Analog SFF, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  To most users, technology is pretty much a black box. So it's perfectly acceptable to black-box it in fiction. As often as not, my characters don't know how their stuff works. I just try to make sure the rules are clear and let out enough hints for the reader to work out the principles to whatever level of detail he or she desires.

  Recently, I wrote a story that needed a backpacking tent capable of damping outside noises so you could sleep through anything. It could also talk to you.[3] It was flash fiction, and I didn't want to waste words explaining. Besides, my protagonist wasn't going to be conversant with the technology. So I wound up with a very brief description: on the order of “she vaguely remembered the salesman saying something about the walls acting as a 360 x 360 speaker web for reverse-phase damping."

  [Foonote 3: The story appeared in the “Futures” section of Nature on February 2, 2006.]

  How does the tent work? Well, its walls probably have a surface something like an electrostatic speaker, so that the entire thing can generate sound, with some segments tuned to better reproduce bass or treble. It will probably need to be carefully staked or you'll get the equivalent of speaker buzz if a segment isn't taut. It's going to need a power source (I used a solar “net"—one of my own favorite don't-worry-about-the-details gadgets), and a computer chip to drive it. It will also need an interior sensor web so that the “reverse-phase damping” (whatever that is) knows the location of your ears at all times, because you're probably going to get some interesting interference nodes. And the tent is going to have to be made of some lightweight miracle fabric that can do all that while still being portable.

  Would it have been better to say all that? No way. The sentence about the rental agent was a bad enough mouthful.[4]

  [Foonote 4: I did worry about the technical accuracy of the phrase “360 x 360.” That puts the speaker web on the floor as well as the walls, where it's not going to be much use since her sleeping bag will be on top of it. But if I said “360 x 180,” I was going to have to explain this, so I figured the tent probably had pressure sensors that made it smart enough to deal with that, too. As mentioned earlier, it's often best to leave such details to the readers. Those who know enough about the field to wonder about such things also know enough to figure out their own solutions.]

  This example isn't a true black-box technology, because I gave some explanation of how it works, using the character's ignorance mainly to preclude a massive info-dump. For a truly black-box technology, consider virtual reality. We all have a fairly good idea of what it is and apply the term loosely to things that are unusually realistic, if not truly “real.” But VR so powerful that we really would have trouble distinguishing it from the real thing? That's a different beastie, which is why writers invent headsets, helmets, implantable direct-to-brain data jacks, etc., etc. I tend to use a “neural inducer” because the term alone is enough to imply everything I need, and I can let it induce those nerves with whatever precision is necessary for the VR to have whatever level of verisimilitude the story requires.

  That brings us back to GPS. Those gadgets are everywhere these days, and everyone thinks they know how they work. Most will probably tell you they triangulate on satellites in geostationary orbit. But that's not right. There's no direction finder; rather, the receiver works by detecting speed-of-light delays in incredibly precise timing pulses from the global positioning system satellites.

  I've never had the nerve to write a story in which the characters not only don't know how a technology works, but have it wrong. I'm not sure it's possible because somehow you have to let the reader know the characters are wrong. But it's a tempting idea.

  To summarize, my number one lesson about writing about future technology is this: If you don't know the details, figure out the basic principles and black-box it.

  There is one critical caveat. Keep your eyes open for violations of fundamental laws of physics. If you're going to violate them, it's better to do so overtly, as with time travel or faster-than-light travel.

  I had a discovery like this midway through writing a recent story, “Nigerian Scam” (October, 2006), when I realized that antigravity devices violate the law of conservation of energy. That's because you could use them to lift water into a reservoir, thereby generating power for free. This was a major “oops.” To save the device, I needed a fanciful power source. I got one by having it work by “subducting gravitons into the interstitial matrix.” I have no clue what that means. But it sounded good and showed that I'd considered the issue. Usually, that's all you need, especially when writing about a nonexistent science.

  Here are a few other principles for doing fiction about subjects you really don't know:

  —Figure out the rules by which your future-tech operates. That's far more important than the details of the science. If you need a hyperdrive, how fast does it go? What's its range? Are energy limitations a factor? Etc. As often as not, the needs of the story will dictate. Jerry Oltion's novel Anywhere But Here is interested in the anarchic effects of an inexpensive drive that would allow anyone to travel anywhere, practically instantly. Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan stories need a wormhole nexus with strategic choke points. Neither author explains their technologies in detail because the details don't matter.

  —Make sure the rules are clearly stated or implied. Obviously, consistency is also important.

  —Use details to enhance plot or setting. Television shows such as CSI have proven that people love to know how things work. But if the details aren't integral to the story, you may want to toss them off as quickly as possible, as the literary equivalent of set decoration.

  —Even if you don't really understand the science, take time to think through the implications of your technology. That can drive your story in unexpected (and sometimes very good) directions. When I came up with the antigravity device in “Nigerian Scam,” all I really needed was a technology that could make my protagonist rich. Anything would have worked. But once I'd settled on A-grav, I had so much fun with it that by the time I'd finished, I could no longer imagine the story with any other technology.

  * * * *

  Whether you're working with an imaginary technology or in a field where you're not really an expert, you can mask your ignorance by mixing the science with nonscience. Not fantasy, but elements that would be at home in a mainstream story.

  A good example can be found in Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle's classic, The Mote in God's Eye. Embedded in a story that was very much hard science fiction was an Islamic character who stuck in my mind because he represented a culture I didn't know much about.

  Such things are not only fun and interesting, but they provide a great way to write something that you really do know—a nice counterpoint to the areas where you're winging it. The excitement and realism from these elements adds to the reality of those you may have glossed over or black-boxed.

  The most common way to add such detail is by making your protagonist a writer. After all, writing is something every writer knows. Unfortunately, this has been overdone. Unless the story really needs a writer as protagonist, it's also lazy.

  In addition to writing science, one of my other specialties is profile writing. That has taught me that there's something exotic about everyone—probably several somethings. The trick is finding the ones in your own life.

  For some writers, they involve setting. Mystery writer Tony Hillerman knows the Navajo culture better than nearly any other white. His stories, set on the Navajo reservation, would be fascinating even if the mysteries themselves were mundane.

  I know the Great Basin deserts. In “Dinosaur Blood” (Jan/Feb, 2006) my protagonist takes a road trip that includes large pieces of Nevada. She could just as easily have gone to the Maine north woods, but I wanted her experience to be as real as possible.

  I am also a distance runner and coach. It is no coincidence that my first Analog fiction sale involved a futuristic track star and a more recent one, “Original Sin” (June, 2006), used a cros
s-country coach. Cross-country running isn't a sport most people know anything about, so it provided a real-world anchor for the story's black-box science fictional elements.[5]

  [Foonote 5: Nor am I the only one who does such things in science fiction. Go back through old issues of Analog and read the Biologs. Then look at those authors’ recent stories.]

  This brings us back to the old primer rule. Stories indeed work best if you write what you know, but you don't have to have expertise in everything. What's important is to ground at least some portions of the story in things you do know, even if they're just a bunch of what a friend of mine calls “grace notes” about cats, sagebrush sunsets, or life behind the counter at Starbuck's. Then, the rest of the story can work its magic.

  In science fiction, we refer to that magic as “suspension of disbelief."

  Copyright © 2006 Richard A. Lovett

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  * * *

  The Taste of Miracles

  by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  What's a ‘miracle'? Depends on where you're looking from....

  Hayes stared at the vastness of space through the freighter's window. He swiveled slightly in the pilot's chair, wincing as he banged his knees on the control panel. No matter how many times he did this run, the sight fascinated him. Even the blackness looked crisp, and the points of light appeared sharp. Thousands of stars. Thousands of possibilities.

  Trish brushed his shoulder. He turned, and she handed him a steaming mug. “Cocoa,” she said.

  He took it, feeling the heat through the durable plastic. “I didn't know we had chocolate aboard."

  She smiled and eased in the chair next to his. She was as slim and battered as the freighter, her skin lined with the effort from all the years of hauling, lifting, and loading. He had called her scrappy until he had seen her in a fight with one of the ore miners in the bar at the ass-end of the moon base. After that, Hayes decided, “tough” was too wimpy a word for Trish.

  “Needed a little something special tonight,” she said, then blew gently at the steam.

  He glanced at her, her small, strong hands wrapped around the mug as if it would give her warmth. “Didn't think you celebrated holidays."

  Her grin was tiny. She didn't look at him. “Don't. Not really, anyway. But I kinda like this run on Christmas."

  Earth to the Moon and back. One of the easiest runs on the freight line. He preferred Earth to Mars because he liked Mars better. It stirred his imagination in a way the Moon never did. “I like it too,” he said. “Pays triple."

  “No. I don't care about that.” She slurped. The entire area smelled of hot chocolate. “You celebrate Christmas, Hayes?"

  “I'm not religious,” he said.

  “I mean as a kid. You get to celebrate? Tree and tinsel and toys?"

  “Shoppers’ Mecca,” he said, remembering the tree from his twelfth year. His mom shelled out for a Grow-Your-Own, the only way to get real trees then. It had been enormous, decorated with popcorn and ornaments generations old. The lights were miniature candles that appeared to be burning, and his parents had bought so many presents that the packages spilled across the living room floor.

  “Was it fun?” She huddled in the chair, her legs drawn up to her chest, mug balanced on one knee.

  He shrugged and thought. It had been so long since he had done the holiday thing. He was usually on some run or another, earning extra cash. “The anticipation was great,” he said after a moment. “All month. The tree, the lights, the packages filled with surprises. The feeling that something magic could happen. That was fun."

  She was staring at the stars, like he had, only her scarred features had a touch of wistfulness. “Never had any of that. The Shoppers’ Mecca or the religious stuff."

  “Never? Not even as a kid?” He regretted the question the minute he asked it. She had spoken of her childhood enough—in the program from the age of eleven, bounced at sixteen when she became too hard to handle after her grandmother's death, running freight ever since because she was strong and one of the best damn pilots in the business.

  “Not the shopping. Not the religion.” She finished her cocoa and set the mug on the floor beside her seat. “Christmas Eve, my gram would fill a thermos with hot cocoa, then she would bundle me up, take me outside, and when we were all snug in the snow, drinking our cocoa, she'd point to the stars. She'd tell me this story about how, when she was a girl, they had this race to get to the moon, and how, one Christmas Eve, those astronauts orbited the moon for the first time, and they sent holiday wishes to Earth."

  “Apollo 8,” Hayes said. “Borman, Lovell, and Anders."

  “You know it?” she asked.

  “Space history is a hobby of mine."

  She nodded, still staring at the blackness. “Anyway, Gram thought it was a miracle. A real miracle. So every year, she went outside and pretended she could see them up there, circling."

  “So that's why you do this,” Hayes said.

  She looked at him for the first time, her nut-brown eyes bright. He could almost see the little girl, bundled against the cold, holding her grandmother's hand and staring at the night-darkened sky.

  “No,” she said, her flat voice shattering the illusion. “We were born to late too be cowboys, Hayes, and there's no such thing as miracles any more."

  She picked up her mug and straightened out her legs, then pushed out of the seat. Space was as dark as ever, the stars bright beacons of the future, waiting for him. But he would never go farther than Mars. He was a pilot who shuttled ore, equipment, and people from place to place. Not even allowed the glamour title “astronaut” anymore.

  She had stopped behind his chair. He could see her reflection against the window as if she were standing in space, unsupported by the freighter.

  “That's why I like this run on Christmas,” she said. “I need to remember that once upon a time, this was the stuff of dreams."

  She touched his shoulder, a fleeting warmth, a moment, dreamer to dreamer. Then she let go.

  “More cocoa?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, glad she had brought it along.

  Before handing her his mug, he took one last sip. He stared at the stars, swirling the chocolate on his tongue, and savored the taste of miracles.

  Copyright © 2006 Kristine Kathryn Rusch

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  * * *

  The Unrung Bells of the Marie Celeste

  by Richard A. Lovett

  What do you do with a second chance—or a universe of them?

  Life is a countdown to death. The thing that makes it bearable for most people is that they don't know when the clock will get there so they pretend it never will. But today, Wynsten Jones controlled the clock. When it neared zero, he'd say something pithy or ironic or just plain campy, push a button, and unless the engineers finally had it right, which he hoped they didn't, that would be the end of Wynsten Jones.

  He'd been in control of the countdown once before, but not with the whole world watching. That time, he was staring down the barrel of a gun, trying to will himself to pull the trigger. But his Catholic upbringing had won out. He didn't really believe in an afterlife, but if there was one, the idea of consigning himself to an eternity of something worse than the present was just barely frightening enough to keep him among the reluctant living. Long enough, anyway, to find a way out that even his catechism teacher couldn't disapprove of.

  That was when he volunteered for this mission. It might be the only job in the Solar System for which a suicidal psych profile was an advantage. Rather than shooting himself in a drunken stupor, he'd go out a hero, striving for the betterment of mankind. Hurrah for Wynsten, the bold explorer. Someone had to do it because maybe it would work and humanity would actually be bettered. And if humanity wasn't bettered today, well, the techies supposedly learned something from each failure. Although there was a nasty rumor that they'd given up and were merely making random changes.

&nbs
p; Still, being failure n-plus-one was an acceptable way for a world-weary pilot to make his exit. Other than the fact that he welcomed it, was dying this way any different from the soldier who falls on a grenade?

  Wynsten expected to be dead a split second after he pushed the button. And because everyone else thought so, too, they were letting him proceed at his own pace. It didn't matter how long he spent on the preflight checklist, because the launch window was basically “any time you're ready.” All that really mattered was not to die stupidly, overlooking some critical telltale. Burned-out pilots were cheap. Ships weren't.

  Now that he was truly and publicly consigned to death, he could wait. Let the ship kill him in its own mysterious way, as it had its previous pilots. At least, everyone presumed they were dead. Technically, they were simply missing. The first time, an entire ship vanished. Humanity's first faster-than-light drive, launched for somewhere in the vicinity of Saturn ... never to return from hyperspace.

  That first ship had been named Endeavor. When the same thing happened to its successor, the Space Authority had replaced the next ship's human pilot with a computer cube that happily delivered a cage of mice to Saturnine space, then brought them back. Alive, well, and oblivious to their epoch-making journey. Salamanders, goldfish, parakeets—all fared equally well. But cats and dogs were iffy. And humans always vanished. When they were given actual control over the mission, expensive ships went with them: the Enterprise, Beagle, Santa Maria, Victory, Magellan.

  The current ship had never been formally christened, but the tech folks were calling it “Seven.” As in Marie Celeste 7. Fitting, because like its namesake, it had a penchant for drifting crewless. Once, two people had been put aboard, just to see if that helped. It didn't.