Shroud by Adrian Tchaikovsky - Review
Cosmic horror, along with sci-fi in general, is a difficult genre to get right. It thrives on the unknown, the creeping sensation that something is just out of sight, not entirely clear, itching at your reality. But, if you don’t get the balance right, you’ll end up with a galaxy wide narrative that’s as deep as a puddle. Shroud understands this well, twisting its story in ways that leave you adrift in its dark world. It’s a book that revels in disorientation, pulling you deeper into its mysteries the more you struggle to grasp them. When it’s at its best, it makes you feel lost in all the right ways.
Shroud is an utterly gripping story of alien encounter and survival from Adrian Tchaikovsky, author of the Arthur C. Clarke Award-winning Children of Time, and paints a grim and grotesque vision of the future, where humanity’s expansion into the cosmos is as much a test of endurance (and capitalist hell) as it is a descent into existential dread.
The descriptions of Shroud itself—its tendrils curling through the void, the sensation of alien briar tightening around the atmosphere—are striking. The opening chapters, in particular, are a masterclass in setting the tone, so much so that I found myself rereading them just to soak in their gnarly brilliance again and again.
Tchaikovsky’s writing heavily leans into ambiguity, using a mix of perspectives and deliberately vague language to reinforce the unknowable nature of Shroud and its horrors. The book constantly shifts, leaving you unmoored in a way that mirrors the characters’ own descent into fear and uncertainty. Alien encounters are presented in strange, fragmented imagery rather than overtly explicit detail, making them all the more unsettling.
The prose itself even feels unstable at times, as if the words are bending under the weight of something beyond comprehension. Tchaikovsky does his best at making the sci-fi elements accessible, but it’s still a style that won’t work for everyone—those looking for clear explanations or firm resolutions may find themselves frustrated at times—but it’s undeniably effective at immersing you in a world that feels utterly alien.
The characters, particularly Juna Ceelander and Mai Ste Etienne, are an interesting study in detachment. They begin as almost intentionally blank slates, their personalities stripped down to what’s necessary to survive in their assigned roles. There’s a sense that they’re meant to be shaped by their time on Shroud, and they do develop more emotion as they struggle against its horrors. Yet there’s also moments they also regress, hollowed out by their experiences for the faceless corporate machine that sent them there in the first place.
But while Shroud excels at mood and mystery, it stumbles slightly when it tries to settle into a more structured narrative. The middle section loses some of that hypnotic unease, instead slipping into a “monster of the chapter” rhythm that, while functional, feels at odds with the book’s more unsettling moments.
It’s the storytelling equivalent of an explosion in Aquaman—it gets things moving, but not always in a way that feels as meaningful as the world Tchaikovsky has built. Thankfully, the book finds its footing again in the final stretch, closing things out with an inevitably bleak, bittersweet flourish.
What stood out to me most was how Shroud shares themes with something like The Expanse, with heeps of gritty realism, but Tchaikovsky has made his narrative that bit more intimate, spending most of its time in the minds of a few lost souls rather than sprawling across a grand political landscape. It’s a story of survival, in a bitter sci-fi setting, that also manages to explore where we are now, where we could go, and whether there’s anything worth holding onto when we get there.
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