In Arctic Rising, Tobias Buckell presents a gripping and convincing near-future scenario that is composed of many beautifully machined speculative parts, which all cohere into a stirring, verisimilitudinous portrait of our world circa 2050. Additionally, he provides a thriller-style plot worthy of Hitchcock or Neal Stephenson. But at the heart of the novel is a single thought seed: "What if a wild-eyed, maverick geo- engineering project intended to counter climate change was indeed carried out?" Around this notion Buckell secretes a pearl of a book, with many intricate laminations.
Buckell's previous novels have been funky, baroque, rather gonzo outings: hipster space operas. In this novel, he strips down his prose, characters, and plot to a more "commercial" level without sacrificing his unique voice or genre integrity. He concentrates on extrapolations of the Brunner-Gibson- Doctorow-Stross variety to produce a propulsive and readable novel that performs SF's essential function of creating a totally believable world ripped from tomorrow's headlines.
In Buckell's future, global warming has opened up the North Polar regions into a new frontier, rich with arable land, fresh habitable niches, and valuable resources of all stripes. Existing governments have stepped into the breach in places, and new polities have formed in others, including most prominently a floating city-state named Thule. (Buckell is as generous with his social science speculations as he is with his environmental ones.)
But this bustling new free enterprise zone is being threatened by the actions of the Gaia Corporation, whose secret macro- engineering scheme promises to undo the new realities and restore the status quo ante. In this setting, the novel's sly title becomes a three-pronged phrase: the Arctic is rising as a powerhouse region even as its ocean waters inexorably rise, and at the same time that its citizens are rebelling. Buckell keeps these three plates spinning with a juggler's precision.
While on patrol one day, Anika Duncan, Nigerian-born dirigible pilot for the United Nations Polar Guard, intercepts a tramp freighter doing suspicious things. Shot down by the crew, she survives, only to find that what she has witnessed has put her on the hit lists of several covert, competing factions. Over the course of just a few days, Anika will be hounded and chivvied across the Arctic (giving Buckell a plausible reason to show us an impressive range of venues), her life in constant danger. She'll lose old friends, make new ones, and generally comport herself with bravery, resourcefulness, and intelligence, eventually ferreting out the true dimensions of the plot and taking bold, risky actions to stymie it. Though she fits the type of a plucky action hero well enough, Buckell's depiction of Anika is a solid, flexible, rich construction, endearing to any reader, I am sure, and providing a beautiful entry point into this radically different world.
Buckell's supporting characters exhibit similar depth and heft. And he's not above taking some satirical jabs at the more archetypical among them, mainly the founders of Gaia, Paige Greer and Ivan Cohen, who started as college whiz kids but became morally problematical Dr. No analogues. *Cough* Google *Cough*
In the best tradition of this subgenre, Buckell spins off great satellite ideas around his Big Idea on every page. Think that Chinese manufacturers like Foxconn represent the apex of such mercenary ventures? What about floating factory ships that hover above oil feedstocks and churn out plastic toys in situ? That's just the barest sample of Buckell's lateral thinking.
Buckell who was born in the Caribbean has long favored a multicultural approach to his fiction, and he continues in that vein here, careful to present a wide range of ethnicities and worldviews, from Anika on down. And if this book has any slant, it's a liberal-leftist-netizen leaning. But at the same time, Buckell revels in enough gunplay and violence and Realpolitik to deter any charges of touchy-feely wimpiness. In fact, although Anika agonizes over various deaths and brutalities, with each fatality being accorded proper moral gravitas, she shows no hesitation in shooting up the scenery when necessary. One might even charge Buckell with a little too much enjoyment of the resulting carnage. But then again, Big Ideas generally leave big swaths of creative destruction in their wake.
Author of several acclaimed novels and story collections, including Fractal Paisleys, Little Doors, and Neutrino Drag, Paul Di Filippo was nominated for a Sturgeon Award, a Hugo Award, and a World Fantasy Award all in a single year. William Gibson has called his work "spooky, haunting, and hilarious." His reviews have appeared in The Washington Post, Science Fiction Weekly, Asimov's Magazine, andThe San Francisco Chronicle.
Reviewer: Paul Di Filippo
Read an Excerpt
Centuries ago, the fifty-mile-wide mouth of the Lancaster Sound imprisoned ships in its icy bite. But today, the choppy polar waters between Baffin Island to the south of the sound, and Devon Island on the north, twinkled in the perpetual sunlight of the Arctic’s summer months, and tons of merchant traffic constantly sailed through the once impossible-to-pass Northwest Passage over the top of Canada.
A thousand feet over the frigid, but no longer freezing and ice-choked waters, the seventy-five-meter-long United Nations Polar Guard airship Plover hung in a slow-moving air current. The turboprop engines growled to life as the fat, cigar-shaped vehicle adjusted course, then fell silent.
Inside the cabin of the airship, Anika Duncan checked her readings, then leaned over the matte-screened displays in the cockpit to look out the front windows.
The airship’s cabin had once held twelve passengers, but was now retrofitted with a bunk, a small kitchen area, supply closets, and a cramped navigation station. Tourists had once sat in the cabin underneath the giant gasbag as the airship glided over New York’s tallest buildings. After that tour of duty, the United Nations Polar Guard purchased it well used and very cheap.
Airships didn’t use much fuel. They could put observers into the air to monitor ship traffic for days at a time, wafting from position to position with air currents.
It saved money. And Anika knew the UNPG was always struggling with a lean budget. It showed on her paycheck, too.
“Which ship should we take a closer look at, Tom?” Anika asked.
She’d unzipped her bright red cold-sea survival suit and rolled it down to her waist, as it was too hot for her to wear fully zipped up as regulations required. She had her frizzy hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail: a week without relaxant meant it had a mind of its own right now. She’d consider letting it turn to dreads if she could, but the UNPG didn’t approve. And yet, she thought to herself, they expected her to sit up in the air for a week without a real shower.
Someone once told her to just shave it. But she liked her hair. Why hide it? As long as it was tied up, regs said she could have longer hair.
Now Thomas Hutton, her copilot, was all about the regs and then some. He had his blond hair millimeter short. Shorter than required. But even he wore his survival suit halfsies.
It was one of those balancing acts: if they kept it cold enough in the airship’s cabin to wear the suits zipped up, using the tiny, cramped toilet was torture.
Particularly, Tom said, for the guys.
“Tom?” she prompted.
“Yeah, I’m looking, I’m looking.” He walked back from the nav station, the top half of his suit floppily smacking along behind him as he peered down through the windows along the way.
Four ships were funneling their way into the Lancaster Sound from the east, where Greenland lurked beneath the curve of the horizon. The ships looked like bath toys from up at this height. Three of the ships had large wing-shaped parafoils hanging in the sky overhead. The parafoils, connected to the ships by cables, reached up to where the strong winds were blowing to drag the ships through the water.
“I want to take a closer look at that oil burner,” Tom finally announced.
“You are getting predictable,” Anika said as he slid into the copilot’s seat. Though one of the things she liked about Tom was his easy predictability. Her own life had been chaotic enough before coming so far north. It was a different pace up here. A different chapter of her life. And she liked it. “It is supposed to be a random check?”
He pointed at the black plume of smoke trailing from the stacks of the fourth ship in the distance. “That one sticks out like a sore thumb. Hard to say no to.”
Anika tapped the scratched and well-worn touch screens around her. She pulled up video from one of the telephoto-lens cameras mounted on the prow of the cabin and zoomed in on the fourth ship.
Thirty meters long with a bulbous-prowed hull, flaking rust, and colored industrial gray, the ship was pushing fifteen knots in its rush to pass through the sound.
“They seem to be in a hurry.”
Tom glanced over. “Fifteen knots? She hits a berg at that speed she’ll Titanic herself quickly enough.”
The Arctic still had an island of ice floating around the actual Pole. It was kept alive by a fusion of conservationists, tourism, and the creation of a semi-country and series of ports that sprang up called Thule. They’d used refrigerator cables down off platforms to keep the ice congealed around themselves despite the warmed-up modern Arctic, a trick learned from old polar oil riggers who’d done that to create temporary ice islands back at the turn of the century.
It was an old trick that didn’t really work anywhere else but near the Pole now. But even the carefully artificial polar ice island that was Thule still calved chunks, some of which would get as far south as Lancaster.
Hit one at the speed this ship was going, they’d sink easily enough.
“Shall we get closer to him and sniff him over?” Anika asked. “Remind him to slow down.”
Tom grinned. “Yeah, their credentials should come through shortly. The scatter camera’s up. Let’s see if this ship’s radioactive.”
* * *
The neutron scatter camera, mounted on a gimbaled platform right next to the telephoto cameras, hunted for radioactive signatures. Port authorities had been using them to hunt for potential terrorist bombs for decades. But what they found, over time, was a secondary use for the scatter cameras: catching nuclear waste dumpers.
At the turn of the century, after the tsunami that washed over East Asia, UN monitors found themselves contacted by East African countries about industrial pollutants washing up on the beaches. People had been falling sick after approaching large, well-insulated drums washed up from deep in the ocean. People had also been showing statistically high rates of cancer near coastlines throughout countries where standing navies and coast guards just didn’t exist.
Toxic waste, including spent nuclear fuel, was clearly getting dumped off non-monitored coasts by commercial shipping.
The gig started when a shady company got the lowest bid for safely storing fuel or industrial waste. Ostensibly, they were transporting it out of country to another location.
In reality, once offshore of some struggling African country with no navy, they’d dump it.
Even so-called “first world” countries weren’t immune. A statistical study of waste-transporting merchant ships thirty years ago showed a higher number of merchant ships “sinking” in the deeper Mediterranean.
Charter an old leaker, stuff it with barrels full of whatever the host country and its businesses didn’t want. Take the big payout, head out to sea, and then experience difficulties. Instant massive profit.
The African and Mediterranean dumping had faded with the EU and East African naval buildups and public outrage. More dumping was going on off Arabic coasts these days. The post oil-boom nations were too busy trying to destroy each other for what little black gold was left to have the capability to worry about what was going on off their coastlines.
But now the Arctic was also seeing dumping. With the whole Northwest Passage open and free of ice, merchant ships could cross from Russia to Greenland, on through Canadian polar ports, and then to Alaska. Which also meant they crossed over some very deep Arctic water.
As nuclear power boomed across Eurasia and the Americas, with smaller corporations offering small pebble-bed nuclear reactors to energy-hungry towns and small cities demanding an alternative to oils needed in the plastics industries, the waste had to go somewhere.
Somewhere was more often than not … out here where Anika patrolled.
Hence the old, repurposed UNPG spotter airships with scatter cameras. Anika and her fellow pilots hung above the Northwest Passage helping monitor ship traffic that came from the world over. But mainly, they were hunting for ships with radioactive signatures.
The program had proven effective enough. Word had gotten out, thanks in part to a major UNPG advertising campaign online. For the past seven months Anika’s job had become rather routine.
Maybe even a little boring.
Which is why, for a moment, she didn’t notice the sound of the scatter camera alarm going off.
Copyright © 2012 by Tobias S. Buckell