Review by Kyle Muntz
Clash Books / September, 2020 / 114 pp
In Silverfish, an experimental, Afrofuturist novella, the twenty-first century ends with a corporate takeover of every aspect of American life. The country descends into an era of “profit wars” as lobotomized, cybernetic “Angels” hunt the few “primitives” who refuse to obey this technological autocracy. The primitives live in the “uncivilized” lands where untamed vegetation still grows—a stark contrast to the cities, where all food must be artificial and even human language has been converted to computer code. A state of constant warfare exists to sate the fluctuating whim of the Dow, whose changes are monitored constantly throughout the day. But no matter how many primitives the Angels kill, things never seem to get any better.
This harsh, alienating world slowly comes into focus throughout Rone Shavers’s slim, 100-page volume—yet it remains elusive. Reading the blurbs, I noticed none seemed to describe the same book. Would this be a feat of stylistic virtuosity, reminiscent of Samuel R. Delany’s forays into postmodern speculative fiction? Or perhaps the writer was more of a modern Borges, with his penchant for allusion and philosophical themes? Or were the book’s cerebral, Neal Stephenson-esque leanings only the gateway to a charged political vision, one dearly relevant in our increasingly uncertain times?
The action begins from the perspective of a biomechanical Angel in the midst of slaughter. Her thoughts, such as they are, introduce the numericized language that infuses so much of the novel. Everything is quantified; even the human body is a raw material. As she tears them to shreds, she thinks:
These sad, misguided beings will all die, partially because they are too primitive to live. To defend a territory they don’t exploit through contractual obligation or market necessity has predetermined their outcome. They will die, but to maim them, to sever their arms and legs, would be better. Prices on unadulterated bone marrow are especially high this quarter, but this is not a harvesting mission.
I suspect Shavers enjoyed writing passages like this. He seems to revel in this scathing, almost comical language where “market necessity” infuses every level of meaning, and human life has never been less valuable. His style is clear and concise; this 100-page book might have been 500 in the hands of another author, which will appeal to readers with a fondness for literary compression. Its grotesque caricature of capitalism often feels painfully obvious, but each page demonstrates a remarkable linguistic creativity. Still, I found I often appreciated it more as a formal experiment than as satire.
During her mission, the Angel is knocked offline and imprisoned in an unknown location. Once she is awakened, her connection to the web lost, a disembodied voice speaks to her. It reveals that Angels were once human, and it wants to help her discover her own past—even as Clayton, a corporate “combat associate,” is sent to rescue her. But first Clayton must endure a series of briefings with his “financial advisor.” Like other combat associates, Clayton is unlikely to survive each new mission as he works for his next promotion. Unfortunately, this advisor, who claims to be working in Clayton’s best interest, never has any good news, no matter how well Clayton performs on the field:
And with regard to your mission payout, you will receive assets in the form of a transfer to your liquid account, pending approval of a planner who will provide you with more personalized information. However, with the amount of jumps on record, you have a significant pre-tax penalty of 18.25% due to the new quarterly regulations and after-tax fees of 38 cents on the dollar. Should you choose to reinvest your assets and forgo payments in this instance, another jump can nullify most of your pre-earnings penalties.
Clayton’s story later becomes one of self-realization as he attempts to escape the system that imprisons him. It is all a game, the text says. But why do we keep playing? “The game is stupid,” Clayton suggests, “but if I win, it’s gonna make me a lot richer.” Shavers hammers this point into the reader with the blunt force of a charging linebacker, often so powerfully the book’s other themes get pushed aside. In a world where only numbers have value, what space is left for selfhood? How have humans been transformed by this mechanized language? The text leaves the reader space to ponder its many themes—possibly too much. However, its resounding anti-corporate message never fails to come through.
Silverfish’s oppressive, claustrophobic world seems inescapable and unchanging—until, all at once, it isn’t. The final chapter delivers us to a time when the “Profit Wars” have ended…but all the important events happen off the page. The novel shows only the very beginning of this revolution, as Clayton and the Angel resolve to dismantle the monumental systems that imprison them. Their end seems inevitable, almost fated. But in our world, where simply being aware of the problem isn’t enough, how can we follow in their footsteps? Today, this novel’s future no longer feels entirely metaphorical, but the answer to overturning oppressive systems remains elusive, both in the real world and in Silverfish’s. Some may appreciate the narrative’s sudden, uplifting transformation; others may find a crucial lack, even a gullible, self-satisfied limit of vision. Things will inevitably fix themselves, the novel seems to suggest, as long as we take that first step.
Silverfish is both more straightforward than I expected and more challenging. It’s a book of words without context, of voices echoing in mechanical darkness. Some chapters are monologues spoken by an unnamed narrator to an unspecified listener; others record disembodied conversations otherwise devoid of exposition. Every page brims with scintillating, mysterious terms that are only slowly defined. Why are humans referred to as “wetware?” What kind of organization employs “combat associates” rather than soldiers? What are these “silverfish” that seem to be so powerful and dangerous? The novella’s secrets unfurl slowly, but it eventually reveals far more than I expected it to. At times, Silverfish seems more like an experiment in literary form than a narrative; yet, beneath the surface lie the bones of a sci-fi thriller.
Today’s publishing environment is not friendly to market irregularities like Silverfish. This challenging work presents many obstacles to its readers, and represents a bold risk for both author and publisher. Reading it, I often felt a cold, metallic buzzing in my head—like the whir of static on a planet with no humans left to hear it. I felt a deep sense of the limits of human life. Time seemed to slow. I felt bereft of all joy, all enjoyment, all hope for the future. I was often filled with admiration for Shavers’s ambition, though I finished feeling this may be only preparation for a longer, more substantial work to come. Silverfish is certainly not for everyone. But a few special readers will find it, and it may be just the book they’re looking for.
Kyle Muntz is the author of Scary People (Eraserhead Press, 2016), and Green Lights (Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2014). In 2016, he received an MFA in fiction from the University of Notre Dame; that year, he also won the Sparks Prize for short fiction. His writing has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine, Fiction International, Electric Literature, and elsewhere.