by A W Wang
I sigh because, in reality, I don’t care either way.
Another vestige of my virtual existence.
Jonathon steps into view, jaw clenched, eyes furious.
“What?” I say, not understanding what his problem is.
“You used me as a decoy.”
I shrug. “I have to use what’s available, and you were never in danger.”
“This time.”
“Would you rather be dead?”
“I’d rather you protect me by behaving like a ten sigma.”
“And how should that be?”
He scowls, shaking his head. “Just follow the mission and try not to get me killed. Remember, I’m your only friend.”
While I worry about what he’s not saying, I nod, forcing away the questions. With more pressing problems, I don’t need another data deluge.
I grab a pistol and a pulse rifle with a full charge. Our meager chances are increasing. At most, I’ll only have to kill another few hundred enemies.
Without thinking too much…
After I wrap a knife around my thigh, I glance at Jonathon.
The unhappy look remains.
I hand him an extra pistol as a peace offering. The gesture is more to show I’m finished using him as a decoy, but I’m glad he looks familiar with its workings. At least I don’t have to worry about getting shot by accident.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, stuffing the weapon into his belt. “I know you’re doing your best. It’s just that I’m out of my depth in all this fighting.”
Surprised by the honesty, I give a half-smirk. “This is just another day for a ten sigma. One more walk in the park.”
A moment passes before he recognizes the dry humor, and his expression lightens.
“If we get out of here, please figure out what’s wrong with my mind.”
“I promise I will,” he replies. “And it’s when. When we get out of here.”
Rather than debating the assessment, I motion for him to follow and edge to the end of the hallway.
He obeys, and with his shoes softly clacking on the tiled floor, we turn the corner, searching for a way to safety.
Minutes pass as we tread through the vast building. Afraid of making more mistakes, I keep Jonathon close and advance down the smoke-tainted corridors with an overabundance of caution.
In a sliver of good news, the nearby vicinity remains quiet, even though sounds of fighting reverberate through the floors and ceilings.
My tension rises as we cross from a pristine area into a battle zone. Impacts of many types of weapons scorch the walls, and more than a few Liberation Front soldiers and fallen guards lie among piles of rubble.
Holding his nose from the stench of burnt flesh, Jonathon ignores the remains of the life-and-death struggles, choosing to pause in front of a pair of blasted doors. His expression darkens when he looks into a lab that holds an array of mangled equipment. Apparently, this place is of some value.
I nibble on a fingernail, studying a blast crater in the floor. The depression is charred—an incredible amount of energy to release over such a limited area. A rumble comes from the depths of my mind to answer the unspoken question, and I switch back to Jonathon. “We have to keep moving.”
He stares at a boxy blue machine with a clear panel. “These sequencers aren’t the mission, but they should be. They’re priceless.”
“Worth more than our lives?”
“Almost.”
A moment passes before he steps away, but his eyes linger on the doorway until we turn the corner. Although so many things make so little sense, I keep quiet, focusing on the combat aspects of the situation, hoping not to trigger a data dump.
We cut across the next intersection and enter another blackened area. Bodies from both sides lie over the floor, casualties of a fierce fight. Long slashes and gory puncture wounds decorate some of the dead. I furrow my brows as I step over a hole in the floor and past a man with a snapped femur.
The injuries aren’t consistent with the weaponry and talent of the Liberation Front.
I add that mystery to my growing list of questions and choose a staircase at the southwest corner as our means of escape. Ready for anything, I raise the short barrel of the pulse rifle and step into the stairwell. “We move quick, hit hard, and get out of here.”
After Jonathon nods, I descend at a good pace, looping around the tightly wound metal rail, the stairs a blur under my feet.
As I jump past the eighth floor, Jonathon calls, “Stop!”
While he clomps down a few steps, I backtrack higher.
We meet at the landing, and he points to the doorway. “We have to get to the control room here.”
A dull explosion shakes the staircase. They’re becoming fewer in frequency, which is a bad sign because once the Liberation Front eliminates the opposition, they’ll have nothing better to do than hunt for us.
Given my present limitations, rescuing Jonathon will be enough of a chore without any extra attention. “No, we don’t.”
Although his eyes waver in panic, he says in a level voice, “There’s something I have to do, and I can only do it from the control room.”
My spatial sense doesn’t come with the locations of my enemies, but it’s safe to assume they have the exits heavily guarded and fire teams scouring the corridors. We might get lucky and not meet anyone on this extracurricular excursion.
I roll my eyes at the rationalization.
This is just a terrible idea.
However, dragging Jonathon’s uncooperative carcass from the building is a nonstarter if this is something he’s set on doing. “Is this it? Rescue you and this one little detour? No other parameters for the mission?”
He wipes sweat from his brow, glancing down the steps at our escape route. “Just this one addition.”
“Fine,” I reply, despising myself for missing the virtual scenarios where we had to protect wooden statues, who kept their mouths shut. After a deep breath, I ignore every bit of my battle sense and open the door to the eighth floor.
I step into a smoky corridor populated by flickering lights and macabre shadows. Black creases scar the white walls while pieces of foam caught between jagged metal strips hang from shredded ceiling panels. Further into the haze, golden trails of sparks spill from tangles of wires and bounce off debris strewn across the floor. Aside from static crackles and a low hum emanating from the broken electrical system, everything is silent.
An open doorway on the right leads into a security room with a holographic layout displayed on the center table. Although the yellow glows of the building match exactly what’s in my memory, my focus shifts to three dead men sitting in chairs watching monitors on the far wall.
What could have killed them so quickly?
The door slams after Jonathon steps next to me.
“Quiet,” I whisper in a harsh voice.
“Sorry.”
“Where do we need to go?”
“The control room is in the center of the floor.”
This is such a bad idea…
I grit my teeth, anticipating the worst, and concentrate on the eighth floor.
My newfound knowledge dutifully presents directions.
Happy not to be spiraling past an angry swarm of data, I turn to Jonathon and say, “Stay alert and follow my lead.”
After I step over a hunk of concrete with the rifle at the ready, he follows, trying to stay quiet.
With each stride, I double-check the shadows in front of us, even though the careful, painstaking advance can’t be good under the current circumstances.
Around the corner, a man lies in a white uniform.
Jonathon taps my shoulder and whispers, “This is a bodyguard for someone very important.”
I flip the corpse over. A long slash has parted the thick material of his outfit and opened up his chest. “The Liberation Front soldiers only have knives. This is a longer-bladed weapon. Is there anything else I should know?”
The pud
gy scientist drags his fingers down his cheeks and frowns. “I’m not sure. Just be extra careful.”
I purse my lips, annoyed by the obvious advice.
After marching to the next corridor, I crouch under a busted light panel and clear a lab housing equipment on my left. As I pass by an office with a couple of desks, Jonathon’s shoe crunches on a patch of drywall. I cringe and wait for him to catch up. As soon as he settles next to me, I edge toward an open doorway on the right.
Haze swirls and shuffles come from inside.
Jonathon bumps against my back. “What?”
A pulse weapon charges.
I turn and toss him into the office behind me.
The wall explodes from a barrage of energy.
As dust showers the hallway, I fire blindly into the room.
Someone, impossibly quick, rushes from the opening and deflects my rifle.
I twist the weapon, alarmed to find the enemy countering my actions.
A hand shoves me off-balance, and a kick slams into my breastplate, sending me flying.
Five
Stunned by the level of opponent more than the blow, I tumble through the doorway and past Jonathon, who’s prone on the floor. Before I collide with the desk, I tuck and take the brunt of the collision off my back plating. Even as the jolt spears through my chest, I scramble to the side just as an energy pulse detonates against the rear wall, spraying white flecks over the room.
I shove Jonathon into the corner and pull the second desk in front of him.
Three sets of footsteps pad into the hallway.
Pulse rifles whine as I draw my pistol.
More energy zips into the office, blasting holes everywhere.
With bits of ceiling panel and plaster splattering over me, I stay low and empty the magazine through the drywall.
A stun grenade clacks across the tiles.
No time to reload.
More impacts rip into the back wall as I tip the front desk forward and roll behind the metal frame, kicking out with both legs.
Metal scrapes over the floor and into the grenade, bouncing it back through the doorway.
With inhuman speed, a slim man in black leaps on top of the drawers.
I fling the empty pistol at his head and pop to my feet, knocking away his pulse rifle and squeezing my eyes closed.
A flash, muted and colored red by my eyelids, comes as a concussion rocks the hallway. His weapon fires, the discharge close enough to jolt the nerves of my hand.
Blinking and adjusting my jaw to force the ringing from my ears, I jam my shoulder into my dazed opponent and twirl him into the rear desk.
The crash jams Jonathon against the wall, and he groans.
I struggle to wrest the rifle from my enemy, but my tingling fingers can’t get a grip. When he twists, I slam an open palm into his chin.
His head rocks backward, and the heavy weapon clatters onto the floor. Instantly, he recovers, blocking my next strike and forcing me back with a dazzling flurry from his elbows and knees. As the distance between us opens, he shifts into a modified Muay Thai style, loaded with hard blows from low kicks and the flat of his forearms.
I block and adjust my posture to minimize the force behind the incoming barrage. While he gets more hitting power from the wider movements, my advantage is having a clearer read on his attacks.
When he brings his bent arm back, I slip in a jab and knock him backward.
He drives a kick at my shin.
I lift my leg to deaden the impact, then I rush inside his guard and plow my knee into his ribcage. His breath whooshes out, and he falls to the floor.
The weakness is a feint.
As I step forward, his hand slips to his side and his wrist flicks. I twist, and three throwing knives zip past, slicing across my armor before thudding into the far wall.
I yank out my knife with my non-tingling hand and leap.
He puts up a weak block.
I brush aside his arm and stab into his side.
Although a grunt leaves his mouth, the herringbone-woven cords of his outfit stop the sturdy blade.
Surprised, I pin him with my free arm as he reaches for a sword strapped across his back. While he struggles to pull out the long weapon, I avoid a foot stomp and fire a harder thrust, which cracks ribs, but doesn’t penetrate the tough bodysuit.
Footsteps pound as the enemies in the hallway recover from the concussion blast.
Quickly, I hit him again, breaking more ribs, and when he groans, I stab into his mouth and upward.
Blood spurts as the life leaves his shocked eyes.
The man wasn’t expecting to meet his match.
Motion flashes in my peripheral vision as a new opponent wearing the same black garb leaps into the office.
I sidestep as a shot flies past and yank out my victim’s sword. Gold gleams over the edge as I cleave the pulse rifle.
The tall man tosses the lower half at my head and draws his sword. A similar golden line flares down the blade.
Somehow, these things are enhanced for cutting.
Casting the unnecessary thought aside, I thrust at his ribs.
The blade strikes down, deflecting the attack, and a lightning riposte comes at my face.
I parry, angling my body to leave an opening.
He takes advantage and levels a side kick into my exposed breastplate.
To lessen the strike, I jerk backward before the impact. Although I grunt from the collision, I use the momentum to land against the wall near the three throwing knives from the first attacker.
As he dashes in for the kill, I free and toss the knives in quick succession. Unlike my Liberation Front blade, these gleam across the edges and have no trouble sinking through his black outfit. As he staggers, I knock his sword aside and stab his neck.
Before he hits the floor, I grab the pistol and reload, waiting for the last one.
A moment passes as I center my aim for a headshot in the doorway.
Footsteps pad away, fading down the hallway.
When the stairway door slams in the distance, I leap over the desk and into the corridor to secure the area.
Although haze swirls under the flickering lights, only crackles of static break the silence.
With a frown, I rub the back of my neck, wondering why the spiders of doom, my early warning system, have been absent.
Jonathon pushes the rear desk aside with a loud scrape.
I reenter the office, expecting the scientist to be upset because I tossed him around like a rag doll again.
Although he’s scowling, the gloomy expression isn’t meant for me. He shows his first interest in any of the fallen enemies by leaning over the initial attacker and placing his fingers under the man’s chin.
Still unsettled by the upscaled opponent, I ask, “What the hell just happened?”
As an answer, he raises his hand. Even in the dim light, specks of silver gleam on his bloody fingertips.
“What are those?”
“Nanobots…”
When he doesn’t continue, I prod, “And?”
He rubs his temples with his non-bloody fingers, suddenly looking ten years older. “It’s a technique to augment humans. Mostly used in Asia by one of the confederations.”
The statement means nothing to me, but I refrain from wondering, knowing I can’t afford to be incapacitated with this quality of combatant around. “What are their capabilities?”
He straightens. “Not as much as yours. You were made as fast and strong as possible while still being able to pass for human.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Your body is from the Black Star Program. They used advanced genetic techniques like Crisper 10.5—”
I hold up my hand, wincing from too many wandering questions. “In terms an ordinary person can understand, so I don’t think too much.”
He purses his lips before saying, “In plain English, you have the reflexes of a mongoose, the strength of a lion, the speed of a gaz
elle, and the quickness of a cobra.”
What am I?
More pain crawls across my skull, and I brace for the worst.
Jonathon saves me. “You’ve got to kill anyone like this that you find.”
My focus edges from unwanted queries as I consider how hard it would be to track down the third person with Jonathon in tow. “Now?”
He shakes his head. “No, in the future.”
“In the scheme of this mission, is it more important to protect you or kill them?”
“It’s important to protect, but it would be really helpful to kill anyone that’s augmented too. These people can never return home with information from this place.”
I blow out an exasperated breath.
Just dandy.
Needing as many advantages as possible, I grab the sheath from the first opponent.
“Be careful,” Jonathon says as I wipe the advanced sword on the man’s back. “The glow along the edge comes from cutting nanobots.”
“It’s the only thing”—I tap the tough black outfit—“that will get through this.”
“This is a type of battle-mesh. The material protects and enhances the movements of the wearer.”
“Can I—”
He shakes his head. “For the mesh to be effective, it’s form-fitted for the wearer. You’re taller than these two and have a different body shape.”
Wishing for my own version of the high-tech equipment rather than my clunky Liberation Front protection, I pilfer throwing weapons and flash-bang grenades from the bodies.
“You’re wounded,” Jonathon says, pointing at the slices cutting across my armor.
I pull aside the plate. Although there is blood, the skin is smooth. “It’s healed. Another special power of this body?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“For now, nothing, except…”
“What?” I ask, strapping on the sword.
“Even though your body will heal faster, you better take care of it. That’s the only one you’re getting in this world.”
I nod.
An important fact to be reminded of…