With apologies to Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Lewis Carroll, all members of the Science Fiction Writers of America and the anonymous compilers of the Passover hagaddah.

Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day, the Old One thought as he rose and stretched as luxuriously as he could in his cramped quarters aboard the royal dhow anchored on the Styx. There was a bright golden haze on the meadow, and the giant cymbidia were as high as a mammoth’s eye. It looked like they were climbing clear up to the sky. All the cattle were standing like statues, perhaps because they were statues. Ah, the equinoxal air of many-splendored Xenia 544xi! There was nothing to compare.

The twin suns Alpha and Beta were already peeking over the flat horizon, their blazing light blotting out the setting seven moons. All seemed normal. But the Old One had a terrible feeling nothing was going his way.

For ‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. The sounds of the ever shifting sands were like eerie music as in uffish thought he stood. For no reason he reached for his vorpal sword just in case. Just in case of what, he didn’t know, not exactly.

But it had to do with the drones. Everything seemed in order till the rivers began running red. A trick of the light, no doubt, but you know how superstitious the drones could be. They had got it in their little minds that this was the beginning of their redemption, and were growing restive. There was nothing for it but to increase their quotas of brick and mortar, for the great storehouses and garrison cities must be built. The future of civilization, and its past, too, depended on the drones staying put. For without their labor, who would build the great polygonal bases with four triangular faces that meet at a common point? We must think of posterity, the Old One told himself, and leave it something to remember us by. Lest we disappear into the lone and level sands that stretched out endlessly on both sides of the mother valley.

The drones had been acting up ever since some cult leader had arisen in their midst; he spoke of leading them into the desert to hold some kind of revival meeting. Imagine that: Abandon all the splendid gods of Xenia! The drones had only one and he, solitary and alone, didn’t even have an image. Just a disembodied voice their leader claimed only he could hear. What a poverty of artistic imagination: not a single graven image. And what is civilization without High Art? And what purpose religion except to inspire it?

Rumor had it that this leader of theirs was a member of the royal household who had grown delusional. Some princeling who thought he heard voices out of burning bushes and that sort of audio-visual thing. Sad.

Just how long did the drones think they could survive out in Xenia Deserta? How long before they began to long for the fleshpots of old, which reminded the Old One he had yet to have his breakfast. But when he called for his drone, there was no answer.

This was only the latest act of silent insolence visited upon his dignity. Ordinarily the drones’ strange habits – they did everything differently, from the way the way they ate to the way they worshipped – would not have mattered, but this kind of rebellion was different. It was important. It was a matter of economics. It was a matter of breakfast.

The Old One felt cold even in the suns’ heat. He wrapped his garment around his shoulders, yet shivered. Already he could feel the unfamiliar passions of youth begin to stir in him, wiping out the precious wisdom of age he had been given on emerging from the chrysalis wizened and wise. But era by era, his judgment had waned. He wasn’t getting any older, you know. He had seen it all, but could no longer remember it all. Soon enough he would be young, and what sage advice could a beardless youth offer the Ruler? How long before he was reduced to the status of a prattling babe and then … nothing.

The drones seemed to have no such fears, pitiable as was their lot. Worse, some of the master class were tempted to join them on their pointless journey. The midwives had started it, coming up with fanciful excuses not to do away with the drones’ newborn males. The worlds were turning upside down.

Could the drones be on to something? Nonsense. The river of blood was a pretty good trick, but only a trick. What kind of god used frogs and lice, blight and boils his wonders to perform? Though he had to admit the darkness that one could feel had been impressive amidst all of Xenia’s sunslight. How do you suppose they carried that one off? But he was getting too young now to ponder signs and portents. He was a scientist and philosopher, after all, and would soon have his doctorate in embalming.

This great Jabberwock of the drones didn’t scare him. He, too, could turn a shepherd’s crook into a snake, or was it the other way ‘round? No matter. He’d just had too much wine last night, that was all. He resolved to dismiss the whole matter from his mind, perhaps take a few days off. Yes, that was the thing to do. He would go somewhere and wait it out. After nine plagues, the drones surely couldn’t conjure up another. Enough was enough. Things would settle down in a cycle or two. He would go visit his first-born son….

© 2010 TRIBUNE MEDIA SERVICES, INC.