Nicholas Sansbury Smith's "Hell Divers" doesn't just strain credulity, it straps it to a helium balloon, sets it adrift, and fires pot-shots at it from the deck of an improbably large airship. It's the sort of book that demands you turn your brain off entirely, then berates you for asking why it smells like burnt rubber and desperation.

Let's start with the premise: a post-apocalyptic future where humanity clings to survival aboard massive, helium-powered airships. Helium. As though science didn't already pack its bags and leave the moment we hit chapter one. Never mind that helium leaks faster than a politician's promises or that 200 years of radiation should've melted any salvageable scrap into molten sludge; here, supplies are just lying around, waiting to be pilfered by diving squads with names like disgruntled wrestlers. "Hell Divers" wants grit, but it's the kind you brush off your jeans after sitting in the sandpit too long.

Then there's the class system. We're expected to believe that 560 people - basically a crowded pub - have split themselves into upstairs elites and downstairs rabble. Half of them don't even seem to know each other. In a society this small, I'd expect intricate gossip networks and blood feuds over borrowed cutlery, not rigid hierarchies. But no, the book commits to its dystopian cosplay like an overzealous extra in "Mad Max" and barrels forward without so much as a nod to logic.

The characters? Imagine a roll-call of clichés so threadbare they practically disintegrate on the page. Xavier, our protagonist, spends most of the novel channelling the emotional depth of a puddle, pausing only to recall that time he cheated on his dying wife. This, apparently, qualifies him as complex. Meanwhile, the women exist solely to orbit his masculinity, occasionally breaking into conversations about how damaged but brilliant he is. The Bechdel test doesn't just fail here; it's set on fire, pissed on, trampled, only to be set on fire again.

Even the action sequences, which should at least offer bombastic thrills, feel like watching someone set fireworks off in a bin. Explosions abound, bodies drop faster than sense, and yet none of it carries weight. That could be because the book can't decide if it wants gritty realism or comic-book absurdity. The result is a tonal mess where bullets are deadly right up until the hero dodges them with the grace of a drunk uncle avoiding karaoke.

And the science. Oh, the science. "Hell Divers" treats physics with the reverence of a cat pushing a glass off a table. Massive helium balloons keeping entire cities afloat? Check. Radiation-proof supplies just waiting to be scavenged after two centuries of rot? Sure. A society held together by chewing gum, spite, and sheer narrative willpower? Absolutely. But it's not sci-fi if the science is held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, and here, it's less grounded theory and more helium-fuelled bullshit parade.

By the time the book grinds to its cliffhanger ending, I wasn't reaching for the sequel. I was considering a lobotomy. "Hell Divers" has all the hallmarks of a fever dream: lurid, chaotic, and riddled with half-formed ideas. It's not without entertainment value, but like a radioactive crater, it's best admired from a safe distance. One-and-a-half stars—one for audacity and half for reminding me why helium balloons belong at birthday parties, not in survival plans.

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