The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  “I guess that’s it. Give me a call when you graduate. I’d like to send you both a present. Goodbye, Jack.”

  The image faded, and Molly turned the display off.

  She looked Rimes in the eye. “If you ever fool around on me again, Jack, it will be the last time. Do you understand me?”

  Rimes nodded.

  Molly stepped toward him and planted a gentle kiss on his lips.

  Rimes pulled her close and kissed her again. She was warm and soft in his arms; the lingering kiss seemed to suspend time until she pulled away. She smiled at him.

  “We’re going to get through this. You and me and the boys.” She giggled quietly. “Now you’ve got me doing it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Rimes said, his hands slowly rubbing up and down her back. “It’s our life, it’s what we make it.”

  He kissed her again, and this time she didn’t pull away.

  * * *

  THE END

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

  * * *

  TRANSITION OF ORDER

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  Copyright © 2016 P R Adams

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  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  * * *

  Cover Art by Adam Burn.

  Logo Text Design © Tom Edwards.

  TomEdwardsDesign.com

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To DeAnna, for all the lessons taught.

  Prologue

  CLASSIFIED

  * * *

  The Elite Response Force: Strategies for Combating Genies in the Twenty-Second Century

  Cadet Jack Rimes

  Rev 1.3, 28 JUNE 2164

  * * *

  Executive Summary

  * * *

  On 20 March 2164, genies killed nearly 10,000 civilians in the Lagrange orbital shipyards. When they did so, they provided us—their human enemies—with an important lesson: we are no longer at the top of the food chain.

  Every aspect of the genies’ existence was a mistake, from the genetic engineering that is the basis for their classification, to introducing animal and alien DNA into human DNA to enhance that engineering, to enslaving what should by all rights have been fellow humans, and then teaching those slaves to kill the same humans who ruled over them; the mistakes made by metacorporations and global courts that allowed this all to happen in the first place put humanity on what could be a fatal course.

  Possibly the greatest tragedy is that the genies did their killing with X-17 nerve gas, another technology mishandled, from its top secret and illegal inception to its planned use and eventual theft and sale to the genies by our country’s own Commandos.

  The lessons to be learned from this are obvious:

  Asymmetric warfare has entered an entirely new realm.

  Effective response is no longer possible when the decisions rely upon the workings of a single government in a world consisting of extra-solar colonies and metacorporations with more money than any single nation in the world.

  The future soldier—the current soldier—faces situations and battlefields far more complex than anything ever before and must be trained to respond not just on sea, air, and land, but in space.

  With faster-than-light travel possible thanks to gravitic drive technology, war on a multi-system scale is inevitable.

  Another lesson may be true:

  Humans are no longer relevant.

  This final lesson assumes what might be obvious—the genies are the future. They have gone to the stars to search for a home of their own. They have stolen billions of dollars worth of spacecraft. And they have continued to wage war, on Earth and in the colonies and off-world metacorporate holdings. Their attacks involve the sort of strategic assassinations and data theft they were trained for, but they also involve brutal acts of terror: bombings in shopping malls, large-scale food poisoning, barbaric executions.

  Our enemies behave the way they do, because we trained them to. We told them to.

  And we’ve left ourselves incapable of counteracting their tactics. They are always one step ahead of us in a war for survival.

  If we don’t change, we will lose this war.

  The first change we must make is the creation of a new military force. This force must have the following capabilities:

  It must have the ability to operate anywhere and everywhere.

  It must have the ability to operate against the level of threat presented by genetically engineered humans.

  It must consist of a global composition that draws from the elite elements available.

  It must be granted a level of autonomy consistent with an extraordinarily dynamic battlefield.

  It must be focused and loyal only to the survival of the human species, not to a particular nation, leader, religion, or philosophy.

  It must be self-sufficient, and its members must be appropriately compensated so that they are immune to the lure of money and other corrupting factors.

  To survive, we must create the Elite Response Force.

  1

  19 January, 2167. Harper Estate, Atlanta, Georgia.

  * * *

  The stealth-modified UH-121S transport helicopter descended from the moonless sky and settled in a field of patchy, knee-high grass that whipped beneath the rotor wash. Detritus scattered, its rattle louder than the rotors.

  Lieutenant Jack Rimes exited, followed by Staff Sergeant Rick Pasqual, then two teams of Commandos.

  Rimes—graceful, tall, and long—was strikingly different from Pasqual, who was shorter and thicker, especially through the chest. They were both good-looking men, but Pasqual had a devilish charm about him and an easy laugh that left a pleasant impression. Rimes carried himself with a certain gravitas that left a more lasting sense of importance.

  As different as they were physically, it was their personalities that truly set them apart. Rimes was ambitious and determined to make more of his life than a career and retirement; he was a leader. Pasqual was content to follow. That difference ate at Rimes now.

  Moonlight reflected off Rimes's upturned, pale brown eyes as he adjusted the new armor he'd been issued.

  Pasqual stopped, quickly glancing back at the Commandos. “Everything all right?”

  “Just this chest piece. It chafed the shit out of me when I fell asleep.” Rimes shifted the stealth suit and stretched to test it, then tightened a strap to secure it. So much for the latest ‘improvements’.

  Pasqual chuckled. “Someone’s getting soft. You used to go days without sleep.”

  “Yeah, well you can kiss my soft ass.”

  Pasqual’s chuckle became a laugh. “Maybe you should've taken Agent Kleigshoen up on that offer of being a proxy operator? Sit back somewhere nice and safe and run operations remotely through an indestructible body? Sounds pretty sweet.”

  “No thanks.” Rimes sucked in the cool air, something he couldn't do through a proxy. Only a human, something alive, could pick out the mix of sweet, fresh aromas and stale, pungent odors. Growth and decay; nature trying to reclaim what we’ve abandoned. Even in the darkness, he felt exposed in the open field, endangered without some sort of cover. The open space means we can move quickly. It’s an advantage. Don’t let the fatigue cloud your judgment.

  Pasqual seemed to follow Rimes's eyes. “You still think this is genies?”

  “It's genies, Rick. Trust me.” Rimes could see from Pasqual's eyes that he was still skeptical, like so many others. The military chiefs, the senior officers—everyone's so sure they've got this war figured out, that the genies are in retreat. When are they going to wake up to the reality of what we're up against?<
br />
  Rimes signaled for the Commandos to stay put, then quickly strode toward the Atlanta Police Mobile Command Post parked twenty-five meters away.

  Pasqual followed, matching Rimes’s pace. “So, how’s Molly?”

  “She’s managing. You know how resilient she is.” He nearly laughed at himself. My commission was supposed to give me more stability, more time with my family, but everything’s been more chaotic. And now I’m here, all but sleepwalking, working with the Commandos again. And I can feel Kwon’s ghost in the back of my mind. Waiting. Anticipating—lusting for—the violence.

  “How’re you holding up?”

  “Good.” Rimes rubbed at a scar on his right temple, the last vestige of his mission to bring down Kwon Myung-bak, a deadly rogue genie. “The meds help. The shrink sessions help more. It’s under control.”

  Pasqual stared.

  Rimes's rage flashed momentarily; his face flushed, his heart raced. He unclenched his fists. Calm. Keep your focus. Stay in the moment. Direct, don’t be directed. You'd be the same way in his shoes. I took in Kwon's memories, his thoughts. How can I ever be sure what I'm thinking is me and not Kwon? Could I trust someone who's been so influenced by genies, someone who's been controlled by genies? As quick as it came, the rage was gone, and despite the subtle whispers of Kwon's lust for violence, Rimes felt he was truly himself again. “It’s under control, Rick. This is me, not Kwon.”

  Pasqual grunted softly and stared ahead. “You hear we busted an EEC research operation outside Prague? They were working with the same damn genie DNA strands that started all this shit.”

  Rimes tensed; he’d given that DNA to Anton Tymoshenko in exchange for EEC’s help in the X-17 case a few years ago.

  “Yo, you still with me, m’man?”

  “Yeah. I hadn’t heard about the EEC thing.”

  “It’s fucked up. The metacorporations never learn. Always fucking pushing. They’re gonna go too far one day.”

  Rimes suppressed a frustrated sigh. “The genies are the problem right now.”

  Pasqual chortled. “Just like old times with you.”

  Rimes fought back the anger that he was sure was his. Pasqual knew the threat they were up against.

  They slowed as they neared the mobile command post. It was an imposing, armored, jet-black beast resting in a crumpled curve of asphalt, all that remained of a cul de sac. From the tractor hood to the trailer rear, it was easily ten meters long, with balloon tires for high clearance. A black ramp extended from the open side door to the ground.

  Light leaked from the doorway, revealing a man in a police officer’s uniform at the bottom of the ramp. He was broad at the shoulders. As they approached, the man widened his stance and rested his hands on his hips, then thrust his chin out.

  That must be Stockton.

  Rimes waved broadly. With the advanced stealth suits, he and Pasqual would be charcoal gray phantoms. It’s going to be bad enough as it is. His Reaction Team, ordered to stand down for the military. I’d be furious in his place.

  “Captain Stockton?” Rimes extended a hand.

  The man didn’t say otherwise or acknowledge Rimes’s extended hand. “You must be the Commandos the Bureau promised would save the day for the helpless big city cops?”

  Rimes lowered his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Jack Rimes. This is Sergeant Rick Pasqual. I want to thank you for enduring through what must be a very difficult situation.”

  Stockton looked them over with watery eyes. His thin lips curled upward, hinting at a sardonic smile, then parted.

  Is he going to condemn the Commandos for the losses in the orbital shipyards? The rumors that have dogged them since the X-17 story leaked? The connection to the Bureau? We don’t have time for this. Coming up on eight hours, this situation is well into a dangerous phase. It’s bloody already, and accelerating to a total disaster. He should be thankful he can dump this on someone else.

  Stockton looked past Rimes at the Commandos grouping between the helicopter and the mobile command post, and then the sneer fully manifested. “Was that all you could scramble?”

  Rimes’s eyes narrowed and jumped to Stockton’s jugular, sensed the prey’s momentary alarm. Rimes tensed to charge and strike, but a hand on his shoulder checked him.

  Pasqual.

  Not my thoughts. Kwon’s. I’m in control.

  Stockton shifted uncertainly, assuming a defensive stance. He looked at Pasqual. “Your lieutenant have a problem?”

  Pasqual’s grip tightened for a moment, then loosened. “It’s all good.”

  Rimes held his breath and forced himself to relax. Too much riding on this to lose my discipline. He released the breath and let the tension out of his body. “We brought what we felt was an appropriate force based off the provided intelligence.”

  “Appropriate?” Stockton gave an exaggerated tilt of the head toward the Commandos and drawled, “If you say so.”

  Come on. Don’t make it worse. Gotta stay calm. You’re the one in charge here.

  Rimes slowly blinked away the image of driving a fist into Stockton’s jaw. “Has the situation changed?”

  Stockton leaned in, his powerful chest close to Rimes, and exposed long, square teeth that glistened wetly in the light. His breath was a sour mix: coffee, garlic, some sort of medicinal smell. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  Great. He’s antagonized. The mission’s already at risk. “Captain—”

  Stockton turned for the command post. “We’re wasting time, Lieutenant. If you want to save these hostages, I’d suggest you put your ego aside and focus on the mission.” He took a step up the ramp and turned his head slightly so that the lights silhouetted his jagged profile. “You did come here to save the hostages, right?”

  2

  19 January, 2167. Harper Estate, Atlanta, Georgia.

  * * *

  As large as the command post seemed from the outside, inside it was compressed, packed with equipment and personnel. The evening chill made it no deeper than the doorway, where the warmth of equipment and body heat began. Glows from the displays cast muted light on staring Reaction Team members.

  Rimes felt the pressure of their anger. It contracted the already tight space between the seats lining the interior. All-too-familiar scents—sweat, coffee breath, gun grease, leather—filled the stale air.

  The light wasn’t kind to Stockton, painting every wrinkle on his face with shadow, lighting every bulge with a sickly glow. “We’ve managed to get two more observation drones into the main compound, but we lost the one over the atrium a few minutes ago. No idea what took it down.”

  Rimes sucked on his lip as he watched the console. The leftmost display showed a live image feed; the one below it showed a somewhat static, high-altitude feed of the entire estate.

  Stockton crossed his freckled, leathery arms over his chest and settled his jaw atop his right fist. Muscles slithered along his powerful forearms. “With those two new feeds, that gives us seven.”

  Rimes squinted at the displays, examining the crispness of the picture. “What model drones?”

  “Cytek 701s.” Stockton beamed. “They can record mosquitos fucking from fifty meters out. You can’t really see them at night and they’re quiet as the wind.”

  Rimes felt Stockton watching for a reaction. Rimes studied the images on the displays until Stockton finally returned his attention to the feeds, then cycled through each one on the leftmost display. The static display highlighted the area of each feed shown.

  He’s proud of what they’ve done. He should be.

  “Northeast, observing from Eads Lake,” Stockton said as the first feed flickered, then disappeared. The second filled the display. “Southeast, just inside the Providence Road wall.”

  Pasqual pointed at a form at the edge of the display. It was mostly hidden by a clump of shrubs. “What’s that?”

  “One of the groundskeepers.” Stockton frowned grimly. “The Harpers didn’t bother to include them in the information they gave
us initially. There were eight of them. We’ve identified five of their bodies so far.”

  Rimes exchanged an annoyed look with Pasqual. “Any other surprises?”

  Stockton’s jaw muscles worked, and his eyes narrowed angrily. “We’ve asked their people to triple-check their staff information. We’re still trying to find a few stragglers, but we think we have everyone accounted for now. This security firm they hired to manage the estate, they’re in over their heads. Thirty-one gunmen. They weren’t prepared for anything like that.”

  And no one’s going to hold them accountable for this mess. “What about the other drones?”

  Stockton seemed to shrink ever so slightly. He exchanged a glance with one of his men, who gave a quick nod. “To the south, two just outside the Harper Hills Road wall, about one hundred meters apart; southwest, one hanging inside the Botanical Gardens; west, between the Mayfield Road wall and the canal; and here, north, in this stretch of private woods that runs along the eastern wall.”

  Rimes cycled through the feeds himself, watching each for several seconds. As he passed from the Botanical Gardens to the canal feed, Pasqual held up a hand. Rimes flipped back.