I heard about this book on Twitter, I think, and read an excerpt (basically the introduction of the book) in The Guardian, and I was immediately sold. These days I read history books because I’ve discovered since leaving school that history is actually really, really difficult to learn. There’s just so much of it, and it’s just so subject to interpretation depending on the evidence available, the lens you use for that evidence, and your own biases. Even when you’ve done your best to be diligent and check your biases, at the end of the day, there is just so much history!

How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States is all about the overseas territories and possessions of the United States of America. Did you know that the US owned the Philippines from 1898 to 1946? I didn’t! To be fair, I at least have the excuse that I’m Canadian, not American. But I’m not going to spend my entire review dissing the American education system. Daniel Immerwahr makes it pretty clear that any ignorance of the status of these islands, or the history of Hawai’i and Alaska, isn’t just a failure of the education system. It’s inherent in the United States’ abject ambivalence regarding its role as an imperial superpower. Indeed, this book isn’t just a chronicle of how the US came to exert control over far-flung islands in the Pacific. It’s an examination of the ways in which the USA has been an empire, is still an empire, and also, at times, has rejected the notion of empire and colonialism.

My first praise: this book is utterly fascinating and captivating. I mentioned learning that the Philippines was once a US territory—I learned this on page 2! I learned that “sixteen million Filipinos—US nationals who saluted the Stars and Stripes and looked to FDR as their commander-in-chief—fell under a foreign power.” Pearl Harbor is remembered on the mainland as a bombing of a naval base, yet it was actually part of a larger coordinated attack that included the utter invasion of the Philippines. Yet this is a subject that rarely comes up. And that’s just the first two pages of the book. Nearly every page is a non-stop revelation of ideas. Huge kudos to Immerwahr and his editor for being able to stay on track.

Not being American, I don’t read a lot of American history. When I do, I try to find books like this, books that don’t subscribe to the manifest destiny myopia that, thankfully, seems to be a lot less common these days in general. I don’t need history books that lionize certain people and talk about how the west was won. I want history books that examine how present-day patterns and systems are built atop the legacies of what came before. That’s exactly what Immerwahr does here.

Beyond discussing how the US acquired various territories, Immerwahr anchors these acquisitions in the zeitgeist of various periods, from the turn of the 20th century to the interwar period to post-war and Cold War geopolitics. One of his more striking observations for me is how the US came to realize that colonialism as practised and perfected by powers like Great Britain, France, and the Netherlands was obsolete after World War II. Instead, the ability to synthesize many resources once only found in remote locations provided an alternative to expensive colonization efforts. In this way, Immerwahr illustrates how colonialism has always existed as an economic expediency, a symptom of capitalism created by inefficiencies of technology and scale. That doesn’t mean colonialism has gone away, mind you—it has just shifted forms, as Immerwahr discusses in an entire chapter devoted to international standards. (He talks about screw thread angles. Yes, that sounds terribly boring. Yet it’s not—it’s downright fascinating!) He mentions “Coca-colonization” briefly but doesn’t quite engage with it that much, although to be fair, cultural imperialism is more of a digression within this book than the main point.

It’s difficult for me to decide what other facts to share, because I learned so many. It’s difficult to know how else to praise this book, because it’s really quite interesting. So let me zoom out for a moment and explain the appeal of Immerwahr’s subject and his approach to it.

On its surface, How to Hide an Empire contains a lot of stories about individuals and their role in events. In no way is this book a “Great Man” book of history though. Even when discussing General Douglas MacArthur, who looms largest perhaps because of his role in multiple colonial situations, Immerwahr is careful to observe how numerous other people and entities amplified or attenuated MacArthur’s influence. Indeed, How to Hide an Empire is actually a systems theory approach to history on a global level in a way that is broad enough to be useful yet granular enough to remain valid. Each chapter explores how the US embraced or stepped away from empire depending on its particular social needs at the time. The chapter on technology and transport, “This is What God Hath Wrought,” is a particularly keen example of this; Immerwahr details the logistical needs of managing a fighting force that spans the entire globe.

I love this, because it’s really hard for we humans to think on an abstract, systemic level like this. Take climate change. There’s so much emphasis put on individual reduction of emissions and carbon footprint. Yet 100 companies are responsible for 71% of the world’s carbon emissions, and the US military is one of the largest single consumers of oil in the whole world. When viewed from a larger systems angle, then, we see that the problem of climate change is not something we can solve from a grassroots, individualist approach. That isn’t to absolve everyone of responsibility—I’m still going to do my part—but every individual doing their part still won’t matter if we don’t actually alter the systems that allow these corporate emissions to continue.

Similarly, I was recently reading a piece that was very passionately trying to convince me we should switch to all-natural fibres in our clothing. Now, I’m a big fan of natural fibres when it comes to my knitting. As I previously mentioned, Immerwahr discusses how the US switched to synthetic materials to reduce its dependency on acquiring them from other countries. Some natural materials are difficult to grow/sustainably source from within North America—so insisting we switch to them could usher in another era of exploitation and colonialism if we aren’t careful about how we do it. These types of issues are so complex and fascinating, and it’s important for us to think on a global scale (then act on a local one).

So my final and highest praise for this book is that reading How to Hide an Empire is a valuable and edifying exercise in thinking systemically. It encourages the reader to view our global human civilization as a dynamic network of interdependent economies and societies. What one society does affects every other society in some way, with certain actors, like the US, having an outsize amount of influence. Immerwahr reminds or informs people of the various territories that the US once or currently holds, including the beleaguered people of Puerto Rico, who are American citizens yet have no representation in Congress or the White House. (Speaking now as a Canadian, I do have to say I think it’s silly for any American to claim theirs is the greatest country/democracy on Earth when some of your citizens can’t even vote in your elections. Get your act together.) On this basis alone, the book is worth reading. On a wider level, the book is a great way to get you thinking about our world through a different lens. And that’s the best thing a history book can do. Check out the excerpt I linked to at the beginning of my review if you need any more convincing.

It was difficult to get into this book for the first few chapters. The story properly begins in Chapter IV, where Mrs. Dean begins her tale of the doomed love between the inhabitants of Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights. Prior to that, Mr. Lockwood's introduction to Heathcliff and his associates seems like a prologue, and a poor one at that.

I persevered, however, and my opinion of Wuthering Heights steadily increased from two stars to four. Inevitably, Wuthering Heights is compared to [b:Jane Eyre|10210|Jane Eyre (Penguin Classics)|Charlotte Brontë|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41GT7KJHSVL._SL75_.jpg|2977639], so I'll get that over with now: Wuthering Heights is a superior story, but Jane Eyre has deeper themes. This may seem like a cursory comparison, but I think it's accurate. The further into Wuthering Heights I went, the more I was impressed by Emily Brontë's grasp of plot and narrative. After growing accustomed to her dialect and style, I started turning pages relatively quickly, and I became engrossed in the plot.

The characters, on the other hand, aren't as well developed as those in Jane Eyre. They are mostly static and larger-than-life, although that often makes them all the more enjoyable. Heathcliff is perhaps one of the best antagonists in the history of English literature: simply immoral, eager to inflict retribution for any slight, real or imagined. I was very shocked when Heathcliff called his wife a "slut," once in the hearing of his twelve-year-old son! I tried to feel sorry for his son; it wasn't young Linton's fault that Heathcliff raised him in such a way, but I couldn't. He was just too cruel to Catherine, particularly after forcing her to marry him, and I could not forgive him for that. Nor could I forgive Hareton Earnshaw, which made the ending unpalatable for me.

What I found the most interesting about the characters, however, is how remarkably self-absorbed each one is. Aside from the narrators, every character without exception is an egotist. I wonder if that was a deliberate choice on Brontë's part in order to support the narrative's moral, if it was a result of the unreliable, judgemental narrator, or if it was due to Brontë's reclusive lifestyle. In any event, Mrs. Dean and Mr. Lockwood soon emerge as the two sanest characters in the book--this is no doubt Brontë's intention, as our trust in them must be explicit if we are to believe the story-within-a-story that follows.

I also wonder why Brontë chose to have such a structure instead of making Mrs. Dean the primary narrator. Perhaps because a book narrated by a housekeeper would risk earning less acceptance than one told by a "respectable" male member of society? Lockwood is a relatively undeveloped character, so I found it hard to get attached to him--indeed, any break from Dean's narrative was unwelcome. I was much more interested in the machinations of Heathcliff and the selfish protests of Catherine Linton.

Not sure why this book is still marketed as a "great romance." It's certainly a romance, and was probably more of a romance back in its day than in the present. However, the two-dimensionality of the characters makes any true romance hollow. The characters' humanity is only made apparent in the cruelty of their actions, so the best part of Wuthering Heights is its villain, through whom Brontë depicts a careful, decades-long campaign of "humanity" in the form of cruelty. Wuthering Heights is a tale of dark passions that can only be a product of the Byron school of romantic literature.

Every single review panning this story for not making sense is entirely deserved. Time travel stories are difficult to write and, even when written well, difficult to parse and read. If it’s not your thing, that’s fine.

But Permafrost is so very much my thing.

In structure, it reminds me of Palimpsest, by Charles Stross. Both are novellas with a single protagonist recently initiated in time travel. Both are fairly convoluted in terms of how the author implements the logical principles of time travel, particularly when it comes to causality. Palimpsest remains my fave, I think, although I should re-read it again. But I love me more time travel stories.

In other ways I’m reminded of Travelers, a TV show I got into during its final season (boo) on Netflix and which had a great use of time travel. Both stories involve last-ditch attempts to save the human species through time travel, with coordination by AIs and the displacement of people’s consciousnesses in the past rather than physical time travel. And, of course, in both cases, things go horribly awry!

As usual, Alastair Reynolds’ ideas are big but he manages to apply them satisfactorily to a smaller scale when it comes to the individual characters. Valentina and her vehicle, Tatiana, have an interesting rapport that drives the climax of the novella. This is a story about accomplishing a desperate objective despite the tremendous personal cost, not necessarily out of any sense of self-sacrifice or heroism but perhaps only because … what else is one to do?

I understand why some people don’t like the constant jumping back and forth between past and present, or how the novella opens with events that we don't return to until much later in the story. At first it threw me off—but of course, that’s the point. Time travel is confusing by its very nature, and there is no way to tell it in a straightforward, linear way, because once you introduce causality violations, your plot by its nature is no longer a straight line of cause and effect. The jarring transitions from past to present mirror Valentina’s own transitions and how it must affect her perceptions.

If this were a full novel, I might be less charitable in my praise of such a structure, but novellas are a sweet spot. Longer than short stories, they provide a freedom in terms of page length to develop characters and ideas. Yet shorter than novels, they don’t have the same burden of sustaining a plot for as long. I don’t read a lot of novellas, but I’m starting to think they’re a great length for more experimental time travel fiction like this.

Why did it take me so long to get to this? The Rook is clever urban fantasy, set in England. Superficially similar to Charles Stross’ Laundry Files in setting and tone, it is more focused on the institutions created to deal with the supernatural rather than the supernatural itself. Daniel O’Malley balances a complicated plot quite deftly, and as we rocketed towards the climax, I literally didn’t want to put the book down. There are some rough edges to it, some clumsy exposition and some offbeat characterization. That didn’t detract too much from my enjoyment, though.

Myfanwy Thomas begins the book with amnesia. Her entire life has been stolen from her, rendering her a new person. Over the coming days she pieces together information about her previous self from notes left by herself (whom she dubs “Thomas”) and slots into her life as a Rook in the secret society known as the Checquy. But someone within the Chequy is trying to kill her, because she knows too much….

O’Malley doesn’t initially dump too much exposition on us, and this works quite well. It’s only gradually that we learn about the Checquy’s past, Myfanwy’s role and responsibilities as a Rook, and even her powers. The first part of the book is more of a series of episodes that introduce us to various characters and allow us to see Myfanwy establish her new personality. I really enjoy amnesiac protagonists, especially when they have to hide their memory loss from others. The way that Thomas has left letters for her future self is so foreboding, and it’s also very sad. Thomas basically died, even if her body lived on—it’s such a tragic story, and that really comes through in the way we learn about the events leading up to Thomas’ “death”.

There’s an offbeat sense of humour to this book, and the odd thing (from my perspective) is how sometimes it works for me and sometimes it doesn’t. By and large I really appreciate Myfanwy’s irreverent kind of tone—it reminds me a bit of Crichton from Farscape. This manifests in particular when Myfanwy has to attend an operation on site. I loved the interaction between Myfanwy and Shantay. Yet as the story approaches the climax and events accelerate, Myfanwy’s chill starts to feel too chill. Like, you’re about to take on an enemy within the Court of the Checquy itself, and you’re cracking wise with your secretary and complaining about how you haven’t had enough sleep this weekend? I don’t know. The whole tone of the last act feels off, and while it didn’t ruin the book for me, it feels like a significant flaw.

I came to this book for the promise of a kind of supernatural political mystery. The Rook delivers on that, and then some, although the writing doesn’t always hold up. This was a pleasant way to spend a couple of afternoons, and I might enjoy the sequel at some point.

My reviews of the Checquy Files:
Stiletto →

Um, wow. Full Disclosure caught me by surprise. I was doing a library run, and after hearing this book hyped on Twitter I checked on a lark to see if my library had a copy—not expecting one, because it was so freshly published. Yet my library did have a copy, and I borrowed it, and I read it, and this book is quality. I was expecting to like the book, but honestly, I loved it. Camryn Garrett is brave and bold in her characterization and plot, and while not all of her narrative decisions pay off, the overall result is an interesting and emotionally complex novel that leaves me so satisfied yet simultaneously wanting more.

Also, my friends: ace rep!! More on that in a bit.

Simone Garcia-Hampton is a high school student whose two dads are fiercely protective of her—because she is HIV positive. This makes a lot of stuff, like figuring out how to become sexually active, more complicated! Simone has finally found some friends at her new school—she left her old one because word spread and she was bullied and stigmatized—and now there’s a love interest, Miles, on the horizon. But then anonymous notes show up threatening to expose Simone’s secret if she doesn’t stop pursuing Miles. Life is complicated enough for any high school student, let alone someone in Simone’s position.

I love the narration and Simone’s voice. I love how quickly Garrett slides us into different facets of Simone’s life, from the routine medical appointments to her conversations with her parents and her friends. Garrett wastes no time establishing each character with distinctive personality traits. Simone’s Dad is a somewhat reserved doctor who maybe takes things a bit too seriously; her Pops, on the other hand, seems more laid back and easygoing, but he has that kind of subtle seriousness to him characteristic of most positively-portrayed English teachers in YA novels. Simone’s best friend Claudia is sardonic and says what’s on her mind; her other best friend Lydia, while also opinionated, tends to avoid confrontation. And we learn quite a bit about these characters, as well as some of the others in this book—there are few stock or shallow characters in Full Disclosure.

I have to say I was surprised, in a heartwarming way, when I learned Claudia is asexual (actual, on-page rep). She’s an ace lesbian, actually; she has a girlfriend but isn’t sexually attracted to her. This is not Claudia’s book, of course, but since I’m also asexual I want to spend some time discussing this representation (although, obviously, I’m not a lesbian and can’t speak to that part of the characterization). I like how Garrett portrays Claudia as sex-positive while not particularly interested in sex herself. At one point, she mentions going down on her girlfriend because her girlfriend appreciates it, but Claudia herself doesn’t want the act reciprocated. In this way, despite Claudia being a side character, Garrett still manages to portray that asexuality is, like any other orientation, a complex identity. Being asexual doesn’t preclude having a girlfriend or even having sex, should one choose those things.

Although I’m aromantic and also have no desire to have a partner, I do see a little bit of myself in Claudia. We are both very sex-positive people despite not wanting to have sex ourselves: Claudia is relentlessly cheerful and positive about Simone expressing herself sexually (“I’d have sex with you, if I were into it. You’re awesome!” is the first hint we have towards Claudia’s asexuality before the word is actually used a few chapters later). She suggests the three of them use fake IDs to get into a sex store to buy vibrators. She is there for the immense amount of dirty talk that happens in this novel (oh, yeah, trigger warning for that by the way). Like Claudia, I am not personally DTF, but I am down to talk to my friends about sex, to cheerlead them if they need it, to offer them what support I can, because I want them to be happy. And also, I find it fascinating in an incredulous sort of way (I still have a hard time believing anyone actually wants or likes to have sex).

There’s also a great moment when Simone is lamenting the complexity of navigating her sexual attraction to Miles, and she remarks, “I wish I were ace,” to which Claudia seriously replies, “Girl, it has its own problems…. You don’t know how many talks Emma and I have about it.” I appreciate that Garrett acknowledges this struggle in a passing way, that she has Claudia push back on a thoughtless comment from Simone, and then they move on.

Claudia and Lydia are great characters too because they are realistic best friends for Simone. They handle her revelation that she is HIV positive quite well, yet also with about as much awkwardness as one might expect—she definitely feels a little uncomfortable with how they phrase their questions, and that’s understandable. Similarly, when they confront Simone about how she has been blowing them and the GSA meetings off to hang with Miles, there is so much tension in the air. Claudia and Simone both act unfairly towards each other in the heat of the moment—and I do so appreciate when the author is not afraid to create actual conflict between best friends. Friendship isn’t about always getting along no matter what: friendship is about screwing up because we care about each other, and then having the strength to get over ourselves and apologize when we’re in the wrong. Garrett writes strong friendships.

Claudia is ace and Lydia is bi. Simone isn’t sure what she is: she is questioning for most of the novel, kind of settling on bi as an accurate description so far of her experiences, although she isn’t sure that her one experience with a girl at her previous school “counts.” For this reason, she has trepidation about identifying as queer within the gay-straight alliance, and because she’s hiding this from her friends for much of the book, that contributes to some of the tension.

Honestly the whole romance between Simone and Miles didn’t do much for me, so I won’t spend much time critiquing it. Miles himself is one of the less interesting characters, in my opinion. He seems like a super nice guy, and Simone (and all the readers of this book who are attracted to guys) deserves a super nice guy. I love that he embraces Simone’s revelation about being HIV positive and becomes a fierce ally for her. Full Disclosure is full of surprises and twists, but they are seldom the surprises or twists that you see coming—for example, I wasn’t expecting her support group to become such big characters as they do, yet here we are.

The whole blackmail plot? I did guess the identity of the blackmailer fairly early in the book (it’s always the nicest, most extraneous character). And I was disappointed for the reason behind it … or maybe it was more the resolution? Honestly, if I’m going to be critical of Full Disclosure it’s that the last act of the book feels rushed and strives to hit a lot of perfunctory notes as it barrels from climax to denouement much like the musicals it references here. I like the ending; I like that it’s a happy ending yet also a very ambiguous one in many ways (we don’t really get to learn what happens with Simone and Miles). Yet I’m a little dissatisfied by how quickly we get there.

Ms. Klein is a good example of that—there’s a moment where it seems like she’s going to reveal some genuine humanity and extend a comforting hand to Simone in a time of need. And then, nope, she’s just a garbage person still. Which, fair: some people are like that. But then Mr. Palumbo pops out of nowhere to berate Ms. Klein for her behaviour, and it’s all a little too convenient. Full Disclosure is a book where good deeds are rewarded and the bad guys are clearly identified and punished, and while I am all in favour of happy endings for queer people … I also don’t want my narratives wrapped up in a neat and tidy bow. There needs to be a little bit of ambiguity, and it’s not always present in this book.

There’s a few other things I could get into if I wanted to—I haven’t even really touched on race, on the fact that Simone is a dark-skinned Black woman from a mixed household, and how this lens affects her experience as a queer/questioning HIV-positive teenager. It’s complex. Garrett does a great job exploring the intersectionality here, and perhaps what I love the most about this book is that it demonstrates how enjoyable YA can become when we remove the unspoken normalization of white people. There aren’t that many prominent white characters in this book, and honestly, I think that’s a good thing. I also like that, although racism is obviously present and accounted for in Simone’s experiences herein, it’s often quite subtle. It’s often what the narrative doesn’t say that matters more. As a white man, of course, I’m sure there’s a lot that went over my head as a result of my privileged experience—but if I try to read between the lines, I can just about glimpse interactions that I suspect will have younger, Black readers nodding their heads in agreement.

In the end, Full Disclosure’s plot leaves a little to be desired. Then again, this is Garrett’s first published novel. I’m not here to say it’s “amazing considering she’s only 19”—Full Disclosure would be amazing regardless of its author’s age. This is a book that tackles important issues, including one I’ve never read about—I couldn’t tell you the last YA novel I read about an HIV positive protagonist—and it attempts to do so with an eye towards inclusive, multi-dimensional representation of various identities, and characters who can make mistakes and forgive each other. All of this makes for a very satisfying experience and a highly recommended read.

Dr. Miles Singer is a military psychiatrist treating veterans of Aeland’s war with Laneer. He himself is hiding from his noble family, who would drag him back to use his magical talents as a mere battery and help prop up their power in Aeland. But when a stranger dies in Miles’ arms and begs Miles to find his killer, Miles’ two worlds collide. Soon there won’t be any secrets … but will the price be Miles’ independence? Or Aeland’s?

Witchmark hits a lot of the right spots. Polk has the knack for not bogging us down with infodumps. The result is a streamlined narrative—yet I never felt particularly lost. This is a world that feels comfortably different from our own, yet also very familiar. It isn’t directly analogous to a specific time or place, but it blends some familiar tropes and set-pieces of, say, Edwardian England alongside more magical inventions. Telephones and aetheric power, bicycles and pedal-cars and aetheric engines.

Miles is a competent protagonist trapped within the strictures of his society. He thought he had wriggled out, only to discover that his freedom was always contingent and, indeed, easily curtailed when the time came. But Miles also meets someone: Tristan, an otherworldly companion and soon-to-be lover. Together, they hope to get to the bottom of both the murder mystery and a wider-ranging mystery of Tristan’s—where are all the souls going? There’s a whole bunch of layers and nuance to the plot here. In addition to Miles and Tristan, Polk populates Witchmark with numerous secondary characters who all have distinctive personalities and traits. From the loyal Robin—about whom we learn some secrets that we never have time to delve deeper into, so I hope that comes up in the sequel—to the pragmatic Dr. Matheson to Miles’ sister, Grace, a curious mixture of naivete and political cunning. Oh, yes: this book has a plethora of women of all sorts of tempers and tenacity.

I also appreciate how Polk is willing to let distractions and setbacks plague Miles constantly. A good writer can keep the plot on track and at pace; a great writer knows how to keep the plot constantly going off track—yet somehow gets there in the end. Every time Miles and Tristan think they have a plan figured out or a new lead, something pops up to interfere—and I love it. The twists keep coming, but they always fold back into the original story. There’s a lovely balance between allowing the reader to read between the lines and figure things out in anticipation of the payoff and then genuine surprises or reveals that still leave you satisfied.

I don’t know; it’s hard to summarize how I feel about this book. Witchmark is not a simple or light read, despite being fairly thin. It touches on a lot of serious issues, not the least of which is slavery/indentured servitude. There are political machinations … yet there is also a very personal story of trying to retain one’s individual control over one’s destiny. This is a really deep, satisfying read.

Last year I read The Rook, and I liked it enough that when I noticed this sequel at the library, I gave it a shot. Did not regret! This is a great example of a sequel that doesn’t disappoint—although, it doesn’t quite deliver exactly what I wanted either. Namely, I was expecting another book that follows Myfanwy Thomas. She’s here in Stiletto, but she isn’t really the central protagonist. For that we have Odette and Felicity.

Spoilers for the first book but not this one.

Stiletto begins with the leaders of the Grafters showing up in London to negotiate their merger into the Checquy. This is lifelong enemies joining together, y’all, and it is tense. Odette is a descendant of one of the founders (and current leader) of the Grafters, even though she herself is quite young (early twenties) and thus has fairly few physical upgrades. She has been raised to hate and fear the Checquy and their “unnatural” abilities, however, so to be among them—to soon be working for them—is an uncomfortable sensation. Odette is assigned Felicity, a Checquy Pawn who has the ability to psychically “read” objects for their history and other sensations, as a bodyguard. Felicity hates the Grafters as much as Grafters hate the Checquy … nevertheless, she understands that protecting Odette is a top priority.

Because although Myfanwy doesn’t know it, the Grafters have brought a threat with them to England, and it’s killing people.

Let me get over my disappointment of not getting more Myfanwy so I can then talk about how much I like Odette and Felicity! Myfanwy is such an interesting character because she is really a new person, given her amnesiac state in The Rook. With only two members of the Checquy aware of her condition, Myfanwy’s personality changes are otherwise abrupt and puzzling to everyone else. Having taken down Rook Gestalt and catapulted a Pawn who dislikes her into the Bishopric vacated by the treacherous Conrad Grantchester, Myfanwy has her share of political issues on top of the Grafters coming to join the family. There’s a lot going on, and I wish we had more time to experience Myfanwy’s side of all these things. We only just got to know her, and although we get a few chapters that follow her perspective closely, this really isn’t her book. Rather, Daniel O’Malley brings in two new characters to create a kind of ensemble cast (though it’s really more of a duo) … and that’s fine, really.

I didn’t much like Odette at first, but she grew on me quickly, much like her Grafter muscles and organs grow quickly. I appreciate that O’Malley gives us protagonists who need to unlearn biases. Both Odette and Felicity have misconceptions about the other given their organizations’ centuries of enmity. They start off hating each other in an abstract way, and many of the incidents in the book involve the necessity of overlooking this animosity to form a common bond. I like that as Odette grows and realizes the true nature of the world, she starts thinking for herself instead of just following orders given by her superiors. Similarly, Felicity has been raised to be a good little Pawn—but she also grows and becomes more independent.

The overarching political plot is interesting as a way of tying together the story. O’Malley never allows it to become so overwhelming that it slows down the book—if there’s anything I can criticize Stiletto for, it isn’t that it’s ever slow! There is a ton of action in here … perhaps too much, or indeed, perhaps too unfocused. We barely get time to breathe before Felicity and Odette are whisked away, dispatched, or stumble into another threat or dangerous situation that involves—as O’Malley has Odette lampshade—icky fluids covering one’s good suits. Moreover, there’s a whole subplot with a serial killer who grows crystals that then stab people that seemed … entirely extraneous. I found myself in the peculiar state of mind where I simultaneously can’t put down the book yet am also wishing for it to end—more specifically, for O’Malley to, in the immortal words of Monty Python, “get on with it!” The development of the main plot, with the identities of the Antagonists and the convoluted actions they get up to, takes way too many detours.

As I reflected in my review of the first book, O’Malley’s humour here almost works for me. It’s just a little off, and that remains true for Stiletto. The interminable digressions and infodumps, which I just barely tolerate when Charles Stross does it in The Laundry Files, feel longer and even less germane here. I waded through them and out the other side, and it was fine … but O’Malley’s worldbuilding isn’t quite grand enough for me to enjoy playing in this universe so long that I require that amount of exposition. Get on with the supernatural threats, please!

I remember thinking that the premise for this series would make a great TV show, and lo and behold, it has been adapted. I haven’t seen the adaptation, but it seems like they’ve probably ruined it, alas. Oh well, that’s how TV works: it takes books that would be great adaptations and ruins them. This is our society. Everything is fine.

Stiletto leaves in me in almost the identical position The Rook left me a little more than a year ago. I guess that’s a good thing? This is a fun book. Arguably you can read this without reading the first book (though I recommend the first one too). It’s funny, even though its jokes don’t always land with me. The protagonists are two dynamic yet different women, which I love. There’s a good plot here. What’s not to like? I’d read Book 3.

My reviews of the Checquy Files:
← The Rook

With some books, as was the case with A Fire Upon the Deep, I began reading without any clear idea of what the book was about. The cover copy was less-than-helpful, because the person who wrote it had a clear grudge against commas. And, after reading the book, it's clear the cover copy is full of inaccuracies and hyperbole to the point of complete misrepresentation. Suffice it to say that, for the first chapter or two, I wondered what exactly was going on and when the story would start.

Not an auspicious beginning, no. The charm of going into a book tabula rasa is in discovering the entire narrative for yourself. I don't do it often, nor do I particularly recommend it. In a way, it was inevitable for A Fire Upon the Deep. Vinge confronts the reader with terms that are necessarily alien and forces us to gradually adapt to this new worldview. The galaxy is divided into roughly concentric "zones of thought" that dictate what sort of life and technology can exist in any given area. There aren't many new or original concepts in science fiction; I can't say if this is one of them, but it's certainly not that popular, because this is the first I've heard of it. The zones of thought quickly become a pivotal part of the plot, acting both as waymarkers for the Out of Band II's hurrying descent toward the world of the Tines and as a method of exploring the tenuous connection between morality and intelligence.

Categorizing the characters by intelligence isn't hard. There are Powers, like the Blight. They exist in the Transcend and are as close to "gods" as you'll get. Then there are the societies in the Beyond, where ultralight travel is possible. Ravna and the Riders come from there; hence, they consider themselves more civilized than those, like Pham Nuwen, who grew up in the Slow Zone. Also in the Slow Zone are the dog-like pack-beings known as the Tines. Unfortunately, ranking these characters by morality is more difficult. There are no nice people in A Fire Upon the Deep.

Let's start with the Tines. I loved this species, because they were so different from anything I've encountered lately. Physically they're like dogs, but that's where the resemblance stops. Each individual Tine comprises several members (seldom less than four or more than six) who communicate via "thought sound." The personalities of each of the "singleton" pups contributes to the gestalt of the entire individual. Thus, an individual Tine can survive even when he or she loses a member. It gives a Tine the ability to see more than one thing at a time (although the packs are limited by range, and if members go too far away from each other, the individual loses cohesion). This species alone would make for an interesting novel, and I loved watching the Tines adapt their jumpstarted technology to their own unique outlook.

Despite their very alien nature, the Tines' machinations and morality are comparable to humanity's. I loved the dramatic irony Vinge employed by playing Jefri and Johanna against each other unknowingly as the two kingdoms of Woodcarver and Steel went to war. It's obvious that Steel is Not Nice. Flenser, his former master, is a more interesting conundrum. With only two "original Flenser members" making up this new pack, Flenser is haunted by the "soul" of Tyrathect, who hates everything for which Flenser stands and is determined to be the winner in this soul-match. Woodcarver, Steel and Flenser's mortal enemy, struggles with her 500-year-old, decrepit soul even as she opens her mind to the idea of people from other stars. The Tines are just as flawed as humans, and thus possess just as much potential.

On the other extreme we have the ineffable Powers, of which the Blight is one. We don't know the ultimate goals of the Blight, but its immediate actions—enslavement of High Beyond civilizations and a death toll in the trillions—do seem rather immoral. Vinge, using message relay networks in a commentary on usegroups of the nineties, has some entities express disdain for all of the coverage of the Blight atrocities. Much in the way that genocide in Darfur is "terrible" to those of us living comfortably in Canada but just far away enough that it seldom affects us directly, there are some on the Net who claim that the Blight atrocities aren't as newsworthy as everyone makes them out to be. Meanwhile, other groups are using them as excuses to exterminate humanity, who are vermin-agents-of-the-Blight.

While we don't know the Blight's ultimate goals, it's safe to conclude it doesn't care about humanity and other sentient beings. So in that sense, we can condemn its actions. But what of the actions of humans, like Ravna and Pham, and their allies? In their defeat of the Blight, they indirectly kill billions and strand planets in the Slow Zone—is that moral? Probably not. Is it necessary? Probably. Although the resolution to the main conflict is somewhat quick and almost a deus ex machina, it's neither easy nor free of consequences. Blueshell's sacrifice is the most poignant part of the book, and in many ways it's the true climax—everything after that is a somewhat predictable resolution.

There's no question that A Fire Upon the Deep is a novel of massive scope in both setting and concepts. It takes place on a galactic level, and it also challenges us with the zones of thought, the Tines, Relay, Powers, godshatter, etc. Vinge packs more ideas into this single book (which really isn't that long) than most authors pack into a trilogy. Like many massive stories, however, the narrative is left with nowhere to go after it has delivered the protagonists to the final showdown. With Straumli Realm and Sjana Kei destroyed, Johanna, Jefri, and Ravna have no place to go (assuming they could somehow leave the planet of the Tines and escape the Slow Zone). Humanity will essentially start over on the Tines' world.

I loved the story of Woodcarver versus Steel and the humans and Riders caught in the middle. While Vinge introduces so many other, vaster concepts, he doesn't exploit them for their full potential. The same goes for characterization: what's up with Ravna and Pham's relationship? She falls for him, obviously, but then his behaviour toward the Riders puts him out of her good graces. Yet Vinge barely telegraphs any of their feelings about that alienation, about the awkwardness of being the only two human beings for several hundred light-years. Ravna, in particular, has lost everyone she knew or loved twice over—once at Relay, and then once at Sjana Kei—but her grieving period is off-screen.

For all the action and plot that takes place in this book, the actual character interaction is surprisingly sparse. Sometimes the all-too-frequent Net messages seem to stand in for what should have been more developed scenes with more developed characters. What happened to such intriguing characters as Grondr, Ravna's boss in the Vrinimi Organization? I would have loved to learn more about this seemingly omnipresent bureaucracy.

Far be it from me to tell an author what to include in his story. As much as I liked A Fire Upon the Deep, I just feel like I've been shown something behind the scenes, something that could have been so much more, and now I'm not as satisfied with what I got. If you're as much a fan of space opera as I am, you'll enjoy A Fire Upon the Deep—you just won't be sated by it.

Matt Haig surprised me with the unexpectedly sweet How to Stop Time. So, of course when I learned he has a novel involving a mathematician who might have proved the Reimann Hypothesis, well … I just had to read it! The alien as fish-out-of-water is a tried-and-true trope of science fiction these days, allowing authors to comment on how wacky some human social and cultural conventions would seem to a true outsider. Haig seizes upon this as the central conceit of The Humans and takes it even further. What begins as seemingly benign documentation of human quirks soon turns into a life-or-death mission to eliminate any evidence that Andrew Martin has proved the Reimann Hypothesis. Because apparently the rest of the universe isn’t interested in sharing existence with humans just yet.

I’m torn on The Humans. On one level it’s a cobbled-together mess of unoriginal ideas, stylistic homages, and trite philosophy packaged into a “aren’t humans weird” cavalcade of scenes and sequels. On another level, Haig makes some interesting choices that make the novel tug on my heartstrings despite its unoriginality. The philosophical depth of the novel isn’t much, but it is there, which is more than one might say for some novels. And, of course, I’m a bit partial to the notion that a better understanding of fundamental mathematical theory is what unlocks our ability to transcend our physical existence and manipulate matter and space-time in a fundamentally new way.

Our narrator and protagonist never tells us their real name because they didn’t have one before coming to Earth. The Vonnadorians have some kind of gestalt hive-mind existence, a polity of individual consciousnesses nevertheless united towards a singular purpose. Thus, the being who takes over Andrew Martin’s life and is exposed to the brutalist individualism of human existence inevitably becomes “corrupted” by humanity, as always seems to happen in these cases. Their quest to eliminate anyone who might possibly have learned that Andrew Martin solved the hypothesis eventually gives way to a quest to survive and protect those closest to them, their adopted wife and child, from their superiors and any proxies sent by them. Yet their misunderstanding of human culture means that it isn’t as simple as taking over Andrew Martin’s life and carrying on as if nothing else were wrong. For one, Andrew Martin, it turns out, was a massive dick.

That’s one of those interesting choices I referred to above. It would be one thing if our alien protagonist took over the life of a sympathetic character. Is it “more ok” that they supplanted a “bad” guy? It certainly creates more friction and conflict between our narrator and their wife, Isobel, and son, Gulliver. One of the more rewarding aspects of the novel is watching their attempts to reconcile Andrew Martin with Isobel and Gulliver, which baffles those two to no end.

The Humans has a very Kurt Vonnegut feel to it. (I’m assuming the name “Vonnadoria” is a homage to him/the Tralfalmadorians of Slaughterhouse-Five.) Haig wrestles with much the same motifs and themes that Vonnegut explores throughout his oeuvre—namely, the point of human existence in a vast and uncaring block-time universe, and why we bother having emotional connections with other individuals when we know that these will inevitably end and quite probably hurt us in the process. This time it’s an alien experiencing this ennui rather than a human unstuck from time, but the parallels are striking. I don’t know. I liked it but I also didn’t—it definitely made me want to read more Vonnegut, but again, is there anything happening here I haven't seen before?

The whole mathematics motif was also a dud for me. So Andrew Martin made a huge discovery about prime numbers that might have caused the human species to jump way ahead in terms of technological development—and the Vonnadorians don’t want that, so they’re cheating and suppressing that knowledge in an efficient, surgical way. I mean, I guess it’s better than just destroying our whole planet! Nevertheless, as a mathematically-inclined person, I wish the mathematical aspects were more in the foreground of the story. It’s basically a plot device—and there really isn’t anything wrong with that—and as such doesn’t do anything extra for me.

The Humans has its touching moments of, well, human connection that made me like Haig’s How to Stop Time so much. Our protagonist bonds with a dog. Our protagonist has a genuine conversation with Andrew Martin’s son, which is more than many fathers of teenagers will ever experience. Our protagonist comes to understand how pain and suffering is just as much an essential component of the human experience as pleasure or intellectual pursuits.

All that being said, it just didn’t wow me. It didn’t enthrall me. There was too much about the writing, about the way Haig deploys the fish-out-of-water humour like an area-denial tactic … the novel comes on very strong, and so it kind of has to win you over or fall flat. It did the latter for me.