From this telling use of Chinese Communist history and even more telling English-language alteration, you can proceed to a reading like the one offered initially in this essay by Reason magazine’s Peter Suderman, where the entire story of interstellar conflict, between an earthbound humanity and advanced aliens who have a way to observe our every move and impede our scientific progress while their invasion fleet gradually approaches, reads as a commentary on China’s “surveillance authoritarianism.” As with earthlings under the high-tech eye of the aliens, so with the subjects of China’s regime: Like Liu’s invasion-shadowed human beings, Suderman writes, “Chinese citizens are always being watched, always being spied upon, creating a climate of fear and distrust and paranoia, and repressing the sort of free back and forth that is necessary to both scientific progress and cultural cohesion.”
But then read this 2019 profile of Liu in The New Yorker by Jiayang Fan, and you may arrive at a very different way of thinking about his novels. Maybe the interstellar clash of civilizations is meant to evoke China’s rise and America’s resistance to its rise, but the aliens aren’t the oppressive regime in Beijing. Instead, they’re stand-ins for the Americans, for us: a civilization that’s more technologically advanced and, for now, better armed than its emerging rival but destined to be overmastered unless it can find a way to divide and suppress and distract and demoralize. The various mechanisms the aliens use to keep the earthlings down are like manifestations of American power as perceived in a paranoid China — American surveillance and spycraft and economic sabotage, American pop cultural sludge, maybe even American democracy promotion.
Faced with these kinds of threats, the human beings in the story — which is to say, in this interpretation, the fictional analogues to today’s Chinese government and Chinese citizens — simply can’t afford any kind of liberal sentimentalism. They need to accept the necessity of some kind of authoritarian rule, some degree of Big Brotherism, and act ruthlessly when confronted with the harsh zero-sum nature of civilizational competition. This description from Fan’s profile captures how this plays out in the books, which get darker and stranger as they go:
Although physics furnishes the novels’ premises, it is politics that drives the plots. At every turn, the characters are forced to make brutal calculations in which moral absolutism is pitted against the greater good. In their pursuit of survival, men and women employ Machiavellian game theory and adopt a bleak consequentialism. In Liu’s fictional universe, idealism is fatal and kindness an exorbitant luxury. As one general says in the trilogy, “In a time of war, we can’t afford to be too scrupulous.” Indeed, it is usually when people do not play by the rules of realpolitik that the most lives are lost.
When Fan pushes Liu on his political views, she gets a similar perspective: Not a liberal author pushing against the limits imposed by a dictatorship but someone who basically shares that dictatorship’s view of human nature and defends most of its policies — internment of Muslim Uyghurs, the now-defunct one-child policy, the basic lineaments of its authoritarian system — even if he’s also willing to portray and make artistic use of some of its more egregious Mao-era crimes:
I couldn’t help asking Liu if he ever thought he might have been brainwashed. “I know what you are thinking,” he told me with weary clarity. “What about individual liberty and freedom of governance?” He sighed, as if exhausted by a debate going on in his head. “But that’s not what Chinese people care about. For ordinary folks, it’s the cost of health care, real-estate prices, their children’s education. Not democracy.”
I looked at him, studying his face. He blinked, and continued, “If you were to loosen up the country a bit, the consequences would be terrifying.” …
Liu closed his eyes for a long moment and then said quietly, “This is why I don’t like to talk about subjects like this. The truth is you don’t really — I mean, can’t truly — understand.” He gestured around him. “You’ve lived here, in the U.S., for, what, going on three decades?” The implication was clear: Years in the West had brainwashed me. In that moment, in Liu’s mind, I, with my inflexible sense of morality, was the alien.
Then to this darker interpretation of the story, add a third: The interpretation suggested by the Netflix adaptation, whose version of the story is less China-centric, with more action set in Britain and a multiracial gaggle of young scientists with dating problems added to the plot. (I concur with Alex Tabarrok’s view that the young scientist characters are way too much like normal people in an “Alien Invasion: 90210”-style soap opera, without enough of “the obsessiveness, ambition and unconventionality often found in real-world geniuses.”)
If you come to the TV version fresh, without exposure to the books, you may find yourself thinking less about the Chinese-American rivalry and more about the general position of the developed West in recent decades: a rich and powerful society struggling to make economic and technological advancements that match the achievements of the 20th century while dealing with internal divisions and existential doubts.
The story offers an exaggerated depiction of this real-world sense of futility and angst, giving us scientists killing themselves and abandoning cutting-edge projects instead of just a slowdown in innovation or laboratory results that suddenly stop making any sense at all in place of the replication crisis that our own academy is dealing with or a video game headset built with alien technology rather than just the virtual snares we’re building for ourselves.