Walking to Aldebaran is a sci-fi novella from Adrian
Tchaikovsky, whose other sci-fi works, including the seminal Children of Time have a very strong
reputation. This one is an intriguing blend of stone cold horror, a
well-voiced, convincingly characterised protagonist, and some Big Ideas which
I’d like to see looked into a little more.
So, lets talk about the world. It’s a rock. An inhospitable
rock, floating in a less-than salubrious neighbourhood of the solar system. A
rock without much going for it at all. Except that once you’ve walked into the
hoes in this rock, once you’ve left behind the world you know – there are
rooms. Some of them are lethal. Some of them are decrepit. Some are filled with
treasures. It’s like a lucky dip, where half the prizes are bear traps. And why
would you want to go in there? Because some of these chambers empty out into
somewhere else. You can walk a day or two through a rock that wasn’t two days
across when you entered it, dodging horrifying creatures and environmental
hazards – and come out in Alpha Centauri. Or…somewhere else, anyway. But the
place is a maze, and a puzzle, and it’s not at all unlikely to stick something
sharp in your ribcage. It also has a penchant for darkness, for tunnels you
want to creep along very carefully, in case you run into something with more
teeth and tentacles than thumbs. And for darkness, because if what you’re likely
to see is teeth and tentacles, why would you want to.
All of this is realised in the protagonist’s monologue, a
person who’s been trapped in this somewhat-deadly environment for a while.
Their chatty, colloquial style overlays the bedrock tunnels, the sinuous
tentacles, the bloodied claws, the necessary blood and murder and isolation and
death with a folksy charm that manages to both lighten and accentuate the mood
of creeping horror.
This is not a place for people. It’s a wilderness, with a
razor under every rock, and a rattlesnake under every razor. The quiet,
uncaring lethality is evoked with precision, and you can’t deny the emotional
impact – the creeping horror, the disgust and terror that moves inexorably from
the page to the reader.
Speaking of disgust and terror – the protagonist is our
voice, our eyes in an absolute darkness. He is Gary, a human astronaut, from a
mission dragged halfway across the solar system to investigate this rock that
leads to elsewhere. And he is alone. As the text progresses, we discover more
of the context around his isolation, about how Gary ended up wandering the
halls. In the meantime, his voice is relentlessly, worryingly calm. It digs at
the past with forensic razors, and it approaches the present with concern and a
blend of enthusiasm and fatigue which is worryingly familiar. Gary is tired.
Gary has been walking for a long time. Gary wants to see other people again, to
see something other than the rock again. And we see some of the past with Gary,
in his memory – in the mission to the rock, in the way that people interact
with him then, in the stories he tells of friends and antagonists. At the same
time, there’s a slow, crawling sense that Gary is telling a story, in a place
where any mis-step can be monstrous, in order to stay sane. There are changes,
movements in the dark. The reader is following their narrator down a
rabbit-hole of terror and transition. Gary in the world is a person, a person
you’d be more than happy to take out to dinner -a hero. Gary in the rock is,
perhaps, something else. There’s a sublime artistry to the prose, making Gary
at once sympathetic and troubling; the reader can feel his pain and loneliness
and despair, and the madness creeping along at the edge of vision. We can see
the golden idol, and we can see the feet of clay. This is Gary’s story, and
we’re along for the ride – and for that, it feels real – often horrifyingly so.
The plot? Well, it’s the story of Gary trying to find his
way home. Of walking through fire and water to find his people. Of defeating
death-traps, and making friends (or making enemies). It’s the tory of how the
walk changes Gary, how it takes what he wants and what he expects, and who he
is, and gets inside him, changes his perspective. It’s a story of change, of the
horrors and wonders of exploration and the horrors and wonders of humanity.
There’s a lot there – the normal, the cold coffee and banter between astronauts
on a mission, the strange - the crushing rocks and strange entities beneath the
earth – and the liminal barrier between the two, as Gary tries to find his way
home.
Is it any good? Oh my yes. It’s sharp, thoughtful and
tightly plotted. The dialogue is pitch-perfect and the story will have you
hanging on every word. It’s a clever story, too, with some high-concept ideas
to play with which will reward curiosity. And it’s a multi-layered
character-piece, in a story which demands character from both those in the
story and those reading it. It’s a great story, and one I thoroughly recommend
picking up.
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