About a hundred years ago, HG Wells wrote a short story in which there were robots designed to hold and feed babies, releasing parents from the duties of early childcare. Well, it’s happened. I saw a picture on TwitteX today. Someone has actually invented just that. I hated the idea when I first encountered it; I hate it now; I fully intend to carry on hating it for as long as I live.
It’s a smooth white robotic figure with a scoop-like arm arrangement designed to hold a baby, and a single breast-shaped teat providing infant formula. Where, I wonder, did they find a parent willing to rent out their baby to trial a Babies’ Dystopia? Why is the dark science fiction of a century ago creeping out of the haunted laboratories of mad scientists to scoop up our children in its metal-and-plastic arms?
Is this the same baby I’ve also seen on social media as a squinting newborn, trying to look past the rectangular-screened device filling his visual field as he searches for the thing that should have been there for him—the human face? Everyone always thinks it’s so cute—a newborn baby searching unsuccessfully for a parent’s face, his biological instincts frustrated by the Dystopia he’s been born into. As soon as he can sit up, he’ll probably be given an electronic tablet as a substitute for human interaction. Before he reaches school age, he’ll probably have forgotten to seek out other humans’ faces at all.
They’ve done this experiment with baby primates, haven’t they? They provided orphans with a choice of artificial mothers—one that was warm and furry versus one that could give them milk. Surprise, surprise—the cling-babies chose malnutrition. But now we’re running a similar experiment with hundreds of millions of human babies who, given the choice, would choose human touch and human eye contact, but whose species (heads stuck in their own phones) don’t provide it. Surprise, surprise—the love-babies turn into monsters. The best story I know on the topic is “Not Now, Bernard” by David McKee.
In the 21st century, society is cheerfully giving over its children into automated care just as the devil intended. Eye contact denied to them as babies; iPads to interact with them as toddlers; Internet to amuse what’s left of their minds as teenagers. Here in Scotland, every child over about age 8 is given a tablet to accompany them at school and at home. In classroom after classroom, teachers are instructed that one child or another “needs his iPad to self-regulate”. You know what that means. It means that if you ask the child to do anything less hyper-stimulating than an online game, they’ll flip out and will only be placated by half an hour’s online gaming.
We shouldn’t be running this gruesome experiment on real human children. It’s abuse. We should be running it as a thought-experiment: in fiction. The world needs more writers like Aldous Huxley, HG Wells and David McKee. If you’re a writer, and especially if you’re a spec-fic writer, what are you doing?
Me? Well, back around 2018 I wrote a story in which a socially vulnerable child is assigned an electronic Individualised MentorPet to fill the nurture gap and insulate him from the repercussions of his frequent dysregulation. Titled “Impy”, it’s published in More Hazardous Imaginings by Monstracity Press. Here’s a piece near the beginning, and it’s not going to end well.
As soon as Dylan’s anger showed signs of subsiding, the IMP rewarded him with a validating smile. “You have expressed your feelings,” it commented with a carefully-calibrated note of sincerity. “Let me help you to process these emotions. Tell me what went wrong for you.”
Dylan swore, again, but consented to share the injustices he had suffered that day at school. He and a friend had both kicked a younger child, but the kid had only told on Dylan and not on his friend. A teacher had reprimanded Dylan for knocking a computer to the floor but had said nothing to the girl who knocked over two pots of pencils. And finally, in gym, when Dylan’s working partner went off to First Aid, other children had refused to pair up with him.
“I understand how you feel,” the IMP intoned, and proceeded with the standard Validation and Visualisation process, building up Dylan’s self-image and supporting his self-acceptance. Dylan cuddled into his IMP’s soft-textured fur, placed its thumb in his mouth and settled into the familiar therapeutic session that he had gradually come to enjoy.
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Fiona M Jones writes short-form and micro fiction, CNF and sometimes poetry. Her work is published everywhere except Antarctica, and most of it sits somewhere in here: https://fionamjones.wordpress.com/.