by Adams, P R
Thirty-four orbital stations remained.
Rimes read through the public descriptions of each one, quickly eliminating half based on size, purpose, ownership, and history. Ranking the remaining seventeen based on what seemed most important—amenities, safety, mobility, storage capacity—gave him an idea of the most likely place for Perditori to hide out.
Rimes pulled up an image of near-space to examine the top five candidates. He rotated the view, frowning. Four of the five were within two hundred kilometers of each other, and all five were associated with major, extra-solar, gateway operations, primarily shipyards.
A quick search on other commercial activity in the area made him sit upright. He fought through the pain and dizziness and refocused on the data.
Fingers shaking anxiously, he worked his way through the first several returns: EEC, HuCorp, MDC, several SunCorps subsidiaries, Virgo, Wang—
There were hundreds of billions—trillions—of dollars tied up in the shipyards, and that just in the manufacturing, refitting, repairing, and scrapping operations. Ore processing from the intra-system mining business added even more.
It was a fortune, even by metacorporation standards.
Space—the orbitals, the colonies—was open, unregulated, the wild.
Tens of thousands of engineers, scientists, and highly trained technicians lived in orbit, willingly accepting the harsh conditions and risks for a contract and the dream of eventual ascendancy to metacorporate employment. No one knew the exact situations, but there were rumors and the occasional refugees. Everything pointed to unimaginable abuses, and the dream of future employment almost always proved a lie.
Rimes copied several links to the workspace and opened a message. He struggled for several seconds to get the data into the message, then struggled more trying to remember Colonel Weatherford’s communication ID. Finally, he settled on sending it to Kleigshoen. After providing a couple of thoughts about the most likely targets, he asked her to forward the information on to Weatherford, and sent the message.
With the communication away, Rimes decided to contact Molly. He suddenly felt a wave of guilt that he’d turned to work before his own wife. He’d been doing that too much of late. He consoled himself with the knowledge that lives were at stake.
It was hard to keep the message to a handful of sentences; there was a lot they needed to discuss.
Molly, I’m awake and, except for some weakness and soreness, ready to come home. If you’ll have me. Everything we’ve ever wanted in life seems to take me away from you, but I promise I’ll do everything I can to spend more time with you once this situation is resolved. I love you.
He sent the message.
He stared at the display for several seconds, hoping she might be waiting at the apartment’s terminal. It was an absurd, self-absorbed thought, and Rimes chided himself for it, but he still stared at the terminal for a full minute longer.
Finally, he closed the communications utility and returned to the newsfeed.
Minutes passed with Rimes drilling down into the latest political dramas playing out across the globe and the colony worlds. As usual, most of the world’s troubles boiled down to the financial ruin wrought by the most recent depression. Energy prices drove up costs and wiped out small businesses, unemployment skyrocketed, and violence inevitably crept up. People just wanted to be able to survive—food, shelter, some semblance of security.
There was so little to be had on a global scale, yet politicians failed to deliver even the simplest, most basic needs.
An hour passed, and Rimes abandoned the newsfeed, his spirits sinking. As he brought up the communication utility, he thought of what it would be like to be an officer. His pay would be more than half again what he was making, and he would be placed in the officer’s retirement system. Within a few years, he’d be making twice what he was earning as a sergeant, sufficient to get a nicer apartment with a room for their child.
The display blinked. A message was waiting for him inside the communications utility. He opened it, excited.
Molly.
It was a video from Kleigshoen. She was dressed in a tight, low-cut, blue top, and her hair was down. Rimes couldn’t help noticing how bright her smile was.
“Hi, Jack. I hope you’re feeling better. I’m staying at the Bradford in Oklahoma City now. Marshall authorized me to work with Army CID on the Moltke case. They really need the help.”
Marshall.
Either he’s got one hell of a pair, or he thinks he’s untouchable now that Moltke’s dead.
“I went through your analysis. You did that off a station in the hospital? You really should consider IB, Jack. You’d be a great fit. Anyway, I really like what you’ve done. I’ve forwarded it on to your colonel with a few thoughts of my own.”
She leaned into the camera and Rimes found himself staring at her cleavage.
“Well, I assume you’re sleeping. Here’s wishing a hasty recovery!”
The image froze.
Hasty recovery? That’s what you had in mind when you recorded that?
Rimes gently shook his head at the message’s implied intimacy. It was just the sort of thing Molly didn’t need to see, but Kleigshoen had sent it anyway.
“Sergeant Rimes?”
Rimes flinched.
A plain-faced woman in hospital greens was holding the privacy screen open, looking angry. “Your wife is here.”
Rimes hastily closed the video. He twisted to see beyond the woman. He could make out the slightest sliver of Molly’s face. She waved at him and smiled stonily.
The woman gave him a severe look. “Five minutes.”
Once the woman was gone, Molly closed the screen and stepped up to Rimes’s bed. Tears were already forming in her eyes. “I didn’t even realize those old messenger things worked.”
“We work with what we have available.” He reached for her hand, took it, squeezed it. His throat burned with each word, but he didn’t care. “Will you have me back?”
Molly wiped away her tears; anger flared in her eyes. Her nails dug into his hand. “You hurt me, Jack.”
He welcomed the pain. “I know.”
“And I don’t know if I can ever trust you fully again.” The nails bit deeper.
“I understand.”
“Do you? We agreed we would have a baby naturally. We agreed I would carry that baby around for nine months. I'm taking on all this risk, all this responsibility, and you what? You hop all over the globe with her?” The nails bit deeper still.
“Molly … I’m not proud of what I did, baby. I cheated on you. I don’t deserve you.”
“You’re damn right you don’t.”
She pulled her nails free and the absence of the pain felt like abandonment. He fumbled for her hand, trying to twist his fingers among hers.
“You have every right to leave.”
That’s it. Now she’s going to go.
Molly pulled her hand away. “I thought about it.”
Rimes’s heart skipped a beat.
She glared at him with renewed intensity. Along with the pain she’d shown earlier, there was hatred in the glare. “I want my own career. I’m not going to be a prisoner with no future but yours.”
“I’ll support your career. You know that.”
“You know I don’t want to be a drunk.”
Rimes nodded. His heart pounded in his chest. He didn’t know what to think. “You won’t be. We’ll get it under control.”
“And I don’t want to raise this child on my own,” Molly said.
He felt tears fill his eyes, a welcome pain and release. “It’s our child. You know that.”
“When this is done, we’re going to talk. The problem isn’t just her … you can’t just do this for the money. Money can’t raise a baby.”
Rimes shook his head.
He watched her eyes, saw the anger softening.
Outside the curtain, the nurse cleared her throat.
Molly said, “I have to
go.”
“Thank you, baby,” Rimes said. His throat ached, but he had to finish. “I love you.”
She touched his head near his wound so gently that it didn’t hurt—then she was gone.
Rimes watched the privacy screen for several long seconds, hoping she might return. When it was clear she wasn’t coming back, he lay back and closed his eyes, listening to the background noise.
Finally, he brought up the messenger system again and opened Kleigshoen’s video. He typed in a quick reply, then deleted the video. Kleigshoen replied almost instantly, but Rimes closed the messenger system without reading it.
40
20 March 2164. Fort Sill, Oklahoma.
* * *
The APC interior was cramped, and the air was thick and heavy. Rain banged loudly off the roof, and kit rattled and thumped in the dim light. The team sat in two rows on drab olive seats that squeaked with each lurch and bump. Rimes wiped his brow for the millionth time since entering the vehicle.
There isn’t a personnel carrier built for comfort, but I think they went out of their way to build this one like a tomb. Feels like I’m suffocating.
Rimes looked across at Pasqual, saw him licking his lips. They exchanged a quick thumbs up: a signal going back to their Ranger days.
Bhat smiled, and Orr nodded. Kleigshoen, still deep in IB data updates, sat next to Fawcett, a freckle-faced, wide-eyed transfer who had been on Martinez’s team on the Sundarbans mission.
Wolford’s replacement.
I don’t care what you did, buddy. No one’s going to replace you.
Orr went back to fidgeting with his integrated EVA suit, checking and rechecking its readouts. It was a necessary inconvenience, a complication that worried them all. They’d never done any significant training for space combat. It wasn’t really in their mandate, and they were already an expensive group to fund.
Anxious or not, we’re ready to launch. We’re going to do this.
The engine’s growl ramped up, drowning out the rain.
“You up for this, Sarge?” Pasqual shouted. “Not too pissed off they interrupted your nice hospital vacation?”
“I’m all right. I just gargled with whiskey and glass shards.” Rimes actually was feeling much better, but improved or not, he was going on the mission.
Pasqual leaned forward and punched Rimes’s armor. “This one’s payback,” he shouted.
“Hoo-ah!” the others Commandos shouted.
They’d been spared the sordid details of the X-17 theft. As far as the official story went, Moltke had betrayed his unit and his country. Anyone else caught up in the mess was just a good soldier following orders.
However, Rimes could see in Pasqual and Chung’s eyes that they had suspicions.
How are they going to deal with it when the reality sets in? The moment of realization, the new perspective on old memories, the questions of what Wolford and Martinez’s betrayals meant to them. There’s going to be bitterness and anger. I’ve been there. For now, we’ve got our mission, a real target, a real enemy.
The time for forgiveness will come later.
The APC came to a sudden stop, shaking Rimes from his thoughts. He looked across at Kleigshoen. She was engrossed in her earpiece’s display.
Come on, Dana. Stay in this.
The rear hatch dropped, revealing the tarmac. Helicopters and VTOLs crossed the distant horizon, and dark, angular, menacing shapes loomed nearby.
Orbital shuttles.
They all jogged across the tarmac, running for their shuttle. Rimes tried to get a feel for the EVA suit. It was bulky but lighter than he’d expected. The boots were the hardest to adjust to; he felt like he was running in clown shoes. Puddles reflected their approaching forms before boots shattered the images.
As they ran up the shuttle’s ramp, they were joined by another team, this one run by Lopez. Lopez was angular, even taller than Rimes, and rodent-faced. Rimes had worked with him a few times in the past.
They moved single-file through the open airlock and down the aisle splitting the ship’s passenger bay. The interior matched that of the APCs—dark green, dimly lit.
The soldiers exchanged nods, whispered greetings, and bumped fists. Lopez’s team took the seats on the right; Rimes’s team took the seats on the left. Kleigshoen hesitated a moment before settling awkwardly into a seat in Rimes’s row. She shifted as if trying to find a comfortable position before taking her CAWS-5 out of its backpack brace.
Rimes watched Kleigshoen for a moment, worried. She looked up, but seemed to avoid his eyes. Rimes looked around the passenger bay, giving each Commando a quick once-over. He stopped at Lopez.
Lopez stood in front of his seat, quietly watching his team from beneath heavy black brows.
“You ready for this?” Lopez nervously bit his lower lip.
Rimes nodded. “Let’s get this going.” He turned to his team. “Settle in, people.”
The teams secured their weapons and buckled into their harnesses, filling the bay with rattling, clanking, and a few frustrated curses. Rimes synced his earpiece with the shuttle’s systems and brought up the BAS, then overlaid the unit’s data. Figures flowed in from the other shuttles as the remaining teams synced up.
An inbound communication alert caught Rimes’s eye. It was Weatherford. Rimes looked at Kleigshoen to see if she might be available for the call. She was again absorbed in her display. Rimes opened the channel with Weatherford.
Weatherford’s face filled the display.
“Go ahead, Colonel,” Rimes said.
“Sergeant Rimes, your signal is clear,” Weatherford said. He looked to his right for a moment, then looked back at Rimes. “I wanted to let you know we’ve moved to the operations center. You’re cleared to launch in … five minutes, twelve seconds.”
“Is the mission a go, sir?”
“The launch is a go,” Weatherford said with an annoyed squint.
Launch, not mission. Shit.
Weatherford’s annoyance manifested as a frown. “We’ve got Legal and Civil Affairs en route to Ops. General McNabb will be joining in a few minutes.”
“General McNabb, sir?”
“Things went all to hell while you were heading out to your shuttle, Sergeant. The owners have denied us access to our target.”
Rimes blinked. “Come again, sir?”
“Intelligence says with ninety percent certainty the Seville Jameson Group SJG-6 orbital is our target,” Weatherford said. He squinted again. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean we can secure the owners’ permission to insert your unit. They’ve brought in their lawyers. But we’re launching.”
“Sir, don’t they understand that this is a matter of international sec—”
“I have my doubts they care, Sergeant,” Weatherford said. He looked into the distance for a moment. “But they provided us a little data to keep us occupied. SJG-6 came online three months ago. That means all the latest safety measures and monitoring systems are in place. That’s going to make our job a lot easier once we get approval.”
“Occupancy?”
“Just under two thousand. When we get the names, we’ll work with IB to eliminate anyone unassociated with this Perditori—apparently, he’s a known element there. We’ve already asked SJG to prepare communication channels for us to reach the occupants we clear, pending approval.”
Rimes’s communication display split in half. Weatherford’s face filled the right half, and the pilot’s face filled the left.
“If you’ll check your displays, folks, you’ll see a new amber timer in the bottom right corner,” the pilot said cheerfully. “We’re cleared for launch in three minutes, thirty seconds. If you’re not strapped in, you won’t be in any shape to do anything when we arrive, so get those harnesses on tight.”
Rimes waited for the other sergeants to acknowledge, then did the same. He opened a channel to the other team leaders. “System checks—suit integrity, tactical overlays, the works. No one goes into this without fu
ll functionality.”
As the team leaders relayed the message to their teams, Rimes passed the same on to his.
He kicked off his suit’s diagnostics, then closed the pilot’s channel. Weatherford’s face filled most of the display again.
“Colonel, these genies are just a big bundle of hurt. Without surprise …”
“I’ve made exactly that point, Sergeant. General McNabb is … a practical soldier,” Weatherford said, looking to his left. “And on that point, I need to sign off and get some visitors here spun up on our situation. We’ll be in touch once you’ve reached your first coordinates. Enjoy the ride.”
“Rimes out, sir.” The display shifted, filling with the other channels that had previously automatically shrunk. All teams showed green. Rimes nodded at Lopez, trying to project confidence. Another glance down the row, and Rimes pulled on his headgear to check suit integrity.
“Same shit, different day,” Lopez muttered before Rimes’s helmet sealed. It was the Army’s centuries-old, unofficial motto.
Rimes opened a private channel to Kleigshoen. “Put your headgear on.”
Kleigshoen cast a curious glance at him from two seats down before complying. “What is it?” she asked once she had the headgear on.
“Dana, no one else needs to hear this. For this to work, you need to act like you’re in charge. I’m about to pass along status to you. When I do, you’ll need to acknowledge.”
Kleigshoen stared at Rimes for a moment. “Jack, this is your operation. Weatherford wants you to run it. I’m okay with that.”
Rimes gave an almost-imperceptible headshake. “Operations don’t work that way. This is IB’s mission. You’re in charge; I’m your second. I’m going to bring you in on the colonel’s next call. He’s not used to dealing with women in his chain, so you’ll need to be a little … forceful.”
Kleigshoen hesitated. “Okay, but this is a joint operation in name only. I would’ve been fine with any other officer taking the mission.”