vendredi 22 août 2003

'Gridlinked': warning -- works fast, potentially addictive Comment on the following paragraph and assertions in 600 words: "Of course, criminals are people who have not received the correct moral education. They are people who have not enjoyed the opportunities of the rest of us. We should pity them, and as a society we should look after them. Punishment is not the answer. It only worsens an already bad situation. If we execute people, this apparently makes us as bad as them . . . Bollocks . . . In the early years of the millennium this was always considered to be the case. The insanities of 'political correctness' blinded many to plain realities: if you execute a criminal, he won't do it again. Punishment of the criminal is good for the victims, if they are still alive. Why should we, as a society, look after and re-educate them when we hardly have the resources to do this for law-abiding citizens? Nowadays, we have grasped these realities, so murderers and many recidivists are mind-wiped. We have not ceased to execute people because we are more 'civilized', but because that would be a waste of a perfectly useful body. And there are many personalities waiting in cyberspace (AI and uploaded human) for another crack at living in the real world." From How It Is by Gordon. Now there's a work whose very title would appeal to a wise old friend, who's wry observations on the world almost invariably end with a "That's how it is." Gordon's little gems are among those chosen for the chapter headings constituting one of the pleasures of 'Gridlinked' (Amazon UK) by Neal Asher (Macmillan/Pan, 2001). Ian Cormac, the "James Bond" of Earth Central Security, has little time for convention and and kindly law-enforcement in Asher's first full-length novel, which begins with a bang in 2432. In an earlier fleeting reference, I wrote that any book which starts out with a space travel engineer saying the equivalent of "Beam me up, Mr Scott" and unintentionally blowing up a planet on his arrival has potential. Any parallel with the 'Star Trek' series ends right there. There's no bridge on Hubris, one of the starships to feature in an intergalactic Polity where the bulk of humanity's political and economic business is run by artificial intelligence. Asher delivers on the promising start, in a tight tale of psychopathic separatist killers and mercenaries, special service agents, almost unbeatable androids from the Golem range, and an ambiguous and cryptic alien Dragon. From the first explosion to a violent climax, this English author works fast, usually sparse in vocabulary to the point of crudeness, but unsparing with the brush strokes in a cinemascope thriller. Occasionally, to see the same word too often used in one sentence gave an infuriating itch to a reader far better at subbing other people's work than his own. But to call much of the writing crude is not to put down Asher, whose plot is as satisfyingly complex as the several worlds he describes in 'Gridlinked'. You can't put Asher down; twice I found this book on the floor in the morning, with a pair of fortunately unbroken glasses. Only the imperative of sleep kept me from reading all night. Less equals more for an author who credits a grateful reader with the imagination to fill in some deliberate gaps, such as aspects of his characters' past which he hints at just enough to tell you all you need to know if this is your first encounter with his cosmos. The James Bond reference becomes explicit in a teasing way which pleases, while those broad brush strokes are not slapdash but could make 'Gridlinked' surefire action movie potential in the right director's hands. Whether Asher is the sci-fi inventor of his favoured method of interstellar travel, the Runcible and its Spoon, I'm not sure, but 'Gridlinked' builds on the Runcible tales with which he began to make a name and indeed swallows one of them whole, 'The Dragon and the Flower'. (This is mentioned in Asher pages at Authortrek by K.P. Mahoney, who considers him a "sublime master". I wouldn't go that far, but Asher's hot all right). Such science as he needs makes hard sense, including the Grid from which Ian Cormac disconnects early in the story. This is a cold-turkey break, after 30 networked years, from a link which gave him some of his skills at the cost of his humanity and, potentially, of his life. I knew how 'Gridlinked' was going to end about 40 or 50 pages from the finish. But Asher's punches were faster and more cunning than my guesswork. He threw me several more times before the penultimate page. If I didn't have several others waiting on the shelf, I'd probably already be into 'The Skinner' (Amazon US henceforth; Pan Macmillan, March 2003 in paperback). Asher's nigh on addictive. After this, I can't totally sever myself from what genre-maniacs might label "space opera". Next stop for review: 'Revelation Space' by Alastair Reynolds (2000) or Probability Moon' (& 'Sun'; 2000 & 2001) by Nancy Kress. 8:17:19 PM  link   your views? [] 'It's the computer' ... and disciplining teenage terrors: a sermon Adjustments: in a delightful letter, Shoji Ikeda apologetically informs me that the flower for the wildcat is not a purple hyacinth, but bletilla striata. In Japan, it's a purple orchid (Botgard) native to Ikeda-san's part of the world. Thank you! This changes the meaning of the flower, but that does no harm. On the contrary! For her part, Catherine assures me that her splendid comment was made not in a job interview but during one with a human relations person. She reckons she'd be on the dole otherwise. Me, I'm not so sure... In a rare fit of real but short-lived rage, I broke the telephone aerial this morning. I'd got a letter from the 'Sécu' (Social Security) saying that I'd told them I sent them some missing papers with regard to the Condition, but they had not received them. The letter was posted on Tuesday, a day after I walked to their local offices twice: first, to see why they hadn't paid me anything since the beginning of July, then to take them two copies of the missing documents. So I 'phoned to tell them that they now had three copies of what they need -- only to find that, as increasingly often in this world of ours, the number for the local centre had become that of a robo-woman who sent you to a central service. The point when I banged the 'phone down hard came when I couldn't make out the whole of the new number robo-woman was shouting over a Rossini overture (or something similarly chirpy and irritating) for the fourth time of trying. On finally getting it all, the reply was at least astonishingly quick and I had cooled down. "Please take no notice of that letter," the girl said. "It's just the computer." This kind of tale is so banal nowadays that it's scarcely worth bothering with, but for the equally banal fact that even the best computers are only as good as the people who programme the buggers. On Monday, I'd been told that my payments had been stopped -- because of "the computer". With a small gap in the records, it was unable to handle anything that came after the missing bit (which was 17 days out of 51). Once unleashed -- as with the computer at my bank, the BNP, which frequently crashes according to the staff there -- the doings of the machine appear to be beyond human intervention. This I learned the day the bank computer decided my credit rating was appalling, when really, as humans readily acknowledged, it was fine. There was literally nothing they could do, they explained, until the computer agreed with them. Which it did. Three months later. As for robo-woman, I told the real girl, in friendly fashion, that the voice was bad enough for me but would be worse for partially deaf people. I've lost count of how many times Tony and others like him have told me how very annoying it is that many people still haven't learned that when you're talking to somebody who is hard of hearing, you don't gabble like robo-woman, even less SHOUT! What they need is clear enunciation and direct looks. I mumble too. Often when I'm fighting back irritation close to boiling (now there's a giveaway for my nearest and dearest). But with Tony, I need to talk at little more than the usual level, so long as I pronounce the words properly. zzz The kid was scared by my unusual outburst. She grabbed the 'phone with the bent aerial and snapped it completely while trying to fix it! I wasn't cross with her for that, she was doing her best, but unfortunately I was already angry at the way she'd yet again got out of bed and headed straight for her computer to launch into a chat session, quite oblivious of the filthy mess she'd left on the kitchen table yesterday, the clothes and magazines she'd strewn all over the place and the washing-up she'd promised to do last night. Finally, I've gone on strike with regard to that lot. In the past few days, to her considerable alarm, I've turned into a discipline enforcing machine. Being 14, clever, seductive, usually kind-hearted and as insecure and self-assertive as almost any kid of that age is no excuse for being bone idle. One advantage of being divorced is that she'll "take shit" from me that her mother no longer dares throw at her, she's almost had to give up for the sake of a relatively quiet life. I've told the kid that I'm writing this. And why. I've also said that on her own blog I want to see the words: "I picked up Daddy's 'phone and made a call to Slovenia that cost him 70.72 euros (almost 80 dollars) and I will never do it again!" There's no point in making her write it 500 times as I'd have had to do at her age. When I was a very wicked lad, we didn't have computers that can copy and paste. Serious moral, though: I know a lot of people who are divorced (it's unfortunately one of the hazards of journalism too) and far more badly off than I am with Marianne. Some of their teenagers have turned into terrors very fast for two reasons: - the parents haven't managed to agree completely on matters of upbringing. This matters, because the older the kids get, the cleverer they become at exploiting the points of discord to their own advantage at the expense of everybody; - it's not because the teenagers of divorcees are a little more fucked-up than all their friends -- which they are and there's very little you can do about it apart from keeping all channels of communication wide open and boosting their confidence -- that you should feel guilty and let them do what they want. By Marianne's age, most kids should know perfectly well that the divorce of their parents is not their fault, though it often takes some getting to that point. Learning to differentiate between serious problems and normal teenaged fucked-up-ness is a challenge requiring effort and attentiveness, but it can done much more easily when both parents are on the same wavelength. When Marianne's mum went for a crucial job interview once, she was asked a difficult question, more or less this: "What do you consider to be the greatest achievement you've pulled off with success?" She didn't hesitate. "My divorce." Years ago, I could have killed the woman when she told me this; today, I understand. It makes me smile even more because I don't think she'd say the same thing nowadays. She's managed even better since! End of sermon. zzz So, wildcat. And others. If some very long-distance 'phone calls become a little more difficult, it's because the Scotch tape round the antenna has come off. What was particularly silly about this was that I did my accounts, oh hateful task. Afterwards. To find via the online banking site that a large sum of money from the Sécu is poised to drop on to my current account later today. Now I can turn my attention back to the post office and their hunt for the parcel that they left a notice in my little letter-box about. The man who didn't want to walk up the stairs forgot to fill in any of the references on the slip as to where the parcel would become available among all the others at the post office. The kid has greeted this news with relief. As long as the "research operation" they say they've launched is under way, she won't be able to read the Mac book I ordered for her from Amazon France. Today's offering for the wildcat I found in a remarkable 'Flowers Photo Gallery from Japan, the copyrighted work of "Ikeda, Shoji" -- that comma leaves me uncertain as to which way round I should give the name. But now I know. The purple hyacinth orchid was not among the free cards at the gallery, but I've alerted its owner to the theft because it's the most beautiful one Google gave me. Rest assured, darling. I wouldn't dream of ever publishing your real fantasies. They're far too outrageous. Even for my loyal three-and-a-quarter. 2:02:30 PM  link   your views? []

nick b. 2007 do share, don't steal, please credit under artistic licence terms; contributing friends (pix, other work) retain their rights.