Cheshire, CT USA | Member Since 2013
When one looks past the dated dialogue that identifies this as being authored in 1956, the concepts of time dilation at relativistic speeds has some fantastic possibilities for drama. "Don't look so dang sourpuss," and "Gee, that's swell" are actual lines, but it is almost as if Heinlein anticipates the linguistic drift that would occur in the decades to follow publication when his protagonist, removed from his descendants by decades spent traveling the stars at light speed, encounters difficulties deciphering the euphemisms and vernacular when he speaks to those of the younger generations. The discoveries and marvels encountered on the voyage are really secondary to the human drama of inter-generational strain as lives proceed at two different paces, forcing divided families to adapt.
This is the first of the novellas in the “Expanse-iverse” I’ve read, and I have to admit I was a bit disappointed. While the amazing novels are all complex, multi-narrative, loaded with hard SF and trademark dialog, this shorter work was a lot more… terrestrial. The protagonist, teenage chemist David Draper, is fairly archetypical as a nerdy dreamer who falls for the prom queen. However, in this story, she’s a junkie and her boyfriend isn’t the captain of the football team, he’s a drug dealer with a quietly menacing demeanor. Some of the backdrop to the story connects to the larger events of the novels, but very peripherally so. The one crossover character from those books, David’s aunt, Bobbie Draper, is disappointedly underutilized, as she is a fan favorite character who really only has one scene at the climax. The biggest miss for me however, was how completely pedestrian the setting is. One would imagine an author could do a lot of impressive things, setting scenes in a Martian habitat, but here it’s actually very unremarkable, and could be interchangeably substituted for any city. Even the events of the plot could have been written within a contemporary 21st century setting without putting anything out of place. This story really is only recommended for the most devoted Corey fans, but none of these should feel like they’ve missed anything critical if they never get a chance to pick this one up.
This second story in Howey’s Silo trilogy acts as both a prequel and sidequel to the original, 'Wool’, by braiding the separate narratives in alternating chapters. Howey’s writing superpower is to give pleasingly detailed scenes with an economy of words: “Donald raised his finger and asked him to wait” is a perfectly concise sentence to describe an interruption in the characters' dialogue without ITSELF becoming an interruption to the reader’s enjoyment. Unfortunately, the wider canvas for the setting in this novel actually makes it less interesting for me than the claustrophobia of ‘Wool’, although some of the characters are even more intriguing in this installment. The primary narrative follows one of the Silo system’s principal, though inadvertent, architects, Donald Keene, and provides background and insight into how the Silos came to be. As returning readers will already know the tragedy to follow, there is a delicious tension in reading events build to the inevitable downfall. Even so, I felt the mystery built in the original was stronger than answers provided here. The inner turmoils that Donald faces are very believable and engaging, as are those of Jimmy/Solo from another of the various narratives. The bridging narrative from yet a third protagonist, Mission, was probably the weakest, although its heartbreaking happy ending was a wonderfully unexpected twist exploring the nature of memory. Overall, I enjoyed every page, although like the freed prisoner from Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, I find myself wishing I could rush back to my earlier ignorance of the Silo lead-up, which held so much more mystical wonder than the perfectly orderly prehistory laid out in ‘Shift’.
When NASA’s secret small team of specialist experts reach the derelict alien BDO (Big Dumb Object) in Arthur C. Clarke’s “Rendezvous with Rama”, the reader got a fabulous tour of soaring wonder and possibility. When it happens here, we instead get the inner monologue of an adolescent girl-crush which is frequently interrupted by some space opera. There is a heavy dose of romance in this debut novel, and a lot of wish-fullfillment that makes far too much of the plot predictable as our protagonist, expert (and civilian) linguist Dr. Jane Holloway, overcomes a series of challenges that stem from the less capable (and military) men that accompany her. I found parallels with Gary Gibson’s “Stealing Light", which also features a heroine in psychic possession of an alien derelict starship, as well as James Cameron’s “Aliens”, which had similar survival-horror action scenes. Here in “Fluency”, Jane is too consistently successful for the dramatic tension to build sufficiently, and the other characters seem accessory. The pacing is greatly improved by a second flashback narrative alternating with the main one, providing both exposition into the mission as well as depth for the character. I felt like the opportunity was missed to create a wildly alien culture, finding instead a slightly varied flavor of humanoid Star Trek style beings, although a wider field of cosmic players is alluded to. Foehner Wells’ forthcoming follow-up novel, “Remanence”, will hopefully delve into these more imaginative possibilities, and downplay or even forego the romance altogether.
The five stories collected here were of varied quality; unsurprising given that they each had different authors. The shared universe they are set in feels like it was designed by committee, and has a bleak, post-environmental-disaster backdrop, but is otherwise undistinguished from the near-future wrecks I’ve seen elsewhere. The strongest story in the bunch, Karl Schroeder’s “To Hie from Far Celenia,” largely ignores this shared universe in favor of a super-imposed VR one layered on top, which I found a very bold choice, although it may speak unfavorably toward the others.
“In the Forests of the Night” by Jay Lake was the most poetic and eloquently worded story in the collection. It’s imagery was very deliberate and memorable, making it a great choice to begin the anthology, and provide some exposition. By setting the action in the midst of a community which has taken an extreme response to the ecological devastation of the METAtropolis shared world, Lake has the opportunity to show rather than explain what the aftermath looks like. Although the story ends in a confusing resolution, it nonetheless scores well for its other strengths.
The next piece, “Stochasti-City” by Tobias Buckell, has some nice character evolution, and some vision for a renewed future. The protagonist, a war veteran named Reginald getting by on his wits and strength, reluctantly dives into an adventure that ultimately brings some purpose for him. The hero’s journey he undertakes tours various community responses to the crisis, and allows Buckell to explore multiple concepts of sustainability in shortage.
Elizabeth Bear’s “The Red in the Sky is Our Blood” features a subversive society-within-the-society looking for eco-revolution. This theme runs through all the stories, but seems like a contrived way of creating conflict. The establishment society which everyone seems eager to topple is given a voice in the next story, John Scalzi’s “Utere Nihil Non Extra Quiritationem Suis”. The protagonist, Benjy, finds himself defending the city walls from invading barbarians, literally. As in other Scalzi stories, humor features prominently, and the light-hearted tone helped the pacing for the entire collection.
The concluding story, “To Hie from Far Celenia” by Karl Schroeder, envisions people escaping their bleak lives by retreating into VR subcultures. The story really gets interesting when it’s revealed that even within these communities, there are further levels of sub-subcultures operating with their own economies and distributed dynamic borders. The concepts here were the most imaginative of the collection, and provided a strong finish to the bunch. I think I would have liked to read more from this world than the other dystopia-leaning stories that preceded it, and feel like it brought my overall acceptance of the anthology up a notch.
This novel follows closely to the television formula: The Doctor and companion are drawn into a mystery set in modern day London, discover an alien invasion plot, and they (well, HE, really) foil it after a few twists and turns. I don’t consider that bit a spoiler, as any licensed material must necessarily deliver all the characters and settings back unaltered by the conclusion- series authors don’t own, they rent. I’ll agree with other reviewers in pointing out the similarities in the story’s villains with those in the television episode “Waters of Mars”. However, I must defend Cole in saying he wrote three years in advance of that episode’s airing. The areas to truly judge a DW story by, I feel, are the peripheral one-off characters that one wouldn’t expect to see return in any other story. These are the few with which the author can take liberties with and write freely; the portion of the whole which is owned and not rented. Most of those appearing in 'Feast of the Drowned' were unremarkable for me, and none experienced any transformative hero’s journey in this story with the possible exception of the scientist Vida. Her transition from opposition figure to team member by story’s end is not spectacularly different from any other such character conversion from the series. Nor are Crayshaw and the other villains all that dissimilar from other would-be alien invaders of Earth who had the poor luck to attempt their plans on the day that The Doctor happened to be passing through the neighborhood. Like the rest of the crowd, he is prone to monologuing his plan to The Doctor in a moment of perceived victory with raspy voice. I was also underwhelmed with the silver-bullet trope of the conclusion, and expect I’m not the only reader who foresaw it in the early pages of the story. None of the complaints should dissuade series fans from reading the book- it’s very familiarities that make it a weaker story in the wider pool of SF literature are the aspects of it that will make it enjoyable to its established audience of Doctor Who fans.
This novel follows the familiar formula that Egan fans delight in: an alien hero works out fundamental physics to defend his/her/its species in a race against impending cataclysm from natural forces that are not, initially, well understood. Here, the greatest stylistic twist is that there is no counterpoint perspective from a more familiar human or near-human protagonist, nor indeed, any additional first-person characters. The story is told in a sequence of episodes from the lifetime a single creature, our protagonist Yalda. Her planet and species are never named, being alone in their perceived cosmos, so I’ll call them ‘Orthogonals’ in reference to the unique premise that the story stems from. I can’t do any justice to the carefully described mathematics provided at every step of the hero’s journey, but can summarize by saying that her pocket universe has a different, orthogonal geometry from our own, and Egan has extrapolated this to invent a marvelous and internally consistent set of physics for her to discover along with the reader.
The novel’s theme is also a familiar one: The triumphant of applied science and nobility of those who practice it’s careful pursuit. Egan even pays homage to history’s persecuted and martyred scientists by including a dash of this to the ‘Orthogonal’ civilization he’s created. In his world, however, the selfless scientists manage to escape their adversaries and found a society of their own, where all injustices are banished and the whole community labor together for the common good and a grand project to rescue their planet. Great care is given to the details of each discovery and the particulars of the plot are largely devised in service to this exposition. I feel the story would have been more engaging and the characters more relatable if these narrative priorities could be reversed. I also would have enjoyed more interpersonal conflict and greater moral ambiguity in the characters, who all felt a little too single-minded and one dimensional (no mathematical connotation intended). Yalda particularly, is a bit too righteous, and would have been much more interesting with some dramatic flaw or dark angle. Her one social handicap is an unavoidable accident of nature, completely a faultless situation, that makes her subsequent sufferings at the hands of the unenlightened seem in parallel to historical figures like Alan Turing and other victimized minorities. The story ends with moderate abruptness, although not exactly a cliffhanger, and the largest question tensely unanswered in anticipation of the follow-up novel(s). However on its own, it still stands suitably complete, and will satisfy the reader.
All of the really novel ideas and concepts here were inherited from the preceding story, Leckie’s multiply-awarded "Ancillary Justice”. With all the potential themes and angles this novel could have delved, I was disappointed to find that it was basically a stationary episode in that regard. Fascinating dimensions to and implications of divided personality were hinted, but never delivered. The stylistic convention of Leckie’s gender-neutral society, The Radch, to use female pronouns exclusively was fascinating when first employed in ‘Justice', but mostly confusing when revisited here. That combined with a slow-moving introspective plot and an overtly etiquette-oriented society often brought to mind sitting-room scenes from Jane Austen. While the climax did redeem my opinion considerably, I found myself really laboring to get through the final third of the book, which before that scene, devoted more pages to describing tea sets than anything martial, militaristic, or remotely violent, despite the majority of the settings and characters all being active-duty Imperial Navy.
The narrative takes no chronological jumps forward or backward through the timeline, and proceeds in present tense following the events of ‘Justice’. This means that the returning protagonist, Breq, remains a lone fragment of her former multi-bodied self, and can only give a conventional single POV narration, unlike the more elaborate one from ‘Justice’. Despite this, she frequently does have the next best thing through the technological aid of the multi-perspective spaceship under her command. This leads to many sly observations of dispersed characters, and a lot of speculation on their various fluctuating feelings and guesses at inner moods and motivations. With the other multi-bodied character, Anaander Mianaai, largely absent from ‘Sword’, there’s not as much opportunity left to explore this theme.
I’m also a bit surprised that Leckie didn’t set the reader up for a dramatic twist that involved revealing one or more character genders, after first subtly leading us in the opposite direction. Since there are multiple non-Radch characters who speak plural-gender native languages, this distinction could be delivered via their dialogue and is an example of the power of the written word has over cinema and other storytelling art forms. I think many will be comforted that sufficient intrigue and mysterious threads were left unanswered to fuel subsequent stories in the ‘Ancillaryverse’, but I hope they take broader, riskier leaps in the stakes and consequences.
A terrific mystery that uses takes the SF concept of telepresence into interesting corners of possibility. While many other authors include the concept in passing without much fanfare (e.g., “Chinging” from Alastair Reynold’s recent Poseidon’s Children series), Scalzi's is the first I’ve come across to so closely examine social and psychological implications associated with it’s frequent, and usually constant, use. ‘Lock In’ patients who have lost all means of voluntary muscle control, but are otherwise fully cognitive, use thought-controlled remote robot bodies to interact with the world, while separately inhabiting a communal virtual reality set aside for their kind. Additionally, rare individuals called Integrators are able to temporarily share their own bodies with Lock-ins for the same purpose, leading to all kinds of opportunity for new and convoluted identity crises. A heavy look at the possibly further extension of this situation to able-bodied and political-economic consequences bring to mind Scalzi’s earlier “Fuzzy Nation”, a re-imagining of H. Beam Piper's 1962 sci-fi classic "Little Fuzzy” which also added a political-economic dimension. As with Scalzi’s other work, this story suffers/benefits (depending on your opinion) from a ubiquitous witty and clever dialog from all characters, much as in an Aaron Sorkin drama. I find this entertaining, but unrealistic, and would prefer to see a wider spectrum of tone to differentiate the characters. And while the story’s climax and ‘reveal’ is likewise clever, it is delivered in a very snark-heavy, condescending manner. I find there to be more dramatic tension in more evenly-balanced conflicts, and would have liked to see the protagonists at greater disadvantage throughout the narrative. I respect how Scalzi has stated that his personal challenge in writing “Lock-In” was to avoid all use of the semicolon, which he felt he has historically over-relied on. I will here suggest another noble aim for a future story: To use more varied verbs in reporting dialog (i.e. avoiding the frequent use of “said” by substituting alternatives such as “answered”, “responded”, “offered”, etc).
Like Hamilton’s earlier Void trilogy, this story is largely set in the pocket universe of The Void, where electronics and other post-19th century technology fails, and society has developed around ubiquitous psychic ability. Hamilton avoids continuity problems by devising an independent planet, Bienvenido, within the same Void as the earlier stories on which to stage the action. Here, all the same physical Void laws remain the same, but have slightly different nomenclature. Likewise, a similar social structure has arisen in Bienvenido to that of the earlier novels’ Querencia; a corrupt aristocracy with limited democratic dressing. Astonishingly, he also carries over the same archetype for his main protagonist; an idealist young lawman who enters the lion’s den city as an outsider intent on reform. The main situational difference between Querencia and Bienvenido is the ongoing threat of ‘Fallers’, alien pod-people who murder and assume the shape of their victims. Some sentimental wish fulfillment is introduced when a super-capable Nigel Sheldon appears on the scene from the outside universe. His Commonwealth technology is largely functional in the Void due to some effective planning, and he proceeds to manipulate people and events in order to stop these Fallers and break everyone free from the Void.
While it’s enjoyable to watch Nigel outsmart every other character in the book, it kind of reduces the drama to see him so wildly under-matched. The pacing often felt rushed as well, with several years of machinations compressed down to a few pages in order to hasten events. I think the story works best when it leans into the SF genre and away from the Fantasy one: The Commonwealth scenes are just more entertaining to me than the horseback ones. One notable exception can be found in the most interesting moment of the whole story, the discovery in the Desert of Bones. Here there is depth and wonder worthy of the Space Opera genre.
My biggest surprise with this story is how proximate it is to the Void trilogy. While it is technically set in between the Starflyer and Void episodes of Hamilton’s Commonwealth stories, it isn’t the narrative bridge I had expected. The readers who will enjoy this story most are those who preferred the Void stories, appreciating a good dose of Fantasy with their SF.
One of the advantages of such a long story, and I include Hamilton’s ‘Pandoras Star’ as part of this story, is that you can revisit forgotten characters and events from the earlier pages to great dramatic effect later on. Quite a few such gems get deliberately buried in the intervening text and are delightfully resurfaced when least expected. After my second reading of this pair of novels, I now hold a greater respect for the structural planning that went into it’s plot line and pacing.
As the publisher’s blurb informs us, the story focuses on a society under threat from both an external and internal alien threat. Although neither is fully resolved until the conclusion of ‘Judas’, I would argue that ‘Pandora' focusses more on the Prime alien invasion, while ‘Judas’ takes on the hidden Starflyer crisis. That’s not to say that there is any less intensity of action or violence in this volume- an incredibly dramatic climax awaits the patient reader. There isn’t any new insight into alien biology or psychology compared with the first novel, but many of the human characters are explored and evolved further. A few additional settings are introduced, although none of them are as wild or varied as those already visited. As others have already noted, you really can’t read either novel in isolation from the other, so you will certainly feel well satisfied with the resolution reached by the end of ‘Judas’, putting it only any Space Opera fan’s must-read list.
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