But Fleet as she knew it was gone. So was Captain Cory Bennton.
And the only thing left for Rya Taylor Bennton was to catch the 0600 Starford flight to Kirro and then the local shuttle to Seth, where her father’s Stryker-class cruiser was waiting for her.
As for Matt Crowley, he could do or believe whatever he wanted. It no longer mattered to her.
Rya turned and softly pulled the door shut behind her.
He didn’t have much to pack, Philip realized wryly, tossing the heavy-duty black duffel on the narrow bed in his cabin on the Krista Nowicki. Two sets of fatigues, one gray and one black, and two pairs of gray coveralls from his short stay on Sullivan’s well-armored 200-ton luxury yacht, the Boru Karn. A couple of thermal shirts. The repaired remnants of his Imperial Fleet dress uniform—God only knew why he was keeping that. All his other personal effects had been left on the Morgan Loviti. God also only knew where those things were now.
After three shipdays of travel, the Nowicki was an hour out from Kirro Station, where Philip would catch the shuttle to the Seth shipyards. Adney, Welford, Mather, and Corvang had gone ahead, leaving two shipdays ago in a shuttle that would become the Folly’s, loaded with what supplies Jodey could spare. Philip was supposed to be on board that shuttle, but Doc Galan had put her foot down. So they’d compromised, with his command staff going in first—not at all unusual. He’d follow once Christine Galan, CMO, granted him medical clearance.
But with the shuttle gone, the Nowicki had to deliver Philip. The large docks at the shipyards were full—little surprise, that. No room for a Maven-class cruiser, which was fine with Philip. He had no taste for big send-offs and had even waved away Jodey’s offer of his personal pinnace. The Nowicki had work to do. Ferrying Hope’s Folly’s new captain to his ship’s berth wasn’t of primary importance when he could get to the shipyards just fine on his own.
More so because—as he’d told Jodey, and his former first officer reluctantly agreed—security was a constant worry. Kirro Station was fairly well protected by the locals and busy enough that even a Maven-class cruiser could blend in among the tankers and luggers. But an officer’s sleek pinnace headed for Seth was a blaring target and, as he’d learned off Raft Thirty, far less defensible.
He realized he was standing there with a pair of socks balled up in his hand while his thoughts twisted and turned. He aimed; pitched them. He shoots, he scores! Memories of his brothers washed over him with an unaccustomed sentimentality. He didn’t have time for such thoughts—impending doom must make me self-indulgent—but the images surfaced anyway: the basketball court adjacent to the large pool on his parents’ Port Palmero estate, a spring afternoon just warm enough to tug him outside, where Trippy— Jonathan Macy Guthrie III, his oldest nephew—was home from his university and was shooting baskets along with Trip’s twelve-year-old brother, Max. Then Philip’s youngest brother showed up, and it was Uncle Philip and Trip against Uncle Devin and Max. The score didn’t matter. The sense of belonging did.
That was eight months ago. He hadn’t seen them since. And he didn’t know when he would again. He didn’t even know if they knew he was alive.
He limped back to the room’s small dresser, images of the Loviti’s well-appointed gym replacing his parents’ spacious grounds. His officers and crew, laughing, scuffling in a friendly handball competition …
Eleven of his people—two officers and nine crew— had deserted the Imperial Fleet just after he had, es caping Tage’s clutches. Five were on the Nowicki, including Con Welford, the only one who would be coming to Hope’s Folly with him. All had wanted to go to the Folly, but Philip needed people he could trust on every ship. It did him no good to have the best of the best, as he thought of them, staring at him around his ready-room table.
So the rest were assigned to the patrol ships that comprised the Alliance’s meager defense force. Another twenty or fifty of his people from the Loviti were still AWOL. Numbers varied, depending on which reports coming out of the Imperial news feeds you believed. He felt strongly that the numbers were higher, but many could be dead.
That would always haunt him. The captain was supposed to stay with his ship until the end, but he’d been on Raft Thirty when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan. His attempts to get back to the Loviti had been expertly thwarted. Tage was not about to lose a top Galaxy-class destroyer. But Tage had lost the Nowicki, two P-40s, and two P-75s, all from Philip’s command.
More personnel and more ships would come; Philip felt sure of it. Fleet and the Admirals’ Council were one and the same to a large extent. But time … it all came back to time.
For now, the smaller planetary and station defenses allied with the Alliance were holding their own and providing needed support, but they had limited range. They could only confront a threat at their doorstep, not break a blockade hours—if not shipdays—away. Tage’s fleet could move in insidious increments, and by the time the local security forces realized what was happening, it would be too late.
Philip tossed a thermal shirt into the duffel, turned too quickly, and had to grit his teeth at the pain. At least two weeks, maybe a month yet, Doc Galan told him, before the bone regen devices would complete their work. This was the worst of it, she’d assured him a few hours ago as she made the final adjustments to the damned things implanted in his hip and leg. Most of her patients with his severity of damage would still be in rehab. He should still be in rehab.
“Not possible,” he’d told her.
She’d huffed out a sigh he’d come to recognize as don’t disobey your CMO and tucked a strand of her short dark hair behind one ear with an irritated motion. “Then stay off your feet as much as possible and get some rest.”
“Sure, Doc.” Hell’s fat ass chance of that.
His door sensor chimed. “Open,” he called.
Jodey, grinning broadly, his arms laden with things dark and lumpy, pushed his way past the sliding door. He carefully placed his offerings on the bed next to the duffel. Extra clothes, including another set of gray fatigues and a Fleet-issue blue-gray thermal overcoat. A spare Carver-12—Philip’s personal one was already on his hip. Six power packs. Two Fleet-issue L7 small hand lasers. And an expertly modified Norlack 473 sniper laser rifle capable of handling illegal wide-load slash charges. A note was tied to the barrel with a piece of white ribbon.
He plucked it off, opening it while Jodey turned away, inspecting God knows what in the tiny cabin. Giving Philip some privacy.
Sully and I thought you might enjoy this, the note read in Chaz’s familiar upright script. Give ‘em hell, Guthrie. Love you—Chaz the nugget.
It had been five shipweeks since Chaz and Sullivan had left on the Karn. The human Kyi healed much quicker than Philip had, of course. Sullivan’s blindness had faded, leaving him with an oversensitivity to light as his remaining physical challenge.
Mentally and emotionally, though, the man had much more to reconcile because of what had happened in the depot in the Five-Oh- One: the challenge by a deposed Stolorth prince thought to be an ally who wanted more than political gain. Prince Regarth Serian Cordell Delkavra wanted Chaz—Sullivan’s wife and ky’sara: his mental and emotional bondmate. Regarth also wanted to limit Sullivan’s Kyi powers—a not uncommon demand when two very powerful Kyi-Ragkirils are forced to share proximity.
Regarth didn’t succeed in enslaving Chaz, but he did, for a very tense time, expose Sullivan to the darker side of the Kyi. An addictive, insidious side. And Sullivan had, in his own words, “done unforgivable things.”
Things that still haunted the man. He’d talked to Philip about that when Chaz was busy elsewhere. There are some things you just don’t discuss in front of the woman you love.
And Sullivan did love her, very much. That Philip did believe. It lessened his worries somewhat—though it would be a lie to say he didn’t miss her.
But Sullivan and Chaz had important work to do for the new Alliance. So did Philip.
Grinning at the way
she’d classified herself as a nugget—someone with much yet to learn—he tucked the note into the inside pocket of his tactical vest.
“Adney confirmed they’re on the Folly,” Jodey said. “Welford’s started taking the helm computers apart, and Mather’s being typical commo and bitching about the antiquated comm pack. Corvang’s updating the charts with the data Sullivan gave us. Sparks is due in day after tomorrow. He’s bringing three subbies with him. Adney will clear them, but I’m sure they’re fine.”
If Sparks had handpicked them, Philip was sure they were. “That leaves only one hundred thirty-one more we have to find to launch that bucket.” That would be the minimum crew complement. He would have preferred a full crew, but beggars and rebels can’t be choosers.
“Adney has over seventy applications in her in-box just from the feelers she and Con Welford put out the past month. This might not be as hard as you think. She’s already placed ten on conditional acceptance and she’s been on the job only six hours—and, yes, believe me, Adney knows protocol and knows you have final say.”
Philip held up one hand in supplication. The other still gripped his damned cane. “Do I look like I’m complaining?”
“You never complain. You just scowl and grunt a lot.”
“Works, doesn’t it?”
“I’ve warned Adney. She’s as thorough as they come. That should save you some grunting. She’ll make you a top-notch exec.”
Philip reached over and clasped his hand on Jodey’s shoulder. “The best of the best. You all are. I don’t think I can ever really express my gratitude.”
“Turn that bucket into a mean fighting machine. That will say it all.”
He patted Jodey’s shoulder again, then, careful of his leg, turned away from the shorter man. He’d heard such sentiments before in Fleet and had taken them in stride. But this wasn’t Fleet. This was at best a rogue’s gallery—an uncertain and desperate attempt at salvation and justice.
Hope’s Folly suddenly sounded all too accurate.
“I’ll leave you to finish packing,” Jodey said, “then I’ll be back in forty to escort you to the tubeway.”
“I’m finished,” Philip told him. “I’m going to check my transmits, then do a last round with your crew. I’ll meet you on the bridge at ten out.”
“Looking to rate my docking skills?” Jodey asked from the open doorway.
Philip grunted.
“That’s what I thought.” Jodey slipped into the corridor.
As the door closed behind the Nowicki’s captain, Philip keyed in his codes to the deskscreen in the room and scanned for messages from Chaz or Sullivan. Low price on the Stryker or not, the Alliance needed funds to keep coming in. He recognized the triple-encrypted message from Sullivan immediately. A major Guthrie account had been shaken free, the funds now going through the requisite laundering before they’d reach the Alliance channels in two shipweeks.
He could live with that. He shoved the clothes on top of his meager wardrobe, packed the weapons in the duffel’s special compartment, sealed and locked it, then, tossing the overcoat on top, left to say his goodbyes. Thirty minutes later, feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, he caught up with Jodey on the bridge. The Nowicki had already received clearance from Kirro Traffic Control.
“Ten days, two weeks at Seth, max,” Jodey was saying as they discussed the refit of the Folly. “Sparks will probably shave a day or three off that for you. When you get to Ferrin’s, you shouldn’t need any more than—”
“Captain Bralford, a Priority One scramble from Commander O’Neil,” the communications officer announced.
Philip tensed. A Priority One scramble, out here, now, reeked of trouble.
“My console screen,” Jodey said, already sliding into the captain’s chair. He swung the armrest screen around so Philip could see it.
Kate O’Neil’s face appeared on the small screen, framed by the bridge of the P-75 she commanded. Her short silver hair was mussed, her dark-blue eyes narrowed. “Tage moved against Corsau with three ImpSec assault teams,” she said grimly after the perfunctory salutation. “Station security is decimated. We had no ships in range. There was nothing we could do, no way we could help.” Her mouth tightened. “Tell Admiral Guthrie there were fifteen Loviti crew on Corsau. We think Tage’s assassins knew that. We think they were gunning for them specifically. None survived. I’m sorry.”
She dropped her gaze for a moment, then looked back up, anger clear in her eyes. “There was nothing we could do,” she repeated. “We don’t have enough ships to protect even those few stations allied with us. We—as soon as I have updates, I’ll send them. O’Neil out.”
The screen blanked.
All voices on the bridge were silent.
Philip unclenched his jaw, swallowing his rage. It was unproductive, but it would not be forgotten. He turned to Jodey. “Put Ferrin’s on high alert. Tell Adney I waive final review on all the crew. I need every live body she can find. The Folly departs Seth as soon as Sparks arrives.”
The passenger docks on Kirro Station were cavernous, dimly lit, and bitingly cold. It didn’t escape Rya’s notice that someone with a sick sense of humor had painted the walls and bulkheads a distinctly icy shade of pale blue. Forty-five frigid minutes passed before the Starford Spacelines’ transport ship regurgitated Rya’s duffel out of its cargo holds, along with the rest of the passengers’ baggage. By that point, she had already turned up the collar on her brown leather jacket and tucked her hands under her armpits, releasing them only to make a grab for her duffel on the shuddering, rumbling baggage belt. Then she knelt, unzipped the top, and tucked her travel kit inside. She fished her dark-blue Special Protection Service beret out of a side pocket, removed the rank and service pins, then pulled the beret over her perpetually unruly hair. Some people might look twice if they knew what the beret symbolized. This was, after all, a declared Alliance station. Imperial Fleet in all its flavors—including ImpSec, with its somewhat exaggerated reputation as a top-secret agency that trained assassins—was not welcome.
But the overhead lights were weak, and those milling about the baggage-collection area of the passenger terminal appeared as bleary-eyed as she was. The beret could be mistaken for black. The service pins were deep in her pocket, and her scalp was goddamned frostbitten. She was going to wear her beret, for what little good it did.
It was better than nothing. And it, along with the contents of her duffel, was all she owned.
The two-day flight from Calth Starport had been dismal, with crying infants, hacking old men, and one painfully thin woman who snored like a half-ton freightloader grinding gears.
Kirro was an equally dismal station. Umoran had been hit hard with financial failures the past few years, after the grove cankers and lack of support from what was once the Empire. Exports were down. Imports were priced like luxuries. More than half the food kiosks in the passenger terminal were closed. Those still open offered few selections at ridiculous prices— and with no job and her parents’ estate seized by the Imperial government, Rya’s own funds were as meager as most of those on station.
But she was cold almost to the point of shivering. She overpaid for a half mug of sweet tea from a thin-faced older woman in one of the plasti-walled units. Then, clutching the thick paper container between chilled hands as the duffel’s strap dug a furrow into her shoulder, she headed down the long icy-blue corridor to find the waiting room for the shuttle to Seth.
She passed a few stripers, armed and watchful, the pale stripe on the sides of their brown uniform pant legs giving them their nickname. Seven months ago she might have stopped to talk about the job with one or two. She was law enforcement, as were they, although her jurisdiction as an ImpSec officer had been on a much larger scale than station security. Now she played civilian, let her gaze pass over them as if a man or woman armed with a rifle was an interesting curiosity, nothing more. Though she did wonder if any of them were former ImpSec like herself.
Out
of habit, she studied their weaponry more than their faces. No Carvers here; not even Stingers. Standard issue Mag-5 pistols, and their rifles were boring Blue Surgers. She’d trained on them, could dismantle them in her sleep, which was, in her opinion, all they were worth. But, yeah, get shot by a Surger and it still hurt like a bitch and could put you flat-out dead if someone’s aim was good. Not center mass, as they were taught. That only worked on the good guys, but it wasn’t the good guys who needed shooting. It was the bad guys, and they were smart enough to wear body armor. Good luck getting a standard Surger to penetrate that.
Okay, maybe at point-blank.
But at point-blank, the bad guys had already shot you dead with their nice powerful Carver-12s.
No, with a Surger you had to go for the throat or brain. Stop the blood flow, stop the body functions. Even then, some slag-head twilighting on rafthkra might still come at you, full bore.
She’d had to assist station cops twice in her short career, taking down gun-wielding twilighters Surgers couldn’t stop. Her Carver-10 had.
That’s why she liked working for ImpSec. They carried Carver-10s, minimum. Carver-12s on shipside duty. She’d even heard of 15s, when they worked the rim or were assigned to an admiral’s personal protection. Totally apex, to quote Lyza, who was by now sleeping in Rya’s bed in Rya’s apartment, possibly even with Rya’s former lover.
And was warm.
After this, a Stryker-class cruiser might seem like a damned tropical vacation.
The shuttle waiting room at the end of the corridor was crowded. Not surprising. According to the schedule board, the room serviced three shuttles: one dirtside to Umoran, one to the moon colony, and one spaceside to the shipyards in orbit around Seth. She wondered how many of those huddled down on the hard bench seats had seen Commander Dina Adney’s coded transmit on available crew positions for the new Alliance fleet. A lot, probably, because this was, after all, Calth, and Calth had almost wholly formally withdrawn from the Empire after the dissolution of the Admirals’ Council several months ago.
Hope's Folly Page 3
