Cynetic Wolf
A WALK IN THE PARK

I sat for a long time putting it together in my head. Fitz had prepared for this. He’d known he was in danger.

Lars, 1104b Heartlow Drive. He’d had me memorize it.

That was all I had. That was all I needed. Why didn’t I think of it earlier?

Within seconds, I had a map of the area. It was seven kilometers from here and I needed to get there, somehow.

Excited, I sprang from the frigid, musty floor and slammed my head on the low ceiling. Oww.

It was 5:15 a.m. but it didn’t matter. Energy coursed through me. I had a plan!

Thank you, Fitz. You clever bastard, you.

Now, how to get there?

Tunnels? It would be easier and safer. No maps though, and I could get lost. I was claustrophobic as it was and headed for the ladder. Let’s get out of here. Climbing, I shook mucky water from my boots and slid out once the coast was clear.

Setting off at a fast jog, I pretended to be exercising. No one faults a runner.

Things got busier four kilometers from Heartlow, trams and scooters zipping commuters to work. So many people. Why were they all hurrying?

Back home, things were simpler. Work began at dawn, or when it must. There was no rush to an office. Everyone worked from home—or close enough to be called that—at least compared to this city. And trams and scooters… I could walk from one side of town to the other in under ten minutes. Caen stretched on forever.

After a while, I saw the rhythm to the madness. The energy was electric as I walked the streets. I kept my head down to avoid being noticed.

Turns out, I didn’t have to worry about that. They were all so busy with themselves, they didn’t spare me a glance. The trams were filled with vacant eyed cynetics browsing the web, some enhancers, too, with projected screens or high end SmartGlasses. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they were equal. Looks could be deceiving.

A large furry woman passed me with her eyes downcast. So, there were other animotes here. Soon, more: chimpish, wolfish, elephantish… everything. Most wore faded factory uniforms or overalls, their heads down. Was this how animotes in the cities lived? Everyone seemed depressed. We’d heard the cities were better off. Could it be this bad, this far from the truth? I had to find out.

After a few blocks, animotes disappeared. Must have been a housing project, or maybe they all commuted. Or was it zoning? Maybe we were only allowed in certain areas, or at certain times. I had to find out. The last thing I needed was being reported for entering an animote-free zone.

Closer to Heartlow and downtown, the buildings were huge and growing taller. There was a marked improvement in the quality of the shops and attire of the folks too—a whole new level of affluence. So rich you don’t bother to flaunt it. Many here wore the bands Kelep’s father sold, wore them like it was nothing.

This would take getting used to.

Five minutes later, 1104 Heartlow.

It was a modest building, at least by Caen standards, built after the Fall, constructed of bioidentical net zero polymers (BNZPs). We’d learned about departiclization in manufacturing, the basics at least, and why it was mandated. We’d come too close to climate-driven disaster once already.

I approached the brown five-story building, unsure what to do. Lars didn’t own the entire building, did he?

At the crimson door, a voice asked, “Who are you here to see?”

I didn’t see anyone. “Um, Lars. He lives at 1104b.”

“You mean Mr. Avery?”

“Yes, Lars Avery.” So, Avery was it? “I’m here to see Mr. Avery.”

“Mr. Avery isn’t here. He left for work at 6:00 this morning. Can I take a message?”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked.

“Mr. Avery usually comes home after 17:00.”

“Oh, thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure.”

A second later, they asked, “Who are you here to see?”

“I told you. I’m here to see Mr. Avery.”

“Mr. Avery isn’t here. He left for work at 6:00 this morning. Can I take a message?”

Huh? “Are you a chatbot?” I’d heard about these.

It repeated itself.

“Please tell Mr. Avery, his striped friend said I should come and he could help me.”

The voice confirmed my message. “Is that all?”

I nodded.

“Is that all?” it asked again. Duh, only voice commands.

“Yes.”

“Goodbye.”

I hurried away before the sequence restarted. They used chatbots? Made sense. Automate simple jobs but never ever touch true AI.

It was 7:05, ten hours to kill. What could I find on Mr. Avery? It couldn’t hurt to do some digging.

Walking the now less crowded sidewalk, the zones thing hit me. What if the DNS picked me up in the wrong part of town? I searched as I went.

What I found was disheartening to say the least. Animotes were restricted to certain areas of the city, not the nice parts. Downtown was off limits and so was the governmental district.

The outskirts were fine, the industrial areas and poorer south and west sections too. But for a city of five hundred thousand, it wasn’t much.

I opened a history of the city. Throughout the Fall, Caen dodged the worst of it. ‘Where most areas suffered eighty plus percent death tolls, Caen had banded together.’ So, the government whitewashed its earliest years too, explaining away confiscating old American heavy weaponry to force their powerful coalition. To be fair, they’d restored peace and prosperity... for some.

But this wasn’t new to me.

Passing a park, I lay down. I was exhausted and others were sprawled in the grass. There was a sign, Animotes Allowed. Here at least, I’d blend in and be safe.

Most of the animotes were emaciated, a meal or two from death’s doorstep. These must be the homeless ones we’d heard about. I’d always assumed that was a legend, something Mom preached to scare us from drugs and VR. She wasn’t kidding? I swallowed hard.

Imagine living here—cold, hungry, and alone day after day. How could anyone let this happen? How could so many ignore them?

Laying on the cold, hard grass, I closed my eyes, feeling powerless and feigning sleep while draping my old shirt over my face.

If anyone recognized me, I was screwed.

I found a history of cybernetics and the voice inside my head began.

After speeding through humanity’s many experiments, I zipped to the early 2030s.

‘...there were two competing technologies poised to transform everything: genetic engineering and mechatronic cybernetics. Both were promising, attracting top scientists, researchers, and funding to build beings of the future.’

’Cybernetics was viewed, at least until 2033, as the lesser of the two transhumanist paths. Around 2030, before the spread of the Bioplague, a few breakthroughs changed everything. Chief among these, the invention and successful introduction of nanoSTEM cells—nanoscale biomachinery, which, when implanted into in vitro embryos, could be integrated with various cell clusters. These became the basis of modern cynetic enhancement, allowing doctors to design ever greater functionality.

‘As cybernetics progressed, doctors found ways to pass bioreplicating nanoSTEMs from parent to child, which made breeding cybernetic individuals—later called cynetics—incompatible with biological humans…’

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, something pulled at my head, rubbing the zipper against my scruff.

One of the homeless guys had my backpack with his one good arm and gritted his teeth. He looked feral.

“Back off, dude!” I growled.

He scampered away, in no shape for a fight and interested in an easier target, deformed arm limp at his side. I took a deep breath. What had happened to these people?

Back home, you could leave your doors open all day. Everyone knew and trusted one another. There was no need to steal. If someone was hungry or needed help, the community got them on their feet.

Except Neurowebbers... There was nothing you could do for addicts. At a certain point, they were lost, reality less interesting than what some well-paid, immoral game designer or experience engineer could envision. They were the sad ones, the lost souls. But that was life. At the moment, it wasn’t my problem. I had to survive.

It was 15:12. Mr. Avery—whoever he was—would be home in two hours. Who was he?

Turns out, there were a lot of Lars Averys. I tried to narrow the search and cross-checked his address. Even searched Lyam Harding.

There were tons of articles on Fitz. He was described as a radical, a terrorist, a dangerous criminal, and implicated in dozens of attacks, bombings, even four assassinations. Good work, Fitz.

Ten years ago, he vanished. Nothing: no articles, no pictures. He was a ghost.

I smiled to myself, missing him already, even though I’d hardly known the guy.

A siren blared. What the—?

My connection had been getting weaker and weaker. It took a second to click. Search triggers. There must be a search trigger on ‘Lyam Harding.’ This had all the signs. Run!

Killing my connection, I cleared my history, heading for the nearest busy intersection.

According to my research it wasn’t rush hour. Animotes worked from 7:00 to 19:00 and elites, 7:00 to 12:00. Still, there were a fair number of people about and I slid into the crowd, bodies enveloping me as sirens intensified.

While I was probably safe, I kept walking to be sure, often changing direction and sticking with the largest group.

After ten minutes checking my periphery, I felt better. It was stupid to research Fitz without proper privacy protocols. Had the GDR hacked those too? Heck, maybe they designed them to monitor dissidents.

Plenty of people vanished every year. It was all rumors, but I’d believed it. I’d have to be more careful.

After killing time, I headed back, excited, nervous, and starving.

I got there a few minutes to five and waited on the doorstep, the destitution I’d witnessed invading my thoughts.

Several minutes later, a tall wiry man with a black button-up and matching wool hat turned onto the path.

Lars?

He had large, sharp eyes with pitch black pupils and a gaze that took everything in. A warm face, boyish grin, and close cropped brown hair made him seem trustworthy. Maybe...

“Did stripes send you?” he whispered as he got closer.

“What? Yes, yeah. He—”

“Shhh! Follow me. We’ll talk.”

The door opened as he approached, and he led me inside. Strange fellow. I hopped up, hurrying into the dated building.

We didn’t speak until he’d unlocked his door—all three locks—and peered around. We were in an old, rundown living room: TV and couch in the far corner, facing away from the connected kitchen. A small wooden table, matching fabbed chairs, and a surprising amount of counter space. Not so different from home, other than the mess, clothes, cups and bowls everywhere.

We were alone.

He locked the contraption and said, “Sorry about that. You can never be too careful. I got your message. How’s Lyam?”

Oh… “He’s dead,” I said through gritted teeth. “Murdered.”

Lars’ eyes flashed. “Dead, what do you mean dead? How? What happened?”

Wait a sec… “How do you know Fitz, I mean Lyam?”

“We go way back, Lyam and I. What’s your name, kid?”

“Raj,” I answered automatically.

“Okay, Raj. I can tell you’re scared and don’t trust me. That is fine, good actually. So, Lyam’s dead?”

I nodded.

His eyes flared pain. “I met Lyam thirty years ago. Fought together in the early days, but he probably told you that.” He looked at me closer. “Are you his son?”

I shook my head. I wish. “He was my teacher.”

“I see. Anyways, we got into some mischief, Lyam and I. Caused the GDR a few headaches. Bombings, assassinations, the usual.” He smiled to himself. “He must have told you about The Brooks.”

He hadn’t and I said nothing.

His eyes widened. “Oh wow... I was there when his wife died. She was a lovely woman, Kira, brilliant fighter and strategist too. We were running an op, nothing special, but something happened. Dozens of agents swarmed us from three sides. Were five of us mind you, me, Lyam, Agtha, Yuri, and Kira. We retreated, getting off a few shots to slow them.” He sighed.

“We turned the corner and should have gone left. That was the plan, but Agtha turned right. She made a mistake. We realized after a few seconds, but it cost us, Lyam especially. Kira was bringing up the rear and took one in the back. She was dead before she hit the ground, never stood a chance.” He shook his head, mouth set in a hard line as he told me about dragging his friend to safety, tears soaking Lyam’s face. “We made it but Lyam lost everything. That was ten years ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

So, that’s what happened to him. “That’s why he is how he is?”

Avery nodded. “By the way, kid, call me Lars.” He held out a hand.

“I’m Raek.”

“Clever,” Lars laughed. “Lyam must have done a number on you.” Turning serious, he added, “So, what happened? How can I help?”

I told him everything and by the end, collapsed on his small couch, spent.

“You look like you could use some coffee, kid. Hungry?”

Yes! I nodded weakly.

“I’ll fix eggs. You rest a bit, you’ve been through a lot by the sound of it.”

A sad, mirthless laugh escaped me. “Thanks. Didn’t know where else to turn.” I had no one.

“So cynetic, huh? And you’re wolfish.” He raised an eyebrow. “Must have been some crazy science experiment or love triangle. And the Initiative’s after you too, think you’re their savior or something?”

I rolled my eyes. “Pretty much.”

“Well dang, kid, certainly know how to get yourself into trouble. I like you.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, tomorrow’s my day off. We’ll figure this out. Couch is all yours. Any friend of Lyam’s, well... make yourself at home.”

“You have no idea how much—”

He cut me off. “You don’t have to say anything, kid. I mean it. Lyam saved my life more times than I can count. I got your back. Now, let’s eat.”

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