Rajaniemi's Jean le Flambeur trilogy was a marvel; tricksy, baroque post-singularity space opera, and as such exactly the sort of thing I was always likely to love. His first novel outside that...isn't. It's set in an alternate 1938 where, four decades earlier, scientists made irrefutable contact with the afterlife. So the Great War was won with ectotanks and flyers, people channelling the energy of the dead - and now, the battle between the Republicans and Franco looks set to draw the great powers into conflict once more. Except that here, with Germany more thoroughly crushed, it's Britain backing Franco - something which makes a horrible kind of sense when you consider that the erosion of the boundary between living and dead mean the older generation need never relinquish control, so Victoria and her contemporaries are still pulling the strings from behind an increasingly tattered veil. Which, yes, on one level is a good way to prod at the increasing feeling of our own younger generations that their predecessors aren't getting out of the way, that we're all suffering through an unending baby boomer purgatory. And set against that, the attraction/repulsion of the Presence, the Soviet overmind, a vast collective intelligence which seems equally plausible given the dreams of the early Communists, the true history of the Immortalisation Commission. And yet. As tends to be the case with st**mp*nk, there's that faintly annoying sense of boxes being ticked. So when we get to Spain and there are mentions of Comrade Eric, Pope Teilhard, a Georgian dissident Communist...it feels a little obvious, somehow. A little 'Oh, those guys. Yeah.' Which in turn makes it all the more odd once we meet the British Prime Minister, and despite blatantly being HG Wells, he's had the serial numbers filed off and is named 'HB West'. Surely it would make more sense either to do that for everyone, or none of them?
The other problem, and this is probably going to affect fewer readers, is that the whole set-up reminds me a bit too much of Wraith: The Oblivion - the none-more-goth nineties roleplaying game for people who didn't find Vampire quite morbid enough. The way that there exist cities in the afterlife, but ones replicating and in some ways amplifying the inequities of the living world. The abyss beyond and beneath that world, the living realm above it. The gradual fading of spirits without anchors, the way that old souls become the stuff of the realm so that prosperity is literally built from the souls of the dispossessed...this is all very familiar. Worse, once you've hit on that, the big reveals become very easy to predict. But as against the way that Wraith made everything sound suitably portentous, here it all feels a bit tickety-boo, the mid-century British jauntiness robbing the whole idea of much mystery. Yes, the term 'Spooks' for posthumous spies was probably inevitable, but the fact that the favoured are assured of their post-mortem integrity by possession of a 'Ticket'...well, it's that bit too Willy Wonka for me. I'm sure this is at least in part deliberate - an intentional move to show how capitalism can rob the world, and here even the next world, of its magic and mystery. And yet, to return to the RPG comparison, it makes me think less of the Spectacle's sins, and more of the sort of system where the players game the magic system for effect, without ever feeling the faintest touch of mystery.
Fundamentally, though, I think my problem is that I was just too in love with how free-floating and wide-ranging the Flambeur books were. An Earthbound story about mid-twentieth-century people was always going to be more constricted, both by research and by the manners of the time. There's more research to hold everything back (though not without very occasional glitches - I find the idea of a 1930s Brit saying "My husband - he has some issues" implausibly anachronistic, though of course this might be one of those times when we think a phrase arrived later than it did). And yes, on one level, I respect Rajaniemi for not just plugging away at that same thing we know he can do, forever. But on the other...well, remember how outside the Culture, Banks still found time to create three other excellent SF worlds for single novels? I think I expected something more like that. Whereas this feels a little too much like the substitute of his non-M books.
Still, if you're more into mid-twentieth-century spy thrillers than I am, I imagine this would be considerably more satisfactory. The idea of souls being visible to the dead as shapes of light, betraying emotion &c, is absolutely perfect (it's pretty much how I've always pictured them), and puts an interesting spin on the necessary games of deceit and misdirection - without making the whole business quite so absurd as it was in the espionage plotline of Pullman's Belle Sauvage*. The way in which the body image of the deceased can falter at times of stress, so suddenly they show the injury that killed them, or themselves as a child...well, I think we can all identify. And the logic games at the story's thematic heart, the notion that "if you started with a contradiction, you could prove anything"...it nags at me, in good ways. This is by no means a disaster. But for my own tastes, and compared to that magisterial debut trilogy, it is a disappointment.
*As it happens I was talking to a friend about this at the weekend, and we concluded - why doesn't the obviously dodgy guy with the obviously dodgy hyena daemon at least try to disguise it? Quick coat of paint, some fake ears, and "No, this is definitely a Labrador, that famously trusting breed. STOP LAUGHING, FIDO."
(Netgalley ARC)