Three Parts Dead by Max Gladstone

'To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.'

Bertrand Russell - Marriage and Morals (1929)

That use of the word parts in that Bertrand Russell quote should be read as quarters. Fearing life is to be three quarters dead already. Undoubtedly the source of the title for Max Gladstone's debut novel Three Parts Dead, it offers some interesting insight into the purpose behind this legal thriller vis`-a-vis´ fantasy.

Kos the god of fire, is dead. But, in Alt Coulumn, death doesn't have to be permanent. No longer responding to His faithful nor fulfilling His contracts, the firm of Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao have been called in to represent the Church in Kos's resurrection and restructuring of His obligations. Without Him, the metropolis’s steam generators will fail, its trains will cease running, and its four million citizens will riot.

". . .When a god makes deals with other people, deities or Craftsmen, they borrow his power, his blood, through those holes. Out when it's paid out, and in when it returns, increased by the terms of the contract."

What appeared on the surface to be an accidental death is in truth much more and Tara, a first-year associate necromancer, soon finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation.

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The City's Son by Tom Pollock

Tom Pollock writes beautiful prose. It's the first thing I noticed about his debut novel, The City's Son. So good in fact, that it buoys a straight forward young adult urban fantasy to new heights. It's a rare novel of that ilk that's able to hook me enough to give it a full run. I was pleased that not only did it engage me enough to finish the novel, but I found myself coming back to it time and again despite finding the plot just short of boring.

I admit that last sentence is about the biggest back handed compliment I've ever given someone. Guilty as charged, however, it's not that simple. Allow me to explain.

Beth is a trouble maker, daughter of a Hackney widower with a penchant for artistic tagging, and she's pulling her best friend Pen Khan down with her. After a rough encounter with corrupt school administrators, Beth runs away from her endlessly grieving father. In London's back alleys, she sees something she should never have seen. Caught up in the divine forces on which the city is built, she finds herself in a war between London's deep history and her ruthlessly modern future.

The architecture grew darker, stranger: a heavily graffiti'd old cinema building, its neon sign long-dead and its doors shuttered; an electricity sub-station half-hidden behind a cloud of razor-wire, and everywhere, the cranes massed on the skyline like cruel sentinels.

City's Son is a love story, both in the traditional sense and otherwise. Beth is struggling through life. She's a teenager who lacks direction. Her dad is checked out. She's falling through the cracks. Her brilliance is unappreciated by anyone other than her best friend. Pollock guides the reader through her awakening to the world outside her own skull--her love for the people around her and their love for her. Not love as excretion as so often is the case in juvenile fiction (notice, I didn't say young adult as adult fiction can often be more juvenile this regard than the younger variety), rather love as acceptance, both of herself and others.

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Year Zero - Rob Reid

In 1999, I was a freshman in college at the University of California, Santa Barbara. We Gauchos have a bit of reputation, but I think that first year more students spent time indoors that ever before. We were in the midst of the file sharing revolution and I was at ground zero.

A lot of files were shared that year from music to movies to games. Napster was catching fire, but for the lazy college student it was as easy as peeking into another's public folders and grabbing what caught the eye. I don't think most understood what they were doing. It was the Wild Wild West back then, long before the narrative of intellectual property theft began in the public eye. Nevertheless, in Rob Reid's Year Zero, they'd be in the same dicey position as the universe's non-Earth population. That is to say, in a severe legal conundrum as it relates to copyright law.

Low-level entertainment lawyer Nick Carter thinks it’s a prank, not an alien encounter, when two extraterrestrials show up in his office. The entire cosmos, they tell him, has been functionally addicted to humanity’s music since 1977, when American pop songs first reached the stars. As a result, intergalactic society has committed the biggest copyright violation in history, bankrupting the entire universe. Sure, they tried to stop, but:

"Normal reactions to Rickrolls range from eye rolls to ironic sing-alongs. But my visitors started trembling, almost convulsing. And as they clung to their chairs for support, they took on an ecstatic air that was almost smutty."

Obviously, they need legal advice and fast. Who better than a Backstreet Boy turned copyright expert? Oh... he's not the Nick Carter? 

That statement alone offers quite a bit of insight into the kind of novel Reid has written. Sold as the new Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, driven by its status as a funny science fiction novel, I find little in common between the two. Reid's humor is biting, and grounded almost exclusively in today's pop culture where Douglas Adams' was silly, timeless, and (if I may say) British. For me that makes Year Zero exponentially more funny, although fifty years from now I'm not sure the same will hold true. Lines like this bring that home:

"But they just have to get up there and mime it to a famous recording, and the crowds go nuts (catch a Britney Spears show to see something similar here at home)."

Laughing from start to finish, I also found myself genuinely invested in the plot. Carter, his love interest, his hard-ass boss, and the strange aliens who reach out for help, are all well drawn. They move through a plot that makes sense and has a natural pace that doesn't get lost in its own comedic meanderings, another fact that distinguishes it from its classic comparative.

In that way I find quite a bit of John Scalzi in Reid's style, but without the endless font of sarcastic characters that pervade Scalzi's work. That's accomplished by Reid's use of the narrative voice for his humor (aided by a first person narrator no doubt) allowing his characters to exist organically as opposed to the joke delivery devices I find many of Scalzi's characters to be.

In the background, Reid builds a workable commentary on the state of copyright law as it relates to the music business and intellectual property in general.

"...music licensing is an arcane thicket of ambiguity, overlapping jurisdictions, and litigation. This is a disastrous situation for musicians, as well as for music fans and countless businesses. In fact, it suits absolutely nobody -- apart from the cynical lawyers who run the music labels, the lobbying groups, the House, the Senate, and several parasite law firms like my own."

He often points out the unique nature of the penalties associated with copyright law and the disincentive within the system to change them. Many of these are included as footnotes that allow the author to break out the more important educational details that would impeach any sort of consistent narrative voice. Reid sometimes attempts to expand into the realm of political commentary, although I didn't find those moments quite as successful.

Reid's background contributes to these aspects of the novel, echoing the age old advice to write what you know. Sole founder of the online music company Listen.com, which in 2001 launched Rhapsody, as well as a founding member of IGN Entertainment, Reid has been a unique figure in the music business -- one fundamentally connected to the internet and other forms of entertainment. Subsequently, he's become a vocal spokesperson for change, highlighted by his presentation TED this year where he explained his idea of "copyright math", which was clearly the germ that gave birth to Year Zero.

And what a beautiful zygote it is. Rob Reid has struck a nerve with Year Zero that will resonate with anyone who lived through the music internet revolution in the same way that Scalzi's Redshirts does with science fiction television fans. It lives and breathes the absurdity of copyright law, while simultaneously recognizing the importance of protecting artists' rights. It's also the funniest piece of fiction I've ever read and will almost surely be one of the five best novels I read this year. I would suggest acquiring a legal copy at the earliest convenience. Trust me, you'll want nothing to do with violating copyrights after finishing it.

Osiris - E.J. Swift

It begins with the execution of Eirik 9968, rumored leader of the NWO. Vikram, his friend and sometime conspirator, watches from the crowd as the skadi carry out The Council's sentence. Not a Citizen and only recently released from prison himself, he's helpless to stop it. Also watching is Adelaide Mystik, daughter of a founding family, tabloid darling, and eternal disappointment. She can barely watch as Eirik drowns, chained to the bottom of a sealed tank. The Council hopes that Eirik's death will quell the uprisings in Osiris' western sector. They're wrong.

Osiris, E.J. Swift's debut novel, is a title pregnant with meaning. The Egyptian god of the afterlife and underworld, Osiris judges the dead, sending them on to their rewards, which for the elite of Egypt meant eternal life. Through the hope of new life after death Osiris also associates with nature, in particular the annual flooding of the Nile, and crops that spring from it. In Swift's world, the city of Osiris is the afterlife made real. The last bastion of human civilization -- surviving on the ocean and disconnected from land -- it is literally the life come after a world torn apart by climate change and resource wars. But, like most belief systems that preach a life beyond this one, Osiris also separates those judged worthy and those damned to an eternity of pain.

To Citizens of Osiris, life is good, echoing their Egyptian appellation who was often described as "He Who is Permanently Benign and Youthful". Created around sustainable principles, the city is self sufficient for those granted access.

"a shimmering metropolis sunk shin deep into the ocean. Before dawn, mist obscured the entire city, enveloping the thousands of pyramid skyscraper in its damp, arcane touch. It was noon now, and the fog had mostly dissipated. Deceptive sunshine polished the tapering structures of glass and metal, turning the bridges and shuttle lines that webbed them into silver threads. The solar skins of the towers greedily reaped this bounty of heat and light."

Unfortunately, the western sector is denied these things, reliant on the benevolence of the The Council to provide, an emotion rarely felt through the insulation wrapped around them. Crippled by food shortages, drug and human trafficking, and continual power failures, the west is not unlike a modern day war zone. Cut off from Osiris proper by a militarized border, people like Eirik and Vikram are the few willing to speak out against the injustice.

Structured around two points of view, Vikram and Adelaide, Osiris switches every chapter, often overlapping scenes to provide the perspective of each. As the novel begins, the pair could not be further apart, divorced by economics and geography, but also by incompatible world views. Vikram, looking at the Osiris elite wonders,

How could you trust the sadness of someone who had never seen that cold could kill? Who had never seen a gun fired, never been afraid to sleep?

It's a sentiment that resonates in the world today, where so much of the government represents a small subsection of the educated elite.

Despite the hurdles, Adelaide has more in common with Vikram than is readily apparent. With her twin brother missing, and a family seemingly unwilling to find him, she finds herself as willing as Vikram to bring change. Using each other to further their own ends, Osiris is at heart a fascinating character study of a have and a have-not in a world defined by the possession of food, water, and energy.  In short, a microcosm of the world we live in.

If I were writing this review with only mind toward the ideas behind the novel and the subtext that runs through it, I would call it a crowning achievement. It's unfortunate then that I won't be able to be quite so glowing. While Swift's writing is exceptional, vivid and compelling, Osiris lacks any sense of pace. Even from the opening pages, with a prologue written in an inaccessible voice and a first chapter that lacks any definable hook, Swift struggles to consistently demonstrate narrative purpose. It's too easy to put the novel down after every chapter and even easier to put it aside for a day or two in between "Parts" (there are four).

It could be argued, compellingly so I think, that these fits and starts reflect Vikram and Adelaide who themselves are full of misfired failures. Likewise, if Osiris is as much a glimpse into the future as a reflection of the world today, the novel's structure points to the notion, that flying in the face of scientific reality, finding a joint impetus to move forward is the most improbable of outcomes. If this is Swift's message, and it can be powerful, I'm not sure it excuses the inability to compel me forward in the narrative itself.

Part Waterworld, part 1984, E.J. Swift offers a new dialogue in Night Shade's conversation on climate change that began with Paolo Baciagalupi's The Windup Girl. Even in its most frustrating moments, I found Osiris to be a novel that deserves to be read. Swift's talent as a writer can't be questioned, and it's clear to me that there exists an intent behind her work. It lends a depth that helped me persevere, not only to finish, but to anticipate the sequel. I'm hopeful that other patient readers will take the time to find the beauty in it that I ultimately did.

***

It should be noted, that over the last eighteen months I've tended to heap the honors on Night Shade. I have believed, and still do, that in terms of editorial direction and a willingness to push the envelope of genre fiction, they are the premiere publisher today. But, I feel it necessary to point out that the problems I describe in Osiris are becoming all too commonplace in their novels. From God's War, to The Emperor's Knife, to The Winds of Khalakovo, Night Shade seems willing to accept a brilliance of ideas in the face of tedious structure.

It could be a result of the number of debut authors they've published, or the size of their editorial team (small), or the fact that they don't have the clout to compel authors to rewrite large sections of their manuscripts. Or it could be all of the above or none of the above. Nevertheless, it's a theme I'm noticing and one that gives me pause. Ideas and beautiful prose are, in and of themselves, not always enough to carry a novel, much less an entire line of them. I'm just one reader, but food for thought, perhaps.

Pod - Stephen Wallenfels

Warning. Short Review. It's a short book!

Yesterday, someone whom I did not know very well walked up to me and asked, "I've been hearing about this post-apocalypse thing. The The Windup Girl was too gnarly for me, Seed sounds like an agriculture text book, The Stand is eleventy billion pages too long, and The Hunger Games makes me want to eat a sandwich, what should I read to see what all the hubbub is about?" It was a fortuitous moment as I had just a few days prior finished reading Stephen Wallenfels's Pod. That's because Pod is easy to stomach, has aliens instead of seeds, clocks in well under 300 pages, and tells an extremely authentic story about some teenage kids. Sure the novel uses some well worn tropes, and contains a veiled political message I'm not terribly jazzed about, but the final product is an expertly fashioned young adult appropriate novel that I could not put down.

Set in what appears in all respects to be the modern day, Pod begins with the arrival of giant spinning black balls in the sky. An alien presence, or some kind of watcher from beyond, the balls strike dead anyone caught outside. They also seem to have a penchant for automobiles. An observant reader will quickly pick-up on Wallelfels's undertones that seem to suggest the invasion as a response to the Earth's current condition, and humanity as a herd that needs to be culled. As the novel goes along the characters notice new 'earthy' smells and wild animals returning to the world. It isn't judgmental, but hovers right on the edge, a fact that may turn off some readers. I found the whole thing a little unnecessary.

Narrative wise, Wallenfels tells his story from two perspectives: a hard luck twelve-year-old girl named Megs trapped in a hotel parking garage and sixteen year old Josh stuck at home with his borderline obsessive-compulsive father. Not surprisingly, the hotel quickly devolves into an authoritarian regime that Megs has to navigate for survival. Guns, drugs, and food are scarce resources. Josh, on the other hand, is staving off a different kind of crisis -- teenaged angst locked up with an overprotective father.  It's in this setting where Pod shines best. Wallenfels perfectly captures the teenage boy psyche as Josh and his father try to relate to one another.

All told, Pod tells a simple story with simple themes -- human nature is selfishness and aliens probably aren't going to show up to make friends. It eschews the grand apocalypse story that's become so popular in recent years, choosing instead to tell an intensely personal one on a minuscule scale. For the experienced post-apocalypse and/or alien invasion reader, there's very little new to Stephen Wallenfels's debut. But that shouldn't be misconstrued to mean it isn't worthwhile. Pod is an excellent example of the subgenre and something I would encourage everyone to share with their favorite teenaged reader.

The Croning - Laird Barron

I'm not a horror consumer, generally speaking. I've never seen what I would call a "scary movie" and authors like Stephen King or Dean Koontz or (dare I say it) H.P. Lovecraft have rarely done it for me. They rely heavily on ambiance and tone, oftentimes leave me wanting more when it comes to plot. Thus, I fully admit to not being Laird Barron's target audience. Once again in an effort to push the boundaries of what I read, I delved into The Croning with vigor. What I found was an accomplished piece of fiction that never quite coalesced, succeeding scene by scene, but not as a novel in its entire.

The novel begins with a re-imagining of a the Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale. Already one of the darker Brothers Grimm stories, Barron takes it up another notch melding a creepy dwarf (er.. little person?) with occult sacrifice rituals. Things then jump to Donald Miller and his wife Michelle, in 1950's Mexico. Some bad shit happens, and we rejoin the couple in the present where Donald is a doddering semi-retiree whose mind sees threats in every shadow. But as I always say (not really), just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get me.

How well The Croning connects these disparate times in the Miller family history (the Miller is a character in the Rumpelstiltskin myth you may recall) determined its success as a novel. The truth is, they don't connect all that well. The first section is overly long and adds very little to the story other than setting up a thoroughly disturbing milieu. As a story of its own, it's perfection, lending itself perfectly to novelette format, somewhat comparable to Don DeLillo's genius Pafko at the Wall, which was the prologue to his opus, Underworld. Likewise, the Mexican post-prologue-but-not-quite-the-main-narrative, has its own beginning, middle, and end, telling a compelling and haunting story of a husband desperate to find his missing spouse.

The main narrative then is where the bulk of the plot takes place, following Miller in his old age as he comes to grips with the occult. Barron riffs on senility, pondering what might happen if Miller's confusion was the result of outside intervention and not merely his advanced age. He calls into question his family, his friends, and his memory. In short, Donald Miller is tortured a page at a time, and done so with a master's sense for suspense.

By the end I'd realized Barron wasn't trying to create a densely layered plot, but to build tension over time. It works, but I also realized that horror as a subgenre may not be for me. Despite exceptional prose, masterful pacing, and incredible ability to create motif, I constantly kept asking myself, "Where's this going?" In effect, I struggled to grasp the plot or theme that The Croning was designed to accomplish. Ultimately, I decided it wasn't necessarily trying to do either.  Instead, Laird Barron was trying to scare the shit out of me. Repeatedly.

Scene by scene he raised the hair on my arms. He had me looking over my shoulder and leaving lights on. He set the tone from the first page and carried it through to the last. For this reader though, it just wasn't enough. I wanted something more from The Croning. I kept waiting for the twist to come that connected it all together. It never came.

I suspect that horror adherents will find more to love than I did.

Scourge of the Betrayer - Jeff Salyards

I began Scourge of the Betrayer expecting a Joe Abercrombie, Richard Morgan, Glen Cook orgy. Something I'm sure all three of those men have long dreamed about, but only Morgan could write (Steel Remains joke intended). It's on the cover after all (their names, not the orgy). As a reviewer, expectations are a no-no, but when the publisher puts them in my face, what's a guy to do? As it turns out, the only one of those names I would truly associate with Jeff Salyards's debut novel is Glen Cook, and only then for the narrative style. Instead, I found an extremely unique take on the fantasy genre that shares more commonality with one of my favorite 2011 science fiction novels, Germline by T.C. McCarthy.

Like Germline, Scourge is all about a writer outsider who finds himself in the middle of a war he's completely unprepared for. In this case, the outsider is Arkamondos (Arki), a scribe of no repute who gets offered the chance to follow a Syldoon company into enemy territory and record all that he sees. Of course, the Syldoon are up to more than they initially appear and Arki is in way over his head. Told entirely in first person, Scourge is foremost a character study. Salyards puts the reader inside the head of a naive, scared, and incapable Arki, who is revolted by and attracted to his subjects in equal measure.

Interestingly, the character study I speak of isn't so much Arki, but Captain Braylor Killcoin, the secretive leader of the company, and his merry band of slaves turned soldiers turned guerrillas turned brooding veterans. The narrator becomes the cipher through which the reader perceives reality and thereby the other characters. No one gets a pass. By that I mean the typical fantasy protagonist would justify the commission of violence in a cause and laude the skill. It's seen time and again in the genre. Arki reflects those values much differently. He pities the soldiers for the ease with which they kill while fearing and envying them for the same. In a world hard boiled, Arki is anything but and his perceptions, and therefore the reader's, reflect that skepticism. Not to say that he's uninteresting, but readers will attach themselves to Scourge, and look forward to its sequel, not for more Arki, but for more interpretation of the events he witnesses.

The world itself is fairly bland. Unlike other recent first person fantasies, Among Thieves (Hulick) and Prince of Thorns (Lawrence) coming quickest to mind, Scourge has very little that I would call world building. Other than a brief section in the latter parts of the books where Arki learns who the Syldoon are, and what they represent, the nuance and the texture of the world could be anywhere. It's not unique, or vibrant. The reason isn't that Salyards lacks creativity, rather it demonstrates a commitment to his narrative style. He never breaks out of Arki's perceptions to become didactic. He creates a sense of wonder and mystery not by the specialness of his imagination, but by withholding his narrator's access to information.

It's that which calls Glen Cook so strongly to mind. The Black Company series, one of the most significant works for modern fantasy, is told through the point of view of Croaker, the company's doctor and annalist. Cook focuses on character over milieu, and more importantly on the social dynamics of soldiers in a fantasy world. What separates the two is Salyards's use of Arki's status as observer. Croaker is the quintessential insider and an active participant in the action -- he lacks perspective. Using Arki, Salyards creates a wholly different paradigm that reflects on the fantasy genre and the nature of violence in a way that's entirely unique.

This uniqueness does not always lead to the most compelling read. Scourge is the definition of a slow burn, beginning in a small faceless town, continuing with long stretches of reflection over barely textured wilderness, and ending without a denouement that genre readers have come to expect. Even the prose shows more workmanlike efficiency than dazzling style, opting to preserve Arki's status as a painfully average chronicler. Despite that, I found myself coming back to it every night. The haunting nature of Killcoin and Arki's revelatory witnessing of his life, carries the novel, delivering one of the most unique fantasy reading experiences I've had.

It should come as no surprise that it's a Night Shade published title. Putting aside its similarity to Glen Cook, one of Night Shade's most prolific authors, Scourge of the Betrayer screams 'new voice'. Like last year's God's War (Hurley), it isn't reinterpreting old genre conventions, but finding entirely new pathways. Once again I find myself applauding Night Shade for its editorial vision, further cementing them as my go to source for something I've never seen before. I can't wait to read whatever's next for Jeff Salyards. His debut can't be considered anything but a tremendous success.

The Return Man - V.M. Zito

The jacket copy of The Return Man by V.M. Zito doesn't mention zombies. The closest it gets is "he tracks down the dead and delivers peace." That could mean it's about a guy who finds lost people, confirms their death (or not), and gives the family peace. It could mean that, but it doesn't. It means the novel is all about killing zombies. All the expected themes, tropes, and tones (the three T's if you will) that description calls to mind are likewise present. In that, Zito's debut novel is a competent piece of zombie fiction. Unfortunately, that's all it is.

Set after an outbreak of zombie-itis, Return Man tells the story of Henry Marco. Marco lives in the Evacuated States, or those states west of the Mississippi which have become a ravaged wilderness that the Safe States are trying to forget. It's there that he makes his living tracking down shambling corpses as a contract exterminator for grieving families back east. Four years Marco has lived alone, scared to death he'll wake up to find his missing wife's corpse walking through the front door, but times change when Homeland Security calls.

Homeland Security! Dun dun dun! This may be hard to believe, but in a zombie/outbreak novel, the government is the bad guy. The political party in charge, who's using fear to control the U.S. population, is the New Republicans! And guess who's out to destroy the U.S.? China! I'm being snarky, but it doesn't make my point any less valid. The premise is beyond trite and I had hard time with it throughout the novel. All of it's window dressing to the actual narrative that condenses down to: go retrieve an item from a prison full of zombies 375 miles away and come back without getting bit by one of the million shuffling corpses roaming the countryside.

Perhaps it's unfair of me to criticize a novel for doing exactly what it sets out to do. Zito isn't trying to rewrite the zombie novel the way Mira Grant did in Feed or Max Brooks did in World War Z. Social dynamics of the non-infested territory are barely addressed, and the nature of the spread of the infection doesn't hold up under scrutiny. What's left is a series of zombie dodging (rather convenient dodging at that) scenes and moments of lament over the sad state of affairs that Marco's life has become. There are moments of tension, but by the fifth or sixth near bite I'd lost any sense of fear. Furthermore the ending... well... I just didn't buy it.

For all those shortcomings, Zito does the story he's telling justice. He writes a strong prose that flows well and the novel is paced beautifully. Marco is a well drawn character and as a former resident of the California desert, the landscape is rendered accurately and with care (he even gets all the freeways right). It's just not enough. If science fiction is a fiction of ideas then the Return Man has to be found wanting. 

All of that goes to say, I've read this before and I'll probably read it again. Perhaps it's unfair of me to criticize a novel for doing exactly what it sets out to do. Especially when it does it well enough to have me reading to the end, but I'll forget The Return Man within a few weeks. I'll forget it so thoroughly that the next time a zombie novel shows up in my to-read pile I'll pick it up and give it a shot. I'll probably have the same reaction. For those who don't remember history, are doomed to repeat it.

The Games - Ted Kotsmaka

As a widely published short fiction author, Ted Kosmatka's first novel The Games is hardly a debut. Since 2008, Kosmatka has seen eight stories reprinted in Years Best anthologies and received multiple award nominations, most prominently the Nebula for his story Divining Light. He's also a writer for Valve, creators of the massively successful Half-Life video games. With that in mind, I was looking forward to the The Games being a polished, layered, science fictional novel. What I got was a polished, straightforward, near term technothriller that calls to mind a taciturn Michael Crichton.

Set sometime in the near future, the games in The Games refers to the Olympics where the main event has evolved into a gladiator like competition with only one rule: no human DNA permitted in the design of the combatants. Silas Williams is the geneticist in charge of preparing the U.S. entry whose designs have led them to the gold in every previous event. Looking for an edge in the upcoming Games, Silas’s boss engages an experimental supercomputer to design the genetic code for a gladiator that cannot be beaten.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the guy who invented the supercomputer, Evan Chandler, is batshit crazy and he's got more to accomplish that creating a genome never before seen on earth. Aided by the beautiful (aren't they all?) xenobiologist, Vidonia João, Silas must find a way to understand what he created and how to keep it from ruining everything he's built.

Before I go any farther I think I should disclose the fact that I wanted a lot more gladiator action. When a book is sold as containing genetically engineered gladiatorial combat, I'm looking for Jean Claude Van Damme's Bloodsport with chitinous armored sentient chimeras. Or maybe rabid vorpal bunnies. While The Games delivers on the crazy genetically engineered monster factor, very little of the novel actually takes place in the arena. Kosmatka instead focuses on the overworked 'you-can't-put-technology-back-in-the-box' angle.

As far as those kinds of stories go, The Games is a success. It's fast paced, full of tension, and just the right amount of blood and guts to sustain things. There's a little romance and the whole thing is a tragic story of technology run amok. Except, replace the Olympic setting with a remote island and the genetically engineered gladiator with a velociraptor or two and the end result looks an awful lot like Jurassic Park with a (very) slightly altered cast of characters. That's just not going to do it for me.

The characters themselves are likeable enough. Silas is a bit miscast as a once in a lifetime genius geneticist, but that's part of his charm. He's smart and athletic, loves to hunt with his bow and arrow, and no one can seem to get over how big he is. Everything about his character to me screams big time executive, not genius level scientist. Nevertheless, he comes across as incredibly conflicted about what he does and why he does it. The other motive character, Evan Chandler, is even more interesting. A functional (barely) autistic (maybe?), he struggles to interact with the real world, choosing instead to live within the virtual confines of his super computer. Outside them, the cast is archetypal and bland. The major villain, Mr. Baskov (the Olympic Commissioner) and the love interest, Vidonia João, fit into tidy boxes that eschew any sort of eye opening moments.

Considering Kosmatka's exceptional short fiction and his work experience in research labs, it comes as no surprise that the novel is well written and authentic seeming in its science. He presents the latter in a clear way that allows for suspension of disbelief without becoming Tom Clancy didactic. The tension is well structured and peaks at the right times. What I'm getting at is that this is perfectly good novel. It's just a novel I feel like I've read a half a dozen times.

Ted Kosmatka's first novel, The Games is a paint by numbers technothriller separated from its peers only by its level of polish and the interest ignited by the Olympic backdrop. For readers who rabidly seek out this kind of yarn, I suspect they'll find a great deal of enjoyment. For me, I kept waiting to be engaged at a deeper level, or caught off guard by a twist, or sucked into some bad ass monster fighting. Unfortunately, I'm still waiting.

The Rook - Daniel O'Malley

Daniel O'Malley's debut novel features the tagline, On Her Majesty's Supernatural Secret Service. It's an apt description of The Rook which to describe it more verbosely is James Bond meets Harry Potter if Money Penny was the main character. Cool, right? I thought so too. Unfortunately what begins as an entertaining and clever urban fantasy novel descends into a poorly structured, infodumptastic (made up word!) narrative that can't get out of its own way.

Myfanwy (rhymes with Tiffany) Thomas is a Rook, a high-ranking member of a secret organization called the Chequy. It's their job to battle the many supernatural forces at work in Britain. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Myfanwy is more Urkel than Stefan. Despite her incredible power to control living matter she's become a desk bound budget hawk with the social skills of a dim witted honey badger. One night she 'wakes up' in a London park surrounded by bodies with no recollection of who she is or how she got there, a letter in her coat pocket the only clue. To find out who she is, who wants her dead, and why, Myfanwy will have to rely on herself, and her letters to herself from her other self.

If reviewing The Rook was a simple matter of endorsing its concept, the quality of its prose, and the strength of its characters, this would be a much shorter review. I give O'Malley's novel high marks in all three categories. The secret government organization is always a blast in light of the general predisposition to believe governments hide all kinds of awesome things. Along with the premise, O'Malley demonstrates excellent control of the action. He never leaves anything unclear and I never lacked a comprehensive picture of the scenes or the characters in them.

Those characters for the most part dazzle, with one major exception -- Dark-Phoenix-Myfanwy. She's not poorly drawn, but in comparison to a vibrant surrounding cast, and more importantly her previous incarnation, she falls short. While her humor is wry and she's an extroverted go-getter, the structure of the character is teeth-grindingly expected. I struggled to suspend my disbelief over her immediate and constant capability, as well as the response of a top-secret government organization to her obvious personality changes. 

Meanwhile, Jean-Grey-Myfanwy, who O'Malley only shows via letter, is utterly compelling. Her weaknesses and strengths, so distant from the expected 'hero' of the urban fantasy paradigm, provide The Rook with a unique flavor it would otherwise have lacked. Likewise, many of the ancillary cast members such as Myfanwy's personal assistant Ingrid, her bodyguard Anthony, and her Rook counterpart Gestalt, provide a staggering amount of life to the novel given their relative insignificance.

It's unfortunate then that The Rook reads like it was written for the sole purpose of showcasing O'Malley's imaginings of the Chequy and its inner-workings. Parts of the narrative (guestimate around 25%) are told through the text of dozens of letters -- some of which move the conspiracy plot along, others that simply provide background. Letter after letter, especially in the early going, reads like an RPG dossier, dumping a kitchen-sink's-worth of world building into the reader's lap. To paraphrase one example:

Myfanwy: Oh look, there are these elite units in the Chequy called the Barghast. I wonder if I wrote a letter to myself about this because I sure don't remember anything. 

Old Myfanwy: I thought you might want to know about the Barghat. They're special forces and let me give you their history. 

[Three Pages Later]

Old Myfanwy: And that's what the Barghast are. 

Myfanwy: Well, I'll be.

Many of the asides have little to no bearing on moving the narrative forward, instead focusing on self-indulgent information apropos of nothing. I found myself putting The Rook down every time a letter surfaced. I'd roll my eyes and go do something else. The phenomenon worked both ways. Once I returned to the novel, I'd get into the letter, engrossed in Original-Recipe-Myfanwy, and dread the return to Extra-Crispy.

Furthermore, why the hell wouldn't Disk-Format-Error-Myfanwy just read all the damn letters in the first weekend? O'Malley dribbles out the left behind knowledge all the way to the final pages. Obviously done for dramatic effect, I found it a lot more annoying than nail biting. My frustration stems from the fact that the amnesia story line wasn't necessary other than as a means to world build, which to be quite honest feels like a cheap gimmick.

Despite the negatives, and they are legion as they relate to pace and structure, I can still recommend The Rook to some readers, with some trepidation. The premise and characters are good enough to provide substantial entertainment and the conspiracy/mystery is well executed. I think many urban fantasy acolytes will find a great deal to enjoy here. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those. For me, the removal of the amnesia plot device in its entirety would have made for a stronger novel. It would have allowed the world building to occur organically and provided an opportunity for actual character growth as opposed to the convenient manifestation of the stereotypical snarky no-nonsense female urban fantasy protagonist.

But, that isn't the book Daniel O'Malley wrote. So I instead I can only say, maybe the next one will be better. I hope so.

Alchemist of Souls - Anne Lyle

Before I became re-enamored with fantasy, I was an avid reader of historical fiction (or as I like to call it -- fantasy for people who don't want to be seen reading fantasy). I read Shogun (Clavell), Pride of Carthage (Durham), Musashi (Yoshikawa), Gates of Fire (Pressfield), and their ilk. It's exciting to me now when I come across a fantasy concoction that blends that historical sensibility with the speculative. Anne Lyle's debut novel is just that kind of brew. Set in historical Elizabethan England, Alchemist of Souls shows what might have happened if the Virgin Queen had children, secured her rule, and made an alliance with a heretofore undiscovered alien race from the New World.

Lyle's protagonist is Mal Catlyn, a down on his luck swordsman with a checkered past and an unfortunate family connection to Catholicism. The skraylings, a new race from the New World, have been allied with England for a generation, but an ambassador had yet to treat with the Queen. With word of the first skrayling delegation, Mal is hand picked, rather unexpectedly, to serve as bodyguard during the controversial visit. Assassination attempts are the least of his concern as layers of espionage and political jockeying begin to pull him in unexpected directions.

Along with the intrigue, Lyle sets the stage with a tournament of stage performances in honor of the ambassador's visit. Put on by the three most esteemed theater troops in London, the tournament becomes a set piece for the larger story. The theater sections are told mostly through the eyes of Coby, a young woman hiding behind men's clothing, and connects to Mal's thread through his friend Ned, a scribe with a penchant for theater men. Between the three of them they'll be asked to prevent a conspiracy at the core of the monarchy.

There's one requirement in a historical novel and that's tone. Accuracy is important. I certainly don't want auto-loading revolvers running around 16th century London, but it's secondary to capturing the tone of the time. For Elizabethan London that means a lot of things -- religious tension, theater, foreign conflict, and the economic expansion from the New World, to name a few. While some modern affectations of character and language assert themselves from time to time, Alchemist embraces that historical tone from the opening pages and left me wondering whether I was reading a fantasy at all. References to the recent death of Christopher Marlowe, a tense tennis match, and the dropping of Bloody Mary's name all lend themselves to setting an ambiance that's decidedly Elizabethan.

Brought into this authentic setting are the skraylings, a 'race' that I was surprised to learn was, at least tangentially, pulled from Norse history. Encountered in the 11th century, the skraeyling were a people of the region known as Vinland (maybe Newfoundland?), about whom almost nothing else is known. In Alchemist the skraylings are far more fleshed out, exhibiting an entirely different evolutionary line than humanity. Part Native American, part alien, part alchemist wizard things, they exist as Lyle's fantastic element and the impetus by which the narrative moves, woven into Mal's childhood and hopelessly intertwined with his future.

Taking things to another level, Lyle adds characters who exist in the historical space. Mal struggles with his familial responsibilities and his duty to the crown. Coby fights her lie and her faith. Ned reconciles his lifestyle to a world that rejects it. These values they struggle with and embrace in equal parts are so tied to the time in which Lyle has chosen to write that they could not have existed else wise.

Overall the Alchemist has great pace, moving through equal parts political intrigue, bursts of action, and fear of discovery for Coby and Ned. There are moments where Lyle jumps forward in a plot line too suddenly, making a supposition or connection that a character don't seem quite ready to make. Likewise, I raised an eyebrow or two at the social progressiveness of many of the characters who for the time are significantly more accepting of others than I might expect. These are minor complaints and seem reasonable solutions to difficult problems, most notably the fact that close minded bigotry isn't a lot of fun for a socially progressive audience.

Mysterious circumstances combined with historical authenticity and the strange, Anne Lyle's Alchemist of Souls is a 2012 debut I can strongly recommend. It will stand out in the Angry Robot catalog as a title with broad appeal across a wide swathe of genre readers, as well as a real departure from many of their titles that eschew genre classification.

Look for Alchemist of Souls in stores March 27 in the US and the following week in the UK. It's the first book in a planned trilogy titled Night's Masque. You can find Anne Lyle on Twitter @annelyle or on the web at annelyle.com

The Pillars of Hercules - David Constantine

Around these parts I commit myself to finishing everything I start. Why, you ask? Because I think it's important for me to help my reader make decisions about what they should buy and what they should avoid. If I only read things that I enjoy, how will I ever fulfill the second half of that commitment? I'm also loathe to spend 800 words eviscerating someone's baby. Thus, Cheryl was born. Cheryl is my imaginary personal assistent who helps me "review" novels I really did not like. Instead of just doggedly attacking a novel's failures, I try to have some fun with it and get some laughs. Hopefully it's taken the way I intend it.

This is my fourth installment of posts featuring Cheryl. If you enjoy this one, I suggest finding the Cheryl tag on the right sidebar for the others.

Oh and there's a new reoccurring character joining the blog today...

###

Here's the blurb:

Alexander, Prince of Macedon, is the terror of the world. Persia, Egypt, Athens . . . one after another, mighty nations are falling before the fearsome conqueror. Some say Alexander is actually the son of Zeus, king of the gods, and the living incarnation of Hercules himself. Worse yet, some say Alexander believes this . . . . 

The ambitious prince is aided in his conquest by unstoppable war-machines based on the forbidden knowledge of his former tutor, the legendary scientist-mage known as Aristotle. Greek fire, mechanical golems, and gigantic siege-engines lay waste to Alexander''s enemies as his armies march relentlessly west--toward the very edge of the world. Beyond the Pillars of Hercules, past the gateway to the outer ocean, lies the rumored remnants of Atlantis: ancient artifacts of such tremendous power that they may be all that stands between Alexander and conquest of the entire world. Alexander desires that power for himself, but an unlikely band of fugitives-including a Gaulish barbarian, a cynical Greek archer, a cunning Persian princess, and a sorcerer''s daughter-must find it first . . . before Alexander unleashes godlike forces that will shatter civilization. 

The Pillars of Hercules is an epic adventure that captures the grandeur and mystery of the ancient world as it might have been, where science and magic are one and the same

###

Justin: *buzz* Cheryl! Get me The List.

Cheryl: Yes sir. I'll bring it right in.

Justin: *impatient foot tapping*

Cheryl: Here you go, sir.

Justin: *sigh* What the hell?

Cheryl: I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

Justin: I've been trying to come up with an original idea for a novel for the past decade. Every time I think I've hit on just the right niche someone comes along and beats me to it.

Cheryl: Humm...

Justin: What?

Cheryl: Oh nothing.

Justin: Cheryl...

Cheryl: Well, maybe it's because you spend more time talking about writing a novel than you do writing one.

Justin: What did you just say, Cheryl?!

Cheryl: I said you're lazy.

Justin: That's what I... wait, what?! I should fire you!

*poof*

Mysterious Wizard: Calm yourself, Justin.  It isn't Cheryl whom you should be mad at...

Justin: Who the hell are you?

Mysterious Wizard: I'm Fizbane, the Wizard who inhabits your blog.

Justin: *boggled*

Fizbane: Perhaps, who you're truly mad at is David Constantine, author of The Pillars of Hercules.

Justin: Um, I'm pretty sure I'm pissed at Cheryl. She's supposed to do what I say, it's in her contract which I have here, written in her blood and notarized by Cthulu.

Fizbane: As the Google representative in charge of this blog, I regret to inform you that Cthulu is not a licensed notary.

Cheryl: Face.

Justin: Shut it, Cheryl! You're telling me you work for Google?

Fizbane: I am your blog wizard. We come standard with every blog. For the most part we lurk in the background, but given your wholesale attack on fair Cheryl today, I felt it was time to assert myself.

Justin: Oh my God, this is why Google opposed SOPA. I mean you're clearly a rip-off of Fizban.

Not a notary... apparently.

Fizbane: *wizardly chortle* Come now, I clearly bear no resemblance to that fictional charlatan of the floppy hat and grandfatherly humor. Any similarities are purely coincidental, I assure you.

Justin: Uh-huh.

Fizbane: Now, back to the topic at hand. Pillars of Hercules. It sure sounds like a great idea. Advanced technology set during Alexander's conquest of Europe and Asia.

Justin: Damn good idea, you're right. Although, I have to admit, it didn't really come together. Constantine asks, "What if Alexander didn't die in Persia and instead, went west?" But he does nothing beyond that to explain this vastly advanced technology. Submarines, steam engines, explosives, etc. As though by Alexander's mere survival all the technology that Plato and Aristotle theorized became a reality. It's a stretch and never made much sense.

Fizbane: So you're a bully and a nitpicker. *stern stare*

Justin: Jesus, Fizbane. What are you my dad?

Fizbane: And a blasphemer.

Justin: Really?

Fizbane: I call 'em like I see 'em.

Justin: Anyway, it's not just that. I mean the whole book has a boatload of modern affectations. All the language is super modern with high-fives and current day idioms. There's also no concept of Greek/Roman/Carthaginian cultural mores. All the PoV characters are progressive thinkers. One of the major plot points is that Alexander believes he's the son of Zeus. No one really believes him though. I mean, even those who think he might be telling the truth don't seem to find any particular sense of reverence associated with it. It's almost like every character is in on the joke that the gods aren't real.

Fizbane: *aghast* The gods aren't real? Who does Constantine think he is?

Justin: Now who's the grouchy one?

Fizbane: The opinions expressed by your blog wizard do not reflect those of Google corporate.

Justin: Right. Well, despite these problems, it might have worked if the book was put together right. Unfortunately, it really wasn't. From a craft perspective, the book is just one long frustration.

Fizbane: *back under control* How so?

Justin: Constantine has about eight different PoVs that he uses. Only one of them has a distinct voice, making it difficult to become immersed in the characters. He switches PoVs every 3-5 pages on average and sometimes as often as every page.

Fizbane: That seems overly frequent, like the number of times you badger poor Cheryl.

Justin: Ok ok, I get it. I'll be nicer to Cheryl. I'll treat her like Flint treats Tasslehoff in Dragon's of Autumn Twilight.

Fizbane: Don't you dare!

Justin: Ah ha! I knew it! I caught you Fizban the Wanna-be.

Fizbane: Any similarities between your blog wizard and fictional characters protected by copyright law is purely coin...

Justin: Coincidental, whatever. Back to Pillars of Hercules. By the novels conclusion I realized Constantine was switching PoVs primarily to hide things from the reader he wasn't ready to reveal and to build tension. It felt cheap. All of this shifting around totally sucked the pace right out of an absolutely action packed novel. I was so busy keeping track of whose head I was inside that I lost all track of the action and plot moving around it.

Fizbane: I'm beginning to see your point despite my Google programming that requires me to be as unassuming as possible as to not upset any government entities that may consider invoking anti-trust laws.

Justin: That seems to be an unnecessary level of personal detail for you to share, Fizbane.

Fizbane: *pats Justin on the head* I like you. Call me Fizzy.

Justin: It's not just craft, inexplicable world building, and odd language choices, but the plot really isn't very interesting. It just crawls along without sense of context. The characters all feel like little miniatures in a massive game of Risk. Constantine just pushes them around the board from one conflict to another with no sense of ramification.

Fizbane: It seems that perhaps your anger in Constantine is misplaced. His execution was poor, the idea is still worth exploring.

Justin: You make a good point... Fizzy. I could start my version of the novel tomorrow. Yes.

Cheryl: Oh give me a break. I can't listen to this any longer. You'll actually take the time to sit down and write a novel around the same time I get up out of this digital space and smack you on the back of the head. Constantine is twice the writer you can ever hope to be!

Justin: Do you see what I have to deal with here Fizzy?!

But the wizard was already gone, a white... turkey... feather all that remained of his benevolent presence.

Throne of the Crescent Moon - Saladin Ahmed

A few weeks back I heavily criticized a debut sword and sorcery novel for lacking character, plot, and... well... substance.  When I did that, I opened myself up to the criticism that a sword and sorcery novel lacks those things on purpose.  They're all about fun and adventure.  I knew that was wrong, but didn't have a way to prove it.  I do now.  Saladin Ahmed's sword and sorcery novel, Throne of the Crescent Moon, is a superficial adventure novel at first glance.  It also possesses tremendous heart and soul.  Not soul in a Biblical sense, although there's some of that too; I mean soul like Barry Gordy.  Every note in Ahmed's debut comes from an authentic place, a cultural awareness not unlike Motown in the 1960's.

From a plot standpoint, Throne is about a power struggle between the iron-fisted Khalif and the subversive Falcon Prince.  In the midst of a brewing rebellion, a series of brutal supernatural murders strikes at the heart of the Crescent Moon Kingdoms.  The 60-year old Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, is the last real ghul hunter in the great city of Dhamsawaat and his young assistant Raseed bas Raseed, is a holy warrior whose swordsmanship is matched only by his devotion to God.  When they learn that the murders and the Falcon Prince's brewing revolution are connected, they find themselves in a race to save the life of the tyrannical Khalif.

Told through a surprising number of points of view (I count six off the top of my head), Throne is a quintessential sword and sorcery novel.  The characters are world weary, cynical, and fatally flawed.  They're common by birth, possessing a strength of will that is decidedly not.  Adoulla and Raseed are more heroic in nature than the traditional self-centered characters of Howard or Moorcock, but the in-the-moment, personal conflict, is very much in their image.  At the novel's conclusion I'd never once been surprised by the directions Ahmed chose to take.  What did surprise me, is that I didn't care in the least.  The characters, and the method and content of their interactions, are just that good.

When I say method, I am referring to Ahmed's prose and command of dialoge.  Throne reads like the debut novel of someone who spent years honing his craft.  Given the recognition that Ahmed has garnered for his short fiction, with both Hugo and Nebula Award nominations, I guess that's exactly what he's done.  Accessible is a term that's thrown around like a pejorative when it comes to literature, and some may levy that criticism here.  To me, it demonstrates a confidence in his craft.  He does not rely on verbosity to communicate his setting or his character's affectations, rather he uses their unique voices, providing ample beauty in construction of the whole, not the parts that constitute it.

Content is a slightly more murky discussion.  Ahmed uses his two primary characters to set up paradigms of extremism versus moderation, and cynicism versus optimism (among other things).   Adoulla, the old and skeptical realist, and Raseed, the young and energetic idealist, square off again and again in didactic discussions of their world view.  It should be noted here that Ahmed is an Arab-American and a Muslim.  As a White-American (which perhaps ironically includes those of Middle Eastern heritage) and a non-religious person, I read much of this interaction as a commentary on the disagreement in the Muslim world between fundamental and moderate Islam.  I can only imagine that a Muslim might read it more like a rebuke of the lack of respect toward Islam in the United States.  To others, it might be either, and both.  There lies the beauty of Ahmed's novel.

Another character, Zamia, a tribeswoman from outside the 'civilized' city, begins a similar discussion of old and new, tradition and progress.  Raseed is Adoulla's foil, but Zamia's counterpart is the setting itself -- the city of Dhamsawaat.  Drawing heavily from his heritage, Ahmed paints a world that would sit nicely in the Fertile Crescent.  Marketplaces and street vendors, methods of greeting and social mores, quotations from scripture and religious traditions, will all call to mind pictures of various Middle Eastern cultures, but also of a fully realized world that belongs to Ahmed alone.

Zamia, in her dedication to tribal ways, comes to all of this fresh.  Isolated and uncultured, she begins the process that many are forced to undergo in the developing world as familial and tribal affiliations are slowly eroded.  Far on the back-burner in Ahmed's narrative, it's an interesting thematic aside, and something that would bear further exploration in future novels.

As I began this review, I questioned whether I should mention Ahmed's background at all.  What does the fact he's a Muslim have to do with the quality of his novel?  The answer is nothing, and everything.  This is an unexceptional sword and sorcery story, but it is an unexceptional sword and sorcery story with an exceptional point of view.  It is Ahmed's point of view, Barry Gordy's 'soul', that makes Throne special; and it is his background that creates it as much as his talent as a writer.

Before too many reviews percolate out there, I want to put something to rest.  Throne is 288-pages long.  It's one of the shortest hardbacks I've held.  Ahmed does not have the market power of Brandon Sanderson, who put out a similar length novel last year (Alloy of Law).  Some might say that a 288-page novel isn't worth $25.  Trust me when I say, there's more in Ahmed's 288-pages than in many of his 600-page peers.

In case it hasn't been clear thus far, I loved this novel.  Saladin Ahmed joins a growing group of writers in genre fiction like Lauren Beukes, N.K. Jemisin, Nnedi Okorafor, Tobias Buckell, Paolo Bacigalupi, and others, who redefine what the genre writer looks like, and more importantly what they sound like.  Consider Throne of the Crescent Moon among the books that I insist you read.

Throne of the Crescent Moon is due out in stores on February 7.  You can find the author in Twitter or on his website.

Songs of the Earth - Elspeth Cooper

I've read some crazy good debuts over the last twelve months, including two of the best novels I read last year.  It's not the norm, however, for a debut author to spring forth like Athena, fully grown and ready to kick some ass.  And Elspeth Cooper's (can we agree that Elspeth is a cool name?) Songs of the Earth is more the norm, a well conceived and well written novel that suffers from debut hiccups.

Cooper's protagonist is Gair, a holy-knight-in-training who's been exiled and branded by the Church for witchcraft. Starved and battered, he finds help from a mysterious man who can teach him to control the magical song in his mind.  The man, Alderan, is a member of an ancient order of Guardians, charged with protecting the barrier between the world and something akin to Hell.  What follows is the 'magical school' plot device that's so widely applied across the genre, and for the most part it's well done, although the focus remains more on Gair's romance with an older woman than education.

While Gair's journey is the primary story line, other plots are afoot, including Church politicking as Preceptor Ansel prepares for a coming conflict.  Coming conflict I say?  Can I provide more details?  Well, not really, which caused some consternation.  Maybe Cooper is being too subtle, or maybe I'm dense, but Ansel spends a great deal of time researching, plotting, and executing (maybe?) something.  460 pages later, it's not clear at all what that is.  I might have a guess about the ultimate goal, but the methods he's laying out to accomplish them?  I've got nothing.

For me, Ansel's sequences were far more compelling than Gair's.  Populated by interesting characters with blurred morality,  it's unfortunate they function more like an extended epilogue, as none of it felt relevant to the main arc. Of course, it whet my appetite for the next book, the obvious intent, but interspersing it throughout the novel slows the narrative, leading to a novel with inconsistent pace.

There is one other niggle that bears mentioning.  A moment occurs about halfway through the novel where Gair demonstrates a capability with no groundwork to support it.  It seemingly comes out of nowhere and somewhat impeaches what is in my mind a tremendous first half of a novel.  In fact, had I written this review based solely on the preceding pages, I would be stringing together a series of superlatives.  All of which goes to say, Cooper absolutely has the talent to succeed.

Despite some bumps in the road, I found Songs an enjoyable read.  The characters are well drawn, some exceptionally so (Alden), and Cooper demonstrates a knack for believable dialogue.  Her descriptive prose flows well especially in action sequences where her familiarity with swordplay is apparent.  Also, some of the novel's most impressive moments come in the aforementioned romance.  What could have come off awkward and stilted, always felt sweet and natural.

Given what I know about Cooper, and what she's shown in Songs of the Earth, I have a strong feeling the Wild Hunt series will be more well regarded as a whole, than the first installment on its own.  Numerous fantasy series have started slow before catching fire.  With a little more polish and experience,  I can see Elspeth Cooper doing just that.

Shadow Ops: Control Point - Myke Cole

Ever read a novel and say... I can't say anything bad about it?  That's pretty much the case with Myke Cole's debut novel Shadow Ops: Control Point.  It's not a great novel; it lacks the artistic flair of something by K.J. Parker or the deep emotional resonance of something like The Tiger's Wife (Obreht).  It is, however, a very good one that tells a compelling story connected to well conceived world building and substantial undercurrents.  After finishing it I'm flabbergasted that Ace decided to only release it in mass market paperback as I've read few novels that will appeal to such a broad spectrum of readers.

Control Point begins with a scene too familiar to the American mind -- school shooting.  In this case, the students are shooting fire.  Across the country and in every nation, people are waking up with magical talents. Untrained and panicked, they summon storms, raise the dead, and set everything they touch ablaze.  They're latents, young people incapable of controlling in-born magical power, and because of it they've been marked for termination.

Oscar Britton, Cole's protagonist, is an officer attached to the military's Supernatural Operations Corps.  His mission is to bring order to a world gone mad.  An archetypal military officer, Britton believes in his government despite struggling to obey orders in conflict with his personal code.  Having read Cole's reflection on his time spent serving in Iraq, I can only venture a guess at the nascence of Britton's internal conflict.  When Britton suddenly manifests a power of his own, he's forced to reevaluate his conflict and his answer is to run.

He doesn't get very far and in that moment he becomes a part of Shadow Ops.  I won't say anymore as the revelation of where things go from there is a real treat.  Cole moves away from what resembles urban fantasy and into something wholly new.  Control Point isn't urban fantasy or military science fiction (I've seen it referred to as both), but rather a blending of the two -- military urban fantasy.  It's a combination I've not seen before and one that works because of Cole's authentic point of view as an active member of the U.S. Armed Forces.

To have a discussion about the novel, it's almost mandatory to know something about Cole himself.  He did three tours in Iraq -- some as a security contractor and some as a Coast Guard officer.  He's served as a government civilian, working Coun­tert­er­rorism and Cyber War­fare and he was recalled to serve during the Deep­water Horizon oil spill.  Talk to him for a minute and his passion for service is palpable.  Given that, I was stunned by the skeptical lens by which he examines government and those who serve it.  The impetus for the novel begins with the question, what would the government do if magic existed and it was illegal?  Cole's answer is: establish a secret government agency to control it and use it for its own purposes.

Ok, so maybe that's not so much of a leap.  But, beyond that the core of Cole's novel is the conflict of duty and mortality and self-preservation and self-sacrifice.  He forces Britton to make choices about where duty ends -- at what point has the government asked you, as an individual, to do too much to your own humanity to continue?  Taking it a step further, he asks at what point is it your responsibility to fight against the establishment asking you to do those things?  Cole tries to answer these moral riddles, but in so doing admits the answers are as elusive as right and wrong in a world gone gray.

While all of these themes operate beneath the story, the primary take away is that Shadow Ops: Control Point is an absolute blast to read.  Oscar Britton is a fallible, modern character, and Cole surrounds him with a vibrant cast.  The plot won't be confused for a twisty thriller, but it gives a creative world and dynamic characters the space to shine, which they absolutely do.

I received my ARC for Control Point back in October, started it the same day, and finished it two days after.  If you're a lover of fantasy, comic books (X-Men parallels are prevalent), and/or video games, my advice is to run, don't walk, to your nearest bookseller and buy a copy on February 1.  I predict Myke Cole's debut is going to be a monster success -- don't make me wrong.

Seven Princes - John Fultz

Around these parts I commit myself to finishing everything I start.  Why, you ask?  Because I think it's important for me to help my reader make decisions about what they should buy and what they should avoid.  If I only read things that I enjoy, how will I ever fulfill the second half of that commitment?  I'm also loathe to spend 800 words eviscerating someone's baby.  Thus, Cheryl was born.  Cheryl is my imaginary personal assistent who helps me "review" novels I really did not like.  Instead of just doggedly attacking a novel's failures, I try to have some fun with it and get some laughs.  Hopefully it's taken the way I intend it.

What follows is the conversation I had with some figures of legend about John Fultz's debut novel, Seven Princes.  It's a novel I really wanted to like, but didn't.  Cheryl urged me hold the post until after Christmas, I agreed.  This is my third installment of posts featuring Cheryl.  If you enjoy this one, I suggest finding the Cheryl tag on the right sidebar for the others.

                             

Best fake personal assistant that

fake money can fake buy.

Justin: *buzz* Cheryl, what's on today's agenda?

Cheryl: It's Christmas, Mr. Landon.

Justin: Right.  So it is.

Cheryl: You're doing it again, aren't you?

Justin: Huh?  What do you mean -- "it"?

Cheryl: You're going to make fun of someone's book.

Justin: I'm a reviewer Cheryl.  My intellectual integrity demands that I represent things as I see them!

Cheryl: It's Christmas, Mr. Landon!  Christmas!  Do you want your little blogger friends to call you the Grinch?  They will.  In fact, I heard Larry from OF Blog of the Fallen call you an abecedarian!

Justin: A what?

Cheryl: I had to look it up.  That guy's a real windbag.

Justin: Oh who cares what he thinks.  I need to get this review for Seven Princes written.

Cheryl: Oh poor John Fultz... I really should send him a fruit basket or something....

Justin: *hanging up on Cheryl* John Fultz's Seven Princes is an attempt to write a modern myth in the spirit of....

*buzz*

Justin: Jesus Chri... er... Yes, Cheryl?

Cheryl: Mr. Landon, Gilgamesh is on the line.

Justin: I'm sorry, did you say Gilgamesh?  Like the ancient hero of Mesopatamia who's been dead for 4,000 years?

Cheryl: How am I supposed to know?  He just said Gilgamesh.  He said you'd know what it's about.

Justin:  Better put him through...

Cheryl: Mr. Gilgamesh, I have Mr. Landon on the line.

Justin: Uh, Merry Christmas?

Gilgamesh and Enkidu kill some baddies

Gilgamesh: *grunt* Me English not so good.  Have Beowulf here, too.

Beowulf: Greetings peasant.

Justin: I'm actually a professional, King of the Geats.  Not som...

Gilgamesh: I not care.  We talk about book.

Justin: Uh, Seven Princes?

Beowulf: My grunting compatriot and I have heard that someone has tried to write a modern novel in the style of the ancient epic.

Justin: You could say that.

Beowulf: I did say that.

Justin: It's an expression.

Gilgamesh: Argh! Enough wordplay. Enkidu smart, but no here.  Gilgamesh smash.

Beowulf: Calm yourself my ancient friend.  We called yon' Professional to ensure our legacies as kings of the ancient epic are intact!

Justin: Right.  Well, as I said, Fultz certainly tried to interpret the ancient epic into a modern story.  All of his characters are infallible.  Super-strong, full of magic, seemingly invulnerable, and entirely unchangeable.  Incredibly convenient things happen time and again in a contrived manner that benefits these heroes...

Gilgamesh: What wrong with that?

Beowulf: Seems like my kind of tale, yon' Professional.

Justin: Hmm, I suppose it would.  Fultz never pays any attention to non-heroes because, well, just about everyone in the novel is a full blown hero.  Additionally, the consequences of their actions on the wider world are ignored.

Beowulf: Stories make legends!  My deeds are known throughout the centuries!  Why should anyone care about the man who cleans my mail?!

Justin: Yes, right.  That's the thing... modern readers are looking for deeper, more intimate, stories.

Gilgamesh: Ah, deeper and intimate... Gilgamesh see.  Like when Enkidu and me turn off the lights...

Justin: Oh good lord, no... bad Gilgamesh, bad!

Beowulf: I must agree with yon' Professional, friend Gilgamesh.  For the nonce, please refrain from further mentions of lights.

Justin: What I meant is that telling a story about supermen running around bashing things without any conception for cause and effect or character building just isn't something that I want to read these days.  The only reason your epics hold a place in the pantheon is because of what they tell us about the past.  Fultz's epic of a made up world with uninteresting made up characters doesn't tell us anything about the past, and because it's a shallow story about killing monsters it doesn't really tell us anything about anything.

Gilgamesh: Beowulf, did puny 'modern reader' call Gilgamesh story bad?

Beowulf: .... yon' Professional begins to resemble Grendel, methinks.

Justin: Uh.. ahem.. c'mon guys... what I meant was Fultz's novel is no threat to the stories of old.  While his sentences are well formed and he describes all the action superbly, he lacks the same gravitas of your epics which occupy a vital place in cultural history.  Furthermore, because the novel lacks any modern sensibilities when it comes to character or plot it falls flat.  Maybe this would be a big hit in the 80's, when fantasy was still nascent, but today?  I say resoundingly.... meh.

Gilgamesh: That better. *crashing noises*

This movie sucked. Don't

tell Beowulf!

Justin: Uh, did you just drop a rock?  You know we're on the phone right?  You can't actually hit me with a rock.

Gilgamesh: Heh, Beowulf... this guy no understand metaphysics, do he?

Justin: *grumble* Everyone's a critic.

Beowulf: Good bye, yon' Professional.  We'll be in touch if there are more threats to our legacy.

Gilgamesh: *grunt* Now, where Enkidu and tent?

Empire State - Adam Christopher

One of the most highly anticipated titles of early 2012, Adam Christopher's Empire State has been billed as superhero noir.  Angry Robot, recognizing the broad appeal of such a pastiche, has marketed the novel along with their WorldBuilder project.  WorldBuilder invites readers to create their own works based in the world of Empire State, which Angry Robot may publish (if they get anything good).  That's neither here nor there, but I thought it worth mentioning.  As a novel, Christopher's debut is wildly entertaining in a tradition Angry Robot fans have come to expect.

Set in New York City during prohibition, Empire State starts with a street tough named Rex witnessing the final battle of the superhero Skyguard and his nemesis the Science Pirate.  Make note of this, because it's the last real super-superhero action you're going to get (mostly).  The story quickly jumps out of New York and into the Empire State (don't worry, you'll be back) -- a parallel-universe, where prohibition continues unfettered and a never ending war with an unknown enemy keeps the populace in constant fear.

The narrative centers around a private dick named Rad Bradley, a divorcee who at 40 years old can only remember the last dozen years or so.  Beautiful women and newspaper reporters soon get him embroiled in a murder mystery that crosses space, time, and dimension.  Sound a little complicated? It is and it isn't.  At its core, Empire State is a standard mystery novel couched in the noir tradition. Rad is a straight forward down on his luck, hard-boiled P.I. working his way through a murder and the conspiracy behind it.

So, that's what the novel is about? Not really.  Near as I can tell, it's really about social inequality.   Existing as a poor copy of New York, down to the people themselves, the Empire State is an isolated and oppressed pocket of humanity.  At its edges, reality blurs, and across the Hudson River exists the Enemy, a nebulous entity of government machinated fear.  The conceit exists on two levels, both within Empire State and in New York.  Internally the authoritarian government rations its populace living large at the top, while those below struggle to subsist.  Externally, those without would sooner see it forgotten or destroyed all together because the implications of Empire State call into question self-realizing notions of identity and existence (draw what parallels you like from real life).

Alright, I might be pushing it a bit with that breakdown, but it's certainly there, whether the author intended it or not.  As for the prose and tone of the novel, Christopher does a bang-up job of conveying the State's bleakness.  The lament of lost memory and the hopelessness of constant war hangs over everything.  It's tangible and permeates all of his characters most especially Rad and heretofore unmentioned trapped explorer, Captain Carson.  Christopher channels a certain dark humor as well that kept me smirking in the face of the unrelenting gloom.

On the downside, the novel does struggle at times with clarity (here's where things get complicated), mostly in breaking down how and why Empire State exists.  Christopher would probably have benefited greatly from an astrophysics degree, and the whole setup reminded me not a little of Mark Hodder's Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack in that the novel itself isn't science fiction, but the device that makes it possible is.  How it all ties together with the plot makes for an obscure ending that doesn't jump the shark as much as it detours around it.  All that adds up to an ending that relegates Empire State to great noir instead of a great novel.

Utlimately, Christopher does a lot more right than he does wrong in his debut.   It seems that Lee Harris and the Angry Robot team have a clear editorial direction in publishing these pastiche novels that don't fit neatly into any sub-genre -- a trend that looks to continue well into 2012 with Empire State at the fore.  I don't put it in the same class as Lauren Beukes's Zoo City, but Adam Christopher is another great new voice in the genre.   It'll be interesting to see where he goes next.