A couple of weeks ago I was asked by a representative of Penguin Books
(Penguin Books! How cool is that?)
whether I’d like to review a new science fiction novel by Nick Sagan, son of
the famous Carl Sagan. It sounded interesting, so I said OK. My only
concern was that the book was a sequel to Sagan’s first book, which I’d
not read. He responded by sending me both books, for
which I am truly grateful.

I admit I opened the book with some trepidation–Sagan has a famous name,
sure, but can he tell a story? Turns out he can, and with style. He
begins with the hoary-but-effective plot contrivance, the man with
amnesia. Our hero wakes up, injured and alone, and unable to remember
where he is, how he got hurt, or his own name. Bits of memory begin to
creep back as he explores his surroundings–his quite remarkably outré
surroundings. He lives in a house shaped like a cathedral, complete with
gargoyles; he is served by nightgaunts; his name, apparently, is
“Halloween.” And it’s almost certain that someone is trying to kill him.

Meanwhile, a global pandemic is raging, and people are dying in vast
numbers. The killer is a virus called Black Ep, it’s invariably fatal,
and there’s no known cure. Worse, it has an incubation period of years,
and is highly contagious, so virtually everyone on the planet has it. A
small team is working against time on a scheme to defeat the virus and
preserve mankind from extinction.

And how are these two disparate plot elements related? Therein hangs
the tale, which I won’t spoil for you.

As I say, Sagan’s a good storyteller; he kept me interested and turning
pages, not an easy feat with four kids in the house and the Olympics on
TV. If I have a complaint, it’s that there’s little here that I haven’t
seen before. Even if he built the story from familiar parts, though,
the resulting edifice still has a number of striking features and
surprises, and there are a number of absolutely images. I particularly
enjoyed it when Halloween throws a luau and has nightgaunts in Hawaiian
shirts passing out the drinks and canapés. And if I’m occasionally
reminded of Roger Zelazny, or Greg Bear, or even
Stephen King, I suppose that’s no bad thing in a first novel.