Ten Sigma

by A W Wang

  Except…

  From next to my foot, the stunning violet eyes of my last victim stare skyward.

  The part of me that was appalled by the violence lies mute. Perhaps my callousness derives from using the threads and allowing uncountable experiences of war to pollute my mind. Or perhaps my lack of morality results from the fractures spread across my memories.

  However, regardless of the reason, I respond to her unspoken recriminations with blankness, which is more troubling than the number of people I’ve just killed. Even though I had to keep my promise, the dead deserve better than a hollow stare.

  A savage howl cuts through my melancholy. A brutish man—bald, a head taller and half again heavier than myself—strides to the apex of the platform. His powerful arms flex as they raise a broken body over his gleaming head.

  I couldn’t have missed such an opponent.

  After the giant fixes his beady eyes on me, he bares his teeth and tosses his victim in my direction. The tumbling mass of flesh lands with a thump and slides down the shallow slope.

  When the macabre trophy stops short of my toes, I roar in defiance. Although severely injured, I limp forward to meet his challenge. It doesn’t matter where he came from, he’s going to die too.

  He’s upon me before I can react. A lightning punch cracks three ribs and punctures a lung.

  Wheezing, I lower my elbow to protect my damaged midsection.

  A hook arrives and obliterates my broken cheekbone, collapsing shredded flesh and bone splinters into my mouth.

  Hands covering my face, I give a pitiful moan. The huge man is incredibly strong and much faster.

  My leg cracks from a kick, and I’m lying on the platform. Agony screams from every part of my body. Dazed, I helplessly stare as his heel crashes into my broken ribs, shattering bones and shredding internal organs.

  As I tremble from the fresh injuries, he kneels next to me, grabbing my hair.

  Another weak moan pours from my lips as he yanks my head up. Then in quick succession, his meaty fist mashes twice into my broken face.

  The hand holding my hair releases its grip, and stunned by the brutality, I do nothing as my torso flops to the platform.

  Disoriented and blinking from the shock, I wait for my end, unable to move, only seeing the gray sky high above me.

  The hissing sounds of flesh being consumed by the rising acid grow louder.

  My eyes search wildly for the bald giant. He’s nowhere in sight, but shockingly, I’m more afraid of his return than I am of being horribly dissolved by a corrosive fluid.

  Long seconds pass and then my destroyed mouth emits a wail as the acid trickles under me, searing skin and tissue.

  I’m going to die.

  Eight

  My consciousness returns to electric tingles running over quivering muscles. My knees press into my breasts while my arms wrap around my ankles. I’m curled into a ball.

  After the strange sensation evaporates, a moment lapses before I realize the air is devoid of acidic undertones and nobody is stomping my life away.

  I brush my fingertips over my face, finding only smooth skin and intact bones. Miraculously, the gruesome injuries to my mouth and nose have been healed. Amazed but disbelieving the news, I move my hands down my pain-free body, verifying that everything is in a perfect state.

  I died.

  No, that isn’t right. I didn’t die. I was wounded and on the verge of dying, but just as the acid touched me, a wave of golden sparks filled my vision.

  And now, I’m here.

  Straightening my limbs, I roll onto my back and open my eyes to the same long, accentuated form.

  This is going to take getting used to…

  While I’m not naked, I’m not happy with what passes for clothing. It’s like underwear, only less. The band over my breasts resembles a strapless bra except thinner, showing too much over and under and made from a sheer black material so stretched it enhances the shape of everything underneath. The garment covering my bottom is similar although perhaps covering proportionately less area.

  I sigh. The style is minimalist to be sure.

  Beyond my feet, the new surroundings are different, peaceful. Instead of a coarse representation of a circular island, the new place is a cheery representation of a military barracks.

  I lie on the bottom mattress of a beige-colored bunk bed. Rows of the same indistinguishable and featureless metal frames sit to either side. Further away, mostly dull earth tones cover the curving wall and domed ceiling of the gigantic circular space. The overhead lights are off and the only illumination arrives from rectangles of sunlight pouring from small square openings cut into the top of the wall.

  A broken image of my cottage, painstakingly adorned with vintage furniture and exquisite antiques collected throughout the years with my husband comes to mind. When I examine things closer, my memory is still fractured and the label B243-R9860-000I-74N resides where my name should be.

  Silently, I recite the names of my loved ones.

  “Nick, Darla, Emily—”

  Hums fill the air while the other beds shake. When the rattling stops, every one of them holds a new individual.

  Terrified, I desperately search for the bald giant, whom I’m expecting to jump out and kill me at any moment.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  But none of the newcomers threaten, instead most rub their hands over their bodies like I did, probably checking for wounds that are now healed.

  I force aside the irrational fears. Part of me doesn’t believe the bald giant even existed because he certainly was far stronger than humanly possible.

  “Hello! My name is Haiku,” says a happy voice as a strawberry aroma cascades over the bed.

  Above me, a small girl floats in the aisle. Her glimmering silver hair stretches to her lower back, complimenting the sparkle in her silver eyes. Draped over her thin body is a simple dress woven from a fine silver material, the loose hem hanging below her knees. Streaks of dirt stain the bottoms of her bare feet, conforming to the earthy feel of the rest of the place.

  Her pleasant appearance juxtaposed with everything that happened on the island and all the lethal knowledge stuffed into my mind is weird at best and downright insane at worst.

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “Have you acclimated to your new body?”

  Involuntarily, my hands again travel over my face and torso, double checking the healing power of the virtual overlords. “So, every wound can be healed?”

  Her smile brightens the immediate area. “Of course, no matter how badly you are wounded we can always repair it.”

  “Then, I can’t die?”

  The smile returns, impossibly wider. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All will be explained in due time. Meanwhile, don’t do anything to get yourself killed.”

  I once again look for the bald giant, who I was sure had already murdered me. The question of his identity forms in my mind, but no matter how hard I try, my mouth refuses to ask it.

  What the hell is wrong with this place?

  Haiku breaks my forced silence. “Congratulations on passing your first test.”

  I imagine the revolting sounds of breaking bones and the haunting stares of the dead in the middle of the sea of red acid. The remorse that should be exploding from my conscious is nowhere to be found.

  “What is wrong with me?”

  “Nothing. You are better than you were before and will become better still. All will be explained at the appropriate times.

  “For now, please accept that I am an artificial intelligence programmed to be your guide, friend, and confidante. This is Home, your place of rest. If you call my name, I will appear anytime you are within this sanctuary.”

  She doesn’t tell me the magic word to make her disappear.

  The pillow crinkles when I flop my head back onto the bed and glare at the beige underside of the upper bunk.

  �
�Come with me, your body is restored and there is much to learn.”

  Her too-cheery mood is grating on my nerves. Expelling a long breath, I close my eyes. Normally, I’m the type who sarcastically quips while staying in the background and not rocking the boat, but listening to a twelve-year-old therapist while almost naked in a room full of similarly clad people after a bloodbath is going too far. “I am not moving until I get something decent to wear.”

  Tingles of static leech onto my skin. As my orientation changes, my frustration builds until a long curse spews from my lips.

  When my lungs empty, the curse ends, and I open my eyes. I’m sitting as part of a semicircle in a windowless room with bright, colorful geometric shapes glowing from the wall and cloying scents of honey and citrus filling the air.

  A therapist’s wet dream…

  The four women and five men occupying the other cushioned chairs send me questioning looks.

  I sheepishly slouch into my seat.

  They are all fit, looking like the “After” photo of a health magazine, and wearing the same ribbons of clothing as myself except for the men being bare-chested. Similar to the deathmatch, the atmosphere strangely lacks any sexuality. At least, it mostly does.

  Sitting farthest to my right, a lean, plain-faced man whose most distinguishing feature is spiky brown hair leaves his dark, unblinking eyes focused on my body.

  I fold my arms and angle myself away from the unwanted attention, the legs of my chair squeaking on the hardwood floor.

  Dirty feet and all, Haiku appears with a pop and floats in the center of the group.

  “Congratulations on passing your first test, and welcome to the Ten Sigma Program,” she announces in too bright a voice. Then sweeping her hands over us, she continues, “All of you will comprise a team.” She pauses, expecting some positive reaction.

  A few ragged claps fill the void.

  “Are there any questions?”

  Two seats to my left, a large, attractive man with perfect ebony skin raises his hand. He has a square face that’s strong and somber eyes fused with certainty. “Excuse me, but you don’t seem to be a typical drill sergeant.”

  Happiness flashes through her expression. “The red fibers are your weapons training. The black threads give you the experiences of thousands of soldiers. That is all you need. My function is to accustom you to the new environment and then guide you through the next series of trials. This appearance is designed to put you at ease. No mean taskmasters here!”

  Troubled smiles appear across the semicircle.

  I shift, uncomfortable as well, wondering if anyone else feels the disconnect between her unabashed joy and the horrific killing in the middle of the sea of acid.

  Characters and numbers forming the designations of my teammates enter my mind.

  Sitting on my right, a woman of Indian descent raises her hand. Her shiny black hair is braided into a ponytail while long bangs frame her roundish face. She’s pretty in a welcoming sort of way, which softens the appearance of her well-toned figure.

  “I’ve shortened my designation to Suri. Instead of that sixteen-digit alphanumeric monstrosity, maybe we can go around the group and have everybody make up a simple name for themselves and explain from what’s left of their personal history why they decided to enter this wonderful program?”

  The sarcasm underlying her statement elicits nervous chuckles. I guess when everyone was stuffed with the threads, they went through the same hell I did, and judging from the dour expressions, nobody is happy with the results.

  Haiku speaks over the unrest. “That is an excellent idea to help create informal bonds. Let’s begin on my right and go through the semicircle in order.”

  The third person to my left, a slender brunette sitting in a closed posture, shyly rubs behind her ear. Her dark hair lies in a loose bun atop her head. She has a handsome face and looks in her mid-twenties. “Vela, I like that name,” she says in a flat voice. “An animal attack disfigured me. After a few years of bad bone and skin grafts, I decided not to stay home for the rest of my life.”

  She stops and a few seconds pass before the next person, the attractive man with the drill sergeant question, speaks. “Jock. Football quadriplegic.” He taps an unblemished arm. “I used to have a tattoo here. A screaming eagle that lit up in the dark. I’ll have to adjust to this bare look.”

  A surprising number of nods come from around the group. I wonder how many piercings and other works of body art were left behind.

  “Don’t get too bummed if you lost one,” Jock says with a grin. “Not having a glowing signpost in a night fight is probably for the best.”

  Genuine laughter greets the remark. Despite never having body ornaments, I laugh too.

  Jock finishes with a flourish. “I wanted to enlist straight out of college, so this is a fresh chance to help my country.”

  When Haiku gleefully applauds, I roll my eyes.

  Suri notices my reaction with a faint smirk.

  A young-looking teen with flaxen shoulder-length hair follows. Surprisingly, residing amongst his delicate features, is a pimple in the middle of his chin. He purses his full lips. “Walt. To celebrate my eighteenth birthday, I committed suicide,” he says, glancing at his arms. “Or at least, I got myself most of the way there. I suppose this is better than what I left.”

  After the last word trails off, he rubs his chin hard enough to erase the pimple and gazes at his feet.

  Guess he doesn’t want to add any specific details.

  When nothing else is forthcoming, the attention shifts to me.

  My identifier is B243-R9860-000I-74N. By using only the letters, it reduces to B-R-I-N.

  “Brin—I suppose that works as well as anything.”

  I pause, surveying the semicircle. I can understand Walt’s point of limiting personal history. While there are many good things left in my memories, I did abandon my loved ones, even if it was to save them. These people are strangers and I really have no incentive to share more than necessary, especially with the creepy glances coming from the spiky-haired man. “Terminal illness.”

  When I tighten my lips, Suri gathers my introduction is finished.

  “Suri. Old age. I was ninety-two when my spouse died, so I didn’t have much time left. Then the riots happened, and I took the risk.” She gestures down at her young and flawless body. “And now I look like this, so except for the killing and the absence of libido, it’s a pretty good trade-off.”

  I snort while the others laugh. At least I’m not the only one who’s noticed the dearth of sexual tension. Vela touches her cheek as if still not believing her virtual appearance. I guess the disfigurement was horrible.

  The three people after Suri add their stories. A chunky-bodied ex-politician calling himself Simon, Ally who is a cute, engaging girl with freckles, and Carol anxiously twirling her long blond hair—victims of old age, alcoholism, and arson.

  Sitting with a perfect posture in the second to last position is a balding man with a wide face dominated by a flattish nose and square chin. “Rick. I was in the army.”

  From the rod I imagine stuck up his back, it figures. I decide Sergeant Rick has a nice ring to it.

  He continues. “I was a captain and in charge of the Thirty-Third Rangers.”

  Still calling you Sergeant Rick.

  Although he speaks quietly, an undertone of strength accompanies his words. “I got hit in a firefight after an airdrop in the Himalayas. Shot in the gut and bleeding out. Got lucky, when my master sergeant dragged me to the medics, they had one of those quantum things and pulled my consciousness out. I want you to know I take teamwork very seriously. I will assist anyone who needs it. I have your backs.”

  In the few seconds of speaking, his blue eyes connect with everyone in the semicircle. While overly polished, Sergeant Rick’s straightforwardness reeks of honesty. I’m not sure if he’s likable, but I trust him.

  At least more than I trust anyone else in this crazy place.

>   The ex-ranger looks to the last person, the man with the lecherous stares, whose dark eyes flick across the semicircle with suspicion. Then of everyone, his gaze locks on me.

  A queasiness puddles in my stomach.

  “Call me Syd. I’m here because I want to be here.”

  Suri snorts while Ally snickers loudly. Even Sergeant Rick widens his eyes in surprise. Judging by the varied expressions around the rest of the group, nobody believes anyone would want to be here, because given any alternatives, nobody would have left the physical world and given their soul to the government for this second chance. Or in my case, a clean start for my husband and family.

  Syd replies to the incredulity with an unsettling grin.

  Haiku claps. “Now, it’s time to choose a leader!”

  I suck down an impatient breath, wanting to be a team player but finding her gleefulness tiresome.

  Syd raises his hand. “Why is a command structure so important?”

  “Because we’re a team and we need a commander,” Rick says.

  When nobody else objects, we move to a simple selection process. Everyone votes for Rick except Syd, who annoyingly names me as his choice. Then Simon, the former politician, wrangles his way into the second-in-command position, which I was sure didn’t exist until he opened his mouth.

  While everyone congratulates Rick, and Haiku applauds, I slink into my chair. The stories, or non-stories, of my new teammates fill me with dread. We are like the island of misfit toys—if the toys were qualified in every last deadly skill known to mankind.

  After Rick returns to his seat, he asks, “What’s next?”

  “Nothing,” Haiku replies.

  “Nothing?” Suri says suspiciously.

  “You’ve each been through a lot to reach this point,” Haiku explains. “This is a time of acclimation. Your minds will optimize themselves to maximize your chances of passing the program. Since each mind adjusts at its own pace, this period has no set time limit. But rest assured, once everyone reaches a certain level, the next phase will begin.”

  While a chorus of questions erupt concerning the meaning of “adjustments” and “next phase”, I rub my nape.