Peak Puppy?

Peak Puppy At Last?

I’m working on a meatier post, but in the interests of clickbait staying engaged with my readers through busy times, I have to ask if we have reached Peak Sad Puppy. I suspect the answer is no, but while I was driving a book-laden U-Haul through the wilds of Eastern Utah, crap seems to have gotten real. Or, if not “real” per se, deeply and comprehensively bizarre. More than usual, I mean.

I’m not kidding about the U-Haul thing, by the way. It was a 26′ long truck packed to the weight limit with used books, and I’m pretty sure those brakes I smelled while barreling down Emigration Canyon weren’t mine. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Anyway, back on point. I may be the last person to hear that an earnest and enraged band of Sad Puppies has threatened Tor Books with a crippling boycott unless a list of demands is met by noon tomorrow. High noon. Among these demands are the censure and reprimand of people who are either 1) not beholden to Tor in any way, 2) completely unrelated to whatever mess is currently in process, or 3) all of the above. There’s also the usual and predictable stuff, easily caught up on for those that avidly follow the ongoing poopshow that is the 2015 Hugos, but I particularly enjoyed the bits about desiring Tor to slap John Scalzi’s wrist for being whatever it is Scalzi is. (A decent and witty guy, I thought, but not everyone appears to agree with me.)

I hope this goes down tomorrow and thousands, er… hundreds, wait… tens? of Puppies stand up to The Man and no longer buy Tor books. Especially those by John C. Wright or Kevin Anderson. Or books by Baen, which I believe is part of the same conglomerate as Tor. (Rotten to the top, right? No way MacMillan is innocent of Social Justice perpetration here.) They definitely shouldn’t get anything by that pinko reactionary Heinlein, since his back catalog is held by Tor. I fully expect this to be a fearsome and irresistible message that no powerful and wealthy company can ignore. And if Tor blows them off? It must be Big Gay.

I wonder if The Great Tor Boycott and Optional Buffet at Golden Corral of 2015 might become the Puppies’ Jade Helm moment. (For those not up on craaaaaazy American politics, this is a bunch of Concerned Texas Citizens publicly fretting that a military exercise named Jade Helm is actually a move by Pres. Obama to, er, take over Texas. I am very definitely not kidding here, because the U.S. doesn’t have any sort of dominion over the great state of Texas right now. None at all. Anyway.) To all you Glitter and Pan-Asian Cuisine Gang members out there, grab yourselves some popcorn and settle in for the show. Might want to grab a poncho though, since the spittle may be flying out of some very rabid mouths. If this is Peak Puppy, we should all be grateful. And if it’s not, I really can’t imagine how it could get any stupider.

Self-Reference Engine

Self-Reference Engine
Enjo To (EnJoe Toh)

By the author’s own admission, this one isn’t for everyone. Enjo To (I refuse to endorse improper romanization) is a theoretical physicist turned award-winning, but controversial, author. Self-Reference Engine is his debut novel, critically acclaimed and utterly impenetrable. It is also his first novel in English, though it was preceded by a short story in Haikasoru’s The Future is Japanese. (Also impenetrable.) Enjo fills it with brain melting science and convoluted storytelling, not so much daring readers to follow him as casually inviting them into his post-Einsteinian home. Some will go for this, others will just be confused. Enjo offers no apologies for the craziness. After all, he has said in interviews, if a story is about a fractured space-time, shouldn’t the story itself be fractured?

I’m guessing that most readers will have decided by now if they want to give Self-Reference a try, so rather than write a proper review, I’m going to try to create a framework to help someone who just picked it up the book to make sense of it. (With the caveat that plenty went over my head, and this probably requires two or three attempts before any sort of real clarity can be found.) I will eschew spoilers, but it’s kind of hard to spoil a non-linear narrative where characters share names but not identities, and things are happening in different parts of the multiverse.

First, Self-Reference is a post-Singularity novel. AI’s evocatively called “giant corpora of knowledge” have taken over the show and left humans, with their puny reasoning limits, far behind. (Apparently the Japanese term is an Enjo original, so translator Terry Gallagher was forced to come up with the phrase. I think he did well.) The book goes further though, post-post-Singularity if you will, because the corpora have inadvertently gone so far as to shatter the space-time continuum. This is known as “The Event,” and frames the novel. A more orthodox story would follow the post-Apocalyptic struggle of humanity, or perhaps chart the corpora battle to reunite the fragments of the multiverse. Enjo is anything but orthodox however, so we get flashes and vignettes, but nothing so mundane as a plot.

The twenty-two chapters sketch out The Event, life immediately after, corpora campaigns to fix things, and other seemingly random scenes. They are, indeed, self-referential, though not always obviously so. Names repeat, though the characters may or may not be iterations of themselves. Objects and ideas reappear, but one can’t say for certain that they are the same objects and ideas. The efforts of the greatest minds in existence chase their own tails through space-time, moving in, if I recall correctly, 87 dimensions. More surprises await in the second half as, I think, Enjo actually goes so far as to affirm humanity’s importance. Unless I totally misunderstood that part.

The reader should be prepared for brain damage at every turn. My favorite chapter involved the discovery of 22 unconscious Freuds in grandma’s house, one under each tatami mat in the living room. There is a cameo by Military SF. There is unrequited love. There is possibly requited love between a man (I think) and a transgendered sock. There is first contact, slapstick comedy (of a sort), and furniture invading from another universe. Does it all come together in the end? Um, maybe. Then again, I don’t think it’s really supposed to. Enjo wants to explore a fractured space-time, so that’s what we get. Clearly, this isn’t going to work for some people.

Some of my friends should definitely read this. Others should probably avoid it. I’m guessing everyone will know immediately which side of the fence they are on; I wouldn’t think to change any minds. I won’t have time in the near future to give Self-Reference the reread it deserves, but I’m glad I made it through once. The weirdness sits just fine for me.

The Burning Dark

The Burning Dark
Adam Christopher

Well, I fell off the blogging truck there for awhile, for a wide variety of reasons including, but not limited to, emergency doorknob repair, elementary school choir concerts, and playing soul music for confused contra dancers. I’m back though, hopefully with a bang and a promise of consistency. This week’s topic is the prequel to Adam Christopher’s newest novel, generously provided to me by the marketing team there. Thanks, Tor!

I must admit to going into The Burning Dark willfully misled. I got through the first sentences of the dust jacket blurb, the ones wherein a guy named after my home state engages in space battles with mechanical arachnids, and dove right in. I totally missed the bits about haunted space stations and the like. Whoops! I was in for a big surprise, starting from Chapter Two, since Burning Dark is more like The Haunting of Hill House crossed with Solaris, if David Drake were writing. It was probably another fifty pages before I recovered from that shock and really dug into things; that is nothing I will hold against the author.

Many years ago, one or another teacher pushed us all through the aforementioned Hill House. I remember ending up frustrated with the book, since SFF-inclined me wanted the author to take us through what was obviously a very cool haunted house. Instead, we get a character study of an unreliable, and fairly annoying, protagonist. Fewer ghosts and secret passages, more emo whining. (At least, this is my memory of the book. Apparently it’s famously well thought of.) I was reminded of this for the first 200 pages or so of Burning Dark, as Christopher introduces the protagonists, their angst, and their numerous travails, rather than mapping out the creepy space station and weirdo star it orbits. He does start to deliver more at the end, though it was a bit of a slog at times for me. (Mileage may vary – I am not a ghost story aficionado.)

The action begins with a retelling of a Japanese creation myth that made absolutely no sense at the time. It is a clear sign of my daily post-work exhaustion that I totally failed to connect this to a massively obvious clue that overshadows the rest of the book, until the very last chapter. That or impending senility, but I’m hoping for the former. Anyway, those not up on Japanese mythology may miss it anyway. As the book proper starts, one Idaho Cleveland is blowing the crap out of bad guy spiders from his perch on a space battleship. Good times. Three cheers for anything named Idaho, but worse things are definitely ahead. We know this because everyone knows that God hates Cleveland. (Sports joke, for those not up on athletic woe.) Captain Idaho quickly finds himself reassigned for a final tour, since the most recent battle left him with both medals of honor and a reconstructed knee, and we are introduced to the crazy space station Coast City.

Coast City orbits a star that messes up nearby communications and electronics, is being decommissioned, and is inhabited by the last remnants of crew and military. People have disappeared, lights flicker, the heaters don’t work, giant swaths of the station are either uninhabited, being disassembled, or both, and strange things are afoot. We see these from a few different perspectives as the book moves through standard haunted house dance steps. Most of the characters are marines or starship captains, giving things a veneer of military SF, and there are just enough big words and futuristic tech to tease at Hard SF, but mostly this is a horror story.

As such, most opinions of the book will depend entirely on how people feel about horror. It’s not really my thing, so I didn’t find Burning Dark gripping for long stretches. The end is rousing enough to win me over and the world building is deep enough to warrant further reading; the follow up novel looks to be more in line with conventional SF. I will be checking it out later this year and expect to enjoy it. Burning Dark gets a rec from me for anyone looking for a change of pace, or who is curious about mixing SF and ghost stories. The Analog crowd probably won’t enjoy it, nor anyone wanting space battles and aliens. Beyond that, the reader will have to decide.

Building Harlequin’s Moon

Building Harlequin’s Moon
Larry Niven and Brenda Cooper

I would not normally have read this book. Much as I love Larry Niven, I am skeptical of his later books, especially those co-written with authors I have never heard of. Knowing nothing of Building Harlequin’s Moon, I heard Brenda Cooper on a recent Skiffy and Fanty podcast saying very interesting and intelligent things. Part way through she mentioned collaborating with Larry Niven, and, since I have been seeking out female authors anyway, decided that I should look into this further. Cooper’s comments on a number of issues were enough to overcome any suspicions.

I don’t have any proof of this, but I suspect that Cooper did most of the grunt work and Niven was the idea man. I’m pretty sure that Niven wrote the prologue, wherein the planetary engineer Gabriel builds and hibernates his way through 60,000 years of comet and moon smashing to create a semi-livable habitat orbiting a super-massive gas giant called Harlequin. Big time Hard SF ideas here, and very fun. The rest of the book is more of a character-based societal study, as Gabriel and his fellow starship crew members try to figure out how to handle the indentured colony they put on Harlequin’s moon Selene, while the Moonborn stumble towards some sort of independence under the reluctance of a biologist named Rachel. The initial combination of teen protagonists and political narrative struck me as Cooper’s contribution, since it didn’t feel like most Niven I have read. The big picture and the science did, but not the people.

Oddly, the very first lesson I learned from Harlequin is that I should probably never read a YA novel again. No doubt there are many good ones out there and I am doing myself a disservice, but teens irritate me. (I’m sure this has nothing to do with my tween daughter, my forced re-introduction to pop music and/or teen culture through her, or the face melting crap she watches on TV. Nothing at all.) The initial chapters of Harlequin pack in enough angst, awkward romance, and adolescent scheming that I almost gave up there. Fortunately for all involved, I didn’t, but I think this colored my view of the rest of the novel, which does move into more grownup territory after the first big twist. Again, nothing wrong with YA stuff, just not something I can tolerate at this point in my life.

The rest of the book left me with mixed feelings. On one hand, Selene is a fascinating place that I would gladly read more about. Niven is no stranger to mind blowing feats of engineering and Selene will stand proudly next to anything in Known Space or the Co-Dominion. On the other hand, the whole political situation felt simplistic to me, with the Earthborn attitudes towards the Moonborn only partially grounded in fictional reality. Cooper (I assume) gives just enough of a backstory to make things plausible, but enough to be entirely convincing. While I am well aware that people acting like dirtbags requires little or no motivation, there are a few missing stations on the railroad from fleeing Earth to enslaving ones progeny. But on the gripping hand, when everything reached a lengthy and satisfying climax, I felt attached to the protagonists and empathized with them far more than I expected to. I don’t think this was purely emotional manipulation.

I have purposely avoided reading other reviews at time of writing, since I want to puzzle this one out on my own. I’m curious what people have to say about Harelquin though. It’s an uneasy mix of Niven’s brand of Hard SF, YA emotions, and the colonialism and equality topics bubbling so freely through the genre right now. Chapters swing from Ringworld-esque engineering escapades to scenes of struggle that one might find in Stephanie Saulter’s searing Gemsigns. The characters argue about planetary biology or AI consciousness, then wing off into … whatever kids these days are reading. Longing somethingerother, angst mumble mumble, feelings. Pep the stone hearted, recovering political scientist didn’t always know how to handle this. (Spoiler alert: the big ideas were the best part.) I’m almost certain that I can find reviews that say exactly the opposite: “Loved the characters and romance, didn’t get the science-y bits,” or “Such an inspiring tale of freedom, but could do without the weepy stuff.” I suppose the Sad Puppies would get sick of all the prominent women and the equality hand wringing, but salute Niven’s good old fashioned setting. This even as they grumble about the lack of competent white men saving the day.

Actually, I think the biggest hints that Cooper did a lot of the character work are the frequent scenes of Gabriel mansplaining things and getting tied in knots by the women.

To the book’s credit, it took enough twisty, scenic paths on its way to the inevitable conclusion that I was never sure where things would end up. Cooper and Niven wrap up the story in pretty much the only way they could have, but they still kept me off balance. As with almost everything else, the positives outweigh the negatives in the end, even if I needed some extra convincing. While admitting that my criteria can be obscure, I’m not going to give Harlequin my highest praise. It was a little too naïve for my taste, though the characters and authors managed to dodge the worst pitfalls – this could have been much worse. As I said earlier though, I was locked in for the last hundred pages and feel a surprising connection to Rachel, Gabriel, and a few others. That will push things over the last hurdle to “recommended” status.

Bonus points to everyone out there who catches the obscure Niven reference in this review.

Rating: Southampton. Flawed but charming, this mid-table club wins over neutrals with infectious enthusiasm, even if they won’t ever bring home the championship. And you thought I’d given up on footie nods.

Starborne

Starborne
Robert Silverberg

Short post this week due to craziness in The Attic. Also sun, which in these parts is cause for celebration. It’s like Venus in that one depressing Bradbury story kids always have to read, but we don’t lock anyone in closets here when the rain stops. Fortunately, Starborne is the perfect subject for a short essay, since it is a minor work and doesn’t really inspire lengthy rambling.

My ebook copy of Starborne was the free book of the month some time ago in Phoenix Picks, after which it languished on my Kindle until the last Japan trip forced me to read some of the backlog. It is also my first Silverberg, which, considering his stature in the field, is rather unfortunate. Something more impressive might have been nice. I have other books lying around, but never got to them; so it goes. Starborne is a contemplative book, low on drama and action, though fun in its own way.

The pace of the book syncs to the Japanese game of go, the favorite pastime on a ship full of people sent out from Earth to find a new planet to colonize. They maintain contact with Earth through a telepathic connection between two blind twins, one each on the ship and on Earth. What tension there is in the book comes when this connection attenuates, with nary an explosion or laser gun to be found. There are bits of planetary exploration, but those aren’t really the point of the book. Instead it’s more of a meditation on humanity and how we might push ourselves to a higher state.

Just as entertaining as the book are the reviews on Goodreads, most from disgruntled Hard SF fans complaining about one or another bit of flawed science and grumping at the total lack of engineering feats. There are also disapproving mentions of the free-love, lounge around in bathhouses ethos that pervades the ship that are good for a chuckle. I’m guessing that the space battle and/or alien invasion types didn’t make it past the first chapter. I wouldn’t recommend this to them anyway; it’s only for those seeking a more relaxing and philosophical read. Philosophical might be a strong word – it’s not hugely deep or profound, but I would put it a step above navel gazing.

A final observation before I send this out in the series of tubes that comprises the internet. I read this and Van Vogt’s Voyage of the Space Beagle within a month or two of each other; they are now hopelessly tangled up in my head. Not that they have anything in common beyond a voyaging spaceship, but my memories swing wildly between pulp action and restrained character emoting, wacky pseudoscience and metaphysical murmuring. Both authors would probably be appalled to hear this, but what can I do?

Sky Coyote

Sky Coyote
Kage Baker

I have two primary goals for this year’s reading: First, to finish more series than I start. Second, to maintain a diverse, well-balanced selection of authors. I realized about one third of the way through 2015 that I was failing on the second. Knowing that it was time to dilute the pale sausage fest a bit, I set about looking for a book in series, written by a woman. A lower severed head count was also on the wish list. Who should come to mind but Kage Baker, a name that appears on both the 2013 and 2014 favorite reads lists. I started her Company series last year, so Sky Coyote counts towards my first goal as well as diversifying my reading.

For those not familiar with Baker’s Company, here’s an executive summary. The whole series is about time travel and the Dr. Zeus company that discovered it. (Ha – get it? The Company!) Baker keeps her time travel under tight restriction, increasing palatability for me but not totally avoiding paradox and confusion. She is such a fun writer though that I will read anything she puts out, even topics I am normally leery of. Anyway, Dr. Zeus can send people back in time, but not into the future. They have also discovered immortality mechanisms, but those can only be put into the very young. Thus, they have sent people back in time, pulled out children that were about to die horribly, made them immortal, tested them for aptitude, and created an undying cadre to work their way to the year 2355, when apparently we all reach nirvana or something. Baker’s books follow various of the characters through history.

Sky Coyote is the second Company book. Our guide this time is the Facilitator, Joseph. Facilitators are Baker’s answer to Iain M. Banks’ Special Circumstances; to wit, the men and women who do the dirty work as Dr. Zeus tries to navigate its way through human history. We meet Joseph in the first Company book, but he is a supporting character to the biologist Mendoza. This time, Mendoza plays second fiddle. This is probably a wise choice, as Joseph is wise, weary, and witty, while Mendoza is mostly just angry. Joseph’s purpose is twofold: he narrates the actual story at hand and introduces the overarching plot that will presumably carry through later books. Baker’s dual approach here is not entirely effective, as reader satisfaction will depend more on the context they approach the book than is usually the case.

Sky Coyote is a surprisingly placid book. Joseph’s mission to a group of Native Americans involves little drama, the wider plot arc is outlined but not dug into, and nobody gets too excited about anything. Mostly. This appears to have irked some readers, but hit close to the target for me. I was ready for a smoother ride, though I can understand wanting a bit more out of Baker. This is very much a middle book whose purpose is less to tell a story than to build the foundation for everything to come. As Lady Holiday says in The Great Muppet Caper, “Oh, it’s plot exposition. It has to go somewhere.”

One other part of the book has generated negative reactions: the Native Americans in question. They talk a lot like modern day capitalists, which throws some people out of the narrative. This particular tribe (fictional I imagine) is targeted by the Company for exactly this reason; they have a surprisingly advanced economy for the era. Still, I was also surprised a bit by their behavior. While I think it is reasonable to question this without expecting some sort of “How, white man” trope, I have also stopped expecting everything pre-Adam Smith to be primitive. The world has seen a great many accelerated ideas in societies that we would least expect, so I don’t think it’s wholly implausible for a group of Native Americans to develop complex trade routes, credit systems, and price management schemes. It did take a few pages for the shock of the hedge fund manager dialogue to wear off, but I wasn’t bothered after that.

So the book kind of comes and goes, without an emotional wallop or extended incidences of pulse pounding. I naturally assumed that I would be a debonair Facilitator were Dr. Zeus to get ahold of me, though instead of using my jaded optimism to navigate the wilds of history, I would probably just be an extra nerdy musicologist. If so, I would fit in well with the rest of the story. I will probably double check the potential reader’s expectations before recommending Sky Coyote, and I expect that my reactions will change as I read further in the series, but for those who don’t need action on every page, this is a pleasant entry in Baker’s signature series.

2015 Hugo Novel Prognostications

2015 Hugo Novel Prognostications

It’s time to step away from the icky politics and get into what everyone really cares about: prophesying the Hugo winners. I’m going to stick with novels for two reasons. First, the novel category had enough attention to avoid complete Sad Puppy takeover, especially after a crucial withdrawal. Second, I don’t have time to read anything but novels anymore, so I have no idea what happened last year in short stories, dramatic presentations, or related stuff of any kind. I wish I could do more, but novels it is for now.

Full disclosure: I did not participate in the nominating process. I probably should have, but $40 is just enough that I can’t justify it to Mrs. Pep at this time. I may attend WorldCon as it is a short jaunt from here to Spokane, but that depends largely on the condition of the Pep family when all but me return from Japan on the day before the con starts.

Another disclaimer: my Hugo batting average is good for baseball, but bad for much else. Let’s review. In 2014, I supported Ancillary Justice and it won handily. Leckie’s book is a deserving winner, but I thought it a bit of a weak year for novels. Not sure it would have stood up to the 2013 slate, of which I quite vocally chose 2312. I feared greatly a Robert Jordan nostalgia party that year, but had no inkling that John Scalzi would run off with a Redshirts victory. That one soured me on fan voting for awhile, much as I like John Scalzi as the current Face of Science Fiction. In 2013, I vaguely assumed that Embassytown would walk out a winner, but Jo Walton won with Among Others. That was the first year that I paid much attention, which means I’m one for three right now. Anyone laying bets on my choices does so at his or her own risk.

Two books surprised me by their exclusion: Robert Bennett’s City of Stairs and William Gibson’s The Peripheral. I don’t know the numbers for everything, but if these two were edged off the ballot only by the Sad Puppies, I will be irate. Puppy objections to both are pretty obvious, what with the post-colonialism, dark-skinned protagonists, and dead gods of questionable morality in the first, and William Gibson’s very existence with the second. Stairs was my pick for the best book of the year however, and it seemed to generate a lot of buzz. This result may come down to Bennett not being part of The In Crowd in SF, but who knows. The Peripheral came out late and didn’t seem to light the community on fire; surprising both because of Gibson’s pedigree and the reaction in broader literary circles. Regardless, both were on my short list and the ballot is poorer without them.

On to the nominees. Opinions about each come first, then a bold prediction at the end.

Ancillary Sword – Ann Leckie
To be honest, when I first saw that ballot I thought to myself, “Whoa. The Sad Puppies just handed Leckie her second straight Hugo.” I don’t think that anything on the original ballot would have challenged Ancillary Sword. She has the momentum from last year’s sweep, the buzz as a hot, new voice in SF, and reviews that seemed largely to say that her second book was even better than the first. I preferred Ancillary Justice, but that says more about my tastes than it does the quality of the book. The biggest obstacle to another Leckie triumph may be voter inclinations to highlight someone new this year.

A second Leckie victory would perhaps be the greatest of ironies, as she represents almost everything the Sad Puppies hate. Leckie writes on the cutting edge of SF, digs deep into questions of empire and colonialism, toys with gender constructs, and generally does all those “political” and deep thinking things that seem to enrage the Luddites. My initial guesses pegged her second behind City of Stairs for an award; the Puppy ballot quashed what I thought was her main competition.

The Dark Between the Stars – Kevin Anderson
I don’t think I’ve ever read an Anderson book, but his reputation among those I trust is not high. No idea where he stands politically, if he cares about the Hugo, or worries that he’s been tarred with that particular brush. I may someday read an Anderson book, but it’s a pretty low priority at this point. Again, maybe he’s awesome and I’m making a snap judgment, but I’ll need a glowing review from a friend or two before he moves up my reading list.

The Goblin Emperor – Katherine Addison
This was a favorite book from last year and I think it fully deserves the nod. I won’t be irked if it wins the Best Novel. I loved Goblin and have recommended it to several, though I thought it a bit slight when compared to some of the meatier offerings from the year.

Skin Game – Jim Butcher
I’ve never read a Dresden Files book either, though many people I trust say they’re great. Someday I’ll probably give one a shot. I have to think that Butcher was as surprised as anyone to be on the ballot this year. He’s not part of the core community that generally gets recognized for awards, which I suppose is the alleged point of the Sad Puppy slate. As with Anderson, I have no clue what Butcher thinks about all of this or if he even notices. I hope he’s not a racist jerk and, if asked, will disavow the group the nominated him.

The Three Body Problem – Liu Cixin
Three Body hitting the Hugo ballot is the best news of an otherwise dismal Hugo season. Even the Puppies got on board with this, though I suspect them of disingenuous spin after multiple public defections. To be honest, I’m not sure what they see in this based on both stated and unstated aims. Liu’s book is “traditional” in that it’s Hard SF with lots of science, but that’s about where the similarities end. Luddites aside, this was one of my favorite books of the year, even without considering the international elements that we are always trying to promote here. Even if Liu doesn’t win, I am hopeful that the nod and subsequent attention generate momentum for more translated SF.

And now, the prediction. I’m happy to say that all three of the non-Puppy nominations are on my Best of 2014 list; I will be content to see any of them win. However, like the Highlander, there can only be one. I think we can safely discount Anderson and Butcher due to anti-Puppy backlash, an anticipated low Puppy turnout at the con, and a lack of “Hugo-ness” about the authors. The last may be unjust, but it is definitely a Thing in the community. The Goblin Emperor is a good book, but it is fantasy and a bit lighter than the others. I don’t think it stands up, though it will leave everyone charmed. Ancillary Sword is another fabulous Leckie book, was on its way to glory, and would have roared its way to triumph until Marko Kloos made his brave decision to withdraw. That opened the door for our 2015 Hugo winner, The Three Body Problem. The buzz about the story, the community interest in international SF, a vague reluctance to give the award to the same person in consecutive years, and the overall quality of Liu’s writing (and Ken Liu’s translation) will push Three Body ahead as the first Chinese Hugo winning novel. Mark it down, you heard it here first. And if anyone out there loses money on their bets, well, er, please form a line over there and I will be by shortly to refund your losses. Any time now. Just wait patiently.