My favourite Mondegreen growing up was almost all the lyrics of this one Fleetwood Mac song. Can you hear me calling, Ultraman? I'd sing, rocking the legwarmers and just generally being the most awesome woman on the planet. Then the 90's happened and legwarmers stopped being practical ways to buffer the gap between the top of your socks and the bottom of your school uniform and everything turned to dust. Listen, I'm just no good with SF. All I hear is rhubarbrhubard planet Fustenberg retaliated with LAZZERRS rhubarbrhubarb. Consider that your disclaimer.
I liked Miles. I mean, I think it's probably biologically impossible not to like Miles. He had moxy and things kept falling uncannily but very satisfyingly into place for him, which is probably the perfect formula for any novel by itself -- but he also had all the anti-hero things I like in my heroes: manipulation by acts of casual omission, a raving psycho for a wingman, rich, bitter moments of self-doubt. I think what I liked most was how successfully the author gave us a birds-eye view of Miles's family in the beginning; Aral and Cordelia worship the ground he walks on, but it's all pretty awkward and haphazard and you see all the groundwork being laid for a young man straining to define himself away from everything trying to protect him.
The prose is ... baffling. I'd be mentally whining about how distancing her language was, and how disconnected I felt emotionally from Miles, and then she'd throw in things like this:
Such little wounds, he thought, observing the slight chafing at wrists and ankles, and tiny discolorations under their skins marking hypospray injection points. By such little wounds we kill men ... the murdered pilot officer's ghost, perched on his shoulder like a pet crow, stirred and ruffled itself in silent witness.
and it would stir me and make me go on. No-one with that sort of internal dialogue should be abandoned, no?
I'd read more of the series, I think, with the caveat that any discussion about the world building would be me happily lying my face off. Or, as Stevie Nicks more wisely puts it: you know that I'm frying and I can't get the words out.