“No one ever said Tage was stupid.”
No, sadly, the man whom Philip at one time considered a friend wasn’t stupid. Crafty, cunning, and lately diabolical. But not stupid.
“The consul’s people have been making the preliminary political noises to the Empire,” Jodey continued. “But word coming down from our Admirals’ Council is we may need to make a show of force. You’ll be getting all this direct once you get the Folly online.”
Philip sighed. “I’ve been told we’ll have communications and encryption up and running fully tomorrow. Day after, the latest.”
“Would be nice if the Admirals’ Council and the counsul’s people could talk directly to the admiral.”
“Just as well they haven’t been able to today. My vocabulary hasn’t been fit for polite company.” Philip glanced at the icon flashing on the corner of his screen. “Reports are in.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your work. I’m hoping the next time we talk it’ll be from your office and you’ll have more than just Dina’s comm link functioning.”
Philip grunted. “Ever the optimist, Bralford. Stay safe, my friend.”
“And you stay out of trouble.”
That warranted another grunt. “Hell’s fat ass chance of that.” Philip signed off, the screen fading to black. He snagged the reports Jodey’d sent and shunted them over to his in-box in his office. It was almost 1930 hours, and his day was far from over.
But his officers and crew should be changing shifts, although he knew a lot of them would keep on working, regardless.
Philip shoved himself out of Adney’s chair and limped for the door. He grabbed the closest lift down to Deck 3. The goddamned Stryker-class design split Deck 2 in forward and aft sections, with no direct access between the two other than to go down, then up again.
Not one thing about this mission was easy. Not even the ship.
He stepped out of the lift on Deck 3, nodded to crew hustling past, and heard a familiar throaty laugh behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Rya farther down the corridor in the crew’s quarters’ section. Con Welford had his hand on Rya’s shoulder, the two of them mere inches apart.
Then the cabin door opened and Con ushered Rya inside.
Philip stood, staring. Something he couldn’t— didn’t—want to define tightened in his chest. There were a hundred legitimate reasons why Rya Bennton could be in Con’s cabin, but only the less-than-legitimate ones seemed to want to surface in his mind. And even those were none of Philip Guthrie’s goddamned business.
He turned abruptly, his right leg protesting in pain. He used that pain as the excuse for his foul mood for the next several hours—and as a reminder that life rarely goes as planned. Not even for the Great Guthrie, who had far more-serious considerations than what Cory’s daughter was doing with Constantine Welford.
Didn’t he?
Rya sat in one of the two dark-blue padded chairs in Con Welford’s cabin and watched him study the information she’d sent to his datapad. He was willing to listen to her concerns and look at what she’d found, though he’d not bothered to hide his skepticism.
“Everyone on the docks talks,” he’d said when she first told him her findings.
She couldn’t disagree. “But it’s my job to listen.”
So he’d listened, and now he was looking. Unofficially, of course, which was why they were in his cabin and not using one of the workstations in divisionals.
His cabin was slightly larger than hers but, she noted wryly, not any warmer. He’d warned her about that as she followed him down the corridor on Crew 3. She’d countered with her father’s gambling-for- socks story, which made him laugh. But the levity was brief. Problems were far too real and far more plentiful than solutions at the moment.
She shifted position in the chair, adjusting her shoulder holster, bringing one leg up underneath her. The edge of her boot knife peeked out. She caught Welford’s questioning glance.
“Stinger won’t kill them dead enough?” he asked.
“Safety,” she told him, tapping the blunt hilt. “Someone gets one weapon away from you, you have options. Stunner.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating where the L7 rested snug at her waist. “ImpSec issued Carver-Tens. Now, those are fun.”
“Fun? Necessary, sure. But fun?” Welford just shook his head and perched on the edge of his bed, then secured his datapad on his bedside table.
She stopped herself from launching into one of her father’s favorite discussions about fear versus familiarity, whether it be jumpgate transits or speaking in front of an assembly or high-powered laser rifles. They weren’t here to talk weapons; they were here to find possible intruders. Far more important than Welford’s opinions on her armaments. Her mind went in worried circles, so she studied Welford to keep it busy.
He was not as tall as Philip and had short sandy hair and a somewhat crooked nose. Judging from the scar on his chin and the shape of his nose, she pegged him as a scrapper, someone always in the middle of a bar fight.
His features could make him appear gruff, but he had a wide mouth that smiled easily and often. Rya knew Sachi found Welford attractive.
He was frowning now. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Standard replacement parts, but that’s not the problem.” He waved her over.
She uncrossed her legs, pulling herself out of the chair, then stepped next to him. Five databoxes dotted his screen.
“This.” He pointed to one on the lower right. “There were two unauthorized accesses through the cargo hatchlocks three hours after we—Commander Adney and the team—arrived,” he explained.
Unauthorized accesses? “There were, what, five of you on board at that time?”
“Four. Adney, myself, Corvang, and Mather. All the more reason the ship was in total lockdown at that point. We knew how vulnerable we were. But someone got on board, twice, without setting off any alarms. Without us seeing them.” Anger tinged his voice.
A chill scurried up Rya’s spine. “Fuck.” The crude epithet slipped out before she could stop it. “Sorry, Lieutenant Welford.”
Welford snorted. “I agree with the sentiment— though this could be nothing. We were still taking possession of the ship. The owner’s people might have made two last trips on board for personal possessions. But it could also be one big fucking problem.”
“You can’t tell?”
“From this? No. I need to get into the main logs and see if I can’t pick up what codes, if any, were used to open the hatchlock. But we’ve had two system crashes since then. I don’t even know if that data is still accessible.” He thrust one hand through his short sandy hair. “I guess I know what I’m doing the rest of tonight.”
“Can I help?”
“I’ll call you if I need you to shoot or stab someone. But until then, no.”
“Will you tell Commander Adney?”
“Once I have a better idea of what we have here, yes.”
“Adney … doesn’t give credence to what I say.” She almost told Welford about her earlier conversation. About Adney’s limited view of ImpSec. But for all she knew, Welford felt the same way. He hadn’t seemed comfortable when she’d pointed out her weaponry.
“Don’t worry about that. Dina just loves the rule book. But she recognizes and will act on a problem when she sees one.”
A weight lifted, somewhat. Welford would find out. Adney would listen to him, a former Loviti officer. But would he find out in time? Maybe, as he said, the intrusions were harmless. Just the ship’s previous owner retrieving possessions at the last minute.
Maybe it was time to let go of her ImpSec training and mind-set. And maybe not.
“And if it’s all nothing, you owe me some socks.” He winked. Some of her discomfort with him lessened.
“The warmest pair I have,” she told him, turning to leave. She turned back just as she reached for the pal
m pad. “Con, can you tell if whoever came on board left? Or should I be looking for stowaways?”
The smile faded from his face. “Oh, hell. Yeah, I’ll check for that too. Keep that Stinger primed. You might be shooting someone after all.”
Rya was officially off duty. She unofficially walked the entire ship, the old Stockwell’s schematics coming easily to mind as she fell into covert-mission mode and tried to think like a stowaway. The perfect opportunity for someone to slip on board was that narrow window of the first few hours of the ship’s turnover to Commander Adney. With less than a full crew complement, places to hide were plentiful. If she’d known it would have been so easy, she’d not have worried at all about qualifying for an assignment to the Folly.
She could have just stowed away and, if she wanted to, caused all the problems to date. Especially as she knew the ship’s schematics by heart.
Likely so did some of the Farosians who’d crewed on her. And any number of Imperials.
If she were the infamous Commander Dalby, she would have tried for Philip at Kirro, tried again in the space lanes, but have someone already on board as backup.
For the hundredth time she wanted to go barging back into Welford’s cabin and demand he alert Adney now, but she knew he wouldn’t until he had proof.
She looked in unoccupied cabins for telltale signs of a stowaway. She stood quietly in stairwells, listening. She noted crew she knew—though, admittedly, barely—and studied those she didn’t. It was annoying, frustrating, but it was something to do. If she sat in her cabin or even went to find a card game—there was bound to be at least one, and Alek Dillon was likely already there—she’d go crazy. Crazier than she already was.
She got to know the Folly better than she normally would have with only one day on board, translating schematics to real time. The ship had six decks, starting from the bridge and ready room on Deck 1, down to cargo and storage on Deck 6. Shuttle bay, maintenance, and engineering were on 5, just as they had been when her father sat in command. Sparks was working—not surprising—but she didn’t stop to talk. She wanted to listen. Deck 4 was crew’s quarters, ship’s gym—which already had a few hard-bodies getting busy—and more storerooms. Deck 3 was more crew’s quarters, general mess hall, and galley. Deck 2 was split forward and aft, with no way to get from one to the other without going down one deck—one of the things her father found annoying. Aft were the divisional offices, including Commander Adney’s, and sick bay. Forward were the admiral’s quarters and office, Adney’s cabin, and two spare cabins.
The small blue light glowing next to Adney’s palm pad showed she wasn’t in her office. Rya hoped they were all in Philip’s, tracking down whoever had come abroad during those critical first hours.
She started her circuit again.
This time, when she reached Deck 6, she could almost recognize where she was on the ship just by the sounds. Crew movement—the thudding of boots, the high and low pitches of conversations—was more apparent on Decks 3 and 4. Deck 6 was more ship sounds—pinging and whooshing and clanking. Deck 5 was a combination of both: the hard bark of voices from engineering aft, the groaning and pinging of metal forward in the shuttle bays and cargo areas, unoccupied now with the ship so understaffed. Even the machine shop—
She stopped, head tilted. There were footsteps coming from the maintenance shop. No one was assigned to the shop that she knew of, but maybe one of
Sparks’s people had a project No; she didn’t hear
voices.
Hand resting on her Stinger, she padded softly toward the shop. The door was slightly ajar and she could see from its angle that it was out of kilter. She frowned. Did someone force it or was this another inherited problem?
The shop’s lighting was scattered. It looked as if most of the overheads were nonworking, but a small light glowed softly over a nearby worktable. A figure moved through her narrow line of vision, and Rya relaxed. Mather. Commo, carrying parts to the low table. Not Sparks’s project then, but something Welford put him up to. She remembered the two of them working—and swearing—over the problems on the bridge.
“Hey, Commo,” she called, pushing the palm pad. The door edged open.
A crash sounded, a metal box clanking to the floor. Mather spun, eyes wide.
Shit. She was so used to moving soundlessly that she often forgot it startled people. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She stepped toward him.
Mather crouched quickly, retrieving the box. “That’s what I get for not paying attention.” He laughed, but it was a shaky one.
“What’s Welford got you doing?”
“Welford? No, I just had an idea.” He turned, placing the box on the bench and dropping some thin metal rods into it. “Like to be helpful, you know?” he said over his shoulder. “Thought maybe I could find something down here to work into a panel, where at least officers could log in and out of locations.” He turned back and shook his head. “It’s all junk.”
“I can tell you how to modify a Stinger or an L7,” Rya said, “but nothing larger than that.” She hesitated. “Sparks had a big shipment of tech come in about two hours ago.”
“It arrived early? Great!” He tapped off the small work light over the table, then headed for her.
It made sense Mather would know about the parts. From everything she’d heard, he and Welford had been doing nonstop repairs since they set foot on board.
“Martoni, Dillon, and I logged it in.”
“First bit of good news I’ve had. I forgive you for giving me heart failure.”
“Hey, Commo, I didn’t mean to—”
He punched her lightly on the shoulder. “Just teasing, my dear. I think I’ll go inflict myself on our chief engineer. Maybe I can lend a hand.”
“Watch the door,” she said, following him toward the corridor. “It doesn’t close properly.”
Mather stared at it for a moment, then shook his head, a wry grin on his lips. “This ship is just … perfect.”
She almost reminded him that wasn’t at all the words he and Welford used to describe the Folly earlier on the bridge, but he was already trudging toward engineering.
No, the Folly wasn’t perfect—yet. But at least she had people like Welford and Sparks and Mather—and Philip—doing all they could to rectify that.
She headed for the stairwell, listening, hoping Adney was doing the same.
“Unknown and unauthorized access.” Philip’s narrow-eyed gaze went from Adney to his deskscreen back to Adney again. Her wide mouth was pursed, her dark eyes as narrow as his. Dina Adney wasn’t happy.
Neither was Philip. He hadn’t been in the best of moods before Adney walked in. Now the words unknown and unauthorized access made his teeth clench, his skin crawl, and his trigger finger itch like crazy.
“Welford said he found it during a routine check and confirmed it two minutes ago. I came up straightaway. He and Martoni, Bennton, Holton, and a few others are on serious spook patrol.”
“We have visuals on the intrusion?”
“Cameras aren’t working. Something we need to rectify, quickly. We do show an enviro malfunction on Deck Six at that time. I’m guessing now that was a planned error.”
Philip swore and wiped his hand over his face.
Adney leaned forward. “I could ask shipyard security—”
“Not yet.” Maybe not at all. “I don’t want to add more unknown moving parts to the problem.”
Adney hesitated, then: “I’ll go see what Martoni and Welford have found, if anything,” she said, rising.
Philip rose also. “I’ll be down in engineering.” He had to talk to Sparks. He had to know how soon they could get this bucket to Ferrin’s, where a real military shipyard could provide solutions to many of their problems, including a functional crew-locator system and security cameras.
If they lived long enough to get there.
He stopped in his cabin first to get his jacket. The lower decks were cold. “You have fur,” he told
the sleeping lump in the middle of his bed. Captain Folly had returned.
One yellow eye opened. The tip of the black tail flicked with disdain.
“We also had intruders,” he said to the cat. “Mind telling me why you didn’t bite them?”
The cat had no answer. Philip grabbed his jacket and limped out to the corridor.
“Welford and Cory’s kid told me about the security breach when they searched engineering.” Sparks sat hunched over in a chair deck-locked in front of the main console. His sleeves were rolled up and a dark sweater was tossed haphazardly over the chair’s back. He held a small analyzer in one hand. It was blinking and beeping softly. “It would take Dillon, Vange, Kagdan, and me at least three full shipdays to get the kind of locator system you want rigged and installed. Here. On Ferrin’s, with their people’s help, we’d cut that time in half. Maybe less, because they have parts. Here I’d have to cobble stuff together.”
Philip nodded and studied the older man as he spoke. “Helluva first day,” he intoned, because the stubble was already apparent on Sparks’s chin. Only the cat was in bed, which was where they all should have been hours ago.
And he didn’t miss the mention of “Cory’s kid.” Rya. Rya and Welford.
None of his damned business.
“Day’s been a bit more than I expected, but nothing I can’t handle,” Sparks replied, in typical Sparks fashion. The man loved a challenge. “But I don’t think your problem is a stowaway.”
Neither did Philip, honestly. “Sabotage or a mole waiting to make the next move.”
“The list of people who don’t like us is legion.”
Philip snorted.
“You want to be in the lanes in forty-eight hours,” Sparks continued, glancing down as his analyzer beeped. “It might be a few hours later than that, barring any more unusual crises.”
“You start working miracles this early in the mission, I’ll expect them at every turn.”
“You’re going to need them, Skipper.” Sparks tapped the analyzer against his palm. “This ship, this crew. Hell, this Alliance. Falkner’s a charismatic leader, but Tage is old guard. Crafty. Experienced. And greedy. He won’t easily relinquish what he sees as rightfully his.”
Hope's Folly Page 16
