The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Seconds passed.

  A hand came into view deep down inside the tunnel. Rimes fired a burst, and the hand disappeared. He waited five seconds, then fell back to the dead genie. He found a pistol and two spare magazines. The ammunition matched his own; he kept it and tossed the pistol high and away, deep into the canyon. Five more seconds then he would run, sprinting to catch Meyers and the rest.

  Blood still trickled from the genie’s wounds.

  Her face. Was she pretty? Pull off her helmet. Maybe she still has a final breath to breathe, enough to hear her scream? Can you taste her fear as death comes for her? Can you—

  Rimes closed his eyes for a moment, centering himself, clearing his mind of Kwon’s thoughts. Even now, after his team pulled together to escape certain death, after attaining such an important victory against the genies, Rimes couldn't be free of the genies. Kwon would never be gone. Rimes could run, but Kwon would always be there, hovering above, watching, waiting to strike, like a drone—

  Overhead. Shit! What was I thinking? They’re not going to pursue over ground. They have their ships!

  He pulled up the map Shaw had uploaded to him earlier. 332 had gone down at least twenty-five kilometers northwest of the canyon crash site. Rimes compared that to Shaw’s estimate for the genies’ landing site. Two sites seemed likely. Rimes marked them both.

  We’ll be out in the open at the crash site. They’d just strafe us, pin us down and drop a couple shooters out to hunt down any stragglers.

  All our training and planning, the whole struggle. Pointless.

  The odds played out in his head. The genies could move faster than him, but they had to retreat out of the tunnels and the cave and navigate the canyon back to a good point to exit. He didn’t know exactly where to go, but the genies’ own efficiency certainly seemed to be working against them, making them predictable.

  He risked one more glance down the tunnel, then turned, slung the assault rifle over his left shoulder and broke into a jog.

  Finally, he had a clear destination, a clear objective.

  He set an aggressive pace, checking the map overlay for the best course to the closest potential landing spot for the genies’ ships.

  As he ran, Rimes wondered what pace the genies were setting for themselves in the tunnels. Would they let their wounded slow them, or would they abandon them, as Theroux had proposed? Would they focus on conserving their energy, or would they go full-out in the hopes of wrapping things quickly?

  Would they even give a moment’s consideration to the idea a mere human might be insane enough to try for their ships?

  Even if they slowed for the wounded or to conserve energy, Rimes wasn’t sure he could beat them. He had no idea where they had landed or if they’d left guards behind to protect the ships.

  It was difficult keeping his focus in the here and now rather than in the vexing realm of daydreams, but he had to.

  With the genies, there was no margin for error.

  26

  26 October, 2167. Fourth planet of the COROT-7 system.

  * * *

  The top of the canyon walls alternated between long stretches of broken, rocky terrain and small, relatively flat clearings. Rimes was moving through one of the cluttered areas, clumsily weaving between boulders and outcroppings.

  With the sun low on the horizon, the air had cooled, and the ever-present sulfuric smell had lessened. Wind skirled among the rocks, whipping sand into low-lying, thin, gray clouds and drowning out the thud of his boots.

  The dust clouds seemed like ghosts.

  The fallen—Bowring, Lazzaro, Leveque, McFadyen, Zircher—called to Rimes.

  Focus on the living. I can’t let Molly and the boys down, can’t let my people down.

  Long shadows played tricks on him. One moment, he was in gray darkness, the next in yellow light. A clearing came into view, and he spotted the fast attack craft atop a low butte, then a wall of stone blocked the craft from his sight.

  Rimes blinked rapidly and shook his head. Fatigue was starting to set in, and he was losing his edge. If he fell asleep, the genies would ensure it was a final, lasting sleep.

  Crouching low, he edged into the shadows of another rock formation.

  His mouth was dry, and his legs ached from the run. He’d pushed himself hard, mostly breathing the planet’s atmosphere, but he was looking at the landing site now, and there was no sign of the genies.

  The two landing sites Shaw had spotted hadn’t panned out. They would’ve been fine—perfect—for the fast assault craft, had the sites not been littered with sheets of displaced stone. Close up, Rimes spotted cracks everywhere. It all pointed to structural instability.

  Those fast assault craft easily mass thirty tons. No pilot’s going to risk landing one on unstable ground.

  After finding the same problem at the second site, Rimes searched for another option. It took a few minutes, working from one of the more likely canyon entries, but he’d found one.

  It was farther out, and he could see that it was a tight squeeze for the craft, but the ground around the butte looked stable in the yellow sunset.

  Rimes popped his head around the rock formation he was hiding behind and sneaked a quick look.

  The butte offered some protection for the closely placed craft, and it gave any guards left behind ample opportunity to spot approaching enemies. Getting up the butte was going to be a problem. Assuming the genies had left someone behind, just getting to the base of the butte was going to be even more of a challenge.

  Rimes watched for any sign of movement. Twisting shadows draped the sides of the butte and the ground beneath it. Nothing moved in that shade.

  Crammed so close together, there would be too little free space for a guard to freely wander around.

  They’ll be onboard, and that limits their lines of sight.

  Rimes glanced back along the path he’d taken—no movement, no lights. Many of the genies probably had enhanced vision sufficient to handle the twilight, but it was unlikely all would. There would be lights if they were close on his tail.

  He still had time.

  He broke from the rocks and ran for the base of the butte. It was thirty meters, probably more, to the closest wall, and he couldn’t even detect a particularly scalable approach there.

  He kept expecting the roar of gunfire, the agonizing thud of bullets against his armor.

  A long shadow—one of the craft’s wings—beckoned. He reached the darkness, then the rock, and came to a stop. He looked up, scanned back the way he came, then looked along the wall above.

  Still safe.

  The butte rose forty some odd meters and was slightly less wide. It ran just about sixty meters long. Up close, he confirmed that the canyon-facing side was smooth and unclimbable.

  Rimes panicked for a moment, realizing the genies could have simply dropped from the craft closer to the canyon, and then remote-piloted them onto the butte top after making sure there was no way up.

  They could be getting ready to pilot the craft back to them right now. All of this for nothing.

  He looked around, spotted what seemed like a natural path leading away from the base of the butte. He blinked away the panic. They had landed on the butte, climbed down, and walked to the canyon. He was sure of it.

  But that also meant they probably left someone behind.

  He edged around the base to inspect the other side. It was surprisingly manageable, complete with reasonable handholds and three sloped ledges.

  A relieved smile settled on his face.

  Rimes gave another quick glance back the way he’d come, then he began the climb. It was easy going at first, reminiscent of some of his training years before. He’d actually tackled much harder free-climbing in the Arizona desert as a teen. Around the time of the second ledge, though, he had to stop and catch his breath. He sealed his environment suit and slowed his pace until the lightheadedness was gone.

  Rather than take the final ledge, Rimes scrambled up the l
ast stretch of the rock face barehanded. He pulled himself up to the butte top just enough to inspect the spacecraft.

  The craft were parked back-to-back, with the ramps opening onto the butte top not even two meters from each other. Rimes scanned every millimeter of the craft for any hint of a sentry. He froze when he finally caught movement at the top of the farther ramp, but then he lost the movement. He desperately searched, but it was pointless.

  Whatever had moved was gone.

  He brought up the BAS and slowly tracked his sight along the craft ramps. Tense seconds passed, but the BAS finally picked up something. Thirty meters away, bathed in shadows, barely moving.

  Genie.

  Rimes didn’t think he’d been spotted, but he hung there, unmoving for several seconds, arms trembling from the strain, unwilling to risk giving away his position.

  Movement caught his eye again, and the BAS registered a second genie, this one nearing the bottom of the closer ramp.

  Rimes cursed in disbelief.

  Two genies. Pilots! So obvious! They dropped the genie team off close to the canyon entrance, then flew back here.

  Realization hit him: they would pick the genies up, too. Whatever lead he’d managed to get by pushing so hard was meaningless if the genies called for pick-up now.

  After observing the two genies for a few more seconds, Rimes slowly lowered himself.

  To his right, there were good enough handholds to work his way until the full length of the nearest craft would be between him and the genies.

  He slowly edged along the butte wall. By the time he finally pulled himself onto the butte top, his arms were shaking from exhaustion. He was under the craft’s nose, out of sight. He took a moment to stretch his arms out before beginning a belly crawl beneath the craft.

  Halfway along, he rolled out from beneath the craft and began a low jog under the right wing. He came to a stop a few meters short of the ramp and listened.

  The genies were chatting in a language Rimes couldn’t identify. Their voices sounded calm, relaxed.

  The other genies hadn’t called back yet.

  Their gear would have the same sort of range limits as his, even once they reached the top of the canyon wall. There was still some time.

  He unslung the assault rifle and checked it, visualizing what he would do—the genie in the farther craft would have to go first. Step out, sight, two bursts. Step out, track the second genie, sight, two bursts. Move between the craft to deal with any remaining genies.

  The two genies stopped chattering suddenly; Rimes listened. They spoke again, excited.

  That’s the call. No more time.

  Rimes moved, going through the visualized steps.

  Step out, sight…

  The first genie was gone. The second was on the ramp, hand hovering over her sub-machine gun.

  Rimes shifted, sighted. The genie drew and fired wildly. A bullet cracked off Rimes’s right shin, instantly numbing it.

  Rimes fired.

  The genie staggered back. Rimes fired again, shifting, dragging his leg. The second burst sent a round into the genie’s left shoulder; she fell to the ramp, her gun clattering and skidding down the ramp.

  The best Rimes could manage was a hop, so he made for the second craft doing just that, dragging his numbed lower leg.

  The ramp was closing, the airlock door shutting, the engines coming to life. With an animal growl, Rimes pushed himself, throwing more weight on the numb leg than he was confident it could handle.

  It held.

  He staggered up the ramp at an ugly run, reaching the outer airlock door a millisecond before the ramp telescoped back into its slot below the airlock. His forward momentum was just enough to get him into the airlock. He rolled inside as the outer door closed the rest of the way.

  Groaning, he leaned against the airlock walls and looked down at his leg. The armor had held, but it was visibly deformed. It would be seconds regaining its shape.

  He tested the leg and gasped. It probably wasn’t broken, but it still hurt.

  Suddenly, the craft lifted: a change in pitch, a turn. They were airborne.

  Airlock controls!

  He examined the panel. It was a standard configuration. He’d seen shuttles with similar designs and had a decent sense of the layout. If it was configured for passengers, there would be two rows of seats running the length of the two walls and a single walkway down the center leading up to the cockpit.

  Normal cycling would get the airlock open in a couple seconds, too quick for the pilot to override. Rimes wondered how long before the pilot realized the other craft wasn’t following. A sudden sharp turn and Rimes guessed he had his answer.

  He switched out magazines on the assault rifle and cycled the airlock door, rifle raised to where he imagined the cockpit door would be.

  There was a moment—a short, desperate moment—where he could see into the cockpit. The genie, a handsome man with almost silver irises and child-like features, turned and locked eyes with Rimes.

  Rimes shifted his sights just as the cockpit door began to close and squeezed the trigger.

  The final bullet in the burst ricocheted off the door.

  Rimes hopped forward, cursing his reaction time. Even a moment faster and he’d have gotten the pilot before he could close the cockpit door. Now Rimes was little more than a prisoner as the shuttle headed for the other genies. Neither the assault rifle nor his carbine had ammunition capable of penetrating the cockpit door.

  A strange mount frame in the floor caught his attention.

  Suddenly, the engines emitted an odd whine. The craft leveled off, and then it banked again. He lost his balance, found himself face down in the passenger bay’s closest rear seat. The assault rifle skipped out of his hands and crashed against the wall before skidding below a seat and out of sight.

  Rimes sat up and twisted. They were still banking. Dangerously. Something’s wrong. I got him after all.

  Being captured by the genies wasn’t a concern now. The craft was going down.

  He crawled for the airlock.

  Without a glance outside, there was no real sense of the craft’s altitude or speed, but if it were low enough and decelerating, it would almost certainly be safer to jump out than to stay aboard for the inevitable crash.

  Assuming they were over favorable terrain.

  Rimes crawled into the airlock and emergency cycled the outer door. It shot open and he saw the tail whip past a familiar sight: stone and a symmetrical form built of composite materials.

  The butte, the other craft, centimeters below.

  Rimes half leaped, half fell.

  His momentum hurled him against the other craft’s right wing. He skidded along the smooth surface and into the fuselage, slamming into the gentle curve with enough force that for a moment he was airborne three meters above first the backbone, then the opposite wing before dropping onto the wing.

  The impact had knocked the wind out of him; he tried to get his bearings.

  And then, with a horrible wrenching sound and a shudder, he was thrown into the air again.

  He twisted, saw the airborne craft’s wing trailing pieces of the grounded craft’s cockpit, saw it continue its slow spin until its tail clipped the grounded craft mid-fuselage, and with another groan and squeal, the grounded craft was torn from its perch atop the butte.

  Rimes fell.

  At first he fell toward the shifting fuselage, then toward the wing he’d originally slammed into, then the craft was completely gone, and then the rock-strewn butte was rushing toward him.

  It all happened too fast for even a curse or scream.

  Instead, he crashed into the ground with a quiet, stunned gasp, rolled a meter, and felt his legs swing out over open air. His fingers scraped over the stone for a grip, finding just enough to halt his fall. His legs dangled over the edge of the butte.

  Grimacing, he twisted around just in time to see the second craft’s tail disappear over the edge of the butte. He rolled
until he could see over the edge. The fuselage scraped, groaned, and deformed as the craft plunged to the rocky ground below. The echoes rolled out over the silent stones, drowning out the sound of the first craft’s propulsion system, which coughed and died.

  Loose rock clacked down the length of the butte and pinged off the ruined craft below.

  Rimes uncertainly got to his feet and checked himself. His leg ached, but took weight. He took a moment to admire his handiwork.

  Only the BAS’s sound amplification saved him: boot scraping on rock.

  He pivoted and thrust his arms up. The genie he’d shot earlier was on him, kicking. Rimes caught the kick’s force well enough to avoid any broken bones. He grabbed onto the genie’s boot and struggled to keep his footing; the genie had to twist and hop just to keep her own balance.

  But she was forcing him backwards.

  Rimes let go of her boot and dropped to the ground, arms splayed out. His left leg slipped over the edge, but he was otherwise safe.

  Before he could roll away, another kick landed, cracking a rib just beneath his left armpit.

  Rimes rolled clear of a stomp that would have dislocated his right shoulder. He scrambled to his feet and swung, landing a lucky blow that drove the genie back. He got his first good look at the genie. She was bleeding from a couple holes in her armor and favoring her left shoulder, but she was still up.

  Skipping back toward the center of the butte, trying to buy time, Rimes thought the situation through. He couldn’t simply attempt the descent. Wounded or not, the genie would follow and would almost certainly kill him. The other genies had to be en route to the butte at full speed after losing contact with the craft.

  Time was his biggest enemy at the moment.

  The genie closed, making tentative kicks at Rimes’s head and chest, testing his reflexes and skill.

  Like Shaw, she wore a light-armored flight suit. She had no helmet. Like the other pilot, she was fascinating to look at, with deep brown hair and high, sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were amber, with crimson flecks. Her strikes were catlike—quick, powerful.