White Vampyre

Rating:
Summary: Good first novel
Review: The year is 2056 and the remaining part of Europe still above water after the Great Flood of 2019 has become Europa City, a giant conurbation that is home to the 45 million souls who survived. The city is a powder keg of racial tension, crime, corruption and violence. Europa City Police Department struggle to maintain law and order. Kurt Brecht, vice cop, driven by his traumatic past and his drug addiction, dispenses his own personal brand of policing. Unlike Judge Dredd, Brecht is man who believes in justice rather than the law.

So far, so dystopian, but White Vampyre is not a straightforward SF thriller. Told partly in flashback through the device of Brecht's journal, we learn of his encounters with Lady Methedrine, an apparently supernatural being who mirrors his moods and chemical intake. She promises Brecht the strength and power to achieve his goals in return for total subservience.

Steelgrave has clearly read, watched and listened widely and references to books, poetry, films and songs are sprinkled liberally throughout the book and those were just the ones I spotted. Happily, these references are not dwelt on or underlined, but just dropped in to be enjoyed by those who happen to recognise them. On top of that, Steelgrave knows how to drive a taut and energetic story which keeps you wanting to turn the page. This is dark, violent story in which many of the characters die gruesomely. There is humour too, often of the black variety, and Kurt Brecht is an anti-hero who can deadpan a one-liner with the best of them. Steelgrave is at his best when he allows his humour to shine through and his imagination to take flight.

The thing which really distinguishes this SF thriller from others in the genre is its treatment of drugs. We are not spared the truth about drugs, including the truth that they can make people feel good as well as bad. Wisely, Steelgrave declines to answer definitively the unspoken question of whether Lady Methedrine is supernatural or merely the figment of Brecht's drug fuelled imagination. In the end, this is a book which owes as much to Hunter S Thompson as it does to Judge Dredd.