The Best Sci-Fi Books of 2024 (So Far) (2024)

Bora Chung’s impressive second collection sets its tone with its title: if a utopia is yours, can it be shared? Can it be anyone else’s? There’s a melancholy and a wryness to these stories, in which lonely people (or other beings) try to connect, or protect, or simply survive. In “The End of the Voyage,” the urge to consume dooms humanity. In “A Song for Sleep,” an AI elevator does its best to care for a resident of its building. The elevator seems kind, but its knowledge of the building’s inhabitants is due to an alarming level of surveillance. Through the prism of her singular imagination, Chung looks sharply at the ways the world we’ve made doesn’t suit us: corporate greed is a frequent enemy, whether it’s focused on controlling the natural world (“Seed”) or extending its own existence (“The Center for Immortality Research”). These are stories to sit with, to read one at a time and savor.

The second volume in Malka Older’s utterly delightful Investigations of Mossa and Pleiti series finds Mossa searching for a missing student—a case that expands to include over a dozen missing people. The mystery is satisfying, but the heart of this story is the tentative and endearing relationship between Mossa and the academic Pleiti, the Watson to Mossa’s Holmes, who narrates the bulk of their tale. Older packs a ton into barely 200 pages: academic wrangling, space libertarians, the state of the distant and troubled Earth, a visit to the moon of Io, a trip on Giant’s fascinating railcars, and so much more. This is distinctly a cozy mystery, but also a space opera in miniature. Part of what Older so beautifully illustrates is the way humanity might bring its history and culture—food, tea, language, rituals, fears—into the alien landscapes of space. You can read this one without reading the first book, The Mimicking of Known Successes, but why deprive yourself?

MacInnes’s third novel—longlisted for last year’s Booker Prize—is simply like nothing else I’ve ever read. In Ascension centers on Leigh, a marine biologist who spent a troubled childhood in Rotterdam before venturing far from home: to a distant island, to the depths of the ocean, to the Mojave Desert, and eventually to the stars. But that sounds so simple, and this book is expansively, engrossingly complex, meticulously observed and quietly moving. As Leigh’s work turns confidential and mysterious, involving strange phenomena that connect to her deep-sea adventure, MacInnes details her focus on algae with the same care and consideration that he uses to depict her relationship with her mother, her sister, her colleagues, and her world. This isn’t a book that offers anything approaching a tidy resolution. What it offers instead is the texture of an entire life, reflected and refracted by the lives around it. It’s as immersive and astonishing as the deep-sea dive Leigh takes, a journey through a familiar world made freshly, improbably new.

If this were a ranking of the most memorable characters of the year, Scales would be at the top. A mechanic by assignment but a killer by skill, she’s one of many lieutenants to the Emperor of Ashtown, a desert community that exists outside the walls of privileged Wiley City. Ashtown is not an easy place to live, even when you’re the Emperor’s favorite. But when mangled bodies start appearing, no one is safe, and it will take the combined efforts of Scales, her least-favorite colleague, a disgraced scientist, the Emperor, and a worldwalker to save them—all of them. Johnson’s second book, a standalone set in the same world as her The Space Between Worlds, is fueled by the rage that comes from love. When you love a people, love a place, and that people and place are treated as lesser and disposable, rage is inevitable. (As Johnson writes in the author’s note, “Rage is a beacon calling out to others.”) Complicated, deadly, and absolutely full of secrets, Scales is one hell of a narrator, and her sharp, distinctive voice propels this story though desert, city, multiverse, and her own hidden history. Those Beyond the Wall is a novel about holding tight to community in the face of devastation, and it is a triumph.

The latest work from the astonishingly prolific Mohamed (who has three books out this year alone) is a visceral yet intimate story about violence, nationalism, and war. Injured, captured, and tortured by his own side in an endless conflict, the famous pacifist Alefret is sent on a mission to infiltrate an enemy city. With him is Qhudur, a fanatic who will do anything for victory. Mohamed’s bio-technical setting is vivid and unusual—trained medical wasps, floating cities, and lightspiders dot these pages—but the heart of her story is Alefret’s moral struggle. Would killing Qhudur, an act of violence, lead to peace? When does violence become a habit that a country cannot break? How can a person hold tight to their ideals even amid suffering? How can stories and myths help sustain us? But The Siege of Burning Grass isn’t just a thoughtful consideration of war and pacifism; it’s also a feat of worldbuilding, moral complexity, and taut, precisely paced storytelling. After this, I’m ready to hunt down everything else Mohamed has ever written.

In post-climate disaster America, in what’s left of Kansas City, a woman named Dora investigates a death in the anarchist commune to which she once belonged. She’s certain her ex didn’t overdose, but finding out what really happened isn’t going to be easy. Wasserstein excels at the near-future details of her SF-techno-mystery, but she shines even more when it comes to the unexpected connection between Dora and the person sent to kill her—a person who is wearing her pre-transition face. These Fragile Graces is at once a stylish noir and an exploration of identity, gender, selfhood, control, consent, and intimacy. Wasserstein more than pulls it off—everything here feels lived-in and real, from the details of the commune’s processes to the corporate powers that treat people as disposable or replaceable. Dora’s distinctive, terse voice is one I keep hearing in my head, long after the last page. Maybe, if we’re lucky, she’ll find more mysteries to solve.

In her second novel, Curtis makes an impeccable balancing act look easy. Floating Hotel is, on the surface, a cozy sort of tale about the staff at the titular spaceship, the Grand Abeona Hotel, which endlessly traverses the same route, catering to wealthy people among the stars. Young, miserable Carl stows away on the hotel as a kid; decades later, he’s risen to the post of manager, now a gentle charmer with a soothing word for everyone. When a peculiar academic conference converges with the search for the Lamplighter (a seditious, anti-Empire figure whose broadsides appear between chapters), the fate of the hotel—and its endearing staff—is called into question. But Curtis doesn’t let the spies, codes, and mysteries take over the story; there’s still time for illicit movie nights and anxious musical performances. Floating Hotel is rich with kindness, with big-hearted characters from every corner of the ship, but it also has teeth, a working-class sensibility, and a rebellious heart. This one is a treat.

“Generation ship novel in verse” is a series of words I had never considered until I read Oliver K. Langmead’s ambitious and immersive Calypso. While the engineers slept, the crew of the Calypso experienced a schism. When Rochelle—whose role is to question Sigmund, the expedition’s leader—wakes, nothing is as she expects, and nothing goes as planned. Four narrators tell the tale: Rochelle, a woman of faith; Catherine, a biologist; the Herald, who relates the ship’s history; and Sigmund, whose narrative is largely set in his own past. Their voices take different shapes; the Herald’s words are squared off, blocky and challenging, while Catherine’s words bend and twist, branching outward more dramatically as she gets closer to the culmination of her role. In a stunning central chapter that’s part body horror and part triumphant act of creation, Catherine transforms, filling a planet with myriad forms of life. Outside of that section, Langmead’s verse creates a sense of spareness, of space unfilled, that echoes the loneliness Rochelle feels. Like so many generation ship stories, this is an elegantly told meditation on how we can’t leave ourselves behind. Any new world will be seeded with what we know, what we’ve learned, who we are, for better or for worse.

This complete collection of Leckie’s short fiction contains both science fiction and fantasy stories, but the SF stories make up a full half of the book—and are unmissable. They range from flash fiction to a creation myth from the world of the Imperial Radch to “The Justified,” a haunting story about power, mortality, and choice. The title novelette follows a sentient crustacean—called a “lobster dog” by the anthropologist who crash-lands on its planet—as it leaves home, looking for answers about its world and existence. (I would read an entire novel about the lobster dogs, or about the bird-people who transmit their histories through songs.) Every one of these stories is masterfully told, but the standout is “She Commands Me and I Obey,” which depicts a moment of political turmoil through the eyes of a young monk watching a momentous sports game. Tense, affecting, and layered, it’s a perfect example of Leckie’s gift for knowing exactly the right perspective from which to tell her stories. A child, an elder, a guard on a ship’s journey through troubled space: it is a gift to spend time with these characters.

Samatar’s latest is a breathtaking novella that resonates like a new myth made of familiar materials. Deep in the bowels of a spaceship, a boy is imprisoned, linked to others by the chain around his ankle. A professor who wears a lighter anklet works to free him, to elevate him to the level of a student, to give him an opportunity. Neither of them have names; nor do the guards, nor the prophet who encourages the boy’s art. They are individuals, but also archetypes, strong and aching, as they move through Samatar’s critical look at labor, exploitation, community, hierarchy, revolution, and worn-out narratives about acceptance and tolerance that do not allow space for real freedom. This story has its roots in academia, but it’s about any organization built to sustain itself at the expense of those who toil within it. Samatar’s gorgeous prose rings clear as a bell. There are no easy answers here, only a sense of possibility, of—as she puts it—“an invitation to exist in the cracks.''