A week had passed since their clandestine meeting with Patricia, and now Laz and Bud stood at the Academy's entrance. The imposing structure loomed over Gale City, its sleek lines and reinforced walls a testament to the power and paranoia of the F.O.G.. Bud's ears twitched as they approached the security checkpoint.
"What if they put us through a full biometric scan?" he growled, subvocalizing in a way that would cause his words to be transmitted low and tense through Laz’s processors.
Laz waved a hand dismissively. "Relax, this is a school, not the office of the Supreme Chancellor."
"You're too calm about all this," Bud insisted, tail swishing.
"Patricia gave you the access codes to the Academy computer system, didn't she?" His tone was maddeningly casual.
Bud grunted reluctantly. "Yes."
"And you checked that my photo was substituted for Eichorn?"
Another grunt from Bud.
"And you registered yourself as a cysniffer?"
"What's your point?" Bud snapped, his patience wearing thin.
Laz grinned. "Occam's razor!"
"What?"
"Shh, quiet," Laz whispered, suddenly serious.
"You're the only one who can hear me," Bud reminded him, exasperated.
They reached the checkpoint, manned by a young cadet in a crisp uniform. Bud's muscles tensed, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. But the youth barely glanced at Laz’s stolen ID before waving them through. He didn't even spare a look for Bud.
"Told you," Laz said as they moved on. "History's full of people who think they've made unsinkable ships."
Bud chose not to dignify that with a response.
They made their way through the Academy's winding corridors, passing other instructors accompanied by their own cysniffers. Internally, cysniffers were nothing by cybernetics, but their outward appearance was distinctly canine, a remnant from pre-Purge days when the FOG had wanted them to be indistinguishable from langdogs and ordinary pets. Bud had recalibrated his motor pathways to match their rigid gait, one of the only good ways to distinguish cysniffers from ordinary canines.
Still, as they approached the lecture hall, Bud couldn't shake a growing sense of unease. This was all too easy. Patricia had returned to Phobos, leaving them to carry out this insane plan on their own. What if something went wrong? What if—
His thoughts were interrupted as Laz fumbled with the classroom door, nearly dropping his tablet in the process. Bud winced. So much for maintaining a low profile.
Inside, the room was filling up with cadets, their young faces a mix of boredom and curiosity. Laz made his way to the front and began fiddling with the projector. When nothing happened after a few moments, he rapped on it with his knuckles, drawing skeptical glances from the students in the first row. Bud slunk to the back, positioning himself to keep an eye on both Laz and the cadets.
"Good morning, class," Laz began. He’d abandoned the projector and taken up a piece of ordinary chalk. For all the technological advances over the past several centuries, it was amazing how little the art of writing had changed.
Laz’s voice was steady despite his earlier clumsiness. "I'm Professor Thomas Eichorn, and today we'll be diving into the fascinating world of human biology."
Bud watched as Laz launched into his lecture, words flowing with surprising coherence. It was almost like seeing a glimpse of the old Laz, the brilliant scientist who could captivate an audience with his knowledge and charisma.
But Bud knew better than to let his guard down. He scanned the room, noting potential escape routes and cataloging the faces of each student. Any one of them could be a threat, a spy for the FOG ready to expose their deception.
As Laz delved into the intricacies of the nervous system, Bud began working out scenarios for the monumental task ahead. Somewhere in this sprawling complex was the information they needed—the location of the captured AMEN operative, the truth about what happened during the Purge, and maybe, just maybe, answers about Moose and Laz’s wife.
But how were they supposed to find it? The Academy was a labyrinth of secured areas and restricted access points. Even with Patricia's codes, navigating it would be like trying to solve a Rubik's cube in the dark.
And then there was the matter of Patricia herself. He still knew so little about her, and what he did know didn’t give him any cause for calm. What wasn't she telling them?
A sudden burst of laughter from the class snapped Bud back to attention. Laz had just cracked a joke about neurotransmitters, of all things, and the students were eating it up. Bud marveled at the absurdity of it all—here they were, infiltrating one of the most secure facilities on Mars, and Laz was playing the role of affable professor to perfection.
But how long could they keep up this charade? How long before—
“Can anyone tell me the melting point of cheese on Mars?”
And there it was. The cadets exchanged confused glances, several in the back rows whispering to one another.
Laz paused for a beat, eyes scanning for an answer that was not forthcoming. Then, without missing a step, "Synaptic connections are crucial to understanding how information travels through the brain."
The class settled, some students still exchanging puzzled glances. A young woman in the front row raised her hand, but before she could speak, Lazarus pointed straight at her and said, "Did you know Phobos completes an orbit around Mars three times a day?"
The woman’s brows rose. As Laz continued to look at her expectantly, she slowly dropped both her hand and her eyes. Around the room, the other students displayed a mix of bewilderment and amusement. Some looked intrigued, others concerned, and a few seemed to be stifling laughter.
Undeterred, Laz turned to the chalkboard and began sketching a complex neural network. His hand moved with surprising precision, the intricate diagram taking shape before the class's eyes. Several students leaned forward, others scribbling furiously to try and replicate the drawing.
Just as the air of academic seriousness began to resettle, Laz abruptly turned back to the class. "Has anyone seen my pet rock? I could have sworn I brought it with me today."
The room fell silent. One student coughed awkwardly, while others whispered to their neighbors. Bud fought the urge to bury his face in his paws.
The class went on like that. Sometimes, Laz would go on for long enough that it seemed as if the class had forgotten his bizarre outbursts. But then he’d say something like, “Is the plural of rhinoceros rhinoceri or rhinoceroses?” More blank stares and concealed sniggers would follow.
As the class drew to a close, Bud's sensitive ears picked up snippets of conversation among the students. "Is he brilliant or just crazy?" one whispered. "Maybe both," another replied. "Did you see that diagram, though? He clearly knows his stuff."
Laz, seemingly oblivious to the murmurs, wrapped up the lecture with a final flourish. "Remember, class, consciousness itself might just be an elaborate illusion created by the interplay of countless neural connections. We are, perhaps, nothing more than the sum of our synapses, firing in patterns too complex for us to fully comprehend."
The room fell into a thoughtful silence, students pondering this profound statement as they gathered their things. Or perhaps they just thought it another of his inane ramblings.
As the last of the cadets filed out, Bud approached Laz, his mind racing. There was no way they could keep up this charade for long. Laz’s brilliance might be enough to impress the students, but his erratic behavior was bound to raise suspicions among the other faculty, not to mention the military types who also called the Academy home.
He'd need to work fast. The search of the Academy couldn't wait—every moment they spent here increased their chances of being discovered. As Laz gathered his materials, humming tunelessly, Bud steeled his resolve.
He'd have to be quick, careful, and above all, lucky. As they left the classroom, Bud couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking a tightrope without a safety net. One wrong move, one slip of Laz’s eccentric tongue, and they'd plummet into a doom worse than the Purge itself.
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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.