Paul McAuley once described his pair of Jackaroo novels as a trilogy without the difficult middle volume. It may be that he has gone one better in Beyond the Burn Line by condensing two parts into a single book. The transition between these halves might have been easier, though, if there had been a set of covers or a publishing gap between them. As it was, I found the switch between the novel’s two sections,“Archaeologies of Memory”and “The Other Mother,” quite disconcerting. And yet, the novel’s concluding pages beautifully echo and reinforce the mystery at the centre of the first part.
The first half of this novel is catnip for a science fiction reader like me, delivering hints which allow one to build a theory of where, when, and what is going on. The characters have snouts, but on those snouts they sometimes wear glasses. The scholars of this society have, in recent decades, arrived at a theory of selective change. Their more modern trains are powered by batteries, whilst older ones have wood-burning engines. These snippets are strewn across the opening chapters whilst, in the foreground, we are introduced to Pilgrim Saltmire, a servant of a leading scholar, in mourning and keen to continue his employer’s last work. In this society, Pilgrim is unusual because he feels no sexual urges in the annual Season. This provides more insight into his world, adding to growing indications that these “persons,” as they are often described, are quite different from us. Whilst it could have been mere decoration, then, this reference to Pilgrim’s nature makes him subject to prejudice which shapes his character and characterises his world—and which, in due course, becomes directly relevant to the plot.
The work that Pilgrim wishes to complete is an investigation of “the visitors,” astral beings who are seen by many but with whom no one has ever engaged. Are these misinterpreted sightings of natural phenomena? A collective hallucination? Evidence that there is something out there, some other set of beings? Taking the topic seriously has resulted in his master’s reputation being diminished and in his investigations Pilgrim hopes to restore it—or, perhaps, make his own. But without his employer he has few resources and, therefore, little ability to make good on his intent. He returns to his tribe, in the hope of obtaining their backing. It becomes apparent that the setting is Earth, and that the Burn Line of the title is the evidence in the archaeological record of the era in which humanity destroyed itself. Since then, a society of Bears has risen, taken Pilgrim's species as slaves and then itself fallen, six centuries ago, with the Bears themselves gone mad and feral. Now a new continent-wide society of these former slaves is developing, digging in the ruins of Ogre—that is, human—society, and recreating the techne they find there.
Clearly, our species has paid the ultimate price for our hubris. The scars of our existence can still be found in places like Ogre’s Grave, but nature recovers—eventually. 200,000 years after our catastrophes, this planet seems to be a fine place. The travels of the main characters provide the opportunity for McAuley to describe a full and vivid natural world, much like our own. Indeed, the extent to which the plot is entwined with a form of travel writing is reminiscent of planetary romance. McAuley’s work more generally often provides a clear sense of place through his description of setting, whether alien worlds, artificial environments or, as here , something very much like our own landscapes. It is the slower pace of travel in this novel, as in 2020’s War of the Maps, that provides a strong sense of the novel being a planetary adventure.
The scale of a planet becomes all the more apparent when Pilgrim is exiled to the far south, a place of snowy winters. He is tasked with cataloguing a library abandoned by his tribe some decades before and, through the cold dark winter this task provides intellectual satisfaction amidst physical and social deprivation. In the process he discovers a map which may provide more insight into the visitors, and to a possible connection with the madness of the Bears. However, Pilgrim loses this along with the rest of his research, as events once again over take him.
Pilgrim does not seem to be a very lucky protagonist. Nor is he any kind of omnicompetent person. Or even a very active, dynamic individual. The novel’s plot progresses as things happen to him, rather than as a consequence of activities he initiates. As he responds to circumstances, he retains his stubbornness of intent to investigate the visitors, but otherwise he is quite at the mercy of events. This makes for a quiet, contemplative story of someone trying to interpret the facts in front of them just as the reader does. It also reflects the nature of the society he is part of—a people who have never warred and who have long lived within the constraints of nature. There is a gentleness here which is in tune with a sense that these are talking animals rather than “aliens,” giving the story a slight flavour of The Wind in the Willows (1908). Such quietness accentuates any act of violence. Part One’s concluding set piece, with multitudes in the desert attempting to draw down the visitors, takes on a “Burning Man” vibe which is obviously well outside the society’s norms.
In this relative conflagration, Pilgrim’s story is rounded off as he learns the truth of the visitors—the visitors are, of course, humans. As Part Two opens, then, all of the uncertainty about what was happening in his world is removed. I confess that, as I read, it felt as if all the work of comprehension I had done was unnecessary, even though I could pat myself on the back for getting it (mostly) right. Perhaps my discomfort was intensified by recognising that Pilgrim’s story was done. But, of course, “The Other Mother” has a different purpose from Part One.
In the novel’s second half, then, our protagonist is the human Ysbel Moonsdaughter and the setting is forty years on from humanity’s First Contact with the people. Their Mother is an AI (for want of a better term) based on the Moon, with an additional human foothold on the place we call Hawaii. The “talking animal” elements of Part One are partially recast. Uplift in science fiction usually involves an advanced species carefully enhancing the cognition and society of “lesser” species. Here, instead an unmanaged Uplift. effect of genetic experimentation in the last days of humanity. There is an interesting tension between a feeling that our own species should command the reader’s loyalty against a loyalty to the people who populate this world now, and whom the reader has grown to understand in the previous 220 pages.
This same tension shapes Ysbel and her responses. Her role in the Bureau of Indigenous Affairs is intended to engage with, and gain the confidence of, “the natives.” Yet this is of course a form of colonisation by humanity, with its advanced technology and former claim to the planet. Given they can hop across the planet and up to the moon, gift techne to the people or withhold it, “the natives” are outmatched. Ysbel’s work is a way of softening the blow.
Ysbel is consequently a more active protagonist than Pilgrim, which generates a more active story. She can be more active because Ysbel has access to the resources of humanity. An understanding of the geography of the whole planet, and a story of her place in it, gives her confidence in her agency. Humanity’s capacity for violence means Ysbel is considerably more threatened and endangered in her work than Pilgrim was in his. Consequently the action—shaped by Ysbel showing the same attribute of stubbornness as Pilgrim—shows her to be as much a stalking horse as an independent actor. Her determination to understand why multiple human and “native” groups are chasing Pilgrim’s lost map puts her, again like Pilgrim himself, at odds with elements of her own society. She discovers there is more than one AI active in human society and she is drawn into their hidden conflict. The revelation that humanity’s AIs meddled with and destroyed Bear society is destabilising for both the species now inhabiting the planet. It seems Earth would have been better off hadf humans never attempted to reclaim it.
Amidst the unpacking at the start of “The Other Mother,” the novel displays considerable subtlety in the sharing and withholding of information, particularly through expectations of viewpoint and narration. The commonly held beliefs of the main characters and their societies can be told directly and fit the facts they know. Even when new possible explanations for outstanding questions appear, the reader knows little more than the characters and must undertake the same journey of understanding as they do. Much is revealed but Ysbel appears to be on the edge of further understanding as the book concludes.
Beyond the Burn Line is a beautifully crafted brew of First Contact, Uplift and the ecological novel. It contains several reflections on the power of dominant narratives and the disturbance caused when they are overturned; and it asks the reader to participate in understanding the world. It is a pleasure to read.