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569 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1991
When I was an adolescent this series were among the most striking things I’d ever read: I think they indicate, perhaps, a lack of oversight, exactly, on the content of what was going onto the science fiction shelves in my school library. (I also read the Octavia Butlers with all the alien sex at like thirteen.) At the time the grimness and the overweening ambition both struck me as positives; the latter seems a little silly now, and I’m not interested in grimness for its own sake, and the narratorial gaze’s attention to female bodies in particular (“Alba Parmute pouted like her swelling breasts”) does little to convince me that the interest in all this abuse isn’t prurient. When I revisited the first of them a few months ago I found it worthwhile trying to articulate at some detail how I felt about it ; this book felt less worthwhile, worse. Gone is the level of modulation between the chatty nineteenth-century narrator and the indirect discourse; we’re mostly in Morn Hyland’s head throughout, in Generic 80s-90s Fantasy Third Person Limited, at great great length (three times as long as the first book); possibly there is a writer who could narrate a victim of abuse and forced addiction’s breakdown, bottoming-out, and recovery while also doing space-pirates-and-aliens stuff under these circumstances and make it not ludicrous, but Donaldson is not that person. Succorso and Thermopyle remain flat but convincingly drawn characters: Morn’s internal conflicts (oscillations between keeping her child or aborting it; believing in the space cops or abandoning the idea of a legalistically framed moral rectitude—in the end choosing to keep the child and name it after her space cop father in an attempt to redeem the one via the other) feel like an attempt at depth that doesn’t come off. They take a lot of pages.
These pages also give us a lot of space for leaden I Shall Now State Who I Am And The Stakes Of Our Conflict dialogue: “I’m Nick Succorso. People talk about me for parsecs in all directions. I’m the pirate, the one they tell stories about, the only man who does what he wants in the whole galaxy. I’m the man who makes his own laws, the man who sneers at station Security, the man who makes idiots out of the UMCP, the man who dances with the Amnion and gets away with it.” Or: “Davies, listen to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the second most important thing in the galaxy. You’re my son. But the first, the most important thing is to not betray my humanity.”
Also rather ridiculous are the names: Nick Succorso and Morn Hyland and Angus Thermopylae are, it turns out, fairly normally named by the standards of Donaldson’s future: I had forgotten that his crew include Vector Shaheed; that the half-converted Amnion ambassador is one Marc Vestabule. That the UMCP higher-ups, who are part of a galactic paramilitary who have abrogated to themselves the rights of human’s place in the universe, and who are in the novel’s schema, we’ve been told, Asgardians, include a Warden Dios and a Godsen Frik. When we learn that a sci-fi element called Harbingium our notion that this is, perhaps, a stretch, is happily resolved when we learn that it is named for the scientist responsible for its discovery, one Malcolm Harbinger.
Vector Shaheed is something approaching an interesting character: hates Morn because she’s a cop, helps her against her enemies among Nick’s crew out of a basic level of human decency he regrets in himself, is very mild about it. It’s good that someone articulates an ACAB viewpoint about the space cops; it’s a shame that the novel comes down on the side of, they are structurally bad because of Wacky Space Alien Hijinks. It seems like the logic of the conspiratorial stuff is, the UMCP have a vaccine against being assimilated to the Amnion, but they’ve suppressed it for the sake of their own power; we are also informed that the events of the first book have brought them to a political coup where they’ve seized primacy above all other order-enforcement bodies in known space.
A lot of the background is filled in in in odd infodump interstitial chapters (‘Ancillary Documentation: Datacores’; ‘Ancillary Documentation: The Preempt Act’), an inelegant solution. These are the only places where the discursive narrator re-materialises, and compressed he comes across rather insufferable: “For convenience, history is often viewed as a conflict between the instinct for order and the impulse toward chaos,” starts the chapter on Datacores. (These are not quite a McGuffin: they are black box recorders which nominally no one can edit, but Angus has figured out the trick to it; this is probably going to be very important in 500-1,000 pages.) These books are called the Gap Cycle, suggesting that the Gap, the thing that permits hyperspace travel here, is going to be important; at some point I was paying attention to other points in this book where there is aid to be a gap between a thing and another thing, because I suspect there are going to be other gaps we’re paying attention to; for the moment, the gap between the attempted high moral seriousness, and the Space Opera Business by which it is transacted, made reading this an experience of leaden bathos. (Subplot of the first 150 pages: another of Nick’s crew also attempts to rape Morn; Nick murders him; he has left a virus in the system; Morn proves her worth among the crew by figuring out the trick of dealing with it.)
I’m not sure if the Space Opera Business and the Big Themes ever will intersect. The Amnion, probably key to whatever it is Donaldson is actually trying to do here, aren’t quite interesting in themselves; everyone reacts with a baseline horror to them that I’m not quite sold on. I will go forward, probably, out of a leaden sense of duty to my past self, but I feel a little silly about it.