transmission and preservation of genetic information?)
The failure to appreciate the arbitrary nature of our habitual division between natural and artificial information systems has resulted in a sort of unspoken notion among many sf writers that post-Singularity minds and bodies will somehow be subject to different rules of evolution—or perhaps not subject to evolution at all. Oh, no one says it. But it is the ghost in the machine—or rather, the absence of a ghost. It is there in the overly tidy political systems, in the static biospheres, in the absence of mosquitoes, in the general sentiment that stuff, including the stuff we're made of, is going to work better in the future.
Hogswaddle!
Life without mosquitoes (or some artificial version thereof) wouldn't work. More to the point, life without mosquitoes—and all their biospheric and noospheric equivalents—would be boring.
Walter Jon Williams grabs this fundamental truth two-fisted—and runs with it. I won't rob you of the pleasure of watching his meditation on artificial evolution unfold through the course of this masterful novel, but I have one word that should perk up the ears of any reader of Gould and Dawkins:
Squinches.
Okay. That's it then. Get off your duff and go read the book.
And happy squinch hunting....
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: BAIT by Robin Aurelian
Robin Aurelian, who contributed a handful of stories to our pages in the late ‘90s (including “Proxies” and “Jelly Bones"), returns with an unusual and amusing fantasy.
Navin hugged his daypack to his stomach. Inside it, he had packed his favorite games—the ones that involved casting protection circles and solving puzzles. Unlike most kids in his eighth-grade class, he wasn't interested in piling up a high body count. “Where's the fairy repellent?” he asked.
"Packed,” said Mom.
"Outlaw bait?” Navin said.
"I forgot,” said Dad. He headed for the garage.
"What about the sleeping bags?” asked Navin.
"They're in the station wagon,” said his older sister, Spike. “Will you quit asking questions so we can get this show on the road?"
Navin hated the twice-a-year family hunting trips, and always tried to get out of them. Spike adored and excelled at hunting and fishing. She'd bagged three outlaws, an adolescent river dragon, and an angel last summer, which had kept the housetrolls and brownies and gnomes happily fed for months. Dad was no slouch at hunting, either. Mom was better at rendering whatever game they caught, and she made Navin help her at base camp every year. They brought Navin along so they could hunt his permits.
All Navin brought home was bites. The weirdest things bit him. Last fall, he had caught a fever/chills combo that made dressing difficult, and the spring before that, a water nixie had chewed on his finger and he got bloat. When he was in sixth grade, he'd spent a month with blue skin. No doctor, occult or otherwise, had been able to tell what caused the condition, but he just knew it was the result of some kind of bite.
"Why do I have to taste so good?” he muttered.
Spike heard him. She always heard him when he least wanted her to. “You have to be good for something,” she said. “Maybe we could use you for bait."
Navin thought of Spike putting a hook through his stomach and dropping him into a lake. He wondered what she'd catch.
"Stop torturing your little brother and get in the car,” said Mom. It was something she said often. Usually Spike only paid attention to the second half.
Navin had to sit in the back seat with Spike. She spent the drive drawing tiny targets all over his right arm in indelible red and black ink. It hurt a lot less than other things she threatened to do to him.
The enchanted forest Dad drove them to for spring break was near the Superstition Mountains, one of Navin's least favorite locations on Earth. Right now the Ridiculous Trees were in full bloom. Navin sneezed blue pollen onto his shirt. It
The failure to appreciate the arbitrary nature of our habitual division between natural and artificial information systems has resulted in a sort of unspoken notion among many sf writers that post-Singularity minds and bodies will somehow be subject to different rules of evolution—or perhaps not subject to evolution at all. Oh, no one says it. But it is the ghost in the machine—or rather, the absence of a ghost. It is there in the overly tidy political systems, in the static biospheres, in the absence of mosquitoes, in the general sentiment that stuff, including the stuff we're made of, is going to work better in the future.
Hogswaddle!
Life without mosquitoes (or some artificial version thereof) wouldn't work. More to the point, life without mosquitoes—and all their biospheric and noospheric equivalents—would be boring.
Walter Jon Williams grabs this fundamental truth two-fisted—and runs with it. I won't rob you of the pleasure of watching his meditation on artificial evolution unfold through the course of this masterful novel, but I have one word that should perk up the ears of any reader of Gould and Dawkins:
Squinches.
Okay. That's it then. Get off your duff and go read the book.
And happy squinch hunting....
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: BAIT by Robin Aurelian
Robin Aurelian, who contributed a handful of stories to our pages in the late ‘90s (including “Proxies” and “Jelly Bones"), returns with an unusual and amusing fantasy.
Navin hugged his daypack to his stomach. Inside it, he had packed his favorite games—the ones that involved casting protection circles and solving puzzles. Unlike most kids in his eighth-grade class, he wasn't interested in piling up a high body count. “Where's the fairy repellent?” he asked.
"Packed,” said Mom.
"Outlaw bait?” Navin said.
"I forgot,” said Dad. He headed for the garage.
"What about the sleeping bags?” asked Navin.
"They're in the station wagon,” said his older sister, Spike. “Will you quit asking questions so we can get this show on the road?"
Navin hated the twice-a-year family hunting trips, and always tried to get out of them. Spike adored and excelled at hunting and fishing. She'd bagged three outlaws, an adolescent river dragon, and an angel last summer, which had kept the housetrolls and brownies and gnomes happily fed for months. Dad was no slouch at hunting, either. Mom was better at rendering whatever game they caught, and she made Navin help her at base camp every year. They brought Navin along so they could hunt his permits.
All Navin brought home was bites. The weirdest things bit him. Last fall, he had caught a fever/chills combo that made dressing difficult, and the spring before that, a water nixie had chewed on his finger and he got bloat. When he was in sixth grade, he'd spent a month with blue skin. No doctor, occult or otherwise, had been able to tell what caused the condition, but he just knew it was the result of some kind of bite.
"Why do I have to taste so good?” he muttered.
Spike heard him. She always heard him when he least wanted her to. “You have to be good for something,” she said. “Maybe we could use you for bait."
Navin thought of Spike putting a hook through his stomach and dropping him into a lake. He wondered what she'd catch.
"Stop torturing your little brother and get in the car,” said Mom. It was something she said often. Usually Spike only paid attention to the second half.
Navin had to sit in the back seat with Spike. She spent the drive drawing tiny targets all over his right arm in indelible red and black ink. It hurt a lot less than other things she threatened to do to him.
The enchanted forest Dad drove them to for spring break was near the Superstition Mountains, one of Navin's least favorite locations on Earth. Right now the Ridiculous Trees were in full bloom. Navin sneezed blue pollen onto his shirt. It
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