Bud lay on the floor of their assigned quarters in the Academy's instructor wing, his eyes fixed on the holographic display projected by his collar. He flicked through the schematics Patricia had provided, cross-referencing them with the Academy's daily schedule. Laz paced nearby, alternating between an off-key rendition of a Martian folk tune about crater rats and muttering about being away from his experiment. He’d caused a scene shortly after class, insisting a chalk board be brought to his room, and he’d already filled it with formulas Bud was almost certain made no sense at all. Between that, and the clothes Laz had strewn over every bare surface, the room was a mess.
As Bud researched, a particular entry caught his attention. An advanced class for cysniffer handlers, held in a restricted area of the Academy. Ears twitching, he pulled up more information, the hologram responding to a quick squint of his eyes. Details were very high level, but by cross referencing the faculty assigned with the years and academic concentrations of the cadets enrolled in the class, Bud gleaned a great deal.
The faculty were more experienced than those who taught the introductory courses in the Academy proper, and all of them had true field experience, a few even having served during the Purge. As for the cadets, all were enrolled in accelerated coursework, and most were on track to graduate as officers. If anyone was going to have access to the deepest recesses of the Academy, they were likely to be among this class.
With a few quick mental commands, Bud accessed the Academy's systems. It took him only moments to add himself to the roster of cysniffers for the upcoming training session. He had to forge a few diagnostic reports and bypass a pesky firewall, but it all proved surprisingly simple. The Academy’s defenses—at least those centered around class rosters and student records—were built to combat human snooping, not the advanced algorithmic processing of a purebred langdog. He allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction as he reviewed his work.
A knock at the door. Laz answered before Bud could think to caution him, revealing another instructor—a tall, thin man with a pretentious twist to his lips.
"Ah, you must be Eichorn." The man extended a limp hand. "Welcome to the Academy. I'm Professor Thorn. I trust you're settling in well?"
Laz shook the offered hand with far more enthusiasm than Thorn had obviously been expecting. Or desired. "Quite well, thank you. The accommodations are most satisfactory."
Thorn nodded, his eyes darting around the room, lips compressing. "Good, good. Not much of an interior decorator, eh?”
The man laughed as he said it, but his tone suggested mixed intentions. Laz either didn’t pick up on Thorn’s intonation, or chose to ignore it.
“There was a famous man who once said that an empty glass is a man’s greatest motivator.”
Thorn’s sly smirk faltered, brows dropping.
“Who was it who said that, exactly?”
“Busch, I believe his name was,” Laz replied, smiling broadly.
Thorn studied him a moment, frowning. He seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and his expression returned to one of feigned welcome.
“Well, it’s good to meet you at any rate. I hear you’re quite the biologist. You should stop by my lab. I’ve been working in the sim these past three semesters, now, developing training scenarios. Just finished a particularly educational one for hunting rogue androids."
“Sounds rather dull,” Laz responded. For an instant, something dark flashed across his face.
Bud bolted upright and let out a sharp bark, drawing both men’s attention. Laz blinked, then quickly added with a chuckle, “What I mean to say is, I’ve always been one for the lecture hall, myself. Or better yet, the bar. Did you know that the lemons grown in Hellas Planitia are far better for mixed drinks than those manufactured in the biofarms here? Much higher pH.”
Thorn’s eyes narrowed. “What is it you did before joining our faculty?”
Laz smiled, but Bud knew whatever would come out of his mouth next would be dangerous at best, and more likely disastrous. He barked again. At least, that’s how Thorn would have heard it. For Laz, the bark interpreted as, “Deuteronilus Mensae.”
Laz cast Bud a sour look, but thankfully Thorn just seemed to interpret it as displeasure over Bud’s repeated interruptions.
“Microbial research at Deuteronilus Mensae,” Laz said, blessedly following Bud’s lead. “You know, we might all be dead if not for my efforts ensuring the water extracted from the subsurface glaciers there remained potable.”
“I’m sure we all owe you a great debt,” Thorn said. “Just keep that mutt of yours quiet, eh?” He slapped Laz on the shoulder, a bit too hard to be amiable, and came away wincing. Laz might not look like much, but his cyborg musculature was solid as any subsurface glacier. Thorn departed, disdain slipping into his expression once his back was to Laz.
As the door closed, Bud let out a low growl. "That was too close, Lazarus. You need to be more careful."
Laz waved a hand dismissively, seating himself at the room’s computer terminal. "Relax, my furry friend. Everything's under control." He accessed the file containing his notes for the next day’s class and actually seemed to begin studiously reviewing them.
Bud huffed, circling around his bed a few times before settling back down. Laz’s erratic behavior made clear what had to be done, even if Bud didn’t like it. It’d been nearly twenty years since he’d been more than fifty feet from his owner, and even with Bud in constant close proximity, Laz had gotten himself into craters full of trouble.
But if there was anything riskier than leaving Laz to his own devices, it was bringing him into the Academy’s restricted area. There was no plausible reason for a biology instructor to be poking around in the cysniffer training facilities.
"I'm going to investigate the restricted area. Stay here and try not to draw attention to yourself. Can you do that?"
Laz turned in his chair and saluted with exaggerated seriousness. "You can count on me, Captain!"
Bud winced internally but gave Laz a reassuring nudge with his nose. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Laz scratched behind one of his ears for a brief moment, then turned back to his computer screen. For an instant, the gesture triggered in Bud an intense longing for the past. Even more reason to get moving and finish the task at paw.
As he slipped out of their quarters, Bud's mind raced with possible scenarios. The security for the restricted area would be much tighter than the Academy's main entrance. He'd need all his wits about him to pull this off.
Approaching the guarded entrance, Bud's suspicions were confirmed. Two human guards stood at attention. Not cadets, but full-fledged soldiers who looked the business. Plus, they were flanked by a pair of cysniffers. The canine units' enhanced senses could easily detect the temperature variations of Bud’s hybrid nature—part organic, part machine. He'd have to be extremely careful.
Bud activated the heat shields Patricia had provided, masking his mechanical components. He also readied a low-grade EMP. It would cause a serious local disruption, drawing more attention than he wanted, but in an emergency it would disrupt the cysniffers' sensors entirely. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
Ducking into an alcove, Bud accessed the Academy's computer systems once more. With a series of rapid commands, he cross-wired the ventilation system further down the hall with the waste management system. A moment later, a noxious odor began seeping into the hallway on the other side of the restricted area.
The effect was immediate. The cysniffers began alerting in the direction of the odor, letting out low whines that almost sounded like those of real dogs. The human guards coughed and covered their faces, allowing the cysniffers to lead them down the hall to investigate. Bud loped through the now-vacated entryway to the restricted area.
Once inside, he paused to get his bearings. He needed to move quickly and carefully to avoid detection, but lacked a reliable map of the area and couldn’t afford to get lost.
As he padded down the hallway, Bud's mind wandered back to Laz. Had he made a mistake leaving his owner alone? What if Laz said something incriminating to another instructor? What if he wandered off and got lost in the Academy? Or left it altogether?
Bud shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He couldn't afford distractions now. The prison where FOG was keeping Patricia’s AMEN operative wouldn’t just be out in the open. It was going to take work—and more than a little luck—to find it.
Rounding a corner, Bud froze. Ahead, a door stood slightly ajar, voices drifting out from within. He crept closer, straining to hear.
"...latest batch of test subjects is responding well to the neural recalibration," a voice was saying. "We should be ready for full-scale implementation within the month."
"Excellent," replied another voice, this one gruff and authoritative. "The Supreme Chancellor will be pleased when we reveal our work. With this technology, we'll be able to root out every last android and cyborg on Mars."
Bud's blood ran cold. Whatever they were discussing, it couldn't be good for AMEN or any other non-humans on the planet. He needed to get a closer look.
A section of wall not far from where he was standing suddenly slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss. The unexpected movement made him freeze, his enhanced muscles tensing. A dimly lit corridor stretched beyond, but before he could investigate, a colonel and a cysniffer emerged from the hidden passage. Bud's mind raced, calculating odds and possibilities in microseconds. But even then, there wasn’t enough time.
The colonel frowned, his weathered face creasing as he noticed Bud. "Why are you wandering without a handler?" His eyes narrowed. "Your coloring is odd. White around the muzzle and paws? Bah. The supers at Valles Marineris are always sending us the second-rate gear."
Bud's heart pounded, each beat seeming to echo in the quiet hallway. He forced himself to maintain the rigid posture of a cysniffer, fighting against every instinct that screamed at him to run. Fortunately, the colonel seemed to be in a rush, checking his watch with an impatient grunt. With a shake of his head, he gestured for Bud to follow. "Come on, then. Can't leave you out here."
As they walked, Bud filed away the dimly lit corridor’s location, determined to return and investigate its secrets.
They arrived at a training room filled with cadets and other cysniffers. The smell of nervous sweat and mechanical lubricant flooded Bud’s olfactory receptors. The colonel directed him to line up with the other dogs, all of which were uniform in color, unlike Bud's distinctive markings. He felt exposed, different, every white hair seeming to scream his true nature to the world. But no one gave him a second glance. Perhaps it was as Laz had said earlier—the world was full of people who thought they were invincible.
The colonel began assigning cysniffers to cadets, and Bud realized that he’d been brought to the very class he’d intended to infiltrate. That calmed his nerves some, as he’d already inserted himself into the roster.
Most of the students seemed eager, jostling for position, their young faces full of an eagerness that can only come from inexperience. One, however, stood apart. He held himself with quiet dignity, his posture straight but not rigid, gray eyes straight ahead. Like all male cadets, his dark hair was shaved nearly to the scalp. Many of the other students cast sideways glances at him, whispering and grinning to one another.
Inevitably, Bud was assigned to this outsider.
"Wells, Jamie," the colonel gruffed, "you'll work with this one."
Jamie approached, grimacing as he took in Bud's asymmetrical coloring. Bud, for his part, thought sarcastically, "I don't like you either, kid." But beneath his initial annoyance, a spark of curiosity flickered. For years, the only companion he’d had was Laz.
Following what was apparently standard protocol, as Bud had observed many of the other cadets already do so, Jamie plugged an earpiece into Bud's collar, syncing it with his neural systems. It felt like a violation, someone tampering with his data port without permission. Bud's skin crawled beneath his fur, but he forced himself to remain still. It was over in an instant, and Jamie then inserted the device into his own ear, from which extended a slender wire arm with a tiny readout screen.
The colonel began droning as if reciting from memory. "The earpiece will relay basic warnings and analyses from your cysniffers. They can’t speak, of course, but their software contains basic verbal capacities. The readouts supply real-time data from the cysniffers' sensors and allow you to track their locations should you be separated. It's crucial for coordinated operations in the field."
Bud marveled at the irony. Here he was, a langdog masquerading as a cysniffer, about to be linked to a system designed to hunt down beings like himself and Laz. He’d have laughed if the stakes weren't so deadly serious.
Once everyone was seated, the colonel continued his lecture, voice filling the room with cold, hard facts. "Cysniffers use heat signatures to detect cybernetic parts and can smell the lubricant used in complex electronics. Their olfactory capabilities are unmatched, but the sensors drain power quickly, so they're only activated when needed."
Bud knew that already, but listened intently all the same. He might have a high opinion of himself, but he knew all too well that information was often crucial for survival.
The colonel's tone hardened as he continued, sending a chill down Bud's spine. "Both cyborgs and androids possess unnatural strength and speed. They are dangerous, unpredictable, and have no place in our society. The best course of action is deadly force on sight. Hesitation could cost you your life."
To Bud's surprise, Jamie's hand shot up, slicing through the tense atmosphere. "Sir, what if we aren’t certain the cyborg has done anything to warrant decommissioning?"
The room fell silent, the sudden quiet almost deafening. Bud could hear the rapid heartbeats of the cadets around him, smell the sharp tang of anxiety. The colonel fixed Jamie with a stern glare, his eyes cold and unforgiving. Snickers sounded from the back of the room, while other students shot Jamie dirty looks. Jamie stayed upright in his seat but his hands fidgeted beneath the desk.
“Of course,” the cadet said after the silence had become almost painful, “all cyborgs must be decommissioned. I only meant, if they aren’t an immediate threat, shouldn’t we take steps to preserve them and try to discover how they’ve evaded detection for so long?”
The colonel’s stare relented. ”Forethought is a fine trait for an officer, cadet. But never forget that the very existence of cyborgs is a threat to the natural order."
Seeming satisfied he’d gotten through to Jamie, the colonel continued where he’d left off. Bud, though, was far from convinced. Could Jamie be one of the few people on Mars who saw beyond the FOG's propaganda. But then again, Jamie was training to hunt cyborgs. Bud would do well to remember his caution.
As the class progressed, Bud felt Jamie attempting to access his sensors. Sensors that Bud didn’t really have, at least not in the sense that cysniffers did—instruments that gathered data and transmitted it externally. Bud quickly wrote a program that would relay the olfactory inputs from his neural processors to Jamie’s display in response to his prompts. The transmission would be slightly slower than the response of an actual cysniffer, but Jamie was unlikely to notice, and even if he did, Bud had already been deemed “second rate,” so it shouldn’t be an issue. Jamie nodded to himself with satisfaction when the program began transmitting information.
Now, the earpiece was another thing. The colonel had said cysniffers had limited communication capabilities, but Bud wasn’t clear on the details. For now, he’d keep auditory alerts to a minimum, and then keep them as basic as possible.
It was all a huge risk—the earpiece had synced with his LANG processor, which meant Jamie would understand him if he wasn’t careful. Bud would just have to make sure he was careful. If Jamie discovered he was a langdog, it’d be as good as walking outside the city’s biodome without a pressure suit. And he couldn’t die yet, not without the answers he’d come here to find.
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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.