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240 pages, Paperback
First published September 21, 2021
Why is science fiction—the genre in which the human condition is tested under altered circumstances—historically so shy of tackling the subject of love?I’m not sure it ever has and I don’t think he believes it has because he writes:
[T]he capacity to give and receive love is what defines us as human, even if it says Gallifrey on our birth certificate. This trope is by no means the exclusive property of science fiction. Certain genres excepted, it’s possibly the root subject of most fiction. In SF, however, the loss of humanity is not a picturesque metaphor. It is one of the contingencies that SF deals with, in which love becomes the last guarantor that you are still a person.Or as Larkin put it: “What will survive of us is love.” In some writers’ vision of the future love is a definite no-no. In Lauren Oliver’s novel Delirium, for example, the totalitarian government considers love a disease and citizens have to undergo a surgical procedure to cure them but that’s not the case in Jessica’s terrifyingly normal future. Love who you want. Marry who you want or don’t. Marriage is encouraged and if you don’t you lose free health care but that’s it. Everyone in Jessica’s book loves someone or something or thinks they do. Love, however, is not happiness but it can lead one onto the road to happiness.
The new law states that if an individual’s goal has not yet been met by the age of 39.5, they will be required to participate in DeathCare Therapy to help them reach their desired goal. If that desired goal has not been met within six months of the start of DeathCare Therapy sessions, death will be induced at 40.0 years of age, instead of the current 60.0.Imagine you’re 39½—Jerome’s age—and get told you’ve got six months to live. Which happens to a great many people. You learn you have cancer and although there’s a cure your odds aren’t good. The cure, in Jerome’s case, is to find the elusive happiness that’s eluded him all his life so far. Happiness, eh? Not very dystopian. Ever since I was a kid I’ve expected to retire at sixty-five. That was the rule. Until it wasn’t. Now I can’t retire until I’m sixty-seven and Christ knows when my daughter will get to stop working. I sighed when I got the news but that was all. I’m an ordinary Joe; what can I do?
Asten [the Inducement Practitioner] cleared his throat and glanced toward the corner of the ceiling. I looked up to see what was there. It was a small camera.A summons for slander! Imagine if Winston Smith has said that about Big Brother. The Thought Police would’ve hauled him away within minutes. Here in the UK we publicly and shamelessly ridicule our leaders and think nothing of it. Not so in China where they introduced the Heroes and Martyrs Protection Law which made it illegal “to misrepresent, defame, profane or deny the deeds and spirits of heroes and martyrs.”
Gary, with his eyes closed, grabbed Asten’s arm and squeezed it so hard I could see his knuckles turn white. “I trust this moment will be considered an innocent misjudgement resulting from my son’s grief, and that he won’t be walking out of here with a summons to court for slander.”
Asten’s breath shuddered as he inhaled. “Of course, Gary. Nothing of the sort will happen.”
[H]ave you ever thought that SLP ain’t all it’s cracked up to be? Or maybe it doesn’t even exist, yahnah? I mean, yeah, there are all these stories and shit. It sounds legit. But it could be all made up to get us into line, yahnah? I mean, have you ever heard about what it’s like over there, mate? From the horse’s mouth like? […] And what about all those glass jars of blue shadows and shit? What if they’re just smoke bombs and food dye?” Hector snorted. “Ya ever thoughta that? What if it’s all just total bullshit like? To give the people a logical reason why they’re cutting down the peeps so the Globe doesn’t explode…”So, yes, of course I was waiting for the shoe to drop, the big reveal at the end—no, Selma’s not baking people into bread—and there are big reveals, but I’m not going to spoil your enjoyment by even hinting at them. The point is this is a society where death—the one thing we all have in common—has lost its sting. But there is a catch and it’s a very clever one: You don’t go straight to the afterlife, no, you get parked in a Transition Grave (Limbo, if you will). This isn’t like reincarnation where an individual gets to earn their entry into Nirvana. No, your kid has to achieve happiness for you to access the afterlife. Insidious or brilliant or a bit of both?