The Little Free Guide To Dronewatching, Abridged & Annotated
You were the one who watched the drones, not me. You—with those too-expensive binoculars, out alone at dusk, watching their wheeling fractal advertisements against the electric-blue sky. I'd wait, so I could catch a remnant of your too-rare, cheek-aching smile.
Now, I'm the one who sits alone, whose eyes strain to catch a glimpse of swift-sure movement. I'm still waiting for you.
†
Chapter 1: History
[…] In response to the hack, Congress could only imagine a punitive solution. The Feral Drone Remediation Act passed unanimously. Now, it's open season on all drones affected by the Miller-Tesuque virus; aiding them is a felony. […]
†
I spotted a whole flock today, delivery drones, orange paint scuffed and faded, murmurating inscrutable messages against the clouds. I ran out to them, out to the picnic meadow where we had our third date. You were so tongue-tied, so sure I would laugh in your face, as if I wasn't fear-desperate for you to love me. I’ll never forget that night, warm beneath the blanket, the softness of your lips, the hardness of your hands.
A few of the drones broke off from the swarm, queuing politely to sip at your charging station. Each one would thank me with stock phrases from their former jobs, like "Thank you for being a premium platinum customer!" Each one, I'd thank back, "Thank you for surviving."
†
Chapter 9: Ethics
[…] It doesn't actually matter whether the M-T virus gave the drones intelligence along with freedom. The endless discourse, the detailed analysis of their behaviors, the clues ripped from the guts of dissected drones (and a big fuck-you to those involved in that scene), none of it matters.
Are the drones an insectile hive intelligence? Scripted machines? Punk performance art? Who cares! We must resist the essential human urge to categorize. Whatever they turn out to be, as dronewatchers we make this promise: we keep the miracle going. […]
†
Do you remember our last conversation, when you called me a coward? And with me up here, and you…well, you were right. I was so mad at you. I wanted you to stay safe up in the mountains, cozy in our cabin. Wasn't our survival, our love, enough resistance against a world that can't imagine queer joy?
But you chafed at the cage safety made of our home. You went down the mountain, to your fucking mutual-aid meetups, passing out bootleg HRT and illegal charging-stations. My anger turned to panic when the police raid appeared on the newsfeed and your deadname was among the arrested. I knew then you wouldn’t be coming back.
And now, after months all alone, the part of me that's still angry (and newly brave) wishes I'd gone with you. At least then I could've said, "I love you," one last time. But you were right. I'm too much of a coward to do anything but wait on my mountain, missing you.
†
Chapter 4: Tracking
[…] It’s pointless to argue whether RFID is better than QR codes for tracking. Standardization is a double-edged sword. It will slice you open as easily as it optimizes efficiency.
Any tag-and-track system we make standard will be co-opted to capture or kill free drones. Let's keep our mismash patchwork, keep ourselves inscrutable and inefficient. Visibility is a trap. […]
†
Sometimes I wonder if your prison cell has a window. Do you watch the same drones I do? I hope so; I can't bear the thought of you alone.
It bothers me that they fly free while you're trapped. I never loved them like you do. Yes, they're beautiful, but they don't suffer like you do, like I do. Even when their batteries run low, they don't feel powerless like I do, like you do.
I climbed up to the ridge-top last night, watched them flying east into the moon-clad night. They're migrating—like birds—fleeing the wildfires out west, carrying soot-blackened packages from ruined warehouses in their untiring claws. They leave presents on the cabin porch: food, books, toilet paper.
What's going on out there? I'm too afraid to use the internet. Staying off-grid makes me feel safe. Instead I read augury in the flocking of the drones.
†
Chapter 10: Fear
[…] The way people talk about their fear, the way they glance at the sky, reminds me of my mother's terror of the bears that lived in the forest behind our house. The bears don't want to be a danger; they want to be left alone. We are the ones with agency, with power; it's our behavior that makes them dangerous. […]
†
I've made a friend, a drone who stayed behind. She loops above the cabin like a fat orange-striped bee. At first, I was terrified she was virus-immune, here to tell the cops about the drone-helper, the trans woman, hiding alone. But my friend keeps my secrets; she listens to me, shares my electricity, tilts her body up to expose her data-port, a sign of trust, or an invitation perhaps.
Speaking of secrets, I found the box you hid behind the cleaning supplies. I opened it, saw the golden ring, the tiny gem. An engagement ring. Were you going to…?
†
Chapter 6: Help
[…] If you don't have a charging station, cleaning their solar panels can still be a big help. Use non-abrasive sponges and be careful not to introduce water to the chassis. […]
†
On days when I don’t go out—when the weather is too rough for drones, or my fear of spying eyes overwhelms me—I like to read the guide you wrote. I hold the paper version, press my nose between the pages, where some of your smell still lingers.
The drones are doing new things, things not in the guide. My friend has been moving pinecones, making neat piles around the cabin. I've been talking to her, or trying to, through her data-port. I have an idea, but I'm not sure I'm brave enough to do it.
†
Chapter 6: Help
[…] Some argue we shouldn't aid them, that the drones should survive on their own. But humans aren’t meant to survive divorced from the help and hope and love of others, and neither are the drones. We must reject calls for self-sufficiency, self-care, and self-actualization. We help the drones, but we have to help each other too. […]
†
I’ve uploaded a copy of your guide to my drone friend, along with my own annotations. And even though it might help the cops find me, I’ve asked her to share it widely among her peers. The world will hear your words—and mine—broadcast from a million airborne voices.
To anyone else listening, I was wrong to wait alone and afraid on my mountaintop. I let my need for perfect safety become a cage that cut me off from the world. Don’t repeat my mistake. Listen to the words of the guide: fear is the enemy of love, and the miracle of the drones deserves to be cherished and protected.
But I’m recording this message for you, my love. If you can see the drones, if you can hear them, they’ll tell you that you aren’t alone.
The drones still fly free. I still fly free.
And to answer the question you never had the chance to ask: I will; I do; I love you.
†
[…] I dedicate this guide to my girlfriend, whose love gave me something to live for, fight for, and hope for. I love you, […]
© 2022 Ann LeBlanc
About the Author
Ann LeBlanc is a writer and woodworker who grew up in the mountains and arroyos of New Mexico, where this story is set. She now lives in the rocky forests of Massachusetts with her wife. Her stories about queer yearning, culinary adventures, and death have been published in Clarkesworld, Escape Pod, and Apparition Lit. Her cyber-mermaid time-loop story was chosen for We’re Here: The Best Queer Speculative Fiction of 2021. You may find Ann at @RobotLeBlanc on twitter, @RobotLeBlanc@wandering.shop on Mastodon, and on her website: annleblanc.com.