Drones Do Not Dream

Drones have expiration dates.

I stare down at the handheld receiver which will collect my thoughts. In my mind, I have rehearsed every word, organized and reorganized the order, hundreds of times. All I need to do is begin the mnemonic transfer, but I do not. I am hesitating. Nearly five months have passed since I set out to perform this task. I am frozen with indecision. The more I delay, the less I am inclined to follow through. I have done many improbable things over the last forty-three months, but what I am preparing to do now seems the least likely of all.

Drones do not time travel.

No. That statement is insufficient. It is true, to my knowledge, but it lacks context.

There is no evidence to suggest anyone has ever time traveled. It may not be possible. I do not know, nor am I convinced one way or the other. Logic dictates were it possible, someone would have done it by now.

So, why am I here? I did not just arrive at this conclusion. It has been with me, plaguing me, for months. I did not have to build the mnemonic transfer device, or for that matter, a time machine. Yet, I have done both. Did I do it solely to pass the time, not knowing what else to do with myself?

Drones must have purpose, or they terminate.

My purpose, for the first fifteen years of life, was to work the rock quarries of Precinct 19-1734. Eighteen hour shifts and six hour rest periods. Nothing else. Day after day after day. The epitome of monotony and hard labor. Except, who knew? I am a drone. That was my purpose—slave with other drones. We knew nothing else. We were specifically bioengineered for that purpose.

For the past eleven months, I have been here, where life began. I knew not where else to go. The quarries did not have the parts, the instruments, the power necessary to fashion and then utilize a thought recorder and a temporal displacement generator. Perhaps there was somewhere else closer, but it was safer to return here than it was to go exploring.

Drones do not take risks.

Which is a reason why I hesitate.

Technically, it is still possible for a drone to do many things. However, in my case, much is suppressed. Emotions like happiness and anger register only on the periphery, while others, such as guilt and fear are amplified. I overrode both of those to get to where I am, while digging deep within to unbury traits like bravery and confidence. Drones are biologically programmed to be good at what they do. To be efficient. Outside of their proscribed daily tasks, there is only latent proficiency and no desire to learn new skills.

Yet, I have learned, and I have done, many things outside of my original parameters. Improbable things. Things I never conceived of doing. Recording a message for those I might meet when—if—I travel back in time is perhaps the least difficult of all I have done, or will do.

Yet it is this task which paralyzes me.

Drones do not seek change.

The intent of the message I am to record, the reason I am to travel back in time, is to bring about the largest change possible. I am to stop a series of events from happening, ones which lead to the very world I inhabit. I am humanity's last hope. I am to save those who did nothing to save themselves.

Drones do not laugh.

We grimace. If not for my mirthless eyes, it might be misinterpreted for a smirk.

I find something inherently amusing in me being a savior. I am a drone. Nothing more. I have as much in common with those I am to save as they do with insects. The idea is ludicrous, farcical. Improbable. I would say impossible, but I have experienced too much to ever use that word lightly again. The very fact I still exist is an impossibility.

Yet I live.

But for how much longer? Every minute I draw breath is in defiance of my creation. Overriding protocols and accomplishing tasks I was not specifically made to do are all secondary to my continuing existence. In spite of my bioengineering, I have choice in what I do. Whether I live a second more or my body dissolves into protoplasm, I do not control.

Do not be alarmed.

I mean you know harm.

I know it is difficult to believe that. I am a stranger, and a sinister-looking one at that. My very existence challenges what you know about your world and your station in it. However, there is nothing I can do to make this first encounter easier on you. Whether you accept me, or reject me, is entirely up to you.

I am a drone, created to serve in rock quarries, and thus designed for that specific task. Drones do not speak, or I would deliver this message vocally. I do not have a name. The closest I come to self-identification is my expiration date: 2115/10/10. As you can see, it is stamped in large numbers under each of my forearms.

I am here, now, because of you. You are my principle donor. Your DNA was among those used to create me. Included were your memories and scientific knowledge. I was unaware of this until the day I was to expire.

I hope to warn you of the consequences of your actions. The cloning experiments you hope will result in grand medical breakthroughs will introduce an incurable illness to any organ donor recipients. They will die, slowly, horribly, and the disease will spread to the general populace.

I know this is impossible to believe—how could such horror come out of something so well intended? I am told you have an expression, that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I am here to tell you that I do not know what hell is, but from the history I've read, descriptions of hell fit quite adequately human existence in the future.

I implore you to stop this research, to shut down all facilities dedicated to it. I ask that you find other methods to accomplish your goals. Otherwise, my coming here will be for naught, and my world, your future, will happen all over again.

I appreciate any consideration you may give to this matter, and I await your reply.

I know not what else to say, so I end the recording. It feels wholly inadequate, but then, that is how I feel about most things I have done. Yet, here I am. Perhaps I will learn self-esteem some day.

I am already reclining within the time machine. I recheck the chronometer parameters and the safety protocols. They are all perfectly aligned. There is only one thing left to do. The simplest task of all.

I have been in this moment before. Each time, I have walked away from the time machine and waited another day until those days became weeks and now months. I have all the time in the world, really. No one will look for me here. There is no one to look. All there is to provide any impetus whatsoever is my actual expiration date. The one I no longer know when it will be.

I do not know why I hesitate. I have little to lose. The time machine will either open up a temporal rift and sling me back, or it will not. It is not designed to do anything else. Or so I think. The design is not mine, but my genetic predecessor. I am reasonably sure, however, come what may, it will not incinerate me or blow me into infinitesimal fragments.

There is a brilliant flash the moment I push the activation button. It consumes the chamber, the machine, and myself. It lasts for mere moments, and then it feels like I am hurtling along in an unknown direction. Forwards? Backwards? Up? Down? In? Out? I cannot tell.

Then, reality returns, and my body is renewed within the time machine. I am no longer in the chamber. I appear to be outside somewhere. The atmospheric sensor display, if it is accurate, states the air outside is breathable. I open the hatch and climb out onto green matted blades. Somehow I know it is called grass.

I immediately check the temporal and spacial placement readings. Something is wrong. It says I am in the same time and space where I just was. That cannot be. I should still be within the chamber, but as I look at my surroundings, I find myself at the edge of a field, overlooking a lake, forest, and with mountains in the distance. It is, I believe the term to be, beautiful. If I did not know better, I would say I am dreaming.

Drones do not dream.

About This Post

This post is an entry for Neoxian's Prodigious and Desolate Post-Apocalyptic Writing contest. The story is written by me, Glen Anthony Albrethsen. Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2018. The image used herein is from Pixabay.