Review: Artefactum by J.E. Tobal – A Multiverse Odyssey with Grit and Guts

Alright, folks, I’ve just powered through Artefactum by J.E. Tobal, and let me tell you—it’s a wild ride that hits like a meteor shower on a clear Boulder night. As a hard science fiction nut who grew up staring at the Rockies and dreaming of the physics behind the stars, I’m always hunting for a story that marries big ideas with a solid backbone of science. Artefactum delivers that in spades, though it’s not afraid to throw a few curveballs that’ll test your trajectory calculations.

Let’s start with the launchpad: the premise. We’ve got Sam, a bartender—your everyday guy pouring pints—until he stumbles onto an Aboriginal fertility sculpture that’s less about baby-making and more about punching holes through the multiverse. That’s right, this little artifact lets him hop between alternate realities, each with its own rulebook. It’s a setup that hooked me faster than a trout on a Flatirons stream. Tobal takes a classic sci-fi trope—multiverse travel—and bolts it onto ancient mythology, giving it a fresh twist that feels like Indiana Jones meets quantum mechanics. It’s bold, it’s weird, and it’s exactly the kind of crazy I’m here for.

Now, where Artefactum really revs its engines is in its ambition. Tobal doesn’t shy away from the deep end of the pool—he dives headfirst into the mechanics of how this multiverse-hopping works. We’re talking physics, folks: the nuts and bolts of what makes these realities tick and how you’d even navigate them without turning into cosmic soup. I ate up those technical bits like a post-hike burrito, savoring the way he unpacks the implications of jumping universes. It’s clear he’s done his homework, and he’s not afraid to challenge you to keep up. If you’re the type who geeks out over Andy Weir’s spreadsheets or Adrian Tchaikovsky’s alien ecosystems, these sections will light your thrusters.

But no spaceship flies without a few dents, and Artefactum has its share. Pacing is my first red flag. The story blasts off strong—Sam and his girlfriend Una tinkering with the idol, bouncing through realities like kids on a cosmic trampoline. Then Una bites it, and the whole thing shifts into a darker orbit. Sam’s quest to find her in another universe is raw and gripping, but the trajectory gets wobbly. There are stretches where the narrative drifts like a satellite in low gravity, and I found myself itching for a tighter burn toward the central conflict. A good editor with a torque wrench could’ve streamlined this beast.

Characterization’s another sticking point. Sam’s a messy, grieving wreck of a protagonist, and I respect that—he’s got layers, not just a hero’s jawline (though I bet he’s got one of those too). His desperation drives him to some dark corners, morally gray acts that could’ve been a goldmine for character depth. But too often, the story leans into the fireworks of what he does rather than why he does it. It’s like watching a supernova without understanding the star’s collapse. The sidekicks—Sal and Hazel—intrigue me, but they’re left as sketches when I wanted blueprints. Give me their backstories, their stakes—don’t just leave them orbiting the main event.

Where Tobal nails it, though, is the worlds themselves. Holy neutron stars, these realities are something else. A place where fear takes physical form? A dreamscape that laughs at logic? It’s Tchaikovsky-level imagination—vivid, strange, and grounded enough to feel real. Those chapters hum with wonder, the kind that kept me up past midnight scribbling notes for my own stories. You can practically taste the alien air, and that’s where Artefactum hits escape velocity.

The philosophical juice is another win. Sam’s hopping universes, wrestling with identity, free will, the whole “what’s real?” shebang. It’s heady stuff, and Tobal serves it with a light touch—no preaching, just questions that linger like campfire smoke. I love a story that doesn’t spoon-feed answers but trusts you to chew on the big ideas. This is hard sci-fi doing what it does best: making you think while your pulse races.

And here’s a bonus thruster: the humor. Despite the grim stakes, Sam’s got a sardonic streak that cuts through the tension like a laser. The banter’s sharp, the wit’s dry—it’s the kind of grounding I need when a story’s tossing around multiverse theory and dead girlfriends. Tobal balances the heavy with the light, and it’s a trick I’m jealous of.

Prose-wise, he’s got chops. The writing’s crisp, with lines that stick and imagery that paints whole worlds. I caught myself rereading some passages just to roll the words around. But there’s a flip side: moments where the detail piles up like snow on a trail, slowing the pace. A leaner cut would’ve kept the momentum roaring.

So, what’s the final vector? Artefactum is a gutsy, brainy romp through the multiverse that’s equal parts thrilling and frustrating. It’s not perfect—pacing wobbles, characters could use more fuel—but it’s got heart, smarts, and a premise that’ll spark your imagination like a Boulder lightning storm. I’m giving it 3.5 out of 5 stars. If you’re into hard sci-fi that swings for the fences and doesn’t mind a few bumps on the reentry, strap in. This one’s worth the ride.

Pros:

• Killer premise: mythology meets multiverse tech

• Deep dives into science and philosophy that stick the landing

• Alternate realities so vivid you’ll want a passport

• Sarcastic humor that keeps it human

  
  

Cons:

• Pacing that meanders like a lost hiker

• Sam’s arc feels inconsistent—more show than soul

• Side characters begging for more screen time

• Occasional overwritten patches that clog the engines

  
  

In the end, Artefactum is a testament to what hard science fiction can do: stretch your mind, kick your adrenaline, and leave you staring at the stars—or the nearest fertility idol—wondering what’s possible. For my fellow nerds and dreamers, it’s a journey worth taking. Just bring a calculator and a little patience.