The Drones

Genre: Fantasy

Word Count: 687

He was running—feet pumping wildly, tripping, hands circling in a dance for balance; the golden stalks whipped his body mercilessly as he thrashed by. Why? Why, why, why? Why had it happened?

The slaving workers all around, but only spots of color in his eyes; they never turned from their harvesting. Why?

The field burst into a clearing, a small shack at the edge of the estate, a blur in his wet vision. He stopped, a man sobbing for breath, legs gasping for support, arms thrusting the lashing whips aside. His body was spent, but for some reason, that reality barely lurked in his grieving mind.

It was over.

He had never thought it would be like this, a mad panic descending, a sudden disregard for reason, a pause for contemplation, a spark of hope—

He hadn’t thought he would lose control, but he had; he clearly had. The unsolved weights were pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think. His vision blurred; and then the shed was right in front of him, a squat cube of wood and tin smashed next to the woods, yellow straws just tickling the corrugated sides. Inside, was the answer.

In a sudden rush, his breath returned, his lungs gasped, his limbs burned from the heat of exertion. A bitter laugh almost rebelled—he was really doing it, was really going to end it all.

A stumbling step, a clumsy fumble with the parched door, and he was in—in the encompassing darkness within. The sounds of the laborers faded away; his hands pawed the cabinet as his eyes adjusted.

He looked at the vial. Fragile. Innocent.—Who would have guessed that it held so much power?

“Karil,” a voice from behind him, a wisp of tender hair, a whiff of soft perfume, “what are you doing?”

She had come, but he didn’t reply, didn’t turn around. His fingers slowly rotated the glass, tired eyes intently watching the clear, colorless liquid within swirl gently about.

“Karil.” A little louder, a little concerned, “What are you doing?”

The solution to all his problems was in his hands, he knew. There were the stirrings of a smile.

“Karil,” she brushed gently against his side.

Did he have the strength to drink it? Did he have the strength to give up?

“Karil!”

No, no. It wasn’t giving up. Not everything. He would still be useful to society, to his friends, to his family.

Her hands flew out, grasped the vial, nearly taking it completely from his grip.

“Karil! What are you doing?”

He snatched the precious flask back. “It’s for the best.”

“What do you mean? You can do so much more the way you are now.”

He looked away, out the window, toward the mindless, toiling workers in the fields. “The drones are happy,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

“They don’t know any better!” she made another lunge. “You don’t want to be like that!”

“Don’t I?”

“What are you saying? Weren’t you laughing at them yesterday?”

He didn’t answer.

“Think about it, Karil. Think about what you’re doing.”

Slowly, “I have.”

“Then why? Didn’t you weigh the positives and negatives? Can’t you see the benefits of staying yourself?”

He fingered the stopper.

“What about me? What about me, Karil?” A desperate voice, a begging voice, a voice on the verge of collapse.

He paused. Froze. He paused and then slowly lifted the vial, slowly lifted it to his lips. She watched, crying, not daring to reach out, not daring enough to stop him.

“What about me?” a whisper, an unbelieving whisper. The answer was too obvious, painfully obvious, heart-wrenchingly obvious.

One drop was enough, a mere mist on his lips. One drop and the vial was lowered again, a glittering phial of liquid crystal. One drop and he was gone, standing stiffly in the center of the room, awaiting an order.

One drop and it was all over.

Slowly, so slowly, she reached for the glass still clutched in his undead hands, reached for the container holding the sparkling liquid,—reached for freedom.