Impossible yet Inevitable: Unintended Pregnancy in FARSCAPE, DEEP SPACE NINE, STAR WARS, and THE X-FILES

Science fiction most often takes place in societies with more advanced technology than ours. Since our world has effective birth control, it seems reasonable to assume that most science fiction societies would have even more reliable birth control, would have had it for longer than we’ve had it, and, thus, would have integrated it more fully into their cultures. In such societies, an unplanned pregnancy would be virtually unheard of—unless it were related to social prohibitions against birth control or to some weird alien/nefarious/divine intervention. Yet much of science fiction TV and film treats unplanned pregnancies as if they were the natural order of things. This stance not only constitutes dubious storytelling but implicitly undermines the social benefits of responsible family planning.¹

Unplanned pregnancies in science fiction are often glaringly implausible. In Farscape (1999-2003), we’re never given a satisfactory explanation for Aeryn’s pregnancy. Her discussion of suspended pregnancy (where an embryo doesn’t develop until surgically triggered) makes reference to how disastrous it would be to a Peacekeeper military campaign if some of the soldiers “fell pregnant” (like falling down stairs?) and had no means to defer childbirth (“Natural Election,” 4.6). The implication is that Peacekeepers use suspended pregnancy as their main method of birth control. But this makes no sense. For one thing, even suspended pregnancies affect the health of Peacekeepers; we see this in Aeryn’s heightened sensitivity to the Scarran heat probe (“Prayer,” 4.18). So given a choice between letting your officers conceive and be physically weakened or putting them on the pill, which would you do? Assume moreover that your society, like the Peacekeepers’, is based on eugenics, with breeding pairs carefully assigned and breeding with the wrong person a punishable crime (“Relativity,” 3.10). Do you use the pill, or let every woman get pregnant willy-nilly?

Farscape offers no real explanation. Nor is there any sense during season 3, when Aeryn and John are having sex, that Aeryn expects to get pregnant. She never discusses the possibility with John (that we see, and we should see it). Yet when she shows up pregnant, no one is particularly surprised. John poses no questions about how it happened; Aeryn volunteers no answers. Chiana’s only question is: “Does Crichton know?” (“Natural Election”). D’Argo evinces no more surprise than a kid in a school yard hearing the latest gossip. The message seems to be: “You have sex. Of course, you get pregnant,” rather like a sex ed class out of the 1950s.

Even sillier is the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1993-1999) plot (“The Dogs of War,” 7.24) in which Kasidy finds herself pregnant because Sisko forgot to take his birth control injection—injections they apparently both take. Deep Space Nine is set in the 24th century. The 1960s achieved effective birth control based on one partner taking a pill. Do I need to explain why Kasidy’s explanation doesn’t wash?

Meanwhile, in the Star Wars universe, The Revenge of the Sith (2005) attempts no explanation for Padmé’s pregnancy. No plot constraint prevents it from being planned—and, thus, from potentially having made sense. We know that having a baby will be difficult socially and politically for Anakin and Padmé, but given how readily they embrace the prospect, the idea that they planned it despite the risks would not be a stretch. (After all, they got married despite the risks.) The movie, however, plays the pregnancy as a surprise. Anakin looks gobsmacked. Yet he never asks how it happened. Was it those midichlorions that previously assaulted his mother? That would be a reasonable explanation, but no one brings it up. So were they using birth control? Were they not? If they weren’t, why not? And if they weren’t, why is Anakin surprised at all? Did he miss Sex Ed 101? If they were, why isn’t anyone asking why it failed? In a society with faster-than-light travel and artificial limbs indistinguishable from the real thing, it simply shouldn’t.

Despite obvious gaps in plot logic, each of these scenarios presents unplanned pregnancy as normal. By extension, family planning is not normal: people may attempt it, but it’s likely not to work. In the “normal” course of events, couples are simply visited with children, as if by the stork.

In these scenarios, the parents invariably want the child. There’s no talk of abortion or adoption, even in passing. On a plot level, these unplanned pregnancies allow characters to be given children under problematic circumstances without being branded “irresponsible” for willfully bringing a child into a troubled situation. Aeryn and John are not a stable couple; Sisko and Kasidy are in the midst of galactic turmoil; Anakin and Padmé risk, minimally, having their careers destroyed. None of these situations is ideal for the children. (Just ask Luke and Leia.) But the parents, we’re told, are not to blame. If you didn’t plan the child, the child’s existence is not your fault. Besides, planning doesn’t work anyway: everyone knows that. These narratives circumvent parenthood as a moral choice by transforming it into an inevitability.

By rejecting the moral imperative of responsible family planning, such narratives contribute to an ideology of reproductive irresponsibility. If family planning doesn’t work or doesn’t matter, then there’s no reason for people to practice it. By this reasoning, unplanned pregnancy should be considered the norm. Unfortunately, normalizing it promotes numerous social ills, including:

• Poverty, as families have more children than they can afford.
• Overpopulation, as societies have more children than they can afford and, thus, suffer problems such as famine, epidemics, social unrest, resource depletion, habitat destruction, endangerment of other species, and overconsumption.
• Abortion, since unplanned pregnancies result in abortions, even where abortion is illegal.
• Diminishment of women’s social status, since a woman who cannot choose when to have a baby cannot choose how to pursue her education or career with the same freedom as a man.
• Abused and neglected children, as they are born to people not psychologically prepared to be parents.

Happily, not all science fiction shows support this ideology. An excellent counterexample is the handling of Scully’s pregnancy in The X-Files (1993-2002). One can certainly find flaws in this plot line. I am of the tribe that considers it an unfortunate narrative move to make Mulder the father. But the psychological and logistical development of the pregnancy per se is seamless. Within the wacky, alien-esque context of The X-Files, Scully’s becoming pregnant makes sense. While she is most definitely responsible enough to use contraception religiously, by the time she discovers she’s pregnant (“Requiem,” 7.22), she has been sterile for some time. She, therefore, has had no reason to use contraception. Moreover, since her pregnancy is clearly the result of some sort of alien intervention (as was her sterility), its unexpectedness is plausible.

Scully’s response to it is equally plausible. As per usual, there is no talk of abortion or adoption (though Scully eventually does give her son up for adoption to keep him safe). From the outset, Scully is committed to keeping this child, not because that’s just how all women are supposed to feel, but because she, as an individual human being, has every reason to feel this way. Almost two years before (“Emily,” 5.07), Scully discovers that she has a genetic daughter as a result of alien experimentation. She chooses to legally adopt this child, but ultimately, must watch her die of complications arising from alien tampering. She is put through this crucible just as her brother and his wife are about to have their first child. Thereafter, Scully determines that she wants a child; she even undergoes fertility procedures.

Add into the mix the fact that Scully comes from a traditional Irish Catholic family. She’s one of four children but loses her sister, Melissa, early in the series (“The Blessing Way,” 3.01), a loss she connects to her own motherhood: she hears her sister’s voice telling her that her daughter needs her (“Emily”). Though Scully herself is a sometime agonistic scientist, she is shaped by her upbringing in this large, close Catholic family. The idea that children and family are a principal joy of life is deeply ingrained in her. All in all, despite the fact that she is a single mother in a dangerous line of work, her acceptance of her pregnancy as a blessing is entirely understandable.

While The X-Files reasonably incorporates its pregnancy plot into its characters’ identities and the rules of its fictional universe, the other narratives I describe defy plausible characterization and solid world building. As a result, their pregnancy plots must either be dismissed as bad writing and/or reflect badly on the basic intelligence of the characters involved. The question is not whether it’s morally justified to have children who will grow up in difficult circumstances. It’s not whether abortion can be moral or should be legal. It’s not even whether birth control should be used. It’s a question of taking responsibility for your potential to create children.

To promote such responsibility in science fiction narrative, a writer must plausibly explain the reproductive technologies and attitudes of the society under consideration. If embryos are not universally accepted as “persons” (and there’s no reason for us to assume that they are), abortion will almost certainly be at least a passing topic of conversation. Likewise, a writer must present the parents in character. If they are intelligent people presumably using contraceptives, they will ask, “How did this happen?” The writer needs to have an answer that makes sense. Otherwise, the writer, too, is shirking responsibility: responsibility as an artist and responsibility as a participant in social discourse.

Notes

¹ One can hardly discuss pregnancy in science fiction TV without discussing the new Battlestar Galactica (2003-present). I omit it from my main discussion because unintended pregnancies among major characters have not, as of my writing, played a significant part in the drama. Nonetheless, this impressive show handles pregnancy quite reasonably. As a thinly veiled metaphor for early 21st century America, Colonial society shares most American cultural characteristics, including a somewhat lackadaisical approach to contraception. We may assume that Colonial society has birth control as effective as ours. The casual sex on the Galactica is evidence of this. Yet, as in America, not everyone has access to or uses birth control effectively. Thus, unintended pregnancies are related to social status, education, and personal responsibility. Someone like Starbuck, who emphatically rejects parenthood, will probably not get pregnant unless forced to by the Cylons or unless the Fleet runs out of contraceptives. Someone like the young woman seeking an abortion in “The Captain’s Hand” (2.18), however, can easily get pregnant due to lack of access to contraceptives in her religious fundamentalist community and/or to adolescent irresponsibility.

If there is an omission in the pregnancy discourse of Battlestar Galactica, it’s the lack of discussion of the availability of birth control in a society in which everything is rationed. But this is a comparatively small complaint. One could also argue, as I have above, that a society with faster-than-light travel should have already figured out how to effectively integrate something as simple as birth control into its society. But if this is a failing in Battlestar Galactica (which is arguable), it’s a failing fundamental to the entire story structure. Except for technologies necessary to space-travel and the existence of the Cylons, all Colonial technology is early 21st century: chemotherapy, glasses, the wireless. Such technological inconsistency is not, therefore, rooted in a particular discourse about reproduction.