Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

  How in hell’s fat ass could he command a ship, let alone a fleet, if his XO didn’t trust him?

  “Welford chewed me out a few hours ago,” Philip said as Sparks closed his office door. “So I sat around thinking unkind thoughts about my new XO, then I sat around thinking rather morose and self-pitying thoughts about myself. Then I decided to come down here and see if you had anything to add to this doddering old fool’s long list of failings.”

  He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The chair creaked. The light scent of oranges drifted over him. He barely noticed it anymore.

  Sparks lowered himself into his chair on the other side of the desk. It creaked too. “Doddering old fool, eh? That what Welford called you?”

  “Not in so many words. But they teach you to read between the lines in admiral’s school.”

  Sparks shook his head, then puffed out his cheeks with a short laugh. “I imagine Welford was blunt.”

  “I would have preferred blunt. He kept calling me sir and professing his respect. That immediately got my hackles up. So be blunt with me, Sparks.”

  The older man leaned back in his chair. It creaked again. “My concerns aren’t the same as Welford’s. ImpSec makes him skittish. Cory’s kid scares the hell out of him. He’s too young to remember the wars. He just heard the usual stories about Ragkiril monsters and ImpSec assassins. And he can’t think of ImpSec without seeing Tage behind it.”

  Philip nodded. That took some of the sting out of Con’s words. Not all, but some. He’d worked through his own prejudices about Ragkiril shape-shifters—Chaz was in love with one. Watching Gabriel Sullivan deal with what he was—a human Kyi-Ragkiril— taught Philip much about the terrible price of power and that gifts could also be curses.

  Philip also understood other people’s reactions to ImpSec operatives, their training, their weapons. Fleet mind-set had long been that the military was a defender. ImpSec was staffed by killers.

  And Con had likely never fondled a Norlack nor wanted to. He carried a lowly Mag-5, for God’s sake.

  “But I am concerned,” Sparks continued, “about the situation that seems to be bringing you and Rya Bennton together. And what it could do to both your careers.”

  “I suppose if I told you there is no ‘together’ where Rya and I are concerned, you’d not believe me.”

  “Skipper.” Sparks eyed him pointedly. “The paint damned near peels off the bulkheads every time the two of you look at each other.”

  Well, yeah. There was that. Philip cleared his throat. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “That you’re sleeping with her, which is what Welford believes? No, but something is happening or about to happen. I’m concerned because what’s bringing you together isn’t a relationship that’s grown slowly, where working together develops a mutual respect. This is an explosion. And in my estimation it’s fueled by grief. And guilt.”

  Philip straightened, startled by Sparks’s words.

  “I saw it a lot during the war,” Sparks said. “Proximity to death seems to set off an almost instinctual desire to mate. At least,” Sparks added with a wave of one hand, “that’s how the psychologists babble about it. That means Cory Bennton’s death is the catalyst here. It ties the two of you together, seeking comfort in each other.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.” Sparks shrugged. “As I said, I saw it a lot during the war. Lots of relationships—intense relationships—started after the loss of crew members, friends. And they dissolved later, when the grief healed.”

  “I’m a big boy. I think I can handle a little heartache, if it comes to that.”

  Sparks leaned forward, hands against his desktop. “You’re more than a big boy. You’re an Alliance admiral. A leader. You are, or will be, highly visible. Everything you do will be scrutinized not just by Falkner’s people but by your crew, your officers. A brief fling with a very junior officer could be viewed at the very least as an error in judgment. But more than that, everything you do is being watched by the Empire. The enemy. A brief fling could easily turn out to be a major disaster.” He paused. “Darius Tage didn’t hesitate to threaten Chaz’s life to get at you. And you were no longer even married to her.”

  Tage did more than threaten. He set up Captain Chaz Bergren on false charges, imprisoned her, and then arrested her brother, Thad. Also Philip’s friend. Also a former officer. Former.

  Cory Bennton’s wasn’t the only death on Philip’s soul’s slate.

  It would be a long walk back up five flights of stairs from engineering to the bridge. And painful, Philip knew with grim certainty, in more ways than one.

  On Calth 9, she would have called for backup. In Port Chalo, she would have called for backup. But Rya Bennton wasn’t on station or in a dirtside port. She was no longer even in ImpSec. She was on a Stryker-class heavy cruiser in the middle of the no-man’s-land of jumpspace and there was no one she could fully trust. Or wanted to.

  And there was no time.

  She hit Deck 5 sucking wind, heart pounding in her ears. Time to start a diet, use the gym. Tomorrow, definitely. If there was a tomorrow. Going after an enemy operative with no backup generally reduced the probability of tomorrows.

  She hated dieting anyway.

  She flattened herself against the bulkhead at the entrance to the forward stairwell and listened, her heartbeat automatically slowing, the Norlack draped over her back digging into her shoulder blades. If she was lucky, Burnaby Mather sang or whistled while he crafted bombs.

  She wasn’t that lucky.

  Okay, check the maintenance shop first, then the shuttle bays, then the upper cargo area and the auxiliary bridge. Mather or the cat—or both—had to be down here somewhere. For the hundredth time she yearned for a crew-locator system.

  And people in hell want ice water.

  A clank. Then a soft thud. She froze, then whipped around toward the sound.

  Maintenance shop. Finishing what she’d interrupted?

  She soft-footed past the shuttle bays, alert now to every creak and groan the ship made. Her hours wandering the corridors stood her in good stead. She knew with fair accuracy ship creaks from nonship creaks. Human sounds.

  She considered for a moment powering up the Norlack, but that was a long-range weapon, capable of punching holes in bulkheads if she wasn’t careful. Instead, she pulled her Carver out, safety off, power on full. Tiny red and blue dots glowed down the pistol’s short barrel. If Mather was who she thought he was, if he was doing what she suspected he was doing, it would be kill or be killed. He had a Carver too. And probably more, just as she did. She doubted Tage or the Justice Wardens would send an operative in with no weapons.

  She sprinted quickly across the empty corridor, her back to the portside bulkhead—the same side as the entrance to the maintenance shop, fifteen, twenty feet farther down. She held the Carver in a standard two-handed grip, chest high, and tamped down the urge to run for the door, blast it open. Expertise trumped emotions now. Stealth was everything. She tried not to think of it as time wasted; if Captain Folly was dead, the best revenge would be a cold, concise, exacting one.

  But she prayed she’d be in time. Dead humanoids bothered her far less than an innocent pet murdered.

  She reached the door, ears straining, eyes noting it no longer sat skewed on its track. It might have been fixed as part of routine maintenance. Or it could be someone’s private project. A quick check of the palm pad showed the door was locked. She dropped her left hand off her pistol and keyed in a security code, bringing up recent entries.

  A half hour ago, someone had used a command code to enter the shop.

  The timing—if it was Mather—was right.

  This was the critical moment. Standing, she’d be a target in the open doorway. She had to hit the door pad, drop, and roll through. And hope the attention of whoever was inside would be drawn upward by the movement of the door, the light spilling in from the corridor, and not down to one shit-for- brains security chief on the
decking.

  She paused for a moment, racking her memory for any other way into the shop. Sections of the Alric Stockwell’s schematics flashed into her mind. Ventilation ducts. That was all. There was no other way in or out. A good reason why Mather would have chosen to use the shop. A sole entry meant easy defense and no surprise visitors—not with the door fixed.

  He was about to get one anyway.

  She secured the Norlack rifle in front of her and sucked in a breath. Three, two … now! She punched the palm pad. She dropped to her knees, shoved herself through the opening door onto her hip, then her elbow, as soundlessly as she could, teeth gritted, Carver and rifle tucked against her chest. Shop overhead lights were on. A row of tall duro-hards on her right caught her immediate attention. She lunged for them in a crouch as something crashed to the decking, metal on metal.

  Just like last time.

  She froze, screened by the large canisters from whoever was in the shop. There were no more noises, and the harsh shadows patterning the decking on her left and right didn’t change. She glanced up. Light panels striped the overhead, except where they filtered down through a large cargo security netting suspended near the far bulkhead.

  A short snap like a measured footfall. Then darkness. Light panels winked out.

  Shit. Low-light targeting was her worst skill. It was a waiting game now. She hated waiting. It was like a slow death. A damned miserable way to die.

  Tsst! Tsst!

  Rya’s heart stuttered. She knew that sound. Captain Folly sneezing.

  Tsst!

  Fuck. But at least he was still alive.

  Something rattled, tinny-sounding and high-pitched. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness, which wasn’t as dark as she’d thought. The tiny red dots of power ports glowed from the bulkheads at random intervals. A green emergency lightbar was set over the door. There might be others, but she couldn’t see them from her position. So she ignored her eyes and used her ears, listening, letting her mind repeat the sounds. Pinpoint it. That had always been one of her strong suits.

  Another rattle. A cage or chain. Lightweight. Behind her on her left. She turned slowly, carefully, putting the sound on her right.

  Tsst!

  That’s where Captain Folly was. The question then became, where was Mather? Was he with the cat, knowing that whoever entered the shop would be drawn to the sound? Or on the opposite axis, ready to shoot her in the back?

  Someone had to make the first move. And she hated waiting.

  She pushed the Norlack quietly over her back again, then pulled off her ImpSec beret, again studded with its metal service pins, and balled it up in one hand. It was dark and soft, should fly through the air unnoticed until it landed with a clink from the pins. Then she’d see who reacted.

  She threw it from the left side of the duro-hard, away from where the cat was. One, two … tinkle, clink. It hit the decking.

  A scuffling sound, weight shifting abruptly, fabric moving. Rya snapped her body into shooting stance, swung out from behind the duro-hard, and fired at the sound. Twice, three times.

  Laser energy flared as it hit pylons, worktables, and for the briefest of moments she saw the outlines of a set of servostairs, some stacked shapes that were cargo boxes. And a man’s form, short and stocky. Muscular. Lunging for the decking. She’d missed him by mere inches.

  She jerked back behind the duro-hards just as he returned fire, dropping to her knees in case his Carver penetrated whatever was in the containers. The duro-hards shook, something sizzled, but nothing punched through.

  Well, fancy that. Luck.

  She listened again. Nothing. He wasn’t going to give away his position again unless she forced him to.

  She swung out again and fired overhead, the pistol’s energy causing a small flare as it impacted against the light panel. She used those few seconds to catch Mather’s furtive movements on the far side of the shop, heading for Captain Folly. She couldn’t let Mather kill him, couldn’t let the cat die for her own stupidity.

  She fired again. Mather dropped to the floor with a grunt, and for a moment she thought she had him. Then a laser’s burning energy grazed her shoulder, only because she heard the sound of the discharge before she saw it and jumped back in time.

  Shit! Her shoulder stung, but the fact that it was stinging at all told her it was a minor wound. A direct hit and she’d feel nothing. She might not even know her arm was gone until it hit the decking.

  She scrambled behind the duro-hards but kept moving because she heard something now. A low, muffled laugh.

  Bastard. Think this is funny? ImpSec assassins never laughed. The only sound they were permitted to make was breathing. And that only on occasion.

  Then a louder sound. Clinking. The bastard was at Captain Folly’s cage. No. She had to stop him now. She inched out, quickly, silently, keeping low, then jerked hard around the corner of the duro-hard, flicking on the laser sights just as she did so. It would give away her position. But it would also insure that this time she wouldn’t miss.

  The red dot flared against a mass of white. Shit! Not Mather. She checked her fire, swearing silently, hands cramping. Captain Folly was where Mather’s chest should be.

  A burst of laser energy surged toward her, along with the body of the cat. She rolled, firing low, trying to avoid the white blur coming at her. It hit the ground with a cry and a hiss. God and stars, the cat was alive! Run, Folly, run! she urged him silently.

  Mather was moving, ducking behind high, dark shapes. She fired again. This time his grunt held real pain. Good, she’d hit the bastard, in the hip or leg, she thought. She heard him stumble, crash into something.

  A barrage of shots forced her to scoot quickly to the right to a group of dark shapes. She had leaned against what felt like a table leg, getting her bearings, shoulder throbbing, when Mather fired again and again. He was scared now. She could sense it, feel it.

  Light flared into the maintenance shop as the door slid open, a panel sizzling on the bulkhead. For a half second she thought help had arrived, Sachi or Tramer. Hope crested. The sizzling told her otherwise. In his firing frenzy, Mather had hit the door controls.

  Good move, Commo. And thanks. This changed the game. He could see her. But she could see him. And hear him. She edged toward the right side of the boxes stacked against the low table. Her shoulder burned, and she could feel thin, warm rivulets running down her chest. Maybe it was a little more than a grazing wound, but she still had her arm. And she’d hit Mather. That was all that mattered. And Captain Folly was free.

  More shuffling. Sounded like he was dragging one leg. She dropped to one knee, the Carver in her hands moving unerringly toward the sound. Her eyes were secondary, useful only when—

  There! She saw him, a dark, shadowed shape, rising. Time for the kill.

  Suddenly she was facedown, something heavy slamming painfully against her back, pinning her arms and legs to the decking. Her lungs burned. The Norlack cut into her spine. She tasted blood, and as footsteps pounded closer she realized that a metal lattice covered her hand, felt the thick bars scrape against her cheek as she inched her face to the right. Her Carver was a foot away, under the same crosshatched grating. She pushed against the grating—the security netting she now remembered hanging from the overhead—and tried to lever up as Mather’s boots came into view. She couldn’t move it. She was trapped.

  “You just don’t listen to orders, do you, Bennton?” Mather’s voice was low and harsh. A bloody stream darkened one pant leg. “No one’s permitted to wander about the ship alone.”

  Philip was on the third stair tread when something extremely odd made him stop, turn, and stare down the corridor on Deck 5 Aft. An animal, from its loping gait. White. One dark ear. The cat, he realized with a start. But what was that dark thing in front of it? And the brownish streak—

  He was off the stairs in a quick move, ignoring the jolt of pain. He lunged forward, closing the distance between the cat and himself. Captain Folly sl
owed, and Philip could see that brownish streak was a smear of blood down one flank. And the dark thing in its mouth, dangling between its front legs …

  God. Rya’s dark-blue beret.

  His heart stopped. The cat dropped the beret at his boots.

  “Where’s Rya?” he rasped out, as if the cat could answer.

  The cat turned and took off back down the corridor in a dead run.

  With a grunt, Philip snatched the beret from the decking and, teeth gritted, lunged quickly after the beast.

  He was almost to the shuttle bays when the sounds reached him: laser fire, then a loud crash. He slowed, shoving Rya’s beret through his belt, then drew his Carver. The big ugly cat stopped just short of the open door to the maintenance shop, back arched, fur on end. Hissing.

  A male voice filtered out. Then a woman’s. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he knew both. Mather and Rya. He edged closer.

  “Justice Wardens?” Mather laughed. “They’re slag, garbage. Just like your so-called Alliance. You’re both destroying the Empire. You—”

  Mather’s voice halted. He knew someone was there. How could he not? Philip’s approach wasn’t exactly quiet. He damned himself, his injured leg, and the fact that he’d reacted without thinking, without analyzing. Sloppy, Guthrie.

  Sloppy could get Rya hurt. Or killed. He didn’t know where she was or what she was doing there, but the words Justice Wardens and Empire told him Rya had somehow found their mole. But he didn’t know if Mather held her captive or they were both dead-eyeing each other with their Carvers. He added this ship with its inadequate tech to the list of things to be damned.

  Barging through that open doorway could get them both killed.

  “Run out of reasons to kill me, Commo?” Rya’s voice came through clearly. He listened intently, trying to pinpoint where she was.

  “Shut up!” Mather’s answer was low, angry.

  “Why? Trapping me under this chain-link—”

  “Quiet!” It was a harsh, barely audible whisper. “Or you’re dead!”