Momentary Stasis (The Rimes Trilogy Book 1)

by Adams, P R

  “I need to catch a nap—”

  Kleigshoen chuckled. He’d forgotten her deep, throaty laugh and how it affected him.

  “I meant, what’s your plan for the future,” she said. “I’ve seen the recording from Singapore. Lots of the big guys have, and we all liked what we saw. Everything’s changing.”

  Rimes nodded, surprised and embarrassed. He wondered how much of the mission she’d seen. Probably all of it.

  “Well, if the Army can hold things together another twenty or so years, I guess I’ll shoot for retirement. It’s not like war is going out of style.”

  “The old wars will,” Kleigshoen said. “It’s only a matter of time before the last bits of national identity vanish. You’ve got to see that, Jack. The military isn’t going to be there in twenty years, not like it is today. And the Commandos aren’t going to make it even that far.”

  Rimes felt his pulse rising. “There’s always going to be demand for someone like me.”

  “Someone like what? Someone brave? Someone loyal?”

  “I get things done.”

  Kleigshoen shook her head. “You’re getting defensive. Don’t. I’m not attacking you. I’m trying to say you’ve got to plan. People like you … Jack, you’re a wonderful person. You’re—”

  A sailor entered the corridor.

  Kleigshoen waited until he’d passed into the common room. “You’re extremely capable, but … going into the field, the kind of things you do now, it won’t last forever.”

  “I’m applying for Officer Candidate School. I need to take a few more classes and wrap up my Master’s thesis, that’s all. Then I’ll run operations, not just execute them.”

  Kleigshoen looked him in the eyes with an unsettling intensity. “Why don’t you come to work for the Bureau? No matter what happens—the United States carries on, this American Hemisphere entity they keep talking about comes about, the United Nations takes over—the Bureau is going to be there in one form or another. There’s too much going on here on Earth and out there in the colonies for the Bureau to ever become obsolete. With all the power the metacorporations have accumulated and with their willingness to use it, we’re probably more important now than ever before.”

  Rimes had heard the pitch before. He shook his head. “I love field work. It’s what I’m good at. As long as there are people, there’s going to be a need for a military to protect them.”

  “The Bureau has field operators. I have connections. I’ve done well; you would be exceptional.

  “It’s not going to be the same, not forever. You got lucky. Think about it. You had a forty-percent fatality rate in Singapore. The three you killed were Jimmies, and I mean extreme genetic modification. The Thai—Suttikul—we’ve never seen anything like it. They were on radical stimulants, tailored drug cocktails like nothing else out there. It’s going to be weeks reverse-engineering what they had in their bloodstream.”

  Rimes was grinding his teeth. “We did okay.”

  “You did okay, Jack. How’d the Russian do? And your German buddy was touch and go. His heart stopped twice before they stabilized him. He’ll be behind a desk for the rest of his career unless they fund growing him a new heart. I’ve seen the AAR. You know how this goes.”

  “We all knew the risks.”

  “And I’m telling you, it’s not going to be easy like this for much longer.” Kleigshoen stretched, arching her back. “The risks for someone like you are going off the charts. Ten years from now, no normal humans will be going into the field. Not like today.”

  Rimes closed his eyes and wished her away. “I’m not completely against being a Jimmy, if I have to. I’ll take more aggressive stims, whatever it takes.

  “But even if the government decided to grow their own genies—and I don’t believe they would, not considering what happened with them—I’ll be retired before they’re field-ready.”

  Kleigshoen gave him a knowing wink. “Twenty years at the outside, Jack. Trust me. Join us. You’ll work the field, but without the risk.”

  It hit Rimes then. She had to be talking about remotes. Proxies. He’d heard about it before, but it had been purely theoretical at the time.

  The first models had been crude robots, good for simple, high-risk work, like ordnance disposal. But the future lay in biomorphic robots—machines that could pass as humans, hosts capable of fully immersive awareness transfer.

  The idea of remotely piloting a robot revolted him.

  “Remotes? Not interested. That’s Moltke’s thing, not mine.”

  Kleigshoen rolled her eyes. “Jack, it’s coming. You can get onboard or you can get run over by it. You keep going against these genies, you will die. They’re not human.”

  Rimes knew what genetically engineered and modified humans were capable of, but he also knew what he was capable of.

  The metacorporations had created their own small armies of genies and Jimmies years before. Increasingly, it was falling to people like him to deal with the fallout.

  “I need to get some sleep,” he muttered.

  “Good night, Jack.” She extended her hand. “Think about what I said.”

  Against his better judgment, Rimes took her hand in his own. Her touch, like her laugh and her smile, brought back memories. She was soft, warm, vibrant.

  Rimes broke off the contact and headed for the berth he’d been assigned. His eyes were heavy, his pace sluggish, and his thoughts a twisted mess.

  He had just enough time to catch a short nap, to think of his new life, to dream of his time with Kleigshoen.

  He could still smell her perfume—musky, sweet.

  7

  21 February 2164. Sundarbans, India, 25 kilometers from the Bangladesh border.

  * * *

  Lightning flashed across the dark sky for several seconds, momentarily revealing their camouflaged forms before Rimes closed his eyes to prevent pupil contraction. He squatted in the stunted underbrush, waiting for the light show to finish. Thunder crashed, built to a crescendo, settled into quiet rumbles, then faded to silence.

  Finally, his optics came back to life.

  Rimes opened his eyes, and the once-expansive mangrove forest returned to sight as a tapestry of greens and blacks. Four decades before, he would have been concerned about tigers, crocodiles, even snakes. But now the forest, in slow recovery from decades of abuse, offered little more than angry kingfishers for a threat.

  The animals that concerned him walked on two feet.

  A low-lying haze remained, obscuring everything, rendering trees and grass otherworldly, dream-like. The storm was passing, but the damage was done; critical minutes had been lost.

  Camouflage battle dress, grease paint, and a greasy residue from the rain covered Rimes head-to-toe. Ankle-deep in muddy water, closing on a potentially dangerous situation, and leading a team into action for the first time—he was simultaneously energized and nauseated.

  It was the life he loved, for however long he could live it.

  Rimes scanned the stunted trees around him, confirmed his team was in position, then whispered. “Green in position.”

  Chung, Wolford, and Pasqual were all with him. Bhat and Orr, two other Commandos he’d worked with before, filled out the rest of the team.

  Every operational element was going by the book. Rimes had no intention of screwing anything up, not with so much of his career riding on this performance.

  Three years before, he’d qualified for Commando training, and it had fit him like a glove. Now he had unofficial word his application for Officer Candidate School would be accepted, from Moltke, no less.

  The future’s mine to control.

  Crystal-clear whispers confirmed Red and Blue were in position.

  Captain Moltke ordered them into bounding overwatch movement. Kleigshoen’s briefing had identified twenty-five T-Corp operators, a significant challenge for the unit should they lose the element of surprise. Like most metacorporations, T-Corp recruited heavily from seasoned military un
its for its security forces—mostly from India, but Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan were also targeted. Every one of their security teams had at least one veteran in its ranks. This close to potential enemy positions, a staggered advance made sense.

  At the order, Red moved first.

  Rimes sighted through the CAWS-5’s scope. There was a millisecond blur as his helmet’s optics—a lightweight, integrated flip-down shield—synchronized with the weapon’s scope.

  Scanning the forest to his right, he located the Red team. They were doing well, making optimal use of cover, minimizing their silhouettes. Rimes scanned the forest ahead of the advancing team, watching for signs of movement or anything that broke the normal terrain silhouette.

  “Red in position.” Martinez’s voice had a calm Rimes could only hope he’d have one day.

  Moltke spoke again. “Green, move forward.”

  Rimes began a slow, crouched jog, making use of what cover he could. To his left, Chung and Wolford followed. A moment later, Pasqual, Bhat, and Orr separated from the undergrowth to his right.

  Moving across the soggy ground was slow going. In addition to the all-too-frequent patches of slick mud, there were hidden roots and water-filled holes just waiting to break a man’s leg.

  His mission team drew parallel to Red, then continued past, securing a position fifteen meters forward.

  Moltke ordered the Blue team to advance.

  They repeated the process three times before Martinez spotted the compound perimeter. They were all on edge, waiting for an attack from the positions Intel had identified.

  But there was nothing.

  “Any movement, Gold?” Martinez whispered after a moment.

  In his mid-30s, Martinez was the most experienced among them, yet the lack of engagement after Horus’s earlier report of movement seemed to have rattled him. His team consisted of recent high-potential graduates and Barlowe, all on their first major mission. They were combat-proven, but not necessarily ready for operations of this nature.

  Coming out of Commando school, Rimes had been labeled as similarly high-potential and had exclusively trained under Martinez during his first year.

  Even then, Martinez had been under pressure to take a position at Commando school. Martinez had deferred the “promotion,” opting for another stint in the field.

  Rimes’s thoughts turned to Barlowe, who was consistently lagging behind the rest of Red. Get it together, Ladell. We don’t want to lose anybody.

  Rimes moved his team toward Red’s position, securing the left flank. Kirk moved Blue up to secure the right. Like Barlowe, Stern was pulling up his team’s rear.

  “C’mon, Stern, pick it up,” Kirk said. “We’re almost there.”

  Communications went silent for a moment.

  “Green, breach perimeter two meters from the western edge. Ops should be in the two-story building about thirty meters east-northeast, in a secure room at the northwestern end of the first floor.”

  Rimes moved his team forward, taking position near the perimeter fence. They went prone in the knee-high grass, watching through the fence for movement. The compound looked clear. Rimes signaled Chung forward from the leftmost position and covered him as he squatted at the fence.

  Chung slung his weapon over his shoulder and quickly unraveled a strand of centimeter-thick therm cord. He pressed the cord onto the fence to create a meter-wide semicircle, then shoved a thumb-sized device into the cord.

  Once in position, he pulled a small detonator from his pocket and glanced at Rimes.

  Rimes scanned the perimeter, then nodded.

  Chung pressed the detonator, and the therm cord flared momentarily, burning through the fence. Rimes moved forward, punched down the sagging links, and ducked through the opening.

  The team followed, each entry separated by five seconds. Less than a minute after Rimes signaled the breach, their backs were pressed against the operations building’s south wall.

  Dark green creepers covered the exterior of all the buildings except one. The research building, made of naked sandstone and rose-colored glass, was a middle finger raised to the skies.

  Aside from the research building, the compound was modest and functional, nothing like the commercial parks that had sprung up during India’s years of explosive growth—the growth that had eventually decimated so much of the country.

  Rimes edged along the wall, stopping at a door, then signaled for Pasqual to open it.

  While Pasqual worked on the lock, the rest of the team scanned the darkness. Nothing moved. Even the sounds amplified by their helmets were insignificant—gentle rain, a soft wind, Pasqual’s work on the door, the occasional bug or reptile hardy enough to have survived ecological ruin.

  Finally, Pasqual slid his tools into his jacket pocket and resumed his position, weapon ready. With Bhat at his side, Rimes edged toward the door, then held up three fingers.

  Bhat centered his CAWS-5 on the door.

  Rimes squatted and counted down, then opened the door and ducked out of Bhat’s arc of fire.

  The door was clear. Lights reflected dimly off once-polished walls.

  Rimes brought his weapon up and scanned for movement. “Gold, this is Green. Entry is clear. Power is on.” He was sure his pulse was drowning out his words.

  “Repeat, Green.”

  Rimes looked inside the entry again. He hadn’t imagined it. “The power is on.”

  “Proceed, Green.”

  Rimes waved Bhat and Chung into the room. They took positions covering the entries, and Rimes sent the rest of the team in.

  Inside, Rimes’s BAS overlaid the building map in a pale green wireframe.

  According to Intel, the room had been a processing center for the main research group. About thirty cubicles still held terminals and communications units—bulky, dust-covered anachronisms that must have been outdated even when the facility was active.

  The room’s northern doorway opened into an east-west corridor, with access to the second floor through a stairwell. Three north-south corridors led off the east-west corridor, one to the far left, one almost straight ahead, and one to the far right.

  Their target was the left corridor.

  “Bhat, secure that stairwell door. Chung, cover him. Orr, watch that right corridor, Pasqual, the central corridor. Wolford, left corridor. Go.”

  Rimes waited until everyone was in position, then advanced toward the end of the far-left corridor. He stopped shy of the corridor and waited. Wolford signaled all-clear. A moment later, Orr and Pasqual did the same.

  Rimes signaled Chung forward. Once Chung was in place, Rimes glanced down the left corridor. He signaled for Wolford to hold position, then moved forward. Chung followed.

  The overlay showed six doors along the corridor’s length: four to his right, two to his left. The overlay of the northernmost left-hand door flashed.

  Based off the room size and location, it would be a fairly typical T-Corp operations center. However, unlike most metacorporations, which located operations centers in basements or windowless interior rooms, T-Corp preferred operations rooms to have two outside walls. There was no way to know why; T-Corp was one of the few metacorporations the military hadn’t cracked.

  Rimes kept his back to the wall and moved quietly down the corridor. Drywall and lightweight aluminum couldn’t stop a high-powered round, but it still provided some sense of security.

  At the room, Rimes reached for the doorknob but stopped at the last second, when he realized the door wasn’t completely closed.

  “Gold, door to target is ajar,” he whispered.

  “Proceed with caution, Green.”

  Rimes signaled the rest of the team forward. They arrived a few seconds later. Wolford took up position watching the team.

  Pasqual and Chung brought their carbines up. Once again, Bhat positioned himself in front of the door, shotgun ready.

  Bhat looked around quickly. “Anyone know any good knock-knock jokes?”

  Rimes c
ounted down from three with raised fingers.

  On one, he shoved the door in.

  The door hit resistance, and he stumbled.

  Without losing a beat, Bhat squat-walked into the room, swinging the weapon barrel in a semicircle, but there was no movement. The others followed.

  They froze, heads sweeping to take everything in.

  It took them all a moment to absorb what they were seeing—a dozen bodies spread around the room, their backs arched, their faces contorted, and their fingers curled in agony.

  “NBC,” Rimes called over the communication channel, trying to keep his voice from betraying his near panic.

  He unfurled the thin plastic shielding from the top of his helmet, wrapping it around the optics shield and quickly pressing the shielding material to his coat to seal off his face and throat. He retrieved his gloves from a pants pocket, pulling them on as he watched his team seal up.

  The plastic shielding’s micro-filter would block ninety percent of known weaponized materials, allowing them to breathe in relative safety for twenty-four hours.

  They each had atropine injectors for nerve agents, antibiotic and anti-viral cocktail injectors for bacterial and viral agents, and a broad-based aerosol formula for most other chemical agents. Vaccinations and immunity boosters provided defense against common, preventable threats.

  But, depending on what they’d been exposed to, all those defenses still meant they only had a slim chance of survival.

  8

  21 February 2164. Sundarbans, India.

  * * *

  Rimes looked around the operations room. The T-Corp operatives had died terrible deaths.

  As if there could be a good death. I’m going to see this in my dreams.

  “Green, confirm NBC,” Moltke demanded, some concern understandably leaking through.

  Pasqual was already testing surfaces and corpses with wipes taken from a hip pocket.

  “NBC confirmed,” Rimes said. “We have … eleven … thirteen … fourteen dead. No wounds. Indications of rapid reaction to vector.”