Chapter 3
The door to their apartment in Dome’s Edge creaked open, protesting against rusty hinges. Bud padded in first, his nails clicking against the bare concrete floor. Laz followed, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe.
“Home sweet hovel,” Bud muttered. Laz smiled down at him, fumbling for the light switch.
A dim bulb flickered to life, casting weak illumination over the cramped space. Peeling wallpaper clung to damp walls. A threadbare couch sagged in one corner, while a cluttered workbench dominated the opposite wall. For all mankind’s advances, they’d come up disappointingly short in the past several centuries when it came to the interior decorating of low-income housing.
Bud shook himself, sending a small cloud of red Martian dust into the air. “We wouldn't have to hide in this dump if you’d kept your mouth shut at the carnival.”
Laz ignored the jab. He set down the vacuum-sealed cylinder and unscrewed its cap, deploying Bud’s dog bed in its usual corner. That done, he made a beeline for a cabinet above the kitchenette sink. After rummaging through bottles for a few moments, he began muttering to himself.
“Problem?” Bud asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“We’re out of apple schnapps.” Laz’s tone suggested this was a catastrophe of the highest order.
Bud huffed and lay down, collar light flashing. “Just make a crantini.”
Lazarus turned, fixing Bud with a look of mock horror. “A crantini? That's positively uncivilized.”
“Says the man who can't go a day without getting lit,” Bud retorted.
A flicker of... something... passed across Laz’s face. For a moment, Bud thought he might have struck a nerve and raised his head in his owner’s direction. But then Laz grinned, the moment passing like a shadow across the Martian moons.
“I’ll have you know,” Laz said, wagging a finger, “that my drinking habits are perfectly refined. Did you know that the Venusians used to distill liquor from methane clouds?”
Bud tilted his head. “You're talking nonsense again.”
Laz waved dismissively and turned his attention to the workbench. As he moved toward it, Laz grabbed an old robe off a chairback and slung it over his shoulders. It looked more like a discarded curtain than an article of clothing. He picked up a test tube, squinting at its contents.
“Ah yes, the experiment progresses!” he declared, reaching for a beaker.
Bud couldn't help the huff that escaped him. If this hadn’t been his life, Bud would have found it comical, the number of times over the last fifteen years he’d watched Laz fumbling with the same equipment he’d once understood so intimately. For the hundredth time, But wanted to tell Laz that his “experiment” was a futile exercise, a relic of a fractured mind. But as always, the words died in his throat.
If only I’d been faster, smarter.
This time, Bud’s derisive huff was aimed at himself. Self pity wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“We should take a look at that cut on your arm,” he said. A feeble attempt to distract Laz from his pointless tinkering.
“Oh, it’s fine. Nothing a bit of super glue and tiddlywinks won’t cure.”
Bud groaned and slumped onto his bed. His stomach growled, but Laz had spent the last of their weekly allowance on his drinks at the Carnival, and he’d eaten the last of their tasteless “colony” rations for breakfast. To take his mind off the gaping chasm of his hunger, Bud ran some calculations, figuring how many steak dinners Laz had guzzled away in the form of glowing-green drinks over the past year.
A series of sharp, rapid knocks jolted Bud from his brooding. Laz nearly dropped the test tube he was holding.
“Were you expecting company?” Bud growled, hackles rising.
Before Laz could answer, the door swung open. A woman strode in, her leather jacket reminiscent of the flight suits worn by the first Mars colonists, collar up to conceal most of her face. Despite their dim apartment, she wore dark googles. Her frazzled yellow hair seemed out of place given her otherwise calm demeanor.
“Hello, boys,” she said, voice flat despite her obvious sarcasm. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything important.”
“Who the hell is this?” Bud asked. Laz shrugged, smiling like an idiot at the invader. Bud leapt from his bed, ready for a fight.
“The name’s Patricia,” the woman said, staring right at Bud. “And you two are the langdog and cyborg from that scene earlier today at the Carnival.”
Bud’s mind raced. How had she found them? More importantly, how was she understanding him? His translator was set to broadcast only to Lazarus’s neural implant. He made some quick adjustments to his L.A.N.G. chip, reprogramming it to encrypt his speech so that Patricia would only understand him if he wished it. It had been years since he’d needed to take such precautions. Not since the Purge had wiped out everyone capable of understanding langdogs... or so he’d thought.
The woman smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Too perfect.
“Who are you?” Bud demanded, positioning himself between Patricia and Lazarus. He looked her up and down. Her outfit gave no indication that she worked for F.O.G., but the government employed so many independent contractors that meant almost nothing.
As if in answer, she removed her dark glasses, revealing lifeless obsidian eyes. Bud very nearly pounced, restrained only by Laz’s complete lack of concern. He set down his beaker and extended a hand.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said, as if greeting an expected dinner guest. “I don't suppose you brought any apple schnapps?”
Patricia’s vacant orbs locked onto Lazarus. She made an obvious attempt to match the unconcern of Laz’s demeanor, though his question had definitely thrown her off. Shaking her head slightly, and ignoring Bud’s growls, she asked, “You are the cyborg from the carnival, yes? The one who stood up to that FOG operative and his dark-haired friend?”
Bud snarled, stepping closer to the woman who was actually no woman at all. Patricia’s hand disappeared into her jacket pocket and emerged holding a small, cylindrical device.
“I wouldn't if I were you, pup.” She bounced the object lightly on the palm of her hand. “This little beauty could level the entire building. So unless you want to be Martian dust, I suggest you both start answering my questions.”
Bud froze. How could he protect Laz from a bomb? Maybe if he lunged for her wrist he could keep her from activating it. But no. She was an android. It was likely she could trigger it remotely. Laz interrupted Bud’s frenzied thoughts with an amused laugh.
“Well,” Laz said, leaning against the workbench, robe sliding partway down one shoulder, “I suppose that puts a damper on our evening plans. Yes, I'm the cyborg from the Carnival. Though I prefer ‘biomechanically enhanced individual’ if we're being politically correct.”
Patricia's lips twitched, as close to a smile as an android could get. Her mouth was molded from a synthetic polymer that moved when she spoke, but had never been designed to display strong emotion. “You’re Lazarus, the old biology professor from Gale City College.” She hadn’t phrased it as a question, just a mere statement of fact.
Laz’s eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise crossing his face. “I... yes. Though it’s been a long time since anyone’s called me ‘professor.’” He absently fiddled with a test tube. “How did you—”
“Prove it,” Patricia interrupted. “Tell me how you survived the Purge.”
Bud bristled. “Now wait just a minute. We’re going to need some assurances you won’t blow us up before you get any more information. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Patricia’s gaze never left Lazarus, but for once Bud’s owner acted sensibly.
“It’s a logical request. No need for us to waste anymore of the biodome’s oxygen if you’re just going to kill us.”
Patricia’s body language gave a fair approximation of a scowl even though her aluminum-sculpted cheek bones were incapable of expression. She waited several moments, as if she expected silence to make Laz relent. Instead, he just began considering another of his test tubes, as if there weren’t an illegal android standing in his living room with a bomb. Patricia gave a nearly subvocal growl of her own.
“I have information. About your wife, Lazarus. And about Moose.”
She might as well have announced that the city’s weather protocols were on the fritz again for all the reaction Laz gave. Bud, though, gave enough reaction for the both of them. His ears flattened against his skull, a low whine involuntarily escaping his throat. Moose. Just hearing her name sent a dull ache through his chest.
“Lazarus,” Bud said, speaking only for his owner to hear. “Make something up. Tell her whatever she wants to hear.”
Laz gave no indication he’d heard the pleading in Bud’s tone. Still gazing at his experiment, he murmured, “My wife? She’s dead. Her langdog, too. Happened a while back.”
“What if I told you’re they’re not?”
Laz puckered his lips, as if considering a complex question, then he said, “Are you sure you didn’t bring any schnapps?”
Bud growled. Always the same. No urgency, no anger, nothing.
“Focus, Lazarus!” Bud snapped. “If there’s any chance what she’s saying is true, we’ve got to know. She wants to know how you survived the Purge. So tell her a story!”
Laz blinked, as if coming out of a trance. He looked at Bud, then back to Patricia. “I... I can't.”
“What do you mean, you can't?” Patricia's grip tightened on the bomb.
“I mean I don't remember,” Laz said, his voice quiet. “The Purge, it... it damaged me. I know I survived, obviously. And I know it had something to do with him.” He nodded towards Bud. “But the details?” Abruptly, his serious expression dissipated. “Poof! Like an electron colliding with a positron.”
Silence fell over the cramped apartment. Bud held his breath, watching Patricia’s face for any sign of what she might do next. Her finger hovered over the bomb’s detonator.
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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.