A Modest Foreword
(or, Mistakes Were Made)
Esther Friesner
Gentle Reader, it behooves me to wonder, because it beats doing actual work, whether you picked up this slim, sensibly sized volume because you have some familiarity with that gem of Western Literature, the effervescent and delectable Chicks in Chainmail series, another fine Baen Books production.
What in the name of Hades’ hand sanitizer do you mean, “Uh, never heard of it”? Wretched child, you shame your cats! (Not your ancestors. Your ancestors don’t really care about stuff like this. Sad but true.)
(PS: If you don’t have cats, forget I said anything and pick your own whatever for you to shame. Go on. I’ll wait.)
(Okay, who suggested “You shame your breakfast”? sigh Well, if that’s the best you can do, fine, I’ll work with it because I don’t have all day. We proceed . . . )
The germ of the first Chicks in Chainmail book made itself manifest unto me at a science fiction convention. I was at the art show and for no logical reason thought of those old, exploitative movies about women in prison. Hey, Orange Is the New Black actually has cinematic ancestors. (Which it does not shame.) My mind not only wanders, it hires a tour bus and tootles all over the landscape, in this case turning to thoughts of potential anthology themes. In this case, the possible title “Babes Behind Bars” presented itself. I gnawed this over, trying to come up with a way to adapt the title to the world of science fiction and/or fantasy.
Fantasy! By the great horn spoon, fantasy, of course! But no longer Babes Behind Bars, nay, for had I not just meandered away from a gaggle of my friends busily criticizing artwork that insists on garbing perfectly innocent bloodthirsty women warriors in itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny bits of a chainmail bikini? At this point, the aforementioned mental tour bus jumped the guardrail, plunged into the Ravine of Creativity, and I ran back to my friends exclaiming, “Chicks in chainmail! Chicks in chainmail! In hoc signo— Oh, wait, not that, but do I ever have an idea for an anthology about women! In armor! And funny! Gotta be funny! Wheeeee!”
Eureka, kiddies. Eu-freakin’-reka.
From this point on, the publishing history of the first Chicks in Chainmail anthology becomes a loooong visit with Our Friend, Plausible Deniability.
First, albeit Baen Books embraced the concept of the anthology, when it came to the title . . . Well, there was some hesitancy on the part of the publisher himself regarding it. He was at length persuaded to let it stand, Because Reasons, but he insisted he be given an Out, also Because Reasons. So the first book appeared with a Disclaimer on the back, absolving him of all responsibility for that title.
By the time the third book in the series stood in need of a title, he was the person who provided, of his own will and skill, Chicks and Chained Males. So I’d say he got over his qualms, wouldn’t you?
This time I wanted (and got!) the Disclaimer.
Ever since then, your Humble Correspondent has found herself repeatedly insisting that various things connected with the Chicks in Chainmail series were Not My Fault. For one thing, none of the titles in the Chicks in Chainmail series after número uno was my doing, and considering some of those titles—!
Now we come to this book. For once it looks like I will not have to fear encountering any connoisseur of fine literature who might encounter me at a convention and say, “What a wonderful book! So many brilliant stories, each of them a treat. But honestly, Esther, that title?” (Cue more-in-pity-than-in-anger sigh and expressive rolling of the eyes.)
I am to be spared this, because this time there is so much proof beyond my mere claim to innocence that I find myself gleefully distanced from responsibility for this book, title and all! It ain’t me, babe. It’s that guy, over there (and with his name on the cover). Jason Cordova, j’accuse!
How was I to know that the already cited germ of inspiration (which blossomed into a glorious sneeze of five—count ’em, five—anthologies) was contagious? Our Noble Editor has not stopped at mere body armor as a theme, oh mercy cupcakes, no. He has boldly upped the ante, giving the ladies far more than a jingly g-string to shield them as they charge into battle.
I do find it cool that my Chicks were the—I dunno, Muses?—for his, but he can tell you all about that himself. I am responsible for one of the stories, but that (and this foreword) are as far as I’ll go to admitting complicity. For one thing, when I was asked to come frolic in Mr. Cordova’s literary backyard, I wanted to play but realized that I knew nigh nothing about tanks and the women who drive them.
So I did some research. I had heard of Tank Girl, but I knew nothing about it, so I looked it up and—
Oh dear.
Ohhhhhh dear.
On a less traumatic front, I found out that real-world women and tanks have an interesting and inspiring history.
In the USSR, Mariya Oktyabrskaya’s husband was killed in combat during World War II. She vowed revenge against the Nazis, and she didn’t stop at words alone. She sold all of her possessions and used the money to have a tank built. Then she demanded to be allowed to ride that tank into battle, which she darn well did. She took a big toll on her enemies before her own death. She was posthumously honored as a Hero of the Soviet Union.
Oh, and she named her tank “Fighting Girlfriend.” Hey, her money, her tank, her rules.
The World War II USSR also knew the heroic service of other women and their tanks. There was Yekaterina Petlyuk whose tank, “Little One,” was paid for by contributions from schoolchildren. There was Alexandra Samusenko. There were many more.
Are you noticing a little tongue-in-cheek trend in tank naming? Then you’re going to love what Captain Jillian Collins of our own nation named her tank:
“Barbie’s Dreamhouse.”
Stop looking at me that way; I didn’t do it!
Speaking once more of the viper-infested rabbit hole that is internet research, not only did I pick up TMI about Tank Girl, I also learned that there is a perfectly sensible, practical, reasonable underlying principle that goes into the naming of tanks, at least US Armed Forces tanks. No, I don’t have a website URL to offer, because you will never thrive if you get everything spoon-fed to you (and also because I am too darn lazy to go back and fetch it), but if you search for articles about the sorta-kinda hooraw that sprang up online over one crew naming their tank after Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, you well may find it.
And here’s one more Aha! moment I enjoyed while educating myself preparatory to writing my story and this foreword: since I wanted to find out about women-and-tanks, those were the words I plunked into my Search program.
Result: A stampede of sites offering to sell me women’s tank tops.
I thought that if I changed my search terms to women-fighters-tanks that would clear things up nicely.
Result: A fresh plethora of sites selling women’s tank tops emblazoned with the logo for the Foo Fighters. (Come on, don’t be snarky; even I know who they are!)
And so I close my remarks secure in the knowledge that our esteemed Editor is not fully to blame for the title of this book. Chicks in Tank Tops was inevitable, foreordained, the internet would have it so, Manifest Destiny at its finest! He couldn’t help himself, poor lad.
Or maybe he could, and he chose this title on purpose, perchance with a wicked laugh upon his lips. I could not say and really, it’s not important in the grand scheme of things.
What IS important is for all of you to know beyond all doubt that despite Chicks in Chainmail to the contrary, Chicks in Tank Tops is . . .
Not
MY
Fault!
And I’m back to the whole Plausible Deniability thing again, amn’t I? Such is my fate.
But your fate is to read this book and enjoy the bejabbers out of it. You will. That’s an order! And a very easy one to follow, once you figure out where you left your bejabbers.
Fighting Writer, over and out.
PS: When I was asked to write this foreword, I in turn asked Mr. Cordova if he wanted to set any . . . boundaries. His response was:
I’m not going to say “write whatever strikes your fancy” because, as an author myself, those are the second-most dangerous words, following “Hold my beer. I’ve got an idea...”
I forgot about that until the moment I finished writing this piece. Oops. Sorry.
My fault.