Hope's Folly (40 page)

He had a lot more-pressing problems than why Rya Bennton showed up in his bedroom. Cap'n Cory notwithstanding, Philip should have sent her away. Any other time, Lieutenant Philip Guthrie or Captain Philip Guthrie would have. His relationship with Chaz had developed much more slowly.

But this—Sparks was right. Paint peeled off walls.

The reality was, he could not have sent her away. He wanted her too badly. The question then became: why was she there? Last desperate fling before impending doom? She'd thrown his quip back at him. Trouble was, that might be more fact than quip for her.

If there was one good thing about the Imperial firing squad they'd face coming out of jump, it was that Philip could die believing Rya honestly cared for him. Not that he was some way of atoning for her father's death or that she'd wanted to add an admiral to her list of conquests.

There was, he couldn't forget, a barrister named Matthew Crowley back on Calth 9.

Worry about that after you destroy the Imperial Fleet, Guthrie.

With a snort of self-derision, he pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the bridge. He had a few minutes yet before his meeting in the ready room. He did his best thinking on his feet. Even if that thinking once again raised options he knew his officers wouldn't like.

There was one very clear solution to the problem. It all depended on how badly the Empire wanted Philip Guthrie.

And how fast the
Folly
could run.

Con Welford was leaning over the navigation console when Philip came onto the bridge. Corvang sat helm, Dillon and Tramer at engineering.

“Admiral's on the bridge,” Con called out.

“Seats,” Philip replied, catching everyone halfway up. Protocol was nice when there was time for it. There was no time for it.

Con remained standing. Philip came up to him, catching what his XO had on the screens. The same thing Philip had in mind: the old trader routes from data from Sullivan's
Boru Karn.
Routes and jumpgates the Empire didn't have. If the
Folly
could lose Imperial ships long enough to get to one, the Empire would not only
not
know where she went, but they'd not know where she'd come out. It would delay their arrival at Ferrin's, but at least they'd have a chance to get there.

“Great minds,” Philip intoned over Con's shoulder, then moved away, stopping behind Corvang for a moment before passing the empty station at communications where Mather used to sit. A new commo would take that seat as soon as they neared the gate. Then he stood at the XO's console for a few minutes, right next to the command chair, and stared at ship's data flowing across the multitude of screens, most of which the day before—because of Mather's interference—were incomplete or blank. Now the
Folly
was awake, alive, moving, functioning. God willing, she should keep doing so. With or without Admiral Guthrie.

At least for a while. There was always the chance Philip could escape from wherever the Empire imprisoned him before they decided to execute him. He felt fairly certain Chaz would be behind some rescue scheme. If she and Sullivan found out in time.

Then again, maybe Sparks had unearthed a miracle. Philip glanced at the time stamp on the closest deskscreen. “Ready room, Mr. Welford.”

He hit the palm pad, not surprised to find Rya and Sparks already there, heads together, talking quietly. He waved one hand, indicating they should keep their seats, though his gaze stayed on Rya a lot longer than it should have.

“How's the shoulder?” he asked her. “Moreover, is my sick bay still in one piece?”

Her small smile warmed him. It was an innocent enough question. Her injuries were common knowledge. But only she and Philip knew he'd kissed those same injuries.

“Dugan's still among the living,” she said. She no longer wore his shirt. Evidently she did more than just visit sick bay. Martoni came in from the corridor just as Philip sat.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding a bit breathless. “I was running some sims in divisionals and lost track of time.”

“You have slept, haven't you, Mr. Martoni?”

“Yes, sir. Couple hours.”

A couple technically meant two. Not enough, but then, Philip hadn't had all that much sleep himself. He wasn't going to challenge the younger man on the point.

Con closed the door to the bridge, then sat.

“We have twenty-six hours, a little more than a shipday,” Philip said. “We need all ideas and options on the table now.”

“The biggest thing in our favor,” Martoni said after a short nod from Con, “is whoever is waiting for us at the gate doesn't know that Mather's dead or that we know what Mather's done. Lieutenant Bennton and I went over a few scenarios after our last meeting. She feels—if Welford can duplicate the codes—we might be able to fake a message from Mather to the waiting ships. We—as Mather—could tell them he's just about in control of this ship, but they need to delay, back off until he gives them a signal.”

“The closest trader's jumpgate is about two hours away at top speeds,” Con said. “But top speeds might look too much like we're running—which we would be. They'd get suspicious.”

“They might get suspicious before that,” Philip put in. “You're assuming Mather wasn't expendable. My gut feeling is he was. Yes, the Empire wants to put me on trial for treason. But Tage is not going to shed a tear if my execution—and the execution of everyone else on board this ship—comes first. You're dealing with someone who's already authorized civilian casualties. None of you is a civilian to him.”

“If we only knew where these ships will be positioned.” Sparks folded his hands on the tabletop, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Ten minutes out is different than an hour out. Are we talking a visual ident on the
Folly
or a long-range sensor sweep? There are ways,” and he looked around the table, one bushy eyebrow arched, “to falsify a ship's ident. Ways that even an Imperial cruiser won't be able to break.”

“Sullivan does it all the time,” Philip murmured.

“We could appear to be an Englarian hospital ship or missionary ship.” Rya sounded excited. Hopeful. “The Empire wouldn't dare touch us.”

An Englarian mercy ship would be an excellent cover. The Empire had a hands-off policy on its religious factions, which included the Englarians. It still worked in Tage's favor to do so. Most of the Takans— who formed the bulk of the Imperial physical labor and security work forces—were Englarians. “Unless they're in visual range,” Philip said. “Then they're looking for a Stryker-class heavy cruiser, and that's what we are. Then they'd know it was a ploy, that Mather was in custody or dead. But,” he continued, as expressions darkened, “I think it's an option we have to implement. One of the options.” And it could work, if the Imperial ships were far enough away. He returned Sparks's arched-eyebrow glance. “I won't ask how you came upon that knowledge, Commander Sparkington.”

“You'd be surprised what you can learn on Dock Five, Skipper,” Sparks said. “Or maybe not.”

“One thing we can't forget: we have no ability to successfully attack whatever ships are waiting for us,” Con said. “All we can do is use whatever deceptions we can and then hit one of the old traders’ gates that Captain Chaz Bergren's contacts supplied us. That will delay our arrival in Ferrin's by two to as much as five days. But as far as we know, the Empire doesn't have these gates and won't know, once we hit jumpspace, where we've gone or where we'll come out. Unless they blockade Ferrin's, we should make it.”

“I have one more option—the only option we have if Imperial ships are within visual range when we clear the gate,” Philip said. “In visual range, muddying our ident will have no effect. And if they're in visual range, making a run for it will get us shot to hell and back. I cannot—
will not
—sentence everyone on board this ship to death.”

He raised his hand to stop Con from speaking, because Con was leaning forward, brows down, very probably knowing exactly what Philip was about to say and not liking it one bit. “Constantine has been with me a long time. He knows my feelings on that matter. I will not sacrifice ship and crew when there are options. And, as I said, there is one more option.”

He glanced around the ready-room table and tried not to let the fear he saw in Rya's eyes affect him. “This ship no longer has a shuttle, but it has escape pods on Decks Two, Three, and Five. Using the idea that Commander Martoni and Lieutenant Bennton worked on, if Imperial ships are in visual range, we send a message from Mather to the ships. We tell them he's in control of the
Folly
and has placed Admiral Philip Guthrie's unconscious body in an escape pod and is sending Guthrie to them. This will likely delay attempts to board this ship and take control of it. At least for a time. And time is something you'll need.”

“We could send an empty pod,” Rya put in quickly.

“No, we can't. This is Imperial ship to Imperial ship. Not like with the Farosian Star-Ripper, which couldn't be positive if its scans of an Imperial ship were accurate. And the shuttle we used in that ploy had shields. Pods don't. Those Imperials will scan a pod and if they don't read out a living breathing human— so, no, Subbie, we cannot use Mather's body—they'll know it's a ploy. The Imperials want me, badly. Badly enough, I believe, to focus on me in a pod and less on the
Folly.
That could let the
Folly
get far enough out of their range to be able to make a run for a gate we know is there and they don't. And when they bring me on board, I can cause enough problems—and, believe me, I can—to give this ship, all of you, more time.” He expected the stunned silence that followed. He didn't expect Rya bolting half out of her seat, hands fisted against the tabletop.

“Philip, send me.”

Philip stared at her. He knew she'd be upset, but it never occurred to him she'd counter his plans. Or use his first name in front of Con, Sparks, and Martoni. That made his mind stutter just long enough that she kept talking.

“Put me in that pod. I'm expendable. You're not. The Alliance needs you, needs what you know, needs what you can do—”

The emotion in her voice ripped through his heart. “You have no idea what these people would do—”

“I know exactly what they'd do. I'm an ImpSec assassin. Ask your XO. He's made inquiries. He knows what I am. And what I am is what I'll be facing on board whatever ships they send. The same ships they probably sent to Corsau. Who better to fight an assassin than another assassin?”

“No.” He didn't shout out the word, but the emphasis was there. Nor did he look at Con. They'd already had their discussion on Rya's former career. “The matter is closed.”

“She's right,” Con said.

This time he did look at Con, and it was through narrowed eyes. “I said—”

“They might not kill me right away,” Rya continued as if neither he nor Con had spoken. “I can convince them I know things, things they want. I can convince them to take me to Tage.” Determination lit up her face. Determination and something primal, feral. Like a predator scenting blood. “I could—”

“No!” This time he shouted, one hand slamming flat against the tabletop. Con jerked back in his seat.

Philip couldn't remember the last time he'd lost his temper in front of Con. But Con knew how Philip felt about Rya. He could almost hear the accusations forming in his XO's mind. “Don't start on me, Constantine,” Philip warned.

But it was Sparks who spoke up. “I don't like the idea, Skipper, but the two of you would have a much better chance than just one.”

“And how do we explain their sensors reading two life forms in the pod?” Philip asked Sparks tersely.

“I'm Mather,” Rya said. “But the point is, you shouldn't be going at all. You're the admiral. And you're injured.”

“My Carver's not.”

“You can't run.”

“I can when I have to. Or have you forgotten Kirro? Plus, I can have Dugan build a brace for my leg. It's something Doc Galan and I toyed with. I opted for the cane because it's less cumbersome and wouldn't constantly require readjustments. But with a brace I can function decently for about two hours. That's all we should need. It's all duck and shoot on a ship, anyway. Running won't keep you alive.”

“Dillon or Tramer,” Rya persisted. “Hell, send Corvang with me. Not you.”

“The matter, Lieutenant Bennton, is closed.” He shoved himself to his feet, cane already in hand. “Sparks, set up some alternate idents. An Englarian ship is a good one. We also have the old docs showing us as a cargo hauler. Martoni, work with Welford on the Imperial codes Mather used. Bennton, you say one more word and you're in the brig.” He glared at her, anger fusing with desperation.

She lifted her chin but kept her mouth shut.

His jaw hurt from clenching it, he had a headache starting right between his eyes, and his hip throbbed in painful surges. How convenient. “I'll be in sick bay getting a brace constructed. We'll meet back here for an update at 1530 hours.”

He headed for the corridor, very aware that Rya's mouth being shut in no way stopped her brain from working. That made him halt at the door before he hit the palm pad. “Bennton.”

She rose from her seat, chin still tilted in defiance. “Sir?”

“The Norlack.” He motioned to the weapon slung across her back, then held his hand out, palm up. “Now.” He'd need it when the Imperials opened his pod.

For a long second, she didn't move. For a long second, her eyes widened, her lips parted infinitesimally. She paled, then color flared on her cheeks and those widened eyes narrowed.

Slowly, she lifted the strap over her head, careful of her dark-blue beret. Her grip on the gun was tight— her knuckles whitening—as she passed it to him.

The look in her eyes was almost as lethal as the weapon. And far more dangerous.

He may have to lock her in the brig yet.

Dugan had Doc Galan's files on the makeshift brace on sick bay's deskscreen. “I'll need ten, fifteen minutes to review her notes, sir.”

Philip peered over the meddie's shoulder. Damned thing looked like the schematics for a bizarre, torpedolike ship. He could use one of those, especially if it had weapons. “Do we have the parts?”