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Dangerous, Mysterious, Hyperscientific (The Last War in Albion Part 17: The Stars My Degradation, The Stars My Destination)

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This is the final of Chapter Three of The Last War in Albion, covering Alan Moore’s work for Sounds Magazine (Roscoe Moscow and The Stars My Degradation) and his comic strip Maxwell the Magic Cat. An omnibus of the entire chapter, sans images, is available in ebook form from Amazon, Amazon UK, and Smashwords. It is equivalently priced at all stores because Amazon turns out to have rules about selling things cheaper anywhere but there, so I had to give in and just price it at $2.99. Sorry about that. In any case, your support of this project helps make it possible, so if you are enjoying it, please consider buying a copy. You may also enjoy my newly released history of Wonder Woman, A Golden Thread. Chapter Four will begin next week.

PREVIOUSLY IN THE LAST WAR IN ALBION: Alan Moore’s first strip for Sounds, Roscoe Moscow, ended after a little more than a year, and was replaced with The Stars My Degradation, a science fiction parody strip…

“The Stars My Destination is, after all, the perfect cyberpunk novel: it contains such cheerfully protocyber elements as multinational corporate intrigue; a dangerous, mysterious, hyperscientific McGuffin (PyrE); an amoral hero; a supercool thief-woman…” – Neil Gaiman


To continue to come up with inventive page layouts and subversive cat gags week in and week out is one thing. To labour excessively on a reasonably humorous sci-fi parody strip in order to cover up inadequate artistic skills is another. 
Figure 130: The Stars My Destination was
first serialized in four issues of Galaxy in 1956
In this regard there’s something strangely apropos in Moore’s choice of parody subjects in The Stars My Degradation. The title – indeed the entire opening rhyme – is a parody of Alfred Bester’s 1956 novel The Stars My Destination, originally titled Tiger! Tiger!. Bester is very much a science fiction fan’s science fiction writer – one who enjoys rather more renown within science fiction fandom than without. To name The Stars My Destination as one’s favorite science fiction novel is not in the least bit controversial – it’s widely and repeatedly cited as one of the best. But it is not a particularly famous book outside of science fiction circles. Unlike writers such as Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and Arthur C. Clarke, whose work became influential and widely known outside the sci-fi community, Bester remains at once obscure but terribly well-respected: Samuel Delany, William Gibson, and Michael Moorcock have all identified it as their favorite science fiction novel.
Figure 131: Gully Foyle is my name
Terra is my nation
Deep space is my dwelling place
The stars my destination
(Howard Chaykin, 1979)
On one level, The Stars My Destination is a fairly straightforward pulp-style novel. It was serialized over four issues of Galaxy, and features the sort of episodic content familiar to such material. What elevates it is the character arc of its protagonist, Gully Foyle.
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The Post Wikipedia Doesn’t Want You To See

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Due to my revelation in this post that the Wikipedia user Cla68, who has been arguing that transgender people are too biased to edit the article on Chelsea Manning, is in fact a member of the US Military and thus has clear biases of his own, the Arbitration Committee of the English language Wikipedia has removed my administrator privileges and banned me indefinitely, forbidding any appeal of the ban for a year.

As discussed in the post, Cla68 has, prior to this, been open about his participation on Wikipedia, freely giving quotes to the media and engaging in discussion on Wikipedia about those quotes. It’s only now that he’s begin editing with an obvious conflict of interest that he has suddenly developed a desire to keep his identity a secret. My “revelation,” in other words, is nothing of the sort. Indeed, it’s difficult to see how this decision comports with Wikpiedia policy, which declares that “Posting another editor’s personal information is harassment, unless that person had voluntarily posted his or her own information, or links to such information, on Wikipedia.” Which, again, Cla68 has done.  Since my post, in fact, Cla68 has posted on Wikipediocracy, a Wikipedia criticism site on which he’s a forum moderator, confirming his employer. Furthermore, I’ve made no mention of his identity on Wikipedia, nor have I linked to that blog post from there. I revealed his identity in my capacity as a z-list blogger, not as a Wikipedia editor.

My reasoning for outing Cla68 was and is simple: it’s in the public interest. The sixth largest website in the world is sanctioning trans allies and Chelsea Manning supporters for being “too involved” to work on the Chelsea Manning article, but is giving a pass to members of the US Military, who apparently have no conflict of interest. This is straightforwardly something that deserves to be talked about.

This shockingly harsh sanction – the harshest the committee ever hands down – takes on an unnerving tone when one considers that the bulk of that blog post consisted of criticism of the Arbitration Committee’s decision to punish editors complaining about transphobic behavior on Wikipedia more harshly than they punish transphobic behavior itself. It is difficult, if not impossible, to see this move as anything other than petty retaliation.

Particularly entertaining is that I’ve been banned for attempting to disinfect with sunlight with regards to Chelsea Manning. Not only does this sanction look petty, it looks particularly ridiculous when applied on the topic of someone who is in jail for her commitment to transparency. I’m actually taken aback by the comedy of it. The Arbitration Committee censures its critics for leaking things in the public interest. Over the Chelsea Manning article.

It is not the ban in particular that bothers me. I rarely edit Wikipedia anyway, have not used administrator powers in ages (though they were quite nice for finding well-written articles on fiction that got spuriously deleted on “notability” grounds). I knew there was a risk in criticizing the Arbitration Committee, and I took it because the consequence – banning – wasn’t one that personally mattered to me much at all.
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In an opulent throne room, the Doctor and Romana are being entertained by Zargo and Camilla, two of the Three Who Rule.  Plates are loaded with meat.  Glasses are filled with dark red wine.  The Lords are draped in fine fabrics and smeared in make-up to mask their strangely pallid faces.

“Well, you certainly do very well for yourselves here,” observes the Doctor.

“We struggle to retain some remnants of civilisation,” says Zargo, who evidently considers himself civilised.

“Well, you do better than the peasants,” remarks the Doctor.  He and Romana have recently been in a peasant hovel, where the half-starved, over-worked, rag-clad people reacted in terror at their aristocratic confidence.

“The peasants are simple folk,” observes Camilla drily, “Richer fare would only distress them.”

“Quite right,” says the Doctor.  (His pronunciation makes it sound more like ‘Quite trite.‘)  “Probably give them indigestion,” he continues, “There’s nothing worse than a peasant with indigestion. Makes them quite rebellious. I hear you’ve been having trouble that way.”

“There are always a few ungrateful ones who do not appreciate all that we do for them,” agrees Camilla, without a trace of irony.

“And what do you do for them, apart from saving them from gluttony?” asks Romana, with more than a trace of irony.

The Lords claim to “protect” their people; they are unspecific about how, or from what.  It turns out that they protect their people from “the Wasting”.  But the Lords – a gang of literal vampires – are the Wasting.  They are what sucks all opportunity for progress out of the system, making their world (in Romana’s phrase) “a society that evolves backwards”.  All wealth, all that is farmed and harvested, is appropriated by them from the people who farm and harvest it.  The lifeblood of society flows upwards to them where they consume it, wear it, sit comfortably upon it.  They store the literal blood of the peasants in their giant fuel tanks, like the stolen surplus that it is. 

There was nothing progressive about Roman aquaducts (the water went to the fountains of the rich) or pyramids (they were the tombs of kings, stuffed with the wealth they wanted to take with them), or any of the other monuments that ruling classes throughout history have built to themselves.  Such rulers have always claimed to be protecting the people they leech off.  But every last ruling class in history has been a great vampire, feeding upon a wasting disease of which they are themselves the primary symptom.…

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Outside the Government: A Day in the Death

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It’s February 27th, 2008. Duffy are at number one with “Mercy,” with Kylie Minogue, Adele, Nickelback, Rihanna, and Kelly Rowland also charting. In news, the British Government officially nationalizes the failing Northern Rock bank, Tottenham Hotspur defeat Chelsea in the Carling Cup final, and Pakistan, in an attempt to censor the Jyllands-Posten Muhammad cartoons, blocked access to YouTube and, in doing so, inadvertently took the site down worldwide.

On television, Torchwood, broadly speaking, improves. It would be overstating things to suggest that A Day in the Death works. It doesn’t. But it fails in an interesting way more evocative of Season One than of the banal mediocrities of Series Two. Whatever else might be said of it, A Day in the Death is trying to do something interesting and new. It’s an intimate character piece that focuses tightly on Owen and works to give us his perspective on his new status quo as an animated corpse. It’s a story that works hard to stay on the human level.

There are problems. Maggie is perhaps a bit overdone – losing her husband is probably sufficient reason for her to be up on a rooftop contemplating suicide without needing to add the bathos-inducing wedding day car crash. The ending is mawkish. Owen’s overall plot still doesn’t really do anything; it’s not a functional lens on any aspect of human experience. There’s some stuff that’s vaguely evocative of people putting their lives together after an extreme trauma, particularly one leaving them with permanent disabilities, but the metaphor never quite crystalizes. There’s too much focus on the imagery of death, and particularly on Torchwood’s usually more interesting “there’s nothing” image, and it distracts from the plot being about anything other than its own science fiction conceit. It’s not that science fiction only works when exploring understandable and familiar spaces; that’s the opposite of true. But it is that science fiction that’s just about coming up with weird concepts isn’t very interesting. Yes, something odd is happening to Owen, but there’s no metaphoric depth to it, not even here, in the episode that focuses on it.

But there are real strengths. Richard Briers does a phenomenal amount with his brief appearance, although it lacks some of the intensity of his previous appearance within Doctor Who. The bizarre alien artifact that serves as the story’s MacGuffin is, in fact, just a pretty alien artifact that emits beautiful light displays. It’s completely harmless; it wasn’t keeping Henry alive, and it wasn’t a bomb. This is a wonderful plot beat of the sort that Torchwood (and for that matter Doctor Who) doesn’t do often enough; one in which the world of the alien is actually the wondrous thing it’s usually advertised as being instead of just a source of unimaginable horror. And while it seems strange to mention it, Martha works quite well here. She’s a minor character and her departure scene is shoehorned in in a fashion that’s utterly extraneous to the plot, but she actually has something to do here that both extends sensibly from her character and fits into the story such that she doesn’t need to be knocked out of the plot at the two-thirds mark by some contrivance.…

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“All the greatest men are maniacs.”: Whom Gods Destroy

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“A cat may look at a king…”

“Whom Gods Destroy” is famously bad. It is also famously unapologetically repetitive, reiterating the exact same plot of the first season episode “Dagger of the Mind” down to reusing the same chair prop that was central to that episode’s climax. It is also, like the vast majority of third season episodes, riddled with plot holes, logic lapses and inconsistent characterization: In terms of basic narrative structure and coherence, it’s once again a mess. “Whom Gods Destroy” seems to be a particular bugbear for Leonard Nimoy, who spent the entire week writing memos and complaints about it to anyone who would listen including, but not limited to, Fred Freiberger and Douglas C. Cramer, the Paramount Studios production executive.

While the laziness and sloppiness are painfully apparent, I’m not especially inclined to tear into them here for a few reasons. One, exasperating as it is, this is not really unusual for this season, and really I’d go so far as to say it’s standard operating procedure for the show at this point. Secondly, even if it hadn’t been officially stated yet, it’s pretty clear Star Trek‘s time is just about up. We’ve had our bonus year, and the show has about two months left before it’s put to bed for good. It’s rather pointless to get too worked up about structural problems now. While it’s possible we might get one or two late-stage minor classics along the lines of “Wink of an Eye” or “That Which Survives” in the remaining stories (I have little to no recollection of the next batch of episodes except for the really blatantly obvious ones), the show is for all practical purposes done and we’re just killing time before the inevitable sits in. This run of episodes is the word death of the Original Series.

“Whom Gods Destroy” isn’t even all that bad given the standards of the 1968-1969 year. It manages to on the whole avoid being as incensing as “Elaan of Troyius”, “The Paradise Syndrome” and “What Are Little Girls Made Of?”, though it does have a few ethical issues of its own. And, while it’s not as much of a B-movie pleasure as “Spock’s Brain”, there are certainly parts that are genuinely entertaining in a way only the most gloriously trashy science fiction can be. Indeed, though “Whom Gods Destroy” is certainly nowhere near as thought provoking as “The Tholian Web”, “Plato’s Stepchildren” or “Wink of an Eye”, it does actually manage to occasionally drunkenly stumble into one or two genuinely captivating concepts. What we have here is probably Star Trek’s first Curate’s Egg: It’s a disaster, but parts of this disaster are quite excellent.

Let’s square away the obvious issue right away. “Whom Gods Destroy” is literally a retelling of “Dagger of the Mind”, and a shitty one at that. This time the story follows the almost cartoonishly stereotypical plot of having the inmate running the asylum have a Napoleon complex, on which I’ll have more to say a little later.…

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In a prison cell on Skaro, the Doctor and Jamie watch as Maxtible is paid by the Daleks for services rendered. 

“The secret you promised me!” he demands.

Maxtible is a wealthy, propertied, Victorian gentleman who thinks of everything in terms of business transactions.  His charity to Waterfield and his daughter has given him – Maxtible – proprietory rights to use them as he wishes, as servant and collateral.  His pact with the Daleks is a “partnership”.  He is providing a service in return for payment.  His payment is to be a secret that he has been pursuing fanatically, at the expense of anyone who gets in his way.

“The secret of transmuted metal,” confirms the Black Dalek.

A series of formulae flash up on a screen.  For all the talk of “atomic weight” and “specific gravity”, the details are occult.  But the transmutation is achieved.

“Gold!” cries Maxtible, “Iron into gold!  I told you it was possible!  They’ve kept their promise!  It’s true, it’s true!  They have!”

He thinks he has completed the alchemist’s project… but that project was about harnessing purity and immutability in the hope of returning humanity to its nature before the fall.  In aiding the Daleks, Maxtible has done the reverse of this: he has helped harness ‘the human factor’ in the service of utterly fallen things.

In any case, his lust for gold is nothing to do with purity.  It is the general obsession of any Victorian gentleman.  It’s the basis of Victorian society.  The secret he obsesses over is the secret of capital.  The seemingly magical ability of capitalist production to create wealth from nowhere, from commodities that come out worth more than the raw materials that went into them.  From dross comes gold – straight into the gentleman’s pockets.

This is the basis of all Victorian gothic: the occult and occluded nature of profit, of capital accumulation.

The real secret, the thing occluded, is ‘the human factor’.  Human work, or ‘species-being’, alienated from humans and appearing to Maxtible in the form of Daleks, in the form of alien machines that drain humanity and substitute their own essence… which is what happens to him immediately after he is paid for his services.

His real payment is to be given ‘the Dalek factor’.  To be made into an occult, gothic thing.  A Victorian zombie.…

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In a bunker filled with stacks and stacks of munitions shells, Millington is demonstrating his secret weapon.  He breaks a capsule inside a sealed glass box.  Green fog pours out.  The doves inside slowly choke to death. 

“Just think what a bomb full could do to Dresden.  Or Moscow,” says Millington.  “It could mean the end of the war,” he says perfunctorily.  The old, eternal justification.  

But Millington isn’t trying to end a war.  He’s trying to start a new one.  In his twisted mind, the final battle of Norse mythology has become entwined with the final battle between his way of life and the “revolution” that Sorin believes in.

(Just like Churchill, who asked his generals to come up with a plan for a surprise attack on the USSR, using German troops, after Allied victory over the Nazis.  Learning of the American success with the atomic bomb he grew even bolder, saying “We can tell the Russians if they insist on doing this or that, well we can just blot out Moscow, then Stalingrad, then Kiev, then Sevastopol”.)

Millington’s green fog, harvested from a well of ancient evil beneath the ground, has been sealed inside the Ultima Machine, which Millington will allow the Russians to steal.

“And Whitehall thinks the Russians will be stupid enough to let you detonate one of those things inside the Kremlin?” asks the Doctor.

“Oh that’s the beauty of it,” says Millington, “we won’t detonate it.  They’ll do it themselves.  The machine will be programmed to self-destruct when it tries to decrypt a particular word.  And when the political climate is appropriate…” by this he means when there is peace… “then we will include the word in one of our cyphers.”

The Doctor asks what the word is.

“What else could it be Doctor?  Love.”

The word rings through the story.  Jean and Phyllis love men in uniform.  Ace says baby Audrey is lovely.  Wainwright so doubts God’s love for a nation that drops bombs on German children that he can hardly bear to say the word “love” in church.…

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Book Review: Magic Words

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At this point the overlap between Lance Parkin’s interests and mine is downright unsettling. How am I ever going to get anywhere with my interests when I have to compete with someone as good as him? It’s not enough, apparently, that he be one of the best writers of Doctor Who auxiliary material and a damn fine scholar of the show, as evidenced by his marvelous volume of the Time Unincorporated series. He’s got to go write about Alan Moore as well. Actually, he’s on his second, having written a quite solid introduction to him for the Pocket Essentials series. But Magic Words is something else; a landmark, definitive tome that immediately establishes itself as one of the absolutely essential works for anybody interested in Alan Moore.

Before we get to any of that, however, let’s start with the fact that the book is absolutely gorgeous. This is a sumptuous, lush book. Its cover, a green-tinged photo of Moore staring out at the reader through the smoke of the almost certainly not tobacco cigarette in his hand, is augmented by a bellyband proclaiming the title. The edges of the pages are inked black, giving the exterior a sleek elegance. Inside is similarly well-designed, save for a frustrating decision to use a cod-comics lettering font for chapter headers. Still, it’s one of the nicest physical objects of a book I’ve laid hands on this year.
That bit of geekery aside, the book itself. It is, to be clear, a biography. It is not Gary Spencer Millidge’s (very excellent) Alan Moore: Storyteller, nor George Khoury’s The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore. The former is an overview of Moore’s work; the latter an extended interview. This, however, is an attempt to grapple with Alan Moore the man. This obviously involves a lot of looking at his work, but mainly in terms of how it explains his evolving career.
This is, to be sure, an interesting subject. Moore’s career, after all, is a fascinating litany of brilliance and idiosyncrasy. First of all, there’s the somewhat puzzling matter of him worshipping a snake puppet. Second, there’s the stark litany of fairly explosive feuds he’s had with various people. Third, there’s the fact that his life is simply full of idiosyncratic and extreme beliefs, positions, and courses of action, most of which are backed up by complex and nuanced explanations.
Complicating Parkin’s task is the fact that, up until the very end of the writing process, Moore wasn’t participating in the biography. Moore was shown what was at the time intended to be the final draft, and was impressed enough to both give a charming blurb (“In Magic Words Lance Parkin has crafted a biography that is insightful, scrupulously fair-minded and often very funny – a considerable achievement given its unrelentingly grim, unreasonable, and annoying subject. Belongs on the shelf of any halfway decent criminal profiler.”) and what Parkin has described as the most wonkish Alan Moore interview ever, as it consisted of no questions regarding well-trod subject matter, and instead consisting entirely of issues like sorting out Grant Morrison’s claim that Moore had written him a threatening letter in response to Morrison’s unsolicited submission of a Kid Marvelman script (Moore says it never happened, and Parkin backs the claim up with a Dez Skinn interview) and why Moore decided to do his ABC work as a work-for-hire such that he doesn’t own Tom Strong or Promethea (still unclear, actually, though I have my speculations for a few years from now). 
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The committee want to know about Vorg and Shirna’s ‘ritual’. 

Shirna tries to explain.  “We’re entertainers.”  She does a little dance.  “Understand?”

Pletrac regards her, his face blank.

“No,” he says.

Vorg jumps in.

“Our purpose is to amuse, simply to amuse… nothing serious, nothing political.”

Who is he talking to?  The committee?  The BBC?  Us?

In any case, the commitee retire – scandalised – into secret session.

“Amusement is prohibited,” gabbles Kailk in cold panic, “it’s purposeless.”

“Zarb is considering lifting that restriction,” says Pletrac.  Zarb is their leader.  “The latest thinking is that the latest outbreak of violence among the functionaries is caused by lack of amusement.”

The ‘functionaries’ are their slaves.  (Sadly, they are portrayed as rudimentary and stupid.)

The committee members are caught between two possible choices, both of them extremely attractive to any ruling class: stop the ‘functionaries’ thinking about anything but their function, or amuse the ‘functionaries’ and thus keep their mind off the fact that they are slaves.

So it turns out that amusement is pretty serious and political after all.

Meanwhile, inside Vorg’s silly, apolitical machine, white English imperialists complain about the idleness of the “madrasis”.

“Won’t have ’em on the plantation,” says Major Daley.…

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TW

Stotz and Morgus are united in one last ditch attempt to turn this muddy, bloody clusterfuck into profit.  But Stotz hangs back. 

“Let’s get a couple of things straight,” he says to Morgus.  “An hour ago you were the boss.  Now that’s all changed.  Now you’re the same as me.  Just a man with a gun.”

“I, the same as you?” demands Morgus imperiously and incredulously, “I’m Morgus, I’m descended from the first colonists.” 

But his arrogance is either habit or bafflegab.  They both know this.  And they both know that Morgus needs Stotz to show him the way to Jek’s stockpile.  And they both know that more spectrox can be carried by two men than by one, working equally.  And they both know that, once this is done, they will be superfluous to each other.

“If we do happen to come out of this with any spectrox,” Stotz continues, “there’ll be none of that ‘four points for you, one point for me’ business.  This time we split it right down the middle.  Agreed?”

“Of course,” says Morgus.  So Stotz leads the way.  But they both know that soon, one of them will be dead.

This is the world they have made, and it is crashing down around their ears.  For Morgus, ‘four points for him, one point for the little guy’ is the definition of society.  One guy carries it, Morgus takes it; that’s how the world works.  Until now.  For Stotz, there’s a boss at every level.  Inside his gang, it’s him.  Higher up, it’s Morgus, or someone like him.  Until now.

As it happens, Jek will be the end of both of them… but this will only happen because he gives himself away by turning on a fan to keep a feverish, dying woman cool.  He once wanted her for her ‘beauty’.  It’s fairly clear that he intended, eventually, to rape her.  But, riddled with spectrox toxaemia, she’s not so desirable anymore.  Yet he wants her to stay alive.  For him, lonliness and narcissism and hate and self-pity have always been his ruling passions.  Until now. 

Of course, this is a tragedy, so it’s already too late for him.  And it’s only right that it should be because, just as much as Morgus and Stotz, he made the world that is now about to kill him.…

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