AIDS in Science Fiction
Sci-Fi Entertainment, April 1998
Cory Doctorow

Man, this was tough to write. From a technical perspective, it was tricky as hell -- researching the names of every sfnal media person who'd died of AIDS kept me in the library for weeks. But writing it -- Jesus. Somewhere, about halfway through, the magnitude of it hit me, the sheer volume of people who'd died of AIDS. I ended up writing the intro about eight times, and then one more time at Scott Edelman's request.

Nearly every science-fiction convention has a panel called something like, "It Came From the Slushpile," in which editors read out howlers from their collection of unsolicited manuscripts. During the Q&A, the topic always turns to "What kind of stories don't you want to see?" The answers are pretty standard: we're not interested in Trek knock-offs, or the next Anne Rice, and for God's sake: no more vampires with AIDS stories!

AIDS, in all of its media incarnations -- the gay plague, the third-world plague, the scourge of God, CIA conspiracy, disease du jour -- seems like a bad science-fiction idea. A killer VD that smashes the creative arts, drug subculture and the now-voguish gay community. It gives rise to free condom programs, needle-exchanges, countless risque talkshows where proper prophylactic technique is demonstrated on vegetables.

It feels like the unimaginative McGuffin of a third-rate sci-fi movie.

It feels like a awful, stupid joke.

It isn't. It's a relentless hammer that's come down, again and again, all over the world, and on people from all walks of life. If your life hasn't yet been smashed by that hammer, count yourself very lucky. Hardly a one of us has escaped unscathed.

AIDS has snatched away dozens of talented -- even brilliant -- creators of science-fiction media. Howard Ashman, whose spectacular lyrics brought the flagging Disney film empire out of its coma -- dead. Denholm Elliot, the forgetful Marcus Brody who provided the fulcrum for Indiana Jones's most comic moments -- dead. Richard Hunt, the puppeteer behind Beeker, Sweetums, the Two-Headed Monster and other Muppets -- dead. Anthony Perkins, who, to this day, can scare the hell out of me with that deadpan, "Yes, Mother --" dead. Andy Milligan, the prototype of quick-and-dirty horror directors -- dead.

Expensive new cocktails -- often priced beyond the reach of the masses -- are trickling onto the market, and with each new pharmaceutical press-release, we hold our breath and hope that it's the cure. Maybe one of them is. Some of us still wear our red ribbons, give to research funds, volunteer for hospices -- sure, we do it because it's the right thing to do; but for me, at least, it's also because I'm scared to death that someday, the phone will ring and that awful, stupid hammer will come down again.

On the next page, you'll find the names of some fifty artists caught under the hammer. Their collective contribution to the field is staggering; the pathos of their short lives inspires deepest misery. Take a moment to read through it and to remember each of them.