Trying to find the most logical way into Iain M. Banks‘ sprawling Culture series, but been turned off by the abstracted Use of Weapons, the obfuscated Inversions, or even his somewhat flawed first Culture novel Consider Phlebas? Look no further. The Player of Games is probably the best book for you.

One of Banks’ tightest Culture novels, The Player of Games represents the British author writing science fiction at his most accessible. As with the other books in the series, one of the book’s main functions is to display the vivid complexity and richness of human ideas that The Culture itself represents. In many ways, Banks’ Culture novels are a guiding post to what humanity could become; an urbane future, galactic society with powerful ethics, powerful technology, and an even more powerful love for all things pleasurable.

But where many of Banks’ other Culture novels feature several complex post-human protagonists and jump between their vastly differing points of view, The Player of Games features just one. This structure — and the fact that that protagonist eschews much of The Culture’s more exotic mores, and is thus much closer in outlook to today’s reader — makes the book much more highly accessible and a tightly woven read.

That protagonist is Jernau Morat Gurgeh. Gurgeh is typical of many Culture citizens; he lives on one of its massive, constructed ring-planets (dubbed Orbitals), he has its post-human genetics, with an ability to internally create and digest any known drug, and he also has the Culture’s penchant for enjoying every pleasure known to the galaxy, with gusto.

With one difference.

Gurgeh is one of the Culture’s most famous and skilled game players. That is, he excels at any game of diversion that involves intellectual stimulation. Modern examples might be chess or checkers — but in the Culture, games have evolved to somewhat of an art form, with some taking days to complete. And Gurgeh is an acknowledged master of them all.

As many artists at the pinnacle of their profession do, however, Gurgeh has gotten bored. He can easily beat all but the most skilled professional opponents. There are still challenges to accept, but few give him any sense of real competition. And it’s this dissatisfaction with his main occupation that appears to be poisoning everything else the master game player participates in.

Thus, when a set of unusual events occurs that leads him into contact with an unstable drone (the Culture’s extremely intelligent and quirky brand of robots) and eventually, into a jaunt to an alien space empire with the Culture’s Special Circumstances branch — its complex combination of espionage and early stage intervention forces — it doesn’t appear that Gurgeh’s too unhappy to sign on for a tour of duty.

Especially when the Culture needs him to participate in what may be the most complex game ever invented by a humanoid life form; a game which shapes its entire society and has life or death outcomes.

From here on out The Players of Games is vintage Culture. Banks uses the lens of an alien civilisation to display his primary vision of humanity to great effect; its decadence, its tolerance, its advanced systems of ethics and thought and its technology in action.

But the book is also much more than that.

It’s the story of an artist who has been protected for his entire life; allowed to pursue his passion without compromise; sheltered from all forms of violence and able to reach fulfilment, suddenly thrust into a world which is much more brutal, emotional, turbulent, and even vicious.

And it’s about how all of that impacts on him.

The striking thing about the subject matter of the book is how Gurgeh reacts to events. The Culture’s view on violence, even sexualised violence, and the less civilised galactic civilisations that allow it as an everyday event, is complex, and this shows in Gurgeh’s reaction to it. Many would turn away from it; deny its existence to themselves, reject it. The Culture’s approach is different, in that it understands and faces the darker sides of humanity.

This does not mean that it condones, or even in many cases, allows violence to take place. But it does mean that it doesn’t look away from violence. And it acknowledges that sometimes violence is necessary — as when an entire benign civilisation comes under unprovoked attack from without.

The Player of Games is the second Culture novel, and textually, it shows. In my review of the first book in the series, Consider Phlebas, I noted that the book “sprawls”. I wrote:

“In any other popular science fiction writer’s arsenal, the novel would no doubt be seen as their masterpiece; its engrossing narration, the consideration to which its author gave the world he built in it and the characters he portrays would combine to make the book one of the greats.

However, read in the context of Banks’ other Culture novels, it is clear that when the author published Consider Phlebas, he was struggling with both the form of the novel itself, as well as the need to tell a finite story in the world of infinite complexity and interest that he imagined in the Culture.”

When writing The Player of Games, Banks was clearly much less ambitious than when he was putting Consider Phlebas together; and it shows. Although the book covers much less ground, it does it so much more successfully; its more limited scope allows it to shine clearly. Banks learnt much from Consider Phlebas.

The Player of Games’ messages are clearer, its limited set of characters more defined and its plotline more tightly woven. Hints are strewn throughout the book as to the ultimate motives and actions behind the set of events at the forefront of the narrative, but they are not obvious, and Banks does a great job of gradually revealing his story, without going too fast or too slowly.

Ultimately, because of its diminished scope, The Player of Games is not a masterpiece of science fiction; not even a flawed masterpiece like Consider Phlebas. But what it is is an absolute classic of the genre that every sci-fi literature fan should pick up. It’s a triumph; it marks Banks’ coming of age as a science fiction master. It’s a solid gold nugget of enjoyable goodness which will remain in your memory for years to come.

And also — critically, given the complexity of the narrative of some of the other Culture books — it represents an ideal introduction into this ambitious vision of the future of humanity. Read this (or perhaps the later novel Look to Windward) first, before you experience the rest of the Culture series. It’s a fantastic set-up for the bigger Culture universe out there. And it’s a thought-provoking window into humanity’s future soul.

“Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.”
-T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land (IV)

Like T. S. Eliot’s epic poem, Iain M. Banks‘ first Culture novel, Consider Phlebas, is an incredibly complex book, in which the author packs a massive amount of ideas detailing his startling vision of the future of humanity and the universe itself; ideas that were fated to only grow to complete maturity over the next two decades as he fleshed that vision out into what has become his epic series of Culture novels.

Read 24 years after it was first published in 1987, it is apparent that Consider Phlebas is what might be termed a flawed gem of modern science fiction.

In any other popular science fiction writer’s arsenal, the novel would no doubt be seen as their masterpiece; its engrossing narration, the consideration to which its author gave the world he built in it and the characters he portrays would combine to make the book one of the greats.

However, read in the context of Banks’ other Culture novels, it is clear that when the author published Consider Phlebas, he was struggling with both the form of the novel itself, as well as the need to tell a finite story in the world of infinite complexity and interest that he imagined in the Culture.

As a novel, Consider Phlebas sprawls. It does not have the neat completeness of The Player of Games, nor does it have the contained pathos evident in Look to Windward. It does not go into the right level of detail as Excession does, and it does not contain the balanced level of nostalgic emotion that Use of Weapons does.

What it does have is all of these things; in places too much of one, in other places not enough of another.

None of this is to take anything away from the book. Its entrance into the science fiction genre in 1987 immediately established Banks as a master of that genre, and one of its most creative thinkers and best writers. But it does mean that in 2011, we can appreciate Consider Phlebas as what it is; Banks writing at what was — for him — at an adolescent level. For anyone else, that level itself would probably be out of reach.

The plot of Consider Phlebas represents nothing less than one of the greatest societal events Banks’ futuristic Culture society has ever known.

The Culture — an urbane, pleasure-seeking, genetically modified future version of a human galactic civilisation, which denies itself nothing except the harm of others — is at war with what might be termed its polar opposite; a race of inhuman aliens which believe in one single religion, one discipline, and is spreading itself across the galaxy with the aim of bringing all under its umbrella: The Idirans.

In the midst of this conflict, one of the Culture’s Minds — the supremely intelligent and benevolent artificial intelligences that run their artificially constructed planets and planet-sized spaceships — has become stranded on a distant planet quarantined by an evolved and all-powerful being as some kind of shrine to death.

Into this conflict comes a complex third party; a humanoid shapeshifter, able to change his appearance, identifying marks and much of his basic bodily structure at will.

The mission of this Bora Horza Gobuchul? To steal the mostly defenseless Mind from the planet and hand it over to the Idirans. His motivation? Horza believes The Culture’s dependence on artificial intelligences to run its society — utopian though that makes it — has in truth made the civilisation a society of machines, representing a departure from biological evolution.

Of course, it’s not as simple as that.

Ironically — as he’s not part of it — Horza’s journey to retrieve the Mind becomes a tour by Banks of The Culture itself.

Its complete mastery of technology. Its idiosyncratic artificial intelligences, which normally behave in a more human-like fashion than the humans themselves. Its incredible compassion and implacable desire to live and keep living; but not just living — soaking itself in every pleasure that anyone could believe could exist. Its fearlessness and tolerance of any idea, but conservative nature when it comes to true evolution onto a higher universal plane.

Its complete anarchy; but also its rigid organisation and centralised planning.

Along on the tour bus with Horza and the reader come the normal rogues gallery common to space operas; a violent, self-serving crew who will each gradually divulge their own reasons for living and existing in such a complex galaxy; before they ignomiously die. Of course; not all die ;)

If you were to say anything about Consider Phlebas, you’d say above all, that Banks attempted to pack too much into the book.

In The Player of Games, for example, The Culture is much more gradually and delicately introduced to the reader; Banks allows his characters and the plot itself to explain more about his multi-faceted world than he does through the book’s own exposition.

The vision that Banks has of The Culture is obviously too complex to be fit into one volume; and in fact it can only be told properly through glimpses of its many facets; the way that Banks has told it in many different novels through the 25 years since Consider Phlebas was published.

Then, too, Banks’ characterisation is not fantastic in the book.

Horza’s basic reasons for opposing The Culture with his life are never that convincing; nor does Banks ever really flesh out the rest of the motley crew he constructs for his wide-ranging space opera. Some of them do, but most of the characters never develop and grow much. They remain cardboard cut-outs throughout most of the novel.

Plot, too, suffers; the book is broken up into many segments, and it takes too long to get to its main event. Action scenes are drawn out, meaning suspense is not created as successfully as, say, in later Banks books such as Use of Weapons. Even worse, Banks feels the need to create multiple epilogues after the end of the book to wrap up the whole plot in a nicely tied package.

This is not something an accomplished author would do.

Yet, for all the flaws in Consider Phlebas, it remains a striking vision.

It’s hard to believe that Neuromancer, William Gibson’s vision of a future dystopia, was published just three years before Consider Phlebas, and that Dan Simmons’ epic Hyperion was published two years later. Because Banks’ book ranges much further than either of these two masterpieces do.

There are many similarities between Hyperion and Consider Phlebas, in fact; both feature futuristic galactic civilisations which have virtually mastered technology, including the use of phenomenally powerful artificial intelligences.

And yet Banks, in Consider Phlebas, has thought through the mechanics of his world in far greater detail than Simmons did. And his characters are more real, less cartoonish. Their sharp emotions cut the reader, while their flaws remind us of so much that is human about ourselves.

Consider Phlebas doesn’t have the polish of Hyperion; and it doesn’t have the raw intensity of Neuromancer. But in many ways it doesn’t have to. Because the scope of Banks’ vision is so much grander than those of his compatriots. And in later novels, he would refine his technique and his energy to a high art.

If you’ve read this far, I probably don’t need to tell you that the book is worth reading; and in fact you’re probably actually reading this review itself for nostalgia value only. But if you haven’t read Consider Phlebas, Banks’ first science fiction masterpiece, get out there and do so. It’s a flawed gem, but one that belongs in the hall of fame.

The new novel by acclaimed British sci-fi and mainstream fiction writer Iain M. Banks is Transition. It’s not a hot book, but it’s very, very cool. And it’ll slide into your consciousness quicker and easier than an icy beer on Bondi Beach in the height of summer.

Transition is an impressionistic novel that excels at slipping complicated concepts and stylistic juxtapositions under your mental radar through the avenue of dazzling you with surface level banality and mild shock factor; Sex, drugs, alcohol, sarcasm, voyeurism, horror. It’s all here. Repeat three times and shake until well mixed.

Much of Banks’ previous science fiction work is overtly concerned with some pretty heavy themes. War (Use of Weapons), racism and sexism (The Player of Games), even the development of civilisations (Matter). But Transition is not a novel (overtly) set in The Culture universe that Banks tends to write in when he’s got his sci-fi cap on.

And it shows. If you were to take, for better or worse, the bits out of those books that you just knew Banks had the most fun writing and collect them together, you’d have Transition.

As its blurb states, Transition is a book set slightly in the future and interested mainly in the activities of The Concern, an “all-powerful organisation with a malevolent presiding genius, pervasive influence and numberless invisible operatives in possession of extraordinary powers”.

This might sound a bit like the Mafia … if it weren’t for the slight sci-fi angle Banks has woven in (and the reason the book is being marketed in some geographies under his mainstream moniker, without the middle initial “M”).

The central conceit of Transition is that with the aid of a drug named ‘Septus’, certain skilled people can send their consciousness rocketing away from their own body and temporarily take over someone elses’ – as long as that someone else is in another universe, of which there are theoretically an infinite number, with every slight or major variant on Earth that anyone could imagine.

You can see the possibilities. Want to sleep with your boss’s wife? Just zip into his head in a universe slightly different from your own, and carry out the deed. Want to be thin, fat, short, tall, or anything in between, speak Italian, BE Italian? Bob’s your uncle. Come home to your own body in your own universe when you want to, or just stay in someone else’s … achieving immortality along the way as you keep on switching every time you get old.

Some other, rather unorthodox uses of the Transition technique are also possible … for example, having multiple successive orgasms through transitioning repeatedly into people’s bodies who are having sex.

Sounds like a utopian vision … but of course, things aren’t that simple.

The Concern controls the drug Septus, as well as almost all known ‘Transitioning’ activities and research about the phenomenon. Its agents can be found throughout the many worlds.

And although its aims are generally positive – to use its agents to promote the well-being and advancement of the human race through heading off calamities in the many dimenions – it doesn’t take well to rebellion within its ranks. Transition is an impressionistic and highly stylised journey through something which might be called a rebellion against the Concern, as well as the phenomenon of Transitioning.

In the past I’ve criticised Banks’ style of telling interwoven stories in his books (see my review of Use of Weapons), but in Transition it works well, because the author labels each new chapter with the viewpoint of the character narrating it.

In general, the book flows very well. Critics will inevitably complain that there is not enough action, that the sci-fi is ephemeral and not perfectly explained, that the book doesn’t delve deep enough into philosophy and so on. And these are all legitimate complaints about the book, on a surface level.

However, those who place importance on such things will miss the main point. Banks achieves, in Transition, what all good sci-fi writers should aim to achieve. He uses advanced technology (indistinguishable from magic) to better illustrate what truly makes us human.

In Transition, Banks has attempted a fascinating exploration into Solipsism, the philosophical idea that one’s own mind is all that truly exists. As Wikipedia puts it, Solipsism posits the idea that “the external world and other minds cannot be known and might not exist”.

There are a few points in the book where Banks’ characters discuss the idea. But more than that, Banks has clearly had the concept in mind when creating his characters and developing them through plot interactions. As the author explored war, violence and power in Use of Weapons, Transition is a meditation on Solipsism. To treat it as anything less – as some critics are doing – is to miss the author’s true intention.

Transition is not for everyone. Many will be turned off by Banks’ disaffected style and his demand that readers dig a little deeper and work for their literary reward.

But for those who are willing to push through Banks’ subtly sardonic veil to see what’s beyond the sex and cocaine haze, you’ll find a fascinating journey that will, above all, leave you wondering: Where and who am I, really?

Note: Keeping the Door’s copy of Transition was supplied for review purposes by publisher Hachette/Little, Brown in Australia.

The first critics to review Scottish novelist Iain Banks’ new novel Transition can’t agree on whether the book is a masterpiece or a hunk of junk.

Unusually, Banks has apparently tried to bridge his mainstream novels with his science fiction prose (published separately under Iain M. Banks) in the book, which was released early this month.

But, writes James Walton in UK newspaper The Telegraph, the attempt failed:

… the storytelling isn’t very accomplished. Several plot strands are set up only to remain undeveloped — or abandoned … The prologue may lead us to expect — rather excitedly in my case — a dark conspiracy thriller. What we get instead feels more like a bundle of half-formed bits and pieces that were knocking about in Banks’s notebooks.

However, writing in the Independent on Sunday, reviewer Doug Johnstone heaps praise on Transition, noting he wished more contemporary fiction was like the novel:

As always with Banks, the imaginative detail is frequently stunning. By creating a universe of infinite different but related worlds, the writer has given his mind free rein to create and describe all sorts of weird and wonderful alternatives to our society … Transition is a book that makes you think, one that makes you look at the world around you in a different light, and it’s also a properly thrilling read.

Other short reviews of the book are available online, but they don’t go beyond a few paragraphs as do Johnstone and Walton.

Several reviewers on Amazon also posted somewhat negative reviews of the book. Writes one:

“As Banks moves from world to world his descriptions of lavish parties and claustrophobic hospitals are detailed and evocative. The ending is tense and exciting. Yet in the development of the story, the rapid changes of perspective often become frustrating and confusing dissipating the momentum of the plot. This is an ambitious and challenging novel but one which I did not enjoy as much as others by the writer.

Another added that too many of the plot lines in the book didn’t seem to go anywhere, with the book being cramped because of too many ideas.

The synopsis for the book is:

A world that hangs suspended between triumph and catastrophe, between the dismantling of the Wall and the fall of the Twin Towers, frozen in the shadow of suicide terrorism and global financial collapse, such a world requires a firm hand and a guiding light. But does it need the Concern: an all-powerful organisation with a malevolent presiding genius, pervasive influence and numberless invisible operatives in possession of extraordinary powers? On the Concern’s books are Temudjin Oh, an un-killable assassin who journeys between the peaks of Nepal, a version of Victorian London and the dark palaces of Venice; and a nameless, faceless torturer known only as the Philosopher.

And then there’s the renegade Mrs Mulverhill, who recruits rebels to her side; and Patient 8262, hiding out from a dirty past in a forgotten hospital ward. As these vivid, strange and sensuous worlds circle and collide, the implications of turning traitor to the Concern become horribly apparent, and an unstable universe is set on a dizzying course.

Iain M. Banks‘ Use of Weapons is a thought-provoking, if flawed, meditation on the use of violence as a tool for political and societal development by future highly advanced cultures, and the disturbing personal implications for those doing the dirty work it consists of.

But be warned: Many readers will undoubtedly find the book’s construction extremely frustrating and find it hard to keep going to the final pages.

First published in 1990, Use of Weapons represents one of Banks’ first incursions into the science fiction field after the Scottish author took the mainstream literary world somewhat by storm with his debut novel, The Wasp Factory, in 1984. (A note for confused readers: Banks writes under Iain M. Banks when he writes sci-fi, and just plain Iain Banks when he’s not. We also found this confusing.)

Like many of Banks’ succeeding sci-fi efforts, the book is set in the far future; a time when our galaxy is dominated by a complex and highly evolved society known only as The Culture.

The Culture, a mongrel society composed of many humanoid life-forms and their intermingled offspring, has perfected virtually any technology science fiction literature has been able to dream up over the past century. Gravitational and biological manipulation interstellar travel, advanced weaponry, artificial intelligences with full citizenship rights: The Culture has it all.

And its citizens can live forever; most of them choose to die after only three or four hundred years pursuing whatever pleasures or more work-like endeavours they are interested in. In one memorable scene, a Culture citizen says she’s constructing a new starship just for fun, although machines could do it easier and faster.

But (surprise, surprise), not every galactic resident is as advanced and urbane the peace-loving Culturites. There are plenty of other less developed societies out there causing galactic stinks. Enter The Culture’s Special Circumstances branch; an organisation that appears to specialise in stopping these less advanced civilisations — humanoid, machine or alien — from going postal.

Special Circumstances is mainly represented in Use of Weapons by sex-bomb Culturite Diziet Sma and her robot (or using the book’s label, ‘drone’) Skaffen-Amtiskaw.

The pair make an amusing duo; ironically Skaffen-Amtiskaw displays some of the most human emotions to be found in the book, at least superficially — the drone is often flippant, petty, sarcastic or even heartlessly cruel, whereas Sma mostly just appears dispassionately amused by the antics of the lesser societies she shepherds — when she’s not sleeping with their more attractive citizens.

It’s a classic image often witnessed in futuristic Japanese anime and manga — offsider robots or artificial intelligences which display more human traits than the human protagonists they accompany.

But Sma and Skaffen-Amtiskaw are really just the sideshow of the book. Its protagonist is the non-Culture soldier known as Cheradenine Zakalwe.

Plucked from obscurity by Sma and filled full of military knowledge, Zakalwe is The Culture’s answer to James Bond; when it doesn’t want to be seen to be getting its hands dirty or just wants to avoid complicated internal ethical debates, it drops Zakalwe in trouble zones to sort out the natives.

But like any other weapon, Zakalwe has a use-by limit, and not even Skaffen-Amtiskaw’s sub-systems have fully plumbed the depths of his past.

There’s no doubt that you’ll spend a few moments contemplating the issues and plot found in Use of Weapons once you’ve finished reading it. Make no mistake; this book is no James Bond-style thriller. It’s a deeply philosophical novel that is more concerned with wry humour about and genuine insight into the human condition than flashy action scenes with laser guns; although it does have several of those.

But frankly, you’ll probably get bored and frustrated along the way before you reach its fascinating conclusion, due to problems with the book’s construction that make it less than a page-turner.

Firstly, despite the book’s fascination with the human condition, Banks’ writing keeps readers at a 10,000-foot view of his protagonists. Very rarely when reading Use of Weapons did I feel connected in any way with his characters; for all the reader empathy they generate they might as well have been robots from the twentieth century.

The problem is not one of plot or character development. It’s just endemic to the way Banks writes. Although his characters do experience deep emotions that verge on unhinging their minds at multiple points during the book, the author does a poor job of conveying that emotion to the reader.

Secondly, Banks has an appalling habit of starting each new chapter in a different time period and place, and with a different protagonist, to the preceding chapter — but without pausing to re-orient the reader.

Often when reading Use of Weapons, you’ll find yourself wondering whose viewpoint you’re following — and on which planet, in which time frame?

Zakalwe as a young man on his home planet? As an old man on a different planet? Sma between planets in space? Often the reader doesn’t know, and this makes Use of Weapons one of those books which you’ll often put down and walk away until you’re in a more patient frame of mind.

The third problem I had with the book was its unbelievable plot. Science fiction and fantasy authors have long known that creating protagonists or organisations with omniscient and all-powerful abilities makes for poor plot development.

The fact that many of the character in Use of Weapons are protected by The Culture’s utopian embrace takes much of the drama and tension out of the book’s action scenes and ultimately deflates the entire framework Banks gradually builds up.

Why, for instance, does The Culture need to employ fallible human agents from other societies against each other? Why doesn’t it just deploy the invincible Skaffen-Amtiskaw with a nuclear bomb tucked under its wing and an ultimatum to stop fighting or the galactic police will pull the plug? Touchy ethical concerns? Give me a break.

If a spider is fighting a bunch of ants in your kitchen, you don’t manipulate them until they stop. You just sweep the whole lot out of the doorway with your broom and go back to reading War and Peace with a cup of tea.

Use of Weapons contains some fascinating ideas about humanity’s far-off possible future, especially when it comes to the difficult question of how, why and when advanced societies should interfere with their backward cousins — and what the impact might be on the actors in such situations.

There’s plenty of hilarious moments in the book, and the discerning science fiction fan should probably add it to their list to get to eventually.

But let’s not pretend Banks didn’t have quite some development to go as a writer when he put it together in the late 1980′s. Use of Weapons is described on its back cover as “ferociously intelligent, both witty and horrific”. That it is. But it’s also described as “a masterpiece”. Well, masterpieces don’t have their readers intermittently cursing them and falling asleep.

Transition, the next novel from famed British sci-fi master Iain M. Banks, is to be made available as a serialised free podcast (audio download), starting on the scheduled publication date, 3 September 2009.

According to Banks’ publisher, Orbit, there will be twenty four, 15 minute episodes released on iTunes in the US and UK every Thursday and Saturday for 12 weeks, until the entire novel is available. Orbit’s blog on the subject doesn’t mention other countries such as Australia, although it is likely the podcasts will become widely available online shortly after they are released in the US and UK.

Orbit’s blog entry also included this line from Banks himself on the release:

“I had barely caught up with the later half of the Twentieth Century, when here I am being ensnarled by gizmology from the Twenty-First. I am left breathless by the pace of technology.”

Not much information about the book itself is available online, apart from the product description from Orbit parent little, brown:

A world that hangs suspended between triumph and catastrophe, between the dismantling of the Wall and the fall of the Twin Towers, frozen in the shadow of suicide terrorism and global financial collapse, such a world requires a firm hand and a guiding light. But does it need the Concern: an all-powerful organisation with a malevolent presiding genius, pervasive influence and numberless invisible operatives in possession of extraordinary powers?

On the Concern’s books are Temudjin Oh, an un-killable assassin who journeys between the peaks of Nepal, a version of Victorian London and the dark palaces of Venice; and a nameless, faceless torturer known only as the Philosopher. And then there’s the renegade Mrs Mulverhill, who recruits rebels to her side; and Patient 8262, hiding out from a dirty past in a forgotten hospital ward. As these vivid, strange and sensuous worlds circle and collide, the implications of turning traitor to the Concern become horribly apparent, and an unstable universe is set on a dizzying course.

Commentary
OK, this is seriously cool. I haven’t read much of Iain M. Banks’ stuff, despite the constant nagging of my friends. However, I am halfway through Use of Weapons at the moment, and enjoying it greatly. It has just the right blend of humanity (on the part of machines) and inhumanity (on the part of real people) to be categorised as cool.

Publishing Transition as a free podcast will sit will with hardcore Banks fans and offer much of the rest of us (including the blind community) an easy way to catch up with his latest book on the train.