by A W Wang
A groan leaves his cracked lips, and he shifts in pain.
I tense my arms, struggling to keep upright.
“How did you ever put up with getting shot in the virtual world?” he asks in a raspy voice.
My lips tighten before I reply, “You get used to it. And you get a fresh body if you survive.”
“In the real world, you only get one body.” He opens his eyes and smirks through the discomfort. “I wish I had a better one.”
I force a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed.”
He returns a dubious glance.
My countenance darkens. The only chance to save him is to get him to care outside the city, and that’s a long shot at best.
The tense silence hangs over our plodding progress as the minutes pass.
What would be the point of further conversation?
When a breeze brushes against my face, I move faster, despite Jonathon groaning more.
Soon, a faint light creeps into the far end of the tunnel.
Almost there.
The spiders dance along my nape again.
Although all remains still, I pause and gingerly set Jonathon down.
With lidded eyes, he whispers, “Why are we stopping?”
Instead of answering, I place the flashlight in his hand.
The weak beam shines up his blood-sodden clothing and over his sweaty, deathly white complexion.
He’s out of time.
“One last thing to check,” I whisper before padding down the tunnel, which ends at the top of a tall vestibule.
With as little noise as possible, I pull open a rusty gate and slip past the crumbling entrance. The brick walls are faded, the air is stale, and a thin, undisturbed layer of dirt covers the upper platform. This place is visited infrequently, if at all.
Yet…
Warily, I rub my tingly nape and edge down a curled metal staircase. Halfway to the bottom of the fan-shaped steps, the worn floor tiling comes into view.
My heart sinks.
Framed by the sunlight streaming past an arched entryway, a curly-haired figure stands with perfect posture. In a cloak and silvery battle-mesh, Peter is everything a ten sigma should be.
Having barely survived the sixty-something-year-old Chief Justice with the threads, I have little chance against such a formidable fighter.
However, Jonathon is almost done, and Peter is the last obstacle before the supply hub.
There’s no turning back.
As I reach for my knife, Peter steps forward and faces the opposite wall, blocking out his view of the staircase.
His voice reverberates up the narrow confines as he says, “Greetings, person who isn’t really here.”
I rub my nape, realizing the spiders were dancing when we first entered the tunnel because he was following us.
When I open my mouth to respond, he says loudly, “Don’t speak, person who isn’t here. When questioned, I want to answer that I haven’t seen anyone, and this area was quiet except for a little butterfly floating past.”
I clench my jaw to prevent any inadvertent reply and rush back up the stairs. After I reach Jonathon, I whisper, “Peter’s down there. He’s going to let us pass.”
“Can you trust him?”
My lips tighten. “He hasn’t raised an alarm yet.”
When he sends a questioning stare, I put a finger over his mouth. “We don’t have a choice. Whatever happens, don’t speak, so he can deny he saw anything.”
I don’t want Peter to be punished for being a friend.
Although Jonathon understands the need for silence, he whimpers when I lift him in my arms.
As I walk down the staircase, Peters says, “I was told to hunt for Mary, and I knew from the distraction that Mary would come this way. But nobody else did. The others are wandering around the airbase looking for the little butterfly.”
When my feet touch the floor, I realize he’s speaking with a strange cadence because he’s talking to himself as a form of plausible deniability.
Jonathon stifles a moan.
“Rats fight in dark corners,” Peter blurts as an explanation for the sound.
As I cross the small space, willing Jonathon to keep quiet, Peter continues, “Little butterflies should fly carefully. Many hunters with nets will be coming. So many it will be impossible to face those odds. A pity. An incredible pity.”
I resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to let him know that everything he’s doing is much appreciated. Instead, I step under the arch and from the vestibule.
Peter calls, “No matter what happened, a ten sigma is always a ten sigma. There are too few of us, and we must be loyal to our own kind. Look for a present near the first line. Safe journey, little butterfly. Remember, fly far, far away.”
Despite everything that lies ahead, I twist my head and stare at my only ten sigma friend. He stands in the same place, gazing at the faded bricks, godlike and motionless. Although I can’t see his face, I know he’s smiling.
I step from the archway and into the railway center.
In the gigantic cavern, cascades of early-morning sunlight drift from gaps in an unfinished roof, while below, many trams wait on crisscrossing monorail lines. Heavily laden vehicles enter and exit through access tunnels on my right. Across the concrete covering the rest of the space, robots scurry to and fro, unloading supply beds and loading freight cars. Opposite, huge shipping containers sit ready to be moved by squat cranes.
I rush onto the foundation with Jonathon groaning in my arms.
Near the first track, a three-meter-high rail, a flat case lies next to an octagonal support column. A conspicuous red cross is stamped on the lid.
As I lean to pick up the medkit, Peter’s voice comes one more time. “I hope we meet again under better circumstances. Perhaps we can have our proper welcome then…”
I snort at his naivety. While I wouldn’t be averse to and might even enjoy a “Proper Welcome,” the next ten sigma I meet will be an adversary.
Before heading onward, I spare a final glance to the entryway.
The vestibule is empty.
I sincerely hope never to see him again.
I carry Jonathon behind a charging station and lean him against the opposite wall, hidden from sight.
Although only maintenance robots wander nearby, the best course of action is to assume the worst can happen.
I open the medkit, thankful for Peter’s friendship.
Colorful tubes—pain killers, coagulates, and synthetic blood—fill the case. Even though these concoctions won’t fix everything, they’ll do enough for me to get Jonathon out of the city and to the nearest help.
Whatever happens after that, I’ll improvise.
As I apply the different medications, the discomfort etched into Jonathon’s face fades and color returns to his skin. When I finish by closing the entry wound with an auto-suture, he shivers and opens his eyes.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
He takes a couple of shaky breaths before saying, “Weak, but the pain’s gone.”
In the present situation, this is the best one could expect. “Wait here while I get everything ready.”
As he nods, I hurry from the hiding spot, crossing under a knot of monorail tracks.
My heart thumps faster with every step. The information in the database is clear in my thoughts, but with the myriad of moving parts in this supply hub, anything could have changed.
Just one altered detail…
Agonizing minutes elapse as I wander past machines and through brightening rays of sunlight dipping between support columns, trying to find the correct container. Every passing second is sure to bring more trouble. Even with her hands full running the control aspects of the coup with limited resources, Victoria will figure out my plan, and sooner rather than later.
Faint chirps drift past the ambient noise of machinery. Birds are happily starting the morning in peaceful surroundings.
I blow out a long breat
h.
The last stragglers have been mopped up. Thoughts of Jonesy and Cleon cross my mind, and I find myself hoping someone escaped.
I shake my head, abandoning the sentimentality. There’s nothing I can do for them now. Even if anyone is still alive and free, the best I can ask for is that they provide a distraction for those hunting Jonathon and me.
Another frantic minute rolls by before I spy a row of five rectangular containers against the far wall. The middle one has the correct labeling. I sigh in relief, realizing I shouldn’t have worried with AIs managing every detail of the shipping. In a further piece of good news, the tram I need to complete the escape plan sits nearby.
I climb up a support pole. After I pull myself onto the engine, I stride over the tops of the slim cars until I reach the third from last. The modular access panel opens without an issue, and inside rows of standard fuel cells sit in a metal grid. I hop down and grab two of the long, heavy tubes before exiting.
A train laden with supplies glides on a nearby rail as I jump to the ground. Seconds later, the line of boxy cars leaves through a tall archway and disappears into the morning sunlight.
There isn’t much time left.
With the elimination of the enemy forces, Victoria will soon be in control of the computer systems. Then, she’ll be in command of the supply routes.
As if to reinforce the thought, overhead rails shift and another two trams rush past, heading from the cavern.
Gravel crunches behind me.
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to wait?”
Jonathon wobbles into view. “The stuff you gave me seemed to work, so I figured I’d save us some time.”
“It’s only temporary, so don’t push it.”
“I feel better.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re well.”
“Fine, you’ve done your mother henning for today. Can we go, now?”
I roll my eyes again, but instead of continuing the spat, I lug the fuel cells to the huge container.
As Jonathon catches up, I yank open the door.
The gray nose of a stealth craft stares from the opening. It’s similar to the one Samantha took into Siberia. The shape is angled into an oval with stubby wings, a flattened tail section, and short landing skids. Although built for infiltration rather than speed or power, the ship is perfect for our requirements—untraceable, invisible to electronics, and most importantly, a tool made for ten sigmas.
“These are supposed to be pre-positioned for ten sigma missions,” I say as an explanation to Jonathon.
“You got that much data from the dump?”
Sensing a headache coming from the reference to the sheer quantity of information, I say, “Yes, but it’s a good thing we’re leaving now. In another couple of weeks, with all the changes they’ll need to make because of the fighting, everything I know about this stuff will be obsolete.”
While he leans against the composite hull, I walk around the wing and stop near the tail assembly. After I open the engine cowling, I slide the fuel cells into their slots.
The ship hums, and gray cockpit panels open.
I slam the cowling closed and march to the pilot’s entrance. “Get in,” I say, stepping up and slipping into the narrow seat.
The cramped space seals after Jonathon plops into the passenger side. After I strap on a harness, soft yellow lines glow from the panel edges, and a scanner emerges from a slot, displaying a red diagram of a hand.
“Verify identity,” a female AI says.
I hesitate, letting my palm hover over the schematic.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathon says with alarm.
After a deep breath, I meet his wide-eyed stare and press down, hoping the AI will recognize me as a ten sigma.
A tingly static binds my hand to the glassy surface, and tense moments elapse before the red outlines of the verification panel change to green. The soft voice announces, “Ten sigma status confirmed.”
I lean back and breathe a sigh of relief, understanding why a defective ten sigma would need to be terminated. The sophisticated equipment is blindly loyal to my passable-for-human body.
Jonathon sinks back into his seat and pulls on his safety restraints. “What would have happened if it didn’t recognize you as a ten sigma?”
“You don’t want to know,” I say, shaking my head. “This technology would never be allowed to fall into enemy hands.”
His lips purse, his mind no doubt happy he didn’t know this before I started the ship. “Do you have any inkling of how all this works?”
As if in response, an assortment of flat and holo displays appear on the control panel, showing ship status and various maps.
“What are your instructions?” the AI asks.
I shrug, but a moment later, the details of Samantha’s mission enter my mind. The stealth craft is designed for ease of use to infiltrate and get out of target areas. The AI only needs simple instructions to follow.
“Computer, prepare for flight,” I reply.
The lights dim to bare glimmers, while the solid gray surfaces around us change to display mode, mimicking clear windows by creating a flawless illusion of the outside.
“Computer, push forward.”
A status indicator flashes green, and the engine emits a low whine. The craft gently lifts, and we exit the box.
“Manual control.”
“Manual control engaged,” the AI replies.
Jonathon asks, “You know how to fly this thing?”
“It’s not in the threads if that’s what you mean.”
“You can put it on auto-pilot.”
“When I was eleven, I was in a self-driving car that went bad,” I say, recalling the incident that crippled my leg.
“This system is slightly more sophisticated.”
My fingers tighten around the control stick. “No thanks.”
The engines flare, and the ship trembles as I nudge the throttle. After I pull back on the yoke, we tilt upward and the patchwork roof comes into view. I increase the thrust, and the craft rises toward a waiting train.
“What are you doing?” Jonathon asks.
“It’s too noticeable if we fly out of here.”
While he sends me a questioning expression, I gingerly maneuver us onto a sturdy container.
“What now?” he asks as I power the engines to a minimum level.
“We wait.”
A minute later, our ride pushes forward on the monorail, and we exit into the sunrise.
“Computer, set maximum stealth and engage optical camouflage,” I say.
The ship quiets and the composite surfaces vanish, mimicking their opposite sides.
I hold my breath as we glide past the airfield and toward the protecting ring of M24s. So far, Victoria hasn’t gained enough control to stop the precious supply runs, and my plan is working.
Although Peter would have stopped us had he not been loyal to ten sigmas.
The passive instruments detect scans coming from nearby drones, and red symbols flare across the threat board.
I tense, preparing for the worst, but the aerial robots take no notice and continue on their flight paths.
However unnecessary, we refrain from conversation as the ship passes between two of the formidable mechas.
Another uncomfortable moment arises when an AI battle drone, one of the types that almost bankrupted the nation, takes off from the airfield. Although worried, I stay calm, and the large craft flies in the opposite direction, concerned only with performing its mission to defend the homeland.
A few minutes later, wheat fields speed by the sides of the train. Soon, the last of the city disappears behind the horizon.
I let out a relieved breath and turn off the stealthy camouflage.
Jonathon sends a questioning stare, and I respond by pointing to the fuel indicator, which is down ten percent. “Staying optically invisible sucks down a lot of energy. We can only use it in case of emergency.”
After he nod
s, I punch up the map, searching for a suitable place to get him help.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Finding a care center. We need to get you fixed up.”
“I’m fine.”
“Those drugs were only temporary. You’re still bleeding internally, and someone’s gotta dig that bullet out.”
He shakes his head. “No, that can wait.”
“What’s more important than saving your life?”
“We need to head south and get to New Austin.”
I stare at him, incredulous.
He’s serious.
Forty-Two
“What?” I say in a voice that borders on obnoxious.
Jonathon takes a labored breath, gathering strength for an argument I’m sure I don’t want to have.
“We should head to New Austin.”
The place of my rebirth.
“You can’t be serious?”
“There’s something we need to get.”
“Victoria told me New Austin is under surveillance to protect the equipment that survived. Once we’re spotted, and we will be, they’ll send someone after us. We’ll never get away.”
He taps the center panel. “We have this.”
“This ship isn’t a cure-all.”
“If we could get out of New D.C. that easily, then we can do the same in New Austin.”
“We don’t have an infinite supply of fuel.”
“This is only a short side trip.”
I roll my eyes. “There might be scavengers and other seedy types running around the city. A million things could go wrong. What can possibly be worth that kind of risk?”
His lips purse as he wages an internal discussion. “I can’t tell you.”
Suddenly tired, I drag my hand down my face.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t want to go.”
“Can you tell me why?”
He shakes his head. “Just that it’s necessary.”
“Aren’t we done having secrets?”
“You’ll have to trust my judgment. This is essential for your survival in this world.”
I frown at the choice of words. “You need medical care.”
