Chapter 3

In the 2350s, suddenly Man's Best Friend wasn't good enough. He needed to be Man's Best Encyclopedia, Man's Best Camera, Man's Best Security System. To justify their existence, we took some of our pets to corporations who offered to make them cybernetic beings-upgrading their brains with artificial intelligence, enhancing their bodies with tools useful to the average homeowner.

The first wave of these sentient pets set off a string of lawsuits that set precedents for cloning, artificial enhancement, and the rights of cybernetic non-humans. The moral implications of brainwave-to-speech accuracy were hotly debated for nearly a decade.

Our canine companions' pack structure became a part of the socio-cultural conversation, their alpha-beta relationships becoming models for our own.

The daugments themselves just seemed to love the extra attention.

~ "Daugmented: The Tail of Companionship Evolved," by Cochi Soliz, cybernetic studies professor at Central Pluto University

It took three stone-faced guards to drag Pitney down a long, dank hallway.

"Forty-seven years!" Pitney kept howling at the top of his lungs, until he was hoarse. "Forty-seven gods-damn years for this!"

Strong as Pitney was, his undignified thrashing and slippered kicks were no match for the grim-faced trio and their iron fingers. One released her vice-grip on Pitney's arm to hold a narrow metal door. The other two exchanged a look, then heaved Pitney in a silent, brutal coordination.

By the time Pitney slid down the wall and untangled his limbs from both themselves and the single holey sheet, the guards were gone. The cell door clanged hollowly behind them, leaving him in near-blackness.

Well. At least they'd let him keep his cap.

Pitney began to laugh helplessly. After a few seconds he swallowed the sound, hard. No. This wasn't funny anymore. Maybe it had been, for a split second, with that look on Tristan's face as he read the charge about Horus, of all things...

But now he was a political prisoner on a backwater planet, at the mercy of his greatest professional rival.

Brilliant. Into the stale air, Pitney spat, "Yes, join the HAG, give 'em five decades of your life, get death in a shithole for free."

He ground his teeth. Tristan. He refused to speak the name aloud, just in case it'd summon the piece of shit as though he were actually a demon-a likely prospect, in Pitney's current estimation. Somehow, Tristan had gotten it into his head that he could stand in the way of what an entire organization, nay, an entire race owed Pitney Scolan by throwing him into a jail cell on a backwater world where no one would think to look if he just...disappeared.

Fuck the man. And forget him, too, at least for now.

Pitney had been a field agent, had done his time in the trenches, jail cells, truckbeds, ship holds, and menacing forests. He wasn't about to curl up on the cot and take a nap.

He was going to get the hell out.

Pitney began to feel for the boundaries of his immediate world, quickly reaching walls on all sides. Even the ceiling was low, for no obvious architectural reason. Probably just to mess with prisoners' heads while they awaited their fate.

Well, he thought, smiling toothily at nothing, I've never been good at letting people mess with my head, have I?

With that thought to fortify him, he turned his attention to the metal door. It opened into the room, so he couldn't get to any hinges to pry them free of the wall. He felt carefully around the edge of the door, but it was well-sealed, probably more to ward off a killing chill than for security. Nonetheless, discouraging.

Pitney stood on tiptoe and pressed his thumbs against the subtle line where the door and the frame met, and then he slowly felt down the door. He was almost to the bottom when his fingers encountered something that made them tremble with excitement.

The food slot wasn't as large as it would have been in a jail cell constructed in the pre-fabfood era, but it still had to be wide enough for the tray. The welding was high-quality, and the little judas door was still made of two inches of magnetic steel. He put his fingers against the bottom edge. If he could get it open, Pitney guessed he could get at least a hand and most of his arm through, and then start feeling around for-

He applied a bit of pressure, and the slot flew open.

The sound of it jangled in the hall, and Pitney shot to his feet and held his breath, his heart beating wildly from the combined forces of hope and terror.

But there weren't any sounds of human activity. No footsteps or muttering.

It seemed all too convenient.

Pitney let his breath out in a whoosh. He patted his chest, wished something wordless to his heart, and knelt down to look through the narrow opening.

He could see a low, unnatural light, and the wall across from him at about knee-height. The cold leached all the life from his skin.

Time was running out, for all he knew. Escaping sooner rather than later, lying low in the snow somewhere, that was how Pitney got out of this alive and intact.

He steeled himself and started to move his hand through the opening.

Teeth gnashed, blue eyes flashed, and something horrible drooled on the somehow still intact hand he snatched from the food slot.

Shaking, Pitney peered from a safe distance at what little he could see of the creature that had menaced him. It had a long, weasel-like face, half of which was metal polished to gleaming, half of which was dried bluish skin stretched tightly over sharp little bones. One of its eyes was fogged over, but the other glowed LED-blue.

It made eye contact with Pitney, and he could have sworn it smiled.

So. The food slot was all too convenient.