Canaries in a lunar mine

At one point in Cthulhu 2050: Whispers Beyond The Stars, the protagonist (that's you) might need to travel to the Moon. There are extensive lunar colonies with about ten thousand people living there, but they’re almost all working in highly specialized technical jobs and a ticket to the Moon isn’t cheap. So how are you going to get up there?

My process of collaboration with Paweł Dziemski was that I wrote the first draft, comprising about half the sections, and Paweł then expanded that and in doing so he had to fix all the loose ends and plot holes that I’d blithely left in my wake. (See how sneaky I am?) So I pondered what skills the protagonist could offer to convince a corporation to pay for them to go to the Moon – assuming that by that point in the game you haven’t saved enough credits to buy your own ticket and aren’t stealthy enough to stow away. One possibility was this:

I’d been focusing on how to make colonies in space credible. In short, if you have super-intelligent robots, why send humans at all, other than maybe a few supervisors? One job I figured that robots couldn’t do to everyone’s satisfaction was sex work*. Most humans will probably continue to prefer screwing a partner with no nuts and bolts. Well, with no bolts, anyway.

I was thinking of the SF I read back in the early 1970s, when the Western world was a lot less prudish than today. But Paweł gave me a reality check, pointing out that a digital gamebook might be played by children, and (again, unlike the ‘70s) parents get very prissy about controlling what their kids see and read.

I hadn’t thought of that. On an episode of his Cautionary Tales podcast, Tim Harford talks about Alvin Roth’s theory of repugnant markets. Repugnant markets include trade in kidneys and (in many countries) prostitution. Roth solved the kidney transplant problem with the concept of an exchange – if two people in need of the service (a transplant) both had a willing donor (say a relative) whose tissue type was incompatible with them but would work for the stranger, the market could put them in touch with each other. The equivalent trade in a society that regards prostitution as a repugnant market would be partner-swapping parties or orgies – effectively an exchange in sexual services.

“A profession that is always violent at its core,” is one common view of prostitution. That’s similar to the argument that used to be heard in the 1960s that homosexual politicians were more likely to fall prey to foreign spies. Such politicians were more at risk of blackmail, but not because of their innate character and sexual preferences; it was because society at the time marginalized and even outlawed those preferences. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I’d anticipated a future in which prostitution was legal, regulated, and therefore no longer controlled by human traffickers and violent criminals. But that’s a 20th century liberal view of the future, not the thinking of a culture now dominated by American puritanism. Paweł was quite right. We didn’t want irate parents and fundamentalist religious groups creating a fuss, so we quietly shelved the sex-work option and went for this instead:

That’s way better. When you have to abandon your first idea, the second thought is usually a big improvement. Murder your darlings, as Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch said. My version was merely satirical: the best job an underskilled human can hope for in a fully automated future is hiring out their body for sex. Paweł’s revised version is genuinely chilling: humans are used for dangerous work because they are cheaper to replace than the top-quality robot models. We got there by a process of collaboration, which proves that two heads are better than one – and not just in bed.

* Nick Bostrom suggests two other professions he thinks people won't want robots/AIs to do: priest and politician. He could be right. I find it hard to believe there are still priests in the 21st century, but then it's not the 21st century I signed up for. As for politicians -- if AI couldn't do that job better, it really isn't worth bothering with.

The road more traveled by

Following on from the previous post, I don't want to give the impression that all of my collaborations with Jamie consist of me writing something and then him taking over and cutting out half of it. They do say murder your darlings and, as Hitchcock and Highsmith pointed out (above), it helps to get a friend to do it for you.

Here's a case where it went a little differently. We were talking to the Fabled Lands agent, Piers Blofeld, about digital gamebooks. I mentioned time travel and how for it to really grip as a story it has to be personal. We talked about the old Falcon gamebooks that Jamie wrote with Mark Smith in the 1980s, and how those were very much in the 2000AD adventure style, but how maybe they could be rebooted with a little more relatability for a wider audience.

So I wrote this as a possible new way in to the story of a protagonist who gets to "fix" mistakes in time:

You always had a sixth sense. And people laughed at you for trusting it. But you knew better. The time your friends at high school piled into Billy’s older brother’s car to drive out for a picnic, and Billy had only had one beer but you felt something like a physical dread. Couldn’t get in the car. You watched them drive off and six hours later you watched the crane haul the car out of the west river.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” the cop asked.

“I had to study.”

Because you’d already learned not to talk about your glimpses of the future, even then. When people thought you could see what was coming up, they blamed you if it went bad. Best to say nothing. Keep the sixth sense – or whatever it was – to yourself.

But you learned to trust that sense. Right up till the last day of your life.

Okay, so then there's an elision to a scene in which you are in a plane crash...

A bang. It just sounded like a tyre blowout until the gravity switched off.

You wake up in the wreckage. Not too badly hurt, as far as you can tell, but you’re completely trapped in a cage of twisted seats and crushed fuselage. A liquid drips on you, causing an icy stab of panic until you realize it’s not aviation fuel but some kind of air con coolant. Even so, you can dully hear screams through the wreckage, and the smell of burning.

An overhead locker pops open and a bald man in a neat dark suit and grey trilby hat drops into the crumpled seat beside you. “You’re thinking you should’ve trusted your instincts,” he says.

“What? Who are you?” You strain to look past him into the locker. Is there a way out?

“I’m just guessing,” he goes on. “I can’t read minds or anything. Though I know what you’ll do now.”

You strain as far as the vice-like grip of your crushed seat rest will allow. The locker is empty, no escape route through to the outside. “Where did you come from? What happened? Was it a bomb on the plane?”

“A bomb?” He’s amused. “Like a terrorist incident? That’s ego talking, my friend. No, no terrorists. The universe has plenty of ways to kill you all on its own.”

He drones on and you listen with half your mind. He's telling you that many pasts and futures exist. Likens it to driving along a motorway. Spacetime can drift like a driver who’s nodding off, and that’s okay as long as the driver gets jolted awake when the tyres hit the hard shoulder. But if not he can go right off the road. And then there’s no getting back.

“Romulus can kill Remus, or vice versa, and you’re still on the blacktop. But if the wolf eats them both – that’s what we call a train wreck for time.”

“I thought we were talking about cars?”

“Ha! You see, right there, that’s what I’m looking for. You keep your wits about you. And then there are your premonitions, of course, where you see a few tracks over, what might happen or what could have been… That’s why we want you to join us.”

“Join you? Who the hell are you?” You struggle in the seat, but a wave of pain tells you there are at least a few broken bones. To think, you’re going to bleed to death or burn in the wreckage and your last conversation is with a madman.

He takes out an old-style fob watch with too many dials. “I’ll need your answer within 32 seconds. The fire hits the tanks then. To answer your question: we are the Curators. We locate the precious key moments of time, and if there’s an instability – a crack, if you like – we fix it.”

“And you want me to do that? But I have a marketing meeting in Seattle in four hours.”

“No you don’t. You don’t have a future. You don’t have a life. And you most certainly don’t have four hours. You have – “ he consults the watch “ – fifteen seconds. Yes or no? In or out? Life or death?”

Either way, this is the last day of your old life. But you could have a new life. If you agree to his offer, turn to 1. Just don’t take fifteen seconds to think about it.

We didn't use it. Why? Because we realized that the folks buying those old gamebooks aren't looking for a reboot. They want the untouched text. The classic edition, if you like. That's why we eventually released Blood Sword without completely overhauling the baroque tactical combat rules that I loathed. And similarly, Falcon came back to life exactly as if the intervening 30 years had never happened. And that's real time travel, I guess.



POSTSCRIPT: The time repair agency concept is one that's often explored in classic SF. To take one example: Philip K Dick's characteristically paranoid  "Adjustment Team", which inspired the movie The Adjustment Bureau. A rather more successful film adaptation was Predestination, based on Robert A Heinlein's short story "All You Zombies".