2015 Reading Stats

2015 Reading Stats

It was a dire year bookwise at Two Dudes. Posting and reading numbers are way down, but a new job next week promises to restore some numbers for 2016. For now at least – I don’t plan to keep my new commute for any longer than necessary.

Total books read in 2015: 28
This is my lowest number since grad school. Oh well.

Genre breakdown:
SF: 19
Fantasy: 8
Other: 1
Once again, I thought that Fantasy had crept up on the SF numbers, and once again it hasn’t. I wonder why I think that I read so much fantasy now, when clearly I don’t. That single Other was a delightful football hooligan memoir.

White Patriarchy breakdown (SFF Only):
Men: 15
Women: 10
Both: 1
Not too bad this year, though I was on track for a dismal ratio until I went on a late summer tear.

Languages:
English: 27
Japanese: 1
Translations: 2
Look for Japanese to pick up a bit this year, as bus time increases. I had one each of Chinese and Japanese in translation; that number should also tick upwards, especially as I’ve already read another Lui Cixin book.

ARCs: 3
Fewer ARCs came in last year, no doubt a partial result of fading blog numbers. I barely read the ones that did come, and purposefully didn’t request very many.

Total posts on Two Dudes in 2014: 35
Like reading, writing took a hit. Evenings filled up with family-related stuff, and much of what free time I had went into reading. Movies and gaming are even sadder right now. I will probably be writing more this year; I already had a relatively bountiful January.

Category breakdown:
Reviews: 23
Commentary: 6
Interviews/Guest Posts: 1
Misc.: 5
Commentary took off this year, mostly in a series of Hugo/Sad Puppy response essays. Some of them have to rank with my best work on here. I would love to get more research paper-esque posting going, but it’s hard to cook up topics and then find the time to write decently about them.

Review Genre breakdown:
SF: 16
Fantasy: 7

White Patriarchy breakdown:
Men: 13
Women: 6
Both: 1
Japan: 2
China: 1
This is calculated by the main topic of the post, i.e. author gender/ethnicity, essay subject, etc. Posts lacking an identifying characteristic (announcements, genre-wide topics, etc.) are excluded from the count. I feel like I could add the Sad Puppy posts in there somewhere since all of them are about diversity, but I’m not sure exactly how I want to count that.

Popular Stuff:

Unsurprisingly, the 2015 Hugo Imbroglio post and KIC 8462852 were my most read of the year. The first was picked up by noted genre curator Paul Weimer, leading to a crushing amount of views and comments. That is probably the blog’s finest hour so far. The second was lucky timing – scientists announced that they may have found artificial structures out there, and I happened to crank out a summary before almost anyone else. Oodles of random people found the post on search engines and dropped in, probably never to return.

Favorites of 2015

Favorite Books of 2015

Obligatory beginning/end of year posting time! As reading cratered to an all-time low this year, I’ve slashed the numbers on my year-end list to reflect that. No sense choosing a top twenty and only having to exclude a few. These aren’t really “best” or even “favorite” so much as, “books that stuck in my brain.” I read several things that I really enjoyed, but they kind of flowed through me like a warm river, leaving only the vaguest memories. The following have taken up residence in my SFF memory banks, even if I may not fight and die for them..

1. Ancillary Mercy – Ann Leckie
No surprises here! Everyone around me knows how much I love these books. Leckie finished things off brilliantly.

2. The House of Shattered Wings – Aliette de Bodard
Gothic urban fantasy about fallen angels wouldn’t normally be in my wheelhouse. Aliette de Bodard, on the other hand, turns everything she touches to gold. Who wins? Find out when I get around to reviewing this one.

3. Aurora – Kim Stanley Robinson
KSR is probably my favorite SF author right now, and arguably the greatest living. Best to just refer everyone to my post about Aurora, or I will natter on for hours.

4. Karen Memory – Elizabeth Bear
Here’s another surprise. Steampunk Western is also not my thing, but this is hilarious, archly political, and set in the best city in the world not named Kyoto.

5. The Goblin Emperor – Katherine Addison
Addison’s book barely makes the cut, as it was one of the first couple I read in 2015. It’s lovely, charming, hopeful, and a bunch of other things I don’t normally read.

6. The Three-Body Problem – Liu Cixin
I owe myself dinner for correctly predicting Liu’s Hugo victory. Thanks, Puppies! If they are good for nothing else in this world (and they probably aren’t), they at least bollixed things up enough that we got to give the Hugo to a sprawling Chinese Hard SF novel. Spoiler alert – volume two is even better.

Runners up: The Bonehunters (Steven Erikson), In Conquest Born (C.S. Friedman), Nemesis Games (James S.A. Corey), Thirteen (Richard Morgan), The Red: First Light (Linda Nagata)

We Who Are About To

We Who Are About To
Joanna Russ

I natter on quite a bit these days about gender stuff and other equality-based issues, hoping (fruitlessly?) that I don’t maroon myself in The Land of White Mansplaining. It was hardly my intent when I started the blog, but somewhere along the way this became part of the Two Dudes Party Line. Now, under the tyranny of my own editing, I am forced to meekly toe said line. Anyway, with Vintage SF Month in full swing, it is time to remedy a major hole in my SFF experience: foundational works of gender and cultural activism. I decided to grab either James Tiptree, Jr. or Joanna Russ for this, choosing We Who Are About To because I became convinced somehow that it was a military SF story with a pro-woman perspective. I may be confusing this with something else.

Disclaimers first. There are many more lucid deconstructions of this book out there, written by people a) smarter than me b) more involved in activism or c) both. I am going to skate lightly across the surface in a bid to introduce and/or showcase the work, leaving the literary heavy lifting to those more qualified and less tired than I am. If this sort of thing tickles the Gentle Reader’s fancy, please use this post as a jumping off point. Engagement in the comments is also welcome; I shall endeavor to keep up.

As I said, my expectations when picking up We Who Are About To involved some combination of MilSF and feminism. I have no idea why I thought this, because, while there is feminism a-plenty, I found nary a mention of power armor or space battle. On well. Instead, transgressive trope busting ahoy. Russ takes on a popular story from days gone by: plucky humans crash land on an uninhabited but strangely livable planet and make a go of it. However, instead of having her people rise to the challenge, tap hitherto unknown reservoirs of creativity and talent, and beat back the frontier ala Little House on the Prairie, Russ decides to unleash The Lord of the Flies and basic laws of planetary biology. We have two choices at this point: read on and be shocked by the bracing, unforgiving story, or laugh at all the poor dorks as everything unravels. Regular readers can probably guess where I went when the two paths diverged in this yellow wood.

Russ has a lot to say about how close we are to savagery, how many men reflexively treat women, what defines a live worth having, and the limits of personal freedom. Our narrator prefers to have her right to die peacefully pried from her cold, dead hand, and doesn’t play well with others. Russ’ chosen protagonist is, shall we say, of the unreliable persuasion, but we automatically cheer for her because she’s the viewpoint character and the others are fools. Her fellow castaways are ready to start up a human breeding program before luxuries like a food supply are settled, basically becoming caricatures of Campbellian Boys Be Ambitious types. The narrator is suspicious just because she opposes a baby boom, but is also some sort of religious weirdo, probably a drug addict, and is an all around disagreeable type. Still, she must bear children, by force if necessary.

If all of this stuff is taken completely seriously, We Who is a bracing and cynical look at humanity. It’s also really hilarious, if one’s humor turns toward the darkness a bit. I fear the author would not be amused watching me chuckle my way through the mayhem. That’s fine though, she was apparently a University of Washington Husky at some point, so we are family, and family forgives these sorts of trespasses and indignities.

I should probably wrap up this inappropriately irreverent look at a classic of New Wave SF. My advice concerning it: Definitely read We Who Are About To. It is an exquisitely crafted jewel of a story, where every word is packed with dense meaning that leaves a much heavier impact than one would expect from such a slim volume. Readers in the right frame of mind will have their view of SF altered, likely as not to emerge from the experience with everything around them tilted a bit into a new perspective. It’s also very short, so even people who will just end up puzzled and/or angry won’t have put too much time into the effort. I’m glad I picked it up and fully plan to read more of Russ and her contemporaries. One word to the wise: skip the Samuel Delaney forward until after reading the book. He spoils everything.

Interstellar Patrol

Interstellar Patrol I-II
Christopher Anvil

Baen Books is mostly known as a purveyor of right-wing military SF, and with good reason, but this reputation obscures a much broader menu of genre offerings. Among Baen’s saving graces are the reprints they churn out of yesteryear’s mid-list, often with Eric Flint at the editorial helm. Thanks to Baen and Flint, intrepid readers can easily acquire near complete bibliographies of authors like Keith Laumer, Murray Leinster, James Schmitz, etc. In this case, I’ve finally plowed through the entirety of the Interstellar Patrol series, all 1500+ pages. Vintage SF Month seems like the best time to talk about it.

Anvil is the consummate Campbellian, with compact stories about competent Anglo-Saxons solving problems. The Interstellar Patrol defends freedom and right across the galaxy by outwitting dastardly villains, generally by being smarter and/or technically superior to the bad guys. Violence is rarely the answer for Anvil’s heroes; victory goes to those who can reason, not blast, their way to a solution. The Patrol in this series recruits a group of resourceful con-men, subverting their wiles and using them for good. The results are usually logically convoluted, lightly funny, and always entertaining. For my money, Anvil is one of the best places to start with Golden Age SF, warts and all.

There are flaws there for the picking of course. The future is nothing but white dudes named John or Harold, the women are suitably obedient (but at least they are there, unlike colored folk), and various governments are basically the 1950s transported into space. This is pretty much a given with Campbell however, so I guess it is up to us as readers to resolve our own attitudes to the era. With Anvil however, glimmers of hope do emerge. The women are not always completely hopeless, and he keeps up a wry, self-aware meta-commentary suggesting that, deep down, he’s fully cognizant of some of the absurdity. I could be projecting, but to me much of the humor in these books stems from Anvil poking fun at SF conventions. He never rises fully above them though, more’s the pity. There’s a line at the end of Anvil’s SF Encyclopedia entry briefly mourning the author’s seeming contentment at Campbell’s restrictions, since he seems capable of much more. I agree whole-heartedly.

The last couple hundred pages of book two are stories set in the same universe, but not involving the Interstellar Patrol. All follow the usual pattern of smart men solving problems, and many deal with the challenges of colonizing hostile planets. In these, another Campbellian trope rises from the deep like be-tentacled Cthulhu. Invariably, the heroes of these stories are rugged individualists who have thrown off the effeminate shackles of civilization and stride boldly through the landscape, chopping their own wood and whatnot. This self-actualization through mortal danger and/or physical labor isn’t exactly dead now, but I have to think it’s a dated way of visualizing planetary colonization. Or maybe not, considering the mad success of The Martian. At least he is dealing more or less realistically with the environment though, rather than romping about in shorts and a t-shirt while battling with man-eating creatures. The stories are entertaining though, since Anvil maintains a sardonic distance throughout and many a stupid person earns his deserved demise.

I would tell the curious reader to start his or her Anvil exploration with Pandora’s Legions, then pick up the first volume of Interstellar Patrol stories. Volume Two is more for completists, as I find the stories to have a diminishing rate of return. They’re all of consistent quality though, so no loss for the reading, even if ambition is somewhat lacking.

Dreamships

Dreamships
Melissa Scott

For me, Melissa Scott falls into that awkward hole of the 1990s mid-list. Too recent to be classic, too old to be a hot fandom topic, she joins far too many others from the era that I haven’t read. Fortunately, Ms. Scott’s name bubbled up in one or another genre conversation, probably Coode Street again, and I got her on to my TBR pile before she was swept away by the swift current of new releases and hot takes. Dreamships arrived from the library in late summer, as a thin and unintimidating volume of about 300 pages. “Should be a quick one,” thought I, but was woefully wrong. Scott writes dense, efficient prose and packs a great deal into not so many words.

The story is ostensibly about a spaceship crew that goes to find a rogue AI programmer, but is really about privilege and hierarchy in a dizzyingly complex society. I am always both excited and disheartened reading older SF – happy to see that we’ve been digging into socially progressive ideas for so long, but distressed that we are still fighting the same battles. Dreamships is no exception. It reads like a precursor to contemporary iconoclasts like Kameron Hurley or Stephanie Saulter, bridging the temporal gap between them and more historical voices like Delaney, Tiptree, and Russ. There are also hints of Swann’s Hostile Takeover Trilogy in particular, and cyberpunk in general, though there is a certain voice that identifies everything as “1990s SF.” I wish I could pin down what it is, but I can’t. Still, something about the book is very obviously from that era. Maybe it’s the tech, or maybe it’s the Gibson-esque, corporately dystopic setting. It may go down as one of cyberpunk’s last stands, before the dot-com boom and standard genre development swallowed the movement up into the mainstream.

It’s difficult to summarize exactly what is going on, but there are overlapping, even conflicting, dialogues occurring in the book over who should have what rights. Two ruling groups claim the planet involved, one governmental and the other corporate, each with its privileged and oppressed factions. On top of this, people are arguing over AI rights and development, unable to resolve the lines that an AI needs to cross to be considered “human,” or even if such a thing is possible. What we get are lines of attack and defense similar to contemporary real life, as we try to sort out gender, racial, and class equality. Rights themselves are not finite, but the time and resources we can spend on the fight are; none of us can advocate for every cause. Characters in the book confront this same problem.

Other things surprised me a bit as well. The viewpoint character is female, and is the ideal of the archetype in terms of strength, agency, and role. Indeed, things are split fairly evenly along male and female lines with no sense that this is anything but perfectly normal. Likewise, every relationship spelled out in the book is same-sex, again with the characters treating this as completely acceptable, even obvious. I recognize the value in portraying the struggles these groups have now, but also appreciate storytellers who present our ideals as attainable to the point that they are run of the mill for characters.

I am also forced to appreciate the era in which these are presented. Sometimes it seems like feminist SF, diverse SF, or LBGT-friendly SF is new and shiny, something we should be proud of ourselves for thinking up. Then I read back and find out that, hey, people were saying this exact same thing twenty, forty years ago and more. Perhaps we should back pat less, and fight more, since it seems like not enough progress is being made. (Has there been a stronger backlash recently, or am I just more conscious of it? I feel like the US-based Culture Wars that flared up post-Obama are a driver here, but maybe I am naïve and it was this bad in the early 2000s as well.) The fight is real, and we can’t let up. We owe it to those like Scott, who came before us and did their part.

Er, back to the book review. As I said earlier, Dreamships is dense and demanding. I expected to blow through this much quicker than I did, not knowing the meaty goodness in store. I will be reading more Scott books as I find them and urge others do the same. This one is recommended for those who like a more challenging read, especially one that digs into thorny social issues. Also AI development! Lots of Turing tests here to go with some hacking and anarchic mischief, so maybe something for everyone.

Ancillary Mercy

Ancillary Mercy
Ann Leckie

There is really only one question to ask about Ancillary Mercy: “Should I read this book?” The answer, without exception, is yes. This is all the reader needs to know about Leckie’s concluding Raadch novel, but ending the review here is perhaps a bit too easy. Though I will press on and say more, the gentle reader in a hurry can skip to the end, buy/borrow a copy, and wrap up arguably the biggest SF series of recent years. (Realistically, only The Expanse is close in terms of consistent delivery and related buzz. That’s, like, just my opinion, man, so feel free to disagree.)

For those living in a cave since 2013, Ancillary Mercy is volume three of the series that started with Hugo/Nebula/more winner Ancillary Justice and continued with last year’s award nominated Ancillary Sword. (Each of the titles is a play on starship classifications in the book, though one could also draw various symbolic connections to the plot, if one is so inclined.) I fully expect Mercy to at least join the others on end of the year lists, if not walk home with another Hugo. It may also win over doubters, since I know that many people bounced off of the first book. Mercy is the most accessible of the three, though only if one is moving through the series. It is not a stand alone by any definition.

Things pick up directly after the events of Ancillary Sword. Breq, our favorite starship-turned-human, is helping put things back together after everything went sideways in the Athoek system. Anaander Miaanai is still fighting a galactic civil war with herself, and nobody knows what’s going on with the Presger. (The last is an alien race that is both wholly inscrutable and wholly capable of squashing the entirety of the Raadch empire with barely a second thought.) The plot proceeds as it logically must, though somehow I still found myself surprised at things despite the inevitability in hindsight. I was probably not alone with some worries about this, as Leckie’s move from galactic adventure to small-scale political maneuvering caught me off guard in Sword. She again declines to pan back out to an empire-level panorama, but this is probably for the best. Breq was never about sweeping narrative momentum anyway. She would be the first to scoff at any grandiose assumptions, never having planned on anything greater than a small, personal revenge.

Yes, she. I know some readers were irked by Leckie’s insistence in using unconventional pronouns in Ancillary Justice, some to the point of taking over the entire conversation about the book. Mercy continues the pattern, though because this is in Raadch space, Breq is now just following that society’s convention. If any of my readers out there are so grumpy about adding an “s” to the beginning of third-person, singular pronouns that they can’t make it through the book, I will give them a grudging pass. Still though, it’s really not that big of a deal. If we can accept sentient spaceships, all-powerful aliens, faster than light travel, and AI’s that take over hundreds of bodies simultaneously and force them to sing antiphonal choir ditties, but then can’t deal with a society that defaults to feminine pronouns, I venture to say that the problem lies not with the author, but with the reader. Yes, I’m probably preaching to the (antiphonal) choir here at Two Dudes, but the subject annoys.

So, the book and why it is awesome. Oddly enough, Mercy is the most conventional in the series. Ancillary Justice took a lot of chances and, I think, moved the genre ahead. The daring bits weren’t the parts that generated the most focus, however, as the thematic focus of the books seemed to overshadow the technical and narrative experimentation. Conversations surrounding gender, consciousness, and imperialism are all fascinating, but not necessarily cutting edge. Gender especially has been going on for several decades now, but still seems to generate all the controversy. Hidden behind this, Leckie was toying with unconventional narratives, Breq’s parallel identities, ways of portraying multiple viewpoints simultaneously, and notions of who can be a narrator. I appreciate the bold thematic material, but for me the real excitement was under the hood.

The second and third books of the series are much more conventional. Breq is a single entity now, though Sword toyed with her relationship to and use of Ship to monitor multiple scenes. By Mercy, Breq is (unconsciously?) becoming more human and slowly embracing the limitations of a single body. There is almost no jumping around in time, limited location hopping (and reasonable explanations when it does happen), and a fairly mainstream story arc. The same themes apply, but without the technical experimentation the book is much more straightforward. It’s hardly boring or predictable though. I think readers who bounced off the complexity of Justice may want to check back in and see how Mercy works for them, as it provides all the crunchy ideas without the avant garde narrative. (I prefer the full range of craziness, but recognize that my tolerance for such is higher than some.)

I will admit that this series did not go where I expected it to. Leckie had the opportunity after Justice to open things out, letting Breq romp around the Raadch empire, joining forces with other ships, and fighting hordes of Anaander clones while the author pushed further and further out with multiple viewpoint techniques and decomposition of consciousness. Instead, she pulls back, sends Breq to a backwater, and maintains a careful pace of etiquette and manners. Mercy ramps things up a little, but only a little. The action is still confined to the Athoek system, Breq remains a singular personage, and the political theory is kept to a simmer. There is more with aliens this time, a bit more action, and bit more humor. AI gets its turn under the microscope as well, as Leckie (finally?) takes on a more direct interrogation of AI’s place in the Raadch empire. All in all, the arc remains a sort of space opera in miniature.

In the absence of authorial explanation, I wonder if the gradually narrowing focus isn’t all about Breq’s redemption. This didn’t occur to me until several weeks after I finished Mercy, because Breq is not a character obviously in need of redemption. Plenty of other characters are, but Breq comes across as supremely confident, totally under control of both situations and emotions, and utterly unconcerned with final outcomes. Breq is also the narrator, so naturally she is going to favor these sorts of reactions from people, but Breq is clearly superior in many ways to the mere humans around. And yet behind the curtain, the reader can see hints of turmoil. This is most obvious as Breq wrestles with how to handle the AIs and their emergence as equal voices, but I think I see it elsewhere too – notably Breq’s slow transformation into something resembling a human.

At one point in the book, the station’s security chief confronts Breq in the middle of a protest and asks for advice. Breq basically says, “Yes, I’ve been in these situations before, but you really don’t want to respond the way I did.” This is a one-off, and serves a far different narrative purpose, but it has started to feel like Breq’s summation of the entire book. As Justice of Toren, Breq subdued more than her share of rebellious planets and had no qualms doing so. Indeed, she is probably responsible for more war crimes than any of us really want to think about, no matter the motivation and final result of Raadch assimilation. (Whole ‘nother kettle of fish there, but not one that Leckie dodges either.) Now in Mercy, Breq is back in a similar pickle, with a restive system, a civil war on, and any number of ways to save personal skin and/or build a comfortable power base. Breq in the books that I planned on reading would just be out kicking butt and singing songs, but Breq in the actual trilogy may just be saving her own soul. Did Leckie plan this? I have no idea. She may read this paragraph and think I’m a loon. Still, I see a partially redeemed Breq at the end of things and wonder if this wasn’t the point all along.

Time to come up for air. There’s much more to say about Ancillary Mercy, but I may have to leave other questions for another post. If this wasn’t the best book I read in 2015, it will only because the standard has been so high this year. It will be on my Hugo ballot (assuming I can root around for that forty bucks somewhere) and the top of my recommended SF reading list. I’m very excited to reread the whole thing some years hence and relive all the fun.

Aurora

Aurora
Kim Stanley Robinson

On my list of most awaited 2015 books, Kim Stanley Robinson’s Aurora was right near the top. KSR is one of my favorite authors and the writer of my current best-of-the-decade choice 2312; his newest project has tantalized since its announcement. Anytime Robinson’s name is followed in a sentence by the phrase “generation starship,” I’m instantly on board. Does he deliver? Yes, and we should never doubt him. Does he somehow take a familiar trope and take it in a completely unexpected direction? Of course – to do otherwise is not in his programming. Should we stop asking silly questions and get on with it? Probably, yeah.

Reviewing Aurora presents a bit of a challenge, because it is not long before we have to stop discussing specifics. The proverbial twist comes early in the book and not only scrambles the plot, but makes it virtually impossible for anyone to talk about the book past the first hundred pages without utterly spoiling the story. More crazy things continue to happen, but the defining, and surprising, turn is fundamental to the story, KSR’s underlying themes, and the final impression that the book leaves. And yet, no matter how shocking these events are, Robinson’s trademark sense of inevitability makes it all seem perfectly natural. Just like in 2312 and, especially, the Mars trilogy, Robinson’s storytelling is so completely air tight that events could never have gone in any other direction. Even when I know he’s rigging the game and see the invisible deity’s hands moving all the pieces on the board, I can’t shake the feeling that Robinson is merely reporting the news. An apt comparison might be bunraku, the Japanese puppetry where the puppeteers are out in view and on stage, dressed fully in black, but the audience gradually tunes them out and only sees the puppets, seemingly moving of their own accord. Aurora might as well be history, since nothing could have gone any differently than the book says. Or, at least, such is the feeling that Robinson closes with. It’s remarkable that he continues to pull this off in every book; KSR is like the magician who performs his tricks in full view of the audience, with no fear that anyone will actually notice.

As usual for the author, Aurora is packed to overflowing with ideas. There’s the science at the base: the nuts and bolts of generation ships, the logistics of colonization, and maintaining life in an artificial environment. Then there’s the biology and sociology that go along with things: social structures inside a ship, ecosystems in ships and other planets, and how humans can contend with it all. There are musings about governance and rights (a KSR favorite), the possibilities of AI, and the connections between humans and their native environment. There is a plot, but there is also much space devoted to exploration, both of the world and the ideas that underlie it. Nobody familiar with KSR’s writing will be surprised by any of this; he remains curious and lyrical, rigorous and passionate. In fact, Aurora might be a good starting point for new Robinson readers. It is shorter and more concise than some other works, much more compact in both ideas and setting than the grander, operatic works.

The heart of the book is Robinson’s contention that we and the Earth are inseparable. This shows up in his other works, but is not the central theme quite like in Aurora. The corollary is that, as our (only?) home, we need to spend more time taking care of the planet and less time scheming to escape to some other paradise. I have heard similarly inclined SF authors bemoan SF’s focus on planetary colonization and the excitement of spreading out into the stars, arguing that this mindset diminishes the attention we pay to Earth. After all, if all we need to do is level up our science enough to put people on another planet, we don’t have to take responsibility for the mess here. I agree with this part way, though I still want to see us with Moon and Mars bases. I doubt that KSR is as strident as some of his characters, but the message in the book is still quite clear.

There is one related argument that I disagree with. Robinson’s characters complain about the unfairness of their situation, saying that being born on the generation ship deprives them of any choice in their destinies. It follows that we should stay on Earth because our descendants have no say in the decision to ship them off. I suppose this is true as far as it goes, but nobody chose to be born into starvation in Somalia either. Birth is the first great injustice of life – I don’t see why the colonists get to whine about it any more than I moan about being born in a desolate Rocky Mountain outpost.

There are plenty of other goodies to explore along with the Aurora colonists, whether AI development, macrobiology, or exo-planet theorizing. The book doesn’t share the depth or widescreen drama of Robinson’s heftier works, but is much more accessible and easier to digest. I expect Aurora to be on many best of the year lists at the least, and probably the major lists as well. It’s a must read for anyone trying to stay current with the biggest happenings in SF and one of the most relevant and thought provoking books since, well, Robinson’s last book.