Review: The Fractal Prince, Hannu Rajaniemi

 

The Fractal Prince

Hannu Rajaniemi

Gollancz, 2012

ISBN 978-0-57508-892-4

I read Hannu Rajaneimi’s debut novel, The Quantum Thief, back in March… and I loved it. A hard sci-fi tale that manages to be at once intimidatingly intelligent and raucously enjoyable, it is now one of my favourite genre reads. So it goes without saying that I was eagerly anticipating the sequel, The Fractal Prince. Luckily for me, Gollancz were kind enough to send me a review copy when the book came out last month. (Thank you, Gollancz!) The slight delay in my review is due to the fact that I re-read The Quantum Thief before plunging into the next instalment. This is something I would recommend doing, because whilst The Fractal Prince does offer some summary of The Quantum Thief’s events, it will prove a rather confusing ride if the first book isn’t fresh in your mind. (Then again, everyone’s different; perhaps your memory is better than mine!)

The Fractal Prince continues the adventures of Jean Le Fambeur and his captor-come-companion Mieli – and of course Perhonen, Mieli’s sassy ship. Following their escapades on Mars, they are heading towards Earth for the next stage of their mission. However, on their way an encounter with a sobornost Founder gogol throws up fresh questions and creates new priorities for Jean. Meanwhile, on Earth we are introduced to a new protagonist: Tawaddud Gomelez, daughter to an aristocratic family who live in the last remaining city on Earth. Located in what was once the Middle East, Sirr is a bewildering and bustling metropolis populated by embodied people, tiny ‘fast ones, and disembodied ‘jinni’. Treasure-hunters venture into the desert to salvage ancient technology, while feral ‘wildcode’ runs rampant, causing horrific mutations and worse. But it’s not until Tawaddud gets caught up in the city’s political manoeuvrings that she discovers just how much chaos is stirring in Sirr.

This book was definitely a worthy follow-up to Rajaniemi’s 2011 debut. Once again, the author’s astounding imagination burst from the pages, presenting readers with a richly imagined and fiendishly clever vision of the future. The perspective was also expanded from that of The Quantum Thief (as you would expect from a sequel), with new settings and many more details revealed about the sobornost, the zoku, and the various posthuman peoples who populate this far-future solar system. The protagonists, too, show many new facets, with Rajaneimi disclosing more about their histories and motivations as the narrative progresses.

For me, one of the highlights of The Quantum Thief was the ‘Oubliette’ city on Mars and its accompanying system of privacy ‘gevulot’, and again in The Fractal Prince the setting was particularly impressive. I loved the author’s conception of Earth’s last city, its wildcode-ravaged fringes, and its eclectic populace. Rajaneimi avoids long descriptive paragraphs, but has a knack for conveying the richly textured feel of his setting and its hectic atmosphere with clarity and flair. This also applies to the science fictional concepts, which – as in The Quantum Thief – are complex and never fully explained. Nevertheless, Rajaniemi has a neat trick to make sure they remain (at least somewhat) comprehensible to his readers, i.e. by referring to them using fantastical terminology – for example, clouds of nanoparticles are ‘utility fog’, and when used for transport they are (magic) ‘carpets’. This use of fantastical nomenclature helps readers to visualise these futuristic elements even if the science on which they’re based is beyond them (as it often was me!).

The characters likewise continued to be a delight. As I said in my Quantum Thief review, I’m often worried that in hard SF characterisation might take a backseat to ideas and plot, but that’s definitely not the case with Rajaniemi’s writing. Jean and Mieli’s relationship remained interesting, oscillating as it does between solidarity and suspicion, and even Perhonen showed an unexpected side. I was sad to have left Isidore on Mars in The Quantum Thief, but new character Tawadudd made up for that. Serving as the reader’s sole native viewpoint of Earth, her character was perfect for revealing the different sides of Sirr and the factions operating there. Caught between her desire to impress her aristocratic father and her fascination with the strange jinni of the desert, Tawaddud serves as a bridge between the ‘high’ and ‘low’ of the city. She’s also a good example of that elusive being, the ‘Strong Female Character’: independent, determined, and intelligent. So thumbs up for her!

Rajaniemi also has a real talent for including amusing character scenes and interactions – even when the narrative’s moving along at a swift clip (which is most of the time) – and these instances of light-heartedness made the book that much more of a joy to read.

And now to the part that I both admired and had reservations about: the plot structure. First off, it can’t be denied that the structure of The Fractal Prince is handled very cleverly. ‘Fractal’ by name and nature, the novel uses the device of (un)folding stories within stories – purposefully riffing off One Thousand and One Nights, the Arabian setting of which is echoed in Sirr. Later chapters turn back upon themselves, referring unexpectedly to earlier episodes, whilst characters are constantly telling stories to each other. Indeed, in Sirr stories act as a kind of currency for the jinni who live in the desert, and are seen as both dangerous and valuable.

While I was struck with the ambitiousness of this structure, and admired the way in which it gradually disclosed different elements of the characters, it also had me confused, and I often needed to revisit earlier chapters to regain my grasp of what was going on or to check which timeline I was on. I’m also sure that quite a few things went over my head, and although I’m all for re-reading books to spot things missed the first time around, I did wish that The Fractal Prince had given me a few more pointers along the way. So whereas I praised The Quantum Thief for immersing readers in its world without letting us drown in it, this time I felt I got rather a lot of water in my lungs (please excuse the clumsy metaphor!). I enjoyed the book regardless, but less patient readers might come away frustrated.

To some extent, my occasional bewilderment is partly because of Rajaniemi’s economic writing style. I’m aware I’m contradicting myself a bit here, but whereas earlier I praised the economy of description when it came to the setting, this same trait was detrimental to some of the book’s action sequences. There were places in The Fractal Prince where more description would have helped me to follow and visualise the action. I also felt – particularly in the climactic sequences towards the end – that Rajaniemi sold himself a bit short. The Fractal Prince has some truly cracking epic set-pieces, and I felt that the author could have dwelt on them for longer to milk the full impact of such important, large-scale scenes. In this respect, I agree with Adam Roberts in his Guardian review where he says that The Fractal Prince falls short of evoking ‘the sublime’ – though I’m sure that Rajaniemi is more than capable of achieving this, and I look forward to seeing what he comes up with in the final instalment of his trilogy.

Overall, then, despite some reservations I found The Fractal Prince extremely enjoyable, and can safely say that Hannu Rajaneimi is producing some of the most exciting, lively, and ambitious SF I have ever read. So, whilst The Fractal Prince is more difficult to follow than The Quantum Thief (and shouldn’t be attempted without having read the first one), I highly, highly recommend that you experience both of these novels. You’ll need to keep your wits about you, but it’s definitely worth it.

Review: God’s War, Kameron Hurley

God’s War (Bel Dame Apocrypha, volume 1)

Kameron Hurley

Night Shade Books, 2011

ISBN 978-1-59780-214-7

Nyx sold her womb somewhere between Punjai and Faleen, on the edge of the desert.

From the very first words of God’s War, Kameron Hurley plunges us into the raw desert world of Umayma and throws us in with her sharp-witted, dirty-mouthed protagonist, Nyxnissa so Dasheem (a.k.a Nyx). What follows is a gritty, adrenaline-filled ride that isn’t scared to careen outside the box. Science fiction mingles with fantasy as well as a heavy dose of weird – a combination that will appeal to fans of all or any of those genres, and especially to readers looking for something different, dark, and daring.

One of the things that stands out most about the novel is its departure from the Western-inspired settings and cultures that SFF seems to gravitate towards. With God’s War, Hurley tears us off this well-travelled course, depositing us instead on the war-torn planet of Umayma thousands of years from now. This is a world first and primarily colonised by Muslims (though Hurley never mentions the religion by name – or, at least, not by its present name). In the ensuing years, various nations have formed on the planet, notably Chenja and Nasheen, whose different forms of religious practice have propagated a centuries-long war. Still ongoing, it is this horrifying conflict – fought with deadly chemical weaponry and organic technology – that serves as the backdrop and incitement to the novel’s action. Conflicting loyalties, religious disagreements, and societal differences are crucial to the characters’ motivations, relationships, and decisions.

The result is a complex, well realised – if extremely grim – creation. God’s War is certainly not for the faint of heart. Umayma holds horrors besides the war: with giant insects swarming about and sunlight so intense that it causes cancers, the characters are beset with trials left, right, and centre. But it’s not all doom and gloom; Hurley’s worldbuilding also makes room for some extremely nifty concepts. The combination of insect-fuelled technology, shape-shifters, and ‘magicians’ who run boxing gyms and can reconstitute human bodies is heady and ambitious. What’s more, it works.

The characters, too, are a varied and potent mix. First up is Nyx, a Nasheenian, and one of a government-funded group of assassins known as bel dames. It’s their job to hunt down men who flee from the front or dodge their drafts, and to punish such deserters with death. Nasheen is hard-eyed in its wartime politics: the men are shipped off to fight at 14 and are not permitted to return until they’re 40, if they return at all. Nasheen, therefore, has grown into a state governed and dominated by women. Conservative gender politics have gone out the window; women are not required to wear the hijab and are anything but submissive. Indeed, men are considered ‘the weaker sex’ – Nyx, speaking of her front-line service, refers protectively to the ‘boys’  who served under her.

In contrast to Nasheen, Chenja is a pious nation that retains its conservative religious dogma. There, men still dominate while women are expected to remain in a submissive role.

Building a far-future world inspired by a modern-day religion not the author’s own is, you might think, a recipe for disaster. However, I’m pleased to report that by dint of extensive research, powerful empathy, and consummate skill, Hurley avoids the many pitfalls that God’s War may have pitched into (though, admittedly, as a white, atheist Brit I am not the best person to judge this…). The author does not judge either of her fictional nations; neither is demonised, nor upheld as perfect – far from it. Instead, Hurley uses her diverse characters to explore the nations’ conflicts and frictions in small-scale, nuanced ways. Rhys, for example, acts in many ways as a foil to Nyx. He is Chenjan, a male ‘magician’ whose ability to control insects (via some not-wholly-explained deployment of pheremones) makes him invaluable when it comes to operating the organic tech of Umayma. To Rhys, Nyx is a brazen, ‘godless’ woman; to the atheistic Nyx, he is a self-righteous chump who needs to grow a stronger backbone. Their bickering provides some great (and much-needed) humour in the novel, while their increasing respect and liking for one other affords us some of God’s War’s most heart-rending moments.

But Hurley’s novel does not only explore the tension between Nasheen and Chenja; its scope is broader than that, and indeed it’s impressive how much detail Hurley manages to cram into one book without it becoming overwhelming. On Nyx’s team there is also Khos, a shape-shifter from a neutral country called Tirhan. Evolved from some kind of biological oddity unique to Umayma, Shifters are accepted by some, treated with suspicion by others. And then there is Hurley’s inclusion of homo- and bisexuality. Umayma’s various countries and religions have different takes on these relations. Nasheen accepts homosexual relations between women while outlawing those between men ‘for no better reason that that it made people uncomfortable’; in Tirhan, men and women are segregated and men are encouraged to satisfy their desires amongst themselves. Once again, Hurley portrays the factions warts and all; indeed, one of God’s War’s major themes is the fact that no one side has it all right.

It is this realisation that creates the overarching tension behind the main narrative. For when Nyx is sent after a woman from off-planet who may have the means to end the Nasheenian-Chenjan war – but only to one side’s benefit – she must decide which course to take. But only if she can keep herself and her team alive for long enough to find the cursed target in the first place…

Hurley’s writing is sharp and clean. Despite the complexity of her world, she does not indulge in info-dumps. Instead, the reader is given information about the world as and when they need it, and not before. Like the characters, you’re expected you to fend for yourself (as it were), putting the pieces together as you go. I expect some readers might not like this – mileage varies, after all – but, personally, this is how I like to experience a science fictional world: as a traveller, an explorer.

Hurley also has an eye for irony and detail – often unpleasant, sometimes dryly amusing. It is this injection of humour that really vitalises the book, with the wit and snark of the characters helping to offset the novel’s more depressing moments. Nyx always gives back as good as she gets, and the secondary protagonists are also very sympathetic despite their various flaws. Rhys is the best example here – despite his somewhat judgmental opinion of Nyx, he is a gentle soul and probably the most easily likeable of the main bunch.

The bad guys, on the other hand, are truly terrifying. Hurley does not pull punches and, accordingly, neither do they. Rasheeda, in particular, gave me the shivers. I will be having nightmares about white feathers and snickering. (You’ll see what I mean… Oh, you’ll see…)

Other reviewers have pointed out a bit of a pacing problem in the novel – i.e. that the beginning section was rather slow, and that it takes a while for the main storyline to kick in. I suppose that’s true, but I honestly didn’t think this was a problem whilst reading. For me, the beginning section gave a solid grounding from which the novel then took off in the second part. The pacing really ramped up, and the ending certainly didn’t disappoint: God’s War finishes with a stirring, action-packed climax. Indeed, in the final quarter I couldn’t turn the pages (OK, click the pages… I have a Kindle edition) fast enough.

God’s War is the first book in a trilogy – Hurley’s wonderfully named ‘Bel Dame Apocypha’ – but it wraps up well and can be enjoyed as a stand-alone (in case you’re chary of plunging into a trilogy right now). As for me, I’m curious to see where Rapture will take me… if also a little nervous! But what is SFF for, if not to take us places we never expect to go, force us out of our comfort zones, and show us things beyond our own imaginings…

Review: Shadow and Claw, Gene Wolfe

Shadow and Claw (the first half of The Book of the New Sun)

Gene Wolfe

Tor Books

ISBN 978-0-31289-017-9

This review has been a long time coming… as has my introduction to the works of Gene Wolfe, of whom I’ve heard great things. So it was with excitement that I approached Wolfe’s best known work, the tetralogy The Book of the New Sun, hailed by many as a seminal SFF masterpiece. From everything I’d read about Wolfe, I expected something fantastic but challenging. And that is exactly what I got… but in a fashion I had never anticipated.

First off, I will say that I have only read the first half of this lauded series – the omnibus edition of Shadow and Claw, comprising The Shadow of the Torturer and The Claw of the Conciliator – and so I don’t yet have an overview of the work as a whole. Now, I wouldn’t usually point this out, and would normally just judge each book in a series on its own merit, but with Wolfe’s tetralogy I feel that it’s necessary to make the caveat. This is because Wolfe’s series feels like an elaborate puzzle where the pieces come together only gradually, and even though I’m halfway through I don’t feel like I have a real handle on where the tetralogy is going or quite what Wolfe is aiming at in The Book of the New Sun.

I’m not sure whether this is a criticism. I don’t think it is – because I think it’s probably what readers are supposed to feel upon their first foray into Wolfe’s creation. An intriguing mixture of fantasy and science fiction (science fantasy, if you find the label useful), The Book of the New Sun introduces readers to the world of Urth, where fantastical happenings coincide with remnants of an advanced technological society, now long decayed. (Comparisons could be drawn with M. John Harrison’s Viriconium stories, which I’ve also just started reading.) In this baffling world we meet our protagonist and narrator Severian, an apprentice torturer who lives with his guild in an ancient Citadel in the city of Nessus. In the first chapter, we experience his first real exposure to the politics of his world, in which he declares sudden allegiance to a shadowy, aristocratic figure called Vodalus who is engaged in a rebellion against the Autarch. From them on, we follow Severian’s adventures as he weighs his loyalty to the guild against his newfound purpose… and also his newfound passion for one of his prisoners, the beautiful and beguiling Thecla.

It took me a little while to settle into Wolfe’s style. After the action of the first chapter, The Shadow of the Torturer proceeds slowly, and the narration has a formal tone which makes it seem rather distant despite the first-person viewpoint (this is presumably because Severian is supposed to have written the text a long time after the events, and so is himself now distanced from them by time and maturity). Because of this, I found the style a little alienating at first, and didn’t really engage with Severian as a character.

And yet… I was hooked. I was hooked by the world unfolding before me, its secrets, its weirdness, the way it departed from the usual fantasy tropes and plunged me into unexpected territory. This is not a book for the impatient: Wolfe holds back as much as he lets on, and – despite a prologue that explains some of the terminology – the reader must slowly piece together the society and its history. Words from different eras and locations of our own world (cataphract, ephor, carnifex) intermingle with completely invented names (atrox, avern, notule) to create a setting both enigmatic and palimpsestic, the language suggesting the overlapping of cultures – the ‘medieval’, the advanced, the fantastical – that exist on this strange Urth. Add to this the ‘Note on the Translation’ at the start of the novel, which states that the ‘translator’ has often approximated terms to try and give the most accurate picture of the world presented in the text, but that he may not always have succeeded… and, well, this makes for fascinating – if not easy – reading.

The plot is also unusual. If you’re looking for a clear-cut story arc with straightforward character developments leading to a round, satisfying conclusion, then these are not the novels for you. Instead, the story is rather meandering, meaning that the reader is treated to a gradual tour of the world (first the city of Nessus in The Shadow of the Torturer, then beyond its walls in The Claw of the Conciliator), following Severian as he ventures away from his guild for the first time. Whilst his works well as a plot device – we learn about the setting as Severian does, so avoiding those dreaded info-dumps – it also makes the whole experience rather baffling. The episodic plot makes it difficult to ascertain the thrust of the tale, and in places it seems a little stagnant. Moreover, the endings of each novel are extremely abrupt; the books certainly don’t work as stand-alones. However, Wolfe’s prose is so accomplished that he kept me intrigued; the novels possess a literary authority that makes me confident they are doing something rather wonderful, even if I can’t figure out quite what it is yet. (Those with an intolerance for postmodern stylistics should probably steer clear!)

I warmed to Severian a little as I went on, though in all honesty I still can’t say I like him much. But, again, I don’t think Wolfe set out to give us a sympathetic protagonist. Severian’s voice is detailed and self-reflective, but also oddly indifferent for the most part (the latter quality perhaps arising from his profession as a torturer). Seen through his eyes, the secondary characters are also at once distinct and unaffecting. Though I didn’t really care much about them, I nonetheless found them intriguing. They seem to be further pieces of the puzzle, and it’s interesting to watch Wolfe manoeuvre them, and to try and guess where they fit into the wider scheme…

That said, I was slightly uncomfortable with the way the female characters were presented. They came across almost as stock types (Dorcas the ingénue vs. Jolenta the vamp, for example) and I was frustrated with the way almost all of them got intimate, or attempted to get intimate, with Severian. The characterisation of Jolenta in particular made me scowl. But hey, I guess you can’t have everything… *sigh*

I realise this isn’t the most coherent review I’ve ever written, as I’m still trying to get my head round Wolfe’s creation. To sum up my rather fragmentary thoughts, I’d recommend Shadow and Claw to patient readers looking for a challenging and cerebral series to sink their teeth into. With a world and plot that defy expectations, along with a definite undercurrent of weirdness, the two novels gave me much to think about. I expect it won’t be long before curiosity forces me to pick up the second half… Hopefully I’ll be able to draw some more concrete conclusions when I’ve finished the tetralogy. Then again, it’s been said that ‘The Book of the New Sun is too complex a work to evaluate on one reading’ (Baird Searle). So… well… wish me luck!

Review: The Quantum Thief, Hannu Rajaniemi

The Quantum Thief

Hannu Rajaniemi

Gollancz, 2011

ISBN 978-0-57508-889-4

If you’ve read Hannu Rajaniemi’s biography, you’ll already be aware that he’s a highly intelligent man. Director and cofounder of a mathematics think-tank, with a degree in mathematical physics and a PhD in string theory, his credentials are intimidating to say the least. But if there’s one thing that’s truly convinced me of his genius, it was reading his breathtaking debut novel, The Quantum Thief, an action-packed and turbo-paced hard-SF tale.

The novel had a lot to live up to. Rajaniemi secured a three-book deal with Gollancz based on just a single chapter of The Quantum Thief, and upon its release it was nominated for the Locus award for Best First Novel (which in the end was awarded – somewhat bafflingly, in my humble opinion – to N. K. Jemisin’s The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms). Knowing those things – and adding the fact that I don’t generally go in for hard-SF – I approached the book knowing that it would have to be spectacular for me not to come away disappointed in some way.

It was more than spectacular. It was mind-blowing.

Set in our solar system in the far future, The Quantum Thief is a dazzling tale in which humanity, technology, and data-manipulation are enmeshed, and people live a complex post-human existence where replication, re-incarnation, and bodily enhancement are not merely possible but entirely normal occurrences.

Here, I blurbinate:

Jean le Flambeur is a thief – but not just any thief. His feats are legendary, epic in scope. It is said that has stolen secrets from the minds of Kings, a sunlift factory from the Sobornost elite, and infiltrated a guberniya brain of the Inner System. Thievery is his gift, his obsession, his joy. It’s also the reason for his current uncomfortable situation. For le Flambeur has just been busted out of prison, and his rescuer, the inscrutable Mieli, turns out to be another form of gaoler. She – or whomever she’s working for – wants him to steal something. But before he can do that, le Flambeur must first retrieve his previous identity, the clues to which lie on terraformed Mars. There, in the great, moving city of the Oubliette, where privacy is the highest priority and wealth is measured in Time, le Flambeur and Mieli must piece together the thief’s enigmatic past. But they are not the only ones investigating. A brilliant young detective named Isidore, along with a group of masked crusaders called the Tzaddikim, also have an interest in le Flambeur. And interests have a habit of clashing…

The concepts Rajaniemi has come up with in The Quantum Thief are simply astounding. Hard-SF they may be, yet they also have a poetic quality to them that makes them appeal to the fantasy fan in me. Butterflies as avatars; ‘Quiets’ in monstrous bodies, toiling beneath a moving city; a system of memory ‘keys’ that can be manifested as physical objects… the list could go on. Most admirably of all, Rajaniemi manages to present us with an exciting and emotionally poignant tale that is bound up with his fantastic ideas whilst never being bogged down with them. The concepts are introduced within the story’s flow, giving us enough information to get a good grasp of them, but not enough to set off the infodump alarm bells. We’re immersed in the tale from the start – but we don’t drown in it.

It’s often a fear of mine that, in a high-concept science fiction novel such as this, plot – and especially character – might fall by the wayside. (Perhaps this is a preconception of mine about hard-SF, that’s actually more false than it is true? But that’s another conversation.) In The Quantum Thief, these facets are definitely not neglected. The characters are wonderful. Le Flambeur is delightfully mischievous, Mieli is frickin’ hardcore, Isidore is endearingly rumpled and put-upon. My favourite, though, was Perhonen, Mieli’s cute, gutsy ship. Wait, can a spaceship be cute, you ask? Hells yes it can!

The plot too, does not disappoint. The Quantum Thief has twists, surprises, and some frickin’ cool action sequences. But it’s also not too action-heavy; that side of things is balanced out by the well thought-out, intriguing, and often amusing character interactions and development.

The writing was also impressive. It’s detailed but unfussy, sharp but not too stark. Rajaniemi also adds a brilliant touch when he uses archetypal language in the chapter titles, naming his characters as ‘The Thief’, ‘The Detective’, ‘The King’, etc. This was a wonderful choice, as it gives an extra sense of continuity with this far-off world and its characters, who, strange and augmented though they may be, are, at heart (or, perhaps, at mind), human like us. The chapter headings are also illustrative of another thing about The Quantum Thief that I really admired: despite the fact that the culture the novel presents is completely technologically dependent, Rajaniemi has conceived of it in such a way that it does not lose its connection to the spiritual or mythic resonances of life. The language of ‘gods’ and ‘goddesses’ might mean something slightly different in this distant world, but the possibility of beings or existences that are beyond, unknown, other is not excluded.

My only criticism of this fantastic debut is that, towards the end, events ramp up so fast that it does become a tiny bit difficult to follow. For the majority of the book, things are paced so that readers have time to orientate themselves amongst the different concepts and factions involved, and retain their bearings. The nature of a climactic end-point makes this hard to maintain, and as the tempo increases you do start to feel a tad at sea (or I did, anyway). It certainly wasn’t a major problem, however, and in fact I have the feeling that this is the kind of book that will yield yet more enjoyment on a second reading, as you pick up on things that you didn’t the first time round. And it’s definitely a book that I would be delighted to read again.

And, because it bears repeating: Hannu Rajaniemi, you are a genius.

Review: Zoo City, Lauren Beukes

Zoo City

Lauren Beukes

Angry Robot, 2010

ISBN 978-0-85766-0-541

Lauren Beukes’s second novel, Zoo City, won the Arthur C. Clarke award last year – and in this humble blogger’s opinion, the accolade is definitely deserved. A more gripping, imaginative, and smart read you would be hard-pressed to find. Zoo City has the works: witty, well-honed prose, a tough, wily protagonist, an exciting thriller-style plot, and a central concept that is fantastic in more ways than one. But this novel is also far from formulaic. Plunging us into the perilous, grimy warren of the Zoo City ghetto – an alternate version of the Hillbrow district of Johannesburg – Beukes conjures a twisting tale that, whilst flavoured as a noir thriller, is made unique and multi-faceted by its interweaving with the novel’s magical concept. For Zoo City is populated by the ‘animalled’, also known as ‘zoos’ or, if you wants to get technical about it, ‘aposymbiotes’: people who have, by dint of a former crime, come into possession of a shavi – a magical animal that accompanies them everywhere, and with it a magical talent (also called a shavi). These animals are at once companions and brands of criminality, and the aposymbiotes of Beukes’s alternate world find themselves the victims of personal and institutional prejudice. The onset of this phenomenon, during the 1980s, marks the divergence of the world of Zoo City with our own.

The protagonist, Zinzi December (great name, no?) is ‘animalled’, going about her various (and often questionable) business with a large sloth draped across her back or stuffed into her bag. His name is… Sloth. And Sloth, incidentally, is a wonderful character in his own right – endearing and timid, he is often disapproving or frightened by his mistress’s actions. For Zinzi is no shrinking violet: sharp and hard-assed, she is an ex-addict-turned-conwoman, struggling to pay off the huge debt she owes to her dealer while also maintaining a relationship with her lover, Benoît. But further complications await her when, because of her own shavi which allows her to track down lost objects, she is employed by an ageing music industry don to find a missing person. Zinzi might be used to Zoo City’s ways, but the search takes her into places she never wanted to go, and dredges up more than she ever anticipated.

There were many things that made this book stand out for me. Firstly, there’s the premise of the ‘aposymbiotes’. Comparisons have been drawn with the daemons of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, but Beukes’s creatures have an entirely different feel about them. The magic in Beukes’s novel is scruffy, dingy, down-and-dirty stuff – these animals may be magical but they’re as real as they come, complete with matted fur, chipped claws, and gummy, infected eyes. The concept of the shavi is also entirely bound up with the cultural context of the novel: Zoo City is entrenched within South Africa, its plot, its characters, and its ideas inextricable from that location, resonating with its social and political history. Even if, like me, you don’t know much about SA, it’s still clear how very situated Beukes’s story is. What’s more, it has encouraged me to find out more about SA (not that you need to do this to enjoy the book) – and that can never be a bad thing.

Secondly, there’s Beukes’s brilliant writing. The majority of the story is told in the first person, from Zinzi’s perspective, and Beukes brings Zinzi’s voice to life with zest, humour, and downright fantastic prose. Beukes’s style is intelligent, clear, snappy, and often very funny as the reader piggybacks through Zoo City’s streets with Zinzi as their cynical guide. And yet, Zinzi is no ‘tough chick’ stereotype. Beukes has written a thoroughly rounded and fascinating character, and throughout her adventures we also witness her dealing with her feelings for Benoît – the relationship played out in an unsentimental yet affecting way – and also with her deep-set guilt. For, of course, as Zinzi has a shavi, she must have committed some crime… and allusions to a terrible incident involving her brother hover perpetually in the back of her mind, emerging into the narrative in fragments when her guilt comes to the fore.

But Beukes fleshes out her story even further by inserting other perspectives into the novel. Including news articles as chapter epigraphs is by no means a new idea (a great example is in Tad Williams’s Otherland saga – whose protagonist is also South African, incidentally), but Beukes pulls it off with panache. Indeed, these addenda are more than epigraphs, as Beukes donates whole chapters to them. What’s more, they are not only news stories, but also email transcripts, DVD blurbs and viewer comments, and prisoners’ testimonies. This device allows Beukes to step outside of her first person narrator, giving readers a wider glimpse of life in this alternative Earth, and also nods to the vast, varied textual output of our modern, technological world – and to what seemingly small things – like DVD blurbs – can tell us about a society and its views. For me, these interjections also served to highlight just how talented Beukes is. Adapting her writing to these many different voices, with their different biases and agendas, with such ease and authority, Beukes shows that she’s a writer with intimidating skills.

As to Zoo City’s plot, it wasn’t what I expected – and was the better for it. I won’t go into detail, as I don’t want to spoil the surprises that Beukes springs upon the reader. I’ll just say that if you combine magic, murder, and the music industry; sift in crumbling blocks of flats and street gunfights; mix with dread of a strange, black ‘Undertow’ waiting to claim the ‘animalled’; add the blood of a shavi… Well, then you get at least a flavour of what Zoo City is. But to get the full, strange, bursting taste, you’re gonna have to read it.

Review: Equations of Life, Simon Morden

Equations of Life (Book 1 of the Metrozone series)

Simon Morden

Orbit, 2011

ISBN 978-1-84149-948-2

You are now entering the London Metrozone. The time is 7:35, two decades after Armageddon. MIND THE GAP.

Protagonist Samuil Petrovitch is a young, brilliant, wise-cracking physics student living in the chaos and squalor of the Metrozone – the last city left in England after a nuclear war decimated the planet two decades previously. Refugees have flooded in from all over the world; makeshift flats are built from shipping containers; Hyde Park is filled with the dead and the dying. But among these terrible scenes move a cast of colourful and eccentric characters: laconic policemen, gun-toting nuns, crazed doomsayers, and huge immigrant criminal organisations, chief among them Marchenkho’s Ukranians and the Japanese Oshicoras. Petrovitch himself is a refugee from Russia, having fled the fallout to take up a place at Imperial College. There, he and his colleague Pif work away at the equations that will unlock ‘the theory of everything’, opening up the mysteries of the universe to humankind. That, and Petrovitch tries to keep his head down, stay unnoticed and, most importantly, not die. But the Metrozone won’t let him off that easily, and when Petrovitch accidentally saves the daughter of Hamano Oshicora, he is sucked into its dirty, double-crossing, and downright dangerous underworld. And there are more surprises waiting there than he’d bargained for…

Welcome to Simon Morden’s Metrozone series. If you’re on the lookout for a dystopian thriller with plentiful lashings of humour, Equations of Life could be your thing. It’s fun, fast-paced, and mischievous, crammed with gun battles, car chases, and general chaos. Fans of Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash will recognise its exuberant OTT-ness – and although Equations of Life does not reach the same level as this eminent forebear, it’s definitely an enjoyable romp.

Unfortunately, whilst I enjoy the occasional romp, my tastes veer more towards the character-driven side of the tracks. And I’m inclined to say that if you, like me, prefer stories that pack emotional punches rather than physical ones, you might want to look elsewhere. Morden’s characters are vivid and fun, but they weren’t fleshed-out enough for my liking. The emotional moments seemed to me stilted and rushed, as though Morden was eager to get them over with and launch us back into another gunfight. Whilst I realise that this maintained the book’s pace, and kept the adrenaline pumping throughout, it left me dissatisfied and unconvinced by the characters’ interactions. This was especially true of Sister Madeleine and Petrovitch; although I did warm to their friendship as the book continued, it was more a case of suspending disbelief rather than accepting their emotional arc.

Petrovitch himself was quite difficult to get a handle on. I definitely liked him and rooted for him, and especially admired the way Morden created him as physically frail, with a failing heart and bad eyesight – certainly not your standard action-hero, no sirree. Still, I wanted a bit more from him emotionally. The setup is promising: Morden hints that Petrovitch has a mysterious past, which is then slowly revealed as the book goes on. This is all well and good – except that I never really got a sense of how this past really affected Petrovitch, apart from in fairly superficial ways. What I found most grating, I think, was his continuous smart-ass manner. In places, Petrovitch’s one-liners were well placed, and very funny, but elsewhere I found myself wishing that he would stop being so goddamned precocious and express more doubt, more fear (especially considering that he’s supposed to be quite young). I would have loved, for example, for Petrovitch’s sarcastic nature to be revealed – at least partly – as a defensive front, a coping mechanism through which he deals with his and the world’s horrific circumstances. That would have been ace. But sadly, even when Petrovitch does open up to the other characters about his past, this doesn’t seem to be the case: he’s as witty as ever.

Perhaps I am being unfair. This is, after all, only the first book in Morden’s series, and it could be that I’m pre-empting him. But if so, I fear that the deeper character insights will come too late for readers such as myself.

Unfortunately, I had similar misgivings about the setting. The Metrozone is certainly a ‘cool’ idea in a morbid sort of way, and I do have a soft spot for the grungy post-apocalyptic aesthetic – but again I’d like for the book to have dug deeper under its surface. I mean, this place is awful, right? People have flocked there to avoid radiation poisoning, or because their home countries have been wiped off the map. People go to Hyde Park to die in hordes. And yet the horrors of the situation don’t really seem to impact on the characters or the storyline very much. OK, so they’ve lived there for a long time and they would be hardened to it to some extent, and sure, sister Madelaine cries when she and Petrovitch have to go through the park, but the feeling I came away with was that the post-Armageddon scenario was convenient. That is to say, it provided a nifty setting in which the characters could run free and bash/shoot/blow things up without real fear of imprisonment or consequences.

Also, there were many things about the setting that didn’t work for me, at least not unless I was given more explanation… For example: there are still cars and computers and all kinds of things being produced in, or shipped into, the Metrozone. Is this feasible? I mean, who’s making them? Where? How are they getting their resources when the world’s gone to sh*t? How do people still have money to buy them? Haven’t the banks collapsed? And how come Petrovitch and Pif are still using paper with apparent abandon – has the environment not been affected by this world-changing nuclear war (which didn’t happen all that long ago, remember)? Or was it, despite being called ‘Armageddon’, not actually ‘that bad’? Is the world already well on the way to recovery? TELL ME MORE I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW THIS IS ALL WORKING.

Again, I may be pre-empting Morden here; later books will hopefully weave in more detail. But as a fan (and student) of apocalyptic literature, I didn’t get a sense of why it mattered that Equations of Life was set in a post-fallout scenario.

But perhaps I’m taking this all too seriously. Equations of Life isn’t The Road, after all – and it’s not meant to be. It’s energetic, it’s amusing, and it will keep you reading. (It’s also got a really funky cover. I mean, look at that! So awesome.) If those qualities tick your boxes, then hop on for the ride – just ignore the gaps.

Review: Silently and Very Fast, Catherynne M. Valente

Cover of WSFA edition.

‘Silently and Very Fast’

Catherynne M. Valente

Clarkesworld Magazine #61-63, Oct-Dec 2011

(also published in book form by WSFA Press, 2011)

Did you think that Catherynne Valente was a fantasy-only kind of gal? If so, think again. For in ‘Silently and Very Fast’, her novella serialised at Clarkesworld and then published in its entirety by WSFA Press, Valente shows herself more than capable of making the transition to science fiction. And not only does she step firmly and masterfully into this subgenre, but Valente brings her own unique style and perspective to her tale of artificial intelligence, interweaving it with mythological fragments and passages that reflect upon ideas of identity, origins, the relationship between man and machine, and narrative itself: what do the stories we tell about ourselves tell us about ourselves (as it were)?

The novella is a delicate, affecting, and intelligent exploration of the evolution of AI, told from the viewpoint of Elfesis – a computer programme that started out ‘life’ as a house, designed by a genius Japanese-Italian programmer, Cassian Uoya-Agostina. Elfesis has been passed down through Cassian’s family since that time by means of a set of ‘jewels’. These interfaces allow their bearers to enter a technological ‘dreamworld’, where they can recreate themselves and Elfesis in any form. The story focuses not so much on the mechanics of this exchange, but on the intimate emotional relationship that arises from this intense symbiotic experience. Elfesis is bound to the family and they to it, and this connection only becomes  stronger and more complex as the years and generations pass. Now, Elefsis’s operator is Neva, the great-great-granddaughter of Cassian. But the dreamworld of Neva is more mysterious than those of her ancestors, and as Neva and Elefsis roam its strange interior Elefsis probes not only its own capabilities but also the secrets that underpin the family’s relationship with technology. What happened to Ravan, Neva’s brother and Elefsis’s former operator? Why is Elefsis forbidden to uplink? And what does the sea actually look like?

Attempted by lesser writers, the theme of AI could easily emerge dull and derivative, but in Valente’s skilful hands the tale is woven anew, emerging expertly crafted and emotionally rich. Elefsis’s narration is both endearing and melancholic, the writing fluid and lyrical, and the story is not without some great flashes of humour.

Also – ‘Silently and Very Fast’ has recently been nominated for a Nebula award. I haven’t read the other novellas in the category, but I can’t imagine that Valente’s won’t be a strong contender. It certainly deserves high praise and wide recognition.

Want to read it? (Of course you do!) Find it on Clarkesworld, in text or audio format.

Top 5 SFF releases of 2012

2012 looks set to be an good year for SFF fans, who can anticipate a number of exciting releases (no, I’m NOT talking about G.I. JOE: Retaliation or, worse, John Carter). Here are my top five picks of new SFF material coming out in 2012 (not including novels):

5) The Hunger Games movie (release date 23 March 2012 (NB. UK release date, as found on IMDB)) – Having just finished reading the books (find my reviews here and here), I’m curious to see how director Gary Ross will transform these brutal YA novels into film. My hopes are high, as the trailer looks pretty good:

4) The Dark Knight Rises (20 July 2012)- I will confess, The Dark Knight is the only Batman film I’ve seen (apart from the oldie, which has the whole POW, SPLOSH, KABOOM! action going on), but it was more than enough to whet my appetite. And now I’m picturing more of that awesomeness, with the additions of Anne Hathaway, Tom Hardy, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt! WOOT! ‘Tis gonna be amazing.

To add my opinion to the whole ‘I can’t understand what Bane is saying’ debate: that’s only ONE LINE in the trailer that you’re having difficulty hearing, and I’m sure it won’t be that hard to understand him all the way through (it just CAN’T be). And, if you really can’t figure out the line in the trailer, he says: ‘When Gotham is ashes, you have my permission to die.’ Which is, you must agree, a brilliantly badass thing to say. I think I’m going to like him…

3) The Master and Margarita performed by Complicite (15 March 2012, Barbican theatre London) - A more obscure choice, but OHMYGOODNESS am I excited about it! The Master and Margarita is one of my favourite books, and Complicite is one of my favourite theatre companies. What a combination! If you haven’t heard of Complicite, they are a company under the artistic direction of Simon McBurney (who you will have seen in films and TV series, mainly as side characters/cameos e.g. Oliver Lacon in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, Archdeacon Robert in Rev, Fra Pavel in The Golden Compass etc.). Aside from this, he also happens to be a theatrical genius. Complicite are known for their innovative physical performances, and their employment of ‘total theatre’ i.e. using light, sound, setting, projections, etc. to create a piece of theatre in which all the elements are in harmony and play a crucial role in the telling. I have my ticket booked for their show in April, and I cannot wait!

2) Game of Thrones, Season 2 (April 2012)- Need I explain? Wasn’t Season 1 awesome?? Isn’t Jon Snow gorgeous? (*ahem* OK, so I can be shallow, right?) Heh… Anyway, BESIDES gazing at Jon Snow I’m also looking forward to seeing how they depict Sansa’s storyline this season, because I felt that her character really bloomed and became much more likeable/interesting in A Clash of Kings. Bring it on, HBO!

1) Yep, you’ve guessed it… The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (14 December 2012) – How could this not be my number 1? I mean, have you SEEN the trailer (well, it’s OK if you haven’t ’cause I’ve embedded it below)?? It makes me PAINFULLY excited. Yes, that’s NEAR PHYSICAL PAIN. REAL PSEUDO-PHYSICAL PAIN. (No, I don’t know what I mean either, but it hurts, I tell you, it HURTS!) From the looks of the trailer, The Hobbit will be just as excellent as LOTR, albeit with a necessarily lighter tone, as stakes in The Hobbit are not as high as in LOTR. NB. I have to say, I couldn’t quite believe it when I heard that Richard Armitage was cast as Thorin, but now I understand; he has such regal, aquiline features, and manages to remain sleek and noble-looking even with that bushy dwarven beard!

So those are my year’s top excitements mapped out — which 2012 releases are you looking forward to most?

Review: The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins (Book 1)

The Hunger Games

Suzanne Collins

Scholastic, 2009 (YA)

ISBN 978-1-40710-908-4

Ever seen (or read) Battle Royale? I know it must have been said a million times, but I can’t forgo pointing out the concept underpinning The Hunger Games – that of the Games themselves – is, in essence, the same at that of Battle Royale. In BR, a class of unruly schoolkids is chosen each year to take part in the ‘Battle Royale’, a fight to the death in a huge outdoor arena where only one child can emerge victorious, overseen by adults with the power to kill off any child they choose – or any within a designated area – at any time. In The Hunger Games, too, a group of children are chosen at an annual ‘reaping’ ceremony to participate in a similar contest. Placed in an artificial arena, the twenty-four ‘tributes’ are required to kill each other off until only one remains. Periodically, the designers of the arena – called Gamemakers – may choose to intervene if they think the action’s getting a little slow. These interventions are unpleasant and often fatal, ranging from unnatural tidal waves to the release of mutated creatures – ‘muttations’– with deadly venom and/or other gruesome attributes. These ‘mutts’ are certainly a unique touch by Collins, and generate much of the horror that permeates the trilogy, bringing gruesome and unexpected ends to many a character. But where The Hunger Games really diverges from BR and begins to carve its own niche is in the political context of the world Collins envisages, a scenario that has led to the Games’ existence in the first place. That, and the impact of the continual media coverage the tributes are subjected to – which lends a whole other facet to the battles they must face.

Battle Royale similarities: this colourful lady vs. Effie Trinket, anyone?

In the world of The Hunger Games, thirteen districts surround the central ‘Capitol’, and all fall under the jurisdiction of the terrifying President Snow. Decades before, the districts rose up against the oppressive regime, but were beaten back. District 13, the spearhead of the revolution, was completely decimated, and the districts remained under the Capitol’s control. It is because of this revolt that The Hunger Games were invented, as a warped form of remembrance/revenge: every year, the Capitol reminds the districts of their mistake by choosing two children from each district – one girl and one boy – to enter the arena and fight to the death.

Our protagonist, Katniss, is from poverty-stricken District 12, and, of course, becomes the female tribute for the district at the annual reaping. In many ways, Katniss is your standard tough-but-sympathetic, doesn’t-realise-she’s-attractive-but-actually-she-obviously-is YA female protagonist, but Collins handles her adroitly. Katniss is flawed but likeable, and easy to root for. The male tribute for District 12, Peeta, is also well realised. The relationship between him and Katniss (the exact nature of which I won’t reveal) was, in fact, what gripped me most about the book. I was impressed that it wasn’t overwritten or overwrought – which is always a danger in YA fiction (*cough*Twilight*cough*). Instead, the revelations were nicely paced and Katniss’s mixed feelings were refreshingly complex. What makes this storyline particularly engrossing is that it’s bound up throughout with the media coverage of the Games, which are televised for the entertainment of the Capitol’s citizens. In order to survive, Katniss and Peeta have to develop certain personas and play to the cameras. In this way, they hope to become popular with the viewers, who may then choose to ‘sponsor’ them, thus sending them valuable aid in the arena. This is a great conceit, and Collins uses it to varied and tense effect. The pressure of cameras is a constant burden on the characters, affecting their actions and relationships even in the most horrific of circumstances, driving many of their decisions and creating consequences they do not expect…

Collins’s portrayal of the Capitol is also wonderfully unexpected. Instead of the hard-nosed, callous citizens I was anticipating, the city is populated by air-headed, fashion-obsessed people, who have grown so used to their life of luxury and entertainment that most are almost incapable of understanding the reality of the torments the tributes are subjected to (sounding familiar, anyone?). It is, as Katniss herself observes, hard to hate this effusive and decadent populace, a fact that prompts readers to think hard about issues of responsibility and ignorance.

Together, the elements of politics and media work to shift The Hunger Games away from Battle Royale territory and allow it to come into its own. Collins executes (haha) her concepts deftly, highlighting the horrors but without making the whole thing too heavy. The prose is firm and straightforward, not overburdened, which keeps up the pace and allows you to race through the book (in a good way). There’s also a nice balance between the structured settings and plot focussed on the Games, and the surprising/shocking twists when the characters break out of the moulds assigned to them. It must have been daunting to write the actual Hunger Games section, but Collins handles it well, interspersing descriptions of Katniss’s survival techniques with more spectacular, high-adrenaline moments, ensuring that it’s exciting and pacey, but also ‘realistic’. I don’t have any major gripes about the novel, apart from wishing that I had been drawn a little more into the characters. I liked them, and rooted for them, but didn’t love them. They didn’t come alive for me as much as, say, the characters in Harry Potter did. However, this may be partly due to the fact that I’m older than Collins’s target audience, and it certainly didn’t stop me enjoying the book.

A hearty thumbs up for Book 1!

Now to wait and see what the film will be like…?