Whether parable or polemic, fantasy or futurism, science fiction has long provided sanctuary for the queer writer’s imagination. Yet to imagine such ideological asylum as a shelter opposes the genre’s speculative, even inquisitive nature—not to mention the queer sensibilities and epistemes of the writers who so often champion it. Instead, let us think of this chamber as a cave—arguably the least forgiving of naturally-occurring strictures (quick to crumble, quicker to collapse). But, waking in this strange refuge, the writer hears a sound. And again. That famous interrogative—perhaps of aphoristic quality by now—echoes: What if? What if? And with every question reverberating across the chamber, the genre expands and tunnels toward new answers. However, while anyone can spelunk their way around a cave of their own making, wielding this speculation toward a narrative end is a different matter.
In Natasha Pulley’s sixth novel and first foray into science fiction, the genre’s innate generativity contends with an underdeveloped and disorienting execution. Compelled to flee Earth by threat of war and ecological collapse, January Stirling, former principal in London’s Royal Ballet, seeks refuge in the Chinese colony of Tharsis on Mars. De-gendered, powered by light, and ruled jointly by an elected consul and the corporate families who first terraformed it, Mars is an ambitious world to render.
Add to that the fact that (in only seven generations) settlers have grown fragile under the planet’s lower gravity and now persecute all refugees from Earth lest they lock themselves in an armored handicap or undergo a dangerous “naturalization” procedure, and finding a common ground between the two is a tall order. Especially if the love interest of your book’s central romance is a fascist.
In a bid to win the consular election, a xenophobic politician named Aubrey Gale has had the clever (and narratively convenient) idea to marry an “Earthstronger”—only to make naturalization mandatory upon their electoral victory. While reprehensible to January in every way, Gale’s publicity stunt is a chance at survival, perhaps his last one.
What ensues is a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome—one which the reader must watch transpire over nearly 500 pages. What begins as a relationship with communication the strength of some string and two tin cans graduates to that of a sturdy bridge which, eventually, January crosses without looking back, abandoning his morals and values completely for those of his oppressor. The book opens on January confident in his role as a spirited revolutionary, set on liberating his fellow refugees and equitizing life on Mars. The image we are left with at its end is that of a detention camp preparing to process new arrivals from Earth—with January and Gale overseeing their gradual introduction into society. Who is the victor here? And what is the lesson! Even the relationship’s saving grace is a plot manoeuvre which, while shifting the blame for something especially horrendous onto an ancillary character, doesn’t absolve Gale of his xenophobic beliefs and despotic ambitions—or at least it shouldn’t.
Is this our queer love story?
In an unsurprising concession to the trope economy, Pulley pitches The Mars House as “a queer sci-fi novel about an Earth refugee and a Mars politician who fake marry to save their reputations—and their planet.” Not only does the narrative framework of this conceit read increasingly as a chore to which Pulley only begrudgingly returns between infodumps, but it also claims to be something it is not. If it weren’t for Pulley’s quirky writing, her zany characters, and some oddball worldbuilding choices involving talking mammoths, I may have discerned more quickly the deceitful nature of calling this book queer.
The matter of gender in science fiction is as storied as it is complex. Opinions will always differ when it comes to one’s preferred representation of genderqueer characters, but generally, I believe instituting an agender society on the basis of a homonym may do trans and genderqueer people a disservice. While Pulley is manifestly enticed by linguistics, it seems to dominate conversations about gender completely.
During the establishment of Tharsis as a colony, all gendered language was abolished. To explain this, Pulley fails to touch on any topics of identity, embodiment, or transness even abstractly. Instead, she gives us a language lesson: in Mandarin, all pronouns are pronounced the same, even if they vary on the page. To solve the many problems that accompany gender, Tharsis performs a kind of linguistic fusion, merging all Mandarin pronouns into a singular signifier. And with that, poof goes the patriarchy? Not only does this render Mars’ resulting population of nonbinary citizens the subjects of an arbitrary linguistic prescription, but it puts gender identity under authority of the state—a prospect all too familiar and frightening.
This attempt at linguistic relativity is simplistic at best since Pulley never explains how any issues about gender have been solved as result. In fact, the only indication we receive as to Mars’ solution to issues of gendered violence is that Tharsis has a federal conviction rate of ninety-eight percent. Are we to believe that the solutions to all gendered issues are either a. compulsory de-gendering (even for trans folks of differing identities along the gender spectrum) or b. mass incarceration?
I very much doubt Natasha Pulley intended to cause such a debate, but by relegating all questions about genderqueerness back to the functions of a segregated State which so vehemently opposes immigration and democracy, she doesn’t only avoid them, she renders them unsayable. The book’s linguistic determinism and bureaucratized view of gender strips it not only of its individual expression, but of all the joyful, unruly, and affirming messiness which accompanies gender expansiveness.
What reviews like this often come down to are questions of authorial intent. Since Natasha Pulley is queer herself and has a history of writing complex and sympathetic queer characters, I believe The Mars House is simply an unfortunate fluke in her career, and hopefully not a sign of what is to come. But, if I hadn’t read her prior work, could I as easily assume she wouldn’t vote for House Gale herself? What if I had fallen for January and Gale’s relationship, what would that mean? What if I grew to sympathize with the oppressor, just because I was told they were queer? These questions, I’ll let echo, too.
