The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Rimes’s earpiece captured and amplified sounds: clothes being hastily pulled on, whispered warnings. He listened a moment longer, waiting until he had a good sense of the locations and layout. Slowly, he pushed the door open and advanced.

  The doorway opened onto a small office. Display terminals, a desk, and opposite the door was another door, this one open halfway. Rimes edged toward the second door.

  He could hear the voices clearly now. The women sounded like locals, the men like the mercenaries. Beyond the door, a short corridor joined a hallway, creating an inverted “L.” The hallway jagged left, lined on either side by isolation cells. Two assault rifles leaned against the wall at the first cell. The farthest two cell doors were open.

  The voices came from there.

  Straining to hear the conversations—apologies and assurances, from the sound of it—Rimes slowly edged forward and brought the carbine up. Ahead of him a slight, pale, young woman, still pulling on her bra, stepped out of the left cell. Rimes waved her out with his left hand. The woman froze for a moment, eyes wide. Then, she ran.

  Rimes moved to the left cell, pointing his gun at the man inside, waiting until the man lowered his chestplate over his head and they had eye contact. Rimes jerked his head toward the other cell and backed out. The guard raised his hands and followed, walking into the opposite cell where his surprised comrade was still lying on a bed in an embrace with an unclothed, teary-eyed, young woman.

  “Out.” Rimes swung his carbine to indicate the hallway.

  The woman scooped her garments from the floor and ran past him, gasping, the bundle of clothes pressed modestly against her chest.

  “Keys.” Rimes looked at the two men impatiently. Neither budged. Rimes fired a single round through the head of the one still lying on the bed. Blood and brains spattered against the wall, and the man slumped sideways.

  “Now,” Rimes said to the other man.

  The second guard nodded and dropped to the ground next to the bed. Blood slowly drained to the floor as the second guard searched his comrade’s clothes and armor. Finally, he pulled a fist-shaped box from a compartment in the dead man’s armor. He held the box up triumphantly, smiling hopefully. Rimes shot the guard through the head and picked the box up off the floor.

  There were only twenty-two prisoners, but releasing them seemed to take forever. He distributed the mercenaries’ assault rifles to the healthiest-looking prisoners, then told them to follow him. Once they reached the street Rimes could see that the battle had transitioned from a siege to a pursuit. Honig’s squad was in full flight down Silvestri Highway, approaching the bridge. Gwambe’s squad had melted into the dense cityscape of District One, occasionally engaging the pursuing shipyard’s and the governor’s mansion’s forces. At Honig’s signal, Gwambe’s team was supposed to fall back to vehicles the locals had positioned for them and head for the bridge as well.

  Rimes alternated between shouting encouragement to the prisoners and cursing beneath his breath about their speed as he led them to the power plant at a jog. The prisoners seemed to do their best to keep up.

  Security at the power plant was every bit as feeble as Banh and Dunne had reported, as if the mercenaries considered the partisan threat fully resolved.

  Rimes let himself in and helped the prisoners arm themselves, then he led them east. He kept a pace everyone could maintain, finally reaching Kanalz Road. At the intersection with Valentino Street, he brought everyone to a halt. The street was empty between their position and Silvestri, which lay a half-klick east. He brought his carbine up and sighted down the street just in time to spot three crawlers speeding southwest on Silvestri, heading for the bridge.

  “Status,” Rimes called over the channel with his team.

  “Dunne’s having a lot of trouble,” Meyers said.

  “We are en route to the bridge, Colonel.” Gwambe sounded pleased.

  “At the bridge, sir,” Honig said.

  Other than Dunne’s team’s problems, the plan was holding up better than Rimes could have dreamed possible. He opened a channel with the pilots, then added them in to the main channel. He wished the Hawkeyes could better handle the heavy rain so he could simply run for the bridge. One of the more capable Horus UAVs would have been even better.

  “We’re in position at Kanalz,” Rimes informed everyone. “We can hear vehicles in the distance. Gwambe, Honig, your pursuers are en route. Gyan, Headey, at my signal, I want you to deliver your payload on Marder River Bridge. After that, you’ll need to make strafing runs on the forces at the airport. Corporal Dunne will mark your targets for you. Ensign Foltz, do you have Sergeant Bo?”

  “I do, Colonel,” Foltz said.

  “Please have him join this call.” Rimes waited until Bo joined the channel. “Sergeant Bo, welcome aboard. At my signal Ensign Foltz is going to deposit your team on the north side of the bridge. I’ll meet you there with the partisans. We need to keep the mercenaries pinned down on the bridge until the payload has been delivered.”

  “I understand, Colonel,” Bo said.

  Rimes watched the mercenaries race down Silvestri in their freshly appropriated crawlers, feverishly pursuing Gwambe’s retreating forces. The mercenaries had fallen for the trap. Somewhere among their leadership, there should have been at least a little concern about such small forces attacking only to flee, but there were numerous enticements at play. The opportunity to finally fully engage the forces that had been tormenting the mercenaries for so long was probably irresistible.

  “Last of the mercenaries en route,” Rimes said. He waved the partisans to follow him as he began the jog southeast toward the bridge. “Sergeant Gwambe, are you in position?”

  “The south side of the bridge, it is secured, Colonel,” Gwambe said. “Sergeant Honig’s squad has deployed on the west side of the road. All is ready.”

  Other than the gunfire from the airport, the night had largely gone silent again as the mercenaries pursued their targets. Rimes focused on the sound of his boots splashing in shallow puddles.

  Gwambe’s voice came over the channel; gunfire roared in the background, breaking the relative calm that had fallen over the city. “The mercenary vehicles, we have them pinned down on the bridge, Colonel.”

  “Ensign Foltz, please drop Sergeant Bo’s team into position,” Rimes said.

  “Mercenary column has stopped fifty meters shy of the bridge’s south exit, Colonel,” Gwambe said.

  Timing is going to be critical.

  Rimes picked up the pace, waving the prisoners forward. They were struggling already, dealing with dehydration, hunger, and fatigue, but they did what they could. The sound of gunfire seemed to draw them like wolves to wounded prey.

  As the bridge came into view, lights from the first of the mercenary vehicles flared in the night. They were heading back. Rimes roared again, his voice cracking. He didn’t—couldn’t—look back. He and the prisoners had so far to go, and already the mercenaries were accelerating toward Bo’s position.

  Bo’s squad opened fire as the first vehicle hit the fifty-meter mark. Rimes could hear vehicle windows and lights shattering. The driver of the front vehicle lost control, and the vehicle flipped. As if sensing the trap, the vehicles trailing the first accelerated, one of them crashing into the overturned wreck, spinning it around and slamming it into the bridge rails. Bo’s soldiers continued laying down fire, crippling two more vehicles, halting the breakout nearly twenty-five meters from the bridge exit. The mercenaries abandoned their ruined vehicles and fell back, returning fire.

  In no time, the mercenaries outnumbered Bo’s squad. Bullets began chewing up whatever light cover was available, and Bo’s soldiers fell back to heavier cover. By the time Rimes reached a position he could actually fire from, half of Bo’s squad was dead, and Bo’s vitals were weak.

  The prisoners ran forward, reinforcing Bo’s position, picking up weapons from the fallen. Even reinforced, the north position was in danger of being overrun. Rimes scanned the bri
dge. The mercenaries were concentrated about forty meters south of his position, but there were still pockets at the south end of the bridge and some stuck in between.

  This is as good as it’s going to get.

  A signal flashed on Rimes’s communication system. It was a general broadcast, an attempt to surrender. Rimes ignored it and connected to the channel with Gyan and Headey. Another signal flashed on Rimes’s system.

  It was a priority UN military signal.

  “Lieutenant Gyan, Lieutenant Headey, make your run,” Rimes said. He ignored the priority signal, focusing instead on firing into an advancing trio of mercenaries.

  “On our way, Colonel,” Headey said.

  Seconds passed. The flare of muzzle flashes from the bridge tapered off. The cacophony of weapons fire became eerily one-sided. Rimes could see mercenaries trying to raise their empty hands. He fired on them, driving them behind cover. The mercenaries stubbornly refused to engage. Even the partisans began to hold fire.

  Rimes growled. He fired wildly, simply sending rounds in the mercenaries’ general direction. He ran forward, wildly gesticulating between bursts, eyes wide with fury. “Keep firing! Don’t let them off the bridge!”

  The partisans looked at Rimes. They seemed confused and wary. Despite all that had been done to them, they apparently couldn’t bring themselves to slaughter the mercenaries in cold blood. Rimes roared and fired at a mercenary running—arms held high—toward him. The mercenary stumbled and tried to regain his feet.

  Another urgent communication flashed on Rimes’s display; he ignored it.

  In that moment, the shuttles made their run over the bridge. Barrels fell from their open airlocks, cracking on impact, spraying their contents across the concrete surface. With each impact, a delayed charge detonated. In seconds, fire bloomed across the length of the bridge, washing over those trapped on its surface, lighting the night in brilliant amber. Forms ran, some rushing over the sides and plunging into the river, some simply charging blindly into even more intense flames.

  It was over in a few minutes. The flames slowly began to die out. Gunfire from the shuttles’ strafing runs at the airport provided a quiet backdrop for the coughing brought on by the stench of charred flesh. Rimes stepped onto the bridge, walking between pockets of dying flames, staring at the blackened corpses, mesmerized by the smoke rising from the shells of the dead into the early morning sky.

  The moment quickly took on a surreal aspect: the glow from heated metal, the hissing and popping of the corpses, the hellish nature of everything around him.

  Rimes smiled, satisfied, and keyed his earpiece to accept the urgent incoming calls.

  21

  27 December, 2173. CFN Arizona.

  * * *

  Rimes sat up in the bunk, comfortable as he could be in what amounted to a prison. Aboard the Valdez, the cabin he was in would be his. But he was on the Arizona, not the Valdez. Despite being based on the same design as the Valdez, everything about the Arizona, from the recycled air to the covers on his bunk to the lights in the cabin, felt new and untested.

  And everything felt cheaper, plastic, less meaningful.

  He dropped from the bunk, felt the chill of the floor tiles against his bare feet and then throughout his body.

  Planning for the Arizona began shortly after the genie attack on the shipyard orbiting Earth nearly a decade prior. Originally, it had been planned as a Powell-class battlecruiser, but budget constraints led to compromises, then downgrades that saw it shifted to a destroyer, same as the Valdez.

  Rimes couldn’t help wondering if even more cuts had been made to the Arizona. The walls seemed closer, the bunks smaller, and the air less clean.

  It’s just my imagination.

  Certainly, no one had skimped on the captain’s quarters, not once the Arizona was designated the fleet’s flagship. Rimes had seen the interior long enough to meet Admiral Tilda Saxbury, the CFN’s newly appointed senior space flag officer. Saxbury had been brusque and dismissive, even in the formal moment of introductions in which a sense of neutrality and professionalism was proper decorum.

  Rimes flexed his hand slowly, noting the way its soft cinnamon stood out against the crisp desert camouflage of his battle dress pants. The network of wrinkles and scars lacing the back of that hand carried memories of past engagements and the energy, vibrance, and power of his youth. Time had stolen his vitality and resilience and left in their place scars and pain. He wondered if the wisdom that supposedly compensated for such losses was real, and if it was just another word for knowing all the pain and loss wasn’t worth the suffering.

  “What did you think of her?”

  Rimes looked up from his momentary introspection. Kleigshoen was standing beside the sink, toweling her curly golden hair. She was taking care of herself, her pale-copper skin soft and smooth, her curves still distracting. She seemed more comfortable with the idea of drying and dressing in front of him than in the head.

  “The admiral?” Rimes asked.

  Kleigshoen nodded.

  “She’s tall. She looks frail and old. Is she sick?”

  “You don’t look—” Kleigshoen glanced at him, then looked away. “What’s happened to you, Jack? All those scars, the stiffness when you walk?”

  “War. Time.”

  Kleigshoen pulled her panties on and made a sour face. “You’ll have the chance to meet Mazarov at the inquiry. He has all of Saxbury’s charm but none of the sophistication.”

  “How’d they get selected for this?”

  Halfway into her bra, Kleigshoen froze. She seemed to be giving serious thought to sharing something important, but the moment passed. “It’s a long story,” she finally said. She pulled on a black tank top and settled into the chair at the desk, going at her hair again with the towel before cursing quietly and tossing it aside. “I could never have made it in the Navy.”

  “What about you?” Rimes knelt beside her to look her in the eyes. “Are you my guard?”

  Kleigshoen blinked. “It was this or the brig, Jack. The way I see it, we know each other well enough we can work through this. You need someone with a cool head.”

  He stood, began to pace, stopped. “Why a peace settlement?”

  Kleigshoen dragged a brush through her hair and looked him over for several seconds with angry, dark eyes. “You understand this is serious? Court-martial serious? In their eyes? In the eyes of a lot of people?”

  “Like Ladell?” Rimes asked. “Why’d you bring him? Is he spying on everything I do? Watching us now?” He glanced at the mirror Kleigshoen had brushed her hair in, waved a hand in front of it to be sure the reflection wasn’t some illusion. “We had Meyers. He’s almost as good as Ladell, and—”

  “That’s exactly why we brought Agent Barlowe. Ladell. We didn’t know where Meyers would stand with all this.” Kleigshoen waved a hand as if to encompass their situation. “And we couldn’t take a chance he’d interfere. We figured we knew where you’d stand.”

  “All this.” Rimes mimicked Kleigshoen’s hand wave. “You think you can trust Ladell? He was facing a firing squad, wasn’t he? Maybe he blames me. You ever think of that?”

  “I trust him. He doesn’t blame you at all. He knows what he did was wrong, and he appreciates your support. He respects you. He’s a professional.”

  Rimes thought about her words. “If you haven’t already figured it out, Lonny isn’t happy with me. You said his testimony wasn’t very complimentary.”

  “Not complimentary isn’t the same as not being loyal. He batted away some pretty tough assertions and declined to take the easy road on a few leading questions. He may question some of your tactics, but he doesn’t feel this war is something we surrender. He wants peace, but he wants concessions from the metacorporations and trials for their leaders.”

  “I’ve seen the reports.” A cold smile slowly spread across Rimes’s face. “They didn’t score a decisive victory anywhere. Not quite what they expected, I’d imagine?”

&n
bsp; “That was a month ago. Things have probably changed.”

  All the data played through Rimes’s memory. He’d reviewed it several times since his return to the Valdez. Europa, Han, Newcastle, Trinity: If the colony held a sizable military presence, the initial metacorporate attack failed to wipe the defending forces out. Given what he’d seen on Sahara and Plymouth, the metacorporate forces had been built around the premise of a quick, overwhelming, surprise attack. They weren’t built for sustained action.

  “If things have changed, they haven’t in their favor,” he said finally.

  Kleigshoen stopped brushing her hair for a moment. “It’s suspicious. All of it. Things moved fast in the Special Security Council. Power shifted. Deepa was replaced. She asked me to give you something.”

  Kleigshoen rose and made her way to her travel bag, dragging it back to the desk. She hesitated, then unzipped a flap, slowly working a sliver of film from within a seam. She handed the film to Rimes with shaking hands.

  “It’s all crazy right now.” Her voice shook as noticeably as her hands. She seemed on the verge of tears, uncommonly vulnerable. “I’m so sorry about Molly and the boys. It’s not right. Everything they’ve done to you from the start. You were never given any choice.”

  Rimes rolled the film between his fingers, suddenly less confident. He wasn’t sure what to make of Kleigshoen’s nerves or words. She’d never said anything before about unfair treatment.

  He slipped the film into his earpiece’s reader and looked at Kleigshoen, trying not to see the softness of her coppery skin or remember the curves of the body she had just flaunted. Molly’s loss was a special pain, but Kleigshoen had always carried her own sort of pain for him.

  “How did Deepa take it?” he asked.

  “Better than she might have. Better than I could have. She gave her life to that job, and now it’s gone.”

  “She always treated me fairly. She went out on a limb selecting me for those missions. That opened doors.”