Half Broken But Fully Awesome

Set in a world devastated by war, plague, and pestilence, Suzanne Palmer’s new novel Ode To The Half Broken is the story of a solitary robot with a dark past who has hidden itself away from the woes of the world, living in a small shack and studying the lives of insects. In the opening chapters, the robot (who has no name) is knocked out of their routine due to an attack by bandits and is forced to go on the road to recover their missing leg.

Palmer — who made a name for herself with Hugo-winning novelettes about robots The Secret Lives of Bots and Bots of the Lost Ark — tells the robot’s story in a fairly breezy cadence, interspersing road trip-style chapters with flashbacks to the scientists who built the robot (and who are in part responsible for global devastation). It’s an engaging and enjoyable read that could be described as Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven by way of Clifford D. Simak’s 1952 novel City.

The road-trip format of the novel provides an effective tool to explore various facets of how society has collapsed. From train trips through plague towns, to cities ruined by environmental disasters, to survivor settlements eking out an existence. Palmer paints a portrait of a world that (other than the existence of sentient robots) feels all too possible. It’s a world that, like the protagonist in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, fell apart slowly and then all at once. Environmental collapse prompted small international conflicts, which disrupted the food supply, which led to civil wars. Each piece of this domino chain feels possible. There is, however, a bit of American-centric myopia with the worldbuilding. Even in a world where the United States no longer exists, most relevant events seem to take place within the boundaries of what used to be that country. This is, however, a minor quibble that would likely only bother readers outside the United States.

What elevates Ode To The Half Broken are the characters. Though the story is mostly from the perspective of the unnamed robot, the book is littered with fun supporting characters including a gruff uplifted dog who goes by the name of Atticus, and an inquisitive human mechanic named Murph. There’s a hopeful undertone throughout the book; that although the world may have been broken, something worthwhile is still worth striving towards if the survivors can work together. A lot of attention is paid to the social mores of a world in which robots, uplifted animals, and a smattering of humans coexist uneasily with each other. The etiquette depicted for robot-human interactions is clearly based on real-world situations, but Palmer has provided interesting nuances. This is a thoughtful look about how beings who sense, experience, and interpret the world very differently might relate to each other.

There are occasional leans on a sort of technobabble, in which various characters provide unconvincing explanations about things like software architecture and chip design being the precursor to robots developing consciousness and free will. While this old-school vibe might appeal to some readers, it can knock others out of the narrative. Thankfully, these segments become less frequent as the novel progresses.

Books about post-apocalyptic robots questioning their purposes are having a moment. As we have previously observed it’s understandable why such narratives might appeal. These works have ranged from the despairing Sea of Rust, to the hopeful Monk and Robot. Much like its title suggests, Ode To The Half Broken falls somewhere right about halfway along that spectrum of hope to despair. This a very fine addition to the growing subgenre, and one we recommend highly.

The Do-Nothing Machine Wakes

Over the past few years, there has been a spate of novels focused on the fate of robots who have been left behind after a cataclysm has mostly wiped out humanity. Examples include C. Robert Cargill’s western Sea of Rust, Charles Stross’ adventure yarns Saturn’s Children and Neptune’s Brood, and Adrian Tchaikovksy’s comedic romp Service Model.

This is not an entirely new premise — one only needs to look back at Clifford D. Simak’s City or “Who Can Replace a Man?” by Brian Aldiss to find an earlier example — but it does seem to us that it has become more prevalent of late. Moreover, such stories seem to have become more melancholic.

Although critics question Graeber's
findings, it's clear that his book
resonated with many readers. 
(Image via Wikipedia)

We have a theory why.

The post-apocalyptic robot story offers a reflection on technological advancement’s latest separation of the worker from meaningful labour in their employment. At a time when many in North America perceive that Large Language Models and generative AI are undermining the creative industries and even workplace creativity itself, perhaps these stories resonate more. It is reminiscent of the deindustrialization of high income countries and the resulting rising in inequality of the 1970s and 1980s and how that shift created an audience ready for what cyberpunk offered.

For decades, the robot in most science fiction stories was depicted as being purpose-built to serve humanity. Notwithstanding the problematic nature of treating sentient beings as servile and free of rights, Asmiov’s robots found meaning and satisfaction in their work. In the post-apocalyptic robot story, the work continues but the meaning and the satisfaction of their labours are gone. There is no liberating aspect to humanity’s absence; the protagonists are faced with a continuation of systems that have lost their reason for existing.

If the Asimovian robot story is a metaphor for workers in a standard employment relationship, then perhaps the post-apocalyptic robot story holds up a mirror to what David Graeber describes in his book Bullshit Jobs: A Theory.

Graeber defined a bullshit job as “A form of paid employment that is so completely pointless, unnecessary, or pernicious that even the employee cannot justify its existence.” To be clear, he didn’t mean unpleasant or low-paid jobs (Garbage collection isn’t high-paying, and it is not a task anyone does for fun, but nobody would question whether or not it’s necessary, it is therefore not “bullshit”). The issue is not whether a job is enjoyable or even prestigious, but whether it serves a purpose that produces a sense of meaning and accomplishment for the employee. Examples he gives of “bullshit jobs” are employees who create paperwork or reports to give the appearance that something useful is happening, or managers whose primary purpose is supervising people who do not require supervision. Jobs that have become less relevant due to changing technology or societal value or priority shifts. In essence gains of productivity in the past few decades, Graeber argues, have not led to increased free time, but more hours spent on tasks that provide no value.

Charles Stross has indicated
that his post-human robot
novel Neptune's Brood was 
influenced by David Graeber's
Debt: The First 5,000 years.
(Image via Goodreads)

Much like workers experiencing “bullshit jobs,” robots in these post-apocalyptic stories are trapped by their place within a hierarchy of labour. Their programming, social conditioning, or deeply ingrained understanding of themselves compels them to continue performing tasks long after those tasks have ceased to matter. Uncharles, the valet robot protagonist of Tchaikovsky's Service Model, navigates an absurd bureaucracy that no longer serves any living citizen. The robots of Saturn’s Children inherit human conflicts and hierarchies despite the disappearance of the species that created them. It’s worth noting that this year’s Hugo-finalist novel by Nnedi Okorafor, Death of the Author, features a novel-within-a-novel called Rusted Robots which takes a particularly interesting angle on these themes. Rusted Robots seems to play with the way modern AI is undermining the meaningfulness of creative pursuits.

One counterpoint to these stories is Becky Chambers’ Monk and Robot trilogy of novellas. The robots in these stories do not continue performing meaningless labour after humanity. Instead, when they achieve sentience, they simply stop. There is something somewhat radical in Chambers’ work because of protagonist Splendid Speckled Mosscap’s rejection of bullshit work. In fact, the refusal to define themselves through that work is what Chambers depicts as the great act of liberation.

There is a subtext in the post-apocalyptic robot novel that the worst parts of capitalism — alienation of the worker from their labour, power imbalances, hierarchy — will survive the extinction of humanity. The purpose may end, but the labour will carry on.

Death of the Algorithm

Over the past decade, Nnedi Okorafor has earned a reputation for challenging and culturally nuanced works of science fiction. Along the way, she’s been shortlisted for five Hugo Awards and won two, earned two Lodestars, and taken home a Nebula trophy. With Death of the Author, she has penned her most ambitious work yet.

Cover of Death of the Author
(Image via Goodreads)

The book explores the enduring power of stories that provide threads of hope across generations. By weaving interlocking narratives and switching back and forth between protagonist, Nigerian American academic author Zelu Onyenezi-Oyedele, and a humanoid robot (a Hume) named Ankara, the reader is offered an evolving, existential meditation about survival. In Okorafor’s vision, even sentient robots will carry these stories forward long after humanity is gone, dancing in the narrative footsteps of the humans who created them.

As the novel opens, Zelu is precariously employed and struggling when she finds success in her first attempt at writing science fiction. “Rusted Robots”, a text that is inspired by personal crises — about robots and bodiless AI — catapults Zelu to the heights of fame (with all the usual trappings, including the degradation of privacy, copyright and moral rights infringement, celebrity attention, and the exacerbation of a long-simmering identity crisis).

The “novel-within-a-novel” structure is often difficult to pull off, especially when the book is framed as a best-seller or a classic of the genre. But Okorafor accomplishes this well, offering a metatextual novel that is compelling and convincing as a bestseller.

Readers will recognize parallels between Zelu’s experiences and the robots in her fictional world. This parallel construction does not hamper the novel in any way. If anything, it keeps readers seeking for more cross-references. After all, patterns help create meaning, which is at the heart of the storytelling (and human) experience.

Within the robot narrative, Okorafor embeds pointed references to current political, social, and personal challenges and these keep the pages quickly turning. Robot factions, for instance, remain consumed by internal conflict even as their planet faces imminent collapse. The blind adherence to a mantra that will cause this collapse, experienced by robots who have literally touched the sun, echoes the arrogance of climate denialists (and worse) in real world countries where wealth is greatest but controlled by a small number of capital holders, whose influence is amplified by vocal factions unwilling to confront the consequences of their actions. Unfortunately, this cultural criticism is somewhat undermined by the novel’s inclusion of a benevolent billionaire (“discount Elon Musk”) Jack Preston, who behaves in ways that seem unlike any real-world billionaire.

Throughout the twin narratives, there is tension between Zelu’s sense of self and independence, and the role that her family sees her playing and seems most comfortable with. For readers whose tastes hew to more fantastical narratives, this more mainstream (literary) storyline may not appeal, and others might find some of the characters aggravating in their entitlement and condescension to others.

Nnedi Okorafor holds up her Hugo-winning 
novella Binti. Her new work is a more
complex and metatextual work.
(Image via ArizonaRepublic)

The twin narratives collide in the concluding pages of the novel. This twist — which nobody in our book club expected — was one of the most satisfying elements of the novel, and for most readers recontextualized the preceding chapters. Fundamentally, this drove home the point: it matters who is telling the story; contrary to the title of the book, the authorial voice is important. It matters whether or not a book was written by an algorithm trained on large data sets ... or by a sapient being providing intention, accountability, emotion, and depth.

While the power of story might be a well-used trope, Okorafor explores it with verve and insight. It will be at the top or near the top of most of our Hugo ballots.

Send Noodles

Automatic For The People.
(Image via Goodreads)

There’s a moment about a third of the way into Automatic Noodle — Annalee Newitz’ forthcoming novella — in which android protagonists complain about how the law prohibits robots from joining labour unions. It’s just a passing reference, but it’s an interesting implied criticism of contractualist approaches to labour relations. When unions are created by legal structures, the ability of labour to organize is constrained by adherence to government regulation. (By contrast, a solidarity-based union like the Industrial Workers of the World cannot be compelled to exclude anyone.)

The book — which hits store shelves on August 5 — is a small-scale story about four robots who open up a biangbiang noodle shop in San Francisco. It’s a quick, breezy read that details the trials of setting up a quasi-legal business while facing backlash from internet trolls.

Set in the aftermath of a Californian war of independence, Automatic Noodle is based in a new nation that has declared emancipation for artificial intelligences — including robots. Because this declaration was a controversial decision, the few rights granted to robots are always at risk.

Within this future California, robots have the right to earn a living, and the right to bodily autonomy … but are subject to restrictions around property ownership, where they can live, and what political activities they can engage in. They are not full citizens, and there are political forces (particularly the alt-right ideologues in charge of what’s left of the United States) seeking to undermine what rights the robots do have.

The four protagonist robots — octopus-like Cayenne, human-mimicking android Sweetie, former robot soldier Staybehind, and industrial kitchen robot Hands — find themselves abandoned by a low-rent employer and, thus, set about building a life for themselves.

This is all obviously a metaphor for the struggles of a wide variety of real-world equity-deserving groups. There’s a subplot about Cayenne and Hands having an ace-romance, and another about Sweetie having body dysmorphia, and yet another about Staybehind’s trauma from conflict. In the hands of another writer, this might have come across as heavy handed and confusing, but here it feels natural because the four protagonists are well developed and generally likeable. If anything, these plot lines might have deserved more time to play out in a larger work.

Annalee Newitz' novella is a love letter to a
version of San Francisco that has space for
working class people and is safe for people
of varying backgrounds.
(Image via SFTravel.com)

The titular noodle shop in the novella is a worker-owned collective both owned and managed by its employees. Far from the standard individualistic perspective on entrepreneurship, the employees embrace democratic decision-making and a system of shared rewards. This setup is an important driver impacting how workers are able to assert their rights.

One highlight of the book is the depiction of internet trolls who engage in conspiracy-fueled campaigns against the restaurant. Even though it is made clear in the text that those behind the review-bombing are bigoted and misinformed, it’s a portrayal that includes some empathy around how loneliness and a lack of community can drive people to feel connection in toxic online forums. 

Authentic Noodle has been described by its publisher as “cozy” science fiction and although it will appeal to fans of that subgenre, we’d suggest that its treatment of regressive bigots on the internet is decidedly ‘uncozy.’ There’s something timely about a novella in which the major plot line is a campaign of “coordinated inauthentic activity” against members of marginalized communities who have the temerity to eke out a modicum of success.

In a genre that often presents conflicts at a planetary (or galactic) scale, it’s sometimes a pleasure to read a work whose scope is very human-scale and relatable. Automatic Noodle is a gem of a novella that we highly endorse.

Please give the German android gigolo movie a Hugo nod

It’ll be an uphill battle to get I’m Your Man the Hugo nod it deserves.

(Image via TIFF)

Of the five Hugo Award-shortlisted movies directed by women, only The Matrix (directed by Lilly and Lana Wachowski) was an original screenplay rather than an adaptation. The other four — Wonder Woman, Birds of Prey, Old Guard and Captain Marvel — are all comic book adaptations.

Of the five Hugo-shortlisted movies that were not in English, only Invention For Destruction (1958) and Last Year at Marienbad (1961) earned less than $5-million in North American cinemas. The three foreign-language movies to have been shortlisted this century were all mainstream hits: Pan’s Labrynth ($60 million domestic box office in 2006), Spirited Away ($10 million domestic box office in 2002), and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon ($126 million domestic box office in 2000).

So it seems fair to say that a German-language sci-fi romance that earned less than $300,000 in North American cinemas and was written and directed by a woman is unlikely to be noticed by Hugo Award nominators. But this is a shame, because I’m Your Man is a quiet, thoughtful, compassionate, and nuanced movie directed and scripted by Maria Schrader based on a short story by Emma Braslavsky. And it is exactly what the award should be recognizing. 

Set in a near-future Hamburg, I’m Your Man follows Dr. Alma Felser (Maren Eggert), an anthropology

Maren Eggert and Dan Stevens
don't exactly have chemistry,
they have something far more
… calculated than that.
(Image via NationalPost)

professor who has begrudgingly agreed to conduct an assessment of Tom (Dan Stevens), a prototype of an android designed to be a romantic partner. Fesler, a divorcee who has put her career first, is dubious of the android’s value and participates in the assessment as a favour to the head of a university department with which she is affiliated.

Despite an initial clinical detachment, Dr. Felser begins to be enticed by the android’s meticulous focus on being the ideal romantic partner. But she can’t fully buy into the experience because she knows that every perfect moment is the product of research, psychology, and algorithms. Simultaneously, she’s challenged emotionally by her ex-husband and his new girlfriend’s decision to have a baby together. This is all, of course, standard plot tension for a romance film.

What’s refreshing, for both AI and romance films, is that I’m Your Man feels like a deeply personal

Director Maria Schrader might
be familiar to SFF fans as 
Quissima Dhatt in the BBC
adaptation of The City & The City.
(Image via Radio Times)

movie, comfortable both with its own awkwardness, and with tackling the difficulties of relationships and the contradictory desires of humans. This is not a movie that follows standard Hollywood narrative patterns, or focus-grouped easy satisfaction conclusions, but rather tells a story that one person wanted to tell. And it’s stronger for that. Writer-director Maria Schrader is probably best-known in North America for directing the Netflix drama Unorthodox, for which she won an Emmy, though she also had a supporting role in the BBC TV series adapted from China Miéville’s Hugo-winning novel The City and the City.

As a dialogue and interaction-focused science fiction movie that is quite at odds with the dynamics of most American cinema, I’m Your Man might not have worked if it weren’t for the superb performances of the two leads.

Dan Stevens, who is probably most famous to SFF fans for playing David Haller in the superhero TV show Legion or for playing Alexander Lemtov in last year’s Hugo finalist Eurovision, alternates disconcertingly between charm and a lack of affect in possibly his finest performance to date. Evident in this performance are insights into what humanoid robots might actually be like, and this is part of what makes I’m Your Man so good as a work of science fiction. It’s a movie that grapples with the consequences of fulfilling humanity’s emotional needs through simulacra and artifice. It’s a movie that understands the seductive and dangerous allure of lying to ourselves.

But the real stand-out of the movie is Maren Eggert, who fully embodies the complexities and passion of an academic. Viewers who have worked at an institution of higher learning will recognize small details and nuances in her depiction of Dr. Alma Felser; the excitement of new knowledge, and the heartbreak at seeing someone else publish the idea first. Those who have struggled to find a romantic relationship that fits with a self-imposed, demanding career will likewise find a lot to appreciate in Eggert’s performance.

I’m Your Man is possibly the finest robot story brought to the screen since Fondly Farenheit was adapted as Murder And The Android in 1959. It deserves your attention, and no matter how unlikely a contender it might be, I’m Your Man deserves to make Hugo history as the first foreign-language movie directed by a woman to make the shortlist.

Autonomous is a rich text

Despite being a debut novel, Autonomous is already enjoying a lot of Hugo buzz, helped along by the

Autonomous is jam-packed with ideas.
(Image via Den Of Geek)

prominence of its author, former io9 editor Annalee Newitz.

Set in a corporatist dystopia, the book offers twin narratives of a pharmaceutical pirate named Jack, and Paladin the robotic intellectual property police tasked with catching her. These intersecting stories allow the characters to explore various facets of a post-national libertarian North America where citizenship is commoditized, and human rights only exist for those who can afford them.

The book’s plot takes the characters to cities, provinces and territories throughout Western Canada – communities that members of our book club have called home. Newitz’s understanding of these places, their geography, and cultures is evident.

This is a rich text written with a deep understanding of the genre. Newitz’s academic background is evident in both the plausible science and the narrative construction.

There are more interesting science fictional ideas in this book than many authors choose to explore in an entire career. This is both impressive and overwhelming. It often feels like Newitz is trying to pack in more than the base plot can handle.

Saskatchwanian readers had no problem
believing that Newitz has visited
Moose Jaw and Saskatoon
(Image via TourismSaskatchewan.ca)

The productivity enhancing drug that is the core of the conflict in the book is both a plausible corporate misdeed and a logical extension of the science fictional concept of “emergent focus” Vernor Vinge introduced in A Deepness In The Sky.

The ontological malaise underpinning the character arc of Paladin is reminiscent of Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream, while also raising questions about consent. Paladin’s feelings are an invasive program that forces her to love her human handler. Some of our readers interpreted this as a metaphor for the patriarchy.

Newitz’s book almost makes some interesting arguments about intellectual property issues, and about the ways in which the rights of patent-holders are abused. Unfortunately, the basis for these ideas is not provided nor fully explored, and no alternative to the status quo is proposed.

True to the title, a main conceptual focus of the novel is to explore the ways in which sentient beings gain or lose autonomy, and to show why this matters. Newitz links the erosion of human rights to legislative negligence that unevenly granted rights to sentient robots. The result is a society that is unjust to many humans who have the same legal standing — and lack of autonomy — as most robots.

Some of our group found several relationships within the book to be problematic. The power

Corporations pushing productivity
enhancing drugs is another way in
which human autonomy is undermined
in Newitz' debut novel.

(Image by GladisAbril via Pixabay.com)

dynamic between Jack and an escaped slave was questioned, as was the age gap between Paladin (an 18 month old android) and her amorous corporate handler (an adult human). Anytime one person in a sexual relationship had less than full autonomy, we had significant qualms.

And in this way, the book prompted an exceptional amount of discussion amongst our book club. For every engaging idea the reader had to chew on, there seemed to be some flaw to dissect.

The plot structure, which alternates between Jack’s and Paladin’s points of view, may be the most fundamental challenge of the book. Most chapters seem to undermine the narrative tension of the subsequent chapter: Jack isn’t in Vancouver, so we know Paladin won’t find her there. Paladin isn’t in Saskatoon, so we know Jack’s not in danger.

Taken on their own, each of these stories are well-written, tightly plotted, and interesting. There is depth in the writing and in some of the explorations of identity, but we felt like these parallel narratives undermined each other often enough to distract the reader from the story.

Autonomous is an extraordinarily promising debut. Any book that provokes such intense — and interesting — discussions should be a strong contender for the Hugo Awards. We are looking forward to her next work.

Who owns the robot?

Guest post by Michael Hoskin, Calgarian friend to the club

Metropolis (1927) by Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou is one of the greatest films of the silent era and perhaps the first truly great science fiction film.

The film’s robot is the most widely-circulated image of the film, despite its brief appearance in robotic form. Despite this — from All-Star Squadron’s Mekanique to Star Wars’ C-3PO — the Metropolis robot has endured as an icon.

Yet in its time, the world’s nascent science fiction community did not entirely appreciate the film. H.

Instantly recognizable, the robot from
Metropolis has influenced generations
of Science Fiction movie designers.
(Image via metropolis1927.com )  

G. Wells wrote a blistering review of the picture for the New York Times, opening by stating: “I have recently seen the silliest film. I do not believe it would be possible to make one sillier.” I encourage you to seek out Wells’ review – not simply to witness one of the medium’s great masters behaving curmudgeonly, but to consider the matter he raises concerning intellectual property.

In the review, Wells objected to Metropolis’ robot on the grounds that robots were the invention of Karel Čapek, playwright of R.U.R. (1920). Wells wrote: “Rotwang, the inventor, is making a Robot, apparently without any license from Capek, the original patentee.”

Some would perhaps argue the concept of a robot goes back much earlier than 1920, pointing to various ‘mechanical men.’ Other scholars point to the robot being a direct descendant of the Jewish lore about Golems or Hephaestus’ golden women in Greek myth.


Wells admitted Čapek owed at least a little to Frankenstein: “Čapek’s Robots have been lifted without apology, and that soulless mechanical monster of Mary Shelley's, who has fathered so many German inventions, breeds once more in this confusion.”

In certain corners of the world there are arguments being made about intellectual property, particularly where copyright is concerned. Due in part to vigorous lawmaking on behalf of the Walt Disney Company, the period in which it takes before a work enters the public domain seems to grow larger and larger.

Even the Killbots from Chopping Mall
owe a debt to Karel Capek's R.U.R.
(Image via Pastemagazine.com)

One argument is that copyright enables property to be properly curated; as counterpoint, Mike Masnick argued in Do Bad Things Happen When Works Enter the Public Domain? The Data Says... No that copyright was actually working to prevent the circulation of ideas rather than encourage it.

The argument of copyright versus public domain is too large to delve into here, but as a thought experiment, let us consider what Wells had to say about Metropolis. Suppose Karel Čapek were the only person permitted to tell stories about robots. What would science fiction look like today were that the case? Do not presume to tell me it is an unreasonable idea – using a Harlan Ellison concept without crediting him will net you one angry lawsuit. If you wrote a story containing ‘transporters,’ ‘phasers,’ and ‘photon torpedoes,’ Paramount would take you to court. Write a story wherein your energy weapon is called a ‘lightsaber’ and the House of Mouse will send you a zip-a-dee-do-deposition.

Would Metropolis still have worked without the robot? Suppose the antagonists had simply surgically altered an agent to resemble Maria rather than a robot doing the work – how would it have changed the story?

Without the robot, whither the android? The cyborg? The cyberpunk? Would we be bereft of Robby the Robot? No wisecracking droids in Star Wars? Would Isaac Asimov have died penniless in an alley? Would life be worth living without Heartbeeps? Has science fiction not flourished from the lack of provincialism surrounding ideas in Karel Čapek’s R.U.R.? And if this is so, where else has the genre benefited from the free trade of concepts?