Bud's paws pounded against the Academy’s polished floors as he raced towards Laz’s quarters. Several cadets and instructors gawked as he flew past but he ignored them. His mind was a whirlwind, the image of the dark-haired woman strapped to that chair sporadically flashing before his eyes, interspersed with wild imaginings about what trouble Laz had cooked up for himself.
He skidded to a halt outside Laz’s door, panting heavily. Without hesitation, he nudged it open. Laz was nowhere to be seen.
Grrrr. There was only one other place Laz could be at this hour, and the thought filled Bud with dread and rage. How could he be so stupid? He turned and hurried down the hall.
Loud music and raucous voices. Bud's enhanced hearing picked up the clink of glasses and the unmistakable sound of his owner’s laughter. He pushed through the partially open door, his eyes quickly scanning the room.
The instructors’ lounge was dominated by a long wooden bar, an antique straight from Old Earth, seemingly out of place beneath the angular Academy light fixtures above it. Several empty tables were scattered around the periphery, lamps with green shades casting dim, simulated candlelight throughout the room. All the action was centered at the bar itself, where a crowd of ten instructors had gathered. At their center, perched on a barstool, was Laz. Half a dozen empty martini glasses stood before him, another clutched in his hand.
He was in the middle of telling what seemed to be an absurd story—what other kind of story did he ever tell?—his voice carrying over the general din. "So there's this man. Can't do a single thing right to save his life. But he's got this robotic butler that always swoops in and saves the day. Ridiculous, isn’t it?"
The assembled instructors roared with laughter at each new mishap prompting an improbable robotic rescue. Having forgotten his fiance’s name, the owner’s robot arranges a fortuitous meeting that sparks his memory. About to receive a citation for using counterfeit ration vouchers, the owner slips away from the police while his robot poses as a damsel in distress, yellow wig and all. A broken vase in a fancy store; crisis averted when the robot convinces the proprietor it fell from the shelf during seismic tremor. Laz smiled along with the crowd, though the real story showed in his eyes. After every few lines, Laz would throw back half his martini.
Bud tried to catch his owner’s attention from across the room, not wanting to cause a scene. But either the noise was too much, or Laz was purposefully ignoring him. With a sigh, Bud began to weave his way through the forest of legs surrounding the bar. Laz continued to recite outrageous scenarios.
“And he said, ‘Thanks, chum. Who’d have ever thought that cheese could melt so quickly?’”
When he finally reached Laz, Bud let out a sharp bark.
"What is it, ol' boy?" Laz’s eyes were out of focus as he glanced down, running his fingertips absently through Bud’s fur while still trying to smile at the crowd.
"We need to go," Bud growled, his words transmitted directly to Laz’s neural implant.
Laz waved a dismissive hand. "I'm just getting started!" He said it aloud, drawing a few confused looks, though most just thought it was part of his act. He raised his glass towards the assembled instructors and downed it in one gulp. They all cheered as he waved for another from the bartender, who was all too happy to oblige.
“We don't have time for this. I found the AMEN operative."
"Well then, what's the problem? In fact, we ought to celebrate. Barkeep, make it a double!”
"I didn't free her," Bud said, urgency growing. "And I'm not sure we should."
Laz frowned, clearly annoyed at having his revelry interrupted. Already a few of the instructors seemed to be losing interest in him. "Why ever not? You're the one who was so hot to trot over this plan."
Bud took a deep breath, steeling himself for Laz’s reaction. "Because, the AMEN operative is the same dark-haired woman who was at the Carnival."
For once, Laz didn't even notice when the bartender placed a fresh drink in front of him. His face the color of bleached alabaster, he murmured, "What did you say?" the words barely audible over the noise of the lounge.
Bud was about to repeat himself when the door opened and Trip entered the room. The specialist’s eyes gleamed with predatory instinct as he scanned the crowd. Bud's circuits went cold.
"We need to leave.” Bud transmitted his words as a whisper even though Laz was the only one who could hear. “Now."
But his owner seemed frozen in place, gaze distant, lost in some internal struggle. Bud nudged his leg insistently, trying to snap him out of it.
"Lazarus, please," Bud pleaded. "We're in danger. We have to go."
Slowly, as if coming out of a trance, Laz nodded. He stumbled off the barstool, drawing curious looks from the other instructors. One asked where he was going, another shouting that he’d forgotten his drink. Laz’s muteness is reply was nearly as concerning as all the other wild scenarios Bud had cooked up while away from his owner. Pressed close to Laz’s side, Bud guided him towards the door. At any moment he expected Trip to cry out, guards to come running. But the specialist merely walked up to the bar, greeting a pair of instructors and ordered a drink.
Laz barely made it out the door before sagging against a wall, his breath coming in short gasps. Bud had never seen him so distressed. He felt certain he should understand his owner’s consternation, but where there ought to have been comprehension, Bud found nothing but a chasm of uncertainty in his neural processors.
"Bud," Laz whispered, voice trembling. "What's going on? What did you find in that room?"
Bud looked up at his owner. His hands were shaking, eyes glistening. How much should he tell him? How much could Laz handle in his current state? He licked at Laz’s trembling fingertips.
Before Bud could decide, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Someone was coming.
"Not here," Bud said urgently. "We need to get back to your quarters. I'll explain everything there while we pack."
Laz nodded, the fact that he didn’t question Bud’s notion of packing–or at least offer some nonsensical quip about it—heightened the dread already constricted Bud’s innards. Laz pushed himself off the wall with visible effort and kept an unsteady hand on Bud’s head as they hurried down the corridor.
Bud's thoughts reeled. Their window of opportunity was rapidly closing. And he was beginning to wonder whether it was one through which they even wanted to climb. The AMEN operative was the dark-haired woman? Trip’s date from the Carnival? And Laz seemed practically on the verge of tears at the revelation. What was Patricia playing at? Why did Bud feel like he ought to understand everything, but it was just out of his reach?
What was going on?
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Note: I wrote this story with the assistance of AI. To read about my process, see the following post:
buymeacoffee.com/dtkane/mars-174-years-after-earth-destruction