Author: Clare Strahan

Pat had to turn the drone over, to get to the metal hatch door and unscrew the screws that fixed it to the body. What did the drone think of, when Pat wasn’t there? Did it remember the battlefield, the shrapnel and wounding, the fall into the ocean, the washing up on a strange shore? Should he show it the articles and reports? Could it read offline?

Do you think of home? Pat asked.

The drone rolled its eye towards him. Do you mean homing?

Don’t worry about it.

Am I incorrect?

Could a machine feel shame? Patrick recognised the shadow of it in the drone’s question. The hot-cold flush of embarrassment – like in spelling tests or comprehension questions. The sticky sweat and chill of failure. There was something he wasn’t understanding, and everyone would laugh as soon as they knew it. He was sure he saw it in the drone’s searching eye and couldn’t tell if the recognition made him happy or sad.

I hated school, Pat said. I spent lunchtimes hiding in the toilets or behind the library.

The drone swivelled its eye again. Didn’t anybody notice you were gone?

No.

Partially untethered, the drone’s leg flopped out, on the ground. Looking closer, Pat saw it wasn’t a leg it was a weapon. Some kind of gun. This was definitely the war drone Jeb had been talking about. The one that briefly blipped on the radar. That blip was Pat’s fault. A quick blip between waking it up and getting it offline. If the drone killed them all, that would be Pat’s fault too.

The air around the drone was buzzing. You weren’t very good at school. You weren’t very good at school.
But it wasn’t the drone speaking at all. It was Pat’s brother, Jeb, at dinner. Pat was still living at home with his parents and Jeb had just graduated as a doctor. You weren’t very good at school.

It wasn’t pity, exactly.

It was justification.