Hope's Folly (11 page)

She stepped over to him and waited, the musky aroma of the tea wafting under her nose.

He acknowledged her with a slight nod, eyes narrowed, fingers now pressing the transceiver's tiny speaker against his ear. She squatted down and he took the mug from her without comment.

She looked at Martoni.

“Preliminary report from Kirro,” he said quietly.

Not good news, then. “You want tea?” she asked Martoni. Might as well make herself useful. Might as well make it clear to Guthrie she was here to stay and work.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She returned to the galley, made a cup for Martoni and one for herself, then again lowered herself to the decking at the edge of Guthrie's outstretched boots.

And damned herself because, in spite of all that was going on—the ambush, the firefight, the desperate attempt to get to Seth before someone put a torpedo through the shuttle's hull—she couldn't stop wondering about Guthrie's wife.

Professional curiosity, she told herself. The man was to be her commanding officer. Of that she was very sure. And he'd been a friend of her father's. He'd known her mother. It was only natural to wonder what kind of family he had.

One of her strong points as an ImpSec SPS officer was profiling. Who was this sentient, and why did he do what he did? What might he do? That was all she was doing now as she watched Guthrie pull the unit from around his ear.

She'd always been able to get a quick read on her superiors and use that to make sure she not only did her job well but also fulfilled their expectations. That was also her motivation for studying him.

His damned magnificent blue eyes—and mysterious wife—notwithstanding.

He tucked the transceiver in his vest pocket. “Farosians,” he said, without any preliminary. “Doesn't that goddamned beat all?”

“Justice Wardens?” Martoni asked, clearly surprised.

Rya was nodding. “Makes sense. Mr. Wonderful didn't have any aspect of Fleet about him. Had he or his friend been ex-Fleeties with Imperial training, I think I would have known. They backed off when I stood up to them, thinking I was a striper. The friend said as much. They didn't recognize the beret. A Fleetie would have.”

She didn't miss the whisper of a smile on Guthrie's lips. That warmed her. She didn't want to think about why.

“What else, Subbie?” Guthrie prompted.

This was another test. She frowned, letting the scenario of the ambush play over in her mind, from Mr. Wonderful's overacting at the ticket counter to the black-clad figures swarming from the crew access door next to the far tubeway.

There was something …

She raised one hand. “Give me a moment.” She closed her eyes and saw it in detail this time. And listened, hearing what she'd missed because she'd not really been in working mode. And was so distracted by the shock of Philip's identity.

When she opened her eyes, it was to see the admiral's hand, slightly raised. “Don't answer yet. Just tell me this: are you keying on something you saw or something you heard?”

“Heard.”

He turned to Martoni. “Commander?”

“The guy's accent, the way he spoke?” Martoni pursed his lips, thinking hard. “Could be fake, that dockworker's rough speech. Not a Farosian accent, but not all of Blaine's followers are from there.” He ran one hand down his pant leg, still thinking.

“Subbie?”

“Their weapons were set to stun. Not kill. They wanted you alive.”

Martoni stared at her. Philip's smile widened.

“The pitch of a laser pistol on stun is considerably higher,” she continued with a nod. “Granted, the waiting area was high-ceilinged and that could affect acoustics. But taking that into account, the pitch was a quarter to a half octave above a laser set to kill.” She glanced at Martoni. “The reduction of energy through the baffles creates more resistance in the amplifiers and filters. Especially in Stingers,” she added. “Four of them carried Stingers, like mine, though possibly a bit older.”

“One had an Aero,” Philip said. “New model.”

“That was the one going
zeef zeef?”

“Yeah.” Still grinning.

“Never came across one before.”

“I've never heard one described as going
zeef,
but that's fairly accurate.”

Martoni logged their exchange with a slight back and forth movement of his head.

“So why the different pitch?” she asked.

“Ever see the schematics for the converter?”

“I let my subscription to
Weapons Quarterly
lapse.”

“It wasn't in there. It was in a recent issue of
Helfstein's Armaments Review.
Speculation, though, because it's a Stol-produced weapon. Helfstein wasn't quoting sources. Doing so could get him killed. But the data and analysis read true to me.”

“Don't suppose you have a copy? Sir,” she added hastily, because of the way Martoni was looking at her. At them.

“I might be able to scare one up when we get to Ferrin's.”

When we get to Ferrin's.
That meant he wasn't sending her back on the return shuttle.

“I look forward to reading it. Sir,” she added again, for good measure.

“Don't pick out your cabin yet, Subbie. I could be sending a copy of that article to Calth Nine via transmit. We still need to have our talk.”

“Yes, sir.” She wanted to bounce where she sat. She forced herself not to. She'd already chosen her cabin, knowing the layout of the
Stockwell
as she knew the layout of all her father's ships. She'd have the small cabin next to the admiral's, as was befitting his personal bodyguard. After all, he was injured. And she was sure his wife wanted to see him alive again.

“So the question now,” Philip said, “is why. Why not kill me? What do they gain by simply stunning me?”

“Kidnap you for interrogation?” Martoni answered quickly.

Damned well he'd better answer,
Rya thought. He'd been left behind in the exchange up to this point.

“Valid,” Philip agreed.

“You're the highest-ranking officer of the Alliance Fleet,” Martoni continued. “They could hamper our momentum by doing so. Plus, they assume you'd know upcoming plans, ship acquisitions.”

“But why would they care? We're ostensibly on the same side. We both want Tage out of power.”

“But we want to restore the Admirals’ Council,” Martoni said. “They want Blaine on the throne.”

“True. Subbie?”

She turned the mug of tea around in her hands. Philip had finished his. Hers was cold now, almost as cold as the chill that shot through her when Philip's questions made everything fall into place. “Blaine's on Moabar, under Tage's control. Tage tried to kill you and failed. They want to kidnap you and trade you to Tage for Blaine.”

Martoni stared at her. Philip nodded. “Chief Carmallis's interrogators are very skilled. And that's exactly what Mr. Wonderful told them.”

Rya's mind kicked into overdrive. “How did they know you'd be on Kirro?” She remembered him saying that hadn't been his original plan.

“Mr. Wonderful didn't know. I can make some guesses, not the least of which being they have someone watching traffic. A former Imperial Maven-class cruiser is easy to spot if you know what you're looking for. On the downside, it could be they have moles in the Alliance. Actually, I expect they do. I expect,” and he nodded to Martoni, “we have some on this shuttle.”

“I'm working under that assumption as well, Admiral.”

“But I wasn't on schedule,” Philip continued, as Rya's mind raced through scenarios and options. She always put herself in the other sentient's boots. What did they know, and what would they do with that information in order to get what they wanted?

“And we didn't depart in the expected manner, on the shuttle to Seth,” he said. “It looked as if their attack was thrown together with what they had on hand. There were over thirty former Fleet personnel under your command, Martoni, in the area. They put five of their people against us? A shot in the dark, I think.”

“Mole,” Rya said, still synthesizing what he'd said. “I didn't know who you were. Martoni didn't either. I don't remember anyone who didn't act with surprise when you revealed your identity. You don't exactly— begging the admiral's pardon—look the part.”

Philip grunted, then chuckled.

“So someone,” Rya said, “overheard. And rushed to act just as we were boarding. A now-or-never operation.”

“So which of the fourteen is our mole?” Philip asked. “Or, and I know you don't want to hear this, Martoni, but which of those in your group could work for Blaine?” He sighed. “We need Sullivan.”

“Sullivan?” Rya couldn't specifically place the name in this context. The Sullivans she'd heard of were either obscenely wealthy or on the Empire's list of pirates.

Philip looked from her to Martoni and back again.
“Ragkiril.
You know the term?”

“Stolorth?” Martoni asked.

“ Mind-fucker.” Rya spat out the word. She was ImpSec, had studied ImpSec's and Stol's tactics during the Boundary Wars.
Ragkiril
and all associated epithets were things she knew.

Philip laughed again softly. “Some of my best friends are mind-fuckers. And, no, not Stolorth. Human. A human
Kyi-Ragkiril.
He could walk down that aisle,” he nodded toward the cabin, “and know within moments who your mole was. Mission accomplished. But there's no time for me to locate him and ask for a meetpoint. So for now we have to assume we have one or more moles on board. We have to be careful what we say and to whom we say it. And we also have to note who's more than normally interested in what we say.”

He turned to Martoni. “I assume you have two, three people you've worked with for years that you trust unequivocally?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Take them aside, bring them up to date. Then go be friendly to everyone. And note who you think might be a problem. I need to know before we make the shipyards.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll take that,” Rya said as Martoni pushed himself to his feet, juggling his empty mug of tea in one hand. She detested playing the role of housemaid, but she wanted Martoni to move on. She had to talk to Philip without Martoni hearing.

“Thanks.” He handed her the mug and slipped past the curtain into the larger cabin.

“You suspect him,” she said, her voice low.

“I suspect everyone, Lieutenant Bennton.” His voice was a deep rumble. “I have to, after Raft Thirty.”

“If you didn't, I'd tell you to do so.”

“Chapter six, subsection ten of the ImpSec training manual?”

“Subsections ten and eleven.” She rose, not at all surprised he could quote it to her. “More tea?”

He held up the empty mug. “That was fine for now. Thank you.”

She put the mugs in the shuttle's recycler, then returned to the spot at Guthrie's side that Martoni had vacated.

“I can handle this mission, sir,” she said when he slanted a glance at her, his eyes half hooded. He might be tired, but she suspected that was simply his thinking mode and that it amused him to have people believe he was resting when in fact his mind was through the jumpgate and out the other side already. She remembered her father saying something to that effect about Lieutenant Guthrie as she was growing up.

The half-hooded eyes showed no change.

“I can also handle my desire for revenge. It's there, but it is tempered through my training.”

“All that wisdom in four and a half years?”

“Four and a half on duty, four in the academy, twenty-nine as my father's daughter.”

“ Twenty-nine?” His voice held a distinctive drawl. “We may have to get you a cane, Subbie.”

“Only if it can be modified to handle wide-load slash ammo.”

“That would be useful, with enemies coming out of every crevice.”

She nodded, thinking. “Once we get to Seth, I'll need to do a personal assessment of the armaments you carry. The Carver's effective but bulky, obvious. An L7—”

“Already carry one.”

“Good, because it's easily concealed and is sometimes missed even during pat-downs.”

“Are you presuming to inform me not only that you'll be part of this mission but what position you'll be working as well?”

Rya sucked in a short breath. They'd been talking so naturally—and about weapons—that she'd let herself relax. “Not at all, sir. But I know you'd apply your expertise in allocating personnel to positions based on their training and past postings. You'd utilize my ImpSec background to your best advantage.”

“You'd be best utilized in a court of law, standing in front of a judge and jury, telling them the man who murdered his five children just happened to be slicing the holiday roast when he sneezed and the knife slipped accidentally. And damned if they wouldn't believe you.”

She grinned. “That's because it would be the truth.”

He pulled his comm link from his vest pocket and pointed it at her. “I have work to do. Did your gear make it on board or was it left behind at Kirro?”

“I gave it to the shuttle crew when we were first loading. It's probably stowed below in cargo.” At least, she hoped it was, or she'd be spending a lot of time playing cards trying to win socks. And clothes, boots, and underwear. Everything she owned was in that duffel.

“You should go check on it.”

She shrugged. “If it didn't make it, there's little I can do about it now.”

“Let me make myself clearer, Subbie. Go check on your gear. Then go play nice and chatty to the rest of ship's crew in the cabin. Same thing I told Martoni.” He pinned her with a hard look. “I have work to do.”

Dense, Rya, really dense. The man wants you out of his face.
“Yes, sir. With your permission, I'd like to check that my gear made it, then get to know the crew.”

“Excellent idea. Shoo.”

She pushed herself to her feet. “But before I—”

“Shoo!”

“Shooing now.” She sidled around the curtain and stopped short as several bodies clogged the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. “Oh, sorry!”

“Not a problem,” a round-faced woman about her own age, wearing an oversize brown sweater, said. “We'll just be a minute.”

Rya glanced back through a break in the curtain to where Philip Guthrie sat. He pulled a small folded slip of paper from his vest pocket, opening it with a flick of his thumb. His gaze focused on it, his mouth curving slightly into a soft smile.