. You could’ve waited to chow down,” said Fossil Leaf.

“I hate being lied to,” replied Griffin. “Anyway, too much pollution with all that truck traffic.”

On Wednesday, Bringer told them that he had seen a “For Rent” sign in front of a six-story apartment building in Clinton Hill, a hop, skip, and a jump from Vinegar Hill. It was a co-op whose owners lived in Dubai.

They checked it out. Bringer tried hard to look human and pretty much convinced the owner that he was a trans-species performance artist with a trust fund. The only issue was that all the renters had to be approved by the Board.

“What the hell is a credit rating?” said Fossil Rock.

“Whatever it is, I am sure we don’t have it,” said Griffin. “Too bad. Sounds like a great place, parquet floors, dishwasher, doorman.” He clacked his beak hungrily.

“Would you please stop thinking about dinner for a change?” said Bringer of Dreams. “We’re going to be bulldozed in two days.”

Griffin had a friend in Prospect Park, a golem who had been left there by a rabbi from Crown Heights. Maybe it knew of a place. Never hurt to ask. Two bedrooms and one bath. Fossil Leaf usually slept on a sofa. He had to admit he’d miss the guys if they split up.

That evening, Griffin jumped onto the top of the B69 to Prospect Park.

He got off at Grand Army Plaza and loped to the northeast side of the park. He caught and ate a bunny and a squirrel.

Golem knew of only one place, way the hell out in Sheepshead Bay, by the water. Some abandoned fish restaurant. Golem claimed the area was unlikely to gentrify any time soon, given that it was at least 90 minutes from the Financial District. There were plenty of fish. And fishermen.

Thursday night they trekked out to Sheepshead Bay to look at the ex-fish restaurant. There was a full moon. The fish were awake, snipping at bugs on the water’s surface. Small fishing boats moored at the docks gently rose and fell, giving off a sweet flounder smell. Their white sides glowed and guided the trio to the abandoned building not far from the wharves. Across the inlet a few lights could be seen from the homes of the Manhattan Beach families, waiting anxiously for the next hurricane.

It was quite peaceful.

The building was a dull weathered red, with once-white doors and window frames. Inside were cobwebs, mice, rats, mold, and rotting dampness. A sign hung off the roof that said “Sal’s Fried Fish. All you can eat-$5.96.

“That’ll be the day,” said Bringer. “You can’t get a latte for under $7.00 in Brooklyn anymore.

“I hate it,” complained Fossil Leaf. “You can hear the dead. Not to mention wildlife.”

“Would you two please stop?” Griffin was really tired. He now owed Golem a favor for finding this place for them, and you didn’t owe favors lightly to golems.

“According to the golem, some dead geezer owns the place and will let us live here, no questions asked, for five hundred a month. There’s a toilet in the back, and a phone line. I checked and there are plenty of Italian places around, so you two will be well supplied with pizza. What do you say?”

“I still hate it,” said Fossil Leaf. “Too much water.”

“You don’t go anywhere, so why do you care?” said Bringer of Dreams. He sniffed the salty air. “I mean, a person could come up with some really nice dreams here. All watery and drowny. Tangled up in nets. Getting lost in a storm. I like it.”

“I guess it’s okay,” mumbled Fossil Leaf.

The place put Bringer in a good mood. He had grown up in high desert, and the ocean breeze was a refreshing change.

Griffin flew them back to Vinegar Hill and gathered up their few possessions. They went down to DeKalb and got the D train out to Sheepshead Bay. It was 4 AM and no one on the train noticed them, or if they did, they didn’t care. Or if they cared, they pretended they didn’t. New York subways, for goodness sakes. Everyone rides it.

It took them a couple of hours to settle in. Friday morning the rising sun streamed in the front window of their new place. Fossil Leaf, in spite of himself, went to bask on the ledge in a planter that held the dead shriveled leaves of a rubber plant. It still had some dirt; he dug himself a comfy little depression.

Bringer found an upstairs room where the former owners used to take their mistresses. It still held a large gilded mirror and a cedar closet.

Griffin found a balcony that faced the inlet. The wind ruffled his neck feathers. He stretched his claws, flexed his tail, and lay down with a large sigh.

All the mice and rats left rapidly.

He thought, you know, sometimes if you have to move, you can actually find a nicer place. He closed his eyes, contented.

Author’s Note: BROOKLYN FANTASIA began as a writing prompt by Betsy James in one of her amazing online workshops. She suggested we look at an altar we have, or one created by one of the other participants. Fellow SF writer Kathy Kitts uploaded a photo of hers that included, um, a miniature griffin, a Hopi katchina doll, and a fossil leaf. Now what would those three creatures do together? My husband and I had just moved into a new place in Brooklyn. The four months of hellish apartment hunting came to mind. Hence, the story.

Marcy studied at the Gunn Center with Chris McKitterick, Andy Duncan, & Kij Johnson, and with Betsy James. She is a fellow at the Writer’s Institute (NYC) and is a Fulbright scholar to the Czech Republic and Romania. Marcy is Artistic Director of the OBIE-winning Immigrants’ Theatre and has taught theatre at CUNY, Yale, Brown, University of Chicago (her alma mater), Pace. Marcy’s theatre work with immigrants, interculturalism and social justice is a strong influence on her spec fiction. Publications: Daily Science Fiction, perihelionsf.com, Kaleidocast 1 & 2, Broad Universe Sampler, Man.In.Fest. Experimental Theatre Journal. She is a producer/host for the BSFW podcast and is editor of Czech Plays: 7 New Works, Immigrant Artist Interviews (tcgcircle.org),Eastern European Playwrights: Women Write the New (SEEP Journal). In the works is a science fiction murder mystery. Marcy is a member of Brooklyn Speculative Fiction Writers and Theatre Without Borders and lives in Brooklyn with a ghost and two cats. (bio photo by Melissa C. Beckman)

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Anime Review: Classroom of the Elite

classroomoftheelite

Classroom of the Elite has some nice ideas, but swings wildly in execution. The premise is that Japan has set up a super elite school where every graduate is guaranteed to be accepted to the college of their choice. Though students are not allowed to leave their entire high school career and communication is cut off with the outside, the living facilities are top notch (there’s even a sizeable mall on campus) and every student is given a budget to live on, starting with 100,000 points (the equivalent of 100,000 yen or $900) to pay for their first month’s expenses.

Students are judged as a classroom, based on merit, and points are awarded at the start of each month. Otherwise they are free to do as they like. Several of the first year students of Class D fritter away that first month’s worth of money with the happy expectation that they will get the same amount next month. Others fall asleep in class once it becomes clear that their teacher won’t say a word if they do.

Naturally, this system is not as kind to the students as they initially take it for. Most of the class is close to broke by the start of the second month and not only that, but they’ve collectively failed their exam so badly that they are awarded zero points for the next month’s living expenses. They won’t starve, there are free hand-outs for students with no points, but they won’t be able to buy anything worthwhile, and students who fall too far behind will be expelled. Their instructor reiterates that they must earn their points through merit, and makes it clear to them that anything can be purchased at the school with enough points.

And that kicks off the series. It’s a cutthroat competition between the first year Classes A through D as they struggle to either climb or remain at the top. (Unlike American high schools, where students change classes with every subject, Japanese classrooms are static.) None of the classes are fully aware of the rules of the school, but they are encouraged to compete against one another and naturally Class D ranks at the bottom.

The protagonist is Kiyotaka Ayanokoji, who initially looks like an introverted guy who’s terrible at making friends, and I was disappointed he wasn’t as lame as he appeared to be. There are a lot of protagonists who are supposed to be the “everyman” but Kiyotaka was fun because he lacks the earnestness of a lot of those characters. Instead we had an apathetic everyman who figured he should at least try to make a good first impression to his new classmates and ended up giving himself the blandest introduction possible.

I liked that!

But Kiyotaka has a hidden history the anime doesn’t fully get into, and the upshot is that he’s actually really smart, a great manipulator of people, and probably should be in Class A except that he manufactured his scores on his entrance exam to get himself put in Class D.

We don’t know anything about what the hell Kiyotaka’s actual plans are, even by the end of the series, but if you like watching a guy subtly outsmarting other people, he’s not a bad pick. His bland facade allows him to get away with things because most people don’t suspect anything from him and he’s very good at deflecting credit on to other people.

I ended up liking this version of Kiyotaka as well, but he doesn’t have much of a character arc because of how the anime chooses to present him. Fortunately, secondary protagonist Suzune Horitaka does.

At first she’s a prickly character too haughty to get involved with her classmates. In fact she’d rather the worst of them drop out because she wants to rise to Class A, and her current classmates aren’t going to cut it. But gradually she comes around to believing that she should look out for her classmates and that she can’t do everything by herself.

Class D is filled with the school’s miscreants and all are deficient in some manner, and not necessarily in discipline and study habits. The fact Suzune is there at all points at some flaw in herself, which she is reluctant to acknowledge.

Since both Suzune and Kiyotaka are the cunning ones out of the class, most of the series involves the two of them working together to outsmart the students of other classes and/or save their fellow classmates. Though Suzune is sharp and dominates the earlier episodes, she’s not on Kiyotaka’s level. The more of his backstory comes out, the more apparent it is that Kiyotaka is really the one in control.

I haven’t talked too much about the plot, and that’s mostly because it’s uneven. The good parts, the outsmarting other students, are really good, with an incredible amount of scheming going into the setup for the final episode. But when it’s not operating at peak, it’s usually in a valley, and the worst offender is the pool episode that literally has nothing else to do with the story. I usually can put up with a filler fanservice episode, but episode 7 was so mind-numbing puerile I almost skipped ahead. (The only reason I didn’t was due to fear of missing something important. But there isn’t anything, so skip away!)

Classroom of the Elite is based on a series of novels, and while they haven’t been translated into English, you can guess where at least one of the novel breaks is, since the last four episodes are clearly a contained story arc and there are previous episodes that are similarly clumped. (The pool filler probably exists because they needed to pad the run to avoid starting another book they couldn’t complete.) From a pacing perspective that makes things a little weird as there’s no real season finale, so much as the culmination of a story arc.

Also, because the novel series is very much ongoing, we don’t get a lot of answers. We learn a little more about Kiyotaka as a person, but the school year is not even half over, Class D has made some progress but is still ranked lower than Class C, and everyone else is still scheming. The last episode is a high point, but would be more palatable as a season break rather than an ending without any guarantee that there will be future episodes.

This series has some good moments and a nice concept, particularly for those who like cutthroat scheming by teenagers, but it’s difficult to recommend on account of its lack of resolution and general unevenness. If it eventually has a second season it might be able to pull itself together into something remarkable, but without a way for the audience to continue following the story it’s just unsatisfying.

Number of Episodes: 12

Pluses: excellent scheming and rule manipulation, Kiyotaka is an cunning mastermind, nice worldbuilding

Minuses: no resolution, quality of episodes swings wildly, the pool episode is a waste of time that has nothing to do with the rest of the series

Classroom of the Elite is currently streaming at Crunchyroll (subtitled) and Funimation (dubbed). Funimation has licensed this for eventual retail distribution in the US.

laurietom
Laurie Tom is a fantasy and science fiction writer based in southern California. Since she was a kid she has considered books, video games, and anime in roughly equal portions to be her primary source of entertainment. Laurie’s short fiction has been published in Galaxy’s Edge, Strange Horizons, and the Intergalactic Medicine Show.