The Forgetting Machine by Pete Hautman Page A

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.
    â€œYou called it here on your phone?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou have a camera?”
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œUh-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.
    â€œHold it still!” Billy said from beneath the drone.
    â€œI’m trying!”
    â€œPut 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.
    â€œThat’s better. Hang on.”
    â€œI’m hanging!” I really was hanging—the drone had elevated itself a few more inches and was supporting my entire weight.
    â€œOkay, I think I got it.”
    The drone was rising.
    â€œYou can get off now,” he said.
    â€œOff? Are you kidding?” The drone was still going up. Looking over the edge, I could see Billy’s face ten feet below.
    â€œHang on, I’ll bring it back down. Don’t fall.”
    â€œHurry!” 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHang on!” Billy shouted. “Don’t fall!”
    â€œSTOP SAYING THAT!” I yelled. At least the drone wasn’t moving.
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œGENTLY!” 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