"The Winterberry," by Nicholas A. DiChario (1992): 6
- Points for knowing how dreadful it is, and getting in and getting out accordingly. So, the question with alternate histories, if we are to view them as pieces of art rather than genre bon bons, is how do you divorce the narrative quality from the puzzle game of "how fast can you figure out a. Who is this? b. When exactly is the watershed divergence point? and c. How well can I pick out the untrues from the true trues? Sadly, here, one gets the whole gist quite early and the rest is a gallop to the finish, in which we're all watching only to see if he can get the thing across the finish line instead of having it blow up in motion. Playing very very light indeed on the "reveal" here was a smart move and did much to thankfully keep it in the former rather than latter option.
"The Lucky Strike," by Kim Stanley Robinson (1984): 9.25
- An expression of earnest moral outrage, nearly overwhelmed by the polemical fire spurring the telling, but, ultimately, all the better for it. A manifestation of that that pedantry: the fact that this alternate history is, like so many, simultaneously a time-travel story (a self-evident fact so often glossed over in critical assessments of both sub genres). Unlike most of those althist examples, however, in which the time-travel is intentional and a part of the story (LEST DARKNESS FALL or Connie Willis, etc.), here the conundrum is different (and largely unintentional, I take it, even though the story couldn't really exist absent it): January, ostensibly a long-tenured bombardier from the South, is in reality a reflective upstanding moralist from the 1980s, replete with a prescient and immediate cognizance of both the physical and diplomatic implications of a bomb he only just learned existed (one is tempted, as is still true today, to query his take on the concomitant firebombing of Japanese cities). In that sense, I thought at first the story was going for a much more pessimistic message, as January (insert: You, Person reading this in 1984 + x) would nonetheless drop the bomb, still knowing what he knows and how things will go (as seen in my favorite section, where he imagines on the flight over the basic indifference of his fellow soldiers, the professional success this indifference will engender, the way they'll consider this period nostalgically, and the wars that will inevitably follow thereafter), too overwhelmed by the momentum of the thing, the clinical sheen army life and camaraderie and militarism's assumptions place between action and responsibility. But, that wouldn't be Robinson then, would it?
"Islands in the Sea," by Harry Turtledove (1989): 9.25
- Admittedly a yearling to the genre, I’ve nonetheless been skeptical of alternate history, for two reasons, especially: first, the essential conceit would seem to necessarily structure the narrative in what I can only imagine as a diminishing way (meaning, more than most other “genre” stories, fitting all this correctly into a short story package eventually becomes something akin to a math equation, or algorithm [gesture at “real” world, “reveal” the left turn, drop “clues” or nuggets throughout for audience pleasure, sometimes surface (whaaat? it’s 1943 and there’s no war?) and sometimes deeper (“if not for the accident, Private Richthofen dreamed of flying”)]; and secondly, Harry Turtledove. Bar none, he’s the “guy” any newby to the genre would associate/find associated with the genre. And, having read, at this point, three other Turtledove stories, I can say I was a bit underwhelmed. My thoughts were either premature or misdirected, as this story hit all the enjoyable beats I imagine the genre aspires to. That STORY: Arab armies took Constantinople in early C8; envoys are dispatched to convert the pagan Bulgar kind some fifty years later; the Bulgar king, however, has also summoned a papal party to make the constrasting case for christ; uh oh, who wins!? (Interestingly, for readers like me, I’d imagine the genre is either helped or hindered by the fact that the spectrum of quality for such stories is drastically foreshortened, on both the bottom and top-end. Meaning, it would be hard to throw in the real dud [0-2], as just throwing in enough referential chestnuts gives an audience a pleasure they can’t deny, while it’s also hard to transcend [8-10] the admittedly tawdry/cheap aspect of the same, as hard to reach the sublime when we’re basically just playing to a certain demographic’s self-vanity. So, that said, take my score with that grain of salt in mind and adjust accordingly along the new 2-8 metric). The story, then, proceeds like clockwork, according to the path Turtledove had (very nicely [such as the backstory to a-Stambuli, the late reveal that Christians would also be there, the interest in the concubines given over to the Muslim delegates, etc.) set up--we’re basically rehashing historical apologia between the two, thrown in with whatever Realpolitik would also have to go into the decision by the Bulgar. And, yes, Turtledove does this well enough (even so much that it would be fun to consider it’s value as a kind of alternative, novel teaching tool in an undergrad history class, both to get some concepts across, as well as to pick out hyperbolizations/fabrications, or flesh out the geo-political ramifications of all this religi-izing.
"Suppose They Gave A Peace," by Susan Swartz (1992): 7.75
- A maliciously cynical little echt-Boomer alt history, in which the cynicism is inextricably tied up in the otherwise neat conceit of the story—namely, that McGovern wins the 72 election on the back of an anti-war wave, only to immediately withdrawal from Vietnam and have basically '75's chaotic scenario happen early (the story’s one master stroke), except that now its easier to pin on peaceniks and disillusions a whole generation (the cynicism: the daughter, a classic radical in Boomer Lit tradition, deciding that her anti war stances were misguided, as her brother died at the embassy during the evacuation [leaving only his secret Vietnamese wife and son, to be raised by their conservative-but-evolving Ohio grandparents]). Too long.
"All the Myriad Ways," by Larry Niven (1968): 9
- The apotheosis of some stereotyped idea-strong character-lame sf, in which — to Niven’s great credit here — he nonetheless still manages to pull off an effective (and, dare I say, with a smidge of emotional resonance as well) ending. What I mean, is the fundamental characterological reality mentality on display here would never respond to be the the type of plot factors arisen in this way. It’s just counter-intuitive for those, at least, familiar in the slightest with swimming in the waters of others motivations (and he even admits as such in the last page!). Nonetheless, a worthy addition to this collection, throwing, as it does, a bit of a curveball to the audience in terms of what our Alt Hist expectations.