The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Rimes looked up momentarily, glanced down the hall at Meyers. “Lonny was living in denial.”

  “Huh?”

  “When he lost Kara on Plymouth, he somehow managed to convince himself what they had wasn’t real. In his dream state, he thought Kara was still alive and that he’d found her here. He’d never met the young lady he was living with in that apartment building before coming back to Earth, but they were arguing over wedding arrangements when I finally got through to him.”

  Credence frowned. “That’s terrible.”

  Rimes looked back at the displays. “The dream, or waking from it?”

  “I’m not sure. Why is he going on about making sure we make MetaConceptual a success? I thought we were here to rescue Scott.”

  Rimes scratched at the scar on his temple. “I’m not sure what’s going on in his mind. I remember Imogen saying she would give us the keyword to snap us out of the device’s control. Maybe she programmed each of us differently? Maybe Lonny needs a different objective to find motivation?”

  Barlowe exited the PeachTree Services building and headed for the tube station. Rimes noted the time, then turned to a small hip bag. He pulled one of the oversized masks he’d taken from the dead security agents from inside and handed it to Credence.

  “Crude optics, communications interface, and their own augmented reality system; a very basic BAS.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s useless to us because it runs through their systems. So far as I can tell they’ve hacked together some sort of mobile command post infrastructure similar to what police do. That gives each group the ability to operate autonomously, but it means they don’t necessarily share data. I’ve been able to move without detection so far because they’ve got a dozen security directors out there all fighting to maintain control of their little empires. When Lonny comes out of it, see if he can figure out how to convert the system so we can load our BAS software into it and stay off their network.”

  “What’s that smell?” Credence sniffed at the mask suspiciously.

  “Cleaning fluid, alcohol, ammonia. I didn’t come by these easily.”

  Credence remembered the gun battles and nodded. “What about the others?”

  Rimes watched the ER entrance for a few more seconds. Banh and Dunne were working on their second cup of coffee. Gwambe had exited the tube. Rimes found him again with a few camera switches. Trang was nearing his exit.

  “Tomorrow night. Dengler’s shift ends around six in the morning. He’s off for twenty-four hours, then back on.” Rimes pointed to the timer showing on the displays. “Everyone else gets off work between six and eight. Banh and Dunne meet at Lotchka’s on Piedmont every night after work, and they don’t leave until nine. Everyone should be in place by nine. That’s when we’ll move.”

  “What about Dana?” Credence asked. She seemed to study his face, as if concerned about how he might react to Kleigshoen’s name.

  “Tonight. I’ll bring her back here before tomorrow morning.”

  He stood and stretched. Endurance and flexibility had returned slowly, but he’d gone a long time without any of the boosters or other supplements he’d come to rely on. He felt old and beat, but there was a fire, an inner strength pushing him once again.

  “What about the genies?”

  “I’m not sure.” He’d expected some sort of contact from Imogen by the time he was ready to field his team. “Maybe Imogen’s waiting for us to get everyone together before committing her resources.”

  Maybe she wasn’t as strong as she thought she was?

  “Can we even do this without them?” Credence’s voice was weak, tired. She rubbed at the bandages he had applied the day before, then looked at him with a sad smile. “Actually, I don’t know if we can do this with them. There were only three?”

  “Numbers aren’t always the measure you want to use. These are second-generation genies. They’re special, even for genies. Get some rest. You just need some time to heal.” Rimes headed for the entry, but he stopped at the doorway. “We’re going to make it through this, Jenny. We have to.”

  Her face reflected the same worry that knotted his gut. It all seemed so impossible.

  39

  15 June, 2174. Manhattan, New York.

  * * *

  Rimes adjusted the scuba mask on his face and marveled at how quickly his skin had become sensitive to rubber seals. Sweat oozed along the seal and trickled down his neck and back. Going from the chill of the aircraft cargo hold to the heat of the shuttle was a miserable shock. His ears still felt like someone had clapped them. Part of that was simply the muffled effect of being inside a cargo crate, he was sure.

  The shuttle shifted beneath his feet. It was approaching its final destination: Manhattan.

  He twisted slightly to find the best position he could inside the crate that had been his home for the last twelve hours. The crate was packed with an oversized scuba tank secured inside an internal compartment that was fashioned to appear to scanners and curious eyes as sensitive systems components. The compartment was cramped, especially with all the gear he’d brought, but it got him through security checks.

  The crate and his gear—including a full field suit with integrated BAS and a tricked-out CAWS-5 carbine—had been remarkably easy to secure from Fort Benning. In their arrogance, whoever had architected the dream blanketing Earth had seen the military as a simple, monolithic, easily controlled entity.

  That was a huge mistake.

  Rimes had placed an anonymous call to Fort Benning’s special operations commander, and the crate had been flown to Atlanta’s airport for a counter-terrorist operation. No one was going to question an ERF request, not even an anonymous one. Once Rimes had sealed himself inside, the crate had been loaded onto a commercial flight for LaGuardia Airport. At LaGuardia a pre-arranged shuttle transfer had been effected. Now, he was approaching the UN housing district.

  The dream’s insidious nature had been turned against it.

  A shudder signaled the shuttle’s landing. Minutes passed. Then, Rimes felt movement again as the crate was offloaded and transferred to a forklift. After several minutes of stop-and-go movement, the crate came to rest again. Sensors on the crate’s outer shell registered complete darkness and a lack of movement.

  He was in position.

  Rimes counted to ten, then activated the crate’s latch system. Inside the crate, the latch clicks seemed deafening. The crate cycled through a combination of tests to determine which panel to open. Finally, the panel above Rimes’s head rose. He cautiously exited, pulling his gear after him. The BAS system kicked on, and Rimes crawled until he’d reached a safe perch. He took in his surroundings with a slow 365-degree turn.

  Shelves lined a wall several meters from his position. All around, crates similar to his own rose in towering columns. Rimes stood atop a six-meter-high column that ran nearly twenty meters long. He could smell the forklift’s machine oil and heated electronics from his perch. Even in the early morning hours, the building was warm, its air stale. He checked that his carbine was secure in its brace, then descended.

  As he edged forward in the darkness, the BAS began constructing the warehouse’s dimensions. A door lay twenty-one meters ahead and thirty-seven meters to his right. There were no signals and no indication of security inside the warehouse, but the door would be a problem.

  He jogged slowly forward, picking his way carefully through the avenues created by the crate columns, stopping at the door to examine the alarm mechanism. The BAS indicated that there was a movement detection system outside, active to fifteen meters out. There were also several infrared beams and five cameras. It was a security system meant to prevent thieves from breaking in, horribly out of place at a time in which the dream filled everyone with a desire for everything and an acceptance that it would all come with time.

  Rimes placed a cautious hand against a nearby power outlet. His suit sent a signal through the building’s wiring, and for a moment the security systems froze. Rim
es popped the door handle and sprinted into the darkness, clearing the security perimeter with seconds to spare. He turned toward what appeared to be a parking lot, smiling at the sight of a crawler.

  Overcoming the crawler’s security required a few minutes of work, but he gained access and brought the motor humming to life. The vehicle was from the UN motor pool, making him virtually invisible in the UN sprawl. He pulled his headgear off and popped the crawler into gear.

  The sun lit the eastern horizon by the time he’d found an ideal parking spot in an underground garage. No cameras or prying eyes would spot the crawler. The building was undergoing refurbishing, its facade a network of scaffolds and plastic.

  He stripped his suit off and shoved it into his backpack, then broke the carbine down and shoved it inside the backpack with the suit. Even though he hadn’t needed it, he was thankful he’d been able to acquire the modular weapons system, along with the rest of his combat gear.

  Forty-Fifth Street was coming to life as he exited the parking garage. He easily worked into the flow of traffic, moving with the same shambling gait of the dreaming diplomats, bureaucrats, and assorted laborers.

  No one paid him any mind.

  Manhattan’s population had undergone numerous transformations over the last several decades, and it was undergoing more. With the dissolution and transformation of so many of the industries that the city had once relied upon—publishing, banking and finance, entertainment, even fashion—the city itself had transformed. Glittering skyscrapers, sturdy tenements, even crumbling brownstones, all had undergone change. Over the decades as the money fled, so did the allure of living in such a cramped, overpriced, and failing place. Once it became clear that nations would have to work together just to survive, the United Nations had stepped forward as Manhattan’s savior. Empty apartment and office buildings became home to a new, much larger corps of bureaucrats, administrative staff, and supporting personnel. An already-diverse population became even more varied as foreign money jumpstarted the transition from a dying island to one with at least some chance of survival.

  But that had just been the start of the change. Along with the move to more of a global administrative center, there was an increase in trade representation. Colonial corporations and associated trade representatives leased offices in the UN sprawl along Manhattan’s eastern shore. Corporate alliances formed, and private trade proxy organizations bought up offices in the hopes that proximity might translate into protection from metacorporate predation.

  In the span of five decades, Manhattan died and was reborn, and in that cycle of rebirth it became both more restricted and more open.

  Rimes relied upon that openness for easy movement.

  There was no sign of the bug-vans that constantly prowled Atlanta’s streets, a likely indication the owners—SunCorps or one of the metacorporate alliances—didn’t consider the UN’s holdings worth close monitoring. Rimes smiled at that. The UN had a history of timidity, ineptitude, and even corruption that justified ignoring it. He’d been counting on history and the metacorporations’ arrogance, and it had paid off.

  At the pace he had to maintain, it was fifteen minutes to Kleigshoen’s apartment complex. He caught her as she was entering the elevator and nearly gasped in surprise when he saw her. Somehow, even with her mind caught in an all-consuming dream focused on consumerist addiction, she had managed to take care of herself.

  “Miss Kleigshoen?” Rimes asked, stepping in front of her as a European staffer pushed past him. “Miss Dana Kleigshoen?”

  Kleigshoen looked at him. She seemed momentarily disoriented. “Do I know you?”

  “We met some time ago. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

  “Well, I—” Kleigshoen frowned as the elevator door closed. She sighed. “Sure. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name…?”

  “Jack Rimes.” Rimes put on his most winning smile, quickly looking past Kleigshoen to be sure the hallway was empty. When he could see they were alone, he whispered, “I’m from MetaConceptual, Dana.”

  Kleigshoen blinked. “MetaConceptual?” She looked around, taking in the hallway’s untended decor, the scuff marks that had accumulated on the baseboards, the noticeable coating of dust. “MetaConceptual.”

  “Come on, Dana. You can do this.”

  “Jack?”

  “Can we talk privately? Maybe in your apartment?”

  She nodded and led him back down the hallway to a door nearly at the opposite end. She entered her security code, touched a print reader, and the lock opened. He followed her inside and was immediately impressed by what he saw. A short hallway opened onto a softly lit, modestly furnished living room. Aged but cared-for hardwood was visible beneath a bright throw rug. A wine-colored settee and matching chair and drapes centered the room, framing a pale rosewood coffee table. Barely perceptible in its recessed space on the right wall opposite another hallway was an unimpressive entertainment system. There was no sign of abandonment or haphazard maintenance. Everything was in its place; every surface was clean and neat.

  “Jack, what’s going on?”

  “I should ask you that. We’ve all been in a dream, but somehow you’ve managed to avoid the worst of its effects.” He turned to examine her. Her hair was brushed, her skin clean, her outfit immaculate. She was every bit as beautiful as he recalled her ever being. Am I in the dream again? MetaConceptual. The war. Molly. Jared. Calvin. Damn it! Is this real?

  She reached for him. “Are you all right? You look about ready to collapse.”

  Still beautiful. It’s real. She’s real. The way she looked on the Drake…a dream? “I’m fine. I came up here to collect you. We’re getting ready to move.”

  Kleigshoen shook her head. “Wait. I don’t want anything to do with this. You don’t need me to make MetaConceptual a success. You don’t need to make them a success at all. Why would we want to do this?”

  Rimes blinked. What’s going on? Did Imogen sabotage us? “Dana, we do need you for this. There aren’t that many of us. You were supposed to help.”

  “I can’t. This is where I belong. Here, leading the IB, guiding the Special Security Council. I’ve been struggling my entire life to find what would satisfy me. You know I’ve always put my career first. Nothing else has mattered. And now I have it. Jack, this is what I’ve always wanted. I’m doing good things, things that really have an impact.”

  “Dana, it’s all a dream.”

  “You already told me that. We’ve probably always been in a dream of some sort, don’t you think?”

  He shook his head. “There’s real, and there’s whatever this thing makes you believe—illusion, dreams, fantasy. It’s not who we were meant to be.”

  “I want you to see something.” She led him out of the living room and into the hallway. The master bedroom was visible at the end of the hall, as was a bathroom to the left. An arched entry on the right opened into a dining area and attached kitchen. Beyond the bathroom stood another door.

  Kleigshoen knocked gently at that door, and a familiar voice called out.

  Bhatia.

  “It’s me,” Kleigshoen said. “I’ve brought a guest, an old friend.”

  “Come in.” Bhatia sounded weak.

  Kleigshoen opened the door and entered a small bedroom. Rimes could see Bhatia resting on a tiny bed braced against the far wall. She was smaller, frailer than she’d appeared on screen during the message she’d sent with Kleigshoen, but she still had the air of quiet strength and dignity Rimes had always appreciated since she’d first met with him in her office in the Special Security Council building.

  “Deepa?” Rimes could barely manage a whisper.

  “Colonel Rimes.” Bhatia smiled, something rare for her. “Please do come in.” She pointed to a small chair at the foot of her bed. “If you have the time?”

  Rimes pulled the chair to the side of the bed and settled in, ignoring the smells of death—alcohol, medicine, wasting. They reminded him of saying good-bye to his fath
er. “Of course I have the time. You’re not affected by the dream?”

  Bhatia shook her head slightly and took his hand in hers. “The single advantage of my condition.”

  "She has stage four glioblastoma. The tumors are …” Kleigshoen teared up as she waved at her head.

  Glioblastoma. Someone else survived that. Credence. “I tried contacting you when I heard about the little coup.” He looked her over and felt a greater sense of loss than he’d expected. “I’m sorry.”

  “I received the message.” Bhatia patted his hand. “The coup was a small part in the intricate web they were weaving. There is no value in troubling yourself over it. My service was done. My body has been failing me for some time.”

  “I didn’t know. I’d always sworn I would thank you one day. You gave a know-it-all kid his biggest opportunity. And when the time came, you pushed to make the Elite Response Force a reality.”

  “And that was all part of the intricate web we were weaving. And now, my part is done and I am ready for my time here to end. I have had my opportunity to say good-bye and to apologize for what was done. That was an unexpected blessing.” She squeezed his hand weakly. “I am sorry. For the pain and the sadness and the loss of innocence.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rimes looked at Kleigshoen, but she refused to meet his eyes. He looked back at Bhatia. “Deepa?”

  “When you came to us you were a young man. Idealistic and noble. You were determined to serve your country, and when we called on you, the people of this world. You served with honor and integrity.” Bhatia reached up to touch his face, running her fingers over the scar on his temple, touching his chest until she could feel the strength of his heart. “Sometimes, the pain of living can be too great. Even for the mightiest.” She smiled sadly. Her lids drooped heavily. “You came to me so that I might have this chance to seek forgiveness. Thank you. I can feel the medicine now, Dana. Would you show him out? I lack the strength.”