by P. R. Adams
Most Commandos’ marriages ended in divorce. The statistics ran through his head. He’d always hoped he might be one of the lucky ones, that Molly’s strength and love would see them through the hard times. Despite the constant separations, his marriage had been like a dream.
“Molly, wait—” his voice failed him.
“I’m—we’re—pregnant, Jack.”
Rimes flinched at the last moment, almost missing Molly’s actual words in his fear of what she might say.
Finally, he muttered, “Pregnant? How far along?”
Molly looked at him as she would a simpleton. “Well, the last time we spent any time together was in Italy, Jack. You figure it out.”
Rimes relaxed. A baby was life changing. It would be a serious financial drain. It would delay her degree.
It was still better to look forward to than a messy divorce.
“How … ? When did you realize?”
Molly wiped away more tears. They were down to a trickle now. “I missed my period, then started feeling sick—terrible heartburn, y’know? I finally went in a few weeks ago.”
Rimes decided it wasn’t the time to question protection. He hadn’t used any; he’d just assumed she still was. “We’ll visit Cleo and Alejandra when I get back. We’ll tell them together. And your mother—”
Molly sniffled. “She already knows.” She smiled. “She says it’ll be good for me.”
“You’ll need to push back your PhD.”
Molly shook her head; now, anger made her eyes sparkle. “Rejected again, anyway. Thirteen positions, only two went to Americans. Six Chinese students, three Indian, one Russian, one Vietnamese. Charging foreign student rates means a higher profit. I’ll never get in, not without changing my nationality. And after I finally get the degree, it’s not like they’re knocking down doors hiring social scientists. It’s so damned broken, Jack.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Rimes could see she was on the verge of crying again. “Look, you’re going to be a little too busy to worry about it for a while, right? You have your Master’s. That’s going to open doors, eventually.”
Molly nodded. Tears welled in her eyes again. She looked at him, fighting them back. “Life’s what you make of it, right?”
Her image broke into static for a moment, returned, then broke into static again.
Finally, the connection stabilized.
“Jack?”
“Bandwidth,” Rimes said. “I’ll send you notice when I have a firm return date. Love you, Baby.”
Molly blew him a kiss. With the light from the kitchen washing over her, she was angelic. “Come home to me,” she whispered. “Come home to us.” She tried to disconnect before breaking into tears again but failed.
Rimes sucked in a lungful of air and exhaled. He was mostly alone in the room; four sailors—a young woman and three men of varying age—were caught up in their own communications sessions. Rimes quickly exited the common area, stepping through the hatch into the corridor before anyone could make eye contact.
In his haste, he nearly bumped into someone standing immediately outside the hatch. He turned.
“Jack! Was that Molly?” Kleigshoen, wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt and battle dress pants, stepped back, then leaned against the corridor wall to his left. Her hair was slightly damp and smelled of sandalwood shampoo.
She smiled, but it was more like that of a hungry predator than an old teammate.
Rimes took a quick breath. “Yeah.”
“Don’t worry.” Kleigshoen poked him mischievously. “I wasn’t spying on you, I just heard you as I was hanging up on my father. I haven’t talked to him in a month—you remember how he gets. You have it easy with Cleo and Alejandra.”
Rimes took another step away from her and felt himself relax. “Sure.”
“How are things, Jack? I didn’t really get a chance to talk to you before. It’s just been so crazy, you know?”
“Dana …” He sighed quietly. “Things have been good, thanks. I’ve moved on.”
“Married,” Kleigshoen replied, looking at his ring. “I’m happy for you. I should be, right? She’s pretty.”
Molly was pretty. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But she was a candle to Kleigshoen’s sun.
“Thanks,” Rimes said. “You?”
Rimes wanted to leave, to catch a quick nap, but his window of opportunity was shrinking.
Kleigshoen held up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Nope. I told you, career first. I meant it.” She smiled again, cutting through his defenses. “I hope you’re not still mad at me? To be fair, you were the only person to ever make me reconsider … everything.”
Rimes shook his head. “I’ve got a really good thing going.”
Kleigshoen raised an eyebrow. “That is so wonderful. I don’t know how you could do it. How long have you been married?”
Rimes struggled for a moment, summoning memories from an infinite abyss. He was tired and she was in his head, destroying anything that remotely resembled reason and control.
“Two years next month.”
“You’ve been in Spec Ops the whole time. You two really must have something special.”
“Molly has the patience of a mountain.”
“I’d say. So what’s your plan?” Kleigshoen tilted her head, exposing her long, soft, smooth neck.
“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 thre
e 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 units 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.
