→ August 15, 2025
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The Ministry of Time.

Kaliane Bradley entered the crowded field of time-travel fiction last year with her debut novel The Ministry of Time, earning a Hugo nomination for Best Novel and landing a coveted spot on Barack Obama’s best-of-2024 list. It’s a marvelous book that does this sort of fiction right: it’s very light on the time-travel parts, and spends extremely little time worrying about the mechanics or the paradoxes, instead jumping off time travel for a story that is by turns philosophical, psychological, and quite romantic.

The narrator of The Ministry of Time is a British-Cambodian woman, like Bradley, and has been working in various government agencies when she’s tabbed for a special project as a ‘bridge’ to one of six people that the British government has plucked from history and brought to the present. There is a single time-travel door, and while the government hasn’t mastered its use – far from it, as we learn – they went through history and found people who were otherwise about to die, usually in horrible ways, to ‘save’ them by way of making them guinea pigs in a massive experiment. The narrator’s charge is Commander Graham Gore, who was aboard the HMS Terror during the doomed Franklin Expedition in the Arctic waters north of and around what is now Nunavut, where the search for a Northwest Passage to Asia led to the death by exposure and starvation of over 100 men, along with no survivors. The Ministry extracted Gore, knowing he would die shortly anyway (so his removal would not affect the historical timeline), and put him in the narrator’s care, housing them together in a shared apartment once he’s released from several weeks of confinement and forced re-education so he and his fellow time travelers, some of whom came from the 1600s, would know what a car is or how money works.

There is a thriller here within The Ministry of Time – as you might imagine, the British Crown’s intentions here are hardly pure or altruistic – but the novel is a love story at its core, as the narrator and Graham develop feelings for each other from very early on, despite the gulf between them in times, cultures, and ethnic origins. (Race and racism are frequent fodder for dry humor in the book, especially as the various ‘expats’ from times past, all of whom are white, struggle to adjust to a multicultural society where a whole bunch of words are no longer suitable for common use.) The relationship comes across as natural, almost inevitable, including the required element where one gets furious at the other and appears to break things off, which here happens simultaneously with the big twist and leads to a slightly ambiguous but extremely satisfying conclusion.

Bradley also has a knack for creating supporting characters who manage to be three-dimensional and yet still useful in various ways, often for humor but occasionally for purposes of intrigue or suspense. The narrator’s own handler, Quentin, might be a conspiracy theorist, or he might know more than he lets on. Maggie, from the 1600s, turns out to be a saucy wench (channeling my inner Laurence Sterne here), and gets to explore her sexuality in a way that would never have been permitted in her time. Arthur was about to die during World War I, and has a harder time adjusting to the fact that he’s now in a time when his life and liberty won’t be at risk just because he’s gay. And Adela, the Ministry of Time’s Vice Secretary, starts out as a sort of comic relief taskmaster character, but plays an increasingly essential role in the plot as the story develops.

I said before reading The Ministry of Time that I thought it was going to win the Hugo, because it had so much hype and positive press behind it, and because the last ten nine authors to win the Hugo for Best Novel have all been women, with only one of the other six nominated works written by a woman author. Bradley’s work also includes significant explorations of race, sexual orientation, and culture, again all things the voters have tended to favor, over the sort of hard sci-fi that dominated the award’s first 40-odd years – with the winners then nearly always white men. (One exception is The Calculating Stars, the 2019 winner, one of the worst novels ever to take this award. The author was the President of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association at the time.) Now that I’ve read it, I also think it’s going to win because it deserves it* – it would be an upper-half novel among all the winners, probably the best novel to win since N.K. Jemisin’s three straight wins, just edging out T. Kingfisher’s Nettle & Bone. It’s sci-fi, but it’s literary sci-fi, one that uses a single speculative element to tell the sort of story an author couldn’t tell otherwise, and those are nearly always the best examples of the form.

*The other three nominees I’ve read, all of which were good: Service Model, A Sorceress Comes to Call, and The Tainted Cup.

Next up: Natalia Ginzburg’s Family Lexicon, a classic of 20th century Italian literature.

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→ August 6, 2025
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Service Model.

Andrei Tchaikovsky landed a pair of nominations for this year’s Hugo Award for Best Novel, one of them for Service Model, a dark comedy set in a dystopian future and starring a robot valet who finds that he’s killed his master and no longer understands his purpose.

Charles is the valet, and when the novel opens, he finds his master in bed with his throat cut by his razor, and an investigation leads to the inevitable conclusion that Charles is the culprit. Charles takes himself to Diagnostics, although along the way he stops at some other manors, only to find that there aren’t any humans anywhere else, either. At Diagnostics, he realizes that the entire bureaucratic setup has been brought to a halt, with any robots who show up to wait in the unmoving line sent off for scrap, and The Wonk, who seems to be hanging out in Diagnostics but maybe not working there, tells him that he’s developed free will, so he should go ‘live’ outside of service. Charles, whom the Wonk dubs Uncharles, can’t quite grasp that, and spends most of the book on a quest for some human to serve, mostly with the Wonk at his (its) side.

Service Model combines elements of farce and picaresque novels to explore some fundamental questions that go beyond robots or so-called AI. Charles is searching for meaning when the meaning he believed in for his entire existence isn’t just erased, but completely defied, like someone who grows up in one religion and has a sudden experience or realization that the religion is false. Imagine an evangelical Christian turned atheist who can’t give up all of the trappings of the former belief system, and keeps looking for reasons to continue their previous way of life. Even in the face of undeniable evidence that his worldview is false – Charles and the Wonk meet a robot that calls itself God, who turns out to be neither omnipotent nor infallible – Charles can’t give up his programming.

Because Charles is a machine, not a human, Tchaikovsky – who says he was inspired by a scene in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe – pushes his quest to ridiculous extremes, like some sort of robotum ad absurdum. Charles’s source code says he must have a human to serve, even when there isn’t a suitable human, or any human, in sight. It reads as a commentary on the limitations of “AI,” even if it can supposedly rewrite its own code, and on our misplaced faith in these tools to think for us. Garbage in, garbage out. The solution Uncharles finds ultimately requires the intervention of a human.

Tchaikovsky uses peril quite liberally, almost to the point of parodying the picaresque genre, as Charles ends up in one ridiculous situation after another, often requiring the help of The Wonk or some other force, including just sheer luck, to get out of being shut down or decommissioned or otherwise ceasing to exist. It gets a little tiresome because when he’s on the verge of extinction with 250 pages left, you’re pretty sure he’s going to make it out all right, and there are a couple of situations Charles escapes just because he has to move to the next plot point. Most of those sections do work in spite of their absurdity, however, because Tchaikovsky has such a deft hand with black humor, and in Charles he has created one of the best unintentionally funny characters I’ve seen in a while. (I think Tchaikovsky might be the humorist-satirist that people say that Gary Shteyngart is.) You can just appreciate Service Model as a quixotic tale, where The Wonk is Charles’s Sancho Panza, but I think its great strength is what’s below the surface, with a deeply humanistic bent and a clear philosophy on the limitations and potential harms of technology.

Of the six Hugo nominees, I’ve read two in full, this one and T. Kingfisher’s A Sorceress Comes to Call, and right now I’m almost through Robert Jackson Bennett’s The Tainted Cup. All are good enough to win; I think Kingfisher’s might be my favorite, but Service Model has a lot more to say, and if Hugo voters consider that aspect it’s probably the superior choice. That said, I have a copy of Kaliane Bradley’s The Ministry of Time on hold at the library, and I think that might be the actual favorite.

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→ May 8, 2025
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Rite of Passage.

In a not-too-distant future, where Earth is uninhabitable and humans have spread out to other star systems and colonized hundreds of worlds, a civilization on a starship has an unusual initiation for its adolescents called Trial: They’re dropped on one of those colony worlds with no information and no supplies, and if they survive for a month and are able to hit their rescue button, they pass. Many don’t return.

Alexei Panshin’s Rite of Passage, winner of the Nebula Award for Fiction in 1968, sounds like a YA novel by modern standards – and read that way, it’s quite a good one, not least because the main character, a girl of about thirteen named Mia Havero, is extremely well-written. She’s spirited and smart, but arrogant to the point of obstinacy, and her relationships with her peers, notably her best frenemy Jimmy, feel realistic within the artificial setting of the story.

Mia narrates the book, so we know she’s survived Trial already, but the bulk of the book comes before she, Jimmy, and their group are dropped on a hostile planet, as she recalls some of her adventures growing up on the starship and getting into various sorts of mischief. She sneaks around the ship through the air ducts, going to forbidden areas and learning things about their makeshift civilization that only people like her father, one of the ship’s political leaders, would know. She also struggles to make friends, between her father’s position in the hierarchy – with some hints at significant political divisions among leadership, including what the starship’s relationships should be with the colonies – and her own attitude, something she struggles to understand.

Kids employ two general strategies during Trial – turtle, hiding out as much as possible to survive the month with minimal risk; or tiger, exploring the world and making an adventure out of it. I’m not entirely sure why anyone would choose tiger in reality, but Mia does, and of course runs into trouble almost immediately. This world has a native simian population that the human colonizers have enslaved, assuming they’re not sufficiently sentient or intelligent to have basic rights, one of many things during Trial that affects Mia’s very limited worldview.

There are other events throughout her month on the colony world that also force her to reconsider past prejudices, which is where the book really clicks. What comes before Trial is fun, but trivial; she runs around the ship like a kid who’s a little too smart for her own good, narrowly escaping punishment and/or death, thinking that she’s invincible in the way most kids do. Trial is stark, a way to weed out the weak or unintelligent in the thinking of the starship’s authorities, but it’s also a strong metaphor for the ways in which teenagers become adults through experience. For me, it was college, where I was first exposed to people from other backgrounds and beliefs, first forced to reconsider things I’d always assumed or believed to be true, and first forced to take care of myself for any period longer than three weeks. I did not have to escape angry colonists mad that my home ship wouldn’t share all their technology, though.

The prose and general style in Rite of Passage feel slightly dated, and give the whole book the YA feel I mentioned earlier – this is what a lot of sci-fi writing was like in the 1960s. A huge part of Robert Heinlein’s bibliography reads just like this, to pick one, even his books that weren’t explicitly for young adults. Some of the ideas Panshin is pushing still resonate today, including ideas of colonialism and imperialism, or the moral obligation of developed nations to share technologies or medicines with the rest of the world. And content that might have seemed “adult” in 1968 is pretty tame by modern YA standards – there’s some violence, and one reference to Mia having sex that’s almost entirely off-page (thank goodness), and that’s it. I was pleasantly surprised at how well this held up, given how poorly some early sci-fi award winners – the ones that haven’t maintained their status atop the genre – have fared over the last half-century.

Next up: Han Kang’s The Vegetarian.

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→ March 28, 2025
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Stations of the Tide.

Michael Swanwick’s Stations of the Tide won the Nebula Award for Best Novel in 1990, beating out one of Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vor novels, Barrayar, and a William Gibson novel, The Difference Engine. Swanwick combines elements of fantasy and science fiction, including a significant amount of speculative writing that seems especially prescient today given the rise of (highly questionable) AI-powered bots. It’s a shame it’s undone by a trap that many white male sci-fi writers have fallen into: Swanwick is obsessed with sex, and writes about it like a teenaged boy.

Stations of the Tide takes place on a planet called Miranda, where the human civilization faces a catastrophic flood once a generation, for which they must prepare and evacuate while the ocean devours the land, destroying property but also helping renew the ecosystem. A rogue calling himself a wizard is promising residents that he can cast spells to help them survive the inundation, such as giving them gills to breathe underwater, and the interplanetary authorities suspect that he has absconded with proscribed technology stolen from them, so they send an agent, simply called the bureaucrat, to Miranda to track him down and retrieve it. This sets in motion a story that’s a blend between a spy novel and a paranoid thriller, moving through various settlements in tropical areas of Miranda that evoked Apocalypse Now for its contrast of a lush backdrop for social desolation.

The actual spy story within Stations of the Tide is its strength: The bureaucrat learns very early on that he can’t trust anyone, and his suspicions only deepen the further along he goes – except for any time a woman tries to seduce him, because he’s easier than Sunday morning. The small cadre of agents with and around him keep the circle of intrigue limited, as it’s clear early in the novel that someone has helped the wizard, named Gregorian, keep track of the investigation and the bureaucrat’s movements, but it’s not clear who’s behind it.

Swanwick’s speculations on technology include the use of holographic projections of people to allow them to be in more than one place at once, with the avatars able to act semi-autonomously and to even survive their creators. Not only does this allow the bureaucrat and his colleagues to work along several paths at once, but it allows the protagonist to operate across several (virtual) planes to try to figure out who’s double-crossing him. I imagine in 1990 this technology seemed fantastical, but today it seems possible, if undesirable, with Big Tech’s twin obsessions with LLMs and virtual worlds. Swanwick’s mind might have moved faster than his pen here, though, as his conceit of never using the bureaucrat’s name along with the fact that all of these officials using the technology are men can make it extremely confusing when real people and avatars are conversing.

The sex in this book veers from the unintentionally comic to the creepy, and it destroys the hallucinatory vibe that infuses most of the novel. Swanwick seems unable to conceive a female character who isn’t promiscuous, and the women in this book all exist almost entirely in their relationship to men. His descriptions of sex are awkward, at best, and betray the teenager’s fascination with anatomy over emotions, made worse by Swanwick repeatedly using the word “vagina” when he means something else. It reminded me of some of the worst sci-fi and fantasy novels I’ve read, like the later Dune sequels when Frank Herbert introduced the Honored Matres, or the first Game of Thrones book, or Snow Crash. Stations clearly came out in a different era, and it has aged extremely poorly.

There are some strong scenes in the book involving the bureaucrat and Gregorian’s agents, along with a reasonable climactic scene that uses something I probably should have seen coming but didn’t to resolve the final confrontation. Swanwick allows the bureaucrat to consider the moral implications of his actions and the authorities’ choices to limit technology transfer to these colony worlds, a theme that appeared here and there in the novel while becoming more prevalent near the end, opening up possible interpretations around paternalistic government, colonization, and regulations that tied the room together at the very end. It was enough to bump me up a half-grade or so, figuratively, to the point where I’d recommend the book if you don’t mind the bad sex writing. There’s enough suspense here to keep the story moving, and it turns out in the end that Swanwick did have some larger points to make. It’s not good enough to get me to pick up more of his work, but was worth the time I spent reading it.

Next up: Nell Zink’s The Wallcreeper.

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→ March 11, 2025
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A Song for a New Day.

Sarah Pinsker’s A Song for a New Day depicts a United States in the near future where people are compelled to stay at home and avoid any kind of public gatherings in the wake of a series of terrorist attacks and a pandemic that killed some unknown part of the population. She published it in 2019. It won the Nebula Award for Best Novel on June 1st, 2020. I am going to say I think this one might have included a little bias – this is a perfectly cromulent novel, but I don’t think it’s really up to the historical standard here, even though that wasn’t a great year for sci-fi/fantasy novels.

A Song for a New Day follows two main characters, both queer women, through plot lines that intersect, split, and intersect again, with one of the two jumping forward in time. Luce Cannon (say it out loud) is a singer/songwriter whose band happened to play the last concert before the world shut down; Pinsker tells her chapters in first person, and begins her story with that final show before moving forward to the future time when live music is essentially banned. Rosemary Laws (no relation) is a young naïf who lives with her parents and works for the everything-store SuperWally (subtle) in customer support, dealing with users through a sort of virtual reality that works through wired hoodies. Through a small coincidence, she ends up getting a job with StageHoloLive, a company with a monopoly on recorded music and that streams ‘live’ shows to the SuperWally user base, again through virtual reality. Rosemary becomes a recruiter, going out into the real world in search of underground music venues to find new bands for StageHoloLive to scoop up, which eventually puts her in the crowd at one of Luce’s shows. Rosemary is, naturally, a true believer that these conglomerates are benevolent and that their services really help people, while Luce and her counterculture friends and acquaintances have other ideas – or, they just have ideas, and they help Rosemary come up with some, too.

The best parts of A Song for a New Day don’t revolve that much around the characters, neither of whom is that special or memorable, or even that tangible off the page – it’s the music, as Pinsker must be a dedicated fan of music, especially live music, to be able to evoke the sense of watching a great band in person just through her descriptions. Some of the music she describes is a little too far-fetched, as we’re talking maybe fifteen years in the future, not two hundred, but the descriptions of just being there, hearing it, feeling it in your bones, recognizing a song but also hearing it in a new way because it’s live, are the real standout here. There’s some fun and intrigue in the narrative around Rosemary’s attempts to find these illicit shows and scenes; it dovetailed nicely with my watch of A Complete Unknown, where Bob Dylan and some of his peers get their starts in little coffeehouses and other underground (albeit legal) venues in New York.

Pinsker also takes aim at Big Tech dominating more of our lives, a philosophical view I happen to share, but she lays it on so thick that it loses some of its bite. The company names, like many of the character names, are too obvious, and there’s the usual blame-the-consumer part going on – I can never blame people who simply choose the cheapest option, regardless of the hidden costs, or people who say yes to same-day delivery of something for no extra fee. That’s rational economic behavior. It’s also not in our natures to consider the externalities of anything we do; you have to learn those behaviors, like separating your recycling from your trash to keep it out of a landfill or breaking down those cardboard boxes so you’re not making more work for someone else. The blame should fall on the complicit governments that allowed these companies to get so much control over our lives and our economy – and now our Administration – but not on the consumers.

Even from my spoiler-free description, you can probably guess most of where the plot of A Song for a New Day ends up. There were virtually no surprises in the story or the development of Rosemary’s character – I don’t think Luce’s develops at all, except maybe for one sentence near the end of the book that hints at something further – so while it’s pleasant, it’s not as compelling as it could have been. The novel functions much better as a paean to the power and beauty of live music than anything else, and maybe that’s good enough for most readers. I just wonder if it would have won the Nebula if it hadn’t had a pandemic baked into the back story.

Next up: I just finished Charles Yu’s Interior Chinatown and started Ursula Le Guin’s Nebula-winning YA novel Powers.

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→ November 22, 2024
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It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.

Anne de Marcken’s It Lasts Forever and then It’s Over is the third winner of the Ursula K. Le Guin Prize for Fiction, continuing the award’s tradition of sticking to shorter works (I’d call this a novella at 125 pages) as well as keeping the prize exclusive to women authors. It’s the strangest winner so far, both in concept and in theme, as it’s a strange and, to me, almost inscrutable meditation on death and grief. I still don’t know if I liked it.

The narrator and protagonist of It Lasts Forever has no name, and doesn’t even remember her name, because she’s dead, or more specifically she’s undead, a zombie moving through a post-apocalyptic world where there are some living people left, just not many, and the undead retain some of their pre-zombification consciousness. The narrator is grieving the loss of her life, as well as her partner, whose name she also doesn’t remember, and whose absence is like a hole in her existence, not to be confused the literal holes in her existence like the one that happens at the beginning when her arm falls off. She also later takes a dead crow and binds it into a lacuna in her chest, talking to the crow and believing it is answering her with trios of seemingly unrelated words. The novella follows her on a journey of sorts, through a sort of zombie encampment, with at least one murder along the way and a long introspection on whether she’s actually hungry (no “BRAINSSSS” here, fortunately) and what it means for her undeath if the hunger is gone. Where she’s going isn’t clear even when she gets there.

De Marcken writes with an ambiguity that drives me a bit mad, because there is so little on which my brain can anchor to get a hold of the scene. She describes almost no one, and does little more to describe any of the environs. The protagonist has no name. The entire novella is an inner monologue by our host zombie as she tries to remember some of the things she’s forgotten and wonders what it means to be undead and how to navigate this in-between sort of grief she’s experiencing.

That last bit is, I think, the key to It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over, although I’m far from certain on this one. The narrator’s status in zombie purgatory is a metaphor for the fog of grief, when despair and loss and the finality of it all cloud your judgment and your memory, tingeing every day with enough gray to disorient you and make you forget where you were going or why you got out of bed in the morning. She – I believe she’s a she, but I actually am not 100% sure any more – drifts from place to place without a clear sense of purpose, or even a clear sense of place. The whole story kicks off with her arm falling off, which I suppose happens when you’re unalive, and her response even to that is a big meh. If this is the brochure for being undead, I’ll pass, thanks.

I’ve read three of the finalists for this year’s Le Guin Prize, including this one, Some Desperate Glory, and the book I read right after this one, Orbital, winner of this year’s Booker Prize for fiction (after I’d put in a hold at the library for it, you have to take the small victories as they come). I think I’d rank this third, as it is just so slight, and I think its best attribute is the one I tend to value least, the quality of its prose. It is poetical, not exactly poetic; it reminds me of a professor I heard in college for a single lecture, who played Jethro Tull’s “Bouree” and pointed out that it is jazzy, but it is not jazz. It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over left me quite unsated. I wanted more, and I finished wondering what exactly I had just consumed.

Next up: I’m a few books behind, but I read Orbital after this one, and am now reading Cédric Villani’s Birth of a Theorem.

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→ October 24, 2024
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Dune: Part Two.

The first Dune movie from Denis Villeneuve was fantastic, ranking among my top 5 movies of 2021 for its scope, its pacing, multiple strong performances, and outstanding visuals. The film did well enough for Villeneuve to finance a sequel to complete the story from the first (and only worthwhile) of Frank Herbert’s novels. While Dune: Part Two still has the same strong special effects, the script isn’t as strong as that of the first film, and the limits of Timothée Chalamet’s range become all too apparent as the film progresses. (It’s streaming free on Max, as is the first one, or can be rented on Amazon, iTunes, etc.)

Dune: Part Two picks up right where the first film left off, after the Harkonnens have taken over Arrakis, killing most of Paul Atreides’s (Timothée Chalamet) family, while he and his mother (Rebecca Ferguson) have joined up with the Fremen, a tribe of nomads who live in the desert, led by Stilgar (Javier Bardem), who help the pair escape after Paul wins a duel against one of their warriors. The sequel tracks two major plot lines that will intersect at the film’s conclusion. The first covers Paul and his mother’s time with the Fremen, hiding from the Harkonnens and coexisting with the skeptical nomads while they plan how to retake the planet. The other follows the Harkonnens’ effort to control the planet’s spice trade, with Rabban (Dave Bautista) serving as his uncle’s (Stellan Skarsgård) proxy, but Rabban’s brother Feyd-Rautha (Austin Butler), a sadistic lunatic, is angling for the job.

The film seems to stay true to the book by devoting substantial time to Paul’s tenure with the Fremen, including how he works to convince them that he’s worth their protection but isn’t a prophet or a hero, just someone fighting the same evil forces he is. What works on the page doesn’t work as well on screen, though, as the result is a film that can’t manage its pacing, with long scenes of explanations and far too much of the movie’s constructed languages. There are some great action scenes, and the intrigues of the Harkonnens pulse with their own energy, even if Feyd-Rautha’s madness is over the top. Unfortunately, the script gives too much time to Paul, and not in a way that lets his character fully develop – and a lot of that comes down to the portrayal.

Chalamet is a highly decorated actor, with an Oscar nomination and three Golden Globe nominations under his belt, but I’m starting to think he’s more limited than it first appeared. (As if I weren’t already dreading the Bob Dylan biopic enough, now I’m worried we’re going to get Paul Atreides on the guitar and harmonica singing “Shelter from the Storm”.) There’s too little variation in his tone or expression here, which not only doesn’t fit the story, it doesn’t fit the character of the novel, either. Paul Atreides matures and develops substantially over the course of the book, and the script clearly allows him to do so as well, but there’s little to no difference between his affect and his delivery from the first movie to even the end of this one, when we get to the Big Speech and then the story’s resolution. I’m just starting to think he’s not as good of an actor as we thought he was, or as we thought he’d become.

Chalamet’s mediocre performance is even more stark because of the strength of many of the other people in the film, notably Bardem, as Stilgar, the leader of the Fremen and the one who believes that Paul is the prophet of their religion; Ferguson, as Paul’s mother, who becomes the spiritual leader of the Fremen, in accordance with the prophecy; and, of course, Zendaya, as Chani, Paul’s love interest, a much stronger character in the film than she is on the page, thanks also to Zendaya’s assertive portrayal. The cast even includes two other Academy Award winners beyond Bardem, Christopher Walken and Charlotte Rampling, both of whom play small roles without a ton of dialogue, but they help further overshadow Chalamet’s toneless performance.

Perhaps Dune: Part Two would work better if viewed immediately after the first film, rather than three years later – and I’m sure it would play better on the big screen than on my home television. It sounds like it’s going to get a Best Picture nomination, and possibly a Best Director nod for Villeneuve, neither of which is an outrage, although I’m guessing I’ll find ten movies I rank higher by the time this cycle is over. It’s just a disappointing ending given how great the first film was.

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→ September 25, 2024
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The Unstoppable trilogy.

Charlie Jane Anders won the Nebula Award for her first novel, All the Birds in the Sky, which revolved around two teenaged protagonists who grew up together, saw their lives diverge, and then came back together in a soaring conclusion. Over the past few years, she published a young adult trilogy, Unstoppable, that was also largely built around two teenaged protagonists, although here the story is more madcap, the threats much larger, and the relationships between characters more front and center. I won’t pretend to be objective here, as I’ve met Anders and I read these books because she sent me an autographed set of the trilogy, but I thought the books were a blast.

The first book of the series, Victories Greater than Death, starts out pretty normally, both playing into and gently satirizing some of the tropes of the form, with its main character, Tina, a teenager who happens to be the Chosen One to save the galaxy and lead its Royal Fleet against its enemies, although in this case she knows the first part because her mom told her. She’s just waiting for the call, literally, as she has a beacon in her torso that will light up at some point when the aliens come to take her home. Of course, even that doesn’t go off without a hitch, as her best friend Rachael, who is a talented artist and was bullied badly enough that she’s now home schooled, ends up along for the ride into space. Unfortunately for, well, everyone, the forces attacking the Royal Fleet are very determined to make sure Tina doesn’t get back to space, and they don’t seem to care if they blow up Earth in the process. Tina does get to her ship, and not long after – with a brush with death included – she ends up part of a motley crew of teenaged humans on board who help avert the catastrophe, after which they head off into the heavens to fight crime, or, well, the bad guys, of which there turn out to be more than one. By the time we get to the second book, the stakes are much higher than they first appeared, as this is no longer just one tyrant’s power play, but an unseen and unknown force threatening to put out every sun in the universe.

Because this is a young adult series, and the main characters are all teenagers, there’s a lot of interpersonal drama amidst the intergalactic drama, both the romantic and friend varieties. Tina becomes involved with Ella, a trans girl from Brazil who ends up in the pipeline to become one of the Princesses atop the sprawling intergalactic monarchy, although the job is a lot less glamorous than the name implies. Rachael falls for another crew member, Damiani ends up with a non-human partner, and so on. Life on board a spaceship, or multiple spaceships, gets complicated.

The story itself absolutely flies, with a pace that’s almost manic at times, with very short chapters and rarely more than two or three pages without some sort of action, whether it’s a battle between starships or between people. The initial villain has an origin story that involves Tina’s alter ego, and it’s quite intricate and plausible at the same time, with Anders integrating it well into the main story through flashbacks and through the residue it leaves in the contemporary plot. Tina and Rachael share the lead roles by book two, and both are well developed, showing growth over the trilogy, with Tina reckoning with a past she didn’t know she had and Rachael learning to find her voice in multiple ways as the situations demand more of her.

The most notable part of the prose is Anders’ decision to have all characters introduce themselves with their pronouns, which is only notable the first few times before you become habituated to it and stop noticing – which, as someone who uses he/him pronouns and lists them in his bios and on name tags, is kind of how it should be. The only time it threw me was the character whose pronouns were fire/fire; I know about neopronouns but I just can’t get my brain to read them as such, so every single time Anders referred to that character by pronouns I’d have to stop and re-read the sentence. I’m guessing my kids would have less of an issue with this, but my brain isn’t as plastic as it used to be.

Dr. Katherine Mack, better known by her social media handle of @astrokatie, advised Anders on the mysterious forces threatening to end all life in the universe, and I won’t pretend I really followed it. I did sort of feel like it was the Marvel movie problem, where the stakes are just always so high that you can’t really adjust your thinking – I ended up way more invested in the individuals’ storylines than any part about saving planets or the universe as a whole. That, of course, may have been Anders’s entire intent; science fiction that leans too much on the science and doesn’t give enough time to its characters is pretty dreadful. I was good just spending more time with Tina and Rachael, and to a lesser extent their other friends, although some of the alien characters on the ship still felt, well, a bit alien to me. (The Grattna race, by the way, are my favorite creation of Anders’s here, as she gets to delve into philosophy and linguistic relativity in a wholly organic way that ends up affecting how Tina and her friends interact with them.) My only reservation about the books is that there’s a lot of death, not out of violence but out of spaceships blowing things up, even the occasional inhabited planet, and that’s at least out of the ordinary for YA fiction in my experience, so I might recommend this for slightly older readers, but Anders does have Tina et al grapple with the consequences of their actions as they become increasingly pacifistic over the course of the last two books; even the death of a dangerous nemesis has moral repercussions. It’s just a joy to read, even in its most morbid parts, and even as Anders tackles broader themes like discrimination, gender theory, utilitarianism, cultural sensitivity, and much more. And I hope I would say the same even if I had come by the books some other way.

Next up: I’m about to finish Dr. Cassie Holmes’s Happier Hour: How to Beat Distraction, Expand Your Time, and Focus on What Matters Most.

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→ September 10, 2024
→ By

Some Desperate Glory.

Winner of the 2024 Hugo Award for Best Novel, Emily Tesh’s Some Desperate Glory plays around with some familiar tropes of sci-fi and fantasy, including the teenager who turns out to be the ‘chosen one’ and the idea of the multi-verse, spinning them into a fast-paced and often mind-bending story about fascism and totalitarianism. It’s uneven in several ways, and while I think it ultimately landed (pun intended) in a good enough spot to recommend it, it has a lot of first-novel vibes and I think author Emily Tesh took some shortcuts that weakened her main point.

The novel opens with a scene from a simulation where the protagonist, Kyr, is reliving the moment when the Earth and its 14 billion inhabitants were destroyed. Kyr lives on Gaea, a space station that houses most of the remainder of humanity, and whose leader, Admiral Jole, was the sole survivor of the assault on Earth. Gaea is a militaristic society where everyone on board is assigned a specific role for life to help preserve the colony’s existence and prepare them for some sort of revenge plot against the Wisdom, the interplanetary authority that called for Earth’s destruction. Kyr is part of the oldest cohort of young women still waiting for assignment, which could be to the Command group of soldiers, to the Agricole group responsible for growing food for the colony, or to Nursery, which means you’re sentenced to a life of continuous pregnancies. There are also rumors of a terrorist unit called Strike, where you may be called upon to commit suicide in an attack against the enemy. The enemy is the Wisdom, which is a massive artificial intelligence that chooses the option that produces the greatest good for the least harm in its estimation, and it is run, in a vague sense, by a species called the majoda … and early in the novel, Gaea captures a majoda ship and takes a hostage.

Kyr is a “chosen one” within this framework – her life and future turn out to be incredibly important to the fate of Gaea and humanity as a species – and up to a certain point, the plot unfurls like that of a YA novel. She’s the center of all of the action and she’s forced to grow up too soon and make some huge decisions that will save or doom all of humanity … but is she forced to do so by the circumstances, or the needs of the author? When she makes her first big decision, the outcome is about as predictable as a sunrise, only further underscoring the YA-ness of the story to that point. (Saying a novel is reminiscent of young adult fiction isn’t an insult per se – I have enjoyed quite a bit of YA fiction and am reading such a trilogy right now – but when a novel is ostensibly written for adults and descends to YA levels of plotting or character development, that’s a negative.)

It’s only after that point that Tesh turns Some Desperate Glory into a real adult novel, one with strong political undertones and some complexity around its protagonist. The Wisdom has access to other universes, more in line with the many-worlds hypothesis of quantum mechanics than the sloppy multiverse we’ve seen too often in contemporary fiction, and Tesh uses that to great effect here to force Kyr to consider not just her actions but her motives and values. What begins as a quest for vengeance on behalf of fourteen billion humans turns into a much more difficult quandary that calls into question the power and limits of free will.

Kyr, which is short for Valkyr, experiences about as much development for a sci-fi protagonist as I can remember. Some of that is inherent in the nature of a teenaged main character upon whom adult decisions are thrust, but in this case, Kyr has to undergo a change of mindset, acquiring a whole new set of morals and values to replace the hollow ones that Gaea indoctrinated in her. It’s a form of humanism, although one of the targets of her newfound empathy for sentient creatures is not human, so it’s more built on a respect for all sentient life and the recognition that those we were told are Others are, quite often, a lot like us.

The political leanings here aren’t hard to catch, and even if you did, Tesh lists some sources in the acknowledgements that would make it clear, such as histories of the North Korean dictatorship and other books on fascism and totalitarianism. There is also some similarly unsubtle commentary on gender roles and gender politics, and queer identity in a society built around a rigid gender binary. The Wisdom itself is a futurist’s dream of AI, and this is where Tesh does show some real nuance, as the Wisdom turns out to be very different than the ruthless killer Kyr believes it to be, and the reasons why other sentient races have chosen to follow it are at least rooted in sense, even if Kyr can’t see it at first.

I was on Some Desperate Glory’s wavelength form the end of that first big section almost all the way to the finish, but at that point I think Tesh chickened out and didn’t allow for a conclusion that was either realistic within the book’s environment or that suited the characters and their various arcs. Your mileage may vary. I do recommend the book, even despite that disappointing finish, but I can see so many ways it could have been more.

Next up: I’m just past halfway through Charlie Jane Anders’ Unstoppable YA trilogy.

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→ March 30, 2024
→ By

Stick to baseball, 3/30/24.

I had two new posts for subscribers to the Athletic this week, my annual season predictions post and scouting notes on the Nationals’ Futures Game at Nats Park. I wanted to do a chat, but about 20 minutes before I was going to do it, our Internet went down for four hours. Good times.

Over at Paste, I reviewed Wyrmspan, the new standalone sequel/spinoff to Wingspan, adding a few rules changes to make it more complex while also replacing the birds with dragons.

I spoke to my friend Tim Grierson this week for RogerEbert.com about baseball movies, good, bad, and horrendous. I also appeared on WGN-TV to talk Cubs/White Sox.

I did indeed send around another issue of my free email newsletter, which you should definitely subscribe to if you enjoy my ramblings.

And now, the links…

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