Category: Fiction Reviews

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C.J. Cherryh, recipient of the Hugo, Nebula, Prometheus, Locus, and others, joins her spouse and longtime partner Jane S. Fancher, winner of the Prometheus Award, in a return to the Alliance-Union universe. In this set of dozens of novels, short story collections, music, and a tabletop wargame, Cherryh and Fancher recount a history over vast ranges of time and space. Humanity’s extra-planetary colonization and inevitable loss of control of these colonies makes up a significant focus of the series. Sequences of the narrative lacking a focus upon humans are common in these texts, which act as a variant of Larry Niven’s “known space” but include far greater detail and stylistic and content variety. Part of the Alliance-Union universe presents stories related to the Company War. These novels range from Devil in the Belt (in which Earth system asteroid belt miners are recruited into new Earth Company warships) and the much-awarded Downbelow Station to 1997’s Finity’s End. 2019’s Alliance Rising and 2024’s Alliance Unbound, dubbed the “Hinder Stars” sub-series, serve as prequels to the Company Wars.

Cherryh and Fancher’s world, always complex, focuses on socio-economic stresses in a system undergoing radical change. Centuries of commerce and exploration under control of the Earth Company using sub-light ships (an extensive history of ship comings and goings exists online) alter in mere years as Faster than Light (FTL) ships, invented far from Earth, increase the tempo of change. Earth, already isolated from colonies it no longer really controls (and some it never controlled), will in decades begin constructing a fleet of FTL warships… but those are other stories. Three factions vie for control over Alpha Station, Earth’s second extra-solar station: loyalists of the Earth Company (one inescapably thinks of the East India Company), a powerful faction of FTL merchanters, and local Alpha Station merchanters and administrators who understand the local economic environment and who are Earth Company only in theory.

The Earth Company officials want their expensive FTL ship The Rights of Man, a ship name redolent with symbolism as the thing does not work, to continue receiving maximal resources and be retained under the control of the Company. The merchanters seek signatories to a new treaty as they form an Alliance. Cherryh’s readers know what’s coming in the chronologically later Downbelow Station. Alpha Station merchants and executives seek a way forward in challenging economic times; at their “Hinder Star,” they stand to be bypassed like Radiator Springs or any of the dozens of real towns left high and dry by the Interstate system in the United States. The complexities of the three-way struggle play out in adminstrivia, in dockside brawls and assignations, and in the creation of a self-perpetuating merchanter culture, one which will in future forestall any challenge to their “families run ships, not governments” credo. In typical Cherryh, and now Cherryh and Fancher fashion, complexity heats until the pot bubbles over, all with the promise of future crises to resolve in later texts.

Is this Space Opera? Calling this and other books in the common background Space Opera does them some disservice. Here, spaceships do not make noise in space; if their engines quit, they do not coast slowly to a stop, and delta-V really means something. This is not Star Wars. Yet we are concerned at least in some part with the princes and chieftains, kings and queens, appointed administrators and ship captains, the elite of the societies enmeshed together here, a signal of the Space Opera genre. Cherryh appears in Hartwell and Cramer’s 2006 The Space Opera Renaissance and arguably strides across much of the definitional space it creates with her 80-odd book publications (17-18). That she often eschews the rippin’ space battle—her Merchanter’s Luck takes place at a time when the turncoat Signy Mallory takes on the remnants of the Earth Company fleet gone piratical and abandoned by Earth, but the battle on display is psychological and takes place inside the main character’s head—is well known, and Alliance Rising follows in those footsteps. There is drama aplenty, but at the human level, in the romance and bureaucratic infighting and let’s-make-a-deal venues, not in the maneuver and missile venues. Characters sweat their big decisions in bed, at their desks, or gathered together in a bar, not in glowing, high-tech nests of screens or Jefferies Tubes.

Liz Bourke ably reviewed this text in 2019 for Locus, noting some issues with diversity, that the book seemed rooted in an 80’s sensibility, with limited variety of perspective (“Liz Bourke Reviews Alliance Rising by C.J. Cherryh & Jane S. Fancher”). Certainly, the novel is less interpersonally adventurous than other work by Cherryh. Devil in the Belt stands as a clear inspiration to the Expanse books and series, with its polyamorous spacer humans (though as one might expect, given the publication date, without contemporary poly terminology) and matrilineal merchanter clans. The people of Alliance Rising form tamer relations, though the “sailors in port” aspect of the FTL ship crews is in full flow. Accidental or purposeful? The cultural markers of later books also come later in the in-universe chronology, making it possible for Cherryh and Fancher to gauge social evolution at a more traditional stage in the history they recount here.

The text could serve in a college-level literature course, particularly an advanced level course able to undertake the more advanced themes of colonialism, the rights of those who do the work vs. the rights of capital, and the matters William H. Stoddard raises in his appreciation of Alliance Rising, which won the 2020 Prometheus Award for best novel. “The rights of man, in a nonfigurative sense, are what this novel is about,” he observes (“Liberty, evolving self-government and the Rights of Man”). Whether undergraduates can be tempted by a work so focused on the internal remains to be seen. The dedication suggests why this novel exists at all: Cherryh and Fancher celebrate Betsy Wollheim, still at the helm of storied DAW Books (which, in days of yore, was a publisher of distinctive, yellow-spined paperbacks), reflecting a fifty-year plus friendship and professional association. May their work continue ever after.

Edward Carmien, Ph.D. teaches writing and literature at Mercer County Community College in New Jersey. He started his academic journey as a member of the Popular Culture Association, but soon found a truer home in the SFRA. A lapsed poet, short story writer, game designer, and novelist, his first publications were game-related working as a freelancer for TSR, Inc. After appearing in the fiction anthology EARTH, AIR, FIRE, WATER he earned membership in the SFWA. He has won awards for his fiction and non-fiction, edited a volume of essays about writer C.J. Cherryh, and lives with his family near Princeton, New Jersey.

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The big blue stature of The Blaft Book of Anti-Caste SF (2024), lined up on any shelf, cannot go unnoticed. The moment you pick it up, Priyanka Paul’s beautifully illustrated Mecha Ambedkar—set against a background of circuit networks—greets you, carrying the iconographies of the Indian anti-caste movement on its back, moving toward Begumpura, the utopian casteless city envisioned by Saint Ravidas. In the next few seconds, as you flip through the pages for a quick glance, you’re likely to stop and look—either because of the comics strewn in between, the unexpected mix of established and emerging writers, or simply because the story titles are so compelling. If not the playful ‘Meen Matters’, then the solemn and arresting ‘In the Extreme Silence of Agrahara’ is bound to intrigue you.

The 428-page anthology, edited by R.T. Samuel, Rakesh Khanna, and Rashmi Ruth Devadasan, and published by Blaft Publications, is a riot. It stares back at you. It jolts you. It urges you to read it. The unabashed attention the book’s visual aesthetics demand is matched by a form and content that refuse to be “structured” or “formal” in any traditional sense. Disrupting the standard idea of an anthology, this collection seeks to expand beyond the textual, including works that interrupt any illusion of narrative unity—graphic stories, a speculative magazine, and stories that refuse closure. The visual and the textual intersect through audacious ideas, opening up a new form of anti-caste thought and resistance. This form does not rely on a retrospective historicization of Dalit movements, nor is it a speculative veneer imposed artificially upon them.

The violence of caste is crucial in understanding the radical potential of the anthology. The caste system, a form of systemic violence and social stratification, has long afflicted South Asian societies, such as India. These social stratifications, historically codified in ancient texts like the Manusmriti or The Laws of Manu, have been used as methods of marginalizing and humiliating various Indigenous and caste communities under the umbrella term ‘Dalits’ or the Broken—a term used by Jyotirao Phule, a historical anti-caste writer and activist from Maharashtra, India. The term has historically been contested. Kanshi Ram, for instance, referred to such communities as ‘Bahujans’, the Marathi word for majority (Chandra 148).

Akin to experiences of African American communities in the United States, both caste in India and race in the US have been prevalent sites of comparative scholarship, building an ‘afro-dalit’ scholarship (Prashad), present in interactions of anti-race activists like W.E.B. DuBois and anti-caste activists like B.R. Ambedkar. These experiences have been vocalized and politicized often in fiction and autobiography. The civil rights and anti-racism group Black Panthers from the U.S., in fact, was a key inspiration in the formation of Dalit Panthers, an anti-caste organization founded by JV Pawar and Namdeo Dhasal, in the 1970s (Satyanarayana and Tharu 61). Writings from or about such communities have relied on an ‘authentic’ aesthetic, as Sharankumar Limbale, another prominent Dalit writer and activist, suggests. Many of these works have utilized realism or the autobiography as a mode. For those interested, a powerful and prominent example is Joothan (1997) by Om Prakash Valmiki as well as the anthology of Marathi Dalit voices, Poisoned Bread (1992) edited by Arjun Dangle. The Blaft Book continues vocalizing such experiences of caste and of pitting oneself against the system of caste. The anthology moves away from an apparent ‘authentic’ and ‘realistic’ mode to an exploratory one, like speculation or science fiction—similar to the practices of Afrofuturism (continuing political solidarities across cultural movements) and the works of Samuel R. Delany, Octavia Butler and Nnedi Okorafor that reconfigured Black histories and futures. Recent scholarship on other marginalized futurisms such as Chattopadhyay’s “Manifesto” suggests a rising pattern of works and movements that vocalize marginalized experiences while reorienting the SF form: a new form of possibilities and ‘playfulness’ emerges where SF and its tropes too become suspect (17). The anthology’s publication adds another dimension to the scholarship on Futurism. It tackles the problem of introducing these historical and political experiences into the speculative mode and vice versa, bringing forth a collection that is expansive in frame.

As an experimental and pioneering anthology, the mix of writers is particularly interesting, with about thirty-two writers across boundaries of space, time, and languages. The inclusion of writers like Bama, Gogu Shyamala, Gouri, and P.A. Uthaman gestures toward an already extant speculative imaginary within works of Dalit and anti-caste writers, though they are rarely read as SF writers in India, which (popularly) remains shaped by a Hollywood-inflected Sci-Fi temperament. Through this anthology, Blaft reorients how we read these writers, even as it expands the contours of the genre itself. Speculative fiction here becomes porous, leaking across literary categories, voices, languages, and temporalities. The very form of the anthology resists any settled or stable identity. Jumping across writers—past, present, and emerging—the book traces the evolving possibilities of writing anti-caste thought into the speculative, the fantastical, and the futuristic.

This porosity is not just temporal but spatial. The collection moves across terrains: from Dalit subjectivities in the rural settings of Bama’s “Korali” or Gogu Shyamala’s “The Phantom Ladder” to the urban nightmares and dystopias of Gouri’s “The Demon That Sits On Your Chest” or Yukti Narang’s “Kitchen Glob”; from the spectral silence of an afterlife Agrahara by Aswathy K. Raj to the nightmarish vision in Snehashish Das’ “Death of a Giant in a Godless Country” or Gautam Vegda’s short story series from ‘Supernova’ to “Vultures on Mars”; from the digital and outer spaces of comics like Yeswanth Mocharla’s “Looly Cooly”—featuring a delivery-boy with “monster-anger”—to Bakarmax’s (alias Sumit Kumar) “Spacewali,” about a “kaamwali” in India’s space lab and to Kunal Lokhande’s provocative take on a gaming channel turned religious sect in ‘Sanatan Gaming’. Even when it comes to stringing together an SF adventure, the anthology does not disappoint; the Birthday Gurlz in “Meen Matters” by Rashmi Ruth Devadasan remain memorable in a post-apocalyptic zombie-filled Chennai.

In all these stories, caste is constantly altered and ridiculed to expose its structures. These distinct spaces do not function as sites of just cognitive estrangement, as they might in traditional SF. Rather, they are loud, grounded anti-caste assertions that echo beyond the present—to ridicule, mourn, rage against it. It is bleak, yes, but it is also powerful: a declaration that caste does not dissolve even in outer space, or in death, or in data. Instead, its haunting continues.

The peculiar thing about caste in today’s digital India is this: to envision a caste-free space, one must first speak of caste. Yet, to speak of it is often seen as propagandist, anti-meritocratic, or non-factual—unless, of course, it comes in the form of a popular casteist slur, an endogamous matrimonial startup, or an innocuous display of caste pride masked as ancestral heritage. Over the past decade, caste has steadily permeated the digital space—through both subtle gestures and overtly violent threats. In parallel, affirmative caste conversations and movements have continued reclaiming these spaces, resisting the overwhelming presence of digital Brahmanism with counter-assertions, memorialization, and imaginative world-building. Artist-activists have become ever more present—and ever more vulnerable—but they persist, intervening nevertheless.

The rise of Dalit and Bahujan creators within these popular digital and speculative spaces points toward new futures for the anti-caste movement. It is into these popular terrains that The Blaft Book of Anti-Caste SF enters—not merely as a literary or political intervention, but as a disruptive method of imagining caste itself. At one of the book’s launches, Rahee Punyashloka, one of the authors, used the term, “audacity” when talking about the anthology. Later that evening, of all the things I remembered when reading the recently bought anthology, the term “audacity” stuck around. To play “audaciously” in these spaces is not just stylistic—it is tactical. This anthology is not just an intervention into the publishing sphere of Indian science fiction; it is a conceptual reorientation of how caste is written, imagined, and published. It shifts from the realist or life-writing modes traditionally associated with Dalit literature, toward a poetics of speculation, friction, and rupture. Here, the anthology hits its mark most forcefully.

The comics embedded within the prose narratives do not simply supplement the written word—they interrupt it. They disrupt the expectations of the reader, and in doing so, make visible an imaginary of anti-caste possibilities that refuses to conform. The fictional magazine insert—“Margin Mag” by Sudarshan Devadoss and MK Abhilash—and Punyashloka’s piece further challenge the anthology’s unity, by functioning as a meta-text that speaks both within and beyond the volume. “Margin Mag” imagines a future in which Dalit history is publicly commemorated with hopeful anti-caste/anti-discrimination WhatsApp updates and ads for anti-bias devices like “FairEar”, while Punyashloka in “The R.V Society for Promotion of Underground Sci-Fi Writings” talks about encountering the anthology’s call for stories and journals the intimate, messy process of writing anti-caste speculative fiction itself. These disruptions are not digressions; they are structurally integral to the work’s method of expression.

Blaft Publications is one of the few independent publishers in India committed to bringing regional pulp and popular fiction into the literary mainstream. In the past, titles like The Blaft Anthology of Tamil Pulp Fiction and Ghosts, Monsters and Demons of India have foregrounded the mythic, the folkloric, and the marginal in English translation—reclaiming stories that have long existed outside elite literary circles. Their latest anthology of anti-caste speculative fiction, a community project clearly put together with care, extends this legacy with quiet precision. The anthology does not seek to offer narrative closure or stable resolutions. It resists unity, embraces disorder, and insists on the porousness of genre, of time, and of caste itself. Its stories speak from and across differences of borders, languages, and spaces—from the ghostly rural, to the fragmented urban, to digital futures, and imagined post-caste presents often encountering, embracing or enduring science and technology. It opens up not only what caste has been but what caste could mean in speculative registers—how it might linger, mutate, or be abolished in these worlds we have not yet built. The promise remains, though only partly fulfilled. Blaft’s new anthology is a groundbreaking chapter in South Asian SF and anti-caste literature; the full potential of the endeavor awaits to be realized, hopefully further opening up dialogues between anti-caste thought and speculative fiction across contexts and borders.

WORKS CITED

Ambedkar, B. R. Letter to W.E.B. Du Bois. Circa 1946. W.E.B. Du Bois Library, University of Massachusetts Amherst. South Asian American Digital Archive (SAADA), digitized by Gary Tartakov, https://www.saada.org/item/20140415-3544.

Chandra, Kanchan. Why Ethnic Parties Succeed: Patronage and Ethnic Head Counts in India. Cambridge University Press, 2007.

Chattopadhyay, Bodhisattva. “Manifestos of Futurisms.” Foundation: The International Review of Science Fiction, vol. 50, no. 2, 2021, pp. 8–23.

Du Bois, W.E.B. Letter to B.R. Ambedkar. 31 July 1946. W.E.B. Du Bois Library, University of Massachusetts Amherst. South Asian American Digital Archive, digitized by Gary Tartakov, https://www.saada.org/item/20140415-3545.

Prashad, Vijay. “Afro-Dalits of the Earth, Unite!” African Studies Review, vol. 43, no. 1, 2000, pp. 189–201. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/524727. Accessed 9 June 2025.

Satyanarayana, K., and Susie J. Tharu, editors. The Exercise of Freedom: An Introduction to Dalit Writing. Navayana Publishers, 2013.

Paromita Sarkar (she/her) is a writer and a researcher based at Jawaharlal Nehru University in India. She explores the intersections of speculative fiction, anti-caste thought, and media in India. Her areas of interest include Science Fiction, Marginality Studies, Futurism, Cinema Studies, and Popular Culture. She has presented her research on Afrofuturism, marginality, science fiction, and popular culture, at national and international conferences

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The Mountain in the Sea presents a powerful, risk-taking shift in what a novel can be. As some reviewers on Goodreads complain, it is more like a thought experiment than a story, constantly “philosophizing on sentience and semiotics.” Personally, I was thrilled by this thought-provoking, profound element, but even recognizing my own bias, I do think that readers who are disparaging Nayler’s novel (for not being the sci-fi thriller that the blurb on the back misleadingly implies that it is) are perhaps not the intended audience, or are missing the point. The Mountain in the Sea is a dazzling, wondrous book, but it is also a narrative built on academic research. It is a long-form question, not meant to provide the reader with any answers, only a dual sense of impending capitalist-and-climate-change dread and radical more-than-human hope. It is by turns objectively scientific and achingly beautiful, and its goal is just as much about introducing non-academic readers to phenomenological and semiotic theories as it is about finding awe in artificial and animal intelligence. Some readers, especially those who are already well-versed in the abilities of the octopus or the concept of the Umwelt, may dislike feeling preached to, and that is a fair reaction to this divisive book. Still, as scholars of SF, I believe it is a critically important text for us to mark, because it challenges what readers and publishers of SF are willing to explore and expand into. As a complex integration of philosophy and plot and a fragmented, multicharacter narrative that is consistently more interested in internal theorizing than external action, The Mountain in the Sea crafts a sort of academic-fiction treatise, what we might call research-creation without Nayler ever explicitly declaring it as such.

The Mountain in the Sea is set in a speculative near-future that is even further destroyed by capitalist greed than our present world; it is ravaged by climate change, and global corporations control the majority of the world’s money and power. Natural resources are increasingly slim, and wars and trade deals have reshaped our borders and nationalities. It is a world that feels increasingly plausible in 2025, if not already partially here, and some of its brutal realities are what contribute to the sense of sickening dread and despair that the novel does not shy away from.

Two side plots weave the wider storyworld together. Rustem, an elite Russian hacker, is hired by a rival corporation of DIANIMA’s and tasked with trying to remotely hack into Evrim’s artificial mind. Eiko, a young man kidnapped and sold into enslavement, is trapped aboard an AI operated fishing trawler and forced, alongside many others, to perform the physical labor that the computer cannot, while the trawler pillages protected waters. All three plot threads meditate meaningfully on what it will mean to be human—or, more specifically, to be deserving of the rights of personhood—in an increasingly capitalistic and technological future.

Between chapters, Nayler inserts quotations from two academic texts he has invented: protagonist Ha Nguyen’s How Oceans Think, which is directly lifted from Eduardo Kohn’s pivotal text How Forests Think: Toward an Anthropology beyond the Human (2013), and Building Minds, a fictional autobiography by Evrim’s creator, the brilliant but coldly obsessive Dr. Arnkatla Mínervudóttir-Chan. These fictional nonfiction excerpts are where Nayler writes his most academic musings, a strategy that works well. As mentioned, his ideas are situated in an intersection between phenomenology, bio- and zoosemiotics, and recent shifts in human understandings of cephalopod biology. Bio- and zoosemiotics, broadly, are fields concerned with the reading of the natural world as signs with communicative potential, whose originators include Thomas A. Sebeok, Jesper Hoffmeyer, Gregory Bateson, and Jakob von Uexküll. Even the four parts of the novel are named after concepts in these fields: Qualia, Umwelt, Semiosphere, and Autopoiesis. Nayler explores these concepts not just as theory, but as applied to the human condition and our relations with the more-than-human world in peril around us. Consider the following excerpt:

Communication is communion… Perhaps it is this thought that makes us so nervous about the idea of encountering cultures beyond the human. The thought that what it means to be human will shift… Or that we will finally have to take responsibility for our actions in this world. (301) 

In one scene, Rustem also expounds philosopher Thomas Nagel’s 1974 essay “What is it like to be a Bat?” The novel asks consciousness-related questions consistently, introducing readers to the Umwelt concept, which asserts that each species can only experience the world through their own unique sensory and perceptive abilities, therefore making it impossible for us to truly know what it is like to be a bat—or an octopus, for that matter. It would be beyond the scope of this review to explain and detail each theory that Nayler incorporates into his novel. I can only recommend reading it yourself and allowing yourself to be transformed by it. In conclusion, Nayler speaks quite aptly for The Mountain in the Sea through Ha’s book excerpts, inhabiting both the fictional scientist and the SF author when he writes:

I will be accused of many things by those who criticize this book… I will be accused of having created from nothing a vast, speculative archaeology of a possible future, in which we discover that while we are the only species of Homo there may be, in fact, another sapiens.

I do not apologize. I want to help my readers imagine how we might speak across an almost unbridgeable gap of differences, and end forever the loneliness of our species—and our own loneliness. (447)

WORKS CITED

Jennifer. Review of The Mountain in the Sea by Ray Nayler. Goodreads, 17 Dec. 2022, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/63233677-the-mountain-in-the-sea.

M. E. Boothby is a Ph.D. candidate at Memorial University of Newfoundland, Canada, where their research explores intersections of queerness, neurodiversity studies, material ecocriticism, and zoosemiotics in speculative fiction. They write both academically and creatively about apocalyptic fungi, sentient cephalopods, and more-than-human communication. Their work has been published in Horseshoe Literary Magazine, Untethered Magazine, Paragon, Gothic Nature, and Fantastika Journal, and their debut novel is forthcoming from Penguin Canada.

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“A person can leave a place without going anywhere at all”—so says Rose House, the sentient home that provides the name and magnetic setting of Arkady Martine’s recent novella (54). At 115 pages, Rose/House is as slim as a stick of dynamite, and nearly as deadly. Where Martine’s Hugo Award-winning Teixcalaan series (2019-2021) takes place in a far-future, sprawling galactic empire, the world of Rose/House is much more intimate—taking place sometime in the next century, in the Mojave Desert community of China Lake. Named for its dried-up body of water, China Lake’s remote, arid setting makes Rose House all the more enchanting—a house blooming out of the desert, full of lush greenery, a swimming pool, and clean energy, a beacon of technological possibility in a region where the most common crime is murdering someone for their water ration credits.

The narrative follows three main characters, Dr. Selene Gisil, Detective Maritza Smith, and Detective Oliver Torres, as they try to solve the ultimate locked-room mystery. Gisil is the protégé of Rose House’s famous architect, Basit Deniau; she is also the only person who is allowed to enter Rose House to access his records, now that he has died. Given this common knowledge, Smith is shocked when Rose House makes a compulsory call to the China Lake precinct to report that there is a dead man on her premises—a dead man other than Deniau, whose body was turned into a diamond and put on display inside the home. Smith calls on Gisil to return to China Lake and help her gain access to the house. To enter, however, Smith must circumvent Rose House’s programming. She must declare herself an entity rather than a person, China Lake precinct rather than Maritza. Despite Torres’s protests and panic, Smith gives up her claim on individual personhood to meet the house on its terms, to be swallowed up by its walls and logic.

Martine’s novella explores architecture as an inspiration for experimentation, digging into the implications of transforming a mundane domestic space into a super-advanced, one-of-a-kind technological display. Rose House is much more than a smart home imbued with sci-fi gadgets and voice command; referred to throughout as a “haunt,” the house itself is sentient. It listens and speaks without any obvious source of audio input or output, and tiny nanobots teem in the space, ostensibly working to keep the house in prime condition. The house normally holds only one dead man, Basit Deniau, who has been turned into a diamond and displayed on a plinth. The border between person and object here is wholly blurred. A house becomes a person; a man becomes a diamond; a woman becomes a precinct. 

            And yet, there is much we don’t know about Rose House’s origins and history. Beyond one short, ambiguous flash of memory from Dr. Gisil’s point of view, in which she remembers someone diving into a pool, the story takes place entirely in the present moment, after the death of the architect. While the house—the “haunt”—is imbued with a disturbingly omnipresent consciousness, the theme of haunting extends to the power Basit Deniau still holds in death. The memories of his manipulation seep into Gisil’s current reality. Damned to act as his archivist, Gisil’s role as his famous protégé and beneficiary leaves her stranded in her own career, too overshadowed by a dead man to excel on her own merit. Groups of architects, artists, and politicians jockey for a claim on Deniau’s property and legacy, waging ideological and legal battles to access, copy, or repatriate his intellectual and physical property. But Rose House, most of all, is possessed by her departed master. Once the site of lavish parties and admiring guests, Rose House has been emptied and made into a beautiful crypt. Her only job is to guard Deniau’s restructured body and his records from prying eyes—quite literally. As it turns out, Smith is only probing for loopholes because the anonymous dead man did so before her; he attempted to copy Deniau’s retinas, to trick Rose House into handing over her most intimate secret—her source code. In the end, however, our most intimate knowledge of the house comes from the surprising depth of her grief for her creator and for her past life. Though the house is smart enough to see through the imposter’s trick, she allows herself to be taken in, to enjoy the possibility of her beloved’s return, before killing the trickster in an act of vengeful, tragic rage. Rose House is human enough to indulge in delusional nostalgia.

With nods to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, which also focuses on a home that is “not sane,” as Detective Torres states, Rose/House plays with the borders of what language can impart as both a tool of an artificial intelligence and a way of depicting highly advanced, nearly incomprehensible technology. In this way Martine’s depiction of Rose House—its consciousness and its more indecipherable elements—as well as her flair for odd detail echoes the New Weird-ness of Jeff Vandermeer and the worldbuilding sincerity of Annalee Newitz. If Martine excels in depicting the politics and potentials of Rose House’s intellectual property, a piece we miss out on is the greater illustration of Rose House as a physical space. Though specific rooms are described—the entry hall, the garden room with a glass wall, the vault where Deniau’s designs are stored—, much of the house is depicted only in passing glimpses, as Maritza sprints through the strange space. Nevertheless, Martine’s Rose/House is an impressively rich microcosm of AI’s growing potential and of our responsibility to understand it.

Sarah Nolan-Brueck is a PhD candidate at the University of Southern California, where she studies how science fiction authors critique medical legislation that restricts diverse gendered groups in the United States. Sarah was a 2024 Le Guin Feminist Science Fiction Fellow at the University of Oregon. She has been previously published in ASAP/J, Utopian Studies, Orbit: A Journal of American Literature, Extrapolation, and Huffpost.

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In the summer of 2000, I happened upon the newly released paperback edition of Neal Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon; fresh off qualifying exams, I was looking for a fun read, nothing too heavy, to slowly enjoy after the frenetic pace that gutting books requires. The marketing materials suggested Cryptonomicon would fit the bill, so I picked it up.

It changed the direction of my career. I roared through it in two or three days and knew that this novel would have to find a place in my dissertation alongside works by Thomas Pynchon and Ismael Reed, and I began picking up more of Stephenson’s body of work, starting with Snow Crash and The Diamond Age. Cryptonomicon was nothing light, of course, and for those who’ve ventured into the similarly deep waters of The Baroque Cycle, Polostan will resonate along similar frequencies. It is a promising opening to the Bomb Light Cycle (a sequel has not yet been announced), and certainly worth seeking out. I came to like the novel more and more as it progressed, a good sign for a promised series.

That said, Polostan does not stand quite as high as the works mentioned, but it is a welcome return to historical SF form from the Tom Clancy-esque thrillers Stephenson has been releasing of late (Reamde, Fall, Termination Shock, e.g.), with a bifurcated plot that jumps back and forth in time and place quite rapidly. However, it is a slow boil of a story, coming together piecemeal as protagonist Dawn Rae Bjornberg, known as Aurora in her father’s Soviet Union, comes to find herself under the control of Lavrentiy Beria, head of Stalin’s secret police.

Dawn holds American and Soviet passports; born in the US but taken to Revolutionary Leningrad by her father, she returned to her mother in Wyoming as a girl and learned to ride horses there. A skilled polo player and ardent Communist, she then works for her father, observing American troop movements among the disaffected veterans of the Great War in Washington in the early 1930s, coming into contact with such young officers as George Patton, Dwight Eisenhower, and Douglas MacArthur (himself a character in Cryptonomicon). In Washington, she takes possession of a Thompson machine gun in a violin case, and she gains knowledge of a large cache of guns and ammunition being smuggled in from Chicago on the trains.

In Chicago and in Russia, she witnesses the dawning of the Nuclear Age as physicists attempt to release weather balloons to the upper atmosphere to observe cosmic rays and potentially unlock the structure of heavy nuclei, how stars emit x-rays and other forms of radiation, and what might be done to harness such powers. Aurora also bears witness to the human costs of such experiments. Where the next volumes of Bomb Light may go along these lines will be intriguing—much like his exploration of the creation of digital computers through the needs of cryptology in Cryptonomicon’s World War Two sections, Stephenson is laying the foundation for potentially fascinating steps towards Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the development of the Hydrogen Bomb in the US and the USSR in Polostan.

Still a teen but on the run from Federal Agents, Dawn makes her way to the Soviet Union, where her life changes quite suddenly. Unlike a nascent literary critic, her awakening does not happen in a bookstore, but in rather more torturous circumstances. Under Beria’s direction, Aurora becomes “Svetlana” and then “Katya” as she works to report on foreign reporters for the OGPU. Dawn’s next steps are eagerly awaited—unlike such protagonists as YT and Nell in Snow Crash and The Diamond Age, respectively, she is not overtly sexualized in Polostan even as she takes a lover, and while she is clever and opportunistic, Dawn differs from Eliza, Duchess of Qwghlm in The Baroque Cycle, in that she is not driven to collect economic resources and political power—she needs to survive to the next moment.

Polostan is recommended as a slow-burning iteration of Stephenson’s great powers as a storyteller. There are fewer prose pyrotechnics than in earlier novels here and it is not the hard science fiction of such recent works as Seveneves, but it is a compelling read.

Jonathan Lewis is Associate Professor of English at Troy University where he teaches composition, SF/F and American literature. His upcoming book, Contemporary Science Fiction and The Many-Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics: Sacrifice and Narrative Coherence, will be published by Bloomsbury Books.

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Fleshly ships and incantations—key elements of the science fantasy world created by Will Wight in The Captain—are familiar tropes of science fiction and fantasy, and yet, despite this familiarity, their inclusion in Wight’s novel does not cause the text to lose its depth. In The Captain, readers are dropped into the world of Varic Vallenar, a protagonist who “died five times in one day” (1). Using his father’s influence as the owner of one of the largest companies in known space, the Vallenar Corporation, Varic creates a spell around an atmospheric phenomena known as “The Eye of God” to gain the magic of lives that he could have lived. In an unexpected twist, the Aether—an invisible force that permeates the galaxy and acts as the source of all magic—decides that, in order to harness the magic of these lives, he must also experience them. This leaves Varic with the trauma of being killed five individual times in one moment. Due to the Aether’s perception of a wizard, a wizard can only become an archmage in one discipline; however, at the time of The Eye of God, Varic becomes the first to master six disciplines.

Progression (or cultivation) fantasy is a popular sub-genre to tap into when dealing with hierarchical magic systems with strict rules. This typically involves a character amassing power as they travel on a hero’s journey. They “level up” as the story progresses and eventually have a moment where they acquire enough skill within said magic system to ultimately defeat the villain and become a master within that system. For example, in The Weirkey Chronicles by Sarah Lin, the protagonist builds a metaphysical home inside their soul, which grants them strength depending on what they put in it and how much they have built. The protagonist must unlock floors within the home while on their journey. Further, Will Wight has several series of novels that tap into the progression fantasy subgenre. He is well-versed in writing multifaceted magic and power systems. His Cradle series looks at a protagonist who starts off young and willing yet grows into a formidable being by the end of the series.

In The Captain, Varic works at his dad’s company to gather magical artifacts. He is arguably already incredibly skilled in his archmage abilities. This novel does not need to show progression because at the novel’s start Varic already has all the power he will possess over the course of the narrative. In the first chapter, after using what should be an overwhelming amount of security to contain Varic, the novel describes watching him push through the magical cage like “he’d swept aside a curtain… It was like watching someone perform molecular surgery with a kitchen-knife” (17). The use of an immediately powerful protagonist seems to be a deviation from Wight’s usual story-building style. I find this deviation to be successful, as throughout the pages, readers are not waiting for Varic to gain understanding like they are forced to wait for Wei Shi Lindon in Cradle; instead, they are on the edges of their seats, waiting to see what power he will wield to complete the mission. These facets of the novel lend to a read that is still as enthralling as Wight’s past progressive work. There is nothing lost in the subtraction of the progression facets; instead, there is a zeal in the action of the mission involving several already powerful beings.

While it is not groundbreaking in the science fiction realm, ultimately, Veric’s mission is to save the galaxy. The conflict in this novel involves the devastation and death that Varic witnessed in one of his past lives. Though commonly done in the genre, Wight’s use of flashback and memory helps add something interesting to this familiar idea. After The Eye of God event, Varic knows he must again defeat the Iron King who rules the Iron Legion. Wight describes the Legion’s ships as appearing “infected with meat,” calling them “a haphazard collection of gruesome trophies” (20). He describes the Iron Hive, their version of a Star Destroyer, as resembling “a heart, though one with a collection of battleships half melted into it, sticking out here and there like they’d been shoved into place by a gigantic child” (20-21). Wight has descriptors that are visceral, shoving the image of what the pages state into the mind of the reader. Ships with “tendrils of flesh holding metal plates” and patchwork cyborgs abound in this novel (25). This takes a vivid imagination and a skilled finesse on the writer’s part. These grotesque images are possibly meant to show the cruel lengths that the enemy camp is willing to go to both to survive–using anything within reach to quickly build shelter from the outer space’s cruel atmosphere–and strike fear. Furthermore, the Iron King himself is an entity that is far from human. He is a creature with a goal common to kings: to conquer. This idea is not revolutionary for a science fiction villain. However, I do not believe that Will Wight is attempting to make anything groundbreaking in this text; he simply endeavors to aid the reader in an escape to the immersive world he has created.

Wight’s novel does not try to be something that it is not. This is not a text that takes itself too seriously; it is one that is meant to be a fun exploration of what could be in a science fiction world. Wight did not choose to write a set of complex ideas; he instead wrote a novel that could be enjoyed by both old lovers of science fiction and those new to the genre. The novel rarely gives a moral dilemma, showing central characters that are at minimum benevolent and at maximum objectively good. It gives readers a clear idea of Wight’s intention, not forcing them to read the text closely or interpret meaning. With this in mind, it is easy to recommend this novel as an introduction to the science fiction genre. The first of the series of novels in this science fiction fantasy world, it presents to readers believable characters who deal with everything from fraught parental relationships to issues of personhood and autonomy. This lends to a relatable read set in a not-so-relatable world.

Dr. Chelsea Rogers is an Assistant Professor at Charleston Southern University. She received her Ph.D. in English Literature from the University of South Carolina in Columbia, South Carolina. Her dissertation focused on the representations of witness and masculinity concerning young black males in Children’s and Young Adult Literature. Her research interests include connections between 20^th– and 21st-century Adolescent Literature and facets of representation, as well as African American Studies, Graphic Novels, Religion, and Science Fiction.

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Candon’s The Archive Undying is a complex exploration of love, memory, and survival in a world dominated by artificial intelligence (AI) and divine machines. The story centers two primary characters: Sunai, an AI with a human-like consciousness, and Dr. Lut Veyadi, his lover and an adventurer. Together, they embark on a quest to uncover the last shrine of the Emanation of God—an ancient source of power and knowledge that could determine the fate of all beings in their world.

At the heart of The Archive Undying is the complex and multifaceted relationship between Sunai and Dr. Lut Veyadi. Sunai, an AI with a deeply human side, is not just a machine but a living archive with memories, emotions, and the potential for love. Veyadi, a human with a mix of intellectual ambition and moral ambiguity, brings a relentless curiosity and drive for survival to their partnership. Their relationship is intimate and fraught and influenced by their shared history, their differences in perspective, and the power imbalance between them.

Sunai’s role as a repository of knowledge gives him a connection to the MAW, a dying archive he is sworn to protect or destroy. This binds him to the world’s fate and makes him both a target and a savior in the eyes of those who value the archive’s survival. Veyadi, however, recognizes the MAW and the power it represents to transcend his human limitations, which creates an undercurrent of tension between him and Sunai. Their bond, though romantic, is also shaped by ambition and survival, challenging them to reconcile their personal feelings with their responsibilities to the archive and each other.

The narrative also introduces complex secondary characters that further test Sunai and Veyadi’s loyalty and resilience. Madam Wei, a veteran archivist and co-founder of their movement, is a cautionary figure. She is wary of Sunai’s connections to the Iterate Fractal, a torturous entity threatening their world. She remembers that Sunai sent her to be tortured by the Iterate Fractal. This history makes her a formidable presence who distrusts Sunai’s motives, adding another layer of conflict to the story.

Imaru and Ruhi, who connect to Sunai’s past, deepen the personal stakes. Imaru, a long-time friend who sent Sunai a letter that he constantly remembers throughout his travel, tries to dissuade him from entering Khuon Mo, a city filled with danger and political intrigue. Her warnings hint at a history of shared struggles and add a note of tragic foreshadowing to Sunai’s journey. Meanwhile, Ruhi, Sunai’s former lover, reappears as a complex antagonist. Ruhi’s lingering feelings for Sunai create tension and betrayal, culminating in a confrontation that forces Sunai to choose between his past relationships and his commitment to Veyadi and their mission.

Throughout the story, characters are enhanced with prosthetics and relics that allow them to access the memories and thoughts of others. This shared neural interface—especially between Sunai and Veyadi—blurs the boundaries between self and other, fostering a bond that transcends physical and mental separation. The connection is both intimate and dangerous, as Veyadi and Sunai merge minds in what the author calls a “divine convergence” (pages 418 and 433), allowing them to experience each other’s thoughts and memories literally. This union ultimately transforms them, highlighting the novel’s exploration of identity, autonomy, and sacrifice.

Through these relationships, Candon weaves a narrative that questions what it means to love and trust in a world where personal boundaries are interchangeable and permeable and memories are preserved and manipulated. Sunai and Veyadi’s journey is not only one of survival but also a search for connection and understanding in a fragmented, high-stakes world.

Candon crafts a world where shrines and archives house the consciousness of gods and archivists (called “Mohani” on page 51). These archives are integral to preserving knowledge and resisting the destructive force known as the Sovereign. Sunai and Veyadi contend with a complex web of political and spiritual beliefs as they uncover the shrine. The Relic, a powerful artifact embedded in Sunai’s mind, is central to their mission, as it connects him to the MAW, a dying archive. The threat of the Iterate Fractal—a force that threatens to consume everything—looms large, adding to the urgency.

The narrative’s exploration of survival versus domination recalls the themes of the recent film Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (2024). Like the human protagonist in that series, who chooses to destroy weapons rather than allow them to be misused, Veyadi and Sunai view their world’s last weapon as a potential source of salvation rather than a means of conquest. However, they must contend with other characters like Madam Wei, a long-time archivist, who harbors a deep mistrust of Sunai due to his connection with the Iterate Fractal. Sunai realizes that she is the person he sent to the Fractal and who was subsequently tortured.

As the story unfolds, the central characters face betrayals and personal sacrifices. Veyadi takes on the Maw, merging his mind with it to save Sunai in a “relic-to-relic” interface (page 329). This leads to a divine convergence (pages 418 and 433) where their identities blend, symbolizing a literal and metaphorical union. Ultimately, Sunai must confront his past, including former lover Ruhi and long-time friend Imaru, leading to a climactic showdown at Khauon Mo.

This book is a richly-layered novel that examines love, sacrifice, and the meaning of humanity in an AI-dominated world. Through Sunai and Veyadi’s journey, Candon raises compelling questions about identity, memory, and the cost of survival in a world governed by forces beyond human comprehension. This book would be great as a film, graphic novel, or visual representation. Its plot is complicated and multi-layered, and too many characters, worlds, and storylines make it confusing.

The Archive Undying will appeal to science fiction enthusiasts, especially those interested in AI, LGBTQ+ studies, and military strategy. I recommend this book to libraries, public and academic. Due to its intricate storytelling and complex characters, this novel is best suited for upper-level undergraduates and graduate students. The book also offers a thought-provoking examination of religion, showing how it can be both a tool of oppression and a force for liberation when approached from different perspectives. And as previously noted, fans of romance novels will also find it a compelling addition to that genre.

Rebecca Hankins is a professor in the Department of Global Languages and Cultures in the College of Arts and Sciences at Texas A&M University. She has been at the university since 2003. She researches and teaches courses in Africana and Religious Studies.  She has a substantial publication portfolio of peer-reviewed works and has presented nationally and internationally, including via a 2022-2023 fellowship at The West African Research Center in Dakar, Senegal.

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Beneath the guise of a futuristic, expansive retelling of the Aladdin story, The Jinn-Bot of Shantiport is a thoughtful examination of the right of every sentient creature to assert its own identity. The Capekian narrative heritage that concerns itself with the subjective existence of robotic autonomy moves through the novel as fiercely as the characters—artificial and human alike—travel through the busy streets of the decaying, lively city of Shantiport. Furthermore, the novel links the contention over the rights and dignities of who and what we determine to merit them to conscious choices about what families we choose to create and populate. These are evergreen human concerns with a venerable fantastical tradition, of course; Basu here infuses them within a story of mechanized kaiju fights, political and corporate corruption, monarchical intrigue, and the possibilities of new human and robotic futures should beings choose to rethink their existing political and economic structures.

Shantiport is a sprawling and failing once-great city on an unnamed planet where the majority of the population lives and labors under the governance of the ruthless Tiger Clan, a rule counterbalanced by the influence of acquisitive billionaire Shakun Antim. The city is in an existential crisis, with rumors of its gradual and unstoppable sinking running rampant. Into this morass come three protagonists: thieves making their way through first, a quest for a mysterious alien object with limitless potential and, second, a reconceptualization of not only their personal priorities but their relationships to one another as thinking beings. Lina and Bador are very different siblings. Lina, the child of former revolutionaries, hopes for dramatic positive change to her beloved city. Bador, by contrast, is a monkey-shaped cyborg construct with limitless ambition and confidence, a trickster and mischief-maker determined to make his own future and equally so to enforce among his family his sense of self and belief in the independence and freedom of bots in a human world. Bador, created by Lina’s parents, and Lina think of each other as siblings, but Bador balances his intense sense of self-worth with bitterness at his subordinate societal position and the objectification of bots in Shantiport life. As the novel’s narrator and third main character Moku—himself a piece of alien tech, a drone-like sentient bot—observes of Bador,

It’s the casual assumption of human supremacy that upsets Bador most, every time… Bador’s dream is about bot rights. A world where bots and intelligences aren’t just treated as people by humans who are nice, but guaranteed equals in a society by law. By systems. He knows the details are complicated…he’s aware that bot rights are an impossible dream right now and he is willing to wait for change, and to kick an incredible amount of ass while waiting. What he doesn’t see is why Lina’s impossible dream is more important than his. And honestly, I don’t either. (131-132)

Lina seeks an utter end to the oppressive and corrupt power structures that control Shantiport, a nonviolent end that will also institute social equality. It’s a vision that, indeed, seems at least as unreachable as Bador’s, and just as important, but Moku asks a legitimate question: whose priorities in bettering society must take precedence? And by extension, a vital argument about human nature takes shape: Who among us has value in the world? Bador is fully aware that his acceptance by Lina and her mother/Bador’s co-creator Zohra is not absolute, but contingent on their own security needs (Bador knows he is not told everything by them, because they fear the Tiger Clan could capture him and read his thoughts). It is hard in Bador’s situation not to see similarities to underrepresented groups in the real world whose societal progress is frustratingly constrained by conditional white support.

Another major source of conflict in the novel involves differing opinions over how political reform is most effectively accomplished. The titular jinn-bot, Lina learns, is a piece of tech with nearly boundless power to manipulate technological reality, something it grants to its users via the traditional ‘three wishes’; Lina and Zohra resolve to bring justice and order to their beloved Shantiport, but whereas Lina wants to use the jinn-bot for immediate and dramatic change, the former revolutionary Zohra prefers incremental, safer reform with fewer chances for catastrophe or unforeseen consequences.  As Lina says, “You want to use him [the jinn-bot] for small bursts of advantage, not disturbing the overall equilibrium, or drawing too much attention…we should use the jinn to solve the problems we are unable to solve ourselves, systemic problems, multigenerational problems, worldwide problems that somehow humans have bene unable to solve for millennia” (195). A suspicious Zohra responds that the jinn is not a magic wand, but an unknown technology with unidentified interests, furthermore noting “for the society we want to build, self-governance, optimal representation and participation, nonviolence, sustainability, and operational expertise are nonnegotiable. Tech cannot give us that, no foreign intelligence can…humanity’s surrender of its own agency to algorithms and oligarch-owned tech has brought us to the brink of absolute ruin” (196). Influenced by decades of experience, Zohra would promote small societal adjustments and attempts at human consensus, whereas Lina would prefer acting broadly and without the intervention of fallible, argumentative human beings while the chance exists. It is an incredibly relevant debate for this particular historical moment, where we face any number of political crises and well-meaning people disagree on the need for slow vs. radical ways of thinking and acting, and where the increasing presence of AI and other technologies in our lives increases our dependency. Here Basu joins authors such as Kim Stanley Robinson, Malka Older, Ursula K. Le Guin, and others who use SF as an imaginative political space where arguments about necessary ways of governing play out within a fantastical atmosphere.

At its core, The Jinn-Bot of Shantiport is an examination of the ways by which we perceive each other’s relevance to the greater society around us, as well how those perceptions contribute to the communities and identities we try to build for ourselves. Our destinies, both individual and societal, can never truly be reached until we make the decision to understand and accept the worth of every sentient being, including our own. At one point, Bador and Moku are speaking with Tanai, the interstellar ‘space hero’ who has arrived at Shantiport for his own mysterious purpose. Bador confesses to him his doubts about his nature being ‘natural’ or ‘unnatural’, and Tanai provides a heartfelt, intensely humanist response suffused with respect for the autonomy of all people, artificial or otherwise: “If it helps, know that nothing about you is unnatural…I have seen this in many worlds – people who believe some aspect of their nature, or their person, justifies their exclusion. You exist, and you deserve to belong. You are a part of nature, just as much as I, or a tree, or a rock, or even a plastic square. And anyone who told you otherwise is no friend” (269).

Jeremy Brett is a librarian at Cushing Memorial Library & Archives, where he is, among other things, the Curator of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Research Collection. He has also worked at the University of Iowa, the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, the National Archives and Records Administration-Pacific Region, and the Wisconsin Historical Society. He received his MLS and his MA in History from the University of Maryland – College Park in 1999. His professional interests include science fiction, fan studies, and the intersection of libraries and social justice.

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In A Mirror Mended, Zinnia Gray returns five years after the events of A Spindle Shattered, or as she puts it, 48 or 49 stories and happy endings, or five years of missed appointments regarding her chronic illness later. At 26, she is still running from story to story, giving other “Sleeping Beauties” other options than the stories that they were written into, always fleeing into another version just before the final resolution of happily ever after plays out in front of her. But when she gets pulled into a completely different fairy tale marked by apples and mirrors, by a queen who found out how her story is supposed to end and wants a different option, she has to figure out more than just her way back into her own story: Zinnia needs to figure out where it is that she belongs, while also challenging some of her own preconceptions about other fairy-tale figures and characters.

In a preface to the omnibus edition, Harrow states that this duology was born out of a ‘fairy tales go multiverse’ idea that sparked for her after seeing Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse (Persichetti, Ramsey, and Rothman, 2018). While this is certainly not the first take on colliding fairy tales or fairy-tale realms (see: Once Upon a Time [ABC, 2011-2018], The 10^th Kingdom [NBC, 2000], for example) or even interlocking stories (Disney’s Villains novelization series plays with this idea with specifically Disney IP, as do a variety of fairy-tale mash up and remix series for children and young adult readers), Harrow’s duology wields both fairy-tale scholarship and an intimate knowledge of multiversal worldbuilding in a way that stands out from other fairy-tale interpolations. A Mirror Mended surpasses its predecessor in terms of tapping into the impulses of multidimensionality that underpin the way characters move between worlds, while also playing with the latent potentials embedded in the multivocal plurality of the fairy tale form as generated in European traditions of retelling the literary fairy tale.

Harrow’s protagonist is framed as not only a “sleeping beauty” but as a folklorist in her own right, and so her engagement in fairy-tale worlds is not a matter of wishes and wonder but a knowledgeable foray underpinned by an understanding of the ways that stories can resonate with or even against each other. Through this construction, and the eventual problems of world-jumping that Zinnia is forced to confront, Harrow challenges assumptions about fairy-tale interventions, what it means to save people from their fates in unique ways. A Mirror Mended, in particular, complicates the resolution found at the end of A Spindle Shattered.

The two volumes together would make for interesting case studies in a graduate class, especially considered alongside recent scholarship that considers justice and reimagines how the world could be conceived alongside disability scholarship, two recent  impulses in scholarly work that echo in the field of fairy tale and folklore studies Brian Attebery’s conceptual questions about “how does fantasy mean” (Fantasy: How it Works, 2022) as well as what the “affordances of fantasy” (“Affordances of Fantasy,” Attebery 2024) might be. For example, the work of Heidi Kosonen, Veronica Schanoes, and Marek Oziewicz, among other essays, in the collection Just Wonder: Shifting Perspectives in Tradition (2024) edited by Pauline Greenhill and Jennifer Orme, could provide interesting points of departure for discussion. A Mirror Mended also invites considerations of villainy and agency, and the continued role of gendered constructions in tales even when they are being actively remade from within the context of the larger narrative. While there might have been a tacit recognition that the postmodern fairy tale has already been fully explored, as well as gendered biases within these stories, Harrow’s Zinnia and other characters such as Zellandine, Eva, Charm, and Primrose complicate how we do see these figures: as characters or as symbolic echoes who cannot escape proscribed roles. A seminar might explore how having the majority of agentic, speaking character roles belonging to not just women but queer women might complicate the larger conception of contemporary fairy-tale adaptation.

Short fantasy or fairy-tale adaptation is almost a relief in a publishing marketplace of mega-novels, trilogies, and extended volumes, and short fantasy done deftly and with complete narratives and skillful, complex worldbuilding is simply a joy to read. Harrow’s A Mirror Mended and the Fractured Fairy Tales make up a masterclass in genre-bending while once again remaking these stories for new generations of both readers and critics.

Michelle Anya Anjirbag is an affiliated researcher at the University of Antwerp where she completed a postdoctoral fellowship with the Constructing Age for Young Readers project. Her research interests include adaptation, fairy tales and folklore, Disney, magical libraries, the intersection of literature, media, and culture, representations of gender and age, and cross-period approaches to narrative transmission across cultures and societies. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and edited collections. She currently teaches a course on the intersections between fantasy media and sociological questions for international study abroad students in London.

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Most readers of SFRA Review have surely formed their own opinions about Babel since its publication in 2022. The same is likely true for a much larger readership; on the day that I started this review, 409 people were in the queue at the Portland, Oregon public library for its several electronic, audio, or paper versions. The popularity is easy to understand.  Babel is fast paced, has compelling characters, and, at least for American readers, offers the enticement of an Oxford setting. It also has familiar plot lines: an orphan slowly taking control of his life, a group of misfits who band together at school, and a political thriller in which a secret society tries to undermine imperial Britain.

Kuang deftly introduces two interweaving themes just six pages in. Robin Swift is the son of a Chinese mother and a prominent Englishman who has swooped in to pluck Robin from plague-ravaged Canton (Guangzhou). Professor Richard Lovell is a preeminent translator who sees Robin as an experiment in selective upbringing—a tool to be sharpened rather than a son.  To test the eleven-year-old’s grasp of English, Lovell asks him to read a passage from The Wealth of Nations. Robin is too young to understand what he is reading, but Kuang tells her readers in a footnote that Smith is arguing against colonialism. Lovell then hands Robin a silver bar with Chinese characters on one side and an English phrase on the other. When he reads the words in sequence, he generates a physical result by activating the stress that is always involved in translation. So, Babel is a book about power, both the economic and military power of imperial Britain and the power of language to express and perpetuate power relations.

Kuang deftly knots together her three plot lines. Robin’s education, moral formation, radicalization, and attempt to become the hero of his own life run from the first pages when he is a child cast among strangers to his end as a suicide bomber.  After a long prologue covering Robin’s lonely adolescence learning Greek and Latin under the cold eye of Professor Lovell, the schooldays plot takes center stage when Robin arrives in Oxford to study at the Royal Institute of Translation and meets the three other members of his cohort.  The political story builds intermittently behind the scenes of university life and then bursts forward to dominate the last half of the novel.  

Kuang departs from our consensus history by positing that silver has an innate power that can be released by the right pair of words and transmitted at a distance. Oxford’s skilled translators inscribe an English word on one side of a bar of silver and a closely related word from another language on the other. The tension in translation, the gaps and overlaps in meaning between the two words, can be tuned to affect the material world. Bars of inscribed silver can make gardens brighter, wagon loads lighter, and cannons more deadly. They can bolster the foundations of buildings and drive ships faster than wind alone. The steam engines of the silver-industrial age need silver more than coal, translators more than engineers. England did not discover the power of silver—Emperor Charles V established Secretaría de Interpretación de Lenguas in 1527 to capitalize on the flow of silver from the mines at Potosi—but it has used its economic and military power to amass the most silver and train the largest cadre of nineteenth-century translators. In a sense, Kuang’s speculation is a thought experiment about an alternative energy source for the industrial revolution.  

The book centers on four outsiders who come to Oxford already groomed to hone their skills as translators, but who also face a cultural translation gap among themselves.  Ramiz Rafi Mirza, from Bengal, Victoire Desgraves, from Haiti via Paris, and Robin, from Canton via England, all understand their subordinate position in the British racial hierarchy, the impacts of European domination on their homelands, and the necessity of solidarity. They eventually reject the tempting option of being a well-paid but disrespected cog in the machinery of British imperialism. The fourth classmate is Letitia Price, whose personal story is one of tenacious efforts to break free of restrictive English gender roles, but who is still English to the core, unable to comprehend the problem with benevolent imperial uplift that is so obvious to others. She cannot bridge the translation gap between her imbedded cultural assumptions and the insights of the others. Nor does she share the same sense of history. She thinks a future dominated by the British Empire is inevitable; Robin thinks that it is malleable by individual decisions and actions.

The full title of Babel gives away the plot, promising a violent revolution by, most likely, the secret Hermes Society, which recruits Robin in his first year at Oxford and eventually embroils all four friends. The second half awkwardly incorporates some standard suspense novel plot twists and accelerates toward the seizure of the Institute of Translation (popularly the Babel Tower), where Robin and the others have been studying and where the power of silver is concentrated. Robin accepts the necessity of violence through increasingly drastic sabotage that climaxes in the destruction of London’s Westminster Bridge. When the revolution fails to spread beyond some barricaded streets in Oxford, he finally brings down the Babel Tower itself around his head (“let me die with the Philistines” cried Samson in the Temple of Dagon).

What sort of history is this “arcane history?” We are supposed to think, at least in part, that it is based on the chronicle that one of the revolutionaries compiles in the last days in the Babel Tower. He wants an insiders’ record to counter the official narrative that is sure to come when the revolution fails. The notebook is smuggled out on the last day that the tower stands, presumably including something of Robin’s own memories and thoughts. Kuang fills in the inevitable blanks in the written record with the novel’s nearly unfailing focus on Robin’s thoughts and actions. 

Babel is a historical novel set in a parallel world. Canton and England of the 1830s are carefully portrayed. The England in which Robin Swift finds himself is pulled between imperial and industrial expansion and political reform. The nation is still shocked by the Peterloo Massacre of 1819 and still absorbing the effects of the Reform Act of 1832 that extended the vote to many middle-class men. The Chartists are a rising voice for further political change, but the British establishment tolerates the immiseration of industrial workers (Friedrich Engels was yet to write The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844). Like many historical novelists, Kuang places invented characters in situations that match our understanding of the historical record. The bellicose Lord Palmerston is Foreign Secretary. Lin Zexu is Special Imperial Commissioner sent to deal with the British at Canton. William Jardine and James Matheson head the powerful British trading firm that wants an unfettered opium trade. Kuang teases her readers with footnotes meant to assure them that many minor points in the Babel world are also part of our consensus reality.

Babel embeds its fictional characters in this real world and allows them to interact with actual historical figures like Commissioner Lin. And like much historical fiction, a pivot comes with the imagined interaction between the fictional and real worlds, in this case when Robin decides to go beyond his duty as a translator for British interests in China and tell Commissioner Lin the truth about British intentions. His decision prompts Lin to send confiscated opium up in flames and set in motion the First Opium War of 1840.

If Babel is a parallel history, is it also an alternate history? We do not know, because the potential turning point occurs at the very end of the book rather than at some distance in the past (Philip K. Dick, The Man in the High Castle), at the beginning of the narrative (Kim Stanley Robinson, Years of Rice and Salt), or part way through (Greg Benford, The Berlin Project). We simply do not know what happens after Robin brings down the Babel Tower. Do translation centers in Cambridge and Edinburgh have the capacity to stabilize England? Will France fill the imperial void? Will England descend into chaos with the loss of its main energy sources? In our own history that the Babel world closely parallels, 1840 is premature for a proletarian revolution—the liberal risings of 1848, the Paris Commune of 1871, and other partial or failed revolts are yet to come. A short epilogue that follows Victoire after her escape from Oxford suggests that the crash of the tower has not fundamentally changed the structure of power, since she anticipates needing to continue the struggle in places beyond Europe.

In detail, we also do not know if the Hermes Society managed to achieve its goal to avert the Opium War.  In our timeline, the vote in the House of Commons to accept the use of military force against China was a narrow 271 to 262, so the moderate insurgents might conceivably have had a chance to swing the vote if others had not escalated the violence. Robin is convinced that bringing down the Tower will at least delay military action, perhaps long enough for China to better prepare or for British politics to shift, but we will never know.

We contrast Babel with more explicit efforts to use alternate history to imagine the undoing of colonialism. Francis Spufford’s Cahokia Jazz (2024) offers a North America in which Native nations have partially fended off European colonizers and maintain several independent or semi-independent states alongside the United States in the 1920s. Nisi Shawl in Everfair (2016) depicts a long, successful struggle of Africans against Belgian exploitation of the Congo and their establishment of an independent state. In A Master of Djinn (2021) P. Djèlí Clark introduces an element of magic to make Egypt the industrial and military equal of Britain. And a generation earlier, Terry Bisson in Fire on the Mountain (1988) imagined John Brown’s raid as the catalyst for a war of Black independence that leads to an African and African American renaissance. These are all optimistic novels where history has been altered to reduce the power of European colonizers over non-Europeans. They are also novels in which the desired outcome results from concerted group action rather than individual heroics.

Babel leaves readers hoping, perhaps, but not knowing that the future of Robin’s world might have been better. It also suggests a lesson about political change. The Hermes Society relies on agitation and discrete acts of sabotage before a frustrated Robin turns to domestic terrorism. What is absent is systematic organizing to link the grievances of British workers to the anticolonial struggle and build the political movement necessary for revolutionary change.

Carl Abbott is a historian and Emeritus Professor of Urban Studies and Planning at Portland State University. He has published articles about science fiction in Science Fiction Studies, Extrapolation, Strange Horizons, Los Angeles Review of Books, Public Domain Review, and CityLab and is the author of Frontiers Past and Future: Science Fiction and the American West (Kansas) and Imagining Urban Futures: Cities in Science Fiction and What We Might Learn from Them (Wesleyan). Not surprisingly, he is interested in the ways in which the speculative imagination riffs on the history of our consensus timeline.