Renegade: The Ten Sigma Series Book 2 Page 17

Oblivious to my dour recollection, he marches to the barred door with the perpetual smile etched on his face.

  “Is there anything new?” I ask, walking to him.

  “Nothing.” He sweeps his arm across the cell. “You’ll just have to stay in this shiny cocoon until things change.”

  I frown. “This is my life. Can you take this seriously?”

  Annoyingly, his smile widens. “I am taking this seriously. Victoria is helping. You’re in no danger.”

  While he can layer a cheery veneer over his simplistic and naive view of the world, I don’t have that luxury. In a testy tone, I reply, “This is only a temporary stay of execution. They can still go through with it.”

  “Yesterday was a setback, but Victoria’s on your side. She’s very resourceful, and you should never underestimate her.”

  I nod, agreeing in principle with his estimation of Victoria but not feeling any better about the predicament.

  “And you should never underestimate the value of a ten sigma.”

  Not even knowing my place in the world, let alone my worth, I respond with an irritated shrug.

  Laughter leaves his mouth. “Why so grave? Ten sigmas aren’t allowed to die.”

  I picture Syd waiting for me by the green threads. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  He steps back, holding his palms up, nonplussed by the response. “Mary, what can I say to put you at ease?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then what can I do?”

  Although spoken without subtext, the earnest statement generates a rush of heat in my loins. The notion of having a “Proper Welcome” with him and using it as the opportunity to escape crashes into my thoughts.

  If he gets rid of the guards and opens the cell door…

  “Peter…” I pause, biting my lip.

  “What?”

  To get him completely off guard, to strike when he’s most vulnerable, I’d need to consummate the deed. My hips shift as a spark of desire flares from the idea.

  He is rather cute.

  I shake my head. I can’t do that to him, and my trying to escape and failing would be catastrophic to anything Victoria is doing to help.

  And I’m married.

  Suddenly fatigued, I wipe my eyes. “I appreciate you visiting, and I consider you a friend.”

  “Prude,” a familiar female voice announces. Not wanting to deal with dead people from the virtual universe, I ignore the barb.

  “I can tell what your body wants,” Peter says as excitement appears on his face. “Perhaps now is that time for a proper welcome.”

  Even though my body agrees, I maintain a stoic countenance.

  “The best sex comes after a brush with death.”

  My frustration at everything boils over. “The world isn’t that simple. It’s not about going on missions and coming back to proper welcomes and having Victoria handle everything else.”

  “It isn’t?” Peter replies with a confused stare.

  “No,” I say, envying his worldview, “I can’t just throw myself around like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, I’m married.”

  His smile wanes.

  A terrible notion occurs to me. “You didn’t tell anyone that?”

  “No, no,” he says, raising his hands. “That’s our little secret.”

  “Good. And you’re right. That’s our secret, and let’s keep it that way.”

  “Can I change your mind about a proper welcome?”

  Although he’s incorrigible, I give a genuine smile. “No, at least not now.”

  Disappointment crosses his face. “Perhaps one day you’ll let your desires come out. We’re built that way as ten sigmas.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  As he walks away, the ghostly voice repeats, “Prude.”

  “I’m married,” I reply, thinking about how little I actually know of my husband from the glance I took at the green threads before leaving the program.

  A more immediate thought enters my mind: If only it was Balthazar sending away the guards and wanting a proper welcome, then I’d have no problem killing him and carrying out the rest of my escape.

  However, that’s a situation I’ll handle if the proper opportunity presents itself.

  Twenty-Seven

  Sunlight filters between flowers strung throughout a wire canopy. A spring breeze rises, ruffling the white shrouds and colorful ribbons adorning the rest of the gazebo. Near a corner post, my father’s eyes twinkle with pride as he talks with my husband, Nick. On the grass lawn, my mother keeps a close eye on the many young men vying for the attention of my younger sister, Emily.

  I chortle, knowing the effort will ultimately fail.

  At the end of a silken thread, a spider drops from the metal lattice overhead and settles in front of my face.

  I need to get my husband to kill it for me.

  Thunder echoes, even though the blue sky is cloudless and the forecast calls for bright and boring weather with comfortable temperatures and no humidity.

  I nibble on one of my polished fingernails.

  Something is wrong with my perfect wedding day.

  A flash pops in my face, and I blink from disorientation.

  “Ugh,” a snappily dressed teen groans from behind an expensive camera. “You closed your eyes. And you were biting a nail! Can we get another?”

  Frowning, I pull my hand from my mouth. “Make sure you delete that one.”

  “Stop.” A tall woman in a red bridesmaid dress steps in front of me. She wets a napkin and dabs at the frills under my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Honestly, Mary, you’re such a klutz. Do you want these spots to be in your wedding pictures forever?”

  I try to shoo her away. “They’re minuscule. Unless you do a massive zoom, nobody will notice.”

  She continues fussing. “And look at this gown. Could this design puff your hips out any wider?”

  Just to be annoying, I waggle my butt like Elvis and bump the bell of the gown against her blood-red dress.

  Nick wanders nearby, and the photographer gestures him into the frame. The tall woman tosses a final glance of disapproval and scurries away.

  When my husband holds me close, I produce my brightest picture smile and force my eyes wide open.

  After the annoying burst of light, the camera snapper gathers my father and mother for the next shot while Nick flicks a few lunch crumbs from my bodice.

  For a thank you, I peck him on the cheek.

  My mother sidles next to me as the young man focuses his fancy contraption and motions us closer together.

  A familiar mothball odor stings my eyes as the camera snaps.

  “Ugh, let’s try that again,” the picture taker announces.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  The smell is leaking from a wedding crasher leaning against a corner post. The irritating man is dressed in black, and a broad-brimmed hat casts a shadow over his wicked mustache. He raises the fancy electronic card I pressed to join the Ten Sigma Program.

  “For those who have no other choice,” he mouths.

  My eyes narrow, but before I can confront the interloper, who was never again to be in my presence, he changes into a silver-haired Haiku and disappears in a cloud of golden sparkles.

  Staring with love, Nick holds up a napkin with a slice of wedding cake. “Here, try this.”

  I twist my head and frown. “Why didn’t you wait for me to cut the cake?”

  He pushes a straw into my mouth.

  A thick liquid cascades over my tongue when I take a sip.

  “Imagine it’s a wedding cake that’s vanilla flavored with white icing under blue roses,” my husband says.

  I do, and the taste is marvelous.

  “Now imagine the wonderful sex we’re going to have on our wedding night,” Syd says with a smile. Blood drips down the cut in his eye.

  I back away, screaming. When I glance down, his hand holds a pouch fill
ed with blood.

  He laughs. “I’m waiting for our rematch.”

  My stomach heaves and acid shoots up my throat.

  I sit up with a start, fighting for breath.

  Warm glows from the gaslights spill through the bars of the cage while, in the upper tiers, starlight reflects off the stationary guards.

  Still the middle of the night.

  My fingers tremble as I wipe the sleep from my bleary eyes.

  It was a dream.

  As my fright dissipates, I focus on the fading details, wondering where the vivid experience came from.

  Although the green threads contain items from my past, that information is dry—like still pictures and text spilling from a filing cabinet.

  This was more personal and nuanced than any document could be.

  The wedding reception was familiar as if I lived it.

  I gasp, realizing the dream came from a real memory, which should be impossible.

  All memories were erased during the assimilation period.

  At least, that’s what the man in the broad-brimmed hat said. While not exactly a friend, we did part on good terms and, at least as far as I know, he never uttered an outright lie to me. However, he did like to twist his words. Could “erased” mean something different from what was implied?

  Despite the warm air, I shiver, remembering specific memories crumbling into dust. And afterward, there wasn’t the glimmer or echo of anything in the emptiness of my past.

  No matter how hard I tried to restore it.

  But the dream felt so real.

  Both can’t be true. Perhaps there’s an explanation I’m missing.

  I rub my temples, sighing.

  The Ten Sigma Program produces perfect warriors. Having prior morals would be a significant issue with that goal. But our pasts are intertwined with who we are as people. It’s possible there was no way to separate our minds from our memories without hurting who we’d be as fighters.

  I spend a minute digesting the implications.

  In my current circumstances, maybe the best course of action is to ignore the whole thing and act like the perfect ten sigma.

  The indecision passes, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push myself to my feet.

  Consequences be damned, I’m going to find out the truth.

  If my past is still there, I can get it back.

  Twenty-Eight

  By the time Jonathon’s footsteps echo, the morning sun is high in the sky.

  As he nears, I say, tapping my foot with impatience, “I’ve been waiting for two hours.”

  His hands fidget and his gaze darts to the balconies before he stops in front of the door. “You shouldn’t have asked to see me. The less we’re together, the better.”

  “This is important. I had a dream about my wedding day. The details were real.”

  He spends a moment rubbing under his eyes. “I was afraid of something like this. Did anything happen with your control mechanism?”

  Still reluctant to speak about how I killed the bald giant, I purse my lips rather than answering.

  “The control mechanism appears differently for everyone. It could be a person or a thing or even something supernatural,” he explains, not understanding my reticence. “Do you remember anything like that from the Ten Sigma Program?”

  “I’d rather not go into it.”

  “It’s just that there should be one thing you’re absolutely terrified of, something that forms the basis for keeping you in line. If somehow that fear was removed or lessened…”

  “Let’s just say I met that something and won. Can we avoid talking about specifics?”

  A weary breath leaves his mouth. “I’m not sure how you could do that, but if you beat your biggest fear, then your control mechanism is damaged. Your past, all you were before the program, is surfacing.”

  It’s my turn to rub under my eyes. “We were told those memories were erased.”

  “Given what’s needed for ten sigmas, that wouldn’t be practical. Your memories are part of your essence and help mold who you are. Eliminating your history without destroying what made you into you is impossible.”

  I bite my lip, thinking of how the man in the broad-brimmed hat would spin this revelation. “A denial of access is similar to being erased. If it helps, think of it as painting over your past, which yields the same result. This makes the adjustment far easier on the mind. Imagine if you had been told the literal truth. You’d spend your time trying to circumvent the controls rather than becoming a better fighter and surviving.”

  My hands ball. The insufferable man should have been a politician. And to think I considered him a friend when I left. I grit my teeth, wanting to erase his memory and everything else from the virtual universe.

  “What else were they lying about?”

  Jonathon shrugs. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “I wonder if the people who died in the scenarios are truly dead.”

  He looks away, eyes downcast. “Every part of the program—the misleading statements, the format, any other oddities you might remember—are all designed to produce the best fighters, not just for now, but in all of history. Life and death are the most important and fundamental aspects of the training. So yes, anyone who died is gone forever. That’s why we try to only recruit people on the cusp of death with no other choice…”

  When he tightens his lips, I finish for him. “Because a second chance, no matter how slim, is better than no chance.”

  “That’s what I tell myself,” he says with a sigh.

  “How do I get my memories back?”

  “What?”

  “My past, how do I get it back?”

  He flicks his gaze to the guards before replying, “Why would you want to do that?”

  “You say that like restoring myself would be a bad thing.”

  “You’re trying to be the person you were before, in a world that no longer exists. I’d think you’d understand this isn’t what you want to do. Now more than ever, you need to be a ten sigma.”

  “By taking away everything I was?” I reply a little too loudly.

  He glares. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re under a death sentence, and I’m trying to help fix the situation. This isn’t helping.”

  “Sorry,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m not a diplomat, and I doubt I ever was. But, this is something I need to do, now more than ever.”

  “Nothing good can come from this.”

  “I’d rather die as me than pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  “The control mechanism is part of you and has its own goals. It’s going to fight back.”

  “I’ll figure out a way to win.”

  His shoulders slump as he shakes his head. “Fine.”

  A little surprised by the victory, I say, “What do I need to do?”

  “It seems like you’ve already done a pretty good job of cracking the containment.”

  I picture killing the bald giant when I was under the vile influence of the blue liquid. With a grimace, I force the awful experience away. “Well?”

  “Perhaps if you find a way to make an old memory—something powerful—real.”

  “I don’t have access to them, remember?”

  “The dream of your wedding leaked out. There could be other flashes from your prior life? Do you have a means to get at them?”

  “Maybe, if—”

  Boots stomp on the glossy floor.

  Jonathon jerks, glancing over his shoulder.

  At the head of a phalanx of black knights, Balthazar strides to us. As they close the distance, the armored forms spread out and level their weapons at me.

  I step back from the bars, raising my hands. Even with my skills, I don’t have a chance from inside a cage. Also, in an indiscriminate firefight, Jonathon will die too.

  Balthazar points at Jonathon. “You are under arrest.”

  Two black knights grab him.

  “What’s the charge
?” I shout.

  Balthazar responds by saying to Jonathon, “Perjury to the high court, which I’m sure will lead to treason and sedition when the right questions are asked.”

  Jonathon spits out, “Mary, just remember what—”

  Balthazar grabs Jonathon’s face and squeezes his cheeks. “Anything you say will be used against you.”

  “What did he lie about?”

  After giving a last glare to Jonathon, Balthazar marches up to the bars.

  I wrinkle my nose. The man is overdue for another spray of cologne. There’s that odor underneath, not sweat or flesh, but something different and unpleasant.

  “I’d execute the sentence now, but Victoria sees useful things in you,” Balthazar says.

  “What did he lie about?” I repeat in a level tone.

  “We recovered the surveillance of your first fight where you were still wearing your collar.”

  The guards drag a helpless Jonathon away, and my rage boils over.

  I take angry strides toward Balthazar. “What are you?”

  He glides backward, stopping a few steps from the bars. His eyes flatten as he says cryptically, “I’m a person doing my job within the limits of my expertise.”

  While the words are the truth, they also carry a hidden meaning. But instead of asking the unspoken question, I only glare.

  Before he turns away, he adds one final thing, “Perhaps you should be doing the same within your area of expertise.”

  Twenty-Nine

  When I step from the bathroom, a muscular figure wearing silvery battle-mesh stands inside the doorway.

  Although alarmed by the stealth entrance into my cell, I keep my expression neutral. “Hello, Ekton,” I say to the bald giant of the real world.

  His beady eyes narrow as he studies me.

  Even though I killed his virtual version, a chill from his raw energy runs over my spine. A further testament to the hold the control mechanism retains over my psyche. Fighting the intimidation, I stride to the entryway, keeping my tense fingers unclenched but ready for anything.

  “Well?” I say, stopping in front of him. “What do you want?”

  “Why should you be a ten sigma?”