When I bought this book from the used bookstore where I often buy my Star Trek paperbacks, the clerk offhandedly said “Oh, cool, Greg Bear” like I’m supposed to know who that is. In fact, Greg Bear has, at that same bookstore, an entire row of a shelf in the science fiction section filled solely with books written by him, so there’s no doubt he’s a highly prolific author who’s probably done something cool. This, however, is his only Star Trek novel. Is there a reason for that? Usually, there is.
Author: jess Page 66 of 69
The Trellisane Confrontation? More like The Hella Insane Confrontation! (I originally wasn’t going to use this joke, but then the way the book played out made me think I actually should.)
I read my first Star Trek novel—Doctor’s Orders by Diane Duane—in 1995, at the age of 10. I didn’t have much experience with TOS at the time, and I didn’t know anything about canon and non-canon—I just knew I wanted more adventures with those characters. As Star Trek novels go, I still think I could hardly have made a better first choice, especially for a standalone story, and for a long time, through fluctuating levels of interest in expanded universes, it remained my favorite.
Even with a lot of TOS and a little Duane under my belt, however, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for The Wounded Sky.
Well, it’s the first review of the new year, and we here at Deep Space Spines wish you the best of luck in sticking to your resolutions and working toward being the best “you” that you can be. I may be biased, but if you’re looking for ideals to guide you on your path, you can do a lot worse than to copy Star Trek. I just hope that for you and yours, 2018 turns out to be more Yesterday’s Son and not so much Mutiny on the Enterprise.
Another Star Trek novel opens with yet another fawning introduction by a figure of some import within the community. This time, it’s written by Howard Weinstein, still fairly fresh off his own pretty decent Trek book, The Covenant of the Crown. I’ve previously pontificated on the questionable utility of these obnoxiously obsequious prefaces, but in Ann Crispin, Weinstein is fortunate enough to finally have a subject on whom such words aren’t wasted.