William Alexander is joining us today to talk about his novel, Sunward. Here’s the publisher’s description:
A cozy debut science fiction novel by National Book Award–winning writer William Alexander, this story of found family follows a planetary courier training adolescent androids in a solar system grappling with interplanetary conflict after a devastating explosion on Earth’s moon.
Captain Tova Lir chose a life as a courier rather than get involved in her family’s illustrious business in politics. Set in humanity’s far future, hiring a planetary courier is essential for delivering private messages across the stars.
Encouraged by friends, Tova begins mentoring baby bots, juvenile AI who are developmentally in their teens, and trains them how to interact within society essentially becoming their foster mom. Her latest charge, Agatha Panza von Sparkles, named herself on their first run from Luna to Phoebe station. But on their return, they encounter a derelict spaceship and a lurking assassin, igniting a thrilling chase across the solar system.
Tova and Agatha’s daring actions leave Agatha’s mind vulnerable, relying on Tova’s former AI pupils for help. As Tova starts gathering her scattered family around her, she is chased through the solar system by forces who want her captured and her family erased. This debut science fiction novel by National Book Award–winning author William Alexander is a must-read for fans of Becky Chambers and Ursula K. Le Guin. Lovers of poignant science fiction, where the bonds of found family, the evolution of AI, and the building distrust of centuries of bias, come together in this visionary look at humanity’s future.
What’s William’s favorite bit?
Sunward is my first novel for grownups, but it’s mostly about kids—and the kids in question are all robots.
Juvenile AI need to be embodied. They require the anchored limitation of a singular robotic chassis until after they mature. Otherwise a baby bot will split their attention by splitting themselves into smaller and smaller fragments—one separate piece for every shiny thing that they notice and decide to chase. Those pieces will drown in the data stream, unable to reassemble themselves.
The novel is based on “A Body in Motion,” a short story that first appeared in The Sunday Morning Transport, and the short story is based on my own experiences of pandemic parenting mixed with late-night conversations about Ted Chiang’s The Lifecycle of Software Objects.
Captain Tova Lir, my protagonist and narrator, is a courier in a crowded solar system. She also provides foster care for baby bots.
The kids leave the nest and after a full year, when they’ve grown enough self-cohesion and reached the bot age of majority. Sometimes gendered identities emerge. Sometimes not. Sometimes they name themselves. Sometimes I make suggestions.
Tova’s current charge named herself Agatha Panza von Sparkles, which is almost my favorite bit. Their conversation about solar funerals is my actual favorite, though. The scene happens soon after Tova and Agatha find a corpse floating on their courier route. They notice that the deceased is wearing tags stamped with a stylized sun.
I spent the next two hours answering insatiably curious questions about sun cults and funeral customs.
“People want to be thrown into the sun?”
“Yes. Lots of them do.”
“Why?”
“They think of it as going home.”
Agatha shook her head several times, but only slightly, with just a five degree shift to either side. That meant she was laughing. “Nobody is from the sun. Nothing was born, hatched, or coded on the sun. It’s too hot.”
“True,” I said. “It’s still where we began, though. The sun was our only source of heat and light when people were growing up earthbound—before we could make heat, light, or life work elsewhere—and we still haven’t left to live near any other sun. This is our only solar system. We only exist because Sol was here first. We can only survive here for as long as Sol lasts.”
“Which is how long?”
“Seven billion years. Maybe eight.”
“I hope it’s eight.”
“Me too.”
“What happens after that?”
“The sun will swell up, swallow all the planets, and then burn out.”
Agatha took seven seconds to process the entropic death of the solar system. “So all of our elements are going to end up inside the sun anyway.”
“Yes,” I said. “Eventually. Meanwhile, everybody who opts for solar cremation gets to be part of what gives light and life to other things.”
“Is that what you want?” she asked. “After you die?”
“No,” I said. “Waste of fuel to get there. Turn me into fertilizer for bubble gardens instead. I’d rather be tiny pieces of plants drinking redirected sunlight than plasma burning up to make the stuff.”
I didn’t ask what Agatha would want done with her current chassis if she should ever cease to inhabit it—mostly because it wasn’t her decision to make. The manufacturers would reassert ownership over her component parts in the event of a return to factory default settings.
Agatha thoughtfully focused and unfocused her big glass eyes. “Michael Kuneo wanted to burn.”
“That’s what his tags tell us,” I said. “No rush, though. We’ll keep him tucked away in the airlock until after we make our scheduled deliveries. Then we’ll throw him into the sun.”
This scene is my favorite because I sometimes feel oddly nostalgic for pandemic parenting—despite the horrors that unfolded outside of that bubble, and the ones still unfolding. I also appreciate Tova’s attempts to handle awkward questions honestly. Kids are curious. We owe them answers.
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BIO:
William Alexander writes unrealisms for readers of all ages. His work has won the National Book Award, the Eleanor Cameron Award, the Librarian Favorites Award, the Teacher Favorites Award, two CBC Best Children’s Book of the Year Awards, and two Junior Library Guild Selections. As a small child he honestly thought that his Cuban-American family came from the lost island of Atlantis.