I’ve dedicated enough of my life to the study of media and popular culture to know, with certainty, that no text, no matter how frivolous it appears, is devoid of political meaning. This is true regardless of the author’s intent. Even the act of producing written work assumes certain freedoms and privileges.
But what could possibly be political about a snarky, pulpy space opera like Galaxy Grifter?
I’m glad you asked.
Firstly, we have its very existence. Writing is political. Writing as a woman in a genre still heavily gatekept by men—even more so. While it’s true that a handful of female sci-fi authors have collected accolades in recent years, this is not representative of the wider industry. Even those few “big names” are consistently paid less than their male counterparts. Yet, we persevere.
Secondly, as I’ve touched on in my think-peace on The Daily Nerd, any vision of space-faring humans, no matter how dark or cynical, is a form of “hopepunk.” Because it assumes a future where we haven’t erased ourselves from existence. That requires adherence to a certain political course.
But what about the story itself? A story without “good guys,” where the protagonist is a selfish con man with sociopathic tendencies?
Grab a hot drink, this may take a while.
At a very surface level, the world in Galaxy Grifter is casually diverse, featuring representation of different cultures, naming conventions, genders, and disabilities, etc. The fact that humanity was largely displaced from Earth was a political choice. The decision to make Supayuyan, a fictional language, the dominant lingua franca instead of, say, English, was… you guessed it. Political! Dominant language is always tied to economic power.
Even the choice to center a selfish protagonist who operates outside the bounds of law and morality, yet remains humanity’s best hope for survival, is a systemic critique of sorts. Morality in SFF is heavily influenced by Abrahamic religions that assume the necessity of sacrifice and redemption. That is a political stance, whether authors are doing it consciously or not. If you look at pre-christian literature (pagan mythology, for example) you will see very different patterns.
“Morality,” as we understand it, is culturally subjective and scientifically unmeasurable. One day I will write an essay about its limitations within the literary landscape, but in short—I can guarantee the people storming the capitol in 2021, assumed they were acting morally, making them perhaps more dangerous than someone who doesn’t care about “being a good person.”
Likewise, I find it difficult to imagine writing from the perspective of rulers or kings (although I’m sure I’ll challenge myself one day), which is why I chose to focus on the everyman/ everywoman. Take Vera, for example. She’s trapped on an asteroid ruled by the mafia, crushed by her deceased parents’ debt. I expected her realization that she’d never pay it off, no matter how much she worked, to be deeply resonant for readers. Isn’t that our collective reality?? For most of us, hard work doesn’t guarantee a future and barely pays for necessities. Thanks to politics.
Later, Vera reveals that most people born on Blackjack don’t even have IDs, “like they don’t exist.” If you pause for a moment to consider what this means, you’ll realise these people have never had something like a right to vote, and no path to a life elsewhere. It’s not a “your voice matters” kind of culture, but a “shut up and not ask questions to survive” kind. She doesn’t get to choose the kinds of people she has to work with. Vera’s perspective was heavily inspired by my own “adventures in immigration,” as I like to call them, a series of events that offered me a poignant glimpse into what it’s like to feel sub-human.
Compare this to Levi’s description of Blackjack as a “haven for lowlives and outlaws.” That gap in perception is the definition of class-based prejudice. The choice to contrast the dusty barracks of Blackjack with the affluent, eco-friendly, gated suburbs of Earth was also political. I remember an early reader mentioning Earthers didn’t even look “that wealthy,” living in cottages with green yards, exposing a remarkable lack of awareness of what life looks like outside a Western suburban bubble.
Ultimately, both main characters are broken by their environments. They don’t strive to change the world because they’ve seen through the “manufacture of consent” that defines modern Western society— a system of governance that makes people believe they have a choice. They didn’t build this system, and they don’t pretend to have the answers. To quote the latest Katsye song quoting Socrates (not something I’d ever expect to see myself type): “True wisdom is in knowing you know nothing, ooh.”
Galaxy Grifter is written from the perspective of the disillusioned and disempowered. It’s a story about selfish survival and tainted connection which some may be quick to judge because it’s not swoony or aspirational. But it also highlights how even those who opt out of politics aren’t unaffected by it. And that even an irredeemable a-hole like Levi, with little empathy and no moral compass, is capable of grasping something that seems to evade some present-day politicians—
that if the galaxy goes up in flames, he’s going down with it.
Like some other SF authors, I have absolutely no interest in preachy narratives. But I don’t consider myself a part of the dominant class and therefore do not have the luxury of willful ignorance.
