by Pete Hautman
“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?”
20
Happy Smiles
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.
21
Acrophobia
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 t
hink so.”
I would have preferred Yes, absolutely, without question!
“Can you make it go where you want now?”
The drone jerked to my left.
“Slowly!” I yelled. The drone slowed to a gentle walking pace. Billy guided it in a figure eight, lowered it a couple of feet, then raised it back up. It felt solid, not tippy at all. I got my knees up on the disk and arranged myself in a sitting, cross-legged position, but I didn’t let go of the edges. It was a nice sensation, like riding a magic carpet. Billy sent me drifting along the outside of the fence, then back.
“Can you see through the phone camera?” I asked.
“Not very well. It’s hanging kind of crooked.”
“There’s an odd-looking building behind the barn. Can you ease me over there so I can get a closer look?”
“You sure?”
I wasn’t sure at all, but I said, “Yes.”
“You’re going to have to direct me. Once you’re on the other side of the barn I won’t be able to see you.”
“Okay, but no more deadly heights, please. I don’t want to go any higher than I am right now.”
“Got it. Three meters maximum altitude. You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
The drone drifted toward the building. It was a peculiar sensation. The antigravity disk was completely silent and rock solid. I could lean to either side to look down, and the disk didn’t tip at all. As I passed the barn, I caught a glimpse of several stainless steel cages through the window. The disk passed over the haystack. Brazie was on the other side, watching me. He seemed more puzzled than angry.
I was passing the corner of the barn when the drone stopped abruptly.
“Hey!” I yelled.
“Sorry. I can’t see you anymore.”
“Well don’t jerk to a stop like that. I almost fell off!” I hadn’t, really, but I wanted to make sure he was extra careful.
“Sorry. Now what?”
“Forward about thirty feet.” The drone eased forward, and the mystery building came into view.
“Stop,” I said. The disk eased to a complete stop. The mystery shed had white-painted metal sides and two windows with metal grates. Several electrical lines and coax cables fed into one end—a lot more than you’d expect from an outbuilding on a farm.
“Bring me forward and to the left, another thirty feet,” I said. The drone moved off to the right. “I said left!”
“I can’t see which way you’re facing,” Billy said.
“Go the opposite way you just did!”
“Okay, okay!”
The drone reversed course, taking me over an oblong cattle tank filled with greenish water and straight toward the back wall of the barn.
“Stop!” I yelled.
The drone stopped, and it wasn’t a nice easy stop. I’d made the mistake of letting go of the disk, and I tumbled off.
22
Brazie
Ten feet doesn’t seem like that far. It’s only the height of a basketball hoop. But falling that far and landing flat on your back . . . try it sometime. For a more complete experience, do it over a neglected cattle tank.
I suppose landing in a tank full of slimy green water is better than landing on concrete or a bed of nails. Still, it was not an enjoyable experience. I came up spitting and coughing and yelling some words I refuse to repeat—at least not until the next time I get dumped in a tank full of scummy water.
The drone, meanwhile, was hovering ten feet over my head. My phone was dangling by a single strip of duct tape from its underside.
“You dumped me!” I yelled at the phone as I climbed dripping out of the tank.
“You yelled stop,” Billy’s voice was tinny and distant; I could hardly hear him.
“Get down here!”
“Straight down?”
“Yes! No! A little to the left!”
“Which way’s left?” The drone edged toward the barn.
“No! The other way!”
The drone reversed course.
“That’s good. Now straight down!” I raked a glob of green scum from my hair as, slowly, the drone began to descend. It was only a couple of feet above my head when I heard a snort. I turned around.
Brazie the bull was standing by the corner of the barn. He took a step toward me.
“No, Brazie,” I said. “Stop.”
“Stop?” Billy’s voice said. The drone froze just out of my reach.
“Not the drone! The bull!”
Brazie snorted again. He shook his enormous head and stamped one front hoof.
I like my red hair. I figure it makes me special, because only about 2 percent of humans are blessed with the gene for red hair. But if there is one time when red hair is the last thing you want, it’s when facing an irritable two-thousand-pound bull.
I was sure my hair looked to him like a matador’s cape. A wet, scummy red cape.
“It’s just hair, Brazie.” I took a step back. Brazie pawed the ground and lowered his head so his horns were pointing straight at me.
I said, “Billy, move the drone down a few feet and away from the barn.” If I could get Brazie focused on the drone I might have time to get away.
The drone descended to head height and floated off to the left. Brazie ignored it. His shoulder muscles bunched. He lowered his hindquarters a few inches and launched himself at me.
What I should have done was jump back into the cattle tank, but it is difficult to think clearly when being charged by a bull. Actually, I don’t think I was thinking at all. I just screamed and ran, with Brazie on my heels. I was about two seconds from being gored and trampled when something white charged around the far corner of the barn, legs and tongue flying, kicking up a cloud of dust as it came at me like an out-of-control semi. A miniature white bull, I thought in my panicky, confused state. I’m about to become a bull sandwich!
The small white bull barked and leaped. It was no bull—it was Gertrude! I threw myself to the side as Gertrude flew over me and clamped her teeth onto one of Brazie’s ears. Brazie skidded to a stop and shook his head furiously, trying to dislodge the dog. He spun around in a circle, making a sound like a squeal inside a roar, but Gertrude would not let go. I knew I should run for safety, but seeing that dog hanging on by its jaws and being thrashed back and forth made me too mad to run. I spotted a pail next to the cattle tank. I grabbed it, scooped up a bucketful of scummy water, and ran at the crazed bovine, screeching like a banshee. Whatever a banshee is.
My yelling didn’t distract Brazie, but the gallon of water certainly did. It hit him full in the face. He unleashed a bellow and jerked his head up with such force that Gertrude lost her grip and went flying into the air. Brazie, snorting and shaking his head, took off.
I looked around for Gertrude, expecting to find her lying broken on the ground. Instead, I found her paddling in circles in the cattle tank.
“Come on, girl,” I said, leaning over the side of the tank. I helped her get her paws up over the lip of the tank, then reached over and wrapped my arms around her belly and lifted her out. Gertrude plopped wetly onto the ground.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Gertrude shook, sending a mist of water and scum in every direction, but mostly at me. I backed away, sputtering. She seemed to be uninjured, judging from the ferocity of the tail wagging. She fixed her eyes on me and barked proudly.
“Good girl,” I said.
Apparently I had issued an invitation. She came at me, tongue lolling, smiling that bulldog smile.
“Gertrude! No!” I shouted. “Down!” It didn’t work. She weighed only a quarter as much as I do, but she made contact full on, paws hitting my belly and knocking me flat on my back. After that it was all dog breath, wet tongue, and tank scum. No dog has ever been happier to see anyone than Gertrude was to see me. And we hardly knew each other.
23
The Laboratory
“Gertrude, off!” I yelled. I shoved her wrinkly face aside and managed to
get back on my feet. She looked up at me, wagging her tail so hard I was afraid it would fly off.
“Sit!” I said.
Gertrude sat, staring at me with those big brown eyes. I don’t love animals as passionately as Myke Duchakis, but I can tell when they love me, and this dog had decided I was her soul mate.
“Are you okay?” Billy asked in a tinny voice. I had almost forgotten about the drone floating just over my head.
“I’m fine,” I said. “No thanks to you!”
“What happened?” Billy asked.
“I almost got gored by Brazie!” I said. “Gertrude saved me.”
“I thought I heard barking. You better get back on the drone. I’ll get you out of there.”
Gertrude was gazing at me with unfiltered adoration.
“Do you think it can lift both me and Gertrude?”
“I doubt it. It won’t lift me, and I only weigh twenty pounds more than you.”
“We’ll have to let her out through the gate, then.”
“Why? We didn’t come here to steal a dog.”
“She loves me.”
“Dogs love everybody. That’s what dogs do!”
“Hang on a minute.” I reached up to the drone and retaped my phone so the camera faced the metal lab building. “You see the building?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to take a look inside. Keep an eye out.”
The disk rose to head height.
“You wait here,” I said to Gertrude. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Gertrude stared at me, whining. “Stay,” I said.
“I am not a dog!” Billy said.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said, even though I had been, really. I walked up to the door. The drone followed me. I twisted the doorknob.
“It’s locked,” I said.
“What kind of lock?”
“There’s a keypad.”
“Just a second . . . Hey, did you know Rausch has a Facebook page?”
“I’m not surprised. He’s old.”
