I really loved James Kakalios’ The Physics of Superheroes, so I jumped at the chance to get his new book, The Physics of Everyday Things, when it became available on NetGalley. The Physics of Superheroes was such an engaging way to look at physics! I was intrigued by this new concept, the idea that Kakalios would teach us physics while stepping through a single person’s ordinary daily activities. However, the tone and conceptual density of this book leave it somewhat lacklustre compared to my (admittedly faded) memory of the first book of his.

The Physics of Everyday Things starts with waking up and making breakfast and ends with a business presentation and a trip back to a hotel. Along the way, our protagonist drives through toll booths, has an x-ray, goes through airport security, takes a flight, and engages in all sorts of activities that rely on our society’s exploitation of physics. Kakalios pulls the curtain back on the technology we depend on, and the secrets he reveals really are quite fascinating.

One of my enduring understandings, particularly from taking a Philosophy of Science and Technology course back in university, is how artificially we separate different types of technology in our minds. For example, a pencil or a pen are technologies. Chairs are technology. My glasses are a technology—and assistive technology, at that. These things are so ubiquitous, cheap, and reliable that they have faded into the background noise of life. Vehicles are more recognizable as technology, or as a collection of technologies, but are also so much a part of our life that we tend to think of them differently. Digital tech—that is, something with a computer somewhere in its guts—is almost always what people think of nowadays when they hear “technology”. Yet so many technologies that once were analog are now digital and computerized, from toasters to clocks, not to mention the scary and possibly doomed Internet of Things.

Kakalios engages with a lot of digital technologies in The Physics of Everyday Things, from credit card readers and wireless communications to touchscreens and LCD projectors. However, he also highlights technology we take for granted, or technology that it might never occur to us to question how it works. One of my favourite examples might be an explosive trace detector, as seen in airport security screenings. Kakalios explains how the machine ionizes and then measures the rate at which gas molecules make it through a test chamber to determine what type of molecule it’s dealing with. That’s really neat and not something I would ever have considered. Similarly, I loved his explanations of comparably simpler phenomena, like the fact that coils in things like toasters (not to mention microwave ovens) mean we are cooking with light.

So as a reader of popular science, this book admirably ticks the “chock full of scientific information” box. There are also diagrams!

Where I struggled was more with Kakalios’ patter. He explains things very well; I didn’t often feel lost or confused or in too deep. Yet I just wasn’t … invested. At all. I didn’t care about the gimmick—I’m not saying it’s a bad gimmick, but I just have no connection to this unnamed hypothetical person whose day we’re stalking. It didn’t enhance my reading experience; I feel like if the book had just said, “Hey, we’re going to explain how these x number of inventions work!” I would have enjoyed it more.

I have a theory for why this didn’t hold my interest, though I’m not sure it’s true. Most of the popular science books I read examine science with a historical mindset. The authors explain scientific and technological discoveries and innovations by talking about the people and circumstances that led to them. The Physics of Everyday Things notably retains the spatial location of a technology (where we use it) but strips the temporal aspect (its history and invention). Kakalios doesn’t often mention who came up with an idea, who discovered how to use something, why a particular technology took off. And so I realize that maybe I enjoy the history of science as much as the science itself (it’s this damn unicorn math/English brain again). But it’s hard to test this theory, because I think Kakalios’ book stands out in this regard.

And so, maybe, if you’re not so much into the history of inventions and just want to know how they work, this book might be your jam. It is also the right length—I’m finding that with some of these non-fiction books I’m reading electronically, that percent count never seems to increase as fast as I’d like, no matter how fast I’m reading. The Physics of Everyday Things isn’t long, but it’s dense enough to be educational.

Would I recommend this? Conditionally. I can’t get as excited about it as I can with other science books. I’m not sure a casual reader is going to pick this up and read it cover-to-cover. But for a DIY-type person, a hardware enthusiast who likes to get their hands dirty but lacks the scientific background on the subject, this could be a cool exploration of these topics.

I love Ursula K. Le Guin’s first two Earthsea novels. A Wizard of Earthsea and The Tombs of Atuan are among my two favourite fantasy novels, and together I think they form an essential duology that showcases some of the most compelling and truthful storytelling about identity and finding oneself. So it was with some trepidation that I read The Farthest Shore.

In the third Earthsea novel, magic is dying. Our protagonists are a much older, more experienced and more weary Ged, and the youthful and exuberant Prince Arren of Enlad. This contrasted pairing is interesting and the major source of suspense. But I also get the sense that Le Guin wanted to write about a wizard who was old but not necessarily—at least from his perspective—wise.

Le Guin makes much of the fact that magic does not lead to longer life or necessarily any power. Magic is a potent and omnipresent force in Earthsea—everyone keeps their true names hidden lest someone have power over them—but it is also underwhelming whenever it actually puts in an appearance. Arren’s reactions to Ged’s infrequent and unimpressive uses of magic testify to this, but on a wider note, the consequences of magic’s disappearance reflect this idea. Every time Ged and Arren visit an island where people have forgotten their magic, they react as if wizardry is and always has been chicanery. Rather than meet their challenges head-on by demonstrating powerful acts of wizardry, Ged shrugs it off and continues with his quest. Even at the climax, where he does some powerful magic, his most effective assets are his confidence and his powers of persuasion, which he uses to undermine their enemy. (A close third would have to be his faith in Arren and Arren’s importance.)

The importance of magic, and its inversely proportional profile, has been another long running theme of Earthsea. After all, the much younger and headstrong Ged gets into trouble all the way back in The Wizard of Earthsea for trying forbidden magic on a dare. (Turns out there’s a reason it’s forbidden!) The rest of the novel is quite literally him spending years travelling around Earthsea and cleaning up the mess he made. No wonder he spends the rest of his life, including his time as archmage, focused on maintaining the Balance.

Now, in The Farthest Shore, Le Guin takes the “magic is dangerous” stance to an extreme, playing with the possibility of extinguishing magic altogether. As much as it might be cool to be a wizard, I have to say, I’m glad we don’t have magic in the real world—people would keep messing with my stuff! Yet Le Guin rejects a magic-less Earthsea as hollow, a mere shadow of what it once was. Like Narnia or countless other fantasy worlds, Earthsea relies on magic as much as it does on wind and wave.

Ged understands what is at stake. Arren, however, doesn’t. He is much more like Ged from the first novel—albeit without the magic powers or the huge arrogant chip on his shoulder. Instead, he develops a bit of hero-worship crush on the much older archmage—but that infatuation is tempered by a nagging sense of doubt that only grows as the duo gets closer to the enemy behind their problem. Le Guin alternates between Ged and Arren’s perspectives to allow us to see two interpretations of the voyage.

By the end of the novel, it becomes clear that the entire adventure was for Arren’s benefit foremost, and Ged’s and Earthsea’s only secondarily. Arren’s prophesied role requires an understanding of the Balance and the dangers of magic, morality, and humanity that his youth precludes. One recurring lecture Ged gives involves the idea that humans are unique animals because only humans can do evil. Sharks aren’t evil; they kill because that is their nature as a predator. Humans, with their ability to work magic, can work great evil on each other and the world in their quests for immortality and power. (Le Guin views these two desires as two sides of the same coin: any quest for power ultimately becomes a quest to conquer death, i.e., to have ultimate power over life—likewise, any quest for immortality necessitates finding more and more power to stop death). And Arren and Ged only confront the evil man behind magic’s degeneration at the very end of the book—most of the journey is actually about how Arren reacts to the situations in which they find themselves and whether Ged uses magic in them.

Once again Le Guin impresses with her ability to insinuate philosophy into a low-key fantasy adventure. This is the sneakiest coming-of-age quest story I’ve read in a long time. But I think it would be a mistake to ignore this essential angle to the book. If you come at this looking for a “Ged/Sparrowhawk adventure” like A Wizard of Earthsea, you’ll be disappointed, because this is very much about Arren and the preparation he needs to assume his new position.

For Ged, this is in some ways a goodbye. Le Guin creates a fascinating triptych of Ged throughout these three novels. As I said above, the Ged of the first book is youthful and headstrong and basically has to learn patience and wisdom enough to manage his own great skill at magic. The Ged who puts an appearance into The Tombs of Atuan is more knowledgeable but not necessarily wiser—Le Guin actually portrays him through Tenar’s eyes as a pushy interloper whose presence was unasked for and whose arrogance is insufferable. I enjoyed this less-sympathetic portrayal of someone who was once our protagonist; in her typical style, Le Guin reminds us that those we view as heroic from one perspective could equally be seen as villainous or, in this case, merely unwelcome. This older Ged is incontrovertibly an adult, fully possessing his powers and in the prime of his adventuring life. Now, in The Farthest Shore, Ged is middle-aged. He’s not old, but his adventuring days are drawing a close, and his position of archmage restricts him and chafes him sometimes. He embarks on this quest with Arren a little too eagerly, and in some ways, he perhaps views the conclusion as the consequences of his old arrogance and impatience once again rearing its head. Le Guin demonstrates how a character can change over time, how event can temper their attitudes and reactions, but how stress and danger can sometimes cause regression.

On its own, then, The Farthest Shore is not that impressive. It’s still Le Guin, of course, and most Le Guin is better than the best of average writers. Yet it is underwhelming, in many ways, compared to the previous Earthsea novels. We don’t have the same connection to Ged that we have with him or Tenar in the previous books. Arren, while important, is annoying. The quest is subtler and less tense than the previous ones.

Viewed within the continuum of the Earthsea series, however, The Farthest Shore is more remarkable. Unlike the first two books, I don’t think I’ll be calling this one a favourite any time soon—those first two books hurt; it’s like Le Guin delivers back-to-back sucker punches to the gut. In contrast, this novel is far less emotionally wrenching but no less philosophically interesting. While you could do worse than just reading the first two books, I’d still recommend you read this one too.

I’ll close with a quotation, Ged admonishing Arren for thinking the archmage might possibly know how to cheat death:

Listen to me, Arren. You will die. You will not live forever. Nor will any man nor any thing. Nothing is immortal. But only to us is it given to know that we must die. And that is a great gift: the gift of selfhood. For we have only what we know we must lose, what we are willing to lose …. That selfhood which is our torment, and our treasure, and our humanity, does not endure.

Le Guin’s writing is always beautiful and always painful, for in that pain and beauty we find the truths of what it means to live and love and be human.

My reviews of the Earthsea series:
← The Tombs of Atuan | Tehanu →

Oh let me count the ways I love Ursula K. Le Guin. I have many favourite authors, but her writing has a special place in my heart, and her storytelling also. The Earthsea cycle is such a rich canon of literature, and just thinking about the ways in which Le Guin explores humanity in these books makes my head spin. Tehanu perfectly demonstrates Le Guin’s ability to achieve this exploration through understatement. This is a book with dragons and mages but precious little actual magic. Once again, Le Guin doesn’t deliver the book I want, but she manages to come up with the story I need.

Tehanu is a direct sequel to The Farthest Shore. Prince Arren, now going openly by his true name, Lebannen, is King of Havnor. This is an historic event. But this is not his story. This is Tenar’s story. She has been living these past decades on Gont, as a wife and mother and now widow. She rescues a child, whom she names Therru, from abuse at the hands of her parents, who push her into a fire that results in burns down one side of her body. While caring for Therru, Tenar must begin to grapple with her own relationship with the magic of Earthsea, for Therru seems to have power—Ogion himself told Tenar she would have to instruct Therru in “Teach her all! Not Roke!” Then Ged returns, broken in body and power by his experiences, no longer archmage or indeed much mage at all, throwing another wrench into what seemed like a perfectly grand older-middle-age for Tenar!

For a short novel, a lot happens to these characters. Yet it has a sedate pace. This is not an adventure novel; Tenar’s travels are only across the small island of Gont. In this sense, Le Guin dramatically reduces the scope and scale of this latest Earthsea instalment. It’s for the best, though. It lets her focus on the story, and the themes which she examines so intently through these characters and their decisions.

The nature of power has always lain at the heart of this series, and Tehanu is no exception. It’s too easy to equate power with having magic: mages have power over people, over animals, over the world itself. Yet there are other forms of power and authority. Tenar once had access to magic, when she was a priestess at Atuan, but that part of her life is over. She still has a certain power, however, even if others need to remind her of this fact. Similarly, while Ged has lost his mage powers in this book, he seems to understand that this is only a small dimension of what it means to be a powerful person.

Le Guin explores this in another dimension with the presence of dragons. Kalessin’s appearances remind us that dragons are so different from humans in aspect and countenance: Kalessin is his true name, and to say his name is to know his being. This is a strange thing to comprehend, and if I had a deeper understanding of semiotics I might be able to engage with it more. Suffice it say, this is what I love so much about Le Guin: her stories are often short and appear so simple on the surface, but their subtext runs deep.

Tehanu also grapples with gender roles. Readers of Le Guin’s other work won’t be surprised by this, but Le Guin’s approach here is much bolder than in previous Earthsea novels. Le Guin grapples with the question of what power, if men have access to the magic of True Names that makes them mages, women have. Why aren’t women wizards? The character of Auntie Moss often serves as a mouthpiece for Le Guin’s ideas on this, the contrast between men’s showy and explosive power and women’s “roots”.

Discussions of magic aside, though, what affected me the most about this theme was how Le Guin captures the powerlessness that women often feel at the hands of men. First, there’s the scene where vagrants—including one of the ones who attacked Therru—break into her house. Ged intervenes, and Tenar implies that she has no idea what would have happened if he hadn’t been there to help. Le Guin isn’t stating that Tenar, as a woman, is helpless, but she demonstrates the ways in which Earthsea society’s gender roles cast women as victims, much as they do in our society. This happens again when Ged and Tenar confront the wizard who has been using his magic for dark purposes. This wizard sees Tenar’s audacity for speaking to him, a man, as an affront to be punished. In this character Le Guin portrays the all-too-common spectre of men silencing and demeaning women simply for existing and acting in ways that they perceive as special and permissible only to other men.

There’s an element of gender essentialism to this discussion that makes it a little uncomfortable. That being said, the relationship between humanity and dragons embodied by Therru, which I can’t go into for spoiler reasons, hints that, for Le Guin, categories like gender are not actually biological essentials but are indeed constructed—at least, that’s how I’m optimistically reading it. After all, the whole premise of Earthsea as a world is that everything is a True Name, that to know this name is to know the thing and be able to compel it. And so what people wear and do, who they are, how they speak and act and identify—these are all merely facets of their larger, truer selves, which very few can ever glimpse.

Tehanu is a fantastic way to return to this world. Not only do we get to hang with both Ged and Tenar again, but the pace of this book is just so relaxing. I read it standing up in an airport departure lounge, and then finished it at home the next day, but I felt the entire time like I was sitting outside during the summer. Reading this is just like breathing in clean, fresh air.

I wouldn’t start here, mind you. A Wizard of Earthsea is the first, best, and most essential of these novels. But it’s always just so nice to see a master of the craft return to one of her most cherished creations and continue to nurture it, critique it, and push it in new directions.

My reviews of the Earthsea series:
← The Farthest Shore

I was excited for this, but Lily’s review says it all: you’ve read this book before (and you’ve probably read better versions of this book). The Diabolic is a YA-targeted mash-up of the aging and stagnant interstellar empire, a fish-out-of-water story, gene-hacking on overdrive, and of course, a romance (why does there always have to be a romance). S.J. Kincaid’s writing is slick and compelling; I definitely felt the need to keep reading. In the end, though, this is the book equivalent of eating candy.

Nemesis is the eponymous Diabolic in service to Sidonia—Donia as endearment—who is one of the heirs to a senator’s seat in the great Grandiloquy Senate of this galactic empire. The Emperor is displeased with her father’s political and social positions, so he summons Donia to the capital as a hostage. Nemesis gets sent in Donia’s place, to pose as her master and, if necessary, fall afoul of whatever merciless fate awaits her in the capital. Diabolics are genetically-engineered creatures who look human but are stronger, faster, better—except with none of that empathy and emotional stuff that makes baseline humans, you know, so weak. Nemesis has been programmed to care about one thing only: Donia’s survival. She won’t hesitate to kill anyone—even one of Donia’s family, or herself—who stands in the way of that.

This is genuinely an interesting premise, which is why I was so excited. I was looking forward to a story exploring female friendship and humanity in a science-fiction setting. The Diabolic sort of does this, but along the way it seems to get pretensions of being more clever of a story than it actually is. Still, I want to talk about the genetic engineering parts of this book.

First, phenotypical modification is rampant in this universe, at least among the elite. Anyone with the right money/rank can alter their appearance in any number of ways (though apparently arbitrarily changing one’s gender expression is frowned upon … because why?), both through biological/genetic modifications and technological enhancements like little bots that light your hair to make it look a slightly different colour. In this way, Kincaid demonstrates both the technological prowess of this once-great civilization as well as its descent into inanity.

Second, it’s unclear if genotypical modification is the order of the day for the Grandiloquy—certainly they don’t frown on doing it for creatures, be they Diabolics or fighting animals that are the genetic mash-ups of old Earth beasts. But do they modify their own children to make them faster, strong, better? For the matter, in a society so immersed in gene-tinkering, I’m not sure why they have such a hard time making planets more habitable. Genetically engineer some bacteria to help you terraform, modify your crops, modify yourselves … voilà. Similarly, one would think that an emperor as bent on being a despot tyrant of the Excess as this one would have considered simply engineering a more docile population…. I mean, they did that with the Servitors after all.

Kincaid avoids having to get into all this somewhat with the Helionic diktat against scientific research, which would explain the lack of innovation, etc. I found this part of the story as boring as I did the genetic engineering intriguing, if only because we’ve seen the “religion vs. science as a proxy for conservativism vs progressivism” for a long time. The Diabolic misses out on a chance to approach the issue with more nuance. Kincaid creates all these opportunities to engage in the harm that science, unchecked by any moral concerns, can do—Nemesis herself, and her reaction to the creature-fighting, is a prime example of this. Yet the story instead focuses mostly on more simplistic ideas.

My gut reaction to the beginning of the story, which details Nemesis’ upbringing and forcible programmed devotion to Donia, was interesting. I had a visceral disgust for what was happening. It made me think, basically, of how our increasing knowledge of the human brain is leading us towards all these possible convergences of Not Good™ meat-hacking. It doesn’t matter if it’s through brain-computer interfaces, gene-tampering, whatever—The Diabolic is just the latest in a long line of books to remind me that we’re so close, as a species, to stepping over the precipice and being done.

Sorry if that’s depressing, but I want to put that out there.

And, really, Nemesis and maybe Neveni might be the only people in this book who seem like they have any kind of claim to being quote-unquote good enough to be our protagonists? Everyone else is a pretty empty, amoral being. I know Nemesis is technically supposed to be amoral, but her whole character arc is one of pseudo-redemption/acquisition of a soul as a reward for her loyal service. And Neveni has a backbone. I don’t care about any of the other Grandiloquy characters, not even the love interest who is supposed to save them all with Nemesis’ help.

This character’s role as a love interest is so problematic. It’s yet another rendition of the “I will teach you how to love” sci-fi trope, where an older male figure stirs up passion in a young woman questioning her humanity, and her awakening romantic and/or sexual attraction is an essential component of realizing she is actually human too. I am all for Nemesis learning to be human and, if she chooses, embarking in relationships. But it’s not too much to (a) want to avoid using romantic/sexual relationships as a shorthand for “you are more human” and (b) ask for healthy relationships between equals, not a relationship between you and someone who shoves control electrodes into your skull.

Yeah.

The Diabolic has such potential. Kincaid lavishly sets a scene early on; I love the way she builds up the world with the perfect balance of exposition. Nevertheless, there’s a lot in here that I wish had been different. In rushing headlong into so many neat ideas from science fiction, this book also manages to fall into a lot of the same traps earlier versions of these stories have. It’s fun to read, but it didn’t wow me.

I received this from NetGalley and Gollancz in return for a review. It took me a little longer to finish reading it than a book, even one of this size, would, so I’m a little behind the curve here. I got distracted, you see, what with buying my first-ever house. Were it not for that, I would have devoured Exodus in a day or two, because it’s that good. It’s not quite the space opera I’ve been craving since tearing through the latest Linesman novel; I think my freezer burn on posthumanism is still causing some issues. That’s saying something, then, that I enjoyed this as much as I did.

Exodus is the third book in a trilogy. This wasn’t readily apparent to me from the NetGalley or Goodreads descriptions; had it been, I probably wouldn’t have requested it. I don’t think it does an author any favours to start a trilogy at the final book in most cases! This is a rare exception: Alex Lamb’s exposition helps you understand the state of this universe after the first two books, and any regret I feel for having missed these books is more around the fact that if I go back and read them now, I’m going to know how the story ends!

I’m see lots of comparisons in the marketing material to Peter F. Hamilton, and I get that, but Lamb reminds me a little more of Alastair Reynolds and the Revelation Space universe, particularly with the M.O. of the Transcended here. Lamb works hard to balance between writing three-dimensional individual characters and also stuffing our heads to bursting with cool posthuman SF ideas on a trillion-year timescale. That’s very difficult to do, which is why I find myself increasingly disenchanted with posthuman SF—but Exodus pulls it off.

The story is a Hail Mary type of adventure to help humanity against a mortal enemy, the Photurians, or Photes. This species “converts” human individuals, bringing them euphoric “bliss” at the price of individual privacy or sanity. At the beginning of the novel, two of our protagonists are involved in the evacuation of Earth, which has finally fallen to the Photes. One of the few remaining refuges of humanity is its most powerful world, Galatea, in the grip of the New Society, an autocratic regime of young leaders and ruthless military discipline coupled with psychological therapy. The other main characters are “heroes” from the older generation, out of step with this new mode of governing, and many of them mourning the society that has passed them by. This adventure is perfect for them (even if they don’t want to admit it) and will perhaps even reunite them with a long-lost friend, Will Monet, the main character (apparently) of previous books.

To be honest, the characters in this book are not the main draw, in my opinion. They’re all right, and if I had been through this entire ride with them, I’d probably feel much closer to them. Lamb does his best to make me feel the immense burden of Ann’s disconnection from humanity; he tries his best to help me understand how frustrated and powerless Mark feels, how confused and lost Will feels, and how Ira vacillates between feeling obsolete and feeling absolutely essential on this crew. There are some genuine moments of pathos here. Largely, though, the relationships are predictable, the interpersonal conflict is predictable, and the romance is boring and very hetero.

However, like so many books with Big Ideas, the crunchiest nougat of Exodus is the way Lamb sketches out possible futures, technologies, and even conjectures for the organization and structure of life on a universal scale.

Virtual reality plays a major role here, along with the underlying assumption that the human brain can be accessed and hacked like any computer. Identities are fluid, most exemplified in the character of Nada Rien. Lamb digs into the idea of possibly finding a way to use the universe itself as a computational substrate in a way that is much less metaphorical and far more interesting than, say, Dan Simmons’ Hyperion uses. If you really like your posthumanism bleeding-edge-this-is-basically-magic, then this book has that in spades.

I also enjoy Lamb’s depiction of faster-than-light travel. He doesn’t use too much exposition, and what he includes serves to deepen my awareness of this universe rather than my understanding. For example, I don’t know how warp travel works in this universe (aside from using something called “curvon flow”), but I do know that there are different types of warp travel (traditional, ember, and stealth) with varying advantages and disadvantages. I don’t really understand what a “boser” is, or what “warpium” is—but I totally grok their purposes in the story, and while they might actually be unrealistic according to our current understanding of physics, Lamb makes them believable enough within this universe. Yes, any time you start throwing in Transcended species and talking about vacuum states you’re crossing the line towards techno-space-fantasy. But Exodus tries really hard to make you think you’re just touching the line.

Philosophically, Exodus questions the nature of identity. It seems to take it as a given that the human mind, or mind-state, can be copied and uploaded, and even duplicated. Although Exodus doesn’t quite grapple with the existential questions surrounding duplication of consciousness, it does ask us to consider what it would be like to, for example, live in a society solely of differentiated versions of yourself. If you just read that sentence twice and are now asking “what the hell does that mean?” then you’re not alone. Basically, Lamb wants us to confront the uncomfortable notions of what separates society from self, species from individual, and whether or not the human predilection towards individuality over these past millennia is itself a good survival trait.

This is one of the most fascinating uses for science fiction: authors examining aspects of our species and asking what we are prepared to change about our species in order to survive on a universal time-scale. Are we willing to speciate? Are we willing to redefine what we mean by consciousness, by life, by individuality and thought and identity? I don’t know the answers to these questions, myself; some of it I’ll never know, at least not until I get simulated by the overbrain stored in the smart-matter computational matrix of New New Earth several millennia from now. Until then, all I can do is keep reading fascinating SF novels that ask these questions for me!

Women don’t need me to say this, because they know this, and many have said this themselves, but I’ll boost it: the thing about representation is that it isn’t enough to give people one character, one story, one thing and say, “There, you’ve representation, job done.” So I was excited when I received A Tyranny of Petticoats in a Book Riot Book Mail box. Those of you who have read my reviews for a while (thank you, reader, no matter how poorly you’ve chosen to use your time) know that I’m not that enthusiastic about anthologies. Short stories are not my jam the way novels are. So it means a lot when I’m saying that I loved this anthology.

You want to talk about representation? A Tyranny of Petticoats spans from 1710 to 1968 and features a diverse group of authors writing about a diverse group of women who embody the idea of a “strong” female character in so many ways. It’s not just stories about white girls having adventures. If I remember correctly, 9 of the 15 stories in this collection feature protagonists who are Black, Indigenous, Chinese, mixed-race, or otherwise non-white. Although not all of these stories are #ownvoices, many of the authors are also, as far as I can tell, non-white. Additionally, several of the protagonists are queer or questioning their sexuality. These are 15 stories about young women who are different and who are literally refusing to conform to what their world, their time, expects of them. It is, in my opinion, quite empowering, though obviously my opinion here isn’t the one that counts. I’m a fairly empowered, privileged person already.

I don’t usually like to review story-by-story, but I want to do that here. I love these stories so much.

“Mother Carey’s Table” by J. Anderson Coats
Set in 1710, Jocasta “Joe” is a Black girl who must dress as a boy while she and her father work aboard a pirate vessel. I appreciate how this story does not sugarcoat or romanticize what it means to be a pirate or the kind of life sailors lead.

“The Journey” by Marie Lu
Set in 1723, Yakone is an Inupiat girl whose world is rocked by the invasion of European settlers. After losing her father and then mother in short succession, Yakone finds herself stranded on the tundra with only her dog and her people’s stories to guide her and help her to survive. I don’t know enough about Inuit stories to know if Lu has done the culture justice; as far as I can tell, she highlights many of the elements of Inuit culture, such as the reverence for and reliance upon dogs, that are important to remember given how much Europeans tried to suppress them.

“Madeline’s Choice” by Jessica Spotswood
By the editor, this story is set in 1826. Madeline is Black, although of mixed blood in an era and setting (Louisiana) where this was a huge deal. She falls in love with a dandy who often passes as white and wants to marry him in defiance of her parents. Spotswood highlights both the folly of youth and the constrictive ways in which parents behave with their children while also keeping the mother figure sympathetic. I really enjoyed the nuance here. Trigger warning for historical language and terms that may nowadays be offensive.

“El Destinos” by Leslye Walton
Set in 1848, the protagonists of this story are incarnations of the Three Fates from Greek and Norse mythology. This is a very creative and fun take on these mythical creatures—in this time period, they are teenage Mexican girls living in Texas shortly after the end of the Mexican—American War. Despite liking the premise, I didn’t enjoy this story quite as much. Most of the plot and character development was predictable.

“High Stakes” by Andrea Cremer
As with the previous story, this tale set in 1861 Massachusetts and Mississippi features more overt supernatural elements than most of the other stories in this book. Klio herself has a supernatural heritage, though Cremer skillfully only drops hints until the very end. You’ll figure it out, but it’s very artfully done. And that’s about how I feel here: the story itself is good, just not great.

“The Red Raven Ball” by Caroline Tung Richmond
Lizzie is a debutante living in 1862 Washington, D.C. Charged by her uncle to help him identify a Confederate spy in D.C. who only goes by the name the “Red Raven”, Lizzie sleuths around her Grandmama’s ball until she discovers the shocking truth. The spy thriller aspect of this story wasn’t as exciting as it wants to be, but the characters are excellent. Lizzie, her sister, and her Grandmama are all so believable in their motivations. Richmond reminds us why some women internalize and accept their role in a patriarchal society because of how they have grown up and what they believe.

“Pearls” by Beth Revis
It’s 1876 and Helen is fleeing Chicago for the wild west of Cheyenne, Wyoming. She takes a position as a schoolteacher rather than marry her rapist in disgrace. The rape itself is neither depicted nor described; it happened before the start of the story. I loved this story! Helen grows into herself, makes decisions based on her needs, and her relationship with her charges is interesting and deep. I love, love the ending.

“Gold in the Roots of the Grass” by Marissa Meyer
Another more supernatural story, set in 1877, Deadwood. The protagonist, Sun Fei-Yen, is Chinese (or of Chinese descendant) and has inherited the gift (or curse) of seeing ghosts. She turns this into a trade, albeit not always a safe or reliable one, until her desire to help a recently-made ghost puts her into even more danger. Like many of the other stories in this book, this one goes beyond depicting a great female character and challenges other tropes of American storytelling—it acknowledges that the United States is on stolen land and does not shy away from depicting the calculated racism with which people grabbed for power in frontier times.

“The Legendary Garrett Girls” by Y.S. Lee
Set in 1898, this is Alaska during the gold rush and settlement. The Garrett girls are being muscled out of their bar. I didn’t love this one, but I like that it didn’t necessarily go the way I expected. It just felt a little more frivolous—because it was kind of like a legend—so I didn’t get to enjoy the protagonists as much as people.

“The Color of the Sky” by Elizabeth Wein
It should come as no surprise that I loved this story, because I love Wein’s books. She has written about female pilots before, albeit not Black pilots. In 1926, Tony sees her idol, Bessie Coleman, die in a horrible test-flight accident. Tony has always wanted to be a pilot, and despite the additional challenges placed upon her by being both female and Black, she takes the first steps towards forging this path. The story is inspirational and moving.

“Bonnie and Clyde” by Saundra Mitchell
Set in 1934, this story has more introspection and narration from the protagonist. She leads a very fascinating double life. I love how Mitchell uses the backdrop and setting of the Great Depression to provide the protagonist with this motivation to pull off such dangerous acts in order to help her family.

“Hard Times” by Katherine Longshore
Set in 1934, Washington State this time instead of Indiana like the last book, this follows two … urchins? Homeless children. And an older boy, just barely a man, trying to prove himself at his father’s newspaper by writing about the dispossessed, homeless youth who don’t have a job. It’s interesting, because it’s a perspective on this part of the Depression I haven’t read much myself. The story itself didn’t grab me as much.

“City of Angels” by Lindsay Smith
Set in 1945, the protagonist (who is I believe of Native American heritage) is a riveter and falls in love with a female coworker. This relationship exposes her to a side of Los Angeles living she never otherwise would have discovered. Both women have beaus overseas, however—one in Europe and one in the Pacific—and the spectre of what they will do when these men return, if they return, looms large in this story. Smith manages to shows us how women worked and lived independently during war while also showing young readers a lesbian relationship that is full of as much happiness, doubt, and pain as any other relationship.

“Pulse of the Panthers” by Kekla Magoon
Set in 1967, in rural California, the protagonist tells us about a weekend in which her father hosts young members of the Black Panthers on his farm. She watches as he teaches them how to use firearms to defend their communities, and she flirts with a young Panther who tries to convince her to come to the city and join the movement. This one felt very slow, plot-wise, but was a great, different look at the Black Panther movement from what you might typically see.

“The Whole World is Watching” by Robin Talley
Closing out this book, Talley’s story takes place in Grant Park, Chicago, in 1968, during anti-war protests. The protagonist a Black (though, being from the south, she has grown up thinking of herself as “Negro”) woman questioning her sexuality—she has embraced what she calls “radical lesbian feminism”, and although she pretended to date a male friend when her father came up to visit, she has been seeing a mutual female friend on the side. I’m ambivalent about how this relationship is depicted and the terms here. I don’t think Talley is trying to portray lesbianism as a deliberate, feminist, or misandrist choice but is rather trying to show how the climate of the late 1960s gave a lot of women who experienced these types of attractions the opportunity and vocabulary to act upon these attractions rather than repress them or see them as shameful. There’s an intense mixture of action in this book, stemming from political, racial, or feminist conflicts. It’s an interesting, if a bit heavy, story.

So there you have it. A Tyranny of Petticoats is well worth reading, or worth giving to a young woman who wants to read about more young women like her throughout American history. I love the idea of a tyranny being the collective noun for a group of women in petticoats. Rock on.

Look, everyone! I read and reviewed an ARC before its publication date in Canada! Shock and awe, people. Shock and awe. Mind you, I’m not sure this is meant for me, because its title seems more like it was addressed to Admiral Ackbar. The Trap isn’t out until May 28, and it will appeal to thrillers and people fond of books about writers, and also Star Wars characters fond of stating the obvious. If you would like to send me free books with titles reminiscent of famous movie quotes, please contact me.

I should also throw in the disclaimer that I’m not one to seek out thrillers, ordinarily, and when I do read thrillers, the results are almost always disappointing for all involved. I don’t want to pigeonhole the entire genre; there are plenty of good thrillers out there. But the tropes and structures such books tend to follow make it harder for me to enjoy them. So keep this in mind as I review The Trap: this is thriller I can totally get behind, but I’m still reviewing it from a perspective that a more seasoned thriller reader wouldn’t necessarily share.

At first this book, like its title, seems disappointingly mundane: Linda Conrads is 38, a renowned but reclusive author still tortured by the murder of her sister. She discovered her sister’s body all those years ago, and saw the killer’s face, but the police never made an arrest. Now she has seen that face once more, on television, and so she writes a thriller that fictionalizes the story of her sister’s murder. By drawing the murderer’s attention to the book, Linda hopes to draw him out and trick him into doing something that implicates him in that crime.

It’s one of those “either incredibly crazy or incredibly cunning” plans, and as the story goes on it looks increasingly like the former. Linda’s trap becomes more convoluted, more dangerous to herself, and seemingly less and less likely to actually work. Of course, this is all mirroring her own mental state, which becomes more fragile as her confrontation with the murderer draws near. And if this were all the book was, if the narrative was so straightforward as that, then I wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all.

But that confrontation comes and goes, and we’re only halfway through the book. Melanie Raabe has bigger, better plans in store.

I know unreliable narrators are nothing new in the land of psychological thrillers, but Raabe just pulls it off so, so well here. You really start to question how accurately Linda is relating the events as they happen. For me, much of the enjoyment of the novel came from trying to work out what the real story might be before Raabe reveals it. Who really is the killer? Is Linda’s sister even dead? How much of this actually happened, and how much of it is a fabrication of Linda’s mind? With every bit of the narrative filtered through Linda herself, no source of information is unbiased, and the book becomes a game between narrator and reader. It’s good times—well, for me. Not so much for Linda.

The story continues to take twists that, while not wholly unpredictable, are delightful in the way they ratchet up the suspense. Eventually, to my disappointment, it moves back into more standard thriller territory, with the physical threat and pure, adrenaline-powered fight-or-flight climax. More seasoned readers might see this as payoff, however.

I’m also not a huge fan of the novel-within-a-novel conceit. I recall this from another thriller, Work Done for Hire, and I wasn’t impressed with it there. I know it’s serving some purpose here—the weird kind of romantic sub-plot would feel even more tacked-on at the end if Raabe hadn’t telegraphed it from Linda’s novel—but I found myself skimming those portions so I could get back to Linda’s story, which felt more real to me. So I guess that’s good, because I was hooked?

The Trap is one of those pleasant surprises of a book in a style I don’t usually enjoy. It’s books like this that are the reason I try to read widely and challenge myself, even if it means that, on the flip side, I sometimes encounter absolute stinkers. Every once in a while, opening myself up to the unknown means that little gems like this land in my lap. Reading is often relaxing, and sometimes a chore, but The Trap just goes to show that, in the hands of a capable writer, thrillers offer up that rare feeling of a book that is enervating. This was actually a pretty good way to wind down my week.

Cassie is the Animorph who will kill you kindly, with her apologies.

Rachel, of course, would just flat-out murderize you with her polar bear or grizzly bear or elephant morph, and you would be Dead. Jake would kill you because it was necessary, not because he particularly enjoys it. Marco would make lame jokes about death, then find a way to engineer your death.

Slowly but surely, all the Animorphs are getting far too acquainted with murder and death for their own liking. But I feel like it takes a toll on Cassie most of all, and it’s changing her in the most twisted ways.

The Hidden is very nearly a horror story in its own right. I must have been in the older pre-adolescent range when I read this one, because I don’t remember waking up with night terrors even though I should by all rights have been scared out of my mind. There is some seriously messed up shit in this book, and the descriptions are enough that I was worried 27-year-old me might have a nightmare or two. I mean, at one point a part-ant part-Cassie creature is crawling towards her, and it’s disgusting. I’m not even going to quote it. Or the “buffa-human”?? Animorphs has flirted before with mentioning how disgusting and gross the physical process of morphing must be, both to bystanders and to the morpher themselves, but this is the first book that reifies it in such a visceral way.

The story here is so simple and straightforward: stop a helicopter. The means by which they achieve this end, though, are spectacular. Cassie herself functioning as an anvil, a risky plan that places her in mortal danger, is a harrowing moment. It brings back memories of the days when the Animorphs would go off into a situation with a half-baked plan that would always go awry. Nowadays their plans are more like three-quarters baked (just beginning to go golden-brown at the top but still a little too soft in the centre), but they still jump into action before Ax can say “CINNABON”.

It’s curious, because when you think about the plot, in the hands of a different ghostwriter who used a different tone, this book could have been very silly à la #14: The Unknown. After all, it features Helmacrons (well, only their ship, and only as a mention) and animals getting the ability to morph—hilarious! Also Visser Three is once again impressively inept at his job in the Saturday-morning-cartoon-villain style we’ve grown accustomed to.

But no, rather than play these concepts for laughs, Laura Battyanyi-Weiss shows us more of the Cassie we saw in #29: The Sickness, the Cassie who makes Tough Choices™. The Cassie who finds herself acutely aware that she is becoming a soldier when she always thought she would be a medic, and she is not happy at all but can’t quit—because quitting, in this case, is the same as surrender.

The feels in this one, people. That heartbreaking moment when she tells the buffalo “You are good” is almost too much to bear.

We’re coming up on the last Megamorphs adventure, but first Marco is back for another Andalite story in the next book!

My reviews of Animorphs:
← #38: The Arrival | #40: The Other →

It has been almost two years since I read the first book in this series, and nearly a year since I bought books 2 and 3! I’m very glad Michael Cobley includes a brief synopsis of the first book; it helped with my terrible recall. The Orphaned Worlds is probably better than Seeds of Earth in terms of both story and organization. As with the first book, there were elements that made me want to dislike this book, but I just couldn’t. It’s unabashedly fun space opera with AI elements reminiscent of Iain M. Banks and complex, nefarious interstellar schemes reminiscent of John Scalzi. All in all, it’s a pretty good time. As usual, spoilers for the first book but not so much for this one.

There is no middle book syndrome here. The Orphaned Worlds gets to profit from all the groundwork the first book had to spend setting up. So Robert Horst is already on his intense mission “deep into hyperspace” for the Construct; Greg is still fighting a guerrilla war on Darien; Kao Chih soon has a chance to return to his people, and so on. Multiple storylines intersect, converging and diverging in interesting ways that remind us that this universe of Cobley’s making is incredibly intricate and interconnected. The Sendrukans’ and Brolturans’ presence in Darien has multiple levels, as we discover when Kuros receives a visit from a superior whose orders don’t quite make sense…. And then there is the race against time, with the Knight of the Legion of Avatars freed from its deep sea prison and slowly lumbering towards Darien and the warpwell it wants to use to free its masters.

This series reminds me a little of A Song of Ice and Fire, just because there are so many POV characters. Each chapter is titled with a character’s name, and it follows them for a little, before the next chapter jumps to another character. Cobley is a little shyer about killing off main characters—then again, compared to GRRM, who isn’t? A few characters get some development, but one of my critiques of this book would simply be that for all the plot that happens, the characters change precious little. Theo, Greg, Kao Chih, etc., spend too much time running around to stop and process the friends they are losing and the way the balance of power has shifted. Hopefully we get a lull in book 3 that will make up for it.

Characterization troubles aside, though, Cobley does a remarkable job of balancing the sheer number of subplots. I mentioned a handful of them above, and there are still more. It seems like there’s a subplot for everyone: millennia-old AI shenanigans, alien–human politics, human–human politics … it’s all here, and it’s all connected. So even while some of the plots (like Greg on Darien) didn’t hold my interest, and while I found others more confusing (I’m still not sure I understand this whole “levels of hyperspace” thing), there was still plenty for me to enjoy. I particularly liked it when the Roug showed up and kicked some Ezgaran ass just because those Ezgara were so cocky. Likewise, I love that despite the very powerful assistance many of our protagonists have, they come close to defeat several times.

As I mentioned in my review of the first book, Cobley doesn’t so much advance new ideas as recombine old ones. That’s still the case here. There are some great philosophical themes surrounding the nature of consciousness and selfhood, particularly when it comes to Horst’s journey, or Catriona’s relationship with Segrana. Cobley doesn’t manage to present these ideas in new or exciting ways that make me think a lot on them, but it was nice to see him develop them within the context of this story. The Orphaned Worlds reminds me a little of The Expanse in that it could be a good SyFy series: perhaps not the most groundbreaking use of science fiction, but a great “smart” form of entertainment.

At the end of the day, when a book this long keeps you turning pages, other complaints don’t matter: it’s a good read. Definitely going to pick up the third book more quickly than I did this one!

My reviews of the Humanity's Fire series:
← Seeds of Earth | The Ascendant Stars →

The Other reminds us how far the Animorphs have come from being the naive kids they were at the start of the book. Gone are the days of insufficient plans. Enter the world of automatic suspicions, backups, dissembling and disguise. The Animorphs are tried-and-true insurgents now. And Marco, joker that he is, might be the most strategically-minded of them all.

There are other Andalites on Earth. (Again.)

They don’t want to fight the Yeerks. Mertil is disabled, a vecol as Ax so dismissively refers to him, despite his status as a renowned fighter pilot. The other, Gafinil, has pledged to protect Mertil. But Visser Three has other plans, and after the Animorphs discover Gafinil and Mertil’s presence on Earth, they also get involved. The result is messy for everyone. But since the book is narrated from Marco’s point of view, the story isn’t so much about the Animorphs dealing with two Andalite refugees so much as it is Marco processing how much has changed since he became an Animorph.

I found this book surprisingly low-key, in terms of action and threat level, considering the plot. Yes, there is a battle at the climax, but that doesn’t seem like the main focus at that point. Similarly, the new morph in this one is underwhelming—Applegate’s ghostwriter does a good job ruminating upon what life might be like as a bee, and the situation contrived to require a bee morph is as good as any.

Rather than delivering pulse-pounding action, then, The Other asks us to focus on Marco and his psychology. Much of the story takes place with Marco on his own, or with a single Animorph as backup. (I love the part where Rachel basically corners him and forces him to take her with him on an independently-devised reconnaissance mission.) These twosomes are a nice way to see how Marco interacts one-on-one rather than as part of the whole group, where he usually ends up functioning as Jake’s supporter or as the blackly comic relief to Rachel’s bloodlust and Cassie’s ambivalence. Marco in a group is funny; Marco on his own or with a partner is … focused. Determined. He finds his mission and he sticks to it.

This book also takes some time to look at attitudes towards disability. Ax displays a visceral aversion to interacting with the disabled Mertil, because that’s how Andalite society encourages people to act. Marco doesn’t think much of this attitude and serves to model a more inclusive and tolerant mode of behaviour (although he does use the term “differently abled”, which was in vogue back in the 1990s, I guess, but I’ve learned it’s generally better to say “disabled” unless the person in question specifically likes the former label). Still, the use of Mertil as a pawn in the Visser’s latest Saturday morning cartoon villain scheme belies the disability education agenda here—there are a lot more interesting ways to introduce and use a disabled character in a children’s and young adult book; this approach is both heavy-handed and rather unimpressive.

Much like my friend Julie, the gay-coding of Gafinil and Mertil’s “friendship” because an openly-gay relationship probably wouldn’t be allowed by Scholastic at the time is … interesting … in hindsight. Like, it’s not at all subtle to my 27-year-old eyes in 2017, though I’m sure as a kid I didn’t pick up on anything at all.

I also concur wholeheartedly with Julie’s last line, wherein she observes that “the status quo is left the same as before”. In some ways this hearkens back to an earlier Animorphs era, where episodic stories occasionally advanced the arc but more frequently had our character confronting their individual issues with their morphing capabilities. Recent books have me accustomed to subplots moving the arc forward.

Then again, the last Megamorphs adventure is next, and we get more temporal shenanigans.

My review of Animorphs:
← #39: The Hidden | Megamorphs #4: Back to Before →