The Froomistat Conundrum

Uh-oh.  Our hero is in trouble.

“Captain!  The enemy’s Vetch Cannon are proving more than a match for the shields generated by our Krump Vanes!”

“Blast it!  I warned the Admiralty that this would happen!”

“We’re really getting a pounding, sir!”

“Mr. Blazey— do we still have those froomistats in the hold?”

“Yes, sir, but what . . . ?”

“Those froomistats are composed primarily of omniblendium, which when hooked into our power system can be used to provide a temporary reversal of the Vetch Field.”

“Why— why that’s brilliant, sir!”

“Get busy hooking up those froomistats, mister— and then anyone firing a Vetch Cannon at us is going to get a very unpleasant surprise.”

“Yes— and we’ll have won yet another astounding victory against overwhelming odds!”

I assume you’ve all read something like this, or seen it on television— Next Generation Trek was infamous for this sort of scene, and when this brand of drama was called for the screenwriter was told to simply write [tech], and the writers who specialized in that sort of dialogue were called in.  (I always wondered why screenwriters pressed for time simply didn’t write whole pages consisting of nothing but [tech] [tech] [tech] [tech].  Had I been there, I’m sure I would have had [tech] on a macro.)

Here I’ve written a particularly egregious example, but I’m actually trying to make a serious point, which is that I am not moved by a scene in which an imaginary whatsit is afflicted by another imaginary whatsit, only to be rescued by a third imaginary whatsit.

When this sort of thing happens, I as a reader remain unmoved.

Which may sound odd, seeing as I’ve devoted most of my career to imaginative literature, and therefore might be expected to devise imaginary whatsits on a regular basis.  But I’d like to think my whatsits are a superior sort, because they have some connection, however tenuous, to reality.

I mean, when I decided to write a space opera, I used real physics!  (Well . . .  realish)

I’ve always felt that an imaginary dilemma solved by an imaginary solution— and by an imaginary person, to boot— lacks dramatic savor.  What is at stake, exactly?  And how brilliant does your protagonist have to be to deploy the froomistats the author has carefully stowed within reach?

And besides, it’s too damn easy.  How stirring is your hero’s victory when you invent the situation, invent the technology, invent the problem, and invent the solution?  It’s like playing with loaded dice.

This is why science fiction is loaded with fictional geniuses who excel at solving fictional problems.  And also why I don’t care about any of them, particularly.

Now it is possible to anchor imaginary tech in another sort of reality.  Human reality.  If your character is interesting enough, and has enough human problems to go along with her imaginary ones, the reader will follow along.  I don’t give much credence to the technology in the Verkosigan stories, but Miles Verkosigan is a wonderful character, and I’ll cheerfully follow him from one adventure to the next.

The more removed from reality your scenario, the more human connections the reader will need in order to care about the action.

My problem with froomistats and Vetch Cannon is equalled by my problem with virtual characters having virtual problems in a computerized virtual environment.  I just don’t care.  I want to shout at them, “You’re electrons— get over yourselves!”

But this may just be a personal kink.  But I’ve been encountering the Froomistat Conundrum as lot lately, and it’s high time I lodged a protest.