I always feel like the Short Story category should be more fun. It could kinda be like speed-dating authors to find the ones you like. I suppose it does still fulfill that function, only I rarely like any of the stories that are nominated. In the past four years of reading Hugo short story finalists, I’ve really liked approximately two of the stories, and neither of those enough to investigate an author’s work further (some more are certainly well written, but rarely are they my thing). I have no real explanation for this, though I have my suspicions. For instance, this is the category with the lowest barrier to entry in that it doesn’t take a lot of time to read a bunch of short stories, but there are also a lot of stories to choose from, so the votes get spread far and wide, thus yielding niche stories that don’t appeal to a wide audience (or maybe just me). This is merely speculation though (still there is evidence for some of this – in a world before slates, the category rarely filled up because most of the winning nominees couldn’t muster 5% of the overall vote, which used to be a requirement). This year, at least, features one story that I did enjoy, so let’s get to it:

1. That Game We Played During the War by Carrie Vaughn – A human woman visits an alien man in a military hospital so that they can play chess. Technically enemies, each has spent time as the other’s prisoner, but the experience brought them closer together rather than drawing them apart. The war is technically over now, and so she can visit her friend. The wrinkle is that his race is telepathic, so when they play chess, she needs to figure out a way to account for his knowing her every move ahead of time. There’s some interesting character work here, the telepathy is explored fairly well for such a short story (though there’s plenty more to explore), and the use of chess offers some thematic heft. A well balanced, interesting, and entertaining read. It’s not a perfect story, but it is my favorite of the past four years of the award, so there is that!
2. Our Talons Can Crush Galaxies by Brooke Bolander – Despite protestations to the contrary, this is a story about a woman who is murdered, but she’s not actually a woman. Rather, she’s some sort of interdimensional birdlike spirit who can take on mortal forms. When she is killed, she simply regenerates and then takes sweet revenge on the man who killed her. A simple tale, one that spends more time whining about how often stories revolve around a man killing a woman (which is definitely true and worth subverting), but one that also seems beholden to that trope and unable to subvert it without resorting to didactic proclamations. Fortunately, there’s lots of cursing, so it doesn’t entirely feel like a lecture. It’s at least got a plot, and the broad strokes of the narrative are attractive too, so it ends up pretty high on the list, though it might stumble down because of:
3. Seasons of Glass and Iron by Amal El-Mohtar – A sort of retelling, mashup, and subversion of two fairy tales, this one also seems to rely a lot on didactic proclamations to make its point, but again, there’s at least some sense of a narrative and a sort of hope in the end that is usually missing from such stories (and a lot of ye olde storytelling is pretty didactic, so this is true to form). This is one that has grown in my estimation since I have read it, and it may ascend to #2 if this continues…
4. The City Born Great by N.K. Jemisin – New York City is alive, and is being reborn with the help of a homeless man chosen for the task and being trained in the ways of city birthing. There’s also an enemy that could prevent the city from evolving. Will our homeless hero defeat the evil? After two novels and this short story, I’m beginning to think that something about Jemisin’s style just doesn’t jive with me. There’s a nugget of an interesting idea here, but it seems lost in a cloud of style. Again, probably just my personal hangup here.
5. An Unimaginable Light by John C. Wright – And Wright is another author I tend to just bounce off of. This one is better than the others I’ve endured, but that’s a pretty low bar to clear and I think a big part of it was that it was at least mercifully short. It’s a story about a man and a robot debating Asimov’s three laws. I mean, not exactly, but anything that is interesting at all in the story is derived from Asimov, not Wright. There’s a twist at the end that is almost laughable and forces scrutiny that the story cannot bear on its own. Damn, I wish I was rereading one of Asimov’s robot stories. Wright is probably a better prose stylist (again, not a high bar to clear, sorry Isaac), but Asimov is a much better storyteller.
6. A Fist of Permutations in Lightning and Wildflowers by Alyssa Wong – It’s only been about an hour or maybe two since I finished this story, and yet, I can’t seem to remember any pertinent details. Something about two women. Immolation. Worlds ending. I want to say it’s more like a tone poem than a narrative, but I’m not sure I can say that because I don’t remember anything about it. It sorta just washed over me, but then, it did leave me feeling vaguely annoyed. If only I could remember why.

Oof. I’m almost tempted to nuke everything after That Game We Played During the War with a No Award, but that’s not really fair, so I’ll probably just leave well enough be. At this point, the prospect of reading 5 Novellas isn’t so attractive, especially since I’ve got The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. sitting right here, calling to me.

Of the six finalists for this year’s Hugo Award for Best Novel, N.K. Jemisin’s The Obelisk Gate was my least anticipated. I’m in the dramatic minority here, as the first novel in this series, The Fifth Season, received near unanimous praise and walked away with the Hugo in a decisive win. I was less sanguine about that initial novel’s pessimism and relentless misery, which mostly served to distance me from the narrative rather than suck me in. There were some interesting revelations and solid worldbuilding in that initial volume, but on the whole, it didn’t feel like much progress had been made in the overall arc. Such things happen in the first volume of a series, I guess, but that didn’t exactly inspire confidence that the second book in the trilogy would fare better. Spoilers for both The Fifth Season and The Obelisk Gate forthcoming…

When a novel’s overarching narrative is that the world is ending, but the world is so monstrous that such an apocalypse is seen as almost welcome from its inhabitants (at least, the ones we get close to), it’s hard not to feel detached. As I noted in my review of The Fifth Season:

If Fantasy too often errs on the side of optimism, this book perhaps errs too far on the side of pessimism. It’s one thing to confront complex problems, but it’s another to propose a solution that is the end of the world. That’s not a solution that provides hope or inspiration, merely despair. Or maybe I’m just being too literal. Jemisin is certainly a talented author with a good command of language, but this novel never really managed to get over the hump for me.

The Obelisk Gate begins with a rehashing of man murdering his toddler, because such anguish was only hinted at in the previous book and obviously needed to be expanded upon with further detail here (“It doesn’t take a lot of effort to beat a toddler to death, but he hyperventilated while he did it.”) After this cheery interlude, the story picks up where The Fifth Season leaves off. Essun (aka Syenite, aka Damaya) has not yet caught up with her toddler-murdering husband Jija or their kidnapped daughter, Nassun, but is instead living in an unusual underground comm called Castrima, where she has met up with her old mentor Alabaster. She learns that he has actually set off the current world-destroying event by attempting to leverage the obelisks that float in the skies to end the cycle of Seasons and thus shatter the social structures that oppress so many, but he apparently failed and his powers are on the wane. The cryptic and tantalizing cliffhanger of The Fifth Season was a simple question: “Tell me, have you ever heard of something called a moon?” It seems that this world once had a moon, but a previous civilization did something to drive it off, and we get some background here. Now it’s returning, and Alabaster attempts to share his knowledge with Essun so that she can finish the job. But since the world is currently ending, they also have to deal with enemies at the gates, and all that fun stuff. Elsewhere, Essun’s daughter Nassun has wound up being trained as an orogene herself, and is starting to come into her own.

The horror of the opening chapter’s infanticide aside, I actually found this to be a somewhat less grim exercise than the opening novel. Nassun’s thread, in particular, is a welcome addition. Don’t get me wrong, there is plenty of misery to go around and Nassun is clearly coming under the influence of some unsavory folk, but maybe I’m just inured to it this time around, or maybe I just braced properly for the sucker punches. Still, it’s good to get a differing perspective on the world, even as Essun’s narrative seems to stall out. Such is the way of middle installments of a trilogy, but I’m still struck by a remarkable lack of progress in the overarching narrative. Two books in, and little has actually happened. Jemisin seems more concerned with her characters than the plot, and the big twists of these novels bear that out. In the first novel, we find that the three viewpoint characters were actually the same person. In this novel, we finally figure out who is telling Essun’s story in second person narration… it’s Hoa, the stone eater. This is not quite as interesting as the first book’s revelation (and I’m not entirely sure how Hoa knows enough details to narrate that way), but at least we’re getting somewhere. The various factions of the world (guardians, stone eaters, etc…) are fleshed out a bit more (though still plenty of open questions), as is the magic system, but it all still feels like characterization, worldbuilding, and setup rather than a satisfying story in itself. Not to overuse this bit from Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing, but I can’t help but think that too much of this book is “perpetrating hooptedoodle.” The clouds have been gathering for two novels, but I suspect the finale will be a light rain shower, not the exciting thunderstorm that would normally be expected.

I think I can see the outlines of the endgame. I suspect Essun will be reunited with her daughter… in battle! As Essun tries to save the world by bringing a renegade moon into orbit (thus perhaps permanently quelling the earthquakes that shatter the world so), it looks like Nassun is being manipulated to bring the Moon crashing down on the world, ending everything once and for all. Plus, her feelings towards her mother don’t exactly indicate any desire for reconciliation in the first place. Or something like that. Of course, I could be completely wrong. Jemisin seems to revel in subverting established tropes of storytelling, which sometimes results in an interesting spin on a familiar story (the “revenge” throughline of this series certainly hasn’t gone as expected, for instance), but that sort of thing is difficult to pull off. Sometimes tropes are tropes for a reason. I’m guessing the “battle” I mentioned above won’t be a big action setpiece, but rather a small, intimate battle of wills. Is that enough? On a personal level, I simply haven’t been able to get over the hump, even if it feels like the near unanimous sentiment of fandom is one of ecstatic enthusiasm.

Ultimately, if it weren’t for the Hugo Awards, I wouldn’t have read this, and I have no real interest in finding out if my above speculations will come to pass. Hugo voters doing what they do, though, means that the final book will probably get nominated and thus I’ll feel obligated to give it a shot. Jemisin is a talented writer, but not one that has really struck a chord with me. I’ve now read all of the novels nominated for this year’s Best Novel Hugo. Alas, this one will be bringing up the rear, along with Too Like the Lightning. A peg above those two is All the Birds in the Sky. I keep flipping Death’s End and A Closed and Common Orbit, but either would make a fine #2 or #3 ranking. At the top of the list remains Ninefox Gambit. A pretty good list this year, if a bit heavy on the hooptedoodle.

You will criticize me, reader, for writing this review of Ada Palmer’s Too Like the Lightning in the style that the book itself notes is six hundred years removed from the events it describes (though only two hundred years removed for myself). But it is the style of the Enlightenment and this book tells the story of a world shaped by those ideals.

I must apologize, reader, for I am about to commit the sin of a plot summary, but I beg you to give me your trust for just a few paragraphs longer. There are two main threads to this novel. One concerns a young boy named Bridger who has the ability to make inanimate objects come to life. Being young and having a few wise adult supervisors, he practices these miracles mostly on toys. Such is the way they try to understand his powers while hiding from the authorities, who would surely attempt to exploit the young child ruthlessly.

Looking after Bridger is Thisbe Saneer, a member of prominent bash’ (basically a house containing a family that is less biological or romance than interest-based, though all seem to coexist in this world) that controls the world’s transportation network and Mycroft Canner, who is our erstwhile narrator. He’s also a mass murderer, like a combination of Jigsaw and Hannibal Lecter. He was long ago caught for torturing and murdering an entire bash’ (a crime we’re told, repeatedly, was the worst in centuries), but in this society, most criminals are not sent to prison, but instead are relgated to becoming a “servicer” who wears a uniform and serves at the pleasure of society. With his Hannibal-esqe intelligence, Mycroft is actually highly sought-after by the most powerful people in the world, frequently mixing with rulers and highly-influential businesses. At least, he wants us to believe this is so. It is unclear as yet why Mycroft has such an interesting service regime. Has he been conditioned, Clockwork Orange-style, to be less violent? Or is there something deeper at work here? He’s our narrator, and we should, reader, assume that he’s an unreliable one (even if it’s not entirely clear in this initial volume of the series how this will manifest). Regardless, Mycroft has taken it upon himself to protect Bridger from the world powers in whose orbits he revolves (at least, until Bridger is old enough to fend for himself).

The other plot thread has to do with a stolen a Seven-Ten list (more on that in a moment) that mysteriously shows up at Thisbe’s bash’ house. A crude attempt at a frame-up that is immediately seen for what it is, but investigation is unavoidable. This bash’ is responsible for the world’s transportation network, after all, and if it was so easily broken into, this must be investigated, which, alas, may have the unintended consequence of exposing Bridger.

So Seven-Ten lists. There are things about the worldbuilding that might give pause, but this, reader, is perhaps the most difficult thing to swallow in the book. Each year, a number of publications present listicles in which the worlds most influential people are ranked. For some unfathomable reason, a given leader’s position on these lists can actually have a profound effect on the political, social, and economic order of the entire planet. Surely, these lists are based on some sort of objective, measurable criteria, right? No, dear reader, they are not! Completely subjective, and some appear to be ghost-written by the equivalent of a bright intern who thought it might be fun to shake things up. It is very nearly a bridge too far, reader, enough to almost make this feel like a Buzzfeed-feuled dystopia.

But no, reader, I exaggerate. Listicle worship aside, the rest of this world feels balanced and approachable, if not entirely convincing. Depending on one’s predilections, one could even go the opposite route and see a utopia in the making. On a personal level, I find that unconvincing though. This setting has the ring of tradeoffs. For example, there is a sort of internet that is easily and freely accessed by a device called a “tracker”, which I think you can intuit also provides various surveillance capabilities to authorities. It gives you convenient access to information and travel networks, but at the price of privacy. This isn’t new, reader, it’s just a simple and perhaps even likely extrapolation of current trends. Sure, it’d be a big change for us but after a period of adjustment, we’d probably get along fine. Not utopia fine, but just regular fine, complete with tradeoffs, like we’ve always had to deal with. Other aspects of the worldbuilding are somewhat less successful. Each of the “Hives” have interesting concepts attached, but we don’t really see how they play out and none of those concepts are sufficiently explored. There’s a lot of “telling” without actually “showing”, and all we really get a look at is the “Great Men” of this world.

Is this style starting to get to you, reader? Surely it is my own lack of knowledge and skill that grates, but my experience with the novel’s narration was sometimes strained as well. Science Fiction is infamous for its exposition and info-dumps, and indeed, this device provides an interesting and perhaps more justified approach than most. On the other hand, exposition and info-dumps are still out in full force, and this strategy, while clever, might also have provided a false sense of security for the author. The information that is summarily and frequently dumped on us, reader, is often interesting in its own light, but in context presents certain challenges. Pacing, for example, becomes a genuine problem. It’s difficult to get into the story when you’re constantly being interrupted. This is absolutely intentional, but self-awareness does not necessarily make it less of a flaw.

The information on offer ranges from worldbuilding tidbits to philosophical interludes to sexposition (a sequence that I must admit, reader, fooled me in precisely the way Palmer intended) to character background to Mycroft’s running commentary, a sort of humorless MST3King of the plot as it unfolds. Some of these are vital, others work at first but chafe after a certain point. The Eighteenth Century direct address and prostration for forgiveness bits work fine at the start, but halfway through the book, on the umpteenth occasion that our narrator lectures us on gender pronouns, it grates. Not because of the subject mater, reader, but because of the repetition and dismissive assumptions. I get it, and the gender pronoun contretemps presents some thought provoking ideas that have generated some interesting debate in the fandom. But after the dozenth time the plot is interrupted to rehash that very same idea, I was less willing to go with the device.

I have been calling you reader, but I’m virtually certain you do not frequent my writings. This is not an admonishment, reader! Just context, since you may not have seen a recent pointer to Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing, in which that estimable author perfectly describes my feelings on this book’s stylistic trappings. He calls it “perpetrating hooptedoodle”, and that, dear reader, is what this book is filled with. Also this review, so let it be clear, reader, that I’m not above hooptedoodle. But I’m not nominated for a Hugo award either, and with good reason.

All that being said, there is much boiling under the surface here. As absurd as the Seven-Ten lists are, their superficial nature belies the fragile balance the various world powers have struck. There’s clearly more going on here than the lists, which, indeed, appear to be a red herring and are dealt with in pretty short order. But the investigation of Thisbe’s bash’ does present other problems, and not just for Bridger. I must admit, reader, that this book had nearly lost me before the revelations of its final chapter (a chapter, I should note, that is not narrated by Mycroft, who you must remember is an unreliable narrator). Are those revelations enough to get me to read on? Will the potential be fulfilled? And how, reader, shall I rank this amongst other Hugo finalists?

In order to emphasize the incomplete nature of this story, I was going to try and end this review on a cliffhanger. Perhaps just finish the review mid-sentence, or add a “To be continued in one year…” note. But that would be unfair to you, reader, and to the author as well. It still does beg the question though: Is this like one of those TV series where you have to get through the frustrating first season to get to the good stuff? Or one of those video games where it, like, totally gets better after you put 40 hours into it? I almost certainly wouldn’t read the sequel to this book, with the one caveat that the Hugo Awards tend to revisit series throughout, and this feels like it could be one of those. This is clearly ambitious stuff, and I am curious about some of the open plot threads. The revelations of the ending could certainly lend themselves to a more engaging narrative and let’s not forget some of the logical endpoints of the Enlightenment, such as the Reign of Terror in France. Will this series actually go there? I admit curiosity, but not so much that I’d check it out without nudging from a second Hugo nomination. For all its interesting ideas and ambition, as it stands now, this book would fall somewhere towards the bottom of my current ballot.

The universe is so large that it’s inconceivable that we’d be the only form of intelligent life in existence, but in the words of Physicist Enrico Fermi, “Where is everybody?” If there’s lots of intelligent life out there, some far more advanced than we are, why isn’t there any evidence that they exist? This contradiction between probability and evidence is known as the Fermi Paradox. There are potential explanations, but the implications of the Fermi paradox are often not very comforting and sometimes downright depressing.

In science fiction, first contact stories usually deal with this in some way, at least implicitly (if not explicitly). In The Three-Body Problem, Cixin Liu lays out one reason first contact should be carefully considered. Spoilers for all three novels follow! In that novel, a Chinese scientist, disheartened by her Communist upbringing (during the Culural Revolution, her father is killed, she is persecuted for reading a banned book, other family members joined the Red Guard, etc…) and general cruelty of humans, basically invites a nearby alien race to come and “purify the human race.” The Trisolarans live in an inhospitable star system and the relative comfort of a planet like Earth is attractive to them, so they naturally begin invasion procedures. Interstellar travel being what it is, even for a civilization more advanced than we are, it will take their invasion fleet 400 years to reach earth. To clear the way for the invasion, the Trisolarans send and advance party of Sophons (basically a computer/AI embedded into a single proton in a handwavey but bravura sequence in the book) that will spy on the humans and also halt human scientific research and development by interrupting experiments and giving false results, etc…

The Three-Body Problem won the Hugo award a couple years ago, thanks in part to its absence from Puppy-related slates (and yet, being the type of story that Puppies seem to like). The follow up, The Dark Forest, picks up where the first book left off: Trisolaran fleet on its way, Sophons blocking technological progress, whatever shall humans do? After some speculation on the general impact such events would have on society and politics, the book settles into an examination of a human plan called the Wallfacer project. The UN selects four individuals and provides them with unlimited resources in order to devise a counterattack to the Trisolarans. However, thanks to the surveillance of the Sophons, these four men must keep their true plans secret. The Trisolaran response, carried out by human traitors in an organization called the ETO (Earth-Trisolaris Organization), is to designate four individuals in opposition, the Wallbreakers.

Due to the need to keep these plans secret, they all appear to be rather simplistic and silly on their face. However, as the novel progresses and the Wallbreakers study their opponents, the true nature of the plans come to light. Wallfacer Frederick Tyler, the former US Secretary of Defense, has a public plan to create a fleet of mosquito ships with kamikaze-like pilots that will swarm the attacking fleet and detonate nuclear bombs. His Wallbreaker reveals the true plan, which involves bringing a huge amount of water into space and using it to fuel a massive hydrogen bomb (this plan was never all that clear to me). Wallfacer Rey Diaz, famous for repelling a US invasion of Venezuela, has a similar public plan of creating huge nuclear bombs, but his true plan, to use the nuclear bombs to launch Mercury into the sun, thus destroying the entire system (including Earth), is exposed by his Wallbreaker. While this might have been an effective deterrent, it was revealed too early and the rest of humanity wasn’t too keen on the plan. Wallfacer Bill Hines, a British neuroscientist, wants to use genetic modification to improve the human mind. His true plan is subverted by his Wallbreaker, who is also his wife. Details are a little unclear, but it turns out that the “Mental Seal” device he created actually instills defeatism in its users. Fortunately, the process was never fully adopted.

Finally, there’s the most unlikely Wallfacer, Luo Ji. If this book could be said to have a protagonist, it would be him. He immediately refuses the honor, but his refusal is taken to be part of his plan. Resigned to his fate, he simply adopts a hedonistic lifestyle, finding an isolated home, drinking expensive wine, and using the UN as a dating service to find an attractive woman (who, for some reason, goes along with this?) Eventually, he reveals a public plan to transmit a “spell against the planets of star 187J3X1” into the universe. He says this will take at least one hundred years to work, but he predicts that his spell will be devastating. For their part, the Trisolarans seem the most afraid of Luo Ji, and rather than assign a Wallbreaker, they simply try to assassinate him. Luo Ji escapes barely, and manages to make his way into hibernation.

200 years later, he awakens to a changed world. Environmental degradation has lead to large underground excavations. Despite the Sophon block, technology has increased dramatically, and humanity now sports a fleet of thousands of spaceships. Observations of the Trisolaran fleet show trouble for our enemies, as the size of the fleet dwindles (presumably due to accidents or damage sustained during high speed travel). Humanity seems to regard the Wallfacer program a failure and is now seeking to establish diplomatic talks with the Trisolarans. Despite this, Luo Ji has to dodge a series of assassination attempts after he awakes, so clearly the Trisolarans are still scared of him.

All’s well, right? Well, not so much. The arrival of the first Trisolaran probe results in a devastating attack on humanity’s space capability (dubbed “The Battle of Darkness”). If such a tiny probe is so advanced, humanity has no chance against even a weakened Trisolaran fleet. That is, until Luo Ji’s spell finally takes effect and star 187J3X1 is destroyed. His Wallfacer plan is thus finally revealed, and it relies on one of the more depressing explanations for the Fermi Paradox: While intelligent life may be plentiful in the universe, if you reveal your location, at least one of those civilizations will be both more advanced than you AND be a scary, predatory culture that will only see you as a potential threat. The strategy of such a civilization would be to preemptively strike any developing civilization before it can become a true threat. Luo Ji had sent out a message indicating that it came from star 187J3X1. This message was presumably received by lots of alien civilizations, but it eventually reached a more predatory species who simply destroyed the system. The title of the book comes from a metaphor: The universe is a dark forest where every civilization is a silent hunter. Any civilization that announces itself becomes a target.

Phew, that’s a lot of plot, and believe it or not, I’m greatly simplifying here and leaving lots out. Like its predecessor, this book is stuffed with plot, ideas, and little thought experiments. This makes for interesting reading, and the overarching conflict is tense and exciting, but in execution it does feel a bit scattershot. The concept of the Wallfacer project is great, but it takes a bit too long to get at the hidden plans, and we spend a lot of time with characters who are closed off and focused on seemingly tangential plot points. It turns out that in deceiving the Sophons, the Wallfacers also have to deceive the reader, which is a great idea, but Liu only barely clears that bar, making this an entertaining read, but one that feels like it has a lot of filler. By design and for good reason, but filler nonetheless. That being said, I was surprised that it didn’t manage to make the Hugo ballot last year. Then again, it’s not like I read it back then or nominated it, so I don’t have to look far for an explanation.

So finally we get to Death’s End, the conclusion to Liu’s trilogy and one of the nominees for this year’s Hugo Awards. Naturally, this one starts with a segment set during the Fall of Constantinople. Without spoiling details, it ends millions of years in the future. Inbetween, we get some other approaches to the Trisolaran threat that parallel the Wallfacer project (a timeframe referred to as the “Crisis Era”), such as the Staircase Program (an attempt to send a lone human emissary to meet the Trisolaran fleet). We eventually get to the “Deterrence Era” in which Luo Ji is known as the Swordholder and deters the Trisolarans with mutually-assured destruction. But Luo Ji is getting old and must be replaced. His replacement is Cheng Xin, who worked on the Staircase project. Unfortunately, at the moment of transition, the Trisolarans immediately attack (using their probes and Sophons, etc…) and it’s revealed that a new invasion fleet, capable of light speed, has set out from Trisolaris and will arrive in 4 years. Cheng Xin does not initiate the Dark Forest broadcast (because that would kill both civilizations) and the Trisolarans start colonization procedures, allowing humanity to collect itself in Australia (while the Trisolarans will take the rest of the planet). When the full implications of this emerge (the Trisolarans expect only about 50 million humans to survive), humanity gets all uppity and ends up broadcasting the location of Trisolaris into the Dark Forest, resulting in its quick destruction. It’s only a matter of time before that same scary, predatory race intuits Earth as the origin of these broadcasts, so the Trisolaris fleet changes directions and flees into the galaxy. Humanity works on ways to counter the predatory race, either by hiding from it, escaping to interstellar space, or a few other tricks. Will they succeed?

Once again, what we have here is a novel that is overstuffed with ideas and thought experiments. Liu has a knack for naming things to evoke archetypal characteristics. Wallfacer/Wallbreaker, Staircase, Swordholder, and even the various Eras referred to throughout (Broadcast Era, Bunker Era, etc…); all of these lend a certain feeling of universality and scope that make this seem classical and enduring. High ambition, high stakes (that are actually earned), and a willingness to confront uncomfortable ideas and take them to their frightening but logical conclusions. I won’t spoil the ending, but it’s bittersweet at best, and existentially terrifying at worst. There’s a reason that Fermi Paradox folks like to say “No news is good news” and this novel nails why that statement works.

Those ideas that evoke the fabled SF goal of Sense of Wonder are what make these books work. The more sociological and philosophical aspects of the story are a little less focused and successful, leading to some inconsistency in terms of characters and pacing that perhaps make the series too long and pull the books down a peg or two. I suspect some things are lost in translation here, but this is not meant as a slight on Ken Liu (who translated the first and third books in the series), just an acknowledgement that translations naturally produce, for example, awkward dialog and pacing. I’ll put this on me too, as reading a book from another culture always presents challenges that I’ll readily admit I’m not always equal to. However, most of my complaints are far outweighed by what this series gets right, and this will rank high on my Hugo ballot, though I don’t know that it will unseat my current frontrunner (which remains Ninefox Gambit). This isn’t quite the diamond-hard SF of Greg Egan or Peter Watts, but it’s fully in the tradition of “literature of ideas” and even if some of those ideas don’t land for me, it’s definitely my kinda SF.