Hope's Folly (47 page)

The overhead lights flared on.

For a moment, there was silence. For a moment, everyone froze in place—Martoni and Philip by a secondary power panel a few feet from the Gritter, and Dillon at the Gritter's main unit with Rya seated on the decking next to him, linking two components together under Dillon's verbal guidance.

Dillon pumped his fist in the air. “Yes! Sparks, thank you!” Martoni let out a whoop. Rya had turned toward Martoni and Philip, grin widening on her face, when someone grabbed her shoulders. Before she knew what was happening, Dillon kissed her.

She pushed against him, surprise widening her eyes, confusion flooding her mind.

“Sorry,” he breathed, but one hand was still on her shoulder and he was staring at her.

She didn't have to look to her left to know Philip was too.

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist and removed his hand. “It's okay. Things are a little crazy right now.” It wasn't okay, but this was so unexpected. She didn't want to
assume
—Andrico had taught her as much—but she didn't want to hurt. Or encourage. Not at all. Philip—

“We never did get to that card game,” Dillon said.

“Do we know what systems are operational?” she asked, turning away from him to look at Philip and Martoni. Her breath caught, and only her ImpSec training kept her emotions in check at the pain she saw on Philip's face.

Then it was gone. He looked down at whatever he had in his hands, which was obviously more important than looking at her so she could mouth an apology. Something. Anything. A look that would say,
You're all I want. Not him. You.

But he wouldn't look at her.

Martoni lunged away from the panel. “I'll try intra-ship.”

Intraship was on. Lights were on. Sensors and scanners were moments from coming on. Lifts were even operational.

“Ghost of Burnaby Mather,” Welford's voice said over intraship.

“We're almost done here,” Martoni told him.

“Good. Forty-five to gate exit. Tell me when we have a plasma cannon to blast holes in the Imperials and I'll be a happy man. Welford out.”

Philip finally looked at her, his face expressionless. “When you're finished with Dillon, Bennton, get back to the bridge. Security systems should be back up. Keep an eye on things. We don't need surprises.” He looked away.

Bennton. Not Rya. Not Rebel. Not even Subbie. Bennton. Her father's treasured name sounded like a curse.

When you're finished with Dillon …

She was more than finished with Dillon, with Guthrie—anything male.

Fuck you all.
She shoved herself to her feet, and only as she crossed the doorway to the corridor did she halt and angle back toward him. “Yes, sir!”

She headed for the lifts with a determined gait and clenched teeth.

Philip didn't know what bothered him more: the pain or the stupidity. Both were his.
Galactic-class ass
didn't even cover it.

But his nerves and his patience were stretched to the breaking point with the ship about to cross the jump-gate and the Gritter not yet operational—and then Alek Dillon kissed Rya. Philip felt sucker-punched, gut seizing, air forced from his lungs. He had been worried about Matthew the Barrister Boyfriend. He should have been watching Alek Dillon.

Dillon was putting moves on his wife.

Dillon doesn't know she's your wife.

Granted, Rya hadn't seemed remotely thrilled by those moves, but during the few moments Dillon's mouth was on hers, rational thought wasn't one of Philip's strong points. So he had acted on instinct— separate them. Like two feuding crew members, or two crew members who couldn't keep their hands off each other, ignoring propriety and professionalism.

Yeah, like you thought of that when you kissed her.

That was different. He was the admiral. And a galactic-class ass.

“Linkage confirmations coming through now,” Dillon announced, watching his hand-held closely. “Cory, get whoever is sitting weapons on the bridge to tell me they're seeing what I'm seeing.”

Philip stepped away from the secondary power panel and watched the data flash onto Dillon's small screen. By hell's fat ass, it was working. Signals from the Gritter were dancing down the starboard laser bank's datafeeds as easily as if they'd belonged there all along.

He heard Martoni raise the bridge and, after a few moments, heard Sparks's enthusiastic confirmation.

The Gritter was online.

Philip couldn't help it. He'd been raised in a strong faith family, though for him, it had been years. But he closed his eyes and bowed his head, just for a few seconds, in humble acknowledgement of prayers answered, of wisdom bestowed at the right time, of things coming together in divine order—not on his timetable but by unseen hands that were infinitely wiser than he was.

And weren't, as he was, galactic-class asses.

The glowing numbers on the intraship panel told him they had thirty-five minutes to gate exit. He could already hear the difference in the jumpdrives. Sparks was warming up the sublights.

“Gentlemen, excellent work,” he told Dillon and Martoni. “Now seal it up, pack it up, and get ready to unload our little surprise on our welcoming committee.”

When Philip came onto the bridge—a much easier trip, thanks to working lifts—Rya was bent over the security station, tapping something on one of the screens.

“Admiral's on the bridge,” Tramer called out, which had Philip responding with, “Seats!” before Tramer's final syllables faded. When he had a real working ship and a real working fleet, he'd indulge in protocols. Not now.

Con was halfway out of the command chair. Philip waved him back in. Standing or pacing suited him better. He chose to stand next to Rya.

“We have only minutes before all hell breaks loose,”

he said under his breath and in her right ear because she wouldn't look at him, though she did glower at him briefly before concentrating on her console again. “Rebel, I'm sorry. When we hit Ferrin's, I think I'll have that phrase tattooed on my ass. Then you can rightfully kick it whenever I do something stupid again. As I likely will.”

She choked back a laugh.

He felt two hundred percent better, her small smile warming him.

Three chimes sounded on the bridge. Outer edge of the exit gate.

“Eight minutes to realspace,” Con called out. Martoni hustled onto the bridge, replacing Tramer at the XO's console. He hit intraship and repeated the information with the requisite “stow and secure” warning.

Despite all his years in space, Philip found his heart rate speeding up. It wasn't the transition to realspace but what lay beyond that. An Imperial strike force to blast through. And the rest of his life with Rya the Rebel by his side.

Sparks was at the engineering console, verifying the sublight engines’ increasing levels with Dillon, now back down on Deck 5. Corvang was at helm, long fingers tapping commands into both jumpspace-and realspace-guidance screens. He caught the young Takan hesitate only long enough to roll his wide shoulders, then continue working.

Other officers sat at nav, communications, and weapons. Faces he knew. Names he'd yet to memorize.

Rya's concentration was on her security cameras, scanning decks for anything or anyone where they shouldn't be. Another screen she watched segued to damage control, monitoring everything from enviro inside to hull integrity outside.

Philip left her to her work and headed for Sparks at the engineering console. To the left of him was Tramer, working scanners and sensors.

The decking under his boots trembled in a familiar pattern. Five minutes to realspace.

Sparks nodded at him. “Unless they've got the entire Fleet out there, that Gritter should get us where we need to be, Skipper.”

That Gritter, the element of surprise, and an old trader's gate a mere two short hours away.

Gate chimes sounded. He planted his cane firmly on the decking and used his free hand to brace himself against the back of Sparks's chair. There was no reason the
Folly
shouldn't handle a gate transit smoothly, but there were times that sublights shimmied for no reason. He'd seen captains and crew caught unawares and knocked to their asses. So he braced and he watched sublight data on Sparks's console on his right and the beginnings of scanner data forming on his left.

“Exiting gate,” Con said, more calmly than Philip knew any of them felt. “Ready bogey check. Sending transmits to the
Nowicki.”

The forward screens blanked, then flashed back on, a velvet black starfield coming into focus. Philip realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly. They were through the gate. And anything and everything Jodey needed to know was on its way.

“Initiating bogey check,” Tramer confirmed. “Bogey check sweep one. Clear.”

“Sublights at full,” Sparks said. “Jumpdrives off line. All systems normal.”

“Sweep two. Clear.”

Could Tage have changed his mind? Or had someone—the
Nowicki
or some Alliance strike force formed while they were in jump—already cleared their path? Could—

“Sweep three. We have bogeys.”

Philip's adrenaline spiked.

“Confirming range and position now,” Tramer continued.

Con opened intraship. “Battle stations!”

Chatter on the bridge doubled as shields charged to maximum, sublights were fine-tuned, and critical bulkhead doors groaned into position.

He chanced a quick glance at Rya. She had one hand on her Carver and one tapping out commands on her console. No time now … He turned back to Tramer, leaning over the man's shoulder, reading the same data he knew Con and Sparks had on their screens.

Tage hadn't given up. And no one from the Alliance was here to save them. Two P-75s and a 400-ton Imperial Arrow-class destroyer were coming in from their starboard axis and were fifteen minutes out.

He looked over his shoulder at Con, not surprised to meet his gaze. “That gives us a little room.”

Con nodded. “Agreed. The closer we can get to the next gate, the better.”

Philip turned back. “Punch it, Sparks. Let's not let them know we can fight back. Yet.”

“Aye, Skipper. Captain,” Sparks responded without taking his gaze off his console. He was increasing power to the sublights even as Philip spoke to him.

“Patrol ships kicking hot, destroyer following,” Tramer said.

“Any ident on the destroyer yet?” Philip wasn't concerned about the P-75s. But knowing who the captain of the destroyer was could make things easier. The ships had to come in from Baris, probably Talgarrath or Starport 6. He knew most of the captains—or did. Things had changed a lot in the past six months.

“Working on it,” Tramer replied.

Breathing down the kid's neck isn't going to help any, Guthrie. They're a good crew. You've got Constantine. You've got Sparks.

He stepped over to the command chair and leaned one hand on the back. Con was used to Philip breathing down his neck.

“Bets on who's in the chair?” Con angled his head toward Philip.

“You still haven't paid me the bottle of Lashto you owe me.”

“Double or nothing.”

“Double or nothing it is. Who's in the chair?”

“Confirmation on the destroyer coming in,” Tramer called out. “Reads as the
Padrin Drey.”

“Willa Hillarston,” Philip said. “Unless Rayburn's moved people around.” Knowing the predicament the fracturing of Fleet had placed Admiral Weston Rayburn in, that wasn't unlikely. “Hillarston doesn't like to waste time and she won't play games. Those are her strong points. Her weak one is she relies too much on computer scenarios for her tactics and targeting.”

“Message incoming from the
Drey,”
Martoni said. “Captain Hillarston is demanding we kill sublights and prepare to be boarded.”

“That's two bottles you owe me, Constantine.”

“We'll argue that later, Admiral. Martoni, inform Captain Hillarston that
Hope's Folly
will not comply with her demand. Tell her we're an unarmed vessel in transit to a depot and any aggression on the
Drey's
part will be taken as an act of piracy.”

It was all rhetoric. Philip knew that, as did Con and every officer on the bridge. But they were going to make it to Ferrin's. They
were.
And a record of what the Empire was doing and where had value. As well as confirmation that, yes, Hillarston was still in the chair on the
Drey.

“Eleven minutes and closing,” Tramer said.

Then from Martoni: “Hillarston's requesting ship's documents and the captain's certificate. Sending the Pavyer Fruit Transport Services file.”

That would, Philip knew, keep Hillarston busy for only a short time. She had to be confirming through her scanners even now that they were a Stryker-class ship. And if Mather's information had gotten through, that was exactly the class ship the Empire was looking for.

“Drey
at ten minutes.”

Con tapped a screen. “One hour forty-five minutes to gate.”

Sparks, the miracle worker, was pushing his engines beyond spec. They'd shaved a few minutes off their time. Every few minutes more—

“Patrol ships firing. Torpedoes incoming!”

“Arming lasers,” said a pale-haired man, one of the officers at weapons. “Tracking, targeting … ”

This was only a warning shot, Philip knew. A deadly one, because they had only one working laser bank. The
Drey
would see that, as would the patrol ships. If they were stupid—and he prayed they were—they'd try to come at the
Folly
on what they believed was her weak side, her starboard side.

The side that held a plasma cannon they didn't know about.

But the portside lasers were short-range, even with all that Sparks had been able to do to them. He intensely disliked torpedoes coming that close.

So did Con. “Stand by for emergency evasive action, Mr. Corvang.”

“Standing by, sir.”

A short flash of color on the forward screen.

“Bogey one, direct hit,” Tramer called out. “Bogey two … gone! Direct hit.”

“Willarston is telling her bridge officers that this will be easy.” Philip walked behind Con's chair, heading for the XO's console. “She'll have the patrol ships throw a few more birds at us just to be sure all we have is one lousy bank of lasers. They'll come closer and closer.” He moved past Martoni and headed for the helm, nodding to Sachi Holton as she hurried by. “The big question is, do they want us dead or just disabled? I'm guessing disabled, or they'd be unloading a lot more firepower on us. What we have as defenses wouldn't matter if they wanted us dead.”