Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

  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 dockmaster’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.

  I’m trying to keep you all alive was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say it. An admiral doesn’t make excuses. An admiral doesn’t explain. An admiral acts.

  Two stripers standing at the waiting area’s edge took a few steps in. Philip raised his chin, gave his head a small, negative shake. A show of weapons right now would be counterproductive. These were families with children, for the most part. Tired, cranky, and, yes, angry. But they didn’t need the insult of stripers bearing Blue Surgers added to the injury of yet another delay.

  He counted fifty-two in the queue that wove past two wide pylons and wondered where the fifty-third one was. Then he realized she was standing by his side, her duffel now gone.

  “Get in line, Lieutenant. Seats will be first come, first served.” And the dirtside shuttle would be a small one.

  “I’ll board when you do, sir.”

  Any argument he would have made was halted by the arrival of the dirtside shuttle disgorging its passengers in several noisy clusters. They’d been delayed at the spaceport and, judging from the scowls and grumbling, were in no better frame of mind than those in the waiting room.

  He counted forty-five departing. Fifty-three, fifty-four with himself, needed to board. It would be tight— though some could go below if the shuttle had a pressurized cargo deck.

  Carmallis appeared at his side. “The ship needs ten minutes to refuel and restock.”

  “Fuel’s most important. Then water. Just the basics. We’re not expecting luxury.” It would be an eight-to ten-hour trip to Seth, depending on the shuttle’s speed.

  “I’ll tell the captain.” She bustled off.

  He went in search of Martoni and found him in the middle of the queue, half hidden by a wide pylon, and informed him of the short delay and the possibility of tight quarters.

  “We have everyone’s baggage almost loaded,” Martoni said, motioning to Philip’s duffel. “Sir, I can take that.”

  “I’ll keep it,” he told Martoni, then turned and almost mowed over his subbie, whose name he’d yet to learn.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, but loud, hard voices halted his intended question.

  Two men shouted as they advanced on the tubeway and the shuttle crew at the checkin counter.

  “Oh, God.” His subbie sounded exasperated. “Mr. Wonderful and his best friend.”

  He glanced quickly at her.

  “I had to ream them a new one earlier when they tried to take seats away from an elderly couple,” she explained hurriedly. “I probably should have shot them then.” Her hand snaked inside her jacket.

  Philip touched her arm. “Leave that pleasure to the locals.”

  Her answering sigh was filled with regret, but she didn’t refasten her jacket.

  “But I paid my money!” the bearded man bellowed. “I have my goddamned rights.”

  His friend pounded the counter. “Yeah. Yeah!”

  The two stripers broke into a trot.

  Philip looked over his shoulder at Martoni. “Get your people loaded. Now.” Once the shuttle was away, the problem would solve itself.

  Then a third person rose from one of the back rows of seats. A woman, waving her ticket in the air. “I paid my money too!”

  Some people looked away, but a lot watched her and watched the bearded man and his now red-faced friend too.

  Carmallis’s voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, this shuttle is a priority military requisition. You will take your seats or you will be removed from the waiting area by security.”

  “Military?” the woman with the tickets called out. “This ain’t no military. It’s a lie. Somebody got paid off.”

  More angry voices rose around her. One of the stripers pulled away from the ticket counter and headed for the woman, his Blue Surger now in his hands.

  Damn it, this is wrong. It makes no sense. Something about the agitators’ tones and stances seemed staged, forced.

  Philip checked the queue. About half were on board. Martoni was still by the hatchlock, next to a decidedly nervous slender woman in the shuttle company’s light-green uniform, holding a databoard.

  He nudged his subbie without taking his gaze off the commotion. “Go on.”

  “With all due respect, Admiral, hell, no.”

  That warranted a narrow-eyed glance. She didn’t budge. And she had a Stinger in her hand, partly shielded from view by the pylon in front of her.

  Another loud shout brought his gaze up.

  “You wanna arrest me? Go right ahead!” The bearded man backed away from the counter, hands held high, but his tone and manner were clearly taunting the striper.

  Philip saw Carmallis moving in from the right, her comm link to her mouth. Then something else caught his eye. Movement almost behind him, near the tubeway at the far end of the waiting area. More stripers? No, they would come from—

  He dropped his cane, twisting, drawing his Carver smoothly as five dark figures burst through the service doors next to the far hatchlock. The high-pitched whine of lasers filled the air.

  “Down! Get down!” Philip shouted, returning fire, very aware he was an open target in those few seconds, but he had no choice. There were children and elderly in the rows to his left.

  Ignoring his leg, he dropped to his knees behind the pylon and fired again as people fled, screaming.

  Something crashed in front of him. A long bench, upended, then another, forming a low barricade. His subbie scrambled toward him. “Guthrie!”

  He launched himself sideways with a pained, grunted epithet, well aware he might not be able to walk after this, then ducked behind the metal barrier she’d created. His subbie had her Stinger out and was laying down a pattern of fire, keeping their attackers momentarily pinned behind the tubeway checkin counter.

  He holstered his Carver with one hand and made a desperate grab at his duffel with the other, dragging it closer, his hip throbbing in painful protest. Teeth gritted in pain, he unlocked the duffel in two quick moves, then yanked out the Norlack, took aim, and fired.

  The counter exploded.

  He fired again, dropping one of the black-clad figures. He swung to his right for another, but that one was already falling from the stream of fire from the Stinger next to him.

  “Admiral Guthrie!”

  He recognized Martoni’s voice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a line of stripers surging down the corridor.

  “I’ll cover you. Now!”

  He looped the duffel’s strap over his shoulder. No way he was leaving his arsenal behind. “Subbie. On three. Ready?”

  She was grinning, her eyes bright. She shoved her beret down the front of her shirt. “Ready.”

  “One … two … three!” He lurched to his feet, fired once more at his attackers, then took off for the hatchway in his best painful-beyond- belief limping run, laser fire whining around him.

  Philip shoved his subbie ahead into waiting hands that tugged and pulled both her and him into the safety of the hatchlock. Someone took his duffel and the Norlack, the hatchlock clanging shut behind him. He let them go this time, because pain screamed through his body and he didn’t know how he was going to make it the twenty feet down the tubeway to the ship without falling flat on his face.

  An arm went around his waist, a mass of curly brown hair brushed against his shoulder, and he leaned on h
er, damning his leg but, more so, damning his stupidity.

  He should have recognized a diversion the moment the bearded man first shouted. He hadn’t, and people back on the station—civilians—were likely injured or dead.

  So were most of the attackers. He hoped Carmallis figured it out and had the bearded man—Mr. Wonderful— and his friend in custody. And the ticket-waving woman. They were all part of it.

  “Admiral Guthrie, are you all right?” Martoni had his other arm now.

  “All things considered, yes.” Philip grunted. He shoved at Martoni. “We’ll need an armed escort. Tell the captain. Find out what armaments this bucket has. And get your best combat pilot on standby!”

  Philip doubted that five attackers were the sum total of the operation the Imperials or the Farosians or whoever was behind this planned to throw at him. Someone wanted to make very sure Admiral Philip Guthrie didn’t make it to the Seth shipyards.

  Martoni nodded, then plunged through the shuttle’s airlock.

  Seconds later, Philip and his subbie hobbled through. They were just aft of the bridge and faced the shuttle’s small galley. The aisle to his right led to rows of seats filled with people jostling into position, anxious faces turning toward him.

  He offered a quick salute, then, still leaning on his subbie, turned for the bridge. Martoni was angled over the back of the captain’s chair, talking rapidly. The copilot, a human male with a bushy dark mustache, and the navigator, an older Taka, nodded as Philip edged into the narrow open hatchlock. He took in the shuttle’s bridge with a practiced eye. A good ship, less than ten years old judging from the screens and equipment blinking at him. From the configuration, he guessed it to be a 200-plus- ton Rouder. Sturdy and serviceable.

  “Status, Martoni.” His damned voice rasped from the pain.

  Martoni straightened. “Station has a P-33 now deploying as escort. Umoran Defense will have another a few minutes behind us. We’re breaking dock in … ” He glanced at the captain’s armrest screen.

  “Five minutes,” the captain said, twisting in her chair. She was his own age. No, older, mid-fifties, her pale hair pulled back in a long braid shot through with silver, her face carrying that elegance some women gain later in life. Her eyes, more green than hazel, were lightly edged by lines. “I flew planetary defense for Umoran for fifteen years, Admiral. We’ll get you to Seth.”