Review of Bête by Adam Roberts

The assumption might be: science fiction is uniquely positioned to portray the impact of the internet on human existence. But then you would have second thoughts. Manner, methodology, evolution, technical details—yes, those things science fiction is effective in describing. The keyword, however, is 'impact'; the effect on people and lives. That is the remit of literary fiction. Adam Roberts' Bête (2014) aims to prove the remit wrong.

In Bête, science has come up with a chip that can embed itself in mammals' brains, uplifting them to human-level sentience. It isn't long before activists comb the countryside and pastures of the United Kingdom, slipping the pea-sized chip to livestock. The opening scene of the novel portrays Graham Penhaligon in full, bilateral dialogue with the cow he is about to kill and butcher. An aging farmer, Graham doesn't credit the cow with any additional rights. The UK government does, however. Unable to control the spread of the chips, and as more and more animals are “awoken”, laws have been passed protecting uplifted animals and affording them rights not dissimilar to human rights. It isn't long before Graham finds himself in defiance of the law, kicked off of his farm, and looking for a new line of work. Most importantly, he tries to find for himself a place in the new world order.

Review of A Pale of Air by Fritz Leiber

There aren't many Silver Age writers whose work holds up today. For most, it is tone, or approach, or just general hokiness that render them specimens of their era. Fritz Leiber is one of the few. His novels read as crisp and clean as when they were first written, and each of his stories, whether the reader enjoys them or not, is at least a discrete, coherent tale that never bites off more than it can chew. A Pale of Air (1964) is a good sample of Leiber in short form.

The collection opens with the titular story, “A Pail of Air”. An upside down western, it tells of a family living in an airtight nest of blankets years after the Big Jerk took the Earth out of orbit and into space. Like prairie settlers, they get pails of air from outside the nest to sustain their home's atmosphere, that is, until Uncle Sam comes knocking. The story lacks science logic, yet captures something fundamentally domestic in its simplicity. “The Beat Cluster” is ostensibly a science fictional piss take on 60s' beat culture. Space hippies tend algae in zero-gravity in an atmospheric orbital facility, that is until Lyndon Johns—err, I mean the US government grow weary of their ways and decide to take aggressive action. Funny satire ensues.

Review of The Deep and the Drowned by Ian Green

It's always exciting to discover an unexpectedly good book by a new-to-me writer. The story lingers and there is hope of goodness to come—a back catalog to comb for more gems. Ian Green's Extremophile was such a moment for me, and upon completion, I noticed Green was releasing a new novel this year, The Deep and the Drowned (2026). He did it at least once, can he do it again?

The Deep and the Drowned is the genre opposite of Extremophile. Not a bad thing, just am observation for would-be readers. Where Extremophile is edgy cyberpunk, The Deep & the Drowned is pirate fantasy adventure. Readers follow in the footsteps of Killian Heroneye, captain of the Cutlass Hawk. He and his crew pilot the isles, looking for buried treasure. And treasure is needed, not just because Heroneye wants the plaque above his door to remain valid, but he is also deep, deep in debt. Every island and every port runs the risk of debt collectors looking to collect, usually at the point of a sword. If that isn't bad enough, a powerful mage sees Heroneye as the key to meeting a sea god. The mage forces the captain into a mission that may just never see dry land again.

Review of Kalimantan by Lucius Shepard

Lucius Shepard published more than one-hundred short stories. Most have been re-published in good-sized collections and anthologies of the 400+ page variety. But some were republished in smaller collections—special editions, in fact—looking to capture a certain audience or breathe second life into stories worth a second read not reprinted elsewhere. Kalimantan (1990) is the latter. A mini-slice of Shepard's oeuvre, it contains a short story, novelette, and novella.

The title story “Kalimantan” is a peculiar mix of ingredients. It's got bits of Graham Greene's The Quiet American, a splash of eau de Le Guin, a sprinkle or two of Robert Silverberg's Nightwings, and two cups (or more) of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. The cake it bakes is the uncanny tale of a man named Barnett. Living in Borneo, he meets a rude, dismissive American named MacKinnon. But the relationship doesn't last long. MacKinnon gets into trouble and flees to the jungle, a place he discovers seribu aso, a psychedelic drug that truly changes the world. MacKinnon only gets further into trouble, forcing Barnett and others to enter the jungle and find MacKinnon. Like Heart of Darkness, things get creepy the deeper they go, and in the process, Shepard casts light on the individual nature of the human plight.

Review of The Iron Code: Stories in Honour of David Gemmell edited by Ian Whates

I am no expert on David Gemmell's oeuvre. Aside from the Macedon series, what I've read goes too far into ultra-nerd D&D land—the deep sub-sub-sub reddits debating lore minutiae. Seeing Ian Whates' anthology The Iron Code: Stories in Honour of David Gemmell (2026), however, my interest was piqued. What would such ideas be like in short form, a form which does not allow for such excavation?

The Iron Code kicks off with the tasty, twisting tale of two veterans trading war stories over a drink and a hearth, “The Other” by Dan Abnett. It needed another edit to tighten up some details, but the delicately appropriate ending makes it a nesting doll worth unpacking. “Crows and Ashes” by Kari Sperring is more vignette than story—and is as gothic in mood as can be. A prioress living at the base of a mountain sees the ravages of war wash past the nunnery in the spring melt. It spurs her to action, necessitating a hike. Stylistically the story is tumultuous, but when it's on, it's dead on.

Review of The Book of Bots by James Patrick Kelly

James Patrick Kelly is one few remaining writers whose collections are published as an update, as in Here is what has been happening in JPK land since his last collection of previously uncollected stories a few years ago. As I don't read sf magazines or periodicals (nothing against them), the collections are critical for keeping me up to date. His 2026 The Book of Bots bucks the trend, however. A hybrid, it collects several recent stories which have yet to find a home in a JPK collection as well as several older stories, all around the theme of robots and robotic/artificial intelligence.

With echoes of Brian Aldiss’ “Supertoys Last All Summer Long”, “Itsy Bitsy Spider” kicks things off with the story of a middle-aged woman returning to her father’s house. A man she has a troubled relationship with, she discovers he has uploaded her memories into an android child. The conversations between the younger and older self, later expanded by the father, is fully human despite the science fiction conceit. It hones in on the value of history and memory with age, making for an effective, touching piece to open the collection. “Undone” is more science fantasy than science fiction, but I split hairs. A tribute to Cordwainer Smith and Alfred Bester, it is set in the far, far future and tells of a woman who escapes her enemies by traveling a couple million years into the future, only to discover she didn't truly escape. She is forced to settle down and start a family. The story contains backwards syntax, like listening to a cassette in rewind, along with a large dose of wacky sf.

Review of Bug Jack Barron by Norman Spinrad

It's a wonder what a few decades does to cultural perception. In 1969, Norman Spinrad's Bug Jack Barron was published to a spot of controversy. It hit a few talking points of the counter culture, but was recognized by American science fiction awards. Worth the fuss?

Bug Jack Barron is the host of a political talk show—similar to Hasan Piker but with more audience interaction and without the political connections. Day in and out, he receives a barrage of calls describing injustice and discrimination, and when possible, uses said connections to right wrongs. His influence so great, in fact, the California governor calls Barron to suggest he run for President. If it weren't for all of the humanitarian action he is involved in, maybe he would have time?

Review of The Mad Ship by Robin Hobb

You're here for one of two reasons:

1. By accident. If true, be informed as such.
2. You want to know whether Robin Hobb's The Mad Ship (1999) is as good as Ship of Magic? Yes. Go—no, Run! to your favorite bookshop—and buy it.

Want to know a little more, read on.

The Mad Ship picks up precisely where Ship of Magic ended. It doesn't miss a beat. All of the characters readers are familiar with, at least those who survived Ship of Magic, return. Hobb adds one or two more to round things off, notably a courtesan within the satrap's inner court to give the reader a glimpse of the happenings there, as well as more light on the life of a woodworker whose skills come in particularly handy for one major plot thread. These two become particularly important as The Mad Ship ratchets up political tension; where Ship of Magic effectively used the Vestrid family affairs as its launch pad for antagonism, The Mad Ship puts more spice in the stew with a kingdom in crisis.

The Mad Ship really does feel like the next wall of scenes in the tableaux room, such is the seamless nature which it picks up and carries forward the Liveship series. There was one particular character about-face that felt a bit rushed, a bit Hallmark. But it's after such a traumatic event that I have to shove it to the gray area of: Maybe? Everything else is as organic as Ship of Magic. Things are constantly zigging when they should be zagging, but always in accordance with the foundation stones of story Hobb has already laid. Legend-level story crafting.

Review of The Perseids and Other Stories by Robert Charles Wilson

Robert Charles Wilson's novels are a mixed bag. They run the gamut of cliche to existentialist. The Chronoliths is about as good a look at human nature in the face of otherness as science fiction has produced, whereas Darwinia is genre fluff if ever there were goose dander. One might assume Wilson's one and only short story collection, The Perseids and Other Stories (2000), runs in parallel. Such is not the case.

Not explicitly framed, The Perseids nevertheless has a through line: the lives of ordinary people in Toronto around the turn of the millennia, 20th to 21st. The story which kicks things off, “The Fields of Abraham”, could be seen as that setting's prequel. It tells of a Jewish boy getting by on almost nothing in early 20th century Toronto. His sister has dementia and is unable to help. So when not teaching immigrants English, he heads to a local shop to escape. But a student makes an offer that could help the boy financially, only it would mean selling his familial soul. Over a game of chess he asks the shopkeeper for advice, which doesn't go as planned. It's a simply written story, but Wilson wrings emotion from the boy's plight, setting the tone for the bittersweet stories which follow.

Criticism: Human Slop: A Deeper Look into “The Binding” by John Gwynne

AI slop is a term bandied about these days early days of artificial intelligence. It describes content that is unpolished, untidy, not 100% ready but thrown to the public for consumption, anyway. It's uncle Bob's attempt at fixing the water pump with tape and wire. It works for a few days, but depend on the fix for much longer and it starts dripping, again. Guitars gain extra strings and are played upside down. Human anatomy is displayed in inhuman form. And buzzwords are buzzzzzzing. While reading “The Binding" by John Gwynne my brain was screaming “AI slop”. But I know a human wrote the short story. What is going on?

“The Binding” is grimdark fantasy about a clan of giants who are attacked by an army of humans. Like a homework assignment scratched out last minute, the style Gwynne deploys can be described as spilling, loose, slapdash. For the first few days of tape and wire, the plot has an arc, there are primary characters, conflict occurs, and dialogue and exposition link the pieces together. But once that fix starts to give out, it noticeably fails semantically.