It may not be one of his 'proper' books, but the latest Iain M Banks shows why sci-fi is the perfect foil to literature, argues Stuart Kelly.
MATTER
Iain M Banks
Orbit, £18.99IF I said this novel was a searing inquiry into justified warfare and the dangers of imposing your ideas of civilisation, told at a rattling pace with breathtaking set pieces and oodles of w
it and charm, I'd hope that you'd continue reading and decide, in a few hundred words' time, to buy the book. I'd even hope it would be enough to persuade you to do so once I said that it also has sarcastic spaceships, cloud-aliens and a robot assassin disguised as a sex-toy.
The novels of Iain Banks have always straddled reality and fantasy; but when he writes as Iain M Banks they are full-blown science fiction. It's exhilarating to see what he can do when he goes full-throttle into the form: to my mind, he's simply the finest and most consistently challenging writer in that genre.
Matter, the latest "Culture" novel, is a tour-de-force. The Culture is Banks's hyper-evolved, anarchist libertarian utopia – a society where anything goes except opposing the anything-goes ideology. If anyone tries to stop the party, the Culture sends in Special Circumstances, an elite and secretive body that tweaks inferior races into the Culture's preferred way of thinking: by force, but only if absolutely necessary.
Most of Matter is set on the Shellworld of Sursamen. Shellworlds are artificial planets, built long ago by long-lost creators, which resemble Russian dolls of spheres within spheres. On the 8th and 9th Levels of Sursamen, two medieval societies are locked in combat. The conflict is managed by two alien species, the Oct and the Aultridia, who both claim overlordship of the whole Shellworld. They in turn are overseen and held in check by another race, the Nariscene, who are being mentored (and observed) by yet another, the Morthanveld. And above them all, the Culture is watching very carefully. If all that sounds like polysyllabic technobabble, just imagine the situation in Kenya, with NARC and ODM in negotiation with the PAC, the UN and the Council of Elders, and everyone wondering if the CIA or the FSB or "extremists" might be involved, and what the People's Republic make of it all.
Back on the feudal 8th Level, Prince Ferbin witnesses his father being murdered on the battlefield by his trusted lieutenant, and is forced into hiding. The only person who may be able to help him is far from their backwater: his sister, Anaplian, now a member of Special Circumstances. Banks pulls out all the stops in terms of plot: a mysterious archaeological dig, quests and revenges, strange fleet deployments. The palace intrigues are microcosms of intergalactic power-games.
All the aliens are committed to non-interference, and all of them are up to their various tentacles, polyps and insect-limbs in interfering. Not being tethered to real politics, Banks can imagine all the different reasons why societies decide to wage covert wars: self-interest, 'humanitarian' necessity, black operations against rivals, religious zeal, and mischievous ennui.
This does not remove the 'human' interest. Ferbin, callow and naïve youth that he is, expresses a recognisable frustration when he begs the technologically superior species to do "what's right" and is always told "it's not that simple". There's also a cracking final blast of genuine heroism, and a postscript when we get a lovely farewell to Ferbin's long-suffering and actually learning manservant. In his 'proper' fiction, Banks can be gauche or hasty in politics. Whenever – as in, Dead Air or The Business – he is peremptory, at least we can take comfort that Iain M Banks is digesting it all into a brilliant, fictive form.
And in terms of science fiction, Banks is wholehearted in a way that is exemplary. There are not – to use a Trekkie term of disparagement and give my game away – any "Forehead of the Week" aliens in his novels. They are all physically, linguistically, mentally, properly alien. There's a lovely feel of unleashed enthusiasm – you can imagine the author, glass in hand, pondering "Can I really get away with this?" and answering "Hell, why not!" For the fans, there are many more ships with unusual names (I loved the "You'll Clean That Up Before You Leave" and the "Experiencing A Significant Gravitas Shortfall"), nods back at previous Culture novels, and hints towards future directions.
I realise that half the characters I've quoted may have alienated half the audience. For those left, I can only quote Father Ted's Mrs Doyle – "Go on, go on, go on, go on." You might even develop a taste for it.
The full article contains 797 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
