This week, Futures is pleased to welcome Bo Balder with her story Skin hunger. Based in Utrecht in the Netherlands, Bo has written numerous short stories, and her novel The Wan came out last year. You can find out more about her work at her website. Here, Bo reveals what inspired her latest tale — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing Skin hunger

This story came from a writing prompt about Noh theatre (about which I know absolutely nothing). I went from silk sleeves and dragon masks to thinking about the old Harry Harlow experiments with rhesus macaques on maternal bonding and despair. I know, it looks like the second thing doesn’t follow from the first, but that’s how a writer brain works.

So, what would happen to an adult primate if placed in total isolation from other primates?

I mean, of course, my astronaut who crashed on an alien planet. She is kept alive by her non-primate alien hosts. She has social interactions of a sort, but can those replace social interaction with someone of her own kind? The aliens are not mammals, not warm-blooded, do not have skin like hers. Would they be able to fake it and keep her healthy? The way having a fake-fur-covered monkey mother in their cage produces rhesus babies that are slightly less disturbed than the ones who had only wire mothers.

The astronaut is an intelligent adult, and might work actively with her hosts to replace the role of the missing human group in her emotions. My question was, would she be able to fool herself and stay alive and healthy? She might end up depressed or worse, or get a peculiar case of alien Stockholm syndrome.

This week, Brian Trent returns to Futures to take a look at Interdimensional trade benefits. He previously appeared in Futures with his story The archive personality protocol. You can find out more about Brian’s work at his website and on his Facebook page. Here, he reveals what inspired his latest tale — as ever, it pays to read the story first.

Writing Interdimensional trade benefits

Interdimensional trade benefits was born as I read a museum placard about the tactical advantages of the atlatl in prehistoric combat. A vast improvement over the spear in terms of speed and range, the atlatl changed combat forever. Like the iconic scene of a bone becoming a spaceship in 2001: A Space Odyssey, it helped launch the technological arms race.

I started wondering what the ultimate development of missile technology might conceivably be. The notion of ‘winding up’ a missile into a nearby dimension was intriguing. Lots of sci-fi explores how such a fanciful dimension could circumvent the light-speed barrier for travel purposes (hyperspace, dark-energy corridors, etc). Why not apply this to weapon purposes as well?

And what if that nearby dimension was inhabited? What if, like the sphere in Flatland, there are intelligences on the lower dimensional plane that one is passing through?

I also wanted to change up the alien invasion trope, too. Interdimensional trade benefits isn’t about humanity being invaded; instead, it’s about us being in the right place at the wrong time and what could come of that. After all, our species is talented at making war, but we’re even more experienced at making trade deals …

The award-winning author and translator Ken Liu released his debut novel, The Grace of Kings, last year. He also translated two of the books in the Three-Body trilogy by Liu Cixin (the first of which, The Three-Body Problem, won the 2015 Hugo for best novel). Ken’s interest in contemporary Chinese science fiction is underscored by the forthcoming Invisible Planets, an anthology of Chinese SF in translation that will come out later this year. The sequel to The Grace of Kings — The Wall of Storms — is due out in October. Ken has also written some short stories for Futures, including Second chance, The Plague and Celestial bodies. Preston Grassmann caught up with Ken to get his thoughts on Chinese SF and the challenges of translation.

There was an article by Joshua Rothman in the New Yorker last year profiling the science fiction of Liu Cixin. He claims that American science fiction is largely reflective of its pioneering history. In particular, he refers to a thematic focus on frontiers, the war for independence and democratic ideals. However, scholars like Mingwei Song and Nathaniel Isaacson make it clear that Chinese science fiction is very diverse and this kind of thematic parsing must be carefully approached. Given that it’s inevitable for one’s historical context to play a role in narrative, do you think it’s possible to distinguish certain characteristics in Chinese science fiction?

While I do find Rothman’s analysis interesting and provocative, I generally resist the urge to make sweeping generalizations about a large body of work like ‘Chinese science fiction’ that encompasses many diverse approaches and influences and written by numerous authors each with their own unique approach to the genre.

Some Chinese authors have given their own answers to your question. Xia Jia, a prominent Chinese SFF author and scholar, wrote an essay for Tor.com called “What Makes Chinese Science Fiction Chinese?”. Liu Cixin, probably the leading figure of contemporary Chinese SF, has stated in various interviews, (e.g, this one) that he thinks Chinese SF is at a stage of development similar to American SF of the “golden age” because the rapid pace of social change and techno-economic development pushes the future into the forefront of people’s minds and provides fertile soil for science fiction.

While I think literature must be understood in relation to the social context in which it’s produced, contemporary Chinese society is so complex and involves so many conflicting voices and trends that I think no simple answers can be given to characterize ‘Chinese science fiction’. The field is as complicated and layered as the society generating the works.

For many readers of science fiction, part of the pleasure of reading comes from experiencing ‘the other’, of being taken out of a familiar context and shown something entirely new. It would seem almost inevitable that readers of science fiction would be interested in translated fiction, given that it is informed, to some degree, by a different history and cultural context. Why do you think it has taken so long for foreign writers like Liu Cixin, to receive the notice they deserve?

I’ve read somewhere that less than 3% of the books published in the US each year are translations. This is very different from markets in other countries, where translations tend to make up a much bigger portion of published books.

The general lack of interest from US readers for translated works has many possible causes, and I think one contributing factor is probably the dominance of the US in global culture. America is the pre-eminent cultural exporter in the world, and its music, movies and popular culture tend to be valued by most societies and shape trends everywhere.

American readers, as members of such a hegemonic culture, may consciously or subconsciously assume that what is American is also ‘best’ and whatever ideas are worth expressing have already been expressed in English (and better, too). Since English is the dominant language of modern science, politics and commerce, maybe many (most?) Anglophone readers share such natural arrogance to some degree. It takes an extra effort for American readers to pay attention to cultural products that aren’t American and aren’t originally produced in English. Foreign writers thus face an uphill battle for attention.

This is, of course, only a theory, and hard to prove or disprove.

Some Chinese-to-English translators have noted that it’s difficult to capture distinguishing characteristics of the Chinese text while making it seem natural to English readers. One example you mentioned before is the omniscient point of view, which is not as common in modern English literature. What are some of the other challenges you had to face when translating from the Chinese?

The omniscient POV is not really a feature of the language — it’s just that contemporary English genre literature has generally eschewed its use while many Chinese SFF works employ it to great effect.

In terms of translating from Chinese to English, the biggest difficulties for me have always involved literary allusions and historical references. Skilled Chinese writing is often replete with these — and if translated literally, most would be completely opaque to readers not steeped in Chinese culture (cf. the Star Trek: TNG episode “Darmok”). While translating, I have to make many decisions as to which of these references to keep and which to drop, which to explain and which to let stand (so that the reader can figure them out by context).

This is not to say that English writing isn’t filled with such allusions and references as well, but since Chinese readers are generally familiar with Western references, the English-to-Chinese translator doesn’t have the same difficulties as the Chinese-to-English translator. Once again, this is the result of the cultural hegemony of the West, and of the US in particular. People in the rest of the world know a lot more about Americanisms and European/American history than the other way around.

There are other challenges related to linguistic features such as rhythm, puns, moods, voices, tenses, etc., but they’re relatively minor compared to the cultural issues.

There are some great translations, largely by you, of stories by Chen Qiufan, Xia Jia and Tang Fei. Who are some of the other writers that you think we should be aware of in Chinese science fiction?

Bao Shu, whose wonderful novella “What Has Passed Shall In Kinder Light Appear” I translated for F&SF, is someone to watch for. His debut novel The Ruins of Time is fast-paced and philosophically interesting. Hao Jingfang, an economist as well as a scifi writer, should also definitely be at the top of the reading list of anyone interested in Chinese SF or SFF in general. Her story, “Folding Beijing”, is a good intro to her work.

What new translations do we have to look forward to?

I have a collection of translated short fiction called Invisble Planets coming out from Tor Books, which I’m really excited about. Meanwhile, I also translated Chen Qiufan’s debut novel, The Waste Tide, and it should be released in the American market soon.

Liu Cixin is the award-winning Chinese author behind the Three-Body trilogy. In China, he has won the prestigious Galaxy Award multiple times, and when the first volume of the series, The Three-Body Problem, was translated into English by Ken Liu and published by Tor, it was met with overwhelming critical acclaim and won the 2015 Hugo for best novel. The third volume in the trilogy, Death’s End, (also translated by Ken Liu) came out this year, and a film of The Three-Body Problem is forthcoming.

Preston Grassmann spoke to Liu Cixin for Futures to discuss his writing, his inspirations and Chinese science fiction. (Interview: Preston Grassmann, Chinese translation: Ken Liu).

Throughout The Three-Body Problem there is a compelling interplay between the historical setting and the high-concept ideas (unique forms of energy transmission, a fascinating alien race, the physics problem referred to in the title, to name only a few). What inspired you to set this story in the context of the Cultural Revolution?

The Cultural Revolution provides the necessary background for the story. The tale I wanted to tell demanded a protagonist who gave up all hope in humanity and human nature. I think the only episode in modern Chinese history capable of generating such a response is the Cultural Revolution. It was such a dark and absurd time that even dystopias like 1984 seem lacking in imagination in comparison.

In a previous discussion, you mentioned that Chinese science fiction is currently going through a Golden Age, similar to that of the United States in the early half of the twentieth century. During that era, writers such as Clarke and Asimov were envisioning galactic-scale futures and optimistic views of human endeavour. The Three-Body Problem could certainly be seen as a worthy successor of that tradition. Do you see a similar grand-scale view of the future in other fiction being produced now in China?

Few works of contemporary Chinese science fiction hold a positive view of scientific development and an optimistic attitude towards the future. Like most current American science fiction, most Chinese science fiction concerns itself with the negative effects of scientific advancement and the dark future that will result. In this respect, I’m somewhat of an oddball among Chinese writers. Earlier in my career, others criticized me and mocked me for my optimism. Among Chinese intellectuals, it’s fashionable to emphasize the problems created by new technology and science. But it’s worth reflecting on the fact that my science-positive works have been more influential. I think it shows that intellectual elites in China are out of touch with the majority of Chinese people, who make up the bulk of science-fiction readers.

There is a high level of scientific detail throughout The Three-Body Problem. In particular, I’m thinking of the human-formation computer, the complex puzzles of the game, and the technology of signal/energy transmissions. How much research goes into your work before you begin writing? What were some of the most difficult challenges you faced in working out the technical details?

I write science fiction because I love science, and I want to give the beauty of science literary expression. Ideas about science and technology thus form the core of my stories. But I do think there’s a difference between science-fictional thinking and scientific thinking. The ‘science’ portrayed in science fiction is mixed with a large dose of imaginative speculation, and is no longer, strictly speaking, science at all, but a fictional projection of science. Thus, what you call ‘scientific details’ are really ‘science-fictional details’.

For example, the initial inspiration for writing The Three-Body Problem came from a paper about the three-body problem in classical mechanics, which involves the motion of three bodies under mutual gravitational attraction and is unpredictable under current mathematics and physics. I read the paper and suddenly thought: what if the three bodies were three suns? How would intelligent life on one of the planets in such a system develop? This was a good science-fictional idea — based on solid science but also evocative of interesting stories. But to go back to real science, we have not, to date, discovered any trinary star systems in which the stars move in this chaotic manner.

My biggest challenge is creating interesting stories from the latest results of fundamental scientific research. Take physics as an example. Compared with classical physics, contemporary physics is extremely abstruse. Not only is the maths complicated, but its theories are far from the daily experience of the average person. When given a proper explanation, even an illiterate person can understand Newton’s three laws of motion, and special relativity only requires middle-school mathematics. But it’s almost impossible for a person in the street to truly grasp advanced theories in contemporary physics. The Universe revealed by contemporary science is even more marvellous and rich than the Universe of classical science, and far grander. This is a vast field for science fiction to explore, and perhaps will revive the genre from its recent signs of exhaustion.

You worked with Ken Liu on the first and last book in this series. Can you tell us how this translation project began and how you first met?

China Educational Publications Import and Export Corporation (CEPIEC) first approached me about translating the Three-Body trilogy and publishing the books in the United States. They acquired the English rights and selected Tor Books as the American publisher. For more than a century, China has imported a large amount of science fiction from Europe and America, but The Three-Body Problem is the first Chinese science-fiction novel to be published in the United States. None of us had high expectations for the project, and it was enough for us if some American readers saw the book and realized that China had science fiction as well.

The first time I met Ken was at the Chinese Nebula Awards in November 2014, but before then, I had already read many of his stories, which I enjoyed and admired. I feel fortunate that he became the translator for two of the books in my trilogy.

In previous interviews, you mentioned Arthur C. Clarke as an influence on your work. Who are some of the writers in the field that you currently enjoy reading?

As I mentioned, I like Ken Liu’s work. He has created a new science-fictional aesthetic that combines the restraint, depth and refinement of Eastern culture with the expansive imagination of modern science fiction. I’m also a big fan of Ted Chiang, whose Tower of Babylon is among the most powerful pieces of science fiction I’ve ever read. I also enjoy works by Robert Sawyer, Ray Bradbury, Neil Gaiman and Paolo Bacigalupi.

To be sure, American science fiction has always evolved and changed, and contemporary American science fiction is very different from fiction from the ‘Golden Age’. As a traditional science-fiction fan, most contemporary works cannot give me the same kind of awe I experienced when I first read 2001: A Space Odyssey and Rendezvous with Rama.

I hold fast to Asimov’s sentiment: “I hope that when the New Wave has deposited its froth and receded, the vast and solid shore of science fiction will appear once more.” But based on current trends in the evolution of the field, I very much doubt that his words will come true; they serve only as comfort.

Aside from writing, you also work as an engineer. How do you manage to balance the two careers? Do you keep a rigorous writing schedule?

Most science-fiction writers in China do not write full time because the market for the genre is too small. I work at a state-owned power plant, and although parts of the year are very busy, I can find time the rest of the year to write. Many other writers are not nearly as lucky. The demands of their day jobs leave no time for the kind of sustained effort required for novels, and they are forced to write only novellas and short stories.

I don’t hold to a rigorous writing schedule. I’ve always followed this principle: write only when I have a creative idea that makes me excited and demands to be written. If I can’t even be excited by an idea, readers will surely be bored as well. But it’s very hard to get an idea like that, and so I often go through long periods without writing anything — I’m in the middle of just such a bottleneck right now.

Can you tell us about your writing process?

First, I have to come up with a new speculative idea that moves me profoundly. For example, the unpredictable motion of three suns and the civilization that would arise in such a planetary system. Then I plan out a story around this seed. Finally, I create the characters to serve the story. My method of composition inevitably leads to stories in which the speculative idea is the core, the kind of stories seen as appealing to hardcore fans.

Are there any forthcoming projects or publications that we can look forward to seeing in the near future?

I plan to tell stories that are very different from the Three-Body trilogy. For example, I’ve spent a lot of time planning a novel about the future of energy. As a power-plant engineer, I’m familiar with the field.

I also want to write a novel about near future life in China, one that offers a panoramic view of Chinese society in the coming decades. The protagonist is a labourer at the bottom of the social pyramid in urban China, and I want to show this person gradually progressing into a new life as Chinese society develops, ultimately taking the journey into space. I even have a title for the novel, Extraordinary World, which is a reference to Lu Yao’s influential realist work, Ordinary World.

I’ve always been deeply interested in stories about the struggle between humanity and powerful cosmic forces. The Three-Body trilogy is about a war between humans and aliens, but I want to tell a story of humans fighting against forces far more powerful than alien civilizations. There are many choices within this framework, and I haven’t decided exactly which way to go yet.

In a galaxy not so far away — actually in one that centres on Kansas City for the next few days — this week’s Futures author may well be holding his breath. Although his latest story for Futures — Legacy admissions — looks at the education system through some artificial eyes, S R Algernon will probably thinking a little more about one of his earlier stories in Futures. That’s because Asymmetrical warfare has been nominated in the short-story category of this year’s Hugo awards, and Saturday will be the day of the big reveal (Futures will have all of its fingers crossed). As we await the results, here’s a chance to find out what inspired his latest tale — as well as an opportunity to look back on some of his other stories for Futures.

Writing Legacy admissions

Legacy admissions started with the opening action. One person shakes another’s hand. There are six fingers — but not seven — on the second person’s hand and the distinction is important. I didn’t know why it was important at first, so I wrote the story to find out. As the story developed, it started to reflect my conviction that artificial intelligence will eventually be able to do just about any physical or cognitive task. With luck, it will be a little while before they start submitting stories to Nature.

Other Futures stories by S R Algernon

A time for peace | Planetary defences | Cargo cult | A pocket full of phlogiston | The chains of plenty | In a new light | One slow step for man | Genius loci

Jeremy Szal returns to Futures this week with his story Walls of Nigeria. Currently based in Sydney, Australia, Jeremy has already written about aspects of artificial intelligence for us in System reboot and Daega’s test. You can keep up with Jeremy at his website or by following him on Twitter. Here, he explains the origins of his latest tale — as ever it pays to read the story first.

Writing Walls of Nigeria

Growing up a kid, I always wanted power armour of my own. I mean, who doesn’t? It’s basic wish fulfilment exploited in the likes of Halo, Crysis, Iron Man and countless other media. So naturally I wanted to write about it, but I’m interested in the cost of wearing the power armour: the impact that it has on the human inside and his/her psyche.

I’m also a horror fan — probably from too many hours reading Stephen King when no one was looking. It’s a genre that takes something innocent and pleasant and twists it into something nasty, something horrific and ghastly. Body horror is the most gut-wrenching of horror subgenres. Usually the characters have a shot at escaping whatever terrors afflict them. But with body horror, the nightmare aspect infiltrates on a tangible and physical level, rendering the victim unable to escape or reverse whatever visceral fate they’re doomed to suffer. It’s why Alien makes viewers feel so uncomfortable: the monster invades the human body in the most deliciously awful of ways for fertilization. Once it’s in, there’s no going back.

So by means of alien biotech, naturally I combined the two ideas. I thought there was something disturbingly ironic about something meant to protect the soldiers instead turning into an inescapable semi-sentient prison cell that grows into the protagonist’s body, slowing taking over his basic body functions and leaving him stranded for an indefinite amount of time, unable even to take his own life until humans return to Earth (if they ever do). I wrote it in first-person to achieve that claustrophobic, inescapable aesthetic that parallels with Kohban’s ultimate fate.

I suppose it’s also a bit of an anti-war story that feeds on how armed conflict dehumanizes individuals and turns them into broken monsters. The Stained aren’t just left behind because of potential contamination — they’re not seen as humans anymore. They’re damaged, and higher authorities can justify leaving them behind to rot. A lot to pack into 1,000 words, but I hope I managed to make the audience never look at power armour in the same way again.

Gerri Leen makes her debut in Futures this week with her story Floating in my tin can. Originally from Seattle, Gerri now lives in Northern Virginia, where you van keep track of her activities via her website or by following her on Twitter. Here she discusses what inspired her latest tale — as ever it pays to read the story first.

Writing Floating in my tin can

I’ve recently retired due to debilitating migraines that keep me off schedule and isolated (thank God/dess for the Internet and signs of life 24/7!) and I am often stuck in the house like some suburban vampire. As with many writers, my experiences — bad or good — colour the stories and poems I write, and several of my works lately have dealt with the idea of isolation both emotional and physical.

Space is such a natural place to enforce isolation — there’s so much room to be alone in and such a high cost if things go wrong. I also like writing rebels, especially when their actions might be driven by more than just dissatisfaction with an external party.

This character is struggling and I don’t actually know what choice will be made at the end — I’m not even sure which choice I want to be made. The title is an homage to ‘Space Oddity’ — Changesonebowie was the first album I bought with my own money as a teen way back in the seventies — and the haunting imagery Bowie created in that gorgeous song. I can imagine him being one of the singers who might so desperately want out of the five federations that they run into our protagonist.