Hope's Folly (36 page)

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 slowed, 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!”

Chain-link. Philip knew exactly where she was— somewhere near the equipment-containment area, a section of decking where small objects that could come loose during transit were confined under a heavy metal netting. And she risked her life to tell him. Mather could kill her easily. Would kill her, if he knew who stood in the corridor outside the maintenance-shop door.

Slowly, Philip backed away. Mather had to wonder if someone was still in the corridor, someone was still waiting for the opportunity to rush in.

But there was another way into the maintenance shop. Jodey had given him the updated schematics before he left the
Nowicki.
Changes were all on Deck 5 in the cargo, shuttle, and maintenance areas, changes he'd confirmed on his walk-through with Welford, days ago. Changes a commercial hauler needed and a warship didn't.

Changes that put a new access tunnel between the shuttle bays and the shop.

Philip prayed Mather didn't know that.

Another ten feet brought him to the shuttle bays. Philip tapped in the code, holding his breath as the wide double doors slid open. If they creaked, rattled, or rumbled, he would scrap this goddamned bucket at Ferrin's.

If they creaked, rattled, or rumbled, Rya was dead.

They slid open with a low rumble. Very low.

It took him less than two minutes to find the new access tunnel that connected the shuttle bay to the shop. It felt like two hours. He pulled back the crosshatched cover—not unlike the larger panel he suspected covered Rya—and tensed for the slightest metallic squeak. He refused to let himself consider that Rya might already be dead.

He'd lied to Sparks. This was a heartache he could not handle.

He rolled his shoulders, pushing out some of the tension, then slipped inside the opening, which was a good six inches shorter than he was. Grateful that the pipes and conduit were down only one side he pressed his back against the outer wall for support. He left his cane in the shuttle bay. All he needed was his walking arsenal, holstered, tucked, or stashed on his body.

And hope.

The narrow tunnel moved on an uphill slant after the first ten feet, light dimming as he left the shuttle bay behind. A small glow guided him ahead. His ears strained for sounds that Rya was still alive. He didn't hear a Carver's distinct whine, but then, knives were silent. And equally deadly.

He slowed as the tunnel's grated cover came into view. The muted light filtering in to the shop from the open doorway was barely enough to let him make out the cover's thin metal bars. He was surprised Mather hadn't closed the doorway to the corridor. He suspected he couldn't. He was more surprised Mather hadn't activated the shop overhead lights. Either they were broken too or he felt he still needed somewhere to hide.

He sank down to his knees and peered cautiously through the grating at an angle. Rya's unmoving form, trapped under the metal grid of a cargo net, was in the upper right corner. Philip's jaw clenched, his throat tightened, and for a dangerous moment his vision blurred. He blinked, clearing his eyes.

Where in hell was Mather? He searched the harsh shadows. Yes. No. He was wrong. That wasn't … Yes. It was.

His heart hammered. Not enough room to use a plasma star. Angle was wrong. It had to be the Carver. One clear shot. That's all he wanted. Not answers, not information, not explanations. He didn't care why Mather was there, who he worked for, what he intended to do. The man held Rya Bennton prisoner. That qualified him for a death sentence in Philip Guthrie's world.

Mather crouched by a row of duro-hards, nervously watching the open doorway but with his Carver clearly trained on Rya. Taking no chances.

But life was all about taking chances, wasn't it?

Philip poked the short barrel of his Carver-12 through the grating. A few inches to the left. That's all he needed for a clear shot. A few short—

A grinding clank, a thump. Mather jerked up, twisting as Rya kicked the soles of her boots hard against the large grating, raising it a few inches, her right hand grasping for the small of her back. Her L7.

“You're dead, Bennton,” Mather cried, lunging forward.

Philip fired, an invisible stream of laser energy racing across the wide expanse. Rya twisted on her side, L7 now in her hands, but Philip couldn't tell if she got a shot off, couldn't hear the L7's low hum amid the high whines of two Carvers discharging: his and Mather's.

Philip fired again, then it was Mather who was twisting, stumbling forward, falling. He crashed on top of the grating that covered Rya, his Carver spinning across the decking.

“Rya!” Philip's voice was raw, harsh with wrenching emotion. He kicked the grating out, then shoved himself out of the tunnel, his back aching, his leg screaming in searing pain. None of that mattered. “Rya!”

He caught his hip on the edge of a worktable as he barreled across the shop decking. He stumbled briefly but kept going, shoving empty cargo crates out of his way.

“Guthrie?” Her voice was muffled, weak, but, God and stars above, she was alive.

He staggered to a halt, then dropped to his knees next to Mather's body. He grabbed the man's collar and wrenched him backward. There was no resistance. Mather was either dead or unconscious.

Philip didn't care.

Rya lay on her stomach, the L7 in her left hand, the wide grating once again pinning her to the decking. He lifted one edge but couldn't shove it off her. It jammed against a table and some duro-hards. He swore out loud. “That's as high as it goes. Can you move, scoot over here to me?”

“Yeah,” she said, but her voice was thin. He didn't want to think Mather's shot had found its mark.

“I'm going to grab your arm and pull you. Ready?”

“Set. Go.” Her voice was a low whisper.

He yanked her out and up against him. The metal gridwork crashed back down to the decking. They fell backward in a tangle of arms and weapons, the barrel of the Norlack strapped across her back grazing his temple. Philip rolled on his side, taking her with him, holding her tightly against his body before releasing her. She was injured. He angled up on one painful elbow, gently sliding her down to the decking, laying her on her back. He needed to see her face, needed to see her eyes open, needed to hear her say—

“Fuck.” Her voice was breathy. Her eyes fluttered open. “I hate getting shot.”

“Where are you hit? How bad?”

“Right shoulder. Front's just grazed. The back,” and she winced. “Hurts like a bitch. But I don't think anything's severed.”

He saw the blood now and the charred edges of her uniform. He ran trembling fingers down the side of her face. “There's an intraship panel by the door. Stay here.”

“Why not? View's great,” he heard her rasp as he shoved himself to his feet.

He stumbled to the panel and punched at the glowing green icon with the side of his fist. “Guthrie, Code Red! Full medical team. Maintenance shop, Deck Five. Now!” Then he hit the icons for the overhead lights. Only the back and the right side came on, the others probably casualties of the firefight between Mather and Rya. But it was enough for him to see that Burn-aby Mather was dead, a large bloody stain on his left thigh and a smaller, more deadly hit to his left temple. The latter was Philip's shot.

But he also more clearly saw the tight lines of pain around Rya's mouth and the labored rise and fall of her chest.

His own chest tightened. He knelt beside her, pulled the L7 from her grasp, then folded her left hand inside both of his. Her skin was cold. Wide hazel eyes studied him under dark slanted brows.

“Rebel—”

“Guthrie!” Sparks, shouting his name, followed by thudding boot steps, then more shouts. Then Con and Sachi Holton and, seconds later, Corvang pushing his tall frame past them all, two med-techs in tow.

Philip rose, releasing Rya to the med-techs and their blinking, beeping instruments, their hushed voices, their concerned frowns. One of the techs tore Rya's shirt at the shoulder, then ripped the lacy strap of her undershirt. The other slapped pale-colored patches on
her bare, bruised skin. She stared at Philip through the whole procedure, her gaze wavering only when she blinked.

Words he ached to say stuck in his throat.

An antigrav stretcher appeared from somewhere— the ship had medical supplies on each deck, but if you asked him now, he knew he couldn't locate a one. He could only watch her face, her steady hazel gaze.

Only as they lifted her onto the stretcher did she turn her face away.

And only as they guided her stretcher under the glare of the doorway light did he see the lone tear running down her cheek.

Coward.
He accepted his self-damnation without question.
Yes.

He looked back into the maintenance shop. Con and Tramer had turned Mather's body over. At the far end of the room, Sachi Holton was examining a small cage on a wide worktable, which also held a number of metal canisters and other things Philip couldn't identify from this distance.

Someone pressed his cane into his hand. Sparks. “What happened here, Skipper?”