Boneshaker, Cherie Priest – 2009
Midway through Cherie Priest's Boneshaker a rag-tag group of misfits, led by a mechanical-armed bar-owner, a giant of a man in armour wielding a sonic gun, and a woman who has taken up her legendary father's mantle and arrived by steamship to rescue her son, fight their way out of a decrepit pub and into the poisoned air, while pursued by hordes of howling, rotten zombies, set onto them by a skull-mask wearing horribly-scarred mad scientist who regards the world of a sunken and near-obliterated San Francisco as his own little empire.
And if that sentence alone hasn't tipped you off, Boneshaker is a cracking read.
Briefly, sixteen years before the events of the book, Dr Leviticus Blue won a commission from Russian prospectors to design and build a machine capable of burrowing through ice in the Klondike to retrieve the gold deposits. This machine, the Boneshaker, then burrows through the foundations of half of Seattle, causing a devastating collapse and releasing a poisonous gas, Blight, into the air. Dr Blue supposedly perished in the disaster, leaving behind his pregnant widow, Briar Blue, whose father, Maynard Wilkes, a prison officer, is also killed, while releasing the prisoners in his care in order to save them, thereby gaining a near-religious status in the underworld. In the present, a vast wall has been built around the disaster zone (no Trump jokes please!), keeping the Blight contained, and Briar lives with her teen-aged son, Zeke, from whom she withholds everything that she can, including what she herself did that day. When he goes over the wall in an attempt to find out for himself, Briar takes up her father's rifle and coat and goes after him. Once there, they encounter an array of colourful characters, fight off the Blight-created zombies and begin to solve the central mystery of the book: the identity of the mad-scientist and crimelord, Dr Minnericht.
Priest's greatest skill throughout the novel is her careful balancing of plot, character and action. There is a fair bit of back-story to deal with—you'll notice above that it took me 200+ words to 'Briefly' explain the outline, without detailing any of the events once they are both within the wall – and Priest manages to convey it without losing pace, or the reader's interest. The plot itself is somewhat a mash-up of a quest narrative and a mystery; Briar and Zeke seeking to reunite with each other, which phases into the question of Dr Minnericht's identity in the last third. I will admit that I had guessed it early on, but had become so engrossed in the action scenes towards the end that I had nearly forgotten until the beautifully simple reveal, which gains its impact from the emotional pay-off of Briar finally talking to Zeke, him appreciating it, and the retrospective insights we get into Briar's character, rather than the revelation itself. Importantly, Priest pauses just long enough during emotional moments to give them the weight they deserve, and never long enough to sink into sentimentality.
As for the action, as you may have guessed from the opening paragraph, when the excrement hits the rotational cooling device it is glorious. Priest neatly pulls off the mix of grounded, serious violence and the sheer joy of a woman with a mechanical arm punching zombies, and one doffs one's be-cogged top hat and monocle to her for it!
The only jarring note that the books strikes is the character of Captain Hainey, and, while this is quite a subjective area and is only my personal reaction to it, I found his presentation somewhat distasteful. He is a pirate, both greedy and unlucky, a deserter from the Union's army, and we are often invited to laugh at him for this. When he first appears, he is described as 'a coal-black Negro'1 and captains a ship called The Free Crow. This would, I admit, probably be a glorious name, if the narrative was the captain's, or if his depiction was more positive, or if it wasn't stolen from him and renamed before the end of the novel, but none of these are the case. The terminology of his introduction is all the more awkward as it is the sole use of such a phrase and, despite the Victorian setting, the narrative voice is totally modern – if Priest were attempting to exactly replicate the dialect of 1880 then this term may be more acceptable, but there is little other evidence that she is. Although other characters are 'dark', which is far too vague to be certain, Hainey is the only character explicitly described as being black, and the sections he features in can feel uncomfortable. The treatment of other non-Caucasians is arguably better; there is a bad-ass-as-all-hell, Native-American princess seeking revenge on Minnericht, and although most of the Chinese characters get lumped together, there are two who are part of the story-proper.
The novel stands, however, on the strength of its protagonist. Although from start to finish Priest continues to humanise Briar, letting us know when she is frightened, panicking and at the end of her rope, her cool is never too far off, and returns every time it’s needed: 'I only came here for one thing – not to make friends, or to be a pleasant guest. I came here to find my boy, and until I do, you'll have to forgive me if my attention lies somewhere other than my manners'2 is Briar Wilkes' only response when threatened by the psychotic Minnericht. The relationship with Zeke is also nicely drawn; a plot in which a mother goes through hell to find her stroppy, resentful son could easily spiral into simple family drama, but Priest carefully paints the relationship as complex, but never angst-ridden.
Overall, it is an extremely enjoyable read, an excellent piece of steampunk writing, with some superb action scenes and likeable, badass characters.
1 Priest, Cherie, Boneshaker, Tom Doherty Associates, LLC, 2009, pp. 81
Sex Criminals – Volume 1, Matt Fraction (writer) Chip Zdarsky (artist) – 2014
(Though I understand their working partnership to be a close and collaborative one, and have no doubt that they contributed many ideas to one another’s side of the work, for ease I am going to go ahead and treat the wonders of the words to Fraction, and the genius of the drawing and colouring to Zdarsky!)
A common misconception is that funny and serious are dichotomies, and that if a work is supposed to be taken seriously as literature it should, if not be outright humourless, certainly not be full of jokes. Humour, however is one of the most important lenses for examining serious subjects; one only needs to listen to the giggles and raucous laughter that often occur at a wake to understand this.
As Suzie, our protagonist and narrator, states: 'This guy killed my dad. The jokes are coming I promise.'1
Within the first volume (#1-5) of Fraction and Zdarsky's Sex Criminals, they deal with the homicide of a parent, rape, parental alcoholism, mental health, the evils of capitalism, STIs, lack of sexual education, slut-shaming, increasing closure of libraries, living with Oppositional Defiant Disorder and ADHD, the morality of stealing from the super rich to fund civic initiatives, good people struggling to do the right thing when the system is against them and implied PTSD. And of course, the ups and downs, highs and lows of sex.
And sex superpowers!
When Suzie orgasms, she stops time: literally. And then kind, passionate about libraries, Queen-singing Suzie meets Jon, wannabe actor, secretary at a bank, partial hipster and as they relax, post coitus, they lie back replete, look over at the other and then scream: 'How are you here?'2 It seems he too can stop time (and his dick glows neon-white till he's ready to go again fyi!) and they hang out, swap stories, share their experiences, plan a bank job to save the local library and just maybe fall in love along the way.
Zdarsky's art sets the tone beautifully. His character designs are a perfect antidote to the hyper-realistic, near caricatured perfection of mainstream (read, most superhero) comics. When we see them naked – and we see them naked quite a bit – neither Suzie nor Jon have any particular muscle definition or tone. Suzie is short, and slightly heavy, with large, tired eyes and an unturned pixie nose. Jon is tall, wears round hispter glasses, and has a large nose and even larger chin. They are also both utterly gorgeous, and it is easy not only to see why they connect emotionally, but fancy the pants off each other (quite literally!). The facial expressions Zdarsky is able to give all the characters seem limitless (see Jon's reactions during the glorious Queen montage) and when, occasionally, he needs to break into all out cartoon madness (such as the intricately plotted chase of the teenage Jon around the porn shop – don't ask!) he rises to the occasion hilariously! He draws pacey, kinetic actions scenes (just see the continuing battle of the two with the sex police that bookends every issue) and empty spaces that feel both lonely and grounded, without ever verging into gothic sensibilities (check out Suzie, working with the schoolgirl on her project). And of course, the showstopping colouring when The Quiet descends, providing us with lens flares JJ Abrams would envy and a glorious centrepiece to the series.
As for Fraction's text, the term that continues to come to mind is deft. It says something of Fraction's skill in that, when presenting a down-to-earth, off-beat relationship, focusing on them awkwardly, adorably working through and taking on board each other's issues, Suzie's anxiety and Jon's Oppositional Defiant Disorder and ADHD, he is able to slip seamlessly into something unabashedly romantic. Check out Jon's explanation of why he has to go home, rather than stay with her: 'I've looked for you everyday of my life. Or, since I was, what, thirteen, fuck, whatever it was and...Suzie, I'm worried that if I don't go home tonight I am never, ever, going to go home again.' Then there is the overall tone. From the rape of Rach, Suzie's roomate, which Fraction presents in a simple, straightforward, victim-first manner, to the wonderful post-it-notes that carefully work around copyrighted Queen lyrics, to Suzie's mother's heart-wrenching response to Suzie's request for information about sex, and Suzie's awkward, hilariously direct questioning of the 'Dirty Girls', Faction perfectly blends the shits in tone between upbeat and poignant, allowing them to complement each other perfectly. In a text mired in sadness and suffused with joy, it says something for his skill, and his beliefs as a creator, that Fraction is able keep the tone both bitter-sweet, and ultimately hopeful.
The joy, and joy really is the most important word with this series, reverberates through words and pictures in this series, and its non-judgemental attitude to both Suzie and Jon's teenage explorations and adult adventures, gives the reader a rewarding, healthy sex-positivity that other media, and indeed the world in general, needs to catch up with!
Deeply looking forward to finding out what happens next, and will review Volume 2 once read!
1Sex Criminals Vol. 1: One Weird Trick, Fraction, Matt & Zdarsky, Chip, Image Comics, 2014
2Sex Criminals,
The Doomsday Book, Connie Willis – 1992
'I, seeing so many evils, have put into writing all the things that I have witnessed. Lest things which should be remembered perish with time' – Brother John Clyn, quoted by Willis on page 526
A few weeks ago, I was in the library and noticed a particularly cool-looking book. It was in the excellent SF Masterworks series, and depicted a lot of grey, misty cogs and, dead centre, a black-clad, steampunk Plague Doctor, which instantly appealed to my somewhat dramatic heart. The author, who I had never heard of, was Connie Willis.
Already having an armful of books, I made a note of the name and left, intending to return for it a subsequent week. However, one of the books I checked out was the superb collection 'Rogues', edited by old character-killer himself George RR Martin, along with Gardner Dozois, and among the offerings of Neil Gaiman, Joe Abbercrombie and other such illustrious contributors, was a knife-sharp, yet lovingly affectionate satire of swashbuckling caper movies and the modern film industry called 'Now Showing'. It was one of my favourite tales in the anthology, and was written by, you guessed it, Connie Willis. The short bio before 'Now Showing' listed many of her works, describing her as 'the most honoured writer in the history of science fiction, and the only person ever to win two Nebulas and two Hugos in the same year'1. The novel she won for, was The Doomsday Book.
And by the gods did it deserve it!
Briefly, the novel opens to us a world in which time travel is in use by Oxford University as part of its History Department. Despite the deep reservations of her supervisor, Mr Dunworthy, Kivrin, a young student, travels back to the 1300s, and inadvertently arrives as the Black Death begins to sweep over England. Caught up in the lives of Eliwys Guillaume, her daughters Rosemund and Agnes, mother-in-law Lady Imeyne, their servants Gawyn and Maisry, as well as the local priest Father Roche, Kivrin does what she can to ease the suffering. Meanwhile the University have their own pandemic on their hands, rendering them unable to rescue Kivrin.
One of the novel's best devices is Willis' use of Kivrin's 'corder', a voice recorder implanted within her, that she activates by placing her hands together as if in prayer; a cunning disguise, they believe, as no one in the 1300s will questions someone speaking softly with their hands clasped. Though initially a functional tool on which a historian can record their findings, the corder takes on increasing significance once Kivrin, stranded in the past, determines to continue using it, speaking to a Mr Dunworthy she is sure will never hear what she says. When she does so, the line between her seeming to pray when using it and actually speaking to a loving father-figure who she is aware cannot hear her and would be unable to help her if he could, becomes increasingly blurred. This becomes ever more poignant as she works alongside Father Roche in caring for and comforting the sick, as he finds his faith deeply tested and together they wonder if God himself has crawled away sick, feeble and impotent, when at the same time Mr Dunworthy is lying ill in hospital, unable to even try to help her. Indeed, as the situation becomes more horrific, and characters we have grown to love, tolerate, pity and empathise with, begin their excruciating deaths, Kivrin begins to speak into the tricorder as if Mr Dunworthy is in fact God: 'You bastard! I will not let you take her. She's only a child. But that's your speciality, isn't it? Slaughtering the innocents?'2 Mr Dunworthy himself, although totally unaware of Kivrin's prayers, also ruminates on his role as God, having sent a younger person for whom he felt a fatherly love into a dangerous situation and struggles to deal with the guilt, asking, while in hospital, to be read from Matthew 27, verse 46: 'My God, my God, why hast though forsaken me?'
Having said all of this, I feel constrained to point out, somewhat incongruously, that The Doomsday Book is also hilarious. Much of this comes from the Oxford sections; Mr Dunworthy's sarcastic asides in church, the infighting of collegiate departments, Mr Dunworthy's assistant Finch frantic at their low supplies of toilet paper, the team of American bell-ringers who have descended upon Balliol College and the utterly Wodehousian character of Mrs Gaddson, continually panicking about the health of her poor son William, a strapping six-foot ladies' man. So deft is Willis' touch, however, that as the horror of both pandemics begins to set in, the humour begins to sour: Mr Dunworthy's sarcasm is scathing of himself, several of the bell-ringers are killed by the virus and Mrs Gaddson ministers to the sick by reading passages from the Bible in which God has sends 'every sickness and every plague'3 upon the unrighteous.
However, what has stuck with me most is the sheer force of Kivrin as a protagonist. It is not perhaps surprising that a recent science fiction novel, whose author is a woman, should have a well-written female lead, but in a world still plagued by the term Strong Female Character, and even more by the need for it, The Doomsday Book should be mandatory reading. Kivrin is not a Strong Female Character; she is a character who is female, and who is forced to discover, and drain, reserves of strength within her that could not be asked of anyone. She is by turns, cocksure, incapacitated, helpless, caring, fearful, resilient, loving, desperate, stubborn and despairing, and when Father Roche is dying, he reveals his belief that God sent a saint, Kivrin, to the village, to give them aid and comfort in their dying hours, we, who know how she really got there, are left to question the line between the serendipitous and the divine.
There are some lovely touches to the book, aside from the strength of Kivrin as protagonist; Willis' depiction of the sisterly, loving hatred between Rosemund and Agnes, the deep devotion and belief of Father Roche, the emotions between Eliwys and Gawyn that Willis keeps almost entirely hidden from us, the quiet fortitude of Dr Mary Ahrens and most of all, the resounding implication that perhaps where someone has come from, whether sent by God or by a tired, battered, old Oxford historian, doesn't matter. What matters is the love they give and the love they inspire.
