by Adams, P R
Rimes rubbed his face. He was relieved, but something about the situation left him feeling hollow, too. “How’d they get hold of X-17?”
Kleigshoen looked from the doctor to Rimes. “There was an incident. We don’t know who, but someone managed to steal a shipment. That’s actually why I came to see you. Jack, this is an important case. I’d like to interview you about any details you may have missed during the debrief.”
Her words, although friendly enough, stung.
Even though it ultimately didn’t matter, he’d somehow worked himself into believing she’d come to share the good news because she still cared for him.
It was stupid; he was a happily married man with a child on the way, and his relationship with Kleigshoen had been relatively short and, for Kleigshoen, nothing but a solution for a physical need.
Rimes finally nodded.
“Great. Would now be okay?” Kleigshoen looked at him hopefully, and he nodded again.
She thanked the doctor, who exited the lab.
Rimes looked at the slumbering Martinez, then at Moltke, who wasn’t even pretending to ignore the one-way conversation.
“It was X-17, sir,” Rimes explained. “No contamination. A few more tests, and we should be out of here by morning.”
“X-17? No shit?” Moltke looked surprised for a moment, then turned his attention to the cards. He snorted. “I wasn’t even fucking exposed. Maybe I can salvage my vacation after all.”
We could’ve been completely wiped out, and that’s all he feels? Ice in his veins.
“Roger that, sir,” Rimes said with a smile.
Moltke shook his head. “I guess we know who stole the X-17 now.”
Rimes turned back to Kleigshoen.
He took in a deep breath and tried to focus on the helicopter flight into the Sundarbans … then the trek through the forest … the arrival at the compound …
Kleigshoen played back the debriefing for him, to help jog his memory.
“Okay, Jack,” Kleigshoen said. “I’m looking for anything that might have escaped your attention, anything that might have seemed trivial or obvious during the debriefing. Everything matters at this point: How did your weapons function? How did you feel before entering the compound compared to afterwards? How did your team perform? Did you see anything that was in retrospect out of the ordinary?”
Rimes closed his eyes in concentration. It wasn’t uncommon on critical missions to go through more than one debriefing. After a moment, he looked at Kleigshoen. “Sure. Shoot.”
“Great. Let’s start with the team, then. Did anyone act odd?”
“Odd?” Rimes rubbed his forehead for a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I can think of. I mean … like what?”
“Maybe they exhibited signs of exposure,” Kleigshoen offered. “Maybe they were a little sluggish. Maybe they were sloppy or had discipline problems?”
Rimes thought back through the operation. Other than Barlowe and Stern, everyone had been at the top of their game. “No,” he said, hesitating, then again with more confidence. “No. We did about as well as could be expected.”
“All right.” Kleigshoen seemed content with the answer. She replayed a segment from the debriefing where Rimes described initial contact with the genies. “You saw movement.”
“Right. I saw one break from cover.”
“How many did you ultimately see?”
“See? Well, Horus picked up six forms. Their suits were pretty advanced. We could barely pick them up with our own optics. Our systems aren’t as advanced as what the Special Security Council has, and it showed. It wasn’t just the suits, though. They moved so fast … I’ve heard of genies being fast. I’ve seen video. This was … it was amazing.”
“I told you,” Kleigshoen said. “There are thousands of them out there. Tens of thousands. And that’s only what the metacorporations have publicly registered. Legally, they’re property, so we can’t be completely sure the metacorporations have revealed everything. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”
“Like I said, the suits were high-end stuff, as good as anything I’ve ever seen or used,” Rimes said. “I put a three-round burst into the first one, center mass. At that range, it should’ve put him down. I saw the corpse. The rounds got through, but the wounds were almost … superficial. Even so, they would’ve put a normal man down, probably permanently. What the hell can they do to make that possible?”
Kleigshoen thought for a moment. “Toughened skin? Denser bones? Did you see anything odd when you looked at the corpses? What did they look like?”
They’d laid the genies out next to one of the buildings, pulled off their headgear, and exposed their wounds for the video record. “Young, maybe mid-twenties. My age, maybe a little older. Asian, mostly—the eye shape—”
“Epicanthic fold?”
Rimes nodded. “Right. And straight, dark hair. Male. About my height, but leaner. You couldn’t tell they had less mass by the force of their attacks. There was … the eyes were different. The shape was slightly off. And the color was different. There was something strange about the iris.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Rimes closed his eyes. “The video should have caught it. But maybe not, in that lighting. Something about the placement and the size. There was … an animal-like appearance about them. Does that make any sense?”
“You mean they glowed when the light hit them?”
Rimes half-shook his head. “Not quite, but something like that.”
“We’ve got their DNA. Our scientists are going to be tearing this data apart for months. Go on.”
“That’s about it, really. The kit was the sort of thing you’d find only with an elite unit. Modular weapons, unique materials. Specialized. Their physical capabilities—strength, speed, resiliency—were off the charts. Whatever tailoring they did, it started with Asian DNA. I’m confident they were LoDu.”
“What are the odds they made off with some of the data?”
Rimes thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. The computer arrays were still downloading and decrypting the data when we found them. They could have done a parallel download and left with incomplete data, but Barlowe said this sort of stuff is usually stored so that you have to have all the files to decompress and decrypt fully. Barlowe did all he could with the systems. They took some damage, and there’s some sort of complex encryption algorithm involved. Really, you should talk to him about the computers. He’s pretty amazing. Plus … we didn’t see any genies leaving as we approached the facility. No. I don’t see how they could’ve gotten the data out.”
“You didn’t see any once you were in the facility, either,” Kleigshoen reminded him. “Not until it was almost too late.”
Rimes nodded. Even Horus had missed the genies until Moltke had sent it in closer. “Okay, sure. It’s possible, although I still question the value of what they could have gotten away with. We can’t know. If they can make some that are as smart as those were tough, though …”
Kleigshoen watched him for a moment. “You killed three of them, Jack.”
“No, a team of eighteen Commandos killed six of them, and we suffered a nearly forty-percent fatality rate in the process.”
Just like Singapore.
Rimes shook his head as Wolford’s last seconds played out in his mind. “It could’ve been much worse. They could’ve succeeded with their ambush. One or two fewer mistakes, a break that had gone their way, and they would’ve gotten us all. I don’t think they were very experienced. Not against military.”
She pressed a gloved hand against the wall. “I’m sorry about your friends. Jack … Don’t forget my offer. It’s too dangerous out there.”
Rimes nodded.
He wondered what Molly would think—he’d have to share at least a little of what he’d been through with her.
He wasn’t looking forward to it.
10
25 February 2164. Oklahoma Cit
y, Oklahoma.
* * *
Rimes woke with a start. His neck ached, and his head throbbed where he’d just smacked into the bus window. The old man beside him cursed as he tried to find a comfortable spot. The old man’s wife, looking weaker than when they’d boarded in Los Angeles, tried to scoot back from the crowded aisle. Filthy young men swayed unsteadily in the aisle, shouting curses to no one in particular.
With a glance out the grease-smudged window, Rimes realized they were finally approaching the outskirts of Oklahoma City.
The highway had fallen into even greater disrepair—spiderweb cracks, craters, washed-away shoulders—since his last trip home, no doubt victim to more violent storms.
And Oklahoma City’s broken skyline served as painful testimony to the lack of will and wherewithal for any kind of intervention.
He blinked the sleep away and yawned, immediately regretting taking in the bus’s foul air through his scented surgical mask. Even living in the field and going days without a shower couldn’t match the rank odor permeating everything around him: unwashed bodies, clothes long overdue for disposal, grease-and dirt-covered travel bags, and patches of exposed cushion that absorbed each passenger’s scent, mingling it with its predecessor’s until it produced a nauseating stench. The end result unsettled him more than the sounds of combat ever could.
He recalled traveling in his youth with Cleo, his father. They’d traveled occasionally by car, but mostly by bus on private seats, with blankets purchased to protect their clothing. Rimes had heard that travel even as recently as thirty years ago hadn’t been so bad. More people had flown, and private or shared vehicle ownership had been common.
But the city had been deep into its death throes, even in his earliest memories. Fires raged for days at a time with no one to fight them, roads cracked and buckled with no one to repair them, and gangs terrorized anyone foolish enough to enter their territories.
Rimes had seen it all—the crime, the violence, the utter despair born of economic hopelessness and helplessness—without even realizing what it was, riding on his father’s lap in a battered HuCorp mini-sedan.
His father had been an American football star and had been relatively well-off—but that life had been fleeting. His political career, almost as short as his football career, had been built on the idea that the shattered American landscape and institutions could be restored. Two stints in Congress had helped recoup some of his squandered wealth, but corruption trials had siphoned even more off than had been regained, leaving them a very modest life and, eventually, leading to a broken home.
Another pothole, more swaying and cursing. The old man reached across his wife and pushed away a young man who’d lost his grip on the ceiling rails.
The young man was of southern Indian descent, dressed in tattered paper pants and a shirt haphazardly patched together from at least three others. An ugly scar angled across his forehead and nose. Something about the man troubled Rimes, and he kept “Scarface” in his peripheral vision the rest of the way to the bus station.
The bus came to a stop at the rear of the station, the autodriver shutting down with a staticky announcement of their arrival. Folks exited in a ragged, sluggish line, their pace set as much by malnutrition as stiffness and fatigue. Scarface disappeared in the bustle, but Rimes felt certain he’d gone into the terminal.
Rimes exited last. He gave a final scan around to be sure he wasn’t being watched. After putting the bus between him and the other passengers, he set his earpiece into his ear.
“Molly Rimes,” he muttered.
A moment later, Molly’s voice came over the line. “Hello?”
“Molly, it’s me. We just reached Oklahoma City.”
Rimes looked across the street to an empty lot that had once held a row of houses. Children played football, shouting and running over the packed dirt. Rimes closed his eyes for a moment to remember his father’s stories of American football, before it had collapsed in the same economic maelstrom that had obliterated so much else of the country.
Americans used to call the sport the kids were playing “soccer,” not “football.” Now, none of them knew any better. The US was just another poverty-stricken land that embraced the simpler and cheaper sport.
“I’ll be about forty minutes,” Molly said, excitement in her voice. “Oh, Jack …”
Rimes smiled, imagining his son leaping and kicking amongst the grimy kids running through the packed-dirt lot. “I’ll see you when you get here, Baby.”
With one fluid motion, he signed off and put his earpiece away.
After another glance to ensure he wasn’t being watched, he stepped from behind the bus, adjusting his travel pack on his shoulder. He walked casually toward the terminal, stepping through the entry and locating the bathroom.
The old man who’d sat beside Rimes on the bus bumped into him as he entered the bathroom. They exchanged a nod, and the old man walked to the women’s bathroom entry, where he leaned against the wall.
Fumbling in one of the travel bag’s pockets, Rimes entered the bathroom. He fished out his payment card, a new pair of shoes, and a change of clothes. He moved to the farthest sink and stripped, tossing his paper clothes and shoes into the corner recycler. He purchased a minute of cold running water and two shots of soap. He quickly washed himself, then purchased a half-minute under the dryer before dressing. Finally, he pulled a clean travel bag from the old, stained one and transferred his belongings to it.
Content that he no longer reeked of the road, he tossed the old bag into the recycler and left the bathroom to wait for Molly.
“Hey, Mister.”
Rimes turned, saw Scarface, saw the knife. Scarface’s stench hit even before he swung the knife.
Rimes stepped into the swing, intercepting Scarface’s forearm with an elbow. Before Scarface could adjust, Rimes drove his fist into Scarface’s throat, eliciting a wet, choking sound and a look of complete surprise. A woman’s scream echoed through the terminal as Rimes instinctively locked Scarface’s greasy forearm and upper arm, dislocating his elbow with a quick lock. The knife clattered to the ground as Scarface silently struggled for air and stared down at his ruined arm in horror.
People stepped away from the ticket booth to watch as Rimes kicked the knife away and patted Scarface. Rimes found a slim, filthy wallet with a payment card and a national ID identifying the man as Ram Gundtra. Rimes wiped the ID card clean on his pants leg and stuffed it into a pocket. He walked to the ticket booth. People parted as he approached, eventually revealing the station’s sole human employee.
“Could you call Emergency Services?” Rimes asked as calmly as he could.
The bug-eyed attendant looked over at Gundtra’s gasping form. “Is he … ?”
“He’ll be fine if they can get here quick enough. He was trying to rob me.”
The attendant activated his earpiece and nodded. “Emergency Services.”
Rimes walked away while the attendant hashed out the details with the care center. He watched Gundtra’s terrified face for a few seconds, then exited the terminal. The police would receive the surveillance video and assign it to some overworked detective to determine whether to contact Rimes for questioning. He doubted they’d deem it worthwhile; Gundtra would seem like a simple thief.
Rimes wouldn’t do a thing to dissuade them of it, even though he suspected someone had hired Gundtra to kill him.
Several minutes passed before Molly pulled up in one of the apartment complex’s cars, an ancient HuCorp two-seater.
She stepped out and hugged him.
They kissed. She smelled like she’d been working in the kitchen—onions, cumin, oregano, garlic, and chili powder.
Rimes slipped into the passenger seat and set his travel bag on the floor. Molly turned the car around, her face glowing. The car’s automatic driver was broken, and she seemed to be having a hard time focusing on the road.
“I took a little something for the nausea,” Molly said. “Dinner sh
ould be ready when we get back. I went ahead and splurged on a little chicken and a bottle of wine. I thought it would be okay?”
Rimes leaned back in the chair. It was stiff and meant for someone much smaller, but it was bliss compared to the bus. “It should be fine.” He was annoyed about the wine, but he let it go. He wanted to talk to her about Gundtra, about the Sundarbans, about Singapore, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
“Michael called last night,” Molly said.
His younger brother only called when he needed money. His job at the penitentiary paid enough for their small family to survive on, but Michael’s daughter had cri du chat syndrome and required therapy he had to cover out of pocket. Rimes did what he could. Sometimes, however, things went a little awry, and Michael needed to push for a little more.
Michael’s drinking problems only complicated things.
Like father, like son.
“He said they can’t afford the gene therapy, so she’s going to need surgery,” Molly continued.
After a moment, Rimes asked, “How much does he need?”
“Five thousand.”
Rimes closed his eyes.
Five thousand would wipe them out. They’d been saving to pay for their graduate school and stay out of debt. It would push them back another year, easily.
“I guess I could volunteer for an early rotation.” Rimes wasn’t keen on being away from home, but combat pay made it easier to save.
Molly suddenly focused on the road. “There’s part-time work at the Statton Mall.”
Rimes chewed his cheek. The Statton Mall was a chain of retail outlets owned by ADMP, one of the more predatory metacorporations. Everything in retail was contract, and the pay was purely market-based. Molly would be bidding against people with no education or skills: people who could afford to drive the bids low.
“It would give me something, Jack.”
“They’ll release you the second you can’t keep up.”
Molly smiled weakly. “I know. But J.C. says she can get me on.”
