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Stag Dance, Torrey Peters

A collection of four novellas, although one probably qualifies as a short story, by the author of Detransition, Baby (2021, USA). I’d tracked down one of these – ‘The Masker’ – to a site for self-published fiction after reading Peters’s novel, but I’d been waiting for this collection.

There are four stories: ‘Infect Your Friends and Loved Ones’, ‘The Chaser’, ‘Stag Dance’ and ‘The Masker’. The first is science fiction, in which the narrator is the inadvertent patient zero of a virus which prevents the body from producing hormones. Society – in the US – has fallen apart, and people fight over manufactured hormones. This is not subtle – but that’s actually a strength of the story, and indeed the collection, not a weakness, I was reminded in parts of Ralph A Sperry’s Status Quotient: The Carrier (1981, USA) and Necessary Ill (2013, USA) by Deb Taber (the latter I can definitely recommend, and would really like to see more by her).

‘The Chaser’ is much more disturbing. It’s set at a Quaker school, and narrated by a senior whose relationship with a junior room-mate is… well, one is manipulating the other, or perhaps vice versa. And when the senior tries to distance himself, the junior begins a hate campaign. In parts, I was reminded of James Clavell’s King Rat (1962, UK) and, having attended a British boarding-school I grew up hearing stories that are… “adjacent” to this one.

The title story is… astonishing. It’s set in a pirate logging camp in nineteenth-century USA. I’ve no idea if the vocabulary and practices are correct, but they read as completely authentic. The protagonist is male and oversized and nicknamed Babe after Paul Bunyan’s pet ox, but his gender identity is not so clear-cut. One member of the camp, who is not a logger, and very pretty, is a pretend wife to several – more echoes of King Rat. This all comes to a head when the camp chief puts on a “stag dance”, where some of the loggers can pretend to be women by pinning a triangle of brown cloth to their groins. Which Babe does. When I first came across mention of this collection, it had a different title – but I can see why ‘Stag Dance’ was eventually chosen as the title piece. It’s a remarkable novella. 

‘The Masker’ is the least satisfactory of the four stories. At a crossdresser/transgender convention in Las Vegas, a young crossdresser is torn between an older trans woman and a man who uses a silicone female mask to crossdress. The trans woman, an ex-law enforcement officer, persuades the narrator to set a trap for the masker but instead they do the same for the trans woman.

The first two stories are good, and the last is okay. But the title novella is worth the price of admission alone. To be honest, I think it could have been published on its own. The other stories probably only really suffer in comparison, and might well hold up better in a collection on their own, but I can understand the urge to get something into print quickly. Peters is a name to watch, not only a good writer but writing stuff that’s straight up trans, documenting (US) trans culture… and more of them are definitely needed in the mainstream.


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Dragonquest, Anne McCaffrey

This is the second Pern novel and reading both I’ve learned whatever assumptions I’d held for many years about the series – based on reading McCaffrey’s Killashandra trilogy back in the 1980s, and reviews of the later share-cropped books in the series – were mostly wrong. Okay, so there are dragons, and a world that has fallen from a technological past to a sort of semi-enlightened (and somewhat sanitised) Middle Ages. And romance. Although not as much romance as I’d expected. In fact, the first two books in McCaffrey’s long-running Dragonriders of Pern series are pretty much straight-up science fiction. With perhaps an over-emphasis on the emotional relationship between the dragons and their riders.

These days, that’s nothing new or unusual. Although I do wonder how I would have responded to the  books had I read them as a teenager in the late 1970s. Not so differently, I’d like to think – it was only a couple of years later I was reading, and admiring, CJ Cherryh’s fiction, and I was already a fan of Tiptree’s short stories, and, yes, aware “he” was a woman.

In the first book, Dragonflight (1968, Ireland), queen dragon rider and chief Weyrwoman, Lessa, had travelled back in time 400 years and brought forward five weyrs to help combat Thread, which had begun falling again after several hundred years. As Dragonquest (1971, Ireland) opens, the old weyrs don’t like the way things are run in the present and cling to “tradition”, which has brought them into conflict with the holds. This might sound slightly familiar in the current political climate.

Then the Thread begins to fall outside the timetable calculated for it, putting further pressure on the weyrs, especially Benden Weyr, the one led by Lessa, and the most respected, admired and generally all-round wonderful weyr of them all. After stumbling across some ancient technology – a microscope! a telescope! – the hold lords and the weyrs hatch a plan to send dragons to the Red Star, the neighbouring planet where Thread originates.

It’s all very dramatic, and McCaffrey handles the slow introduction of details from the legendary past into her world with admirable constraint. Having said that, the chief villain abruptly disappears three-quarters of the way through the novel, and is effectively written out of the story. A dragonrider ignores orders and makes a trip to the Red Star, which proves reckless and comes to exactly the end expected. Lessa is more in the background in this novel – if anything, Dragonquest never seems entirely sure who its chief protagonist is. On the other hand, this does mean McCaffrey can spend more time rounding out her world.

I plan to finish the original trilogy – I have The White Dragon (1978, Ireland) on the TBR – but I don’t think I’m going to dash out and read all the remaining books in the series – 24 novels to date, not all wholly by McCaffrey. I’m certainly not, however, going to diss the books any more, as I was clearly wrong on what I’d assumed about them. The two I’ve read so far are fun, well-crafted, quite plainly science fiction, perhaps a little dated in parts… but there were many many actively bad sf novels written back then, and these are not among them.


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Replay, Ken Grimwood

Back in the 1980s and 1990s, Andromeda Bookshop in Birmingham was the biggest importer of US books, predominantly science fiction, into the UK. Every month, the shop posted a catalogue of the latest arrivals to subscribers. I bought a lot of books from it over the years, even when I lived in the Middle East. Replay (1987, USA) by Ken Grimwood was in every catalogue because Andromeda owner Rog Peyton loved the novel so much.

I remember liking Replay a great deal when I last read it in the late 1980s or early 1990s. But you know what they say about revisiting books decades later… Replay this time around was not actively bad, just not as good as I remembered it. Perhaps because its story takes place between 1963 and 1988, and that period is now so much further in the past it seems unconnected to the present.

The story is simple: Jeff Winston dies in 1988 at the age of 43 of a heart attack, and wakes up 25 years earlier as an 18 year old student in Atlanta. He soon realises he’s going to live his life all over again. But this time he has knowledge of the future, of the decades he lived in his previous life. He uses that knowledge to place sports bets and buy stocks and shares, building up a huge fortune, and living a life of luxury and ease… before dying of a heart-attack in 1988.

And finding himself once again back in 1963. This time he marries his college girlfriend, makes enough money to live comfortably, and… still dies of a heart attack in 1988. The third time, he embarks on a life of drugs and orgies, but then in 1972 he sees a movie in 1972, Starsea, which could only have been made by another replayer. He meets the producer, Pamela, but the two argue about their purpose, the reason they are replaying their lives. After her second film flops, Pamela goes to see Jeff and the two fall in love… and Jeff dies of a heart attack in 1988.

The next replay, they meet up, rekindle their relationship, and decide to tell the world about the years ahead. But the US government uses their information to protect and expand its interests abroad, making even more of a fuck up of its foreign policy than our current history, and ushering in World War III.

With each replay, however, Jeff and Pamela have been re-awakening later, so much so that on their fourth replay, Pamela awakes only hours before her fatal heart attack…

Replay’s premise is a powerful one – reliving your life over and over, remembering past lives – and Grimwood hits all the obvious story beats. There’s a lot he leaves out, by necessity. I didn’t find his description of the film Starsea convincing – even a decade later, was there any movie that could match 2001? –  and there were a few details here and there that were off (an American could never own an oil field in Abu Dhabi, for example). 

Replay is a fun, if a little mawkish, read. It seems more like historical fiction now, obviously, than it used to, but it’s written as if it were contemporary. It dates the book. And, the ending is, well, a little… banal. The pay-off for all those pages is a let-down.

Replay is in the original Fantasy Masterworks series (despite being science fiction, huh). It also won the World Fantasy Award. Grimwood wrote five novels in total, and was working on a sequel to Replay when he died of a heart attack at age 59. One of his earlier novels, Elise (1979), about an immortal French woman born in 1683, apparently now sells for silly money.


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The Girl Who Lived Twice, David Lagercrantz

This is the third sequel to Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy featuring super-hacker loner Lisbet Salander written by Lagercrantz. Two books of a new sequel trilogy, by Karin Smirnoff, have so far been published. I still find it amusing the English translations of these novels use The Girl Who… as titles, unlike the Swedish novels (this one is actually titled, Hon som måste dö, She who must die), especially given Sweden cobbled together a series of unrelated Goldie Hawn movies in the 1970s and 1980s by retitling them as The Girl Who…, Tjejen som…, such as Tjejen som föll överbord (Overboard) and Tjejen som gjorde lumpen (Private Benjamin). It’s either a bizarre coincidence (possible, as the first book was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, after all), or someone somewhere is displaying a wicked sense of humour…

The story so far: Salander’s father was a senior GRU officer who defected to Sweden and, while there, protected by a secret department of Säpo, set up a Russian criminal syndicate, Zvesda Bratva. Salander also has a sister, who is stunningly beautiful and now the head of the syndicate. The two hate each other.

A homeless man in Stockholm dies in suspicious circumstances, and the forensic pathologist attached to the case contacts Mikael Blomkvist. Who then contacts Salander. Between them, they identify the homeless man as a sherpa, who saved the life of the current Swedish minister of defence during an ill-fated expedition to climb Everest years before. A woman died on the expedition – her husband was a US billionaire with links to Zvesda Bratva, and rumour has it she was going to reveal all. So what really happened on the mountain?

Salander is busy trying to destroy her sister; Blomkvist is hunting for a story to re-invigorate his career… and the murdered homeless man might be it… but he’s side-tracked by the apparent breakdown of the Swedish minister of defence. Of course, everything is linked. Blomkvist’s investigations result in him being kidnapped by Zvesda Bratva, and tortured. Salander rides to the rescue.

The previous two Lagerctantz novels were not very well-written – certainly, the English translations were badly-written. This one is even worse. I mean, you don’t expect shining prose from a thriller (known as deckare, here in Sweden), but even prose anti-stylists, and there are a lot of them in science fiction, would say prose which is painful to read is doing it wrong. The Swedish cultural elements are handled well enough – although Lagercrantz does like name-checking streets in Stockholm – but it’s hard to see much past Salander’s genius hacking, genius everything in fact, or Blomkvist’s amazing journalism and interstellar journalistic reputation. Neither of which are remotely credible.

The first book in the series was a solid thriller – which is why I maintain the US adaptation is better than the Swedish one – but the sequels are like… those gymkhana event things, except each jump is made up of sharks stacked one on top of the other… One day I’ll definitely read the books in Swedish… but I suspect my opinion of them will not change.


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Polaris, Jack McDevitt

One question I frequently ask myself when reading a book is, why the fuck did I read (or reread) this book? If it’s a book by an author unknown to me, then perhaps I have an excuse. But a reread of a novel I know to be not very good, or even actively bad? The only possible answer is: I am an idiot. When it comes to books, and books only, I hasten to add. (Well, maybe not just books.)

Anyway. Polaris (2004, USA) is the second book in McDevitt’s series about far-future treasure hunter Alex Benedict, published fifteen years after the first book, and which is set in a human federation 9,600 years from now which somehow culturally resembles late twentieth-century USA. There’s a few sf tropes and macguffins in there, but everything else is more than familiar to a US sf reader of the 1990s and early 2000s.

The title refers to a ship which did a Marie Celeste some sixty years earlier. It carried seven famous passengers to the death of a star, and was found empty shortly after transmitting it was returning home. No one has ever solved the mystery.

Unlike the first book in the series, A Talent for War (1989, USA), Polaris is narrated by Benedict’s pilot and employee, Chase Kolpath. Benedict develops an interest in the Polaris mystery, and then shortly afterwards an exhibition of Polaris artefacts is bombed. The bombing is ostensibly a political assassination attempt, but Benedict suspects otherwise and begins digging deeper…

The solution to the mystery is, sadly, somewhat ordinary, and the real strangeness in the plot – the Polaris passengers faked their own deaths because they’d taken an immortality treatment, and have been conspiring behind the scenes ever since – is handled more or less in passing. Most of the plot covers the conspirators’ attempts to prevent Benedict from discovering the truth, and some of the events are, I think, a great deal like events in A Talent for War (wasn’t there a forced landing of a flying car into the sea in A Talent for War, as well?)

The world-building is just as sketchy as in the preceding novel, with a whole catalogue of sf tropes badly welded onto an essentially West Coast US society / monoculture. Cars fly, but remote towns can still be cut off by storm damage. The only real change from A Talent for War is that, thanks to a new starship drive discovered in that novel, interstellar travel in Polaris is more like twentieth-century air travel than sea travel.

These books are easy reads, and I suspect I’ll continue with them, but I can’t recommend them. Even the mysteries which drive their plots are feeble. Perhaps that will improve; I have no expectation the world-building will improve. In truth, the only interesting thing about these novels is that McDevitt managed to logroll his way onto the Nebula Award shortlist with them for a decade or more.


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Night Probe!, Cliver Cussler

Well, this book was a timely reread. The entire plot is about Canada joining the US – although Cussler calls the conjoined nations the United States of Canada, which would undoubtedly cause President Chump’s remaining brain cell to combust.

Cussler’s formula has always been explicit – an historical mystery is the key to a present-day conspiracy, and Dirk Pitt is dragged into an investigation regarding one or the other, and so ends up resolving both. The novels are also set a decade or two ahead of when they were written, and often feature some sort of advanced tech.

Night Probe! (1981, USA) opens with a provincial railway station robbery in 1914, which nets little and prevents the two station staff from halting an express train heading for a bridge brought down in a storm. On the train were millions of dollars of gold bullion, and a Canadian official with important documents. Coincidentally, around the same time, a passenger ship heading for Britain is sunk in the St Lawrence River. On board is a British official with important documents.

Commander Heidi Milligan, introduced in the previous book, is studying for a PhD in American History, and she stumbles across a reference to a treaty between the US and Great Britain signed in 1914. But she can find nothing else about the treaty. Meanwhile, the head of a Quebecois separatist organisation tries to assassinate the prime minister of Canada. Somehow, news of the treaty, copies of which were carried on the crashed train and sunken ship, reaches the ears of the UK government, and they send a retired MI6 agent to the US to ensure the documents are never found.

Pitt uses NUMA equipment to dive on the wreck in the St Lawrence and, despite attempted sabotage by the British and Quebecois, manages to retrieve a copy of the treaty. Unfortunately, it’s unreadable. So Pitt goes looking for the crashed train, but there’s no sign of the wreck in the river below the destroyed bridge. Pitt eventually figures out the location of the train, and finds the treaty.

Night Probe! was published in 1981. While Cussler got a lot wrong (in it the USSR still exists, for example; not that he was actually trying to predict the future), I’m amused the plot is structured around the abortive sale of Canada to the US by Britain in 1914. And the desire by both the Canadians and USians to merge in the year the novel is set. Recent events have shown the Canadians are more than happy not being part of the US – as indeed is Greenland, and, in fact, every other fucking nation on the fucking planet – and I suspect the same attitude pretty much held true back in 1981. 

I’d remembered Night Probe! as one of the better Dirk Pitt novels, and it’s proven the best so far. Which doesn’t actually make it a good novel, just a good Cussler novel, which is not exactly a high bar. Trump’s deranged pronouncements since taking office, however, added a little extra to the reading. If only that were the only impact of his lunacy…


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Up the Walls of the World, James Tiptree Jr

Tiptree, whose real name was Alice Sheldon, not only convinced the science fiction world she was a male writer for much of her career, she also wrote a number of stone cold classic science fiction short stories. I am definitely a fan of her short fiction. She only wrote two novels, however: Up the Walls of the World (1978, USA), and Brightness Falls from the Air (1985, USA). This was my first read of Tiptree at novel-length.

The title refers to the “walls” of a vast maelstrom in the atmosphere of a gas giant, Tyree. It is inhabited by huge manta ray-like aliens, who communicate using light but also seem to experience some radiation as “sound”. It takes a while before the synaesthesia Triptree uses makes sense, and I’m not entirely convinced it, and the fact the males nurture the young, makes the aliens as, well, alien as Tiptree intended.

Meanwhile, on Earth, Dr Dan Dann (yes, really) is the medical support for a US Navy-sponsored experiment in ESP involving a handful of varied subjects – a pair of identical twins, two teenage girls, a a matronly housewife, an embittered dwarf, and a somewhat dim-witted young man. The experiment is moved to a remote Navy camp, when the twins are used to test telepathic communication between land and a submarine.

A third narrative, written entirely in CAPITALS, which proves really irritating to read, is the stream of consciousness of some sort of distributed interstellar intelligence, which has been destroying stars.

The Destroyer’s attack on Tyree’s star prompts the aliens to attempt to take over the minds of Earth’s humans, and a “test mission” results in some of those involved in the Navy experiment finding themselves in alien bodies on Tyree. One of the experiment’s staff, however, a POC computer programmer instead becomes part of the Destroyer. Which she tries to control, using her knowledge of programming.

There are things to like in Up the Walls of the World, but I’m puzzled at the praise given to the novel around the time it was published. I get that a novel from Tiptree, a controversial figure and a well-known writer of top-notch science fiction short stories, is worthy of serious consideration… But I suspect time hasn’t been especially kind to the book. The descriptions of Tyree are good, and its inhabitants are original and well-presented – but not all that, well, alien. Dr Dan Dann (yes, really) is very much a typical narrator for US science fiction of the time (and Tiptree does well at channelling her inner Jubal Harshaw), and her POC character is unusual for the late 1970s and handled sensitively.

As I read Up the Walls of the World, I couldn’t help wondering if CJ Cherryh’s Voyager in Night (1984, USA), published six years later, was partly written in response. It’s another novel that hasn’t quite survived the millennium. Nonetheless, I still recommended reading everything Tiptree wrote.


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Quartet in Autumn, Barbara Pym

Shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1977. (It has always puzzled me that books can be shortlisted for the Booker in their year of publication, sometimes before they’re even published – but, of course, the award is totally fair and impartial, of course.) And (breaking out of parentheses) I can hardly point to Quartet in Autumn (1977, UK) as evidence, as it’s apparently unlike Pym’s previous work (so much so, she’d been unable to sell a novel for fifteen years).

Letty, Marcia, Norman and Edwin work in an office for a company in London. They have worked there for many years. The novel doesn’t explain what they actually do – although apparently the rest of the company, as well as the author, have no idea either. All are in their sixties – in fact, the two women retire halfway through the novel (women retired at 60 until 2010). You see what Pym did there with her title: “in autumn” means the “autumn” of the lives of her quartet of protagonists. Clever, that.

The four are lonely and mean-spirited. Edwin is active – although perhaps “interfering” would be a better word – in his local church. High Anglican, I think. Norman lives in a bedsit, and seems to have no hobbies other than the occasional flutter. Letty also lives in a bedsit, and seems the most active and pleasant of the four. When the house she shares is bought by a Nigerian reverend, Letty decides to move. (Some racism here, although Letty does like the Nigerian family.) Marcia is a hoarder, and grows increasingly frail following a mastectomy.

The UK in the 1970s was a mostly grim place. I remember visiting London in 1975 or 1976 (I vividly recall reading a Tarzan annual containing a story in which Tarzan makes a special fireproof suit so he can walk through flames; unfortunately, the covers for the Tarzan annual in 1975 and 1976 are very similar, so I’m not sure which annual it was in). We stayed in a hotel somewhere in the centre, with a shared bathroom on each floor and a TV lounge.

Pym’s depiction of London in 1977 reminds me of that hotel, and the dourness of it all is reinforced by her four characters. They’re petty and narrow-minded. Even the supporting cast – such as Marcia’s visiting social worker, or her neighbours – are snide and contemptible. It makes for an unpleasant read. There’s a thing you sometimes see in British television and films from the early 1960s through to the mid-1970s, especially those set in London, where the city is plainly culturally and politically important globally, but Londoners live small lives of impotence, pettiness and middle-class scrimping. Quartet in Autumn documents the latter but ignores the former. I didn’t like it.


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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.