D-39 Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Irene Latham

  Illustrations © 2021 by Jamie Green

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  At the time of publication, all URLs in this book were accurate and active. Charlesbridge, the author, and the illustrator are not responsible for the content or accessibility of any website.

  Published by Charlesbridge

  9 Galen Street, Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.charlesbridge.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Latham, Irene, author. | Green, Jamie, illustrator.

  Title: D-39 : a robodog’s journey / by Irene Latham; illustrated by Jamie Green.

  Other titles: D-thirty-nine

  Description: Watertown, MA : Charlesbridge Publishing, undefined | Summary: “A robodog, D-39, and his human friends discover challenges, danger, and the strength to persevere in this war and survival dystopian novel in verse about friendship and family”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020017273 (print) | LCCN 2020017274 (ebook) | ISBN 9781623541811 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781632899729 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Novels in verse. | Dogs—Fiction. | Robots—Fiction. | Survival—Fiction. | War—Fiction. | Science fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.5.L39 Daal 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.5.L39 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017273

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020017274

  Ebook ISBN 9781632899729

  Illustrations done on iPad using Procreate software

  Production supervision by Jennifer Most Delaney

  Ebook design adapted from print design by Cathleen Schaad

  a_prh_5.7.0_c0_r1

  Especially for Eric—

  son, friend, muse, hero.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VII

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Hey Hi Ho There

  It’s me, Klynt Tovis, coming to you live from a looganut farm in the Worselands. I click the button on the ham, ears alert for a reply. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, even on an old ham radio—especially now that even low-power unlicensed broadcasts are against the law. But now that I’ve unburied myself from the heap of wires and metal parts in my room, and now that I’ve finally gotten a signal, how can I not try it? Besides, does it really count if no one is around to listen?

  Listen

  If you are alive and haven’t left for greener prairies, and if anyone is listening, here’s the latest: It’s another hotseason day of me feeling like I’m going to drown in the hum-nothing that is the Worselands. No sound for miles except flickering streamscreen static and the low rumble of Papa’s chug-chug churning the dirt patchwork.

  All morning I’ve been working on the ham, because that’s what restoration experts do—maintain our collections. This ham now joins ranks with a rotary dial telephone—complete with cord—an old typewriter, and a printing press! Yes, each and every one actually works.

  Hear that, Mama? You’re not the only one making a difference in the world. Come home and I’ll show you my Museum of Fond Memories. You won’t be sorry, I promise.

  Promise

  Over and out, I say, and click off the ham. It’d be so much more satisfying if someone actually answered. But for now, all I can do is keep hoping and tinkering.

  And then, at the noon ticktock strike—when Papa promised he would come in from the fields, but of course he doesn’t, because nothing matters more than producing a lucrative crop of looganuts—I hear a bzz-squeal-thump. And it isn’t the old cockadoodle weather vane chasing a blusterblow. No. The air is completely still. Bzzz-squeal-thump-THUMP. Not weather. Not human. Unmistakably robo.

  Robo

  Robo, short for robot.

  Not that robos are all that practical in the middle of a deathstretch. Things have been even worse since the old president died and his we-thought-he’d-be-better-but-he’s-not son took over—the second President Vex. This isn’t the time to think about itchglitchy robos that guzzle m-fuel. M-fuel is pretty much nonexistent these days, and no way will Papa let me keep a robo anyway.

  But that’s not the point.

  The Point

  A robo would make a fine addition to my collection—a pièce de résistance. Especially if it’s an antique model. Above all, Mama would love it. Maybe even more than my newly operational printing press. She’d be button-popping impressed! Plus it’s something to do other than what I’m supposed to be doing, which is sparkshining and stocking the burrow in case the deathstretch reaches the Worselands the way the streamscreen says it will.

  I sure hope the streamscreen is wrong.

  Wrong

  No one should have to worry about taking shelter inside a burrow, where there’s no sky, no privacy, no freedom. It doesn’t make sense. But that’s the world we live in.

  Our burrow is nothing more than a hole in the ground. It’s got a hatch that’s hidden beneath the old plastic sandbox, and inside there are pegs for stairs and wooden shelves that I’ve been sparkshining and stocking for days.

  Thank goodness it’s less than a week before hotseason break is over and I’ll go back to school. That’s great, but also not great, because going to school means chores ramjammed into just a few after-school hours and homework to boot. No knockaround time in my bedroom and the Museum of Fond Memories.

  I keep myself very still as I listen again for what I think is a robo. I don’t even breathe, because I’m listening so hard to determine where the sound is coming from. I hear a bzzzz, then the clatter of tools.

  The barn. Of course!

  Of Course

  If there’s a robo, no doubt it’s thirsty and desperate. Its chestplate might already show the red rings of death. Which means I’ve got to hurry. It’s a lot harder to revive a bzzflopped robo than it is to simply sparkshine one up.

  I pat my pocket for my trusty screwdriver, which is as effective a weapon as it is a restoration tool—just in case it isn’t a robo—and I spring for the door. I keep my footsteps red-fox light, of course, and make sure the screen door doesn’t slap behind me so I don’t spook the robo. They can be sensitive.

  Or as Papa would say, robos are a pain in the you-know-what. Papa. Known to the rest of the world as Link Tovis.

  Link Tovis

  Once the owner, now Papa is merely the operator of Anchor T Farm, since President Vex ordered government officials to seize everyone’s land. We pay rent to live here.

  Thank goodness Papa’s out dusting the far west field. I spot his rusty chug-chug, looking like a tiny boat riding an endless green waterworld. The stalks crinkle and rustle as if they’re saying hello.

  I know what Papa would do with a robo. I shuddershake as an image comes into my head of Papa armed with his slingblade. Or worse, swinging a hammer. Scrap metal is still worth something because it can be reshaped, melted, molded. And some robo parts might prove useful.

  But I am a curator, a restoration expert. Until I’ve had a good look, no way will I allow that kind of destruction. Not when a robodog might be the very thing to bring Mama home to the Anchor T.

  The Anchor T

  The Anchor T farmhouse sits like an island, abandoned in the middle of a looganut sea. The only other house for miles belongs to the Tannins, and it’s nearly a mile away. Sometimes it feels like Papa and I are the only people in the whole bigsky world.

  But not today.

  Today

  I jog across the dirtdusty yard, listening for the robo. The barn door squeals like a prairie-falcon call as I push it with one finger so it will open slowly—oh so slowly. I watch the patch of light spread across the dirt floor. My eyes scan the toolboxes and soilnurture equipment.

  Nothing.

  My heart thudjams as I step inside and inhale deeply. The barn doesn’t smell like hay or manure the way a livestock barn would. Better. It holds the scent of metal and machines and the faintest whiff of gasoline. Heaven for a restoration expert like me.

  I lift my hands, and I make my movements so slow it feels like I’m suspended in a jelly-jar. Hey hi ho there, I sweetmurmur. I come in peace.

  Whirr-click-click. Arf, arf, arf! Three alarming barks that even babies know mean the robo is requesting assistance.

  Assistance

  When my eyes finally find the robo, I suck in my breath. It’s wearing a bandana. Only the top-brand-of-its-day Dog Alive robodogs have those. Can it be? Of all the robos in all the world, the kind with the most ambitious programming is what turns up in our barn?

  I zero in on its chestplate. Yes. There it is, the Dog Alive logo. By some miracle I’ve got myself a dented, scratchpatched, how-can-it-possibly-be-functioning, firstgen D-39 robodog! Wow.

  No red rings of death, thank goodness. But a flashing yellow light tells me this robo needs my help. Right away. I hold out my hand so it can sniff me, and i
t rewards me with a squeaky tailwag. Hey hi ho there, fella. I quirkface when it licks me. So real-looking, which is what Dog Alive was known for. And still operational. It could be an actual golden retriever, complete with the thirty-nine pairs of chromosomes that all dogs have, which is how this model got its name. Amazing. Mama would love it.

  Well, she’d definitely love it more if it were a real dog. But here in the Worselands, that’s impossible.

  Impossible

  I am not a robo expert. I’m better with simple machines, the older the better. Robos are too recent. But even a curator like me can appreciate newfangled tech modeled after something that’s almost extinct, like a dog.

  There aren’t any real dogs left here or in our entire country, thanks to BrkX, a sickness so powerful scientists feared it would be impossible to stop. Which is why, I guess, old President Vex did what he did. Three years after I was born, he ordered Operation Eradication nationwide when BrkX started to spread from dogs to humans and very nearly wiped out one entire city on the Gulf Coast. All dogs, healthy or not, were euthanized. All of them. Yes, it stopped the spread of the sickness to humans. But was it really necessary? People were flipfurious. So the government offered to replace dogs with robos—that was their solution.

  And they were zapjawed when people started rioting. People dumped the robos, using them to barricade city streets in protest.

  A robo to replace a real-live, well-loved dog. What a sick consolation prize.

  Prize

  It’s not a flesh-and-blood dog, but a D-39 is something special. A top-grade acquisition. At least it is to me, someone who’s never seen a real dog, except in books and on the streamscreen. And I know enough about robos to know what this one needs: a washdown, a charge, and a fill-up.

  Which stinks, because pretty much no one has enough m-fuel these days, thanks to the government seizing control of the refineries. It’s so valuable, Papa keeps our last cans stashed in a hideyhole in the burrow. The chug-chug won’t run without m-fuel, and according to the streamscreen, people have killed for the stuff.

  I stroke the robo’s head. It’s okay. Whirr-click-click. Arf, arf, arrrrr…The robo cocks its head, its dark eyes deepening to black, and when the chestplate starts buzzing, I know we’re running out of time. If I don’t do something, this is the end of the line.

  End of the Line

  Don’t bzzflop on me, I tell it as I back out of the barn. As soon as I’m out of the way, sunlight illuminates the robo. It sits as still as a sphinx, except for its tail, which swishswipes gentle as freshwash.

  The bandana tied around its neck is red—like the one Papa wears. That’s when I decide it’s a he. With robos you can choose whatever gender you want it to be.

  My mind whipwhirls, then stops. M-fuel. The answer to this problem begins and ends with m-fuel. I’ll be back in a jinglesnap. I pull the door closed and race for the burrow. I can’t think about Papa right now. I can’t think about his rules and everything he’s taught me about preparation and preservation—about being smart so we can survive the deathstretch.

  Even though the fighting hasn’t gotten to us out here in the Worselands, we all know it could. It’s more likely now than ever, with the new President Vex in charge.

  He’s even more ruthless than his father, if that’s possible. I mean, the first Vex outlawed dogs!

  I’ve got to get some m-fuel. Just a little bit. Enough to keep the D-39 operational.

  Operational

  After I’ve poured the m-fuel into the little opening on D-39’s chestplate, I can’t believe how light I feel. The m-fuel can feels pretty light, too. I swallow. Papa is going to go jayballs.

  I shake my head. I’ll deal with it later. For now, all I can do is stare at the now fully operational robo. A D-39! Here at the Anchor T! It’s the best thing that’s happened all hotseason. Something new-old to tinker with. Something that just might actually bring Mama home.

  I quirkface. This definitely beats all the time I’ve spent reading Mama’s old vet-school textbooks, fingering her name in each one—Ersu Tovis. The books with her actual handwriting and highlighted text passages that give me a peek inside her head. What a gift.

  Gift

  And now a D-39. Like it’s my birthday, or some other holiday that includes wrapping paper and shiny ribbon.

  I can teach him tricks, and he can sleep with me, and keep me company while Papa is busy doing whatever it is he does all day out in the fields.

  D-39 is one of the most realistic-looking models. It came out before retailers figured out that slick metal is easier to keep up than faux fur. And a robo that eats and poops is a lot more trouble than one without normal body functions. The D-39 has a small solar panel on the top of its head, which requires owners to get outside with their robos—when most folks would rather be inside plugged into their devices or watching the streamscreen.

  And those weren’t the only complaints.

  Complaints

  At first all the D-39 does is bark. Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!

  When I hear the chug-chug getting closer to the house, I hurry the D-39 to the burrow. You’ve just got to stay down here. For a little while. Give me a chance to boil Papa like a frog. I plan to start the conversation easy, as if I want to get a robodog, before I tell him I actually already have one. If I’m not careful, Papa’s likely to reject the idea of a robo right away. It’s one of my biggest complaints about my father—how stubborn he is. Once his mind is set, there’s pretty much no budging him.

  The robo licks my hand, and his tail jerkwags. I can’t help it: I quirkface. I haven’t been this joyslammed in eons. Arf, arf, arf, arf! The D-39 is joyslammed, too. Shhh, I remind him, and I monkey-climb up the pegs. I can still hear my new robo as I close the hatch. I just pray Papa can’t.

  Can’t

  Did I mention it’s quiet in the Worselands? The hum-nothing stretches for miles. Which is why as soon as Papa cuts the engine on the chug-chug, I can hear it, even from far across the yard at the edge of the field. Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!

  I cough and hurryscurry toward Papa. How’s the crop, Papa? Everything good with the looganuts? I whiprattle on, praying Papa can’t hear the barking, at least not yet. Not before I figure out a way to persuade him we should keep the robo. But my papa—he’s too smart.

  Too Smart

  Papa scowls and puts his hand up. Hear that, Klynt? He strides toward the burrow right away. Sounds like a lost gobbler. I hurryscurry to keep up. It’s not a gobbler. He stops. I can almost see the neurons in his brain pulsing. Something you need to tell me, Klynt? I take a breath, not sure how I should spin this. Papa’s not the only too-smart one around here. Do I tell him how joyslammed I am, or do I downplay it? I take in his droopbottom face and the awkward position of his shoulders. He’s tired, and probably aching again. Best to stick to revealing less rather than more. It’s just an old robo, I say. I thought it might prove useful.

  Useful

  Papa’s face lightens slightly. A robo? Here? I nod. Yes. A D-39.

  D-39. That’s the model with the fur, right? The solar/m-fuel hybrid? When I nod again, he squinches his lips. Hmmm. And you put it in the burrow?

  I know right away what Papa is thinking. He’s got a calculator in his head. Yes, sir. He’s a little scratchpatched, but completely operational. Maybe useful. I figure mentioning that again can’t hurt.

  Papa’s cheeks lift, and he almost quirkfaces. Almost. Good job, sugar girl. Now that all the robotech has moved away from m-fuel, a D-39’s got to be rare. Could bring in good currency. Even a deathstretch can’t kill off the collectibles trade. And if that doesn’t pan out, it’s possible the robo at least has some valuable parts. Why don’t you sparkshine it and then bring it up to the house? And please put some tape over its speakers! Can’t think with all that racket. We’ll see what we’ve got.