by A W Wang
Everything is a shit-show.
The computer matches the symbol for our ship against the much faster movement of our attackers.
After working out the math, I grimace. We can’t cross the border before the fighters get within range to pinpoint our position.
Tremors run down the fuselage. The red status of the crippled area grows as more of the energy-absorbing surface flakes away.
I grit my teeth.
Ten sigmas find a way…
Jonathon points at a side text screen. “They’re communicating with the ground assets ahead. We’re not going to make it.”
“They don’t have a lock yet,” I reply, angling the ship downward to hug the landscape and limit our detection distance to the bases.
Although the tactic also limits the maneuvering we can do to escape the fighters…
But only if we’re spotted.
The beiges and browns of Texas rise quickly and I level, banking to skirt a fold in the mostly flat terrain.
“Be careful.” Jonathon points at the map. “We’re coming up on the interior defense ring.”
My memory provides information on the overlapping laser fields. The flying is going to be tricky because if any of the bases see us, we’re not in any position to handle more trouble.
“Dammit,” I say to the world.
I’m not really a pilot…
“Computer,” I say hurriedly before I can change my mind. “Autopilot engage. Fly an evasive course past the defense network.”
“Engaging…” the AI replies.
As paranoia from the traffic collision that mangled my leg grips me, the claustrophobia of being cocooned in the tiny cabin rumbles down my spine. My breaths shorten as the panic of not being able to influence the battle creeps into my rational thoughts.
No wonder ten sigmas like Samantha hate being in these things.
The display outlines a new flight path, slightly different from the one I would have taken. But in this case, meters matter.
I grit my teeth as the craft jerks from violent course changes to take advantage of sparse trees and tall outcroppings.
The first defense bases fall to our rear without any untoward activity, but…
“Incoming,” the AI announces.
Laser bolts, which the displays show as red spears flying past the wings and tail, erupt from the fighters.
G-forces shove us into the seats as the craft climbs to increase our defensive options.
My fingers curl, the knuckles whitening, as I suppress an urge to retake control of my destiny.
Electromagnetic chaff—tiny spheres packed with electronics to mimic the EM output of our wounded ship—pop from launch tubes behind the cockpit. As the countermeasure activates, the electronic signatures of multiple stealth ships materialize in the surrounding air.
The fighters shift their aim and pepper the new targets.
I scarcely have time to feel relief before the tall gray spire of a defense base appears over the horizon.
To avert further detection, the craft descends and banks hard. A moment later, we reverse to avoid narrowing the distance to the pursuing fighters by too much. As if to heighten the precarious nature of our situation, the AI fires off another volley of electromagnetic chaff.
A sudden tilt slams Jonathon against the side hatch. He grimaces and clenches his teeth, fighting the pain.
Before I can reach for the med pack, we go into more wild evasions to get past a shallow range of hills.
The maneuvering bleeds precious speed, and the AI levels the ship to increase our velocity at the cost of making us an easier target.
A laser clips the starboard wing as we clear the inner defense ring. Although the computer stabilizes the shudders from the new damage, a red flag blossoms over the status board.
“Structural integrity compromised,” the AI says and stops accelerating.
Jonathon glances fearfully at me.
I return a shrug.
We’re going to die or we aren’t.
Wounded and leaking a trail of smoke, the craft heads toward the outer defense line with the border a bare thirty kilometers beyond.
Another alarm goes off as missiles leave the fighters, the seeker heads designed to get close enough to negate any electronic decoys.
Our optical camouflage engages as an outer defense base appears in our path. Sparks leaking from the damaged wing ruin the overall effect, but I cross my fingers, hoping that ninety-seven percent effectiveness is as good as one-hundred.
The kilometer-wide, gray circle balloons over the next twenty seconds. Inside the walls are buildings housing power sources and computers. Protective lasers in turrets sit atop fortified towers. In the center, looming over everything, is a single spire, whose sole purpose is to detect intruders like our little gray stealth craft.
A dialog erupts on a flat screen as the AI negotiates our identity with the base IFF. It’s a losing battle because an alert has already been sent from the airborne warning drone.
The lasers swivel, tracking us.
It’s do-or-die time.
I yank on the controls and twist, tilting the craft so the intact part of the ship faces the base. The maneuver buys enough time for us to dip low and hug the terrain, avoiding the immediate danger from ground fire.
However, the change of direction allows the missiles to cut inside our track and close the distance.
I swerve, skidding the plane to avoid a tall ridge.
As we pass the outer defense ring, an electronic shriek blasts through the cockpit, warning the missiles have acquired a lock on the craft.
To add to the overall misery, the fighters launch a second wave.
I set the ship straight and open up the throttle, just trying to get beyond the border where the fighters will have to stop their pursuit.
Tremors run up and down the wings and fuselage as turbulence threatens to tear us apart.
The electronic screams continue as we cross into the Southern Badlands.
While the fighters pull away, the missiles don’t.
The AI releases point-defense countermeasures, holo-chaff, which is designed to optically fool electronic brains. Balls pop out and holograms replicating the stealth ship expand in the nearby air.
Explosions fill our wake as the first barrage of missiles takes the bait.
I push the speed past the engine limits, compromising the heat dampeners.
The final set of four contrails dives toward us.
While the shaking ruins the remaining stealth ability of the ship, I bank and order the AI to launch every last countermeasure.
Initially, it works. The first two missiles corkscrew wildly, chasing bogus targets in opposite directions.
Almost clear…
I pull up as the third streaks downward, racing after a ghost. A moment later, an explosion blows up a patch of brown under the ship.
The fourth flies past the remaining countermeasures and heads directly at us.
I yank the control stick, just as the warhead explodes.
Shrapnel slams into the craft, punching holes in Jonathon’s side of the cockpit. Air whistles as sunlight streams through busted displays. Alarms wail in the background while bright crimson stutters across the still working status panels.
Jonathon groans helplessly, and fresh blood leaks across his shirt.
I don’t have the time to check on him, the dying ship is enough to handle.
Long seconds pass as we rattle apart over the flattish terrain, bleeding smoke and speed.
While landing before the craft disintegrates would be the best option, I head toward mountains off to the west, hoping to get more distance from the border.
If we’re spotted in the open, we’re dead.
As the engine sputters and dies, I remind myself that staying in the air as long as possible is the least bad of a bunch of bad choices.
A shudder runs through the cockpit as we cross a tree line. With the last of the momentum, I gain altitude and
curve behind a long ridge.
When we’re safe from prying eyes, I look for a place to land.
The wing crumples, and the ground rises impossibly fast.
I lower the landing skis and desperately try to level the craft.
The tactic works for a moment. At the last second, the ship dips and spirals toward a hillside.
“Brace yourself,” I shout.
We plow into a rock-strewn slope, and brown waves of dirt spill over the windows. A boulder appears through the now open front cockpit and clips the blunt nose of the craft.
The jolt smashes my head into a hologram panel.
As sparks spew from the darkening displays, the craft cartwheels downward, leaking gray pieces over the hillside.
My spinning view of the world dims.
Forty-Six
Midway down the hillside, the wild tumbling stops.
I blink and shake my head to get rid of the cobwebs, struggling to reorient myself. My fingertips come away bloody after I wipe hair from my eyes.
Great.
Smoke leaks into the cockpit from the punctured panels on the passenger side.
Even better.
I pop my harness.
Jonathon groans, barely conscious and deathly pale.
Frightened by his new injuries, I unlock the hatch and kick off the entrance panel. A wall of heat from the burning engine hits me after I jump out.
With little time, I drag Jonathon from the cockpit. Loose dirt threatens my purchase on the steep slope as I carry him to safety. When unsettling pops come from the blaze, I rush and set him behind a nearby boulder.
It’s not a moment too soon.
The ship flares, and a bright flash erupts from the fuel cells. White and yellow streaks of burning stealth material zip past and ricochet off the rocks.
I shield Jonathon and wait for the dust to settle. When I lift my head, a moan of frustration escapes from my lips.
The ship is a flaming, molten mess. Besides the ugly column of black smoke broadcasting our location, all the weapons and survival gear are just another part of the charred wreckage scattered over the pebbly slope.
And the precious meds the doctor gave us.
Jonathon coughs blood and phlegm. A widening pool of red stains his shirt. The crash piled on top of the wear and tear of our escape undid all the good from the hospital and then some.
“Don’t try to talk,” I say, ripping cloth from his leg.
After I tie strips around the fresh cuts across his chest and side, hoping to stop the bleeding or at least the stuff leaking on the outside, he says with a distant voice, “I’m not going to make it.”
To save anyone, it’s important to keep their spirits up. I smile, saying, “Sure you will. We’ll find another hospital.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
“This is the real world. You can’t just go win the scenario and have me magically stuffed into a healthy body.”
While I want to respond, I can only tighten my lips and accept the truth of the words.
“You still have to get to New Austin,” he says in raspy syllables.
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re fresh out of stealth ships. Even if I could get in, there’s no way to leave without a posse of ten sigmas on my trail.”
He takes a labored breath. “You’re a ten sigma too. A winner of the toughest program any nation has ever devised. In the best body our scientists could create.”
Given the situation, his confident attitude in my abilities only grates on my nerves.
“So are the other ten sigmas, and there are more of them,” I reply. “And they have more experience in the real world, not to mention they’ve got battle-mesh and are backed by the total resources of the United States of America. And what if Victoria decides to send two or three? Along with a company of those mind-wipes?”
He sighs, and although he grimaces, the expression is more from weariness than pain.
“What was your last scenario like? The one that put you over ten sigmas and sent you back here?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Humor me.”
I roll my eyes. “Some of the scientists running the program were using criminals to create composites of human beings to be ten sigmas. The worst of the worst.”
“Syd?”
“How do you know that name?”
“From your records.”
“Yes, Syd and a whole bunch just like him or trying to be just like him,” I say, remembering the corrupting influences of the blue liquid.
“And you were at nine sigmas?”
“If you know all the facts, why do you need me to repeat them?”
With gritted teeth, he pushes himself up and leans his head against the boulder. “Just humor me.”
“Yes, I had just passed nine sigmas and…” The image of Suri cutting her throat flashes in my mind, and I grimace. “Something happened, and I was thrown outside of the system. I made a deal with the scientists who ran the virtual universe. One battle, me on one side against Syd and all his kind on the other.”
“A million-to-one chance?”
“Probably worse,” I reply softly.
“And what happened?”
“I won.”
He frowns.
“Do we need to go into the details?”
“No, I guess not.”
I match his frown with one of my own. “So what was the point of that exercise?”
“Do you know how other ten sigmas graduate?”
“We all fight until we reach ten sigmas.”
“Not the parameters. I mean the nuts and bolts.”
“I don’t get your reasoning. We win every scenario.”
“A lot of being a great fighter is the situational awareness required in battle. And how to process all the details.” A long, tired breath leaves his mouth. “In those ways, you’re alike with the other ten sigmas. But… they won a series of battles. In reality, it only takes a few fights to establish that you’ve got whatever it is. From that point on, it’s a matter of having the consistency and luck to get through the rest of the program. For them, the last ten or hundred scenarios were probably rote.”
“You make the whole thing sound easy.”
He sighs. “No, it’s the opposite. Surviving a single scenario is incredibly tough. To do it consistently requires a great fighter that never lets up.”
“Wonderful, I have no idea of where this is leading.”
“The others probably went from nine to ten sigmas in thirty or forty battles. You did it in one.”
I shrug.
“Don’t you get it? You’re the only one who has faced those odds and won. And Syd? He’s every bit as formidable as anyone who made it. Technically, with his scores from the final battle before you killed him, he was already over ten sigmas.”
My lips tighten. I only beat Syd because I got him to hesitate at the crucial moment.
When I don’t supply anything further, Jonathon says, “You’ll find a way to win because it’s in your nature.”
I snort. “I’m glad I’ve got your confidence.”
Instead of answering, he slumps against the rock.
“Jonathon?” I say, shaking his shoulders.
His eyes open, and he stares at me for a long moment.
Brushing back loose strands of hair, I return a questioning glance.
“30578A.”
“What?”
“That’s the confirmation ID you were given when you joined the program. You were the highest-rated person I ever downloaded.”
In the hospital cubicle, Mr. Leader, Ms. Lawyer, and Mr. Scientist were the representatives of the Ten Sigma Program.
“You were the scientist?” I say, more than a little surprised.
He weakly touches his forehead. “I had more hair back then, and I was a lot happier.”
I think back and remember him and his silly look of r
everence when he put the metal band over my head. The thought makes me smirk. “It’s a small world.”
“You’ve changed.”
“I was dying when you saw me.”
“No, it’s not that. There were healthy pictures of you in the files. You look nothing like you did before. You’re taller. And ridiculously beautiful. Why would they give you such a different appearance?”
In the virtual universe, everyone’s appearance was based on an idealized version of their real-world self.
Except me.
“This,” I say, gesturing to my face and body, “was explained as something I needed to grow into.”
He falls into silent contemplation, his eyes dimming.
“You still have that envelope?” he says abruptly.
I push my hand into my pocket and touch the paper. “Yes.”
“Before I deleted the computer core, I initiated a process. The directions inside will take you to where there’s something waiting. Something you’ll need if you want to survive.”
“Thanks,” I say softly.
A long sigh leaves his lips. “No, thank you.”
“You’re not done yet. Don’t quit on me.”
He grimaces, gathering his remaining strength. “You don’t understand. Over the years and for the sake of the country, I put a lot of people into that hellhole, knowing what was in store for them. While I was never happy about doing it, I rationalized they didn’t have any choice.” A dark look crosses his face. “At least, most didn’t…”
“Jonathon?”
“Sorry, something just popped into my head.”
“What?”
“It’s not important.” A smile forms on his lips. “You’re the first one to ever come back. Thanks for making all that effort worthwhile.”
“That’s why you stayed and disobeyed orders?”
His head lolls, and I shake him, trying to keep him conscious.
Once more, his eyes focus. “You need to learn how to make allies, and you don’t have a lot of time.”
“Diplomacy isn’t one of my strengths.”
“Keep growing,” he says in barely a whisper.
“I’ll try.”
When he doesn’t respond, I twist his head. “Jonathon?”
He can’t answer. The life has faded from his eyes.
Forty-Seven
