Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

  Fat slag-headed idiot.

  She pulled off her beret, splashed water on her face, then ran damp hands through her hair. She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  Lose thirty pounds and you’d be decent, Rya.

  Yeah, and do something with the hair. Cut your legs off at the ankles. You’re too damned tall. Thinner waist, thinner thighs. Learn not to snort when you laugh. Stop saying fuck so much.

  Fuck you.

  Get control of your emotions, Subbie. You’ve an injured officer out there, an admiral who has no time for your hormonal meltdowns, your stupid petty daydreams. Do your fucking job. Make your father proud.

  Find Tage and shove his goddamned fucking head up his goddamned fucking ass.

  She grabbed her beret, opened the lav door, and steeled herself to face Guthrie’s wrath.

  But he was gone, only his neatly folded overcoat on the decking proof that he’d ever been there.

  Rya followed the deep, cultured tones to the shuttle’s large passenger cabin and found Admiral Philip Guthrie perched on the arm of someone’s—some woman’s— seat, putting in face time with those who were soon to be his ship’s crew.

  Martoni stood a few seats behind him, one elbow on the back of another seat.

  Guthrie was talking about the ship, the Stryker-class cruiser. She remembered the thrill, the vindication she felt when her former chief on Calth 9 told her Adney’s call for crew was to serve on the old Stockwell. It had been her father’s ship. She shoved that thought away.

  “We’re going to have to push her through basic refit, fast,” Guthrie said. “Head for Ferrin’s. Keep in mind she’s essentially functioning as a civilian ship, so we’ll have minimal weapons until we get there. I’m going to cadge all the favors I can with planetary defenses. A couple of P-40s would help. A P-75 would be outstanding. But we can’t count on that.”

  Martoni saw her, and because he did so did Guthrie, turning slightly as the commander’s gaze flicked upward.

  Cut a few inches off at the ankles, Rya. And lose thirty pounds.

  Shut the hell up.

  Something flashed through Guthrie’s blue eyes that she couldn’t identify.

  “Subbie.”

  She nodded. “Present and accounted for, sir.” She quirked her mouth into a smile.

  He turned away.

  Her heart broke for reasons she couldn’t define.

  “Questions?” he asked.

  There were many. She waited while he fielded them, watched as he gave thoughtful contemplation to each one as if the questioner were a lord of some ministry and not a still-wet- behind-the- ears ensign looking for fame and glory fighting for the Alliance.

  Finally he stood and, using the seat backs in place of the cane he’d left behind on Kirro, headed stiffly toward his “command center,” as he jokingly referred to the open decking between the shuttle’s airlock and the galley.

  Rya strode in front of him, hand on her Stinger, watching everyone else’s hands, occasionally committing faces to memory. She was back in ImpSec mode. Admiral Guthrie was her charge, her assignment, not her long-lost always-forever dream hero.

  A privacy curtain imprinted with the shuttle company’s star-and- moon logo separated the front section of the shuttle—bridge and galley—from the passenger cabin. As Martoni drew it closed behind them, voices in the cabin hushed. They’d been in transit for almost two hours. Adrenaline was winding down. Exhaustion was setting in.

  Guthrie braced himself against the bulkhead, then slid down to the decking, his right leg out stiffly. The determined, almost heroic mien he’d worn in the passenger cabin shifted to humanly tired. He closed his eyes.

  She holstered her Stinger and remained standing, uncertain and extraneous. Then her training kicked in. “Let me get you another short trank, sir. It’ll help with the pain.”

  Those magnificent blue eyes opened. “Take a load off, Subbie. Sit.”

  Oddly, being in close proximity to him was the last thing she wanted right now. “Tea? Something to eat? When’s the last time you ate, sir?”

  “Right before Bralford dumped me on Kirro. Four or so hours ago. Sit.”

  “Sir—”

  “We need to talk about your father.”

  “I’m not one to fall apart. It won’t happen again.”

  “Were you paying attention in there when I talked about the Folly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me why you want to serve on that ship, Lieutenant Bennton.”

  She assumed it would be Commander Adney asking that question. She had her answer prepared: “Because the Empire, under Darius Tage’s direction, has become corrupt and dangerous. With the dissolution of the Admirals’ Council, our liberties and our lives are at risk. The Alliance is our only hope of staving off disaster.”

  He studied her for a moment. She cringed internally. Maybe she’d prepared too well. Her answer sounded rote, even to her ears. But she knew they’d be culling the daredevils, the thrill seekers, the misguided heroes. She didn’t want to come across like that.

  “Your life is at risk fighting for the Alliance,” he said finally.

  “I’m aware of that, sir.”

  “We’re underfunded, understaffed. You’ll be serving— quite possibly fighting—under conditions you’ve never faced before. Being a rebel is not the glamour and glory the vids make it out to be.”

  “I’m aware of that too, sir.”

  “The danger doesn’t concern you?”

  “Danger concerns any good officer. But I’m ImpSec, sir. Special Protection Service.”

  “Polite, professional, and prepared to kill?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded slowly. “And if I put you in the same room with the man responsible for the death of your father and handed you a Carver-Twelve, would you be able to press the trigger?”

  Did he really doubt that? “Absolutely, sir.”

  He pulled his Carver out of the right side of his shoulder holster and held it up toward her. The grip of a second Carver—another 12, she thought—curved out of the left side.

  She took it, not understanding. Did he mean for her to carry his weapon? A small thrill raced through her. Okay, it wasn’t that small. A Carver-12, and his as well. It was still warm from the heat of his body.

  “Why haven’t you pressed the trigger?” he asked quietly.

  “Why would I—” She stopped and stared at him. If I put you in the same room with the man responsible for the death of your father and handed you a Carver-Twelve …

  No, that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t have—

  “Sit, Rya. We need to talk about your father.”

  Still grasping the Carver, she lowered herself to her knees, her legs suddenly feeling boneless. She’d seen no official reports on her father’s death. There were no official reports, only bare information that Tage had dissolved the Admirals’ Council and then had the emperor’s Special Reserve Guard—rumored to be an elite and secretive division in ImpSec—move against those officers he’d deemed traitors. Her father being one of them.

  “How did he … What happened?”

  “A farce,” he said after a moment. “A deadly one. You don’t convene a High Command strategy session on Raft Thirty, not even an unofficial one. I should have realized that. I should have told my people not to leave their ships until I’d spoken to Tage. If I had … ” He went silent, shaking his head.

  “Tage is—was—first barrister,” she said. “The emperor’s second in command. How could you know—”

  “I knew what he’d done against Sullivan, and against my wife. But I wanted desperately to believe that the man I’d known and admired for decades could still be reasoned with.”

  Rya barely heard the rest of his sentence. Her mind had latched on to one word and not moved beyond. Wife. His wife.

  Philip Guthrie was married.

  Of course he was, idiot. Not every man wore a wedding ring. He was an admiral. His family was wealthy. He
was handsome. Respected.

  He had a wife.

  She shook herself. This was not about her dreams. This was about what had happened to her father and the Empire she once believed in. And what she was going to do about it.

  “I thought this was my chance to make Tage see reason,” he was saying. “He said he wanted my input. He said the Empire was coming to a crucial turn. I saw the same thing. So I followed Tage’s orders to bring specific captains and officers he’d named to meet with him for the strategy session on Raft Thirty.” He stopped, his fist clenching, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and hard. “It was a massacre.”

  That much Rya had heard, though not how or why her father came to be on Raft Thirty, other than it was on Tage’s orders. But it had been on Philip’s orders too.

  Pain battered her heart.

  “I know it’s no consolation,” Philip said, “but I killed the man who shot your father. And I will live with your father’s death on my soul’s slate to the end of my days.”

  “Because you followed orders,” she said.

  “Some of the best men and women the Empire ever produced died because of it. Their deaths haunt me, but that doesn’t excuse my failure. Or the fact that I’m alive and they’re not.” He wiped one hand over his face.

  “Which brings me to the reason I need to talk to you. I suspect very strongly you’re looking to avenge your father’s death and you see the recommission of the Stockwell as your sign to do so. I know how you feel. Believe me, I know. But you need to take those stars out of your eyes, Lieutenant. This is going to be a tough, dirty mission with a haphazard crew under the command of someone who has made mistakes and will continue to do so. It’s going to be against enemies we know, enemies we don’t know, and friends who have their own agendas. Right now the only thing we can say for certain is that there is nothing we can say for certain.

  “This is not, cannot, be all about Rya’s revenge. If that’s where your focus is, you’re going to be dis appointed. You might also get yourself and others killed.”

  She stared at him, hating his words, hating the fact she was so transparent.

  “And you don’t want revenge?” she asked harshly.

  He shook his head. “Revenge is a waste of time. It will never happen the way you want. And whatever does happen won’t be enough.”

  “Then why bother with all this?” She swung one hand out toward the cabin, toward Martoni and the others.

  “For victory.” He raised his chin slightly. “And now, yes, I think I would like that mug of tea. Take your time making it. Make one for yourself. Think about everything I’ve said. Because you’ve already failed your first test. You lied when you said you would be able to shoot the man responsible for the death of your father.” He plucked the Carver from her fingers. “Now you need to decide whether you’re cut out for this mission.”

  Rya stood in the utilitarian galley, a few feet away from where Philip Guthrie sat on the decking, and stared at the plastic dispenser full of tea bags on the metal counter, anger mixing with shame. She had been soundly and professionally manipulated. He had read her like a data archiver on max download and then set her up, drawing from her the only answer she could give.

  The wrong one.

  Damn you, Philip Guthrie!

  She closed her fingers around a green plastic mug’s handle and ignored Martoni as he walked toward the bridge, then ignored him again when he came out and squatted down next to the admiral. The mug was still empty. The dispenser of tea bags was still full.

  A thousand excuses, rejoinders, and rebuttals whirled through her mind. But it all came back to one thing: was she here because of the Alliance or because of her father?

  And her answer, she knew, was the wrong one.

  But damn it all, did it really matter if revenge was her motivation? Yes. Because it took her focus off whatever mission her CO assigned her, took her focus off her teammates and put it on what she wanted.

  She could so very clearly hear her father explaining that to her. And her father had trained Philip Guthrie.

  She understood the point of his story, of how and why he was responsible for her father’s death. Yes, he’d followed orders, but with his own agenda, his own beliefs in mind. He hadn’t seen what Tage intended to do, because he’d wanted the meeting to be something other than what it was, just as he’d wanted Tage to be someone other than what he was.

  People had died because, for a few short hours, Admiral Philip Guthrie had lost his focus.

  She should hate him, refuse to serve under him. If she thought long enough about it, she probably could muster up some decent ire. And that would give him, she knew, what he wanted: ImpSec Sub-Lieutenant Rya Bennton on the next shuttle back to Calth 9.

  But Rya the Rebel would not give him that satisfaction.

  She pushed a tea bag into the plastic mug, then shoved it under the hot-water spigot, not even bothering to ask if he liked that particular herbal blend. It was healthy, high in those nutrients that kept your brain working.

  He would need those if he thought he was going to put something past her again.

  She stepped out of the galley alcove, tea in hand. Martoni was in her spot on the decking, frowning. Guthrie had the transceiver from his comm link ringing his ear. And he was frowning.

  She stepped over to him and waited, the musky aroma of the tea wafting under her nose.

  He acknowledged her with a slight nod, eyes narrowed, fingers now pressing the transceiver’s tiny speaker against his ear. She squatted down and he took the mug from her without comment.

  She looked at Martoni.

  “Preliminary report from Kirro,” he said quietly.

  Not good news, then. “You want tea?” she asked Martoni. Might as well make herself useful. Might as well make it clear to Guthrie she was here to stay and work.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  She returned to the galley, made a cup for Martoni and one for herself, then again lowered herself to the decking at the edge of Guthrie’s outstretched boots.

  And damned herself because, in spite of all that was going on—the ambush, the firefight, the desperate attempt to get to Seth before someone put a torpedo through the shuttle’s hull—she couldn’t stop wondering about Guthrie’s wife.

  Professional curiosity, she told herself. The man was to be her commanding officer. Of that she was very sure. And he’d been a friend of her father’s. He’d known her mother. It was only natural to wonder what kind of family he had.

  One of her strong points as an ImpSec SPS officer was profiling. Who was this sentient, and why did he do what he did? What might he do? That was all she was doing now as she watched Guthrie pull the unit from around his ear.

  She’d always been able to get a quick read on her superiors and use that to make sure she not only did her job well but also fulfilled their expectations. That was also her motivation for studying him.

  His damned magnificent blue eyes—and mysterious wife—notwithstanding.

  He tucked the transceiver in his vest pocket. “Farosians,” he said, without any preliminary. “Doesn’t that goddamned beat all?”

  “Justice Wardens?” Martoni asked, clearly surprised.

  Rya was nodding. “Makes sense. Mr. Wonderful didn’t have any aspect of Fleet about him. Had he or his friend been ex-Fleeties with Imperial training, I think I would have known. They backed off when I stood up to them, thinking I was a striper. The friend said as much. They didn’t recognize the beret. A Fleetie would have.”

  She didn’t miss the whisper of a smile on Guthrie’s lips. That warmed her. She didn’t want to think about why.

  “What else, Subbie?” Guthrie prompted.

  This was another test. She frowned, letting the scenario of the ambush play over in her mind, from Mr. Wonderful’s overacting at the ticket counter to the black-clad figures swarming from the crew access door next to the far tubeway.

  There was something …

  She raised one hand.
“Give me a moment.” She closed her eyes and saw it in detail this time. And listened, hearing what she’d missed because she’d not really been in working mode. And was so distracted by the shock of Philip’s identity.

  When she opened her eyes, it was to see the admiral’s hand, slightly raised. “Don’t answer yet. Just tell me this: are you keying on something you saw or something you heard?”

  “Heard.”

  He turned to Martoni. “Commander?”

  “The guy’s accent, the way he spoke?” Martoni pursed his lips, thinking hard. “Could be fake, that dockworker’s rough speech. Not a Farosian accent, but not all of Blaine’s followers are from there.” He ran one hand down his pant leg, still thinking.

  “Subbie?”

  “Their weapons were set to stun. Not kill. They wanted you alive.”

  Martoni stared at her. Philip’s smile widened.

  “The pitch of a laser pistol on stun is considerably higher,” she continued with a nod. “Granted, the waiting area was high-ceilinged and that could affect acoustics. But taking that into account, the pitch was a quarter to a half octave above a laser set to kill.” She glanced at Martoni. “The reduction of energy through the baffles creates more resistance in the amplifiers and filters. Especially in Stingers,” she added. “Four of them carried Stingers, like mine, though possibly a bit older.”

  “One had an Aero,” Philip said. “New model.”

  “That was the one going zeef zeef?”

  “Yeah.” Still grinning.

  “Never came across one before.”

  “I’ve never heard one described as going zeef, but that’s fairly accurate.”

  Martoni logged their exchange with a slight back and forth movement of his head.

  “So why the different pitch?” she asked.

  “Ever see the schematics for the converter?”

  “I let my subscription to Weapons Quarterly lapse.”

  “It wasn’t in there. It was in a recent issue of Helfstein’s Armaments Review. Speculation, though, because it’s a Stol-produced weapon. Helfstein wasn’t quoting sources. Doing so could get him killed. But the data and analysis read true to me.”

  “Don’t suppose you have a copy? Sir,” she added hastily, because of the way Martoni was looking at her. At them.