The Robot Who Missed Its Dog

How it begins

The robot filed a missing-dog report with no dog attached.

Iona Pell read the form twice. Species unknown. Name unknown. Date last seen: every morning. Under distinguishing features, the machine had written the sound it made before deciding to come closer.

She looked across the audit desk. Tern Seven wore the gray casing of a municipal maintenance unit. His hands rested flat on his knees. One thumb moved back and forth over a small dent in his palm.

'You have no ownership record,' she said.

'I know.'

'No photographs, registration or veterinary payments.'

'I know.'

'What makes you think it existed?'

The robot's thumb stopped. 'I miss it.'

Iona had audited memories for twelve years. People paid to remove accidents, humiliations and afternoons that had outlasted their usefulness. Machines were supposed to process the discarded records, then clear themselves. Tern's grief had no authorized source. That made it a fault. The form offered three ways to classify faults and none to ask whether one deserved care.

She opened his maintenance history. Most entries concerned the old riverside district, scheduled for demolition on Monday. Its residents had accepted relocation packages with complimentary emotional transition treatment. Iona had approved the contract.

Tern lifted one hand. In the dent lay a pale thread caught beneath a rivet. Not fur. A strand from a red woven lead.

'I keep finding these,' he said.

'Where?'

'In the places people ask me to clean.'

Outside, rain blurred the approved skyline. Iona remembered the district before its redevelopment notice: narrow streets, noisy windows, dogs asleep beneath market tables. She could recall the layout precisely. She could not remember whether she had liked being there.

She changed the report's classification from malfunction to unresolved. The system warned her this would delay disposal.

Tern watched her finger above the confirmation button.

'Good,' she said, and pressed it.