Never Enough Shelves

The Left Hand of God

2011-06-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

Paul Hoffman
Penguin (penguin.com)
978-0-141-04237-4

There seems to be a bit of a fuss surrounding The Left Hand of God, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I bought it on a whim before I’d heard a whisper of the massive spend Penguin seem to have poured into the marketing, intrigued by the nihilistic back-cover blurb and a catchy opening line. The book was liberally drenched in glowing praise from capable authors, Conn Iggulden and Eoin Colfer among them, and numerous reputable papers also appeared to hold it in high esteem. But by the fiftieth page I’d already paused to look up the newspapers in question, to see if the publishers were perhaps taking review snippets out of context*; by the hundredth, I was beginning to doubt I was reading the same book as Iggulden and co.

So we’ve established that I think The Left Hand of God is bad. In an effort to retain the literary high ground, I should probably explain why.

Let’s start with the plot. Thomas Cale is a teenage orphan inhabitant of The Sanctuary, institutionally brutalised by the fanatical Redeemers who run the place in an effort to prepare them for service in the church’s armies. But Cale, being the protagonist of a fantasy novel which treats the genre clichés like some kind of tick-list, is special; possessed of a cold competence which sets him aside from his fellow children.

The novel dwells on the daily drudgery of life in the Sanctuary for a while, before Cale discovers one of his pious masters’ dirty little secrets and is forced to flee in the company of two almost-friends. If that seems to be a spoiler, you’ve never read a book before. But then The Left Hand of God in general seems to have a peculiar attitude towards suspense. It takes the entire novel to build up to a shocking revelation which will shock precisely no one who has noted the title and can put two and two together to get four, or even five. I wonder if perhaps Paul Hoffman is carrying out some cutting-edge literary experiment to prove the existence of anti-drama?

Along the way to this damp squib of a climax, Cale and co wander in the wilderness, outwit their pursuers through a variety of time-worn tactics (including, at one point, slipping out of a facility noted for its inescapability by donning hooded robes and joining the back of a long line of departing monks), discover the wonders of the big city and participate in a fiercely fought battle which bears an uncanny resemblance to Agincourt.

The entire setting of the novel, in fact, bears an air of the familiar. If some Dali-esque deity were to screw the fabric of our world into a ball and smear dark, unpleasant substances into the cloth, before cutting it into strips and sewing the thing back together at random, this is what he’d end up with. References to real-world places, peoples and names abound, each one of them seemingly perfectly pitched to shatter any sense of immersion the reader might have built up. Like an operatic high-C in a glassblower’s workshop, this haphazard recycling of reality is an utter disaster. Any hope of investing in the world Cale inhabits, in its authenticity and the causality of the events which occur within, simply fall apart every time you stumble over a posse of Norwegians, a St Stephen of Hungary, a city named Memphis or a leaden Biblical malapropism:
“That boy is a menace. He’s a jinx, like that fellow in the belly of the whale.”
“Jesus of Nazareth?”
“Yes, him.” (p.403)

What on earth is the rationale behind this? The only assumption I can make is that it’s either an attempt to indicate a far-future, lost-knowledge, back-to-the-dark-ages setting... or a massively backfiring attempt at a joke. Certainly if it’s the former, there’s nothing in the way of lost technology or buried history to back it up.

A stable of hard-ridden fantasy clichés and the ham-handed recycling of the world building aren’t the only places Hoffman’s originality seems to have failed him, but in the hands of a skilled stylist there’s no reason a decent story couldn’t have been constructed from these base materials. Alas! Alack! Hoffman’s prose is a wincingly awful combination of the bland, the bizarre and the childish. An urgent, engaging opening line (‘Listen. The Sanctuary of the Redeemers on Shotover Scarp is named after a damned lie, for there is no redemption that goes on there and less sanctuary.’ – p.1) gives way to a landscape of prosaic, flatly functional prose, in which abominations lie buried like anti-personnel mines. Behold:

Who could blame her if a quietly suppressed shudder did not make its way into the deepest recesses of her heart, there to be locked away. (p.409)

In the days after the terrible events of the Red Opera she had spent lascivious nights with Cale, passionately devouring every inch of him... (p.409)

...he lay wrapped in her elegant arms and endless legs... (p.411)

In addition to its occasional baffling turn of phrase, The Left Hand of God sustains a peculiarly immature attitude throughout, from the naming of such characters as Vague Henri, Kitty the Hare and IdrisPukke (who stands alone in his defiant rejection of normal word-spacing conventions) to a way in which the novel seems to stand arm-in-arm with its juvenile protagonists to point and laugh at an array of targets ranging from the childish (he’s got no trousers on, hur hur!) to the insensitive (fat girls, hur hur!) and on to the outright distasteful:
“They burnt him.”
“They burnt who?”
“Redeemer Navratil. They roasted him over a griddle for touching boys.”
“Sorry about that. He was decent enough, all said and done,” said Cale.
“As long as you kept your back to the wall,” said Kleist... “Poor old Redeemer Bumfeel.” (pp.394-5)

The immaturity of the style might be an outgrowth of the novel’s unwritten but obvious targeting at the YA market, but somebody should tell Paul Hoffman that writing for young adults doesn’t mean you have to write down to them.

It’s clear that The Left Hand of God is intended as the opening chapter in the latest ‘epic fantasy’ series, but the foreshadowing is clumsy and often bungled, leaving you with less a sense of anticipation than a feeling the author’s simply forgotten about that teasing treat dangled in front of you a few hundred pages back. This isn’t helped by the peculiarly unfocused narration, which often meanders away from its hero as if bored of talking about him, in order to delve into the backstory of some third-string supporting character whose fate is to die unpleasantly without affecting the flow of the narrative one jot.

I came to welcome these diversions, after a while. Each of these speedbumps Cale glides over on his passage through life was substantially more interesting than the hero himself, and made me wonder why Hoffman hadn’t put a similar sort of effort into the characters we spend most of our time with. Perhaps Cale’s blandness is an attempt to create a Twilight-esque void at the centre of the novel, into which the teenage reader can insert himself with the minimum of difficulty? Certainly Cale has little else to recommend him, practically embodying the done-to-death archetype of the surly, badass loner. There’s no genuine feeling in him, nothing which grows out of the character himself; even on those rare occasions when a glimpse of emotion shines through Cale’s unfeeling exterior (occasions which may as well come with a sign on which the cry ‘OH, I’M SO CONFLICTED!’ blazes in ten-foot letters of fire) it’s impossible to understand what internal process might have produced it. The plot merely required he become angry, or scared, or ‘in love’ - and so he did.

The result is a boy who seems sometimes to be gripped by a particularly convenient form of multiple-personality disorder, and whose attitude oscillates wildly between sociopathically aloof and staggeringly petulant:
“...Someone give me a sword.”
The guard commander signalled one of his men to hand over his weapon. “How about some trousers as well?” he added, to much amusement from the other soldiers.
“When I come back,” said Cale, “you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face.” (p.388)

It might be different if he showed any kind of character growth. But the Cale you meet at the beginning of the book is the same as he who departs at the end of it - only his situation has changed, and that but barely. In every story there’s the instigating character, the one whose actions propel the plot into motion. They tend to be fairly static in terms of character development, and the interest lies in watching the other characters scramble to deal with the consequences of their actions. Cale is one of them, and he makes a lousy protagonist because of it.

Perhaps the second book in the series will be more interesting? The Left Hand of God reads like a tiresomely extended prologue, and I wonder if the series would have lost anything important had it begun where this book ended. The novel recovers a little bit of form in the dying pages, which makes me think Hoffman began writing with the opening and the denouement firmly fixed in his mind, but little idea how to join the dots. As shamelessly baiting as the cliffhanger is, however, I won’t be sticking around to read the next instalment. A handful of decent paragraphs at either end of the novel simply cannot tip the scales against 480-odd pages so devoid of humour, style or imagination.

*The Telegraph’s ‘tremendous’ turned out to have been excerpted from ‘tremendous momentum’, and is preceded by a lament of the novel’s ‘workmanlike prose’. Take from that what you will.

Rivers of London

2011-05-09T14:24:00.000-07:00

Ben Aaronovitch
Orion Books (orionbooks.co.uk)
978-0-575-09756-8

From Harry Potter through the vampire-romancing heroines of Twilight, Anita Blake and Sookie Stackhouse and on to the eponymous wizard PI of Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files, novels (and films, and TV) blending the mundane world with the supernatural seem to have flooded the market since the turn of the century.

Rivers of London is the latest addition to an overcrowded genre, but well-written enough to rise a little above the crowd. It pays to tweak the usual formula and build yourself a niche, if you’re looking to differentiate yourself from the competition, and author Ben Aaronovitch fulfils that obligation by making his hero not an outcast orphan or private detective but British (gasp!) – and a probationary constable in the Metropolitan Police Service.

It’s a pleasant change to see a protagonist not just uninterested in rebelling against the system but in fact firmly embedded in it, and Aaronovitch handles the procedural aspects of everyday coppering convincingly. Rivers of London’s Met is a living, breathing police force, riddled with bureaucracy but populated by smart, competent officers, albeit human ones who still occasionally give into the temptation to go get a kebab.

It helps that Peter Grant, apprentice wizard to Chief Inspector Nightingale, similarly defies the cliché. If not exactly enthusiastic, he’s hardly an unwilling recruit to the cause of policing London’s supernatural denizens – anything’s better than ending up in the paper-pushing Case Progression Unit. He’s a fairly fresh and well-rounded character, too: engaged with the world around him, rather than single-minded in his pursuit of evildoers; carrying the weight of a troubled past without any of the usual melodrama that usually accompanies such; occasionally blokey in his distractions, with a special mention going to the charms of WPC Lesley May; and topping it all off with a nice line in deadpan delivery.

“Are you telling me ghosts are real?”
Nightingale carefully wiped his lips with a napkin.
“You’ve spoken to one,” he said. “What do you think?”
“I’m awaiting confirmation from a senior officer,” I said.
(p.33)

Rivers of London has a gentle wit which makes it a pleasure to read, and it’s at its strongest when Grant is bantering with fellow officers or trying to game the Met’s unwieldy system for the necessary results. Where it falls down, or at least stumbles drunkenly, is in its handling of the supernatural. The magic in which Nightingale begins to school our hero is bland and uninspired, veering a little too close to the pig-Latin spellcasting of Harry Potter and lacking either the grounded intricacies of low fantasy or the otherworldly wonder of the higher sort. Instead it floats somewhere in the middle, doing little to hook the reader’s interest.

The various supernaturals inhabiting London fare little better. While it’s a nice touch to lay the emphasis on the old gods of Britain and how they’ve adapted to modern life, rather than the usual modern fantasy trifecta of vampires, werewolves and ghosts, the spirits personifying the eponymous rivers of London lack the requisite sense of otherworldliness. You could argue their scrutability makes sense, given that most were human at some point in their existence, but for the gods of the Thames to walk and talk – and behave, for the most part – like any other Londoner denudes them of any real mystique. Aaronovitch again deserves credit for avoiding cliché in the person of both the Old Man of the River and Mother Thames, but it’s not enough to make up for their disappointing mundanity of character.

Grant’s scientific approach to the supernatural is more engaging, as his desire to understand how it all works causes headaches for the more laissez faire Nightingale. It’s absorbing – and not a little amusing – to watch as an enquiring mind tries to apply the scientific method (Observation, hypothesis, experiment and something else I could look up when I got back to my laptop – pp.35-36) to something as traditionally unquantifiable as magic. Yet one of the more intriguing hints at the history of Rivers of London tells us Isaac Newton was originally responsible for codifying magic’s basic principles, presumably in between defining gravity and keeping England’s economy afloat. Nightingale’s dismissal of scientific curiosity seems particularly jarring, then, given the propensities of his order’s founding father, but the contrast between the chief inspector’s ludditism and Grant’s technical savvy does provide regular comic touches as the novel proceeds.

Unfortunately it proceeds in the best traditions of the Old Bill: flat-footed. The narrative lurches unevenly from the urgent pursuit of the supernatural threat menacing London to Grant’s training instruction – less of a brutal drop into the deep end than a rather leisurely settling-in – and away again to negotiate peace between the feuding Rivers. The utter lack of any tension as Grant learns to work magic and moves into the Folly, the headquarters of the old order of magicians Newton founded and of which Nightingale is the last surviving member, is fatal to the maintaining of urgency or suspense. He even has time to install a plasma TV in the garage and have a few mates around to watch the footy.

That Grant has so much free time is partially the fault of the novel’s main storyline. While the pursuit of a spirit of violence which gets its kicks forcing Londoners into brutal conflict is interesting enough and solidly plotted, it involves a lot of waiting around for the villain to strike again; that might be an accurate reflection of real policework’s lack of glamour, but from a narrative perspective there ought to be something to fill the gaps and keep the magpie of audience attention from flitting off after the next shiny new trinket. Grant’s insipid training montage just doesn’t cut it, and though the river-wrangling subplot is more diverting it has problems of its own. Grant’s relationship with two of Mama Thames’ daughters – one of whom fills the essential love-interest–shaped hole, while another’s attitude towards him could be best described as arbitrarily antagonistic – is straight out of the textbook. And textbooks aren’t noted for their entertainment value.

Perhaps a firmer hand on the editorial scalpel could have cut some of the flab away and left Rivers of London both leaner and meaner, but for whatever reason the novel hasn’t had that blessing. Editorial quality is a little low throughout, in fact. Minor errors, such as Grant referring to Nightingale’s magical ball of light as a ‘werelight’ a page before he’s given the technical term (pp.92-3), seem to have slipped through the drafting process: unnecessary speed bumps which test the suspension of disbelief.

For all my quibbling, Rivers of London is far from a bad novel. It’s got a decent premise and a well-assembled protagonist, and Aaronovitch is a solid if unexceptional stylist. If he can learn to balance the demands of pace and plot, he could be onto a winner.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Zoo City

2011-04-09T14:00:00.000-07:00

Lauren Beukes
Angry Robot (angryrobotbooks.com)
978-0-85766-054-1

I misjudged Zoo City on first reading. It may have been my own high expectations, after the stripped-down clarity of Moxyland, Lauren Beukes’ debut novel. Or perhaps it was the glib ease with which Zoo City’s pop culture references flow off the page? It seemed to come a little too smoothly, a little too freely, as if hoping to dazzle you with a fast-paced plot and the trappings of urban grit; like a middle-class gangster wannabe flashing gang signs learned off TV.

But beneath the polished darkness of the novel’s surface, in the murky current of the undertow, there’s a depth which might catch you by surprise. It took me a second reading – maybe it’ll grab you first time. Watch your step.

The plot is a familiar one to anybody who’s ever read Chandler or seen Humphrey Bogart strut his stuff on the black and white. A private detective of sorts, Zinzi December, who specialises in finding lost things, takes what begins as a simple job but finds herself floundering rapidly out of her depth as the twists unfurl and the body count rises. It’s been done before, of course, but noir’s never about the story so much as the style. The plot need only get you from A to B as convolutedly as possible; along the way it serves as canvas for rich flourishes of setting and dialogue, and as a framework from which interesting characters can hang themselves.

The setting for Zoo City is an alt-Johannesburg which Beukes, a native, builds with all the power of the familiar and with lashings of style t’boot. It’s a city filled with dirt and life and culture of all kinds, of all levels, and the reader is quickly up to their eyeballs in Africana. The local slang seems to draw heavily on native languages, while much of the plot revolves around the South African music scene and provides a secondary bombardment of peculiar band names, technical jargon and industry cant. The richness of the language approaches Clockwork Orange levels at times, and while the inattentive reader might find such an assault of unfamiliar words somewhat off-putting, it’s an effective method of immersion in an alien culture.

And Zoo City’s Jo’burg is an alien culture, there can be no doubt about that. For a reader unfamiliar with South Africa, it always wears a cloak of menace; for a local, I can only imagine the combination of the familiar and the outright eerie makes for an uncanny, unsettling read. Because the novel isn’t just a hard-boiled noir – it’s an urban fantasy, albeit one far removed from the overtly fantastical end of the spectrum. Zoo City approaches its magic with a skeptic’s inherent distrust, exemplified in the director of a rehab clinic as she answers Zinzi’s questions about her methods:

“I like good old-fashioned medicine. Methadone is a very good thing. Although a lot of medication is based on herbal remedies. And you shouldn’t discount the placebo effect.”
“Magic?”
“There haven’t been enough studies to ease my mind about the efficacy.”
(pp.177-8)

While Beukes’ magic is for the most part unobtrusive, its implications stretch into every corner of society. It’s always in the background, in casual asides and happenings which wrongfoot you, remind you this isn’t your world. Reinforcing this, Zoo City is littered with Watchmen-like supporting texts which provide intriguing snapshots of the world outside Johannesburg. Newspaper clippings, prisoner interviews, the abstract from a psychology paper and a movie summary from an imdb.com-esque website – including a handful of comments complete with all the off-topic rants and porn spamming you’d expect to find on the real thing – all add depth to the world Beukes is building here. These interludes allow the reader’s imagination to explore beyond the mean streets Zinzi December walks, and many of those texts pull double duty, laying out with exemplary lightness of touch the ways in which magic has changed the world.

The central conceit, that Zinzi and other criminals receive – from some dark and terrifying place – an animal companion akin to the daemons of Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, is thoroughly explored in sociological terms. Nobody in the novel seems to dare speak the word ‘apartheid’, but the shadow of South Africa’s not-too-distant history hangs heavy over Zoo City. The animalled bear an indelible mark of pariah-hood which sees them reduced to second-class citizens – the buildings they live in are condemned and disintegrating, the neighbourhoods they inhabit are abandoned by the authorities, and persecution by mainstream ‘civilised’ society is widespread:

“Where are you?”
“Downstairs. Can I come up?”
“No. Wait. I’ll come down. Meet me at Reputation. It’s the hotel bar across the road.”
“I think they have a policy,” I say, leaving it hanging.
“Oh. Oh right,” he says.
(p.127)

In the novel’s lighter moments Beukes has fun with the counter-culture implications of this prejudice, as teenage outcasts express their unthinking rebellion through reactionary solidarity with the animalled, while rappers desperate to appear ‘street’ pose with snarling beasts in their music videos. For the most part, though, Zoo City paints its animalled as a despised underclass struggling just to get from day to day. While apartheid is the obvious parallel given the setting, Johannesburg’s zoo-infested neighbourhoods – all but unpoliced and abandoned by society – bear striking similarities with the drug-ravaged inner-city ghettoes of The Wire. This is a culture which has written an entire swath of its population off as a bad job.

Just as the National Party didn’t exactly have a worldwide monopoly on institutionalised racism, however, Beukes’ South Africa is hardly alone in mistreating its zoos. One of the more chilling inserted texts includes an interview with a fourteen-year-old in a Pakistani prison, where the animals are bundled together to fight and die, drawing down the rolling shadows of ‘the Undertow‘ to claim their partnered humans. The animalled live with that shadow hanging over their existence like the Sword of Daedelus, and it drains their existence of hope:

“A good cop doesn’t need to shoot to kill.”
“Is that what you are? A good cop?”
She spread her hands. “You see a furry companion at my side?”
“Maybe your conscience is on the fritz. There have been studies: sociopaths, psychopaths-“
“The difference between you and me?” she interrupts… “The Undertow isn’t coming for me.”
(p.33)

The treatment of the animalled is one of the more fascinating aspects of Zoo City, and provides the driving force for much of its action. You could argue that society’s response to the zoos isn’t a baseless prejudice; having an animal isn’t a neutral quality like the colour of your skin, after all, but a permanent, inescapable mark of guilt. Yet the way the animalled are ostracised rejects any notion of rehabilitation or redemption, of second chances. Zinzi refers to her pre-sloth existence as ‘FL’ – Former Life – and when she toys with the idea of returning to journalism, it is with the daydream optimism of a child announcing their attention to become an astronaut.

Zoo City isn’t perfect; it’s a little too fond of the pop culture reference, and though the style of the writing is a suitable blend of wit and grit its relentless hipness begins to grate after a while. The twisty plot is for the most part solid, but there’s a little flab around the middle which could have benefited from a firmer editorial hand. Zinzi seems to lose her way, running out of threads to follow and leading the reader aimlessly around the neighbourhoods and nightspots like some kind of seedy tourist guide, while the novel’s pace flags accordingly.

It’s not long, though, before Zinzi remembers she’s a noir protagonist and develops an almost supernatural intuition, linking A to B on the most tenuous of connections – as if she’d managed to sneak a look at the author’s notes. In fact it’s Beukes’ deft foreshadowing which leads her protagonist on; hindsight reveals just how many pieces of the puzzle are subtly buried in the stream of narrative, and there’s no doubt it’s cleverly done. But it’s a technique which punishes any lapse of attention in the reader, and could leave them floundering in the story’s wake as it accelerates into the climax as if making up for its earlier lapse.

While it has its flaws, Zoo City is a stylishly told noir in a bleak, intriguing universe which casts a dark reflection of our own. At its best moments it leaves you unsure whether that darkness is a property of the mirror itself, or of the subject standing before it.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com. It was also written before Zoo City won this year's Arthur C Clarke Award.

Crossing Midnight v1 – Cut Here

2010-12-14T18:20:00.000-08:00

Mike Carey, Jim Fern, Mark Pennington
Vertigo (vertigocomics.com)
978-1-4012-1341-1

Crossing Midnight is built from the folk tales of a culture not often explored in Western literature – the old Shinto belief system of Japan. While Japanese culture is hardly ignored by the West, particularly in the anime-loving fringes of geekdom, it’s rare to see a work of fiction by a western author attempting to explore Japan on its own merits rather than re-casting the narrative in a more western-friendly context.

Cut Here, the first of three volumes, begins elegantly. We open on its young heroes – Toshi and Kai Hara, twin brother and sister – as they await the coming of some sinister figure. Then we rewind to 1945, and the bomb which fell on Nagasaki; leap forward, to the twins’ bomb-scarred grandmother and her insistence that her son pray to the Kami for a healthy birth.

From the birth onwards the narrative progresses in a more linear fashion, but such chronological hopscotch in the first four pages of the comic rattles you, puts you on the defensive from the off. Even without the twins’ dread, you can’t help but feel there’s something out of sorts here. It’s a clever piece of writing, planting the seeds of unease without giving the reader a focus on which to project their fears – there’s only ‘him’, who is coming for Toshi. It’s clever writing, foregrounding the theme of cause and consequence which winds through Crossing Midnight; it’s also storytelling which leans heavily on the strength of the art.

Thankfully that aspect of the novel is more than adequate – the imagery is rich and distinct, painting the city in monochrome cloud and overlaying the dark, organic shape of the mushroom cloud with the unnatural lines and bright colours of the Kami’s shrine. Elsewhere in the volume, the lamp-cast shadow of a hand stretches up and curls over into the threatening form of a dragon. Such effects are beautifully scripted, and the bold colouring gives the shadows an inky menace.

The art also provides an effective sense of time and place. Flashbacks to feudal Japan and the origins of the Hara family are stylised and sketchy, perfectly accompanying the imprecision of the oral tradition through which they’re related. There’s innovation, too – watch as a dreamer in hospital is threatened by demons, which break the fourth wall to rip and crumple the comic’s framing of those idyllic dreamscapes.

If the art of Cut Here is excellent, the writing comes close to matching it. The relatively untapped well of Japanese mythology gives the story an imaginative freshness, while the narrative itself it constructed with meticulous care. All this is raised higher by a supporting cast of top-rate characters, given a depth of personality which both makes them memorable and adds to the richness of the setting. Take, for example, the blind, wizened leader of the gangsters which threaten Toshi and his father towards the end of the book; he is accompanied by the human equivalent of a seeing-eye dog, who answers his master’s cries of ‘Nicholas, describe’ with blandly-delivered commentary which nonetheless seems obscene in its penetrative clarity. Then consider the moment when Nicholas’ voice fails him, a silence which presents the reader with an unexpected flash of humanity: the sense that this, too, is a man, with all the complexity such a label brings. Cut Here seems to delight in such complexity, in the murky greys which lie between clear-cut good and evil.

If the book has a flaw, it is that there seems little effort to craft a story which stands along in its own right. While a final narration pays lip service to the idea of closure, there’s no attempt to disguise the fact that this is merely the first act of a larger story. As such, even as the dazed narrator struggles to comprehend what’s occurred over the course of the preceding pages, his fevered dreams present the reader with tantalising images of what is yet to come. And yet, for all that the narrative is only just beginning to kick into gear, there seems a certain thematic completeness to Cut Here. As the book ends Toshi and Kai are casting off the mundane world of the everyday, stepping out into an uncertain world their parents can do – and have done – little to prepare them for. As they leave their parents behind, it’s hard not to see the twins’ embrace of the supernatural world as some kind of metaphor for growing up. Whether that’s a reading which will stand up once the story has run its course remains to be seen, but either way Cut Here is a fresh and powerful opening – one which makes me eager to return to Crossing Midnight.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Fuller Memorandum

2010-08-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

Charles Stross
Orbit (orbitbooks.net)
978-1-84149-770-9

In an alternative reality where fantasy and SF fiction were a little more mainstream, it’s not hard to imagine Charles Stross’ latest offering piled up on the tables of an airport WH Smith. The Fuller Memorandum is the sort of title you’d expect to find on a Frederick Forsyth novel, and the novel shares much of the fast-paced action and meticulous plotting common to the thrillers of Forsyth, Robert Ludlum and Len Deighton.

We’ve met the novel’s hero, Bob ‘this is not my real name’ Howard, before – in The Atrocity Archives and The Jennifer Morgue, which adhere to the spirit if not the letter of spy thriller naming conventions. And the same attitude persists throughout; despite having been cross-bred with H P Lovecraft, these novels are spy thrillers through and through. The set dressing may land them firmly in cthulhoid horror territory, but the meat of the plot and the stylistic flourishes which characterise said plot are those of a spy thriller doing its level best to keep a fantastical story from floating away. As such the Laundry, that branch of the British intelligence services which concerns itself with occult threats (and employs our Bob), is riddled not only with sorcerers and the sort of artefacts which turn strong minds to fromage frais, but also with the daily hazards more familiar to white-collar workers or civil servants: the looming threat of internal auditors; oversight by Dilbertian middle management; and the ever-watchful eye of Human Resources.

The Fuller Memorandum’s blend of everyday and eldritch horrors works, for the most part: by keeping its feet firmly grounded, the novel builds an effective contrast which highlights the otherworldly nature of its action and keeps it feeling, well, otherworldly. Walking the tightrope of the uncanny is no easy feat, though, and Stross slips from time to time.

Ostensibly written as Bob’s memoirs, The Fuller Memorandum is first-person and bears its narrator’s trademark wisecrackery on every page. The pleasure Stross takes in scribing Whedonesque witticisms is obvious, and he does it well – but horror is a fragile thing, and comes out a firm second in this clash of tones. Even though it’s clear Bob’s inability to let an opportunity pass un–joked-upon is a defence mechanism against a world which terrifies him, the novel never quite recovers from the damage done by its uneven tone. Which is unfortunate, because where The Fuller Memorandum holds to its convictions it paints a picture which is frighteningly bleak; where its happily-married heroes refuse to bring children into a world with no future but that of the book of Revelations. In Bob’s own words:
I wish I was still an atheist. Believing I was born into a harsh, uncaring cosmos – in which my existence was a random roll of the dice and I was destined to die and rot and then be gone forever – was infinitely more comforting than the truth.
Because the truth is that my God is coming back.
When he arrives I’ll be waiting for him with a shotgun.
And I’m keeping the last shell for myself. (p.2)
Contrasted with the naming of a shiny new Apple phone as ‘the NecronomiPod’, or reference to Lovecraft as a ‘giant mutant gossip squid’, it’s easy to see the warring sides to The Fuller Memorandum at work. And you can’t really have it both ways.

Where Stross more successfully blends his genres is in the novel’s innovative take on magic. Taking literally Arthur C Clarke’s comment that ‘any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’, The Fuller Memorandum binds the two together quite explicitly. If a spell – shorn of all its ritual paraphernalia – is an applied mathematical function designed to breach the walls between this realm and the odd, non-euclidean dimensions where other things lie sleeping, well, then, consider the fact that computers are very good at number-crunching. Most of the Laundry’s operatives are computer science graduates, snapped up by the department before they accidentally open a gateway to the nether hells during an attempt to recreate Pac-Man in ActionScript 3. Stross’ own background in computer science stands him in good stead, here – the details of Bob’s computational demonology have the ring of authenticity, and the rapid-fire deployment of arcane and technological jargon builds a healthy sense of urgency. Bob’s narration gives the impression of a man trying to convince himself, as much as his reader, that whatever hastily calculated sorcery he’s just knocked up on his smartphone really will keep life, limb and sanity intact. And there’s some great juxtapositional humour, as the sort of minor technological and bureaucratic annoyances we deal with every day in our wired world have repercussions far beyond the everyday: here’s Bob roundly cursing the iPhone’s battery life as it dies halfway through a protective invocation; there’s the departmental auditors scrupulously tracking paper-clip useage because the things tend to pick up a sympathetic resonance of the classified documents they hold together.

Characterisation is strong, too; Bob’s everyman desperation makes him a richly sympathetic protagonist, and his wife Mo is a capable foil. (More than capable, in fact; one of the more memorable images of The Fuller Memorandum is of Mo relating the traumatising details of an earlier mission where she quite literally wades into the mouth of hell). She also plays the spy better than Bob, whose internal monologue reveals him to be more Clouseau than le Carre. Bob’s boss Angleton, on the other hand, could have stepped straight out of Smiley’s People – he’s a spy of the (very) old school, where backroom deals in gentlemen’s clubs were the order of the day. And the shady Russian , Panin, who seems to be playing a game all of his own as the Laundry struggle with cultists and conspiracies, is of a similarly traditional ilk. Stock thriller characters they may appear, but there’s an economically sketched humanity to each which gives them room to evolve beyond the stereotype.

While the mix of horror, humour and intrigue might not succeed on all levels, then, there’s a generous enough helping of the latter two ingredients that the weakness of the horror doesn’t cripple The Fuller Memorandum. Stross has scribed an effective, page-turning thriller, with enough wit to elevate it above the usual airport fare. The well-realised setting and depth of characterisation are only gilding the Lovecraftian lily.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Sixty-One Nails

2010-07-13T12:03:00.000-07:00

Mike Shevdon
Angry Robot (Angryrobotbooks.com)
978-0-007333-99-8

However you spell them, there are essentially two types of fairy. There are the fey, the fair folk, the seelie or sidhe: unpredictable, alien things from the nastier side of mythology, counting goblins and malevolent tricksters among their number. Then there are the fairy fairies: creatures with butterfly wings and names likes Peaseblossom (I'm looking at you, Bill Shakespeare), flighty and sweet-natured and with the edge taken off their whimsy. If their games cause problems for humankind, it's usually through no real ill-will but simply down to misunderstanding.

Sixty-One Nails so desperately wants its 'feyre' to belong to the former category, but the novel just doesn't have the stomach for it. To start, it persists in referring to its inhabitants by that absurd mangling of a word for which there are already a dozen more legitimate derivations, an idiot neologism I can't help but think of as being pronounced 'fair'. Far more importantly than my phonetic pedantry, Shevdon's fairies simply lack any real sense of menace, of alien other-hood; they're humans dressed up in funny costumes, and their customs and culture are a predictably derivative mix of stock mythological and tribal ingredients.

Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, which is mentioned no fewer than three times on the cover of Sixty-One Nails and which this novel apes with an unwholesome desperation, builds a surreal and symbolically rich otherworld beneath London, pieced together from the scraps and discarded metaphors of the society it hides behind. Sixty-One Nails, on the other hand, seems on occasion to forget which city it's based in; this could be New York, or Paris, or any other major western metropolis, for all the attention which is paid to evoking an authentic sense of place. Shevdon has done his research when it comes to the novel's interpretation of history, and the logic behind the titular ritual binding human and 'feyre' worlds together is cleverly constructed, but much of the time it seems like the London within these pages could actually be a small rural settlement or commuter town rather than a bustling capital teeming with countless millions of souls (and at least twice that many actual people, to plagiarise Terry Pratchett). The characters drift from scene to scene and location to location with no real sense of the intervening space, or the practicalities of city life. At one point the hero escapes from police pursuit -- including helicopter, no less -- by getting a taxi to Heathrow. His journey is smooth, unbarred by traffic, and the police are swiftly left far behind.

If this is London, I wish I lived there.

The problem, I think, is that Shevdon tries too hard to emphasise the other-ness of the new world his hero Niall has fallen into. Police, taxis, and the ticket barriers on the tube are all hazards of the real world, the real London; Niall is of the (through gritted teeth) 'feyre' now, and such mundane concerns are no longer really his concern. What Shevdon seems to have overlooked is that by consigning the banality of the everyday to the novel's outskirts, he hasn't strengthened the mystical setting he's trying to evoke but has rather reduced it. Magic seems all the more magical in a world of inconvenient traffic jams and stubborn security guards; being able to hand-wave your way past all worldly barriers somehow cheapens the experience.

I suppose having rambled and ranted for four paragraphs already, it'd be good form to provide some kind of plot synopsis so you can get some sense of the narrative geography I'm complaining about. Niall Petersen is a middle-aged businessman, divorced, one child, hurrying to navigate the labyrinth of the London tube in order to get to work, when he unfortunately catches a heart attack and dies. When he wakes up, and wake he must or this would be a very short novel and an even shorter review, a funny old woman is kneeling over him and tells him he has finally come into his birthright -- he is of the 'feyre' (sigh), six Courts of halfbreed fairies who live in the hidden spaces of London and fear the return of the 'Untainted' Seventh Court, who refused to dilute their purity with the blood of humanity and were sealed away from the world to keep them from devouring it in a fir of pique and racial bigotry. Occasionally one of the Untainted slips through the barrier, and attempts to possess a living body in order to hunt down its impure cousins. That wasn't just a heart attack, Niall's saviour tells him, and it has the scent of him now...

Of course there's more at stake than Niall's mere survival, and of course he'll become embroiled in a desperate race to keep the barrier from falling and the world from being eaten by hungry fairies, and of course Niall will discover his nifty magical powers during the course of his quest. Not just regular magic, either; apparently finding out you're one of the fair folk isn't fantastical enough, and Niall's bloodline is unique this side of the barrier, giving him powers no other 'feyre' possesses. This is verging uncomfortably close to the sort of authorial-insertion wish fulfillment which gives fantasy fiction a bad name -- all there need be now is a gratuitous sex scene with an impossibly attractive fairy woman who seems implausibly attracted to a man who seems to possess all the wit and personality of a baked potato...

Blackbird, the shape-changing, not-necessarily-as-old-as-she-looks lady who rescued Niall from possession, is about as close as Sixty-One Nails comes to effective characterisation. While she does bear the brunt of providing most of the expository dialogue to her hapless companion, and her motivation for continuing to accompany him can be most readily summed up as 'it says so in the script', she nonetheless manages on occasion to overcome these weighty impediments and show a glimpse of personality. On those rare occasions she isn't fulfilling vital narrative duties, a flash of something surprisingly complex shows through. It's just a shame Shevdon didn't let her follow these flashes of individuality through to their logical conclusion, but instead rides iron-shod over the top of them whenever he needs the plot to move along a little bit.
Aside from Blackbird, it's all but deserted on planet personality. Niall himself is a blank slate, all the better for readers to self-insert atop; he shows a streak of gutlessness near the beginning of the novel which is almost admirable in a protagonist, but before too long he's blasting monsters with gay abandon (and gallowfyre, apparently). As for the supporting characters, they're far between and few in number, with a tendency to have their narrative function branded on their forehead in fox-fire neon. The female villain has a pantomime malevolence to her, as if compensating for the lack of a mustache to twirl, while her brother is all Victorian formality and about as threatening as an embroidered pocket-square.

It's mostly down to him that the novel's climatic face-off is so appallingly free of any kind of suspense. As when watching a James Bond film, it's a safe assumption when reading this kind of book that the protagonist can overcome any challenge where he isn't actively opposed by the primary villain; with that trope in mind, a formal trial by water where all other parties are honour-bound not to interfere (and, critically, are the sort which keep their word) is as close to a foregone conclusion as it's possible to get.

More emotionally engaging than the novel's main narrative is its romantic sub-plot, if only due to the aforementioned ease of self-insertion in place of Captain Cardboard and the relative attractiveness of the only character in the book with more than a single dimension. Which is where Sixty-One Nails' rather uncomfortable sexual politics kicks in. Blackbird's overwhelming dominance in the relationship might seem a victory for feminism, in a genre with a reputation for sexual inequality which was earned in post-war pulp and unfairly maintained despite the last twenty years'-worth of feminist and post-feminist writers strewing their fantasy with strong female characters. But the 'feyre' are dying out, their numbers dwindling. A child is a rare thing, and Niall? He has a daughter by his ex-wife, thereby proving himself fertile. Suddenly Blackbird's attraction to the lumpen fool starts to make makes an unpleasant kind of sense, given that she's several hundred years old and has never had a child of her own. In the morning after there's a long and painfully conservative conversation about the possibility that Blackbird is now pregnant, and what do you know...?

What I know is that the pregnancy -- all 24 hours of it -- is enough to render Blackbird weak and ineffectual as it saps her magic powers. This assertion of inherent female weakness, and of the concept that the primary drive of even the strongest woman is procreation, sits uneasily on the page. Perhaps I'm judging Sixty-One Nails unfairly -- despite her incapacity Blackbird does find the strength to strike out at a key moment, again saving Niall's life -- but it's a reading reinforced by the presentation of the female villain as yet another unstable, unreliable madwoman who ought to be kept in the attic. And in the aftermath of the novel's climax, the villain's brother -- the Victorian gentleman with the overdeveloped sense of propriety -- resembles no one so much as Jane Eyre's Richard Mason.

Even leaving the possibility of sexual conservatism aside, Sixty-One Nails has the usual problems you might expect from a debut novel. Its pacing is glacial, and it struggles to maintain any real sense of urgency or menace even in those scenes you might expect to be urgent slash menacing. A firmer hand on the editorial rudder could have trimmed some of the fat from a novel spilling over its five-hundred page waistband; there are scenes which seem to serve no purpose besides letting you know time has passed, which could have easily have been summed up by a single line of summary prose. 'Show don't tell' might be the party line first-time novelists do their best to toe, but as with all things it's a case of exercising moderation. Judicial summary has its place, and its place is vacant in Sixty-One Nails.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Angelglass

2010-06-01T15:14:00.000-07:00

David Barnett
Immanion Press (www.immanion-press .com)
978-1-904853-49-7

Eastern Europe seems to be a popular destination for awakening amnesiacs, these days. I’ve complained about novelists’ fondness for mindwiped protagonists fairly recently on this site, so I won’t do it again – other than to express a hope that I’ve filled my tabula rasa quotient for the coming decade.

This time, in this novel, our nameless hero wakes up in modern-day Prague – nice place to find yourself, not that he’d know – and falls in with a close-knit gang of environmentally active ex-pats. Then he wakes up again – or someone very much like him does – in a medieval Prague ruled over by the eccentric Rudolph II, head of the Holy Roman Empire and enthusiast of the scientific and supernatural arts. In the silver city where angels drift, meanwhile, one of their number is dabbling in affairs denied to him by heavenly law…

In both past and present Prague, David Barnett’s hero falls swiftly and with improbably good fortune under the protective wing of benevolent strangers. This might seem clumsy contrivance on the author’s part, taken at face value, but the mirroring of one time with another makes it quickly apparent that there’s something out of the ordinary at work here. He’s christened Poutnik by new-found friends in both times: wanderer, it means, or pilgrim. And there is something of Bunyan’s Pilgrim about this foundling, an innocence to his passage through the world. In medieval and modern times he finds himself caught up in events of great significance, accompanying eco-warrior flatmates as they make plans to protest a huge oil symposium, and adopted by mad Rudolph as an augur of truth while vested interests in the royal court push and pull the emperor in all directions.

Yet for all the turbulence around him, Poutnik seems to remain undisturbed. Such a passive protagonist – always watching, rarely speaking except when spoken to – is a substantial hurdle to reader engagement. There’s nothing in there to sympathise with, no real thoughts and feelings beyond those reflected in his polished surface – emotions drawn from his surroundings, not from any core of being. And that, again, is clearly a conscious choice on Barnett’s part, as it can be no accident Rudolph names his new pet the ‘Mirror of Prague’.

Instead Barnett’s supporting characters are made to do all the heavy lifting, driving the plot along and pulling the observers – Poutnik and reader both – along in their wake. This is effective in the modern world, where the inhabitants of the ‘Prague House’ are deftly painted with an economy of stroke which balances pace and personality. In Rudolph’s capital, meanwhile, the characterisation is more hurried and less plausible, as factions and their pawns scuttle on and off the stage with much fanfare and little overall effect. The result is a sense of watching a period performance, rather than some living, breathing world; scratch the surface, the reader feels, and you’ll find canvas and papier mache underneath.

The one area in which the old-world Prague breaks this tendency towards the superficial is in Barnett’s description of the Jewish ghetto. There’s a sense of appalling squalor and pointless persecution to the circumstances of Angelglass’ Jews, which goes no small way towards a realist depiction of the anti-semitism so prevalent in historic Europe and provides some of the novel’s most emotionally powerful scenes. Indeed, the tribalism and endemic racism of the period are likewise effectively conveyed, and Barnett does well to avoid painting a sanitised or romantic version of European culture.

This realism is undermined, however, by the appearance of real magic; near-indestructible mercenaries and Rabbi Loeb’s Golem rise to threaten both the city itself and the internal logic of the book in which it rests. If this is a world where magic exists – or existed, in the past – so overtly, why is nobody in Barnett’s present-day Prague aware of it? To point to legend as an adequate alibi for such explicit supernatural events seems to give little credit to humanity’s tendency towards relentless dissection of its own history.

In the modern world, the housemates are instead more preoccupied with their forthcoming protests and the secrets among their fellow environmentalists. Some are more fanatical than others, and two absent figures cast long shadows over the Prague House – local ringleader John, and legendary super-activist Deva. Barnett builds an effective sense of dread as the oil symposium draws ever closer, and his characters swap stories of both men which only add to the reader’s certainty that whatever happens, this is not going to end well…

When the climax comes, though, it’s a rushed affair which manages to dispel all that carefully hoarded suspense with the clumsy equivalent of a Poirot parlour scene or James Bond villainous monologue. Everyone stands around listening to the one with the gun (or historical equivalent) talk at endless length; accusations and insults are traded; there’s some quick double- and triple-crossing; violence inevitably ensues. Through this all Poutnik effectively sits quiet and ineffective, ever the observer – although in historic Prague he at least gives the impression of giving a damn. As the cutting between the two time periods becomes quicker and more abrupt – a narrative device for building energy which is rather clumsily employed here – the impression you get most is that Barnett was coming up too fast on some self-imposed page limit and decided to cut the novel short in the most expedient manner possible.

The novel’s dénouement goes some way to explaining – or at least attempting to justify – this sudden explosion of incident, but to the reader it feels like too little too late. These closing revelations could possibly be enough for some, casting all that well-laid foreshadowing in a different light as what appeared to be one thing is revealed as something else – but I at least found myself thinking ‘That’s the big surprise? Seriously?’
In the end, Angelglass is a moderately well-handled display of sound and fury, but when the lights come up they reveal only a hollow, posturing shell where the story should be. There’s no doubt David Barnett’s got some talent as a stylist, but next time he might want to spend a little more effort on the plot.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Company

2010-05-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

K. J. Parker
Orbit (www.orbitbooks.net)
978-1-84149-510-1

The inside of K. J. Parker’s head must be a lovely place, filled with sweetness, warmth and fuzzy bunnies. I assume as such, because it seems that any bad thought which might arise there is swiftly plucked out and pinned to the page, where it lays down dark and wizened roots which suck all the goodness out of its surroundings. So it is we’ve been presented with such bleak horrors as a man who constructs a bow from the bones and tendons of his nephew, a wanderer who brings plague following in his wake, and an engineer who designs a war to depopulate entire continents for the sole purpose of being reunited with his wife and child.

So when I say that The Company is Parker’s bleakest and most horrific work yet, you know I’m not messing about. It may also be her greatest, but there’s no doubt at all that it’s her most inaccessible. Part of what sets it apart is that for the first time Parker’s focus is not solely on a single character, but on the five surviving men of A company, living legends who survived not only because of their lethal competence but because, it sometimes seems, they simply don’t know how to die.

But they don’t know how to live, either; the back-cover subtitle of The Company reads ‘the war is never over’, and for these men there is no greater truth. Their attitude pervades the entire book, as every encounter, every scene is couched in military terminology and the metaphors of the battlefield - no matter how ill-fitting, or inappropriate, or banal.
‘After the visitor had left, she asked him, “Who was that?”
Inevitably. He marshalled his face and mustered his words. “Old army friend of mine,” he said, picking up an empty cup and taking it over to the washstand. It was a valiant effort but tactically unsound; he never washed up dirty crockery.’ (p.13)
Parker’s great strength as a writer has always been the way in which she layers metaphor over her plots, blending form and function with a singularity of purpose which makes her novels almost transcendental, and again she shows herself a master of the unorthodox point of view. Yet in The Company the multiplicity of protagonists blur and blend into one in a way which reduces them to components of the greater whole, curiously interchangeable. Is it Aidi or Alces who ran a fencing school after the war, Muri or Kudei who ended up working in the tannery among the filth and stench? Is that the point – that these men whose only achievement is destruction are somehow one? That all they are is weapons, stamped out on the production line? Only Kunessin, who first proposes that the group abandon their hollow post-war existences and colonise an uninhabited island somewhere off the coast, truly stands out to any extent – and that only because we are invited early on to share his secrets, to become complicit in the systematic betrayal of his fellow veterans.

Normally such blurred characterisation would make it difficult to identify with and sympathise with a novel’s characters, but that isn’t a problem here – I suspect because it’s not intended we should sympathise with them at all. Parker has always taken her reader deep inside the heads of her characters, but it’s a one-sided sort of focalisation in which only the grubbier kind of insights float to the surface. There is no happiness, no empathy, none of the pleasure that comes of a job well done. Only misunderstanding and incomprehension, stripping the leaves from the trees and the colour from the sky and earth. Parker’s world is a cold, grey, dead one, where trust and human kindness are alien concepts. The lyrical abstractions with which she paints her scene prevent the reader from forming a firm image of the world, just as it keeps the reader from forming a firm image of the characters which inhabit it. This deeply stylised form holds the reader at a distance from the world inside the novel, but that sometimes seems to be the very point. By painting in abstract Parker forces the reader’s imagination into active engagement with the novel out of sheer desperation, and the world we build in our heads is as much ours as it is hers – making us, again, wholly complicit in its brutality. Barthes would have been thrilled to see the wall between reader and author so eroded.

Yet there’s a grim humour to Parker’s writing, and the way even the most competent of characters seem to never set foot inside their comfort zone but instead go through life in a state of mild confusion might even have been endearing if it weren’t for the novel’s uncompromising nihilism. They aren’t bad people, as such, but the damage they inflict on one another through sheer lack of empathy is horrific. Again, the critical point is that those point-of-view characters who do show themselves competent are never shared with us while they do so – they are only looked upon by others, and by association by the reader, as if looking at alien and unknowable gods. Yet when the point of view switches to that character and he looks upon the previous focal point with the same unease at their effortless competence, the logic is inescapable: nobody knows anything. Skill, intelligence, wit: all are meaningless in the face of a hostile universe.

The flawed assumption that someone, somewhere must know what’s going on is a theme The Company shares with that other great novel of wartime anarchy, Catch-22. But where Joseph Heller approaches his subject in prose dancing lightly through a hail of absurdities, Parker is hauling her wounded theme through the cloying mud of no-man’s land. Shit happens, and traditional concepts of narrative would tell us it has to happen for a reason – we need to complete the circle, feel a sense of closure. But sometimes shit just… happens. There’s no hope, no sense of justice or closure. Postmodern it may be, but the utter pointlessness of The Company’s violence seems as close as art’s ever likely to get to holding a mirror up to life. That war is hell is the oldest cliché of military fiction, but that doesn’t rob it of its truth – and in The Company it’s a hell which will last for ever and ever, world without end, amen. Don’t expect to come up smiling; be thankful if you come up at all.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Ninth Circle

2010-04-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

Alex Bell
Gollancz (www.orionbooks.com)
978-0-575-08027

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A man wakes up in an apartment in a pool of his own blood, with no memory of his life before that moment. He has to piece together his existence from clues around the house, from the cryptic hints of new (or are they old?) acquaintances who might not be what they seem, and from mysterious letters posted beneath his door which suggest his past may hold secrets so dark he’d rather not remember them…

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A man wakes up with no memory of his life before. The only hint as to his identity, to his past, is an incoherent book review smeared onto the wall in blood. No More Amnesiac Protagonists!!, it reads, over and over again…

Stop me… or rather, stop publishers. The preponderance of books feeding off the same old premise isn’t Alex Bell’s fault, although she could possibly have considered taking up residence in a slightly less crowded literary niche. Cliché it may be, but the amnesiac protagonist needn’t be the death of a well-written novel.

Unfortunately, The Ninth Circle isn’t a particularly well-written novel. There’s a certain energy to its prose, but it suffers from many of the same flaws that have plagued other debut novels. Bell keeps things rattling on at some pace, thanks mostly to a stream-of-consciousness narration which never lets the book become bogged down in detail. But this isn’t stream of consciousness like Virginia Woolf employs, with meaning layered into the broken thoughts and half-completed imagery which the human mind throws up; it’s more like a running commentary for the hard of thinking, wherein every event or emotional cue is accompanied by high-energy explication of exactly what’s going on inside the narrator’s head. There’s no opportunity for interpretation of the depths of meaning here, because there are no depths – it’s all dragged straight to the surface in a frenzy of italicised overemphasis.

The reason behind this onslaught of angst is that Gabriel Antaeus, its narrator and the recipient of that unfortunate lack of backstory, makes up for his existential uncertainty with a hysterical mania which really begins to grate after a hundred pages or so. He’s like an idiot child, filled with a driving need to understand everything right now and lacking the emotional filters which most adults develop as a way of keeping the world at arms’ length. In a way this makes sense, considering his memory loss as a kind of rebirth, and there is a touching innocence to the way he latches desperately onto every snatch of human contact or hint of his past. There’s a running ‘fish food’ joke through the first quarter of the novel which is at once funny and pathetically exemplary of his tendency to make staggeringly unsubstantiated assumptions and cling to them no matter what. But it’s a trait which endures throughout the entire novel, even after the inevitable revelation of Gabriel’s past, and there’s only so much sympathy one can sustain for a protagonist who is clearly, inescapably moronic. Gabriel persists in seeing the world in terms of clear-cut absolutes, despite the regularity with which Alex Bell goes out of her way to paint it in shades of grey. Touches of irony encouraging the reader to laugh at Gabriel’s sheer wrongheadedness do provide some respite from his parade of idiocies, but it’s an irony so heavily telegraphed as to suggest Bell lacks faith in her reader’s intelligence:
‘Besides, I’m okay on my own. I’m certainly not one of those people who are for ever needing others to boost their sense of self-worth. For ever needing to be surrounded by friends and loved ones to tell them how wonderful they are all the time. That would be pathetic.’ (p.33)

While its narrator remains The Ninth Circle’s biggest flaw, there are a number of other problems which plague it. The voluminous superficiality of Gabriel’s emotional outpourings leaks into other areas, and Bell’s description often veers into the overwritten. Her sense of action, meanwhile, is somewhat lacking – a battle between angelic and demonic forces in the sky over Budapest should be an action highlight, but has so little impact that you barely remember it’s going on. Long, complex descriptive sentences do a poor job of conveying movement or intensity. Having the supernatural combatants take to the air, meanwhile, seems transparently contrived in order to move the action out of the foreground and save Bell from having to juggle it with other events.

Not that the reader is given much incentive to become particularly invested in those goings on, nor in the characters whose ons are going. When they’re not suffering the absurd compulsion to shout their current emotional state from the rooftops, Bell’s characters all too often throw out painfully self-conscious Tarantino-esque pop culture references, regardless of whether it’s appropriate to the moment, the character or the novel as a whole. What seems like it’s intended to make The Ninth Circle seem cool and hip and down with the kids instead come across as trying too hard.
“It’s because I don’t have a costume, isn’t it?” I wept. “You can’t be a real superhero without the spandex suit and the mask and the fucking cape!” …
“You mustn’t do that, you know. After all, superheroes only ever fought super-villains, not angels.” (p.238)
Hearing a demon nitpick like the Simpsons’ Comic Book Guy does somewhat squash any sense of drama, and doesn’t exactly help stabilise a novel so uneven in tone it’s practically capsized. Bell’s writing lacks the requisite wit to pull this off, and to add insult to inanity her aping of superior stylists also makes The Ninth Circle’s dialogue rather generic. Any sense of individuality is sacrificed on the altar of the achingly cool, smeared across multiple speakers with a broad-headed brush until you can only tell them apart by their nametags.

I haven’t really talked about the actual plot yet, you’ll notice. Mostly this is because the nature of the amnesiac protagonist makes it rather hard to talk about anything without giving too much away. It’s not awful, but there’s nothing there you haven’t seen before – no surprises, and not much in the way of original thought. This sort of book requires a light touch in foreshadowing its revelations, and what foreshadowing The Ninth Circle displays is either as subtle as a choir of sign-waving angels or so abstruse as to foreshadow anything from to the Second Coming to the title of Dan Brown’s inevitable next moneyspinner.

‘Neil Gaiman meets the Bourne Identity’, The Ninth Circle’s back-cover blurb tells me, but that’s doing a disservice to them both. A reference to the Bourne series in particular is the kind of cultural shorthand which seems at both staggeringly lazy and somewhat spoileriffic, in the same way that mentioning ‘Fight Club’ alerts you to the probability of imaginary friends. And The Ninth Circle does seem to be the sort of cynically calculated novel which always tends to come in the wake of awakening public perception, riding the coattails of one or another runaway success. It’s the X-Factor of fantasy fiction, more interested in marketing than the quality of the product. Even the back of my reviewer’s copy notes Alex Bell as ‘massively promotable’ and ‘sure to gain extensive publicity coverage’, as if writing the words can make them true. Self-fulfilling prophecies don’t just self-fulfil, after all - you have to work at them. And Gollancz’s marketing department would probably be better off investing their hard work in something a little more assured.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Moxyland

2010-03-01T13:59:00.000-08:00

Lauren Beukes
Angry Robot Books
978-0-00732-389-0

2018, in some unnamed South African city. Not that you’d know it was South Africa; apart from the occasional African flavour to the name of a character or location, everything in 'Moxyland' is so homogenised that this could be London, or Singapore, or Chicago. Everyone speaks the same, too – blending casual technobabble with casual profanity and teenage skaz, as they talk their way around the bleeding edge of popular culture and anti-establishment politics in a city where the former is trying too hard to shock and the latter is dangerous indeed. This is what the world looks like, once the internet has smeared any kind of cultural identity across all corners of the world and technology has infiltrated our lives to such an extent that to separate oneself from it is to separate oneself from society. Advertising is omnipresent, and intrusive on a level far beyond the webpage pop-ups and data-mined Facebook ads which niggle us today. Giant corporations exist on a separate plane from ’civilians’, their employees treated as a cut above the masses, while corporate executives hold complete control over every aspect of their workers’ lives – the feudal lords of a new world.

The most unsettling thing about 'Moxyland' is that this is a world clearly recognisable as a descendant of our own, the near-future setting making every erosion of civil liberties or cultural landslide all the more shocking for their proximity to events we read about in the news. This is a novel of horror and social realism as much as science fiction, taking the familiar and showing how easily it could turn on us. Our modern world is one in a state of tremendous flux, as the exponential curve of technological development clashes again and again with a social system no longer able to cope with it and too slow to adapt. 'Moxyland' is one way the world could develop, one frightening in its imminent possibility. Technology is integral here – your phone is housekey, communicator and bank card all rolled into one, and disconnection is a penalty more crippling than any physical punishment or prison sentence. The more centralised and automated the systems which govern your day to day life, the easier it is to control; 'Moxyland' is an examination of what happens when society forges its own chains, examining the balance between the technology of convenience and the surrender of freedom.

It’s also a chilling, effectively written novel. Its protagonists are an unlikeable group, for the most part: a self-centred celebrity wannabe, a short-tempered anarchist, a naïve artist who’s sold out, and a ruthless security programmer on the corporate fast track. They might not generate much early sympathy with the reader, and the slow burn of plot development can make the novel difficult to get into. The depth and pace of the society Lauren Beukes’ characters inhabit, however, and the sheer intricacy of the world she has built, are enough to pull you in. This is a place where corporate advertising departments put their brand – quite literally – on up-and-coming athletes, musicians and artists; where the fluffy, cartoon aesthetics of online gaming for the pre-teens does nothing to disguise the violence of the behaviour they propagate; where advertising hoardings squat unassailable in a sea of viciously intelligent barbed-wire; and the publicity-starved broadcast every moment of their lives on the internet in a hope of getting that one big break. In this teeming, dynamic city - so like the world we know, but yet so alien – subtle, back-seat character building lets those characters slide quietly under your skin. You might not like them, but by the time the novel builds to its climax you’ll certainly care what happens to them.

And 'Moxyland' isn’t a novel which lets its characters off light. Actions have repercussions, good guys don’t always win, and there are no easy answers. This uncertainty builds real tension as the novel progresses towards its climax, as the various strands of reality weave around each other and the relentless minimalism of Beukes’ style evokes an oppressive atmosphere to match that hanging over the city – a tension leading to an utterly terrifying scene in which the police deploy biological weapons as a crowd-control measure.

Worse than the moment when electric-shock devices built into the protesters’ phones are activated, worse than seeing the faceless riot police turn as one and march away, is the sugar-sweet recorded announcement as bio-agents fill the air, listing the progression of symptoms with merciless compassion and ending with the following:
‘South African Police Services strongly advises citizens exposed to the M7N1 Marburg variation for their protection to report to an immunity centre immediately. Should you be too weak to report to an immunity centre, please call the South African Police Services and we will dispatch a mobile service to collect you. Again, this service is free, provided in the interests of public health and safety. The South African Police Services are dedicated to serve. How can we help you?’ (p.219)
The disbelief of the protesters – and those simply caught in the wrong place and time – is something shared by the reader. Surely no government, no matter how divorced from its citizens, could travel so far down that path? But humanity has willingly placed the tools of fascism in the hands of those with the motive and the will to use them, men and women who care only for power - as one says, ‘any action is justified in a state under terrorist threat.’ (p.293). It doesn’t take much effort to recognise the parallels with recent history, or even with current affairs – the uncomfortable question Moxyland raises is whether it’s truly terrorist to oppose a system which no longer recognises the rights of its individual citizens. There is a line between terrorist and freedom fighter, that much is clear – but when does it get drawn, and who gets to do the drawing?

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Automatic Detective

2010-02-01T16:41:00.000-08:00

A. Lee Martinez
Tor
ISBN: 978-0-7653-1834-3

Imagine you were a seven-hundred pound engine of destruction, built to enforce your master’s diabolical will and bring the world to its knees. If you developed a conscience, some essential spark of free will which led you to break free of evil henchrobot-hood, what would you do with it?

Mack Megaton drives a taxi. At least to start with, that is; destiny seems to have other plans, and events seem to be conspiring to fit him for an existential niche roughly the shape of Sam Spade. Before too long he’s snappily dressed in trenchcoat and fedora, searching for the lowlife who abducted his neighbours, and getting caught up in circumstances far above his pay grade. From the dazzling heights of Proton Towers to the radioactive depths of Venom Park, he’ll leave no cliché soft-boiled…

Everything about ‘The Automatic Detective’ is as familiar as well-worn shoes, from the tropes of Chandler-esque PI fiction to the setting itself. Mack lives in one of those Cities of the Future! (exclamation mark compulsory) we’ve seen on the covers of pulp SF magazines since the thirties, where flying cars zip through the street-space and robots mix with mutants, psychics and talking gorillas. Mad science isn’t just a hobby in Empire City, it’s a way of life. The Learned Council runs the place in their own special way, apparently by inventing every last lunatic technology that sparks their imagination and then dumping it on the streets when the next mad concept leaps to mind. As Mack himself says, when faced with one of their experimental vehicles blocking traffic:
‘Nothing got perfected in Empire before it was replaced by something better. The Big Brains loved science for science’s sake.’ (p.25)

Unfortunately, considering ‘The Automatic Detective’s aspirations to noir, A. Lee Martinez must have only got halfway through The Big Sleep, and skim-read over the best bits. This isn’t hardboiled so much as half-baked, aping the forms Chandler and Hammett made famous but failing to really understand what makes good noir tick. It’s not enough just to dress your protagonist up in pinstripes and hat; he has to walk the walk and talk the talk, too. Mack Megaton doesn’t have much of a talent for snappy dialogue, nor much of a taste for the bottle or a sleazy dame. Neither are much use to him, after all.

The lack of a femme fatale in particular damages ‘The Automatic Detective’s noir credentials; while the novel does have one strong female role, it’s not giving anything away to point out the tragic waste of a good opportunity in Lucia Napier. But much like Mack, she only looks the part. Instead she seems to fulfil that irritating narrative function labelled ‘deus ex machina’, i.e. to bail the protagonist out of trouble or provide whatever techno-whatsit he needs to overcome the problem of the moment.

But even more fatal a flaw is Mack’s sheer indestructibility, swiftly killing any sense of suspense before it can get up to speed. For all he might play the hard man, the appeal of any good hardboiled hero is in his fragility – both physical and emotional. Mack takes a knock or two, but by the climax of the novel he’s carving a swathe through the villains with an easy nonchalance that even an eighties action hero would envy.

As for the emotional side, Martinez deserves a little more credit here. Mack’s first-person narrative is detached, machine-like, with only little sparks of warmth – it’s an effective portrayal of how a robot on the cusp of true sapience might view his world, but it leaves the reader standing on the outside looking in. And the deeply formal language in which Mack describes his encounters with various science thugs can make even the most desperate situation seem tame, even ludicrous:
‘No matter how the variables shifted, my difference engine put the odds of escape at 0 percent in the current situation.’ (p.194)

For all that it damages ‘The Automatic Detective’ as a novel, the style of Mack’s narration does make for an interesting character study; those flashes of warmth, of humanity amidst the unfeeling drone, gives Mack a personality not unlike that of a child, learning to understand the world and how to respond to its complexities. The occasional chilling reversion to ‘engine of destruction’ amorality, meanwhile, does much to paint a picture of a character struggling to overcome the worst demons of his own nature:
‘Napier was right. I didn’t have mercy. Not that I wanted to hurt Ringo. His bones snapped too easily to give me much satisfaction.’ (p.119)
This nature/nature war going on inside its protagonist provides the novel with an interest the narrative itself seems to lack, and shows a level of thoughtfulness usually lacking in pulp.

While ‘The Automatic Detective’ isn’t much of a noir detective story, it might have been forgiven had Martinez dazzled his reader with science! (there’s that exclamation mark again) and wonder. But Empire City has none of the presence and evocative sense of place a novel like this needs; it’s a crayon sketch of a city, superficially effective until you get up close. Then you start to see the white bits in between the hypercolour whizz, and the bits where they’ve scrawled over the line. There’s no sense of how it all fits together, how it functions. Like the endlessly repeating backdrop in a scrolling cartoon chase sequence, Empire City doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Terry Pratchett said that an author ‘had to start out by wondering how the fresh water got in and the sewage got out’ (The Discworld Companion, p.475), and it’s advice A. Lee Martinez might want to take under advisement.

‘The Automatic Detective’ seems to be aiming to blend pulp detective and pulp sci-fi, but ends up doing a fairly half-arsed job of both. It’s a pleasant read, diverting enough and undemanding despite some unexpected depth to its protagonist. But if Mack Megaton’s still looming large in the back alleys of your brain a week after you’re done reading, I’ll eat my fedora.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Swiftly

2010-01-01T18:03:00.000-08:00

Adam Roberts
Golancz
978-0-575-08232-8

This is an odd one. Adam Roberts’ Swiftly announces itself as a 280-year-delayed sequel to Gulliver’s Travels, that immortal satire which aims its scattershot wit at every aspect of human society from academic hubris to the absurdities of economic inequality. It seems reasonable therefore to expect a similar brand of overt satire from Roberts, but while Swiftly has a lot to say, it unfortunately forgets to keep its reader entertained.

Set a hundred and twenty years after Gulliver’s last journey, Swiftly posits a world where the great European powers have done precisely what they did so well, when presented with an alien culture: moved in and exploited its resources for everything they’re worth. Tiny Lilliputian and Blefuscan slaves produce fine embroidery and clockwork, while regiments of berserker Yahoos and ‘sapient cavalry’ serve in the armies of France and England.

The hero of the novel, Abraham Bates, makes his first appearance as an advocate of rights for these ‘Pacificans’, as the varied inhabitants of Gulliver’s travelogue are collectively known. Yet Roberts immediately goes out of his way to deny Bates the moral high ground; it isn’t with slavery as a whole that Bates disagrees, but that the tiny workers are white. ‘God has allotted slavery to one portion of his creation, and marked that portion by blackening their skins…’ (p.11) he tells an owner of Blefuscan slaves, before being ejected from the premises. Bates’ is a pompous, moralising twit, whose attack-dog religiousness disguises a deep-seated self loathing. So disgusted is he by his own sinful thoughts and deeds that he wields his religion against others in a kind of masochism by proxy.

This first chapter, pitting Bates against the factory owner Jonathan Burton and detailing Swiftly’s England, is superbly written. The characterisation, as described above, is excellent, and Roberts does a decent job of extrapolating a functional world from the fantastical elements of Gulliver’s Travels while deftly satirising the moral elasticity of Bates’ Christianity. Even as the man betrays his country and French-allied Brobdignagian giants march on London, he’s convincing himself with every thought that his actions are righteous.

Then the focus moves away from Bates, skipping back in time and introducing another main character: Eleanor Davis, soon to marry the industrialist Burton, whose Blefuscan slaves Bates objected to. As with Bates, Eleanor is a fascinating and flawed character who draws and keeps the interest, reminding us in her naivety of nineteenth-century heroines from Eliot through to Austen, but bucking the trend with a streak of cold, clinical curiosity quite at odds with the usual Victorian stereotypes of the emotional, unreasoning woman. As with Bates, the reader’s sympathy is tested by her calculating coldness, as she resolves to ‘pin one down and bring an enlarging glass over them and have a proper look’ (p.72).

Roberts continues in the same vein, building on the undercurrent of sly satire winding through these two lengthy character studies, but the strong realist grounding of the first half gives way to a stream of metamorphoses in the second; now a war story, now a twisted love story, now farce.

All this tonal fluctuation weakens the sense of narrative and lessens the sense of consequence felt from the characters actions. Bates in particular seems a different man every time we meet him, as Roberts refuses both hero and reader the time between dramatic, life-changing events they require in order to reflect upon and internalise the lessons learned. As such Bates’ character arc seems jagged and broken, developing arbitrarily from tightly-wound moraliser to coprophiliac adulterer to war hero (of a sort) with little more than token gestures towards introspection.

Instead, as Roberts’ careful character-building falls by the wayside, we hurry through something of a grand tour of nineteenth century fiction. Brobdignagian giants striding up the Thames evoke the alien tripods of H. G. Wells’ War of the Worlds (or the artwork of Jeff Wayne’s musical version, at least to me); Eleanor’s conflicting attitudes towards her husband remind the reader of Middlemarch’s naïve Dorothea, while her mother’s venal attitudes towards the same evoke Pride and Prejudice’s Mrs Bennet; even Jules Verne’s moon-shooting cannon makes an appearance.

Yet this isn’t just a series of throwaway references, but thoughtful intertextuality which brings an additional dimension to the work. Mrs Davis, for example, might seem superficially similar to Mrs Bennet, an object of gentle (or not so gentle) mockery, but just as in Pride and Prejudice that surface layer is deceptive; both women understand the harsh realities of the world far better than their families. As a widow raising her daughter alone on the fringes of nineteenth-century London society, the lengths Mrs Davis is forced to in order to provide for both her daughter and herself are a logical extension of Mrs Bennet’s compulsive desire to ensure her daughters’ financial stability; a powerful condemnation of the way rigid societal structures force individuals to debase themselves. Yet while Swift condemns with satire, and Austen with irony, Roberts plays it more or less straight.

The result, unfortunately, is that Swiftly isn’t really very funny. Gulliver’s Travels wore its learning lightly, and however biting its satire it never ceased to raise a smile. Swiftly, by comparison, is heavy going and frequently drenched in gloom. Bates self-loathing permeates those chapters he dominates, while Eleanor’s detachment casts a chill over hers. Roberts’ Lilliputians and Blefuscans are inscrutable, cruel and alien; his giant Brobdingnagians are similarly alien, viewing the workings of mankind with a ponderous, philosophical melancholy. Only the cocaine-addled Dean of York, who accompanies Bates and Eleanor thorough an England increasingly resembling something from the book of Revelations, provides a streak of broad humour (at the expense of the church).

Despite the meandering second act, things pick up again towards the end of the novel, particularly in a stunning sequence where Eleanor watches a battle between French and British troops as if from the viewpoint of God. There’s also much to admire in Roberts’ world-building, as he extrapolates a fully-functional reality from the tools of satire. He extends the implications of Swift’s creations with precise, sometimes terrifying logic, and the philosophical arguments regarding man’s place in the grander scheme of things are thought-provoking. The novel simply seems to lack any real pleasure in the reading.

Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way, analysing Roberts’ work in terms of its illustrious predecessor, but a book calling itself Swiftly creates certain expectations of social comment and knife-edged wit. The former is present, but the latter? Perhaps it’s just too tiny to detect.

All page references are taken from an uncorrected manuscript proof.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Armageddon’s Children

2009-10-01T18:12:00.000-07:00

Terry Brooks
Orbit
ISBN: 978-1-84149-480-7

Armageddon’s Children sports the subtitle ‘every legend has a beginning’, but a crueller man than me might consider mentioning more suitable ones. ‘How to kill your sense of wonder’, perhaps, or ‘Leave no cash cow unmilked’. No, wait, I just mentioned them. Get your own.

This, then, is the first in the long unwaited-for trilogy bridging Terry Brooks’ The Word and the Void and Shannara series’. The knightly protagonist of the former, John Ross, was plagued with visions of the nightmarish future which awaited humanity if he should fail to defend it from demons of the Void, while the Shannara books have always hinted at the idea that they were wallowing in the ruins of a post-apocalyptic Earth. In the later series’ particularly, said hints had all the subtlety of a thermonuclear exchange, and true to the trend Armageddon’s Children substantiates all those prophecies and hints with gleeful disregard for any sense of tact or, well, sensitivity.

Yet bizarrely, leaving aside for the moment the question as to whether this book needed to be written at all, Brooks for some reason cheats even those die-hard fans who really did want all their dots connected. Armageddon’s Children kicks off fifty years in the future, long after the last missile fell to Earth, and his characters are too young to remember the Apocalypse. Certainly there are good reasons to pass over the end of the world: doing so allows Brooks to avoid all the hoary clichés of apocalypse-in-motion, while giving Armageddon the attention it deserves would probably require another trilogy’s worth of fiction before this one even got started. There might be another reason, though; the authorial freedom granted by a few years’ disconnect between the impossibly complex reality of modern life and Brooks’ post-nuclear landscape. The world of Armageddon’s Children isn’t a natural evolution of the one we know, or even a decent attempt at it; it’s a cardboard cutout, flat and stale. There’s no sense of organic history, of how these terrible developments might have come about. Just same tired clichés trotted out. Walled compounds filled with semi-benevolent fascists: check. Packs of feral street kids roaming the ruined cities: check. Giant mutant beasties, made giant and mutant through the miracle of radiation! Check.

And of course the armies of marauding raiders, devoid of humanity or reason; what self-respecting post-apocalyptia would be complete without them? And in case you didn’t know about them, Brooks lays them bare before his reader in the first chapter:

The real enemies were the once-men, humans subverted not by radiation and chemicals but by false promises which went something like this: “Do you want to know what it will take to survive? A willingness to do what is needed. The world has always belongs to the strongest…”
Once they embraced the propaganda of the demons, they fell quickly into the thicket of resulting madness. (p.11)

The tragedy of what men must do in order to survive? No, it’s demon propaganda making them Bad Men. In half a page of amateur psychoanalysis, Brooks builds a ghetto fence down the centre of his book: good on this side, evil on the other. Good guys, you have your orders: kill the evil ones with impunity, and without remorse. They’re evil, after all.

It might be a genre trope of high fantasy, but in a gritty post-apocalyptic setting like this such black and white distinctions tend to erode the suspension of disbelief somewhat. And Brooks’ reductive tendencies also deftly render the once-men fairly useless as any kind of credible threat; they’re predictable, one-dimensional and boring, entirely free of suspense. And sure enough for the rest of the book they’re little more than pop-up targets for the heroes to eliminate, like some apocalyptic game of whack-a-mole.

It’s possible that my mistake is in identifying Armageddon’s Children as gritty, however; when nine-tenths of the world’s population has been wiped out and demons roam the earth, you might think you’d be justified in assuming a little grit. But Brooks’ ruined Earth is like the painted backdrop of a theatrical production; it looks the part, but has nothing to do with what’s actually happening on-stage. Instead we get a peculiarly PG-rated version of apocalyptia, where cutesy ‘Street Kids’ play baseball in the mutant-haunted ruins and even the mean and moody ghetto stereotypes refuse to swear:
“You’re out!” shouted Sparrow.
“Out!” Panther laughed. “No frickin’ way!”
“Out!” Sparrow repeated …
Panther picked up the broomstick, waved it her threateningly, and then threw it down again. “What are you talking about? That don’t count! ...”
“It hit you last, and you’re out!”
“You’re frickin’ crazy!”
Sparrow stalked over to him, brushing her mop of straw-coloured hair out of her blue eyes, brow furrowed in anger. “Don’t talk to me like that! Don’t use that street language on me, Panther Puss! Owl, tell him he’s out!” (pp.170-171)
…and so on, like some bizarre amalgam of On the Beach and The House at Pooh Corner.

But the most jarring moment comes about halfway through the book, when the narrative turns its focus on a young Elf caring for the magical Ellcrys, the tree which maintained the Forbidding which kept demonkind in check since the time of Faerie. And if you’re wondering what on earth that sort of high-fantasy language is doing in a post-apocalyptic setting, you’re not alone. It’s as though Brooks forgot which series he was writing for a couple of chapters, and slipped into Shannara without realising. Yes, this is supposed to be the series which bridges the gap between the modern world and Shannara’s high fantasy, but the change of tone is so sudden and jarring that the book never really recovers. If the world is slowly slipping into magic and wonder, shouldn’t the subtlety of the transformation be reflected in the written style? There are any number of ways Brooks could have allowed the fantastic to seep into his apocalypse; the sudden plunge into fantasy tropes we’re given here smacks of nothing more than laziness.

Nonetheless, it’s a change that even the more grounded characters seem to accept with little more than token protest. Witness the baffling moment when Angel Perez, paladin of the Word, is sent off in search of an Elfstone:

Angel scowled, angry now. “Elves created it? You’re saying there are Elves out there? What does that mean? Look, I don’t know what any of this is about. I don’t know anything about Elves and their stones. I’m a barrio girl, a street girl, never even been this far north before in my life, and this Elf stuff is just words that don’t mean anything. You want to tell me what you’re talking about?” (pp.232-3)

Thanks for explaining yourself so thoroughly, Angel. But one short burst of expository dialogue later, she’s quite at home with the idea:

Well, she thought, if you’d accepted that tatterdemalions were real, how big of a jump was it to believe in Elves? (p.233)

How big of a jump indeed? Again, it’s a difficult line to walk; the conversion of the sceptic is a hoary old cliché of contemporary fantasy, and it would have been hard to do it well. But even retreading old ground would have been preferable to the writer’s fiat Brooks employs again and again in Armageddon’s Children.

Better to have left the genesis of Shannara alone than do it badly; at least that way fans of Brooks’ earlier work would still have a mystery to hold onto, to wonder and to talk about. But Brooks has taken that raw potential, that untapped possibility which excites the imagination, and wrung it dry to produce a very ordinary book. Which is such a shame.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars: Dark Lord - Rise of Darth Vader

2009-07-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

James Luceno
Ballantine Books
0-345-47732-4

At the height of the Clone Wars, as Jedi are betrayed and the Emperor’s dark new order rises from the ashes of the Galactic Republic, Jedi Master Roan Shryne and his companions manage to escape the clone troopers seeking their deaths and go on the run. But there is one thing they could never account for – the Emperor’s sinister right-hand man, Darth Vader, assigned to hunt down those few Jedi to escape the massacre. Yet that mysterious black-armoured warrior, once the brightest star of the Jedi Order, finds himself struggling not only with the task at hand and the crippling injuries sustained in his last battle with his former master, but also with the burden of guilt at the betrayal of his friends and colleagues.

Unfortunately Anakin Skywalker was no less petulant and self-pitying at the end of Revenge of the Sith than he was at the beginning. Where was Star Wars’ malevolent, implacable crusher of throats? If ever there was a character in need of a good smack around the back of the head it was Anakin, and for all its melodrama Revenge just didn’t deliver. James Luceno’s unenviable task, then, was to polyfilla over the gaping plot holes George Lucas left and give those few Star Wars fans not yet choking to death on their own bile a decent emotional through-line. The mutilated, snivelling manchild still had to become Darth Vader, dammit!

And to give Luceno credit, he does an adequate job. The self-pity that Anakin wallows in at the novel’s opening quickly dwindles in the face of the Emperor’s emotional manipulations, and the decapitated heads of Jedi mark the excision of each scrap of humanity like morbid milestones. Vader’s hunt for the fugitive Roan Shryne is interspersed with periods of emotional self-interrogation which show quite effectively, if a little heavy-handedly, how the headstrong boy grew into a monster.

Just about the most interesting part of Dark Lord is the way Luceno balances Vader’s emotional development with that of his nominal hero, Roan Shryne. Vader’s star might be rising, but at the novel opens Shryne doesn’t even have one. He’s lost his faith in the Force, and feels inadequate to the task of training the bright-eyed Padawan he’s inheriting from a dead friend. The near-extermination of the Jedi order is just another crushing weight on his shoulders, but Luceno develops him with just the right lightness of touch. And the way the fortunes of Vader and Shryne seem to intertwine, their emotions and decisions forcing the other character off in new and unexpected directions, makes for an interesting and dramatically narrative – and a surprisingly tense climax, considering the inevitable survival of one participant.

For those looking for something a little more space-opera and a little less introspective, there’s all the usual furniture of a Star Wars novel – sleazy space-bars, heroic smugglers, unnecessarily complex sub-plots, exotically themed planets and the cross-eyed marksmanship of stormtroopers. It’s decent enough diversion, and the description of the Wookie homeworld is powerful enough to almost redeem the fact that it allows bloody Chewbacca to be shoe-horned into yet another Star Wars novel. All the standard parts are present and correct, and trotted out with the regularity of somebody running their way down a checklist. Yet I feel I’m missing something…

Ah, of course. The lightsaber battles. Well, there are lots of them.

But the problem with swordfights, particularly ones involving improbable laser-based weaponry, is that they look better on screen than on the page. Without a first-rate writer to make something fresh of the action, it’s about as interesting as reading a kendo manual. So it is in the case of Dark Lord – dry description of slashes and parries doesn’t mean very much unless you can visualise what’s happening. It’s a knack, and James Luceno doesn’t really have it. Instead he’s made the common mistake of confusing dramatic conflict with physical violence, the result of which was me skim-reading over the fight scenes in search of something more substantial.

While there is meat on these bones, particularly in the parallel development of Vader and Shryne, overall Dark Lord isn’t the richest of feasts. It’s a diverting few hours, but that’s time which could be better spent. Read Matthew Stover’s Revenge of the Sith novelisation instead, if you haven’t already; James Luceno’s offering just isn’t quite convincing enough to lift it off my ‘Star Wars by the numbers’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Complete Chronicles of Conan

2007-07-01T19:46:00.000-07:00

Robert E. Howard
Gollancz
0-575-07766-2

These are the tales of Conan the Cimmerian, whose life of slaughter and thievery leads him from lost cities to decadent ones, from the deepest jungles to the dark heart of underground kingdoms, and pitted him against warriors, foul sorcerers, and supernatural horrors summoned from nightmarish realms. He is the quintessential barbarian, whose animal cunning and primitive strength of arms has carried him from humble beginnings amid the uncivilised tribes of the north to the throne of the greatest kingdom of the Hyborian Age and back to the gutter again.

Robert E. Howard’s stories of Conan, first published in pulp magazines over seventy years ago, are considered some of the most definitive works of fantasy ever written. Together with Tolkien, Zelany, Vance and a handful of other great names, Howard stands as the cornerstone upon which much of modern fantasy is based. But how well have his tales stood the test of time?

The Complete Chronicles contains twenty-seven stories, varying from a few pages to near two hundred, and Howard’s own invented history of the Hyborian Age. An afterword details Howard’s life and the development of Conan from pulp pages to comic book hero to Hollywood, while an appendix and a map detailing the various people and kingdoms of the Hyborian Age provide additional depth to Conan‘s world. But it is the stories themselves which are the core of this compilation, and Howard’s visceral, emotive storytelling makes for some powerful tales of adventure.

His hero is an old-fashioned one, straight-forward in both his desires and his approach to realising them. Quick to anger, larger than life, and a paragon of physical prowess, Conan is the very archetype of the barbarian warrior. However, in reading Howard’s stories together they all begin to blend into one. While Conan’s adventures take him to fantastic locations and pit him against terrible foes, little stands out but the Cimmerian himself. The women who stand at his side are invariably weak and timid stereotypes of the fainting heroine, unable to resist the barbarian‘s fierce passion. Only Bêlit, the eponymous co-heroine of ‘Queen of the Black Coast’, shows any real deviation from this pattern and even she can do nothing to resist Conan’s feral charms. The exotic locations Conan visits are wildly imaginative and richly painted, but serve only as a backdrop to the barbarian’s exploits and as such are given little depth in their own right. As for the villains of each piece, they range from ancient iron giants to monstrous snake-demons to greedy merchants. But the most common of Conan’s foes is the dark magician, whose sorcery calls upon creatures from beyond the pale… so many versions of the same character, with little difference between them but their names. Another, more uncomfortable trend is the common portrayal of black people as unsophisticated, brutish and bestial. While it might be understood as a result of the period in which the stories were written, this aspect of the tales is no less distasteful for it.

However, the main cause of the tales’ similarity is their sharing of the same basic narrative template. A woman is threatened by some dark beast or sorcerer, and Conan confronts the villain and defeats them through sheer force of arms. An effective story generally requires some sort of significant challenge, the possibility of the hero’s failure. But this is Conan, and there is no spell or supernatural horror that he can’t defeat through stubborn will and straightforward violence. Such a simplistic structure makes for unsatisfying conclusions, a trend not helped by the lack of any real resolution. Conan kills things and goes on his way, caring little for loose ends or the devastation he leaves in his wake. Each story ends in much the same place as it starts, but with a woman in Conan’s arms. By the time the next story begins, however, she has vanished as if she had never been. James Bond would be proud.

Howard’s stories of Conan are sexist, rife with unsettling hints of racism, and struggle to show any real depth. They do contain, however, what is without a doubt some of the most exciting and visceral fantasy ever written. This is a book to be dipped into rather than devoured whole, and in such small doses the tales’ flaws are concealed behind a fast-moving rush of action and adventure. As a result ‘The Complete Conan’ will find a place on my ‘all style no substance’ shelf, where I can get to it quick when I need an antidote for more complex tales.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Smoke Thief

2007-07-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

Shana Abé
Bantam Books
0-553-80448-0

In eighteenth-century London, the nobility speak in whispers of the Smoke Thief. The police cannot catch him, baffled by the thefts. Only the best are taken, the rarest jewellery and the purest gems vanishing from their lockboxes. The thief must be a magician, for the police are baffled. He must be able to walk through walls…

Christoff, Marquess of Langford, knows the truth: the thief is no human, but a renegade drákon escaped from isolated Darkfrith in the north. As the ruler of those ancient, noble creatures, the duty of recapturing the runaway is his… before humanity discovers the secret and exposes the drákon.

Yet unbeknownst to him, the Smoke Thief is not a man but a woman. The first in centuries to be able to take dragon form, she is his equal in every way. As they hunt one another through the streets and sky of old London, growing ever closer, another danger rises to threaten the drákon and their ancient way of life…

First and foremost, ‘The Smoke Thief’ is a romance novel. The period setting and fantasy elements combine to evoke a sophisticated air of old-fashioned romanticism, and just as well. The relationship between Christoff and the runaway drákon Rue is cliché-ridden and on occasion veers dangerously close to Mills and Boon territory: she’s a strong-willed woman who despises his forceful nature even as she is attracted to his strength; he’s a charismatic, Byronic figure, admiring her will even as he tries to break it. The result is inevitable, and never seems anything but a foregone conclusion. Yet the romantic, heady atmosphere evoked through Shana Abé’s deft writing does much to hide the flaws, and somehow makes this well-trodden ground worth walking one more time.

‘The Smoke Thief’s London is the real star of the show; romantic and yet possessed of a Dickensian authenticity. A little too clean, perhaps, but still possessing that complex vitality for which it’s known. The novel’s opening chapters, set among the nobility and following Rue through a heist, succinctly paints a picture of intimacy and deception among the upper classes. With both hero and heroine inhabiting the nobility working class London should receive somewhat shorter shrift, but through a secondary character Abé efficiently conveys the misery and squalor of such an existence.

In comparison, the drákon lands of Darkfrith seem pale and empty. When the action shifts away from London, ‘The Smoke Thief’ loses much of its energy. The quiet of the countryside, ably evoked by Abé’s clever, poetic descriptions, feels a little disjointed and leaves the reader suddenly struggling to change down a gear.

Such scenes aren’t helped by the characters than inhabit them. Christoff and the council who help him rule the drákon have an unpleasantly fascist air to them, and his overbearing arrogance in particular seems the least likely thing to endear him to a woman… or the reader. Small wonder that Rue fled Darkfrith, but the conventions of romantic fiction seem to over-rule Christoff’s utter unsuitability as a protagonist. However, his unsympathetic nature is more than made up for by a superb piece of characterisation in the form of Rue herself. Sympathetic (apart from her inexplicable infatuation), conflicted and intriguing, she is as well-crafted as the city in which she thrives.

The rest of the plot is paper thin, and fades into insignificance against the romance between the leads. And while there may be nothing innovative about that particular tale, in ‘The Smoke Thief’ Shana Abé tells it with flair enough that any flaws might be forgiven.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Shadow of the Giant

2006-08-01T21:29:00.000-07:00

Orson Scott Card
Tor Books
0-812-57139-8

Almost ten years after the child-general, Ender Wiggin, and his chosen ‘Jeesh’ annihilated the alien buggers and destroyed their home planet, Earth stands at a crossroads. Down one road lies unity and cooperation; down the other, war and self-destruction. With Ender himself exiled off-planet, his chosen – with their preternatural gifts for strategy and manipulation – have become the greatest weapons in the arsenals of their respective countries. Yet some are not content with simply being used – they want to lead. The Caliph of a united Islam, the new Emperor of China and India’s self-titled ‘Goddess’ are all graduates of the Battle School where they learned the arts of war alongside Ender, and now they seem dead-set on putting those lessons to the test against one another.

All is not in their favour, however. Julian ‘Bean’ Delphiki, Ender’s most brilliant companion, and his similarly gifted wife Petra stand alongside Ender’s brother Peter in an effort to bring lasting peace to the world. Yet the young couple have problems of their own. The genetic manipulation that gave Bean his unparalleled genius is killing him – and worse, the IV fertilised embryos of their children, stolen and scattered around the world, might bear the same condition. Soon he will have to choose how to spend his last remaining days: reuniting his family, or helping Peter create a lasting peace.

Whatever you might think about the author’s politics, there’s no denying that Orson Scott Card writes an entertaining story. Just like its predecessor in this series, ‘Shadow of the Giant’ paints a fascinating picture of just what World War Three might look like, and has the courage to admit that the major players are far more likely to spring from the rising East than the fading western superpowers. India, China and the Islamic nations, with their vast manpower, make for an interesting yet potentially authentic take on an old idea.

‘…Giant’ focuses more on the political side than the military, however. The machinations of the Hegemon, Peter Wiggin, take centre stage, as he attempts to put an end to war and bring all the nations of the world together under one banner. Similarly, the alliances and assassination attempts at the head of the other powers take precedence over any military action. When troops do begin to march, despite much emphasis on the idea of war as a political necessity battle seems almost an afterthought.

The greatest flaw of ‘Shadow of the Giant’, however, lies in its wavering focus. Despite the title of the novel, this is not Bean’s story but really Peter’s. Bean seems relegated to the background, a tool in the Hegemon’s hands. Meanwhile, his search for his children seems somewhat insignificant in comparison to the global politicking. even to the character himself. Neither the urgency or the agony of Bean’s decisions comes through, and it renders much of the subplot unfortunately irrelevant.

With the epilogue comes an unexpected pleasure – the last encounter, via faster-than-light comms, between the Wiggin brothers. Theirs is the relationship which has cast such a great shadow over both the ‘Shadows’ series and ‘Ender’s Game’, and to see them interact again grants a real sense of closure, even as it once more emphasises Bean’s background role.

Other threads are not so neatly tied off. The matter of Bean’s children remains somewhat unresolved, and a series of interludes regarding the spectre of Achilles, Bean’s old enemy, that was built up from the first few pages frustratingly leads the reader nowhere. Yet despite these flaws, ‘Shadow of the Giant’ remains an absorbing read and a satisfactory conclusion to the series. Orson Scott Card’s style and strong grasp of character allow the reader to really feel involved in the story, while the passage of time has allowed his child characters to mature to the point where such adult dialogue no longer seems an oddity in their mouths. As such, ‘Shadow of the Giant’ finds a welcome place on my ‘psychological warfare’ shelf, together with its companion novels.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Lies of Locke Lamora

2006-08-01T15:39:00.000-07:00

Scott Lynch
Gollancz
0-575-07802-2

In the ancient city of Camorr, where bridges and towers of indestructible Elderglass stand as a reminder of the ancient race who once made their homes here, Locke Lamora makes his living running confidence games on the rich. He and his tight-knit gang, the Gentlemen Bastards, are just one of the hundreds that pay fealty to Capa Barsavi, the criminal overlord of Camorr, but they are the only ones that dare breach the crime lord’s Secret Peace with the nobility and prey upon the upper classes. They play a dangerous game; not only is the Duke of Camorr’s disturbingly competent spymaster searching for them, but any slip might see them on the receiving end of the Capa’s famously terminal displeasure.

Just as Locke and his companions make ready to embark on their latest and most ambitious scheme, things are about to get much more complicated. Caught up in a web of intrigue, murder and deception, the Gentlemen Bastards will have to use all the tricks of their trade to stay ahead of the pack… and stay alive.

‘The Lies of Locke Lamora’ isn’t just fun to say out loud – it’s fun to read, too. The lyrical style present in the novel’s title can be found throughout, from flowing and evocative descriptions to catchy, witty dialogue. Scott Lynch has a genuine talent for turning old clichés on their heads, and the resultant writing is as fresh as new-baked bread.

Lynch’s style makes something new of his setting, too. Camorr is a bustling fantasy city in the middle of a semi-renaissance, busy with organised crime and foppish nobles, and seems to owe a little something to every city from Rome, Venice and Dickens’ London to Pratchett’s Ankh-Morpork or China Miéville’s Bas-Lag. Yet in Lynch’s description it’s possible to see something new: a place divided between the rich and the criminal where the poor are left to suffer without any protection at all. It’s a city of uncommon, casual brutality, where floating amphitheatres house bloody shark-baiting matches and the Watch are a credible threat. Yet there’s beauty, too, in the twilight glow of the Elderglass towers and the razor-edged glass flowers of the Hungry Garden, and it’s the author’s poetic descriptions that make Camorr stand out in the Fantasyland Tour Guide.

If characterisation suffers a little in comparison to such well-crafted scene-setting, that’s no great surprise. Locke and his gang suffer the two-edged curse of sharing the same wit and verve in their dialogue, which can make them difficult to tell apart in conversation. Hints of that selfsame wit can be found in other groups and characters, too, and enjoyable as it is to read such eloquent speech, realistic depiction would be better served if each character possessed a distinct voice of their own.

Still, much effort seems to have been put into fleshing out Locke and his friends. They might all talk the same, but the flashbacks to their younger days that appear throughout the narrative do much to build them up as individuals – while also serving to weave the necessary exposition into the tale without too much of a break in pace. Rather than break up the flow of the narrative, these flashbacks also somehow manage to fit well into natural pauses and heighten the anticipation for a return to the tale, while still proving entertaining in their own right.

The structure of the novel, then, does an excellent job of spicing up what is at heart a fairly simple plot. Locke Lamora’s adventures feel something like a cross between ‘The Godfather’ and the BBC TV con-artist show ‘Hustle’, with treachery and revenge as standard. Yet for all his vaunted brilliance, when things fail to go according to plan our hero seems strangely incapable of improvising. Admittedly he seems to land himself so deeply in trouble that there’s no obvious choice but to cross his fingers and hope, but you’d think that a master con-man whose expertise in planning complicated deception might be capable of taking a more active role in his fate.

Minor flaws aside, ‘The Lies of Locke Lamora’ is an excellent work and all the more astonishing for being Lynch’s debut novel. It shows its author to have a genuine talent for storytelling and particularly for descriptive prose, and one that I look forward to seeing develop over the course of the ‘Gentlemen Bastards’ series. As such, the novel will find pride of place on my ‘Magic and Misdirection’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars: Outbound Flight

2006-07-01T23:47:00.000-07:00

Timothy Zahn
Del Rey Books
ISBN: 0-345-45683-1

Before the Clone Wars swallowed the Republic, the Jedi Master Jorus C’boath launched his plans for the Outbound Flight project: a grand experiment, taking fifty thousand Republic citizens and a handful of Jedi beyond the edge of the known galaxy on a mission of exploration and colonisation. He has a lot to content with – opposition from the Jedi Council, determined to focus the Order’s dwindling resources on more important matters; bureaucrats and red tape hampering the project’s realisation; the machinations of the Sith Lord, Sidious, who sees Outbound Flight as just another playing piece in his game.

But his enemies within the Republic’s borders may be the least of C’boath’s worries. For in the Unknown Regions, in the path of Outbound Flight, the alien known as ‘Thrawn’ has come across a smuggler ship whose inhabitants could set in motion a chain of events to doom the Outbound Flight project...

If this latest addition to the weight of Star Wars books on my groaning shelves has one major flaw, it’s that the novel doesn’t seem sure who to cater to. Those die-hard readers intimately familiar with Zahn’s other works will most likely find ‘Outbound Flight’ a little too familiar – the events that unfold within are a foregone conclusion, long ago revealed, and the ‘how’ simply isn’t interesting enough to support a whole novel. Those new to Star Wars’ Extended Universe, on the other hand, should find another place to start. ‘Outbound Flight’ jumps into the middle of a series Zahn’s been writing for close to fifteen years, and the sheer weight of baggage here is telling.

As can be expected from so enduring an author, the style of ‘Outbound Flight’ is solid enough. Zahn’s characters are well-detailed and authentic, those we’ve seen before remaining consistent to their established personalities and motivations. It’s not enough to save the novel from sinking into the mundane, however. The lacklustre plot, issues with pacing (particularly near the beginning, where a sub-plot involving diplomatic negotiations which could have been summarised in a sentence or two stretches on for dozens of pages) and the sheer inevitability that hangs over the storyline render ‘Outbound Flight’ both tedious and predictable.

In addition, Zahn’s need to tie the story in to already existing tales is painfully apparent. The presence of Obi-wan Kenobi and a teenage Anakin Skywalker aboard Outbound Flight is both an unnecessary and pointless complication and an insult to the reader’s intelligence. We’ve seen Star Wars books that don’t feature the films’ central characters before, and the setting is strong enough to cope. If the story of Outbound Flight were also strong enough, there would be no need for such an obvious crutch.

On top of that, ‘Outbound Flight’ is weighed down by the constant introduction of characters from ‘Outbound Flight’s sister novel, ‘Survivor’s Quest’, regardless of whether they have a role to play within this particular story, and the occasional name-check of characters from Zahn’s earlier works. Such interlinking serves no purpose, and slows the narrative to a crawl. The relationship between novels is clear enough that only the most inattentive reader would require such constant reminders, and as such they only serve to irritate.

‘Outbound Flight’s one saving grace is the appearance of Sidious’ agent on the scene. A political manipulator in the style of his master, he is smart, well-motivated and interesting to follow. His interactions with Thrawn himself are fascinating, and would have proved a far more credible viewpoint on the alien’s actions and motivations than the embarrassingly contrived arrival of Republic smugglers in the Unknown Regions. A shame, then, that he isn’t granted the page space that Kenobi and Skywalker gobble up to little purpose.

Too familiar for established fans and requiring too much foreknowledge from new ones, ‘Outbound Flight’ hovers uncomfortably between the two. If the tale it tells were strong enough, that wouldn’t matter, but the whole work feels a little too much like an exercise in joining the dots. As such, it’ll find a place on my ‘filler material’ shelf, and I doubt I’ll open it again.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Golem

2006-03-01T13:30:00.000-08:00

Greg Vilk
Ricochet Press (self-published)
ISBN: 0-9772189-0-2

It’s 1942, and the Second World War is raging across Europe. Far removed from the conflict, in the icy wastes of Greenland, a crack team of U.S. Rangers is sent to destroy a secret Nazi research facility and rescue the American scientist forced to work there.

Saddled with the scientist’s daughter and a bureaucrat from the War Department, the Rangers set off on their assignment. But the base is not all it seems, and the Germans’ meddling has unleashed something dark and hateful. As the Americans scrabble to survive, their mission is suddenly the least of their worries.

Greg Vilk’s ‘about the author’ gives his day job as visual effects director on a number of blockbusting Hollywood films, and ‘Golem’ is written in that same cinematic tradition. Description and characterisation are so sparse that the novel could pass for a film script, with only the dialogue possessing any sign of effort on the author’s part. Even that is barely passable; when they’re not spouting action-movie clichés, characters both heroic and otherwise announce their plans and motivations to all and sundry.

Characterisation is paper-thin, with most of the Rangers apparently lifted straight from the Dirty Dozen or Kelly’s Heroes. Carrying a picture of one’s daughter and kissing it from time to time does not a realistic character make… though it does mark the poor sod for ‘tragic’ and ‘heroic’ death. The traitor – and isn’t there always a traitor? – is sprung without any foreshadowing, and his actions never explained beyond the novel’s desperate need for a diabolical villain. As if a big faceless monster stomping around the place wasn’t enough.

Ah, the monster. Pulp horror excels when it builds an atmosphere of suspense, and keeping your nasty in the shadows is a simple and effective way to build that tension. Strange, then, that on its first appearance Vilk’s Golem does the literary equivalent of tap-dancing in front of the camera. It kills, and we know how and what it is. Fear of the unknown, the greatest terror of all, never even gets a chance.

That doesn’t stop Vilk constantly trying to up the ante, however. Each time the golem kills, it grows a little more powerful… and a couple of feet bigger. By the time the dramatic climax arrives, you could practically see the thing on an atlas, but it’s still no more frightening. Size is not the same thing as scary. The golem is a wasted opportunity – just think of the possibilities for creepy and genuinely disturbing horror. A thing that builds its body from the inanimate matter about it could be terrifying, insidious and utterly alien. Instead the critter just stomps around hitting people with spades and ice, and getting bigger.

You’d think a man who works in cinema would have seen The Thing, or Alien, and taken a few valuable lessons away. But there’s nothing new here, and everything unrolls just how you expect it might. The pace is fast and the action never lets up, but that only means there’s no time for readers to develop any connection to the cardboard cut-out characters. When they die, it’s almost a relief. At least now their eyes can ‘bug out’ no more; they’re saved from enduring Greg Vilk’s endlessly repeated expression of surprise. And to save myself ever from having to read this again, I’m going to bury Golem in the depths of the shelf marked ‘abominable screenplay in disguise’.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars: Survivor’s Quest

2006-02-01T12:14:00.000-08:00

Timothy Zahn
Del Rey
ISBN: 0-099-47263-5

Fifty-odd years ago the Outbound Flight Project departed, a Jedi-led exploration of the uncharted areas on the edge of the galaxy. They didn’t get very far. Ambushed by a fleet of the alien Chiss, led by soon-to-be Grand Admiral Thrawn, the project was destroyed and little was ever heard of it again.

How things can change. After half a century the wreckage of Outbound Flight has been found, and the Chiss are willing to allow the New Republic to recover their dead. Luke Skywalker and his wife, Mara Jade, are despatched to represent the Republic, but to their surprise things are not quite what they seem. Other parties have become involved, from alien species wishing to pay their respects to stormtrooper envoys from the remnants of the Empire. Are their motives as peaceful as they say? Can anyone be trusted?

Arriving at the ruins of Outbound Flight, the Jedi are in for another surprise. With uncertain allies all about them, cut off from the Republic and their friends, they must discover the truth of Outbound Flight and escape the twisted plans of enemies new and old.

Timothy Zahn has a reputation as one of the best authors in the Star Wars universe, but ‘Survivor’s Quest’ is the first faltering step he’s made. Outbound Flight, Mara Jade, Grand Admiral Thrawn, the Chiss; the typical ingredients of his better works are all present, yet something is missing. Star Wars is about the choices between light and dark, the seductive power of evil and the difficulty of walking the path of good, but that central theme is absent here.

Of course Star Wars is also about explosions, lightsaber battles, blaster guns and diabolical villains, and here at least ‘Survivor’s Quest’ doesn’t disappoint. It seems almost as though Zahn has tried to make up for the lack of depth with an overdose of action, but this all gives the novel a rather schizophrenic feel. The first half of the book is a pulp detective story, with the Jedi sneaking around and trying to figure out just what’s going on. Then, once all is revealed, the lightsabers kick in and the reader may as well leave their brain elsewhere.

Not that I have a problem with mindless action – it’s mindless, tension-free action that upsets me. ‘Survivor’s Quest’ is part of the franchise, so one can always be fairly sure the heroes are immune to serious harm, but here you never really feel as though they’re working up a sweat. The enemy underestimate them at every turn, and though the epilogue explains the villains’ short-sightedness, seeing the heroes wade through wave after wave of doomed mooks does not make exciting reading. In such a case, it’s the secondary characters that stand in jeopardy but here, for once, Zahn’s characterisation has let him down. With a single exception, none of these minor characters have enough personality to make the reader care. Giving names to stormtroopers does not make the reader sympathetic to their plight, particularly when their intentions remain dubious.

While the first act of the book dedicates much of its length to setting up such ambiguity, and allows a little depth to show in some of the characters, it nonetheless manages to avoid any foreshadowing of the inevitable twist. Surprises are good, yes, but only if the reader can look back and say ‘but of course!’. In this case, the surprise comes from out of the blue and falls flat on its face. That there was no way to predict or even suspect what might happen is as poor a piece of storytelling as any Deus Ex Machina.

Speaking of which… The epilogue of ‘Survivor’s Quest’ comes as a serious disappointment. To find out that the Jedi were little more than pawns in a ‘master plan’ renders their choices irrelevant, and the story itself somewhat pointless. It turns the entire novel into some bizarre version of a shell game, but one where there’s a ball under each of the three cups. While it makes an impressive show of the puppet-masters’ machiavellian manipulations, it fails to make an enjoyable read.

Despite Zahn’s undeniable descriptive skills, ‘Survivor’s Quest’ is hampered by nonsensical plotting, an awkward mid-story gear change, and a sad lack of the themes that make Star Wars great. There simply isn’t enough challenge here, for either the heroes or the reader. The novel also can’t seem to decide whether to focus on action or suspense, ends up doing a poor job of both, and earns itself a spot on my ‘genre-confused’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith

2005-11-01T15:26:00.000-08:00

Matthew Stover
Century Books
ISBN: 0-7126-8427-1

The battle between the Galactic Republic and the Separatists who challenge it has raged for years, the Jedi who fight in it forced to watch as their Order becomes more militaristic with every passing day. The Republic, too, is changing, Chancellor Palpatine’s control of the senate granting him power unheard of in peacetime, all in the name of protecting democracy. The Jedi Council fear that he will be reluctant to surrender it once the war is ended, and tension between the Chancellor and the Order has never been greater. Obi-wan Kenobi, tasked to hunt down and destroy the Separatist commander, General Grievous,

Set against that epic conflict, Anakin Skywalker’s fear of losing his wife seems insignificant. But visions of her death torment him, and in his weakened state Darth Sidious sees an opportunity to turn the great young hope of the Jedi to his side. The time of the Empire draws near…

Between this book and the blockbuster of the same name, there lies the quintessential Star Wars. The cinema has the special effects, the visual spectacle, and the embarrassing dialogue; the book has pacing, characterisation, and fewer plot holes. Even better, the characters talk like actual people. All it lacks are the images to accompany its depth, but even they appear unbidden in the mind’s eye. The great tragedy here is that Lucasfilm didn’t let Matthew Stover write the script, rather than just the novelization.

Novelization is perhaps the wrong word. This is a novel in its own right, bearing uncanny similarity to the film of the same name yet differing just enough to make it a superior beast. Lines one would rather forget are absent from here, replaced by often-subtle dialogue that gives meaning to otherwise inexplicable actions. Stover’s Anakin Skywalker is no whiny teenager in search of glory, but a genuinely tormented hero unable to ever live up to his own expectations. Obi-Wan Kenobi is modest, civilised and gentle, the perfect Jedi. Others, too, revealed previously unseen depths, thanks to the author’s clever little narrative tricks. A handful of freeze-frame moments where heroes and villains are broken down and discussed almost directly with the reader should shatter any suspension of disbelief, but they don’t. They frame the action perfectly instead.

Ah, action. The meat of any Star Wars novel is always the action, lightsabers humming and blasters blasting. There is no shortage of it here, described in loving detail. Stover clearly enjoys writing battle scenes, and it shows. The lightsaber duels in particular reveal his delight, each one a treatise on stances and forms and each one, as they should be, a metaphor for the psychological struggle between the combatants. This is fun, but it is serious fun.

Far superior to the film it parallels, ‘Revenge of the Sith’ is an absolute joy to read. Stripping the tale down to its core, the focus of the novel is always Anakin Skywalker’s transformation into something dark and nasty. Yoda’s games with the Wookies are gone, as are many of the ‘comedy’ droid moments. Even the battle between Yoda and Darth Sidious is pared down to a handful of paragraphs, because the real story lies elsewhere. Such ruthless editing is admirable, and it makes a tighter, brutally effective story. ‘Revenge of the Sith’ finds a place on my ‘if only it were a film!’ shelf, and whenever I read it I’ll know: that’s the way it should have been.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars: Labyrinth of Evil

2005-10-01T23:17:00.000-07:00

James Luceno
Del Rey
ISBN: 0-345-47572-0

The Clone Wars have spread across the galaxy, the Republic’s Jedi-led army in constant conflict with the druids of the Separatist forces. After countless battles and the loss of hundreds of Jedi, the war is finally turning. The homeworld of the Trade Federation is invaded and the Jedi heroes Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker are there to hunt down the Federation’s Viceroy, Nute Gunray. One of the Separatist figureheads and the being responsible for the Invasion of Naboo thirteen years before, Gunray is high on the Republic’s wanted list, but when he stops to loot his most treasured possessions before fleeing he leaves behind a clue that could lead to the man behind the war: the Sith Lord, Darth Sidious.

As the war rages and the extent of Sidious’ machinations becomes clear, Kenobi and Skywalker must find their way through the maze of deception. Can they uncover the Sith Lord’s true identity before becoming trapped in his web?

As the book leading into the opening scene of a movie entitled ‘Revenge of the Sith’, chances are that the answer is no. ‘Labyrinth of Evil’ is hampered by the fact that all of its surprises and intrigues are pre-empted by the existence of the film to follow. Only a reader with total ignorance of Episode III’s content will get much from ‘Labyrinth of Evil’ and it seems likely that the reader of a Star Wars novel would have anything but. As it is, this novel is a placeholder, designed to fill in the gaps for the sake of completeness.

Still, other similar works have managed to overcome these hefty disadvantages and achieve some level of merit. ‘Labyrinth of Evil’, unfortunately, lets the side down. It is a shallow, dull example of style over substance, a Hollywood action movie in literary form. It reads like a screenplay for Episode Two-And-A-Half, lacking the visual element that makes blockbusters entertaining. The gunfire and explosions never stop long enough for the reader to develop an understanding of the characters, while the constant danger in which our heroes are placed has a numbing effect. Even if the reader did manage to overcome paper-thin characterisation and come to care about Luceno’s versions of Anakin and Obi-Wan, there’s only so much one can take.

The result is a novel that fails to engage the reader on any significant level, the fictional equivalent of white noise in your speakers; you can listen to it, but in the end it doesn’t really mean anything. ‘Labyrinth of Evil’ never rises above filler material, and so I condemn it to my ‘Star Wars Completists only’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Star Wars: Yoda – Dark Rendezvous

2005-10-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

Sean Stewart
Del Rey
ISBN: 0-345-46309-9

As the Clone Wars ravage the galaxy, the Jedi Order is weakening. Constant battle, droid assassins and jedi-hunters have thinned their ranks, but it seems as though the greatest threat to the jedi is the nature of war itself. They are changing, adapting to new circumstances, and in doing so they are in danger of forgetting what they stand for.

Amid the chaos and concern, Master Yoda of the Jedi Order receives an unexpected message. Count Dooku, once his student but now leading the insurrection that threatens to overwhelm the Republic, wishes to meet with him. More than likely the treacherous Count plans a trap for his former master, but Yoda sees a chance that must be taken. If he can win Dooku back to the light, the war could be ended without another drop of blood being spilled. Unlike those who doubt his wisdom in trusting Dooku’s word, Yoda can remember the boy he used to be. He can remember the good. And nobody is so old they don’t deserve a second chance…

Filling in some small part of the gap between ‘Attack of the Clones’ and ‘Revenge of the Sith’, ‘Dark Rendezvous’ has a lot of difficulties to overcome. Its stars are protected from harm by later appearances, while their subsequent philosophies have also been pre-determined. Such restrictions might be expected to rob the novel of tension or indeed any real purpose, yet Sean Stewart manages not only to prevent ‘Dark Rendezvous’ from irrelevance but keeps the reader entertained throughout. While Yoda faces off against his pupil, their conflict is shadowed in the battle between Yoda’s young escort and Dooku’s protégé. It is this battle that provides the novel with action in a traditional ‘Star Wars’ vein, all flashing lightsabers and blaster-fire. Yet their struggle is not without deeper meaning for in Whie, the gifted but troubled Padawan accompanying Yoda, the author hints at a repeat of the young Dooku’s fall to the dark side just as the old Sith himself struggles with salvation.

‘Star Wars’ has seen more than its share of musings on redemption and the nature of good and evil, but ‘Dark Rendezvous’ manages to avoid most of the well-used clichés and treads fresh ground instead. While Dooku’s fate is inevitable, Stewart’s powerful characterisation grants the Sith the appearance of a tragic hero, somebody with whom the reader can identify. This previously unseen vulnerability, this humanity, makes the reader hope against all reason that Dooku will find his way back to the light and makes his loss all the more tragic when the moment passes unfulfilled. To take a superficial, two-dimensional villain and grant him depth is no minor feat, but for it to be possible to sympathise even as he performs his villainous acts speaks well of the author’s skill. All of the above means that despite the title, this is more Dooku’s story than Yoda’s. Still, the Grand Master of the Jedi Order manages to hold his own. Stewart shows just what sort of individual lies beneath the whimsical behaviour, comic appearance and mangled syntax, giving Yoda a strength and depth that – while not quite matching that afforded his opponent – goes some way towards explaining eight hundred years of survival in a dangerous galaxy.

With such well-rounded and formidable characters facing off, their psychological battle is a tense and thought-provoking one. Once the talk is over and the lightsabers come out, it is almost disappointing; the climax has passed, and any physical confrontation feels awkward and irrelevant. The same applies for their young companions, though the moment of truth is less well handled in that incidence. The arrival of Obi-wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker on the scene is a particularly crude touch, an unwelcome intrusion implying a lack of confidence in ‘Dark Rendezvous’ ability to stand up on its own without Star Wars’ central players. Another disappointment is the hurried dénouement, tying up the loose ends with a little too much ‘happy ever after.’ Still, despite these flaws ‘Dark Rendezvous’ remains an enjoyable and atmospheric novel, a quality slice of the ‘Star Wars’ universe delivered with thoughtful care. Blending ‘space opera’ with psychological drama, Sean Stewart has created an arresting character study that recommends his other works. While I go off and hunt them down, ‘Dark Rendezvous’ will find a place on the shelf marked ‘Superior Star Wars’, where it sits in very good company.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Devices and Desires

2005-09-01T21:14:00.000-07:00

K.J. Parker
Orbit
ISBN: 1-84149-275-2

Ziani Vaatzes is an engineer, a maker of devices for the great Republic of Mezentia. When he builds a clockwork toy for his daughter, he creates something that exceeds the sacred specifications of Mezentine engineering and for that is sentenced to death. In escaping his fate, Vaatzes begins the construction of a mechanism that will lead to the death of thousands and destruction on a scale never before seen. Those around him are but parts of the machine, and it will be oiled with their blood before he is done.

Those familiar with Parker’s earlier work will know what to expect of ‘Devices and Desires’, but a newcomer to his writing will find this novel an off-beat, intricate slice of perfection. The characters are astounding; elegantly sculpted and wonderfully human, they are as flawed and limited as any being inside or out of fiction. Their strengths and weaknesses drive the narrative, granting the world they inhabit and the tale of their lives great authenticity. For once we have a fantasy novel where the characters exist for their own sake, rather than to further the plot. All of the set pieces, from battles to exquisite boar-hunts, exist to allow the reader better understanding of characters who aren’t simply reacting to the author’s well-crafted narrative - they are creating it themselves.

Whereas Parker’s earlier books have suffered on occasion from stretches where nothing seems to happen, in ‘Devices and Desires’ he has got the balance of action and characterisation just right. Yet to separate the two is misleading, because every scene somehow manages to become both exciting and insightful. Even the quietest, most introspective moment bears enough tension to keep from becoming dull.

While the novel is never less than absorbing, the strength of its characterisation also creates its only weakness. It seems even the most minor of players must be explained, fleshed out and made sympathetic to the reader, which means the focus is taken off the central characters for a handful of pages and these detours, entertaining and perceptive though they are, can seem like an indulgence.

A second side effect of such intensive characterisation is to strip ‘Devices and Desires’ of anything even remotely resembling a villain. While at first it seems as though the Mezentine Republic might be set to play that role, through shifting perspective to see the world through their eyes Parker gives them, too, the reader’s sympathy. It is a clever trick, refusing to provide a target deserving of destruction, and it makes the inevitable chaos and death all the more tragic. If only it could have been avoided, then all of these people (none of whom are paragons, but neither are they entirely to blame) could have continued in their selfish little lives.

It is that feeling of inevitability that lies at the heart of ‘Devices and Desires.’ It is a theme that can be found throughout, from Vaatzes’ insistence that his mechanism is out of his hands to a Mezentine official’s musings on cause and effect. Nobody, it seems, is truly free to make their own choices. Led by the environment and their own natures they battle for control of themselves and the world around them but even Vaatzes, so adept at making tools of those around him, sometimes seems little more than a helpless puppet.

Through his characters Parker expertly dissects the concept of free will, creating as he does a superb work of fiction that any reader can enjoy. To get the best from ‘Devices and Desires’ will require many readings, and I can only hope that the rest of the ‘Engineer’ trilogy can reach the same high standard. In the meantime this novel sits on the shelf marked ‘work of art’, its place well deserved.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Straken

2005-09-01T20:16:00.000-07:00

Terry Brooks
Del Rey
ISBN: 0-7432-5946-7

Grianne Ohmsford, head of the Druid order, still languishes in the dark and demonic world of the Forbidding, but things could be worse. thanks to the strange creature called Weka Dart she is free of the Straken Lord’s dungeons and although she doesn’t know it, her family’s rescue attempt is coming along nicely. Pen Ohmsford has retrieved the talisman he needs to free her, though it has cost him dearly. Now all he must do is return to the Druid keep, where all their enemies lurk, and enter the Forbidding to reclaim her.

Demons and Druids stand in the way of the touching family reunion but really, what could be simpler? If that sounds rather casual, it is because the Ohmsfords have been saving the world for so long now that they barely have to put any effort into it. The first two Shannara series’ were truly epic, rich in character and wonder. By comparison 'Straken' has all the depth of a child’s paddling pool, its characters pale shadows and the tale they inhabit a lifeless corpse. It feels tired, as though the author’s love for his creation has faded to nothing and he now churns out these stories on automatic. The spark of imagination, that special something which made Shannara so popular, has gone out.

Nothing makes that clearer than the repetition that can be found in 'Straken', prison breaks and airship battles used, given a fresh coat of paint, and used again. In contrast the Four Lands, Brooks’ distinctive setting, is barely touched upon. A once marvellous place, in Straken it is cruelly under-represented. What replaces it is wholly mundane, lacking the majesty it once possessed. The demon-world inside the Forbidding, a new location unexplored in previous novels, is similarly wasted. An opportunity to create a place of despair and unforgiving savagery is squandered, the land inside the Forbidding appearing no darker or more dangerous than a stroll in the park. This is a place to which creatures of dark magic and evil intent were banished, yet in Brooks’ hands it seems dull and unthreatening.

Straken is not a bad novel - it is simply bland and uninspiring. The fantasy genre is saturated with poor imitations of Brooks’ work, and this book somehow feels like one of them. There is nothing that stands out, either for damnation or praise, yet the author’s reputation ensures it will sell. A shame, when so many fresh and original works will be overlooked. Brooks has shown he is a writer of talent and imagination, yet both seem to have deserted him here. The reader turns the last page with ambivalence, caring little for shallow characters and the limited growth granted them by an unadventurous narrative. Perhaps it is time Shannara was allowed to rest?

Whether it will or not is another question. The end of the novel feels rushed, incomplete, and several plot threads are left frustratingly untied. Perhaps Brooks is planning to make ‘High Druid of Shannara’ a four book series? If not, certain subplots within ‘Straken’ are rendered mysteriously pointless. A shame, because their intricacies were more engaging than the main story itself, little gems amid the dross. A dragon; the fate of Weka Dart; even the Straken Lord himself, built up in the preceding novel and unforgivably sidelined here. All saved for another time? I hope so, just as I hope to see Brooks regain his old form. It wouldn’t do for another book to join ‘Straken’ on my ‘Big disappointment’ shelf, would it?

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Crash Deluxe

2005-08-01T19:44:00.000-07:00

Marianne de Pierres
Orbit Books
ISBN: 1-84149-258-2

The Tert, slum-town on the edge of the shining city of Viva, is once again at peace – or as close as it ever manages to get, anyway. Following her discovery and destruction of twisted genetic experiments in MoVay, Parrish Plessis is one step closer to the truth. Someone in the big city has been playing games, manipulating the lives of the Tert’s citizens for their own ends. Too many people have died as a result, people Parrish cared about, and even worse – this meddling has released the Eskaalim parasite, long dormant in humanity’s genes, and its terrible effects are already being felt.

Whoever is playing god, they need to be stopped. The people of the Tert deserve better than to be some rich kid’s playthings, and Parrish needs to start thinking about how to defeat the parasite that is slowly turning her into something dark and monstrous. Time is running out, and she needs to find the one responsible. Infiltrating Viva is the only way. Time to find out what civilisation is like. Parrish doesn’t know what to expect from the big city, but then it doesn’t know what to expect from her. It could be an interesting day…

Unlike the previous novels, Crash Deluxe begins with a flash forward to its own climax, an intriguing little narrative device which whets the reader’s appetite and curiosity. Just as well really, for that burst of action is followed by an opening sequence that fails to generate much interest. Parrish wanders around the Tert at something of a loss, knowing what she has to do but for some reason finding a dozen reasons to put it off.

This build-up may be slow, but it does introduce certain facets of De Pierres’ world that have been absent before. Of these the most important is the appearance of virtual reality, a cyberpunk staple that seems strangely out of place in the rough, unsophisticated Tert. Once the action moves to high-tech Viva City things make more sense, but it seems surprising to find the technology suddenly centre-stage. While there is nothing to De Pierres’ VR that hasn’t been seen before, the breathless vibrancy of her writing at least gives it a fresh coat of paint.

Parrish’s insertion into Viva is superbly handled, skilful foreshadowing giving her all the tools she needs without making the situation appear contrived. It is a pleasure, too, to see the Tert’s tough girl so out of her depth, her reactions to an unfamiliar environment comical and tragic. Just when it seems she has fallen on her feet Parrish finds herself in a deeper mess then ever before. Much is made of the differences between Viva’s sophisticated menace and the Tert’s brutal simplicity, giving the novel a feeling oddly reminiscent of Victorian class divides, or perhaps the an extension of the widening gulf between today’s suburbs and inner city areas. Certainly the straightforward Parrish is spectacularly unsuited to deal with Viva’s serpentine intrigues, yet somehow she muddles through.

New characters appear and old ones resurface, yet the author handles them all equally and with deft proficiency. For the most part clichés are conspicuous in their absence, and tough choices are made that grant the novel a gritty darkness it may have lacked before, though thankfully this new-found gloom manages to avoid obscuring Crash Deluxe’s gems of characterisation. The disclosure of the identity of Parrish’s mysterious benefactor is a magnificent sleight-of-hand, pulling a rabbit from the first novel’s hat that seemed little more than background detail. As well as that, the evolution of Parrish’s personality is a subtle marvel, the sacrifices forced upon her making her desperate to hang on to those she cares about yet afraid to hold them too close. While certain details of the main narrative seem unlikely or faintly ridiculous, things move fast enough that such minor holes are often overlooked, gone past in a blur before the reader notices them. But at the heart of Crash Deluxe lies a solid, powerful story, all about choice, and it plays out very well indeed.

Crash Deluxe marks the end of the first trilogy following Parrish Plessis and as such the tying of loose ends is to be expected. It is a pleasant surprise to find this is not overwhelmingly true. While certain mysteries are unravelled and plot arcs completed, there is enough fresh material here to drive at least another book. The novel ends on a massive cliffhanger, a well-executed piece of work which leaves the reader truly unsure of what to expect. While this unfinished ending might frustrate some, it should be enough to keep most readers eager to pick up the story when next Parrish returns. As such, Crash Deluxe will find a place with its fellows on my ‘first-rate cyberpunk’ shelf; I can only hope Marianne De Pierres won’t keep me waiting too long for the next volume.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Shadow Warrior

2005-07-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

Chris Bunch
Orbit Books
ISBN: 1-84149-332-5

In the years following the Al’ar war Joshua Wolfe has done pretty well for himself. His friends in the Federation military have proved a useful network for a bounty hunter to have and work is steady. Life is as good as it’s been for a long time, better than it was in the Al’ar prison camps, yet things spiral swiftly out of control when a contract to bring back a thief and his swag reveals something suspicious. Someone is collecting Lumini, the strange gemstones used by the Al’ar to focus their mental abilities, and they’re none too fussy about how they get hold of them.

Joshua’s life becomes even more complicated when Federation Intelligence call him in on a contract of their own. Out near the Al’ar homeworlds, long abandoned since that strange race mysteriously vanished in the face of their utter defeat, something is moving. Perhaps the Al’ar are not as gone as they seemed? Or perhaps some faction within the government itself seeks to turn the aliens’ powers to their own use? Joshua Wolfe doesn’t know, but people are trying to kill him. That’s one good reason to find out. Along the way, maybe he can come to better understand his own close relationship with the Al’ar – the respect that led them to name him, unique among humans, as one of their own. To name him as the Shadow Warrior.

This compilation consists of the three books in the ‘Shadow Warrior’ trilogy and a short story based on the earlier wartime exploits of the hero, Joshua Wolfe. It’s just as well the trilogy came packaged together, because they tell one seamless story and would be impossible to read as separate and individual novels. The tale itself is a dark one, steeped in casual violence and pointless tragedy, yet possessed of a certain grim humour. The pace is unrelentingly fast and, despite the occasional side-tracking as Wolfe abandons the plot in order to pay off his commitments, absorbing enough that the pages keep turning. Chris Bunch has a great talent for describing action scenes, Wolfe’s sudden and inevitably bloody acts of violence painted with flair and clarity.

The only problem with such a plethora of combat is that the reader never feels Wolfe is in any particular danger. Throughout the series he comes across as indestructible and instantly deadly, capable of taking down whole legions of unnamed goons without breaking into a sweat. Even those characters presented as serious opponents simply can’t compete with the aura of utter lethality Wolfe exudes, and one can’t help but feel the author has fallen into the trap of enjoying his protagonist’s all-conquering might a little too much. Yet when the plot requires that Wolfe fail he fails, and Bunch has made the job of presenting his failure realistically a difficult one. How is Wolfe captured in this situation, when an earlier and equivalent state of affairs proved such little challenge? Such inevitable victories leech much of the drama from ‘Shadow Warrior’s otherwise excellent battles. Only the presence of secondary characters fighting at Wolfe’s side provides any tension.

These characters, however, are few and far between. The fearless Joshua Wolfe works alone, probably because he doesn’t need the backup, and while he does pick up the occasional stray they generally don’t stick around long enough for the reader to get attached to them. The exceptions to the rule are excellently created slices of character, although they do have a certain ‘Bond girl’ feel to them. Indeed, Wolfe himself does bear an uncanny resemblance to Fleming’s superspy, from the serial womanising and gambling addiction to the always-requested tipple of choice. The casual violence and over-educated posturing are just the icing on the cake and they would make much of ‘Shadow Warrior’ a joy to read, were it not for one small thing.

In the first book in the trilogy, ‘The Wind after Time’, Wolfe is very different. He’s still the brutal killing machine we’ve learned to love, but a lot of the Bond-esque personality traits are yet to develop. Instead the reader sees a rather bland stereotype with some anger-management problems – never a good first impression, and ‘The Wind…’ suffers for it. Only after the cliffhanger ending does Wolfe loosen up – so much so, in fact, that he seems a totally different person. Perhaps there was a long break between the writing of the first book and the second, but despite making the protagonist more interesting this sort of inconsistency dents any possible suspension of disbelief. The plot is simple and sensible while still holding enough surprises to keep the reader hooked, yet the jarring transition between first book and second makes it difficult to become as fully immersed in the storyline as the novel deserves.

Despite this flaw, the narrative progresses smoothly towards the inevitable climax. By the time it comes around, though, there are still too many loose ends left trailing and the last hundred words feel far too rushed as the author hurries to tie them all off. The big finale is suitably dramatic and exciting, making the reader feel that the preceding chapters were worth reading just for this – effective build-up at work. Then comes the epilogue, and all of that good work is undone. In just a couple of pages Chris Bunch manages to literally wreck his novel and his character, providing no explanation or even rationalisation of an event which simply makes no sense.

Even the well-written and entertaining short story that follows, providing much insight into Wolfe’s background, is tainted by the foreknowledge of this pointless end to the saga. Perhaps in the author’s mind there were good reasons for things turning out the way they did, but in his apparent hurry to finish he neglected to put them down on paper. It is a real shame that an engaging, above average novel should be pulled down after a good run, and so with sadness I grant ‘Shadow Warrior’ a spot on the shelf marked ‘Fallen at the last hurdle’.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Pattern

2005-06-01T13:13:00.000-07:00

K. J. Parker
Orbit Books
ISBN: 1-84149-182-9

Having resolved some small fraction of his identity crisis, Poldarn was last seen heading back across the waters with the savage Raiders, the people he was born to. Trawling the Empire for clues to his past have left him with a whole pile of confusing contradictions and more enemies than he can count, so returning home seems like the safe option. But when home is filled with folk whose memories work a good deal better than his; when home is an incomprehensible society where everyone knows their role and performs without question; why, then home isn’t home at all. Struggling to cope in a place he doesn’t remember but that remembers him, Poldarn finds himself wondering if his past should remain nothing more than a shadow…

Following on from a first book, the ending of which raised more questions than it answered, ‘Pattern’ continues in the same vein. The one section of Poldarn’s history that seemed to be clearing is suddenly complicated again by secrets and deception, while our amnesiac hero tries desperately to get to grips with a culture that seems utterly alien to him. And there is something very odd about the Raiders. Brutal and merciless killers when harrowing the Empire’s towns, in their home they become suddenly rather harmless and pastoral folk. Indeed, the vast majority of the novel is filled with the day-to-day business of the islanders’ farm communities and Poldarn’s hopeless attempts to fit in.

While Parker’s writing is engaging and witty, even Poldarn’s confusion and offbeat comments can’t keep farm life in all its tedium from dragging the pace to a screeching halt. The interactions between characters are nuanced and filled with portentous significance, but the constant barrage of symbolism and red herrings backfires slightly as the reader is forced to yield under the sheer weight of them. Whatever social commentary may have been intended – and it seems as though there is some deeper meaning intended by all this – is lost in the confusion. A shame, really, for just like its prequel this is a very clever book. Cleverer than me, at least.

When it is good, ‘Pattern’ is superb. The pace picks up towards the end as certain sneaking suspicions become more likely and the horrifying secrets of Poldarn’s past are revealed. The novel is overflowing with evocative phrases and vivid imagery, and does a good job of portraying Poldarn’s alienation among his own people. For those who enjoy being confused or have the intelligence to follow its myriad twists and turns, this will be a joy. Unlike so much fiction where the plot is depressingly predictable, it’s more than certain that this novel will keep the reader guessing to the end. It is one of ‘Pattern’s greatest strengths, but a great weakness too. Credibility is stretched just a little too far, the characters seemingly going out of their way to protect the author’s secrets.

Apart from those hoop-jumps deemed necessary for the plot’s fulfilment, the characters and their actions are realistic and all too human. While Poldarn himself remains a rather unsympathetic hero and strangely ambivalent to his own fate, the host of characters around him more than make up for this. Parker has created a world of people who act and think just like real humans do, with all their contradictions and absurdities artfully portrayed. In a way the vivid reality of even the supporting characters makes Poldarn, the supposed focus of our attention, rather bland by comparison. Despite the ever-deepening hole he finds himself in, it’s difficult to care. Confusion takes care of any lingering sympathy the reader might have for him, killing it stone dead.

For all its faults of pacing and overplayed metaphor, ‘Pattern’ is an intriguing and unique slice of fantasy. Those with the patience to struggle through the tedium of the earlier pages will unearth a tangled web of mystery where resolving one issue just ties knots in another. It’s frustrating but delightfully so, and I’d advise any reader who plans to fully understand ‘Pattern’s many threads to keep a notepad handy. One thing’s for sure: this is a book that will survive many readings, and each repetition will bring a little more clarity than the last. The only question is whether you’re willing to give ‘Pattern the attention it deserves. A place on my ‘conundrum wrapped in an enigma’ shelf awaits it, just as soon as I figure out that last nagging point…

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Memory

2005-06-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

K. J. Parker
Orbit Books
ISBN: 1-84149-172-1

Having fled the Empire for the island he grew up on, the amnesiac Poldarn had hoped to find some peace among his people. It was not to be, his past catching up with him most unpleasantly, and after spreading death, destruction and misery to his family and childhood friends Poldarn returns to the mainland.

No longer interested in discovering the truth of his identity, all he wants now is to find some quiet corner of the world where he can live out his days and die without causing any more pain. But havoc seems to follow Poldarn around like a dog tailing its master, and the quiet foundry where he finds himself shaping bells is about to become the centre of a conflict between the faltering Empire and the fanatical followers of the Mad Monk.

With old enemies on both sides and too many people remembering him as a major player, he can do little to avoid the repercussions of his forgotten acts. As the pieces begin to fall into place and the truth is finally revealed, all Poldarn can do is trust nobody and pray he’ll make it through.

With some small mysteries cleared up at the end of this trilogy’s second book, ‘Memory’ is nonetheless left with a veritable shoal of enigmas to explain. Parker has done a remarkable job of keeping the reader guessing as to Poldarn’s true identity, hints falling like raindrops throughout the series. Such is the bewildering complexity of the narrative that at several points it seems Poldarn could have been almost every character in the trilogy, even some of the ones he has personally met since his memory was lost!

Yet despite this twisted mix of betrayals and red herrings, mysteries and misery, ‘Memory’ retains its plausibility. The supernatural aspect of Poldarn’s past that had such importance in the first book is present here again, a barrage of hints as to Poldarn’s divinity seeming to speak most ominously of some feeble deus ex machina to come. Thankfully that disappointment is avoided, and though the final revelation stretches coincidence to breaking point it is nonetheless both probable and satisfying, hindsight and re-reading allowing the reader to spot enough foreshadowing among the misdirection that the concluding twists never seem unnatural.

Unlike in the first two books, ‘Memory’ suffers occasionally from a decline in the quality of the dialogue towards the end of the novel exposition begins to take over, the natural and flowing speech that Parker excels at vanishing into a fog of revelatory monologues. It is a small flaw, however, one made necessary by the concluding nature of the book, and the answers exposed within such speeches more than make up for any small loss of authenticity. Regardless, Parker’s dialogue is for most of the book as snappy and natural as ever. Together with the unusual perspective the author projects onto everyday occurrences, this gives ‘Memory’ a slick and enjoyable style that seems curiously at odds with its often-disturbing content.

For this is certainly no children’s book. I don’t mean that it is filled with excessively graphic depictions of violence or contains steamy sex scenes – rather that the themes and actions of the characters can be deeply unpleasant. There are no heroes within K.J. Parker’s trilogy, least of all Poldarn himself. Like the author’s other books, ‘Memory’ is populated by characters whose attempts to do the right thing often create terrible tragedies and force them into monstrous deeds. Poldarn’s lost memories are filled with horrors both psychological and societal, but it is a tribute to Parker’s characterisation that the reader doesn’t lose their sympathy for the characters involved. If anything such sympathies are strengthened, as one can see just what would force people to such desperate and terrible feats.

If ‘Memory’ has one real fault, it lies in the first half of the book. Too long is spent building up the tension with seemingly innocuous events, too much emphasis placed on the minutiae of Poldarn’s work at the foundry. The author’s biography mentions a history of craftsmanship and it’s reasonable that such intimate knowledge be used to grant his writing authenticity. What isn’t reasonable is to burden one’s reader with the mundane, however it conveys Poldarn’s achievement in finding a boring little corner of the world to hide in. Such a desire for realism is laudable, but in this case it detracts from the flow of the story towards its terrible climax.

In conclusion, ‘Memory’ is the best of the Scavenger Trilogy and a fine book in its own right. Those struggling with the exceedingly complex first and second books should be reassured – it’s all worth it in the end. Clever, evocative and enjoyable, ‘Memory’ is apart from the occasional niggling flaw a lesson in how to write the third act of any story. It has a place of honour on my ‘how to do endings right’ shelf, and is good enough to make me seek out any of its author’s work I may have missed. Intelligent mysteries are so hard to find these days, but Parker’s work is one of the best.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Shadow

2005-04-01T19:28:00.000-08:00

K. J. Parker
Orbit Books
ISBN: 1-84149-105-5

In the north of the Empire a man awakes. Around him lie the remains of a battle, dead soldiers of both sides scattered across the muddy floor of a river valley and crows fluttering eagerly overhead. Which side he was on, he can’t remember – in fact, he can’t remember anything. Who he is, how he got here, just where ‘here’ actually is… nothing. Seems to be pretty good with a sword, though.

Forgetting your past could get a man in a lot of trouble, especially when your past seems determined to seek you out and wrap you up in a whole complicated web of treachery and politics. Everything our hero learns about himself just seems to bring him more strife, and wandering the countryside in a rickety cart masquerading as the God of the Apocalypse certainly isn’t helping.

When too many sides in a conflict recognise you as one of their own, everything gets very confusing. Who to trust? The confidence trickster who uses the god-in-the-cart routine to scam villages for food? The politician with his eye on the Emperor’s throne? Or the voices in your head, telling you the ‘god’ swindle might not just be an act? Maybe it’d just be easier to abandon the man he was and start again anew. If only he could find a little corner of the world where trouble didn’t follow…

In a just world, K.J. Parker’s ‘Shadow’ would come with a large warning across the front cover, bold red letters informing the casual browser to steer well clear. Not that it’s unreadable, not by any means – Parker’s prose is light and breezy, agonisingly nonchalant and a dream to read. No, the problem lies with the reader’s attention span, their ability to concentrate whatever intellect they may possess on the tale within. For should you dare to leave ‘Shadow’ unread for a day or two you’ll find yourself hopelessly entangled in a lasso of half-remembered plot twists or trapped along with a whole shoal of red herrings.

In these pages nothing happens by accident, every chance encounter is significant – or at least it tries to make you think it is. Parker weaves a plot of breathtaking, mind-numbing, incomprehensible complexity; unless it has your full attention you are bound to miss something vital.

Forget trying to guess the ending, even if you’re good at that sort of thing. So many dead-ends and false trails are laid in this novel that it must be hard for the author himself to figure out what’s happening, never mind the reader. Such unpredictability is refreshing but to reach such dizzy heights without sacrificing the narrative’s plausibility and consistency is something very special indeed.

If ‘Shadow’ has one fault, it is that our hero’s lack of memory leaves him without direction and, fatally at times, without any real drive. Perhaps it is a deliberate act on the author’s part, but Poldarn (the name our hero ends up using, to avoid excessive and imprecise overuse of ‘he’ if for no other reason) seems very much an observer, separated from the world around him. It’s difficult to empathise with someone like that, the choices he makes difficult to predict and harder to understand. It all fits in with our hero’s blank-slate nature of course, but it makes him a troublesome protagonist.

As mentioned before, ‘Shadow’ is written in such a way that it is – despite all manner of confusion – blissfully easy to read. Parker has a way with words, a certain unconventional way of looking at things that makes him stand out from the crowd. It also strikes a chord with any reader whose mind has occasionally betrayed them, and we’ve all been there. If anything the author goes a little too far, the quirky running commentary inside Poldarn’s head detracting from scenes where a little more emphasis on the serious side of things might have added emotional weight. It’s a fine portrayal of the human brain’s tendency to shy away from danger, but it’s a trick that is overused.

Despite an unlikeable protagonist and a plot that’ll pull your brain out through your ears and knot it under your chin, ‘Shadow’ is a fantastic piece of work. Original, unique and thought-provoking, it ends with a revelation that asks more questions than it answers Anybody who reads this and doesn’t want to read the sequel immediately hasn’t been paying enough attention. It’s entertaining and intelligent, a book that has to be read a half-dozen times before it begins to make much sense. Some people would find that frustrating: I find it delightful. ‘Shadow’ now sits happily on my ‘aspirin included free of charge’ shelf, just waiting for the next time I feel like letting my mind out of its cage.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Tanequil

2005-03-01T14:05:00.000-08:00

Terry Brooks
Simon and Schuster
ISBN: 0-7432-5674-3

Things aren’t going too well for Grianne Ohmsford, the Ard Rhys of the Druid Order. Her attempts to bring peace and harmony to the Four Lands have (as such attempts often do) met with little success, the rulers of the various realms far more interested in continuing their bloody feuds than bringing about a golden age of prosperity. On top of her political problems, a rather more cold-blooded rival recently dropped her right in the middle of the Forbidding, that cheerful realm that the Demons call home, and took control of the Order for herself. Demons are devious things as everybody knows, so it’s not surprising poor Grianne found herself captured at the end of the last book. Foreign travel, eh?

Meanwhile in the more material world of the Four Lands, Grianne’s nephew Pen has been charged by the ethereal King of the Silver River with retrieving the talisman that will let him enter the Forbidding and rescue his aunt. The new High Druid, Shadea a’Ru, is understandably less than thrilled with the nature of Pen’s quest and has set both the Druids themselves and her shadowy assassin Aphasia Wye on his trail. Together with a handful of allies Pen tries desperately to find the Tanequil before it’s too late, while in the war-torn borderland of the Prekkendorran the totalitarian Federation unveils a terrible new weapon. Things are looking fairly bleak for the freedom-loving citizens of the Four Lands, but one has to keep these heroic types busy somehow. Heaven only knows what they’d get up to otherwise.

As the middle book of an ‘epic’ trilogy, ‘Tanequil’ was always going to have a few pacing problems. Following conventional dramatic form the middle act is the part where the heroes suffer the unrelenting hammer blows of defeat before rising up for a stirring and climatic finale, and this book is nothing but conventional. Unfortunately it’s also as bland as unflavoured porridge, our protagonists’ misfortunes raising not a squeak of interest in the reader. Perhaps it is that we’ve been through this before, in a stream of fantasy quest adventures reaching back through Eddings and dozens of others to ol’ master Tolkien. Everything here has been done already, not least of all by Brooks himself who has made a very successful career out of Tolkien impersonation. This is by-the-numbers fantasy and it’s all so very dull.

When Terry Brooks began the Shannara series it was just what the genre needed. Exciting, well written and epic in scope, it was a joy to read. But like a faded champion in search of past glories it has lingered and what made it special has long since departed. Instead of something new we get a re-hash of old plots and characters where only the names have changed. There’s nothing here we haven’t seen before.

To give the author credit, his writing style is as good as it’s ever been. To a fantasy virgin or someone who is unfamiliar with Brooks’ work ‘Tanequil’ could be entertaining enough, possessing as it does a certain effortless beauty. The descriptions are powerful and the world of the Four Lands is, as ever, an impressive creation. Even the recent addition of high technology such as sunlight-powered airships – something that doesn’t mesh terribly well with the grit and magic of the rest of the setting – can’t spoil that depth. The characters too are convincing, coming with flaws and neuroses built in. The dialogue occasionally stalls and it’s difficult to distinguish between speaking characters by speech patterns alone, but that’s neither here nor there. On the one hand you have the rich Shannara setting, built up over many years and a dozen or so novels, and on the other hand you have… a great vacant hole where the plot should be.

That is ‘Tanequil’s biggest flaw. The entire novel reads like an extended chase scene, with the Druids running along behind Pen Ohmsford like something from a Benny Hill sketch. The interludes with Grianne’s experiences in the Forbidding are something else, showing a spark of originality that the series is otherwise sorely lacking, but they are too few and far between. Only in those scenes does something resembling a plot arise and it is there that the emphasis should have been placed, not – as it sadly is – on the awkward and contrived love story that is Pen’s escape from the Druids.

Hopefully the third book in the trilogy will remedy the many faults of this one, but it certainly has a struggle ahead of it. Considering how slow things have been moving so far, the pace is also going to have to drastically pick up otherwise I can see ‘High Druid of Shannara’ becoming a trilogy of four, ‘Hitch-hiker’s Guide’ style. This series has nothing to recommend it over Shannaras past, and it’s those previous series’ that a newcomer to Brooks’ work should seek out. For the veteran, ‘Tanequil’ will be nothing but a disappointment.

Whether the third book ‘Straken’ can throw a log on the fuel-starved fire of originality remains to be seen, but Brooks certainly has the ability – all he needs now are a few fresh ideas. Until they arrive, ‘Tanequil’ will find a place on my ‘shadow of former glory’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Well of Yearning

2004-11-01T18:46:00.000-08:00

Caiseal Mór
Pocket Books
ISBN: 0-7434-6856-2

In the Ireland of a thousand years ago, the mundane and the magnificent are part of life. While Norman conquerors raise their banner over the rebellious natives, otherworldly things watch from the bogs and the shadowy forests.

A young monk and his ailing master come to the Emerald Isle in search of a heretical manuscript, held by a community of religious outcasts. At the same time, the greedy and shadow-hearted knight Guy d’Alville begins his attempts to carve a kingdom of his own, and revenge himself on his rival, Robert FitzWilliam. When his depredations lead to the release of the malevolent Nathairai from their centuries-old prison, he finds himself forced into the service of the Queen of the Night, Aoife, as she prepares to unleash her army of daemons on the mortal world.

“The Well of Yearning” is an odd little thing, flitting from coarse and irreverent humour to historical exposition to Monty Python surrealism as if unsure where to rest.

Narrated in a traditional oral fashion, it is blissfully easy to read and coloured throughout by the storyteller’s opinions and sly asides to the reader. This unconventional style does little to disguise the story’s shortcomings, however. Rather limp and uninspired, the basic premise relies too heavily on cliché for support, and on the unpredictable nature of the Otherworld’s residents to magick it out of the narrative cul-de-sacs it ends up in time and time again. Just because they’re be-fanged and monstrous eaters of men (and women, of course) doesn’t mean that the needs of the plot take precedence over their own personalities and apparent motivations, does it?

Plot-holes and unlikely changes of heart aside, “The Well of Yearning” isn’t too bad really. While the style takes some getting used to it’s certainly different, and once the narrator’s in full flow it has a delightfully personal feel to it, one that can also be found in the traditional Irish myths the novel draws so heavily on. A nice touch, granting the book mythological authenticity.

The historical background for the novel is accurate enough for a fantasy Ireland, the presence of magical swords and evil spirits always allowing a little more leeway in the accuracy stakes than is granted, say, a Bernard Cornwell tale. If the political and cultural issues that plagued the Emerald Isle are given only a cursory glance in favour of the demons and evil queens, that’s fair enough. It’s up to the author, after all, where the emphasis lies.

Except… much of the latter half of the book – excluding the occasional off-topic ramble on, for example, the art of cheese-making – is devoted to untangling the most unlikely of twists. This unexpected turn of events has nothing to do with the otherworldly armies or monsters that are by then rampaging across the land, but instead revolves around a stranger’s return from the crusades. Ill-conceived and out of place, it feels like an afterthought, yet somehow manages to override the greater issues at hand. Much of the build-up and suspense, such as it is, is lost in the process, leaving the reader asking, “Yes? Now what?”

Combine this confused focus with acts of what must be unintentional comedy of the most surreal kind (the most obvious offender is a scene where one of the Nathairai, giant and monstrous snake-things with the intelligence and emotional maturity of an eight-year-old on crack, pauses halfway through a meal of Norman mercenaries to flirt coquettishly with Guy d’Alville) and you’ve got a book which doesn’t seen to know where it belongs and, at times, defies all logic or sanity. That it suffers from these faults and still somehow manages to be an entertaining, enjoyable read only makes it more frustrating. It’s a tribute to the author’s skill, really, but just think of what he would be capable if he could stop chasing his tail long enough to write a decent story…

Intriguing, inexplicable, bizarre and occasionally beautiful, “The Well of Yearning” is very much a mixed bag of nuts. It gets by solely on the strength of the writing, its logic-defying core threatening to tip it into the mire at any moment. Yet somehow the novel comes through clean and crisp and smelling of roses, so I’ll grant it a place – hell, a whole shelf to itself. “All style, no substance.” Somehow I doubt it’ll be joined there any time soon.

At least until the sequel arrives, that is.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Scrolls of the Ancients

2004-11-01T17:33:00.000-08:00

Robert Newcomb
Bantam Press
ISBN: 0-593-04963-2

The third and apparently final book in Robert Newcomb’s ‘Chronicles of Blood and Stone’, ‘The Scrolls of the Ancients’ sees our hero Prince Tristan and his entourage once again assailed by the servants of darkness.

Following the collapse of the Gates of Dawn and the death of Tristan’s villainous son, you’d think that the crown prince and his surviving wizards would be busy rebuilding their shattered realm. Nope, apparently the effort of putting paid to Nicholas’ nefarious schemes was a bit much for them, and while the people of Eutracia suffer hunger and banditry we find our gallant hero and his friends shacked up in the royal palace, enjoying a little R&R.

Only when their card game is rudely interrupted by the megalomaniacal Krassus, master of the sinister arts of the Vagaries, does their bubble burst. After handily defeating the combined might of the protagonists, Krassus in his gloating reveals a new and deadly threat to the world.

Prince Tristan and his sister Shailiha are the Chosen Ones, but unbeknownst to them another exists to rival them; their lost half-brother Wulfgar. If Krassus were to find him, he could use the newly uncovered power of the Scroll of the Vagaries to turn him to the dark side and destroy the benevolent magic of the Vigours forever! Gasp!

After giving his helpless enemies his annotated plans for world domination, Krassus departs in dramatic fashion, leaving the heroes unharmed. Hot on his tail Tristan and co. begin the search for Wulfgar and the other Scroll of the Ancients, in an attempt to thwart the archwizard’s schemes.

Their hunt will take them from Eutracia’s poverty-stricken capital to the hidden pirate fortress of Sanctuary and beyond, as the climatic confrontation with the servants of the Vagaries draws inevitably nearer. Featuring demons, birdmen, pirates and exploding herbs, the adventures of Tristan must be seen to be believed.

Never a truer sentence was written. Some part of me deep inside wonders if Robert Newcomb’s books and ‘the Scrolls of the Ancients’ in particular are some sort of incredibly sophisticated satire attempt. If that should be the case, then labelling ‘The Chronicles of Blood and Stone’ as serious fantasy was the most inspired marketing decision this world has ever seen.

As it is, the series’ concluding novel is the most head-shakingly, hair-tearingly, book-hurlingly diabolical excuse for literature I’ve ever had the misfortune to read. It is the written equivalent of ‘Plan 9 from Outer Space’, only Ed Wood had a better grasp of plot and dialogue. There is no way any reader could make it to the last page with their sanity intact; what that says for me, I’m not sure. ‘The Scroll of the Ancients’ has hit the barrier marked ‘point of no return’ and carried on accelerating, past ‘so bad it’s good’ and on into uncharted territory.

Lets start with the characters. These are no living, breathing individuals, complete with their own hopes, fears and idiosyncrasies. Instead we have a collective of cardboard cutouts whose sole reason for existence is to prod the narrative in the right direction.

Tristan, for example, is a paragon of virtue with the emotional range of a brick wall. He exists simply to dish out bloody and unrealistic violence and give the wizards Wigg and Faegan cue to begin another chapter-length block of expositionary dialogue. Krassus, on the other hand, is a pantomime villain in the most traditional sense, complete with insane laughter, random acts of senseless cruelty, and no redeeming features whatsoever. There are no attempts to grant him any particular humanity, or explain his actions. He is Evil (with a capital ‘e’), and that’s enough.

In real life there are shades of grey, but in Robert Newcomb’s world everything is black or white, good or bad. More than anything else this lack of human ambiguity in either heroes or villains makes it impossible to empathise with the characters, or even care about the events unfurling.

The supporting cast are no better. Either they act as humanoid milestones marking Tristan’s bloody progress through the novel or they exist as lesser replicates of our hero, fulfilling his twin duties of slaying and stupidity when the prince royal is unavailable. Only the wizards are exempt, for they serve a different purpose. They must ensure that the reader (via the transparent mechanism of informing their selectively idiotic companions) understands in intricate and soul-sapping detail every tiniest aspect of how the unusual magic system works. I can only imagine that Robert Newcomb somehow grew so enamoured of his creation that he mistakenly believed his readers would prefer great swathes of the book devoted to its workings, rather than to the plot.

In fact, it seems as though the author is fascinated by minutiae in general. To give him credit the descriptive writing in ‘the Scroll of the Ancients’ is above par, occasionally surprising the reader with an elegantly turned phrase or an evocative image. Newcomb overdoes it, though, and as such the half-page description of a character’s clothing in the middle of a battle scene is enough to break the mood before it’s really got started. Outside of combat it gets even worse, with – among other things – the step-by-step process for separating different types of magical herb relayed in coma-inducing detail. This level of description is admirable but ultimately counter-productive, destroying any reader immersion and leaving one frustrated.

While the plot that drives it all is a far-reaching and ambitious one that in the right hands could provide a solid foundation for a novel, in this case it is criminally mismanaged. To stay afloat ‘The Scroll of the Ancients’ relies on the ability of each and every character to second-guess their opponents with uncanny and ridiculous accuracy, as well as some truly nonsensical behaviour on both sides. It is the story that drives the characters, not the other way around. This, combined with inconsistencies and logic flaws a child could see, is what sinks the ship.

As the book drew to a close and I counted the remaining pages with glee, several major issues remained unresolved. As the unread paragraphs grew fewer and fewer it became apparent that these matters would, in fact, never be brought to a conclusion. This seems a very bizarre thing in what is supposed to be the series’ final book, not least because the entire trilogy has been laying the groundwork for certain events. There have been prophecies and omens and no end of discussion, but then… nothing. On top of that at least one unrequited romance and one major villain remain outstanding, as though the author totally forget about them. The only thing I can think of is that there is to be a further book in the series; the alternative is just too unlikely. As you may imagine, this strange absence of any kind of closure makes the novel even more frustrating than ever.

Possessing of some decent writing, ‘the Scrolls of the Ancients’ is nonetheless damaged beyond any hope of recovery by poor characterisation, non-existent pacing and truly abominable dialogue. Perfectly balanced between idiotic, boring and frustrating, this book should be avoided like a particularly virulent plague – unless you liked the first two, of course, in which case I can only hope the disease isn’t catching. I’d prefer never to see the book again, keeping painful flashbacks to a minimum, but if I were forced to place it in my collection, it would be on the shelf entitled ‘abandon hope, all ye who enter here’.

You have been warned.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Code Noir

2004-10-01T17:47:00.000-07:00

Marianne de Pierres
Orbit.
ISBN: 1-84149-257-4)

Following on from the events of 'Nylon Angel', 'Code Noir' sees our punk heroine, Parrish Plessis, become further tangled in the complicated politics of the slum city known as the Tert. After the gang war that led to the deaths of two major crimelords, Parrish finds herself in an unwanted position of power, forced to take control before someone else does. Still wanted for the murder of the media darling Razz Retribution, she needs all the protection she can get but finds that a ganglord's power can go a long way towards improving the lives of the Tert's diseased and drug-addicted inhabitants.

To add to Parrish's troubles, the fanatical aborigine Loyl Daac still seeks to regain control over his tribe's ancestral lands - territory the Tert happens to be slap-bang in the middle of. His attempts to harden his people to the poisoned soil through gene alteration have released the Eskaalim, a parasitic organism long dormant in humanity's DNA. Parrish is infected and the creature is slowly eroding her humanity, feeding on aggression and lust as it twists her genetic coding into something totally alien. Unless she can find a way to stop it her fate is sealed. Like the ganglord Jamon Mondo, whose unnatural aggression caused the war, she will become a monster.

As Parrish struggles to resist the Eskaalim's effects another problem lands straight in her lap. The Cabal Coomera, the sinister sect to whom Parrish owes her life, need her to recover four of their kidnapped shamans. But the mystics are only the first to vanish in what turns out to be the opening shot of a spiritual war that will again shake the Tert to its foundations, sending Parrish on a quest into the darkest heart of the
criminal underworld, the slum town of Dis. As Parrish searches through its bizarre and twisted streets, she will discover the root of a conspiracy that reaches beyond the slums into the pristine opulence of Viva City itself, where the media rule supreme...

Sounds confusing? Trust me, it is. Throughout the novel, Marrianne De Pierres weaves a bewildering array of plot threads together and just as in real life they twist up into a great tangled ball. Threads split and merge, twisting back and forth as revelations come and go. So much is going on at once that it's difficult to grasp just what's happening at any one time. Refreshingly unpredictable, yet not so much that realism is sacrificed, 'Code Noir' delivers fast-paced tension and futuristic cool by the bucket-load.

Written in the first person, 'Code Noir' uses Parrish's perspective to relay the story. Her emotions and knowledge vividly colour the tale and she is often struggling to keep up with the numerous twists and turns, reacting to events as they unfold in a desperate attempt to remain in control of the situation. De Pierre's heroine is an impressive piece of work, fully realised in all her contradictions from the tough-girl façade to her weakness for children and small animals. While none of the novel's other characters are as complex or well-rounded, they still pass as convincing human beings. A great many, however, seem to have been imagined from the more mentally unstable end of the gene-pool, possessing traits ranging from fanaticism to full blown psychosis. Clearly the future is lacking in reliable therapists.

While the first half-dozen chapters are concerned with Parrish's attempts at damage control as she struggles to keep her newly obtained territory and her own skin intact, it is the trek into Dis that takes up the majority of the book and for good reason. Parrish is forever getting side-tracked, running into old acquaintances and obligations that often tie in a little too conveniently to the main plot. Much is made of foreshadowing and while most is good, De Pierres is occasionally a little heavy-handed, inserting give-away clues to later events. The retroactive insertion of one or two details that one would have thought important enough to mention in the first book is a little irritating, but something forgivable.

Less so is the bewildering chaos that begins to set in once Parrish reaches Dis itself and becomes involved in a spiritual conflict between the Cabal and a particularly nasty voodoo shaman. This newly introduced mystical side refuses to mesh well with the cyberpunk setting, instead giving the end of the book a messy, confused feel. Why was there no mention of shamanism's sudden substantiation before? It becomes the central theme of 'Code Noir', but it feels out of place in this high-tech, fancy-free world.

At its best, when dealing with the dark unpleasantries of life in the Tert, 'Code Noir' flounders when it strays into new and fantastic territory. By the finale, things are back on track and the writing is vivacious enough that it is easy to forgive the novel's occasional fault. So I place 'Code Noir' on my 'genre-blurring' shelf and await the third instalment.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

On Spec: The Canadian Magazine Of The Fantastic vol 16 no. 1 (#56)

2004-09-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

Copper Pig Writers Society.
ISSN: 0843-476X.

This particular issue of 'On Spec' is a mix of unusual non-generic fiction and non-fiction articles, though the magazine leans heavily in favour of the former. Just to be contrary, however, I'll give the non-fiction a quick once-over before moving on to the meat of the magazine.

Issue 56 boasts an editorial that imparts to the reader everything that stand-up comedy can teach writers about writing. A tenuous link at the best of times and the editorial suffers a little by it. All told, this is little more than submission guidelines for aspiring writers plus jokes. The points it raises are valid and will generally be useful for those rising stars of prose who have as yet managed - somehow - to avoid such rules.

The only other official non-fiction is a dialogue discussing the merits of 'The Lord Of The Rings' films. Frankly the debate will sail merrily over the heads of anybody lacking a substantial knowledge of cinematography, both its history and technicalities. This seems like it belongs in a degree-level Film Studies course, not in a magazine dedicated to fantasy - only through the nature of the films under discussion is any link maintained. The article seems more interested in discussing the trilogy's cinematic merit rather than its success or failure as an adaptation of the genre's pivotal work.

Classified as fiction yet giving the impression of a very tongue-in-cheek non-fiction article, we'll call 'Alternative Therapy For Your Computer' from Karl Johanson a crossover piece and leave it at that. In brief, it explains how homeopathic and spiritual remedies can be used to clear up your PC's bugs and crashes. As a satire of alternative medicine it performs admirably and is guaranteed to raise a chuckle or two, but the piece lacks subtlety for the most part. The author's need to explain for the hard-of-thinking those jokes that aren't blindingly obvious is particularly irritating in places.

Oh well, on to the real fiction. Nine pieces ranging from half a side to near twenty pages, their quality as variable as their length. Trailing the pack is Michael Brockington's 'Jumpstart Heart', a bizarre and jumbled piece with a sideline in time-travel via the second law of thermodynamics. That's about all I could grasp from the story - everything else blurs together in a nonsensical mess, though the dialogue is fairly sharp. 'Printed Matter' from Cliff Burns is a little better, at least managing to maintain a sense of coherence. Taking the form of one correspondent's side of a conversation-by-post, it suffers from the unpleasant character that the letters reveal. The even more depraved silent partner in these dialogues comes across well through the responses he generates, a sign of good writing on Burns' part, but the material itself is not up to par.

A great step upwards in terms of quality, Catherine MacLeod's 'Stick House' is a strange tale of death delayed and the problems that creates. The situation is little more than window dressing. It's the relationship between the narrator and her lover that takes centre stage, portrayed with touching sincerity and an impressive talent for creating memorable phrases. 'View Of A Remote Country' by Karen Traviss, on the other hand, is difficult to read but rewarding. Its everyman hero is somebody easily identified with and while the tale is slow, the dialogue has an air of realism about it.

At only half a page and a couple of hundred words, 'Ribbons Lightning' by Joanne Merriam is over before it's really got going. As a snapshot it succeeds, painting a picture both beautiful and dark with admirable brevity.

Todd Bryanton's 'Ruby Bloom' is, by contrast, one of the longer pieces. An intriguing glimpse into the life of a psychotic, it is made even more fascinating by taking the point of view of the patient himself. I'm not going to spoil the twist ending which throws the whole story into a new light, but suffice to say that the reader is kept guessing throughout. The depiction of paranoia and numerous other psychoses are also excellently done. It all seems to make so much sense, from the patient's point of view.

Six down, three to go. 'Reunion' is up next, by Jack Skillingstead. Like most of the pieces in this magazine it's unconventional to say the least. Something of a redemption story as a cold-hearted businessman revisits his past in a very accurate sense of the word. The story feels somewhat padded out with over-exacting description but the characterisation is solid as a rock and the plot's clever enough to make it an absorbing read.

'Resurrection Radio' from Patrick Johanneson is another quality piece. Thought-provoking and original, it's a fresh look at spirituality from a very down to earth position, written with real empathy. Its ending is particularly intelligent, the sort of thing to send you back to the beginning hunting for clues. Suddenly, it's staring you in the face, but you'd never suspect. Foreshadowing at its best.

Last but not least, we have 'Seven Years' by Megan Crewe. Another of the short pieces, it nonetheless manages with remarkable economy to outdo the other works in this magazine. A bittersweet moment from the life of a Frankenstein-esque scientist, it is poignant to the point of heartbreak. A shame it's not longer but then, maybe, that would have spoiled it. Either way, I'd like to read more of Crewe's work which means it has to be a success.

So there you go. A mixed bunch but sound overall and containing a couple of gems that give it enough lustre to catch the eye and keep you interested. If you can get your hands on this, I'd suggest you do so. There's certainly nothing of the conventional about On Spec #56.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Sirius The Dog Star

2004-08-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

Edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Alexander Potter
DAW
ISBN: 0-7564-0186-0)

'Sirius The Dog Star' is a compilation of short pieces by authors intending to place the spotlight firmly on their canine friends and the majority of the stories in this book fulfil that remit admirably. However, there are one or two where the presence of the dog seems little more than an afterthought, with little impact on the tale itself as if the author wrote the story on request rather than out of a genuine love of man's best friend. As such, the quality of the stories vary wildly from the good to the truly awful and the anthology itself becomes a rather average hit-and-miss affair. Nonetheless, the best of the fiction within makes this a worthwhile read, if not a vital buy.

Things begin well with a pair of stories from Tanya Huff and Julie Czerneda that show an impressive ability to convey an animal's point of view on Huff's part and Czerneda's knack for creating imaginative, emotionally complex situations. Fiona Patton's 'Heartsease' is less enjoyable, a garbled and overly explanatory account of psychic powers among four close-knit families in the vicinity of Lake Ontario. India Edghill brings the first quarter of the book to a close with an interesting piece called 'A Spaniel For The King' about the succession of the English crown following the death of Charles II. How it qualifies for a place in a Science Fiction compilation is not clear, but it's nonetheless a good read, well written and engaging.

Stephen Leigh is next up, with a truly impressive piece of writing that examines the moral implications of tinkering with the genetic makeup of animals. Given a rudimentary intelligence, Leigh's Enhanced Canines (E.C.s or Easies) labour like slaves for humanity. When random breeding results in Madra, whose intelligence places him far above his peers, the supervising scientists consider whether they have the right to destroy him as a threat, unaware that the choice is no longer entirely in their hands... Speculative, original and entertaining, the story ends in a cracking cliff-hanger that will have you tearing your hair out in frustration.

'After The Fall,' a sort of 'Christmas Carol' with dogs and strange fey creatures is up next. Kristine Kathryn Rusch creates a readable if derivative piece here, but there is little to set it above the masses. Rosemary Edghill fares less well, her short story 'Final Exam' based upon ideas that seem at best ill-conceived and at worst ludicrous. Even ignoring the highly suspect premise, the story is uninspiring and limited in scope - the worst tale in this compilation.

Thankfully, Bernie Arntzen's 'Precious Cargo' quickly puts 'The Dog Star' back on track. Funny and engaging, this tale of interstellar traders transporting a batch of genetically engineered puppies to their new owner is filled with memorably scribed scenes and clever twists, while the dialogue is sharp and witty. Light-hearted and guaranteed to raise a giggle, this is the best of the many stories in 'Sirius' and together with Stephen Leigh's 'Among The Pack Alone', mentioned earlier, makes the book worth buying.

'Hair Of The Dog' by Doranna Durgin and 'All The Virtues' from Mickey Zucker Reichert represent another trough in the erratic line of quality. The former reads like an excerpt from a larger tale, making references to characters and events that have no real bearing on this short story yet which seem far more significant than what occurs within. As such, it is hard to keep track of what's going on amid all the confusion and easy to lose interest. 'All The Virtues', on the other hand, goes too far in the opposite
direction, taking the form of an extended flashback heavy with exposition. Dulled by the unnecessary detail, the story itself is a simple and lifeless one that seems totally out of place in a Science Fiction compilation.

The next tale in the compilation is one of a private detective hired to recover a missing experiment, a genetically engineered dog with human intelligence. 'Dog Gone' is somewhat pulp in style, John Zakour's writing light-hearted and pleasant to read. The case is rather easily solved however and limited by the length of the tale is lacking the twists and turns which make a good detective story.

'Life's A Bichon', despite its terrible pun-title is an entertaining piece of dark storytelling from Bethlyn Damone. A naïve city man finds himself caught up in a werewolf hunt with a difference, one that will change the way he looks at the world forever. Nicely written and with an interesting twist on the usual werewolf myths as well as a handful of other good ideas. It is an engaging if short read. The next tale, 'Keep The Dog Hence' by Jane Lindskold, continues the supernatural theme with a dark little chronicle of a pack of ghostly hunting dogs that take revenge on the owner of a mistreated mongrel. The writing is good and reflects the changing moods of the piece - sinister and chilling in places, sympathetic in others, gritty in the rest.

Finishing off the supernatural triumvirate, 'Snow Spawn' is a confusing jumble of ideas that revolve around a violent trapper and his broken-spirited wife after he kills her pet dog. A blizzard descends on the cabin, and a great white dog appears... After that, things get too bizarre to follow and while the writing is evocative the story is a bewildering mess that defies any attempts to make sense of it.

The penultimate tale is 'Improper Congress' by Elaine Quon, an amusing piece that should serve as a warning of just how badly things can go wrong when a transporter malfunctions. Certainly novel, the story is short and sweet, though the future-slang is somewhat irritating and overused.

Finally, we reach 'Huntbrother' by Michelle West, by far the longest story in the book, telling of a young noblewoman whose love perishes in a far away war. However, her beau is granted one night of release from death, one night with his true love and it is on that night, filled with their god's power, that their son is conceived. 'Huntbrother' is the story of that child, Stephen, and how he grows to fulfil his destiny as the son of the god Bredan. Slow to start and overly concerned from time to time with the unremarkable daily events in his life, the story is nonetheless a powerful one, detailing the conflicts as the young mother struggles to bring up her son. The world they inhabit is a fascinating one, renaissance-like in its social setting yet curiously medieval in other ways. By the end of the account, as Stephen faces the first true test of his semi-divinity in a brutally fast-paced and climatic finale, the reader finds themselves absorbed and intrigued. The only major qualm I had with 'Huntbrother' is that, once again, it reads as though taken from a much larger story, leaving the tale curiously truncated as though it were merely the opening chapter of some great saga. Still, as an incentive to search out Michelle West's other novels it is very effective and a solid piece of work.

Despite the occasional misfire, 'Sirius: The Dog Star' is a readable collection of tales. A couple of standout pieces keep it afloat where otherwise it might have sunk and while a few of the stories seem only tangentially dog-related, they may be forgiven. All in all, 'Sirius' is a worthy addition to my 'just makes the grade' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Darkness That Comes Before

2004-05-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

R. Scott Bakker
Simon and Schuster UK
ISBN: 0-7432-5668-9

Two thousand years have passed since the destruction of the old world and mankind has rebuilt what it can. The No-God that brought about the First Apocalypse has long been forgotten, those who warn of his influence dismissed as scaremongers and paranoid fools. The game of politics is the primary concern now, not the invisible agents of an ancient and vanquished foe, and as the Shriah of the Thousand Temples declares a Holy War against the infidel the nations jostle for position.

Amid the political manoeuvring and the religious fanaticism, however, something darker is beginning. For the first time, one of the schools of magic has allied itself with the men of the Thousand Temples, those who would burn them at the stake. What do they want? Are they there to help or hinder the Holy War? The heir to a kingdom destroyed two thousand years ago has stepped into the limelight, claiming dreams of the Holy City, and joined the crusade. But he is the prophesised harbinger of the Second Apocalypse, and as the fate of the Holy War hangs in the balance the servants of the No-God move freely among the devout and the blasphemous alike, forgotten by all but a few…

In “The Darkness That Comes Before” R. Scott Bakker has begun something extraordinary. The world he has created is a fully functioning mirror to our own, intricate and detailed. It is at once familiar and alien, filled with both commonplace reality and fantastic wonder, the characters who inhabit it as human in their flaws and virtues as any one of us, but also capable of strange and terrible things. The situations they find themselves in strike a chord with the reader in their gritty realism, yet are still capable of provoking awe and horror as the author requires. This is a real world, populated by real men and women, yet it is at the same time a place where miraculous and terrifying things can happen. Being able to create such a living, breathing, and above all natural framework within which the magic can still flow from the page unhindered is a rare talent, and R. Scott Bakker clearly has it in abundance.

As the first part of a larger tale, “The Darkness That Comes Before” is obviously concerned a great deal with setting the scene and introducing the characters. While this could have rendered this first book rather tedious, the exposition is slowly and skilfully blended with the action and while this does slow the pace of the tale it never brings it to a dead halt, and the background information interesting enough in itself that boredom is never going to be a problem.

The only negative point that could be raised about this novel is a small thing, really – there is no real sense of completion as the book draws to a close, no milestone passed. As a teaser designed to keep the reader keen for the second book it also fails – there’s no cliffhanger to hold you, either. The book ends seemingly in mid-stride, as though cut inadvertently short. Like one of those advert breaks that interrupt your favourite TV program halfway through a scene, it is an inexplicable thing.

Despite the cut-off ending, I’ll be eagerly awaiting the next book in the series purely on the strength of the writing and the tightly wound plot, so no real damage is done. This minor flaw can do little to offset the sheer scope of the novel, how it is as the same time both epic in scale and deeply personal to the characters involved. R. Scott Bakker writes with an effortless and refreshing style that brings the images evoked straight to the mind’s eye, while the material is philosophical in nature and intellectually fascinating. As such, “The Darkness That Comes Before” is granted a place of honour on my ‘When does the next one arrive?’ shelf, and a space beside it lies empty, waiting for book two.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Darknesses

2004-05-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

L. E. Modesitt Jr.
Tor
ISBN: 0-765-30704-9

This second volume in the Corean Chronicles starts, as you would expect, where the first left off. The immortal ruler of Madrien has fallen and that country is no longer a threat to the beleaguered Iron Valleys. Alucius, now a Captain in the Valleys Militia, longs for nothing more than to return to his wife and farmstead in the wintry north, but it seems greater things are in store for him. The war with Madrien has bankrupted Alucius’ small country and when the larger nation of Lanachrona begins raiding across the border the Iron Valleys cannot afford food, arms or wages for its men and has no choice but to accept the rule of Lanachrona’s Lord Protector.

With the Militia absorbed into Lanachrona’s armies, Alucius finds himself and his men marching east to defend that country’s ally, Deforya, from the forces of a barbarian invader who would conquer all of Corus. Treated as expendable by his new commanders, Alucius and his men find themselves fighting ancient magical beasts thought little more than legends. Struggling to deal with threats from all sides, Alucius learns more about the Corus’ dark history and the sinister powers behind the shadow that threatens to overwhelm the continent. Forced to fight to protect the quiet life he longs for, Alucius becomes embroiled in an ancient conflict between good and evil and finds himself battling for the survival of life itself…

‘Darknesses’ is, I am happy to report, a significant improvement on the first book in the Corean Chronicles. While being - at least at first - a typical story of fantasy warfare, it cuts out much of the tedious description of everyday minutiae which plagued ‘Legacies’ and instead concentrates on the action, whether it be battle, intrigue, or Alucius’s worries about the future of both his men and his country under a new ruler.

However, in the latter the reader is granted only slight insight into the hero’s thoughts and motivations, just as before, leaving Alucius something of an enigma. While it may be that the author intended his hero to be so lacking in personality, it makes Alucius difficult to sympathise with as his single-mindedness and permanent calm give him an air of unreality. In a book where there is only really one major character, this is a serious problem. Excellent interludes written with subtle wit and style shed new light on the events unfolding behind the scenes, but they just act to reinforce the hero’s lack of character, as they are often populated by minor players granted far more depth in a few lines than Alucius is in the whole novel.

The failings of the major character aside, ‘Darknesses’ is an example of the old fantasy standby “the Return of an Ancient Evil” given a fresh coat of paint and with one or two new ideas inserted. The presence of high technology from a fallen realm in what is otherwise a very generic fantasy setting breathes new life into the setting while the magic, or ‘Talent’ as it is known, is vividly and powerfully described, but by themselves these slight innovations are not enough. Simply put, ‘Darknesses’ stands or falls only by the quality of Modesitt’s writing, so it is fortunate that his mind is capable enough to bring such vision and depth to the novel. Particularly in the final section of the book, following Alucius’ realisation of the enormity of the threat Corus is facing, the pace is thunderous and the narrative irresistible. The slow build-up pays off in a great rush of storytelling that keeps the pages turning until the epilogue, loose ends tied off and yet still a hint of menace remains, an ever-present threat that the battle is never over. As such, I am happy to carefully place ‘Darknesses’ on my ‘Worth the wait’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

New Spring

2004-03-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

Robert Jordan
Orbit/Times Warner
ISBN: 0-84149-260-4

Just to get it out of the way right at the beginning - this is not the next book in the 'Wheel Of Time' series but a prequel to the events of 'The Eye Of The World', the first book. Apologies to all of the die-hard Jordan fans out there, but you'll just have to wait.

In the meantime, 'New Spring' should be enough to keep you thirsting for more... The novel covers the elevation of the young initiate, Moraine, and her friend, Siuan, to the rank of full Aes Sedai at the time of the Aiel invasion. As the foreign hordes begin to retreat, giving no reason for either their assault or their withdrawal, a foretelling by a senior Aes Sedai warns of the birth of the Dragon Reborn.

Finding the long-prophesied saviour of the world is immediately of the highest priority to the Aes Sedai and as the newest of the ageless sorceresses Moraine and Siuan are assigned to take the names and birthplaces of all those babes born in the area during the conflict as a cover for that search.

When Moraine becomes embroiled in plots concerning the thrones of two kingdoms - one lost to the wasteland and the other ravaged by the Aiel - she is forced into contact with Al'Lan Mandragoran and their initially rocky relationship soon becomes a bond of respect and friendship as they race to unravel the knot of schemes tightening about them and discover the darkness that lurks in the White Tower of the Aes Sedai.
There is no doubt that Robert Jordan is one of the finest creators of fantasy settings since Tolkien and 'New Spring' can only add to that reputation. Jordan's world is a vibrant, intricate masterpiece teeming with novel ideas and concepts that soar merrily past the typical fantasy pitfalls.

Above all, the world is alive with the complexities which make life such an interesting thing: a thousand subtle factors interacting in a way which mirrors reality with uncanny accuracy; a tangled web of character motivations driving the plot in unexpected but always realistic directions. It is nothing but a shame then that Jordan's writing ability fails to keep pace with his imagination. 'New Spring' lurches along in stops and starts, making up for the admittedly brilliant set pieces with vast swathes of text where nothing at all happens!
The plot is not advanced and no character growth occurs. Whole sections of the book could be chopped out with no effect on the novel whatsoever beyond shortening it by a few thousand words. There is no point to these huge wads of endless description and such barren plains of mundanity are made all the more frustrating for the occasional breathtaking peak.

While characterisation is good and Jordan seems unable to resist the temptation to give even the most minor of characters a fully detailed life-story the description of idiosyncrasies and defining traits are limited in variation and quickly become repetitive.

In addition, even the meekest of the female characters possesses a stubborn, shrewish nature and a condescending view of men that grates on the sensibilities. Jordan's idea of the female psyche is primitive and one-dimensional and seems rather out of touch with reality, so the male vs female conflict which pl
ays a big part in the novel feels crude and heavy handed. The plot is, for Jordan, a simple one, but still intertwines numerous schemes and intrigues so deftly that the unwary reader is swiftly lost. While one thread seems little more than a plot device designed to get Moraine away from the White Tower, the rest are plausible and interesting.

As a prequel whose characters appear in later books, 'New Spring' loses a lot of the tension at dramatic moments through the reader's knowledge that whatever happens certain characters must survive, particularly during the slightly flat finale.

However, enough interest is maintained to make the novel an entertaining read, if not up to the standard of Jordan's best, so I happily grant it a place on my 'more highs than lows' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Legacies

2004-02-01T22:51:00.000-08:00

L.E. Modesitt Jr
Orbit
ISBN: 1-84149-252-3

Things are tough for the Iron Valleys, a small and poor nation bordering two vast and powerful ones. It has only survived so far by being just strong enough that invasion would cost more than it would gain.
Now, however, Madrien is at war with Lanachrona, struggling for control of the continent and the Iron Valleys are perfectly placed for strikes into either country, should the other control the land. Suddenly they are strategically important and it is not long before there is a Matrite invasion force heading for the border...
Alucius is a Herder of the Iron Valleys. A young man with the magical Talent that so often runs in Herder men, though this has been kept secret from the authorities that would use his skills, taking him away from the stead his family has worked for generations.

However, when war comes and he is recruited into the Militia to fight the Matrites he finds his abilities blossoming in the battle to defend his homeland. But the slave-soldiers of Madrien and the ancient magical engines they use are only the beginning, for something far darker lurks in the heart of the enemy realm. Something Alucius and his burgeoning Talent must confront before the stain of its corruption can spread any further.

For the most part, Legacies is a war story. Alucius' training in the Militia and the battles he takes part in fill the vast majority of the book. While the quality of writing is good, it is nothing special.

There is nothing here that hasn't been done before and better, without the rather pedestrian description of every event that occurs, whether in combat or out of it. The relaying of Alucius' every move in minute detail as he wanders around camp is particularly tedious and it often feels as though the author can't think of anything particularly significant to include and opts for another 'Alucius has a look around the market' scene.

The cause of this novel's rather mundane feel is difficult to pinpoint, as the writing itself is good and eminently readable while the description of each scene is concise and reasonably effective at portraying exactly what is going on, even in the most confusing battle scenes. No, the fault lies not in the writing but in the description of Alucius himself. Our hero is a blank slate of a person, showing little in the way of any actual personality.
He does what he is told and never gets angry, has no particular friends and seems to adapt to a soldier's life with remarkable speed, killing the enemy with little in the way of remorse. In fact, he shows no feeling whatsoever and it is Alucius' robotic lack of emotion that makes it hard for the reader to care even in the slightest about what he does with his spare time, never mind what happens to him in battle. Even his family, virtually non-existent in terms of the amount of page-space dedicated to them, are fleshed out more fully and possess more in the way of human characteristics.

The pacing of 'Legacies' doesn't help to offset its major faults. In fact, it adds to them. Very little actually happens during most of the book. The most exciting thing being a few desultory battles between various sides of the conflict. Alucius spends a great deal of time wandering around the enemy homeland of Madrien, seemingly just taking in the sights and indulging in the occasional slaying before suddenly developing an interest in that country's immortal ruler the Matrial and spending a few pages sneaking around her mansion.
A solid, interesting villain is a must for any fantasy story, but the Matrial herself is only shown in minute, irrelevant snatches throughout the story. Indeed, the climatic confrontation almost takes place without her and she never even utters a word during it!

Suffering from catastrophic failures of pace and characterisation as it does, 'Legacies' was never going to be a great book. The above average quality of the writing and Modesitt's smooth style don't even come close to overcoming these huge faults, resulting in a book which isn't bad, it's just...boring, middle of the road, mundane.

The reader spends the whole novel turning pages in a zombie-like trance waiting for something interesting to happen, only to find he's reached the back cover. The story passes by in a blur, its events such as they are smearing together into a rather ordinary, uninspired mass and as such I consign 'Legacies' to my 'cure for insomnia' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

First Meetings In The Enderverse

2004-02-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

Orson Scott Card
Orbit/Times Warner
ISBN: 0-84149-311-2

To open, a word of warning: This compilation is one for those who are already acquainted with Orson Scott Card's 'Ender' series only. As a first step into this universe of child prodigies and moral philosophy, it would be a disaster. Not so much dropping the reader into the deep end as catapulting them into it.

Comprised of three stories expanding on previously uncovered areas and the original novella upon which the phenomenally successful 'Ender's Game' was based, it is a must-have for fans of the series but a poor starting block for first-time readers.

In 'The Polish Boy' we are introduced to Ender Wiggin's father as a young child, as much a genius as his son would come to be but raised to resent the International Fleet by his father. The family is Polish and Catholic and, in a nation under virtual occupation by international forces for its refusal to comply with birth-control regulations and various other ordinances, it is no surprise that when the eldest children are due to be tested for entry to the Fleet's Battle School there is a conflict between the family and the examiners. However, in the end it is not the older children but the five-year-old John Paul that attracts the interest of the Fleet...

'Teacher's Pest' covers the first meetings between Ender's parents, the brilliant pupil John Paul and his young post-graduate teacher, Theresa. Through political arguments and the course of their studies it shows how they came to fall in love and sets the scene for the events of 'Ender's Game'.

The novella that formed the basis of that novel is shorter and less detailed than the book itself, beginning with Ender's appointment of commander of one of the 'armies' in the Fleet's Battle School - a place where the teams of prodigal children take part in intensive mock wars to determine who is the best strategist and tactician. 'Ender's Game' follows him into Command School and through the war against the aliens for which he has been trained, all the way to that conflict's terrible conclusion.

Finally, 'The Investment Councillor' describes the grown-up Ender's first encounter with the computer intelligence, Jane, a being who is to become one of the most important characters in the books that follow. As Ender reaches his majority and the trust fund set up for him by the military is released into his control, an unscrupulous accountant attempts to claim much of the money for himself and inadvertently discovers Ender's identity. Ender searches for a way to deal with the problem and Jane reveals herself as his only hope, finding a solution in her own inimitable style.

The three new pieces are typical of Card's work. The writing is fresh and the dialogue sharp, words as always being used in weapons. Each conversation or discussion has the feel of a battle being fought, with the speakers weighing each phrase carefully and reading deep meaning into every word. These hugely confrontational yet cerebral discourses ensure that the stories never lack tension despite the absence of any action in the usual physical sense.

'The Polish Boy' is particularly excellent in this regard. The young John Paul's duels with the International Fleet personnel are both riveting and strangely disconcerting. Seeing a five-year-old argue grown men and women into giving him what he wants is a bizarre and slightly disturbing thing.

While 'Teacher's Pest' and 'The Investment Councillor' involve only adults, 'The Polish Boy' and 'Ender's Game' are primarily centred around children, the prodigal juveniles suitable for Battle School. The problem lies in their very precocity - they talk and act so much like adults that the reader must constantly remind themselves that they are children. There is nothing childish about them and as such, their intelligence and adult mannerisms seem unnatural and alien. They are forced to act as grown-ups by the situation at Battle School, but does their very nature make them so mature as John Paul acts in 'The Polish Boy'? It doesn't seem to mesh with reality and that is this series' only major problem. Certainly nothing else about the stories fails to please - the plots are engaging and realistic, the dialogue authentic and the writing stylish.

'Ender's Game' is a different story altogether. While the novel itself was everything mentioned above, the novella that birthed it is clearly unedited from Card's original and early work, for even the writing style is changed. Much of the subtlety that usually characterises Card's work is missing and the novella drops into becomes dangerously cloying in places, particularly towards the end. While the story remains basically the same, much of the build up, particularly Ender's life before Battle School, is missing and some would argue that that early insight into the boy's world is essential to understand what makes him tick. This curious view of the development of the story is interesting as a concept rather than a great read and detracts from the overall quality of the compilation.

Nonetheless, 'First Meetings' is, while not for everyone, a must-have for any aficionado of Card's work and as such a person I grant it an honourable place on my 'Fanboys only' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

Nylon Angel

2003-12-01T19:01:00.000-08:00

Marianne de Pierres
Orbit
ISBN 1-84149-253-1

Nylon Angel is set on the east coast of future Australia, in the metropolis of Vivacity. It is one of the supercities, massive conglomerations of previously existing settlements that have meshed as they grew into one another. The media control everything, manipulating the lives of the city’s citizens to win ratings and having both the money and the influence to be able to do anything they want, de facto rulers of Viva. The division between rich and poor is bigger than ever, with the less salubrious citizens of the city forced to live on the poison-laced ground where refineries and industry used to stand while the rich shelter in spotless mansions behind guards and barbed wire. With crime lords fighting for every inch of poisoned soil and a thousand-and-one hazards waiting for the unwary, life is cheap and the slums of the Tert are a dangerous place to live.

Parrish Plessis was pretty good at looking after herself, even in a place as twisted as the Tert, but when she signed up to bodyguard duty for one of the crime lords she made a big mistake. Now Jamon Mondo owns her, body and soul, and the only way someone leaves his employ is in a body bag. Desperate for a way to escape his clutches, Parrish sees her chance when one of the Network’s star reporters is assassinated. Hunting down the main suspect in the hope of linking up with his powerful employers, she finds herself quickly drawn into a world of intrigue where nothing is as it seems and everybody has an ulterior motive. On the run and hunted by just about every faction there is, Parrish discovers a far more sinister threat than the petty bickering of the gangs, as the Angel begins to unfurl its wings…

Nylon Angel is written from the point of view of Parrish Plessis, and is done so in a very easy-going, relaxed manner that makes it an effortless read. The reader is dropped straight in at the deep end, the first-person perspective meaning as-yet unexplained references to places, people and objects are common and the slang is flowing thick and fast. Marianne de Pierres’ relaxed style makes it clear enough what’s happening without understanding exactly what every word Parrish uses actually means, and clarifications are made throughout the book at a comfortable pace. By the last page the reader will be comfortable with ‘Goboys, Canrats, ‘Terros and more, and it all adds a little verisimilitude to the rough and ready world of Vivacity’s underside. On top of that, de Pierres has a talent for evocative description without descending into flowery prose and the dialogue is snappy, realistic and at times amusing.

First impressions of Nylon Angel are uninspiring – the setting seems nothing new and the first few pages portray Parrish Plessis as little more than a surly loner, short on brains and careless of other people – in other words, a stereotypical antihero. Combined with the easy-to-read style this gives the feeling that the book is going to be light on plot and depth, the author more interested in showing what a hard-ass her heroine is than developing her as a person. That feeling is wrong. Push past the first couple of chapters to the point where everything starts going seriously wrong for poor old Parrish and you see a surprising amount of characterisation emerge, both of our cyberpunk heroine and the secondary players around her.

The plot, too, develops layer after layer as the story progresses and the crises really being to pile up, the intrigue and infighting between the numerous factions becoming interesting and engaging. The only problem with the plot lies in the nasty and terrible secret that emerges during Parrish’s struggles – somehow, despite its potential ramifications for all of mankind, this aspect of the plot is underemphasized, taking a back seat to the gang warfare and failing to seem as serious as it probably should.

Nonetheless, Nylon Angel is a fun and exciting read once you get past the introductory chapters and while not being particularly original is refreshing enough to keep the pages turning at a furious rate. A well-written cliff-hanger ending makes it abundantly clear there is going to be a second book in the series, and if it is as good as the first there could be a bright future ahead of Marianne de Pierres. As such, Nylon Angel finds a welcome place on my ‘Quality Cyberpunk’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Life Eaters

2003-12-01T18:58:00.000-08:00

David Brin and Scott Hampton
Wildstorm/DC Comics
ISBN: 1-4012-0098-2

In our world the SS of Hitler’s Third Reich were rumoured to have revived the mysticism of the old world, attempting to practise magic and believing themselves the heirs to a curious blend of knighly traditions, from Charlemagne to Arthur. In the world of ‘The Life Eaters’, the allies are in trouble – the magic worked and the troops wading ashore during D-day are met not only by tanks and gunfire but also by the living avatars of the Norse gods! As the allied forces fall back and further back and the Nazis prepare to invade North America, a small group of soldiers head into the heart of the enemy in a desperate attempt to destroy the Aesir and level the playing field…

A generation later and half the world lies under the rule of the Norse pantheon, the Nazis who summoned them no longer the masters but obeying the Aesir’s every wish. The war has expanded, pushing into every corner of the globe, but others have summoned gods of their own and now the supernatural entities duke it out on the battlefield, annihilating whole battalions. Meanwhile, a small contingent or rebels, what remains of the United Nations, struggle to banish all of the gods from Earth and return it to human rule, while in the Middle East the devoted of all religions gather, old feuds forgotten in the face of false ‘gods’.

The idea of the gods taking a hand in the Second World War is an interesting one with lots of potential, but splitting the book to cover two separate stories hampers any great depth of plot. The first third details the allied commando attack on the Aesir in WWII and despite the fact that it sets the scene and provides motivation and inspiration for the irritatingly unnamed hero it seems fairly irrelevant to the main body of the tale – a few short pages would have sufficed.

The main storyline deals with events in what is roughly the present day, as the war spirals out of control, and focuses on not the super-powered characters but on the normal everyday humans, examining the nature of heroism and arguing that it is the nobility of normal people that makes a true hero; not superhuman abilities but strength of will and determination to succeed regardless of the odds. The final showdown is dramatic and exciting, yet emphasises the story’s theme of humans as the true heroes. While characterisation throughout is skimpy at best, in a way this reinforces the idea of humanity as a whole, working to preserve their way of life and man’s place at the top of the hierarchy. Similarly, the namelessness of the main hero only serves to build on this idea of selflessness, working for something greater than one man.

There is a clever blend of science and fantasy, from the equatorial gods burning toe oilfields to speed up the greenhouse effect and fry their icy northern rivals to Ragnarok and Loki’s chosen climbing Yggdrasil to escape the dying world, although ‘The Life Eaters’ reads a little like a list of all the disparate elements David Brin took a liking to. Nazis… check. Gods and ritual magic… check. Rocket packs and mecha… check. If it were just a blend of fantasy and modern-day reality it would have worked, but the strange futuristic technology feels out of place and no explanation is ever given as to how tech in Brin’s world advanced so much faster than ours following the Second World War – realism is sacrificed on the altar of Big Shiny Robots. A shame, as apart from that the world is a realistic one, with the effect of the gods on this century’s events portrayed in a plausible and thought-provoking manner.

Scott Hampton’s art is excellent, being both detailed and realistic. There is nothing of the abstract in his work, each frame showing what is there and nothing else but doing so in vivid, intricate detail. In particular those frames showing locations and immobile objects are superb, giving each place and item an individuality and life of its own. The only place Hampton’s art fails to satisfy is in effectively giving the impression of movement, but that is a minor complaint only.

All in all this is a thoughtful and well-drawn blend of fantasy and realism, one which wins bonus points for having one of those cute ribbon bookmarks built in. Though the epilogue leaves things open for a second book, I feel there’s little that could be added and Brin’s messages of co-operation and the power of normal people have been hammered home effectively. Insightful and indifferent, ‘The Life Eaters’ will find a welcome place on my ‘Everyman Heroes’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Word and the Void

2003-11-01T21:36:00.000-08:00

Terry Brooks
Orbit
ISBN 1-84149-266-3

‘The Word And The Void’ is a compilation of the three tales of John Ross and Nest Freemark – ‘Running With The Demon’, ‘A Knight Of the Word’, and ‘Angel Fire East’. The novels span the fifteen years between Ross’s two visits to Hopewell, Illinois, and illustrate his ongoing battle with the creatures of the Void, the very essence of evil and destruction. For Ross is a Knight of the Word, an agent of the opposing force of creation and good, and he fights to save humanity from the dark future that awaits it.

In the first and best of the three books, Ross arrives in Hopewell for the first time, hot on the trail of a demonic foe. But he has other, more sinister reasons for being there. The Knight is gifted with prophetic dreams of the apocalyptic future, and something terrible is due to unfold in this sleepy midwestern town. It is Ross’s duty to prevent that occurrence, and he enlists the aid of the young Nest Freemark who possesses no small magic of her own. As they oppose the minions of the Void, Nest will be forced to confront her own dark family past and discover the truth about her parents.

In ‘A Knight Of The Word’, five years has passed since John Ross left Hopewell. He has lost his faith and his power, forsaking his vows as a Knight, and works in the big city at a shelter for the homeless. Little does he know a demon seeks to corrupt him, turning him to the service of the Void, a fallen paladin commanding the forces of evil. Nest Freemark is dispatched by the Word to reason with him, explaining the danger he is in, but Ross is caught up in his new work and wants nothing to do with his old life. To save him Nest must reveal the all-encompassing nature of the war between the Word and the Void and bring him back to face his enemy.

In the final part of the trilogy, John Ross returns to Hopewell fifteen years after he left to seek Nest Freemark’s aid. He has captured a gypsy morph, a creature of magic that could turn the tide of the war for whoever unlocks its secret. But all the forces of the Void are mobilised against him and closing on Hopewell, where Ross must face up to his most deadly opponent yet as he struggles to solve the mystery and claim the magic for the Word.

Terry Brooks writes with skill and finesse, illustrating his world with expressive description and an eloquent, almost lyrical flow to the words. In particular he has a knack for interesting and evocative phrases and metaphors that truly bring his scenes to life. The world his characters inhabit is one very similar to our own, albeit darker and more hopeless, where the war between the Void and the Word takes place in the shadows out of the public eye but influences every aspect of daily life. It is a war for humanity’s soul, an endless battle to keep civilisation from collapsing into anarchy and terror, and the Void is winning. Brooks uses his secret war to point out the slow decay of our culture, the erosion of morality and honest values in favour of chaos and selfishness. Everywhere throughout the three books there are signs of this downslide in standards, though each one takes a particular issue as its centre – unemployment, homelessness, and drugs respectively. Each topic is well researched and the air of defeat and hopelessness excellently conveyed, and the idea of the world ending as a result of hundreds of minor, inconsequential events and failures is an interesting and original one. Brooks comments on society and its little failures are perceptive and insightful, his message clear. We think we are invulnerable but Brooks shows us the fragility of our way of life, and it is frightening.

The characterisation within all three stories is of the highest quality, with every character from the heroes and villains to relative nobodies well documented and their motivations and actions consistent. Similarly, the events that unfold during each book are straightforward and make perfect sense, the mundane and fantastic worlds meshing together nicely. The development of Nest over the fifteen years between books is particularly fascinating, almost as if you’re seeing snapshots as a girl grows into a woman. The only problem I had with the characters is Pick, the sylvan guardian of Sinnissippi Park. The idea of a foot-high man made of bark and leaves seems curiously at odds with the dark, gritty setting, and his personality reeks suspiciously of comic relief, something which shouldn’t be necessary in a series as serious and hard-hitting as this. With the exception of Findo Gast in ‘Angel Fire East’, the villains of each book remain relatively uncharacterised – the demon in the first book is never even named. However, this is no real problem, as their motivations are clear enough and they remain true to form throughout.

The style and pacing in each book is excellent, with a very slow, long build up to the final confrontation near the end of each book. The only downside to all this is that the finales themselves fail to live up to the expectations created, leaving the reader slightly let down. It’s not that they climaxes aren’t exciting, merely that they seem slightly flat after all that has come before.

The only real gripe I have with this series is that is seems unfinished. The events at the end of ‘Angel Fire East’ are inconclusive and leave the future uncertain, in a way that almost seems to invite another book. As it is you feel somewhat let down, unsatisfied by the nebulous ending. But even combined with the occasional utterly bizarre character name – a relic from Brooks’ Shannara series – this cannot spoil an utterly riveting trilogy, and so ‘The Word and the Void’ will take up a place of honour on my ‘Social Commentary’ shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Gates of Dawn

2003-10-01T17:48:00.000-07:00

Robert Newcomb
Transworld
ISBN: 0-553-81454-0

Fresh from his battle with the evil Coven at the end of 'The Fifth Sorceress', Prince Tristan of Eutracia returns to his kingdom to find the land in chaos, the people lawless.

Worse, he finds himself a wanted man, for someone has put a reward on his head. Hated and reviled for his slaying of the King, Tristan is forced into hiding, his plans to rebuild the nation delayed. Forced to skulk in the tunnels beneath the capital, the prince, together with his sister and the surviving wizards of Eutracia, is reassured by one thought: things can only get better, right...?

Wrong. The lesser wizards released into the population to seek out and destroy the last remaining creatures of the Coven are themselves being hunted down, disappearing without trace and the Paragon - the gem from which all magic stems - is beginning to fail.

Without it the land will be left barren and powerless and the same fate will befall Tristan's wizard mentors. In an effort to deduce what is happening, the prince attempts to retrieve the Tome of the Paragon from the caves that house it and discovers the new threat he faces - and the terrible powers behind it. Yes, evil is once again abroad and it's up to our hero to save the day.

Having been less than impressed by the preceding book in this series, I nonetheless hoped 'The Gates Of Dawn' would be different, avoiding the faults of its predecessor. Sadly, this is not the case. Many of the complaints listed below are the same as I raised with 'The Fifth Sorceress', but never fear - there are enough new problems to justify this review.

Just as with his first novel, Robert Newcomb seems to delight in releasing upon us a veritable horde of fantasy clichés. The plot is practically the same as before, with evil seeking out Tristan and his sister before threatening the end of the human race, forcing the prince and his merry band to face it and save the world. Again, the villain of the piece remains distant, hiding behind his minions and an army of magically created soldiers.

Again, our hero is forced into an 'against the odds' confrontation with vastly superior foes yet somehow comes out on top. It would be nice to see something new, something different, but 'The Gates Of Dawn' remains formulaic throughout.

It becomes clear early on in the book that the villain suffers from 'James Bond Syndrome', ignoring or underestimating the threat the heroes present and allowing them to live when he could easily crush them, even allowing them to escape with items that could be used against him! We have come to expect this from 007's foes but in a novel trying to pass itself off as serious, gritty fantasy it is an unforgivable sin. His rather sketchily explained motives for leaving the heroes alive and intact just don't make sense.

If he needs Tristan alive, why not just keep him imprisoned and powerless? On top of that the villain's diabolical plan is - besides being effectively the same plan as the Coven from the first book employed - ridiculously intricate and unnecessarily dosed with twists and turns, an effect obviously intended by Newcomb to impress the reader with how clever his character is supposed to be, when in fact it has the opposite effect.
Which brings us nicely to another major fault. The intelligence of the characters seems to fluctuate wildly as the novel progresses. When required they develop sudden, terrible idiocy but the rest of the time the characters all seem to be incredibly, impossibly clever. The ability of both heroes and villains to leap to a correct conclusion from no information at all is something that detracts heavily from the plausibility of the characters.

This, together with the fact that characters make mention of events and creatures that they couldn't have possibly known about, sometimes seems to give the impression that spontaneous telepathy is a serious disease running rife in Newcomb's world.

The wizards Wigg and Faegan seem particularly susceptible to this terrible plague, making assumptions about their enemies and mysterious events that are uncannily accurate then explaining them away with logic so fragile it shatters under the most casual glance. Tristan, on the other hand, sometimes seems the most moronic, blindly accepting man to ever walk the earth when the wizards explain things to him.

Indeed, for huge long sections of the book he is reduced to little more than a spectator as the wizards launch into tedious and technical explanations of what's going on - incidentally enlightening the reader at the same time. In fact, it seems as if Newcomb found these soliloquies an easier way of informing his readers than actually showing them.

The generally appalling quality of the dialogue certainly doesn't help to maintain interest during these tiresome passages. Throughout 'The Gates Of Dawn', the characters' conversation is stilted and formal, employing the most unusual and inappropriate phrases in such a way that it left me shaking my head in disbelief. On top of that, each character sounds exactly alike, using the same phrases and idiosyncrasies, distinguishable only by what they say, not how they say it. Take away 'Tristan said...' and you would be hard pressed to tell the prince apart from any other character.

Yet despite all of these faults, Newcomb somehow manages to maintain interest through the first two thirds of the story. The occasional evocative scene and well-written paragraph sneak in from time to time and the potential quality is sufficient, over-riding the many flaws. Enough is kept from the reader that curiosity keeps the pages turning, the promise that something interesting may just be around the corner. Only when all is revealed does the utter failure to live up to the potential of the story itself become apparent and it's all downhill from there, a long, slippery slope to the anti-climax of the truly dire finale and the predictable closing chapter.
If I take anything away from this novel, it is a sense of terrible disappointment, betrayal of my hopes and expectations, for early on it seemed a distinct improvement on the distinctly patchy 'The Fifth Sorceress', only to be brought crashing down by the last third of the book.

The fact that it could have been so much better only makes it worse, bringing nothing but bitter regret. As such, it is with sadness that I dispatch 'The Gates Of Dawn' to my 'Squandered Promise' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Fifth Sorceress

2003-10-01T17:14:00.000-07:00

Robert Newcomb
Transworld
ISBN: 0-553-81453-2

It is time for the old king to step down. The crown prince of Eutracia has reached the age of thirty and, as is traditional, he is to take the throne.

Unfortunately, Prince Tristan doesn't want to be king, preferring his rather relaxed, carefree life just the way it is. Since the banishment of the evil Coven of Sorceresses and the end of the war three hundred years ago, Eutracia has been peaceful and serene, so with the Directorate of Wizards to aid him the King has little to do but supervise the day-to-day running of the kingdom. Tristan would rather practice swordplay with the Royal Guard. If only something would happen so he didn't have to be King...

Lucky Tristan. The Coven returns at the head of an army of bat-winged soldiers, interrupting the coronation and butchering the royal family and their wizardly advisors. Kidnapping Tristan's sister and stealing the jewel from which all magic originates, the Sorceresses leave Eutracia in chaos and return to the land of their exile, intent on brainwashing Princess Shailiha and taking control of her as-yet unborn child. For Tristan and his sister are the Chosen Ones, their coming prophesied long ago by a vanished race.

So, aided by the lone surviving wizard of the Directorate, Tristan begins a race against time to rescue his sister and regain the jewel before Shailiha becomes the Fifth Sorceress and the Coven enslaves the world. On the way, he learns a lot of harsh lessons, forcing him to grow up and deal with his responsibilities.

As volume one of 'The Chronicles Of Blood And Stone' and Robert Newcomb's début novel, 'The Fifth Sorceress' can be taken as an indication of what to expect from the new author and the rest of the series. Without an established fan-base, Newcomb has to convince through the quality of his writing and the story he tells, unlike an established author resting on his laurels.

Unfortunately this does not bode well for the rest of Newcomb's work, because 'The Fifth Sorceress' is not very good, pure and simple. The plot is nothing new - ancient evil once defeated in titanic battle returns to wreak death and destruction while lone hero confronts his destiny. It has been done many times before, and done much better. On top of that, the story is filled with unlikely plot devices and convenient coincidences, not to mention logical inconsistencies that don't, despite Robert Newcomb's apparent beliefs, disappear when a character explains them away in sophistry-ridden speeches.

Therein lies another problem: Far too much background information is relayed to the reader via long, windy explanations by knowledgeable characters to ignorant ones, Newcomb not seeming to have heard of the rule 'show, don't tell'.

Now we come to the characters. Tristan himself is fairly well realised, his playboy personality and relaxed attitude to life effectively conveyed, and during the course of the book his metamorphosis to responsible maturity is slow and convincing, even if the events which cause it are not.

Sadly, the Prince is - with one exception - the only character to receive such in-depth treatment, the sorceresses that make up the main villains of the piece seeming particularly two-dimensional, while little or no motivations or explanations of their actions are made. Even the soldiers under their command, the appallingly named 'Minions of Day and Night' are more convincingly realised, a great deal of their backgrounds and culture relayed during the course of the book.

Kluge, the commander of the Minions, seems far more dangerous and far more real than the sorceresses ever do, his strengths and weaknesses almost as well explored as Tristan's.

To be fair to Robert Newcomb, 'The Fifth Sorceress' is not all bad. Much of the description of scenes and locations is well phrased and evocative and the complicated way in which all magic derives from a single gem is intriguing, if somewhat contrived to aid the plot.

The prologue is by far the best part of the book, stirring the imagination and giving the impression that the main body of the story will continue its gritty, dark flavour. However, the novel quickly descends into stilted dialogue and poorly realised characters, failing to live up to the promise of the prologue. By the time the uninspiring, bizarrely clichéd climax rolls around I found myself caring little for the fate of the characters or the world in which they live.

Clunky, unoriginal, and contrived, 'The Fifth Sorceress' is a book that brings nothing new to the genre and attempts to recycle corny old formulae as fresh and new. The novel never manages to evoke any emotion beyond a feeling of bemused confusion and at times drops into the comically ridiculous. As such, I am relegating it to my 'New clichés for old' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Court of the Midnight King

2003-09-01T16:06:00.000-07:00

Freda Warrington
Pocket Books
ISBN: 0-743-41567-1

Take one historical novel. Add a spoonful of Shakespeare, a handful of alternate universes and a sprinkling of ritual magic and take with a pinch of salt. There you have the recipe for 'The Court Of The Midnight King' and it's a surprisingly tasty dish.

In re-telling the tale of England's most shadowy figure, Richard the Third, Freda Warrington covers controversial ground. To this day, historians argue as to whether Richard was as evil as he is portrayed by a dozen sources, Shakespeare himself being the first and foremost and the only sure thing is that we will never know for sure.

Warrington herself seems set on acting as antidote to Richard's detractors, painting a picture of a noble, pious man forced to take the throne for the good of the country rather than out of any particular ambition. Upon the death of his brother Edward, Richard is appointed Protector of his nephew - the new 12-year-old king, also called Edward. But the boy is under the control of his mother, the Queen and her family, a corrupt, decadent clan and Richard sets the young king aside rather than see England fall into their hands.

When Edward and his brother die under mysterious circumstances, Richard is blamed. As he struggles to deal with a web of rumours destroying his popularity with nobles and commoners alike his enemies gather, massing their forces. It all comes to a head at the Battle of Bosworth Field where in reality Richard died, abandoned by his followers and out-fought by the Tudors who took the throne after him.

The inevitability of Richard's death in battle could have made this a rather depressing, pointless tale but ‘The Court Of The Midnight King' takes place in an alternate reality, one remarkably similar to ours but different enough that the future can not be taken for granted. In Warrington's world, a pagan sisterhood exists alongside Christianity, worshipping a goddess of nature and practising ritual sorcery, harnessing elemental spirits and paying court to the faerie.

It might seem that such additions would clash horribly with reality but they are woven into the fabric of the setting so skilfully that they seem entirely natural. The conflict between the sisterhood and the vastly more influential Christian church is fascinating and well written, something which would make a good topic for a novel in itself but is sadly only touched on here.

In 'The Court Of The Midnight King', the events of the War of the Roses are spun out from the viewpoint of Raphael, one of Richard's most loyal knights, and Lady Katherine, a minor noblewoman and pagan priestess whose life comes to revolve around a chance meeting with Richard in her youth. As the book progresses, Raphael begins to receive visions of Richard performing villainous deeds and of his future infamy. In a neat twist, those visions are paraphrased from scenes in Shakespeare's play, portraying the King as an incestuous child-killer.

As Raphael struggles with his loyalty to Richard, another set of visions is plaguing a modern-day history student from our reality but these visions show the good Richard from Warrington's alternate universe. Though confusing at first, this web of visions and possible futures enhances the action in the physical world and becomes clear as the book draws to a close, thanks in no small way to the clarity of the writing.
The major characters are all well described, their motivations and personalities clearly labelled, though naturally Richard himself remains somewhat mysterious throughout. While it is clear that Warrington was determined to present the King in a somewhat better light than is traditionally thought, the 'alternate universe' of the novel allows us to make up our own minds - the author merely uses the facts to show how things could have been, rather than attempting to force the reader to conform to her point of view.

The only time Warrington allows her personal opinions to surface in the book is in the Sisterhood of Auset, which despite slotting smoothly into the otherwise historically correct novel seems to have a distinctly feminist flavour to it. Women of that era had virtually no influence and certainly no overt power but this doesn't seem to agree with Warrington's philosophy so she created the Sisterhood.

'The Court Of The Midnight King' is well researched, all of its events and dates correct and the placement of characters such as the Duke of Buckingham consistent with history as we know it.

The battles of the War of the Roses take a relatively small role in the novel that belies their significance in event to follow but they are well described and show a good understanding of tactics and the chaos of combat. Likewise, the treachery and intrigues of the King's court are well portrayed, the myriad twists and turns in the plot both surprising and exciting.

Despite the occasional foray into rather suspect mysticism, particularly towards the end of the novel, this alternative portrayal of an unpopular figure blends fantasy and history smoothly and in such a way that the two harmonise rather than clash, creating a novel that is both enjoyable to read and historically sound. As such, 'The Court Of The Midnight King' finds a place on my 'intellectually stimulating' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Return of Santiago

2003-08-04T15:58:00.000-07:00

Mike Resnick
Tor Books
ISBN: 0-765-30224-1

Danny Briggs is a small-time thief on a planet run by the rigid, totalitarian democracy. When things get too hot for him, he flees to the Inner Frontier, inadvertently stumbling across the original manuscript for a poem immortalising the greatest of that lawless area's characters, the infamous Santiago.

Reading the poem, Danny realises the outlaw's greatest secret: Santiago was no villain but a revolutionary who devoted his life to fighting the Democracy and ensuring the freedom of the Inner Frontier.

With the Democracy beginning to gather its forces once more, Danny realises the time has come for Santiago to return and begins a search that draws the attention of some of the most dangerous and notorious figures in the galaxy. Flitting from planet to planet in a whistle-stop tour of the Inner Frontier, each step takes him closer to his goal. Meanwhile, he has to deal with bounty hunters and policemen determined to bring him to justice any way they can.

Though technically a sequel, ‘The Return Of Santiago’ stands up well by itself, avoiding the unqualified references to previous characters and events that would make reading the original a necessity. On top of that, the quality of Resnick's writing combined with a light subject matter and limited depth makes this book extremely easy to read, if not exactly a page-turner.

'Space-opera' is an inadequate way of describing the feel of this novel but like that genre it has a mild, light-hearted feel to it, one greatly reinforced by the lack of any graphic sex or violence. There is no grit, no great attempt at realism and while this makes it more readable, it also makes it more forgettable. There is no hard SF, no explanation of how the technology works, it is simply there in the background.

If I had to classify ‘The Return Of Santiago’, it would be as a 'space-western'. Once Danny enters the Inner Frontier every sentence cries out for a Stetson to be cocked rakishly over one eye, and to be fair to Mike Resnick his description is very good, creating scenes straight out of 'A Fistful of Dollars'.
The characters are even named as cowboys and Indians: the One-Armed Bandit, the Rough Rider, Virgil Soaring Hawk and many more. Together with the saloons, casinos and gunfighters that litter the Inner Frontier, this combines to make a rather enjoyable setting that pokes sly fun at the Western genre, though I began to find Resnick's vast overuse of the word 'formidable' as a character description extremely annoying.
Unfortunately ‘The Return Of Santiago’ suffers from the same problem as the westerns it parodies, which is that its characters lack any real depth. Understandable really, as a good proportion of the individuals Danny Briggs meets are killed in the chapter they're introduced in - and these ain't long chapters.

However, with the exception of the hero Danny Briggs even those characters who survive long enough to properly influence the plot are only minimally fleshed-out, their motivations unexplained. As such, the twists in the tale sometimes seem unreasonable as the individuals involved switch sides and change their minds for no apparent reason.

While the ending of ‘The Return Of Santiago’ seemed obvious after the first quarter of the book, there were several points where that ending was in doubt and the heroes seemed doomed. How do you defeat the invincible gunman? Simple, find a better one.

So a certain amount of deus ex machina was unavoidable but thankfully kept to a minimum. Unfortunately, as in most westerns, the outcome of each showdown between gunslingers was obvious long before one fighter hit the dirt and I found that sense of inevitability robbed each scene of a great deal of suspense.

A light piece of work, ‘The Return Of Santiago’ was enjoyable enough but unexceptional. True, it was fun to see cowboys in space but the lack of any real depth to the characters and a predictable plot spoils an interesting concept. Still, it was pleasant enough to read and mildly entertaining. ‘The Return Of Santiago’ will find a place on my 'for a rainy day' shelf.

This review was originally written for SFcrowsnest.com

The Science of Discworld II: The Globe

2003-07-16T21:00:00.000-07:00

Terry Pratchett, Ian Stewart, and Jack Cohen

Ebury Press

ISBN: 0-091-88805-0

Usually, the sight of the words ‘The Science of…’ in the title of a book fills me with dread, heralding hundreds of pages of dreary explanation on how the sliding doors on Star Trek worked, or whether warp drive may some day be possible. Having read the original ‘Science of Discworld’ book, however, I knew that this wasn’t the case. Instead, Pratchett takes his readers on a tour of hard science, using the context of the Discworld books to explain what makes reality tick.

Just like its predecessor, ‘The Globe’ mixes alternate chapters of a Discworld short story with the scientific ramblings of Pratchett and his co-novelists, usually with the fiction setting the scene for whatever part of the scientific spectrum the authors want to talk about. In the first book this worked quite well, as the wizards of Unseen University accidentally created our universe and began exploring its (to them) bizarre rules. I was curious to see whether ‘The Globe’ could live up to such high standards.

Focusing more on humanity and the world we live in than the first book, the scientific chapters lean heavily towards discovering what makes the human mind tick, exploring it in numerous different ways. At the core of it all is Pratchett’s belief in stories, how the tendency of the human mind to see patterns in everything and apply them to the world outside has influenced the way human society has evolved. The first few scientific chapters skip merrily from topic to topic, covering along the way the ethics of cloning, quantum mechanics, and a quick history of early scientists. It’s not exactly light reading material, but easy enough to follow, though in places Pratchett makes reference to concepts from the first book and expects his reader to understand, an obviously irritating habit for those who haven’t read the original ‘Science of Discworld’.

Once again, the ‘interspersed chapters’ format works well; just when you feel your mind can’t take any more, you hit a section of fiction and can let that overworked organ relax a little. The writing is good, as you might expect from an author of Terry Pratchett’s calibre, but you can’t help but feel that the fiction is little more than a distraction from the real science, rather than being integrated with it. Nonetheless it bears all the best qualities of the early Discworld books; funny, easy to read, and offering a refreshingly twisted view of the world.

It is towards the middle of the book that ‘The Globe’ begins to encounter problems. The science becomes muddled and sometimes descends into pidgin psychology, and you can’t help but see that this is Pratchett’s own interpretation of the way things could have been, rather than solid fact. Despite my own fairly extensive grounding in science, I found several chapters difficult to follow and began to lose interest, something that isn’t the best of signs in a book written for the layman. Without a doubt Pratchett expects his reader to be intelligent, well educated and well informed, but even so, I’d suggest reading slowly and taking notes.

The difficulty eases up towards the end of the book, and I found myself genuinely interested in the science once more. Religion, art and music all get the Pratchett treatment, their development and the way they affected the growth of society explained clearly and entertainingly. The fiction sections continue at a high standard throughout, and the last two chapters mesh well, providing a well-rounded end to the book.

Despite not living up to the quality of the first ‘Science of Discworld’, ‘The Globe’ is an entertaining and thought-provoking trawl through the origins of human society, and if I found myself wishing occasionally for the end of the chapter and the next section of fiction, what of it? It only goes to show the quality of Pratchett’s storytelling.