The Rusty Robot (A Farmpunk Contest Entry)

Out in the dirt plains of Escarla, a backwards backwater of a planet, the second sun lighted the corn fields in a dusty orange haze.

Rusty rolled out of the barn, his solar alarm activated by the increased uv rays. He started his day, like he started every day, called by the ping of liquid slowly filling a tin can. His tracks dug into the dry ground, fine dirt pluming behind him as he retrieved the oil can.

In the red farming plains of Escarla, there was no one to look after Rusty, no kindly mechanic to clean his gears, he manned the farm alone. The Oil Drip sank deep into the ground, slowly drawing from an underground well. Rusty had to make do with a fresh application once a day, and not knowing any better, he did just that.

The slick lubrication sank into his grinding joints, easing the friction with each smooth drop. Yet the surge of relief dancing through his circuits did not lessen the strange feeling that had overcome him that morning.

The overnight readings from the crops hadn’t brought up much, a few ripe sheaths, a few weeds breaking the hard dirt. Rusty was the heart of the farm, one of hundreds scattered over the fertile plains of Escarla. His veins ran along the corn rows, the genetically swollen heads swaying in the low breeze, sending out the nutrients, returning the signals that summoned him.

Unable to resist the compulsion, Rusty eased down the slight incline towards the fields, the uneasy sensation running in the background like a persistent bug.

The sky took on the orange shimmer of full day as the ballet of burning suns combined their glorious glows. Rusty traced yesterdays tracks, weaving the preprogrammed route through the fields.

He could sense the invading roots of sprouting weeds, the purple shoots breaking the red dirt. Three rows in, four plants from the front, a tiny seed was pushing it’s unwanted life into the world.

Rusty loved the weeding, his fine spindly fingers weaved through the stems, locating the invader. A cage of metal fingers pushed into the ground, carefully grasping the tentative roots. Every trace must be removed.

A low vibration shook clinging dirt clumps from the extracted plant before the fingers, clutching their prize, retracted through the corn. A compartment pinged out of his lower body, a large, deep drawer, blacked and stained inside, popped out, ready to receive the pest.

Escarla had no native lifeforms, the few intruders he had to deal with were plants that had hitched a ride through the digestive systems of those he fed.

As the compartment closed, Rusty felt the warm fire of victory blaze in his stomach, the problem, incinerated.

Rolling through the rows, he located the next unwanted shoot, methodically repeating the extraction, before moving on to the next ping in his sensors.

A small bead of pride grew in Rusty as he cleansed the crops. His steady weeding ensured the corn grew in great towering rows, their heavy heads swollen against the orange sky.

---

Rusty completed his circuit, a total of five extractions successfully incinerated. The auto composting dock greeted him with an array of beeps, happily opening it’s hatch to receive the powdered remains. The processed sludge the unit eventually secreted would cocoon the precious seeds of the next planting season.

Having unloaded his cremation compartment, Rusty paused for a moment. The uneasy feeling still edged on his programmed routine, he rested back on his treads, surveying the golden fields. The heads ducked and rippled in a mexican wave, flowing with the ebb of the gentle breeze. Stark white clouds banked low, stretching across the terracotta horizon.

With a rock forwards, he dug his treads back into the dirt, and resumed his work.

Heavy heads sagged, the green-wrapped corn, tips kissed in brown, lurched on their stems, triggering the sensors that summoned Rusty.

Churning along the tracks, he made his way back into the depths of the fields, his shiny metal form lost in the stalks.

It was with a tender care, Rusty extended the same spidery fingers, gently gripping the engorged ripe heads, breaking them free. The tops popped off with ease, warily, Rusty retracted his limbs through the stems.

A slow grind whirred inside his cylindrical torso, the incineration compartment compressing to allow the harvesting chamber to expand. With a reassuring beep, the processed was complete, and the drawer popped open to revealed the cushioned compartment just in time for him to tenderly lie the corn inside.

---

The lower sun approached the horizon, the short crossing of the paths drawing to a close. Rusty rode through the stalks, tracing his way back home.

The squat solar-panelled box stood tall next to the Oil Drip. With the weary tread of low battery, Rusty rolled past his charging unit, his precious cargo yet to impart.

A large metal silo stood beyond his charging box, he approached the turn-crank elevator, easing his tracks over the metal lip. With his weight firmly centred, his spindly fingers came together, turning to handle to raise the cage.

The peeling paint jerked past him as he approached the top of the silo, with each jolted movement, his uneasiness increased.

It wasn’t something he was programmed to understand, but he had been given basic reasoning abilities, and from that, slowly but surely, thought had begun to form.

It was one of these unfamiliar thoughts that pressed in on him, heightening the strain of low power.

He reached the top.

The giant silo, despite being built to hold hundreds of years worth of corn, was scheduled to be emptied annually.

He stopped, stunned, the silo before him was full. Corn has pushed through the welding, buckling the rear of the container, spilling out onto the dry land behind.

Rusty stared at the harvested corn, frozen as he tried to comprehend what lay before him.

It was long minutes before the urgent beep of his battery broke Rusty’s attempts at thought. He was out of time, instinctively, he opened the harvesting chamber, emptying the contents onto the looming pile.

The release on the elevator brought him to the ground in a swift, controlled descent.

The beeping was increasing in frequency, he needed to charge.

Reversing into his box, he felt his contacts touch the dock.

In the last moments, before he powered down, he tried to understand what he had seen.

The heavy drain of no power dragged through him.

Tomorrow. He’d figure it out tomorrow.

I wasn't sure where I was going with this, until I suddenly saw it like a really short clip, the self sustaining society that out-sustained itself. Not sure how much I did that justice but it was plenty of fun to write. This is another not much of a story, but somethings the small things mean the most. Hopefully one day, that thought forms for him <3 Still getting to grips with the edges of what makes for Farmpunk, I wonder, would Harry Harrison's Wheelworld count?

This is my entry to @blockurator's second ever farmpunk writing contest so make sure to head over and check out this pioneering genre!

Photo Credit wikicommons coming to the rescue with a binary sunset <3

Thank you very much, and as always love and sparkle!