Hope's Folly (24 page)

She eyed him back. His annoyance of last night had apparently faded. Tousled, some of the hardness was gone from his face. He looked younger, approachable. His open shirt revealed a wide stripe of a well-muscled chest that segued into a flat stomach. Approachable, hell. He was goddamned delicious.

Damn. It had better fade over time.

The large white cat materialized at her feet, then launched himself onto the counter with a flick of his black tail. She'd watched him come and go on soft, silent paws all night and twice caught him skulking away with her beret in his mouth. He viewed it as a toy, she assumed. Or perhaps simply wanted something soft to sleep on.

A corner of Philip's mouth quirked up. “Good morning, Captain.”

Startled, Rya shot a glance over her shoulder, belatedly remembering no one on board held the rank of captain. Philip was chuckling when she looked back.

“Guess he didn't introduce himself to you last night. Captain Folly, this is Lieutenant Rya Bennton. Also known as Rebel. Subbie, this is Captain Folly. Also known as He Who Shall Be Obeyed.”

Captain Folly emitted a raspy meow, then sauntered over to the cabinets against the wall and, as Rya watched in fascination, pawed open a sliding cabinet door.

“I wondered about that,” Rya heard Philip say almost under his breath. He pulled a saucer from the cabinet.

“Someone trained him well.” She took the saucer from him and tapped the unit's code for cream.

“Or he trained someone, just as he's now trained you and me,” Philip answered as she put the saucer in front of the cat. The cat lapped noisily at the thick white liquid. Philip cradled his tea in one hand and turned away from her.

She knew she was being dismissed even before he said, over his shoulder: “I think I can handle things from here, Subbie.” He headed for the short hallway to his bedroom.

No, he couldn't in all good conscience handle things from here, with his unlockable quarters and his bad leg and breaches in security that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up every time she thought about it. But Rya was too tired to point those things out and well aware she had an official duty day to face. She snatched her leather jacket from where she'd left it draped across the back of one of his soft chairs, then hit the palm pad. A mischievous, Rya the Rebel impulse seized her. Very sure Admiral Philip Guthrie couldn't see her, she touched her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss as she backed out the doorway to the corridor.

She had one arm halfway down the sleeve of her jacket when she realized Con Welford was in the corridor. Frowning.

“Hey, Tin Man,” she called, using the nickname that either came from an aberration of his first name— people often pronounced it Cons
tin
tine—or from his fascination with things metallic and technical. It looked as if Philip wasn't the only early riser. Welford must have just exited the lift. He couldn't have been in the corridor, because then he might have seen … No. She felt her face heat. There was no way. She would have known if Welford was there.

Welford stepped toward her, eyes still slightly narrow. “He awake?”

“And on his first cup of tea, yeah.” She realized belatedly that hers was still on the counter. Should have brought it with her. She'd need the warmth in her cabin.

“Lots to do today,” Welford said, and then he was past her and she was in front of the lift. She pushed Welford's somewhat indifferent tone from her mind. There
was
a lot to do today. And Rya had only an hour or two to catch some sleep before that “lots to do” became part of her problems as well.

“Admiral Guthrie?”

Philip was stripping off the gray shirt with the broken zipper when Con Welford's voice sounded in his quarters. From the volume and slight echo, Philip guessed the lieutenant was probably standing in the doorway between his office and his main salon. Not bothering to restrain his grunt of aggravation with his uncooperative uniform, Philip grabbed another shirt from his closet, then strode—limped quickly, actually—out of his bedroom, shirt in one hand, damned cane in the other.

Con Welford stood exactly where Philip thought he was. “Tell me some good news, Constantine.”

Con adjusted the tool belt around his waist as he answered. “Nothing major malfunctioned and no one attacked us in the past five hours.”

“Nothing major?” Philip leaned against the back of the padded chair, propping his cane against the chair's broad arm.

“Glitch in enviro. Deck Three's like a polar ice cap.”

“Deck Three's always been a polar ice cap.” Philip thrust his left arm into his shirtsleeve. “Rya told me our security breach didn't result in any stowaways. Or has that changed?”

“Unless someone recruited an army of midgets and they're hiding in our ventilation ducts, no.” Con's tone was light, but Philip noticed the lieutenant wasn't looking at him when he spoke. His interest seemed to be the cabin's small galley.

Philip zipped up his shirt—this one didn't snag halfway—and grabbed his cane. “You want tea, coffee? Don't mind that dish. Rya's spoiling the damned cat.”

Something flickered through Con's eyes when Philip said “Rya.” Philip wasn't sure the first time he mentioned her name. He was now.

It's none of your damned business,
he reminded himself. But it didn't stop him from noticing Con's reaction, and it didn't stop him from wondering what had gone on behind Con's closed cabin door.

“White tea, if it'll make some,” Con was saying, heading for the galley counter. “Mess hall's won't, but yours might.”

“Rank, privileges, and all that crap? Help yourself. I left my cup in the bedroom. I'll meet you in my office.”

Philip ambled back to his bedroom for his unfinished tea. It was cold. His leg was bothering him more than usual this morning. He hadn't slept well, far too aware that Rya was in the next room even though he no longer heard noises alerting him to her presence. Far too aware he had a derelict ship and insufficient crew that faced problems—and enemies—that could easily overwhelm both those things.

Far too aware that, for the first time in his life, he could be on the losing side.

That people—
his
people—would die was inevitable. He just had to find a way to stave off the inevitable as long as possible and keep the body count to a minimum when options were exhausted.

Hell's fat ass, you're a grim bastard this morning.

He hadn't been fifteen minutes ago when Rya the Rebel stood at his galley counter, offering him tea, her eyes sparkling with something he couldn't quite name and was more than likely imagining.

But that was fifteen minutes ago, and reality kicked in hard about that time. Con Welford showed up as well. It was the start of Day Two on board
Hope's Folly.

“Other than enviro on Three, we seem to have most of the system glitches under control,” Con said, lounging back in the chair across from Philip's desk while Philip perused third shift's reports on his screen.

“Under control but not fixed?”

“Best we can hope for until we hit Ferrin's.”

Hope? Hope's folly,
he thought but didn't say, and not just because the cat strolled through his office's open door at that moment. But answers and solutions seemed to be more and more tantalizingly out of reach, always around the next bend, at the next port …

This was not, he reminded himself as the cat sidled around the back of Con's chair and disappeared into his quarters, the Imperial Fleet with its resources, financial and otherwise.

“Sparks is sure Seth has nothing we can use?” Philip knew the answer but he had to ask. Sparks had a reputation for finding the unfindable.

“Seth has plenty of parts, but they're all civilian or commercial configuration. That's the root of our problems. The fruit guy—”

“Pavyer,” Philip put in, aware of the first whiff of oranges now.

“—bastardized the ship's original systems, forcing incompatible military components to integrate with commercial ones. Just enough to get by and just enough to screw up when systems get one hair over basic functional usage. Sparks just keeps shaking his head, but Mather's throwing fits. I'm learning to stay away from him and let him do what needs to be done.”

“Plague of the ittle-dos,” Philip intoned, knowing Con was well familiar with Philip's favorite expression denoting substandard work.

“She's not the
Loviti,”
Con said, shaking his head.

No, the
Folly
definitely wasn't Philip's pristine former Imperial flagship. Integration wouldn't be a major problem there, because Imperial ship designers had learned a thing or three in the years since the Stryker-class ships had been commissioned. And one of those things was improved replacement-part compatibility. The
Loviti
could filch from the
Nowicki,
if need be. And the
Nowicki
from the
Masting.
Cross-compatibility was now the standard.

“When do we head out for Ferrin's?” Con asked.

Philip rocked back in his chair. “That depends on what Sparks and Dina have to say.” It pained him to lie to Con. Damn it all, he trusted the man with his ship, his life … well, not with Rya Bennton, but with everything else. But he'd told Adney, and for good reason:
Sparks, you, and I are the only ones who will know our exact departure time.

And no one included Con Welford.

No, this was not like the
Loviti
at all.

Philip was still reviewing the systems upgrade and repairs report Con left behind when, five minutes later, a noise in the corridor made him raise his gaze from his deskscreen. Dina Adney touched her fingers to her temple in salute.

“You free?” she asked, hesitating in the open doorway.

“No, but my rates are reasonable,” he quipped, and when her frown told him his humor was clearly wasted, he motioned to the chair Con had vacated. “Sit. I'm just going over Welford's shopping list.”

“Do I have a copy of that?” She was frowning at her datapad now.

“I'll try to send it to you, but in the meantime, feel free to read over my shoulder.”

She glanced up, eyes narrowed. Then she sighed, shaking her head.
“Things will be better once we get to Ferrin's,” he said, sensing her frustration.
“We need to … Admiral, that's something I'd like to discuss with you.”
Her tone shifted, tinged with a distant yet distinct formality. Philip could almost feel her physically withdraw. And there was something else. A hesitancy? Nervousness?
“I spent most of last night thinking about our status and mission,” she said.
Well, at least he wasn't the only one who hadn't slept well.
“About this ship,” she continued, “our crew situation. The attempts on your life on Kirro and on the shuttle.”
“This is war, Dina,” he said quietly. “It may not have yet been officially declared so, but it is war.”
“We're not prepared for that.” Her hands tightened around the datapad's metal casing. “Proceeding now, ill-staffed and ill-equipped as we are, even to Ferrin's, violates every operational rule Fleet—”
“This isn't Fleet.”
Something flashed in her dark eyes at his interruption. Anger? Fear? He couldn't tell. He didn't know Dina Adney well enough.
She leaned toward him. “With all due respect, Admiral—”
He definitely didn't like the sound of that.
“—we have uncleared personnel working in sensitive positions and an inadequate physical plant with components Commander Sparkington and Lieutenants Mather and Welford cannot verify. We have no chief medical officer on board. We have no working security cameras. We have no consistent line of communications with other ships in the fleet. We can't even communicate with the crew on
this
ship! And we've yet to have an SOP meeting.”
She sat back abruptly.
Standard Operating Procedures? He knew they were necessary, but he hated those policies-and-procedures meetings. He doubted if in this instance having one would greatly solve anything, other than reassuring Adney that they were, indeed, a legitimate fleet.

This was the first time he'd seen Adney so on edge, and he wondered if something had happened third shift that he was yet to become aware of. But then, there were a number of minor crises yesterday, with the systems failures and overly enthusiastic blast doors. Those things kept Adney running.

Last night she'd evidently started thinking, as he had. It sounded as if she wasn't pleased with Philip's first day in command. He—in honest self-appraisal— wasn't either. But he was trying to solve the difficult things first. He'd work on the impossible ones next.

Or so he hoped.

“Suggestions, Commander?” he asked, trying to keep his own frustration out of his voice. Yes, things were worse than either he, Jodey, and obviously Dina Adney had anticipated. But they would not be unsolv-able. Eventually.

“Delay departure for Ferrin's until we can fill all critical crew assignments and bring ship's systems up to Fleet standards.”

This isn't Fleet,
he almost said again but didn't. In Adney's mind, this was still Fleet. A different division, perhaps—a limping, wounded, bedraggled cousin. But Fleet.

He had to remember she'd come off the
Nowicki,
which was already to Fleet standards with crew and captain and equipment. Only allegiances had changed.

The
Folly
… A puff of orange-scented air flowed through the vents in silent reminder of what else had changed.

“I understand your concerns,” he said, “but Ferrin's is still compiling crew rosters for us. Many, including our CMO, aren't even on station yet. And Seth doesn't have Stryker-class components readily available. You're not dealing with a military shipyard here.”

Which raised another problem, more than the fact that this was not a military facility: every day they sat in dock was another day their presence threatened the civilian workers. Philip didn't discount Tage launching a strike force against Seth. Tage could launch one against Ferrin's, but Ferrin's was a military base and it could defend itself far better than Seth could.

“The components at Ferrin's could be shipped here, along with whatever officers and crew
have
been approved for our clearance,” Adney insisted. “We could get bids from the long-haulers who work this quadrant. It would mean two, three weeks’ delay, but we could use that time to train whatever additional crew we might find on Seth.”