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Tag Archives: science fiction


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There is No Antimemetics Division, qntm

Novels originally published on blogs which went on to become bestsellers when picked up by a traditional imprint are not new – The Martian (2011, USA), Wool (2011, USA), Fifty Shades of Gray (2011, UK), for example. Novels which originally appeared on AO3 have also picked up contracts from traditional publishers. To these routes we can now add the SCP Foundation, a collective writing project in which contributors post stories based within the SCP Foundation’s universe. Think X-Files meets Lovecraft meets Copypasta meets Resident Evil. Sort of.

There is No Antimemetics Division (2025, UK) is a reformatted collection of stories originally published on the SCP Foundation website by Sam Hughes, given a story arc as a loose framing narrative, and expanded to novel-length with an original novella. It works. Sort of. It’s a fix-up and the joins are not difficult to spot. The universe is a collaborative project, although I believe the “antimemetic” aspect is original to qntm.

In the universe of the SCP Foundation, the world is under constant threat by paranormal and supernatural phenomena. A secret organisation exists in order to combat these threats. It’s called the Unknown Organisation, UO. (While the UO is international, the novel is set entirely within the UK.) The idea has been around for years. There was a RPG called Delta Green based on the same premise back in the 1990s. The X-Files covered similar ground in some episodes.

Where There is No Antimemetics Division differs is that the threats the titular division combats are entirely idea-based. They’re memes. Even then, we’ve been there before – I remember similar ideas in some of the New Who series. It’s a neat central premise. It’s partly presented as case-files, which is a somewhat obvious spin on the material, but is also a quick and effective way to world-build. Unfortunately, there’s not much drama or jeopardy in, well, bad ideas. So There is No Antimemetics Division turns the various memetic “unknowns” into mechanisms to generate horror tropes. Especially in the final section of the novel, in which a much-feared Unknown has escaped from idea-space and is turning the real world into some sort of post-apocalyptic zombified wasteland.

To add verisimilitude to the narrative parts of it are redacted. But it’s often easy to figure out the redacted words and they’re… banal. “And”. “Was”. Words that would not normally be redacted because they’re not informative or revealing. If it’s a gimmick, it didn’t work for me.

There’s probably something ironic in the fact some of the ideas in There is No Antimemetic Division just bounced off me, while others were a little too familiar. I also felt some of the ideas lacked rigour, and the UO and its capabilities, and the technology behind it, appeared to change from page to page. Eventually, the whole edifice slowly collapsed under the weight of its own premise. A neat idea, perhaps, that overstayed its welcome at novel-length and probably worked best in its original incarnation, a wiki of short stories. For me, the novel never really recovered from asking me to swallow an invisible cryptozoic creature that was 1000 metres tall and able to walk on water using its wide padded feet…


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Atlas Alone, Emma Newman

Atlas Alone (2019, UK) is the fourth and final book of the quartet which began with Planetfall (2015, UK). It was followed by After Atlas (2016, UK), Before Mars (2018, UK), and then Atlas Alone. The first book is set at a colony on an exoplanet, founded next to an enigmatic and seemingly deserted alien city. The mission was led by the Pathfinder, who invented FTL and then promptly went looking for God – and found it in the alien city.

After Atlas is set on Earth after the Pathfinder had left. It starts out as a murder-mystery, but becomes a conspiracy thriller in which a technocratic cult based in a theocratic USA secretly builds a second ship based on the Pathfinder’s. Before Mars takes place at a base on Mars. The narrator spots clues which suggest all is not as it seems and she has been there before but cannot remember it.

And so to Atlas Alone. Which takes place immediately after the events of After Atlas, but onboard Atlas 2, which is the second FTL ship. The ship is heading for the exoplanet where Planetfall takes place. It is staffed mostly by fundamentalist Christian Americans. And, as they left Earth, they killed everyone left behind with nuclear bombs. The narrator, Dee, is a last-minute addition to the thousands aboard, as is her friend Carl, the detective from After Atlas.

Dee is a gamer. An anonymous superhacker invites her to play a “mersive”, which proves to use details from her own life. The game ends with her finding a man about to destroy London. She suspects he is one of those responsible for the nuclear bombs on Earth, so she kills him. In the game.

Except he dies in real-life, and Carl is tasked with discovering how he died and who killed him. Meanwhile, Dee is offered a data analysis job by one of the senior crew, and then invited to team up with her new boss in another mersive, which again uses details from Dee’s background – thanks to the anonymous superhacker.

It’s not hard to figure out the identity of the anonymous superhacker, and it’s easy to sympathise with Dee’s mission to kill off the leadership of Atlas 2 once she discovers their plan to set up a God-fearing colony on the Pathfinder’s planet, with themselves as the gods and everyone else fearing them. 

Perhaps back in 2019 when Atlas Alone was published, it might have felt a little implausible and OTT, but not now in 2026, with a cabal of apocalyptic Christian fundamentalists and paedophiles in charge of the US, secret police taking people off the streets and putting them in concentration camps, a president funnelling billions from the US Treasury into his own pockets, and a government that has long since lost touch with anything resembling truth.

Atlas Alone pulls a final bait and switch before ending, which, in hindsight, is probably the least satisfying part of the novel. But the book is a fitting end to the quartet, and if I thought its corporatised indentured slavery future Earth was a bit tired and banal these days, other parts of the world-building were much more interesting. But, on the whole, four books worth reading, although the first and third were the best.


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Alliance Unbound, CJ Cherryh & Jane S Fancher

Alliance Unbound (2024, USA) is the second book of the latest Union-Alliance series, the Hinder Stars trilogy, co-written with Cherryh’s long-term partner Fancher. Cherryh has a whole timeline worked out for her novels, which even includes the stuff that doesn’t, at first glance, seem to fit into her Union-Alliance universe, like the Faded Sun trilogy. But this new trilogy definitely does fit in.

There’s Earth, and Earth Company (EC), and it set up a series of stations orbiting nearby stars. Initially kept supplied by near-speed-of-light pusher ships, but then one station discovers FTL, and two breakaway polities form, one based around Cyteen and the other around Pell. The EC was unhappy with this, and this kicked off the Company Wars. All of this is covered in earlier novels by Cherryh.

The Hinder Stars are those stations closest to Sol. In the book preceding this one, Alliance Rising, the EC wants to reassert control, takes over Alpha (Barnard’s Star) and builds its own massive FTL troop carrier. Meanwhile, a FTL route was discovered between Alpha and Sol, meaning pusher ships will no longer be the sole link between Earth and the expanding number of stations, which by now are carrying on very happily by themselves.

Alliance Unbound is set after those events. While visiting Pell Station, the crew of Finity’s End, a FTL megaship, which is on a mission to sign up all the merchant ships and stations to its Alliance, becomes suspicious of some luxury items it finds on the station. Which leads them to a supposedly mothballed station. And it turns out the EC is secretly supplying it with pusher ships, in the hope of… taking over the stations in the name of the EC.

At times, the prose felt almost like distilled Cherryh. It’s always been brusque and direct, but here more so; and yet there’s a lot of interiority, a lot of guessing and second-guessing. But the plot rolls on relentlessly, which makes for a fast read. I’ve read a lot of Cherryh’s novels, some of them so long ago the details are a little hazy… But even so, it felt like there was some retconning going on here. It’s intriguing stuff, and gives more of an insight into Cherryh’s universe, even if some of the details didn’t quite line up with what I remembered from other Union-Alliance novels.

It’s not like this has never happened before in fictional universes – cf John Varley’s Eight Worlds and Steel Beach (1992, USA) – and it’s more or less inevitable as authors dig deeper into previously unexplored areas of their own universes. Having said that, the pusher ships as described in Alliance Unbound struck me as a fascinating concept to explore – cut off for years, while in the outside universe decades pass. And yet I don’t believe Cherryh has written a novel about the pushers. The first explicitly Union-Alliance novel she wrote was Downbelow Station (1981 USA), which won the Hugo, and that’s set during the Company Wars.

I think I’ve said before that I enjoy exploring science fictional universes, and will often forgive most, but not egregious, deficiencies in the writing while doing that. Happily, there’s nothing here by Cherryh to forgive. She’s an excellent writer, and still going strong, if Alliance Unbound is any indication. She has a huge back-catalogue to explore, and that’s not including the 20+ Foreigner novels, and it’s definitely worth doing so.


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Glory Season, David Brin

I remember reading Brin’s Uplift novels many years ago and quite enjoying them, although something about them never sat quite well with me. I no longer remember what that was, although I’ve never made an effort to seek out his novels since. But Glory Season (1993, USA) was nominated for the Hugo Award, and is set on a world of cloned women, so it sounded like it might be worth a go.

So I was surprised to discover Brin is actually a pretty bad writer – sloppy, a tendency to stretch his story long past what the narrative can bear, with a handful of good ideas buried under a mass of banal detail. Characters change hair colour between paragraphs, a woman described as Chuychin (one of the cloned women clans) becomes half-Chuchyin a couple of sentences later. The writing is mostly clumsy, but occasionally manages an easy readability.

The world of Stratos was settled millennia before by a group who wanted to create a society that was safe for women. They needed men to “spark” their parthagenetic clones, but they limited the male libido to a single season of each year, and allowed them to also produce non-clone children (needed to replace the men, of course, but also daughters). The clones live in clans, each of which fulfils some sort of “niche”, or specialisation, in Stratoin society. Non-clone daughters, known as vars, hope to find niches and so get permission to start their own clans of clones.

Maia and Leie are twin vars, who leave their clan on their majority to seek their fortune. They sign aboard a pair of coal hauliers travelling down the coast. Maia stumbles across a conspiracy to supply a drug to men which triggers their libido out of season. From there, it spirals into a plot between two hardline factions, at the centre of which is a recently-arrived scout from the interstellar society the founders of Stratos left millennia before. Maia learns more about her world’s history, about the Game of Life, which is important to the men of the world, and about humanity on worlds other than Stratos.

In the best of hands, that’s a lot to cover, but Brin still manages to make it drag over 600 pages. At one point, Maia and her companions are trapped in a room with a hidden exit, and Brin spends over twenty pages explaining how they eventually discover the exit. For huge chunks of the book, Maia has no agency, and is little more than a witness to elements of the world-building Brin wants to show off. It makes for an aggravating read.

There are also many similarities between Glory Season and Mary Gentle’s Golden Witchbreed (1983, UK). The plots are vaguely similar, although Brin’s novel is told from the perspective of a native of the world, not a visitor – but the same lost past, a high tech war fought thousands of years earlier, and an ancient high tech citadel… Coincidence, or did Glory Season simply “borrow” elements of Golden Witchbreed‘s plot? Glory Season may have been nominated for the Hugo, but Golden Witchbreed is greatly superior (it was nominated for the BSFA, but lost to Tik-Tok (1983, UK)).

Discovering Brin was a worse writer than I’d remember was not a surprise. Spotting the resemblances between Glory Season and Golden Witchbreed was. I’ve no idea if Brin had knowledge of Gentle’s novel. I would like to think not, but it was definitely published in the US. Even so, on its own merits alone, Glory Season is not very good: overly long, and its poor writing works against its few good ideas.


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On the Calculation of Volume II, Solvej Balle

Tara Selter woke up one day, and it was the previous day. In fact, for reasons unexplained, she is reliving 18 November over and over again, much like Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day. In the first book – seven are planned – Tara explored the limits of her condition, spending time in Paris in a hotel, where she had slept the night before, repeatedly visiting the same friends – antiquarian booksellers like herself – again and again, even attempting to explain to them what was happening to her. She returned home, and tried the same with her husband. But she discovered the resources she used, food particularly, vanished from 18 November if she used them, and objects would disappear into 19 November if she did not keep them close to her.

In this second book, Tara decides to try and live a year on the same day. She does this by moving around Europe so that the climate matches what it would be, approximately, on each day of the year had she stayed home in her village outside Paris. It’s a neat conceit, but for it to work Balle needs to get her details absolutely spot-on and, unfortunately, in a few places they didn’t ring true.

But that’s a minor quibble. Balle commits hard to her structure, and is rigorous in working out the details of living the same day again and again, even when it comes to travelling about Europe in search of the right climate for each calendar day of the year. The travel stretches Tara’s resources and ingenuity, as she has no knowledge of the previous day wherever she ends up, and Balle considers all the pitfalls and ramifications that might result.

There is something deeply satisfying in Balle’s careful working out of her central premise, and even after only two books in of a planned seven, the series promises interesting explorations of Tara’s situation. 


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The Soft Machine, William S Burroughs

I read the recently-published “restored text” – and the history of the novel and its manuscripts is as barking mad as its story. Burroughs submitted the original novel to Olympia Press in Paris, which promptly published it. But he decided to rewrite chunks for the US edition a couple of years later, but not all of the changes were delivered in time. But they were in time for the UK publication a couple of years after that. So there are three major, and different, editions of The Soft Machine (1966, USA) – and this version is based on the second, with variations from both the first and third versions. All of which are documented in several appendices.

Story-wise… The Soft Machine is the first book of the Cut-Up Trilogy… because Burroughs took the text of many chapters, cut it into pieces and re-arranged it. You would think this would make it almost impossible to read, but it’s surprisingly easier than you’d expect. The plot is part science fiction, part autobiography, part thriller. There’s a secret agent, and time travel, and Mayans, and bits and pieces from the earlier Naked Lunch (1959, USA). It reads mostly like episodes from Burroughs’s life, with science fiction interludes. While the cut-up narrative is not as difficult to parse as I’d expected, the plot of the novel is less easy to follow. To be fair, it doesn’t really matter – the narrative jumps all over the place, and seems to end up somewhere that follows more or less from where it began. 

The Soft Machine is surprisingly funny in places. It’s also very graphic. Burroughs was gay and promiscuous, and so too are his characters. Most of the encounters are fleeting and rough. There’s also lots of science-fictional ideas – some of which are mentioned in passing, but with pay-offs that appear later in the narrative. The cut-up chapters make them a little harder to track, however.

I’ve been a fan of William S Burroughs as, well, as a concept for several years, and I’ve dipped a couple of times into his fiction. I’d read bits of The Soft Machine before, but not the full novel – and I have to admit the “restored text” improved the reading experience, since the footnotes and appendices add a fascinating dimension to the novel.

Restored text editions of The Ticket That Exploded (1967, USA) and Nova Express (1964, USA) are also available.


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Frankenstein in Baghdad, Ahmed Saadawi

Very little science fiction has been translated from Arabic into English – in fact, I knew of only one other author, Emirati Noura Al Noman, and she hasn’t been published since 2014. Ahmed Khaled Tawfik wrote several sf novels, most notably Utopia (2008, Egypt), and a little hunting revealed it had been translated into English – but with his name spelt Towfik. There’s been plenty of fantasy translated from Arabic, however, from Alf Laylat wa Layla to Naguib Mahfouz, and a number of contemporary writers. Having said that, Frankenstein in Baghdad (2013, Iraq) was not published as category sf, and likely only deserves the label because its central conceit references Mary Shelley’s novel, a proto-sf novel. (The English title, incidentally, is a direct translation of the original Arabic title.) It was nominated for both the Arthur C Clarke Award and the International Booker Prize.

The central conceit of Frankenstein in Baghdad is actually not at all rigorous as science fiction. It’s a neat twist on the original – the monster (because of course Frankenstein is the doctor) in Saadawi’s novel is made from the body parts of victims of IEDs in post-invasion Iraq, and the monster’s mission is to avenge those deaths. But Saadawi seems more interested in telling a more general story about life in present-day Baghdad, as seen through the eyes of a handful of characters. Chief among these are the junk dealer Hadi, who originally creates the monster in some sort of fever dream; Mahmud, a young journalist, who takes Hadi’s tales of a monster semi-seriously, but is more interested in becoming like his rich and powerful editor; Elishva, an old Armenian woman who mistakes the monster for her long-dead son; and General Majid, who runs a secret police bureau of astrologers and magicians who predict bomb attacks in the city.

The novel bounces around between these characters, and a handful of others, mostly centred around the area of Bataween, and occasionally focusing on the monster. Who has discovered that once it avenges the death of one of the people whose parts make up its body, that body part rots and falls off. So the monster needs new parts – and it reaches the point where, with its own small army of followers, it too begins murdering people to keep itself together (so to speak).

The monster is a great invention, and there’s so much commentary that could be attached to the concept, but Frankenstein in Baghdad doesn’t seem all that interested in it. It’s more like an introduction, or a framing narrative, to the personal stories of the book’s cast. Which is a shame. It’s a good novel, don’t get me wrong, and its descriptions of life in post-invasion Baghdad are both heart-breaking and enraging.

A good novel, but one that feels like it failed to capitalise on its central idea.


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Creation Node, Stephen Baxter

Back in the late 1990s, a friend complained that deciding to collect books by Stephen Baxter was proving more expensive than expected because he was so prolific. Baxter is still going. I’m not sure my friend’s collection is. But never mind. I later made the same mistake – and I’m still going: I buy Baxter’s books in hardback on publication. I have rather a lot of them. But I have also read rather a lot of them.

Creation Node (2023, UK) is, if I’ve counted correctly, Baxter’s forty-eighth novel (including three YA novels, one co-written with Alastair Reynolds, four with Arthur C Clarke, and five with Terry Pratchett). And then there are the collections and novellas. Creation Node is much like his other more recent novels – an exploration of some cosmological puzzle by people not far removed from ourselves, and a tendency to feel a little juvenile in places.

After a climate crash, Earth has partially colonised the solar system. There are three political blocs – Earth, the most powerful and mostly conservationist; the Lunar Consortium, which believes in exploiting whatever natural resources are available in the solar system; and the Conservers, who are hardline conservationists and refuse to use any resource that is not immediately renewable, such as sunlight. The Conservers sent a spacecraft, propelled by a solar sail, to the ninth planet, a journey which took 35 years. And they discovered the planet was actually a black hole. And it was emitting Hawking radiation that was… structured.

So they sent a message into the black hole. Which promptly expanded. Until its outer shell had a surface gravity of 1G and a 15C surface temperature. And a weird sarcophagus containing a living teenage birdlike alien…

Earth sends a ship out to Planet Nine – with a brief stopover, and much excitement, at a station orbiting Saturn, where the ship converts from a slow fission drive to a fast fusion drive. Over a decade has passed by the time representatives from Earth – and one from the Lunar Consortium, plus the Conserver’s chief legal counsel – reach Planet Nine. Which prompts the discoverers to attempt sending another message…

This triggers the appearance of an enigmatic black globe, which calls itself Terminus. It proves to be a Boltzmann Brain from the quantum substrate in which all universes are created. It gives the human ambassadors a brief lesson in speculative cosmology, and then offers the human race eternity, ie, continued existence after the heat death of our universe. For a price. It’s how Baxter’s novels tend to work – a story based around a big idea, a plot with a payload, if you will. Which often prompts a momentous decision on the part of the cast.

Baxter does his homework, and the ideas he bases his novels on are fascinating. If Creation Node’s extended timescale results in a number of longeurs, there’s still plenty to like here. Creation Node may suffer from Baxter’s typical weaknesses – that tendency to use teenage protagonists, which often drops the narrative into YA territory – but it also displays his strengths: making huge mind-expanding ideas easily palatable. Lots of sense of wonder, but the human dimension may be a little flat. On the other hand, Baxter is nothing if not consistent – which is why I probably keep on buying his books…

Incidentally, I should point out my takes on the books I review on this blog (and my other blog) are not always typical. My views may be individual, but that doesn’t mean they’re not open to question. So I welcome conversation about what I write. Feel free to leave a comment, or start a discussion.


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The Casebook of Stamford Hawksmoor, Bryan Talbot

I’ve been a fan of Talbot’s The Adventures of Luther Arkwright (1989, UK) for years. When I was at college in Nottingham in 1985, I often visited a comics shop on Mansfield Road before catching the bus home. I forget the name of the shop – and I can’t find it on Google. (I also visited a games shop, a grubby place in a courtyard, around the same time, and bought copies of the Laserburn RPG rules – Tabletop Games, possibly?) Anyway, I recall buying an issue or two of The Adventures of Luther Arkwright from that comics shop on Mansfield Road, although I didn’t read the completed series until buying the omnibus trade paperback many years later.

Not long after I read Talbot’s Alice in Sunderland (2007, UK), and thought it very good. I also kept up with the sequels to Luther Arkwright. So yes, I’d say I’m a fan of Talbot’s independent work, even if I’ve not been obsessive about keeping up with his oeuvre (it’s difficult with comics anyway; I much prefer to wait for the omnibus edition). Which is all slightly irrelevant as I’d missed Talbot’s Grandville series, five graphic novels set in the late 1800s in a UK that has been ruled from France since the Napoleonic Wars and in which all the characters are anthropomorphic animals.

The Casebook of Stamford Hawksmoor (2025, UK) is set in the same universe. It’s a clear homage to Sherlock Holmes – his deerstalker is something of a joke in the book. Hawksmoor, named for the architect – and the novel by Peter Ackroyd is also name-checked – is a detective at Scotland Yard. He recognises that not all of his colleagues are honest. But even he is shocked when he discovers links between some of them and the terrorists responsible for some of the most heinous crimes of recent years.

When Hawksmoor’s brother, a man he hasn’t spoken to in years, commits suicide in an open field near his house, Hawksmoor reluctantly investigates his brother’s life in an effort to understand why he killed himself. Hawksmoor is also investigating a series of murders linked to the Angry Brigade, the terrorist wing of the Resistance Movement, and which seems to have gone rogue now the French are pulling out of Britain and allowing home rule.

It’s all linked, of course, and the result of corruption in high places in the British establishment – plus ça change, and all that. Although framed as a Victorian whodunnit, much like its inspiration, Talbot has a put a lot of effort into working out his world. Not just the politics within a Britain that has been ruled by the French for over a century, but also the way the characters’ animal species impacts their behaviour, and the relations between the various species.

It’s excellent stuff. Recommended. But now I have to go and buy all the Grandville graphic novels. Oh look, there’s an omnibus edition available…


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The Underpeople, Cordwainer Smith

The Underpeople (1968, USA) follows directly on from The Planet Buyer (1964, USA), although four years separates their publication. In fact, both were published in magazines in 1964, but the second wasn’t published as a paperback until 1968, two years after Smith’s death. The two books were later merged and published as a single novel, Norstrilia (1975, USA) – and it is that version which has been reprinted a number of times since, including in the SF Masterworks series in 2016.

The Planet Buyer left Rod McBan, of Norstrilia, the wealthiest man in the universe, and the new owner of Earth, newly arrived on Earth, where he is met by C’Mell, a catwoman and girlygirl and one of the underpeople. McBan, incidentally, is disguised as a catman.

There’s no real plot to The Underpeople, just a series of incidents which sort of lead to a conclusion and an implied resolution. The latter is the freeing of the underpeople, who are little more than slaves (the callousness with which they are disposed of is quite disturbing). The former sees McBan back home on Norstrilia, happily married, and Earth no longer in his ownership.

There are things to like about Cordwainer Smith’s oeuvre. He certainly built a unique universe, and had a distinctive voice. And it worked well in his short fiction. But both The Planet Buyer and The Underpeople read like badly-welded together collections of short stories, and in that format they’re not so impressive. Also, I really hate poetry and songs in narrative unless they’re part of the plot.

I am… undecided about Smith’s fiction. Some of his short stories are very good, even if the language is a little cringeworthy at times. Norstrilia, ie, The Planet Buyer and The Underpeople, has some good ideas. But it’s all too haphazard and never really quite links together. I wanted to like The Underpeople more than I did. There is a book out there somewhere, possibly even The Instrumentality of Mankind (1979, USA), which is in the SF Masterworks series, which presents the best of Smith’s fiction in a way that displays what’s good about it. The Planet Buyer and The Underpeople do not. 

Which may well be why they’re no longer in print (although perhaps the corridor of naked bottoms played a part).