147 P.E.D.
12 Years Before the Purge
The white sterile walls of the F.O.G. office’s waiting room seemed designed to amplify discomfort, and they certainly appeared to have that effect on the man who had just entered. He stood at the counter, drumming his fingers on its pristine surface, the soft tapping echoing off gleaming tiles. He was staring down at his reflection in the polished metal trim—a lean man with sharp features and eyes of different colors—one green, one blue—that looked entirely out of place among the clinical perfection.
Bud observed the scene from a corner where he sat erect, trying to emphasize his freshly brushed fur, tail curled neatly around his paws. It was the first time he’d ever been groomed by the FOG handlers and it felt incredible. His enhanced neural processors had already cataloged every detail of the cyborg waiting to receive him: the way his shoulders tensed beneath his formal jacket, the slight tremor in his left hand that suggested recent cybernetic integration, the faint whir of mechanical components that Bud’s sensitive hearing could detect even at this distance. When their eyes met, the cyborg scowled. He fought down the urge to growl. Just another stupid human who’d had machines inserted into his head, probably hoping the technology would make up for natural shortcomings.
“You’re Lazarus, uh, Thorough?” the clerk behind the counter asked, glancing down at a computer screen.
“Thoreau,” the man replied. “toh-ROH,” he repeated very slowly, emphasizing the second syllable. “It’s old-Earth French.”
“Right,” the clerk said without looking up. “So, you’re here for your assigned langdog. Congratulations.”
If Bud had been human, he’d have rolled his eyes. The clerk’s affect had been entirely without enthusiasm, and the man at the counter—Lazarus—seemed closer to one preparing for an execution than an event warranting felicitations.
“The benefits of the Langdog program are quite extensive," the F.O.G. clerk continued, his voice carrying the practiced warmth of someone who’d delivered this speech countless times with a smile to match. “Our research shows that cyborg-langdog partnerships result in significantly improved psychological outcomes.” He gestured toward Bud with a flourish. “Thanks to the L.A.N.G. system—that’s short for Linguistic Augmentation for Non-Verbal Guardians if you didn’t know—built into his neuro-collar, you'll be able to understand everything he says. Perfect companionship!”
The clerk’s smile never wavered as he continued. “F.O.G. understands the unique challenges cyborgs face in today's society. The prejudice, the isolation—it can be overwhelming. That’s why we developed this program. These remarkable creatures help our enhanced citizens cope with their existence, providing the emotional support needed to overcome public bias.”
Lazarus listened with an expression that mixed skepticism with bone-deep weariness. “I appreciate the concern,” he said finally, “but I'm a fairly independent person. I have a lovely wife. I don't really need a mutt following me around to feel better about myself.”
Bud huffed and slouched down, putting one paw over his snout. Mutt? Who did this Lazarus character think he was? There were more neurons in the tip of his tail than in the entirety of that cyborg’s metal-filled cranium.
The clerk’s artificial smile thinned. “I assure you, sir, that FOG has conducted extensive research on this matter. We are quite confident that a langdog partnership is in your best interest.”
"Really?" Lazarus leaned forward, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “And I suppose this has nothing to do with giving FOG a convenient way to monitor folks like me? Nothing to do with creating a measure of control by building dependence on these canine companions? And besides, these feelings of isolation you claim many of us feel? Have you considered that the bioist propaganda F.O.G. covertly funds through all its shell corporations might be a major contributing factor?”
Bud lifted his head, tail twitching with interest. He’d never heard a human speak like that to a government official. With deliberate grace, he rose and padded across the gleaming floor to sit beside Lazarus. He looked up at his soon-to-be owner, noting that the green eye was cybernetic, whirring slightly as it focused. Anything, Bud decided, had to be better than the endless neural training sessions in FOG’s laboratories. The countless hours spent having his brain reshaped to serve their purposes, the pain of each new protocol being burned into his processors—at least this assignment offered escape from that particular hell.
The clerk’s demeanor shifted, professionalism giving way to cold authority. “I should remind you that accepting your assigned langdog companion is now mandatory under Mars Colonial Law, Section 47-B.” He punched a few buttons on his computer terminal, the movements precise and threatening. “You do want to remain in compliance, don't you?”
Lazarus glanced down at Bud, who met the cyborg’s gaze steadily. There did seem to be some intelligence in those mismatched eyes. Bud could probably work with this. With a bit of training, perhaps he could even make living with the man bearable.
Finally, Lazarus looked back at the clerk and shrugged. Reaching down, he gave Bud a gentle pat on the head. To Bud’s surprise, he felt an urge to give the cyborg’s fingers a quick lick. Some innate instincts could never be completely programmed out of a creature.
“What's the dog’s name?” Lazarus asked, his voice resigned.
The clerk consulted his terminal. “Unit designation DP-B04-UD-111-87.”
“Charming.” Lazarus cocked an eyebrow down at Bud. Was the cyborg suppressing a smile?
Without further comment, Lazarus signed the necessary paperwork, his movements mechanical and efficient, then permitted the clerk to briefly connect a plug into the dataport behind his left ear, syncing his neural net with Bud’s L.A.N.G. processor. Minutes later, they emerged from the FOG office into the Martian afternoon.
“DP-B04-UD-111-87,” Lazarus said, testing the designation on his tongue. “I don't suppose you have any particular attachment to that mouthful?”
“You can call me whatever you wish, my owner,” Bud replied, his collar light flashing from green to yellow as it translated his words.
Lazarus chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. "Well, I suppose to keep up appearances you'll need to refer to me as ‘owner’ in public, but otherwise you can call me Lazarus.”
Bud’s tail wagged slightly of its own accord. In all his training, he’d never encountered a human who offered to let him use their actual name. He gave Lazarus his best doggy smile, letting his tongue loll out slightly.
“And we'll forget about that alpha-numeric soup they saddled you with,” Lazarus continued. “I think I'll call you Bud.”
Click here for the next chapter!
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.