“Dayna was born into the dead world, and Pax was born just before it ended. Exactly how long ago that was can only be guessed.” This lost world is a place of stories their father shares with them, and who knows whether or not they might be true? Dayna listens attentively all the same, eager to hear about her namesake Dana’s adventures: “She’s a heroine of olden times, who didn’t want to believe in monsters but fought them anyway.”
The idea of The X-Files being recounted around the fireside in a post-apocalyptic world, a popular TV show as the basis for the set of myths that has endured, is an appealing one, recalling Anne Washburn’s Mr. Burns, a Post-Electric Play; there is even a nod to The Simpsons and discussion of Bart (who “didn’t eat cows,” Pax notes) here. As a device, it serves to make the post-apocalyptic setting more immediate – what of us, we might wonder, will survive? What could a future civilisation learn about us based on a scrap of popular culture?
And what might they get wrong? When Dayna thinks about the sinking of the Titanic, she reflects, “That’s the way the dead world worked: bad things became famous because bad things were rare.” Oh, don’t we wish. But the point of this is not to make some strident argument about how we live today; dystopian fiction invites us to reflect on our ‘now’ but in its best incarnations doesn’t scream the message at us, or at least manages to weave it into an emotionally engaging story even as our desire to incite a rebellion might increase. Miranda Reason’s debut novel, Day of Now (Bloomsbury, £16.99), succeeds here: this book is thought-provoking but also compelling.
Dayna and her family are unsure who else has survived the airborne virus, the “pink mist” that “brings death and craze” to anyone infected. When the white noise of the radio gives way to a human voice one day, it’s the first sign that others are close by.
READ MORE
Their wary father insists they not contact “the hummingbird people”, but Dayna decides they have little choice when he becomes infected. Their supposed saviours prove to be less than heroic, though, as they discover when they find a boy in a cage, who joins them on a satisfyingly knotty quest that includes a creepy cult, an archivist in a van, and a research facility with more than one surprise up its sleeve.
Dayna’s journey sees her shaken by the real-world horrors she encounters: “I’m not a hero any more, just a scared girl ... I’ll be scared now for the rest of my life.” Her growth is believable and admirable; she is indeed a heroine to root for. What a superb first novel this is.
On the more experienced end of the scale, we have former Laureate na nÓg Sarah Crossan, whose latest verse novel, Gone for Good (Simon & Schuster, £9.99), delves into thriller territory – with more titles in this vein forthcoming. It’s a smart move, combining the propulsive energy and whodunnit appeal of crime with the accessibility of the verse form, and Crossan is ideally placed for it. Her adult novels have been deliciously taut and tense; her previous work for young people includes Carnegie winner One and the much-adapted The Weight of Water. In her latest, we’re pulled into the world of ‘troubled teens’ – the sort you might ship off to the kind of facility that hovers between rehab and prison.
Connie understands that within her family, still hurting from her mother’s death, she is “too much. I’m a bit of a problem. A bit broken”. But a middle-of-the-night kidnapping seems a bit extreme, and Silver Lake, where “obedience is the key to all things” and privilege levels are indicated by Scarlet-Letter-esque letters and numbers pinned to clothing, is a nightmare. “We are focused on supporting your growth / not on supporting your victimhood,” the doctor warns Connie before she’s allowed her first phone call home, reminding her that any complaints or accusations of mistreatment will immediately sever the connection.
If some of the language could fall under ‘tough love’ if you squint, other elements of Silver Lake are more clearly abusive, and there’s definitely a mystery around the disappearance of Belle, the girl who had Connie’s bunk previously. As she befriends her fellow patients/prisoners, Connie tries to find out what happened to Belle, but her new pals have secrets of their own.
This pacy read will keep you turning the pages, but also gently draws attention to unjust systems in the same way Crossan’s Moonrise shone a light on the horrors of death row. An interesting and addictive read for a wide range of audiences.
Sonora Reyes specialises in queer and Mexican stories for both teens and adults; their latest, The Golden Boy’s Guide to Bipolar (Faber, £8.99), explores the intersection and conflict between faith and sexuality as 17-year-old Cesar wonders if loving another boy makes him a sinner. His mother says no, but his priest – who is, after all, “a professional God salesman” – is firm on the matter. This has a catastrophic impact on a smart but hurting kid already struggling with his mental health and the high expectations everyone has for him, and leads to his decision to stop taking the medications that manage his bipolar disorder.
Reyes succeeds in making us understand that this decidedly bad idea makes complete sense in Cesar’s head, particularly in a world where sometimes Big Pharma really does prioritise profit over patient wellbeing. Such grains of truth are key to pulling clever people into conspiracy theories, and absolutist thinking echoes the black-and-white mindset of religious zealots. It’s a relief to see Cesar in a better, more hopeful place by the end of this novel, even if the journey is an emotional one.
Time is ticking in Amie Kaufman’s Red Star Rebels (Hot Key, £8.99), an enemies-to-lovers adventure in space (surely enough to get anyone hooked, no?). Rich boy Hunter is the grandson of “the first man on Mars – the genius who gave us the red star”, convinced that his family “play hard, but fair”. Cleo is a “hitcher”, the kind of illegal stowaway Hunter despises, and the only other person left stranded there when an emergency evacuation happens. They must team up to save the day – and the planet – from a gang of mercenaries, but neither is expecting to see familiar faces show up. (There is also kissing. Hurray!)
The chapter titles count down to the potential explosion, a device also used in KL Kettle’s Control Alter Delete (Little Tiger, £9.99), which imagines the world of 2052. Virtual reality (VR) is everywhere, a “second home” for isolated people, but misogyny towards female gamers is still rampant, “real touch” is a rarity, and there may be something evil at the heart of the “Alter”.
What first seems to be a familiar take on the dangers of VR morphs into something more interesting with the introduction of a supernatural element, as protagonist Hal competes in a prestigious tournament and uncovers some dark, unsettling facts about the origin of this seeming “utopia” – and its connection to her own lost parents. Chilling, urgent, compulsive.
