Book Review: Autonomous by Annalee Newitz

 Set about 120 years in the future, Autonomous presents a world split into different economic zones, where sapient robots can have equal status to humans. Supposedly, at least.

The plot follows two threads. Paladin is a combat robot, indentured (for a period of ten years, to earn his autonomy) to IPC, which regulates pharmaceuticals and patent infringement.

Jack is a pirate - literally and legally; she makes knock-off versions of expensive drugs, such as the Viva life-extension drugs, and smuggles them to people who can’t afford the real thing.

The plot revolves around a productivity drug that Jack has reverse engineered, a compound that seems to allow people to get a buzz of achievement just for doing their normal, everyday jobs and therefore increasing their focus and output. When she starts hearing reports that some people have become dangerously obsessed with menial tasks to the point of harming - and killing - themselves and others, she initially thinks she’s made a mistake with her formulation but finds out it is something bigger.

However, as with the best books, the plot isn’t really what the story is about - although we do delve into the morality of patents, and of those who can afford it getting an edge over those who can’t. No, this novel is very much about identity, about what it is to be human - as, I suppose, all robot stories are. It is about relationships and gender - particularly about the way gender is something imposed by the expectations of others - and, of course, about autonomy and all that this means.

Newitz set up invites us to draw comparisons between the indentured ‘bots and the indentured humans, how one is assumed to be enslaved as a “natural” state whilst the other naturally free - but if both are sentient and sapient, is that reasonable? There are a couple of particularly lovely moments: it is mentioned that some humans resent ‘bots because they believe that allowed them to work toward autonomy has blurred the distinction and is what allows humans to be indentured - while, of course, it is actually capitalism that enables this. In another, Med - a ‘bot who has been raised entirely free, in effect as a human - is often treated as though she has faulty or compromised “programming” if she makes a contentious comment.

For about the first half of the bookI was enjoying it and admiring the ideas, but not really loving it - but then as the backstories began to fill in more and the layers built, I did love it. I loved the characters and relationships, that each had their own depths and frailties - even the bad guys. It is also very good science fiction - in that, while the ‘bots may not be a good prediction of how machine intelligence will pan out, that isn’t the point. Paladin is a person, for all their inbuilt weapon, armour and strange senses. As Ursula le Guin puts it in her introduction to the Left Hand of Darkness:

“Predictions are uttered by prophets (free of charge), by clairvoyants (who usually charge a fee, and are therefore mor honored in their day than prophets), and by futurologists (salaried). Prediction is the business of prophets, clairvoyants, and futurologists. It is not the business of novelists. A novelist's business is lying. Science fiction is not predictive; it is descriptive”

And, of course, fiction is the lie that tells us the greatest truths about ourselves.

Habits

I've been aware for some time that I've been drinking too much. Way too much. For the last couple of years.

In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I went to bed sober. Clearly, that is not good. Clearly it was a problem, but was it a Problem.

I'd come to accept that I was probably an alcoholic, and that it was definitely causing me harm. At my lowest I wondered if it was deliberate, slow suicide.

So, a couple of days ago I stopped drinking. Last week I had terrible acid reflux - belching and uncontrollable hiccupping, something that never happens me me. I have something of an iron stomach and never seem to suffer from even indigestion, so this worried me a bit.

It was easing off and on Saturday evening I fixed myself a gin and tonic and it roiling immediately returned. So that was my last alcohol for the night. Just tonic after that. The same every evening since, just tonic and lemon, which tastes lovely and fits the habit of having a couple of glasses of something.

Today, I took the dog on a long early evening walk and, when I got home thought "I fancy a beer". It didn't feel like a craving, I just thought it would hit the spot. I had a couple of tins of lager in the fridge, and more in the cellar head.

So I cracked open one of the cold ones while making my evening meal and it did indeed hit the spot. I finished the tin, dropped it in the recycling - and didn't even consider going for the remaining one.

I got the bottle of tonic from where I'd put it in the freezer - right next to half a bottle of mostly frozen gin - and made myself a gin and lemon.

I'd not planned this. I'd not considered what I'd do if that first beer had started a chain, but in retrospect I think the only sensible thing would've been to pour every bit of booze in the house down the sink.

So, I guess I'm not an alcoholic after all? I'm not claiming any strength of will or character, or a super power, I think I've just been lucky, and I could so easily have not been. It seems that I might be able to have the occasional drink, but will keep a careful watch over myself and, should I start to fall into that pit again try to pull myself up short.

Running route - More Hall and Broomhead Reservoirs, Sheffield, UK

The South West of Sheffield gets a lot of the attention for access to beautiful countryside, and I understand why. I grew up out that way myself, in Sharrow Vale and Greystones, so spent lots of time heading along Porter Clough or up Limb Valley, or cycling out through Ringinglow or Whirlow or Totley.

However, here on the North West we’re almost as spoiled. There’s quick access to Birley Edge, or out along Rivelin Valley or Loxley Road.

Or Middlewood Road, which follows the upper Don Valley, the river mostly invisible in the wooded gorge to the East of the road. You can cross it at various points into Beeley Woods or further on into the great green mass of Wharncliffe Woods, with its broad cinder roads, many narrow, winding trails, and connecting onward to almost continuous green spaces.

Today, though, I went West. There are several great climbs that head up over Worrall and Kirk Edge toward Bradfield, but about a kilometre past Wharncliffe Side there are two sharp left turns, immediately beside each other. The second is More Hall Lane which climbs, past a few scattered houses and transforming at some point into Sunny Bank Road, steeply to Bolsterstone at hill’s top.

I’m not sure if the first turning has a name. It’s an access road for the reservoirs, although there are several houses here and there along its length, and it leads up to Ewden Village. This is a more gentle climb, shaded by mighty fir trees, and it’s just less than a kilometre before you can cross the dam that forms More Hall reservoir and take to the trail. Here the path is broad and fairly easy-going, set back from the water’s edge, especially when the volume is as low as at present. Apparently, each of the two reservoirs can hold about a billion litres of water, and I’d say they’re more than half full.

Narrower paths break off up the wooded hillside to the south, though the trees are spaced widely enough that the forest seems open and airy, especially in such glorious weather. The path very gradually becomes a little rougher - fine for walking, and a push chair would be manageable. At the top of More Hall the path crosses Jack Lane, which separates the two bodies of water and there is a short, sharp climb to Broomhead reservoir.

The path narrows and become wilder, still well-marked but twisting and rent with gnarled, clutching tree roots, but this is the kind of focusses, intense, interesting trail I love to run. I do trip a couple of times, though only fall once, and the way I roll and right myself may be impressive enough to make up for my initial clumsiness. The squirrels seem unimpressed.

Broomhead reservoir is topped with a narrow bridge that takes the quiet road over Ewden Beck, so the path is lost for a few metres, before you can rejoin it to head along the north side of the upper reservoir. Here, the trail is perhaps a bit worse, a bit rockier with sharp rises and falls, and in a few places broken by rills running from the hillside, and still with the mischievous Ent-limbs ready to grab careless feet.

The track doesn’t extend beyond the bottom end of Broomhead, but joins that access road just below Ewden Village. For much of the descent the road has a border of pine needles which eases my footfall.

Back on the main road - Manchester Road, at this point, which always confuses me as I think of Manchester Road as the A57 heading out from Crosspool toward Ladybower - I think I need to head back along the road at least as far as Oughtibridge before I can join a trail, but realise there is a footpath just past the water works where Ewden Beck joins the Don. This climbs sharply to cross the freight trail track that goes to Deepcar steelworks, and into Wharncliffe Woods and the lower cinder path, Plank Gate.

I’ve written of Wharncliffe recently and will do again. I seem to be the only human here, no sign of other runners or walkers, cyclists or equestrians. It is quietly green and magical, and all mine.

I can stay on the trails almost all the way home, only having to revert to tarmac as I approach Middlewood. I may even be early enough to treat myself to a roast pork sarnie from Beres.

Trail run, Monday 2nd May

Last Saturday was the first time I'd run off-road in some while, and it reminded me what I'd been missing, so on Monday I headed in the direction of some of my favourite, easily accessible trails.

I think I first discovered how easy it was to get to Birley Edge walking back from my sister's at Fox Hill, the path disgorging me from the fields onto the Baxter Road cul-de-sac near the bottom of Fox Hill Road, less than 2 km from where I live, so it quickly became a favourite dog walking route and - when I began running and got to the stage of being bored with the relatively flat routes, that too.

Monday was (and I know I probably overuse this phrase) perfect running weather. There was no wind at all, and it was cool enough to have no worry of overheating whilst being just warm enough to not feel the chill on bare limbs even before the blood began to flow. The sky was a hazy grey, but it looked as though that might slowly burn off.

I started at an easy warm-up pace down from Hillsborough, the streets bank holiday quiet, up the incline of Penistone Road North and Fox Hill, then I turn and there are the startlingly green fields. I'm not sure what this crop is, that I've seen in so many fields in the area. Perhaps it will be the bright yellow of rapeseed flowers in a few weeks.

The path forks, one part going up the middle of the field, but I took the more trodden part by the edge fence before it began to turn up the hill, the start of an almost unbroken climb of 200 metres over the next 4 k, where Woodhead Road separates Wheata and Greno Woods.

I'm soon out of the field onto what I think of as a "trail"; rough, sandy soil, embedded with a mass of broken rocks, surrounded by gorse and grass and ferns. I've run and cycled so many similar around the city, from here to Rivelin, the top of Wyming Brook, Lodge Moor, Redmires up to Stanage Pole, Ringinglow and Burbage, this kind of trail is one that defines out area. 

I started running quite late in life, in my 41st year (as a lifelong cyclist, I'd always turned my nose up at this slow, sweaty endeavour), but quickly fell in love with it - and even more so when I left the predictability of the pavement and took to trails. As well as the scenery and lack of traffic, there's something about the focus required by having to watch your footing amongst uneven rocks and grasping roots.

Soon enough I was on Birley Edge, the dry sandy trail running below a broken-down drystone wall, with a view of the city behind me and to my left the fields around Worrall, Oughtibridge and Kirk Edge, below clouds made of tarnished pewter backed by a silver glow.

The only roads to cross are on the first couple of kilometres of the trail - the all-but deserted Midhurst Road and Stubbing House Lane, and then near the top of Oughtibridge Lane, or Jawbone Hill - then you can stay on trails for miles and miles, all the way out past Wortley and Oxspring and Penistone if you want, without ever having to take to tarmac. 

Approaching Jawbone Hill, you start to enter woodland, at first straight white birches in a carpet of grass and ferns, and then you cross a stile and the forest begins to become more mixed, ash and oak, alder and sycamore and hawthorn. The path splits in  many directions, and I take that that continues to wend its way forward and up hill. I sometimes forget how blessed we are for footpaths around here. The trail broadens and I start to encounter people, almost all seemingly couples out for a stroll on this fine if cool bank holiday. At the highest point is the car park by the Woodhead Road. I could cross into Greno Woods proper, where many trails snake down toward Penistone Road, but I'd have to return to pavement to get home (or come back up that hill!). I could turn down the broad paths directly into Wharncliffe, but I continue forward, turning by the little farm to skirt the woods and the field.

I unexpectedly find an alpine meadow opening up in front of me, backed by the tall, straight spruce and pine of Wharncliffe plantation. Before getting back to the woods there is an odd area of moorland, out of place somehow like a bit of Burbage transported north. I take the path that skirts this instead of crossing it, for no reason other than the whim of my feet. Getting back to woods, I find the most joyous track of my run. Just below the a high drystone wall, it is at times barely a game trail, winding and uneven. The soil here is a rich dark peaty loam, but is still studded with boulders which along with the gradients make it unfarmable, the reason we have so many intact paths. This stretch of track is just tremendous, as I find myself leaping over rocks, no doubt grinning like a fool at the feeling of exhilaration. In wet weather these little paths become horrendously boggy, but it's been so dry in recent weeks that, between the rocks and roots, the loam is delightfully spongy.

I switch between the trails and, when I must, the major named paths - Old Yew Gate and Pales Wood Gate - sharing the latter with the a few groups of walkers or cyclists. I've cycled these myself many times, although not the muddy, rutted downhill course that the hardcore mountain bikers have made. I grew up on a road bike, switching to a mountain bike only in my mid-twenties, and I think you don't start throwing yourself down mountains in the fearlessness of youth it's too late to start.

I'm only about 10k in, but I don't want to overdo and suddenly find my legs are done and I need to find a bus route to get home, so when I reach Plank Gate that runs along the bottom, western, side of Wharncliffe I sensibly turn left toward home. The flat firmness of the fire road bends in a long curve, rising and falling like a gentle roller coaster, bringing me back to Oughtibridge Lane where I cross into Beeley Woods. 

In recent years this has been parcelled up and sold off, and is marked as private woodland with the public footpath sign pointing up the hill and around, however the paths through ARE still public rights of way. I really must contact the council about getting the signage fixed.

Again, these paths so often become a series of swampy puddles in wet weather, but the descent among patches of bluebells is dry at the moment. After crossing the track that takes the train to the steel works at Deepcar, the gradient suddenly becomes precipitous and I let gravity take me until I have to slow for a family coming uphill.

From here it's a gentle, flat few kilometres home. I cross the Don on the footbridge by Abbey Forge and keep to the path on that last bit by the river before returning to the road.

I feel ready for a pint or two of Vimto, and to get some food inside me, but that has been ridiculously fun - something I would have thought insane had someone said it to me 12 years ago.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the reading of it even a fraction as much as I did the running and the writing of it.

Book review: The Heroes by Joe Abercrombie; Long Live the King

 Abercrombie is the king of this kind of thing; showing the horror and fear and blood of pre-modern battle, with a human face. Indeed, with many human faces. He draws character superbly, with very few good guys or bad guys but shades of grey, for the most part people who are making decisions for a mix of reasons selfish and altruistic, noble and venal, wise and stupid.

Here, in the continuation of stories in the same world as his First Law trilogy, we focus on a battle between the Northmen and the Union, three blood-soaked days surrounding the taking of a more-or-less strategic hill. While the set-up could be classic Generic Fantasy - the Union sees itself as civilised, some meld between the empires of Rome and Britain, and the Northmen are the classic Viking/Saxon rough-hewn hard men, a loose alliance of carls and named men seeking battle-glory - but Abercrombie gives many of his POV characters a depth and complexity that makes it far more real.

On the Union side we have Bremer dan Gorst, former royal guard who has thrown himself into constant training, haunted both by his disgrace and his infatuation with his commander's daughter.

That young woman, Finree, smart and ambitious to advance herself through the only means available: her brave, noble and slightly stupid husband.

Corporal Tunny, veteran soldier, far more interested in theft and fleecing his fellows at cards than glory in battle.

For the North, Calder is the younger son of the man who first united the North as something approaching a nation; he knows he isn't brave or strong, but is handsome, clever and ambitious.

Curnden Craw, seen by many as the most honest man in the North.

Beck, a young man fresh from his farm, seeking to match the tales of glory told by the father whose sword he carries.

Along with these POV characters are a host of others, some drawn deeply others merely sketched, but Abercrombie has the skill to make each seem fully fleshed. While there are complete sociopaths (Caul Shivers who has the ability to instil terror into anyone with his calm, cold, menace, the brothers Deep and Shallow, a psychopathic Abbot and Costello double act) most characters clearly act through a mix of motivations, a tension between self-interest and the Right Thing.

The other great skill the author has is in plotting; as shown in the first book in the series, The Blade Itself, he exults in blindsiding the reader, writing in such a way as makes it impossible to predict who will come out on top - without this feeling like a cheap conjuring trick.

The plotting of this book is lesser than the previous one, although that is understandable both in the scope of this volume being over the course of this single battle and Best Served Cold being the finest book of his I've yet read. While these volumes don't follow on directly as did the original trilogy, there is clearly a throughline (Gorst and others appeared in the previous book, while Calder along with Black Dow, Wonderful and several more are veterans of the adventures of the Bloody Nine, who is referenced not infrequently) and the ending appears to set up a return to the the Southern Border. I am very much looking forward to what comes next.

To close, I wish again to praise the reading by Steven Pacey. For his pacing and intonation and differentiation of character, he is an absolute master. For each of the myriad of characters he gives a distinct, individual and utterly believable reading - mostly various British accents, ranging from posh Union men to Yorkshire and Scotland, a couple of rough East End-types (including Deep, who he give an excellent Michael Caine impression), to Calder and his brother Scale, who have distinctly different Welch voices. The single sour point is an unfortunate confluence of Pacey's pronunciation with an authorial quirk. In putting the emphasis on the second syllable of the word "grimace" -gri-MACE, rather than how I say and think the word, GRIM-uss - this does draw attention to the fact that Abercrombie somewhat overuses it. However, the fact that this is the worst I can say should also speak volumes.

Book Review: Harrow the Ninth: Lesbian Necromancers in Space, part two

 I confess that I vacillated on scoring this. Gideon the Ninth was my favourite book of 2020, narrowly beating out A Memory Called Empire, so Harrow had a lot to live up to.

And it was, to put it mildly, confusing.

Chapters more-or-less alternate between third-person and second-person narrative. That latter is unfamiliar to many people as it is little used, for a very good reason: writing the you viewpoint - "The sword hated you to touch it", "You still prided yourself in three things..." - is very tricky to pull off well. It's usually a method to put the reader in the centre of the action, as Iain Banks does in Complicity. The confusion is further intensified by it being difficult to keep track of who is being referred to and the characters in general, as all characters have multiple names and titles, and the generally wordy, Gothic style in which Muir writes. Early on I was tempted to put it aside and re-read Gideon, but then just began to let it wash over me and engulf me and pull me along.

When the reveal comes about who you are (is?), that does make much of what has gone before come into focus but it is still quite tangled and I suspect I will need to re-read both books, likely ahead of the next volume or as a full series read once it is all published, to really understand what is going on. However, like much Gothic literature, I feel the point is to be experienced and enjoyed more than to be understood - which isn't to say there isn't a deeper understanding to be had, this is very complex and multi-layered, and I'm certain will reward further study.

One thing to add is that Harrow is much more science-fiction-y than the previous book. While there was (minor) space travel Gideon the Ninth read more like fantasy, mostly due to the necromantic "magic", but there was the underlying sense of scientific structure and here in the second book this is more to the forefront. This, a science fiction in which there is a vast power that could possibly be described as magic operating over vast timescales with familial conflict, slightly gave the feel of Dune.

One thing I have heard from other reviews that I somewhat agreed with was that the first volume worked so well partly due to the bitter, angry, sarcastic humour of Gideon, and that is sorely missed in this volume, however I still found this book a mad, enjoyable, captivating and sometimes infuriating ride.

The end also hints at what is to come. I can't wait to see where this story goes.

Book review: Before the Fall by Noah Hawley: a masterful slow-burn mystery

 Minor spoilers.

I'm a huge fan of Hawley's TV work - notably Fargo and the truly astonishing Legion - so when I saw he was also a novelist I jumped on this.

Starting is was a strange experience. I'd just finished [author:Emily St. John Mandel|2786093]'s [book:The Glass Hotel|45754981], and to have the second book in a row starting with someone in the ocean, then giving various character backstories one of which involved financial crimes, really did give me an odd sense of deja vu. However, the two are very different books.

Here, a private jet flying from Martha's Vineyard to New York mysteriously crashes 18 minutes into the short flight. The only survivors are Scott Thompson, a painter, and the four-year-old boy he rescues and swims to shore with, in a remarkable act of perseverance.

Each chapter gives us the back story of one of the people on the flight - the conservative media magnate who owns the jet and his family, the slightly less wealthy couple who are their friends, the crew and Scott - as well as exploring the repercussions of the event. Is the crash to do with the fraud investigation, or an attack on the mogul, or something entirely unrelated? Is if just an accident?

Originally described as a hero, the biggest commentator on the right-wing news channel run by the plane owner, Bill <s>O'Reilly</s> Milligan decides the death of his boss - and friend - was caused by a terrorist attack that the government are obviously covering up and that this survivor must be involved.

Hawley unravels the story expertly, drawing rich characters with effortless prose. Along with the mystery of the crash he explores the power of the media and touches on the levels of extreme wealth - the fraudulent investment fund manager "rich, but not owning my own jet rich", to the media mogul, to the socialite art collector in New York who may be the seventh richest person in the world and "can buy literally anything - OK, maybe not Amazon".

This is a literary slow-burn of a mystery, not a thriller, and is utterly absorbing. Perhaps the ending is too sudden but, other than that, it's damned near perfect.