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The Risen Empire: |
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cott Westerfeld's hyperkinetic new space opera is the first of two volumes in a series called, for reasons not yet entirely clear, Succession. The novel opens with a bang—a full-blown space battle in which Master Pilot Jocim Marx leads his squadron of fighters against a superior array of enemy craft. As is typical with Westerfeld, this explosive encounter is not quite what it appears to be, and expectations are soon cleverly upended by a revelation that not only surprises and delights but deepens the unfolding drama.
Marx and his pilots are on a desperate rescue mission. The Child Empress, sister of the Risen Emperor, has been taken hostage by Rix terrorists on the planet Legis XV. The Rix are a cult of technologically augmented—one might say artificially evolved—humans who worship compound minds: planetary AIs that have achieved sentience. The Rix roam the galaxy, seeding worlds with compound minds ... regardless of the wishes of the inhabitants of those worlds.
Notable for his fanatical hatred of the Rix and the very notion of compound minds is the godlike Risen Emperor, who rules 80 worlds with a velvet-gloved iron fist. Sixteen hundred years ago, the Emperor was a scientist searching for a way to cure his mortally ill sister. Instead, he discovered a method of conferring immortality that has but a single catch—in order for the Lazarus symbiant to work, its host organism has to die. Thus the Emperor, his sister and all those rewarded with immortality for service to the Empire, a group known as the Risen, are dead ... or undead, if you prefer, their bodies ageless from the instant of their demise. Yet immortal though they may be, they are not invulnerable, and because the Emperor's process can work only once, the Risen can perish forever through accident or design. So the threat to the Child Empress is quite real.
Captain Laurent Zai of the Imperial Frigate Lynx is in charge of the rescue mission. He happens to be the secret lover of Senator Nara Oxham, a powerful empath and leader of the loyal opposition in a political regime modeled as much on middle-episode Star Wars as it is on Rome under Augustus. Zai's efforts soon run into difficulties that suggest there are those among the Risen who would not shed tears should the Child Empress perish. Meanwhile, on the imperial capital of Homeworld, the Emperor appoints Nara to his war council as planning for a counterstrike against the Rix begins.
Back on Legis XV, the newly seeded Rix compound mind, self-christened Alexander, learns something about the Child Empress, if not the Lazarus symbiant itself, that could spell doom for the Empire ... if Alexander can get the information off-world. Zai receives orders to prevent this communication at all costs. But as Nara learns to her horror, Zai is being set up ... perhaps by the Emperor himself. But why? What is the secret that Alexander has discovered?
A 304-page prologue
Although that question remains unanswered, it is the MacGuffin driving Westerfeld's somewhat frantic plot, and one hopes he has a satisfying answer prepared. Indeed, because he makes this question so central, waves the red flag of it so teasingly in front of readers, it's probably no exaggeration to state that the success or failure of Succession will hinge on whether the revelation is dramatically and substantially powerful enough to justify all that has gone before; if, for example, the payoff is simply that the Lazarus symbiant functions as a kind of compound mind itself, thus making the Emperor no different from the AIs he abhors, readers will feel justifiably let down.
In previous novels, Westerfeld has given readers no cause to doubt his powers of invention. The remarkable Evolution's Darling (2000) was bursting with originality on every level. That's not quite the case here. It's not that Westerfeld's powers flag; it's more the use to which he puts them. While The Risen Empire abounds with astonishments and wonders, they come to seem like bells and whistles added to an otherwise ordinary product. The body of the novel is sleek and sporty, but look under the hood and you see an engine built out of spare parts from Star Wars, Dune, Hyperion and a host of other space sagas. One expects better from a writer of Westerfeld's caliber.
There is a perfunctory quality to aspects of plotting and character that occasionally borders on the cynical, as if the author's heart and mind are torn between the intrinsic demands of his story and a formula calculated to bring commercial success. The novel is told from various points of view, jumping back and forth in time as well as space. Each section is marked not by the name of its main character but rather by that character's function: pilot, captain, executive officer, child empress, etc. It's as if a character's personality is secondary to the part he or she plays in the plot ... as if these headings were written first, as templates, then filled in. Many books are written this way, but usually the author makes an attempt to cover his tracks! Not Westerfeld. And not because he lacks the skill. Rather, it's because of the conflict referred to above. Writers are a funny breed, as Jane Siberry pointed out once in a song of that name.
This is not to say that Westerfeld's characterizations ring false; he's far too good a writer for that. But too often they feel hurried, not sufficiently developed or examined. For example, the love affair between Zai and Nara is presented feelingly enough, yet the heart of their connection, the intersection of their very disparate histories, beliefs and aspirations, remains not just mysterious (which is only right; romantic love is nothing if not mysterious), but frustratingly obscure. Another love affair, between a human and a Rix agent on Legis XV, is so rushed that it strains belief ... yet it is an essential element of the plot.
The entire plot is hurried, engaging in a one-step-forward, two-steps-back kind of titillation that is meant to heighten suspense but all too often leaves one feeling manipulated by serial cliffhangers instead. One wishes that Westerfeld had taken the time to put more flesh underneath his flash. The novel could stand to be a third again as long, and its pacing far more leisurely; the cultures and technologies of this universe cry out for fuller exploration. As it is, The Risen Empire is not only too dependent on cliffhangers, it is a gigantic cliffhanger itself: The novel ends right at the moment that all the necessary background information has been communicated and the real action is about to begin. It's essentially a 304-page prologue. A damn good one, yes. But readers who plunk down $24.95 deserve more than a prologue. On the basis of this volume, the choice to split Succession in twain at this point, if not altogether, seems wrong ... although perhaps the sequel will provide justification for that decision. Yet whether it does or not, it really shouldn't have to; the first volume in a series should justify itself.
Westerfeld is among the most talented writers working in science fiction today, and even when his talents aren't on their best display, as here, he remains essential reading. Nor am I counting him out by any means; I look forward eagerly to book two of Succession. — Paul
Also in this issue: For Love and Glory, by Poul Anderson
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