Ten Sigma Read online

  Ten Sigma

  A. W. Wang

  Copyright © 2019 by Aaron W Wang

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Damonza

  Copy editing and proofreading by

  Crystal Durnan of Anima Editing

  animaediting.com

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-950519-00-2

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950519-01-9

  Produced in the United States of America

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Before you go…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To all those who fight the good fight

  and never give up…

  One

  In the dying rays of daylight, the old man leaning on a cane and huddling inside a black cloak watches me through the frosted bay window. Although he stands across the street and the shadow from his broad-brimmed hat rests over his face, I can see his electric blue eyes and ugly speckled-gray mustache. The icy temperature coupled with the swirling gusts of winter should dissuade him from looking into my bedroom, but he’s been rooted in the unpleasant environment for the past five minutes. I don’t know who he is or why he’s there, but I’m annoyed at the intrusion in my life.

  “Mary, are you okay?”

  I turn my head.

  Just beyond the footboard of the bed, the ancient hologram projector displays my younger sister Emily in her kitchen outfit, hair pulled into a tight bun, a white apron cinched around her narrow waist, and a mixing bowl and spoon in either hand. Although she’s harried and the spotty communications channel runs static over her body, the figurines sitting in the bookcase behind her 3D image form a heavenly halo around her angelic face.

  Emily is the first in a small parade of well-wishing friends and family expecting to digitally visit me this afternoon.

  “One second.” I pluck at my thick sweater. Underneath, my sweat-soaked shirt clings to my itchy skin while a pool of nausea lingers in my stomach and bile pushes up my throat.

  When my husband, Nick, who’s been seated in the alcove of the bay window, rises to help, I wave him back to his chair.

  After another minute of clenching my teeth and taking steady breaths to quiet the side-effects of my newest cancer treatment, I nod.

  Emily continues speaking about her preparations for our family’s traditional holiday dinner. As the words spill from her mouth in a jovial tone, her sad eyes betray the somberness of my situation.

  My indignation rises at the world and the invasion of privacy. I don’t need pity. My gaze flicks past Nick and outside to the street.

  Holding the wide hat and still propped on his cane, my unwanted intruder hunches as a fierce wind swirls through his cloak.

  How can I be that interesting?

  Before I complain, a squeaky voice comes over the channel. “Hi, Mommy!”

  My spirits lift at the thought of my niece. “Let me see her.”

  Relieved to spread the burden of the conversation, Emily says to her seven-year-old, “Darla!” She waves the spoon in a come here gesture and says with more urgency, “Darla, it’s your aunt Mary.”

  “I’m playing,” replies the high-pitched voice.

  The hologram empties as Emily leaves the frame to chase her reticent daughter. There is a groan, and she returns carrying an adorable girl of seven with long brunette pigtails hanging down a messy red and green dress. Although the youngster has my sister’s cute nose and the darker traits of her father, her uncommon violet eyes are her best feature.

  I smile for my niece and give her a hello by splaying my fingers and twisting my elbow in a giant wave.

  Darla opens and closes her small hand as a response. “What happened with your hair?”

  Blowing out a breath, I send my fingertips through the remnants of my once luxurious red hair. I should have worn a cap, but my scalp is on fire, and it’s all I can do not to claw at it. “Your aunt is a little sick, but I’ll be better soon.”

  The girl returns a toothy smile. A life-threatening illness is beyond her understanding. “Ugh, you are getting too heavy,” Emily says as she deposits her load to the floor.

  Before Darla runs out of the hologram, she sends a goodbye kiss.

  Emily brushes imaginary strands of strawberry hair from her forehead and smooths her apron. “Sorry, you know how fussy kids are.”

  Although I can’t have any children, I understand their motivations, and considering the circumstances, the tiny stretch of time has gone as well as could be expected. “No, it’s great to see her. And it gives me another reason to get healthy.”

  Emily’s tightening lips betray her worries about the failure of my first four treatments.

  Because she thinks the odds are stacked against me.

  My throat scratches from dryness, and I let out a weak cough.

  Leather crinkles as Nick gets off his chair. He steps to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of water. When he offers me the straw with a big smile, the musky scent of his old bomber jacket flows over the bed.

  Embraced by the reassuring odor, I relax as I sip the tepid liquid.

  The hologram glitters as Emily changes the subject. “Mom and Dad are trying to get over to you. There are riots and a high terror alert in St. Louis, so they’ll be a day late.”

  Nick says, “We’ll be on the lookout. If any other issues come up, just let me know.”

  Although he’s only trying to shield me from the world’s problems so I can concentrate on my own, I frown at the over-protectiveness.

  A crash of pans comes from the hologram. Emily throws her hands to the sky. “Damn. Sorry, I have to cut this short.”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  She clasps her fingers in
front of her chest. “Don’t get discouraged. Things are always darkest before the dawn. We’re a family and we’ll get through this together. If you need money for more treatments, just ask.”

  Nick leans over me. “Don’t worry, Em. We’ll be fine. We have investments.”

  “Great. We’ll arrive next Sunday. See you then.”

  After the hologram dissolves in a sparkle of static, my calm mood evaporates, and I glare at my husband. We’ve liquidated our stocks and bonds over the past year.

  “I took out a second mortgage on the house,” he explains.

  An angry breath leaves my lips. Every painstaking detail of this place matches my antiquated tastes. I love every part of our two-bedroom cottage, from the oiled wood-molding framing the white-and-red-flowered wallpaper, to the vintage furniture and adorable trinkets found from years of wandering through flea markets and estate sales. I’m even fond of the old smell hanging in the hallway. Everything feels comfortable and right.

  And now all will be sacrificed at the altar of my sickness.

  “How much is left?”

  “Enough.”

  Knowing my husband of eleven years, the answer means we spent the funds on my last failed cancer therapy.

  I chew on a dirty fingernail, a habit he’s been trying to get me to break since college.

  When he frowns, I pull the digit from my mouth and waggle it at him. “I wish you would consult with me before you do these things.”

  “Why?” he says with innocence. “The price of a house is nothing compared to your health.”

  Glancing away, I shake my head. Nick doesn’t consider the debts, only the potential cures. “If the worst happens, you’ll have nothing.”

  A confident grin creases his face, the expression saying he will make sure everything is okay. It’s one of the many reasons I love him. “When you’re better, we’ll make everything back. Who’s a better team than us?”

  That is my husband, Nick—always taking charge and dreaming the big dream. His optimism keeps us charging forward. My healthy skepticism keeps us grounded and sane. The combination is why we work so well together.

  I let his cheerfulness win and say with a conviction I don’t feel, “Fine, my college friends are next.”

  “No.”

  “No? I really want to see them.”

  “For today, no more guests. Unless you need more pity.”

  I curl my lips to show lots of teeth and wrinkle my face into an “Only a Mother Could Love” expression.

  Laughing, he marches to the bookcase and unplugs the hologram machine. “Today is a day for fresh air, exercise, and happy spirits. We’ll bundle you up and go for a walk and check out the holiday decorations. Maybe even get a bite at your favorite waffle house.”

  Although my stomach mounts a mini-rebellion at the notion of eating, his mood infects the rest of my body. I push myself to the edge of the bed, letting my feet touch the hardwood floor. “Fine, but this year for the festivities, you do all the cooking.”

  He steps in front of me, holding my custom walking shoes, and pumps his head in a vigorous nod. “Damn straight.”

  As he kneels and puts on the heavy one with the large heel, I add, “And all the dishes.”

  “Damn straight again.” The winning smile reappears, wider than ever.

  Even though Nick’s lying about the money and Emily has her worries, I know with their help and support everything will get better. We always beat the odds, and I can’t imagine that in this case, the sickness will win against all of our efforts.

  “Before we go, one thing first,” I say, pointing to the bay window.

  Nick looks outside and then gives me a questioning expression. “What?”

  Only a gusting wind blows down the empty street.

  Two

  The clomping of a cane on the hardwood floor interrupts the night. In the center of the bookcase, the glowing hands of the vintage clock point to midnight. Despite tingles I imagine are tiny spiders roaming across the back of my neck, I strangely have no fear.

  An uneasy moment passes before the figure of the man in black slips into my bedroom and quietly closes the door. Framed by the dim slats of the streetlight seeping through gaps in the curtains, he tips his broad-brimmed hat.

  Although an inevitability surrounds this visit, I slap my cheeks to make sure it’s not a dream or hallucination.

  The intruding form is neither.

  Leaking a foul mist, he hovers at the footboard. Then with his free hand trailing over the polished wood, he hobbles past the bookcase. A greasy film spreads from anywhere his fingertips linger while oil drips off his cloak with every labored step.

  I shiver from revulsion.

  After passing the bedpost, pausing only to smooth a wrinkle in the comforter, he completes the journey by plopping into the alcove chair. As he removes the broad-brimmed hat, the odor of mothballs invades my personal space.

  Wrinkling my nose, I push myself upright against the headboard. When a momentary dizziness passes, I turn on the small lamp centered on the nightstand.

  The golden-hued light spilling through the lampshade reveals the tired face of an old man under wild tufts of scraggly white hair. His brows are bushy. Deep smile lines crease his cheeks while worry wrinkles crisscross his forehead. Unruly gray hairs form a thin mustache under his prominent nose. Except for a spark of youth in his blue eyes, he exudes the weariness of someone who has traveled too many long journeys. No oily smoke surrounds him, nor is anything greasy; his winter cloak is only wet from melted snow.

  Angry with the side-effects of my latest treatment, I scowl.

  Instead of reacting to my disdain, he pulls an inhaler from his breast pocket and gulps a mouthful.

  I glance at the doorway. Where is Nick? In our PR consulting business, he handles the people stuff while I take care of the practical matters—meaning everything else. It’s why we make a great team.

  My visitor says, “Your poor husband is getting some much-needed rest.”

  “Who are you?”

  He attempts a welcoming smile and is clearly not used to the gesture. It comes out as squarish, both too wide and toothy, as if he read an instruction manual on how to put a person at ease. When I arch my eyebrow, he sighs. “Forgive my intrusion. This is new to me.”

  “Breaking into other people’s homes?”

  His lips curl into a sarcastic expression, which fits his wrinkled face perfectly. “I’m from the government.”

  I loop my finger over the surroundings. “Yeah, because I’m so special.” The sarcasm undercutting my tone feels exactly right.

  Sighing again, he sets his cane against the side of the chair and pulls out a leather wallet. When he flips it open, a hologram of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency glitters.

  I shrug, deciding the expense of forging something that intricate would outweigh anything a conman could get from our drained bank accounts. While not penniless, we’re close to it. “Okay, you’re from the government.”

  After putting the identification away, he says, “First, let me congratulate you. Your potential is extremely high, and I wanted to make the offer myself.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “We’ve been watching you for quite some time.”

  I snort mucus bubbles from my nose. Another reason not to like him. While the childish reaction is satisfying, I quickly wipe my face clean.

  “If you would refrain from uncouth behavior, you’ll find that my proposal may be beneficial to both of us.”

  “I need my husband.”

  “The poor man is asleep in that garishly decorated man-cave. In the morning, he’ll feel better than he has in a long time.”

  “He’s allowed his tastes.”

  “I trust you can speak for yourself?”

  Annoyed by the rhetorical question, I reply, “Of course, I can make my own decisions. Why are you here?”

  As his electric blue eyes study me as if I’m a biology experiment, I resist shrinking from the unwante
d attention.

  “I represent a group of scientists who have created a military program called Ten Sigma. It requires exceptional volunteers.”

  “And this concerns me in what way?” I say, loving sarcasm more than ever.

  He takes a wheezy breath. “Everything discussed here has the highest classification. Nothing may be repeated to anyone under any circumstances. Do you agree?”

  Somehow curiosity wins over dislike, and I nod.

  “The United States as we know it is finished.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Why? All the great empires have fallen over the course of history. Even Rome.”

  “We would have heard something in the news.”

  “Would you feel better if society ended because of an atomic bomb or some computer hack? Perhaps a wave of zombies?

  “No. This catastrophe won’t begin with anything that obvious. It will be something small like a missed bond payment or a pension fund missing an obligation. Maybe an entitlement program will be curtailed. Then the contagion will spread and the house of cards will crumble. This is the result of the empty promises of too many politicians for too many years. The bill for all the free stuff is coming due.”