Songs for the Lattice

Songs for the Lattice has an arresting premise and some lush sensory writing, but it stumbles in execution. The central hook — a corporation weaving harvested memories into a mood-control lattice — is chilling and original, and the author uses small domestic moments (Mira’s cup of tea, the cramped tram-box apartment, neighbors leaving ghosts for repair) to humanize a high-concept plot. Yet several elements feel underexplained: how exactly does the shaman’s key interface with lattice tech? Why did a corp café night shift lead directly to forced memory-harvesting without so much as a noticed report? These are the sorts of logical gaps that pull me out of the story. Pacing is uneven too; the opening chapters luxuriate in detail while the midsection rushes through heist prep, making some emotional payoffs feel blunt rather than earned. On the plus side, Mira and her longing for Tamsin — especially that image of the empty chip-slot like a small sun — provide genuine emotional traction. I’d recommend tightening the middle, clarifying a few tech-magic mechanics, and giving secondary characters more room to breathe. Then it would be a much stronger, more coherent read.

I was hooked from the first line — Mira with her crooked pockets, neon bleeding along the seams, felt like a friend I already knew. The book is a small, fierce love letter to memory and the people who refuse to let the city forget. That scene where Mira sits with the empty slot where Tamsin’s chip used to rest and replays old recordings of her laugh? I cried. The writing makes the smell of solder and rain practically tactile, and Spark the three-eyed cat is the perfect little companion to balance the grief. I loved the shaman’s key as a counterpoint to the corporate coldness — mystical and tactile against the lattice’s glossy control. The heist beats are tense and inventive, and the idea of weaving memories into a mood-control grid is creepily brilliant. By the time Mira starts singing back at the grid, cheering the city to remember itself, I was cheering with her. A beautiful, human cyberpunk story. 🙂

Songs for the Lattice nails worldbuilding and tone. The K-Line is rendered with compact, efficient detail: gardens grown from gutters, stacked rooms behind corrugated metal, drone-banners flickering across the lower decks. Those details give the setting weight without slowing the plot. The protagonist’s trade — repairing neuroplugs and stitching ghosts — is a clever mechanism for exposition: the wrist-node leaking like oil is a vivid image that explains both tech and stakes. The crew dynamics are familiar heist fare but handled with affection; I especially liked the scene where Mira’s knowledge of nicking doorlocks (learned from Tamsin at age ten) becomes indispensable during the break-in. Stylistically, the prose balances grit and lyricism nicely — solder and rain beside stubborn songs and shamanic keys. My only quibble is a couple of transitions that feel rushed near the final act, but overall this is a tight, evocative cyberpunk heist with real heart.

I wanted to love this more than I did. There are flashes of brilliance — Spark the three-eyed cat is a highlight, and the wrist-node leaking memories like oil is a great image — but the plot leans on a lot of familiar cyberpunk tropes without subverting them. The ragtag crew? Check. The corp harvesting memories? Check. The mystical shaman’s key that conveniently opens a route into the big bad lattice? Uh-huh. Feels a bit like pulling out familiar parts from a genre toolbox and gluing them together. Pacing drags in the middle, and a couple of character beats (the crew’s backstories) get only the skim treatment, which left their sacrifices less affecting. Still, the writing has pulse, and the final confrontation has a couple of memorable lines, so not a total loss. If you want gritty mood and a strong central relationship, this will do — but don’t expect anything wildly new. 😕

Concise, atmospheric, and quietly fierce. The author wastes no words painting K-Line: neon, ozone, and the smell of fried algae populate every page. Mira is believable — practical hands, a broken apartment-turned-home on the side of a tram — and the missing-chip detail (that slot like a small sun) is a neat emotional anchor. I appreciated the restraint in the magic: the shaman’s key and the stubborn song are suggestive rather than explained to death, which suits the mood. Few books this short capture both the mechanics of a heist and the tenderness of sisterhood as cleanly as this one.