Hope's Folly (33 page)

“Get serious, Rya. You're going to use a sneezing cat as evidence?”

“An animal's sense of smell is beyond a human's range. That's why dogs were used for centuries by arson investigators. It's a valid methodology.”

“Sounds crazy to me, but what do I know? I've never even seen the cat sneeze.” Mather shrugged, rising. He touched his fingers to his forehead in salute. “Security Chief Bennton, I know you have work to do. But at least you're not as thirsty.”

Rya raised the half-empty bottle. “I appreciate it.”

“Just doing what I can to make things right.” He patted the Carver on his hip and left.

Rya paged up the next prospective crew member's data as Mather's boot steps faded. Then there was the muted thud of the blast doors. She stared at the information on her screen, her eyes seeing but her mind refusing to focus.

Something about Mather's petulance then sudden shift prickled her cop senses. She shook it off.
Just because someone doesn't worship Philip like you do doesn't automatically make him suspect,
she chided herself.

Being skipper of a space bucket wasn't a popularity contest, her father often reminded her. Still …

She tapped in her security code and pulled up the current ship's roster, scrolling through until she found
Mather, Burnaby.
She scanned quickly. If Welford came in and caught her not working on Ferrin's clearances, there'd be hell to pay.

Okay. She was right on Mather's age: late forties, a little older than Philip. Graduated from the academy the year before Philip. Mather's most recent posting to the
Nowicki
came three years ago, after a transfer off the
Waldor Rey.
Olefar was the captain. She couldn't remember his first name, only that her father had little respect for the man.

Mather was third commo on the
Rey,
third commo on the
Nowicki,
where he got his COMTAC rating right before the Empire fractured.

He also had several EFS commendations in his file: Exemplary Fleet Service. An EFS was long considered a perfunctory pat on the head, a way to reward someone not good enough to qualify for promotion.

No wonder Mather was bitter. He was the quintessential invisible officer. Never good enough to promote.
Never bad enough to demote. He did his job but never went beyond—

But wait. One of the commendations was an EFS-Gold. Personally approved by Darius Tage, the Emperor's primary adviser. The man who ordered the death of her father.

The commendation came a few months before Mather's transfer to the
Nowicki
but without the usual promotion. It was as if Mather just blended back into the bulkheads again.

Definitely reason to be bitter. But was he bitter against the Empire or against Philip Guthrie personally? He
was
working against the Empire and for the Alliance.
Just doing what I can to make things right,
he'd said.

Made sense.

Didn't it?

IMPERIAL SECURITY BULLETIN 73313-X5K:

Encryption Level Aldan 1/Top Secret

Immediate Action Required:

Command Prime is attempting to confirm reports of Guthrie's departure from Seth prior to the strike team's arrival. If this is indeed fact, please be aware drastic measures to correct this unacceptable error will now be initiated. This bulletin self-destructs in thirty seconds.

Philip checked the corner of his deskscreen as his door chimed. Command-staff code. He slipped his Carver from its holster anyway. The Star-Ripper was gone. The
Folly
was in the relative safety of jumpspace. But he had no illusions that they were safe, by any means. Con Welford stepped in through the opening door, eyes slightly narrowed, gray uniform shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands empty of his usual datapad. Neither Martoni, Tramer, nor Dillon was with him, as they were in the two earlier meetings. And his second in command looked tired, distracted. Defeated?

Ah. Con's objections to the ploy to use the shuttle surfaced in Philip's mind along with the informal bet: a bottle of rare Lashto brandy. Con had never been a cheerful loser.

And it had taken him almost four hours to come to Philip's office alone to admit it. Granted, they were busy with other things—meetings with Martoni, briefings with Sparks, and in between Philip had stopped in sick bay to check on Adney's progress—but … “You didn't think my plan would work, did you?” he asked jovially as he holstered the Carver. “Where's your faith, Constantine? More than that,” he slapped his palm on the top of his desk, “where's my brandy?”

He waited for Con to take a seat. Con remained standing. “I'm glad it did, sir, but it was a risk. A big one.”

“The risk is over. You still owe me my brandy,” Philip answered.

“I'm concerned about another risk. Sir.”

Sir. Philip finally caught it. Far too many “sirs” from a man he'd known for years. And not a threat against the ship or Con wouldn't be so obviously hesitant. This was something Con didn't want to talk about. Philip had a feeling he didn't want to talk about it either. “Sit, Constantine.”

Con didn't move. “Requesting permission to speak freely, Admiral.”

“Sit.” Philip didn't like the sound of this at all. “We've served together a long time. Been through a lot. You want to tell me something, you tell me.”

Con sat stiffly and laced his hands together at his knees. “We
have
been through a lot. That's why I'm concerned. I think you're stressed. Pushing yourself too hard.”

“Stressed? Hell, yeah, I'm stressed. We're all stressed. This is damned near war—”

“I think it's affecting your decisions. You're still recovering from your injuries. You know Doc Galan released you only because you gave her no other choice.”

Affecting his decisions? “My leg and hip were injured, Constantine. Not my mind. Or are you saying that's not working well either?”

“Philip, I've known you a long time. I can think of no one I respect as much as you. But since Raft Thirty, since the problems on Sullivan's ship, you've … changed. I can sense it. Jodey sensed it.”

Philip leaned back in his chair and regarded Con through narrowed eyes. He heard echoes of some of the conversations he had with Jodey weeks ago in Con's words. He was touched by their concern. But they hadn't seen what he had. “Death has a way of realigning your priorities.”

“So does losing your wife.”

Con's words hit him like a slap in the face. Philip willed himself not to flinch. “Chaz? You think I'm sitting in this godforsaken bucket because of Chaz?”

“I think decisions you're making on the
Folly
are partly affected by seeing her with Sullivan—”

“I'm happy as hell for her! That's something you and Jodey can't seem to get through your heads.”

“—and partly by what happened at Raft Thirty. I don't know what it would be like to see your officers, your friends executed. But it has to have impact. It
has
had impact.”

“Are you accusing me of neglecting my duties, Mr. Welford?” Philip's tone went colder than he ever thought it could when speaking with Con Welford. His longtime officer. His friend.

Con lowered his face and scrubbed his hands over it. “God, no, Philip. It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Con looked up. “It's your infatuation with Sub-Lieutenant Bennton.”

Philip felt as if he'd been blindsided. “Rya?”

“You're her CO. You're twenty years older than she is—”

“Sixteen.”

“—and she's an ImpSec-trained assassin with a death wish. No, hear me out,” Con said quickly when Philip leaned forward. “She wants to take down the Empire and she doesn't care who she has to walk over, kill, or sleep with to accomplish that task. Believe me, Philip, I know. I've talked to her and to people on Calth Nine who know her. Sachi Holton is right: Rya Bennton is scary. But you're so tied up in knots over Cory Bennton's death and over losing Chaz, you can't see what you're doing here.”

Philip realized he was breathing hard. “What exactly is it you think I'm doing?”

“If I didn't respect you so much, I wouldn't be forced to say this. You're making a fool of yourself. I don't want to see that happen. Jodey doesn't want to see that happen. Sparks doesn't want to see that happen.”

“Sparks?”

“You really think no one's noticed, don't you?”

“I think,” he said, spacing his words carefully, “someone is creating—
imagining
—a problem where there is none. Not with me. Not with Rya Bennton. And if anyone on Calth Nine—who in hell gave you permission to do that?” He blurted the last part out, because Con's admission finally registered:
I've talked to people on Calth Nine who know her.

“Adney.”

Adney? God. “So on the advice of a woman severely deficient in her mental faculties, you go poking around into Rya's past?” He didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“This was before Adney's collapse. I worked personnel clearances with her before you even made Kirro. Bennton's jacket worried her. It worried me. I checked further and I think,” and he hesitated, taking a breath, “my worries are justified. You said it yourself many times: she's ImpSec. Not just ImpSec but Special Protection Service. They're highly, intensely trained. It was ImpSec that hunted down the
Loviti
crew on Corsau.”

“You're accusing Rya Bennton of being Tage's agent?”

“I'd worry less if she was, because that would at least keep her in check. No, she's gone rogue. The restraints are off. She prowls around the ship at all hours, with God only knows how many guns and knives on her, on a mission of her own. And she's not above using you and the rest of us to accomplish it.”

Rya was about halfway through the list of personnel waiting for the
Folly
on Ferrin's when she heard Sachi Holton call out her name. “Hey, Rya, hungry yet?”

It took two seconds for her brain to confer with her stomach. “Starving.” She glanced at her watch. It was well into dinnertime. The bottle of water Mather had brought her was empty.

Sachi appeared in the office doorway and leaned against the jamb. “I'm bored
and
starving. I hate jump transit. Where'd you get the water?”

“Mather came by about an hour ago.”

“Commo's a nice man. Always trying to be helpful.”

Rya shut down her deskscreen and stood. “Where's dinner, or is the mess hall no longer off limits to bridge crew?”

“We get the royal treatment, don't you know?” Sachi put her hands on her hips, wiggling them saucily as Rya rounded the desk. “Dinner's in the ready room with Constantine Welford himself. I volunteered to fetch you since none of us is supposed to be running around alone here for long.”

Welford? Oh, great. Her torturer. But then, she knew Sachi never missed a chance to eye Con Welford. “He can be your date. I'll take—”

A flash of movement behind her had Rya jerk around.

Captain Folly stood on her desk and emitted a raspy meow. He cocked his face to one side, then butted her hand with his broad head when she reached for him.

“Why am I not surprised you show up at the mention of food?” She bundled the large cat into her arms. “As I said, you can have Welford. The captain and I have a date. So, see? I'm not alone.”

“That scruffy thing?” Sachi laughed as they headed into the corridor. “I don't know what you see in him.”

“Scruffy holds a special place in my heart,” Rya replied as lightly as the truth behind the words would allow her.

“Lack of food has made you delusional. I hope Con ordered enough to eat.”

It wasn't the menu that was on Rya's mind when they took the stairwell down to Deck 3 then up to 2 Forward but the cat's reaction to Con Welford. If the man had handled disatone tylethelene, then there would be residue on his clothes. His boots. And Captain Scruffy Folly was just the one to verify that.

Philip sat for a long time after Con Welford left his office, fingers steepled before his mouth. Once his anger over Con's accusations faded, past sins and present foibles—as Captain Cory Bennton used to term them—paraded through his mind. He'd made mistakes with Chaz, many of which Con and Jodey were privy to. He didn't want to repeat them. Not with anyone, especially Rya. He'd made mistakes in his career, trusting people against his gut instinct. He was working now more on gut. He could see where that would scare Constantine Welford and Jodey Bralford. In many ways he was not the Philip Guthrie they'd known for almost fifteen years.

Con was wrong about Rya. Philip
knew
Rya Taylor Bennton. But how and why he knew her so well was something he couldn't risk trying to explain. Not to Con. Not without his XO questioning the Old Man's sanity any more than he already did. Not without putting Rya's reputation and possibly her career in jeopardy.

It started when he pressed that Carver into that annoying child's hands twenty years ago. She was a natural—she'd launched that forkful of peas at him with unerring accuracy. It exploded when she fondled the Norlack, when she cried over the loss of her father, when she told him “hell, no” more than once, his rank, illustrious family name, and damned exalted service history notwithstanding.