Parental Control

I plunged my forefinger onto the page in an exaggerated gesture, as if to mark the spot where my reading had reached. The noise and the jolt to the book were enough to make her stop in mid sentence and stare straight at me. My old dad did same thing if my mum interrupted him when he was reading. I always imagined that in his Hornblower novels my dad was lost somewhere in the South Seas, invoking the admiration of his crew while battling storms and slovenly Spaniards. He'd have been the hero of his men, a father to them all, firmly guiding and saving them from themselves: those fighting dullards never knowing quite what to do for the best. And when he was bought back to reality by my mum's conversation, his disapproval showed.

And there I was, many years later, lost in my book when my wife interrupted. “I'd do anything for my kids”, she said, starting again after my little display of engrossed reader frustration.  I sat still for a moment, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

“You know”, I said, finally. “You're going to have to stop watching Strictly Come Dancing if it makes you like this”.

“Oh, don't talk rubbish”, she said. “It's got nothing to do with Strictly, it's those refugee mothers, risking all to give their children a chance of life, a future”.

“And endangering their lives in the process”, I said.

“They're doing what they think is best, even if it may kill them”, she said. “Having to put your child's life at risk in order to save it is the worst nightmare any parent can have. They must be suffering unimaginable emotional pain making decisions like that”.

“You didn't sound like that when Seddon junior got nicked by the police for theft”, I reminded her, “You wanted to strangle him”.

“No I didn't, I was just saying that. Anyway, he got in with the wrong crowd; he was always easily lead”.

“Easily lead”? I said. “At his expulsion ceremony, attended by you and me, the headmaster described him as the leader of the infamous year eleven shop lifting and school burglary squad”.

“Well, he's done very well for himself now. You said it yourself, getting expelled was a real shock for him, he pulled his socks up straight away”. Her youngest was not to be knocked.

But he's my son as well and I remember taking a slightly less forgiving, more robust position regarding his 'education'. What his mother doesn't know is that, soon after, and as soon as I was alone with him, I pinned him to a wall by the throat and instructed him on his future behaviour. I had judged it well and he was near to tears as I informed him that I would kick his backside to oblivion if he ever upset his mother in that way again. Looking back it's me that is close to tears thinking about it; as I say, he's my son as well. Something, though, had to be done, for him, for the best.

Anyway, back to my book. I was reading Robot Visions, Isaac Asimov's collection of robot stories, in which he reiterates the three robot laws: laws that govern the interaction between humans and robots. Basically, Rule 1 says that a robot cannot harm a human, or allow a human to be harmed. Rule 2, a robot must obey an order given by a human, unless it causes conflict with Rule 1. Rule 3 states that a robot must protect itself unless in doing so there is conflict with Rules 1 or 2.

Asimov's robots are invariably humanoid - androids designed to replace humans in some jobs but always intended to exceed human ability and so enhance our existence. In many ways I can see why that's the most popular vision of them and if robots were built to simply replace people, then what other form would they take. In reality, though, the most practical shape for a robot is one that best fits the job its intended for. Why have a robot that builds cars, for example, with hands to grip tools, when the arms themselves could incorporate the tools. Why have a car driven by a robot when a robot car can be built without space wasted on a driver.

These are the robots of our future. Machines formed to perform specific tasks. And as they become more sophisticated, more autonomous, laws that govern behaviour will become increasingly important. Even now we have systems in vehicles that take over the engine management and brakes to compensate for our driving mistakes. With the future bringing even greater control and much of the development and design for these automations done by machines themselves, a totally new set of ethics will evolve. Ethics administered not by people but by machines. Political correctness, the antithesis of our flawed idea of common sense, will be equaled by robotical correctness, as these computerised mechanisms  grapple with the enormity of what they're being asked to do - to look after us in the complexity that is our everyday lives. So, as we head towards full automation, it's not hard to predict the type of programming robotic trucks might have in order to save us from ourselves.

Why can't we chisel off just one more car in the inside lane before the exit slip? Because the automaton we're riding in thinks it's:

1. Not completely safe
2. Not fuel efficient, so unsound for the (human) environment 
3. Potentially damaging for the machine itself

Why can't we pull into the next fast food outlet? Because the robot vehicle thinks it's:

1. Not safe for our long term health (it would be the second visit this week)
2. The machine has already registered an unhealthy increase in our seat weight
3. They don't do discount points for any of our cards

Why can't we set off, now?

1. We haven't fastened our seat restraint
2. We haven't tidied the bunk of items that might fall and injure us
3. We haven't cleaned our teeth

All this in the new world of full automation, where robots replace, and on which we become totally dependent. With the control of industry, activity and life comes the responsibility for safety, well-being and environment. Our new home is an ordered one, where our parents are mechanisms and their hand logical and firm. And always in the best interest of us, their children.

70 in a 30

I had just sat down when he approached, fast, weaving between tables and chairs set out on the pavement outside the cafe. The last thing I hoped he'd do was stop but then he just crashed in front of me, right there, in the chair opposite. I even had my newspaper positioned on the table next to my latte, both waiting to be enjoyed, in peace. Sitting there is normally such a pleasure, occasionally glancing around at the tables to either side, their occupants doing their own thing, all of us at the same pace, all in our own space. Now all that was shattered.

I couldn't help myself but look up, the shock to the chair he had chosen to drop into was such that it seemed to shake the very paving slabs it rested on. And my glance was enough, our eyes met and he spoke, as if invited to do so by that most fleeting of contacts. The journey through my newspaper was now delayed. I took a last look at it, longingly, as if by doing so would somehow allow me to simply keep going. But his impact was too great for that and the influence of his presence too strong, and when he spoke it was obvious I was to be held up.

“Now that's a proper bike”, he said, looking at my Triumph Bonneville parked nearby. I nodded in recognition. He was right, it is a great motorcycle, not one of the old ones but a new model.

“Never really been into bikes”, he went on. “Cars, that's me. And speed, I love it. Acceleration, it's the thrill of acceleration I love. Always have. I've had loads of cars. Jags, sports cars, Mercs. I love Mercs, got one now.

“It's over there, my Merc. I had a bike once, only one I had. I was hammering along, had me mate on the back and some bloke pulled out in front of us. I locked up and ended up in a ditch, my mate went over the top and was thrown only knows how far. We weren't that bad, considering. But that was ages ago. I'm seventy, you know; and I've had a few motors, I can tell you.

“My young niece sometimes takes me out in her car. I recon my reactions are better than hers, as good as when I was thirty. She's terrible. She crawls along. She's got one of those electric things that uses its engine only when there's not enough left in the batteries. Useless, wouldn't go near one. My mate said he had the car for me, a three litre diesel, does a hundred and thirty. Wouldn't touch it; petrol, that's the only one for me, don't care about the cost, don't care what it does to the gallon.

“Only had one serious crash in all the years I've been driving – went into the back of a lorry and had to be cut out. That was years ago. You've got to have your wits about you these days. I had some bloke in front of me last year not pull away at some lights. Made me hit him from behind, did the front grill in. Not cheap on a Merc, I can tell you. It's like in those supermarket car parks, twice I've been hit. Once it was by someone pulling out of a space right in front of me, the other by a car speeding along as I was leaving a parking space. They don't look”.

And with that he spotted someone approaching. They hooked up together and left soon after, with only the briefest of nods in my direction. People were getting up from the tables around me, folding their newspapers in preparation to leave. In no time, the cafe emptied and the pavement flowed.