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Evan Andrew Mackay
You never know when it’s going to happen. A flying saucer pulled off the
side of the highway with the hood up, alien waving a tentacle wielding
what could be a sparkplug, a cellphone or a ray gun and shouting,
“Znelflgjpd knorb zlothkpmzus!” How would you respond? You’ve hit the
alien language barrier. With NASA’s Kepler telescope spotting potentially habitable planets by the dozen
outside our solar system, it may be time for us to start brushing up on
our extraterrestrial language skills, or get ready to tutor E.T. in
Earthish as a Second Language.
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Helen Michaud
It used to be that you only had to apply the words “space-age” to any
product to instantly convey the idea of sleek modernity, evoking a
vertiginous sense of being propelled into the future at light speed.
Though precious few have had the privilege of donning a pressure suit
and floating in orbit, many more of us were captivated by the lesser
gifts of the space program. In school I scribbled notes with a
pressurized pen that could write upside-down (not that anyone
ever needed to), and when I emerged from a visit to the Smithsonian
gnawing on freeze-dried astronaut ice cream that did nothing to cool me
off on a hot summer day, I nevertheless thought it was grand.
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D.F. McCourt
In issue #4 of AE we’re going to be seeing some new authors and some familiar ones as well. Our lead story “Planetsmith” is a collaboration between first-time author Chris Stamp and established Canadian novelist Lynda Williams. The cover art, Glass Sky, is by Mike Linkovich, a Toronto artist who also provided the iconic cover from AE #1.
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Paul Jarvey
Exploration of the unknown is a motif that drives much of science
fiction, from Verne’s endless underground caverns and deep sea depths to
the cold silence of research stations orbiting distant stars. Tales of
isolation and hardship are as old as the genre itself, with their roots
in histories and mythologies that flourished long before science fiction
had a name. Some of the most influential of these have been the
scientific records, captain’s logs, and journals of early northern
explorers. Evidence from these journeys has been guarded as state
secrets, revered for the hardship and heroism chronicled within, and
burned into the collective memory of a generation as Europe’s
hundred-year obsession with arctic exploration came to terms with the
loss and destruction that walked hand in hand with the search for a
Northwest Passage.
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D.F. McCourt
It’s been a long while since I was in the young adult demographic. Maybe
things have changed or maybe I misremember but, in either case, Jamie
Mason’s new YA novel Echo was a surprise. Echo pulls no
punches on account of the age of its target audience. It is dark and
violent, at turns both oppressive and isolating, and its vocabulary,
though never ostentatious, is as broad as many novels for the adult
market. On the other hand, Sarai the Snake Girl is a teenager, and the
book is a scant hundred pages.
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Helen Michaud
Much is written, and rightly so, about the importance in fiction of a
strong beginning, but what is often harder to pull off successfully is
the ending. This is especially true in short fiction, which doesn’t
provide much space to introduce new characters, develop an intriguing
situation, and bring it all to a satisfactory resolution (which doesn’t
necessarily mean tying it up with a bow).
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D.F. McCourt
It seems that everyone involved with science fiction has taken a stab at
defining the genre somewhere along the way. I don’t know that that’s a
particularly good idea and I’m not going to throw my hat in the ring,
but I can tell you that if it were my job to draw a line down the middle
of the SF&F section at the bookstore, I wouldn’t do it at the
ampersand. The matter of which fantastical tropes a work is using seems
so much less important than how it is using them.
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Helen Michaud
There’s a certain type of story that we’ve seen more than once in our
inbox. I call it (SPOILER!) the “robot fails to overcome its
programming” story. It goes something like this: The protagonist is a
robot on a mission. It is ingenious and resourceful, surmounting
obstacle after obstacle that lies between it and its goal, despite the
fact that the circumstances it faces are perhaps not quite what it was
designed to handle. As the day draws to a close, it succeeds (or maybe
it doesn’t) and in accordance with its programming, it returns to its
home base for the night where it expects to receive further
instructions. Except the base isn’t there, or there’s no one left to
provide the next set of instructions — in any case, it’s unable to
complete the circuit in a satisfactory manner. But this robot fails
gracefully, as it was designed to do. It recharges as per protocol, and
the next day, it will set out on its mission again, as it did today.
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Helen Michaud
These days it seems like end of the world is everywhere you look. But there’s another category of stories that don’t just treat the
apocalypse as a device, as either a ridiculously contrived crisis that
is inevitably averted or a convenient preamble that provides an
appropriately lawless backdrop for the main events of the tale. These
pre-apocalyptic stories examine what shape the end of the world might
take, and what part we as individuals living in modern society might
play in bringing it about.
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