Michael Burgin

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionScience Fiction

Blame it on the robots

Review by Michael Burgin

An intriguing hybrid of Asimovian I, Robot-flavored sci-fi, the quasi-contemporary speculative fiction of William Gibson and the enjoyable detective/crime procedural work of . . . well, countless writers, John Scalzi’s latest novel, Lock In, interweaves the threads of a number of familiar genre conventions to impressive effect.

Exhibit one: the society-threatening plague—in this case, a highly contagious virus called Haden’s Syndrome that has left millions “locked in,” fully conscious but incapable of any movement or response to stimulus. Then there’s the allusion to the well-trod sci-fi terrain of A.I. and androids: The plight of the locked-in has led to the creation of embedded neural nets and Personal Transports (dubbed “threeps,” after a certain golden robot of the silver screen). Finally, Scalzi brings it all together in that most fleet and engaging of forms: the whodunit.

Lock In introduces readers to FBI agents Chris Shane (a Haden) and Leslie Vann as they arrive at a crime scene. The victim lies dead in a room, and the chief suspect is the Integrator in the room with him. (Integrators have the ability to allow Hadens to experience physical sensations.) From there, things get complicated in all the ways one wants detective fiction to get complicated.

Through it all, the Hugo Award-winning Scalzi shows that being a master storyteller isn’t so much about finding new ingredients as it is about combining old standards in ways that are fresh and engaging. But here Scalzi does both, and his novel twist on robot lit alone would make Lock In worth the read.

Scalzi’s world-building is deceptively simple, accomplished while keeping the reader fully enmeshed in the murder mystery that propels the story. Ultimately, the Hadens and Integrators of Lock In each may be as fanciful a construct as the more standard sci-fi fare of androids and aliens. But thanks to Scalzi’s talent, it certainly doesn’t seem that way.

 

This article was originally published in the September 2014 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

An intriguing hybrid of Asimovian I, Robot-flavored sci-fi, the quasi-contemporary speculative fiction of William Gibson and the enjoyable detective/crime procedural work of . . . well, countless writers, John Scalzi’s latest novel, Lock In, interweaves the threads of a number of familiar genre conventions to impressive effect.
FictionFantasyDebut Fiction

An ambitious fantasy debut

Review by Michael Burgin

Erika Johansen’s new novel, The Queen of the Tearling, uses a familiar fantasy premise: a special child—a chosen one, if you will—is born, and then hidden from those with murderous intent. As the book opens, it is 19 years later, and the time has come for Kelsea Glynn, the rightful queen of a benighted land, to leave hiding and assume her throne.

Plenty of people still wish her dead, especially the near-immortal Red Queen of neighboring Mortmesne. Kelsea’s not completely without allies, though. Besides the two loyal guardians who have raised her and prepared her for this moment, a troop of queen’s guards has arrived to deliver her into the heart of the wasp’s nest that is her birthright. There’s also a rakish lord of thieves.

In addition to the host of immediate threats, Johansen sets up a few mysteries that will be resolved over the course of her planned series. Most are common fantasy tropes—who is Kelsea’s father? What exactly is the story of the evil queen?—but Johansen’s world also contains a bigger mystery of setting: When and where, exactly, is the present action taking place? While it feels relatively medieval, there are numerous references to a Crossing, and everything Pre-Crossing sounds like the real world (our world). This suggests the kingdoms of Tear and Mortmesne may have more of a science fiction/post-apocalyptic tinge than is immediately apparent.

With so many nutritional staples of genre in play, it would be easy for Johansen’s novel to come across either as overly bland, or as a confusingly crowded mish-mash. Yet The Queen of the Tearling avoids this fate by keeping the action and the characters engaging. Kelsea, the Red Queen, Mace (the captain of Kelsea’s guards) and the rest of the characters are made interesting thanks to the actions they take and the world they inhabit.

Ultimately, The Queen of the Tearling is a notable debut and a reminder that a dish need not have exotic ingredients or fancy presentation to prove filling and tasty to the fantasy palate.

Erika Johansen’s new novel, The Queen of the Tearling, uses a familiar fantasy premise: a special child—a chosen one, if you will—is born, and then hidden from those with murderous intent. As the book opens, it is 19 years later, and the time has come for Kelsea Glynn, the rightful queen of a benighted land, to leave hiding and assume her throne.
FictionHistorical FictionGraphic Novels & Comics

Discrimination at home and on the front lines

Review by Michael Burgin

Even before cracking its pages, it’s impossible not to marvel at the strange hybrid that is The Harlem Hellfighters. The topic—a fictionalized account of the real experiences of the all-black 369th Infantry Regiment in World War I—is certainly book-worthy, be it fiction or nonfiction. The soldiers of the 369th encountered plenty of bigotry and hatred from their own countrymen before gaining the opportunity to fight in the trenches alongside the French.

The author, Max Brooks—son of Mel, and author of World War Z and other zombie literature—has by now enough of a track record that he could get pretty much any book published thanks to name recognition alone. Illustrator Caanan White has honed his depictions of the military by working on the World War II-era series Uber.

And for the story to be delivered as a graphic novel? Well, the medium has certainly come of age during the last decade.

No, none of these alone would make The Harlem Hellfighters all that unusual. But story, author and medium combined?! That’s a strange combination. It’s also probably a necessary one, if the goal is to preserve the truth behind it for generations long removed from the War to End All Wars.

It’s a riveting tale. Brooks packs an impressive amount of exposition into the word-limited panels of the graphic novel, balancing the big picture with the small as he juggles and moves a large cast of characters through what the reader recognizes as the “paces” of a war novel—the enlistment, the training, the setbacks and, finally, the battlefield. From the first pages, it’s a harsh, savage tale. Brooks and White make sure the words and images throughout simmer with a barely restrained fury—the fury of war, the fury of bigotry, the fury at the senselessness and violence of both. These are lessons it feels as if we’ve been taught—as readers and as viewers—over and over again. Maybe, some day, if stories like those of The Harlem Hellfighters are told often enough, it’ll be a lesson we actually learn.

Even before cracking its pages, it’s impossible not to marvel at the strange hybrid that is The Harlem Hellfighters. The topic—a fictionalized account of the real experiences of the all-black 369th Infantry Regiment in World War I—is certainly book-worthy, be it fiction or nonfiction. The soldiers of the 369th encountered plenty of bigotry and hatred from their own countrymen before gaining the opportunity to fight in the trenches alongside the French.
FictionDebut Fiction

Don’t look now

Review by Michael Burgin

It’s a great time for tales of humanity coming to a horrible end (and for those who love to read about it). Between plagues, societal implosions, alien incursions and self-inflicted technological destruction—well, let’s just say it’s enough to make the dichotomy proposed in Robert Frost’s 1920 poem, “Fire and Ice,” seem downright quaint in comparison.

Sure, the nuclear-powered holocaust narrative, which blossomed along with the mushroom clouds at Hiroshima and Nagasaki and reigned supreme for decades, count as “fire,” and many of the asteroid hits and global warming scenarios can be slotted on the side of “ice,” but they have been joined, if not supplanted over the last decade by a more metaphorical (and thus outlandish) account of end times: the zombie apocalypse. In an effort to keep the zombie tale fresh, there have been plenty of tweaks in type (faster, smarter, etc.), cause (fungus, sleeplessness, etc.) and focus (forget the zombies, it’s the surviving humans who are the monsters!). As a result, the actual core horror of the zombie tale—that combination of the unknown mixed with a mounting hopelessness—has been lost. With Bird Box, Josh Malerman returns the reader to that thrilling dread of yesteryear by keeping his narrative simple and refusing to allow the “other” in his tale to become known.

With the exception of two brief chapters, Bird Box cleaves to the perspective of Malorie. In alternating chapters, her present and recent past unfold. In the present, she’s a harsh, taciturn parent to two four-year-olds, Boy and Girl, whom she has trained since birth to rely on their hearing to an almost supernatural degree. Along with her children, Malorie has hidden in a house, never venturing outside without a blindfold, until now, when she’s decided to make a long-postponed journey to a possible refuge. The chapters of her past gradually reveal how her present situation came to be, how something changed (or arrived) and started to drive whomever sees it violently mad. Even a glimpse does the trick. In these chapters, a pregnant Malorie finds refuge in a house of survivors as they struggle to cope with a decidedly dire new world order.

Malerman’s prose is compelling, but what helps make Bird Box memorable is the sheer, uncompromising menace of the unseen threat throughout. How do you come to terms with—let alone combat—a danger you don’t dare perceive? Malerman short-circuits a coping mechanism so basic the reader can’t help but share in the resulting discombobulation of the characters. And in the process, he imbues this particular tale of survival with something so many of its contemporaries lack—a lingering sense of horror that, no matter how hard one tries, refuses to be fully seen.

 

Debut author Josh Malerman returns the reader to the thrilling dread of the apocalypse tales of yesteryear by keeping his narrative simple and refusing to allow the “other” in his tale to become known in his novel Bird Box.
Science Fiction & FantasyFiction

It’s a whole new world—just don’t try to leave

Review by Michael Burgin

On a cold, sunless planet named Eden, about 500 descendants of two stranded travelers live beneath light and heat-giving “trees,” converting the slowly decaying knowledge of their own beginnings into a tribal mythology. Among them, John Redlantern chafes at the slavish, innovation-quenching traditions the Family upholds as it huddles in its small valley and refuses to even question what lies beyond the “Snowy Dark” that surrounds it. Soon, John makes a series of decisions that threaten to disrupt the peace—and ignorance—his tribe holds dear.

Chris Beckett’s Dark Eden does many things well—including the kinds of things that, frankly, are pretty unsexy (or at least hyperbole-resistant), and thus often passed over by reviewers in favor of those qualities that allow the use of words like “haunting,” “lyrical” or “riveting.” Make no mistake, the novel (winner of the 2013 Arthur C. Clarke Award for Best Science Fiction Novel of the Year) certainly deserves such accolades, but it’s also full of simpler pleasures.

There’s the joy of an immediately immersive alien environment. The planet of Eden is a wondrous mix of familiar nomenclature applied to completely alien flora, fauna and topography. The leopards, monkeys and bats, the Alps and Rockies—readers ingest such terms easily, moving through the text without distraction even as a clearer understanding of what the terms actually refer to slowly seeps in.

Meanwhile, the human drama of Dark Eden unfolds, delivered exclusively through the first-person narratives of John, Tina Spiketree and, occasionally, a few other characters. Too often, authors deliver a robustly imagined, unique environment only to falter in the building and presentation of equally unique characters. Not so with Becket, who exhibits a real flair for psychological differentiation—every narrator in Dark Eden exhibits a distinct attitude and perspective (with not a whiff of authorial puppeteering).

With nothing really getting between the reader and the tale . . . well, this is where the more traditional superlatives come into play. Dark Eden is, indeed, riveting, and the world-building is robust—a keenly imagined vision of the interaction between human nature and a truly alien world. What’s more, Beckett’s tale is psychologically convincing. Eden may be a hostile environment, and the Family’s foothold there precarious, but Dark Eden suggests that the interplay of personal psychology and society mores can be as dangerous (and transformative) as even the most inimical of settings.

On a cold, sunless planet named Eden, 500 or so descendants of two stranded travelers live beneath light and heat-giving “trees,” converting the slowly decaying knowledge of their own beginnings into a tribal mythology. Among them, John Redlantern chafes at the slavish, innovation-quenching traditions the Family upholds as it huddles in its small valley and refuses to even question what lies beyond the “Snowy Dark” that surrounds it. Soon, John makes a series of decisions that threaten to disrupt the peace—and ignorance—his tribe holds dear.
Science Fiction & FantasyFiction

A waking nightmare

Review by Michael Burgin

As a literary thought experiment, Kenneth Calhoun’s Black Moon has an exceedingly elegant trigger for the end of it all. No aliens, mutating viruses or celestial cataclysms are needed. All it takes is the removal of one basic yet profound capacity every single human has: the ability to sleep. It turns out prolonged insomnia is an insidious, horrific fate for anyone. Calhoun’s narrative focuses on four protagonists, each caught in a separate pocket of the rapidly disintegrating society. (The four only briefly intersect.) Biggs and Lila still have the ability to sleep. While Biggs tries to find his missing wife, Lila, a teenager, lacks any such mission, instead floating amongst the hordes of increasingly erratic, dangerous insomniacs. Chase is not so fortunate, and as Black Moon progresses, his altered perceptions provide readers a potent window through which to view the blossoming horrors of the sleepless mind. Finally, Felicia, an intern cloistered at a sleep studies institute, represents the closest we come to a solution narrative, as scientists strive to circumvent the enveloping plague.

It turns out prolonged insomnia is an insidious, horrific fate for anyone.

In many ways, the tone and story progression of Black Moon mirrors that of the traditional zombie narrative. (Have zombie stories now been around long enough to use the word “traditional”?) With each passing moment, the protagonists are more isolated, their straits more dire—a moment’s inattention can prove fatal. Yet, befitting its subject, Black Moon may be the most dreamlike apocalypse ever presented. Even as Calhoun recounts the struggles of a few to survive a truly horrific fate for the human race, he spends most of his time in the memories and reflections of his protagonists. The result is a thought-provoking meditation on the importance of human interaction and our reliance on the sleep-fed, rational mind.

At a time in pop culture when the zombie trope remains ascendant, Calhoun’s story seems less a calculated attempt to cash in on a fad than a concurrently generated work, with its own unique themes and authorial preoccupations, that just happens to be a nice addition to the genre. And frankly, if wouldn’t matter if it were a calculated trend-hopper. Either way, Black Moon flows through and over all those shambling, decaying genre expectations. Its themes may well haunt your dreams long after the book is laid down, but count yourself lucky—you can still dream.

As a literary thought experiment, Kenneth Calhoun’s Black Moon has an exceedingly elegant trigger for the end of it all. No aliens, mutating viruses or celestial cataclysms are needed. All it takes is the removal of one basic yet profound capacity every single human has: the ability to sleep.
Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

Some very special siblings

Review by Michael Burgin

Time-travel and alternate realities have been a rich and unending source for fiction pretty much since the invention of the genre. But an ounce of temporal weirdness brings pounds and pounds of complications, convolutions and headaches along with the overall plot potential. Paradoxes pop up, as do disruptions of any attempt at linear storytelling. The confusion that can result on behalf of the reader—and sometimes even the writer—can capsize even the most promising tale. As a result, it’s rare to see a writer dive headlong into multiple streams of chronological mayhem and emerge with anything coherent, let alone riveting.

Yet with his time- and reality-bending saga, The Flight of the Silvers (the first book in The Silvers Saga), Daniel Price does just that. Price’s book starts with an intriguing premise, is propelled along by sustained action and enjoyable world building, and, by the book’s end, has maintained coherence and dramatic momentum despite the introduction of a dizzying array of paradox-inducing realities and abilities.

After a brief prologue, The Flight of the Silvers starts with the end of the world (complete with bangs and whimpers). A mysterious trio saves a select few (the “Silvers” of the title), who are soon brought together in a different version of the world they each just saw destroyed. The group includes somewhat estranged sisters Amanda and Hannah, wisecracking cartoonist Zack, failed prodigy Theo, insecure teen Mia and David, a socially inept genius. Beyond a healthy dose of post-Armageddon stress syndrome and the disorientation of being in a familiar yet unquestionably different reality, each Silver starts exhibiting a separate time-related ability. As they do so, they are beset by forces (some hostile, some not) intent on capturing, using or killing them.

Price deserves credit for creating immediately relatable characters whose motivations are understandable even when not so commendable. But he deserves out-and-out praise for doing so while constantly upping the temporal ante. The reader’s uncertainty concerning the rules of this new world may well mirror that felt by the protagonists, but the shared confusion never ruins the immersion. As a result, any hours spent reading The Flight of the Silvers will be time well spent.

Time-travel and alternate realities have been a rich and unending source for fiction pretty much since the invention of the genre. But an ounce of temporal weirdness brings pounds and pounds of complications, convolutions and headaches along with the overall plot potential. Paradoxes pop up, as do disruptions of any attempt at linear storytelling. The confusion that can result on behalf of the reader—and sometimes even the writer—can capsize even the most promising tale. As a result, it’s rare to see a writer dive headlong into multiple streams of chronological mayhem and emerge with anything coherent, let alone riveting.

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionHistorical Fiction

A polished, chilling debut

Review by Michael Burgin

Set initially in Russia during the reign of Empress Anna Ioanovna in the 1740s, J.M. Sidorova’s The Age of Ice turns on a single premise: Alexander Velitsyn, the novel’s narrator and protagonist, is born immune to cold. What’s more, all those emotions that inflame others—passion, rage, shame, etc.—cause him, instead, to generate cold to an equal intensity. (This causes problems.)

In this age of superhero saturation, this setup is an intriguing twist—a historical iteration of the “What would it be like to have a super power in the real world” tale. But it’s not the only impressive aspect of this polished debut novel. Though his effort to understand the cause and map the mechanics of his condition is a major aspect of the plot, it’s the interplay between Velitsyn and history that transforms The Age of Ice from interesting to engrossing. Ultimately, Sidorova’s novel feels like a small physiological fantasy embedded in a much larger piece of historical fiction. For all his uniqueness, Velitsyn is just another person swept along on the waves of history—be they caused by Napoleon or the Great Game between Russia and Great Britain. Like any good piece of historical fiction, The Age of Ice transforms its readers into eager students of the time being portrayed. Sidorova’s accounts of Joseph Billings’ search for the Northeast Passage, the Battle of Austerlitz and the Siege of Herat would fascinate even without Velitsyn’s mysterious, magical presence.

At times, Velitsyn’s tale evokes an almost palpable dread that feels Lovecraftian in tone—though perhaps that’s just a side effect of the Russian fatalism of Velitsyn himself. Nonetheless, no matter how dark the narrative foreshadowing, The Age of Ice is an invigorating debut. It may not spawn a three-film franchise, but this well-researched historical fantasy will have readers eagerly awaiting Sidorova’s next fictional foray.

Set initially in Russia during the reign of Empress Anna Ioanovna in the 1740s, J.M. Sidorova’s The Age of Ice turns on a single premise: Alexander Velitsyn, the novel’s narrator and protagonist, is born immune to cold. What’s more, all those emotions that inflame others—passion, rage, shame,…

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

A new fantasy series teeming with imagination

Review by Michael Burgin

One can forgive publishing execs if all they saw was franchise potential in The Bone Season (the first in a projected seven-book series). After all, recent Oxford graduate Samantha Shannon’s debut features a young, resourceful female protagonist—19-year-old Paige Mahoney—who lives in a dystopian future rife with supernatural elements. And for much of the book, Paige is enslaved to an imposing non-human male, yielding a relationship that is both conflict-laden and conflicted. Evaluated just for its echoes of other successful book and movie franchises, The Bone Season looks like a melting pot of moneymaking ingredients.

But it wouldn’t be fair to judge The Bone Season just because it’s pitch-friendly. Shannon’s novel is an impressive feat of world-building, which rests on her inventive supernatural beings. These creatures’ complexity is more reminiscent of Sheri S. Tepper’s classic True Game series than of any contemporary teen-focused fantasy.

The Bone Season is set in a dystopian future that itself is the result of an alternate history that diverged dramatically from our own with an explosion of clairvoyant abilities in the Victorian era. The subsequent reaction against those exhibiting such “unnatural” traits has resulted in London (and several other cities) being controlled by a security force called Scion. As a result, life in 2059 London is a pretty dark place for most clairvoyants, though Paige Mahoney counts herself as an exception. A dreamwalker who works for one of the bosses of Scion London’s criminal underworld, Paige rejoices in her relative freedom and flouting of the authorities, who deem her tainted by her ability. Then she gets caught.

The rest of the book deals with Paige’s efforts to escape her captors, the powerful Rephaim. To do so, she must learn more about them, in particular her keeper, Warden. For readers, the challenge lies in ingesting a complex, multi-sourced flow of information—navigating the details of taxonomy, setting and plot with enough attention left over to bond with the characters and simply enjoy the story.

The most exciting thing about Shannon’s ambitious debut lies not in how closely it aligns with the works—and thus earning potential—of Collins, Meyer, Clare, et al., but in the near certainty that the author’s command over her world will only improve. And with that mastery, the series has the potential to become one that inspires others. The Bone Season is a delicious appetizer. Now we wait for the main course.

One can forgive publishing execs if all they saw was franchise potential in The Bone Season (the first in a projected seven-book series). After all, recent Oxford graduate Samantha Shannon’s debut features a young, resourceful female protagonist—19-year-old Paige Mahoney—who lives in a dystopian future rife…

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

A speak-and-spell fantasy

Review by Michael Burgin

It’s easy to underestimate the challenges of crafting contemporary fantasy, especially when one compares the task with that of writing its older cousin, the traditional swords-and-sorcery fantasy. But just because the author of a contemporary fantasy can skip some expository steps in character development and setting if the protagonist is an ex-Navy SEAL named Josh living in Boston instead of, say, a 12th-degree death-o-mancer named Magyar Trothan who lives in the land of Whimsicalia, that doesn’t mean taking the less fantastical road is easy. After all, anything that happens in the mostly real, present-day world is subject to the immediate scrutiny of countless experts—plenty of readers will be familiar with Boston or have a family member in the military, whereas no one other than the author will possess any firsthand knowledge on death-o-mancer training. (Granted, the Whimsicalian Wiki will be up a few days after the book is published.)

Nonetheless, most crafters of fantasy, traditional or contemporary, have one big hurdle in common: devising a system of “magic” that’s fresh, compelling and coherent.

With his latest book, Australian author Max Barry (Jennifer Government, Company) easily clears this often fatal hurdle with a premise (and system) guaranteed to appeal to readers: Words have power, and some words have a lot of power. In Lexicon, a global organization whose members refer to themselves as “the poets” employs psycho-linguistic tactics to control, well, pretty much anything or anyone. But like any other multinational concern, even super-secret groups have staffing needs. In the orphaned Emily Ruff, they find someone who may or may not be a powerful addition to their organization. Barry alternates the chapters covering her recruitment and training with tense action sequences involving a man named Wil and his mysterious captors (or protectors?). These are maddeningly opaque at first, though the blistering pace—more reminiscent of a Ludlum spy thriller than anything else—makes the difficulty in gaining one’s bearings tolerable.

By book’s end, Lexicon has revealed itself as a contemporary fantasy that’s three parts thriller and one part romance (somewhat diluted). In the process, Barry’s tale provides its reader with an intriguing, satisfying ride through a world where the phrase “has a way with words” refers to the author’s own world-building as much as to the characters who inhabit it.

It’s easy to underestimate the challenges of crafting contemporary fantasy, especially when one compares the task with that of writing its older cousin, the traditional swords-and-sorcery fantasy. But just because the author of a contemporary fantasy can skip some expository steps in character development and…

Science Fiction & FantasyFantasy

A fateful fantasy mashup

Review by Michael Burgin

Peter Clines’ 2010 debut novel, Ex-Heroes, had a simple, pitch-friendly premise: superheroes meet zombies! Too often, such catchy marketing angles are reductive, but in the case of Ex-Heroes, it was pretty much a dead-on summary of Clines’ double-decker “What if . . . ?” contemporary fantasy sandwich. (What if people with superpowers started to appear in our world? And what if that was almost immediately followed by the zombie apocalypse?)

Given the waxing popularity of superheroes in film, and zombie fever pretty much everywhere, there hasn’t been a more inevitable combo since Jim Butcher dipped detective noir into “wizard!” for his The Dresden Files series (the Reeses Peanut Butter Cup of genre mashup success stories).

Still, a simple premise with built-in popular appeal doesn’t mean easy to write. For his part, Clines had to create his own version of not one but two fantasy staples so well-worn the ruts in them are basically trenches. Wisely, the author kept it simple: Clines’ undead are pretty much “zombie classic”—slow-moving, cognitively challenged, “swarm ya” machines that are deadly thanks to sheer numbers and a bite-to-infection success ratio that can’t be beat. His heroes are also pretty standard fare—a “Batman” type (Stealth), a “Superman” (Mighty Dragon/St. George), a giant/robot (Cerberus), an energy manipulator (Zzzap), etc.

More importantly, with Ex-Heroes Clines faced the overarching challenge of his genre mashup—telling a compelling story that kept readers, many of whom are “experts” in the genres, interested and guessing. For the most part, Clines succeeded, providing what amounted to a gritty comic book series in novelized form.

With Ex-Patriots, Clines returns to the world of his superhero-flavored zombie apocalypse. The heroes of the Mount—the film studio turned undead-thwarting fortress—have weathered the brutal assault of a truly horrifying supervillain and his zombie hordes. But a return to “normal” in a zombie-ravaged world is still a danger-fraught existence, and as the community of the Mount returns to the daily routine of scavenging and surviving, contact is made with a top-secret branch of the U.S. military. Will this contact turn out to be a good development for the human population of the Mount and its superhuman protectors?

As any reader familiar with Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead comics knows, few “promising developments”—be they surviving humans or prospective safer locales—come without hidden peril, and Clines’ sequel is no different. For fans of either genre (be it heroic or zombie), determining the nature of the threat represented by these new players is half the fun of Ex-Patriots. (The continuing character arcs of Stealth, St. George and crew, the other.) Overall, Ex-Patriots continues the novelized comic series feel, minus the original comic series, of its predecessor. If the superheroes and zombies mix of Ex-Heroes was your cup of tea, sit down, crack open Ex-Patriots, and let Peter Clines pour you another cup.

Peter Clines’ 2010 debut novel, Ex-Heroes, had a simple, pitch-friendly premise: superheroes meet zombies! Too often, such catchy marketing angles are reductive, but in the case of Ex-Heroes, it was pretty much a dead-on summary of Clines’ double-decker “What if . . . ?” contemporary…

Science Fiction & FantasyScience Fiction

Life underground

Review by Michael Burgin

Originally a self-published series of e-novellas, Hugh Howey’s Wool has generated almost as much press for what it is seen to represent as it has for its enthusiastic fan response. Some have proclaimed it yet another nail in the coffin of traditional publishing, while others have pointed to it as proof the post-apocalyptic genre still has some life in it. But the ultimate takeaway from any discussion of Howey’s dystopian novel, now published in print and audio versions as a full-length novel by Simon & Schuster, should be that Wool is a riveting read, thanks to memorable characters and a vividly rendered world, both of which linger with the reader long after the last page has been turned. Howey’s path to publication is proof that fascinating characters and evocative world-building can win over readers, no matter how hollowed out a genre has become or what format a book arrives to market in.

The world of Wool is first introduced to the reader through the eyes of Holston, the sheriff of a post-apocalyptic community that lives in an immense, self-sufficient silo. The rules of the community are strict, with most mentions of the outside taboo and any expressed desire to leave the silo resulting in the community’s version of capital punishment—a one-way trip out of the silo to clean the viewing lens of its external camera before succumbing to the toxic environment.

The second section focuses on the journey of the Silo’s mayor and deputy to recruit Holston’s replacement. The rest of Wool follows the adventures of Holston’s successor, a resourceful female engineer named Juliette (Jules) as she discovers that certain aspects of the community inside the silo that are as deadly as the outside is thought to be.

Saying more risks puncturing the tension that is a hallmark of the book. Suffice it to say, Wool reminds the reader how fulfilling a steady diet of small surprises, deftly delivered, can be. And even the most jaded post-apocalyptic enthusiast should enjoy how skillfully Howey confounds expectations and delays certainty.

Though the human interactions are well-wrought, the most consistently compelling relationship in Wool exists between the main characters and the silo itself. In some ways, it’s a mutualistic relationship between an inorganic behemoth and the humans that inhabit, maintain and are protected by it. Yet in its very premise, Wool suggests that even though it may be human nature to aspire to that which is greater than itself, the attempt to do so ravages as often as it preserves.

Originally a self-published series of e-novellas, Hugh Howey’s Wool has generated almost as much press for what it is seen to represent as it has for its enthusiastic fan response. Some have proclaimed it yet another nail in the coffin of traditional publishing, while others…

Science Fiction & FantasyFictionFantasy

A dark tale of faerie mythology

Review by Michael Burgin

In Dreams and Shadows, a boy and his djinn try to save a doomed child from the faerie court that stole and raised him. In doing so, they receive a lesson in the nature of the world and of the supernatural that one of them, at least, couldn’t begin to anticipate.

The debut novel of film critic and screenwriter C. Robert Cargill, Dreams and Shadows is the most existential, world-weary of faerie tales. Cargill’s myth-making is unrelentingly dark in tone, more Mignola (Hellboy) than Gaiman (American Gods, Coraline, etc.). In his world, silver linings are fool’s gold, and happy endings are more the stuff of fantasy than nixies, boggarts and their kin ever could be.

This tone is established from the beginning with a prologue so dark that, by the time 8-year-old Colby Stephens extracts a wish from a stranger to “show [him] everything supernatural,” the reader knows that nothing heartwarming this way comes. As the destinies of two children—Ewan, a human child, and Knocks, the changeling who takes his place—become intertwined with that of Colby and his djinn companion, portents pile up as quickly as the supernatural cast of characters expands.

Fortunately, a dark read doesn’t mean a bad one. Cargill’s world-building is methodical and consistent. The pace is brisk, the plotting assured. Though his take on the nature of faerie is not really new or inspired, it is deliberate and codified in a way that yields a satisfyingly focused vision of a fantasy staple. Though remarkably diverse in form and comportment, the fae of Dreams and Shadows share one trait: Each is a walking (or crawling or flying or swimming) embodiment of the moral from the fable “The Frog and the Scorpion”—for good or ill, each fae behaves as its nature demands. As for the supposed mystery and inscrutability of the fae? In this world, it stems less from innate complexity than from the stubbornness of our attempts to ascribe human motivations to their behaviors. All in all, it’s a persuasive vision of what makes faerie tick that in turn provides a convincing, fascinating backdrop for Cargill’s foray into contemporary fantasy.

As a result, Dreams and Shadows is a potent introduction to a world where the wondrous is rarely wonderful, the best intentions are guaranteed to roam farthest astray, and the reader is destined to keep turning the pages until the (somewhat) bitter end.

In Dreams and Shadows, a boy and his djinn try to save a doomed child from the faerie court that stole and raised him. In doing so, they receive a lesson in the nature of the world and of the supernatural that one of them,…

Sign Up

Stay on top of new releases: Sign up for our newsletter to receive reading recommendations in your favorite genres.

Sign up now

Trending Features

All Features