The frustrations of near-future speculative fiction writing
I’m generally loathe to discuss my writing on this blog, unless I have a new title to publicise. The reason for this is that I really want my books to do the talking for me. However, every once in a while something happens that makes me want to shout: “See? That’s what I said would happen!” So, this week I deliver a thoroughly wordy and nerdy post for you, for a change.
On Tuesday, The Guardian published a story on how 3-D printing has, for the first time, produced edible food (well, just about). In the Repulse Chronicles, set in the 2060s, there are devices called replicators, which I intended to be the next step on from 3-D printing. There are construction replicators, marine replicators (read the books if you want to know ;)) and replicators that produce water and food. However, there are snags and the food replicators can only deliver cheap, unhealthy things like burgers and pizzas. If the name ‘replicator’ seems familiar, it is. One negative review on my books includes the criticism “…replicators straight out of Star Trek.” That’s not quite right, at least scientifically, but the reason I chose the name is that life often imitates art—and you bet I want my fiction to seem as lifelike as possible. For example, when the first space shuttle was unveiled in 1976, it had been named Enterprise after a campaign by Star Trek fans. These days, given the lack of originality in popular culture and the importance of IP, it seems to me more than possible that the developers of the next-gen 3-D printing will seek a familiar name to set it apart from its predecessor, and with the notion of Star Trek’s replicator firmly in the popular consciousness due to relentless repetition, the question is: could there even be a better name? Calling the next-gen 3-D printing ‘replication’ will tick all of the required boxes to excite investors and drive up the share price to ensure continued funding. And that’s why I called those machines ‘replicators’.
Ultimately, near-future science fiction writers tend to rely on nothing more complex than extrapolation. For example, long before scientists split the atom in the 1940s, writers speculated about what an ‘atomic world’ might involve. In his 1914 novel The World Set Free, H.G. Wells foresees nuclear bombs that explode continuously. Indeed, the beginning of the twentieth century offers much speculative fiction that today may seem fanciful; perhaps as fanciful as today’s speculative fiction will seem to future generations. Another example from Wells is his short story The New Accelerator. In it, a scientist develops a potion that, on drinking, accelerates the imbiber’s physiological functions so that he (and it is always a ‘he’) moves many times faster than the world around him, which appears static and almost immobile. This story trope has featured in many science fiction shows since, including a variation of it in almost every series of Star Trek.
Another author of that period worth noting is Jack London. Next to his terrifying The Iron Heel, which describes a plausible near-future USA that has descended into a dictatorship, he wrote short stories one of which, for example, featured two young scientists in a fierce competition to be the first to discover the secret to invisibility. While this may seem fanciful to us today, it is worth bearing in mind that, at the turn of the twentieth century, the ‘secret’ to invisibility was considered on a par with the ‘secret’ to powered, heavier-than-air flight, and of course the ‘secret’ to splitting the atom. This seems complimentary today to how we fret about the ‘secret’ to sentient artificial intelligence, of if we can build our own black holes and use them to traverse interstellar space. As it was 100 years ago, some of these advances may arrive very soon, and some may not arrive at all.
Ultimately, this is the unknowable issue with extrapolation for every author of near-future speculative fiction. A more recent example that I find instructive is Douglas Adams’s Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Unlike Wells and London, Adams still has many living and vocal fans (and rightly so). However, some are trying to ‘retrofit’ Adams’s work by claiming that he foresaw the internet. This is not quite right. The eponymous book was stated to be a very large book, but it was a book nonetheless. In the late 1970s, the silicon chip existed and the potential for storing ever-increasing volumes of data in ever-smaller devices was well understood. For all his comedic genius (which I adored back in the day), Adams simply extrapolated from what was available then, proposing that a book containing the sum of all of the knowledge in the galaxy could be carried around on a handheld device. But in keeping with the publishing norms of the era in which he wrote it, Adams’s galaxy-spanning book was subject to periodical updates, new editions, and did not include any of the real-time features the internet of today boasts.
By the early 2060s, I don’t for a minute believe that the tech I have predicted will exist precisely as stated. My work wilts painfully in comparison to the authors I’ve named above, so I expect that the next-gen 3-D printing will receive a more dynamic sobriquet. On the other hand, when a newspaper in 2023 publishes something that looks even slightly like something I’ve suggested might possibly happen, you can bet your bottom dollar (does anyone even use that phrase anymore?) that I will reference it and try to get my grubby hands on as much kudos as I can.
To end, here is a picture of Wafer, one of our cats, feeling comfy in a carrier bag (nope, I’ve no idea, either). Thanks for reading and stay safe.
