The League of Evil Does Some Evil Things

The Traveler

Book One of the Fourth Realm Trilogy

By John Twelve Hawks 
p. 2005
 

There is a phenomenon going around these days called collaborative fiction, wherein two or more authors collaborate on a joint novel and operate under a pseudonym. It’s not exactly a new technique, but rumor has it, it is being used to market specific types of novels to specific young demographics, in order to increase sales and promote possible book-to-movie franchises. The Lorien Legacies series, by authors Jobie Hughes and James Frey under the pseudonym Pittacus Lore, is one such series. I’m not saying The Traveler is one of these books, but I will say it’s ironic (or perhaps just reactionary) that a story that promotes themes of paranoia and Big Brother conspiracy has planted this theory in my head.

The Traveler, first in the Fourth Realm Trilogy by author John Twelve Hawks (yes, it’s a pseudonym), just feels like a collaborative novel. It’s convoluted, but I suppose no more convoluted than your average modern day sci-fi romp; it’s disjointed and slow, but I suppose no more disjointed and slow than your average first installment in a complex sci-fi trilogy, and the characters are somewhat bland and cliché, but... but actually there is no excuse for that besides sub-par writing.

I did, for the most part, enjoy The Traveler—enough to plunge through 500 pages in a few days, enough to consider seeking out the rest of the trilogy instead of just spoiling myself by reading the synopsis online, enough to contend that—okay, maybe John Twelve Hawks isn’t a boring writer, he just needs some time to set the stage. I can forgive the 500-page exposition dump, because he broke it up quite consistently with introductions, action sequences, and a few crucial [potential] deaths*.

*Note: I generally don’t trust any deaths that aren’t explicitly witnessed by loved ones in action/science fiction stories. Death is always subject to change when you don’t know all the rules.

What I can’t forgive is the glaring clichés staining every inch of this novel like red wine on beige carpet. There’s the little-girl-kicks-the-ass-of-much-larger-men, who later becomes the beautiful ice queen warrior adult, to whom men are attracted despite lacking any discernible personality traits beyond ‘focused.’ There’s the unsuspecting hero thrust into a foreign situation, family betrayal, not-so-dead-dads, but the worst offenders are the bad guys.

Villains in The Traveler talk in polysyllabic sentences, wear gloves and crisp suits, and listen to jazz in neat, sterile rooms while sipping expensive whiskey and reveling in their own wisdom about power and fear and control. They own a sprawling, scary government complex... but it is busted into via air ducts, no less. For fuck’s sake, there’s one guy who is literally found sitting in a chair in a dark room, stroking a Persian cat! There is nothing impressively original about Twelve Hawks’ story or style, but at least he could have found better ways of crafting adversaries without plucking them out of a Bond movie. Some times, authors do this on purpose, to be tongue-in-cheek, thus warranting the benefit of the doubt. But nothing else about this novel carries the tone of someone being coy or poking fun at clichés, so why start there? I can only assume their cringe-worthy villainy is just a shortcoming of the writing.

Apart from the lame, disappointing offerings from Evil’s side, I liked a few of the characters in The Traveler. The hero and heroine are nice enough, if a bit dull. Their allies are easy to root for too, since nearly everyone in this book can kick a little ass. Unfortunately my favorite character, and the one with the most potential, is allegedly killed before the end. What’s worse is that the death is actually described in a throwaway line on the back cover of the book! No names were mentioned, of course, but it just felt like a disservice to the character, even though it wasn’t the author’s fault. What should have been a moving death comes off almost like a bullet point.

Furthering my theory that this book is a gimmick is the mystery shrouding its origins. There is virtually nothing about the author, who has no other works under his name. His pseudonym’s origin story is pretty groan-inducing, and the official website for the series—coded and uninformative—plays off like you’re really taking part in the conspiracy. The whole business feels suspiciously like I’m being targeted—not by a shadowy secret society hellbent on controlling my civil liberties and enslaving me with fear... but by a clever marketing company hellbent on crafting the newest sensation by manipulating young readers.