I'm Not Always Feelin' It
Book Reviews
This was so much worse than I remember.
I have reviewed some books fairly harshly here. Perhaps harsher than I would want to be if I was actually speaking to the author, though I have tried to remain frank and fair if my reviews ever were read by them. This book is going to bring out perhaps my harshest attitude though, because it fritters away any good will I might have had for it.
Redwall fans are no doubt familiar with the debate that already surrounds this book, but I actually want to look at all the other problems it has before we get to the big one. Just saying, even if you’ve already done the Orc Babies debate to death, hopefully I’ll still have something new to contribute about the book overall.
The first problem with Outcast of Redwall is that it is not the story of the titular character. It’s actually the story of a badger named Sunflash the Mace, and his revenge-rivalry with a ferret named Swartt Sixclaw. Reading this story, I really have to wonder how it developed from its first concept, because it feels to me like the author probably came up with the Sunflash/Swartt A-Plot first, and the Outcast B-Plot was introduced when the story started to lose steam.
I’m not saying Sunflash’s story is bad, or not worth telling. There’s a kind of mythical feel to it as he goes from humiliated slave to courageous warrior and noble leader. Swartt as his evil counterpart gets near-enough equal time on the page, as he goes from the bullying chief of a mob of bandits, to a feared and powerful warlord with a trail of dead rivals in his wake. The problem is the A-Plot dominates the book so thoroughly that the B-Plot at Redwall Abbey feels totally underdeveloped.
To illustrate what I mean further, the novel is split into 3 ‘Books’, the first Book is about 39% of the total story length, and is wholly the A-Plot. The second Book is 26% of the total length, and is the portion where time is skipped and we are introduced to the Outcast B-Plot, leaving Book 3 the remaining 35% to bring the B-Plot characters to the A-Plot, but is mainly the climactic battle between Sunflash and Swartt. I’m bringing this up not to unfairly criticise an author for unequal pacing, but to illustrate what parts of the story seem to have been more important to the author.
Let’s cut to the chase - Swartt’s wife Bluefen has a baby, the baby ends up at Redwall, where he’s adopted, and named Veil (for uh, very obviously telegraphed reasons). Keep in mind, up until now the profuse amount of babies that appear in the book are all cutesy and universally beloved by all good creatures. This ferret baby though is written as though he’s possessed by a demon. He doesn’t cry or gurgle, he just eats or bites what or whoever’s in front of his face. I’ll give the author this credit - it is an unusual twist for him to have a baby not be a bundle of joy we have to halt the entire story to coo over.
Then we time skip until he’s around young adulthood. So, I’m going to say at least fifteen to sixteen years. That’s a pretty huge time skip, so a lot must have changed in the intervening time, right?
Wrong. Nothing, and I mean literally nothing changes for any of the characters in the intervening decade and a half. I don’t want to hear any excuses about the ambiguity of how different species age in Redwall, that’s only ever relevant to badgers who are supposed to live four times as long as any other creature. It’s fifteen years equivalent, and I’m being very generous in calling it fifteen and not sixteen, eighteen or twenty.
There are no other children at Redwall that grew up alongside Veil. Veil’s adoptive mother, Bryony, who virtually had the baby dumped on her when she was a young adult herself, still acts like a hapless young first-time parent, even though she must be in her thirties by now. Nobody’s entered into any new relationships. Nobody else has become a parent. Everyone who was a leader before the time skip is still in charge now. One new character is introduced, an owl who serves the singular purpose of dropping a hint to move the plot along. When the hedgehog and mole families we met in Book 1 return in Book 3, the book actually reads as if the author forgot to age up the children, or was severely uncomfortable with doing so.
This. Is. Lazy. This is such an incredibly lazy device to get the characters where the author wants them to be. And the only reason this has to exist is because the author wants this story to be about Sunflash and Swartt. If this was about Veil, everything in Book 1 could have been backstory. I know sometimes people hesitate to say what they would have done if they were writing a given book. It’s in bad taste, or something. I won’t outline what I would do if I was writing Outcast, but I’ll leave it with this: I would have chosen either making a story about Sunflash, or a story about Veil. Not one about Sunflash that quickly tries to speedrun Veil’s life so he can turn up for a dramatic climax.
Outcast of Redwall’s tone is all over the place. It frustrates me to no end that the author introduces ideas that would be cool to a twelve year old, but every conflict between good and evil has to be resolved as though the reader is six years old instead. You have minor bad guys getting horribly eaten alive by snakes, but you know there’s never a risk the teeth-achingly sweet little fucking moles are going to get their comeuppance for making me have to read them in a Cornish accent. A couple of co-habiting mole and hedgehog families are besieged in their own home by a family of foxes, who want to get inside and um… do something bad to them. The author actually chickens out of explaining what the motivation of the foxes is. I suspect it’s implied the foxes were originally intended to want to eat the good guys, but the author backed out of saying that outright. Because we can’t actually credibly threaten poor innocent moles, right? This leaves the foxes as one-dimensional villains. They’re bad because they’re just… bad.
This is what I mean. The author will introduce death as the stakes, then instantly retract it whenever a good guy is actually in danger. He can rarely actually bear to kill any goodie, not even unnamed otters or squirrels during a battle, because he’s afraid of making you, the over-sensitive baby reading the story, upset. This tends to undercut not only any dramatic tension the story might have had, but also the idea that any of these characters are brave for putting their lives on the line. I’m not asking for a bloodbath, I’m asking for there to be at any point a credible moment where I’m afraid for the life of a character I care about. Instead of actually writing likable characters with realistic fears, flaws and conflict though, the author will just drop babies into the plot whenever he feels like writing some high-stakes rescue drama.
The mood whiplash in this book is unreal. The author prevaricates over writing pointless baby dialogue, in the middle of an epic Return-of-the-King style quest full of slavery, revenge, plots, poisons, cruelty, assassinations and torture. He introduces genuinely cool badass secondary villains, then instantly gets bored of them and kills them off with all their potential abandoned. He does this three times, with the same formula - chapter to introduce the cool bad guy, and a chapter where he dies in a ridiculous and degrading way, proving that they were cowards, or morons, or both. He tries to make the continuity between his books feel like a big payoff for readers of the series, but so many characters in these books themselves are interchangeable.
Are we ready to talk about Orc Babies yet? Okay, let’s do Orc Babies. Again.
Veil is as one-dimensional a character as the bad foxes from earlier, and this actually breaks the story, because it makes every character around him look utterly idiotic. It makes Bryony look like an idiot because she never learned how to raise a child. It makes Bella and Meriam look like idiots as the Abbey’s leadership, because they didn’t or couldn’t help Bryony raise Veil. So when Bella gives her speech about how Veil rejected the lessons of kindness and friendship that the Abbey tried to teach him, she just looks like a liar because we never see Veil being taught any of this. The book wants us to believe that Veil rejected the Abbey’s way of life because he’s Just Bad. What it actually does is undermine the Abbey characters as racist morons.
See, herein lies the problem. Nobody ever actually accepted the baby Veil as unconditionally innocent and good. It was always framed as an experiment to see if a ‘vermin’ baby could be raised to hold good values. When Veil is found to be an attempted murderer (once again, it really fucking takes the drama out of his evil crime if, y’know, the author STILL refuses to kill off even the most minor of good-guy characters), the overall reaction seems to be one of ‘oh, I guess we were right about him all along’. There’s a really sickening part of the story where the Abbey characters all gather around a traumatically upset Bryony and try to convince her to stop wasting her cares and emotions on her adopted fucking son.
This is why I think Outcast generated such controversy with fans. None of this seems unintentional. Outcast has a very deliberate, jarring message that clashes with modern sensibilities about Nature vs. Nurture. Outcast’s message is Bad Blood Will Always Out. Veil was always evil, not just because he was a ferret, but also because he was the son of Swartt, a father he never knew or even heard of growing up. And now that he’s finally revealed his true nature, it comes across as everyone dropping the facade of having to treat him like a real person. Now he can be handled just like other faceless minion of evil. Nobody’s sorry to see him go. In fact, they can’t wait to forget he ever existed.
This is an attitude that seems, from my perspective at least, to have been peculiar to a very socially-stratified British society that was already disappearing by the time these books were written. This lineage-based determinism just doesn’t work because we’re not really talking about ferrets or badgers or mice. We’re talking about people, and thinking about people as being intrinsically evil because the apple never falls far from the tree is wrong. Yeah, I’m just going to make a blanket statement here. Evil is not a gene. Outcast’s message for children is wrong. Thankfully even as kids, I think we noticed.
Oh, and please do not reach for the tissue-paper-thin excuse that this is all a story being told in a framing device many years later by an otter, so of course it has an unsympathetic portrayal of a ferret. This is the story. The framing device does not change the message being sent to the reader. There is no intended unreliable narrator.
The book wraps up in a rush. Finally, a named, important character we should care about gets killed. Hooray, a noble sacrifice that meant something! The weird thing is though, not too long afterwards, Sunflash decides he is not going to attend the burial of his lifelong best friend. I know it’s a minor point as far as the entire book is concerned, but to me this really sticks out. The relationship between Sunflash and Skarlath was the defining friendship of the main character’s life. I don’t even think it would have taken much more than a few paragraphs for Sunflash to respectfully bury and mourn him.
Then, another ‘noble sacrifice’ occurs, somewhat accidentally, as Veil takes a fatal spear for his adoptive mother, thus proving there was one speck of good buried within him. Or maybe not, because he literally tried to murder her earlier that same day. This is such a jarring moment in the story. Veil’s ‘redemption’ is not foreshadowed whatsoever. He gives every appearance of having gone kind of murderously insane the whole time. He has been utterly remorseless about trying to hurt or kill Bryony and Toggett. Arguably he did not intend to take the spear, but he certainly wanted to save Bryony’s life, a distinction that Bryony herself manages to fail to realise later.
Readers get angry at Bryony at the end for apparently just giving up on her adopted son and declaring he really was 100% evil all along, and that his sacrifice was unintentional. Understandable, she does entirely miss the point that Veil was trying to save her life. Also, I think we do manage to confirm something the book had in mind all along - not even the author, writing Bryony as neurotically obsessed with defending Veil’s unjustifiable actions, thinks that she considered him her son. At one point, when she’s asked why she’s doing this, she just says that Veil is her responsibility, as though this is all about not failing a task she was assigned, rather than her unconditional mother’s love for Veil.
I want to like Outcast way, way more than I do. I think Sunflash’s story was actually pretty strong, and could have carried the entire book by itself. Personally, I’d cut the Veil thing entirely (or just have Veil be raised with Swartt as a minor character), and use the extra space to elaborate on other characters that could have had more time to shine. I could have used more Balefur, Zigu, or Wraith for sure. I have to wonder if the author felt obliged to include Redwall Abbey since it’s the series’ central location, but I don’t see it as a necessity myself. Why not just let the world expand out from where it began?
I do not recommend Outcast, if you’re looking into Redwall books to read for enjoyment rather than rage bait. I have good memories of Mossflower, and Mattimeo is alright. Marlfox throws so much potential on the floor as usual, but I do enjoy the villains, for what it’s worth. I haven’t read any others recently enough to make a definitive list of all 22, but I feel like it’s worth exploring a few more some time. For now though, I might just stick to fan-fiction.
...Also the artist that does the little doodles at the head of each chapter keeps drawing the characters naked. I'm not sure he's even convinced the animals are that anthropomorphic to begin with, and he draws ferrets and weasels like he's only ever heard descriptions of them. It's not... strictly relevant to the enjoyment of the book, so much as it is just a bit weird, as they are often described as wearing clothes. Then again, the wacky cover art for the different editions of the Redwall books is a whole other story.
Hyperion by Dan Simmons ✔
Ringworld by Larry Niven ✔
Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens ✔
Dune by Frank Herbert ✔
Halo by Chet Day ✔
The Bobiverse series by Dennis Taylor ✔
The Chanur Saga by C.J. Cherryh ✔
Neuromancer by William Gibson ✔
Rendezvous with Rama / Rama II by Arthur C. Clarke ✔
A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge ✔
Chanur's Homecoming by C.J. Cherryh ✔
Dogs of War by Adrian Tchaikovsky ✔
Chanur's Legacy by C.J. Cherryh ✔
Imperium Lupi by Adam Browne ✔
Scars of the Golden Dancer by NightEyes DaySpring ✔
Sunset of Furmankind by Ted R. Blasingame ✔
Lost in the Wilderness by Ted R. Blasingame ✔
A Story Like the Wind by Laurens van der Post ✔
Between Two Fires by Christopher Buehlman ✔
Last of the Wild Days: Book One - Spring by Daniel J. Loney✔
Last of the Wild Days: Book Two - Summer by Daniel J. Loney✔
Last of the Wild Days: Book Three - Autumn by Daniel J. Loney✔
Outcast of Redwall by Brian Jacques✔
Ahhh shit. It’s not a trilogy.
Perhaps I should have intuited LotWD was a quadrilogy from the season naming. I guessed the story would be bookended by two winters, but not necessarily take place over one? I guess this is actually good news, since so much Stuff needs resolving, but as of writing, the fourth instalment is not yet published. That’s the bad news - I could be waiting a while. According to Amazon’s aforementioned questionable publication dates, Summer and Autumn were released in mid and late 2024 respectively, but Spring had come out back in late 2021. Here’s hoping for a mid-to-late 2025 release for Winter.
I want to get the boring criticism out of the way first. This author needs, needs, NEEDS a copy editor. I haven’t talked about the series’ loose play with formatting up until now. I try to avoid grammatic snobbery, so the occasional typo, missing capitalisation, and constant lack of apostrophes or full-stops in quotations do not concern me so much. What does get to be a problem though is when sentences stop making sense. There’s a sentence in this book in which a button bursts off a tunic ‘visibly’ but was also ‘hidden’ under chainmail. There’s a chapter that begins by quoting a character’s words from the last book… except it’s a misquote that completely changes the original meaning. There’s a sentence that repeats a simile twice in one breath. This kind of thing needs fixing, or the illusion is momentarily broken.
Around the end of Book 2, I started to develop a theory in my head that maybe Summer and Garral Wintergaze shared seasonal-themed names for a reason. Summer represents the future of the Flesheaters as a people, as they cast off their primitive roots (moving from their Spring to their Summer, you might say) - as the Wild dies out in them over generations, they will become smaller, weaker, and more excited by centipede pie than raw flesh. The cute-ification of foxes, jackals, wildcats, weasels, stoats, ferrets and mink will save both sides from eternal war, the brutal and bloody hunts will end, and all species can live in… well, not a constant state of kill-on-sight, at least. Garral Wintergaze represents the opposite - or a dark future, if he succeeds. He is a throwback to the earlier days of the Wild(the Winter before their current Spring, to continue the metaphor), when the Flesheaters are supposed to have hunted with fangs and claws alone.
I dismissed my theory as a solution to a problem that would not be resolved by the end of the story though. It seemed too neat. The bloody, species-driven conflict has a final end? And it doesn’t involve the wholesale extermination of one side? Nahh, we can’t have anything so nice! Also, the prologue (which established that this story itself is a tale of long ago, in-universe) acts like Flesheaters are still up to their regular predatory tricks. That seemed to prevent my theory making sense, right up until this book started dropping mega hints that this is exactly where it’s going. The end of predator and prey, with Summer as the new vision of what the Flesheaters can be. It fits the series’ title, ‘Last of the Wild Days’, after all. I guess it’s just funny now trying to imagine cutesy stoats and wildcats pouncing mice for hugs instead of murder.
I really, really like where this book has taken both Summer and Brookwind. Both are finding their place in the world. Summer has had to not only find tolerance and even friendship in a hostile world, but also come to terms with himself, not as a traitor, coward and thief planning to abandon his hard-won friendships to save himself, but as an empathetic young man that really does yearn to be liked and trusted like anyone else. Someone who’s coming to terms with the loss of his parents, the fact he is part of what remains of them, and that they raised him to make a difference for good in the world. The friends he’s chosen are outcasts too in their own ways - Evergreen stubborn and principled to a fault, Glenn foolish and careless, Berrybright a contrarian menace. He doesn’t have ‘cozy’ friendships exactly, but the moment where he opens up, and finally gets Evergreen to smile with nothing held back is very satisfying. Brookwind meanwhile has had to meet the crisis point of letting rage, hatred and fear overwhelm him. He makes terrible mistakes, jeopardises the trust his friends have for him, and starts to resemble a towering, scarred, menacing Blood Knight with the same madness in his eyes as his worst enemies. Stepping away from the brink of destruction is what keeps me loving him as a character - someone troubled and conflicted, innately compassionate even though he’s quick to anger at the faults he perceives in others, yet learning to mature out of his tempestuousness. I am very excited to see these two united again, along with their respective friend groups. They’ve grown up into adults while separated from each other, and while at first they might only recognise their old selves by eye colour alone, I think seeing them as brothers again will be a wonderful cap to their arcs.
The book does a very good job of balancing between interesting heroes, and interesting villains. Garral Wintergaze is of course still a thrill in his every scene. With his petrifying stare, his uncanny ability to predict others, and to gracefully learn from his mistakes to become even deadlier, he remains a very convincing threat. One thing I haven’t mentioned as much though is the character Roshiga - the pine marten slave hunter and second-in-command to Wintergaze. She has been a recurring point-of-view character, and has even gone on to have her own harrowing adventure along with her poisons-and-tracking expert, a tongueless ferret named Ghast. Her Apocalypse-Now-esque journey into a hideous swamp to confront a Marie-Laveau style legendary witch is gripping in its own right. This series has once again put me in the peculiar position of feeling empathy for remorselessly evil characters. I feel like there’s a pulp-fiction quality to them similar to my thoughts on Garral being a dark pulp-adventure wild man. Roshiga the tattooed warrior armed to the teeth with her favourite skinning knives, and Ghast the mute poisoner, with arrows dipped in his special concoctions he makes specially for targets that have earned his displeasure. They definitely deserve their own fandom.
Overall, LotWD: Autumn is as colourful as the season it’s named for. There’s plenty of adventure and action, and plenty of food porn too, of course. If you’re already as attached to the series as I’ve become, it’s bound to please.
The second part of a trilogy is in the most difficult position, since we don’t have the wonder of being first drawn into the story at the beginning, and we also know that the main tension of the story will not be resolved by the end of the book. It’s the awkward Middle Bit, that has to build on what’s come before, introduce new ideas, and set things up for the finale, while also having an interesting arc of its own.
Fortunately for LotWD: Summer, the spectre of Outcast of Redwall is behind us, and the story is free to go into whatever new territory it likes. Er, for the most part. There’s a certain Jacquesian preoccupation with made-up food that just seems obligatory for this sort of adventure story. I can’t help but notice there’s another moral spectrum besides the obvious one between barbaric Flesheater and insect-chomping Forager. It is always okay for the heroes to overeat where and whenever possible, and in fact it’s endearing. It’s also endearing and perhaps even reassuring for these lovable gluttons to be well-fed, chubby, plump, pudgy or even rotund, and it sometimes informs their role as the ‘big guy’ of the group. Plus-size bad guys, however, are always more sinister in their fatness, which they’ve accumulated through selfish greed. Cuter words and euphemisms get replaced with plain, clinical old ‘fat’ and ‘obese’, and the added weight is never flattering. Now it’s all monstrous rolls of flab and face-deforming jowls and chins. This comes up more often than you’d think, but I suppose it’s a realistic consequence of living in a world where there are precious few vices or entertainments to enjoy, in between that whole ‘brutal struggle for mere survival’ thing.
The first quarter or so of the book (it’s a long one) focuses mainly on Summer, who is really Not Doing Okay as a conscripted minion of evil. The grim fortress of Balestone Keep is as much a prison to him as the slaves he now has to guard on pain of death. His whole situation is perfectly designed to deny him any relief whatsoever. The food is either gruel or the meat of sapient beings that he can’t stomach, there is no kinship between him and any other Flesheater to the point nobody knows his name, and he works a miserable night shift ensuring anyone trying to escape is caught and hanged. All he has left is impotent self-hate, vague notions of revenge, and fear of discovery. The Balestone Keep section is essentially where Summer goes to try and kill who he was, in favour of becoming another cold, selfish, conniving fox like all the rest. For a while, I was really wondering where this was going, since the rest of the plot seemed to be moving a lot faster around Summer while he suffered. It really paid off in the end though, with a fantastic release of all the built-up tension, as despite himself, Summer just can’t avoid the fact that he is a fundamentally good person, and saves an escaping slave, Evergreen, from her own murder-suicide. That’s a nice twist against the first book’s question over whether or not he would grow up to be fundamentally evil.
The story has set up something quite clever in order to have its cake and eat it too. We, as the omniscient reader, are privy to information that makes many of Summer’s mistakes far more forgivable than he or anyone else in the story would allow. Let’s be real, the moment he was spotted by the foxes he naively thought would be his friends, they would have tracked him back home and killed everyone he knew and loved no matter what he did. From our perspective, Summer is a naive, angsty teenager that naturally assumes the total crushing weight of guilt for not outsmarting professional military man-trackers who manipulated him into giving away details he didn’t expect to have to keep secret from a hostile army that he didn’t know existed. They got him to agree to an absurd deal in the midst of his excitement at meeting fellow foxes for the first time - a deal he almost immediately realised was awful, and intended to go back on. Nobody in-universe can possibly have the perspective we do though - so now, the story and its characters can have the drama of Summer being a ‘traitor’, whilst avoiding having the reader hate him as such too.
Another clever thing the first half or so of this book does is refuse to give either Summer or Evergreen catharsis for revenge. In another story of this type, the just-desserts served to the personal nemeses of the heroes would be a victory, but here, it’s just sad how little it makes a difference. I think this is a really good way of handling this - the characters are not going to find their problems solved as long as they can kill whoever wronged them. Their hurts are deeper than that.
I am a little disappointed in how the rest of the Flesheaters have been handled, though. For a book series that explicitly had a prior case study of how not to write evil mooks, I thought LotWD would at least make them a bit more interesting. There’s little distinction between weasel, stoat, ferret, jackal, or fox, the way that there is between the Foragers. There are somehow no families in the biggest combined Flesheater pack in history, everyone seems to be a single, celibate adult. I was really surprised we never encountered a Flesheater of Summer's age. The ones we do see are all pathetic and hateful, squabbling and bullying each other over meagre rations, trying to get each other in trouble with their masters, all ambitious yet woefully underachieving. I realise that maybe Balestone Keep is the kind of place that brings out the worst in people, but bear in mind this was our first real introduction as to what passes for a Flesheater society, and it’s just dull and grim. It’s there to serve the story, but it feels sparse compared to the complexities lavished on Forager societies. I’m not asking for every Standard Weasel Guard to monologue his hopes and dreams or anything, but I don’t think it would have stretched an already sprawling epic to at least hint at greater depth, which is really all you need.
If I find the mooks lacking though, the more important antagonists at least keep things lively. Garral Wintergaze is back in top form, soloing an entire siege for style points, and winning three major battles across the book. Once again, I really enjoy what a one-cat terror he is, it feels like absolutely nobody has plot armour against him. I feel like Garral could have been the star of an old pulp fiction story like John Carter of Mars or Conan the Barbarian. He’s almost an Alexander the Great figure in a way - an unbeatable hero to his side, an unstoppable nightmare to all others. If we don’t learn any more about his backstory, we at least get to understand more about what makes him so dangerous. Garral might be strong and fast and unrelenting, but he is also uncannily good at making predictions. From ballistic trajectories to psychology, Garral can almost see your next move before you make it. That’s why he can kill a rival warlord in seconds, but experiences his first failures when his opponents aren't as self-interested as he expects. Compassion doesn’t exist in Garral’s world, though I suspect he can adapt fast to it.
We are introduced to a rogue’s gallery of supporting antagonists in the second half of the book. There’s the dandy smuggler mink Reave and his… twin? Brother? The excruciatingly rhotacism-inflicted Raffity, who work in cahoots with the squirrel Bassouso, a corrupt city mayor. My theory that bureaucrats are the most despicable villains is proven once again! I’m not sure what it is about these three, but there’s a certain over-the-topness to them that makes me think of characters from the Fable video games, not to mention a bit of Monty Python. They’re fun for a bit of variety, though none quite manage to steal the show.
The latter half of the book gets busy, uncomfortably so at times. Some chapters are devoted to hitting all the necessary plot points as quickly as possible to set up what needs to happen. For instance, there’s a scene in which Brookwind meets a fellow badger, an old hero-turned blacksmith called Guhner. In the course of one scene, Guhner gives Brookwind smithing lessons, helps him re-forge his father’s axe, literally throws him an old suit of armour, then gives him sparring lessons, and then has a heart-to-heart about how the Wild affects badgers more than other Foragers. It’s a lot for one night, especially since that leads directly into another battle. Then there’s Chapter 28, in which we get through a siege, an intense one-on-one duel, an assassination, a daring escape, a tense confrontation, and… tea time. I realise Stuff Needs To Happen, but at this rate, even I was feeling out of breath!
As Middle Bits go, LotWD: Summer is entertaining and more-ish, even though I am resigned to the fact that its job the whole time has been working to set up the third book’s epic finale. I do pause to wonder exactly what it is that I am expecting to be resolved by the end. There are many questions about the setting I doubt I’m going to get answers to at all, for instance. The characters ponder the truth of their religious beliefs for instance, but I suspect the origins of sapience in this world will remain a mystery. There are odd loose ends that I’m not sure can be resolved in a way that won’t seem contrived, or an afterthought that over-explains things. For instance, the slave overseer, a fox named Fresk, muses that he’s seen eyes like Summer’s before, on a face he rather found more attractive. An obvious hint that he could be Summer’s biological father, or at least knew his mother if we’re subverting that expectation. Yet the secret seems to have died with him, as he was the last of his former tribe. The point is almost moot, since Summer has not once given a thought to finding his biodad. I’d be curious to see if that was just a tease for the reader, or something more. Then there are mysteries that I don’t really think should be explained, like Garral’s origins. Finally, there are things that seem impossible to change fundamentally. I think the Flesheaters and Foragers are probably doomed to an endless conflict, though I'd find it interesting if an expanded universe or second trilogy explored this in more detail.
My main expectation is that the story’s end will be about the reconciliation between Summer and Brookwind, first and foremost. I’ve read perhaps too much romance to not recognise the trick of making two characters seem almost impossibly opposed to each other, to the point you can’t ever imagine how they could see past their differences, or what’s come between them. I also predict that the author will remember just in time that this whole epic does in fact have a framing device, and is being told in-universe as a story, an idea that seems to have bypassed this book altogether. In any case, I’m looking forward to Book 3: Autumn, for the thrilling conclusion!
(Note: I cannot figure out what the actual publication date of this book is. My Kindle version gives the text as copyright 2020, but published in 2021, the paperback version and Goodreads give two different dates in 2024.)
I was sold Last of the Wild Days: Book One - Spring by the cover artist posting on social media. The cover art rocks, and the book was pitched as ‘if you were into Redwall, you’ll like this’. I was into Redwall. Sort of. Actually, in order to explain this book and my reaction to it, I do have to give a foreword about Redwall.
On Redwall
Redwall is a children’s book series from 1986-2011 written by the late Brian Jacques. In short, it’s about talking anthropomorphic woodland animals having adventures in a fairly loose medieval fantasy setting. It is probably most infamous for the strict black-and-white moral universe it presents. There are ‘good’ creatures like mice, squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, moles, shrews, hares and badgers. These guys are almost always in the moral right, and even if they do something questionable, the story is generally on their side and presents a sympathetic view. There are ‘vermin’ creatures like rats, weasels, stoats, ferrets, foxes and wildcats. These guys are always selfish, greedy and violent. I can probably list on one hand the number of vermin characters that the story treats as good or at least not totally evil. Then there is the less-well-known category of ‘assholes’, antagonistic individuals or factions that either cannot be negotiated with, or can be persuaded to show up to help the good guys at the end climax after all. The final category is ‘monsters’, which are things like giant fish, giant snakes, or hideous genetic aberrations. The bad guys keep these as pets until inevitably getting eaten by them. The plot of a Redwall book is usually driven by conflict following this rigid dynamic between inherently good and evil creatures.
I have an odd relationship to this series. I was introduced to it in the 2000s through internet fan fiction, writing contests and forum-based roleplays, where I wrote about my OCs having adventures in the Redwall universe. So I was a lot more connected to fandom and fan-canon than the actual books. I think the strength of Redwall as a fandom-friendly series is the ambiguity of its setting. So much is left unexplained that it is fun to come up with your own ideas about the setting’s quirks, your own locations, characters, and plots. As for the books themselves, my main criticism is one many fans could recite in their sleep. Brian Jacques had a knack for coming up with cool concepts for villains or premises, but was alway subsequently hamstrung by his adherence to a strict A-plot adventure, B-plot puzzle/mystery formula, stock character archetypes, and recycled tropes. As a result, there’s a lot of wasted potential, interchangeable heroes, and the world remains in a static status quo despite the series’ time frame spanning many generations.
I don’t really want to get in-depth about Redwall beyond these basics, but I did need to at least set up this much, because I feel like Last of the Wild Days is directly intended to be a response to one Redwall book in particular - Outcast of Redwall. This is possibly the most controversial book in the series, thanks to its affirmation of the dualistic species-aligned moral status-quo. As always, my reviews contain spoilers, though if you’ve made it this far in life without reading a children’s book series about mice with swords, you probably aren’t rushing off to buy them now.
Last of the Wild Days: Spring - An Outcast Fix-Fic?
I feel like this book deserves to be reviewed as its own standalone thing, without having Redwall looming over it as the presumed context for its creation. Yet I do need to write this section, because it’s what I was thinking about the whole time reading. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but it does mean I’m going to have to switch a lot between talking about Outcast and Wild Days.
To start, Wild Days is not a children’s book. I think it could be categorised as Young Adult, it has some swearing, and ‘mature themes’, though I think Redwall itself was pretty violent too. The deliberate avoidance of this being a children’s book though makes me feel like it’s already aimed for older fans who always felt let down by Outcast, and would welcome a re-do of the concept, but aimed at their level of maturity now we’re all adults.
We get introduced to the main antagonist early. Garral Wintergaze (his name rocks by the way) is a snow-white wildcat of very few words, and a big appetite. Even though this is once again a setting populated by anthropomorphic man-beast furries, he’s definitely still got a lot of wild animal at heart, and takes every day tooth and nail for survival. The story establishes right off the bat that Garral is one hardcore son of a bitch. He fights wolves and wrestles eagles mid-air just for a snack. We meet a more typical cunning brute of a predator warlord named Vornan, a jackal that’s ruled the land for decades. Garral Wintergaze just fucking eats him. He tears another man-beast his size apart and strips him to chewed bones. That's against the rules even by the standards of the predators, but he doesn't care. Garral Wintergaze is badass.
I can’t help but make the comparison to Redwall’s lineup of antagonists. They are brutish when they are in a position of strength, and cowardly when they see the tables turning. Their motivations are never justified. They are cruel, egotistical, conniving, and like dictators that have been in power too long, both paranoid of overthrow, and convinced of their invincibility. Vornan seemed to fit right in with this model, and that’s who Wintergaze kills and devours without a word or even a fight. It feels to me like the book is working to earn respect for the new villain kid on the block. That old kind of bad guy? Garral Wintergaze eats him for breakfast, in every sense. He isn’t the average thug that backstabbed his way to the top job and now sends incompetent mooks to fail at simple tasks. We’ve seen his journey, even been asked to empathise with him, at least a little, just out of respect for him as a survivor in such a harsh world. This makes Wintergaze incredibly effective as a threat. Score +1 for Wild Days.
It’s time to talk about the most clear and direct parallel with Wild Days and Outcast. Both share a premise - an infant of the traditionally ‘evil’ species is found and raised by the ‘good’ guys, in a world where these harsh, clear cut differences matter very much. Yes, that’s right. We’re doing the Orc Babies dilemma that ended your first D&D campaign.
Wild Days introduces us to Summer, a young fox raised in a family of badgers, in a community that doesn’t fully understand him, and harbors distrust of him due to his species. Though he has loving parents, an unbreakable bond with his brother Brookwind, and a small circle of loyal friends, he constantly feels like an outsider. One outlet of his frustration is, unfortunately, stealing small trinkets or food from others, something which gives him a reputation as a troublemaker. Still, his extraordinary talent with music earns him some measure of attention and respect. His carefree life among the good creatures of Winter’s End is cut short though when his ‘true nature’ as a Flesheater (the name for carnivorous predator species who eat other sapient beings) seems to show through in the heat of a juvenile brawl.
Outcast of Redwall introduces us to Veil, a young ferret raised by a mouse named Bryony in a community that doesn’t bother to understand him, and harbors an expectation that he will just grow up to be evil because of his species. Though he has a loving parent that often comes to his defence, he lacks any other social connections, and as such constantly feels like an outsider. One outlet of his frustration is stealing small trinkets, which gets him in trouble. His tumultuous life among the good creatures of Redwall Abbey is cut short though when he takes things too far in an immature teenage rage, thus revealing his ‘true nature’ as an evil vermin.
The most frustrating thing to me about Outcast was the story itself never seemed to really examine why Veil might be acting out. Veil never makes any friends. Any childish mischief he might cause won’t be treated with the same leniency the rest of the little Abbey terrors are usually afforded. It’s just another sign that he’s a bad egg from the start. Nobody ever encourages him, takes him under their wing, or nurtures him beyond trying to drill obedience into him. If you grew up surrounded by people who only let you live due to some begrudging moral technicality, and they’re just waiting for you to prove them right about how evil you’ll turn out to be, how long would you last before taking it to heart?
Summer feels like the Veil that could have been. Summer is adopted lovingly by his family, not assigned a caretaker by those in charge. He’s not the one weirdo amongst the normal kids - all the youngsters have distinct personalities, virtues and flaws, and have bonded together in a way that makes complete sense. Sure, it sucks that some, but by no means all members of the community seem to distrust him. Yet Summer, obviously, has no deep understanding at this point about what other foxes, or even Flesheaters in general might be like. Here in the safety of his childhood home, where he’s well fed, clothed, loved, praised for his talents, and given second chances when he errs, we can say he’s the one that’s actually raised by the ‘good’ beasts, whereas Veil is the one raised by beasts that just call themselves good.
There’s a scene towards the end of the book where the village’s elder pulls Summer aside to give him a few words of wisdom, and concludes that deep down he has a good heart, and that he must choose his own path. It almost feels like a deliberate opposite to Veil’s treatment, who is all but told to his face he’s bad at heart, and his destiny lies only one way. This doesn’t magically fix all of Summer’s problems of course, which are really only just beginning. But even if Veil and Summer share a similar destiny of woes, Summer gets the fair go that I think we all wish Veil had. Not just because it would make for a more interesting protagonist, but because it would have served Outcast of Redwall much better as a story.
Last of the Wild Days: Spring - By Itself
OKAY FINALLY I GET TO TALK ABOUT THIS BOOK OUTSIDE OF COMPARING IT TO ANOTHER BOOK!
I really enjoyed this story. As established, I really like antagonists that earn the reader’s respect, and I really like a troubled protagonist that earns my empathy. I like all the supporting characters too, they feel like a real found family in a real community. They manage to be lovable without being too saccharine. I am of course a sucker for a world filled with cute anthropomorphic animals, and the worldbuilding beyond that is interesting and well thought out.
I like where this book tries things that are different from my usual expectations for a fantasy adventure story. Even in a world split harshly between Flesheater and Forager, the setting isn’t governed by a metaphysical dualism between good and evil. Rats are treated as outsiders in the best of circumstances, and their affinity with learning and technology make me wonder if a little bit of the Rats of NIMH made it into their DNA. There’s no love between the carnivorous species, and the harshness of the environment itself seems to have stripped away all but the most self-centred and brutal survivors. On the other hand, the multi-species community of Winter’s End is explicitly a rare exception to the rule that even the ‘good’ species usually stick to their own kind outside of trading. It feels like the societies in this world operate on a coherent hierarchy of interests.
I enjoy the thought put into how things are made. Cute little mouse-sized cottages and celebratory feasts don’t just spring into existence, the book does a good job of showing how much hard work goes into creating a settlement from scratch, and gives us respect for what the older generation had to do to raise the younger in peace and security. It’s even a fraught adventure just for something as simple as Summer finding a new reed to make into a flute. You get the sense of the scale of the world and how, in a time and place far removed from our dominance over our own planet, there is danger around every corner, and our heroes only have each other to protect themselves.
I am not entirely certain I understand fully yet the logistics of the Flesheaters. You could make a comparison to real world history, viewing the Flesheaters as a semi-nomadic horde that sweeps in every now and then to kill and rob from agrarian settlements, but this comparison ends when you realise that each member of the tribe needs, or at least really wants to eat the meat of their victims, presumably every day. This would work if there were few predators and many prey, but both sides of the equation seem to have roughly human-sized families.
It’s also unclear if any of the Flesheaters are actually obligate carnivores. Summer is omnivorous as a fox, which is true to life, but I missed it, if it was established whether the felids and mustelids of the setting follow the biology of their real-life counterparts. I’m happy to put a pin in this thought and see if it gets resolved though, because the book does imply there’s more here than meets the eye. There is a condition called the ‘Wild’ that draws the creature in question back to its pre-sentient roots, where all recognisable sapient thought is replaced with blank animalistic aggression. The thing is though, even if the Flesheaters can’t help but enter a state of mad frenzy, this is clearly something they revel in, making it difficult to determine whether their behaviour is a biological necessity, or a deeply-ingrained facet of their cultures. To complicate matters even further, there are true non-sapient, non-anthropomorphic animals in this setting, which tend to be like Titans - enormous and incomprehensible. Even if certain Flesheaters must consume meat, there is arguably a more 'ethical' option.
The book ends with all the hooks needed to pull me instantly to the next. This epic is only just getting started, and I’m very excited to see what’s next.
A grumpy knight-turned-bandit and a peasant-girl-turned-saint (or witch) journey through plague-struck war-torn mid-14th century France as Hell itself invades in a final war against Heaven and its angels, and a seemingly absent God. Imagine the Hound from Game of Thrones and Joan of Arc teaming up in Diablo and you have something like this book.
There is so much to appreciate in this book. The writing is engaging, keeping a balance between vivid descriptions of bringing the world to life, utterly thrilling and terrifying action, visceral and psychologically haunting horror, and very thoughtful in its interpretations of medieval Christian faith, forgiveness, damnation, and the end times.
I am actually struggling to go into detail simply because I think anyone reading this who hasn’t read it, and is even vaguely interested in the premise, should go read it. Please do, as I will proceed with discussing spoilers from here on.
What really stood out to me of course were the supernatural elements of the book, some of which make me wonder how much research the author did into occult texts or medieval ideas about magic, or demons. There is, for example, a scene in which the characters come across a beautiful castle, filled with happy people, having an elaborate feast. As the night progresses though, the food becomes more grotesquely decadent, the manners of the people more coarse, and the entertainment more lascivious. Once the characters escape, they find themselves alone in an empty field, uncertain if it was all a dream. The book uses this uncertainty quite effectively at points, making it feel like the books’ demonic antagonists are breaking down the order of reality itself.
I was fascinated by this scene, because it seemed to be replicating almost exactly a couple of spells from CLM 849, otherwise known as the Munich Manual of Demonic Magic, or the Munich Necromancer’s Manual. This 15th century unique manuscript of medieval ‘necromancy’ (a catch-all term at this time for sinister magic) describes methods by which the necromancer may conjure up an illusory castle, complete with men-at-arms, as well as sumptuous feasts, all of which will eventually disappear and leave the victims of the illusion standing in an empty field, utterly bewildered, hungry, and alone. This manual has been presented with a partial English translation in Richard Kieckhefer’s excellent 1998 book Forbidden Rites (complete with scanned plates and a full Latin transcription), for those further interested.
Other supernatural elements of the book are simply awe-inspiring. There is a fantastic build-up from the mundane medieval world of brutish brigands, drunk priests, starving peasants and sneering lords, which only escalates into mob violence, flagellating fanatics, monsters in the deep waters, demons whispering in the dark and knocking on the door, and a truly thrilling battle between the worst Hell has to offer, and one outnumbered angel. The pacing and gaining momentum really bring across the growing urgencyand raising of the stakes for the characters, and humanity itself.
The religious elements of the book are really well done, too. The manner in which demons tempt, threaten, and insinuate themselves into the desires, insecurities and fears of their victims feels very believable, and avoids horror tropes that otherwise might have caused eye-rolling. In contrast, the angels subtly try to influence events, and give guidance that the characters sometimes choose not to obey. The way in which the characters are confronted not with petty ‘sins’ like swearing or homosexuality, but with the true, deep hurts in their souls they need to overcome, just feels so thoughtful and well-executed. This book doesn’t ‘preach’ to the reader, but it has very strong Christian ideas about redemption. I have always found C.S. Lewis a bit too heavy-handed in his approach to this (see Narnia and the Screwtape Letters), but it feels like there are similar sentiments here.
It’s an odd way I found the name Laurens van der Post. I was reading Charles Moore’s authorised biography of Margaret Thatcher, and he was mentioned in passing as a charismatic, eccentric author who somehow charmed his way into being an unofficial informant and advisor to the British government on South Africa in the 1980s. More to the point, he wrote some novels that, at the very least seem to have been well-acclaimed at the time, though I get the impression they’re obscure outside South Africa today. Naturally, I was curious.
It is hard to stick to the rule of not doing research for writing these reviews. I try to review books based on my own personal experience of them, without trying to contextualise them with their own history, or with an opinion on the author personally, or anything else that detracts from the important question - is it a good story or not. The trouble is, I already have some background knowledge, and some pretty strong opinions on the context of this book and its author. Suffice it to say, I will be trying my best to view the story as just that - a story.
That in mind, A Story Like the Wind drew me into its world in a remarkable way. The descriptive writing is simply beautiful, and sets my imagination running wild. It’s set around the mid-20th century, in a very remote part of what I think would now be modern Botswana. It follows a young protagonist, a boy of around thirteen, named Francois (or Coiske as a pet name, pronounced ‘Swaskee’), as he experiences some critical turning points in leaving childhood and innocence behind. Honestly, the coming-of-age themes of the book to me are the most predictable of stock, and aren’t terribly important or novel in themselves. What’s more important is how the story is told.
The world of Hunter’s Drift, the farmstead where Francois, his family, servants and a local Matabele tribe live, is a riot of colourful personalities, secret adventures, and distinct cultures from Francois’ Afrikaner family of Huguenot extraction, the Matabele and their fatherly king, ‘Bamuthi, the ‘Bushman’ (San, I think in modern language) Xhabbo, and outsiders like the British, Cape Coloured wagon teams, and so on. Even the animals feel like a separate group of tribes, with individual personalities and leaders. The characters are all very distinct and lively, from the fussy cook Ousie-Johanna, to the calm and purposeful family friend, Mopani. You can’t help begin to like everyone you meet, and in a strange way, you do feel like you’re meeting these characters, or at least like you’ve known people like them.
I think my favourite parts of the book relate to the customs and beliefs amongst ‘Bamuthi’s people. There are moments, like ‘Bamuthi explaining the names of his weapons, or the journey to see a sorcerer who lives a few days away, that strangely evoke some new Arthurian legend in the wilderness of Africa, with the spear u-Simsela-Banta-Bami (He-Digs-Up-For-My-Children) standing in for the sword Excalibur. Francois is in a curious position in all this. He has ‘Bamuthi as a father figure (alongside his own father), is fluent in multiple languages including that of the San, raised to know and understand the beliefs and customs of the Matabele, and deep down really believes in magic. Yet this is all at odds with the rationalist colonial world in the far-off cities to the South, where the tribe of people to which Francois ostensibly belongs would sneer at a boy believing in ‘paganism’. Knowing the historical context of enforced racial segregation in this part of the world, even at 13 years old, Francois is becoming a relic of different times.
The book ends a bit in medias res, as the author was obviously already intending that the story continue in its sequel, A Far Off Place. It’s a grim ending, or at least a grim major turning point in a longer story, so it bears a moment’s thought, which I’ll put in spoilers. Suffice to say, I pretty much feel obliged to read the sequel, though I suspect I won’t enjoy it as much, simply because the story’s focus will necessarily have to move away from the exploration and interplay of cultures. Still, the author has a talent for making you feel like you’re journeying alongside the characters and experiencing some very special moments, and that you’re lucky to be there. However you might feel about the greater context of serious social and political issues, it’s really the vividness of the story’s world and characters that make it worth reading.
In short, armed militias funded, equipped and trained by the communist Chinese to be ideological death squads arrive and murder everyone, including all established characters, except for Francois, Luciana and Xhabbo, though Mopani’s fate is ambiguous by the end as to whether his home was also attacked, and if he escaped. We get enough snippets of speech from the communists and their sympathisers to understand they see the world only in black-and-white. There are only innocent and oppressed ‘black’ people (never mind their different ethnicities or actually asking them what they want or feel), and there are only evil, oppressor ‘white’ settlers (not even worth considering people). The communists erase all differences and nuances in a hail of bullets, and all the interesting little complexities are paved over by monolithic, unswerving, totalitarian communist dogma.
I understand the historical context for this, particularly in regards to the Rhodesian Bush War, which I think will be where the characters are traveling in the next book(?). It’s a harsh ending, but I think it is an effectively made point. The world of 20th century colonial South Africa was not idyllic, and I think the book makes it clear that, as wonderful an upbringing as Francois had up to that point, colonialism and the prejudiced perspective that Europeans had to teach and ‘civilise’ the African peoples into being grateful second-class subjects was causing serious harm to all, and symbolically results in the death of Francois’ father. It’s this flawed and deteriorating situation that gives rise to the worst kinds of extremism, which ultimately destroys the old order forever. In its place comes a new, totalitarian imperialism, which uses African people as pawns in the global ideological war.
I love finding old personal websites. The kind of thing that looks like it was written in basic HTML some time before Y2K. Something like ‘Ted R. Blasingame’s Fictional Life’, which is a charmingly simple gallery of the author’s stories, a few fan-fictions set in his worlds, and a gallery of fan art of his furry characters. Of particular interest to me was this creator’s decision to upload his novels as free e-books. Since I’m in the market for science fiction and furries, I was curious to see what was on offer.
Though I get the impression that his ‘Blue Horizon’ series is the longer-running, more famous of his works in furry fandom, I decided to read the first in his ‘Furmankind’ series, Sunset of Furmankind. It has a solid premise; convicted murderer and fur-hater Brian Bennett is given the choice of a messy execution, or be turned into the very mirror image of the furry man he killed, and work off his debt to society as a space colonist. A classic baleful polymorph redemption arc, I assumed.
The website states that the author could not get his furry works published due to a lack of interest, and given what I’ve learned about the publishing industry (and given the books of questionable quality I’ve seen published), I resolved to judge it purely by its writing. Though I shall try not to be overly harsh, since this guy did give us his books for free.
I liked Sunset of Furmankind, though as I got deeper into it, unfortunately I felt like there came a point when the plot totally collapsed. I was genuinely interested in its ideas, and getting kind of invested in the characters. But I’ve identified three distinct timelines competing for space in the same story, and I think it needs to pick just one.
The worldbuilding starts optimistically. Though changing humans into furries has a grim past of unethical experimentation on prisoners, these days, it is a voluntary process undergone by intrepid explorers and pioneers. They change themselves to be more adapted and ready to take on a challenging life, setting up new colonies for humanity on distant earth-like worlds. It’s explained that after the initial teething problems, furs have equal human rights to anyone else, and are protected as human citizens. I’ll call this the Noblebright Timeline.
As the story progresses though, the cracks start to appear. The Colorado correctional system keeps a deranged fur on hand to perform brutal executions. Unstable and sexually predatory men are virtually let loose on the women, and the best the administration can do is give a shrug. Mysterious clauses about the fur characters having to be microchipped turn up unexpectedly, taking even those that carefully read the paperwork by surprise. Life on the colonies starts sounding less like a noble enterprise and more like hazardous drudgery to be performed by expendable people. Most of the characters we’re familiar with turn out not to be here as respectable scientists or skilled explorers, but as a group of, sorry to say it, losers, who ‘volunteered’ at a time in their lives where they felt they had virtually no other choice. This is the Noir Timeline.
The next revelation comes like a bombshell to the reader, though the characters hardly seem to react to it at all. A fur dies during the training program, and his remains are cremated, regardless of his or his family’s wishes, because his body is company property. That’s right, the contract actually stated that once the ‘volunteers’ begin the transformation process, they sign themselves over to the company as chattel slaves. They have to go work in a hazardous job, which few survive, for 5 years to claim the ‘reward’ of a bunch of funny money that’s only used in the no doubt rudimentary economies of colony worlds. Virtually no ‘veteran’ fur of this process ever makes it back to Earth, but if they do, they still work for the company. Most of them are reminded on occasion that once they leave Earth, they may never see another human face again. They don’t even make the colonies for themselves, they get shunted off so the ‘real’ human colonists can now live on a planet made habitable by a bunch of never-to-be-seen-by-the-public furry slaves. So much for those human rights for furs. This is the Grimdark Timeline.
Any of these timelines would actually be interesting to read about, on its own. I don’t mind the Grimdark Timeline, as long as the author made it interesting, and kept it consistent. My preference honestly was the Noir Timeline, because I thought it was interesting how there was this cracked facade of supposed noble furry explorers with higher aspirations masking the truth, that they are a bunch of society’s rejects that are humanity’s desperate bid to escape an overcrowded and dying planet.
I have a couple of theories as to what happened here. Either the author was making this up entirely as he was going along, and just kept adding new ideas for the world without looking back at how they affected what had been previously established. Or, the author originally wanted the story to be about what we’re told in the backstory - prisoners being turned into furries to go be a kind of interstellar Suicide Squad. That would explain the weird disconnect in the story between the supposed ‘voluntary’ nature of the program, but the at-times harsher actions of the staff to their furry charges, and the overall power imbalance. So what we’re seeing might be a retcon of an earlier draft that doesn’t quite disguise the original premise. I know the author did at one point accidentally refer to Brian as ‘Jon’ about a chapter before his new name was supposed to be revealed, so I’m guessing he at least did go over his previous chapters and change things. My third theory is that this is intended, and the characters are being gaslit as the transformation process, which sounded so attractive at the start, affects their minds as much as Jon originally feared. This is just speculation on my part though.
Unfortunately, the Grimdark Timeline seems to have caused the original premise of the story, that is a man overcoming his anti-fur prejudices, to logically collapse. See, the story is supposed to be about Jon (formerly Brian), a human-turned-mountain-lion who has to learn to overcome his anti-fur prejudices now he’s being forced to be one. Except the whole slavery thing completely undermines the supposed accepting, progressive attitude of the company staff and their disapproval of regular citizens who distrust or dislike furs. This would have made sense in the Noblebright timeline, when furs were just misunderstood people who had made a big sacrifice to help humanity. Now they’re just company property. Who cares if people are prejudiced or intolerant of literal slave races? They signed away their freedom, humanity, their lives on Earth, and are now destined to a vicious death on a savage world countless light years away. Even if they do survive, they will never be seen by another human again, let alone return to Earth. Is it any wonder people aren’t interested in seeing furs as people equal to them?
The story continues immediately into the next book in the series, Lost in the Wilderness. Unfortunately, I feel like the more we learn about the world and the status of the furs, the less it seems to gel with the initial premise. The story had begun with the discovery that the main character’s fiance was cheating on him with a fur, but the restrictive lifestyle and secrecy we keep learning about seems totally at odds with this. It’s a highly guarded secret where furs are transformed, and how. Furs are kept virtually imprisoned, or at least shuffled around company facilities, when they’re not being permanently exiled from the planet altogether. Regular people living just a few miles away from said facilities aren’t even aware of them. How the hell did Jon’s fiance even meet a fur, let alone date him in secret? In Colorado? There’s only 4 company facilities in the world, and the US one is in New York state. This is eventually addressed as the fur in question, Henry Parker, having been selected to go on a kind of public goodwill tour across the United States, but this comes across as a hasty attempt to patch up the inconsistency.
Lost in the Wilderness then doubles down on the logical collapse. There is a moment where the director explicitly says the furs are not ‘slaves’, but also explicitly says they are company property, have a lifetime contract with the company, and are not allowed to quit and work for someone else. I had to just stop reading the story for a while, because it’s really hard to get past this when it feels like the author himself is desperately trying to fight off his own worldbuilding. The newest threat to the furs is a sinister billionaire who wants to either buy them as exotic pets, or get ahold of the fur transformation process himself to create his own race of slaves! You know, a problem that wouldn’t exist if the initial premise that furs have full and equal human rights was ever mentioned again. I honestly feel like the company’s decision to make the whole thing secretive and proprietary is what’s led to the exoticisation and exploitation of furs in the first place. Which would be interesting and a neat twist in the plot, if I thought that the author was doing this on purpose. Which I don’t. So it’s not.
Lost in the Wilderness ends at a more convenient point than Sunset of Furmankind did, with our protagonists now finally landed on their new world, with all the challenges of colonisation ahead. For some reason, humanity has taken the ‘Oregon Trail’ approach to the building of entire planetary civilisations, and instead of sending the colonists with any kind of of advanced automated manufacturing capabilities, so they can quick get resource extraction and power generation underway, they’re sent with actual horses and wagons. I’m… really not sure at this point what this colony of 30 or so people being reduced to Amish levels of technology is meant to accomplish in order to establish a foothold to relieve the overcrowding of Earth, since presumably we would want a colony ready to accept the arrival of millions of immigrants as soon as possible. I think there was some attempt at making this sound logical, in that any technology that was sent to the world couldn’t be easily fixed or replaced, but… my dude, why on earth would you think horses are a better option? You know, those animals that are very prone to getting sick, injured, or getting spooked and running off, etc?
Despite the lack of sense I find with this plot, I’m honestly still able to say it’s an enjoyable story. The gender and sexuality dynamics are kind of bizarre to me, reading this in an age where over-enthusiastic flirtatious behaviour is firmly discouraged. Men routinely ogle women, cop feels, and make suggestive comments. The women are hardly any better, deliberately provoking, teasing and being physically assertive themselves in casual lewd behaviour, from giving deep, French kisses as surprise Christmas gifts, to stealing men’s clothes while they’re swimming. The narrator, interestingly enough, seems not to take sides at all, neither seeming to approve nor condemn when characters overstep (what are current as of 2024) moral expectations. At first it comes across as quaint and dated, but the more I think about it, the more ‘realistic’ it feels. There is no fear of portraying men and women as they are, and no intrusion by the author to make moral judgments. It’s simply a different country, and the reader is invited to see how they do things there.
There may be some irony in my decision to stop after 2 books to write this review. Since the story’s moved away from Earth, the issues I have with the worldbuilding there may now be, for the most part, irrelevant going forward. I am not opposed to picking up this series again, as there are two books to go, which were both written in 2014. I've certainly found it fascinating enough to pick apart in this review, which means I at least still do care about what happens to the characters. I think ultimately, it's the emotional core of Furmankind that carries it past all the gripes I have with it. The author does a fantastic job of connecting the reader to relatable frustrations, fears, and hopes. You don't have to self-insert as Jon, nor even really like him as a person, but when he's facing trouble, it certainly feels like you're facing it with him. There's a strong story here, and the ideas it raises, even if imperfectly, are certainly interesting to consider.
I was genuinely surprised, going back to look for the publication date, than Scars of the Golden Dancer was published in 2022. I had actually forgotten I’d first come across the title when it was nominated for, but didn’t win Best Novel for the 2022 Ursa Major awards. I take the Ursa Majors’ ability to identify quality works with a pinch of salt, of course, it’s literally just a popularity contest after all. Still, having forgotten how I came across it, I finished the book thinking this must have been written in 2002 instead of 2022.
Scars of the Golden Dancer feels like it inherited some DNA from that 2000s era gay furry discover-your-true-self genre of novels, by which I mean ‘the literary works of Kyell Gold’. Despite the exoticness of the setting, the thematic points are familiar - young gay man from a rural backwater adventures to the big city to find a new, accepting home and surrogate family, while working out if he’s really in love for the first time. Sweet and simple, and played extraordinarily straight, pardon the pun.
I think that’s probably why I didn’t find myself entirely being drawn into this world. The descriptions and locations are picturesque, particularly the elaborate and luxurious Blue Door (a kind of hotel, bath house, club and refuge for gay men all in one), but it just comes across as flavouring to me. It’s not overly important that the setting has a medieval Arabic theme. The terminology and architecture all seems well-researched, but there’s this undercurrent of clean modernity to the attitudes and behaviours of minor characters that makes me feel like I’m about notice out of the corner of my eye that I’m actually standing in a very well-crafted theme park. I felt like if I replaced the characters with humans, and the towns with rural or metropolitan locations in the current day United States, the story wouldn’t have to change much at all. It seems almost entirely inconsequential whether one’s species is hyena, jackal, leopard, or wolf, and just comes across as entirely an aesthetic choice.
The structure of it is a bit odd to me. Much of the book seems quiet, descriptive, and contemplative about the internal life of the characters. Then it takes an unexpected turn into some high-tension dramatic action.
Naji, a hyena mercenary, is captured by his enemies, and it’s up to his friend-turning-lover Zayn, a jackal sword-dancer, to use his own set of skills to find and rescue him. It’s the moment for Zayn to take control in his life and make a risky decision, rather than being passively guided, or forced by necessity. After this, the book then falls back into a quiet lull. The tension only starts to rise again at the very end, but there is something unexpectedly anti-climactic about it. An attack is carried out against Naji’s employers, but neither Naji nor Zayn are directly in a fight. Imprisonment and investigation follows, but they’re all essentially let off with a warning. The mysterious scheme behind the shady job Naji had accepted is ultimately unimportant to the main characters, who have no direct stake in the business. The final confrontation with the book’s main antagonist, Rigel, comes down to an ambiguous truce, rather than feeling like the conflict is ultimately resolved. We seem to leave the characters able to acknowledge their emotional baggage, but the loose ends don’t quite feel tied up.
What was really odd about the structure?
This gives me the sense that the book is somewhere between being a slice-of-life and a fantasy adventure-romance. It’s too broad in scope to really fit in the slice-of-life genre proper, but it’s lack of clear resolution seems to at least tempt a sequel at the very least. The author mentions in an afterword that it was the product of 11 years of off-and-on work though, so it seems unlikely that such a sequel is quickly following on its heels. It’s decent if you’d like to read a fairly straightforward, sweet romance with a pretty backdrop. I feel like it had the potential to do more, though.
It doesn’t affect my opinion, particularly as I only confirmed it by accident after finishing the book, but I have discovered that there is an account by the same title on FurAffinity where art of the characters has been uploaded. I’d seen it in passing years ago, so the weird mystery of feeling like I recognised the descriptions of some of the characters is solved. Anyway. Several unmarked spoilers ahead, I couldn’t really get them all into a hidden paragraph.
The title is not encouraging. I learned enough Latin in school to not feel particularly impressed when it’s used to make something sound ominous or important. I suppose it’s a clever double-meaning though, since ‘imperium’ moreso means ‘power’ than literally ‘empire’, and although the story is set in the midst of a wolf empire, it is also a story about the magical power of the wolves. Er, and also the fact that everything in this world is powered by substances called ‘imperium’, so there’s that too. Still, there’s no escaping the fact that the author named a character ‘Adal Weiss’. Or that the unethical doctor experimenting on people is named Josef. Yes, author, I too enjoy learning about such obscure historical topics as ‘the Nazis’.
Okay okay, these are nitpicks, but the title really did have me squinting at some of naming choices. I was more optimistic about the magitech/steampunk setting, and it has some fun ideas to explore. The world of… sigh… Erde is resourced by a rainbow of coloured substances called ‘imperium’, which can act as a power source, or frequently, a weapon. There are special people (the world being populated by anthro animals of many types) that can harness imperium in their own bodies, which gives them super powers, such as having giant, lovingly described muscles, channeling energy to blast opponents away, a bit of telekinesis, and a few other tricks thrown in. Naturally, these people make up a special class of elite knights/police/sorcerers in their respective societies. Since we’re focused on wolf society, the members of this group are called ‘Howlers’.
There’s a few times in the book where characters wonder if it was worth creating an industrialised civilisation with the power of imperium, because it has a downside. The ash it generates is creating an environmental disaster zone called the Ashfall, and imperium-users end up with magic cancer, leading to hideous bouts of pain, decay, and an early death. It’s a close match for coal, or at least any polluting fossil fuel, something that launches not just new technologies, but new social developments that make the old order untenable. I don’t really mind environmental messaging like this, I did grow up on far more anvil-to-the-head kind of pro-environment stories, after all.
The characters are where it gets a bit tricky for me. I just… didn’t like them as much as I would have liked to like them. It’s hard to describe the problem without giving an example, so I’ll start with one of the main protagonists, Rufus. Rufus is not just a good cop, but he’s also an enlightened scientist, a racial justice advocate, and a brilliant visionary who could find a cure for the rot of imperium, if only his stodgy superiors would let him go explore the ancient ruins. He’s also hospitalised by the end of his introductory chapter, so we rely on learning more about him by reputation for a while.
This is when we are informed of one of his flaws. Rufus, while married to a female wolf named Janoah, has left a very public trail of male lovers in his wake, and he has trouble controlling his passions. This feels weirdly at odds with the character we see, who seems nothing more than harmlessly eccentric, intelligent, and considerate of others. Every other character seems to regard him as some kind of chronic (and deviant) heartbreaker, yet the most passion we actually witness from him is a kind of reserved fondness for a few other male characters. We hardly ever even see him in the same scene with any of his former lovers.
Speaking of passion as an aside, I feel like the horniest character in this book by far was the narrator. The bodies of the male protagonists are described with lavish attention, emphasising their musculature and size, and how well their attire shows off their figures. I genuinely forgot if I had picked up a gay romance book, given several early passages of text that seemed to tease the beginnings of romantic attractions. But for all the obvious setup, that the majority of characters are young, attractive men working in close partnership with each other… it never comes to pass. There’s a lot of talk about sex, a few fond pats here and there, but there’s only two plot-relevant explicit romantic couplings in the book, and both are a straight pairing. To be clear, I’m not saying the author had to pair anyone, I just think it’s strange the book goes to all the trouble to make about half the male characters gay or bi, but only hint at actual relationships. I don’t even think the allegedly lecherous Rufus gets so much as a kiss in. I can speculate endlessly as to what happened here.
Back to Rufus, once he returns to the story, he proves to be brave, resourceful, humorous, forgiving and empathetic. His flaws, that is being adulterous and lustful, come across more and more as just informed attributes. They’re something other characters can take jabs at, but they never seem to hold him back. There’s nothing his personal charisma doesn’t achieve as a result of these flaws. He never makes a bad pass, and never encounters more than casual sneering at his homosexuality or supposed promiscuity. There’s just not much character development for him.
Each of the book’s many protagonists has trouble establishing a real emotional connection with me. Uther is an abrasive thuggish brute, and has a tendency to pull lone wolf (ha) stunts that get him into trouble. He’s never very likable to me, coming across as not much more than a thickheaded beat cop. He was abused as a youth, but he never moves forward from that. I feel like maybe he was meant to be a jerk with a heart of gold, since he ‘looks after’ a couple of kindly prostitutes, but ultimately he plays a role of exacting revenge based on his hatred, rather than developing his character beyond that angst.
Linus is awkward, naive and nerdy, with a strong sense of duty and fairness. His arc never quite breaks out of the role of the hapless minion, always last to know, always following the rulebook and too afraid of his bullying superiors to do the right thing. It almost happens… but in the end, he’s in a position to be the hero because he followed the orders of someone with a better understanding of what’s going on. He on occasion breaks the rules to save those he cares about, but he’s always found out, chastised, and put back in his place.
Bruno is a sweet, if dull-witted teenager who is thrust into the position of becoming an overpowered steampunk Robocop (strangely it’s another character that gets to do the ‘stay out of trouble’ reference…). However, he has almost zero agency, and functions as a hard-hitting pawn of characters with higher authority. He’s the most sympathetic character, and his puppyish stumbling towards a romantic relationship is the most heartfelt this book gets. I’d say he’s the most likable, but his mental simplicity and frequent absences from the plot mean he can’t carry the book himself.
These aren’t the only characters that might qualify as protagonists, but they are the best candidates. There are, it has to be said, a lot of characters, and many of them are certainly intended to be hated. The squabbling politics over which overbearing bully in charge has authority over who, who’s allowed to arrest who, and who can come up with the nastiest threats, punishments or tortures creates the sense that there’s only a few good people, desperately trying to cling to their principles and even their identities, in a vastly unfair, corrupt and broken system. I think this might fail to generate that much sympathy though, since a lot of our protagonists seem to be fighting for the status quo, or at most taking a timid, mildly controversial position of ‘maybe the little beasts are people too’.
I have to mention a particular pet peeve of mine. In my life, I have read far more torture scenes than I should have to, and I rarely find them to be well-written or compelling. They have a tendency to become really tropey and cliche. The interrogator usually adopts one of a limited few stock personas and routine. There’s really no form of causing pain or mutilation I’m not familiar with, so there’s no shock value. This story includes a lot of torture scenes, and I feel like they provide diminishing returns the more they come up. If it’s meant to spook me, I think far more can be accomplished with the old horror wisdom of leaving it mostly to the reader’s imagination, rather than trying to go into gruesome detail.
Moving on to the hyena antagonists of the story, the author treats them with such sympathy that you’re almost tempted to root for them until you’re emphatically reminded that Terrorism Is Bad. I get the feeling the author was trying to negotiate some very choppy waters here. The hyenas have to be mostly innocent of the cultural evils of the wolves, but to avoid falling entirely into the Noble Savage trope, the author has to counter this by showing the hyenas have prejudiced attitudes too, and could become like the wolves if they gained supremacy. The hyenas need a very good reason (even if it falls short of justification) for engaging in terrorism, and given how topical this subject always is, nothing less than systematic genocide will do. Even so, bombing civilians is still beyond the moral event horizon, so the author’s answer is that swaying public opinion is the best hope the hyenas have. This is… oddly idealistic, considering the heretofore enthusiasm for a morally shades-of-dark-grey setting. I feel like it’s still okay to kill death camp guards, you know? Like I’d be hard pressed to tell someone being starved to death, ‘hey, don’t fight back against these guys lining your children up for the firing squad, think of the optics!’
Perhaps the easier moral quandary the hyenas face is whether to reject modernity or not. I think this point was a good way of showing the youth and naivety of the hyena leaders, like the charismatic and thoughtful Nurka, who imagines that his people can just go back to being nomadic with no imperium-fuelled technology, once the oppression of the wolves is defeated. Clearly there is no real going back. Now that the technology exists, someone will exploit it. In the end, the hyenas will have to take their place among the other nations, rather than hide from a rapidly changing world. Or at least this all would have been a good quandary for the antagonists… except right at the climax it was revealed to have been someone else’s plan that they were obediently following all along. I didn’t really like this ‘twist’ to be honest, it just seemed to kill the sense that Nurka and his cohort actually had agency and thoughts of their own.
This has been a long enough ramble about Imperium Lupi, and I feel like I haven’t covered the half of it. Though I’ve complained about the difficulty of liking the characters, I admit I was at least still invested in them for the most part. I kept reading. The book is fairly long, and it feels like some scenes can get a bit drawn out, but I was never bored of it. There’s a lot of action and tense combat scenes that did a good job of keeping me guessing. I felt at points that it jumped between too many perspectives too much, but when it did hit a stride and stuck to one or two perspectives, I found myself being drawn in. Its occasional sense of humour did sometimes make me laugh. It feels somewhat contradictory to me that I can recognise so much about it that was objectively well done, yet I still come away feeling like I had more problems with it than praises.
I think therefore the fairest thing to say is, it was not exactly my kind of story, but it’s still worthy of consideration. It’s leagues better than some other published works I’ve had the misfortune to read recently, that’s for sure. It tackles some very difficult ideas, and the world it creates can be quite compelling. And look, it has big muscly wolf and hyena men in it. It’s worth a read at least once.
I have certain expectations and misgivings about sci-fi and fantasy book sequels, especially ones that are written some years after what was clearly meant to be the end of the series. The gap doesn’t even have to be that egregious for me to start worrying, with Chanur’s Legacy publishing in 1992, some 6 years after Chanur’s Homecoming. Arthur C. Clarke only went back to write Rama II after 16 years! But even in a few years, authors can lose interest in their old ideas, forget or lazily retcon details, or, as I speculate in a few cases, become influenced to change things to suit someone else’s tastes. I have to question why, having decided the series was done, an author decides to pick it up again years later. The last thing I want is to feel like an author’s desperately trying to squeeze the last few drops out of an idea that’s spent.
So I admit a certain wariness when picking up Chanur’s Legacy, which promised to be ‘A BOLD NEW NOVEL OF THE NEXT GENERATION IN THE CHANUR CLAN.’ Thankfully it remains true to its word, and for the most part, Captain Pyanfar and the crew of the Pride of Chanur have been safely shipped off to doing Important Things Somewhere Else. I really dislike sequels that start with the hero having nothing to do but complain how old, fat and adventureless they are now. Instead we are following the adventures of Hilfy, Pyanfar’s niece and former Pride crewwoman, who has now been promoted to captain of the titular space-freighter Chanur’s Legacy.
This book has all the familiar structural elements of a Chanur story. Instead of primarily dealing with scheming kif, we’re learning about the scheming stsho, who have a whole other flavour of alienness. Language barriers and the nuances of communication once again play a big role. In that regard, the book is on top form, introducing us to new aspects of the setting that we’ve only had passing glimpses of before. The stsho method of conversation is almost hypnotic in its circumlocutions. We also get a peek inside some of the actual work a merchant spaceship does, when it’s not busy saving the universe. I really enjoyed the tangents the story would take to explain the way the markets run, or even something as simple as a character exploring the on-station bazaar. That kind of slice-of-life writing really appeals to me and makes the setting feel a lot livelier. Without it, you’d think nothing exists beyond shipping vague ‘cargo’ in between space stations empty of anyone beyond other spaceship crews. So, much appreciated that it feels more like actual people do exist, and have lives in the greater part of the setting beyond our limited view.
The plot is, however, pretty much a retread of the first book. Instead of a mysterious alien (a human) making its way onto the hero’s spaceship, Hilfy ends up taking on board a literal MacGuffin, an object that has no importance other than the fact that it drives the plot and everyone thinks it’s important. Once again, all the different species and factions of the Compact are becoming uncomfortably interested in this MacGuffin, and it’s up to our brave and resourceful crew to solve its mystery and try to come out on top. There’s another spy of the mahendo’sat, there’s another menacingly affable kif, and instead of the cultural clash of a human male among an all-female hani crew, there’s Hallan Meras, a male hani who Just Wants to Belong and become a real spacer.
Unfortunately, being this much of a redo leads to some unfavourable comparisons. Haisi, our mahe agent, like Goldtooth and Jik before him, is an ace pilot of a hunter-ship posing as a freighter. But Haisi’s manipulations and schemes are clumsier than Goldtooth’s and Jik’s. He spends most of the book failing to befriend or even ingratiate himself with Hilfy in even the most shallow degree, and then sulking about how his plans aren’t working out. The stsho characters are openly racist and demand everything and everyone conform to their culture and etiquette, while never really seeming to make any attempt at understanding anyone else in return.
That was the interesting thing about Sikkukkut, the antagonist of the previous series; he wasn’t just an evil alien that had no concept of friendship, an obstacle made in order for Pyanfar to learn how to think like a kif. Sikkukkut was very much trying to get into Pyanfar’s head as well, so that he could learn how to think like a hani. This led to a very funny exchange where both Pyanfar and Sikkukkut expressed how uncomfortable they were with using the word ‘friend’, since neither could be entirely sure what the other meant by it. In contrast, our resident stsho, Tlisi-tlas-tin, hardly ever feels like he’s thinking about what the hani characters are thinking.
Still, despite some situations feeling familiar, it’s never boring. I’m happy with the introspection, with Hilfy facing off against the ghosts of her past, and Hallan caught in the slow-burn fear of eventually being abandoned by yet another spacer crew. I liked sorting through the tangled webs of manipulations, even if the author seemed to take a bit too much delight at times in quoting the verbosity of stsho legal contracts. And of course, it’s always a pleasure if some pontificating paper-pusher gets put in their place along the way.
On the whole, it’s a decent self-contained Chanur adventure. I certainly don’t mind prolonging my stay in this world, and it does offer up new nuances for the setting. It’s certainly avoided a lot of the sequel pitfalls that I worry about. Yet, it feels peculiar that it exists at all. It’s just an odd afterthought to the main series, and I have to wonder if there was a never-realised intention of continuing to publish more Legacy books with a Next-Generation story arc. I broke my ‘no research’ rule to see if perhaps the characters crossed over into the rest of Cherryh’s shared universe in another book, but as far as I can tell, no dice. If you liked the first series, this will probably be a welcome last-hurrah of the setting for you.
I put this book down shortly about halfway through the second chapter, and left it down for a long while. It was bad timing, for this book. I had just finished reading the other novel titled Dogs of War, by Frederick Forsyth, as well as The Day of the Jackal by the same author. It was too much whiplash, to go from reading about mercenaries, illegal arms deals, and starting coups in banana republics, all told by an author that seems to have a scarily intimate amount of knowledge as to how the stuff of thrillers and action movies is actually done, to reading another author who… clearly has only read those thrillers and watched those movies. He really should have picked a different title.
The overall impression I have of this novel is that it started as a short story, but the author came to the end of each section and decided he needed to extend it somehow. I don’t know that that’s the case, but it feels like it, especially with how much the book’s focus seems to wander. It starts from the perspective of Rex, a cyborg dog soldier ignorantly obeying orders to commit war crimes, with his squad of a cyborg lizard named Dragon, a bear named Honey, and a sentient swarm of… Bees. Rex’s narration reads as if Dug from Pixar’s Up became a mercenary. It’s endearing at times, but also can get a little repetitive. Still, his character is interesting, as he wavers back and forth on breaking out from the simplistic morality drilled into him by behaviour chips and brainwashing.
Unfortunately, the writing of this story was starting to give me a particular impression once we got to more human point-of-view characters. It has been very hard to put into words what this impression is, so I’ll use a clearer example of what I mean. Did you ever read the Artemis Fowl books, as a kid? It’s like that. There’s super-genius characters, slick computer hacking, men with guns, all these kinds of action-thriller ‘spy movie’ kind of tropes. But there’s also this tone to everything, this smug, cynical tone of the author telling you ‘I know how the Real World works, I am jaded against humanity and the mindless sheep most of them are, and I’m going to tell how how it Really Is, kiddo.’ It’s been decades since I’ve read Artemis Fowl, but I just remember there was always this slightly condemnatory tone about humanity, and it’s the same tone in Dogs of War. That, and both feel like they’re written with the intention of being movies.
A perfect demonstration of the attitude I’m referring to comes from an AI character who bookends every section of the story with an exposition dump of global affairs in relation to the events that have just played out, and how humanity is dealing with Uplifts, and transhumanist talking points in general. It’s honestly nothing I’ve not heard in videos about futurism on the internet, but it’s also used as a soapbox for the author to tell us what he thinks humanity’s future should be, and for him to roll his eyes at the stupid reactionaries who cling to outdated concepts of what it means to be human, because they’re not perfect beings of logic and reason like him.
Speaking of the author’s worldview, there’s a rather obvious gender bias to the whole story. If Bechdel can come up with hokey tests of the gender equality of a work, so can I. I call this test the Some Women Are Clowns test. How it works is simple. Ask of a given work; is any female character shown, proven, or acknowledged, either by other characters or the narration itself, to be morally or intellectually wrong? If so, just to really make sure we’re on the same page, ask; is the author consciously aware of this?
This books fails that test constantly. Honey, a genius bear uplift, is slowly revealed not only to have been the first of the uplift death squad to develop a conscience, doubts, and curiosity, but in fact secretly orchestrated some of the early events of the book that led to the group breaking away from their evil masters. The mysterious AI that monologues at us about world events is revealed to actually be another super-genius pulling strings globally and inserting her all-female clone avatars in some of the most important positions to change the course of human history (for the better, of course). Bees gets more bees and ends up become a global gestalt entity of ever-increasing genius, even becoming part of the crew for the first mission to colonise Mars.
In contrast, Rex is animalistic, often confused, and troubled by his instincts and conditioning. He is used by both good and bad characters to ends he doesn’t understand. Dragon is animalistic, untroubled entirely by moral wrangling, and wants only to be free of the troubles of the human world altogether. Murray is a bald villainous man with motives and talking points resembling Sundowner from Metal Gear: Rising Revengeance. The world of Dogs of War is one of good, righteous and intelligent women supported by useful men, opposed by Bad Men who are the stumbling block of Progress.
I feel like ultimately, this book could have been a lot more impactful if it had less scope, rather than trying to cover everything it did. It felt like rather than asking the reader to think about questions of what makes a human, and where humanity will be once other sentient life exists on Earth, it was asking those questions then grinding the story to a halt to answer them in detail. I don’t think I’d read this again, and I’d hesitate recommending it. If you’re in a mood for transhumanism, go watch some Isaac Arthur videos. If you want an actual account of mercenaries in warfare, Congo Mercenary by Mike Hoare should have you covered. If you want badass talking dog warriors coming to terms with their existence, play Metal Gear Rising Revengeance, and remember to check in with Blade Wolf as often as you can.
First of all, check out the amazing cover art for this book by Michael Whelan. Honestly one of my favourite paintings, it just perfectly encapsulates that tense energy that's building up to some great action in the story. Chanur's Homecoming picks up where my 3-book omnibus left me, with the crew of the space freighter Pride of Chanur in deep with a kif warlord who's ensnared them into his schemes with no clear way out. Their lives, the lives of their allies, and the safety of their homeworld itself is under imminent threat of destruction.
Once again, it can be very hard to juggle all the subtleties of this series. There's a recap at the beginning of the book as a helpful reminder of the broader strokes, but if you lose track of any of the threads of who is plotting what, or who knows what, or what this or that secret is, don't expect this book to give you any further reminders. Click below for spoilers if you want my interpretation of what's going on.
To understand what's going on, you have to keep in your head the way each species thinks. The mahendo'sat are nominally friendly to the hani, and in fact are responsible for uplifting them to spacefarers. However, they don't seem to have a coherent, central way of handling diplomacy. Instead, mahen characters like Goldtooth and Jik (nicknames, to avoid the complexity of their actual names) act as kind of... secret agents with the powers of high-ranking ambassadors, given the authority to make deals and sway policy to their favour. In fact, the two of them may work on opposing schemes, then whichever one succeeds will be ratified and legitimised by the Personage, a higher-ranking government official. The one that fails will, however, be disgraced. Goldtooth is trying to tip the balance of power in the Compact to the mahendo'sat by introducing a new client species, humanity, and backing one of two competing kif warlords, Akkhtimakt. His friend/rival Jik has backed the other warlord, Sikkukkut, and our han characters under captain Pyanfar Chanur have reluctantly done so as well. One thing Pyanfar Chanur and her crew know, thanks to their human friend Tully, is that humanity cannot be trusted - in fact, there are three warring human factions, and their empires may be larger than the entire Compact.
As the book progresses, Pyanfar starts to understand the kif mentality more and more, and is better able to get into Sikkukkut's head. Kif rely a lot on the concept of sfik, which means 'face' or 'clout'. They will stay fervently loyal to whoever has the most sfik, but if they sense that loyalty will put them at further disadvantage, they will be quick to switch sides. Having Pyanfar and her crew under his control gives Sikkukkut more sfik, and in return he grants her more sfik by gifting her a kif slave named Skkukuk (who incidentally is adorable because he always talks like he's an evil minion). As Sikkukkut comes more and more to 'trust' Pyanfar (a concept alien to him that he tries to understand, but ultimately does not), or at least comes to rely more on her foresight and plans, he, whether intentionally or not, accords her more status, and she in turn promotes Skkukuk from a humble slave to her deputy. Though it appears that Pyanfar is turning into a pirate, entering combat and taking over stations on behalf of her warlord, it is in fact merely manoeuvring to buy time and get back to her homeworld, Anuurn, to prepare against Sikkukkut's threat. Should he so find it advantageous, he has threatened to launch a rock at near the speed of light at Anuurn, which would destroy all life on the planet. As the han are a very gender-segregated species (with only one male currently in space), this would be genocide.
I haven't even gotten into the stsho (cowardly xenophobes who literally cannot be violent and will make terrible deals with whoever seems the strongest), the methane-breathers (honestly I still don't really get where they come into this), or even the complexities of the han themselves, with clan-based honour systems, and the cultural divide between spacers and those that have never left the planet's surface. It's already making my head spin trying to explain this far, because I know I'm missing important details. Suffice to say everyone is scheming, and the hani are looking to come out the very worst of it, which is not helped by greedy, shortsighted ground-based politicians and idiotic bureaucrats who have no idea of the implications of what's going on.
There's three things about this book that I really enjoyed above all else. First, the fact that it seems to confirm that no villain in any book series can ever be quite so hatable as an obstructive bureaucrat. Sure, Sikkukkut's on top menacing form once again, but can anything induce such rage as some persnickety little jobsworth trying to arrest the crew that's the last hope for their species? Can any other piece of writing elicit a vocal whoop and a fuck-yeah when the paper-pushing bastards are finally given the dressing down they deserve? I'm convinced that bureaucrats and snotty rules-lawyers are universally the most repulsive antagonists in fiction, and it's a delight to finally see this lot get their comeuppance.
The second is this book really plays with building up and releasing tension well. There's a few false starts on whether there will be an outbreak of combat or not, but when it comes, it really pushes you to the edge of your seat. I never had the impression that any of the characters had plot armour or that everything would turn out well. The book's pacing has a good ebb and flow between struggling to get in downtime, to take a moment to think, to attend to smaller problems, and then prepare for the next wave of troubles. The final battle is damn satisfying thanks to this.
The third thing I really admire is the self-reflective writing. Pyanfar has quite a few good reflections on herself, and how she looks back on her life and her relationships. As a spacer, when time dilation takes her out of the rest of the universe for months at a time, she's become disconnected from her family, and in truth, from her species as a whole, outside of other spacers. She stays young, or at least younger, while her world moves on. Her troublesome children grow up and initiate their own political scheming against her clan, and the governing forces of Anuurn grow complacent and outdated, more and more a relic of the han's non-spacing past. Then there's Khym, her husband, who's had to change so much from the expected male role in their society, and whose relationship with Pyanfar feels incredibly authentic and touching.
I was worried for a bit that this book would, like its predecessors, end abruptly with nothing tied up. But no, it has a very definite end, and it's surprising to me how understated a lot of things were. There was no sitting down with the characters at the end to discuss in plain terms what had happened. You don't get the whole mystery fully unravelled before you; either you were paying close attention, or you weren't. It can leave you feeling a bit like Tully, the human character who ultimately leaves his people to take his place amongst the Pride's oddball crew. You get the feeling you understood maybe half of what was going on, but at least you got the important points. There's a nice epilogue that suggests that perhaps, finally, the han are moving away from their conservative old social structure and more firmly embracing being a spacefaring culture, which was nice. Some books leave you feeling like you're not sure what the characters would be doing with themselves now all the Problems are Fixed, but not this series. You get the sense that the worlds keep turning in the Compact, and there'll always be fresh Situations to put more grey hairs on Pyanfar's head. It's fun, give it a read, though you might need to go over it twice and take notes if you want to unravel the full story.
First contact has to be one of my most favourite tropes of science fiction. The same idea can be iterated out with so many intriguing variations that I'm yet to be tired of the clash of ideas, cultures, and comedic (or tragic) misunderstandings. On this review page alone I've encountered several types - the 'playing God' of the Bobiverse books, and the 'discovery of the mysterious' with Rendezvous with Rama. I've read the more classic type as well in 'Childhood's End' by Arthur C. Clarke as well, in which benevolent aliens come and just politely take over everything to make a utopia.
I think A Fire Upon the Deep's take on first contact is one of the more novel approaches I've read so far, and possibly my favourite. A last surviving family of humans make a desperate escape from the awakening of a galaxy-threatening intelligence and lands amid an intriguing low-tech alien civilisation. The 'Tines' as they come to be called by the outsiders are sapient packs of wolf or dog-like beings, in which one pack of four-to-eight individual members is one single mind, or soul that exists through the telepathic communication between their constituent parts. These people can exist therefore for centuries, adding new members to the pack as old ones die, which adds to and changes their character with new experiences and temperaments. When they move, or undertake any task, they can do it with as much precision as a human's hands, since all members are so directly linked.
What I really enjoy is how quickly the Tine characters grasp the importance and nuance and implications of the arrival of aliens from the stars. Their world is not stagnant and not unfamiliar with the rapid pace of modern progress, though on another level of technology entirely. There's bold curiosity, imaginative fantasy, and cunning manipulation among the many characters dragged into this world-changing event. I think the most memorable characters of the book are the Tines, whose nature as beings that can experience such change to the very essence of who they are makes them uniquely alien to us, yet their struggles make them still compelling and relatable, perhaps even more so than the human characters, whose experiences are so different from our own. I also have to admire the sheer ambition of the villains, who realise in an afternoon that their goals of taking over the world are absolutely puny, compared to the universe above them. Which, if they play their cards right, could be theirs for the taking.
The book overall executes the recurring theme of 'creating monsters you can't control' in many nuanced ways that complement each other well. Humanity, or at least one of many human civilisations, unleashes an ancient and (nearly) unstoppable evil by trawling through an archive of the knowledge of uncounted and unknown powerful civilisations stretching back millions (billions?) of years. The ruthless Tine scientist known as Flenser conducts unethical experiments to create souls to his liking, and finds the student he has moulded at knifepoint can exceed the teacher. The motley crew of rescuers desperate to reach the stranded human children on the Tines' world are by necessity and deception placed on the precipice of Uplifting the most dangerous beings on the planet to the status of a space-age power.
I appreciated the realistic way in which space-age civilisations across the galaxy react to what to us would seem extraordinary events. The extermination of entire civilisations can be safely dismissed as merely 'local affairs', while the only real news anyone cares about is about the implications of galaxy-changing events, which mostly is the province of transcendent beings called the Powers. It is a parallel to the news media of any age faithfully reporting so much carnage and misery across the world that if it's not local, one tends to feel desensitised to it. Of course, the downside to this is it's harder to empathise with the fates of alien civilisations, since they seem to become just another star in the sky. I must admit though, despite my love of sci-fi and space, the real star setting of this book is the Tine's World. I'd read it just for that.
If you're on this website, you probably like old 80s/90s janky 3D CGI. Think of all those weird surreal art pieces where it's just Julius Caesar's bust arranged around a bunch of primitive spheres that have been textured with a checkerboard pattern or something. Or at least think of Myst, Riven, etc. Or Veggietales, if you prefer. My point is, Rendezvous with Rama feels so much like you should be envisioning a 90s era first-person puzzle game with live-action actors against bluescreen, and a hundred different ways to soft lock yourself out of hours of gruelling trial and error, that this in fact actually happned, and Arthur C. Clarke stars in it. I am not joking. There is a real old-school Myst-like puzzle game with that exact aesthetic based on the book. With a kickass soundtrack. And it has Arthur C. Clarke himself come out to lecture you if you die. It's like the book was made to make that game, because that's what I was imagining the whole time reading it.
I feel like 'incomprehensible aliens' is a risky business in sci-fi. On the one hand, I do enjoy the build-up of a good mystery, but on the other, there are very few mysteries that pay off well enough. And of course there's the alternate path, which is just throwing up your hands and admitting you just wrote a bunch of random shit to make the aliens seem mysterious and unknowable, but with no further depth to it. The author here does a very good job of keeping things mysterious, but having things plausibly make enough sense that you can detect that a great deal of thought has gone into it. You really felt the sense that as the characters explored the inside of a giant alien O'Neill cylinder, that it was coming alive, and undergoing some kind of logical procedure of its own, rather than just lol random alien incomprehensibility. It helps greatly that the descriptions of the environment within Rama are easy to follow, but conjure up wonders. Although I do wish the aliens put a little more colour in their aesthetics. Everything was described so consistently as grey and smooth and featureless, that I even began to start imagining everything in black-and-white CGI-vision. I think the game designers noticed this problem and thankfully added a splash of hue.
It's sad to say, but I feel like I only realised how good I had it when I read Rama II. Of the two co-authors, I don't want to speculate who was responsible for what, and at the end of the day, they both put their name on it. For one thing, it feels a lot like they went back, read over the original, and decided they didn't want to work with the mostly positive vision of the future Clarke had in 1973. So goodbye space colonies on Mercury, Mars, etc. Goodbye age of hopeful space exploration and scientific discovery. Goodbye even the idea of having a competent crew of explorers, apparently. Some might say that the characters in Rendezvous were underdeveloped. I say yes, and I'm glad, because that left more room for the good part. I'm here for the aliens, guys. I'm not here for pages of interpersonal drama between people that wouldn't get hired as office temps, let alone astronauts in real life.
I'm sorry, I'm going to have to complain rather forcefully about the plot of Rama II. I'm not going to hide this paragraph in spoilers because this is most of the book's plot. The entire book, it is being revealed in none-too-subtle terms that the mission is more or less being sabotaged by David Brown, a megalomaniac fraud of a scientist, and Francesca Sabatini, an actual murderous psychopath. They're colluding to turn this whole thing into a kind of reality TV project, where they've already signed up for multi-million dollar deals on exclusive interviews, books, etc. Anyone that disagrees with how they think the mission should be run seems to end up dead pretty soon thereafter. As our heroes make new, incredible discoveries about Rama and fend off the demands of a hair-trigger xenophobic Earth to destroy the alien craft, we're totally leading towards some kind of comeuppance for the slimy antagonists, right?
Wrong. Oh, so you think they get away with it? Wrong again. It just doesn't matter, actually. The narrative in the ending sticks with the characters left trapped aboard Rama. The rest of the crew is either dead, or goes home. We never find out if anyone discovered what Brown and Sabatini did. We never find out if Earth learnt anything from the experience. In fact, the whole premise of this being a first-contact (well, second contact) with an alien intelligence goes out the window, because suddenly Earth and all its people are no longer in the picture. So, the next book will bring us back to some semblence of a true aftermath, right? Nope. Just sticks with the three protagonists on Rama. Who descend into the most boring, tedious, self-centred domesticity one could possibly read about. I had to look up other reviews of Rama III a few chapters in, to check if it was ever getting back to the good part (that is, exploring an alien spaceship). It doesn't, apparently. So I stopped reading.
I'm sorry that I have to devote all this space to such a downside to the Rama series. I truly think I had a magical experience with the first book, and the parts of the second book that actually develop Rama and stick to the excitement of unravelling the myseries of the aliens are very engaging, thought-provoking, and fun. I at least would recommend Rendezvous with Rama without qualification. I guess I'd recommend Rama II, with the qualification of 'just be patient with the human drama stuff'. Unfortunately though, it seems my thirst for more Rama goes unquenched in latter sequels. I might keep up the Clarke-a-thon though. The man can write some good aliens.
The opening chapters of Neuromancer are dripping with so much cyberpunk that you'd have thought this was a tribute to the genre rather than its founding document. The descriptive writing in this book is excellent, and it's tempting to quote entire passages. There's many that stand out for how ominously applicable to real life they sound:
"But he also saw a certain sense in the notion that burgeoning technologies require outlaw zones, that Night City wasn't there for its inhabitants, but as a deliberately unsupervised playground for technology itself."
Though of course you'll find the staple cyberpunk setting of a grimy, dark, rainy city where Japanese corporation logos dominate the holographics-jammed sky, the story never makes it boring, and we're not there forever. The narrative takes us across the world, eventually into orbit, and it never feels like the setting runs out of ideas to surprise you with. You would think being the first in the genre would make the original sound tired and done-to-death, but Neuromancer feels very fresh and modern to me. The word 'hacker' is never used ('cowboy' is the preferred term), and penetrating high-security databases is abstracted through the visuals of cyberspace, a virtual-reality that represents the world of computers and the flow of information. The lightness on technicalities helps to prevent the computer-hacking side of a 1984 novel from feeling clunky or outdated. If you wanted to hack things directly by linking your brain to a computer, wouldn't you want it to look like you're riding a flying polygon shark too?
The characters of Neuromancer all seem to be struggling with their humanity in a world that entirely commodifies it. Our protagonist, Case, begins the narrative having been poisoned with a toxin that burned out his ability to interface with cyberspace, thus putting him out of the one job he was born to do. He despises his humanity in a way, refers to the real world's inhabitants (including himself) as 'meat', and seems only to like reality for using drugs. The muscle of the team, Molly, hides her eyes behind reflective implants, and lends out her body as a puppet for sex, remaining unconscious while strangers use her. The team's leading figure, Armitage, is entirely a fake personality, constructed out of the broken psyche of the man beneath. They're all greatly affected by the technology of their era, becoming entwined with it, in ways both literal and metaphorical. Again, it feels all-too-relevant.
There's a couple of points where the story might have been stronger, but nothing I would consider worthy of 'complaint'. We're introduced to another member of the team for the big job, Peter Riviera, a man who's very skilled at conjuring holographic illusions, but he feels a little underutilised. We're told he has some innately hatable qualities and that we should be wary of him, but I feel like he never really gets expounded upon. He appears in the narrative just a bit too little, and his motivations seem only to come down to basic self-interest. Also there's Space Rastafarians which is... a little left field. I can understand the 80s perspective that Japan will rule the world of technology, but... were Rastafarians ever that much of a big deal?
There's other themes in Neuromancer that I really like. Things like the quest of the wealthy Tessier-Ashpool family to find some kind of immortality (something I am convinced current billionaires are desperately salty they cannot yet buy), or the questions surrounding AI, and the decision to deliberately limit AIs from becoming too powerful. Next year this book will be 40 years old, but it still raises difficult, interesting questions about our relationship with technology and how it might diminish, enhance or redefine our humanity. Questions that we should, now more than ever, still be thinking about.
This book contains at least three of my great loves in fiction. One, non-human protagonists. Two, being weirdly, specifically interested in one aspect of worldbuilding (I have to write about The Black Gryphon by Mercedes Lackey on this point). Three, being this particular genre of 80s sci-fi/fantasy where you just have to wonder what anyone was thinking and who the hell the intended audience was (Oh boy, I gotta do the Spellsinger books too...). This is the kind of thing I used to love discovering in the musty aisles of the second-hand bookshop-warehouse local to my city (now tragically downsized and far too well-lit compared to that wonderful, dim old cavern). It's just peak weird, somewhat janky old sci-fi that's beautiful not despite its flaws but because they make it so unique.
It took me a while at first to work out what the Chanur books are even about. I think in one phrase, I'd say it's all a vehicle for exploring the difficulties of communication between alien species. It's set within a space geo-political (astro-political?) entity called the Compact, which is an uneasy agreement between six major alien races; the hani (a race of anthropomorphic cats), the mahendo'sat (a race of furred primates), stsho(ehh... pale greys with big eyebrows, maybe?), kif(long snouted, grey-skinned, always in big Sith Lord looking cloaks), knnn(like a spider with too many legs, or a sea urchin or something), tc'a(big five-eyed snakes) and a seventh minor species, the chi(a bunch of yellow pipe cleaner). The oxygen breathers (hani, mahendo'sat, stsho, kif) all have their own alien behaviours and cultures, but are on some level comprehensible to each other. Methane breathers (knnn, tc'a, chi) are less comprehensible and can be erratic, but they at least seem to understand trading. The tc'a do most of the talking for the other methane breathers. Oh, and there's one non-Compact race starting to make itself known - humanity.
And herein lies the focus of this book and what really makes it stand out to me. We're not following a group of scientists, explorers, warriors, or diplomats. Our hero and point-of-view character, Pyanfar Chanur, is the captain of a merchant ship. They're space truckers. They know enough pidgin-speak of other alien tongues to make trade deals and do a little banter, but there is zero xenophilia to be found anywhere. These guys are not here to learn more about their trading partners, there's no starry-eyed wonderment at the vastness of the universe or the magic of discovering alien cultures. So the reader is put at a pretty significant disadvantage to follow anything that's going on, because either the characters already know what's up, or it's getting lost in translation. It's incredibly risky to have so many important plot details and revelations being communicated sometimes in pidgin-English, and other times between characters that have way more understanding of what's happening than we do. Sometimes this really goes too far and I have trouble keeping track of who's been scheming what, but at the same time, it didn't feel like it was intended I understand the intricacies in their full detail either. I'm fine with that. I often feel like the worst part of mysteries is having the whole thing laid bare.
As an example, three books in, and I have no idea how big any of these space-faring races is. When describing this book to someone else, they commented that it sounded like there was barely a hundred people in the whole Compact. It certainly gives the impression that there's at least so few space-faring Hani families that Pyanfar probably knows the names and reputations of all of them. At one point we're given a list of ships at dock at a given space-station, and the highest dock number is 52. When visiting different star systems, there seems to only be one major port-of-call in the entire star system. It's mentioned that resource mining is taking place, but I can't even recall any mention of planetary colonies, or really anything outside the limited scope of the mining and trading businesses. It honestly give the impression that each species really only has its homeworld, and lays claims on other star systems by owning a trading station there, rather than actually creating colonies.
It's all somehow kind of endearing, though. I found myself becoming fond of the quirks of the mahendo'sat pidgin-speech (You make number one good deal, a?), and while some of the jargon passes by me and the book clings any descriptive details furiously close to its chest, I can't help but speculate that is the intent. We're meant to feel lost in this world, I think. Not so much that it turns the reader off, but enough that you get the sense of the subtle different levels of inter-character relationships, and the labyrinthine politics within each species as well as between them. You can tell the Compact is fragile, and diplomacy is being strained to the point it feels like the idea there's peace or law and order at all is a fiction each side is clinging to for fear of things getting worse by acknowledging how bad it is.
It's also fun speculating on what inspired certain worldbuilding details and how they work. I can't help but feel that the idea of 'alien cat-people who have very different gender politics' is a direct response to the Kzin Patriarchy of Larry Niven's Ringworld. In the Chanur books, space crews are all female. The species seems to have a kind of harem-based, challenge-the-dominant-male kind of system. Males are treated simultaneously as ticking time-bombs of aggression who will kill each other if in the same room, but also as precious Victorian-era ladies that need a few tough, strong wives to look after them. But also the dominant male is considered the Lord of his particular house and ultimately in charge? Even something that might at first seem straightforward has its own alien nuances that keep you guessing in a very enjoyable way.
Speaking of worldbuilding, this feels pretty hard sci-fi, but there's a lot of jargon and assumptions made that it doesn't necessarily unfold much about how things actually work. The ships seem to travel close to the speed of light and experience time-dilation, but everyone's feeling much too nauseous about it to really explain. There's not really much in the way of space-combat (this is a freighter we're on, albeit an illegally armed one), and combat strategy seems really just depend on jumping into a system and reaching a space-station before your enemy can detach and leave. If they can't get up to speed, they're trapped. So, most interactions happen on the space-stations. It's not something I've really seen before, where tension can be held for a long time over whether or not anyone will start shooting at all, or if the whole fight can be avoided by outmanoeuvring and out-politicking your opponent.
I'm not sure if it's the fault of the 2000 omnibus edition I read, but this book can be very choppy in terms of editing. Typos abound, character names (particularly ones like Akukkakk) get mangled, some words are just straight up missing from the sentence, etc. And I'm afraid to say it, but to be honest, The Kif Strike Back (yes... they went there) is really where the writing started getting truly good, rather than just okay. The first book especially suffers from a real lack of characterisation for the crew, to the point that pretty much any crewwoman outside of the main three felt entirely interchangeable to me. The villain was entirely one-dimensional and uninteresting. Also it feels to me as though it's kind of unnecessary to even have humanity be the mysterious eighth spacefaring species. You would think this would be a point of familiarity to the reader, but it really isn't. Our protagonists don't understand him very well and regard him as mysterious and holding things back- and he is! We get so little from him about what humanity even is in this setting that they might as well be as alien to us as they are to the hani. So I feel they really could have just been aliens and have done with it
While The Pride of Chanur feels self-contained, the second and third books honestly feel like they were written as one book, then cut in half. This is another thing I've seen in some older sci-fi/fantasy series, the abruptness to which the narrative just ends. And, not realising the current plotlines would not be resolved, I hit the end of The Kif Strike Back (...why, author?) like a brick wall. I have had a reticence about reading sequels to books or series that are self-contained ever since Heaven's River, but it looks like I'm committed to tracking down the fourth and fifth books in this series to find out what happens. Honestly I'm kind of sad I missed out on some of the cool cover art of the separate first three, so there's that to look forward to as well.
Overall, the Chanur books are not perfect, but there's a charm to what they are. I'll say this for them - despite any confusions, ambiguities, and frustrations the books might cause in presentation, they made me care. The action scenes had me on edge. I never felt like I was sure whether a character might die or be injured in some way. Sikkukkut as the main antagonist is so much more enjoyably written and interesting as a character, once he enters the narrative, and the tense, every-subtle-facial-cue-could-be-a-death-sentence negotiation scenes with him are absolutely fantastic. I felt those scenes hard, with Pyanfar trying to keep calm and keep face with an alien whose logic is comprehensible, but so reprehensible to our sensibilities. The books made you feel how hard each decision is, how it feels like the crew is always between the options of Bad and Worse, and how irrevocably they are pushed along the path to situations they never would have dreamed possible at the start. They're just hard-working spacers caught up in a hurricane of machinations so much bigger than them, and you can't help but desperately hope they'll all make it. And that's exactly what you want from a series like this.
Put aside the contrived and somewhat silly opening premise of Earth's politics in the future, because trust me, it's not important. You're here for the hard sc-fi porn, and this series dishes it out in spades. The story is necessarily told in a non-linear fashion, and from the perspective of many iterations and variations on the same character, because we're following around a bunch of AI-run space probes that keep cloning themselves, exploring the galaxy, finding new and interesting problems to die of, and generally having a grand old time being an immortal not-quite hive mind of nerds.
The original 3-part series just has so many fun ideas in it. From the ethical challenges and surprises when it comes to first-contact with a technologically primitive race, to the intricacies of how space battles might actually work (very dependant on opening strategy, mathematics, and who brought more projectiles), there's so much to enjoy about spectating how a space-aged exploration and colonisation run by sentient von Neumann probes might work. It honestly feels like I'm watching over the shoulder of someone playing a very intricate sandbox real-time strategy game. It's satisfying in some way I can't quite articulate.
I think one of the big successes of the Bob books is the curiosity of the main character(s). Bob wants to find out everything we do, and the way information is teased out is very engaging. It's also helpful that this is the rare science fiction book that doesn't just start talking in random lore-specific jargon from the outset, leaving you hanging for a few chapters waiting for an explanation. It's very understandable, and making the characters sound smart while also being comprehensible to the reader is an important juggling act for books like these.
Engaging as it is, the series has a few flaws. It suffers a bit from antagonists just kind of being evil and obstructive for no reason. I'm not being casual in saying 'no reason', as by the third book, there's just... another evil bureaucratic government that is arbitrarily restricting freedoms on a colony world. They're barely characters though, they're more just an ominous presence, and the focus is entirely on overcoming them. I'm not saying it's not fun seeing one of the Bobs royally shut some smug bastards down. The author clearly enjoys setting up satisfying smackdowns on villains you love to hate. I feel like I could do a whole other article on why bureaucrats are always the most hatable villains in any story, regardless of how bad the main antagonist is. But it's a trick this series plays once too often, I think.
The other major problem I have with the series is rather unfortunate, because it's not even part of the original 3 books. In 2020, a fourth book was published, called Heaven's River. And it was... I'm sorry, but so dreadful I gave up on reading it about halfway through. I struggled, I tried to go back, I really did. It really left a sour taste in my mouth over this series, which you might argue is unfair, but it is what it is. I don't want to include Heaven's River in the title card or say I'm giving it a fair review here, since I didn't finish it, but I will put in a box explaining the reasons I stopped reading:
1. Remember how I said there's a tendency for antagonists to just be jerks for no reason? It's egregious in this book. The idea is a bunch of late-generation Bobs start LARPing as the Federation from Star Trek, except not as a joke this time. They have a major bug up their asses about making first-contact with anyone or anything, and just act really rude, disruptive, and with the intent to sabotage or attack efforts being made to deal with alien races. But I'm halfway through this book and I've not read a single argument for their case. None of them comes forward to make a speech or offer a debate or discussion. There's not even any real individual leading them, nobody's LARPing as Picard or anything. They're just an amorphous entity that hate the protagonists (for a difference of opinion the book doesn't care to explain), and we the reader should hate them, because obviously they are wrong. 2. One of the Bobs, Bill, is married now. His wife, Bridget, and this whole relationship are just a mega pain in the ass. Bridget is just a perfect character that can do no wrong. She can be aggressive, snippy, sarcastic, basically act like a complete bitch about anything, and everyone just has to take it. It's the most stereotypical Boomer-esque HAHA THE WOMAN WEARS THE PANTS AROUND THE HAPLESS MENFOLK dynamic imaginable. Also she's the smartest, always has the best and most sensible plans, and gets to quite rightly do her 'I told you so's whenever the characters do anything not to her liking. I think there's one point in the book where she finally does something wrong, and you can bet they can only gently tease about it one time, as opposed to the chronic griping she does about minor, unforeseeable mistakes characters made whole-ass chapters ago. We've spent so long getting to know the Bobs and coming to like them as individuals that this character just feels like an intrusion. She didn't earn the chip on her shoulder as far as the reader's concerned, not by a long shot.
3. The story dawdles so long through the main plot it gets tiresome and repetitive. The main plot is about covertly investigating a megastructure, that has a, surprise surprise, oddly retro and low-tech society living in it. Goodness, haven't read that before cough Titan by John Varley COUGH Ringworld by Larry Niven. And the plot just goes nowhere for half the damn book. They get into a new town. The alien people are weirdly hair-trigger aggressive and we get lots of hints that any sign of trying to advance technology or be innovative or in any way different will result in punishment from an unseen Overseer. They make some weird social faux-pas and have to flee town and try elsewhere. That's as far as we get for half the main plot, with Bridget bitching the whole way. I am amazed that this book managed to make exploring megastructures boring.
What's wrong with Heaven's River?
Overall though, the Bobiverse books are creative, thoughtful, and have a cast of the same character that you really start to root for in all his incarnations. Most of all though, it has a fantastic amount of consideration for the uses and limitations of the science and technology it presents. Obviously some things have to be a little bit handwaved (it's just too useful having FTL communications), but overall it reads like a very well-considered approach at what one day might be possible. Including Australians in space. Space Australians. We need more of those, too.
This book does three things very well - One, it has a cast of characters that have flaws, but are likable enough that you root for them instead of just looking forward to when the monster inevitably splatters them. Two, the villain protagonist is interesting to read about without drawing any sense of false sympathy. Three, it's one of the few books actually set somewhere I've been (New Orleans), and I can tell you it's an authentic representation, right down to the flooding. I visited New Orleans almost exactly 30 years after this was written, and it seems like not much has changed in the city's character.
Our main character, Billy Halo, is one of the more interesting bad guys I think I've read about. He has it all - a rich family, an enormous, muscled physique, a mind sharp enough to compete with even the top nerd in the school, and prospects for a football scholarship at a prestigious college. The picture isn't quite perfect though - he has an attitude problem that gets him in trouble, his mother is too drunk and his father is too self-important to recognise that Billy deep down is missing parental approval. Oh, and also he's a violent psychopath fond of torment, torture, stalking, and murder.
This book plays with its characters in interesting ways. It starts off with Billy and his two musclehead friends acting the typical role of bullying high school jocks. Over time though, it feels like Billy is becoming less human. He grows even taller than he was. He gains something like 40 pounds of muscle over the course of the story, and the descriptions of him feel less flattering and more like he's physically transforming into a neckless behemoth. He scorns his friends, then outright despises them. It's impressive that eventually you start to feel sorry for his two big, dumb cronies. They're kids in the end, arrogant and foolish perhaps, but nobody deserves a 'friend' like Billy. To say nothing of his disturbing behaviour around women.
The character deaths are done very well to evoke a sense of the heartwrenching. It's not overdone, but those that do die all felt like they deserved so much better in life. Billy's ruthless self-centred actions are truly horrific, and really get across the sense that as outwardly 'perfect' as he might appear, there's a chilling sickness to this character that makes him repulsive. It's fascinating reading from his perspective, that he is caught between being this utterly detached calculating machine determined to succeed in his goals, and the barely restrained raging beast that wants to snap and lash out at any perceived insult. The latter attitude certainly feels very teenage, cataloguing justifications for overblown 'revenge' against other characters, but Billy takes it to a new extreme.
If there was one thing I might have liked from this book, it's an epilogue. It's left ambiguous if Billy's murders are ever discovered for what they are. I can infer they probably would be, considering how many people connected to him died in a single year, but there's a difference between suspicion and the thing being proven. I suppose I wanted some justice for the characters whose deaths were dismissed as accidents, or just disappearances. But on the other hand, perhaps that's a sign of the book's success, that it matters to me. Those characters stuck with me and became much more familiar and meaningful than most victims in the horror genre. I think I can be satisfied with that.
I feel like Dune has to be the book I have put off reading the most in my entire life, which is saying something given my propensity for buying books then letting them age like wine on a shelf for years. I think the main problem I've had with approaching Dune is the enormous, unavoidable reputation around it. Phrases like 'science fiction classic' or 'the greatest science fiction novel ever written' actually don't encourage my interest. They give me the impression I have of most 'classics', that they are dusty and antiquated, and were good for what they were at the time, but will feel janky and foreign to a modern reader. The back cover of my copy reads, 'before the Matrix, before Star Wars, before Ender's Game and Neuromancer, there was Dune,' which immediately makes me think the hype has gone too far, and I'll be disappointed in this dusty, sandy, boring space-feudalism. It also doesn't help that I did, a long time ago, watch the 1984 movie starring Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks. I can now say with confidence the movie... really didn't do the book much justice.
So now I've established all the context I had for it, I can now say that I thoroughly enjoyed it, and it's a good book. I don't know if it surpasses what things like the Matrix or Neuromancer achieved for me, though? Like it's good and if you want to read an interesting, introspective story, then Dune is Fine Too. I can see why it would be so hard to adapt to a movie though (and I've no idea how the 2021 version did), since it's so important to have the thoughts of the characters as they're thinking them. There's a lot of tense interactions where it's vital that the character thinks through every second of their behaviour and every slight detail of what they say and how they say it. Kind of hard for a movie to do effectively.
In terms of my ongoing mental debate over what is 'hard sci-fi' and what is Space Fantasy, I guess this dips both ways. On the one hand it seems quite prescient in its predicting of an AI-apocalypse (I get the impression the author knew that computers were probably going to be a Big Thing in the future, and he wanted to keep it a human-focused story), and the details around the ecology of the desert planet of Arrakis seem quite well thought through. The worldbuilding around the culture of a people who cannot let so much as the moisture of tears go to waste is very engaging and believable. However, there are more fantastical elements to the story, that being Space Psychics. It's something that friends and I have noticed throughout a lot of science fiction, even in things purporting to be of the very 'hardest' of science. For some reason, it's just become a really, really commonly accepted trope that in the far future, we will just have magic mind powers.
I am hesitant though to discuss what I think Dune is Really About. Since it is such a staple of the genre, and it has like 5(?) sequels, and is clearly the influence for other famous settings and properties (Warhammer 40K definitely put a few big scoops of the sands of Arrakis into their blender), I feel like this is probably the sort of thing that has been analysed and scrutinised, with all the themes and layers unfurled in pages of essays by nerds trying to outdo each other in how well they understand Dune.
So I'll say this. A constant refrain of Dune is feints within feints, schemes hiding within schemes, the idea that everything has a deeper layer. Sometimes literally, in the desert, come to think of it. It certainly communicates the sense that there's a great deal of depth to every character, and everyone seems to be playing chess many, many moves in advance. It's like that with the story itself. The surface layer of it being superficially a stereotypical fantasy adventure (boy of noble birth wins over warrior people to lead them against oppression, etc.) only hides the next layer, a cautionary tale about the dangers of messianic prophecies, which only hides the next layer, the thousands of years of genetic tampering to create an AI-like mind that can predict all future possibilities. And so on. I think it's possibly more fun to debate or ponder over what Dune is really saying than necessarily to have all the answers laid out for you.
Charles Dickens comes out spitting fire at pretty much every figure of authority and officialdom in 19th century England, and it's something to behold the venom he has in reserve for them. The opening of Oliver Twist is exceptionally strong and had me laughing out loud at points, as the misery and cruelty of the world of the paupers is so recklessly heedless of human life and dignity that it becomes absurd. At a certain point you just have to laugh rather than cry, and you can't help but punch the air a little when Oliver finally has had enough and starts to fight back.
Therein lies the problem though. Oliver's story could have been the tale of a boy with a cut lip and mud in his eye, running away from the unfairness and cruelty of a world that treats him as near enough a criminal for existing, and through luck, determination, and resilience of character, growing up to be a good man. But that's not Oliver's story, and in fact, it felt to me like the second half of this book, rather than developing Oliver's character from humble childish beginnings, abandons him as a character altogether. He becomes an angelic little MacGuffin in his own story, as the narrative ceases to be told much from his perspective at all, and focuses far more on the colourful collection of characters surrounding him, who all have different ideas of what to do with him once he's in their possession.
The book drifts further away from Oliver still as we're introduced to an (I'm afraid to say) utterly dull romance between other characters, and a tiresome and irritating 'secret backstory' plotline, in which it is revealed that of course, Oliver Twist has a family after all, with a decent reputation and a respectable fortune. So he never truly was of the 'common classes' that this book seemed to be defending. Why, though? Why couldn't Oliver have just been an orphan, without all the fabulous coincidences and improbable detective-work revealing some noble heritage? Why can't his lowly birth have been simply the result of the poverty of his family, instead of an elaborate conspiracy to deprive him of his inheritance? Why does he remain a morally pure babe and refuse to become a pickpocket? It wouldn't take Fagin too much of a leap of cruelty to successfully force Oliver into the business proper.
Maybe this was just more appealing to the readership of the time. Perhaps having the character join the 'criminal classes' would have been unthinkably subversive, even if it was justifiable in the story. Or perhaps Dickens had just run out of ideas for making his child protagonist interesting, since he is so powerless to resist the adult characters, or take much further initiative for himself. Whatever the reason, Oliver Twist feels like an enjoyable, but flawed story to me, one that runs out of steam about halfway through, and has to invent grander adult schemes into the mix once Oliver ceases to be at the helm of the narrative.
I recommend this as a cut above the usual sort of 'hard sci-fi' book that entirely focuses on the speculative technology. Given past experiences, I have often been leery of 'hard sci-fi', as it gives me the expectation of having boring, cardboard cutout characters that exist merely to explore the technology. Not so with Ringworld. Ringworld has some fantastically interesting characters and a rather twisty web of schemes in its plot to draw you in.
It helps of course that the speculative technology in question is a megastructure - the titular Ringworld. The implications of its construction, its scale, its longevity, and the fate of the civilisations that exist upon it are thoroughly and interestingly explored. If you don't know what a 'ringworld' even is, it's if the sun itself had a ring around it, built at an ideal distance to support life on its inner, sun-facing surface. The difficulties and oddities of living on such a world, whre it is always either noon or artificial midnight, are very well expounded upon.
But there's a lot more going on. Social engineering is a big theme of Ringworld, and its implications are perhaps as important, if not more, than the Ringworld itself. Humanity has been manipulating its own genetics for generations, and the aggressive-to-the-point-of-self-destruction Kzin have inadvertently killed off their most bold and risk-taking warriors in a succession of wars, to the point that the Kzin have virtually domesticated themselves. Which isn't saying much for the average Kzin. But pehaps the most interesting of the strange and alien beings (and I do count the humans as alien to us), are the Puppeteers, a race of highly advanced herd animals that are the universe's biggest cowards. They seem almost absurd in their zero-risk-permitted survival strategies, but as the book goes on, you start to understand the frightening and almost repugnant logic of their behaviour.
The most fascinating point that Ringworld makes about the megastrucutre is that ultimately, it's a trap. Having used up all the resources (asteroids, other planets, etc.) in the system to build the megastructure, given that no asteroids or other bodies may enter the system to collide with the inner surface (there's an automated defence system), and given that the composition of the inner surface contains no natural sources of metallic ore, if a civilisation on the Ringworld falls, it falls for good. There's no way to rise again, because there's no ores to go through a Bronze Age or Iron Age, etc. The survivors are trapped in the ruins of their former space-age glory, in permanent ignorance and poverty. And fall civilisations will - with the Ringworld so highly automated and regulated by machines beyond the understanding of those that built them, eventually, that knowledge is lost. It seems that any real space-age society with the power to construct such a thing must consider whether it's really an ideal solution, and if so, to at least not throw all their eggs into the Ringworld basket.
I was incredibly impressed by this book. It felt like at so many points it could have easily dropped the ball, but the author not only saved it but knocked it out of the park. I recommend this to anyone looking for a book, not just science fiction fans.
Okay, to back up a little, what is Hyperion about? The back cover will give you the impression it's a kind of space fantasy adventure. Seven pilgrims set out on a quest for the legendary Time Tombs on the planet Hyperion, the home of a mysterious god/deadly monster called the Shrike, where they seek the secrets of universe. Except it's really... not about that. Like this is NOT some Lord of the Rings in Space style adventure tale. It's honestly hard to make comparisons because I've rarely seen this format, but I guess I'd say it's like Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales in the literal sense of it being about a group of pilgrims telling each other their stories.
This is where the author really shines. As each character comes forward reluctantly to tell the tale of how they came to be on their pilgrimage, the voice of the book changes to match them perfectly. The priest's tale is full of existential horror and the kind of sneering tone of a jaded missionary losing his mind in the savage wilderness. The poet's tale is florid, full of allusions and quotations in the style of an erudite mind. The detective's tale is a slice of cyberpunk noir, complete with permanent rain outside the window and Chinese food. I found myself worried that nothing would top the last tale, only to be thoroughly sucked in by the next.
What really fascinated me by the end though was that it was only right up to the end that I finally understood a theme that had been developing throughout the entire book. The stories might at first seem only connected tangentially by giving us insight into their shared setting, but there's so much more going on. If you haven't read it and it sounds interesting to you, stop here and go read it.
For each character, you can see the encroachment of the shallowness of the Hegemony's culture. The priest is dealing with Christianity dying a quiet death while absurd cults and woo dominate the religious sphere. The poet suffers brain damage and having to re-learn the English language to write his first big hit - only for it to become a one-hit-wonder, and be forced into writing brainless trashy novels. The scholar's small-world life is destroyed by the hounding of the press. The consul's world is demographically displaced until they're selling their own culture as souvenirs for tourists in the wreckage that developers have wrought. The Hegemony just smashes down any independence or true evolution of humanity into something greater, using its portal technology to grind every world into the same boring monoculture that clings to Earth's past rather than trying anything new.
I find this utterly fascinating, because it sounds so real. If you have portal technology, then nothing is out of reach. You can have a house with rooms across 5 worlds. You can go to lunch at your favourite restaurant a few light years away, and get some light reading done at some beautiful vacation spot that's a mere walk to the nearest station. But it comes at a cost. If you can reach every special, unique place across the entire sphere of human existence on multiple worlds, so can everyone else. And so can the government. So then nowhere is special, nowhere is secluded, nowhere is unique. Nowhere can be far enough away not to be controlled by the dominant spread of what is acceptable mainstream culture. It's a frightening futuristic end-point of the worst of globalism, and the consolidation of things like media and the internet into the hands of a powerful, inescapable few. It feels incredibly relevant to our world today.