The Four Thousand, The Eight Hundred - Greg Egan

The Four Thousand, The Eight Hundred is a sci-fi novella by Greg Egan. It’s rather dense, exploring the themes of otherness, of democracy, disenfranchisement, and the role of a moral centre. It also talks about asteroids used as building materials, and explores the social norms of societies on other worlds. Yes, that does mean rather a lot is going on.

There are two worlds on display here – one a seemingly egalitarian society, work apportioned to those who need it, and another, where, a century after settlement, there’s question of debt. The latter is intriguing. In a society where the founders wealth was measured in the tonnage they could bring into orbit, and then to the moon they were colonising, the intangible is, understandably, less visible. But there is a minority in this novella, descendants of founders who sold their intellects, who held patents on mining drills, on methods of extraction, and used that leverage to be part of the original landing team.

A century later, a minority group has pushed, and pushed, to look on the descendants of those users of intellectual property as freeloaders.  The text is looking at the way society deals with pressure – in this case, perhaps, by creating a sense of otherness, by legitimising discontent with certain aspects of that society. The question of whether those descendants of intellectual ‘pirates’ owe a debt is thrown open to the popular vote – and is approved by a slim margin. This may reflect concerns in contemporary politics, but it also allows the text to explore the concerns of the tyranny of the majority. This is a story which is exploring the strengths and weaknesses of systems, but also those of people. As a ballot measure to declare a minority of the population on one moon in debt to the others gathers pace, there’s a feeling of disbelief, then acceptance…and then a reaction, a counter reaction, and an escalating process of havoc.

Looking in through the window of contemporary politics, this is well, and neutrally done - where the characters struggle against an injustice, it seems clear to them that it is one (and indeed, is portrayed to the reader in this way). The majority of the populace, however, are not portrayed as malevolent, merely acting on opinions which impact those around them. In this space, there is also sanctuary – the other moon, the duo pushing ice and building material back and forth in a ring of trade. Here, things are different – at least in that they’re not fighting amongst themselves. Here they accept the “riders”, individuals entering a hibernation state, strapped to an asteroid, risking destruction whilst seeking sanctuary. It’s a world which, if not equal, is certainly not self-harming in an orgy of otherness, as we watch their cousins do.

The characters – well, I would have liked more space for them here. That said, given the length of the novella, they do well enough. There’s the member of a minority, gently sucked into actions that they don’t entirely agree with, feeling their way along the process of escalation before absconding. There’s the third party, not immediately impacted, but with an increasing zeal. And there’s those looking in from the outside, sorrowful, trying to put some of the pieces back together again afterward. If I didn’t see enough of the protagonists, they were present enough in the text to feel genuine, to add a sense of humanity to a piece of sci-fi which is largely driven by social issues – by focusing those issues down, and giving us a view of their impact on the individual.

The plot looks at the rise of intolerance in one of the two moons, of the way in which part of their own population is slowly disenfranchised, and then reacts. Of the way society reacts to that reaction, slowly driving both parties to extremes. But it’s also a story of people fleeing that society, of having the personal courage to strap themselves to revolving pieces of rock and throw themselves into an interstellar void, with a chance at a better life at the end. There’s also the view from the outside, as a member of the uninvolved interacts with an escapee, and draws their own moral lines, perhaps not in line with their social expectations, but in line with what they consider human – a discussion which can be opened with every reader, that. Not where you draw the line, but whether the line must, at some stage, be drawn.

In any event, this is an interesting piece of sci-fi. It uses its short length to full effect, drawing a plausible universe, one where the impact of character’s choices will hit the reader just as ahrd. It’s looking at some of the issues which affect us as societies, and exploring how those issues might play out in a future context, It’s clever work, ad rewards close reading. If you’re in the mood for a read which is challenging, and encourages reader engagement in a plausible sci-fi premise, then this is worth looking at. It’s short, but packs a serious narrative and emotional punch.

The Warrior's Apprentice - Lois McMaster Bujold

The Warrior’s Apprentice is part of Lois McMaster Bujold’s extensive sci-fi series, “The Vorkosigan Saga”. Confusingly, it was the first novel published in the series, but is the third by the internal chronology. On the other hand, it’s full of wry wit, some wonderful emotional moments, and even the odd space battle, so I’m not complaining overmuch.

The main focus of the text – and indeed the majority of the series – is Miles Vorkosigan. Miles is the survivor of an attack made in the womb, a man whose bones are, if not glass, certainly friable, and leave him all of five foot tall. He makes up for it, in those first few pages, with an effervescence and a raw mental energy which seems to pour off the page. Miles is aware of what he perceives as his deficiencies – perhaps too aware of them, concerned with how he is perceived externally and a little insecure. This makes sense for a teenager caught in a society which is deeply suspicious of physical difference, of course – and Bujold weaves Miles’ search for external validation cunningly into the overarching narrative. That he comes from the social aristocracy, a space where military service is, if not a requirement, then a strong expectation, serves to accentuate this need, and also provides a socially acceptable means to attain it.

Miles has a wry, sardonic internal voice. There are tinges of bitterness there, as one might expect, and some emotional blind spots, deserved or otherwise. He seems to live in worship of his father, a famous military tactician and advisor to the Emperor (last seen living his own story in one of Bujold’s other works in the saga; the multigenerational nature of the story being told lets the reader pick up a lot of quiet background, if they’ve done the prior reading). But at his core, he’s a dervish of planning, of enthusiasm, with a coolly analytical focus, which is matched only by a sharp humour – the latter often needed as a break between moments of high tension and more gentle exposition.

Miles serves Barrayar, a planetary system gradually coming out of a period of accidental isolation (and a follow up military occupation) and being exposed to the wider galactic community. This lets Bujold play with some tropes – the Barrayarans are fish out of water, of sorts – and let loose some fascinating sociology. A world which had fallen back to the level of technology epitomised by the cavalry charge now has access to heavy duty armaments and galactic medicine. In other words, this is a breakthrough society, one which has unusual social pressures – such as a dislike of mutations, a highly formal military caste, with an active need of duty, and sense of non-egalitarian social class – wrapped in a high tech wrapper, butting heads with societies with rather different points of view.

Bujold takes us along for the ride with a military fleet, and though I’m no expert, she manages to provide the feel of the institution rather effectively. It’s not explicit, but the sense of need for uniformity, for control, and for a sense of place wafts through the prose, alongside notions of duty and a rather determined effort to get paid.

On that note, the plot is cracking stuff. Miles manages to get up to his eyeballs in trouble, mostly accidentally, and usually as a consequence of solving whatever his previous problem was. The rising tension and pressure as he works out exactly how deep into trouble he is is artfully done – each time the stakes are raised feels like a natural progression, and the final crescendo is deeply satisfying. There’s some nice scenes of space combat as well, perhaps a little abstracted – but Bujold makes up for this with the personal moments, with Miles worrying over his decisions, with the understanding of the suffering of casualties, and if not of their necessity, of their inevitability.

This is a complex character piece, in a believable and intriguing sci-fi world, with an energetic plot which is both rather clever and compulsive reading. Definitely one to pick up. 

Exordium Of Tears - Andrew P. Weston

Exordium Of Tears is the second in Andrew P. Weston’s sci-fi series, “The IX”, centred around a group of people displaced through time from various epochs, to defend a world against an unrelenting and insidious foe. I rather liked the first in the series, an action filled romp with some genuinely touching moments.

Exordium picks up shortly after the first book left off. Our heroes are busy turning their swords into plowshares, spreading out from their fortified city into the surrounding countryside. There’s some discussion of the other cities scattered across the world, which will need to be reclaimed from nature and the scattered remnants of the Horde, the antagonists of the previous book . We do get to see a bit more of the world, as characters patrol and scout across it, and there are tantalising hints of the society which existed before littered through the wreckage.

That said, the larger focus of the book is on the extra-planetary colonies – worlds settled before the outbreak of the Horde, overwhelmed and silent for millennia. The plan to reclaim some of these is ambitious and plausible, especially as some of the colonies were effectively classified research laboratories. For a fledgling civilisation, concerned with the need for genetic diversity and concerned that horde remnants might surface on other worlds, the need to obtain and protect that sort of technology makes a great plot driver.

We do see some of the colonies, though they don’t feel too different from the home world – at least at a macro level. There are small differences, which the author manages to layer in subtly. The big difference is the larger focus on shipboard life – as several crews work together in an effort to retake the colony worlds. The ships are wonderfully described – elegant pieces of focused, brutal machinery, with a seemingly indomitable set of weaponry and, in at least one case, some efficient and charming AI. The tech has been well thought out, and seems plausible and consistent, and the environment of the ship is a suitable mix of camaraderie and claustrophobia. There’s all sorts of environments available, at any rate – from the aforementioned ship corridors, through to subterranean cave systems with sweeping, cathedral-like entrances. The text brings them all to life rather effectively.

The characters were a bit thin in the first novel, so it’s nice to see some of them being built up a bit here. The sprawling cast has been trimmed back a bit, and it feels like there’s a tighter narrative focus on some key people, which works well. Some of the inner monologues are especially informative – watching a pleasantly awkward romance bloom, for example, tells us a little about the captain of one of the ships – and seeing the commander of a special forces team (and his men) visit the widow of another member is a beautifully crafted emotional moment. There’s a theme running through the text about how we deal with death – with cowardice, with acceptance, with struggle – and the different approaches of the characters are quite revealing about them. I still think there’s work to do here – some of the less heroic characters seem to lack any redeeming qualities at all! – but there are layers being built on the personalities in play, and that’s great to see.

The plot – no spoilers, as ever. Weston has always been good at generating suspense, and writing some cracking action scenes, and that talent is on full display here. From the creeping stealth of a starship infiltration, somewhat reminiscent of Das Boot, to subterranean infantry combat, all blood and iron, the narrative delivers. . The pacing is absolutely spot on – slowly building tension, laced through with character building moments, and a slowly ramping up series of action set-pieces. There’s a lot going on here, and the narrative rattles along, grabbing hold and not letting go.

In the end, I think Exordium of Tears is a worthy successor to The Ix. It has some genuinely interesting world building, some plausible, likable characters in whom the reader can invest, and a narrative that absolutely crackles. If you’re looking for military sci-fi with solid credentials, then this series is definitely worth exploring – and one you’ve read The Ix, Exordium of Tears is a worthy sequel.

Bridging Infinity - Jonathan Strahan (Ed.)

Bridging Infinity is a collection of short sci-fi stories edited by Jonathan Strahan (whose rather good collections I’ve reviewed before). It’s part of a wider sequence of collections,  each with their own theme and scope.  The theme of this collection, though, is, as the name suggests, mega-engineering projects. The scope, to try and generate a sense of awe in the reader, is a subtle, clever, broad-ranging one. That it often succeeds doesn’t hurt either.

Environments are, as one might expect, a large part of the stories in this collection. There are marvels on display here that stretch the imagination to envisage, but are certainly awesome. They range from the battleship crafted using the entire output of an interstellar level civilisation, pushing its people and economy to the brink of collapse, to a form of Dyson ring, spread out across the solar system to provide power  and resources to the inhabitants. There’s time for smaller dramas as well, of course. 

The slowly crumbling world of “Rager in Space” shows us a humanity devoid of technological assistance in a post-Singularity universe, where toasters are emancipated, and the only functional AI is struggling to understand what people are, and what they’re for. There’s a gentle melancholy there, mixed in between the partying and the teenage slang, a carefully constructed sense of decline, and inevitability, at odds with the peppier overall message.

Then there’s the canals of drowned New York from “Monuments”.  Here, the plan to cool the world is posited by AI systems now acting in a seeming partnership with humanity. The broken columns and skyscrapers of cities after catastrophic temperature and sea level rises serve as a physical monument to humanity – but also to the hubris of attempting to control a global system. Here, the sun shade project is one whose implementation spans the generations. Here there’s a sense of isolation, of declining hope and a feeling of humanity sleepwalking into inevitable extinction. It’s not necessarily a positive story, in many ways, but it is a very human one.

For example, Ken Liu’s “Seven Birthdays” gives us a more intimate view, of the relationship between a child and her emotionally distant mother over the course of years; whilst the latter has been driven to work on large eco-repair projects, it is the former whose efforts to move humanity forward are truly breathtaking in scope, as she works to create a kind of immortality. Her motivations, though, are entirely tied up in character: her pain at the emotional separation from her mother, the desire to break the hold of mortality in the face of that estrangement of affection, to create more time – these are gently, subtly played, and marvellously done, even as the civilisation-shanging scope of her work becomes clear to the reader.

There’s a few stories where character seems to take a backseat to science;  “Mice Among Elephants” had characters which held their place reasonably enough, but where the grandiose idea of orbiting micro-black holes, used as a gravity wave emitter, were very much the centrepiece. That said, there were some charming moments with lifeforms made of plasma, which injected, oddly, a little more humanity into the prose.

Overall, this collection achieves its goal – to astonish and awe with the idea of what is possible on a grand scale in science fiction. It evokes the memories of Heinlein and Asimov in doing so, but then blends those with a more modern context – not only do we have high concept work, showing off some wonderfully imaginative ideas – but there’s a space in there for humanity, as well, a feeling of intimacy, a sense that these grand projects are dependent on and shaped by the relationships of the people and machines orchestrating them.  This blend worked really, really well for me – I’d struggle to find a story through the collection that I didn’t enjoy, to one degree or another. If you’re in the mood for some stories which will challenge and entertain you, whilst throwing open the breadth of the universe to the interrogation of your imagination, then I’d say give this collection firm consideration.

Every Mountain Made Low - Alex White

Every Mountain Made Low is a sci-fi novel from Alex White. It takes place in a town-within-a-mountain, somewhere in a slightly alternate Alabama, following a protagonist with a somewhat unique perspective, as she attempts to avenge a murder, and, preferably, survive.

The world the reader is thrown into is a heavily stratified one, geographically and socially. The population appear to live in concentric rings within a mountain which is itself being mined for ore. Each ring closer to the floor of the workings also seems to indicate a drop in social class. The higher rings are populated by foremen, engineers and technical specialists, or, even further up, by corporate presidents. The lower rings are filled with workers, slumlords, the baffled and the dispossessed. Those working the mines are protected at shift change by armed guards – though they seem to serve the dual purpose of protecting the miners and effectively restraining them.

This towering society, delving into the pit, is a part of something larger, rising out of Alabama. There are other cities – Jacksonville, Atlanta – within reach, though all seem to be under the nominal authority of “The Con”, a sprawling corporation which effectively owns the continental United States. The Con are ruthless and exploitative,  driving their own agenda of profit without much in the way of mercy. For all that though, they’re a part of a thriving urban ecosystem, and the brief piece of their history that is mentioned is one I’d like to see explored further.

Near the bottom of the creaking machinery that drives the Hole is our protagonist, Loxley. I’ve got to give points to the author for providing us with a protagonist with a very distinct point of view, and maintaining that distinction throughout the text. Loxley is certainly different from other people. She doesn’t cope well with loud noises or crowds, and isn’t very good at reading expressions,  or decoding speech where the tone, words and meaning are in opposition. She is not, however, as she insists herself, a stupid person – understanding the world within her constraints very well.

It’s difficult to explain how impressed I was with this as a narrative device. It’s a tricky read, but the author provides us a set of eyes which do not see entirely as one might expect, but maintain their own consistency. As the book progressed, I found I could follow Loxley’s state of mind,  see her objections as she attempted to parse details from her environment. This is a tip-top portrayal of a complex individual, with a distinct way of seeing the world – and the text is no less compelling (and perhaps more so) for having attempted to provide this view.

Then there’s the fact that Loxley can see ghosts. These fetid, rather unpleasant creatures seem to surface from the bodies of the recently deceased, where they suffered a violent death. They don’t seem to like Loxley much, either – interacting with them seems to give great pain to her, but they seem very keen to reach out to her, in the same way that cats play with a lone mouse.

Loxley’s backed up by a supporting cast who run the gamut of what we might think of as standard points of view. Of particular note is her friend Nora, a sharp tongued pragmatist with a gift for self-examination, and a larger gift for sating the wrong thing at the wrong time. Nora is sometimes caustic, damaged, and very well aware of her position in the hierarchy of the Hole. There were a few moments where she seemed to have lapses of judgment that served the story rather than the character, but these did fit into an existing framework of decisions, and so there wasn’t much to complain about.

The antagonists – well, one of them receives rather a lot of character detail. In contrast to Loxley, who changes a little over the course of the text, becoming more accepting of others, and smoothing out the jangles surrounding her perception of the world, this individual doesn’t change much at all. But there’s a smooth coolness to each of their scenes, a calm, focused viciousness which is rather unnerving.  Still, it would have been great to see more of them, as well as thecauses and individuals they answered to. There’s enough here to build animosity, and enough complexity on display that the antagonists aren’t simply paper targets – but a few more paragraphs here and there would have been, if not useful, certainly intriguing.

The plot begins with our introduction to Loxley, but quickly becomes a rather fraught tale of murder, investigation and revenge. The first half does take a bit of getting into, it’s definitely a slow burn – but once I was on board with Loxley and her world, I found it very difficult to put down. The second act carries a raft of tension and implications, and if the dénouement was perhaps to be expected, it was nonetheless well crafted.

Is it worth reading? I think the unique perspective of the protagonist may make it a struggle in some cases, and I’d suggest reading a sample first, if you can. But if the prose works for you, then the world and characters are vivid and interesting, and perhaps a little different from anything else  available right now. It’s a good story, in a world I want to see more of, with an ambitiously portrayed main character – I enjoyed it, and I’d recommend you give it a try, to see if you do as well.

The Promise of the Child - Tom Toner

The Promise of the Child is a debut sci-fi novel by Tom Toner. It’s a sprawling, multi-faceted work, taking place across a multiplicity of imaginative spaces, from multiple viewpoints. It’s a grand space opera, and if it occasionally falters under the weight of ambition, it’s certainly asking interesting questions.

The universe in which the narrative exists is a vast one, composed of interstellar kingdoms, or “Solar Satrapies”. These kingdoms are themselves the preserve of transhuman species. Genetic drift and deliberate manipulation over millennia has effectively turned humanity into different versions of itself; from the towering, multi-hued Melios , to the more averagely formed Amaranthine. In a structure more than a little reminiscent of the decaying Roman Empire, the Amaranthine rule these satrapies, from a distant Earth. They are biologically immortal, and hold control through manipulation, social expectation, and the use of mysterious powers gained through age. They’re sometimes capricious, and prone to states of fugue – but also the only individuals left who remember how to form the grander forms of technology that shape their spaces.

They’re surrounded by servants, and their kingdoms are surrounded by the Prism, a more tangled, seemingly lively area of space, filled with the energy of the dispossessed and the no-longer oppressed. Each time the Amaranthine use one of the Prism empires to fend off another, they lose a little more of their power and influence, and the narrative shows us a grand galactic society on the verge of change – perhaps for the better, perhaps as a catastrophe.

In any event, the sheer variety of environments, people and societies on display here is staggering. Toner has put together a vivid, imaginative universe, which conforms to its own rules. It seems perfectly believable, if, in many aspects, also perfectly appalling. But the surge and crash of humanity, in infinite variation, is on display here, and Toner has built a universe which not only stands up to scrutiny, but is expansive, intriguing, and one I’d rather like to see more of. It does take a little while to get used to, as the reader is drawn across worlds and characters, from dark jungles with teeming predators to artificial utopia’s within the core of worlds – but getting used to it all is an absolute delight.

The central characters are illuminating. I was particularly interested in Sotiris, an Amaranthine immortal, used to operating in longer timescales and perhaps at a slower pace than might be expected. But his thoughts on the rise of the Amaranthine provided some much needed context, and his clear love for his sister, and for old friends, added a sympathetic layer to a man embroiled in politics and treachery. Sotiris is insightful, careful, and makes for a thoroughly enjoyable read.

Lycaste is, if not his opposite, certainly somewhere else in the spectrum. When we first see him, he is living on one of the provinces of Earth, in an existence where it seems his every need is catered for. He is reclusive, nervous, and carries  a torch for one of the other inhabitants of his region. Lycaste’s portrayal is convincing, and his social anxiety feels particularly on point. As the narrative shifts, Lycaste changes with it, but at every turn, his growth – or at least his change – in character feels organic and plausible, and the man himself continues  to seem a fully formed personality.

Both men are assisted by an enormous cast of side characters, some with larger parts than others. Over the course of the text I found myself sympathising with different sides, switching allegiances, laughing with some characters, and preparing a deadly enmity with others – and if those that appeared fleetingly had less time on the stage, still they told their stories well, and felt like a real, immersive part of the elaborate universe that Toner has concocted.

As ever, I won’t go into spoilers with the plot. However, there’s rather a lot of it. The initial pacing is somewhat slow, as the universe and characters are unfolded for the reader. Things do pick up, especially in the more politically focused segments – and there is always something going on. The pacing works for the story being told, and lets the lyrical prose wash over the reader well, and give them room to get a handle on things; by the last third of the text, things have shifted up a gear, and there’s some wonderfully drawn action scenes, largely of depredation and destruction. The quieter first half of the book works as a means of comparison. There’s two large strands to the plot – one around Lycaste, as he discovers himself and the world around him, and the other around Sotiros, as he deals with the byzantine manoeuvrings of the Amaranthine. Switching between the two also moved the pacing nicely – and both journeys were compelling, for different reasons. I’d say, don’t go in expecting laser battles on every page – but the slow buildup absolutely pays off, and the overall story is at once convincing and, for sequel purposes, intriguing.

This one is absolutely worth picking up. The world is beautifully drawn, and the characters held my interest throughout, whilst feeling quite distinct. The plot really does deliver on the early build-up, and I think the series will be one to watch.

Dust - Elizabeth Bear

Dust is an absolutely intriguing novel. At heart it’s a journey tale, following our heroes as they strive to settle the many, many problems around them. But it’s also a character piece – the physical journey a transporting medium for the associated internal changes for the protagonists. Alongside these, it’s a story happening in a unique environment, and one which we see a fair amount of throughout the narrative. There’s some overtures to hard science in here too, as is typical of Bear’s other work.

The environs of Dust are medieval, creaking, and have more than a hint of a system in the grip of terminal entropy. Societies exist which depend upon technological systems, and those systems are in decline. There’s a sense of sprawling societies, but ones which are constrained. In a generation ship which has been gradually falling apart for millennia, there is no room to grow – though plenty of room to iterate. Societies have formed around functional groupings, struggling to jury rig functional patches, holding the vacuum at bay whilst human society falls apart.

Alongside this, there’s also a sense of humanity on the cusp of evolution. There are individuals with seemingly transhuman powers, with strength, speed, and associated longetivity, enforcing a caste system over those individuals left manning the broken craft – a medieval world, in the shattered remnants of a technological marvel. The logic of these talents is handled subtly, and well, and if we aren’t usually sympathetic to these scions of privilege, we can at least empathise with them.

Our protagonists are sisters, of a sort. One a creature of born privilege, maimed and thrown back out into a world which she’s determined to bend to her will. The other a surprising scion, previously one of those small common people that make up the majority of the ship’s population. Both struggle to define themselves, and one of the great facets of this text is watching them, if not clash with each other, then share experiences, and create new understandings between them – a blending of family and social caste which displays weaknesses in both, but also accentuates their strengths. Both are a delight to read, really – heroines given a firm agency, and sent out into the world.

They’re both, by turns, feisty and thoughtful people, and disruptive products of an environment which encourages conformance to the existing social order. In this, they’re aided by a sprawling supporting cast. Most of these we don’t see in too much depth – but they’re there, providing colour and a broader context for the world.

An exception is the ship AI, now a league of personalities at war with each other, each a small god in its own area, and constrained by its programming. Each of those seen is livingly portrayed, with an amount of depth and nuance which makes them as real as the ‘people’ that they spend much of their time manipulating. They’re creepy, occasionally terrifying, and splendidly alien, with an uncanny valley where they attempt to simulate humanity which actually accentuates their strangeness.

The plot is a march to save the ship from the outside world and itself, and a quest for survival. It’s also a coming of age tale. There’s some snappy action pieces in here, and some wonderfully tense moments, often achingly stretched out in dialogue which feels both natural and the slightest bit strange. There’s a certain slowness of pace to the earlier sections, counterbalanced by that time being spent learning the context of the world – by the mid point, it’s ramping up, and the period from there to the dénouement was almost impossible to put down.

Is it worth reading? I think so. It’s a clever sci-fi piece, with a lot to say about humanity, and rather more to say about people, in a wonderfully evocative setting. Give it a go,  especially if you enjoy generation ships or transhumanism!