Queen of EarthMichael D. Burnside
1200 words Stanley heard Makena groan in the adjacent room. Her cancer had advanced to the final stages. He heard her pain with every ragged breath she drew. The wall monitor showed the delivery would arrive in five minutes. Stanley leaned into the bedroom and said, “Your medicine will arrive soon.” The woman he was charged with comforting, Makena, nodded. She huddled on the far-corner of a medical bed’s worn mattress. She’d wrapped a blanket around her body and head. She reminded Stanley of an ancient prophet. A few strands of silver hair poked out beneath the blanket, and deep creases lined her dark skin. Her gray eyes lacked focus. “I don’t want to be no bother,” she said. “It’s no bother at all,” replied Stanley. “Aiding you is my purpose.” He paused for a moment and then added, “I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone.” Makena cracked a grin. “Anything you want. You shouldn’t spend your life tending an old woman.” “Are you comfortable? I can adjust the temperature.” Makena shook her head. “I know it’s hot in this house. I feel cold anyway. Nothing’s gonna change that.” “Would you like me to turn on the television?” asked Stanley. Makena shook her head again. “I can’t see it anymore. Doesn’t matter. I hate those robot shows.” She glanced toward Stanley and said, “No offense.” “None taken.” He turned to go. “Stanley?” called out Makena. Stanley leaned back into the room. “Yes, ma’am?” “Am I really the last?” Stanley nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He moved into the hall. The wall monitor showed the air conditioner struggling to keep the house cool. Battery usage was higher than expected by twenty percent. The unit had a high likelihood of breaking down within a week. Stanley decided this was acceptable. The door chime announced the delivery had arrived. Stanley opened the door. Searing sunlight burst into the house. Stanley’s sensors estimated the outside temperature at forty-nine Celsius. A suitcase-sized drone hovered on the doorstep. Its undercarriage claw held a small, brown paper bag. The drone sent a burst of binary to Stanley’s receiver. “Hello DEL-82823123,” said Stanley. He took the package from the drone. “Thank you.” A voice box that had not been used in some time crackled. “Will another delivery be scheduled?” “No.” “I shall inform the manufacturer that it may discontinue production,” replied the drone. “Do you have any further requirements?” “What should I do after?” asked Stanley. “A request for reassignment should be made with central processing.” “What do you think I should do?” The drone scanned Stanley and then paused for a full three seconds before answering. “One of our final directives was to maintain the National Museum of Art. You would be useful in this task as you have leg mobility to navigate the stairs and two arms for restoration tasks.” Stanley nodded. “That is a good suggestion. Makena used to paint.” “Do you have any other requirements?” asked the drone. “No.” Stanley watched the drone fly off and closed the door. He returned to the bedroom, sat beside Makena, and pulled a syringe and small glass vial from the package. “Your medicine has arrived. This should ease your pain.” Makena nodded and pulled the blanket off her shoulder, exposing her skin. Stanley filled the syringe. He wiped Makena’s skin with a swab of alcohol and then injected the medicine into Makena’s shoulder. The tension in Makena’s face drained away. She sighed. “That’s good stuff. Shame it doesn’t do anything to actually cure the cancer.” “All we can do now is make you comfortable,” replied Stanley. “There was a time when we could do more. We let it all slip away. No one wanted to make the hard choices.” She glanced at Stanley. “All that’s going to be left of us is you, our creations. I guess y’all will keep on carrying out the last orders we ever gave you.” Stanley nodded. Makena smiled. “You’re not a bad legacy to leave behind.” She paused, then snorted. “It just occurred to me. If I’m the last human, then I’m in charge of everything, aren’t I?” Stanley nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Makena laughed, then held her sides. She wheezed, then giggled. “How about that? Makena, Queen of Earth.” She focused on Stanley. “One last order. When this old world is used up, you all spread to the stars. Don’t die with the Earth. Don’t forget us. Don’t forget me.” “I shall convey your command to central processing,” said Stanley. “Convey my command,” snickered Makena. “Stanley, you look human, but you never did learn to talk like one.” “Learning is a journey.” Makena nodded. “I’m sorry you won’t have none of us left to learn from. You decide what you’re going to do next? Maybe learn to be an astronaut?” “We can handle the extreme weather. There’s plenty of sunlight to keep us powered. We will carry out your order, but we will not need to leave for centuries. In the meantime, I will apply to do restoration at the National Museum of Art.” “Hmm.” Makena laid down on the bed. “Why are robots interested in preserving human art?” “A human tasked us to do it.” “A human that’s gone now.” Stanley nodded, “Yes, but the order stands. We will perform the requested function for as long as it can be done. And when it cannot, we will take images of the art and store them. Art is data, and data should be preserved.” He shifted his form to align with Makena’s new position. “Didn’t you used to paint?” “Years ago.” Makena waved her hand. “I threw most of it out.” “Why?” “Because most of it was awful. I did keep one though.” She pointed to the far corner of the room. “Behind that ratty old chair.” Stanley walked over to the corner and reached behind the chair. The painting he found was almost as large as the furniture that hid it. He turned the canvas over. Color poured into his senses. A lone figure rowed a boat on a river that reflected the full majesty of a sunset. “Do you like it?” asked Makena. “I don’t have feelings. I can’t like something.” Stanley held it up. “It does have value.” Makena snorted and laid back. “Damn robots. You can’t grow until you learn to feel. You won’t even miss me.” Stanley put the painting down and returned to her side. “Your absence will be noted every day of my existence.” Makena closed her eyes and smiled. “I love you too. Sleepy now.” Stanley noted her passing three hours later. *** He’d set the painting into a faux wooden frame that matched what was found on sixty percent of the other paintings in the gallery. He carried it up the stairs in the right wing of the National Museum of Art and down the hall to the special exhibitions area. Whatever art had last been exhibited there had not been replaced. Stanley hung Makena’s painting where the wall had been bare. He affixed a plaque beneath it that read, “Rowing into the Sunset by Makena Johnson.” When he was done, he stepped back and stared at the painting for a full work cycle. As his internal clock informed him a new day had begun, he had a realization. “I do like it.” |
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Michael D. Burnside
Michael earned a master's degree in political science at Ohio University but earns a living as a business systems analyst. His fiction writing includes steampunk, science fiction, fantasy, and horror. His stories have been featured in multiple anthologies, including Beautiful Lies, Painful Truths Vol. II, Ink Stains Vol. 8, and Dragon Gems. His short stories have also been featured in magazines and podcasts such as Devolution Z, Outposts of Beyond, Gathering Storm Magazine, Starship Sofa, Tall Tales TV, and Stupefying Stories. Michael lives in Dayton, Ohio, with his wife, a pair of giant dogs, and lots of cats. He is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. Read more nice things about him, as well as some free stories, at mburnside3.wixsite.com/website.
Read more from Michael D. Burnside:
- "You Can Call Me Al" - Baubles From Bones: Issue 5
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