**1/2 stars
The Time Travel novel relies (and eventually suffers) on the many 'holes' of continuous disrepair on the timestream. Ripples, waves, rips, folds, drops, you name it, but at its core, it's the exit hole that matters, and here in Jack Chalker's timescape, the holes become exasperatingly random as they multiply, and all the reader is left with are plot-eating swathes of a choose-your-own-adventure novel timed for a two-minute attention span.
I don't think Chalker wrote this book, he actually FILLED it.
The holes in narrative persist along with the page count, and then these holes multiply into the narrative with the viral intent of this winter's flu. So yeah, more holes than Bonnie and Clyde post-mortem. More head scratching than a lice breakout. More inane dialogue than a self-published harem of screenwriters rewriting The Time Machine for Cannon Films. (Actually, Golan and Globus might actually translate this into a marvel of lower-mid-budget cuckah - I want Lungdren playing Eric Benoni, the most elusive villain this side of remaindered pulp paperbacks).
This book stinks but I kind of liked it.
Sam Moosic is the everyday-man nuclear facility supervisor who on his first day on the job realizes he's not supervising a power planet but a goddamn time travel facility. And wait, the place is under attack by three terrorists who aim to steal the time suits and timeslip all the way back to go kill Karl Marx before his final works are published. Okay, are you scratching your head wondering what the hell this is really about?
Did I mention that there's these Outworlders, black metallic hybrid beasts wearing disco timebelts whose sole intent is to fuck up the whole fabric of the university in order for humanity to be saved. (see great book cover: those black monolith creatures look intimidating on the cover...sadly, inside the pages, they're as threatening as charred and burnt Matryoshka dolls.)
The Time Drip / Dissolution has Moosic's identity siphoned through many characters both future past and present. Perhaps author Chalker could grasp little of his narrative, so when in doubt on how to finish writing this book, he decided to put each dissolving version of our hero into a new body, and then fill a chapter with more discount dismay and back-pocket wonder before the hole becomes a bigger hole. Really now, our hero Moosic becomes a London street urchin, a matronly revolutionary, a gay bureaucrat in Paris, an asshole in a wheelchair, and all the way down the social strata to become Holly, a voluptuous young woman who prostitutes the streets of Maryland not for money outright, but to satisfy her majestically nympho desires. However she does want to save the world amidst all that fucking. Case in point. Check the dialogue here on the delicate nature of downtiming time itself with the existential charm of a nymphomaniac Popeye.
"You're a priest?"
"Yes, that does that bother you?"
"Yeah. It means I can't even get a good fuck - and boy, do I need one now! Sorry, Father - but I am what I am. I ain't Catholic anyway."
He shrugged. "A few of your lives were, including your origin, if I recall correctly. It does not matter. My branch of the Church is a bit more liberal and less orthodox than the one you know, in any case. You see, my church is on Mars."
She was suddenly wide awake. "Huh?"
You could say this novel does to feminism Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey did to time travel.