The Children Star by Joan Slonczewski

I've sat on this review, unsure where to take it, for at least a week. Part of it was because I was interviewing. That takes too much time and energy for almost anything else. Frankly, I was thrilled I squeezed in reading at all. But I accepted a job offer (yay!) a few days ago, and I'm still struggling with how to tackle it, so I guess it's time to jump in.

Brother Rod, a Spirit Caller from Valedon, helps run a colony of orphans on the unusual planet Prokaryon, so named because all organisms are prokaryotic. 

(If your memory of biology is failing you, prokaryotic organisms are made of cells that do not have a membrane-bound nucleus. In our world, prokaryotic organisms are pretty much exclusively bacteria. On Prokaryon, prokaryotic organisms can be complex, ranging from bacteria to elephant-sized creatures.)

Prokaryon is an idyllic world: the weather is temperate, crops are easy to grow, there are no natural disasters, and even things like forest fires seem to fizzle out before they become a problem. There's just one catch: Brother Rod and all of his children must be life-shaped to handle the toxic elements that comprise Prokaryon's environment. The process is slow, expensive, and only gets worse with age. At least his fellow Spirit Callers, all sentient machines, don't need to take such steps.

Unfortunately, Brother Rod's newest orphan, 'jum, is older than she appears, requiring costly life-shaping for months. Worse, she seems completely disinterested in the colony and even Brother Rod. Instead, she inhabits a mental world of numbers. Was rescuing her a mistake?

For the first hundred pages or so, this is the focus: the world of Prokaryon front and center, and Brother Rod doing his best by his colony. Money is a concern, and so is the general care of the children, but this seems standard across all Spirit Colonies. Are there any humanitarian sources not concerned about money and its mission?

'jum gets the occasional chapter where she obsesses over numbers, but as a stereotypical "savant" character, these don't add much nuance.

Far more interesting is the mystery of Prokaryon. There's something not quite natural about how it's laid out, the way it—for lack of a better word—behaves. But then again, as Brother Rod repeatedly recognizes, it is a tremendously alien world. Perhaps these things are natural, after all?

These themes make up the bulk of the first 100 pages, and while Brother Rod is front-and-center for all of it, it, to me, seemed clear that the "point" wasn't Brother Rod, or 'jum, or their relationships. It was the planet of Prokaryon.

This "promise" is accomplished in several ways, but perhaps the most compelling is highlighted by the nature of Brother Rod's relationship with both Prokaryon and his colony.

Even Brother Rod is being life-shaped to be able to survive everything Prokaryon has to offer, he doesn't struggle to adapt, emotionally/mentally, to the changes of living on Prokaryon. His biggest emotional concern is one day being able to eat Prokaryon food, as the colony can only afford cheap, bland meal packets for him. He doesn't become invested in the unique ecology of the world and grow to understand his place within it. Prokaryon is not a part of him, nor does he feel himself to be a part of Prokaryon. It's just the setting of his life.

Despite this, he marvels at Prokaryon's landscapes, plants, animals, and animal-plant hybrids. We spend a lot of time learning about Prokaryon through him, considering its complexities and incongruities. We stare off into space along with Rod and contemplate the nature of Prokaryon. And that's what Prokaryon feels like, through Brother Rod's eyes: a puzzle that he's mulling over because he can't help himself. But he's not a scientist; he could walk away from the mystery of Prokaryon without regrets. The only thing that matters is that his colony is safe.

His relationships with the others in his colony are shallow. There are no fights, no confidants, no surprisingly tender moments. I remember the names of flora and fauna of Prokaryon more than I do Rod's children. When interacting with the colony, it feels like he's putting one foot in front of the other. He's just meeting expectations. I think this is on purpose, that we're supposed to feel that he's burnt out but unable to stop caring, so I respect the decision, but it really does lead you to think the people don't really matter.

Compare this to A Door Into Ocean. There's that incredible scene when Spinel begins to turn purple on account of the breath microbes. It pulls the disparate elements of the story—the culture of the Sharers, the unique ecology of the world, the struggle to accept change, and the challenge of identity—into one neat, tense, heartbreaking moment. A moment that ends with him finally, and deeply, connecting with one of the Sharers. Everything comes together.

I didn't read the back copy before dipping in, so I didn't even know which direction to look for potential tension. When it kicked in, it was immediate and rage-inducing but somewhat tired. We already watched Shora struggle against invaders intent on plundering the planet for its resources. The scale/intent was just a little larger here.

Still, it worked. I was engaged, even if the villain was a bit one-dimensional with unclear motives and kind of lazy signaling by way of being marginally abusive towards his dog. The many pages of Brother Rod marveling over Prokaryon had worked: even if he and his colony escaped unharmed, financially or otherwise, I'd still have raged over the planet's destruction. How would they save the Prokaryon?

I hope you'll understand my confusion when, with about a hundred pages to go, the plot spins off in a brand-new direction. This direction isn't terrible; it's so fascinating that I had to talk to someone about it immediately. I tracked down my husband and gave him a summary of the book, so we could chew on this new ideological plot. From then on, my husband regularly asked for updates on the novel, and with every new piece of information, we'd chat for a little while about the possibilities/implications.

But for as much as I liked it, it was a lot to cover in a short amount of time. And this speed somewhat lessened the topic. Ideas dripping with nuance were explained in totality in a paragraph or two; unique experiences burst onto the scene with such rapidity that it made them feel a little ... goofy. Perhaps even hokey, despite the backbone of the concept being cool af. And the way this ideological plot is quickly wrapped up leaves some questions large enough that they could very well be plot holes.

And this is my primary concern with the novel. There's a ton here, and much of it is good, but it feels, to me, more like a (highly polished) draft than a finished novel, because it seems to be lacking in the way that drafts often struggle: the pacing is off and too much time is spent on setup; the plot is muddied and without a solid direction; the tension comes out of nowhere; the villain is one-dimensional and feels separate from the story; the character's relationships take up considerable space but lack depth; there are too many characters with no real impact.

Now that's a huge list of flaws, but none of this is damning. I'm glad I read The Children Star. It just means The Children Star doesn't stand up to its predecessors. But its predecessors were incredible. It's hard to match that level of success.

Though this is a funny declaration because I've seen plenty of reviews say The Children Star was a step up from Daughter Of Elysium. I'm guessing there's one reason for this: unlike Daughter Of Elysium, The Children Star offers a solid tension arc. Some people want/need that to connect to a story the way I want deep characterization and rich relationships. So I guess it's all a matter of preference. 

Regardless of your preference, though, I suggest continuing Slonczewski's series. While everything is technically standalone, seeing all the pieces connect and the ideas stack is fascinating.

Cover art by Bob Eggleton: