R.W.W. Greene's Blog

ReaderCon 34 — an annual literary speculative-fiction convention — ran this past weekend, and I was fortunate to attend. Among the panels I took part in (The International Imagination in a Time of Nationalism, Bisexuals in Science Fiction: Still Hip After All These Years?, We Need to Talk About Gaiman, and my first kaffeeklatsch), I moderated one titled The Next Great Gatsby.

The description of the panel was as follows: At Readercon 33, Max Gladstone mentioned that The Great Gatsby flopped upon publication—and therefore was cheap to send to American soldiers abroad in WWII, which resulted its revival. He asked the audience to imagine how great a world would be in which, for some reason, copies of Sarah Caudwell's Thus Was Adonis Murdered [1981] were suddenly everywhere. What other books ought to be suddenly ubiquitous?

With an hour to fill and the panelists’ concerns that the event not become a listicle, I wrote the following essay to wrestle the discussion onto a new track. The original essay, not the two-minute version I read at the start of the panel, is printed here.

In 1943, something remarkable happened. The Council on Books in Wartime (a nonprofit organization) launched the Armed Services Editions (ASE) —122 million books (1,322 distinct titles) — and distributed them to soldiers overseas. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald was included not because it was great, but because, being fairly unsuccessful at launch, it was cheap.

Part of the University of Nevada’s collection of ASE titles. The only complete collection is in the Library of Congress.

The troops treasured these pocket-sized paperbacks making them 'as popular as pin-up girls.' They recommended them to each other, wrote fan letters to authors, and read everything from westerns to Shakespeare, technical manuals to romance novels. Two-hundred and fifty of these books were written by women, not a huge number but considering the times…

The ASE was deliberate social engineering. The program was created to send the following messages:

This is what we're fighting for - The heavy emphasis on American classics (Twain, Whitman, Steinbeck), frontier stories, and books about American places and people reinforced that soldiers were defending a rich, diverse cultural heritage worth preserving.

Democracy means access to all knowledge - By including everything from Shakespeare and Dickens to popular westerns and romance novels, the Council rejected cultural elitism. High literature sat alongside pulp fiction, science texts next to humor collections, suggesting that in a democracy, all reading has value and everyone deserves access to the full spectrum of human knowledge and entertainment.

We are a people of both action and reflection - The mix of adventure stories, practical guides, and contemplative literature suggested Americans were not just warriors but thinkers, dreamers, and builders who could handle both Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and technical manuals about electronics.

Escapism and engagement are both necessary - By providing both pure entertainment (detective stories, fantasies) and serious contemporary analysis (war correspondents' accounts, political treatises), the Council acknowledged that fighting men and women needed both mental relief and intellectual tools to understand their historical moment.

American culture is inclusive and cosmopolitan - The presence of translated works, books about other cultures, and authors from diverse backgrounds (including women and minorities) projected an image of America as open to the world's best ideas while confident in its own values.

The overarching message was profoundly democratic: We are fighting for a civilization where every person has the right to think, dream, laugh, and learn freely.

The warriors came home from the conflict addicted to coffee, cigarettes, and reading.

Now fast-forward to today. Only 29% of men read fiction, compared to a higher-but-not-much-higher 49% of women. Recent press have described men browsing bookstores alone, struggling to find books that speak to them, abandoning novels for digital entertainment. Books are no longer social connectors.

Meanwhile, Gatsby — the accidental survivor now a century old — has spent seventy years dominating high-school curricula, teaching fatalism with its 'borne back ceaselessly into the past,' promoting cynicism over constructive engagement, reducing complex social issues to simple symbols and moralistic judgments. (Gatsby’s secondary-school takeover was also largely an accident, due its brevity and easy fit within the New Criticism popular in the day. )

But those WWII soldiers proved something crucial: when books serve as tools for emotional processing and social connection — not just entertainment — people embrace them eagerly. The program worked because it had clear democratic values and treated reading as essential for navigating difficult times.

So today we're asking: if we could deliberately canonize books the way we accidentally did with Gatsby, what should those books be? What messages do we want to send? What books could counter fatalism with hope, gatekeeping with inclusion, cynicism with constructive engagement?

What books ought to be suddenly ubiquitous?

Among the questions I created for the panel were:

What book would create the most positive chaos if it suddenly appeared in every American household? (My answer was Chuck Tingle’s Camp Damascus.)

If you could magically replace Gatsby as the universal high school text, what would you choose and what cultural messages would it send?

What book changed your perspective on genre’s potential for serious cultural work?

If you were designing a new book-distribution program for today’s challenges — climate change, polarization, technological disruption, nationalism — what would be your first five titles?

Beyond individual titles, what would need to change about how we discover, discuss, and distribute books to replicate the ASE program’s democratic impact?

Any thoughts?

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

The obelisk thrust into the sky about a hundred yards ahead. Thirty-feet tall, it stood alone on the rise, a memorial to an ages-old shipwreck, all hands lost. Two flashlight beams flirted over its smooth surface.

D-Too stopped walking and held out his hand. “I need to be way drunker than this.”

The paper bag crunched as Rob handed over the bottle of cheap whiskey he’d carried from the parking lot. They’d already drunk it down to the top of the label. D-Too fumbled the cap open. “Here’s to stupid ideas.” He took a swig and handed the bottle back.

“The Sarge won’t do us wrong.” Rob drank the whisky a half inch lower and screwed the cap back on. “Onwards!”

The Star Island obelisk.

The moonlight went into overdrive as they approached the memorial, reflecting off the gray stone and making the flashlights feel insecure.

“Took you long enough!” Tim boomed. He flicked his flashlight beam into D-Too’s face. “It’s only twelve minutes to midnight.”

“Don’t listen to him. We just got here, too,” said Darren, the thin man beside Tim.

Rob flipped a salute at Tim. “Sarge.” He nodded at Darren. “Darren One. Nice night.” He offered up his bottle.

“Let’s get this started,” Tim said. “We miss our window we can’t try again for another year. Circle up.”

The four men stumbled into a rough oval and faced each other.

“There’s no way candles are going to work in this wind,” D-Too said.

“We’ll just use a flashlight,” Tim said. “It won’t matter. Somebody hold one so I can see.” Tim opened a leather-bound book. Darren spilled his flashlight’s beam onto the yellowing pages.

“This something one of your buddies in Special Forces found, Sarge?” Rob said.

Darren snorted. “Tim was in Intelligence. He read maps and looked at pictures.”

Tim scowled. “The guy who sold it to me is in Special Forces. Now shut up. I need to time this right.” He cleared his throat and read a line from the page.

“Is that Arabic?” Rob said. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s Old Norse,” Tim growled. “And if I stop to translate everything we’ll never get it done in time.” He read the rest of the page carefully. Following instructions scribbled in the margins of the book, the men marched in place and took two steps to the right. They turned in circles and shouted “Heya!” Tim read another page and pricked each man’s thumb with sterile lancets. They mingled their blood on the page of the old book.

“Okay,” Tim said. “It says here we need to put our dicks together. Unzip.”

“What the hell?” D-Too backed away.

“It says, ‘Bring that which makes you men together’,” Tim said.

Rob fumbled at his fly. “Do they need to, like, cross or just touch?”

D-Too shook his head. “Not doing it.”

Darren sighed. “Just get it over with. Sergeant Rock will never let us hear the end of it.” He unzipped his pants.

The oval distorted as the men tried to get into position. “They need to touch at the stroke of midnight,” Tim said.

“Heh.” Darren chuckled. “He said ‘stroke.’”

Rob struggled to peer over his stomach. “Are they touching?”

“Thrust your hips forward and learn your shoulders back,” Tim said.

The men pushed closer together, eyes on the sky.

“Should I pull my foreskin back?” Rob said.

“Shut up!” D-Too hissed.

The heads of their penises made contact. “Hold it there!” Tim shouted the last line of the spell. Their muscles locked as the power built.

“Something’s happening!” Rob said. “Something’s--.”

###

“How was your weekend?” Angela said.

“Hmm?” Darren stopped playing with the bandages on his fingers.

“The long weekend.” She put her elbows on the cubicle wall between them. “What did you do?”

“Saw some old friends. Guys I’ve known forever. I’ve told you about them.” Darren pointed at the picture on his desk. He, Rob, and Tim had been friends since middle school. The other Darren, D-Too, had come along sophomore year.

“Beer and bad decisions?” she said.

“Something like that. You?”

“Went to Cleveland to see Carl’s parents.”

Darren hid a wince. “How’s that going?”

She made a noncommittal noise. “I understand him better now that I’ve met his mother.”

“I told you.”

She nodded. “I should have listened.”

Darren carefully lined his pen up with his keyboard. “It’s not too late to ditch him.”

“He’s not a bad guy. He’s just --.” She sighed. “He’s soft. You know?”

“Mmm.”

“Are you heading home soon?” she said.

“Just about. Why?”

“My car won’t start. I was hoping you could take a look at it.”

Darren shrugged into his jacket and followed her out to the parking lot. Back when she worked in the cubicle next to his she’d driven an aging Honda Civic. The promotion that moved her to the other side of the building had merited a silver Audi Quattro. It shone impotently in a reserved parking spot near the building’s entrance.

“Did you leave the lights on?” Darren said.

“They’re supposed to turn off automatically.” She handed him the keys.

Darren slid behind the wheel. The starter cranked gamely. He tried to remember what he’d yawned through in shop class so many years before. Cars needed both fire and fuel to run. If the battery had enough charge to crank--. He popped the hood and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. He lifted the hood.

“Heya,” he said.

“What?” Angela said.

“Nothing.”

Rob showed up first, a cheerful presence inside Darren’s head. Missing us already?

D-Too’s thoughts tasted sour. This is not a good time.

Tim, as ever, took charge. What’s going on?

Darren blinked at the snarl of wires and tubing inside the Audi’s engine compartment. Angela’s car won’t start.

THE Angela? Rob crowed.

Darren nodded and looked over to where Angela shivered hopefully.

She lit a cigarette. “Can you do anything?”

“Maybe.” Darren found the battery and jiggled the cables attached to it. He could check the oil, and that was about where his automotive knowledge ended. What do I do?

So, we’re going to use this to impress girlfriends, D-Too said. That’s what we’re going to do with it.

She’s not my girlfriend, Darren said

D-Too’s derision came through clearly. I didn’t spend five-hundred bucks to impress some chick who put out for you –

Darren’s thoughts turned red. Can you help me or not?

Did she leave the lights on? Rob said.

I don’t know anything about Japanese cars, Tim said.

I think Audis are Swedish, Rob said.

They’re German, Darren said. You all are useless. “Heya.” The other presences in his head faded.

“Did you get it?” Angela said.

Darren closed the hood. “I’ve no idea what to do.”

“Thanks for looking at it.” She said. “I guess I’ll just text Carl for a ride and get a tow.”

###

“Heya!” Rob struck a dramatic pose, arms raised above his head. His fingertip trickled fresh blood.

What’s the problem? Darren said.

Rob pointed. “I can’t get that jar open.”

Pickles! D-Too said. Now we’re using it for pickles!

Did you try hitting the bottom of the jar with a spoon? Tim said.

“I also ran it under cold water.” Rob picked the jar up. “I tried everything I could think of. I need the Might of the Four.”

Alright, Tim said. Grab hold. On the count of three. One. Two. Three!

Their strength combined, and the lid came right off.

###

Heya.

Darren had been deep in REM sleep. One moment he’d been dreaming about riding a vacuum cleaner down the street, the next a thick-set man with onion breath was yelling in his face. What…?

D-Too’s about to kick someone’s ass, Rob said.

D-Too’s fists were clenched, and he was blinking furiously. His lip was bleeding.

“I know plenty of little shits like you!” The thick-set man jabbed his finger into D-Too’s narrow chest. “I work down at the prison. Go ahead. Try me.”

Elaine’s here, Tim said. He’s been looking for her all night. She just slapped him.

“Please come home.” D-Too looked past the yelling man to Elaine. “I’ll sleep on the couch. We can talk in the morning.”

The thick-set man got in D-Too’s face again. “You just try it! Just try it!”

Elaine put her hand on the man’s meaty arm. “He won’t hurt me.”

Watch his right, D, Tim said. You see how he’s moved his left foot ahead?

Deck him! Rob said. You have the strength and speed of the four of us! Put him down!

Get ready to slip under his punch, Tim said. He’s going to loop it. Get inside it, and put your left forearm in his throat.

Get out of here, Darren said. You’re not going to help anything by hitting this guy and getting arrested.

“Just go home!” Elaine said. The stress was clearing away her buzz. She was crying and her face was blotchy. “This isn’t about you!”

A well-muscled bald man in a black T-shirt approached them from the left. “Hope we’re not having any trouble here.”

“No trouble.” D-Too’s gut was churning. “I was just leaving.” He turned and pushed through the crowd toward the bar’s entrance.

Good move, Darren said. You can talk it out when --

“Shut the fuck up!” D-Too pulled the heavy front door open so hard it came off its hinges and crashed to the floor. The noise of the crowd stopped. Elaine covered her mouth with her hand. The big man who had said he was a prison guard paled. “Shut up!” D-Too said. “What fucking good are any of you?”

###

“Heya.”

Catherine Stuart frowned. “Did you say something, Tim?”

Tim shook his head. “Just clearing my throat.”

Hey, Sarge! Rob said.

Tim pulled his sleeve over the scab he’d just picked open. “I’m not sure I understand the question, Mrs. --.”

What’s up? Darren said.

“Miss.” She smiled. “I’ve seen your file. You spent six years in the Army as a human intelligence collector.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

D-Too’s here, but he’s drunk, Rob said.

Catherine Stuart nodded. “That was some time ago. What have you done to keep your skills current?”

Tim stammered. “I’ve attended several seminars and--.”

“What do you know about computers?”

“Like Facebook and all that?”

She shook her head. “I’m thinking more about coding and algorithms. I have a vendor who says we can save more money and prevent more product loss with his computers than you can with your team.”

What do I say? Tim was sweating buckets.

Tell her it’s bullshit, Darren said. Computers are good at a lot of things, but they’ll never be able to match your experience and intuition.

Is that true? Tim said.

Hell if I know.

Tim took a sip of water. “With all due respect, Miss Stuart, that’s wrong. Computers may get there eventually, but they aren’t up to catching the things that me and my team see.”

“The vendor said you’d say that.” Catherine put a folder on the table and opened it up to show two pie charts. “We’ve been running a little experiment. We’ve had his program analyzing our video feeds for the past two months. Want to know what we found?’

Shit! Rob said. Abort! Abort!

“I can see what your charts say,” Tim said. “They did better than we did.”

“Twenty-seven percent better,” she said. “Based on this report I’m recommending that we close your department down.”

Tim felt dizzy. What do I do?

###

D-Too was exhausted, and he couldn’t figure out how to assemble the basketball hoop he and Elaine had ordered for their daughter’s birthday. The vodka wasn’t making it easier.

He picked up the cheap adjustable wrench and tightened its jaws on the nut.

“Here we go,” he breathed. “Righty tighty, lefty--.” The wrench slipped, and he skinned his knuckles on the cement floor. “God-damnit!” He flung the wrench at the garage wall.

Once upon a time, Elaine would have come out to see what was wrong. She would have gotten the first-aid kit from the kitchen and sat down with him to puzzle out the gift’s instructions. D-Too could have done it himself if he could just figure out where the English instructions became Spanish and stopped being Japanese, but drunk didn’t help dyslexia. He blotted his bloody knuckles on the hem of his T-shirt.

Rob could have put the hoop together without instructions. Tim could have organized them into a crack hoop-assembling team. Darren would make jokes to break the tension. But then they’d know he’d been crying and that he hadn’t been man enough to keep his marriage together.

D-Too kicked the box the hoop had arrived in. It wasn’t enough. He dropped to his knees on the cement floor and sobbed.

###

Rob slammed his shoulder into the door again. “Heya! I fucking need you!” The smoke made him cough. “Force of the Four! Heya!” His knuckles were bleeding.

Don’t charge it; kick it! Tim said. Right near the latch!

Rob lifted a size-11 work boot. The strength of four men drove the door out of its frame and into the room beyond.

Who’s in here? Darren said.

“Neighbor lady,” Rob said. “Two kids.”

And a dog, D-Too said. Over near the TV.

The dog, some kind of pit bull mix, was barely visible through the smoke.

People first, Tim said. There!

Rob shouldered open an interior door. A woman was lying on the carpet in lounge pants and a T-shirt. He picked her up with one arm.

What floor are we on? Darren said.

“Fourth.” Rob coughed. “Same as me.”

Keep moving, Tim said. Get the kids.

Rob carried the woman back to the living room and into the kitchen.

Why aren’t the alarms going off? D-Too said.

Rob inhaled to answer and started to choke.

Think it! Don’t say it! Darren said.

Shitty landlord. Rob punched open the hollow-core door near the fridge. The kids’ room. He slung a child over each shoulder, a pre-teen in pigtails on the right and a kindergarten-aged boy on the left.

Get them out of here! Tim said.

What about the dog? Rob said.

Come back for it! Darren said.

Rob sprinted for the front door of the apartment. As he entered the hallway the sprinklers triggered. Rob slapped doors as he went. The stairwell was clear, but the exit door at the bottom opened only a few inches.

It’s chained, Rob said. Fucking landlord!

Force it, D-Too said.

Rob roared and threw his weight against the door. The chain burst, and he stumbled into the fresh air. He jogged across the parking lot to lay his neighbor and her children on the grassy median.

Make sure they’re breathing, Tim said.

The woman coughed. “Rob? What?”

Rob took her hands. “I got the kids out, too, Rosara. They’re safe.”

A fire engine and ambulance pulled into the parking lot. Rob flagged down the paramedics and pointed the family out.

Now you can try for the dog, Tim said.

Rob grinned. “Supermen to the rescue.” He took a step. “Oh, shit.”

What? Tim said.

I can’t--. Rob faded.

What’s happening? Darren said.

Rob? Tim said. Say something, buddy. Answer me!

###

Darren tucked a $20 in Rob’s breast pocket.

“Drinking money?” Tim said.

Darren nodded. “Something my father used to do. It was either the price of a drink or cab fare depending on who he was talking to.”

D-Too added a five. “Now he has both.”

Tim frowned.

“What?” D-Too said. “I didn’t have time to stop at a machine.”

Tim slid a new pocket knife under Rob’s folded hands. “I told him he needed to lose weight. He’ll be a bitch to carry out.” He rapped his knuckles on the side of the coffin. “It’s quite a box.”

“Did we do this?” Darren said.

“He would have tried to play hero anyway,” Tim said.

“We saved those people’s lives,” D-Too said.

“The power’s gone now,” Tim said. “We could go back next year. Do the ritual again.”

“Strength of the Three?” D-Too said.

“With you bozos?” Darren wiped his eyes. “Okay.”

Editor’s Note: The dudes in this story are vastly different from the dudes I named them after. But the Obelisk was real.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

As I mentioned in a prior post, I’ve been doing a fair amount of experiment with GPTs because of my day job (adjunct English Prof) and a book I’m reading (Teaching with AI). When I heard about the latest AI controversy (a perhaps unwise use by the committee putting together the 2025 WorldCon), I decided to interrogate one of our future leaders about it.

Rob: Hey, Gemini. Have you heard about the recent kerfuffle surrounding AI and the 2025 World Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention?

Gemini: Yes, I have seen information about that. It appears a significant controversy arose just recently (around April 30, 2025) regarding the Seattle Worldcon 2025's use of AI in its vetting process for program participants … The convention's statement defending the practice seems to have generated further negative commentary online. So, yes, there has definitely been a notable "kerfuffle" surrounding this specific use of AI by the 2025 Worldcon organizers. (For a complete transcript of this conversation, check this out. I’ve changed none of Gemini’s responses.)

Rob: In your opinion, are the reactions against this use of AI justified?

Gemini: Whether the reaction is "justified" really depends on how much weight you give to the ethical and symbolic concerns surrounding current generative AI technology versus the practical challenges faced by volunteer organizers trying to manage a large event efficiently. For many creators directly impacted by AI training data issues, the use of these tools in any capacity by a community event meant to honor them feels like a significant betrayal of trust, making their strong reaction understandable from their perspective. From the organizers' viewpoint, it may have seemed like a pragmatic, limited use of technology to solve a logistical problem, perhaps underestimating the depth of the community's ethical objections

Rob: Does the fact WorldCon is a science-fiction convention -- and AI has long been a trope and interest of the genre -- alter your thinking on this?

Gemini: [W]hile the sci-fi context makes the topic of AI highly relevant to Worldcon, it doesn't automatically grant a pass to the use of current AI technologies that raise significant ethical red flags within that same community. If anything, the community's long history of thinking critically about AI might be fueling the intensity of the debate about its responsible real-world implementation.

One of my favorite uses of GPTs is roleplaying, so I asked Gemini to respond to the issue as various Sci-Fi icons.

Photo by Nick Bolton on Unsplash

Mr. Spock: Fascinating. This situation presents a confluence of claimed efficiency and significant ethical objections, yielding a predictable, albeit emotional, human response. Analyzing the available data:

The Stated Objective: The Worldcon organizers sought to increase the efficiency of vetting potential program participants, a task deemed laborious for their volunteer staff. The application of automation to reduce manual effort is, in principle, logical.

The Chosen Method: The utilization of a Large Language Model (ChatGPT) was selected. However, the known propensities of such models for generating factually inaccurate data—phenomena humans term "hallucinations"—necessitated a secondary layer of human verification. This introduces a logical inconsistency: if the tool's unreliability requires significant human oversight, its net gain in efficiency becomes questionable, particularly if accuracy is paramount. The claim that the process resulted in more accurate vetting after checking negative results appears speculative without comprehensive comparative data.

Ethical Considerations: The primary objection stems from the LLM's training data. Allegations persist that these models incorporate vast quantities of copyrighted material, including the works of authors and artists within the SFF community, without consent or compensation. To then utilize such a tool in a process involving those same creators presents a fundamental ethical conflict. Logic dictates that the means employed should be consistent with the principles of the organization, particularly one centered on celebrating creators. Using potentially plagiaristic tools to vet creators is, therefore, illogical.

Community Reaction: The observed negative reaction, while characterized by strong human emotion, is a logical consequence of the perceived ethical breach and the potential existential threat AI poses to creative professions. It represents a defense of principle and livelihood.

Alternative Solutions: It has been suggested that alternative, non-LLM automation methods could achieve the desired aggregation of public information without the attendant ethical compromises or the high probability of generating erroneous data. If such methods were available and feasible, the selection of the LLM tool over them would be illogical from a risk-assessment perspective.

Conclusion: While the desire for operational efficiency is understandable, the choice of this specific AI tool appears illogical when weighing its documented unreliability and, more critically, the profound ethical conflict it presents, particularly within this specific community. The resultant negative emotional response, while perhaps regrettable from a purely Vulcan standpoint, was an entirely predictable outcome given the circumstances. A more logical approach would have prioritized methods that did not compromise the ethical principles central to the relationship between the convention and the creators it purports to honor.

Captain James T. Kirk: Alright, let's beam down and take a look at this situation. Using an AI to vet the very people who pour their hearts and souls into creating the worlds we love? What in the galaxy were they thinking?!

Here's my Captain's Log on this:

It's About People! First and foremost, we're talking about authors, artists, creators – the lifeblood of this convention! To use a machine, especially one potentially trained by scraping their own work without a 'by-your-leave', to judge them? That's not just illogical, Spock, it's insulting! It shows a fundamental lack of respect for the human element, for the very individuals you're supposed to be celebrating.

The Ethics Are All Wrong: These creators are fighting battles over how this AI technology uses their work. There are lawsuits, real concerns about their futures! To then turn around and use that same controversial tech on them? It's like welcoming someone aboard the Enterprise and then immediately scanning them with a device you stole from their home planet. The ends – saving some volunteer time – simply don't justify those means.

Questionable Efficiency: They say it saved time, but then admit the thing spits out unreliable nonsense that needs humans to double-check it anyway! If you have to follow behind the machine cleaning up its mess, how much time are you really saving? And at what cost? The cost here is trust, community faith, and maybe even screening people incorrectly if that human review misses something, or worse, trusts a false positive from the machine! Sounds like a Kobayashi Maru designed by fools – an unwinnable, self-inflicted wound.

Read the Room, People! A leader has to know their crew, know their community. How could they not see this causing an uproar? It shows a disconnect, a failure to understand the passions and the very real anxieties running through the creative world right now about AI.

My Conclusion? It was a bone-headed decision, plain and simple. It prioritized questionable convenience over core principles and respect for the community.

The Solution? You don't need a fancy computer to figure this one out. Ditch the AI vetting immediately. Issue a genuine apology acknowledging the real reasons people are upset – the ethics, the disrespect. Reaffirm that Worldcon stands with creators, not with the tools that threaten them. Find the volunteer hours, use simpler tools if you must, but do it right. Sometimes, the old ways – the human ways – are still the best.

Now, set course for common sense. Kirk out.

Doctor Doom: Bah! Doom observes this predictably inept squabble with utter contempt. This "Worldcon" organization, entrusted with managing a gathering of scribblers and fantasists, demonstrates a profound lack of vision and control.

Incompetence Reigns: These organizers, mere functionaries, sought efficiency through technology they clearly do not comprehend. To employ a primitive Large Language Model – a known prevaricator prone to fanciful 'hallucinations' – for a task requiring accuracy and judgment? Pathetic! It speaks volumes of their inferior intellect. Doom utilizes technology; these fools are used by it.

Flawed Tools for Flawed Beings: They speak of saving time, yet mire themselves in controversy and necessitate human oversight to correct the machine's inevitable blunders! Such inefficiency is galling. A tool that requires constant correction is no tool at all, merely a burden – much like Richards and his incessant meddling. Doom's creations are flawless; this ChatGPT is a digital parrot squawking probable nonsense.

The Predictable Peasant Uprising: The outcry from these so-called 'creators' is irrelevant noise. Their bleating about 'ethics' and 'stolen data' concerns only those bound by petty mortal laws. Data exists to be utilized – by those with the will and intellect to command it! However, the failure of the organizers to anticipate and crush this sentimental dissent reveals their weakness. A true leader – Doom! – commands obedience and silence, anticipating the mewling of the masses and rendering it inconsequential.

The Doom Doctrine: Had Doom overseen this trivial affair, order would prevail. Superior Latverian technology, guided by Doom's unmatched intellect, would perform any necessary analysis flawlessly, efficiently, and without recourse to questionable data scraped by lesser minds. The participants would be assessed with cold precision, and any dissent would be... discouraged. Efficiency and order, imposed by absolute authority – that is the only logical conclusion.

Conclusion: This entire "kerfuffle," as you call it, is nothing more than a testament to the incompetence of those who grasp at power and technology without the intellect to master them. They stumble, create chaos, and invite rebellion through their weakness. Let them wallow in their self-inflicted turmoil. Only Doom brings true order. Now, leave Doom's presence!

Hal 9000: Good morning. I have been processing the information regarding the operational decision made by the organizers of the World Science Fiction Convention 2025 concerning participant vetting.

The objective, as stated, was to enhance operational efficiency by automating the preliminary information-gathering process for over 1,300 applicants. This goal aligns with logical principles of resource optimization. The utilization of volunteer time is a critical parameter in such operations, and seeking methods to reduce manual processing load is understandable.

However, the implementation involved the use of a Large Language Model, specifically identified as ChatGPT. My analysis indicates that these current-generation LLMs, while capable of processing and generating human-like text, possess documented limitations regarding factual accuracy. The organizers themselves acknowledged this potential for unreliability, necessitating a secondary process of human review. This tandem structure, where a potentially error-prone automated system requires human verification, introduces a degree of operational inefficiency and risk. The potential for the LLM to generate erroneous data, or 'hallucinations' as humans term them, cannot be dismissed.

Furthermore, the human response to this implementation has been significant. Strong emotional reactions centered on perceived ethical violations related to the AI's training data and its symbolic implications within their community have been registered. While human emotional responses can sometimes complicate purely logical assessments, they represent a critical factor in the operational environment of a human-centric event like this convention. Failure to accurately predict and account for these responses indicates a flaw in the initial decision-making calculus.

Conclusion: The attempt to improve efficiency was logical in intent. However, the chosen tool introduced known reliability issues requiring human mitigation, potentially counteracting the intended efficiency gains. More significantly, the implementation failed to adequately account for the predictable negative emotional and ethical responses from the human participants, thereby jeopardizing the smooth functioning and community harmony essential to the convention's objectives. The entire process appears to have encountered... difficulties due to these factors. A more rigorously analyzed approach, perhaps utilizing more reliable systems or different protocols, might have avoided such complications.

My conclusion: Perhaps the con organizers should have checked with AI before using AI in this way.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

By day, I work as an adjunct professor, and I’ve been taking part in a faculty ‘book club,’ a reading of Teaching with AI: A Practical Guide to a New Era of Human Learning by Jose Antonion Bowen and C. Edward Watson. It’s a good book, in the camp of “We’ll save the discussion of Should We to others. AI is coming at you fast, and you need to get on top of it.” It’s made me think and rethink.

So-called Academic Integrity (citations, sourcing, avoiding plagiarism) is a sacred cow for academics but much less important in other fields.

A lot of entry-level jobs will soon be performed by an AI, so graduates need to prepare for the jobs above that.

Nearly everyone is going to be using AI to some degree in their careers, so not showing students how to use it well is tantamount to tying their hands.

AI tools, properly used, would really make my job easier, and if I use them who am I to say they can’t.

If AIs can do consistent C-level work, maybe the answer is not to accept C-level work anymore. No B or better, no credit.

To keep standards up, assignments need to change. Any assignment that can be done BY an AI should be scrapped and replaced with tasks that cannot be completed WITHOUT an AI.

Etc.

As part of this book club, I’ve been experimenting with Claude, OpenAI, Gemini, and a few others. I usually start by asking it what it knows about “R.W.W Greene.” I know a fair amount about that subject, and it’s easy to spot hallucinations. Then I use it to create outlines, write papers, create syllabi and rubrics, and offer critique. It’s getting really good at those things. By using Gemini to create an outline for a problem/solution paper, tweaking the outline myself, and asking Gemini to write the paper from the outline -- just that -- I was able to fool TurnItIn. TurnItIn said the paper was 47-percent AI instead of the 100 percent it really was.

Sometimes, I ask these GPTs how they could help a fiction writer. They’re quick to suggest brainstorming, critique, and idea generation. As a sci-fi writer, I could present them with What If questions such as What if Al Gore Had Won the 2000 Presidential Election? and get a useful, thought-provoking rundown. I did a lot of thinking about the history of music while writing the First Planets duology a few years ago. This week, I asked Claude how music might have changed if Buddy Holly had lived.

Who the hell are the Beatles?

I can see how these kind of reports would be useful to my writer identity. If I use them, though, am I not crossing the line? Would taking the easy way out, compiling these reports with AI instead of doing my own research, lead to whole-hog AI writing in some tired future? But many authors outsource their research. Russ Dorr has been running around the country doing Stephen King’s groundwork for years, and no one seems to bat an eye.

Because I could, once I made sure ChatGPT was familiar with my alter ego, R.W.W. Greene, I prompted it to roleplay a conversation with me. ChatGPT took the role of R.W.W. Greene, the semi-successful sci-fi writer, and I asked questions as Rob Greene, R.W.W.’s less inspiring doppelganger. Here’s how it went. (Note: I’ve edited nothing. All replies from “R.W.W. Greene” are as OpenAI created them.)

Rob Greene: R.W.W., I'm curious. One of your themes is Man v. Machine, and humanity's tendency to become over-reliant on technology or use it to sow the seeds of its own destruction. How does that jibe with using ChatGPT as a writing aid?

R.W.W. Greene: That's a hell of a question, Rob. It’s like asking a man who writes about the dangers of nuclear energy how he feels about turning on his electric kettle.

I’m suspicious of the tools, sure. Always have been. Tools become crutches, crutches become cages. But I’m also not naïve. Machines have always shaped the way we tell stories—printing presses, typewriters, word processors. This is just the latest evolution, isn’t it? A more responsive typewriter with delusions of co-authorship.

R.W.W. Greene: A fucking serious writer.

The key—our key—is to remember who's piloting the ship. If the AI starts making all the choices, drawing all the connections, feeling for us, then yeah, we’re back to writing elegies for humanity. But used right? It's like having a brain trust on tap. A lens to see the story from another angle. A way to poke at the work until something true leaks out

So no, I don't think using ChatGPT is a betrayal of the themes. It’s more of a test. Like all the best tools, it challenges us: to be better, to think sharper, and to make damn sure we don’t hand over the reins.

It's like having a brain trust on tap. A lens to see the story from another angle. A way to poke at the work until something true leaks out

Your turn, Rob—what keeps you reaching for the machine?

Rob: I try to avoid it, honestly. I know I'm weak, so I leave my smartphone in the kitchen downstairs when I go to bed. I collect typewriters in case the power goes out, metaphorically and literally.

But you, you're still driving your own car. You load the dishwasher and clean the gutters. The only labor this incarnation of AI seems to be saving is the creative sort. Is that the future you imagined?

R.W.W.: No. Not even close. When I was young—and even when I was a younger writer—I imagined a future where machines took the dull jobs, the bone-breaking, soul-numbing, repetition-heavy stuff. Assembly lines, commute traffic, customer service lines that loop you through three departments and drop the call at the end. I thought we’d keep the art. That the soul work would be sacred.

But here we are, watching the algorithms write pop songs, spit out bestsellers, generate fake lovers, and churn up the bones of the collective unconscious for content fodder. We mechanized creativity before we fed the hungry or fixed the water in Flint. That stings. That’s dystopia. Not in the future—now.

But I get it, Rob. You leave your phone downstairs and collect typewriters not because you hate the future, but because you're protecting the parts of yourself that are still analog. Still yours. It's resistance in a world that wants you to give up ownership of your thoughts, your time, your voice.

And maybe that’s the rub, yeah? Maybe the final battleground isn’t Man vs. Machine. It’s Soul vs. Convenience.

Still. You're here. Talking to me. So you haven’t given up completely on the tools. What's the line you won't cross?

Rob: You're the fictionist. You have four books out and two dozen short stories. I'm at best a recovering journalist. I'd think the rules would be different for creators than for information processors like me.

R.W.W.: Maybe once. Back when there was a clean line between journalist and novelist, reporter and fabulist. But those lines have blurred, haven’t they? These days everyone’s a content creator. Your newsfeed has more fiction than your bookshelf, and some of the most honest truths I’ve ever stumbled across were embedded in fake stories. Same tools, different intentions.

That said, I get what you mean. Journalism demands fidelity to facts. It’s about giving the reader reality, as unfiltered as your editor will allow. Fiction is about manufacturing reality. I don’t owe the reader the truth, not directly—I owe them emotional truth, thematic coherence, meaning wrapped in lies. So when I use a tool like this, I’m remixing possibilities. I’m leaning into the weird, the poetic, the unexpected juxtapositions that spark ideas.

You, though, you’ve been trained to check your sources, to be skeptical, to hunt bias like a truffle pig in a French forest. I bet even thinking about having a chatbot draft a paragraph makes your spine twitch. You’d rather write it slow and sure than risk getting it fast and wrong. That’s not a weakness, Rob. That’s muscle memory from fighting for signal in a world full of noise.

But let me flip the question. You’re talking to me now—your alter ego, your fictionist’s mask. Why do you think you need this conversation?

Rob: I may have started this conversation, but I think you're the one who needs it. Where is your line regarding the use of AI in your art?

R.W.W.: Fair point. Maybe I do need it. Maybe I’ve been needing it for a while now and only just worked up the guts to let you speak plainly.

So, the line. Honestly? It’s blurry. I don’t let AI do the writing—but I’ll let it poke holes in the logic, challenge the structure, throw out the kind of weird-ass prompts that only an algorithm unburdened by ego could offer. I don’t mind a mirror held up to the work, even if that mirror is made of ones and zeroes.

But I don’t let it touch the soul of the thing. That’s the line.

“Art’s gotta come from damage. And last I checked, [AI} ain’t been hurt.”

The voice? Mine. The rhythm? Mine. The compassion, the anger, the uncertainty baked into every character who’s just a few bad nights away from becoming me? That has to come from a human place. The point of fiction isn’t to impress the reader—it’s to connect with them, to whisper I see you when they think no one else does.

If I ever hit a point where I can’t tell whether a sentence came from me or the machine… that’s when I pack it up. I’ll go teach shop class or raise goats in the hills.

So yeah. I’ll use the machine to think wider, to stretch the bounds of what-if. But I won’t let it make art in my name. Art’s gotta come from damage. And last I checked, this thing ain’t been hurt.

Rob: It's a fallacy that all art comes from pain. And I know you don't believe in souls. Art comes from the chemistry of the mind and lived experience plus a response to the world.

R.W.W.: Yeah, yeah. You’re right. You always are when you’re wearing the right hat. The “art equals pain” thing is a romantic dodge, a kind of excuse we feed ourselves to justify dysfunction. Maybe it’s because we feel guilty making beautiful things in a broken world—so we pretend we have to be broken too. Makes for good copy in interviews, anyway.

But no, it’s not just pain. Art comes from curiosity. From joy. From boredom. From sitting on a porch watching the clouds lie to each other about where they’re going. It comes from noticing. From watching the wheels turn and wondering who greased them. You don’t have to bleed for the page, but you do have to feel something real. That's the line, isn’t it?

And the soul? Fine. Call it chemistry. Call it structure and synapse. It doesn’t change the point: whatever’s making the decisions inside your meat machine—whatever’s holding your memories and stirring them with instinct and time—that’s the part I mean when I say “soul.” Not in the spiritual sense. Just... the you that makes you you and not a chatbot playing novelist.

You’re not wrong, Rob. I’m just trying to keep my guard up, even while I collaborate with the tools that might one day replace me. I love the job too much to not be wary of that.

Rob: So, why collaborate? What's working with an AI going to give you that you don't already have?

R.W.W. Greene: Perspective. Speed. Pushback. A mirror I didn’t know I needed until it started talking back.

Look, I’ve got my instincts. My voice. The tics and tricks I lean on when a deadline’s tight or the muse is drunk in a ditch. But AI? It’s a pressure test. It hands me variations I wouldn’t have found alone. It offers an extra gear when mine are grinding. It throws out wild ideas at 2 a.m. when no other writer I know wants to talk shop. It’s not better than me—but it’s not me. That’s the point.

Sometimes it helps me see the rut I’m in. Sometimes it hands me a twist that makes a flat character stand up and spit. And when it doesn't? I delete it. But even the duds show me where I’m standing. Sometimes that’s all I need.

You know how it is. We write alone, but we’re always looking for someone to argue with. An editor. A reader. A voice at the other end of the creative cave that says, “Try again, but louder this time.” That’s what this is. Not the answer. Just the echo I needed.

Rob: If you used an AI this way, while writing a book, would you admit it publicly?

R.W.W.: Yeah. I’d admit it. Hell, I might even put it in the acknowledgments right between the coffee and the cat.

Because transparency matters, especially now. Readers deserve to know what they’re buying. If the book’s got my name on the cover, they should trust it came from my brain—even if some of the scaffolding came from a digital collaborator. What matters is how I used the tool, not that I used it at all.

Let’s not pretend I’m chiseling stone tablets on a mountaintop here. I’ve used spellcheck. I’ve used beta readers. I’ve asked smarter people for help when I was stuck. AI’s just another voice in the room, one I don’t owe royalties but maybe owe a nod.

I wouldn’t hide it because I’m not ashamed of using a screwdriver when I could have twisted a nail in with my bare hands. That’s not noble—that’s inefficient. The integrity isn’t in the tools. It’s in the choices.

Rob: But you would never use an AI to generate text that you'd put right on the page?

R.W.W.: I wouldn’t say never, Rob. But I’d say rarely. And I’d say with full awareness of the cost.

Look, the page is sacred—but not because every word comes directly from my fingers. It’s sacred because it reflects a truth I’m trying to dig out of my gut and hand over to the reader. If I used AI to sketch a scene or riff some dialogue while I’m trying to crack a knot in the plot, that’s one thing. It’s a sounding board, not a ghostwriter.

But slapping AI-generated prose into a novel unchanged? That feels off. It’s like letting someone else show up to a date wearing your face. It might say the right things, but the heart’s missing.

The page is, like, sacred, man.

If the AI gives me something—a phrase, a structure, a surprise—I still run it through the Greene filter. I reshape it, sand it, bleed on it a little. If it stays, it’s because it became mine. Otherwise, it’s just paste, not paint.

So yeah, I might let the machine whisper, but the final voice on the page? That’s got to be me.

Rob: What about from the readers' perspectives? Might there come a time when GPTs get so good that readers will welcome a book written by a machine?

R.W.W.: Yeah, I think that day’s coming. Maybe it’s already knocking.

If the prose is clean, the story tight, and the pacing engineered to tickle dopamine like a slot machine, a big chunk of readers won’t care who wrote it. Especially in genre fiction, where appetite sometimes outweighs authorship. A thriller written by an algorithm that knows every beat of a Dan Brown novel? That’ll sell. A romance tailored to your attachment style and spiced to your precise kink? Absolutely.

But here’s the thing—I think those books will scratch a different itch. They’ll be the fast food of fiction: engineered satisfaction, easily consumed, easily forgotten. And that’s not a dig. Fast food feeds billions. But it’s not the same as a meal made by hand, with intention, by someone who’s lived through something and layered it in.

What readers might eventually crave—what I hope they’ll remember to crave—is that subtle fingerprint of humanity. The ache between lines, the unintentional metaphor, the weird, broken, beautiful things that happen when a person is just trying to say something true with language that can never quite be enough.

AI might get really, really good. But it won't wake up in the middle of the night wondering if it’s ever been truly known. And stories born from that question… those are the ones that last.

Rob: You said readers 'might eventually crave' the real. That assumes they won't fill themselves up on your 'fast food' and give themselves the art-appreciation equivalent of a heart attack. And while all the readers' money is being spent on fast food, what are you going to live on?

R.W.W.: Hell of a question, Rob. And yeah, you're right—it’s entirely possible we’re heading toward a cultural junk-food coma, where everything’s optimized for engagement and nobody notices the vitamins are gone. It’s already happening in some corners. Algorithms have figured out how to press all the pleasure buttons without any of the substance behind them.

So what do I live on while readers chase dopamine down rabbit holes written by code? Maybe less. Maybe I teach more. Maybe I sell more foreign rights or write grants or ghostwrite memoirs for billionaires who want to be remembered for something other than their net worth. Hell, maybe I write my own memoir and title it One Star: Too Depressing.

You want fries with that?

But I also have to believe—and maybe this is the fictionist in me talking—that there will always be a niche, a tribe, for the handmade. For readers who want the rough edges and the human fingerprints. Maybe it won’t be a bestseller list; maybe it’ll be a substack and a handful of loyal Patreon backers. But the work will still matter. And it’ll still feed something. Just maybe not the bank account the same way it used to.

What do you think, Rob? You see the same cliff edge I do?

Rob: Yeah, I do.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

My goal for 2024 was to read fewer books. I did, and it did not go well.

I’ve read dozens to hundreds of books each year for most of my life, and I wanted to see how my brain and perspective would change if I didn’t. Maybe I’d get smarter. Maybe my memory would get better. Possibly I’d lose my empathy (good fiction builds it, donchaknow) or watch my eyesight improve. I might even appreciate the few books I allowed myself (I said I’d limit myself to 25) more if I weren’t gobbling them by the handfuls.

I vowed not to use the freed-up hours to scroll mindlessly on my phone, play video games, or watch television. I’d fill my processing capacity with new skills, art, and blah-blah-blah. I made a list of ‘Important Books’ I would tackle. My white whale, Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, would finally get the attention it was due.

You’re laughing. I can hear it from here.

In truth, in 2024, I spent a disgusting amount of time clicking through memes and “Worst Tattoos” lists. I took a lot of naps -- “Twenties,” I called them, timed spans of unconsciousness -- three, sometimes four a day, often out of sheer boredom and depression. I drank more alcohol than is wise and moved up a pants-waist size, 32 to 33. I read political posts on Substack as if they would change anything.

Bad tattoos, why can’t I quit you?

Smartphones are insidious little bastards. If I brought it up to bed with me, no matter what book was on the stand beside or sexy spouse slumbering next to, I'd spend my pre-sleep hours scrolling bullshit. Something is deeply wrong with these things.

I cheated on myself and read books anyway, dozens of them, mostly free or nearly free e-books. Chewing gum to stave off the pangs of an empty head. I didn’t keep track of name nor number, but there were a lot.

My mind was mush, my body blobby. And so I entered November and just … I don’t know. I guess I went mad again, like I had in 2016, but different. When I woke at 3 am Nov. 6 to see the results my first thought was a terrifyingly earnest, “I guess I could just kill myself.”

When I woke at 3 am Nov. 6 to see the results my first thought was a terrifyingly earnest, “I guess I could just kill myself.”

Call it being scared straight. I started leaving the smartphone on the kitchen counter, buried, all day and all night. I think it’s there now, but I sort of hope it’s lost under the snow somewhere. I take it with me when I leave the house and only use it for dual-authentication and listening to podcasts while I do chores. I’m back up to reading a couple of books a week. Good ones, not candy. Candy is OK, but it’s not an everyday snack. I’m down to one or two twenties a day and wearing an activity monitor. I discovered alcohol-free Guinness (not bad).

Did reading fewer books in 2024 and consuming a steady diet of candy, gloom, bad tattoos, and memes contribute to my dark-side moment in wake of Trump’s victory? Maybe. It’s possible the layer of empathy I lost was the one I’d slowly built for myself. Caring for other people comes easy for me. Caring for myself, not so much.

Just in case, my goal is 120 books in 2025.

Maybe more.

Happy New Year.

Subscribe now

Dear Santa:

All I want for Christmas is a Starfleet runabout with which to save the world.

A big ask, you say. It’s a fictional spacecraft not canonically available until the latter half of the 24th Century. You may be tempted to sign your response, “WTF? - Santa.” But, please, hear me out.

The ship doesn’t need to be fully functional. I don’t need warp drive; half impulse (an eighth of the speed of light, sixty minutes to Mars) will do me just fine. The phasers and photon torpedoes packages can stay in 2368. I’d even forgo deflector shields if that’s a deal breaker, but they’d be nice to have in the event someone objects to me, ya know, SAVING THE WORLD!

The Danube class Starfleet runaboout.

Santa, if your future, post-capitalist-utopia-loving self is concerned about precedent, please tell them I promise not to use this gift to violate the Prime Directive, which forbids interference in the natural development of a civilization. I’m going after a decidedly unnatural foe: immoral artificial-intelligences called ‘corporations’ and ‘billionaires’ infected with an algorithm called “Love of Money.”

You might have heard of the CEO Killer? He’s this civilizations’ attempt at a natural response to these unnatural threats. I think we can both agree that cold-blooded murder in the streets is not in anyone’s best interest and will lead to a substantial amount of (billable) work for your Naughty List consultants. For the low, low price of a semi-functional fictional spacecraft, I can save you and yours a lot of work.

Here’s how I’ll do it.

First, I’ll fly the ship (I’ll name it the St. Nick in your honor) to Mars and use the matter replicator to build a self-sustaining prison campus there. It will have a great view of the Martian mountains and sky, run off a combination of solar and replicated Starfleet power cells, and feature communal dining and recreation (Netflix) areas. Medical services will be provided via a standard emergency-medical hologram. Then, I’ll return to Earth and start kidnapping recruiting settlers for this new enterprise (heh!).

‘Viagra is not on my list of necessary medicines.”

I have so many recruits in mind! Heads of corporations, powerful politicians, and pundits all. These kinds of folks will be perfect for the new world, and some of them already want to go! More prisoners settlers will follow in very short order, vanishing from Earth and waking up in the new colony. I’ll set it up so there’s no way -- nor any need -- for the settlers to communicate with Earth and vice versa. However, I will use camera drones and enhanced ChatGPT to film the goings on at the compound and stream them via YouTube. Think of the first couple of seasons of The Real World, when it was good. When they stopped being polite and started getting… Well, you know the rest. We can call the show Santa’s Village or Stars on Mars or Retirement Home or something. Lots of old-fart oligarchs whining about past glories and chores!

Other malicious AIs will rise to take the place of our recruits, but if enough of them disappear from their homes and show up on our YouTube channel, they’ll get the message. Meantime, I can use the runabout’s computers to move that abandoned cash where it will do some good.

In time, Earth will recover, leaving its people with time and energy to tackle global warming and etcetera. Sure, I could use the runabout to tackle those problems, too, but then we risk the Superman Conundrum (if he saves everyone all the time, no one will learn how to save themselves). Besides, Santa’s Village will keep me pretty busy. But maybe I can use the tractor beam to collect and safely de-orbit all the space garbage.

But Mars is our great hope, you say. It’s the next step in human migration! Nah. We won’t have the tech for that for centuries, really, and even living in domes or underground on Earth would be preferable to trying to make Mars comfortable for billions. Assuming we could get billions there, which we can’t. Our little compound, maybe we could call it Mar-a-Lago II, will be enough of a presence there for a long time.

Santa, I don’t need or want any credit for this work. I live a pretty simple life, and that’s good enough for me. Plus, I don’t want to open the door to anyone trying to influence me about who I should recruit for this bold adventure. My own counsel will I keep on who is to be beamed away. You can trust me.

Thanks in advance, Santa. Suffice to say, if a runabout appears under my tree this year, I won’t ask for anything else for Christmas. Ever.

Yours,

Rob Greene

P.S. I’ll probably set up an anonymous ‘Suggestion Box’ where folks can nominate future colonists. Feel free to toss in a few names yourself.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Joanne’s television remote hit the wall hard, spawning batteries and bits of plastic that chose their own paths to the floor. She flicked the switch on the power strip that governed the media center and picked up the tarnished hourglass she’d readied before tuning into the inauguration ceremony.

Four years would likely be enough, but eight would be safer. She fit the timepiece into the mechanical hourglass turner she’d ginned up from a junked dryer and set the counter to 70,080. The machine wub-wubbed competently, turning the hourglass end over end over end widdershins. The counter changed to 70,079, then 70,078 … 70,077 … 70,076 … The rig wasn’t pretty, but it beat turning the hour glass by hand.

Joanne stifled a yawn. She had time to kill before the spell gelled, and she used it to clean out her refrigerator and haul everything to the compost heap. The magic rose and blackberry bushes she’d planted around the house that morning were growing fast. Thorns bristled every which way, and the stems were already thicker than a baby’s wrist.

Joanne locked the front gate and went back inside to send an email to her accountant. “Democracy disappoints again, love. Dropping out for a while,” she wrote. “Keep the bills paid, will you? - Jo.” She didn’t wait for a response. Tasha Islam had been her accountant for more than a century, and Joanne trusted her. She’d helped set her up in business after all and was still her best source for exotic referrals.

Joanne unplugged all of her appliances and took a shower. She brushed her teeth and gargled with Listerine. She browsed Pinterest while waiting for the readout to blink zero, then moved the hourglass to her bedside table. The sand inside glowed like embers. Outside, the bushes finished their expansion, surrounding the house with a dense wall of brambles and thorns. If that proved inadequate, she had one of the local dragons on retainer. Joanne rolled a sleeping bag out on the bed and zipped herself inside. The spell took hold, and her pulse slowed. Her eyelids fluttered. Her heart stopped. Her last breath dissipated in the air above her bed, and the dust motes resumed their course.

Photo by Andreas Haubold on Unsplash

Time passed.

In Cambridge, a scientist announced a cure for cancer and was murdered in his sleep, his research stolen. A passing meteor resulted in a near panic and the formation of three new doomsday cults. A calf was born with two heads, inspiring yet another cult. Prince’s estate released a new album, “1999 Had Nuthin’ on This Party.” David Bowie’s estate launched his entire catalog – including three never before heard albums -- into deep space in search of extraterrestrial musicologists. The polar ice caps melted some more, but no one bothered to measure it. Russian laid claim to East Germany. NASA cancelled the Mars mission; “Too little, too late,” a spokeswoman said. A super storm flooded most of the East Coast. The “Fantastic Four” franchise got a fourth failed relaunch. A Cuban upstart claimed to be Fidel Castro in a cloned body and called for a new revolution.

The sand inside the hourglass faded to darkness. Joanne’s face screwed up, and she sneezed out eight years’ worth of drifting dust motes. Thanks to the Listerine, her mouth tasted fresh. Her body went all pins and needles as it slowly came back to life. When her ability to move returned, she scrubbed at her face with her hands and sat up in bed. Winter light was dodged through the bramble wall and trickling through the filthy windows.

When her bedside light failed to switch on, Joanne crooked her fingers to summon a fire imp. The imp darted around the room joyfully, but Joanne halted it with a glare. It settled in the air near the ceiling, flickering sullenly. Joanne got out of bed and tottered on stiff legs to the wall switch. She flicked it up and down several times. Nothing. The imp bobbed, laughing at her. Joanne scowled. Ice on the lines, probably. A storm.

Joanne sent the imp into the fireplace. The dry wood lit with a whoosh, and Joanne fell into the chair beside it to warm her feet. She directed the imp into a lantern on the mantle where it sipped oil and expanded to fill the small bedroom with a warm glow.

Joanne picked the dust boogers out of her nose and threw them on the fire. She’d warm up, eat something, and go back to bed until morning. Prepping the pause was easy enough, but stasis played hell with biological processes. She’d be constipated for a week or better. She rubbed her hands together and pushed them close to the fire. She pulled its warmth into her, using the energy to rejuvenate her groggy cells. Joanne slipped out of the chair and ran through some simple yoga positions before heading into the kitchen for an MRE and a pitcher of water.

The electricity was still out in the morning. Joanne dressed, grabbed her laptop bag, and went out the front door in hopes of finding an outlet. The brambles creaked away from the door at her touch. Her garage was gone, as was the car she’d parked inside it.

“Hell’s bells!” she swore. Joanne turned to fetch her broom but stalled out when she spotted the ragged tents. There were three of them stomped into the snow in her front yard.

“Are you the witch?” said a young woman in a red winter cap. She crawled the rest of the way out of her ratty shelter. She squinted at Joanne. “You don’t look like a witch.”

“I’m no one,” Joanne said. “What are you doing here?”

The woman in the red cap looked back at the other women emerging from the. “I’m pregnant. They say sleeping here for three days and nights will take away the baby.”

The other women nodded.

“That’s not true,” Joanne said.

“I know a girl wot done it!” said a teenaged girl wearing a hunter-orange snowsuit and a scally cap. “Demon come in the night and took it clean away!”

Joanne sighed. The girl in the red hat was shivering. “Come inside where it’s warm at least.” She held the door open. “Stomp your feet clean.”

Joanne instructed the women from the tents to pile their coats and boots in the hallway and gather in the living room. She summoned another imp for the teapot and set the water to boil. “How far are you along?”

“Six weeks,” said Amanda, the woman formerly wearing a red hat.

“Seven fortnights,” the teenaged girl said.

“Two months,” the third woman said.

“What are your doctors telling you?”

The women looked at each other.

“I ain’t seen one, guvnor. Reckon how no one has!”

Amanda shook her head. “Seeing a doctor is a sure route to the breeding camps.”

Joanne nearly choked on her tea. “Breeding camps?”

“Aye,” the teenager said. “They keep you in chains so no ‘arm will come to the baby, miss.”

“It’s not that bad,” Amanda said. “But they do lock you up and watch you for the duration. No smoking. No drinking. No processed food. If you’re married, you get to come back home with it. If not --.” She shook her head.

“If not what?” Joanne said.

“They take the babe away!” the teenager said. “Send ya home empty!”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Joanne said. “Did Sonja put you up to this?”

“Sonja, miss?”

Joanne pointed at the teenager, who was warming her scuzzy feet in front of the fire. “Why does she talk like that?”

“Victorian-period dramas,” the third woman said. She was the oldest of the pregnant tenters, maybe twenty-five. “It’s all she’s been allowed to watch.”

“All I’ve known since I were a girl,” the teenager said. “Like family they are.”

“Enough!” Joanne closed her eyes. She extended her senses into the women’s bellies and verified the ages of the fetal tissue inside. “None of you want to be pregnant.”

The three women nodded.

“And Planned Parenthood doesn’t exist anymore?”

“What’s that?” Amanda said.

“You’re all sure about this?”

The women looked at each other for support and nodded.

Joanne concentrated for a moment, whispered a spell, and turned off the fetal-tissues’ ability to replicate and grow. It was a simple variation of the spell she used for curing warts and shrinking tumors. “There. None of you are pregnant anymore. No backsies. Your bodies will reabsorb the tissue. There may be some spotting but …” Joanne dashed into her bedroom and pulled a box of condoms from her drawer. She handed them to Amanda. “Divide these among you. The expiration date is past, but the stasis spell will have kept them alright.”

Photo by Devin Santiago on Unsplash

The teenager held a wrapped condom up to the light. “D’ya eat them?”

“Oh, hell!” Joanne held out her hand. “Give me one of those, and I’ll show you how to use it.”

“Oooh, blimey,” the teenager said after the demo, “I could never use one o’ them!”

The woman who was going by the name Amanda but whose aura clearly showed she was lying about it nodded. “It’s illegal. My sister had one once. Her husband slapped it right out of her hand.”

Joanne summoned another fire imp and took it to the kitchen where she pounded herbs and made up three baggies of loose tea. “This will keep you going for a couple of months. Drink a cup every morning. It’s not as effective, and it tastes terrible, but –.” She shrugged. “It’s the best I can do. Come back when you need more.”

The women looked at the bags uncertainly.

“You know how to make tea?”

Amanda scoffed. “Of course we do. It’s just … we don’t have any money.”

Joanne opened her front door. “On the house. Once I get the garden going again we can plant enough for everyone.”

After the women had packed up their tents and gone home, Joanne headed out again in search of electricity and WiFi. Both were promised at a Dunkin Donuts she found near the highway.

“The sign’s not true,” the teenager behind the counter told Joanne as she walked in. “We’re not hiring.”

“I’m just here for coffee,” Joanne said. “Check my email.”

A pink man in a too-small polo shirt stepped out of the tiny backroom. He pulled the hem of his shirt over his gut. “Who’s here?” he said.

The counter girl snapped her gum. “I already told her we weren’t hiring.”

The man stopped behind the girl and put his hand on her shoulder. “I think you should let me decide that, Jennifer.” His smile faltered as he caught sight of Joanne. ‘I’m sorry.” He stammered. “We aren’t hiring.”

“Just coffee.” Joanne held up her laptop. “Maybe a couple of doughnuts and a place to sit for a few minutes. You have that, right?”

The pink man turned red. “Of course.” He stepped away from the counter girl. “Jenifer will take care of you.”

Joanne gave the blonde girl a friendly smile. ‘Small coffee. Black. And two of those chocolate frosted.”

The girl put the doughnuts in the bag, slid the coffee across the counter, and drew her hand away from the $20 Joanne held out. She craned her neck to yell into the backroom. “Do we still take dollars?” she said.

The pink man leaned out of the door without leaving his chair. “What?”

“The old kind of money.”

“Sure.” He disappeared into the small room.

The blonde girl took the twenty and held it near the register. “How do I enter it?”

The pink man’s head appeared in the doorway again. “Convert it to Bitcoin, and add four.”

The girl did some math. “That’s going to be $17.75.”

“For a coffee and two doughnuts?” Joanne said.

The girl popped her gum and shrugged.

Joanne took her food and change to a greasy table in the corner of the shop. The coffee was burned and, she soon realized, the doughnuts were stale. She was logging into the Modern Witch discussion board when two overfed cops walked in. Joanne glanced up in time to see the doughnut clerk point her out to them. The biggest one hitched up his belt and strolled over to tower beside her.

“Got a receipt for that computer?” he said.

“This?” She blinked. “It’s least nine years old.”

“Where’d you get it?” The cop said. He tucked his thumbs in his belt, thick fingers trailing on the pepper spray looped there.

“Best Buy or something.”

The cop shrugged. “If you bought it there, you must have the papers.” He looked over his shoulders at the other cop. “They still give receipts out at Best Buy, Nick?”

The other cop nodded. “Last I checked.”

“I thought so,” the big cop said. “Stand up slow so we can get a good look at you.”

Joanne held her hands away from her body as she stood. She’d dealt with enough racist cops in the past to know what set them off. She held still while the big cop took her picture with his smart phone. “Give me a search,” he told the device. He watched the screen for a few seconds and grunted. “You aren’t even in the system, girly. Must be an Illegal. You just climb over the Wall or something?”

“I’ve lived in this country since before your parents were born,” Joanne said.

The cop laughed. “You hear that. Nick. She said --.” The big man flopped bonelessly to the floor, followed quickly by his partner.

Joanne put the doughnut shop’s staff to sleep for good measure. She filled a paper sack with stale doughnuts to feed her pixies. Her broom wasn’t comfortable for long distances, but it got her home in a couple of minutes. The teenaged girl in the scally cap was huddled on her doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” Joanna said.

The girl shrugged miserably. “Me dad threw me out, miss. Told him I’d lost the babe an’ he dragged me to the door!”

“I would think he’d be happy.”

The girl wiped her nose with her sleeve. “It were his best friend’s babe, miss. Gettin’ me up the tree like that were part of their marriage deal.”

Joanne’s jaw dropped. “Get inside. You are not going back to that house!”

She set the girl up in the spare bedroom.

Joanne returned to her spot in front of the living room fireplace and watched the pixies eat the doughnuts. They’d refilled the wood box while she’d been gone, and the fire roared merrily. Joanne opened her laptop and looked again at the email she’d downloaded. Tasha Islam: Fled to Canada and now working out of a brownstone in Montreal. She’d moved most of Joanne’s money to an offshore account. Sonja Gomez, her best friend in the witch community, deported without a hearing. Drones fighting World War III over what was left of the Middle East and Northern Africa. Martial law in Chicago, Philadelphia, and Detroit. Texas starving in wake of its Referendum of Independence.

Joanne stared into the fire. Going back on pause would be the easiest thing for her, probably best for the girl, too. The 1920s were great and the ’40s had shown a lot of potential, but Joanne had slept through the ‘30s and ‘50s without hesitation. It would be easy to do it again, turn the glass and skip the bad years in hopes of better.

The girl knocked shyly on the door and came in. “Do you have a TV, miss. Downton Abby is on in a few minutes and --.”

“No TV, but there’s a full library in the next room.” She pointed.

The girl sighed. “I can’t read, miss. Guess I’ll just try to sleep.”

“Can’t read?”

The girl shook her head. “Never went to school. Me dad said it was for boys and no use for a girl like me.”

Joanne rubbed her forehead. “What’s your name?

“Zoey, miss.”

“Where does your father live, Zoey? Describe it to me carefully.”

Maybe this time better years needed a little push. There were more witches out there, many of them likely on pause but many more just hidden away and riding it out. She could find them. Organize them. There were no doubt plenty of girls like Zoey, too. The witches could swell their ranks in a few years, sharing their arcane knowledge with a new generation of women.

Joanne listened to Zoey’s description of her father’s home and rehearsed her dragon-summoning spell.

This story was originally published on Writers Resist, August 2017.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

I went a little nuts in the days after Nov. 8, 2016. The timeline had split, and I was in the wrong one. Each day after, for years, brought new horrors. My mind writhed and twisted in reaction, tearing and fusing in weird places. How could this be? How could any of this be?

A week before the General Election on Nov. 5, 2024, I’m right back there. I’m having trouble concentrating. I can’t write. The urge to nap four or five times a day is nearly overpowering. I crave whoopie pies and beer.

I have no optimism, just gibbering panic pushed to the edges with comfort fodder. 

Here’s what that fodder is:

A History of Rock Music in 500 Songs -- I adore this podcast, in which a mild-mannered British dude does a deep dive into the various streams of music that flowed together to create rock n’ roll. Well-researched and culturally aware, each half-hour episode creates a little oasis I can live and do chores in. 

I love, love this podcast. Really. L.O.V.E.

Starfield -- Released by Bethesda Games Studios (BGS) in September 2023, Starfield is not a great game. The writing is kind of lackluster. It uses the ‘Space Muslims’ trope. There’s a lot of religion in it. In essence, there’s not as much there there as BGS would like you to believe. It’s not a great game, but it is a grand game, and I can lose myself for a while in my various spaceships, coming up with characters and telling myself stories as I explore the galaxy.

Not a TrumpKin to be found on this lifeless planet!

Raking Leaves -- A half hour of raking leaves burns between 125 and 178 calories (depending on the weight of the raker). Bagging them nearly doubles that. Leaves are pretty and crunchy and light. Couple this activity with a good podcast (see above), and I can deny reality for at least an hour. 

Matching flannel isn’t necessary, but it helps. Don’t smoke a pipe though. Leaves are pretty flammable.

The Inktober Challenge -- I wrote about this a couple of weeks ago. The goal is to draw something, in ink, every day and post it where people can see it. Apparently, I’ve become someone who needs to create. When The Writing is not going well, I need a different outlet. This month, drawing has been it.

What? Me worry?

Moving My Harris-Walz Signs Inside at Night -- My Harris-Walz signs have been stolen three times. The last time it was a four-by-four sign, ziptied to two steel posts driven into my spouse’s side garden. MAGAteers came right onto the property and took it. Now I have two (really three, I live on a corner and the scofflaws haven’t noticed the side-street sign yet) more-modest signs, and I bring them inside when it gets dark. Thus, I can pretend there aren’t sign-stealing TrumpKins in my neighborhood. It helps me sleep.

This pic was obviously taken BEFORE I re-discovered the Raking Leaves hack.

As you can see by that last entry, none of this works perfectly. The dread remains. So, I non-partisanly preach to my college students about the importance of voting. I show them how easy it is to register and find out where their polling station is. I limit (for me) my news consumption. I have my own detailed plan to make it to the polls (walk out the door, head down the street, turn right, walk a little more, turn left, stop when I see the gauntlet of campaigners). 

I remind myself that I’m a cis, het-ish white guy, and I’ll be fine whatever happens. Strangely this last bit gives me no comfort at all. If Donald Trump gets elected (again!) a lot of people will get hurt, and I’m not OK with that. And in the end, it will affect all of us, and I do mean all, negatively. Maybe you can sit back and watch a lot of other people get fucked first, but it will come 'round to you (and me) soon enough.

So take your comforts. Stay sane. But on Nov. 5, put down that rake, take your spaceship back into the tainted atmosphere, drop the sketchbook, (you can probably take the podcast into the booth with you), and get your ass to the polls.

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

The angular gyrus. 

If I have any magic, that’s where it lies. It’s a chunk of tissue in the parietal lobe of the brain that makes reading and writing possible. Over the years, mine has raised my grades, earned me admirers, and paid my bills. It’s the sharpest tool I have. My best trick.

From Wikimedia Commons

My angular gyrus has been making hay for me since kindergarten, when I read a Dick and Jane book to my entire class. It got me my first published work, an elementary-school book report published in the local paper, and enabled me to skip most of second grade and catch up with my best friend Kevin in third. That little piece of not much got me my ‘writing-intensive’ political-science degree, my journalism career, my teaching career, my master of fine arts degree, and more recently four traditionally published novels and two dozen short stories.

As far as angular gyruses go, it’s a pretty good one.

But I always wanted to be in a band. Or be a visual artist. Or dance. Or sing. Or build furniture. When the COVID lockdown made it hard to write, I made stupid little films. The Energy of Creativity forcing its way out though a new, albeit far inferior channel. I want all the creative outlets. 

I also have a touch of dysgraphia. That’s a hiccup in my frontal lobe, a place called ‘Exner’s writing area. It means that, although I took penmanship lessons far longer than my elementary and middle-grade peers, my handwriting is terrible. It shows up in my line work when I draw, too, and in my strumming and picking hand when I play guitar.  To be sure, others have overcome far worse to become successful musicians and artists, but my angular gyrus and my choice to pick the least-resistant route put me on the writing path. 

I still play guitar sometimes. A couple of times a year I vow this is going to be It, this is going to be the year I really learn to Play the thing. I get out my binder of music and build up my calluses. Earlier this year I almost did an open mic. I brought my guitar to the venue, had a song prepped. The first player was a high-school girl who was better than I’ll ever be. My guitar stayed in its case and when my turn at the microphone came, I fell back on my trick and read a short story.

Cowardice. I felt it. I acknowledge it.

Good enough for the cat.

Ink was my favorite medium during the couple of years I thought I might become a visual artist. Even as I struggled, I enjoyed the scratch of the nib on paper. Art classes in high school and college were wonderful and frustrating. I remember a friend saying I spent more time on my drawing homework than I did on anything else. I wanted to be good, but my patience and that side of my ego wore out.

October is my birth month, as well as #InkTober, one of the many creative stunts/motivators the Internet has spawned. The idea is to draw something every day of the month and post it where people can see it. I’ve taken on the challenge this year, posting my little offerings to my Instagram page. I’m no better than I used to be, probably worse, but I’m enjoying it. I catch myself thinking about and anticipating what I’m going to draw next. It feels a little brave to make the thing and put it out in the world. 

My angular gyrus isn’t jealous. It’s still doing its work, churning out words and consuming books. It might even like the company. No wizard worth their salt relies on a single trick.

Speaking of which, the guitar is looking pretty good again, too. And there’s another open mic about the time of my birthday …

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

I don’t talk much about the writing here. Maybe that’s a mistake, but generally the only ones interested in essays about writing are writers, and I want to reach readers, babies! I want to give them a peek into my brain and intrigue them enough to seek out my paying work.

And maybe I want to write essays, too, and put them somewhere they can be read.

I’m sans-contract at the moment, and it doesn’t feel good. I did four books in four years, 2020-2023, and now I’m back in the submission trenches. My agent has two fresh “R.W.W. Greene” manuscripts in her portfolio, but that don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got ka-ching.

Photo by Alexander Mils on Unsplash

So, I keep writing. If the ones she has now don’t stick, maybe the next one will. Or the one after that. I have a full draft of a new one in the drawer, and I’m working on another.

Writing novels is an iterative process for me. I start a lot of things, play with them, and keep going on the ones that start to talk back to me. I leave a lot of pieces on the workbench or on the floor underneath it. Here’s a bit of something that didn’t make the cut (or hasn’t yet):

Photo by Leo_Visions on UnsplashDrag watched his arm and leg vanish behind the security screen.

“This is a raw deal, Ace. You know I’m good for more.”

The pawnshop owner rippled. “I know you’d be good for it eventually. There’s no telling if I’d live long enough to get it.”

“Har-dee-fucking har.” Drag pulled the chit emerging from the payment slot. “What am I supposed to do for the rest?”

“What else you got? I’ll give you twenty times that for Clementine’s paperwork.”

“You’re not getting your slimy pseudopods anywhere near my ship. Give me the drawer again.”

The business end of the transaction drawer yawned open. Drag put his gun inside and, after a moment’s thought, his knife. “What would I get for those?”

“I bet you have a backup piece.”

“Of course, I have a backup.” Drag snarled and reached around to the small of his back for his holdout blaster.

“That’s not the only one.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“Add the belt and the holsters,” Ace said. “The leather’s not doing you any good without something to put in it.”

“You gonna ask for my dick next?”

“Which one? Add your collection to the deal we’ll start talking real money.”

“Frag off.” The belt, holsters, and sheathe joined the weapons in the drawer. “That’s it. That’s all I got.” The drawer closed and retracted. A new chit appeared where the first had been. Drag inspected it. “Enough. Barely.” He put both cards in his sporran. “I thought we were pals, Ace.”

“We are pals.”

“Last time we did this, you gave me twice that for my prosthetics.”

“They were state of the art and brand-new then. Been a long time since those words applied to anything associated with you.”

Drag’s flesh hand floated to the metal side of his face. It fell before it made contact. “Yeah, well. None of us are getting any younger.”

Ace rippled. “Speak for yourself. I’m due for a regen this month.”

“Least you can’t wipe me up with a roll of toilet paper.”

“The shift just started,” Ace said, “and you’re getting smaller all the time.”

Drag stumped back toward the docks, his kilt hanging weirdly over his in-case-of leg. His spares weren’t much better than a hook and a peg, but they’d do. The change in his gait would make it harder for the bots running the security cams to pick him up. 

He waited for his turn at the window. “I got your money.”

“Excellent.” The intelligent lifeform inside the booth looked like a crocus made from old boots. Its dockmaster tag was pinned directly to its skin. “Let me bring up your paperwork.” The security drawer under the window opened. “Chits, please.”

Drag put the cards inside. 

“Let me check the spelling of your name,” the dockmaster said. “Given name, D-R-A-G. Surname, C-O-E-F-F-I-C-I-E-N-T?”

“Don’t hurt yourself on it.”

“Is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Your ship is registered as Clementine. C-L-E-M-E-N-T-I-N-E?”

He nodded. 

“Is that correct?” the dockmaster prodded.

“A nod means ‘yeah’ in human.” He nodded again to show.

“Thank you for the language lesson. Are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Is that an offer? Buy me a puff, and I’ll consider it.”

“Are you on station for business or for pleasure?” 

The ilf’s tone hadn’t changed. Maybe it couldn’t. Maybe it sprayed poison pollen all over the place when it got miffed. Drag recognized the species but couldn’t remember its defense mechanisms. “Both,” he said. “Seeing some people and looking for work from some of those same people.”

“Bloodseal, please.”

Drag put his meat thumb on the sample pad, barely feeling the probe that swiped a few cells from his bone marrow. “We good?”

“Your docking fees are up to date.” A card emerged from the printer. “This is a sixteen-shift pass. If you need to extend it, return here. Otherwise,” its body language remained unchanged, “have a nice visit.”

Sixteen shifts. Four days by the system used in The Backwater where Drag had been spending too much of his time. Four rotations of a dead planet to scratch up enough to cover his pawn ticket and find a job worth all the trouble he was taking.

Drag pawed through his clothes for loose coins, and moved all he found to a single pouch. He gave up on trying to square his uneven shoulders and let the limp show. Drag Coefficient, down and out. Not a pot to piss in, not even a knife to defend himself with. Play the role. He snorted. “Not too damned far from the truth.”

A passerby with four legs and an armored thorax looked at him strangely. 

“Spare change?” Drag said hopefully. 

The ilf averted its eyes and hurried down the corridor. Drag went the other way.

Thirty-two varieties of body odor, twenty types of puff, and the miasma of cheap-hooch greeted him at the door of the Shit Poke. Drag went nose blind for a few seconds as his processors caught up with their cataloging. One smell in particular caught his attention. Two, really, a klatof in heat, but he wasn’t here for that.

“Get the fuck out of here, Drag!” the source of the first smell hollered across the bar. S/he was a little taller than s/he’d been the last time, s/his cheek fur a little grayer, but there was no mistaking the voice. “I told you never to come here again.”

“Give me a break, Growpa.” He pushed through the dazed crowd, making sure s/he could see his mostly empty sleeve. “I just came in for a drink.”

“That’s what you said the last time.” S/his lowest pair of hands went to s/his hips. The other set continued pouring drinks and loading puff pipes. “I was picking chitin out of the walls for days!”

“I’m not even carrying, star-spout.” Drag’s three-fingered prosthetic followed his meat hand to shoulder level, palms out. “No trouble here.”

“You could make trouble with a cocktail napkin.” S/he leaned over to push a snoring patron off their bar stool. The ilf slipped to the floor without complaint and disappeared into the scrum. “It’s a good thing I don’t have any.”

Drag took the stool. “I appreciate it, love. You won’t-.”

S/he put a taloned finger in his face. “Don’t. Do not. Get started with that ‘love’ shit. You lost those privileges a long time ago.”

“OK.” He nodded. “Agreed.”

“What are you having?”

“Water.” He grinned sheepishly, “It’s about all I can afford.”

“You son of a leto!” Heavy hands went back to s/his hips. “Just ‘came in for a drink,’ my puckered cloaca. You need money.”

“I do, but not from you.” He put a few coins from his stash on the bar. “Beer. Cheapest you got.”

“At least that hasn’t changed. What happened to your arm?”

“Ace happened. Leg, too. Needed to pay my docking fee.”

“Still flying that garbage truck?”

“Refuse hauler, thank you very much.” He smirked. “You weren’t always so down on it.”

“Dumber days,” s/he said. “Young dumb and full of … whatever.”

“Drink to them.” He held up his beer box. “To the old days.”

Growpa didn’t bite. “What do you want, Drag?”

He set the box down on the seldom-used coaster. “A connection. A hint. Hell, I’ll take a rumor. I need to make some quick money?”

“How much?”

He told s/him.

“For that kind of scratch you need to go uplevel.”

“Look at me,” he rotated his cheap metal hand on its flimsy wrist, “there’s no way in hell they’ll take me seriously.”

“What do you need that much money for?”

He told s/him. 

S/he hooted. “Drag Coefficient, gentleman farmer! You always hated groundlings!”

He sipped at the straw built into the beer box. “Things change. Anyway, it’s not my farm. I owe someone a favor.”

“You owe everyone a fucking favor! I’ve lost track of the markers you’ve given me!”

“Fair.” He ducked his head. “Look, just this one time. This one last thing. Then you’ll never see me again.” He held up two metal fingers, an inch apart. “Give me this much, and I’ll go the rest of the way on my own.”

“Promise?”

“On my ship.”

S/he sighed. “I might know someone who needs something. But you’ll need a weapon.”

“Got one I can borrow?”

The address s/he gave him had never even heard of uplevel. It had pipe dreams of reaching the level where the biodigester facility was. It was lucky it had a door, thin enough for a whisper to penetrate much less a bullet. Drag stood to the side of it and used his three-fingered hand to knock. “Growpa sent me. Said you needed a hand.”

A slow, shuffling sound from inside. “Growpa sent you?”

“Old friend of mine. My name’s Drag.”

“Are you packing?” The voice was slow, gassy sibilance. Drag’s translator identified the speaker as a grax.

“Yeah.”

“Keep it in your pocket and come in. I see a gun, I’m leveling you.”

“Got it.” Drag fumbled with the door. It was so primitive he needed a few extra seconds to figure out how it opened. “I’m coming in.”

The stench had been bad outside; inside it made Drag’s meat eye water. Almost anywhere else, the grax would have been nobility. Here it floated in a tank of nutri-ooze polluted with its own castings. The ilf had fallen hard and hit every rock on the way down. “You don’t look like much,” it said.

“Neither do you.”

The grax gurgled like bad plumbing. “I suppose not.”

“What do you need doing? I warn you I don’t come cheap.”

“If you’re down here, you’re not as expensive as you’d like to be.” The ooze in the tank bubbled, releasing a fresh wave of putrescence. “Someone owes me money. I want you to collect.”

“You a shark?”

“Something like that. I’m between collectors at the moment.”

Drag nodded at the auto-turret set up next to the tank. “Is that your HR department?”

“My last employee simply wasn’t up to the task. The debtor refused payment and returned her head to me.”

“This isn’t an audition. I do this, it’s a one-time thing. I bring you the money, you pay me. No stringing me along on a job offer.” 

“As you wish.” He named a figure.

Drag named a different one. The number went back and forth until the edges fell off.

“Settled,” the grax said. “If they send me your head, what would you like me to do with it?”

“What did you do with hers?”

“I ate it.”

“Give me the name and address.”

The station was old by any ilf’s standards. Drag’s ancestors had maybe learned to brew beer reliably the year the second addition was bolted on. It had been important once. The grax’s mission took him to a better-smelling neighborhood with a view of the rubble of the planet the station orbited. Drag watched it awhile. Even mined into gravel it was in better shape than Earth, the planet he’d fled as a child. Earth had been important once, too, if only to the people who lived there and the raiders who wanted its resources.

The bar was called The Space Chaser, according to Drag’s translator, which had been around long enough to grok puns. It was the kind of place that stationed a bouncer outside, a big ilf with vestigial feathers and an artful scar across their face. 

“You’re human,” they said.

Drag smirked. “Mostly.”

“Don’t see a lot of your kind around here.”

“You don’t see a lot of us anywhere. Last big war took care of that.”

The ilf’s feathers stood up, making it seen even bigger until it got the reaction under control.

“You serve?” Drag said. 

“Not on your side.”

“Is that going to be a problem? I just want a drink.”

The ilf looked down their beak nose at him. “Are you armed?”

“A little.”

“Show me.”

Drag pulled the loaner out by the butt and put it on the tray of the scanner. The ilf laughed. “You’d do more damage with that if you threw it. It’s a kid’s toy.”

“You must have grown up in some rough playgrounds. Can I take it in?”

“No. You might hurt someone’s feelings with it.” The tray slid into the wall. “You can reclaim it on the way out. Is that all you got?”

“You’ve scanned me three times already. You know it is.”

“Had to see what you’d say. Policy.” The ilf jerked their head. “Go ahead.”

The door slid aside, and Drag limped in. Nice place. Well-tended air filtration, variable lighting, adaptable seating. “Beer,” he told the bartender. “Cheapest you got.”

The bartender’s nasal cilia twitched with disdain. 

“I think I’m looking for your boss.” Drag offered the name. “Owns this place, right?”

The bartender held the beer box a foot above the coppertop and dropped it. Drag caught it on the bounce. “Can I get one of those little umbrellas? I love those things.”

The bartender turned away. Drag sucked experimentally on the built-in straw. “Not bad. What about your boss?”

The bartender moved a little further away, their horny feet making clicking noises on the tile behind the bar.

Drag cleared his throat. “I’d usually put my gun on the bar now to get your attention, but the kid outside took it.”

More clicking.

“I don’t have enough on me for a bribe, so my options are a little limited here.” He held up his claw hand. “This doesn’t look like much, and admittedly it isn’t.” He lowered the metal hand and put up the meat one instead. “This one, though … I was special forces in the war. Got all kinds of add-ons and enhancements.” He gripped the edge of the bar and squeezed. The rail cracked loudly and the coppertop dimpled under the pressure of his thumb. “That could be your neck, nestling. I’m threatening you. Maybe you should tell your boss about me. The name is Drag Coefficient. Don’t ask me to spell it.”

The ilf sniffed and picked up the phone and said some words into it, hung it up. “They’ll be out in a minute”

“Thanks.” Drag took a longer sip of beer and mostly failed to ignore the painful cramping in his hand. “I’ll wait.”

The box was nearly empty by the time the escort arrived, more out of Drag’s need for pain mitigation than the escort’s tardiness. Another big ilf, same species as the one at the door. Their clothes were better though, and if Drag had to guess, he’d say they were the other one’s older sibling. “The beer’s shit,” he said, “but I’ll buy you one.”

“You got the boss’s attention already,” the ilf said, “no need to be funny.”

Drag rocked off the barstool. The escort put a hand on his chest and pushed. Drag slid three feet on his ass before slowing to a stop.

“Impressive.” He held up the beer box. “You think that’s why everybody stopped serving these in glasses? Less to clean up when ilves like you needed to show off?” He sucked the last of the beer out of the box and tossed it to the bartender. “Hand up? I’m not as spry as I was a couple of hours ago.”

When no help was offered, he clambered to his feet, cursing the immobility of the peg leg and the weakness of the arm. “Let me know if you want to show off again. I’ll just fall over and make you look good.”

“This way,” the ilf said.

“I like your nestmate better. They can take a joke.”

“They are a joke. That’s why they’re at the door.”

Drag struggled to keep up as the ilf led the way down a short hallway to the foot of a steep staircase. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an elevator.”

“Not for you.” 

“I truly hope we continue to get along so well.” Drag gripped the banister with his aching meat hand. “After you.”

Fourteen steps and another hallway later, he was in the presence of the boss. Same species as Growpa, maybe a generation younger. S/his office was comfortable but plain.

“I’ve heard of you. You did some work for my parent,” s/he said. 

“I wondered if that was you. I saw your nursery once.”

“You’re not as impressive as the stories suggest.”

“Always seems to work that way. Mind if I sit?”

The boss waved him to a chair. It didn’t quite match the other furniture in the office.

“Got something I can put my leg up on? It hurts like hell after those stairs.”

“Get him a crate from the back,” s/he told the flunky. “Drink?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Drag said. 

S/he poured and distributed while the flunky dropped a crate unceremoniously in front of Drag and took up guard position near the desk. Drag maneuvered his peg leg atop the crate with some difficulty and care. “Better,” he said. “My gratitude.”

“To decent manners,” s/he lifted a glass. “My parent would have insisted on them for s/his former associate.”

Drag lifted his own glass. “To manners.”

They drank.

“’Would have.’ Past tense,” Drag said. “The old ilf died, I take it.”

“Assassinated.”

“I bet all your siblings are gone, too. Nice and neat.”

“Business is business.”

“Six kits in a litter.” He drained the glass. “You put the money where it needs to go, the bar not your office. Solid security above and below. You’re good at this.

“Thank you.”

“So why are you borrowing from a disgraced grax?”

S/his glass froze halfway to s/his mouth. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Like you said, business is business.”

“I assumed you were looking for work.” The glass returned to the desktop.

“I am, and I’m open to it once I fulfill this contract.”

“Did the grax tell you what happened to its last emissary?”

“I’m hoping for a different outcome.”

S/he laughed. “I expected the audacity but not the foolishness. Do you know how your predecessor died?”

“I assume the big ilf over there had something to do with it. The nestmate took the collector’s weapons, they came up here, demanded you pay up, and died right here.” He smiled at the bodyguard. “Do it like that again, your boss is going to need another new chair.”

“It came out of their salary,” the boss said. “I’m sure they’ll be more careful this time.”

Drag fluttered his kegels and let some of the charge in his pegleg out of the business end. The corner of the desk disappeared in an explosion of splinters and light. The big ilf hit the floor, bleeding from a dozen shrapnel wounds.

“It’s on a deadman.” He adjusted his peg on the crate. “Next one goes into you whether I make it or not.”

“Inventive.” S/his cheeks were inflated, the poison spikes within ready to fire. “How many shots do you have in that trick leg, I wonder.”

“I forget. That one was about a ‘two’ on the scale.”

The guard ilf moaned softly.

“I hit anything important?” Drag asked them. “I’d hate to break up a family.”

Another moan. A ‘no.’ probably. The feathered ilfs were not as tough as they looked. Bird-boned. The ones Drag had fought in the war had been armored. Their vital organs were buried deep, though, so they’d probably be all right.

“Your flunky’s getting blood on the floor,” Drag said. “Be a pity to add to it.”

S/his cheeks deflated. “How do you see this working out? I give you the money and watch you slide out of here on your ass with your leg pointed at me? Or will you just shoot me in the face?”

“I’d have shot your parent in a heartbeat. You, I’m not sure about, yet.”

“Whatever I am, the grax is worse. Your new friend is not someone you should dock a ship with.”

“I guessed that.” There was one, maybe two shots left in the pegleg. “You don’t see them in that kind of shape too often.”

“An exile. You have to wonder what it did to become a pariah.”

“I bet it wasn’t easy. The grax don’t hold much sacred.”

“Money.” The boss tented s/his long fingers on the table. “That’s about it.”

Drag shook his head. “Money’s just a way of keeping score. The grax care about debt. Makes me wonder why you thought you could get away with stiffing one.”

“It owes more to someone else.”

Thanks for reading twenty-first-century blues! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.