A Half-Built Garden

The climate apocalypse has happened. Humans woke up to the danger, but a little bit too late. Over one billion people died. But the world on the other side of that apocalypse is not entirely grim. The corporations responsible for so much of the damage have been pushed out of society and isolated on their independent "aislands," traded with only grudgingly for the few commodities the rest of the world has not yet learned how to manufacture without them. Traditional governments have largely collapsed, although they cling to increasingly irrelevant trappings of power. In their place arose the watershed networks: a new way of living with both nature and other humans, built around a mix of anarchic consensus and direct democracy, with conservation and stewardship of the natural environment at its core.

Therefore, when the aliens arrive near Bear Island on the Potomac River, they're not detected by powerful telescopes and met by military jets. Instead, their waste sets off water sensors, and they're met by the two women on call for alert duty, carrying a nursing infant and backed by the real-time discussion and consensus technology of the watershed's dandelion network. (Emrys is far from the first person to name something a "dandelion network," so be aware that the usage in this book seems unrelated to the charities or blockchain network.)

This is a first contact novel, but it's one that skips over the typical focus of the subgenre. The alien Ringers are completely fluent in English down to subtle nuance of emotion and connotation (supposedly due to observation of our radio and TV signals), have translation devices, and in some cases can make our speech sounds directly. Despite significantly different body shapes, they are immediately comprehensible; differences are limited mostly to family structure, reproduction, and social norms. This is Star Trek first contact, not the type more typical of written science fiction. That feels unrealistic, but it's also obviously an authorial choice to jump directly to the part of the story that Emrys wants to write.

The Ringers have come to save humanity. In their experience, technological civilization is inherently incompatible with planets. Technology will destroy the planet, and the planet will in turn destroy the species unless they can escape. They have reached other worlds multiple times before, only to discover that they were too late and everyone is already dead. This is the first time they've arrived in time, and they're eager to help humanity off its dying planet to join them in the Dyson sphere of space habitats they are constructing. Planets, to them, are a nest and a launching pad, something to eventually abandon and break down for spare parts.

The small, unexpected wrinkle is that Judy, Carol, and the rest of their watershed network are not interested in leaving Earth. They've finally figured out the most critical pieces of environmental balance. Earth is going to get hotter for a while, but the trend is slowing. What they're doing is working. Humanity would benefit greatly from Ringer technology and the expertise that comes from managing closed habitat ecosystems, but they don't need rescuing.

This goes over about as well as a toddler saying that playing in the road is perfectly safe.

This is a fantastic hook for a science fiction novel. It does exactly what a great science fiction premise should do: takes current concerns (environmentalism, space boosterism, the debatable primacy of humans as a species, the appropriate role of space colonization, the tension between hopefulness and doomcasting about climate change) and uses the freedom of science fiction to twist them around and come at them from an entirely different angle.

The design of the aliens is excellent for this purpose. The Ringers are not one alien species; they are two, evolved on different planets in the same system. The plains dwellers developed space flight first and went to meet the tree dwellers, and while their relationship is not entirely without hierarchy (the plains dwellers clearly lead on most matters), it's extensively symbiotic. They now form mixed families of both species, and have a rich cultural history of stories about first contact, interspecies conflicts and cooperation, and all the perils and misunderstandings that they successfully navigated. It makes their approach to humanity more believable to know that they have done first contact before and are building on a model. Their concern for humanity is credibly sincere. The joining of two species was wildly successful for them and they truly want to add a third.

The politics on the human side are satisfyingly complicated. The watershed network may have made first contact, but the US government (in the form of NASA) is close behind, attempting to lean on its widely ignored formal power. The corporations are farther away and therefore slower to arrive, but the alien visitors have a damaged ship and need space to construct a subspace beacon and Asterion is happy to offer a site on one of its New Zealand islands. The corporate representatives are salivating at the chance to escape Earth and its environmental regulation for uncontrolled space construction and a new market of trillions of Ringers. NASA's attitude is more measured, but their representative is easily persuaded that the true future of humanity is in space. The work the watershed networks are doing is difficult, uncertain, and involves a lot of sacrifice, particularly for corporate consumer lifestyles. With such an attractive alien offer on the table, why stay and work so hard for an uncertain future? Maybe the Ringers are right.

And then the dandelion networks that the watersheds use as the core of their governance and decision-making system all crash.

The setup was great; I was completely invested. The execution was more mixed. There are some things I really liked, some things that I thought were a bit too easy or predictable, and several places where I wish Emrys had dug deeper and provided more detail. I thought the last third of the book fizzled a little, although some of the secondary characters Emrys introduces are delightful and carry the momentum of the story when the politics feel a bit lacking.

If you tried to form a mental image of ecofeminist political science fiction with 1970s utopian sensibilities, but updated for the concerns of the 2020s, you would probably come very close to the politics of the watershed networks. There are considerably more breastfeedings and diaper changes than the average SF novel. Two of the primary characters are transgender, but with very different experiences with transition. Pronoun pins are an ubiquitous article of clothing. One of the characters has a prosthetic limb. Another character who becomes important later in the story codes as autistic. None of this felt gratuitous; the characters do come across as obsessed with gender, but in a way that I found believable. The human diversity is well-integrated with the story, shapes the characters, creates practical challenges, and has subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) political ramifications.

But, and I say this with love because while these are not quite my people they're closely adjacent to my people, the social politics of this book are a very specific type of white feminist collaborative utopianism. When religion makes an appearance, I was completely unsurprised to find that several of the characters are Jewish. Race never makes a significant appearance at all. It's the sort of book where the throw-away references to other important watershed networks includes African ones, and the characters would doubtless try to be sensitive to racial issues if they came up, but somehow they never do. (If you're wondering if there's polyamory in this book, yes, yes there is, and also I suspect you know exactly what culture I'm talking about.)

This is not intended as a criticism, just more of a calibration. All science fiction publishing houses could focus only on this specific political perspective for a year and the results would still be dwarfed by the towering accumulated pile of thoughtless paeans to capitalism. Ecofeminism has a long history in the genre but still doesn't show up in that many books, and we're far from exhausting the space of possibilities for what a consensus-based politics could look like with extensive computer support. But this book has a highly specific point of view, enough so that there won't be many thought-provoking surprises if you're already familiar with this school of political thought.

The politics are also very earnest in a way that I admit provoked a bit of eyerolling. Emrys pushes all of the political conflict into the contrasts between the human factions, but I would have liked more internal disagreement within the watershed networks over principles rather than tactics. The degree of ideological agreement within the watershed group felt a bit unrealistic. But, that said, at least politics truly matters and the characters wrestle directly with some tricky questions. I would have liked to see more specifics about the dandelion network and the exact mechanics of the consensus decision process, since that sort of thing is my jam, but we at least get more details than are typical in science fiction. I'll take this over cynical libertarianism any day.

Gender plays a huge role in this story, enough so that you should avoid this book if you're not interested in exploring gender conceptions. One of the two alien races is matriarchal and places immense social value on motherhood, and it's culturally expected to bring your children with you for any important negotiation. The watersheds actively embrace this, or at worst find it comfortable to use for their advantage, despite a few hints that the matriarchy of the plains aliens may have a very serious long-term demographic problem. In an interesting twist, it's the mostly-evil corporations that truly challenge gender roles, albeit by turning it into an opportunity to sell more clothing.

The Asterion corporate representatives are, as expected, mostly the villains of the plot: flashy, hierarchical, consumerist, greedy, and exploitative. But gender among the corporations is purely a matter of public performance, one of a set of roles that you can put on and off as you choose and signal with clothing. They mostly use neopronouns, change pronouns as frequently as their clothing, and treat any question of body plumbing as intensely private. By comparison, the very 2020 attitudes of the watersheds towards gender felt oddly conservative and essentialist, and the main characters get flustered and annoyed by the ever-fluid corporate gender presentation. I wish Emrys had done more with this.

As you can tell, I have a lot of thoughts and a lot of quibbles. Another example: computer security plays an important role in the plot and was sufficiently well-described that I have serious questions about the system architecture and security model of the dandelion networks. But, as with decision-making and gender, the more important takeaway is that Emrys takes enough risks and describes enough interesting ideas that there's a lot of meat here to argue with. That, more than getting everything right, is what a good science fiction novel should do.

A Half-Built Garden is written from a very specific political stance that may make it a bit predictable or off-putting, and I thought the tail end of the book had some plot and resolution problems, but arguing with it was one of the more intellectually satisfying science fiction reading experiences I've had recently. You have to be in the right mood, but recommended for when you are.

Rating: 7 out of 10

Reviewed: 2023-05-22