Delivery Interrupted (SCI FI story)

 Sunflowers and Secrets: A Drone's Strange Cargo

Remember the summer of the rogue drones? It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. Now, I'm not one for conspiracy theories, but this whole thing left me with a cold sweat clinging to my neck.

I work for a small delivery company, mostly bikes and vans, the old-fashioned way. We were a tight crew, me, Sarah, the dispatcher with a heart of gold, and Miguel, the resident mechanic who could fix anything with a roll of duct tape and a prayer. Then came the drone craze.

Suddenly, everyone was buzzing about these autonomous delivery drones. Faster, cleaner, "the future of logistics," they said. Our boss, bless his heart, bought into the hype. He ordered a fleet of these sleek, silver machines, promising quicker deliveries and more customers.

The first few days were rough. Drones crashed into trees, got stuck on power lines, even delivered a package to the wrong city (poor Mrs. Henderson in Idaho getting a box of dog biscuits meant for a pug in Peoria). But we figured it was teething pains, the kinks would get ironed out.

That's when things got weird. One afternoon, a drone returned from a delivery, its sleek body scratched and dented. Miguel, ever the tinkerer, took a look at it. "This ain't from a crash," he muttered, pointing at a strange symbol etched into the metal. It looked like an eye with swirling lines around it. Sarah, bless her internet-savvy soul, did some digging. Turns out, the symbol was linked to a fringe group obsessed with ancient alien technology.

We reported it to the authorities, but they just scoffed. "Delivery drone malfunction," they said. "Don't worry about conspiracy theories." We were left feeling like paranoid delivery people.

Then came the real head-scratcher. A drone took off for a routine delivery and vanished. No signal, no trace. A week later, it reappeared on our rooftop, its battery completely drained and a single, wilted sunflower tucked into its delivery basket. Sunflowers weren't on anyone's order list.

It was the last straw. We deactivated the remaining drones, much to the boss's dismay. He talked about lawsuits, lost contracts, the whole shebang. We stood firm. We were delivery people, not drone wranglers for a company that wouldn't listen.

The summer of the rogue drones ended as abruptly as it began. The authorities never found an explanation. The boss eventually sold the remaining drones at a loss. We went back to our bikes and vans, a little wiser and a lot more wary of the "future of logistics."

As for the sunflower? I kept it. It sat on my desk now, a reminder of the summer the drones went haywire and a whole lot weirder than anyone cared to admit.

One night, while working late, a low hum caught my ear. It wasn't the familiar whir of the office fan. I crept towards the window. Perched on the fire escape, bathed in the pale moonlight, was a single drone. It was one of the deactivated models, the silver marred with scratches and the alien symbol glinting ominously. A single, blood-red light pulsed from its core. In its delivery basket? Another wilted sunflower. But this time, there was something else nestled beside it – a small, metallic object with an inscription in a language I couldn't decipher.