I don’t know about you, but I think that photograph on the cover is something else. To me it’s the type of picture that evokes the exotic. It inspires the otherworldly. It is a story in itself. You may as well not need any words inside that cover. (Even if the original image is somewhat sullied by being merged with a nondescript star field; something of David Bowman’s “…my God…it’s full of stars” perhaps?)
It, therefore, is going to take a story of such imagination to be worthy of that cover. And I must say, Iain M Banks has given it a good go. Even if by its nature it holds the epithet “space opera”.
Space operas (or “large-scale SF”, as the Guardian’s blurb on the back of my particular edition states) are usually not to everyone’s liking. They have casts of tens, hundreds, thousands, millions and up and the locations are scattered across worlds and galaxies and even universes. They tend to deal with the epic: the characters are extraordinary beings at play in extraordinary times. Achieving coherence and a relatability in such situations and with such characters can be difficult. Yes, these are general-isms, but the perception of space operas as huge tomes of exposition which tend to ignore character development in favour of Big Ideas, speculation, and pure escapism does have some basis in truth.
It’s fair to say that the space opera basics are all here within The Algebraist. Far future: check. Aliens: check. Lasers: check. Other types of big weapons: check. Even bigger weapons: check. Space battles: check. Interstellar travel: check. Wormholes: check. Giant spaceships: check. Small spaceships: check. Inhabited planets, countless: check. Pan-galactic cultures: check. Epic happenings: check.
All very serious.
And yet.
Banks has a wicked sense of humour. The pratfalls and slapstick comedy stylings of the mysterious Dwellers exhibit Banks at his most playful, and are often laugh out loud funny. Quite an achievement when you consider how powerful and enigmatic a species Banks has constructed in these ancient aliens, who lie at the heart of what is really a thriller/mystery wrapped up in the imagery of space opera. Nothing is above finger pointing and laughing. Even when the wicked humour gets more wicked than humorous. The fortunes of the Archmandrite Luseferous’s enemies are shocking and yet at the same time reek of the funnier side of tragicomedy.
Even the introduction of the Archmandrite Luseferous, the main villain, has Banks’ tongue firmly in his cheek:
The Archmandrite Luseferous, warrior priest of the Starveling Cult of Luseum9 IV and effective ruler of one hundred and seventeen stellar systems…[blah blah blah]…Executive High Admiral of the Shroud Wing Squadron of the Four-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eighth Ambient Fleet (Det.)…[blah blah blah]…Triumvirate Rotational human/non-human Representative for Cluster Epiphany Five at the Supreme Galactic Assembly…[blah blah blah]…had some years ago caused the head of his once-greatest enemy, the rebel chief Stinausin, to be struck from his shoulders, attached without delay to a long-term life-support mechanism…[blah blah blah]…so that the Archmandrite could, when the mood took him, which was fairly frequently, use his old adversary’s head as a punchball.
See what I mean? Pure Douglas Adams, albeit with a meaner streak. (Oh, and somewhat reminiscent of these hilarious YouTube videos by British comedian Adam Buxton: “A New Pope” and “Remembrance on Xantiar”.)
Banks delights in throwing around his newly constructed locutions without explanation, as if they are the most natural things in the world. I like that: with explanations, this book would have been more or less twice the length, four times less interesting and sixteen times less magical, if I can say that about a science fiction book. The made-up words mostly make sense straight away; you can see where they’re coming from semantically. And most of the words that don’t make sense immediately will make sense eventually. The few that don’t ever make sense you don’t really need to worry about. Just appreciate them for what they are.
The main protagonist, Fassin Taak, slow seer and heir to the position of paterfamilias of the Seer Sept Bantrabal, denizen of the planet-moon ‘glantine, which orbits Nasqueron, “Nest of Winds”, a Dweller homeworld, and all part of the system of Ulubis, doesn’t get half the grandiose introduction Luseferous does. This is because Fassin is quite an everyman, albeit an intelligent one.
And, being an everyman, Fassin is very obviously human. Quite a thing for a space opera populated by super villains, super villains and super superlatives. He is very obviously human not because it is obvious he is physically a human — Banks says as much — but his character, his flaws, his likes, his dislikes are all recognisably homo sapien. He is someone you can relate to, for all the otherworldly stuff he has to deal with.
Even better, there are surprises in Fassin’s character that show up periodically and twist your perception ever so slightly of him; twist to match the twists in the character. On one occasion I had to re-read a passage to make sure I was reading what I thought I was reading. Yet, when you reflect on what you’ve just read, it doesn’t strike you as wrong for the character, but right for him to have shades of grey.
As I mentioned above, Fassin is a slow seer: an historical and social researcher who alters his perception of time in order to “delve” the depths of a Dweller home world — gas giants — and communicate directly with the Dwellers. Dwellers operate on a much slower time-scale than members of the “Quick” races. (Most of the species in the galaxy are Quick, including humans. An individual Dweller can live to be billions of years old, hence their perception of time is going to be much different to a creature who lives a fraction of a fraction of that period.)
Being of an academic persuasion, therefore, Fassin is not who you would usually think of as a hero. While definitely not a goody-two-shoes, he’s no John McClane. He doesn’t use guns; he could probably punch himself out of a paper bag, but not deal with four thugs all at once; and he would not be amongst the first called into action when an invading horde threatens. However, he does know things. A thinking man’s action hero. Or an action man’s thinking hero. Something like that.
In the path of his work, Fassin has stumbled upon rumours of a mythological Dweller work called “The Algebraist”. Once an object of academic curiosity — a Holy Grail that was assumed to exist, but if it turned out to be a mirage, then, oh well — it now, when Ulubis comes under threat of invasion from the aforementioned Archmandrite and his Beyonder allies, assumes premier importance.
The reason? Ulubis was once connected to the rest of the galaxy and its overarching Mercatoria hierarchy by a wormhole. Unfortunately, Beyonder raiders have managed to destroy the wormhole, effectively meaning Ulubis is cut off. This results in a sitting target for the incoming Archmandrite Luseferous and his thousands of warships. Help is on the way from the nearest Mercatoria star system in the form of a new wormhole and a substantial force of Summed Fleet craft, all travelling at sub-light speeds (albeit a significant fraction of c) but timing will be an issue: the Archmandrite will reach Ulubis first.
Called into action by the recently sundered Mercatorial arm in Ulubis, Fassin’s possibly Quixotic mission is to delve into Nasqueron to attempt to recover “The Algebraist”. For it is purportedly a record (or more strictly, a set of coordinates and a mathematical transformation, hence the name “The Algebraist”) of secret Dweller wormhole portals. If it is as the myth holds, then being able to use an alternate wormhole would allow outside Mercatorial help to arrive almost instantaneously. Oh, and the discovery of this super-secret network of Dweller portals would forever change the political landscape of the galaxy, and possibly beyond.
All well and good: Banks has a fair plot to hang the book on. But what really makes the story is Banks descriptions and depictions of his characters. The Archmandrite leaps to mind, as he is one of the most over-the-top, yet not-out-of-place, villains ever to see the light of day. His atrocities would bear healthy comparison to Hitler or Stalin or Pol Pot. But it is the Dwellers that are most welcoming of Banks’ pen.
If eccentricities flesh out a character then the Dwellers are so three dimensional they slip into the fourth dimension. From yacht races to formal wars to hunting their young to using kudos as their currency to having planetary defence clubs in charge of awesome weaponry to their playful curiosity, and dismissiveness, in the face of the ferocious seriousness of both the Mercatoria and the Archmandrite’s forces. Dwellers mind their own business, and would prefer that others did the same, but when forced to interact with others the results are fascinating.
Fassin’s dealings with the Dwellers, as he attempts to elicit the information he needs, cycle from comedic to life threatening: he becomes caught up in yacht racing, a formal war, the appearance of the planetary defence club, has close encounters with the Mercatoria’s shock troops — the impressive Voehn; now that is what a super-soldier should be like — and even closer dealings with anathematics: artificial intelligences, AIs, shunned by the Quick and hunted to seeming extinction by them, but accepted without hesitation by the Dwellers, who don’t really care.
Interspersed with Fassin’s adventures in his search for “The Algebraist” are cursory glances back to the happenings within the Ulubis system as the Archmandrite arrives with his invasion force and proceeds to prove his right to conquer by performing war obscenities left, right and centre. Part and parcel of this we also see the sundered Mercatoria’s attempts to repel the invasion. Both forces harass the Dwellers for their own ends, whose “do not disturb” responses are exercises in finality. We see the incoming Summed Fleet, some way behind the Archmandrite’s forces, but preparing for battle.
Banks’ descriptions, as always, excel when it comes to presenting grandeur. From the firing of a giant space weapon to an intimate, yet ferocious, battle between an AI and some Voehn to the ruthless extermination of an orbiting habitat, the visuals are striking.
In the end, through all of the carnage and excitement and ancient aliens throwing around exclamations such as “fuck” as though they were cops from a forgettable 1980s Hollywood movie, I cannot see any hidden messages: quite apart from Banks’ mastery of scenery, of characters and of humour, there does not seem to be a moral. It is all play-by-play.
Perhaps others can see more in this book, but in the end, despite the apparent subversions, the humour, the everyman protagonist, it really is nothing more than space opera, or a pure thriller/mystery that happens to occur in a large-scale science fiction universe. The villain is truly evil. The hero has his doubts and his secrets, but he is doing right. And the Dwellers are comic relief. I doubt Banks meant it to be more than that. If he did, then I’m afraid the underlying morals were too subtle for my feeble brain.
Full of twists and turns, full of aliens and alien mysteries, full of likeable characters and astounding set pieces, just read it and revel in the speculation and pure escapism.
