NOTE ABOUT SPOILERS

Although billed repeatedly as a novel on its front and back covers, Digital Knight is, in fact, a collection of previously unpublished short stories which – as far as I can tell – have only been lightly touched up (if at all) to form the “novel”. I’m going to spoil significant chunks of the first short story (although not its plot), because – otherwise – it would be impossible to discuss this book in any meaningful way. The rest of the book is left blissfully mysterious.

END NOTE ABOUT SPOILERS

Neither the exceptionally poor cover art nor the somewhat cliched back cover blurb drew my attention to Digital Knight. Not even the effusive cover quote praise from Eric Flint would have made me pass over the eight bucks Baen was asking for it.

What did make me pick it up was the fact that Ryk E. Spoor had written it. For those of you who don’t already know, Ryk posts regularly around Usenet under the handle Sea Wasp. As the friendly Wasp, I’ve been acquainted with Ryk for almost exactly a decade now – during which time he’s distinguished himself as a person of singular creativity, insight, and intellect.

So, if Spoor had written it, I wanted to read it. Once a copy put in an appearance at my local bookshop, I snatched it up and stuck it on my reading list. Which brings us here.

As noted above, Digital Knight is more a short story collection than a novel. It contains a cycle of short stories, all focusing on the character of Jason Wood: A private investigator who finds himself plunged into a world of urban fantasy.

Reading this book is fascinating, because you can see Spoor growing as a writer right before you eyes. The earlier short stories are plagued with a lot of problems: The plotting is awkward and contrived, and its strength is further sapped by the fact that Spoor seems to be making an attempt at stylizing his prose by adopting the hard-edged, slightly ironic feel of a PI novel. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite get there and the result is jarring and off-putting.

Worst of all, the early dialogue can be actively painful. People just don’t talk the way Spoor has them talking. The thing I noticed most was that his characters weren’t using contractions, but this was really just the tip of the iceberg: A lot of factors combined to make the dialogue jarring and unbelievable.

But, like I said, as you read further you see the book improve dramatically before your eyes:

The dialogue begins to flow naturally, and the characters develop rich, distinct voices. The stiff, uncomfortable prose resolves itself into a unique, effective voice – still rough around the edges, perhaps, but clean and entertaining nonetheless. And once Spoor finds his rhythm, he starts playing some powerful beats: There are bits that I found myself reading out loud, and I only do that when the wordsmithing becomes remarkable.

Meanwhile, the plotting is shedding its awkwardness step-by-step, until you eventually find yourself compulsively turning page after page, drawn inexorably along by Spoor’s action and world-building.

In short, the book is well worth pushing through its weak start: The early stories have some diamonds in the rough to offer you, and the book starts to really pay off with “Photo Finish” (which starts around page 90). Shortly thereafter Spoor throws a twist at you which makes you realize that he’s just been toying with you all along, and then he follows it up with a revelatory punch that will send you reeling. You can practically hear the starter pistol going off as the novel starts racing.

There are a lot of treasures hidden away in the nooks of this book, but one thing which is delightful right from the beginning is what I’m going to call, for lack of a better term, the “genre-awareness” of the characters. When Jason Wood runs into vampires he has his moment of disbelief… but then he realizes he’s acting just like the characters he makes fun of in the horror movies and gets down to the business of using his collected knowledge of horror and fantasy to his advantage. Not everything he tries works – because, of course, myth isn’t the same thing as reality – but that just sells it: Wood is a skeptic in an unskeptical world. But he’s not Dana Scully dense: Once he’s seen the evidence of something being true, he accepts it as truth and moves on.

In grading this book I am left in something of a quandary: I would rate the early material at roughly a C+ (average-to-mediocre material with the occasional reward). For the later material – and greater bulk of the novel – however, I would probably give an A- (highly rewarding with only the occasional, minor flaw). In a completely non-linear fashion, I’m going to average that out to a B+ (notable, fun, and well worth your time).

GRADE: B+

Ryk E. Spoor
Published: 2003
Publisher: Baen Books
Cover Price: $7.99
ISBN: 0-7434-7161-X

If Memory were the first Bujold book you ever picked up, you wouldn’t have any problems reading it.

I expect there are quite a few people who would disagree with me on that one. And I’ll admit that it’s hard for me to judge how a newcomer would come to this book: The first time I came to it, I was reading the entirety of the Vorkosigan series in published order – so I was distanced from the newcomer’s perspective then, and I certainly haven’t regained my objectivity by re-reading the book multiple times.

But, looking at it as objectively as possible, I do think this is a book which is accessible to the first time reader. And, more importantly, its effective for the first time reader. Perhaps not as effective as it would be for a long-time reader, but that’s simply a natural consequence of the strengths to be found in series fiction.

All that being said: I wouldn’t recommend this book to the first time reader. If you’re approaching Bujold for the first time, this is my advice:

(A) Start with Shards of Honor, Bujold’s first book. If you find that you enjoy this light, romantic adventure – despite its minor flaws – then keep reading in publication order until you finish the series.

(B) If you don’t enjoy Shards of Honor, then you should know that Bujold improves dramatically over the course of her career. Skip ahead to Barrayar (it’s conveniently contained in the same omnibus).

(C) If Barrayar doesn’t, at the very least, make you interested in the series, then it probably isn’t going to work for you. You might want to try Bujold’s fantasy.

(D) If Barrayar does work for you, then I suggest going to back to read The Warrior’s Apprentice, Brothers in Arms and Borders of Infinity. Then go to Mirror Dance and read in publication order from there until the end of the series. After that, you may feel compelled to go back and pick up the stuff you haven’t read yet.

Have fun.

This is the fourth time I’ve read Bujold’s Memory. Needless to say, this is one of my personal favorites. It is, in fact, the work I consider to be Bujold’s finest: Containing every one of her myriad strengths, unmarred by the slightest flaw.

Both the heart and the plot of the book is revealed in the simplicity of its title: This is the story of a mid-life crisis – a transformative retrospective of memory and experience. Or, as Bujold pithily describes it in the series chronology at the back of the book, “Miles hits thirty. Thirty hits back.”

You would think that a narrative based on reminiscence would be a boring affair, but quite the opposite is true: Even while Miles’ journey is largely an introspective one, it remains — above all — a journey. There is a purpose to it, and Bujold crafts an internal action which is every bit as entertaining and well-paced as an external one.

And, in truth, Bujold spends only the balance of her time charting a course through the mind of Miles: Memory also quickly develops into an adventure of high intrigue and political espionage. (Once which, also, reflects the title – but in a way which could only be described by way of a spoiler.)

Of course, these two separate lines of action are carefully woven against each other: Action meets action. Developments in one predicate developments in the other. And so forth. Neither plot could exist without the other, and so — of course — both plots are, in fact, the same plot.

It is a further testament to Bujold’s mastery that Memory doesn’t stop there: Depending on how you count, there are at least four more sub-plots carefully developed. The method of counting matters because each of these sub-plots is juxtaposed and integrated into the greater narrative: Actions which may, at first glance, simply seem like random page-filling, weave themselves seamlessly into the primary plot itself.

Perhaps this is the secret which allows Bujold to make an introspective novel work so well: The nature of such a work would tempt a lesser author to include scenes devoid of purpose in the false belief that they “develop” or “flesh out” the character. Bujold simply refuses to let a scene pass without meaning. The plot is never allowed a moment’s rest, even when Miles is mired deep in memory. There is a clearly defined path here: Miles does not simply waffle from one caricature to another. Rather, he begins in one place and ends in another (with obstacles and struggles along the way, of course). There is real, meaningful growth — and it is fascinating to watch.

What else can be said here?

Of course, there is Bujold’s unique gift at crafting classic and memorable scenes. Some are brilliant touches of character. Others are chillingly horrific. Still others are simply shockingly imaginative.

The other thing which impresses me about Bujold is the subtlety with which the science fiction is woven into her narrative. I’ve often heard it said that Bujold’s work is character-heavy, but science-lite. I don’t find that to be true at all: Bujold just does an extraordinary job of integrating the science and technology into a cohesive world. In Memory, for example, you will encounter biotech, cybertech, personal flyers, advanced medical techniques, massive spaceships, domed cities, and a variety of terraforming techniques. But they aren’t highlighted and lit up with bright neon lights: They’re simply part of the world in which the characters live.

Bujold is also an author who does not believe in killing off her characters: That, after all, would be letting them off easily. A reader might get a moment of emotional catharsis by seeing a character die, but keeping them alive in the midst o an impossible situation provides a lot more entertainment in the long run. It’s the Oedipus Theory of dramatic convention: Oedipus committing suicide is nice. Oedipus jabbing his eyes out to blot out the horror of his life is better.

There’s a lot of eye-jabbing in Memory.

Also, watch out for the elephant. It’s pervasive.

GRADE: A+

Lois McMaster Bujold
Published: 1996
Publisher: Baen Books
Cover Price: $6.99
ISBN: 0-671-87845-X

Click here for a note to new Bujold readers.

Lyda Morehouse’s Archangel Protocol has been staring at me off the new racks of Uncle Hugo’s in Minneapolis, MN for several months now. Every time I went in, the book would be tempting me, but I could never quite bring myself to pay for it new. A couple weeks ago, though, it finally showed up used, and I snatched it up without a second thought.

A brief conceptual sketch: Archangel Protocol takes place in a fairly standard cyberpunk setting, with the uber-powerful corporations swapped out for theocracies. The main character is a private detective who, like all PIs in popular fiction, gets caught up in things far beyond her control: In this case, mysterious angels have been seen on the ‘net and recognized as official miracles by the various theocracies and most of the world’s population.

Let me be up front in saying that I didn’t do this book any favors by reading it immediately after Cyteen. But, on the other hand, the book didn’t do many favors for itself, either.

Morehouse’s writing is workman-like: Functional, with the occasional flourish – but just as frequently crude. Sometimes painfully crude. But for a first novel, the prose is solid and shows some promise.

One problem, though, is that Morehouse can’t let her characters just exist in a space. They constantly have to be doing something. Thus even the simplest of conversations is drawn out into a long affair of detailed stage business – coffee being consumed, cups being moved, chairs squeaking. The technique is frequently turned towards ‘subtle’ exposition, but the result in practice is usually a jackhammer mixed with out of character behavior.

For example, in the first couple of pages in the book the main character provides us with exposition about her current tech-poor situation. She wraps this up by moving into the first scene, starting out by talking to herself about her computer: “Not even a graphical interface any more.” The problem here is that the author has lost track of her past tense telling of the story and the events of the story itself: The line of dialogue only makes sense in the context of the exposition which has preceded it, and thus only makes sense if the character is somehow aware of her future self telling the story. Thus the moment is out of character, a false note, and a clumsy bit of writing.

The world-building also comes across as very hollow. The central conceit is that the entire world has turned away from science and become fanatically religious as a result of the Medusa bombs (like atom bombs, but with a different special effect) used to end World War III. Morehouse repeats this assertion several times, in the hope, I suppose, that it will become more convincing in the repetition. The details don’t hold together very well, either: The world has become fanatically religious to the point where it’s illegal to not belong to a religion… but not fanatical enough that people actually care which religion you belong to. Electric cars have been adopted due to the same shortage of oil which triggered World War III… but they use a huge infrastructure of electrified tubes rather than just running off of battery power.

Even the technical details are off, which is disconcerting because she likes to lay them on thick. For example, when a simple web search causes the “processors to start whirring”, I’m left a little baffled. For one thing, processors don’t whir. And I can’t figure out why either the cooling fans or a disk drive would start whirring as the result of a web search.

Another example: In a novel of theocracies and angelic visitations, its not too surprising that theology plays a major role in the novel. But, again, the handling is crude. Morehouse starts off on the wrong foot, in my opinion, by claiming that throwing a well-known Bible quotation (“let he who is without sin throw the first stone”) into a preacher’s face represents a cutting argument capable of shocking the preacher into mute silence for several minutes. In a more general sense, I just find Morehouse’s use of theology to be extraordinarily dull. With the great wealth of Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and Hindu literature to draw upon, Morehouse seems perfectly content to remain complacently pedestrian.

And then there are the continuity glitches, which sap whatever strength the work might have like a biblical plague. For example, the main character has been receiving letters from her ex-partner. Early in the book we’re told that she hasn’t read the letters – in fact, she hasn’t even opened them. But the next time the letters come up, she has read them (despite the fact we’ve seen her every waking moment since being told she hadn’t read the letters).

In some cases, these continuity screw-ups are mind-numbingly clumsy. For example, at one point in the book two characters are setting up a meeting place. First, one character proposes Yankee Stadium and the other character voices some minor objections. Then, later on the same page, the other character proposes Yankee Stadium as if it had never been mentioned before.

Little flaws like that begin to add up to a lot of frustration.

To make matters worse, the plot is extremely predictable. I don’t think there’s a single thing that happens in the entire novel which isn’t clearly telegraphed at least a dozen pages earlier. Even the “surprise” ending gets telegraphed two pages before it happens.

Part of the reason for this is that the main character suffers from a severe case of Stupid Protagonist Syndrome(TM). On one page she can tell another character that she believes X may be true. Two pages later, when another character tells her that they believe X to be true, she can only think of them as insane. And she does this more than once. Oh, and here’s a hot tip: If you’re a wanted fugitive that the government has tracked down multiple times while on the run, returning to your private office for no particular reason is probably a really dumb idea.

And finally, at the end of the book, out of left field, we get a quick dose of sexism mixed with the magical superpowers of the menstrual cycle. Gah.

To the book’s favor, there are a lot of neat ideas packed between the covers: Technology, theology, mutation, psychology, sociology, and more are all played with in a variety of interesting ways. On top of that, the plot is intriguing and filled with a lot of promise.

But neither the ideas nor the plot are taken to that next level, and the execution is just painfully lacking. So the book gets a D in my mind – and its only getting that because the ideas have enough spark in them to make the book an edible piece of mediocre brain candy.

GRADE: D

Lyda Morehouse
Published: 2001
Publisher: Roc
Cover Price: $6.99
ISBN: 0-451-45827-3

To read a spoiler-free review of Cyteen, click here.

For some spoiler-filled thoughts about the book, go ahead and read more…

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