In the opening of her new space opera novel, Darkship Thieves, author Sarah Hoyt immediately introduces us to her heroine, Athena Hera Sinestra, who is in the opening stages of a very bad day.  She wakes to the certain knowledge that someone has jimmied the door to her stateroom aboard her father’s.  This can only mean bad things.

Of course, she’s right in that, but poor Athena really can’t guess how deep her rabbit hole will eventually go.

This tense opening leads to action-packed scene after scene as Athena tries her best to sort truth from lies and keep one step ahead of those who apparently want her alive but captive for unknown, nefarious reasons.  Ms. Hoyt creates a detailed picture of a far-distant future that none the less remains within our single solar system.  Earth is a den of corruption operating under a de facto oligarchic feudalism.  Only in space, beyond the reach of the Patricians and their lackeys, do the Darkship Thieves survive in what little freedom that remains.

Like all good space opera, there is a swath of themes working on different levels in Darkship Thieves.  There’s the obvious romance aspect as well as the tried and true “oppressive mother world” meme.  Additionally, Ms. Hoyt works in observations on the eventual conflicts between transhumanism and natural humanity as well as a startling moral nightmare that may well eventually become possible as mankind continues to reach for immortality.  Worked into the weave is the classic growth of the main character as she moves forward with her life through trials and tribulations along with the well defined supporting cast that surrounds her.

I’ll be completely honest here: I read Darkship Thieves until my neck was so stiff that I thought the resultant headache would make my head explode.  I completely ignored things that needed to be done in order to find out what happened next.  When a book so engrosses me, I know that I’ve come across something special.

I think that what appeals to me about the story is that the depth to the characters and world building doesn’t detract from the action.  Ms. Hoyt does an excellent job of keeping the pace fast but comfortable and weaves in the details and background skillfully so that the reader’s trance doesn’t break down.

I heartily recommend this thoroughly entertaining space opera adventure.

This book is currently available from Baen’s Webscription service as an e-ARC.  The dead tree version release is scheduled for January, 2010.

This book has been a long time coming for fans of Lars Walker’s character, Father Aillil and his Norse sponsor and friend, Erling Skjalgsson.  Thankfully, Lars kept up the good fight and obtained a new publisher (Nordskog Publishing, Inc) who has done this latest novel the justice it deserves.  Released in a wonderfully comfortable trade paperback format, this latest adventure for Allil and Erling takes them from a suddenly less than friendly life in Norway and through adventures to Iceland, Greenland, and beyond.

For those unfamiliar with Lars’ previous works, West Oversea is the latest in the Erling’s saga stories that include the novels Erling’s Word and The Ghost of the God Tree previously released by Baen.  The two previous novels were also published by Baen as a compendium entitled The Year of the Warrior.  These tales follow the life of an Irish novice, Aillil, who is captured by viking raiders (i.e. enslaved to the accompaniment of his sister’s screaming as she was raped) and relocated forcibly  to a Norway caught in the throws of conversion from paganism to Christianity.  Due to his training, Aillil is installed as a priest (such being rare in Norway and valuable) by Erling.

Despite that rough beginning, the two become friends and share adventures of both the mortal and spiritual nature.  All of the Erling/Aillil stories are historical fantasies that carry within them the twinned fruits of Mr. Walker’s knowledge of historical Norway and his bedrock Christian faith.

West Oversea, as with the previous books, is a fast, rapidly moving story told by Father Aillil as a memoir.  You will not find any sermonizing or preaching in the narrative.  Instead, you get colorful descriptions and active storytelling of individual events inside a greater story arc.  In addition to the colorful and engrossing characters, you also get insights into times far gone.  Mr. Walker presents a practical insight not only into the how and why of Norse settlements in Iceland, Greenland, and North America (Vinland), but also how trade between those colonies and the established homes in Norway most likely took place.

Another aspect of West Oversea that appeals to me (and that the previous novels also had) was that Aillil is no superman of faith.  He openly acknowledges his own frailties and weaknesses and admires Erling for the strength of will and devotion that his benefactor shows through trying times.  That having been said, Erling himself often questions his motives and actions.  The interplay between the two speaks mountains about what it truly takes to keep the faith, whether in times past or in today’s world.

Another stand-out quality of Walker’s work is the waking nightmare quality of Aillil’s brushes with the supernatural elements of Norse mythology.  Often taking the form of spirit walks (but not always that remote, sometimes the evil steps into the mundane world, too), these journeys of confrontation present Aillil with severe turns of reasoning against his own perceptions of the world itself as well as his faith.  In West Oversea, Aillil is further tempted by the promise of prophecy to actually partake of a artifact that he knows in his heart can only be evil.  The torment the “gift” brings him leads him to eventually become more of a hindrance than a benefit to those around him.  Only in failure does he gain the strength he needs to be free of the curse, which is a lesson that we all should take to heart.

In total, I found West Oversea to be a worthy continuation of the Erling Saga.  The book reads so fast that when it’s done, the reader is left both satisfied with the ending and still longing for the story to continue.  That’s my favorite kind of book.  When you add in the fact that no where in the story did I find myself tempted to talk back to some silly bit of neo-paganistic stupidity or leftist indoctrination puppet-speak, it only makes it that much better.

West Oversea is available directly from Nordskog Publishing or from Amazon.

There’s no better cure for a bad case of Weber than a good dose of Czerneda.

Rift in the Sky is the concluding third book of Julie Czerneda’s Stratification trilogy which is the second trilogy in her Clan Chronicles series (the first trilogy being The Trade Pact Cycle, a noteworthy collection of novels that not-so-coincidentally includes her breakthrough work, A Thousand Words for Stranger).  Okay, that takes care of what this book is in terms of its publishing lineage for those who don’t know Julie or her books. (Please go to http://www.czerneda.com for the definitive bibliography.)

Then again, what is this book, really?  “After all,” says the jaded fiction reader, “Aren’t series and trilogies simply ever lessening circles of repetitive navel gazing created to bilk a fanbase?”

People like that have never really met the works of Julie Czerneda.

As implied in my tag line above, I read Rift immediately following the latest Weber effort.  While I will review that book seperately, the immediate juxtaposition of the two clarified exactly why Ms. Czerneda is an author to be admired and emulated not only for the pure enjoyement of a reader but also as an example of professional speculative fiction prose. Continue reading…

“Is Evolutions or isn’t it?”

That’s a fair enough question that several people have been curious about and for good reason.

The answer is, “Maybe.”

To be up front and honest about it, I have not worked on Evolutions since the end of April when I hit a crunch time for a project at work.  Even after the crunch time passed, the results of changes that had already been in the wind kept me away from touching a doggone thing with the Webzine or with speculative fiction in general.

That’s about as close to apologizing as I’m going to get.  Life happened and, because of the way I was handling things for Evolutions, the webzine had a seriously negative priority status.

So, that’s where “Maybe” comes in.  The reality is that I cannot chase the “free content model” the way I have been.  The concept of putting out prose fiction for nothing on the web in the naive hope that people will enjoy it enough to drop a few coppers in the can is stupid.  I can’t support stupid once I recognize it for what it is.

Prose is not webcomics.  As marketing properties go, the two are fundamentally different.  When an artist creates a webcomic, what they’re actually doing is building a “brand” with its own innate value, for lack of a better term.  Every comic they deliver helps secure a following that can then be delved for support through donations, the issuance of collections, and even swag items - assuming, of course, that they managed to plumb a sufficiently broad vein of consumers who find value in the comic creator’s offerings. Continue reading…

A Letter to Sir Richard Amesbury, from Sir Anthony Grimston.

My dear friend,

It should come as no surprise to you that the kingdom in an intolerable state. In all my years as a professional scoundrel and despoiler of maidens, I have never seen anything to equal this. I simply cannot do business.

The dearth of maidens is appalling, Richard, utterly appalling. How can I abduct a woman and threaten her with a Fate Worse Than Death if such a fate as already befallen her - and worse, she enjoyed it!

Worse, no self-respecting Knight in Shining Armor will rescue a besmirched maiden. I do not even get the somewhat dubious pleasure of besmirching them myself. They come to me pre-besmirched, as it were. My dragon is starving and my estate is on the brink of bankruptcy.

Can you see any solution to this problem?

Your friend,

Anthony.

The collection of missives will be compiled here.

This is a reiteration of classic short story structure that harkens back to Marion Zimmer Bradley and beyond but was enunciated to me by Dave Freer of Baen Books fame. It has since become something of a recurring mantra as I wind my way down the dimly lit halls of the Slush Pile and, frankly, it’s beyond time I said it loudly enough in public for everyone to hear.

To wit: Your first 200 words must 1) Set the scene, 2) Establish an empathic relationship between the reader and the character(s), and 3) Establish plot tension so the reader will keep reading.

Now, there’s a 4) there, too, but I tend to be a little forgiving of trying to fit that in the first 200 words and leave it to be established in the rest of the story: 4) The rest of the story should capture the characters dealing with the source of the plot tension THROUGH THEIR OWN EFFORTS.

Continue reading…

The Last Arrow of Liang Xi

By Brian Dolton

The sound of the clay jug breaking disturbed the silence of the mountainside. The arrow had severed the red cord, and only the red one. The five others remained intact, their suspended jugs swinging in the wind that swirled up from the gorge. Jong Huan lowered his bow.

“A masterful shot,” Guo Gong said. “Now the others. In turn.”

“As you wish, Master Guo,” Huan said. He lifted the bow again, nocking the orange arrow, noticing the subtle differences in weight and length. Half a li away, across the gorge, the jugs continued to swing. They were just close enough to bump against one another, adding an extra touch of randomness to their movements.

Jong Huan drew the string back to his cheek and sighted along the thin arrowshaft. He released the breath he was holding, very slowly and evenly; and, just as the last of it escaped his lungs, he released the bowstring. The orange arrow flashed across the canyon. The arrowhead, gleaming and perfectly honed, sliced through the orange cord; the jug fell to the rocks below, shattering as its counterpart had done heartbeats before.

Master Guo tapped an arrow against his leg, in an erratic rhythm. It was clearly intended as a distraction. Jong Huan paid him no heed. Nothing mattered but the wind, and the jugs suspended from the arc of bamboo, and the arrows carefully lined up alongside him. He nocked the next, and drew, and released.

Six arrows. Six thin cords. Six old jugs.

He made every shot. When he looked back at Master Guo, he found it hard not to smile with pride. Master Guo had a smile of his own; that gentle, unreadable smile that every shang shui Huan had trained under seemed to cultivate.

“You are a very fine archer,” Guo Gong said. “Why is it, then, that you have come to The World Above The World Below? What more do you think we can teach you?”

Illustrated by John Dotegowski.

I have changed the settings for accepting comments so that you no longer need to be registered in order to add your $0.02 to a post.

I am, however, moderating the initial posts to make sure sure spammers don’t overwhelm the blogzine.

Okay, we all know that there are no new ideas in fiction, right? Especially when it comes to manga.  The Japanese are absolute masters of running over the same opossum to the point that they’ll vary the positions of the entry and exit of the tire treads by millimeters just to see what changes on the carcass.

I suspect you might know where I’m taking this, but suffer with me for a moment longer.

Enchanter is a “magical girlfriend” story.  That kind of says it all.  You end up with some powerful magic chick forcing her way into a hapless and altogether too wishy-washy main male character’s life and then milking the situation for all comedic situations that it’s worth.  It was old when 3X3 Eyes and Ah, My Goddess! took it up and, let me tell you, it’s still pretty darned cliche.

BUT THIS IS THE JAPANESE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT.

So, guess what, Enchanter isn’t Ah, My Goddess! or 3X3 Eyes and the reason that there’s so much magical girlfriend manga out there is because it’s fun genre for guys to read.  Usually because of the fan service and the general comical nature of the stories.

Continue reading…

Fatecraft

By Lindsey Duncan

Pazia Ke’Lieren awoke flailing and shouting, nightmare recollections of broken locks and the thugs who had grabbed her hot on her mind. With no clear target in the semi-dark, she felt her foot connect with something soft even as she fell forward and landed hard on the planking of an inordinately fussy carriage. The quiet washed over her, no pounding hooves, no hissing of weather.

Jolted into common sense, she squinted at the pair who reclined on the seats. The man had a flat face, smooth as a river-rock, his frame stone thick; the woman was spindly, long-limbed and gold-complected, accompanied by a touch of stale perfume. They were dressed in tapestried velvet with silk blackwork and discreet jet jewelry, but it was frayed, a little too old, a little - to the eyes of a mercer’s daughter - out of style. The rest of the carriage matched: the curtains had been repaired past their prime, several layers of paint almost disguised the aging of the wood, and …

A foot to her stomach interrupted her assessment. She tried to curse at the guard who loomed over her, but the sound came out as an airless squeak. Outside, the horizon slid past in a blur of grey, stretched thin and level. Pazia had never seen anything like it before, but she pulled together scattered facts and guessed they traveled at ghostglide, a magical means of transportation invisible to the eye - too imprecise for breaking and entering, but impossible to track. It explained why there was no bump or shudder from the horses, only endless motion.

“You have strong lungs, daserii.” The nobleman spoke, his voice as rough as his appearance was polished. “I didn’t realize crafting dice was such athletic work.”

“I’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know about the art,” Pazia replied, ekeing the words out with her precious remaining air, “if you’ll let me up and pull the carriage over.” Her hand snuck down, clutched the pouch at her side; the point of a pyramidal die poked her in the palm. As if they needed to tell her that she was in trouble.