“Mommy, what do babies dream about?”
I hadn’t thought much of the question when I’d first asked it, as a 9 year old. But it never left me and it’s all I can think about now. What do newborns dream about when they haven’t yet experienced the world? Chewing on that question is far more satisfying than ingesting the canned speech now competing for my brain space.
Some cognitive neuroscientists theorized that if we could only see a baby’s dreams, we’d see the essence of their personality before it’s corrupted by immersion in society. We’d get some sense of what they might become.
“Welcome to your future!”
The stadium was packed that day, despite the oppressively hot temperatures. The graduates were queued up, a chorus line of arms failing to mop foreheads with the puffy sleeves of their heat-absorbing but sweat-repelling robes.
They give this speech at every graduation ceremony.
“We discovered long ago that rationally accounting for equity does not work in a world of irrationality…”
Sounds true.
He had already come to realize that truth, both through limited but intense experience and an atypical amount of self-reflection for someone his age. He welcomed his future with arms folded, despite being at the head of the line.
“… random adjustments to opportunities spawned anger and rebellion…”
Well, that’s true.
His parents had fought for those opportunity adjustments and now he was alone. And he sometimes wished the weight of the scars he bore from the accident would bury him too. He had no one left from whom to accept love.
“… but a physical solution was deemed palatable. It was proven that humans deprived of sight and sound cannot walk or crawl or pilot in a straight line.”
So he led them, one by one, into the circular arena where they would be set on a straight path. And all assembled peers, friends and family if one had any, and supposed superiors, would watch as they wandered. It was random, but they felt they had control. To some, it seemed like an exercise in making the young look silly.
Okay, wheelchair ready.
“… so go forward, blindfold on, ears plugged, until you pass through one of the doors. There you will discover the level of wealth you will have at your disposal to initiate your future, and the associated placement.”
And, after some aimless ambling, I passed through a door and found… I would start my journey serving society as a member of the middle class, as an Idea Clerk.
They were queued up under the “Ideation Royalties Line Begins Here” sign where he sat, alone and lonely.
Today we have a twenty-something blonde, nose pierced with a sparkling blue-green stud, off-kilter rectangular cloth backpack, probably works at a fake food start-up, followed by a fiftyish woman, short, round faced, faint freckles, smiley, talking about her daughter’s successes despite her having been waitlisted at most colleges, and what is clearly an unsuccessful college professor.
They were all ready to let me jack into their skulls in hopes that some idea they didn’t even know they had is worth something on the open market. In the old days you had to think — think your idea was worth something and patent it. No need to put in that effort anymore. I suppose that’s good for preventing assholes from stealing credit for others’ ideas, but I wouldn’t want to deal with the pain. Some do it for the cash, but the odds of a big payday are slim. I can sell my bodily fluids instead and count on getting paid.
The sign turned green and the young woman stepped through the doorway with purpose, up to his plexishield.
“Hey there, can you jack me in?”
“Sure, turn to the right please, put your temple against the plunger, hold on to the handle, and don’t move till I say so or you could be permanently damaged. This is gonna hurt.”
“I know, dude, it’s worth it. Go ahead.”
The needle shot out, punctured skin and penetrated skull, luxuriated for a few seconds, then slowly retracted. The results arrived straightaway.
“Sorry, nothing for you today. I recommend some painkillers and a couple days rest.”
“F, you, dude.”
I’m so glad I wandered through that particular door.
“Next.”
The freckled woman shuffled up for her turn.
“Hello, young man. Will it hurt?”
“Sorry ma’am, it will.”
“Okay. I need this for my daughter. Go ahead.”
“Turn to the right please, put your temple against the plunger, hold on to the handle, and don’t move till I say so or you could be permanently damaged.”
She did as instructed, and when he told her to do so, she let go. And collapsed.
“Ma’am, please get up off the floor. Nothing of value for you. Sorry. Next.”
The academic was next, and looked to be last, at least for now.
“I am ready, my boy.”
Pretentious prick.
“Sure thing. Turn to the right, sir, and put your temple against the plunger, hold on to the handle, and don’t move till I say so or you could be permanently damaged.”
He did, without comment. At least this guy followed the rules.
“You can let go now.”
“Anything, son?”
You are not a father figure to all those younger than you.
“Well, yes. It looks like you once dreamt up a principle underlying the new physics that underpins much of our current tech. Lucky man.”
“I knew that my years of study would seed my thoughts! Finally, it will all pay off.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Turns out you dreamt that when you were just a child. Sorry, you were too young. You can’t claim it.”
“No, that can’t be. What is the principle? I’m sure it came from my studies.”
“Sorry, the machine doesn’t make mistakes. It traces the neural line back to its origin. And sorry, if you don’t know the idea, I can’t tell you. Better luck next time.”
“Next time?”I hope there’ll be a next time, but it’s cases like this one that keep the Discount Discorporation Depot next door in business.
I know I shouldn’t have jacked in. Turns out I got a tiny percent of the ideation royalties for that injectable peptide. Made me want to try it in hopes it would help my legs. Turned out it destroyed me. It didn’t help and it damaged me, and I didn’t feel it. But my newborn felt the consequences of the tiny genetic change. I hope she forgives me when she finds out.
I know I shouldn’t have created a child to try to find love. But it worked. She’s always unsettled when awake, but her love for me shines through when she sleeps next to me. I feel it.
His baby slept peacefully, purring.
I can help her till she turns twenty, but then she’s on her own.
That’s the law. The law mandates the resetting of status for each generation through a random walk. The law prevents parents from providing tangible resources. The law does not prevent resentment among privileged parents. The law does not prevent them from exerting inequitable social pressure.
Colors and contentment, not images and stories, floated through the baby’s dreams. These were associated with disconnecting from the world, with being alone, with being within, with forgetting all the people around her, with forgetting her father.