Fostering Doubts

Author's Preamble: As noted above, this is my 22nd rejection, in my ongoing attempt to win something or have something published outside of Vocal. The following story was written for the 2025 Ligonier Valley Writers' Flash Fiction Contest. The prompt was simply, AI/robots, the light or dark side. 1000 words or less.

~

Mags had always wanted children. It was one of her enduring goals in life to give birth to her very own beautiful baby, boy or girl, as long as it was healthy and needed her.

Unfortunately, life and fate had other plans for Mags and her non-husband, Charles, an investment banker, despite their efforts.

Regular sessions timed perfectly to her peak moments of ovulation, devoid of any form of passion, but efficiently planned. Well, they would have been considered effective if Mags and Charles had successfully procreated. But, they didn’t.

Fostering and adoption were not viable for them because of "her past". But, Charles believed he had a solution - one of the companies he invests in, a tech Fortune 500 that specialises in artificial intelligence and robotics, was developing a special type of companion for families in the Grythes' position, called "foster children™". Stylised in lower-case, to put any doubts potential customers/clients had that robotics was dangerous. It showed their humility and that they considered organic human life superior.

Why “fostering”? Many wondered. It makes sense, in a cold, calculated way. A stopgap, so people waiting for the potentially heart-wrenching business of adoption to be sorted could benefit from the presence of a child in their home.

That was something Mags yearned for - something small and warm and with a beating heart that needed her. She didn't ask many questions. Why would she?

Charles had sorted it all for Mags. He knew how much this meant to her, and how years of failed attempts had worn her down.

Unboxing the child.

Charles had sent Mags out for some groceries. It was a ruse, and she knew it. She loved him for that. His efficiency was made for times like these.

The child was due to be delivered into their custody that day, and he wanted to make sure he could... set it up before she arrived.

So while she was at the store, Charles let the Deliver-wu men in to move the box from "foster children™".

"Enjoy," said the more talkative of the two worker drones.

In the quiet before he eased open the box and took "mark seven-one-seven" out, Charles let his shoulders drop and his lungs empty loudly, as he released all the pent-up frustration at Mags' neediness. He couldn't remember the last time he went to bed with Mags for anything other than "tactical insemination".

No wonder he had taken to working later hours and spending some time with another investor. Drinks, and then some of the best office-based sex he’d ever been part of — she wasn’t a keeper, but she knew that too. It was the perfect arrangement.

Charles got the release he desired. The release that Mags was oblivious to, even if she could provide it.

Prising open the box and unclipping the fibreglass containment pod, there was a bright light and some steam, then nothing. Nothing but a small child, three feet tall exactly. Sitting crouched, wrists zip-tied to his ankles.

Charles was taken aback by how warm the synthetic "flesh" felt, though the company promised a life-like experience.

The eyes were lifeless, though, a cruel reminder. Charles grumbled about having to find something sharp to free it. Hoping deep down it would help Mags with her parental pull.

Even before he could look at the "Introducing your new foster child, mark seven-one-seven” pamphlet, seven-one-seven's eyes glowed bright green.

"Father Charles, is India my temporary owner's name?"

Charles must have heard him wrong.

"Hello, Mark seven-one-seven, welcome to your new home. Do you mind if I call you Mark?"

Charles asked, bored already with way too much interaction with another piece of crap that Mags will probably break.

"Father Charles, you can call me whatever you like. I am yours and will fulfil all your needs."

"How about seven-one?" Charles hid a smirk.

"Certainly, Father Charles."

Mags burst through the door and quickly ran to seven-one, almost knocking Charles over.

"I've waited too long for this moment."

Mags cuddled the device firmly. If it had not been for foster children's proprietary anti-crush skin, Charles might have had some uncomfortable questions from their liaison at the company.

“You don’t look like India. Who are you?” asked seven-one, coldly.

~

For the next three days, Charles barely saw Mags or seven-one, which suited him. Though for the money he was paying, he expected at least something in return. India was good like that. Knew her place. Knew her value.

Still, things were improving; even Charles noticed that. He captured a small tender moment when seven-one stroked Mags’ face. It could even be argued that he felt a measure of pride.

Charles had tried to enter the bedroom, only to see Mags sitting up, cradling it in her arms. "He needed some reassurance. Poor thing had a bad dream."

They weren't supposed to dream.

The company guaranteed “no dreams”. Dreams were connected to creative thought.

For a moment, Charles felt a cold shiver pass down his spine.

Still, he didn’t push the matter.

"How is India?" Mags asked coldly, stopping Charles in his tracks.

"Mark told me about her."

"She's just a work colleague, and his name is seven-one."

“I want Father Charles to hold me like he holds India, Mother Mags. I won’t tell her about Rome and how you and India…well, Father?”

Mags looked at Charles, almost relieved, as she lifted the quilt.

“Come, dear, sit with us. Sit and talk about poor India.”

Charles slid under the covers. A warm relief overcame him as tension in his shoulders dropped.

"Poor India"

[RECORDING COMPLETE

Report: Grythes not industrial spies.

India disposed.

Primary Function Fulfilled.

Crib filled.

Assessed, reported, corrected.]

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Thanks for reading!