Takeshi Kovacs may be my most favorite-ist protagonist ever. He's smart, capable, cynical and completely self-absorbed. Actually, he's a lot like me. In the second book in the Takeshi series by Richard K. Morgan, we meet Takeshi about 30 years after the first book. He's working as a mercenary, leading a company of soldiers during an uprising on a planet distant from Earth.

Richard's writing inspires me, he so effortlessly drops metaphor and simile that shimmer and illuminate the story without ever falling into long, drawn out sentences or comma strings. It's very reminiscent of William Gibson's earlier works.

In this passage, Takeshi is talking to a corporate executive, Hand, that is buying a priceless alien artifact from Takeshi. They'd recently been to a bazaar and Takeshi witnessed the people there absorbed in their religion, quoting proverbs and using arcane symbols:

"Really." I leaned forward, searching his face for some trace of irony. "You believe this shit, right? I mean, seriously?"

The Mandrake exec watched me for a moment, then tipped back his head and gestured at the sky above us.

"Look at that, Kovacs. We're drinking coffee so far from Earth you have to work hard to pick out Sol in the night sky. We were carried here on a wind that blows in a dimension we cannot see or touch. Stored as dreams in the mind of a machine that thinks in a fashion so far in advance of our own brains, it might as well carry the name of God. We have been resurrected into bodies not our own, grown in a secret garden without the body of any mortal woman. These are the facts of our existence, Kovacs. How, then, are they different, or any less mystical, than the belief that there is another realm where the dead live in the company of beings so far beyond us we must call them gods?"

I looked away, oddly embarrassed by the fervor in Hand's voice. Religion is funny stuff, and it has unpredictable effects on those who use it. I stubbed out my cigarette and chose my words with care.

"Well, the difference is that the facts of our existence weren't dreamed up by a bunch of ignorant priests centuries before anyone had left the Earth's surface or built anything resembling a machine. I'd say that on balance that makes them a better fit than your spirit realm for whatever reality we find out here."

Hand smiled, apparently unoffended. He seemed to be enjoying himself. "That is a local view, Kovacs. Of course, all the remaining churches have their origins in preindustrial times, but faith is metaphor, and who knows how the data behind these metaphors has traveled, from where and for how long. We walk amid the ruins of a civilization that apparently had godlike powers thousands of years before we could walk upright. Your own world, Kovacs, is encircled by angels with flaming swords”"

Whoa. I lifted my hands, palms out. "Let's damp down the metaphor core for a moment. Harlan's World has a system of orbital battle platforms that the Martians forgot to decommission when they left."

"Yes," Hand gestured impatiently, "Orbitals built of some substance that resists every attempt to scan it, orbitals with the power to strike down a city or a mountain, but who forbear to destroy anything save those vessels that try to ascend into the heavens. What else is that but an angel?"

"It's a fucking machine, Hand. With programmed parameters that probably have their basis in some kind of planetary conflict”"

"Can you be sure of that?"

He was leaning across the table now. I found myself mirroring his posture as my own intensity was stoked.

"Have you ever been to Harlan's World, Hand? No, I thought not. Well I grew up there and I'm telling you the orbitals are no more mystical than any other Martian artifact”"

"What, no more mystical than the songspires? His voice dropped to a hiss. Trees of stone that sing to the rising and setting sun? No more mystical than a gate that opens like a bedroom door onto”"

He stopped abruptly and glanced around, face flushing with the near indiscretion. I sat back and grinned at him.

Admirable passion, for someone in a suit that expensive. "So you're trying to sell me the Martians as voodoo gods. Is that it?"

"I'm not trying to sell you anything," he muttered, straightening up. "And no, the Martians fit quite comfortably into this world. We don't need recourse to the places of origin to explain them. I'm just trying to show you how limited your worldview is without an acceptance of wonder."

I nodded.

"Very good of you." I stabbed a finger at him. "Just do me a favor, Hand. When we get where we're going, keep this shit stowed, will you? I'm going to have enough to worry about without you weirding out on me."

"I believe only what I have seen," he said stiffly. "I have seen Ghede and Carrefour walk among us in the flesh of men, I have heard their voices speak from the mouths of the hougan, I have summoned them."

"Yeah, right."

He looked at me searchingly, offended belief melting slowly into something else. His voice loosened and flowed down to a murmur. "This is strange, Kovacs. You have a faith as deep as mine. The only thing I wonder is why you need so badly not to believe."

That sat between us for almost a minute before I touched it. The noise from surrounding tables faded out and even the wind out of the north seemed to be holding its breath. Then I leaned forward, speaking less to communicate than to dispel the laser-lit recall in my head.

"You're wrong, Hand," I said quietly. "I'd love to have access to all this shit you believe. I'd love to be able to summon someone who's responsible for this fuckup of a creation. Because then I'd be able to kill them. Slowly."

- Richard K. Morgan, Broken Angels

This passage struck me, it's filled with Real Truth. And it's a perfect example of why I like Takeshi so much: he's just like me, only way smarter, capable, better looking and generally the perfect post-cyberpunk hero. I came to be an atheist from exactly this same place, and even as my vitriol at the world around me mellows with age, I still can't find any reason to need to believe in any kind of superstitious mumbo-jumbo. If there is some kind of god, I'd want to get my hands on it too. This book is to Takeshi what Quantum of Solace is to James Bond - the armor of years of cynical jadedness is wearing thin, and Takeshi's bitterness is beginning to lash out.

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I wrote a gentle rant at mobileread about DRM.

I don't understand how people can be satisfied by letting a select few people narrow their choices and funnel their money away. We all lose when our rights to fair use are infringed. We all lose when choice is restricted in the marketplace. Regarding ebooks specifically, let the market decide what stories are successful based on the quality of the story and let every reader seamlessly find the material they like, regardless of the means used to (fairly) distribute and read the books.

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The Kult by Shaun Jeffrey
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I actually didn't finish this book this time. I'll probably pick it up later. Technically, the writing is superb - very lively and crisp, without resorting to odd structures or obtuse vocabulary. I just couldn't get into the characters, and when I started reading it I wasn't in the mood for any kind of police-procedural thriller. The background for the characters was told, not shown, and for at least one of them it was repeated too often for my taste.

That being said, a lot of people really like this book and I'm sure it gets better if I were in the right mood or if I'd read more of it.

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Apexology: Horror by Alethea Kontis
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the third or fourth collection I've read from Apex, and while not quite the punch in the gut that Dark Faith is, it's still a superior collection that I recommend to any fan of dark fiction and horror.

This book is marketed as a survey of authors in Apex's stable, and (like Apex's books) there is a wide variety of themes, tones, characters and voices. There really aren't any especially weak pieces, and there were a few of standouts that I especially liked. It's available for US$2.99 at SmashWords right now and it's worth a lot more than that. I highly recommend picking this up.

The first story in the collection held me absolutely captivated. It Tasted Like the Sea by Paul Jessup covers dark fiction's familiar territories of lust, obsession and warped perceptions and boundaries with such verve and vigor and interesting characters I was hoping the story would be longer than it was.

The next real standout story for me was Cerbo en Vitra ujo by Mary Robinette Kowal, replete with elements of Frankenstein and Johnny Got His Gun, told in a future setting where all is not as bright as it seems. Making the horror more poignant is the point of view, a lovelorn teenage girl trying to find her boyfriend. Mary did a superior job making me empathize with the protagonist, no mean feat considering I didn't understand teenage girls when I was a teenager, let alone now.

The Dark Side by Guy Hasson did an excellent job of balancing competing concurrent realities in the protagonists head, while telling a story of duality, fate and the abuse of power. What starts out as an innocent story about a man with a singularly unusual problem eventually becomes a story about a man with a universal problem, but a unique solution. I'll leave the twist to be discovered by the reader, but I was pleasantly surprised at the sophistication of the way it came about.

Lavie Tidhar's contribution Transylvanian Missiontries too hard to create a mood from the setting (Nazi occupied Romania in WW2), but unfortunately it falls a bit flat in that regard. The setting was never developed enough for me to feel like I was there, but the action makes up for it. It's a bit like the videogame Castle Wolfenstein, but tells a story of the power of the land and it's myths to overcome "upstarts" like the Nazis. It's an exciting read, setup more like a thriller than traditional dark fiction or horror.

There are several very short stories in the collection, which I appreciate. I like the ultra short story format, probably because of fond memories of reading Aesop's Fable as a very very young lad. Deb Taber's Powered is a very short story that made me giggle and smirk. That may say a lot more about my own macabre sense of humor than the subject matter, but it's a great story either way.

Eulogy for Muffin is set in contemporary Seattle, but that's not the only reason I like it so much. I'm always fascinated with the machinations of belief systems amongst groups of people; for me, the interesting question isn't "What do these people believe about the world around them" but rather "When did these people's beliefs change and why". This is the space explored by Jennifer Brozek in a slow spiral that leads from the most charming and innocent to the sad and horrific in such slow increments - while keeping a tense, pageturning pace - I found myself forgetting to guess "the twist". I'm definitely looking forward to reading more of her stories.

Taking a turn into straight-up Science Fiction is The Junkyard God by M. Zak Anwar and O.M.R. Anwar. For some reason, the copy I have doesn't have any introduction or author information for this piece, nor am I able to locate any information on google. I wish I could, this dark futuristic take on the Beowulf theme was exceptionally well done and I would like to read more stories set in this world.

Sibling rivalry goes to places it probably never should, but thanks to Jennifer Pelland's excellent treatment of the subject , this utterly twisted tale of jealousy and anger is a joy to read, even while people are doing hellishly horrible things to each other. It's the best kind of horror, in my opinion, the kind that makes me ask myself what I would do in that situation and would I be any kinder or humane. Ultimately, I'm not sure I would.

Just because I didn't provide a synopsis of each of the 21 stories included in this collection doesn't mean they aren't as good. It just means two things. First, I'm a lazy reviewer and second, at any given time and emotional place in my life certain themes and tones are going to feel more immediate to me than at other times. For three bucks, you can't go wrong with this book, and I'm sure anyone who appreciates dark [fiction, scifi, fantasy] and horror will find something they like in this book.

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Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road by Neil Peart
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was a fantastic read, but I don't know if it will go down in the annals of history as a great book. I'm a LONGtime Rush fan, which was the original impetus to pick it up. Also, I've gone through a number of huge changes in my life recently and since Neil's lyrics have been there for me through good times and bad, I thought I would give this book a try.

Neil Peart is the drummer for the immensely successful band Rush. During the course of a year and a half, he lost his 19yo daughter in a car wreck and his wife to cancer. Consumed with soul-crushing grief, he hopped on his motorcycle and traveled over 55k miles across western Canada, the west and southwest of the US, and down through Mexico and Belize. He stashed his bike in Mexico during the latter part of winter, and returned to his home in Quebec through the following spring and summer, then flew back to his bike and rode it home. Two more roadtrips are documented in the ensuing months, though of much shorter and more focused duration. Honestly, though, the roadtrips cease to be an end unto themselves after he gets back to Quebec, and become more scenery for the changes happening inside him.

As a travelogue it works wonderfully for me. He writes about the things I'd notice, though he's much more concerned about food and booze than I am. He's an incredibly well read and thoughtful man and the depth and breadth of his knowledge spills across each page effortlessly. He doesn't just describe the scenery, he places it into ecological and geopolitical context while he ponders his own emotional state with ideas from most of the greatest writers ever. His relationship to his motorcycle and the roads provide a sound material counterpoint to the internal turmoil he wrestles with constantly and makes every mile seem real and vital. He writes about his encounters with strangers and friends and family with equal aplomb, capturing the essence of what he felt at the time without sharing so many details the emotional landmarks get lost.

The format of the book is mostly redacted journal entries and letters he writes to a few close friends, interspersed with short recollections to frame the letters and maintain continuity. For all his protestations of being essentially a shy loner, it's obvious he thrives on the company of people he loves and trusts and it's in his letters where you really see him work through his grief. Most of the letters are to his friend Brutus, who was originally planning to join him for this adventure but unfortunately got himself invited into the US penal system shortly before their planned departure. Brutus begins to take on an almost mythic quality to Neil, a larger than life hero who is equal parts confessional and unquestioning sympathetic listener. Brutus takes on the role of Neil's "better judgement", and several times Neil refrains from too much excess because Brutus isn't there to take care of him.

I've seen several reviews that say the middle of the book is "whiny" - it's a book about a man getting over the deaths of his two greatest loves! What did they think it was going to read like? I feel he does an excellent job of keeping the writing moving and describing the tides of emotion that wash over him, even as he (too slowly for himself to see at the time) processes his feelings and puts himself back together. I felt the ending of the book felt rushed (see what I did there?), and frankly, I didn't really need the epilogue. I would have liked to see the book either end one chapter sooner, or expound on how he discovered room in his life for love again in the same sort of detail he used to describe how he put himself back together again.

I can't relate specifically to Neil's situation, but in the last 19 months I've given up a 25 year long relationship with alcohol, gotten divorced, changed jobs, completely changed my living situation, lost my cat companion of 16 years, and basically re-engineered my life from the ground up. The best part of this book, for me, was how he visualized and verbalized his "baby soul"; how he related to it and felt it were a small flame that needed nurturing and protecting. The therapist I talked to when dealing with my alcoholism used a very similar metaphor, so it resonated deeply with me. As Neil learns to cope day to day with the jagged holes in his life, different aspects of his personality emerge and he gives each of them names, not unlike the heroes of greek tragedies who are alternately possessed by different gods (archetypes) as they change through the story.

While the topic of this book is grieving, and the format is a travelogue, this is ultimately a book full of hope and an homage to the triumph of the human spirit to dig deeper into itself than anyone could believe possible. Neil is a rationalist much like myself, and there aren't enough books by rationalists dealing with deep emotional pain, IMHO. To watch someone go through the healing process without the crutch of superstition was very empowering for me.

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Double Solitaire by Melinda M. Snodgrass
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I couldn't finish it. What made this series so great at the beginning was the premise: an alternate, contemporary history filled with aces and jokers. It became a soap opera couched in a classic fantasy story with too few characters, none of which really had true dimension, lazily winding their way down the "fated last battle" story arc we've all read a gazillion times. It got so bad that I was finding websites to waste time at rather than dig my ereader out of my backpack, and that's BAD. I've got hundreds of books to read and there is no prize at the end of this series. I give up, and I'm moving on to better books.

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Jokertown Shuffle by George R.R. Martin
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

WTF happened to this series? It's like the authors all got together and decided to ignore all my favorite characters (the ones that are still alive, anyway) and come up with ridiculous plots that aren't hardly believable, even in the Wild Cards world of the late 80's.

The "jumpers" are so contrived and unbelievable it's painful to read about them. The conspiracy around them and the Shadow Fists finally has a chance to finally die; I hope since they killed off major players in that plotline we can finally move on to something new. These last two books really miss the point of alternate history, IMHO, by focusing too much on wild card characters and not taking the characters and the storylines into the broader world around them.

Part of the book falls into torture porn, another part dips dangerously close to self-serving navel gazing, and the whole book is dreary and unsurprising. Maybe that was the tone of the time it was written; I was too self-absorbed to notice what the rest of the world felt like. They did introduce a new joker who promises to be interesting if only because he's the only new multifaceted character in the last few hundred pages, but again the amount of disbelief they're asking me to suspend makes me feel this series is tipping towards fantasy and away from scifi.

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One-Eyed Jacks by George R.R. Martin
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is not the best book in the series. Firstly, I'm not very interested in the Jerry character. He's written with no arc to speak of, just a flat pathos that is perpetually stuck in the same monotonous routine, over and over.

A new type of ace is introduced, the "jumpers". The way this power works, and the way it's introduced into the Wild Cards world, seems contrived and in retrospect (I finished this book a few days ago and I've finished the next book, too) a desperate attempt to breathe some new life into parts of the story that really should have been finished already.

I like the multisodic, simultaneous timelines of the other books. But this book feels like it plods along like a donkey, not really caring where it's going or how long it takes to get there. If you're committed to finishing out the series, it's palatable, but PLEASE don't read this book as an introduction to the world of Wild Cards.

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Dead Man's Hand by George R.R. Martin

One of the best books in the series. It takes place at the same time as the previous book, but most of the action is in New York rather than Atlanta. A few scenes were retold from the 6th book, but from a different character's perspective, and I really enjoyed the way that was done.

This reads like a noir whodunnit. There really aren't a lot of new characters, but Yeoman's storyline is rounded out very well. Also, Popinjay gets a lot of screen time, and since he's one of my favorite aces that makes me happy.

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