by P. R. Adams
Rimes took a towel from the sink and ran warm water over it, squeezing out the excess. “It’s none of your business, Mother.”
“Well.” Alejandra ran water over the dishes as Rimes wiped the table. “Some things are beyond the control of even the best of parents. At least you haven’t taken to drinking.” She glared at the wall separating the kitchen from the guest room and raised her voice. “I hope she’s not blaming her rejection on the foreign students again?”
Rimes shook the towel out and placed it on the sink edge to dry.
“Well, were there any American applicants accepted? If there were, then blaming foreign students is just a convenient excuse for her own inadequacies.”
Rimes bowed his head and sighed.
“Don’t you agree?” She sounded hurt. “It’s not as if she had the highest scores. Too much partying, too little studying, just like I warned you. The schools are simply taking the best students. Wouldn’t you want that? When I came to the United States, my scores were in the top three percent. I earned my place.”
“Mother,” Rimes snapped.
Alejandra jumped back from him, as if he’d raised a fist to strike her. After a moment, she turned her back to him. Her perfectly coiffed black hair danced as she angrily scrubbed the plates. “If you think I somehow unfairly took a US citizen’s place, then the advantages I gave you were also unfair.”
“I don’t have time for the drama, Mother,” Rimes said. “I don’t have the time and I don’t have the energy. I had to tell Cleo goodbye for the last time today. Losing one parent is enough.”
He kissed Alejandra’s cheek, then stared deep into her watery eyes. “But if you keep pushing Molly …”
Alejandra blinked but said nothing.
“Goodnight, Mother.” He walked out of the kitchen, certain her gaze was burning into his back.
The guest room was empty; he gathered his toiletry bag and went to the bathroom.
Molly was angrily brushing her teeth at the pedestal sink. She spat fiercely into the sink and watched the water rinse the foam completely away.
She sighed, then smiled at him in the mirror.
She leaned over, pushed the door shut behind him, and started the shower. They sneaked a long kiss and caress as they showered together.
They settled into the old, cramped, and uncomfortable bed, back to back but touching each other. Rimes still saw hints of coldness and pain from his breach of trust in Molly’s eyes, but there was hope there, too.
“I love you,” he told Molly.
She grunted.
“I’m practicing for the boys. I love you.”
“I love you too, Jack.”
“I love you.”
“Fine, you love me. Go to sleep.”
“You’re going to get sick hearing me say it to all three of you, aren’t you?”
She groaned and put the pillow over her head.
He pulled it back a crack. “I love you.”
As Rimes drifted toward sleep, he thought of his childhood and the mistakes he’d sworn he wouldn’t repeat as a parent. His children would never suffer a winter without heat or a night without dinner. They would never worry they weren’t good enough.
He smiled as images of his sons laughing and playing with Molly came to him. It was the future he dreamed of. He wouldn’t let anything destroy that dream.
47
24 March 2164. Fort Sill, Oklahoma.
* * *
Stern, powerful men of importance looked down on Rimes from the foyer of Weatherford's office. Their mouths smiled, but their eyes brimmed with knowledge: every one of them had killed, had sent other men to their deaths.
Leaders.
Rimes sat on the lone wooden chair with his hands locked in front of him.
Dark paneling, soft lighting, worn leather chairs: the office spoke to Weatherford’s appreciation of the finer things. But the pictures on the walls spoke of honor, duty.
Weatherford’s XO stepped out of his office and nodded at Rimes. The XO made his way to the coffee pot, tried to pour himself a cup, but found it empty. He started another pot, yawning. He was a short, sturdy, dark-eyed man, probably infantry by trade, riding a desk on his slow march up the ranks.
The coffee pot gurgled.
“He shouldn’t be long. We’ve been swamped by all the AARs and meetings after this orbital operation. And now he’s on a call with SecDef. Called out of the blue.”
The XO poured the first drips of coffee into a cup and took a sip, grimaced at the taste. “You did some impressive work up there. There’s already talk of building a boarding action training course off what we learned. But I doubt we’ll see those genie grenades put into the arsenal. It sounds like they’ll be doing a lot of inner hull repairs.”
Rimes looked down at his hands. They were rough and still stained with grime.
An entire team had died in an ambush on the Valdez, Chung was dead, and Gupta wasn’t likely to recover enough from his wounds to rejoin the unit. And they were concerned about repairing a ship.
You can repair a ship. You can build a new one. What about Chung? What about the others?
What if the genies were right? We’re on our way out.
“You make a decision about OCS yet?” the XO asked.
Rimes shook his head.
“Well, I’ve got your approved application in the system when—”
Weatherford’s door opened. The XO poured another cup of coffee, scooped in a teaspoon of sugar, and handed it to Weatherford.
“Sorry about that.” Weatherford nodded at his XO, then beckoned for Rimes to enter.
Weatherford closed the door behind Rimes and made his way to his desk, settling into his chair. Desk and chair seemed to reflect the man as much as the foyer—old, well-maintained, uncluttered.
Weatherford pointed at the smaller chair across from his and watched Rimes’s face from beneath gray eyebrows. “The folks in the capital are up in arms over the whole orbital nonsense, even our ‘lack’ of boarding action training.”
“The captain was just telling me about that, sir.”
Weatherford grunted. “You’d think we’d be looking at medals for saving their asses yet again. Instead we’re fending off investigations. I spend more time defending us against the outrageous and absurd than I do reviewing operations and planning. My entire career, I’ve seen nothing but bickering and bullshit out of our leaders. Makes you wonder where that X-17 came from.”
Weatherford sipped his coffee, swirled it around to mix it up, then set the cup down. “I don’t want you to romanticize this career path, but at the same time, I think you’re ready to take the next step. We need to replace Sergeant Martinez. We’d have to promote you out-of-cycle for that, but I’ve already received approval if that’s what you want. Or you can pursue OCS. I’ve made sure you’re clear of any fallout from the orbital operations. Hell, once everything’s said and done, I think you may just see a medal yet.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Rimes said. He was trying to keep his face blank. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Weatherford leaned back in his chair and stared into the distance for several seconds. Finally, he looked back at Rimes. “I know IB offered you a position. It may sound more tempting than wearing the uniform right about now, but you’re a better man than that. You’re a man of honor and dignity. You love the mission. You love your family. These men around you, they’re your family too. You won’t find that anywhere else. And at the end of the day, we’ll take pretty good care of you.”
Weatherford spun in his chair to look at his office. “Thirty years of service, and … you’ll have a nice pension waiting for you at seventy. Not many places offer that.”
The pictures looked down at Rimes from the wall in the office, too. Rimes noticed a couple of gaps in the rows of pictures, ones that had fallen down or been removed.
“I understand, sir.”
“I just wanted to make sure you were seeing things in the right light.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
Impatience flashed across Weatherford’s face. “You’d make an excellent poker player.”
Rimes smiled. “I’m sorry, Colonel. I thought I knew my answer. Then I visited my family.”
Weatherford leaned back in his chair. “What made you doubt your decision?”
“Some things my parents said,” Rimes said.
The fresh, crescent-shaped scar on his right temple ached. He rubbed it and remembered Martinez’s death, Moltke’s strange, unintelligible words as he tried to shake some kind of truth out of Rimes. “We found out my father has terminal liver cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Weatherford said.
“It’s given me a different perspective. My father was a great man, once. He meant a great deal to me. Now …” He shook his head.
“Perspective is very important,” Weatherford said. “It can change over time, as we gain wisdom and knowledge.”
Rimes nodded. “I need to find peace with my decision. I want to be sure I do the right thing.”
Weatherford stared at the wall, looking at one of the blank spots, then over to a cabinet in the corner. He cleared his throat. “Very wise. When you’re ready, contact me, and we’ll get things going.”
Rimes felt his eyes moisten and blinked quickly. “I should know by tomorrow, sir. I think I just need to sleep on it.”
Weatherford stood. Rimes snapped to attention. Weatherford walked to the door and opened it for Rimes. It was an awkward moment, a reversal of roles.
“Thank you, sir. You’ll be the first to know my decision.”
Weatherford was watching Rimes’s every step as he left the office, he was sure of it. He felt the stare and the weight of the judgment.
But in the foyer, the pictures on the walls seemed … prouder. More approving.
The XO offered Rimes some coffee, but he shook his head and kept walking. Away from Weatherford’s office, the halls were bare, unremarkable, worn.
There’s always only so much money to go around.
Rimes stopped at the building exit to slip his beret on. He checked himself in the simple, cloudy mirror. The beret was on perfectly.
Rimes stepped through the door. The morning sun at his back, he headed for the post’s confinement facilities.
It was time to talk to Barlowe. And call in some favors. A lot of favors.
48
25 March 2164. The outskirts of Lawton, Oklahoma.
* * *
Rimes woke at the sound of an approaching car and stepped from behind his tree onto the asphalt drive. He was still sweaty enough to be convincing.
The car, a restored BMW 7 Series F-25, turned onto Weatherford’s private drive. Rimes knew the car well—gloss black, original engine and transmission, and authentic trim.
It was worth more than Rimes had earned his entire time in the service.
The car came to a stop; the passenger-side window lowered.
Weatherford leaned across the front seat, bracing his hand atop three shopping bags. He looked like a hiker in his blue jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing out here on a Sunday morning? The lake is a bit of a trip for you, isn’t it?”
Rimes looked around the estate. Aside from Weatherford’s house, there were eight others off the lakeshore. With only a simple wooden fence surrounding the house’s broad yard, it still offered unimaginable peace and privacy.
“I went jogging this morning, Colonel. I thought I’d take you up on your offer and drop by.”
Weatherford’s face betrayed his annoyance, but only for a moment. “You’ve made a decision, then?”
Rimes nodded.
“Well, come on in. Let’s talk it over.”
Rimes eyed the car’s leather interior. “I’m pretty grimy after the jog, Colonel. I’ll follow you up.”
Weatherford leaned back and gunned the engine. Rimes watched the passenger-side window close with crisp precision.
Moltke had talked more than once about following Weatherford’s path: restoring an old classic, buying a nice home somewhere, planting roots in his mid-fifties.
Moltke had admired Weatherford.
Rimes jogged up behind Weatherford’s car, stopping outside the carport to wait for him.
The place’s rustic beauty was breathtaking. The house was fashioned after a mountain lodge, at least three thousand square feet, with a covered front porch and a stone walking path that led from the carport to the front door.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Weatherford said, his voice full of pride. He closed the BMW’s passenger door, then shifted the shopping bags between his hands to take it all in himself.
“It is, Colonel,” Rimes agreed. He looked at the landscaped lawn. Weatherford had already begun preparing to plant flowers.
“I did the lawn myself,” Weatherford said around a smile. “I could’ve hired someone else at about the same price when all was said and done, but there’s something satisfying about getting it exactly how you see it in your head. You want things done right, you do it yourself.”
“I understand completely, Colonel,” Rimes said.
“This is what you could have in store for you, Jack,” Weatherford said. “With your skills, discipline, and motivation, you could be a major in ten years.”
“We’ve decided to accept the OCS opportunity, Colonel,” Rimes said.
Weatherford huffed under his breath and started down the path to the front door. “Our unit’s loss, but the Army’s gain. You’ll excel, just like you did with the Commandos. In fact, I’ve already put your name in for a new SpecOps unit they’ve started talking about forming. Your boarding assault turned a lot of heads. Let’s go inside and I’ll fix us a drink.”
Rimes shook his head. “Thanks, Colonel, but I’ll need to pass. I’ve got a long jog back and I need to get going soon.”
Weatherford frowned. “You came all the way out here just to tell me you were going to accept?”
Something inside Rimes went frighteningly cold.
“I came out here to give you fair warning.”
Rimes felt his heart pounding in his chest now that the words were spoken.
“Fair warn—” Weatherford’s face reddened and his jaw worked. “Jack, what are you talking about?”
Rimes forced himself to stay under control. “I’m just trying to give you some time to plan how you’re going to handle things tomorrow.”
Weatherford’s voice was dangerously calm. “I don’t follow you, Sergeant Rimes.”
“You’ll need to go down to the MP Company HQ and turn yourself in.”
Weatherford raised his eyebrows. He shifted his grip on the bags. “I will?” His eyes flitted across the lawn to the path and his private drive. “And why will I need to do that?”
“For your involvement in the X-17 theft,” Rimes said. He took strength from the fact that his voice held.
“All right, Jack,” Weatherford said with a deep sigh. “Like I said before, you’d make an excellent poker player. So, now you’ve shown your cards. I assume you wouldn’t make your move without something to back you up.”
Rimes nodded.
Weatherford chuckled. “So you want in on the action. Can’t wait for the good life to come to you, you have to bring it to you? Patience is a virtue, but ambition is divine.” Weatherford set the shopping bags down. “Let’s hear it. How much do you want?”
“I don’t want anything,” Rimes said. “No money, at least. You’ve already authorized my OCS application. The captain told me yesterday.”
Weatherford gave him a cold glare. “You think you have enough to make it stick? The X-17 case is closed. Marshall’s putting the final touches on it. Moltke was behind the whole thing. You reopen this, it’s going to be a problem for a lot of people, Jack. A lot of people who don’t like problems.”
“Moltke was involved. I don’t see any need to try to rewrite history on that point,” Rimes said. “The problem is, he couldn’t have known about the X-
17. Someone would’ve had to have told him about it, someone with access to the information. Someone like you.”
Weatherford tensed. “How do you figure that? I’m just the commander of this unit. I don’t have need-to-know for anything like X-17. There’d be records of me accessing it if I had.”
Calm. Stay calm.
“We won’t need them. When the IB went looking for red flags, they only looked for unusual spending patterns. Paying this place off early doesn’t really trip any flags if you have a history of similar payments. But you dropped thirty-six thousand dollars in four payments. Twenty thousand of that thirty-six materialized from nowhere—not your accounts, not your investments.”
“You’re working with Kleigshoen,” Weatherford said. “You have no idea what someone like her is capable of. She’s leading you around by the nose, trying to get you under her—”
“The sad thing is, I assumed you were living within your own means.” Rimes shook his head. “We all did. A place like this, you get in on the ground floor of a deal, get some costs shaved off because you know the right people, walk away with your dream without compromising a thing. I would never have suspected.
“But then I thought about Barlowe’s arrest.
“Everyone else in on the deal has been eliminated; it’s just you and Barlowe left now. Why not eliminate him?
“Martinez and Moltke were planning to sell the genie data recovered from the T-Corp facility. They were trying to cut you and Marshall out. They both had a data stick. Barlowe had copies of their data sticks and they both had a copy of his, but none of that was any good without Barlowe’s decryption key.
“They didn’t trust each other enough to close the deal, and everyone was getting killed, thrown right into the middle of the action. Wolford, Kirk, Stern—all gunned down during the course of duty. You used that duty against us. In the Sundarbans, you put Martinez with the trainees, hoping he would get killed. With Moltke killed, that left me as the only person with any knowledge of the whole thing, and what I had wasn’t meaningful. So, end of story.
