Echoes: The Ten Sigma Series Book 3

by A W Wang

  After we reach the courtyard, she faces me. “Okay, what?”

  I point to a secluded nook with two low chairs. “In there?”

  Shaking her head because the location doesn’t matter to her, she stalks from the dim sunlight and into the confined space.

  When I enter, I say, “Let’s sit and talk this through.”

  Instead of being agreeable, she folds her arms, adopting a rigid posture.

  Great.

  Not wanting to speak uphill, I remain standing too.

  “We survived together, and that has to mean something, right?”

  Her eyes flare. “Do not start again with that two scenario nonsense.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t speak. Let me finish,” she says, unfolding her arms to jab an index finger in my face. “The two of us surviving together is luck. All luck. You are the least talented person I’ve ever seen. In fact, so bad that you’re more like a magnet for bullets and swords than anything resembling a fighter. How you’ve survived for this long is one of the more amazing things I’ve seen in this universe.”

  Her hands are positioned to strangle me as she finishes.

  I wait for her fury to ebb before attempting a reply.

  When she folds her arms again, I start. “As far as talent, you’re right. I’ve been wounded more than anyone has any right to be, but I’m still alive with a 3.18 score.” Thinking of Lan’s backhanded compliment, I continue, “Because I’m resilient. It might not seem like a lot, but I’m still here, and that counts for something.

  “And maybe, if you take some time making me and some others better, we could all survive longer.”

  The anger in her eyes fades, and Cat takes a step backward. In a softer tone, she replies, “How many times do you want to get close to people who can be butchered at any time? The hurt is worse than any benefit. I don’t need that guilt slowing me down. It’d take a pretty special set of people to reach the kind of teamwork you’re talking about. Remember, the nature of this program is individuality. Any teamwork is temporary. Hell, from what I remember, the real world is pretty temporary.” A sigh leaves her lips. “Not that I didn’t try to make things different.”

  Surprisingly, the last sentence is spoken in barely more than a whisper. I’ve never considered she would have any other speeds besides angry and angrier.

  Her eyes lift to meet mine, and the vulnerability disappears. In an icy tone, she finishes, “So, forgive me for not wanting to join your weird fantasies about what the Ten Sigma Program should be like.”

  “I need to survive but not for myself.” I pause, searching through what’s left of my memories. “I’m here because…” Nothing comes, so I let my thoughts spill out. “There’s someone I have to find. Someone important. Someone with”—I look at my forearm and say with triumph—“red hair!”

  Instead of sharing the good mood, Cat shakes her head and exits the tiny space.

  Thinking of the hand of Death waiting beyond my peripheral vision, I rush after her.

  Cat twists away when I touch her shoulder, and I resort to blocking her path to make one final plea. “Just tell me why you won’t get close to anyone.”

  “I told you.”

  “That’s not a reason. If training someone even works once, then all the effort is worth it. People survive this program. Why not us?”

  “Get this into your thick head. This training thing won’t happen. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  “You might not agree with what I’m saying, but nothing you’re saying makes any sense. Train me, spend time trying to save our stories. If I die, then you’re just back at the same place you are now.”

  Cat steps to edge past me, and I move to stay between her and the foyer.

  “What are you afraid of? Some kind of sentimentality?”

  While rage fills her eyes, she holds my gaze and slowly says, “If you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to break up the team. That’s how sentimental I am. So, keep out of my way and don’t get me killed. Are we finished now?”

  A moment passes before I blink. One good teammate is better than no good teammates. Reluctantly, I step aside.

  She marches by and out of the museum without a backward glance.

  I push my face into my hands, exasperated.

  One good teammate won’t be enough.

  The next time the shadowy fingers appear, Death will win.

  Twenty-Six

  After the golden sparkles fade, seawater sprays over my face.

  I wipe stinging salt from my eyes and examine the new environment, which my resignation tells me will be my last.

  A square sail covered by red and green stripes creaks in the soft breeze. On the swaying deck, twenty of us stand, dressed in furs and loose leather armor. Past the side rails, two identical ships with curved dragon-headed prows and raised sterns plow through gentle swells, paralleling our course.

  When I glance over my shoulder, spokes of morning sunlight poke through a patchy set of clouds.

  The tranquil scenery does nothing to defeat my overwhelming sense of dread.

  “I guess we’re Vikings heading west on a raid,” I say to Cat.

  “Who cares?” she says, pushing away from me.

  I blow out a sigh, wondering how and when Death’s fingers will appear in the coming battle.

  Metal clinks as my other shipmates congregate near the center of the deck, selecting their arms from wooden racks filled with medieval weapons.

  Everyone has the same chances.

  The drop of optimism spoils my glumness, and I decide to fight my preordained fate. After marching past the edge of the crowd, I grab a short sword and shield. For additional security, I tuck a couple of knives into my fur-lined boots.

  An oversized wave slams into the ship, and the rolling deck knocks someone into me.

  I clutch at the side rail. “Watch it!”

  A giant oaf with a cleft chin stops and twists his head. While his blank, beady eyes bore through me, huge blocky teeth appear as his wide smile broadens. “Meat,” he says.

  Mesmerized by the strange gap between his front teeth, I straighten, searching for a hidden meaning in the bizarre utterance.

  “Don’t mind him,” a sweet voice says from behind me.

  A green-eyed girl steps between us. Strangely, her shoulder-length blonde hair ends with a dusting of metallic purple.

  My eyes widen as she grins. Even for the perfect people of the virtual world, she’s stunning.

  “We didn’t get a chance to meet in the ready room. You were the guy holding his hands in front of his face,” she says in a chiding tone. “I’m Jet.”

  Still stunned by her beauty, I cough out, “Vic.”

  Jet gestures at the oaf. “And he’s Block.”

  Block turns from a tall rack, his beefy hands gripping a massive war hammer and giant hide-bound shield.

  The tiny sword and shield I’m holding suddenly feel inadequate, and my shoulders wilt.

  “Meat,” he says in greeting.

  I frown. No hidden meaning lurks beneath the one-word vocabulary.

  The wind rises, stretching the rigging and filling the sail. Wood groans as the ship leaps ahead, curving to starboard.

  Jet steadies herself by grabbing my arm and resting her other hand against my chest.

  My heart pounds as the mission objective arrives.

  Kill everyone or capture the flag past the village.

  Jubilantly, Jet lets go of me and dashes forward, shouting, “I love these rape and pillage scenarios!”

  More than a little curious, I follow the beautiful girl.

  She laughs when a wave blasts over the dragon prow and showers her in seawater. As the ship adjusts northward toward a nearby shoreline, sunlight leaks past the sail and glistens in the droplets covering her horned-helmet. Coupled with her innocent face, the combination makes her seem more of a cute caricature than a warrior thirsting to kill every living thing at our destination.

  I st
ep next to her and lean over the side for a better view.

  The wind gusts, accelerating us toward a group of thatched huts just beyond the lip of a pebbled beach. Dressed as fishermen, the sixty from the other side run by a huge bonfire, gathering weapons and pulling on armor.

  As the distance narrows, Block shoulders past me to join Jet.

  When I scowl at his back, Jet sends a mischievous smile, her eyes alight with anticipation.

  Our opponents launch a ragged shower of arrows.

  As the lethal cloud descends, I duck behind the raised wooden railing.

  Jet giggles but doesn’t move. At the last second, Block steps forward and raises his massive shield.

  Arrows thud into thick hide and wood.

  Moments later, the ship crashes into the shore, grinding over pebbles and lurching to a halt.

  I tumble into the freshly vacated bow.

  By the time I push myself off the sopping deck, Jet and Block are charging past the surf, hollering war cries as the other ships empty. Lacking their exuberance, I follow by twisting over the railing and flopping into knee-high water.

  A wave plows into my back, knocking me forward. Soaked, I sputter out seawater and stumble, struggling to find my footing in the undertow.

  With barely a splash, Cat gracefully lands nearby and sprints through the foam and up the beach.

  Jealous of her general dexterity and skills, I push my hands on my thighs and stand, taking deep breaths to steady myself.

  While the receding undercurrent trickles past my ankles, clashes of metal ring.

  As the screams of the dying start, I force away the questions of my own mortality and run from the water and onto the pebbles.

  The aggressive attack has created a broken line of fighting stretched in front of the huts. Although I give Jet props for her audacity, the unsound, uncoordinated strategy has enemies leaking around the flanks and threatening our rear.

  Ten steps away, a wiry man wearing a gray fisherman outfit whirls a mace and sends it into the back of a teammate. The poor woman groans and falls onto the tufts of grass.

  I charge at him, drawing my sword.

  At the last instant, he blocks my overhand slash with a round shield. Then the spiky mace head twirls and comes at my nose.

  I duck and thrust.

  The man instantly reverses the mace to swing at my thighs.

  I send my shield down.

  The impact reverberates up my arm, knocking me off-balance.

  Not allowing any respite, he follows with more strikes, the spiky ball flying at me from all directions.

  Swinging my sword and shield, I give ground, somehow escaping the flurry without injury. Then my feet slip on wet pebbles, and a spike clips my helmet with a loud ding.

  In desperation, I shove my shield forward and swipe at his knee.

  He jumps back and circles with a hungry stare.

  The lull is only momentary.

  A taller woman wearing a fierce countenance and wielding a short ax joins him.

  With little chance against one foe, let alone two, my feet twitch as I evaluate my options. Running would be best, but I can’t leave the rear of the line unguarded.

  They attack, the mace head and ax blade flashing wildly in the brightening sunshine.

  I stand my ground, whirling my sword and shield in wild blocks.

  At least for a moment.

  A blow knocks me backward. As my feet slide on the pebbles, a giant overhand swing from the mace thumps on my shield, buckling my legs. The ax flies at my knees, but just in time, I regain my balance and leap away.

  They sense weakness and redouble their attacks, driving me toward the water.

  When a wave washes foam past my boots, I lash out, slamming my shield against a strike from the mace and thrusting my sword. The attack lasts for an instant before I have to whirl and block the ax.

  The impact drives me to a knee.

  I counter by flailing my blade at the two pairs of feet.

  Even though the assault pauses, it’s only a temporary solution. My enemies separate, circling to either side and forcing me to split my attention between them.

  The mace comes at my head and I twist, a spike missing my cheek by a millimeter. Then a heavy blow from the ax shatters my shield.

  I tumble into receding water as the mace flies past.

  The two follow, ready to hack and pound the life from me, while I shove with my feet, pushing against wet stones, trying to get away.

  A monster swing of the ax knocks the sword from my hand, the rattle of metal against the pebbles proclaiming my imminent death.

  Not surrendering to fate that easily, I reach into my boot and throw one of my knives.

  Amazingly, the blade sinks into the man’s thigh.

  He winces, groaning in more frustration than pain.

  When I toss the other knife at the woman, she shifts and laughs as it sails past her head.

  Now weaponless, I clutch at the pebbles, flinging them off their shields.

  With gritted teeth and a grin of pure malice, the man leaps with his mace raised high for the deathblow.

  Metal glints in the sunlight, and a slender but ferocious girl with purple-tipped hair flies in and stabs him in the face.

  Jet.

  Blood spews from his mouth and neck as the mace clatters onto the beach. A moment later, his limp body follows.

  Before the woman can attack her new opponent, the massive form of Block thunders into view. The gigantic hide-bound shield slams through a puny ax stroke and crashes into her chest, stunning her. Then a wide swing of his war hammer smashes her to the ground and for good measure takes out another charging enemy.

  And just like that, the storm of battle around me stills.

  Block is much faster and stronger than he looks.

  “Meat,” Block says.

  Also, perhaps not as smart.

  As reinforcement for the last thought, Block swings his war hammer into the mortally wounded woman with a wet thump.

  “Pound the meat, cleave the meat, eat the meat,” he chants to the rhythm of the hammer smashing into her prone body. As the squishy sounds turn into the crunching of gore-laden pebbles, I turn away.

  Jet walks over and extends a bleeding arm.

  I let her pull me to my feet and say, “Let me fix that wound.”

  She laughs, tugging at a bloody sleeve. “This little cut? I haven’t got the time.” She turns to Block. “Come on!”

  The oaf flashes his blocky-toothed smile and shakes the red-stained head of his war hammer before running after Jet.

  With unfocused eyes, I stare at the pulped form of the woman washing into the surf.

  “Vic!”

  Cat’s shout yanks me from the awful thoughts.

  Although I’ll probably die, in maybe as horrible a fashion as the bloodstain in front of me, I’m not going to cower. I reach over and grab the short ax. Then sucking down angry breaths, I bolt up the beach and follow Cat into the battle.

  As we dash past the many dead strewn in grotesque poses around the huts, the action shifts inland.

  Jet leads a charge toward the bonfire with a mad-swinging Block protecting her rear. Behind her, the horde of Vikings rolls onward, a tsunami of flashing metal and shrieking war cries, slaughtering any-and-all opposition.

  My side is winning decisively.

  Shocked by the news, I help Cat kill a straggler then trot past more mangled bodies to the last remnant of the fighting.

  Near the crackling flames, only two of the enemies remain upright, a tall man staggering from a wounded leg and a shorter woman nursing a bloody arm.

  As Cat joins the waiting crowd, Jet waves everybody off and dashes at the man. What the waifish girl lacks in size, she makes up for in quickness and ferocity. When the woman moves to help, Block thunders at her, shouting, “Meat.”

  The man blunts Jet’s initial attack, and they slash at each other, battering only their shields. In Block’s brawl, a massive swing des
troys the woman’s shield then the back-strike crushes her rib cage. Blood spews from her mouth as she falls. Then instead of helping Jet or pancaking his dead opponent, Block stands idly, splattered by maroon droplets, his face a blank.

  As I walk to the final duel, the wind shifts, blowing smoke into my path.

  Jet stabs the man, wounding him in the stomach. He sinks to a knee.

  As I squint from the stinging air, I say, “Let’s go touch the obelisk.”

  She fixes a wide-eyed stare on me. Even dusted with soot and streaked with blood, her face remains angelically beautiful. “What? And miss the killing?” she says incredulously.

  The injured man pushes himself to his feet and raises his weapon.

  Jet responds to the bravado by unleashing a flurry of sword strokes and kicks him into the bonfire. A cloud of sparks erupts over his twisting body as he shrieks in agony. When he tries to get out, Block smashes him back into the flames, impaling the poor soul on a burning ember.

  As the man’s flesh shrivels and blackens, screams leak from his contorted lips.

  A broad smile creases Jet’s face while Block raises his war hammer in triumph. “Meat!”

  With a snort of disgust, Cat walks away.

  I stay, unable to turn from the grisly sight.

  An emptiness consumes my insides as the sounds of agony fade. A few moments later, only the soft pops of embers disturb the silence.

  When the golden sparkles appear, I glance down, surprised.

  There isn’t a single scratch on my body.

  The prep room materializes, and I stare in amazement. For the first time in my experience, the semicircle is full. And also for the first time, because I survived uninjured, I spend the acclimation period watching others adjust from their wounds.

  I could get used to this.

  While studying the brightening faces, I try to figure out what’s changed. Even my most optimistic self doesn’t believe my efforts had any bearing on the team’s success. In truth, my new teammates Jet and Block did the heavy lifting. And of course, Cat, who returns my gaze by rolling her eyes and angling away.

  Jet stands and runs to Block, giving him a hug. Strangely, they are both only 3.21 sigmas. However, aside from Cat’s 3.45, the two have the highest scores on the team.