If the way Rachel raises the strange, speaking organism she names Borne amid Mord’s shadow and the Magician’s biotech horrors enthralled you, you’ll love the fever-dream city of New Crobuzon in Perdido Street Station. Isaac Dan der Grimnebulin’s run-in with the slake-moths unleashes a mesmerizing, reality-warping threat, while Remade outcasts and spider-demons weave through alleys as vividly grotesque as the Company’s ruined labs. It hits that same dizzying blend of beauty and monstrosity you felt when Borne learned to talk and the city itself felt alive and hostile.

You connected to Rachel’s bond with Borne—nurturing, wary, and transformative amid scavenging runs and Mord’s devastating flyovers. In The Book of Koli, young Koli escapes a fragile village into a feral future where killer forests hunt people, guided by a chatty, unexpectedly endearing AI named Monono Aware. Much like Rachel learning what Borne can become, Koli’s partnership with Monono shifts from tool to true companion, altering his choices and his sense of self while danger closes in.

If the delicate, sometimes funny, sometimes terrifying rapport between Rachel and Borne drew you in—from naming games to deadly missteps—Murderbot will scratch the same itch. A security unit that’s hacked its own governor module, Murderbot keeps insisting it doesn’t care, yet ends up protecting Dr. Mensah’s survey team as corporate sabotage spirals. Like Borne learning to be more than the Company’s creation, Murderbot’s reluctant, growing attachment is equal parts heart and hazard.

If Wick’s backyard biotech, the Company’s rogue creations, and the Magician’s engineered proxies felt like science blurring into the uncanny, The Windup Girl amps that sensation. In a drowned Bangkok of calorie monopolies and engineered plagues, Emiko—a “windup” built for obedience—and Anderson Lake navigate megodonts, genehacked crops, and lab intrigue as treacherous as the Company’s. The tech hums with the same near-mystical dread you sensed when Borne changed shape and rewrote the rules of the city.

Rachel’s voice—haunted by refugee memories, scavenger guilt, and love for a being she barely understands—carries Borne's ache. In Never Let Me Go, Kathy H. looks back on Hailsham, on Ruth and Tommy, and on the quiet horror of what they were designed for. It’s that same intimate, reflective excavation of identity and purpose you felt when Rachel questioned what Borne is, what he owes the world, and what the world owes him.