Ferrater Mora Oxford Centre for Animal Ethics

How Science Fiction Helps Us Reimagine Our Moral Relations with Animals
Author(s): Jennifer Clements
Source: Journal of Animal Ethics , Vol. 5, No. 2 (Fall 2015), pp. 181-187
Published by: University of Illinois Press in partnership with the Ferrater Mora
Oxford Centre for Animal Ethics

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5406/janimalethics.5.2.0181

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 How Science Fiction Helps
Us Reimagine Our Moral
Relations with Animals
Jennifer Clements
University of Oxford, Oxford, England

Science fiction has often been at the forefront of popular renderings and exploration of
various “subaltern” groups, including that of nonhuman animals. I argue that science
fiction’s freedom from the boundaries of what is currently possible allows writers such
as Mary Shelley, H. G. Wells, Philip K. Dick, Olaf Stapledon, Daniel Keyes, Octavia
Butler, Cordwainer Smith, and H. Beam Piper to explore ethical possibilities regarding
animals that are diverse from those of the context in which they wrote. It is also notable
that the earlier science fiction writers only critique majority views regarding animals,
whereas their antecessors go so far as to suggest the empowerment of the “Other,” in
this case, nonhuman animals.

Key Words: science fiction, animal ethics, the subaltern, Mary Shelley, H. G. Wells,
Philip K. Dick, Olaf Stapledon, Daniel Keyes, Octavia Butler, Cordwainer Smith,
H. Beam Piper

The speculative nature of science fiction allows its writers to explore that which is not
currently possible or is not aligned with current morality. As such, I will look at texts by
Mary Shelley, H. G. Wells, Philip K. Dick, Olaf Stapledon, Daniel Keyes, Octavia Butler,
Cordwainer Smith, and H. Beam Piper and consider how they have used the form of sci-
ence fiction as a testing ground for ethical concerns regarding nonhuman animals. These
works span in time from 1831 to 1987 and are all popular texts that have accrued a large
readership, many of which can be considered classics of the genre. It is also important
to note that despite science fiction being set across a vast range of times and places, it
is always a reflection of the context in which the writer created it. For this reason, the
majority of the writers are Western white males with the exception of Shelley and Butler.
Nevertheless, science fiction as a genre has often been at the forefront of exploring the
roles of the “subaltern” (Spivak, 1988, p. 271). For example, parallels are drawn between
the treatment of fictional alien species and that of women, ethnic minorities, homosexu-
als, and nonhuman animals. The guise of fiction has allowed science fiction’s writers and

Journal of Animal Ethics 5 (2): 181–187

© 2015 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois

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JAnE 5_2 text.indd 181 8/18/15 8:26 AM
 182 Journal of Animal Ethics, 5 (2015)

audiences to explore ethical possibilities that they would be reprimanded for discussing
in a less fantastical setting.
Mary Shelley first wrote Frankenstein: Or the Modern Prometheus in 1818 at the age
of 19 before substantially editing it in 1831. One of the central concerns of the novel
regards the moral wrongs that newly expanding scientific frontiers made possible, such
as experiments mentioned by Jansson (1993) in his introduction of the novel, including
Luigi Galvani’s experiments on “animal electricity,” or bioelectricity, in the late 18th
century, whereby he was able to cause the legs of a dead frog to spasm as if alive (p. ix).
Victor Frankenstein “tortured the living animal” in order to create the creature and yet
it is the defilement of the human dead and creation of unnatural life that he considers
“unhallowed acts” (Shelley, 1831/1993, pp. 43, 70). In contrast, the creature himself re-
veres nature and embodies the Romantic concept of the noble savage, stating “I do not
glut the lamb and kid to sate my appetite,” instead surviving on a vegetarian diet as did
Shelley’s husband—although he did so largely for health reasons (Shelley, 1831/1993, p.
112). The creature’s comparative morality (at least prior to his corruption by humanity)
is also signposted by the material from which he gains his education, especially Plutarch’s
Lives, the writer of which was a firm proponent of animal rationality (e.g., his On the
Cleverness of Animals [Newmyer, 1999, pp. 105–107]). Finally, a large part of the tragedy
that occurs in the narrative stems from Victor’s refusal to begin with a simpler organism,
which is largely the result of his hubris in attempting to rival God. As such, much of the
novel’s ethical dilemmas question the stance of the Christian Church—for example, did
God give humans dominion over nonhuman animals or is it more in the vein of guardian-
ship? Shelley (1831/1993) illustrates how both a self-absorbed approach to science and
the traditional Christian morality prevalent at the time can lead to personal ruin and the
harming of innocents, be they the countless victims of Frankenstein’s vivisection or the
deaths of William, Justine, and Elizabeth through the actions of the creature.
H. G. Wells published The Island of Doctor Moreau in 1896, and it has since inspired
a whole genre of science fiction concerned with the concept of “uplift,” whereby nonhu-
man animals are modified to give them more humanlike attributes (e.g., Planet of the Apes
and much writing by David Brin and Cordwainer Smith, respectively). In The Island of
Doctor Moreau, the titular character, Moreau, uses blood transfusion, extensive surgery,
and hypnotism to alter animals into “bestial monsters, mere grotesque travesties of men”
(Wells, 1896/1973, p. 115). The “Beast Folk” form a society that regards Moreau as a
god and chant their tenets (i.e., not to chase other men, not to eat flesh nor fish, not to
go about on all fours, to speak like a man, etc.), ending in the refrain, “are we not men?”
(Wells, 1896/1973, p. 85). For Moreau, vivisection is a humanizing process, yet he can
never consider the Beast Folk people for “pain underlies [their] propositions about sin”
(Wells, 1896/1973, p. 105), as they only strive for humanity to avoid being returned to the
House of Pain; as such, the novel’s events are punctuated by the screams of a puma who
Moreau is torturing, which gradually shifts to the screams of a human being changed.
The Island descends into chaos as select Beast Folk begin to break the law by killing
nonhuman animals and then must revolt to avoid returning to the House of Pain. By the

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 Clements, Science Fiction and Morality 183

end, Moreau, his assistant, and many of the Beast Folk are dead, while the rest revert
back to their animal states. The narrator escapes back to “civilization” but is unable to
ignore the animals he sees in everyday people—“the preacher gibbered Big Thinks, even
as the Ape Man had done” (Wells, 1896/1973, p. 191). Much like in Frankenstein, Wells’s
narrative paints the vivisectionist as ultimately responsible for all the death and suffer-
ing that follows. Furthermore, both Dr. Moreau and Dr. Frankenstein die in obscurity,
having failed to use science for the betterment of humans or nonhuman animals.
In addition, Danta (2012) highlights that Wells successfully predicted the blending
of human and animal genetic tissue that is so prevalent in science today. In contrast to
the careful controls over at least state-funded scientific practices, Moreau’s experiments
are a “form of anthropomorphism that is monstrous or grotesque for being literalised”
(Danta, 2012, p. 687). Wells has also been adapted for a younger audience, for example
in Ann Halam’s 2002 novel Dr. Franklin’s Island, which shows how a focus solely on an
animal’s “use-value” or an ends justifies the means approach can lead to the suffering
of both human and nonhuman animals (Yampell, 2008, p. 208). Yampell (2008) shows
that science fiction written for young adults has emphasized the hierarchy and restric-
tion implicit in being human (as particularly felt by teenage readers), often ending with
an evolutionary shift toward animals and human-animal hybrids as solely human society
declines. This is contrary to The Island of Doctor Moreau, which, despite its sympathy
for animal suffering, does so from the position that because humans are superior they
should not abuse their position. Yet Yampell concludes that “human-animals need animals
to be something so human-animals can know they are someone,” much as men needed
to define women as property to feel assured in their own power (Yampell, 2008, p. 213,
emphasis in original).
Sirius by Olaf Stapledon (1944/2011) has been described by Brian Aldiss (as cited in
Orion Publishing Group, 2011) as “The most human of all Stapledon’s novels,” despite
the fact that the titular character is a dog (although one with the intelligence of a human
being and with the ability to speak—even if his speech is not immediately comprehen-
sible to those who are unused to it). Thomas Trelone raises Sirius alongside his daughter,
Plaxy, and treats him as a member of the family, although Sirius feels inferior due to his
lack of hands, color-blindness, and poor treatment by other humans—“Oh for hands! At
night I dream of hands!” (Stapledon, 1944/2011, p. 161). Sirius composes music, works
as a sheepdog, and takes part in experiments at Cambridge, but eventually he becomes
plagued by his “wolf nature,” whereby he loses his humanity and satiates his primal
bloodlust by hunting (Stapledon, 1944/2011, p. 22). When Plaxy’s parents die, rumors
begin that Sirius is a creature of Satan and is carnally involved with Plaxy. While Plaxy
and Sirius never have anything beyond a platonic love for each other, she says to Sirius,
“you are my life,” and she herself is described as “scarcely human . . . cat-like and fey”
(Stapledon, 1944/2011, p. 181). Eventually she is conscripted, is forced to leave, and be-
gins to date Robert, after which the murmurings in the village become violent and Sirius
is forced to run, getting fatally shot in the process. Toward the end Stapledon (1944/2011)
writes: “Sirius, in spite of his uniqueness, epitomised in his whole life and in his death

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 184 Journal of Animal Ethics, 5 (2015)

something universal, something that is common to all awakening spirits on earth, and in
the farthest galaxies” (p. 194). Stapledon fully embraces the concept that despite Sirius’s
enhancements allowing him to feel and do everything a human can, he still has a yearning
for something else—as embodied in his “wolf nature”—which is perhaps best illustrated
in his music that never panders to human sensibilities and taste. As in Frankenstein, it is
human actions that cause the violence in the novel, and Stapledon (1944/2011) makes it
clear that fear and aggression toward nonhuman animals is often used to distract people
from their own failings and problems.
H. Beam Piper (1962/2006) tells the story of Zarathustra, a planet believed to be
uninhabited by sapient life until the arrival of humans, who begin to exploit its natural
resources. However, a prospector finds a small furry creature whom he names Little Fuzzy,
and who, along with others, become his family. Through their aptitude at making and using
tools, it becomes clear that the Fuzzies are sapient—defined as being aware of their own
thinking. However, the Zarathustra company tries to sabotage attempts to get the Fuzzies
protected by virtue of their sapience, ending up in court where the company claims sapi-
ence is based on the ability to talk and make fire. It is eventually discovered that Fuzzies
can talk—it is just outside the range of human hearing—and Zarathustra is reclassified as
a planet with indigenous sapient life and thus the Zarathustra Company loses its charter
and the Fuzzies are thereafter protected by the law. The issues at the heart of Little Fuzzy
are still are of great concern to animal rights movements in existence today, notably how
animal awareness and consciousness is minimized by large, profit-driven companies that
can influence legislative bodies. This speculative tale is of particular relevance to attempts
to define cetaceans, primates, and other nonhuman animals as nonhuman persons whose
rights should be protected by the law in a manner similar to those that safeguard children
and the severely disabled or mentally ill. By placing these issues in the context of a fictional
species, planet, and company, Piper creates a less convoluted scenario that readers can
apply to similar real-world developments that are muddied by news outlets, corporations,
and politicians looking out for their own interests.
In Keyes’s (1966/2000) novel Flowers for Algernon, the protagonist is Charlie Gordon,
a man chosen for an experimental brain enhancement surgery on the basis of his IQ of
only 68 and his eagerness to learn. The surgery succeeds in making Charlie a genius but
it becomes clear that the prior test subject—a mouse named Algernon—is deteriorating
after peak intelligence was reached, alternating between rage and apathy. It becomes
clear to Charlie that “they thought of both of us as a couple of experimental animals who
had no existence outside of the laboratory” (Keyes, 1966/2000, p. 112). Charlie attempts
to help Algernon but is unable to improve his condition and eventually Algernon dies:
“It’s foolish and sentimental, but late last night I buried him in the back yard. I wept as I
put a bunch of wild flowers on the grave” (Keyes, 1966/2000, p. 180). Eventually Charlie
himself begins to regress and the novel ends with him being institutionalized. The core
tragedy of the novel lies in Charlie’s poor treatment by his supposed friends and the
scientists on the basis of his low IQ. Indeed, at the beginning of the novel, Charlie is
jealous of Algernon’s ability to solve mazes faster than him, but he quickly realizes that,

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 Clements, Science Fiction and Morality 185

to the scientists, he and Algernon are only valuable because of their potential as experi-
mental subjects, which might provide them with renown in the academic world. Flowers
for Algernon uses the tragic experiences of Charlie and Algernon to illustrate why low
intelligence is not a suitable excuse for doing harm, whatever the species. Once again,
science fiction makes a compelling case for laws that protect those who are susceptible
to being abused, rather than using privilege to excuse harm done to others.
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick (1968/2001) is better known
in its reincarnation as the film Blade Runner, directed by Ridley Scott. However, the
original book is also widely consumed and is much more detailed in its consideration
of animals. It is set in a future Earth where artificial biology can create lifelike people
and animals who possess independent minds and who are known as “andys.” The Earth
has been rendered almost uninhabitable by a massive world war, causing many of the
rich and talented to emigrate off-world, where their needs are catered to by andy slaves.
Those who stay are eventually altered by the radiation and become “specials” who are
not allowed to emigrate. The ultimate status item is a real animal, as these have become
rare and require much care to keep alive. The protagonist, Rick Deckard, maintains an
electric sheep to keep up appearances until he can once again afford a real one: “Owning
and maintaining a fraud has a way of gradually demoralising one” (Dick, 1968/2001, p.
8). Indeed, not having an animal was a crime and is still considered “immoral and anti-
empathetic” (Dick, 1968/2001, p. 12). Indeed the Voight-Kampff test that Deckard uses to
distinguish andys from humans consists largely of questions that measure the individual’s
reaction to animal suffering. Older model andys are unable to express empathy or react
too slowly to the scenarios and could be detected, but a central ambiguity in the novel is
whether Deckard himself is a new model of android, a question muddied by his care for
the sheep. In this fictional world, humanity takes collective pride in its ability to care for
animals, even while gaining no practical use from them. And yet they hunt down android
fugitives mercilessly, even after learning that these recent models can think, feel, and
empathize with other living organisms. This is another ambiguity in the novel, although
I would suggest that the humans feel so threatened because the andys are “other” and
could make actual humans largely redundant with their superior intelligence and hardi-
ness. In this world, humanity uses animals and andys to define its own position—to prove
they are someone not something (Yampell, 2008). However, even in making empathy
toward natural life central to being human, still they have not achieved utopia as they
simply turn their cruelty and disgust toward the altered and the artificial—the specials
and the andys.
Cordwainer Smith (1975, the nom de plume of Paul Linebarger) wrote a prolific
amount of science fiction, though, for the purposes of this article, I will focus largely on
the short story “The Ballad of Lost C’mell.” The story tells of how a human lord called
Jestocost and a feline “underperson” (an animal-derived telepathic person with human
speech) called C’mell worked together to gain further rights and citizenship for the under-
people. The events become legendary and the underpeople turn the tale into a love story,
despite Jestocost and C’mell remaining platonic companions. McGuirk (2008) highlights

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 186 Journal of Animal Ethics, 5 (2015)

that the success of their endeavours stems from their “continual, often covert, negotiation
(not denial) of difference” (p. 289) and that Smith presents the underpeople’s advantage
over people in the form of their telepathy and greater “strength of purpose” (p. 287). The
story emphasizes the importance of people escaping their “social programming” in order
to open their minds to “others” and live with them in “creaturely connectivity” (McGuirk,
2008, p. 301). Smith (1975) also emphasises the dangers of advanced technologies in the
story “Mother Hitton’s Littul Kitton’s,” where minks have been bred for psychosis and
kept asleep until needed, at which point their brain waves focus upon their enemies to
drive them into self-destructive madness. Smith uses the speculative possibilities of sci-
ence fiction to explore how to convey “a self-aware identity outside human language” in
order to challenge his readers to question their assumptions regarding “species dominion”
(McGuirk, 2008, p. 281).
Octavia Butler’s (1987) novel Dawn explores the fate of humankind after a nuclear
war. An alien species of gene traders called the Oankali regenerate Earth and rescue the
remaining humans, but in return they require all future human and Oankali children to
have genes from both species. The central character is Lilith, who is chosen to persuade
humans to acquiesce to a life with the Oankali. She draws comparisons between her
treatment and how humans used to treat animals: “We did things to them—inoculation,
surgery, isolation—all for their own good. We wanted them healthy and protected—some-
times so we could eat them later” (Butler, 1987, p. 34). “She was nothing more than an
unusual animal to them. Nikanj’s new pet . . . How was a pet supposed to feel?” (Butler,
1987, pp. 58–59). Lilith feels like an “experimental animal,” fearing that she will be forced
to undergo what humans had once done “to captive breeders—all for the higher good
of course” (Butler, 1987, p. 62). The Oankali live without killing animals, their forms
of transportation are organisms that have been genetically engineered to take pleasure
from interacting with them. But Lilith and the captive animals she compares herself
to lose their bodily autonomy; at the end of the novel, Lilith is made pregnant without
her consent and, while she admits that she did want another child, the Oankali betray
her by not waiting for her to accept and choose to act upon those feelings (or not as the
case may be). Haraway (1989) lists Butler’s central concerns as “forced reproduction,
unequal power, ownership of self by another, the siblingship of humans with aliens, and
the failure of siblingship within species” (p. 307). Dawn unites species relationships with
“Afro-American/feminist enquiry” (Haraway, 1989, p. 307) as the constructs of “woman,
the Primitive Race, Nature, Animals, the Other” are all necessary to the construction
and perpetuation of the White Man as the figure of dominance (Haraway, 1989, 296). As
the Oankali point out to highlight why humans are terrified at the mere sight of them,
“difference is threatening to most species” (Butler, 1987, p. 196).
The famous postcolonial and feminist theorist Gayatri Spivak (1988) asserts that the
“subaltern” cannot speak because it has been constructed by dominant viewpoints that
do not want to hear dissenting voices. It is only by deconstructing the category itself that
the “Other” can be heard. Science fiction by its nature is concerned with the “alterna-
tive” and the “speculative.” For this reason, it has often been concerned with minority
groups and the oppressed. Likewise, through the extended boundaries of possibility

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 Clements, Science Fiction and Morality 187

prevalent in science fiction, writers can create characters and scenarios that would be
unacceptable in other genres, and so they can create hypothetical voices for those who
are rarely heard. This differs from 19th-century texts like Frankenstein and The Island
of Doctor Moreau, which, while they question aspects of the dominant discourse, do not
suggest “Other” voices should be empowered. Naturally, these texts are only the creation
of single individuals in reaction to their own experiences, yet they achieved such a wide
and long-lasting readership that it is important to consider what messages they impart.
Through engaging narratives, characters, and worlds, these authors have brought ques-
tions surrounding our treatment of animals to the minds of countless people.

Acknowledgments

This article began its life as a presentation for the Oxford University Animal Ethics Society
on March 10, 2014. I am grateful to members of the society for their comments and for
their encouragement to publish.

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