Winner of a Prometheus and Sidewise Award, this science fiction novella is a comedic and biting commentary on capitalism and an exploration of technological singularity in a posthuman civilization. As a world war rages on without an emerging victor, the story follows John Matheson, an idealistic teenage Scottish guerilla warrior who must change his tactics and alliances with the arrival of an alien species. This alternate history and poignant political satire flips hero types and expectations, delivering a lively tale of adventure—as dramatic and thought provoking as it is funny. Also included is an interview with the author and two essays that relate his poignant views on social philosophies. "MacLeod is a fiercely intelligent, prodigiously well-read author who manages to fill his books with big issues without weighing them down."  —Salon.com "MacLeod's novels are fast, funny, and sophisticated. There can never be enough books like these."  —Kim Stanley Robinson, author, Mars trilogy "Scottish author Ken MacLeod bolsters his tight, brilliant, alternate-history novella with two supporting essays and a lengthy interview, combining revolutionary politics, flying-saucer lore, and family dynamics in a slender but potent volume." — Publishers Weekly "...an excellent tale, one that readers should be glad to see made readily available in the United States."— Publishers Weekly "There’s a ‘Plus ...’ on the cover and title page, indicating the inclusion of a pair of reflective essays by the author, an interview conducted by Terry Bisson, and an extensive bibliography of MacLeod’s fiction and non-fiction. The elements of the package interact nicely."  —Russell Letson, Locus "Although the novella soars off into high science fiction for its end twist, its grounding in the Scotland and the Lewis of Macleod’s childhood gives it a sense of solidity, grounding it in real history and left wing arguments remembered." —Pik Smeet, World Socialism Ken MacLeod is the author of The Night Sessions , The Restoration Game , and The Stone Canal . The Human Front By Ken MacLeod PM Press Copyright © 2013 Ken MacLeod All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-60486-395-6 Contents The Human Front, "Other Deviations: The Human Front Exposed", "The Future Will Happen Here, Too", "Working the Wet End" Outspoken Interview with Ken MacLeod, Bibliography, About the Author, CHAPTER 1 THE HUMAN FRONT Like most people of my generation, I remember exactly where I was on March 17, 1963, the day Stalin died. I was in the waiting-room of my father's surgery, taking advantage of the absence of waiting patients to explore the nicotine-yellowed stacks of Reader's Digests and National Geographics, and to play in a desultory fashion with the gnawed plastic soldiers, broken tin tanks, legless dolls and so forth that formed a disconsolate heap, like an atrocity diorama, in one corner. My father must have been likewise taking advantage of a slack hour towards the end of the day to listen to the wireless. He opened the door so forcefully that I looked up, guiltily, though on this particular occasion I had nothing to be guilty about. His expression alarmed me further, until I realised that the mixed feelings that struggled for control of his features were not directed at me. Except one. It was with, I now think, a full awareness of the historic significance of the moment, as well as a certain sense of loss, that he told me the news. His voice cracked slightly, in a way I had not heard before. "The Americans," he said, "have just announced that Stalin has been shot." "Up against a wall?" I asked, eagerly. My father frowned at my levity and lit a cigarette. "No," he said. "Some American soldiers surrounded his headquarters in the Caucasus mountains. After the partisans were almost wiped out they surrendered, but then Stalin made a run for it and the American soldiers shot him in the back." I almost giggled. Things like this happened in history books and adventure stories, not in real life. "Does that mean the war is over?" I asked. "That's a good question, John." He looked at me with a sort of speculative respect. "The Communists will be disheartened by Stalin's death, but they'll go on fighting, I'm afraid." At that moment there was a knock on the waiting-room door, and my father shooed me out while welcoming his patient in. The afternoon was clear and cold. I mucked about at the back of the house and then climbed up the hill behind it, sat on a boulder and watched the sky. A pair of eagles circled their eyrie on the higher hill opposite, but I didn't let that distract me. After a while my patience was rewarded by the thrilling sight of a V-formation of American bombers high above, flying east. Their circular shapes glinted silver when the sunlight caught them, and shadowed black against the blue. * * * The newspapers always arrived on Lewis the day after they were printed, so two days passed before the big black h