“We need to do those,” Rya told him.
“We do,” Mather agreed. He patted her shoulder as he walked by. “Good job, Bennton. Sorry we gave you a start.”
Tramer said nothing, frowning. Sachi grinned at her. “You can be one scary woman, you know that?”
“My job, Sach.” Rya braced herself against the doorjamb again and shot Sachi a quick grin. She liked Sachi Holton. But she trusted no one completely, except Philip. And she didn’t holster her Stinger.
“Hey, Tin Man,” Mather said, “let me and Tramer take a look at what you’ve got.”
“Only one working deskscreen is what we got, Commo. Need to reconfigure backup, but for now … ” Welford’s voice trailed off. Mather grunted. Tramer cleared his throat. Then there were more “ohs” and “okays” and “ uh-huhs” floating in the dim lighting.
“Can you get me intraship yet?” Philip asked. He leaned on the captain’s chair and swiveled up the console screen.
“Not yet, sir,” Mather answered.
“Holton and I will go below, check on Martoni.” Adney pulled her laser pistol out and motioned to Sachi, who’d taken position across from Rya in the bridge doorway.
“Wait,” Mather said, straightening. “I think … Yes. It looks like we might have juice to the auxiliary bridge on Five. If I can’t get it working, I’ll be back up.” He edged past Rya with a nod. “You’re two up, two down,” he told her, under his breath.
“Two up, two down,” she repeated quietly.
He hurried after Adney and Sachi.
Two up, two down. Mather was two down, one up. Welford, three up. She’d grant Mather and Welford her trust because Philip did. For now, it would have to do.
Tramer and Welford were talking—well, swearing— softly, hunched over the console. Movement behind her told her Philip had walked over to them.
“Sabotage?” she heard him ask.
“Yeah, the ship hates us,” Welford answered with a snort.
“I can deal with that. But you damned well better be sure that’s all it is.”
“I’m not ready yet to rule anything out,” Welford answered.
“What about this?” Tramer asked.
Rya didn’t know what “this” was. She watched the corridor, with only occasional brief glances over her shoulder to make sure that, yes, Welford and Tramer were continuing to be trustworthy.
But even her brief glances wouldn’t show her what was on the screen on the other side of the bridge.
“Yeah, okay.” Welford. More grunts. A few “ mm-hmms.”
She listened to the men’s voices but, more than that, she listened to the ship. At the moment, docked at the yard, it wasn’t that different from another part of a station. It clanged and pinged. Things echoed. Enviro whooshed, but it was softer than she remembered. Temperature was warmer too. It might be that Deck 3 was perversely frigid, as she remembered her father saying. Or it might be that enviro, too, was on backup and not at full power.
A shipweek from now she’d know more, and every little ping wouldn’t have her mind seeking its source. But right now, every ping mattered. Philip was on the bridge.
Then, between pings, whooshes, and terse male epithets, came uneven footsteps. Philip, coming her way.
Her heart, dreamer that it was, sped up slightly.
“Subbie.” His deep voice was soft and just off her left ear. Then she could feel the heat of his body behind her. Every inch of her felt doubly alive.
You’re certifiably insane, Rya. Matt would be laughing his ass off at you right now, just about melting at this man’s feet.
She forced herself not to look at him.
“It’s probably just mechanical error,” he said.
“And a Stinger is just a monochromatic beam of coherent amplified light,” she said, her voice as low as his. “Still hurts like a bitch when it puts a hole in you.”
That earned her the snort she’d hoped for. She feared that once he assumed the responsibilities of his position and this ship, the easy—though, granted, brief—camaraderie they’d shared on Kirro and then on the shuttle would disappear. She needed to know she could still make him laugh.
“If this was a deliberate action, wouldn’t it just be easier to blow up the ship?”
“Not if they want you alive.”
He grunted an acknowledgment. Then: “They’d still have to get through shipyard security, which is a lot nastier than Kirro’s, then get on board. Then find me. Do they think at that point I wouldn’t know they were coming?”
“Amateurs wouldn’t, but they’re not amateurs. Not the Farosians, and not the Imperials. You fuc—pardon.” God, Rya, watch that mouth! “You messed up their timetable. You weren’t supposed to be on Kirro. Then you left earlier than scheduled. They were slapping things together there in a desperate attempt not to let an opportunity to get you slip by.
“But this ship,” and she chanced quick glance at him. His eyes were narrowed in concentration. “I’m sure they know when Commander Adney came in. That’s the shuttle you were supposed to be on. Now they need you responding to their timetable. I’m also sure they know how far along this ship is in refit. This,” and she jerked her head to where Welford and Tramer were working, “ifit’s from an outside source, is to delay you. Yeah, I’m worried that someone could take advantage of it and storm the ship. I’ll be more worried if suddenly everything works perfectly. It would almost be like they’re saying, ‘We’re ready for you now. Come to Mama.’ ”
She waited for his counterargument. When none came, she turned her face slightly.
“Holton’s right,” he said quietly. “You are scary.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to view his comment, and in the dim green lighting, she couldn’t read his face, his eyes. “Just doing my job, sir.”
“Hey.” He shook his head slightly, his expression softening. His mouth quirked slightly. “You—”
Noise in the stairwell halted his comment. Lots of noise. She straightened, motioning for Philip to move back against the console behind her.
Not surprisingly, he waved his Carver in response, its power lights glinting. “Stow it, Subbie.”
Then the blast doors opened and in the dim light she saw Mather, Adney, and four other people she didn’t know, all in military fatigues, pants tucked into strapped boots.
“Bennton, security,” she called out.
“Mather, two down, one up.”
“Two up, two down,” she answered, lowering her Stinger. Then Philip brushed by her, holstering his gun.
“Sparks!”
A balding older man stepped in front of Mather, grinning, hand out.
Sparks. Commander Drew Sparkington, Philip’s ex-wife’s former engineer. And new chief engineer of the Folly.
“You arrange this disaster just for me, Skipper?” Sparks grabbed Philip’s hand and shook it vigorously.
Late fifties, maybe even early sixties, Rya judged, even in the lighting. Five-seven or so, one-seventy, some of which was in an ample belly that strained the front of his gray fatigue shirt. Sparks had a round face, pug nose, and bushy eyebrows.
“Have to make you earn your keep somehow,” Philip was saying.
“And what’s this?” Sparks pointed to Philip’s cane. They headed for the bridge doors. “Fall off your barstool again?”
Rya stepped back to let them pass.
Philip stopped, touching Sparks’s arm. “Commander Sparkington, Sub-Lieutenant Rya Bennton.”
“Subbie,” Sparks said, nodding, his gaze politely holding hers for a moment. Then he stopped, his expression shifting. “Rya Bennton?” He glanced up at Philip.
A short nod.
Sparks looked back at her, laying one hand lightly on her arm. “Cory’s little girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
“God and stars above.” He patted her arm. “My heartfelt condolences, child. I have some stories you might like to hear, when there’s time.”
She didn’t know Sparks had k
nown her father, but that didn’t surprise her. “I’d like that, sir.” She meant that. There was something very solid, very real about the short, balding man.
Then they were moving by her, along with Mather and a woman and two men who were obviously part of Sparks’s team. She logged her overall impressions as they hurried past: the woman and the shorter man were dusky like Sachi and Adney. The woman was almost as tall as Rya, long-legged, curly red-gold chin-length hair tucked behind her ears. Her position blocked Rya’s view of the shorter man, but he looked to be about five-eight or - nine, maybe one-thirty
The last newcomer lagged a bit behind. He was taller than the two in front, his complexion pale. He had a strong nose and dark hair pulled back in a tail that reached just below his shoulders. Wide shoulders, narrow waist. Nice ass in black fatigues that fit very well. Great thighs.
Down, girl.
Just because she had a galactic-size crush on Philip didn’t mean she was blind.
She watched the corridor again and listened to the chatter of voices behind her. Sparks’s drawl, Philip’s deep tones, Welford’s “yeah, uh-huhs.” The woman’s voice was nasal, her questions soft.
Mather swore a few times, then headed for the corridor, his shoulders hunched as he brushed by her without comment.
The “yeah, uh-huhs” started up again.
“Auxiliary bridge on five?” Sparks asked.
“Lieutenant Mather’s heading down there now,” Philip said.
“Children, that’s where we need to be.” Sparks again. “Kagdan, Vange—”
“I can do more up here,” a man’s voice said.
Rya shot a glance over her shoulder to see who the voice—an interesting low growl, with an accent she couldn’t quite place—belonged to. Ah, Mr. Nice Ass.
“Welford,” Sparks said, “Dillon knows his stuff. But more than that, he knows how I work.”
“I’m fine with that, Commander,” Welford said with a nod.
So Mr. Nice Ass was Dillon. Vange and Kagdan were the other man and woman.
Sparks hustled Vange and Kagdan back to the corridor, offering a small fingers-to- temple salute to Rya.
She returned it, made sure they were safely clambering down the stairs, then turned to find Dillon watching her. No, he had to be watching Sparks leave. There was no reason he’d be watching her.
Part of her job had always been to watch the watchers. She held his gaze disinterestedly for a moment, then glanced around the bridge before turning to the corridor. Always meet someone’s glance, but always take control.
In the next twenty minutes, Martoni came up bearing two hand-held datapads, which he gave to Welford. He left, crossing with Commander Adney in the corridor. Adney spoke with Philip in hushed tones, ushering him into the ready room through the single door on the bridge. The ready room’s double doors to the corridor were closed. Ten minutes later, Adney strode back on the bridge.
“Yes, sir. Will do,” she called over her shoulder, then nodded to Rya as she moved into the corridor.
Philip ambled out, glancing only briefly at the cluster of men at the console before stopping in front of her. “Mechanical failure, plain and simple,” he said. “Sparks pinned it down. I’m no engineer, but in layman’s language, previous repairs used ittle-doos. And they didn’t do.”
It took her a moment, and then she smiled. Ittle-doos. It’ll do, as in it’ll be just enough to fix whatever the problem is, for now. She hadn’t heard that expression in a while. Don’t tell me it’ll do, her father used to warn. Do it right. Ittle-doos eventually fail.
“We should be up and running,” Philip said, “in about—”
Lights flickered overhead, startling Rya. She blinked at the unexpected brightness.
“—now.”
Bridge stations pinged and hummed to life. Tramer applauded.
“Thank you, Commander Sparks!” Welford said heartily, even though Sparks couldn’t hear him. He pushed himself out of his chair and moved to the next station, tapping and poking. “Okay, that’s much better. Tramer. Dillon. I need resets.”
Both men moved to other consoles.
“Crisis averted,” Philip said, half under his breath, a wry grin on his face.
“Better here at dock than out there.”
“Out there will have troubles of its own.” His smile faded slightly, concern written in his eyes, in the slight droop of his shoulders. Was he worried about what waited for them, or was he going to try, again, to convince her she didn’t belong on board?
“Every shift on Calth Nine, when I strapped on my gun, put on my beret and my badge, every shift held that same promise, that same threat,” she told him, meeting his gaze levelly
Concern on his face changed to … She didn’t know. Only that emotions shifted, then disappeared, his demeanor suddenly blank but professional. He turned away from her just as Welford called out her name.
“Bennton, if you don’t have to kill anyone in the next five minutes, you think you can give me a hand?”
“What do you need, Con?” Philip answered instead, heading for Welford at the far console.
“Not you crawling underneath things, Admiral. No offense.” Welford held out the datapad Adney had given him. “You know how to greenpoint this to a deskscreen?” he asked Rya.
“Of course.” Greenpoint transceiver protocol was used by every division in Fleet. She stepped around Philip and took the datapad from Welford.
“Ready room.” Welford pointed behind her. “Keep in mind these deskscreens are old. You’re going to have to hard reset the base unit first. That’s under the table in the center. Three buttons. Hard reset is the top one. Hold it in and holler when you’re doing so.”
“No access codes?” The ease with which the units could be reset surprised her. That was very lax security.
“These are old, Bennton. They’re from twenty years ago. Or more. Ancient times.”
Philip grunted something.
Welford chuckled. “People age better than equipment. Anyway, once you do that,” he said, angling around as he tapped an icon on the deskscreen behind him, “you’re going to have to find the hand-held’s ID of four-six- one and manually tell it to link. Got that?”
“Got it, Lieutenant.”
“Good, because there’s no other way right now to get those units synched in. Dillon, you there yet?”
“Still working,” Mr. Nice Ass answered.
“I’m on,” Tramer called out.
“Go,” Welford said. “By the time you get the reset done, Dillon should have his units on. But if you need help, ask.”
“Will do, sir.” Rya hefted the datapad and headed for the ready room.
“Twenty years ago,” she heard Philip say, “is not ancient times.”
She put the datapad on the ready-room table, unlocked the chairs on her left and right, and slid them out of the way. She hunkered down, peering under the table. She’d have to crawl underneath to get at the base—there was definitely no way Philip was going to do that. But it would really help if—
She angled up. “Lieutenant Welford, may I have my handbeam, please?”
“Sorry,” he called back to her. “Should have thought of that. Don’t shoot me, okay?”
Philip grabbed it from Welford’s hand. “I’m useless around here otherwise,” he grumbled, but she could see a grin quirking across his mouth again. He limped into the ready room, coming around the table to sit— still carefully, she noted—in one of the chairs she’d pushed aside. He held out the handbeam.
“Kind of you, sir.”
“I come from a good family, Subbie. My mother taught me to be useful.”
No wonder her father and Philip had gotten along well, Rya thought, slipping under the table. He had a comeback for everything.
“Anything interesting under there?” his voice asked, as she played the beam around the base of the table. “Like oranges?”
“You smelled that yesterday too?”
“And last night
. Adney says it comes and goes.”
She rolled on her side, finding the series of buttons. “No oranges. Some dust. A broken lightpen. Okay.” She raised her voice. “Welford, got the buttons. Holding in the reset now!” She pushed.
“Got the reset button,” she heard Philip call out. She grinned. He really was trying to be useful. It had to grate on him, being injured and unable to help. He hadn’t struck her as a man who was afraid to get his hands dirty. Or his knuckles skinned. She remembered that was her first impression of him.
“Few more seconds,” she heard Welford say. “Okay. Release.”
She released.
“Get those greenpoints going, Bennton!”
She wriggled out from under the table, ass first. God. Nothing like showing Philip her worst feature. She angled sideways, dropping down on her left hip, bringing her feet under her.
Philip leaned toward her, hand out. “Need help?”
Oh, please don’t. Grasping her hand would mean nothing to him. But it would get her galactic-size crush going universal, just like when he’d leaned on her on the shuttle. She did not want to feel his warm, rough skin against her own right now.
She passed him the handbeam instead, pulled herself onto her knees, then grabbed the table’s edge and levered up.
Philip was eyeing her. “More than a little dust.”
She looked down, saw the long smudges on her thigh. She brushed at that, then brushed at another smudge on her arm. “Oh, hell.” She sat, pulling the datapad to her, and tapped the recessed release for the deskscreen. It slid up … slowly. Too slowly. Something else likely clogged with dust.
Philip sighed as if he knew her thoughts.
She brought up the sniffer program, waited a few seconds, then a few more while it searched and logged compatible units. Numbers appeared, finally. She saw the hand-held’s ID, linked them. “Got one,” she called out.
“Got it,” Welford answered. “Next!”
Philip—being useful—had the screen already up in front of him. She leaned over him, tapping the icon on the screen.
Hope's Folly Page 13
