Hope's Folly

by Linnea Sinclair

  The noise evidently bothered someone else. A flash of white streaked up the stairs, trotted behind her, then came to a stop at Rya’s right ankle. She hunkered down and scratched Captain Folly’s mismatched ears, all the while darting glances toward the bridge and back to the stairwell.

  “Things could get dangerous,” she told the cat. “Wish I had a safety kennel, somewhere you could stay. I’ll even loan you my beret to sleep on.” She made a mental note to mention it to Sparks or maybe Welford. But, no, not Welford. His attitude since learning she was named chief of security had become chilly, almost disapproving.

  He no doubt had noticed she’d been damned near puddling at Philip’s feet since they arrived on Seth. He no doubt thought she’d traded some JFFS for the position.

  As if she and Philip had time … But then the image of Welford’s scowling face popped up from memory. She, standing in the open doorway of Philip’s quarters, playfully blowing a kiss. And Welford, exiting the lifts …

  “Hey, Rya.” Sachi’s voice echoed up the stairs, then her dusky face appeared. Her short braids were pinned against her head with a series of small red clips. “You know that section of bulkhead you and Sparks wanted for testing? A piece just broke off.” She halted at the top step and held out a rectangle of sheet metal about seven inches in length. “You want I should run this down to Sparks now or wait until we clear the jumpgate?”

  The section contained part of the crazed burn pattern that first lead Rya to suspect the use of disty-boom. “Stay with the repair crew.” She took the metal piece from Sachi. “I’ll stow this in the ready room until—”

  Tsst! Tsst! Tsst!

  Rapid-fire sneezing erupted from the cat sitting by her feet. The cat shook his head violently, then started again. Tsst! Tsst! Tsst!

  “That’s strange.” Sachi shrugged.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Rya watched the cat as Sachi hurried back down the stairwell.

  Tsst!

  Rya lowered the metal piece closer to the cat. More sneezes erupted. One white paw lifted and scoured eyes and whiskers. Then, with a hard flick of his black tail, Captain Folly bounded down the corridor for the bridge.

  No, Rya thought, straightening. Not strange at all. Centuries back, before the technology was perfected, arson investigators used a dog’s sense of smell to locate and identify traces of accelerants.

  That technology didn’t currently reside on the Folly. Captain Folly, however, did.

  Captain Folly was a natural-born disty-boom detector.

  Rya had no doubt that there was still some of the chemical on board, very likely in the possession of or in the quarters of the enemy agent.

  Captain Folly could find it.

  Plans unfolding quickly in her mind, she headed for the ready room to secure the sample. Then she needed three minutes of Philip’s undivided attention on the bridge.

  “Incoming!”

  Here we go. Philip quickly checked the main command screen angled out from his armrest at Welford’s terse warning. Chatter around him rose and fell: grunted confirmations from Corvang working both nav and scanners, higher-pitched tones from the female officer, Ensign Jasli, working the ship’s meager laser banks along with Martoni.

  “Shields at full,” Philip announced, knowing his bridge staff was checking, knowing they knew that. But they were shorthanded. His announcement, if redundant, was reassuring.

  So was the Farosian’s target: not the Folly but one of Umoran’s Ratch fighters. The small ship angled deftly away as a blast from a P-33 destroyed the torpedo.

  “Too easy!” The P-33’s captain’s laugh sounded through the forward datascreen speakers.

  Philip wasn’t going to deem things easy yet, but at fifteen minutes out from the C-6 jumpgate, the Farosians were playing it cautious. It looked as if they wanted him alive. Any doubts about that dissolved with the Star-Ripper’s next volley, again targeting the escort ships.

  “Locking on. Got it!” Martoni called out. The Folly’s lasers scored a hit on the incoming torpedo. On the forward screen, Philip watched two Ratch fighters roll as a P-33 took out the other one.

  The scenario was clear: the Farosians wanted the fighters gone, the Folly damaged, and Philip Guthrie under their control.

  “Get this damned cat out of here!”

  Burnaby Mather’s angry tones jerked Philip’s attention from the forward datascreen. The large white cat crouched on the edge of the communications console, black tail twitching, head shaking. Mather swung a fist at the hissing cat. No. It was sneezing, Philip realized. Not hissing. Sneezing.

  What in hell’s fat ass?

  Con, standing behind Dillon at the second helm, lunged for Mather’s station on his left. He grabbed the cat by the scruff. The beast yowled, claws raking the air.

  “Hey!”

  Philip twisted in his chair, hearing Rya’s voice. She darted onto the bridge from the doorway to the ready room.

  He had no time for this. “Lock the cat in my quarters, now!” he ordered her.

  Whatever she was about to say was halted by Con’s shoving the creature into her arms. “You heard the admiral. Move!”

  The cat buried its head in the crook of Rya’s arm, suddenly calm and silent.

  Con stared. Mather was still swearing. If Philip wasn’t so goddamned busy with the Farosians and a hospital ship about to appear in the middle of a firefight, he would have laughed at the beast’s sudden transformation. The cat hated men.

  Without comment, Rya turned on her heel and hurried off, a long black tail wrapped partly around the weapons belt at her waist.

  Philip turned back to the Farosians. There was no communication from the Star-Ripper. He didn’t expect any. At least not until the escort ships were destroyed, at which time he felt sure the Farosians would contact him with some offer of surrender.

  He had no intention of letting the P-33s and fighters be destroyed. He had no intention of surrendering. He had other plans. He sent a coded transmission to the senior P-33 captain, then raised his gaze from the small screen set into his armrest. Now they knew what Con and Sparks did. Everyone one else on the bridge would find it out piecemeal as he issued his orders. A necessary precaution.

  It was time. “Mr. Dillon, Lieutenant Welford will take over main helm now.”

  “Yes, sir.” If Dillon was surprised by Philip’s command, his voice didn’t show it. Con was already sliding into the seat next to Dillon.

  Then that something he couldn’t identify told him Rya was back on the bridge, standing guard at her usual place, next to the nonfunctioning security console, with her very functional Carver-12 on her hip.

  He needed her there. If there was a Farosian agent on the bridge, his next command might well force him or her to act. He opened intraship to engineering. “Sparks, I need sublights at full. Constantine, adjust course. Let’s dead-eye that Star-Ripper.”

  The Folly’s sublights kicked to max. With a quick tap, Philip brought up the schematics of the Star-Ripper on his command screen. The Ripper was a small but powerful ship—essentially a 350-ton arsenal ringed by torpedo tubes and crowned with a row of ion cannons. The Folly could have used Captain Ellis’s Gritter cannon right about now, but she didn’t have that.

  She did have, however, two very powerful tow fields. And some damned good partners in the escort fighters from Umoran Defense. And a crazy idea Philip had played with in sims but never actually pulled off with real ships.

  First time for everything.

  A torpedo detonated off the Folly’s port side. Screens blinked for a microsecond. An alarm wailed shrilly as shield configurations restructured.

  “Kill that!” Philip ordered, then: “Keep us on course, Mr. Welford.”

  The alarm fell silent along with all chatter on the bridge.

  The trio of Ratch fighters pulled into a V-formation, with the P-33s flanking each side, essentially functioning as the extended scanning and weapons systems the Folly had lost at decommission. The escort ships were taking heav
y fire, dodging, breaking formation but regrouping, keeping the Folly’s path clear. That was essential. He had to get close enough to—

  “Martoni, watch those torpedoes, starboard side!”

  It was a double volley, coming in on the wake shadow of another torpedo. The Folly’s stripped-down tech couldn’t see it. Philip caught the movement on his command screen only out of the corner of his eye.

  “Sensors locking on!” Ensign Jasli called out, but they didn’t, and neither could Martoni manually. The Folly’s lasers missed; the P-33 missed. A Ratch fighter dove into the weapon’s path, and Philip’s gut clenched. He saw the sacrifice coming, recognized the mind-set, but it wrenched him, as it always did. Debris exploded soundlessly on the Folly’s forward screen.

  Shield alarms wailed, impact sensors flashed frantically. The ship shuddered. Philip grabbed his armrest and jammed one boot against the decking, steadying himself, teeth gritted in aggravation and frustration.

  Bodies tumbled around him. One was Rya’s—he recognized her breathy “fuck!” behind him. Then officers and crew scrambled to their feet.

  “Status!” Philip called out. “Damage report!” But even as he asked, he knew. Data streamed to his command screen. No hull breaches, but starboard shields were down to forty-one percent.

  One of the Umoran Ratch fighters was destroyed. A pilot and a gunner wouldn’t be going home to their families tonight. The first casualties in a list that— Philip knew with grim certainty—would grow.

  “Incoming!” Jasli had them this time, but that was followed by another pair of torpedoes, then the first searing blast from the Ripper’s ion cannons. Another minute and they’d be in laser range.

  A P-33 suddenly veered sharply away, debris trailing from a hole in its port flank.

  “We’re hit, but enviro’s holding,” the P-33’s captain reported through the forward screen. “Reconfiguring shields.”

  One torpedo. Just one. Or an ion cannon. Or a Gritter. Philip’s fist clenched as his desire to retaliate warred with his ship’s impotence. A goddamned fruit hauler with nothing more than close-range lasers and two tow fields.

  And he had no doubt the Farosians knew that.

  But he knew something about the incompatibility of Farosian and Imperial technology and something about the design flaws in a Star-Ripper. The latter was rumor, but rumor from some fairly good sources, and it formed the base of what he’d convinced Sparks and Con they had to try.

  He was certifiably insane, but there was no other choice. He had to keep that Ripper busy until they reached the jumpgate. Then he had to pray the Folly’s powerful tow fields and equally powerful jumpdrives didn’t fail. And that her Imperial-based shields would prevent Farosian sensors from learning the truth.

  Another explosion. Another Ratch fighter veering off, not destroyed but trailing debris. The damaged P-33 had yet to move back into position. Engine trouble, the security-coded readout on Philip’s command screen informed him.

  The triple chime of the jumpgate’s outer beacon sounded.

  Philip swore under his breath. They were so close. But they were down to one P-33 and one fighter, if that other one couldn’t recover. That wasn’t enough firepower. There was no way. He should have demanded additional escorts from Seth and Umoran. But that would have put thousands of civilians back there at risk, instead of just—

  “Admiral, we’re being hailed by the Star-Ripper.” Mather turned at his station, one hand cupping the comm set against his right ear. “They’re sending terms for our surrender. They want … Sir, they want you personally to deliver the surrender.”

  “Over my dead body.” Rya’s voice sounded tersely behind him.

  He glanced over his right shoulder, caught hazel eyes narrowed under a mop of brown curls barely being contained by a dark-blue ImpSec beret. She’d positioned herself between him and the doorway to the corridor.

  Oh, Rebel … But the Farosians’ request didn’t surprise him. If anything, he’d expected it ten minutes ago.

  “Sir?” Mather prompted.

  “Acknowledge acceptance of their terms,” Philip said flatly, to a bridge suddenly gone silent. Except for Mather, who was sputtering, half rising out of his seat.

  “But, but—”

  “But do it through text transmission. Tell them our audio systems are dead. Tell them we’re launching our shuttle in three minutes with Admiral Philip Guthrie on board. He will, as requested, surrender in person to them on their ship. You understand, Mr. Mather?”

  “I—yes, sir.” Mather turned to his console.

  The silence on the bridge was like a palpable sheet of ice. No one stood, rejoicing, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a Farosian operative on his bridge.

  “Welford, keep us on course, but take us down to one-half sublight. Martoni, drop aft shields, then raise them. Make it look like we have problems. Big problems. Cool all weapons ports while you’re at it.”

  Martoni stared at him for a long second, then an understanding smile played across his lips. “Yes, sir!”

  The ice thawed. Philip chanced another glance at Rya. She was grinning. He wondered if she’d figured out his plan. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had.

  He punched intraship. “Sparks, get ready to wake up those jumpdrives. I’m going to need power more than pretty.”

  “Want me to launch the shuttle now, Skipper?” Sparks asked. “Got the shields all rigged.”

  Philip rechecked the Folly’s distance to the Ripper and the jumpgate. They were farther from the gate than he wanted to be. And they were on the wrong axis relative to the Ripper. But beggars—and rebels— couldn’t be choosers. He wasn’t going to get another chance. He sent a coded message to the senior Umoran captain to stand down. “One minute. Martoni, make our shields go a little crazier.”

  “Extinguish running lights,” Rya intoned.

  He glanced at her again with a quick nod. “Cut running lights and go dark on Decks Two Aft, Three, and Four.”

  “ Fifteen-degree list to starboard,” she added. “When a Stryker’s sublights go bad, that’s what she does.”

  “ Fifteen-degree starboard list, Welford,” Philip said, hearing echoes of Captain Cory as he brought the tow fields on line. He tapped intraship again. “Sparks, jettison the shuttle.” Hell, it’s only money

  Philip grabbed the small ship with the tow fields the minute it shot from the bay. What could pull could also push. The Ripper slowed, the Folly drifting now, shields in disarray, decks dark or flickering. Guiding the rigged shuttle through the empty space between the two ships wasn’t the hard part. Dead-eyeing the Ripper’s landing bay—just under the row of ion cannons—would be. It had to look as if he was actually coming in to the bay. If he veered off course too soon, the Farosians wouldn’t lower their bay shields. They’d fire on the shuttle, destroying it—and Philip’s one chance to destroy them.

  “Welford, shove her a little. Bring us closer.” The tow fields were harder to control at this distance. It was dangerous, damned dangerous, but he had to close the gap between the Folly and the Farosian’s 350-ton arsenal. And that lethal array of ion cannons on top.

  “Admiral,” Con’s tone was cautious. “That’s going to hamper our ability to—”

  “Closer, Constantine, or our abilities won’t matter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sims were so much easier. In sims you could make a mistake and try again. And in the sims, he still had his P-33s and Ratch fighters. He still had options if the Ripper got wise and struck out.

  He was out of options. He was also almost out of time. The hospital ship with Alliance wounded and two of Consul Falkner’s key aides on board would be coming through the gate in less than forty minutes. Less than thirty, quite likely, as he knew they were desperate to reach help and, if he was that ship’s captain, he would have been going flat-out full-bore at that point.

  One of the tow fields suddenly stuttered, its power signal cresting, then flattening.

  “Welfor
d!” Philip couldn’t take his eyes off his command screen as he wrestled the other tow field into position.

  “On it!” Con answered.

  “On it,” came Sparks’s reply through intraship.

  The shuttle shimmied, jerking. Philip knew with certainty that alarms were raised on the Ripper. There was no way with only one tow field he could control the small ship’s movements. The Farosians had to know something was wrong. They’d raise shields at the shuttle bays. He needed those shields down.

  A blur of movement on his left. Rya, at the XO’s console. “Sending wide-band distress signal through the shuttle,” she said.

  He had no time to ponder how she knew to do that, except it had Cory Bennton written all over it. It didn’t solve his problem, but it legitimized the shuttle’s erratic flight and possibly bought them a few more minutes before the Ripper would raise shields and start firing.

  “Power’s up!” Con called out just as the second tow field’s icon lit up on Philip’s command screen. He grabbed the shuttle again, but too hard, overcorrecting. It skewed to port—

  “Ripper’s ion cannons just went hot!” Martoni’s voice was tense, strident. “Shields still down.”

  Philip threw the full power of both tow fields against the shuttle, like two cue sticks pounding a billiard ball. The shuttle lurched, twisting, and for a very long horrible second he knew he’d missed, he knew he was too far way, too off course …

  Then, impact! Debris spewed from the top of the Ripper, chunks of metal and connecting lattice flying. He tore his gaze from his command screen and watched the destruction on the larger, more-detailed forward datascreen. Someone behind him whooped, someone else shouted. He’d hit the Ripper right between the two shuttle bays, just at the rumored vulnerable point where the ion-cannon array met the outer hull. One cannon twisted, toppling, discharging a blast directly into the Ripper.

  The Folly’s lasers fired, raking a gash down the side of the Farosian ship. More debris hurtled into space.