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.

A Bee-lief in the Common Good

“It is truly amazing how many flavours of dumb an apocalypse can spawn.” 

— Ada Risa (Bee Speaker.)

Bee Speaker — the third book in Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Dogs of War trilogy — is the capstone to an emotionally rich and intellectually satisfying hard science fiction series that deserves to be recognized with a nomination for the best series Hugo Award.

Bee Speaker's cover art
is by Pablo Hurtado
de Mendoza
(Image via Head of Zeus)

When the first Dogs of War novel was published in 2017, no North American publisher was willing to take it on. Children of Time had garnered Tchaikovsky some fans among science fiction readers, but he was still primarily seen as an author of multi-book epic fantasies.

Dogs of War was well received in the United Kingdom — earning a BSFA nod — but for years, it remained largely unknown in the United States and Canada.

That initial book introduced the audience to Rex, one of the first genetically-altered dogs bred and built as a loyal, obedient, and fearsome soldier. Along with his teammates — a hyperinteligent bear named Honey, a chamelon/lizard named Dragon, and a hive-mind swarm of Bees — Rex is dropped into the middle of a brutal war in near-future Mexico. If this were simply a war novel with a compelling protagonist, it would have still been a good piece of fiction … but Tchaikovsky shifts gears no fewer than four times through the story. With each pivot, the book becomes something more; a courtroom drama, a moral philosophy exercise, a political thriller. Tchaikovsky engages the reader with questions about moral culpability of those within a hierarchy, about the rights of animals, and more fundamentally, about what it means to be a person. It is a book that is complete unto itself, needed no sequel, and Tchaikovsky had no plans to write one.

Over the years, Dogs of War’s reputation grew by word of mouth. It resonated profoundly with some, and eventually found its readers. By 2021, it had earned a devoted following — and improbably, a sequel titled, Bear Head.

With Bear Head, Tchaikovsky took the story decades further into the future, centering the narrative around Rex’s teammate Honey. The sequel tackled the colonization of Mars by ruthless corporations using genetically modified humans to create a hierarchical civilization on the Red Planet. Like the previous book, Bear Head is about ways in which freedom can be subverted, but is more explicit in advancing an argument that if the rights of any sapient being are eroded then the rights of all sapient beings are at risk. Like the first book, it is complete unto itself and needed no sequel.

Which brings us to Bee Speaker, a novel that expands upon, refines, and also subverts thematic elements of the previous two novels in the trilogy. We may never have expected this sequel to exist, but are very glad it does.

Picking up centuries after the events of the previous book, Bee Speaker is set after a major technological collapse. On Earth — where much of the action takes place — the remnants of corporate feudalism have become warrior enclaves led by superannuated former billionaires and their descendant tribes, while subsistence farmers pay tribute from their meagre harvests, and a Bee-themed religion preserves what addled knowledge they can of the past. Mars — partially terraformed during the events of Book 2 and populated by genetically engineered humans, dogs, and other bioforms — fared slightly better than the Earth, having been forced by circumstances to maintain their technology for survival reasons.

Dogs of War has gained readership
over time, eventually being translated
into a variety of languages such as
French, Latvian, German, Catalan,
and of course Polish. 
(Image via Goodreads)

The book follows the exploits of modified human Ada, canine Wells, and lizard Irae — Martian engineers who are lured to Earth by a cryptic distress signal. Their expedition is the first contact that the two planets have had since the fall of Earthbound civilization and they stumble into unexpected situations and a clash of cultures, unintentionally upending local power structures.

The Martian characters operate under a misapprehension that the people of Earth will share their ideas about acting in the common good; while members of the feudal warrior culture make rash and impulsive decisions based on macho notions of honour. The book could be read as a parable about the impossibility of human progress, or as a comment on turning your back on the care and feeding of a working democracy.

While the previous books explored the pitfalls of hierarchies of high-technology and of corporate dominance, Bee Speaker posits that when democratic governance fails and technology crumbles, the worst sorts of low-tech hierarchies will reassert themselves. It also shows how even those who enjoy being at the top of the pyramid will eventually be brought low by the very hierarchies they believe in.

The cyclical nature of dark ages and renaissances will remind some readers of Walter Miller Jr.’s Canticle for Leibowicz, as will the role of religion in preserving knowledge. In Tchaikovsky’s book, however, the religion is based on the worship of Bees — the hyperinteligent hive mind who is the one character tying all three books together. One of our favourite characters in Bee Speaker is Cricket, a pious, easily influenced, and intellectually vulnerable young monk of the Apiary (the name for the church of Bees).

Uplifted animals have been a staple of science fiction for decades, but are often depicted either as just normal people, or as somehow … lesser. Informed by his passion for ethology (the study of animal behaviours), Tchaikovsky’s depiction of uplifted animals avoids these pitfalls; he seems to grok the canine soul, and offers us non-human characters who are not lesser, but inescapably other. We suspect that those who have had a dog in their life will appreciate this aspect of his speculative writing.

Adrian Tchaikovsky’s ability to create stories infused with abiding empathy for all creatures great and small has helped solidify his following. This trilogy puts these insights front-and-centre. Although they may not be his best-known novels, the Dogs of War books might be his strongest and most emotionally interesting.

Bee Speaker is not in any way a sequel we expected, but it is one we are very glad exists.

A Hugo For The Best Fan Spreadsheet

For more than a decade, one of science fiction and fantasy fandom’s top influencers has been an online crowdsourced spreadsheet. That spreadsheet — and its creators — deserve a Hugo nomination for Best Related Work.

Every year, Renay and the team over at the blog Lady Business create, maintain, curate and edit a Google spreadsheet of eligible works and creators across all Hugo Award categories. As new works are published, the list grows, usually ending up with hundreds of listed works for any given voting year. Because of its massive list of recommendations, the spreadsheet has gained a tongue-in-cheek nickname of The Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom.

It turns out to be difficult to find images to illustrate
a blog post about a spreadsheet. Here's a screenshot
of the Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom.

“The spreadsheet was born out of a shared, friends-only collection of recs from Hugo Award newbies,” spreadsheet creator and editor Renay told us last week. “It wasn't hard to remember novels, but everything else was a huge question mark every time nominations rolled around. The down-ballot categories don't lend themselves to a modern interpretation, either, which makes it hard for new folks to parse their meanings without some hand holding.”

The first iteration of the spreadsheet was launched in time for the 2014 Hugo Awards in London. The subsequent year, when alt-right activists tried to hijack the Hugo process, there was a groundswell of progressive science fiction and fantasy fans getting involved in Worldcon for the first time. The Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom was well-placed to help orient those looking to get involved in Worldcon.

“A good chunk of the motivation for the public project was to make the short lists less male, less white, and try to tempt more diverse voices into contributing to the history of the award,” Renay explains. “I thought helping the winners be more diverse was probably not in my sphere of influence, but we could, as a collective, make the history of the award show a more diverse field in the finalists and long list options.”

The Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom is open for public editing. Suggestions are usually entered by creators promoting their own works or fans who are enthusiastic about a specific story or novella. Through community sourcing, the spreadsheet helps identify overlooked gems, and supports an informed nomination process. As bloggers who write primarily about the Hugo Awards, we browse the list on a regular basis to round out our own list of potential nominees. The Spreadsheet of Doom helps inform our reading across all categories, but especially the fan categories. While many professional publications have publicists trying to influence the public about what might be considered for awards, there is usually no commercial backer aiding the discoverability for fan works and non-professional creators. The Spreadsheet of Doom helps reduce these barriers.

A strength of The Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom is that it’s about as neutral as you can get; the editors assess eligibility but pass no judgement about the Hugo-worthiness of what people contribute. Consequently, the list doesn’t hew to any particular subgenre, style, or set of tastes. Rather, each year provides a broad overview of the state of genre output. Although the editors might deem a work ineligible, this is done in a transparent process with explanations about the WSFS rules.

Around Hugo nominating time, anyone logging into the Google document will see dozens — sometimes hundreds — of anonymous accounts reading over the entries. This snowballing of interest has no doubt brought new Hugo voters into the process. Another important project that has likely benefitted from this exposure is Archive of Our Own (AO3).

“I realized that it had grown beyond my circle in 2017,” Renay says. “I was told that actively campaigning for AO3 was unethical because of my access to the spreadsheet (protip: everyone has access to the spreadsheet because I don't add anything until each sheet is live and promoted). That's when I realized we had made it! “

The spreadsheet encourages community involvement and curation, helps identify overlooked gems, and supports an informed nomination process. Organized by category, it may include notes on format or availability. This shared resource celebrates the genre’s diversity, encourages participation in fandom, and highlights excellence in speculative fiction ahead of the Hugo Awards each year.

The Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom’s simplicity belies the many hours of volunteer labour that goes into assessing the eligibility of works, sorting out which category works belong in, and general quality assurance tasks. This is a project that has enduring value for the community, and should be honoured with a Hugo nomination of its own.

To that end we’ve added “Renay’s Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom” to the Hugo Spreadsheet of Doom.

Guest Post: Four Decades Of Bustin' Makes Us Feel Good

This guest post by blogger and podcaster Dan Gibbins is part of our series on the Hugo for Best Dramatic Presentation. An introductory blog post is here.

By friend of the blog Dan Gibbins

It’s June, 1984. The Reagan administration is barrelling towards a second term of shredding economic safeguards, dragging the US to the right, and ignoring an epidemic because if it mostly affects a marginalized community, why bother. Canada has just gotten around to writing the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and Brian Mulroney is about to be the first Conservative party leader to ride “Hey he’s not Trudeau” until he crashes and burns. But you don’t care about any of that, you are eight years old and you’re watching Ghostbusters, and everything is right with the world.

Why does Ghostbusters continue to have a
dedicated cadre of fans? Because it's structurally
sound, often clever, and features comedians
at the top of their games.
(Image via Screenrant)

Four decades, three sequels, two animated series, one reboot, and a very brief animated revival of the Filmation series that wanted it known they had the name first, Ghostbusters is still with us. It remains a beloved classic despite the fact that its leading man is a creep, and that it came out at a point in time when the Environmental Protection Agency could be played as villainous bureaucrats. How is that possible? Why is Ghostbusters the best sci-fi/fantasy series of 1984, over Inception-precursor Dreamscape, creature feature C.H.U.D., Helen Hunt’s breakout role in time travel epic Trancers, or that other time travel movie from 1984 that can’t decide if the past can be changed or not? (Seriously, we are six movies in, are Skynet and the resistance sinking incalculable energy and effort into a prophecy trap or aren’t they, pick a side.)

First of all, Band-Aid off, elephant in the room… it is so funny. It is unbelievably funny. Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis, Rick Moranis, Annie Potts, these are comedy legends at the height of their powers, with Sigourney Weaver doing some Margaret Dumont-level straight-woman work to keep the hijinks grounded. The only movies as endlessly and iconically quotable as this movie are fellow immortal classic Casablanca and ’90s western Tombstone, but in the case of Ghostbusters the dozen lines anyone can quote are all banger laugh lines, from “If somebody asks you if you’re a god, you say yes!” to “Yes it’s true, this man has no dick” down to less famous but loved by connoisseurs “I looked at the trap, Ray” and the perfect deadpan of “That ought to do it, thanks very much, Ray.”

But there’s more to it. This is a story of underdogs, dreamers that the system gave up on. Ray, the enthusiast, determined to dig into every aspect of the supernatural for nothing but the love. Egon, the academic, seeing the greater dangers society ignores and devoting himself to find the solutions no matter the cost. Winston, the everyman, proof that heroes can arise from anywhere when the call is made. And Peter, who… okay look, somebody here had to care about monetization, so if that means you need an opportunistic huckster with a heart of gold on the team, so be it.

Nobody wants to believe in the Ghostbusters. The university kicks them out, the government bureaucrat shuts them down, then refuses to accept that the ensuing chaos is his own fault for disrupting a vital agency just because he himself doesn’t believe in it. But they believe in themselves, their science, their mission, and become the only people who can stop the apocalypse and save New York from a giant marshmallow man.

The third-act reveal of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow
Man hadn't been undermined by studio marketing.
(Image via Screenrant)

Oh my god, we haven’t even talked about the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. Such an iconic third-act reveal, so perfect a generation of kids were slightly stunned to find out Stay-Puft Marshmallows weren’t actually a thing, that someone on the production team just said “Pillsbury Doughboy but gooier.” And that was not in the trailers. That was kept as a surprise reveal. Modern Hollywood could never hide this — today, the third-act reveal is getting spoiled no matter what because the studio wants to sell an extra Funko Pop, so just put Red Hulk in every trailer, who cares. No. That giant candy monster was kept secret, and what an entrance he makes.

And there are no Chosen Ones like fellow 1984 releases Dune or The Last Starfighter or Caravan of Courage: An Ewok Adventure. Anyone can bust ghosts. Sure Egon is a unique genius, but Ray just needs passion, Winston has drive, Venkman belief in his ability to profit. You can be this kind of hero. We learn that nightmares, bad dreams, can be beaten. It only takes a brave man to stand in defeat. Yes, you must be the bravest, the bravest and most… you must be able to say I ain’t ’fraid of no ghosts. If you can find that strength within, then you, too, can be dusting off ghosts like true ghost dusters.

Many an ’80s comedy has aged badly, from Animal House being so loose and sketch-like it ends up kinda mid, to Revenge of the Nerds being a comedic celebration of truly unforgivable sex crimes. Not so Ghostbusters, Ray will never not be funny. Many an ’80s sci-fi flick struggles with outdated effects; Gen-Z cannot understand the appeal of the original Tron, because they cannot pretend those basic prototype attempts at computer effects look anything but cheesy. Not so Ghostbusters, the effects barely needed an upgrade 38 years later for Afterlife.

It’s one of those lightning-in-a-bottle masterpieces, like 2001’s Ocean’s 11, so singularly great that the exact same cast and creators struggled to recapture the magic. But one thing remains true these many, many years later: if you need two hours of near-constant good times… then there’s just one question.

Who you gonna call?

All These Films Are Bores ... Except Ghostbusters, Attempt No Panning There (Hugo Cinema 1985)

This blog post is the twenty-eighth  in a series examining past winners of the Best Dramatic Presentation Hugo Award. An introductory blog post is here.

In 1985, for the first time at a Hugo Award ceremony, trailers for each of the five finalists for Best Dramatic Presentation were screened. This technical achievement was slightly undermined, however, by a missed cue and the trailers suddenly being started in the middle of emcee Marc Ortleib’s introduction of the shortlist. But the presentation was greeted with cheers and good humour.

Capitalizing on the success of Stanley Kubrick's
enigmatic and mysterious 2001, Peter Hyram's
sequel offered tepid explanations and answers.
(Image via MGM)

Gone were the years when as few as four nominating ballots were required to get a movie on the shortlist. Even the least-nominated finalist in 1985 had received 40 nominating votes. While Worldcon voters were showing the category some much needed respect, the nominees were less enthused. As per usual — and as is still largely the norm — not a single one of the finalists in the category were on hand to witness the award’s presentation.

It had been a banner year for science fiction and fantasy movies. One of the most successful filmmakers of all time — James Cameron — burst onto the scene with Terminator. Beloved Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki had his breakout hit with Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind. The BBC changed the shape of the Cold War with its harrowing and unforgettable depiction of nuclear war in Threads. John Sayles tackled racial alienation in his weird parable Brother From Another Planet. Somehow none of these films made the cut for the Hugo Award. Even beyond this lineup, there were credible works omitted from the ballot. Neverending Story has fantastical charm. Joe Dante’s Gremlins remains iconic. Repo Man and Buckaroo Banzai are cult classics.

Which all makes that year’s Hugo Award shortlist the more befuddling. Most of the movies honoured with a Hugo nod that year are … little more than fine.

The Last Starfighter eked onto the ballot with about half as many nominating votes of anything else on the shortlist. It’s a surprisingly pedestrian outing about Alex Rogan (Lance Guest), a young man from a small trailer park in California, whose prowess with video games leads to his recruitment as a pilot in an intergalactic war. Although portions of the film are charming — especially the comedic storyline involving a replicant android acting as Alex’s stand-in on Earth — the movie is stilted and filled to the brim with leaden performances. The New York Times put it bluntly: it is less inspired than derived.

The Search for Spock is rarely listed as anyone’s all-time-favourite Star Trek movie. It’s an oddly paced script with some clunky concepts. The whole “resurrection” storyline may have been preordained by the ending of the previous movie, but it mostly doesn’t work. That being said, the core cast offer a few endearing performances, and individual character moments are handled well. One notable aspect of the movie is Christopher Lloyd’s performance as Klingon captain Kruge, which would shape how all future iterations of the franchise depict the race.

Brother From Another Planet
is a masterclass in "show, don't
tell." Joe Morton is simply superb.
(Image via IMDB)

David Lynch’s lush, sweeping adaptation of Dune is unfondly remembered by many fans of Frank Herbert’s classic novel, but it has its merits. The cast is first-rate; often providing better performances than the more critically lauded remake. Leading in with an extremely long monologue, and pausing for a lot of exposition, the movie does feel ponderous. However, this set-up was appreciated by those who had watched the recent movies and had found them opaque. Some visual effects scenes were campy, but they were effective. Fundamentally though, the movie has too much story to tell over a relatively short runtime. In a one-star review, Roger Ebert panned the movie as an “incomprehensible, ugly, unstructured, pointless excursion into the murkier realms of one of the most confusing screenplays of all time.”

Of the movies on the shortlist, we’d suggest that Ghostbusters aged the best, despite at least one character’s overt sexism. The continuing series of inferior sequels makes it easy to forget just how much the original was lightning in a bottle. The movie offers viewers three top-tier comedians at the height of their game playing with a high-concept script. The amount of planning required for special effects is often at odds with the improvisational comedy that remains in the final cut, but somehow many of the lines still feel fresh. Conversely, the character of Peter Venckman (played by Bill Murray), who habitually harasses women, was seen as dated when the film was released and fast-forward worthy when rewatching today. Even the filmakers themselves chose to portray this as less than an admirable quality. This begs the question of why it was included at all.

Ghostbusters is a remarkably well-made movie,
one that remains enough appeal today that
a friend of the blog has authored a guest post
grappling with the movie's enduring appeal.
(Image via IMDB)

The winning movie that year was 2010: The Year We Make Contact, the sequel to Stanley Kubrick’s classic 2001. Languidly paced and cerebral, it’s enriched by several excellent performances including from Helen Mirren and John Lithgow. However, director Peter Hyrams (Timecop, End of Days) is no Stanley Kubrick and the sequel relies too much on exposition and lacks the beauty or the artfulness of the original. Looming nuclear conflict on Earth rarely has the emotional impact it deserves — it’s a strikingly cold movie.

It would be difficult to call the Hugo Best Dramatic Presentation winner the best science fiction movie of the year, but we had little consensus about what should have won. Some in our group thought Ghostbusters deserved the nod, others opted for the grittiness of Terminator, some liked the exuberant weirdness of David Lynch’s Dune, one person even thought the empathy of Brother From Another Planet made it more worthy of the award than any of the nominees.

In 1985, Hugo voters had incredible movies to choose from. They could have done better than 2010.

It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And Dorian Lynskey Feels Fine)

Humans seem to be obsessed with the cause of their own finality. Perhaps because, subconsciously, we want everything to fit into a nice narrative structure that has a beginning, a middle … and an end.

And I hope that you can forgive
us, for Everything Must Go.
(Image via Amazon)

From the dawn of recorded history, there have been stories of the end of days, from John’s Revelations to the Fimbulwinter of Norse myths. And since the enlightenment, the task of providing an original, satisfactory narrative conclusion has fallen to science fiction authors, providing a secular eschatology. Over the past 200 years, apocalyptic fiction has been — under various guises — one of the most robust and popular subgenres of SFF. 

Documenting this prolific output feels like an impossible task, but British journalist Dorian Lynskey has made a valiant attempt in his recent book Everything Must Go. The book — published in the United States in February 2025 — should be strongly considered for a Best Related Work Hugo Award next year.

Beginning with a prologue on various gods and their respective end-times predictions, the book then divides narrative apocalypses into subcategories; meteors, plagues, rogue computers, climate change and the like. The categorization helps break down the subject into slightly more manageable sections, though each of these categories probably warrants a tome of its own. Lynskey’s overarching thesis that catastrophic fiction reflects the preoccupations of its time may not be revolutionary, but his painstaking research and herculean collation is impressive and even, at times, entertainingly presented.

A culture and entertainment beat reporter by trade, Lynskey approaches the subject with wit. It’s a charming book, though sometimes his pop-culture journalism style verges on flippant. Many of his pithiest quips can be found in the books’ introduction and epilogue. As with the best reference works, these sections are essential to understanding where and when to consult the remaining chapters. As stated in the introduction, “Writers of fictional doomsdays all reveal what they love or hate about the world as it is, and what they fear. Such stories are the ice-core data for dating the life cycle of existential concerns.”

Everything Must Go is clearly a labour of love. The relentless criticism of the many works that descend into fascistic reveries about the world made anew required unusual stamina. The subtext apparent in survivalist fiction, in particular, is put under the microscope. “The post-apocalyptic trope of rebirth from the ashes overlaps, often unintentionally, with fascist notions of regeneration achieved through virility and violence,” he writes.

In the face of apocalypse, The Bed Sitting Room
encourages us all to put on our best and go out 
in style. 
(Image via IMDB)

Some chapters, particularly the chapters on “impact fiction” (i.e., meteors, comets, etc.) and “zombies” become a bit scattershot as Lynskey lists countless works and goes off on tangents about the relationships between them and real-world events. The eight-year gap between Terminator 2 and The Matrix is related to Gary Kasparov’s chess match against a machine and then to the UFO cult Chen Tao in Texas. The cavalcade of references is overwhelming. At times it feels like Lynskey wants to include every single apocalypse in this book — which results in just under 500 pages, including copious endnotes and a 30-page index. (We would add that even in this, there is a certain joy for those who are deeply invested in the genre to see references to old and obscure books that they've read.)

As Lynskey explains, the genre is rarely about the end of all things, but rather about what happens next for those lucky few who withstand the cataclysm. While the cause of the end of the world might be uncertain, one thing we can rely on is that humans will be writing about it until it happens. Everything Must Go provides a foundation from which future documentarians of the apocalypse can build from. To paraphrase Billy Corgan, The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning. 

Worldcon In An Age Of American Truculence

The World Science Fiction Convention — as it has existed for the past seven decades — is a reflection of the “consensus” that has been post-war international relations.

That consensus is over. Fandom needs to be asking: “What’s next?”

The Peace Arch in British Columbia represents
how easy it has been for citizens of the USA
and Canada to cross the border.
(Image via Chilliwack Progress)

Although the first ‘World’-cons were held in the 1930s and early 1940s, the handful of pre-war events were set in the United States and the number of attendees from elsewhere minimal. When Worldcons resumed in 1946, they did so in an era governed by an uneasy consensus of US-centric international relations that fostered cooperation, stability, and collective security. This enabled international organizations built by the new world order to thrive. Increasing international mobility for travellers, greater trust between nations, and a relative sense of communal good made international conventions more common.

The scope and reach of the event grew massively from the first post-war Worldcon which reportedly had a “handful of Canadians” as the international contingent, to the last pre-pandemic Worldcon (2019 in Dublin) that boasted attendees from more than 60 countries. Worldcon thrived as it became increasingly globalized, but never lost its abiding connection to the country in which it was born. The World Science Fiction Convention remains a predominantly US event. With the sole exception of the 2023 Worldcon in China, US citizens have made up the largest single contingent at every single Worldcon.

The ties Worldcon has to the United States are deep; as a volunteer-run and volunteer-organized event, it takes an enormous amount of goodwill and institutional knowledge for a Worldcon to happen. There are pools of volunteers in the United Kingdom, Canada, and in China who would be able to put together a Worldcon every few years if called upon, but it seems unlikely that they could do so every single year. In the United States, there are communities of con-runners scattered across the nation; West Coast, Chicago, Midwest, New England, and more. Even with the greying of a core of US fandom, these communities account for the majority of Worldcon expertise and volunteer hours.

In light of recent political events, and the destabilization of the post-war consensus, it seems likely that the era of growth in its country of origin is over for Worldcon. Travel to and from the United States is declining rapidly. Countries such as France, Germany, and Ireland have updated their government websites advising a degree of caution in planning trips to the country. There are concerns about the low number of international fans registering for the upcoming two Worldcons (Seattle in 2025 and Los Angeles in 2026). Some non-US finalists for this year’s Hugo Awards have indicated they do not feel safe attending the ceremony in person.

Many of the disruptions that Worldcon currently faces are tied to decisions made by the current US administration. But even if there is a change in power in the next four years, international trust will remain precarious. Travel plans remain contingent on the whims of a mercurial electorate. Holding a Worldcon within the United States will consequently be challenging.

Worldcons in challenging locations are not a new phenomenon. The 1951 Worldcon in segregated New Orleans shouldn’t have happened. The Worldcon in Chengdu in 2023 received a significant amount of criticism. Bids to host Worldcons in Saudi Arabia, in Israel, and in Uganda have all been floated — and greeted with skepticism by many.

Of course, it will never be possible to host a Worldcon in a location where every science fiction fan can attend. Every Worldcon that is in a physical location will be exclusionary to some degree. As such, there is a great value in having Worldcon hosted in as many different and disparate locations as possible in order to ensure that as many different people as possible can attend. Travelling to China in 2023 may have been off the table for a lot of US fans, but those fans had US-based Worldcons for the two previous years. If Rwanda’s Worldcon bid succeeds, it would provide African fans — who often have troubles getting travel visas for North America — the chance to attend a Worldcon. There is an enormous value in giving a variety of local communities of fans their turns.

Not every passport will get you into every country
in fact, so every Worldcon location is a choice
about which fans are welcome to attend.
(Image via Boundless.com)

And this presents the dilemma at hand: On one hand Worldcon cannot be a ‘World’ event if it is limited to the United States, and on the other the majority of the volunteer base that makes Worldcons possible is in the United States. There is no Worldcon without the world, and Worldcon doesn’t work in the long term without the US and its fans.

In the past, the World Science Fiction Society (which governs Worldcon organizing) employed a rotation system. The convention was supposed to be held in three different zones on a rota. One year would be the West Coast of the US, the next would be the East Coast, and finally a Worldcon would happen in the central US. (Non-US bids could fit anywhere in that rotation.) Given the sparsity of Worldcon bids some years, the intention was difficult to realize. But it’s a premise that has merit.

Because of the voter base, institutional knowledge, and enormous fan base, US Worldcons will and should always occur. But perhaps there should be an increased willingness among fandom to support overseas conventions in locations that present logistical hurdles for North American travellers. If we may be so bold, perhaps we as fans should encourage the practice of having a Worldcon outside of North America every second year.

In an age of US truculence, Worldcon needs to embrace friends and allies around the globe without turning its back on the generations of fans and volunteers who have built it as an institution.