Hope's Folly (12 page)

Years and tension dropped briefly from his face.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bulkhead, the small note still between his fingers.

A note from his wife. It had to be.

Rya tore her gaze away and stared over the heads of the new crew of
Hope's Folly,
an inexplicable tightness in her throat. So the admiral's wife wrote him love notes. What business was that of hers?

None.

Now, where in hell was her goddamned duffel?

Philip tucked Chaz's note away with a sigh. It sure as hell would be easier if he could somehow materialize Chaz and Sullivan on this shuttle and find out who his moles were. He was sure there were at least two, and he'd been honest in what he'd told Rya: he didn't discount Martoni. The efficient, stalwart commander was exactly the kind of officer Fleet traitor Nayla Dalby would have trained.

But he couldn't materialize Sullivan and Chaz right now. He was surprised how much at peace he finally felt because Chaz was happy. At least one little corner of the universe was behaving as it should.

The rest of it … He shook his head. The Farosians were trying to take him hostage to force a swap for Sheldon Blaine. How was that for an unexpected turn of events? But not an unreasonable one. He couldn't honestly say Tage would turn down the opportunity— especially if Tage could somehow turn events around and place the blame on the Alliance.

He plugged in the archiver and keyed on his comm link. Jodey needed an update, as did Dina Adney. One out there behind him, one in front of him.

The Empire is trying to kill us. The Farosians are trying to kidnap us.

Helluva party.

And in the middle of it all sat one Sub-Lieutenant Rya Bennton. He mentioned her existence only briefly to Jodey and only that she was Cory's daughter. Not that the universe seemed a little brighter, a little fresher when she was around. And not that she longed to fondle his Norlack.

He smiled, because that's what was in his mind when he'd pulled out Chaz's note that had come with the Norlack: Rya's hushed tones and rapturous expression.

God give him strength.

If he was ten years younger … But he wasn't.
Stow that thought, Guthrie. She's a nice kid.
Kid,
you fool. Bright, energetic, dedicated. And the daughter of your close friend, who's no longer around to kick your ass all over Calth for thinking lustful thoughts about his only child.

He had a ship to refit, a fleet to build, and, God willing, a war to win. Let someone else tame Rya the Rebel.
But I'll watch after her, Cap'n Cory. That much I will do. That's a promise.

He pocketed the comm link and archiver and, glad Rya wasn't there to witness his flailing, shoved himself awkwardly to his feet. He limped for the bridge to borrow Captain Ellis's comm system yet again.

An alarm blared just as he crossed the hatchlock.

Captain Ellis swore harshly, tearing her gaze away from her console just long enough to shoot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Trouble, Guthrie.”

He dropped the archiver back into his pocket and leaned on her chair. Three bogies, about thirty-five minutes out, were coming at them from their starboard axis, weapons’ ports hot. And one had the distinctive silhouette of an Elarwin Infiltrator—two hundred fifty tons of speed, weapons, and agility.

All they had were the two P-33s. And Ellis's Gritter cannon.

“Shields at combat strength,” she intoned. “Engine at max. Escorts acknowledge the bogies.” The P-33s were moving into defensive position off the shuttle's starboard side. “That's an Infiltrator,” Ellis continued, studying the data as he had. “Jammed my long-range. Or I would have known a while ago the sons of bitches were there.”

“Where's Seth's P-40?” he asked.

“Two hours out,” the Takan navigator told him without turning around. “Just confirmed ten minutes ago. Sending advisory now.” His voice held that gruff Takan growl, making it impossible for Philip to tell if the navigator was nervous or not.

Two hours. They could be dead in two hours, especially against an Infiltrator. Fast and deadly with ion cannons, torpedoes, and lasers—possibly more if this was the Infiltrator Chaz had told him about, the one that had challenged Sullivan's ship four months ago. The one that had Fleet traitor—
careful, Guthrie, you're one of those now
—and Farosian assassin Nayla Dalby in the captain's chair.

But Commander Dalby had been a traitor when Fleet was still an honorable organization. She was also associated with that same Stolorth
Kyi-Ragkiril
prince who had attacked Chaz, shattered Philip's leg, and damned near killed Sullivan, four months ago.

That deposed Stolorth prince might well be the reason this Infiltrator chased them now. He was dead, his and the Farosians’ plans thwarted because of Chaz, Philip, and Sullivan. Rya the Rebel might not be the only one with revenge on her mind.

“If they want you alive,” Ellis said, “they'll just try to shoot my engines out.”

“Force us to the life pods.” He was nodding. “But having failed at Kirro, they may no longer care.”

“You're sure it's the Farosians?”

He reached over her shoulder and tapped the icon for the Infiltrator. “You piss off anyone with that kind of firepower lately?”

“Not lately.”

“Then it's me, and, yes, it's the Farosians.” Tage would have sent a couple of heavy cruisers, or a destroyer or three. He fished the archiver out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Send this, priority, now. We might not get another chance.”

“Dargo,” she called out, and the Takan navigator turned, neatly catching the archiver she tossed to him, then slotting it into the ship's comm system.

Philip glanced over his shoulder. Rya waited in the bridge's hatchlock; Martoni was behind her but with his back to the bridge, keeping watch on the passenger cabin. Good positioning.

“You heard?” he asked Rya.

“Unfriendlies. Infiltrator and two bogies,” she said.

“You ever face combat on a ship before?”

“Sims, sir.”

This was going to be nothing like the simulators. They were in a goddamned civilian shuttle. “Life pods are belowdecks here, through cargo,” he told her. “Make sure access is clear.” The Farosians wanted him, alive or dead. He wasn't sure which he'd prefer, if they intended to trade him to Tage.

Captain Ellis tapped his arm, then passed the archiver back to him. “How many pods?” he asked her. He thought six, but he could be wrong.

“Six plus the bridge pod.”

He nodded. “Martoni makes one,” he told Rya. “Get five other pod captains, get them down there and familiar with pod operation.”

Alarm flashed briefly in her eyes.

C'mon, you're a Bennton. Hang in there for me, Rebel.

Then it was gone. He saw her center herself, drop into working mode.

Good girl. Do Dad and Uncle Philip proud.

Uncle Philip? Maybe not. And this was not the time to argue with his libido over that.

“Yes, sir.” She turned, grabbing for Martoni's arm, ducking her head down as she relayed Philip's orders.

“I've got the Gritter. We've got two patrol ships,” Ellis reminded him when he glanced down at the flashing icons on her console.

“We also have a ship full of fresh-out-of-the-academy inexperienced kids, for the most part. And this is not an official Fleet transport.” He met her gaze levelly. “I have no doubt that someday I'll go out in a blaze of glory, but today's not the day.”

“You and me both,” she quipped, and Philip decided if they lived through this, he'd buy her a drink. Maybe three. He liked her confidence, her sassy attitude, and, hell, what were a few years or so? She was an attractive woman—who illegally loaded her ship with a Gritter cannon, probably tucked neatly under the decking, disguised as an enviro booster. He liked that.

“My husband would kill me if I died,” she added wryly.

Stow that thought.

But it also added one. He'd do everything he could to get her back to her husband. “Send out a broad hail,” he said. “Let's see if that Infiltrator has anything to say.”

He did not want to become the Farosians’ captive and a bargaining chip with Tage. But he didn't want sixty innocent people to die for him either. Enough had already. And he had a promise to Cory to keep.

IMPERIAL SECURITY BULLETIN 71993-X7G:

Encryption Level Aldan 1/Top Secret

Immediate Action Required:

Reports out of Kirro Station confirm attempts were made to kidnap rebel leader Philip Guthrie, allegedly by Farosian terrorists. Guthrie was sighted boarding a shuttle on station, still alive. Operatives on Seth are now alerted to his arrival. Command Prime repeats that all restrictions are lifted on civilian casualties, unless said actions in any way aid the Farosians. This bulletin self-destructs in thirty seconds.

It took three minutes for the Infiltrator to respond to the shuttle's hail, during which time Philip once more ran through his options and best strategies. In his twenty years with Fleet, he'd never been in exactly this situation: a civilian ship, a military threat.

It was the word
civilian
that forced a great deal of soul-searching thought. No one on board had yet pledged to risk their life for some abstract ideal known as the Alliance. Except him.

“Kirro Path Shuttle, this is the Infiltrator. Put Guthrie on.”

He recognized the Dafirian drawl of Nayla Dalby's voice immediately. He took the spare comm headset and slipped it on, twirling the microphone up. “Commander Dalby. Tell me this isn't a meeting we're both going to regret.”

A sharp bark of laughter. “Guthrie, you old bastard. I'm so going to enjoy this. How does it feel to be on the losing side?”

“I wouldn't know,” he shot back. “You're the one sucking up to Tage.”

“Dirty words, rich boy. Traveling in a piece-of-shit shuttle and not an admiral's pinnace. Shame.”

“Fuck you,” he heard Ellis intone under her breath. He'd surmised the shuttle company and this shuttle were hers. That confirmed it.

He also knew that other than their Star-Ripper—a small but heavily armed 300-ton ship less than half the size of the
Stockwell
—the Infiltrator was one of the Farosians’ best ships, courtesy of that late Stolorth prince. But the Farosians had owned the
Stockwell
for a short period of time and lost it, so Dalby had no standing—other than personal—to belittle his method of transportation.

“If we're so unworthy, then why are you dead-eyeing us?” he asked smoothly, leaning against the edge of the communications console because his leg was warning it wanted to collapse again.

“Leveling the score, Guthrie.”

That worried him, hinting that Dalby was here for revenge and could kill everyone on board to get to him. But he wouldn't let that happen. Death was final. Being taken prisoner by Blaine's Tos Faros-based Justice Wardens still left options. “Tage won't be interested in my dead body, if you want Blaine in exchange.”

Ellis was watching him closely, her green eyes narrowed. Not happy. Well, neither was he.

“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Dalby said, naming the remote, inhospitable world the Empire used as a prison planet. “Whether you're breathing air or sucking vacuum makes no difference to us.”

The first Philip judged to be true. The second he knew was a lie, based on what Carmallis had found out from the Farosian agents left alive. Which meant Dalby's personal vendetta notwithstanding, she still had her orders: to get Guthrie.

“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Philip said, repeating her assertion back to her, “because we're hampering him. You need to rethink your aggression toward the Alliance.”

Ellis jerked her chin to get his attention. He leaned away from the console and glanced at her screens. The two unknown bogies had just been identified as older R-3 thirty-ton Ratch fighters. First bit of good news. Their P-33s should be able to handle them defensively.

That left only the Infiltrator. One clean shot from the Gritter could handle that. But there was no way a captain like Dalby would allow a clean shot. Still, Philip felt marginally better about this encounter than he had five minutes before.

“Surrender your personnel, your ships, to us,” Dalby said with a smug tone in her voice. “And we just might do some rethinking.”

“Not an option, Dalby.” Especially because a new ident had just flashed on Ellis's screen. And Ellis's Takan navigator was grinning widely.

Not Seth's P-40 but a Takan armored freighter answering the shuttle's distress code, thirty minutes out and closing. That meant a few more banks of lasers and, yes, sweet God, a torpedo tube registering hot.

Dalby evidently saw the same information. She cut their comm link, the bridge's speakers going silent with a slight hiss. The Ratch fighters slowed.

“Ha!” Ellis barked out a laugh. “I was hoping Fregmar was out here somewhere. I also wasn't going to play this hand until I had to,” she continued, tapping a series of commands on her screen, “but I think now's the time to give those Farosians an even better reason to leave. Arming the Gritter,” she announced.