S. K. Dunstall

“People of Earth, your attention please … As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition … There’s no point acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department in Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years … What do you mean you’ve never been to Alpha Centauri? … it’s only four light years away … if you can’t be bothered to take an interest in local affairs that’s your own lookout.”

Douglas Adams, The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

Local politics in space opera

Writing local politics in a space opera is a bit like the scene from The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, where the Vogon in charge of the destruction of Earth tells humans that Alpha Centauri is only four light years away.

No matter that to humans that distance is an impenetrable barrier, for people from other worlds, it’s not.  What happens on Earth is so insignificant as to mean nothing.  The aliens go down as far as the local planning office, and that’s where they stop.

If you’ve read the Hitchhiker’s Guide, you’ll know that the story starts with a similar planning event, but on a smaller scale.  Arthur Dent is protesting the loss of his own house to make way for an overpass.  This event wouldn’t register to the Vogons.  It’s a local event, too miniscule to matter.

There are close on 200 countries on Earth. Each of these has their own government. Oftentimes, these are broken down further into states, provinces, precincts and the like. But we also have an overarching body, the United Nations, who have representatives from most nations of the world.

If aliens arrived today and demanded to speak with a representative who could speak for all of Earth, who would we choose to represent us?

We have two choices.  If the alien stayed orbiting Earth, we’d probably send in someone from the United Nations.  If the alien landed in a specific country, then the rulers of that country might claim to speak for all humans.  At a guess, they’d land in one of the most populous countries, so the rulers of China or India would be speaking for the human race.

It is highly unlikely the aliens would deal with more than one group.

So going back to writing politics in science fiction.  When you’re dealing with multiple worlds, you don’t want to complicate the story with the small stuff. Even if a world, logically, has a number of governments, you tend to compress it together into one ruling body.

Which is why, in Linesman, Yaolin is ruled by a single council and Lancia is ruled by a single emperor.

Yes, but there are such things as democracies. Shouldn’t Lancia be a democracy?

The current ruling body of Earth (or what would be perceived as our ruling body by people on other worlds), the United Nations, is strongly pro-democracy. To many people—myself included—a well-run democracy is probably the best outcome for the political running of any country.

Even so, it’s not necessarily the logical endpoint for a governing body.

You have to work at democracies. If you don’t, they decay.  Little by little the process gets distorted as people in the government attempt to retain power or benefits for themselves. The people in charge subdue any oppression.  They bring in laws that prevent people from dissenting.  They create states of emergency that allow them to subdue information and dissent.  They stop having elections. Then finally, the leader of this no-longer democracy appoints a successor.  His son, or his daughter. Or some other close relative.

Alternatively, you might have a coup.  The army comes in.  A general takes over, stays in charge.  And finally, appoints a successor.  Guess who.

What about a people’s revolution?  We’ve seen a few of those in the past hundred years.  The revolutionaries put the lead revolutionary in charge. What happens then?  Who does he elect as his successor?

Sound familiar?  Of course it does. It happens over and over again.  We’ve seen it happen ourselves. We’re seeing it all over the world now.

People, once handed power like that, tend to pass that power on to their own family unless there are restrictions in place to prevent it.  Like democracy.

What’s the definition of power handed over from parent to child?

A monarchy.

That’s why Lancia is a monarchy.

Of course, the funny thing about monarchies is they tend to morph into democracies over time.

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The predominant feeling among the line sevens right now was a baritone eddy of hope. It hadn’t been there before, and it sounded a lot like Fergus.

Linesman

 

Back in Linesman, we never really gave much thought to the sound of line seven.  We knew what it did (even back then), but the sound?  There was that one throwaway line about it being a baritone and not much else.

When you’re writing a trilogy you don’t always consider how what you write in book one will impact what you write in future books.

Sometimes, serendipitously, something you write sparks an idea that becomes ‘the’ idea for a new story.

Terry Rossio, writer on Pirates of the Caribbean, once said, “Who knew the throwaway line, ‘Clearly, you’ve never been to Singapore’ would turn into movie three?” [Paraphrased here, because I can’t find the original quote.]

And sometimes you write throwaway lines like ‘a baritone eddy of hope … sounded a lot like Fergus’ and realise later that you never really thought of Fergus Burns as a baritone.  You’ve always thought of him as a tenor.

You can’t change something that’s written.  It took all of book two and part of book three to get into the mindset.  Fergus is a baritone. Fergus is a baritone. His voice is deeper than you think it is.

We’re getting there.

Elvis Presley was a baritone.  So were David Bowie and Johnny Cash.

Right now, we’re imagining his voice as a cross between Elvis Presley and Teddy Tahu Rhodes.

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Answers to last week’s mystery fantasy quiz.

Stop right here if you haven’t tried to answer the questions yourself, and go to last week’s post first.

Ready?

Australians don’t tip.

Sure we’ll leave the coins at a restaurant after a meal, but that’s as far as we go.

That’s why, whenever you get to a country where tipping is required, you’ll find the first thing the Australians do is talk about tipping. Trying to get a feel of how much to tip, what to tip for, and so on.

We get used to it, but still find it awkward.

I was reminded of this on our recent trip to south-east Asia, because we tipped everywhere, and oftentimes it seemed it wasn’t so much a tip, as actual payment for service.  (I know that’s technically what a tip is, but to me it’s a tip when you are also making another base payment for that service. For example, when you have a meal, you pay for the meal. Then you tip as well.)

It got me thinking about what a tip was, and how different fantasy novels would be if there was no tipping.

Maybe no different at all?

First, we have to decide what is a tip and what is payment for services rendered.

Asking a stranger for information

Petra stopped a man dressed in well-made, but faded, clothing.  A scholar, she guessed, but not in a popular line of study, for otherwise his sponsors would have provided enough to keep him better clothed.

“Excuse me, but could you tell me the way to the Cascades?”

“The Cascades.”  His deep voice didn’t match his skinny frame or the freckles on his face.  He moved, and she saw the purple stains on the inside of his cloak. A chemist.  Definitely not a career someone looking for fame would choose.  “Lady, just follow everyone else.  They’re only going one way.”

Petra glanced at the crowd in front of her. There were six streets off the square. So far as she could see, people were going all ways.

She looked back at the scholar, raised a brow.

He pointed.  Past the square, half-way up the hill on the other side of town.  She could see tiny figures moving over there.  All going uphill.

“Thanks.”  Her feet were sore.  Her legs ached just thinking about the distance.

About now, in a regular fantasy novel, Petra would toss the informant a coin as thanks for his information.

But … in a regular fantasy novel you probably wouldn’t pick this particular guy to get information from, either.  You’d be more likely to choose a beggar, or an innkeeper. Someone who expects to be paid for the information they give.

Paying for bathwater

This one’s easy. Not everyone tips the innkeeper when they bring the hot water and the tub.  Many times you pay beforehand. Fee-for-service.

 

On reflection, maybe not much would change.  Because often what people do in fantasy is fee-for-service, rather than a tip.

Except perhaps, protagonists might get less information.

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