In the double episode “Daleks in Manhattan” (2007) and “Evolution of the Daleks” (2007), the audience is treated to a more literal replaying of events from the “Evil of the Daleks.” On this occasion the time-traveling Daleks establish their laboratory in 1930s New York rather than Victorian England, and use DNA rather than encapsulated thoughts and feelings to transfer human and Dalek factors between species. Much of the action centers on Dalek Sec—a member of the Dalek Emperor’s inner circle, the Cult of Skaro. This elite band of Daleks has been specially designed to imagine new ways for the Daleks to become the dominant species in the Universe, though here they reinvent the idea of triumphing over humanity by introducing the Dalek factor to our species. The climax of the first episode is Dalek Sec’s transformation from pure-Dalek to a hybrid human-Dalek form. Sec accomplishes this in spectacular style by absorbing a human being whole. This apparently includes all of the unfortunate man’s DNA, as well as his bipedal form and quintessentially human sense of style. The hybrid Sec emerges from his travel machine wearing a snappy pinstripe suit and two-tone Spectator shoes, and declares, “I am a human-Dalek.”
From a scientific point of view, the possibility that human traits and characteristics might emerge automatically in a transgenic organism like Dalek Sec—a being whose genome incorporates DNA and genes of both human and non-human origin—is laughable. But, although most scientists (and philosophers) love a good joke, Doctor Who’s use of our DNA as intrinsically human and humanizing shows just how pervasive this genetic take on species essentialism can be. In the second of the two episodes, “Evolution of the Daleks,” the process is reversed and the genetic essence of the Dalek species is also revealed. “Empty human shells” are filled with Dalek DNA, via an infusion of “chromatin solution.” This process transforms them into ‘Dalek-humans’ who (in contrast to the human-in-Dalek-form that Sec becomes) are apparently the essence of the Daleks in bodies that belong to the human species.
Although this is far from the end of the story for either the hybrids in “Daleks in Manhattan” and “Evolution of the Daleks,” or alternatives to essentialism in the philosophy of biology (through the views of species as individuals or sets), we shall leave this first aspect of the species problem here. Suffice it to say that the question of what species really are remains contentious in philosophy. Particularly since essentialism appears to retain its popular currency, not least in the Daleks’ ongoing quest for the human factor in Doctor Who.
Species Concepts and the Reality of Species
Another debate revolves around the criteria used to identify members of different species. Here philosophers are more concerned with particulars than kinds, and specifically the features and characteristics that can be used to correctly (or at least reliably and consistently) place those particulars within species groups. John Dupré describes this aspect of the species problem as “more straightforwardly biological.”37 Most philosophers—taking their lead from colleagues in the life sciences—accept that a variety of different concepts and criteria concerning similarity and difference (both within and between species groups) may be applicable in species membership and identification. Choosing between them is another contentious issue.
There are a number of different facets to this part of the species problem.
Firstly, what are the ‘species concepts’ that underlie different sets of membership criteria?
Secondly, is one concept and set of criteria more correct than the others?
And thirdly, if we allow many different species concepts and sets of identification criteria to coexist, does this undermine the reality of species as a natural category?
In terms of the Daleks in Doctor Who, one way to explore these questions is through the relationship between Daleks and members of another species that lives on Skaro: the Thals.
The British TV audience’s first visit to Skaro was in 1963, during the seven episodes in the series “The Daleks.” There they met both the Daleks and the Thals; two intelligent populations engaged in a nuclear war that had lasted for five hundred years. Although the Daleks and the Thals describe themselves as different ‘races’—a term we usually use to discriminate between different sub-populations within the species Homo sapiens—they’re probably better thought of as distinct, though related, species.
That Daleks and Thals are radically different on at least the first two criteria is obvious in “Genesis of the Daleks” (1975), and also the other episodes in which the Daleks and Thals appear together. Where the Daleks are cold and emotionless, and thrive on extermination and domination; the Thals are warm and empathetic, peace-loving and diplomatic. Thals are also graceful and beautiful, while the Daleks are squishy, octopus-like, blobs of organic matter that require special ‘travel machines’ just to get around.
As well as being morphologically and behaviorally distinct, evidence that the Doctor uncovers in “The Daleks,” suggests that Daleks and Thals may have originated from different ancestors. While rooting around in the Thals’ historical records, the Doctor discovers two images: one is of the “original Thal male,” the other the forbear of the Daleks. So, Daleks and Thals do seem to be distinct species.
What about biological species concepts? Are Daleks and Thals separate species according to the reproductive criteria used here? As expressed by its creator, Ernest Mayr, in Systematics and the Origin of Species, the biological species concept centers on the “reproductive isolation” of species groups. At the risk of passing judgment on the sexual preferences of the Daleks and Thals, it doesn’t seem likely that these species would either choose to, or be capable of, interbreeding (and even if they were, it’s doubtful that the details would be suitable for family viewing). It also appears that these two groups have been geographically cut off from each other for many years—another feature that suggests they’re reproductively isolated. The Daleks and Thals preserve this situation by building their own city-habitats. They rarely leave their own cities, and the two encampments are separated by a vast and dangerous wasteland. Here again, we might conclude that Daleks and Thals are separate species according to popular biological species concepts.
There are many different ways of distinguishing between species. Richard Mayden lists twenty-two different species concepts in current use.38 How, then, are we to choose between them? Particularly when—as in the case of the Daleks and Thals—different species concepts highlight the differences between species in different ways? Is there one correct way of identifying the members of a species—a position called species monism? Or, should we take a species pluralist stance and accept that the many different concepts can be complementary, with different concepts being used for different purposes? Though philosophy doesn’t offer definitive answers to these questions, they can be seen as some of the most important aspects of the species problem, in that they affect how we think about the reality of species. If we accept pluralism, and embrace many different ways of placing particulars into species groups, this might seem to undermine the reality of species. If an organism can fit into many different groups depending on the criteria used, is the species category really all that significant?
They May Not Be Human, but Could Daleks Be People Too?
In the quote that we’ve used as a title for this chapter, a human in “Evolution of the Daleks,” sums up the significance of the species problem. It’s much more than just a theoretical issue debated by philosophers. The positions we take on both, the ontological nature of species, and the concepts and categories that are tenable and relevant, impact upon our views on the reality of species. And, since the reality or unreality of this category has implications for the security of any metaphysical boundary we place between species, this affects how particulars in the real world—as well as the fictional one created in Doctor Who—get classified and consequently treated. The importance of these issues is clearest in relation to the boundary we place between humans and non-humans. That is, those organisms we classify as Homo sapiens and those that we
don’t.
The boundary between humans and non-humans is both descriptive and normative. It describes when and where humans and non-humans differ, though it also has consequences for how we should live our lives. To illustrate this, philosophers often refer to our relationship with one of our closest living ‘sister’ species, the common chimpanzee Pan troglodytes. But we’ll take the human-Dalek Sec as our example. So far we’ve only looked at Sec’s status descriptively, but consider this from a normative point of view: what would be the consequences for Sec of being designated human or non-human within our society? In the first case—if he were accepted into the species Homo sapiens—would he be entitled to the same education, healthcare, and voting rights as the rest of us enjoy? Conversely, if he were excluded from our human club, would he risk becoming a laboratory animal or a creature in a zoo?
These questions aren’t traditionally associated with the species problem in the philosophy of biology, though they’re close to the hearts of many moral philosophers and animal ethicists, including Peter Singer. These philosophers recognize that those of us in the club Homo sapiens enjoy many rights that are withheld from other organisms. And, although those organisms are free from the corresponding duties, they lack the protection from exploitation that the status ‘human’ is supposed to confer. These philosophers ask us to consider whether this disparity is fair, given that it depends solely on species membership. Going back to carrots, broccoli, horses, and dogs, it’s a little ridiculous to grant them voting rights, but in the case of Dalek Sec things aren’t so clear cut. If he were to be accepted into our society, could we justify withholding rights from him simply because he wasn’t a member of the species Homo sapiens ? Singer and others use the term ‘speciesism’ for the view—which they reject—that mere membership of the species Homo sapiens alone provides sufficient grounds for our privileged status in the natural world.
Many animal ethicists now suggest that personhood might be the most ‘humane’ species concept available today. Personhood acknowledges the normativity of the species category, and instead suggests that rights and duties should be allocated to persons rather than species. The criteria for membership in the category persons could include intellectual and linguistic abilities, as well as the capacity for pain and suffering. According to this, some organisms that don’t belong to the species Homo sapiens would be ‘elevated’ into our club. These might include dolphins and chimpanzees—animals whose intellectual abilities are thought to be at least as advanced as those of human children, and whose capacity for pain is widely acknowledged.39
However, there’s a more controversial flip side to the allocation of rights to persons rather than species. While the inclusion of higher animals might be celebrated, the exclusion of some humans—including patients in persistent vegetative states and those with advanced dementia or very severe learning difficulties—is likely to be rejected as entirely unacceptable. Thankfully there are no serious plans to rearrange society along these lines. But, accepting personhood’s inclusive aspects for a moment, Daleks (if they existed) would seem to be ideal candidates for membership. “Extermination” aside, let’s face it, they are intelligent, goal-oriented, and very determined—all characteristics we prize highly in our children and ourselves. Who knows, perhaps in the world of Doctor Who, a future American President might be a Dalek . . .40
10
To Be Is Not to Be Perceived?
PAULA SMITHKA
Almost every species in the universe has an irrational fear of the dark. They’re wrong, ’cause it’s not irrational. It’s Vashta Nerada.
—THE DOCTOR to Donna (“Silence in the Library,” 2008)
Fear of the unknown has plagued humanity since we showed up on the scene of this play of existence. If there are things unknown, then for the most part, they go unperceived. Metaphysics, the nature of reality, and epistemology, what we know about reality, are intricately bound together in human experience and Time-Lord and aliens’ experience in the Whoniverse. Why postulate the existence of something which we can’t perceive? Wouldn’t that be an irrational thing to do?
After all, as the good bishop, George Berkeley (1685-1753) has taught us, “to be is to be perceived.” Objects must be perceived by minds in order to make the ontological claim that they exist. So, to claim objects exist with no perceptual evidence would be an irrational move to make; well, at least for an empiricist. Rationalists, who contend that reason is one’s best and most reliable source for knowledge, might deduce the existence of some empirically transcendent thing, like a noumenal realm, as Immanuel Kant did. However, we’ll mostly leave Kant out of this discussion. If there’s no perceptual evidence, then to posit the existence of something would be irrational—why would one think something exists if there’s not a shred of perceptual evidence? As a matter of fact, one wouldn’t. If you tell your friends that “leprechauns exist,” they’ll tell you you’re crazy, precisely because there’s no evidence to support your claim. Now, if you’re coming up with a story about some new fictional creature, then your friends understand you’ve restricted your domain of discourse to the realm of fiction, and so existence claims are restricted to existence-as-fiction claims.
The Vashta Nerada (“Silence in the Library,” 2008) can’t be perceived, but the Doctor claims that fear of the dark isn’t irrational. “It’s what’s in the dark; it’s what’s always in the dark ...” The difference is we have indirect perceptual evidence for their existence. The distinction between direct and indirect perceptual evidence in science and philosophy of science is an important one. Though the Doctor, Donna, Professor River Song and her team can’t see the Vashta Nerada directly, in the same way they can perceive one another in the library, they see the effects of the Vashta Nerada—the ghosting skeletal remains of Miss Evangelista and later, Dave, the consumed chicken leg, and the number of shadows. “Count the shadows,” the Doctor warns. They’re “Piranhas of the air—Vashta Nerada—shadows that melt the flesh.”
The Weeping Angels, (“Blink,” 2008), however, play havoc with the notion of indirect perceptual evidence, undermining, perhaps even falsifying, Berkeley’s claim that “to be is to be perceived.” The Weeping Angels exist and function precisely when they are not perceived.
One’s approach to the ontological status of unobservables, a.k.a. theoretical entities, determines whether one is a realist or antirealist. Does science provide true theories about the world? If so, then the postulated unobservables probably exist and one is a scientific realist. Or, are theories merely effective pragmatic tools for enhancing our understanding? If so, then theories needn’t be true to be useful and posited unobservables needn’t be thought of as existing. Both the Vashta Nerada and the Weeping Angels are unobservables; can we know they exist?
It’s What’s in the Dark
What’s in the dark is beyond our customary senses; so, the question is: must we remain in perceptual darkness? The answer depends upon your philosopher of choice. John Locke (1632-1704) reasoned that the various properties of objects perceived by us, like color, taste, and sound, are really in the perceiver. They’re functions of the primary qualities which are actually in objects, like extension (taking up space), texture, solidity, etc. Locke was a fan of Robert Boyle’s (1627-1691) corpuscular theory. Small particles (corpuscles) given off by objects would light on our sense organs, like our eyes, and cause us to perceive color; so, color is in us, the perceiver, and not “objectively” in the object. What’s in the dark, so to speak, is ‘substance’. ‘Substance’, Locke claims, is an “underlying I know not what,” reasoning that properties must be properties of something. Notice I said ‘reasoning’. Locke makes the inference that properties have to be in something that’s “more basic”; we don’t, and can’t, perceive that “underlying substance.” So, why bother to postulate the existence of something for which there’s no perceptual evidence? This is precisely Berkeley’s point—don’t bother. “To be is to be perceived.”
In his Three
Dialogues Between Hylas and Philonous, Berkeley very cleverly undermines the materialist claim that there’s mind-independent matter. The character, Hylas (meaning ‘matter’ in Greek), defends the view that objects exist independently of their perceivers. Philonous (meaning ‘love of mind’) manages to get Hylas to concede that all properties, including the primary ones that Locke discusses, like extension, motion, solidity, etc., too, are a “matter of mind,” for example:PHILONOUS: Since therefore it is impossible even for the mind to disunite the ideas of extension and motion from all other sensible qualities, does it not follow that where the one exist there necessarily the other exist likewise?
HYLAS: It should seem so.
PHILONOUS: Consequently, the very same arguments which you admitted as conclusive against the secondary qualities are, without any further application of force, against the primary, too. Besides, if you will trust your senses, is it not plain all sensible qualities coexist, or to them appear as being in the same place? Do they ever represent a motion or figure as being divested of all other visible and tangible qualities?
HYLAS: You need say no more on this head. I am free to own, if there be no secret error or oversight in our proceedings hitherto, that all sensible qualities are alike to be denied existence without the mind.
Berkeley sums it up quite nicely in The Principles: ... it will be objected that from the foregoing principles it follows things are every moment annihilated and created anew. The objects of sense exist only when they are perceived; the trees, therefore, are in the garden, or the chairs in the parlor, no longer than while there is somebody by to perceive them. Upon shutting my eyes all the furniture in the room is reduced to nothing, and barely upon opening them it is again created.
Doctor Who and Philosophy Page 14