Renegade: The Ten Sigma Series Book 2 Read online

  I’m so stupid; the information was right in front of me.

  Just because the Jacket Program was deemed ineffectual in the real world because of the difficulty in finding candidates who could accept the threads didn’t mean that no one ever received a jacket.

  And worse…

  How could I assume only a single specialization existed? Of course, researchers would develop something for every type of knowledge that could give the country an advantage.

  Especially for strategic purposes.

  From Victoria, the scientists created Machiavelli.

  I grind my teeth on a dirty thumbnail, fighting a wave of despair. Helpless thoughts won’t save me now. Being one step behind is how I got into this mess.

  How do I get out of it?

  The knife in my hand, the crinkly neon-orange uniform I’m wearing, and the rifle with no reloads at my side are all I have.

  Although I’m a ten sigma, other ten sigmas will be in pursuit. And they’ll be in battle-mesh and armed with a full suite of weapons.

  Disadvantage to me.

  And what chance do I have against Victoria and her jacket?

  While I think in terms of moments, she plans in terms of years. Ten sigmas win battles, but Victoria wins wars.

  Gigantic disadvantage to me.

  What is there to live for? I fought and retrieved my memories and became my old self again.

  My husband is gone.

  I sigh as my eyes moisten. I’m alone, a renegade from my country, being hunted by my own kind.

  A droplet leaks from the corner of my eye.

  What was it all for?

  Things would have been better if I had died in the program.

  Voices, barely audible, rise from the surrounding darkness.

  I blink, glancing to either side, searching for the speakers.

  Only shadows dance between the orange glimmers from the flames above.

  Words—some harsh, some gentle, some curious, some prodding—grow in volume and layer into a single chorus.

  It’s everyone—teammates, AIs, even composites—all the people from the virtual universe who sacrificed their lives to get me to this place.

  A lone question repeats.

  “What will you do?”

  Another tear runs down my cheek as I cover my ears.

  What do they know?

  A voice rises above the rest.

  “What will you do?” asks the man in the broad-brimmed hat, who gave me the offer to enter the program.

  “What will you do?” chorus the others.

  The voice of the man in the broad-brimmed hat speaks again with disdain, “Well Brin, what will you do?”

  I grit my teeth and wipe my face dry. He always rubs me the wrong way, and invoking my virtual name makes me extra furious with his antics.

  “What will I do?” I holler at the darkness.

  The voices quiet, waiting for an answer.

  My fists ball and my muscles tense. I shove myself from the grimy floor, glaring at the darting shadows. In a deadly tone, I announce, “I have no idea of what I’ll do, but I know what I won’t do. No matter what, I won’t give up. My end sure as hell isn’t coming as a rat being hunted in a smelly sewer system.”

  The desire to spite Victoria and all her plans fills my soul. While not the greatest of motivations, for now, it’ll have to be enough.

  I’m going to escape, and then I’ll clear my name and have my revenge.

  But first, I need to do one other thing…

  I clench my jaw and let my mind fill with figures and lengths from the network of passages comprising the sewer system. When I decide on a path, I slip the knife, handle first, into a pocket and grab the rifle.

  After a deep breath, I march down the tunnel.

  When the orange light from the flames ebbs, I set my hands in front and measure the distance by steps. As I make slow progress through the blackness, the stench of decay increases, and soon, I’m in the bowels of the old city.

  After stubbing my fingers one too many times navigating the underground network, I feel my way into an access staircase that leads to the old subway system.

  Soon, the dried stench of organic waste gives way to the stale smells of grease.

  Tired of the never-ending blackness, I march to the nearest station and hop onto the platform. After a minute of searching, I break into a maintenance closet and procure an old flashlight. Although the battery is stale, the weak light is enough for my enhanced eyesight.

  Glows appear on my prison garb from the electric current. Not needing to wear a blaring full-body sign, I grab a shoddy blue uniform hanging from the wall and swap outfits.

  Distant memories call when I step back onto the platform and sweep the faint beam over the long-abandoned surroundings. I try to imagine the faded paint as vibrant and the cracked tiles as new, but no recollection of bustling people heading in for a fresh workday comes to mind.

  Scrapes echo from the access staircase.

  Alarmed, I jump to the tracks and race down the tunnel with the flashlight angled low.

  When quiet returns, I pause to survey the situation and gather my breath.

  My nape isn’t tingling, which is a positive, and the pursuit is slower than expected, another positive.

  Rumbles shake the ceiling.

  I twist the flashlight upward. Trickles of dust leak from cracked tiles. Possibly, some people are battling Victoria’s coup.

  The news should make me happy, but I frown. Victoria will defeat any resistance, and nothing about my crappy existence will change.

  Sitting still and moping won’t accomplish anything either.

  With the weakening beam breaking up the darkness, I jog toward my destination, making better time.

  Minutes later, ambient noises of machinery fill the tunnel, and bright lights blare through an arched opening.

  I slow and squint through the glare.

  Rows and rows of metal frames hold stacks of containers. Machines of all sizes, shapes, and colors rush down aisles, loading and dropping off packages. This place is a giant supply depot.

  After turning off the flashlight and putting it into a pocket, I duck into low shadows and take careful steps, avoiding any potential surveillance cameras. Although the security is light because nobody should be down here, I can’t afford mistakes. With Victoria having a jacket for strategic and tactical thinking, a ten sigma is sure to be on my ass the instant she knows where I am.

  A whirring approaches, and I sidestep an automated forklift. Even though the vehicle continues without a care for my presence, this is no place to dawdle.

  Crouching, I follow a flat robot loaded with white plastic packages to the furthest side aisle. From there, I get to the exit without incident.

  In the next room, digging machines scurry about, scraping out another large space. My database-enhanced memory informs me that this will become an underground factory for top-secret production. The location is one of many, with even more situated under the old city. Victoria wasn’t kidding about centralizing manufacturing in a single protected area.

  I head to a parked vehicle with a cone-shaped front for boring holes and clamber into the cockpit. The human interface is simple, and I press the override. When the engine starts, I flick on the headlights and drive down a freshly dug passage to the one place nobody would ever expect me to appear.

  After a couple of turns, I reach another main line for the subway. When I approach the end of the wide tunnel, I dismount and lightly tap the knife across a wall of water-damaged bricks.

  When a hollow sound comes, I stow the blade and return to the digging machine.

  The wheels bounce over steel tracks as I back up. When I’m at a suitable distance, I floor the accelerator, and the heavy vehicle lumbers ahead. The circles of headlights bouncing on the bricks balloon across my vision.

  I brace for impact.

  The world jolts into flying rubble as the cone plows through the thin wall and the rock beyond.r />
  Thirty-Four

  Even though the jarring collision reminds me of the accident that crippled my leg, this time, my passable-for-human body escapes unscathed.

  I rise and shield my eyes from falling dirt.

  The beams of the partially buried headlights shine through a veil of dust filling a cramped hallway.

  Expecting a horde of black knights, I unsling my rifle and step onto the mound of rubble past the drill cone.

  Moments pass as I search for any opposition.

  Only my light coughs from the thick air disturb the silence.

  I rub my quiet nape.

  The stillness could mean many things. Nobody expects a fugitive to break into a prison, and the distant rumbles of battle probably covered my entrance to anyone who wasn’t nearby.

  I shake my head. This isn’t a place to make optimistic assumptions. Still nervous, I hop to the dusty floor and move toward soft glows filtering through the thinning haze.

  After I turn into an intersecting hallway, the air clears, and a chill rushes down my spine. The bare plaster walls are lined with gaslights.

  Bad things happen here.

  My suspicions balloon as I inch forward.

  Trace odors from human waste, dried blood, and old sweat tinge the musty atmosphere after I reach the next corner.

  Truly awful things happen here.

  I force myself to keep moving. As I march further into the labyrinth, waiting for anything to happen, my stomach knots with dread, adding to the overall misery of the situation.

  A wide corridor opens ahead of me, and my legs weaken. I stop, leaning against a cold wall for support.

  Barred steel doors stand to either side.

  I listen for any sign of occupants.

  Aside from the gentle hisses of gas feeding the lights, there’s nothing.

  Still wary, I step past the first doorway, gripping the rifle tighter.

  A sense of déjà vu rocks me.

  This is where the bad things happen.

  Unlike the subway platform, this environment brings vivid recollections. The thick doors embedded in the concrete walls remind me of the labs where experiments were performed on human subjects.

  Odd cries and unnatural scrapes trickle into my imagination.

  I glance at the metal sheets, struggling to identify the source of the inhuman sounds.

  The knots clutch at my stomach.

  I wobble, taking halting breaths, desperately trying to get air into my lungs.

  While my eyes only register rough concrete, my mind sees stains of pink littering the floor. Shivers run up and down my spine as images of human experiments spill into my vision.

  Blood splatters behind the metal doors. Prosthetic body parts are grafted onto tissue. Men and women hidden under masks inject brightly colored serums into twitching flesh.

  This place holds everything I fled from during the Ten Sigma Program data dump.

  But it’s not just here. Images of these experiments from around the world assault my being.

  All in the name of advancement, all in the interest of national defense, and all part of the arms race involving the human body.

  I take calming breaths, focusing on my current mission. Nothing else matters. Whatever is behind these doors can stay there.

  The panic attack subsides, and my senses return to normal.

  Gritting my teeth, I force my feet to move. Soon, I find a flight of stairs and leave the forsaken labs.

  The next level is oppressive in a different way. Rough stones cover the floor and walls, while the gaslights have changed into fist-sized torches.

  I roll my eyes at the medieval decor and edge forward.

  As my breaths reverberate in the narrow confines, my nape stays quiet. Even though there have to be guards somewhere, nobody is nearby.

  After my path branches into a wide corridor, I pause, staring at thick wooden doors lying in recesses on either side. I blast the lock of the first one and kick it in.

  Odors from a chamber pot along with the sour stench of unwashed body spill from a small stone room.

  I wrinkle my nose and suppress my gag reflex.

  Wood creaks in the darkness.

  With my imagination picturing the worst augmented abominations from my database, I raise the rifle and wait for whatever creature appears through the vomit-inducing smell.

  An emaciated man with thinning hair hobbles into the faint light, blinking.

  I let out a breath and place a hand on his shoulder. “I need to find a prisoner. He’s a scientist, a little pudgy?”

  He shields his eyes from the flickering torches as his mind parses the question.

  When he fearfully glances up and down the hallway, I grab his chin. “I’m looking for someone named Jonathon.”

  His head jitters as he croaks in a raspy voice, “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  In frustration, I march down and shoot the other doors open. When more ill-treated prisoners roam out, I ask the same question.

  Only bewildered stares come in response.

  Finally, one woman, who is less ragged and marginally cleaner than the others, says, “If he just got here, he might be in the main chamber. Colonel Montgomery likes the fresh ones.”

  “Where?”

  “Make a right and go down the next corridor,” she says, pointing. “At the end is a huge archway.”

  Without a second glance, I swivel and follow the instructions, keeping a careful watch for black knights.

  After passing a few more cells, where muffled whimpers come from suffering inmates, I enter the correct passageway without incident. As with the outer areas, torches line both sides of the long space, but here, their glows dance on oak beams crossing under a curved ceiling. At the end, two wooden doors with black metal hinges and thick handles sit under a decorative arched frame.

  I charge, firing my rifle.

  Wood planks splinter with each round.

  At the last instant, I lower my shoulder and crash through the doors, shattering the locking bar and smashing into a black knight. As I untangle myself from his limbs, glows reflect off black armor to the side as another sights his rifle.

  I roll and fire, the armor-piercing rounds punching through layered composite and splashing red onto a stone wall.

  Projectiles zip past and shatter the door frame.

  Ducking, I twist and blow apart another armored form standing near a metal cage shaped like a human body.

  The guard I flattened when I entered grabs at my ankle.

  I blast through the top of his helmet.

  Armor clatters as a fourth guard dives across the floor.

  My weapon clicks on empty, and I leap sideways, grabbing the fallen guard’s rifle. Armor-piercing projectiles chip the stone archway behind me.

  The last opponent skitters behind an iron chair.

  I aim between the bowed legs. The angled shots ricochet on the tiled floor and punch through his armor with dull crunches.

  Everything stills, except for the echoes of tortured breaths.

  My skin crawls as I survey the surroundings, fighting a sense of disbelief.

  Although the decor of the outer corridors and stench of the prisoners should have prepared me, the sights and smells of a medieval torture chamber in the middle of modern-day America are overwhelming.

  Dimly lit by scattered torches, the large, square room is stuffed with all the implements of pain that humanity could devise throughout the ages. Along recesses in the yellow stone walls, nude people are showcased, wrapped in torture contraptions—metal body cages, wooden racks, stocks, taut ropes—forcing them to display expressions of agony.

  The tiled, five-meter wide boundary gives way to shallow cuts of stairs leading into a sunken but spacious area. Thick support columns connect the brick floor to a vaulted ceiling of arched dimples. Underneath, islands of torchlight showcase bound and gagged men and women splayed on wooden horses, metal beds, and spiky chairs.

  Thought out to the
last nitty-gritty detail.

  Bathed in the glow of candles in the far corner, an ornate desk sits on a raised dais, lording over all.

  Although the metallic odor of blood and the acrid stench of human waste overlay everything, the miasma Balthazar was masking with his cologne is obvious. The heavy notes were covering the wet stink of fear and the bone-dry scent of death.

  Almost worse than if Syd had arrived in the real world.

  The spiders dance on my nape as familiar woody and citrus top notes burrow into my nostrils.

  “Don’t you like my human sculptures?” Balthazar says, his voice seeming to come from every patch of darkness across the gigantic chamber.

  Involuntarily, my eyes glance at the dirty, naked form of a suffering woman, manacled inside a spike-filled cage, hanging from the ceiling.

  Clucks echo, and he says, “A bit of ambiance always makes the work go faster.”

  “Your tastes are on the nose. Really, there’s nothing artistic at all,” I say, searching past the columns and into the shadows clinging to the walls.

  “I told Victoria we should have brought you to our side. But she disagreed. You wouldn’t be swayed to join us, would you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s truly unfortunate you came back so flawed that you needed to be destroyed.”

  From a nearby torture rack, a stretched man grunts through a ball gag, his eyes flicking to the opposite wall.

  A knife flies from a shrouded arch and into his throat with a wet thud.

  I lean past a column and fire twice, but only hit stone. In this place, I’m at a disadvantage. Balthazar knows every nook and cranny scattered across the uneven walls and thick columns.

  “Come on out and fight.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, I’m not mindless like one of my black knights.”

  “Convicts that you experimented on?” I say, thinking of the composites from the virtual universe.

  He chuckles, the sounds reflecting in all directions off the many-angled ceiling. “You are the curious one, and yes, that is correct. While they are skilled warriors and have their uses—”

  “You mean like committing suicide for one of Victoria’s plans?”

  Howls of laughter echo. “Yes, wiping the minds to get blind obedience is good, but beyond a certain context, their abilities, not to mention their conversation, are limited. I prefer hatred, but that takes too long to build.”