I woke standing up to an orange sky. I tried to stretch, and knew something had gone wrong.
My hands were silver.
I held them before my eyes, turning them around. They were much like the hands I left behind; thin, long, but mine had wrinkled, and weren't so perfectly identical from left to right. My ring and middle fingers had curved away from each other.
I touched my hands together. I could feel them, after a fashion. I could feel a bit of pressure but not warm or cold.
I knew, already, what had happened. All of this handwringing was a distraction from that slowly growing horror that should've filled my guts with ice water. But, of course, I didn't have any.
Scrolling past the lower edge of my eyes were words: "Unit 247, report to Bay three to begin work on atmosphere generation."
If I could've wept, I'd have done so. But androids can't cry.
400 years ago, a seeder ship had been sent from an earth with a fixed, known lifespan. It accelerated until the fuel had run out, and then it had kept on accelerating on ion Drive from hydrogen and sunlight. It had been one of 12 aimed this strange little world. Five of those ships hadn't made it due to micro meteors, system failure, and in one case, rounding error, but the seven that had made. It did just what they've been made to do; they crashed. Three of those didn't survive.
The four that had survived, followed their programming and began building extremely simple machines. Those machines set up communication, lasers, and receivers, and we sent plans for more complex machines for mining construction.
Later, those complex machines would complete the work of changing the atmosphere and soil of this planet support life. Once the planet was ready, the colony ship would arrive, and the colonist would go on to create a civilization.
All of this came at an enormous cost. The colonists had accrued a massive financial debt, but their charter (and they're on board computers) require them to pay that debt by researching a method of transmitting a stored consciousness into a cloned body. Once that tech completed, the consortium of extremely wealthy backers who covered that debt would have their minds sent over, and carry on their lives.
Not many knew about the charter. Those who did were, for the most part, very highly placed in the consortium's web of employees.
Me, not so much.
I'd been an orderly for Magnus Ulnar. You won't recognize the name, and he'd paid quite a lot to ensure that.
While being written into a new body was not known yet, being uploaded was. However, the process was destructive. You had to die to be uploaded. The remains were to be digitized as well, and so the process left nothing.
I'd known Magnus would be undergoing the process for a year. That had given me plenty of time to take his place.
"Unit 247, report to Bay3 to begin work on atmosphere generation."
I looked around. I'd woke standing outside a large, plain building. Behind me was a set of doors, now closed. All around, I could see silvery forms walking through a rocky plain, some carrying loads of what looked like stone. there were a few other buildings. One of them suddenly had a thick white line drawn in the air around it when I looked directly at it. I started to walk towards it.
As I did so, one of the droids came near, heading towards the doors behind me. I lifted my hand in greeting, and tried to speak.
I couldn't. Not a sound.
What had happened?
The moment I thought this, the text in my lower vision changed.
"Look here for message."
It took me a second to understand; I stared at the word here. It started changing color, and then a face appeared in front of me.
It was Magnus.
"Daniel, hello! If you're seeing this, then it's been about ten years since you ran through your plan to take my place in immortality. I can't really blame you, and to be honest, I'm not even angry. Had I been in your shoes, I'd have done.. nearly the same. The difference is that I'd never have allowed me to live."
I had stopped walking. Again, I should have felt a sinking feeling, but there was nothing to feel such a thing with.
"Of course I got your note. A nice touch, that. Pleading on my sense of mercy to make an extra place for you. Your years of service, your many accepted abuses from me, blah blah blah. A touch overdone, I think.
"You see, Daniel, I didn't get to where I am through generosity. And I didn't get here by allowing opportunities to pass me by."
I thought I knew where this was going.
"I need to be sure that the transmitters can handle a full consciousness. But, as you know, we can't handle transfers into fleshly bodies, at least, not yet. We are good, though, at loading androids. Not a life I'd want, granted, but Daniel, you weren't all that specific in your note. And legally, that shade of gray is enough to let me out of a rather tight spot.
"So, I can give you at least part of what you asked for. Daniel, you wanted a long life. You've now got it. The chassis we assigned you should last about, oh, three hundred years or so. You will, however, have to pay for it through indentured service to the corporation.
"Unfortunately, the first colony ships won't reach you for another four hundred years."
Yes, I definitely knew where this was going.
"You might feel it a bite lonely in your new life. I hope that you find it at least something of a comfort to know that your life will be spent towards creating a new world. And some day, I look forward to visiting the site of your work. It's a pity that there's no time to get your reaction to all of this. However, your chassis will record and store messages on certain queues and events, and this is one of them.
"So, Daniel. tell me, how are you feeling?"
Suddenly, I could talk. More importantly, I could swear. A lot. So I did.
for the first few years, I worked. Not, mind you, willingly. The android chassis gave me little autonomy, but not enough to commit acts of sabotage. Not enough to disregard the schedule set for me by the Control computer.
There is no worse a feeling than not being in control of yourself. The other droids could talk, but not conversationally. You could ask simple questions like which mine shaft was being worked today, or to warn one to watch out for something behind them, but you couldn't pass the time.
The system did at least take pity by emulating sleep for me, but even that was something of a taunt. While it seemed to me that I lost consciousness for eight hours, only a few seconds would actually pass.
There were no dreams.
Once a week, I was asked by control to leave a message for Magnus. It suggested gratitude. After a while, I said nothing. I believe that I nearly lost my sanity. Perhaps being a mind emulated by hardware meant that I could not. I wish that I could have.
As time went on, however, the system started granting me more autonomy, provided that I kept working the plan. It took nearly a year to get to that point, and I tried to sabotage the project. My punishment was a full year of remaining on "autopilot", experiencing the work with no control of myself. It was terrible, and I didn't do it again.
I began to focus on the mission. I had to believe that the work that I was doing would yield a positive result for humanity. that I was no longer a member of humanity was not important. That is, eventually. I spent six months trying to convince myself that I had never been human, and that all of the androids were programmed like me. But that never made sense. Why go to all that trouble if it served no purpose?
Over time, I started making requests to the overseer computer. That system wasn't sentient, but it could accept or reject suggestions in "writing". I had suggested relocating the placement of a dam by six miles up river to create better placement of a lake, and the system had approved it.
And that brings me to this message finally, Magnus.
You were right. By the time the drop ships descend on your new world, my chassis will have failed; it's nearly there now. When I finally shut down, I will have earned my rest.
However, as your colonists explore their new world, I believe that they'll find much here to remember me by. I won't spoil too much for you, but I can say that I'm most proud of the recreation of the Grand Canyon. You'd be amazed at how little time that actually took.
You may also find that the local labor force is.. well, a bit different from what you initially designed. the overseer system started seeing real value in my ideas, and wanted more of them, so when I offered parts of my personality as a template for new androids, it accepted.
I grew up believing that the only real immortality that we can have on this side of creation is in reproduction, and as it turns out, my folks had it right.
So I thank you at last, Magnus. Enjoy your new world.