Hope's Folly Page 8

  “I might be able to scare one up when we get to Ferrin’s.”

  When we get to Ferrin’s. That meant he wasn’t sending her back on the return shuttle.

  “I look forward to reading it. Sir,” she added again, for good measure.

  “Don’t pick out your cabin yet, Subbie. I could be sending a copy of that article to Calth Nine via transmit. We still need to have our talk.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wanted to bounce where she sat. She forced herself not to. She’d already chosen her cabin, knowing the layout of the Stockwell as she knew the layout of all her father’s ships. She’d have the small cabin next to the admiral’s, as was befitting his personal bodyguard. After all, he was injured. And she was sure his wife wanted to see him alive again.

  “So the question now,” Philip said, “is why. Why not kill me? What do they gain by simply stunning me?”

  “Kidnap you for interrogation?” Martoni answered quickly.

  Damned well he’d better answer, Rya thought. He’d been left behind in the exchange up to this point.

  “Valid,” Philip agreed.

  “You’re the highest-ranking officer of the Alliance Fleet,” Martoni continued. “They could hamper our momentum by doing so. Plus, they assume you’d know upcoming plans, ship acquisitions.”

  “But why would they care? We’re ostensibly on the same side. We both want Tage out of power.”

  “But we want to restore the Admirals’ Council,” Martoni said. “They want Blaine on the throne.”

  “True. Subbie?”

  She turned the mug of tea around in her hands. Philip had finished his. Hers was cold now, almost as cold as the chill that shot through her when Philip’s questions made everything fall into place. “Blaine’s on Moabar, under Tage’s control. Tage tried to kill you and failed. They want to kidnap you and trade you to Tage for Blaine.”

  Martoni stared at her. Philip nodded. “Chief Carmallis’s interrogators are very skilled. And that’s exactly what Mr. Wonderful told them.”

  Rya’s mind kicked into overdrive. “How did they know you’d be on Kirro?” She remembered him saying that hadn’t been his original plan.

  “Mr. Wonderful didn’t know. I can make some guesses, not the least of which being they have someone watching traffic. A former Imperial Maven-class cruiser is easy to spot if you know what you’re looking for. On the downside, it could be they have moles in the Alliance. Actually, I expect they do. I expect,” and he nodded to Martoni, “we have some on this shuttle.”

  “I’m working under that assumption as well, Admiral.”

  “But I wasn’t on schedule,” Philip continued, as Rya’s mind raced through scenarios and options. She always put herself in the other sentient’s boots. What did they know, and what would they do with that information in order to get what they wanted?

  “And we didn’t depart in the expected manner, on the shuttle to Seth,” he said. “It looked as if their attack was thrown together with what they had on hand. There were over thirty former Fleet personnel under your command, Martoni, in the area. They put five of their people against us? A shot in the dark, I think.”

  “Mole,” Rya said, still synthesizing what he’d said. “I didn’t know who you were. Martoni didn’t either. I don’t remember anyone who didn’t act with surprise when you revealed your identity. You don’t exactly— begging the admiral’s pardon—look the part.”

  Philip grunted, then chuckled.

  “So someone,” Rya said, “overheard. And rushed to act just as we were boarding. A now-or- never operation.”

  “So which of the fourteen is our mole?” Philip asked. “Or, and I know you don’t want to hear this, Martoni, but which of those in your group could work for Blaine?” He sighed. “We need Sullivan.”

  “Sullivan?” Rya couldn’t specifically place the name in this context. The Sullivans she’d heard of were either obscenely wealthy or on the Empire’s list of pirates.

  Philip looked from her to Martoni and back again. “Ragkiril. You know the term?”

  “Stolorth?” Martoni asked.

  “ Mind-fucker.” Rya spat out the word. She was ImpSec, had studied ImpSec’s and Stol’s tactics during the Boundary Wars. Ragkiril and all associated epithets were things she knew.

  Philip laughed again softly. “Some of my best friends are mind-fuckers. And, no, not Stolorth. Human. A human Kyi-Ragkiril. He could walk down that aisle,” he nodded toward the cabin, “and know within moments who your mole was. Mission accomplished. But there’s no time for me to locate him and ask for a meetpoint. So for now we have to assume we have one or more moles on board. We have to be careful what we say and to whom we say it. And we also have to note who’s more than normally interested in what we say.”

  He turned to Martoni. “I assume you have two, three people you’ve worked with for years that you trust unequivocally?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Take them aside, bring them up to date. Then go be friendly to everyone. And note who you think might be a problem. I need to know before we make the shipyards.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll take that,” Rya said as Martoni pushed himself to his feet, juggling his empty mug of tea in one hand. She detested playing the role of housemaid, but she wanted Martoni to move on. She had to talk to Philip without Martoni hearing.

  “Thanks.” He handed her the mug and slipped past the curtain into the larger cabin.

  “You suspect him,” she said, her voice low.

  “I suspect everyone, Lieutenant Bennton.” His voice was a deep rumble. “I have to, after Raft Thirty.”

  “If you didn’t, I’d tell you to do so.”

  “Chapter six, subsection ten of the ImpSec training manual?”

  “Subsections ten and eleven.” She rose, not at all surprised he could quote it to her. “More tea?”

  He held up the empty mug. “That was fine for now. Thank you.”

  She put the mugs in the shuttle’s recycler, then returned to the spot at Guthrie’s side that Martoni had vacated.

  “I can handle this mission, sir,” she said when he slanted a glance at her, his eyes half hooded. He might be tired, but she suspected that was simply his thinking mode and that it amused him to have people believe he was resting when in fact his mind was through the jumpgate and out the other side already. She remembered her father saying something to that effect about Lieutenant Guthrie as she was growing up.

  The half-hooded eyes showed no change.

  “I can also handle my desire for revenge. It’s there, but it is tempered through my training.”

  “All that wisdom in four and a half years?”

  “Four and a half on duty, four in the academy, twenty-nine as my father’s daughter.”

  “ Twenty-nine?” His voice held a distinctive drawl. “We may have to get you a cane, Subbie.”

  “Only if it can be modified to handle wide-load slash ammo.”

  “That would be useful, with enemies coming out of every crevice.”

  She nodded, thinking. “Once we get to Seth, I’ll need to do a personal assessment of the armaments you carry. The Carver’s effective but bulky, obvious. An L7—”

  “Already carry one.”

  “Good, because it’s easily concealed and is sometimes missed even during pat-downs.”

  “Are you presuming to inform me not only that you’ll be part of this mission but what position you’ll be working as well?”

  Rya sucked in a short breath. They’d been talking so naturally—and about weapons—that she’d let herself relax. “Not at all, sir. But I know you’d apply your expertise in allocating personnel to positions based on their training and past postings. You’d utilize my ImpSec background to your best advantage.”

  “You’d be best utilized in a court of law, standing in front of a judge and jury, telling them the man who murdered his five children just happened to be slicing the holiday roast when he sneezed and the knife slipped accident
ally. And damned if they wouldn’t believe you.”

  She grinned. “That’s because it would be the truth.”

  He pulled his comm link from his vest pocket and pointed it at her. “I have work to do. Did your gear make it on board or was it left behind at Kirro?”

  “I gave it to the shuttle crew when we were first loading. It’s probably stowed below in cargo.” At least, she hoped it was, or she’d be spending a lot of time playing cards trying to win socks. And clothes, boots, and underwear. Everything she owned was in that duffel.

  “You should go check on it.”

  She shrugged. “If it didn’t make it, there’s little I can do about it now.”

  “Let me make myself clearer, Subbie. Go check on your gear. Then go play nice and chatty to the rest of ship’s crew in the cabin. Same thing I told Martoni.” He pinned her with a hard look. “I have work to do.”

  Dense, Rya, really dense. The man wants you out of his face. “Yes, sir. With your permission, I’d like to check that my gear made it, then get to know the crew.”

  “Excellent idea. Shoo.”

  She pushed herself to her feet. “But before I—”

  “Shoo!”

  “Shooing now.” She sidled around the curtain and stopped short as several bodies clogged the narrow aisle between the rows of seats. “Oh, sorry!”

  “Not a problem,” a round-faced woman about her own age, wearing an oversize brown sweater, said. “We’ll just be a minute.”

  Rya glanced back through a break in the curtain to where Philip Guthrie sat. He pulled a small folded slip of paper from his vest pocket, opening it with a flick of his thumb. His gaze focused on it, his mouth curving slightly into a soft smile.

  Years and tension dropped briefly from his face.

  He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bulkhead, the small note still between his fingers.

  A note from his wife. It had to be.

  Rya tore her gaze away and stared over the heads of the new crew of Hope’s Folly, an inexplicable tightness in her throat. So the admiral’s wife wrote him love notes. What business was that of hers?

  None.

  Now, where in hell was her goddamned duffel?

  Philip tucked Chaz’s note away with a sigh. It sure as hell would be easier if he could somehow materialize Chaz and Sullivan on this shuttle and find out who his moles were. He was sure there were at least two, and he’d been honest in what he’d told Rya: he didn’t discount Martoni. The efficient, stalwart commander was exactly the kind of officer Fleet traitor Nayla Dalby would have trained.

  But he couldn’t materialize Sullivan and Chaz right now. He was surprised how much at peace he finally felt because Chaz was happy. At least one little corner of the universe was behaving as it should.

  The rest of it … He shook his head. The Farosians were trying to take him hostage to force a swap for Sheldon Blaine. How was that for an unexpected turn of events? But not an unreasonable one. He couldn’t honestly say Tage would turn down the opportunity— especially if Tage could somehow turn events around and place the blame on the Alliance.

  He plugged in the archiver and keyed on his comm link. Jodey needed an update, as did Dina Adney. One out there behind him, one in front of him.

  The Empire is trying to kill us. The Farosians are trying to kidnap us.

  Helluva party.

  And in the middle of it all sat one Sub-Lieutenant Rya Bennton. He mentioned her existence only briefly to Jodey and only that she was Cory’s daughter. Not that the universe seemed a little brighter, a little fresher when she was around. And not that she longed to fondle his Norlack.

  He smiled, because that’s what was in his mind when he’d pulled out Chaz’s note that had come with the Norlack: Rya’s hushed tones and rapturous expression.

  God give him strength.

  If he was ten years younger … But he wasn’t. Stow that thought, Guthrie. She’s a nice kid. Kid, you fool. Bright, energetic, dedicated. And the daughter of your close friend, who’s no longer around to kick your ass all over Calth for thinking lustful thoughts about his only child.

  He had a ship to refit, a fleet to build, and, God willing, a war to win. Let someone else tame Rya the Rebel. But I’ll watch after her, Cap’n Cory. That much I will do. That’s a promise.

  He pocketed the comm link and archiver and, glad Rya wasn’t there to witness his flailing, shoved himself awkwardly to his feet. He limped for the bridge to borrow Captain Ellis’s comm system yet again.

  An alarm blared just as he crossed the hatchlock.

  Captain Ellis swore harshly, tearing her gaze away from her console just long enough to shoot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Trouble, Guthrie.”

  He dropped the archiver back into his pocket and leaned on her chair. Three bogies, about thirty-five minutes out, were coming at them from their starboard axis, weapons’ ports hot. And one had the distinctive silhouette of an Elarwin Infiltrator—two hundred fifty tons of speed, weapons, and agility.

  All they had were the two P-33s. And Ellis’s Gritter cannon.

  “Shields at combat strength,” she intoned. “Engine at max. Escorts acknowledge the bogies.” The P-33s were moving into defensive position off the shuttle’s starboard side. “That’s an Infiltrator,” Ellis continued, studying the data as he had. “Jammed my long-range. Or I would have known a while ago the sons of bitches were there.”

  “Where’s Seth’s P-40?” he asked.

  “Two hours out,” the Takan navigator told him without turning around. “Just confirmed ten minutes ago. Sending advisory now.” His voice held that gruff Takan growl, making it impossible for Philip to tell if the navigator was nervous or not.

  Two hours. They could be dead in two hours, especially against an Infiltrator. Fast and deadly with ion cannons, torpedoes, and lasers—possibly more if this was the Infiltrator Chaz had told him about, the one that had challenged Sullivan’s ship four months ago. The one that had Fleet traitor—careful, Guthrie, you’re one of those now—and Farosian assassin Nayla Dalby in the captain’s chair.

  But Commander Dalby had been a traitor when Fleet was still an honorable organization. She was also associated with that same Stolorth Kyi-Ragkiril prince who had attacked Chaz, shattered Philip’s leg, and damned near killed Sullivan, four months ago.

  That deposed Stolorth prince might well be the reason this Infiltrator chased them now. He was dead, his and the Farosians’ plans thwarted because of Chaz, Philip, and Sullivan. Rya the Rebel might not be the only one with revenge on her mind.

  “If they want you alive,” Ellis said, “they’ll just try to shoot my engines out.”

  “Force us to the life pods.” He was nodding. “But having failed at Kirro, they may no longer care.”

  “You’re sure it’s the Farosians?”

  He reached over her shoulder and tapped the icon for the Infiltrator. “You piss off anyone with that kind of firepower lately?”

  “Not lately.”

  “Then it’s me, and, yes, it’s the Farosians.” Tage would have sent a couple of heavy cruisers, or a destroyer or three. He fished the archiver out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Send this, priority, now. We might not get another chance.”

  “Dargo,” she called out, and the Takan navigator turned, neatly catching the archiver she tossed to him, then slotting it into the ship’s comm system.

  Philip glanced over his shoulder. Rya waited in the bridge’s hatchlock; Martoni was behind her but with his back to the bridge, keeping watch on the passenger cabin. Good positioning.

  “You heard?” he asked Rya.

  “Unfriendlies. Infiltrator and two bogies,” she said.

  “You ever face combat on a ship before?”

  “Sims, sir.”

  This was going to be nothing like the simulators. They were in a goddamned civilian shuttle. “Life pods are belowdecks here, through cargo,” he told her. “Make sure access is clear.” The Farosians wanted him, alive or dead. He wa
sn’t sure which he’d prefer, if they intended to trade him to Tage.

  Captain Ellis tapped his arm, then passed the archiver back to him. “How many pods?” he asked her. He thought six, but he could be wrong.

  “Six plus the bridge pod.”

  He nodded. “Martoni makes one,” he told Rya. “Get five other pod captains, get them down there and familiar with pod operation.”

  Alarm flashed briefly in her eyes.

  C’mon, you’re a Bennton. Hang in there for me, Rebel.

  Then it was gone. He saw her center herself, drop into working mode.

  Good girl. Do Dad and Uncle Philip proud.

  Uncle Philip? Maybe not. And this was not the time to argue with his libido over that.

  “Yes, sir.” She turned, grabbing for Martoni’s arm, ducking her head down as she relayed Philip’s orders.

  “I’ve got the Gritter. We’ve got two patrol ships,” Ellis reminded him when he glanced down at the flashing icons on her console.

  “We also have a ship full of fresh-out- of-the- academy inexperienced kids, for the most part. And this is not an official Fleet transport.” He met her gaze levelly. “I have no doubt that someday I’ll go out in a blaze of glory, but today’s not the day.”

  “You and me both,” she quipped, and Philip decided if they lived through this, he’d buy her a drink. Maybe three. He liked her confidence, her sassy attitude, and, hell, what were a few years or so? She was an attractive woman—who illegally loaded her ship with a Gritter cannon, probably tucked neatly under the decking, disguised as an enviro booster. He liked that.

  “My husband would kill me if I died,” she added wryly.

  Stow that thought.

  But it also added one. He’d do everything he could to get her back to her husband. “Send out a broad hail,” he said. “Let’s see if that Infiltrator has anything to say.”

  He did not want to become the Farosians’ captive and a bargaining chip with Tage. But he didn’t want sixty innocent people to die for him either. Enough had already. And he had a promise to Cory to keep.

  IMPERIAL SECURITY BULLETIN 71993-X7G:

  Encryption Level Aldan 1/Top Secret