Renegade: The Ten Sigma Series Book 2

by A W Wang

  After placing the last of the fist-sized stones on the pile, I step back. The rudimentary covering will protect Jonathon from carrion, but the rushed effort doesn’t seem like enough.

  I sigh, switching my gaze to the crests of the nearby hills. In this sequestered location, everything looks gray in the shadow of the fading sunlight.

  This anemic view and these crappy rocks are the best I can do.

  The smoke rising from the remains of the ship makes dawdling a bad idea, but I spend a moment attempting a eulogy.

  “To the person…,” I mumble. My thoughts race for something substantial to announce to the uncaring landscape. When nothing comes, I spit out, “To the person, who despite every difficulty, did his best to bring me”—I shake my head—“who did his best to bring something positive into this world.”

  I chew on a thumbnail. Instead of continuing with my last words for him, I think of his advice for me.

  “You need to learn how to make allies, and you don’t have a lot of time.”

  Even though my past is back, I was never an orator or diplomat—quite the opposite, in fact. Contrary to his confidence in my abilities, I’ll never grow into any of those skills anytime soon.

  Being a ten sigma isn’t so special when your enemies are ten sigmas clad in battle-mesh, being directed by a jacket whose specialty is strategy.

  Ten sigmas win battles, while Victoria wins wars.

  I cup my hands over my face.

  “What will you do?” I whisper to the rock pile.

  No freaking idea.

  It’s not in anyone’s DNA to defeat the total strength Victoria can bring to bear.

  A rumble reverberates between the slopes, and dust rises over the shallow hill marking the end of the ravine.

  I send the piss-poor burial mound a final glance and rush to the cover of the boulder. Without weapons, I’m not sure how I’ll handle an assault.

  Speeders, advanced motorcycles with sleek frames and tall tires that configure to any terrain, rumble around the bend in a wedge formation, trailing long clouds of gray.

  My muscles tense as I search the vicinity for any advantage. Besides rocks and bits of burned stealth ship, very little is available.

  After three small trucks follow, a flatbed trailer comes into view—full of chained people in ragged clothing.

  I breathe easier as the final vehicle, a technical, appears past the shallow slope. This isn’t an organized military force, let alone something that would be led by a ten sigma. These marauders saw the crash and are no doubt coming to scavenge the ship and add to their human cargo.

  As the caravan approaches, I walk down the slope and study the vicinity, memorizing each nook that can provide cover, every rock that can be used as a weapon, and any other feature that might affect a battle.

  When I reach level ground, I march to a narrowing of the ravine, where the bordering slopes steepen, and wait.

  The lead element stops ten meters away, spanning the width between the hillsides. The technical, a pickup with a long-barreled machine gun and the most dangerous vehicle in the group, attempts to maneuver into a flanking position on my left. After failing to drive up the inhospitable incline, the driver decides on a location just past a pinch in the hill, leaving the gunner tilted with a restricted field of fire.

  When the dust settles and the machines quiet, eight men dressed in worn army fatigues step forward and draw an array of rifles and pistols. Another three guard the human cargo in the open-backed trailer, while the four drivers remain in their places.

  Including the two in the pickup, I face seventeen combatants with bulging muscles and glowing tattoos. From their stances, I guess few if any have military experience. None is augmented, and their patchwork armor vulnerable around the throat and head areas.

  The leader, a broad-shouldered man in black leather gear, steps forward, leering at the curve my breasts make in the maintenance outfit. He pulls down his grimy riding scarf and sends a wide smile that looks sinister on his scarred face.

  I return a smirk, flexing my fingers while eyeing his nice new speeder.

  He yanks out a shiny .45 caliber pistol, holding a jumbo magazine, and waves to the others to watch for traps.

  The two mistakes have already won me the battle.

  While the outriders scan to the sides for an ambush, Mr. In-Charge approaches, brandishing his weapon.

  A guilty thought sputters through my planning. A ten sigma can’t truly function while burdened by another. The ease of the coming fight is only possible because all my companions are gone.

  Mr. In-Charge misreads my consternation, saying, “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll be gentle.”

  “Who cares?” I reply with a shrug. “You’re already dead. Your bodies just don’t know it yet.”

  His eyes widen with suspicion, and he stops.

  It’s too late and too bad for him. I rocket inside his guard and whip my knuckles into his throat, crushing his windpipe.

  Helpless gurgles spill from his mouth as I twist the gun from his hand and wrap his body to one side as a shield. While the bewildered men process the turn of events, I blast the four to the right with headshots.

  Bodies crunch onto the gravel before the stunned survivors react, turning and raising their weapons.

  I toss the dying leader into the nearest man still standing as the long gun from the technical opens up. With quick steps, I’m outside the limited firing arc.

  The barrel swivels downward, attempting to follow me. Ricocheting rounds blast around the three remaining men from the leading wedge while I duck behind a truck.

  A door slams, and a panicked driver runs by.

  I yank on his hair and smash my newly acquired pistol into his jaw, twisting his neck with an awful crack.

  Heavy steps lumber from behind the grime-covered vehicle.

  I roll past the rear fender, firing upward and into an outrider’s throat.

  The next vehicle down the line fires up its engine, the scruffy-haired driver trying to escape.

  My shots plow through the windshield, splattering his face.

  He falls onto the wheel and the horn blares.

  When the technical stops shooting, I maneuver to the other side of the truck, keeping watch for the remaining drivers and guards.

  As the shooter fumbles loading in a fresh belt, I step out and blast him in the head. Another round blows through the driver’s chest as he tries to exit the cabin.

  Footsteps crunch, and I turn to shoot an outrider who’s hobbled by a stray hit from the technical.

  At this range, my bullet goes through his mostly ceremonial helmet. Before he slumps to the ground, wild shots bounce between the metal sides of the larger cars.

  I jump sideways and rush up the slope near the technical. In a second, I gun down the remaining man from the speeder wedge and roll to the side, taking out the last two drivers with rounds to the throat and head.

  Only the three guarding the captives remain.

  As I get to my feet and march toward the end of the column, screams come from the prisoners. Oddly, they aren’t from fright, but ones laced with fury.

  At the second truck, I pause and yank the dead driver from the cabin. The shrieking horn stops.

  One of the guards stumbles past, his clothing ripped and his hand clutching at a slice across his gut. A passel of women in dirty, wrinkled outfits trail after him.

  With pistol ready, I head to the flatbed and leap onto the metal flooring. Besides several long chains and puddles of maroon leaking from two dead guards with grisly stab wounds, the wide space is empty.

  I hop to the ground.

  The last marauder struggles up the steep hillside while angry women surround him, clawing and kicking at his twisting form. He falls to the pebbly slope, mumbling for mercy. For him, there is none from his former cargo.

  I head to the commotion and pull people away, trying to be gentle. When anyone resists, I grip harder and toss the person aside, much like a child would m
ove a rag doll. After I clear space around the injured man, the crowd glares at me.

  With a neutral expression, I stare at the dirty, abused faces, wondering if any of them was someone I could have helped in New Austin.

  A woman in a torn and filthy business suit steps forward.

  “Stay back,” I say quietly.

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  When I don’t answer, the man at my feet screams, “You have no idea of who you’re dealing with. You don’t want us as your enemies.”

  I ask him, “Were you in New Austin?”

  He nods and tries to roll up.

  I look back at the woman in the suit and shoot him in the chest.

  The crowd noises stop, leaving only the dying echo of the gunshot. As silence hangs over us, the angry postures fade from the unexpected violence.

  A teenage girl with matted brown hair wretches while others avert their gaze.

  Robbed of her revenge, the woman in the business suit stomps away.

  I follow her past the wedge of parked speeders, where she kicks Mr. In-Charge across his dead face. When that’s not enough, she kneels and yanks out his knife.

  As she hacks at his body, I reach her. “You don’t want to do that.”

  She sends a wild-eyed stare then leans over and saws at his hair, struggling to scalp him.

  I study the blood splattered over her face, reminded of face-painters like Syd. To be like them, all she would have to do is drag her finger down her cheeks to create some patterns.

  “This is a path you don’t want to follow. You’ll wind up in a place you don’t want to be.”

  “You don’t know what these savages did.”

  I use my forearm to brush her back. “He’s already dead.” Calmly, I eject the spent magazine from my pistol and grab a fresh one from the body.

  As I reload, she raises the knife, ready to strike him or anything in her path.

  With a blank expression, I send a shot into the dead man’s face. The large-caliber round at such a close range leaves only fragments of teeth, jagged bones, and pulped tissue. To emphasize my point, I empty the rest of the bullets into him. Although his body jerks and blood splatters, he doesn’t complain.

  A girl, barely more than a child, steps nearby. Others follow. Some radiate smoldering rage, while more than a few stare with hollow eyes.

  I turn back to the woman and say, “They need you to set an example, and you need to get them to safety.”

  Blinking back fury, she glares before shifting her gaze to the rest of the group. Moisture wells in her eyes, and a moment later, she breaks down, weeping.

  I pry the knife from her grasp, wishing I had done more during the fighting in New Austin but not understanding how I could have done anything with Jonathon and Victoria in tow.

  The mission was the mission.

  Others brush past, moving to comfort the sobbing woman.

  With tight lips, I step to the side, yearning for the days in the virtual universe with its wooden, emotionless non-combatants.

  From where the land flattens at the edge of the ravine, I stand in the final reds of twilight and watch the trailer head north, frowning.

  Nothing from the program prepares one for the aftermath of a real-world battle. For a scenario, ten sigma participants fight and, if they succeed, return for a well-deserved rest and a sip of blue liquid. Nobody has to deal with the ramifications of their deeds nor the rehabilitation of those they’ve saved.

  I roll my eyes.

  Given the teachings of the threads, we’d be terrible at either.

  And I’d be the worst of all.

  In my prior life, I was a backroom accountant, while in my current life, my ten sigma training is specialized in individuality.

  When the trailing cloud of dust obscures the view of the newly freed, I turn away and wipe my face.

  Now, I’m alone as a ten sigma should be.

  They were, of course, from New Austin, taken by the first wave of attackers and subject to every form of abuse for days.

  While I sincerely hope they find friendly territory, where people like the doctor from Gray Rock will care for them, I refused their pleas to accompany them back to civilization.

  My future lies elsewhere.

  I let my gaze wander into the carnage-filled ravine.

  While the grays of dusk outline the tops of the hills, shadows have descended over the battlefield, swallowing the fallen in darkness. During the coming night, the bodies will be food for whichever hungry creature happens upon them first.

  It’s a pretty lame gesture for revenge, but no matter how evil they were, I’m glad I didn’t leave any of them wounded.

  Unhappy with the misguided compassion, I pick up a bag holding the best weapons I could procure from the dead men and march to my shiny new speeder. I have bigger, more immediate problems.

  The twenty women and teenagers heading north were friends but not the allies I need.

  They would just be extra baggage like…

  Midway up the hillside, pops and crackles come from the remains of the stealth ship. The faint light from the dying embers bathes the burial mound in flickers of orange.

  Nibbling on a thumbnail, I lift my eyes to the first stars appearing in the blackening sky and mull Jonathon’s advice.

  “You need to learn how to make allies, and you don’t have a lot of time.”

  I wrap a cloak over myself and march to the speeder where I jam a pulse rifle into a travel holster and stuff the side saddles with the rest of the arms and ammo. With growing trepidations, I sit behind the controls.

  After pulling a set of goggles onto my forehead and wrapping a riding scarf over my mouth and nose, I start the engine.

  The GPS display flares to life.

  As I stare at the map, plotting the journey ahead, my resolve falters.

  I pull out Jonathon’s envelope.

  The parchment looks fragile in the yellow glow of the instruments. It would be so easy to rip open to see if it’s worth risking my life for what’s in New Austin.

  I gave my word.

  My respect for his wishes overrides my fears. The moment of weakness passes, and I shove the paper back into my pocket.

  It’s time to meet my fate…

  However, as my finger hovers over the display, I hesitate to start the navigation.

  No matter how formidable I am, Victoria will send more than I can handle.

  I shift to neutral and suck down breaths, twisting the throttle.

  As the engine growls, the voice of the last marauder, the one I shot in the chest, echoes from the black shrouds gathering across the ravine.

  “You don’t want us as your enemies…”

  I wipe blood from the speedometer, thinking through the angry threat.

  Another moment passes before I realize the words are my salvation. Jonathon’s advice of making allies, while sound, isn’t right for me.

  I set my goggles and twist the vehicle to head south. My path is taking a detour, and whatever destiny is waiting for me in New Austin will need to wait a little longer.

  After shifting back into drive mode, I turn on the low beams and open up the throttle. As the wind blows through my hair, I yank down the riding scarf and let out a lopsided smile.

  “What will I do?” I ask the night. I raise my hands and holler, “Adapt and win!”

  While having diplomatic skills would be nice, they aren’t necessary. Because ten sigmas are trained for individuality, we don’t need teamwork.

  We thrive on chaos.

  And that is the key…

  While I may not be able to make friends, I can make enemies.

  I just need better ones.

  Forty-Eight

  Aside from minor inconveniences, the journey through the Southern Badlands passes swiftly. Although the terrain becomes increasingly hilly, my high-end speeder adjusts for the winding off-road paths.

  The few ambushes I encounter go poorly for the ambushers.

&nbs
p; However, the spiders caress my nape after I cross the Rio Grande. The disturbing sensation only worsens as I follow a tributary south and head into higher elevations.

  As the riverbed narrows, my wary eyes spot figures on the heightening cliffs. I adjust my speed and take advantage of twists in the river to force the watchers into making awkward movements to pursue. While these people have some talent, they’re hopelessly over-matched by my ten sigma abilities.

  By sunset, I’ve identified three individuals.

  The cat-and-mouse game continues until the first stars dot the darkening sky. When the river makes a sharp bend, I hurry ahead and push the speeder into a nook. With careful steps, I backtrack along the cliff wall and stop at a shallow crevasse.

  In the bluish wash of moonlight slicing between the night shadows, memories of my first scenario in the program surface. It was the Iwo Jima like island, and I was with my best friend Suri, whose confidence helped me get over the initial jitters of combat. While I want to forget about the virtual universe, I do miss the friends I had there.

  None of whom made it out.

  I force away the nostalgia and climb the steep slope, finding handholds with my fingertips. When I reach level ground, I dip into cover behind a nest of shrubs and attune my senses to the environment.

  Subtle movements come from shadows to the front. No doubt someone rushing to reacquire my position.

  I follow the fleeting form, drawing my knife. As my quarry edges to the lip of the cliff, I silently close the distance.

  When the figure leans to scan the bottom of the ravine, I grab a fistful of cloak and yank.

  The person, who is unmistakably male, flops to the ground. As he struggles, I raise my other hand, ready to plunge the knife into his neck.

  A familiarity tugs at me, and I hesitate, letting the bare metal glisten in the moonlight.

  “Wait,” a youthful voice blurts.

  I lower my weapon. The frightened face under me belongs to a teenager from New Austin. The one with the birthmark who I refused to shoot in the park.

  “Why are you here?” I whisper.

  He faces his palms toward me. “I only came to talk. I’m not armed.”