The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

  “We can’t just give up. There’s always a chance. Meyers, look at me. I stumbled into them and slipped right past. They’re sleeping. You understand? They’re not without limits. They weren’t ready for someone like me, so they’re not infallible.”

  Meyers glared at Rimes. “Someone like you? What does that mean?”

  Rimes pointed to the crescent-shaped scar on his right temple. “They’ve been in my mind before. One of them named Perditori. But then I was shot. After I recovered, he couldn’t touch my mind anymore. Well, he couldn’t control it. We can do this. We’ve killed so many of them already. They’re not invincible. We just have to think this through.”

  Meyers stared into the darkness for a moment, then chuckled wryly. “It’s not like we have a choice. They’re not letting us go. Kill or be killed, right?”

  “Exactly. Any luck with the radio?”

  “No. Theirs is…“ Meyers pointed at the space where the nose should have been. “I wanted to rig a power line for our radio, but the cabling’s a mess. I need to find a stretch of intact cable. Run it from the main power juncture back in the passenger bay to here.”

  Rimes looked around the cockpit. Along with Meyers’s knife, there were a few emergency tools visible in the starlight. “How long will that take?” He tried to hide his excitement, but he realized almost immediately just how clear it was in his voice.

  “Six hours, maybe more. I was hoping to get on it at sunlight. Now?” Meyers shrugged.

  “That’s okay. It wouldn’t matter. They probably couldn’t get anyone down to us in time. We need to shift our focus for now.”

  “To what?”

  Rimes jerked a thumb up at the shuttle’s belly above them.

  “The rail gun? Are you serious? We need to stay focused on what’s possible, Captain.”

  “You’re telling me it’s not possible?” Rimes hopped to his feet, shifting most of his weight to his good leg. “It looks intact. They never got off any serious shots, so it probably has plenty of ammo. If we have to improvise, we feed it bullets.”

  Meyers shook his head. “Those guns require nearly as much juice from the reactor as the ship does. No way it works off battery power. The batteries aren’t even fully charged anymore. We’ve been recharging oxygen and suits and filtering water with them.”

  “Come on, Meyers, you’re an engineer. Your IQ is off the charts. You can do this.”

  Meyers threw his arms into the air. “You’re asking me to turn lead into gold. It can’t be done.”

  “It can be done.” Calm. Help him find his own calm. “It may not be practical, but it can be done. So do something impractical. Think it through. Don’t worry about how dangerous it is. Without that gun, we’re dead anyway. Don’t worry about how many shots you can get off. A burst could be all it takes to turn the tide.”

  Meyers sighed. He sat unmoving for a long time. “Okay. We bring up the reactor long enough to recharge the batteries. There are a dozen super-capacitors in the propulsion system. We’ll pull those out and wire them inline. Store a charge in those and flip them in sequence. Pair them up or maybe groups of three. That’s two or three shots plus what the batteries might get you. I wouldn’t count on the reactor for much more than that. If the sensors detect a coolant leak or any sort of containment breach, it shuts down on its own. After a crash like this, I’d be surprised if we can even get it to come online. Don’t count on anything more than a couple minutes out of it if it does.”

  “Let’s get the batteries recharged then.” Rimes was already moving on to the next challenge. I’ll need to recharge my suit while the reactor’s online. “Who can help you with the capacitors?”

  “Plauche. He’s worked with me before.”

  “Wake him, but try to let the others sleep for now.” Rimes looked at the sky for any hint of twilight. It was too alien for him to read. He desperately wanted sleep, but he knew he couldn’t afford it. “Wait. Send Sung out here. I need him to look at my leg, and I think I’ve got a broken rib.”

  Meyers exited the cockpit. Rimes examined the cramped space. The hatch to the cargo area was warped and twisted, leaving an opening just big enough someone could squeeze through. The pilot’s chair dangled over his head precariously, seemingly ready to fall at any moment. The Sword of Damocles? No. You can’t fear failure and be an effective leader. We have time. They won’t attack until they’ve rested. We’ll have the belly gun ready. We’ll be prepared.

  But will it matter?

  28

  27 October, 2167. Fourth planet of the COROT-7 system.

  * * *

  There was something welcoming about the darkness for Rimes. It was somehow calming and invigorating, and it allowed a sort of focus that he had missed. Coolness and a slight bit of pressure registered on the environment suit’s surface. The recycled air was clean and moist now. He sucked at the water dispenser tip and imagined what filled his mouth was fresh and sweet rather than reclaimed and bland.

  There would be time for fresh water later.

  The rich colors of the BAS’s display glowed vibrantly against the absolute darkness. The shuttle and its surroundings were clear outlines above and behind him; his team members were stationary green markers.

  They were waiting, same as he was.

  It happened again, then: a flicker of red at the periphery of his BAS’s range.

  They’re moving. Another flicker. One hundred meters out, closing slowly.

  He came off mute. “Get into position. Slowly, but purposefully, people. Think about survival—food, water, rescue. The fatigue and how hot it’ll be when the sun rises.”

  The team deployed to their previously assigned positions, some moving with zombie-like stiffness, others crawling low to the ground. On the BAS, the end result was a team arrayed in layers. Munoz, lying on his belly, was about four meters behind and to Rimes’s left. Evinger held the same position to Rimes’s right.

  Meyers would’ve been better there, but we need that railgun. Just four more meters of cabling, and we’ll have the edge.

  Behind and outside Munoz and Evinger, Kershaw and Takashi lay against seats they’d pulled out of the shuttle’s passenger bay. Rimes hoped the genies’ overconfidence would work against them again, and they’d see the lazy humans relaxing rather than waiting in ambush. In the middle of the formation, Plauche and Theroux lay behind a sand-covered section of hull Kershaw had found while walking the perimeter. Fontana was inside the shuttle with the wounded.

  Fontana activated her mic. “I can feel them. They have telepaths.”

  “Telepaths? Plural?”

  Fontana swallowed. “Yes.”

  Rimes fought back a curse. “They can push?”

  “Yes. One of them is powerful.”

  Perditori? Here? “Can you stop them?” Rimes thought of his team. In a straight-up fight, we’d have a chance. Genies? With pushers?

  “I’ll do my best.” She sounded like a child, promising, hoping, trying to please.

  We can’t ask for anything more. Rimes opened the team channel. “Watch your buddies, people. If they start to act odd, expect the worst.”

  “Takashi creeps me out, Captain. Does that count?” Plauche snorted.

  “Fuck you.” Takashi’s reply was a whisper.

  “Stay focused. Don’t kill each other unless you absolutely have to. That’s why we’re staggered and we have cover from each other. Sixty meters out. Fifty meters. They’re moving faster. Get ready.”

  Fontana groaned over her private channel. “They’re pushing.”

  “Sheila?” Rimes stayed perfectly still and kept his voice calm, then he opened a channel to Durban. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s trying.” Durban sounded weak and worried. “She’s not like them. She can’t handle it.”

  “Just a little more.” The genies were almost on them. He could feel them, hungry and ready to test themselves, same as him. A dreamlike state settled over him, a place where he could master any opponent. Hunter.
Destroyer. Creator of mayhem. That’s Kwon’s frenzy, not mine. Discipline wins the day, not bloodlust. The genies were almost on them. “Ten meters.”

  “Holy shit, they’re fast,” Evinger whispered unsteadily.

  The signals blinked—red moving in among green—but Rimes held. “Now.”

  He pushed against the dense sand above him, surfacing in the middle of four genies, dark forms in the twilight. The two in front of him stopped suddenly, shocked and unprepared. They held knives in their hands, pistols still holstered. They had stripped to light armor, leaving their faces exposed. Rimes had the sub-machine gun he’d taken from the butte in his right hand.

  He smiled as he fired, and the rounds found their mark.

  All around, gunfire erupted as the wounded and deeper shooters took their opportunities. Evinger and Munoz stood at their posts, trying to hold the first wave even if just for a moment. Rimes spun on the two genies behind him. He was high on the painkillers he’d gotten from Sung and on the thrill of combat with the genies. The thrill was his own, not Kwon’s.

  The nearest genie—a slender female—charged, knife held out to her side for a low slash. Rimes hurled the sub-machine gun into her face, surprising and momentarily stunning her. The female staggered and tried to regain her footing; Rimes drew his knife and turned to meet the second genie.

  The second genie—a powerful male—was already in mid-leap. His foot caught Rimes in the chest. He rolled with it as well as he could, slashing with his knife as he fell back. He hit the sand and continued rolling, finally coming up in a low stance, knife held in front of him.

  The male genie closed.

  They slashed and stabbed, gauging each other and warily circling. Rimes was aware of the battle around him and the importance of each second, but he was even more aware of his opponent’s skill. More importantly, he sensed the female genie circling wide to get behind him. The fact no one fired on her gave Rimes a good sense of the battle.

  Everywhere in his display, red forms moved freely among the green.

  We’re losing.

  The female charged. Rimes feinted a lunge, saw the male genie give ground. The female came in low, her knife going for the kidneys, an expert move.

  Rimes dropped and spun as he went to the ground, facing skyward. He dropped his knife and reached up. Her knife scraped along the armor covering his forearms and fingers. He grabbed her soft armor and the skin beneath it. He tightened his grip and let her momentum rock him, then he tucked his legs up so that his feet were against her hips and kicked up, releasing his grip on her.

  She growled in surprise as she flew over him and away.

  The male genie was on Rimes before he could find his knife, thrusting, slashing, missing Rimes’s jugular but catching the clavicle with a powerful blow, then a glancing one off the sternum. Rimes’s armor held, and he landed blows of his own—a fist into the genie’s throat, another into a cheekbone.

  The genie reached for Rimes’s right hand, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. Rimes howled in pain, certain the wrist was broken.

  He brought a knee up into the genie’s ribs, surprising him, knocking him off-balance. A kick to the face and the genie rolled clear, spitting blood.

  Rimes tried for his pistol. His wrist held.

  The genie charged again, flying across the sand with cheetah-like speed.

  Rimes sent a round into the genie’s face.

  More blood. The genie staggered.

  Rimes rolled, barely avoiding a kick from the female genie that would have shattered his own face.

  She was good. Very good.

  He kept rolling, but she stayed with him, blows glancing off his shoulder and ribs.

  The last kick found the broken rib.

  Numbed up or not, electrical shocks shot throughout his body.

  Rimes grunted. He sighted and squeezed the trigger, sending a round into the female’s thigh. Her armor took the worst of it, but she lost her balance.

  He fired again. And again.

  A shot into her groin, then another into her gut.

  Another shot. And another.

  Her armor finally failed her, and she went down.

  Rimes rose.

  Evinger was down, all but decapitated. Munoz was holding his own against two genies. One was struggling to his feet, the other was twisted around and pinned to Munoz’s chest by a giant hand. Munoz’s other hand was slowly driving the genie’s knife toward his own throat.

  Rimes emptied his magazine into the dazed genie, grimacing from the gun’s recoil.

  Reloading as quickly as his sore wrist allowed, Rimes scanned the battlefield and moved forward a step. There was too much motion, too many bodies intermingled, for him to feel sure of what he was seeing.

  He spotted Theroux and for a moment could only stare. The little man stood over Plauche. Theroux held a genie in an arm lock. The genie snarled defiantly and drove forward, breaking his own arm. Theroux launched a savage punch into the genie’s abdomen. The genie staggered, and Theroux leapt, wrapping his legs around the genie’s head. Theroux twisted, and the two tumbled to the sand.

  Suddenly, a white light bright as the sun flashed inside the shuttle bay. Almost at the same moment, a deep popping noise, like a thunderclap, boomed. Rimes opened his helmet visor, blinking against the lingering effect of the washout.

  The genies were in full retreat, some sprinting, some hobbling, a few staggering or dragging wounded allies. Rimes sighted in on a few and fired, but his aim was uncertain. Still, he managed to down one and forced another to abandon his wounded comrade.

  Rimes jogged toward the wounded genie. She was getting to her hands and knees, trying to crawl. It was the woman he’d shot previously. Kill her! Take her!

  He kicked her in the head. Twice.

  She collapsed.

  The battlefield was littered with bodies. Rimes checked for survivors, dreading each step. Munoz scooped up his carbine and released the genie he’d been fighting. The genie pulled his knife from his throat and tried to get to his feet. Dark blood gushed from the wound. The genie managed an awkward step, then another before falling. Theroux squatted next to Plauche, who’d suffered two serious knife wounds. Kershaw hopped over to Takashi, but it was clear there was nothing to be done.

  Taking care not to step on the fallen, Rimes entered the shuttle, taking in the passenger bay as if through a haze. He could see Shaw leaning against the wall, gasping in pain, holding his right arm. His face was a mess, his nose bent sideways, but he was still alive. Lopresti hadn’t been as lucky. A genie’s knife was buried hilt-deep in her right eye. Just beyond her, Siamwalla lay on his side, his neck snapped. Murphy was next to him, throat slit. Rimes took solace in the dead genies amid all the carnage, but there were only three.

  Meyers was at the front of the cabin. He was slumped against the bulkhead that separated passenger bay and cockpit, his elbows braced on his knees, head cradled in the crooks of his arms. “I couldn’t get the gun working.”

  Durban was to Meyers’s left. He cradled Fontana in his handless arm and held a pistol in his good hand. Blood covered his legs. Fresh blood, not all of it his. He seemed to be at peace, finally. Watanabe was at his side, holding him. Sung was checking Fontana’s pulse.

  Watanabe looked at Rimes, her eyes full of sadness and fear, mostly fear. But she fought. She’s not giving up. That’s who we are, right? We can’t give up!

  Rimes squatted at Durban’s feet. “Sung?”

  “She’s alive.” Sung’s voice was soft, tense.

  Rimes took the pistol from Durban’s hand, ejecting the magazine. It was empty. Reverently, he checked Durban for more ammunition, taking a shredder from a hip pouch.

  Slowly, Rimes stood, slipping the shredder into his own hip pouch. He looked at the dead again, trying to make sense of the inexplicable focus on the wounded.

  There was no sense to make of it.

  His focus settled on Fontana. They came for her. One of their own to be rescued? A traitor?


  A hot breeze blew through the cabin, rustling Fontana’s hair. Finally, Rimes turned back to Meyers. “I saw a light?”

  “There was an exposed cable,” Meyers said weakly. He pointed toward the shuttle tail. “It was like a third rail, the unshielded section of the ceiling there.”

  Rimes saw it now. A black spot maybe two meters in diameter, barely visible in the shadows. He pulled his visor down and saw the details: bootprints in the still-hot, blackened plates.

  “You discharged one of the capacitors?”

  “It killed one of them. Knocked a couple others down. Mostly, I think it surprised them.”

  “It broke the attack. We’d all be dead if you hadn’t done it.”

  Meyers snorted. He wiped blood from his face. “They’ll figure it out and they’ll come again. In the heat of battle, it probably seemed like a grenade.”

  Rimes took stock of the scene. There were ten of them left, eight of them mobile. They were slowly getting ahead in the struggle with their ammunition now that they had so few to actually fire the weapons. It was a grim thing to find consolation in.

  “Get the radio working.” Rimes sighed heavily. “We need an extract or there won’t be anyone left to save.”

  29

  27 October, 2167. Fourth planet of the COROT-7 system.

  * * *

  Rimes squeezed in closer to the radio, pressing against Meyers in the cramped cockpit space. Sand scraped beneath boots; environment suits and armor creaked. The air was stuffy and thick with their breath and sweat. The sun was quickly heating the shuttle hull and the sand outside, its brightness obliterating any hope of hiding the bloody reminders of the earlier battle.

  Meyers excitedly jabbed a forefinger at the radio. “There. You hear it?”

  There had definitely been something a moment before, but Rimes couldn’t be sure what. He held his breath.

  Again, he heard the sound—a strange, rhythmic pulse.

  It didn’t sound like a transmission from the Valdez or from any other ship for that matter. It had more of a machine-like quality about it, but it was so weak he couldn’t be sure.