Momentary Stasis (The Rimes Trilogy Book 1)

by Adams, P R

  Kleigshoen retreated down the stairs. “In position.”

  Rimes looked at the hatch above him and the command deck hatch above that, then risked a quick glance down. Kleigshoen held a flashbang at the ready.

  He keyed his channel to Bhat. “Bhat, what’s your situation?”

  “Still holding.” Bhat said.

  “Something’s wrong,” Rimes said. “They can’t possibly be everywhere at once.” He came off mute with Lopez. “Lopez, do you have a strength estimate?”

  “Twenty?” Lopez ground his teeth audibly. “They’re firing from three positions. We can’t really get a good look at them.”

  Kleigshoen’s flashbang detonated. Rimes looked down and saw Pasqual clear the landing.

  Gunfire erupted.

  The hatch above opened, and Rimes turned, instinctively emptying the magazine in a broad arc of fire. Flechettes bit into the bulkhead, filled the open hatchway, and tore through the genies trying to rush through.

  Rimes reloaded as he charged the hatch.

  “Jack,” Kleigshoen shouted over the gunfire, “We’ve got three of them down here. Chung’s dead. Pasqual’s hit.”

  “I’m okay,” Pasqual said. His voice sounded strained. “I’ve got them pinned down. You move up.”

  Rimes stood in the hatchway and scanned up and down the passageway, then stepped back and layered Pasqual’s and Kleigshoen’s data feeds over the deck plans. “Lopez, consolidate your squad’s BAS feeds and send them to me.”

  As Kleigshoen made her way back upstairs, Lopez’s data filtered in, populating known enemy positions and engagement zones. The BAS merged the data and constructed a solid three-dimensional image of the entire ship; Rimes shared it with Kleigshoen.

  Kleigshoen looked it over. “They’re waiting for us every step of the way. Do we blow the bridge?”

  Rimes shook his head. “One last thing to try.”

  Kleigshoen examined the BAS display again. “What? I’m not seeing anything.”

  “I want you to move up to the command deck hatch and wait for my signal. I’m going to see if we can give them a surprise for once.”

  Rimes poked his head through the hatchway; it was still clear. “Bhat? Hold position until I give the go. When I give the signal, make some noise. Not too much.”

  “Copy.”

  “Jack—” Kleigshoen’s voice sounded angry and panicked over the earpiece; when he looked, her face was strained, her eyes were wide.

  “Dana,” Rimes touched Kleigshoen’s EVA helmet. “I just need you to keep them occupied. Like what Pasqual is doing.”

  “Piece of cake, Agent Kleigshoen,” Pasqual said as he sent another shot through the hatch.

  Kleigshoen let out a hiss through clenched teeth and slowly ascended the stairs. Rimes watched her go for a moment then stepped into the passageway.

  The passageway was still clear except for the dead genies. He stopped at a turn in the main passageway and glanced around the corner; a bulkhead several meters down blocked his view.

  Rimes edged down the passageway, stopped at the bulkhead, and listened. He picked up what may have been whispering, the faint squeak of a rubber sole. The hatch was ajar. He started to peer through the opening but sensed a hint of movement.

  He froze, then slid the CAWS into its brace and pulled his knife.

  An unexpected sense of calm, a cool detachment, washed over Rimes. His breathing was controlled, his hands steady, his awareness clear yet wide. The usual edginess that came with combat was gone. He sneaked his head forward until he could see around the hatch edge.

  A genie stood on the other side of the bulkhead, just through the hatch.

  A guard.

  Rimes slowly pulled back. He examined the BAS. Everyone was in position, waiting on him. He had no idea if there were other genies beyond the guard. He had no idea if there were genies at the hatch beyond, where Bhat’s team waited. What he did know was that the guard had to be eliminated or nothing else would matter.

  Rimes imagined the guard’s exact position based off what he had seen. A lethal strike would require moving into the hatchway. That meant being visible and exposed.

  It would be extremely high-risk but also extremely satisfying.

  Rimes blinked. What?

  He imagined killing the guard again.

  Satisfaction. Reward. Excitement.

  The sensations were alien.

  It’s Kwon.

  Rimes exhaled silently and refocused. He still had to eliminate the guard. A quiet intake of breath, a grip of the knife in disturbingly steady hands.

  He signaled Bhat, then moved into the hatchway.

  The battlefield’s details resolved with alarming speed and ease as he scanned first down the corridor, then at the guard. He could make out a half-dozen forms at the far end of the passageway, squatting, lying prone, pressed against the bulkheads nearest the stairwell hatch. Their eyes were glued to it.

  The guard was turning, responding to a change in pressure, a sixth sense, or luck; Rimes had been silent as death.

  The knife rose, not to where the guard’s jaw was but to where it would be. Rimes pivoted on his right foot, rotated his hip. He threw every bit of energy he could into the thrust.

  For a split second, it appeared the genie might react too quickly for the strike to connect. His eyes went wide. He swung around the submachine gun he’d been holding slack at his side. His mouth opened.

  The knife struck.

  It drove up through muscle and bone, severing nerves and blood vessels. It pinned the genie’s mouth shut and momentarily lifted him up onto his toes.

  He died without a sound.

  Rimes used the momentum to pull the lifeless body through the hatchway in a single, fluid motion. The corpse twitched, its heart, not yet aware it was no longer needed, sending blood gushing through the wound.

  Rimes squatted and listened, filtering out the quiet storm of his own racing heart and rushing blood. It was still quiet. The genies were focused on their ambush.

  Rimes whispered, “Bhat, you’ve got six, probably more, just outside that hatch, waiting to catch you from behind. I want you to proceed with caution up to the command deck. Dana, on my signal, open the hatch.”

  “Moving up,” Bhat said.

  Rimes pulled his last two flashbangs and twisted back around to watch the genies through the hatchway. A second ticked by. Another.

  The genie closest to the hatch panel waved the others forward. Rimes pulled the first flashbang’s pin and tossed it through the hatchway into the midst of the genies. He counted to two, then ducked through the hatchway after it, sprinting toward the genies at the other end of the corridor, the second flashbang ready in his hand. At three seconds, he closed his eyes and pulled the pin on the second flashbang.

  The force of the first flashbang’s explosion impacted Rimes’s suit. He opened his eyes, took in the genies staggering and slumping in the corridor, and hurled the second flashbang, angling it for the open bay to the right of the stairwell hatch.

  Then he unslung the CAWS and slammed into the right-hand bulkhead. When the second flashbang went off, he opened fire, emptying his magazine into the stunned genies. He reloaded and spun into the open bay.

  A genie lay on the ground, knocked mostly senseless by the flashbang and reaching weakly for her weapon. Rimes fired twice, center mass. Blood sprayed from flechette wounds, and the genie went limp.

  Rimes’s earpiece was full of thunder.

  “All kinds of fun up here, Jack,” Kleigshoen shouted, barely audible over her CAWS and the return fire. “There must be ten of them.”

  “Don’t give them anything to shoot at,” Rimes searched the genies for explosives, shoving three of their improvised flechette grenades into his thigh pouches. “I’m on my way. Bhat, how about you?”

  “Ready to dance. Give us the word and we’ll toss some flashbangs out there.”

  Rimes gave the bloody scene a last scan and jogged back to the main stairwell. At th
e hatch, he gave Bhat the go-ahead. Explosions and gunfire filled the audio as Rimes climbed the stairs, one of the improvised flechette grenades in his hand.

  Rimes stopped as his head came even with Kleigshoen’s boot. She had her back pressed against the bulkhead, the hatch to the command deck open just enough to allow her to glance through—and draw fire.

  He ducked until the firing stopped. “Dana.”

  Her helmet twitched, but she kept her eyes on the hatch. “Jack.”

  “When I give the signal, I want you to kick that hatch open wide enough for me to throw a grenade out there.”

  “Got it.”

  Rimes examined the grenade; everything about the device was infuriatingly foreign. He had no idea how much of a fuse it had. He rotated it in his hand until he found the trigger mechanism.

  “Jack?”

  “One second,” Rimes grumbled. “These guys may be geniuses, but they obviously don’t know how to build an intuitive weapon. Okay. Go.”

  Kleigshoen kicked the hatch’s bottom corner and pulled her leg back just as a hail of flechettes filled the stairwell. Rimes triggered the grenade and tossed it, trying to direct the blast into the chamber beyond. He ducked down the stairs and dug for another grenade.

  The explosion was disappointingly modest.

  Silence.

  Rimes lobbed the second grenade a little harder and ducked again.

  Another unimpressive explosion.

  Silence. No movement. No gunfire.

  Not much of bang, but the silence spoke volumes about the grenades’ effectiveness. A few common-sense improvements, and they might be on to something.

  “Bhat, we’re clear here,” Rimes said.

  “Still cleaning up,” Bhat replied. “One particularly stubborn …“ Gunfire drowned out Bhat’s audio. “Okay, we’re clear. Moving to join you.”

  Rimes climbed to the top of the stairs and took in the chamber and hallway with a quick sweep. Blood covered the walls. Genies lay in twisted heaps. Rimes spotted an unexploded grenade in one of the genies’ hands.

  Rimes opened a private channel to Kleigshoen. “It’s clear. I’m going to take point. You stay tight on my six. Okay?”

  Kleigshoen blinked rapidly several times, then nodded. Rimes patted her shoulder. He cautiously stepped out and scooped up the genie’s grenade.

  Rimes hefted the grenade as he looked down the passageway. He opened the team channel. “Pasqual, stay sharp. We’re moving to the bridge.”

  “All covered,” Pasqual said. “They’ve gone awfully quiet.”

  Rimes stopped. “Okay, change of plans. Pasqual, get up here. Take up position outside this hatch with Agent Kleigshoen. Bhat, station Fawcett outside your hatch. I think you’ve got some visitors coming your way. Move it.”

  Rimes gave Kleigshoen a thumbs’ up, then jogged to the central corridor to wait for Bhat and Orr. When they arrived, he showed them the grenade he’d taken from the genie. He explained the basics of the trigger and gave the grenade to Bhat, then dug the final genie grenade out of his pocket.

  “It’s going to go down easy, or it’s going to go down hard,” Rimes said. “Easy is popping the door and lobbing these in, then doing a little close-in mop-up.”

  “Nothing’s been easy today,” Bhat said. “What’s hard?”

  “We blow the explosives and lose the bridge.”

  “Y’know, hard sounds awfully appealing right about now.” Bhat pressed flat against the bulkhead opposite the hatch with the grenade ready to trigger and throw. “Ready.”

  “Ready.” Rimes thumbed the grenade trigger and leaned against the bulkhead.

  Orr opened the hatch and kicked it wide.

  Rimes and Bhat tossed their improvised flechette grenades inside—but the result was more impressive this time.

  A deafening explosion tore through the bridge, knocking them backwards for a moment.

  Then they were almost instantly pulled forward.

  The atmosphere within the bridge had begun to evacuate.

  The explosive charges on the porthole must have detonated!

  How wasn’t particularly relevant at the moment; what mattered was sealing the bridge.

  “Seal the hatch!”

  Bhat was already in motion, hooking his hand on the hatch and pulling it against the force. Rimes placed a knee against the bulkhead and grabbed the hatch, adding his strength. Orr joined them.

  For several seconds, they made slow progress, gaining a few centimeters only to lose one. Finally, the hatch shut and Orr slapped the control panel, closing it.

  “Rimes, you there?” Lopez shouted. His signal was weak but clear.

  “Go ahead.”

  “They stopped firing,” Lopez said. “They’re retreating. Just like that.”

  “It’s over,” Rimes said. He was ready to collapse. “Whoever was on the bridge somehow detonated the charges we put on the porthole.”

  “This engagement goes to you, Colonel.”

  Rimes spun, CAWS held at waist level.

  One of the ruined genie corpses was staggering from the hallway toward him, blood and viscera trailing in its wake.

  Its eyes were dead.

  “Sergeant,” Rimes said.

  It waved a hand dismissively, a familiar gesture.

  “Perditori,” Rimes finally realized.

  “Rimes,” Lopez said over the earpiece. “Come again?”

  Bhat had his weapon centered on the corpse’s chest, hands shaking. “Colonel? A c-couple rounds to the head and he can’t tell rank?”

  “Rimes?” Lopez sounded worried.

  “Hold on, Lopez,” Rimes said.

  The corpse leaned on a wall. “You denied us the resources of the Powell and Valdez, and we had hoped to do the same to you, out of courtesy. However, the time for fun and games is at an end, and we must leave this dead cradle.”

  Bhat leveled his CAWS at the corpse’s forehead. “I could try to kill it again. Or at least get it to shut the hell up.”

  Approaching the corpse, Rimes held up a hand. “No.” He looked into the dead eyes. “Why this … display?”

  “You have changed, Colonel. We have both changed. Even in defeat, we grow stronger. You are unreachable by my previous methods. I knew the time would come, even though I did not correctly anticipate the moment or method.

  “So here we are—you, the misguided angel of death, me the creator speaking through one of your victims, an innocent bystander in an unnecessary war. I could warn you not to pursue us, but it would be futile. You will come, and we will kill you, or you will kill some of us.”

  The corpse smiled, dripping blood from its mouth. “In the end, it will not matter. My kind will survive and flourish, and yours will pass. You will all pass.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “For now? Away. Eventually, beyond any place you know of. Goodbye, Colonel.” The corpse bowed and gave a slow wave, then slumped to the ground.

  Bhat whistled. “Shit, Rimes, what the hell was that?”

  “I couldn’t begin to explain.” Rimes knelt to examine the corpse. After a few seconds, he stood, wiping the gore from his hands. “Let’s get to the hangar bay and see if we can raise Colonel Weatherford. Something tells me this isn’t over yet.”

  45

  22 March 2164. Grandfield, Oklahoma.

  * * *

  Rimes stared out a filthy window at the dying lawn outside. More weeds than grass, and more barren earth than weeds, it was fenced in by cracked and rotten split rails. Beyond the fence, the ruin was worse.

  So much ruin, so many failures.

  A cough drew Rimes’s attention back into the room.

  He saw the room in a dreamy twilight where memory and reality met. He’d spent many a school night studying here, Cleo snoring noisily in the same leather chair.

  In his memories, the room was larger, the furniture newer, the air fresher, Cleo stronger. Dust hung, suspended in what sunlight leaked through the windows and paper-thin curtains.<
br />
  Grandfield was a ghost town, only a handful of houses still occupied. Its streets were broken pavement, its municipal buildings scabrous shells, its breath weak gusts of sand.

  He sat on a battered, sagging couch next to Molly and his younger brother, Michael.

  “When were you planning to tell us?” Rimes asked.

  Molly squeezed his hand.

  Cleo made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a cough, then took a drink from a smudged jelly jar and set it on a scarred end table. The table was as much a part of Rimes’s childhood memories as the old man’s penchant for cheap whiskey.

  “You know now, so what’s it matter?”

  “How long?” Rimes asked.

  “A few months,” Cleo muttered. “Maybe less.”

  Memories lied.

  The old man had never been strong, the house had never been a haven for Rimes. It had always been dirty.

  Broken.

  Cheap.

  “I’m sorry, Cleo,” Molly said, squeezing Rimes’s hand again.

  Cleo took another drink from the jelly jar. “For what? You didn’t cause it, sweetie.” He looked at Rimes. “Your brother wasn’t supposed to tell you. He can’t keep his damned mouth shut for nothin’.”

  “He told me because he knew I was considering going away for a while. He thought I’d want to see you again.” Rimes breathed deep, tried to calm himself.

  Cleo waved dismissively. “You’re always goin’ away. You ain't nothin' like your brothers. Never have been.”

  Rimes pinched his nose and rubbed his eyes. Dealing with his father was never easy. Saying goodbye was proving even more difficult.

  The house was nearly silent—the hum of a failing console, the drip of a leaky faucet, the quiet groan of the foundation settling.

  And their breathing.

  Cleo looked at them with jaundiced, judging eyes, the same eyes that found them lacking as far back as Rimes could remember. Even sunken as they were, shadowed by a bony brow chiseled by the ravages of disease, they held power.

  “Where now?” he said, his voice dry reeds rattling. “Another cesspool you can’t even afford to take your wife to?”

  “Georgia,” Rimes said. He wiped away tears he hadn’t realized were there before. “Fort Benning.”