Three big issues sink this book for me, and getting them out upfront clears the way for the rest.
First, it's easily 50% too long. The story could pack twice the punch at half the length—trim the padding, and it'd feel far sharper.
Second, it's so steeped in late-'70s anxieties that it comes across as quaint, outdated, and unintentionally funny now. Bova delivers wide-open sermons on the "population bomb" and its doomsday horrors. Anyone who lived through that era recalls the panic peddled by forecasters back then. Today, with fertility rates plummeting worldwide, those warnings land like punchlines. The earnest preaching just doesn't age well.
Third—and this one hits hard if you're a guy—Bova's handling of women drags the reader straight back to awkward high-school days. Male characters fixate on breasts and hips far more than on talent, skill, or intellect. It's that unfortunate trio—length, dated worldview, and sexist lens—that caps this at two stars for me.
That said, I don't hate it. I'll pick up more Bova soon (probably in days rather than weeks), but the plot couldn't quite overcome those core problems.
David Adams is a genetically engineered man living on Island One, the gleaming headquarters of a massive corporate conglomerate that manipulates Earth through engineered weather shifts and diseases. Nations are rebelling against the one-world government, yearning to reclaim old national borders, while the global authority fights back.
David meets Evelyn, a sharp British journalist who arrives to profile him. His handlers quickly ship her back to Earth, leaving him grieving. Determined to find her, he heads planetside by any means possible.
There, he crosses paths with a striking Arab woman who's become a leading terrorist. Furious at the one-world regime—especially after it destroyed the man she loved—she escalates her fight. Soon she hijacks an Earth-bound shuttle from Island One, with David among the passengers.
From that point, my attention drifted. I'd reread sections I'd zoned out on, then question if it was worth the effort to keep going.
What did hold my interest, though, was the book's undercurrent of angst about big corporations pulling strings from on high. We feel the same unease today—we just swap in "big tech" or "AI" for the faceless conglomerate. Different labels, same old anxiety. It's oddly fascinating to see how little the fear has changed in fifty years.
Overall, you might think I disliked the book. I didn't hate it, but it left no real emotional mark. Avid readers know that feeling: finishing a truly great book brings a quiet, lingering goodbye—a mental hug, a firm handshake, a pause before hitting delete as you savor what it stirred in you. With “Colony”, I managed only a half-hearted wave goodbye. No hovering, no reverence—just moving on.