Back when the world was still our world, humanity came up with a weapon, as humanity always does. This weapon made the enemy simply go away. Unfortunately, as history should’ve taught us but never quite seems to, it wasn’t as simple as all that. Now humanity lives in a zone clustered around the Jorgmund Pipe, which delivers the FOX that keeps away the unreal horrors of the Gone-Away world. When part of the Pipe catches fire, threatening the supply, our unnamed narrator, his best friend, and their crew of freebooters are hired to manage the situation.
Based on that description, you’ll probably go in expecting a fairly straight post-apocalyptic dystopia. I did. You will probably then, by the end of chapter three, be wondering what the fuck is going on. I did that too. So I would advise that you not go in expecting post-apocalyptic dystopia, that you not go in expecting science fiction, that you definitely not go in expecting sobriety — in fact, inasmuch as you are able, to go in expecting as little in regards to setting or genre as possible.
What you can expect is one of the funniest, most intelligent pieces of blistering anti-establishment satire that I have ever read. You can expect a bitingly cynical take on everything from corporate culture to our species’ need to engage in pissing contests on a devastatingly global scale over things we don’t really need. You can expect an examination of humanity, identity, and friendship, and how those things intertwine, that oscillates between the heartwarming and the bone-chilling. You can expect digressions and tangents that wind off down so many twisting corridors I started to lose track, and didn’t care in the slightest because I was giggling so inanely. You can expect a book that, perhaps chief among its many accomplishments, may very well cause you to like mimes.
Because yes, there are mimes. And ninjas. The mimes are a lot nicer than the ninjas. Although it’s intensely intelligent and humanistic and, dare I say, political, it’s not afraid to be a zany girls- and guns-filled adventure story at the same time. I learned from Sir Terry Pratchett that serious and humorous are not opposite ends of the same spectrum, and just about every part of this novel is an excellent illustration of that principle. For instance, our narrator’s gong fu master is full of sage advice, genial humour, and whacky quotes as befitting any cheesy martial arts film, but he’s also a sobering reminder of the loneliness of aging and the way our society treats the aged.
Approaching the end of the book, there is a twist, one which I saw coming — at least in part — a while before it arrived, and yet it still managed to rock me with the gravity of the revelation. It shines a whole different light on everything that’s come before, and yet does so in a way that clicks into place without feeling like shock value or, worse, a retcon. This would be a fascinating book to reread with that knowledge in mind, in addition to my desire to reread so I can take note of all the passages I found hilarious, because there were far too many to slow myself down doing that on a first read-through.
Harkaway’s writing is ineluctable; not flowery, not highly literary, but very deliberate even when conversationally rambling off down one of the many tangents, precisely pushing the reader’s patience just so far in setting up the most glorious punchlines.
I’ve refrained from sharing any of those so far, partly because I didn’t take the time to mark them all down and partly because I would hate to spoil the best of the giggles and the insights this book has to offer, but I must offer the passage about the shrew, which I also spent a day foisting off on anyone who would listen to me.
The building in which he works is a grey slab with stern windows and poorly chosen organic paint colours which are intended to produce a stable and relaxing working environment (as per directive Ev/9) but in fact cause the entire complex to resemble the messy interior plumbing of a sickly bison. The strip lighting (low energy as per directive Ev/6) is responsible for much of this, because it emits in the green and purple areas of the spectrum, which are not tints favourable to a feeling of general good health. Further, this illumination is produced by ultra-high-frequency discharges of an electric current through a tube of fluorescing gas, meaning that they flicker at a given (enormously rapid) rate, this frequency being one which sadly produces tension, annoyance and migraines in 81 per cent of adult humans, and has the interesting side effect of causing tachycardia in shrews. Shrews being very susceptible to stress, and having in any case ill-designed cardiovascular systems, it is safe to assume that any shrew entering Mr. Hoare’s workplace with the intention of asking him for a job would be dead before it had gone five metres down the long corridor I am currently attempting, and would thereby instantly convert itself into organic waste and be disposed of by the sanitation crew. Should the shrew turn out to contain elevated or even toxic levels of chemical waste, or should there be cause to suspect, by reason of signs of aberrant and un-shrew-like behaviour or outward symptoms of transmissible disease such as, but not limited to, rashes, bleeding, elevated temperature and coughing, evidence of pre-mortem deliquescence, or petechial haemorrhaging, that the aforementioned shrew was in fact the carrier of a biological agent, the business of disposal would be handed over to a hazmat team trained in these matters, and the tiny body would be removed in a suitable container by men and women wearing spacesuits and taken to a place of investigation to ascertain the level of the threat and also to tease from the tiny, terrified corpse any forensic evidence suggesting that it might be involved in anti-statist activities, that it might, in fact, be a suicide shrew.
If that passage doesn’t make you want to read this book, there’s something wrong with you, my friend.