Take a photo of a barcode or cover
2.05k reviews by:
tachyondecay
Big bad killing machines are coming into your section of the galaxy. Intelligence is a plague they mean to wipe out, because otherwise, intelligence is doomed.
If Revelation Space is a high-concept space-opera archaeological mystery, then Redemption Ark is more of a straightforward thriller. Several of the surviving characters from the first book are scattered across the two systems, Epsilon Eridani and Delta Pavonis, with the Inhibitors closing in and most of humanity none the wiser. Revelation Space is a tale of exploration and of deep-time history stretching back far into the past; Redemption Ark is a carousel of recriminations and more recent revelations (not to mention some future ones as well).
Alastair Reynolds continues to ask whether humanity will ever be mature enough to save itself from species-level threats. Even with such advanced technology, it seems doubtful. The most powerful players, the Conjoiners, are still a fractured mess of politics within their Closed Council. On Resurgam, the colony is so insular and backwards that any space travel of any kind has been prohibited. Only Volyova, mostly aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, and Khouri, working incognito on the planet, have any idea of the magnitude of the threat facing the colony and humanity in general. Theirs is a thankless task, and one at which their chances of success are slim.
It’s so nice stepping back into the Revelation Space universe. No faster-than-light travel. Nanotechnology limited by the Melding Plague (though, it seems rather capable as it is). Complicated, almost dynastic stories caused by the disruptive influences of reefersleep and relativistic travel between a few colony systems. It’s a picture of the future that is perfect amounts of realism and fantasy mixed together.
The big focus in Redemption Ark is on the possession of the "Hell class" cache weapons aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. Reynolds opens up the backstory of the Conjoiners, introducing Clavain and Skade. Both Conjoiners, neither is really a typical Conjoiner. Clavain has eschewed much of the implant technology that allows Conjoiners to function collectively; Skade embraces such technology but is operating on her own shadowy agenda. Once Clavain realizes what Skade represents, he leaves and sets out to seize control of the cache weapons before she can. The result is an epic chase sequence that lasts for a good chunk of the book. In case you were worried that Reynolds might leave out some brainteasing technobabble, don’t be: the inertia suppression technology driving this chase is enough to keep your mind occupied for a few weeks.
The other half of the book concerns the keepers of Nostalgia and their manipulation of events on Resurgam towards a mass planetary evacuation. The Inhibitors have set up shop in the system for reasons unknown, and their presence will eventually prove fatal to the colony. Of course, Volyova isn’t exactly a trusted name on Resurgam after her terrorist actions in the previous book, so she and Khouri have to be very sneaky. This part of the book didn’t hook me quite as much as Clavain’s did, although I was happy to be reading about Khouri and Volyova again.
Redemption Ark has an excellent overall structure, but the book itself is rather too long. There is a fair amount of duplicate information here, characters repeating things we already know just because those characters don’t know. On one level, such misinformation is a gratifying tribute to reality, and characters will do things that ultimately backfire because they don’t have the complete picture the way that the reader does. Such irony is the bread and butter of good fiction, but we don’t need to be around for all the explanations afterwards. I got tired fast of hearing someone explain about the Inhibitors for the nth time, and if that kind of duplication were cut out, this would be a slimmer book.
Reynolds also reveals more about the purpose and intentions of the Inhibitors themselves, even providing brief glimpses into their perspective on the problem. It makes a lot of sense, from a certain point of view. The Inhibitors aren’t just here to wipe out intelligence because it is inherently dangerous to the stability of the galaxy; they are the proactive reaction to a foreseen threat that intelligence will apparently make worse. It leads to the chilling conclusion that the selfishness of survival in the present might lead to extinction in the future. (Might being the operative word, of course.) Though this book takes place over a fairly short span of time, Reynolds’ plotting forces us to think on more massive, cosmological timescales.
As such, Redemption Ark joins the first book in this series as one of big plots and big ideas. I have a little less patience this time around for its length, which seems less deserved. But the story, the revelations, and the conflict is just as good. As a book, it’s satisfying; as an instalment in a series, it’s gratifying. Now I just need to get my hands on book three and what will hopefully be an epic conclusion.
My reviews of the Revelation Space series:
← Chasm City | Absolution Gap →
If Revelation Space is a high-concept space-opera archaeological mystery, then Redemption Ark is more of a straightforward thriller. Several of the surviving characters from the first book are scattered across the two systems, Epsilon Eridani and Delta Pavonis, with the Inhibitors closing in and most of humanity none the wiser. Revelation Space is a tale of exploration and of deep-time history stretching back far into the past; Redemption Ark is a carousel of recriminations and more recent revelations (not to mention some future ones as well).
Alastair Reynolds continues to ask whether humanity will ever be mature enough to save itself from species-level threats. Even with such advanced technology, it seems doubtful. The most powerful players, the Conjoiners, are still a fractured mess of politics within their Closed Council. On Resurgam, the colony is so insular and backwards that any space travel of any kind has been prohibited. Only Volyova, mostly aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, and Khouri, working incognito on the planet, have any idea of the magnitude of the threat facing the colony and humanity in general. Theirs is a thankless task, and one at which their chances of success are slim.
It’s so nice stepping back into the Revelation Space universe. No faster-than-light travel. Nanotechnology limited by the Melding Plague (though, it seems rather capable as it is). Complicated, almost dynastic stories caused by the disruptive influences of reefersleep and relativistic travel between a few colony systems. It’s a picture of the future that is perfect amounts of realism and fantasy mixed together.
The big focus in Redemption Ark is on the possession of the "Hell class" cache weapons aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. Reynolds opens up the backstory of the Conjoiners, introducing Clavain and Skade. Both Conjoiners, neither is really a typical Conjoiner. Clavain has eschewed much of the implant technology that allows Conjoiners to function collectively; Skade embraces such technology but is operating on her own shadowy agenda. Once Clavain realizes what Skade represents, he leaves and sets out to seize control of the cache weapons before she can. The result is an epic chase sequence that lasts for a good chunk of the book. In case you were worried that Reynolds might leave out some brainteasing technobabble, don’t be: the inertia suppression technology driving this chase is enough to keep your mind occupied for a few weeks.
The other half of the book concerns the keepers of Nostalgia and their manipulation of events on Resurgam towards a mass planetary evacuation. The Inhibitors have set up shop in the system for reasons unknown, and their presence will eventually prove fatal to the colony. Of course, Volyova isn’t exactly a trusted name on Resurgam after her terrorist actions in the previous book, so she and Khouri have to be very sneaky. This part of the book didn’t hook me quite as much as Clavain’s did, although I was happy to be reading about Khouri and Volyova again.
Redemption Ark has an excellent overall structure, but the book itself is rather too long. There is a fair amount of duplicate information here, characters repeating things we already know just because those characters don’t know. On one level, such misinformation is a gratifying tribute to reality, and characters will do things that ultimately backfire because they don’t have the complete picture the way that the reader does. Such irony is the bread and butter of good fiction, but we don’t need to be around for all the explanations afterwards. I got tired fast of hearing someone explain about the Inhibitors for the nth time, and if that kind of duplication were cut out, this would be a slimmer book.
Reynolds also reveals more about the purpose and intentions of the Inhibitors themselves, even providing brief glimpses into their perspective on the problem. It makes a lot of sense, from a certain point of view. The Inhibitors aren’t just here to wipe out intelligence because it is inherently dangerous to the stability of the galaxy; they are the proactive reaction to a foreseen threat that intelligence will apparently make worse. It leads to the chilling conclusion that the selfishness of survival in the present might lead to extinction in the future. (Might being the operative word, of course.) Though this book takes place over a fairly short span of time, Reynolds’ plotting forces us to think on more massive, cosmological timescales.
As such, Redemption Ark joins the first book in this series as one of big plots and big ideas. I have a little less patience this time around for its length, which seems less deserved. But the story, the revelations, and the conflict is just as good. As a book, it’s satisfying; as an instalment in a series, it’s gratifying. Now I just need to get my hands on book three and what will hopefully be an epic conclusion.
My reviews of the Revelation Space series:
← Chasm City | Absolution Gap →
I actually read this soon enough after Redemption Ark that I can still remember some of the details of that book! Absolution Gap picks up two generations later. The Nostalgia for Infinity is parked on Ararat, and its occupants have set up a “temporary” settlement. Little do they know that, in the space around them, Conjoiners and Inhibitors battle to a standstill, until a lone craft breaks the silence and crashes into Ararat’s ocean. Clavain, Scorpio, Skade, Khouri, and Remontoire all make an appearance. Alastair Reynolds provides these characters with a new direction and a new source of hope for pushing back the deadly anti-intelligence machines.
Whereas Redemption Ark flits back and forth between Clavain/Skade’s battle near Yellowstone and Volyova/Khouri’s machinations on Resurgam, Absolution Gap jumps back and forth in time. It’s not by much, just enough for the one set of characters to catch up with the “present” on Hela once they arrive there. In this way, Reynolds begins laying the ground work for some of the mysteries that serve as the primary food for thought. Who built the bridge across Absolution Gap? What, exactly, is Haldora, the gas giant that intermittently vanishes? Who are the “shadows” who might offer hope against the Inhibitors? How is the obsessive, manipulative Quaiche involved?
These mysteries make the book entrancing and well worth reading. As always, Reynolds shows a remarkable ability to put his physics knowledge to good use and create realistic yet terrifyingly unfamiliar situations. I can’t pretend I understand all of the consequences of the things that happen here, but I always appreciate how Reynolds spells out just enough to make it feel plausible (even if it isn’t). But if science fiction is more your speed than actual science, the explanations and exposition never get in the way of the story. In this respect, Reynolds proves that he has the writing chops to back up his astrophysics degree.
Reynolds continues to inflict moral dilemmas on all of his characters. Quite early in the book, Scorpio faces a dilemma of how to respond to Skade’s demand that Clavain die in order to save the life of a baby that Scorpio doesn’t even know. The baby, Aura, is a strategic asset—and Clavain is quite willing to sacrifice himself to secure her. But Scorpio isn’t so sure. Cue some flashbacks for the reader to the vicious, ill-tempered, vindictive hyperpig from the previous book. This Scorpio is almost unrecognizable in comparison, and it’s understandable why he is now reluctant to resort to violence. Again and again, he faces related dilemmas as he struggles with his advanced age—for a pig—and increasing conflict with the wishes of the rest of the group.
To be honest, I was very surprised that Reynolds kills off Clavain so early. I fully expected either an unlikely way out or some form of limited resurrection. When neither were forthcoming, it took me a while to accept that Clavain was really dead. But I suppose he had served his purpose in the story—more to the point, by removing Clavain entirely, Reynolds created a power vacuum, with Scorpio in an uneasy detente with the rest of the leaders.
Meanwhile, on Hela, the moon orbiting Haldora, Quaiche establishes his cathedrals that migrate around the equator, always trying to keep the gas giant at their zenith. Over the half-century or so since discovering the phenomenon, Quaiche has gone quite mad. Now, as Haldora’s vanishings increase in frequency and duration, he is preparing a last-ditch effort to demonstrate his control and supremacy over the various faiths and doctrines. But the Nostalgia for Infinity’s crew has other ideas: they want contact with the shadows, even if it interferes with Quaiche’s local power plays.
It’s this almost coincidental conflict of interests that makes the rest of the book so interesting. In particular, I loved the attempts by the Cathedral Guard to take over the Nostalgia for Infinity only to be repulsed by the combined efforts of the crew and the ship, which is now an integral part of John Brannigan, its former captain. As the Guard storms the vessel, believing it to be any other Ultra lighthugger, there’s that sense of foreboding that comes before the protagonists rally and kick ass.
This set up the novel for a stellar ending, and Reynolds does his best to deliver. Despite being nearly 700 pages, though, the book still feels like its ending is rushed! We go from Scorpio’s final decision not to contact the shadows to an epilogue set thousands of years in the future, showing us a glimpse of a humanity that has pushed back the Inhibitors but now has to flee from a different problem. It’s a harsh reminder that there will always be enemies and threats to us as a species. But I would have been much more interested to see Scorpio et al deal with the Nestbuilders after they make contact.
As far as the story goes, Absolution Gap hits the mark every single time. It is perhaps the strongest of the trilogy in that regard (though, to be fair, I don’t remember much about Revelation Space). As the final volume in a trilogy, it leaves a little to be desired because it leaves some things out. But it does its best to show the characters we’ve become familiar with continue their fight against one of humanity’s deadliest enemies. Reynolds continues his tradition of tackling big issues that humanity just might face in the future, if we manage to spread out amongst the stars. His universes, this and those of his standalones, are ones I will visit over and over.
My reviews of the Revelation Space series:
← Redemption Ark
Whereas Redemption Ark flits back and forth between Clavain/Skade’s battle near Yellowstone and Volyova/Khouri’s machinations on Resurgam, Absolution Gap jumps back and forth in time. It’s not by much, just enough for the one set of characters to catch up with the “present” on Hela once they arrive there. In this way, Reynolds begins laying the ground work for some of the mysteries that serve as the primary food for thought. Who built the bridge across Absolution Gap? What, exactly, is Haldora, the gas giant that intermittently vanishes? Who are the “shadows” who might offer hope against the Inhibitors? How is the obsessive, manipulative Quaiche involved?
These mysteries make the book entrancing and well worth reading. As always, Reynolds shows a remarkable ability to put his physics knowledge to good use and create realistic yet terrifyingly unfamiliar situations. I can’t pretend I understand all of the consequences of the things that happen here, but I always appreciate how Reynolds spells out just enough to make it feel plausible (even if it isn’t). But if science fiction is more your speed than actual science, the explanations and exposition never get in the way of the story. In this respect, Reynolds proves that he has the writing chops to back up his astrophysics degree.
Reynolds continues to inflict moral dilemmas on all of his characters. Quite early in the book, Scorpio faces a dilemma of how to respond to Skade’s demand that Clavain die in order to save the life of a baby that Scorpio doesn’t even know. The baby, Aura, is a strategic asset—and Clavain is quite willing to sacrifice himself to secure her. But Scorpio isn’t so sure. Cue some flashbacks for the reader to the vicious, ill-tempered, vindictive hyperpig from the previous book. This Scorpio is almost unrecognizable in comparison, and it’s understandable why he is now reluctant to resort to violence. Again and again, he faces related dilemmas as he struggles with his advanced age—for a pig—and increasing conflict with the wishes of the rest of the group.
To be honest, I was very surprised that Reynolds kills off Clavain so early. I fully expected either an unlikely way out or some form of limited resurrection. When neither were forthcoming, it took me a while to accept that Clavain was really dead. But I suppose he had served his purpose in the story—more to the point, by removing Clavain entirely, Reynolds created a power vacuum, with Scorpio in an uneasy detente with the rest of the leaders.
Meanwhile, on Hela, the moon orbiting Haldora, Quaiche establishes his cathedrals that migrate around the equator, always trying to keep the gas giant at their zenith. Over the half-century or so since discovering the phenomenon, Quaiche has gone quite mad. Now, as Haldora’s vanishings increase in frequency and duration, he is preparing a last-ditch effort to demonstrate his control and supremacy over the various faiths and doctrines. But the Nostalgia for Infinity’s crew has other ideas: they want contact with the shadows, even if it interferes with Quaiche’s local power plays.
It’s this almost coincidental conflict of interests that makes the rest of the book so interesting. In particular, I loved the attempts by the Cathedral Guard to take over the Nostalgia for Infinity only to be repulsed by the combined efforts of the crew and the ship, which is now an integral part of John Brannigan, its former captain. As the Guard storms the vessel, believing it to be any other Ultra lighthugger, there’s that sense of foreboding that comes before the protagonists rally and kick ass.
This set up the novel for a stellar ending, and Reynolds does his best to deliver. Despite being nearly 700 pages, though, the book still feels like its ending is rushed! We go from Scorpio’s final decision not to contact the shadows to an epilogue set thousands of years in the future, showing us a glimpse of a humanity that has pushed back the Inhibitors but now has to flee from a different problem. It’s a harsh reminder that there will always be enemies and threats to us as a species. But I would have been much more interested to see Scorpio et al deal with the Nestbuilders after they make contact.
As far as the story goes, Absolution Gap hits the mark every single time. It is perhaps the strongest of the trilogy in that regard (though, to be fair, I don’t remember much about Revelation Space). As the final volume in a trilogy, it leaves a little to be desired because it leaves some things out. But it does its best to show the characters we’ve become familiar with continue their fight against one of humanity’s deadliest enemies. Reynolds continues his tradition of tackling big issues that humanity just might face in the future, if we manage to spread out amongst the stars. His universes, this and those of his standalones, are ones I will visit over and over.
My reviews of the Revelation Space series:
← Redemption Ark
Some people are just, to quote Daffy Duck, “dith-spicable!”
Empress is about a girl who grows up with no name, in a dirt-poor village on the edge of a desert, unwanted and unloved. She gets sold to a passing trader, who anticipates being able to train her as a concubine. This event triggers something in the girl, some hidden ambition or untended guile. She gives herself a name—Hekat—and begins plotting, eagerly soaking up everything Abajai the trader can teach her. When she discovers that he only sees her as a commodity, that his investment in her is purely so he can get a better return, and that she is nothing more than a slave, Hekat runs away. She insinuates herself into the barracks of the local warlord and eventually inveigles her way into the ranks of warriors themselves—no mean feat for someone born in a backwater and malnourished and mistreated all her life.
Hekat’s learning curve is meteoric and remarkable. She goes from not having names for anything—she herself is a “she-brat” and her presumed mother and father are merely “the woman” and “the man” to having a name for herself, for her country, and for the various cities within it. She learns that people routinely travel more than a couple days’ walk from the village, that massive cities larger than she could ever have dreamed exist, that warlords raise vast warhosts to do battle. She learns how to ride, how to fight, and more. Hekat would be a textbook example of a Mary Sue … if we were supposed to like her.
Many writers enjoy taking characters like Hekat and creating pathos as a result of their struggles. Karen Miller opts instead to test the reader’s ability for empathy to its limits. Hekat is not a likable person. She hurts people and enjoys it. She is vicious and ready to retaliate at any opportunity. If she is wronged and does not have the strength to retaliate, she remembers until she does. In this way, Hekat keeps trading up, starting as the poorest and most wretched of creatures and attaining—well, without spoiling it, the book is called Empress, mmkay?
Is a character still a Mary Sue even if she is completely unsympathetic while everything goes right for her? I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s right to call Hekat the protagonist of the book—I suppose that depends if you think she should succeed. Then again, there’s also the fact that she thinks she has “the god” on her side. And unlike in our world, where the fundamentalists’ cries of, “Strike him down, God!” are generally met with silence from on high, this god is quite direct in its responses to such requests. So is it evil if what one does serves the god and it indicates this?
Beyond Hekat’s personal flaws there is the larger world of Mijak and beyond to consider. Mijak is a country firmly in the grasp of religion. Each of its warlords has a personal high “godspeaker”, a priest who communes directly with the nameless god that Mijak people worship. This high priest has under their charge thousands of lesser godspeakers, who collect offerings from the people for the god and explain the omens the god gives people. Everything in Mijak revolves around the god, as indicated by the language: temples are called “godhouses”, months are “godmoons”, offering bowls are “godposts”, etc. As many other reviewers have pointed out, this is repetitive to the point of annoyance.
Mijak culture, aside from its godliness, seems remarkably impoverished. I don’t know if this is intentional or merely a consequence of Miller’s writing. At one point, Hekat purchases “stories” on clay tablets. Beyond this, there isn’t a lot of time spent establishing how the Mijak people make art, literature, drama. These are people who are technologically on the same level as the Babylonians, thereabouts. But they seem to lack much of interest in the lineages of their warlords, in stories depicting grand deeds from the past, in tales of heroes and villains. Each day is just another day serving the god.
I’m ambivalent about how much I enjoyed Empress. It’s a hefty book, and it could stand further elision at points. Yet I also ripped through it at a hearty pace—I was intrigued enough by Hekat’s deviousness, by her machinations versus Nagarak, that I wanted to know what would happen next. However, I never felt immersed in the world like I have with other fantasy novels. I suppose it’s fair to say that Empress is a very focused book, and so it is good at what it does, but it lacks the wide depth-of-field and rich background that I also enjoy.
My reviews of the Godspeaker Trilogy:
The Riven Kingdom →
Empress is about a girl who grows up with no name, in a dirt-poor village on the edge of a desert, unwanted and unloved. She gets sold to a passing trader, who anticipates being able to train her as a concubine. This event triggers something in the girl, some hidden ambition or untended guile. She gives herself a name—Hekat—and begins plotting, eagerly soaking up everything Abajai the trader can teach her. When she discovers that he only sees her as a commodity, that his investment in her is purely so he can get a better return, and that she is nothing more than a slave, Hekat runs away. She insinuates herself into the barracks of the local warlord and eventually inveigles her way into the ranks of warriors themselves—no mean feat for someone born in a backwater and malnourished and mistreated all her life.
Hekat’s learning curve is meteoric and remarkable. She goes from not having names for anything—she herself is a “she-brat” and her presumed mother and father are merely “the woman” and “the man” to having a name for herself, for her country, and for the various cities within it. She learns that people routinely travel more than a couple days’ walk from the village, that massive cities larger than she could ever have dreamed exist, that warlords raise vast warhosts to do battle. She learns how to ride, how to fight, and more. Hekat would be a textbook example of a Mary Sue … if we were supposed to like her.
Many writers enjoy taking characters like Hekat and creating pathos as a result of their struggles. Karen Miller opts instead to test the reader’s ability for empathy to its limits. Hekat is not a likable person. She hurts people and enjoys it. She is vicious and ready to retaliate at any opportunity. If she is wronged and does not have the strength to retaliate, she remembers until she does. In this way, Hekat keeps trading up, starting as the poorest and most wretched of creatures and attaining—well, without spoiling it, the book is called Empress, mmkay?
Is a character still a Mary Sue even if she is completely unsympathetic while everything goes right for her? I don’t know. I’m not even sure it’s right to call Hekat the protagonist of the book—I suppose that depends if you think she should succeed. Then again, there’s also the fact that she thinks she has “the god” on her side. And unlike in our world, where the fundamentalists’ cries of, “Strike him down, God!” are generally met with silence from on high, this god is quite direct in its responses to such requests. So is it evil if what one does serves the god and it indicates this?
Beyond Hekat’s personal flaws there is the larger world of Mijak and beyond to consider. Mijak is a country firmly in the grasp of religion. Each of its warlords has a personal high “godspeaker”, a priest who communes directly with the nameless god that Mijak people worship. This high priest has under their charge thousands of lesser godspeakers, who collect offerings from the people for the god and explain the omens the god gives people. Everything in Mijak revolves around the god, as indicated by the language: temples are called “godhouses”, months are “godmoons”, offering bowls are “godposts”, etc. As many other reviewers have pointed out, this is repetitive to the point of annoyance.
Mijak culture, aside from its godliness, seems remarkably impoverished. I don’t know if this is intentional or merely a consequence of Miller’s writing. At one point, Hekat purchases “stories” on clay tablets. Beyond this, there isn’t a lot of time spent establishing how the Mijak people make art, literature, drama. These are people who are technologically on the same level as the Babylonians, thereabouts. But they seem to lack much of interest in the lineages of their warlords, in stories depicting grand deeds from the past, in tales of heroes and villains. Each day is just another day serving the god.
I’m ambivalent about how much I enjoyed Empress. It’s a hefty book, and it could stand further elision at points. Yet I also ripped through it at a hearty pace—I was intrigued enough by Hekat’s deviousness, by her machinations versus Nagarak, that I wanted to know what would happen next. However, I never felt immersed in the world like I have with other fantasy novels. I suppose it’s fair to say that Empress is a very focused book, and so it is good at what it does, but it lacks the wide depth-of-field and rich background that I also enjoy.
My reviews of the Godspeaker Trilogy:
The Riven Kingdom →
This is one of the most disturbing posthuman science fiction stories I've ever read (that's a good thing). In Nothing Human, aliens known as the "pribir" arrive in 2005, just as humanity is beginning to tinker with genetic engineering in earnest. Having prepared for their arrival by tweaking the genes of several in vitro babies, all of whom are now thirteen years old, the pribir communicate by sending olfactory information (smells) that these "pribir children" can receive as images. After a rocky start (the pribir destroy an orbiting nuclear power plant because it "isn't the right way" and "harms our genes"), the pribir share a cure to cancer and malaria. But it all starts to go wrong when some of the pribir children elect to go aboard the pribir spaceship....
Although nominally set Twenty Minutes into the Future, I describe Nothing Human as posthuman fiction because it deals with the motifs of humanity, genetics, and evolution. At its core, the novel asks the question "what does it mean 'to be human'?" by looking at the effects of genetic modification on a microcosm of the human species. Nancy Kress also touches on the concept of directing the evolution of one's own species.
These issues are becoming increasingly relevant to contemporary society. We've sequenced the human genome and are taking the steps toward developing viable gene therapy. It's only a matter of time before we have the capability to radically alter ourselves on the genetic level. Nicolas Wade briefly mentions this in the last chapter of [b:Before the Dawn|110995|Before the Dawn Recovering the Lost History of Our Ancestors|Nicholas Wade|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1171648021s/110995.jpg|2922823], his genetic history of humanity. One of the possible futures for humanity he postulates is a trend toward greater diversity within the species. Kress takes the idea and runs with it, for the pribir aren't as "alien" as we first think. In fact, they claim to be descended from humans, taken from Earth by real aliens, whose evolution was then accelerated. We only meet two pribir individuals; they look human but claim this was an intentional decision to appear less threatening to the humans of Earth. This and several other events imply that physical forms among the pribir vary immensely.
The idea of one's physical form--that is, the expression of one's genome--dictating whether or not one is human recurs throughout Nothing Human. Although the pribir appear human, they clearly have abilities beyond the ordinary humans of Earth. The pribir children, and their children, display similar (but not as great) abilities, such as an enhanced immune system. For all their tinkering, the pribir claim they're trying to help humanity survive the human-made ecological disaster on Earth, through genetic adaptation and directed evolution. Yet when they propose drastic measures that result in the birth of children who look and communicate in drastically non-human ways, the reader has to wonder: is this saving the human race or subsuming it?
Obsessed as they are with saving humanity, the pribir seldom pause to consider what is human. "Mostly human genes" is a good enough explanation for them. Other characters consider whether humanity is conferred through memory, thought and personality, culture, other traits that are not purely biological. In either case, the definitions always seem inadequate. This reminds us that the boundaries among species are not as stark as anthropologists and zoologists always make them appear. We only consider ourselves distinct from our evolutionary predecessors because they're long gone and we remain (so far). If "more primitive" human beings still lived somewhere, would we consider them human? Where do we draw the line?
I know I keep going on about the pribir, but honestly, I found them quite fascinating in their role as alien benefactors. We only meet two: Pete and Pam. And unlike the ethereal, serene, wise aliens we always see on television and movies, Pete and Pam are quite immature, even childish by our standards. They repeatedly lament humanity's stupidity and the unanticipated ability of Earth's nations to destroy each other and squander their natural resources. Pam in particular seems bewildered by the animosity toward the pribir's attempt to help put humanity on the path to "the right way." I loved this portrayal of the alien benefactors as petty and unsympathetic, dangerous more because they're so ineffectual than because of any malevolence on their part.
Additionally, Pete and Pam seem to have trouble understanding or anticipating the behaviour of the humans they're trying to help, demonstrating a remarkable detachment from "contemporary" human society's mores. Before I judge them based on this fact, however, I have to stop and wonder what it would be like if our positions were reversed. Suppose I ended up among an ancient civilization, with little information on that civilization's attitudes toward issues like abortion, childbirth, science, etc.? Suppose I'd only been monitoring that civilization through its cultural outlets for a couple of decades (like Pete and Pam do with television broadcasts), and as a result, my information is slightly dated or skewed. It's fair to say I'd probably find many of their customs barbaric by my standards. Still, the amount of alienness of Pete and Pam is disconcerting at times, for several reasons. The most important reason, however, is the most chilling: in a few centuries, assuming humanity survives as a species, we could be them.
Alongside the not-quite-alien pribir, the regular and modified human characters seem like they are portrayed in Technicolour. All of their actions take on a new level of meaning along a continuum: there are those who end up supporting the efforts of the pribir (ultimately Lillie) and those who reject the pribir and their proposed solution (most notably, some of Lillie's children). Kress plays up the moral ambiguity, and to good effect: I couldn't really side with one camp or the other on this issue. Ideally I found myself wishing for a magic bullet that would let the species stay the same even as dangerous toxins built up in Earth's animal and plant life; of course, Kress had no interest in taking the easy way out.
Indeed, Nothing Human asks only tough questions, questions that have no easy answer. It is a superb thought experiment involving genetics, ecology, and alien encounters. I found it difficult to become attached to any of the characters, yet that didn't stop me from enjoying the book's plot or its themes. I definitely recommend this to anyone open to science fiction.
Although nominally set Twenty Minutes into the Future, I describe Nothing Human as posthuman fiction because it deals with the motifs of humanity, genetics, and evolution. At its core, the novel asks the question "what does it mean 'to be human'?" by looking at the effects of genetic modification on a microcosm of the human species. Nancy Kress also touches on the concept of directing the evolution of one's own species.
These issues are becoming increasingly relevant to contemporary society. We've sequenced the human genome and are taking the steps toward developing viable gene therapy. It's only a matter of time before we have the capability to radically alter ourselves on the genetic level. Nicolas Wade briefly mentions this in the last chapter of [b:Before the Dawn|110995|Before the Dawn Recovering the Lost History of Our Ancestors|Nicholas Wade|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1171648021s/110995.jpg|2922823], his genetic history of humanity. One of the possible futures for humanity he postulates is a trend toward greater diversity within the species. Kress takes the idea and runs with it, for the pribir aren't as "alien" as we first think. In fact, they claim to be descended from humans, taken from Earth by real aliens, whose evolution was then accelerated. We only meet two pribir individuals; they look human but claim this was an intentional decision to appear less threatening to the humans of Earth. This and several other events imply that physical forms among the pribir vary immensely.
The idea of one's physical form--that is, the expression of one's genome--dictating whether or not one is human recurs throughout Nothing Human. Although the pribir appear human, they clearly have abilities beyond the ordinary humans of Earth. The pribir children, and their children, display similar (but not as great) abilities, such as an enhanced immune system. For all their tinkering, the pribir claim they're trying to help humanity survive the human-made ecological disaster on Earth, through genetic adaptation and directed evolution. Yet when they propose drastic measures that result in the birth of children who look and communicate in drastically non-human ways, the reader has to wonder: is this saving the human race or subsuming it?
Obsessed as they are with saving humanity, the pribir seldom pause to consider what is human. "Mostly human genes" is a good enough explanation for them. Other characters consider whether humanity is conferred through memory, thought and personality, culture, other traits that are not purely biological. In either case, the definitions always seem inadequate. This reminds us that the boundaries among species are not as stark as anthropologists and zoologists always make them appear. We only consider ourselves distinct from our evolutionary predecessors because they're long gone and we remain (so far). If "more primitive" human beings still lived somewhere, would we consider them human? Where do we draw the line?
I know I keep going on about the pribir, but honestly, I found them quite fascinating in their role as alien benefactors. We only meet two: Pete and Pam. And unlike the ethereal, serene, wise aliens we always see on television and movies, Pete and Pam are quite immature, even childish by our standards. They repeatedly lament humanity's stupidity and the unanticipated ability of Earth's nations to destroy each other and squander their natural resources. Pam in particular seems bewildered by the animosity toward the pribir's attempt to help put humanity on the path to "the right way." I loved this portrayal of the alien benefactors as petty and unsympathetic, dangerous more because they're so ineffectual than because of any malevolence on their part.
Additionally, Pete and Pam seem to have trouble understanding or anticipating the behaviour of the humans they're trying to help, demonstrating a remarkable detachment from "contemporary" human society's mores. Before I judge them based on this fact, however, I have to stop and wonder what it would be like if our positions were reversed. Suppose I ended up among an ancient civilization, with little information on that civilization's attitudes toward issues like abortion, childbirth, science, etc.? Suppose I'd only been monitoring that civilization through its cultural outlets for a couple of decades (like Pete and Pam do with television broadcasts), and as a result, my information is slightly dated or skewed. It's fair to say I'd probably find many of their customs barbaric by my standards. Still, the amount of alienness of Pete and Pam is disconcerting at times, for several reasons. The most important reason, however, is the most chilling: in a few centuries, assuming humanity survives as a species, we could be them.
Alongside the not-quite-alien pribir, the regular and modified human characters seem like they are portrayed in Technicolour. All of their actions take on a new level of meaning along a continuum: there are those who end up supporting the efforts of the pribir (ultimately Lillie) and those who reject the pribir and their proposed solution (most notably, some of Lillie's children). Kress plays up the moral ambiguity, and to good effect: I couldn't really side with one camp or the other on this issue. Ideally I found myself wishing for a magic bullet that would let the species stay the same even as dangerous toxins built up in Earth's animal and plant life; of course, Kress had no interest in taking the easy way out.
Indeed, Nothing Human asks only tough questions, questions that have no easy answer. It is a superb thought experiment involving genetics, ecology, and alien encounters. I found it difficult to become attached to any of the characters, yet that didn't stop me from enjoying the book's plot or its themes. I definitely recommend this to anyone open to science fiction.
I went to the library last week for the first time in too long. I got 14 books, most of them added to my to-read list in 2009. I love that Goodreads lets me never forget which books I want to read, but sometimes I still forget the why. Such is the case here.
Firethorn begins with 28 pages of the protagonist alone in a forest for a year. She eventually eats some berries from the firethorn tree, passes out from hunger, decides when she wakes up that her new name is Firethorn and it’s time to go back and live among people in a village. It was a long, dialogue-lacking first chapter, and I was bored out of my mind. This summarizes two of my major complaints about the book: the chapters are too long, and we spend too much time in the narrator’s head and not enough interacting with other characters.
Chapters are, for me, session markers. I try not to interrupt my reading unless I hit a chapter break (getting tea before it has oversteeped is probably a notable exception). Chapters that are too short can be annoying, but overly long chapters are just evil: there’s nothing worse than slogging through a book one isn’t enjoying and flipping forward only to find there are twenty more pages until the next chapter. Unfortunately, the massive chapters in this book are more of a symptom of its glacial pacing—more on that in a moment.
Firethorn is a nice enough person. She cares for people and uses her knowledge of herbs to help them. However, the interface that Sarah Micklem provides between the reader and Firethorn is cumbersome. It’s laden with a lot of archaic terms, such as cataphract and armiger, and a conflation between the names of gods and the houses that claim to be descended from those gods. (That is, there is a god named Arbor and a house/clan named Arbor, and sometimes when Firethorn ascribes an action to “Arbor”, it is difficult from the context to know to which Arbor she refers.)
Micklem borrows a lot from British history (and British slang) but never delves into the details behind her faux medieval world in any satisfactory way. I suppose one might try to justify this by saying that this is how Firethorn would understand what’s going on; peasants don’t really grasp the intricacies of the conflicts between nobility. If we accept the premise that this book is an attempt to show us a “woman’s perspective” of life in a camp as soldiers march to war, then perhaps this is a satisfactory explanation. However, I’m not so sure peasants would be that ignorant. With no TV and the population functionally illiterate, it seems like they would have the time and the memory to parse out all those details.
I wish I could follow Booklist is praising Firethorn as “a great piece of gritty, feminist fiction”. But it’s not all that gritty. Grim and sometimes brutal in its portrayal of men’s attitudes towards women like Firethorn? Yes. Yet in my opinion, grittiness has an element of language to it—an element that Micklem conceals beneath layers of slang terms for genitalia and prose that is overly formal to the point of being stilted. It’s difficult to feel connected to Firethorn or any of the other characters, because I feel like I’m reading the book through a very thick fog.
I’ll tiptoe around whether this work is “feminist” and instead look at the related question of how well it presents a woman’s view of marching to war. Obviously I am ill-suited to such a discussion, being neither a woman nor a medieval peasant going to war. In many respects, Micklem captures the sense of tension that must exist for someone in Firethorn’s position: she is at the mercy of her patron, this Sire Galan, particularly when it comes to whose bed she shares. Our society is very enlightened by comparison and women still face a number of challenges to their autonomy and self-determination. So in this sense, Firethorn deserves its praise.
But what a long journey it is to reach such a conclusion!
Firethorn’s downfall as a book is that nothing happens. It is most definitely not “a sweeping adventure saga as mystical as it is raw”, Publishers Weekly. Sweeping adventure sagas require adventures to be had on a sweeping scale. While I understand that this is a character-driven novel and the events are all about Firethorn’s experiences, I wouldn’t describe them as “sweeping”. As for “raw”, refer above to my discussion of grittiness in relation to language.
I spent a great deal of time lightly skimming, because most of this book feels like filler. It could be slimmed considerably and would probably pack a greater punch as a result. As it is, I had a very difficult time with this book: every time it betrayed a glimmer of promise, Firethorn strangles it to death with purple prose and poor pacing. She’s a nice person but a poor narrator. Firethorn shows all the signs of sincere effort, but it doesn’t deliver the excitement that needs to accompany its emotional depth. Firethorn might be feminist … but it’s also boring … and when it comes to reading, the latter trumps any other consideration, every time.
Firethorn begins with 28 pages of the protagonist alone in a forest for a year. She eventually eats some berries from the firethorn tree, passes out from hunger, decides when she wakes up that her new name is Firethorn and it’s time to go back and live among people in a village. It was a long, dialogue-lacking first chapter, and I was bored out of my mind. This summarizes two of my major complaints about the book: the chapters are too long, and we spend too much time in the narrator’s head and not enough interacting with other characters.
Chapters are, for me, session markers. I try not to interrupt my reading unless I hit a chapter break (getting tea before it has oversteeped is probably a notable exception). Chapters that are too short can be annoying, but overly long chapters are just evil: there’s nothing worse than slogging through a book one isn’t enjoying and flipping forward only to find there are twenty more pages until the next chapter. Unfortunately, the massive chapters in this book are more of a symptom of its glacial pacing—more on that in a moment.
Firethorn is a nice enough person. She cares for people and uses her knowledge of herbs to help them. However, the interface that Sarah Micklem provides between the reader and Firethorn is cumbersome. It’s laden with a lot of archaic terms, such as cataphract and armiger, and a conflation between the names of gods and the houses that claim to be descended from those gods. (That is, there is a god named Arbor and a house/clan named Arbor, and sometimes when Firethorn ascribes an action to “Arbor”, it is difficult from the context to know to which Arbor she refers.)
Micklem borrows a lot from British history (and British slang) but never delves into the details behind her faux medieval world in any satisfactory way. I suppose one might try to justify this by saying that this is how Firethorn would understand what’s going on; peasants don’t really grasp the intricacies of the conflicts between nobility. If we accept the premise that this book is an attempt to show us a “woman’s perspective” of life in a camp as soldiers march to war, then perhaps this is a satisfactory explanation. However, I’m not so sure peasants would be that ignorant. With no TV and the population functionally illiterate, it seems like they would have the time and the memory to parse out all those details.
I wish I could follow Booklist is praising Firethorn as “a great piece of gritty, feminist fiction”. But it’s not all that gritty. Grim and sometimes brutal in its portrayal of men’s attitudes towards women like Firethorn? Yes. Yet in my opinion, grittiness has an element of language to it—an element that Micklem conceals beneath layers of slang terms for genitalia and prose that is overly formal to the point of being stilted. It’s difficult to feel connected to Firethorn or any of the other characters, because I feel like I’m reading the book through a very thick fog.
I’ll tiptoe around whether this work is “feminist” and instead look at the related question of how well it presents a woman’s view of marching to war. Obviously I am ill-suited to such a discussion, being neither a woman nor a medieval peasant going to war. In many respects, Micklem captures the sense of tension that must exist for someone in Firethorn’s position: she is at the mercy of her patron, this Sire Galan, particularly when it comes to whose bed she shares. Our society is very enlightened by comparison and women still face a number of challenges to their autonomy and self-determination. So in this sense, Firethorn deserves its praise.
But what a long journey it is to reach such a conclusion!
Firethorn’s downfall as a book is that nothing happens. It is most definitely not “a sweeping adventure saga as mystical as it is raw”, Publishers Weekly. Sweeping adventure sagas require adventures to be had on a sweeping scale. While I understand that this is a character-driven novel and the events are all about Firethorn’s experiences, I wouldn’t describe them as “sweeping”. As for “raw”, refer above to my discussion of grittiness in relation to language.
I spent a great deal of time lightly skimming, because most of this book feels like filler. It could be slimmed considerably and would probably pack a greater punch as a result. As it is, I had a very difficult time with this book: every time it betrayed a glimmer of promise, Firethorn strangles it to death with purple prose and poor pacing. She’s a nice person but a poor narrator. Firethorn shows all the signs of sincere effort, but it doesn’t deliver the excitement that needs to accompany its emotional depth. Firethorn might be feminist … but it’s also boring … and when it comes to reading, the latter trumps any other consideration, every time.
Once upon a time, a science-fiction author wrote a novel about a Big Dumb object. It would go on to win the trifecta: the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards for best novel, not to mention become the iconic novel about Big Dumb Objects. It is now, essentially, a classic.
Fans with engineering degrees from MIT decided to crunch the numbers and ask difficult questions about how this Big Dumb Object could actually work the way the author said it works. Because that's what fans do. However, the author decided to address these questions by writing a sequel. He included several retcons and focused a great deal on recreational sex conducted between hominids of different species for the purposes of trade negotiations (rishathra). Although it received nominations for the Hugo and the Nebula, this sequel did not win any awards.
Still the author was not satisfied! He wrote a third book in the series, introducing still more retcons and still more rishathra. He continued tweaking and modifying both the story and the physics underlying it, not recognizing all the while that, in this relentless pursuit of perfection, he was cheapening something that had once been great.
That's pretty much the story of the Ringworld trilogy, which is now a tetralogy. Although I won't rule out the possibility that I'll read Ringworld's Children, nothing could be further from my mind at this moment. The Ringworld Throne so thoroughly turned me off both the series and Larry Niven's writing in general that I am in no mood to pick up yet another sequel.
At first, this book was so uninteresting that I had to force myself to read it. For the first hundred or so pages, I seriously entertained the notion of setting it aside. However, I've only abandoned four books since joining Goodreads 3 years ago, and I did not want this to be number five. So I persevered, and while I don't regret the decision (I think it might have haunted me otherwise), this book was far from satisfying.
Seriously, what is it with Niven and rishathra? Dude, I get it: you like talking about hominids having sex. Most of the first part of The Ringworld Throne consists of people from various Ringworld species—Machine People, Grass Giants, Red herders, etc.—leading an expedition to wipe out some vampires. (Vampires, in Niven's world, are sub-sentient hominids who release pheromones that cause other hominids to have sex with them while they drink their victims' blood.) Among the expedition is Valavirgillin, one of the people Louis Wu met and befriended during The Ringworld Engineers. In between discussing tactics for killing vampires, Valavirgillin and her allies have rishathra and talk about rishathra endlessly.
It all feels rather pointless, especially because I thought I was getting another book about Louis Wu and Chmeee. Louis does play a larger role as the story progresses, but we don't see Chmeee after the prologue. We meet his son, Acolyte, who is endearing after the Kzinti fashion but otherwise essentially another set piece for Niven's increasingly-bizarre chess game among Louis, the Hindmost, and his Protector-Antagonist-of-the-Week.
The original Ringworld fascinated because it was, well, original. The concept was new, and Niven had assembled an eclectic ensemble of humans and aliens to explore the Ringworld and get into trouble. And it had a textbook example of the sense of wonder that good science-fiction novels, especially those with Big Dumb Objects, can evoke. Niven, if nothing else, is great at discussing scale, and the Ringworld can make one feel small and insignificant.
Even The Ringworld Engineers had its strong points. Niven upgraded the Ringworld's backstory, positing a new species as the engineers and giving Louis a truly enormous problem to solve. Though he is successful in the end, he does so at (he thinks) a terrible price. And so when The Ringworld Throne opens, we see a tired Louis Wu ready to retreat into his autumn years. He is going to strike off across the Ringworld alone, without any boosterspice to keep him young, determined to age and die normally. This story alone would be intriguing, but Niven does not leave well enough alone and insists on including the parallel story of Valavirgillin's Vampire Slayers.
In addition to the unnecessary emphasis on rishathra, this storyline feels so out of place in a science-fiction novel. Yes, there are various non-human species, but most of the technology is medieval or just barely industrial, and the threat is just vampires. If the book had been published last year, we might be able to accuse Niven of riding the vampire craze set off by those novels you've all heard about. As it is, I have trouble understanding the point to this entire storyline. And I don't know if it's just because the story failed to entice me whatsoever, but I had a very difficult time following the order of events and keeping track of who was who. There were times when I just skimmed the pages until I reached a chapter with Louis Wu and read from there.
Unfortunately, Louis' story doesn't make much more sense. He enters into some sort of contractual arrangement with yet another Protector, and they then engage in a test of wills/minds, jockeying for superiority while the Hindmost whines about stepping discs. Although more nominally science-fictional than Valavirgillin's story, this plot also fails to pass the "Make Me Care" test. The Protectors are an intriguing alien species, but Niven relies far too much on speculation among his characters as a form of exposition. While it might make for a lighter touch when it comes to narration, this has the one drawback of allowing Niven an easy way out when it comes to retconning in later books: the characters were mistaken, or lying, or both. So I just don't feel like investing much time or effort into learning about a backstory that is just going to get revised anyway.
I wish, having now read these three books, that I could somehow take everything I like from each of the books and mash it up into a single, coherent Ringworld narrative. There's something good in each of them—yes, even in this one—but it's lost in a lot of mediocre and downright awful stuff. Niven shares a problem all-too-common among other science-fiction writers: his ability to come up with big ideas far exceeds his mastery of the actual craft of writing. Niven is a good writer, but he is a good writer with awesome ideas, an essentially disappointing combination.
The Ringworld Throne is, as I said earlier, likely the conclusion for me of the Ringworld series, at least for now. And if you are considering the series, consider reading only the first book; it did earn its place in the canon of classical science fiction. I cannot say the same for its sequels, particularly this one.
Lastly, for Terence:
My Reviews of the Ringworld series:
← The Ringworld Engineers
Fans with engineering degrees from MIT decided to crunch the numbers and ask difficult questions about how this Big Dumb Object could actually work the way the author said it works. Because that's what fans do. However, the author decided to address these questions by writing a sequel. He included several retcons and focused a great deal on recreational sex conducted between hominids of different species for the purposes of trade negotiations (rishathra). Although it received nominations for the Hugo and the Nebula, this sequel did not win any awards.
Still the author was not satisfied! He wrote a third book in the series, introducing still more retcons and still more rishathra. He continued tweaking and modifying both the story and the physics underlying it, not recognizing all the while that, in this relentless pursuit of perfection, he was cheapening something that had once been great.
That's pretty much the story of the Ringworld trilogy, which is now a tetralogy. Although I won't rule out the possibility that I'll read Ringworld's Children, nothing could be further from my mind at this moment. The Ringworld Throne so thoroughly turned me off both the series and Larry Niven's writing in general that I am in no mood to pick up yet another sequel.
At first, this book was so uninteresting that I had to force myself to read it. For the first hundred or so pages, I seriously entertained the notion of setting it aside. However, I've only abandoned four books since joining Goodreads 3 years ago, and I did not want this to be number five. So I persevered, and while I don't regret the decision (I think it might have haunted me otherwise), this book was far from satisfying.
Seriously, what is it with Niven and rishathra? Dude, I get it: you like talking about hominids having sex. Most of the first part of The Ringworld Throne consists of people from various Ringworld species—Machine People, Grass Giants, Red herders, etc.—leading an expedition to wipe out some vampires. (Vampires, in Niven's world, are sub-sentient hominids who release pheromones that cause other hominids to have sex with them while they drink their victims' blood.) Among the expedition is Valavirgillin, one of the people Louis Wu met and befriended during The Ringworld Engineers. In between discussing tactics for killing vampires, Valavirgillin and her allies have rishathra and talk about rishathra endlessly.
It all feels rather pointless, especially because I thought I was getting another book about Louis Wu and Chmeee. Louis does play a larger role as the story progresses, but we don't see Chmeee after the prologue. We meet his son, Acolyte, who is endearing after the Kzinti fashion but otherwise essentially another set piece for Niven's increasingly-bizarre chess game among Louis, the Hindmost, and his Protector-Antagonist-of-the-Week.
The original Ringworld fascinated because it was, well, original. The concept was new, and Niven had assembled an eclectic ensemble of humans and aliens to explore the Ringworld and get into trouble. And it had a textbook example of the sense of wonder that good science-fiction novels, especially those with Big Dumb Objects, can evoke. Niven, if nothing else, is great at discussing scale, and the Ringworld can make one feel small and insignificant.
Even The Ringworld Engineers had its strong points. Niven upgraded the Ringworld's backstory, positing a new species as the engineers and giving Louis a truly enormous problem to solve. Though he is successful in the end, he does so at (he thinks) a terrible price. And so when The Ringworld Throne opens, we see a tired Louis Wu ready to retreat into his autumn years. He is going to strike off across the Ringworld alone, without any boosterspice to keep him young, determined to age and die normally. This story alone would be intriguing, but Niven does not leave well enough alone and insists on including the parallel story of Valavirgillin's Vampire Slayers.
In addition to the unnecessary emphasis on rishathra, this storyline feels so out of place in a science-fiction novel. Yes, there are various non-human species, but most of the technology is medieval or just barely industrial, and the threat is just vampires. If the book had been published last year, we might be able to accuse Niven of riding the vampire craze set off by those novels you've all heard about. As it is, I have trouble understanding the point to this entire storyline. And I don't know if it's just because the story failed to entice me whatsoever, but I had a very difficult time following the order of events and keeping track of who was who. There were times when I just skimmed the pages until I reached a chapter with Louis Wu and read from there.
Unfortunately, Louis' story doesn't make much more sense. He enters into some sort of contractual arrangement with yet another Protector, and they then engage in a test of wills/minds, jockeying for superiority while the Hindmost whines about stepping discs. Although more nominally science-fictional than Valavirgillin's story, this plot also fails to pass the "Make Me Care" test. The Protectors are an intriguing alien species, but Niven relies far too much on speculation among his characters as a form of exposition. While it might make for a lighter touch when it comes to narration, this has the one drawback of allowing Niven an easy way out when it comes to retconning in later books: the characters were mistaken, or lying, or both. So I just don't feel like investing much time or effort into learning about a backstory that is just going to get revised anyway.
I wish, having now read these three books, that I could somehow take everything I like from each of the books and mash it up into a single, coherent Ringworld narrative. There's something good in each of them—yes, even in this one—but it's lost in a lot of mediocre and downright awful stuff. Niven shares a problem all-too-common among other science-fiction writers: his ability to come up with big ideas far exceeds his mastery of the actual craft of writing. Niven is a good writer, but he is a good writer with awesome ideas, an essentially disappointing combination.
The Ringworld Throne is, as I said earlier, likely the conclusion for me of the Ringworld series, at least for now. And if you are considering the series, consider reading only the first book; it did earn its place in the canon of classical science fiction. I cannot say the same for its sequels, particularly this one.
Lastly, for Terence:
My Reviews of the Ringworld series:
← The Ringworld Engineers
For a while now I’ve been ruminating on the role of the medieval setting in fantasy, and more specifically the kingdom. Monarchies are (largely) obsolete these days, though Charles Stross has some interesting ideas about how the divine right of kings could intersect with extreme libertarianism. It’s interesting, then, this obsession we have with a form of government that is inherently unstable, unfair, and usually just crap. I mean, yes, it makes for good conflict, and conflict is the heart of good storytelling. Yet I can’t help but feel it’s somewhat ironic that we sit here, cheering for an heir to take back her kingdom, instead of hoping for a rebellion to take the monarchy down.
The Riven Kingdom has provoked another round of rumination, for preserving the continuity of the crown is central to the plot. Indeed, it’s practically the entire story: Rhian’s father, King Eberg, dies. With her older brothers predeceasing him, Rhian is the sole heir—but a woman has never ruled as queen in her own right, and Rhian is also a minor. So the grasping high church official, Prolate Marlan, schemes to marry her to a simpleton and rule through this new king. Rhian has other plans. Aided by Dexterity Jones, a toymaker with an unlikely name and the unlikely help of a messenger from God, Rhian escapes Marlan’s clutches, marries her childhood love, and attempts to claim the crown.
A Song of Ice and Fire this is not: there is little in the way of ambiguity here when it comes to good guys and bad guys. Whereas it’s not entirely clear who should win the Iron Throne (go Team Daenerys, woo!), Karen Miller makes it plan that Rhian is the only person for the job and that Marlan is bad, bad, bad. In fact, he’s so stereotypically evil-beyond-redemption that it’s almost embarrassing. Fortunately, the rest of the book is steeped in enough moral exploration to make up for this fault.
Rhian begins the story as an intelligent but still emotionally immature woman. Understandably upset by her father’s lingering death, she snaps at those close to her. This tendency to snap doesn’t actually go away, unfortunately, and I found myself frustrated by how she would seem to yell and stamp any time someone so much as raises an alternative perspective. But I don’t mean to imply that she is the picture of the spoiled princess: far from it; Rhian is a capable successor to her father who merely lacks the experience that age often brings. It’s watching her acquire more experience and more confidence in herself as a ruler during her trials on the road that make this book so enjoyable. Rhian learns from those in her company and gradually begins to construct her own personal code for what it means to be the queen.
A similar change comes over Dexterity, who gets the ball rolling when he persuades Rhian to run away from the capital and declare herself queen openly. His motivation is supernatural, coming to him in the form of his dead wife, Hettie. At first, Dexterity is a bit of a Fool: humorous, carefree, and irreverent, he’s happy to trade quips and roll his eyes beyond someone’s back. Gradually he becomes more serious, more focused, as the significance of his role in these events becomes apparent. And, of course, he has to adjust to being a prophet who can heal people through miracles. Because being on fire but not consumed by it is totally not weird at all.
Perhaps the character who surprised me most was Helfred, Rhian’s personal chaplain. He begins as a stock thorn in Rhian’s side, a creature of Marlan, who is his uncle. He whines and sniffles in that unctuous way of unsavoury priests in fiction. Yet he stands up to Rhian, falls in with her, and ends up taking great risks. Unlike his uncle, he shows himself to be a genuine man of faith. And of all the characters, he is probably the one who changes the most dramatically. If there’s anyone who demonstrates Miller’s careful attention to character development, it’s Helfred.
Unless it’s Zandakar, of course.
This is the second book in the Godspeaker trilogy. I read the first book recently enough that my memory of it is still quite clear. I was intrigued but not captivated by it. It was just quite different, which can be good but also unsettling. The Riven Kingdom is much more conventional in narration and dialogue. I wonder what it would be like to read this book first and then tackle Empress, for the latter doesn’t really encourage one to continue reading the series. Of course, this approach comes at the cost of not realizing Zandakar’s significance or the backstory within the Mijak interludes of the book.
Zandakar is no longer the proud warrior he was in Empress. Beaten and broken, sold into slavery, he is rescued by Dexterity and nursed back to health. He feels guilty for his role in killing and enslaving literally countries’ worth of people. And this is a secret he can’t share, except with Dexterity. I like how Miller realistically portrays the slow, awkward development of communication between Zandakar and Dexterity. There’s no magical translation spell, no convenient crutch that allows one to speak the other’s language through anything other than patience and practice. As Zandakar becomes more fluent in Ethrean we are treated to more of his viewpoint and get to see how much he has changed since the events of the first book.
Zandakar exists as a foil for Rhian, the gentle queen. He teaches her his hotas, the exercises that help hone his focus and skills as a warrior, at her request. She develops the ability to kill by instinct, demonstrating this starkly at a pivotal moment in the book. Rhian realizes that she cannot and will not shed blood of her own accord. Zandakar accuses her of not wanting or willing to be queen. For him, ruling and killing go hand in hand. Rhian rejects this emphatically, thereby establishing one of the pillars of her personal code of ruling. But she wouldn’t have done this without Zandakar’s guidance and training.
Moreover, Zandakar is a symbol for what awaits Ethrea when the Mijak warhost arrives. Beyond the immediate story of Rhian’s accession lies the impending arrival of the horde that is pouring out of Mijak. I assume this will come to a head in the third book. Those closest to Zandakar, those like Rhian who have seen him kill to defend them, understand how terrifying he is. Now multiply that by the thousands … it beggars belief. Ethrea is not in for good times.
The Riven Kingdom is definitely a cut above Empress. If you managed to get through the first book but, like me, were hesitant to carry on, I’d say you should give it a try. And even if you gave Empress a pass, it might be worth giving this book shot. As far as fantasy books go, there is very little in the way of new ideas here. As I remarked earlier, it is essentially the basic inheritance conflict plot. But it’s competently executed, with characters who undergo some subtle change and development along the way. Sometimes, that’s sufficient for an enjoyable little book.
My reviews of the Godspeaker trilogy:
← Empress | Hammer of God →
The Riven Kingdom has provoked another round of rumination, for preserving the continuity of the crown is central to the plot. Indeed, it’s practically the entire story: Rhian’s father, King Eberg, dies. With her older brothers predeceasing him, Rhian is the sole heir—but a woman has never ruled as queen in her own right, and Rhian is also a minor. So the grasping high church official, Prolate Marlan, schemes to marry her to a simpleton and rule through this new king. Rhian has other plans. Aided by Dexterity Jones, a toymaker with an unlikely name and the unlikely help of a messenger from God, Rhian escapes Marlan’s clutches, marries her childhood love, and attempts to claim the crown.
A Song of Ice and Fire this is not: there is little in the way of ambiguity here when it comes to good guys and bad guys. Whereas it’s not entirely clear who should win the Iron Throne (go Team Daenerys, woo!), Karen Miller makes it plan that Rhian is the only person for the job and that Marlan is bad, bad, bad. In fact, he’s so stereotypically evil-beyond-redemption that it’s almost embarrassing. Fortunately, the rest of the book is steeped in enough moral exploration to make up for this fault.
Rhian begins the story as an intelligent but still emotionally immature woman. Understandably upset by her father’s lingering death, she snaps at those close to her. This tendency to snap doesn’t actually go away, unfortunately, and I found myself frustrated by how she would seem to yell and stamp any time someone so much as raises an alternative perspective. But I don’t mean to imply that she is the picture of the spoiled princess: far from it; Rhian is a capable successor to her father who merely lacks the experience that age often brings. It’s watching her acquire more experience and more confidence in herself as a ruler during her trials on the road that make this book so enjoyable. Rhian learns from those in her company and gradually begins to construct her own personal code for what it means to be the queen.
A similar change comes over Dexterity, who gets the ball rolling when he persuades Rhian to run away from the capital and declare herself queen openly. His motivation is supernatural, coming to him in the form of his dead wife, Hettie. At first, Dexterity is a bit of a Fool: humorous, carefree, and irreverent, he’s happy to trade quips and roll his eyes beyond someone’s back. Gradually he becomes more serious, more focused, as the significance of his role in these events becomes apparent. And, of course, he has to adjust to being a prophet who can heal people through miracles. Because being on fire but not consumed by it is totally not weird at all.
Perhaps the character who surprised me most was Helfred, Rhian’s personal chaplain. He begins as a stock thorn in Rhian’s side, a creature of Marlan, who is his uncle. He whines and sniffles in that unctuous way of unsavoury priests in fiction. Yet he stands up to Rhian, falls in with her, and ends up taking great risks. Unlike his uncle, he shows himself to be a genuine man of faith. And of all the characters, he is probably the one who changes the most dramatically. If there’s anyone who demonstrates Miller’s careful attention to character development, it’s Helfred.
Unless it’s Zandakar, of course.
This is the second book in the Godspeaker trilogy. I read the first book recently enough that my memory of it is still quite clear. I was intrigued but not captivated by it. It was just quite different, which can be good but also unsettling. The Riven Kingdom is much more conventional in narration and dialogue. I wonder what it would be like to read this book first and then tackle Empress, for the latter doesn’t really encourage one to continue reading the series. Of course, this approach comes at the cost of not realizing Zandakar’s significance or the backstory within the Mijak interludes of the book.
Zandakar is no longer the proud warrior he was in Empress. Beaten and broken, sold into slavery, he is rescued by Dexterity and nursed back to health. He feels guilty for his role in killing and enslaving literally countries’ worth of people. And this is a secret he can’t share, except with Dexterity. I like how Miller realistically portrays the slow, awkward development of communication between Zandakar and Dexterity. There’s no magical translation spell, no convenient crutch that allows one to speak the other’s language through anything other than patience and practice. As Zandakar becomes more fluent in Ethrean we are treated to more of his viewpoint and get to see how much he has changed since the events of the first book.
Zandakar exists as a foil for Rhian, the gentle queen. He teaches her his hotas, the exercises that help hone his focus and skills as a warrior, at her request. She develops the ability to kill by instinct, demonstrating this starkly at a pivotal moment in the book. Rhian realizes that she cannot and will not shed blood of her own accord. Zandakar accuses her of not wanting or willing to be queen. For him, ruling and killing go hand in hand. Rhian rejects this emphatically, thereby establishing one of the pillars of her personal code of ruling. But she wouldn’t have done this without Zandakar’s guidance and training.
Moreover, Zandakar is a symbol for what awaits Ethrea when the Mijak warhost arrives. Beyond the immediate story of Rhian’s accession lies the impending arrival of the horde that is pouring out of Mijak. I assume this will come to a head in the third book. Those closest to Zandakar, those like Rhian who have seen him kill to defend them, understand how terrifying he is. Now multiply that by the thousands … it beggars belief. Ethrea is not in for good times.
The Riven Kingdom is definitely a cut above Empress. If you managed to get through the first book but, like me, were hesitant to carry on, I’d say you should give it a try. And even if you gave Empress a pass, it might be worth giving this book shot. As far as fantasy books go, there is very little in the way of new ideas here. As I remarked earlier, it is essentially the basic inheritance conflict plot. But it’s competently executed, with characters who undergo some subtle change and development along the way. Sometimes, that’s sufficient for an enjoyable little book.
My reviews of the Godspeaker trilogy:
← Empress | Hammer of God →
George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books were some of the first fantasy I read, back when I was in grade seven. One of my friends introduced me to fantasy by way of [a:David Eddings|8732|David Eddings|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1223870462p2/8732.jpg]' [b:The Belgariad|44688|Magician's Gambit (The Belgariad, #3)|David Eddings|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1315276590l/44688._SY75_.jpg|938086], and after polishing that off, I read the first three A Song of Ice and Fire books (yes, all three were out then, and the fourth one just came out recently!). Martin is one of my favourite authors, truly a brilliant combination of writer and storyteller: a master of the technique as well as the craft.
Martin is brave to publish Dreamsongs, which gives us--especially those of us who are younger readers and haven't been as exposed to the short fiction magazines of Martin's youth--a glimpse of Martin's formative years and the works with which he became a professional author. You can clearly see his writing improve over the course of the five-part book. Yet at the same time, even his early stories carry the kernel of creativity that's evident throughout this volume.
My favourites were "The Second Kidn of Loneliness", "And Seven Times Never Kill Man", "The Ice Dragon", "Meathouse Man", "Remembering Melody", and "Nightflyers". Having never read any of Martin's horror/SF stories, those latter "Hybrids and Horrors" made a significant impression on me--in particular, I'd compare them to [a:Orson Scott Card|589|Orson Scott Card|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1294099952p2/589.jpg] in terms of ingenuity. Although "The Pear-Shaped Man" wasn't one of my favourites of this anthology, it's an excellent example of that Card-like creativity that makes Martin a prodigious writer: he knows how to get under your skin.
For those who have read other works by Martin, this will expand your knowledge of his oeuvre and his talents: he is indeed a science fiction/fantasy/horror writer, and everything in between. Plus, it will sate your thirst for more Martin stories in between books in A Song for Ice and Fire!
For those who are reading the works of Martin for the first time, this book is an excellent introduction.
Martin is brave to publish Dreamsongs, which gives us--especially those of us who are younger readers and haven't been as exposed to the short fiction magazines of Martin's youth--a glimpse of Martin's formative years and the works with which he became a professional author. You can clearly see his writing improve over the course of the five-part book. Yet at the same time, even his early stories carry the kernel of creativity that's evident throughout this volume.
My favourites were "The Second Kidn of Loneliness", "And Seven Times Never Kill Man", "The Ice Dragon", "Meathouse Man", "Remembering Melody", and "Nightflyers". Having never read any of Martin's horror/SF stories, those latter "Hybrids and Horrors" made a significant impression on me--in particular, I'd compare them to [a:Orson Scott Card|589|Orson Scott Card|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1294099952p2/589.jpg] in terms of ingenuity. Although "The Pear-Shaped Man" wasn't one of my favourites of this anthology, it's an excellent example of that Card-like creativity that makes Martin a prodigious writer: he knows how to get under your skin.
For those who have read other works by Martin, this will expand your knowledge of his oeuvre and his talents: he is indeed a science fiction/fantasy/horror writer, and everything in between. Plus, it will sate your thirst for more Martin stories in between books in A Song for Ice and Fire!
For those who are reading the works of Martin for the first time, this book is an excellent introduction.
Huh. Probably should have just called this one Bad Things Happen to Nevare.
Robin Hobb is swiftly spending the credit she earned with her last book. If giving Shaman's Crossing a second chance dispelled my vaguely unpleasant memories of it, those memories are returning with renewed vigour, despite the fact that I have not read Forest Mage before.
Bad things happened to Nevare in the first book, of course. Bad things have to happen to the protagonist; without conflict the story would be rather boring. Yet there was always a sense of hope, an idea that Nevare would somehow rally and carry the day. It seems as if Forest Mage is a concerted effort to tell us, "No, no, he really can't win this one." Nevare's situation goes from inconvenient to bad to worse to stupendously worse to sentenced to death worse. During this time, he gets unmanageably fat and goes around making a lot of stupid decisions. Nor is he alone in this endeavour.
It's tempting to call Forest Mage a tragedy, because there is really no other word to describe it. Nevare is a man torn between two peoples, Gernians and Specks. Neither will back down, and he seems at a loss to reconcile their opposing goals. Speck magic has seized control of Nevare's body, and his obesity freaks everyone else out because they don't have KFC in Gernia. Nevare's father, who was a level-headed, intelligent, and thoughtful man in the first book is suddenly a tyrannical harpy. His sister and his love interest both abandon him. Eventually, he is reduced to the status of an exiled cemetery sentry in a border town. And that lasts until he gets accused of murder and sentenced to hang, after being flogged with a thousand lashes.
It's just depressing, but it isn't all that tragic. True tragedy comes from hamartia. The main character has to make a mistake which leads to terrible consequences. Nevare did make a mistake when he went on the Kidona spiritual quest that culminated in his failure to kill Tree Woman. Yet the consequences for this act have been disproportionate to his failure; moreover, his subsequent misfortune seems to be caused by a manipulative force ("the magic") instead of Nevare's continued lack of judgement.
So whereas the misfortune visited upon Nevare in the first book came from his own doing, most of what happens to him in Forest Mage seems excessive and external. Hobb pushes him, roughly and crudely, out of Gernian society and into an existential no-man's land between Gernia and the Speck forest. The climax of the book is Nevare's realization that he must give himself over to the magic, because otherwise it will continue to bring ruin upon him and those close to him. But why, oh why, did that take 726 pages?
And why did Nevare stay in Gettys after he learned Spink and Epiny had moved there? He knew he would not be able to conceal his presence from them for long. He suspected that they would all meet a bad end. But no, instead of fleeing north or south along the border, he chose to stay. So if I want to make this more of a tragedy, if I want to pin this on Nevare, I have to accept that Nevare is some kind of idiot who doesn't deserve to be my protagonist anyway.
I do not like the choices Forest Mage offers me. I do not like being in this position. The backstory here is so rich, so full of possibility, and glimpsing that possibility was so easy in Shaman's Crossing. The difference between these two books, in terms of quality, is night and day. Both are a testament to what Hobb can do. The latter is Hobb exhibiting some of her best abilities as a fantasist. The former … well, I don't know.
I just have a hard time accepting some of the story. In particular, the change that has come over Nevare's father between books startles me. He was hard and demanding even in the first book, and not a little conservative and set in his ways. Yet he was fair and honest too. That is not the case here. Not only does he refuse to give Nevare any sort of fair hearing, but he quickly becomes all sorts of paranoid, willing to accuse anyone and everyone of abetting Nevare in some kind of "scheme" to stay obese. The father from the first book was completely gone by this point, and I was sort of skimming until the plague ravaged Burvelle's Landing and Nevare set off on the next step in his journey to obscurity.
Alternatively disturbing and depressing, ultimately pointless, Forest Mage is an alarming reversal from the potential awakened by Shaman's Crossing. I don't know what went wrong here. I am hoping Renegade's Magic manages to pick up what's left of this plot and fashion it into some kind of acceptable resolution. As it is, Nevare is just a tool of "the magic" now, which wants what it can't have. I can see, on an intellectual level, the cleverness behind Hobb's plot—but the story, on the whole, just lacks a crucial spark.
Once more plz, with feeling?
My Reviews of the Soldier Son trilogy:
← Shaman's Crossing | Renegade's Magic →
Robin Hobb is swiftly spending the credit she earned with her last book. If giving Shaman's Crossing a second chance dispelled my vaguely unpleasant memories of it, those memories are returning with renewed vigour, despite the fact that I have not read Forest Mage before.
Bad things happened to Nevare in the first book, of course. Bad things have to happen to the protagonist; without conflict the story would be rather boring. Yet there was always a sense of hope, an idea that Nevare would somehow rally and carry the day. It seems as if Forest Mage is a concerted effort to tell us, "No, no, he really can't win this one." Nevare's situation goes from inconvenient to bad to worse to stupendously worse to sentenced to death worse. During this time, he gets unmanageably fat and goes around making a lot of stupid decisions. Nor is he alone in this endeavour.
It's tempting to call Forest Mage a tragedy, because there is really no other word to describe it. Nevare is a man torn between two peoples, Gernians and Specks. Neither will back down, and he seems at a loss to reconcile their opposing goals. Speck magic has seized control of Nevare's body, and his obesity freaks everyone else out because they don't have KFC in Gernia. Nevare's father, who was a level-headed, intelligent, and thoughtful man in the first book is suddenly a tyrannical harpy. His sister and his love interest both abandon him. Eventually, he is reduced to the status of an exiled cemetery sentry in a border town. And that lasts until he gets accused of murder and sentenced to hang, after being flogged with a thousand lashes.
It's just depressing, but it isn't all that tragic. True tragedy comes from hamartia. The main character has to make a mistake which leads to terrible consequences. Nevare did make a mistake when he went on the Kidona spiritual quest that culminated in his failure to kill Tree Woman. Yet the consequences for this act have been disproportionate to his failure; moreover, his subsequent misfortune seems to be caused by a manipulative force ("the magic") instead of Nevare's continued lack of judgement.
So whereas the misfortune visited upon Nevare in the first book came from his own doing, most of what happens to him in Forest Mage seems excessive and external. Hobb pushes him, roughly and crudely, out of Gernian society and into an existential no-man's land between Gernia and the Speck forest. The climax of the book is Nevare's realization that he must give himself over to the magic, because otherwise it will continue to bring ruin upon him and those close to him. But why, oh why, did that take 726 pages?
And why did Nevare stay in Gettys after he learned Spink and Epiny had moved there? He knew he would not be able to conceal his presence from them for long. He suspected that they would all meet a bad end. But no, instead of fleeing north or south along the border, he chose to stay. So if I want to make this more of a tragedy, if I want to pin this on Nevare, I have to accept that Nevare is some kind of idiot who doesn't deserve to be my protagonist anyway.
I do not like the choices Forest Mage offers me. I do not like being in this position. The backstory here is so rich, so full of possibility, and glimpsing that possibility was so easy in Shaman's Crossing. The difference between these two books, in terms of quality, is night and day. Both are a testament to what Hobb can do. The latter is Hobb exhibiting some of her best abilities as a fantasist. The former … well, I don't know.
I just have a hard time accepting some of the story. In particular, the change that has come over Nevare's father between books startles me. He was hard and demanding even in the first book, and not a little conservative and set in his ways. Yet he was fair and honest too. That is not the case here. Not only does he refuse to give Nevare any sort of fair hearing, but he quickly becomes all sorts of paranoid, willing to accuse anyone and everyone of abetting Nevare in some kind of "scheme" to stay obese. The father from the first book was completely gone by this point, and I was sort of skimming until the plague ravaged Burvelle's Landing and Nevare set off on the next step in his journey to obscurity.
Alternatively disturbing and depressing, ultimately pointless, Forest Mage is an alarming reversal from the potential awakened by Shaman's Crossing. I don't know what went wrong here. I am hoping Renegade's Magic manages to pick up what's left of this plot and fashion it into some kind of acceptable resolution. As it is, Nevare is just a tool of "the magic" now, which wants what it can't have. I can see, on an intellectual level, the cleverness behind Hobb's plot—but the story, on the whole, just lacks a crucial spark.
Once more plz, with feeling?
My Reviews of the Soldier Son trilogy:
← Shaman's Crossing | Renegade's Magic →
I suppose we should call this one 600 Pages of Nevare Eating Things and Arguing with Himself.
In this conclusion to Robin Hobb's Soldier Son trilogy, Nevare faces the enemy within, who goes by the name "Soldier's Boy." As the story opens, Nevare flees from Gettys after magically faking his own death. He heads straight for the Speck forest, where he unleashes his magic on the King's Road to wreak havoc and set back construction. Such a great expenditure burns his reserves of magic, which manifests itself as extreme weight loss. It also lets Soldier's Boy take control of their shared body, relegating Nevare to the role of observer/annoying head-side-kick for the majority of the book.
Soldier's Boy promptly demonstrates he is just as incompetent at using magic and making friends as Nevare is. Since he's uncool and no one likes him, he eats his feelings (though he claims he's just trying to "build up his magic," I think we can all read between the lines here). Meanwhile, he and Nevare continue a battle of the unwitted as it gradually becomes apparent that the only way either one of them can properly wield the magic to save the Specks from the Gernians is if these two personalities merge to form a unified, whole Nevare. And neither one wants that to happen.
I've thought long and hard about what I want to say about Renegade's Magic and the Soldier's Son trilogy in general. Truthfully, I'm finding it difficult to cultivate enough enthusiasm to praise or criticize. Shaman's Crossing's was worthy of the former, and Forest Mage was worthy of the latter. In comparison, this book is a bland mixture of the two.
Renegade's Magic is an improvement over Forest Mage, if only because we get a complete look at the Speck society. Just as our exposure to Gernian ideology made Shaman's Crossing more interesting, the Speck ideology forms a major component of this book, and it is no less worthy of attention. The Specks, though "primitive" in technology in comparison to the Gernians and ourselves, have a very complex hierarchical society. At the top, of course, are the Great Ones, the Speck mages. Below them are the feeders, attendants to the Great Ones. These two echelons are honoured by their kin-clans, for Great Ones bring prestige to a clan, and the feeders keep their Great Ones happy and healthy. Child-rearing is a collective effort by the clan, and the clans themselves are migratory.
Speck society has a lot to recommend it. I wouldn't want to be a Great One, despite the literal and social power that accompanies such status. Maybe it's an aversion to or horror of obesity, or a reaction against the idea of having "feeders." But Hobb depicts a people much more attuned to nature than our own technologically-elevated societies. More importantly, we finally get a diverse culture to associate to the name that has been uttered ever since the first book. The Specks are no longer some spectre of an enemy out east. They are a group of clans, far from monolithic, struggling to survive.
A small part of me was hoping Soldier's Boy's raid on Gettys would work and drive the Gernians away from the frontier. It seemed like the least distasteful option on the table. Of course, I didn't expect it to work. Nevertheless, I am disappointed with the way Hobb ultimately resolves the conflict between the Gernians and the Specks. It seems like cheating, a distraction instead of a resolution. And "the magic" accomplishes it all through Nevare, without Nevare having much of an influence at all. This disempowerment of the protagonist is never a good thing; it verges perilously close to deus ex machina territory, and it robs the resolution of its reward.
And then after that resolution, the story doesn't end. No, it keeps on going in a coda as a restored Nevare leaves the Specks behind to return to Gernia. Because you can go home again? This ending, more than anything else about Renegade's Magic disappoints me. After making such a big deal of the division between Nevare and Soldier's Boy and the uncertainty over what would happen when the two merge … the result is nothing. The resulting character seems suspiciously like Nevare: Gernian and whiny.
It's obvious from the first book that Hobb had set herself a difficult task. After all, her characters are just as nasty and self-centred as those involved in the colonization of the Americas, and look how well that went. So I'm not sure what I expected when it comes to resolving the conflict between the Gernians and the Specks, especially because I seem so dissatisfied in any "magical" ending. Despite my reservations, I will give Hobb credit for her careful foreshadowing in earlier books and her ability to make lesser plot threads coalesce during the climax.
Unfortunately, the exciting moments, such as Soldier's Boy's raid and the climax, are few and far between here. Renegade's Magic is almost as dull as Forest Mage: in the latter, Nevare spent most of the book as a cemetery sentry; in the former, Soldier's Boy spends most of his time eating and butting heads with other Speck Great Ones. Neither book is in any particular hurry to tell its story, and neither does it with the skill that Hobb demonstrates in Soldier's Son. I'm at a loss to explain why this is, why the first book of a trilogy can be so good while the sequels suffer from structural and narrative flaws. Some of this must be subjective, since other people don't have as much of a problem with these two books.
Objectively, though, I think it comes down to a problem of focus. Take Orandula, the god of death, life, balances, and smartass carrion birds, as an example. Great character; I love its dialogue. Still, was there much of a point? It seemed like such a random addition to this universe, more useful as a plot device than a thematic one. Hobb's insistence on spending so much time on Soldier's Boy's careful rebuilding of his reserves and training of the Speck "army" seems like little more than padding to me. I wish there had been a more tangible goal to which the story could have built, something for Soldier's Boy and Nevare to do other than bicker and concoct half-baked schemes while waiting for the magic to take over and solve everything.
Hobb has a nice writing style and a good ability for describing the world her characters inhabit. Yet these books fail to provide the type of complex narrative I desire in my fantasy. The issues are there. The characters are waiting, but they aren't given enough direction, and Hobb keeps them on too tight a leash. Sorry to say, but Renegade's Magic is far more representative of the trilogy than Shaman's Crossing.
My Reviews of the Soldier Son trilogy:
← Forest Mage
In this conclusion to Robin Hobb's Soldier Son trilogy, Nevare faces the enemy within, who goes by the name "Soldier's Boy." As the story opens, Nevare flees from Gettys after magically faking his own death. He heads straight for the Speck forest, where he unleashes his magic on the King's Road to wreak havoc and set back construction. Such a great expenditure burns his reserves of magic, which manifests itself as extreme weight loss. It also lets Soldier's Boy take control of their shared body, relegating Nevare to the role of observer/annoying head-side-kick for the majority of the book.
Soldier's Boy promptly demonstrates he is just as incompetent at using magic and making friends as Nevare is. Since he's uncool and no one likes him, he eats his feelings (though he claims he's just trying to "build up his magic," I think we can all read between the lines here). Meanwhile, he and Nevare continue a battle of the unwitted as it gradually becomes apparent that the only way either one of them can properly wield the magic to save the Specks from the Gernians is if these two personalities merge to form a unified, whole Nevare. And neither one wants that to happen.
I've thought long and hard about what I want to say about Renegade's Magic and the Soldier's Son trilogy in general. Truthfully, I'm finding it difficult to cultivate enough enthusiasm to praise or criticize. Shaman's Crossing's was worthy of the former, and Forest Mage was worthy of the latter. In comparison, this book is a bland mixture of the two.
Renegade's Magic is an improvement over Forest Mage, if only because we get a complete look at the Speck society. Just as our exposure to Gernian ideology made Shaman's Crossing more interesting, the Speck ideology forms a major component of this book, and it is no less worthy of attention. The Specks, though "primitive" in technology in comparison to the Gernians and ourselves, have a very complex hierarchical society. At the top, of course, are the Great Ones, the Speck mages. Below them are the feeders, attendants to the Great Ones. These two echelons are honoured by their kin-clans, for Great Ones bring prestige to a clan, and the feeders keep their Great Ones happy and healthy. Child-rearing is a collective effort by the clan, and the clans themselves are migratory.
Speck society has a lot to recommend it. I wouldn't want to be a Great One, despite the literal and social power that accompanies such status. Maybe it's an aversion to or horror of obesity, or a reaction against the idea of having "feeders." But Hobb depicts a people much more attuned to nature than our own technologically-elevated societies. More importantly, we finally get a diverse culture to associate to the name that has been uttered ever since the first book. The Specks are no longer some spectre of an enemy out east. They are a group of clans, far from monolithic, struggling to survive.
A small part of me was hoping Soldier's Boy's raid on Gettys would work and drive the Gernians away from the frontier. It seemed like the least distasteful option on the table. Of course, I didn't expect it to work. Nevertheless, I am disappointed with the way Hobb ultimately resolves the conflict between the Gernians and the Specks. It seems like cheating, a distraction instead of a resolution. And "the magic" accomplishes it all through Nevare, without Nevare having much of an influence at all. This disempowerment of the protagonist is never a good thing; it verges perilously close to deus ex machina territory, and it robs the resolution of its reward.
And then after that resolution, the story doesn't end. No, it keeps on going in a coda as a restored Nevare leaves the Specks behind to return to Gernia. Because you can go home again? This ending, more than anything else about Renegade's Magic disappoints me. After making such a big deal of the division between Nevare and Soldier's Boy and the uncertainty over what would happen when the two merge … the result is nothing. The resulting character seems suspiciously like Nevare: Gernian and whiny.
It's obvious from the first book that Hobb had set herself a difficult task. After all, her characters are just as nasty and self-centred as those involved in the colonization of the Americas, and look how well that went. So I'm not sure what I expected when it comes to resolving the conflict between the Gernians and the Specks, especially because I seem so dissatisfied in any "magical" ending. Despite my reservations, I will give Hobb credit for her careful foreshadowing in earlier books and her ability to make lesser plot threads coalesce during the climax.
Unfortunately, the exciting moments, such as Soldier's Boy's raid and the climax, are few and far between here. Renegade's Magic is almost as dull as Forest Mage: in the latter, Nevare spent most of the book as a cemetery sentry; in the former, Soldier's Boy spends most of his time eating and butting heads with other Speck Great Ones. Neither book is in any particular hurry to tell its story, and neither does it with the skill that Hobb demonstrates in Soldier's Son. I'm at a loss to explain why this is, why the first book of a trilogy can be so good while the sequels suffer from structural and narrative flaws. Some of this must be subjective, since other people don't have as much of a problem with these two books.
Objectively, though, I think it comes down to a problem of focus. Take Orandula, the god of death, life, balances, and smartass carrion birds, as an example. Great character; I love its dialogue. Still, was there much of a point? It seemed like such a random addition to this universe, more useful as a plot device than a thematic one. Hobb's insistence on spending so much time on Soldier's Boy's careful rebuilding of his reserves and training of the Speck "army" seems like little more than padding to me. I wish there had been a more tangible goal to which the story could have built, something for Soldier's Boy and Nevare to do other than bicker and concoct half-baked schemes while waiting for the magic to take over and solve everything.
Hobb has a nice writing style and a good ability for describing the world her characters inhabit. Yet these books fail to provide the type of complex narrative I desire in my fantasy. The issues are there. The characters are waiting, but they aren't given enough direction, and Hobb keeps them on too tight a leash. Sorry to say, but Renegade's Magic is far more representative of the trilogy than Shaman's Crossing.
My Reviews of the Soldier Son trilogy:
← Forest Mage