Longer by Michael Blumlein

Published by Tor.com on May 28, 2019

Most of us want to live as long as we can, and maybe just a little longer. Others reach a point where they are content with the fullness of their lives, a point where they “couldn’t possibly be any fuller” and any more life “would only push out what I already have, and cherish.” The latter is an unusual perspective, but science fiction at its best encourages readers to see their lives, or the lives of others, from perspectives not yet dreamt.

Longer imagines a future in which humanity is considerably more united than it is today, thanks in part to something called “the Hoax.” In this future, science has made it possible to give some people — people of means — two rejuvenations, a second and third lifespan. Gunjita wants Cav to take his second and last rejuvenation; Cav is resisting the idea. In fact, Cav is on the verge of deciding that he is ready to die, a decision that Gunjita takes personally, because it seems Cav would rather spend an eternity without her rather than another lifetime with her.

Gunjita and Cav are on a space station doing medical research when they discover that a returning probe has captured an object attached to a sliver that was once part of an asteroid. The object resembles vomit but Cav is convinced that the object is alive. They call it the Ooi. It might just be a rock clinging to a rock, but maybe aliens look like rocks. Or maybe they look like vomit.

Cav wants to touch it, smell it, taste it, all potentially dangerous activities. Gunjita wants to cut into it. For that, Cav thinks they need a surgeon — overkill, perhaps, if it is just a rock shaped like a pile of vomit.

The surgeon they have in mind, Dashaud Mikelson, has just enhanced his sense of touch. But Dash has a history with Gunjita that has left her feeling spiteful.

The exact nature of the ooi turns out to be … ambiguous. The resolution of Cav’s debate about living or dying is … ambiguous. The nature of the Hoax? Ambiguous. Very little about this story is clear cut, except for the very real emotions that it explores. And that seems fitting, because the story is a reminder that there is so much we don’t understand. Does alien life exist and, if so, what does it look like? We don’t know. What, if anything beyond physical decay, happens to us after death? We don’t know.

What we do know is that we must make choices based on imperfect information. We base some of those choices on emotions or intuition, also imperfect, but whether our choices are therefore right or wrong is again something we might never know. We might not know what meaning to assign to right and wrong, or whether the meaning we assign is any more valid than the meanings assigned by others, even others who are close to us and who feel hurt by our choices.

The characters in Longer explore those questions through contemplative dialog, while Michael Blumlein tells a philosophical story in elegant prose. I’ve never read anything quite like Longer. It showcases how a science fiction novella with a handful of characters can broaden a reader’s imaginings about the things we think we understand and the things that, even with a couple of extra lifespans, we will never understand.

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A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine

Published by Tor Books on March 26, 2019

Notable for its focus on the diplomatic and political interaction of different cultures, A Memory Called Empire reminds me of the work of C.J. Cherryh. The story explores a crisis within a human empire of the far future and the role that an ambassador from a small and relatively autonomous mining station plays in defusing it.

Arkady Martine is the penname of historian AnnaLinden Weller. An appreciation of the history of empires clearly informs the novel.

Teixcalaan, homeworld of the Empire, has demanded that Lsel Station provide a new ambassador without explaining what became of the last one. The former ambassador last downloaded his memories 15 years ago, so his successor, Mahit Dzmare, is going to Teixcalaan hardwired with an imago holding very dated memories of her predecessor (an imago being a memory storage device that, when implanted into another person’s brain, causes the memories of both to integrate).

The Teixcalaanli place a high value on poetry. Martine portrays Teixcalaanli culture through the lens of its art, and particularly the intersection of its poetry and politics. Just as national politics on Earth can be understood by analyzing political rhetoric, politics on Teixcalaan can be understood by analyzing political poetry — a more difficult task, given poetry’s reliance on allusion rather than directness (not that any political rhetoric can be taken at face value).

Lsel is a mining station. Its Council has a couple of problems. One, its ships are being lost at a jumpgate. Maybe there’s a new empire in town. Two, the old empire is expanding to a sector of space that lies beyond Lsel. The annexation force will likely sweep up Lsel Station as it expands, swallowing the republic as part of the conquest. Lsel will eventually ask Mahit to help it tackle both issues.

Mahit does not know about the war plan or the alien threat when she arrives on Teixcalaan, but before long she has a couple of other problems. One is that she is being held hostage during the prelude to an insurrection, although in a polite way. The other is that her imago has gone silent, so she does not have the benefit of the former ambassador’s memories. The former ambassador may have been shocked into catatonia when Mahit learned why Teixcalaan requested a new ambassador. There may also be a more nefarious explanation for her imago’s sudden failure.

A Memory Called Empire is not an action novel, but it generates excitement with political intrigue. The aging Emperor’s hold on the Empire is threatened, leaving Mahit caught in the middle of a growing schism that may end her life just as it ended her predecessor’s. The plot plays out to a satisfying resolution that completes the novel while setting the stage for the next book in the series.

Martine’s world-building is remarkable. The Teixcalaan culture, a mixture of bureaucratic formality and aesthetic appreciation, is unveiled in intricate detail. There’s even a glossary at the end to help readers keep track of words and place names, although I only discovered it after reading the last chapter.

Mahit is smart and likeable, as are the sympathetic Teixcalaani characters who assist her in her mission. Key characters struggle with internal conflicts that emphasize their human connection despite their very different cultural backgrounds. All of this adds up to a strong start to a series that is likely to be a valued addition to the science fiction genre.

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Bottle Grove by Daniel Handler

Published by Bloomsbury Publishing on August 27, 2019

Novels about marriage (as opposed to romance) seem intended to persuade readers to remain single, which in my experience is good advice. Bottle Grove merges a giddiness of romance theme with a suffocation by marriage theme and adds a bit of crime to darken the plot. The overarching theme is that nothing remains static, no matter how much you might want your life to be untouched by change, a theme that is summarized in these lines: “You meet people and you tell them stories. You meet someone, you marry them, and they’re not part of the story you’re in. They are it. You’re the same story and it changes, every living day, you can never, never keep up.”

The story involves two married couples but it begins with two single men. Martin Icke and Stanford Bell own a bar called Bottle Grove in a place called Bottle Grove, a wooded area in San Francisco. The novel Bottle Grove is set during the height of the dot com years. A couple of wealthy characters work in the tech industry, early developers of the phone technology that allows phones to be tracked, making it possible for obsessive husbands to keep an electronic eye on their wives’ travels.

The story starts with a wedding at the bar. Martin meets Padgett, a drunken waitress supplied by the caterer. Stanford meets Reynard, a philandering vicar who disappears after a drunk driving accident. The groom is Ben Nickels and his bride is Rachel, who watches Reynard’s fiancé Nina scream at Reynard during the reception and wonders how much time will pass before she is screaming at Ben. He has not seen her true self because if people saw each other’s true selves before marriage, they would never wed. Rachel’s hope is to continue deceiving Ben “even, especially, when I want to tear my own eyes out and cannot sleep from trouble.”

Martin and Padgett are only together for a few days before a fellow known as the Vic intrudes on their budding relationship. The Vic’s life has intersected with Rachel’s in a depressing way that ties the stories together. Oddly enough — although it turns out to be not so odd at all — Martin is undisturbed by the Vic muscling in on Padgett. After all, Martin’s bar needs an infusion of money and the Vic has a lot of it, even if it is mostly the pretend money that fueled the dot com days. Martin suggests that Padgett move some of the Vic’s money in Martin’s direction. “She stands up then and there it is, plain in front of her, the two of them and how desperate they are.”

Bottle Grove is a novel of snappy dialog and witty prose. The main characters have complicated personalities. Shallow characters lurk in the novel’s background as comic foils. Rachel (complicated) comes into the bar twice a week to complain about Ben (foil), who needs an app to remind him to be spontaneous. Reynard is like Jekyll and Hyde, both shallow and complicated as he ghosts through the story. Nina is a shallower version of Padgett, with whom she bonds over alcohol and her need for the security that (she believes) only a husband can provide.

Readers who do not like a book unless they like the characters should probably avoid Bottle Grove, as the characters tend to be self-centered and ethically challenged. Some are impulsive, some drink too much, most are barely in control of their lives, except for two tech moguls who control everyone else. None of the characters are admirable but they are recognizably human, doing their best to keep up with a rapidly changing world.

The story is dark, sometimes suggesting that horrors lurk just over the horizon. The plot moves forcefully, surprising the reader with sudden changes of direction, looping in ways that define new and unexpected relationships between the characters. Unpredictability is both the novel’s strength and the antidote to stagnation. Life is always changing in unexpected ways. The novel argues that even if the changes are not always positive, people who embrace the inevitability of change will never want it to end.

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Dawn by Selahattin Demirtaş

Published in Turkey in 2017; published in translation by Hogarth on April 23, 2019

Selahattin Demirtaş’ preface explains that he is a human rights lawyer and a dissident who is held in a Turkish prison. He wrote these stories while awaiting trial for acts of opposition to an authoritarian government that classified his speeches as criminal provocations. Americans who chant “lock her up” either have no idea or do not care that they want political opposition to be criminalized in the United States just is it is in the world’s most oppressive nations.

Demirtaş was a Turkish politician before (and even after) his arrest. The last story in this collection describes a utopian society that is presumably his vision for what Turkey can become. Many of the stories explain how far the nation is removed from that utopian vision.

In “The Man Inside,” a prisoner watching sparrows building a nest imagines them standing up to law enforcement sparrows that want them to tear the nest down. “Seher” tells of a girl who must keep her date with a man a secret, lest her father break her legs. When she is raped, she receives a punishment commanded by her father (in the name of defending the family’s “honor”) that is even worse. “The Mermaid” is about a woman who flees from Hama with her daughter and comes to an unfortunate end.

“Nazan the Cleaning Lady” is arrested after being injured by people fleeing tear gas that the police used to break up a demonstration. She imagines what kind of vehicles the people she meets drive based on their social status. “Greetings to Those Dark Eyes” considers the consequences of villages that promote child labor and child brides. One story is written in the form of a letter to the prison guards who read letters written by prisoners.

While the stories lack the complex subtlety that a more experienced writer might provide, the subject matter is inherently powerful. Demirtaş’ best story uses indirection to reinforce the impact of violence on innocent lives. “Kebab Halabi” is set in a marketplace where a man who is famed for his cheese-filled pastry künefe feels doomed love for a woman he cannot have, not realizing the woman is doomed to die at the hand of a suicide bomber. The emphasis on the normalcy of life with its simple joys and longings, contrasted with the sudden violence that rips those lives apart, makes the story memorable.

When Demirtaş departs from the theme of oppression, his stories are less successful. A story about a love triangle that does not end well is mundane. “As Lonely as History,” about a couple who learn a lesson about placing work and wealth ahead of love and family is pleasant but contrived. It is so obvious that it might be considered a parable rather than a literary story.

I could not find the point in “Asuman, Look What You’ve Done,” in which a bus driver tells a telenovela-type story to a young passenger and years later hires the passenger as his son’s lawyer. The stories of growing up told in “Settling Scores” also fail to impress.

The collection features one strong story and several stories that illustrate Turkey’s human rights violations. Collections like this are always an important reminder that authoritarian governments endure, and that free countries must always be vigilant to guard against leaders who mimic authoritarian rulers. I recommend it for the political stories; the others are less interesting.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

The Study of Animal Languages by Lindsay Stern

Published by Viking on February 19, 2019

The Study of Animal Languages is a domestic drama. In most respects, it follows the conventions of a domestic drama. A couple grows apart. Infidelity is suspected. The husband is likely having a midlife crisis and must come to terms with the causes of his unhappiness. Nothing in this novel surprises, other than quality of the writing, which saves the novel from being a novelized Lifetime movie.

Ivan Link’s wife Prue has completed a study of animal communication that suggests birdsongs may be a form of language. Ivan is a philosophy professor. He studies epistemology, the gap between data and truth. He doesn’t think Prue’s study proves anything. He may be right about that, but academic research can advance understanding even if it fails to produce a startling breakthrough. Since Ivan presumably understands that, his complaints about his wife’s research must stem from something other than a belief that birdsongs are not a language.

The reader will quickly suspect that Ivan is jealous of Prue. She is likable and thus well liked in the academic community while Ivan, who is pedantic and self-isolating, is treated more as a respected colleague than a friend. Cracks are forming in their marriage, including disagreements about fellowships and foreign travel (Prue has opportunities; Ivan likes to stay at home) and stress caused by Frank, Prue’s bipolar father.

The conflict between Ivan and Prue begins to reach a climax when Prue presents a paper that includes a fascinating discussion of the barriers to proving that sounds are part of a language when the listener has no way to assign meaning to the sounds. During her presentation, Prue asks how scientists can consider the emotional responses of voles to be sufficiently akin to human responses to use voles for biomedical research, while at the same time terrorizing them to determine how they respond to terror. I am not a particular friend of voles but the question merits serious consideration. Ivan, however, thinks Prue is a fool to question the ethics of animal research in a presentation to an audience that consists largely of animal researchers. The opportunity to gain tenure, Ivan believes, depends in large part on not pissing off faculty members who might end up on a tenure committee. Yet Ivan later proves that he can be just as career–destructive as his wife. His midlife meltdown is classic.

At other points, the novel’s focus is on Frank and on the differing efforts that Ivan and Prue make to cope with his dementia. Frank believes that sharks in an aquarium are speaking to him, conveying feelings rather than words. The story draws parallels between animal suffering, which animals are unable to articulate with words because they have no human vocabulary, and Frank’s suffering, which he is unable to articulate in a way that others understand because of his mental illness.

Ultimately, the plot makes its way to the well-trampled ground of marital infidelity, or at least to suspicion that it might be occurring. Joyless sex, odd telephone calls, a new acquisition that might have been a gift from an admirer, and absences from home are all clues, but do they justify the conclusion that hanky–panky is afoot? And if the suspicion is correct (or even if it is not), what is the correct response? Confrontation? Retaliation? Maintaining the unhappy status quo for fear that change will be worse?

Throw Ivan’s impressive meltdown into the mix and you have the familiar ingredients of a domestic drama.  Despite its familiar subject matter, the story’s background details and observant prose set The Study of Animal Languages apart from other novels that dissect marriages. The novel offers a focused examination of two people on a collision course and the choice they must make about their respective (or joint) futures.

The depiction of the unbalanced Ivan at midlife is a bit over-the-top, particularly when contrasted with the blameless Prue. While Prue purports to share responsibility for the wall that has arisen between them, it is clear that all the fault all rests with Ivan. I suspect that shared fault is more typical, but I can't condemn a novel for depicting an atypical marriage.

Since Ivan is a philosopher, the reader should expect a bit of philosophy. The novel’s big lesson is that life is not about figuring out what really matters (unless you're a philosopher), but “figuring out that your life was never even about you to begin with. You’re not the hero. You’re just someone in the cast.” That is a lesson everyone should learn.

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