Transition of Order

by P. R. Adams

  “I’m sorry. I’m not inclined to trust anyone after what I’ve been through. It’s hard even to trust myself, sometimes. What—who you are doesn’t make that any easier, especially given our assignment. Is that irrational?”

  Fontana tilted her head slightly, almost bird-like. “Not from your perspective. I can understand it. Completely. You rely on trust, but it’s something hard-earned and easily lost. Dana told me you’ve been taken advantage of and treated poorly, even by her. Given what you’ve gone through, it’s surprising you took this assignment on.”

  Rimes smiled ironically. “If I’d said no to Dana, the request would have simply become orders sent down by someone in the headquarters hierarchy. I’m a soldier, Miss Fontana.”

  “Would it be acceptable if I asked you to call me Sheila?”

  Is she trying to break through my hostility, or is it something else? Maybe it’s part of her Bureau training? Do genies even care?

  “All right. Sheila.” He shivered, suddenly anxious, ready to lash out. She really bothers Kwon. Why? Rimes scanned the bridge, then looked back at Fontana. “These genies we’re going after killed thousands of innocent men and women. I’ve been asked to hunt these murderers down. I intend to perform my duty to the best of my ability. Are you going to have a problem with that?”

  Fontana half-nodded.

  “You can’t be conflicted over something like this.” Too aggressive. She’s not a soldier. You can’t just order her to believe what you want her to believe. “I mean, sure, we’re all conflicted. You can’t kill someone and not feel something.” The tension, the need to lash out, was there again as Kwon protested the notion there was anything wrong with the hunt. I don’t need this. Not now.

  Fontana suddenly seemed unconcerned about Rimes’s inner turmoil.

  “Sheila?”

  Fontana’s eyes defocused, and her voice dropped to a quiet monotone. “I should tell the commander—no, do not tell the commander.”

  Rimes blinked, unsure of what to make of Fontana’s faraway stare. Her voice was absent any inflection. “What?”

  Fontana faced a trio of petty officers at their command stations, but she seemed to be looking beyond them. “She’s coming in too close—no, everything is fine. It is merely a shuttle, merely a shuttle.”

  “Sheila?” Rimes waved his hand in front of her face.

  She didn’t react.

  It’s some sort of trance.

  He followed her eyes as she took in the rest of the bridge; the crew was disturbingly relaxed. Shit! “Captain Fripp!”

  Fripp calmly stared at his command display, no longer concerned with whatever he’d been shouting about seconds before.

  “We should sound general quarters—no, that is not necessary. Everything is fine.”

  Rimes cursed and brought up the intercom interface, hunting through the clumsy command hierarchy. Come on! He finally found the weapons systems channel and opened a call.

  “Weapons, Petty Officer Marin.”

  “Marin, this is Lieutenant Rimes. Get Commander Brigston on the line. This is an emergency.”

  The bridge crew still seemed completely relaxed, absorbed in whatever duties, real or imagined, they’d been caught up in. “Captain Fripp!”

  Fripp pursed his lips and stared intently at his command display.

  “It’s accelerating!” Fontana said, her voice gone soft. “Bearing right at us!—no, it is nothing more than a course adjustment. It will pass safely beyond in a few minutes.”

  “This is Commander Brigston. Go ahead.”

  “Sir, this is Rimes. I think there’s a ship getting ready to ram us.”

  Brigston calmly asked Marin to check sensors. “One second. If there’s a threat, why aren’t we getting anything from the bridge? You know there’s protocol—”

  “That’s not a safe course adjustment!—no, it will change course soon and decelerate. Do not panic.”

  “Sir, something’s wrong with the crew up here—”

  Over the comm, Rimes heard Marin confirm to Brigston that an orbital shuttle was approaching on collision course from Earth.

  “We’ve got an orbital shuttle accelerating right toward us.” The calm was gone from Brigston’s voice. “I need the officer on the deck to get me approval to fire.”

  “He’s not responding, Commander. None of them are.” Rimes desperately looked around the bridge again. “You’ve got to blow that ship up.”

  Brigston’s voice took on a greater urgency. “Marin, target that shuttle. Rimes, I can’t give that order. I need the order to come from—”

  “It’s coming right at us!—no, it is heading past you. Commander Li requires your attention, Captain.” Fontana shifted slightly, as if whatever was now distracting Commander Li was also distracting her.

  Rimes doubted he could shake Fripp out of whatever fantastical state he was absorbed in. “No one up here is going to give that order, Sir.”

  It’s just like with Dimon.

  Rimes anxiously rubbed his forehead. “Something—a genie—is in their heads. You need to take that ship out now!”

  Brigston cursed beneath his breath.

  “Three hundred meters, Sir.” The anxiety in Marin’s voice was clear through Brigston’s channel. “Two hundred fifty meters.”

  “Brace for impact!—no need for that, Commander.”

  “Commander Brigston!” Rimes shouted into his earpiece.

  “Hell. Fire on that shuttle.” Brigston’s voice wavered.

  “Two hundred meters.”

  Rimes brought up external belly cameras, finally spotting the missile as it sped toward the shuttle.

  Bright light flashed.

  Fripp’s eyes closed, and he staggered, nearly falling to his knees. The rest of the crew did the same. Debris banged off the Valdez’s hull.

  Fripp regained his balance and spun around to take in the rest of the bridge. “What’s going on, Commander Stafford?”

  The twisted remains of an orbital shuttle’s cockpit flew past the bridge’s viewport, clanged off the hull, then was gone.

  Fripp blinked as a loud echo ran through the hull. “Someone get me a status. Now!”

  Fontana slumped, and Rimes caught her.

  Fontana’s eyes fluttered open suddenly, and she stiffened. “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war. The battle has begun in earnest, has it not, Lieutenant? Do you stand silent at the battlements, or ready to ride out and engage the enemy?”

  It was Perditori, and he was inside Fontana’s mind!

  I thought she was our one hope against them influencing us. What are we supposed to do now?

  11

  5 June, 2167. USS Valdez. Earth orbit.

  * * *

  RIMES SHOOK HIS HEAD, pushed his chair out from the conference table and stood. He walked to the refreshments and grabbed an apple. Gold track lighting reflected off the apple’s skin. That same lighting washed everything in the conference room in an almost tranquil glow, but there was no tranquility in the moment.

  Kwon was ready to kick the lights out. Nearly blown to pieces, and they want a conference call to discuss it. What a nightmare.

  Rimes poured himself a glass of water as an ensign read through the final transcript of the disaster they’d narrowly averted.

  From his seat at the head of the table, Captain Fripp rasped dryly, “Lieutenant Rimes, do you have a problem with the proceedings?”

  The Valdez staff sat on one side of the table, the newcomers on the other. Agent Kleigshoen watched them all from a display projected overhead.

  “Of course not, Sir.” Rimes settled back in his seat and gave Kleigshoen an annoyed glare. “We’re making excellent progress.”

  Fripp fixed Rimes in his cold stare. “Progress, Lieutenant?”

  Rimes considered the apple for a moment, realizing too late he was squeezing it. Juice dripped from the ruptured skin, spilling down his hand. They’re scared. Anger won’t help that. “I don’t mean to overstate the obvious, Si
r, but it seemed to me we were all finally in agreement that we were attacked by an unprecedented telepathic push that rendered the bridge personnel combat ineffective.”

  Fripp’s eyes narrowed, and his face stiffened.

  Kleigshoen’s image flickered, and her voice took on a patronizing tone. “Captain, I think what the lieutenant is saying is we can analyze this and try to adapt to the new realities of war, but we can’t let it bog us down. We’re dealing with an enemy who has shown a capacity for unconventional tactics and the willingness to exploit our human vulnerabilities. I would suggest we get some of our sharpest thinkers on this and move on.”

  “Move on?” Fripp looked at the display, mouth agape, eyes wide, incredulous. “Our task force could have been obliterated and you want us to move on? Agent Kleigshoen, we need to rethink our—”

  Kleigshoen sighed quietly, a mother dealing with a petulant child. “Captain, sitting in the shipyards and hoping for a miracle isn’t the answer.” The condescension was there and gone. “The operative word here is sitting. It makes you even more vulnerable. We need the task forces launched. We have other ships relying on you.”

  Fripp made a low, raspy rumble that was more growl than speech, then pursed his lips and looked at his crew. “As commander of the Valdez, I have to do what I deem best for the safety of my ship and its crew. Heading out on a wild goose chase without any means of locating our enemy or counteracting their weapons when we encounter them does not meet with that criteria.”

  Kleigshoen compressed her lips and went silent for a moment. She glanced from Fontana to Rimes. When she spoke, her voice was now flavored with concern. “Captain, I sympathize with your predicament. You have more than a thousand lives relying on your decisions, and you’re fighting an enemy we don’t really know how to fight. However, President Corcoran has made his position clear, as has General Durban. The fleets must launch. On schedule.”

  The room went silent.

  Barely perceptible tics played across Fripp’s face as he glared at the overhead display and unconsciously began twisting his coat’s cufflinks.

  Brigston coughed softly. “Sir, what about monitoring the bridge from other sections of the ship? Maybe set up three watchers per shift and sound alarms when any watcher can’t raise another?”

  Fripp grunted, then he nodded reluctantly. “Miss Fontana, we need to understand the enemy. Not just what you know they can do, but what you think they might be able to do. Can you manage that?”

  Fontana’s eyes went wide, and her mouth opened to speak. She looked at Rimes almost begging for support, then she looked at Kleigshoen, mouth still open slightly. Finally, resolve or maybe acceptance settled over Fontana’s features, and she looked back at Fripp. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Agent Kleigshoen, for bringing clarity to this matter. We have our orders. This meeting is adjourned. Dismissed.”

  The overhead display winked out, and the room came to attention. Fripp stood, looked at his staff, shook his head, then ceremoniously marched out as if he could hear a parade band playing just for him. He was followed a moment later by Stafford. The rest looked at each other uncertainly for several seconds before filtering out slowly.

  When Rimes stepped into the passageway, he found Fripp and Stafford hovering just outside the conference room, whispering; Fripp waved Rimes over.

  “Well, Lieutenant, it seems our mission is to find a solution to this threat, despite the impossibility of success. Coincidentally, that seems to be something you’ve earned a reputation for: the impossible.”

  “No one can accomplish the impossible, Sir.” Fripp’s hostility made no sense to Rimes, but he wasn’t going to let it get to him.

  Fripp harrumphed. “I’m counting on more from you than false modesty.”

  “I’ve been extremely fortunate to end up working with the right people in some extremely tough situations. I can assure you, Sir, you’ll get my best and that of my unit.”

  Fripp and Stafford looked at each other, their eyes squinted disapprovingly, half-smiling as if they’d caught a joke Rimes had missed.

  “It’s twenty days to Rendezvous One Charlie Alpha.” Fripp’s eyes played across Rimes’s face. “We can kid ourselves all we want about who is hunting whom, but I’m not one for seeking comfort in delusion. The only question right now is how badly disadvantaged we are. We launch at sixteen hundred, Lieutenant. I want you on the bridge at fifteen forty-five in full dress.”

  “Full dress, Sir?”

  Fripp looked at Stafford, exasperated, then back at Rimes. “You don’t expect a pinning-on ceremony with you wearing that environment suit, do you?”

  “Pinning…“

  I’m not even eligible for promotion for another year. Is this meant as appeasement?

  Stafford coughed into his fist. “Lieutenant Rimes, you have friends in high places.”

  Fripp straightened and adjusted his uniform coat. “This isn’t a brevet, Lieutenant. General Durban himself had a hand in this. Not easy to do with all the turmoil going on after…”

  The coup. No one wants to talk about it. It's all such a mess. A brilliant move by the genies.

  “Fifteen forty-five, Lieutenant. Full dress, on the bridge.” Fripp spun sharply and marched away, Stafford close behind.

  Captain. A full year early.

  Rimes headed for his cabin, smiling in anticipation of Molly’s reaction to the news, then he stopped and frowned. Molly wasn't stupid. She would ask questions: What does this mean? Will you be away from us more? Will you be in greater danger?

  She deserved to know the truth. The ERF was coming closer to reality. People were finally starting to see the inevitability of…

  What? The war? Our end?

  It felt as if a heavy weight had settled on him; he shook it off. Real control of his destiny and the creation of the ERF was closer than ever. He had to push his team and himself harder. If there was a way to save humans from the nightmare they'd created, he would find it.

  Or he would die trying.

  12

  7 June, 2167. USS Valdez. En route to rendezvous One Charlie Alpha.

  * * *

  “PUSH IT, people!” Rimes checked the time display from his earpiece, then risked another glance back, even though he was running in the tight quarters of the hangar deck. Meyers and the Commandos in his squad were sweating and breathing hard. No worse than me. The Rangers were mostly holding up, but they were starting to fall behind. Lopresti and Gilbert tried to encourage their squads, but their voices were weak, lost in the hangar deck’s echoes.

  Durban was a problem. He was flushed, sweating, gasping. The squads were slowing because of him. And because of Munoz.

  PFC Juan Munoz was a towering, copper-skinned mass of muscle, one or Rimes’s by-name requests. He was dripping sweat, gulping air, cramping, and hovering on the edge of collapse.

  Rimes rounded a corner, his head passing just beneath a shuttle wing. The hangar deck’s air was stale and hot, heavy with the smell of lubricant and maintenance chemicals. Gray walls and floors almost merged, their blurred shapes broken only by yellow lines marking launch paths and other demarcation points.

  “Four more laps!” Another glance back, and Rimes caught Meyers and the Commandos brashly holding up their right arms, four fingers thrust high, legs pumping in a near-sprint. The Rangers mixed among Meyers’s squad did the same, although they couldn’t match the pace. No one else could.

  “Can’t we pick up the pace, Captain?” Meyers smiled mischievously at Rimes. His Commandos roared approval.

  Munoz managed to glare at Meyers, but even that seemed to tax the giant. He slowed visibly, and the column behind him matched his pace. The rest of the squad corrected, and the gap between them and the other squads became a chasm.

  Rimes spun and ran backwards. “Dig in, Munoz. Find the strength. We fail or we succeed as a unit. One team! One people!”

  Rimes spotted Durban, who shook his head. It was quick, subtle, but enough.

&n
bsp; Damn it. He can’t go any longer; he’s giving up.

  As far as the military was concerned, Durban was persona non grata, his career done. Rimes had stuck his neck out for Durban, and instead of digging deeper, Durban was throwing in the towel. Rimes needed another leader, and he’d been sure Durban had that potential in him.

  “Okay, that’s enough for the day.” Rimes dropped the pace to a casual jog until they’d reached the part of the deck where they stretched and sparred.

  Munoz doubled over, quivering; he looked ready to vomit. Some of the other Rangers weren’t much better. Lopresti’s T-shirt clung to her as wetly as if she’d just climbed out of the shower. She was a big woman—as tall as Durban, thicker through the chest, shoulders, and hips. Her hair—curly, a washed-out brown—clung to the bright pink skin of her face in wet ringlets. She puffed out air through a mouth far too small for someone so loud and assertive.

  As bad as Lopresti looked, Durban was even worse. He leaned against the wall as if he might collapse without it.

  This is my team, my composition, my choices. Everyone up the chain questioned me—don’t mix Rangers with Commandos, Lopresti was too mouthy, Munoz too big, Durban toxic.

  For all the enemies I’ve made, I’m not sure I’m even thinking big enough. We have to operate—think, perform, believe—differently against the genies, or we’re doomed.

  But everyone has to cooperate, has to buy in, or it all falls apart, and right now, we can’t even finish a five-kilometer run in thirty minutes. We need to do it in twenty. The genies can probably do it in fifteen.

  Meyers walked up to Munoz, stopping a couple meters to his right, then, without so much as a glance at Munoz, Meyers began a series of deep knee bends. After a dozen, he dropped into push-ups, rapidly falling and rising.

  Meyers stood and stared at Munoz for a moment, then grinned mischievously at Rimes. “Captain, want me to run them through calisthenics?”