3.5 stars - Thank you, NetGalley, for this preview copy.
Although I love Paul McAuley's prose, and there are exquisite passages (Please see below) , not enough of the book is of his previous quality.
There are a number of interwoven stories, some in the past, one is fantasy, and one is in the present. Only the one in the present has real forward motion, the others do not quite come alive. Worse, those interfere with the pacing and tension of the main story.
The world-building is very good, but not up to McAuley's usual seamless wonders. And as interesting as the "icy south" setting, that is just not enough to sustain any of the plots.
The main plot starts with Austral as a corrections officer supervising a future "chain gang" in Antartica. McAuley’s prose flows and flows. You’re really there with Austral, living her life, being set up by the big con-man, prisoner-boss. Fantastic stuff! Just as this gets interesting, whoosh we are now in the past, with several confusing stories of Austral's parents etc. They seem distant, and their lives and troubles only detract from the main event.
After coming back to Austral, we see an interesting story of escape and difficulties, but again and again the side stories suck the life from the main tale. The concept of a "frozen road trip", in many ways reminds me of Jack London, Len Deighton and Alastair MacLean. This should be great stuff, but the pacing is poor, although the scenery is quite amazing.
Much of the backstories is pretty dull, and unforgivably irrelevant to the main plot. If these stories had not been poorly interwoven, but had been separate short stories, or novellas, coming together in a final chapter or two, this might have been much better.
Add in Eddie, one of the "villain” and we are squirming. He is a slimy and repulsive coward. Who enjoys reading about such a scumbag? I remember getting up from the movie "Star 80" due to the skin-crawling villain. I could feel it for days after.
All the plots resolve eventually, none with any sense of justice or redemption, or even fun.
A great disappointment as a novel, with some redeeming facets.
Here is an extraordinary and exquisite passage, one of my favourite of all Paul’s work....
(An extract from Austral's account of her and her mother's long walk towards freedom after escaping from the prison of Deception Island.)
The days and days of walking blur together. It’s hard, now, to sort dreams from actual memories. I remember climbing to Mapple Valley’s high southern crest and seeing a panorama of parallel razorback ridges bare as the moon stretching away under the cloudless sky. I remember a circle of upright stones in a mossy chapel in the forest below the Forbidden Plateau, lit by a beam of sunlight slanting between the trees. The glass and concrete slab of some plutocrat’s back-country house cantilevered out from cliffs overlooking Wilhelminia Bay. The broken castle of an orphaned iceberg grounded on a rocky shore, with freshets of sparkling meltwater cascading down its fluted sides and a thick band of green algae tinting its wave-washed base. But did we really see, in the pass between Starbuck and Stubb Fjords, an albino reindeer poised near the thin spire of an elf stone named The Endless Song of the Air? Did we glimpse a pyramid set on a remote bastion of bare rock in the ice and snow of the Bruce Plateau? I’ve looked long and hard, but I’ve never been able to find it on maps or in satellite images. And did we really see people dancing naked in a circle around a huge bonfire in a forest glade near Tashtego Point? I can’t be certain that it wasn’t one of my dreams, but whether it was real or imaginary the memory of it still wakes the pulse of drums in my blood.
I’m trying to tell you how happy we were, Mama and me. Not only in those few moments indelibly fixed in memory, but also during the uneventful hours of walking through the forest and crossing meadows and hiking up long slopes of scree or snow, or when we rested beside a little campfire, taking turns to braid each other’s hair or simply sitting in companionable silence. The times we picked berries together in some sunny clearing or amongst the sliding stones of a mountainside, or spear-fished in icy rivers, or gathered sea moss and limpets from the salt-wet stones of the sea shore.
Some old-time writer once claimed that happy families are all alike, while unhappy families are each unhappy in their own way. If that’s true, then happiness can be attained only by sacrificing or suppressing some part of whatever it is that makes us different, by unselfishly giving up our wants and desires and submitting to something larger than ourselves. Family. Society. God. But in those long summer days, walking south with Mama, it seemed to me that happiness was a gift that fell on us as lightly and freely as sunlight. It was as simple as lying on wiry turf with the sun warm and red on my closed eyes, or the heart-stopping shock of jumping into a meltwater pool. It was a gift the world gave you if you gave yourself to the world.