Hope's Folly (21 page)

Rya wasn't about to chance the lifts.

The stairwell between Deck 5 and Deck 4 amidships was the longest on board—more like three flights than one—and Rya was sucking wind by the time she pushed through the doors to the corridor. She found a workstation and patched in again.

My office,
Adney's reply said.

Only two more flights. Oh, joy.

Commander Adney leaned back in her office chair, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of her dull-gray metal desk. “That's very vague information, Bennton.”

“Yes, ma'am, I agree. Any other circumstance, any other ship, I'd discount it. Or if the driver said the blast doors were stuck, then we'd know someone on the ship said something they shouldn't. But this specifically was a lift-crash problem, something that hasn't happened. Unless it has and I haven't heard about.”

“We had one that wouldn't stop at Deck Four, but that was minor, and definitely not a crash.”

Rya hesitated. “I recommend shutting down all lifts and making a thorough mechanical inspection.”

“I understand your concern. But the fact is, we're severely shorthanded. The admiral has made it very clear that our first priorities are systems that are essential to the operation of this ship and the crew. A rumor about a lift malfunction is hardly life-threatening. A mention of someone buying supplies for this ship is misleading. I am in touch with the yardmaster's office and we are purchasing supplies through her. But that doesn't mean
Folly
crew are on the docks.” She pinned Rya with a hard look. “I suggest you concentrate on doing what you're asked to do.”

Rya could think of a dozen scenarios where it would be life-threatening, especially if malfunctioning lifts kept security from reaching Philip if another attempt was made to kidnap him. And if there were Imperial or Justice Warden operatives on the dock waiting to receive his unconscious body. She opened her mouth, then closed it, biting back disappointment and frustration. But she couldn't give up. “Requesting permission to track down the source of the information, Commander.”

“The tuggies on the shipyards?” Adney shook her head slowly. “Request denied. No personnel are permitted to leave this ship, given what happened on Kirro. You should understand that better than anyone.”

“Yes, ma'am, I do. But I'm concerned—”

Adney held up one hand, then pointed to her deskscreen. “See these files, Bennton? These are all my concerns. Dozens of them. If a malfunctioning lift was the worst thing on my list, I'd be a very happy woman.”

“Yes, ma'am.”
Damn, damn.

“Let me give you a word of advice, Bennton. I've reviewed your personnel file thoroughly. I've talked to your superiors, and others, on Calth Nine. It's time you realized you're not ImpSec anymore. I'm not going to authorize sending you out on the docks on some kind of mission. The civilians out there don't need to see that kind of demonstration. We will solve this problem my way. By
thinking,
Bennton. Not with fear.”

Rya was shocked by the vehemence in Adney's tone, but she didn't permit herself to show it. She might not be ImpSec anymore, but she couldn't remove their training. Nor did she want to, and, somehow, she knew Adney suspected that. “Yes, ma'am.”

“If that's all, then you're dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“That's all. Thank you, ma'am.” Rya saluted, then turned and headed back to the corridor, mouth grim. She didn't know who Adney had talked to on Calth 9 or why the commander's opinion of her would be so negative. Her performance reports were always excellent. Sure, a few times she'd pushed beyond mission guidelines, but she'd
succeeded.
And maybe she could be a bit overzealous, but her instincts had never failed her.

And her instincts said something bad was going to happen. Again.

She found an empty—and working—deskscreen at the far end of divisionals. A lot of the stations were empty. She glanced at the time stamp, her stomach agreeing with the information. It was main shift dinnertime. Just as well. Less people around to ask what she was doing.

She brought up the security logs she and Martoni were constructing, looking for any shipments brought in by tugs since Adney and her team had arrived. There was no way for her to check what happened before that—or was there? She made a mental note to hunt down Welford if she dead-ended here.

There were long lists of supplies incoming. Some of the procurement codes were ones she'd become familiar with on Calth 9. Others she'd never seen. With a fully functional data system, she could have the whole list decoded in seconds.

Now it could take hours and there would still be gaps.

Forty-five minutes later she narrowed down two shipments that possibly had to do with lift mechanisms, antigrav pods, or guidance rails. But AG pods were also used to move cargo. Smaller ones even had medical uses.

Hell, she was security, not an engineer. And this still didn't tell her if someone had snuck off the ship.

For a moment she considered tracking down Alek Dillon. He was one of Spark's techies and knew much more than she did about things like this. But he'd start asking questions, and she wasn't yet ready to answer them. Sparks, maybe, because Philip trusted him. But Dillon? No.

It was her damned gut again.

Plus, Adney had already said she'd handle it. By researching data, Rya was going against Adney's orders, and she'd already landed on the commander's bad side. Adney inhaled the regs and exhaled procedure and obviously hated ImpSec. Rya knew if she sought out Sparks or Welford and Adney found out, she'd really be in a world of shit.

She put her head in her hands and scrubbed at her face in frustration.

She had to chance talking to Welford and somehow convince him not to mention her name to Adney. Or she might find herself on a shuttle back to Calth.

Philip's change-of-command orders were short and, being similarly worded to ones he'd said before in the Imperial Fleet, not unfamiliar. Except this time they started with, “By the command of the Consul of the Alliance of Independent Republics, Mason Falkner, and under the authority of the Independent Admirals’ Council.” Words he hoped would be said several more times over the next few months as the fleet continued to grow.

Of course, he had to get this bucket to Ferrin's before most of that would happen.

“Admiral Guthrie.” Commander Adney, standing next to him in the crowded mess on Deck 3 Aft, nodded. “You have the command.”

“Commander Adney, I accept the responsibilities of command,” he answered perfunctorily and, as he returned Adney's salute, saw Rya slip in through the doors at the back of the room, her holstered Stinger peeking out from the edge of her leather jacket. He'd been watching for her and had been a little disappointed she hadn't shown up for dinner.

Maybe more than a little, but he couldn't think about that at the moment, because there was applause and then Adney shaking his hand, then Con, then Sparks, and he lost sight of her again as his crew—
his
crew—stood as one, glasses raised.

He'd cooked one damned fine dinner.

“You mean, I didn't have to listen to anything you said up until now?” Con laughed, clasping him on the arm.

There were more well-wishes and thanks to Dina Adney for running the show so well to this point.

Sparks touched his arm. “Mather has a live link to Captain Bralford. Commander Adney's office.”

He made some quick excuses, then followed the shorter man out the doors, down the corridor to the lifts, then up one deck to the divisional offices, enduring his fair share of good-natured ribbing that his official insignia should bear a cook's apron.

“Chaz used to tell me of your prowess with a frying pan,” Sparks said as they exited the lift. “Now I believe her.”

“Casseroles are easy.” Philip shrugged off the compliment, though he was, in truth, rather proud of what he'd been able to do on such short notice. In two ship-weeks, when his funds arrived, he'd do even better. “If we'd had the time and resources for a pastry-crusted stuffed roast, we—”

“Congratulations, sir.” Mather, waiting in the corridor, saluted.

“You get to eat, Commo?”

“Yes, sir. It was excellent.” He stepped aside to let Philip into the office, then he and Sparks followed.

Philip lowered himself into Adney's chair and nodded at the familiar face on the deskscreen. The image was decent but a bit grainy. “Captain Bralford. You missed dinner.”

Jodey laughed. “Then you owe me one. Congratulations, Philip. Though from what Mather's been telling me, it should be condolences as well.” His smile faded. “Damn, I had no idea she needed so much work. The reports Pavyer supplied us indicated no such problems.”

“Plague of the ittle-doos,” Philip said. “It will slow us down a bit. But at least when she's finally running, we can trust everything's been done right.”

Sparks turned and tapped Mather on the shoulder, motioning to the corridor. They ducked out of the office together—Sparks palming the door shut on his way out. Then it was just Philip with Jodey on the screen.

Philip leaned back in the chair. “Bring me up to date.”

“I'm sending the complete reports now,” Jodey said, “but the key points are we have reason to believe the Empire is moving to blockade the two primary jumpgates between Baris and Calth: B-C-Three and B-C-Seven.”

Philip knew why immediately. “They want to secure Calth Prime and the Walker Colonies.”

Jodey pursed his mouth, nodding. “They have a considerable investment in Port January and Rawton.”

They did. Port January was a sprawling, prosperous city and the baronial seat on Calth Prime. Rawton, outside Port January, was the largest contained prison compound in the Empire, excluding the prison world of Moabar. The Empire wouldn't want either in Alliance hands.

“Is there someone in Rawton they have a particular interest in, or do you think it's just resources overall?”

“I'd never discount resources,” Jodey said, “but we're checking into the ‘special prisoner’ angle. It's not Blaine. He's still on Moabar—something else they may try to secure because of him.”

“I'm still surprised the Farosians haven't tried to spring Blaine. We know they have a Star-Ripper, the Infiltrator, and probably a few other ships we haven't found out about yet.”

“You know what Moabar is like. Finding Blaine dirtside would entail a considerable operation—if they could even get access to the planet. Plus, Tage moved the
Vidovik Lu
and a squadron of P-75s out there. Kidnapping you is easier, I guess,” Jodey said.

The
Lu
was a well-armed and deadly battleship. Add in the P-75s and, yes, the Farosians had nothing to match that.

Philip turned his mind back to Tage and the Empire again. “The Walker Colonies also give Tage entry into Dafir.”

“No one ever said Tage was stupid.”

No, sadly, the man whom Philip at one time considered a friend wasn't stupid. Crafty, cunning, and lately diabolical. But not stupid.

“The consul's people have been making the preliminary political noises to the Empire,” Jodey continued. “But word coming down from our Admirals’ Council is we may need to make a show of force. You'll be getting all this direct once you get the
Folly
online.”

Philip sighed. “I've been told we'll have communications and encryption up and running fully tomorrow. Day after, the latest.”

“Would be nice if the Admirals’ Council and the counsul's people could talk directly to the admiral.”

“Just as well they haven't been able to today. My vocabulary hasn't been fit for polite company.” Philip glanced at the icon flashing on the corner of his screen. “Reports are in.”

“Then I'll leave you to your work. I'm hoping the next time we talk it'll be from your office and you'll have more than just Dina's comm link functioning.”

Philip grunted. “Ever the optimist, Bralford. Stay safe, my friend.”

“And you stay out of trouble.”

That warranted another grunt. “Hell's fat ass chance of that.” Philip signed off, the screen fading to black. He snagged the reports Jodey'd sent and shunted them over to his in-box in his office. It was almost 1930 hours, and his day was far from over.

But his officers and crew should be changing shifts, although he knew a lot of them would keep on working, regardless.

Philip shoved himself out of Adney's chair and limped for the door. He grabbed the closest lift down to Deck 3. The goddamned Stryker-class design split Deck 2 in forward and aft sections, with no direct access between the two other than to go down, then up again.

Not one thing about this mission was easy. Not even the ship.

He stepped out of the lift on Deck 3, nodded to crew hustling past, and heard a familiar throaty laugh behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Rya farther down the corridor in the crew's quarters’ section. Con Welford had his hand on Rya's shoulder, the two of them mere inches apart.

Then the cabin door opened and Con ushered Rya inside.

Philip stood, staring. Something he couldn't—
didn't
—want to define tightened in his chest. There were a hundred legitimate reasons why Rya Bennton could be in Con's cabin, but only the less-than-legitimate ones seemed to want to surface in his mind. And even those were none of Philip Guthrie's goddamned business.

He turned abruptly, his right leg protesting in pain. He used that pain as the excuse for his foul mood for the next several hours—and as a reminder that life rarely goes as planned. Not even for the Great Guthrie, who had far more-serious considerations than what Cory's daughter was doing with Constantine Welford.

Didn't he?