Ten Sigma

by A W Wang

  Turning to Cleo, Bob says, “Watch out for the plants, stick to the center of the channel until we get to the landing beach.”

  “I can handle it,” she replies in a frazzled tone.

  Bob explains, “We lost a team when their boat impaled on one of the razor leaves.” He pats the thick rubber of the hull. “This got shredded, and the whole thing went straight to the bottom. Everyone drowned because of their armor.”

  I nod. The many sturdy segments can take the small wounds of gunfire but not the long, jagged tear inflicted by a sharp sword pretending to be a leaf.

  “After everything we’ve been through, dying because of some stinking shrubs is a ridiculous way to go,” Cleo says.

  It’s true. But nothing I can add will make it better. “How did you know where to find me?”

  Bob says, “Damnedest thing. Got a message for reinforcements. Never happened before.” He pulls off a protecting glove and wipes his brow. “We need as much help as we can get. We’re getting our asses whooped.”

  Although I want to offer some reassurance, there is none. What we are up against is beyond anything in his previous experience, prickly flora or not.

  His stare lingers on my face, demanding an answer.

  “Hopefully, I can help.”

  The weak reply seems to satisfy him, and pulling his glove back on, he resumes his forward watch as the boat curves around the circular island. The lethal plants dot the high vertical walls, continuing as dark shadows below the water, and render any ingress a death trap.

  After another minute, the land tapers into a vegetation-less ribbon of landing beach.

  The boat scrapes ashore next to a line of similar craft. Beyond, twenty-one people wearing battle-scarred armor wait with various postures of exhaustion.

  Relieved faces cluster around us after we set foot on the sand, and a chorus arises. “A nine sigma!” “Wow.” “We’re in luck.” “We’re going to win!”

  They’re more of a mob than an organized force. Probably the singles and duos remaining from what was once a large number of teams and just thrilled to still reside amongst the living.

  Cleo flips up her visor, studying me with wonder. “Nine! I didn’t notice. My apologies.”

  They think they have a chance.

  Not wanting to piss on the happy parade, but with no other choice, I ask, “Is this everyone who’s left?”

  “Two on the bluff,” Bob says, pointing across the river. “Ten are scouting in three boats. Everyone else is here.”

  I frown. It’s too few, and I force away a rising sense of guilt from their impending deaths. Regardless of my deal with the overlords, Syd was going to win this scenario and kill them in horrible ways. At least now, their lives can count for something.

  Bob motions past the group. “Over there, the scenario’s easier to explain.”

  After I follow him to the edge of the shore, the remaining crowd fills the space behind us.

  Indicating the varying shapes and sizes scratched onto a fine patch of sand, he says, “This is the map. Our win condition is to defend our flag to the last. As far as terrain, there are thirty-eight islands, the smallest being about three hundred meters long, the largest is a little over a kilometer. Seventeen are flat with only the spiky shrubs as cover. Dicey to hold at best. We’re in the northeast corner, guarding our flag. They keep whittling away at our defenses. Now, all of our outposts are gone. Our scouts should be able to tell us where they’re coming from, but…” He looks directly at me. “We can’t stop them. They’re really talented, better than they should be. Especially in this.” He waves at the darkness.

  “When is daybreak?”

  “Never. It’s always night.”

  As the glints from the fires dance on her eyes, Cleo says, “It seems like we’ve been here forever.”

  The low whine of an engine wanders from the gloom. Before anyone can panic, a single boat lands and the lone occupant leaps onto the beach.

  “The scouts,” Bob says.

  Nervousness ripples through the crowd.

  The returning scout, a short woman with almost a four sigma score, strides to us. As she brushes past the stunned group, she raises her visor. Although her face is youthful, her eyes carry a great weight. She must have volunteered at a very old age.

  Cleo asks, “Odet, where is everyone?”

  “Ambushed,” Odet replies, scowling. “They took the others alive.”

  Fearful glances bounce around the crowd. Bob removes his helmet and rubs his matted hair. “I knew a few of them,” he mumbles.

  Odet gives us more good news. “They’ve gotten reinforcements too.”

  “How many?” Bob asks.

  “Another fifty. Maybe sixty.”

  There are grumbles and moans of disbelief.

  Facing me, Bob says, “That means they’re more than a hundred strong.”

  “What about us?” Odet asks.

  Bob points at me.

  “That’s it?” she says, considering my sigma score. “I’m sure you’re worth a lot and I mean no disrespect, but this isn’t fair.”

  Life’s not fair.

  Bob curses as despair settles over the group. “With these crazy enemies, I’m not sure about our chances.”

  A helpless expression covers Cleo’s face. “They’re not satisfied with winning. They’ve been doing things.”

  Everyone understands what that means. Slumped postures and frightened whispers infect the others.

  Although my skin crawls and rage rises in my chest, I tighten my lips. I was only in Syd’s and his teammates clutches for a few minutes and can only imagine what it would have been like for them to have completed their torture.

  This is an opportunity.

  I hate myself for the thought, but with fresh prisoners, our enemy will be occupied for some time.

  “Stop,” I say.

  The subdued conversation continues.

  These people have been fighting Syd and his followers for the larger part of an endless night. Although it’s a wonder they’re still alive, they’re braver than they believe. I hold up my hand. “Everyone be quiet. You’ve all fought well, but nobody gets to quit,” I scream over them.

  The mumbling grinds to a halt, and as their undivided attention shifts to me, my self-assurance soars. Somehow, everything about the situation feels comfortable and right.

  I jump into the silence. “I understand what’s been happening. But the things they’ve been doing aren’t important. There’s no time to feel sorry for ourselves. Now is the time to act.”

  Not having the slightest idea of how to tell these people what we need to do, I consider my next words carefully.

  Opting for the truth, I say, “These opponents, they aren’t like everyone else.”

  Nods of approval.

  “They’re better, stronger, faster than they should be. And more vicious.” I wait for further agreement before adding in a low voice, “Everyone here will probably die.”

  Instead of despair, unwavering stares of determination meet my gaze. That’s good.

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “It’s not probably, it’s definitely. But we need to stop as many of them as possible. It’s a lot to demand, but we’re soldiers. And as soldiers, the most we can expect is not losing our lives for nothing.” Unlike Simon or Sergeant Rick, I’m not used to or good at making long speeches so I take a deep breath. “These aren’t people we’re fighting.”

  While their expressions turn to curiosity, I’m surprised my speech isn’t being censored. “This is a good cause. All of you are forgetting your pasts. But no matter how much you’ve lost, you still remember what evil is.

  “These enemies, they are composites of the worst individuals mankind could produce. Sadists and sociopaths. The vilest parts of the murderers, the rapists, the child molesters, all combined into one. And every last one of them is here fighting against us.

  “If they win, more will come. You might not remember your loved on
es, but you love the real world. If they get through us, that’s their next stop.

  “There will be no more reinforcements. There are no other scenarios. That means it’s up to us. Right here. Right now.”

  They weigh my words in silence. Many have taut expressions. Others glance to their neighbors, evaluating their options. Cleo stares blankly in front of her, lost in thought and seeing nothing.

  Odet stops grinding her teeth long enough to say, “I guess it was stupid to think anyone could become a ten sigma.”

  Bob asks, “What are we going to do?”

  That’s a good question.

  A fierce wind gusts through us, whipping the nearby flames.

  “There’s a storm coming,” Odet says.

  Most of the thin clouds have blown past, and overhead the full moon sits high in the star-dusted dome of the night sky. A wall of foreboding thunderheads towers on the horizon. Muted flashes of lightning form twisted shapes in their angry swirls and crawl along their dark underbellies. I imagine the howling winds, blinding rain, and deafening thunder they will bring. It will be one against one in that chaos—a huge advantage for Syd.

  “Do the unexpected,” my internal voice whispers.

  “We aren’t waiting for them to come and force us into the flag. We’ll set up and cover their likely staging areas and hit them first. If you feel nervous or weak, remember what they’re doing to your friends right now.”

  Without waiting for agreement, I lean over and study the map, noting points for ambushes and avenues of attack while formulating a plan.

  I wave my arms. “Everyone, get close. We don’t have much time before the storm hits.”

  There are twenty-six others in addition to myself. After they crowd around the map, I explain the plan to maximize our heavily outnumbered force. My confidence soars as I detail a hit-and-run strategy because my strong suit is thinking while Syd’s is brute strength. The positive energy infects the others and they stand straighter, with expressions of determination, ready to fight the great evil in this universe. When Bob cracks a joke in his southern twang, a few chuckles greet the punchline.

  After I finish and everyone understands their roles, we jump into the boats, and avoiding the plants, head to our targets.

  As the little eleven ship flotilla drives against the slow current, I picture myself as some sort of avenging angel come to this lethal, plant-infested hell to rid the universe of the composites. I focus on eliminating Syd and the thrills I’ve had at killing his kind until I’m ready to deal with Walt, Syd, Belle, Syrin, or anyone else I meet from the other side. This is the one instance where my actions will be absolutely justified.

  However, despite my lack of fear and my anticipation for the righteousness of the coming battle, one thing nags at my core.

  I can’t get rid of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  After arriving at a bean-shaped island, I lie with four others on the boundary of the beach as the screams of the damned rise from the horizon and claw into the surrounding darkness.

  My fingers tighten on my weapon while my companions shift on the hard sand.

  The sheer number of composites and people corrupted by the blue liquid have somehow created a critical mass of evil among our enemies. That combined with the eerie glows of the fires flickering off the leaves of the deadly plants makes my vision of this being a demented version of hell look truer with each passing minute.

  Hopefully, the avenging angel emerges triumphant.

  Bob balls his hands and lifts his body.

  Despite my firsthand knowledge of the sadistic techniques Syd and his people are using, I squeeze his shoulder, forcing him to remain in place.

  “We wait.”

  Although his eyes are hard under the visor, he relents after a tense moment. “It raises my hackles.”

  While I want to cover my ears, my voice remains calm as I say to everyone, “We have to win the whole scenario, not one skirmish.”

  “I’ve been in enough scenarios where I’d thought I’d seen and heard it all,” Bob replies.

  It’s good the distance has made the forms indistinct and my group can’t see what Syd’s people are doing to their friends. “Every battle has something different that you need to conquer.”

  “Is that how you reached nine sigmas?”

  “One of the reasons.”

  “I’ll remember that so I can get there too.”

  Noncommittally, I nod.

  In spite of my warnings of the odds against us, Bob still foolishly believes he’ll survive to ten sigmas. It’s a strange quirk of human nature, but everyone thinks they own the winning lottery ticket. However, while I won’t feed anyone’s optimism, I won’t kill it either.

  Another scream, pitiful and so full of pain I can’t tell if it’s been released from a man or woman, knifes through us.

  “Those people deserve better,” Bob says. His back arches as he readies to break into an unbridled attack.

  If I knew Syd was in this particular bunch, I’d probably join in the stupidity. “The five of us blindly charging would be a quick way to get killed. These people are the best, and they won’t make mistakes in combat.”

  Still anxious, the group retreats from the brink.

  “I just hate the waiting,” Bob finally spits out.

  Without responding, I return my attention to the silhouettes moving among the orange bonfires. Because of the disparity of forces, we need to stay at the effective limit of our assault rifles and can’t safely get closer.

  “Do you think the other teams are in place?” I ask Bob.

  He replies with a tight-lipped nod.

  “And all the retreat boats positioned?”

  “They should be.”

  “If they aren’t, this plan isn’t going anywhere.”

  “These are good people and they’ll do their jobs,” he replies in a testy tone.

  Since the overlords favor individuality over teamwork, there are never any communications devices. Large-scale coordination is restricted to line of sight or by messenger. “Like in the times of Alexander the Great,” a black thread chirps.

  I’ve given them enough time.

  With all the pieces apparently in position and no other reason for delay, I raise my rifle. Troubled by the sinking feeling still twisting my stomach, I pause and bring my armored hand under the visor to wipe my cheek.

  “Be just like stirring up a hornet’s nest. Let’s send them all to hell,” Bob says.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  As long as we kill Syd, I’ll be satisfied. A samurai thread produces a strange idea. Wondering if Syd would accept a duel, only the two of us on a single island battling to the death, I debate rising and bellowing out an ancient challenge.

  Almost instantly, I discard the stupid notion. Except for my personal animosity, killing Syd is only a small part of the equation. My deal with the overlords was to stop all the composites and end the program. Even if Syd accepts the challenge and I win—no mean feat—the rest will sweep over the remains of my team to victory and eventually the real world.

  I take a long breath. Starting now or later isn’t going to change the outcome. A three-round burst leaves my rifle. The others join in, the pops of their weapons ringing in my ears.

  Two of the distant forms tumble and a thrill rises inside me. While I hope my prior self didn’t have the same reaction to death, I rationalize that ending menageries of death row inmates is different from killing normal human beings.

  The rest of the enemies disappear below the orange glows, and the tortured shrieks stop. Only two hits is a disappointing result, but against these opponents, I’m not sure what I was hoping to achieve.

  As return fire showers sand around us, waves of gunfire rise from the nearby islands.

  “Time to move. We’re done here,” I yell.

  Bob resists.

  He’s still thinking of rescue or revenge, and both are bad decisions. “There’s nothing we can do for them. We
inflict maximum damage and leave. Keep your discipline.”

  His angry gaze lingers for another moment, then he nods and follows the others to the boat.

  The firing from the other islands lasts too long, but without communications with the other groups, I can only hope they follow my instructions and get away with a minimum of casualties.

  As our craft settles into the water, the screams begin anew, our enemies not allowing a few annoying gnats to interrupt their blood ceremony. They will come after us in their own due time.

  It’s unnerving, but I finally understand why the pit of my stomach is sinking. With every composite and blue liquid infected person arrayed against us, there isn’t a viable strategy to beat them. They are too good and too many. The best we can hope for is to extract maximum causalities. We might even get lucky and catch Syd in a crossfire.

  But in any outcome imaginable, we’re going to lose and die horribly.

  Fifty-Three

  The tormented screams from the prisoners have faded, and now, the hornets are out in full force, except these insects carry modern assault weapons and have sociopathic personalities.

  I rush up a gravelly incline as the low whine of an engine purrs from past the adjacent island. Behind a crest of plants, I dive next to Bob and the three others.

  “They’re coming,” I say.

  Bob grins as he sights his weapon up the long swath of water.

  While watching thin coils of mist float in the distance, my companions breathe heavily from the stress of combat. However, despite their anxieties, we’ve been lucky, so far having only experienced a few close calls and some scratched armor; nobody is the worse for the wear.

  Another minute passes before a tiny prow edges into view.

  Faint, scattered gunfire arrives from a neighboring island.

  As if sensing danger, the rubber craft stops beyond our effective range.

  Bob curses.

  I kneel, cutting loose with shots. The others join in.

  Impacts spatter the water as the outboard engine swings to the side. The boat swivels and escapes into the mist, the sudden jerk spilling an enemy into the river.