by P. R. Adams
RIMES WATCHED the drone’s feed. Morelli’s feed occupied the upper right corner of his display. Both images showed her nearly touching the lifeboat’s hull.
Morelli’s voice rode a wave of static. “I’ve reached the lifeboat.”
Rimes could hear the nervous tension in each word. He thought of the genie tactics he’d seen before, and he thought about aborting the mission and calling Morelli back. She gave the drone a thumbs-up as she slowly moved along the lifeboat hull. Just another minute. She knows what she’s doing.
“How’re you doing, Chief?”
“Well, the pucker factor’s pretty high right now, Sir. If you’ve got a lump of coal, I could probably shit you a diamond. But I’m okay. I can see the battery panel.”
“Any sign of the timer?” Rimes blinked nervously. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself. I should call her back. Do the math. Lose three or lose two. Or save two. Damn it.
“There’s a door here. Let me pop that open.” Morelli slowly drew a multi-tool from a hip pouch.
The drone’s image was remarkably clear in the emptiness of space.
It can be deceptively peaceful, just floating in space like this. I’ve heard it a million times, but really, against that backdrop, we seem so insignificant.
Morelli inserted the multi-tool into the door and slowly twisted it. “If nothing else, this should give me a look at the—”
An impossibly bright light flashed, then nothing.
16
23 September, 2167. USS Valdez.
* * *
RIMES STRETCHED on the bed farthest from the infirmary’s outpatient area. Needles dug into his arms painfully when he moved, and the holes from the transfusion, although sealed, still burned. He’d tried to sleep through the transfusion as much as possible, but it was easier said than done.
He was alone, trapped in a small circle of light in the dark, his only company the soft hum of monitoring equipment and the harsh smell of disinfectant that tainted his breath and clung to his food until it overwhelmed any flavor. Everyone else had been sent to the Hyuga for treatment.
The Valdez’s infirmary was located just aft of the hangar, facilitating rapid patient transfers from shuttles or hangar deck accidents. It consisted of two dull, gray compartments. Eight meters wide and ten meters deep, each could be sealed off from the other, as well as from the isolation ward at the rear. An outpatient compartment was currently visible through the open hatch of the compartment Rimes was in. The infirmary was intended for triage and outpatient needs, but it could handle cases like his.
Since the start of the transfusion, two people had sought outpatient care. They’d looked worse than Rimes; it left him feeling guilty.
He was surprised he could feel worse.
The infirmary hatch opened.
Rimes twisted to see if he could make out who’d entered. He heard a hushed exchange, then the pad of soft-soled shoes. Finally, a nurse—a Navy lieutenant who’d been his primary caretaker—entered. She was dark-haired and rail-thin. He guessed she was somewhere in her mid-thirties.
“Looks like he’s awake, Captain Fripp.” She gave Rimes one of her annoyingly plucky and completely insincere smiles.
Fripp stepped into view. Like the nurse, his pale skin became even paler in the white light. He nodded and the nurse disappeared. He moved closer, his brow furrowing as he examined Rimes. “We’ve taken on supplies and hooked up with Task Force 31. We’ll be at COROT-7 in a month.”
“I felt the acceleration start earlier, Sir.”
“How are you doing?” Fripp’s voice was soft, quiet.
“Better than I deserve, Sir.”
Fripp drew himself erect and inhaled deeply. “Morelli was a good sailor, and you’re a good officer. We lost one; let’s not lose the other.”
He leaned against the adjacent bed. “The first time someone died under my command was just about twenty years ago.” His eyes locked on Rimes’s. “I was a lieutenant junior grade, running weapons systems aboard the Aden. She was one of the last of the old destroyers, approaching the end of her run. She had a five-inch gun battery, already disappearing from service when she was launched. It was finicky on its best day, a real bitch otherwise.
“We were entering the Strait of Hormuz as a show of force for the warlord of the day. I can’t even remember his name. Who could keep track of all the butchers who claimed supreme power in that region from week to week? But we came under fire from a group of speedboats, and we received the order to light them up. I sent the team in to prepare the gun, even though we were planning to shred the boats with the chain guns. One thing led to another and a shell somehow came free.
“Craziest thing. Killed one man and seriously wounded another. Petty Officer Clayton Moyer. He was just a kid, really. Young wife. Pretty girl. That could have been the end of my career. At the time, I even felt like it should’ve been.”
“What happened, Sir?”
Fripp made a sour face. “Well, it was the Navy and we were in a combat situation. That means we were facing the perfect storm of incompetence and latitude when the investigation was finally kicked off. Ultimately, they blamed the whole thing on Moyer and it was swept under the rug.”
Rimes blinked, not sure whether Fripp was being serious or cynical. “How did you get past that?”
“Get past it?” Fripp chewed his bottom lip and looked at the floor for a few seconds. “You know that guilt you’re feeling, like your incompetence somehow got Morelli killed? Imagine someone coming along and concocting a story claiming she was a suicidal genie spy out to try to kill your team. How would you feel then?”
“Outraged, I guess.”
“There’s no shortage of simpletons and ideologues in this galaxy.” Fripp’s eyes twinkled slightly. “You start to get a gauge on where you are in the hierarchy, and all of a sudden you realize maybe Morelli was a little too cocky for her own good. Or maybe Moyer was a little sloppy or overanxious. Or maybe you made the wrong call. In the end, it’s nothing compared to the idiots who are going to screw things up worse than you or me or Morelli or Moyer ever could. I guess that’s perspective in a way. It certainly helped me get past it.”
Am I supposed to find comfort in the idea that I’m not as incompetent or petty as others? I don’t.
Rimes rubbed his face and tried to suppress the beginnings of frustration. It’s something I’ll have to deal with over time. “How’s the shuttle, Sir?”
“We sent Hyuga our sick; they sent us their best engineer. He’s been tearing the thing apart all day. Shielding or not, you were exposed to a serious dose of radiation and a vicious EMP. We detected the EMP here on the Valdez. I’m not sure we can recover half of the shuttle’s onboard systems. We’ll probably be cannibalizing the hell out of everything. It won’t be running anytime soon, though.”
“And the survivors Durban brought back?” The guilt felt like a virus running amok in Rimes’s gut.
“On the Hyuga. They should be able to talk soon enough. Last we heard, it was nothing more than the sort of problems you’d expect—exposure, malnutrition, a little frostbite. By the time we reach COROT-7, they’ll be fine, but I’ll put in a call first thing to be sure.”
It was an unfortunate shortcoming of the gravitic drive that human scientists had reverse-engineered from alien technology some years before. Faster-than-light travel was possible, but effective communication while traveling FTL wasn’t. It was something they were bound to work out eventually, but it hadn’t happened yet.
Rimes found the problem painfully humorous, and he wondered what other species might be inexplicably inclined to charge forward without understanding, to focus on traveling before communication.
He yawned, suddenly feeling terribly tired. “Sorry, Sir.”
Fripp let out a warm chuckle. “No apology needed. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Anything more on the Valdez, Sir? This whole deep space explorer launch doesn’t make any sense.”
Fripp’s annoyance triggered a thought in Rimes. His face screwed up as he tried to concentrate on the trap they’d stumbled into. There was a disconnect in the whole thing that he simply couldn’t put together.
Fripp’s brow furrowed. “You all right?”
“Yes, Sir.” Rimes frowned.
“You look upset.”
“I’m not sure how to describe it, Sir. It’s just that something doesn’t make sense. I’d probably be able to figure it out if my head wasn’t such a mess.”
“That’s understandable. You’ll have plenty of time to rest up. If you need to talk—”
“Why wouldn’t they trap both lifeboats, Sir? Morelli didn’t make it sound like it was something complicated, and there’s no indication they’re facing a shortage of radioactive materials. If you put one in each lifeboat, you double the odds of taking your targets out.”
Fripp thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Or you double the odds someone spots the booby trap. Who can understand the way they think? We’re like chimps to them, the way I figure it.”
Rimes nodded reluctantly.
Fripp straightened, turned as if to go, then stopped and looked back at Rimes. “One last thing. Maybe it’s related to the Erikson, maybe it isn’t. We did get another communiqué from Agent Kleigshoen. Everything up to now was pointing to two of the metacorporations being connected to these genies.”
“Yes, Sir. LoDu and T-Corp.”
Fripp nodded. “Well, apparently IB found some sort of connection with ADMP and Cytek as well. It didn’t sound like much: money and goods, weapons, some intelligence. The odd thing is discovering that connection seems to have been enough to push the Special Security Council to seek more UN involvement. They apparently already have a unified message from the Security Council, which is all that matters, really.”
Rimes sat up, suddenly intrigued. There was a lot of resistance to the idea of more power gravitating to the United Nations, especially among senior military officers; it weakened their own hold on power, directly and indirectly.
“It’s a complicated situation, Sir,” Rimes said tentatively. “I’m not sure how much longer any nation can act alone. Just look at this task force. The metacorporations represent more financial power than any nation. If they could ever get past their own disputes, they’d have more financial power than Earth and the colonies combined.”
Fripp grunted. “Power is more than money. I don’t know that I see any value in antagonizing the metacorporations, not without proof of their complicity in this genie problem. They suffered losses too. I think we might find value reaching out to them. I just don’t see the council doing that.”
Rimes rubbed his chin. Fripp’s position was clear. There was nothing to be gained providing a different perspective.
“I think I’ve kept you awake long enough. I have to check up on the rest of the crew eventually. Get some rest and don’t let the guilt eat at you.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Rimes closed his eyes.
Fripp’s footsteps echoed quietly, then they were gone.
Everything that had happened in the last few months seemed a blur, a puzzle missing critical pieces. Both the metacorporate involvement and the United Nations actually coming together seemed inevitable, but the speed of it all—things were moving surprisingly fast.
I thought these multinational task forces were the proof of concept for a combined military. We need that for the ERF concept to work. Maybe the message has gotten through a little clearer than I expected.
Or maybe things are worse than anyone is letting on.
17
24 October, 2167. USS Valdez.
* * *
RIMES SQUEEZED a handful of shampoo into the palm of his hand and sniffed at its plain, soapy smell. It provoked memories of Molly and the boys and the simple things in their lives with him. The Valdez’s tight shower stall made the meager bathroom he’d left behind in Midway seem palatial by comparison.
The signal for general quarters sounded over the intercom, shattering Rimes’s thoughts. He triggered a quick blast of water to rinse the shampoo from his hand and the final soap residue from his body, then cupped a handful from the final drips into his mouth to rinse out the grunge he’d hoped to brush away.
No time for that now.
Rimes quickly toweled down. It was psychological, but without the shower, he felt—smelled—filthy, grimy. After so long on the hunt, everything on the Valdez somehow seemed grimy.
As he wrapped the towel around his waist, Rimes cautiously stepped through the hatch then accelerated, his flip-flops loudly slapping on the deck.
The passageway was filled with sailors and soldiers, most of them running. Energy flowed from the moving mass, pushing Rimes’s heart rate even higher than the alarm had.
Someone had to know the reason behind the alarm. He scanned the sea of faces and spotted someone he recognized.
Lee “Coop” Cooper, an ensign from Commander Brigston’s weapons department, stepped into the passageway ahead, a panicked look on his face. He was still pulling on his environment suit as he sealed the hatch to his cabin behind him.
“Coop?”
Cooper turned, his eyes wide. He was a burly man, broad-shouldered and ruddy complected. He finally spotted Rimes. “General quarters!”
“What’s up?” Many people saw Cooper’s pudgy face and close-set eyes drooping beneath barely noticeable eyebrows and assumed he was a dimwit. Rimes knew better. “Are we under attack?”
“We wouldn’t know it until too late. Sensors and weapons are down. We’re running blind. They’ve ordered an all stop.”
Cooper jogged past without another word.
The Valdez was supposed to be finishing its deceleration approximately five hundred thousand kilometers out from COROT-7’s fourth planet, and nearly half as far above the system’s orbital plane. The way Rimes understood it, standard operating procedure was to have the task force decelerate over several hundred thousand kilometers. They had planned to perform sensor sweeps and attempt communications at three hundred thousand kilometers out from Rendezvous 9AR, the Erikson’s original destination.
Flying blind in such a situation would be insane, but…
All stop, no sensors. We’ll be sitting ducks if the genies are waiting for us. Rimes ran the rest of the way to his cabin and hastily pulled on his environment suit. He placed his earpiece in his ear and tested for a Grid connection. At least that was up.
Durban was on shift with Meyers. Rimes called Lopresti. She answered immediately.
“Go ahead, Sir.”
“I need you to prepare your squad for a possible shuttle launch.” Rimes jogged for the stairs, anticipating Captain Fripp would want his key officers on the bridge. “If there’s a threat out there…“
“Are we under attack?” Lopresti sounded worried.
“We’re flying blind and we’re defenseless. The shuttles may be all we have.”
“We’re on it, Sir.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
The stairs were crowded. Rimes arrived on the bridge just in time to hear Fripp nearly losing his cool. At every station, sailors frantically worked to assess or improve their situation. Fripp spotted Rimes as he stepped to his informal corner station.
“Captain Rimes, so good to have you join us.” Fripp’s voice was a raspy growl. “In case you haven’t heard—”
“All systems are down. I heard, Sir. I have a team assembling on the hangar deck.”
“We have 267 ready to launch. The coincidence is magical. Please see to it you’re on the shuttle, Captain.”
“Yes, Sir.” Rimes exited the bridge at a jog. At least I was right about having a team ready to go. I still can’t figure Fripp, though. Rimes keyed his earpiece. “
Durban?”
“Assembling my team in the hangar deck.”
“All right, but hold off for the moment. Captain Fripp wants me to take 267 out.”
Rimes kept from sprinting but only just. Everyone was understandably in a hurry. Rushing too much wasn’t a solution.
As he entered the hangar deck, Rimes spied Lopresti standing in front of Shuttle 267. He signaled for her to get her squad aboard, then he stopped long enough to slip his armor over his environment suit. Halfway into securing the last clasps of the armor, the thought came to him that the Valdez might be suffering from some lingering EMP effects.
What if the shuttles experience a similar problem?
He opened a channel to Lopresti. He could see through her camera that she was fighting with her harness.
“Captain?”
“Lopresti, have everyone seal up.” Rimes took the ramp with three quick strides, then paused at the airlock.
Lopresti’s eyes widened. “Is something wrong?”
Rimes looked back into the hangar. Everything seemed functional. Another bad guess? It doesn't matter; I’m not taking any chances. “Just a precaution.”
He patched in to the pilot’s channel. The pilot was still going through the launch preparation checklist. The channel indicated the pilot was Lieutenant Shaw, one of the Valdez’s more experienced shuttle pilots.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Rimes. Launch in two minutes. I hope this didn’t spoil any plans for this evening.”
“Nothing special.”
Shaw returned to his checklist.
Rimes exhaled forcefully. His adrenaline was flowing. Everything around him was coming through with absolute clarity. Somewhere beneath his thoughts, Kwon was straining to assert himself. If there was battle, Rimes would be ready for it.
Don’t let it be ship-to-ship. Not being involved in whatever comes up would drive me mad right now.
Shaw suddenly stopped rattling off items from his checklist.