The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  “We definitely can’t stay down here forever, poison or not. So we move cautiously, and we stay focused on the mission.”

  Munoz and Sung nodded in agreement.

  Rimes took point, glancing back as the team passed the first doorway to gauge how they handled it. Each one of them stared into the darkness uncertainly, apparently drawn by its dark lure. They were leaving two unexplored areas at their backs. It was asking a lot of them.

  He stopped at the second doorway and looked within. His light revealed another up-sloping ramp. No bootprints or other sign of recent passage.

  What’s up there? Why build a place like this? For…water?

  “Captain Rimes?” Sung’s voice shattered the silence. His delivery was slow again, and his voice was flat. The dullness that had been in his gaze earlier had returned. “You said as we were coming down that this place made you think of an ant farm. Now I understand what you mean. It even looks like these passages go up to provide defense against flooding.”

  He just happened to answer a question that was on my mind? Rimes shivered at the sudden sense of an alien presence.

  Sung’s eyes suddenly came alive and he seemed fully himself, the presence nothing more than imagination. “It definitely doesn’t feel human.”

  Watanabe ran her hands along the edge of the doorway. “But it also is not some sort of giant insect. Everything is symmetrical and precise, machine worked or manufactured. This is something above the abilities of simple insects.”

  “What if you assume some sort of evolutionary advancement of an insect species—does it make sense?” Rimes asked. “Subterranean, sprawling, defenses against flooding?”

  Sung stared off into the darkness. “Not all insects live underground. Even among ants, there are many that live aboveground.”

  “What about the fungus?” Watanabe looked at the fungus collected on her gloves, then flicked the fungus away. “A food source, perhaps?”

  Sung frowned as if wrestling with an elusive thought. “Perhaps. It wouldn’t be without precedent. Predicting an evolutionary path and parallels with our own Earth-like organisms isn’t likely something you can do, especially based off so little data. Keep in mind, the likelihood of an insect big enough to create this sort of structure is very low, at least insects as we know them. Our own insects are limited in size by their biology—their legs couldn’t support them if they grew too large. We’ve seen nothing to support the notion this is even a natural habitat. It could be a storage facility, such as a weapons bunker. Would you look at a weapons bunker and guess the builders were insects just because it’s underground?” He was once again excited, his speaking cadence accelerated.

  “But ammunition bunkers have stairs, doors, and other elements that point to erect, bipedal builders with digits capable of impressive acts of manipulation.” Watanabe’s speech was a slow counterpoint to Sung’s hyper jumble of words. “A bipedal creature has the flexibility in movement and range of motion that would allow for an array of structures crafted around role and need. If you assume the same level of refinement, a structure like this would reflect at least a reasonable likelihood of some insect-like traits: it is subterranean, it relies upon slopes rather than steps, the building material seems organic in nature, the—”

  “Wait.” Rimes raised a hand. “What makes you think the structure material is organic? It looks like stone to me. Or a synthetic material made to match stone.”

  “No, that is not what I am saying. I mean organic in nature, but…“ Watanabe dug in a thigh pouch. She held a pinky-tip-sized sliver of the black material to her light. “There were some chips by the piton. Here. See? There are grains of the sand from the crater suspended in something. It looks like a chitin secretion, you see? But it is stronger. It is a synthetic, an analog to, say, a polysaccharide and calcium carbonate composite. It is an extraordinary material to work with, if you have the capability to control it. The fungus is breaking it down. Slowly.”

  She was carrying around a piece of this place? She didn’t care about the fungus? She didn’t tell anyone else?

  The same hint of distraction—influence—he’d seen before was back, now mixed with an intensity; she was engaged. She was still there, behind those pretty eyes. “So it’s something an insect would make, but it’s synthesized?”

  “That would be my guess. Think of it as an evolutionary step, if that helps? If these are insect-like creatures, perhaps they adapted over time, replacing their own secretions with something superior, something they created?”

  Rimes thought for a moment. He looked at the others. “So we may be looking at some sort of bug here after all. And this fungus?”

  “As Ikumi said, it could be a food source,” Sung said.

  First name basis. The influence again.

  Sung seemed to realize what he’d done; he blushed and looked away. “Maybe that’s why they went with something synthetic for the building materials; it looks like whatever this is, it can’t break the materials down very easily.”

  “We’re losing precious time, Captain.” Theroux sounded annoyed.

  Rimes shone his helmet lamp down the passage; the bootprints continued on. “Okay. Bug or no bug, stay alert.”

  They moved forward slowly, passing two more doorways before coming to a branch. Bootprints led in both directions. Rimes inspected them but couldn’t see any meaningful difference between them. He looked at Theroux hopefully, sighing when Theroux shook his head.

  “We need to split up.” Rimes tried to sound more confident than he felt. He didn’t like dividing their small force. “Munoz, you and Theroux take the right, Andrea and I will take the left. Sung, you and Watanabe stick with Munoz. You’ve got your hands full enough with Sheila, so you’ll need to really push to keep up with him.”

  “We got it, Captain.” Munoz waved Sung forward and disappeared down the right branch.

  Theroux lingered long enough to give Rimes a disappointed frown.

  Rimes waited a moment after Theroux had gone before pulling out a pistol and handing it to Andrea. She inspected it, felt its weight, then nodded. He handed her his spare magazines; she slipped them into her trunks. Rimes wondered what Theroux would think of arming Andrea, whether it would provoke another sour look of disappointment. Who cares?

  They moved into the left branch, Rimes in the lead. Almost immediately, he began second-guessing his decision, worrying he was giving the team too much freedom in such a bizarre situation. He still had questions about the possibility they were in some sort of alien bug colony or experiment, he didn’t like the feel of the whole place, and splitting up wasn’t necessarily going to save time without the ability to communicate and move quickly. He was drained, questioning his senses, near-panicking.

  He wiped perspiration from his eyes, then he scolded himself for touching his exposed flesh with gloves that had been in contact with the fungus.

  Then he stopped. The bootprints ended abruptly a few centimeters in front of him.

  “Hold up.” He knelt, left hand scraping for traction on the wall.

  Andrea made a sound like a growl. “The tracks just end. The walls, look. There, to your right.”

  Rimes turned to his right, shifted his weight, felt his left hand sliding. He shifted more, pushing his left knee forward to kill his slide. For just a moment, his helmet lamp revealed what Andrea had seen: a slick in the fungus, no doubt created by a gloved hand like his seeking purchase. Then the floor where he’d hoped to plant his left knee simply gave way.

  “Andrea!” He threw out his arms and managed to slow his fall for just a moment. His feet dangled somewhere below him in an unseen gap. He kicked, trying to find something to plant his feet against. “Andrea!”

  He slid inexorably. He accelerated. Kicking his legs only made it worse.

  Andrea’s eyes reflected his fears: she could rescue him, but she wouldn’t. A life in prison, or knowing he’d compromised his duty and honor to let her go. She respected him as a warrior, noble and deadly
as any she’d met. He would see her through to trial and she would rot in some horrific prison, wasting away, suffering.

  His hands slid more, she reached for him for just a second, then she stopped herself, the fear in her eyes intensifying.

  There was no grip anymore.

  He fell.

  It wasn’t far, maybe seven or eight meters, but it was hard. The small of his back bounced off a wall, throwing him forward just enough to slam his nose and mouth against another wall and to knock his helmet lamp out.

  He tasted blood, swung his arms wildly, trying to grab onto anything. Finally, he came to an abrupt, awkward stop, his left leg taking his weight, then suddenly slipping, stretching out in front of him, hyperextending.

  He screamed, his mind momentarily blanking, released from whatever external influence had held him. An instant of clarity, lucidity, freedom.

  We’re moths, drawn to the light. A killing light.

  As quickly as it came, the moment was gone. Rimes returned to the nightmarish present, the foggy haze again settling over his thoughts. He stood, keeping as much weight as possible on his right leg. His left knee burned.

  Wherever he was, it was pitch black, impossible to see, and the fall had knocked his helmet's systems and head lamp out. He pulled his helmet off and felt around for the lamp, finally finding the latch that held it into place. He pressed the latch and carefully worked the lamp free. Blood fouled his mouth. He sucked at it and spat it out. The lamp seemed fine. The blow had just knocked it off the connectors.

  He rolled the lamp in his gloves, debated pulling a glove off to better the tactile sensation. In the dark, he needed every—

  Something big and heavy and close scraped against stone.

  Rimes jumped, losing his grip on the lamp and helmet. They clattered wetly. He blinked, fighting off panic. He reached for his carbine and suddenly realized he’d lost it in the fall.

  No light, no radio, no weapon…

  Cautiously, he lowered himself to the ground, wincing when he put weight on his injured knee. He stretched out his arms and slowly swept them in, scraping along the floor’s slick surface. He came away with nothing but fungus. He shifted thirty degrees to his left and repeated the motion, sweeping his arms in again. His left hand bumped into something.

  He twisted, tried to locate what he’d bumped into, then froze.

  He heard the movement again. Closer.

  He slowly stretched out his left arm, found what it had bumped against and drew it in toward him. It was a satchel, its strap almost rotted through.

  As quietly as he could, he fumbled around for the flap, flicking away the hungry fungus coating everything. The noise came again, definitely closer. He abandoned the idea of quiet searching. He gripped the satchel and pulled, desperately tearing at the material.

  It gave.

  The contents spilled out, loudly clacking against themselves and the fungus carpet.

  Rimes tried to control his breathing—quiet, efficient—as he ran his hands over the spilled contents. Nothing felt familiar—a box; some sort of shallow, slippery cylinder; another box, this one smaller than the first; small tubes and cylinders and boxes jangling in his shaking fingers.

  The movement was there again, this time more than a single clicking sound in what might have been another chamber. It was too hard to be sure in the darkness with the tricky acoustics.

  He’d heard several of the clicking noises and the tone, the acoustics had changed, he was sure of that.

  In his mind, he was in a chamber, maybe a cave. There was an opening off to his left, probably into another chamber or cave. It had been in that second chamber, this moving thing, slowly closing, curious at the noises. Now it was in the chamber with him, approaching, acidic and poisonous drool dripping off wickedly pointed teeth. It probably has a stinger, too. And a flamethrower. Come on, get a grip!

  He began running his fingers across the surface of the items that had spilled out, trying to press or trigger anything: a button, a switch, a touch-sensitive surface. He found a soft button on the smaller box. He pressed it and nearly cried from joy when a soft green glow flashed momentarily. It was some sort of test equipment, with enough power to give off a pallid light.

  Closing his eyes, Rimes counted to three, only at the last second wondering why he’d closed them in darkness so complete. Pull it together. He turned the display surface away from his face and depressed the button again, running it in a quick arc for the second it was lit.

  The light was enough to capture a sprawl of shapes in the black carpet, one of which looked like his helmet just two meters away. It also hinted at a flicker of movement several meters beyond that. More than seeing, he felt the movement—long, spindly legs shuttling quickly.

  Frantically, he slid forward, risking one more flash of the device as he moved. He found his helmet and tossed the device, quickly strapping the helmet over his head. He tried to bring up the systems display, hissing a curse when it failed. The noises sounded again and he slammed the helmet down, hoping that might somehow reset everything jarred by the fall.

  The system display winked on, but it was all wrong. Rimes toyed with the idea of resetting the BAS before realizing he couldn’t afford the second or two that would take. He glanced around the displays, trying to see what was running that he didn’t need and what wasn’t running that he did need. He brought up the light enhancement and targeting systems, more for the light they projected than any value they presented with targeting in the absolute darkness. Whatever the source of the interference, it was still strong in the area; the system was a complete disaster.

  With the minimal light the helmet shed, he looked around, hoping the CAWS-5’s profile might stand out in the black sheet of fungus. He spun to his right, then back to his left, finally seeing what looked like his carbine. He crawled, stretched, then finally ran his hand along the surface.

  It was his weapon. Instinctively, he ejected the magazine.

  His display’s wan light revealed an empty box. No. It was full. I hadn’t fired a shot.

  He quickly fed a new magazine into the weapon. My memories aren’t reliable. My perceptions aren’t reliable. What can I trust?

  He twisted his head around again, doing a one-eighty to get a sense of what was visible. He repeated, doing a three-sixty.

  The light revealed another form.

  Rimes froze momentarily, then he pushed toward the form, stopping beside it. He reached out nervously and pulled the form in close to examine it.

  It was a helmet, just like his. There was a thin indentation along the top where a headlamp would fit. He felt along the top of the helmet he was wearing.

  The headlamp was still in place.

  He was wearing someone else’s helmet. He checked the display again.

  No time to figure out whose.

  Quick as he could, he pulled the headlamp from the top of the helmet he was wearing and inserted it into the one he was holding, then he switched the helmets out.

  With his own helmet now in place, he scanned the room. Black fungus coated the floor and beyond. It was slicked through where he’d moved. Irregular outlines were visible beneath the black carpet and on top of it. The chamber he’d imagined turned out to be more of a dome-shaped pit, about twelve meters in diameter. What appeared to be natural arches lined the walls, opening into adjoining areas.

  There was no giant bug.

  Rimes looked at the helmet he now held. It was Kershaw’s. He could make out a smear where the helmet had likely impacted hard on a surface. Kershaw’s helmet, probably Kershaw’s carbine. Where the hell is Kershaw?

  Instinct told Rimes to get his back against something, but the shapes hidden beneath the fungus called to him.

  He edged forward, alert, stopping at the first shape: an elongated, curved mound. His first attempt at scraping away some of the fungus resulted in that section of the mound collapsing, his fingers punching through whatever the substance had been. A gentler effort revealed an insec
t-like skull. Do insects have skulls? There was hardly anything left of it, maybe a micrometer of translucent material.

  Rimes crawled forward, ears straining now that the light had driven away some of the imaginary sounds. He stopped at another mound, this one smaller. More carefully now that he had a sense of the fragility of the things beneath the black sea, he brushed away the fungus.

  It only took a moment for him to realize what he was looking at: a human skull.

  He edged back, and the sound—the skittering—came again. This time, it wasn’t his imagination.

  41

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

  * * *

  Skittering echoed in the domed chamber, quickly building until it was the sound of a thousand giant beetles rushing across the fungus-covered floor. In the near-absolute darkness, Rimes could only guess at the true origin of the sound. Sweat dripped into his eyes as he desperately jerked his head right and left, hoping his headlamp would catch movement in the haze.

  Cursing quietly, Rimes brought his carbine up and backpedaled. His injured knee flared and nearly collapsed beneath him. Sweat—sweet in the sticky air—trickled into his mouth.

  He needed one of the supporting columns at his back, but it couldn’t be one the…thing was close to.

  Rimes tried to keep the sound in front of him while shuffling back toward one of the arches. He backed into a supporting column of stone at the same moment his helmet lamp caught a flash of movement.

  The thing had finally revealed itself!

  He sighted in on the form, but held fire until he had a better shot or at least a better sense of what he was shooting at.

  Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead—the humidity was really getting to him. A jerk of the head tossed most of the sweat away, but some still trickled into his eyes. He blinked away the rest, ignoring the stinging.

  The thing moved again and resolved more fully at the outer range of the headlamp. Its appearance was unquestionably insect-like but alien, something dredged up from the darkest realms of his worst nightmare. Although it was less than two meters tall, it was easily half again as long. It moved on four thick, jointed legs and waved two wickedly curved, thinner appendages menacingly in front of it. Black stripes ran across a blotchy, charcoal gray carapace. Its head was a shallow monstrosity more than a half-meter long, with terrifying, cilia-covered pincers and antennae. Where the head joined the body, it was thick and bony. Cords of sinew along the joint occasionally became visible as it rocked its head, searching. Whatever other segments it might have had were hidden by the carapace, which skimmed over the fungus with each step.