Month: November 2020

“Let us think the unthinkable, let us do the undoable, let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.” – Douglas Adams.

What does it mean to be human?

My background in science fiction demonstrates my own intersections of the personal with the political. In 1999, as the founder of a Melbourne-based LGBTI science fiction club called Spaced Out, I authored the club’s draft charter. Its goals included a recognition of diversity and a challenge to our science fictional friends and peers:

“We recognise that science fiction is a fun and popular medium and we no longer wish to be excluded from its fiction, art, cyberworlds or other creative forms…” Spaced Out, 1999.

I recall the energy and enthusiasm of the club’s early days: we published a number of newsletters and two fanzines, and our website won an Australian science fiction ‘Ditmar’ award. A professional author and other local luminaries became guests at our meetings while we, in turn, hosted panels at a Worldcon (Aussiecon 3). Our very existence, as both geeks and queers, identified us as a minority grouping within both communities; it was fun to confront double prejudice and it was interesting to see who supported us in either context.

Within a few short years, however, our creative impetus dwindled and our club focus narrowed, until the group became little more than a social locus for queer consumers of media science fiction – removing us from the stereotype of affective fans who appropriate culture and relocating us within the more commonly-held stereotype of passive consumers (Grossberg, 1992, 51 & 52). Thus we redefined our aspirations from Worldcon to Comicon. In hindsight, it can be asked whether our original club aims may have been, in some perverse way, too self-defensive: to reinterpret the ‘other’ in both real life and speculative fiction as being merely a figure worthy of acknowledgement and tolerance.

This was not my first adventure into such territory: the figure of the ‘other’ was more than an academic concept to me. I recall, as a child, watching a TV series from the late 1960s, The Invaders, which combined the ‘flying saucer’ craze with anti-communist fears from the McCarthy era. Even at my young age, I somehow knew that its conspiratorial warning – that ‘they’ were among us – held a more ubiquitous meaning.

Within a few years, as a teenager coming to terms with my awakening homosexuality, I would come to understand the larger metaphor of the ‘other’ in the midst of our heteronormative culture, wherein queer identities were (at the time) subject to both moral and legal sanction – an isolation that was most empathically evoked in such tales of alienation as Ted Sturgeon’s short story, A Saucer of Loneliness. In 1975, I instinctively recognised kinship with the young man who silently and momentarily cruised Logan within the cyberspace ‘Circuit’ from the film Logan’s Run. Later in my teens, my enthusiasm for Star Trek reinforced the concept of the alien being both within and without. By then, however, I had also started to question why science fiction explored the diversity of alien life forms but somehow managed to often overlook genuinely bohemian human characters and cultures.

The irony of how life can come full-circle was emphasised to me in 2012, when the Australian Broadcasting Corporation commissioned a six-part series entitled, Outland, telling the story of an imaginary ‘gay science fiction fan club’ that was curiously located within the Australian city which really did have such a club. The series was advertised as being an exploration of inclusion but it excluded its real-life counterparts: its generic disclaimer dissociated its fictional characters from any real-life role models, and its fictional ‘otherness’ was further emphasised by its predominantly white male characters displaying very little real diversity. To me, its stories lacked the excitement of our real-life exploits in Spaced Out, where we had taken ‘one small step’ into groundbreaking territory and attempted to ‘boldly go where no fan had gone before’. Ultimately, Outland inverted media science fiction subtext: whereas LGBTQIA+ SF fans had traditionally sought to interpret ‘otherness’ as metaphoric queerness; we could now interpret our queerness as comprising metaphoric ‘otherness’.

This challenges us to ponder the nature of ‘queer science fictions’ and our place as creators, audiences, and participants. More than that, it reveals science fiction at its most humanistic: encouraging us to shape a better future – from the pages of his most famous story, we can find inspiration in the words of humanist and SF author Arthur C Clarke, himself purportedly gay: “For though he was master of the world, he was not quite sure what to do next. But he would think of something.”

Literary Science Fiction: A History of the Future

“Science fiction encourages us to explore… all the futures, good and bad, that the human mind can envision” – Marion Zimmer Bradley.

Science fiction is an intellectual exploration of one of Arthur C Clarke’s famous Three Laws which states that, “The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible” – by extension, SF seeks to explore this idea in secular humanist terms: “The only way of discovering the limits of the human is to venture a little way past them into the transhuman, posthuman or sentient“.

Any consequent definition of science fiction is bound to be incomplete. Broadly, the genre might be defined – according to its very title – as comprising fiction about science, or how the human condition may be redefined by such technology. Traditionally, this has included stories about possible technological developments (spaceships, robots, time travel etc), or possible futures derived from real or potential science (climate change, nuclear apocalypse, alien life, virtual realities etc). In essence, this speculative fiction examines the human condition and how it may change in the future. Such exploration is potentially ripe for queer issues which examine emerging concepts of what it means to be fully human, and – beyond that – to extend this recognition to incorporate what biologist Bruce Baghemi refers to as the ‘polysexual, polygendered’ biosphere which is found across planet Earth (Baghemi, 1999, 7). By extension, our galactic dreams and visions could all be equally strange, inclusive and diverse.

The literary genre has arguably addressed this potential. As far back as True Story – the satirically-named spoof written by Lucian in the second century AD, complete with queer genders and sexualities (Richardson, 2001) – science fiction has been a genre replete with alien characters and situations of chaos that echo with queer sensitivities and themes. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a story detailing prejudice and alienation. We can all grok the alien within Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. Isaac Asimov’s robotic character, Daneel Olivaw, and his ground-breaking female roboticist, Susan Calvin, are people reflecting the humanity of loneliness borne from difference.

In their definitive 1990 reference guide, Uranian Worlds, Eric Garber and Lyn Paleo have listed 935 stories featuring ‘alternative sexuality’ within science fiction, horror and fantasy genres. Stories include Ted Sturgeon’s The World Well Lost, which Garber and Paleo state is ‘often credited with having introduced the subject of homosexuality into the genre’, (Garber & Paleo, 1990, 203 & 204) through to ‘Joanna Russ’s introduction of lesbian feminism into science fiction’ via stories such as The Female Man. There is even a range of dystopian futures wherein gay men with AIDS are incarcerated in concentration camps (Garber & Paleo, p. xiii). Many of these stories explore ideas or identities outside of traditional cis heteronormative formulae. It seems a shame that many queer science fiction readers appear to be unaware that such a rich smorgasbord of literary science fiction is available for their consumption.

Within this twilight area of alternate realities, we find our first example of queer agency. Joseph Hawkins identifies a link between early literary science fictional utopias and the emergent gay rights movement as can be seen in the fanzines produced by Lisa Ben and Jim Kepner during science fiction’s early era; the skills they honed and the pre-Internet social networks which they nurtured may have laid the groundwork for their later publication and dissemination of seminal gay literature. Hawkins posits: ‘I think a really great case can be made for the fact that they learned how to do their gay publishing from their involvement in science fiction’. This suggests that futuristic fantasies of strange new worlds are sympathetic to the adoption and incorporation of queerdom and other non-traditional ideas.

The Other Science Fiction

“Sometimes it takes a human life to balance a cold equation
in the black geometry of the Twilight Zone.”
– Narration from “The Twilight Zone” episode “Cold Equations.”

Today’s more populist forms of science fiction are found within media-based material, which tends to focus less on storyline and more on what science fiction author Isaac Asimov refers to as mere spectacle (cited in Hipple, 2008). Media science fiction attracts greater numbers of followers, in part, by diluting challenging ideas into relatively inoffensive material, including allegorical stories regarding the ‘other’.

Ideally, science fiction should be a fertile ground for introducing people to diversity and difference. After all, if we spend time absorbing material that features interaction between humans and aliens, it will hopefully encourage people to have open minds when approaching any cultures or communities that differ from their own. Science fiction should – theoretically at least – encourage a bigot-free zone. (If only!)

Hart suggests that virtually all Hollywood movies narrate a narrow binary of ‘otherness’, as demonstrated in westerns: ‘hero versus villain, civilisation versus savagery, individualism versus democracy, strength versus weakness, garden versus desert.’ (Hart, 2000, 15). By extension, media science fiction often explores this same duality through polarised perspectives: humans versus aliens, survival versus destruction, colonists versus frontiers, scientists versus luddites, and ‘man’ versus machine. The linkages between westerns and media science fiction are more blatant than simple acquisition of forms and templates: Star Trek was originally conceived as comprising a ‘Wagon Train to the stars’ and more recent science fiction TV programs, including Space Rangers and Firefly, have incorporated western tropes – although the latter did so in order to invert the craft.

Possibly the strongest parallel between westerns and media science fiction can be seen in ‘male same-sex friendships… and rivalries, both of which constitute complex love-hate relationships’ (Allmendinger, 1999, 224) which are traditional in westerns, and almost ubiquitous in media science fiction. However, an implicit homophobic culture within SF films ensures that no homosocial astronaut or alien can be acceptably queer. A gay but coyly chaste Sulu in the 2016 Star Trek movie serves as both a token Asian and a token gay male, and his anaemic characterisation can be interpreted as a queer-baiting exercise which reflects the uninformed perspective of white heteronormative creators.

Ultimately, the ‘other’ in media science fiction has its limitations due to its association with victimisation (Shawl & Ward, 2005, 58.) The fleeting ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ reference found within the 2008 mini-series, Andromeda Strain, might be seen as a welcome progression from earlier treatments such as that found in the 1990 movie, Moon 44, which features a homosexual rape. However, the reality is that neither portrayal is acceptable for modern audiences.

Representations and Permutations

“If we can’t write diversity into sci-fi, then what’s the point? You don’t create new worlds to give them all the same limits of the old ones.” ― Jane Espenson.

In 2016, I attended a convention in Melbourne which boasted a number of panels that examined issues relating to queer science fictions. One panel consisted almost entirely of panelists and audience swapping suggestions for the whole hour, in order to compile a necessarily incomplete list of queer SF novels. Within my experience, such a search for queerdom within SF usually tends to be a passive one – seeking out what already exists, and assigning it significance as part of our quest for validation. This may be a necessary starting point, but I see it as being insufficient for those seeking to express perspectives and voices outside of the heterosexist structure of traditional SF.

In past times, subtext or heterosexually-sanitised representations have dominated our search for significance. Subtext in Blake’s Seven nominally satiated one desire for queer visibility (Lilley, 2000, 5). The TV series, Alien Nation, tackled gender roles and same sex marriage, which may explain why the series was quickly cancelled. Quantum Leap explored heterosexual AIDS, gender issues, and one 1992 episode confronted the reality of gays in the military:

“This is the most controversial episode Quantum Leap has yet aired. When it was in production, threatened advertiser defections caused a storm of charges and countercharges in Hollywood. Amidst threats of boycott and charges of censorship, the episode aired, essentially as written, to high ratings” (Chunovic, 1993, 83).

Even so, Quantum Leap remained a flawed product. Using the plot device of time travel to have its main character ‘leap’ into the body of a stranger each week and thereby explore issues of racial and gender equality, the series nevertheless chose to play it safe:

“…The series missed many opportunities. Sam never leaped into an openly gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender person. He never contracted AIDS, fell into same-sex love or got queer bashed. On a more subtle level, Sam’s romances were always heterosexual and featured him, within a male body, kissing a woman. Why didn’t he ever have a romance within a woman’s body, kissing a man?” (KR, 2000, 7),

Other media science fiction has queer-baited its audiences, with teasing references to homosexuality that go nowhere: Babylon 5 featured a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bisexual/lesbian relationship between two main characters, and it parodied same-sex relationships between two pairs of male characters. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine featured a symbiont character who occasionally changed gender but remained firmly, comfortably heterosexual. Modern incarnations of Doctor Who and its spin-off series, Torchwood, have dabbled in queer characters, themes and relationships. Writers of The Big Bang Theory have included frequent queer subtext for comic effect, but ultimately chose to redefine Sheldon’s asexuality and the ‘ersatz homosexual’ relationships shared by other bohemian characters in the series. It took the Star Trek franchise over fifty years to acknowledge the existence of positive LGBTQIA+ characters, and Star Wars still has to get there after forty years – both of them long after SF like Sense8 had already led the way.

The sister genre of media fantasy – wherein the rules which govern our physical and metaphysical universe are bent or broken more readily – appears to lend itself to a more free expression of bohemian ideas via vampires, werewolves and other fringe characters. We have seen homosocial relationships in Xena and Smallville, and we have met our allegorical selves in X-Men and Buffy. This evolution is palpable: in the 1985 movie, the eponymous Teen Wolf reassures his buddy that he is not a ‘fag’; whereas a generation later, his titular spin-off series is replete with queer characters and fan discussion on the need for comprehensive exploration beyond tokenism. Such tokenism might also be glimpsed in Dumbledore’s ‘coming out’ only after the Harry Potter book and film series were safely concluded. But while such tokenism mitigates against queer invisibility, it is insufficient to address the full potential of what Patricia Juliana Smith posits as ‘the queer imaginary’ (Smith, 1999, xiii).

In Search of An Identity

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken” – Oscar Wilde.

Ultimately, what makes science fiction ‘queer’? Is it the inclusion, by straight authors, of effeminate homosexuals, as Joe Haldeman admitted, during a 2002 interview, when speaking of his 1975 novel, The Forever War: ‘I’m certain that if I wrote it today, I wouldn’t have this feminisation of the gay people’? (Allshorn, 2002, 10). Is it a romance between Riker and a (clearly-female) androgynous alien, in one episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, where the ultimate message of the episode is that sexual deviance can be cured? (Roberts, 1999, 117 – 122). Might we consider the recent Australian film Predestination, along with its source material, the classic short story, All You Zombies–, by Robert Heinlein? These attempts reflect the understandings of their heterosexual creators, however well-intentioned, and suggest that queer agency may itself be a necessary prerequisite. Lawrence Schimel points out that defining queer perspective is itself problematic (Schimel, 1998, 9) – and, I would add, probably as difficult as trying to confine science fiction within one all-encompassing definition.

Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward encourage us to be mindful of what they refer to as ‘parallax’ (borrowed from the astronomical term); that is, recognising that reality can be viewed from differing perspectives (Shawl & Ward, 2005, 21). Following their example, we should acknowledge that a science fiction story written by an affluent white gay man in Melbourne will present a different parallax from one written by an African American man in Boston – or a white lesbian in Buenos Aires, a Jewish heterosexual F2M in Beirut, a Latinx person in Orlando, an indigenous sistergirl in Alice Springs, or a gay Catholic man in Lagos. To further extend our understandings of parallax, we should also note that literary SF and media SF have their own traditions and paradigms, as do manga, graphic arts and novels, RPG and MMORP and LARP and cosplay, fanfic, and social media. Such varied formats provide opportunities for the portrayal of diverse voices and lives.

One empowered approach towards ‘queer’ agency within science fiction should be to consider its intersections with other ‘minorities’ or cohorts who have also been traditionally excluded, marginalised or stereotyped within the genre. Hawkins suggests that gay rights pioneers who were inspired by science fictional ideals also found parallels with feminism and racial equality. Conversely, Shawl suggests that a wise approach for transcultural explorers is to understand the differences between being a ‘tourist’, a ‘guest’ and an ‘invader’ of other cultures; thereby avoiding cultural appropriations (Shawl, 2005, 75 – 84). I concur that cultural appropriation of feminist, Afrofuturist or indigenous perspectives is, in itself, not appropriate within queerdom, except where these overlap within LGBTIQ identities – and they may often do so. However, we can also learn from these other examples and forge our own unique perspectives and self-empowerment.

Racism has been problematic within the science fictional tradition. Although people of varied racial and cultural groupings have contributed to science fiction for many years, their contribution has often been overlooked in favour of white authors. Only after 1993 – when the term ‘Afrofuturism’ was invented (Miller, 2014) – did serious recognition reportedly emerge that ‘the canon is not monolithically white’ (Vint, 2014). As recently as August 2015, a report commissioned by a science fiction journal indicated that ‘of the 2039 (science fiction) short stories published in 2015, only 38 were published by black authors’. Despite possible questions arising from survey methodology, it seems appalling that a reported 60% of science fiction magazines had failed to publish one story by a black author that year, and that no black authors had been published for at least most of 2016. Other recent academic study has expanded awareness of underlying race issues within and around science fiction, such as DeWitt Douglas Kilgore’s reference to issues of race and evolutionary superiority within H G Wells’ War of the Worlds, and to the politics of segregation in Asimov’s Robot stories. He adds:

“Perhaps the greatest challenge or potential of contemporary science fiction is to imagine political/social futures in which race does not simply wither away but is transformed, changing into something different and perhaps unexpected” (Kilgore, 2010, 17).

We can find parallels between race and queerdom. Jeffrey M. Elliott suggests that we shared the same traditional stigma within SF: ‘In many ways, gays/lesbians were treated much like blacks: as non-existent’ (Elliott, 1984, 9). In seeking queer visibility, it is therefore up to us to assert our autonomy and to develop cultural identities that express our own differences and present our own viewpoints. In exploring our own post-Stonewall heritage, we should be prepared to create new and unique forms of futurism.

In 1959, C.P. Snow wrote about the chasm which he saw between what he termed the ‘two cultures’: broadly speaking, the sciences versus the humanities. He bemoaned the intellectual poverty each had of the contribution to life and society being made by the other (Snow, 1959/1960, 16). Science fiction has subsequently been proposed as a literary form to bridge the gap between these two aspects of human inquiry and intellect (Westfahl & Slusser, 2009). I submit that it may also provide us with opportunities to bridge a divide between divergent forms of self-identity, including those of sexuality and gender identity. Our own ‘coming out’ stories may provide a broader context for evolution within the human condition.

From Slipstream to Queer Pride

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to reform (or pause and reflect)” – Mark Twain.

Grace L Dillon presents important perspectives via the parallax of indigenous science fictions. These include ‘native slipstream’, or alternative universes and timestreams ranging from multiverses and cyberpunk through to the application of ecologically sustainable sciences (Dillon, 2012, 3 – 5, 7 – 8). Significantly, she also identifies two aspects of indigenous SF which, I submit, may serve as examples to guide queer science fiction participants who seek directions for their own narratives.

Dillon examines ‘Biskaabiiyang’ (or ‘returning to ourselves’) wherein ‘the knowledge of the past histories of fighting back and resistances throughout time is a necessary component of predicting the future’ (ibid, 217). This is one area within which unique histories and traditions have been combined to create unique perspectives. In queer parlance, might similar journeys of self discovery include a celebration and cultural commemoration of Stonewall, or maybe finding ubiquitous forms of ‘coming out’ from varied ‘closets’?

In identifying and positing ‘native apocalypse’ within SF literature, Dillon posits a post-colonialist perspective within indigenous speculative fiction:

“Apocalyptic tales usually portray a future scenario related to the abuse of advanced technologies, such as the aftermath of nuclear bombs detonated with terrorist intent on US soil. Native SF often points out that historically the apocalypse has already occurred” (Dillon, ibid, 149).

In 2016, Sydney gay magazine Star Observer published a short science fiction story which thematically and allegorically addressed indigenous apocalypse through the perspective of a gay male protagonist (Sheather, 2016, 62). It demonstrated that an overlap of queer and indigenous identities can provide an evocative focus for mutually-beneficial agency, in this case affirming the power of memory and living testimony as forms of cultural witness and legacy.

Similarly, a queer perspective of our own pre- and post-Stonewall histories indicates that we may have our own specific dystopian stories to recount and interpret. One ‘cranky old queer’ Doctor Who fan explains how a fictional queer character like Jack Harkness can provide new forms of subtext in their real-life post-trauma world:

“For Jack, we know there must have been lovers lost not to aliens, but to AIDS, and scars no longer visible from a beating or a thrown bottle. If it’s true for us, it somehow must be true for him, surely” (Maltese, 2013, 121).

I await the writing of queer science fictional narratives regarding the long-term impact of our own experiences of stigma, cultural erasure and epidemic. Similarly, I look forward to queer reinterpretations of the future human condition as contextualised through the lenses of gay liberation, queer pride, marriage equality and same-sex parenting.

Praxis Is Not Just A Klingon Moon

“After all, a person is herself, and others. Relationships chisel the final shape of one’s being. I am me, and you.” – N.K. Jemisin.

Just as women’s liberation and gay liberation emerged out of the same era and civil rights impetus, we can examine an overlap of feminist and queer praxis. Science fiction has a chequered history in its treatment of women, who were portrayed (if at all) as being ‘negatively constructed… gendered passive, self-denying, obedient, and self-sacrificial’ (Liang, 2015, 2037). SF literature attempted to confront its sexism as far back as the 1940s and 1950s, a time during which Justine Larbalestier reportedly recalls a rudimentary feminist discourse (Duchamp, 2004, 31). Marion Zimmer Bradley similarly recalls the controversy which arose when the ‘almost obscenely sexless’ genre evolved beyond its pulp origins and began to consider the inclusion of women as part of a conflation with emergent sexuality: ‘Is sex valid in SF?'(Bradley, 1976, 8). Sarah Lefanu notes the later ‘incursion’ into SF during the 1970s by women who were keen to exploit the genre’s potential for expression of political ideas in line with women’s liberation (Lefanu, 1989, 179 & 180). This ‘second wave’ of feminists coincides with the arrival of Star Trek fans upon the wider SF convention scene, anecdotally recalled as providing ‘the first Australian Con with a reasonable gender ratio’ in 1969 (Johnson, 2015). This era fueled the rise of slash fiction which was largely driven by women as creators and consumers.

Some activists continue to call for queer characters to appear in populist media science fiction (Pearson, 1999, 1 – 22) – and in past times, this was also my position (Geoff and Miriam, 2001, 2 & 3). However, I have come to realise that such representation simply reinforces tokenism within uninformed heterosexist parallax. Genuine queer ownership and agency are required.

Our communal acronym of LGBTIQ is itself expanding and evolving to also recognise intersex, pansexual and polysexual, non-binary and sexually fluid and genderfluid, bigender and trigender and pangender and genderqueer, fa’afafine and Two Spirit and kathoey and tongzhi, sistergirl and brotherboy, drag king and drag queen, androphilic and gynecophilic, asexual and non-monosexual, questioning, queer, rainbow, and allied individuals – among others. Similarly, our futurisms need to acknowledge and adopt new and celebratory understandings of biological, sociopolitical and technological diversity; I submit that queer SF creators and consumers have a unique ability to contribute new perspectives. Queering humanity adds humanity to queerdom.

It is time to leave behind Frankenstein’s Monster, Spock, and the aliens who are hidden in plain sight. Where once we were satisfied with the subtextual and metaphoric ‘other’, it is time for us to raise new voices and ‘come out’ with pride and celebration, helping to redefine science fiction – and humanity as a diverse collection of aliens, bohemians, and others. One such example may be David Gerrold’s The Man Who Folded Himself, a story which features homosexualities amongst its paradoxical time travel permutations:

“So this is love.
The giving. The taking.
The abandonment of rules. The opening of the self.
And the resultant sensuality of it all.” (Gerrold, 1991, 82)

Therein we might find both an invitation and a template for our human future.

Non-Digital References:

Blake Allmendinger, 1999. ‘The Queer Frontier’, in Patricia Juliana Smith (ed.), The Queer Sixties, New York: Routledge.

Geoff Allshorn, 2002. ‘The Forever Awarded: An Interview with Joe Haldeman’, Diverse Universe (Newsletter for the club ‘Spaced Out’), No. 12, June.

Bruce Baghemi PhD, 1999. Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and Natural Diversity, New York: St Martin’s Press.

Marion Zimmer Bradley, 1976. ‘Experiment Perilous’, in Editor Unknown, Experiment Perilous: Three Essays on Science Fiction, New York, ALGOL Press.

Louis Chunovic, 1993. ‘Running for Honor’ (episode synopsis), The Quantum Leap Book, London: Boxtree.

Grace L Dillon (ed.), 2012. Walking the Clouds: An Anthology of Indigenous Science Fiction, Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

L. Timmel Duchamp, 2004. The Grand Conversation, Seattle: Aqueduct Press.

Jeffrey M. Elliott (ed.), 1984. ‘Introduction’, Kindred Spirits: An Anthology of Gay and Lesbian Science Fiction Stories, Boston: Alyson Publications.

Eric Garber and Lyn Paleo, 1990. Uranian Worlds: A Guide to Alternative Sexuality in Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror, (Second Edition), Boston: GK Hall.

Geoff and Miriam (eds.), 2001. ‘From the Editors: Star Trek: Give Us Some Queer Characters Now!’, Diverse Universe (Newsletter for the club ‘Spaced Out’), No. 8, June.

David Gerrold, 1991.The Man Who Folded Himself, New York: Bantam Books.

Lawrence Grossberg, 1992. ‘Is There a Fan in the House?: The Affective Sensibility of Fandom’, in Lisa A. Lewis (ed.), Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media, London: Routledge.

KR, 2000. ‘Queer Time Travel: Had We But World Enough, and Time…’, Diverse Universe (Newsletter for the club ‘Spaced Out’), No. 4, July.

Kylo-Patrick R. Hart PhD, 2000. The AIDS Movie: Representing A Pandemic in Film and Television, Haworth Press Inc, New York.

David Hipple, 2008. ‘The Accidental Apotheosis of Gene Roddenberry, or. “I Had to Get Some Money from Somewhere”, p. 23, in Lincoln Geragthy (ed.), The Influence of Star Trek on Television, Film and Culture, Jefferson NC: McFarland and Compan.

Robin Johnson, 2015. ‘Merve Binns: Notes for an Appreciation’, A. Bertram Chandler Award Winner 1993, Australian Science Fiction Foundation.

DeWitt Douglas Kilgore, 2010. ‘Difference Engine: Aliens, Robots, and Other Racial Matters in the History of Science Fiction’, Science Fiction Studies, Vol. 37, No. 1, March.

Sarah Lefanu, 1989. ‘Feminist intervention in science fiction’, in Derek Longhurst (ed.), Gender, Genre & Narrative Pleasure, London: Unwin Hyman.

Ying Liang, 2015. ‘Female Body in the Postmodern Science Fiction’, Theory and Practice in Language Studies, Vol. 5, No. 10, October.

Stephen Lilley, 2000. ‘Blake’s Seven: Gambit’, Diverse Universe (Newsletter for the club ‘Spaced Out’), No. 4, July.

Racheline Maltese, 2013. ‘Jack Harkness’s Lessons on Memory and Hope for Cranky Old Queers’, in Sigrid Ellis and Michael Damian Thomas (eds.), Queers Dig Time Lords.

Bettye Miller, 2014. Science Fiction Through Lens of Racial Inclusiveness, University of California Press Release, Washington DC: US Federal News Service.

Wendy Pearson, 1999. ‘Alien Cryptographies: The View from Queer’, Science Fiction Studies: Volume 26, No. 1, March.

Matthew Richardson (ed.), 2001. ‘Lucian: True Story’ and commentary, in, The Halstead Treasury of Ancient Science Fiction, Sydney: Halstead Press, pp. 43 – 85.

Robin Roberts, 1999. Sexual Generations: Star Trek: The Next Generation and Gender, Urbana: University of Illinois Press.

Lawrence Schimel, 1998. ‘Introduction’ in Lawrence Schimel (ed.), Things Invisible To See: Gay and Lesbian Tales of Magic Realism, Cambridge MA: Circlet Press.

Nisi Shawl and Cynthia Ward, 2005. Writing the Other: A Practical Approach, Seattle: Aqueduct Press.

Tyrone Sheather, 2016, ‘Cradle of the Sun’, Star Observer, August.

Patricia Juliana Smith, 1999. ‘Introduction’, in Patricia Juliana Smith (ed.), The Queer Sixties, New York: Routledge.

C.P. Snow, 1959/1960. The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Spaced Out, 1999. ‘Ten Point Charter’, Melbourne: Spaced Out, 13 August.

Professor Sherryl Vint, 2014. Quoted in Bettye Miller, Science Fiction Through Lens of Racial Inclusiveness.

Gary Westfahl and George Slusser (eds.), 2009. Science Fiction and the Two Cultures: Essays on Bridging the Gap Between the Sciences and the Humanities, Jefferson NC: McFarland & Company.

© 2020 Geoff Allshorn