I'm an Ian McDonald fan, and I'm rather surprised that I haven't heard more about this novel, which is part of the reason it took me so long to get around to reading it. I see that it won the major German SF prize in its year, but I don't see it getting a lot of other attention.
Terminal Cafe was my introduction to McDonald, quickly followed by Out On Blue Six. (I understand the author's criticisms of OOBS, but it's still my favorite, still a classic, still underappreciated...even by its author.) I was waiting for more books to come out, and then learned that only a few of his titles had been made available in America. So, it being the early days of the Interwebery, I found a UK listing of his books in print, and bought them there and had them shipped here. (In those days books traveled by 4-masted schooner, exclusively, stopping at the Canaries and Bermuda on the way.) I never got to this one or Kirinya, and so (for a vacation trip) I plucked this one from my unread bookshelves (alas for the plural) and gave it a whirl.
Well, it starts ugly. Some readers probably put it aside after the first scenes. The protagonist kills a girl, accidentally, during a "political action" in Belfast's Troubles. On the radio, while these events are going on, we hear snatches of an announcement that aliens have been encountered out in Jupiter orbit. Quick jump to three years later, only three years, and our guy is out of prison, the aliens are settled in various places, including Northern Ireland, and our guy speaks their language and dialect.
And then things get uglier than the death of the child.
The rest of the book follows his attempts to partially redeem himself. Let me quickly say that the book allows that interpretation, but it is so involved in the gritty details of his life (and the co-protagonist female cop assigned to tail him) that you don't spend time thinking about the bigger picture. This thing absorbs the reader right in. I won't tell you how the protagonist learned the language, but you don't really see it coming -- except for the detail that it happened in prison. I will tell you that the aliens don't have an economy, they've been self-sufficient for millennia, so they have real trouble learning to live in our world. One of their lawyers delivers pizza for the day job, as an example. There are quite a few interesting kinks about the aliens, a device which both controls the plot and keeps the reader intrigued.
Indeed, this is an excellent primer in how to write a science fiction novel, or any popular fiction story. It starts bad and goes way worse from there. It focuses on the particular, rather than the big picture, so you get wow, but you find it convincing because the camera is really aimed at something in particular. You believe the character because he can't afford a cab for the big chase scene. You believe the policewoman because she has to get somebody to take care of her kids because her husband is shite when the fate of mankind is hanging, possibly, in the balance. And it doesn't get tied up in lovely bows with cuddly puppies for all.
An excellent work of the imagination, despite employing the word grimace four times.
Favorite paragraph (and an example of how describing just any old thing can be made into a major exercise in Point of View):
It is a damn fine adventure playground, Gillespie thinks. The view alone is probably worth two fifty. The designers have built it into the castle park on the side of Cave Hill; even from his safe parent's seat, Gillespie can appreciate the sweep of his city laid out before him. It is a soft April day; shower clouds move fast and threatening, they cast their rain shadows over other parts of the city but they miss Cave Hill. She is some queen bitch, this city, he thinks. She's ugly, she's small, she's mean, she treats you like shit, but you can't leave her, you keep coming back to her. She fucks you like nothing else. She's not even faithful, she fucks everyone who comes to her.