In Kim Stanley Robinson's NEW YORK 2140, the character named Gen Octaviasdottir is an homage and show ot respect and  shout out to SF pioneer writer Octavia Butler!

WHY? Well....

 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Octavia_E._Butler

Publishers and critics have labelled Butler's work as science fiction. While Butler enjoyed the genre deeply, calling it "potentially the freest genre in existence," she resisted being branded a genre writer. Many critics have pointed out that her narratives have drawn attention of people from varied ethnic and cultural backgrounds. She claimed to have three loyal audiences: black readers, science-fiction fans, and feminists.

            Genevieve Valentine · explains a few things about the character named Gen Octaviasdottir in Kim Stanley Robinson's new novel titled NEW YORK 2140, where many readers are now suspecting (guessing) that the character's name is quiet homage and show of respect and shout out to the pioneering SF author Octvia Butler.

 

Among the characters, NPR explains, there's the ''gruffest police inspector Gen Octaviasdottir.''
......[In the story] a friend of Octaviasdottir's is "Five nine, 120 pounds, well distributed what little there was of her" and makes the inspector feel like "a big black female cop wedded to her job."

Since Octavia Butler is an African-American, and since in Icelandic naming traditions, see Wikipeida for this, a woman in Iceland of often named after her mother or father using the Icelandic word "dottir" (daughter), so that an Icelandic woman today who's father or mother named her might be called "Josephsdottir" or "Mariasdottir". It seems safe to assume the KSR named the character Gen Octaviasdottir as a homage to SF pioneer Octavia Butler, no? Your point of view?

So far this has not been mentioned in any blog or book review or KSR interview to date, but after asking around in the literary community aming those who have read the book already, the answer is in: Gen Octaviasdottir is a shout out to Octavia Butler!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Octavia_E._Butler

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''A section is devoted also to police inspector Gen Octaviasdottir, who has quite a few challenges not only with investigating such matters, but in also keeping public order, which is always going to be an issue in a place like New York while it is in such a vulnerable position. ''

b) Inspector Gen  FROM THE BOOK! PAGES ?? TO ??....

Inspector Gen Octaviasdottir sat in her office, late again, slumped in her chair, trying to muster the energy to get up and go home. Light fingernail drumming on her door announced her assistant, Sergeant Olmstead. “Sean, quit it and come in.”

 

Her mild-mannered young bulldog ushered in a woman of about fifty. Vaguely familiar-looking. Five seven, a bit heavy, thick black hair with some white strands. City business suit, big shoulder bag. Wide-set intelligent eyes, now observing Gen sharply; expressive mouth. No makeup. A serious person. Attractive. But she looked as tired as Gen felt. And a little uncertain about something, maybe this meeting.

 

“Hi, I’m Charlotte Armstrong,” the woman said. “We live in the same building, I think. The old Met Life tower, on Madison Square?”

 

“I thought you looked familiar,” Gen said. “What brings you here?”

“It has to do with our building, so I asked to see you. Two residents have gone missing. You know those two guys who were living on the farm floor?”

“No.”

“They might have been nervous to talk to you. Although they had permission to stay.”

The Met tower was a co-op, owned by its residents. Inspector Gen had recently inherited her apartment from her mother, and she paid little attention to how the building was run. Often it felt like she was only there to sleep. “So what happened?”

“No one knows. They were there one day, gone the next.”

“Someone’s checked the security cameras?”

“Yes. That’s why I came to see you. The cameras went out for two hours on the last night they were seen.”

“Went out?”

“We checked the data files, and they all have a two-hour gap.”

“Like a power outage?”

“But there wasn’t a power outage. And they have battery backup.”

“That’s weird.”

“That’s what we thought. That’s why I came to see you. Vlade, the building super, would have reported it, but I was coming here anyway to represent a client, so I filed the report and then asked to speak to you.”

“Are you going back to the Met now?” Gen asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“Why don’t we go together, then. I was just leaving.” Gen turned to Olmstead. “Sean, can you find the report on this and see what you can learn about these two men?”

The sergeant nodded, gazing at the floor, trying not to look like he’d just been given a bone. He would tear into it when they were gone.

 

Armstrong headed toward the elevators and looked surprised when Inspector Gen suggested they walk instead.

“I didn’t think there were skybridges between here and there.”

“Nothing direct,” Gen explained, “but you can take the one from here to Bellevue, and then go downstairs and cross diagonally and then head west on the Twenty-third Skyline. It takes about thirty-four minutes. The vapo would take twenty if we got lucky, thirty if we didn’t. So I walk it a lot. I can use the stretch, and it will give us a chance to talk.”

Armstrong nodded without actually agreeing, then hauled her shoulder bag closer to her neck. She favored her right hip. Gen tried to remember anything from the Met’s frequent bulletins. No luck. But she was pretty sure this woman had been the chairperson of the co-op’s executive board since Gen had moved in to take care of her mom, which suggested three or four terms in office, not something most people would volunteer for. She thanked Armstrong for this service, then asked her about it. “Why so long?”

“It’s because I’m crazy, as you seem to be suggesting.”

“Not me.”

“Well, you’d be right if you did. It’s just that I’m better working on things than not. I experience less stress.”

“Stress about how our building runs?”

“Yes. It’s very complicated. Lots can go wrong.”

“You mean like flooding?”

“No, that’s mostly under control, or else we’d be screwed. It takes attention, but Vlade and his people do that.”

“He seems good.”

“He’s great. The building is the easy part.”

“So, the people.”

“As always, right?”

“Sure is in my line of work.”

“Mine too. In fact the building itself is kind of a relief. Something you can actually fix.”

“You do what kind of law?”

“Immigration and intertidal.”

“You work for the city?”

“Yes. Well, I did. The immigrant and refugee office got semiprivatized last year, and I went with it. Now we’re called the Householders’ Union. Supposedly a public-private agency, but that just means both sides ignore us.”

“Have you always done that kind of thing?”

“I worked at ACLU a long time ago, but yeah. Mostly for the city.”

“So you defend immigrants?”

“We advocate for immigrants and displaced persons, and really anyone who asks for help.”

“That must keep you busy.”

Armstrong shrugged. Gen led her to the elevator in Bellevue’s northwest annex that would take them down to the skybridge that ran west from building to building on the north side of Twenty-third. Most skybridges still ran either north-south or east-west, forcing what Gen called knight moves. Recently some new higher skybridges made bishop moves, which pleased Gen, as she played the find-the-shortest-route game when getting around the city, played it with a gamer’s passion. Shortcutting, some players called it. What she wanted was to move through the city like a queen in chess, straight to her destination every time. That would never be possible in Manhattan, just as it wasn’t on a chessboard; grid logic ruled both. Even so, she would visualize the destination in her head and walk the straightest line she could think of toward it – design improvements – measure success on her wrist. All simple compared to the rest of her work, where she had to navigate much vaguer and nastier problems.

Armstrong stumped along beside her. Gen began to regret suggesting the walk. At this pace it was going to take close to an hour. She asked questions about their building to keep the lawyer distracted from her discomfort. There were about two thousand people living in it now, Armstrong answered. About seven hundred units, from single-person closets to big group apartments. Conversion to residential had occurred after the Second Pulse, in the wet equity years.

Gen nodded as Charlotte sketched this history. Her father and grandmother had both served on the force through the flood years, she told Armstrong. Keeping order had not been easy.

Finally they came to the Met’s east side. The skybridge from the roof of the old post office entered the Met at its fifteenth floor. As they pushed through the triple doors Gen nodded to the guard on duty, Manuel, who was chatting to his wrist and looked startled to see them. Gen looked back out the glass doors; down at canal level the bathtub ring exposed by low tide was blackish green. Above it the nearby buildings’ walls were greenish limestone, or granite, or brownstone. Seaweed stuck to the stone below the high tide line, mold and lichen above. Windows just above the water were barred with black grilles; higher they were unbarred, and many open to the air. A balmy night in September, neither stifling nor steamy. A moment in the city’s scandalous weather to bask in, to enjoy.

“So these missing guys lived on the farm floor?” Gen asked.

“Yes. Come on up and take a look, if you don’t mind.”

They took an elevator to the farm, which filled the open-walled loggia of the Met tower from the thirty-first to the thirty-fifth floors. The tall open floor was jammed with planter boxes, and the air in the space was filled with hydroponic balls of leafy green. The summer’s crop looked ready for harvest: tomatoes and squash, beans, cucumbers and peppers, corn, herbs, and so on. Gen spent very little time in the farm, but she did like to cook once in a while, so she put in an hour a month to be able to make a claim. The cilantro was bolting. Plants grew at different speeds, just like people.

“They lived here?”

“That’s right, over in the southeast corner near the toolshed.”

“For how long?”

“About three months.”

“I never saw them.”

“People say they kept to themselves. They lost their previous housing somehow, so Vlade set up a hotello they brought with them.”

“I see.” Hotellos were rooms that could be packed into a suitcase. They were often deployed inside other buildings, being not very sturdy. Usually they provided private space inside crowded larger spaces.

Gen wandered the farm, looking for anomalies. The loggia’s arched open walls had a railing embrasure that was chest high on her, and she was a tall woman. Looking over the rail she saw a safety net about six feet below. They circled inside arches and came to the hotello in the southeast corner. She knelt to inspect the rough concrete floor: no sign of anything unusual. “Forensics should take a closer look at this.”

“Yes,” Armstrong said.

“Who gave them permission to live here?”

“The residency board.”

“They aren’t running out on rent or anything.”

“No.”

“Okay, we’ll do the full missing persons routine.”

The situation had some oddities that were making Gen curious. Why had the two men come here? Why had they been accepted when the building was already packed?

As always, the list of suspects began in the ring of immediate acquaintance.

“Do you think the super might be in his office?”

“He usually is.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

They took the elevator down and found the super sitting at a worktable that filled one wall of an office. The wall beside it was glass and gave a view of the Met’s big boathouse, the old third story, now water-floored.

The super stood and said hi. Gen had seen him around in the usual way. Vlade Marovich. Tall, broad-chested, long-limbed. A bunch of slabs thrown together. Six two, black hair. Head like a block of wood hewn by an ax. Slavic unease, skepticism, bit of an accent. Discontented around police, maybe. In any case, not happy.

Gen asked questions, watched him describe what had happened from his perspective. He was in a position to make the security cameras malfunction. And he did seem wary. But also weary. Depressed people did not usually engage in criminal conspiracies, Gen had long ago concluded. But you never knew.

“Shall we get dinner?” she asked them. “I’m suddenly starving, and you know the dining hall. First come only served.”

The other two were well aware of this.

“Maybe we can eat together and you can tell me more. And I’ll push the investigation at the station tomorrow. I’ll want a list of all the people who work for you on the building,” she said to Vlade. “Names and files.”

He nodded unhappily.

-------------------------

SAYS ONE READER: ''I love how much reading a book by KSR engages your brain. His writing is outstanding and the ideas stay with you for a long long time. He tells a very interesting page-turner of a story while at the same time exploring some of the most complicated and vital issues that people have been and will continue to be struggling with for a long time. His insights are really important to me as a young woman raising two children in an increasingly volatile world.''