The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  Rimes nodded. “It wasn’t much—”

  “How long?”

  “What?”

  “How long had you been dating?”

  “A couple years. Off and on. Mostly it was…physical. She preferred to keep it at that level.” Rimes blushed.

  Molly winced. “Yeah. That’s got to be tough. I hope…” She smiled. Her face lit up. “I probably came across all wrong. Your friend told me you were a good guy and, well, I was just hoping to have someone to talk with. I’m not normally like this, but I’ve had a couple drinks, and…”

  Rimes smiled. “You said your friends dumped you?”

  “I became an inconvenience, I guess.” Molly mimicked sitting behind a news desk and assumed a somber, deeper voice. “You know the story: washed-out student who spent a little too long at her friend’s house trying to avoid the trip home, couldn’t take the hint that the welcome was worn out, finally sent to the bus station with a one-way ticket and instructions not to return, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Rimes laughed. “You do a good Lewiston.”

  “That was my Klein, but I guess that’s okay.” Molly laughed. She reached out, touched Rimes’s hand, only pulling away when he flinched.

  “So, um, what were you in for?”

  “Armed robbery?” Molly laughed again and touched his hand. He didn’t pull away this time. “I’m sorry, but it felt like I was in for something, you know? Political science, ostensibly. Party ‘Til You Drop, realistically. Thus, the whole home-avoidance thing. The college fund is gone now.”

  “Political science?”

  “Oh, no, seriously. I had my doctoral thesis cooked up in my senior year: The Collapse of Capitalism. I started research and everything. I was so full of myself until I became full of…well, beer.”

  “Where’s home?” Rimes suddenly realized he wasn’t bothered by how close she was.

  “Lawton, Oklahoma. Or close to it.”

  Rimes looked back into the corridor. Pasqual was gone, his job as matchmaker done. “Lawton. That’s not very far from Fort Sill, right?”

  “Yeah. Your friend…” She turned, possibly searching for Pasqual.

  “Long gone.”

  She turned back and offered up another breathtaking smile. “That’s where you two are going? Fort Sill?”

  “Yeah. I need to grab my duffel bag.” He nodded at the store’s exit.

  “All my earthly belongings are stuffed in a locker as well. You’d be surprised how quickly things slip away. Now, it’s just me, a couple pair of jeans, and a few shirts.”

  They walked to the lockers, chatting comfortably. Rimes found he was smiling despite himself, unconsciously measuring Molly against Dana. A little voice told him he was falling into a classic rebound scenario. He snuffed out the voice. He hadn’t gone looking for someone to replace Dana. Molly was someone in need of a friend, just like he was. It was as simple as that.

  He took her travel bag from her and slung it over his shoulder with his duffel bag. “So, I realize you’ve probably thought of this before,” he began as they walked to the front entry. “This area is crawling with dangerous people.”

  “Like your friend?”

  “He’s one of the worst. It’s a long way back to Oklahoma. Maybe it would be best if we sat next to each other, provided some assistance?”

  “Can you teach me some Commando moves?” Molly chopped at an imaginary opponent.

  “Sure. You’d be surprised how easy it is to snap someone’s neck.”

  Molly laughed again and bumped against him. She stayed close, leaning against his chest. “I think I like the idea, but maybe it’d help if I knew your name?”

  Rimes laughed, embarrassed. “I assumed Rick told you. I’m Jack. Rimes. With an i and no h.”

  “Jack Rimes.” Molly seemed to test the name for weight. She suddenly leaned in and kissed him. “Sorry about that. I claim the alcohol defense. Molly Lundgren, Jack.”

  Rimes’s heart was racing.

  I’m not falling for her. She’s just someone to pass the long trip talking to. I’m so damned tired of Rick’s routines anyway. I need a break.

  He looked at Molly and saw the uncertainty in her big, brown eyes. He kissed her back.

  Shit. I am falling for her.

  Rimes looked up as the doors at the top of the stairs slid open. The storm had broken. Bright sunlight was already baking away the shallow puddles. Everything somehow seemed lighter, more pleasant than when he’d arrived.

  “So how do you plan to break this failure to your parents, Molly?”

  “Failure? I came east looking for a college degree. I’m going home with a boyfriend. How is that a failure?”

  They laughed and leaned against each other again. Around them the world moved on, spinning its worries and troubles but momentarily unable to affect them. And for that moment, that single moment frozen in time, as the sun shone with a new blinding, purifying intensity, Rimes felt a happiness he’d never known before, and he assured himself that nothing could ever steal that happiness from him.

  * * *

  THE END OF THE JACK RIMES TRILOGY

  Turning Point

  ERF Book One

  1

  12 December 2174. Approaching Bellar Frontier Colony.

  * * *

  No matter the improvements new spacecraft offered, Meyers always found them disappointing. In the case of the Javelin, he couldn’t put a finger on what was missing or amiss, but he was sure it was something. The vessel was larger, faster, and had better systems and weapons than anything the ERF had in its fleet. It was also more comfortable than any military vessel Meyers had ever been inside. Even filled with personnel, it felt roomy.

  He ran an almost delicate hand through his blond hair, then he stretched his legs and rolled his shoulders, but he couldn’t get the tension out of his lean body. That tension reached his eyes as well, bright blue against the bloodshot sclera. His hooked nose wrinkled at the creaks and pops of his joints rolling up through his armor’s audio sensors. The noise momentarily drowned out the soft hiss of the gunship’s air recycler and the murmur of conversations going on somewhere in the near-dark. His movement drew an arched eyebrow from the man seated directly opposite, Master Sergeant Carl Paxton, the platoon sergeant Meyers hand-selected for the mission. Paxton was short, dark-eyed, and wrinkled. He had a nose that looked like it’d been broken and never properly set. They were both secured to their seats by padded harnesses, black in the Javelin’s dim light, but Paxton seemed relaxed, possibly even comfortable. Meyers felt that if he wanted to successfully execute his first mission as the Elite Response Force’s battalion commander, he would need someone like Paxton.

  Temporary battalion commander, Meyers reminded himself. That qualifier brought a sigh of relief, at least until he remembered who and what he was responsible for, temporary or not.

  Seated to his right were members of Squad One. Most of Squad Two sat to Paxton’s left. Most of their gear was secured to the floor between the rows of seats. The rest of the two squads were spread between the other Javelin and the older Arrow shuttle that was hauling support personnel and the rest of the gear. Even in the newly acquired Javelins, the air had already taken on a lived-in smell.

  A gentle tone echoed in Meyers’s earpiece: they were approaching the final communication point with the Valdez. Paxton tapped his helmet, signaling his intent to seal up for the call.

  Meyers sighed, then he sealed his helmet as well and connected to the channel invite. He hated the secrecy. His men deserved better than all the secrecy.

  He glanced at the bulk of Corporal McNutt, Squad One’s leader. His square jaw seemed clenched in perpetual anger, and his dark blue eyes were almost black in the dim light. To McNutt’s right, Private Rebecca Starling’s dark eyes darted left and right, and she bit her full, bottom lip and absently brushed a stray, black curl from her forehead. She was absorbed in what was probably a tech manual based off the static glow of her earpiece’s projected display. Meye
rs considered her a welcome reminder of how much things were changing.

  Not just men, he reminded himself. Soldiers. And they all deserved better.

  It was just another part of the job that he would have to deal with until the Special Security Council got off its collective ass and found a real replacement for Rimes.

  As if there ever could be a replacement for Rimes.

  “Captain Brigston, this is Colonel Meyers on Javelin Zero-Zero-One.” The rank, the position…it all sounded so strange to his ears.

  “Go ahead, Colonel.” Brigston’s voice was clear and calm, no doubt the luxury of long odds that the Valdez task force would face any sort of threat.

  “We’re approaching rally point. Comms check, please.”

  “Lieutenant Oppert, Arrow One-Six-Three.”

  “This is Ensign Nunoz, Javelin Zero-Zero-Two.”

  “Ensign Hassan, Javelin Zero-Zero-One.”

  “Agent Barlowe. Intelligence Bureau.”

  “Captain Brigston, Valdez.”

  “Paxton, Master Sergeant, sir.”

  Meyers rolled his eyes. “Thanks. Camille, check your signal—”

  Paxton’s raspy cough broke over the channel.

  “Shit.” Meyers closed his eyes and lowered his chin as close to his chest as the harness allowed. “Lieutenant Oppert, please check your signal. There’s some static on your…there, that fixed it.”

  “It’s this goddamn system software.” Oppert’s voice had an edge to it that could have been from the stress of flying the old Arrow shuttle on such a critical mission or could have been caused by the software she was complaining about.

  Or it could have been a more personal problem. Meyers could picture her face—round, a light spray of freckles, green eyes—scrunched up angrily.

  It would take weeks to repair things with her.

  “They’ll get you squared away just right when we get back to Plymouth, ma’am,” Paxton said, his voice honey sweet. “Fit you up in one of these.”

  “Should’ve had Zero-Zero-One.” She sounded sullen, bitter.

  “Let’s—let’s stay focused on the mission brief.” Meyers focused by rubbing his thumbs against his forefingers, then he brought his hands up and shared out a workspace with the others. “Four hours to touchdown. Jerem—Captain Brigston, any intelligence updates?”

  “Nothing. We’ve been monitoring the communications buoy and riding its signals down to the planet. Weather is still a mess in the southern hemisphere, but it doesn’t have a huge impact beyond a couple hundred kilometers over the equator, and you’ll be on the tail end of what’s there when you go in. No indication they’re aware of our approach, no indication the target’s even on Bellar.”

  “He’s down there. They wouldn’t have sent us all the way out here if they weren’t absolutely sure.” Meyers certainly hoped the Intelligence Bureau and the United Nations were right. Sending the ERF to one of the frontier colonies was a bold move that could easily backfire, and by every indication, the Special Security Council desperately wanted to improve its relations with the colonial governor, who had only ever offered a cold shoulder.

  “Well, he’s staying off the Grid,” Brigston said.

  “Do they even have a Grid?” Ensign Nunoz didn’t sound like he was joking.

  “There’s a robust one in Ardennen.” Brigston cleared his throat. Meyers imagined Brigston’s pale-brown eyes squinting patiently, his bronze-colored cheeks being sucked in. He was probably fiddling with his uniform buttons and trying to force a smile onto his plain face. It was how Brigston coped with his discomfort at being in command. “Unfortunately, we see very little from Turning Point, so we have to assume it’s not quite so capable.”

  “Or they don’t care about the outside world.” Ensign Hassan’s normally quiet voice was hard to hear over the noise that had crept back on the connection.

  Meyers scanned the display; the noise was coming from Oppert again. “Lieutenant Oppert, your comm—”

  Oppert cursed and disconnected, and an awkward silence settled over the connection.

  “So, Turning Point,” Meyers said to break the silence. He brought up the latest data Barlowe had sent out. It was the sort of thing Rimes would have been on top of, something Meyers knew he needed to get better about studying. “Any updates from imagery analysis, Agent Barlowe?”

  Barlowe cleared his throat, a soft sound. Everything about Barlowe was soft. He was small, slight, and quiet. His hands were delicate, his eyes and lips almost feminine. How he’d made it through the Commando Q course without serious injury had always mystified Meyers. “A couple things. I’ve sent an update to the designations—power and telecommunications facilities, some of the other infrastructure management facilities. Don’t be fooled by the description. This settlement may have been put together by displaced and criminal elements, but they seem to have done well enough getting things together. There’s plenty of prefab and quick-fab construction, more than enough to house the entire planet’s population.”

  Ensign Nunoz snorted. “Like anyone else is going to settle in a city full of criminals.”

  “What constitutes criminal can be pretty arbitrary, Ensign. Most of these people were political prisoners, victims of tyrants, for-profit prisons, and the criminal justice systems that were modified to support those.”

  Meyers could hear the resentment in Barlowe’s voice. His history with the criminal justice system wasn’t common knowledge. “Thank you, Agent Barlowe. Anything more on Mr. Waverley?”

  “No.” Barlowe’s voice caught as he blew out a loud breath. “But he has to be somewhere around Turning Point. Anywhere else, he would have shown up.”

  Meyers quickly looked over Waverley’s portfolio: Chad Milton Waverley, top-flight management and finance education, entered the metacorporate world at thirty-six after the company he was running was acquired by one of SunCorps’s corporations. Fourteen years to rise through the SunCorps ranks, eight years as CEO of SunCorps. One minute, earning eight figures and cited as the key to SunCorps’s growth and success, the next, given up by SunCorps as an effort at appeasement to the United Nations.

  Waverley wasn’t the problem; he was the sacrifice.

  Or, Meyers thought, maybe we are.

  Oppert reconnected, her signal barely in the green. “Sorry, Colonel. This fucking system is a joke. I’ll do a full-blown reset after the call.”

  “It’s just for this mission.” Meyers wondered if that was true. The Arrows were relatively new vessels, and they could probably be salvaged with a few upgrades and some long overdue maintenance. It wasn’t like military budget cuts were going away anytime soon, especially with everyone trying to appease the metacorporations.

  “You’re just under ten minutes out from radio silence, Colonel,” Captain Brigston said. “Any final information you need from the Valdez?”

  “Thanks, I think we’re good for now. Good hunting.”

  “Colonel Meyers, could I get a moment?” Oppert sounded like she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Sure.” Meyers waited for the others to disconnect. “Camille, you can’t—”

  “This goddamn piece of shit crate isn’t space worthy, Lonny. And I’m the senior pilot—I should be flying Zero-Zero-One. Or we could’ve waited another day for Zero-Zero-Three’s repairs.”

  “Is that what this is really about, flying a Javelin?”

  “It’s disrespectful to put your best pilot in this can—”

  “You’re the only one who can handle One-Six-Three.”

  “And you stuffed your support team in here with the gear, castoffs, like—”

  “That support team is as valuable as any other group we have.”

  “And you have no right, no right to ignore me like you did yesterday. You can’t just—”

  “You were drunk, Camille.”

  “Lonny, dammit, listen to me. Kara’s dead. It’s been a year. You have to move on.”

  Meyers looked around the cabin, as if he expec
ted someone to be watching or listening. Most of the soldiers were caught up in their own worlds or were sleeping. Even if his helmet were open, they wouldn’t care what he was talking about. “Let’s talk about this when we get back to the Valdez, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay. You keep pushing me away. You probably gave me One-Six-Three to keep me away from you.”

  “I gave you One-Six-Three because you’re the best pilot we have. It’s that simple.”

  “Yeah, well, everything isn’t simple. It’s complicated. You can’t just compartmentalize your life like some problem you want to solve a piece at a time. We had something before Kara came along. You can’t just ignore that because it’s inconvenient.”

  “Inconven—” Meyers pressed his fists against his helmet’s faceplate. “Camille, I’m your commanding officer for now. I can’t have a relationship with you.”

  “Another thing to hide behind. Nice.”

  Meyers had to choke back a frustrated laugh. “You think I want this mess? Rimes put me in for this brevet position before he went on his suicide run against Theroux and those SunCorps proxies. After he made a sacrifice like that, I couldn’t turn the SSC down, especially when they promised to find a replacement. That would’ve been disrespectful to them. And Rimes. He gave his life to stop that alien mind control device they were using. I think I owe him something after that, don’t you?”

  “The ERF’s tainted after what Rimes did. No one’s going to want the command. You know that, but you don’t want to talk about us.”

  “Will you please just…just for…” Meyers groaned. “There is no us. While I’m your commanding officer, there can’t be.”

  “When we get back to the Valdez, we’re—”

  Oppert’s signal dropped to half-strength, and then to nothing. A second later, it came back.

  “Camille, you’re breaking up.”

  “This fucking piece of—”

  “Just reset your systems. We’ll…I’ll talk to you once we get the camp established on-planet, okay?”