Book Reviews

Hunted

by James Alan Gardner

As a main character, Edward York simply stinks. This is no exaggeration: Gardner's ambiguously-titled sci-fi pot-boiler places the majority of the heroic onus on York's sweat glands, which, due to genetic tinkering, produce subtle phermones designed to drive the ladies and the lobsters wild.

The lobsters are a race called the Mandasars, and they rule a little planet in peace and harmony until humans come along and mess everything up. Well, that's simplified-- if nothing else, Gardner is a master at recreating the complicated politics of civil war and inter-special negotiation. The most important aspect of any space epic-- the creation of a believable and populated universe-- stands strong in this novel. Mandasars have three distinct genetic castes; humans are governed by a more evolved species simply known as The League; space travel is accomplished by sperm technology (the less I reveal about that, the better); and advances such as nanotechnology, cloning, artificial intelligence, and lightspeed movement have all come about without creating an apocalypse, or even altering human nature that much. Gardner's universe is one that has survived all the revolutions unscathed, and now must deal with the usual errors of humanity-- a more dire threat indeed.

The flaw is Edward York, our firstperson narrator and a selfdescribed retard. The catch is that York is a clone of his high-ranking father, an experiment which ended in his belowaverage intelligence (while his 'twin' sister turned out just perfect, thank you). Greater authors than Gardner have attempted firstperson narration from an idiot character and failed. You'd think he'd steer clear.

As it is, the author's wit and keen sense of intrigue keep seeping into York's voice, which means that, for an idiot, he's quite the smartypants. Making it even harder to swallow is the revelation that the entire human gene pool is getting dumber-- if we are to believe that, then every speak

ing human in this book is Einstein. Still, if you're a fan of genre fiction, you're probably used to setting aside such literary niceties as character development, crafted syntax, and deep levels of meaning. This is a breezy read meant to make you think and chuckle and satisfy the inner nerd-- you know, the one who really wants to believe lobsters could rule the galaxy with their stink.

This is also a mustread for Freudian psychologists, who will have a field day with all the mothers and sisters and fathers Edward kisses while denying himself the invitation to fuck on a judo mat with a hot space babe. C --Chris J. Magyar

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