Hope's Folly Page 18

  Far too aware that, for the first time in his life, he could be on the losing side.

  That people—his people—would die was inevitable. He just had to find a way to stave off the inevitable as long as possible and keep the body count to a minimum when options were exhausted.

  Hell’s fat ass, you’re a grim bastard this morning.

  He hadn’t been fifteen minutes ago when Rya the Rebel stood at his galley counter, offering him tea, her eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t quite name and was more than likely imagining.

  But that was fifteen minutes ago, and reality kicked in hard about that time. Con Welford showed up as well. It was the start of Day Two on board Hope’s Folly.

  “Other than enviro on Three, we seem to have most of the system glitches under control,” Con said, lounging back in the chair across from Philip’s desk while Philip perused third shift’s reports on his screen.

  “Under control but not fixed?”

  “Best we can hope for until we hit Ferrin’s.”

  Hope? Hope’s folly, he thought but didn’t say, and not just because the cat strolled through his office’s open door at that moment. But answers and solutions seemed to be more and more tantalizingly out of reach, always around the next bend, at the next port …

  This was not, he reminded himself as the cat sidled around the back of Con’s chair and disappeared into his quarters, the Imperial Fleet with its resources, financial and otherwise.

  “Sparks is sure Seth has nothing we can use?” Philip knew the answer but he had to ask. Sparks had a reputation for finding the unfindable.

  “Seth has plenty of parts, but they’re all civilian or commercial configuration. That’s the root of our problems. The fruit guy—”

  “Pavyer,” Philip put in, aware of the first whiff of oranges now.

  “—bastardized the ship’s original systems, forcing incompatible military components to integrate with commercial ones. Just enough to get by and just enough to screw up when systems get one hair over basic functional usage. Sparks just keeps shaking his head, but Mather’s throwing fits. I’m learning to stay away from him and let him do what needs to be done.”

  “Plague of the ittle-dos,” Philip intoned, knowing Con was well familiar with Philip’s favorite expression denoting substandard work.

  “She’s not the Loviti,” Con said, shaking his head.

  No, the Folly definitely wasn’t Philip’s pristine former Imperial flagship. Integration wouldn’t be a major problem there, because Imperial ship designers had learned a thing or three in the years since the Stryker-class ships had been commissioned. And one of those things was improved replacement-part compatibility. The Loviti could filch from the Nowicki, if need be. And the Nowicki from the Masting. Cross-compatibility was now the standard.

  “When do we head out for Ferrin’s?” Con asked.

  Philip rocked back in his chair. “That depends on what Sparks and Dina have to say.” It pained him to lie to Con. Damn it all, he trusted the man with his ship, his life … well, not with Rya Bennton, but with everything else. But he’d told Adney, and for good reason: Sparks, you, and I are the only ones who will know our exact departure time.

  And no one included Con Welford.

  No, this was not like the Loviti at all.

  Philip was still reviewing the systems upgrade and repairs report Con left behind when, five minutes later, a noise in the corridor made him raise his gaze from his deskscreen. Dina Adney touched her fingers to her temple in salute.

  “You free?” she asked, hesitating in the open doorway.

  “No, but my rates are reasonable,” he quipped, and when her frown told him his humor was clearly wasted, he motioned to the chair Con had vacated. “Sit. I’m just going over Welford’s shopping list.”

  “Do I have a copy of that?” She was frowning at her datapad now.

  “I’ll try to send it to you, but in the meantime, feel free to read over my shoulder.”

  She glanced up, eyes narrowed. Then she sighed, shaking her head.

  “Things will be better once we get to Ferrin’s,” he said, sensing her frustration.

  “We need to … Admiral, that’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Her tone shifted, tinged with a distant yet distinct formality. Philip could almost feel her physically withdraw. And there was something else. A hesitancy? Nervousness?

  “I spent most of last night thinking about our status and mission,” she said.

  Well, at least he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept well.

  “About this ship,” she continued, “our crew situation. The attempts on your life on Kirro and on the shuttle.”

  “This is war, Dina,” he said quietly. “It may not have yet been officially declared so, but it is war.”

  “We’re not prepared for that.” Her hands tightened around the datapad’s metal casing. “Proceeding now, ill-staffed and ill-equipped as we are, even to Ferrin’s, violates every operational rule Fleet—”

  “This isn’t Fleet.”

  Something flashed in her dark eyes at his interruption. Anger? Fear? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know Dina Adney well enough.

  She leaned toward him. “With all due respect, Admiral—”

  He definitely didn’t like the sound of that.

  “—we have uncleared personnel working in sensitive positions and an inadequate physical plant with components Commander Sparkington and Lieutenants Mather and Welford cannot verify. We have no chief medical officer on board. We have no working security cameras. We have no consistent line of communications with other ships in the fleet. We can’t even communicate with the crew on this ship! And we’ve yet to have an SOP meeting.”

  She sat back abruptly.

  Standard Operating Procedures? He knew they were necessary, but he hated those policies-and-procedures meetings. He doubted if in this instance having one would greatly solve anything, other than reassuring Adney that they were, indeed, a legitimate fleet.

  This was the first time he’d seen Adney so on edge, and he wondered if something had happened third shift that he was yet to become aware of. But then, there were a number of minor crises yesterday, with the systems failures and overly enthusiastic blast doors. Those things kept Adney running.

  Last night she’d evidently started thinking, as he had. It sounded as if she wasn’t pleased with Philip’s first day in command. He—in honest self-appraisal— wasn’t either. But he was trying to solve the difficult things first. He’d work on the impossible ones next.

  Or so he hoped.

  “Suggestions, Commander?” he asked, trying to keep his own frustration out of his voice. Yes, things were worse than either he, Jodey, and obviously Dina Adney had anticipated. But they would not be unsolv-able. Eventually.

  “Delay departure for Ferrin’s until we can fill all critical crew assignments and bring ship’s systems up to Fleet standards.”

  This isn’t Fleet, he almost said again but didn’t. In Adney’s mind, this was still Fleet. A different division, perhaps—a limping, wounded, bedraggled cousin. But Fleet.

  He had to remember she’d come off the Nowicki, which was already to Fleet standards with crew and captain and equipment. Only allegiances had changed.

  The Folly … A puff of orange-scented air flowed through the vents in silent reminder of what else had changed.

  “I understand your concerns,” he said, “but Ferrin’s is still compiling crew rosters for us. Many, including our CMO, aren’t even on station yet. And Seth doesn’t have Stryker-class components readily available. You’re not dealing with a military shipyard here.”

  Which raised another problem, more than the fact that this was not a military facility: every day they sat in dock was another day their presence threatened the civilian workers. Philip didn’t discount Tage launching a strike force against Seth. Tage could launch one against Ferrin’s, but Ferrin’s was a military base and it could defend itself far better than S
eth could.

  “The components at Ferrin’s could be shipped here, along with whatever officers and crew have been approved for our clearance,” Adney insisted. “We could get bids from the long-haulers who work this quadrant. It would mean two, three weeks’ delay, but we could use that time to train whatever additional crew we might find on Seth.”

  “You’re talking commercial freighters transporting not only parts but personnel. We’d need at least two P-75s running as security in case Tage or the Farosians decided to intercept. We don’t have two P-75s we can pull off Baris jumpgate duty right now, not even with the extra squadrons from Corsau and Dafir filling in the gaps.” If Tage pushed an entire phalanx of ships through a critical gate from Baris into Calth, guarding components on their way to Seth would be the least of Philip’s problems. The Folly wouldn’t even be at Seth at that point. She’d be out there, doing whatever she could with whatever she had.

  “Umoran Planetary Defense has Ratch fighters and P-33s,” Adney countered.

  “Which we need here, guarding Seth and this ship. Commander, I hear your concerns,” he said, as she opened her mouth for another argument. “Every single one and more paraded through my head last night. I’m looking for answers—and for better answers too. You have some good suggestions. I’ll consider them. But right now I need to keep Sparks, Welford, and Mather working toward our earliest possible departure for Ferrin’s. Unless I see critical reasons not to, that will be in the next thirty-six hours.”

  He had to get the Folly functional and out there before Tage made his next move. If that meant working outside “ Fleet-accepted parameters,” so be it. He didn’t see they had any choice.

  And he knew with a sinking feeling, as Adney made her excuses and left his office, hurrying stiff-backed into the corridor, that his second in command didn’t share his vision.

  His screen pinged. He swiveled, then tapped at the pulsing databox tagged with Seth Security’s ID. The communications link opened, and Security Chief Roderiko Hamil’s bald-headed image filled part of the screen. The rest held Yardmaster Bahati Delainey’s angular face. Both looked troubled, dark eyes narrowed, brows drawn, mouths pinched. Delainey’s hands were folded tightly on the tabletop.

  Philip’s sinking feeling sank even further, plummeting like an overloaded lugger caught helplessly in a sun’s gravity well.

  “Admiral Guthrie,” Chief Hamil said. “Samling just led us to some information that appears to be critical.”

  Samling. Gilbert Samling, the Farosian agent who, along with Amalia Mirrow, had tried to stuff Philip in a life pod with Nayla Dalby’s address on it. Both Mirrow and Samling had been kept in Seth Security custody, as Consul Falkner had yet to authorize an Alliance version of ImpSec or a formal intelligence division to deal with enemy agents. Not that Philip had any personnel to spare for interrogations at the moment.

  “I just hope we can react in time,” the chief was saying.

  “The Farosians intend to move against Seth,” Philip guessed grimly.

  “Not quite,” Hamil said. “The C-Six jumpgate. They know your ship needs to get to Ferrin’s to complete a refit. They want you delayed here, if not trapped.”

  “To attack this ship or kidnap me?”

  “Samling’s not saying. All we know is it sounds like they’ve got their Star-Ripper moving in to blow the gate, sometime in the next four hours.”

  Years of training kept Philip’s mouth from dropping open but couldn’t stop his body from going rigid. Four hours. By hell’s fat unholy ass. Even if the Folly was fully refitted, bristling with weapons, drives pristine, it would take her two hours to get to the C-6 in time to confront the Farosians. If she didn’t, the wrecked jumpgate would load an additional nine shipdays’ travel to the Folly’s journey to Ferrin’s—there was no alternate jumpgate in the old trader data—and disrupt God-only- knew-what incoming supplies to an already battered section of Calth and, from there, into Dafir and Narfial.

  Something the Farosians obviously knew. They wanted the Folly on the slower route, where they could launch attack after attack on her or draw her into an ambush. And they wanted to hamper any incoming help.

  “I need to determine where our closest resources are,” Philip said, damning the fact he couldn’t raise the Nowicki on a simultaneous link. Maybe Jodey had pulled in O’Neil’s P-75. Maybe he could get her and a couple of P-40s from Calth 9 out here in time—if that would even be enough firepower. All the Folly had at this juncture were her laser banks and two—as Sparks liked to remind him— heavy-duty tow fields. But, as Adney had pointed out, the UPD had ships. “You’ve alerted Umoran Defense?”

  “Lieutenant Kamau is making them aware of the information as I’m talking to you. They have their 33s and Ratch fighters. We have two 33s ready to deploy on your signal. I don’t know if that’s enough to stop a Star-Ripper, but that’s not our only problem.” Hamil turned to Yardmaster Delainey with a nod.

  “We’ve been alerted that a hospital ship is on top priority incoming,” she said. “They report a serious internal systems’ malfunction. If they can’t make it to the yards, more than fifty of their critical patients will die—including two of Consul Falkner’s top aides, who were on Corsau when the Empire attacked. The ship’s scheduled to exit the C-Six. They have no idea they’ll be facing a Farosian Star-Ripper when they come through jump. And we have no way to warn them.”

  An admiral doesn’t make excuses. An admiral doesn’t explain. An admiral acts.

  Sparks was the last to arrive in Philip’s office, ruddy face slightly redder than usual. “Damned lifts,” he murmured, slightly out of breath as he took the open chair next to Con Welford in front of Philip’s desk. Con and Sparks exchanged glances. Con shrugged.

  “Seal the door, Subbie,” Philip told Rya. He stood behind his desk, fisted hands resting lightly against the top, and didn’t miss how Con’s glance now flicked to Rya and away again as she pushed off the bulkhead.

  Worry about it later. Philip, tight-lipped, let his gaze wander over Dina Adney, then Con, Sparks, and finally back to Rya, catching a twitch of movement by her feet. The large white and black cat had ghosted in from the corridor just before the doors closed. The beast plodded softly behind her as she returned to her place against the bulkhead, next to the already closed door to his quarters.

  Adney, Con, Sparks, Bennton: the newly expanded list of the only four people on board the Folly he could risk trusting with his plans. Each represented a key position: command, helm, engineering, and security. If need be, he’d handle weapons himself. He knew Adney trusted Mather at communications, as Jodey had.

  “What I’m going to tell you now doesn’t leave this room. This ship breaks dock—must break dock—in forty-five minutes.” His voice was low, deep, and allowed for no argument.

  Adney, as expected, had one. “With all due respect, Admiral, forty—”

  He cut her off and gave a succinct recap of what Hamil and Delainey had told him. A Farosian Star-Ripper. A crippled hospital ship with VIP patients. A move to hamper Falkner’s government; a move to make the Folly and the Alliance Fleet do the Farosians’ bidding on the Farosians’ timetable.

  He’d be thrice damned if he’d cooperate. There would be no discussion on the matter. The Star-Ripper’s ETA at the gate’s vicinity was in less than three and a half hours.

  They must be moving in forty-five minutes.

  “Delainey is going to engineer a power failure at our docking clamps,” he told them as Adney leaned forward and started to speak. He could guess at her question: how could the Folly, in her current state of disrepair, possibly take on a heavily armed Star-Ripper? He would get to that. But first: “As far as anyone on dock, in the yard, or on this ship is concerned, we’re simply relocating to another berth in the yard.”

  He looked squarely at Adney. “Adney, you’re going to have to take the brunt of crew confusion until I give the all-clear. It won’t be long. Chief Hamil will have his people on the docks watching for any un
usual reaction. Once I’m sure no one’s hijacking a Ratch fighter and coming after us, I’ll issue general orders over intraship, providing it’s working.”

  “Mather confirmed it’s fixed,” Con said.

  “Sparks, I’m going to need those sublights cranking to max on very short notice.”

  “The drives are one of the few things on this ship I have no worries about.”

  “Constantine, helm will have the only true course coordinates. Can you rig nav to read something else?”

  “In forty minutes? No, sir.” Con shook his head. “But I can blank their screens temporarily. Just another glitch, you know.” He shrugged. “Since we’re supposedly only going to the other side of the shipyard, it won’t worry anyone. At least not until we’re hitting the lanes.”

  “Do it.” Philip faced Rya, the member of his impromptu team who had the least amount of experience, who probably surprised the others by her presence here in the admiral’s office. Hell, it surprised him, if he was perfectly honest about it. She was a nugget, a novice, her few years in ImpSec notwithstanding.

  But she was ImpSec trained. And she was Cory’s daughter. He … trusted her, beyond any fully rational explanation. He connected with Rya—and he knew he did, even if that admission scared him—on a very different level. Looking at her now, her eyes bright and clear, a slight flush on her face, a shine in the haphazard curls tumbling from beneath her dark service beret … Looking at her now he was aware of every one of the sixteen years that separated them.

  But the moment she moved, spoke, questioned him, challenged him, made him think, made him laugh, those years disappeared and they connected.

  That almost scared him more than the Farosians and their weapons-laden Star-Ripper.

  “Bennton,” he said, watching a spark light in her eyes, feeling a corresponding lurch in his own heart. “I have to assume we have moles on board, and I have to assume the ship’s movement is going to force their hand. Someone may try to take the bridge. Or someone may try to send a message off ship, warning the Farosians what we’re doing. Welford and Commander Adney can try to monitor any outgoing communications. We might not be able to stop it—”