The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  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 should 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.”

  Rimes looked out the passenger window.

  Martinez and his wife are always coming through for us. They’ve saved our marriage how many times? And what have we done to pay them back?

  Outside the window, they passed collapsing husks of houses and apartments. There were no lights, no signs of electricity as the sun set. It would approach freezing in a few hours, and whole families would huddle in the dark structures beneath foul, tattered blankets to stay warm.

  He thought of Michael’s family shivering in the cold. “I guess we don’t have much choice.”

  They were silent the rest of the trip. Molly pulled into the apartment complex and parked the car. They held each other’s hands as they strolled back to their apartment. The temperature was already dropping from pleasantly cool to chilly.

  At the base of the apartment stairs, Rimes pulled Molly close and gently patted her slender belly.

  “Is it … ?”

  “What?” Molly asked, smiling mischievously. “Safe? Painful? A boy or girl?”

  Rimes laughed. “All three, I guess.”

  “They’ll run a test in a few weeks to predict the gender. Unless you want to pick? It’s still early enough. We’d have to pay for it, but it’s only a few hundred dollars.”

  Rimes shook his head. “I’m good with whatever happens.”

  Molly’s smile spread. “Me too. Other than nausea, there’s no real pain right now. From everything I’ve read and heard, there’s going to be discomfort as it grows. It’ll sit right on my bladder, so I’ll have to pee a lot.”

  Rimes processed the idea for a few seconds. “Okay.”

  “And, yes, it’s perfectly safe. I asked Dr. Sheehan first thing.” Molly squeezed his hand and led him up the stairs and into the apartment.

  Rimes stepped into the bathroom. He relieved himself and showered, washing away the last of the filth and despair, then headed for the bedroom to dress in clean clothes, pulling on a real cotton T-shirt and jeans, some of the only extravagances he allowed himself.

  Molly was setting out their plates as he stepped into the kitchen. Rimes popped the cork off the wine bottle she’d left on the table and poured them each a glass. He tried not to think of the cost of the wine and the chicken or of the risk the wine posed.

  We’re past that now. She’s got it under control.

  Molly turned on the entertainment center display and purchased a news broadcast. They watched while they ate, struggling with the reader’s French accent.

  Rimes commented in general on the situations in Singapore and India without acknowledging his involvement in either. The news ended as they finished their meals. He cleaned the kitchen while she took her turn in the bathroom. A few minutes later, she poked her head into the kitchen and gigg
led nervously.

  “You better hurry if you want to have some fun. I’ll be fat before you know it.”

  He tossed the towel onto the kitchen table.

  Molly stood in the hallway outside the kitchen.

  He thought of Kleigshoen—a little weight would do Molly well. She took his hand and they retreated to their bedroom, past the tiny guest bedroom.

  And he thought of the life that would soon call it home.

  11

  26 February 2164. Elgin, Oklahoma.

  * * *

  The earpiece’s high-pitched squeal shattered Rimes’s dream. He twisted in bed, spotted the earpiece on the nightstand, and snatched it up before the second ring completed. Molly rolled onto her side and wiped the sleep from her eyes. The display showed 0452.

  His gut twisted. An early call on a Sunday morning was never a good thing.

  “Sergeant Rimes?” The voice belonged to Colonel Weatherford.

  Rimes’s gut twisted more. He and Molly had made plans, and he’d hoped to at least visit his parents before he had to report back in.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need you in the Seminole briefing room by 0600,” Weatherford said.

  Rimes covered his eyes with his right hand. “Understood, Colonel.”

  The channel closed, and Rimes massaged his face.

  Molly rolled out of bed and hurried to the bathroom. He could hear the first of her quiet sobs.

  He looked around the bedroom. Molly’s little touches were everywhere—his were absent. Aside from a few of his uniforms, their small closet held only her handful of dresses and outfits and a few blankets she’d inherited from her family. Her few pieces of jewelry were kept in a scuffed teakwood box on the dresser; a few tubes of lotion and a bottle of perfume gifted from a now-passed friend sat next to it.

  The only things he kept there—that weren’t disposable—were two worn pairs of jeans and a few simple pullover shirts. Everything else belonged to the military.

  With a heavy sigh, he opened the dresser and pulled out underwear and shorts. He slipped them on and quietly padded to the kitchen. The entertainment display glowed dimly in the darkness. It quietly hummed to life with a gesture, and Rimes reserved one of the complex’s vehicles under Molly’s name for the morning.

  He checked the refrigerator and was delighted to see Molly had also splurged on some eggs. He fished one out along with the soy milk carton, tofu, and a mealworm-vegetable paste. Within minutes, he had the paste and tofu slices sizzling in a shallow pool of oil next to a scrambled egg. The intoxicating aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.

  Molly, wearing his T-shirt, settled at the table, her eyes puffy and red. She fidgeted with the towel he’d left on the table the night before, refusing to meet his eyes. He poured her a cup of coffee, distractedly comparing the simple, chipped cup to the intricate crystal and silver set aboard the Okazaki. He set the powdered sweetener and a spoon down in front of Molly, doing his best not to dwell on the second-hand container and spoon.

  They ate in silence.

  As Rimes finished off his coffee, Molly finally looked at him. Her face was drawn, tired.

  If I have to go somewhere, she’ll have to do all the preparation and planning alone. Like she’s had to do so often before. She deserves better.

  “Any idea how long? Where?”

  Rimes cleared the table. “It may be nothing,” he said, then almost laughed at himself. “I mean, it may be something short. Most of the team is still forward-deployed, so this must be … different.”

  At least it will be a free flight home if they send me abroad.

  Molly followed him to the bathroom where they quickly showered together, sharing coffee- and tear-flavored kisses. While Molly ran down to grab the car, Rimes shaved and brushed his teeth. He pulled a uniform out of the closet and quickly dressed before rushing down the stairs.

  The entire drive, Molly fought to hold back her tears; Rimes tried not to dwell on the sheer ecstasy of holding her in his arms the night before—and the imminent ache of her absence.

  The Seminole briefing room was simply furnished: a long, old, oak table, several well-worn chairs, and a semi-static digital display on each wall. It was one of the smaller rooms in Fort Sill’s Building 1215, but it was just down the hall from Weatherford’s office.

  Rimes was alone. The lights were on in Weatherford’s office, but the building was otherwise empty and dark. Rimes took a seat to the left of the head of the table and waited.

  Weatherford, shaved and in uniform, stepped through the doorway. He was tall and silver-haired, raspy-voiced. “Jack. Thanks for making it here so quick.”

  Rimes stood and accepted Weatherford’s proffered hand. “No problem, sir.”

  “Of course it’s a problem,” Weatherford said. “I wouldn’t drag your ass in at this hour if it wasn't.” He motioned for Rimes to sit again. “We have a call in fifteen minutes. You were a by-name request.”

  “Special Security Council?”

  “Intelligence Bureau,” Weatherford said. “It’s exceedingly rare. They have their own operators, a lot of them straight from us or Delta. You remember Fairchild? He went to IB just after you arrived here.”

  Rimes nodded. He thought back to the Sutton, the quarantine, and to Kleigshoen’s offer.

  She’d taken the next step without consulting him; he was surprised to feel not anger, but excitement.

  “Tough thing, losing Kirk and his men.” Weatherford shook his head. “I’ve watched the videos three times now, and I still don’t get it. What happened? Did we step on an ant’s nest? Genies attacking US military? It’s unheard of.”

  “Yes, sir. The whole thing seemed … off. They used X-17. That’s pretty crazy right there, sir.”

  After a moment, Weatherford patted Rimes’s shoulder. “We’ve put a lot of stress on you the last six months.”

  “It comes with the job, sir.”

  “Some folks handle it better than others. I think you’re ready for the next step. Your request for OCS would fly through quick enough if you submitted it today. Something like this with the IB … It’s a feather in your cap. You’ve shown you can work with folks across the board. That’s exactly what the officer corps wants.”

  Rimes felt as if he were floating in a dream. He always wanted to be an officer. He’d seen how Moltke and Weatherford lived. The difference in pay alone was staggering, but the doors opened by a commission meant a completely different life, both while he was on active duty and once he retired. “I would be honored to serve as an officer, Colonel.”

  “What do you have left to wrap up your graduate work?”

  “Three classes, and I need to present my thesis.” Rimes decided not to mention his financial situation.

  Weatherford nodded. “You can wrap that up on your next rotation. What’s your thesis?”

  “‘The Creation of the American Hemisphere Economic Zone Led to the Collapse of the Guatemalan Labor Party.’ My mother’s from Guatemala, and her mother’s still there. She was active in the party until its collapse. They both provided a great deal of insight.”

  Weatherford glanced at the clock on the wall. As if by signal, the room’s communication display notified them of an incoming call. They waited as a series of encryption handshakes squealed and chirped from the speakers.

  Weatherford looked at Rimes—as if for approval—before speaking. “This is Colonel Tim Weatherford, Commander 6th SFG, Fort Sill. To whom am I speaking?”

  An image hovered over the scarred briefing room table, a balding man in shirt and tie sitting at a desk. He sported a bulbous nose with a fine network of inflamed capillaries.

  “Colonel Weatherford! My name’s Jim Marshall, wonderful to speak to you again. We met at the Global Threat Assessment Conference in Dallas a few years back.”

  Weatherford squinted at the man. “How can I help you, Agent Marshall?”

  Marshall smiled broadly. “Executive Assistant Director now, actually.”

 
“Congratulations.”

  “I assume that’s Sergeant Rimes with you, Colonel?”

  “As requested,” Weatherford responded coldly. “It’s 0616, Executive Assistant Director Marshall. On a Sunday morning. That’s not normally a time for IB to make personal calls.”

  Marshall’s grin widened. “All right.” He folded his hands together. “We have a minor situation that requires special experience and expertise. Based on his recent operations, and on the recommendation of Agent Dana Kleigshoen, we believe Sergeant Rimes matches our needs. We would like your approval for him to work with IB for a short period of time.”

  Weatherford’s brow wrinkled. “How long is a ‘short period of time’? Sergeant Rimes is currently on deployment.”

  “Not that it matters, but I thought he was on leave at the moment? He was recently assigned to the Special Security Council for more than a week. Wouldn’t want to play favorites, would we?” Marshall smiled again. “Colonel.”

  “What special experience and expertise do you think Sergeant Rimes could bring to this situation?” Weatherford asked.

  Marshall’s grin disappeared. “Okay, Colonel, here’s how it is. We know Sergeant Rimes was part of the team sent to Singapore to dispatch the four LoDu agents responsible for the assassination of Indonesian Finance Minister Sembiring. You can correct me if I’m wrong, of course.”

  “I was under the impression IB had their own assassins,” Weatherford said.

  Marshall’s brow creased, and he suddenly leaned toward the camera, his smile stretched into a snarl. But, just as suddenly, he leaned back, adjusted his tie, and chuckled.

  “You know how these things are, Colonel. Thanks to Sergeant Rimes’s input, we’ve made a breakthrough. A few breakthroughs, actually. What I can confirm right now is that the genies killed at T-Corp 72 were also LoDu operatives … using HuCorp gear.”

  Marshall tapped his forefingers together. “This points to a continued strengthening of relationship between the two metacorporations, matching what we’ve seen with ADMP and Cytek. We’re very concerned about some of these metacorporate alliances. Sergeant Rimes was the only person on the ground involved in both the LoDu operations.” Marshall clasped his hands and leaned forward. “It could be the difference between success and failure, Colonel.”