by Adams, P R
“Loo—”
The door to the first floor burst open. Two loud pops followed. Martinez and Rimes dropped flat and knocked the grenade trapper shut. Below them, explosions rocked the bottom floor, the metallic chime of flechettes echoing everywhere. The flechettes bounced off cement and iron for a long second before going quiet. The sound of running boots rolled up the stairs.
“Here they come.” Martinez licked his lips. “Last chance to surrender.”
Rimes’s reply was lost as the fire exit door burst open. Rimes sneaked a peek; someone in a tac-vest and open-faced helmet swept a submachine gun across the interior, its laser sight tracking over the cement wall just above their position.
It was a good forty meters and dark, and the target stood behind iron bars: it would have been a tough shot for a pistol marksman under ideal conditions.
Rimes sighted and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The bullet ricocheted off a bar. Gunfire erupted from the stairwell doorway in response, hammering the wall above them. Concrete chips and powder rained down.
“What was that?” Martinez hissed.
“Bad shot.”
Martinez growled something beneath his breath and peered out his firing slit again.
“They’re coming up on that sheet metal. I can take a shot.”
“Do it,” Rimes said.
A moment later, as the lead gunman tried to sprint up the sheet metal ramp, Martinez fired. “Got him!”
A loud crash sounded.
“Down?”
Martinez risked a glance, then pulled back as bullets thudded into the concrete and sheet metal walls. “They’re pulling him back. He’s not a concern.”
The firing stopped.
Martinez swapped out his magazine for the other full one. “It’s tough to get a good shot like this.”
“Wounding is just as good as a kill in this environment,” Rimes said.
“We want something more serious than a stubbed toe, I’d imagine.”
“Shoot off their trigger fingers, Hawkeye.”
Martinez choked back a laugh.
“I’m sorry about J.C., Marty.” Rimes sighed, wondering how he would feel losing Molly. No. I couldn’t deal with it. I won’t let them kill her.
Martinez said nothing for a few seconds. “They’re looking at that sheet metal. Your work?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it secured? One of them’s pulling at the base.”
“Fire a shot at him. Don’t hit him, though.”
“Don’t hit hi—” Martinez sighed. “And I thought Moltke’s tactics sucked.” Martinez took a shot at the gunman.
The gunfire came again, this time sending several rounds into the sheet metal wall protecting Martinez. Martinez rubbed at a bulge in the wall where a round had nearly penetrated.
“Kicked the fucking hornet’s nest with that one,” Martinez said. “I think we can safely say they’re not using close-assault rounds, just in case you were still—”
Another round of gunfire drowned Martinez out. More concrete chips rained down on them.
At the far end of the building, someone knocked the wedge free and slid the sally port’s outer door open. One of the gunmen squat-walked toward the second door.
Rimes fired.
Once again, the gunmen returned fire. Three gunmen were advancing into the sally port behind the lead gunman. One took up position on either side of the lead gunman, and the last ducked behind him. They were preparing for a quick assault.
“Okay, they’re going to make a rush,” Rimes whispered. “That means they’ve probably figured out the basics of this defensive position.”
Martinez sighed. “We’re sitting ducks. I warned you.”
Rimes heard the second door’s concrete wedge being kicked free. The door slid. Another quick glance confirmed the four gunmen were readying to charge, with two more waiting in the stairwell doorway.
“Shit,” Martinez whispered. “They’re pulling the ramp away. They’re going to rush us from both directions.”
“Close your eyes.” Rimes swapped in a full magazine as the inner sally port door slid open the last of the way. He heard the sheet metal ramp scraping on the banister below.
Explosions rocked the building from the stairs. A wave of heat jetted over the top of their pillbox, and Martinez flinched. Then two smaller explosions sounded from the sally port.
As the explosions died down, screams took their place, and Rimes opened his eyes again.
Once again, gunfire erupted from the stairwell, this time without a hint of coordination or accuracy. Rimes pulled the walkie-talkie from his pants and activated it.
“All yours.”
He switched the walkie-talkie to a different frequency and activated it again. A moment later, another explosion sounded from the stairwell.
The gunfire went silent.
Rimes switched the walkie-talkie back to its regular frequency.
Martinez looked at Rimes in stunned silence. “You had this planned all along. You knew I’d bring J.C. with me.”
Rimes winced. “No … but I had to be sure all the loose ends were accounted for. I figured you’d either show up alone and try to kill me, or they’d be following you—or following her—and they’d try to kill all of us separately. You’re in with dirty people, and they don’t care who they have to kill to protect themselves.”
The walkie-talkie came to life. Kleigshoen’s voice came in clearly. “Targets down. All clear.”
“Who was that?” Martinez demanded.
“Dana Kleigshoen,” Rimes said.
“That sweet thing from the Sutton?”
Rimes nodded. “She’s also a sweet marksman. She got the pilot and the two sentries, so we just need to clean up in here. You up for that?”
“Jack, what about me?” Martinez asked, his face pained. He looked at his pistol. “They’ll call it treason.”
Rimes watched Martinez. “I’m sorry. I was figuring you and J.C. could disappear, start a new life somewhere, maybe down in Ecuador. You still have family there, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But you need to give me the X-17, Marty. And the Sundarbans data stick you kept from the Bureau. Yeah, I know about it. And I’m guessing Marshall probably suspects.”
“How’d you—”
“Later,” Rimes said. He popped open the grenade cover. A quick glance at the dying flames assured him the assailants in the sally port were no longer a threat.
The improvised pillbox was battered and pockmarked. Dirt was scattered everywhere. Rimes shook his head in admiration.
Martinez squatted in front of the pillbox, rubbing his hand over several holes where dirt tumbled out. “This could’ve gone a lot worse.”
“Let’s get out of here. I want to get the data stick, and you should get on the way to your new life.”
Martinez stood and walked over to the railing, leaning over it with his eyes unfocused. “Without J.C., I can’t see—”
Gunfire echoed loudly from the stairs below them, nearly drowning out Martinez’s quiet gasp. A round struck Rimes’s right shoulder; another grazed the right side of his head. He rolled away from the pillbox.
Martinez fell.
Rimes watched for a moment, unable to understand what he was seeing. His legs gave out, and his head fell against the cement floor. Waves of pain shot through his body. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think. He was vaguely aware he’d been shot and that he wanted to get his gun, but he couldn’t string together the steps necessary to do that.
Footsteps echoed. Someone was slowly climbing the stairs. One moment, they seemed close, the next far away.
It required a Herculean effort, but Rimes rolled onto his side. He blinked and managed a glance at the stairs. He saw a torso, a CAWS-5, all-too-familiar gear.
Darkness and a semblance of peace washed over him, until Moltke’s face resolved out of the void, hovering above him. Moltke was saying something about Martinez. Rimes tried to conc
entrate on Moltke’s words, but the words just couldn’t connect in the thunderous roar in his head.
Where’s Marty? He was here. Dana? Molly?
Moltke lifted Rimes by the front of his shirt, demanding something.
Rimes’s head fell back as Moltke shook him.
A knife appeared from thin air, and Moltke pressed its tip just below Rimes’s right eye. Moltke spoke again, angrier, louder. Rimes sensed there was importance to the words, that it was critical he understand what was being said.
He blinked, and his eyelashes brushed the blade. Moltke said something about knowing, about the others, about pain.
There was a pop—a gunshot—and Moltke suddenly slumped. Rimes’s weight pulled them over, and Moltke fell on top of Rimes, cutting his cheek with the knife.
Moltke was mercifully silent now.
Rimes tasted something terrible in his mouth. He gagged, tried to spit. Instead, he rolled to his side and vomited, somehow managing not to breathe it back in.
Darkness.
Peace.
When Rimes opened his eyes again, an angel was kneeling beside him, babbling in the same formless language Moltke had used. She was crying.
What could make an angel cry?
Molly.
He was so tired, so very tired. He slipped into the darkness.
39
18 March 2164. Fort Sill, Oklahoma.
* * *
Rimes tried to swallow but simply couldn’t manage it. His mouth was dry and rough as sandpaper; his throat burned. He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it; it felt like he was ripping off their outer membranes.
But with some effort, he was finally able to focus.
The all-too-familiar combination of privacy screen, monitoring systems, and wheeled serving tray greeted him.
Another hospital room.
A moment passed, and the privacy screen opened. A bushy-eyebrowed young man in hospital greens stepped in.
“Welcome back to life, Sergeant Rimes,” The young man leaned in close, pulled down Rimes’s bottom lids, and looked into Rimes’s pupils. “Your vitals’re looking awfully strong for someone who took a bullet to the head. How’re you feeling?”
Rimes tried to speak, felt his throat tighten up, and thought better of it. He pointed at his throat and shook his head.
A headache exploded just behind his eyes.
“Your WBC count is up. How about opening your mouth for me?” The nurse fished a penlight out of his shirt pocket and shone it into Rimes’s throat. “Just a touch of strep. We’ll take care o’ that. You up for a visitor? We’ve got a standing call for when you come around.”
Rimes nodded, and the headache hit him again. He hoped it was Molly.
Waking alone in the hospital had hurt him, he realized.
She’s always been there when she could be before.
“Good. I’ll have the desk let Colonel Weatherford know.” The nurse seemed oblivious to the disappointment flashing across his patient’s face as he examined the side of Rimes’s head. “Try not to move too much. Although I have to admit, I’ve never seen someone heal so fast before, not without aggressive stem cell treatments. And you’re not showing even residual indications of brain trauma. That’s pretty amazing stuff.”
Rimes nodded without thinking, then grimaced.
The nurse left Rimes to his thoughts, thoughts that quickly turned dark. Not only was Molly not waiting for him, he realized, but the nurse hadn’t even mentioned her. Or Kleigshoen.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he may very well be a prisoner. He had, after all, killed several men, and there was no real evidence that Moltke was a traitor.
He searched around for the bed’s controller and raised the head of the bed, then pulled the serving tray over. It was all an embarrassing struggle, his limbs shaking and uncertain, but he managed to pour himself a cup of water without spilling too much. He gulped the water down, closing his eyes against the pain.
A console suspended from the ceiling caught his eye. He found the remote and powered on the display. Flipping through the dozen or so menus was slow going, but he eventually found a news feed.
Several searches through headlines and video revealed nothing worrisome—another brushfire war in Africa, another assassination in Asia, droughts across the eastern United States. He stopped at the last set of stories: more concessions from the feckless World Trade Organization to appease the metacorporations.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached the privacy screen. A hand pulled the screen aside.
Colonel Weatherford’s face was an unreadable mask. “I understand you have a pretty bad case of strep.”
Rimes whispered weakly. “Yes, sir.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Weatherford’s gravelly voice revealed nothing. “Can’t keep these damned infections under control no matter what we do.”
Weatherford patted Rimes’s shoulder, sending up another explosion of pain.
“I’ve talked to your wife and Agent Kleigshoen. I still want to get your side of the story, of course, but by all accounts, you’ve eliminated a serious problem. I think the government owes you a big thank you, but I don’t recommend you hold your breath waiting for it.”
Rimes smiled in relief.
“The timing couldn’t be much worse. This X-17 thing … it’s not going to make us look good. We need to act on this quickly and aggressively. Corporal Barlowe’s under arrest and cooperating so far. CID has a team working with him to recover the X-17. He doesn’t know where it was stored; that died with Moltke. The bigger problem is dealing with the canisters sold to the genies.”
Rimes nodded, ignoring the pain.
“We’ve reached out to LoDu, played on their honor and all that bullshit. This Kwon fellow was a bit of an embarrassment to them, so they’re offering a little help. At the end of the day, though, it’s going to come down to us. Do you have any idea where they might have stored what they bought?”
Rimes swallowed. “No, sir,” he whispered. “Kwon died before I could get much out of him.”
Weatherford nodded, looking into the distance. “Well, we haven’t got a lot to work with, but we’ll make it count.” He looked down at Rimes, then patted him painfully on the shoulder again. “Martinez was a good soldier. I hope you’ll be able to remember the good about him. I think we can cover up his involvement in this.”
“I appreciate it, sir.”
Weatherford squeezed Rimes’s shoulder. Rimes clenched his teeth against the pain. “Moltke, on the other hand, was lucky he was killed. Hard to believe Martinez got off that shot. The human body is capable of amazing things. Moltke’s family will get nothing. He was a disgrace to the officer corps and to his country.”
He let go of Rimes’s shoulder and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about losing my temper like that. It’s just I’m very disappointed. I thought I knew Moltke better than that.”
Rimes took a breath. “I understand, sir.”
Weatherford moved to pat Rimes’s shoulder but pulled his hand away just in time. “I also wanted to assure you your opportunity for OCS is still intact. Help us wrap up the X-17 situation, and you’ll be on the next bus to Fort Benning. They say you’ll be up on your feet in a week, good as new. They wanted to use you as a case study. I told them no.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rimes said, doing his best to hide the quiver in his voice.
Weatherford started to stand up. “Let me know if you need anything.”
A thought came to Rimes: Perditori’s jumpsuit. His strange accent. “Sir, there is one thing. It might be nothing … I got the sense from Kwon that they might have the X-17 in an orbital station. I didn’t get any details … it may not mean anything.”
Weatherford leaned on the edge of the bed. “Any idea which one?”
Rimes shook his head. His voice was a dry rattle. “He was all-but brain dead when I connected to him. Does the name Perditori mean anything?”
Weatherford considered the name for a moment. “I ca
n’t say I’ve ever heard of a Perditori, but I’ll pass it along.” He straightened. “For now, you get some sleep. You’ve got a couple of young ladies very anxious to see you.”
Weatherford chuckled quietly. “I remember when I was your age.” He gave Rimes’s shoulder another painful pat, then disappeared through the privacy screen.
Rimes managed a smile. Apparently, Molly hadn’t left him, and Kleigshoen was all right. Moltke was being scapegoated.
But the fact that Barlowe was already in custody troubled Rimes.
Barlowe was a good guy. He had unparalleled computer system skills. And Rimes needed access to those if he wanted to understand what had really happened and why.
The nurse returned with a medication cup. “That was a quick visit. You’ll take two of these now, two tonight with your meals. We’ve had a small problem in the facility with strep lately. At least it’s not something lethal.” He grinned, but the effect was creepy rather than reassuring.
Rimes swallowed the pills with a mighty effort. The nurse left, and Rimes turned his attention back to the news feed—and to the possibility he’d guessed right with Perditori and the X-17.
Makes sense, after all. Kwon had connections to Perditori, and Perditori looks like he lives in an orbital station. Assuming he’s even real. How can I know what’s real when he can affect my thoughts?
Everything about Perditori made it seem very unlikely he lived on-planet, and it seemed unlikely a connection to Kwon could be made from outside the solar system.
Rimes instinctively reached for his earpiece to do more research, and sighed when he realized it had probably been removed when they treated his head wound.
After a moment of familiarizing himself with the remote’s crude interface, he opened a workspace and pulled up a search system.
He worked through the publicly available inventory of orbitals, first filtering out those that were home to the banking cartels. These were the oldest and most established orbitals, and were home to nearly two hundred thousand people. Along with the historical distance the banks maintained from the metacorporations, the idea of one suddenly accepting what would have to be a mysterious cargo simply made no sense. Next, he filtered out anything older than twenty-five years, figuring Perditori would favor more modern facilities, from the time the metacorporations first threatened to move all operations off-planet.
