Renegade: The Ten Sigma Series Book 2
Renegade
The Ten Sigma Series Book 2
A. W. Wang
Copyright © 2021 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 Ivano Lago
EBook ISBN: 978-1-950519-02-6
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950519-03-3
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
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Afterword
Acknowledgments
By A.W. Wang
About the Author
To all those who’ve been a little lost
and need a little time to find themselves…
One
The papery smock covering my body rustles as I push the lid off the clear polymer coffin. I narrow my eyes from bright panels in the ceiling and rise into a sitting position. I’m in a beige room surrounded by medical equipment.
After letting some dizziness subside, I twist over the rim of the container and jump onto a tiled floor.
As I land, something tugs at my head. I raise my hand and run my fingertips over a snug strip of metal. Thin wires connect it to a familiar contraption, a glassy sphere topped by a golden ring. Which means…
I’m back in the real world.
Thick red hair cascades down my face and over my shoulders after I pull the headband off and toss it aside.
I wrap my arms around my new flesh-and-bone body, reveling in the tautness of the muscles, the smoothness of the skin, and the pounding of the heart.
While the new, vivid sensations flood through me, the old ones from my virtual past fade.
I’m not sorry to see that existence go.
But now that I’m back…
Muddled questions pour through the throbbing in my head, spoiling the warm, fuzzy feelings.
Who am I?
The word forms slowly…
Mary.
I roll my shoulders. After using a different name for all this time, my old one wears like an ill-fitting jacket.
What am I?
Since I graduated from the endless horrors of the Ten Sigma Program, I must be a ten sigma. Whatever that means.
Where am I?
No idea.
How do I fit into this world?
No idea.
How do I go about finding my family? What am I supposed to be doing?
No freaking idea, and really no freaking idea.
I frown. The answer to the final question surprises me, but in the virtual universe, I always had a direction and a goal. And now, nothing. No mission to complete. No scenario to win.
It’s hard to know where you’re going when you don’t know where you’re at…
But what was I expecting?
A celebration? A “Welcome Back to the Real World” lecture? Perhaps something simple such as a pat on the back?
Whatever it was, I’m positive I never envisioned standing alone and without a purpose in a windowless room.
Sighing, I unwrap my arms.
None of it matters.
I’ve kept the promise I made so long ago to return whole and healthy, and the next step in my journey is finding my family, who are somewhere in this world.
The floor trembles from a muted explosion, and glass tinkles in the background. Acrid odors seep from an overhead vent.
There might be a few detours along the way.
I chew on a thumbnail, enjoying its salty taste, and survey my next battleground.
The square area is solidly constructed and twice the length of the polymer box, which rests at the end of a cylindrical space in the wall—my metaphorical birthplace. Besides a translucent panel displaying a human form at the foot of the gurney, rectangular devices of varying sizes lie along the backside of the room. Judging by the sterile scents, I’m either in a hospital or a laboratory.
While everything feels suspiciously familiar, I have no idea what anything does.
A round clock ticks off precious seconds above the doorway. To survive any battle, it’s important to dictate the action. Things are happening, and for all I know, the unknown has already spiraled out of control.
The room quakes again.
My heart thumps and my muscles tense.
I scowl, admonishing myself. I’m an expert in every martial art, a graduate of the toughest military program ever devised, a victor in countless battles, and a killer of thousands. Nothing in this world can match my combat training and experiences.
Just another day in the life of a ten sigma…
Shoes squeak from outside the room.
As the footsteps near, I pull the thumbnail from my mouth. Even without a mission, I need to handle whatever comes next. I circle past the coffin of my rebirth and position myself between two large devices, pulling the translucent panel in front of me.
The door bursts open, and an unarmed man dashes in.
He’s no threat, and I stand and step to him.
After finding the box empty, he swivels. His eyes widen in fascination as he says, “Oh, you scared me. You aren’t supposed to be up.”
The top of his head reaches the tip of my nose, affording me a downward view of his receding hairline and moisture-beaded forehead. Below his dust-streaked face, more sweat stains his shirt. His stiff and awkward movements combined with the reek of fear confirm he’s not a combatant. That and the dirty white lab coat draped over his pudgy body. This person is a doctor or scientist.
I purse my lips, puzzled by an instinctive liking for the man.
Rushed queries pour from his mouth. “How do you feel? I
s everything okay?”
My pain-clouded mind classifies the nervous words as unimportant. “What’s the situation?”
“This is all so sudden! Nothing is ready,” he blurts.
As I search for a way to clarify the nonsensical answers, another blast rattles the floor, and white motes fall from the ceiling.
More nonsense pours from his mouth, and his hands dance in a panic.
I grab one of his flailing wrists and lean close enough for him to feel my breath. “Listen, I don’t know what’s happening or what I’m supposed to do.”
His lips form a circle, and if the situation wasn’t so tense, I swear he would smack his forehead. Instead, he backs away, glancing around the confines. “We have to get out of here.”
Escape is a strange directive. I’ve attacked, defended, and rampaged during my virtual battles, but running is something I’ve never been asked to do. Surrendering to my mounting frustration won’t help, so I calm my voice. “The mission is running away?”
He turns back to me with a confused stare that I meet with a tightening of my fingers.
“Ow,” he yelps, twisting against my grasp. “They’re coming, and there isn’t much time. Your mission is to get us out of here alive and uninjured. By the way, I’m Jonathon.”
Pleasantries are unimportant, but since he’s provided a goal, I respond by releasing his wrist.
Before I play nice and tell him my name, the staccato of a firefight echoes, and heavy boots thud down the hallway.
“That’s the last of our forces on this floor,” Jonathon says hurriedly. “Soldiers from the Liberation Front are coming.”
Pain scrapes under my skull when I think of the term. I shake my head, forcing away the thought.
Whatever is coming can’t be worse than anything from my prior existence.
I push Jonathon behind me as the jingling of armor plating nears.
“Wait, there’s something we have to do first,” he protests.
“No time.”
A nearby door slams.
I dash to the side of the entrance, wishing I had more than just bare feet and a flimsy hospital smock.
Five sets of boots stomp closer.
I take shallow breaths, readying to strike.
Only a second passes before the door gets shoved inward.
Everything slows as I step around the swinging metal and plow into the armored side of the first entrant, deflecting his rifle upward. A static whoosh erupts from the short barrel, and a ceiling panel explodes. It’s some form of electromagnetic weapon.
As dust rains over us, I send a stomp kick into the second man and launch him into a block of equipment. His bulky armor rattles when he hits the laminate flooring.
The first one swings his rifle at my face. Besides being sloppy, the attack is a mistake. I guide my elbow down the stock, ruining his leverage, and jam my other hand under his visor, smashing his throat.
While he struggles to breathe, I collapse his leg by digging my shin into his calf and yank his pistol from its holster. From the weight and shape, I know the weapon is an old .45.
Two men raise their EM rifles from beyond the entryway.
I twist the first man into the line of fire and shove him backward.
His flailing arm rips my smock as he tumbles into his companions.
While the men struggle to aim, my fingers flick the gun’s safety off, and I fire three headshots.
Chunks of lead punch through their visors, and before the booms fade, the three tumble in a heap of blood and gore.
An electronic whine comes from down the hallway.
I twist backward before a pulse shatters the door frame.
Boots clomp as the shooter moves for a better angle.
More whooshes arrive as I dodge to the side, and a string of impacts peppers the area. Aside from ruining equipment and paint, the action does nothing to change the odds. The final attacker jumps into the room, swinging his rifle in search of a target. The movement is wide and inefficient; I jam my palm into the base of the barrel and shove it across his shoulder.
The weapon discharges and blows a crater in the wall next to a quaking Jonathon.
Armor scrapes as the man I kicked into the equipment groggily rises.
I blast the top of his helmet and ram the pistol under the chest protector of the last one, popping two shots into his heart.
Crimson gushes over my hand as he sinks to the floor.
I blink. Against the innumerable foes I battled in the Ten Sigma Program, these opponents were subpar in not only tactics but with reactions, strength, coordination, and martial skill.
Everything that matters.
My hopeless friend Walt, who died saving me in my final scenario to reach ten sigmas, would have disposed of these adversaries in a heartbeat.
And he was the worst fighter in the program.
“You shouldn’t have been able to do that,” Jonathon says from behind me.
I lean over and drag the two nearest bodies from the doorway. “Why?”
His eyes flick to the rip in my smock and everything underneath.
“These opponents were poorly trained,” I say, suppressing a prudish urge to cover myself.
Instead of replying, he marches to the circular opening and grabs a clear tablet. After he fiddles for a moment, a snap comes from around my neck and a metal collar clatters onto the floor.
I pick up the thin band and meet his questioning stare with one of my own.
A cloud of black smoke puffs from the vent.
As the stench drifts past, Jonathon breaks the stalemate, saying, “We don’t have much time.”
Although I have pressing questions, I focus on the task at hand. “Keep watch outside and get some fresh air.”
After he goes to the busted door and stares into the hallway, I discard my smock and start stripping the dead. Between them, I’ve made sure I have an intact helmet and armor.
As I proceed, I’m drawn to curious features adorning their forms. Glowing tattoos move on their arms and chests. There are brands, battle scars, and whip marks disfiguring their skin. Grisly trophies and shiny trinkets dangle from thin wires strung around their necks.
Like Syd and the face-painters, who I defeated to get here.
I shake my head.
This world is too close to the one I just left.
“They were bad men, who got what they deserved,” Jonathon says.
I glance at him. “What were they liberating?”
“Liberating?”
“The Liberation Front.”
His expression darkens before he responds. “Mostly, they liberate people from their property and freedom. Their motto is ‘Anyone without a weapon is property.’ They’re from the badlands south of the Rio Grande and steal and trade everything from technology to human beings—”
I put up my hand, not needing every last detail.
Jonathon’s stare lingers on my body, and a flush of self-consciousness spreads over my face.
I stand straight and face him. “Shouldn’t you be watching the hallway?”
He averts his eyes. “It’s just that I’ve seen you naked.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I’ve seen you many times before. But now that your body is animated, things are different. I’m just happy you’re back.”
I pull on a shirt. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not important,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively.
Given the situation, he’s correct, and I admonish myself for not staying focused on the mission. After I put on the helmet, I say, “We need a way out of this place.”
“I gave you the entire database.”
As I tug on a pair of pants and snap armor over my clothing, I try to figure out what he means. My thoughts go nowhere. “Can you explain?”
“Just think about the building plans.”
Another strange request, but after I finish pulling on a pair of ill-fitting boots, I
concentrate on the room and surrounding area.
An image of the floor layout enters my mind. Wire diagrams of other levels layer over and under the blueprint. My vision pulls out to encompass the rest of the structure. The design of the adjacent building appears along with its neighbor. Then more pictures of the vicinity pile up.
A knifing pain cleaves my skull.
Maps, coordinates, and people—every bit of information about the district—flood into my awareness. The agony blasts from my head and rushes down my body.
My legs tremble, and a shriek pours from my mouth.
The room spins as I collapse in slow motion. After hitting the floor, I twitch uncontrollably, helplessly watching the whirling fluorescent panels on the ceiling through my fluttering eyes.
Thousands and then millions of useless bits of knowledge rumble into my consciousness before the world goes black.
Two
Reality fades, and I spiral from my senses, terrified.
Glowing blueprints, colorful maps, shiny pictures, and other glimmering chunks of data stream past, nipping like angry insects. The torrent contains not only everything for the building but every detail for the entire neighborhood: far more information than anyone could ever want or hope to use.