by Adams, P R
“Not too much.” Kleigshoen pulled the cup away. “They said you’d just vomit it back up again.”
“How am I?” Rimes asked.
“They took a bullet out of you, but not before you’d lost a bit of blood.”
“What about Kwon?”
Kleigshoen shook her head. “They dug a bullet out of his neck. They have him on life support for now … we have some budget left, but keeping a genie alive isn’t going to receive approval, even though using him as a shield probably saved your life.”
Rimes frowned. Kwon had held answers. They needed—Rimes needed—to know what Kwon knew. Kwon would be carrying everything to the grave. It was too easy a death, too painful a final act of defiance against those he’d wronged.
“We need to leave soon,” Kleigshoen said, patting his hand. “The police … aren’t happy. The nurse gave you restoratives and stimulants. You should be ready to travel tomorrow, two days at the latest.”
Bio-restoratives and stem-cell extract stimulants weren’t cheap. Kleigshoen must be playing with the expense account now that Metcalfe was dead.
Rimes yawned, even through the stimulants. He needed to rest.
“I’m going back to the hotel and get some sleep,” Kleigshoen said, standing. “We’ll deal with Kwon in the morning.”
“The mercs?”
“Two in prison, one in ICU. The rest are in the morgue. The guy you worked over at the secure facility took two to the chest, but they think he’ll make it.”
Rimes chewed at his bottom lip. “I dreamed about Major Uber.”
Kleigshoen smirked. “You think he’d like to know Kwon’s dead?”
Rimes chuckled dryly. “Is he here? Maybe I could visit him? I wouldn’t mind being the one to tell him.”
Kleigshoen shook her head. “I checked already. He’s probably back in Germany by now.”
“Damn. I’ll send him a message. I’m sure he’ll be happy.”
“You do that,” Kleigshoen said. She turned to go, then stopped. “After you get some rest.”
Rimes waved weakly at Kleigshoen as she left.
As he drifted off, he thought about Kwon.
Although technically dead, Rimes wondered how much of Kwon’s mind remained … and whether his condition was really as hopeless as it sounded. Genies were considered disposable. That was certain to color any diagnosis.
An idea was forming in Rimes’s mind.
Rimes yawned and stretched his left arm above his head. He grimaced at the stiffness in his ribs, then sat up. He felt much better but still thirsty, despite the IV.
“That tea will help you talk,” the nurse said.
It was the same woman; she nodded approvingly when Rimes picked up the tea cup on the table next to the bed. It was still hot.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she took the IV out of his arm and powered down the last of the monitors.
“You have a cybernetics lab, right?” Rimes’s voice cracked, but he managed to get through the question without swallowing.
She glared at him, and he sipped the hot tea again.
I wish I could have slept until the healing was complete.
“We have a fitting and adjustment lab,” the nurse admitted. She took the teacup away from him and tilted the cup insistently, stinging his tongue.
Rimes swallowed quickly, ignoring the burn. “So you’d have an MMI technician, then?”
She looked into the cup. “You need to see him?
Rimes quickly drank the rest of the tea. “Please? Before I go.”
She took the cup. “We have two. Brian’s on duty today. Brian Chin. I saw him in the cafeteria earlier. Get dressed.” The nurse pointed to the small bathroom. “Your friend’s finishing checkout. I will ask Brian about seeing you after you have clothes on.” She pointed toward a small stand at the foot of the bed, then left before he could thank her.
Rimes climbed from the bed. On his way to the bathroom, he scooped up his jeans and a complimentary blue paper shirt and matching underwear from the stand.
In the bathroom, he rotated his left arm several times until the stiffness lessened. A quick shower, and he returned to the bed area, dressed and ready to go.
Kleigshoen waited at the edge of the bed. Her hair was still damp, the golden curls tight. She wore a light cotton outfit that looked like it would handle the humidity without losing its style.
“What’s this about an MMI tech?”
“On the Sutton, you mentioned the next wave of remotes. It reminded me that the older generation of remotes use the same man-machine interface as the more advanced cybernetics.
“A couple of years ago, one of our guys was on an operation in Chile, and an RPG took out his helicopter. He broke his neck in the fall but survived—only his brain went without oxygen for too long, and the medics couldn’t wake him up.
“He had valuable intelligence, so they did what they could to keep the blood flowing and got him to a hospital. An MMI tech and a remote systems designer, working together, were able to establish contact with his mind. Unfortunately, the computers could never make sense of what they downloaded.”
Kleigshoen rubbed her fingers through her curls, pulling on a loose strand. “You want to use the MMI gear to download Kwon’s thoughts?”
“I want to interface directly with Kwon’s brain.” Rimes smiled hopefully. “You keep implying remotes are the next big thing. So there had to have been advances in the software. What I want—what I need—is to search what’s left of his brain. Now.”
“He was a serial rapist and murderer, Jack.” Kleigshoen pulled her legs up on the bed and wrapped her arms around them. “It doesn’t sound possible, and if it is possible, it certainly doesn’t sound safe.”
They found the Cybernetics Lab on the third floor, connecting the hospital’s neurosurgery and physical therapy wings. Bright colors covered the hallways on the first floor, but when the elevator opened onto the third-floor hallway, they faced a sea of muddy brown with jarring spatters of orange and yellow. The lab was a small office situated in the middle of a spray of orange.
Aside from two simple, plastic chairs by the doorway, the tiny lab was dominated by a modest, tool-cluttered workstation and an examination table.
Rimes settled into the plastic chair farthest from the door.
Kleigshoen snorted. “This isn’t going to work.”
He glanced at the chair beside him then at Kleigshoen. She rolled her eyes and noisily sat down.
“You have an appointment?”
A pudgy young man with spiked hair and Asian features stood in the doorway. He wore nursing grays cinched by a vinyl tool belt with hip pouches.
Rimes stood and extended his right hand. “You must be Brian.”
“Chin, yeah.” Chin looked at Rimes’s hand, then shook it once and pulled his hand away.
“I’m Jack Rimes. This is my partner, Dana Kleigshoen.”
Chin looked at Kleigshoen, then scratched his stomach through his grays. “You the American came in all shot up last night?”
Rimes nodded.
Chin cocked an eyebrow. “You look pretty spry for someone near dead.”
“They’ve got me on some pretty good stuff. Do you have a minute?”
“Nothing ‘til after lunch.” Chin edged past Rimes and pulled a rolling chair out from under the workstation. “What d’you want?”
“A couple quick answers,” Rimes said. “A man came into the ER with me. He’d taken a bullet to the neck. They said he’d suffered too much damage to be saved.”
“The genie in ICU, yeah?” Chin asked.
“His name’s Kwon. What I need to know—is it possible to rig me up to him, let me interface with his mind through some of your equipment here?”
Chin looked from Rimes to Kleigshoen. “Is this a joke?”
Rimes held out his hands to forestall Chin and accidentally hit the exam table. The impact thundered in the room’s cramped space. “Hear me out—”
; “Sounds like that corpse isn’t the only one suffered brain damage, mate.”
“I know there’s equipment and software for this. And there are all sorts of advances going on in MMI research. If you don’t have anything capable of this, maybe you could connect me with someone who does? What about neurology?”
“Look,” Chin said. “What you’re describing isn’t anything we do here. I’m a tech. I run tests, I manage upgrades, fittings, and adjustments. Tweaking and the like, see? Yeah, maybe the neuro boys could help you, but I doubt it. That’s witchcraft, right? No one does man-machine-man interface research here. Maybe at university. Maybe at research—” Chin stopped and leaned back so far that two of the wheels on his chair left the floor.
“What is it?” Rimes asked.
Chin dropped his chair wheels back down. “Yeah, okay. So maybe it’s not what you want, maybe it is. There’s a private research facility down the street a ways. Vanguard something or other. I don’t know who funds them right now, but they’ve done some pretty crazy stuff there the last few years, and they’ve been hiring a lot. You see a lot of new faces over there now.”
Rimes smiled uncertainly. “You’re not blowing me off, are you?”
“Yeah, but not completely.” Chin squinted at him and leaned back in his chair again. “They’re your best chance, regardless. They patented some new skin-graft technique about three months ago, and about a year ago, they patented a liquid bone replacement. It’s not MMI, but it’s advanced medical work, right? And Cathy said you mentioned cybernetics. They do that, too.”
Rimes glanced at Kleigshoen and caught an impatient glare. “I’ll try them. I’m also going to contact some folks back in the US, okay? Dr. Michaels.”
Chin scratched his stomach slowly, looking at the two of them curiously. “Stefan Michaels? All right, yeah. I’ve heard about him. Practically created the latest MMI protocol single-handed. Okay. And if you come up with something, I’ll work with you.”
“It’s a deal.”
A few minutes later, Rimes had Michaels onboard with the idea and in communication with Chin. It was exactly the resolution Rimes wanted, but it was oddly unsatisfactory.
Rimes smiled at Kleigshoen and thought of asking her what irritated her so much about the idea of him connecting to Kwon’s brain.
The look on her face told him not to bother.
29
8 March 2164. Darwin, Australia.
* * *
They didn’t say anything until reaching the garage.
Kleigshoen had traded the blood-soaked HuCorp in for an even smaller car, somehow managing to find something even uglier, in bright yellow.
She was rigid. Muscles stood out in her neck and shoulders. Her arms were crossed and she kept her back turned to him.
Angry. Understandable, I guess. But is she mad about the risk? Something else?
“Do you want to talk—”
“No,” Kleigshoen said. Her voice was cold.
Rimes scowled as he looked the vehicle over, wondering what sort of fevered dream had been behind its design. “Was this a budget choice? I mean, it’s … hideous.”
“Get in.”
Kleigshoen slammed her door; it made a tinny sound.
The car whined and shook as it pulled out from the dim garage into traffic. Bright sunlight quickly triggered the window tinting. In no time, the underpowered air conditioner was struggling hopelessly to keep them from boiling alive.
Kleigshoen wiped perspiration from her brow and glared at the traffic.
“Where are we going?”
Kleigshoen gave him a withering glance.
Rimes felt his temper threatening. “Look, I’m open to suggestions here. If you can think of a better idea to get what we need, I’m listening.”
Another withering glance. “You know there’s no other way. Not right now.”
“All right. So why all the hostility?”
The car pulled off the main drag and into a small restaurant parking lot. Kleigshoen sighed and closed her eyes. With the car powered down, the interior quickly became unbearable.
“It’s not just the physical risks, Jack. I don’t care for … never mind.”
She climbed out and slammed her door.
Rimes pulled his legs up to his chest, pivoted in the seat, and dragged himself up and out of the car. “You’ve got your mission, I’ve got mine. It goes without saying we have different priorities.”
And I can’t even begin to guess what the hell your priorities are.
Kleigshoen crossed the parking lot without another word. Her shirt clung to her back. Rimes’s eyes traced the curve of her spine, lingering on the small of her back. He shook away the thoughts.
One time, one error. I’m not going to make it worse.
Rimes opened the restaurant door, and the air conditioning hit him. Compared to the car’s unit, it was divine.
A waitress seated the two of them in a booth at the rear. They ordered salad, iced tea, and cold soup—tofu, whey, cucumber, and curry—from the menu.
When the salads and tea arrived, Rimes dug in. He was famished, partly the result of the restoratives. Waiting around wasn’t going to make Kleigshoen less angry.
Kleigshoen watched him for a moment, then turned to her own plate. She picked at it for several seconds, separating the greens from the other vegetables.
“Don’t like the salad?” Rimes asked.
“It’s fine.” Kleigshoen shoved a forkful of greens into her mouth and chewed with her mouth open. “See?”
“I do,” Rimes said. He smiled despite himself.
Might as well push her.
“We’ve got some time to kill … why don’t you finish telling me about T-Corp 72?”
Kleigshoen froze. She hastily finished what she was chewing and washed it down with a swig of tea. “I already told you, we were interested in the X-17.”
“You said it was complicated. They were in the compound. They had the gas. You didn’t tell us about it. We could’ve died. How much simpler could it get?”
She quickly tucked another leaf into her mouth and followed it up with a slice of carrot.
“We had you suited up in NBC gear,” Kleigshoen said, finally. “We’d already run several satellite scans of the area. We knew …”
“You knew they’d already used the X-17 when the T-Corp team didn’t show up on your scans. What was the real target?”
The waitress, an elderly Chinese woman with bowlegs, brought them their soup.
Kleigshoen watched the woman slowly shuffle away. “The treatment for that condition costs about twenty-five thousand dollars. My grandmother underwent the treatment. It changed everything for her.”
Rimes’s brow wrinkled. “I’m happy for her.”
“Your niece, Gina, she has a condition, right?”
“Cri du chat syndrome,” Rimes said, annoyed. “Why?”
“You’re still a sergeant. What’s that pay?”
Rimes frowned. “You know damned well what it pays, Dana.”
“Around twenty thousand?” She was suddenly remote, analytical.
“Around.” Rimes shifted.
“Combat pay, jump qualified bonus, housing, subsistence … all told, that’s half again,” Kleigshoen said. She tasted a spoonful of the soup. “Let’s put you at thirty thousand. Not bad. You probably clear twenty-two. You spend maybe seventy-five hundred a year on rent, utilities, food. You’re both going to school off and on, so probably the same amount in school bills. That leaves you about seven, maybe eight thousand in the clear to cover whatever expenses come up: clothing, uniforms. You splurge every now and then—dinner, a movie.”
“Fine,” Rimes said. “You’ve seen my financial records. We live simple. We have a few thousand dollars saved up. I don’t get your point.”
“You recovered one canister from that compound, Jack. We think the genies purchased as many as a hundred. As best as we can tell, they paid five hundred thousand dollars, probably more. Five thousa
nd each.”
Rimes stared at Kleigshoen, a spoon of soup frozen halfway to his mouth. He could feel his face flushing. He set the spoon back in the bowl.
“There were twenty-five hundred canisters in the stolen shipment. The street value is in the millions of dollars. As much as we want to recover what the genies stole, we want the rest of the shipment more.”
Rimes felt his stomach knotting. “What are you getting at?”
“You’ve given eighty-two hundred dollars to your brother in the last four years. That’s a lot of money, but everything still adds up. As far as we can tell, you’re clean.”
Rimes clenched his fists. “Clean?”
“What do you know about the X-17 shipment heist, Jack?”
“Not much,” Rimes said through clenched teeth. “I was on a Special Security Council mission when it happened. Several people killed, a shipment stolen. No one really knew what it was at the time, just some sort of weapon. We heard most of the shipment was destroyed during the heist or recovered later.”
“That was a cover-up. The thieves got away with the whole thing. Twenty-one people died, mostly security personnel, former soldiers. It was a phenomenally well-planned and executed operation, and it represented a staggering breach in our security apparatus. An unprecedented breach.”
Rimes looked down at his bowl. His vision was blurring, his hands shaking. “Dana …”
“Only a few people could have pulled off something on this scale, with this level of success. It’s exactly the sort of thing Commandos train for.”
Rimes shook his head.
No. It’s just more of your mind games.
“Did you know Captain Moltke has a gambling problem? He’s more than thirty thousand dollars in the hole over the last two years. Sergeant Martinez’s wife ran up nearly twenty-four thousand dollars in debt shopping. He just paid it off. Did you know that?”
Rimes stared into his soup.
“Sergeant Wolford purchased a three-thousand-dollar diamond ring for his fiancée. Sergeant Kirk, six thousand on a racing motorcycle. Corporal Stern, three thousand lost on investments. Barlowe spent five thousand dealing with his mother’s addiction to bliss.”