In a Victorian era that never was, the Wastelands are a vast expanse stretching between China and Russia; a zone of hallucinations and terrors that nevertheless sticks obediently to its boundaries, marked by huge walls of stone. Biologically rich, the Wastelands are empty of humankind, traversed only by a gigantic steam train sealed against possible incursion and staffed by the daring or desperate. Passengers travelling from Beijing to Moscow or vice versa must sign waivers absolving the company in case of injury or death. The only guide to the journey is the title volume, which provides scant comfort since its author, Valentin Rostov, subsequently disappeared in mysterious circumstances.
The cautious reviewer can perhaps classify this novel as a steampunk climate fiction eco-fable, with a dash of romantasy and an anti-capitalist bent. It could just as easily be a young adult novel as one for older readers; a key character, Zhang Weiwei, is a teenage orphan who was born on board and knows no other reality than the ever-lumbering loco. Strange things happen out in the Wastelands, and it’s advisable for passengers, whether in first or third (there is no second class), to keep the shades down, or at the very least avoid looking out of the windows. A sort of fever has been known to afflict travellers, and the staff have tranquiliser darts for that eventuality. Up in the gun turret is a sniper, and the stokers are primed to keep the wheels turning no matter what. Overseeing the journey is the female captain, a largely absent, God-like figure. Much more visible are two black-clad functionaries from the Trans-Siberia Company, always one Chinese, one Russian to obviate bias. Weiwei calls them the Crows.
