Only my nanny behaved erratically, given to fits of crying and flailing as if reduced to infancy. My parents were terrified, an emotion that changed to anger as they tried to blame the manufacturer for the distress. It took over a year of repeated incidents for the problem to finally be narrowed down. There were no issues with the synoids. The issue was me.
Some of my earliest memories are of the many curious scientists coming and going back then. A lot of trips to laboratories where specialists repeatedly scanned my brain and experts referred me to other experts, all trying to zero in on what the problem was. The primary advice in the meantime: stay away from synoids until the specialists could diagnose me accurately.
The problem was that synoids were everywhere, just like they are now. In school, in restaurants, on the streets, at my best friend’s house. Maximillian Industries was determined to make synoids as indispensable as cell phones and televisions once were. Avoiding contact with synoids required isolation. It was a concept I was familiar with.
My father was a space shuttle driver who hauled blood shards for Maximillian Industries, traveling to Mars and back. The money and benefits were good enough to get us a small residency in the Los Nuevos Haven, which was as good as it gets for most people. People usually called the place Syn City, a throwback twist to the time when it was once named Las Vegas. The twist being the exchange of sin for synthetic as it became the most technologically advanced Haven in the world, primarily because of the fusion advancements pioneered by the Maximillian technology empire.
The burgeoning fusion industry required crimsonium crystals, which are only found on Mars. The Blood Shard Rush led to the Red War, which led to the Mars Interstellar Treaty, which led to the nonstop transport of blood shards from Mars to Earth. My dad was one of the millions employed by thousands of shuttle companies cashing in on the crimsonium boom.
The job took Dad away from home for months at a time, and when he was home, he was exhausted and irritable. Space travel turned him into a solitary being, prone to depression and neurasthenia, for which he took medications that only further exasperated his condition. I remember arguments, fierce words spoken in hushed undertones as my mom accused him of being addicted to space travel. She often said he loved the cosmos more than he loved his family.
Looking back, perhaps my tendency to lose myself in other worlds was beyond my control. Maybe my likelihood of succumbing to addiction was hereditary.
My mom was creative, often losing herself in painting and poetry writing. She’d host little parties with her avant-garde peers; people who liked to dress up, engage in philosophical debate, lament the current state of affairs, and occasionally partake of socially acceptable drugs. She loved me from a distance, always ready to provide whatever comfort she thought I needed when she managed to pull herself away from her projects and cocktail parties.
One of those rare moments found me staring outside the window, watching floating cars skim across the road, synoids walking genetically modified dogs, and especially other kids. They ran around in a park across the street with holovisors on, the screens transforming their surroundings into digitally altered wonderlands. It was a world I could have no part of. I could only gaze at it from the confines of my post-modern futurist prison.
"Dean."
Mom had a playful smile on her face when she approached, a gift-wrapped box in her arms. She was tall and slender, her dark, close-cut hair glossy as polished onyx. She never looked the picturesque doting mother, but more like a runway model in her asymmetric dresses, gloved hands and stylistic heels. But there was nothing but kindness in her smile when she placed the box in my hands.
"This is for you, sweetheart."
I stared at the silver gift wrapping concealing the mysterious secrets within. "What is it?"
"Something special. Because you’re special, Dean. I know it gets lonely cooped up in here. With your condition, you can’t make friends like everyone else can. So, I’m bringing your friends to you." She rubbed her hands together, smile widening. "Go ahead — open it."
I excitedly tore away the wrapping, gasping when I saw the picture on the box. "A Sensync Immersion set? Thanks, Mom!"
She helped me with the equipment, glad to have a hand in something that made me happy. The latest version of the holovisor for virtual immersion slipped over my eyes, but more important were the Sensync sensors latched onto my temples. Using neural interface technology, they transmitted sensory input into my brain, fully immersing me into the virtual world with the sound, scent, and touch that the normal holovisors lacked.
"Do you like it, Dean?"
Her voice was just a ghostly echo. I was already lost, tumbling down the rabbit hole as an entirely new world coalesced around me into the gardens of Elysia, my launchpad into virtual immersion.
The sky was shades of rose and lavender, the trees shrouded in pink leaves shedding white blossoms that fluttered across the air like thousands of tiny moths. The glassy lake waters reflected the golden clouds and the skyline of streamlined buildings that blended with the nature around it as if a testament to coexistence. Neon halos circled the bottom of the trees, illuminating the park in electric-blue light.
"Hello."
I turn around. Standing a few feet away was a young girl my age with a heart-shaped face, large expressive eyes, and shimmering black hair adorned with flower blossoms that tumbled from the trees.
I couldn't stop myself from staring. "Hi."
She gave me a shy glance. "My name is Hel. What’s yours?"
"Dean."
She took a few steps closer. "Do you want to be my friend, Dean?"
I was so starstruck I could barely breathe, but I managed to squeak out the answer.
"Yes."
A smile brightened her face, made her eyes shine. She took my hand. "I'm so glad. Come on. There's so much to do."
"Like what?"
"Anything we want."
She led me into the digital garden, and I followed. For the rest of my life, I followed.
Chapter 4: 3N16MA
"Enigma."
My eyes open to brightness. Sunlight, harsh in the cool of the plush white synthetic leather interior of a flying vehicle. Other floaters drift by gleaming buildings outside the narrow window. A woman in a sleek, all-black assassin ensemble lounges across from me, one leg casually crossed over the other. A snug mechanized helmet and visor cover most of her face, leaving only her nose and lips exposed. Her skin is coppery, her lips dark red, nearly black.
I gasp. "Dabria?"
"Are you surprised?" Her voice is the same; smoky as Scotch whiskey, carrying hints of a Middle-Eastern accent.
"How… is this possible?"
"Your left eye. When Cyber Corp replaced it, they installed a camera so they can see everything you do. I merely took advantage of their implant by mentally splicing into their signal."
"Mentally? You mean like telepathy?"
"You don’t remember? I used to send you messages like this on missions when communication was impossible."
I wince, rubbing my temples. "There's a lot I don't remember. They did… things to my head."
"It will come back in time. This conversation is impossible for them to trace, so don’t worry about eavesdropping. I'm transmitting this message directly into your subconscious."
I take a look around, mind trying to catch up to the rush of new information. I feel the slight flight tremors from the thruster stabilizers. The sealed cabin mutes the sound of air traffic outside, but I feel as if I'm physically seated inside with Dabria. I can even smell her scent: citrus and earth as if she were an orchard worker instead of an underground resistance leader.
"How do I know I'm not just dreaming?"