Analog Science Fiction and Fact - June 2013

ANALOG
wistful look in her eye, faced the other way,
toward the much larger but no less utilitarian
squat concrete box that was the childcare center.
What the hell, they could gobble breakfast.
It was only fuel, best not noticed.
“We can spare a few minutes,” he told her,
offering his hand.
Rikki led them down Main Street, the rutted
path there was never the time or the resources
to pave, into the childcare center. A
broad corridor, its inner wall all one-way glass,
enclosed the facility on all four sides. They
paused first outside the gestation room, its
glow panels still night-dim. On forty-eight
empty wombs, READY lights shone a steady
green. Carlos expected to have another ten or
more units finished soon.
On a rear-wall display, above and behind
the wombs, counters ticked down toward
Family Day. Forty-five days . . .
Around the corner, in the gallery outside
the nursery, he and Rikki tarried longer. In
twenty-seven glass-enclosed cribs, eerily
hushed, babies slept, or stirred, or fussed. The
little ones only seemed silent; so that they
would not disturb each other, noise cancellers
in each enclosure masked most sounds.
Though the babies varied in size, they were almost
identical in age: about four months.
Through sensors wired into the cribs, Marvin
watched, listened, and sniffed ceaselessly
for any hints of distress. From displays at the
foot of each crib the AI’s smiling animation
would be beaming down, crooning or speaking
soothingly to each infant as it (or rather,
Li’s verbal generalities turned by Carlos into
updated programming) deemed appropriate.
Antonio, passed out on the room’s rumpled
cot, an out-flung arm trailing on the floor, remained
on duty for whenever the AI needed
hands or suspected a problem. To judge by
the line-up of empty formula bottles on the
table along the wall, and the overflowing diaper
pails, Antonio had had a long night.
As Rikki reached for the doorknob, Blake
said, “Don’t. You’ll wake Antonio.” Who, like
Dana, was old enough to be a grandparent. In
a fairer world, neither would be expected to
pull all-nighters like this.
Rikki jerked back her hand, looking sad and
relieved. “It’s so . . . cold.”
Impersonal, she meant. “I know,” he told her.
And yet inescapable. He nudged her around
another corner and they peeked in on the toddlers.
Marvin kept watch here, too.
Most here were awake, playing and babbling
in their cribs. By accident or with insight,
a few had opened the refrigerated
compartments in their cribs and helped themselves
to formula bottles. Antonio would be
along soon—roused by Marvin, if need be—to
help those who hadn’t managed to feed themselves.
And to change diapers. Lots of diapers.
Rikki reached for the knob of this door, too.
Once inside, she wouldn’t leave without first
rocking, cuddling, and cooing over each of
the twenty-six.
If any child would let her. A haunted expression
told Blake she, too, feared their recoiling.
“We need to get a move on,” he said, not
meeting her eyes.
Around the final corner they looked in on
the oldest children. This room had no cribs;
mattresses resting directly on thickly padded
carpet hid much of the floor.
Eleven of these children were just shy of
three standard years. Some played, as often
side by side as with one another. A few
rammed around, bouncing off padded walls
and each other. Three sat in a corner staring at
an animation with images of colored toys.
When Blake pressed an intercom button, Marvin
was teaching numbers. From other wall
displays, Marvin’s avatars praised, cajoled, and
chided its charges.
Then there was the oldest cohort. The
guinea-pig generation.
Blond, blue-eyed Eve, by almost a day the
grande dame of the Dark-born, was loading a
tray with snacks. Castor, burly and intense,
was piling plastic blocks. Pollux, his black hair
a tousled mess, frowning, sat hunched on one
of the room’s tiny toilets.
The trio struck Blake as wise—or was it
wizened?—beyond their five standard years.
He tried to remember when he had seen
any of them smile. And he pretended not to
notice Rikki brushing a tear from her cheek.
This . . . factory was no way to raise children,
but how else could six adults cope? And
duty demanded they bring yet more children
into the world, while growing food for everyone.
70 EDWARD M. LERNER