The Builders is a new novella by Daniel Polansky. It looks
at a world populated by anthropomorphic animals – but not the cute kind from
children’s TV. These animals live in a world reminiscent of the Old West –
filled with sharpshooters, gunslingers, and a certain fluid morality. But the
creatures that the narrative follows aren’t exactly heroes – or if they are, it’s
an especially specialised definition.
The world of The Builders is one which presents sharp
features, pared down to the essentials. There’s some talk of events “South of
the Border”, and the driver for the initial events is the replacing of one
entrenched oligarch with another. As a whole, however, the feel is, deliberately
I assume, one of a spaghetti western. There’s
a sense of emptiness about everything – the geography attuned to the characters
that inhabit it. Polansky writes some wonderfully evocative prose; the bar
where the characters find themselves is dingy, dangerous, and dusty – and each
of those attributes becomes clear with an elegance of phrase which was
delightful to read. The world is economically described, but, perhaps due to
this, feels alive. Each gunshot, each floating particle of dust before a storm
of gunfire, comes together in a world where violence pervades everything, and
each interaction has the potential to be fatal. Polansky is a master of atmosphere,
letting the world exude atmosphere onto the reader, showing, rather than
telling. The world he creates is
familiar if you’ve ever seen or read a western, but skewed sufficiently to skew
and subvert expectation.
Something similar may be said of the characters. They’re a
motley and terrifying crew, some recognisable as derived from western archetypes,
others a mix of traits or something entirely individual within a broader genre
brushstroke. As an example, I was particularly fond of the infiltration
specialist who spoke with a broad French accent. There’s gunslingers, schemers,
and trained killers – and each of them has enough character to differentiate
them. Polansky also manages to use the
different species of the characters as a shorthand for character traits, physical
and mental; a mole, for example, is nearly blind, but also rather good at
digging holes – which they acerbically remark on as not being the only thing
they’re good for. Each of the characters
is distinguishable, and carries some personal and species-appropriate quirks –
which make each member of the crew memorable for the reader. From the one-eyed
mouse with the air of barely supressed rage that is the Captain, to the towering
hulk trying to escape from their own affection for mass murder that is the
Badger – they all feel, if not human, certainly real.
The narrative, like the world and the characters, is a
marvel of simplicity. At root, it’s a
tale of revenge. The Captain gathers together the survivors of a crew that
helped him win aa war - and then lose it again – and sets out to wreak
vengeance on those who caused his
current situation. The others sign on for varied motives, but that’s the common
driver – all were hurt, and all are looking for something between peace and
bloody revenge. Mostly the latter, if I’m honest. The text barrels toward a climax with a pace
I’d describe as relentless. It never lets the reader off the hook, and the
lulls between scenes seem more like pauses to reload than moments of quiet
reflection. There’s some excellent character scenes here, especially in what
they convey given their brevity, and they’re bookended with some first-class
action, and some twists and turns in the plot which were rather shocking.
I’ve always thought Polansky was one of the more underrated
authors in fantasy today, and he’s proven his quality again here. If you’re in
the mood for a fantasy-western hybrid, which embraces tropes from both, but
remains unrepentantly original, then this
is absolutely worth your time.
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