Hope's Folly Page 10

  Sachi Holton and Willym Tramer she trusted. Mostly. They’d recognized her name when she introduced herself and provided the right answers to the right questions, so she felt sure that, yes, they’d served with her father. Holton’s name she even remembered. But she’d verify everything as soon as they got to Seth.

  She glanced down at Martoni’s vitals on the medi -stat’s screen. He was climbing back to consciousness with no permanent damage. She followed the med-tech as he screened the others, including Mirrow and Samling again. Out of the corner of her eye she kept watch on Philip. When she saw him disengage the archiver, she nudged the med-tech and sent him over to run a full scan on Philip.

  Then Holton came down the ladderway. Rya caught up with her.

  “Pocket comm,” Holton said, palming the unit. “Captain Ellis offered to come down and see the admiral, but I thought it best if she stayed on the bridge with Tramer watching her back, until we’re really sure who’s who.”

  “We might not know until we hit Seth,” Rya said grimly.

  “Five more hours,” Sachi said. “But at least this ship’s got weapons if someone comes at us again.”

  Rya had heard Ellis mention the Gritter cannon. She knew immediately what it was—every first-year rook in ImpSec was trained to search and spot illegal weapons on board pirate vessels, and the easily disguised GRT-10 cannon was one of the most common. Instinctively, she swept the cargo bay with an appraising glance. Gritters were more often tucked in between enviro converters, but she’d seen one or two tucked nicely in a cargo bay’s utility power station.

  Not on this ship, though. Enviro, then.

  “I’ll give this to the admiral,” Sachi said, and stepped away to hand the pocket comm to Philip.

  Rya stayed by the ladderway, alternately damning herself and calling herself an idiot. She now had a ridiculous, full-blown crush going on Admiral Philip Guthrie, and every time she thought she’d managed to get hold of her emotions and shake some sense into her head, he’d lean against her or look at her with those damned magnificent eyes, and her toes would curl and she was lost. Again.

  This was just so very much not like Rya Taylor Bennton. She did not get crushes on guys—not since she was ten years old, anyway. Rya Taylor Bennton found hard-bodies who amused her and bedded them. Sex was fun, great exercise, super stress relief. Nothing more.

  Then Philip had walked—well, limped—back into her life, amid guns blazing and punches flying. And in two, three short hours her life changed.

  She’d just managed to get her head and heart back on straight when she heard Mirrow threaten him. And when she came down that ladderway to find him on the decking, all her hard work was for naught. Because she knew if he died, she’d be devastated beyond words. And if Mirrow had put him in that life pod and sent him to the Infiltrator, Rya would have grabbed another one for herself and tried to follow.

  This was crazy. She was crazy. Guthrie was her father’s friend. He was an admiral. He had a wife. Rya was just “Subbie” to him, one of his crew. He’d never be interested in her. But if he was … No. Rya wouldn’t want to be the reason he cheated on his wife.

  Liar. Oh, hell, yeah, she would. She never had before. It was something—for all her sexual liaisons with her hard-body boys—that she swore she’d never do: break up a marriage. But for Philip Guthrie …

  She slanted a glance his way. He was watching her, something unreadable on his face, which was sweat-streaked and bruised. Tired. Determined. Her heart sped up, her breath hitched, her toes curled. And she knew if she didn’t get up that ladderway right now, she was going to drop to her knees at his side, take that beautifully rugged face in her hands, and kiss him— and do whatever else he wanted in as many ways as he wanted—until they hit the docks at Seth. The rest of the crew and his mysterious wife be damned.

  She pulled herself up the ladderway, not once looking back.

  “Infiltrator’s off my grids now,” Rya heard Captain Ellis say, then saw her repeat it through the pocket link the shuttle’s captain shared with the admiral. Rya had been standing near the galley behind the bridge, talking to Tramer and watching the passenger cabin, for about fifteen minutes, reminding herself all the while that he was the admiral. Admiral Guthrie. Not Guthrie. And definitely not Philip. Admiral, admiral, admiral.

  So when her brain told her Ellis was sharing the good news with the admiral, she felt pleased on both counts. Dalby was going away, and Rya hadn’t thought of the admiral as Philip.

  “We’ll lose Kirro’s P-33 shortly,” Tramer said, with a nod toward the bridge. “But it sounds like that freighter is heading to Seth. And we should pick up Seth’s P-40 in about an hour.”

  “Why am I not ready to relax yet?” she drawled.

  Tramer snorted. He was an average-looking guy, maybe four or five years older than she was. About her height, but thinner than she found attractive. Built kind of lanky. And his eyes were small, giving him a haughty look.

  “You could put a squadron of P-40s out there and none of us would relax, not after today,” he admitted. Then he grinned.

  Okay, he had a somewhat nice grin. She’d watched him flirt earlier with a couple of the female crew. They seemed to find him worthy.

  Of course, he hadn’t stared at their chests the way his gaze kept dropping to hers.

  He was talking about P-40s. She half-listened, trying to hear what Ellis was telling Phil—the admiral. Updates on their freighter escort and, yeah, the P-40 from Seth would be picking them up earlier than anticipated. They’d put a push on after the shuttle’s first distress call.

  “I worked relief shift for two weeks on a P-40 with Guthrie’s wife,” Tramer said.

  Rya’s brain froze. All the sounds in the shuttle shut down except for Tramer’s voice. She thought he said …

  “You worked with the admiral before?” she asked, trying not to stammer. She knew her question was false because Phil—the admiral hadn’t recognized Tramer. But she had to get clarification. He couldn’t have said he’d worked with—

  “No, his wife. Captain Bergren. She ran the Mer itorious in Calth, sometimes Baris. I think Guthrie said Sparkington, the engineer, will be chief engineer for us on the Folly.”

  “Captain Bergren is Guthrie’s wife?” Rya tried very hard to keep her voice low and level. It took her a few moments, while Tramer was rattling on about someone named Sparkington, to place the name. Captain Chasidah Bergren. Court-martialed about a year ago, a big mess about a dozen or so crew members dying because she’d failed to follow orders.

  But Rya remembered that, right before her father was killed, he mentioned in passing that the whole thing had been staged and Chasidah Bergren was set up by Tage. He’d never mentioned that Bergren was Philip Guthrie’s wife, though. Or maybe he had but Rya hadn’t been listening. Considering everything else that had been going on, that was very possible.

  Guthrie and Bergren had just been names then, familiar but distant.

  Now they were real.

  “Captain Bergren never mentioned it, not to me,” Tramer was saying, “but Sparks said something one day. I don’t think a lot of people knew. They wanted their privacy. Considering their positions in Fleet, and Guthrie’s family, that’s understandable.”

  “Bergren.” The name surfaced with another bit of information. “Didn’t a Commander Bergren die recently?”

  “Her brother, I think.”

  And Tage had something to do with that. Rya couldn’t place the few mentions in the news vids, but she could suddenly remember Captain Chasidah Bergren’s face. A very pretty woman, probably prettier than her official Fleet image, because those images were always so stilted. But very pretty. Gorgeous, silky auburn hair. Long. Even in her uniform she looked slender. And younger than Phil—the admiral.

  She turned away from Tramer before the hurt and dismay on her own face betrayed her.

  “She’s a damned fine captain,” Tramer said. “Never believed those charges against her, which turned out to be al
l pure slag. I’d serve on a ship with her again in a minute.”

  “Why isn’t she with the Alliance?” Maybe the beautiful Captain Bergren supported Tage. Or the Farosians. Then it wouldn’t be cheating. And Rya could comfort Philip over the loss of his wife.

  “She is with the Alliance. Maybe she’s coming in with Sparks. That would make sense. They worked together for a long time.”

  Philip’s wife was meeting him at the Folly. God, that would make sense. And that would make Philip happy, so get over it, Rya. Get over him. It’s a useless, stupid little crush. He’s too old for you, anyway. And with that admiral-always- in-command mentality, he wouldn’t be any fun. Right?

  Right. She straightened her shoulders, giving them a little roll to release tension.

  Poof! You’re gone, Philip. Out of my mind, out of my heart.

  Tramer was smiling at her chest again.

  “So, Willym,” she said, “what do you usually carry? Stinger? Carver-Ten?”

  The Infiltrator was now officially off the scanners, and Ellis had just confirmed Seth’s P-40 coming alongside. Philip leaned his head back against the bulkhead wall. Four more hours to survive. A lot could happen in four hours, but, God, please. No more. What was it Chaz liked to say? He was over quota on trouble this week.

  He had two Farosian operatives sedated and locked in separate-life- pods-turned- holding-cells. He had Commander Martoni, angry and chagrined at not knowing that one of his own people was a Farosian Justice Warden—or lying convincingly that he didn’t know. But Martoni and the others stunned in the attack had recovered sufficiently to return to the passenger cabin above.

  So it was just Philip, his pocket link to Ellis, and the two Farosians in this makeshift sick bay, except when Sachi Holton came down to bring him a blanket, then a pillow and a bottle of water, and, later, another larger bottle of water.

  His subbie was conspicuously absent. He’d almost asked Holton to find her but held back. She’d rescued him twice since he’d set foot on Kirro. No doubt she was tired of babysitting a weakling, injured admiral. Plus, keeping Ellis alive and everyone else away from the bridge was far more important.

  Still, every time he heard boots coming down the ladderway, he did two things: unholstered his Carver, and wished his visitor was Rya the Rebel.

  He finished the bottle of water, pressure reminding him that what goes in must come out. Damn. He glanced around the cargo area and spotted the door for a crew lav to his right. At least there was no one around to witness him flail, hop, hobble, and limp to the lav.

  He exited the lav and was halfway back to his blanket and pillow when boots again thumped against the rungs.

  Fuck. He leaned awkwardly against the wall and pulled out his Carver. Then he recognized the boots, the thighs, that lovely curvy ass, and a very familiar scowl that told him his subbie was mad at him.

  Again.

  “What are you doing? Sir,” she added, hands on hips.

  He grinned as he holstered his gun. “Taking a piss, if you must know. In the lav,” he added hurriedly, seeing her eyes widen. Hell, he was leaning against the wall. What did she think, he was writing his name?

  Oh, those damned drugs.

  He motioned to the crew lav behind him and almost fell over.

  “Damn you, Guthrie!” she said, moving quickly, putting her shoulder against his and her arm around his waist, holding him up.

  “Getting tired of the Old Man falling at your feet, Rebel?”

  She lifted her chin just as he looked down at her, her brows lifting out of their frown, her eyes softening, widening slightly. Lips parting …

  No, Guthrie. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

  He could feel her breath feathering against his face, knew his own brushed hers. They were that close, which was far too close.

  She’s Cory’s daughter.

  “I’m fine now. Just turned too quickly.” His voice was gruff. He looked away from her, staring at the blanket on the floor as if he could will his body there without her help. He needed to sit down and he needed, desperately, for the heat of her body against his to go away.

  “Of course, sir.” She pulled her arm away, just steadying him with her hand under his elbow.

  Thank you, Rya, for stopping me from making a complete fool of myself.

  He limped toward the blanket, then did his usual brace-and- slide down the wall, her hand on his arm guiding him down.

  “Holton’s fault,” he said, because she was standing there far too quietly. “She kept bringing me these.” He pointed to the empty water bottles.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

  Got any spare sanity? “No, thanks. We’re, what? Two hours out?”

  “Hour and a half, sir.”

  He grunted. “Still time for someone to throw a few torpedoes at us.”

  “They want you alive, sir.”

  He looked up at her. She was damned near standing at parade rest. “You’re doing good, Subbie. Those ‘sirs’ are rolling right off the tongue now.”

  He waited for a grin, a snort, something rebellious.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hell. “Sorry, Rya. Those painkillers you pumped into me have loosed my sarcastic side. Just ignore me. It’s only another hour and a half.”

  “Yes, sir.” But that “yes, sir” sounded nervous. So was the way she chewed on her lip. “Hour and a half. And then … well, I guess you’ll be glad to see her, won’t you?”

  “Hell, yeah. I mean, she’s only a Stryker-class, but after what we’ve been through—”

  Emotions shifted across her face. “The Folly? No, I didn’t mean the ship. I meant … ” She halted, pursing her lips. “It’s none of my business. Really.”

  “Rya.” He pinned her with what Chaz used to call his steely-eyed captain’s glare. Except he was an admiral now. “Would you please sit? I’m getting a crick in my neck and in my brain trying to understand what you’re talking about.”

  For a few long seconds she didn’t move, then she lowered herself to her knees and sat back stiffly on her heels.

  “It’s none of my business,” she said again.

  “What is?”

  “Your wife. Sir.”

  “My?” He frowned. She was watching him closely. “My wife?”

  “Captain Bergren.”

  “Chaz? What about Chaz?” For a moment, panic struck. Had something happened to Chaz and Sullivan?

  “I thought she might be meeting you on the Folly,” she said, her voice sounding unusually small and lost. “With Sparks. And you’d be glad to see your wife—”

  “Chaz isn’t my wife.”

  Rya was staring at him as if he was gibbering in some alien tongue.

  “We’re divorced. She’s married to Sullivan. Who told you they’re coming in with Sparks?”

  “They’re … I don’t know. I thought … ” Rya leaned to one side, collapsing down on her right hip. “You’re not married?”

  “No.” He thought he’d already said that, several times. “Who told you Chaz and Sullivan are coming in to Seth?” That would be great news and would certainly solve his hidden-Farosian problems.

  “No, no. God, Philip, I’m sorry.” She ran one hand over her face. “I misunderstood something Tramer said. He pulled a relief shift on the Meritorious years ago.” She stopped. “That was her ship?”

  “The Meritorious? Yes. Tramer knew Chaz?” He still wasn’t sure what was going on in this conversation.

  “And Sparks, the engineer. Tramer told me he thought if Sparks was coming to Seth, your wife was too. Except that she’s not your wife.”

  And that pronouncement, Philip noticed, seemed oddly to make Rya happy.

  She’d also stopped calling him “sir.”

  “So Tramer just got his story wrong,” she continued. “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t look sorry. She was smiling.

  He didn’t understand any of this. It must be the drugs.

  The shuttle’s lower deck was packed
and noisy, the influx starting shortly after Rya had come below to pepper him with her strange line of questions and increasing the closer they got to the shipyards. Their arrival added the Folly’s officers to the mix.

  Now Commander Dina Adney—a slender, dusky-skinned woman with short, tightly curled black hair— was calling orders to her people working with Seth stripers. They were locking sonicuffs on the wrists of the two Farosian agents, who were looking alternately glum and sullen or defiant and sullen. Sub-Lieutenant Sachi Holton was directing three crew acting as baggage handlers, dispersing the duffels to small antigrav pallets for transport to the Folly. Commander Martoni, head bowed, was listening intently to something Captain Ellis was saying. Philip hadn’t realized how short Ellis was until he saw her standing next to Martoni. Sitting in her captain’s chair, grinning gleefully as she brought her GRT-10 cannon online, had made her seem taller.

  Of course, the nearly eight-foot- tall Takan, Dargo, standing behind her didn’t help his perspective on her height. But he doubted Ellis was much over five foot.

  Not like his strapping subbie, who was … there, yes, talking to Willym Tramer and Con Welford, standing at an angle to them both. She did that a lot, Philip noticed, gun hand free and clear.

  Shouldering his duffel with its much-coveted Norlack, he leaned on the cane Burnaby Mather—one of Jodey’s people—had brought him and limped toward Rya.

  No, not Jodey’s people. Burnaby Mather was one of his people now, just like Holton, Welford, Tramer, and more names he had yet to commit to his drug-hazed memory, including—unless his instincts were widely wrong—Martoni.

  Rya, well … Every instinct Philip had told him to get her on the next shuttle back to Kirro or Calth 9. But he couldn’t do that, because, in order to do so, he’d have to provide some logical instance where she’d failed in performance of her duties. He couldn’t. The reasons he wanted her on the next shuttle out were purely personal.