Books Received | The BoSS: Beyond Boneshaker

Well, here I am. Home again, home again.

And it's actually not bad - other than the cold, that is - to be back. The week the other half and I just spent in Malta made for a more modest holiday than our month in North America earlier in the year, but I think there's something to be said for the self-contained. I mean, we saw everything we wanted to see, ate all the food we could, drank some truly awesome cocktails, and had plenty of time to relax in the between-times.

There was even some reading! :)

Of the books I brought along, I read The Ravenglass Eye, Osama and - on my Kindle - In the Tall Grass by Stephen King and Joe Hill, as well as the final volume (finally) of The Long Price Quartet by Daniel Abraham — which was without a doubt the most heart-breaking novel I've read in 2012. I admit to some bubbling.

Reviews of some, if not all of the above will be forthcoming here on The Speculative Scotsman.

Add to that lovely lot the proofs which were waiting for me at my local post office. Amongst others, these included the sequel to The Emperor's Knife, the three Anno Draculas released to date, London Falling by Vertigo author Paul Cornell, and - last but not least - a long dreamed-of look at the new Warren Ellis: Mulholland Books are publishing Gun Machine in early January, and I can't bloody well wait.

However, one package in particular exited me, specifically because of its tinkling. My first thought was that someone had sent me a Christmas bauble... but no!

From the local Tor team, the following:

That's Boneshaker by Cherie Priest on a festive bed of straw, complete with scissors, gin and some other some vaguely steampunky stuff.

Here's a closer look at all those lovely little trinkets:

But damn, I'll be drinking that!

Now those of you who've been with me since the blog's beginning might remember that I've already read and reviewed Boneshaker, as well as its successor, Dreadnought. I didn't much enjoy either, neither. Be that as it may, this box was so lovingly put together that I'm tempted to give the series another shot.

Who knows? Perhaps the third time's the charm.

One way or the other, we'll see soon enough, because here in the UK, Tor are planning to publish a Clockwork Century novel every month through the fourth volume in the series' release next February. I'll give The Inexplicables a good going-over around then.

Are any of you folks excited to read it?

Book Review: Dreadnought by Cherie Priest

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IndieBound / The Book Depository

Nurse Mercy Lynch is elbows deep in bloody laundry at a war hospital in Richmond, Virginia, when Clara Barton comes bearing bad news: Mercy's husband has died in a POW camp. On top of that, a telegram from the west coast declares that her estranged father is gravely injured, and he wishes to see her. Mercy sets out toward the Mississippi River. Once there, she'll catch a train over the Rockies and - if the telegram can be believed - be greeted in Washington Territory by the sheriff, who will take her to see her father in Seattle. Reaching the Mississippi is a harrowing adventure by dirigible and rail through war-torn border states.

When Mercy finally arrives in St. Louis, the only Tacoma-bound train is pulled by a terrifying Union-operated steam engine called the Dreadnought. Reluctantly, Mercy buys a ticket and climbs aboard. What ought to be a quiet trip turns deadly when the train is beset by bushwhackers, then vigorously attacked by a band of Rebel soldiers. The train is moving away from battle lines into the vast, unincorporated west, so Mercy can't imagine why they're so interested. Perhaps the mysterious cargo secreted in the second and last train cars has something to do with it? Mercy is just a frustrated nurse who wants to see her father before he dies. But she'll have to survive both Union intrigue and Confederate opposition if she wants to make it off the Dreadnought alive.

***

You know, I didn't love Boneshaker.

Boneshaker, remember? Book one of The Clockwork Century series by Cherie Priest... nominated for a Hugo, one of genre fiction's most prestigious awards - and for best novel no less. You might know it as Steampunk in Seattle. Ringing any bells yet?

Of course it does - forgive my dubious attempt at humour. All I mean to say is: as fine a time as I had with it then, a year on from Boneshaker, I'm sure finding it tough to remember. As a matter of fact, I thought it sort of forgettable then, too, particularly after all the early word I'd heard praising it to the nines. Rather than the "hollering, stamping, crackling thing" Warren Ellis and an assortment of other names I respect indicated, I found it a flat and largely ill-considered thing only made worthwhile by an admittedly rollicking last act.

Dreadnought touches down near-enough a year to the day of Boneshaker's release, and it's evident from the outset that not a lot has changed. Forgive me for stating the bleeding obvious, but if Boneshaker wasn't for you, nor will this be - though I should say, it's at least the equal of that narrative. Take that as you may. Priest conjures up another Strong Female Character: this iteration's Briar Wilkes is Vinita 'Mercy' Lynch, a nurse who gives up the grind to shed her blood, sweat and tears on a missing man. In Dreadnought, that's Mercy's absent biological father, Jeremiah Swakhammer, who after his heroism in Boneshaker seems to be on the way out. Lately bereft of her soldier husband, news of whose death in the civil war which rages across the heartlands of The Clockwork Century's alt-America has only just reached her, Mercy means to reconnect with her daddy while she still can - or perhaps she simply needs direction. As she admits "to the small piles of money, and the new stockings and gloves and toiletries laid out across the bed, 'I guess now that Phillip's gone, I just don't have anywhere to go. Or, at least,' she amended the sentiment with a catch in her throat, 'I don't have anywhere I've gotta be.'" (p.120)

After rather a lot of faffing, Mercy takes passage to the very other end of the continental United States on a behemoth of a train: massively armoured, heavily defended and carrying a need-to-know cargo, time is very much of the essence, and Dreadnought is her only hope of getting to her daddy while the getting's good.

The ride's a bumpy one in more ways than one. Early readers of Priest's latest have brought to light certain issues with the time it takes Mercy to hitch from Richmond to Tacoma. Let me say this: I could care less. Improbable distances are travelled - fine. In the interests of pacing, the disparity is hardly a show-stopper. But surely there are more noteworthy incidents for Priest to recount along the road than those she does. Dreadnought seems a narrative in search of some driving force for the larger part. For one thing, Mercy takes a long-ass time getting onboard the titular train; for another, both before, during and after she encounters an array of characters who come and go (would that they would only go a little quicker) with absolutely nothing of note to say for themselves - nor to add to the grander narrative, such as it is.

Dreadnought entertains in all the same ways Boneshaker did, in the end - the denouement is neat, make no mistake, and the climax which anticipates it functions as an exciting and satisfying throwback to Westerns of yore - but as with the first novel of The Clockwork Century series, the getting there can be trying. Improbable situations, perfunctory if not blindingly obvious dialogue and repetition, repetition - golly-gosh the repetition! - leave Dreadnought feeling like a fine novella bloated into a longer thing which does little other than tread water before the good times finally roll.

When they do, though...

***

Dreadnought

by Cherie Priest

US Publication: November 2010, Tor / Seven Seas

Buy this book from
Amazon.co.uk / Amazon.com /
IndieBound / The Book Depository

Recommended and Related Reading

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour's Hugo

I've been quiet on the award nominations and shortlists that have been such a hot topic across the blogosphere these past few weeks. It's not that I haven't read any of the contenders, but I haven't read all of them, and short of reposting a list of the nominees, without that base of knowledge I don't know I'd be doing anyone any good by expressing an uninformed opinion.

That said, an awards-related post that went up on Jeff Vandermeer's blog Ecstatic Days yesterday struck me as somewhat telling. Full the whole kit and caboodle, go here. But this is the part that interests me:

"...a few people expressed condolences that Finch wasn’t on the Hugo finalist list. That’s very kind, but not only do I not expect to be on any list, ever, I do not lobby for awards (why would you want something you can influence like that?), and I do not set my goals for success around them, although this isn’t meant as a repudiation of awards. Still, if you need proof of how in the long-term awards don’t always matter much, and I’ve been up for my share of them, City of Saints didn’t win anything it was up for and is in print and remembered far more than many other award-winning books of the period. It’s nice to be up for an award, but it shouldn’t be an expectation (indeed, my fiction has never been up for a Hugo and I’m doing just fine). I am thrilled to be up for a Nebula, would’ve been thrilled for a Hugo or anything else, but not getting something that’s a perk is like crying about not having chocolate sprinkles on your ice cream. And being too wrapped up in stuff like that is detrimental to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The work is the important thing, and making the work as good as humanly possible is the goal."

Now correct me if I'm wrong here, but that sure sounds like sour grapes to me. For the sake of coherence, let's leave to one side the somewhat dubious argument that City of Saints and Madmen is "remembered more than many other award-winning books of the period." Not to be reductive, but Vandermeer's essentially saying that the only reason Finch isn't on the shortlist is because he didn't lobby for it to be. Now I loved Vandermeer's last Ambergris novel - read the full review here to see just how much - and in my opinion, it's certainly more deserving of a place amongst the finalists than the likes of Cherie Priest's Boneshaker, which was fun, don't misunderstand me, in a pulpy, steampunk Stephen King sort of way, but hardly revelatory in the mode of Finch - nor The Windup Girl and The City and The City; which is to say, the other best novel candidates I've read.

But the notion that bother me is that had Vandermeer tried to get Finch on the list, it would be on the list. And I ask you, internet: is that true? Are the Hugos really so easily swayed? Or is Vandermeer just miffed about the oversight?

>>> EDIT TO REFLECT THAT: Popular opinion has deemed this post accusatory, and were it not for the likelihood that some readers would accuse me of backpedalling, I'd gladly reword anything that suggests I genuinely believe Jeff is being elitist or disingenuous. That was not the plan at all. I was, of course, stirring the pot a bit, but I'd meant for the spillage to fall on the Hugos; to engender discussion about how, despite their perceived importance, they're basically the American Idol equivalent of more considered awards, awards less about how thoroughly one author has pimped their qualifying novel over the others and more about objective merit. Bottom line, though, is - as one anonymous commenter observed - I "failed miserably" at that. Apologies to Jeff if I've caused any offense, and indeed I'd extend my regrets to anyone who took what I'd intended to be interesting questions as out-and-out insults. I do not mean to be the Daily Mirror.

Book Review: Boneshaker by Cherie Priest

[Buy this book on Amazon

in the UK / in the US]

"At the start of the Civil War, a Russian mining company commissions a great machine to pave the way from Seattle to Alaska and speed up the gold rush that is beating a path to the frozen north. Inventor Leviticus Blue creates the machine, but on its first test run it malfunctions, decimating Seattle's banking district and uncovering a vein of Blight Gas that turns everyone who breathes it into the living dead.

"Sixteen years later Briar, Blue's widow, lives in the poor neighborhood outside the wall that's been built around the uninhabitable city. Life is tough with a ruined reputation, but she and her teenage son Ezekiel are surviving until Zeke impetuously decides that he must reclaim his father's name from the clutches of history."

***

What with strong word of mouth and the exceptional power of a few recommendations from other genre authors, Cherie Priest's Boneshaker has, since its release in 2009, gotten itself quite the reputation. Take Cory Doctorow, Warren Ellis and blogging geek god Wil Wheaton - they all love it.

The Speculative Scotsman, on the other hand, does not. Not quite. For all the choice quotes that adorn its excellent Jon Foster cover, Boneshaker falls somewhat short of the hype. It's not a bad book, let me be clear, not by any stretch of the imagination - in fact, it's a great deal of fun - but Priest's latest endeavour suffers from enough niggling issues that any interested parties would be best advised to understand the nature of this novel before placing their orders.

Santa's Sack and the Speculative Scotsman

Is it safe to say it yet?

Is it ever truly safe, one wonders...

But to hell with safety - I'll risk a visit from the dreaded Santa man and his wicked band of elves. Step back, now: I'm going call it.

Christmas is... over!

It must be, surely; for one thing, I'm still alive, not to mention that the other half and I have taken down the festive decorations and resigned all the uneaten stocking treats to the recycling. The halls - we have two - no longer ring out with the same twenty Christmas songs playing on some horrific infinite shuffle.

That's quite enough grinching. It's been a hectic time, but then, it always is, and that's half the fun of it. Every day a new experience, or a familiar one from your youth or your adolescence, experienced anew. For one, I had a great time, and I hope you did too, reader, but I don't doubt we're all glad it's over. At least till next year.

In between all the last minute gift giving and the exhausting rotation of visits to friends and relatives, however, this past Christmas has also been a particularly productive one. After all of a week's worth of thinking, and latterly even a bit of planning, The Speculative Scotsman finally launched.

I've been meaning to chime in with the blogosphere for some time now, and the community surrounding speculative fiction in all its forms is nearly unrivalled across all the highways and byways of the internet, where there's a forum for every last ridiculous thing you can imagine and at least one daft fan to fill its pages. TSS aspires to greater things, of course. It need not be your one-stop shop for every sliver of knowledge and commentary about all your particular interests, but it will be reliable, it will be informative, and it will, I hope, be above all else entertaining.

So. With Christmas officially in the can for another twelve months, now that I've got time to think, I thought - I did - that it might be time to go through a select few of the more thoughtful gifts given to The Speculative Scotsman on the day of the baby Jesus.