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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Adam Bertocci is the millennial Oscar Wilde. He captures what it is to be a Gen Y-er, just as Wilde captured what it was to be a member of Victorian high society.

So it’s fitting that in Bertocci’s latest short story Translating the Wildest, one of Wilde’s most famous works, The Picture of Dorian Gray, is prominently featured.

But I have a confession to make: despite my literary pretensions, I had never actually read Wilde’s famous novel of philosophical horror. So, how could I be prepared to adequately review Translating the Wildest without first familiarizing myself with the source material?

You probably know the setup already, via cultural osmosis, just as I did: Dorian Gray, a handsome youth, has his portrait painted by a painter who idolizes him. On seeing it, Dorian wishes that he would not lose the physical perfection depicted in the painting–that the image of him should age and decay instead of him. (There’s probably some solid material here for a Daniel J. Boorstin-inspired reading of Dorian Gray, if you’re into that sort of thing, or need to write a paper for an English or Philosophy class.)

Well, as they say, be careful what you wish for. You might get it. And Dorian does.

That’s the basic plot of the story, and frankly, anyone familiar with Victorian melodrama will not be shocked by much of what happens here. Honestly, for as avant-garde as Wilde liked to appear to be, the theme of Dorian Gray is not that different from the elements of the Gothic villain archetype parodied in Gilbert & Sullivan’s 1887 operetta Ruddigore, where the accursed nobleman Sir Despard sings:

When in crime one is fully employed
Your expression gets warped and destroyed.
It’s a penalty none can avoid!
I once was a nice-looking youth;

But like stone from a strong catapult
I rushed at my terriblе cult –
Observe thе unpleasant result!
Indeed, I am telling the truth.

Wilde’s conception of sin is hardly any different; he just uses the portrait as an effective plot device to convey it.

Okay, but that’s just the bare bones of the plot. As you might expect from such an eminent purveyor of witticisms, the writing is chock-full of clever quips and cleverer ripostes, especially from the mouth of the cynical Lord Henry Wotton, who continually tempts Dorian Gray into acts of increasing depravity with his non-stop banter at various fancy parties.

And banter at various fancy parties is the main activity in this book. When I think of Gothic horror, I think of old mansions, creaking floorboards, and moaning ghosts, not Chopin and cucumber sandwiches. M.R. James would no doubt approve of the way Wilde keeps the horror elements to a minimum, only occasionally intruding on the otherwise fashionable and vapid scenes from the class struggle in Mayfair. Imagine a season of Frasier except there’s one episode of Dexter in the middle of it.

Gray just keeps doing one bad thing after another, until finally, there comes at last a day when, sick of crime, he vows to sin no more, and so, in agony, calls welcome Death to free him from his cloying guiltiness.

So, I guess what I’m saying here is if you want a Victorian meditation on morality that also has plenty of wit and Gothic horror, watch Ruddigore instead. I recommend the Stanford Savoyards’ production from 2012, with production design inspired by Tim Burton. 

But how does all this inform Mr. Bertocci’s latest offering?

Well, perhaps I am as much a product of my time as Wilde was of his, and just as the Victorian tropes of Dorian Gray seem trite and predictable with the benefit of critical distance, so too will Translating the Wildest appear as a typical work of early 21st-century fiction to readers in future centuries. If there are any.

But to me, it seems far more inspired than many books, including the classic that the protagonist is translating.

First off, unusually for Bertocci, this book is science-fiction. Set in the year 2187, it’s written with an epistolatory framing device, the book is framed as a series of messages from a woman named Amicayle, who is translating Wilde’s prose into the language of the Ilvenica, the mysterious, but seemingly peaceful race of intelligent aliens who have come to Earth and a seeking to learn more about our history and culture.

What follows is a chaotic running commentary on her attempts to capture the meaning of Wilde’s novel while juggling her own personal life and, eventually, some strange happenings involving the Ilvenica themselves.

It’s one of Bertocci’s most original works. Stylistically it’s a departure from his slice-of-life millennial literary short stories, while still retaining the same wit and insight his loyal fans have come to expect. While I didn’t think Dorian Gray itself was the classic it was hyped up to be, I was still glad I read it just to be able to enjoy Translating the Wildest to the fullest. That said, it isn’t essential that you read the former to appreciate the latter.

Through the lens of Victorian literature, Bertocci explores the meaning of art, humanity, and our place in the universe. Earlier I compared Dorian Gray to Frasier with a serial killer episode; Translating the Wildest is like an episode of The X-Files with a literary criticism episode. And as Wilde himself might have said, “the only thing worse than the truth being out there…”

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It’s that time of year!

Yes, the time of pumpkins and pumpkin spice, of dark nights and the wind ripping the dying leaves from the trees, of eerie decorations popping up throughout the neighborhood and candy, of cornstalks and orange sunsets and the witching wonder of what lurks out there in the darkness.

But what to read during this magical time?

That’s always a bit of a challenge for us here at Ruined Chapel because—given our love of the season—we have to find something that really suits the mood. It has to be eerie and unsettling, without simply being an outright bloodbath. The classic ghost story; only not too classic, because after all, we know all the classics so well, they lose their element of suspense.

I’m happy to say that Walking After Midnight is exactly the type of book that fits this need. It’s a collection of short stories, each of which capture the Halloween mood. Haunted hayrides, ouija boards, dark country roads, and Shadow People all make appearances in this volume, vividly and memorably. One can almost imagine each vignette as a different caller on Ghost-to-Ghost AM, spinning their yarn as the reader, in the role of Art Bell, listens thoughtfully.

Most importantly, each story keeps that critical element of ambiguity that is vital to the best horror. Every time a story ends, we are left with questions. Different possible interpretations to mull over. This is the key to any good ghost story: there has to be some central unresolved mystery for the reader to ponder.

This is a perfect collection of stories for reading on some dark October night, when the fog is rolling in over the rooftops and the distant dogs are baying their nightly hunting song. (If that’s not happening where you live, what’s wrong with you???) This collection earns Ruined Chapel‘s Halloween-certified stamp of approval.

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“Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name,” as the Cheers theme song tells us. And really, who doesn’t love the idea of some pleasant gathering place, where you can go to “forget about life for a while“?

So I’m mixing up my references a bit there, but it’s fitting, because the narrator of C. Litka’s latest novel is in fact the piano man at a bar—The Bleu Moon, which calls the Sinatra song to my mind. All these cozy references should help suggest the mood of Some Small Dive, which is a supremely pleasant literary-fantasy novel set in Litka’s Lorrian universe.

You’ll note I say it’s fantasy, even though the book description itself denies this: “Only the fact that it is set on a world other than Earth makes it slightly different from a light literary fiction novel. Readers who have found my work via science fiction and fantasy, may perhaps find this story boring.”

But it is still set in a fantasy world, so I call it fantasy. And there’s another reason too, but we will get to that later…

Part of what makes it so cozy, of course, is that we get to meet some of the familiar faces from Litka’s earlier books. My personal favorite is the dramatist, Forthwith Om, or “Omi”, as he is called by his friends.

Actually, Omi’s whole subplot was my favorite part of the story, because it is about the behind-the-scenes logistics of crafting a musical. Omi has recruited an up-and-coming composer to write the songs for his first venture at musical theater, but wants our hero, an editor by day, to look over her work to make sure it won’t embarrass him before the critics. Which, naturally, wounds her, as she feels her competence is being questioned, even though Omi tries his best to smooth things over.

I’m always fascinated by these kinds of tensions in songwriting partnerships. Look at Gilbert and Sullivan’s infamous “carpet quarrel” to see what kind of drama can happen off the stage of a big production. And Wodehouse had more than one story about the turmoil that goes into crafting a show, and it’s fair to say that in this, as in other respects, Litka follows in the footsteps of the great PGW.

The main thread of the story is a romance, but it’s a quaint, mild sort of romance, with no big dramatic moments or anything like that. Like everything in Litka’s world, it is peaceful and old-fashioned.

Which brings me to the point about fantasy. The fact is, this world of people gathering nightly for drinks, or attending laid back parties to mingle with friends and colleagues, is increasingly itself a fantasy. I reference Cheers and “Piano Man” above because they, too, are artifacts of a vanished world. Now, everyone’s just on their phones.

It would be nice if we could rebuild that world. But for now, at least, we can experience it via Litka’s cozy tales.

Last week, I referenced the “Torment Nexus effect”, whereby authors attempting to write cautionary tales inadvertently set in motion the creation of the very dystopia they mean to prevent. Litka has done the opposite. He has crafted pleasant, enjoyable futures. Let us hope that his books become widely read, and that life will imitate art.

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This is a dystopian philosophical novel. It begins in the year 1915, with a debate between two scientists: the protagonist, Arnold Pennell, and his rival, Lazaroff. Both scientists are vying for the love of a woman named Esther, the daughter of their benefactor, Sir Spofforth Moore.

Moreover, since it’s a philosophical novel, they have opposing moral ideologies: Pennell, like Moore, is a Christian traditionalist. Lazaroff is a man of material science, who believes that technology and reason have rendered the old superstitions obsolete. Man, he reasons, is nothing but a biological mechanism that can be perfected through appropriate stimuli, and anybody who thinks different is a moron. “Moron” being a term which Lazaroff applies with scientific precision, as he is also a strident phrenologist.

Pennell and Lazaroff’s research is on the subject of we would today call cryogenic freezing. They are preparing an experiment to seal and freeze three live monkeys in huge cylinders, to sleep for a century. So, after the dinner debate with Sir Spofforth, Lazaroff invites Arnold and Esther down into the lab, just to show Esther around. And so the three of them wander in to look at the three cryogenic tubes.

Can you guess what Lazaroff does next? If so, you are much smarter than Arnold. Maybe Lazaroff does have a point about Arnold’s skull not housing enough brain matter…

So Arnold wakes up centuries later in a strange world, filled with flying machines, men with ray guns, and society apparently strictly regulated and regimented, with people divided into classes based on their physical structures. He meets a man named David and his daughter Elizabeth, who give him a book that explains how the new order was founded. Forgive me quoting at length:

I learned of the great war that had begun a few days after I entered the cylinder, when Russia and the democracies of Europe stamped out German autocracy and laid the foundations of democratic government. I learned how this democratic spirit burst out in 1945, when all the experiences of the social order, accumulated by mankind since the dawn of history were jettisoned, with all their lessons and all their warnings.

It was extraordinary to me that none of us had realized the changes which had been impending. Warnings there had been, as there always are. They were the decay of parliamentary government in all lands, the breaking down of tradition and authority in every phase; only there was nobody to heed them. Then, previously, whether by acknowledgment or in spite of denial, society had always been founded on servile labor. The harnessing of the tides, and, later, the control of solar power, threw millions out of employment, millions of hungry men with time to think and nothing to reverence.

The book said that the movement could have been stayed by wise measures. But it was doubtful, for a frenzy for change was spreading like wildfire over the civilized world. Now only Spain, restored Russia, and monarchical and prosperous South America resisted it, among Occidental nations.

I read that in 1945 democracy initiated the millennium by bursting all the dykes. Millions were slain. London, Paris, Berlin, New York, Chicago, Winnipeg were burned to ashes, with scores of other cities. Peace was restored fifteen years later by a few military chiefs who came into power owing to the universal exhaustion. At that time whole populations were turning cannibal. All organized industries had been destroyed. The path for reconstruction was clear.

Men called that the period of reaction, but it might have been the period of reconciliation. Both sides failed in the ensuing years; the mob, because it lacked idealism; the leaders, because they failed to recognize the unassailable truth in the old Socialist propaganda, that the era of machinery and of an inexhaustible supply of industrial power had made the systematization of production inevitable. With half the people workless, it was ridiculous that they should suffer and starve because they could not buy the goods rotting in the stuffed warehouses. The system did not fall because it was ridiculous, however, but because it had become unworkable. Production had to be for use, not profit. When profit went, rent had to go, and interest, that leech of society, so long forbidden by the Catholic Church, and no doubt the direst result of the Reformation. Failure to realize this need dragged down the old order in 1978. It fell forever, and with it died all hope of a civilization built on that of the past.

It was then that the writings of the great Wells, since called the Prophet, were discovered and proved the inspiration of the new order. In place of the illogical instinct of nations there was to be a New Republic, based on pure reason, and shining with facets of unanswerable facts. The world was to forget its past as thoroughly as it had forgotten the Stone Age. The new revolution was led by Sanson, I gathered, and swiftly conquered.

Although never explicitly explained, “the great Wells” is clearly H.G. Wells, and the entire book is a response to Wells’s own novel, When the Sleeper Wakes. Rousseau takes issue with Wells’s scientific socialism, and wrote this story as an explicit rebuttal to it.

As for that Sanson character, he is one of the leaders of the new society. It is again not stated explicitly, but he presumably takes his name from Charles-Henri Sanson.

The society in which Arnold finds himself is, in short, an amalgam of all the worst characteristics of the First French Republic, the Soviet Union, and Nazi Germany.  If the book were written today, this would just seem lazy. But given that it was written in 1917, when the Tsar was still alive and Adolf Hitler was just a courier in the trenches of France, we must give Rousseau some credit for anticipating the horrors the 20th century had in store.

We give him less credit for how the story develops. The cylinder trick that Lazaroff played was only the start; at times this is a downright idiot plot.

Then there’s the writing style itself, which, as the cover suggests, is Victorian melodrama through and through. The version I have includes illustrations, which are also firmly in the mid-19th century style. (I couldn’t help wondering how Frank Frazetta might have rendered some of these pulp-y sci-fi scenes. I’m sure Rousseau would faint dead away at how he would have depicted Esther in the cylinder!)

Like many philosophical novels, the book is strongest when it’s doing world-building and describing characters, and at its worst when action is happening. Although I suppose a pro-religious novel can be excused for using a deus ex machina ending.

Still, the book is interesting as a historical document, just for predicting how wrong the early 20th-century experiments in Utopianism would go. And even more for how it shows the fundamental ineffectiveness, and perhaps even downright counter-productivity, of the cautionary tale. The Torment Nexus effect is older than people suspect!

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Theodore Judson is a curious case. He wrote one of my all-time favorite novels, Fitzpatrick’s War. I consider it to be one of the greatest works of science-fiction ever penned, with its sweeping world-historic story, its understandable, profoundly human characters, and most of all, its ingenious “dueling narrators” storytelling style.

Then he wrote The Martian General’s Daughter, which is a thinly-disguised re-telling of Roman History with the flimsiest patina of sci-fi coating to make it qualify as a novel. It’s hard to think of a time when I’ve been more disappointed in a book.

This past August, after many years out-of-print, with used copies costing thousands of dollars, a new edition of Fitzpatrick’s War was published. Naturally, this news thrilled me, as now I could recommend Fitzpatrick’s War to friends, family, and random strangers without reservation.

But there was a second part to this development: not only was Judson’s classic finally available again, but a sequel, The Timerman, was also being released concurrently, thus making Fitzpatrick’s War but the first entry in the “25th-Century Yukon Confederacy” series.

This news I met with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I was eager to rediscover the world of Fitzpatrick’s War… but not if this new story was on a par with The Martian General’s Daughter.

This was all or nothing, as far as I was concerned, for Judson’s literary credentials. If he could recapture the magic, he would be one of The Greats. If he came out with another Martian General-level effort set in the same universe as Fitzpatrick’s War, he would ruin his earlier masterpiece, and I would view the whole enterprise as a tragic literary collapse to rank with Harry Potter after the fiasco that was Book 7.

So, with a heavy feeling of anxiety and anticipation, I picked up The Timerman. And…

Well, I have to say this, review is a bit hard to write, because to understand anything about The Timerman, you have to also understand Fitzpatrick’s War, including how it ends. And since Fitzpatrick’s War has only become available again in the last month, probably not many of you have read it, and I don’t want to spoil it.

In my review, I said that Fitzpatrick’s War was a love letter to Clio, the muse of history. The Timerman is much the same thing: the theme is how cycles of history repeat endlessly, and individuals are in some sense destined to perform the function in the great drama that the circumstances of their birth assign them. Like the Notary sings in The Grand Duke: “Then take a card with heart of Grace / Whatever our fate, let’s play our parts.”

The Timermen are a secret organization with access to powerful technology that allows them to eternally control the cycle of history, choosing, as Leonard Cohen might say, “who will serve and who will eat.” The implicit question of quis custodiet ipsos custodes looms large in the story, but is never asked as much as it should be, much as it isn’t in real life.

The main character, John Randel, is a junior member of the organization, apprenticed to the veteran Timerman Dr. Murrey, who readers of Fitzpatrick’s War will readily recall.

Murrey is, essentially, the voice of History, as when he tells the protagonist:

“There are—I don’t put this in any of my books because it is a rather mystical idea—there are certain personality types that keep popping up over and over again throughout the recorded story of mankind.”

Even more pointed is his reply when our hero suggests to Dr. Murrey the idea that electrical power could be harnessed to benefit humanity, instead of relying on steam-power as society currently does:

“We cannot lose our focus by fussing over the possibility of helping the sick. Trust me, if you knew as much of History as I do, you would appreciate that the world is much better without the use of the electronic equipment we have on the islands. The mass media and thinking machines of olden times were, without exception, the enemies of all humanity.”

(Readers of Fitzpatrick’s War may recall that the late 20th and early 21st century are classified colloquially in this universe as “the Age of Shit.”)

The central plot of the book concerns the present ruler of the Yukon Confederacy, Lady Chelsea or “The Chrysanthemum Woman”. Again, if you have read the Fitzpatrick’s War footnotes, you will already know, in broad outlines, what will happen to her and her decadent court.

But as always with Judson (yes, even in Martian General) the point of the story is about those little individual lives that get lost when historians write on a scale of the rise and fall of empires. The book captures all the little details of life that are swept away in the great tides of time. (Ironically, this is exactly the sort of history that two characters explicitly endorse in the story itself… and are denounced by Dr. Murrey for believing in.)

In the end, like real history, the book doesn’t provide us with easy answers, and every reader must work out for themselves their own interpretations of events. In that regard, Judson held true to the spirit of Fitzpatrick’s War.

So, in the final analysis, is The Timerman as good as Fitzpatrick’s War?

Not quite, I think. The way the footnotes contradict the main narrative in FW was a masterful bit of writing, and this book lacks that. And the funny part is, I don’t even really blame Judson for not doing that again, because it would have felt cheap. It would have been awesome if he had come up with a different, but equally clever framing device—but that’s essentially asking him to catch lightning in a bottle again.

The Timerman is nevertheless a worthy follow-up to Fitzpatrick’s War, and like its predecessor deserves to be read by lovers of science-fiction and history alike.

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“Everyone talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it,” as the old saying goes. Well, actually, some people do try to do something about it, but the weather is an immensely complex system, and doing something about it is dangerous, especially if you don’t understand it.

This field guide was recommended to me by a woman who works at my local gym, and when I saw the author was a Purdue alum, I was especially interested. I have long believed, as hinted in the book Fitzpatrick’s War, that a secret society of Purdue grads controls the world. I’ve met quite a few Boilermakers, and I can easily imagine them all gathering to boast, like the Stonecutters.

The book begins with an overview of the science behind weather, including a few basic physics principles. Then we have some definitions. (Freezing rain is rain that is frozen, for example.) But after that, we get to the really juicy stuff: namely, what you can determine about the weather from looking at the clouds. I had no idea there were so many different types of clouds; and this book presents detailed explanations of what they all mean, complete with pictures.

Unfortunately, I still can’t claim to be an expert on recognizing the different clouds. But then, I’ve only had a few days. With practice, and with repeated reference to the book, I may be able to become a more competent amateur weather spotter.

Because frankly, the weather is a bit of an obsession of mine. Not least because I’ve noticed the forecasts are almost always wrong. This annoys me. I like to be prepared, and how can I be prepared if I have inaccurate information?

For my money, the best weather forecast site is Tornado HQ. Because it isn’t a forecast site; it’s just a live radar of severe weather. (Sadly for my international readers, it only works for the U.S.) You can look at it and, once you have a feel for how the wind blows, probably guess when the next round of rain or snow will hit. I’ve found I get a far better estimate by doing this than by looking at Wunderground or Accuweather. And just forget about the Apple Weather app; it’s completely bonkers.

Anyway, back to the book. Besides the clouds, the most vital piece of info I got from it was that when you want to know how humid it is, don’t look at the humidity. Look instead at the dew point; that’s the real indicator. Another good metric, which I already knew, is barometric pressure. (The executive summary is: high pressure good, low pressure bad.)

All told, this is a handy guide to refer to if you want to learn how to tell if it’s going to rain for your evening commute just by eyeballing it. And you might as well, because you are not going to get reliable info from the local TV news or the internet.

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Sentient Secrets is a short story that packs a lot into a few pages. It’s a teaser for the novel Sisters Arcana. The protagonist is Lulu Wren, whose company mandates her to do a journaling project with an AI assistant.

At first, Lulu finds the exercise tedious, stupid, and cringeworthy. But soon, after gathering enough input from her, the AI starts producing new entries in her voice. More than that, it soon seems that entries in the journal have predictive power.

It was a compelling concept, and made me interested in reading Sisters Arcana. I’ll probably pick that one up at some point.

I am, as you may have noticed, extremely interested in non-linear conceptions of time. Try reading about the delayed-choice quantum eraser experiment sometime. It doesn’t actually demonstrate that information can be sent backward in time. However, it takes advanced knowledge of quantum mechanics to explain why it doesn’t demonstrate that, which means that it’s close enough to time-travel for government work.

Time-travel is a bit mind-bending to think about, and that is probably why it’s one of those concepts best suited to machine minds, which are entirely comfortable with hallucinations and things that sound cool but make no logical sense to those of us made out of meat.

This kind of techno-sorcery is what is going on in Sentient Secrets, and if this blend of esoteric mysticism and modern computer technology doesn’t put you in mind of the CCRU, well… congratulations, that means you’re a normal, well-adjusted person. How did you even find this blog? Were you perchance led to it by The Almighty Algorithm?

Well, like Hunter S. Thompson said, “when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” The computer age is proving to be a weird one indeed, and Sentient Secrets is a concise distillation of that weirdness.

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The great Noah Goats once told me something I’ve never forgotten. “Berthold,” he said to me, “books lead on to books, sometimes in strange ways.” Then he closed up his butterfly knife and walked away into the darkness.

Okay, I’m embellishing. But he really did tell me that. And he was right. Today’s book is a case in point: it’s written by one of the authors of Best, which I reviewed last week. Reading another book by an author of a book you’ve enjoyed may not seem that strange, but what piqued my interest is that while Best, is a light-hearted rom-com satire of academia, Kenai is military science-fiction.

This got my attention. There aren’t many authors who dabble in genres as diverse as that. (Full disclosure: I have also written a light-hearted rom-com satire of academia and military science-fiction. Now are you starting to get an idea of what kind of eccentricity it takes? 🙂 )

Kenai tells the story of Jess Amiko, an ex-space marine trying to forget her past. During her time in the service, she was railroaded into serving a prison sentence for war crimes. They really gave her the Breaker Morant treatment, minus the firing squad, obviously. Which isn’t to say she doesn’t have plenty to feel justifiably guilty about! She does, and… she does.

Once she is finally released from prison, Amiko works as a private security guard on the world of Kenai, assisting with an archeological dig to uncover the ruins of a lost civilization.

Naturally, things don’t go smoothly. Amiko soon finds herself under attack by mercenary thugs, meeting sentient trees, and generally having a whole bunch of experiences that make her question her own sanity.

Interwoven with all this are flashbacks to her time in the service and in prison, including the lengthy counseling sessions she underwent as part of her rehabilitation. These scenes serve to flesh out her character, and also serve another purpose…

…a purpose which I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge. You see, about halfway through the book, there’s a very clever plot twist that forces you to reevaluate a good deal of what came before. And after. But I can’t explain what that is without spoiling it, and that would be very wrong. Now, I could it put it behind a spoiler tag, ’tis true. But in these days of AI combing through everything to slap together answers for inquiring minds, I can’t guarantee my spoiler might not find its way into some LLM-generated reply to a query, and I wouldn’t want that. Therefore, it’s very important I not talk about some of the things that happen in this book.

(Curiously, it occurs to me that not talking about some of the things that happen is also a key plot element in the book itself. There appears to be some sort of recursive hyperstition effect at work in this text which affects not only the book itself, but also writings about the book. But probably best not to think about it too hard. “How quaint the ways of Paradox! / At common sense she gaily mocks!”)

But anyway, what I can say is that this is a fine MilSciFi adventure. Who doesn’t love the trope of a flawed protagonist on a quest for redemption? Especially if that quest for redemption involves the liberal use of POWERED ARMOR!

Gad, I love powered armor. Any story is automatically rendered better by the inclusion of powered armor. Remember how like 15 years ago there was a fad for rewriting classic works of literature but with zombies? That really never moved me, but if they did it with powered armor? Pride and Prejudice and Powered Armor even sounds better!

In short, I unhesitatingly recommend Kenai to anyone who enjoys science-fiction and clever, mind-bending plot twists. Be sure not to skip over the author’s note at the end if you’re a writer, it reveals interesting details about the process.

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🎶”Oh, take me down to the Nightside City / Where the grass is rock and the girls are implanted with symbiotes…”🎶

Okay, that’s not too catchy. But it is an accurate description of the setting for this neo-noir cyberpunk detective story.

Carlisle Hsing is private investigator who is down on her luck and down in the dumps. Quite literally, because she lives in the slums at the bottom of a giant crater. Also, it’s always night, because the planet it’s on, Epimetheus, doesn’t rotate. Naturally, the place has become a tourist trap; a Sin City on a par with Vegas, with the added attraction that it will be destroyed someday.

Because the planet doesn’t quite not rotate. It rotates, but very slowly. So eventually, Nightside City will be in the blistering hot sunlight, and will then stay there for a long time, becoming an unlivable irradiated hellhole.

Hsing is hired by some slum-dwellers to investigate a mysterious effort to buy up their properties on the dingy outskirts.  Why someone would be buying land on a place that is soon to become uninhabitable is anybody’s guess, and that’s what makes Hsing take the case. That and the fact that she desperately needs money.

And so, she plunges into a web of conspiracy, intrigue, backstabbing, lying and cheating, in a world populated by persistent surveillance drones, sentient taxis, and augmented cyber-decadents, with only her wits, her own cybernetic enhancements, and her massive gun to help her survive.

In a weird way, the book made me think of Chuck Litka’s stories. Both in the ways it was like them and in the ways it was profoundly unlike them. It resembled his in that the mystery was low-stakes, and, Hsing’s aforementioned massive gun notwithstanding, is pretty low on actual violence. All that ever gets shot is one of the surveillance drones.

On the other hand, it was unlike a Litka book in that the tone is dark, and gritty, and many of the people are rather nasty. Although there isn’t much actual violence, there are numerous threats of violence. Anger, greed, lust, vanity, pride… all the standard sins are featured here. And while stupidity isn’t a sin officially, a number of the denizens of Nightside City indulge in that as well.

But the story isn’t stupid. Far from it; some of the details about planetary motion and gravity were like an intro physics class. Fortunately, Hsing’s sardonic wit makes these bits of background information interesting.

This is pretty much everything you could want in a cyberpunk story. It’s clever, biting, prophetic, and ultimately morally ambiguous. Not everyone will find the setting of a cyberpunk dystopia compelling, of course. (Though you might want to start… you’re living in one. 🙂 ) But anybody who enjoys what I have occasionally called “Techno-Decadence” will certainly want to pick this up. And that cover! Just an absolute work of art. I miss covers like that.

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Can there be such a thing as a cozy legal thriller? I’ve heard of cozy mysteries, and I’ve heard of legal thrillers, but both at once? Well, I am here to tell you that there is such a thing, care of the great C. Litka.

This is another of his Redinal Hu stories, and in this one Red gets a chance to demonstrate his legal acumen, as well as his less cerebral skills.

Hu is hired to act as the bodyguard of Constance Darma, the new head of House Darma, whose life is under threat from members of her family seeking to acquire her fortune. Mz. Darma, however, is unfazed by the increasing danger she and Red find themselves in; for she has a plan to thwart her would-be killers: she is going to alter her will to cede her inheritance to a member of a rival House.

As ever in Litka’s stories, even in matters of life and death, people are almost unfailingly pleasant and polite. The nice thing about this world is, when you walk into your house to find an enemy agent lying in wait for you, there’s no need to act like Jack Slater in Last Action Hero; you just politely tell them you’re not interested in whatever they have to say, and bid them good evening. You might even have a cup of te with them.

Speaking of that enemy agent, there’s also a bonus story, The Pawns’ Game, that fleshes out a bit more about these agents and how they operate. I don’t want to spoil too much, but I love the idea of a sort of “henchmen guild” that Litka plays with here. I’ve often joked about how villains in movies and TV shows seem to have an endless supply of people willing to do their dirty work for them. Litka offers a sound in-universe explanation for how this might actually be arranged.

All told, these two stories make for a fitting conclusion to the Redinal Hu saga… which is not to say I wouldn’t be pleased should Mr. Litka reconsider and decide to write more of them.