Tade Thompson, Author at 快猫短视频 Science news and science articles from 快猫短视频 Wed, 24 Jul 2024 09:01:41 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=7.0.1 242057827 Imagining Nigeria as ground zero in an alien invasion /article/2438489-imagining-nigeria-as-ground-zero-in-an-alien-invasion/?utm_campaign=RSS|NSNS&utm_content=currents&utm_medium=RSS&utm_source=NSNS Fri, 05 Jul 2024 09:00:22 +0000 /?post_type=article&p=2438489
Tade Thompson

I鈥檓 about to lie to you. I鈥檓 going to tell you all the lofty reasons why I wrote my book , like interrogating the usual setting of alien invasions in the Global North, and the loss of the colonial metaphor for alien invasions, and what鈥檚 the Black African perspective on these things, anyway?

These are only partially true and, to be honest, are post-hoc explanations of the journey my subconscious took me on.

In point of fact, I wrote after I read about two conjoined twins who shared a brain and seemed able to read each other鈥檚 thoughts. I thought this would be a great conceit for telepathy and from there, a book about a telepath. It was in working out the biology of such a thing that issues of who and why came into it. How would such a person negotiate their social environment? What is a romantic relationship like if one person can read the mind of the other? What ethics apply? Personally, I thought knowing the inner thoughts of people around you would be an isolating ability, absolutely horrifying. Hence Kaaro, my unheroic protagonist. Hence Aminat, his love interest, and so much more.

In other words, I followed my intellectual curiosity. That curiosity sucked in a childhood spent reading about CIA psi experiments and MKULTRA/MKDELTA; The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton; an (at the time) obscure Argentine graphic novel called El Eternauta by H茅ctor Germ谩n Oesterheld and Francisco Solano L贸pez; and at tent revivals.

Let鈥檚 linger here for a minute. Imagine a wide field 鈥 it might be grassy, but it鈥檚 more likely to be bare red earth due to persistent trampling. Now think of a vast tent that can house hundreds. Let鈥檚 go inside. There are very few seats, and everybody who can stand does. Up front, there鈥檚 a preacher, usually (but not exclusively) a man, armed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Bible verses and eyes fevered with the Holy Ghost. When I was a kid in Nigeria, this kind of thing happened all the time. The most striking image was on the outside: piles of wheelchairs, walking sticks, gurneys and broken up plaster-of-Paris, all discarded by the newly healed who no longer needed them.

This imagery inspired the alien biodome in Rosewater, that and a similar dome in El Eternauta. I couldn鈥檛 read Spanish when I came across the book (still can鈥檛), but there was a dome in the middle of town, and they clearly suffered from an alien invasion. This probably cemented the link between aliens and domes in my childhood mind. Oesterheld, like so many others with Leftist views, was disappeared by Argentina鈥檚 military government.

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Inspiration aside, Rosewater subverts the expectations of invasion narratives and what the cost of survival for humanity might be, while at the same time being a story about people, not technology or fantastical set pieces.

The premise? Nigeria as ground zero in an alien invasion. Our main character, Kaaro, gets powers from the aliens, but people like him are dying. Why? How to stop this? The answer has consequences for humanity.

It鈥檚 a Trojan horse story where the wooden horse is universal healthcare and unlimited power supply; at the same time, it鈥檚 a story of alien invasion as a slow, unrecognised pandemic. I鈥檓 a doctor, and I can鈥檛 help thinking in pestilential modes.

I harkened back to the symbolism of empire in H. G. Wells, but I didn鈥檛 think aliens would come in ships or utilise tripods. Space travel is expensive. What would we have that would make it worth the travel for extraterrestrials?

And who are the aliens? What do they represent? These questions came later, in revision, and in the following two volumes, The Rosewater Insurrection and The Rosewater Redemption. Rosewater became more about neocolonialism. What has happened to us? Who pre-thinks our thoughts for us? What if there were Orwellian thought police?

I like to write science fiction that non-fans can read. I try to avoid neologisms and any science that can鈥檛 be extrapolated from today. I don鈥檛 enjoy fiction that needs a glossary.

Whatever the reasons for writing it, I had to set the story in a believable world. The kind of world that interested me involved the social reaction to localised unlimited resources like health and electricity. How would that change what we think of as society?

The book won and was nominated for prizes, notably the Arthur C. Clarke Award. Winning that was a kind of homecoming, since my childhood spent watching Arthur C. Clarke鈥檚 Mysterious World was part of what fired my interest in science fiction. The trilogy of books was nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Series. That was somewhat gratifying, because it meant someone other than my mother thought this story was affecting.

I hope you enjoy your visit to Rosewater. I hope it challenges what you think of as science fiction. I hope it delights and horrifies you.

, published by Orbit Books, is available now. It is the latest pick for the 快猫短视频 Book Club: sign up here听to read along with our members

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Read an extract from Tade Thompson鈥檚 science fiction novel Rosewater /article/2438474-read-an-extract-from-tade-thompsons-science-fiction-novel-rosewater/?utm_campaign=RSS|NSNS&utm_content=currents&utm_medium=RSS&utm_source=NSNS Fri, 05 Jul 2024 09:00:18 +0000 /?post_type=article&p=2438474 Rosewater: Opening Day 2066 Now I鈥檓 at the Integrity Bank job for forty minutes before the anxieties kick in. It鈥檚 how I usually start my day. This time it鈥檚 because of a wedding and a final exam, though not my wedding and not my exam. In my seat by the window I can see, but not hear, the city. This high above Rosewater everything seems orderly. Blocks, roads, streets, traffic curving sluggishly around the dome. I can even see the cathedral from here. The window is to my left, and I鈥檓 at one end of an oval table with four other contractors. We are on the fifteenth floor, the top. A skylight is open above us, three foot square, a security grid being the only thing between us and the morning sky. Blue, with flecks of white cloud. No blazing sun yet, but that will come later. The climate in the room is controlled despite the open skylight, a waste of energy for which Integrity Bank is fined weekly. They are willing to take the expense. Next to me on the right, Bola yawns. She is pregnant and gets very tired these days. She also eats a lot, but I suppose that鈥檚 to be expected. I鈥檝e known her two years and she has been pregnant in each of them. I do not fully understand pregnancy. I am an only child and I never grew up around pets or livestock. My education was peripatetic; biology was never a strong interest, except for microbiology, which I had to master later.

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I try to relax and concentrate on the bank customers. The wedding anxiety comes again. Rising from the centre of the table is a holographic teleprompter. It consists of random swirls of light right now, but within a few minutes it will come alive with text. There is a room adjacent to ours in which the night shift is winding down. 鈥淚 hear they read Dumas last night,鈥 says Bola. She鈥檚 just making conversation. It is irrelevant what the other shift reads. I smile and say nothing. The wedding I sense is due in three months. The bride has put on a few pounds and does not know if she should alter the dress or get liposuction. Bola is prettier when she is pregnant. 鈥淪ixty seconds,鈥 says a voice on the tannoy. I take a sip of water from the tumbler on the table. The other contractors are new. They don鈥檛 dress formally like Bola and me. They wear tank tops and T-shirts and metal in their hair. They have phone implants. I hate implants of all kinds. I have one. Standard locator with no add-ons. Boring, really, but my employer demands it. The exam anxiety dies down before I can isolate and explore the source. Fine by me. The bits of metal these young ones have in their hair come from plane crashes. Lagos, Abuja, Jos, Kano and all points in between, there have been downed aircraft on every domestic route in Nigeria since the early 2000s. They wear bits of fuselage as protective charms. Bola catches me staring at her and winks. Now she opens her snack, a few wraps of cold moin-moin, the orange bean curds nested in leaves, the old style. I look away. 鈥淕o,鈥 says the tannoy. The text of Plato鈥檚 Republic scrolls slowly and steadily in ghostly holographic figures on the cylindrical display. I start to read, as do the others, some silently, others out loud. We enter the xenosphere and set up the bank鈥檚 firewall. I feel the familiar brief dizziness; the text eddies and becomes transparent. Every day about five hundred customers carry out financial transactions at these premises, and every night staffers make deals around the world, making this a twenty-four-hour job. Wild sensitives probe and push, criminals trying to pick personal data out of the air. I鈥檓 talking about dates-of-birth, PINs, mothers鈥 maiden names, past transactions, all of them lying docile in each customer鈥檚 forebrain, in the working memory, waiting to be plucked out by the hungry, untrained and freebooting sensitives. Contractors like myself, Bola Martinez and the metalheads are trained to repel these. And we do. We read classics to flood the xenosphere with irrelevant words and thoughts, a firewall of knowledge that even makes its way to the subconscious of the customer. A professor did a study of it once. He found a correlation between the material used for firewalling and the activities of the customer for the rest of the year. A person who had never read Shakespeare would suddenly find snatches of King Lear coming to mind for no apparent reason. We can trace the intrusions if we want, but Integrity isn鈥檛 interested. It鈥檚 difficult and expensive to prosecute crimes perpetuated in the xenosphere. If no life is lost, the courts aren鈥檛 interested. The queues for cash machines, so many people, so many cares and wants and passions. I am tired of filtering the lives of others through my mind. I went down yesterday to the Piraeus with Glaucon the son of Ariston, that I might offer up my prayers to the goddess; and also because I wanted to see in what manner they would celebrate the festival, which was a new thing. I was delighted with the procession of the inhabitants; but that of the Thracians was equally, if not more, beautiful. When we had finished our prayers and viewed the spectacle, we turned in the direction of the city . . . On entering the xenosphere, there is a projected self-image. The untrained wild sensitives project their true selves, but professionals like me are trained to create a controlled, chosen self-image. Mine is a gryphon. My first attack of the day comes from a middle-aged man from a town house in Yola. He looks reedy and very darkskinned. I warn him and he backs off. A teenager takes his place quickly enough that I think they are in the same physical location as part of a hack farm. Criminal cabals sometimes round up sensitives and yoke them together in a 鈥淢umbai combo鈥 鈥 a call-centre model with serial black hats. I鈥檝e seen it all before. There aren鈥檛 as many such attacks now as there were when I started in this business, and a part of me wonders if they are discouraged by how effective we are. Either way, I am already bored. Copyright Tade Thompson This is an extract from听, published by Orbit Books, the latest pick for the 快猫短视频 Book Club: sign up here听to read along with our members. ]]>
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