Teo’s Durumi

Teo’s Durumi follows Ocean’s Godori as the second book in Elaine Cho’s Alliance series, a Firefly-esque duology that offers a sci-fi vision of Korea’s spacefaring future. As the titles suggest, Korea’s language and cultural traditions permeate nearly every aspect of these books, woven into the story in ways that offer a lot more than just novelty. There’s plenty of nuance here to appreciate, and it’s a fresh perspective that feels like a valuable addition to the sci-fi landscape overall.

I finished Ocean’s Godori a few months back and despite the appeal of the setting it was an uneven read. Most of the book was interior dialog with a ton of introspection as everyone recalled, processed, or attempted to repress their defining trauma(s). Every now and then there’d be a scene where engagement between the characters felt meaningful and authentic, or a welcome burst of action would get everyone out of their own heads for a bit. And then (finally!) towards the very end the plot really started to pick up steam – before slamming headfirst into an abrupt cliffhanger to wrap things up.

So when I picked up Teo’s Durumi I was hoping that the sequel would carry that cliffhanger momentum forward and deliver a well-rounded, engaging story. No such luck. Barely fifty pages in, plot developments are once again put on the back burner in favor of chapter after chapter of excruciatingly detailed inner turmoil over all the things that everyone desperately wants to say to each other but is terrified to reveal. I don’t want to veer into parody here, but for a couple hundred pages almost every scene is a variation on this theme:

Person A (thinking):  “I can see <B> is hurting. I want to reach out and let them know they’re not alone. But would they want that? Maybe they hate me. I wouldn’t blame them if they did.”
Person B (thinking): “There’s <A>, looking pensive. I wonder if they know much they mean to me? Should I say something? Oh no! They’re looking right at me!”
<Person B looks away quickly.>
Person A (thinking): “Oh I knew it! They can’t even stand to look at me. What was I thinking!? They’re right. I’m unlovable. I need to go be alone now.”

The good news is that the plot floodgates break open a little earlier in this book than in the first one. The bad news is that even once things start moving again, it’s hard to get excited about where they’re heading.  Here’s the problem: in the closing chapters of Ocean’s Godori, we were introduced to Corvus, an antagonist in the style of Alan Moore’s V: he’s either a freedom fighter or a terrorist, depending on your point of view. By the time things come to a head for a final showdown in Teo’s Durumi, though, he’s been reduced to a psychotic force of nature, the kind of guy who will go on a solo killing spree through crowded city streets just because. This isn’t mapped out as a gradual descent into brutality; it’s not a man struggling with his inner demons or the price of victory. Instead, a single event turns him into a homicidal lunatic more or less overnight.

Now, I’m sure someone will step up and tell me that <the skull-drilling, memory-sucking Nintendo power glove that Corvus uses to overwrite his own brain> was a fresh and insightful twist on the typical Nietzschean “He who fights monsters” arc. That’s a tough sell, though, because what we end up getting isn’t really a character arc at all. It’s a shortcut that replaces the character instead of developing him. That strips away any moral or ideological nuance, and without it the inevitable faceoff plays out like a summer blockbuster: full of wonderfully choreographed cinematic violence, but little emotional resonance.

Teo’s Durumi is ambitious in that it’s trying to weave together an introspective, intimate study on love, grief, and connection with a slightly cyberpunk space opera full of sabotage, espionage, and fistfights in power armor. It’s disappointing in that it doesn’t quite manage to pull off either one. The story has good bones, but packing every significant relationship full of doubt, counterdependence, and misunderstanding feels tiresome, not profound. And without a better reason to care than “bad guy is bad,” there’s not enough action or intrigue to prop up a full-on pulp spectacle.