BOOK REVIEW: MICHAEL FLYNN, THE JANUARY DANCER

After thirty years and 341 columns, I have decided to hang it up as Analog magazine's book columnist and let someone else have a turn. But after that long as a book reviewer, I can't read a book without reviewing it, at least mentally. And I hate to waste even mental effort. So I'll keep reviewing, just without the nuisance of a monthly deadline, and I'll post the results here. To begin, here is:

Michael Flynn, The January Dancer, Tor, $24.95, 350 pp. (978-0-7653-1817-6).

Michael Flynn's latest novel, The January Dancer, represents his bid to displace Mike Resnick from his position as champion writer of thoughtful space operas.

Flynn's voice is reminiscent of Resnick's as he sets the stage in a bar on the world of Jehovah, a hub where converge several branches of the Electric Avenue, the fractal network of folds in space, that alone makes interstellar travel and civilization possible. The time is long after war cleansed Earth of its native humans, replacing them with interlopers. The descendants of Terran refugees, looked down upon by the humans who had left Earth an age before, cluster in ghettoes on a thousand worlds and dream and scheme of a Day of Return. First, they know, the cruel Confederation of Central Worlds must be defeated. Meanwhile, they manage to survive in the United League of the Periphery.

Into the bar walks a harper, and yes, there is a persistent effort to echo Olde Ireland here, though Flynn several times reminds the reader that the old ethnic and national distinctions have vanished in mongrelization and layered history. People pretend, they know they pretend, and the reader can enjoy the game.

So this harper walks into a bar and sits down across from a man of many scars who refers to himself as "we." An oddity, perhaps, but wait and see… She asks of the Dancer, and the scarred man begins the tale with a tramp freighter whose engines falter, bringing its crew, led by Captain Amos January, to a barren world. As they dig for metal to repair the ship, they discover a buried structure, in which lies a room of pedestals. Most are empty. One holds an egg that seems to contain the universe. Another holds an odd lump of sandstone that, every time one looks at it, proves to have changed its shape. A magical thing this Dancer, an oddity, perhaps a treasure that will bring a pretty price when they manage to return to a port.

The price proves to be repairs for the ship, with a promise of future cash, but soon enough pirate reivers have made off with the prize, only to be intercepted by an unknown fleet, and then… The harper keeps buying drinks, and the scarred man keeps supplying installments of the tale. We meet the Hounds of the Ardry, supremely competent secret agents. We meet Little Hugh O'Carroll, the Ghost of Ardow, who led the resistance against a coup and is now paired with the Fudir, a Terran scalawag who might also be a secret agent of the Confederation. We learn of the legends of the prehumans and their mysterious artifacts, with one legend in particular referring to a shape-changing scepter that commands obedience.

Hugh wants the Dancer because if it can command obedience, he can use to reclaim his world from usurpers. The Fudir is less obvious, but as a Terran, he has at least one obvious goal. The Hounds are on the trail of a mystery: Not all League ships who cross the Rift to trade with the Confederation return, and new intelligence suggests that the same is true for Confederation ships. Paths converge, and in the end…

The scarred man saves something for another story, but he tells enough for the reader to fear the people of sand and iron, to understand his "we," and to hope that Flynn continues with the universe he has created here. He's done such a grand job that Resnick must henceforth share his throne.