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Give Canada’s Master Warrant Officer Jenny Casey an inch and she’ll take a galaxy. That’s just the kind of person a world on the brink of destruction needs. The year is 2063, and Earth has been brutalized. An asteroid flung at Toronto by the PanChinese government has killed tens of millions and left the equivalent of a nuclear explosion in its wake. Humanity must find another option....
Perched above the devastation in the starship Montreal, Jenny is still in the thick of the fray. Plugged into the worldwire, connected to a brilliant AI, her mind can be everywhere and anywhere at once. But it’s focused on the mysterious alien beings right outside her ship. Are they there to help–or destroy? With Earth a breeding ground for treason and betrayal as governments struggle to assign blame, Jenny holds the fate of humankind in her artificially reconstructed hand....
- Sales Rank: #1321163 in Books
- Brand: Bear, Elizabeth
- Published on: 2005-11-29
- Released on: 2005-11-29
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.87" h x 1.12" w x 4.24" l, .44 pounds
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 416 pages
- Used Book in Good Condition
About the Author
Elizabeth Bear was born on the same say as Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, but in a different year. This, coupled with her childhood tendency to read the dictionary for fun, has led inevitably to penury, intransigence, and the writing of speculative fiction. Her hobbies include incompetent archery, practicing guitar, and reading biographies of Elizabethan playmenders.
She is the recipient of the John W. Campbell Award for best New Writer and the author of over a dozen published or forthcoming novels, including the Locus Award-winning Jenny Casey trilogy and the Phillip K. Dick Award-nominated Carnival. A native New Englander, she spent seven years near Las Vegas, but now lives in Connecticut with a presumptuous cat.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
10:30 AM
27 September 2063
HMCSS Montreal
Earth orbit
I've got a starship dreaming. And there it is. Leslie Tjakamarra leaned both hands on the thick crystal of the Montreal's observation portal, the cold of space seeping into his palms, and hummed a snatch of song under his breath. He couldn't tell how far away the alien spaceship was--at least, the fragment he could see when he twisted his head and pressed his face against the port. Earthlight stained the cage-shaped frame blue-silver, and the fat doughnut of Forward Orbital Platform was visible through the gaps, the gleaming thread of the beanstalk describing a taut line downward until it disappeared in brown-tinged atmosphere over Malaysia. "Bloody far," he said, realizing he'd spoken out loud only when he heard his own voice. He scuffed across the blue-carpeted floor, pressed back by the vista on the other side of the glass.
Someone cleared her throat behind him. He turned, although he was unwilling to put his back to the endless fall outside. The narrow-shouldered crew member who stood just inside the hatchway met him eye to eye, the black shape of a sidearm strapped to her thigh commanding his attention. She raked one hand through wiry salt-and-pepper hair and shook her head. "Or too close for comfort," she answered with an odd little smile. "That's one of the ones Elspeth calls the birdcages--"
"Elspeth?"
"Dr. Dunsany," she said. "You're Dr. Tjakamarra, the xenosemiotician." She mispronounced his name.
"Leslie," he said. She stuck out her right hand, and Leslie realized that she wore a black leather glove on the left. "You're Casey," he blurted, too startled to reach out. She held her hand out until he recovered enough to shake. "I didn't recognize--"
"It's cool." She shrugged in a manner entirely unlike a living legend, and gave him a crooked, sideways grin, smoothing her dark blue jumpsuit over her breasts with the gloved hand. "We're all different out of uniform. Besides, it's nice to be looked at like real people, for a change. Come on. The pilots' lounge has a better view."
She gestured him away from the window; he caught himself shooting her sidelong glances, desperate not to stare. He fell into step beside her as she led him along the curved ring of the Montreal's habitation wheel, the arc rising behind and before them even though it felt perfectly flat under his feet.
"You'll get used to it," Master Warrant Officer Casey said, returning his looks with one of her own. It said she had accurately judged the reason he trailed his right hand along the chilly wall. "Here we are--" She braced one rubber-soled foot against the seam between corridor floor and corridor wall, and expertly spun the handle of a thick steel hatchway with her black-gloved hand. "Come on in. Step lively; we don't stand around in hatchways shipboard."
Leslie followed her through, turning to dog the door as he remembered his safety lectures, and when he turned back Casey had moved into the middle of a chamber no bigger than an urban apartment's living room. The awe in his throat made it hard to breathe. He hoped he was keeping it off his face.
"There," Casey said, stepping aside, waving him impatiently forward again. "That's both of them. The one on the 'left' is the shiptree. The one on the 'right' is the birdcage."
Everyone on the planet probably knew that by now. She was babbling, Leslie realized, and the small
evidence of her fallibility--and her own nervousness--did more to ease the pressure in his chest than her casual friendliness could have. You're acting like a starstruck teenager, he reprimanded himself, and managed to grin at his own foolishness as he shuffled forward, his slipperlike ship-shoes whispering over the carpet.
Then he caught sight of the broad sweep of windows beyond and his personal awe for the woman in blue was replaced by something visceral. He swallowed, throat dry.
The Montreal's habitation wheel spun grandly, creating an imitation of gravity that held them, feet-down, to the "floor." Leslie found himself before the big round port in the middle of the wall, hands pressed to either rim as if to keep himself from tumbling through the crystal like Alice through the looking glass. The panorama rotated like a merry-go-round seen from above. Beyond it, the soft blue glow of the wounded Earth reflected the sun. The planet's atmosphere was fuzzed brown like smog in an inversion layer, the sight enough to send Leslie's knuckle to his mouth. He bit down and tore his gaze away with an effort, turning it on the two alien ships floating "overhead."
The ship on perspective-right was the enormous, gleaming-blue birdcage, swarming with ten-meter specks of mercury--made tiny by distance--that flickered from cage-bar to cage-bar, as vanishingly swift and bright as motes in Leslie's eye.
The ship on perspective-left caught the earthlight with the gloss peculiar to polished wood or a smooth tree bole, a mouse-colored column twisted into shapes that took Leslie's breath away. The vast hull glittered with patterned, pointillist lights in cool-water shades. They did not look so different from the images and designs that Leslie had grown up with, and he fought a shiver, glancing at the hawk-intent face of MWO Casey.
"Elspeth--Dr. Dunsany--said you had a theory," she said without glancing over.
He returned his attention to the paired alien spaceships, peeling his eyes away from Genevieve Casey only with an effort. "I've had the VR implants--"
"Richard told me," she said, with a sly sideways grin.
"Richard? The AI?" And silly not to have expected that either. It's a whole new road you're walking. A whole different sort of journey, farther away from home than even Cambridge, when there was still more of an England rather than less.
"Yes. You'll meet him, I'm sure. He doesn't like to intrude on the new kids until they're comfortable with their wetware. And unless you've got the full 'borg"--she lightly touched the back of her head--"you won't have to put up with his running patter. Most of the time." She tilted her head up and sideways, a wry look he didn't think was for him.
She's talking to the AI right now. Cool shiver across his shoulders; the awe was back, with company. Leslie forced himself not to stare, frowning down at the bitten skin of his thumb. "Yes. I spoke to Dr. Dunsany regarding my theories . . ."
"Dr. Tjakamarra--"
"Leslie."
"Leslie." Casey coughed into her hand. "Ellie thought you were on to something, or she wouldn't have asked you up here. We get more requests in a week than Yale does in a year--"
"I'm aware of that." Her presence still stunned him. Genevieve Casey. The first pilot. Leaned up against the window with me like kids peering off the observation deck of the Petronas Towers. He gathered his wits and forced himself to frown. "You've had no luck talking to them, have you?"
"Plenty of math. Nothing you'd call conversation. They don't seem to understand please and thank you."
"I expected that." Familiar ground. Comfortable, even. "I'm afraid if I'm right, talking to them is hopeless."
"Hopeless?" She turned, leaning back on her heels.
"Yes. You see, I don't think they talk at all."
Leslie Tjakamarra's not a big man. He's not a young one either, though I wouldn't want to try to guess his age within five years on either side. He's got one of those wiry, weathered frames I associate with Alberta cattlemen and forest rangers, sienna skin paler, almost red, inside the creases beside glittering eyes and on the palms of big thick-nailed hands. He doesn't go at all with the conservative charcoal double-breasted suit, pinstriped with biolume, which clings to his sinewy shoulders in as professional an Old London tailoring job as I've seen. When London was evacuated, a lot of the refugees found themselves in Sydney, in Vancouver--and in Toronto.
God rest their souls.
He shoots me those sidelong glances like they do, trying to see through the glove to the metal hand, trying to see through the jumpsuit to the hero underneath.
I hate to disappoint him, but that hero had a hair appointment she never came back from. "Well," I say, to fill up his silence. "That'll make your job easier, then, won't it?" What do you think of them apples, Dick?
Richard grins inside my head, bony hands spread wide and beating like a pigeon's wings through air. The man's brains would jam if you tied his hands down. Of course, since he's intangible, that would be a trick. "That's got the air of a leading question about it." He scrubs his palms on the thighs of his virtual corduroys and stuffs them into his pockets, white shirt stretched taut across his narrow chest, his image fading as he "steps back," limiting his usage of my implants. "I'll get in on it when he talks to Ellie. No point in spoiling his chance to appreciate the view. I'll eavesdrop, if that's okay."
It might be the same asinine impulse that makes English speakers talk loudly to foreigners that moves me to smile inwardly and stereotype Dr. Tjakamarra's smooth, educated accent into Australian Rules English. No worries, mate. Fair dinkum.
Richard shoots me an amused look. "Ouch," he says, and flickers out like an interrupted hologram.
Dr. Tjakamarra grins, broad lips uncovering tea-stained teeth like a mouth full of piano keys, and scratches his cheek with knuckles like an auto mechanic's. He wears his hair long, professorial, slicked back into hard steel-gray waves. "Or...
Most helpful customer reviews
11 of 12 people found the following review helpful.
Smashing conclusion to trilogy
By lb136
"Worldwired" goes off, yet again in new direction. The three-part saga that in the author's "Hammered" seemed to be establishing itself as a cyberpunky "band of outlaws up against globalism and the corporations," but turned into an international thriller cum space opera in "Scardown," now adds a first-contact puzzle thread to the proceedings. (And a spectacular scene at the United Nations.)
This time out Jenny Casey takes more of a supporting role (although she gets plenty of action) as Richard, the super-intelligent artificial intelligence, moves front and center here. Certainly, he is the one who keeps all the plotlines together. But Jenny herself gets plenty of chapters in which to tell her part of the story in her wisecracky first-person-present style.
The author brings back the characters who survived the first two tales, and tosses in a few more (she puts a few of the returnees essentially on hold for a while, but do not fret, because she plugs them in when they're needed again), and once again uses her jagged multiple pov style. There's plenty of action here, but you have to resist the temptation to gobble down the pages, because if you do, you won't have the time to relish Ms. Bear's fine-honed prose style.
I hope that Ms. Bear will return to this "universe" she's created, although advertisements at the back of the book would seem to indicate that in her next novel she intends to go in another direction. No matter. I'll travel that road with her.
8 of 10 people found the following review helpful.
Fabulous wrap up of this three-book story arc
By C. Cameron
Watching Jenny grow and change from "Maker" in the first book, to a starship pilot in the second, to a complicated 50 year old combat veteran and reluctant hero in this book has been a fascinating journey. Bear's characters: heroes, villains, and bystanders, are all clearly lit and sympathetic (even when you know they are on the wrong side). If you liked "Patriot Games" or "Hunt for Red October" for Jack Ryan and the rest of the characters, I think you'll like this story, too. Gritty writing with an involved plot that keeps you guessing.
It also has an AI (artificial intelligence) patterned after Richard Feynman, famous physicist and drummer and a personal hero of mine. Marvellous.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Great Story and Writing
By hvanderwielen
I never would have guessed where this trilogy would end. The plot was interesting and the characters compelling. I also really enjoyed the writing style of this author. A few of her more descriptive images really stuck with me.
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