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The This, Adam Roberts

It has been suggested good Bruce Willis movies are the ones where he has hair, and in bad ones he is bald. Obviously the same wouldn’t work for Adam Roberts’s novels, because, well, his hairline may be receding but it doesn’t vary by book. I did think, however, something similar might operate with the titles of his novels – those which start with the word “the” were excellent, those without are merely good. But, according to Wikipedia, of Roberts’ twenty-four novels, only three have the definite article as the first word in their title… 

True, I liked two of them, including The This (2022, UK); but I’ve not read the third. And, to be honest, I did like some of the ones without an initial “the”. So, not a good theory then. I suppose I was trying to find a reason why I liked The Thing Itself (2015, UK) and The This so much more than the other novels I’d read by Roberts. The answer was, of course, there in the books: they are explicitly explorations of the ideas of individual philosophers, Kant and Hegel, respectively. What I know about philosophy and philosophers can be written on a small post-it note, so perhaps it’s the discipline which hewing to the particular philosopher’s works has forced on Roberts – sort of like Oulipo, I guess – which has, to my mind, produced works of science fiction I find I much prefer.

On the other hand…

The title refers to a company which creates a hands-free app for social media. In the future, a war between Hive Mind Theta, the end-result of all those people having the hands-free social media client implanted in their brains, and the rest of humanity takes place in orbit about Venus, which HMΘ are intending to terraform. 

The two main narratives are set around a century apart. In the very near future, Rich Rigby, a freelance journalist, interviews a PR person from The This. The company then sets out to recruit him to their network, so intently it draws the attention of, er, HMG. They persuade him to join The This, but he’ll have a computer virus embedded in his brain. This will allow the authorities to spy on the hive mind.

Then there’s Adan Vergara, a none-too-bright New Yorker of a century or so after Rigby, who is cut off by his mother and has to join the military. They’re fighting HMΘ, but Vergara seems to be able to shutdown HMΘ droids on the battlefield simply by uttering a single gnomic phrase. He was told this phrase by someone, or something, who hacked his Phene (a semi-aware sexbot, essentially), which Adan profoundly loves.

As the war ends, Adan is pulled into the far distant future, where he meets the embodiment of Hegelian world spirit, which was threatened by the existence of the hive mind. He is told how he, and Rich Rigby, helped put humanity back on track, so the universe would end with a Prime Mover as intended. 

As I read the final section of The This, I was reminded of AE van Vogt’s The Universe Maker (1953, Canada), where the hero is pulled into the far distant future to have the plot of the novel explained to him by a giant space brain. The This is, of course, considerably better written, and a “novelisation” of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit (1807, Germany) is hardly the same as Van Vogt’s crackpot science and dream-inspired haphazard plotting.

To be honest, I was more taken with Rigby’s and Vergara’s narratives. The opening section, a piece of experimental prose, was good, but experimental prose is best in small doses. But Rigby and Vergana – it’s superior prose. I do wonder how much of Roberts’s The Black Prince (2018, UK) project, the completion of an unfinished novel by Anthony Burgess, rubbed off on The This, because there’s a distinct Burgessian feel to the language. I also suspect one of the earlier sections, which features a string of social media posts as marginalia, was included only so Roberts could include some of his bad Twitter jokes – but perhaps that’s unkind.

The This is the best of Roberts’s novels I’ve read so far (which is around half of them). Recommended.


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Kallocain, Karin Boye

I’m not a big fan of dystopian fiction, mostly because it all seems so obvious. Oh noes, things are bad, this is what they will look like if they carry on in the same vein… Which , of course, they rarely do. And there’s no real evidence dystopian fiction helps prevent what it describes – if anything, it’s the reverse, as pointed out by the oft-repeated meme about a Torment Nexus…

Of course, dystopia is in the eye of the beholder – or rather, the politics of one era define that era’s dystopia but may not hold true a decade or a generation later. (On a side-note, I find fascinating dystopias where the citizens have been programmed – chemically, technologically, or neuro-surgically – to be happy with their lot; Alastair Reynolds describes one such in one of his Glitter Band novels, John Varley has written something similar.)

Boye, a Swede who lived in Nazi Germany, wrote Kallocain (1940, Sweden) very much as a response to her experiences living there. In the world of Kallocain, there is a World State. But it has enemies. And a border. Which means it’s not a world state. But that’s just a name. Leo Kall is a chemist in a Chemistry City (which sounds very Soviet). He discovers a new truth serum, which he names after himself and for which the book is named. It allows the authorities to interrogate people while they are only thinking about crimes – pre-crime, as Philip K Dick has it.

Kall uses his discovery to better his situation, and to destroy his superior, who he believes (wrongly) is having an affair with his wife. What follows is pretty much inevitable. There are hints the leaders live lives of luxury and freedom, which reads as a direct dig at the Nazi leadership. The general air of paranoia and deprivation echo both the USSR and the final years of the Nazi regime. 

If you’ve read Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-four (1948, UK) or Zamyatin’s We (1924, Russia), there’s little here that’s different, although Kallocain is less brutal than the former and less science-fictional than the latter. It should by rights be held in as high regard as those two novels, but it wasn’t translated into English until 1966 and, of course, its author is female. A good historical dystopian novel that stands alongside better-known examples.


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The Girl with All the Gifts, MR Carey

I’d heard The Girl with All the Gifts (2014, UK) was zombie fiction, and I don’t like me zombie fiction no matter how you spin it, and that includes The Passage (2010, USA), so I had no great expectations for this, even though: a) it was nominated for the Clarke Award (but lost out to Station Eleven (2014, USA), a book I admit I did not like), b) I’ve met Mike Carey and he’s a nice guy, and c) it was on offer at 99p.

There’s a “but” implicit in all that, and yes, I did think The Girl with All the Gifts was actually pretty good. It opens firmly focused on the titular girl, Melanie, who is in some sort of research facility. Clearly, she’s not an ordinary girl – she has to be locked into a wheelchair for classes, she eats once a week (a bowl of worms), and the staff of the underground bunker where she lives is scared of her and her classmates. 

Carey doles out his information slowly and carefully. The UK – the world – has collapsed following a plague of some sort, which has reduced the bulk of the population to flesh-eating zombies, or “hungries”. But Carey provides a rationale – the zombie fungus which infects ants, takes over their bodies and forces them to climb plants in order to provide a higher platform to spore (and which really exists), has crossed the species barrier and infected humans.

Melanie is infected, but she is different. As are her classmates. She may crave human flesh, when triggered by pheromones, but she’s not mindless, she can think like a normal human being – if anything, she actually has a genius-level IQ.

Junkers  – Mad Max-like survivalists – attack and overrun the military base holding Melanie and her classmates. Melanie escapes with Sergeant, the head of base security, a trooper, Dr Caldwell, the head of the research programme, and Miss Juneau, a teacher on whom Melanie has a crush. They must travel south to Beacon City, the sole bastion of uninfected humans in the UK.

As they make their way through a deserted London, populated only by “hungries”, they learn more about the fungus. Sadly, Caldwell is something of a Mengele figure, happy to sacrifice people if it leads her to a better understanding of the fungus, and her willingness to let the others die gets annoying quickly. Having said that, she does discover Melanie’s secret – although her proposed “cure” would kill Melanie, and the kids like her they’ve encountered as they travelled toward Beacon – but not necessarily save humanity.

I do not, as I said, like zombie fiction much, and The Girl with All the Gifts is pretty much a zombie novel. But the use of the real-life zombie fungus to explain it, the focus on the disease, rather than just using it as a mechanism for menace, lifts this novel above others of its ilk. I rather enjoyed it. A good Clarke nominee, I think.


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Scarpetta 18: Port Mortuary, Patricia Cornwell

I read Port Mortuary (2010, USA) while travelling back home from Copenhagen by train. These books are becoming increasingly easier to polish off in a single sitting, even if they seem to be getting longer. Mostly, I suspect, that’s because I know the character of the protagonist, Dr Kay Scarpetta, pretty well now after 18 novels, and also probably because the plots are beginning to settle into something of a rut. Again, a puzzling murder is the springboard to a conspiracy to attack Scarpetta’s profile, credibility and relationships.

Scarpetta has spent six months at Dover Air Force Base, where US casualties from the invasion of Iraq are shipped. Shortly before this, she had set up a new forensic centre in Cambridge (Massachusetts), and left it under the command of Dr Jack Fielding, a character familiar from earlier books. But when a body appears to have bled out while in the freezer in this new centre, and Fielding has gone AWOL, Scarpetta is helicoptered in to fix things.

Unfortunately, nothing looks good. The centre is falling apart, things cannot, er, hold. The dead man in the fridge was murdered using some strange weapon which left pockets of air in his chest cavity. Benton is meanwhile treating a young man on the spectrum, a near-genius working in the R&D department of  a nearby defence contractor, who has confessed to murdering a small boy by hammering nails into his head. Benton is convinced the man has been manipulated into confessing – but by whom?

Scarpetta is also having flashbacks to the autopsy of two young women she performed for the US military in South Africa, back at the beginning of her career. She knows their murders were staged, likely by government agents to foment hatred – Cornwell seems to think Afrikaaners were black South Africans, which is, well, the exact opposite – but has always regretted following the party-line.

The murder of the boy and the man who bled in the fridge turn out to be linked, and clues point back to the defence contractor’s R&D lab. Fielding is also involved somehow. It all slots together neatly – Cornwell has been doing this for a while – but it does, unfortunately, fall back on Cornwell’s favourite solution: the super-intelligent psychopath who manipulates everyone around them. And Cornwell throws in an ending she over-used in the first few books of the series, where the villain of the piece attacks Scarpetta at home and is defeated.

Port Mortuary has moved back to first person, and is far more introspective than earlier books. There are a lot of words on the process, and means, of discovering the facts surrounding the two murders. Plus, everyone seems to know what’s going on, but is deliberately keeping Scarpetta in the dark. It makes for a frustrating read at points.

I’m not sure where to rank Port Mortuary among the Scarpetta books I’ve read. Too much in it feels like retcon, and Cornwell’s changes in narrative style – we’re eighteen books into the series here! – make it hard to get a real purchase on the series arc. Lucy’s inconsistent aging notwithstanding – cf Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone books, which stuck so rigorously to their internal chronology her last book, Y is for Yesterday (2017, USA), was set in 1989. I do like the Scarpetta novels, I like their focus on the science and, increasingly, technology of forensic pathology. But they’re nowhere near as rigorous – perversely – than other series in the same space I like.


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A Lady for a Duke, Alexis Hall

Not much to say about this one. A Regency romance with a transgender heroine and a hero who’s suffering with PTSD after Waterloo. I’m a fan of Heyer, so I know my Regency romances, and Hall does a spot-on job here. Yes, the dialogue is a little more “modern” than Heyer’s interpretation of Regency speech patterns, but that’s a deliberate choice by the author (explained in an afterword) and works well given what the story covers. (It’s also been argued Heyer’s dialogue was more invented than accurately historical.)

Viola Carroll returned from France after Waterloo determined to be her true self. But it seems her childhood friend, Gracewood, who fought alongside her at Waterloo, believes she’s dead, and has consequently been suffering, addicted to laudanum, ever since. A rescue mission north to Gracewood’s Northumbrian castle to ensure his younger sister gets a season in London results in Viola and Gracewood coming face to face – and he eventually realises who she is.

Of course, they end up in London, where young sister is a hit. Gracewood and Viola reconcile –  even more so they realise they’ve always loved each other… but then young sister is kidnapped by a rake, so everyone pulls together, and a happy end is comfortably achieved.

Hall deftly navigates all the Regency tropes, and is careful to make sure the fact Viola transgender is not a plot-driver. If anything, Gracewood’s PTSD – unknown at the time, of course – impacts the plot more. This does however lead to far too many conversations where you want the two to stop ignoring propriety and accept what’s in front of them, but that’s in the nature of the genre.

It seems churlish to complain a romance is feel-good, when it features PTSD and possible transphobia, but Hall manages it. The updated speech patterns work well, and help ground the concerns of the novel. I recently reread Georgette Heyer’s The Masqueraders (1928, UK), and it all felt a bit inconsequential, and even a little offensive in parts, after A Lady for a Duke (2022, UK). I do think we should learn from fiction, and my opinion on Heyer’s novels has changed over the years, although I still find them fun, but when something comes along and uses that same language, and points out where, really, her novels haven’t done good by their subjects or inspirations… we should take notice.


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Navigational Entanglements, Aliette de Bodard

After a number of unsatisfying, and occasionally offensive, old science fiction novels, it’s time for something new. Navigational Entanglements (2024, France) is a short novel, probably closer to a novella (and has been nominated as such in this year’s Hugo Awards), set in de Bodard’s Xuya universe.

At least, I think it’s set in that universe. It’s certainly set in a space opera universe which is culturally Vietnamese, much like in The Red Scholar’s Wake (2022, France; recommended). Việt Nhi is a navigator in the Rooster Clan, one of a handful of clans responsible for guiding ships through the Hollows (some sort of hyperspace, I think), and protecting them during their journeys from tanglers (some sort of squid-like space creatures which live in hyperspace and can kill people by touching them, I think). A navigator from a rival clan crashes a ship and a tangler is let loose in the real universe. A team of four junior navigators, each of them to some extent considered a loser, is put together to catch the tangler. They’re expected to fail.

It’s all a political plot to destroy the influence of one of the clans, the Dog clan, which acts as the liaison between the other clans and the Imperial authorities. But the plot, so to speak, is more or less immaterial. The four juniors are very different characters, each one flawed; and it’s their dynamics, mediated by the protagonist, Nhi, which drives the story. Plus her attraction to one of the other juniors, Hạc Cúc of the Snake clan.

It’s all good stuff – although I do find myself a little puzzled by some of the background. I’m sure I’ve seen the Hollows mentioned in other stories set in the Xuya universe, but the concept of navigator, navigator clans and tanglers was new to me. Perhaps I missed something somewhere, but it felt like a retcon.

Having said that… on the one hand, no universe is set in stone and authors are of course free to chop and change as they wish – cf John Varley’s Steel Beach (1992, USA) for a good example. On the other, there’s something slightly less immersive about a universe that changes underneath you – and one thing the Xuya stories are very good at is immersion.

I do like these stories. The world-building is excellent, the mix of politics and (ironically) heightened emotions is effective, the level of detail in the prose is impressive, and they hit that space opera spot without being the usual hateful hyper-capitalist slave-owning oligarchic space opera universe so beloved of US science fiction writers. 

Worth a read; even better, vote for it at the Hugos.


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The Wanderer, Fritz Leiber

Winner of the Hugo Award in 1965, in a shortlist which included Cordwainer Smith, Edgar Pangborn and John Brunner. The Smith read like half a novel, I really didn’t like the Pangborn, and I have the Brunner on the TBR. Even so, I’m not convinced The Wanderer (1964, USA) was the best of the four.

A strange planet appears suddenly – from hyperspace, it’s theorised – in the Solar System, just outside the orbit of the Moon. Its presence causes earthquakes and tidal waves, and rips the Moon apart. The planet, named the Wanderer, proves to be actually destroying the Moon for fuel. Because it’s populated by thousands of alien races (including sexy alien cat women), and they’re on the run. The universe is packed with life – none of it visible from Earth, for, er, reasons – and it’s ruled by a government which resists change and adventurism, and the Wanderer’s dwellers are free spirits, gallivanting about the universe in search of, well, adventure.

The story is told through short sections from a wide cast of characters, all American except for a handful of non-US ones. There’s a German scientist, who appears twice and comes across like a cartoon Nazi; and a pair of drunken British writers (one Welsh, one English), who are caricatures, not characters. They also live in a UK that doesn’t exist, where people eat “sausage-and-mashed” rather than sausages and mash. 

All the time I was reading the book, I was trying to figure out when it was set. The US has a base on the Moon, and the USSR a mission on Mars… But the KKK is running around openly in Florida (there are several uses of the n-word and some really offensive racism), the English character remembers a bombing raid as a child, a man in the US claims to be the perpetrator of the Black Dahlia murder (from 1947), and South Africa still has apartheid. So, probably early Sixties, then. (Despite the moonbase and Mars.)

I’m told Leiber’s technique of using multiple viewpoints was something new in science fiction. Certainly it’s a technique more associated with techno-thrillers and the like, but they didn’t begin to appear until later. To be honest, most of the viewpoints don’t actually add anything – there’s a group of UFO nuts in California who explain what’s happening in the first half of the novel, and two Americans independently kidnapped by the aliens who have the second half of the novel explained to them. The rest are, well, not even local colour. 

Hard to believe The Wanderer was the best science fiction novel published in 1964.


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Scarpetta 17: The Scarpetta Factor, Patricia Cornwell

The last few books in this series seem to have followed a formula, although not the same formula as the first half dozen or so books in the series. I mean, they’re now third-person and present tense, a change that happened in book twelve, rather than first person-past tense, but there’s been a definite pattern since the change in narrative style. To wit, a puzzling murder occurs and Scarpetta is asked to consult, and it turns out to be about her, probably involving the French mobster family, the Chandonnes, and it’s all about destroying Scarpetta’s reputation or her relationships with her loved ones or close friends.

In The Scarpetta Factor (2009, USA), a woman is found dead in Central Park, apparently mugged and raped while jogging. But something about the body and the trace evidence doesn’t ring true to Scarpetta. Also under investigation is the disappearance a week or so earlier of a fabulously wealthy broker, the daughter of a recently deceased Wall Street mogul. There’s no apparent link between the two crimes, but…

Then there’s Dr Walter Agee, the psychologist consultant who persuaded the FBI to put Benton Wesley, Scarpetta’s lover, into the protected witness programme, so she thought he was dead for several books… But now Agee is penniless and discredited, and appearing as a resident expert on a CNN true-crime show, the same one on which Scarpetta occasionally appears.

Everything somehow or other links together, without feeling like a stretch, even if some of the characters seem to have suddenly appeared with a retconned back-history, or play not entirely convincing roles in the story. The puzzling murder which kick-starts the plot is, as usual, cleverly done; but, also as usual, there’s a lot of flailing around and then the story rushes to a neatly tied-up solution. Three pages from the end, I was wondering how Cornwell would wrap everything up… and she did it. It made sense and no plot threads were left hanging, but blink and you miss it.

It’s hardly a surprise a series of – to date – 28 books featuring the same protagonist, the same supporting cast, and the same general type of story should prove formulaic. What is surprising is that it’s becoming clear only one of the plot-threads in each novel is actually interesting. Everything wrapped around it  – the endless attacks on Scarpetta’s reputation, the familial squabbles, the Chandonne family vendetta, the US LEO inter-service rivalry – is not especially interesting and, if anything, detracts from the puzzle murder which kicks off the plot.

Having said that, I’ve another eleven books to go, so perhaps things will improve…


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Claimed!, Gertrude Barrows Bennett

The existence of New Weird has always implied the existence of Weird, but given I’ve never explored genre fiction from the first two or three decades of last century, and what few books I had read I’d never thought of as “weird”… Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Barsoom novels, for example. HG Wells. Robert Howard. Even early science fiction magazines, such as Amazing or Astounding. Not really weird, I would have said. 

I’d heard of Francis Stevens, had even read a couple of stories by her, and knew it was a pseudonym of Gertrude Barrows Bennett, a hugely popular writer of science fiction and fantasy in the years after World War I. Again, not really weird.

Recently, Penguin published a short series of Weird Fiction books – an anthology, and novels by Bennet, Algernon Blackwood, William Hope Hodgson and Robert W Chambers. A couple of months ago, they were on offer as ebooks, but I only bought the Bennett. I was, I admit, expecting something like the Francis Stevens stories I’d read years before, even though the book’s blurb made it sound more like HP Lovecraft…

If anything, Claimed! (1920, USA) reads like a tale from some horror anthology television series, The Curse of the Monkey’s Paw or something. A doctor is called to the house of the richest man in the town, even though the man is not his patient. But the doctor was available and lived close by. The rich old man has suffered some sort of shock, and is put to bed. He has in his possession a small box made of a  strange green stone. It has red writing in an unfamiliar alphabet on the top, but whenever anyone looks away the inscription transfers to the bottom of the box. Although clearly made to be opened, no one has succeeded in learning what’s inside.

The old man is afraid someone is after his box, someone not entirely natural. He persuades the doctor to move into his house and minister directly to – keep watch on – him. The doctor agrees, chiefly because he fancies the old man’s niece.

After a series of strange events – an illusory sea seeps into the old man’s bedroom, the town is flooded several times – they learn the box was found on an island formed during a volcanic eruption near the Azores. So the old man, doctor and niece charter a ship and head for the island. But the old man and niece are kidnapped by the crew of a mysterious clipper. The doctor gives chase in the steamer chartered by the old man…

Claimed! is pretty much Lovecraft without the eldritch horror. The prose is also less overwrought. Perhaps it drags out the mystery a little too long, and then wraps it up far too quickly, but it was entertaining enough and not at all the chore to read I was expecting. 

And yes, it probably was weird after all.


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Pay Dirt, Sara Paretsky

VI Warshawski is in Lawrence, Kansas to support a flatmate of her French-Canadian friend, who is about to break some sort of scoring record in a basketball game. One of the young women in the group visiting from Chicago vanishes after the game, and Warshawski stays on to look for her. This brings her into conflict with various town worthies, which in turn leads to her stumbling across the disappearance of a young woman who managed to offend the town’s most prominent families.

It all goes back to the American Civil War, and the influx of abolitionists into Kansas, many of whom, it transpires, were not as liberal as their descendants claimed. It’s about a derelict house from the 1800s which can’t be demolished as it’s historically important, has more recently been used for drug-fuelled parties by over-titled frat boys from the nearby university, and is where Warshawski finds the missing young woman. And, a day later, a murdered woman.

Confusing matters, or perhaps related to them, is the construction site on a hilltop near the house. The company that now owns the lands is allegedly building a tourist resort, but from what Warshawski sees of the site that doesn’t seem plausible. A nearby decommissioned coal power station is about to begin generating power again (and the manager of the power station was murdered only a few weeks before).

There are two plots in Pay Dirt (2024, USA), which intertwine. The missing woman had proof a white family had stolen ownership of the hilltop from a black family in the mid-1800s. Then there’s the purpose behind the construction work on the hilltop, and the recommissioning of the old power station, which leads back to a billionaire family – clearly inspired by the Koch brothers – and their industrial empire…

As ever, Warshawski wears her politics on her sleeve, and consequently makes more enemies than friends. There’s mention of Covid and its impact, and social media plays a role in the plot – although Paretsky misses a trick when she reveals the real purpose of the hilltop site, revealing it’s for tech that was slightly news-worthy ten years ago where as there’s one that has been definitely more news-worthy the last couple of years.

Paretsky has not lost her touch. She can still generate anger – from those who agree with her at the injustices she documents, and from those who disagree with her for casting their views in an unflattering light. If anything, she’s more incandescent now than she used to be, and now I think about it her books seem to have moved from legal injustice to include political injustice and then social injustice. 

Paretsky was one of the original “Sisters in Crime” back in the 1980s, a group of female crime authors – including Sue Grafton and Linda Barnes – who set out to write female-authored and female-led crime and mystery novels. Obviously, they succeeded – in fact, I think female crime writers now outnumber male ones (female readers certainly outnumber male). She is still worth reading.