Hope's Folly (4 page)

“From my ship,” Jodey continued, “you're getting Commander Dina Adney and Lieutenant Burnaby Mather. Mather's COMTAC.”

Philip had meet Adney and Mather but didn't know either as well as he knew Welford. But a good COMTAC—communications and tactical officer—was always appreciated. And Mather's friendly, always-wanting-to-help attitude had impressed Philip over the past few weeks.

Jodey hesitated. “And Drew Sparkington said he's willing to come out of retirement if you want him.”

That name got Philip's attention. “Sparks?”

“Chaz got in touch with him. You know how fond he is of her.”

And Jodey still wondered if Philip was more than fond of Captain Chasidah Bergren. Philip could tell by the man's hesitation in mentioning her and the way he wouldn't directly meet Philip's gaze.

Philip and Chaz had been shipmates and friends for over ten years, married for eight, and divorced for three. He'd admired her, loved her, toyed with disliking her—but never quite could—and now … Now he could honestly say they were close friends, probably closer than before they married. For some reason, most people had a hard time accepting the fact that he could feel that way.

Especially Jodey, who'd been through the worst of it with him: the end of the marriage, the few blessedly rare drunken stupors Philip had indulged in, and the hard emotional armor he'd donned through Chaz's orchestrated arrest and trial—one of the first salvos in Tage's plan to discredit Fleet and the Admirals’ Council, almost a year ago.

But that was before Chaz and Sullivan had plucked Philip and his faltering pinnace out of the big wide darkness and out of the sights of Tage's fighters gunning for him. And before he witnessed what Chaz and Sullivan had together, which was incredibly strong and incredibly rare.

It was a love Philip could never offer her. He didn't think he could offer it to any woman.

So Chaz was happy, and Philip was happy for her. And content that he would have a ship of his own under his boots shortly, with Commander Drew Sparkington as chief engineer.

“Sparks would be a blessing,” he told Jodey. Sparks had been his ex-wife's engineer for four years on the
Meritorious
—a P-40 patrol ship known more for speed than power. He'd taken early retirement when Chaz had been falsely court-martialed. Maybe the ruddy-faced man had seen something coming no one else had at the time, Philip thought grimly. “Does he have experience with Strykers?”

“A six-month stint. Not long, but I don't see it as a huge problem. You know the man never met a ship he couldn't fix.”

“Agreed. But you said five command staff.”

“ Sub-Lieutenant Corvang.”

Philip thought a moment, hearing Jodey's guttural pronunciation and lack of first name. “Takan?”

“Takan. He's young but whip-smart and tireless. He's third-shift nav here on the
Nowicki
right now. But he's studied everything the Great Guthrie has ever written and has every combat-training holo you've ever done. I fear that if I don't assign him to you, he'll stow away.”

“The Great Guthrie, eh?” Philip snorted.

“He has your shoulder roll down pat.”

On an eight-foot-tall, fur-covered Takan in the Alliance's standard-issue gray fatigues, that should be a sight to see.

“I have all their service records here.” Jodey tapped the screen slanting out of the desktop. “Why don't you sit and review them?”

Because when you were six-foot-two and had a bum leg and shattered hip held together with plastic and metal, sitting was difficult in deck-locked chairs that couldn't move backward. “Just tilt the screen. I'll stand.”

“Sit,” Jodey repeated. “You've been standing for over an hour. Doc Galan told you that leg is not going to heal any faster if you don't stay off it.”

“Ah. The insubordination surfaces because I'm no longer an admiral of the Fleet.” Philip plucked at the patch above his shirt pocket. It bore only his last name. Rank pins were an unnecessary luxury at the moment.

It was Jodey's turn to snort. “Admiral Guthrie, sir. Please sit down. I have these records ready for your perusal.”

“That's more like it.” Philip limped over to the closest chair, sat awkwardly, then took a moment to smack Jodey on the arm with the head of his cane. Jodey had been his first officer for five years on the
Morgan Loviti,
but they'd been friends for longer than that.

“You're still an admiral of the Fleet,” Jodey said with a wry grin. “We just don't quite have a fleet— yet.”

No. They had a lone Maven-class cruiser, and a handful of patrol ships, Ratch fighters, and luxury yachts. And now an old, ungodly Stryker-class bucket turned fruit hauler that it was Philip's job to shape into a Fleet-worthy heavy cruiser again.

Before Darius Tage decided Calth and Dafir sectors were his for the taking and anyone allying with the rebels was his to destroy.

“I can't believe you're just leaving like this.” Matthew Crowley's face—and a pretty one it was—was creased in anger, his voice tinged with bitterness. Rya had never noticed—well, actually, she had a few times but ignored them—how Matt's voice rose to an almost feminine falsetto when he was pissed off. It made his prettiness … petulant.

“I'm not leaving
just
like this,” she told him, rummaging through the wooden dresser's top drawer for one more pair of heavy socks. Old Stryker-class cruisers were known for inconsistent enviro. Heat in the crew's quarters was spotty at best. She remembered her father's stories about blanket raids and card games where a pair of socks trumped all.

“I'm leaving,” she continued without a glance at the naked man in her bed, “exactly when I told you I would: 0600. I have a shuttle to catch.”

“It's four-fucking-thirty in the morning! Seeing this is our last night together, I thought, for once, you might want to spend a little more time with me.”

Rya stuffed the socks in her dark-blue canvas duffel and turned. God, she was tired of arguing with him. It was all they seemed to have done the past week. “Factually correct, Barrister Crowley. It's 0430, and we have been fucking for the better part of the past few hours.”

“We've been fucking,” Matt's voice rose again, “for the better part of the past two goddamned years! Two years, Rya. Evidently all that time has meant nothing. Thanks for the great sex, Matt, I'm leaving, goodbye.”

She zipped the duffel shut. They'd been over this. She didn't know why he was bringing it up again. Certainly his language—which she'd deliberately thrown back at him in her answer—wasn't exactly endearing. It was almost as if he wanted to part on bad terms. “I have to do this. And, yes, it goes beyond our friendship and our sexual relationship. You know that.” She shot him a hard glance in the room's dim lighting.

Matt sat up, the white bedsheet pooling around his waist. He thrust his hands through his shoulder-length blond hair, his demeanor shifting. “I'm sorry about your father, but it's not going to bring him back. And you could get yourself killed.”

Rya's throat tightened, not just at the unexpected concern in Matt's voice but for the grief she still held inside over her father's death. It was raw, angry, ripping. And this was the only way she could assuage it.

She found her dark-blue Imperial Fleet Security Forces beret on the dresser and held it tightly in one hand for a moment before she shoved it into the duffel's side pocket, which already held her now-useless ImpSec badge and ID. Another loss, though not as devastating. Her four-and-a-half-year career with the Empire had ceased when Calth Starport 9 had allied with Consul Falkner's new government after the massacre at Raft Thirty. She'd worked, as everyone in her unit had, as a “striper”—station security—since then, waiting, hoping for a rebirth of a version of ImpSec under the Alliance. It was coming, according to the new Independent Admirals’ Council, but Rya couldn't wait any longer. She'd resigned, turning in her temporary striper's badge and service weapon. A Carver-10. Damn, she'd miss that gun. More than she'd miss Matt Crowley.

“Getting myself killed is what I've done for as long as you've known me,” she said when she found her voice. And her personal Stinger laser pistol, a gift from her father, along with her L7 pocket laser. She might not be ImpSec anymore, but she was still licensed to carry. The Stinger went into her shoulder holster under her brown leather spacer jacket, the L7 into a paddle holster tucked discreetly in the small of her back.

She already had a sonic knife in each boot.

She still believed in the Imperial Fleet Security Forces Special Protection Service motto:
Polite, Professional, and Prepared to Kill.

“Being a cop on Calth Nine is not the same thing as running off to join some slagging fleet!”

No, it wasn't. And that was exactly why she had to leave. After four and a half years working undercover and security ops with ImpSec, spending her shift as a cop corralling bored station brats made her ass pucker, and breaking up bar brawls was becoming a mindless routine. But even before Tage's takeover, Rya's career with ImpSec hadn't been enough to qualify her for a Fleet shipboard posting. Which was what she'd always wanted: to serve on the same ship as her father. She, chief of security. And he …

But he was dead.

And this was the only chance she'd have to do something about that.

“I'll try to drop you some transmits if I can,” she said, “but I'm sure security will be tight.”

Matt grunted and looked away. “Don't bother. You simply want out of this relationship, and this is as good an excuse as any.”

For a moment, her eyes narrowed, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. He was definitely looking to pick a fight. Her right hand fisted with an overwhelming urge to punch Matthew Crowley's pretty face. Then she relaxed. His words weren't that far from the truth. Matt was a fun, interesting diversion. He was handsome and intelligent. But he was also shallow, petty, self-absorbed, and, honestly, not
that
good in bed.

Like she said, she'd miss her Carver-10 more.

And she did want out of this relationship. But if his ego needed to believe that he was the one breaking it off, fine. No skin off her ass.

“I told Lyza she could have my apartment as of tomorrow. The landlord has the signed docs. Drop the keypad on Lyza's desk when you leave.”

“When you come crawling back here in three, four months, I'm going to be with someone else, Rya. Don't think I'm going to wait for you. There are a lot of women on this starport who'd love to have me in bed.”

Ah. Now his petulance made sense. Rya stopped in the bedroom doorway and almost pointed out that she was well aware he'd already tried out several of them, as recently as two months ago. But that was her fault as much as his. It was the usual JFFS: Just For Fun Sex. No strings, no promises—she'd told him that when they'd fallen into bed almost two years ago. She'd been twenty-seven and had just received her first promotion with ImpSec. He'd been twenty-eight and a junior barrister with the prosecutor's office in Calth Judicial District 1. Calth Starport 9 was just a temporary stop for her—six years by regulation—on her way to a posting on one of Fleet's top ships.

But Fleet as she knew it was gone. So was Captain Cory Bennton.

And the only thing left for Rya Taylor Bennton was to catch the 0600 Starford flight to Kirro and then the local shuttle to Seth, where her father's Stryker-class cruiser was waiting for her.

As for Matt Crowley, he could do or believe whatever he wanted. It no longer mattered to her.

Rya turned and softly pulled the door shut behind her.

He didn't have much to pack, Philip realized wryly, tossing the heavy-duty black duffel on the narrow bed in his cabin on the
Krista Nowicki.
Two sets of fatigues, one gray and one black, and two pairs of gray coveralls from his short stay on Sullivan's well-armored 200-ton luxury yacht, the
Boru Karn.
A couple of thermal shirts. The repaired remnants of his Imperial Fleet dress uniform—God only knew why he was keeping that. All his other personal effects had been left on the
Morgan Loviti.
God also only knew where those things were now.

After three shipdays of travel, the
Nowicki
was an hour out from Kirro Station, where Philip would catch the shuttle to the Seth shipyards. Adney, Welford, Mather, and Corvang had gone ahead, leaving two shipdays ago in a shuttle that would become the
Folly's,
loaded with what supplies Jodey could spare. Philip was supposed to be on board that shuttle, but Doc Galan had put her foot down. So they'd compromised, with his command staff going in first—not at all unusual. He'd follow once Christine Galan, CMO, granted him medical clearance.

But with the shuttle gone, the
Nowicki
had to deliver Philip. The large docks at the shipyards were full—little surprise, that. No room for a Maven-class cruiser, which was fine with Philip. He had no taste for big send-offs and had even waved away Jodey's offer of his personal pinnace. The
Nowicki
had work to do. Ferrying
Hope's Folly's
new captain to his ship's berth wasn't of primary importance when he could get to the shipyards just fine on his own.

More so because—as he'd told Jodey, and his former first officer reluctantly agreed—security was a constant worry. Kirro Station was fairly well protected by the locals and busy enough that even a Maven-class cruiser could blend in among the tankers and luggers. But an officer's sleek pinnace headed for Seth was a blaring target and, as he'd learned off Raft Thirty, far less defensible.

He realized he was standing there with a pair of socks balled up in his hand while his thoughts twisted and turned. He aimed; pitched them.
He shoots, he scores!
Memories of his brothers washed over him with an unaccustomed sentimentality. He didn't have time for such thoughts—
impending doom must make me self-indulgent
—but the images surfaced anyway: the basketball court adjacent to the large pool on his parents’ Port Palmero estate, a spring afternoon just warm enough to tug him outside, where Trippy— Jonathan Macy Guthrie III, his oldest nephew—was home from his university and was shooting baskets along with Trip's twelve-year-old brother, Max. Then Philip's youngest brother showed up, and it was Uncle Philip and Trip against Uncle Devin and Max. The score didn't matter. The sense of belonging did.