The Water Knife by Paolo Bacigalupi

I’ve been on a mini Bacigalupi streak recently – Wind Up Girl, Ship Breaker and now The Water Knife, a minor diversion into post-apocalyptic and dystopian misery which, to be honest, is a bit exhausting.

To start with the good The Water Knife is an efficiently well written and occasionally very immersive book, Baigalupi seldom drifts from the essentials of his characters and story telling and while the prose has flair to it there’s little that doesn’t also serve a purpose. So it’s readable, very readable.

The story is set in a water starved Southern and Mid-Western US where thirsty power blocs – California, Las Vegas, Colorado – vie for rights to the ever diminishing supplies under the decaying and largely indifferent gaze of the government back East. Throw in straggling hordes of refugees from the dried out state of Texas, narcos from the now formally declared Narco States, Chinese corporate interests and local gangs in Phoenix, the broad focus of the book, and you’ve got enough apocalyptic fodder to depress anyone. Which Paolo does, constantly.

There’s an ensemble cast of characters, all unified by their existence on the edge. On the edge of legality, criminality, their own societies, their own professions, morality. Bacigalupi’s world here is one with no interest in or time for the masses or the middle which, as far as an action driven plot goes, makes perfect sense. His perspective is one held just beyond the breaking point, his characters either spiralling towards it or long since submerged into a chaotic mess of cruelty and survivalist necessity. Which does work, for the most part, as I said this is a well written and eminently readable story. One which is set in a interesting world too, a compendium of human paranoias and fears about climate change, cultural decay and societal oblivion all brought to their pinnacles in one hellish, desertified landscape.

The one problem I found with that though was that his focus is a little bit too relentless. In Wind Up Girl, the first of his books that I read, things weren’t that much less extreme but in some characters at least he did allow a little humanity to survive. Even as it was shattered by another, similarly brutalised, world there were elements and characters which spoke to a remnant of recognisable humanity which wasn’t entirely despairing. With The Water Knife though there’s pretty much no redemption, no trace to be found of anything positive about our species and what minimal nods there are to a world beyond the extremities of the main characters are only ever given as a prop to demolish in the greater service of making everything worse.

I’m not saying this should be a book which offers hope mind, it obviously didn’t set out to be and grim as the reality he’s created is there’s not much scope for it. But even in the world Paolo builds there is evidence of something else, some ongoing collective struggle and sense of community existing within the horror. The shanties of the thirsty future aren’t just killing grounds, the streams of refugees aren’t solely comprised of those who’ve turned to obscene cruelty and violence as a basic state. Again though, as far as the story goes they exist only to further the main cast’s misery, to reinforce and, through suffering, prove their own descents into moral oblivion and incomprehension. There are hints that this is being presented as a comment on the US itself, a condemnation of the spirit of ultra-individualism in times of crisis which, maybe, wouldn’t be the same in other cultures. But if the relentless hopelessness is meant to push that line then it’s almost comically extreme. Pushed too far to make the point as anything short of a hammering horror story.

It’s a lack of balance which stops a good book from being a great one for me. The best exposures of human misery, in my experience, are the ones which don’t forget that there are humans in the story. The ones which don’t forget that, for most people, there is a desire towards community and a sense of security, even in situations which refuse to allow for it. That’s not to say there are happy endings or that some fantastical ‘good guys’ get their moment of victorious glory but there is some desire and, well, hope that things could be more normal. Something which Bacigalupi seems to revel in repeatedly smashing down as fodder for corruption.

On the generous side you could say that, given the issues of the books covers, like climate change, resource scarcity and societal decay an element of over the top grim-darkness is justified. Maybe that was an active choice for this story and, to be fair, in his YA Ship Breaker book there are hints of solidarity and (attempted) decency even amidst a similarly decaying world. With The Water Knife though it’s so completely, resolutely absent that it almost just feels like nihilism. Paolo has concluded that humanity will turn to cruelty without hesitation or even much resistance when circumstances demand it. All of humanity, more or less, with any hold outs falling quickly enough to be exceptions that prove the rule. A certain relish for violence, especially sexual violence, in this book (and The Wind Up Girl) doesn’t do much to dispel that notion. It’s evil all the way down here, with the only question being how long it takes any given character to descend, or be butchered before they can.

That said it’s still a good book, it’s still very well written and very strong in its intent and dystopian vision. Just as The Wind Up Girl was before it. When I circle back to his work though (and I will) it’d be nice, maybe even necessary, for him to allow for a view from the centre. Not one that’s any more upbeat or hopeful perhaps, but one where there are characters at least allowed to attempt decency without being knocked down with knowing disdain by a sense of absolute misery. Perhaps even allow a sense of agency for them, show that not everything, from society to family, is a flimsy front for inherent cruelty.

The Dark Streets Below (Part 2)

Nissan Micra Weapon Car

Part 2 of a disjointed and eclectic series. You can find more from Dale & Steve here.

I am the weapon. I am the blade held at the throat of the barbarians. I need to live this fact, this simple truth, I need to shear away everything beyond it and reduce myself to that final role. If the man named ‘Dale’ lives on it can only be as a mask, a smiling veneer to cover the creature beneath, to cover the tool of justice beneath.

“Are you sure that’s safe mate?”

Steve has sidled over to me, nervous, as always. He doesn’t understand, he shouldn’t understand that the times have defined who I must be and what I must do.

“Only my cousin, Tony, you remember him? Big lad, was a wedding DJ until that fell through, after that he became a welder and he did a course on it too. It can be dangerous, that’s all I’m saying, you should at least be wearing goggles or something.”

The cracks are spreading on Steve’s pretty picture of the world, a spiderweb of fears fracturing his perfect peace and that makes him worry. I try to offer him a smile, or as close to one as the liar’s face of Dale can get. It’s hard to do, when all I see is darkness, but he needs comforting and I’m the only one here to offer it. I have a job to do though, a task for the day – if I’m a weapon then I need to live as one, layer the blades around me.

“That’s fair enough, I’m not saying don’t do it, honest, I’m not but just be careful eh? Besides, I don’t know how you’ll ever drive that thing, I mean you’ve stuck big knives all over it now, parking’ll be a bastard. You can forget re-sale value too, not that there’s much of a market these days anyway, but spray painting that big skull on the front must have knocked at least fifty quid off the price.”

I ignore him and get back to my welding. His worries are nothing but dull noise now, the concerns of civilized man in an age gone to savagery. Besides, the skull looks awesome and what price does a 15 year old Nissan Micra fetch anyway?

“Fair point mate, fair point. Just to let you know though, I think you’ve misspelt ‘Avenger’ too, there’s only one ‘A’.”

Shit. Does it matter? ‘I am the weapon’, I repeat that to myself, trying to shed the oppressive rule of Steve’s saccharine world. My car, my machine, will be the last thing the unrighteous see before they go off to answer for their sins. Does the spelling really matter? I can’t look at him now, the concern on his face is a knife stabbing into the armour that I must surround myself with to survive this world. And my eyes hurt, really hurt, the blue flair of the welding torch has scoured itself into my skull. But the weapon feels no pain, the weapon only delivers it.

“Alright Dale, why don’t you just take a bit of a break eh? I’m first aid trained you know, I got a certificate. Get some water on those eyes and you’ll feel good as new and then you can get back to it. And I bet we can change that ‘a’ to an ‘e’, no problem. Who knows, might even add a few quid to the value? I mean it’s a feature, right?”

I steel my jaw for a moment before killing the flame of my welding torch. Isn’t it strength to know when you need to stop? Even the blade needs sharpening from time to time…

“That’s right, just need a minute to, er, sharpen yourself. Got to say though, all those blades on the wheels won’t do anything for your insurance premiums…”

I am the weapon… fighting against the all consuming mass of human squalor, defending the innocent against dark men of cruel intent… do I still need insurance?

Like this? Try one of my novels, like Crashed America – available in all good realities.