Hope's Folly (42 page)

“He either programmed or hardwired problems into almost every major system on board, many of which he controlled through his communications console on the bridge. Others he carried on this archiver,” Welford held up the rectangular unit, “which he could key from any deskscreen because, yes, they all worked. For him.

“Since our last meeting, we've managed to bring the
Folly
back to what I'd say is ninety percent of what she was when the fruit-transport company sold her to the Alliance. Captain Bralford probably needs to apologize for any complaints he'd made to Mr. Pavyer's people. Yes, she's an old Stryker and she's been stripped down, but she's far sturdier and far more reliable than we thought.” Welford glanced around the table. “Questions?”

“I'll voice the one you all want to know.” Sparks raised one knobby finger in the air. “Can we survive an encounter with an Imperial ship? I've just been telling Admiral Guthrie. There are ways to increase a laser's range. But what we gain in distance, we'll lose in accuracy and power. Conversely, I can work on increasing our weapons’ kick. Let them get close enough, then punch 'em good. But if there's more than one ship on us, or if our punch isn't strong enough, or they retaliate quickly … the odds aren't good.”

Martoni leaned forward. “I still say we bluff them. We send them a message as Mather stating that he'll have control of the ship in two and a half hours. By the time they start wondering, we'll be at the gate. And gone.”

Welford splayed one hand outward. “The minute they see our jumpdrives come online, they'll fire.”

“Unless we give them something else to keep their interest,” Philip said.

Sparks frowned. “Skipper, we've been over that.”

“He's not listening to me either.” Welford shrugged, then jerked his chin toward Rya. “Or to Bennton.”

That's why, Rya knew, her plan was the best option.

“I'm going to reset the lasers,” Sparks said. “So you tell me. Distance or power?”

“Distance,” Philip answered quickly. Welford was nodding. “They won't expect that. And if they pursue, you'll want to be able to make them back off.”

“You got it, Skipper.”

“Good. Now tell me about shields, best-and worst-case scenarios.”

Rya didn't miss how Philip said “you” not “we.” He had every intention of leaving the ship, sacrificing himself once they cleared the gate. She understood his fears about his family, but that was the very reason he needed to keep fighting. And that was one of her jobs as chief of security, wasn't it? Keeping the commanding officer alive.

The talk turned to the sublight engines and the jumpdrives—the one area Mather hadn't been able to effect. Either he had no knowledge there or knew Sparks would catch on. There was no way of knowing.

“Barring someone putting a torpedo through my engine room,” Sparks said, leaning back in his chair, “we're fine.”

Philip turned those marvelous blue eyes on her. “Lieutenant Bennton. You've been quiet.”

She met his gaze evenly. “Brig, sir.”

She watched his eyes narrow. She was being impudent and knew it. But he expected that. She needed to do the expected, in case he suspected …

“What can you tell us that will not require my tossing you in the brig?”

“We have six security cameras now functioning.” She outlined their locations and decks. “The bridge console links to the XO's station, the ready room, damage control, the aux bridge, and the secondary security station in divisionals. There are two additional substations, evidently added by the fruit-transport company—one in cargo and one in the shuttle bay. We should have those functioning within the hour. There's still no crew-locator system, but the slots are all there—it appears they were removed at decommission and the transport company never replaced them. They'll link in nicely with whatever standard locator system Ferrin's provides us. No ittle-doos. Sir.”

She saw his mouth twitch on the “ ittle-doo” reference. Then it was gone. He looked quickly away from her but not before she caught a dark hint of pain in his eyes.

She knew the feeling.

“Then we have a few hours left,” Philip said, “to get this ship and her crew as ready as she can be for whatever we find when we exit jump. Double-check all critical systems. We'll have one final meeting at 0545 tomorrow, after which I'll make a general announcement to the crew as to what to expect. In the meantime, if you find any problems or positives, since we now have a fully working intraship and communications system, don't hesitate to send anything and everything to the deskscreen in my office. Dismissed.”

She swiveled her chair but so did Martoni, his long legs blocking her, and she had to wait for him to stand before she could. Sparks was already at the door. She leaned back as Con Welford passed by her, then she shoved herself to her feet.

She had things to do, not the least of which was checking on those secondary security stations on Deck 5.

“Lieutenant Bennton.” Philip's voice stopped her just short of the door to the corridor.

Damn it. Not now.
She blanked her face of emotion and turned.

He was standing, his lack of expression holding no clue to his thoughts. “My office. Five minutes. You too, Mr. Welford. I need to check something on the bridge. I'll meet you both there.”

Welford? Rya glanced to her right. Welford was frowning, looking as confused as she felt. The summons wasn't expected.

“I know that look on the Old Man's face,” Welford said under his breath as they headed down the corridor for the stairwell. “We're in trouble.”

“Likely me, not you,” Rya told him. “You're just there to escort me to the brig.”

“I take it you have some sort of plan to keep him from sacrificing himself to the Imperials?”

“I'd tell you, Welford, but then I'd have to kill you. It's an ImpSec tradition, you know.”

“So you think he knows you're planning something?”

“I don't see how he could, other than we tend to think alike.”

“I've noticed.”

They trudged the rest of the way in silence, Rya's mind working. The only way Philip would know what she planned was if Dugan had taken inventory right after she left. That didn't seem logical or likely. If he did, she'd kill the sadist meddie. Right after she escaped from the brig.

Rya leaned against the bulkhead at Philip's office door. Welford stood in the corridor, feet apart, hands locked behind his back. They didn't have long to wait. The lift doors opened. Philip pointed his cane at Welford.

“Hit the palm pad, Constantine. It's not locked.”

Rya stood behind the chair on the right side of Philip's desk. Welford positioned himself at the other. Philip came in, closing his office door behind him. He didn't sit, as she expected, but tapped up his deskscreen while standing. Nor did he tell them to sit.

His glance, when it finally fell on her, was quick, nervous.

Nervous? Philip Guthrie?

“Ship's record, on,” he said. “Philip Guthrie, Admiral, Alliance First Fleet.” He recited the date and ship-time. “Be it known on this date I am naming Lieutenant Commander Constantine Welford as acting captain of
Hope's Folly—”

Beside her, Welford straightened in surprise.

But Rya wasn't, and as Philip recited the rest of the orders, her heart filled with grief. It was real. It was final. This wasn't a promotion as much as it was a bequest. The
Folly
would lose her commanding officer at the exit of the C-6 jumpgate. Philip's action simply insured that there would be someone on board to guide the ship to Ferrin's.

If it got that far.

But Welford was a good choice. In spite of their differences—and she knew his feelings about ImpSec— Welford was an intelligent, resourceful, and dedicated officer. And, she knew, Philip's friend.

It was a shame he'd never get a chance to really be in command. Security Chief Rya Taylor Bennton had no intention of letting Philip get in that pod. And, thanks to sick bay, she knew she would succeed.

“Captain Welford.” Philip looked directly at Welford. “Do you accept the responsibilities and commission offered?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Thank you, sir.”

But there was no joy in Welford's voice. He knew what Rya knew and why Philip was doing this.

“Pause ship's record.” Philip glanced at his deskscreen and tapped something in the corner.

That should be it, then. She was witness to Welford's promotion. The brig no longer beckoned. “Congratulations,” she said to Welford.

“We're not through yet, Bennton.” Philip looked back at her, then at Welford. “Captain Welford, I'm sure you're aware of Imperial Regulation Fifty-seven A, paragraphs A and B? It's a long-standing tradition, one that dates back to the days when fleets were relegated to the seas, not space. The Alliance Fleet hasn't yet finalized its regulations, but I think I can say with assurance this isn't one that would be rescinded. And if it is, then I stand on historical maritime tradition and law. Are you following me, Captain Welford?”

Rya racked her brain for Imperial Regulation 57 A, any of the paragraphs, but she didn't know Fleet regs like she did ImpSec ones. And maritime law—
law.
The brig suddenly loomed large again.

Maybe they'd just confine her to her cabin. She could probably hack into that lock.

“ Fifty-seven A, sir? No. Unless you mean … ” Welford's mouth opened, then closed quickly. He swallowed, hard. “You can't be serious. Sir.”

Rya stared at Acting Captain Welford. God and stars. They were going to make her walk the plank. Or whatever the deep-space equivalent of that was. Jettison her out a cargo hatch?

“I'm dead serious.” Philip held out his hand toward her. “Rya.”

Her own flew to the Carver at her side. Dugan had taken inventory, told Philip the trank was missing. Now they were going to strip her of her weapons and space her. They probably thought she meant to kill him. God, no. Just knock him out for a little while, long enough to get through the gate, long enough so he couldn't sacrifice himself.

Wasn't she at least entitled to a trial first?

“Rya,” Philip repeated. “Over here. Now.”

Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Say nothing incriminating. Name, rank, serial number.

She stepped toward him, raising her hands slowly out from her sides.

Philip frowned, head tilted slightly.

Behind her, Welford snorted out a laugh. “She doesn't know Fleet regs, Admiral. She thinks we're going to arrest her.”

Philip's eyebrows moved upward as he took a step toward her. He grabbed her hand, his strong fingers tightening around hers, and as she tensed, waiting for him to slap the restraints on her wrists, he said, “God, no, Rya. We're getting married.”

Rya froze in place.

We're getting married.

The words paraded through her mind but she couldn't grasp them yet, even though Philip was holding on to her hand, the warmth of him seeping into her skin as he stepped closer.

We're getting married.

She stared at him. He was staring at her.

“Imperial Regulation Fifty-seven A,” Welford's voice penetrated her shock, “pertains to the authority of the captain of a vessel to perform a legally binding marriage between two consenting adults.”

“Marry me, Rya,” Philip said softly. He'd propped his cane against the edge of his desk and enclosed her hand completely in both of his. He regarded her through eyes half hooded.

“You're insane.” She breathed out the words.

There was a slight twitch of his mouth, but it was a smile born of sadness. “That's arguable. But not the question here. Marry me, Rya. I have the money, the family, and the name to give you everything your father wanted you to have but Tage took away. I have assets already in Alliance space. Captain Bralford knows, Consul Falkner's people know. But there's also a substantial amount in the midst of transfer that could get delayed or confiscated. As my wife, they'll go to you unquestioned and quickly. I know you'll use them wisely. I know you'll carry on the fight.”

Inexplicably, her throat tightened. He was talking about money. He'd said nothing about love. She'd be his beneficiary, not his wife. But the look in his eyes, the way his gaze searched her face, spoke of something else. Something she wanted to know but couldn't stand the pain of knowing.

And not this way. Not under these circumstances.

Besides, she was the one whose life would be risked tomorrow, not his. But if she admitted that, if she said,
You're wasting your time, Philip Guthrie. You don't need to bequeath anything to anyone … because you're not the one going to die …
he'd know.

He'd try to stop her. He'd lock her in the brig. She knew that.

She sucked in a hard breath as her options narrowed
to the only one that would save his life. “You
are
insane. But if that's what you feel is best to do for the Alliance”—and, damn it, her voice was shaking!— “then, okay, we'll get married.” She lifted her chin and tried like hell to pin him with her most defiant stare.

Damn the man, he was grinning, triumphant. “Captain Welford, you'll find the ceremony and the vows on my deskscreen. Rebel, your part is easy. Just say ‘I do.’ Ship's record, on.”