Iain Banks’ dimension-hopping assassin put me in mind of Michael Moorcock, right up to the point where he jumps into a reality in which he is cruising male shop assistants and muses “I never really appreciate being gay,” which is not something you could say about Jerry Cornelius.
And I expected Charlie Stross’ late-Heinlein homage to be a lot trashier. I don’t know what this says about me other than that I read too much late Heinlein when I was at school, and that writing trashier than those books is a big ask. The only bits of Saturn’s Children that got really heated were the economic analyses of interplanetary travel. Hey, whatever floats your boat, or more appropriately, puts your self-aware nuclear rocket into an Oberth maneuver on its way to the Kuiper Belt.