First read October 17, 2008. (No review)

Second reading review, April 23, 2010.

There are as many origin theories as there are people to think about the origins of humanity. Like most reviews, I can't help but praise David Brin's Uplift concept. On one hand, the von Daniken-like idea of having a "patron" species that shepherded humanity toward sentience is comforting and resonates with our need to have concrete origins and a sense of belonging in a larger community. On the other hand, the Darwinian idea that humans evolved on their own—coupled with the even more interesting idea that we are special among the larger galactic community in this regard—is also attractive. Almost immediately, the latent question is: are you a Darwinist or a von Danikenite? Skin or Shirt?

I'll be honest: I'm incredibly biased toward the Humans Are Special camp and hope we evolved on our own. But Brin doesn't take any sure stance, at least not in Sundiver. And there's a host of secondary mysteries mixed up in this larger one. These form the core of the plot of Sundiver. If humanity was Uplifted, then maybe the mysterious solarians discovered by the Sundiver Expedition are their patrons, or know who their patrons were. If humanity is a "wolfling" race, then maybe the solarians know why no one stumbled across us earlier. Either way, the answers lie past Mercury.

Brin manages to meld together so many different aspects of story and science fiction that Sundiver becomes a very intense work of literature. It's an epic of exploration, a testament to humanity's struggle against adversity: we're going to conquer the Sun! It's also a mystery, multiple mysteries, with alien adversaries with their own inscrutable agendas. And it's a psychological thriller: is Jacob crazy or just very, very discerning?

Of course, by trying to appeal to all these aspects, Brin walks a tight rope. He doesn't always pull off this fusion successfully. In particular, his characters tend to suffer from having to carry so much around on their shoulders. Jacob, despite his mental malady, is not a very interesting protagonist. Brin alludes to a past conflict in which Jacob emerged the hero (and which resulted in his subsequent psychological trauma); unfortunately, he manages to make it sound so interesting that I kind of wish it had been part of the story and not just a past event. But it wasn't.

Where was I? Oh yeah, the characters. We never get to see what makes the characters tick, aside from maybe Jacob. They just act, especially the aliens, who conform to the species-stereotypes that Brin creates for them: Bubbacup is the ur-Pil, Culla is the ur-Pring, etc. The humans at least have individuality personalities; they just aren't very interesting ones. As a result, although Sundiver is primarily a mystery, it lacks the threat offered by a credible villain. There's nothing sinister about what happens so much as childish—dangerous, yes, but childish. The characters often allude to the political implications of various events, but we don't witness the fallout.

So while there's a lot going on in Sundiver, it never really congeals into a satisfactory ending. The same goes for how Brin portrays post-Contact Earth. While he does a good job of portraying a "Confederacy" (of states) that shuns civil liberties, it's a very abstract and distant entity. We don't see an agent of it until the very end of the book. Worse still, however, is the apparent lack of contribution to the Sundiver Expedition from any government aside from the Confederacy. Apparently, at least in this future, America is still the only country that matters. . . .

Sundiver has so much potential, but it shies away from the detail necessary to fulfil that potential. What rescues it from mediocrity is not a brilliant plot or convincing story but the sheer quality of Brin's writing itself:

Lumps and streaming shreds of ionized gas seared thither and back, twisted by the forces that their very package created. Flows of glowing matter popped suddenly in and out of visibility, as the Doppler effect took the emission lines of the gas into and then out of coincidence with the spectral line being used for observation.

The ship swooped through the turbulent chromospheric crosswinds, tacking on the plasma forces by subtle shifts in its own magnetic shields . . . sailing with sheets made of almost corporeal mathematics.

I love that phrase, "corporeal mathematics." Brin, as a physicist, knows his science and wields it well. If only he were as strong with the fiction part of "science fiction."

My Reviews of the Uplift series:
Startide Rising →

I seldom read an entire trilogy consecutively. Although it's nice to read the books relatively close together, I usually intersperse a series with other books, just to give me time to absorb the latest instalment. I didn't do that with the Clockwork Earth trilogy, and that has thrown a certain emphasis on the series I might otherwise have missed. It has made more stark the separation between Mainspring and the final two books; Pinion as a direct sequel to Escapement makes Mainspring seem that much more like some kind of distant prequel. Furthermore, the entire trilogy just seems lighter—in terms of plot, not mood—than your average fantasy series. My experience overall, despite the utter failure of Mainspring, has been positive. Yet I have to complain about how little happens in these books.

In Pinion, Jay Lake continues with his multiple third-person perspectives that he began in Escapement. In addition to following Paolina, Childress, and al-Wazir, we follow Wang, Boaz, and Kitchens. There's an entirely new character, Gashansunu, who comes from Southern Earth. Oh, and Hethor's back—but don't worry, he's just an NPC! As a wise mentor figure, he's less annoying; maybe it's the added amount of cynicism about God's involvement in the world. The character perspectives may have multiplied, but the amount of action has not.

Once again, the characters are bouncing back and forth across and around the world, at the mercy of a slightly hyperactive plot. Paolina arrives in Southern Earth but promptly returns to find Boaz, commandeer another airship, and help Kitchens with his particular duty. Childress, al-Wazir, and Wang are the most purposeful of all the characters. The former two are still aboard the Five Lucky Winds, bluffing their way toward Valetta and the council of the Feathered Masks. Wang is following them in a ship crewed by "dead men" while he's plagued by a "ghostly" monk. Boaz, like Paolina, is a little bit all over the place. He's near Mogadishu, then he's back near the drilling station … he's found the Sixth Seal, and he considers bring it to Ophir, but then he reunites with Paolina. I don't insist on having a linear plot, or even a plot that makes much sense. But I need something that doesn't feel like a pseudo-random patchwork quilt, and Pinion doesn't deliver that.

Getting inside the perspective of Gashansunu, a woman of the Southern Earth raised to be a sorceress since birth, couldn't have been easy. She is the Other, but unlike the Correct People from Mainspring, we aren't learning about her through the perspective of another Northern Earth inhabitant like Hethor. Nevertheless, she reminded me too much of Arellya, Hethor's lover and resident Correct Person smartass from Mainspring. Both are smug and sure of their own mystical models of the world, which causes a certain amount of insouciance toward naive Northern Earthers. Both attach themselves to a wielder of power from Northern Earth, Arellya to Hethor and Gashansunu to Paolina, mentoring that person even as they themselves learn about their worlds through the eyes of aliens. And again, there's that uncomfortable vibe—in Gashansunu's case, she is literally subsumed into Paolina. That's a little creepy.

I think my favourite parts were those with Kitchens. He was a very minor character in Escapement, and I really didn't give him a second thought. It was a surprise to see him have a major role. He's more than just a bureaucrat; he also works with a blade, if you catch my drift. Maybe it's just my penchant for absurd British humour, but I love his interactions with Boaz once they're aboard the Erinyes and later the Chinese airship they rename Stolen. And Kitchens is a perfect example of something I began to appreciate in Escapement that became integral to Pinion.

All the characters in this book have one thing in common: they are thrust totally, hopelessly outside their milieu. With Paolina it's obvious; she leaves the only home she has ever known for an inclement outside world that cares more about wielding her power than teaching her how to control it. Childress has spent the past decades as a university librarian. She serves the white birds in a minor capacity—and now she finds herself impersonating a Mask, learning Chinese, and persuading a Chinese captain to go AWOL for the sake of seeking peace. Talk about a turnaround! Wang the Cataloger, also a librarian of a kind, turns into a kind of bounty hunter searching for Childress and chatting up ghosts.

Kitchens is emblematic of being pushed beyond his ordinary boundaries. He's a special clerk for the Admirality, and we learn he has some skills beyond pushing papers. Yet he's never left England, much less gone to the Wall. He's not a smooth political operator, nor is he much of a leader, as we see from his interactions with Boaz and McCurdy. Then, of course, there's Kitchens' meeting with Queen Victoria and the chain of events set into motion by that.

I knew there had to be something weird going on with Victoria the moment Kitchens visited Blenheim. And when the started talking about the smell of morgues, it was obvious something ickily steampunkish was involved. I was already picturing tanks and cables and oddly-coloured fluids. Still, Lake does a great job capitalizing on this anticipation and realizing it in words. Kitchens' meeting with Victoria is one of the deepest, most dramatic moments in the book. And it highlights how different this Clockwork Earth is from our own.

That being said, I really would have liked to learn more about who made the decision to prolong Victoria's life in such a ghastly way. It's implied (or at least I inferred) that the Prime Minister, while aware of the status quo, was not the prime architect of it. Once again, the details that I yearn for about this alternative Earth are missing, and I have to make do with what Lake gives me. It's frustrating, especially because what he does make available is just so good, so tantalizing.

Pinion has a lot of good qualities going for it, and it also suffers from flaws similar to the previous two entries in this trilogy. It's almost tied with Escapement for my favourite of the three books, but if I had to choose, Escapement would win, because Pinion's conclusion is hurried and disappointing. It doesn't strike the right tone. Instead of being triumphant, it's messy. Instead of being tense or suspenseful, it's boring. Lake scattered plenty of foreshadowing throughout the book, but when we finally realize the culmination of all the hints, I was just waiting for the story to finish.

I wish I could be head-over-heels about the Clockwork Earth. It's a lovely premise, but like so many premises, the actual execution is lacking. It's about a divided planet, a war between the rational and the spiritual in a world where the craftsmanship of a Creator is apparent. And some of Lake's characters—Paolina, Childress, al-Wazir, Kitchens—are entertaining and manage to earn my sympathy. I liked the characters, and I liked the world … but those alone did not manage to carry me through a less-than-satisfying story. Escapement and Pinion entertained me, but they didn't really engage me. Your mileage might vary, though.

My Reviews of the Clockwork Earth series:
← Escapement

Why hello, alternate universe with airships; we meet again.

This was not the way I intended to start reading Jay Lake. I heard about him when [b:Green|6069970|Green|Jay Lake|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1266491626s/6069970.jpg|6246372] came out and added that to my to-read list, but when I was at a used book store, Mainspring and Escapement were there, so I bought them. I always regret when my first experience with a new author I'm anticipating reading is a sour one. Sadly, Mainspring testifies to the dangers of setting a lousy story in an amazing world.

Lake takes steampunk to its logical extreme and has created a universe literally designed to function as clockwork. The Earth rotates around a mainspring (hence the title). All around the equator is a wall of mountains topped with brass teeth that mesh with an orbital track; the Earth revolves using gears. With God's craftsmanship evident in the cosmos, it seems like a foregone conclusion that the universe was designed by a Maker. Lake reinforces this when he sends a brass angel to incite his protagonist off on a quest. Nevertheless, as Mainspring unfolds, the question of the universe's origin and meaning is one of many things that are more complicated than they first appear.

I don't like Hethor. He's not that smart, not that deep, and all too foolhardy. If the fate of the world really were in Hethor's hands, as they are in Mainspring, we would be Screwed with a capital S. As it is, he manages to Screw us over (which is a good thing, what with rewinding the mainspring of the Earth) despite channelling epic fail for the entire novel. The archangel Gabriel tells Hethor he must acquire the lost Key Perilous, which he can then use to rewind the Earth's mainspring. Of course, being the cryptic messenger of God that he is, Gabriel fails to instruct Hethor how to go about doing this, or even provide a hint as to the Key's location. Hethor stumbles around the world for a few hundred pages, getting too many people killed along the way, and doesn't end up finding the Key. That's OK though, because it turns out that as long as he gets himself to the mainspring, he can rewind it anyway.

I had high hopes for Hethor at the beginning of his quest. And Mainspring is totally in the style of the epic fairy-tale quest. Hethor encounters a number of supernatural guardians he must defeat along his way to finding the Key and saving the world, not the least of which is William of Ghent, a "sorcerer" and Rational Humanist who doesn't seem to know what he wants or what Hethor wants. Lake is never entirely clear on anyone's motivations, and Hethor doesn't bat an eye when his actions cause William to fall (but not fatally) into the depths of the clockwork Earth. No, for this young boy who until a few weeks ago was a clockmaker's apprentice in New Haven, almost killing someone is par for the course.

My apathy for Hethor grew measurably at this point, and its growth proceeded apace for the rest of the book. Despite its quest-like structure, Mainspring makes Hethor into an utterly reactionary protagonist. He just goes along with whatever happens to him; it's very mellow, but it's also a frustrating lack of direction for someone who is supposed to have a very specific purpose. Although he says he is concerned about having no idea where the Key Perilous might be located, his actions (or lack thereof) tell a different story. No, Hethor, in his infinite wisdom and laziness, is content to continue following a breadcrumb trail of golden tablets that drop from the sky.

So Mainspring consists of an uninspiring main character wandering from conflict to conflict. He's supposed to be a misogynistic young prude from Victorian New England, but he has no qualms about having sex with a woman from among the hirsute people who live near the Equatorial Wall in Africa. (This entire part of the book made me very uncomfortable. I recognize that Lake challenges Hethor's internalized Victorian sensibilities about savages and the superiority of English imperialism. Still, a whole bunch of furry people killing in his name and viewing him as a kind of messenger-messiah … well, I'll leave it at that.)

The whole idea of a clockwork Earth is fascinating when expressed as a sentence, but there the romance with this fantasy must end. Lake just doesn't put enough work into convincing me his alternate world is viable. So Queen Victoria still rules the New England colonies. Why? Why are Britain and China the dominant powers? What else is different in this world where no one in the book has ever been to Australia? Instead of providing much background, Lake focuses instead on Hethor's quest, about which I'm torn. Do I not care about it because agents of a force I guess is God always seem to rescue Hethor whenever he's in peril? Do I not care because Hethor, despite not following any instructions he's given, manages to succeed anyway, and it all seems rather pointless in the end?

At first I intended to give this book two stars. However, I have struggled to think of a single positive example to balance my negative tone. I'm drawing a blank. So while I wanted to be charitable, I really can't justify it: Mainspring is disappointing, frustrating, and not all that entertaining.

My Reviews of the Clockwork Earth series:
Escapement →

Genetics is one of the reasons I'm glad we have science-fiction authors. So far physicists have conspired to make faster-than-light travel impossible (or at least highly impractical), so perhaps we won't be meeting any intelligent alien species any time soon. In the past ten years, however, our understanding of genetics and the human genome has grown considerably. As we become more adept at manipulating our genome, whether it's to cure hereditary diseases or augment healthy genes, we must confront questions that, until recently, were exclusively the domain of science fiction. We will be faced with moral crises as we struggle to define what it means to be human, whether parents should be able to choose fundamental attributes of their children, the lengths to which we will go to make people "better." These are questions without easy answers, and we are damn lucky that there are brave men and women blazing a trail, looking at our options. When considered carefully and thoughtfully, the results are stories like Nothing Human, "Act One", and Lilith's Brood.

When done poorly in the style of a thriller, well, you get Invasive Procedures.

Excuse me while I ascend into my ivory tower of literary elitism, not that I'm here to disparage the quality of thrillers in general or, indeed, engage in any sort of genre-ist bigotry the likes of which has been perpetrated upon my own beloved genres of science fiction and fantasy all too much. I won't lie, however: the title of this book nearly turned me off; I picked it up because it has Orson Scott Card's name on the cover (and it was free), and that is where the good times stopped.

Calling the characters of Invasive Procedures "cardboard" would be an affront to thick paper stock. There is not a single memorable character in this book. The bad guy, George Galen, is a stereotypical discredited scientist who leads a cult and plots to make humanity better even as he ensures his own immortality. The Healers have gone around curing people of incurable genetic diseases through the use of personalized gene therapy. To anyone other than their intended recipient, such therapies manifest as virulent and rapidly-fatal (people die within minutes of being exposed). So the fictitious Biohazard Agency, or BHA, decides it has to take the Healers down. Considering that the director of the BHA becomes one of Galen's brainwashed lackeys, complete with tremors and a penchant for referring to Galen as "the master," you can guess how well that plan goes.

This brainwashing thing really irks me. It strikes me as a very lazy way to turn good guys into antagonists and traitors. Building betrayal, laying the right seeds and creating the proper conditions for treachery, is a complicated business. It must be done subtly enough that it is believable, but obviously enough that when the reader looks back, the clues are all in place. But a solid, well-executed Face Heel Turn is just so rewarding! Brainwashing is the lazy writer's way out. It certainly can be used to great effect sometimes; this book just isn't one of them.

The trouble here with brainwashing is that it removes volition, and without volition, the conflict in the story is meaningless. If Galen just brainwashes his way into power, that is bad, but it isn't very interesting. Betrayal is interesting and dramatic because it is real, because a traitor is responsible for his or actions, whereas a brainwashed saliva addict is not.

This might be forgivable, except that volition—or the lack of it—is a big problem in Invasive Procedures. None of our characters, not even the ones not dropping Galen-spit, seem particularly interested in exercising their free will. Frank Hartman, the "hero" of the book, accomplished his major contribution prior to the story's beginning; he already has a "countervirus" when he joins the BHA. The rest of the book consists of him being manipulated by the lackey-director and demonstrating his intelligence and manliness in front of the heroine/love-interest, Dr. Monica Owens.

Of any of the characters, Monica's situation and motivation is the most acceptable. She becomes Galen's personal surgeon because he kidnaps her young son. That's understandable, I suppose. Card and Johnston don't give us much time to get beyond this most primitive need to protect. They make it clear that the brainwashing victims don't have much choice in the matter, and in a similar way they harp upon Monica's powerlessness. Powerlessness and not having a choice seems to be a big thing in this book. As with all the characters in this book, the narrator presents the basic facts of Monica's life in stark exposition. We learn almost nothing about who she is from what she does, because she does so very little. It's as if the authors are afraid to give their characters anything to do, lest the characters disrupt their precious little plot.

As far as that goes, there is nothing about Invasive Procedures that stands out to recommend it above the average thriller. Card and Johnston never dig deeper than the surface of the issues they raise, totally dashing my hopes that this book would prove any good. To be fair, they deftly manipulate the emotional consequences of the Healers' actions, tugging on heartstrings as we see a young girl suffering from sickle cell anemia. That's all well and good, but it doesn't quite balance against the hackneyed exposition and the horror-movie level bad science: a virus that kills people in minutes, a chip that rewires the brain in seconds to restore the memories of a dead man, not to mention a virus that rewrites Frank's entire genetic code!

I guess what I'm trying to say is that this book, while nominally science fiction, is not good science fiction. It asks Big Questions, but it deigns not to facilitate the Big Discussions that should naturally follow, preferring instead to force its characters to conform to a convoluted, largely unexciting and predictable plot. If you are looking for a creepy book about organ transplantation and rogue gene therapy, this is not it. Likewise, though my experience in this area is lacking, I wouldn't even recommend Invasive Procedures for its thriller qualities.

Of course, it's entirely my own fault for reading it. No one forced me, recommended it to me, or even pointed out its existence. I picked it up off a table because it was looking forlorn, knowing full well that despite Card's name on the cover, it probably wasn't going to be very good. Sometimes books like this surprise me, hence the popular adage discounting prejudice based on the cover. Sometimes books like this don't surprise me. Invasive Procedures fails across the board, with flat characters, a predictable plot, and unsatisfactory science-fictional elements.

Full disclosure: I won this book in a Goodreads First Reads Giveaway. Loves me the free books.

I won this book before the 18-day demonstration in Tahrir Square began, but the events in Egypt (and across the Middle East) were foremost in mind as I read this book. In high school, I learned about democracy in an incredibly idealized, abstract way. It is something born one or two centuries ago, something synonymous with freedom, involving voting and citizen participation. School does not always make it clear that democracy itself continues to evolve as our society changes. Hence the need for next generation democracy. Furthermore, the Millennial Generation (also known as Generation Y) is now coming into its own, graduating from university, dominating even more of the 18-30 voting bloc. Hence the need to examine the democracy of the next generation.

Jared Duval could also have titled his book, Not Yer Grandfather's Democracy, which I think sounds catchier, although maybe it doesn't quite have the double entendre of the actual title. Nevertheless, it conveys a similar message: the Millennial Generation and its maturation amid the information and Internet revolutions of the late twentieth, early twenty-first century, is going to do democracy differently. Duval contends that democracy in its current form has alienated representatives from their leaders to some extent; the pressure of lobbyists, the pressure to campaign constantly for the next election, and the unwieldy size and density of bills makes it increasingly difficult for our democracies to function. This is not a doom-saying book, though. Duval thinks new technology, combined with a new will, can not only save democracy but make it better.

Fundamental to this improvement is the idea that new technology (i.e., the Internet) makes it easier to create organizations with distributed, lateral power structures rather than hierarchical, top-down ones. This decentralization and de-concentration of power has two benefits: firstly, it is more efficient, because each group can be left to administer its own projects without having to get approval and supervision from upper management; secondly, it makes the organizations less vulnerable when their visionary leaders step down. These are both very important changes, something Duval highlights by exploring the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and the rise of youth activism groups across the United States.

In the former case study, Duval examines how the decentralized, autonomously-functioning Coast Guard units made for the most effective force in the days following the devastation of New Orleans. He then goes on to look at how citizens rallied to create a balanced reconstruction plan that would preserve the neighbourhoods of New Orleans at a time when rebuilding community was essential. In both cases, the traditional top-down authorities (FEMA and the mayor/city council, respectively) failed to produce adequate responses to the disaster and its aftermath. By contrast, these decentralized approaches worked well: for the Coast Guard, it created flexibility; for the citizen planners, it ensured an appropriate diversity of input from different demographics.

In the latter case study, Duval looks at the rising number of youth-led activism groups. Here he recounts from personal experience with the Sierra Student Coalition. In particular, he focuses on the circumstances surrounding the formation of the Energy Action Coalition. The key ingredient that allowed Energy Action to succeed where other umbrella organizations failed, according to Duval, was its innovative approach to fundraising. Instead of "organization-versus-organization," Energy Action required all member groups to raise funds on behalf of the entire coalition, which then apportioned the funds according to a pre-determined budget. This might seem like the antithesis of decentralization, but the point is that it prevented organizations from competing against each other in their fundraising efforts. And that meant they could work more effectively to address their particular focuses, while enjoying the support and exposure provided by membership in the coalition.

Duval is clearly close to and passionate about his subject matter, neither of which is a bad thing. At first I was worried he would not examine some of his case studies with the critical eye they required. Fortunately, I worried for nothing: Duval points out the limitations of the open source approach to democracy and of the way some people have tried implementing it. In particular, he expresses disappointment over the Obama administration's failure to adhere to some of its openness and transparency promises from Obama's campaign. So rest assured that, while extremely optimistic, Next Generation Democracy does not view the world through rose-coloured glasses. If anything, Duval is frank and unapologetic over his analysis of the world's plight, especially when it comes to climate change.

There is one area where I'm dissatisfied with Duval's approach, and that is the characterization of the Millennial Generation. Some of his stories are very heartwarming and inspirational, as I'm sure they are intended to be. Yet I couldn't help but think to myself, "Wow, it's like every member of my generation is an activist!" which reminded me that Duval has selected very specific cases to support his argument. There are a lot of activists in my generation. But I don't necessarily accept that the Millennials are different enough from previous generations in this respect. Perhaps the form of activism has evolved with the decades as well. Yet there are plenty people of my generation who are not overly concerned with advocating for change. Duval spends a lot of time talking about Millennials who are making a difference; he does not spend enough time on ways in which this open source approach can combat apathy. This, more than war, poverty, or climate change, is the challenge of my generation, I think. If the Millennials are to have the impact Duval wants them to have, first they must be made to care. Open source politics has the potential for inspiring action, and to his credit, that potential is implicit in a lot of Duval's case studies, such as his profile of SeeClickFix.

Also, Duval is preaching to the choir here. Sometimes that makes reading a book more difficult for me, because I just can't engage with the subject matter as much as if I was trying to formulate counterarguments. The best way to counteract such difficulties is to include anecdotes and enough new, fresh ideas and information to keep me entertained and educated. To an extent, Duval is successful in this effort (and I can't claim there is a dearth of anecdotes). Nevertheless, I feel a little jaded when it comes to reading about Wikipedia or the birth of Linux. It would be interesting to see the review of someone who started this book vehemently opposed to Duval's position.

Let's do this with two questions. What is Next Generation Democracy? It is a well-constructed argument that the Millennial Generation, combined with technological innovations, is going to change how democracy and politics work. It is an interesting account of some of those changes, supported by anecdotal, statistical, and scholarly evidence. Duval's writing is charismatic even if it is not necessarily persuasive. What isn't Next Generation Democracy? It's not comprehensive. Its scope is very narrow, as attested to by the volume's thin girth. I try not to blame books for not being what they are not, however, so this is not necessarily a negative remark, just an observation. Next Generation Democracy also isn't one-sided when it comes to its analysis, although it isn't quite balanced either.

Do I recommend this book? Conditionally. I can't say it's essential or required reading, but if you are interested in this topic, this would be a good choice. Likewise, if you find the premise I've outlined intriguing, then this is probably worth a try. Finally, though I found its length somewhat limiting, there's something to be said for a book this small examining issues that big. I could see this making a good textbook for a university, or even a high school course, when used in combination with other texts. Next Generation Democracy is not revolutionary like it wants the Millennial Generation to be, but it is different enough that it stands out—in a good way.

(Sidebar: my advanced reading copy lacks an index, which I find noteworthy and slightly annoying. This is quite possibly limited to the ARC, so I'd be interested in knowing if the final version does have an index.)

Second review (Reviewed on February 12, 2011).

Dune is a classic because it tells a classic story well. It combines two plots that I love: a vast political intrigue with an intimate family conflict. The Atreides and Harkonnens are related by blood; their feud is a blood feud going back generations. Yet their battles are political in scale, using vassals as soldiers and spies in an interstellar chess game where the throne of the Imperium itself is within reach.

In my first review, which I crafted hastily one day when I added this book to Goodreads, I pontificated on the role of science fiction as a setting rather than a genre. Frank Herbert chose to set Dune far into the future and across the galaxy. There are spaceships, shields, lasguns, and of course, the all-important spice. Yet, I argued, this changes nothing. Dune is not a classic work of science fiction; it is a classic, period.

I stand by this, and while I do not want this review to be a rehash of the first, I want to elaborate further. It has been at least five years since I last read Dune, and I knew going into this reading that I would see it differently, since I'm now an adult, with more experiences and more science-fiction books under my belt. Though nominally science fiction and science fiction and fantasy in its setting, at its heart Dune is an epic, a tragedy reminiscent of ancient Greece and pre-Enlightenment Europe.

House Atreides and House Harkonnen are embroiled in a bitter blood feud, and now that feud seems to be coming to an end in the form of a political gambit by the nefarious Baron Harkonnen that results in the destruction of Duke Leto Atreides, his family, and his new fiefdom on the desert planet of Arrakis. Backed by the Emperor, the Harkonnens seemingly wipe out House Atreides and re-assume control of Arrakis, the only planet known to produce spice. Spice is a panacea known for its geriatric properties, but more importantly, it is the only substance that gives Spacing Guild navigators the prescient visions required to navigate through folded space. Without the spice, interstellar travel would be limited to relativistic speeds. Hence the oft-repeated mantra: whoever controls the spice, controls the universe.

Aside from the occasional mention of sandworms and spaceships and lasguns, this could be set in Tudor England or fifteenth-century France. The Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV does exactly what kings of old used to do; he pits his nobles against each other so they do not succeed in uniting to depose him. His downfall comes from underestimating House Atreides and the Fremen inhabitants of Arrakis who align themselves with the fugitive Atreides scion, Paul, also known to them as Muad'Dib. He becomes a messiah for the Fremen, a dangerous figure indeed, and in so doing discovers he has triggered a revolution he cannot fully control, even with his newfound powers as the Kwisatz Haderach, the culmination of a Bene Gesserit breeding program.

I paid more attention to Paul's role as a messiah this time around. When I was younger, I didn't fully understand the ramifications of this role. (I remember rejecting Dune Messiah the first time I tried to read it because "it seemed to religious"!) Thanks to the two Sci-Fi channel miniseries that rekindled my interest in Dune, these ramifications are much more obvious. They inform the rest of the story, acting as a pivot point around which crucial events revolve. Paul's role as a messiah accords him great influence, great power—but as a role, it also restricts his choices as much as his visions of the future does.

What's amazing is how close Baron Harkonnen comes to winning. Paul might have chosen to live out his days among the Fremen rather than win back his dukedom (and more), but he doesn't. Jessica even urges him to do this at one point, but it is clear the decision is less Paul's than it is the Fremen. They were set upon this path long before the Atreides came to Arrakis, back when Pardot Kynes and his son, Liet, commenced a centuries-long ecological transformation plan. They hate the Harkonnens perhaps as much as Paul does, are eager to raid against the Harkonnen forces, so they wouldn't take "no" as an answer; if Paul were to take the safe course, he would not find acceptance among them. Finally, Paul-Muad'Dib is their messiah, the Lisan al-Gaib. There are prophecies about him, and having demonstrated his authenticity as the messiah, he must fulfil them.

Above all, Paul states several times he rejects the "temptation" to take the safer path. That's how his prescient visions manifest themselves—as potential paths the future could take, always twisting and snarling and reforming as each choice he makes changes that vision. He sees safer routes, but these, he says, lead only to stagnation. These are the routes the Guild navigators take, which has resulted in the Guild morphing into a parasite on the back of the Imperium. Having acquired prescience, Paul sees the potentialities for the human species, and he realizes he has the ability to effect change. But he has to be careful, because to know the future is to become trapped by it, even as one changes it.

I guess I just have a soft spot for tragic heroes. I like watching heroes fall, because it reaffirms their humanity by the very fact that, despite their larger-than-life actions, they are flawed. This is important when it comes to Paul, because as the Kwisatz Haderach, he has become something posthuman, more-than-human. He is colder, slightly more divorced from his surroundings, because he is mediating both the present and the many-futures. It would be a mistaken to say he is disconnected, though, for it is clear he still loves and cares for Chani; rather, he is heavily burdened by his roles and responsibilities. We don't see his actual fall in this book, but the seeds of it are there—as Irulan says, every revolution carries with it the seeds of its own destruction. Herbert foreshadows the trials Paul will face: the uncontrollable storm of revolution; his increasing alienation from those close to him, like Gurney and Stilgar and even his mother; and of course, opposition from external forces, such as the Bene Gesserit and the former Padishah Emperor.

A great hero deserves a correspondingly great villain, and the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen certainly fits this description. He is an intriguing counterpoint to Muad'Dib. Like Paul, the Baron is depicted as somewhat inhuman, but in his case it's because of his obese figure and his profound cruelty. This guy has his nephew murder the entire house seraglio as a punishment for discovering his nephew's crude plot to murder him! He will stop at nothing to get what he wants, and his wants are many, varied, and perverse. His flaws, however, get the better of him. As a result of his overindulgence and his arrogance, the Baron ignores the real threat—the Fremen and their messiah, Muad'Dib—while spending too much time counting all the riches he'll have and plotting to make his nephew emperor. His downfall is as much his own as it is Paul's (or, as the case may be, Alia's).

So Dune has a great hero and a great villain. It also has plenty of morally-ambiguous characters who span the spectrum between. Jessica Atreides and Thufir Hawat fall into this category. Jessica was supposed to bear a daughter for the Bene Gesserit, who would in turn give birth to a Harkonnen son who might become the Kwisatz Haderach. They did not expect her, out of love for Duke Leto, to give birth to a son; they did not expect Paul's latent psychic abilities to come into full force through ingestion of spice. As a result of this act, Jessica irrevocably alters the Imperium. Though she claims she never regrets her decision, it is obvious that she struggles with her role as a Reverend Mother among the Fremen and how she influences Paul's actions. She is torn between being a mother and a Reverend Mother, between her son and her leader, her new duke.

Hawat is captured by the Harkonnens while still labouring under the false impression that Jessica is a traitor. Reluctantly, he works for the Harkonnens while seeking a way to destroy them. In this role as a captive Mentat, we see Hawat become trapped, unable to destroy his new patrons but unwilling to forgive them or abandon his desire for vengeance. His manipulations of the Baron and the Baron's nephew bely his supposedly tamed status, but he has lost some—perhaps even most—of his edge; he is broken, if not beaten.

I'm not sure what else I can say about Dune. It is a classic and a masterpiece because it takes a form and formula that are timeless and lays over this framework complex characters who struggle against each other and the circumstances in which they find themselves. Paul Atreides is a duke's son who becomes a desert fugitive, a reluctant warrior, and the figurehead of a revolution. Surrounding him are friends and family who soon begin to slip away, and enemies who underestimate him even as they plot to destroy his life and all that he holds dear. It's a story we've told time and again, but Herbert puts it in space, throws in some sandworms, and adds a little spice. Consequently, Dune stands on the shoulders of stories that have come before it, attaining its greatness because it is something both recognizable and unique.

First review (When Added to Goodreads, Last Read Pre-Goodreads).

Many people hear the words "science fiction" and run away in terror. They labour under the erroneous idea that science fiction must be some sort of fantastic space opera in which there are laser blasters, warp engines, teleportation, and all that jazz. Thanks in part to Star Wars, Star Trek, and the improvements of the special effects industry, science fiction is reduced that narrow category.

So what is science fiction? Science fiction is a setting, not a story. And no book better demonstrates this than Frank Herbert's Dune. Yes, Dune is set in the future (the distant future). Yes, there are spaceships, other planets (in fact, Earth isn't around any more), and bizarre things like prescience. But once you accept these and move on to the actual story, you'll find that it is an epic, dynastic tale of political intrigue. It's set in the future, but the environment is distinctly feudal. Frank Herbert incorporates a dazzling array of motifs, such as religion, drugs, ecology, rebellion, and prophecy.

Whenever I read Dune, I can't help but think about how big it is. The Dune universe operates on such a magnificence scope that it's hard to believe it came from the mind of one man. The story is timeless, because it is about the human condition: betrayal, love, murder, avarice--all of the characters exhibit the best and the worst of human emotions. In fact, Dune is devoid of alien intelligences. This isn't about humanity versus the Martians. It's about human versus human, one person pitting his or her intelligence against another. It's about the sacrifices necessary to achieve power or save a loved one.

Dune is a classic, a masterpiece of fiction, regardless its genre.

(In my best Majel Barrett voice.) Last time, on my review of the Uplift Storm Trilogy…

… Alvin et al were rescued from their wrecked diving bell by none other than the submerged crew of the Streaker.

… a Jophur starship landed on Jijo, capturing the Rothen ship and promising a slow, painful annihilation if the Jijoans did not divulge the location of the Streaker (if they did, the Jophur promised a swift annihilation).

… to combat the Jophur threat and make good its escape, Streaker embarks on what appears to be a suicide mission to get to the hyperspace transfer point beyond Jijo's sun.

Fortunately, something unexpected occurs: Zang (hydrogen-breathing life forms) and machine harvesters show up to grab carbon from Jijo's sun, and this provides the distraction Streaker needs. Thanks to the glavers Gillian took aboard from Jijo, they have a rudimentary means of flagging down the Zang and hitching a ride under the Zang's dubious protection. When they emerge from hyperspace, the Jophur ship in hot pursuit, they find themselves back at the Fractal World, a sort of "retirement home" for galactic species that no longer want to engage with wider civilization. Oh, and it's where Emerson got his brain cut up and where Hannes Suessi became a cyborg. Good times.

And now, the conclusion.

Heaven's Reach is simultaneously the best and worst book of the Uplift series, no question about it. Few authors have managed to frustrate and elate me at the same time as David Brin. This book continues the drama and tension that pervaded Infinity's Shore, and always it is building toward what will hopefully be a final, awesome climax. And though "final" and "awesome" both have a place in this climax, it's just not quite what I wanted from this series. Moreover, with Heaven's Reach, Brin seems to fall back into his old bad habits (or else those same habits were present in Infinity's Shore, but the story was good enough to blind me to them).

Once again, we have a myriad of perspectives from all these different characters, and it can be difficult to grow attached to any one of them. In particular, Dwer and Rety's story as refugee sooners was fascinating but given such little time to develop. Rety, who struck me as an annoying but deep character, is little more than a petulant child in this book; Dwer gets to be a babysitter. I was anxious to hear how Streaker fared, but I was always thinking about these two as well. Still, Brin does give them the honour of being the only Jijoans who actually get to return home, so that's something.

No, what really frustrates me is that after teasing us for five books and spreading the mystery so thinly, Brin concludes with a book that packs in enough exposition for an entirely new trilogy. Suddenly, concepts that had never really mattered before (e.g., the various orders of life, the levels of hyperspace) took front and centre stage, fast enough to make one's head spin. Wait, hyperspace is tearing? Wait, the Transcendent order of life is manipulating everything? These are all great revelations, great plot points, but there is just so much in Heaven's Reach. I feel like a parched man who was trapped in the desert for five books and has suddenly been thrust into the ocean, without a life preserver. We've gone from too little to too much.

Amid these revelations, the one mystery that kept me reading never does get resolved. We don't learn if humans are truly wolflings or if they indeed have a lost patron. The way I interpret the resolution, it sounds like we are wolflings, but that's never made explicit. So for me, personally, this ending was a little disappointing, since it did not reveal what I wanted to know.

In all fairness, however, that's my problem. Brin never promised he was going to tell us the answer to that question, and the answers he does provide (to questions that were unasked, at least by me) are pretty damn epic. It turns out that the corpse Streaker carries from the graveyard of ships belongs to a member of a species active back when the galaxies numbered seventeen, not five. That's right: the number of galaxies accessible through hyperspace have slowly been decreasing. Apparently this is due to the expanding universe and its corresponding metric causing "tears" in hyperspace, although Sarah the sooner mathematician begs to differ. Honestly, any explanation for something involving hyperspace is going to be technobabble and witchcraft, so let's not dwell on that part.

The implications to this revelation are huge, of course. It speaks of manipulation on a massive scale, with the Galactic Library's records being altered to prevent mention of the last time this happened, 150 million years ago. And there is tragedy too, since it means anyone left in the galaxy or galaxies that get severed from the hyperspace routes are cut off from all galactic civilization, effectively forever. This is apparently why the Transcendents manipulated events, including much of the Streaker's journey, so they could eventually send a whole bunch of ships into a far-flung galaxy in an attempt to say "hi" to anyone left alive there.

Brin does a nice job spelling it all out for us, and I guess it makes sense, but it all feels like it's coming out of left field. I wish he had included more foreshadowing in previous books—more than the vague references to "a time of changes" coming upon us. And he falls into a trap common for authors who postulate a chessmaster: suddenly the protagonists don't feel like they have much free will any more. Streaker spends most of the book waiting for things to happen and reacting, which isn't very exciting. It isn't until the final, post-climactic confrontation between Streaker and the fleet surrounding Earth that Gillian and her crew ever get a chance to do anything clever.

When it comes to the new character introduced in this book, Harry Harms, I have to admit a soft-spot for talking chimpanzees. So he gets a pass from me, even though like Streaker, his role is more as an exposition trigger than anything else. He spends a lot of the time being gruff and incorrigible, as chimps ought to be, and that's just fine by me.

More importantly, he allows Brin to explore an interesting motif about species-wide versus individual "salvation." The emphasis in galactic civilization is all about one's species. A client improves patron species over generations, and those species act "for the good of the clan." In the end, millions of years down the line, those species go on to retire, seek the Embrace of Tides, and hopefully Transcend. This is markedly different from the individualist attitudes championed by the wolfling Earthlings, and it is amusing to see such attitudes gaining a cult following on Tanith.

This speaks to some of the deeper issues Brin has raised with his Uplift series. As we learn the truth about the Fractal World, about the white dwarf, the Transcendents, etc., we get a glimpse of the long, long game. Already, Brin had us thinking in terms of millions of years, and now he asks us to think about life in the universe by the billions of years. Maybe black holes are just a recycling unit, a way to get the older species out of the way so that new ones can emerge. Maybe they are a gateway to something beyond. Either way, it is a sobering reminder that, eventually, all things, all species, meet their end.

I love the premise behind Uplift, and I love the way Brin uses it to explore the relationships among galactic species. As an astrophysicist, Brin at least knows when he's diverging from the science and into the realm of fiction—but as a writer, Brin's skills are … frustratingly inconsistent at best. I am about ready to take a good, long break from David Brin, but I still think this series is worth reading. It is some of the best science fiction I've read, for its careful balancing of space opera with posthumanism and ecological themes. Though Heaven's Reach did not deliver exactly what I expected, it was an interesting journey nonetheless.

Shit just got real!

OK, so remember how Brin left off Brightness Reef on a cliffhanger? Jophur ship had just landed above the returned Rothen vessel, totally changing the balance of power on Jijo. Sara and the starfaring Stranger, whom we now know to be Emerson from the Streaker escaped the zealots and have fallen in with a group horse-riding human women and urs. Dwer and Rety are stuck on a mad robot. Oh, and Alvin and his comrades sunk to the bottom of the ocean, where they were rescued by mechanical crustaceans.

I kind of suspected that Alvin's rescuers would be Streaker dolphins. It was very neat and tidy. Indeed, Brin wastes no time cutting to the chase and revealing all of this to us. And it turns out the Streaker has been through a lot in the interim—which is a great relief to me, because it has been nearly a year since I read Startide Rising, and I could barely remember who Emerson was, let alone how he got separated from the ship (turns out it happened between books). Much worse for wear, Streaker just so happened to find refuge in Jijo's oceans. And then the Jophur showed up.

I already discussed my fascination with the traeki in my review of Brightness Reef, so I'll keep this brief. The Jophur are easily the best part of this book. They combine the intriguing properties of the traeki with the one thing that the Uplift books often lack: a convincing villain. (The Gubru were OK in The Uplift War, but I couldn't stop thinking of them as giant dodos, and that ruined them for me. In contrast, the Jophur are rather unlike anything on Earth. They are different, and that is cool.) Watching Asx lose itself/themselves to the master ring and become Ewasx saddened me; I was glad his rings managed to rebel once in a while. Even better was getting a glimpse at the command structure of the Jophur vessel, as well as its potential goals regarding Jijo and recovering the Streaker. The fact that the Jophur patently just didn't care about anyone, and in fact were actively hostile to the g'Keks, made them great villains. They were willing to raise towns and destroy the sooners' holy artifact, the Egg. I love a good bad guy willing to follow through on threats!

So Infinity's Shore has a great bad guy. What about the matching good guys? Our protagonists are a melange of the new and the old. Returning from Startide Rising are some old friends, including Gillian, the Niss machine, and Kaa. (For some reason my brain always imagines AIs speaking in the voice of Morgan Freeman, so I found the Niss machine very endearing.) I honestly don't remember many of my feelings toward Gillian, Kaa, et al, so I gave them the benefit of a doubt. And really, none of them are as important to the plot as the protagonists who return from Brightness Reef: Dwer, Sara, Lark, Alvin, etc. These characters are the freshest in our minds, and some of them are genuinely better.

Just as the dolphins lurking at the bottom of the ocean were rather predictable, I'm pretty sure Brin couldn't have made the mutual attraction between Lark and Ling any more obvious except by beginning their names with the same le—oh. I see what you did there! Very clever, Mr. Brin. Still, Infinity's Shore isn't a romance, and the love between 2 Ls blossoms while they are prisoner aboard a Jophur ship. It's sweet, and it happens amid action scenes and some moody meditation on Lark's part about his feelings, as a voluntary extinctionist heretic, about falling in love and possibly wanting children. Moody though it may be, however, it serves a real purpose: change has come to Jijo, and no one is going to be the same.

I suppose you could call this book "apocalyptic" in the sense that the Sacred Scrolls of the Jijoan sooners have always predicted a "Judgement Day" from above. Now it's come, and everything is going to hell, because you know what? When starships descend from on high, suddenly all those sacred stanzas just don't quite prepare you for the sheer pants-soiling, hoof-tripping, wheel-blocking, claw-catching terror of the moment. It is no big surprise that most people, despite their nominal devotion to the Scrolls, prefer not to react hastily and begin destroying signs of civilization. Similarly, it is no big surprise that a small portion of people believe the opposite. So even as a powerful interstellar force threatens all the sooners on Jijo, we see their society begin to fracture, their precious Commons peace falling apart.

These politics never quite take centre stage. We don't learn much about how the sooners will react to these events until the very end of the book, and that's fine. This isn't a work of political intrigue; it's more a quick-and-dirty action-adventure. Though Sara and Lark are both exposed to the fallout from some of the more extreme groups, they also have their own, more immediate problems to resolve, so they are on the fringe of these politics. Sara manages to fall in with Uriel, the renowned urrish smith who had the foresight to build an analog computer, while Lark and Ling, as I mentioned above, make out on a Jophur ship. It's all good.

Because unlike Brightness Reef, which tended to flounder and waver until the last hundred pages, Infinity's Shore constantly feels like it is building toward something. Some of the foreshadowing and hints are annoying, even trite—I'm not a fan of the idea that Buyur somehow planned all this a million years ago. That being said, Brin has done a good job creating a tantalizing 150-million-year backstory, and I am now excited about reading Heaven's Reach and finally learning what's going on (again, if that doesn't happen, don't spoil it for me). So even with a few flaws, the fact that this book manages to excite me and make me eager for its sequel is great, especially when it's the middle book in a trilogy.

Stepping back for a moment, even the story in this book builds to an epic conclusion. We know there has to be some kind of showdown between the Streaker and the Jophur ship, and Brin doesn't disappoint us. He finally seems to have a grasp on this whole multiple, shifting perspectives narration, and in those last critical chapters, he moves us effortlessly among perspectives as the action unfolds. Dwer finds himself taking an unscheduled trip in a hot-air balloon and ends up in an unexpected reunion with guess who (saw that one coming). Streaker heads off on a suicide mission to pull the Jophur away from Jijo. Will they escape? Will they finally find sanctuary and succour? Will they—

Well, damn. David Brin ended on a cliffhanger. Again. You know what? Fine then. If he can end on a cliffhanger, so can I. Final verdict on Infinity's Shore is…

Stay tuned at the end of the week for my review of Heaven's Reach and the exciting conclusion to this review of Infinity's Shore!*

*(Disclaimer: Conclusion may not contain 100% fresh excitement. Please ask your physician if artificial excitement is right for you. If your excitement lasts for longer than four hours, call your doctor.)

You cannot ask for a better premise than Uplift. Of all the science fiction series I've read, David Brin has something special here. Uplift is more than just panspermia, because Brin has taken the idea of aliens genetically engineering pre-sapient life to full sapience and wrapped his own entire mythos around the concept. As a result of Uplift, galactic civilization is a network of intricate social relationships defined and bound by literally millions of years of tradition. Client races are beholden to their patrons for millennia, if not hundreds of millennia. Entire species can be found culpable for the actions of a single group. It's very different from what we know, which is not surprising: in the Uplift series, humans are "wolflings." Either our patrons abandoned us long ago, or we developed sentience all by ourselves. Either concept is scary for the rest of galactic civilization.

So of course, the question is: did someone Uplift humanity, and if so, who?! It frustrates me that Brin has been so remarkably tight-lipped with that answer for the past three books. Hence, I begin this second trilogy with the ardent hope that by the time I finish Heaven's Reach, something like an answer will have emerged. (And please, if you have finished this series and Brin doesn't provide such an answer, do not tell me. I prefer to be disappointed on my own.)

Jijo is a fallow world. Settlement is not allowed. Fugitives from five species have settled there and formed an ad hoc society, well aware of their crime, well aware that when a ship arrives, it spells the end. Like the series premise of Uplift, Brightness Reef opens with high stakes, immediately establishing what these people fear and how it can all go wrong for them.

So when it does, it's no surprise. But that is where the lack of surprises ends, abruptly. Brin continuously new twists, and unlike Startide Rising, it actually works well here. For example, humanity's purported patron race, the Rothen, are first portrayed as somewhat god-like uber-humans. Of course, they have a much more sinister purpose that I won't reveal here, and after one of them is killed by some overzealous Jijoan defenders, we see that they have been deceptive even in their appearance. This aspect of the plot, like most of the book, doesn't get explained fully, and that would be extremely frustrating if I didn't have Infinity's Shore on the shelf.

The book ends quite abruptly too. It starts slow, despite its high stakes, and then in the last hundred pages adopts an astounding alacrity as if it has just remembered it needs to wrap up loose ends—until it doesn't. This is one of those qualities which are greatly subjective; it may bother you more than it does me (and it bothers me a little). So fair warning.

Aside from tantalizing hints, the question of human Uplift and the secret of the Streaker carries never gets addressed here (not that I expected it to be). Instead, where Brightness Reef excels is, as usual, its depiction of inter-species relations (wait, no, not those types of relations). The history of these five fugitive groups, as communicated by their sacred scrolls, is one of intermittent conflict ending in a recent peace known as the "Commons." As each sneakship landed on Jijo, it took time for the new settlers to fit into the rhythm of society. For some species, it was a matter of mutual distrust. For some, it's simply because humans smell bad—and ride horses. Whatever the reason, the harmony we see at the beginning of Brightness Reef is young—and, as we see as the story unfolds, very fragile.

My favourite characters were Sara and Lark, and not just because I am human-philic. I liked Sara's plight, her role as an intermediary between the Stranger and the sages, her discomfort with the "Path of Redemption" promoted by the sacred scrolls. That was something I didn't anticipate, the extent to which Brin juxtaposed the received wisdom of the Galactic Civilization's vast Library with the Jijoan settlers' desire to lose knowledge and retreat to the bliss of pre-sapient ignorance. As a bibliophile and an intellectual, all this talk of burning books got under my skin. As Sara watched the more militant parts of her society express their desires to hasten along the Path of Redemption, I found myself wanting to shout, "Nooo! Save the books!" I guess this resonates with me because of the zeitgeist, especially when I think about America and American media. The idea that there are people who are proud of their ignorance, and who wilfully seek to perpetuate the ignorance of others, astounds and, yes, offends me. So I found the Path to Redemption chilling, scary, and not at all to my liking.

Now, Lark was interesting because, like Sara, he is a bit of an outsider. As a heretic, he supports a movement that wants to end the settlers' habitation on Jijo by not reproducing. This differs from the Path to Redemption, which advocates for actual return to pre-sapience, as we see in the form of the dubiously unintelligent glavers. Lark's views are interesting, especially in the context of our growing population on Earth. Plus, through Lark we get to meet Ling, a starfaring human who believes (or believed) the Rothen are humanity's patrons. At first, she approaches Lark and the other humans on Jijo as backward, ignorant. Then they develop a mutual respect (and, if I'm not mistaken, not a little attraction between each other). I'm looking forward to seeing Ling resolve her crisis of faith, as well as Lark resolving his should they decide to get together and stay on Jijo.

As far as the other subplots go—Dwer and his interaction with Rety, Alvin and his companions diving, etc.—these were interesting, but I seldom found myself wondering, "Gee, I wonder what Dwer is doing now." There was never that sense of urgency to return to their perspective. The exception to this would be Alvin after their diving bell gets captured by an as-yet unidentified player. Still, those portions of the book were always shorter than the other perspectives, so I didn't get as attached to Alvin as I did to the other characters.

One character that did surprise me was Asx. The traeki fascinate me. Brin is very talented at coming up with unique species that are not merely humanoid stand-ins, and the traeki are a great example. Apparently they are the same as the Jophur, antagonists in previous books, but they are peaceful. Each individual traeki body is made up of "rings" that have different skill sets and traits; the rings together form a sort of group-mind that acts based upon consensus. So a single traeki can swap out rings and become a slightly different person in the process. Asx is the traeki sage, and his perspectives are little more than pithy ruminations upon the current action. Yet even in such brevity, glimpses into the traeki mind was still cool. Even though Brin doesn't consistently deliver well-paced action or complex characterization, he does often succeed at that one fundamental aspect of science fiction, that necessity for "difference."

Brightness Reef leaves you with questions—maybe too many questions. Still, it's fun, intriguing, and a great beginning to a new Uplift trilogy. Brin has managed to expand upon everything that makes the Uplift universe so unique and awesome. My only hope is that the series just gets better.

My Reviews of the Uplift series:
← The Uplift War | Infinity's Shore →

I really haven't read enough Robin Hobb. She has flown under my radar, mostly because my first encounters with her were through the library, and I have this bad habit of checking out books in the middle of the series (ahem, Golden Fool) and then wondering what the hell is going on. Last year I read Assassin's Apprentice, and I have acquired the remaining two books in that trilogy, so I hope to finish that soon. For now, however, I've turned to the Soldier Son trilogy. And though I've exceeded the amount of space I usually devote to anecdotes, I shall mention how I acquired these books. I actually read Shaman's Crossing years ago, probably back when it first released. I didn't like it. I thought it was dull. So I was hesitant to re-read it and finish the series, but all three were left abandoned at a one-off bookswap we had at the gallery where I work. I don't like to turn down free books, much less a complete trilogy in matching paperback.

So here we are.

With Shaman's Crossing, Robin Hobb turns her attention to colonialism. She combines world-building with fairly competent characterization, politics with just a pinch of zesty magic, to create a story that is rich if a little over-saturated. Although I have reservations about this book, I think Hobb does deserve the accolade the Baltimore Sun has blurbed on the cover of my edition: she is "a master fantasist."

I don't think I can talk about the world without talking about Nevare, and I certainly can't talk about him without talking about his world. So I'll do both. Nevare Burvelle is the soldier son of a new noble; i.e., his father was also a soldier, but he so distinguished himself in battle that the king elevated him to a newly-created lordship. And in Gernia, commoner sons take on their father's profession, while noble sons follow an order: heir, soldier, priest, artist, scholar, etc. It's all in the Holy Scrolls, and apparently violating that order is taboo. This is one of those premises that sounds really cool but that I have a hard time believing would actually work. But I rolled with it. Oh, and women don't get to do anything except plot political marriages and have babies and wear dresses (I think in that order).

If you are starting to get the idea that Gernia, for all its power and prestige and riches and quality of life, is a not-so-nice allegory for the British Empire, you might be on the right track. And Gernia's imperialist policies form the political backdrop for Nevare's maturation into an adult and his conflict with the spiritual forces of the Plainspeople and the even more mysterious, distant Specks. Nevare becomes caught in the middle of a three-way conflict: the Plainspeople are fighting against the Specks, who drove the Plainspeople onto the plains in the first place. From the west, Gernia is displacing the Plainspeople, and will soon go up against the Specks. Nevare, thanks to an encounter with a Plainsman, has been magically linked to a Speck spell that has its own ideas about how he can be used, as a tool, to bring about Gernia's ruination.

So here's the thing: I like Nevare. He is earnest but not obnoxious, and he is capable and competent yet still prone to making mistakes. (I can't stand protagonists who always manage to get it right.) So, because Gernia is Nevare's homeland, and yes, if I'm being honest, because I've internalized eurocentrism despite my best efforts, I kind of want Nevare and his country to succeed. Well, not so much succeed as in colonize and oppress the Plainspeople and the Specks; but I don't want Nevare to have to betray his own people. At the same time, I want the Specks and the Plainspeople and their magicks to survive against Gernia, against its soldiers and technology and cold iron.

These paradoxical, torn loyalties experienced by the reader through Nevare are what make Shaman's Crossing fascinating and brilliant. I want Nevare to survive and make his father proud; I want the Plainspeople and Specks to survive. While not mutually exclusive, one of these will definitely need to compromise in degree somehow. I'm interested to see how Hobb resolves the plot, but for now let me ruminate upon what it means.

There are no easy answers. Although it can be trying to hear the justifications and racism at times, seeing colonialism from this perspective does help me get into the mind of the colonialists and understand the motives driving them to expand. It isn't just avarice; Gernia itself feels threatened by rival country Landsing, which wrested from them their coastal provinces, rendering their proud navy obsolete. Unready to provoke another war with Landsing, Gernia's king turns his eye eastward. So there is a pressure-cooker situation happening, where Gernia can't stop moving east, and the Plainspeople have been pushed westward by the Specks. Something's gotta give.

This is worldbuilding, people. Living, dynamic worlds where events of the novel are but a small part of what's happening. So many fantasy novels build great political intrigues into their plots, yet these exist in a vacuum where it seems every other political entity happens to be sleeping. Hobb has created a society shaped by advances in technology, the loss of a costly war, and controversial political decisions by its ruler. This, in turn, has shaped Nevare. He is growing up as the first of a new generation, the soldier sons of new nobles, attending the King's Cavalla Academy.

Of course, peeling away the politics, we see that the structure of this novel is that of the boarding school. The King's Cavalla Academy is like a Hogwarts setting (without the magic). I'm assuming the friendships and enmities Nevare has formed here will contributed to the plot of the subsequent two books. Most of his time spent at the Academy consists of being persecuted for being a new noble.

Oh, in case you didn't guess, the old nobles who were around before the war didn't appreciate the king diluting their power with new nobles who are, naturally, loyal to him. When it comes to communicating this concept, Hobb gets very heavy-handed. Sometimes it seems like every second conversation Nevare has is about how the old nobles hate the new nobles and are waging a proxy class war via their sons. It's relevant; it's realistic, but it's also way overstated.

This tendency to harp on the intricacies of her world is Hobb's one indulgence that detracts from an otherwise-great book. It doesn't help that, since Shaman's Crossing is in the first person, we hear it all in Nevare's voice. I love that Hobb is enthusiastic about her world—and that her world is worth being enthusiastic about—but sometimes I just put the book aside and took a break because the lengthy descriptions and exposition were getting on my nerves.

You know who also got on my nerves? Epiny. I feel bad, because she's a spunky little women's rights activist who is surprisingly good at critical thinking. Yet she's also young, and she acts so immaturely at times. I so wanted someone, anyone, to tell her to start behaving with a modicum of composure. However, this is not a flaw; it is probably deliberate in, or at least very appropriate to, how Hobb tells the story.

Shaman's Crossing takes a lot of common fantasy motifs—technology versus magic, soldiers versus tribal warriors, class conflict, etc.—but as with her other series, Hobb has fabricated both story and setting enough to make her work stand out. Even though this isn't one of my favourite fantasy novels, and it isn't my favourite Robin Hobb story, it still demonstrates her ability as a fantasy writer, and it's entertaining and even a little thought-provoking. As the beginning of a trilogy, it has a satisfying conclusion and a tantalizing arc. As its own story, it is a deep character piece set against the backdrop of colonial politics. Shaman's Crossing is more complex than I gave it credit for being the first time I read it: don't make the mistake I did.

My Reviews of the Soldier Son trilogy:
Forest Mage →