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Article Excerpt
The publication of Peter Watts' ssehemoth: Seppuku (2005), the final volume of the Rifters trilogy, brought to a close one of the most intellectually ambitious and compelling science-fiction narratives of the past several decades. Watts' four-volume trilogy explores a six-year period of the near future (2050-2056), a time in which humanity encounters a virus that threatens the very existence of the species. Even before the virus, everyday life was already a mess: political order is barely maintained through the extensive use of surveillance and military technologies; communication systems are overburdened by computer viruses and other forms of electronic wildlife; and the environment is teetering on the edge of a man-made abyss. And, in yet another parallel to our own global circumstances, access to sufficient energy resources remains a primary imperative of government and business. In Starfish (1999), Watts introduces us to the world of the rifters, people who have been modified technologically and biochemically in order to be able to work in deep sea environments. Rifters are designed to maintain facilities that draw energy from thermal vents in the ocean floor to a world hungry for power; thanks to a mechanical apparatus that has replaced one of their lungs and other modifications to their bodies, they can endure the high pressures of the sea floor while sucking oxygen directly out of the water. Watts' memorable descriptions of the alien world of deep sea bioluminescence and deadly, paper-thin razor fish, is matched by his virtuoso exploration of the psychological struggles of the rifters with each other and their own damaged selves, in both the tin-can confines of Beebe Station and the expanses of the ocean alike.
What appears at first to be a narrative focused on the consequences of psychological isolation and manipulation, opens up into a larger and more extensive exploration of the human drive for self-preservation--and for power. Over the course of the three books that follow--Maelstrom (2001), ssehemoth: B-Max (2004), and ssehemoth: Seppuku (2005)--Watts elaborates the characteristics of our near-future-to-come with great complexity, nuance and attention to detail. It slowly comes to light that the Channer Vent, where the rifters in Starfish work, is of interest as more than a source of power. It is also the home environment of a lethal virus--ssehemoth--that is simultaneously a threat and a temptation for some who hope to harness it for their own ends. The great anti-hero of the trilogy, Lenie Clark, inadvertently spreads ssehemoth far and wide in her quest to exact revenge on those who destroyed Beebe Station at the end of Starfish. The consequences of her march across North America from Vancouver to Sault Ste. Marie are disastrous. Lenie struggles with feelings of guilt and responsibility over being the "Meltdown Madonna," and the frustrations of constantly being used as a pawn in larger game whose shape and purpose are understood only belatedly. Watts' improbably confident prose (Starfish is his first novel) propels the entire narrative along on an effortless cool edge of scientific savvy and a remorseless vision of the limits and possibilities of human action.
Watts'Blindsight (2006) shows his versatility and skill as a writer. Departing from the world of the rifters, Blindsight is about what Watts' describes as "space vampires." He introduces new sf elements to his repertoire (most notably space travel and aliens) and also new narrative devices. Blindsight switches back-and-forth between multiple first-person narrators and employs relatively simpler language, with the hard-science elements so admired in his trilogy pushed to the background (although, like his other books, the Notes and References section bristles with the kind of references one might expect from someone trained as a scientist). The mood of dread and foreboding built up from the outset of the book stands in impressive contrast to the feverish dynamism of the later books of the Rifters trilogy. The bulk of this interview was conducted through a series of email exchanges in April 2006 before the publication of Blindsight; it was followed up in July 2007 with a brief exchange after the novel's rave reviews and nomination for the 2007 Hugo Award for Best Novel.
Peter Watts received a Ph.D. in marine biology from the University of British Columbia in 1991. In addition to novels, he is the author of numerous short stories and scientific papers. The 1993 documentary, "Sealing Fate," for which he penned the screenplay, received the Environment Canada Trophy for Best Film on the Environment in that year. He is an editor of On Spec: The Canadian Magazine of the Fantastic. Peter Watts lives in Toronto. His website is: www.rifters.com
IS/MW: You have a long-standing interest and involvement in both science and writing. Can you tell us about your interest in both areas and how you see the relationship between them? Does fiction provide you with possibilities to work with ideas in different ways that science allows (and vice-versa)?
PW: I've wanted to be a writer since I was six. I've wanted to be a scientist (specifically, a marine biologist) since I was five. I remember the exact moment that each bug bit me--a CBC [Canadian Broadcasting Corporation] radio dramatization of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and my discovery of a friend's ten-gallon aquarium, respectively--and at the time, they seemed pretty much independent. Looking back, though, I think both hooked me because of the aspect of exploration inherent in each. Science asks how come and science fiction asks what if, and there's a lot of overlap between those domains. I regard my writing very much as a series of thought experiments, a chance to explore the data without having to bombard NSERC [National Sciences and Engineering Research Council] or the NRC [National Research Council] with research proposals attempting to draw some link, any link, between thermoregulation in harbor seals and National Security In These Post-9/11 Times.
That said, though, I think that scientists might be among the worst people to write science fiction, at least science fiction dealing with their own fields of specialization. Beyond the obvious fact that we're straight-jacketed by our own expertise--we know so many arcane reasons why this, that, or the other thing can't possibly work that our imaginations are hamstrung--scientists as a group just tend to be really bad writers. We're trained from childhood to wring any trace of style from our words, trained to be as opaque and technical as possible because well-written papers are comprehensible papers, and referees tend to equate "comprehensible" with "insubstantive": "Well, of course, that's obvious. Nothing new here." Whereas an incomprehensible paper is more likely to be met with "Shit, this guy's way beyond me. This must be good." This isn't just...
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