H.O.W.L.: Human-Obliterating War-class Lycanthropus.

A cyborg wolf, basically. Its shape can tackle any kind of terrain, complete with retractable wheels in the mechanical paws and shoulder-mounted rocket boosters. Its armour is lightweight yet capable of withstanding anti-tank rounds, and on top of that, it’s fitted with sixteen kinds of projectile weapon, enough to tackle any situation.

Like breaking out of a lab. Or fleeing into the city’s subway system.

Or scaring the life out of the retrieval team going after it.

Including me.

Captain Copernicus, head mercenary for the private army of GeneBlade Inc.

They’re weapon contractors, surprisingly. To think, they started out researching family trees. Genetics sure went a long way.

I’ve dealt with this before. Rabid hyper-chimps that spread rage plagues. Radioactive dinosaurs. Confused transhumans wondering where the hell they fit in the universe. I’ve bagged them all.

But this thing, as I’m walking down the tunnel with only the station light far behind… Nothing shows up on thermal goggles. Nor on night vision. Not a comforting thought: GeneBlade contractors insisted it be undetectable by modern hardware. The techies complained that was impossible, and then management said, “Do it anyway, damnit!”

Something shot out.

I jumped aside. So did the others. Lieutenant wasn’t so lucky – heard him screaming along with the howling missile. Then far behind us, BOOM.

It knocked me over, sending my rifle spinning out of my hands. That saved my life.

I heard gunfire. It didn’t last long. I didn’t dare look up. I thought the world would suddenly cut off.

It went silent fast.

Then I looked up.

H.O.W.L. Looming over me like a dog examining a chew toy. Semi-metallic fur glistened through my night filter. It sniffed me.

To my surprise, it was whining. Like it knew its master would yell at it for being a bad boy.

Behind me, the squad was dead. Yep, definitely dead. No one could be salsa around the place and still be alive.

It shouldn’t bother me. We’re mercenaries. It’s an occupational hazard. But if they got the tech specs improved for H.O.W.L., I’d be out of a job. Plus no one wants to look at humans splattered everywhere.

So I turned back to H.O.W.L. What was the smart thing to say in this situation? “You’re coming back with me” flies in the face of the evidence, assuming the thing didn’t let fly another missile. Begging or grovelling wasn’t professional.

I settled for, “You’re not killing me?”

you used to feed me, was what it said. I wish I could forget that robotic voice. It went right through me, you know? and you are not armed.

Figures. Well yeah, I did feed the thing. I don’t care about human test subjects. That’s why I joined mercenaries in the first place; anything beats a crappy desk job with a bunch of whiners. My parents do that. I think I’ll pass, is my basic verdict. But I like dogs.

“Now what?” I said. “Is this leading up to some conversation about human purpose in the face of the absurdity of existence? Because I hated that crap when the last transhuman did it.”

maybe conversation about WOLF purpose?

Had to admit I didn’t think of that. Transhumans usually go the whole philosophical route, but what’s philosophy to a wolf? What would it want? Purpose? Religion? Morality? Art and culture?

“I don’t know,” was what I said. “Wolves live out in the wild. I don’t know a thing about them.”

want to be wolf.

“Well, go then. No one’s stopping you.”

but not wolf! H.O.W.L.! transwolf! need pack! need prey! need ecosystem substitutes and predator-prey complex dynamics!

I don’t know what it meant. That’s just what I heard. When a company opts for animal testing, it’s not because animals and humans talk to each other. Quite the opposite.

Anyway, the thing fired off another missile down the tunnel and started barking like crazy. I think it might have spotted the bravo team. Just a guess, mark you. When the H.O.W.L. fled, I went back down the tunnel and found more… let’s call it salsa. I’m not enjoying this talk, you understand.

It didn’t change anything. H.O.W.L. is still at large, the mercenaries’ families got generous compensation packages, GeneBlade continues making transanimals for cyborg weapon experiments.

Me? I’m retired. I’ll shoot transhumans from dawn till dusk, but you can’t ask me to blow a dog away. I used to own a golden retriever. There are some things you ultimately can’t do.