I didn’t ask for this life.
I didn’t ask to be an outcast. A danger. Something to be feared.
If I could go back and stop my creators from installing me with an unstable atomic core, I would.
But I don’t have time travel powers.
All I have are four rusted limbs and a heart capable of wiping out an entire city.
It’s morning. At least, that’s what my internal clock is telling me. The smog outside my pod stays about the same shade of dusty orange for most of the day. I want to rest. To stay away from the harsh outside world and take a break from the pain of trying to work in this dilapidated body.
My programming has other ideas. It screams at me that I must work. I must fulfill my duty. I must be useful.
Androids are duty-bound machines, only semi-autonomous. We can compute and make decisions based on logic and statistics, but our actions are truly dictated by our programming. The programming tells us where to go and when to get there; what to do, when to do it, and when we can stop doing it. Meaning I will never have true freedom, even here, so far away from the domes and the humans who create and direct my kind.
I swing my legs from the alcove I inhabit while in shut-down mode, my hip and knee joints squealing with the movement. Because I have my own nuclear power source, there’s no need for a charging chamber like most modern androids. My creator’s invention of a small atomic core mean I always have power.
Of course, that also brings the possibility of my core going supercritical and blowing up an entire dome, leaving nothing but nuclear waste.
Because of this, the team of scientists who built me were forced to abandon the project before they truly finished my construction. They transported me here, to a little patch of wasteland in the middle of a polluted lake and left me. Alone. Knowing that one day my body of spare parts would disintegrate from the radiation, and my life would end in a massive nuclear explosion.
I press the button to open the door of my pod. I have to punch it with my fist several times before it opens. The radiation has taken its toll on the tech inside the pod.
In some ways, I wish they hadn’t given me the pod. I wish they’d left me with no shelter, so when the acid rain comes, I could just sit and rust. But they did, and my programming established it as my homebase, forcing me to return every night and shelter inside from the occasional storm.
The world is dead silent except for my protesting joints, which send high-pitched sounds of distress. Either that or my audio receptors are too damaged to pick up whatever other noise there is. I have no way of knowing.
I cross the barren ground, my feet thudding on the hard-packed earth and kicking up small clouds of dust. It’s hot, and my pollution monitor says the chemical index is high today. If I was a human, I’d be suffocating from the toxins.
I come to my worksite. My job description says it’s important work, cleaning up the toxic waste and debris to make the island livable again. I know it’s just a bluff, a useless job to keep me busy and fulfill my programming. Whatever good work I may be doing will be undone immediately when my core goes supercritical. My explosion will send this area back to Level Twelve. It will be hundreds of years before this island will be safe for humans.
Tightly sealed bins are stacked six feet high, each substance within them carefully scanned, documented, and reported to the Capitol Dome. I don’t know who reads my findings. I’m not sure anyone does, after all it’s been decades since I was assigned to this job.
A ship rumbles overhead. I look up. It’s a cleaner transport, identifiable by its orange, white, and black paint job.
Those guys are the ones truly making a difference. Their crews are mostly made up of criminals, the very poor, and androids who are too old to keep working in the domes.
They’re sent to the lower radiation areas, Levels Two through Seven, and clean up the radioactive materials, storing them in bins like the ones I use, which are then transported by an unmanned ship to high radiation areas, usually Level Ten or Eleven. It’s a dangerous job, but at least they know they’re making a difference. Unlike me.
About an hour later, I attempt to scan a chunk of metal, but my scanner only flickers.
Either it’s too hot to run or my scanner has finally surrendered to the radiation. I run a diagnostic. It’s definitely fried. I also find out my last few documentations of items bounced back when I tried to send them back to the dome. So that must mean my communications equipment is no longer operable either.
I consider my options. My programming is confused, as I can no longer fulfill my duty.
Does this mean I’m free? I start to walk away from the worksite. For the first time, my programming doesn’t scream.
It’s silent. Dead. Useless.
I feel a sensation I never have before. The sensation of choice. I am no longer semi-autonomous. I can go anywhere, do anything!
It’s so hot. Although I do not sweat or breathe, I can feel my internal heat rising to dangerous levels. It’s then I realize the ever-present sensation of coolant running through my system to my core is hardly noticeable.
This is normal in cool temperatures, but now? I bring up my external thermometer display, only to find it’s barely twenty-three degrees Celsius. Room temperature. Yet my internal temperature is approaching one hundred degrees centigrade.
My processor hums, calculating probable causes, but I already know. I’ve run out of coolant.
This is the end.
I should have known. I should have known something was wrong as soon as my communication with the dome stopped.
Without the coolant to protect the rest of my body from the extreme heat of my core, I will melt down in a matter of minutes.
I will go supercritical.
Why now? Why does my death have to come just when I have gained my freedom?
I know what I must do.
I step forward, my joints screaming once again. I take one slow step after another, easing to the nearest shoreline which is only a few yards away.
The water is my only hope. Submerging in it will certainly kill me, as my circuitry is not waterproof, but it may be enough to cool my core and stop the meltdown. If not, the water will at least insulate the radioactive waste left behind, minimizing the long-lasting damage as much as possible.
The few yards between me and the lake seem like miles. The heat is becoming unbearable. I can feel my systems shutting down, one by one.
I collapse to one knee. I’m only ten feet away now. I must get to the water.
I drag myself closer, as my main processor flickers. Who am I? What am I? What am I doing?
Get to the water! Get to the water!
I lunge, giving everything I have to my plunge into the water.
I hear no splash, as my audio processor is fried, but my failing optical sensors inform me I’m in the water. The heat is still unbearable, even as water floods my body.
I sink to the bottom of the lake as my system flickers. The darkness is taking over, but I’m filled with a sensation of peace.
I have fulfilled my duty.
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