| An intergalactic war endangers a mixed-species couple; beings born of fire dance across the earth; an extraterrestrial fungus might spell the end of humanity; and New York becomes a city of water. IT'S an ancient story: Two galaxy-spanning civilizations, alike in dignity, have been embroiled in a proxy war for centuries. With multiple factions happily profiteering from the conflict, the appearance of star-crossed lovers - who inherently symbolize peace - represents a dire threat. The audacity of the "Saga" series of graphic novels, written by Brian K. Vaughan and illustrated by Fiona Staples, lies first in its allegorical examination of who fears "miscegenation" and why, and second in its defiance of the usual conventions. Here, the doomed lovers behold the forces arrayed against them and basically declare, "Not today, you don't." This saga is of their survival. By the latest installment, saga, volume 7 (image Comics, paper, $14.99), readers are thoroughly invested in the fate-defying epic of winged Alana, horned Marko and their daughter, Hazel (who is bi-species, both winged and horned), as well as their extended family: the ax-wielding grandma Klara, the spectral babysitter Izabel and an unstable orbit of allies and enemies. Readers should also be used to Vaughan's tendency to dispatch beloved characters with unexpected and often brutal deaths. Good thing, because Volume 7 continues the tradition in heartbreaking fashion. This highlights a growing problem, however: As the family's tribulations proceed with no discernible arc or endpoint, the hovering question of who will die next provides the only real tension. Fortunately, Staples's dynamic visuals more than make up for this stagnancy. Hers is a universe of vivid colors and stark imagery, whose nonhuman characters resonate humanity. Some of this comes from the refreshing bodily complexity in every frame: fat women's folds, dark skin rendered through more than just brown tint, gay men who aren't toned or young or white, trans women whose identity is signaled by horns rather than jawlines and genitals. What makes it work is that Staples applies the same detail to the distinctly fantastic. Talking cats wrinkle with worry-lines; angry giants brandish big cudgels and small penises. Vaughan's incredible universe is made credible through Staples's realism. This story ranks among the most creative, original examples of contemporary fantasy. Start at the beginning with Volume 1, and brace yourself for a wild ride. in the quran, Allah creates human beings from clay and (in a parallel genesis) djinn from fire. Therefore - as the editors Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin suggest in their introduction to a new anthology of djinn-themed short fiction, THE DJINN FALLS IN LOVE: And Other Stories (Solaris, paper, $15.99) - djinn reflect humankind not just as mirror-images but almost as a sibling species: "We may stem from different materials," they write, "but in all the ways that matter we are very much the same." As humans sit around a campfire, pondering their foibles and aspirations amid the dancing of numinous flames and shadows, we may be catching "a look into the other world; a glimpse into beings who are like us and not us, made of a smokeless fire that can consume us." These then are not Disneyfied tales of wish-granting tricksters, but stories of people burning like djinn and djinn as fiery people. The collection ranges widely in style and perspective, making room for the title poem by the Egyptian writer Hermes (translated from Arabic by Robin Moger) as well as poetic prose by the Canadian writer Amal El-Mohtar and a distinctly feminist take on wizards and harem intrigue by the British fantasy writer Claire North. Several stories are set painfully in the present, like Sami Shah's "Reap," which involves an American Air Force officer conducting remote surveillance in Pakistan. Others find parallels in secondary worlds, as in K. J. Parker's "Message in a Bottle." In a nod to the dance of djinn through different cultures, the editors retain the creatures' various translated names: jinn, genie, ifrit and more. This choice highlights the collection's range. Nearly all of the stories are haunting, reflective and firelight-beautiful, but there are standouts. Jamal Mahjoub's "Duende 2077" is the most explicitly rebellious simply for its premise, which posits a futuristic Caliphate after the fall of Christian/Western hegemony. Nnedi Okorafor's "History" is gloriously gonzo, following an Ibo-trained African-American sorceress as she gives the performance of her career to an audience of literal gods. And Neil Gaiman's "Somewhere in America," excerpted from "American Gods," comes closest to reflecting the collection's theme. In this tale, a painfully lonely foreign businessman, adrift in a frightening land called New York, finds comfort and possible freedom in the arms of a taxi-driving ifrit. Exquisite and audacious, and highly recommended. caitlÍn R. kiernan has long been hailed as one of the pre-eminent authors of weird fiction, and her new novella, AGENTS OF DREAMLAND (Tom Doherty, paper, $11.99), shows why. In this recursive, Lovecraft-inflected police procedural, two agents of the shadowy government group Y pursue the cult leader Drew Standish, whose activities seem to herald a Jonestown-like mass murder. But far more important than whether the killing can be stopped is whether it's already too late, since the manhunt coincides with the appearance of a deadly extraterrestrial fungus. The clock is ticking, the Elder Beings have been invoked and possible futures have begun to solidify in ways that spell the end of humanity. Despite the apocalyptic narrative, this is a character study, focusing on the two agents and layering exposition over their respective quirks. Immacolata Sexton is as intriguing as her name; she sees the future, might not be quite human and happily uses her prescience to intimidate rivals and colleagues. The Signalman initially seems more conventional, yet he struggles against PTSD and fear of infection caused by an encounter with the grotesque fungus. This ultimately makes him more engaging than the flamboyant Immacolata or even the ostensibly charismatic Standish. Kiernan's writing - starkly visual, tongue in cheek and disturbingly visceral - carries the day as the story churns toward its uneasy conclusion. And since the door is left open for future stories (and other futures) featuring Immacolata and the Signalman, let's hope Kiernan will delve further into their adventures. it is altogether peculiar to immerse oneself in a story of New York written by a near-lifelong Californian. Then again, Kim Stanley Robinson's new York 2140 (Orbit, $28) is a novel of contradictions. It explores capitalism but addresses class strife only obliquely; it makes predictions for Harlem and the South Bronx yet relegates racial and ethnic dynamics to the background; and in an age when local real estate agents already toss around terms like "Anthropocene" and "flood zone" over brunch, its audacious futurism arrives feeling a bit obsolete. Still, New York is among other things a city of immigrants, as Robinson recognizes, so it's only appropriate that an outsider should be the one to bring fresh perspective to its streets. Or its canals, I should say: In Robinson's post-icecaps future, Lower Manhattan has become the Venice of North America, with subways exchanged for bridges between buildings and business suits exchanged for drysuits. There are several plots here, the most intriguing of which follows an investigation into two missing computer scientists, and there are memorable characters as well. Make no mistake, though: The main character is the transformed New York, and Robinson gets it more right than wrong. The novel deftly conveys its unnerving strangeness through interludes and asides: "New York, New York, it's a hell of a bay" does have the ring of a culture adapting itself. (It's also the quintessential outsider's touch, since it riffs on a 1940s-era Broadway musical. Romanticizing the past and predicting the future while eliding the present: This is what tourists do.) Yet it is refreshing to see a futurism that acknowledges the innate resilience of the city and, by inference, of humanity itself. Amid this, many liberties can be forgiven. These streets will still make you feel brand new, Robinson suggests, even in a future when they're soaking wet. ? n.k. jemisin won a 2016 Hugo Award for her novel "The Fifth Season." Her latest book is its sequel, "The Obelisk Gate." Her column on Sciencefiction and fantasy appears six times a year. |
