The cat lapped it up quickly, then jumped down and bounded to the door to the corridor.
“You want out?” Philip hobbled toward him. “Ah, call of nature, is that it?” He realized he had no idea where the cat did his business. Maybe the fragrance of oranges wasn’t a bad thing.
But the persistent citrus was gone this morning. He hit the palm pad, the cat snaking through before the door was fully open. Philip peered out the door, sniffing. Nothing. No oranges. No crew. Just the flick of a black tail around the edge of the open stairwell blast door at the end of the corridor.
Philip closed the door. Time to finish getting dressed and get to work.
A few minutes later, he took his second mug of coffee into the office adjoining his quarters, angled himself into the chair behind the desk—with a bit less pain today—and keyed his office door open. His office door was always open when he was on duty. No one ever had to wonder if they could come and talk to the Old Man.
He tapped on his deskscreen, realizing he had no idea if Adney or any of his officers were asleep or working. He brought up ship’s shift schedule along with a barely adequate personnel locator, functional only through key deskscreens. Like the beverage dispenser, the systems were older. He felt as if he were in a time warp. The system response was slower, information less complete. But his brain finally kicked out fifteen-year- old shortcuts and commands, and he was able to ascertain that Adney was on duty, though not where she was. He’d need Sparks and Mather to integrate some kind of personnel signal device to everyone’s ship badge or comm link and then synch it to ship’s systems.
His to-do list was growing by leaps and bounds. And he hadn’t even officially taken command of the Folly yet.
He found Adney’s personnel list, now sorted by assignments and divisions. A few names were slotted to engineering but noted as pending, waiting for Sparks’s approval. Everyone else was confirmed. Including Sub-Lieutenant Rya Taylor Bennton.
He knew there were other service records he should review before hers, but he found himself bringing her folio on-screen anyway.
Her official holos failed to capture her sparkle. And though her overall record was excellent, he didn’t miss the few notations from former COs about her brassy attitude.
Brassy, indeed. They’d never met Cap’n Cory. The man’s under-his- breath running dialogues during boring SOP meetings were legendary.
Interestingly, some of her superiors found Rya’s tendency to take initiative problematic. Others saw it as a sign of an intelligent officer able to make the right decisions under pressure. Well, he’d seen her under pressure. At the moment, he’d side with the latter commentators, but he’d keep an eye on her. Being impulsive could be dangerous, and serving on board the Folly was likely the most dangerous thing she’d yet to do.
Except, of course, surviving an ambush on Kirro and an attack on a shuttle.
He pulled up her personal data, expecting to find little that surprised him. After all, he’d known Cory for years. But he’d forgotten that Aliandra had died. Damn. That made Philip sit back for a moment. She’d lost two parents unexpectedly in under three years. And … he checked. No, she hadn’t gone for counseling.
Well, there were no counselors on the Folly. Nor on the Karn, Sullivan’s ship, and the memory of Chaz collapsing in his arms when she learned of her brother’s death washed over him. Chaz was strong, one of the gutsiest women he knew. And she’d sobbed uncontrollably. But then, her life hadn’t been easy, and part of that was his fault. Counselors equated divorce right up there with death. And he and Chaz had been through that, along with her father’s rejection of her, her sham court-martial, and her imprisonment on Moabar. His ex-wife had been through hell, and much of that had been his fault.
But Chaz had Sullivan and, yeah, she had Philip as her close friend. Those wounds had healed. Rya had no one. He ran down her personal data again. Only child. Parents and grandparents deceased. No close connection with aunts or uncles.
Just Matthew Crowley
Matthew Crowley?
Two-year personal exclusive relationship, her last chief had noted. Because of Rya’s position with ImpSec, all her close associations were also cleared. Crowley was a barrister, a year older than Rya, well-educated, modestly successful. No past or outstanding wants, warrants, or unsavory associations.
Philip tabbed up an image of a smugly handsome man with shoulder-length blond hair.
Rya the Rebel had a lover. So, like Chaz, she’d had a shoulder to cry on, someone to comfort her on the loss of her parents. Someone very likely Cory had met and approved of.
That should make Philip feel better. But it didn’t.
“Admiral Guthrie, good morning.”
Philip raised his gaze from the deskscreen and saw Dina Adney in his doorway. “Morning. We working shiptime or stationtime?”
“I thought it best to stay shiptime, but we’re not far off from stationtime, so if there’s something you need from the yardmaster, I can reach her easily.” They were hardlined into Seth through their docking clamps. Ship-to- yard communications were one of the few things that worked.
Philip cleared Rya’s file from his screen and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I have a long list, but we need to budget and prioritize. I also need this bucket out there and in working order before Tage makes another move.” Working order was the big issue. Cutting corners was necessary. But cutting corners could cost lives.
“I’ve just reviewed your personnel division assignments,” he continued. “Everything looks good, considering.”
“Considering we’re understaffed and more than a third of these people, while cleared, are unknowns?”
“Mind reader. Did Jodey train you or is it a natural talent?”
She smiled, but it was a tense smile. She hit the palm pad to close the door, then took the chair she’d sat in a few hours ago. “It’s a song my mind has been singing for the past forty-eight hours.”
“I’m familiar with the tune.” He paused. “Have you screened any of our new recruits for dual assignments? A nav officer who also has paramedic training? A weapons tech who can also sit helm?” He thought of the way Sullivan worked his people on the Karn. “Command staff, especially. Right now, doing may be more important than commanding.”
Adney was nodding. “I’ll get Martoni running a filter on all the personnel files and pull out the best candidates. It will play hell with the usual shifts.” She pulled her hand-held datapad from its sling on her belt and tapped at it.
“I’m thinking split shifts,” Philip said. “Nav, weap ons, engineering, and enviro being highest priority. Support services are lowest priority. Which means when we hit jump, everyone does their own laundry. Even me.”
An edge of her mouth turned up. “I believe our commo, Mather, worked nights while in the academy as a bartender.”
And filched popcorn and pretzels from behind the bar, judging from Mather’s waistline. “I can cook.”
Adney’s dark eyes widened.
Dorsie, Sullivan’s cook on his ship, hadn’t believed him either, at first. “I’m not kidding. My parents loved to throw huge, lavish parties, and I spent my formative years with our chef in the kitchen. The biggest party I handled was one hundred twenty-five. Cooking for seventy, eighty people is not a problem.”
“Admiral Guthrie, are you assigning yourself to the galley?”
Philip grinned. “You might never let me back on the bridge.”
“We do have basic food dispensers.”
“I can’t ask my crew to work their asses off and then give them nothing but coffee and soup.”
“Actually, that’s what we’ve been living on since we came on board.”
Philip tapped his screen, found the file he wanted. “We have enough budget for a bit more than basic foodstuffs. I’ll do a walk-through of the galley later, though it’s probably not changed from what I remember. Then I’ll make a list and get it here, hopefully, by dinner.”
Adney sa
t back. “I’m impressed.”
“Save that until after you taste my cooking.”
“Now if only you could wave a magic wand and turn laser banks into ion cannons.”
“I’m hoping Ferrin’s has that magic wand.” And he hoped Tage or the Farosians didn’t dead-eye the Folly before it got there. “What else is top priority this morning?”
Adney glanced at her datapad. “Should be coming to your in-box right about now.”
He found it, though the ship’s antiquated system still confounded him a bit. That was one of the overall problems along with ship’s comm pack and lack of encryption—lack of a functional personnel-locator system. Data could be sent terminal to terminal, or hand-held to terminal, but there was no way to determine who was sitting at that terminal. Forward port laser banks were misbehaving during testing. Aft lift number two overshot Deck 4 several times, but that was more annoying than critical. Sublights and jumpdrives were unknown and would have to wait for Sparks.
The only good news was that Corvang had all nav charts loaded—including the old trader data from Sullivan’s ship—and responding to the nav comps’ commands. And that they had one top-notch pair of tow-field generators.
Philip scrubbed one hand over his face. “So essentially we can’t talk to anybody, shoot at anybody, find anybody, or move crew between decks with any reliability at this point. However, we won’t get lost.”
“And we smell nice,” Adney said.
Philip sniffed again. “Not today.”
“Told you. Comes and goes.”
“Speaking of going. The cat?”
Adney shifted in her chair with a sigh.
Not good news. “We’re stuck with him,” Philip guessed before she could answer.
“Captain Bralford did agree to it,” Adney said. “But more than that, Pavyer is still devastated over losing his wife and child. I spoke to his cousin who runs the export business with him. He’s afraid if the guy sees Folly, it’ll throw him over the edge. Plus, the cousin said the family has this belief that the cat is some kind of good-luck charm for the ship. They want the cat here when we start shooting at Imperials.”
And people said Fleeties were a superstitious bunch. “For now—”
Overheads flickered and died. Philip’s office plunged into darkness. His right hand went immediately to the Carver on his hip, his senses going on high alert. Then the green emergency lights kicked on, and in their dim glow and the pale light from his deskscreen, he saw Adney rising, her hand also on the gun on her hip.
“What now?” he asked, hitting the pad for intraship on his desk. No double-chime sounded. “Intraship’s out too.”
“Could be Welford doing something,” Adney said, heading for the door. “Or it could be one more damned thing.”
“Would be nice for Con to let me know before he goes tinkering like that,” Philip said tersely, rising, reaching for his cane. “Main computer’s down.” The screens were powered by the same backups that the
emergency lights were.
Adney hit the palm pad. “Doors work.”
“Bridge,” Philip told her, moving now, every inch of
him alert and unhappy. “We secure the bridge, then
start asking questions.”
The large room plunged into darkness, then slowly glowed green. The moment she could discern the outlines of the furniture around her, Rya lunged from her chair behind a workstation in the divisional offices’ section of Deck 2 Aft, Stinger in hand.
“Get people to lock down the tubeway and cargo bay,” she called to Martoni, now rising in the green gloom. “I’m on him.” Pulse jumping, she sprinted toward the aft stairwell.
There was no reason to define “him.” Even though a formal security detail for the admiral’s protection had yet to be set, Rya had claimed Philip as her charge. Through a bit of well-timed evasive obfuscation, she’d let Martoni, now functioning as Adney’s new assistant, believe that assignment was on Philip’s orders.
So she’d made it her business to know where Philip was at all times—not the easiest thing on a ship without functioning security cameras, an ass-backward crew-locator system, and its main working deck— Deck 2—split in two different sections. She knew Adney had gone to the admiral’s office on 2 Forward for a briefing and, based on what had just come in via Martoni’s deskscreen, was likely still there.
She bolted down the metal stairs two at a time as Martoni yelled “Stations!” sending people scrambling. She hit the landing on Deck 3, then bounded up again for Deck 2 Forward.
She saw two forms in the green-tinged lighting of the corridor as she came through the open blast door on Deck 2 Forward. With relief she recognized Philip’s shape and height, as well as the way he leaned on his cane. “Bennton. Security,” she called out because he turned, the Carver’s power lights glowing tiny dots of red and blue in his hand. “Are you all right, Admiral?”
“Going to secure the bridge, Subbie.”
“With you on that, sir.” She caught up to him and Adney. “Commander.” She nodded, seeing the shape of a laser pistol in Adney’s hand as well. “I have point, by your leave.”
She didn’t wait for Adney’s or Philip’s leave but stepped in front of them. She glanced repeatedly over her shoulder, watching, listening for anyone or anything from behind as they moved for the forward stairwell.
“Where were you?” Philip asked her.
“Deck Two Aft. We’re dark there too. Martoni’s securing the tubeway. Got people on all other access points.”
She had her handbeam locked on top of her Stinger by the time they hit the stairwell blast doors. She zigzagged the wide beam through the darkness, in full ImpSec protection mode now. The officers behind her were her charges, all personal feelings gone, though her heart rate had sped up. She’d never worked ship security before, but how different could it be from a station?
“Clear.” She took the short flight of stairs quickly, then waited on the landing, listening as Philip and Adney followed.
She cracked Deck 1’s blast door open and heard nothing to raise suspicion, so she pushed through, Stinger ready, holding the door ajar with her foot until Adney and Philip were behind her. In the green glow of the corridor, Rya saw that the wide doors to the bridge were open. She soft-footed quickly forward and halted at the opening. She swept the round space with her light. Screens glowed blankly, a muted silver. She heard a grunt, and for a moment all her senses prickled. Then she recognized Con Welford, rising from under a console on the left. An open tool case was on the decking next to him.
“You break my ship?” Philip’s voice boomed over Rya’s shoulder.
It would be too much, she thought wryly, for her to expect Philip Guthrie to wait until she’d announced the bridge clear and safe.
“Not my doing, sir. I swear.” Welford lumbered to his feet.
“Then let’s find out who’s doing it was.”
Rya played her handbeam into the recesses of the bridge and under consoles. Welford was the only one there, and he did not look happy.
“Can I have that?” Welford asked, pointing to her handbeam.
“No.”
“Give the man the light, Subbie,” Philip said. “He was on the Loviti with me. If he wanted to kill me, he’s had years to do so.”
“Yes, sir.” She flicked it off and tossed the handbeam to Welford. He caught it easily, flicking it back on and playing it over the dark consoles. She stationed herself at the bridge’s doors. “You want these locked, Admiral?”
“Leave them open for now. I want to hear anyone coming, and I sincerely doubt anything will get past you.” Philip limped around the bridge, poking at screens as he went. One flickered on, databoxes sluggishly appearing. “Knew one of these was hardwired on backup,” he said, as she watched the corridor again. “Couldn’t remember which one.”
Rya glanced at him.
“Let me at it,” Welford said, swiveling the chair around in front of the sole working screen, then
sitting. He leaned forward, concentrating, poking. “Okay, okay.” A moment later, “Oh. Uh-huh.”
Noise in the aft stairwell made her look down the corridor, then a quick glance behind. “Admiral, Commander, please stay out of the direct line.”
She turned back to the corridor, Stinger raised, knowing Adney would comply, knowing as well that Philip would grumble something under his breath, which he did.
“Holton, Mather, and Tramer.” Sachi Holton’s voice rang out as the blast door clanged.
“Bennton,” Rya replied, damning the fact they’d yet to set up security codes or phrases. “Proceed.” She didn’t lower her weapon.
Three forms emerged. Holton, Mather—about the same height—and, trailing behind and taller, Tramer. No one else, no more noise in the stairwell.
“Tubeway, cargo access secured,” Lieutenant Burnaby Mather said, plodding toward her. The short man was about Philip’s age, she guessed, his broad form and thick arms hinting at a muscular past. “Lifts are working, enviro’s on except for engineering and sick bay. All personnel cleared out of there.”
Rya didn’t lower her Stinger. “Hands.”
“Bennton, it’s us,” Mather said, a clear note of exasperation.
“Hands,” Rya repeated. Martoni had trusted his people too.
Sachi extended her hands, empty. After a sigh, so did Mather.
“Tramer, show me your hands.”
“For God’s sake, Rya—”
“Hands.” Philip’s voice sounded behind her, somewhere in the middle of the bridge, she guessed.
Damn it, Guthrie, get out of the line of fire.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Tramer’s empty hands came out. “We’re just trying to help.”
“We don’t know what’s going on,” Philip said. “Until we do, anything other than immediate cooperation is viewed as a problem.”
“Welford there?” Mather asked.
“Three up,” Welford said.
“Two down, one up,” Mather answered.
“Commo and his friends are fine, Admiral Guthrie,” Welford said.
“Nowicki codes?” Philip asked, but Rya already knew, even before she heard Welford’s affirmative. They had to set up ship’s codes today. Now. But, damn, clearances on the crew were still marginal, as far as she was concerned. Her ImpSec chief would be spitting fire over who was on board and walking around unchecked.
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