Andy Marino rides the balance between good horrific fun and grisly speculation in The Swarm, a tale of a cicada emergence of biblical proportions.
Andy Marino rides the balance between good horrific fun and grisly speculation in The Swarm, a tale of a cicada emergence of biblical proportions.
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Inspired by Grimm’s “Twelve Dancing Princesses,” this gothic fantasy is brimming with ghosts, murder, mythology and romance.

Annaleigh Thaumas is one of 12 sisters who live in the seaside estate of Highmoor in the mythical kingdom of Arcannia. Locals believe Highmoor is cursed, as four of Annaleigh’s sisters have died in tragic and gruesome ways. When Annaleigh’s naive stepmother insists on a ball to end the long mourning period, the sisters bedeck themselves in expensive shoes and luscious gowns, only to find themselves shunned by society. Desperate for company, the girls sneak out through a magical door to attend dances in distant places where no one has ever heard of the Thaumas curse. Meanwhile, Annaleigh, who is being haunted by the ghosts of her dead sisters, is investigating their deaths even as she begins a budding romance with the enigmatic Cassius. When tragedy strikes again, Annaleigh must uncover who, or what, is killing the Thaumas girls before she is next.

Atmospheric, intense and macabre, House of Salt and Sorrows is a smorgasbord of gothic subgenres but a murder mystery at its core. Once the story builds momentum, it rapidly revs up the stakes, making for a devouring and page-turning read.

Inspired by Grimm’s “Twelve Dancing Princesses,” this gothic fantasy is brimming with ghosts, murder, mythology and romance.
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I’ll admit it—sometimes I can’t keep up with science fiction novels I read. It’s not for lack of trying; I’ll keep doggedly reading even if the complexities of the plot confuse me or the science has gotten too “science-y” or the concepts are so philosophical I feel like I’m back in lectures just trying to maintain a C for the course. It can be downright exhausting. Thank goodness that, despite being a wild ride across the galaxy, Max Gladstone’s Empress of Forever has the perfect amount of self-awareness and heart to maintain its wilder moments.

Vivian Liao is tired of being herself. A Steve Jobs-esque super CEO in Earth’s near future, she controls a vast technological empire, but increasingly suspects that her enemies are closing in on her success. In a last-ditch effort to take control of her life (and the world), Viv fakes her own death and breaks into a server room where, with a few quick keystrokes, she’d be able to take over all data on earth. Just as the last loading bar creeps toward 100 percent, a woman bathed in light grabs Viv and, somehow, rips her out of her existence and into a far future galaxy full of robots where she is the only human. With nothing but questions and a few fantastic companions by her side, Viv must scour the galaxy for an answer to a simple question: “How the heck do I get home?”

The answer involves a kaleidoscopic journey through space on a ship called, of course, the Question. And the journey wouldn’t be half as fun without the ensemble cast Gladstone builds around Viv the moment she arrives in the post-human future. There’s a forest-dwelling Viking princess-pilot, a robed monk who treats Viv like a miracle, a creature called Gray who steals dreams and Zanj, a wrathful demigod hell bent on the same thing as Viv—finding the Empress and exacting revenge. Each core member of the team is given plenty of page time, and in its best moments, Empress feels like Guardians of the Galaxy mixed with a healthy, swashbuckling dose of Pirates of the Caribbean.

With Empress, Gladstone stands confidently on the shoulders of his Craft Sequence to create a confident, poignant, expansive world. Though he never holds back in the imagination department, it’s the smaller interactions between characters that forms the foundation. It might be hard to build a new universe, but it is even harder to fill it with people that readers instinctively know both belong and deserve to be there.

So I need not have worried that Gladstone would leave me behind. Though the Question finds itself hurtling through a dizzying, incredible universe, Viv and her friends were right there to keep me company.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Go Behind the Book with Max Gladstone.

I’ll admit it—sometimes I can’t keep up with science fiction novels I read. It’s not for lack of trying; I’ll keep doggedly reading even if the complexities of the plot confuse me or the science has gotten too “science-y” or the concepts are so philosophical I feel like I’m back in lectures just trying to maintain a C for the course. It can be downright exhausting. Thank goodness that, despite being a wild ride across the galaxy, Max Gladstone’s Empress of Forever has the perfect amount of self-awareness and heart to maintain its wilder moments.

As The Storm Crow opens, Princess Thia of Rhodaire is soaring over the city of Aris, perched on the back of a strong and beautiful storm crow. It’s a special day for the teenage princess. On this night she won’t be riding a borrowed crow but will get her very own.

Then tragedy strikes. Rhodaire’s enemies set fire to the rookery, destroying all the crows, and Thia’s mother and her beloved aunt are both killed in the attack. The princess plunges into months of depression, and the kingdom is at risk without the crows. 

Knowing that a full-on war would destroy Rhodaire, Thia’s older sister, now Queen Caliza, arranges a match between Thia and Prince Ericen, son of Queen Razel of Illucia, the enemy who destroyed all Thia held dear. But just when all seems hopeless, Thia makes a discovery that could change everything. A single crow’s egg has somehow survived the devastating fire, and if she can find a way to hatch the egg, and if Caliza can convince a neighboring kingdom to come to their aid, they just might stand a chance against Illucia.

Storm crows might not be as spectacular as dragons, but teen readers will nonetheless marvel as Thia soars through the sky, and as she strategizes to survive in Illucia and negotiate her relationship with her intended. Debut author Kalyn Josephson is adept at world building, and with its powerful women and diverse set of characters, The Storm Crow is sure to attract a loyal following.

As The Storm Crow opens, Princess Thia of Rhodaire is soaring over the city of Aris, perched on the back of a strong and beautiful storm crow. It’s a special day for the teenage princess. On this night she won’t be riding a borrowed crow but will get her very own.

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At just 17, Raven Roth’s life takes a hard turn when a car crash kills the foster mom who was going to adopt her. The crash also wipes Raven’s memory clean. Afterward she moves from Atlanta to New Orleans to try and finish her senior year while recuperating. While her own thoughts are still foggy, other people’s thoughts begin to crowd her mind—and if someone crosses her and she wishes them harm, beware.

As written by Kami Garcia, Raven’s brain is already overloaded with typical high school worries and drama before the additional thoughts move in. Illustrator Gabriel Picolo draws these thoughts like fat lightning bolts, reaching across the classroom and prodding Raven in the head. Raven’s aunt and foster sister try to help her regain some sense of self, but they’re also protecting her from powers on the verge of exploding. A critical showdown near the end of the story is beautifully drawn, with ghosts emerging to come to Raven’s aid as she faces a monstrous foe. 

Teen Titans: Raven is a story of self-discovery, and what’s unearthed may be hard to bury again.

At just 17, Raven Roth’s life takes a hard turn when a car crash kills the foster mom who was going to adopt her. The crash also wipes Raven’s memory clean. Afterward she moves from Atlanta to New Orleans to try and finish her senior year while recuperating. While her own thoughts are still foggy, other people’s thoughts begin to crowd her mind—and if someone crosses her and she wishes them harm, beware.

Review by

It’s not easy to write the end of the world. In precise and deliberate prose, you can explain why and how your fictional world is ending, but writing something that really conjures the end—with the many cogs in the machine of civilization that have to break down, and the consequences of the failure of each one—is much harder, particularly if you’d like to do it with heart and thrills and something resembling a thesis statement about the human condition. Very few authors can pull it off, and even fewer can master it. With Wanderers, Chuck Wendig has mastered it. 

The story begins with a young girl walking out of her house one morning with no shoes or supplies. Her sister tries to stop her, then her father, then EMTs and police, but still she walks. She is the beginning of an apparent epidemic of “sleepwalkers” that form a flock who walk—expressionlessly and painlessly—across the United States. In the midst of this mysterious outbreak come a series of characters—a disgraced CDC official, a woman who built the world’s most sophisticated artificial intelligence, a rock star, a preacher on the verge of crisis and the young girl’s older sister—who all have roles to play in unraveling the mystery of what’s to come. The walkers, you see, are just the beginning, and what follows is an American epic with the soul of the nation—and the world—at stake. 

Wendig tells this story through several points of view, mixing not just different geographic and emotional perspectives but also different spiritual, political and psychological worldviews, each one as real as the last, each gripping in its way. His ability to juggle so many fully realized characters is impressive, but even more so is the astonishing power Wanderers commands in conveying what it would actually feel like if this happened in the America we live in now, complicated by deep ideological divides, disinformation and the constant chatter of social media. All of these elements work together, often in surprising ways, to create a sense of terrifying plausibility and compelling verisimilitude.

The true success of Wanderers, though, is not just in its ability to show us the grim scenarios that could play out across a divided nation; it’s in its heart. Whether he’s writing about rage or faith or the faintest glimmer of light, Wendig brings a sincerity and emotional weight to his prose. That’s why the scariest parts of Wanderers work, but it’s also why the most hopeful ones do, too.

The story begins with a young girl walking out of her house one morning with no shoes or supplies. Her sister tries to stop her, then her father, then EMTs and police, but still she walks. She is the beginning of an apparent epidemic of “sleepwalkers” that form a flock who walk—expressionlessly and painlessly—across the United States. In the midst of this mysterious outbreak come a series of characters—a disgraced CDC official, a woman who built the world’s most sophisticated artificial intelligence, a rock star, a preacher on the verge of crisis and the young girl’s older sister—who all have roles to play in unraveling the mystery of what’s to come. The walkers, you see, are just the beginning, and what follows is an American epic with the soul of the nation—and the world—at stake. 

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The Great War is over, and that’s cause for celebration in Lower Proszawa. Alcohol, sex and drugs flow freely at opulent parties where artists and their friends and benefactors try to ignore the threat of a new war just around the corner. Automatons, disfigured war veterans in iron masks, deadly plagues and the invisible presence of the secret police are ever-present but best ignored. In the center of it all is the Grand Dark, a theater where actors in puppet suits reenact grisly stories of murder and lust. To Largo Moorden, recently promoted to head courier of the city’s bike messenger service, everything is perfect. His new position comes with more money and possibly even a chance to move out of the messenger service entirely. His girlfriend is an actress at the Grand Dark, and there are enough drugs and parties to keep them both happy. But perfection comes with a price, and as Largo learns more about his new job, he begins to learn just how fragile Lower Proszawa’s peaceful façade really is.

Richard Kadrey’s The Grand Dark takes its time. Indeed, for the first third of the book it is unclear exactly what plot Largo Moorden is blindly walking into. Kadrey reveals Lower Proszawa almost as though by candlelight, showing readers just enough at any one time for them to see a few vibrant figures of a city under immense strain. Beyond that, the dark outlines of the threatening world are present but obscured and muted. Despite its lack of cliffhangers and action scenes, the subtle but constant pressure from that insidious outside world makes The Grand Dark an unexpected page-turner. With secret police and anarchist groups seemingly everywhere, it feels like a conspiracy in book form. Around every corner is a potential mystery, although it is sometimes unclear which mysteries are important and which aren’t. But when the central conflict of the book is finally revealed, it is both wholly unexpected in the moment and perfectly obvious in retrospect.

Kadrey’s characters are clueless, idealistic youths who could have stepped out of the bohemian dreams of a 19th-century opera composer. They dream of a better (or at least a drug-filled) life but are forced to live their lives within a dark, Kafka-esque state in which people disappear for seemingly no reason. Between these characters’ struggles and Lower Proszawa’s strange yet familiar technologies and magics, Kadrey successfully weaves the ultra-realistic with the nearly possible into a beautiful and morbid tapestry that fascinates as much as it entertains. The result is a fantastically written book for suspense or fantasy fans looking for a bit of gloom to fight the summer heat.

The Great War is over, and that’s cause for celebration in Lower Proszawa. Alcohol, sex and drugs flow freely at opulent parties where artists and their friends and benefactors try to ignore the threat of a new war just around the corner. Automatons, disfigured war veterans in iron masks, deadly plagues and the invisible presence of the secret police are ever-present but best ignored.

Review by

An innocent joke takes a raucous turn in Emmy-winning television and comedy writer David Quantick’s latest novel, All My Colors.

Todd Milstead is at a turning point in 1979. His wife, Janis, has had enough of his wisecracks, incompetence and affairs. When she leaves, Todd must support himself by actually publishing something instead of just acting like a writer. It just so happens that at a Saturday night gathering, Todd is showing off his eidetic memory by reciting lines from a successful novel titled All My Colors—but no one else at the party knows this novel. In fact, it doesn’t seem to exist. So Todd decides to write this book as if it were his own, but his disturbing (albeit funny) encounters with similarly plagiarizing storytellers bring devastating results. 

Quantick brings his TV prowess to his third novel through its episodic pacing, dark humor and satirical reflections on story crafting. The novel excels in scenes like Todd’s book signings in small towns and his run-in with other authors at a mysterious library in Michigan. In between these episodes, the narration moves quickly and succinctly. The tone is sarcastic and biting as details of Todd’s shenanigans reveal the underbelly of his deception. Todd and fellow bibliophiles, like bookstore owner Timothy who calls himself “an old fraud,” make fun of themselves. Todd is a “bad copier,” a caricature of himself. But behind the hoaxes and hijinks, these clowns and other characters pose serious, timely questions about what happens when stories are told. How does a writer change by writing his story? Can fiction become more truthful than fact?

Part mystery, part fantasy, All My Colors’ rainbow of sensations won’t leave readers unfazed.

An innocent joke takes a raucous turn in Emmy-winning television and comedy writer David Quantick’s latest novel, All My Colors.

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In the weeks since the climactic events of Trail of Lightning, Maggie Hoskie’s life has returned to normal. The demigod Neizghání has been safely imprisoned under several tons of rock, the uneasy alliance between Maggie and the Goodacre clan has largely dissolved, and Maggie’s partner, Kai Arviso, is miraculously back from the dead. Granted, Kai still isn’t speaking to Maggie, and a hunt gone wrong has left her responsible for Ben, a grieving teenage girl. And there’s a new problem: a cult leader called the White Locust. But normal is relative when you’re a supernaturally gifted monster hunter living after the climate apocalypse. When Clive and Rissa Goodacre show up on Maggie’s doorstep with the news that both Caleb Goodacre and Kai have been abducted by the White Locust, Maggie is pulled into a hunt that will take her outside the relative safety of Dinétah, a former Navajo reservation, and into the horrors of the world beyond.

For some series, a second installment can be a “set-up” book that slowly introduces new characters and new places as it builds toward a final conclusion. Rebecca Roanhorse’s Storm of Locusts is not that sort of second book. It’s the kind that makes a fantastic first book pale in comparison, that captivates readers from the first page to the last. Storm of Locusts introduces new characters who captivate as much as Maggie, Kai and the Goodacres while also giving readers a glimpse into the world outside of Dinétah—a world dominated by slave traders, organ harvesters and dedicated park rangers. But none of these introductions makes the book feel slow. Storm of Locusts careens from scene to scene with the same frenetic energy and electrifying prose that set Roanhorse’s debut apart.

But while Trail of Lightning dealt with conflict on a godly scale, Storm of Locusts changes perspective, showing just how destructive clan powers can be if placed in the wrong hands. The shift focuses our attention on Maggie, Ben and their companions. Whether it’s Maggie’s search for Kai or Ben’s desire for revenge for the death of her uncle, the stakes are high. Roanhorse’s prose and pacing are electric, and so are her characters, who clearly have many more stories to tell.

Storm of Locusts will delight and captivate fans of speculative fiction and mythology. Your only complaint will be that the next book isn’t out yet for you to devour.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read our Q&A with Rebecca Roanhorse about Storm of Locusts.

Normal is relative when you’re a supernaturally gifted monster hunter living after the climate apocalypse. Maggie Hoskie is pulled into a hunt that will take her outside the relative safety of Dinétah, a former Navajo reservation, and into the horrors of the world beyond.

Review by

When I was a kid, my father would read to me to help me fall asleep. Most of the books he read to me were books he had inherited or owned when he was young. As luck would have it, almost all of these were sea-faring adventures like 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, Dead Man’s Chest and Treasure Island. I recalled those moments with quite a bit of nostalgia while finishing Winds of Marque, which consistently evokes the danger, the promise and the daring of life on the open ocean. However, one detail in this new novel by Bennett R. Coles would have blown my 9-year-old brain: It’s in space?!

Commissioned to capture enemy vessels, the spaceship HMS Daring sets sail under a false flag to pursue and engage pirate ships. Liam Blackwood, the ship’s second-in-command, leads a crew of “sailors” in undercover missions meant to locate the pirates. When a series of dangerous moves from his new captain threaten the safety and morale of the crew, he must uncover the truth about his captain and keep the mission on course before pirates strike out from a hidden base.

Coles cleverly preserves many of the naval traditions that have become synonymous with historical seafaring adventure stories. The leadership structure aboard Daring, the divisions between the sailors and the officers, and even the commands shouted out in the middle of battle feel ripped from the pages of a Patrick O’Brien novel. In fact, the environment of the ship is perhaps Coles’ greatest achievement in Winds of Marque. A former officer in the Royal Canadian Navy himself, it’s no surprise that Coles bring that knowledge into this fictional world.

Winds of Marque maintains a brisk pace from the get-go. Action scenes are crisp and tense, with special attention paid to the visceral feeling of hand-to-hand combat and firing cannon batteries. Because of Daring’s secret mission, the stakes are high at every encounter and as the adventure becomes more and more desperate, each skirmish reinforces what failure means for everyone. Adding to this tension is the interplay between a set of colorful characters, particularly the officers. I loved the tenacious Chief Sky, leader of the boarding party, and Virtue, the talented new quartermaster. Coles achieves a real sense of camaraderie amongst his characters and I found myself wanting to see more banter even before the book was over.

I might not have had my dad drowsily reading Winds of Marque to me, but I did feel that same sense of adventure I felt as a kid. And though it isn’t set in the chilly waters of the northern Atlantic, Winds of Marque takes you to a place just as full of danger and intrigue.

When I was a kid, my father would read to me to help me fall asleep. Most of the books he read to me were books he had inherited or owned when he was young. As luck would have it, almost all of these were sea-faring adventures like 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, Dead Man’s Chest and Treasure Island. I recalled those moments with quite a bit of nostalgia while finishing Winds of Marque, which consistently evokes the danger, the promise and the daring of life on the open ocean. However, one detail in this new novel by Bennett R. Coles would have blown my 9-year-old brain: It’s in space?!

C.A. Fletcher’s heart- and gut-wrenching tale of a post-apocalyptic world is a minimalistic take on dystopic science fiction, set in a lush, ruggedly overgrown landscape rather than an entirely barren wasteland devoid of hope or comfort. The humans (and their beloved dogs) who remain are willingly isolated and to a point, content to be unaware of what is going on in the modern world. But curious teenage Griz desires more than the complacent existence in the After—what is beyond Griz’s family’s island dwelling? What’s on the Mainland? And most mysteriously, what happened to all of the dogs from before the Gelding, in which human fertility ceased, and the subsequent “soft apocalypse”?

In A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World, Fletcher shows readers that even the softest of apocalypses contain an immense and unforeseeable amount of heartache and loss. This is survivalist science fiction at its rawest, a reminder that when the world as humans know it crumbles, so do their way of life, their laws, their traditions and their priorities. When the mysterious and slightly off-putting stranger Brand arrives on Griz’s island in a boat with foreboding red sails, we feel as naïve, hopeful and dewy-eyed as the imaginative teen. Soon, Griz listens to Brand’s tales of distant lands, diverse peoples and the last few loyal canine heroes in existence. But like his aptly-named dog companion, the cunning Saga, Brand is soon revealed to be a weaver of tall tales and an ill-intentioned “trader” who brings cruelty and deceit from the Mainland into Griz’s home. When Brand drugs Griz’s family and commandeers their supplies, and even one of Griz’s beloved dogs, Jess, Griz has no choice but to follow him into uncharted waters and face whatever challenges may arise.

A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World takes a memorable journey of loyalty and love and transforms it into an unraveling mystery of self-discovery and exploration. The threadbare but essential cast includes Griz, determined teen rescuer; Jip, faithful canine companion and brother to Jess; Griz’s well-intentioned but protective father, Abe; Griz’s mentally-absent Mum; and Brand, sly manipulator of words, emotions and entire lives. From the moment that Brand steals Griz’s resources, the safety of the family and Jess, Griz is thrust into the animalistic nature of post-apocalyptic humans and wild canine foes, and their cruelty as described by Fletcher resonates with some very important contemporary concerns. But never fear—Fletcher promises on the back jacket that no dogs will be harmed in the novel.

Fueled by a fierce loyalty to one’s pack and the newfound fire of vengeance, Griz and Jip embark on their rescue mission, trailing Brand through treacherous and eerie lands, experience a return to humanity at its most primitive, something that Griz once joked about (“going a’viking” for resources and scavenged materials). Along the way, they encounter friends and foes alike—the rigid and sailor-mouthed “John Dark,” a battle-weary French woman, a cult of Before traditionalists known as the Conservators (or “Cons”), the mysterious Freemen, and, inevitably, the scoundrel Brand. Like the family's canine friends, Griz must rely on the basest of animal instincts to decide who to trust and when to flee or fight back.

Young Griz is an endearing narrator, whose humanity transcends the gloom and doom of Fletcher’s world. Though Griz changes to reflect the evil, anger, destruction and deception in the world, he notices things that bring joy in their own dilapidated, creepy ways—ruins of museums, cozy abandoned homes, fossils of books and music—and his mature worldview, despite his age, is refreshing and reassuring. Griz’s intrinsic connection to and empathy toward Jess and Jip, especially the way they conversationally speak to the dogs and treat them like family, is particularly lovable. Griz must resist succumbing to his own revenge fantasy, and questions if the right species survived, or if the monsters of the apocalypse really are all extinct. Griz’s mission reminds us that life should be appreciated and treasured in the moment. This is the story of trust and loyalty within a family, and finding your own pack—even if they’re different from the pack you were born into.

C.A. Fletcher’s heart- and gut-wrenching tale of a post-apocalyptic world is a minimalistic take on dystopic science fiction, set in a lush, ruggedly overgrown landscape rather than an entirely barren wasteland devoid of hope or comfort. The humans (and their beloved dogs) who remain are willingly isolated and to a point, content to be unaware of what is going on in the modern world.

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Upon a Burning Throne is an epic fantasy about honor, rules, politics and deeply mysterious maya (magic). This first installment in a new series by Ashok K. Banker begins with the birth of two baby boys, heirs to Hastinga, ruler of the Burnt Empire. Political strife is present from the start, as the two baby boys are put through a trial by fire (literally), while a third child, a girl from another kingdom, challenges and passes the same trial. From there, the story goes more places than can be easily summarized—Banker’s world is colorful, full of lush forests, endless deserts and wide-spanning mountain ranges. Each page is filled with vivid depictions of people, places and vistas, easily living up to the novel’s inspiration, the Mahabharata.

The story is told by multiple, steadily shifting narrators, who change every 20 pages or so. Each perspective change builds and defuses tension. Quick, breakneck perspective shifts arrive along with momentous, climactic events. And slower shifts, with multiple subchapters, can still denote a quick passage of time with years slipping by in between changes in narration. While this structure can take some adjustment, especially for readers used to the orderly, chronological storytelling of modern fiction, Banker uses it to surprise and push the reader out of their comfort zone. I grew used to and enjoyed the rhythm of book’s pacing by the end, and anticipating and preparing myself for the next narrator was an enjoyable game.

Banker takes their time to begin weaving this very long tale, clearly setting the stage for the next book, and with so many unresolved loose ends, I’ll probably have to grab a notebook to keep track of them all. Without a doubt, committing to Upon a Burning Throne is a task in itself as the book clocks in at 660 pages, and no doubt the next installment will be just as grand in scale.

It’s rare to come upon a volume of fiction that manages to set a grand ambition and meet it. While Upon a Burning Throne does not quite deliver the resolution within its pages, it does an incredible job of setting the stage for a dense series that is sure to be well worth the massive time investment.

Upon a Burning Throne is an epic fantasy filled with vivid depictions of people, places and vistas, easily living up to its inspiration, the Mahabharata.

Raised on a resource-starved and dangerous world, Gyre’s survival is a testament to both her durability and her motivation to do everything it takes to escape her home. With the planet’s only wealth locked in minerals below the surface, going underground as a caver comes with extreme risks, but it’s one of the only ways to make enough money to live—or to leave. With only a mysterious note in her wake, Gyre’s mother fled from her husband and child to seek a better life off-planet. Poverty and abandonment have propelled Gyre to risk everything for enough money to seek out her mother, to perhaps understand why she left. Gyre doesn’t have an issue with the surgical modification needed to suit up for extended subsurface exploration, nor regrets over the lies she tells to get hired, get paid and get off-planet.

Assuming she has a whole surface team to monitor and support her first exploration, Gyre trusts her suit’s technology and her own skills to ensure she completes her mission. But as her descent underground reveals missing supplies and altered routes, Gyre discovers that her surface support consists of only one handler, one voice in her helmet named Em. Communicating through the suit, Gyre finds her mounting concerns about the mission are met with misdirection and half-truths. Their terse exchanges begin to launch red flags that Em’s plan for the descent may by very different from the job Gyre signed on for.

The gulf between Gyre and Em seems as vast as the distance from the cave depths to the surface. As their combative communications evolve, they discover some fragile common ground. Each may hold the only key to answers for the other. But with lies and secrets damning both Gyre and Em, the only way for the two explorers to move forward is to keep going down. As Gyre navigates around the corpses of earlier cavers, deadly testimony to the harsh journey, each subtly whispers the dangers of putting faith in the voice they also trusted to guide them back. Gyre’s battle to survive may depend on which voices she trusts; the ones in her head, or the one on her headset.

While the story’s premise has the potential to be a bit claustrophobic, the literary landscape is surprisingly vast. Below ground the narrow passages open into great rooms, waterfalls plunge over subterranean cliffs and rivers run through tunnels left by the passage of enormous hidden creatures. Luminescent flora and fauna add haunting illumination that punctuates the descent, revealing hints of both horror and profound beauty. And the mental and emotional territory explored within the suit, between Em and Gyre, is enormous as well. With twists, turns, rock falls and drop-offs, the dangerous navigation of the cave mirrors the challenges they confront as their connection to each other evolves.

Boldly building a psychological sci-fi thriller with a cast of two, Caitlin Starling’s debut novel explores the horrors hidden within profound physical and psychological stress. As they navigate unknown territory, both caver and handler risk being trapped by emotional obstacles that could bury them both. Testing the limits of endurance and trust, The Luminous Dead sheds a revealing light on the extraordinary dark depths that the human mind and body will plumb in search of answers and illumination.

Raised on a resource-starved and dangerous world, Gyre’s survival is a testament to both her durability and her motivation to do everything it takes to escape her home. With the planet’s only wealth locked in minerals below the surface, going underground as a caver comes with extreme risks, but it’s one of the only ways to make enough money to live—or to leave.

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Mahit Dzmare, ambassador from the small mining station Lsel to the behemoth Teixcalaan Empire, carries the memories of her late predecessor, Yskandr Aghavn, in her mind. Until those memories are forcefully and inexplicably removed, leaving her abandoned on a world whose people speak in poetic allusions; name themselves after flowers, abstract concepts and sometimes vehicles or appliances; are dealing with a looming war of succession; and want her dead more frequently than is, strictly speaking, healthy. Mahit must navigate this lethal maze and maintain her independence while choosing the right allies to keep her home from being devoured by the ever-hungry Teixcalaanli fleet. And all while searching for a way to regain her connection to Yskandr’s knowledge and guidance without of course, telling anyone she’d ever had such access.

A Memory Called Empire is a political thriller inspired by the Byzantine Empire and featuring plot points reminiscent of “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine”’s Trill symbionts and the linguistic games of Frank Herbert’s Whipping Star. It is science fiction, and is certainly operatic in scope, but calling it a space opera seems like cheating somehow, as if there’s something being left out. Arkady Martine’s prose is an incisive, self-aware blend of tense action and delightful humor. Scenes extolling the virtues of alcohol when forced to praise bad poetry and mocking an otherwise irrelevant character that named themselves after a snowmobile are sprinkled liberally amongst the murder attempts and diplomatic machinations. A Memory Called Empire is dense, packed full of ulterior motives and subplots and beautifully realized characters, but its variety makes it eminently readable.

But the most memorable aspect of Martine’s debut may be the society she has crafted. Teixcalaan is utterly fascinating, its libertine self-image and obsession with art and style mixed with an almost superstitious fear of the human mind. Its veneer of gentility, elegance and enlightenment is profoundly fragile, and all the more precious for it. Smiling with one’s mouth is gauche, but it is also deeply personal. Mastery of allusion and subtext are such clear markers of social and political power that only the highest and the lowest in Teixcalaanli society dare speak plainly. The empire is the center of civilization, surrounded by barbarians who live on space stations and burn and recycle their dead, and yet in times of civil war, its inhabitants commit ritual suicide to earn the favor of gods they don’t quite believe in. They fear the depths of the human psyche, yet live in a city and under the protection of a police force that are both controlled by an artificial intelligence.

Imperial Teixcalaan is a brilliantly realized world of contradictions, and A Memory Called Empire is filled with poets, politicians, spies, soldiers and a thousand degrees of moral ambiguity. Oh, and some of the best names in all of science fiction.

 

ALSO IN BOOKPAGERead our Q&A with Arkady Martine about A Memory Called Empire.

Mahit Dzmare, ambassador from the small mining station Lsel to the behemoth Teixcalaan Empire, carries the memories of her late predecessor, Yskandr Aghavn, in her mind. Until those memories are forcefully and inexplicably removed.

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