Hi. Sorry about the silence: I've been busy redrafting the current-newest novel in progress (it's back with my agent), and now I just flipped over to rewrite the much-rewritten novel before that (which ran into a brick wall in late 2025 for structural reasons, and which I set aside while I was working on the next book, figured out a fix for in late 2026, and am now fixing).

As you can imagine, slaving over manuscripts isn't the only thing I do on a computer. Along the way I'm browsing the web--or what's left of it these days that isn't clickbait nonsense and LLM-generated slop--and slowly accumulating a mass of perpetually open browser tabs with stuff that bears future consideration. These are not story ideas, but they're elements of background or texture that I think might conceivably come in handy in a future project. And because I'm currently working on a pair of space operas, this list is astrophysics-oriented ...

(Hint: click the links, there's some truly crazy stuff here, most of it new since 1990.)

This century is a golden age of exoplanetography. Back in 1990 there were zero tentatively identified exoplanets. But the advent of orbiting telescopes with significant light gathering power (most famously, the Hubble Space Telescope which launched that year) has shown us that not only are solar systems with multiple planets quite common, but that our own solar system is that weird kid in the corner of the playground who nobody wants to hang out with: there is an absolute zoo of exoplanet types out there. While Hubble wasn't specifically an exoplanet-hunting tool it was follwed by NASA's Kepler and Spitzer space telescopes, and just-launched Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope, ESA's Cheops and coming PLATO) and ARIEL space telescopes, and of course the very large joint NASA/ESA James Webb Space Telescope.

Exoplanets are identified by perturbations they induce in the light curve emitted by their primary, either because they pass in front of the star or cause it to wobble slightly as the massive object orbits around its centre of mass. The consequence of having a bunch of infrared telescopes outside the atmosphere is that the count of known exoplanets as of October 2026 hit 6,445 confirmed in 4,834 planetary systems, of which 1,070 solar systems contain more than one planet. And this is only scratching the surface: to be detectable in this way, an exoplanet needs to be very massive and orbit very close--a Hot Jupiter. So of course Hot Jupiters are what we have mostly found so far. "In general their prevalence decreases exponentially as a function of the absolute stellar magnitude:" they're most common around F- and G-type stars, somewhat rarer around K-type, and very rare around red dwarfs.

While Hot Jupiters aren't of direct interest in writing human-centered SF--they're profoundly hostile environments for interstellar canned monkeys to explore--they have weird sequellae. If they end up too close to their primary star, they might undergo atmospheric stripping, leaving behind a Chthonian Planet, a rocky or metallic super-Earth such as TOI-849 b, which is about 40 times as massive as Earth but only 3.4 times Earth's radius. Alternatively, TOI-849 b might be a Mega-Earth rather than an eroded gas giant. Other Mega-Earths are a lot weirder: PSR J1719−1438 b is a pulsar planet, orbiting the millisecond pulsar PSR J1719−1438. what makes it weird is not only the fact that it orbits a millisecond pulsar (pulsars being supernova remnants, their original planets should have been vapourized during the stellar explosion that gave birth to it), but that it might be a planet that evolved from another star: the outer layers of the star were siphoned off by the more massive pulsar, leaving behind a core roughly as massive as Jupiter but a fraction of its diameter, seemingly composed mainly of crystalline carbon at a much higher density than diamond, with some oxygen concentrated in its surface.

(Don't bother writing this into your fic as a place for your hero to be exiled to mine hyperdiamond, though: it orbits its pulsar primary about twice as far out as our moon orbits the Earth, so it's probably baked by hard radiation: PSR J2719-1438 is spinning at roughly 10,000 rpm so inducing insane electrical currents in anything nearby, and your hero would be squished flat by Jupiter-adjacent surface gravity.)

A Hot Neptune is another type of common-so-far exoplanet, an Ice Giant (like, oh, our own Neptune and Uranus--a gas giant composed of elements heavier than hydrogen and helium) orbiting within 1AU of its primary. They're easier to find than actual Ice Giants because they transit their primary far more often than planets in distant orbits (Neptune's orbital period, for example, is 164.8 Earth years). Some Ultra-Hot Neptunes orbit so close to their primary that temperatures on the day side exceed 2000 celsius, and their atmosphere is probably metal-rich, with clouds of silicate: LTT 9779 b completes an orbit of its star in less than a day. At noon, it's hot enough to boil lead: it probably rains molten iron.

We also have some promising candidate Super-Earths (Earth-like but more massive planets, too small to be gas giants, probably possessing a rocky surface or hydrosphere as well as an atmosphere) and Hycean Planets, super-Earths with liquid water beneath a hydrogen ocean. (Note that water undergoes some whacky and exciting phase changes at increasing pressure: in particular, above 1,000 to 10,000 times atmospheric pressure solid phases predominate, and the high density phases don't float on liquid water (being dense). So below a certain depth the oceans will probably turn to slush, then extremely weird ice. But don't worry, our kind of life is based on enzymes that can be denatured by that kind of pressure regime.) Hycean worlds are nevertheless promising candidates for supporting life, although it'd probably be entirely aquatic.

Exomoons are a possibility, but as of 2026 none have been confirmed. If exoplanets are themselves hard to detect using current methods, exomoons are worse: Doppler spectroscopy doesn't work, although there's a list of exomoon candidates. One thing's for sure, there are a lot more moons in our solar system than was previously thought (Saturn alone has 293 moons). So it seems reasonable to posit the existence of many exomoons, of many types not found in our own system.

Rogue Planets or iPMOs (isolated Planetary Mass Objects) are planets that have formed in isolation or been ejected from a solar system; they're not bound to any star, and are less massive than a Brown Dwarf--failed stars too small to fuse hydrogen into helium, but massive enough to support deuterium fusion or even lithium fusion. There are hundreds of known candidate iPMOs, many of them ranging in mass between Earth and the lower end of Brown Dwarfs: some of them appear to be binaries, and it's reasonable to expect iPMOs with their own moon systems to exist.

(Do not seek out an iPMO as a setting for a spa resort: they're likely extremely dark and very cold, although they may retain a thick hydrogen atmosphere and enough residual core radioisotope decay to maintain a surface temperature above the melting point of water.)

Finally these are just the commoner types of planet in the exoplanet bestiary! Once we stop looking at boring old stars things begin to get really weird. Just as iPMOs don't necessarily form in the protoplanetary disk surrounding a new star but may form in substellar nurseries that birth brown dwarfs, we have to consider the Blanet or black hole planet.

Galaxies such as our own nucleate around a supermassive black hole such as Sagittarius A*, at the core of our own galaxy, which has a mass of around 4.3 million solar masses. (Other supermassive black holes may range up to billions of solar masses.) We know these objects exist, from observation of their radio emissions and studies of the orbits of stars passing close to them, and the holes at the heart of an Active Galactic Nucleus are believed to generate their emissions from the accretion disk around the hole.

Blanets are planets that form in the accretion disk around a sufficiently large black hole, provided the disk is dim enough not to disrupt the process (posited, more than 0.01 parsecs out from the event horizon--about 2000 astronomical units, roughly 50 times further out than Pluto). They're posited to be at least 20 Earth masses, and may be stable in orbits with periods of up to hundreds of thousands of years. They're believed to be unlikely to accumulate an atmosphere and become a gas giant due to the black hole scavenging gases. And they can be heated by either radiation from the black hole's accretion disk, or (this is whacky) the blueshifted cosmic microwave background if they're close enough to the hole. Best part: the outer regions of AGN disks may be prolific birthplaces for planets.

(Blanets aren't the only things that can form in an AGN accretion disk. Stars are likely to be common as well, including massive ones that rapidly undergo core collapse and result in smaller-than-supermassive stellar black holes. And where you get star formation, you get protoplanetary disks and therefore planets as well.)

Anyway, just sticking a peg in the ground: a good chunk of the action of my work-in-progress Starter Pack is set on a terraformed Earth-mass moon orbiting a Hycean planet of roughly Neptune's mass orbiting its star in the triple phase zone for water (i.e. where water can exist as ice, liquid, or vapour). The moon in question has spin (presumably it got kicked off by a collision with another proto-moon while the moon system was forming), so a magnetosphere, and tides to keep plate tectonics going--but this time tides from its primary planet, not a large sub-moon of its own.

But that's enough about me. What insane exoplanet facts can you add to this pool?

Upcoming fixtures

My public visibility took a nose-dive in 2020 (can't think why!) and didn't really begin to pick up again until 2024, due to multiple reasons, principally COVID19 and some chronic health issues. The health issues are now under control and I'm planning on coming out of my shell a bit more over the next year.

My definite fixtures over the next year or so include 5 SF/F conventions in various countries, none of them the United States but one of them on the same continent:

4-8 November 2026, Festival 42, Barcelona, The sixth 42 Barcelona Festival of Fantastic Genres (theme: "Facing Our Fears.")

I'm one of the guests at Festival 42 (although I'm not listed on their web page yet).

My Festival 42 events so far:

1pm, Saturday 7th: Author interview (with Cristina Jurado)

7pm, Saturday 7th: Panel discussion with international authors (details TBA)

12am, Sunday 8th, Panel discussion (details TBA)

11 November 2026, Author Event, Gigamesh Bookshop, author event (reading/interview, TBA). Gigamesh is Barcelona's SF/F specialist bookshop and they've kindly arranged an event for me: I'll add details here when I've got them.

12-15 November 2026, Sui Generis Festival, Madrid (theme: "Neo-Fiction: New Narratives for a Contested Present.") Sui Generis Festival: "We use the term neo-fiction to describe narrative practices that emerge from a world shaped by the ecological crisis, digital culture, artificial intelligence, and social fragmentation."

My Sui Generis events so far:

6pm, Friday 13th November: Panel discussion, "The New Indifferent God: Cosmic Horror and Artificial Intelligence"

7:30pm, Saturday 14th November: Panel discussion, "Masters of the Impossible"

26-29 March 2027, Unconfined, the UK Eastercon, Glasgow.

(C'mon, you didn't expect me to miss this one, did you?)

2-6 September 2027 Montreal Worldcon

Montréal 2027 is a North American worldcon outside the United States! So of course I'm planning on going.

18-21 November 2027, Polcon 2027

Polcon 2027, The Polish national SF convention will be held in Katowice in 2027, and they've invited me as a special guest. Details to be added here when I've got them.

A whole decade ago I blogged about a taxonomy of cliches in space opera, with a considerable checklists of things to watch out for in the space opera I was just then starting to work on.

This was almost entirely a background task for most of that time. During the period I was poking at the new space opera project I wrote: the Empire Games trilogy, the New Management trilogy, A Conventional Boy, The Labyrinth Index and The Regicide Report. So, nine other novels. Meanwhile the space opera went through two and a half rewrites, spawned a spin-off novel, and the spin-off novel is now getting its second rewrite, because Reasons (it has to be perfect: also, I'm going to go back to the original space opera next and finish that, too, probably next year, not to mention already having the first 50,000 words of a sequel.).

But anyway: the space opera project has resulted in maybe a third of a million words of fiction so far, and absolutely humongous quantities of world-building work. Which is why I'm now revisiting my earlier thoughts on space opera, to try to better understand what I'm doing here.

First, some clarification. What even is space opera, when it's at home?

While there's no short, concise definition of space opera, there's an extensive monograph on Space Opera in the SF Encyclopedia, tracing its roots back to the US pulp magazine sector around 1900 and following it to 1941, when Wilson Tucker defined it as the appropriate term for the "hacky, grinding, stinking, outworn, spaceship yarn": alternatively, space-adventure stories which have a calculatedly romantic element.

Let's stick a magnifying glass on top of that last phrase. Romaniticism in this context does not have anything to do with the romance genre of fiction (which focusses on love and relationships). Rather it's a shout-out to the romantic movement of the 18th to 19th centuries and its modern descendants, which prioritize passion, intuition, and individualism over social convention—the pursuit of beauty entails an interest in the exotic and mysterious, a celebration of the heroic and the divine, respect for the supernatural, and arguably the will to power and worship of force that took a darker turn in the fascist and totalitarian movements of the 20th century. Stick starships and light sabres and vast vistas of time and space on top of this and you can get an impression of where it's going.

As a romantic genre, space opera requires its protagonists to have enough agency (personal autonomy) to break out of their quotidian setting and have adventures—travel is a big part of this, for it cuts them free of the ties that bind, leaves family behind, and promises escape. To which end, the spaceship is central in space opera just as the sailing ship was key to the age of (ahem) sail. Trying to imagine Moby Dick or Master and Commander without sailing ships is like trying to imagine Star Trek or Star Wars without starships.

You can write romantic adventure-focussed SF without starships (use stargates/wormholes or just set it on a planet where adventure-shaped activities dominate the plot) but what you get then isn't space opera, it's a planetary romance.

(Planetary romance (the sub-genre Jack Vance was famous for) inherently places more constraints on what you can do with your fiction. You can't easily have a planetary setting which combines long travel times, high energy technologies and high population density, for example: long travel times imply no fast vehicles (no high speed rail or air travel, never mind spaceships), which are a side-effect of high energy technologies (internal combustion, gas turbines, big-ass electrical generators and HV grid of any kind) and you can't easily get to any of those things without a sufficiently high population density to support the industries that make them feasible (not just engineering and factories but universities and schools with mass literacy and mining) which in turn implies advanced agriculture—you've got to feed those cities somehow. (Memo to self: hunt down James Burke's Connections on video (they're somewhere on YouTube) and re-watch the series.) It also makes it difficult to justify sub-settings with wildly divergent levels of technology because that stuff leaks—to keep it out you need a North Korean level hermit kingdom, or totally impenetrable jungles that haven't been penetrated by colonialists, or something of that level. (NB: I have found a workaround for this, but I'm not going to spoiler the coming novels!)

Ultimately economics are your enemy if you want to write convincing romanticist fiction without turning into a fantasy-without-the-magic secondary world setting: all it takes is one country inventing capitalism and/or imperialism to muck it up for everybody else). And economics fucks with space opera too: ask yourself what markets plausibly exist for goods and services transported across interstellar distances, and after digesting Paul Krugman's Theory of Interstellar Trade (PDF) you may be left scratching your head.

My go-to answer for economics in space opera is that interstellar expansion/colonization is most plausibly driven by (a) religion ("manifest destiny" is a religious belief, built atop Genesis 9:7), or (b) escapist colonialism (but only if travel is cheap and compatible biospheres are abundant). In third place we probably get pyramid schemes (eg. Neptune's Brood by some guy called Stross: prior art for that one existed in the shape of colonial pyramid schemes, eg. the Darien Scheme which bankrupted Scotland, or the South Sea Bubble, which nearly bankrupted the British government a generation later). Then a long way down the list we get to trade in Veblen Goods, and maybe—if interstellar transport is very cheap—recreation. What the latter two items have in common is that they're status signifiers—the wealthy have been having yachting adventures while the peasants labor on their estates to pay for them for a very long time, and as for Veblen Goods, Faberge eggs are pretty obvious. So we have status as a driver for space opera: a side-effect of hierarchical social structures where the elite seek to maintain their status by signaling their affluence in various ways.

Did I mention hierarchical social structures and capitalism? The thing about capitalism is that it's a totalizing ideology, like the divine right of kings, or religious fundamentalism. It seeks converts, it refuses to be gainsaid, and it confers a competitive advantage on cultures that adopt it (as opposed to those that reject it). Yet, as Ursula le Guin said, "We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings..."

Space opera embraces the romanticist outlook. This is inherently problematic, for it is capable of spawning totalitarian nightmares. To understand this point, I dare you to read Marinetti's Futurist Manifesto from 1909 and not recognize it both as a masterpiece of romantic rhetoric and as one of the founding texts of Fascism—very specifically the Italian Fascist movement (Nazism and Spanish clerico-fascism were later tumors on the rancid politics of violence and misogyny that Marinetti unleashed).

It's not possible to examine space opera, or planetary romance, and not acknowledge the pernicious fascistic imagery in both subgenres. Michael Moorcock wrote a magisterial essay about this nexus in the wake of Star Wars (the first movie): I strongly recommend reading his Starship Stormtroopers before pressing on if you're not already familiar with it.

Pace Le Guin, it is possible to write space opera that doesn't pander to fascism directly, as the late Iain M. Banks demonstrated. But even in his magisterial Culture series the pustules of fascism can easily be seen on the faces of the Culture's adversaries: from the Idiran imperialists to the Empire of Azad, perhaps most clearly in the character of the Affront, it takes a bad dose of fascism to introduce the romanticist element necessary for space opera to be perpetrated. Otherwise you're left with something like Inversions, which is a Culture novel with merely homeopathic traces of space opera remaining. Incidentally I make no apologies for assuming a familiar with the Culture novels on the part of the reader: if you haven't read it already, you're missing out, because it's the nearest thing I've seen to a refutation of the core conceit of might-makes-right inherent in the fascist strain of space opera. Iain wrote A Few Notes on the Culture in 1993 to explain what he was about: in particular, I was struck by this summary: The Culture, in its history and its on-going form, is an expression of the idea that the nature of space itself determines the type of civilisations which will thrive there. ... Essentially, the contention is that our currently dominant power systems cannot long survive in space; beyond a certain technological level a degree of anarchy is arguably inevitable and anyway preferable.

Totalizing ideologies like capitalism or Christian Nationalism aren't immutable, and opposition is possible. They rely on a perception of inescapability on the part of their subjects, and space opera should be the ideal fictional vehicle for escapism from such certainties: if our protagonists can board a starship and flee, there is in principle no reason why they can't shed the chains of a pernicious ideological system.

Now I want to cut to a different question. What about the human-scale story?

Space opera isn't usually a genre of high conceptual merit that tries to tell us something about the world we live in. It can be, in the hands of a determined author who knows what they're doing (I'm thinking specifically of Iain Banks, of Bruce Sterling's Schismatrix, of some of Alastair Reynold's work—notably House of Suns) but it's more often deployed as a giant shiny backdrop for human-scale drama. Fiction is generally the art of confabulating plausible lies that illuminate the human condition, but stars and galaxies exist on a very superhuman scale: if we took them seriously as a setting they'd dwarf the merely human concerns of the protagonists—the emotional cursors that traverses the story universe—into insignificance, as in the more philosophical works of Olaf Stapledon. (For a fine example, see Anvil of Stars by Greg Bear.) Most of us don't have the imaginative flexibility to conceive of time scales significantly longer than a human lifespan and vistas larger than a single planet (and even that is a recent development: I think before mass intercontinental air travel our imaginative horizons were far more constrained). So a common problem in space opera is for the scale of distances to collapse: modern authors tend to fall back on the durations of international air travel, rather than thinking in terms of age-of-sail voyages, let alone more realistic interstellar durations at slower than light speeds. (Honorable exception to that one: Alastair Reynolds, and to a lesser extent, Ursula Le Guin's Hainish Worlds stories and Ken Macleod's Engines of Light tetralogy.)

A side-effect of the romantic outlook is a demand for individual human agency—that is, that despite the vast scale of the backdrop, the protagonists have the ability to effect change, or at least to change their own circumstances. Here in the real world most of us are trapped by situational constraints: our employment system is parodied as wage slavery for a reason. Opportunities for adventure are scarce, and your chances of self-betterment are minimal. (You can found a business and spend 30 years trying to become a millionaire, most likely to end in ignominious failure, or you play the lottery, be it by explicit gambling or by speculation on the cryptocurrency markets, but the game is rigged against you from the start.) Money in large quantities, as capital, exerts a gravitational attraction and we are individually just dust particles. So space opera tends to focus on protagonists who acquire individual agency, have adventures that take them away from the quotidian grind, and let them change themselves or the worlds around them.

A classic plot skeleton for this sort of fiction is the Hero's Journey template, as popularized by Joseph Campbell and demonstrated by George Lucas in Star Wars, and it's less-familiar-to-many sibling, the Heroine's Journey: interestingly the Heroine's Journey can be seen as an explicit rejection of the frenetic diktat of Futurism even though it's compatible with space opera, as demonstrated magisterially by Lois McMaster Bujold, whose Vorkosigan series is bookended by a Heroine's Journey narrative (starting in Shards of Honor, continuing in Barrayar, finally winding up in Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen)—and which holds the singular record for most Hugo awards for a single SF series (so this isn't just my opinion). Character development lives at the heart of both these templates, and I suspect you can't have a working space opera without the scope for such changes.

To briefly hark back to the Futurist/fascist imagery inherent in space opera: the Vorkosigan series is arguably Ruritanian romantic space opera set against a recognizable 19th century central European flavoured empire. (It's no accident that space opera emerged at the end of the age of empires, the turn of the 20th century.) Our main viewpoint character, Cordelia Vorkosigan, is a woman with modern sensibilities who effects change in that society to great effect, working largely behind the scenes as a noblewoman in that setting—indeed, that's the nature of her modified Heroine's Journey arc. (Assuming, of course, that you buy either the Hero's Journey or Heroine's Journey templates, both which are heavily influenced by Jungian psychology and early-to-mid 20th century conceptions of masculine and feminine gender identity, all of which are highly problematic in my opinion.)

Ultimately, though, the romanticist aesthetic is inimical to social convention and formalism—and also to sustainability. The romantic impulse renders space opera antithetical to solarpunk. A fictional setting composed entirely of wild individualists isn't going to end up as some sort of libertarian utopia, it's going to be a cat ranch: meanwhile someone needs to stay behind and tend the home fires, someone has to mind the grain silos on that "small farming planet", someone else needs to manage the shipyard that repairs the interstellar freighter. There's a lot of implied background in space opera, a civilization with enough surplus wealth production to build and operate starships, and this implies some degree of continuity—continuity of biosphere stability (or there'll be nothing to eat), continuity of infrastructure (including education/apprenticeships, to train/socialize the starship crews), continuity of the society our adventurer-protagonists emerged from. Social structures, governance, and politics are a given in every human society, and the romantic movement emerged from a very specific context that coincided with the age of enlightenment and the industrial revolution. Our protagonists are either privileged enough to transcend the daily grind or sufficiently motivated to take a hideous gamble with their own safety. And this tells us something about the constraints within which space operatic storytelling takes place—and my work-in-progress in particular.

Any questions?

The Regicide Report came out in January 2026. Traditionally I wait for the paperback before writing one of these spoiler-laden crib sheets, but there won't be a US paperback edition and the UK one isn't until the end of the year: if you don't want to wait, you don't have to.

So here it is.

The Laundry Files main story arc runs through nine novels, not including A Conventional Boy, a number of novellas and short stories (of which ACB was originally intended to be one—it over-ran), and the New Management trilogy (which was originally going to be a separate successor series to The Laundry Files: it starts 18 months after the end of The Regicide Report—it turned out to be a marketing train-wreck, which I blame on COVID19 induced mix-ups on the publishing end of things). There may eventually be a short story collection, as most of the shorts have never been published in paper editions, but this is it for the main story, which was (since The Fuller Memorandum) intended to end with the final CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN confrontation.

One huge problem with writing any vaguely-contemporary thriller series is that the world doesn't stand still underneath your fictional version of the universe.

I originally intended to accommodate this by advancing the date from novel to novel at the same speed time passed in the real world. The Atrocity Archives were set circa 2001-03, The Jennifer Morgue in 2005, and so on. Bob had room to grow older: The Annihilation Score was set in 2012 and by The Nightmare Stacks the clock had run out to 2014.

But just as lot of cold war spy thrillers were left stranded by the sudden end of the Cold War in 1989-91, I was blindsided by the Brexit referendum and its consequences in 2015. Prior to Brexit, British politics had been evolving along roughly predictable lines since Thatcher came to power in 1979, drove a tank over the prior bipartisan social democratic consensus politics, and ushered in an era dominated by a rapacious neoliberal ideology. The unexpected Brexit referendum outcome derailed the freight train, with consequences that are still emerging a decade later, and left me supporting an increasingly precarious pile of spinning plates.

An immediate consequence of Brexit, in The Laundry Files, was that I had to hastily rewrite The Delirium Brief (after it was substantially complete), giving it a similar political rupture leading to the rise of the New Management.

But unfolding multi-book catastrophes take many years to write, and by the time I got through that point the Laundryverse was rapidly decoupling from real time. The period 2015-2019 coincided with my parents' final decline and death (they both made it into their 90s), then the collective trauma of COVID19. The Laundryverse as of 2019 was still stuck in an in-world version of 2014, and rapidly receding into the past. I managed to un-stick the clock for the New Management books (the original working title of which was Laundry Files: The Next Generation) and set them in 2016-17, but the series was already turning into alternate history by the time I got around to finishing writing A Conventional Boy (set circa 2011, the same year I began writing it: finally published in 2024).

At the same time, my publishers gently warned me that sales were threatening to enter the dreaded midlist death spiral. A midlist death spiral occurs when an author's sales decline from one book to the next. Bookstores base their orders for a new title in a series on a straight line extrapolation (no curve fitting!) of the previous two books, so any decline fatally undermines advance orders, and thereby sets up a self-fulfilling prophecy of decline. It was therefore time to wrap the series—at least, if I wanted to be able to earn a living in future years.

Which set me up for The Regicide Report, in which all the homing pigeons I'd released in earlier books would come back to roost—or at least as many as I could keep track of in my head (I write by the seat of my pants, there's no World Book in my desk drawer, and over 25 years you tend to forget little details).

Because The New Management books were already in print, I was writing inside certain constraints. The designated climax had to be finished in-universe by May 2015 (The Labyrinth Index was set in mid-2014). It needed to feature Bob and Mo, but Bob and Mo as they had evolved—on the threshold of middle age, cynical, burned-out, and constantly asking "are we the baddies?". It needed a confrontation with the Prime Minister in which he is left in absolute authority over the UK but his ambition to ascend to full godhood is thwarted. It demanded cameos by numerous characters, a climactic boss battle that made sense in context, and an ending that didn't amount to a personal tragedy for the original protagonists: you don't want to leave your long-term fans hating you at the end of a series. ("The fans are out there. They can't be bargained with. They can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And they absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead." Ahem: my apologies to James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd, not to mention any non-Terminator fans that exist.)

The driver for the climactic confrontation in the series is the Black Pharaoh's goal of achieving a death-grip on the British state. This inevitably means confronting the ultimate source of occult power in the kingdom, the monarchy itself: but it's a novel I couldn't have pitched to my British publisher before September 8th, 2022. Elizabeth II was remarkably well-loved, or at least respected as a public figure, and pitching a novel about her assassination was ... well, it would have been inadvisable. However, following her actual death (probably from consequences of COVID19: following infection elderly patients are at very high risk of stroke or heart attack for several months) she suddenly graduated from reigning monarch to historical figure, and as such was no more off-limits than Queen Victoria or President Kennedy.

So my remit was: write a book in which the Black Pharaoh tries to bump off the Queen in 2015, fails to achieve occult supremacy, Bob et al battle him to a stalemate, and we ring down the curtain on the Laundry as an organization (indeed, by the end of The Regicide Report the Laundry of yore has been purged and its various duties merged into a new ministry directly controlled by the Black Pharaoh.)

Of necessity I had to start The Regicide Report by dumping a bucket of ordure over Bob's head—that committee meeting, where he accidentally outs a senior colleague by forgetting to reset the joke ringtone on his phone—and gets sent on a tour of outlying civil service offices as punishment. Yes, the Birmingham scene features an extensive Hot Fuzz tribute: yes, that is DI Angel. (It's one of the few early 21st century movies with cinematography that my damaged eyeballs and retinas could follow.)

One of the hallmarks of The Laundry Files is the repeated trope of pastiching thriller authors or urban fantasy subgenres. The Regicide Report kinda-sorta does this, only differently, by picking on a 1970s British movie anti-hero, The Abominable Doctor Phibes, a role portrayed stunningly well by Vincent Price in the two movies that actually got filmed (The Abominable Doctor Phibes and Doctor Phibes Rises Again). These films were among masterpieces of 1950s-1970s British horror genre, but are not without their weaknesses, and I'm not just talking about the cheap special effects. I had a loud argument with the scriptwriters in the privacy of my own skull, because the two most significant female characters (Vulnavia, Phibes' murderous muse, and Mrs Phibes) have zero talking lines in either film. This, I felt, was selling them both short. And besides, there was an obvious (to me) subtext that made the Phibes menage both Laundry-adjacent and explained the silence of the priestesses. If you watch the real movies then read the descriptions Bob and Mo give during their movie night, you'll spot some divergences: the Professor Phibes Bob meets in the Laundryverse is not the Dr Phibes of our world, nor are the movies exactly the same. (Let alone the third one, Dr. Phibes meets Mabuse the Gambler, notionally made in 1973 while Phibes was sleeping away the years in his glass coffin and not in a position to murder the producers.) NB: keep an eye open for the Cabaret references in that last one.

The assassination is carried out by means of poison: the toxic substance in question is entirely real and absolutely horrifying. Luckily you're very unlikely to come across it in real life, unless you work with laboratory assay equipment measuring environmental mercury contamination.

Buckingham Palace is indeed as vast and labyrinthine as I described it, but does not, to the best of my knowledge, feature server farms in the attic and a ritual sacrificial mock-up of the above-ground quarters in the basement. (It does have a bowling alley and, quite probably, a cinema organ.) There were plans to provide an emergency evacuation route via the Tube before the second world war, although it's unlikely the Royal Family would be in residence or evacuated that way in a real crisis today.

The basement crypt and archive of royal skeletal remains at Westminster Abbey is my own invention, as is the underground river, although there's an awful lot of buried history there: the site has been in use for over nine centuries.

As a point of note, if there were any historical truth behind the legend of King Arthur Pendragon, he'd almost certainly not feel any kinship to today's royals, who are descendants of a German dynasty invited in during the 18th century. Per legend Arthur was a 5th/6th century figure who led the post-Roman Britons. No Angles, Saxons, or Normans need apply. Nor is today's United Kingdom, or even today's England, clearly related to Arthur's: we don't speak the same language, England in its modern borders was only united during the 9th and 10th centuries, the prevailing religion back then would have been either a pre-Christian pagan tradition or very early Catholicism, and so on. Much of the Arthuriana we are familiar with today was invented out of whole cloth in the 12th to 14th century, at a time as far removed from its subject matter as that time is removed from us in this day and age.

Anyway, that's a round-up of my talking points about The Regicide Report. If you have any questions about the book, feel free to ask in the comments below.

This isn't a blog entry I wanted to write, but it's a necessary one: a statement about the use of generative large language models (colloquially "AI") in my work.

I do not use LLMs in my work. I don't use them in my non-work life either, for that matter. I despise the grifters selling these toys as "tools" and trying to convince us to use them to generate plausible answer-shaped text strings in place of actual internet search for verifiable sources.

I've been selling fiction that I wrote myself since 1985 or thereabouts, and novels since 2002. If you want to verify that I have written novels without using an AI, simply pick up a physical copy of "Singularity Sky", "Iron Sunrise", "The Atrocity Archives", or anything else I published before 2015, the year OpenAI was founded.

Hint: you will find seven Hugo-shortlisted novels from that period, and three Hugo-winning novellas, also two Locus-award winning novels and a couple more novellas and stories. Clearly I don't need AI to write award-winning stories.

I do not want or need a large language model to write my fiction for me. I write fiction compulsively—before I was published I wrote for many years as a hobbyist—so why on earth would I pay someone else to take my fun away?

You will note em-dashes in the preceding paragraph. I gather some "AI detector" services (themselves a generative AI product) flag em-dashes as signs of "AI generated" text. Listen, fuckers, LLMs sprinkle em-dashes in their output because LLMs exist to stochastically emit strings of text that approximate the form of their inputs, and they've been trained by stealing all the text on the internet that isn't nailed down, including pirate websites that distribute cracked e-books. So it's wholly unsurprising that LLM output exhibits quirks that mimic real writers.

Did I mention the "stealing" thing? This isn't hyperbole: I'm one of the parties to the settlement in the class action lawsuit against Anthropic AI for pirating ebooks to train their LLMs. That's not my only grievance, either. You may have noticed this blog performing sluggishly or crapping out from time to time over the past few months. That's because my server is old and feeble and periodically gets swarmed by Chinese and other foreign botnets scraping data for training LLMs.

I'm usually willing to cut actual human beings, as opposed to for-profit corporations, some slack where it comes to cracking DRM, or even downloading warez: but these people are absolute scum. They're stealing copyrighted material to train an LLM that is intended to compete for revenue with the authors of the works they stole, and they're fine-tuning their LLMs to make them as addictive as possible in order to maximize future revenue once they pivot to token sales as their main source of income. In other words, they're no different from a burglar who robs you one day then comes round to sell you your stuff back the next morning. Back in the 18th century we used to hang people like that and Sam Altman makes me question the wisdom of having stopped.

I maintain that any serious author should shun LLMs like the plague. The most popular LLMs in the west—such as Claude, Gemini, CoPilot, and ChatGPT—the ones hoovering text indiscriminately off the internet for training—also gobble up any queries you send to them and use them as future training data. If I was crazy enough to feed the outline of a story I was working on as a prompt to ChatGPT or Claude in hope of getting the stochastic parrot to do my homework for me, then it would be only my own fault and nobody else's if the next model from the company in question was trained on my book outline and could reproduce part or all of it for someone else.

Finally, contra public opinion, I see no reason to credit LLMs with sentience. They're word-association mechanisms with no embodiment and no way to associate the text vectors they manipulate with real-world phenomena. But we humans have evolved through selection pressure in an adversarial environment to associate environmental phenomena around us with intentional causes—if you see lion scat and the gazelle are no longer visiting the watering hole, then you should assume there are lions about. And this trait carries over to linguistic manipulation. If we hear or read text, we expect there to be a mind on the other side of it, as Joseph Weizenbaum (the inventor of the original ELIZA chatbot) realized at MIT in the late 1960s. Just because it does something people do, it does not follow that it is a person.

Now for some caveats.

My skepticism does not carry over to all aspects of the field. It would be foolish to deny the effectiveness of image recognizers based on generalized adversarial networks (GANs), the key neural network technology underlying LLMs. It'd be similarly stupid to deny that LLMs are very good at supporting large-scale statistical analysis of text, such as Linear-A. And I can see some circumstances where being able to train a local model on my work could be useful to me.

I'd quite like a tool (running entirely locally on my own hardware, with no cloud service and no copyright-thieving grifters making bank on it via subscription fees) that digests a manuscript and derives a scene-by-scene timeline, that I could then query interactively and use to plan my next round of edits. Being able to map out where and when each protagonist and minor character shows up, and see a frequency distribution heat map of names in the manuscript, would be useful.

But such a tool would be useful to me in the same way a spelling checker is useful—as a decision-support tool, not as a substitute for doing the hard work (and having a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary on the shelf). The value of such a tool is considerably less than the value of a well-trained brain that can do the entire job the hard way, if necessary. And it's less than zero if using it opens me to finger-pointing accusations of "but he's using AI!" by people who can't read to the end of one paragraph, much less fourteen of them (yes, this is para fourteen, I've been counting).

So my fiction is still, as of August 2026, 100% LLM-free, and if that changes I will update this declaration accordingly.

Finally, I'd like to leave you with a snippet from the opening of the far future space opera I'm editing right now. It's part of the fiction and unfortunately may have to be omitted because of the risk of confusing the people who can't read to the end of the paragraph, but it's the only valid use of LLMs I've found so far for my fiction because it's a solution to the calling a rabbit a smeerp problem in SF and fantasy:

Translator's Note

The events described in this account have been translated into your language from the original source material using a non-sapient large language model.

Certain terms have been approximated, where possible, by using culturally appropriate cognates. Names of individuals have been replaced by equivalents. Similarly, institutions, ranks, religions, proverbs, idioms, quotations, and other culturally-determined signifiers have been translated into terms that will be familiar to the reader.

Units of duration and distance have also been converted.

We apologize in advance for any hallucinations our LLM may have inadvertently introduced in the process of generating this rough translation.

So, the second novel in the Laundry Files, The Jennifer Morgue, was first published on November 1st, 2006. And while it was superficially a pastiche of the Bond movie canon (as it existed at that time--I was writing before the Daniel Craig era, ushered in with Casino Royale--it was also interrogating the dramatic conventions of the genre and also the implications of rule by Bond Villains.

At about the time I was writing it, a friend of mine (initially a tech journalist, later an industry pundit) described his experience of interviewing Elon Musk, who was allegedly leaning hard into the archetype. "I must be a Bond villain!" He joked, "I have an electric car and a tropical island where boiler-suited minions launch rockets!" And then he laughed it off. (In those days, we thought it was a simile: these days it's more clearly understood as a metaphor, if not the absolute raw truth.)

Anyway, I wrote a little afterword for The Jennifer Morgue discussing the significance of the Bond Villain as an archetype for our times and it does still appear to have something relevant to say, 20 years later; and I figure the current publisher has forgotten about it, so I'm going to shamelessly pirate my own work and reprint the entire epilogue from The Jennifer Morgue right here on my blog (the horror!).

Note that the Great Financial Crisis that kicked off the current era really started in late 2007, and our current era of oligarchic misrule, only got underway in the mid-20-teens, with the evitable rise to power of a deeply unpleasant TV reality star whose main claim to fame was playing a stupid man's idea of a successful business mogul.

(At least I didn't predict that.)

Anyway, the text is below the fold--it's quite long--and I ask this: what would you add, today?

1. The Mary-Sue of MI6

"My name is Bond. James Bond."

These six words, heard by hundreds of millions of people, are almost invariably spoken during the first five minutes of each movie in one of the biggest media success stories of the 20th century. Unless you've lived under a rock for the past forty years, you hear them and you know at once that you're about to be plunged into a two hour long adrenaline saturated extravaganza of snobbish fashionable excess, violence, sex, car chases, more violence, and Blowing Shit Up -- followed by a post-coital cigarette and a light-hearted quip as the credits roll.

It wasn't always so. When "Casino Royale" was first published in 1953, it got a print run of 4750 hardcover copies and no advertising budget to speak of; while the initial reviews were favorable, comparing Ian Fleming to Le Queux and Oppenheim (the kings of the pre-war British spy thriller genre), it took a long time for his most famous creation to set the world on fire. Despite his rapidly rising print runs ("Casino Royale" eventually sold over a million paperbacks in the UK alone), and despite his increasing prominence among the post-war thriller writers, a decade elapsed before any of Fleming's novels were filmed; indeed, their author barely lived to see the commercial release of "Dr No" and the runaway success of the icon he created. (Nor were the films seen as a runaway success before they were made -- "Dr No" was notoriously made on a tight budget, even though it went on to gross nearly $60M around the world.)

Literary immortality -- or indeed, mere post-mortem survival -- is dauntingly hard for a novelist to achieve. The limbo of post-mortem obscurity awaits 95% of all novelists -- almost all novels go out of print for good within five years of the death of their author. But in addition to being a million-selling best-seller, Fleming was a ferociously well-connected newspaper executive with a strong sense of the value of his ideas, and he pursued television and film adaptation remorselessly. Cinematic success arrived just in time for his creation, and the synergy between best-selling books and massive movie hype has sufficed to keep them in print ever since.

James Bond is a creature of fantasy, perhaps best described using a literary term looted from that most curious and least respected of fields, fan fiction: the Mary-Sue. A Mary-Sue character is a placeholder in a script, a hollow cardboard cut-out into whose outline the author can squeeze their own dreams and fantasies. In the case of Bond, it's cruelly easy to make a case that the famous spy was his author's Mary-Sue: for Fleming had a curious and ambiguous relationship with spying.

A dilettante and dabbler for his first three decades, unsuccessful as a stockbroker, foreign correspondent, and banker, Fleming fortuitously landed his dream job on the eve of the Second World War: Secretary to the Director of Naval Intelligence in the Admiralty. The war was good for Ian Fleming, broadening and deepening him and giving him a job that captured his imagination and drew out his not inconsiderable talents. But Fleming was the man who knew too much: privy to too many secrets, he was wrapped in tissue paper and prevented from pursuing his desire to go into the field. He ended the war with a distinguished record -- and absolutely no combat experience (if one excludes being bombed by the Luftwaffe or watching the Dieppe raid from a destroyer, safely far off the Normandy coastline). Fleming grew up in the shade of a father who died heroically on the western front in 1917, and in adult life he wrote in the shadow of an elder brother whose reputation as a novelist surpassed his own. It's easy to imagine these unkind familial comparisons provoking the imaginative but flighty playboy who almost found himself during the war, goading him to imagine himself in the shoes of a hero who was not merely larger than life, but larger in every way than his own life.

And, as it turns out, James Bond was larger than Ian Fleming. Not only do few novels survive their author's demise, even fewer acquire sequels written by other hands; yet several other authors (including Kingsley Amis and John Gardner) have toiled in Fleming's vinyard. Few fictional characters acquire biographies written by third parties -- but Bond has not only acquired an autobiography (courtesy of biographer John Pearson) but spawned a small cultural industry, including a study of his semiotics by Umberto Eco. Now, that has got to be a sign of something ...

As with every true pearl, there was a sand-grain of truth at the heart of Bond. Fleming wrote thrillers informed by his actual experience. Years spent working out of the hothouse environment of Room 39 of the Admiralty building -- headquarters of the Naval Intelligence Division of the Royal Navy -- gave him a ringside seat on the operations of a major espionage organization. On various trips to Washington DC he worked with diplomats and officers of the OSS (predecessor organization to the CIA). As a foreign news manager at The Sunday Times after the war, there is some evidence that Fleming made his agency's facilities available to officers of MI6. His first Bond novels were submitted to that agency for security clearance before they were published. Bond himself may have been larger than life, but the strictures imposed by the organization he worked for were drawn from reality, albeit the reality of an intelligence agency of the early 1940s.

The world of secret intelligence gathering during the second world war was, however, very different from life in the intelligence community today. It was already changing by the late 1950s, as the bleeping football-shaped Sputniks zipped by overhead and intelligence directors began dreaming of spy satellites. By 2004, when MI5 (the counter-intelligence agency) openly placed recruiting advertisements in the press, we can be sure that Bond would be best advised to seek employment elsewhere. Spies are supposed to be short -- under 180 centimeters for men -- and nondescript. As a branch of the civil service, MI5's headquarters are presumably non-smoking, and drinking on the job is frowned upon. As intelligence agencies, MI5 and MI6 staff aren't in the business of ruthlessly wiping out enemies of the state: any decision to use lethal force lies with the Foreign Secretary, the COBRA committee, and other elements of the British government's security oversight bureaucracy. An MI6 agent driving a 1933 Bentley racer with a supercharged engine, frequenting the high-stakes table at a casino as James Bond so memorably did in his first print appearance, is an almost perfect inversion of the real picture.

Nevertheless, the archetype has legs. James Bond continued to grow and evolve, even after his creator put away his cigarette holder for the last time. To some extent, this was the product of storytelling expediency. The film adaptations started in the middle of a continuing story arc -- for Fleming wrote his novels with a modicum of continuity -- and while "Dr No" was the first to make it to celluloid, the novel was in fact a sequel to "From Russia With Love" (which was filmed second). Thus, various liberties were taken with the plot of the canonical novels, right from the start. You can re-read the novels at length without finding anything of the banter between Bond and M's secretary Moneypenny that is a recurrent theme of the films, for example, and that's before we get into the bizarre deviations of the mid-period Roger Moore movies (notably "The Spy Who Loved Me" and "Moonraker").

The literary James Bond is a creature of pre-war London clubland: upper-crust, snobbish, manipulative and cruel in his relationships with women, with a thinly-veiled sadomasochistic streak and a coldly ruthless attitude to his opponents which verges on the psychopathic. Over the years, his cinematic alter ego has acquired the stamina of Superman, learned to defy the laws of physics, ventured into space -- both outer and inner -- and deflowered more maids than Don Juan. He's also mutated to fit the prejudices and neuroses of the day, dabbling with (gasp!) monogamy, and hanging out with those heroic Afghan mujahideen in the late-eighties AIDS-and-Soviets-era "The Living Daylights". He's worked under a post-feminist ball-breaking 'M' in "Goldeneye", and even confronted a female arch-villain in "The World is Not Enough" (an innovation that would surely have Fleming, who formed his views on appropriate behavior for the fairer sex in the 1920s, rolling in his grave). But other aspects of the Bond archetype remain timeless. Fleming was fascinated by fast cars, exotic locations, and intricate gadgetry, and all of these traits of the original novels have been amplified and extrapolated in the age of modern special effects.

Just how does James Bond -- a "sexist, misogynist dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War", to use the words the script-writers on "GoldenEye" so tellingly put into M's mouth -- survive in the popular imagination more than fifty years after his literary birth? What does it mean when Mary-Sue stalks the landscape of the imagination, blasting holes in the plot with a Walther PPK (or the P99 he upgraded to in "Tomorrow Never Dies")? If we're going to understand this, perhaps we ought to start by looking at Bond's dark shadow, the Villain.

2. In search of Mabuse

Bond is, if you judge him by his work, a nasty fellow and not one you'd choose to lend your car to: to make this rough diamond glitter it is necessary to display him against a velvet backdrop of darkest villainy. If you strip the Bond archetype of the bacchanalia, glamorous locations, and fashion snobbery, you end up with an unappetizingly shallow, cold-blooded executioner -- the likes of Adam Hall's Quiller or James Mitchell's Callan, only without the breezy cynicism, or indeed any redeeming features at all. The role of adversary is thus a critical one in sustaining the appeal of the protagonist. Fleming set out to depict a hard-edged contemporary world where the usual black-and-white picture of the pre-war thriller had blurred and taken on some of the murky grey-on-grey ambiguity of the cold war era; Bond was the knight in shining armor, fighting for virtue and the free world against the dragon -- be they Mr. Big, Dr. No, Auric Goldfinger, or the looming shadow of Bond's greatest enemy of all, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Number One of SPECTRE, the Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion.

It is interesting to note that Blofeld assumed his primacy as Bond's #1 enemy only in the movie canon; Fleming originally invented him while working on the screenplay and novel of "Thunderball", and used him subsequently in "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" and "You Only Live Twice". (Prior to these later books, Bond typically tussled with less corporate enemies -- Soviet stooges, unregenerate Nazis, and psychotic gangsters.) Blofeld was born out of mere corporate expediency. Rather than demonize the Soviets and reduce their potential audience, the producers of the film of "From Russia With Love" appropriated SPECTRE as the adversarial organization. With the success of "Thunderball", the third of the films, Blofeld moved front and center and acquired a life of his own that far exceeded his prominence in the novels. Arguably, Fleming's death in 1964 freed up the movie series to diverge from their original author's plans; and so Blofeld may be seen as a demon of necessity, conjured up from the vasty depths in order to provide Bond with a worthy adversary.

'Twas not always so. Back at the turn of the 20th century, around the time that the British spy thriller was gradually cohering out of the mists of the penny dreadful and the literature of suspense (via the works of John Buchan and Erskine Childers -- not to mention the tangential contributions of Arthur Conan Doyle, by way of Sherlock Holmes) there was no great dualistic vision of the great champion confronting the villainous heart of evil. There was no great champion: we were on our own against the masters of night and mist, the great and terrible super-criminals. Professor Moriarty, Holmes' nemesis -- the Napoleon of Crime -- was but one of these: Fantômas, the 1911 creation of Pierre Souvestre and Marcel Allain, is another. The emperor of crime, Fantômas was a master of disguise and an agent of chaos (not to mention standing astride Paris in black mask, top hat and tails, in the posters for the 1913 movie of the same name: an icon of decadent wealth and criminal chaos). Nor was he alone. Guy Boothby's 1890's super-villain Dr Nikola fits the bill too, right down to the fluffy lap-cat and the fiendish plans. But perhaps the root of Bond's nemesis can be found in his full-fledged form somewhat later, and somewhat further to the east -- in the guise of Dr. Mabuse.

Dr. Mabuse is an archetype and a runaway media success in his own right, famous from five novels and twelve movies. The Doctor was created in 1922 by author Norbert Jacques, and was developed into one of the most chilling creations of the silent era by no less a director than Fritz Lang. Mabuse is a name, but one that nobody in their right mind speaks aloud. He's a master of disguise, naturally: and a rich, well-connected socialite and gambler. (Some social context: gambling at the high stakes table is no so much an innocuous recreation as an obscenity, in a decade of hyper-inflation and starvation, with crippled war veterans dying of cold on the street corners, as was the case in Weimar Germany). Mabuse has his fingers in every pie, by way of a syndicate so shadowy and criminal that nobody knows its extent; he's a spider, but the web he weaves is so broad that it looks like the whole of reality to the flies trapped in it. He is (in some of the stories) a psychiatrist, skilled in manipulation, and those who hunt him are doomed to become his victims. If Mabuse has a weakness it is that his schemes are over-elaborate and tend to implode messily, usually when his most senior minions rebel, hopelessly late; nevertheless, he is a master of the escape plan, and with his ability to brainwash minions into playing his role he's a remarkably hard phantom to slay.

It is all too easy to make fun of the likes of Fantômas and Dr. Nikola, and even their modern-day cognates such as Dr. Mabuse and Ernst Stavro Blofeld; for do they not represent such an obsessively concentrated pinnacle of entrepreneurial criminality that, if they really existed, they would instantly be hunted down and arrested by INTERPOL?

Careful consideration will lead one to reconsider this hasty judgment. Criminology, the study of crime and its causes, has a fundamental weak spot: it studies that proportion of the criminal population who are stupid or unlucky enough to get caught. The perfect criminal, should he or she exist, would be the one who is never apprehended -- indeed, the one whose crimes may be huge but unnoticed, or indeed miscategorized as not crimes at all because they are so powerful they sway the law in their favor, or so clever they discover an immoral opportunity for criminal enterprise before the legislators notice it. Such forms of criminality may be indistinguishable, at a distance, from lawful business; the criminal a paragon of upper-class virtue, a face-man for Forbes.

When the real Napoleons of Crime walk among us today, they do so in the outwardly respectable guise of executives in business suits and thousand-dollar haircuts. The executives of Worldcom and Enron were denizens of a corporate culture so rapacious that any activity, however dubious, could be justified in the name of enhancing the bottom line. They have rightfully been charged, tried, and in some cases jailed for fraud, on a scale that would have been the envy of Mabuse, Blofeld, or their modern successor, Dr. Evil. When you need extra digits on your pocket calculator to compute the sums you are stealing, you're in the big league. Again, when you're able to evade prosecution by the simple expedient of appointing the state prosecutor and the judges -- because you're the President of a country (and not just any country, but a member of the rich and powerful G8) -- you're certainly not amenable to diagnosis and detection in the same sense as your run-of-the-mill shoplifter or petty delinquent. I'm naming no names (they have intelligence services! Cruise missiles!) but this isn't a hypothetical scenario.

3. Interview with the Entrepreneur

In an attempt to clarify the mythology surrounding James Bond, I tracked his old rival down to his headquarters in the Ministry of Inward Investment in the breakaway Republic of Transdniestria. Somewhat suspicious at first, Mr. Blofeld relaxed as soon as he realized I was not pursuing him on behalf of the FSB, CIA, or IMF, and kindly agreed to be interviewed for this book. Now aged 72, Blofeld is a cheerful veteran of numerous high-tech start-ups, and not a few multinationals where, as a specialist in international risk management and arbitrage, he applied his unique skills to business expansion. Today he is semi-retired but has agreed to work in an voluntary capacity as director of the State investment agency.

"It took me a long time to understand the agenda that the British government was pursuing through the covert activities of MI6," he told me over a glass of sweet tea. "Call me naive, but I really believed -- at least at first -- that they were honest capitalists, the scoundrels."

Over the course of an hour, Ernst explained to me how he first became aware that the UK was attempting to sabotage his business interests. "It was back in 1960 or thereabouts that they first tried to destroy one of my subsidiaries. Until then I hadn't really had anything to do with them, but I believe one of my rivals in the phosphate mining business put it about that my man on site was some sort of spy, and they sent this Bond fellow -- not just to arrest him or charge him with some trumped-up nonsense, but to kill him." His lips paled with indignation at he contemplated the iniquity of the situation: that agents of the British government might go after an honest businessman for no better reason than an unsubstantiated allegation that he was spying on American missile tests. "I warned Julius to be careful and advised him to put a good lawyer on retainer, but what good are lawyers when the people you're up against send hired killers? Julius brought in security contractors, but this Bond fellow still murdered him in the end. And the British government denies everything, to this day!"

Ernst obviously believes in his own moral rectitude, but I had to ask the obvious questions, just for the record.

"Yes, I was chief executive of SPECTRE for twelve years. But you know, SPECTRE was entirely honest about its activities! We had nothing to hide because what we were doing was actually legal. We've been mercilessly slandered by those rogues from MI6 and their friends in the newspapers, but the fact is, we're no more guilty of criminal activity than any other multinational today: we simply had the misfortune to be foreign and entrepreneurial at a point in time when Whitehall was in the grasp of the communist conspirators Wilson and Callaghan and their running-dog so-called 'conservative' fellow Heath. And we were pilloried because what we were doing was in direct competition with the inefficient state-run enterprises that my good friend Lady Thatcher recognized as mosquitoes battening on the life-blood of capitalism. That cad Fleming put it about that SPECTRE stands for 'Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion' -- absolute tosh and nonsense! Would a group of criminals really call themselves something that blatant? I'll remind you that SPECTRE is actually a French acronym, as befits a non-profit charity incorporated in Paris. The name stands for 'Société Professionelle et Ethique du Capital Technologique Réinvestissement par les Experts.' Venture capitalists specializing in disruptive new technologies, in other words -- commercial space travel, nuclear power, antibiotics. Not some kind of half-baked terrorist organization! But you can imagine the threat we posed to the inefficient state monopolies like the British Aircraft Corporation, the coal mining industry, and Imperial Chemical Industries."

Blofeld paused to sip his tea thoughtfully.

"We were ahead of our time in many ways. We pioneered business methods that later became mainstream -- Sir James Goldsmith, Ronald Perelman, James Icahn, they all watched us and learned -- but by then, the commies were out of power in the west thanks to our friends in the establishment, so they had an easier time of it. No need to hire lots of expensive security and build concrete bunkers on desert islands! And yes, that made us look bad, don't think I'm unaware of it -- but you know, you want bunkers and isolated jungle rocket launch bases? All you have to do is look at Arianespace! It's fine when the government bureaucracies do it, but if an honest businessman tries to build a space launch site and hires security to keep the press and saboteurs from foreign governments out, it's suddenly a threat to world security!"

He paused for a while. "They put the worst complexion on everything we did. The plastic surgery? Well, we had the clinic, why not let our staff use it, so the surgeons could stay in practice between paying customers? It was a perk, nothing more. We did -- I admit it -- acquire a few companies trading in exotic weapons, non-lethal technologies mostly. And that business with Emilio and the yacht, I admit that looked bad. But did you know, it originally belonged to Adnan Khashoggi or Fahd ibn Saud or someone? Emilio was acting entirely on his own initiative -- a loose cannon -- and as soon as I heard about the affair I terminated his employment."

I asked Ernst to tell me about Bond.

"Listen, this Bond chap, I want you to understand this: however he's painted in the mass media, the reality is that he's a communist stooge, an assassin. Look at the evidence. He works for the state -- a socialist state at that. He went to university and worked with those traitors Philby and Burgess, that MacLean fellow -- communist spies to a man. He didn't resign his commission when the British government went socialist, like a decent fellow: instead he took assignments to go after entrepreneurs who were a threat to the interests of this socialist government, and he rubbed them out like a Mafia button man. There was no due process of law there, no respect for property rights, no courts, no lawyers -- just a 'License to Kill' enemies of the state, loosely defined, who mostly happened to be businessmen working on start-up projects that coincidentally threatened state monopolies. He's a damned commissar. Do you know why Moscow hated him? It's because he'd got them beat at their own racket."

Blofeld was clearly depressed by this recollection, so I tried to change the subject by asking him about his personal management philosophy."

"Well, you know, I tend to use whatever works in day to day situations. I'm a pragmatist, really. But I've got a soft spot for modern philosophers, Leo Strauss and Ayn Rand: the rights of the individual. And I've always wanted to remake the world as a better place, which is probably why the establishment dislike me: I'm a threat to vested interests. Well, they're all descended from men who were threats to vested interests too, back in the day: only I threaten them with new technologies, while their ancestors mostly did their threatening with a bloody sword and the gallows. I don't believe in initiating force." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "I suppose you could call me naive."

4. Trade Goods

When I played back my tape of our discussion, it took me some time to notice that Ernst had carefully steered the conversation away from certain key points I had intended to quiz him about.

One of the most disturbing aspects of the Bond milieu is the prevalence of technologies that are strangely out of place. Belt-buckle grappling hooks with wire spools that can support a man's weight? Laser rifles? These aren't simple extrapolations of existing technology -- they go far beyond anything that's achievable with today's engineering tools or materials science. But forget Bond's toys, the products of Q division. From Blofeld's solar-powered orbital laser in "Diamonds are Forever" to Carver's stealthed cruiser in "Tomorrow Never Dies", we are surrounded by signs that the adversary has got tricks up his sleeve that far outweigh anything Bond's backers can provide. These menacing intrusions of alien super-science -- where can they possibly have got them from?

The answer can be discerned with little difficulty if one cares to scrutinize the writings of the sage of Providence, Howard Phillips Lovecraft. This scholar -- whose path, regrettably, never crossed that of the young Ian Fleming -- asserted that our tenancy of this planet is but a recent aberration. Earth has in the past been home for a number of alien species of vast antiquity and incomprehensibly advanced knowledge, and indeed some of them may still linger on alongside us -- on the high Antarctic plateau, in the frigid oceanic depths, even in strange half-breed colonies off the New England coastline.

If this strikes you as nonsensical, first contemplate your nearest city: how recognizable would it be in a hundred years' time if our entire species silently vanished away tomorrow? How recognizable would it be in a thousand years? Would any relics still bear witness to the once-proud towers of New York or Tokyo, a million years hence? Our future -- and the future of any once-proud races that bestrode our planet -- is that of an oily stain in the shale deposits of deep history. Earth's biosphere and the active tectonic system it dances on cleans house remorselessly, erasing any structure that is not alive or maintained by the living.

Consider also the extent to which we really occupy the planet we live on. We think of ourselves as the dominant species on Earth -- but 75% of the Earth's entire biomass consists of bacteria and algae that we can't even see with the naked eye. (Bacteria from whose ranks fearsome pathogens periodically emerge, burning like wildfire through our ranks.) Nor do we, in any real sense of the word, occupy the oceans. Certainly our trawlers hunt the bounty of the upper waters. But submarines (of which there are only a few hundred on the entire planet) fumble like blind men through the uppermost half kilometer of a world-ocean that averages three kilometers in depth, unable to dive beneath their pressure limits to explore the abyssal plains that cover nearly two thirds of the planetary surface. Finally, the surface (both the sub-oceanic abyss and the thin skin of dry land we cling tenuously to) is but a thousandth of the depth of the planet itself; we can't even drill through the crust, much less contemplate with any certainty the nature of events unfolding within the hot, dense mantle beneath.

We could be sharing the planet with numerous powerful alien civilizations, denizens of the high energy condensed-matter realm beneath our feet, and we'd never know it -- unless they chose to send emissaries into our biosphere, sprinkling death rays and other trade goods like glass beads before the aboriginal inhabitants, extracting a ghastly price in return for their largesse ...

5. A Colder War?

James Bond was a creature of the Cold War: a strange period of shadow-boxing that stretched from late 1945 to the winter of 1991, forty-six years of paranoia, fear, and the creepy sensation that our lives were in thrall to forces beyond our comprehension. It's almost impossible to explain the Cold War to anyone who was born after 1980; the sense of looming doom, the long shadows cast by the two eyeball-to-eyeball superpowers, each possessing vast powers of destruction, ready and able to bring about destruction on a planetary scale in pursuit of their recondite ideologies. It was, to use the appropriate adjective, a truly Lovecraftian age, dominated by the cold reality that our lives could be interrupted by torment and death at virtually any time; normal existence was conducted in a soap-bubble universe sustained only by our determination to shut out awareness of the true horrors lurking in the darkness outside it, an abyss presided over by chilly alien warriors devoted to death-cult ideologies and dreams of Mutually Assured Destruction. Decades of distance has bought us some relief, thickening the wall of the bubble -- memories misting over with the comforting illusion that the Cold War wasn't really as bad as it seemed at the time -- but who do we think we're kidding? The Cold War wasn't about us. It was about the Spies, and the Secret Masters, and the Hidden Knowledge.

It's no coincidence that the Cold War was the golden age of spying -- the peak of the second-oldest profession, the diggers in the dark, the seekers after unclean knowledge and secret wisdom. Prior to 1939, spying of the international kind rather than the sordid domestic variety (let us pass swiftly over the sordid Stasi archives of sealed glass jars full of worn underwear, kept as scent cues for the police dogs) was a small scale, largely amateurish concern. With the outbreak of the second world war it mushroomed. Faced with employment vacancies, the first response of a growing organization is to recruit close to home. Just like any 1990s dot-com startup, growing as the founders haul in all their friends and anyone they know who has the right skill set, the 1940s espionage agencies were a boom town into which a well-connected clubbable London playboy would inevitably be sucked -- and, moreover, one where he might try his hand and succeed, to everyone's surprise. (In the 1990s he'd end up in marketing, with stock options up to here. Sic transit gloria techie.)

When the Second World War gave way to the doomwatch days and Strangelove nights of the Cold War, it entered a period in which the same clubbable fellow might find himself working in a mature organization, vastly larger and more professional than the half-assed amateurism of the early days. The CIA was born in the shadow of the wartime OSS, and grew into the emblematic Company (traders in secrets, overthrowers of governments), locked in titanic struggle with that other superpowered rival, the KGB (and their less well known fellows in the GRU).

The age of the traditional sneak-spies with their Minox cameras gave way to the era of the bugging device. With the 1960s came a new emphasis on supplementing human intelligence (HUMINT) with intelligence from electronic sources (ELINT). New agencies -- the NSA in the United States, GCHQ in the UK -- expanded as the field of "spyless spying" went mainstream, aided by the explosion in computing power made possible by integrated circuits and, later, the microprocessor. As telephony, television, telex, and other technologies began to come online a torrent of data poured through the wires, a deluge that threatened to drown the agencies in useless noise. Or was it the whispering on the deep-ocean cables? Maybe the chatter served to conceal and disguise the quiet whispering of the hidden oracles, dribbling out strange new concepts that warped the vulnerable primate minds to serve their inscrutable goals. The source of the incredible new technologies that drove the advances of the middle of the twentieth century was, perhaps, the whispering of an alien farmer in the ears of his herd ...

Times change, and the golden age of spying is over. We've delivered the harvest of fear that the secret masters desired; or maybe they've simply lost interest in us for the time being. Time will tell. For now, be content that it's all over: the Cold War was a time of strangely rapid technological progress, but also of claustrophobic fear of destruction at three minutes' notice, of the thermonuclear stars coming right and bringing madness and death in their wake. Retreat into your soap-bubble universe, little primate, and give thanks.

From the perspective of the 21st century, Bond was a poor archetype for a hero; certainly he couldn't save us from the gibbering horrors of the Cold War, but only cast a shadow beneath their unblinking ground-zero glare. But we found salvation in the end, in the most unlikely place of all: if you turn on the TV you're likely to see one of old Ernst's protégés being held up for praise as an object of emulation. President of Italy, captain of industry, or chief executive of Enron -- SPECTRE won and it's their world that we live in, the world of the lesser evil.

I must remember that now I'm over 60, doing more than one SF convention in a month is probably more than my stamina can cope with. (Which is going to make this November really interesting as I'm about to say yes to two literary festivals/SF conventions in Spain, a week apart, in Barcelona and Madrid: more on this when it's confirmed).

Anyway, now I'm over the Cymera SF Festival here in Edinburgh I'm getting my teeth into an edit letter. An edit letter is basically exactly what it sounds like: your editor (or in this case my literary agent, who just happens to also be an editor) goes over your manuscript with a fine-toothed comb and calls you on all your bullshit that needs fixing before it goes in front of anyone else. In this case, before it goes out to publishers (it's an edit letter from an agent): if from a publisher's editor, then before it can be released for production.

I'm not going to discuss the contents of this letter with you, other than to note that you will get to read the results in a year or so: but now I need to disappear for a month or two and slave over a hot manuscript because my agent unerringly identified a weak spot and now I feel compelled to fiddle with it until it's a better book.

Meanwhile: at the end of the month I'm off to Berlin for Petropol Con, the 2026 Eurocon. And then a summer vacation interrailing around bits of the EU, because it's summer and my eyeballs are working again.

(This blog essay is overdue because I'm still waiting for new prescription glasses and writing while cross-eyed with text zoomed to 250% is tedious. They should be here later this week. Meanwhile ...)

Back in January 2022 I wrote an essay revisiting my predictions for 2017. My review of 2017's stab in the dark began, "it spanned three blog posts and ended happily in a nuclear barbecue to put us all out of our misery: start here, continue with this, and finale: and the Rabid Nazi Raccoons shall inherit the Earth."

I'll actually stand by those 2017 predictions, which were weirdly not that far off the mark although Queen Elizabeth II outlasted my prediction by several years.

But my 2022 predictions?

Oh boy.

Look, for an amateur futurologist writing in January of 2022 it was arguably forgivable to miss the US electorate being so boneheadedly stupid that they'd re-elect the most corrupt president in their nation's history, at the head of a Gish gallop of barkingly ignorant and destructive cranks and conspiracy theorists determined to tear down the republic and destroy its vital institutions, all in the name of returning the social order (per the Project 2025 plan) to the 50s--the 1850s, that is, not the 1950s. With 20/20 hindsight, what I missed was the now-obvious wave of media ownership consolidation, including corporate social media such as X, Meta, and Google, in the hands of a narrow class of billionaire oligarchs. I also missed the complacent incompetence of the Biden administration with respect to organizing their succession plans--it was obvious that by 2024 he'd be vulnerable to campaign ratfucking on grounds of his age, and his anointed successor was guilty of being (a) too female and (b) non-white, rendering her unacceptable to a large chunk of the voters.

But, even if you forgive my failure to recognize the catastrophic collapse of the US as a credible hegemonic superpower over the past 3-4 years, I can only hang my head in shame over my failure to anticipate the Ukraine war, which broke out six weeks after that blog essay. Let alone to anticipate a revolution in military affairs as profound as that brought about of the first world war.

Similiarly, I have no excuse for not recognizing that an Israel with politics dominated by Benjamin Netanyahu would go Full Nazi sooner rather than later, as the genocide in Gaza and the program to build a Greater Israel in Lebanon demonstrate.

And while I correctly recognized the EV transport revolution, I missed the concurrent solar power and grid-scale battery revolution, now very visibly in train and arguably more important than the arrival of cheap electric cars and cheaper e-bikes. I didn't notice the global supply chain crisis of 2021-2023, even then gathering pace, although it didn't impact consumer prices for a few more months.

And my worst miss is that I completely discounted the profound social impact of LLMs (or so-called "AI"), not simply as a massive technology sector investment bubble and happy hunting ground for snake oil salesmen and grifters, but as a corrosive influence on population-level critical thinking. I should have seen it coming--I read Joseph Weizenbaum's Computer Power and Human Reason back in the 1980s--but I didn't recognize just how unable to see past the ELIZA illusion most people would prove to be.

Nor did I expect the transhumanists, extropians, and the rest of the hairball of beliefs now congealing into the syncretistic techno-religion of TESCREAL to have seized control of trillions of dollars of private equity and not only be arguing about the Singularity but to be squabbling over who gets to run it (with a side-order of racism and eugenics on top, because every flavour of crank batshittery is so much better with a side-order of fascism and concentration camps).

So I'm sticking a flag in the ground here and admitting: I am officially a shit futurologist.

Back in 2022, and before that, in 2017 and even in 2007, I espoused a general rule of thumb about predicting the future, that:

Looking 10 years ahead, about 70% of the people, buildings, cars, and culture is already here today. Another 20-25% is not present yet but is predictable -- buildings under construction, software and hardware and drugs in development, children today who will be adults in a decade. And finally, there's about a 5-10% element that comes from the "who ordered that" dimension

2022 forced me to update the ratio to:

20% of 10-year-hence developments utterly unpredictable, leaving us with 55-60% in the "here today" and 20-25% in the "not here yet, but clearly on the horizon" baskets

Anyway, it's now 2026, and I officially give up.

The Stross Ratio for predicting events ten years hence is now 60/10/30. That is: 60% of the people, buildings, and culture are here today. 10% is predictably on the drawing boards, and a whopping 30% is utterly unpredictable.

Airborne Hantavirus pandemic or global Measles pandemic, who the fuck knows what we're going to get--given that the US FDA is run by a crank who doesn't believe in the germ theory of disease and seems to be trying to spike vaccine development globally?

A shutdown of global semiconductor fabrication caused by a worldwide helium shortage, and a global fertilizer shortage causing famine and food price spikes, due to a senile sundowning autocrat starting a war with Iran without any clear exit strategy?

Who ordered any of this?

I'm reasonably confident that the Russian invasion of Ukraine will be over by this time in 2030--quite likely by this time in 2027, due to the collapse of the Russian domestic economy. I'm also reasonably confident that the US war on Iran will be over by this time in 2030, if only because Trump will most likely be dead or in palliative care (possibly following his removal in a soft coup via Article 25 of the US constitution, due to his very obvious current illness and decline). (Note that Trump's insistence on "running for a third term" is very probably a serious sign that the electoral process in the USA is no longer fully functional, under the aegis of the supreme court he appointed, as long as he survives. His successor may not be able to sustain his ability to ignore the law: if they can, then, well, the US Republic is over: it had a good run, from 1776 to 2026.) The AI bubble will have burst long before May 2027--the semiconductor pinch caused by the aforementioned helium supply crisis will cripple Nvidia's ability to manufacture chipsets for data centers, and the US DCs are all being built to run on diesel/kerosene burning gas turbine power plants anyway, the price of which has skyrocketed due to the gulf war.

I expect us to be well into Great Depression 2.0 by this time in 2030.

There will be some grounds for hope. The global energy transition to renewables will, by that point, be a done deal. It also means China will have replaced the USA as the global energy superpower--not because they dominate the transport routes for energy but because they manufacture 80% of the planet's EVs and PV panels and batteries. But that's a tenuous hold on superpowerdom. If the Chinese government throws its weight around in the 21st century the way the USA did in the 20th, it will rapidly find first-tier rivals building up their own manufacturing capability: meanwhile, PV/battery is inherently easier to distribute that large, centralized grid based power supplies, and the dronification of warfare means (at least in the near term) that rapid mechanized wars of maneuver are a non-starter: the "fog of war" is on the way out, replaced by highly precise targeting of advancing assets and the robotization of the front line.

In space, I'm pretty sure we will see a Kessler Syndrome event if the idiotic rush towards putting data centers in orbit goes anywhere. But I think it's not going to happen--SpaceX is inextricably tied to the current tech bubble, and when it pops Elon Musk is going to wish he had a bunker to hide in.

The main casualty of this decade is the ideological credibility of capitalism as a social organizational principle.

Enshittification, also known as platform decay, per wiki, is "a process in which two-sided online products and services decline in quality over time. Initially, vendors create high-quality offerings to attract users, then they degrade those offerings to better serve business customers, and finally degrade their services to both users and business customers to maximize short-term profits for shareholders." Systematic capture of the US government and the global system of trade by capitalists has resulted in the creation of a framework optimized for enshittification all round, and the result is the enshittification of everything--all the infrastructure of the capitalist world is decaying and on fire as the post-privatization owners loot it.

This is the Marx-predicted crisis of capitalism, and it's been in progress since the collapse of the USSR in 1991 removed the main ideological standard-bearer for opposition. It accelerated in 2008 with the global financial crisis, and again in 2020 when the pandemic provided top cover for the hyaenas to go on a looting spree. They've stripped the corpse of actually-existing social democracies everywhere to the bone, and now they're cannibalizing their own body politic. Disaster capitalism has finally come home to roost, and it won't end until the global financial system collapses. Meanwhile, the generation born in the 21st century has no time for their shit. We are moving into a political state weirdly reminiscent of the period between 1905 and the 1930s. If we're lucky we're going to get New Deal 2.0 and a brisk round of socialism: if we're unlucky, it's going to be guillotine time all over again.

PS: do not expect to see me visiting the USA any time soon. Millions of people applying for a US visa are now required to make all of their social media accounts publicly visible -- or risk having their applications delayed or denied outright. The directive, which covers more than a dozen nonimmigrant visa categories, has been rolling out in phases since June 2025 and expanded significantly as of 30 March 2026. This policy is impossible to implement without feeding all those social media profiles to an LLM in search of a verdict, and they'll obviously be screening applicants for ideological compatibility. And if it's rolling out to visa applicants now, the automated program will inevitably be applied to I-94W (visa waiver) travelers shortly thereafter. My social media profile is that of a pro-LGBT pro-Green hard left troublemaker, so ... nope, not going there: I am absolutely not interested in touring the concentration camps of El Salvador!

So, I had my second round of eye surgery, and it worked fine. I got a short distance lens, leaving me myopic, which was expected, and I've booked an opthalmology appointment for the earliest possible date post-surgery (in mid-May, the eye needs to settle for six weeks post-op). In the meantime, I'm without visual correction.

And guess what? My vision is changing. My left eye is increasingly myopic, to the point where it's now difficult to read on screen. (And I can barely read with my right eye at all, due to a retinal occlusion that covers about half the visual field.) For writing/editing I've blown up the text size to 250%, which is just tolerable but gives me a headache after a while: new prescription specs can't come soon enough.

NB: don't suggest half-assing corrective lenses using off-the-shelf stuff, my eyes are kinda complex and I'm not just myopic, there's other stuff going on there. Also, don't suggest dictation software: I use a complex vocabulary and punctuation that aren't a normal part of the use case the designers of such software anticipated, i.e. business correspondence. And absolutely don't suggest podcasts or text-to-speech software: I can't absorb information that way. I'm fed up with people trying to convince me to try something I've tried repeatedly to use (and that has failed for me) over the past 30 years: it's irritating, not helpful.

... In other news: despite the above I'm still plodding along at book 2 of the proposed duology (but making very slow progress because writing 1000 words in a day is the new writing 4500 words in a day). And I'll be at Satellite 9 in Glasgow next month, probably before I have new glasses, so if you see me and I fail to make eye contact across a room it's not you: I'm just blind as a bat.

It's the end of March. Since the last blog update I've had my second cataract surgery (it went much better this time), written a portion-and-outline of a new novel (for my agent, who will hopefully have feedback or maybe just go ahead and sell it so I can write the rest), and ... been diagnosed with exertional angina. Happy joy. I swear, you hit 60 and the warranties on all your body parts expire simultaneously. (NB: keep your medical advice to yourselves!)

We've also been treated to the unedifying sight of the Paedopotus Rex attacking Iran for no sane reason (the main beneficiary appears to be Benjamin Netanyahu), setting off a conflagration in the Middle East that is already having global repercussions. Per United Airlines, aviation fuel is expected to be over $175 a barrel through the end of 2027 even if the Straits of Hormuz are unblocked within a week or two; J. P. Morgan prognosticate that the last pre-closure consignments through the Straits should be reaching European ports this week, the far east in about 10 days, and the USA by the middle of April, after which all bets are off. Supply chain shocks, here we come!

It's not just crude oil, of course, although it's looking as if the shortages we're in for are going to be as bad as both the oil crises of the 1970s stacked. About 30% of the world's ammonia, required as a feedstock for fertilizer, is manufactured close to the gas wells in the region. And it's getting into growing season in the northern hemisphere. This promises to spike the price of food and trigger famines and eventually revolutions in poorer nations.

Helium, vital for any number of advanced tech (such as hard disk drives, semiconductor fab lines, MRI machines ...) is a by-product of natural gas wells: about 20% of the global supply comes from the Gulf. So TSMC, Samsung, and the other fabs will be hitting crisis levels of supply shortages within a few weeks.

This is not only an emergency for fuel, food production, and electronics: it's going to trigger inflation globally. Iran has had the great idea of allowing ships through the Straits of Hormuz if they pay a transit fee of about US$2M ... in Yuan. Which means oil is now de facto denominated in Chinese currency, not dollars (great win for Trump!).

The truth of the matter is, we're being forced to confront an iron law of economics: you can optimize a system for efficiency or for robustness, but not for both. Just-in-time supply chains are efficient, but there's no slack in the system. Systems with warehousing and storage and redundancy built-in are resilient, but they're not efficient. And over the past 50 years we've abandoned them, in the name of efficiency, so that the excess capacity could be sold off and turned into profits. This war is payback time for the cult of efficiency over robustness in business.

As for the war itself, it's a shit-show. Mass murder of innocent schoolgirls aside, Pete Hegseth is demonstrating the truth of the aphorism that lieutenants study tactics, majors study strategy, generals study logistics, and field marshalls study economics. Going by his demonstrated expertise, Hegseth is clearly a lieutenant: he seems mystified that the US defense industry giants can't throw together a new factory producing Tomahawk or Patriot missiles in a week. (He seems to have AI-pilled himself into believing that all military hardware problems can be solved in software. Or maybe he just believes that his Warrior Jesus will provide.)

I would have more to say on this subject if I wasn't gibbering in a corner about the stupidity of it all, but meanwhile I have hospital and other appointments coming up, then a science fiction convention at the weekend. I'll try to lighten the topic of conversation when I get back: this reality is getting to me (again).

... The TLDR is: the cataract in my one mostly working eye (the other has about 50% retinal occlusion) is steadily getting worse, and I'm scheduled for surgery on March 27th.

NB: no need to lecture me about cataract surgery, I've already had it on the other eye. Same team, same hospital, same prognosis. I know exactly what to expect. Nor are your best wishes welcome: replying to them gets tiring after the fiftieth time (see: poor eyesight, above).

But worsening eyesight means that reading (and writing!) is fatiguing, so I gradually do less and less of it in each session.

Consequently I've been spending my screen time, not on the blog, but on a revision pass over my next novel, and on writing the follow-up.

(No, I can't give you any details: let's just say they're space operas, not Laundry Files, and I'll talk about them when my agent gives me the go-ahead. Book 1 is written, subject to editing, and Book 2 is about 10-15% written. And neither of them is Ghost Engine, the white whale I've been fruitlessly hunting for the past decade, although the viable chunks of GE may get recycled into Book 2.)

After my eye surgery I'll be going to Iridescence, the 2026 British Eastercon, the following weekend in Birmingham. I have some program items: I'll update this blog entry when I have a final schedule.

After Iridescence, I'll be heading to Satellite 9 in Glasgow (May 22nd to 24th). And after that I'll be attending Metropol Con in Berlin, July 2nd to 5th.

I'm not attending any US SF conventions for the forseeable future (being deported to a concentration camp in El Salvador is not on my bucket list), but I will try to attend the 2027 World Science Fiction convention in Montreal, assuming the Paedopotus Rex hasn't gone on a Godzilla-style rampage north of the border by then, and that intercontinental air travel is still possible. (See, my inability to resist that kind of cheap shot is exactly why I'm not visiting the US these days: ICE want to see your social media history going back 5 years, and I gather they're using some horrible LLM tool from Palantir to vet travellers.)

We now return you to your regular scheduled kvetching about the state of world affairs until my eyeballs are firing on all cylinders again. (Say, did you know that 30% of the world's fertilizer is shipped through the Straits of Hormuz? And about 20% of the sulfur that ends up as feedstock in sulfuric acid for industrial processes comes from sour Gulf crude, so ditto? Not to mention the helium that is required to keep MRI machines and TSMC's semiconductor fab lines running, never mind your grandkids' party balloons? Happy days ...)

Sorry I haven't updated the blog for a while: I've been busy. (Writing the final draft of a new novel entirely unconnected to anything else you've read—space opera, new setting, longest thing I've written aside from the big Merchant Princes doorsteps. Now in my agent's inbox while I make notes towards a sequel, if requested.)

Over the past few years I've been naively assuming that while we're ruled by a ruthless kleptocracy, they're not completely evil: aristocracies tend to run on self-interest and try to leave a legacy to their children, which usually means leaving enough peasants around to mow the lawn, wash the dishes, and work the fields.

But my faith in the sanity of the evil overlords has been badly shaken in the past couple of months by the steady drip of WTFery coming out of the USA in general and the Epstein Files in particular, and now there's this somewhat obscure aside, that rips the mask off entirely ...

A document released by the U.S. Department of Justice as part of the Epstein files contains a quote attributed to correspondence involving Jeffrey Epstein that references Bill Gates and a controversial question about "how do we get rid of poor people as a whole."

The passage appears in a written communication included in the DOJ document trove and reads, in part: "I've been thinking a lot about that question that you asked Bill Gates, 'how do we get rid of poor people as a whole,' and I have an answer/comment regarding that for you." The writer then asks to schedule a phone call to discuss the matter further.

As an editor of mine once observed, America is ruled by two political parties: the party of the evil billionaires, and the party of the sane (so slightly less evil) billionaires. Evil billionaires: "let's kill the poor and take all their stuff." Sane billionaires: "hang on, if we kill them all who's going to cook dinner and clean the pool?"

And this seemed plausible ... before it turned out that the CEO class as a whole believe entirely in AI (which, to be clear, is just another marketing grift in the same spirit as cryptocurrencies/blockchain, next-generation nuclear power, real estate backed credit default options, and Dutch tulip bulbs). AI is being sold on the promise of increasing workforce efficiency. And in a world which has been studiously ignoring John Maynard Keynes' 1930 prediction that by 2030 we would only need to work a 15 hour work week, they've drawn an inevitable unwelcome conclusion from this axiom: that there are too many of us. And for the past 75 years they've been so focussed on optimizing for efficiency that they no longer understand that efficiency and resilience are inversely related: in order to survive collectively through an energy transition and a time of climate destabilization we need extra capacity, not "right-sized" capacity.

Raise the death rate by removing herd immunity to childhood diseases? That's entirely consistent with "kill the poor". Mass deportation of anyone with the wrong skin colour? The white supremacists will join in enthusiastically, and meanwhile: the deported can die out of sight. Turn disused data centres or amazon warehouses into concentration camps (which are notorious disease breeding grounds)? It's a no-brainer. Start lots of small overseas brushfire wars, escalating to the sort of genocide now being piloted in Gaza by Trump's ally Netanyahu (to emphasize: his strain of Judaism can only be understood as a Jewish expression of white nationalism, throwing off its polite political mask to reveal the death's head of totalitarianism underneath)? It's all part of the program.

Our rulers have gone collectively insane (over a period of decades) and they want to kill us.

The class war has turned hot. And we're all on the losing side.

The Regicide Report, the last novel in the main Laundry Files series, is coming out on January 27th in the US (from Tor.com Publishing) and the UK (from Orbit).

If you want to order signed hardcovers, contact Transreal Fiction in Edinburgh. (I believe Mike is currently willing to send books to the USA, but don't take my word for it: check first, and blame Donald Trump if there are customs/tariff obstacles.)

Audiobooks: there will be audio editions. The Audible one is showing a January 27th release date on Amazon.com; Hachette Digital will be issuing one in the UK but it's not showing up on Amazon.co.uk yet. (For contractual reasons they're recorded and produced by different companies.)

Ebooks and DRM: The ebook will be available the same day as the hardcover. Tor.com does not put DRM on their ebooks, but it's anybody's guess whether a given ebook store will add it. (Amazon have been particularly asshole-ish in recent years but are promising DRM-free downloads of purchases will be available from late January.) Orbit is part of Hachette, who are particularly obstreperous about requiring DRM on everything electronic, so you're out of luck if you buy the Orbit edition. (I could tell you how to unlock the DRM on purchases from the UK Kobo store, but then my publisher would be contractually obliged to assassinate me. Let's just say, it can be done.)

What next?

The Regicide Report is the last Bob/Mo/Laundry novel. It's set circa March-May 2015 in the time line; the New Management books are set circa November 2015 through May 2017, so this one slots in before Dead Lies Dreaming.

There may be a Laundry Files short story collection, and/or/maybe including a final New Management novella (it's half-written, but on "hold" since mid-2024), at some point in the future. But not this year or next. (I'm taking time off to get back in touch with space opera.)

None of the above precludes further Laundry Files novels getting written, but it's up to the publishers and market forces. If it does happen, I expect they'll be set in the 2020s in the internal chronology, by which time the Laundry itself is no more (it's been superseded by DEAT), and we may have new protagonists and a very new story line.

No, but really what's next?

I don't know for sure, but I'm currently working on the final draft of Starter Pack, my Stainless Steel Rat homage, and planning yet another rewrite of Ghost Engine, this time throwing away my current protagonists and replacing them with the ones from Starter Pack (who need another heist caper). Do not expect publication before 2027, though! I'm also awaiting eye surgery again, which slows everything down.

It's been years and years since I last went trawling for webcomics worth reading, so it's time for an update: obviously online search is pretty much useless, but we ought to be able to crowdsource something here.

I keep a separate browser window for webcomics; here's a selection of my currently-open tabs, excluding syndicated stuff that shows up in newspapers. (So no "This Modern World" or "The Far Side".) What am I ignoring? Preferably new in the past decade, which rules out old-timers like "Digger" or "Girl Genius" (arguably I should have ommitted QC and xkcd too, but they're favourites of mine).

Questionable Content has been first on my daily reading list for a long time ... almost 20 years? It's Jeff Jacques' "internet comic strip about friendship, romance, and robots ... set in the present day and pretty much the same as our own except there are robots all over the place and giant space stations." And more plot threads than I can possibly summarize, given that it's a sprawling soap opera unfolding at roughly 250 strips per year.

Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal which, despite the name, comes out almost every day, is the antithesis of QC: every daily strip is a standalone, and it has an alarming tendency to lob philosophical hand grenades at entire fields of scientific endeavour. By Zack Weinersmith, who's also written some good books.

xkcd is the third classic, by sometime NASA robot guy Randal Munroe; like SMBC it tends to focus on the sciences, with a distinctly whimsical take on things. Should need no introduction, but if you don't already know, it's where those stick figure science comics come from ...

Kill Six Billion Demons Less of a single strip at a time webcomic and more of an episodic graphic novel, KSBD is distinctly Japanese/Hindu/Chinese/Hellish in tone: it seems to follow the travails of an American female student called Alison who winds up in hell, befriends demons, gets caught up in a holy war to end the universe, and ascends towards godhood, but that's kind of selling it short. Come for the amazing artwork, stay for the batshit theology. By Abbadon.

Pepper & Carrot by David Revoy is thematically the exact antithesis of KSBD: P&C is set in a very kitsch, cozy, D&D style generic fantasy world. Pepper is a young and less-than-competent student of witchcraft, and Carrot is her one-brain-cell ginger cat (and hapless familiar): they get in trouble a lot. (Spin-offs: if you want to dip in to a one-shot rather than a serial, there's Mini-Fantasy Theatre--same character but every story is self-contained.)

Runaway to the Stars is an extremely crunchy hard SF slice-of-life serial by Jay Eaton, following Talita (an alien centaur-oid alien fostered by humans) and her friends. Did I say "crunchy"? The world-building is extreme. (And you'll never think catgirls are sexy again!)

Phobos and Deimos A differently-crunchy solarpunk story about a girl from Mars who, exiled by an invasion, ends up as a refugee on Earth, where she has to make a new life for herself and grapple with the culture shock of attending high school in Antarctica as a 'fugee.

RuriDragon an online manga set in a Japanese high school, following student Ruri Aoki, who wakes up one day and notices horns have started growing from her head. When she asks her mother about it, mum confesses that her father was a dragon ... RuriDragon was serialized in Weekly Shōnen Jump magazine in 2022; this is an unofficial fan translation. (It follows Japanese formatting conventions, so read it from the top down and right-to-left or the dialog won't make much sense.)

SideQuested by AlePresser & K.B. Spangler is a web serial/graphic novel in progress set in a slightly less generic fantasy realm than Pepper & Carrot (this one shows some signs of Xianxia/cultivation influences). It focusses on the adventures of an extremely sensible level-headed librarian-in-training girl named Charlie, who clearly has absolutely no magical abilities whatsoever--until one day her absentee father turns up with some unexpected news: he's the King's Champion, her mother is a foreign princess, and she's needed at Court because the King's head-in-the-clouds son Prince Leopold is being a problem and her father needs her to sort him out in a hurry ...

Eldritch Darling Nothing to see here, just your usual webcomic about an eldritch horror from beyond spacetime who falls in love with a lesbian. H. P. Lovecraft would not approve!

Unspeakable Vault of Doom is an irregular series of extremely goofy web strips that H. P. Lovecraft would definitely disapprove of, not least because he occasionally features in it, along with his more notorious creations!

Finally, two from the cheesecake dimension:

Oglaf is almost invariably NSFW, rude, and very, very funny. Weekly, started out 20 years ago as an attempt to do bad D&D porn then kind of wandered off topic, and these days there's only about an 80% probability that any given weekly strip will include explicit sex scenes, stabbings, or jokes.

Grrl Power (Caution: author has a severe male gaze problem) As the "about" page says: A comic about super heroines. Well there are guys too but mostly it's about the girls. Doing the things that super powered girls do. Fighting crime, saving the world, dating, shopping, etc. There are also explosions, cheesecake, beefcake, heroes and villains, angels and demons, cyborgs, probably ninjas, and definitely aliens. Lots and lots of aliens. Some of whom are only visiting Earth as sex tourists ...

And that's my round-up!

Your turn. What web comics do you frequent new webcomics that aren't on this list?

It should be fairly obvious to anyone who's been paying attention to the tech news that many companies are pushing the adoption of "AI" (large language models) among their own employees--from software developers to management--and the push is coming from the top down, as C-suite executives order their staff to use AI, Or Else. But we know that LLMs reduce programmer productivity-- one major study showed that "developers believed that using AI tools helped them perform 20% faster -- but they actually worked 19% slower." (Source.)

Another recent study found that 87% of executives are using AI on the job, compared with just 27% of employees: "AI adoption varies by seniority, with 87% of executives using it on the job, compared with 57% of managers and 27% of employees. It also finds that executives are 45% more likely to use the technology on the job than Gen Zers, the youngest members of today's workforce and the first generation to have grown up with the internet.

"The findings are based on a survey of roughly 7,000 professionals age 18 and older who work in the US, the UK, Australia, Canada, Germany, and New Zealand. It was commissioned by HR software company Dayforce and conducted online from July 22 to August 6."

Why are executives pushing the use of new and highly questionable tools on their subordinates, even when they reduce productivity?

I speculate that to understand this disconnect, you need to look at what executives do.

Gordon Moore, long-time co-founder and CEO of Intel, explained how he saw the CEO's job in his book on management: a CEO is a tie-breaker. Effective enterprises delegate decision making to the lowest level possible, because obviously decisions should be made by the people most closely involved in the work. But if a dispute arises, for example between two business units disagreeing on which of two projects to assign scarce resources to, the two units need to consult a higher level management team about where their projects fit into the enterprise's priorities. Then the argument can be settled ... or not, in which case it propagates up through the layers of the management tree until it lands in the CEO's in-tray. At which point, the buck can no longer be passed on and someone (the CEO) has to make a ruling.

So a lot of a CEO's job, aside from leading on strategic policy, is to arbitrate between conflicting sides in an argument. They're a referee, or maybe a judge.

Now, today's LLMs are not intelligent. But they're very good at generating plausible-sounding arguments, because they're language models. If you ask an LLM a question it does not answer the question, but it uses its probabilistic model of language to generate something that closely resembles the semantic structure of an answer.

LLMs are effectively optimized for bamboozling CEOs into mistaking them for intelligent activity, rather than autocomplete on steroids. And so the corporate leaders extrapolate from their own experience to that of their employees, and assume that anyone not sprinkling magic AI pixie dust on their work is obviously a dirty slacker or a luddite.

(And this false optimization serves the purposes of the AI companies very well indeed because CEOs make the big ticket buying decisions, and internally all corporations ultimately turn out to be Stalinist command economies.)

Anyway, this is my hypothesis: we're seeing an insane push for LLM adoption in all lines of work, however inappropriate, because they directly exploit a cognitive bias to which senior management is vulnerable.