Playing God by Sarah Zettel: From the SF Site Archives

Playing God

Now this is my idea of what science fiction ought to be — believable characters facing difficult and not entirely resolvable conflicts in a futuristic setting where plot and pacing take precedence over arcane technical speculation and long-winded philosophical digressions. Which is not to say that Sarah Zettel doesn’t have something weighty for us to ponder in Playing God — right off the title tells us there’s something here to think about. But unlike some more ponderous practitioners in the field, Zettel’s storytelling skills posit the bigger questions without the pedantry. Indeed, Zettel’s considerable gifts to spin a yarn have been compared to Asimov and Heinlein, but if you ask me (and since you’re reading this, like it or not you already have), she’s better. Sorry, all you die-hard Golden Agers out there, but there are times when the two Grandmasters get downright tedious, even ridiculous. Despite an occasional stumble (a confrontation that sets the plot rolling strikes me as incredibly unthinking for an otherwise smart character, though certainly a fair share of actual tragedies have resulted from amazing thoughtlessness), Zettel has produced the classic page-turner that sticks in your head long after you finally arrive at that last sentence.

One nice trick up Zettel’s prose sleeve is how she gets you to sympathize with the aliens as much — if not more so — than the humans. Praeis Shin is an exiled Dedelphi — a matriarchal humanoid society with a heightened sense of tribalism — called back to her native planet to muster support for a fragile new Confederation formed to cease an endless war between two major factions, the t’Theria and the Getesaph. Though neither trusts the other, biological warfare (initiated by the other side, that side always depending upon which side you’re talking to) has decimated their planet and their people. But because they possess only primitive late 20th century technology, the Dedelphi Confederation must place the fate of their world in the hands of humans — specifically by contracting with the Bioverse Enclave, a sort of corporate clan, to biologically scrub and reconstruct the Dedelphi eco-system. What’s in it for Bioverse? Unlimited access to radiation-hardened inorganic debris and living organisms representing a singular source of biochemistry that can be tapped for future lucrative eco-reconsturction projects. So Bioverse’s interests here are not purely mercenary. And what’s in it for the Dedelphi? The prospect of a plague-free future for their children. The question is whether the powerful inherent feelings of family can overcome their equally powerful — and certainly related — xenophobia.

As Zettel puts it in her afterword:

“All societies that evolve violent survival strategies (at least all the ones we know about) also evolve rules about who may be hurt or killed, and under what conditions. If a culture is not completely suicidal, some concept of peace, friendship, or trust must exist side by side with the violence. With the concept of killing comes the concept of not killing. The existence of these ideas can give a freedom of choice to individuals in their daily interactions, even when those are with strangers. The ultimate question is: Which way will the balance tip: toward evolutionary predisposition, cultural condition, or individual choice.”

While highly intolerant of other races and cultures within their own species, the Dedelphi have little trouble forming bonds of respect and friendship with humans. In an interesting twist (and certainly a refreshing bit of common sense for a genre in which aliens are often depicted freely intermingling and even mating with humans), unprotected long-term exposure to humans is potentially deadly to Dedelphi. But despite the necessity for humans to wear protective clean suits when living among the Dedelphi — and thus unable to engage in the constant touching by which tribal members continually reaffirm their relationships — two significant friendships form between the Dedelphi and humans: Bioverse’s project leader Dr. Lynn Nussbaumer with Praeis Shin of the t’Theria and Arron Hagopian, Nussbaumer’s former lover and Bioverse opponent, with the Getesaph. How those relationships play out, and how they affect the once intimate relationship between the humans, form the foreground against the Dedelphi conflict to explore “the ultimate question” Zettel asks.

Meanwhile, In the background, rebellious factions respectively within the t’Theria and the Getesaph plot to undermine the peace process and their evacuation to orbiting “city-ships” before the eco-reconstruction can begin. So you get your fast-paced action thrills and your philosophical ponderings all wrapped together in a nice package.

One thing I noticed about Zettel is that most of her central characters are female; indeed, the Dedelphi biology works in such a way that the only use for the male is reproductive. I don’t know if there’s some sort of feminist statement here (though it’s been made before) or if it merely reflects the author’s own gender orientation. In any event, there’s no heavy-handed proselytizing here. Zettel seems comfortable in presenting two major arguments of feminist speculation — superior female qualities put them in positions of power and dominance (Ursula K. Le Guin) and women have the choice and capabilities for the same nasty things as men, like wage war and seek revenge (Joanna Russ) — as givens. Which, some thirty years since Le Guin and Russ first published, you would kind of expect it to be.

While I was aware of the acclaim Zettel had received for her previous work (Fool’s War was a New York Times Notable Book of 1997 and Reclamation received the Locus Award for Best First Novel) this is my first exposure to her work. I suppose I passed on the earlier works just because my pile of “to-be-read” books was already spilling off my desk. Having read Playing God, though, I’m just going to have to add two more volumes to the pile and, with apologies to all those other books I still haven’t yet had the time to get to, put them right up on top.

From the SF Site Archives: Ribofunk by Paul Di Filippo

Ribofunk

In a Wired magazine interview (November 1996), Paul Di Filippo explained the title of this thematically-related collection:

“It’s a neologism of my own inventing that I hope spreads like a memetic virus throughout the intellectual community. Ribo comes from the word ribosome, which I use as a shorthand for all biology, and funk indicates a stylistic component derived mostly from funk music… a hot, skittery style in contrast to the more laid back, cerebral style that you might find in some cyberpunk…”

Ribofunk is also, of course, a riff on cyberpunk. One hallmark of cyberpunk is the portrayal of technology as neither inherently good nor bad (in contrast to the Faustian themes typical of the Cold War-era), but just part of the landscape, even possibly a source of personal transcendence when humans neurally merge with the network.

Similarly, Di Filippo dismisses current debates about the ethics of cloning and gene manipulation in presenting a humanity populated by so many recombinant strains that it’s hard to recognize anything discernibly “human” as we consider it today. Di Filippo is not saying this is an awful thing; he’s just saying it offers extremely interesting possibilities that radically expand notions of diversity. In Ribofunk, a human is defined as a creature that has at least 51% human genes. The rest could be derived from anything ranging from a chimp to a dog to an insect. Those whose genetic constitution has fewer (or no) human genes are called “splices,” which the “humans” seem to consider inferior and are often employed as servants.

Whether this represents a literary movement akin to the cyberpunks remains to be seen. Thematically, I’d shelve Di Filippo next to Rudy Rucker, but I can’t think of anyone else who is quite as, well, weird.

Although most of the Ribofunk tales were previously published as separate stories, I think it helps to have them collected together because they share a language that repeated reading sometimes clarifies — a term I didn’t quite get in one story became apparent by its use in another. Part of Di Filippo’s schtick, in fact, is to open a story with a barrage of idiosyncratic slang that may only make sense once you’ve read the ending. Case in point is the opening piece, “One Night in Television City”:

“I’m frictionless, molars, so don’t point those flashlights at me. I ain’t going nowhere, you can see that clear as hubble. Just like superwire, I got no resistance, so why don’t you gimme some slack?”

While these pieces share similar referents — the Sons of Dixie, ‘eft, kibes, tropes and Turing Levels to name just a few — except for a trilogy involving a nameless private investigator who joins the Protein Police, the characters are different. And I mean really different — a “waste gipsy” (an itinerant toxic clean-up worker) wounded in a “cockfight,” a wolverine “splice” that has a potentially fatal crush on her master, a transgenic servant of a Virtuality Poet and part-time “gigaload gigolo,” and the “Urb” that absorbs all genetic material into a collective consciousness. The reader is definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Di Filippo’s strength is as a stylist; his wonderful evocation of the Ribofunk universe takes interesting and oftentimes hilarious angles on the age-old SF question of what it means to be human (particularly if your DNA is derived from non-human sources). This is what makes compelling ordinarily banal plot lines, such as adolescents trying to fit-in with their peers or a soldier caught up as a tool in a war machine.

Still, many of these stories fail to rise above the level of vignette. More often than not, just when a story seems to be gaining some momentum, it thuds to a quickie end. “Up The Lazy River,” for example, starts out promisingly in depicting a River Master on a mission to reverse “greenpeacer” sabotage of a biologically-sentient river, but the resolution is gimmicky, the sort of thing you’d expect from an Outer Limits television episode. More successful as stories are “McGregor,” which features a chain-smoking Peter Rabbit set to liberate the “splices” in you-know-who’s garden, and “Blankie,” which ends on a suggestion of tolerance for the more peculiar forms of genetic mutation and, by implication, some of humanity’s stranger peccadilloes.

Di Filippo has been compared to William Burroughs (an association also made with the cyberpunks), and the connection I see is the emphasis upon depicting an unsettling reality over developing a traditional storyline. If you’re looking for a few uncomfortable laughs in a quick-but-stylish read, this would be a most excellent choice.

Fool on the Hill: Another SF Site Repost

From 1998:

Fool on the Hill

Matt Ruff’s first novel, Fool on the Hill, written when he was just 23, has recently been reissued in paperback, no doubt to satisfy readers such as myself who upon finishing Sewer, Gas and Electric rushed out to their local bookstore to get more of this guy. While the earlier novel is not quite as polished or as funny as Sewer, Gas and Electric, it’s still a trip worth taking.

I’m told that Fool on the Hill is something of a cult classic among college students, and it’s not hard to figure out why. Ruff ponders the BIG ISSUES — i.e. the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life and love — in an accessible, light-hearted way that undergraduates with pretensions of being hip will gladly prefer over Moby Dick. It’s particularly relevant to student nerds because it takes place on a college campus — Cornell — with a plot that pits social misfits against dumb frat guys and various other meanies in a battle of good over evil (guess who wins). In my own college days, you were cool if you read Vonnegut; I don’t know what this says about the zeitgeist of the upcoming generation, but Ruff is a better, more optimistic writer with a finer sense of narrative.

English majors will have a field day with the explicit symbolism in this book, which is both a source of its amusement and annoyance. Cornell is located in Ithaca, NY, a reference of course to the fabled home of Odysseus, so, not surprisingly, several journeys take place. As in Sewer, Gas and Electric, there are a variety of seemingly disparate characters who come together in a potentially catastrophic clash that turns out all right in the end. These include the Bohemians (a loose affiliation of graduating seniors who more than live up their namesake), sprites (as in little invisible fairies, but lacking wings and therefore having to rely upon model airplanes and boats to get about), and dogs and cats (who communicate telepathically). The Fool is the adult figure, a Cornell writer-in-residence (and maybe Ruff’s alter ego?) named Stephen Titus George. Give yourself extra points if you’ve derived “St. George” from the character’s initials and that you might expect a battle with a dragon (in fact there are two). Then there are the loves of George’s life, Calliope (the Greek Muse of poetry) and Aurora Borealis Smith (a student going out with a pompous fundamentalist Christian who becomes George’s guiding light). The plot hinges on the opening of a Pandora’s Box, unleashing the evil Rasferret to seek revenge against the sprites who imprisoned him. This rodent creature (which you might suspect is an allusion to the rat bad guys of Redwall, except the novel was originally published at about the same time as Brian Jacques’s first book in the series) is also capable of animating mannequins and tractor trailers to wreak havoc upon the humans, culminating in the final duel on the Hill. Whew!

Presiding over the fates of this improbable collection is Mr. Sunshine, some sort of Greek god who metaphysically outlines, without ever fully writing out the details, how their respective stories will unfold. Aha, you say! A theological proposition that humanity has free will to act in a universe in which God sets the parameters, but not the specifics, thus allowing for the existence of evil. And, at the same time, a meta-fictional reference to the omniscient narrator and the art of storytelling. A bit obvious, isn’t it? And what’s the significance of calling this character “Mr. Sunshine”? That everything turns out all right in the end? Sounds a bit lame to me.

Indeed, while Ruff manages to hammer all these implausible materials into an engaging plot structure, at times the workmanship isn’t always first-rate. For example, several of his sprites have Shakespearean names. But what’s the point? Hamlet has nothing in common with his namesake except that it provides for a chapter called “Hamlet Sees a Ghost.” Similarly, Laertes has a sister who dies, but this time she is murdered, and there’s no subsequent revenge scene. As for Puck, the hero sprite, I don’t see what he has in common with the Robin Goodfellow of Midsummer’s Night Dream.

Ruff seems to know this, as he provides an explanation of these sophomoric literary references in a scene where Aurora asks George why she is telling him about the novelist/songwriter and former Cornell student Richard Fariña:

“So how is [Fariña] possibly relevant to our situation?” 
“Well, it isn’t,” George said…”But it’s bad luck to pass up any chance at a literary reference.”

That said, there are some wonderful pieces for the literary in-crowd, a cult book in praise of other cult authors. My favorite is the showdown between the police and a doctoral physics student who seems to be threatening to blow himself up:

“…[W]hat’s that thing you’re holding?” 
“…It’s a lightning rod.” He shook the satchel. “I’m a seller of lightning rods.” 
“Oh, Je-sus,” cried the police psychologist. “He’s read Bradbury! I hate it when they’ve read Bradbury!”

There’s also a mysterious fraternity called the Tolkien House, which quite literally recreates Middle-Earth. Here I have to agree with Ruff when he says in his author’s note that, “…it might be nice to find a real Tolkien House out there somewhere.”

While Sewer, Gas and Electric has the trappings of an SF novel, though the science fictional devices are incidental, Fool on the Hill is pure fantasy. It’s also not as accomplished, so if you’ve never read Ruff, I’d recommend starting with the second book. But definitely check out the earlier work.

It will be real interesting to see how Ruff further matures in his next work; unfortunately, taking two years to write the first and four to complete the second, the wait might be long. But I suspect it will be well worth it.

Going to the Wayback Machine: The Life of God (as Told by Himself)

I started reviewing SF and Fantasy Books at the now defunct (alas) Sf Site. Since I own the copyright, I’m going to start reprinting them here. The first of these, The Life of God (as Told by Himself by Franco Ferrucci appeared in the Internet Paleolithic Age of 1998.

BTW: I’ve always been fond of the em dash (here typographically represented by — ) — it pisses me off immensely that the use of em dashes is a tell tale for AI. I can assure you this, was not AI generated. Back in the 1990s, AI was still just a science fictional wet dream.



In Ray Bradbury’s short story, “The Man,” a space traveler lands on a planet only hours after God had apparently visited, then sets off to other worlds in a vain attempt to catch up to Him, destined to always arrive too late. It’s an apt metaphor for humanity’s inherent inability to grasp the ineffability of God, despite our determined best efforts. But from the time of Job, this hasn’t stopped authors from writing stories that try to figure out just what He was thinking of in creating us poor mortals. And why He hasn’t done a better job in handling things since.

SF and fantasy, in particular, have obsessed about the nature of godhood. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, while generally thought of as a prescient warning about unthinking technological advancement at the dawn of the Industrial Age — and hence one of the first works of science fiction — is also a theological meditation on the Creator’s seeming uncaring relationship to the created, as the novel’s epigraph from Milton’s Paradise Lost makes clear:

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me Man, did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?

Not surprisingly, considering the source, stories about God are usually told from humanity’s perspective. While James Morrow may introduce the deceased body of God in Towing Jehovah and Blameless in Abbadon to prompt further turmoil and dissension among mankind about God and His intentions, God doesn’t get to tell His side of it straight out. However, as the title indicates, this is precisely the conceit of Franco Ferrucci’s The Life of God (as Told by Himself). Here God is a “He” not in the traditional sense of being a Father to humanity, but rather as a creature of sexual desires, most notably in impregnating the mother of Jesus.


As you might expect, then, Ferrucci walks a fine line between clever satire and the sophomoric. For instance, when God attends the Last Supper and remarks, “The entire scene was like a stupendously inventive painting,” at the same time you are laughing it might also strike you as a cheap, easy joke.

Ferrucci depicts a God who is as clueless as to the nature of creation and the meaning of it all as are you and I. He wishes He could make things better, but, particularly as He gets older (and the fact that God is a maturing being is crucial to the novel’s premise), He comes to realize the futility of trying to overcome His own limitations. Yes, the reason the universe is imperfect is because God is imperfect. But don’t blame Him for the trouble in the world, or the vain uses of His name. It’s people who’ve come up with the wars and fables that totally miss the point about Him. It’s people who are screwing up. He’s just a blameless observer.

In the course of His “life,” God communicates with the people you might expect: Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Dante, Freud, Einstein. But this God is no burning bush; He is an entity who assumes corporeal form. Which means that God also dies, although in the Hindu sense of continual reincarnation over the centuries, often without consciously choosing who He’ll be in the next life. In considering what happens to mere people when they die, God has no idea. So much for the rewards of Heaven. Or the punishments of Hell, for that matter.

Don’t be put off by the fact that Ferrucci is a Rutgers professor or that this was originally written in Italian. Even though it is a University of Chicago imprint, this is not some convoluted dry academic “high lit” tome. While the paperback reissue of this book is not marketed as science fiction or fantasy, it is certainly in the Morrow tradition — funny, wise, and, for the most part, right on the money in considering the ontological problems raised by the notion of God.

After you’ve read God’s fictional autobiography, you might want to pick up his non-fictional biography. In describing God’s changing identity as it develops through the historical/literary recounting in the Old Testament, God: A Biography by Jack Miles views God in a way that in many respects parallels Ferrucci’s, in particular as an evolving entity who eventually decides to remove Himself altogether from his creation.

Highly recommended.