Category Archives: review

Spin Control by Chris Moriarty

cover art copyright Stephen Youll, cover design Jamie S. Youll

Spin Control is the second novel in Chris Moriarty’s SPIN series. I read and loved Spin State, but I hesitated on this second novel. Spin State was a great read, but it was bogged down with explaining the dense technology that literally infested Catherine Li’s life.  By the end of the novel, Li was in a relationship with Cohen which intertwined intimately along these technobabelical lines, and I wasn’t sure the next novel could stand against the depth of that kind of relationship – especially since this isn’t fantasy, where somehow I find it easier to accept variations on this sort of mental mesh.

Further, Spin Control is set not on the outer ring of settled-by-humans space, but on an Earth abandoned by all but the religious, the freakish and the Americans, smack in the middle of the Israel-Palestine conflict. The Syndicate – nations that produce and are made up of perfect and ever-perfected clones – drives one of the main subplots, somehow connected with Israeli-Palestinian spy machinations. I thought: this is going to be terrible.

So now I have to eat my words, my hat and some humble pie.

Arkady is defecting from the Syndicate. He goes to Israel, ostensibly looking for Absalom, an Israeli agent, double agent, traitor, what-have-you. In return for information about an undescribed infection, a possible bioweapon, a possible antidote to a UN-spliced virus: he wants help from the Mossad – or really, assistance from anyone – to rescue his friend, colleague, lover, Arkasha. Arkasha is begin held for “renorming”, since he is too non-conforming for the Syndicates’ taste. (This part of the plot: what Arkady was offering, was a bit of a mess, but all spy novels are a bit of a mess at some point.)

Arkady is an excellent channel for the reader to see Earth as it will be in Moriarty’s 2350. As a Syndicate clone, he comes from a carefully, minutely regimented society that does not work according to human political or ideological paths, or even along human biological-emotional-social paradigms.  He is a mermecologist, interested in ants, and not really very good negotiating the complicated political, agencied web the Syndicate usually protects him from.

Israel doesn’t want Arkady: so they hold an auction. The Americans, the Palestinians, the Artificial Life Emancipation Front come to hear Arkady’s story, and perhaps put in a bid for him and his information. This is where Li and Cohen come in: Cohen is a collection of sentient AIs channeled through one major, dominating persona, while Li is his partner, and an ex-veteren, the Butcher of Gilead. After an entire novel through Li’s point of view, Arkady’s horrified perspective of Li as a monster is interesting, and makes for a consistently broken presentation of what is really going on.

Cohen comes as a rep for ALEF, of which he is one of the foremost and oldest members. He also comes as an Israeli-by-nomination, and is entangled through patriotism and personal affection with some major players in the Mossad, and some major diplomatic disasters too. Meanwhile, he and Li are having trouble. There’s no way to put this nicely: Cohen is a dumb boyfriend, and Li has ISSUES. Their complicated, mundane difficulties are lightened by the interjections of router-decomposer, an AI who works for Cohen. router-decomposer is smart, quirky, quippy and sensible all at once – and a refreshing change from every other character.

No one – the Syndicate lines, the Palestinians, the American reps, the Israelis, Cohen&Li, Arkady – trusts anyone else, but since Spin Control is filtered through several different points of view, we are at least spared Li’s bewildered, practical, exhausting paranoia. (We are also spared Li’s former physical frailties, since she is recovered from her old injuries.What we get instead is Cohen’s physical frailties – Cohen filters himselves through a human “shunt”, and he’s overloading his current body. We are continually shown Cohen’s vulnerabilities, his delicate balancing acts to simply run himself in his AI spaces, and present himself in the more fleshly realms. (Cohen’s routines/systems are ant-based, which makes him an interesting parallel to Arkady, who is in mortal danger for most of the novel’s present.)

In between the narrative chaos of action in Israel we see flashbacks to Novalis, where we see Syndicate scientists attempt to study the previously terraformed planet, figure out what happened to the previous team (and who that team was), and try to get along with each other. It’s interesting to see the ways in which the clones are individuals and clone-personae, at one and the same time. Syndicate politics play out according to clone lines, with a few outliers making compromise very difficult. Novalis is a whole new realm of terraforming technonobabble weirdness that should not be, the scientists are falling sick, and tensions rise beyond breaking point.

As the bidders, the agencies, the sellers, the innocents machinate around each other, the Israel-Palestinian war is being strategised by sentient AIs who do not know they ar fighting a real war, that real people are dying. Their soldiers are young adults, wired for AI shunts. Arkady’s evolutionary mutation, bioweapon, what-have-you, just ups the stakes on a planet rich in water and poor in children.

Spin Control’s compelling protagonists balance out its mostly incomprehensible plotlines – you’re continually pulled into empathetic understanding of several nations’ viewpoints while simultaneously having no fucking clue what is going on – until somewhere near the end, where everything dovetails rather too tidily.

Spin Control is a novel concerned with its future, its characters’ propagation and legacies. The Jews and Palestinians are concerned for their dwindling number of children. The Syndicates are concerned that without new planets, new homes, fresh population sources to mine gene-sets from, they will die out. Everywhere, people die. As such, Spin Control is also intensely concerned with the past – when to hold on to, what to keep, what to lose without regret. Cohen is one of the oldest emergent AIs around. Catherine Li has large tracts of her past which she cannot remember. The Israeli and the Palestinian memories of friendly détente tangle inextricably with their current brutalities and the lives they’ve lost and are losing.

I suspect that the novel might stand fairly well on its own, but it performs even better in the trilogy. I’m dying to read Ghost Spin, which should release in January next year. Moriarty presents her work with more grace than in her first novel, juggling her hard science, sociology, (chaos theory? the development of complex systems, anyway) and her convoluted personal relationships to present a coherent, fascinating whole.

Spin State by Chris Moriarty

Cover by Stephen Youll

Spin State (2003) is the first in Chris Moriarty’s SPIN series, and it was a finalist for quite a few awards (winning none).

The SPIN series is set in a far future where Earth has suffered ecological decay to the extent that most of humanity moved off-planet, “Ringside”. Specific nations, peoples of specific religions, stayed behind on Earth, and were the only ones to do so, and allowed to do so. Ringside and Earth enjoy a shaky unity under the aegis of UNSec (a creepy descendant of today’s UN). Outside of this human political entity are the Syndicates, nations made up of and producing large sets of ever-perfect and perfected clones. Travel and instant communication over the vast distances of space are made possible by “Bose-Einstein condensate”, which is found only on Compson’s World.

Spin State begins by setting up for us the weaknesses in Major Catherine Li’s life, the things that make her vulnerable. As a member of UNSec forces she is riddles with wetware technology that monitors and sometimes reconstructs her memory – some of which she loses with each “jump” through space. She is a Construct, a clone, hiding her overly sculpted features behind the flawed sculpture of plastic surgery. As as army grunt she is at the mercy of her superiors, as a War Hero she is at the mercy of her brutal, horrible reputation – and she doesn’t remember what she did to earn it.

It’s a little hard to get in tune with Li, because in Spin State Moriarty spends an extraordinary amount of time explaining the technology that Li lives with, and in. Her wetware regulates her hormones, backs-up her memories (she then hacks them), her adrenal rushes in fight-or-flight scenes. Her hidden, constructed advantages are treated in some sense as though they are as mechanical and externally sourced as the wetware. Her access to future-internet, which is constantly accessible, allows a surreal “the world-next door” feeling, particularly in her conversations with people planets away, and with Cohen (a sentient AI, ex-lover, friend) whose nature makes him mutable, flexible and simultaneously transient and eternal, ancient. The quantum technobabble is dense, inflexible and utterly necessary to help us understand what the hell is going on, and to my mind Moriarty does not handle it with as much grace as other aspects of the novel. The extraordinary technicality of her every move confines me as a reader, makes it harder for me to focus on the story as opposed to the nuts-and-bolts.

After a mission goes disastrously wrong, losing Li some of her team, shaking her trust in Cohen as a partner and ally, General Nguyen posts Li to Compson’s World to investigate the death of Hannah Sharifi, a construct-clone, a major scientist, who discovered/formulated Einstein-Bose transport among other things. Sharifi died in a flash fire that broke out in the AMC Einstein-Bose mines. Sharifi’s data is lost and the station’s field AI is incommunicado – Li must solve the mystery, find Sharifi’s data (she was looking for a way to make E-B synthetically, off Compson’s World).

It’s not easy. When Li gets to Compson’s World she must deal with: the miner’s unions (more on this later), her forgotten past self, her tricky relationship with Cohen (who is fighting for Emergent AI rights), her still-healing body, the AMC representatives, the Syndicates, the miners themselves, Vi (a construct working to locate mineable ore), the Bore-Einstein ore itself – and none of these people have the same agenda; none of them can be trusted. All Li wants to get out with her job done and her skin in one piece, and she might not get either.

It’s very very wrong to say that you’re sad the Cold War is over, since it produced the best spy novels, but I am so. Spin State, with its unrelentingly paranoid, lonely Li, fits quite comfortably alongside my old favourites. With potential ally-enemies on every side, Li fumbles her way through a classic “Everyone knows what’s going on but you” police procedural.

Separate from Li’s angsts are the miners’ – the miners work hard at a job that they are underpaid to do. It kills them, slowly. It kills them slower if they’re constructs or have construct genealogy, but that just means they’ll work longer for worse.  The people who benefit from their hard work live Ringside in luxury, and are trying desperately to find ways to shut down the condensate entirely and remove a potential hazard. Their option hopes are to leave the planet entirely – nearly impossible – or love the condensates they work to mine. Given that half these miners come from Belfast, the total effect is again of something set in the ’70s and ’80s, perhaps in Thatcher-led Britain. Of all the causes, the sides, in the novel, the miners’ are the ones I was rooting for.

And love. Spin State contains an unforgettable declaration of love, one that is quietly, blatantly, sincerely visualised. So much of the plot is driven by the actions of love, but the novel is never overwhelmed by this, never allows the sentiment more than a few moments of centre-stage.

[Someone has noted already – who? who? I cannot remember! – that Spin State and Elizabeth Bear’s Undertow share several elements – a Doohickey that fuels interstellar travel and communication is only available on one planet. The people responsible for the collection of said Doohickey work under terrible working conditions. Everything is quantum. Someone dies, this death instigates large amounts of the following plot. So if you’ve read Undertow and liked it, or read it and hated it, you should try Spin State.]

Spin State‘s pacing is hampered by its technobabble burden, but it manages nonetheless to race headlong into further half-glimpses of truth and lies. One has a building sense of hopelessness, for Li, for Compson’s World. But last  climactic moments  are superbly done – by this point Moriarty’s hard work with the technicalities has allowed her to transcend them, giving us a plausible tying up of most of the threads. The ending is, well, justifiable and well-anticipated wish-fulfilment, and satisfies one for the story in its entire, whatever one might feel for the individual sub-plots.

As a stand-alone novel, Spin State is an engrossing, sometimes awkward read. As the first in a series, it has great potential and is in fact fantastic. I recommend it highly to those of you who’re looking either for new agent fiction or hard SF.

Above the Snowline by Steph Swainston

Eye copyright David Thurston

Steph Swainston‘s  Circle Trilogy examined, over the course of three books (well, obviously) and fifteen years an important period in the Insect Wars. The Circle of Immortals, given immortality by San (representative of God in the Fourlands) on the basis of supreme skill in their chosen area, work with the nobility and drafted soldiers to keep the Insects at bay – with varying success.

Jant Shira is the Messenger, designated Comet. Half-Rhydanne, half-Awian (which makes him a cat-boy with wings), Jant’s peculiar unique mongrelitude makes him the only being in the Fourlands – and farther afield – capable of regular flight. I haven’t spoken about this much in the reviews for the previous three books, but Swainston spends some amount of time making the possibility of flight in Jant’s body nearly plausible to the average, biologically uneducated reader. Jant’s sexy angel-boy good looks, immortal youth, facility with languages and fresh cynicism are balanced out by his impetuous stupidity, his drug addiction, his other addictions, his desperate desire for approval and status, his conflicted dual-self. Above the Snowline jumps centuries back instead of five years ahead, covering in greater detail ground mentioned in passing in the original trilogy.

Shira Dellin, a Rhydanne woman from the Dakaling borders, comes to the Castle to solicit San’s aid. Awians are encroaching on Rhydanne hunting grounds, making it impossible for Rhydanne to hunt, and not taking it too well when the Rhydanne steal their horses. There is a vast cultural disconnect here, one that remains unbridged for the forseeable future. San sends Jant with Dellin to find out what is going on, and to handle it as much as he can. Jant has been immortal less than a century: this is an opportunity for him to prove that he is worthy of his exalted status.

With Dellin, Jant faces his own past in the Rhydanne lands, and is forced to acknowledge that his upbringing left him unacquainted with his Rhydanne people, not just his Awian. Further he must deal with Raven Rachiswater, who intends to use his illegal fortress as a base of operations to gain the Awian throne. (To be honest, Jant’s final solution to the Raven problem should have been applied right at the beginning. I spent most of the narrative wondering why the hell he was being so dense, and why Lightning went along with him.) His own loyalties are conflicted, torn between the obvious exploitation of Rhydanne land and peoples (there is a somewhat obvious but as yet un-stale White Man vs. Indigenous peoples of Pick-Your-Continent parallel, but it works well enough and is not harped on). The novel moves between each agenda, each passion fluidly (save for one particular sequence near the end which is too blatant in its attempt to ramp up the anticipation); I think I felt more for each character than I did for anyone in the Circle Trilogy.

In some ways Above the Snowline is a better read for the newcomer to Swainston’s work, as opposed to the old faithful. While the novel shows us a younger, more insecure and thankfully clean Jant Shira, the original trilogy is so focussed on Shira’s involvement in Castle, Circle, Fourland politics and the immediate tactics and strategies of war against a literally alien enemy that it seems futile to send us back in time – we already know what the future holds. The reader who starts with Above the Snowline will take an easier understanding of Jant’s difficult, sometimes intolerable character with hir into the trilogy – this as well as some insight into the way the Circle is viewed by the mortals around them, which is something the other books lack. Most importantly,the novel is narrated from several perspectives, Jant’s most obviously, Lightning Micah Shearwater most importantly. Lightning is a character with a great deal of emotional importance in the trilogy, and in Above the Snowline one can see why Jant relies on him so very much, and why he might be kindly disposed to Jant in return.

There is a freshness to the prequel, peopled as it is by ruthless,

Don't ask me about this cover, it's not the one you're getting.

passionate people who can’t see beyond their own desires, rights and ambitions; the young and the experienced; the well-intentioned and the not-so-nice; mortal and immortal; “high” and “low” (take that both literally and metaphorically). I recommend it highly to fans and new readers, and mellowly to those of you who want more background into Fourlands people and Jant’s own history. I liked it!

The Modern World by Steph Swainston

Steph Swainston returns (returned, actually, given that The Modern World was released back in 2008) with another Circle novel, set five years after No Present Like Time (itself set five years after The Year of Our War, which allows the Circle Trilogy to cover approximately a decade of regular unrest in the Fourlands). At the end of No Present Like Time, we were promised that Jant would be weaned off his regular intake of “cat“, which provides both narrative and character relief. The Modern World shows us the Fourlands in greater details and wider scope than either of the earlier novels – The Year of Our War concerned the Insect incursions and Circle in-fighting; No Present Like Time with outside influences (and neo-Imperialism, so exciting) and the effects and machinations of Circle politics as it affects the people under the Castle’s wardship.

Five years since the scorched earth victory on the isolated Island Tris, the Circle architect, Frost, is nearing the completion of an immense dam at Lowespass, where the invading, ravenous Insects are held at bay (a tedious, centuries-long stalemate). The idea is to drown the Insect hordes and end the war. Frost is a fascinating character, a perfectionist: intelligent, creative and filtered through Jant’s mostly-sober perspective she takes on a presence she might not have had from an older or more socially adept character.

The completion of the dam is to be a military and media event – the near-guaranteed victory, or least tactical and strategic advantage, will change the face of Circle-Fourland power dynamics, allow the Fourlands to recover from a decade of bloody unrest and lay out the field for God to return, taking the world back from Emperor San’s tender care.

Meanwhile, Lightning’s daughter Cyan has disappeared. Lightning remains the presence he has been in the Circle , filtered through Jant’s admiration, suppressed resentment and annoyed respect to an unchanging, dignified tower of history and honour – and for Lightning, Jant takes off to seedy Hacilith to find Cyan and either rescue her or convince her to come to Lowespass where she can watch her father at his work.

Whatever else once may say about Swainston’s work – and I still feel like she spares us the tedium of info-dump at the cost of some economic world-building – she excels at capturing the feel of a location. Hacilith was where Jant lived as a half-grown adolescent, running wild in street gangs and apprenticed to an apothecary. Centuries later Cyan has come here to slum it in the Real World. Cyan is extraordinarily immature – nearly unbelievably so, though I suppose there are no analogues for the daughter of an immortal, a girl who shall inherit lands and has not been educated in her duties and privileges forthcoming, stifled and overprotected and spoiled spoiled spoiled. Cyan’s bad behaviour fulfills the dual purpose of character development for an unexpectedly large number of people, and of a mirror to Jant’s own life and nature. Lightning is Cyan’s father, and he also has the dubious honour of being Jant’s unofficial mentor.

So. Cyan runs away to Hacilith, runs around with seedy men in seedy bars, has an overdose of cat and has a near-death experience in the Shift – a parallel world only reachable through cat overdose or an as-yet unexplained meditative process. Enter the Vermiform, a hive-mind of worms. I kid you not. An all-too-hasty rescue mission and chase scene through too many locations in the Shift later, Cyan is rescued, Jant has seen too many lands destroyed by Insects, and the Vermiform is still around.

The Modern World is mostly narrated by Comet Jant Shira, Messenger for the Circle. Through his jaded, tired, shallow but perspective eyes we see a nation that has lain stagnant for too long, with economies centred around mor and more efficient forms of warfare – medieval to our eyes, and entirely brutal. It’s possible to read The Modern World as a stand alone novel, but I wouldn’t recommend it. As with The Year of Our War and No Present Like Time, the material plot exists as a vehicle for exploring overarching questions of the nature of the multiverse that more and more of the Fivelanders are in contact with, and now beginning to be conscious of said contact. More universal (as opposed to in-novel multi-versal) issues of religion (more precisely, faith), the generational divide, power in the hands of women – more on this later – function following form and the dangers of submitting to your benevolent tyrant.

I’ve skimmed over the concept that Jant embodies the vulnerable male body as written by a female author before, but not in detail. To examine: Jant is a Rhydanne-Awian hybrid, the only one that exists. Think of the Rhydanne as human-shaped people with a LOT of cat mixed in; the Awians have human-shaped but have vestigial wings. In Jant, these combine to give you a man who can, with a lot of training (self-researched), work and more wear-and-tear than seems advisable, fly. A long-limbed, lean, boy with wings is our Jant. The prologue shows us his recurring nightmares of his first major wounding after he joined the Circle and became immortal. It took him a year to recover, under the experienced, incomparable Rayne, the Circle Healer. (Rayne has more of a presence in this novel, but her contributions are more to atmosphere than to plot.) In a strange flashback set before No Present Like Time, Queen Eleonora of Awia ties Jant down and violates him with inanimate objects. The section serves no obvious purpose, unless we’re to be impressed with the idea that Women Can Be Evil And Powerfuller Than Men, Who Moon About Being Sentimental And/Or Useless. It isn’t required to display Jant’s desperate need for control and security, nor is it required as an “explanation” for his habits and character.

It follows, in fact, a rather worrying trend: there are very few women in the Circle novels who are written as positive characters. At their jobs, at their skills, at their life’s work these women are all competent, accomplished, skilled and even excellent. And yet I give you:

  • Cyan, when she uses her teenaged brain (not often) shows the beginnings of a woman to be reckoned with. But for the most part she whinges around saying she wants to be free, make her own decisions, have her dad pay more attention to her, take up her duties, do anything but her duties, and everyone is mean to her.
  • Eleonora, a practical, pragmatic ruler who has rationally and systematically oversaw the reconstruction of her kingdom after two separate incursions. She is an excellent character, and it’s too bad she rapes immortals to sate her pervesrity and reputedly is behaving badly with the castle maids.
  • Mist Ata (last seen in No Present Like Time) – incomparable Sailor for the Castle who uses her body and her femininity to manipulate the men around her, who has no tact, respect, delicacy for anyone but herself and uses her family to extend her power. She killed her last husband, became pregnant to get Lightning (not her husband) under her thumb, and blackmails people as cheerfully as Jant does.
  • Frost, who may have been normal once, but locked in her grieving for her dead husband is a pale cipher surrounded by blind perfectionism. She is sensible and determined and not annoying or in any way malicious, and Swainston does not reward her overmuch.
  • The woman Jant may or may not have raped (it’s a cultural thing) and his cheating wife whom we don’t see much of. (The only wife-of-an-immortal who may have deserved outright respect is dead. There are trends here!
The only female character with any straightforward decency is Rayne, ancient, lonely, a healer, and little to no plot agency. Swainston has been very clear that she does not want to draw pristine characters for us to admire, but I think it strange that
It’s annoying, so sue me.
And yet.  Despite these flaws. The mysteries of San in the multiverse, the vermiform, the Insects, the Fivelands. The politics, the infighting, the Immortals and the mortals. The children. The battles! I have been careful not to say anything about the battles – read and find out! – but the unfolding of that plotline is fantastic, completely inevitable in hindsight and yet completely unexpected. The final chapter-cum epilogue shows us a HUGE character event that will shake the political, Circle, and personal relationships in the Fivelands for years. It’s scnadalous, exciting, frightening and very, very brave.

I like The Modern World. Descriptive, vast, with little to no drag, it’s a must-read for every Swainston reader (even if you were a bit drained by No Present Like Time).  There’s been no word (that I can see) of a sequel, though Swainston had out a prequel this year – I want very badly to see what happens next. Not for the Insects, but for the world, and the people in it.

No Present Like Time by Steph Swainston

Swainston places us five years after the last, massive, Insect incursion: the Fourlands are still in the throes of reconstruction. Awia in particular is still reeling under economic crisis. The Castle is involved, of course, and concerned, but denizens have something more exciting to think of: Gio Ami, Swordsman of the Castle, titled Serein, has just lost a Challenge – and therefore his place in the immortal Circle. He is no longer Swordsman, no longer Serein. In his place is 25-year old Wrenn Culmish – now the youngest Circle member. Wrenn is a feted hero – long may his ascendancy last – and the immortal Eszai crowd around the newcomer, ignoring Gio. Such near-shunning is automatic, a display both of the discomfort of losing an old comrade to a ruthless meritocracy of perfection, and an Eszai arrogance that sees and values Eszai over mortal Zascai. (And why not? Zascai die, Escai stick around for ages before you must mourn them.)

Again we see the immortal Circle, led by God’s chosen, the Emperor San, through the eyes of Comet Jant Shira, Messenger. Since we last saw him in The Year of Our War, Jant has been clean, sometimes sober and mostly efficient for five short years. Throughout this novel we are frequently shown Jant as some of his peers must see him – a shallow, material, surprisingly perceptive, acutely intelligent, often useful oddity. But things do not look good. Mist Ata Dei – the Sailor – is to lead Jant and Lightning Saker Micahwater – the Archer – on a sailing expedition to a newly discovered island, Tris: thence to offer its inhabitants (rich, peaceful, untroubled by Insects) a place in the Empire, protection, trade – and the chance to be immortal if they gain a place in the Circle. The new Serein Wrenn chooses to come with them – his first task for the Emperor, his first adventure as Eszai. All well and good, except – Jant is terrified of the sea. On top his extreme terror is his new-found knowledge that his wife, Tern, is involved in an affair – normally nothing to worry about, but Tern is dallying with Tornado, the Castle Strongman. A mortal lover who won’t be young and beautiful in a decade or two? Who cares? An immortal, larger and stronger than Jant, likely to be here centuries from now? That’s competition, and Jant is self-aware enough to be very, very threatened.

At the tail end of such sterling virtues as lying, adultery, whinging, being young(er) and immature, reading private correspondence, sleeping through appointed duties in a drugged haze, entering said drugged haze in the first place, Jant now adds theft to his repertoire, taking Tern’s money (earmarked, no less, for reconstruction of Tern’s holdings) to buy drugs. Four Eszai must now take the reader along a three-month sea-journey to a near-mythically perfect island. The narrative flags dangerously here. While Jant’s drug of choice has proven to have plot value in the previous novel, what it might bring to the table here is less clear. Jant’s addiction no longer holds any novelty, and while Swainston utilises the journey for some very useful info-dumping, for the most part we wait for Jant to do new things – which, to be fair, he does once or twice, unveiling the sinister mechanisms Mist is to use to convince the Trisians to accede to the Emperor’s “offer” – mostly we just wait for him to run out of cat and focus.

Tris and its inhabitants are vaguely reminiscent of the Incans, with plenty of gold (enough to literally piss in), and a seemingly egalitarian economic/political system. (I’m also reminded a great deal of Aldous Huxley’s Island.) Jant shines here, really – as a scholar, as a linguist, as a diplomat (albeit working for some incredibly clumsy leaders – Mist is a fantastic strategist on the sea, in battle, but she has not half the sensitivity she needs to understand when someone neither wants nor needs what she is offering, nor to to refrain from insulting someone via translator). A series of mishaps wreck havoc in the main city (Capharnaum), destroy potential relations with the Capharnai and leave the Eszai with no choice but to return home with the gold and spices they’ve traded for steel and rum – and a single book of history which Jant stole from the library (well done, Jant! You are a credit to all Eszai).

Back in the Fourlands, the Castle faces rebellion, on the brink of civil war. Ex-Serein Gio Ami has amassed a horde of the discontented masses, blaming the Castle, the Eszai, and an allegedly deluded Emperor for the Insect invasions, the current economic downturn and the secrecy surrounding Tris – land of gold, where any down-on-his-luck Fourlands farmer or soldier can get rich. Rich! Rich! There is more sea-travel, more cat, assassination plots, some mawkish but aged (and therefore dignified) sentimentality from Lightning – and Jant uses more cat to perform more crazy acts of saving the day, only somewhat making up for many futile acts of fucking up everything possible.

No Present Like Time fills in a great deal of the Fourlands’ history, most especially as it relates to the Castle. This works best to explain the Eszai – their rituals, their priorities. It’s good to see what immortality can do to a person – either in the seeking or the keeping or it. And of course, in the losing. In particular we learn more of Rayne (the Doctor) and Lightning – both particular idols for Jant, and so drawn with more fondness and charity. They are foils for Jant, of course – Rayne in her sensible, aged maturity, Lightning in his romantic practicality. If Jant (at his functional best) has dadvantages over both – his quick cleverness and dynamism, his sensory but abiding passions – he still leans on both these Eszai for support and validation. An undercurrent of the novels is a deepening intimacy – or at least, humanisation, of these, the oldest Eszai – in front of Jant, who values these revelations both for his own ego and because of his tenderness towards them. (Jant when he is functional – even merely as a friend – is delightful to read, partially becase functional protagonists are easier to live with, and partially because it makes a welcome contrast to his highs, lows, cravings and withdrawals.)

Amidst the history, the unveilings of San’s vast plans that span centuries, the mystery of San’s larger goals and issues of the Shift – the parallel world Jant still visits when overdosing on cat – some of the issues from The Year of Our War repeat here in No Present Like Time. Where are the industries and universities? How do they work? If they’re making bicycles in the Fourlands and cars out of athletic flesh in the Shift, why aren’t we seeing more of all of these? What on earth is Dunlin Rachiswater – so integral to The Year of Our War – doing now? Ignoring these questions, Swainston takes us through imperialism, Fourlands-style; good old fashioned conquistador-ing;  a reminder that knowledge, and the ability to learn in different languages and thought systems, is an integral part of keeping track of what your (mysterious, revered, Machiavellian) Emperor might be up to. As with The Year of Our War, there is a near-continual focus on socio-economic hierarchies, as well as cultural-racial divides – how they wound us, and how reaching above them can neither heal nor exacerbate an existing problem. No Present Like Time does not move at The Year of Our War’s breakneck pace, and it might even lag at some moments, but it’s a more contemplative narrative. As a stand-alone novel it does not work, and perhaps it could have used more action, but No Present Like Time is still an enjoyable read, one which leaves a lot of room for further novels in the series.

The Year of Our War by Steph Swainston

I'm speculating: Cover Design by Emma Wallace (she definitely did the *next*) - my own book has a black background, possibly so the damn thing is easier to see

Steph Swainston is apparently one of these New Weird writers – what that means I cannot precisely tell you, especially since I find her much easier to digest than China Miéville or Jeff Vandermeer (not that these are bad writers, at all – just very different from her, and from each other).

God left the Fourlands over two thousand years ago – apparently he needed a vacation. In his absence he placed San in charge – Emperor San, who holds the Castle, who grants immortality to fifty men and women serving in the Circle, who defends the Fourlands against the invading Insect hordes. Under his guidance, with the Circle’s immortal expertise, San maintains a delicate stalemate against the Insects, who’ve advanced far as Lowespass, and have built there a Wall.

We enter the scene in 2014, where King Dunlin Rachiswater of Awia, with Circle immortals Lightning (the Archer), Tornado (the Strongman), Mist (the Sailor) and Comet (the Messenger) as counsel, aides, validation and support. Comet, Jant Shira, is our first-person narrator, and through him we see Rachiswater as a dynamic ruler, an offensive strategist. Being Zascai, mortal, his goals are to stamp out the Insects in a decisive ingress at the Wall. Being Eszai, Circle immortals, Lightning and co. want a plan of attack that’ll save more lives. Rachiswater wants to be Eszai, and hopes his successful attack will show Emperor San his worth.

Through Jant Shira’s jittery, withdrawal-tinted (more on drugs in a bit) perspective, Dunlin Rachiswater is both an admirable hero and a fool; and of course, in the line of heroic duty he is mortally injured. As a last act of sympathy, euthanasia, what-have-you, Jant gives Dunlin a fatal dose of scolopendium – a hallucinatory drug that in unsafe doses sends the junkie into Shift. Shift is a parallel world with no clear connection to the Fourlands, or any part of the known universe. As an immortal who can take more scolopendium than a mortal without dying, Jant is possibly the only living being who visits the Shift on a regular basis. He sends Dunlin there, hoping that Dunlin can gain a form of immortality – he can stay in Shift (specifically in the city city Epsilon) forever, doing what he pleases there.

Jant Shira posits himself as a character on the sidelines, working as Messenger for the Castle, under the mentorship of older Zascai, especially Lightning, whom he hero-worships as a Noble Ideal. His “cat” addiction often renders him nonfunctional, with various people enabling his habit, covering up for him, disapproving without barring him from it. Why does the Emperor keep him around? Well. Jant Shira, when functional, is still self-absorbed and self-pitying, but he is inconveniently intelligent, excellently multilingual and he is the only living being who can fly. As the product of an Awian (who have non-functional wings and hollow bones) and a Rhydanne (a lithe, light people with excellent reflexes) Jant Shira is a cat-bird-human  amalgam who can travel up to 120 kilometres on a clear night. He was 23 when he first joined the Circle, and remains 23 forever – blessing and a curse, one he notices only tangentially.

Jant Shira, two hundred odd years old, has seen a lot of change. Lightning (and other characters we don’t see much of in this narrative) is older, and more rooted in his powerful, elegant past. Shira walks, talks, and lives in contemporary norm – denims, sloganed t-shirts, dealers, needles and pound notes (which last he uses to snort up cat); swords, arrows, lightweight shields, an old-fashioned admiration of the aristocracy and a fantasy world he can “shift” to at the push of a plunger. His place as Eszai is in danger because of his near nonfunctionality – one gathers that only his erratic sobriety keeps him in his post. The Circle is a position of much value, with people hoping to challenge or marry their way in.

If Jant’s position is uncertain, at least it is a place the unsympathetic reader can believe he will retain if he kicks his narratively tiresome habit. Mist, the Sailor and his wife, Ata, cannot say the same. They both are at war with each other, jockeying for the position of Sailor. Their internal wars overflow to entangle such bystanders as Lightning, their daughter Cyan, and Jant himself. Meanwhile, the Insects are more aggressive than usual, pushing farther and farther to the Fourlands, with towns and forts being abandoned to their voracious hunger. Where are they coming from? When will the Castle pull together its bickering forces to thrust them back to the sea?

I’ll note, by the way, that both as a drug addict constantly stretching his body’s limits and as a being who can fly, in body not truly constructed to do so with ease, Jant Shira fulfills, for the most part, the function of the vulnerable male body as written by female authors. (I’m still not sure what the hell tree I’m barking up, but I’m pretty certain the tree exists, and so: Mark.)

Jant Shira is a fantastic narrator (and in his own world an acknowledged poet and writer – it’s his job, after all). His prose (well, actually Swainston’s) is economical and rarely mundane. The plot rushes on carrying the reader with it, and there’s not a single dull moment. Jant’s shifts between realities pull together a convoluted but ultimately straightforward plot, delineating an era of momentary success against the Insects, as well as putting Jant into a position of some ambiguity with his irascible Emperor.

What Jant doesn’t give us is much detail. Where does a seemingly unindustrialised world make its jeans, t-shirts and syringes? How, if there is only one true expert in medicine, has there been progress enough to make Junkie Jant an excellent field medic? How does San’s power work, and why do people accept him as their benevolent if inefficient overlord? Is Rhydanne sex really like that? (It seems to be.)

Further, Jant’s constant need for a fix does have the utility of giving him access to Shift, which means that narratively, his habit receives a left-handed validation and permission which can get tiresome in future novels. In fact, future novels have a lot to take care of – they must provide us with more information about the Fourlands, fill in the holes of The Year of Our War‘s breakneck pacing, and show us deeper insights into characters Jant has shallowly judged from moment to moment.

For all these flaws, Jant and the Fourlands are fascinating: in their history, socio-hierarchies, in the present power structures and in their chosen heroes. Lightning and Dunlin Rachiswater exercise a charisma undimmed for being shown hastily from Jant’s sidelines –  in fact, Dunlin undertakes an entire heroic quest worthy of the epic fantastic in its own right. Mist and Ata are a powerful tale of unbanked ambition and ruthlessness, Tornado the Strongman shows an unremitting strength and love. There’s more than enough fodder here to make it impossible to ignore the sequel – I’m picking up No Present Like Time right away.

To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis

Cover art by Eric Dinyer

2057. Historian Ned Henry (specialising in the late 20th century) has made so many jumps to various points in the past that he now suffers from time lag. This makes him incapable of following simple conversation, understanding or obeying instructions, thinking prosaically or otherwise function as a normal human being. His work time has been hijacked by one Lady Shrapnell, who is intent on rebuilding, restoring and otherwise refabricating Coventry’s apparently famous Cathedral, last seen standing during the Second World War before a bunch of Nazis bombed the shit out of it. Lady Schrapnell has not just hijacked Henry’s work hours – she has every historian Oxford can offer her (and some they can’t) combing the past, researching the minutiae of the Cathedral’s construction, decoration, vestry adornments, what-have-you. Ned Henry’s particular task is to find “The Bishop’s Bird Stump”. Much like the Scarlet Pimpernel, said Bird Stump’s present location cannot be ascertained. It cannot have burned during the air raid, since for reasons of hideous monstrosity it is indestructible; Lady Schrapnell is determined, with a voluble, bullying obduracy, to find out what happened to it, and if possible place it in the reconstructed Cathedral. In another life, Lady Schrapnell was probably Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Agatha (of glass-chewing, werewolf lunar howling fame).

His extreme time-lag means that Henry needs a vacation, now. Lady Schrapnel will not have any malingering, so he also needs his vacation far away, where she will not go. Conveniently, another historian has brought about a Catastrophe which can only be solved by sending someone back to the Victorian era with a simple set of instructions to follow – and once that is done, he can stay there as long as he likes, should he need the rest.

Ned Henry and Verity Kindle (who caused the Catastrophe) go back to 1888, to contact Tossie Mering (Lady Schrapnel’s ancestor, whose diary bears close examination), fix the Catastrophe, have assorted adventures with cats, dogs, fish, eccentric Oxford dons, Church bazaars, uppity Butlers, all while maintaining perfect Victorian decorum and searching for the perfect man for Tossie.

I’m not sure I’d recommend To Say Nothing of the Dog to a historian, or to a history buff. While I find the novel hilarious and engaging, with a breakneck plot that never stops fizzing here and there and elsewhere, I must admit it is not a very plausible story, nor is it one that has room for much suspension of disbelief. Further, for historians, Ned Henry and Verity Kindle show more expertise with Victorian poetry, Jerome K. Jerome and early 20th century crime fiction than they do with historical trends beyond the broad strokes  and of course, a load of useless trivia regarding the Cathedral. The relationships within the novel – set in the Victorian period or in the 21st century – are all fairly heavily influenced by P.G. Wodehouse’s style (the only thing missing from one of the sequences is the obligatory waggling about the cries of “My Mate!”), and heavily rose-coloured by such romantics as Dorothy L. Sayers. The entire novel reads as an extended to homage to Wodehouse, Jerome, shades of O. Henry and Peter Wimsey (possibly some Agatha Christie, but I never read her much). Somewhere in between all these devotions is Connie Willis, but it’s rather hard to get a proper hold of her.

A further problem is that we never learn the precise mechanism of the time travel device, generally called “the net” – it self-regulates to ensure nothing can be brought back from the past to the present (our future!) and that no ghastly paradoxes are allowed. (When necessary, the net will simply not open out onto a period of vulnerability to time tampering.) It’s never made clear how the net works with the continuum of time, how sentient “it” or the continuum is, how it does what it does… we do have a lot of technobabble, but it is technobabble, pretending to explain what it only describes. Since so very much of the novel’s many, many exigencies are dependant on the net and the continuum, this can be a problem.

And yet. I found To Say Nothing of the Dog a delightful, fun, relaxing read —  a welcome change from all the doom and gloom, ‘the future of this city hangs in the balance’ sort of fiction I’ve been reading lately. If you’re looking for some light reading, or have a yen for some Wodehouse or  you’d like to read about life on the river, I recommend it highly!