TEN PLANETS

A miscellany of thematically linked stories about strangers in a strange land, life on Mars, and other curiosities.

In this spare but inquisitive collection of stories, award-winning Mexican writer Herrera concerns himself more with human nature and morphologic alchemy than ray guns and bug-eyed monsters despite the science-fiction character of the stories. In the opening amuse-bouche, the apocalypse comes not from planetary annihilation but four simple words scribbled on a notecard: “Everyone is going away.” Readers’ suspension of disbelief is challenged next by “Whole Entero,” in which a stomach bug achieving consciousness dies not from her host’s fatal condition but from her own melancholy sadness; or equally by “The Objects” (one of two stories with identical names), which provides a portrait of an anthropomorphized rat who muses, “When you’re a pestilent creature, the world is no longer pestilent.” Similarly, “Living Muscle” imagines a planet made of the stuff of people, though the narrator's final declaration that "we have decided to send no more probes" might be more of a wink than an epiphany. The marginal whodunits “The Obituarist” and “The Cosmonaut” flirt surreally with noir, noses, and “fucking invisibility.” In a related branch of the genre family tree, a ghost buster named Bartleby delights in the specters embodied in “Consolidation of Spirits.” A flat Earth, dragons, and a world divided into “Ones” and “Others” serve as the medium for thoughts on the human need for both connectivity and conflict in a handful of stories: “Everybody knows that the Creator is not a mouth but the eye of a dragon, and that the world is but a blink, a blink, a blink set to happen: now.” A high point is “The Earthling,” in which a stranger in a strange land is united with another creature who recognizes him for exactly what he is.

A conceptually heavy, emotionally empathetic accounting of the most alien of conditions.