by A W Wang
The graceful, deadly movements of a ten sigma in battle-mesh flash in my mind.
A lot tougher.
As the sun clears the horizon, I put on my riding gear and head east. Because I’m retracing familiar ground, the return trip moves at a fast clip, and soon, I cross the Rio Grande.
After passing the ruined skyline of Laredo, I weave north through the defense lines, which are designed to stop large-scale attacks, not the clandestine agenda of a lone rider. Near San Antonio, I twist onto a southbound highway and travel to my destination from the least expected direction.
As I curve around a reservoir close to Three Rivers and enter the long corridor to New Austin, refugee camps sprout over the barren countryside.
Weary of the suffering, I avert my eyes and drive at a sedate pace, keeping a low profile from government workers and surveillance cameras. When the fields of white tents disappear from my rearview mirror, I blow out a breath and increase speed.
Before too much time passes, I stop at the crest of a shallow rise.
A trail of twisted wreckage stretches down the highway—all that remains of the column sent to relieve New Austin.
I wrinkle my nose from a passing breeze.
Virtual training, no matter how vicious, can never prepare one for the lingering stench.
My nape stays quiet as I push forward, watching my flanks. I pause at the rearmost vehicle, a blackened monster sprouting an overhead chain gun. Oddly, there are no holes from projectile weapons or blossoms of shredded metal from explosions. The only signs of destruction are long streaks of black cutting through steel plating.
Without a ready answer to the riddle, I continue past armored carcasses, all sporting the same wounds from the unknown weapon.
Near the middle of the dead column, hooded outlines scavenge the interior of a troop carrier, gathering trinkets from fallen soldiers.
I stop and yank out my rifle, firing warning shots.
Cloth rustles as darkly clad figures pour from the exits, leaping onto blackened sand and running for the safety of a nearby crevasse.
To ensure the fleeing forms never return, I launch a torrent of micro-pulses.
Yelps come as energy scalds flesh, and the pack breaks into a panicked sprint.
The pilfered bodies stare from inside the metal cavern, uncaring for my actions.
I shove the rifle back in its holster with a sigh.
This relief effort was rushed, a haphazard response to quell civil unrest, not deal with a major incursion backed by augments. There weren’t even outriders protecting against ambush. After hand-held rockets took out the precious M24s and lighter scout mecha, the regular troops, just average people trying to do their job without any enhancements, had no chance against whatever hit them next.
Once this force was eliminated, everything else heading into New Austin was destroyed piecemeal.
Except for the ten sigmas…
“A ten sigma is a killer of killers…”
I bite my lip, acknowledging the truth of the mantra and the limitations of the training. The aftermath of war isn’t a bunch of gold sparks, leading to a health reset, followed by a blue liquid celebration, and then a comfy bed.
It’s about ramifications and responsibility.
The snake-like sensations return, clutching my innards.
I step off the speeder, clenching my stomach, fighting the queasiness. As the weird sensation persists, I stumble to the side of the road, where the buzzing of flies rises above the purring of the engine.
For a minute, I watch the black specks whirling around the wrecks.
This is no place for the living.
I gather my strength and return to my ride, rubbing my arms. When I edge off the pavement, the tires fatten to adjust to the off-roading. Pebbly sand crunches as I speed past burnt vehicles and demolished mechas. By the time I clear the carnage and bring the speeder back onto the highway, I’m practically racing. At the next crest, I pause and glance over my shoulder.
Guilt whirls through my thoughts.
Those that paid the final sacrifice should get more than charred metal coffins and the prying fingers of scavengers. I should pay some price or offer some eulogy for these brave souls.
My heart hardens.
The dead don’t care, and the living…
I face the highway ahead and speed downhill, gunning the engine.
The living have other problems…
As the speeder glides over the pavement, cloudy sheets drift in front of the mid-morning sun. A gray pall falls over the barren countryside. The bleak surroundings only fuel the unease rising within my psyche.
My insides twitch from the slithers of the snakes, and I roll my shoulders, at a loss of how to fix the issue.
While the lonely kilometers of beige and brown pass, the gnawing feelings of wrongness continue, and my annoyance rises.
I round a bend, and an overturned car appears in my path. I swerve and skid to a stop. Furious with my lack of concentration, I wrap my arms around myself, shivering.
Down the roadway, abandoned vehicles—large carriers, small cars, and everything in between—litter the pavement, refugees heading northward to avoid the calamity in New Austin. At least, those who didn’t make it to safety.
Speeders approach, trailing dust along the side of the road.
I raise my rifle.
With a wave, the first masked rider signals to two companions, and the trio veers away, searching for easier prey. As the threat fades into the bleak backdrop, I holster the weapon and edge into the destruction, avoiding the stares of the corpses.
I pause when my speeder reaches tiny, blackened craters—the distinctive footprints of EMP blasts.
My imagination pictures honking horns from jockeying vehicles desperate to head north and away from the chaos consuming New Austin. EMP grenades land in the traffic jam, the sudden flashes killing electronics and terrifying bystanders. Human traffickers sweep in, moving to find the highest-value cargo. In anything that can still move, panicky people override the self-driving units and stomp on accelerators, trying to escape.
A few probably did, but…
Ashen faces from a nearby vehicle grab my attention. The hood is crumpled into a grotesque V, most likely from the father, who was one of those inexperienced drivers, plowing ahead while looking backward…
What were the last thoughts of the wife in the passenger seat or children in the back before the crash extinguished their lives?
I swat at buzzing flies and force my gaze from the ghastly sight. A moment passes before I twist the throttle and speed from the wrecks by angling onto the coarse sand off the highway.
As the speeder adjusts to the uneven ground, my fingers tighten on the handlebar grips.
The former president was wrong for demanding to hold this narrow peninsula to New Austin against the tides of chaos.
And Victoria was wrong for her coup.
When the path ahead clears, I plow onto the roadway and open up the throttle, blowing out angry breaths.
The world of 2065 has no good guys and no good choices. Only flawed people trying to make less bad decisions.
And worst of all, I haven’t even figured out where I stand in all the turmoil.
I’m out-of-kilter with everything.
After the clouds dissipate, I cross a shallow ravine and stop.
Past the glare of the early afternoon sunshine, a circle of shot-up vehicles lies on their sides near a mound with a flat top.
A group of civilians—not fortunate enough to escape, but more fortunate than those who were caught or died—sits in the metal fort, waiting for rescue. While people huddle with their children in the interior, the guards posted around the makeshift perimeter have enough firepower to make any force less than a dozen question their motivations.
I purse my lips and turn off the engine.
A girl with a sniper rifle spots me and signals toward the center of the compound. Armed men and women scurry in my direction, and
several barrels poke from behind the protecting vehicles. The back gate of a pickup truck lying on its side closes, and a man and woman wearing cowboy hats exit the freshly created gap.
As they march to me, I keep my hands still and in plain sight to avoid trouble. With each step they take, I wonder why I’m not bolting.
This situation has no upside.
At ten paces, they stop, standing off to the side to allow a line of fire from their friends. The woman is older with white hair and lines etched into her face, while the man dwarfs her and has a fleshiness to his body.
“I’m Captain Johnson of the Texas Militia,” she says in a no-nonsense tone. “The man next to me is my second-in-command, Finch.”
I pull down my riding scarf and lift my goggles. “Glad to meet you.”
Finch uses his left hand to remove his hat while keeping his right near the gun holstered at his side. In a Texas twang, he says, “Ma’am, it’s really not safe out here.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The captain’s hard gray eyes appraise me. “How can we help you?”
I blink, mulling over the question. “Maybe just a little conversation.”
She snorts, sending a stand-down signal to the people in the circle. “Hell, that’s the best offer I’ve had all week.”
Finch smiles. “It’s been a rough week.”
“I see that,” I reply. “Are you going to make it?”
“At night, things get a little rough, but during the days, it’s worse. That’s when the kids get bored without the data networks,” she says, chortling.
While Finch joins with a few snickers, I let out a smirk, wondering if not being bound to computers is, in fact, a good thing.
She says, “Gotta keep up the humor, we’re going to be here for a couple more days.”
“A little too far to walk?”
“Just a little,” she replies good-naturedly. “Have you heard about the capital?”
“A bit.”
“When things quiet down, a relief force will be sent. Until then…”
“We’ll do the best we can,” Finch finishes. “It’ll be rough, but we’ll make it. It’s just the usual bandit types, and some of our people are pretty tough after you teach them how to shoot.”
The reason I’ve waited hits me. I’ve only interacted with augments, ten sigmas, jackets, and scientists. These are regular folk, and I used to be one of them.
I got my husband to kill spiders.
“If you’re looking for safety or even just a break, we’ve got room,” Captain Johnson says.
Finch laughs. “Our personalities are a little better than the accommodations.”
I return a smile, wanting to accept, but shake my head.
This is a place for who I was before I entered the Ten Sigma Program. Now, there’s no going back.
Slowly, I reach into a saddlebag with one hand and pull out my supply of food. “For the kids,” I say, tossing the package in front of them.
“Thanks, but won’t you need this?” Captain Johnson asks.
Although hungry, I explain, “I’ll get some more in New Austin.”
Their expressions sour.
“There’s only trouble down that way.”
“I have to meet a few people there,” I reply, starting the speeder.
“What about the conversation?”
“Some other time.”
“I hope we meet again,” Finch says.
“No, you don’t want that,” I say, pulling down my goggles.
I have an appointment to keep and average, everyday folks aren’t invited.
As the pair steps away, I gun the engine and head down the clear highway with only the queasiness of the slithering snakes as company.
Fifty-One
For the closing leg of the journey, I guide the speeder over access roads that cut through shallow hills and patches of woodland. A man-made river feeding into a broad reservoir joins me for the final sprint to the main highway, and when I angle onto the pavement, New Austin appears over the southern horizon.
I pause at the dramatic view of what’s likely to be my last battleground.
Black columns rise from the airport east of the city while the tops of skyscrapers sprout from a low-lying haze and gleam under the afternoon sun.
An eerie stillness hangs over everything.
Given that my only experience was at street level during a battle, the tranquility is completely unexpected.
I scratch at my nape, waiting for the spiders to dance.
Nothing…
My gaze rolls to the empty sky.
The lack of drone activity or any military presence along the corridor to the city are symptoms of issues underlying Victoria’s rebellion. Jonesy might be causing trouble, or some of the other jackets could have escaped. However, regardless of the reason, she’s hurting for resources.
More to my advantage.
Pins and needles ripple into my stomach.
I fold my arms and tense, scowling at my own issues. If anything, the feeling of wrongness has gotten worse. I pull down the top of my riding scarf and take a swig of water, willing the weakness away. I’ve had enough of this journey and more than enough of this strange, irritating companion.
With my fingers clenched on the throttle, I plow forward, wheeling around a blast crater and chunks of pavement.
To keep my mind off the queasiness, I imagine booms of thunder and flashes of lightning erupting from the city ahead.
Tonight, this view will be much different.
The distant buildings grow as I coast into the flatlands. Near the outer suburbs, signs of fighting rise to each side of the roadway. Hastily constructed barriers of overturned vehicles and loose garbage litter the adjoining streets, but each effort was no match against the well-planned incursion and only resulted in lopsided defeats.
In addition to a staggering number of dead…
The destruction increases as the kilometers pass until the broken chunks of a collapsed overpass end my highway travel.
I rub my forearms then dig my fingers into my thighs, trying to rid myself of the slithers wandering around my insides. With a scowl, I push onto an unpaved road that runs in the direction of New Austin.
After advancing past a jagged pile of rubble next to a large crater, I encounter a wire fence that borders an industrial park. I drive through a gap and head to the other side.
Near a burned warehouse, I halt, grimacing from dizziness. Charred odors assault my senses when I suck down a deep breath. I tighten the riding scarf with trembling hands. Moments later, I regain enough composure to roll through the main gate and onto a residential street.
Before long, a rampart made from overturned vehicles crosses my path—the major defense point for the area. The defenders didn’t give up easily, and the resulting battle wrecked the neighborhood.
The coiled snakes jam into my spine and ride up the vertebrae. My knuckles whiten, and the speeder wobbles. Shivers run through me as my heart races.
Furious with my lack of self-control, I shut the engine and step onto the pavement, battling to get my bearings.
Twisted piles of debris lie around me. Black blasts from EMP detonations crater the area. Past the curb, most houses lie in ruins, while those still standing have many scars and jagged holes. Scattered everywhere, bodies rest in contorted positions, barely recognizable as human from the effects of modern weapons.
All these things I should be used to…
I kick at a hunk of gnarled metal and take a second glance, pushing my thoughts beyond a military viewpoint.
Unlike New Austin, this neighborhood is quaint. The remaining hedges and bushes are trimmed, and the untouched parts of the lawns manicured. The homes display real architecture—bay windows, balconies, grand entryways, red bricks, and tasteful color schemes. In a word: personality.
At least before…
The wrongness clutches at my insides, and I sink into a squat, pulling my arms around my shins.
My eyes wander over the carnage again while my breaths shorten.
I claw at my riding scarf, gasping for air. I’m hyperventilating, which should be impossible, given my training, experiences, and super-passable-for-human body. I tuck my head between my knees, moaning; I don’t have the foggiest notion of what’s wrong.
A breeze kicks up heavy, rancid odors, and I fight the urge to gag.
Enough.
Against every fiber of my battle sense, I shove myself upright and walk toward the nearest house. After I reach the top of the front stairs, I hold my breath and deliver a stomp kick to a white door riddled with bullet holes.
The fiberglass board flies off its hinges, landing in a wide foyer and raising a cloud of dust.
Rotten, heavy odors spill past.
I grit my teeth and step inside.
Sunlight spills from holes in the debris-covered living room to my left and dining area opposite. Toward the rear of the house, a shallow blast crater lies in place of the kitchen. Instead of a second level, the stairway from the foyer leads to blue sky.
An elegant vase somehow remains standing on an accent table across from me.
The quirks of battle.
I step past and onto a red-patterned carpet, which leads down what’s left of the main hallway.
Pictures line the wall. The first is a family shot of four people. A cute girl with a gap-toothed smile and pigtails shines from the next one. Below is a gold frame surrounding an image of a toddler in front of a birthday cake with three candles.
Unable to look further, I walk to the edge of the crater, where buzzes come from the backyard. I hop over the exposed foundation and onto a strip of grass.
A bloated body floats in the swimming pool under whirling clouds of flies. Near a shed lie smaller figures, blackened from the sun and covered by crawling specks.
I pinch my nose and cover my mouth.
It’s the awful remains of the family. People killed in the heat of battle by who knows who or what.