In today’s science lesson, boys and girls, we’re going to review some basics that the writers of television science fiction seem to have forgotten. The shows I’m going to rant about are generally categorized as space opera—adventures set in space, sometimes with a military framework—and are among my favorites, but in a few cases, the writers just went too far with poetic license. That’s okay if you’re writing fantasy or paranormal, but in science fiction, the science should be a little more rigorous, even on TV.
Let’s start with The Expanse, the fifth season of which just concluded on Amazon Prime Video. There’s a lot to love about this series, based on the books by James S. A. Corey, starring Stephen Strait, Dominique Tipper, Wes Chatham and Shohreh Aghdashloo. The ongoing political and shooting battles between three factions in the near future: Earthers (which include colonists and others on the moon), Martians (long-time colonists who are now independent of Earth) and Belters (independent spacers who make their living among the asteroid belts and outer planets of the solar system) are constantly entertaining and full of marvelous worldbuilding detail.
Why, then, do we always have to “hear” the roar of ships’ engines in the blackness of space (that is, from the external shots)? As the tagline to ALIEN so famously put it, “In space, no one can hear you scream.” Vacuum can’t transmit sound; there aren’t enough molecules to vibrate to a level where humans can hear it. Those engine sounds would only be heard from inside the ships, if at all. Yet, every time we see those thrusters light up against the backdrop of black space, we hear a roar. No! They would be completely silent. Explosions: silent. If I remember correctly, even Classic TREK in the Sixties got this right, and certainly 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY did.
The writers on The Expanse just plain have a disregard for the dangers of vacuum. They insist on issuing projectile weapons to their crews despite the problems a wayward bullet would cause in a pressurized hull. It’s the future, after all! Give them lasers or proton pistols or something that won’t put a hole in your ship.
The Expanse is excellent, but tends to ignore vacuum.
Things finally came to a ridiculous head this season when somebody got the bright idea to send one of the main characters (Naomi Nagata, played by Dominique Tipper) out an airlock without so much as a rebreather or a light jacket. It was her idea, too, mind you, an escape to a ship tethered alongside the one where she was being held captive. O-k-a-a-y! Someone must have read the research that says an astronaut once lasted 14 seconds in near-vacuum in a testing situation when his suit sprang a leak. Wow! Plot bunny! So they shoved Naomi out an airlock with nothing, had her cross a catwalk to the other ship, open the other airlock and repressurize, all with few effects. No boiling eyeballs or saliva, passing out from lack of oxygen, “bends” from pressure changes, frostbite on various extremities from the extreme cold, etc. Sure, I believe that.
I guess the writer who researched the effects on the human body in a vacuum neglected to note that the astronaut who survived his accident was still wearing his suit (it just had a pin-sized hole) and had a team to revive him. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the saliva on his tongue boiling. Naomi was on her own—and, outside of a few aches and pains, was just fine!
This kind of thing makes me crazy, mostly because The Expanse offers itself as a science-based show. Star Trek, on the other hand, has always pushed the boundaries of what is considered acceptable science. It is true space opera, in that there is an element of the old “Buck Rogers” serials in it, and always has been. Still, the science in TREK has less of fantasy about it than some franchises, and a separate fandom has even arisen around the military structure of Starfleet (with fan groups organized in ships and in cordons of Starfleet “Marines.”)
This third season of the latest iteration of the Star Trek franchise, Star Trek: Discovery, gave fans a lot to think about when heroine Commander Michael Burnham (Sonequa Martin-Green) and the U.S.S. Discovery leapt 930 years into their future to protect the secrets of the “spore drive” and time travel. They found a galaxy much changed from the one they knew. A galactic disaster called “the Burn” had rendered dilithium crystals inert, destroying all dilithium-dependent ships in a single stroke. As a result, Starfleet and the Federation all but crumbled overnight, leaving systems and planets prey to slavers and opportunists like the Orion-run Emerald Chain. Burnham had to find allies and connect with what’s left of the Federation, but first she had to find the Discovery, which somehow hadn’t followed the same flight path into the future as she had.
Though I missed the characters that drew me to the series in the first place—Captain Christopher Pike (the delectable Anson Mount of HELL ON WHEELS) and Spock of Vulcan (Ethan Peck)—this third season had plenty of new features (and characters) to keep me intrigued. The writers, though, made a couple of boneheaded mistakes that belong more in fan fiction than on national television.
The gentle Kelpien Saru (Doug Jones), for example, may be a fan favorite, but he is NOT captain material, as he showed multiple times this season. (Remember that episode of Classic TREK when Kirk was split into Nice Kirk and Evil Kirk and Nice Kirk made a lousy captain? Yeah. That’s Saru.) The writers did fix this mistake by the end of the season, in a very satisfying way (I won’t tell you how in case you haven’t seen it.)
But they allowed another major error to stand. You can never, ever, make an ensign First Officer, as they did here. As most of us know who have a military background, there is a command hierarchy that must be followed. People advance in their careers through the ranks. And an ensign is the lowliest officer rank aboard ship. Sylvia Tilly (Mary Wiseman) has been an ensign for the duration of the show and saved the ship multiple times. (In that way, she’s the very definition of a Mary Sue, the minor female character in fan fiction that takes an overblown role.) I’m sure she’s a fan favorite. Please, for God’s sake, promote her. But don’t make her the First Officer, who answers only to the Captain.
At least that captain is now Michael Burnham, who, despite her flaws, has a commanding presence.
Cheers, Donna
