Neal Stephenson proceeded directly from one of his more serious and technically challenging works, seveneves, to a rollicking multi-century spoof co-written with historical fiction author Nicole Galland. Stephenson and Galland had worked together along with five other authors on The Mongoliad Trilogy, though I'll admit I'm not familiar with the series. Funny that trilogies are involved with the Stephenson-Galland resume, however, because this book resembles nothing so much as the high-humor and faux-conspiracy Baroque Trilogy Stephenson authored a decade ago.
What is common in Stephenson's sober and technically-accurate tomes, and in his comical tall tales, is the tendency to push the plausibility of events right up to the limit. In seveneves or Anathema, that can get in the way of the storytelling, because the author tries so hard to make the science and engineering ring true, only to present events that seem close to implausible. In satire, we needn't worry so much, because we know in advance that every shred of reality is up for grabs.
The premise of The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. reminds me of a question my daughter asked me in her latter high school years: "Did miracles die off because people became more science-minded and realized they never existed in the first place, or did science chase the miracles away?" Stephenson and Galland chronicle the rise of a new federal intelligence agency (and bureacracy) under the auspices of IARPA (Intelligence Advanced Research Projects Agency, a real thing), which is tasked with the mission of "bridging the magic gap." As all good scientists and historians know, magic officially died in July 1851, having been placed on its death bed by the Industrial Revolution. A specific event related to the perfection of photography finally put all witches out of business, and it is the job of DODO (you'll have to read the book to learn the acronyms) to bring them back.
Stephenson and Galland develop a rather interesting theory of witchcraft, related to Schrodinger's Cat and Hugh Everett's many-worlds theory. Suffice it to say that probability wave fronts have particular ways they tend to collapse, and their collapse into actuality at different break points creates multiple universes, and multiple "strands" of the history we know. Witches develop ways of manipulating the probability waves to fall in one way or another, a "summoning" of spells. There is a lot of overlap in the bewitching language of this novel and Mark Z. Danielewski's The Familiar series: "Scrying," "familiar," "glamour" and "glimmer" used in a wiccan context, etc. Witches certainly don't know probability influencing and many-worlds in a quantum sense, but they have yarn or broom creations (like the South American "quipa") that allow them to hand-calculate, abacus-style, how the casting of a spell might influence possible futures on possible strands. One must avoid at all costs the notion of "diachronous shear," when multiple universes approach each other with logically implausible scenarios, and the universes die a mini-death at a particular place and time, like the local collision of matter and anti-matter.
I'd be willing to bet that Galland influenced Stephenson to not get too heavy in the early portion of the book, and to explain the connection between Schrodinger's Cat and witches' spells with a light-hearted cartoonish aura resembling Mr. Peabody of Bulliwinkle fame. A reader with a firm background in science fiction might roll eyes at first, until discovering the entire book carries a cartoonish tenor, and is never to be taken too seriously.
We watch how federal bureaucracies arise and become infected with civil-service mundane action, all with the forementioned cartoon silliness. The book takes place in an alternate universe in which the Pentagon is called the Trapezoid, but the character-types are all too familiar, albeit drawn in the hyper-exaggerated manner of Dr. Strangelove. And of course, the time-travel is wild and woolly, filled with the accuracy Galland can provide, as we hop from a tenth century Norman village to Constinople in 1203, during the Fourth Crusade, to Elizabethan England in a hyper-paced search for witches. And, without providing too many spoilers, the intelligence-agency meddlers must avoid events leading to diachronous shear, such as allowing too many people to know that Christopher Marlowe might not have died in that infamous barroom brawl. The federal effort to exploit magic is not merely to spend taxpayer money - what happens in Constantinople, and in the Seljuk and Ottoman empires to follow, could have a big bearing as to whether Russia occupies the Crimea and invades eastern Donbas in 2014. Or could it? It all depends on which strand one is on.
The bulk of the book is written from the perspective of Melisande Stokes, a linguist and ancient culture specialist from the 21st century, left stranded in 1851. Thanks in part to Galland's influence, much of the book is written from the perspective of women, from witches and would-be witches to the very un-magical Stokes. It is a great perspective from which to observe the folly of men that are responsible for creating much of the nation's, and world's, military-intelligence bureaucracies. The authors intersperse Stokes' diary with government memos and handwritten notes in different typeface, moving the story forward in the manner of the graphic insertions used by Reif Larsen, Garth Risk Hallberg, and many other modern novelists. Some readers may find this makes the story too nonlinear, I tend to love this, and hope it is used to greater extent, as in Danielewski's series.
There are times when elements seem very over the top, as in the Viking invasion of a Lexington, Mass. Walmart, but let's remember the absurd adventures of Jack and Company, sailing around the world in the 17th-century Baroque Trilogy. Stephenson is a master at moving way, way beyond the boundaries of what could be. A reader either gets used to that, or dismisses Stephenson as the biggest boaster at the bar. Since I started reading this novel knowing it to be a fairy tale, I figured no pushing of the reality boundary was a bridge too far.
There are few hidden terrors or moral lessons in this book, as there are in many Stephenson and Galland works. The conclusion is a little bit too melodramatic, and too many good-guys win in the end -- or at least, we think they do in a conclusion that leaves room for a sequel. But the Hungarian witch, one of the strong supporting actresses in the novel, leaves readers with a suggestion that must be hard for the scientifically-inclined to make, and hard for Stephenson to suggest as well. As a new battle emerges between those who would kill the scientific method to preserve witchcraft, and those who think that the death of magic was an acceptable bargain to gain 21st-century technology, Erszebet the Witch reminds us that nature does not care if the Enlightenment or the world of magic and fairy-tales wins in the end. There are different ways of perceiving and interacting with the natural world. We children of the Enlightenment who are used to the universality and predictability of the scientific method may wish to think that a scientific understanding is naturally preferable to living in superstition and fear. But the death of magic brought with it the end of the summoning of probability waves, the end of glimmer and scrying. Maybe, just maybe, science and witchcraft have equal benefits to bring to the party. At the very least, witchery brings us bone-chilling terror from time to time, and can also be the source of some silly cartoon-style fairy tales, of which D.O.D.O. is a perfect example.