But I have a niggling problem with the book.

 

It’s certainly not that the fact that I’m feeling over-familiar with Baxter’s work. Even though he seems to be writing so many novels (it feels like a dozen a year, but it can’t be that many, can it?) that it’s difficult to keep up, Stephen Baxter has recently become a far more diverse and accomplished author than I ever imagined possible. Some authors who churned out so much material might be criticised for watering their work down or drowning readers with filler.

 

That’s certainly not true with Baxter.

 

Even after years as an established author, he’s still visibly improving as a novelist. Some writers arrive with a splash but never better their early work. There are plenty of writers for whom the Xeelee sequence would have been the apogee of their writerly lives. But Baxter, as he gets older, is getting more ambitious in theme and setting. He’s writing historical novels, near-future thrillers and still working on the wide-scale, cold hearted space operas – and he’s having success at everything he tries.

 

The more he stretches himself the better he seems to become. Baxter seems to be going through a kind of a mid-life crisis of creativity that has seen him measurably grow as a writer. He might never have the easy grace with language that some writers are blessed with (he’s not got the natural talent of China Mieville, whose The City in The City I’ve also just finished, for example) and readers shouldn’t come to Flood expecting poetic flourishes. but he’s becoming considerably more than just a competent, workmanlike stylist.

 

Flood sees Baxter turn his attention to an environmental disaster – the rising waters echo global warming, but actually for Baxter’s purposes that global-disaster-in-waiting isn’t anywhere near disastrous enough. From the opening pages in a rain-soaked Spain through the gradual collapse of society, Flood follows the fortunes of a group of friends as the world disintegrates. By tracking the fates of a diverse group, Baxter gets to mix a helicopter view of the growing crisis with the more personal/emotional stories of those on the ground.

 

If early Baxter might be said to have had a recurring problem it was with its human characters – as Baxter’s work tends to deal with the universe on unimaginably vast scales, the fate of his human characters could come to seem very small beer – which was, of course, part of Baxter’s point. However, it didn’t make for novels that were immediately accessible.

 

Flood certainly demonstrates how Baxter’s writing of people has improved down the years. Here is characters have distinct shapes and edges and motivations and feel like real humans caught up in disasters beyond their control. If, as the disaster unfolds, their fates and their aspirations are all washed away by the flooding it is at least clear that what has happened matters to them. Their suffering and (short-lived) triumphs are given depth and resonance.

And while, in the end (as with so much of Baxter’s work), it eventually becomes clear that their little human lives are mere specks in the face of a disaster beyond any comprehension or control, at least it is clear that this is Baxter’s intent and not just the case of a lack of authorial interest in the fate of his creations.

 

No none of these things were problems.

 

What I didn’t buy in Flood was more basic and, therefore, in some ways more annoying.

 

I just couldn’t work out where all the bloody water was coming from.

 

Vast oceans in the crust I can buy, maybe, but why are they suddenly gushing UPWARDS against gravity and air pressure and stuff?

 

Baxter does some arm waving and attempted prestidigitation to distract us and persuade us that the book contains an answer, but I didn’t buy it – especially given the sheer scale of Flood.

 

So even though I was more-or-less gripped by the story and liked the writing and totally enjoyed the book, I couldn’t (like the characters) ever get away from the fact of the ever rising waters. I was credulous while London drowned, less so when the last of the British Isles went under but by the time Denver, the Andes, Switzerland and finally Mount Everest herself went under, well, it was like an itch I couldn’t scratch – driving me nuts.

 

Does it matter that I don’t buy the fundamental driver of a disaster novel?

 

It turns out, not that much. I still had a great time with this book and as I understand a sequel, Ark, is on the way, I have no problem recommending you pick up Flood. It’s a journey worth taking.