Renegade: The Ten Sigma Series Book 2

by A W Wang

  I pull off the protective mask and wipe my face, taking heavy breaths.

  The good news is I’m uninjured.

  A sigh leaves my lips.

  The bad news is…

  Just about everything else.

  While my plan to bring more complications into this situation has worked better than I could have expected, never did I envision the diverse crew battling in front of me.

  With a sigh, I unfurl the camo-cloak and pull it over my body. Although the material doesn’t provide the translucence the battle-mesh does during those precious sixty seconds, the garment absorbs much of the EM spectrum and makes me that much harder to find.

  “Prude,” Suri’s voice rings in my head.

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  Imaginary Suri says in a chiding tone, “Using the cloak to hide in a creepy cesspool of shadows isn’t going to help you.”

  “Did you see what just happened? I got my ass kicked.”

  “Fighting is instinct, use your threads.”

  I frown. Against ten sigma opponents with identical expertise, the advice isn’t particularly helpful.

  “Samantha was better than me, and if this”—I gesture toward the general mayhem—“hadn’t arrived, I would have lost. I ran from Ekton because I knew he was going to win,” I reply in a brutally honest assessment of my performance.

  “A defeatist attitude is bad, but that’s not your problem.”

  “Oh, you’re a psychiatrist now?”

  “You’re such a prude.”

  “What’s that even supposed to mean?” I say in a harsh whisper.

  “Prude.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Hisses fill the air, and more ships float from the depths beyond the southern boundary of the enclave. As they hover, figures of all shapes and sizes spill from their bowels and into the dark recesses of the city.

  “Looks like you’re part of the fighting, whether you want to be or not. Why not embrace it?”

  “That’s easier said than done.”

  “Oh, like you’ve even tried.”

  I don’t answer.

  “You definitely can get better. Besides, a blaze of glory is better than running like a rat in the sewer.”

  “That strategy sounds like it has a happy ending.”

  “Prude.”

  While I scowl at the repetitious word, the display inside the mask flickers. Bright colors flow across the eye sockets as the circuits reconfigure and overcome the EMP damage.

  I push the mask back on. It shows the approaching enemy with clear markings.

  “Even though the weapons are different, the rules of the battlefield haven’t changed. Be decisive and when you hit, hit hard.”

  While I’m annoyed with my imaginary friend, my pragmatism kicks in because the advice is correct.

  In better news, the indicator for the optical camouflage switches from red to green.

  “Maybe you ought to trust yourself more than technological tricks.”

  I frown and turn the data to a minimum. The flood leaking across the display stops, leaving only outlines for motion detection.

  “That’s a little better, right?”

  Rather than continuing the imaginary discussion, I push from under the water tank.

  Time to trust my abilities and my experiences from not only the threads but from the hundreds of battles I fought in the Ten Sigma Program.

  My posture straightens as I march toward my enemies, ready to flare and burn out like a shooting star.

  It’s better than hiding like a prudish rat, and it’s not like there are any other good choices.

  Stealthy forms appear from the darkness, flowing over rooftops and slithering through alleyways to approach the battlefield. In the haze above, aerial vehicles poke about, trying to help their comrades below. Occasionally, one tries too hard and a ball of flames falls from the sky.

  The differing equipment and armor represent combatants from at least five nations.

  Who would have thought Flying Eagle would have so many friends? Or that I could be so popular?

  Whines rise over the rumbles of fighting.

  I duck behind a partly collapsed wall as wind ripples through my camo-cloak.

  An oblong machine, venting columns of air through crackling static-electric fields, edges over a nearby rooftop. It hovers for a moment then disgorges a horde of fresh combatants. After the craft veers away, I peek past my cover.

  My display highlights twenty-seven figures, scattering across the opposite roof. Like Princess and the midnight tigers, these heavily armed augments are dressed in snug black outfits and operate in trios. However, each has a katana strapped over their back.

  Ninjas.

  Even the elite of the Japanese special forces have arrived for the festivities.

  I stow the cloak into a cord running along my side then slam a long magazine into the carbine.

  The barrel tapers and lengthens to match the thin sniper rounds. A targeting reticule superimposes on my battle display.

  Across the way, the leader stands and signals to the rest of the group. Ninjas break from cover and dart over the rooftop in three trios of trios, scouting the terrain.

  This is the moment to attack, but I hesitate.

  In the first battle, I had enough trouble handling Princess. Now, I’m picking a fight with twenty-seven augmented beings. Even though my battle-mesh and super high-tech weapons even the odds, I don’t have three ten sigmas acting as guardian angels.

  Worse, two of them are looking to kill me…

  I roll my eyes.

  None of this matters.

  Regardless of any doubts, I’ve got to beat every last guest I meet at this party.

  With a deep breath, I pick my targets and engage my optical camouflage.

  Sixty seconds…

  My finger tightens on the trigger, and the carbine barks. Seven rounds leave the barrel before a storm of return fire forces me into cover.

  While pings rattle nearby pipes and metal housings, I crouch and scoot along the front of the building. When I peek, six bodies lay stretched over the blackened surface across the street. The rest have—

  Grenades clatter onto the rooftop and detonate.

  My mask dims the bright flashes as I focus on what’s coming. As the last gleams fade, black figures leap toward my position.

  I roll out, shooting.

  A form jerks, then a second. Their bodies thump onto the nearby gravel while the next one unleashes a barrage.

  Debris splatters off my battle-mesh as I tumble from the line of fire and into the open, relying on the optical camouflage to conceal my location. The tactic works well enough, and I silence the shooter with a round to the chest.

  Fifty seconds left.

  No time to waste.

  Another half-dozen land near the center of the rooftop, sweeping their rifles in search of movement.

  I twist and fire at the closest one.

  The thin projectile punches into flesh with a wet thud. Before the ninja hits the gravel, the five others swing their muzzles in my direction.

  I sprint into their midst and leap over the chasm, passing another wave of black heading the opposite way. Nobody has any time to react, and I focus on the remaining six yanking out weapons near my landing spot.

  As the dark surface rushes upward, I fire, and one goes down. When my boots crunch onto the rooftop, I sling the carbine and yank out my sword.

  Forty-five seconds.

  The enemy is slow to react to my translucent motions. With my free hand, I fling a shuriken into the farthest one and charge at the remaining four. The battle-mesh enhances my movements, and every one of my swings and blocks is more fluid and faster than any of theirs. Thirty-six seconds remain after the last clang.

  As the final figure falls, cloven from shoulder to chest, I swing toward the other roof, expecting a rush from the remaining eleven across the street.

  Instead, my display registers a heat signature, and a r
ocket speeds at me.

  I leap to the side.

  Warhead meets roof with a thunderous boom. Super-heated air blasts past, and pieces of building rattle off my stiffening battle-mesh. Everything nearby collapses, and I tumble, accompanied by a cascade of gravel and chunks of concrete. Two floors below, I thud into the shattered remains of an office.

  Ninjas land around the top of the newly formed crater, readying more rockets.

  I shove rubble aside and roll into a hallway.

  Whomps come from blasts pulverizing the bottom of the giant hole as I right myself and charge down the smoky, shaky space.

  Twenty-one seconds.

  The hallway ends at an access stairwell.

  I smash through the door and rush up two flights of stairs. When I reach the top, I speed up, plowing through the doorway and onto the roof.

  Twelve…

  Six figures stand around the crater rim while the five others poke through the ruins below. Their gazes shift to the open exit.

  Bullets and thrown objects whiz past as I zip to the right, arcing toward the nearest enemy. A katana flashes out, but I twist, avoiding the blow, and lop the ninja’s head off with a reverse strike from my sword.

  My enemies aim for the crunches of my steps, which leave divots in the rubble as I struggle for traction from the furious pace. All manner of lethal things pepper the debris-covered surface as well as fly past my head. I dodge—shifting my body, adjusting my speed, jumping or crouching as needed—and keep focused on my next target. I hit the man at a dead sprint, my movements too quick and powerful for him to block. A wicked cut slices clean through his torso. As his halves slide apart, I toss a throwing knife at the next.

  The blade spears through the black ninja mask.

  Five seconds…

  With time almost up, I whip through the three still upright, slashing the first, stabbing the second, and shooting the last. As the timer hits one, I somersault into the crater.

  Zero.

  The silvery material and all my accouterments reappear as my boots crunch into a heap of rocks and drywall.

  My final five opponents rush to surround my freshly visible form, activating their own camouflage. While their sleek suits don’t mimic the translucence of ten sigma battle-mesh, they hide their wearers by smearing into the shadows, swallowing any nearby light.

  Even though my eyes register the hazy shapes, the display sees nothing.

  The ninjas draw their katanas and red flares along the long cutting edges. Instead of golden nanobots, these weapons use heat to add more punch to each strike.

  I take a steadying breath, studying the fiery strands floating against the haziness of the dark and darker backdrop.

  A familiarity intrudes into my thoughts. This situation reminds me of the scenario in the virtual world where I first fought the face-painters.

  Hawk-face, Striped-cheeks, Eye-smears, Dotted-nose, and Circle-forehead.

  Five against one with melee weapons—just like this.

  These adversaries shift their postures with efficient motions, settling into classic one and two-handed stances with their katanas held in striking positions.

  Keeping a watchful eye, I adjust my footing as my mind swells with all the expertise of the ancient Japanese fighting styles embedded in my threads.

  A long moment passes while their expressionless black masks return my gaze.

  Hands twitch with lightning-fast movements, and the air fills with thrown weapons.

  I react faster, stepping to the side and twisting from the lethal storm. Anything I can’t dodge, I deflect by whirling my sword.

  Two glowing red lines whip at me.

  Dipping my shoulder to avoid a thrown weapon, I charge into the nearest opponent, a female. She adjusts her stroke, trying to match my swiftness. I block and pull out a knife with my free hand. Blood spurts when I jab it through her face mask. As her body falls, I twist from another strike and pivot out of the entrapment.

  The second attacker charges behind a flurry of sword strokes. I whirl my blade, parrying everything, then dodge a thrust and slice across his thigh. Before he recovers, I pirouette and send the tip of my blade through his neck.

  With their katanas sweeping in blinding arcs of red, two others advance in unison.

  I retreat past a patch of rubble.

  Another wave of shuriken flies, and I take cover behind a support strut.

  They charge from both directions.

  Instead of meeting the attack, I hack my sword through the beam and jump backward. As the ceiling collapses, I rush through the falling chunks and slash the rightmost opponent.

  He falls, spewing blood from a gash across his chest.

  The second raises her katana.

  I kick at the pile of rubble. As the stones fly past her face, I zip by her with a sweep of my blade.

  The top of her head separates from the rest of her body.

  An overhand strike arrives from the final ninja, and I raise a horizontal block. Our swords clash, and we exchange attacks. Although she puts up a better fight than the others, she can’t stop my quicker, more precise strokes. Finally, she tosses a shuriken in desperation and leaps away, reaching for her rifle.

  As she turns, I fling my sword.

  The blade sinks into her chest with a wet thump.

  After her slender form slumps onto a shallow pile of drywall, I sweep my gaze over the mangled bodies, surprised to be alive and more surprised to be unscathed.

  A tingle of excitement rushes over my skin as I yank my sword from her chest.

  What was I afraid of?

  Before I can celebrate too much, the spiders dance.

  No time for loitering.

  I dash down an unobstructed hallway as shots from lurking snipers pepper the crater. When I reach a corner staircase, I rush down the steps and exit into a side alley.

  Crackles come from fighting to the east, nearer Congressional Park, while the streets heading south are quiet and empty.

  A cowardly notion springs into my mind. I’m outside the ring of battle. In all the chaos, I can wait until my optical camouflage reactivates and sneak away. Then, I wouldn’t have to face Samantha or Ekton, who are a breed apart from the ninjas.

  Should I run?

  A couple of moments pass before I release an angry breath, shaking my head in disgust. That’s my before-the-Ten-Sigma-Program persona talking.

  The one with no place in this world.

  If I flee without facing my fears, then running every time a ten sigma enters my life would be easy. I would be replacing the Ekton version of my gym teacher with a ten sigma in battle-mesh as my control mechanism.

  I won’t live like that again.

  For all of Jonathon’s reasons for getting me here, the best is the simplest one of all.

  Time to punch the bully in the face.

  I set my jaw and head toward the loudest shrieks of missiles and thunder of cannons.

  Fifty-Six

  The reddish glows where the eyes should be dim as I release my latest victim. The ugly mishmash of flesh joined with artificial limbs and bubbly sensory pods thud onto the floor.

  I fixate on the bluish fluid dripping from a cybernetic arm.

  Flying Eagle can’t have this many different kinds of friends.

  Without a ready answer, I pull myself from the macabre sight and head upstairs to get a better grasp of the situation. When I step onto the roof of the tall residential tower, I remove my mask and wipe my forehead, taking a breath of smoke-laden air.

  FUBAR.

  Even though the research center started as the epicenter of the battle, fighting has engulfed the entire enclave. Orange glows from fires raging over long avenues and in narrow alleyways poke above the rooftops. Oily pillars rise and feed the dark haze hanging over the cityscape. In the buildings and on the streets, smaller weapons crack as opposing groups find each other in the mayhem. And every few seconds, a low-throated detonation rumbles through everything.

  My e
yes linger, finding an odd beauty within the chaotic scenery.

  From beyond the glowing shrouds covering the sky, unseen craft roar, bringing more combatants to the party.

  The entire world is coming to this shit-storm.

  I snort. Shit-storm doesn’t do this battle justice.

  This is a freaking shit-typhoon-earthquake-apocalypse.

  And in hindsight, why shouldn’t it be?

  Those who initially hit New Austin aren’t the only ones interested in this mystery American program. Because of their successes over the years, ten sigmas have made enemies all over the globe.

  With the rushed deadline I gave Flying Eagle, secrecy became a secondary consideration. Certain powers must have monitored the communications and deduced something was happening in New Austin again.

  When they moved, other nations noticed and joined the party. Before long, the gathering storm of the curious hit a critical mass and took on a life of its own, sucking in the rest of the world.

  Because surely everyone couldn’t be coming here over nothing.

  At this point, it would be easier to count the countries that didn’t send anyone to this hellhole.

  And they’re not wrong to come…

  While poking around the scraps of an emptied research lab might be appealing, it’s not even close to getting a live version of the mystery that’s been a thorn in your side for the better part of a decade.

  As if to prove my point, bulky shadows skirt the haze near the edge of the city, bringing more contestants to this grand freaking shit-typhoon-earthquake-apocalypse.

  Not that it matters.

  The utter chaos is the type of environment that only an individualized warrior like a ten sigma could love.

  I sigh.

  This world isn’t for normal humans; it’s a place for those who are bred for war.

  Rat-tat-tats spill from side streets as fighting cascades into the vicinity.

  I push the mask back on.

  Launchers pop from a nearby intersection, then yellow flashes light up the swirling gray overhead. Trailing wisps of smoke, a lumbering troop carrier falls into view, burning and spewing metal. Desperate occupants jump a moment before the craft smears into a rooftop with a long fiery explosion.