The concept of miniaturizing humans has long been a fascinating trope in the world of science fiction, inspiring a plethora of novels and films over the decades. From Gordon Williams’s Micronauts trilogy and Lindsay Gutteridge’s Cold War In A Country Garden series from the 1970s to contemporary works like Michael Crichton and Richard Preston's technothriller Micro, published in 2011, this theme has captivated audiences. The cinematic portrayal of this idea spans a wide range, from the thought-provoking The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957) and the adventurous Fantastic Voyage (1966) to comedies such as Innerspace (1987) and Honey, I Shrunk The Kids (1989). Additionally, the Marvel superhero Ant-Man and his DC counterpart, the Atom, further delve into the allure of size alteration.

While many narratives focus on individuals or small groups experiencing this transformation, Mikey Please’s newly released novel, The Expanded Earth (Corsair, £22), takes a more drastic approach. In a chilling twist, the entire global population is subjected to miniaturization, a grim and traumatic ordeal from which only a select few emerge alive. Among these survivors is Giles, a father who becomes separated from his daughters amid the chaos. As he embarks on a perilous journey through the expansive wilderness of the New Forest, the once-familiar landscape morphs into a terrain filled with towering, predatory creatures — dogs, foxes, and polecats — all now perceived as monstrous threats.

Interwoven with Giles’s quest is an account of the origins behind this cataclysmic event, referred to as The Descent. As expected, the narrative attributes the disaster to reckless scientific experimentation, yet the novel’s inventive storytelling takes readers on an unpredictable journey, showcasing Please’s background in stop-motion animation, including work with Aardman, which undoubtedly enriches his perspective on the world through a miniature lens.

In a similar vein, Silvia Park’s debut novel, Luminous (Magpie, £16.99), challenges readers to reconsider their perceptions of identity and existence. Set in a future where Korea is reunified, the story revolves around siblings Jun and Morgan Cho. Jun, a trans man, serves in Seoul’s Robot Crimes Unit, while Morgan works as a designer for the technology firm Imagine Friends. Their childhood was marked by the presence of a robot sibling named Yoyo, who has now ended up in a junkyard, only to be discovered by Ruijie, a young girl battling a debilitating disease.

Park, originally from Korea but now residing in the United States, addresses complex themes such as body modification, the dichotomy between organic consciousness and artificial intelligence, and the tantalizing prospect of posthuman immortality. While the narrative occasionally feels dense and serious, moments of levity, such as the humorous observation that “never had a robot been mourned so publicly, not since Audrey Hepburn caught on fire during the less-racist remake of Breakfast At Tiffany’s,” provide relief and enhance the reading experience.

Tim Major contributes to this dialogue with his short story collection, Great Robots Of History (Black Shuck Books, £11.99), which presents a clever and thought-provoking examination of robots throughout history, both real and imagined. The collection comprises 16 stories that delve into various themes, including the relationship between Pygmalion and Galatea, the 18th-century chess-playing Mechanical Turk (an ingenious hoax), and the mythical bronze giant Talos, crafted by the god Hephaestus. The collection also features “The Brazen Head of Westinghouse,” which won the British Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction, telling the story of Elektro, a talking robot showcased at the 1939 New York World’s Fair.

Each tale serves as a distinct exploration of the book’s central theme, offering diverse perspectives on the uncanny and captivating nature of robots, which continue to fascinate humanity.

Finally, Australian author Venero Armanno presents a pair of novellas that explore the themes of obsession and the consequences of unhealthy relationships with dangerous figures. In The Rays Slip Away (PS Publishing, £29), set primarily in the late 1980s, the protagonist Samar encounters Michael Kei, a vampire who, along with his three female companions, intervenes to save her from an attempted assault outside a nightclub. Ensnared by his world of bloodlust, Samar grapples with the allure and horror of his existence.

Meanwhile, in Thunder On The Mountain (PS Publishing, £29), the story revolves around Jonette Yun, who falls under the spell of religious guru Gustavo Landy during her university years. When Landy reappears in her life years later, seemingly unchanged, Jonette commits suicide, prompting her partner David to seek vengeance against the enigmatic figure. His quest leads him to an abbey nestled in an Italian alpine microstate and forces him to confront profound questions of faith and destiny.

Both novellas complement each other, highlighting the intricacies of toxic relationships and the challenge of overcoming past transgressions, all conveyed with remarkable grace and sensitivity. James Lovegrove’s latest literary offering, his 69th title, is entitled Conan: Cult of the Obsidian Moon, further contributing to the rich tapestry of contemporary literature.

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