Ten Sigma

by A W Wang

  Haiku absorbs the punishment with a patient gaze.

  After the pain from the broken bones in my swollen hands and feet becomes too great to endure, I stop, pressing my elbows into my thighs to hold myself upright.

  From the middle of the marble and red-bricked destruction, the disembodied head of the statue king stares with stoic disapproval.

  Still raging, I glare at Haiku.

  The silence lengthens, interrupted by only my labored breaths and angry sniffles.

  When it’s clear my tirade is finished, Haiku snaps her fingers and my wounds heal. The surrounding corridor and statues return to their prior state, erasing the entirety of my tantrum.

  I straighten and step toward her, never wavering in my hatred of the little avatar and the virtual overlords.

  Haiku calmly says, “If it helps you to get over your anger, you may continue to assault me.”

  Realizing the whole effort has been a futile disaster, I shriek and sink to the brick floor. “Teamwork, friends, family, all of it should be cherished. People are stronger together, not by themselves.”

  “Under normal circumstances, that is true, but it isn’t always possible to place five or ten or a hundred people where you need them. In every situation, one extraordinary person can change defeat into victory. The harshness of the Ten Sigma Program finds those individuals.”

  “Don’t you care about producing someone like Syd? Do you understand what he’s become?”

  Her expression darkens.

  “You know?”

  There’s a pause as her eyes lose focus. In the dimness, they seem to fade from pale silver into a cobalt blue. “Yes.”

  “Then why can’t you do something?”

  A hint of frustration accompanies her next statement. “Because he has powerful allies.”

  Apparently, there are divisions within the ranks of the virtual overlords. “Can’t you do anything?”

  “The rules are embedded into the deepest layers of code. They are set in stone. Everyone, including the overseers, must conform to the design of the system. Syd can only be stopped in a scenario.”

  I bury my face in my hands. Polluted by the enhanced emotions of the blue liquid, Syd is going achieve a ten sigma score and leave this place.

  Haiku politely asks, “Do you require anything else?”

  “Go away,” I whisper between my fingers.

  She doesn’t, instead floating closer. “This program is in disarray and worse things are coming. Far worse. Regardless of your sentiments, this is something you won’t be able to hide from.”

  While Haiku patiently waits for my response to the warning, images of the hateful avatars cross my mind. I wonder how they fit into everything and how anything in my current situation could possibly get worse.

  My friends are gone, scattered to the ends of the virtual universe. Courtesy of my decision, everyone is now alone, fighting for their lives.

  I had to save them from Syd.

  Because a sliver of relief is part of my angry thoughts, I shake my head. My biggest anxiety is ordering one of my friends to their death or not ordering them to their death. Altering a battlefield decision trying to protect Suri or Walt or Vela could get many people killed. While I hate myself for not being strong enough, disbanding the team was the painfully right choice.

  And nothing will be worse than letting them go.

  Slapping my palms on the floor, I force the thoughts aside and rise. Staring into the avatar’s eyes, I say, “I don’t care about the problems of the overlords. Their fights aren’t my fights. Go away.”

  She whispers, “What will you do?”

  The barely audible question echoes in my mind, triggering another wave of anger.

  “What will I do?” I say. “I’ve done everything possible. I’ve charged into every situation when it mattered, and I’ve been on the winning side in every scenario.”

  With sad eyes, she shakes her head and makes the leave motion. “If only it were that simple.”

  A little more than baffled, I try to fathom the meaning of her words as a halo of golden sparks wraps around her silver form. Somehow, they are the key to the whole Ten Sigma Program.

  After she disappears, I’m no closer to a solution.

  My eyes water from frustration.

  Although I have no idea of what anything means, it doesn’t matter. Looking to the judgmental faces of the newly fixed statues, I make my resolution for the virtual universe. I will escape this place, but outside of surviving, I won’t succumb to the overlords’ vision of being a perfect soldier.

  No matter how alone I am or how much I forget, I’ll fight with all my being to keep my essence intact.

  Regardless of how much worse it gets.

  Thirty-Two

  My next team is freshly recruited and eager. Despite my best efforts, they die storming a sandy stretch of beach under a dreary sky. A brutal First World War trench battle whittles the group after that into nothing. Infiltrating a stronghold inside a snow-capped mountain gets the next enthusiastic bunch slaughtered. Three more sets of nine follow and the meat grinder of the scenarios eliminate them in different ways, some creative, some not.

  Without having Syd and Suri in addition to Rick’s training, it’s impossible to save any of them for much longer than statistical expectations of 1.56 scenarios.

  Worse, with the destruction of each successive team, my guilt over their deaths dwindles even as the shell surrounding my fading emotions thickens. I’m not sure if it’s my morality crumbling or the futility of being close to people who will soon be gone, but whatever the reason, I stop trying to befriend my new teammates and force the names and faces of the dead ones from my mind.

  Each night, I lie in my bunk, attempting to save my dying past. However, nothing stops the brittle images from collapsing into dust. I’m terrified of what I’ll become when the final memory disintegrates.

  Besides those dire thoughts, I reserve any remaining slivers of emotions or pangs of guilt for Suri, Walt, and Vela. I wonder how they are doing and if they’re still alive. Haiku isn’t helpful with any of my queries.

  On the other hand, I don’t concern myself with Syd, who I’m positive is doing well. A part of me hopes we’ll wind up on opposite sides in a scenario. The remaining larger, more rational part wants to avoid that tough contest.

  And above everything else, as my emptiness increases, the killing becomes easier.

  I’m losing the battle for my humanity.

  A bowstring twangs. I raise my small shield and flick away an arrow. At a full gallop, the last Mongol horseman flees from the battlefield. He has talent, being a four sigma, but without the combined firepower of his dead group of a hundred, he lacks the ability to harm me.

  As my stallion pursues through tall stalks of browning steppe grass, I enjoy the rush of clean air over my face and the hooves thundering under my body. With no ambush or other nasty trick in sight, I loose an arrow at his horse, aiming to hobble it.

  Alertly, he whips to the left, and the long shaft flies into an open patch of dirt.

  I use the pressure of my knees to guide my mount inside his turn and gain ground.

  A husky woman, bulging into the joints of her leather armor and streaming a flying ponytail of blonde hair, slashes into my vision and forces him to reverse direction.

  As he loses speed, I narrow the distance.

  He draws back the bowstring, and I brace for an attack. The arrow speeds at my ally. She tumbles from her horse with the feathered end of the shaft sticking from her eye socket.

  I’m close enough to put away my bow and drawing my sickle-shaped sword, brandish it high over my head.

  Realizing he can’t escape, the man slows, grabbing the handle of his scimitar. It’s too late.

  I fly past, leaning over and swiping at his horse’s hindquarters. The upper curve of the metal slices through hide and muscle. Amid bellows of pain, the beast crumples.

  Before I can swing around, a mustached man and d
arkly tanned woman gallop past me. There is a guttural sound as they ride in and slice at the fallen enemy across his leather protection. The thin material isn’t good for close-in defense, and after they pass, he’s bleeding from a couple cuts.

  Uninterested in the final coup de grâce, I halt and watch from a distance.

  The tenacious man rolls and slices at the front leg of the horse of the lead attacker. The terrified animal rears and tosses the mustached man. Before my ally can recover, the Mongol rushes up and stabs him in the neck.

  I swivel and gallop toward the combat. As I near, he cuts under and slices the belly of the second charging horse. The huge animal tumbles, its rider getting crushed in a tumbling mass of hooves and limbs.

  The Mongol dives as I thunder by, sliding beneath my sword and tossing his blade into my horse’s flank.

  I leap at an angle and tuck into a rolling ball, only stopping after flattening a long swath of waist-high grass. With a massive thud of flesh slamming against earth, my horse lands a meter from my prone body, shrieking in pain.

  My enemy runs and grabs a sickle sword from one of my fallen allies.

  Waiting for reinforcements is one strategy, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I rise and sprint at him with my weapon held in a strike position.

  As I near, brutal, unblinking eyes greet me from a blood-painted face.

  There are worse things coming.

  As Haiku’s forgotten warning reverberates in my mind, I slow.

  He senses my trepidation and charges with a snarl. Two steps from me, he swings his curved sword in a flashing arc.

  I quickly react with a high block. The blades meet with a terrific clang, and unnerved from the force, I step backward.

  While he follows with sharper attacks, the swirling hatred in his eyes evoke an odd familiarity.

  Whirling my sword for defense, I give ground to my meaner opponent. After my fifth step in retreat, his thread inefficiencies become apparent—his choice of strikes are predictable and repetitive. Inner rage notwithstanding, he’s not even close to the seven sigma and I’m far better than when I fought her. With rising confidence, I avoid a sharp thrust and stepping forward, launch a riposte at his neck.

  He delivers a heavy parry, and we slash back and forth. As he struggles to match my attacks, I take advantage of his prior wounds to hobble his leg, then after a high feint, deliver a vicious slice across his belly.

  Steam rises as his guts pour over the trampled grass, and after collapsing, he uses his last breaths to scream curses not only at me but at my family and ancestors, none of whom I remember.

  As he crosses into death, a peculiar happiness infects my mood and I shiver. The weird emotion scares me more than anything that happened in the battle.

  I wonder if I’ve moved one step closer to being the sociopath the virtual overlords desire or if he’s the harbinger of worse things to come. After a moment’s reflection, I sigh. It may be a little of both.

  A totally irrational thought strikes as the golden sparkles ending the scenario appear.

  The man is familiar because he reminds me of Syd.

  Thirty-Three

  Five of the seats are unoccupied when we reassemble in the ready room. I spend a moment trying to remember the missing but give up when Haiku appears.

  As she delivers her happy speech, my thoughts return to my final opponent. He performed much better than he should have, and I search for why he reminded me of Syd. They share none of the same physical characteristics.

  A minute later, I’m no closer to solving the riddle but find my hand rubbing my nape. It’s a strange sensation because in the ready room, there should be no danger. I glance at my surviving teammates, who are enthralled by Haiku’s words.

  It’s only when my attention shifts to the little avatar that I notice something funny. Between every sentence, her silver eyes wander in my direction. In contrast to the rest of her happy countenance, they are angry.

  Her normal expression reappears when I flash her a quizzical look. I don’t have the vaguest notion of why she would be upset with me and chalk it up to a software quirk.

  I hate computer programming.

  Bewildered by the strange thought, I adopt a posture of mild interest until Haiku finishes.

  When we’re finally plopped into the late afternoon sun of the sanctuary, I’m still perplexed at the behavior. Although I’m glad to be out of her company, another more annoying issue presents itself. While crawling into my bunk and pretending my reality doesn’t exist is my only concern, the others want to celebrate our victory in the cafeteria.

  I’m not hungry, have no food fantasies, and have been avoiding the place because Syd’s sexual rediscovery from the blue liquid has fouled my appetite.

  Unfortunately, the survivors insist on a celebration, planning on making the blue liquid morph into the finest champagne.

  While not wanting to get attached to anyone, I trudge along because I haven’t hit the point of catatonic depression and really have nothing better to do.

  After receiving our squishy meal packs, a hairy man calling himself Lou or Larry, takes charge. “I’ll be describing my tasting of the finest champagne, which is the greatest beverage in the history of mankind, so follow along and be liberal with your imagination.”

  Katie, a four sigma, calls out, “How do we know it’s not cheap soda water?”

  Although mocking everyone’s memory loss, she has a point. Lou or Larry points a thick finger at her, saying, “As long as you enjoy the experience, who cares?”

  A tanned girl with big blue eyes and raven-colored hair says, “I love champagne. Let’s get started.”

  Everyone else nods while I take an impatient breath.

  He starts by saying, “Imagine holding a flute of the most beautiful crystal, the elegant stem between your thumb and forefinger gracefully curving into a reservoir for the divine. There’s a pop followed by a soft sigh as the cork is withdrawn. As the exquisitely sculpted bottle tilts, a wonderful peach-tinted champagne pours into your glass. Listen closely to the delicate hiss of its tiny bubbles crawling to freedom. Wave your hand over the nectar. The amazing aromas of citrus and strawberry with hints of vanilla flow into your nose.”

  As he proceeds, he weaves the different nuances of sight, smell, and touch into the description. His speech is grander and more detailed than anything I could have imagined.

  My mind tells me the most expensive champagne is sitting in my hand.

  “Now, take the barest sip,” he says.

  I do.

  “Allow the lovely juice caress your palate. Notice the complexity of the fruit flavors, the bold citrus, the hidden orange, the touch of vanilla, the lightness of the bubbles tingling your tongue.”

  To my surprise, not only is the taste wonderful, in all aspects, the blue liquid physically matches his amazing description. Even when I swallow, the alcohol warms my throat before settling into my stomach. Stunned the gloppy fluid has an influence on not only my mind but my body, I take another sip, becoming a bit tipsy.

  Was I a lightweight in real life?

  When everyone nods in appreciation of our host’s efforts, he begins the toasts. Squeezing his bag in his pudgy fingers, he thrusts it in my direction. “First, to Brin, for conquering the six sigma level. Someone we can all aspire to be.”

  Katie sighs. “That seems so far away.”

  I return an embarrassed smile but stop short of making a “You Can Make It Too!” speech.

  Everyone sips and our host moves onward to the next toasts, giving generous platitudes to each survivor. Soon, they carry on carefree and inebriated, embedded in the throes of the blue liquid with the dead forgotten. Whether a real or placebo effect, I’m not sure, since I’ve wandered away from the fantasy.

  Bored with the antics of my team and wishing to be anywhere else, I watch as other survivors enter triumphantly through the plain doors. They are uninteresting too.

  As my attention wanders across the busy space, I c
atch the stare of the leprechaun avatar. Although his comically green outfit combined with his ruddy cheeks and scraggly red beard create a jovial appearance, his eyes are narrowed into slits. A moment passes before I realize he’s glowering at me with a simmering anger akin to disdain.

  What the hell is wrong with the software today?

  Instead of joining the pissing contest, I focus on the package in my fingers. A curious idea hits me. If Suri was telling me about my past when I was drinking the blue liquid, perhaps, I could regain my memories.

  I sigh, missing her. Even if she’s still alive, she’s somewhere lost in the vastness of the virtual universe.

  As I sip, thinking of nothing, the liquid tasting like thickened tap water, I spy a familiar brunette, her hair tied in a loose bun, exiting the room with her team.

  Vela!

  Amazed to find my friend and former teammate, I toss my pouch on the table and push past my drunken companions. I rush to the doors, eager for any news of Suri and Walt.

  By the time I get out of the cafeteria, Vela’s disappeared. A miniature unicorn avatar glares before popping away and leaving me alone in the long hallway.

  Thirty-Four

  The remainder of the afternoon and evening can’t end soon enough.

  Night arrives and when the lights darken, the sleeping spaces fill with exhausted men and women.

  An hour after the shuffling ends, I get up, searching the barracks for my former teammate. As I wander through the dim aisles of metal-framed bunks, only the light sounds of snoring and tiny rustles of sheets disturb the stillness.

  Roughly half the beds are empty, casualties since the last restocking, which makes my job easier. A few of her sleeping teammates are in the fourth aisle I check. As I near the wall, I’m surprised to find Vela on a lower bunk, sitting knees tucked into chest against a support post.