Bin it to Win it

This summer, a man claiming to be a 5,900-year-old alien warlord from the planet Sigma IX will contest a byelection in the British seaside town of Clacton-on-Sea on August 13.

The performance is among the most ludicrous works of science fiction of 2026, and could end up being the one with the most real-world impact. It should be recognized by the Hugo Awards.

When one BINdividual citizen stands up for what
he believes in, it can be BINspiring.
(Image via CountBinface.com)

The warlord candidate Jonathan David Harvey has been contesting elections in the United Kingdom for about a decade. Dressed in a silver-and-black spacesuit costume with a garbage can helmet, he goes by the name “Count Binface,” and due to a quirk of British electoral law is allowed to appear on the ballot as such.

In public appearances, and on his campaign website, Harvey disappears into the character of Binface. In the guise of the alien, he claims to have travelled to Earth from another galaxy where he leads a race called the Recyclons. In terms of policy, he proposes to nationalize model railways, and to build “at least one affordable house,” a joke which counterpoints the inadequacy of housing policies from the major political parties.

A veteran of such television writing rooms as Time Trumpet and The Thick of It, Harvey is quick with his verbal repartee. In interviews on BBC, Sky News, The Sun, and other outlets, Harvey flummoxes reporters who aren’t prepared or don’t take him seriously enough. Harvey’s commitment to the Binface persona is almost sublime. Every bit of the character is more bonkers than the next, from the slightly nasal voice to the costume that evokes a funhouse mirror reflection of various clichéd outer-space villains from SFF (everything from Count Zarth Arn to the Cylons). There’s something Dadaist in the way Binface rejects the standard presentation of political candidacy in favor of something based in nonsense, chaos, and the absurd.

Harvey’s performance as the Binface persona has been a good joke for almost a decade. What elevates it in 2026 to something worthy of awards is the context of this summer’s Clacton-on-Sea byelection. This is not a normal political moment. Binface may be the only one standing in the way of an easy re-election for alt-right demagogue Nigel Farage.

For those unfamiliar with the situation, Farage resigned as the Member of Parliament for Clacton-on-Sea while also announcing that he was immediately running again in the resulting byelection. It’s a political ploy, obviously intended as a distraction from Farage’s ongoing financial scandals. 

Leader of the Reform Party Nigel Farage is a
horrid toad-faced muppet whose racist
policies will make the United Kingdom poorer.
(Image via Reuters)

Every single opposing political party declined to participate in the byelection shenanigans. Consequently, there will be no candidate for the centrist Labour Party, no candidate for the even more centrist Liberal Democrats, no candidate for the slightly unhinged Conservatives, no candidate for the completely unhinged Restore Britain Party. Not even a candidate for the “hypnotherapy can make your breast size grow” Green Party.

That means Binface is the only candidate for voters who do not like Farage’s anti-immigrant rants, his dodgy financial dealings, his history of homophobic comments, or his Nazi salutes.

Although it’s still a long-shot, polling shows there’s a chance Binface might win. He is, pretty clearly, the better candidate.

The Hugo Awards have never shied away from recognizing non-standard works of science fiction, or science fiction-adjacent projects — especially when those works align with the political values of WSFS membership. In 1970, news coverage of Apollo 11 won an award for Best Dramatic Presentation. In 1993, a set of United States Postal Service stamps won a Hugo Award for best artwork. In 2020, an acceptance speech denouncing fascism within the genre won an award for Related Work. Count Binface’s campaign in the Clacton-on-Sea byelection would fit firmly into this tradition.

As the iconic left-wing magazine The New Statesman (a magazine founded by H.G. Wells) puts it: Britain must now unite behind Count Binface. This is a science fictional battle against fascism that the Hugo Awards should celebrate. It just might be the most important work of science fiction in the political arena this year.

The Country is a Foreign Past (Nationhood through the Lens of Alternate History)

National identity is the result of a personal and unstable alchemical mixing of history, myth, social conditioning, and imagined landscape. This is not some fixed point, but rather a disputed, illusory, and ever mutable interpretation of one’s relationship with the country they live in.

Some people have a devotion to their country that can only be described as religious, as their beliefs seem immune to evidence-based critique. Others treat their national identity with a dismissiveness that implies tertiary importance.

Alternate history narratives can offer a useful platform from which to interrogate national identity, to play with the facts that created the myths. Rewriting pivotal events can expose how the events that shape national narratives are contingent, rather than the inevitabilities that are sometimes re-storied by proud nationalists.

Historian Robert Sobel's only
work of fiction earned him
a special Sidewise Award
(image via Goodreads)

This is perhaps why so much alternate history focuses on nations with particularly strong senses of historical mythology and of national destiny. The idea that George Washington might have been a mediocre general who got lucky — as suggested by Robert Sobel in his classic novel For Want of a Nail — might seem heretical to many Americans. In contrast, depicting foundational Canadian figure Sir John Alexander Macdonald as an inept and racist drunk would be greeted by most Canadians with a shrug.

The American myth is deeply ingrained, inculcated in generations of students, and often unquestioned by a majority of its disciples — which may explain why so many of the country’s political biopics (Sunrise at Campobello, Young Washington, Reagan, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, etc.) are hagiographies. In Canada, fervent patriotism is more likely to be met with bemusement.

The historicity of a national identity is dubious at best. There’s little truth to stories about about George Washington chopping down a cherry tree, Queen Victoria saying ‘we are not amused,’ or Kim Jong Il composing three operas on his third birthday… but in each of their respective countries those stories are treated as fact and valued by major portions of the population.

Alternate history has often been criticized for repeated focus on specific historical events such as the American Civil War, the American Revolution, the Space Race. It’s not lost on us that these are events that contribute significantly to the myths of countries that have a very strong senses of national consciousness.

In particular, the Second World War has a special place in English-language alternate history because the war was so important to the national identities of its victorious nations. Some of the best such alternate histories undermine the Manichean story that is spun about the conflict. Presenting a plausible counterfactual can provide a useful estrangement from patriotism fables that depict the victorious nations as incorruptibly heroic. As an example, Harry Turtledove’s Southern Victory series challenges the 
assumption that the American experiment could never lead to genocidal death camps, and implicitly argues that it was always extremely possible. This is a discomforting thought, one that is viscerally rejected by proponents of a mythologized “patriotic” version of American history. 

Alternate history about the Second World War has
often been criticized as being fiction for Nazi fetishists.
The best such fiction doesn’t ask “what if the Nazis won,”
but rather asks a far more discomforting question:
“what if fascism was always present in
some part of my own national myth.” 
(Image via AlternateHistory.com)

By the same token, Jo Walton’s alternate history novel Farthing upends British national myths about the country’s implacability and unwillingness to collaborate with fascism. While the “patriotic” myth is that there was a fundamental difference between the English national character and that of the French, Walton offers a compelling case that the country might easily have had its own Vichy regime led by its own quislings. Similarly, Keith Roberts’ 1972 short story “Weihnachtsabend” carefully subverts Britain’s myth of inevitable resistance by imagining the country’s elite pro-nazi cadre taking control of the country.

It should not be lost on anyone that when Sinclair Lewis wrote what is possibly the first alternate history depicting a Nazi victory in the United States, he titled the book It Can’t Happen Here. The work, in which a politician named Buzz Windrip topples American democracy, directly challenges the complacency of patriotism.

James Alistair Henry's Pagans turns this lens on Britain’s oldest national myths. By imagining an England where the Norman Conquest never happened (although that's not the point of divergence from our history), Henry dismantles comforting stories of inevitable Britishness, revealing identity as an unstable negotiation between competing cultures, religions, and languages rather than a single, triumphant historical destiny. It is easy to see reflections on the decade of post-Brexit malaise in the book’s subversion of narratives that the country would be inherently prosperous and unified. There are uncomfortable parallels between the violent Saxon supremacists depicted in Pagans, and much of the recent politics of Great Britain.

Alternate history is extremely popular in Canada, and probably sells better per capita here than it does across the border in the South. But much of our best-known and top-selling authors publish works about points of divergence pertaining to United States history. Former Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield wrote two compelling spy novels set in an alternate history of the NASA space program, while Hugo-winning Canadian novelist Robert J. Sawyer’s contributions to the alternate history genre tackle the Manhattan project. Canadian novelist Shannon Selin’s underrated Napoleon in America plays with the history of both the United States and France -- countries that seem to have a stronger sense of national identity than their home country. There is likely a direct relationship between divergent tension and marketability.

For many decades, there have been those in 
the United Kingdom who believed that their
country could never be gullible enough to be
swindled by a fascist conman. Believing such
comforting lies might make a nation more vulnerable.
(Image via Times.co.uk)

There is, of course, an enormous value in the cognitive estrangement that counterfactuals can provide when they’re well researched and meticulously constructed. The underlying subtext is that events are contingent, chaotic, that nothing is inevitable. This is an idea in direct opposition to a fascistic idea of a national destiny.

By contrasting fictional histories with documented experience, alternate history encourages readers to question patriotic certainties and recognize national identity as a dynamic, constructed process rather than a fixed inheritance. It also forces them to consider that the privileged position of some nations might not have occurred due to divine guidance, but rather the happenstance of historical accident. Such critical reflection is rarely a bad thing, even — or perhaps especially — on national holidays.

Half Broken But Fully Awesome

Set in a world devastated by war, plague, and pestilence, Suzanne Palmer’s new novel Ode To The Half Broken is the story of a solitary robot with a dark past who has hidden itself away from the woes of the world, living in a small shack and studying the lives of insects. In the opening chapters, the robot (who has no name) is knocked out of their routine due to an attack by bandits and is forced to go on the road to recover their missing leg.

Palmer — who made a name for herself with Hugo-winning novelettes about robots The Secret Lives of Bots and Bots of the Lost Ark — tells the robot’s story in a fairly breezy cadence, interspersing road trip-style chapters with flashbacks to the scientists who built the robot (and who are in part responsible for global devastation). It’s an engaging and enjoyable read that could be described as Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven by way of Clifford D. Simak’s 1952 novel City.

The road-trip format of the novel provides an effective tool to explore various facets of how society has collapsed. From train trips through plague towns, to cities ruined by environmental disasters, to survivor settlements eking out an existence. Palmer paints a portrait of a world that (other than the existence of sentient robots) feels all too possible. It’s a world that, like the protagonist in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, fell apart slowly and then all at once. Environmental collapse prompted small international conflicts, which disrupted the food supply, which led to civil wars. Each piece of this domino chain feels possible. There is, however, a bit of American-centric myopia with the worldbuilding. Even in a world where the United States no longer exists, most relevant events seem to take place within the boundaries of what used to be that country. This is, however, a minor quibble that would likely only bother readers outside the United States.

What elevates Ode To The Half Broken are the characters. Though the story is mostly from the perspective of the unnamed robot, the book is littered with fun supporting characters including a gruff uplifted dog who goes by the name of Atticus, and an inquisitive human mechanic named Murph. There’s a hopeful undertone throughout the book; that although the world may have been broken, something worthwhile is still worth striving towards if the survivors can work together. A lot of attention is paid to the social mores of a world in which robots, uplifted animals, and a smattering of humans coexist uneasily with each other. The etiquette depicted for robot-human interactions is clearly based on real-world situations, but Palmer has provided interesting nuances. This is a thoughtful look about how beings who sense, experience, and interpret the world very differently might relate to each other.

There are occasional leans on a sort of technobabble, in which various characters provide unconvincing explanations about things like software architecture and chip design being the precursor to robots developing consciousness and free will. While this old-school vibe might appeal to some readers, it can knock others out of the narrative. Thankfully, these segments become less frequent as the novel progresses.

Books about post-apocalyptic robots questioning their purposes are having a moment. As we have previously observed it’s understandable why such narratives might appeal. These works have ranged from the despairing Sea of Rust, to the hopeful Monk and Robot. Much like its title suggests, Ode To The Half Broken falls somewhere right about halfway along that spectrum of hope to despair. This a very fine addition to the growing subgenre, and one we recommend highly.

The Do-Nothing Machine Wakes

Over the past few years, there has been a spate of novels focused on the fate of robots who have been left behind after a cataclysm has mostly wiped out humanity. Examples include C. Robert Cargill’s western Sea of Rust, Charles Stross’ adventure yarns Saturn’s Children and Neptune’s Brood, and Adrian Tchaikovksy’s comedic romp Service Model.

This is not an entirely new premise — one only needs to look back at Clifford D. Simak’s City or “Who Can Replace a Man?” by Brian Aldiss to find an earlier example — but it does seem to us that it has become more prevalent of late. Moreover, such stories seem to have become more melancholic.

Although critics question Graeber's
findings, it's clear that his book
resonated with many readers. 
(Image via Wikipedia)

We have a theory why.

The post-apocalyptic robot story offers a reflection on technological advancement’s latest separation of the worker from meaningful labour in their employment. At a time when many in North America perceive that Large Language Models and generative AI are undermining the creative industries and even workplace creativity itself, perhaps these stories resonate more. It is reminiscent of the deindustrialization of high income countries and the resulting rising in inequality of the 1970s and 1980s and how that shift created an audience ready for what cyberpunk offered.

For decades, the robot in most science fiction stories was depicted as being purpose-built to serve humanity. Notwithstanding the problematic nature of treating sentient beings as servile and free of rights, Asmiov’s robots found meaning and satisfaction in their work. In the post-apocalyptic robot story, the work continues but the meaning and the satisfaction of their labours are gone. There is no liberating aspect to humanity’s absence; the protagonists are faced with a continuation of systems that have lost their reason for existing.

If the Asimovian robot story is a metaphor for workers in a standard employment relationship, then perhaps the post-apocalyptic robot story holds up a mirror to what David Graeber describes in his book Bullshit Jobs: A Theory.

Graeber defined a bullshit job as “A form of paid employment that is so completely pointless, unnecessary, or pernicious that even the employee cannot justify its existence.” To be clear, he didn’t mean unpleasant or low-paid jobs (Garbage collection isn’t high-paying, and it is not a task anyone does for fun, but nobody would question whether or not it’s necessary, it is therefore not “bullshit”). The issue is not whether a job is enjoyable or even prestigious, but whether it serves a purpose that produces a sense of meaning and accomplishment for the employee. Examples he gives of “bullshit jobs” are employees who create paperwork or reports to give the appearance that something useful is happening, or managers whose primary purpose is supervising people who do not require supervision. Jobs that have become less relevant due to changing technology or societal value or priority shifts. In essence gains of productivity in the past few decades, Graeber argues, have not led to increased free time, but more hours spent on tasks that provide no value.

Charles Stross has indicated
that his post-human robot
novel Neptune's Brood was 
influenced by David Graeber's
Debt: The First 5,000 years.
(Image via Goodreads)

Much like workers experiencing “bullshit jobs,” robots in these post-apocalyptic stories are trapped by their place within a hierarchy of labour. Their programming, social conditioning, or deeply ingrained understanding of themselves compels them to continue performing tasks long after those tasks have ceased to matter. Uncharles, the valet robot protagonist of Tchaikovsky's Service Model, navigates an absurd bureaucracy that no longer serves any living citizen. The robots of Saturn’s Children inherit human conflicts and hierarchies despite the disappearance of the species that created them. It’s worth noting that this year’s Hugo-finalist novel by Nnedi Okorafor, Death of the Author, features a novel-within-a-novel called Rusted Robots which takes a particularly interesting angle on these themes. Rusted Robots seems to play with the way modern AI is undermining the meaningfulness of creative pursuits.

One counterpoint to these stories is Becky Chambers’ Monk and Robot trilogy of novellas. The robots in these stories do not continue performing meaningless labour after humanity. Instead, when they achieve sentience, they simply stop. There is something somewhat radical in Chambers’ work because of protagonist Splendid Speckled Mosscap’s rejection of bullshit work. In fact, the refusal to define themselves through that work is what Chambers depicts as the great act of liberation.

There is a subtext in the post-apocalyptic robot novel that the worst parts of capitalism — alienation of the worker from their labour, power imbalances, hierarchy — will survive the extinction of humanity. The purpose may end, but the labour will carry on.

A Year Of Solid Bangers (Hugo Cinema 1992)

This blog post is the thirty-fifth in a series examining past winners of the Best Dramatic Presentation Hugo Award. An introductory blog post is here.

It was the 50th World Science Fiction Convention, and to celebrate this milestone, the Hugo rocket was electroplated gold for the first and only time. In Hall A of the Orange County Convention Centre, air conditioning struggled to keep up with the muggy humidity outside.

A member of the production team
for Terminator 2 was on hand
in Orlando to accept the award.
Despite our best efforts, we have
not been able to identify him.
(Image via Fanac.org)

Overall, the 1992 Worldcon was an enormous success. The Hugo Awards, however, were a somewhat chaotic affair. The ceremony was marked by a slide presentation that omitted some (but not all) of the best artist finalists, some finalists who were remembered had their names mispronounced, and an entire category was almost forgotten altogether. Oh, and the fanzine Hugo was initially presented to the wrong finalist following a mix-up.

To quote Evelyn Leeper’s contemporaneous account, “What a fuck-up!”

None of the Hugo Award shenanigans, however, overshadow the fact that the Best Dramatic Presentation category had provided WSFS members with a list of solid bangers to choose from. It’s rare that we say this but the short list that year did a very good job of representing the breadth and scope of North American SFF cinema.

There isn’t even a real weak link on the shortlist.

The movie that came last in the final WSFS vote was the supernatural dark comedy The Addams Family, a visually lush adaptation of the 1960s television series of the same name … that was itself adapted from the one-panel comics of Charles Addams. The plot is slight, being primarily an excuse to string a series of quick jokes together. But thanks to the incredible charisma of Raul Julia, the sly charm of Angelica Houston, and an outstanding performance from a young Christina Ricci, it’s 99 minutes of breezy fun. Although Variety and The Hollywood Reporter were less than charitable in their assessment of the movie, Sight and Sound’s review suggested “The film works as a celebration of unconventional togetherness thanks mainly to a collection of casting coups.” While none of us would have voted for it to win the Hugo, we all felt it was worthy of being on the ballot.

Based on a comic book series by Dave Stevens and directed by Joe Johnson (who would later direct Captain America), The Rocketeer was a box-office disappointment in 1991 but developed a cult following in the years that followed. The film centres around aviation stunt man Cliff Secord (Billy Campbell), who discovers a prototype jetpack and then has to use it to fight off Nazis that have infiltrated Hollywood in the 1930s. It’s a stylish piece of work made with evident love for the source material. The old-school filmmaking and general-audiences sensibilities of the production only help accentuate the era-appropriateness of this love-letter to classic Hollywood movies — there’s even a reference to Rondo Hatton in the movie! Most of our viewing group enjoyed the movie and were happy to see it on the ballot. Although Timothy Dalton is endlessly entertaining as a villainous actor in league with the Nazis, much of the rest of the cast is fairly tepid, particularly leading man Billy Campbell. In a mixed review in the Los Angeles Times, Kenneth Turan mocked Campbell as the bland leading the bland, but allowed that ”this film is so dogged, so insistent, so relentlessly earnest in its one-dimensionality that no option but partial surrender to such charms as it has seems possible.”

Every Hugo-finalist movie had a
contemporaneous video game adaptation.
There was Belle’s Quest on the Sega Genesis,
The Rocketeer on the NES, The Addams Family
on the Game Boy, Star Trek 25th Anniversary
on the PC, and a half dozen Terminator 2
games on various consoles.

For at least two members of our cinema club, Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country remains the high-water mark for the entire cinematic franchise. It was the last movie featuring the entire original Star Trek cast, and they went out on a high note. Written and directed by Nicholas Meyer (who’d previously directed one of the other great Star Trek movies The Wrath of Khan) Undiscovered Country engaged with real-world politics and commented on the collapse of the Soviet Union by way of analogous events that transpired in the Klingon Empire. All seven original series cast members — William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, Deforest Kelly, Walter Konig, George Takei, Nichelle Nichols, and James Doohan — are given solid character moments. Moreover, it’s one of the few Star Trek movies that doesn’t just posit that a utopian future is possible, but highlights the emotional labour involved in the soul searching and growth that humanity needs to work through in order to get there. Some of our crew wished it could have won a Hugo Award, but knew that in the context of what else was on the ballot in 1992, it just couldn’t.

Even the seemingly odd one out earned its place on the short list. The Disney renaissance was picking up speed in 1991, with their iconic production of Beauty and the Beast becoming the first animated movie to gross more than $100 million at the box office. Praised for its blend of traditional animation and computer graphics, it was also the first full-length animated contender for the Academy Award for Best Picture, and still holds the record for the most Oscar nominations for an animated movie. On top of all of this, the characters are engaging, the songs remain memorable, and the female protagonist has a little bit more agency than most other princess movies of this era. This film may be part of the princess-heteronormativity bootcamp, but it’s fairly innocuous in comparison with other films of this period.

It would be difficult to question the wisdom of Hugo voters in recognizing James Cameron’s Terminator 2. The movie sits comfortably high up on lists of the greatest science fiction movies of all time, given its cineplex-dominating, half-billion gross at the box office, given its multiple Academy Award wins, and given its groundbreaking digital effects. Moreover, on rewatching it, it’s surprising how modern the movie feels, even after more than three decades. More surprising in retrospect is that despite content that seems tame by the standards of 2026, organizations such as National Coalition Against Television Violence held pickets outside cinemas because they considered Terminator 2 too violent.

The design work and animation put
into the Beast character is impressive.
(Image via IMDB.com)

The plot is straightforward: there’s an evil robot (Robert Patrick) who’s trying to kill John Connor (Edward Furlong) and a good robot (Arnold Schwarzenegger) who’s trying to save him. Through 120 minutes, they fight and have chase scenes. But despite the simplicity of the plot, the writers don’t get lazy — none of the characters behave like idiots for the sake of increasing the tension. It’s taught, but internally consistent.

Although the digital effects for the liquid metal Terminator were the headline grabbers, a lot of low-tech old-school effects are used on the movie so seamlessly that they almost go without notice. Although he’s now mostly known as a director, James Cameron launched his career on the special effects side of the low-budget Roger Corman movie factory so he knew how to make a dollar stretch.

There are also a few works off the Hugo list that were distributed internationally and among independent cinema that merit discussion, such as Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s post-apocalyptic dark comedy Delicatessen, and the odd webstreamed movie Discovery of Television Among the Bees. But even these would have been unlikely to have made our shortlist in 1992.

James Cameron is one of the most Hugo-award-shortlisted directors, and Terminator 2 is arguably his masterpiece. In 1992, the Hugo Awards could not have done better on either the shortlist or the winner.

The Bleak Prospect of Survival of the Richest

It’s unsurprising that Children of Time remains Adrian Tchaikovsky's best-known science fiction novel. It has sweeping ideas, a unique perspective on the future, and a well of empathy. It’s a Clarke Award-winning space opera about a dying earth, hyperevolved jumping spiders, and cross-species communication. It’s an impressive feat of worldbuilding -- and of exploring alternate cognitions.

Children of Strife, the fourth
of Adrian Tchaikovsky's
Children of Time books.
(Image via goodreads)

The novel has two strong follow ups: Children of Ruin in 2019 and Children of Memory in 2022. Subsequently, the series was honoured at the 81st World Science Fiction Convention with a Hugo Award for Best Series. Unfortunately, due to the numerous much-publicized issues with that year’s Hugo Awards, many in the SFF community — including Tchaikovsky himself — consider any award from that year to be tarnished.

The Hugo Award for Best Series cannot be awarded twice to the same series. Having won in 2023, Children of Time is not eligible in 2027, which is a shame because the recently-published Children of Strife makes the best case yet for why these novels deserve recognition as a series that is greater than the sum of its parts.,

Set over the course of millennia, the first book follows terraforming scientist Avrana Kern, the civilization of spiders that evolves on the world she’s working to create, and a band of refugee humans fleeing a collapsing Earth millennia after Kern’s project started.

Each of the sequels centres on a crew of Humans and Spiders visiting long-lost terraforming projects. With Children of Ruin, we were introduced to sentient octopuses, and Children of Memory brought us the delightful Gethy and Gothly, a pair of Ravens who share one cooperative consciousness.

What connects the books in this series isn’t tied to a shared set of characters — or some grand galactic plot arc — but rather an intellectual playfulness and positivity in imagining how a variety of sophonts might understand the world around them.

This latest book, however, mirrors the original Children of Time more closely than the other two; and in doing so offers a dark reflection on the ideas that Tchaikovsky was exploring. Children of Strife depicts a terraforming project led not by the government-funded Avrana Kern, but by her rival Gerey Hartmand — an Elon Musk-type figure who self-finances his own, self-selected experiments.

While Kern’s World evolves species who learn to cooperate, the arch-capitalist Hartmand and his four allies are focused on a reductive survival-of-the-fittest approach to their project, with a hierarchical governance model. To describe the world that Hartmand creates as “flawed” might be an understatement. When Earth collapses some millennia later, one of the ships of refugees is sent to Hartmand’s World.

Hartmand’s cadre of flunkies: Sui Dorcheson, Ken Pill, Redina Kott, and Milner, all seem to embody different aspects of real-world tech-bro disconnection from reality. The god-complex of Hartmand, the pharmaceutical haze of Pill, the nihilism of Kott. Over the course of the book, they each represent different ways in which reductive understandings of evolution can lead to terrible outcomes.

The pugilistic nature of the Mantis Shrimp
(aka Stomatopod) makes for an interesting
protagonist in Children of Strife.
(Image by Roy Caldwell via UC Berkley)

These corporatist terraformers embody a grim reflection of the idealistic experiment begun by Avrana Kern in Children of Time. Kern’s project sought to guide evolution toward intelligence, motivated by a flawed but sincere vision of uplifting life. The terraformers in Children of Strife, by contrast, pursue profit and control, reshaping worlds with little regard for ecological balance or emergent societies. Where Kern hoped to steward a new civilization, the corporatists reduce planets to personal playgrounds. There’s some unsubtle subtext about how our modern plutocrat class dreams of being worshiped as gods while people are sacrificed for their entertainment.

As with every previous book in the series, Tchaikovsky explores the ethology and cognition of a real-world species. For Children of Strife, this is Kato, an obstreperous space captain descended from stomatopods (sometimes referred to as “mantis shrimp”). As always, this is an interesting aspect of the book, although Kato is more difficult and more inhuman in perspective than many of the previous protagonists in the series.

Children of Time remains a modern classic of space opera; a best-selling book replete with engaging ideas that continue to resonate with audiences a decade after its publication. Children of Strife elevates the series by having something new to say about the failures of reductionist adaptationism as a view of evolution — and how that is reflected in failures of societies governed by capitalist competition and hierarchy.

It is now easier to see these books as a series, rather than one great book with enjoyable-enough sequels. If it were eligible for the Hugo for Best Series in 2027, we would vote for it. Children of Time books will forever live in a liminal space of having sort-of won the Hugo for Best Series, but never bear the words “Hugo-winning series” on their covers.

Children of Strife is the best — and most ambitious — sequel yet to Children of Time, in part because Tchaikovsky has the courage to subvert the optimism and hope underpinning the first novel.

Death of the Algorithm

Over the past decade, Nnedi Okorafor has earned a reputation for challenging and culturally nuanced works of science fiction. Along the way, she’s been shortlisted for five Hugo Awards and won two, earned two Lodestars, and taken home a Nebula trophy. With Death of the Author, she has penned her most ambitious work yet.

Cover of Death of the Author
(Image via Goodreads)

The book explores the enduring power of stories that provide threads of hope across generations. By weaving interlocking narratives and switching back and forth between protagonist, Nigerian American academic author Zelu Onyenezi-Oyedele, and a humanoid robot (a Hume) named Ankara, the reader is offered an evolving, existential meditation about survival. In Okorafor’s vision, even sentient robots will carry these stories forward long after humanity is gone, dancing in the narrative footsteps of the humans who created them.

As the novel opens, Zelu is precariously employed and struggling when she finds success in her first attempt at writing science fiction. “Rusted Robots”, a text that is inspired by personal crises — about robots and bodiless AI — catapults Zelu to the heights of fame (with all the usual trappings, including the degradation of privacy, copyright and moral rights infringement, celebrity attention, and the exacerbation of a long-simmering identity crisis).

The “novel-within-a-novel” structure is often difficult to pull off, especially when the book is framed as a best-seller or a classic of the genre. But Okorafor accomplishes this well, offering a metatextual novel that is compelling and convincing as a bestseller.

Readers will recognize parallels between Zelu’s experiences and the robots in her fictional world. This parallel construction does not hamper the novel in any way. If anything, it keeps readers seeking for more cross-references. After all, patterns help create meaning, which is at the heart of the storytelling (and human) experience.

Within the robot narrative, Okorafor embeds pointed references to current political, social, and personal challenges and these keep the pages quickly turning. Robot factions, for instance, remain consumed by internal conflict even as their planet faces imminent collapse. The blind adherence to a mantra that will cause this collapse, experienced by robots who have literally touched the sun, echoes the arrogance of climate denialists (and worse) in real world countries where wealth is greatest but controlled by a small number of capital holders, whose influence is amplified by vocal factions unwilling to confront the consequences of their actions. Unfortunately, this cultural criticism is somewhat undermined by the novel’s inclusion of a benevolent billionaire (“discount Elon Musk”) Jack Preston, who behaves in ways that seem unlike any real-world billionaire.

Throughout the twin narratives, there is tension between Zelu’s sense of self and independence, and the role that her family sees her playing and seems most comfortable with. For readers whose tastes hew to more fantastical narratives, this more mainstream (literary) storyline may not appeal, and others might find some of the characters aggravating in their entitlement and condescension to others.

Nnedi Okorafor holds up her Hugo-winning 
novella Binti. Her new work is a more
complex and metatextual work.
(Image via ArizonaRepublic)

The twin narratives collide in the concluding pages of the novel. This twist — which nobody in our book club expected — was one of the most satisfying elements of the novel, and for most readers recontextualized the preceding chapters. Fundamentally, this drove home the point: it matters who is telling the story; contrary to the title of the book, the authorial voice is important. It matters whether or not a book was written by an algorithm trained on large data sets ... or by a sapient being providing intention, accountability, emotion, and depth.

While the power of story might be a well-used trope, Okorafor explores it with verve and insight. It will be at the top or near the top of most of our Hugo ballots.