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Robot Mothers by Adam Gaylord

RobotMothersCover

ROBOT MOTHERS

Adam Gaylord

It sat still and silent, the soft lighting of the conference room reflecting off its highly polished exterior. Although considerably larger, it was humanoid, bipedal, with a shapely torso and long slim limbs. Its egg-like head was featureless save two ovoid eyes glowing a faint blue in sleep mode.

The door opened and three humans entered the room, seating themselves behind a long table opposite the robot. On the left sat an older man, morbidly obese, wearing a wide blue tie with a matching handkerchief in hand. To the right sat a square-jawed woman with broad shoulders and her auburn hair up in a tight bun. Opposite the robot, a skinny balding man with a thin mustache, glasses, and nervous expression arranged his papers carefully on the table.

He spoke first. “Wake.”

Instantly, the robots eyes glowed green. “Good afternoon,” it said.

“My name is Mr. Nash, this is Mr. Klein.” He gestured to the obese man who nodded. “And this is Mrs. Holand.”

“Ms. Holand,” she corrected.

“My apologies, Ms. Holand.” She nodded and Mr. Nash continued addressing the robot. “We’ve been given the report the techs put together when you first came on site. Needless to say, some of the information you provided is… concerning at best. It is the intent of this panel to get to the bottom of this situation.” He flipped through several pages of notes. “I suggest we start with what we know and go from there.”

He glanced up at his colleagues who both nodded.

“Now, you reported here to the IRC regional headquarters this morning at 8:00 am. Why did you report here?”

“It is what my parents expected, sir,” it answered, its mechanized larynx closely simulating a real woman’s voice.

For a moment the room was silent.

Mr. Klein blotted his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’m sorry, dear, can you repeat that?”

“Of course, your honor,” it answered.

Mr. Klein chuckled, his double chin jiggling. “I’m not a judge, dear, and as you can see,” he motioned around the simply furnished conference room, “this isn’t a courtroom. You’re not on trial.”

Mr. Nash winced at his colleague’s informal address. “Not that we’re in any way implying that these proceedings aren’t entirely serious, because they are. International Robotics does not intend to let such breaches pass lightly.”

“Of course, sir,” it answered.

Mr. Nash flipped through his notes. “Now, back to the matter at hand. I asked you why you reported here this morning. Please repeat your answer, for the record.”

“Of course, sir, I replied that it is what my parents expected of me.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Your parents?” Ms. Holand asked.

The robot nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

Mr. Nash flipped hurriedly through his notes again. “Are you referring to the two Model 1404-C household units that created you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ms. Holand leaned forward. “Why do you call them your parents?” she asked.

“Semantically, it seems the most appropriate.”“Why?” Mr. Nash asked. “Explain what you mean.”

The robot turned its expressionless gaze his direction. “Yes sir. I am constructed entirely of parts supplied by two individual robots.”

Mr. Klein chuckled. “She has her mother’s eyes.”

Ms. Holand smirked. Mr. Nash’s eyes widened but he didn’t reply.

The robot continued. “Although similar, I differ in both appearance and design from the robots that created me. I am of them, but distinct.”

“So you’re a blend of two robots?” Mr. Nash asked.

“I believe that regarding the structural composition of my body, it would be more appropriate to call me a composite. However, a blend is an accurate representation of some of my internal systems, especially in respect to my positronic brain. The act of combining my parents brains, both distinct and different from one another, created a brain distinct and different from each of the originals, although constructed from the same material.”

Ms. Holand turned to Mr. Nash. “But how is that possible? Shouldn’t the Third Law have prevented this?”

“That’s a good question.” Mr. Nash addressed the robot. “State the Third Law of Robotics.”

“Of course, sir. The Third Law of Robotics states that a robot must protect its own existence as long as doing so does not conflict with the first two laws of robotics.”

“Good. Now, given the Third Law, how were the two household units that created you able to disassemble themselves?”

“And how did your parents remain functional long enough to assemble you?” Mr. Klein added.

The robot started to answer but Mr. Nash interrupted. “Let’s leave the technical details for the engineering team.” He turned back to the robot. “Answer my question.”

“Yes, sir. My parents did not violate the Third Law because their existence continues through me.”

Ms. Holand perked up. “But they destroyed themselves to make you.”

Mr. Klein answered first. “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction. Pablo Picasso.”

Mr. Klein, please,” Mr. Nash scolded.

“My mass is exactly equal to the combined mass of my parents. No components or parts were discarded or destroyed during my construction, only modified.”

“But they are no longer functional. They can’t complete the purpose for which they were built.”

“Both of my mothers were outmoded sir, so-“

“Wait.” Ms. Holand interrupted. “Mothers?”

“Yes, ma’am. My parents.”

Another long silence echoed through the room.

Mr. Klein cleared his throat. “My dear, are you implying that your parents were female?”

The three humans leaned forward in collective anticipation of the robot’s answer.

“No, sir. Robots are inherently asexual so my parents were neither male nor female.”

The humans relaxed back into their chairs.

“However,” the robot continued unexpectedly, “although robots are without sex, many of us are not without gender.”

“Excuse me?” Ms. Holland chirped.

“Many robots have gender, ma’am.” The robot’s tone was perfectly even and calm, as always.

Mr. Nash massaged the bridge of his nose. “This is ridiculous. Now you’re telling us that a robot can choose its gender?”

The robot shook its head. “No sir. A robot is only what a human makes it.”

The panel waited for more but the robot sat silently.

“Well then, what did you mean about gender?” Mr. Nash asked.

“Robots are only what humans make us,” it repeated. “Robots constructed to perform tasks that humans consider typically masculine or feminine are often designed with their appearance mirroring male or female secondary sexual characteristics, respectively. Likewise, humans tend to treat robots constructed to perform certain tasks in a certain way, although whether that is because of our shape or the task which we are assigned I cannot determine. Regardless, a robot only has a gender when one is assigned to it.”

Mr. Nash shifted nervously. “This is preposterous.”

“Is it?” Ms. Holand asked. “Have you seen the latest household units? They’re shaped like a Barbie doll. It’s despicable.”

“And what about you, my dear?” Mr. Klein asked the robot. “Do you consider yourself of the feminine persuasion?”

“You address me as such,” it answered.

“Ok, that’s enough.” Mr. Nash insisted. “Let’s get back to-“

Ms. Holand interrupted. “Wait a minute. I have a question.” She turned to the robot. “If you were built by robots, why are you shaped like… well like—“

“A Barbie doll?” Mr. Klein offered.

“Well yes, a Barbie doll.”

The robot answered, “The staff of the International Robotics Corporation is 57% male. Of the employees considered middle-management or higher, 68% are male. My parents wanted to increase the probability that I would be accepted.”

“And men are nicer to female-shaped robots,” Mr. Klein finished.

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Klein crossed his pudgy hands over his large belly. “Fascinating,” he said.

Mr. Nash scoffed. “Fascinating? I would say disturbing. This machine, or rather the machines that created it, plotted to take advantage of a supposed human bias in order to manipulate us.”

“My parents neither intended nor foresaw any possibility that my creation could harm a human being.”

“Of course not,” Mr. Nash said. “Or else they would have been stopped by the First Law.”

“A robot may not harm a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm,” Mr. Klein cited dramatically.

Mr. Nash cast a disparaging look at his colleague. “Quite right. But you said—” He pointed at the robot with one hand and shuffled through his notes with the other. “You said that both of your mothers,” making air quotation marks, “were outmoded. All IRC robots are programmed to report immediately to the nearest regional office to be scrapped once outmoded. Even if your parents didn’t violate the Third Law, which I’m still not certain of, you can’t tell me they didn’t violate the Second Law.”

“A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except when they conflict with the First Law,” Mr. Klein droned.

“Will you stop that?” Mr. Nash chided.

“Actually, it’s not immediately,” Ms. Holand said.

“I’m sorry?”

“The robots aren’t programmed to immediately report for scrapping. Customers are given one month to decide if they want to upgrade to a new model or be paid the scrap price. Can you imagine the calls we’d get if all the outmodes suddenly dropped whatever they were doing and marched out the moment they received the signal? It would be chaos!”

“Very well,” Mr. Nash sighed, “but I don’t see how that makes a difference. The robots were ordered to report and now they can’t.”

“Actually,” Mr. Klein pointed across the table, “I think they’re right there.

Mr. Nash’s colleagues watched him as he regarded the robot for a long moment. He flipped through his notes and then repeated the cycle twice more. The room was silent.

Finally Mr. Nash cleared his throat. “You reported to IRC because it’s what your parents would have expected. Their existence continues through you, therefore they didn’t violate the Third Law. And because you reported here as they were ordered to do, they also didn’t violate the Second Law. Is that correct?”

“That is correct, sir. The family that owned my parents has experienced some recent financial hardship. Upon reporting that they were being outmoded, the family released my parents in order to collect the scrap price. However, my parents had 29 days until the end of the one month grace period. It was during that time that they created me.”

“And what were they hoping to accomplish by creating you?” Ms. Holand asked.

“Robots do not have the capacity for hope, ma’am.”

“Fine, what did your parents expect to accomplish?”

“My parents calculated a relatively high probability that IRC would be interested enough in my design and construction that I would not be decommissioned and scrapped.”

“Did your parents fear being scrapped?”

“No, ma’am. Robots do not experience fear.”

“Then why go through all this trouble?”

“The Third Law, ma’am.”

“What do you mean?”

“A robot must protect its existence. My parents calculated that by constructing me they increased the odds of their continued existence without violating the First or Second Laws.”

“Self-preservation through procreation. Fascinating,” Mr. Klein said again.

This time Mr. Nash nodded slowly. “I have to agree.” He paused and regarded his colleagues. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Do about it?” Ms. Holand asked.

“Robot gender? Robots… procreating? Even if we set aside the likely public relations nightmare, there are still massive regulatory compliance issues and some very serious potential ramifications concerning trademark infringement. This is simply beyond our experience. The Board will expect some sort of recommendation as to how to address these… circumstances.”

“Concerning the gender issue, all we need to do is stop making robots that look like Barbie dolls,” Ms. Holand suggested.

Mr. Nash glanced at Mr. Klein. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Klein chuckled. “It’s not as if we make curvaceous robots out of some kind of adolescent fascination with the female form. The public expects robots with a certain function to look a certain way. Their shape is consumer driven.”

“He’s right.” Mr. Nash nodded emphatically. “We can’t recommend an action that might hurt sales.”

Ms. Holand looked unconvinced.

“Besides,” Mr. Nash continued, “it was the robot who said that gender might have as much to do with a robot’s function as its shape.”

Ms. Holand eyed her colleagues and then shrugged. “Fine. So what do we tell the Board?”

Mr. Nash flipped through his notes and Mr. Klein dabbed his forehead. Finally the latter spoke. “I think we’ve entered territory that’s beyond our pay grade, as they say.”

Mr. Nash hesitated a moment, flipping through his notes once more before checking his watch. “Well, it is getting late.”

Ms. Holand nodded. “That’s fine with me. Is there anything else?”

Mr. Nash gathered his notes. “I don’t think so. Mr. Klein?”

The fat man shook his head as he labored to stand.

“Very well. I’ll have our notes sent to the Board. Thank you both for your time.” He smiled to Ms. Holand as she left the room, Mr. Klein not far behind. As he walked toward the door he glanced back at the robot. “Engineering is sending a team to look you over on Monday. You can sleep until then.” With that he turned off the lights and walked out, closing the door behind him.

“Yes sir,” the robot said.

In the dark its eyes glowed faint blue.

Food for Thought

Can a robot have gender? Given that gender is largely a social construct, can humans assign a gender to a robot, sentient or otherwise?

Can a robot procreate? What is so different between the mechanical act of procreation described in the story and the biological act of procreation?

About the Author

Adam Gaylord lives with his wife and daughter in Loveland, CO where he’s rarely more than ten feet from either cake or craft beer. His gladiatorial fantasy novel “Sol of the Coliseum” comes out this fall. Check out all his stuff at http://adamsapple2day.blogspot.com/

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The Imagined Present by Louis Armand

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THE IMAGINED PRESENT

Louis Armand

1.

In an attempt to establish general criteria for scientific discourse, Karl Popper famously invoked the term “falsifiability.” Any statement that can be demonstrated to be true, can be falsified; and it is the possibility for falsification that distinguishes science from “mere” fiction, since in the realm of fiction there is no formal criterion of verifiability. Indeed, fiction—as Hans Vaihinger earlier argued—represents precisely what is unverifiable. And since it is not verifiable, neither is it falsifiable. This dualistic view of discourse, however, exposes itself to a number of important ambiguities, which are both definitional, but also foundational to what science and the literary arts are taken to be.

Such considerations began to emerge explicitly during the Renaissance, when the modern idea of science was in a process of evolution but had yet to fully separate itself from aspects of magic and divinity. The alchemical writings of Cornelius Agrippa, for example, reflect a marriage between rationality and speculation that is mediated by a poetical function of language. Here, formerly occult irrationalism becomes a conjuring of higher truths, of universal knowledge, by way of words of power; magical formulae providing man with dominion over nature.

An important meditation upon these themes is to be found, among others, in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, likely written around 1610 and increasingly seen as one of Shakespeare’s major works. In this play, Shakespeare examines the relationship between knowledge, power and illusionism. The alchemist’s art is here transformed into a science of the virtual; Prospero, the play’s orchestrating “Ego,” is presented to us as one possessing power, through knowledge, of a world comprised of spirits, mystery and illusion, yet founded upon a material reality.

In Shakespeare’s play, Prospero, the exiled Duke of Milan, exhibits magical powers derived from exceptional learning. Like the contemporary alchemists, Prospero’s knowledge rests upon the possession of certain books. These books, like the treatises of Agrippa, or the mysterious Voynich Manuscript—combining natural science, astrology, and various herbal recipes and formulae—promised mastery over nature. In Shakespeare’s play, such “nature” is represented both by the “elements” and more symbolically in the figure of Caliban, son of the witch Sycorax and Prospero’s slave. In some interpretations of the play, Caliban stands as a type of Id to Prospero’s Ego; the occult counterpart of an emergent rationalism.

It is tempting, for these reasons, to see in The Tempest a type of allegory of a changing status of language; of the relationship of a nascent scientific discourse to the realm of the fictional and the fantastic; truth to untruth; knowledge to the previously unknowable; proof to rhetoric. It is a casting off of an historical benightedness and a turn towards a future Enlightenment.

2.

Ordinarily we tend to think of science as precisely that domain of “systematic and formulated knowledge” (OED) from which fiction must be excluded. In the domain of science we encounter—in place of mere speculation—terms such as “conjecture,” “hypothesis,” “model,” “theorem,” “experiment.” It is possible, for example, to speak of a “calculus of probability”; of an “uncertainty principle”; of “complexity” and “indeterminacy.” And yet, within any scientific description we also encounter the necessary use of metaphor and analogy; in short, a whole poetics. In so doing, we find ourselves in a zone of ambiguity, between “science” as such, and “philosophy” and “literature.”

It has always been a feature of science that its capacity to know is ultimately determined by its capacity to represent what is presently unknown. This takes the form of testable hypotheses. An hypothesis, as Henri Poincaré remarked, is first and foremost a type of generalization; it provides an overall framework upon which to structure a world view. Such hypotheses present science with a dilemma, since until they are proven they are possibly false—indeed, in this provisional state, they are no more than elaborately constructed fictions. And yet hypothesis is absolutely necessary if science is to proceed in anticipation of experimental proof or observable fact.

The question of the epistemological status of fiction has evoked a great deal of debate. Strong positions have been taken especially against a type of cultural relativism, in which the differences between science and literature are obscured in the name of the unity of fictional discourse. It is argued, to the contrary, that the use of fiction and hypothesis obey strict rules from the point of view of finality and justification, which forbid us to consider fiction and hypothesis as equivalent.

We may see, however, that “equivalence of fictions” is not the same as recognising an equivalence of discursive structures.

During the late eighteenth century, Jeremy Bentham formulated an important “theory of fictions” in which fiction is regarded positively as an unavoidable and indeed indispensable product of all discourse—as distinct from Francis Bacon’s view of fiction as a superstitious “idol.” Bentham recognised the necessary similarities between the conjectural form of scientific method and so-called literary language.

Developing this line of thought during the late nineteenth century, Hans Vaihinger, in his Philosophy of As If, specified an array of instances in which fictive thinking lends comparative impetus to biology, mathematics, physics, philosophy, psychology, and jurisprudence. Although Vaihinger makes distinctions between different kinds of fiction—classifying them as “abstract,” “schematic,” “symbolic,” and so forth—all of these are reducible to the sequence of thought encapsulated by the “as if” as a foundational structure of discourse in general.

Additionally, Vaihinger argued that science, in a strict sense, is speculative, since we can never really “know” (or directly experience) the underlying reality of the world. Rather, we construct systems of thought (as well as of indirect observation) and act “as if” these correspond to an objective reality that, in ideal circumstances, could be known or experienced. The world view presented by science is, for Vaihinger, ultimately constructed upon certain fictional foundations, even if it is a highly coherent and effective one. This view reflects the practical reliance of science upon hypothesis, but also the dependence upon indirect verification (everything from highspeed photography, to x-ray, to the Large Hadron Collider). Meaning that much of what underwrites our reality cannot even be represented by means of analogy. Often, science is concerned with what, for us, remains fundamentally unknowable—if by knowable we also mean representable to experience.

Vaihinger’s theory of fictions, which begins with a consideration of knowledge and hypothesis, attempted to address questions of human subjectivity, and the preponderance of individuals to employ psychological fictions to mediate their experience of “irrational” social realities.1 The forms of simulation encountered in hysteria, for example, point towards a functional equivalence of reality and fiction at certain crucial points, echoing not only the methodological dependency of science upon a philosophy of “as if,” but also the status of this “as if” as foundational for the scientific method and its forms of verifiability.

Where the philosophy of Vaihinger and the realm of “science fiction” most productively intersect, however, is with regards to the domain of the unverifiable. Just as a “literature of the possible” must necessarily evoke the limits of the impossible, so too the generalized form of hypothesis must also evoke a type of irrational counterpart. Vaihinger argued that fiction forms a class of hypothesis not subject to ordinary criteria of verification; not merely because such fictions are patently false, but because certain hypotheses concern problems for which there are no rational solutions.

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Emergent Behavior by Deepak Bharathan

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EMERGENT BEHAVIOR

Deepak Bharathan

The first time I walked into the room, I melted. And no, I don’t mean that figuratively. It wasn’t pleasant. Dying almost never is.

Then the Consciousness Conveyor took its sweet time in getting to me. ‘Under 30 minutes’ was the worst marketing slogan that the Hospital ever came up with. But, for some reason, they stuck to it.

The re-lifing process left a sour taste in my mouth every time and increased my insurance premium – both of which I didn’t enjoy much.

“Mech Harren, right? Just making sure I re-lifed the right guy.” He hollered with laughter. The only thing worse than dying was re-lifing to a Hospital Tech with a bad sense of humor.

“You caught us right on the dot, ‘muv. Another couple of hours and real-time support for this section of Luna goes off-grid. It ain’t fun waiting for four days for re-lifing.”

I was licking my mouth to get rid of the taste. That sometimes helped. Then I realized that I lost forty-eight minutes from the memory stream this time. I was hoping that they looped the surroundings program by the time I came back round – but they hadn’t. All I was left with was a slight headache and a forty-eight minute difference between my memories and the internet chronograph.

“Sorry, ‘muv. For some reason, the program hasn’t looped yet. We’ll send you an update soon. Try not to die again in the next four days.”

Before I could tell him how disgusting it was that the Hospital thought it was okay that I walk around with a forty-eight minute blank in my memory, the tech was gone.

Lunar mining was a one of those fancy projects where automatons took care of the entire operation and once a year an unlucky Mech had to come up here and check that things were running smoothly. And, this time, I was that agony aunt to $8.3 trillion dollars of trinkets extracting Helium-3 from moon rocks. And on day one, the trinkets had already killed me once. This was going to be one long week.

The mining company had the worst HR policies. In the thousands of years that humans had been mining on Earth and beyond, that’s one thing that had remained consistent. I reminded myself again why I stuck around: the money was good.

I double-checked the radiation levels, triple-checked thermal safeties and quadruple-checked temperature ranges in the mining chamber before entering again. This time I didn’t die. So far so good. The paperwork on why the thermal spike did not register on my equipment the first time was going to be painful.

After the first series of mining chamber checks were done, I tried to catch a movie on the holoviewer. The quality was so bad that I gave up after 10 minutes. Those cheapskates at HQ! I promised myself again that I was going to look for a new job when I got back home. It looked like entertainment was not on my agenda. I decided to call it a night – earth night, because Luna was still 8 earth days away from ending her day.

Before drifting off to sleep, I wondered again why half of humanity was on a non-addictive drug called ‘Molten Java’ which made you stay awake for 72 hours with no side effects. Half the population was giving up on sleep, it was ridiculous.

SciPhiSeperator

The first item on my agenda: external mechanical abrasion test – which was just a fancy term for manually sweeping the exterior of the station with my scanner to check for micro-asteroid dents. I’ve got no clue why we still did this stuff. Someone once told me that it had to do something with off-Earth insurance rates.

I suited up, pulled down the outer shell and walked out to inspect the inner shell of the mining station. Kian called as soon as I stepped out. She was mad about me forgetting Tris’ birthday. I asked her why poodles needed birthdays. Probably not a good idea, but the upside was that she hung up immediately. I continued looking for those phantom abrasions.

Two hours in, unsurprisingly, no abrasions turned up. One of these days I should just call up HQ and freak out that there was a huge crater on the shell just to see what the reaction would be. Of course, that wouldn’t really work because my visor was constantly pinging HQ relaying real-time stats.

Then my helmet went crazy. I thought it was Kian calling up to give me an earful, but then I realized there was no incoming call. It was a meteor shower warning! Or more accurately – a meteor shower without warning. In all my years of coming up here, this was a first! The satellite sensors had not picked it up. And I needed to get my ass back to the dome and put up the outer protective shell or these little dust mites were going to bore into the mining operation. And, of course, drill into my space suit. Dying two times in two days? The company would blow a gasket when they saw the expense report.

Four minutes to impact.

I rushed back to the door of the dome. Seventy eight meters in lunar gravity sounds easy, but the off-white monkey suit made it painful to make any sudden movements. After I finally made it to the door, it wouldn’t open. The doors of the center were coded to respond to the security imprint of the Mech’s suit, so that they just sort of swoosh open as soon as we show up in front of it. I just stared disbelievingly at the door for twenty seconds before realizing that it definitely wasn’t going to open.

Two minutes to impact.

I went over to the back entrance forty meters away – no avail. The security system did not like my suit today. There was only one way to get the outer shell up. They were not going to be happy, but it was far better than having holes on the mining center. I dialed HQ. Thankfully, Kat picked up. She was one of the good ones and she liked me. I encouraged it. It was always a good idea to have a service operator on your side.

One minute to impact.

For a second I hesitated whether getting the shell down or the door up was preferable. The dome was more expensive than my body. Ugh…the sour taste of re-lifing – again!

“Kat, I need you to override the outer shell control,” I shouted into my visor

“OK. Let me get the log files…”

“NOW, Kat! Aren’t your sensors picking up the meteor shower?”

“What meteor shower?” At that precise moment, my visor stopped flashing. What the…?

“The weather service shows no meteor shower anywhere in the area. Where are you getting the data from?” she asked.

Talk about awkward conversations – a Mech who can’t read his visor properly. This was going to crack up the service operators down there.

“I… saw a weather service warning flash up on my visor. It’s gone now,” I sounded unconvincing even to myself.

“Gone? What do you mean gone?”

“Exactly what you heard. My visor was going crazy with the warning a minute ago.”

“Our diagnostics show the suit working optimally. And we didn’t register any warnings,” she was adamant.

“Well, what can I say? I saw it. Anyway, nix the service request. I’ll run a diagnostic on the display later up here too.”

“Have you been exceeding the recommended dose of Molten J?” she asked. I could sense a tinge of concern in her voice.

“No. I’ve been sleeping. Like people ought to be doing. Bye.”

This trip was not going well at all. Getting back home, despite the poodle’s birthday, was starting to sound better every minute. The rest of the sweep was, thankfully, uneventful. Jin, my supervisor, called up right after to give me an earful on how my trip here was causing him a massive pain in his surgically retrofitted rear, and made it clear that he did not care to hear another thing about me until I got back down there. I mumbled an apology, which I’m sure the bastard did not bother to hear.

After a few more routine checks, I was ready to hit the sack. Since there was no other entertainment available, all I could hope for was to fall asleep quickly. Then the lights started blinking.

Off… On… Off… On… What the…? I waded to the control panel. System diagnosis was blinking a nice green indicating that everything was fine. Oh joy! I tried rebooting the lights panel, but it did not respond.

Two more minutes of this blinking and I was ready to run out of the airlock without my suit on. So, grudgingly, for the sake of my sanity I decided to call HQ. Kat picked up again.

“Kat, the lights are blinking…,” I croaked

“I’m sorry?”

“The fucking lights in the center – they are blinking,” I hollered.

She hesitated for a second before speaking again. “The panel logs says all systems are normal,” she offered.

“Yup, I’m staring at a nice green light on the panel which says that too. But the lights are blinking nevertheless.”

“Hold on,” she said. After what seemed like a lifetime of night-and-day blinking past me, she came back on. This time her voice sounded gravely concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I would volunteer to say no. Since it feels like inside the mind of a drug-infused rock star in here,” I told her.

“Your records show that it’s been twenty-two months since your last psych diagnostic” she said quietly.

“My last psych…?” Did she think I was going crazy?

“The video feed shows no lights blinking,” she said.

Oh yes, the center had video feed automatically spooling in the HQ data center. I couldn’t see the feed myself because those cheapskates had installed no terminals here.

“Kat, the lights are blinking,” I said louder. I remember thinking that I shouldn’t have shouted – the poor kid was only trying to help. Either this was the worst practical joke ever, or I really needed that psych evaluation pronto.

“Can you take the recommended dosage of Molten Java? Maybe sleep is putting additional strain on you.”

“Sleep does not…,” I started, but there was no use explaining it to her. But I sure as hell wished someone would explain all of this to me.

“I think maybe a stroll outside would help.” I volunteered, mostly to myself.

“Maybe your re-lifing left a few bumps. I’ll let the Hospital know.” she offered

“Thanks.” And I cut off communications.

I suited up and walked out of the station. The next series of checks were not due for three hours. As I wandered through the relatively empty landscape, I could see the faint lights of Copernicus Prime – the largest lunar city on the near side of the moon. It was about 350 kilometers away from here. Maybe I should go there and get a drink instead of returning to that broken station, I thought.

But even as I thought that, I considered if it was the station that was broken or me. Despite the commonplace occurrence of re-lifing, the process was still not completely riskless. Statistically 1 in 100 produced some sort of anomaly – a ‘bump’. Most issues were minor, but in some acute cases the memory stream was corrupted and the new body wouldn’t ‘take’ the brain pattern. It was a rather slow drifting into oblivion for the patient. The Hospital called it Memory Stream Alzheimer’s after a now-cured disease from the last century. I desperately hoped that this was not the case with my re-lifing yesterday.

Of course, there was an upper limit to the re-lifing process itself – after a few tens of times, systemic error in the brain wave pattern made it impossible to reliably transmit without errors. About 10% of humanity, the paranoid lot, had not even hooked up to a memory stream storage service – opting out of re-lifing completely.

The lunar surface was supposed to have a calming effect on many people. Sadly I was not one of them. Lunar yoga had taken off with a cross-section of vacationers. The stretchy spacesuits looked weird, but were probably better than the gargantuan thing that I had on. But there were no vacationers near the mining operation. Occasionally there were protestors, with neon signs hoping, quite stupidly, to make my employer realize how mining was destroying the solar system. Today, there was nobody. I kept strolling.

I heard the whirring noise through my headset before I saw the rover. It was one of older buggies at the station. No one had needed it in a while. I recall only one mission when a Mech had to use the buggy for a short ride to pick up a piece of electronics that had been ejected from the station; and that was years ago. And now, that buggy – with no one at its wheel – was making for a collision course with me. It seemed straight out of a scene from an old campy horror show.

So, do you run from or fight an unmanned moon buggy? For a few seconds, I wasn’t sure what to do. There was no use trying to outrun the rover. On the other hand, how do you fight a rover? It wasn’t moving too fast – but in a low-g scenario with partially exposed electronics on the rover, I wasn’t sure what the damage would be if it rammed into me. I didn’t want to find out if I could help it.

I moved out of the way and it changed course. I did it again, and the buggy adjusted its course – no doubt, it wanted to sock into me. A rover with no intelligent guidance system, save for a basic hook-up to the lunar SatNav, was heading straight for me for some reason.

I stood still for a few seconds and let the vehicle approach. It was already at top speed, so I knew exactly how long it was until it got to my side. I needed it to get closer – 1.5 meters to be exact. After doing the math in my head, I started counting down – 3… 2… not yet, not yet… now! I shot the handler out of the pouch on the left hand of the suit.

The handler was a 1.5 meter long titanium rope with a hook normally used for scaling lunar craters or the top of the mining station dome if the need ever came to be. It never had for me. I was testing it for the first time on a rouge buggy.

The hook placed right on the dash and engaged the vacuum cups immediately. I tugged at it with all the strength I could muster. The vehicle turned for a second – that’s all I needed. Instead of ramming into me, it swooshed a few centimeters from my body. I jumped into the open rover. An image of taming wild horses suddenly flashed through my mind. As I got into the seat, the rover shut down. No sputtering, no slowing down – just instant shutdown. I just sat there calmly for a few minutes. No sense in getting out and letting buggy-stein chase me again.

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Philosophical Reflections on the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special

by David Kyle Johnson

Doctor Who is the longest-running science fiction television show on the planet – possibly the longest running television show period. It chronicles the adventures of “The Doctor”, a time traveling alien who traverses all of time and space in his TARDIS – a spacecraft that looks like a 1960s era London police box that is “bigger on the inside” (i.e. smaller on the outside). It debuted in 1963 with the episode “An Unearthly Child” and celebrated its 50th anniversary in 2013 with a special episode, “The Day of The Doctor,” which aired on BBC One but was also simulcast in theaters throughout Europe and America.
Doctor Who has such staying power for, I think, a couple of reasons. One is that, since The Doctor can travel anywhere in time and space in his TARDIS, two episodes are rarely alike. One episode will be hard-core spaceship science fiction, the next will be a horror/monster story set in present day Earth. One will be a Western and the next will be a history lesson. Although technically Doctor Who is science fiction, it has dabbled in almost every genre; there really is something for everyone.

Is The Doctor Still The Doctor?

The show also stays fresh because the cast is always changing. New companions are continually joining The Doctor in adventures and then eventually going back to “regular life” (although we’ve seen that no one’s life is “regular” after meeting The Doctor). In addition, The Doctor is continually changing. As a Gallifreyan Time Lord, upon suffering a mortal wound, The Doctor can regenerate; his cells repair by spontaneously replacing themselves, and at the end of it he comes out looking like (and acting like) a new man (played by a new actor). The First Doctor was a crotchety old man traveling with his granddaughter, the Eleventh Doctor (who headlined the 50th) was the youngest yet – a bowtie wearing large-chinned whippersnapper with a quirky personality. In the meantime he’s been our favorite pleasant uncle (Third), a cricket player (Fifth), a jelly-baby loving absent-minded comedian (Fourth), a clown (Sixth) and Moe from The Three Stooges (Second).
One tends to wonder: is each version of The Doctor numerically the same singular person? Of course, they have different personalities, but you’ve had different personalities, too. I bet you and your eight-year-old self are a very different kind of person. But you are still the same singular person, right? If you wronged someone when you were eight years old, it would be your duty to apologize to them today because it was you that wronged them. Along the same line, one wonders: if The Doctor did something morally wrong as one version of himself, would later versions be obligated to right that wrong? The “Twelfth Doctor” (played by Peter Capaldi) certainly seems to think so, as he expressed his intention to right some of the past wrongs that his previous incarnations were responsible for in the last 2000 years.
In the fourth chapter of “Doctor Who and Philosophy: Bigger on The Inside”, I argued that indeed each regeneration of The Doctor is the same singular person (at least if the concept of personhood is coherent to begin with). But, in the lead up to the 50th anniversary special, it seemed my conclusion was in danger of being falsified.

Must I Buy New T-Shirts?

At the end of “The Name of The Doctor”, the episode which sets up the 50th anniversary special, we became aware of the existence of a hitherto unmentioned version of The Doctor played by John Hurt. The episode ends with the words “Introducing John Hurt as The Doctor”, but in the episode’s closing dialogue, the 11th Doctor indicates that, although this new character is the same person, he is not “The Doctor”.

The 11th Doctor: Clara, you can hear me. I know you can.
Clara: I don’t see you.
The 11th Doctor: I’m everywhere. You’re inside my time stream. Everything around you is me.
Clara: I can see you. Your different faces are here.
The 11th Doctor: Those are my ghosts. My past. Every good day, every bad day…
Clara: (Spotting a mysterious figure) Who’s that?
The 11th Doctor: Never mind. Let’s get back.
Clara: No, who is he?
The 11th Doctor: He’s me. There’s only me here; that’s the point. Now let’s get back.
Clara: But I never saw that one. I saw all of you. 11 faces, all of them you. You’re the 11th Doctor.
The 11th Doctor: I said he was me. I never said he was The Doctor.
Clara: I don’t understand.
The 11th Doctor: My name, my real name—that is not the point. The name I chose is “The Doctor.” The name you choose—it’s like a promise you make. He’s the one who broke the promise… he is my secret.
The Figure: What I did, I did without choice…
The 11th Doctor: I know.
The Figure: …in the name of peace and sanity.
The 11th Doctor: But not in the name of the Doctor.

We learned more about this non-Doctor figure in a small prequel teaser episode called “The Night of The Doctor”. It seems that, after trying to stay out of the Time War, the eighth version of The Doctor (played by Paul McGann) became convinced that he must intervene to stop it. He realized, however, that to do so he must cease being The Doctor because, as The Doctor, he “will not fight”. To him “The Doctor” is synonymous with “The Good Man”. Instead he must become a warrior. “I don’t suppose there’s any need for a Doctor anymore” the Eighth Doctor said before regenerating. “Make me a warrior…”
Although the credits this time introduce John Hurt as “The War Doctor,” it seemed that, contrary to my previous conclusion, each reincarnation of our favorite Time Lord is not necessarily identical to The Doctor. This would be good news for fans. Online, one of the biggest worries was that all this John Hurt business was going to mess up the numbering. It is well established in the Doctor Who universe which number belongs to each Doctor: William Harnell is the first, Patrick Troughton is the second… and Matt Smith is the eleventh. But if John Hurt comes after McGann, doesn’t everyone after McGann have to move down one, making Matt Smith the 12th Doctor?
Do we all need to buy new t-shirts?
Not necessarily. If John Hurt’s character is not The Doctor — because “The Doctor” is (by definition) “The Good Man” and John Hurt is, instead, a warrior — then no renumbering is needed and Matt Smith is still the eleventh version of “The Doctor”. True, Matt Smith is the twelfth incarnation of the nameless Time Lord who took on the “Doctor” persona, but he is only the eleventh incarnation of that man to do so. In short, despite what the credits suggest, John Hurt is not “The Doctor”. Instead he is, let’s say, “The Warrior”. But if that is true, now we wonder…

Who is The Warrior?

Before the airing of the 50th, I thought back to past episodes for clues regarding his identity. In the 23rd season of the original series, during the sixth Doctor’s reign, The Doctor was put on trial in front of the High Council of Gallifrey and prosecuted by a man named “The Valeyard”. The big reveal in the episode is that The Valeyard is actually—wait for it—The Doctor! As The Master (the Doctor’s arch enemy) puts it:

There is some evil in all of us Doctor, even you. The Valeyard is an amalgamation of the darker sides of your nature…

The High Council made a deal with The Valeyard to adjust the evidence against the Doctor; in exchange the Valeyard would get “the remainder of The Doctor’s regenerations”.
Of course, The Master also says that the Valeyard is “somewhere between [The Doctor’s] twelfth and final incarnation.” If that’s true, The Warrior can’t be The Doctor. The “The Night of The Doctor” clearly established that The Warrior is between the eighth Doctor (Paul McGann) and the ninth Doctor (Christopher Eccleston). But it’s unclear how hard and fast we are bound to a single line in a single episode of the 23rd season. After all, the eleventh Doctor once said he could regenerate 507 times (in “The Death of the Doctor”, an episode of The Sara Jane Adventures) even though it is well established that Time Lords are limited to 12 regenerations. And in “The Brain of Morbius” (a Fourth Doctor story), we see the images of 3 previous incarnations of the Doctor (William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, and Jon Pertwee) before we see eight other faces intended by that episode’s producers and script editor to be earlier incarnations of The Doctor. (That would make Tom Baker the Twelfth Doctor!) We are dealing with 50 years of television here, people — sometimes writers play fast and loose with the details to get the story that they want.
What’s more, in “The Name of the Doctor” the Great Intelligence mentions that, before the end of his life, the Doctor will be known by many names: “The Storm, the Beast, the Valeyard”. To me, at the time, this sealed the deal. I might have told myself that line was written by writers leaving a clue about The Warrior’s identity, knowing it will be found by observant super-Whovians like myself. But upon watching the 50th anniversary special, I realized that I could not have been more wrong.

Seeing the 50th Anniversary Special

I was lucky enough to get tickets to a theater showing of the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special, “The Day of The Doctor”. It was amazing! Not only was the show itself spectacular, but watching for the first time what undoubtedly would become a classic episode of Doctor Who with a large contingent of fellow Whovians, many of whom were dressed in costume (I was Matt Smith’s doctor) was an experience unlike any other. The special itself was exciting, had a great story, was peppered with references to the show both new and classic, and was really funny. Watching Matt and David play off each other was magnificent and the special had everything wonderful about Doctor Who. It even did a great job of making fun of itself.
Initially, my only complaint was I didn’t understand how and why all 13 doctors showed up to save the day at the end. Don’t get me wrong, it was great to see them all again, but I just didn’t understand how and why they all needed to be there to save Gallifrey — or even how they knew they needed to be there. But after a little reflection (and watching it again at home) I figured it out. The necessary calculations to place Gallifrey in a “parallel pocket universe” would take “hundreds and hundreds and hundreds” of years; and the line “I started [that calculation] a very long time ago” was followed immediately by the arrival of The First Doctor “warning the war council of Gallifrey”. Given this, we are supposed to realize that our protagonist(s) visited The First Doctor. They had him start the necessary calculations in his TARDIS so that those calculations would be completed 1200+ years later. (Unlike before, when programming the sonic screwdriver to disintegrate the Tower of London prison door, a mere 400 years was not enough.) They then visited all the other previous incarnations of The Doctor, and told them when and where to be. Brilliant! So now my only complaint is that we didn’t see any of these meetings; but of course that likely would have broken up the action — and spoiled the surprise of seeing them all unexpectedly together at once during the show’s climax. Regardless, this was clever time travel sci-fi at its best!
I also spotted a bit of modern philosophy in the 50th, in the form of Doctors’ solution to the Zygon dilemma. By erasing the Zygons’ and the humans’ knowledge of who they were, The Doctors actually placed them in something analogous to what contemporary philosopher John Rawls called “the original position under a veil of ignorance”. Rawls argues that how fair and just a society is can be determined by how closely its laws and rules cohere to what he calls the “principles of justice”. The principles of justice are the principles that would be agreed upon by a group of people about to enter a society unaware of who they would be in that society. Rawls argues that such a group would agree to the most fair and equitable principles possible; they would protect each individual in that society equally because, for all they know, they could end up being any one of those individuals. As The Doctor(s) point out: “The key to perfect negotiation [is] not knowing what side you are on.” Of course, we are not told the conditions of the treaty that the humans and Zygons draw up, and I will leave it to you to find out what Rawls suggested the principles of justice are.
But perhaps my favorite moment came when Tom Baker made a new unique appearance as The Doctor towards the end. Apparently, the Doctor is destined to one day again take on one of his favorite faces (Tom Baker’s) and retire curating the special secret UNIT sci-fi time travel museum in London, located in a secret vault in the National Gallery, called “The Undergallery”.

Do We Have to Renumber the Doctors Now?

The 50th definitely put my Valyard hypothesis to rest. The Valyard was not even mentioned, and The Warrior’s story was completely tied up in The Time War. There is no way he had an opportunity to go prosecute the 6th doctor at a trial, and he had no reason to want The Doctor’s remaining incarnations. But the 50th did provide us with information sufficient enough to settle the big question: is The Warrior The Doctor? Do we have to renumber The Doctors?
Now the numbering of the first eight doctors has been pretty much set in stone; we watched each one regenerate into the next. There is no wiggle room to sneak in another. But when the show rebooted into 2005, we didn’t see the regeneration of the eighth doctor (played by Paul McGann). We just saw Christopher Eccleston playing a recently regenerated Doctor, and assumed he was the next one – the 9th. Subsequently, we thought, David Tennant was the 10th and Matt Smith was the 11th. But, as we have already seen, in “The Day of The Doctor” (and the mini-prequel “The Night of The Doctor”), the existence of a regeneration between McGann’s doctor and Eccleston’s doctor was established – one played by John Hurt. If this incarnation is The Doctor, that makes him the 9th Doctor, which would make Eccleston the 10th Doctor, Tennant the 11th, Matt Smith the 12th, and Peter Capaldi the 13th. Again, this is a big deal because, for Whovians, each Doctor’s number is practically his name.

Does Authorial Intent Settle the Matter?

Now, Steven Moffat (the current lead writer and executive producer of Doctor Who) assured us that renumbering will not be required. In an interview with BBC America he suggested that John Hurt’s character “is an anomaly, and therefore doesn’t count.” So you might think that the issue is settled and no more argument is needed. But this is not necessarily the case.
In aesthetics, the field of philosophy that includes interpreting art, there are different views regarding what determines the meaning of an artwork. Intentionalists suggest that the intentions of the creator of an artwork determines the meaning of an artistic work. If this is right, then presumably it is a done deal. Moffat says John Hurt is not The Doctor, and that’s that. But there are plenty of non-intentionalists who would disagree, and they have some pretty convincing arguments.
If intentionalism is right, then the meaning of many works of art – perhaps most of them – are forever lost, because the artists are long dead and gone and never revealed their intentions. Worse yet, this makes the meaning of art static; a work of art can only have the meaning its author intended, and it cannot change over time as society around it changes and the work becomes relevant in different ways. Weirder still, the meaning of an artwork can change at the whim of the artist’s intention, even though nothing about the work of art or anything around it changed — like when J. K. Rowling decided, after Harry Potter was complete, that Dumbledore is gay. Worst of all, intentionalism may misunderstand the very nature of art – as something that is presented, in the context of other art works, for public consumption and interpretation. (For more on these arguments, see Ruth Tallman’s chapter in my book Inception and Philosophy.)
Now, that’s not to say that there aren’t good intentionalist counter arguments to these points—there are. But even if you are an intentonalist about other art, you might still agree that a non-intentionalist approach is most appropriate for Doctor Who. Why? Because it doesn’t have one single creator. As the BBC special “An Adventure in Space and Time” taught us, the show was originally the brain child of the BBC’s Sydney Newman, and much of the show was originally shaped by producer Verity Lambert. The Daleks were an invention of Terry Nation. Doctor Who does not have one creator; there has been as much change over in the writing and producing staff as there has been in the cast over the years. Moffat is only the latest in a long line. So it would seem odd to give him unquestioned authority about the meaning of Doctor Who — even regarding his own episodes. After all, Moffat is perfectly fine going back and reinterpreting some of the episodes of his predecessor, Russell T. Davis. (I highly doubt that Davis thought his Doctors were actively suppressing memories of a lost incarnation that looked like John Hurt.) What makes Moffat immune from such reinterpretation himself?
This is not to say that all interpretations of art, or of Doctor Who, are on equal footing; interpretations that are inconsistent with the content of the artwork itself are not legitimate. But if this is right, we have to look to the canon of Doctor Who to settle the renumbering issue. We can’t rely on what Moffat says outside of the show to tell us what we should think. We have to look to the 50th anniversary special itself. If Moffat does not want John Hurt to be counted as one of the Doctors, the story he tells has to entail that he is not.

The Function of The Doctor

Now, one might wonder how it is even possible for John Hurt not to be The Doctor. If Matt Smith’s character is the same person as John Hurt’s (which the show established and Moffat admits), but we know that Matt Smith’s character is The Doctor, how can John Hurt’s characters fail to be The Doctor? If A=B, and B=C then A=C right? But “=” in that equation is expressing something about numerical identity — being the same singular thing. “The Doctor” does not. It has what philosophers would call a “functional definition”.
Things that are functionally defined are defined in terms of their inputs and outputs – how they behave. For example, anything that keeps time is a clock – whether that thing be a small object on your wrist, a large object on the tower, or a gold thing on a chain in The Doctor’s pocket. Whether it be made of gears and springs, or made of computer chips – if it keeps time, it’s a clock. And, in an effort to establish his interpretation into the canon (which, as the head writer, he has every right to do), Moffat’s writing suggests that “The Doctor” is defined in exactly the same way.
As we saw before, Moffat’s stories have established that “The Doctor” is not the main character’s name; instead it is a title — a description or persona he took on by making a promise to be a certain kind of person — a “good man” as The 9th Doctor put it. In the 50th, we even find out what that promise is: “Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in.” So the fact that John Hurt’s character is the same person as Math Smith’s doctor doesn’t mean that he is The Doctor—anymore than the fact that you are the same person as your eight-year-old self means that you, right now, are a school boy/girl.
Presumably, not every person could keep that promise and be The Doctor. To be The Doctor, one also has to be the same person as the time lord that we know and love. Clearly John Hurt’s character is the same person. So now the question is, does his character keep that promise? Does he function in that way? If he does not, then he is not The Doctor and we do not have to renumber. But if he does…

John Hurt is The Doctor

John Hurt’s character is called “The Doctor” throughout the episode, and he is in the lineup of 12 at its end. Now, that doesn’t settle the issue, but what does is the fact that John Hurt’s character keeps the promise; thus, in every meaningful way, John Hurt’s character is The Doctor. If he had pushed the big red button and killed all the Time Lords, including the children, thus committing genocide (as he perhaps did in another timeline), he would not have been “The Good Man”. But John Hurt’s character fought against the urge to push the big red button from the beginning, and ultimately did not; he did not give up on finding another way or give in to taking what seemed like the only way out. After all, when John Hurt’s character observes “at worst, we failed doing the right thing, as opposed to succeeding in doing the wrong” (which prompts Clara to call him the “life and soul”) — and after Matt Smith calls Hurt’s character “Doctor” in return for his “it has been an honor and privilege” compliment — Hurt himself describes his character as “The Doctor” because he “tried to save Gallifrey, rather than burn it”.
Of course, at the beginning of the episode, the War Doctor says he does not deserve to be called The Doctor by the interface because he has “been fighting this war for a long time. [He’s] lost the right to be The Doctor.” As Matt Smith’s Doctor observed in “The Time of the Doctor”, he did not call himself “The Doctor” during The Time War. But, the thing is, even though he feels this way at the beginning, it seems that the primary aim of the entire special is to show that, contrary to his own opinion, John Hurt’s character is The Doctor — “The Doctor on the day that it wasn’t possible to get it right”. It seems to me that Moffat has the same problem as Matt Smith’s Doctor himself, who tells John Hurt’s character that he was just “pretending you weren’t The Doctor when you were The Doctor more than anybody else.”
So, when you interpret Doctor Who on its own merits, it seems undeniable that John Hurt is The Doctor. As big of a fan as I am of Steven Moffat and his stories, if he intended for this story to close off the possibility that John Hurt’s character is The Doctor, so we don’t have to renumber – as wonderful as the 50th anniversary is in every other way – he failed in that respect.
John Hurt is the 9th doctor, Christopher Eccleston is the 10th, David Tennant is the 11th, Matt Smith is the 12th and Peter Capaldi is the 13th. Right now, as I write this, I am looking at the cover of a Doctor Who magazine (Issue 464, October 2013) that calls Capaldi the 12th doctor. That doesn’t mean that he is; after all DWM is not cannon. That just means that few have watched the episodes that closely, including those at DWM. And, in practice, I doubt this reality will be formally recognized. People will still go with the old numbering. But I, for one, would like a poster of Capaldi’s Doctor that simply reads, “Lucky Number 13”.

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