Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

“Sir?”

  “That is an order.”

  Where in hell was Rya?

  Where in hell’s that shutoff valve? Rya played her handbeam over the tangle of pipes and conduit secured to the walls of the narrow maintenance tunnel. It was fifteen minutes since she’d dashed off the bridge, and Con Welford had helped her remove a large section of the ready-room bulkhead. Welford was now a dozen feet if not more behind her. He couldn’t fit in this tunnel, his broad shoulders threatening to rip the conduit and feed lines from the walls. She barely could and, crawling on all fours, had snagged her pants and belt on more things than she cared to count as she’d scooched, wiggled, and shoved her way toward her goal.

  The heat from the fire in the lift shafts had her sweating, rivulets running into her eyes, making them sting. She blinked rapidly—all she could do with the mask over her face. Her shirt lay against her skin like a hot, damp blanket.

  She had to find the override valves. That thought made her push on past the pain, past the fear. It wasn’t just saving lives. It wasn’t just the mission. It was everything. Philip was right when he’d cautioned her on the shuttle about knowing her priorities. Anything that hampered the Folly hampered the Alliance. And only the Alliance could take on the Empire and take down Tage.

  If not for Tage, her father would still be alive.

  Light flashed dimly in front of her. Two bursts of light from a handbeam. A prearranged signal to get her attention. Then, Welford’s voice: “You okay, Bennton?”

  She lifted her mask quickly. “Delightful,” she shouted back. “Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here.” She pulled the mask down, the taste of the smoke acrid against her tongue, and shoved away the thought that Welford couldn’t get in here if she needed help. She had to find that—

  There. Had to be. A clear box of what was probably durocrylic covered a series of flip-tab valves. She’d seen similar configurations in the maintenance shafts of Calth 9. She pulled on the cover. It was stuck.

  Shit. She angled her mask up. “Think I found it!”

  Mask in place again, she propped her handbeam against a wide pipe, then fished in her utility belt for her small tool kit. She needed something to dig under the edge of the cover.

  She opted for a manual screwdriver, not a sonic one. She couldn’t chance what the vibrations would do to the valves. She lay on her side in the tunnel’s narrow confines and shoved the screwdriver against one edge. Her hands were slick with sweat. Twice she lost her grip, the screwdriver spinning out of her fingers. She groped for it against the rapidly heating decking beneath her.

  And she swore, volubly, with every expression she’d ever heard in her almost thirty years.

  “Rya!”

  A man’s voice—Welford’s? It sounded different now, probably because of his mask—interrupted her litany of maledictions. She nearly had the box pried off. She gritted her teeth, closing her eyes for a moment. What did he want? She was doing all she could, and it was so slagging hot in here, hell would seem downright frigid after this.

  “Almost there!” she shouted back, not bothering to lift her mask. She didn’t want to let go of the pressure she had on the screwdriver.

  “Rya, get out. Now! Bridge is evacuated!”

  Fuck. That meant the fire had spread, bad. Something she could have guessed from the blistering heat around her. She yanked on the screwdriver. “Few more seconds!”

  She had no idea if he heard her through the mask. It didn’t matter. She could feel the cover giving way, cracking, splintering—

  The lower half sheared off with a hard snap. Her screwdriver flew from her fingers, disappearing somewhere in the tunnel. She didn’t know, she didn’t care. She shoved her hand under the broken cover, scraping her knuckles raw, and shoved the valve tabs down, one by one. That had to release the fire-suppression system. That had to flood the lifts with chemical foam from one system and possibly—she couldn’t remember—water or some other nontoxic suppressant from the other.

  There was a sprinkler outlet just over her head. She cupped her hand around it, waiting for the burst of whatever would come out, praying it wouldn’t peel the clothes off her body or the skin off her bones.

  Nothing. Nothing happened.

  Her heart pounded. Her teeth ached from clenching them. She wanted to scream. The Folly was going to lose the bridge, maybe Deck 2 Forward.

  The Alliance would lose a ship. No one would stop the Farosians. And Tage—

  “Rya, damn you, now!”

  Fuck.

  She shoved her handbeam back into her belt, then skittered backward, suddenly aware she could see barely inches in front of her face. Heat closed around her. It felt as if her skin glowed. She pushed and shoved like a sand crawler in full reverse, but pipe outcrop-pings and metal flanges snatched her pants and belt, gouged her shoulders and elbows.

  Then strong hands closed around her ankles, and with an “oof!” she found herself flat on her stomach and being dragged, feetfirst, out the darkness of the narrow tunnel and into the equally dark but larger one.

  “Damn it, Welford!”

  She braced herself for a fall, but he grabbed the waistband of her pants. She was again dragged backward, pushing with the flat of her hands to keep up lest the damned man pull her pants right off.

  Then they were out of the tunnel, the thick hazy light in the ready room making her blink and sway on her feet. She staggered against the edge of the open bulkhead panel, turned—

  —and was met by a hissing deluge from above. Water, sheets of water, spraying forcefully through the round sprinkler heads, coating her mask, all but blinding her. It soaked her hair, drenched her shirt, slid with a welcome chill down her thighs.

  She ripped off her mask, let out a whoop … and found herself crushed, hard, against Philip Guthrie’s sopping-wet chest. One arm locked around her waist, the other across her shoulder, his fingers threading up into her hair. Blinking water out of her eyes, she looked up at him. His mask was shoved up over his hair, which was darker now, as wet as her own. She glimpsed a younger Lieutenant Philip Guthrie in the face of Admiral Philip Guthrie. Both looked intensely angry. And she wasn’t even launching peas at him.

  She released her grasp on her mask. It fell with a thump into the seat of a nearby chair. She curled her hands over his shoulders, just tight enough to let him know that if he let go, she wouldn’t.

  For three very long, wet seconds they stared at each other, the hissing of the sprinklers and the rapid staccato of the water hitting the table and the decking the only sounds. Then he kissed her. Not gently, not tentatively, not at all the kiss she’d expected in his quarters earlier. There was nothing tender or hesitant in the way his mouth covered hers, expertly parting her lips, which were already opening, already demanding a taste of him. This was a rough kiss, a desperate kiss, a kiss with an almost frenzied passion that made her heart pound, her knees go liquid, and pulsing sensations flare between her thighs.

  His tongue stroked, teased hers as he held her tightly against him. She angled her face, bruising his lips as he bruised hers, and shoved her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, wanting more of this exquisite punishment. Not letting him escape if he wanted to.

  He broke the kiss, then nuzzled the side of her face. Cold water splattered against her neck, doing little to cool the heat in her body.

  His lips touched her ear. “Subbie. We need to talk.” His voice went tight, serious.

  She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing hard. So was she.

  He stepped back slightly. She straightened, her wet hands sliding to his equally as wet shoulders.

  Subbie. He was putting distance between them, and not just physically. But she wasn’t yet ready to let him go.

  “This is the damnably worst timing,” he said, beads of water dotting his eyebrows and dark lashes, streaking down his face. “I have no right to—”

  “How bad is the damage?” She cut him off, heart pounding now for a di
fferent reason. She didn’t want to hear about his rights. She definitely didn’t want to hear his apologies.

  “To my sanity? That’s shredded.” He barked out a short, mirthless laugh and took another step back. Her hands fell from his shoulders.

  “Damage to the bridge?” he continued, twisting slightly. He reached for his cane, which lay in a growing puddle on the ready-room table. “The fire was confined to Decks One and Two. For once, the damned layout of this bucket worked in our favor. I don’t know if we’ve lost any main bridge systems, though. I probably should be checking that right now.” He ran one hand over his face, and for a moment she was sure he was going to turn for the corridor, head to the bridge. Instead, he studied her through the cascading water for a heartbeat. Two.

  “But there’s something about impending doom that makes me self-indulgent.” He surprised her by stepping closer, raising one hand to her face. Hesitantly, his fingertips skimmed the wet line of her jaw, then pulled away. “We need to talk about this. But—”

  “I know.” She cut him off in the same way she shut down her hopes. She could hear what was coming in the firmer tone of his voice, in the way his touch disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “You have a crisis that demands your attention. Mine too.” But she did not want her crisis to be one of the heart.

  They had enough problems with the cleanup of the bridge and getting the ship functional again. Then stopping the Farosian Star-Ripper, getting to the jumpgate. Getting to Ferrin’s. A huge task.

  But the first step in retaliation on the Empire.

  Think about that, she told herself. Not about being some man’s self-indulgence, even if he is your long-lost always-forever dream hero.

  The volume of water cascading down suddenly reduced, the hiss of liquid through the sprinklers quieting. Instead of sheets, it was a lively trickle. She realized the wailing of the alarms had stopped several minutes ago. The fire had to be out.

  She spied the dark shape of the Norlack on the seat where she’d left it, under Welford’s care. She snagged the weapon. “Where’s Welford?” She looped the Norlack’s strap over her left shoulder.

  Some of the tension slipped from Philip’s face. As did the last of the passion. The intensity with which he watched her minutes before was gone. The admiral was fully back in command. “Auxiliary bridge. I gave the order to evacuate.”

  “The situation was that bad?”

  “Worse.” His lips tightened. “Commander Adney—”

  “Admiral Guthrie?” Footsteps, lots of them, sounded in the corridor, splashing and thudding.

  Rya recognized Con Welford’s voice.

  “Ready room,” Philip called out, leaning on his cane as he turned away from her.

  Welford strode in, Sachi and Corvang behind him.

  Welford’s glance—unreadable—raked her.

  “We need a basic cleanup here and on the bridge, quickly,” Philip said. “I assume you and Sparks have kept us moving toward the C-Six. I need to know what systems aren’t working. We can worry about fixing the lifts and any bulkhead damage once we hit jump.”

  “We have more than that to worry about,” Welford said. He jerked his chin toward the tall Takan standing at his side. “Someone made an attempt to take control of this ship using the auxiliary bridge before Corvang got there. Systems were already coming online when he and Dillon arrived.”

  Rya sucked in a breath, her senses focusing. An Imperial agent on board. Or a Farosian one. After Kirro, she’d expected something, but this was proof.

  Philip stiffened noticeably. “Maybe Sparks—”

  “No, sir. Dillon checked. Corvang checked. And I double-checked them both. Someone used that fire and a diversion on Deck Four to gain access to the auxiliary bridge. Access and entry into this ship’s computer systems. Which means that same someone is in possession of this ship’s primaries.” Welford hesitated, then jerked his chin toward Rya. “Bennton may fulfill her wish to kill someone yet.”

  The closed-door meeting in Philip’s office this time was without Dina Adney. It did include, however, one very wet, very surly cat. Judging from the paw prints on his dining table and now on his office desk, Captain Folly was in Philip’s quarters when the sprinklers kicked on in there—though not in Philip’s dry office, which was either in a different fire zone or else the sprinklers had malfunctioned. A smart move on the cat’s part; the admiral’s quarters were double-insulated, shielded, and had a very noisy emergency air recycler, which still groaned and churned through the overhead ducts, removing the acrid tang of smoke that still hung in the air of his office. The drenching was by far the worst thing the cat had suffered.

  A smarter move than Philip’s maneuver in the maintenance tunnels. He was no longer drenched—he’d changed quickly into a pair of black coveralls before convening this meeting—but his hip ached and his leg throbbed, sending twinges of pain that could easily make him as surly as the cat.

  But they’d run out of time to deal with the fire. Sparks had wanted to blow a hole in the hull. Philip had to get Rya out before her impulsive tendencies— he now had some sympathy for the supervisor who had noted that in her personnel file—got them both killed.

  Then he made the damned fool mistake of standing far too close to her, feeling the heat of her body, watching the sparkle of success glint in her eyes, watching the cascading water sculpt her uniform to her breasts and thighs. Something primal in him surfaced. He had to brand her, taste her, kiss her. He could write it off as the result of stress, of relief that she was alive and unharmed, but the truth was that kissing her was something he’d wanted to do ever since he saw her on Kirro. Because he knew he shouldn’t? That wasn’t like him. Because he knew he’d lost Chaz, and this Alliance was poised for failure—and something inside him was grasping for a reason to go on?

  Inane logic. It was nothing that convoluted or deep. He was happy for Chaz, and he was far too busy to ponder the politics of the Alliance. It was … He had no idea. And he had to worry about that later. Because the next stage of the current crisis came with the realization that there was an enemy agent on board. Because of that, he should keep the crew locked down on 3 and 4. But the fire proved how vulnerable and shorthanded they were. So the ship was on open access but under a Code 2 battle stations order—no one went anywhere alone. Preliminary investigations were already being conducted in the forward lifts and the auxiliary bridge. Maybe there was something about the fire that would lead them to the enemy agent. Maybe some telltale clue to his or her identity would be found in the auxiliary bridge. But until they had answers, the bridge and officer quarters required tighter security. Rya stationed Sachi Holton—armed with Rya’s L7—at the end of the corridor on Deck 2 Forward. Corvang and Mather guarded the bridge. It was an impromptu setup but might well function as permanent until they hit Fer-rin’s.

  An attempt had been made to take control of his ship. Philip didn’t think it was going to stop there. He doubted it would stop even when they hit Ferrin’s. If they hit Ferrin’s.

  One hour ten minutes to the C-6.

  Captain Folly stretched, arched his back, then flattened his considerable furry white girth across the right corner of Philip’s desktop, black tail dangling over the edge, tapping to a rhythm only the beast could hear.

  Philip swiveled his chair slightly and angled away from the cat. “Commander Adney’s sedated, resting,” he told Con, Sparks, Martoni, and Rya. They’d already been briefed on Adney’s emotional collapse. “It doesn’t appear she’ll be returning to duty. Likely she’ll transfer to medical when we hit Ferrin’s. That leaves me without an exec, without someone to function as my second in command.” He looked at Con. Martoni outranked Con, but Philip didn’t know Martoni. And Con was long overdue for a promotion. “Lieutenant Welford, are you prepared to assume the duties of executive officer of the Folly?”

  “I am, sir.” Welford seemed slightly surprised. “Thank you for your faith in me.”

  “I have to consider a number
of parameters here, not the least of which is familiarity with the way I operate. I don’t have time to do a thorough analysis of all qualified candidates. The current situation doesn’t allow that luxury. But be very sure, all of you here, that I don’t make these decisions lightly, even if there are times you think I do,” Philip said, not mentioning Rya. But he had a feeling his point was made. “This will add to your workload—to all our workloads,” he continued, singling out Martoni, then Rya, with a nod. “Commander Martoni, I want you to work closely with Welford. Sparks, you said Dillon has helm experience. If you can spare him, at least until we clear the gate, we need him on the bridge.”

  “Dillon’s never flown a Stryker,” Sparks said, “but few of the kids on board have any direct experience with this class ship. Dillon’s a quick learner. Vange, Kagdan, and I can hold down engineering with the rest of the team.”

  “Lieutenant Bennton.” Philip brought his gaze up to hers. Up because he was seated and she was at her usual place on his right, back against the bulkhead that separated his office from his quarters, one hand resting lightly on her Stinger. The Norlack dangled at her side. Judging from her mismatched uniform—half Alliance gray, half ImpSec dark blue—she’d thrown on dry clothes as quickly as he had. The cat, he noticed, was watching her as well. “Who do you recommend assigning to your security team besides Holton?”

  “Corvang excelled in SECTAC in the academy,” she said, and Philip remembered Jodey’s comment about the rangy Takan: He’s studied everything the Great Guthrie has ever written … every combat-training holo you’ve ever done. That included two manuals Philip had authored for Security and Tactics: SECTAC.

  “He can still sit nav,” Rya added, “but he can sit armed. Having him on the bridge is extra insurance and frees up me or Holton to patrol lower decks, if need be.”

  “I agree with the choice of Corvang, but I want no solo patrols.” Philip leaned back in his chair, ignoring the zingers of pain racing up his leg. “We have an enemy agent on board. The only way we’re going to make it to the C-Six, let alone Ferrin’s, is by putting this ship under Code Two battle stations, including the auxiliary bridge.”