Entry #2 Prompt... dystopian. But for a challenge to myself, I put all of the prompt words in the story. (Some are part of a larger word, or span two words.)
“Poultry… 35,” the chief inspector said.
“Recount!” I demanded. “I only have 17 birds!”
“There are 18 eggs on your counter,” said one of the robots. “Since you have a rooster, they are likely fertile and could hatch.”
Cussing at myself, I couldn’t disagree. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway.
Survival in the western sector was hard. The unspoken, number one rule: Don’t call attention to yourself. Head down, under the radar, no drama. Do not ever exceed the animals limit during an inspection, as that was a punishable crime.
Five of my precious eggs were going to go bye-bye. I wished I’d eaten them for breakfast. If I’d known an inspection was imminent, I would have.
It still amazed me that humans chose to move here. Historically, this area had been for those who liked adventure. Or, had the fantasy that they would make their own utopian fairytale, growing their own food and “living off the land.”
Ha! The only creatures who did that nowadays were pirates and dragons. The pirates roamed the land and waters, taking whatever they wanted. The robots left them alone; pirates served a purpose. The dragons had been created in an apocalyptic attempt to make more edible meat. Medieval DNA experiment gone way, way wrong.
The robots encouraged humans to move here, selling the swashbuckling mythology of the west. Live your own sci-fi thriller. Reality was much more dystopian.
That there was work for everyone was a big selling point, but it was mainly working the crop fields. Planting, cultivating, irrigating, harvesting. Due to a ban on most pesticides, there was also the dirty job of “bugging:” searching for “the bugs that eat your food.” Crop yields were abysmal if the buggers didn’t keep the pests down. The pests were processed and fed to animals. The robots considered humans to be animals. They were right, taxonomically.
Humans had been trying to bring the pesticides back. Problem was, they didn’t really work, not like they once had. Like Endosulfan: fickle, though it did wipe out the bees. The robots said that just guaranteed more work for the humans, pollinating the plants. So They got the last laugh on that.
“Human!” barked the robot. “You are over your animal allowance. How do you plead?”
“No contest,” I muttered. There was no defense, as it was true.
“As it is your first offence, leniency will be offered.”
“Thank you,” I said. It was the only response permitted.
“You will be sentenced at 1600 hours.”
I had six hours to prepare. Better than what I expected. “I am grateful,” I said, nodding my acceptance and appreciation. The sooner They were gone, the better my chances of doing what needed to be done.
“We are done here.” The robots packed up their instruments, got in their hover craft, and left.
They hadn’t alluded to what the sentence was, but there was no mystery, no wondering, and no leniency. I’d probably be a bugger the rest of my existence. I had two other options: suicide (a noble choice, since you were relinquishing your food and water to others), or trying to escape. No one had ever succeeded.
I could receive a harsher sentence, I thought. I could become dragon feed.
To many, the dragons were still an interesting phenomenon. Fiction made fact. Dragon fights were a big draw, a huge credit maker. An odd mixture of ancient history and modern genetic tinkering.
I thought about what was to come. Dying would be better than being a bugger, but hope – the cruelest item in Pandora’s Box, if you ask me – still burned in my cells. I might have one possible ace up my sleeve.
In the age of virtual this, interconnected that, and cyber everything, I’d flown under all the radar, so far. The eggs this morning had blipped somewhere, on something. My bad, my very stupid bad.
I went back inside. Down, down, down, deep underground was my own personal Faraday room. Inside, I was undetectable. Inside, I had been working on my own portal.
Space-time portals were entirely robot controlled, but there were rumors of rogue builders. Like everyone else, I scoffed. “It’s the age of Cyber, punk! Like you’d get away with anything, without Them knowing about it.” You didn’t ever, and I mean EVER, even hint that you might know of or know about anything to do with a private portal.
I was so close to having my own. Could I finish it in under six hours? What if They came early? They wouldn’t be able to detect me down here… would They?
The only part of the portal that wasn’t finished was the re-entry function. I wouldn’t have any control over when or where I landed. Sitting there, looking at the Doorway, I knew I didn’t have time to work out the algorithms necessary to wrap up this loose end. Que sera, sera. I’d have to take my chances and just go. I took a deep breath and set the reentry date and location for 1962, Michigan, USA.
I returned to the chicken coop and fed them one last scoop of treats. I petted each one, stroked feathers, looked into those wise beady eyes a last time. “I’ll miss you all, ladies and gentleman.” I swallowed the lump in my throat.
It was already noon. Time to leave, lest They came early. I left the run, turning my back on my feathered friends.
“Bawk-bawk,” Stormy clucked softly. I turned around. She was at the fence, watching me, ignoring the treats.
I went back in the run, scooped her up. “Hey, Stormy Bird,” I whispered. “Do you want to go with me?”