When I saw the title of John Scalzi’s new book, Fuzzy Nation, it triggered warm memories of reading H. Beam Piper’s original book, Little Fuzzy. Published in 1962, just two years before his suicide, Little Fuzzy was the first of three books penned by Piper regarding a band of cute, furry creatures on the planet Zarathustra, the subsequent effort to establish the sapience of the species (an act opposed by an intergalactic mining company with resources to exploit), and the fallout of that effort.

Initially, I assumed Scalzi’s book was a long-time-coming sequel to Piper’s original Fuzzy books. There had already been two: Fuzzy Bones (1981) by William Tuning and Golden Dream: A Fuzzy Odyssey (1982) by Ardath Mayhar. As it turns out, such a sequel has been published this year—it just wasn’t Scalzi’s book. Fuzzy Ergo Sum by Wolfgang Diehr was published this March and hailed as “the first new Fuzzy novel in almost 30 years.”

No, it turns out that Fuzzy Nation is not a sequel. It’s not a shared-world anthology, nor is it even a rogue piece of self-published fan fiction. Instead, Fuzzy Nation is a fully authorized reboot of the series.

The idea of the reboot—telling a story afresh, discarding the previously established continuity and canon—is well-established in film, television and comic books. (Not surprisingly, many examples of film reboots have comic books as their original source.) But though there are numerous reboots of film and TV franchises necessitated by aging actors, dated source material or special effects (Star Trek, James Bond, Battlestar Galactica ), or by less-than-stellar predecessors (The Hulk, Judge Dredd), the reboot is not a term associated with non-serial fiction.

It’s easy to imagine a “reboot wave” sweeping through literary genres as publishers and literary estates, especially those who treat their properties exclusively as assets to exploit rather than treasures to preserve, see a chance to reinvigorate income streams by pairing a hot author with an aging text.

Therefore, it was with apprehension and even a smidge of antagonism that I started Fuzzy Nation. After all, this book could be a harbinger for the impending despoilment of many a childhood (and adulthood) classic! Alas, my fears quickly gave way before a simpler realization: Fuzzy Nation is a very good read. From the opening pages where prospector Jack Holloway (or his dog, Carl, depending on who you ask) blows up a cliff and discovers a fortune, to his meeting with Papa Fuzzy and the other members of the fuzzy family, to the riveting courtroom battle that will determine their fates—Scalzi delivers a story that unfailingly entertains.

The plot skips along deftly, bringing the reader along every step of the way, and it easily qualified as a “blew-past-my-bedtime” read. (Apparently, that’s not unusual for a Scalzi book—I plan on knocking out his Old Man’s War as soon as I get my hands on a copy.)

In the end, Fuzzy Nation is what every good reboot should be—a sensitive re-imagining by a talented author inspired by the original material. And though there is still ample cause for apprehension about the potential impact of a reboot trend on genre fiction, even should the worse come to pass, John Scalzi’s novel will stand as an exception rather than the rule.

“The parrot lay on the floor of his cage, one claw thrust stiffly toward the tiny wooden swing suspended above him. The black olive clenched in his beak was the definitive sign that Pago was a corpse, for while he had fooled us all by playing dead in the past, he had never failed to consume an olive.”

In the space of the first two sentences of his new book, The Desert of Souls, Howard Andrew Jones has captured the reader. By the end of the first page—and in my case, the first paragraph—the crisp, evocative imagery has gripped one’s attention as tightly as the black olive in the beak of the recently departed Pago. Much to its author’s credit, that grip only tightens in the pages that follow.

The Desert of Souls has been described as Sherlock Holmes meets the Arabian Nights meets Robert E. Howard. The comparisons are apt, and in the case of Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous duo, overt. The martially adept Captain Asim partners with the erudite Dabir, a scholar whose principle weapons are his piercing intelligence and keen observations. (Like Doyle’s Watson, Asim serves as the story’s narrator and his friend’s biographer.) Fantastic adventure ensues. Though this is only the first book, the tandem of Asim and Dabir shows great promise to be worthy of the “great fictional duos” mantle worn by the likes of Lieber’s Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, Bilbo and Gandalf, and even Kirk and Spock.

The rich tapestry of 8th-century Baghdad recalls some of Scheherazade’s most engaging tales, and the supernatural horrors faced by Asim and Dabir during the course of their adventures could just as easily have menaced the likes of Conan, Solomon Kane or Bran Mak Morn. The engaging pulpiness of Jones’ book is not surprising, given the author is himself “an acknowledged expert on fiction writer Harold Lamb.” Lamb, a contemporary of Howard and horror godfather H.P. Lovecraft, penned tales of the Crusades and the Far East for Adventure, one of the most critically acclaimed magazines of the pulp era.

But though comparisons to the likes of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert E. Howard are merited due to plot and authorial provenance, there’s an even more fundamental similarity. At its heart, Jones’ work is a great read—a page-turner in its purest form. As such, The Desert of Souls is a powerful place—it can wreck sleeping schedules, cause chores to be neglected and, best of all, make one yearn for the next installment.

Imagine a world filled with people with superpowers. With its rerelease of Wild Cards I, the first book in the shared-world anthology series edited by fantasy titan George R.R. Martin, Tor Books wants to make it a little easier for you to do just that. The anthology, first released in 1986, presents an alternate history where an alien virus unleashed in the immediate aftermath of World War II irrevocably changes the human condition. Granted, the result isn’t always—or even often—Superman. In fact, those who are infected (“draw a wild card”) are more likely to be horribly disfigured or killed (“draw a joker”) as to gain a useful ability (“draw an ace”).

To newcomers, the anthology’s “real world” take on the super-powered might seem a well-trodden path. After all, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon’s acclaimed 1986 limited series comic Watchmen presented a similar, grittier version of how the traditional comic hero, that paragon of human virtue, might fare in a world where those less noble human traits—lust, ambition, greed, etc.—abound. Along with Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns,Watchmen was a seismic event in hero “theory,” forever altering the tone and tenor of superhero storytelling in ways that are the rule, not the exception, these days. But the Wild Cards series actually was introduced the same year as Watchmen andDark Knight. It’s less copycat than it is concurrent generation, and deserves a measure of respect as such.

Shared-world anthologies can sometimes be off-putting, or at the very least confusing, as disparate writing styles clash to the detriment of the larger world being built. Wild Cards I certainly has a diverse and skilled range of voices—from the late Roger Zelazny, one of the giants of fantasy and science fiction, to Nebula Award winners Edward Bryant, Howard Waldrop and Walter Jon Williams. But George R.R. Martin provides plenty of reader-centering ligature between the tales in the form of a prologue, interludes and an appendix, as well as in his editing and ordering of the stories. First-time readers will quickly gain their footing in this world of Aces, Jokers and “ nats” (slang for “ naturals” —those unaffected by the virus), even as different perspectives and time periods are presented. As for existing fans, the new edition includes three new stories (by Michael Cassutt, David D. Levine and Carrie Vaughn)—perhaps reason enough to purchase Wild Cards I a second time.

With HBO bringing Martin’s landmark fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire, to televisions everywhere starting in the spring of 2011, interest in Martin’s other projects should spike as viewers—many of them uninitiated in the genre—check out other works with his name attached. (Just ask Charlaine Harris what impact HBO’sTrue Blood—based on her Southern Vampire Mysteries series—had on interest in her body of work.)

Taken together, Wild Cards I isn’t necessarily greater than the sum of its parts, but it doesn’t need to be. If you enjoy Harry Turtledove-esque forays into alternate history, fantastic tales of super-powered protagonists or just like pulp fiction-fueled, bite-sized excursions away from the day-to-day, Wild Cards I has plenty to offer. 

In her debut novel for adults, Nnedi Okorafor, the author of two well-received books for young adults, has drawn from both the rich spirituality of Africa and the recent, tragic history of places like Darfur, Rwanda and Congo to craft a modern fantasy that sometimes feels like the time-slipped record of a future myth. This harsh and often wonderful book tells the story of Onyesonwu, a child of rape in a corner of a future Africa where the remnants of advanced technology mingle with magic.

Onyesonwu is raised among her mother's people, the Okeke, who are suffering under an explosion of genocidal violence at the hands of the Nuru people who have kept the Okeke enslaved for centuries. Discovering that she is connected to the world of magic, she grows from child to woman, becoming an unlikely beacon of hope for her genocide-ravaged people, without ever quite managing to shake the outcast stain that comes from her violent origins. As Onyesonwu's abilities grow, along with the threat to her people, she gathers an unlikely group of companions on a quest to confront the darkness that threatens to wipe the Okeke from the pages of history. Filled with rage, there are times when Onyesonwu is more like a force of nature than a human being as she races towards her ultimate destiny.

Although beautifully written throughout, there are portions of this book that are incredibly hard to read, as Okorafor's unflinching prose scours the reader with the intimate details of the worst that humanity has to offer. Yet she also shows us moments of beauty and joy. The desolate grandeur of the desert is convincingly drawn, as are some fantastic magical set pieces.

Who Fears Death is an example of the increasingly global influences that inform modern science fiction and fantasy; these influences are refreshing the genres and giving them new strength and relevance. This is not half-hearted magical realism, but epic fantasy. By combining African myth with African reality, Nnedi Okorafor has created a unique and powerful tale.