A typical SF story from Argosy in 1910, say, might involve someone discovering how to transmute lesser materials into gold and what that does to the world’s economic system. Another form of SF story (generally at book length) involved a traveller who found a Utopia and described how it differed from current political systems.
Stories of these sorts go back a very long time. We have Lucian of Samosata’s True History, describing among other things a voyage to the Moon, but people tend to forget that Lucian (in the 2nd century AD) was satirizing earlier—and in some cases much earlier—travellers’ tales.
There was quite a lot of future war fiction also, but I would call it basically political fiction. The writers were trying to swing the public toward appreciation of a new weapon (the tank in Wells’ The Land Ironclads; the submarine in Doyle’s The Danger) or a revised military system (Chesney’s The Battle of Dorking or Kipling’s The Army of a Dream, one of the few stories of genuinely militaristic—not military—science fiction).
I’m tempted to make an exception for Griffith’s 1901 A Honeymoon in Space in which the British hero’s spaceship routs the armed forces of other planets with quickfirers and Maxim guns. He also swoops across the United States in aid of a contemporary political party, however, which appears to me to better display Griffith’s real interest.
3.
FOR ME, space opera started with E.E. Smith’s The Skylark of Space, published in Amazing Stories in 1928 but written a good decade earlier. The heroes invent a space ship and zoom about the galaxy, meeting and interacting with alien races. There are wars and battles, but the focus isn’t on what war does to individuals or society itself. (Except that if you’re fighting an alien race bent on genocide, it’s better to win. I don’t think Smith considered that a question for debate, any more than I do.)
Further, the only economic point I remember involves the hero bringing back a platinum asteroid—to destroy the market for platinum jewelry. That will free scientists who need non-reactive crucibles from having to bid against wealthy women who want the metal for its scarcity value.
Smith focused on fun and adventure. He was extremely popular in his day, and he created the genre of space opera: adventure on far planets. When I was 13 I loved Skylark and Smith’s later space opera series. The line-by-line writing causes me problems when I reread the books as an adult, but they remain exciting fun.
4.
EARLY SPACE OPERA tended to be multi-cultural and multi-racial. No, it wouldn’t be politically correct today (if only for gender portrayals), but it was written by people who were trying to say something positive about how intelligent people (from Earth, Mars, or wherever) ought to behave toward one another.
Real Military SF appeared in the 1920s also. Here the tone was often quite different—and quite unpleasant, even to a reader as non-PC as I am. One strand of this MSF grows from Turn-of-the-Century Yellow Peril novels; now the Yellow Hordes had airships, and they were frequently led by Bolshevik super-scientists.
At its best, this genre was racist and xenophobic. The stories in which the villains have enlisted Africans as cannon-fodder are like nothing else I’ve seen, apart from some American Nazi publications which I filed when I was a book page at the University of Iowa Library in the 1960s.
5.
THE 1940s brought Military SF stories which focused on how battles were fought, what sort of men became soldiers (pretty universally men, I think), and how soldiers interacted with civilian society. These stories were about war and battle, not about race and ideology. Their appearance was presumably a result of World War II itself.
In part this was because everybody had become interested in war: professional writers choose subjects which interest potential readers. Bluefish chase sardines, and porpoises chase bluefish. 1943’s Clash by Night (by the married couple of Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore) is such a story. Neither writer had any military experience at the time (Kuttner was later drafted), but they created a masterpiece of battle and warriors.
A few stories, though, came from the writers’ own experience. I strongly suspect that was the case in 1949 with The Rocketeers Have Shaggy Ears by Keith Bennett, though I never met him to ask. In form Rocketeers is a standard pulp adventure (a band of soldiers fights its way through murderous jungle and hostile natives) but tiny details and the whole feel of the story convince me that Bennett had been an artilleryman on the jungle islands of the Southwest Pacific.
I can’t think of a story which better shows (not tells) the exhaustion of a long exposure at the sharp end. Notice how the soldiers start out talking about women, but later talk about food. By the end they don’t talk about anything, just scan the terrain with tired eyes as they trudge forward, their guns ready.
The Last Objective by Paul Carter appeared in 1946, but Carter wrote the story while he was still in the Navy; his commanding officer had to approve it before it could be sent to Astounding. It’s just as good as Rocketeers, but it’s different in every other fashion.
Carter describes wholly militarized societies and a war which won’t end until every human being is dead. Rather than viewing this world clinically from the outside, Carter focuses on a single ship and the varied personalities who make up its crew. (The vessel is tunnelling through the continental plate rather than floating on the sea, but in story terms that’s a distinction without a difference.)
Carter is pretty sure that his CO didn’t actually read the story before approving it. My experience with military officers leads me to believe that he’s right, though it’s also possible that his CO simply didn’t understand the story’s horrific implications.
6.
I LOOK ON the immediate Post-World-War-II period as the Golden Age of space opera, but at least in part that may be because I cut my teeth on the SF appearing then. Poul Anderson started out writing ‘lead novels’ for the pulps which were the right length to be reprinted as one half of an Ace Double book; he went on to write serials for the top digest magazines, which then came out as full-length books, sometimes in hardcover. Poul’s later work was more thoughtful and complex than his pulp adventure, but it was still fun.
Keith Laumer, Anderson’s younger contemporary, wrote a different kind of space opera: sometimes broadly humorous, often political (bureaucratic) satire—but occasionally giving the reader an unexpected emotional kick. Keith was less concerned with science and engineering than Poul, but he was more skilled (and enthusiastic) at writing action scenes.
A wide range of people wrote space opera in the ‘50s and ‘60s; Anderson and Laumer weren’t even the ends of the continuum. That said, between them they do illustrate how rich the space opera of the period was.
And to my taste, they were the best of a very good lot.
7.
A PAIR OF EXCELLENT and very influential Military SF novels came out within a few months of one another in 1959: Dorsai! by Gordon R. Dickson, and Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein. Both men were skilled, successful writers. (Heinlein had helped editor John W. Campbell to create the Golden Age of SF.) In these novels they were at the top of their game.
Dorsai and Troopers defined the Military SF field when they appeared, and they summed up the thirty-odd years of MSF development that had come before.
8.
THE MOST IMPORTANT THING that’s happened to space opera in the ‘70s and later is that non-print media have overwhelmed the field. Even a writer as good and as successful as Dave Weber hasn’t had the impact that Star Wars did in 1977, and earlier yet, Star Trek tie-in novels had begun to glut the market for adventure SF. (Tie-ins to the Dungeons and Dragons game had a huge impact on adventure fantasy at the same time, but that’s outside my present scope.)
Star Wars and Star Trek were both classic space opera milieus. Jack Williamson or Edmond Hamilton could have written either series in the ‘30s, and in fact Hamilton’s wife, Leigh Brackett—who wrote some of the best space opera of the ‘40s—scripted The Empire Strikes Back. The plots weren’t new, but the fo
rmat was.
9.
IN THE EARLY ‘70s Joe Haldeman, Jerry Pournelle, and I began writing Military SF. We weren’t better than Heinlein and Dickson, but we were combat veterans, something which had been very rare in MSF until we appeared. (The only exception I can think of was Keith Bennett, and that’s my deduction from his story . . . which constitutes circular reasoning.)
Note that there were many SF writers who were combat veterans—C.M. Kornbluth, one of the best SF writers ever, fought in the of the b Battle of the Bulge—but they didn’t write Military SF. Gordy spent his military service mowing lawns in California, and Heinlein’s brief service as a naval officer ended in 1930. (The Navy refused to grant him a security clearance when he wished to return at the beginning of World War II.)
The new thing which I think the three of us brought to Military SF (I’m speaking from the inside now, and that’s harder than you might think) is a view of the pointless brutality of war. Nowadays everybody knows that, but at the time Analog’s reviewer called me a pornographer of violence (to my face as well as in print), and I heard Jerry called worse things. I suspect the same happened to Joe when he was in the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, but I wasn’t there to hear it.
Joe, Jerry and I changed the field so completely that most people today don’t realize there was a change. (When I took Introduction to Geology in 1966, Continental Drift was a hypothesis; a decade earlier it had been an absurd hypothesis invented by a meteorologist.) Now you don’t have to be a combat veteran to describe the pointless brutality of war, any more than you have to experience combat to describe its horror or to show cynical contempt for politicians and war aims.
It’s unusual for people who haven’t seen combat to understand what that brutality does to the soldier, however. A few Military SF writers did describe this in their fiction without having been there themselves. Paul Carter, whom I’ve mentioned above, was one. Two other exceptions are Richard C. Meredith and Barry Malzberg. Barry wrote the novella Final War and as editor bought Meredith’s We All Died at Breakaway Station. Though all three had seen military service, nobody had been shooting at them at the time.
10.
YOU DON’T HAVE TO be a swashbuckling adventurer to write exciting space opera. You don’t need to be a combat veteran (or even a veteran) to write excellent Military SF. (I haven’t written a better story than Clash by Night.)
As a reader, all you can demand of either genre is that it tell a good story, the same thing you would ask of any other type of fiction. Every once in a while, though, you may stumble over a real truth here, one that you wouldn’t have found in other genres.
I hope that you find that to be case in this anthology, or perhaps in some of the stories and authors I’ve mentioned above.
—Dave Drake
david-drake.com
CODENAME: DELPHI
by Linda Nagata
Karin Larsen is a handler. For eight hours a day, she sits in front of a bank of monitors, overseeing battlefield activity remotely with a series of drones, and directs military personnel half a world away. At times, it feels like a video game. Only when she makes a mistake, people die—and there’s no reset button on reality.
“VALDEZ, you need to slow down,” Karin Larsen warned, each syllable crisply pronounced into a mic. “Stay behind the seekers. If you overrun them, you’re going to walk into a booby trap.”
Five thousand miles away from Karin’s control station, Second Lieutenant Valdez was jacked up on adrenaline and in a defiant mood. “Negative!” she said, her voice arriving over Karin’s headphones. “Delphi, we’ve got personnel down and need to move fast. This route scans clear. I am not waiting for the seekers to clear it again.”
The battleground was an ancient desert city. Beginning at sunset, firefights had flared up all across its tangled neighborhoods and Valdez was right that her squad needed to advance—but not so fast that they ran into a trap.
“The route is not clear,” Karin insisted. “The last overflight to scan this alley was forty minutes ago. Anything could have happened since then.”
Karin’s worksite was an elevated chair within a little room inside a secure building. She faced a curved monitor a meter-and-a-half high, set an easy reach away. Windows checkered its screen, grouped by color-codes representing different clients. The windows could slide, change sequence, and overlap, but they could never completely hide one another; the system wouldn’t allow it. This was Karin’s interface to the war.
Presently centered onscreen were two gold-rimmed windows, each displaying a video feed captured by an aerial seeker: palm-sized drones equipped with camera eyes, audio pickups, and chemical sensors. The seekers flew ahead of Valdez and her urban infantry squad, one at eye level and the other at an elevation of six meters, scouting a route between brick-and-stucco tenements. They flew too slowly for Valdez.
The lieutenant was out of sight of the seekers’ camera eyes, but Karin could hear the soft patter of her boot plates as she advanced at a hurried trot, and the tread of the rest of the squad trailing behind her. Echoing off the buildings, there came the pepper of distant rifle fire and a heavier caliber weapon answering.
Onscreen, positioned above the two video feeds, was a third window that held the squad map—a display actively tracking the position and status of each soldier.
Outfitted in bulletproof vests and rigged in the titanium struts of light-infantry exoskeletons—“armor and bones”—the squad advanced through the alley at a mandated ten-meter interval, a regulation that reduced the odds of multiple casualties if they encountered an IED or a grenade. Only Lieutenant Valdez failed to maintain the proper distance, crowding within two meters of the seekers in her rush to answer the call for backup.
“Valdez, this is not a simple firefight. It’s a widespread, well-planned insurgent offensive. Every kid with a grudge—”
“No lectures, Delphi. Just get these seekers moving faster.”
Any faster, and the little drones could miss something critical.
Local time was past midnight and no lights shone in the alley, but in night vision the walls of the buildings and the trash-strewn brick pavement gleamed in crisp, green detail. Karin wasn’t the only one monitoring the seekers’ feeds; a battle AI watched them too. It generated an ongoing report, displayed alongside the windows. She glanced at it and saw an alert for trace scents of explosives—but with a battle in progress that didn’t mean anything. Otherwise the report was good: no suspicious heat signatures or whispering voices or inexplicable motion within the apartments.
Her gaze shifted back to the video feed. A faint gleam caught her attention; a hair-thin line close to the ground that justified her caution. “Tripwire,” she announced. She reached out to the screen; dragged her finger across the line. The gesture created a fleeting highlight on the display screen of Valdez’s visor, clearly marking the tripwire’s position. “Six meters ahead.”
“Shit.” Valdez pulled up sharply. A faint background tone sounded as she switched her audio to gen-com. “Tripwire,” she said, addressing her squad. “Move back.”
The tone dropped out, and Valdez was talking again solely to Karin. “Ambush?”
“Searching.” It was a good bet someone was monitoring the tripwire.
A set of windows bordered in blue glided to the center of Karin’s screen: Lieutenant Deng’s color code. The insurgent offensive had erupted all along the northern border, striking hard at Deng’s rural district. At approximately 2200 she’d been lured into an ambush. The resulting firefight had left one of her soldiers seriously wounded.
Distance did not mute the impatience—or the frustration—in Deng’s voice as she spoke over the headphones, “Delphi, where’s my medevac helicopter?”
On nights like this, a big part of Karin’s job was triage. Deng’s situation was no longer “hot.” The insurgents had fled, and the helicopter had already been requested. Determining an ETA would not get it there faster. So she told Deng, “Stand by.”
A glance at the squad map showed that Valdez had retreated a few meters from the tripwire. One specialist remained with her, while the rest of the squad had dropped back under the supervision of a sergeant.
“I see him,” Valdez said. “Target confirmed?”
“Negative. Twenty seconds.”
Karin sent a seeker buzzing toward the figure on the rooftop and then she switched her focus back to Deng’s blue-coded windows, fanning them open so she could see the one that tracked the status of the medevac helicopter. The offensive was unprecedented and air support was in high demand. Deng’s wounded soldier was third on the list for pickup. “Deng, ETA on the medevac is forty-plus minutes,” Karin warned; that was assuming the helicopter stayed in the air. She slid the blue windows away again, switching back to Valdez.
Wind soughing between the buildings veiled the soft buzz of the seeker so that the figure on the roof didn’t hear it coming. Details emerged as the little drone got closer. One of those details was a rifle—aimed at Valdez. “Target confirmed,” Karin said without hesitation. “Shoot to kill.”
The Year’s Best Military SF & Space Opera Page 2