The Myriad
The Myriad
R.M. Meluch
I found about about The Myriad the old fashioned way, from an ad in the back of another DAW book. It had a blurb that promised guilty space opera goodness and was enough to rope me into a library request. Hard to imagine that back before the interwebs made SF fandom so much easier, this, author acknowledgments, and the Science Fiction Book Club were all we had. (I suppose some people subscribed to magazines, but I was stretching the allowance with Boy’s Life already.) That said, I can’t remember the last time this sort of analog advertising convinced me, so maybe I should ping DAW on Twitter to let them know that it still works.
The first thing to think about with The Myriad is the nature of storytelling twists. In some cases (The Sixth Sense), the twist turns the narrative on its head, but in a way that illuminates the hidden corners of the story and makes the audience say, “Oh! Now I understand!” In others (Dan Brown’s Angels & Demons, though this is hardly the book’s only fault), it undercuts the story, chopping it off at its narrative knees and leaving the reader wondering why anything that came before even mattered. Pretty much any story that ends with, “And it was all a dream!” falls into this category. I mention this first because The Myriad has to stand or fall entirely on its last chapter, no matter the quality of everything that comes before. More on this to follow.
The book itself threatens space opera, what with the man eating space bugs and all, but settles more firmly into military SF territory. These aren’t mutually exclusive of course, and the book hints at enough subgenres to call itself whatever it wants. Still, if forced under pain of xeno-bug digestion to choose, MilSF it is. One viewpoint character is the dashing ship’s captain, a bold and cheerful leader who just happens to be amazing at captainly duties. He is also handy with a sword, which certain plot details cause to be necessary. Another character is the loyal, competent, and somewhat dense sergeant whose job it is to ride herd on the jolly band of marines. We’ve already met the space bugs, but the other troupe of bad guys is a neo-Roman Empire, complete with Latin, legions, and martial glory. The League of Earth Nations (eat that UN!) politicians are smarmy and spineless. There is valor, loyalty, and discipline; all the book needs now is a grave commander who mourns the fine young men and women he sends to their fiery deaths in his vast battlefleet to hit all of the requisite MilSF notes.
Did I mention that the crew are all Americans, protecting US interests in space because the League of Earth Nations is lily livered? And yet, for every Pournelle-esque “What the world needs now is an enlightened despot” moment, there is a sidelong wink that pricks the overinflated balloon of jingoism. Meluch plays coy with the politics, but seems too self-aware to sell out completely to the Baen Books crowd. This is without getting into the bizarre Romans, who apparently arose from a secret society that survived both the barbarians at the gates in 476 A.D. and two subsequent millenia. We don’t see much of the Romans, save for one Augustus, who has mental superpowers and is forwarded to the hero’s ship to assist with the war against the ravening space bugs. He is for me the most interesting character by a large margin. Besides his genetically enhanced intellect, he hates the Americans and tweaks them whenever possible, but is also dutiful and has a heart of, if not gold, then maybe nice bronze. He is also handy with a sword, which is convenient when the space bugs are boarding the ship and have to be beaten off with cutlasses. Yes, this book is just as strange as it sounds.
One final point before moving on. I was surprised that most of the reviews I checked of The Myriad had nothing to say about one of the female characters, including a couple of reviewers that really have no excuse for glossing over it. Meluch treats one of the women, the “morale officer” of the squad if you will, horribly. At one point, putting her in danger of being molested by an alien, the men say something like, “Well, she puts out for everyone else, so what’s one more? I’m sure she’ll like it in the end.” Egad. This wouldn’t be as shocking if the book didn’t basically condone this attitude. If a male author were to write this, it would be decried. It may be though that because Meluch’s first name appears to be Rebecca, this sort of thing is alright. I have no idea, but it was every bit as icky as an Anne McCaffery dragon lady being forcibly taken by whatever dragon rider was lucky enough to see his trusty steed chase down the queen.
Anyway, philosophical quibbles aside, the book holds together far better than it should. The characters are engaging, the plot moves along rapidly, and actual Science even pops its head in from time to time. There are a couple of “wait … what?” moments, but nothing too egregious. If I were to start this review by saying, “American marines and Romans fighting xenocidal space bugs with swords – it works,” my loyal readers would probably try to lock me up. But …. it works. Right up until it doesn’t.
Several things I’ve read say that The Myriad really can’t be appreciated until one reads the second book. After that, the whacko twist at the end of The Myriad makes total sense and is actually brilliant. This may be so. Unfortunately, I have to deal with the book on its own, and I wanted to toss it out the bus window. Meluch let her characters paint themselves into several corners, but this was not the resolution I was looking for. Maybe I’ll change my mind after reading the next book, because I will eventually read the next book, but for now I reserve the right to feel a bit cheated. Still, like an LA Lakers victory, eventually the foul taste wears off and we only remember the good times. I’ll be sure to read and review the next book, leaving this for now with a conditional recommendation.
Rating: Chelsea-Liverpool, 2008 Champions League at Anfield. Liverpool dominates and seems intent on their second straight CL final before inexplicably heading in an own goal in extra time. They have never been the same.
The Helix War
The Helix War
Edward Willett
I had not heard of Edward Willett until he started following the Two Dudes Twitter feed. (Considering the amount and content of Two Dudes twittering, being followed by an actual published author is borderline miraculous.) Any author kind enough to pay attention to us, or even pretend to pay attention, is going to get read and reviewed, so the most interesting looking of Willett’s books got tossed on the Must Read Now pile, which is shorter than both the Must Read Soon and Would Like To Read One of These Days piles. Mr. Willett flying under the Two Dudes radar is not an indication of quality or fame; the two halves of The Helix War respectively won and were nominated for Canada’s Prix Aurora Award, which goes to show that we are just not quite omniscient yet. Consequently, one more gap in the Hoover Dam of our knowledge has now been plugged. Thank you, Twitter, for saving the day yet again.
The Helix War is actually two books: Marseguro and Terra Insegura. Neither really stands alone however, so it’s best to dive straight into the heftier omnibus volume. Otherwise there is a cliffhanger in one (Marseguro) and things would be utterly incomprehensible in the other (Terra Insegura). I am vaguely curious if the author has optioned this to Hollywood, because aside from their length, these are ready made action SF movie fodder. James Cameron would have a field day, for reasons we will get into later.
First, a brief explanation so the rest of the review makes sense. Earth is ruled by The Body Purified, a fundamentalist, anti-gene modification religion. They are bad. Earth has a few interstellar colonies, one of which is the hidden world of Marseguro. On it dwell the Selkies, a human sub species genetically modified to live in the water. There is also a small community of unmodified humans who are allied with the Selkies and came with them on their panicked flight from Earth. The Body Purified would love nothing more than to eradicate this stain, so by page 100 they have launched an invasion. This sets up a classic “Superior force invades the planet, plucky good guys fight back” trope, which is a pretty foolproof way to set up a fun story. How the reader feels about the course of the story probably depends a great deal on the reader’s opinion of Hollywood fare.
What is it about The Helix War that reminds me of summer blockbusters? Well, shall we begin with the bad guys? The Body Purified is the kind of religious bugaboo that writers of both screenplays and SF love. (Is it just me, or do Canadian writers take a particularly biting tone with US-based religion? Example #1: Robert Sawyer.) El Body isn’t Christian, but it’s all the fundamentalism and intolerance that we rational types love to hate. Loathsome in general, it is none too likable in particular, with the individual characters a rogue’s gallery of mental illnesses. Paranoia, delusional megalomania, and frantic denial are all on the platter, with very few rational bad guys in view. There is even a mad scientist who threatens destruction via super powerful killing device at one point. Good times!
The good guys are given more depth than just “we are honorable and fighting for our homes.” The ocean dwelling Selkies are an interesting creation and well thought out; their unmodified human allies also have complicated enough back stories and development to be engaging. Willett also resists the urge to make anyone a Heinlein-ian superman. Indeed, the audience is bound to spend a certain amount of time yelling, “stop, you fool!” at the screen, rather like we do when the horror movie starlet says something like, “I’ll just go upstairs now and see what that noise was.” The good guys spend the books making the best they can out of a bad situation, screwing up just like any of us would, and trying bravely to do The Right Thing. There are consequences for their actions and the author doesn’t shy away from violence begetting more violence. Everyone spends a fair amount of time hashing out moral dilemmas with each other, usually arriving at the conclusion that we should all be nice to each other. There is a veneer of philosophy to the book, but like the Selkies, it isn’t engineered for deep water.
700 pages seems like a lot, but the narrative moves briskly and cinematically. The camera jumps between multiple viewpoints, giving a clear view of all the action and a summary of what each key player is thinking. After 100 pages or so of school and troubled childhoods, the fun finally begins and never really lets up. Willett tosses in twists fairly regularly, especially in the second book. At one point I started to get whiplash, as the “wait … what?” moments piled up. (I can’t really say much about them in the review, as it would turn into spoiler city. Suffice it to say that pages 400-600 have more twists than a Chubby Checker concert.) Despite my skepticism, things held together. I still wanted to club a couple of the characters for doing clearly bone-headed stuff, but everything seemed to end happily enough.
Thus far, the Hollywood-esque bits of the story are less of a good or bad thing, and mostly just a thing. There were a couple of details that bothered me though. First, the whole thing with the asteroids that brought The Body Purified to power baffled me. I wonder if I missed a paragraph somewhere, because there was something in the resolution that seemed fishy at best and plain impossible at worst, but was never really explained. Second, if people have gone off into space and founded a super secret hidden colony, wouldn’t they, say, put a lock on the door of the emergency phone home beacon? Barring that, one or two surveillance satellites in orbit? It was awfully easy for the bad guys to find Marseguro. (Well, not too easy, but still. “Gee Berle, do you think that somebody, somewhere in the thousands of people here might get angry/crazy/drunk and accidentally/vindictively fire up this here thing that would call the raging, homicidal, religious freaks?” “Nah, let’s just leave it out here where anyone can find it.” “Alright. I won’t bother to conceal the activation code either.”)
A verdict? The Helix War was fun. I laughed, I cried, I was on the edge of my bus seat. It won’t appeal to certain demographics, but would probably be a good SF gateway drug. Readers looking for Hard SF, right wing MilSF, or gritty fantasy where GRRM kills everyone will probably be nonplussed. Someone taking a break between heavier stuff will probably enjoy the quick ride. It’s not Stranger in a Strange Land, but not everything needs to be. I’ll be adding more Edward Willett books to my pile.
Rating: The Spanish National Team pre-2006 or so. Lots of flash and running around, fun to watch, but somewhat lacking in depth.
Moldy Fantasy: The World of Tiers
The World of Tiers
Phillip Jose Farmer
When presented with the opportunity to read vintage, hardbound fantasy with gloriously impractical Boris Vallejo covers, I can think of few reasons to say no. Just such a chance awaited me at a recent library book sale, as all of the recent, popular books had long disappeared by the time I got there. All that remained were obscure titles published long ago by forgotten presses, likely unread since the Gerald Ford administration. I took one look at the impossibly muscled, very naked, but battle axe wielding warrior and maiden on the front of The World of Tiers and knew that we were destined to meet at that sale. As an added bonus, the author is no other than Phillip Jose Farmer, of whom I had heard much but not yet read. This, dear reader, is what Moldy Fantasy is all about.
The first cycle of The World of Tiers comprises five books, which were later gathered into the two volume compendium that I read. Between the cover art, the publication date, and the first chapter, Tiers gives every indication of being pulpy low fantasy. I fully expected Robert Wolff, our erstwhile hero, to be tramping around a clone of Barsoom or Gor. There is a surfeit of mighty thews, but Farmer also commits world building. We end up with something a bit more sophisticated and, dare I say, scientific than one initially expects. This is appropriate, seeing as how he wrote a foreword, but Tiers feels like low fantasy filtered through Roger Zelazny. The five books split neatly into two narrative arcs. Books one and two are collected into Volume One and feature Wolff, the Earthman who stumbles into the Tiers. The remaining three make up Volume Two and follow Wolff’s guide from the first book, Kickaha. Mr. K comes close to stealing the show in that book, something that Farmer was no doubt aware of. He rewards the nominal sidekick with a bigger part to play in the later books; this is probably a good call. Kickaha is impetuous and bold, Wolff, while admirable, is a bit square.
As for Farmer’s world building, what starts as typical low fantasy quickly spirals into something much weirder. Farmer’s “Lords,” powerful, godlike, humanoid beings, create their own pocket universes. Wolff tumbles into the Lord Jadawin’s universe, which is arranged in tiers. Books One and Three take place in this universe, Four is on Earth, and numbers Two and Five are in other Lord’s universes. Jadawin’s is the most fun because each tier is a completely different environment. There are Native American levels, High Middle Age levels, classical urban levels, and of course the Lord’s fortress. This allows for varied storytelling and a veritable cast of thousands. The other universes are less ambitious, but still mind blowing. Earth is, well, early 1970s Earth. It is perhaps no surprise that the fourth book was the least interesting. With all the talk of pocket universes, impossibly advanced technology, and occasional beam weapons, Tiers is clearly science fiction. Still, a lot of the action takes place in fantasy-like environments with swords and bows, plus there are those naked axe wielders on the covers, so we’ll just keep this in the Moldy Fantasy category for now. It is quite like McCafferey or Zelazny though, in the way that the story wanders in and out of genre.
There is a danger inherent in these Moldy Fantasy posts of the commentary foundering on the rocks of contextual ignorance. A gaggle of writers were active at the time – Bradbury, Ellison, Lieber, Vance to name a few – that I haven’t read sufficiently to highlight the dialogue occurring between them. I am just familiar enough to see that Farmer is part of the conversation without being able to follow all sides, so there are no doubt all sorts of little asides and influences that are going over my head. There’s really no way to fix this, except to read more moldy fantasy, so we’ll have to leave Farmer relatively unexamined for now.
Taken by themselves however, the Tiers novels hold up. There is a bit of residual sexism, despite what appear to be Farmer’s honest efforts to avoid it, and certain moments of plot convenience that are probably more a function of word count than narrative skill. Some parts of the series work better for me (Jadawin’s realm in its entirety) than others (Earth, long stretches in less interesting universes), but I imagine that individual mileage will vary. The books are far more creative and entertaining than I expected, so credit to the author for taking me by surprise. Farmer is from a different era, which may leave fans of contemporary fantasy cold; pace and style have changed drastically. Still, The World of Tiers is worth seeking out. Come for the naked axe warriors, stay for the crazy pocket universes.
Rating: Sven Goran-Eriksson. Like Kickaha, the dour Swede’s travels have covered the globe and taken him to far and obscure corners, to mixed results.
City of Pearl
City of Pearl
Karen Traviss
I hadn’t heard of City of Pearl until reading an article somewhere, possibly io9, about military science fiction. I am uncertain why this was on there, as it is not really MilSF despite the presence of a few marines. Still, new books are new books, so I gave it a shot. I know nothing of the genesis of this book, but it is a powerful debut, all the more so for its understated tone and grounded narrative. Traviss has a solid journalist’s resume, so it’s not like she is an amateur trying her hand; her background quietly fills the corners of the story and gives it gravity. She also perpetrates a pet peeve of mine, superfluous apostrophe usage in planet or race name, but I will forgive it just this once.
Let’s get the obligatory stuff out of the way first, before moving on to what really interests me. City of Pearl rewards the reader who digs into its complexity. Instead of Good Guys and Bad Guys, there are complicated people with multi-layered relationships and incompatible goals. There are several distinct groups, whether it be entire species, tribes within a species, or alliances across racial lines, each with its own worldview that may or may not conflict with others. There are aliens who are close enough to humans to elicit understanding, but distinct in ways that challenge characters and readers. There are big ideas like Science, Capitalism, and The Environment that tend to work at cross purposes, though conflict need not be inevitable. In other words, if we swap out the distant planet and a couple of alien races, we’re left with something that looks very much like Earth, circa Right Now.
All of this is outlined in direct, economical prose. Traviss allows herself lyrical moments once in a while, but this is primarily a “just the facts, ma’am” style that reflects well on her journalism background. She has also apparently spent enough time as a foreign correspondent, possibly embedded with troops or police, to give the writing its proper weight and verisimilitude. I appreciate verbal virtuosity as much as the next guy, but faithful readers will know that I like my writing no-nonsense and spare.
Now for the fun stuff! City of Pearl, more than any book I’ve read since Pohl and Kornbluth’s Search the Sky (and for very different reasons), has the potential to offend pretty much everyone. To begin with, if there are any Bad Guys to be found, none other than the scientists take the role. At best, they are proxies for the corporations, but at worst they are jealous, enthno-centric, arrogant, and reckless. They chafe under the restrictions placed on them as visitors, have little respect for the military and police forces that nominally head the mission, and even less for the natives. Rare is the science fiction novel that has readers cheering when a non-mad scientist gets what’s coming to him or her, but here we are.
The scientists were a bit of a surprise, but I was most taken aback by some conversations between Aras, the alien protector of the planet Wess’ej, and Shan, the policewoman leading the human expedition there. Aras and his race, the Wess’har, are utilitarianism taken to its logical conclusion. If someone is causing problems, remove the problems at the root, usually by killing that someone. Punishment is swift and automatic. If an entire city is the problem, firebomb the city and liquidate the survivors. “Humans,” says Aras, “Have too many rights and not enough responsibilities.” (Somewhere, Jerry Pournelle is reading this chapter and nodding vigorously.) In the context of the story, it is hard not to agree with him until one remembers what exactly those rights include. I know better than to assume that Traviss agrees with her characters, but the presentation and framing of this idea is certainly enough to trouble lovers of freedom and democracy on any part of the political spectrum.
What will really steam the Baen Books reading portion of SF-dom though, is the Wess’har approach to the environment. They are organic, vegan farmers who build underground rather than disturb the natural landscape. The humans that live on Wess’ej are, by necessity, the same; the antagonists are those that try to dominate and/or eat the environment rather than coexisting with it. Again, readers should avoid conflating story elements with an author’s opinion, but from her comfortable and detailed descriptions of the vegan farming and food preparation process, one can’t help but assume a certain level of familiarity. Of course, people who lambaste Wall-E for its liberal, environmental agenda aren’t going to parse City of Pearl too carefully, so expect this one to end up on Eric Cantor’s Poop List.
So now that most Republicans, the ACLU, and a set of humorless scientists are offended, what are the rest of us to think? One group of readers who will, I think, be happy is SF’s female half. I am hardly the one to judge this sort of thing, but Traviss puts her women front and center, challenges them equally with her men, and gives them the freedom to address the issues at hand in their own ways. I am not generally interested in or sensitive to female problems, but Traviss’ deft portrayal kept me engaged. She dealt with emotions in a much more natural way than many SF authors. (Considering the archetypal SF author, that should surprise nobody.)
Condensing all of the above into a pithy summation, City of Pearl is a complicated, philosophical novel that asks hard questions, doesn’t shy away from the answers, and is more than happy to irk the reader in the process. If its boldness wasn’t matched by quality and creativity, Traviss would just be shrill. It is though, and she isn’t, and City of Pearl is a must read for SF fans with a brain. (That would be most of us.)
Rating: Sam Allardyce. Not that he cares about vegans, organic farming, or complicated alien politics, but Aras would appreciate Big Sam’s brutally pragmatic approach to football.
Tron: Legacy
Tron: Legacy
We don’t do a lot of film commentary here at Two Dudes, due partially to the dearth of decent SFF movies, but also because writing about film is an entirely different animal than dealing with books. Still, after finally watching Tron: Legacy a couple of nights ago, I couldn’t contain myself. I’m not much of a film critic, so I’ll leave the finer points to Roger Ebert, but I am uniquely qualified to add my two cents. Why? Because who else out there can simultaneously rant about the Tron canon, electronic music, and Zen Buddhism? (Don’t answer that, because I really don’t want to hear that hundreds of people not named Pep are better than I am at all of it.)
Full disclosure time. I am exactly the limited, but vocal, demographic that Tron: Legacy targets: geeky fans of the original who happen to like Daft Punk and think that Jeff Bridges’ best work ever was in The Big Lebowski. (I wonder what a young Bridges would say if we told him that one day, when he was a respected winner of multiple awards and a grizzled veteran of countless influential movies, his legacy would be largely defined by The Dude.) As such, I will openly confess to digging the movie from start to finish, occasionally uttering a Keanu Reeves-style “Woah,” and silently whooping and high-fiving myself. (The kids were asleep, so Mrs. Pep would have been angry with any vocal enthusiasm.) I have decided not to think too hard about the plot, which is incomprehensible, the hero, who is a dork ala Shia Labeouf, or the logical repercussions of an army of anthropomorphic computer programs invading a hastily Photoshopped Vancouver. These have all been addressed by numerous respectable film critics, I have other fish to fry.
So yes, I am one of those obnoxious people who suddenly crawled out of the woodwork a few years ago, going on interminably about how amazing and underrated Tron was. Perhaps not interminably, in my case, but I am willing to defend the groundbreaking FX, the cyberspace before there was cyberspace, the wild aesthetic that transferred so well to my four color computer monitor (cyan and magenta, baby!), and the off-kilter religious underpinnings. It wasn’t Star Wars, but I think it’s right up there with Flight of the Navigator or The Last Starfighter on a list of dorky 1980s science fiction. (“What do we do now?” * glass eyepiece closes * “We die.”) Was Tron an epochal event, a watershed moment in science fiction film that demands a retelling? No. Is it a potentially interesting world that would be well served by modern film making technology? I think so. Tron: Legacy squanders a bit of the storytelling potential, but maximizes the aesthetics, which is what most of us remember about the original anyway.
Tron: Legacy is especially gratifying to nerds of a certain age, for whom the progression from the original wire-frame animation and blocky light cycle trails to fluid, stunning CG is reminiscent of the awe we feel watching Skyrim after cutting our teeth on Wizardry and The Bard’s Tale. There aren’t very many movies I will watch just for the effects, but this is one of them. I hope there is an extended cut out there somewhere, with twenty more minutes of light cycles and disc battles. I loved the use of light and water, the shattered liquid glass when a program derezzes, and the Blade Runner meets The Apple Store ambience. Something else I appreciated, but haven’t seen mentioned in other reviews, was the 80s aesthetic that infuses The Grid. This makes sense both as an homage to the original, but also in the story, as Flynn was trapped there in 1987. This 80s feeling is at its strongest in Zuse, who channels New Wave rock, that crazy Dune movie, and who knows what else in a classic club scene. Again, I suspect that one has to be over 30 or so to enjoy (or notice) this, but it’s one more point in the style department.
This is a natural time for a segue into the music. Daft Punk are a perfect choice for the task, because they are masters of applying a futuristic sheen to vintage disco and electro sensibilities. Listening to the soundtrack by itself, I was struck by the absence of melodic or harmonic innovation relative to the praise it receives. The music isn’t revolutionary in this way, nor is it the most fascinating listening in isolation. (Most soundtracks aren’t.) Daft Punk’s genius instead lies in the seamless transitions between traditional orchestral scoring and the electronica they are better known for. It is the first movie I have seen where the soundtrack maintains thematic and atmospheric unity despite frequent changes between live, acoustic instrumentation and sequenced electronics. Of course this approach isn’t appropriate for every movie, or even every sci-fi action movie, but it could still point the way forward.
But what really grabbed me, and I am now open to charges of being a broken record, is the screenplay’s casual takedown of Zen Buddhism. When the hero finally meets Jeff Bridges, they have a brief argument over whether to “Be cool, man” or “Just do it.” Bridges is, of course, the meditating, zen-like aphorism speaking hippie, while the hero is the typical proactive white male. Despite just arriving in The Grid, escaping the games by the slimmest of margins, and having absolutely no idea what is going on or what to do about it, the hero is ready to charge back out and fight. Bridges, who is assumed to know far more about everything, counsels patience and caution while saying things like “remove myself from the game,” is completely ignored. The hero suffers a few setbacks for obvious reasons, but it is abundantly clear that ACTION is the answer. This is a minor theme and probably unrecognizable to many, but I was surprised at the casual dismissal of the Buddhist way of looking at things. Even the Zen meditation is more of a gag than a viable path to self-discipline. I probably would have been less conscious of this had I not just read and reviewed 10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights, but it is yet another chapter in a long running conversation I am involved in concerning Western tropes and their intellectual hegemony in science fiction.
In the end, we are left with a visually and aurally stylish production, a fairly incomprehensible script, and a fabulous hodgepodge of homage, reference, and imitation. In addition to the requisite Tron cues, alert viewers will catch nods to kung-fu cinema, the obligatory slow-motion Matrix shot, anything ever made about gladiators, and a lot of Star Wars. The turret bit at the end is the closest match to Luke and Han, but a lot of the movie felt like an extended riff on Luke and Obi-Wan in the Death Star, if Obi-Wan were replaced by a glowing version of The Dude. All in all, it is 126 minutes of sci-fi easter eggs for the exceedingly nerdy. Because of what I am, I forgive Tron: Legacy its many flaws and will no doubt watch it again. I hope that the rumored sequel surpasses both its predecessors, but will make do for now with what I have.
Rating: Manchester City, 2011-2012. A huge budget, undeniable artistry, unexplainable lunacy, and enough fatal flaws to keep them from the summit.
10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights
10 Billion Days & 100 Billion Nights
Mitsuse Ryu
Just for fun, I went to the SF community on Mixi (Japan’s largest social network) and asked, “Is this book really the greatest Japanese SF novel ever? Because the publisher here says it is.” I failed to kick up a hornet’s nest, but did get a general admission that, “Greatest” or not, it’s certainly one of the most revered and influential SF books to come out of the country. (The ensuing discussion also inexplicably prompted someone to call me, roughly, an “ill-mannered poser.”) In that sense, 10 Billion Days is rather like Japan’s Dune or Foundation, which makes reviewing it slightly intimidating. It also means that, as a self appointed ambassador of Japanese fiction, I’m under that much more pressure to deliver a profound and life-altering review.
The basis of any claim that 10 Billion Days is the greatest anything is this poll from 2006, where the readers of SF Magazine (a Japanese publication) voted on the best stuff. My Japanese sources countered with the 1998 poll, which swapped numbers one and two. This is an annual poll, but our assumption is that 10 Billion Days is going to feature in the top five or so every year, much the way there is a general consensus here on the “best” five or ten SFF novels. It’s also one of only a few in the top twenty that have been translated into English, other high ranking books including Japan Sinks and Yukikaze.
10 Billion Days defies easy description. It begins with the emergence of life on Earth and sprints in 250 pages to the end of the universe, with a cast consisting almost entirely of prophets and deities. Plato and Pilate are the main exceptions here, but mostly we’re dealing with Jesus, Siddhartha, Maitreya, and Asura. (The latter two are Buddhist and Hindu divinities, respectively.) One should not expect a strict historical reconstruction of any of these, nor any sort of reverence toward the religions they are associated with. I can’t say anything about Hindus or Buddhists, but I’m pretty sure a large number of Christians would be angry about Mitsuse’s Jesus. This is not to accuse Mitsuse of writing an atheist hatchet piece, because I don’t think that’s his purpose. His story requires giants striding across the landscape, so these are the characters he chooses. That they are also cyborgs is entirely beside the point.
To summarize the plot would basically spoil the book. Suffice it to say that it involves the above mentioned characters, something called The Planetary Development Committee, Atlantis, Andromeda and the Milky Way crashing into each other, extinct civilizations, warring Hindu gods, Jesus as a killer cyborg, and the end of the universe. After finishing the book, I had to just sit there for awhile, trying to make sense of it all. 10 Billion Days demands reflection and leisurely consumption, rather than frantic page turning. It reminds me somewhat of reading the Old Testament, with its cold and distant narrative voice, the sudden and jarring leaps through time and space, and the patchy sense of history and myth. Likewise it is dense prose, with each sentence crafted for maximum economy and impact, and multiple meanings packed into each phrase. I’m going to have to read this again someday, because I am certain that I missed plenty the first time through.
Reading early on, I thought that 10 Billion Days didn’t feel much like a Japanese book, or at least not compared to a lot of the contemporary stuff that Haikasoru publishes. It lacks the distinct character interaction that immediately identifies Japanese human relations and gives no nod to anime culture. (To be fair, there wasn’t anime culture as we know it when this was originally published.) By the end though, it was very clear that this is not a book that could have been written in the West. Without rampant spoilage (I hope), I want to point out the differences. I periodically refer here to the David Brin theory of SF and Fantasy, which is that they are basically extensions of the Enlightenment and the Romantic Movement, respectively. The first looks to a brighter future, brought about through Science, while the second looks toward an idealized past, which we must return to for redemption. (That’s a bit oversimplified.) The key to both of these is our effort, which brings about one or another form of salvation.
What we don’t see here in the West is a third way of looking at things, an idea that comes from, among others, Buddhism and the Yoga Sutra. These philosophies stress the lack of action, of finding peace through acceptance of things as they are. “Desire is the root of unhappiness” is the most often seen aphorism in these Eastern traditions, so the focus is not on improving things through one’s own efforts, but on sidestepping unhappiness through the elimination of the appetites that bring dissatisfaction. Max Weber’s striving Protestants would find this incomprehensible. 10 Billion Days is suffused with this ethic, especially as the book ends. [Some spoilers to follow, in as vague a way as I can.]
I don’t think that a Western author, especially an American, could write the end of 10 Billion Days. An American would most likely set up one side as Evil, or at least as a clear antagonist, and provide the viewpoint character some way to overcome that Evil. There would be a resolution, there would be an improvement of the character’s situation, and there would be effort expended in some way for people to help themselves. Mitsuse thinks not. There is a Japanese term, shikata ga nai, that poorly translates to “it can’t be helped.” We don’t have good words for it in English, because it is a mindset with which we are unfamiliar. To say shikata ga nai means to accept that something can’t be changed and to move forward by mutual agreement, with the understanding that whatever unchanging thing it is will be accepted as a given. This is not just things like gravity, or the Earth’s rotation, or other such inevitability, but it extends to places that we Americans might say, “Wait, let’s not accept that, let’s improve it!” The end of 10 Billion Days is an end-of-the-universe-sized shikata ga nai. It is the ultimate expression of acceptance and resignation, of denying desire in an attempt to find peace. I suspect that it would be wildly unsatisfying for a reader who can’t wrap his head around this way of seeing the world.
What about those of us who are somewhat accustomed to this worldview? I almost feel like I won’t be qualified to pass judgment on this one until I’ve read it a couple more times, pondered deeply its truths, and emerged a much older, wiser man. Still, there are a few things I can say. The book’s narrative tone is somewhat standoffish, as though Mitsuse is keeping us at bay while he recites his tale. He gives us hints of the characters and their worlds, occasional flashes of intense action or vivid description, and stretches of frigid mystery. The outlines are sharp, but scarce, leaving fleeting impressions of forces and personalities beyond our comprehension. Even the viewpoint characters are finally unknowable, to say nothing of grander forces manipulating them. With some authors, this would be a flaw, a mark of poorly thought out or executed writing, but with Mitsuse, this seems to be exactly what he intended. We are left at the end with a sense of mystery and wonder intact, knowing that something amazing is happening, but not grasping it completely.
This may be because Mitsuse understands that the payoff in these things rarely matches our expectations. This is a wise dodge, but the overall effect leaves 10 Billion Days similar to The Book of Judges, or perhaps 1st Samuel. For a final, pithy summation of the book, I’m torn between the mystery and philosophy on one hand, and the lack of engagement on the other. It was a haunting read, one that will no doubt hover in the darker corners of my mind, but it wasn’t very much fun while I read it. One can’t go wrong though, with a book that contains the line, “Siddhartha was acutely aware that as long as Jesus of Nazareth was alive, this could be a trap.”
Rating: This is a massive reach, but perhaps Leeds United? The universe ends in 10 Billion Days, Leeds taking their top ranked form and nosediving into League One was pretty much like the end of the universe for them. Not that 10 Billion Days has anything in common with a despicable club like Leeds.
The Engines of God
The Engines of God
Jack McDevitt
Jack McDevitt has published eighteen or so novels, but until last week, I had only read the Alex Benedict ones. To branch out, I jumped into his other major series, the Priscilla “Hutch” Hutchins books, which got underway with 1994′s The Engines of God. McDevitt mixes and matches several SF tropes in this one, tosses in his usual mix of history, ethics, and action, and seems to have created a durable universe. Engines combines the Big Mysterious Object, or in this case, several Mysterious Objects of Varying Size, the Fermi Paradox, Elder Galactic Races, and a dash of environmental warning. (The Fermi Paradox, for those not compulsively up to date on their SF terminology, is the question of why, if there is life out there, we haven’t seen any sign of it yet.)
The book is episodic, as the mystery unfolds in three or four vaguely connected parts. McDevitt’s structure is both a strength and weakness of the book. By spreading things out in the story, he makes it closer to real life. Not many of us have the luxury of pursuing something single-mindedly until it reaches a satisfying conclusion; there are soccer games and piano lessons, phone calls to relatives, emergencies at work, colds and sniffles, and whatever thousand other things suck away time during the day. Any book that allows the protagonist to bulldoze through the narrative with nary a delay is clearly unrealistic, so taking Hutch on a roundabout course over several months is much closer to how one of us would solve a similar mystery. It also gives the reader a tour of Hutch’s universe and lets us see places that may or may not be directly related to the mystery at hand.
On the other hand, there are reasons why most books keep a more direct, condensed line of narration. Long time readers will know that my tastes tend towards a certain economy of prose and storytelling. I am not generally a fan of florid writing or in-depth, multi-volume world building (except for those times when I am). Engines is a pretty diffuse book. Bits and pieces of the bigger story are spread around several planets, each of which has its own side story. The mystery is always present, but not always the main event. Things finally center in on the MOVS (Mysterious Objects of Varying Size) for the last part of the book, with a corresponding jump in excitement and interest. In some ways this reminds me of a less stylized Revelation Space, another book that dabbles in almost identical themes at a similarly slow pace.
McDevitt’s commitment to realism via context is a hallmark of his novels. While the mystery always drives the plot, the characters are constantly aware of a recent political scandal, the rising price of bread, or the results of last night’s playoff match. Further, there are rarely any Bad Guys in his novels. There are antagonists, to be sure, misguided or dishonest people, or just people with a different agenda from the point of view character. The events in Engines play themselves out against a backdrop of other concerns, as everyone staggers blindly toward whatever resolution is to be found. From reading interviews and essays, I gather that this is a conscious choice McDevitt makes, both for artistic reasons and because he wants his characters to be recognizable to the hoi polloi.
This is admirable, though it sometimes comes at the expense of momentum. The book is not short on action or suspense, but it is generally incidental to the main story. Excitement and answers finally converge at the end, though the answers are only partial and leave much room for future exploration. The answer is satisfactory, as these sorts of things go, but I will have to keep reading the series to find out what McDevitt chooses to do with it. (I suppose this was also a conscious decision.) I cited Revelation Space earlier for similarities in execution; Engines also has a hint of Greg Benford’s Galactic Center sequence. I like the first Hutch book more than the first Galactic book by a comfortable margin, though it echoes Benford’s use of two full novels to introduce the arc he hangs the remaining books on.
So in the end, I was left with an appetizer. Engines is a good book, but it’s not McDevitt’s best. I’m assuming based on word of mouth that the series picks up steam. I plan on reading the next couple to find out and will report accordingly; this alone rates it higher than several other first volumes I’ve read. Taken by itself, I was left wanting more, in context it may yet prove to be brilliant. Stay tuned.
Rating: Some pre-season Cup tournament. Just enough to whet the appetite, but not yet going full bore to victory.
Embassytown
Embassytown
China Mieville
I am woefully under-read in China Mieville. According to somewhere, he has eight novels in print, of which I have only read this and Perdido Street Station. Mieville is a major voice in current SFF though, and one of a few that the broader world deigns to notice, so I’d better get on the wagon. At the same time, I’ve made a sudden and belated run through 2011′s highest profile SF lately, in part because Embassytown and The Quantum Thief were right next to each other on the Monthly Recommends shelf at the library. Yes please, I’ll take one of each. (I read a couple others as well, but they weren’t sitting there on a platter for me.) Since various unpleasant realities mean I’m not totally up on the newest books, I read a wee bit about Embassytown in preparation for this post. It was most discouraging; everyone was talking about semiotics, literary theory, trope usage and subversion, and all sorts of educated topics that I find rather intimidating. My pride won’t let me send people off to read The New York Times or London Book Review or whatever without sliding my own two cents in though, so off we go.
“Best” is a loaded and ambiguous word, so I am not going to call Embassytown the best book of 2011. I will say that it is the most challenging and engaging book of 2011 that I have read so far. Certainly is goes on the list of the multiple best books of the year; even though I have many left to read, I don’t imagine that anything will unseat Embassytown. It seems to have tossed a little gasoline on the dead horse that is the genre fiction vs. literary fiction debate as well, which is probably a good thing. I’ve spent enough time in academia to not really care what academia thinks, but some people are deeply concerned about this sort of thing. I suspect that Mieville’s book is a boon to them, as it balances an exegesis of language with a full speed ahead science fiction ethos. One does not always find the diagramming of sentences in the same chapter as faster than light space travel, but who is China Mieville to follow convention? Even more surprising perhaps is the critical reaction: people are talking about Embassytown throughout both the SF community and more buttoned-up literary circles, with a reaction that is almost universally positive.
All of this coverage has a small downside, as many of the critics toss around spoilers with what I consider to be reckless abandon. Part of the fun of the book is watching Mieville slowly illuminate each successive mystery, but several of the reviews freely give away surprises that come in more than halfway through the book. Fortunately, I hadn’t read any of them. The plot is much more entertaining if the reader doesn’t know why EzRa is so crucial, or what they (he?) really mean.
The story itself moves along two seemingly parallel tracks that eventually converge late in the book. The first follows the above mentioned EzRa, the second chronicles the Ariekei attempts at lying. The vagaries of Ariekei language render lying an impossibility for them, so festivals where they get together and try to say something untrue are like popular sporting events. Since any sort of untruth is impossible, they speak mostly in similes, but only similes that actually exist. There is a rock on the edge of Embassytown that was broken, then put back together, for the sole purpose of allowing the Ariekei to say, “this is like the rock that was broken, then put back together.” The language itself is an amazing creation – the Ariekei speak simultaneously through two mouths, and can only speak exactly what is on their minds. Communication with humans requires two humans, generally identical twins, speaking carefully prepared sentences in unison, with exactly matched intention and emotion. Needless to say, this is difficult. The Ambassadors try, however, and there is some semblance of interspecies cooperation.
Because this language and the effect it has on the Ariekei comprise the heart of the novel, we end up with that strangest of science fiction that cares deeply about both grammar and FTL methods. Good times. Embassytown is, at its basest level, a thought experiment built around a language almost impossible for us to imagine. If this were all it is, nobody would complain too much, as a lot of science fiction never rises above the level of experiment, just usually with physics or astronomy at the core. Mieville’s genius though, lies in his ability to elevate the story far above cookie cutter Hard SF and into the realm of pure literature. I’m not going to beat the drum in genre fiction’s grand crusade for legitimacy, but I will suggest that this is a book that serious lit types would appreciate. It has a great deal to say about the human condition and other such things that lit people love passionately, just not in some bland suburb in the recent past. Will John Q. Lit-Professor give it a shot? I have no idea, nor do I much care. It would be a shame if Embassytown is only appreciated by us crazy SF types, but it’s certainly not our loss. (It’s Mieville’s, yes, but he knew the rules when he joined the club.)
Rating: I have no idea how to relate this to football. Regardless, read Embassytown. Your life will be better for it.
