Two Tubbs of Dumarest, Please

Science fiction writing loves its ongoing series, but E.C. Tubb’s Dumarest saga is truly something else. Debuting in 1967 and with the final completed part published in 2008, 2 years before Tubb’s death, the Dumarest series took in some 33 novels covering a single epic journey across the galaxy.

The first story, The Winds of Gath, introduces us to the basic premises of the series. Earl Dumarest is a wandering space traveller who survives on a narrow margin, often only able to afford Low Passage between star systems: instead of enjoying the luxuries of warmth and food and light and air during space voyages, Low Passengers literally travel with the cargo, cryogenically frozen for the trip in a process with a 15% mortality rate.

In short, almost every single trip Dumarest takes is a risk – but a risk he is willing to take, for Dumarest originated on Earth, birthplace of humanity, and is determined to get home. Earth is a blasted wasteland, you see, and when Dumarest got a chance to stow away on one of the few ships to visit the place to get offworld and away, he jumped at it – only to find that in the wider galaxy Earth is considered to be a myth, and nobody will admit to knowing where it is or believe him when he tells them he comes from there. Consequently, Dumarest travels the length and breadth of the colonised universe, desperate to track down any clue – no matter how minor – which could help him find Earth again and solve this grand mystery.

The Winds of Gath

We join Dumarest’s adventures just as he arrives at Gath – a dead-end world for space travellers who lack the funds for a return ticket, since there isn’t really enough of a functional economy there to let poverty-stricken space bums scrimp and save enough cash to buy a low passage out of there. Dumarest didn’t intend to go there at all, except the ship he was travelling on changed course to accommodate the wishes of the Matriarch of Kund, the ruler of a powerful realm of female-dominated planets.

The Matriarch, her ward Seena Thoth, and their entourage are not the only tourists – a swathe of wealthy individuals have come to Gath, including the sadistic and cruel Prince of Emmened, because they have all heard of its sole attraction. This is the massive mountain range a few days’ walk north of the spaceport, where every so often the curious weather patterns of this planet (arising because one hemisphere always faces the local star whilst the other hemisphere is in eternal night) cause a massive storm to erupt – a storm in which, it is said, the voices of the dead can be heard.

Dumarest is sceptical, as well he should be, but he has other concerns – like keeping his right-hand man Megan alive in one of the toughest seasons yet for the travellers stuck in the shanty-town surrounding the spaceport, earning his way off-world, and foiling a conspiracy against the Matriarch’s party. Meanwhile, Dyne, the matriarch’s hyper-logical Cyber advisor, is playing his own game in the aid of the Cyclan, the Cyber guild, and the vast Cyclan hive-mind – a colossal complex of living brains extracted from the most exceptional Cybers, in regular telepathic contact with Cybers across the galaxy thanks to the powers of the Homochon implant. And what, exactly, does a huge ever-growing pulsating brain that rules from the centre of the Ultraworld want in this situation?

Continue reading “Two Tubbs of Dumarest, Please”

Kindlefluff: The Last Degree by Dina Rae

A reminder, since it’s been a while since I’ve dipped into this: “Kindlefluff” is the term I use for my reviews of books which I absolutely would not have acquired were they not going for cheap or free on Kindle (not counting Kindle Unlimited pieces). Hang onto your hats folks, because this one is a doozy.

The Last Degree by Dina Rae was a book I picked up for free but, at the time I got it at least, had a list price of £1.92. At the time, I both had a fairly clear idea of what I was getting into and absolutely no idea of what direction the book would take. You see, it’s a conspiracy thriller about the Freemasons, and you never know which way one of those things is going to jump. By the end of the book, I was left in no doubt as to where Dina Rae’s priorities lay as an author, and ended up glad that I hadn’t given her any money..

The thing about Masonic conspiracy theories is that they’re like the Swiss Army knife of conspiracy theories. Conspiracy theories almost always boil down to politics in the end, and specifically revolve around the alleged conspirators plotting to do something for reasons the theorist finds foul – you almost never have theorists saying “well, actually I kind of agree with the agenda of the big conspiracy, I just object to their methods”.

Continue reading “Kindlefluff: The Last Degree by Dina Rae”

Kindlefluff 3: Royal Androids and Wanker Detectives

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

It’s been six months since my last expedition into the realm of ultra-disposable ebooks so it’s past time for another dose of Kindlefluff. This time around, I’m tackling two self-published books whose authors offer them on Amazon for a comparatively cheap price (the first one for only 77p, in fact), but which I picked up for free on a flash sale. If the rapidly increasing volume of posts on the various “free Kindle books” blogs I have on my RSS reader are any indication, this is an increasingly popular business model for Kindle authors. I guess the rationale is that if you let a small proportion of readers – those who happen to catch the limited-time-only sale – get your book for free, then hopefully at least some of them will give it good reviews and generate some positive word of mouth for it.

Well, time for me to undo all of that good work. Sorry, guys!

Queen of Arlin

Queen of Arlin is the first book of the Cyber Chronicles, a self-published series by T.C. Southwell which currently stretches to some 9 books. The general approach taken seems to be science fantasy; the story revolves around the Kingdom of Arlin, a nation on a planet which has by and large forgotten that it is in fact a colony planet of a wider galactic civilisation and has reverted to a roughly medieval cultural and technological level, and the few people who are aware of and use higher technologies are regarded as wizards – a reputation some of them deliberately cultivate.

The story opens with the ailing king Litham consulting with his advisor Pervor. Specifically, it opens with this line:

”More monsters have come from the Death Zone, Sire.”

Which, frankly, is so awesome it constitutes 99% of the reason I tried to read this thing in the first place.

Anyway, to deal with the horrors coming out of the Death Zone Pervor has reached a deal with the mysterious wizard Manutim, who has promised to provide to the rulers of Arlin a devastating weapon capable of combating the monsters. The king, however, has other concerns – he fears for his daughter Tassin, who despite her fiery temperament just isn’t good enough at swordplay to really measure up to the warrior queens who ruled Arlin of old. Charging Pervor to do whatever is necessary to protect Tassin, the king swiftly and without fuss expires to allow Southwell to shuffle the plot along at a fast clip.

So, Tassin is queen, and she’s unmarried, and in a classic case of “Why do we even have that law?” this means that if she refuses to get hitched with all due haste one of the neighbouring kings can force her to marry him. The Rape Law is, if I am reading between the lines correctly, evidently some sort of principle of international law to which all the kingdoms adhere, which forces me to ask me two things related questions: where the fuck do these laws come from, and why do the kingdoms stick with them?

Seriously: it seems bizarre to imagine that the kingdoms voluntarily consent to these laws, because what monarch in their right mind would sign up to a rule which seems designed to allow their daughters to be raped and their kingdoms to be effectively conquered through said rape? Is this really something that a line of warrior queens would agree to? And who enforces this shit in the first place? It is clearly meant to be a principle of international law because if it were just the law of Arlin then Tassin could just get out of it by changing the law – that is, after all, how absolute monarchy as per the medieval era worked. Sure, people might grouse about the law of the land being fiddled with in this way – they always do in Crusader Kings II – but if the alternative is violent annexation, the sieging of the capital and the ravishing of a popular and beloved queen I think the populace could be brought around.

And yet, at the same time there is no suggestion – at least in the chunk of the book I read – that there is any sort of international body enforcing this law. There’s no powerful Church to excommunicate you if you break the law, the wider galactic society presumably doesn’t intervene on the planet otherwise more people would know about them, and the idea of medieval kingdoms setting up Ye Olde United Nations feels anachronistic and unlikely. Essentially, the war that breaks out in this book feels like a bunch of kingdoms banding together to collectively squash poor Arlin. The height of absurdity (and the point which actually made me stop reading the book) is the bit where it is mentioned that international law also stops kingdoms conquering each other, because the Rape Law seems to legalise a particularly nasty and vicious variety of conquest. It’s like saying that murder is illegal but then passing a law to say it’s OK to kill people if you do it while dressed as a clown.

So, anyway, Tassin refuses to marry any of the neighbouring kings because they are all old and boring (bar from the villainous Torrian, who is hot but also a woman-beating rapist), her most likely suitor from her kingdom didn’t even show up, and the rest of the eligible bachelors are too intimidated to volunteer. Torrian therefore leads the other kings in a war on Arlin as per the Unraped Queens Act of 554, and Pervor decides that it’s time to mention that superweapon in the basement to Tassin.

The weapon in question turns out to be a cyborg, or a “cyber” as he calls himself. Mishearing him, Tassin dubs him Sabre and expresses her great disappointment that he’s just a dude; Pervor, however, proves to be wise to the ways of cybering, because he is able to input commands into Sabre in order to give him an overriding duty to protect Tassin to the best of his ability. So it is that when the castle is breached by the besieging Rape Army, Sabre zaps a bunch of them with his lasers, grabs Tassin, and hauls her off, beginning an epic cross-country flight to safety.

What I read of the novel after that followed a fairly predictable pattern: Tassin is alternatingly staggeringly rude to Sabre in a “remember, reader, I am a spoiled little princess” sort of way and completely confused by his attempts to explain who and what he is. Sabre plods along obeying her commands until danger threatens, at which point he shoves her into a corner so he can take the spotlight and do some fighting. I suspect the pattern continues in the part of the novel I haven’t read except with Tassin gradually warming to Sabre as well as toughening up and not being such a whiny brat, whilst Sabre begins to ask questions about this thing you humans call “love”; that’s how these things usually go, after all.

To give Southwell credit, she’s far from inept as a writer. True, the prose did vary between a workmanlike modern YA tone and more flowery language, but the latter was quite well done and if Southwell could have just chosen a style and stuck with it they could have done well on that score. In terms of the space technology itself they’ve clearly sat down and thought about how cybers work; a neat touch is that Sabre has indicator lights in his forehead to show how he is functioning, and I guess an attentive reader over the course of the book could learn how to interpret his indicator readout appropriately. All of the characters in the book have a distinctive voice and mannerisms, even if these are utterly cliche.

Where Southwell falls down – if you set aside the utterly nonsensical framework of international law, the tedious “woman is threatened with rape, big strong man protects her” premise, the inability to stick to a particular prose style for a whole chapter, the fact that a third of the way into the book there still hasn’t been a single notable consequence of these monsters emerging from the Death Zone, and so on – is in the plot. It’s unusual for me to suggest that the plot of a fantasy novel is progressing too quickly, but it really does seem to be the case here; the book is so desperate to get the story out at a rapid pace that major plot events rush by at speed whilst the occasional more plot-light scene seems overinflated in importance by dint of the fact of the page count allotted to it. The betrayal of Tassin by her uncle, for instance, has almost no impact because we barely get to know the old chap before he turns traitor; meanwhile, Tassin’s rudeness towards Sabre is highlighted so often it almost seems to be the most important and defining feature of her character, since few of her other traits get a comparable airing. I guess this is how Southwell is able to crank out so much material – she just writes at full pelt without thinking about what she’s saying. If the spelling and grammar were a bit less consistent I’d suggest she doesn’t even get this stuff proofread, but actually I didn’t note any typos so they clearly so some care in reviewing their work, though a more critical eye scrutinising it for internal consistency or sanity might be helpful.

The shakiness of the plot also damages the worldbuilding and the characterisation. That goofy legal setup clearly exists primarily to allow the plot to happen as it does, and likewise Tassin’s behaviour seems intended for the same purpose. It’s mentioned at one point that Tassin could escape the Rape Law through the simple expedient of abdicating in favour of her cousin, who she is on good terms with and can probably expect to be treated well by, but she refuses for… Well. No detailed and convincing reason is actually given – not even sense of duty or pride – possibly because on some level Southwell vaguely acknowledges that there’s actually no rational reason for Tassin not to abdicate. She clearly hates the pressures and responsibilities and constraints of being queen, and she despises the idea of sending good soldiers to their deaths in war simply to protect herself. The latter point in particular sticks in my craw; she clearly considers these deaths too dear a sacrifice, but she refuses to perform the simple act of abdication which would both save her from her personal predicament and would simultaneously avoid bloodshed. Why does Southwell even bring the idea of abdication up when all it does is reveal plotholes, and establish Tassin as someone who is so stubborn about holding onto the throne that she is willing to let people die by the score in order to resist being overthrown despite it being too great a sacrifice even in her own reckoning? How are we supposed to sympathise with her when she is responsible for so much needless death in the name of solving a problem which a simple resignation could have dealt with?

Still, at least letting other people die for the sake of your personal safety is the sort of bad habit you expect of absolute monarchs. The protagonist of today’s other bit of Kindlefluff has far stranger habits…

Monster Vice

The eBook version of George P. Saunders’ Monster Vice usually goes for £1.28, but thanks to a limited-time-only offer I was able to read it for the princely sum of free. It seems to have been self-published too, but unlike Queen of Arlin (which, again, seems to have had a decent proofreading job) the book has a fair number of typos waiting in the wings to jump out at unwary readers – for instance, at one point the Tungsten Method (of which more later) is referred to as the Tellerman Method, and there’s a particularly endearing misspelling of bureaucratic as “beaurocratic” at one point. I know that it can be a bit catty to demand professional standards of amateur self-publishers, but I have few qualms here because a) George expects people to pay for this shit and b) some of these errors could have been picked up if he ran a spell checker over the final draft once, so there’s really no excuse for putting “beaurocratic” on the market.

Still, I wanted to give this one a fair chance because the premise seemed hilarious. Detective Dick Pitts is an ex-Marine turned cop on the mean streets of LA. He earned a reputation as a hard-edged sort who could be relied on to get the job done in Homicide, so after a cosmological phenomenon unleashes monsters and demons of legend across the globe he’s transferred to the LAPD’s newest and most dangerous department – Monster Vice, the cops charged with tracking down and exterminating the creatures of the night. It’s a difficult life for Dick which only becomes harder to bear after his brother Bill, bitten by a werewolf, lures him to a park at night so that Dick can gun down Bill and save him from a life as a woof. Bill was an Episcolaplian priest and hadn’t stepped off consecrated ground that evening, which makes Dick concerned that there might be a woofle out there who isn’t dissuaded by holiness to the same extent others are. On top of that, Hanson – his partner in Monster Vice since the division’s formation – has been killed in a battle against a Master Vampire and his minions, and the top brass want him to work with a new partner – Curadel, an incognito and almost-anagrammatic vampire of no small fame (it’s fucking Dracula, OK?) who wants to help the cops bring his unruly brethren down. And on top of all that you have Dick’s own condition: having been drained to the point of death by a vampire in the past and saved only in the nick of time, he is perpetually on the edge of crossing the border between life and undeath and becoming one of the very monsters he is out to destroy, and the only thing keeping him human is daily applications of the Tungsten Method.

So, how exactly do you fuck up a buddy cop story in which one of the buddy cops is Dracula? Well, although the typos did annoy me, they aren’t actually the main problem with the book. Part of the issue is that Saunders is incredibly cavalier when it comes to, for instance, having Dick in the narration say something flippantly homophobic (“John Wayne – well, he was nothing more than a limp-wristed, bow-legged, horse-buggering cross-dresser who sat to pee”) or otherwise saying stuff which makes me think there’s going to be depressing sexism (“even though I’m not in sexual predatory mode at present” – I don’t want to see what happens when Dick Pitts goes in sexual predatory mode, thanks) or uncomfortable racial appropriation (“My brother […] occasionally commutes into the language of Black Panther Gangstah’ when he wants to make a point”, said of a decidedly Caucasian individual) coming down the tracks. These things slide into the text casually enough that it doesn’t feel like Saunders is specifically trying to do anything specific with this stuff and it’s just how he wants his super-cool detective protagonist to talk, and I felt deeply disinclined to explore further to find out whether it gets any better.

The thing I disliked was just how seriously Saunders wants us to take him – specifically, the fact that I have no idea whether the book is meant to be taken as a gritty urban fantasy action thriller or as a comedic romp. When you are dropping stuff like “I was a creature of the moment, like the muse Terpsichore” on the reader it feels like the narrative voice of a crude, hard-drinking, brooding horndog cop has been momentarily overridden by the author’s desire to sound erudite. It’s not that I don’t think a character of Dick’s socioeconomic background necessarily wouldn’t know who Terpsichore is, but most people who do know that also know that the reference here is way too esoteric for most people to get – even people who are kind of into Greek mythology are rarely going to be able to rattle off the names of all nine muses and recall what they are associated with off the top of their heads – and the tone of most of the narration has been of a cop wanting to tell his story in such a way that most average joes will be able to follow what he’s yapping about.

If the book consistently kept up that level of seriousness then that would be one thing. It’d make reading the thing a little like sitting through a game of Vampire: the Masquerade curated by an especially pretentious Storyteller, but there’s a space in the urban fantasy market for such things. Equally, there’s space in the genre for ultra-violent monster-hunting romps and comedic stories underscoring the absurdity of your typical “monsters among us” setting. You can even, as Saunders is attempting to here, try and offer all three of those things in the same story. What you can’t do unless you’re right on top of your game is offer up all three at once. You need to have a firm idea of what sort of tone you are going for in any particular scene and you really need to avoid dropping unintentional or intentional hilarity into sequences which are actually meant to be especially maudlin or tense. Here, though, Saunders wavers uncontrollably between the three extremes of mopey, glum personal horror, tense and gory action and ridiculous farce without ever quite convincing me that the tonal shifts are anything but random.

For instance, Dick’s tense and mysterious walk through the park in the first scene segues into a life-or-death battle with a werewoofle when Dick steps into some woof poo, which I think was meant to be comedic but doesn’t really do it for me. On top of that, his name is Dick Pitts, which is alright for parody but isn’t helpful for those bits where I am meant to try and take him seriously. But the thing which really made it impossible for me to take the book seriously – and thus made turns of phrases like “a creature of the moment, like the muse Terpsichore” feel like non sequiturs – is the exact nature of what Dick gets up to on a daily basis in order to stay human. You see, the Tungsten Method is a process more than a few of you might be aware of, although you probably call it by a different name – indeed, Saunders wheels out a wide range of euphemisms for it, about a dozen or so in the brief span of the book I could stomach.

Personally, I call it “having a wank”.

I am not joking here. For some reason, which Saunders delivers with an awful lot of pseudoscientific waffle which reads like it was copy-pasted from an encyclopedia, the delightful glowy thing a good orgasm does to your brain chemistry turns out to delay by a day or so the process of turning into a vampire. (Apparently, this was discovered as part of research into manual stimulation of heterosexual men. Why specifically heterosexual men? Are gay handjobs different from straight handjobs? Are gay orgasms different from straight orgasms? Are gay people in more or less danger of turning into vampires due to lack of orgasms? I can’t write my Monster Vice fanfic if I don’t know the answers to these questions!) Consequently, Dick can save himself from turning into a vicious predator by making sure he shoots his load daily, ideally before midnight. He’s single at the time we pick up his story, so this is really something he has to take care of himself. He also seems to be rather forgetful about this; in the opening chapters the midnight deadline is bearing down on him and he’s still not had a chance to go and attend to himself. This creates a ludicrous situation where the two primary sources of tension in the first vampire hunt we get to read about is, on the one hand, the constant threat of being murdered by vampiric superhumans, and on the hairy-palmed other hand the necessity to get the job over and done with quickly so that Dick doesn’t suddenly go vampire from the wank-shortage and maul his fellow officers.

Is this being played for laughs? I honestly can’t tell. The regular use of euphemisms for Dick’s penis (like “Trouser Mouse”) or his applications of the method (such as “Pound the Python”) should, in principle, tickle the funny bone of my inner 12-year-old, but in this context it doesn’t; it just adds a sordid and juvenile undertone to a narration of events that Dick ought to be taking very seriously. Likewise, the bit where Dick shuffles off after the pyrrhic victory of the vampire hunt, shaken by the death of his brother and his best friend in the space of a few hours, to have a gloomy sadwank in the corner is so ridiculous that you can’t take Dick’s mourning seriously but at the same time so morbid that it doesn’t seem to be intended in a comedic fashion.

The situation in question is also incredibly contrived. Set aside the sheer unprofessionalism involved in jizzing up a crime scene; if the narrative is to believed, Dick can crank himself from grieving to spurting – even in an unsanitary environment in the immediate aftermath of horrendous events – in under a minute, so why on Earth didn’t he knock one out super-quickly before the raid? The narration suggests that he considered it but thought it better not to but given that he was running the risk of going vamp in the middle of a mission I can’t help but think that this is insanely irresponsible. On top of this, how do you get in a position where you’ve been told daily masturbation is necessary for your continued survival and you still haven’t handled your business this late in the day? Surely most men with healthy and happily functioning genitals would be able to stick to a sensible treatment schedule. You could make it part of your morning routine: wake up, jerk off, shower (this step and the previous one can be combined if you’re in a rush), shave if necessary, get dressed, grab breakfast if there’s time and go to work. A considerable number of men already start the day like that anyway.

The Tungsten Method nonsense is symptomatic of the book’s constant efforts to not make a whole lot of sense. (Why “Monster Vice”? Are the monsters involved in drugs and prostitution? I thought the main problem was that they killed people so why not “Monster Homicide”?) More troublingly, it acts as an excuse for Dick to be casually misogynistic a lot of the time – for instance, he spends a fair amount of time at the vampire hunt salivating over squad member Kellerman, because of course fantasising about fucking your squad mates is exactly what you would be concentrating on in a life-or-death situation like that. The fact that Kellerman is female and attractive and occasionally flirts with Dick constitutes more or less all we ever learn about her, which makes it hard to really feel that a flesh and blood human being has been cruelly struck down in their prime when she dies. Even more disturbingly, the first thing we see Dick do in the novel is shoot a succubus in the head after she approaches him in the park and tries to seduce him by showing up naked and saying “Wanna fuck, handsome?”. Dick takes care to mention that he “cannot ignore the shaved mons between her legs” (yes, Saunders, that’s where it’s usually found) before he pulls out his gun and shoots her in the head, making the sequence especially disturbing.

Stuff like this made me suspect that the author has a Thing about women which would make persisting at reading the thing a headache, and a quick check of his other books on Amazon seemed to confirm this; his other works include The Art of Whoring, which appears to treat the subject without even a facade of ethical considerations and also inspired this edifying exchange concerning a sexually abusive act described in the book. Between that, The Man Book (which is apparently some sort of gender essentialism joke book) and The Last Harem (a lurid account which supposedly describes how one of his ex’s ended up being sexually abused by the Sultan of Brunei), I came to the conclusion that a story about a chronic masturbator written by this guy couldn’t possibly end anywhere good and tossed it next to Queen of Arlin in the Kindlefluff mass grave.

Kindlefluff 2: Domesticating Brown People and Ignoring Murder Suspects

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

A reminder of my earlier definition: Kindlefluff consists of Kindle content which is offered either for free or ludicrously cheaply on Amazon which I would never have tried to read were it not offered to me at a stupidly affordable price, and which I certainly don’t intend to reread after giving it an honest chance. Because I’ve invested so little in reading this stuff in the first place, it doesn’t take much to make me stop reading: last time I was put off by some occult anachronisms and New Age pandering in The Bones of Avalon and the expectation that I’d find bifurcated ding-dongs anything other than amusing in A Good and Useful Hurt. What stupid, petty reasons will I have for dissing people’s hard work this time around? Let’s see!


Tamed by Douglas R. Brown (obtained for free) is one of those books which lure you in with a great concept and whacks you over the head with a horrible opening chapter. In principle, the book sounds as though it could be silly fun; the premise is that a sinister corporation known as the WereHouse has discovered that werewolves exist and have successfully captured the last remaining specimens from the wild, and have used them to breed a race of atomic supermen domesticated woofles.

This is one of those story concepts where once you hear it, you can kind of guess how the plot is going to progress from there, not least because you’ve probably watched, read or played through numerous iterations of the same story before. In this case, it’s kind of like Underworld: Rise of the Lycans without the vampires or being set in History, or possibly Dollhouse with less personality transmogrification and more woofles. At the same time, the premise is cool enough that I honestly wouldn’t mind so long as Brown handled it with skill and finesse.

So, the opening chapter set back in 1982 has Bernard Henderson, the ludicrously young CEO of the WereHouse, accompanying a posse of merecenaries in a raid on an indigenous village in Costa Rica – because, you see, the natives are woofs and this is the raid where they all get enslaved. There are numerous issues with this chapter; the prose is rather lifeless and lacks the sort of flair which really makes an action sequence compelling, but that’s really the least of Brown’s problems.

The biggest problem is the most obvious problem: the fact that Brown depicts this indigenous village as the home of a race of savage, feral monsters. Now, obviously these are savage, feral monsters who we are meant to sympathise with, even as we boo and hiss at the big mean corporation that enslaves them, but it’s still the case that in the space of a single chapter Brown manages to very thoroughly paint these people as not merely being exotic Noble Savages, but also barely human outsiders along with it. There were a million ways Brown could have cooked up a way for the WereHouse to obtain exclusive control of the wuff-wuffs – just have lycanthropy be something they invented in a lab, for instance – but Brown chooses one of the most distasteful options he could have gone for. I know his heart is in the right place in terms of the whole sequence setting its face against colonialism, but it manages to do so in a way which comes across, at least in my reading, as belittling and patronising the colonised parties.

On top of that, there’s the problem of Bernard and his presence on the mission. Apparently, mercenaries are absolutely fine with the idea of the guy who signs their cheques riding along with them on their missions on some sort of macho whim, and Bernard is stupid enough to think he would be anything other than an enormous liability if he tags along. This makes him look less like a malevolent corporate facilitator and more like a total stumblefuck, which hardly works when it comes to establishing the WereHouse as a competent and threatening antagonist.

On top of that, the action sequence he blunders into simply makes no sense; it involves him doing things like throwing himself to the ground and pulling the trigger on his assault rifle until bullets stop coming out, and then lying still hoping nobody works out where he is (uh, the gunfire would be a clue, buddy). Then he tries shooting a woof with the gun whose magazine he just deliberately emptied and is surprised when it just goes “click”. Now, possibly this is Bernard just being a shit combatant who isn’t thinking straight, or possibly this is Brown writing a completely illogical action sequence which he didn’t think through. The problem is that based on the rest of the chapter I really can’t tell which it is, which is kind of unacceptable. If I want to read an action-packed story about woofs I need to be confident that the author has the first clue how to handle woofle-based action and I didn’t get that impression here. So I gave up really quickly and moved on to something else.

A King of Infinite Space

The debut novel by Tyler Dilts, A King of Infinite Space was originally issued through small press World Parade Books before being picked up by AmazonEncore. Presumably, the fact that Amazon themselves publish it through their “check out these new authors” imprint has something to do with it being picked for the Kindle Daily Deal, which is how I obtained it (for the princely sum of 99p.).

Though I did in the end read it all the way through, I’m going to count it as Kindlefluff anyway because I was ultimately glad I didn’t pay more than £1 for the book. The main reason for this was simple: it honestly didn’t offer me anything I couldn’t have got from any random episode of any number of US cop shows. It’s a straight down the line police procedural with a cast of cliches and set in Long Beach, which due to its proximity to Los Angeles and the occasional diversion into South Central places it awfully close to the regular stomping grounds of The Shield, TJ Hooker, Dragnet, and more or less any other cop show set in LA, a locale which over the years hasn’t exactly lacked for coverage in police procedurals.

Of course, it should be noted that Dilts lives in Long Beach and there’s nothing wrong with writing about the place you live in – after all, it’s the place you know best in the world, and I’d rather read a real-seeming depiction of Long Beach from a local than a fakey one by someone who had never been there. But whilst Dilts does a good job of giving the reader a bit of a sense of what Long Beach is like, he doesn’t quite do so engagingly enough to make the setting an asset to the story, nor does he manage to distinguish his California from the California I see on the news and cop shows to the extent that I think he’s shown me anything new. Because Dilts fails to make the setting sufficiently gripping for me to forgive the fact that LA and environs are already kind of overexposed in the crime genre, I couldn’t help but regularly think “wow, this is like that one episode of Generic Cop Show” whilst reading..

If the setting is familiar, the cast and the actual action will give you deja vu regularly. Dilts actually has a scene where there happens to be a junior cop at the murder scene, and the jaded, experienced protagonist talks to him and the rookie says it’s his first murder scene and then the hero points out that the rookie’s just trod in some evidence. This is an exchange which, whilst doubtless rooted in reality, has been used in so many different police procedural shows that to actually write it out yet again is just shameless filler (no, the evidence trod in doesn’t turn out to have any significance either). The cast of characters also seem to have been cribbed from television – particularly the cops, who are naturally the characters we spend the most time with. Lead detective with sharp dialogue, a tormented past, and a drinking habit which is simultaneously portrayed as being his main off-duty hobby and yet never impacts his ability to do his job? Check. Immediate superior who regularly uses the “tell me something unlikely has happened which means that we can wrap the case up quickly” line? Check. More distant superiors who are more interested in politics than solving a murder? Check. Female partner who is regularly described as being tough but actually requires rescuing at least once? Check. Computer wiz who can do hacking stuff which the author, like the protagonists, shows little sign of actually understanding (which the book acknowledges requires a warrant but the cops are happy for him to go ahead with before getting the warrant anyway because apparently they don’t give a damn about their jobs or tainting of evidence)? Check. The most original character on the team is “guy who has pet theory about the crime and gets stroppy when people don’t listen to him”, and between those two quotation marks are all the details I can remember about the guy concerned.

Plus the team is filled out with a few nobodies who you never really get much of a handle on at all. That’s really where the problem lies. Cliche isn’t a mortal sin provided that you are able to use it to achieve some effect – either the one you were going for, or some alternative which you didn’t plan but which is enjoyable for your readers nonetheless. What’s wrong with the cast here is that they consist of half-formed cliches; those characters where we can discern a feature or two in the mostly shapeless lumps of their personalities, the features in question are cliched. Other characters don’t even make up that much of an impression.

It isn’t just the characters who lack substance – the plot seems half-baked too. So, our hard-drinking lead detective Danny Beckett and his mildly exotic partner Jen Tanaka (exotic in that she has a Japanese surname and she teaches a martial arts class in her spare time – smooth move, Dilto) are called in to investigate the murder of Elizabeth Williams, an English teacher hacked down in her classroom after school. The only hard evidence left behind are the stab wounds indicating that a ghurka-style kukri was used, and the fact that Elizabeth’s left hand is missing. The title is, of course, a quote from Hamlet – “O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.” – which is relevant both because Williams was teaching Shakespeare and because Beckett himself suffers a series of bad dreams relating to the death of his wife over the course of the book, which only go away once he solves the case.

The Hamlet angle is actually the bit where the book works best – just as Shakespeare’s most Danish play revolves around a toxic parental relationship, so too do parental relationships often pop up over the course of the book. There’s Elizabeth’s own troubled past with her father, who eventually proves to be one of the suspects, and the family situation of another suspect, Daryl Wexler, who admits that after his wife died his relationship with his son has been a little difficult. There’s also Rudy, who attends Jen’s martial arts classes and who Danny and Jen both end up mentoring to a certain extent. I’m not convinced this particular theme really went anywhere – Dilts seems to show us all these parental relationships but doesn’t really seem to have any point they are trying to make – but it’s an interesting way to work a non-standard theme into a detective story.

It’s in the more standard detective story motifs that Dilts falls down. He throws in just enough red herrings to keep the waters muddy (though not quite enough to obfuscate who the real killer us), but a lot of these strands just don’t go anywhere. Of course, I’m not saying detective fiction should eschew red herrings, or that real police work doesn’t involve a lot of leads that don’t ultimately lead to anything substantive. When I say these plot threads don’t go anywhere, I mean in a narrative sense – they don’t really add anything to the story, and so there seems to be little rhyme or reason as to why we are devoting space in the narrative to these threads as opposed to any of the other strands.

Take, for instance, the first arrest the cops make in connection with the killing. Their target is Yevgeny Tropov, a hitman with ties to Russian organised crime. The arrest sees Tropov physically menace Jen so she can be saved by Danny, which I guess is a significant character development point (if a tiresomely familiar one), and of course when they check Tropov’s alibi it’s solid so he is free to go. Fair enough, I suppose (though, yawn, female cop ends up at the mercy of bad guy so big strong dudecop can save the day). What is really bizarre is the aftermath of all this, where we are – not just once, but repeatedly – told that Tropov is deeply embroiled in some sort of snitching setup and the cops from the organised crime division tell the murder team to lay off and stop fucking up their sting operation. It is also clearly and unambiguously stated that by severely hurting one of the mob’s own – Danny really goes to town on Tropov – Danny has made himself a target for reprisal.

The other shoe never drops. No reprisal is forthcoming; nor are there any significant plot developments concerning the organised crime division investigation. Whilst I do see the point in waiting until a sequel to throw in the mob reprisal – the book’s blurb clearly suggests that Dilts intends to write a whole series about Danny – I don’t get why the organised crime division investigation is a factor here. With an alibi the murder team can’t find fault with, Tropov already has everything he needs to get the cops to let him go; with a good alibi backed up by actual cops, Tropov is firmly ruled out as a suspect for the purposes of those reading along at home, because for Tropov to have actually committed the murder whilst simultaneously keeping the organised crime division appraised of his whereabouts and being under surveillance from them beggars belief. Had Dilts held back the part about the organised crime division until the sequels, then Tropov could have viably been a red herring until the end of this book – and he’s clearly intended to be since Danny and Jen are shown to consider him a potential lead until faced with a fairly clear indication that one of the other suspects has some explaining to do.

Likewise, there’s a bit where Danny is trying to create an emotional rapport with Wexler by sharing details about his wife’s death (Danny’s aforementioned tormented backstory) in the hope that Wexler, who has been similarly bereaved, will open up to him. It is clear from Danny’s first-person description of this process and his colleagues reactions to him doing it that this is meant to represent Danny sailing into dangerous waters. In fact, along with other things like Danny’s drinking issues and the way he seems to be on the verge of killing Tropov needlessly and so on the book regularly flirts with the idea that Danny is getting too personal with the case. The most overt way this is established is with Danny figuring out that Elizabeth was an old friend of his dead wife’s, and did in fact come to their wedding. The book makes a big deal out of this point and, again, doesn’t really deliver on it; the connection doesn’t really change anything about the way the investigation pans out at all, and nor does Danny’s attempt to become a confidante of Wexler. Sure, Danny does realise in the late phase of the book that when Wexler confesses to the murders (there are multiple by this point) he’s lying to protect someone, but he shouldn’t have needed a deep emotional connection to the guy to figure that one out. He and the rest of the cops would have sussed things out just fine were it not for a bit of outrageously selective incompetence on their part.

Fair warning: from this point on I am going to get spoilery. This might be a bigger deal than usual because as a very disposable murder story A King of Infinite Space is more vulnerable to spoilers than your average book. Quite simply, what pleasure I did get from it I got from sussing out who the killer was, which meant the second half of the book was a bit of a bore because I’d already correctly guessed by that point. So, here’s a big bolded paragraph to add some spoiler space and a quick conclusion to the review for those of you jumping ship at this point: this book is like popcorn made of cardboard. If the maker had made a few different choices, like using corn instead of cardboard, I’d have happily munched through it unhampered by any illusions that I was digesting a literary marvel. As it was it’s just a bland, tedious chore to get through and doesn’t offer even the mild payoff basic microwave popcorn (which I guess would be a cop TV show for the purpose of this metaphor) offers. OK, is that enough of a gap? Let’s say it is and move on.

Ok, so the killer is Wexler’s son, Daryl Junior. I guessed it very early on, unless you are singularly unversed in how this sort of story is constructed you will probably guess it too. The reason I guessed wasn’t solely because of the various circumstantial reasons to consider him a suspect – the fact that he’s reaching college age and so is more than capable of doing the killings by himself, the mysterious sealed juvenile criminal record (which could conceal all manner of nastiness), the mild references to relations between him and his father being strained after the death of his mother, the bit where Jen shows him some martial arts moves which proves that he is actually kind of strong on his own right, the fact that all the murder victims had a connection to Wexler (and therefore would likely also be known to Junior), the enormous collection of forensics and criminology textbooks in his room, and so on. No, the telltale sign which made me realise he was the killer before the book was half done was the way that all policework ceased within a five foot radius of him. Faced with all of the circumstantial evidence I have outlined, it seems to me mildly incredible that the cops simply never bother to even do some cursory investigation of him. I don’t recall them even seriously looking into where he was when the murder(s) happened, if only to eliminate him as a suspect. They simply never question him except with an eye to turning up incriminating evidence about his dad.

Now, to be fair I can perfectly accept the idea that a single person might overlook the son as a potential suspect. But when you have a whole team of people, each of whom is coming at the problem from different directions, brainstorming away to see where they might find a suspect, you’d think at least someone might wonder whether the son oughtn’t be in consideration. It’s not as though he’s too young to have pulled the crime off, and it’s not as though there aren’t a host of reasons why he might do it (say, for instance, he gets mad about these women dumping his Dad because he really wanted a new Mum in his life – that isn’t the reason, just a theory a detective might have jumped to given the information in front of them). Given that this is a police team which is willing to give credence to much more tenuous links and much more unlikely suspects the blind spot around Junior is just far, far too convenient and far too obvious. This is more or less fatal to the book; on the first reading, it’s likely you’ll guess it anyway, and on subsequent readings the team’s abject failure to treat Junior like any other person they encounter in the investigation is so blatant as to ruin the whole package.

Kindlefluff: Mixing Up History and Slicing Up Dicks

This article was originally published on Ferretbrain. I’ve backdated it to its original Ferretbrain publication date but it may have been edited and amended since its original appearance.

Say what you like about Amazon’s Kindle store prices; granted, a lot of books on there don’t cost much less than their print versions, but equally there are heaps of books on there which are given away for free (either on a permanent basis or within a small window of opportunity intended to boost an item’s sales ranking), or very inexpensive. I’d expected such books would be almost entirely self-published stuff but I’m pleased to see at least some publishers seeing the value of getting people hooked on cheap or free ebooks. I’m addicted to checking the Daily Deal each day, for instance, because if I’m even vaguely interested in a book 99p and a tiny fraction of the storage space on my Kindle is an expenditure so small I don’t even keep track of it.

The good side to this is that there’s a really low barrier to exploring the sorts of books which otherwise might not be your cup of tea. The downside to it is that because I’ve invested less in acquiring a book, I find I am less interested in persisting with it if it doesn’t grab me within the first hour or so of reading. Obviously if a book is actually good and grabs my interest I’ll plough on to the end, but I suspect the vast majority of the books in my Kindle unread pile (most of which were free or on special offer) are things I will read about fifty or so pages of before shrugging and deleting them from my e-reader.

That isn’t to say I could only ever have a transient relationship with the books on my e-reader or that free/cheap books are necessarily bad ones; books which you acquire on a whim and unexpectedly love are fantastic. But there’s a lot of e-books out there which I’ll end up picking up on a whim and discarding on a whim, making them disposable guests blowing through my e-reader on the breeze and leaving little trace behind them. In a fit of whimsy I’ve decided to call them “Kindlefluff”. Here’s a couple of pieces I deleted recently.

Continue reading “Kindlefluff: Mixing Up History and Slicing Up Dicks”