by A W Wang
Staring at her toes, she says in a quiet voice, “Hello, Brin. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Vela, how have you been?”
Her fingers brush over her cheek, a residual habit of the animal attack that disfigured her face.
When she does nothing else, I sit in the middle of her bed, resting my feet on the floor. Although I’m close enough to touch her, the gulf between us is unmistakable. “It’s great to see you. I’ve missed you guys so much. You’re all I ever think about.”
“I think about you a lot too. So gorgeous and so perfect. I watched you in the cafeteria. You were having such a grand meal with your new team. Are they your new best friends?” She enunciates each word with increasing venom.
“There’s no one I care for more than my original team.”
Slowly tilting her head up, she fixes me with a lifeless gaze. “Is that right?”
And I thought I was unsurpassed at sarcasm. “Yes, that’s right. I had to end the team.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with you not wanting to be the team leader.”
Scrunching my lips, I use a moment to compose an answer. “That’s true. Making life and death decisions for my friends is one of my biggest fears. But that’s not why I separated everyone.” I stop, realizing how crazy I would sound speaking of Syd and not wanting to reveal his secret of the blue liquid.
“Then, why did you do it?”
“I had my reasons.”
A sarcastic chuckle leaves her lips. “Well, I guess that makes everything okay.”
“Have you seen Walt or Suri?”
“Except for my new teams, I haven’t seen anyone. But who cares about them? They’re all dead.” In a quiet tone, she adds, “Just like me.”
“That’s not true. There’s always a chance. You need to keep trying.”
Her watery eyes gleam in the faint starlight. She folds both arms around her shins, pulling herself into an upright ball. “I understand what ten sigma means. Not that I have your math background, but I know it’s impossible to get to that level. Especially without your help.”
“You don’t need me. You’re an excellent fighter, and you’ve made it this far.”
Her voice flares with anger. “Keep your praise to yourself. You and Syd are the two best.” After a gentle sigh, she continues in a softer tone, “Suri’s good too. For a moment, I let myself believe we were getting out of this nightmare. Wouldn’t that have been great?”
The system’s not designed for that…
When I stay silent, she huffs. “So much for that. Just let me die in peace.”
“No,” I say, considering how much I want to share. After weighing the options, I decide. “There’s a trick. Something to get better at fighting. Syd told me about it.”
While she evaluates my words, her lips purse. Vela has always been the most suspicious of our group, and a moment passes before she unwraps her arms and leans forward, grasping at the single shred of hope I’ve offered.
“I’m sorry, Brin. It’s not you. I just have trouble trusting anyone.”
“It’s okay. I understand about the animal attack.”
“That’s not the problem.” She pauses to wipe a tear. “I loved all the animals in the zoo. Now, I can’t even remember which one attacked me. But it wasn’t personal.”
“You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”
“I wanted to be a vet.”
Tilting my head, I send her a questioning look.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. My memories are mostly gone, and I don’t understand why I’m this way. I assumed I would become normal and start trusting people as I forgot, but nothing has changed.” She wipes her nose. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. I’m sorry. Of everyone here, you’ve tried to help me the most.”
“That’s okay, Vela.”
“I can’t even remember why I dropped out of vet school. Pathetic isn’t it?”
I reach out and touch her leg, forcing her to return my stare. “It isn’t. You’re like everyone else, losing memories and just trying to survive. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help. We’ll even practice in the off hours just like with Rick.”
Nodding, she blows out a long breath. “I know you’re a good person Brin, and I can trust you. What’s this trick?”
Before I can reveal the secret of the blue liquid, a static tingle wraps around my body.
There’s so much more I need to say, but “Don’t give up…,” is all I can express before I’m in the ready room, prepping to enter another scenario.
Thirty-Five
My worries for Vela evaporate when I materialize in a new environment, a powder-covered ten-street-by-ten-street maze comprised by rows of broken two and three-story brownstones that apparently were dropped from a small mountaintop.
Besides myself, clad in a skin-tight black outfit, my weapons are a wire garrote looped in my hair, three throwing knives in a holder wrapped around my forearm, a long blade—more sword than knife—resting in a sheath running along my thigh, and a cold stiletto against my back. Basically, I’m a ninja.
Dressed in black, four teams make up my side. Our opposition is also four teams but dressed in gray. Forty against forty dueling in artful hand-to-hand combat until one side eliminates the other.
In other words, a total crap sandwich of a deathmatch with the sole promise of absolute brutality.
“Better to worry about yourself than an ex-teammate,” Private Optimism says.
He’s right but I hate myself for agreeing with him.
“I can hear your thoughts—”
“You are so getting busted down another rank.”
“Seriously? You can’t demote me any further.”
“The dog-catcher post is vacant.”
“You’re kicking me out of the army? That’s plain mean.”
This is so not helping…
I promise to tell Vela the secret of the blue liquid when I return.
If I return…
“Brin, how do you want to handle this?” asks the 3.57 sigma named Lou or Larry, who is better at describing champagne than fighting.
Not wanting to have more blood on my hands from making decisions, I say, “Just roam around and kill everyone from the other team.” Somehow, the statement comes out like a comment from Syd, and I cringe.
“Shouldn’t we have a strategy?”
Because being a six sigma gives me a ridiculous level of seniority, the faces of the people, all ranked between 2.5 and up to Katie’s four sigmas, watch me with expectation.
My resolve to shy from being the center of attention fades.
“Give me a minute,” I say while studying the surroundings. Through the thin haze, the falling sun glints on broken glass and casts a reddish pall over the shattered walls of the buildings.
“We’ll set up a defense in something sturdy with height to hold the wounded. Afterward, we’ll send out two-person scout teams. Be careful and don’t engage unless you have a definite advantage.”
After a brief search, I select the remains of a roofless three-story construction in the western corner of the map as a home base. It fulfills all of my requirements along with having the sun at its back.
Inside the busted structure, piles of dust take the place of furniture. Aside from that odd feature, the other basic aesthetics are a simple molding, and, curiously, when I wipe the white powder aside near an oblong hole over the staircase, a lavish herringbone tiled floor.
After studying the thin interior walls, narrow staircases, and broken ceilings, I assign people to guard the entrances and place spotters on the open third story. When the dispositions are set, I instruct two pairs of scouts to locate the enemy without being discovered or running unnecessary chances.
As they vanish down the dusty street, the tension embracing the remainder of the black team rises.
I turn my focus to plotting the tactics of the battle. Absent long-range weapons, we’ll be fighting hand-to-hand and build
ing-to-building, which will be as much fun as Stalingrad.
Depending on the enemy’s strategy, we have alternatives. If they are in small groups, we can swing through in larger groups. We just need to watch for people with street smarts. Ambushes will be abundant, and given the talent level of the participants, deadly.
Or we can move in kill teams, only engaging the enemy when tactically possible. With our skill, the throwing knives are lethal. And I need to have people gathering expended weapons in case the fighting becomes protracted.
I roam through other possibilities, hating the complexity of my thoughts. However, without further details of the enemy’s movements, we have to make do.
This environment would be perfect for a bunch of Syds to operate.
A returning scout hustles over the street, a long cloud of dust trailing in his wake.
It’s too soon.
Myriads of possible catastrophes trample through my mind. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Although breathing hard, he’s not winded. “There’s a broad main street four blocks from here. All of them are there.”
“All forty of them?”
“Yes, we each counted twice. I left the others to keep watch, but they weren’t doing anything but waiting.”
It must be a trap, but how? No explosives are present and they’re all accounted for. With wariness filling my thoughts, I gather the team leaders and instruct each of them to take their team to a different side in order to envelop the enemy. Then everyone hits them at the same time and hopefully, we all return home happy.
“A real Cannae maneuver,” chirps one of my black threads.
I ignore it. This type of fortunate circumstance is reserved for people who are not me, or anyone else in this forsaken program. But I can’t figure out what’s wrong.
After the other three teams leave, I motion for my nine charges to follow. Still not trusting the good fortune, I make my way in stealth, taking advantage of the ample cover to move over the dust-covered asphalt of the street. Instead of using a direct path, I wend through different structures, adding to my knowledge of the area and planning escape routes if things go awry.
The other teams are in position when we finally arrive. I signal to my people to complete the encirclement. Then I enter the rear of a large building and tread lightly to the second floor. Besides a thick dust layer, the inside is empty and similar to our home base, except a brown pinstriped wallpaper decorates the hallway instead of molding. I shake my head; the predilections of the virtual overlords are not worth thinking about.
Lou or Larry and two others, the raven-haired girl with the big blue eyes who loved champagne, and a teen reminding me of Walt, follow me into a wide room overlooking the street.
I signal for them to move to the front windows.
“They’re all there?” I whisper.
Lou or Larry answers, “Yes.”
“What’s your name again?”
Tilting his head, he narrows his eyes. “Leo.”
Ugh.
I really need to take the distance from teammates thing less seriously. “No one hiding in the buildings on the sides?”
A few seconds pass as he rechecks his tally. “Forty. See for yourself.”
Already knowing the answer, I count anyway. There are forty of them. Forty athletic bodies in form-fitting gray outfits doing nothing except waiting for a bloodbath.
Although they are out of throwing knife range, we have them surrounded and at every other disadvantage. While we only need to fight what’s in front of us, they have to watch what’s happening everywhere around them.
The raven-haired girl turns from the window. “They look oblivious.”
“They know we’re here,” I counter. “They just don’t care.”
Leo shrugs. “I don’t have your experience, but that’s all of them and the rules are the rules.”
Every word is true. The sides are equal, but I hesitate.
The others give me anticipatory looks.
“So, why are you worried?” says my internal voice.
“I’m not. Not really,” I reply, biting my lip.
“Confidence, I love it!”
“You are the least helpful person I’ve ever met.”
“That you remember—don’t forget that!”
So, not helping…
“Why are we waiting?” Leo asks. “If they decide to attack, they can blow through our lines with ease.”
He’s right. We won’t get a better opportunity.
Against my instincts, I raise my hand and give the go sign. Then I lead the charge, leaping through the window and landing with a dust-raising thump on the street.
From the surrounding rows of buildings, the others do the same, most drawing their smallish swords while the remaining toss their throwing weapons.
Although one or two of the other side falls, they react quickly and without surprise.
Both sides advance and metal clashes as the oversized brawl begins.
At the edge of the mayhem, I need to tilt my head higher to see the face of the ox-like woman opposing me. Her giant shoulders ripple as she brandishes her blade. Then emitting a deep growl, she charges.
Using a lightning draw, I meet her attack with a stinging block, but her ferocity drives me backward.
She’s mostly strength and size without any finesse, and after weathering the brunt of the assault, I riposte, slicing her hand and landing a swipe across her ribs.
Relishing in the pain, she redoubles her effort, somehow getting stronger and faster.
Shocked and forced to react quickly, I parry a thrust then block a lethal two-handed swing. My counter forces her to back away, and I pull out one of the throwing knives. Instead of tossing it, I use it as teeth for my non-sword hand.
She delivers an overhand swing.
While stepping backward, I parry and then stab her free hand with my throwing knife.
Furious, she counters with a ferocious thrust. It’s sloppy and her first mistake.
I take advantage of her open position with a glancing block and pirouette past her extended arm, nicking her carotid artery with the small knife.
Blood spews from her neck, and she collapses onto the asphalt with an angry gurgle.
A thrill shivers through my body.
Forcing aside the strange reaction to her death, I peer down the block, trying to make sense of the chaotic flesh and steel clashes swirling throughout the clouds of dust. My limited viewpoint is mostly glimpsing a bobbing head or swinging arm, popping out of the curls of white. Further away, swords glint in the low sunlight. I can’t tell who’s winning or losing.
A scream of death rises over the vicious clangs of metal. The raven-haired girl with the big blue eyes falls at my feet, her mouth leaking blood, a long slash running from her shoulder to her pelvis.
Her killer leaps at me with a feral challenge. In spite of the dust, he doesn’t blink, instead staring with an unnatural focus.
I shuffle back with a quick step, stretching the line but not allowing him to break past.
He flicks a throwing knife.
I jerk to my left and it flies by my temple, clattering against the building behind me.
In a single swift motion, he draws his sword and fires a thrust.
As I twist my upper body to avoid the attack, I snap my sword at his leg.
The edge of his weapon grazes my shoulder while the tip of my weapon hits above his knee, cutting tendons.
He grunts and swipes at my midsection.
Sucking in my stomach, I jump back, his attack missing by a millimeter. Then I toss my throwing knife at his head.
He twists, but it slices over his right eye. Blood pours down his face, blinding him.
I sweep his sword aside with a loud clang and deliver a vicious sidekick.
His ribcage collapses as he goes flying into the melee and lands somewhere amid the roiling dust.
Champagne-loving Leo staggers toward me, covered in dusty whiteness, blood casc
ading from bite marks on his throat. His eyes roll into his head, and he dies, falling onto the heap that was once the raven-haired girl.
More people drop. The fighting subsides and with fewer struggles, the obscuring clouds thin. Down the avenue, many contorted bodies with horrible wounds lie between thickened pools of blood.
Something is very wrong. Many of the enemy have fallen, but the vast majority of my side is dead. The gray team is far more talented than they should be. Impossibly, my team is going down to defeat despite holding every advantage.
Who are these guys?
The loud clangs ebb as the fighting ends.
Katie, the four sigma and next highest ranking from my side, collapses with bright red blood fountaining from a slice across her throat.
The fine powder settles enough to reveal the entire battleground. Nine people stand among the dead.
I’m one.
The other eight are dressed in gray, their dark eyes sending me hungry stares.
I run.
Thirty-Six
Things are only going to get worse. A lot worse.
Haiku’s words rush through my mind as I execute a full-blown retreat, my hurried steps leaving an obvious trail over the dust-filled streets. Remembering the details I noticed on the meandering path to the battle and using all of my experience threads, I dash between the reddish constructs to limit my exposure.
Although facing impending death and having my options cut to a single desperate idea, I’m perplexed. None of the gray team scores are noteworthy, not even as good as poor Katie’s four sigmas. Yet, they fight like demons. Although one or two of them could have the skill to rise to a significant level, eight is a statistically impossible number.
However, they exist and are close behind, hunting me in four teams of two. If I fight with one pair, the other six will be on me in a flash. Worse, my limited area to hide shrinks with every step. It’s a total crap-fest.
Jagged pebbles fall in a mini-avalanche as I pick my way over a rubble pile and clamber through a small street-level window.
Instantly, my enemies converge toward the sound.