Hope's Folly (29 page)

“But there's something about impending doom that makes me self-indulgent.” He surprised her by stepping closer, raising one hand to her face. Hesitantly, his fingertips skimmed the wet line of her jaw, then pulled away. “We need to talk about this. But—”

“I know.” She cut him off in the same way she shut down her hopes. She could hear what was coming in the firmer tone of his voice, in the way his touch disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “You have a crisis that demands your attention. Mine too.” But she did not want her crisis to be one of the heart.

They had enough problems with the cleanup of the bridge and getting the ship functional again. Then stopping the Farosian Star-Ripper, getting to the jump-gate. Getting to Ferrin's. A huge task.

But the first step in retaliation on the Empire.

Think about that,
she told herself.
Not about being some man's self-indulgence, even if he is your long-lost always-forever dream hero.

The volume of water cascading down suddenly reduced, the hiss of liquid through the sprinklers quieting. Instead of sheets, it was a lively trickle. She realized the wailing of the alarms had stopped several minutes ago. The fire had to be out.

She spied the dark shape of the Norlack on the seat where she'd left it, under Welford's care. She snagged the weapon. “Where's Welford?” She looped the Nor-lack's strap over her left shoulder.

Some of the tension slipped from Philip's face. As did the last of the passion. The intensity with which he watched her minutes before was gone. The admiral was fully back in command. “Auxiliary bridge. I gave the order to evacuate.”

“The situation was that bad?”

“Worse.” His lips tightened. “Commander Adney—”

“Admiral Guthrie?” Footsteps, lots of them, sounded in the corridor, splashing and thudding.

Rya recognized Con Welford's voice.

“Ready room,” Philip called out, leaning on his cane as he turned away from her.

Welford strode in, Sachi and Corvang behind him.

Welford's glance—unreadable—raked her.

“We need a basic cleanup here and on the bridge, quickly,” Philip said. “I assume you and Sparks have kept us moving toward the C-Six. I need to know what systems aren't working. We can worry about fixing the lifts and any bulkhead damage once we hit jump.”

“We have more than that to worry about,” Welford said. He jerked his chin toward the tall Takan standing at his side. “Someone made an attempt to take control of this ship using the auxiliary bridge before Corvang got there. Systems were already coming online when he and Dillon arrived.”

Rya sucked in a breath, her senses focusing. An Imperial agent on board. Or a Farosian one. After Kirro, she'd expected something, but this was proof.

Philip stiffened noticeably. “Maybe Sparks—”

“No, sir. Dillon checked. Corvang checked. And I double-checked them both. Someone used that fire and a diversion on Deck Four to gain access to the auxiliary bridge. Access
and
entry into this ship's computer systems. Which means that same someone is in possession of this ship's primaries.” Welford hesitated, then jerked his chin toward Rya. “Bennton may fulfill her wish to kill someone yet.”

The closed-door meeting in Philip's office this time was without Dina Adney. It did include, however, one very wet, very surly cat. Judging from the paw prints on his dining table and now on his office desk, Captain Folly was in Philip's quarters when the sprinklers kicked on in there—though not in Philip's dry office, which was either in a different fire zone or else the sprinklers had malfunctioned. A smart move on the cat's part; the admiral's quarters were double-insulated, shielded, and had a very noisy emergency air recycler, which still groaned and churned through the overhead ducts, removing the acrid tang of smoke that still hung in the air of his office. The drenching was by far the worst thing the cat had suffered.

A smarter move than Philip's maneuver in the maintenance tunnels. He was no longer drenched—he'd changed quickly into a pair of black coveralls before convening this meeting—but his hip ached and his leg throbbed, sending twinges of pain that could easily make him as surly as the cat.

But they'd run out of time to deal with the fire. Sparks had wanted to blow a hole in the hull. Philip had to get Rya out before her impulsive tendencies— he now had some sympathy for the supervisor who had noted that in her personnel file—got them both killed.

Then he made the damned fool mistake of standing far too close to her, feeling the heat of her body, watching the sparkle of success glint in her eyes, watching the cascading water sculpt her uniform to her breasts and thighs. Something primal in him surfaced. He had to brand her, taste her, kiss her. He could write it off as the result of stress, of relief that she was alive and unharmed, but the truth was that kissing her was something he'd wanted to do ever since he saw her on Kirro. Because he knew he shouldn't? That wasn't like him. Because he knew he'd lost Chaz, and this Alliance was poised for failure—and something inside him was grasping for a reason to go on?

Inane logic. It was nothing that convoluted or deep. He was happy for Chaz, and he was far too busy to ponder the politics of the Alliance. It was … He had no idea. And he had to worry about that later. Because the next stage of the current crisis came with the realization that there was an enemy agent on board. Because of that, he should keep the crew locked down on 3 and 4. But the fire proved how vulnerable and shorthanded they were. So the ship was on open access but under a Code 2 battle stations order—no one went anywhere alone. Preliminary investigations were already being conducted in the forward lifts and the auxiliary bridge. Maybe there was something about the fire that would lead them to the enemy agent. Maybe some telltale clue to his or her identity would be found in the auxiliary bridge. But until they had answers, the bridge and officer quarters required tighter security. Rya stationed Sachi Holton—armed with Rya's L7—at the end of the corridor on Deck 2 Forward. Corvang and Mather guarded the bridge. It was an impromptu setup but might well function as permanent until they hit Fer-rin's.

An attempt had been made to take control of his ship. Philip didn't think it was going to stop there. He doubted it would stop even when they hit Ferrin's. If they hit Ferrin's.

One hour ten minutes to the C-6.

Captain Folly stretched, arched his back, then flattened his considerable furry white girth across the right corner of Philip's desktop, black tail dangling over the edge, tapping to a rhythm only the beast could hear.

Philip swiveled his chair slightly and angled away from the cat. “Commander Adney's sedated, resting,” he told Con, Sparks, Martoni, and Rya. They'd already been briefed on Adney's emotional collapse. “It doesn't appear she'll be returning to duty. Likely she'll transfer to medical when we hit Ferrin's. That leaves me without an exec, without someone to function as my second in command.” He looked at Con. Martoni outranked Con, but Philip didn't know Martoni. And Con was long overdue for a promotion. “Lieutenant Welford, are you prepared to assume the duties of executive officer of the
Folly?”

“I am, sir.” Welford seemed slightly surprised. “Thank you for your faith in me.”

“I have to consider a number of parameters here, not the least of which is familiarity with the way I operate. I don't have time to do a thorough analysis of all qualified candidates. The current situation doesn't allow that luxury. But be very sure, all of you here, that I don't make these decisions lightly, even if there are times you think I do,” Philip said, not mentioning Rya. But he had a feeling his point was made. “This will add to your workload—to all our workloads,” he continued, singling out Martoni, then Rya, with a nod. “Commander Martoni, I want you to work closely with Welford. Sparks, you said Dillon has helm experience. If you can spare him, at least until we clear the gate, we need him on the bridge.”

“Dillon's never flown a Stryker,” Sparks said, “but few of the kids on board have any direct experience with this class ship. Dillon's a quick learner. Vange, Kagdan, and I can hold down engineering with the rest of the team.”

“Lieutenant Bennton.” Philip brought his gaze up to hers. Up because he was seated and she was at her usual place on his right, back against the bulkhead that separated his office from his quarters, one hand resting lightly on her Stinger. The Norlack dangled at her side. Judging from her mismatched uniform—half Alliance gray, half ImpSec dark blue—she'd thrown on dry clothes as quickly as he had. The cat, he noticed, was watching her as well. “Who do you recommend assigning to your security team besides Holton?”

“Corvang excelled in SECTAC in the academy,” she said, and Philip remembered Jodey's comment about the rangy Takan:
He's studied everything the Great Guthrie has ever written … every combat-training holo you've ever done.
That included two manuals Philip had authored for Security and Tactics: SECTAC.

“He can still sit nav,” Rya added, “but he can sit armed. Having him on the bridge is extra insurance and frees up me or Holton to patrol lower decks, if need be.”

“I agree with the choice of Corvang, but I want no solo patrols.” Philip leaned back in his chair, ignoring the zingers of pain racing up his leg. “We have an enemy agent on board. The only way we're going to make it to the C-Six, let alone Ferrin's, is by putting this ship under Code Two battle stations, including the auxiliary bridge.”

Martoni's eyes widened, but Rya, Philip noted, was nodding. Con and Sparks showed no reaction. They knew emergency procedures as well as he did.

“The main bridge and engineering will be the most heavily guarded. Until we hit Ferrin's, command and bridge staff will eat, live, and sleep here on Deck Two Forward or the bridge. Same for engineering. All other personnel will be either in their cabins or at their stations. No one—I repeat,
no one
—works any station alone.

“Martoni, Sparks's people are going to need bedding and food. Take who you can trust to get supplies down there. You have ten minutes to do so. Then report back up here, because I'm sure Lieutenant Welford will have a long list of things he wants done.”

“Sir,” Martoni said, rising.

Philip waved him away with one hand, a movement that had the cat opening one eye in annoyance. “Dismissed. You and Sparks get going.”

When his office door slid closed behind the two men, Philip focused on Con. “This isn't going to be pretty, Constantine.”

“I'll trade pretty for functional any day.”

“I'm not even sure we're functional. Get back to the bridge, light a fire—sorry, bad choice of words.” Philip wiped one hand over his mouth, aware now of the faint whiff of oranges mixing in with the bitter odor of burnt plastics. “Get those repair crews moving. Double-check everything they do. We don't know where that enemy agent is, but he or she will be less likely to muck up the computer systems if you're watching.”

“I can set trip alarms on key functions. If someone tries, we'll know,” Con promised.

“Excellent. Do it. We also need command staff personnel armed at all times.” Philip switched his gaze from Welford to Rya as she edged away from the bulkhead.

“We'll need an assessment of personal weapons brought on board,” she said. “With your permission, I want to confiscate everything except those carried by bridge, command, and engineering staff.”

“Do it.”

“I have a personal Mag-Five in my quarters,” Welford said. “I believe Commander Adney has one too.”

“Her quarters will open to your palm code.” Philip pointed to the door. “Use her Mag-Five for now. Then get yours and transfer your stuff into her quarters, once we have the bridge under control.”

Nodding, Con pushed himself out of his seat.

“Bennton,” Philip said, rising as well, “we're going to need more than a few Mag-Fives and donated L7s.
Come with me. It's time to break out the rest of the arsenal.”

And maybe find a spare five-point-two seconds to try to explain the unexplainable to Rya the Rebel. In private. If the cat would let him.

The clock was ticking; it was an outdated analogy of time running away. Philip Guthrie had never actually seen a mechanical ticking clock outside of history vids, but he felt the relentless pressure all the same as Rya and the cat trailed him through the main salon of his quarters and into his small bedroom. His closets held more than his personal arsenal. Jodey had sent a small stash from the
Nowicki
on Adney's shuttle. Time and continuing crises had prevented Philip from distributing the weapons until now.

His carpets were soaked, his bed looked soggy. If someone from damage control didn't get in here soon with a quadra-flash evaporator, it would be a long, miserable night. If he ever got to sleep. But at least his closets were dry.

He tapped in his security code, very aware that Rya stood inches behind him. Very aware that at some point—likely much later—he was going to want to drag her into his arms again. A low voice in the back of his mind told the Old Man to get a grip. Another low voice told him it was about goddamned time. It had been over three years since he and Chaz split. More than that since the romance between them died. He ignored both voices and yanked out a square black duro-case, dragging it onto the floor. Water squished up around the edges in small foamy bubbles.