I try not to let my lizard brain take over when it comes to my TBR these days (that’s how it got to almost 1,100 books back to high school…that took some serious pruning). That being said, at this point, I’ve accepted that the phrases “space opera,” “queer,” and “anti-colonial” strung together activate me like some kind of sleeper agent. Thus, Countess found its way onto my TBR and swiftly onto my Kindle. It excited me even more that Countess was Caribbean-inspired and that the author is Trinidadian-Canadian (!!!!), so my expectations were high. Though it wasn’t perfect, Countess was a raw and brutal novella—hardly a page was wasted.
Centuries after the British colonized islands in the Caribbean, an evolution of their iron fist remains in space. Under the harsh rule of the Æcerbot Empire, planets and moons are stripped of their resources and their inhabitants left with the paltry choice to enter an immigration lottery to find work or make a meager on their exploited homeworlds.
Virika Sameroo has sworn her life to the empire, loyal to their army for years. But just as she attempts to ascend to a higher position, her captain mysteriously dies—and the imperial authorities frame him for his death. Imprisoned and alienated from the empire that brainwashed her, Virika becomes an unlikely figure for a galaxy-wide revolution—but will she survive long enough to see the Æcerbot empire fall to its knees?
TW/CW: colonization/imperialism themes, torture, murder, descriptions of corpses, blood, self-harm, attempted suicide, sexual assault
how it feels to enjoy a retelling when a bunch of the reviews say that it doesn’t follow the source material (I’ve never read The Count of Monte Cristo):
Of course, regardless of whether or not I’ve actually read The Count of Monte Cristo, I think it’s worth saying that a retelling doesn’t have to stick to every plot line to a T. I get going into a retelling and being disappointed on that front, but even if the setting is wildly different (as Countess is), I don’t think it’s a crime to tweak many of the plot points. In this case, having a vastly different setting kind of necessitates the plot being different, but from what I can gather, Countess is more inspired by The Count of Monte Cristo than it is a direct retelling. That’s fine, in my book. No pun intended.
As a whole, Countess was a fantastic read, but its one weak point was the writing. In a way, the writing style, even if I disliked some of it, worked for the story—and the character—that Palumbo was telling. It picks up at the halfway point, once the plot rockets into a breakneck pace in terms of both action and stakes, but for the first half, the prose felt very bare-bones. Even in this new, expansive empire in the stars full of political intrigue, there wasn’t much to embellish the prose—it was all very quick and to the point, with language that took the quickest routes to explain how we got from point A to point B. This is my first experience with Palumbo’s writing, so I’m not sure if it’s just her style, but either way, it works in connection to Virika; she’s been groomed to be a perfect, obedient soldier, so I doubt she’d be one to mince words or get into excessively flowery prose. For some of the scenes where Virika is in prison and a decade blurs by in only a handful of pages, it makes complete sense. Yet I needed some more descriptive prose to get me immersed in the setting—and in the other characters outside of Virika.
I’m all for having gentler books about resistance, but that doesn’t mean that narratives centered around brutal realities have no place. In fact, in stories like that of Countess, I’d argue that they’re necessary. This is a novella about the horrors of imperialism, down to the most minute aspects. For me, it didn’t go full grimdark, but it was because there was realism to it; grimdark is, for the most part nothing but suffering and pain with no real basis, but the events of Countess, horrendous as they are, were logical byproducts of the crushing weight of a colonialist empire with the galaxy under its colossal thumb. Palumbo pulled no punches with the depictions of what Virika goes through (especially the sequences in prison…please pay attention to the trigger warnings); some of it bordered on gratuitous, but this is a slim novella, and all of it was in service of the theme that the crimes under imperialism are many, varied, and real.
As I’ve said so many times, I see the phrases “queer,” “space opera,” and “anti-colonial” and I’ll run towards the book like I’m a bull that’s just seen the tiniest sliver of red in my peripheral vision. What grabbed me about Countess in particular was that it was Caribbean-inspired—particularly Trinidadian. My grandparents on my mom’s side are from Trinidad, and I’ve seen hardly any literature—much less speculative fiction—that incorporates these cultures. Admittedly, I’m more than a little distanced from that part of my heritage, but I’ve been learning thanks to the tireless research of my amazing artist mom, who is in the process of making a Caribbean oracle deck of her own! It’s thanks to her that I caught a lot of the Trini and generally Caribbean references (the fact that there’s a rebel ship called the Pomerac was gold), and there are plenty scattered throughout the novella—I’m sure I didn’t catch all of them, but what I recognized, I loved. I’ve loved witnessing the shift towards marginalized voices in speculative fiction, but one of the reasons it feels particularly beautiful to me is because for so long, our communities have been denied a place in the collective imagination, a place in a distant future among the stars. So thank you to Suzan Palumbo for this novella, and thank you to my wonderful mom for being the reason that I got these references.
In these kinds of stories (and in life in general), I always try to look for a glimmer of hope, even if it’s foolish of me. Make no mistake: Countess is a tragedy, one of the many (forthcoming) ones that Palumbo has written, according to her Goodreads bio. This novella is a very realistic depiction of how revolutions often make martyrs of their figureheads, and that was Virika’s fate from the start. Palumbo does make you feel the wasted potential of her life as she falls, but I couldn’t help but see the swell of revolution that she ushered in as the ultimate form of revenge—and an assurance of a better tomorrow, at least for a short time.
All in all, a brutal and bold—if not rote in periods—novel of revolutionary change and one woman’s struggle to break free of imperialism. 4 stars!
Countess is a standalone novella, but Suzan Palumbo is also the author of the anthology Skin Thief: Stories and several short stories in various magazines.
Today’s song:
finally got around to listening to Songs Of A Lost World!! this was my favorite—the whole album tended to be repetitive, but it was great nonetheless.
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
…so. Elephant in the room here, quite literally. I’ll venture to say that last Tuesday was one of the worst Tuesdays in American history. Hence, no activity. (Also, I had a whole cocktail of midterms to study for and papers and annotated bibliographies to write.) I needed the time to grieve. Let me tell you the truth: I’m so scared. I’m betrayed. Being in my formative years under a president who systematically mocked the identities of everyone who isn’t him—not just the ones that comprise my family—forced me to confront the fact that America had no regard for me. If there was change to be made, I had to do it myself, and with the help of the communities around me. So I started writing. I started educating myself. The process is never over, and will continue until my dying day; even with the sort of beef that I have with Sara Ahmed (yeah, killjoy etc. etc. etc., I’m on board with 50% of it, but can’t feminism be gleeful sometimes?), I look back to her words: “To become a feminist is to stay a student.” I am always learning. I am far from perfect, but I am trying. The key here is motion: we can’t afford to stay static, not in our ideas or in our actions. Resistance comes in many forms (and don’t let anybody tell you that there’s one right way to fight), but the key is that we must always keep moving. Donate. Protest. Pay someone a compliment. Make art. Write with hope in your heart. Trump and his ilk win when we’re too far into the quicksand of hopelessness.
Never lose hope and never lose love, because that is what the Trump administration lacks. Grieve, and grieve on your terms. I certainly did. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of that November morning when, at the age of 13, I woke up to my dad hanging his head over the kitchen counter as he made lunches for my brother and I. I remember clinging to him tighter than I ever had, frightened of every horrid possibility. Some of them came true. Some of them didn’t. I called both of my parents. I cried the same tears to them that I cried when I was young. Cry the same tears, but remember that they are the same tears. I’m frightened. But if we can resist Trump once, we can do it again. We can fight the same good fight. I love you.
…
All this is to say that, even though my output has been lessened lately (college!), this won’t change a thing. I’ll still be reviewing queer books aplenty, and no election will change that. Gather ’round.
After a solid two weeks of reading nothing but fluff to keep my mind off of everything, I remembered that Meru, one of the more innovative new sci-fi novels I read last year, had a sequel that was finally out! I was eager to re-immerse myself into S.B. Divya’s endlessly creative futuristic landscape, and Loka found itself on my Kindle in no time. Loka turned out to be contrary to my expectations and a very different book to Meru—it was a mixed bag at first, but by the final third, I’m happy to say that it stuck the landing in a deeply moving way.
Now, TREAD LIGHTLY! This review contains spoilers for Meru, book one in The Alloy Era series. If you haven’t read Meru and intend to do so, read at your own risk!
Akshana is a child that defies all existence. Her mother is human, and her maker is an Alloy—a post-human being with godlike powers. The ruling Alloy government condemns her very existence. For years, she has lived a sheltered existence on the planet Meru, raised by her human mother. But once Akshana turns 16, she heeds the call of Earth, the ancient homeworld of humankind. With the help of her friends, she takes up the rigorous Anthro Challenge: a trek to circumnavigate the habitable zone of Earth. As she navigates foreign terrain, Akshana comes to terms with how she was born and created—and where her destiny lies.
TW/CW: near-death situations, medical emergencies (related to sickle-cell anemia), xenophobia/discrimination (fictional), life-threatening storms
I thought that Meru had scared off all of the people who thought that S.B. Divya invented neopronouns, but apparently people are still complaining about it in the reviews for Loka? Did you just…miss book one in its entirety, or what?
I’ll get my main gripe about Loka out of the way first. The more I think about it, the more that I realize that my issue with Loka is that to some extent, it has the exact same stakes as Meru: a young girl/woman has to take a daring trek onto a foreign landscape, all the while facing prejudice from the outside world and alien, terrestrial dangers from the ground beneath her feet. S.B. Divya remains an excellent writer and crafter of worlds, but in terms of plot, in this case, lightning couldn’t strike twice. Aside from Akshana’s differing personality and the novelty of Earth 1,000 years in the future, there wasn’t as much to distinguish the two plots once I broke them down.
I wasn’t crazy about the main plot of the Anthro Challenge. In the future landscape of Loka, this challenge is designed for humans and Alloys to circumnavigate the landscape of Earth as humans did millennia ago. Only a few strips of Earth remain habitable (forming ringed borders around the world), but the brave adventurer must cross swaths of the Southern hemisphere and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans in order to complete the challenge. In concept, it’s a great bit of worldbuilding, but it didn’t make for a very compelling of a plot. For the first half of the novel, it felt like the same regurgitation of 1) reach new landscape, 2) inter or intra-personal conflict within the friend group, and 3) make a harrowing trek to the next stop on the Challenge. This was rinsed and repeated with less change than I wanted; even with the new landscapes, none of the side characters had much time to develop, and they seemed to encounter almost the exact same problems for a solid 100 pages. It bordered on feeling cheap, given how innovative Meru was.
That being said, even though the plot faltered, Divya’s writing never did. You’ve just got to trust in her abilities at this point, because she can write some fantastic sci-fi, even if the foundation of the plot is flimsy. Her voice for Akshana perfectly captured that teenage urge to explore beyond your parents’ backyard and prove everyone wrong. Divya’s descriptions of future Earth, from the raging seas to the lush greenery to the plains of a futuristic America, immersed me instantly in a vibrantly crafted vision of the future. I’ll get to the specifics of the emotional core of Loka later, but that was perhaps the best part of the novel—S.B. Divya’s brand of space opera borders on hard sci-fi for me, but it keeps the emotional center that so many other hard sci-fi novels forget to consider.
The subject of disability was one of the more compelling aspects of Meru; in a genre rife with eugenic practices that get dismissed as signs of a “progressive” society, Divya changed the game by creating Jayanthi, who, in a future when most disabilities were edited out of the gene pool, was specifically engineered to have sickle-cell anemia. More than that, her sickle-cell anemia was advantageous for surviving the landscape of Meru. Fast-forward 16 years, and Akshana is experiencing, as I said before, the same plot, but her sickle-cell anemia presents unique challenges on Earth, leading to many a close scrape when she exhausts herself to near-fatal levels. She has thoughts of resentment towards her mother, who made a conscious decision to pass this gene down to her. S.B. Divya said that Loka was inspired by their experience being a disabled parent, and that shone through in Loka; eugenicists would have you believe that this would constitute cruelty on the highest level, but Akshana comes to reconcile with—and understand—her mother’s logic. By erasing this gene and others from the gene pool, the Alloys past erased entire cultures, as well as the ways in which they moved about in the world. Being disabled is challenging, to say the least, and in my experience, bothersome and at times taxing to deal with on a daily basis. Yet it has shaped my life in ways that I will never regret. Akshana comes to realize that her mother, even though the road to this decision was rocky, merely wanted her to know that individuality, adversity, and culture cannot be erased by a purging of the gene pool.
Which brings me to the ending. The buildup of Loka concerns the mounting pressure and prejudice surrounding daring Akshana and her friends as they complete the challenge and return to a world that wants to erase their bravery and ban the Anthro Challenge altogether. Not only has she come to terms with her disability, she has come to reckon with her status as a half-human, half-Alloy being in a galaxy where neither party wants her to exist. Yes, there was the physical challenge, but the real Anthro Challenge is the identity crisis you have along the way, amirite? All jokes aside, that was the real hurdle to overcome. I know how corny I sound, but the real journey was Akshana’s journey to self-acceptance in all of the facets of her identity. At the end of the treacherous paved with prejudice and hatred, Akshana learns that the only way to survive is to be yourself, unapologetically so. As she says, in Loka’s stunning final lines:
“Our bodies don’t have a true end. Subatomic particles bounced between skin and air continually. So what did that make me, or any person? If I coexisted with everything and everyone, then part of me was also part of them, and vice versa. To some people, I would never be human enough. To others, I would always be too human. In the end, I had no choice by to be myself.”
And if anything could save Loka from being a letdown, it would be this, and the character arc it coincides with. Excuse me for a moment…no, I’m not crying, it’s just raining on my face.
All in all, a sequel with a plot that nearly dragged the novel down, but just like Akshana completing the Anthro Challenge, beautifully stuck the landing after a rocky journey. 4 stars!
Loka is the second book in The Alloy Era series, preceded by Meru. S.B. Divya is also the author of Machinehood, Runtime, and several other science fiction short stories.
Today’s song:
NEW HORSEGIRL IN FEBRUARY? ON VALENTINE’S DAY? PRODUCED BY CATE LE BON? today is a GOOD day
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
We’re keeping up my sequel streak for the time being, so it seems. The difference between this and The Heart of the World is that I had no idea that The Darkness Outside Us, one of my favorite books of 2021, was even getting a sequel in the first place. That novel rocked my world—it really enraptured me in a way that not a whole lot of books ever have. But it was beautiful as a standalone—it had about as satisfying of an ending as you could ask for. So I was teetering towards hesitantly optimistic when I heard about The Brightness Outside Us, but in the end, I’m so glad I took the gamble; this novel is a different kind of twisty than its predecessor, but it’s worth taking the leap.
Enjoy this week’s review!
Now, tread lightly! This review contains spoilers for book one, The Darkness Outside Us. If you haven’t read it and intend on doing so, read at your own risk!
For my review of book one, The Darkness Outside Us, click here!
In the 24th century, Ambrose Cusk is on the cusp of the greatest space mission mankind has ever embarked on. After losing his sister Minerva in a troubled gambit outside of the solar system, Ambrose is set to cross the universe itself in order to save her. But when he discovers that he won’t be on the ship—only clones of himself—he is determined to get to the bottom of what his true mission is—and what really happened to Minerva.
30,000 years in the future, the final clones of Ambrose and Kodiak have grown from the teenage clones they once were into fathers of two children. Owl and Yarrow live a peaceful but sheltered existence on the surface of Minerva. Owl yearns to learn what the rest of the planet holds, but her parents are keen on keeping her safe. But when her brother Yarrow begins acting strangely, the family suspects that a stranger thousands of years in the past may have sabotaged their mission.
TW/CW: violence, war, past mentions of child death, animal death, terrorism, intrusive thoughts
It didn’t even cross my mind that The Darkness Outside Us would have a sequel. I went into this novel with trepidation—how doyou follow up a novel as twisty, complex, and heartwrenchingly beautiful as The Darkness Outside Us? By splitting the novel in two, as it turns out. I didn’t think that The Darkness Outside Us needed a sequel, but nonetheless, I’m glad I stuck around to see the result—of course Eliot Schrefer would have something fascinating up his sleeve.
The Brightness Between Us reminds me of how much I love a good “space colony gone wrong” story. As I said, I didn’t even think about The Darkness Outside Us getting a sequel, but this novel has the perfect setup for precisely this kind of plot. I should have trusted Schrefer from the start, given how masterful book one was, but wow, the Minerva plot amazed me! There was so much solid, hard sci-fi put into the terrain, climate, and wildlife of Minerva, and Schrefer did an excellent job of keeping the reader in the dark just enough to make everything suspenseful, even when the mysterious bones that Owl digs up in her exoplanet yard only turn out to be from a duck. From the research behind the wildlife, the weather, and the atmosphere, no stone was left unturned, each one its own Chekhov’s gun waiting to fire.
Although Owl wasn’t my favorite protagonist, she fits perfectly for the environment she’s in. Every “space colony gone wrong” needs a character who questions everything; there is always some part of the planet that has been unexplored, and someone needs to be curious and daring enough to want to discover what’s on the other side of the world. It can be even more effective when that character is a child; children are naturally curious, making it more than simply questioning authority—the authority is often their parental figures, and the excuses of them hiding things “for their safety” feel more tangible. Fifteen-year-old Owl was naturally curious, but also paired with her more obedient (at first) brother, Yarrow, giving her more resentment towards her parents. She wasn’t as likeable as Ambrose or Kodiak (I loved seeing them become parents), but they had the home field advantage of book one. But I can recognize when a character is perfect for the plot they’re in, and Owl was the perfect match for the plot of The Brightness Between Us.
After the pummeling of gut-wrenching twists that we call The Darkness Outside Us, the sequel was going to have to pull off a miracle to follow it up in terms of plot. The main twist was so earth-shattering that I thought it would be impossible to come up with anything better. I remain correct—I don’t think anyone, much less Schrefer, could come up with a twist that could top book one. But the main twist that we do have was excellent enough to propel me to finish the book in one sitting—just like The Darkness Outside Us! (The difference is that it was at a reasonable hour this time. I’ve matured since 2021, I promise.) Not only is this duology a love story 30,000 years in the making—it’s a conspiracy 30,000 years in the making! I loved the twist that Devon manipulated the frozen fetuses to develop violently aggressive traits as they grew—it gave even more stakes to an already gripping plot, and it made the days of present future half of the novel gripping as well. It gave the “space colony gone wrong” side of The Brightness Outside Us a truly unique twist—sabotage from 30,000 years in the past, and two versions of the main characters communicating across time to thwart it.
All this talk about the Minerva plot, and I haven’t even touched on the “present-day” Ambrose and Kodiak…oops. I don’t have a favorite child, I swear. The worldbuilding in this half of The Brightness Outside Us was my favorite part; getting a glimpse into the forgotten world that we only knew about in whispers in book one was fascinating. Schrefer’s vision of a world divided into a corporate hellscape of excess and a corporate hellscape of rigidity was one that was mapped out just as vividly as the alien world of Minerva. You really do see how it is that Ambrose and Kodiak got to be how they were at the start of book one. In terms of character development, it did tend to feel like listening to a broken record afterbook one, but that’s my only minor nitpick—Schrefer made sure that they had startlingly different—and almost as emotional—arcs as their clone counterparts in The Darkness Outside Us. Devon was a fascinating, slippery antagonist, and his sabotage was one of my favorite parts of the novel to witness unfolding.
All in all, a sequel that had a Herculean task to live up to its predecessor, but delivered a miracle in spite of the odds—just like Ambrose and Kodiak. 5 stars!
The Brightness Between Us is the second book in The Darkness Outside Us series, preceded by The Darkness Outside Us. Eliot Schrefer has also written several other books for children and young adults, including the Ape Quartet (Endangered, Threatened, Rescued, and Orphaned), The Lost Rainforest series (Mez’s Magic, Gogi’s Gambit, and Rumi’s Riddle), Queer Ducks (And Other Animals): The Natural World of Animal Sexuality, and many others.
Today’s song:
EVERGREEN COMES OUT THIS FRIDAY, ARE WE READY?
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
As far as science fiction goes, I’m not usually for the literary side of it—that goes for most literary novels of any genre, to be honest. I’ve often found that the sci-fi part is dulled in favor of mass appeal. But the premise of Beautyland fascinated me, not just as a science fiction reader, but as someone who’s grown up feeling like an alien. Surprise, surprise—I cried.
Philadelphia, 1977. Humanity has given the gift of Voyager 1, along with its landmark Golden Record, to space. Unbeknownst to us, a power hidden deep in the cosmos has given humanity a gift in exchange. At the same time as the launch of Voyager 1, a baby is born to an unknowing mother, not human but alien. Her mother names her Adina, and as Adina grows older, she learns how to communicate with her kinfolk in space, reporting the oddities of human life and culture through an old fax machine. As Adina pretends to be human, she experiences the joy and terror of human existence, but longs for closure—will she ever be able to return to her homeworld?
TW/CW: cancer, sexual harassment, loss of loved ones, pet death, bullying, grief, 9/11 themes (brief)
One of the best feelings is when you pick up a book that you’re interested in, but not expecting anything marvelous from, and then getting absolutely pied in the face out of nowhere with the feeling that this book gets me. Setting aside my reservations for literary sci-fi, Beautyland digs into the heart of my experience growing up—of feeling alien, but of cataloguing all of the nonsensical facets of American culture and the feeling of not belonging. I cried. I laughed. I had an echoing pang in my chest for a while. Like life, all of it was worth reading and living.
Observations about the human condition formed the heart of Beautyland. Through Adina’s messages on a fax machine, she reports to her alien superiors on everything from the oddities of American culture (“When it was time to decide the official food of movie-watching, human beings did not go for Fig Newtons or caramel, foods that are silent, but popcorn, the loudest sound on earth”) to the painful and uneasy truths of human existence (“The ego of the human male is by far the most dangerous aspect of human society”). Bertino’s writing shone the most when chronicling Adina’s observations. She adopted a blunt, matter-of-fact tone of a distanced journalist, someone watching our species from the sidelines, yet always managed to wring the emotion from it, be it humor or sorrow. The wonder of Adina when she visited her superiors at night, in a vast room inside of her mind, was just as palpable, capturing her childlike curiosity. You felt every joy of Adina reporting back on the eccentricities of humanity, and every sorrow once Adina matures and realizes the dark side of our nature. The eventual abandonment of her superiors as she grew older drove the point home even more—at a certain point, nobody can answer these questions for you, and you realize that you don’t have the answers, and neither does anyone else. All that’s left to do is live your life, and observe.
Though it wasn’t outright said or diagnosed, the neurodivergent themes of Beautyland were what stuck with me the most. (I have sensory processing disorder, and, among other things, I felt Adina’s growing discomfort with sensations as simple as hearing people breathe and chew.) Whether or not you believe that Adina is actually an alien, the experience of being on the fringes and unable to understand not just other people but their actions deeply resonated with me. As Adina moves through middle and high school and is ostracized by her more popular peers and tries to scientifically observe them, she’s confronted with a frequent feeling of questioning why it has to be this way: why are these girls looking at me like I’m gum on the bottom of their shoes? Why is not wanting sex such an affront to men? Why don’t they like me? That feeling of knowing something’s missing, but being unable to find it, put into words a feeling I struggled with through my adolescence, a sense that everybody else knew something I didn’t, and that was what made me so strange to them.
I read Beautyland as both science fiction and historical fiction; some people have put it up in the air as to whether or not Adina actually is an alien, but I think the answer is…yes. Both can be true. I’ve grown up in a similar way to Adina, feeling so on the outside of everything that I’ve attached myself to science fiction and alienness in general. Like Adina, it’s informed by some neurodivergence and general outsiderness, but there’s something to be said for all of the questions presented being true. Yes, she may be an alien sent from an advanced race beyond the solar system, and yes, she has some neurodivergent tendencies as well. The two can coexist. And Beautyland’s embrace of how these qualities can intersect was what made it so impactful; this experience fundamentally makes us human, even if it makes us feel alien. I often see criticism of alien or robot characters who are characterized as “inhuman,” but what makes them inhuman boils down to them just having the traits of neurodivergent people (“lack” of emotion, misunderstanding of how humans work) and those on the asexual/aromantic spectrum (no desire for romance or sex, that which “makes us human”), and I think it’s a valid criticism to apply to characters who are written thoughtlessly. But who’s to say that an alien character like this can’t also be neurodivergent and asexual? Again: the two can coexist. Bertino wrote Adina as a character with a deep understanding of human culture, and that, to me, does not skew the reading of her as asexual and neurodivergent.
Somehow, one of the most emotional parts of Beautyland for me was how Bertino wrote about Carl Sagan. As I mentioned before, the novel is written in fragments, not always linearly, but taking frequent detours outside of Adina’s immediate life and into moments of relevant pop culture at the time—the popularity of Carl Sagan being one of them. With her connection to the Golden Record and the absence of her own father, Adina looks up to Sagan as a surrogate father, someone who can teach her more about the cosmos from which she was born from. Even having never met him in person, the way that Adina processed Sagan’s death was where I lost it; this is one of her first experiences of loss, and it’s the loss of someone who has unknowingly guided her through her alien life, teaching her about the universe, and by proxy, given her a roadmap of the human condition. Fleeting as it was, Bertino wrote this instance—and the connection to Sagan in general—with the kind of love of someone you feel like you’ve known all your life, but have never even met.
All in all, a deeply human exploration of what it means to be alien. 5 stars!
Beautyland is a standalone, but Marie-Helene Bertino is also the author of Parakeet, 2 A.M. at The Cat’s Pajamas, and the short story collection Safe as Houses.
Today’s song:
new Smile!! not my favorite, and I can see why they left it off the album, but a solid track nonetheless.
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Here I was thinking that I hadn’t had a 5-star read in so long, and bam…twoin a row! I was expecting to enjoy The Stardust Grail because I loved The Deep Sky, Yume Kitasei’s debut. To my delight, it turned in a much more space opera direction, but not only that—it had one of the most heartwarming sci-fi universes that I’ve had the privilege of experiencing!
Maya Hoshimoto is a grad student, pouring her life into her studies on an Earth university far from her colony home. But what her university doesn’t know is that her extensive background in alien cultures comes from a history of art theft, stealing alien artifacts and returning them to their rightful owners. When a friend from her past offers her one last job, Maya is ready to refuse—until she learns that the artifact in question could mean that her friend’s species could be brought back from the brink of extinction. Plunged back into her old life, Maya now faces her hardest job yet—putting an entire alien species on the line.
TW/CW (from Yume Kitasei): themes of colonialism/imperialism, genocide, chronic illness (migraines), torture, suicidal ideation (brief), violence/gore, torture/confinement, war themes, pandemic
I loved The Deep Sky, but it was more literary than my usual tastes in sci-fi. I went into The Stardust Grail expecting more of the same, knowing I’d enjoy it, but I did not anticipate it being the perfect book for my constant space opera hankering! Heartwarming friendships, intergalactic hijinks, and excellent creature design—I’m ecstatic to report that The Stardust Grail has it all!
You all knew I was going to go after the creature design first. THE CREATURE DESIGN!! THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE CREAM OF THE CROP HERE!! My only issue is that we didn’t get to see all of the alien species that Kitasei set up, but to be fair, with a story jam-packed with rival parties and factions, it would’ve been a chore to have to incorporate every single one of them. (Maybe what we need is a companion novel in this universe? WE NEED TO MAKE IT HAPPEN!) Back to my point—even in sci-fi, it’s a difficult task to make aliens feel truly alien, not just in looks, but in culture, lifespans, and general quirks. The Frenro, and Auncle in particular, felt bizarre in the best possible way. I love a good cephalopod-like creature, but Kitasei did an excellent job of portraying not just xer mannerisms and what made xem unique as a species, but having those in contact with Maya’s more human sensibilities—there’s a ton of cultural confusion, even though they’ve been friends for at least a decade, but both Kitasei and the characters themselves handle it with a humorous grace. I also loved the design of the Belzoar—again, arachnid-like aliens are also tons of fun, but like the Frenro, they had enough distinguishing qualities to separate them from just being giant spiders.
I could go on and on about how much I adored these characters! Even if I didn’t have a soft spot for alien characters in the first place (being marginalized and generally an outcast will do that), Auncle would be my favorite by far—xe was just so delightful in their joyous dialogue and relentless optimism, but xer deep history of tragedy, both personal and in the context of xer species, was handled with all of the respect that it deserved—xe was joyous in spite of it all, because joy is all you’ve got in some cases. (AMEN!!) Maya was a fantastic protagonist—like Auncle, Kitasei did an excellent job of giving the reader the full breadth of her motivations and past that led her to the place where she is now. Her devotion to a fair galaxy and to help the Frenro made for a beautiful quest, and her feeling of outsiderness amongst both humans and aliens resonated deeply with me. (Given the themes of mixed-race identity in The Deep Sky, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was another analog. YES!!!) Wil and Medix were charming and lovable as side characters, and all of the colorful denizens of the galaxy were equally so—not a single character felt flat or out of place.
In her personal review of the novel on Goodreads, Yume Kitasei cites Star Wars—A New Hope in particular—as her primary inspiration for writing The Stardust Grail and much of her other science fiction. The Deep Sky was much more on the literary side of sci-fi, and while I loved it, I’m hoping that Kitasei keeps in this direction for her next few books. (I’ll read anything she writes at this point, but my statement still stands.) As a fellow space opera girlie and an avid Star Wars fan, the passion of both Kitasei’s personal life and her love for those movies shines through in The Stardust Grail. Kitasei took all of the right lessons from George Lucas and company. Not only do we have a vibrant galaxy full of characters who are just as vibrant, this novel hits the right balance of emotional weight and campy, truly fun action. Speaking of George Lucas…another obvious inspiration in the latter third of the novel was the Indiana Jones franchise, and those action scenes were the best kind of fun amidst an otherwise deeply grounded and emotional novel. Never at any point do the emotion and serious themes contradict the aforementioned action, nor the other way around—all of it is earned, and all of it feels like a worthy tribute both Star Wars and other such space opera works.
Speaking of said serious and emotional themes…as I said earlier, The Stardust Grail has such grace in the way that it handles the myriad of themes that it explores. From Maya’s lasting effects of an alien illness that linger into her life to her experience as an outsider, being raised on a colony isolated from Earth, every topic is treated with the weight it deserves. Imperialism and the ownership of art is the primary theme of the novel, and it’s unabashedly anti-colonial, which I adored. However, it didn’t just say “colonialism bad” and leave it at that—just as in the real world, nothing in The Stardust Grail is without nuance. With dozens of alien species and factions amongst said species, everything is gray, even in the case of their main mission. Would it have been fine if all there was to The Stardust Grail is “colonialism bad?” Sure, I agree. But the fact that Kitasei chose to explore all of the layers to the various conflicts and perspectives made it so much more worthwhile.
All in all, a deeply emotional and heartwarming tale of resistance, friendship across cultural barriers, and retaining joy in spite of it all. 5 stars!
The Stardust Grail is a standalone, but Yume Kitasei is also the author of The Deep Sky.
Today’s song:
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Finna has been on my radar since it came out back in 2020; it had a funny and clever concept, but it just kept being pushed back on my TBR for whatever reason. I ended up picking it up after hearing praise from one of my creative writing classmates, and although it wasn’t perfect, it delivered on its inventive premise.
Now, tread lightly! This week’s book review contains spoilers for the novella, so if you intend to read Finna, skim at your own risk.
Ava and Jules barely make a living working minimum wage at LitenVarld, a Swedish furniture supply giant. Ever since they broke up, they’ve been trying to avoid each other, and with the labyrinthine structure of the store, it’s easy. But the two are thrown together when an old woman goes missing and the manager tells them that LitenVarld is no ordinary store—it’s prone to opening wormholes that lead to alternate dimensions. Ava and Jules must search across the universes to return the old woman to safety at any cost, but their superiors appear less and less like they have their needs in mind…
TW/CW: blood, violence, grief, mental health themes (anxiety and depression), misgendering
My main concern with Finna was that it would only have the premise to hold it up. It’s a fantastic premise! And although it wasn’t a perfect novella, it went far beyond the expectations for its ideas, delivering an anti-capitalist spin on the monstrous multiverse.
Making Finna a novella was, without a doubt, a wise move. It’s got an inviting premise—a not-IKEA store that’s home to a multitude of portals to strange and hellish dimensions—but it’s one that could have easily been stretched out. It partly works because…well, if you’ve ever been inside IKEA, that’s where your mind naturally goes, but Finna mainly succeeded because Cipri knew the limits of the idea. If it had been a full-length novel, I’m sure it would have been interesting to see the other dimensions hidden within the interdimensional labyrinth of LitenVarld, but the plot couldn’t have sustained itself beyond 100 pages. I’ve seen too many novels where the story has been stretched far too thin, so to have an author know the limits of their story—and have an inventive novella to show for it—was incredibly refreshing.
Finna is the perfect story for right now not just because it has a fun concept, but because it truly nails the kind of corporate neglect that runs rampant in workplaces in this day and age. Even against the threat of a multiverse full of monstrous obstacles (including but not limited to man-eating furniture), Ava and Jules are having to tackle threats leagues beyond their pay grade, and their only compensation is gift cards for a pasta restaurant. Their managers openly tell them that they don’t actually care about the old woman who’s gotten lost in the multiverse—they just want Ava and Jules to find an alternate universe replacement for her so that they can keep up appearances. It’s all so blatantly uncaring and corporate—and it’s all realistic. If some massive chain of stores discovered a wormhole in one of their locations, they would absolutely cover it up until it was no longer possible to do so, especially at the expense of the minimum wage employees. I will say that, although you got hit over the head with this even though the commentary was right there already, Finna’s setup made it perfect for the anticapitalist commentary that Cipri explored—corporations only make it look like they care about you when it looks good for them, and even then, the worker is always dispensable. The execution of this corporate setting was, in the end, what made Finna so successful in that regard—it seems like a real, capitalist response to a fictional problem.
That being said, even though Finna works best as a novella, it did fall victim to some of the pitfalls of novella writing. It’s difficult to develop characters in just over 100 pages, and this worked to the detriment of its protagonists, Ava and Jules. We only knew them from the lens of their situations and their breakup; after finishing the novella, all I knew about Ava was that she a) had a failed relationship with Jules, b) had anxiety and depression, and c) hated her job—nothing much about her personality. This is about as deep as we get with her, and for Jules, we get even less, other than the fact that they’re more reckless and cocky, and for that reason, Ava doesn’t like working with them. The plot was compelling and well-executed enough for me to continue reading the story, but it was so plot and theme-driven that the characters were left in the dust.
Such underdeveloped first drafts of characters meant that the emotional impact of Finna was all but deadened. I got the feeling that I was supposed to feel something when Jules sacrificed themself so that Ava could return to her home dimension, but since I knew so little about them, I never felt much. What Jules needed, perhaps more than a handful of base personality traits, was some kind of motivation; it could also be down to how quickly the second half moves, but their quest through the other dimensions gave us no indication of why they would go from reckless to selfless. It could just be the constraints of the novella format, but I’ve read plenty of novellas longer and shorter than Finna that have been able to establish well-rounded characters with believable motivations, so I’m not sure if there’s much of an excuse for this.
All in all, a novella with a funny, inventive premise and sharp anti-capitalist commentary that was dragged down by its underdeveloped characters. 3.5 stars!
Finna is the first novella in the LitenVerse series, followed by Defekt. Nino Cipri is also the author of the short story collection Homesick: Stories and the forthcoming YA novel Dead Girls Don’t Dream. They have also contributed stories to Nonbinary: Memoirs of Gender and Identity, Transcendent: The Year’s Best Transgender Speculative Fiction, and several other anthologies.
Today’s song:
forgot about this song for ages…
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
The Vela came on my radar again when I dredged my TBR for books to read during this year’s Disability Pride Month. Beyond the disability rep…what could possibly go wrong with Becky Chambers AND Rivers Solomon, right? I’m glad to say I was right—whether it was the work of new-to-me or longtime favorite authors, they all came together in stunning harmony in The Vela, a timely sci-fi epic that’s as observant as it is thrilling.
Asala Sikou can’t afford to care about anybody but herself. Not when her star system is on the verge of collapse, and not when everyone she once knew is long dead. But when she receives a job to track down the Vela, a ship hauling thousands of refugees that mysteriously disappeared, Asala knows that there’s more than meets the eye to the incident. So does Niko, the smart but sheltered child of another planet’s president. The two unlikely companions will have to team up to track down the Vela—and all of its refugees—before they’re embroiled in a galaxy-wide war.
TW/CW: xenophobia, racism, themes of genocide, descriptions of death/corpses
The promise of Becky Chambers and Rivers Solomon in one novel was the main draw of The Vela for me, but by the time I finished the novel, I was fully invested in all four contributors. Their talents came together so seamlessly, making for a novel that wasn’t just coherent, but downright thrilling—The Vela is sure to satisfy whether or not you’re familiar with the authors.
Out of all of the authors who contributed to The Vela, I was the most hesitant about Yoon Ha Lee; the one book I’ve read of his was one that didn’t mesh with my style (but that was also his first attempt at middle grade, so that could have been my issue). I read a sample of Ninefox Gambit ages ago and liked it, but not enough to buy it. Consider me proven wrong about him! As the author who started off the novel, he was the perfect choice. His fast-paced prose made for an opening chapter that integrated the reader swiftly and effortlessly into the world of The Vela. Later on, his battle scenes were some of the highlights of the novel; every chase sequence and dogfight is so meticulous that I questioned whether or not he’d actually been in the thick of an intergalactic war. I’ll be seeking out more of his work after this!
Becky Chambers was, by far, the author I was most excited about seeing in The Vela. I’ve fallen head-over-heels in love with her cozy sci-fi, as many other readers had. What she contributed to The Vela, however, was a sense of complication. Like The Galaxy, and the Ground Within, where she piled a series of unlikely characters together and had them clash in terms of culture, politics, and personality, Chambers excelled at complicating the relationships between each character. Her cozy agenda made me forget how well she writes cold, fascist characters; the way she wrote General Cynwrig sent chills up my spine, conveying the dull distance she has from every other character. Every interaction with her is nothing but war room strategy, and that’s why she and Niko clashed so fundamentally. While toeing over making Cynwrig sympathetic, Chambers gave us a glimpse into her mind without justifying her actions. It’s a difficult dilemma to skirt around, but one that served to develop Niko incredibly; they had a very un-nuanced view of the galaxy, and although their views weren’t changed fundamentally, it allowed them to see different sides without excusing their horrific actions.
Rivers Solomon, the other author I was looking forward to reading in The Vela, gave us the novel’s best glimpse into the mind of the protagonist, Asala. Their prose here, which combines rough-edged anger with exceptional metaphor, fleshed out Asala in ways that the other chapters did not; Solomon had the weight of sculpting all of the events that made Asala as cool and calculated as she was, and by the end, I had a vision of her that was as clear as a map, with every mountain range and river of her life writ out. Her cold disillusionment was palpable, but by the time Asala begins to move more towards purpose and determination, we can see, with incredible clarity, every step that led up to it.
S.L. Huang was the only author featured in The Vela who I was completely unfamiliar with. Now that I’ve finished the novel, I’m keen on checking out her other works, because I can’t think of many other authors who are able to write war so poetically, but never romanticize it at any point. Nothing is ever glorified (as it should be, both in general and considering the themes of The Vela), but there’s something so silk-smooth and beautiful in the way she described battalions of ships on the horizon and the chaos of war as all of the parties scramble for a handhold. For a novel with a prominently anti-war sentiment, Huang’s prose served a valuable purpose—humanizing the consequences of war that many of the characters were unable to grasp, and writing it with such tact and heart that it bordered on poetry.
As a whole…what a timely novel, isn’t it? Surely, we couldn’t learn a thing or two from this world, where star systems and planets are being physically torn apart and destroyed because nobody considered that their enemies are also human…surely that’s not applicable to [checks notes] practically every issue we’re dealing with at the moment, no?
All in all, a seamless and cohesive sci-fi thriller that wonderfully harmonizes the unique talents of the authors that it displays. 4 stars!
The Vela is the first in an anthology series, followed by The Vela: Salvation, which features Nicole Givens Kurtz, Sangu Mandanna, Maura Milan, and Ashley Poston.
Today’s song:
my friend and I were discussing our favorite album intros last night, and they showed me this…they’re right on the money with this one (thanks!!)
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
This is going to be different from my normal Book Review Tuesdays, as I’m reviewing an entire trilogy. Normally, that would be a tall order for a single post, but this trilogy is different. It’s a series that I read so often in middle school that even the teachers started to recognize the cover when I brought it in. It’s a series that has woven itself into the fabric of my life, just as Arius’ metaphor of time as a braided rope. It’s a series that inspired me to pursue writing—specifically writing science fiction.
In light of the new (and deeply disappointing) Apple TV+ series, I decided to re-read the series for the first time in six and a half years. Some novels you loved when you were younger don’t age well, but after I devoured all three books in the span of a day each, I can say that Tony DiTerlizzi’s WondLa trilogy has stood the test of time.
When a marauder destroys the underground sanctuary that Eva Nine was raised in by the robot Muthr, the twelve-year-old girl is forced to flee aboveground. Eva Nine is searching for anyone else like her: She knows that other humans exist because of an item she treasures—a scrap of cardboard on which is depicted a young girl, an adult, and a robot, with the strange word, “WondLa.”
☆
There definitely wasn’t an ulterior motive to me re-reading this series…totally not just to replace my reviews on Goodreads from 2016 (“OMG BEST BOOK EVER SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE but BIG FEELS”). Yeah.
The Search for WondLa is the reason why I decided that I wanted to write science fiction. It introduced me to a vast world of sci-fi literature that would become my favorite genre. It showed me a rich world full of bizarre, wonderful creatures and told me that I, too, had the power to foster such weirdness in my heart and bring it into the world. When I say that I don’t know where I would be without the WondLa trilogy, I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. Tony DiTerlizzi truly has, like Arius, given gifts to the world in the form of these novels.
The Search for WondLa coexists as a startlingly original piece of worldbuilding while also paying homage to a number of novels and stories—The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, of course, but also the older sci-fi that has inspired DiTerlizzi throughout his career, from Dune to Star Wars and others. There’s Jim Henson lurking in his fanciful creatures, Hiyao Miyazaki in his alien landscapes, and Ray Bradbury in his matter-of-fact, bombastic dialogue. On the subject of both Miyazaki and dialogue, what always cracks me up about this series (affectionately) is the various names DiTerlizzi gives to his characters and places. When I watched Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind for the first time, my brother and I agreed that the long chunks of expository dialogue were all part of the hokey charm of the movie—it’s distinctly old sci-fi, and it’s so silly that it becomes charming. The same can be said for DiTerlizzi’s naming process…which is so unsubtle that it’s hilarious. Besteel? Surely he’s not a beast-like, predatory character. A fishing village by a lake? Can’t be anything but Lacus, right? Cæruleans? You’re not gonna believe what color these aliens are…but it’s WondLa’s charm. Intentional or not, these names might be one of the most faithful homages to the sci-fi genre.
Even if The Search for WondLa was the only book in the series, some of the character arcs are so expertly resolved within the span of a single book that it would be a satisfying standalone. Muthr’s may be the most clear-cut, but it’s nonetheless deeply impactful; her journey of battling with her own programming and beliefs and embracing the perilous, unknowable beauty of the natural world forms a key piece of the novel’s emotional anchor. She’s clearly the Tin Man, and although she can never fully adapt, by the end of her story, she has most definitely grown a heart. I think Rovender Kitt is the reason why I love the trope of gruff, older characters who reluctantly end up taking children under their wing on a fantastical journey. His development oscillates between heartbreaking and heartwarming in equal measure; Eva helped him remember to have empathy, and he, in turn, became the father figure that she never had. He never stops being gruff and sarcastic, but he rediscovers his caring core. The last few chapters of the novel are brutal for clear reasons, but Rovender’s breakdown, wracked with grief and survivor’s guilt, guts me every time. It’s a drastic shift from the Rovender we see at the beginning of the novel, but almost 500 pages is enough time for him to become the series’ epicenter of guidance and wisdom.
Part of my motivation to re-read the series was because of the Apple TV+ series (spoiler alert: it’s awful. They turned Eva into an adorkable Disney princess. Skip it.), but watching and reading them closely together made me realize what the show fundamentally gets wrong about the series: it’s weird, and it’s unafraid of being weird. All of the aliens have unique, truly otherworldly designs, with no punches held just because the target audience skews younger. Eva Nine is so far from perfect, even by the standards of young girls: her hair’s a mess, she doesn’t have a clue about surviving in the outside world, and yet confidently asserts that she can talk to animals, something that most would have left behind by the time they turn 12. But it’s all true! She’s unafraid of being weird, but that’s where her loneliness arises: she’s not just looking for humans, she’s looking for someone who understands the circumstances that molded her into the confidently strange person that she is…
Somebody hold me. No wonder I read this book to death when I was 12…
For its undeniable role in shaping the course of my life, 5 stars.
Before the end of The Search for WondLa , Eva Nine had never seen another human, but after a human boy named Hailey rescues her along with her companions, she couldn’t be happier. Eva thinks she has everything she’s ever dreamed of, especially when Hailey brings her and her friends to the colony of New Attica, where humans of all shapes and sizes live in apparent peace and harmony.
But all is not idyllic in New Attica, and Eva Nine soon realizes that something sinister is going on—and if she doesn’t stop it, it could mean the end of everything and everyone on planet Orbona.
☆
A Hero for WondLa is a truly worthy predecessor to book 1 for so many reasons, but what struck me the most upon re-reading it is how painfully accurate—and beautiful—Tony DiTerlizzi’s depiction of weird middle school girlhood is. I had to stop and remember that yes, this is a middle-aged man writing this, and yes, he has a daughter, but she was still a toddler when he wrote this…and yet he nails it. Right down to the smallest details.
A Hero for WondLa follows Eva Nine’s journey after she’s discovered that she’s not the only human. She visits New Attica, the pristine, final stronghold of the human race, where technology rules all. Eva’s first instinct is to fit in; she’s taken under the wing of Gen Pryde and her Mean Girls 2049 posse of identical, plastic friends, who are intent on making her fit in—they giggle at her sanctuary-born eccentricities, and she’s only praised when they mold her to look just like them. Even after that, they’re laughing behind their hands. She flees their false promise of friendship and into the arms of Eva Eight, her long-lost sister who has waited 100 years for her arrival. Eight hates New Attica and all of its lies, and promises Eva that she’s just like her. And yet, despite this insistence, Eva fails to find solace in her, either. It’s only when she becomes one with the Spirit of the Forest that she becomes her truest self—putting that which gives her power front and center. Like The Wizard of Oz, the (emerald) city she has spent her whole journey looking for is nothing but a sham, and in the end, there’s no place like “home”—the person that she is most comfortable being.
Oh, god. I need a minute. Ow. No other book I can think of captures the limbo of being 13 and not knowing who your real friends were lodged so deeply into my heart. Eva, like me, was so desperate for friendship and human connection that both attempts ended in complications, but through it all, everything came back to the found family she has built—the outcasts, the prisoners, the exiled. The ones who had her back. The ones who were just as confused as she was, but joined her journey after realizing the error in their ways.
The aesthetic language of A Hero for WondLa is drastically different than book one, with its pristine, plastic city of humans living in a bubble. Even the clean walls of Sanctuary 573 had a retro feel to them—likely centuries outdated from New Attica’s tech—but all of this is so blindingly new. None of the robots and automatons have the same old-fashioned friendliness as Muthr, trading approachability for sleekness and monstrous amounts of wires and tentacles. But along with it is a sinister aspect that DiTerlizzi doesn’t shy away from; I’d forgotten that, although the discussion is brief, that it’s implies that among all of the mind-control and executions that Cadmus Pryde is carrying out eugenics is casually a part of his long list of crimes against the last of humanity. The WondLa trilogy isn’t one to shy away from darkness (part of why it’s stood the test of time for me), but that aspect stood out, especially since this is science fiction we’re talking about, a genre that has a long history of portraying the eradication of disabilities as a sign of progress. I’d remembered that there are a handful of disabled characters, but having that as a clear signifier of evil in a middle-grade novel is something I can’t praise enough.
The Search for WondLa is a very self-contained story; although book sequels surpass it, in my opinion, the conclusion that it ended on (minus the epilogue) was hopeful and wrapped-up enough that it could have been a reasonable end to Eva Nine and Rovender’s journey. But this novel does such an excellent job of intensifying the stakes in so many ways. As Eva learns of a conflict that could soon entrench the whole planet in war, we get so many of the real time costs. Foreshadowed details, hinted at from the start of the series, metamorphose into sinister threats. Interpersonal relationships become tangled in this vast, interspecies conflict—nobody knows the truth. Side characters (although all but one do end up surviving in the end) often die mere chapters after they’re introduced. It’s a very tense book in and of itself, but as the setup to the massive conflict in the final book, it’s a masterclass in building up both physical and emotional stakes.
And…good god, all of Rovender’s emotional moments always kill me the most. Without going too in-depth, the scene of his complicated reunion with Antiquus destroyed me when I was younger, and it might have destroyed me even more…
It reminds me of another song that similarly destroys me:
“There will come a day/When the Earth will cease to spin/You’ll hold me close and say: ‘my God, where have you been?'” (Shakey Graves, “Chinatown”)
For the deeply emotional journey, then and now, 5 stars.
All hope for a peaceful coexistence between humankind and aliens seems lost in the third installment of the WondLa trilogy. Eva Nine has gone into hiding for fear of luring the wicked Loroc to her companions. However, news of the city Solas being captured by the human leader, Cadmus Pryde, forces Eva into action once again. With help from an unlikely ally, Eva tries to thwart Loroc’s ultimate plan for both mankind and the alien life on Orbona.
☆
The Battle for WondLa was my favorite book of the trilogy when I first read it, and I find myself agreeing with the sentiment almost a decade later. Was this influenced by the fact that, in retrospect, the original book cover almost certainly contributed to my bisexual awakening at age 12? Maaaaaaybe. In all seriousness, it’s such a brutal, beautiful, and downright exhilarating conclusion to a series like no other.
This incarnation of Eva Nine, as matured as we see her in the trilogy, has always been my favorite. After she embraces her powers and connection to the natural world, she’s such a fascinating hero to follow, partly because she never fully gives up her younger traits. In fact, her powers lie in what made her a target in the first novel—her sensitivity and empathy. Now that she can communicate with all of the creatures of Orbona, she uses her sensitivity to find it within herself to accept the machinations of the natural world and show mercy for even the most frightening of beasts. Sensitivity is her superpower, and that is such an important lesson for younger readers—especially young girls. It’s overwhelming to feel everything all of the time, especially when you’re Eva’s age, but having a heroine who wrestles with that and learns to fine tune her all-seeing empathy and use it to her advantage is so, so crucial. I’m likely among a majority when I say that my sensitivity was often treated as a weakness growing up, so having a heroine whose sensitivity saves the world is just about the best role model you could write for a young girl.
As the title suggests, The Battle for WondLa boasts some of the best battle scenes in the whole trilogy. I’m not talking about the massacre of New Attica, although that remains truly brutal, but the ones that display Tony DiTerlizzi’s talent the most is the scenes where Eva uses the sheer might of the forest to win her battles. Now that I’m older, I’ll inevitably associate WondLa with Björk for a number of reasons, but Eva Nine goes from that precocious, earlier “Human Behaviour” Björk straight into “Nattúra” as her development goes on—unflinching femininity channeling the incomprehensible power of nature. Does it get any better than that, folks? Actually, it does—watching Eva Nine take down a squadron of Warbots with the help of a herd of giant water bears. “My herd…help me.” COME ON. Eva getting injured and then being carried back into battle by the mother sand-sniper that she freed from the menagerie? GIVE IT TO ME!! A highlight of the novel, without a doubt.
What stands out to me about Battle is this novel’s willingness to make complicated characters. Whether they’re the culmination of arcs of characters who have been in the series for multiple books or side characters that only show up in the latter half of the novel, there’s something to be said for how unflinchingly complex everyone is, and how that further complicates Eva’s quest to unite humans and aliens on Orbona. Hailey, with whom Eva is still (justifiably) bitter over her treatment in New Attica, sheds his tough, cocky exterior to reveal a loyal, humble friend by the end of the novel. Zin’s scientific distance becomes a detriment to him in the wake of the death of his family—and the threat exerted by his power-hungry brother, making him realize the error in his lack of emotional intelligence. Redimus, who unintentionally caused nearly all the dominoes for the entire series to play out against Eva, is never written as fully black or white; Eva can never fully bring herself to forgive him, but she learns to accept his attempt to, in his own words, “rectify his past actions,” and to accept that everyone is a web of decisions and consequences that never fully align with each other. And that’s what makes her journey feel so much more earned.
At the heart of The Battle for WondLa is connectivity—it’s all very “I/O” to me. Loroc’s ultimate goal is to unite Orbona, but unity in the form of everyone, human and alien, being either enslaved or consumed by him. He tricks his allies with promises of harmony, only for them to realize that harmony ends up being the harmony of being together…inside of his stomach. Eva wins by championing the fact that it’s the uplifting of everyone’s unique strengths that makes a community strong, whether it’s the unity of the aliens or the interconnectedness of all of the plants and animals of Orbona. We are each an integral part of a community, whether it’s a food web or a village, and it is those unlikely connections that make us stronger. As with today, the greatest mistake that any civilization can make is thinking that we are separate from nature. To once again quote Peter Gabriel, “I’m just a part of everything,” and that is where strength—and love—come from.
All in all, an unforgettable finale for a series that changed the trajectory of my life overwhelmingly for the better. 5 stars.
Tony DiTerlizzi is the author of several books for both early readers (Adventure of Meno, Ted, Jimmy Zangwow’s Out-of-This-World Moonpie Adventure, G is for One Gzonk!) and middle grade (Kenny and the Dragon and The Spiderwick Chronicles, co-authored with Holly Black). All seven episodes of WondLa are now streaming on Apple TV+*.
*I could only make it through 5/7 episodes before I had to quit. Only watch it out of morbid curiosity or if you have intentions to read the books and see how you got robbed.
Today’s song:
thank you to my brother for turning me on to this one!!
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Old news: I’m desperate for good cozy sci-fi, and most of that desperation comes from the fact that nobody does it like Becky Chambers, but publishers will slap “perfect for Becky Chambers fans!” on literally any sci-fi book with a hint of several people crammed on a ship. It has to stop. Floating Hotel looked like it might actually live up to those expectations, but I was hesitant because I didn’t enjoy Grace Curtis’ debut, Frontier. But I’m glad I gave Floating Hotel a chance, because it was just what I needed!
The Grand Abeona Hotel knows no borders, no political affiliations, and no galaxy or planet to call home. But for many, the Grand Abeona is their home away from home—a safe haven where nobody cares who you are and why you’re here. Run by Carl, the aging manager who first came to the hotel as a stowaway, the Grand Abeona is home to a vibrant cast of characters, all of whom will have paths that will unexpectedly intersect. And as small mysteries begin piling up in the far corners of the Grand Abeona, Carl and the hotel’s misfit staff must pull the pieces together before the hotel itself is put in harm’s way.
In retrospect, there’s really no better book that I could have read on my Kindle, which has the Grand Budapest Hotel on the case. Some things were just meant to be.
I doubt anyone will ever top Becky Chambers in terms of cozy sci-fi, but Grace Curtis comes close—and that’s exactly why I’m so glad that I gave her another chance. Though it’s not without its mystery and relatively high-stakes subplots, Floating Hotel is a cup of tea for the soul: quiet, observant, and downright warm and charming.
My main issue with Frontier was that it promised action, but delivered next to nothing; it’s not that I don’t like books without action, but when your book’s tagline is “love, loss, and laser guns,” you kind of…have to deliver there, no? After reading Floating Hotel, it’s clear that quieter, cozy sci-fi is what Curtis was meant to write; aside from the rebellion subplot, which was relatively under-the-radar and wasn’t a major issue until the last 20% of the novel, this novel had comfortably low stakes. Although there was a fair amount of turmoil in the empire established in the world of Floating Hotel, you really do feel like the Grand Abeona is a safe haven from all of the ills of the galaxy. There, nobody cares who you are, so long as you have a story to tell.
Another issue with Frontier was that, with all of the characters and subplots it juggled, a lot of the plot points blended together, giving the reader little time to connect with anybody. If my leap from Frontier’s 2-star rating to my 4-star rating of Floating Hotel wasn’t indication enough, Curtis has significantly improved on that aspect of her writing in the space between the two novels! This novel similarly juggles a multitude of characters—many of whom only get one chapter in the vast sea of POVs—but all of them have a unique place in the story. None of the backstories or motivations felt forced, and all of them connected back to how the Grand Abeona has healed them as people; through all of their eyes, whether it’s a waitress, a piano player, or a professor visiting for a conference, you can see just how important of the Grand Abeona is as a safe haven. Floating Hotel is one of the few books with more than 10 (I think?) POVs that has truly worked for me, and it’s a combination of really being able to connect each one to the hotel and its story, and it incorporates other characters organically before we even get their POVs—the interconnectedness was so smooth that I didn’t mind the massive amount of voices displayed.
Curtis clearly understands the cozy part of cozy sci-fi that so many people who market books as “cozy” never seem to get—the near absence of stakes. For the majority of the novel, it’s a very down-to-earth, slice-of-life kind of plot where all of the mysteries are more humorous than troubling; I mean, one of the main subplots of the first half of the novel is trying to find the culprit of an anonymous admirer leaving love letters in the lobby index. And I ate it up. It’s just so gentle!! Is the fate of the galaxy at stake? Absolutely not! The hotel staff is just getting together once a week to watch terrible movies for nostalgia’s sake!! Peak cozy sci-fi right here, folks!! There are queer and disabled characters abound (WOOHOO!!), but neither homophobia nor ableism are plot points at all! They’re just going about their lives!! This is the stuff!!
What both Curtis and Becky Chambers get right about cozy sci-fi as well is that cozy doesn’t necessarily equal apolitical. In the background, there’s plenty of discussions of imperialism with the tyrannical empire crawling with shady cloning and nepotism (take a guess at how those two things tie together…). Curtis isn’t afraid to take stabs at capitalism, environmental destruction, xenophobia (I love the subplot about the empire banning media about aliens because it would compromise the perceived superiority of the human race), and so much more over the course of the novel, and it elevates it exponentially. It emphasizes another truth (for me, at least) about cozy sci-fi, and being a gentle person in general—cozy or quiet does not equal docile or unwilling to speak out about injustice. To quote IDLES, another bastion of kindness: “Ain’t no doormats here/It doesn’t mean you have to bow, or say “Your Highness”/Just kill ’em with kindness.”
All in all, a gentle and masterful piece of cozy sci-fi, and a marked improvement from Grace Curtis’ debut. Consider my faith in her writing restored! 4 stars!
Floating Hotel is a standalone, but Grace Curtis is also the author of Frontier.
Today’s song:
am I ashamed of listening to this on repeat while writing the third book in my sci-fi trilogy? absolutely not.
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles! I’m back from vacation, and I’m feeling rested—and ready to review one of the books I read on my trip.
Junker Seven hung around on my TBR for about a year, and I ended up buying it on Kindle for my trip; as I’ve said ad nauseam, queer sci-fi is the stuff of life for me, so I’ll always lap it up when given the chance. Although I wish the worldbuilding (and the politics) were more creative, it was a solid tale of of love and the joy in reminding yourself that your existence is an act of resistance.
Castor Quasar makes a solitary but dangerous living as a junker, ferrying scrap—and fugitives—across the galaxy. They prefer to stay out of the business of others, whether that’s the widespread political unrest throughout the galaxy or simply making friends. But when Castor is offered a job with an exorbitant amount of money, they can’t help but be suspicious, even though the offer would mean valuable repairs for their ship—and an easier living. Their cargo is Juno Marcus, a trans activist with a target on her back and an urgent need to escape before the Intergalactic Peace Force finds her. Castor reluctantly agrees, but they soon find themself in over their head—and head over heels in love…
TW/CW: murder, loss of loved ones, transphobia, deadnaming, misgendering, ableism, police brutality
Junker Seven was by no means without its flaws, but if you’re looking for a love letter to trans love and identity, a slow-burn romance, and resistance in space, then you’ve come to the right place! Not my favorite, but this was a good book to start off pride month—unabashedly queer and political.
Structurally, there were a lot of odd worldbuilding choices (I’ll get to that later), but despite that, the world of Junker Seven felt wonderfully lived-in. The quiet moments where Castor was alone on their ship were what convinced me of this world being tangible; not everything is sleek, clean, and untouched. You never get the sense that the ship is cramped just because it was made so, but because of all of the choices that led Castor to the place they are today. It’s not just a plot device vehicle—it’s got special nooks and crannies that have been shifted over the years, and there’s a goldfish that’s been there through it all, Castor’s only constant companion. Details like this, as well as some of the pockets of resistance that Castor and Juno find throughout their journey, added a real human element to the story. Even with only two characters for most of the novel, Kelley did an excellent job of making the galaxy seem like a tangible place where humans have settled—and brought their unique ways into a new, far-future world.
If you’re looking for representation, especially trans representation, then you’re in the right place—Junker Seven has diversity in spades! Both the main character and the love interest are trans, as well as several side characters, and Castor is also disabled—they have burn scars, a prosthetic leg, and autism! The key part of said representation is that it never felt like a checklist; if the acknowledgements are any indication, Kelley’s goal was to create a resonant story of trans joy, love, and resistance, and though I’m not trans (disabled and queer, though), that love shone through; Junker Seven felt like a love letter to trans resistance all the way through, from Castor and Juno’s slowburn romance to Castor’s gradual radicalization. I love how the disability representation was handled as well! All of the details about Castor’s autism affects their job felt authentic as a neurodivergent person; no stone was left unturned, whether it was how wearing their prosthetic affected their sensory issues to how it affected their relationships. It’s clear from every page that the diversity in this novel wasn’t borne out of a need to tick off every possible marginalization—it was borne of a need to put authentic queer, trans, and disabled stories out into the world.
That being said, the worldbuilding of Junker Seven gets stranger the more I think about it. There are enough pockets that could convince you that, yes, this could be hard sci-fi that had some thought put into it, but the actual worldbuilding ends at the descriptions of the climates of the planets that Castor and Juno are hopping to and from. Other than that, the politics are the main focus, but given howpolitical this book is, I was surprised at how unoriginal it was in terms of the evolution of politics and queer resistance. Junker Seven is set several hundred years from now, and yet the politics are all but copied and pasted from the U.S. politics of today—no changes whatsoever, save for being stricter when it comes to the treatment of trans people in particular. Yes, history does tend to repeat itself in terms of treatment of the marginalized, but it’s never in the exact same way twice; technology changes, rhetoric changes, leadership changes. None of that is reflected in Junker Seven; honestly, it was familiar to such a degree that it would have worked more if it were set in a less futuristic dystopia set on Earth. This story is set so far in the future that minimal changes in language and policy just makes no sense. It would have been so much more potent—and creative, frankly—to see how the adapted technology of the future actually factored into how trans people in this universe were being oppressed. There were a few throwaway mentions of more advanced technology that was being used to surveil trans people, but that was about the extent that anything changed. It all boiled down to unused potential—there were so many opportunities to explore how (possible) aspects like advancing technology, increased policing, and advancements in genetic modification could affect the status of trans people throughout the galaxy. And yet, Kelley chose to change almost nothing about our current political climate and paste it into space—to the detriment of my suspension of disbelief. Oppression of marginalized groups remains the same in its goals, but not necessarily in its methods—those change with the times.
What also suspended my disbelief was how little we knew about Marwood save for that he was horrible. Save for being a Trump stand-in, we knew almost nothing about him, save for that a) he’s evil (Trump), b) there’s a widespread news network that’s basically his mouthpiece that he uses to demonize trans people (Fox News), and c) did I mention? He’s evil. I will give Kelley some credit for at least establishing the Zephyr News aspect and the fact that his nepotistic predecessor both ended presidential term limits and instated Marwood in a corrupt, illegitimate election so that his fascist, ultra-conservative values would live on. That, at least, felt like a reasonable enough start for a villainous character, but that was it. The key word here is start. I wouldn’t say it completely falls into the dystopian trope of “we’re not going to say anything about the government, but you have to understand. They’re BAD, guys. BAD,” but it comes rather close. This circles back to my overarching issue of unoriginal worldbuilding, but I wanted to know what separated Marwood from any other run-of-the-mill fascist—did he come from a celebrity background and had no real political experience, like Reagan or Trump, or was he a more cold and calculating type with political prowess who knows exactly how to undo any kind of progress and twist the laws in order to abuse his power? A successful, frightening villain needs to be more than an evil cardboard standup that lurks in the shadows, and we never got more than fragments to show that Marwood was more than a stand-in fascist to move the plot along. (Also, did the entire galaxy, after blending into an almost universal accent after several hundred years, universally adopt a vaguely American two-party system and government? It’s…yeah, I have trouble believing that too.)
Although the disability representation is excellent, as I said before, I did find it odd that it wasn’t a part of Castor’s radicalization; being disabled in the 21st century is already a cyberpunk dystopia as it is, so I’m surprised that there wasn’t much discussion of not just Castor’s experience with being disabled, but how it affected their work or their perception of politics. Save for a throwaway line about an autistic person being driven to a life of crime because of how poorly said autism was treated and handled, there wasn’t much rumination on it other than that. I get that the main focus of Junker Seven was trans resistance specifically, I do wish we at least got more of it than what we got. Come to think of it…as diverse as Junker Seven was, there wasn’t a whole lot of intersectionality in terms of politics. I think there was…maybe one line about race and police brutality, and that was about it? I wouldn’t say that this is inherently a flaw of the book itself, but, once again, given how unabashedly political it was, I did find it odd that there wasn’t at least a small mention of the intersection of queer/trans issues with aspects like race, class, and disability.
All in all, a solid piece of queer sci-fi which suffered from unoriginal and nonsensical worldbuilding, but was nonetheless a shining ode to queer resistance. 3.5 stars!
Junker Seven is the first of the Twin Suns duology, followed by the forthcoming sequel Rebel Rising, which is slated for release in September. Kelley has also released D3F3CT: A Twin Suns Novella, set in the same universe as Junker Seven, as well as the novellas As the Light Goes Out and A Very Lighthouse Christmas. They have also contributed to Spectrum: An Autistic Horror Anthology and the forthcoming Dead Cowpokes Don’t Wrangle: A Weird West Anthology.
Today’s song:
why, why, WHY DID I PUT OFF LISTENING TO THIS ALBUM FOR SO LONG??
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
The Bookish Mutant 