The Forgetting Machine (10 page)

Then things got even weirder.

“I didn't know Barney liked to read,” he said.

I took a moment to blink and let my mouth fall open.

“Dad . . . that's not Barney.”

He looked at the cat. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure! Barney is a Siamese! That's Mr. Peebles!”

“We have two cats?”

“Dad!”

“Ginger, you can't expect me to keep track of every stray animal that walks through the house.”

“Dad, this is serious. I think your memory has been hacked.”

“Hacked?”

“Hacked right out of your head! By the memory guy, Mr. Rausch. You're not the only one forgetting things. Billy and Gilly both completely forgot who I am.”

“Ginger, that's ridiculous.” He set his book aside. Mr. Peebles jumped down and trotted off. “Why would Mr. Rausch want anyone to forget you?”

“I don't know! Why would he want to steal your memory of
Barney
? I mean, who knows what else you guys have forgotten? And you said a lot of the engineers at ACPOD are forgetting things too!”

“That is true.” He frowned. “I wonder if it could be an unintended side effect of Rausch's REMEMBER technique.”

“What is his technique? I mean, what exactly does he
do
?”

My father scrunched his brow and slowly shook his head.

“I can't seem to remember,” he said. “What happened to your jeans?”

“I don't remember,” I said. “Can I borrow your WheelBot?”

  •  •  •  

I changed into black leggings, a matching T-shirt, and a pair of black sneakers. It made me feel very mysterious and ninja, perfect for a super-sneaky recon mission, even if it was the middle of the day. I rolled Dad's self-propelled, gyroscopically-controlled unicycle out of the garage and sped down the street at top speed—about the same as an easy jog, but far less tiring. ACPOD has been making WheelBots for years, but they haven't caught on. Probably because they make you look ridiculous—like you're balancing yourself on a beach ball. I don't use Dad's WheelBot very often, but Happy Smile Acres was five miles away. Besides, I looked like a ninja, and a ninja would look cool even riding on a donkey. I did wish Dad's WheelBot wasn't painted pink and green, but what can you do?

Billy was waiting for me outside his house on his own WheelBot. He was wearing orange shorts and a yellow shirt—not exactly inconspicuous. But his WheelBot was ninja black.

“You want to trade?” I asked. “For fashion consistency?”

“Better not. My bot's kind of touchy. I made some modifications.”

I didn't argue. When Billy says he “made some modifications,” it could mean anything from “laser-cannon headlamps” to “ejection seat.”

The police get touchy about unicycles on the highway, so we took the county road out of town. After half a mile we turned up a dirt road. Fields of twelve-foot-tall drying cornstalks formed golden walls on either side of us.

Billy said, “Watch this.”

He leaned forward and twisted his handgrip. His WheelBot produced a high-pitched whine and took off, leaving me coughing and spitting in a cloud of dust. Seconds later, when the dust had cleared, I saw Billy a quarter mile ahead of me, looking back and waving.

“Show off,” I muttered grittily. I accelerated to my maximum speed of twelve miles per hour.

“It'll do forty miles per hour,” he said when I caught up with him.

“Good for you,” I said, both irritated and impressed. Billy had never met a machine he couldn't make faster, smarter, or more dangerous.

“Sorry about the dust.”

“Just don't do it again.” We continued up the road at a more reasonable pace, riding side by side. “By the way, since you haven't bothered to ask, Dottie has the book.”

“Oh! Did you get it?”

“No. But I'm pretty sure she knows who hacked the e-book.”

“She told you that?”

“Not exactly, but she knows something. I think her father hired somebody to do the hacking. I was about to get it out of her when you texted.”

“Sorry. I was kind of freaked out when Gilly got home. He was acting so weird. He had the AG-3601 with him, and when I asked him why he'd brought it home, he said he couldn't remember. And then that whole thing about not remembering Mr. Rausch . . . it was scary.”

“It's
still
scary.”

We made two more turns. The farm roads around Flinkwater are like a gigantic corn maze; tourists have been known to get lost in them for hours.

“What are we going to do once we get there?” Billy asked.

“Scope it out. If he's not home, we'll take a look around, maybe find some clues as to how he does his memory trick.”

“And if he
is
home?”

“Then we go to plan B, the frontal approach. I'll talk to him. You can be my backup. I mean, it's not like he's going to take me prisoner. Right?”

Happy Smile Acres did not look happy, and it did not make me smile. The sign, about half the size of a billboard, desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, as did the farmhouse, the barn, and the outbuildings. The whole place was surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. It looked like a prison set in the middle of a cornfield.

Billy and I rolled up the short driveway and peered through the gate.

“I don't see a car or anything,” Billy said. “Maybe he's not home.”

“All the better for snooping,” I said. “We can stash our wheels in the cornfield.”

“The gate's locked,” he said doubtfully.

“Since when did a lock stop
you
?”

We climbed off our WheelBots and went to examine the large padlock securing the gate. “No problem,” he said after a moment. “Except . . . ”

I looked where he was pointing.

“Over by the corner of the barn,” he said.

I saw it. An exceptionally large, exceptionally black bull was staring at us with a look so baleful and malevolent I could feel it in my intestines.

“Is that . . . ?”

“It sure looks like him,” Billy said.

The bull's name was Brazie, and he had once served as the live mascot for the Brazen Bulls, Flinkwater High's pathetic football team.

“I thought he was dead.”

“He doesn't
look
dead.”

Three years ago, when Brazie was just a calf, he got the job of romping around the football field wearing a blue-and-gold cape at the start of every game. He was a big hit at first. But Brazie got bigger, as bulls do, and sprouted a set of horns, as bulls will. He became less interested in comical romping and more interested in charging and trampling. Brazie's last appearance on the Flinkwater High football field resulted in Coach Duchakis being head-butted into the stands, breaking his collarbone, and suffering a serious puncture wound to his gluteus maximus.

Brazie was fired from his position. We all thought he'd been sent to a slaughterhouse in Des Moines, but here he was, bigger and meaner-looking than ever.

“Myke told me Mr. Rausch adopts a lot of dogs and cats. I guess he adopts bulls, too.”

Billy pulled out his cell and started poking at the screen.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Plan C,” he said. “Watch.” He pointed at the horizon in the direction of Flinkwater.

I looked but didn't see anything except a few fluffy clouds and a bright blue sky.

“It should be here in about ninety seconds.”

“What is ‘it'?”

“Just wait.” Ninety seconds later I saw a small dark dot. I thought it was a bird at first, but no bird ever flew that fast. The dot grew rapidly larger, coming straight at us, and a second later I could make out the disklike shape of the AG-3601 prototype. The drone slowed as it approached, then stopped a few yards away from us, hovering belly high off the ground. “Ta-da!” Billy said.

“You called it here on your phone?”

“I downloaded the codes off Gilly's tab and disabled the security protocols. All we have to do is attach a camera, and we've got ourselves a surveillance drone.”

“You have a camera?”

“We've got your phone. I figure we can attach it to the bottom, then set up a video call to my phone.”

I squatted down so I could see the bottom of the drone. “I don't see any way to attach it.”

Billy opened the small storage compartment on his WheelBot and took out a roll of duct tape. “Never leave home without it. Give me your cell.”

I gave him my phone and watched as he got underneath the hovering drone. Before he could apply the tape, the drone wobbled and started moving away from us.

“Uh-oh.” Billy quickly made some adjustments on his cell. “Gilly might be trying to take control.” He ran his fingers over the display; the drone returned to its original position, but it was still wobbling back and forth like a little kid with a full bladder. “He must be using a signal booster. Can you hold it steady while I tape the phone on?”

Rather nervously I grasped the rim of the drone. It was surprisingly warm and very wiggly.

“Hold it still!” Billy said from beneath the drone.

“I'm trying!”

“Put some weight on it; I think that'll help.”

I reached over the top, grabbed the far side of the disk, and put the weight of the top half of my body on it. My toes were barely touching the ground.

“That's better. Hang on.”

“I'm hanging!” I really
was
hanging—the drone had elevated itself a few more inches and was supporting my entire weight.

“Okay, I think I got it.”

The drone was rising.

“You can get off now,” he said.

“Off? Are you kidding?” The drone was still going up. Looking over the edge, I could see Billy's face ten feet below.

“Hang on, I'll bring it back down. Don't fall.”

“Hurry!” I did not suffer from acrophobia, or fear of heights, but neither was I stupid or suicidal. I pulled myself forward so I was clamped onto the disk with both my arms and my legs. Below me, Billy was frantically working his cell.

“I got it,” he said. “Hang on, let me just—”

The drone shot straight up into the sky, with me, screaming, on top of it.

You know that uncomfortable feeling you get going up in a fast elevator? Multiply that by a thousand. You know that scary floating-stomach feeling you get when the elevator stops? Multiply it by a million.

The drone stopped abruptly, almost throwing me off. I think I screamed again, but I couldn't hear myself over the roar of my pounding pulse.

Remember when I said I wasn't acrophobic? I changed my mind. Looking down at Billy's tiny face eighty feet below me, I was in an utter panic. So I screamed some more.

“Hang on!” Billy shouted. “Don't fall!”

“STOP SAYING THAT!” I yelled. At least the drone wasn't moving.

“That was Gilly trying to regain control of the AG-3601.” Billy's voice was coming from the phone he'd taped to the bottom of the drone. “I've got him locked out now. Just don't fa— I mean, I'll have you down in a minute.”

“GENTLY!” I was still scared, but not too scared to look out over Ernest Rausch's little farm. Behind the barn was a newer building—a large shed with a steel roof and several cables running into it. Brazie the bull had moved over by a stack of hay bales and was glaring up at me.

The drone began to descend.

“Billy.”

“What?”

“Do you have this thing under control now?”

“Of course.”

“I mean,
really
under control?” I was only about ten feet up, close enough to the ground that I figured I could survive a fall.

“I think so.”

I would have preferred
Yes, absolutely, without question!

“Can you make it go where you want now?”