Hope's Folly (7 page)

His eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed. She'd seen that look on her father's face when he was forced to make decisions he didn't like. Or when decisions he wanted to make weren't possible. The shuttle delay clearly had this man on edge.

“Life's not going to change all that much in the next four hours,” she commented, her voice low.

He slanted her a glance. The hard, angry emotions she saw in his eyes startled her and almost had her reaching for her L7. But he looked away, removing the immediacy of the threat. Still, she watched his hands, because she knew he was armed. One fist clenched.

“It already has.” He spoke suddenly, his voice as low as hers but harsh. “Tage hit Corsau an hour ago.”

She felt her eyes widen. He was looking at her, studying her, not only anger on his face but grief.

“No.” She breathed out the denial, her chest tightening. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

She motioned to the solitary vidscreen hanging in the far corner, flickering with images of a concert in Port Chalo last year. “There's been nothing—”

“I noticed. I'm guessing the dockmaster doesn't want to deal with a panic situation. Or the news simply hasn't been cleared for the civilian outlets yet.”

“Where did you hear about it?” Maybe it was rumor. Maybe it wasn't true.

“From an Alliance captain.” Blue eyes studied her again. “I don't have four hours to waste. How many besides yourself are here to see Commander Adney?”

“No direct knowledge, sir. But guessing from dock-worker uniforms, and discounting families, I'd say thirty or forty.” She motioned to a group of men and women about her age seated in the first three rows nearest the shuttle tubeway. “My flight out of Calth Nine got in late. They were already here. I haven't talked to them, but they haven't reacted to any shuttle announcements for the moon colony or Umoran.”

She shifted her gaze to their right. “Those three males at our two o'clock position. Middle one in the white thermal, two females in black behind him. They all feel like Fleet to me, or maybe one of the dirtside forces.”

“How long were you with ImpSec?”

She looked at him. “Four and half years, sir.”

“Academy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Last posting?”

“ Sub-lieutenant with SPS, Calth Nine, sir.”

That rewarded her with a raised eyebrow. Special Protection Service officers were not only polite, professional, and prepared to kill but received additional undercover and high-security operative training. And the old man next to her knew that.

No, not remotely an old man. But the Old Man. He'd known she was ImpSec. He'd known Adney was a commander, even though Rya hadn't volunteered that information. She felt his rank even more strongly from him now, in the tone of his questions, in his demeanor.

“Well, Subbie, we're about to make the passengers wanting to go home to Umoran very unhappy,” he said. “Can you handle it?”

“You intend to commandeer the shuttle?”

“I do.”

“I can handle that, sir.”

“Find out who's here for Commander Adney. Discreetly. Put them on alert. While you do that,” and he shoved himself, grimacing, to his feet, “I'm going to enlist the help of the local stripers.”

“Whoever's chief probably won't like that. You may have to get clearance from the dockmaster.”

“I fully intend to.” He lifted his duffel—clearly heavy—effortlessly. “Ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” She fought the urge to salute and instead watched him head for a striper standing in the corridor, realizing she didn't know his name or rank. Not that it mattered. There was something very familiar about him, something that resonated in a distant yet warm part of her heart. Something that told her she not only trusted him but that she'd follow him into the jaws of hell and out again. And never regret it.

Philip watched the wariness increase in the striper's eyes as he approached. No rank pins dotted the thin man's brown shirt. A rank-and-file officer, then, meaning he'd have to contact his superior, who'd contact
his
superior … More delays. Not four hours’ worth, however.

One hour Philip could live with. Four or more hours he could not. He'd almost called back the
Nowicki,
but she'd kicked engines hot on departure. Her return at this point might gain him only an hour, hour and a half at best. And it would delay what the
Nowicki
had to do.

No, he needed to commandeer that shuttle scheduled for Umoran. He needed his people on the way to the shipyards now.

“Officer Holbers,” he said, reading the name tag as he slowed at a safe and respectful distance from the man with the god-awful Blue Surger across his back. “I need you to contact your chief and your dockmaster immediately.”

Holbers's demeanor shifted from bored to very bored. “Them shuttles run late all the time. There's nothing—”

“I'm Admiral Philip Guthrie. I just came in off the Alliance cruiser, the
Nowicki.
You can verify that while you contact your chief.”

Holbers's dark eyes bugged out slightly in his thin face.

“Now,
Officer Holbers.”

“You got some ID?”

“I do. Upper right pocket.” Philip raised his hand slowly. “I'm also armed. I'd appreciate it if you don't shoot me.”

“Uh,” Holbers said.

God save me from moronic stripers,
Philip pleaded wryly, pulling his ID from his pocket. Not like his strapping young subbie, who'd tagged him as ex-Fleet as easily as he'd tagged her, dark-blue ImpSec beret notwithstanding. There was a keen intelligence in that face, in those hazel eyes that watched, categorized, and quantified everything. She'd already identified those who might be there for Adney and those who were not. That part reminded him of Chaz, but little else did.

Except maybe her quip about the loser buying the beer.

He held his ID out for Holbers's inspection, well aware the man might well have no idea what a real Alliance Fleet ID looked like. They weren't exactly common yet.

But it was enough to get Holbers chattering into his comm link.

“Chief Carmallis is on her way down,” Holbers said.

Philip nodded and spent a few minutes watching his subbie move among the rows of people. She carried a nice air of authority for a youngster. Comfortable in her own skin. Which was, the male in him admitted, a rather nice skin.

The admiral in him admonished that he was likely old enough to be her … uncle.

Holbers straightened. A short woman with sufficient rank pins on her brown jacket was striding toward them. She was middle-aged, her dark hair worn in rows of tight braids. She identified herself as Chief Carmallis and spent a little longer examining his ID, her dusky face creased in a frown.

“What can I do for you, Admiral?” she finally asked. “I need the next incoming shuttle to be allocated for my people going to the shipyards, Chief.” “That's scheduled dirtside for Umoran—” “I know. I'm sorry. But I have a ship in refit at Seth.” “The Seth shuttle will be here in a few hours.” “The Imperial Fleet attacked Corsau.” The practiced, patient smile dropped from her face. “I haven't heard anything about that.”

“I don't control the news vids. Commander O'Neil relayed that information to Captain Bralford of the
Nowicki
just before I was dropped off here.”

Carmallis nodded. “I'm aware Captain Bralford's cruiser came in.”

He knew she would be. “I need the
Nowicki
out there at the jumpgates, not wasting time ferrying me to Seth. Maybe that was a bad decision on my part, but the
Nowicki
was advised that Kirro provides service to the shipyards every two hours. Now the shuttle I was scheduled on is delayed for four hours. That puts me five hours behind, Chief. And puts a crew ready to assume their duties,” he inclined his head to the waiting area on his left, “five hours behind.” “I'll have to talk to the dockmaster.” He pinned her with a stern gaze, letting her know “talk” was not sufficient. “I'll have my people assembled at the tubeway, ready to go.”

She hesitated, then: “I'll alert the dockmaster.” “Thank you, Chief. Your cooperation will not be forgotten.”

He headed back to the waiting area, his right leg feeling a little less stiff than it had an hour ago. Or else he had too much on his mind to worry about it. Thirty, forty uncleared personnel on a shuttle to the shipyards. And him.

But Adney's call had gone out only to select circles through secure channels. Chances were good that at least half were decent, qualified personnel. The other half could well be Farosians or Imperial spies.

He unfastened his overcoat in spite of the chill. He wanted access to his gun if he needed it.

His subbie raised her gaze when he crossed the waiting area's wide threshold. He inclined his head toward the tubeway, then nodded.
We have permission to take the shuttle
was his unspoken message.

She pulled away from the group she was talking to and walked down the center aisle toward him. He noted again that she was as tall as some of the men, and not a weakling. She carried her bulky duffel easily. There was power in her stride but also a litheness. Her ImpSec beret sat on her head at a jaunty angle. Her hair itself was amazing—less than curly, but far more than wavy. It was just short of shoulder length, as springy and bouncy as she was, and a deep rich brown that these days might be natural or might not.

The rest of her, also bouncy, was very natural. But he wasn't supposed to notice that, as he was old enough to be her … uncle. And was now her commanding officer.

“Sir,” she said, slowing, then waiting as he fell in step with her. “I have verified fifty-three, including myself, who are here in response to Commander Adney's request. However, sir, there is an issue—”

A group of three men and one woman was moving toward him.

“—of your authority in this matter, though everyone understands the need to get to Seth as soon as possible.”

Fifty-three. Well, that wasn't a bad number.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. The dockmaster and se curity chief are aware of our situation. We have clearance. As for my authority, that can be resolved quickly.”

The waiting-room population had reorganized, with his fifty-plus possible crew seated in or standing near the first two rows adjacent to the shuttle tubeway on the far right.

“I don't know who you are, sir,” his subbie said quickly, with a slight hitch of embarrassment in her voice.

He'd wondered if she'd recognized him, though his face wasn't one of the more familiar ones. He'd not been an admiral for that long—not even a year. Evidently, she hadn't. And yet she trusted him enough to canvass the room on his orders, without question. Either she was very intuitive or extremely stupid.

“Not a problem.” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “Because I do know who I am.”

She looked momentarily startled at his teasing tone, then a small grin curved her lips.

“I just came off the
Nowicki,”
he explained. “We sent an advanced team to Seth, but Captain Bralford and I—”

He paused, the group of four suddenly in front of him, the rest of the forty-nine watching.

“Sir, we understand we're to depart for Seth on the next shuttle,” a short, round-faced man clad in plain civilian clothing said. He was the oldest of the group, around Chaz's age, mid-thirties. He wore tan pants of a heavy fabric and a dark-brown flight jacket minus any ship's patches. His short-cropped black hair and solid bearing were all Fleet. No salute, but his tone was respectful.

A reasonable move, since the man had no idea who he was.

“I've cleared it with Chief Carmallis and the dock-master's office,” Philip told him, with a slight nod to the others.

“I'm Commander Martoni, formerly with Baris Division Three and, as best as I've been able to ascertain, the highest-ranking officer here. Thirty-seven of the people here are my personal recruits.”

“Thank you, Commander. Excellent job.”

“I need to request your authority in this matter, sir,” Martoni continued.

“You should. Admiral Philip Guthrie, Alliance First Fleet.”

The voices around him quieted. Martoni and his three officers stared at him.

Philip wondered if he'd arisen from the dead or perhaps manifested an energy field and levitated around the room. No, those were Sullivan's
Kyi
-based specialties.

“You should also be asking to see my ID,” he prompted Martoni.

“I, yes, sir. That is, may I—”

Philip was already handing it to him when he heard his subbie whisper his name, and not as a question.

“Guthrie.”

He glanced over at her, taking in her wide-eyed expression. “Apologies, Lieutenant. I thought you'd guessed who I was.”

“I did,” she said softly. “I mean, that is … ” Her voice trailed off.

She was flustered. He had a feeling that was unusual for her. Evidently meeting an admiral was something she hadn't dealt with before. But she was SPS; she must have. He shook off whatever the issue was, because Martoni was handing him back his ID and saluting.

“Admiral Guthrie, sir, we had no idea you'd be here.”

“If it makes you feel any better, neither did I.” He could thank Doc Galan for that. He pocketed his ID and shifted the weight of the duffel on his shoulder.

“Can I take that for you, sir?” one of the other men, also in civvies, asked. “We're loading gear first.”

“Thank you, but I'll handle it. They should announce the schedule change shortly. Let's make sure everyone's ready to go. I want to keep problems to a minimum.”

Martoni nodded, then issued quiet but firm orders to the woman and man closest to him. They hurried off, Martoni not far behind, and with a nod or a hand signal from him, groups of young men and women rose from their seats or straightened from their tired slouches.

Heads turned as Philip walked, limping, toward the tubeway, his blue-bereted subbie on his right. Whispers followed him.

“That's Guthrie.”

“Admiral Guthrie.”

Well, if they hadn't known who he was before, they sure as hell did now.

The shuttle schedule board flashed, declaring the Umoran shuttle's delay and a
Special Shuttle
to Seth departing in half an hour. Groans and cries of dismay echoed around him. Tired faces watched his people queue at the tubeway. A few angry faces boldly stared at him.