Hope's Folly (16 page)

“Saw that too.” He rubbed one hand over his face.

“Get some downtime, Admiral. We're not leaving until Sparks gets here, and that's not for,” she turned her wrist, glancing at the square black metal watch, “eight, ten hours yet.”

Philip frowned. “Did I lose a day?”

“One of his subbies freed up early.” She shoved herself to her feet, her movement showing both grace and power. Not unlike his rebel. “With your permission, I'm ordering you to bed. Most of your recruits have tucked in. We'll all get a fresh start in a few hours and have your formal change-of-command once Sparks get here.”

“Permission granted.” He rose too, grabbing his cane. Adney slipped out into the corridor. Her cabin was on the other side. Philip hit the palm pad for the door leading to his quarters. His office shared a wall with his main salon, smaller than he'd had on the
Loviti
but not dissimilar in layout. On the left, a couch and matching padded chair. On the right, a dining table with four chairs framed by the large double viewport. At the eleven o'clock position, a short hallway, then the door to his bedroom and private lav.

“Lights,” he said, entering the dark bedroom. The small viewport, of course, offered no illumination. Decklights and overheads flickered on, revealing his duffel where he'd had Corvang leave it on the edge of his bed. Still locked, secure.

But that wasn't what had Philip frowning, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

It was what else was in the middle of his bed.

He slapped intraship, knowing Adney couldn't be far. “Guthrie to Adney. My quarters, now!”

Seconds later his door chimed. He opened it remotely.

“Sir?”

“Here!”

“Sir?” she said again, stepping into his bedroom. “Is there a problem?”

“Damned straight there's a problem. What in hell's fat ass is a cat doing sleeping in my bed?”

The cat—and a damned ugly thing it was, lumpy and white, except for one black ear and a black tail— chose that moment to raise its large head, open one golden eye, yawn, and put its head back on its paws again.

“Apologies, sir. I had no idea. That's Folly, sir.”

“Folly?” He took his gaze off the cat and stared at Dina Adney.

“Folly. Hope's Folly. The little girl, Hope. Her cat's name is Folly.”

“But she's”—and he hesitated, aware the cat's eyes were now open—“dead,” he said softly. Maybe the beast didn't know.

Guthrie. It's a damned cat. It doesn't care.

Adney looked troubled. “He's part of the deal Bralford made with Pavyer.”

“He?”

“Folly.”

“Folly's a he?” Folly was not a name for a male cat, especially not one that looked like that. Damned thing should have been called Bruiser. Or Hellspawn, with its wide face, thick legs, and body that looked like a bag stuffed with old socks.

“Actually, he's Captain Folly. Bralford didn't tell you about him?”

“He did not.”

“I guess if you don't want him in here, you can put him in the corridor. But this,” and she hesitated just long enough for Philip to glimpse a nervous smile on her lips, “is the captain's cabin.”

“Adney, don't. It's been a long, goddamned miserable day.” But he snorted. “Maybe I should be reading my change-of-command orders to him.”

That got a laugh out of Adney. She walked over to the bed and clapped her hands. “C'mon, Folly. The admiral doesn't want you in here. Let's go.”

The cat turned its face away.

Adney looked at Philip.

“Let me guess,” Philip said. “The last time you picked him up, he bit you.”

“I dropped him before he could draw blood.”

Philip eased himself down on the edge of the bed under the cat's watchful eye. He didn't dislike cats. He just had no desire to share his bed with one. He nudged the cat's ample belly with the head of his cane. “Move, cat.”

Folly growled—a low, menacing sound.

“I can get gloves, a towel,” Adney offered.

“You're telling me no one's been able to touch this cat since you came on board?”

Adney nodded. “That's about the size of it. And I'm really sorry, Admiral. I had no idea he slept in here. He shows up on the bridge. He has a dish in the main mess, where the ship's previous owner always fed him. When he's not around … well, it's not like Welford or Mather or I are much interested in looking for him.”

No, he couldn't imagine why anyone would want to spend time with something that ugly and unpleasant.

Philip ran one hand through his hair. It felt gritty. Rolling around on the decking of Kirro Station and then the shuttle's cargo bay hadn't helped. “I need to shower and sleep. If I make enough noise, he'll probably leave.”

“Probably.”

“I
will
pay you and Jodey back for not telling me.” He shot her a smirk to take the sting out of his words. A reprimand from an admiral, even a limping one with no working fleet, wasn't something someone as by-the-book as Adney would take lightly. “But you will do me a favor and, shipmorning, contact Pavyer and have him come get his daughter's cat before we ship out to Ferrin's.”

She smiled back. “Will do, sir.” She saluted him—or maybe the cat—and left.

He pushed himself up, then opened his duffel. “I'm taking a shower,” he told the beast. “If you want to make yourself useful, unpack this while I'm in the lav.”

He swore the cat grunted at him in answer.

When Philip came out of the shower, towel around his waist, his duffel wasn't unpacked. And the cat hadn't moved.

“Not much help, are you?” Philip shoved his few pieces of clothing in the closet drawers. He was too tired to care what went where, other than his weapons. His spare Carver-12, power pack, and an L7 went into his nightstand. For now, the Norlack and the rest went into a locked closet. He'd find or build something more secure over the next few days.

He left his cane by the side of his bed. The room was small enough that he could use the bulkhead to keep his balance as he limped around the bed. He threw back the covers. Sheets and blanket seemed clean. He almost reconsidered sleeping as he usually did—naked—as the beast had teeth and, he was sure, claws. But Folly had edged down toward the bed's lower corner by then. His toes might suffer, but they'd be shielded by the blanket and sheet.

He told the room monitor to wake him in five hours, told the room's light to shut off, with decklights on low. He pulled the covers up. The pillow was fine except for one thing.

Everything on this goddamned ship smelled like oranges.

Philip woke, as expected, five minutes before his cabin monitor announced the time and started increasing the bedroom illumination. Yellow eyes, inches from his face, stared at him, unblinking.

“Coffee would be nice,” Philip said, his voice rough with sleep.

The cat leapt gracefully off the bed and disappeared.

Philip sat up. If the beast brought coffee, he'd rescind his order to Adney

He grabbed his cane, rifled through the closet drawers for underwear and a pair of gray fatigue pants, and headed for the lav. When he came out, the cabin lights were at full brightness. Shirtless, he limped for the main salon. The cat was sitting on the galley counter. A sliding cabinet door was open and he could see three white mugs decorated with—God help him—images of fruit.

He looked at the cat.

The cat looked at him.

“I'm guessing you take cream,” Philip said, reaching for a mug. Then he gave a self-derisive snort. The drugs had to be out of his system by now, but he was having a conversation with a cat. One-sided, admittedly, but a conversation.

The beverage dispenser, an original twenty-year-old model, was set into the galley wall. He shoved the mug in the opening, selected black coffee, and only then wondered if the thing even worked.

The coffee came out, sputtering and splashing, but it was hot and more than decent. He sipped it gratefully as he found a shallow bowl in the cabinet, then cadged some creamlike substance from the unit.

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.”