Hope's Folly (45 page)

Philip had to know she'd contact Sachi to bring her some clothes. And the story of her being naked in his quarters would likely get out. A fling would be a boost to his ego—or maybe, as he saw it, his legacy. Unless it was made clear that it wasn't a fling.

“Boyfriend? Hell, no, he's not my boyfriend.” Rya hit the palm pad for the door and faced Sachi squarely. “He's my husband.”

She left Sachi standing in the corridor, eyes wide, mouth open, and headed for the lifts.

Three hours to gate exit.

The pods on Deck 5 were not far from the auxiliary bridge. More than a half hour had passed; Rya doubted she'd find him there. And inspecting each pod would be time-consuming—if he'd even left them open. Knowing Philip—and she felt she did—he'd lock several, keyed to a code only he knew. One would be his. The rest would be decoys.

It was time for drastic measures. She had to see if there was a way she could prevent the pods from launching. Or launching only if her command code was entered as well. She'd hate to strand the crew if there was a real emergency.

She took the lift all the way down to Deck 6, to the bowels of the ship, where the lower cargo bays, storage lockers, and power and purification plants were linked by crisscrossing maintenance tunnels. At the point where she'd be standing under the aux bridge, there'd be triple-plated bulkheading overhead. The pods and their launching mechanisms shouldn't be too far aft of that.

She had a basic expertise in things mechanical and no real background in engineering. But you didn't grow up on a station, you didn't work security on a station, without knowing how to wrestle with docking clamps and launching rigs. There were always manual overrides to the clamps so a ship on fire or in danger of exploding could be released from its berth at a station. And there were always manual overrides to launching rigs, so a shuttle could be jettisoned from a bay under the same circumstances.

All she had to do, she told herself as she squeezed past the hatchway into the dimly lit and dirty tunnel, was the opposite. Keep the clamps on the pods. Lock down the launch rig.

Easy.

But she had to find the damned things first. Without her utility belt. Without her handbeam.

Thank you, Philip Guthrie.

She brought the ship's schematics to mind and headed through the first two intersecting tunnels, confident of her destination. She wasn't far enough aft yet. There was no triple-plating overhead. Lots of grime and lots of grimy pipes and conduits and tubing. Several broken light panels. And the delightful scent of oranges.

But at the third intersecting tunnel she stopped. It went off at an odd angle that made no sense based on the schematics she'd seen and was narrower on her left than on her right. She kept going. The next tunnel was sealed off. And the one after that …

She wiped her sleeve over her face. It was hot as hell down here. Sweat beaded at her hairline, trickled down her neck. And she no longer had a clear idea of where she was in relation to the deck above. She should have brought Dillon with her, though he didn't know Strykers. Corvang wouldn't fit. Maybe Sparks … But Philip would notice his chief engineer's absence, and they were all supposed to be in the ready room for a meeting

She pulled back her sleeve. Shit. She had no idea. Philip had her watch.

She pushed on, the ship pinging and clanking and whooshing around her. She was hot, she was hungry, and she was mad as hell at Philip Guthrie. Her long-lost always-forever dream hero. Her husband.

How absolutely insane and absolutely heartbreaking was that? He had no idea what it did to her to hear him call her “Mrs. Guthrie.” It made her ache so badly inside that she didn't know if she wanted to punch him in the face or strip his clothes off and make wild, frantic love to him.

She hadn't lied to Sachi. He was incredible in bed— a tender, giving, passionate lover.

Why did he have to be such a slag-headed bastard outside the bedroom? Why couldn't that caring man actually care? And care about her and not just for sex.

She ducked under a low-hanging conduit and laughed at her thoughts.

Not just for sex. Every guy in her life up until now had been only for sex. Just For Fun Sex. Those were her rules. It's what she wanted.

Until now.

And now …

Now she'd walked too far. She somehow had missed the aux bridge. She was past engineering, the whine of the jumpdrives clearly behind her. Damn it!

She pulled her shirt out of the waistband of her pants and wiped the bottom over her face. There was a short side tunnel on her left with a yellow-striped maintenance hatch at the end. If memory served her, it went to an enviro substation about the size of a small storage bay. Well, it would be cooler out there and she might be able to get her bearings. Or at least find a deskscreen and contact Dillon. Or Sparks.

She lifted the handle on the hatch and pushed it open. Cooler air hit her immediately as she climbed into the room. It was dark, with only green emergency light panels glowing over the doorways.

“Lights,” she said, not even sure the system would respond down here, but it did, though admittedly not with any great effort. Two of the six panels winked on overhead.

Contact Sparks, definitely, she decided, looking around. He didn't have to come with her—just tell her where the pod clamps were. Then he could be at the meeting, which—

Shit. An intraship panel on the bulkhead read out the time: 0552. She was late. And there was no way she was going to contact Sparks in the ready room. Philip was there. Defeat and frustration washing over her, she trudged away from the bulkhead and sagged against the edge of an enviro converter.

And realized this converter wasn't vibrating, wasn't giving off the typical high-pitched whooshing whine they all did. But it should be. It had to be. An enviro malfunction was a serious threat to a station or a ship. She turned and touched the ones on the left and right. Vibrating. Whining. But this one …

She took a few steps back and stared at it. Suddenly she knew what she was looking at. A brand-new, pristine GRT-10 plasma cannon power unit.

She blinked.

A Gritter. A goddamned slagging Gritter, right here on the
Folly,
tucked in between two larger enviro converters. The base power unit was about ten feet in length and six or so wide and came up to her shoulders. It even looked like an enviro converter—the same dull metal plating and a similar row of lighted power indicators on the lower left. But it was a Gritter. If there was one thing ImpSec taught all its officers, it was how to recognize one of the most common and illegal weapons that traders and pirates used. Plus, the plasma coils on the right gave it away.

She ran one hand over its housing, her heart pounding.

Then it sank. Maybe it didn't work. Maybe it wasn't installed. This was the
Folly.
Maybe …

Maybe she should stop standing here like a slag-headed idiot and contact Philip Guthrie. Before the
Folly
cleared the gate. Before the Imperials attacked. Before Philip died.

Before she lost the chance to tell her long-lost always-forever dream hero that she loved him.

She lunged for the bulkhead and slapped intraship, tapping in the code for the ready room as soon as the panel showed ready.

The panel went out. And the overhead lights died. The enviro converters continued to whine quietly behind her.

Shit. She'd broken Philip's ship. But it was probably a faulty panel. Just this room. She yanked on the door handle and shoved the door sideways.

The corridor beyond was dark.

Fuck.

Maybe it was just this section, this deck. She headed for the dim green glow of the emergency lights marking the stairwell, her gut tensing when she passed the lifts and saw their lights out too.

It was six long flights to the ready room.

She hit the stairs running.

Rya was late. She was likely also extremely angry, and that, Philip knew, might cause her to want to keep him waiting. It wasn't that she didn't have clothes. He'd stopped in his quarters on the way to the ready room. She was gone, sheets and blanket on the floor with Captain Folly snoozing in the middle of them.

With fair certainty, he knew who'd fetched her clothes. Sachi Holton was giving him odd looks—admiration with a tinge of conspiracy. At least, he hoped it was admiration.

But now Rya was late, fifteen minutes late. That went beyond the personal and now bordered on the professional. Unless she thought he still intended to transfer her. Then she might no longer care about her career.

Unless …

“Constantine, hit intraship and see if Lieutenant Bennton is scheming down in engineering.”

Con stood and tapped at the panel.

The lights went out, plunging the ready room into green-tinged darkness.

Philip's pulse rate spiked. His hand flew to the Carver on his hip. Exclamations sounded through the open door to the bridge behind him. Lights from hand-beams crisscrossed bulkheads.

Sparks was already rising. “On it, Skipper.”

Philip swiveled in his chair. “Welford, go with him. Martoni, secure the bridge.” He grabbed his cane, looping the Norlack over his shoulder as he stood. “I don't like this, gentlemen,” he called out. And if Rya had anything to do with this, if this was some kind of game or scheme, he would bust her down to ensign, put her on galley duty and any other thing he could think of. Rebel, indeed.

Not that he didn't deserve some kind of retaliation. Locking her clothes and weapons away was a particularly nasty trick. Especially her weapons. He knew that would bother her a lot more than her missing clothes, and he didn't doubt she was capable of showing up on the bridge in nothing but his bedsheet and her Carver. But if this was revenge, the timing was bad.

And if this wasn't because of Rya … He headed for the XO's console, relieved to see some lights dancing across its surface. “How bad is it?” he asked Tramer, who worked the station when Con wasn't there.

“Good news, sir? Main bridge computers, drives, enviro, emergency lights are all on. Bad news is, secondary systems, intraship, lights, lifts are out.”

“Scanners are out, sensors are down,” Sparks called out.

Scanners and sensors were linked to the primary computer systems. If that was on, they should be on. They weren't. This looked less and less like Rya's doing and more and more like something he didn't want to consider.

Mather hadn't worked alone.

And Rya was missing. Now his gut really clenched. Now worried thoughts spun through his head. Mather had tried to kill her and failed.

Someone else stalked her, and he'd taken her goddamned weapons away. He might as well have put a target on her back.

Rapid bootsteps in the corridor had him turning, hope mixing with dread. But it was the slender young ensign, Jasli, handbeam guiding her way.

“Divisionals is down,” she said, looking around quickly. She headed for Con.

“Whole ship's down,” Con said.

“We figured that, sir. One of the lieutenants is securing divisionals. I volunteered to play messenger. I'm a pretty good runner.”

Philip strode toward her. “Is Lieutenant Bennton in divisionals?”
Please say yes. Please tell me she's safe and being efficient as usual.

“Bennton? No, sir. I haven't seen her this shift.”

“Get down to engineering,” Sparks told Jasli as he came up on Con's left. “Tell Dillon you're our runner, get his report, and come back up.”

“Yes, sir!” She sprinted off, light shining ahead of her. Her rapid bootsteps faded into the dark corridor.

He watched her go. When he turned back, Sparks was looking at him. “Rya's probably got whoever's responsible for this at gunpoint.”

“You don't understand.” Philip's tone was grim. “She's unarmed. I … played a little joke on her this morning. All her weapons are locked in my closet.”

Con stared at him. Sparks was shaking his head. “That's a damned strange joke to play on the woman you love.”

Now it was Philip's turn to stare. At Sparks. He hadn't realized his feelings were so easy to read. But then, Con had probably told Sparks about the wedding. And Sparks knew Philip. “It's a damned stupid thing to do to the woman I love,” he admitted, then turned away and headed back for the command chair. But he didn't sit. It made him feel helpless. And hopeless. Rya was missing. And they were stuck on a blind, defenseless ship less than two hours from an exit gate. With an Imperial strike force on the other side, waiting to dead-eye them.

“Philip!”

He spun toward the corridor, heart in his throat, hip protesting in pain. He ignored the pain, because he knew her voice. His name had never sounded so wonderful.

A familiar curvy shape moved out of the darkness.

“Rya! Where in hell have you been?” His voice was rough, strained.

She rushed onto the bridge, shirttails flying, and, as she came closer, he could see she was sweaty and dirt-streaked. He reached for her but she looked away from him, peering through the green-tinged gloom and columns of light from handbeams on consoles and chairs. “Welford, Sparks, we need a team, we need techs—” She was gulping for air. He grabbed her arm, steadying her. She may have ignored his hand moments ago, but, damn it, he had to touch her, he had to know she was safe and unharmed.

“We need techs,” she repeated. “Deck Six aft.”

“That's where the power outage is?” Con asked, handbeam glowing at his side.

“I don't know a damned thing about this power outage,” she replied, her breathing still choppy. “But that's where our Gritter is.”

“Gritter?” Shock poured through Philip. “Are you—”

“I know a GRT-Ten when I see one.” She shot him a look of annoyance, eyes narrowed. “ImpSec pulls them off ships all the time. And this one was tucked down with the enviro converters. If I hadn't almost tripped over it, I wouldn't have seen it.”

“Welford and I have been over this ship's weapons systems a dozen times,” Sparks said. “There is nothing on the weapons console or in engineering for arming a Gritter.”

“Maybe the fruit guy never had time to install it,” Rya said. “That's why someone has to get down there, take a look. But maybe—and I thought about this the whole six flights up—maybe it's working.” She sucked in a long breath. “Stop thinking like Fleet. Start thinking like a pirate, or a trader afraid of both Fleet and pirates. How would you configure it?”