Peripheral visions is a unique reference collection that includes all of Robert Hood’s 44 ghost stories to date, three of them especially written for this volume. These memorable tales display Hood’s uncanny ability to make the fantastic real, to embrace weirdness and create human characters whose lives – both inner and outer – haunted by mortality, are laid bare and revealed to be our own worst nightmares. Ranging from melancholy reflection on life and death, through disquieting tales of dark humour and vengeance, to chilling visions of ghostly apocalypse. Hood’s stories are sure to draw you into a terrifying world that in the end is revealed to be irrefutably our own. Though many of these stories draw on the traditions of the past, they are far from traditional in approach.
As you turn each page remember this: not everything here is as it seems. There’s always something more, barely glimpsed, out there on the periphery.
Each section has an evocative, disturbing illustration by noted artist, Nick Stathopoulos.
In Peripheral Visions, Robert Hood displays his reputation as a master of disquiet and uncertainty. As the collection’s title suggests, these 44 short stories focus on the things that are almost out of sight—things not quite dead, not quite gone, and not quite harmless.
Some standout stories of the collection include time-travelling ghosts, the daughters of Gods, murderous cartoon characters, Dreamtime demons of the Outback and a post-organic future that can’t shake the echoes of their human past.
Hood brings his uniquely gothic blend of Australiana to each telling, holding the reader in a state of anticipation between what is real and what is not. Like the title suggests, these stories focus on the dangers we glimpse out of the corner of our eye, remaining uncertain of our sanity until the moment we’re forced to confront whatever it is we didn’t wish to see.
These stories share a fixation on death and terror, but there is also a deep and multi-hued exploration of regret, bitterness and loss throughout the collection. Several of the stories even bring a kind of optimistic fatalism, for example ‘Touched’ which also features heavily recursive elements to bring it’s primary character to her fate.
In fact, recursion appears often in these stories, whether as the vehicle for terror (sometimes literally, as in ‘Nobody’s Car’) or as the connecting sinew between the luckless protagonists and their often ignoble ends (as in ‘Resonance of the Flesh’).
It’s perhaps suitable, in a book that collects dozens of previously published tales, that these recursive stories are some of the most haunting and promise to linger with the reader long after the final page.
Fans of horror and the supernatural will want to sit down with this collection when they’re home alone with the lights low and the dying nip of winter still hanging in the air.
This review first appeared in Aurealis Magazine #125
Luke Thacker is a drifting hobo in Depression-era America, riding the rails of the nation and surviving by crumbs and hope. Along the way, he learns the iconography of transients–the Hobo Code–better than anyone else, and deciphers a secret that thrusts him into Athanasia, the middle ground of memories.
Here he learns that all around us is the realm of the deadeye, where the deceased persevere by how they are remembered. The memories Luke meets will do anything to never be forgotten, whether by trickery, violence, or daring.
Luke learns, too, that what’s remembered yesterday is not always the same as what will be remembered tomorrow, and he sets off to keep alive the memories of those he loves in the way a ‘bo does best: telling tales of old legends, and making up new ones alike.
Now, fifty years later, the tall crossbucks of Luke Thacker are repeated by homeless King Shaw, who’s struggling to keep Luke’s own legend alive and with it, perhaps, his own.
‘Cause it don’t matter if you rob banks with a dead John Dillinger, are hunted over the years by vengeful Earp brothers, or go against the monstrous railroad guard Smith McCain: when a story is told, all who are part of it become a little stronger.
At first glance, Doorways to the Deadeye—a story about a psychic hobo riding the American rails in the early 1900s and trying to stop the ghost of Benjamin Franklin from becoming the Emperor of reality—seems too ridiculous to make a compelling tale. Like all good stories, the content of Eric Guignard’s latest yarn isn’t as crucial to the experience as the telling.
In a book about storytellers repeating tall tales, Guignard shows his own mastery of the form. Each section of the narrative flows like a story repeated by groups of strangers as they huddle under a highway overpass, warming their fingerless gloved hands around a burning barrel. There’s an organic, almost hypnotic quality to Guignard’s writing that makes the impossible seem credible. The entire experience shares the same veneer of truth one gets with a story they heard from a friend of a friend.
Doorways to the Deadeye is conceptually captivating. The notion of ‘Athanasia’, the place where memories of the dead dwell until they are forgotten, has an almost Pharaonic quality and reaches into one of humanity’s darkest fears: to no longer be remembered. Borrowing heavily from Mexican traditions of the afterlife, it’s framing in the novel as a subtle nod to colonial appropriation of ideas is excellent—who, after all, gets to write history?—and an early clue to the true nature of Benjamin Franklin’s shade.
This framing also allows drifter protagonist ‘Crossbuck Luke’ to rub shoulders with the most memorable names in early American folklore, including Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, John Dillinger, Harriet Tubman and a distinctly un-Disneyfied Pocahontas.
By retelling the legends surrounding these people, Guignard builds Luke’s own place in the American pantheon—alongside his demonic counterpart Smith McCain, the boogeyman of the railway hobo. Their confrontations through the story and the ultimate resolution of their battle for railway legend are creative and cathartic, and build towards a stunning and dramatic conclusion. If the incredible storytelling and captivating narrative voice of Doorways to the Deadeye aren’t enough to convince you to pick up a copy, then perhaps the meta-narrative might. Read this book, remember these characters and, for a little while longer, keep them alive through the power of a great story.
This review first appeared in Aurealis Magazine #125
Inspired by the Cervantes classic, Sam DuChamp, mediocre writer of spy thrillers, creates Quichotte, a courtly, addled salesman obsessed with television, who falls in impossible love with a TV star. Together with his (imaginary) son Sancho, Quichotte sets off on a picaresque quest across America to prove worthy of her hand, gallantly braving the tragicomic perils of an age where “Anything-Can-Happen”. Meanwhile his creator, in a midlife crisis, has equally urgent challenges of his own.
Billed as the ‘Don Quixote for the modern age’, Rushdie’s Quichotte is a satirical and emotional journey through the depths of the human soul and the modern American psyche.
Much like the original by Miguel de Cervantes, Quichotte is an episodic tale told from multiple perspectives, blending stories of the ‘real’ and the unreal into a surrealistic whole. Rushdie’s homage goes a step further by gifting Sam DuChamp—the fictional author of Quichotte’s adventures—with knowledge that he is writing a quixotic quest. This tears the veil between Rushdie and DuChamp, creating a literary nest with the death of the author as the outer leaf, and death as the universal human experience as the core.
Love remains the story’s central theme. Romantic love, familial love, dependent love, unhealthy love and self-love are all examined under the microscope of Rushdie’s inimitable prose. So too is the lack of love and its expression through physical, racial and substance abuse, and how these moral failings impact the world itself.
Quichotte’s mad quest to become worthy of his beloved TV personality Miss Salma R (get it?), mirrors DuChamp’s own search for self-redemption. The narrative is reflective and whimsical, occasionally ludicrous but always engaging.
The dual reinvention of Don Quixote’s squire Sancho as both an estranged and an imaginary son is intriguing. The Sanchos serve as a central point for Rushdie’s examination of family and humanity, and a creative reworking of the Don’s infamous windmill fight.
In lieu of traditional Spanish chivalric tales, DuChamp and Quichotte take their inspirations from present-day equivalents in literature and television. Rushdie’s novel is overflowing with Easter eggs and references to competing storytelling traditions, drawing the reader into a shared world with the characters, and further blurring the lines between fiction and reality.
Longlisted for the 2019 Booker Prize, Rushdie’s latest addition to the literary landscape is a charming introduction to Don Quixote for readers unfamiliar with the tale, and a thoughtful examination of Cervantes’ classic for literary buffs and scholars alike.
When a pastor’s son saves her life, can a prodigal daughter dare to believe in second chances?
Noah Shaw is almost thirty and he still doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. Torn between running his business as a limo driver for Hollywood’s elite, and feeling called to ministry, he prays for direction. But he never expects that direction to include finding a woman near-death on the front steps of his father’s church.
Hannah left her family and her faith when she moved to Hollywood looking for adventure. Instead of finding fame in the movies, she was lured into the life of an exotic dancer. Hopeless and ashamed, suicide seems like her only escape. Until the night Noah saves her life.
The Shaw family welcomes her into their home and gives her a chance to start over. When the shadows of her former life threaten to expose her past, she must choose between running away or fighting for the new life she’s built and the man she’s grown to love.
I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect when I picked up this book. Although I was raised a Catholic, have been singing in an Anglican church choir each Sunday for the past eight years, and am the editor of my parish’s quarterly magazine, Christian Fiction (emphasis on the capitalisation) is not something I tend to read—let alone Christian Romance*.
As an Australian, too, it’s interesting to consider the very idea of the Christian Fiction genre (double emphasis on the capitalisation). Our church recently changed vicars from an incumbent who grew up in Australia, to a vicar who lived most his life in Kolkata, India. After he’d been here for several months, the new vicar remarked to me how different the Indian and Australian approaches to Christianity are; in Kolkata, it was much more common to have people who identified as Christians including their faith in their everyday speech—thanking God, praying, or simply saying they felt blessed when positive things happened in their life. But in Australia, such talk is culturally frowned upon—faith is something close-held, intensely private, and to display it so openly seems an embarrassment, scandalously brazen, bordering on indecent. One, generally, Does Not Do That Here.
I lead with that anecdote because this novel is most definitely Christian Fiction (quadruple emphasis on the capitalisation). There are more references to God and prayer in the opening chapters of this book than I usually hear from the pulpit itself every week. If anything, they only come thicker and faster as the story progresses. For readers from societal traditions where faith is an integral and open part of everyday life, this is perhaps exactly the kind of novel they would enjoy. As an Australian Christian reader; this was hard work, and the continual arresting of the novel’s momentum to loudly proclaim the Inherent Good And Forgiving Nature of God seemed more like propaganda than honest character moments.
That is not to say that this is a badly written novel, however—the prose is gorgeous and Keener has an incredible talent for illustrating compelling characters with multiple layers of complexity even within the seeming restrictions of the genre. As with many romance novels, the ultimate character arcs, narrative beats, and who will fall for who are fairly obvious from the opening pages, but there is true joy in teasing out exactly how they’re going to get there. The focus on these pairings as Christian Relationships is an interesting angle and introduces a perspective that was new for me (though obviously not for those who have followed these characters through the first novel of the series, whose romantic protagonists play a supporting role in this sequel).
The constraints of the genre aren’t always able to be leveraged to the novel’s favour, though. I can only assume the endemic aversion to (even obliquely) referencing sex in the story is an artefact of the puritan Christian perspective. This really works against certain elements of the narrative—especially for the lead female protagonist, Hannah. I feel like Keener portrays Hannah’s position excellently as a prodigal Christian tale, but we are—perhaps appropriately—forced to take a lot of her characterisation on faith, as key elements are certainly not shown on the page. In fact, the narrative goes out of its way to avoid the kinds of coercive control of Hannah that one would sadly expect to see from the man who ultimately left her to die in a ditch at the novel’s opening.
The representation of Hannah’s situation is consequently either unrealistic (if those means of coercive control aren’t actually present at all) or disingenuous (if they are, but are explicitly left out of the narrative). Whichever the reason, it hinders an honest literary examination of young women in Hannah’s position, as well as raising otherwise unnecessary questions as to how the missing elements might have impacted the Shaw family’s (particularly Noah’s) ultimate treatment of Hannah if her sexual history—abusive or elective—is far too taboo to even mention to the reader, given the historical (often unforgiving) Christian distaste for pre-marital sex.
The complete absence of this discussion from the novel also has the unfortunate effect of lumping all of the women from Hannah’s club into the same category, regardless of whether they were abuse victims or willing participants—it presents the very act of sex(/ualised) work as inherently despicable and degrading, feeding into (or from) an unfortunate stereotype which misrepresents a truly varied and nuanced career ranging from the abhorrently exploitative to the powerfully feminist.
This is definitely a novel aimed at a Christian, and dare I say it, a specifically American Christian audience. However, I feel that anyone who identifies strongly as Christian, and whose faith is a defining and open feature of their personality will resonate with the themes of this love story and the way through which it’s told. And honestly, if you’re ambivalent or even put off by the notion of a strongly Christian novel, you may still find a book like Made in Hollywood fascinating from the sheer perspective that it’s an excellent example of the idealised American Christian faith, lifestyle, thought, and approach to relationships.
You might find you understand a lot more about the Christians you know in your own life—or those you might be writing into your own narratives in any number of character roles—and that can only be a good thing.
*I am working to diversify my reading in the Romance genre, though—check out the awesome new podcast that romance author Belinda Missen and I are putting out monthly where we take it in turns to inflict our genres on each other. It’s a lot of fun.
There was no going back; there was no choice, anymore. I’d chosen out and this was it: hot-cold, dry-wet, bright-dark and lonely.
Hayley has gone rogue.
She’s left everything she’s ever known – her friends, her bees, her whole world – because her curiosity was too big to fit within the walls of her underwater home.
But what is this new world she’s come to? Has Hayley finally found somewhere she can belong?
Or will she have to keep running?
Rogue takes place in a world with biologically-engineered murder dogs, borders enforced by a legion of flying drones, refugees forcibly sterilised upon arrival and markers in your blood that determine where you can live and who you can love. Into that world drifts Hayley, junior beekeeper of an underwater colony who never imagined an existence beyond her home’s metal walls—until now.
The second book in A J Betts’ Vault duology picks up immediately following its predecessor Hive (which Terry Talks Fiction has reviewed in length further down the page). A prologue exists to bring new readers up to speed, but the stories are best read as a pair. The events, people and experiences of Hive weigh heavily on Hayley and play a major role in her direction and development in Rogue.
As Hayley’s world expands from the claustrophobic, madness-inducing confines of her deep-sea commune, so too does the scope of her adventures. Rogue is in every respect a sequel, building and improving on what has come before. Betts’ capacity for world building and thematic exploration is incredible, weaving a trilogy’s worth of wonder into a single novel.
It’s interesting to note that the style of storytelling, so effective in Hive when Hayley was surrounded by the cold metal walls of her undersea refuge, keeps the same cadence in this sequel set under the open sky. Whilst this was incredible at reflecting the growing sense of Hayley’s madness and desperation in the confined environment, it almost works to the detriment of the story here—Hayley is such a different person in Rogue, free of the societal oppression that was literally killing her and totally confident in the reality she’s experiencing. That this story is told in the same voice as the original is somewhat jarring, and doesn’t seem to reflect that growth of her character.
Written for younger adults, the storytelling is slow-paced in places. Hayley must learn—laboriously—to navigate the surface world, beginning with an incredible naivety reminiscent of Disney’s Ariel. This rarely feels like a chore, thanks to the overall quality of Betts’ writing and characterisation, but it lends a languid pace to the first two-thirds of the novel. The frenetic third act races to its conclusion, sweeping the reader past people, places and events that aren’t always given the time they deserve; I kept wanting more of the incredible world Betts has built here, and I wanted to see even more of the people in it.
Behind it all, Betts paints a stark and striking picture of a post-ecological-collapse Australia. The treatment of Hayley and others who come from the sea is a tragic, all too believable potential future; and although the story’s dramatic conclusion leaves enough hope to suggest that change is achievable, it’s an emotionally raw experience for those of us who share the modern-day island continent. This alone makes it a fantastic read, and a very worthy cautionary tale.
Shortlisted for the ABIA Book of the Year for Older Children and Indie Book Awards for YA Fiction 2019, and longlisted for the 2019 Gold Inky, Rogue is an experience that stays with you long after the final page.
WINNER OF THE HUGO BEST NOVEL AWARD 2019. WINNER OF THE NEBULA BEST NOVEL AWARD 2019.
One woman. One mission. One chance to save the world.
It’s 1952, and the world as we know it is gone. A meteorite has destroyed Washington DC, triggering extinction-level global warming. To save humanity, the world unites to form the International Aerospace Coalition. Its mission: to colonise first the Moon, then Mars.
Elma York, World War Two pilot and mathematician, dreams of becoming an astronaut – but prejudice has kept her grounded. Now nothing – and no man – will stop her from reaching for the stars.
In this prequel to her Hugo award-winning novelette The Lady Astronaut of Mars, Mary Robinette Kowal returns to an America where the space race never ended, and where the contest is not against the Soviets—but against time.
The book opens with the event that separates Kowal’s alternate reality from our own: the impact of a planet-killing meteorite off the coast of Washington DC. For Elma—pilot, physicist and savant-level ‘computer’ for the fledgling space program—the implications are clear. Within a century, the rampant greenhouse effect caused by the disaster will render the planet uninhabitable. Humanity’s only escape is to the stars.
It’s refreshing and heartbreaking to see a reality where the government fully understands and is willing to act upon the threat of global warming. But it would be wrong to say Elma finds her mission easy. Kowal’s depiction of the historical elements of 1950’s America is abhorrent and mercilessly accurate.
The era’s systemic, institutionalised denial of women’s capabilities is masterfully challenged by Kowal’s cast of mathematically brilliant computers and ex-WWII pilots. Elma’s status as a Jewish ‘meteor refugee’ gives her a unique perspective on the era’s shocking racial segregation that is sure to incense—but not surprise—modern readers.
These issues are faced so unflinchingly, and in such relatable fashion, that one cannot help but draw parallels to the same injustices happening across the globe today.
The relatability of the characters is enhanced by Elma’s struggle with crippling anxiety throughout the book. As her prominence in the campaign to train female astronauts grows, her fear of public speaking and terror that seeking help will destroy her hopes of getting to space edge ever more to the narrative’s fore.
The book never loses its sense of wonder. It’s impossible not to share Elma’s excitement for the space program and the capacity of the human spirit.Winner of the Nebula, Locus, and Hugo awards for best novel, The Calculating Stars is easily one of the best science fiction novels on the shelves today.
Across The Void by S. K. Vaughn
A visceral space thriller—perfect for fans of Arrival and The Martian—following the sole survivor of a catastrophic accident in space that leaves her drifting in the void with only the voice of her estranged husband, a NASA scientist, to guide her back to Earth.
Commander Maryam “May” Knox awakes from a medically induced coma alone, adrift in space on a rapidly failing ship, with little to no memory of who she is or why she’s there.
Slowly, she pieces together that she’s the captain of the ship, Hawking II; that she was bound for Europa—one of Jupiter’s moons—on a research mission; and that she’s the only survivor of either an accident—or worse, a deliberate massacre—that has decimated her entire crew. With resources running low, and her physical strength severely compromised, May must rely on someone back home to help her. The problem is: everyone thinks she’s dead.
Back on Earth, it’s been weeks since Hawking II has communicated with NASA, and Dr. Stephen Knox is on bereavement leave to deal with the apparent death of his estranged wife, whose decision to participate in the Europa mission strained their marriage past the point of no return. But when he gets word that NASA has received a transmission from May, Stephen comes rushing to her aid.
What he doesn’t know is that not everyone wants May to make it back alive. Even more terrifying: she might not be alone on that ship. Featuring a twisting and suspenseful plot and compelling characters, Across the Void is a moving and evocative thriller that you won’t be able to put down.
Some books really grow on you over time. In the case of Across the Void, however, more time to reflect on the story only serves to exaggerate one’s disappointment with the narrative.
When I originally wrote my review of this book for Aurealis Magazine in July 2019, I had just finished reading it and, determined to concentrate on the aspects I’d enjoyed, I wrote a fairly positive take on the story and it’s telling. But rather than ageing like a fine wine, my perspective on the story has sadly soured into vinegar.
When I look back at the story now, all I remember are the dissatisfying parts which dragged an otherwise interesting setpiece into standard hollywood-esque schlock—uninterested in playing by either the rules of science, common sense, or the rules they’ve established in their own narrative, Vaughn’s characters and narrative conflicts slide from the credibly interesting to the unimaginatively stupid as the plot progresses.
It’s a shame, because the concept really has legs, and the protagonist was a character I wanted to like (and in fairness, most of the stupid happens around the secondary characters and B-plot—most). Perhaps part of my problem with the novel lay in the fact that I also read Mur Lafferty’s Six Wakes around the same time, which touched on many similar plot points and narrative conflicts as Across the Void but in a much more compelling, credible and consistent way. In fact, if you get to the end of this review and think ‘you know, that does actually sound interesting,’ I’d go so far as to suggest you just pick up a copy of Six Wakes instead, and get a fully satisfying experience.
In any case, here’s my initial review. I’m sure you can see the areas where I was trying to be optimistic, but it nevertheless remains true that it’s a rollicking ride—and if a popcorn sci-fi movie experience is all that you’re after (which it legitimately might be!) then the recommendation at the end may still ring true for you:
What do you do when you wake up in a dead spaceship millions of kilometres from earth, with no memory of how you got there and only the onboard AI—disturbingly reminiscent of your mother—for company?
In S. K. Vaughn’s debut sci-fi novel Across The Void, superstar astronaut of colour Maryam Knox is faced with that very question. Half a solar system away, her estranged husband Stephen struggles with a problem of his own—how to bring back the woman he still loves in the face of a system determined to simply write her epitaph into the history books.
The heated examination of loyalty, love, duty and humanity contrasts starkly against the cold indifference of corporate America and empty space. The uncaring and deadly environment is oppressively present in the story, and the knowledge that only a few layers of steel—and a few old white men in a boardroom—separate May from instant, painful death is never forgotten.
Yet, Vaughn’s prior experience as a screenwriter is evident, and fans of science fiction will quickly realise the author prioritises entertainment over slavish adherence to the scientific accuracy of their chosen setting.
This makes for a gripping and intense character drama, but in some ways seems an odd choice considering how close Vaughn comes to delivering a sophisticated and grounded glimpse into humanity’s technological future.
Believably human-like AI, reasonable systemic limitations on human extra-planetary exploration, and a general respect for the laws of physics are all well presented and heighten the deadly tension of the narrative—for most of the story.
By the time that fantastical elements are introduced to the established technology, readers will likely be invested enough in the characters to forgive the unexplained (and unexplainable) deus ex machinas that proliferate towards the conclusion in a very Hollywood-like manner.
The energetic storytelling, compelling characters and fascinating subject matter make this an easy read that will also leave you with something to think about, and anticipating humanity’s possible future achievements.
Earth was dying.
Clouds of blood and lightning killed billions, squeezing humanity to the equator and extinction. There was only one place to go: a planet named Joshua 20.
It was a desert world of scalding steam and crushing ice. A few minutes under the giant suns would burn you to ash. A few seconds in the darkest night would freeze you solid.
Humanity burrowed underground and turned on itself. People became brutal, cruel, selfish. One man escaped that, became selfless, led humanity back home, and then disappeared.
Nobody knows the reason why.
For two hundred years, the memory of that reason lay hidden in the sand like a shard of glass. Uncovered by accident, it buried itself in the brain of its discoverer.
He has two weeks to understand it, to unlock the life and motives of its owner, or it will kill him.
The Loom of Sorrows is a book with a phenomenal, engaging concept, sadly let down by the minutia of the storytelling.
The narrative focuses on the struggles of an unnamed tour guide who unexpectedly inherits the rank of ‘Master Keldin’ upon the previous owner’s death. With the rank comes a robe of alien design, a place of leadership in a cult that collects the memories of the dead—and a mission. The new Keldin must find the remaining fragments of memory belonging to ‘Ennun’, a near-mythical saviour who led humanity back to Earth after a generation of exile on an inhospitable alien planet. If he doesn’t, then the fragment left in his brain by the previous Master Keldin will destroy him, along with any chance of ever reclaiming those lost memories and unlocking the secrets of humanity’s return to Earth.
This narrative is wonderfully gripping, and Kagle has created not only one, but two future worlds that are exciting to explore: the Earth of Keldin’s present, and the historic alien planet Joshua 20 which is explored through his frequent flashes of Ennun’s memories. Sadly, the way the author presents these flashes achieves its purpose a little too well: the flashbacks are random and often interrupt scenes or even sentences with no transition. This capably represents Keldin’s confusion at being thrust into these memories—but it’s also confusing and frustrating as a reading experience, almost to the point where I wanted to put the book aside.
The book also suffers from an inelegance in the storytelling common to under-edited manuscripts or newer writers. Dialogue has a disappointing tendency to simply be characters taking turns to info-dump on the reader, and character actions or reactions veer towards the unbelievable at times. Most problematic is the book’s representation of women, who are overly defined by their sexuality and a Jezebel/Madonna dichotomy.
Even so, the intertwining stories of Keldin and Ennun are intriguing and bring a unique, high-concept vision to the science fiction genre. The theology behind the titular Loom of Sorrows and Keldin’s own ‘Archerism’ is fantastic and synthesises many concepts of religion, death and rebirth into a well presented whole. And while Keldin’s journey might suffer from the crime of convenient character acceptance, it’s nevertheless engaging to follow him as he uncovers more of the past and builds towards the central mystery of the narrative: why would Ennun, a brutalised outcast having returned to the comparative paradise of Earth, return to the hellish Joshua 2.0 and bring the rest of humanity through?
We’re left with more questions than answers at the end of this tale, but unusually (as I generally detest cliffhangers of this kind between books) I felt it works here. The promise of answers are literally at Keldin’s finger—err, well, not exactly fingertips—when the novel ends, and readers who have stuck through to the end will undoubtedly be as keen as I to see how the mystery of Ennun’s key memory is resolved, and what awaits Keldin in the now (presumably) empty halls of Joshua 20.
If you’re able to enjoy a story for its conceptual level and don’t mind wading through a comparatively lacklustre presentation in the writing, then this book offers something engaging for fans of science fiction.
In the follow-up to the “delightful” Regency fantasy novel (NPR.org) Sorcerer to the Crown, a young woman with no memories of her past finds herself embroiled in dangerous politics in England and the land of the fae.
When sisters Muna and Sakti wake up on the peaceful beach of the island of Janda Baik, they can’t remember anything, except that they are bound as only sisters can be. They have been cursed by an unknown enchanter, and slowly Sakti starts to fade away. The only hope of saving her is to go to distant Britain, where the Sorceress Royal has established an academy to train women in magic.
If Muna is to save her sister, she must learn to navigate high society, and trick the English magicians into believing she is a magical prodigy. As she’s drawn into their intrigues, she must uncover the secrets of her past, and journey into a world with more magic than she had ever dreamed.
Fairy tales have become so synonymous with children’s stories since Disney began its song-and-dance retellings of the genre’s classics, that modern audiences might well have forgotten how alien and ominous the Realm of Faerie used to be.
Here is your reminder.
Set as a stand-alone sequel to Cho’s first Regency-era alternate history novel, The True Queen explores a world that blurs lines between realities. The unwary who pass through the wrong door or wander too far off the beaten track might find they are no longer in the world they knew, but within the Perilous Realm itself.
For Muna and Sakti, shipwrecked sisters bound by a curse no magic can break, the perils of travelling through Fairy leap to fore when one of the sisters simply vanishes—whisked away to the very court of the Fairy Queen herself.
Cho weaves an interesting, if dense, tale around the amnesiac Muna and her struggle to rescue her captive sister. She is an engaging and believable protagonist, and it’s easy to empathise with the sacrifices she’s willing to make in order to rescue Sakti and become whole once more.
Fans of Cho’s earlier novel, Sorcerer to the Crown, will recognise familiar faces as they re-appear at the margins and centre of this story. Yet The True Queen remains an excellent point of entry for new readers too, never confusing a cameo with a crutch.
While Cho’s love of florid language occasionally gets in the way of plot, her prose is perfectly suited to the era and characters that she writes. Her distinctive style makes this novel an immersive experience, the enjoyment of which is not hampered by its healthy dose of fairy tale predictability to the narrative.
Like all good fairy tales, the narrative also takes an opportunity to explore moral and social themes such as feminism, gender identity and acceptance, and perhaps most visibly the bonds we have with others through choice and blood. It’s in this final theme that the story shines brightest.
A worthy sequel to a fascinating world.
Robert Jackson Bennett’s Vigilance is a dark science fiction action parable from an America that has permanently surrendered to gun violence.
The United States. 2030. John McDean executive produces “Vigilance,” a reality game show designed to make sure American citizens stay alert to foreign and domestic threats. Shooters are introduced into a “game environment,” and the survivors get a cash prize.
The TV audience is not the only one that’s watching though, and McDean soon finds out what it’s like to be on the other side of the camera.
In the death throes of American exceptionalism, the only thing that can save you is your vigilance—and your gun.
Taking place over the course of a single evening, Robert Jackson Bennett’s Vigilance is an increasingly horrific build up of tension that masterfully weaves a narrative from every worst-case digital scenario you’ve imagined since you first heard the words ‘Cambridge Analytica’.
‘Deep Fake’ video impersonation software, advanced AI algorithms and enough Big Data profiling to make Silicone Valley flood under a deluge of excited nerd-flop sweat all appear within these pages—each applied in the most cynical, yet credible fashion by protagonist John McDean and his team of media communications mass-murderers.
Their vehicle for slaughter is Vigilance, the state-sanctioned reality show that takes a group of carefully-selected troubled youths, arms them and lets them loose in crowded places to mow down innocent civilians—those who aren’t vigilant enough to survive this end-stage capitalist America.
Bennett sidesteps the sheer societal implausibility of a country applauding as bullets rip through children on national television by presenting a future that has doubled down on that mantra so often heard at present-day mass-shootings: They [the victims] should have had a gun.
Delyna is one character who refuses to follow that omnipresent tenet. Reflecting the reader’s horrified perspective on the events of the story, this young barmaid of colour is the yin to McDean’s yang. She highlights the human cost paid by a society caught in the spiralling feedback loop of prioritising market demographics above all else.
Her chapters are a deep breath amid the moral suffocation of watching McDean and his crew prepare for the cold-blooded murder of dozens in the dull normalcy of their high-rise office. Delyna reminds us that neither McDean’s nor his audience’s actions in Vigilance should be considered normal. She is also a cue on how, by assigning humans their value based on the monetisable data they provide, the first steps towards Vigilance are being normalised even today.
Bennett leaves us with an incredibly-executed final act that reinforces how we, too, must remain vigilant—against those who would profit from manifesting such a future.
Felix Jaynes is a special agent for the Real Life Immersion Program (RLIP). A few months ago, she had a traumatic experience that caused her to suddenly doubt her career. Sent to rural town Toselville playing the part of a nature photographer, she finds herself having to network with people like Ashton Mathis, the owner of the only grocery shop in town, and his best friend/employee Gary. Her mission: find the middle-aged son of two weapons designers who created blueprints for the United States government.
Ashton hopes to win Felix’s heart, but Felix is strictly business…or so she keeps telling herself. After accepting his invitation to go out on a date in order to gather information, Felix accidentally blows her cover, and soon, Ashton is attacked. Felix was able to save him once, but now her enemies will stop at nothing to get to them. Their only option to save themselves is to solve this case. And it is not going to be easy.
Perception and Deception is a little outside the genres that Terry Talks Fiction generally looks at, being a thriller/romance with no Science Fiction or Fantasy elements. Instead, I was drawn to the key theme of the novel: deception, and the tension between what Felix thinks she knows, and what events actually turn out to be.
Overall, the novel delivers… satisfactorily on this central element. There are some moments of truly excellent tension, and Hintz does a phenomenal job of instilling a tangible sense of unease in the reader—we’re never quite sure who Felix can trust and who’s lying to her, even right up to the concluding acts of the novel.
Sadly, a lot of the twists that resolve this tension fizzle out. It feels like there are a lot of missed opportunities in the book; places where the anticipation of the reader is greater than the catharsis of the resolution. I was disappointed to find some of the twists I thought were coming instead turned out to be simply what they appeared to be on the surface. As far as red herrings go, there was little sense of cleverness to these moments; they felt more like aborted plot points than they did deliberate choices by the author to mislead.
Part of this may simply lie in their execution, however. Although well handled from a thematic standpoint, the writing is not terribly engaging at a micro level, and reads more like a manuscript still in a drafting phase than it does a completed novel. The story has a tendency to be repetitive between dialogue and narration, and the prose in general reads as stilted and inelegant. Nevertheless, the characters themselves are relatively well-drawn and engaging, and the aforementioned unease was enough to keep me engaged throughout the novel.
Coming from a genre background, I found the worldbuilding—specifically, the institution of the Real Life Immersion Program (RLIP)—poorly handled. The entire operation feels horribly inefficient, bordering on criminally negligent. On the surface, the idea of a pseudo-governmental organisation that places undercover agents throughout America, carrying out a range of secret missions for the FBI sounds exciting. But the RLIP is written with incompetence that strains credulity beyond acceptable limits, and their entire conceit in this novel seems far more complicated than it needs to be. Having also worked as a project manager for private enterprise, I shudder at the thought of how much this operation would cost, let alone trying to balance that out against the possible value of success when actual, cheaper and far more efficient alternatives to the RLIP model exist in the real world. It’s by far the weakest element of the novel.
Once one acclimates to the writing style and accepts these limitations, Perception and Deception remains an enjoyable read, best suited for a young adult reading audience with an interest in a Mission: Impossible-type adventure and a dash of G-rated romance.
Her secrets can set us free.
After a disastrous laboratory accident, exobotanist Dr. ShaylaRam Gomez is desperate to redeem herself in the eyes of the scientific community, and more importantly, her beloved father. But now, with her carefully nurtured study of new black bean seeds in tatters, Shayla is banished to a dishonorable tour of the Obsidian Rim worlds with the man responsible for destroying her reputation – the brawny farmerfrom some backwater planetoid, Dr. Rahim Xie.
The people who freed Rahim from a lifetime of slavery are struggling under crushing debt to the Earth’s Conservatory, and Rahim has vowed to save these destitute Prithvi and Rim farmers. He’ll even steal classified research on sustainable crops from his irascible mentor Grumpy Gomez. When he discovers that meticulous Shayla has a hidden maverick streak, Rahim is tempted to enlist her aid. He needs more than her secrets; he needs her and her brilliant mind to help his cause. But how can he ask Shayla to join a revolution that will pit her against her own father – a man known for his political ruthlessness?
Forced together with their dogbot and humanoid companions, they’ll travel to the edges of a decaying galaxy to fight the corporate greed that is slowly starving the worlds of the Rim. Are these scientists planting the seeds of their own destruction — or will their reluctant collaboration blossom into something beyond mere coexistence?
Coexistence is a book of ups and downs, both in the narrative and in the writing. It aims laudably high in its scope, exploring everything from self-actualising Artificial Intelligence, to extrasolar politics, to commercial and punitive slavery, to wealth and privilege, to exobotanical research, scientific funding models and the cultural possibilities of humanity having dedicated interstellar research colonies.
If that sounds like an overburdened sentence, that’s because it is. Coexistence is similarly weighed down by these varying narrative elements, some of which are explored more deeply than others, but none of which feel executed to their full potential. It’s a pity because there are some really good elements here, and some unique treatment of familiar science fiction tropes. The AI angle—to take one of Aier’s great setups as a case study—is intriguing, with many of the artificial beings that are met throughout the story showing clear signs of unexpected emergent behaviour—particularly the fantastically bizarre (or should I say bazaar?) A1i8A8a, the sole occupant of the orbitally-slaved asteroid Deserta.
As with much of the narrative, however, the most interesting elements of this plot hook ultimately fail to deliver. Characters who notice this behaviour consistently fail to react to it in a credible manner, and when the motivations of Rahim—the novel’s secondary character—are revealed, it’s profoundly disappointing they don’t relate to this emergent behaviour at all. The nature of Rahim’s interactions with synthetic beings throughout the book, from his early discussions with an AI on the pleasure asteroid, to his interactions with Nelson (the main cast’s AI), to his genuine affection for his robot dog all suggest a deeper motivation more established by the narrative than what is finally presented.
This lack of nuance is matched by the protagonist, Dr Gomez, with her motivations and actions through the narrative vacillating between the strange and the utterly ridiculous. Conceptually, much of what her character represents is excellent; a brilliant scientist, routinely having to fight for her goals and to be taken seriously by the people around her; a child of privilege who works to reject the unthinking cruelty of her class; a woman struggling to come to terms with herself and her place in the universe. Sadly, the writing lets her down—cartoonish inner monologues and plans with scooby-doo levels of intellectual rigour (such as her suitably-maligned ‘robot dance’, or when she takes an interrogation straight from ‘introductions’ to ‘I’m going to strangle your hamster with my bare hands’ in the space of two sentences) make it difficult to connect with her as either a scientist or a human being.
The tertiary characters of the book share a veneer of complexity in terms of their varying pronoun usage, cultural backgrounds, life experience and living conditions, but little of this goes past the surface. Each of the characters in this novel, whether in the main or supporting class, generally fall flat, seeming to exist only to drive the plot in the direction it needs to go rather than being living and breathing people in their own right. The romantic component of the novel alluded to in the marketing copy suffers the same fate—it’s there because it has to be, but is so clumsily handled that it might as well be absent.
Hopefully, this novel will assist Aier to greater storytelling in her novels to come; the genuinely interesting worldbuilding elements of Coexistence deserve a second treatment, and with more stories for these characters presumably in the works, we can look forward to their development in the future.
‘All I can tell you is what I remember, in the words that I have.‘
Hayley tends to her bees and follows the rules in the only world she has ever known.
Until she witnesses the impossible: a drip from the ceiling.
A drip? It doesn’t make sense.
Yet she hears it, catches it. Tastes it.
Curiosity is a hook.
What starts as a drip leads to a lie, a death, a boy, a beast, and too many awful questions.
In a world where a headache might be the first sign of incurable insanity, God stalks the halls at night, and the only place water should exist is where He gives it to you—be careful through which corridors you follow a runaway bee…
Hive is at its core a story about a girl who’s afraid she’s going mad. Hayley, the bee-keeping protagonist, has lived her entire life knowing the certain and unalterable truths of her world—and the reader gets a front-row seat as an ever-worsening series of events shatter each of those truths in exquisite detail.
At each of these turns in the narrative, Hayley is faced with the horrifying dilemma of the crazed—is she the only sane person in a world gone mad, or has she already passed the threshold of insanity? Can she trust herself to separate delusion from reality?
The world that Betts creates for Hayley to examine is interesting and unique, although the setting suffers a little from the marketing copy and the fact that it’s written for a Young Adult reading audience. Adult readers (and, I have to imagine, most of its YA readers) will see the grand reveal coming almost from the opening chapter and Hayley’s first encounter with ‘the drip.’
Nevertheless, the path that Betts takes through the narrative remains interesting. One truly gets a sense of warped reality and feels that Hayley might very well tip into actual madness at any moment. Being constrained in such a small space, the plot must also necessarily remain tight, and the characterisation, dialogue, worldbuilding and atmosphere are all top-notch.
Another way Betts leans on Hayley’s feelings of madness is through the writing style itself. There’s an explicit jerkiness to the writing here, an uncanny valley that highlights the strangeness of every scene. In places, the prose reads like a transcribed marionette show; resembling reality, but with something fundamentally off. This isn’t as detracting as the statement might seem—the style absolutely suits the storytelling, and encodes the reader to share Hayley’s oppressive sense of unease. It’s very effective at getting the reader to share that emotion—whether or not that’s desirable will be down to personal taste.
Being shortlisted for the 2019 Gold Inky, the 2019 ABIA Book of the Year for Older Children and the 2019 Indie Book Award for Young Adult Fiction, it’s clear that style has hit in some pretty notable ways.
If you’re up for a head-spinning descent into the depths of madness, delivered with a sci-fi twist, then Hive by A. J. Betts is certainly something worth checking out.
The After Wife by Cass Hunter
“I saw you, and I knew instantly that I could grow old with you. We’d be future-proof.”
When Rachel and Aidan fell in love, they thought it was forever.
She was a brilliant, high-flying scientist. He was her loving and supportive husband.
Now she’s gone, and Aidan must carry on and raise their daughter alone.
But Rachel has left behind her life’s work, a gift of love to see them through the dark days after her death.
A gift called iRachel.
The After Wife is a book about grief, love, and living after a family member has passed. It’s also, theoretically, a book about a robot—but we’ll get into that later.
The story follows the lives of the newly-widowed Aidan and his daughter Chloe following their respective wife and mother Rachel’s sudden death. And, for all the sci-fi twist that comes when Rachel’s self-modelled, fully-functioning Artificial Intelligence moves in, their struggle to return to normalcy remains the core of the book. Hunter writes a poignant and gripping character drama here, expertly manipulating the reader’s heartstrings as the family swings between crippling emotional lows and manic, desperate highs. Developments with secondary characters such as Aiden’s mother Sinead or how Rachel’s death impacts Chloe’s relationship with her friends Amy and Jess are crippling in their cruelty, but impossible to turn away from.
One particular scene—when Aiden and Chloe visit Sinead for a Sunday roast—broke my heart entirely.
Helping them through this tumultuous time is iRachel. Made to look and act like her namesake creator—and filled with Rachel’s memories—the robot takes up surprisingly little space in the book. The narrative features her heavily, yes; but her scenes generally focus on what impact her presence has on the wider household, rather than her own goals and motivations, or the simple sci-fi wonder of her impossibly advanced technology. Her character could be replaced by any Poppins-esque house guest and the story would remain relatively unchanged. This is not to say that’s a bad thing—the character is written well, almost human, and their presence in the novel seems as natural as the family’s near-instantaneous acceptance of her in their lives. She adds a distinctive flavour to the story.
Questions such as ‘what makes us human’ and ‘where is the line between humans and their creations’ are common themes to consider when looking at a novel with a domestic AI. True to form, both are present here (is there ever an elegant way to write something like ‘Luke has built me as a complete woman’?), but they are mostly skimmed over. These are not the central core of the story, and Hunter doesn’t spend her time elaborating on them. There’s enough there to be satisying if you dig for it, and spend some time really thinking about the sci-fi implications of the story, but the narrative won’t hold your hand and facilitate this examination when it can spend it’s time musing over the effects of human grief.
A very familiar ‘domestic AI’ trope does sneak in towards the end of the story, though. Astute readers of science fiction will know exactly what is going to happen the moment iRachel steps out of the house near the novel’s climax, and considering the interesting sci-fi treatment of the preceding narrative, it’s rather disappointing to see this tired old crutch used as the focal point for collapsing the entire iRachel deception. The surprising and intriguing conclusion to iRachel’s story arc may absolve the book of that sin, depending on the forgiveness of the reader. I, for one, found it to be an acceptable trade-off—the ultimate conclusion to that series of events is one I’ve not seen before, and iRachel’s personal perspective on the moral and philosophical can of worms it opens is intriguing.
Overall this was an excellent story that I struggled to put down. It doesn’t lean into the sci-fi angle as much as it possibly could but what it uses, it uses well. It’s just enough to season the story and set the stage for a gripping examination of what it takes to put a family back together once it’s been shattered by tragedy.
And even if it might seem this review is mostly gripes, I’d still recommend this book whole-heartedly: it’s easy to nitpick when something comes so very close to being just the kind of book you love to read. And this book is, so very much, the kind of sci-fi I want to read more of.
‘The Rules of Supervillainy’ by Charles Phipps
Gary Karkofsky is an ordinary guy with an ordinary life living in an extraordinary world. Supervillains, heroes, and monsters are a common part of the world he inhabits. Yet, after the death of his hometown’s resident superhero, he gains the amazing gift of the late champion’s magical cloak. Deciding he prefers to be rich rather than good, Gary embarks on a career as Merciless: The Supervillain Without Mercy. But is he evil enough to be a villain in America’s most crime-ridden city? Gary soon finds himself surrounded by a host of the worst of Falconcrest City’s toughest criminals. Supported by his long-suffering wife, his ex-girlfriend turned professional henchwoman, and a has-been evil mastermind, Gary may end up being not the hero they want but the villain they need.
Rapidly setting a precedent for Superhero novels, we’re here with the second official Terry Talks Fiction review!
Unlike our previous review of Super! by Jennifer Chen, The Rules of Supervillainy by Charles Phipps is very much an adult story for an adult audience—or at least, it’s supposed to be.
In the preface, Phipps makes a statement which seems to perfectly characterise his approach to the novel: ‘There’re plenty of people who have created more grounded or “realistic” superheroes. I have no interest in this, though. No, my world is unabashedly unrealistic and proudly so. It is the result of me sticking every comic book I’ve ever read in a blender and hitting frappe.’
As a blog that focuses on building and deconstructing imaginary worlds through the application of the rigorous and scientific archaeological method, you might see why this raised a few red flags from the outset! I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when the world of this novel didn’t live up to my lowered expectations. Although marred in places by the writing, trope-tastic characterisation, and largely absent grand narrative arc, the overall setting for The Rules of Supervillainy is remarkably consistent and unquestionably interesting. We’ll start by examining some of why that is.
Gary Karkofsky lives in a pretty strange world by our standards, but remarkably standard for the superhero genre. His city is a veritable battleground between superheroes and criminals, each competing for control over their relative metropolitan fiefdoms. Somehow, this hasn’t caused the populace to flee, or spend all of their time shopping and banking on the internet to reduce their chances of being caught up in some sort of horrible hostage situation.
What really intrigued me about the way Phipps presented this social and criminal pyramid, however, was how straightforward its rules seemed to be on the outset, but how nuanced they turned out to be on closer examination. In this world, criminals—well, ‘supervillains’ at least—climb the hierarchy by deposing the villain above them. Whilst protagonist Gary mostly achieves this through violent murder, the secondary characters of the novel reveal how this can also be achieved in less dramatic fashion: through certain villains falling out of favour with their henchmen/women, failing to keep up with the financial overheads of maintaining a lair and a payroll, or simply by retiring (or heading off to jail) and leaving a power vacuum in their wake.
The up-and-down nature of this power balance has led to a curious level of influence for a villain’s henchmen/women. Career underlings—at least, the main ones we see in this story—seem to have a level of responsibility we don’t normally see in the genre; from directly negotiating their contracts with their employers, to working for multiple crime lords, all the way up to acting as de facto majordomos for their current supervillain. And acting is a key word here—it seemed to me, at least, like middle management is where you want to be (and to remain) in this world, regardless of which villain appears to be the one in charge (and acting on your advice all the way).
On the other side of the coin, there is a clearly-defined and efficient superhero organisation which has all but rendered the (ineffective) local law enforcement bureau obsolete, and which is led by a select few Ubermensch whose powers verge on the obscenely god-like. They operate from their headquarters (in)conveniently located on the moon (like a lot of fiction, there seems to be a fundamental misunderstanding of exactly how far away that is). The way the organisation integrates with the governments of earth seems quite solid, though, and the lacklustre police response/presence in the story is probably a fairly realistic representation of what this occupation would be when dozens of superheroes were likely to swoop in and save the day before you could get to your squad car.
Phipps inserts a lot of dangling plot threads in the background of his world as well—the occult themes of the city’s architecture, the wider conflicts between sets of super hero/villains, and numerous allusions to a history of the world that only touches the page. The sense of a deep history here is very good; it fills out the world fantastically and is by far and away the greatest strength of the novel. It makes the world seem like a realistic place in which the characters have grown up in, not just been plonked into at the start of the story. And speaking of characters…
The Rules of Supervillainy follows a small cast of characters, mostly interchangeable, but predominantly focuses on Gary and the magical cloak which bestows his super powers. And the cloak is, itself, a character—it’s voice present inside Gary’s head, questioning his motives and providing him with advice and exposition throughout the narrative.
Gary is a… complex character. He teeters on the edge between lunatic and lampoon, bumping into objects one moment and savagely beating people to death the next. At his core, there is a fascinating potential for commentary on duality and the way a person’s actions can be defined by their personal relationships: Gary’s list of lovers, his family and his friends all seem immune to his psychopathy, and he has genuine concern for their feelings and well-being whilst harbouring zero empathy for his victims. Sadly, this potential is not effectively explored in the writing, with Gary’s characterisation all too often falling back on an immaturity and inconsistency of tone. It’s also more than a little eye-raising that there doesn’t appear to be a female character in the book who this erstwhile lothario hasn’t slept with—egregious to the point of straining credulity, and like many of Gary’s other actions, smacking a little too close to apparent author wish-fulfilment for reading comfort.
In contrast, the character of the Reaper’s Cloak—Gary’s source of supervillainous power—is remarkably consistent throughout the novel, in both tone and voice. The voice of reason against Gary’s madness, it is often the breath of air the reader needs in an otherwise suffocating scene.
The real elephant in the room, however, is the other character who appears on the cover.
Arbitrarily naming herself ‘Red Riding Hood’ somewhere in the middle of the novel (because reasons), this character simply could have called herself Harley Quinn and been done with it. The novel would miss very little if the character was completely absent; in fact, it would probably be substantially improved. Author preface aside, the deliberate choice to lean into this thinly-veiled expy does more to take the reader out of the unique world Phipps has built, than provide value to the story.
And speaking of the story…
Although it is enjoyable on the whole, the narrative of this novel less resembles a consistent plot as it does a collection of sequential events. Many of the events of this novel are clearly intended to set up the backstory for later books, and the overall narrative arc suffers as a result.
Certain threads of the plot such as purchasing a lair, the occult flavour of the city and how that relates to Gary’s powers, particularly his communication with the dead, are heavily invested in, in terms of reading time and word count, but have very little substantive impact on the novel’s climax—in fact, the narrative arc that culminates at the end of the story only begins in the final third of the book and is almost entirely unrelated to the events that came before; every single character (besides Gary and his cloak) and even the setting is replaced with something altogether new.
Overall, there is no sense that the plot is driving to anything throughout which, combined with the carousel of secondary characters entering and exiting the story around the protagonist, makes for little stakes. I also harbour an innate and intense loathing for the practice of terminating a novel mid-scene in an inelegant attempt to direct the reader towards the sequel. This is particularly egregious here, when a poorly-contextualised mystery is presented on literally the final page before a scooby-doo-style chase into the credit roll.
If you’re willing to look past the negative elements of the writing here, there’s a kernel of truly interesting worldbuilding and superhero exploration to be had in The Rules of Villainy, particularly thanks to the focus on the nefarious side of the genre. It would be interesting to see where the many dangling plot threads end up weaving their way back into the serialised story, and for the price of a large coffee it’s probably worth checking out for oneself to see if the milieu of Phipps’ world is enough to grip you through the story as well.
‘Super’ by Jennifer Chen
In a society of superpowered children, all eyes are on Beata Bell, descendant of the great Frances E. Shaw, the world’s Original Super. Bets are placed on which amazing superpower she will develop. Flight? Telekinesis? Super strength? Only Beata Bell remains stubbornly, infuriatingly, and inexplicably ordinary. Sidelined, she must face the painful reality that she might never live up to everyone’s expectations. But when a new villain threatens the city, Beata is launched into a whirlwind of mystery, danger, and conspiracy. With a totally un-Super skillset, she must exhaust all her wits and courage to save her friends—and to survive.
As this is the first review to officially appear on Terry Talks Fiction, let’s start with the obvious: Super! is a great book and a worthy addition to the superhero genre.
In fact, it’s a noteworthy addition not only because of what it does right (and trust me, it does plenty of things right) but also because of what it deliberately doesn’t do (more on that in the spoiler section below). The narrative here is engaging and well-written; it effortlessly pulls the reader through the story (I read the entire thing in one sitting, deep into the night) and it adroitly navigates the dizzying mess of cliché that comes with any new media that includes the word ‘Superhero’. The characters are believable and well-rounded: there are no papier-mache constructs here, only a bunch of kids who’ve got themselves way over their heads, and a series of adults befuddled by the strange requirement of taking these kids completely seriously—some of whom could take their heads off with a laser beam at any moment if they don’t.
As an archaeologist, my approach to analysing (and appreciating) a work of fiction is highly contingent on the basic archaeological principle of context, both the internal principles of setting, character and narrative within the novel, and how these elements play against the wider genre in which it sits. So, in that vein, I’d like to break down what I think are some of the salient points that make this novel so great, one by one.
Like most settings in the Superhero Genre, Super! takes place in a world technologically and socially very much like our own, with one key difference: the existence of those who’ve won the genetic lottery and developed a range of unique and fantastical abilities. As far as superpowers go, all of your old favourites are here: flight, telekinesis, super-strength, eye-lasers, fireball-flingers; you name it, and it’s probably mentioned somewhere within these pages. Even a few non-traditional powers make it into the mix: technology manipulation, precognition and empathic abilities are all possible in this world, as well as one less-seen power that is a core element of the leading superhero’s (and antagonist’s) repertoire: metal manipulation.
Of particular note here, is the unique hook that comes with these superpowers—they are only wielded by teenagers. Although it took me a little while to be clear on this point (whether from my own skimming of an important paragraph near the beginning or through Chen’s communication of this particular detail), a defining characteristic of superpower expression in this setting is the short window of time within which a particular superhero can operate. With their powers fading upon adulthood, the Superheroes of this setting are truly dangerous, both to the normies and to themselves – left unchecked, who knows what these kids, still discovering themselves as all teenagers are, could possibly get up to in a fit of adolescent rage or simple immature misunderstanding. And because these powers fade, the world is populated by a truly interesting mix of people who, like elite sport stars past their prime, are watching and mentoring the next up-and-comers to the public stage of ‘Superhero Work’—some taking this responsibility with grace, but others, as one would expect, with resentment or jealousy. Add to that fact that these kids are gifted with extraordinary abilities at the most hormonally-tumultuous time of their lives, and you have a recipe for potential disaster.
Luckily, like with many fictional worlds where superpowers are the norm, there is a clear (inter?)national policy on super-powered individuals: in this story, represented by the ‘League of Superheroes’, a pseudo-governmental corporation that manages and directs the Supers of Toronto and their missions. This corporation is, for the most part, written incredibly realistically and is an interesting take on how a predominantly-unpowered social group would and could seek to direct the activities of possibly-uncontrollable superweapons walking around in their city. They have a highly-developed early detection system for identifying super-powered individuals, a rigid social and directorial hierarchy for incorporating those supers into the business of protecting the city, and they are—as one would expect in the social media, 24-hour-news-cycle age—extremely good at directing their Supers’ publicity. This facet of the organisation, in particular, becomes more and more important as the story progresses, and provides a very interesting and believable means of control over the uncontrollable, especially given the particular and specific emotional needs of the teenage population they’re working with.
Overall, this setting is wonderfully consistent, with a proper and engaging exploration of how all these elements tie in with one another. Reading through, you never get the feeling that there’s an element of this world that hasn’t been fully fleshed out and, if you do feel like there are some aspects of the social structure that are hard to swallow at first, Chen returns to those points in the later sections of the story, masterfully elucidating why those particular niggles, obvious to an adult audience, were flying so unquestioned over the heads of the young teen protagonists.
Which brings us to…
Writing superheroes is hard. On the one hand, they have to behave like you and me; normal, or at least normal enough that we can relate to them. On the other hand, they have these fantastical abilities like flight or the ability to suck the metal out of the very device you’re reading this on and turn it into a tiny statue of themselves. Y’know, if they just felt like it.
Chen sidesteps this issue by centring the narrative on Beata, the apparently-unpowered descendant of the worlds ‘first’ superhero. By doing this, Chen introduces the reader to the world through our own perspective: the person looking on as those around them, or before them in the pages of the book, go off and perform these marvellous feats. Not only does this bring us closer to Beata’s character, but it also allows us to focus on the fantastic and the celebrity of these super-powered heroes in a very relatable way. We feel Beata’s frustration at being left out, just as we feel the same sense of understanding as she gradually comes to realise what kind of lifestyle lies behind the gilded cage; one that we readers can relate to in our own observations of the benefits—and the drawbacks—of real-world celebrity.
Chen’s bold choice to make the protagonists (and a major antagonist) of the series very young teenagers is also an interesting one. Whilst this is obviously done in part to satisfy the age of her primary reading audience, the rules of the world she’s created also trap her in this regard. In order to have Beata’s central character conflict—her worry over whether or not she will finally develop superpowers of her own—she needed to be of an age where the doubt was still up in the air. By making superpower development analogous to puberty Chen must, therefore, place Beata at the age she does: twelve years old.
This leads to perhaps the only real niggle that I have with the novel in its entirety, which is Beata’s incredible competence for a child of her age. Whilst I’m certainly not suggesting here that twelve-year-olds aren’t capable in the real world—and the changed social strata of Chen’s world that comes with idolising youth, and the very possible chance that a parent demanding their fourteen-year-old clean their room ending with an immolation—the competency that the narrative demands of Beata sometimes presses against credulity. She is not only an expert app developer, but a naturally-adept VR gamer, detective and, due to her family legacy and close personal friendship with the city’s leading Super, intuitively cognisant of all the various social situations she finds herself in, whether that be evading bullies at school or having a one-on-one chat with the de facto leader of the entire League of Superheroes.
Even so, Chen’s writing of Beata’s character is presented well, with enough of the narrative’s themes (initially) completely passing over the protagonist’s head that we are able, as readers, to buy into the fact that this is a credible twelve-year-old’s perspective on the world which she inhabits.
The supporting characters of the novel are similarly well-fleshed: Beata’s ragtag group of normie friends are well-written and engaging, but it is, of course, the superhero that draws one’s attention. Beata’s best friend, Gweneira, is an engaging and honestly real character. Her perspective on ‘being a superhero’, both spoken and seen in the context of her actions throughout the book, is unique and refreshing in a genre that has all-too-often relied on its characters being The Boy(/Girl) Scout or The Gritty Anti-Hero. Gwen is refreshingly human, and refreshingly childlike—not ‘childish’, but still prone to all the mood swings, drama, and malleability of creed which comes with her stage of life, in addition to her straining to bear the weight of adult expectations. Inherently, like most of the characters in this novel, she’s a good kid, one who just happens to have been thrust into the global spotlight at a young age, burdened with exceptionality, and expected to perform to the standard her role models demand of her.
And speaking of those roles…
Super! follows a unique ‘superhero’ plot, in that it does not follow the struggles of a young Superhero. Instead, the ‘hero’s journey’ of this novel is focused on one of those left behind—a ‘dud’ who is not rising to their family’s (or the public’s) expectations for exceptionality. Unlike some of the other entrants in this particular niche of superhero story—Disney’s 2005 film ‘Sky High’ presents itself as the obvious comparison—the tension of Beata’s apparent superheroic inertness begins as a key element of the plot, then slowly fades into the background as the scope of the tale widens. It is honestly refreshing to see a story in this genre that truly moves its characters beyond the problems that they face at the beginning of the tale, and focuses instead on the wider problems that develop as the characters explore the world. Beata’s ability to move past her fixation on whether or not she will develop powers once she begins to unearth the true scope of the threat facing her city, and Gwen’s character development through the narrative to reflect the changing circumstances and pressures that are occurring around her, are a welcome departure from the normal repetitiveness of both the Superhero and the YA genres.
Although a lot of the particular things I loved about the narrative really deserve to be discussed in the spoilers section below, I will say that there are certain subversions of the ‘traditional superhero story’ which take place in this narrative, and that they are very satisfying. The scope of the plot, focusing mainly on what a society including both super-powered individuals and normies could actually look like, rather than focusing on the spectacle of said powers, is welcome and well-executed. The central ‘reveal’ of the narrative, whilst perhaps an obvious one, is nevertheless satisfying and delivered well through the eyes of our twelve-year-old protagonist. Internally, the story does a good job of setting all the clues in place for the reader—if, again, a bit obviously for adult eyes—to service the moment where the protagonist recognises the retrospective significance of those clues, and thus this reveal remains effective within the context of the story. And within the wider context of the genre, this is an under-explored narrative arc that serves as a worthy addition to the thematic discussion of ‘superhero stories’ and what it would mean to have these people amongst us.
Overall, Super! is a satisfying and interesting romp through a classic Superhero tale, with a unique and well-executed twist. The teenage superheroes are intriguing, and the protagonist and her team are engaging, offering a worthy commentary on the aspects of Superheros we have learned to take for granted after a hundred years of their representation through comics, books, film and television. In avoiding some of the major clichés of the genre, it offers a fresh take on Superhero society, and that alone makes it worth your time to read and absorb in its entirety.
You can get Super! by Jennifer Chen on Amazon Books here, in both paperback and Kindle formats.
Beware, Ye Who Enter Here: There Be Spoilers Ahead!
If you’ve already read the book, or you’re just that kind of crazed maverick who says ‘surprises be damned! I want to know it all!’, then there is a ‘spoilers’ section available for reading below. This section has been written in white text, so in order to read it you simply need to select the text with your mouse (or hold your finger down on your screen) and that should highlight it for you. Be warned, though: this section will be discussing some major aspects of the plot and characterisation, so if you want to organically experience these revelations through the narrative (recommended), then it’s best to hold off reading the below until you’ve read the book.
Okay, enough warning?
*deep breath* Then here we go:
There are two main points I want to hit here in the spoilers section:
The League of Superheroes are both the Good Guys and the Bad Guys
The central twist of the narrative, that the League itself is responsible for manufacturing the major crises which the Superheroes are dispatched to redress, is one which I think was mostly done well. As noted in the above sections, this reveal seemed incredibly obvious for the adult reader, and I’m honestly pretty sure your average reader of 12+ would also see it coming from a mile away. But, crucially, it’s eminently believable that Beata, the protagonist, could be sucker-punched by this information. Although we see all the clues in sharp detail, aided by our reading of this book within the established context of the genre, Chen does a great job of massaging Beata’s character to be just naive enough to be taken in by the glitz and glamour surrounding the League of Superheroes. After all, who hasn’t wanted something so badly as a child, that we overlooked all the glaring impossibilities of our wish? (no, this totally isn’t about the horse I wanted to keep in my backyard and ride to school when I was seven. Shut up)
Granted, it’s more surprising that the adults in the setting are taken by surprise at this revelation as well—after all, Beata’s dad is seen in some early scenes questioning why the supervillain attacks and subsequent chases are always so clean and endanger so few innocent bystanders—but some of this can be written off as remnants of their own indoctrination by the organisation.
The real question is why the non-superpowered people of this world don’t raise a finger and question ‘hang on, what’s going on here?’ Not having been through the League, it seems inconceivable that more of them haven’t twigged on to the reality of the situation—there are more people who haven’t been in Pro Wrestling than have been, for example, but everyone knows that the entire thing is Kayfabe. And since the internet is as endemic in this setting as it is in our own world, it seems utterly bizarre there’s not at least one ‘Superhero Truther’ website out there spreading theories that glaze the undercurrent of the cultural zeitgeist just as the Flat Earth society and Anti-Vaxxer movements infect our own. If it does exist, it seems not to feature in this book.
Although this is a niggling doubt in the novel’s context, and the extent to which the general public chooses to participate in the Kayfabe of the LOS or not is left unclear, at the end of the day I still personally think that since we’re seeing the story through the eyes of a twelve-year-old, the twist works. I am a little disappointed that more wasn’t made of this facet of the LOS, though (and seriously, LOS, underwrite a separate location for your Warehouse of Evil Squidwards; if you can hide their R&D budget in your tax returns then you can afford to buy out an old factory somewhere, you geese). There were a few obliquely-referenced fatalities arising from some of the staged incidents that would have been interesting to explore, and in a perfect world I would have liked to have seen a lot more of that. A bit more development of the ‘Counter League’ as a true terrorist organisation leaving scenes of horror and body counts in the dozens in the wake of their attacks would have made the entire LOS smokescreen more believable to me (we’ve all seen the lengths of denial societies will go to in the real world when they feel their safety is threatened). I get that this level of darkness would have been difficult to develop in a book designed for a younger audience, and I really do love the focus on the LOS’s role as de facto damage control against the possible threat of unchecked, bored, super-powered teenagers instead, but as a result the Counter-League seemed to be a fairly non-existent threat. Even some things in the world as simple as Counter-League tags on crime scenes or on buildings/bridges that the heroes fly past would have made the shadow organisation feel a bit more present in the story. I never felt the danger of these extra-imaginary antagonists, and it’s one of the few true missed opportunities of the book.
But speaking of ‘missed opportunities’, there’s one deliberate choice of Chen’s that makes my heart sing with joy:
Beata Bell is really NOT a Superhero
This made me happy beyond all reason.
Not because I didn’t like the character or anything, and not because I didn’t feel the young girl deserved to be special, but for the important message that this decision sends and underscores: it’s your actions that make you a hero, not your genetics.
All too often, so often that it HAS become a cliché, the protagonist of the story—who stands out because they are the normie without powers stuck in a world where they’re surrounded by Supers—fights and struggles to accept themselves for who they are… and are granted superpowers by the narrative as a kind of ‘reward’ for going through that character development.
I’ve always hated that narrative cheat. Not only is it lazy—authors seemingly unable to tell a compelling story, unable to make their protagonist special without the capital ‘S’—it also undercuts the entire point of having the non-powered person there in the first place (I’m looking at you in particular, Heroes: Season Three). If you’re trying to show that human beings can be exceptional by working with their own strengths, putting their heads down and just doing what needs to be done, then for God’s sake, stick to it. When that’s the message, it can be uplifting and inspiring—someone who has no powers at all, still choosing to step in front of the raging maniac who could literally eviscerate them as easily and as consequence-free as killing a blowfly? Now that’s badass. When they suddenly discover, in that moment, that SURPRISE! they’ve been super-powered all along, all they really needed to do was believe, then… well… it goes from the world-stopping cultural drama of Tienemen Square, to just another story about the problems of the one percent, doesn’t it?
It must have been tempting, oh so horribly tempting to fall into this trap while writing this book. Beata wants to have super powers so bad. It would really feel like a reward for all the nonsense she’s put up with throughout the course of the story. But instead, the character comes to terms with who—and what—she is, and in doing so she finds her strength. Nobody else could have talked Gwen down in those final moments. LaserBeata certainly couldn’t have by doing the only thing superheroes seem able to do: threatening to end violence with violence. But plain old Beata Bell could. Beata the friend. Beata the normal girl whose exceptionality is her pure courage and determination.
As it should be.
Whilst Chen hedges her bets a little by leaning into the possible-precognition angle throughout the story, the conclusion of the tale certainly makes it seem like Beata Bell is really who she appears to be: one of the very few normal people capable of standing firm as a Hero in a world where superheroics have made everyday courage obsolete. If this book ends up having a sequel, then I really hope that’s a message that remains because it makes her, and this book, all the more special for it.