Chain-link. Philip knew exactly where she was— somewhere near the equipment-containment area, a section of decking where small objects that could come loose during transit were confined under a heavy metal netting. And she risked her life to tell him. Mather could kill her easily. Would kill her, if he knew who stood in the corridor outside the maintenance-shop door.
Slowly, Philip backed away. Mather had to wonder if someone was still in the corridor, someone was still waiting for the opportunity to rush in.
But there was another way into the maintenance shop. Jodey had given him the updated schematics before he left the Nowicki. Changes were all on Deck 5 in the cargo, shuttle, and maintenance areas, changes he’d confirmed on his walk-through with Welford, days ago. Changes a commercial hauler needed and a warship didn’t.
Changes that put a new access tunnel between the shuttle bays and the shop.
Philip prayed Mather didn’t know that.
Another ten feet brought him to the shuttle bays. Philip tapped in the code, holding his breath as the wide double doors slid open. If they creaked, rattled, or rumbled, he would scrap this goddamned bucket at Ferrin’s.
If they creaked, rattled, or rumbled, Rya was dead.
They slid open with a low rumble. Very low.
It took him less than two minutes to find the new access tunnel that connected the shuttle bay to the shop. It felt like two hours. He pulled back the crosshatched cover—not unlike the larger panel he suspected covered Rya—and tensed for the slightest metallic squeak. He refused to let himself consider that Rya might already be dead.
He’d lied to Sparks. This was a heartache he could not handle.
He rolled his shoulders, pushing out some of the tension, then slipped inside the opening, which was a good six inches shorter than he was. Grateful that the pipes and conduit were down only one side he pressed his back against the outer wall for support. He left his cane in the shuttle bay. All he needed was his walking arsenal, holstered, tucked, or stashed on his body.
And hope.
The narrow tunnel moved on an uphill slant after the first ten feet, light dimming as he left the shuttle bay behind. A small glow guided him ahead. His ears strained for sounds that Rya was still alive. He didn’t hear a Carver’s distinct whine, but then, knives were silent. And equally deadly.
He slowed as the tunnel’s grated cover came into view. The muted light filtering in to the shop from the open doorway was barely enough to let him make out the cover’s thin metal bars. He was surprised Mather hadn’t closed the doorway to the corridor. He suspected he couldn’t. He was more surprised Mather hadn’t activated the shop overhead lights. Either they were broken too or he felt he still needed somewhere to hide.
He sank down to his knees and peered cautiously through the grating at an angle. Rya’s unmoving form, trapped under the metal grid of a cargo net, was in the upper right corner. Philip’s jaw clenched, his throat tightened, and for a dangerous moment his vision blurred. He blinked, clearing his eyes.
Where in hell was Mather? He searched the harsh shadows. Yes. No. He was wrong. That wasn’t … Yes. It was.
His heart hammered. Not enough room to use a plasma star. Angle was wrong. It had to be the Carver. One clear shot. That’s all he wanted. Not answers, not information, not explanations. He didn’t care why Mather was there, who he worked for, what he intended to do. The man held Rya Bennton prisoner. That qualified him for a death sentence in Philip Guthrie’s world.
Mather crouched by a row of duro-hards, nervously watching the open doorway but with his Carver clearly trained on Rya. Taking no chances.
But life was all about taking chances, wasn’t it?
Philip poked the short barrel of his Carver-12 through the grating. A few inches to the left. That’s all he needed for a clear shot. A few short—
A grinding clank, a thump. Mather jerked up, twisting as Rya kicked the soles of her boots hard against the large grating, raising it a few inches, her right hand grasping for the small of her back. Her L7.
“You’re dead, Bennton,” Mather cried, lunging forward.
Philip fired, an invisible stream of laser energy racing across the wide expanse. Rya twisted on her side, L7 now in her hands, but Philip couldn’t tell if she got a shot off, couldn’t hear the L7’s low hum amid the high whines of two Carvers discharging: his and Mather’s.
Philip fired again, then it was Mather who was twisting, stumbling forward, falling. He crashed on top of the grating that covered Rya, his Carver spinning across the decking.
“Rya!” Philip’s voice was raw, harsh with wrenching emotion. He kicked the grating out, then shoved himself out of the tunnel, his back aching, his leg screaming in searing pain. None of that mattered. “Rya!”
He caught his hip on the edge of a worktable as he barreled across the shop decking. He stumbled briefly but kept going, shoving empty cargo crates out of his way.
“Guthrie?” Her voice was muffled, weak, but, God and stars above, she was alive.
He staggered to a halt, then dropped to his knees next to Mather’s body. He grabbed the man’s collar and wrenched him backward. There was no resistance. Mather was either dead or unconscious.
Philip didn’t care.
Rya lay on her stomach, the L7 in her left hand, the wide grating once again pinning her to the decking. He lifted one edge but couldn’t shove it off her. It jammed against a table and some duro-hards. He swore out loud. “That’s as high as it goes. Can you move, scoot over here to me?”
“Yeah,” she said, but her voice was thin. He didn’t want to think Mather’s shot had found its mark.
“I’m going to grab your arm and pull you. Ready?”
“Set. Go.” Her voice was a low whisper.
He yanked her out and up against him. The metal gridwork crashed back down to the decking. They fell backward in a tangle of arms and weapons, the barrel of the Norlack strapped across her back grazing his temple. Philip rolled on his side, taking her with him, holding her tightly against his body before releasing her. She was injured. He angled up on one painful elbow, gently sliding her down to the decking, laying her on her back. He needed to see her face, needed to see her eyes open, needed to hear her say—
“Fuck.” Her voice was breathy. Her eyes fluttered open. “I hate getting shot.”
“Where are you hit? How bad?”
“Right shoulder. Front’s just grazed. The back,” and she winced. “Hurts like a bitch. But I don’t think anything’s severed.”
He saw the blood now and the charred edges of her uniform. He ran trembling fingers down the side of her face. “There’s an intraship panel by the door. Stay here.”
“Why not? View’s great,” he heard her rasp as he shoved himself to his feet.
He stumbled to the panel and punched at the glowing green icon with the side of his fist. “Guthrie, Code Red! Full medical team. Maintenance shop, Deck Five. Now!” Then he hit the icons for the overhead lights. Only the back and the right side came on, the others probably casualties of the firefight between Mather and Rya. But it was enough for him to see that Burnaby Mather was dead, a large bloody stain on his left thigh and a smaller, more deadly hit to his left temple. The latter was Philip’s shot.
But he also more clearly saw the tight lines of pain around Rya’s mouth and the labored rise and fall of her chest.
His own chest tightened. He knelt beside her, pulled the L7 from her grasp, then folded her left hand inside both of his. Her skin was cold. Wide hazel eyes studied him under dark slanted brows.
“Rebel—”
“Guthrie!” Sparks, shouting his name, followed by thudding boot steps, then more shouts. Then Con and Sachi Holton and, seconds later, Corvang pushing his tall frame past them all, two med-techs in tow.
Philip rose, releasing Rya to the med-techs and their blinking, beeping instruments, their hushed voices, their concerned frowns. One of the techs tore Rya’s shirt at the shoulder, then ripped the lacy strap of her
undershirt. The other slapped pale-colored patches on her bare, bruised skin. She stared at Philip through the whole procedure, her gaze wavering only when she blinked.
Words he ached to say stuck in his throat.
An antigrav stretcher appeared from somewhere— the ship had medical supplies on each deck, but if you asked him now, he knew he couldn’t locate a one. He could only watch her face, her steady hazel gaze.
Only as they lifted her onto the stretcher did she turn her face away.
And only as they guided her stretcher under the glare of the doorway light did he see the lone tear running down her cheek.
Coward. He accepted his self-damnation without question. Yes.
He looked back into the maintenance shop. Con and Tramer had turned Mather’s body over. At the far end of the room, Sachi Holton was examining a small cage on a wide worktable, which also held a number of metal canisters and other things Philip couldn’t identify from this distance.
Someone pressed his cane into his hand. Sparks. “What happened here, Skipper?”
He met his chief engineer’s gaze evenly. “Failure and stupidity.” He didn’t even try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Both mine.”
He leaned on his cane and pushed for the corridor. It was going to be a long, painful walk back up to sick bay.
It was twenty minutes before Philip was allowed access to her in sick bay. And when he was, he found Rya sitting up on the edge of a diagnostic bed, palms pressed flat against the sheets, a thin pale-blue towel draped around her neck. The corner of a yellow pain patch was visible on the right side of her collarbone. Her shirt and undershirt were missing. Any other time, the thought of Rya half naked would put a broad grin on his face. And generate more interesting reactions in other parts of his anatomy.
Now, perversely, it angered him. “What in hell are you doing sitting up?”
“Where’s Welford?” she shot back.
“I tried telling Lieutenant Bennton she needs to rest,” came a male voice from an adjoining room behind Rya. Not Welford’s voice. One of the med-tech’s. Dugan. Philip read his name tag as the meddie walked in, one hand up, two large light-purple anti-infective sticky patches dangling from his fingertips. “She won’t listen.”
Philip looked back at Rya. “You’re confined—”
“Get Welford up here. We need to—” She jerked upright with a yelp. “Slagging mother of God, that stings!”
Dugan grinned at Philip from over Rya’s bare shoulder. “Triple dose, Lieutenant. Or else you’re not leaving my sick bay.”
“Sadist.”
Rya’s flinching had rearranged the towel, which would not under normal circumstances, Philip noted sagely, have done much to cover her anyway. Now one breast and peaked nipple were exposed. With a self-chastising sigh, he stepped closer and grabbed the edges of the towel with his free hand, bringing them together almost under her chin. He tried not to notice how that action revealed the sides of her breasts.
He glared down at her. She glared up at him.
“If you’ll excuse me, Admiral, Lieutenant, I, uh, have other patients to torture.” Dugan disappeared.
“You need to stay in sick bay,” Philip said, his voice softening.
“You need to get Welford up here. Holton and Sparks too. Mather was an Imperial mole. And one who liked to brag. There’s never been anything wrong with the Folly’s communications systems. Tage knows everything that’s happened on board this ship. And everything that’s happened on the Nowicki.”
It took a heartbeat or two for her words to register. Tage knows …
Philip released his grasp on her towel, then shoved his cane in her hand. He yanked at the zipper on his gray uniform shirt, stripping down to the black long-sleeved thermal he wore underneath. “Put this on,” he said gruffly, pulling the shirtsleeves over his wrists. “We’ll discuss it in the ready room.”
She was staring at him again with those clear hazel eyes. Defiantly. Challengingly. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to look away. He stood there, his shirt balled up in one hand, very aware of her knees pressed against his thighs, of the heat generated at their point of contact. Very aware of heat rising to his face. Slowly, she pulled the towel from around her neck, one tantalizing inch at a time, until only rich brown curls brushed against her bare shoulders and against the yellow and purple med-broches stuck haphazardly on her skin.
He felt his groin tighten in response, the heat on his face flashing through his body.
Somewhere, he was sure, paint peeled off the bulkheads.
She was shot, she was bruised, and she was, in Philip’s estimation, beyond beautiful. Incredibly desirable.
She plucked at the shirt in his fingers with a gentle tug, then another, before his brain kicked in, telling him what he wanted. She shoved the towel into his empty hand with a much firmer motion. At that point he forced himself to look away, because this could not go where he wanted it to, no matter how much he and his body wanted it to.
He had a war to wage and a fleet to cobble together. And Darius Tage knew far, far too much.
Rya leaned back against the ready-room chair, tugging Philip’s shirt more tightly around her. Fifteen minutes ago, when she pulled it on, it held the warmth of his body. That warmth was gone but it still smelled like him, like holster leather and soap and maleness. She tried to concentrate on that, not on the throbbing pain in her shoulder or the prickly sting of the slagging anti-infective patches stuck on her skin like grotesque pastel leeches.
She probably should be in sick bay, but God damn it, she was the one who’d unmasked Mather as an Imperial operative. This was her mission, her investigation. She would see it through to the end or to the point where Philip tossed her off his ship. Whichever came first.
And she’d take his shirt with her.
And Captain Folly too. The cat snored softly on the chair on her right. The deep scratch on his side that he endured bolting from his cage had been cleaned by the same Dugan the Sadist who’d treated her. Only a lot more gently, she was sure. The captain had claws.
She reached over and scratched his ears as Welford trudged in from the bridge, mouth pursed. He shoved his datapad across the table to where she and Philip sat, waiting for the XO’s preliminary analysis on the extent of Mather’s subterfuge. And sabotage.
“I took apart everything that’s happened at Commo’s station since we came on board. He’s been transmitting to a datalink here,” Welford leaned in front of Philip to jab his finger on the pad’s screen, “that in turns feeds everything to three different Imperial drones. Two in Calth, one in Baris. He’s been receiving information, probably orders as well. But what he received, I can’t tell you.”
“ Self-destructs?” Philip asked.
“The Empire is nothing if not consistent,” Welford answered.
Philip nodded.
“Even self-destructs leave behind something,” Rya said.
Welford huffed out a sigh. “With the equipment on Ferrin’s, I might be able to do more. But on this ship and in jump transit—hell. I can’t even send the code fragments to someone else for analysis.”
Which was why they couldn’t warn the Nowicki. One of the first things they’d discussed. Philip had a top-priority heavily encoded message ready to go the moment they cleared the exit gate. But that was almost two shipdays away.
A lot could happen out there in real time in two shipdays.
Sachi Holton stepped into the ready room from the corridor. Two of her short braids had unraveled. Dark curls hung down the left side of her face, the red hair clips she’d used now secured to the collar of her gray shirt. “Sparks confirmed those containers in the machine shop contained just enough disty-boom to set off another explosion. Probably, as Rya guessed, in the shop or the shuttle bays. Mather had a detonator almost finished on the table down there. Corvang found more parts when we tossed his cabin.”
“Any archivers or log feeds?” Rya asked.
Sachi shook her hea
d, making her braids wiggle. “Not that Corvang or I could find.”
Philip snorted softly. “You think he was recording his evil deeds for posterity?”
Rya slanted him a glance. “He was an operative in deep cover, out of contact for most of the time with his handlers. He couldn’t trust his memory to accurately relay what the Empire wanted to know. He had to use some kind of data-storage device like an archiver. Something easily concealed that could be encrypted.”
“He could have destroyed it as a precaution,” Welford said.
“I didn’t get the feeling down there in the machine shop that he thought today was his day to die.”
“I’ll look again,” Sachi offered. “There are a couple empty cabins down the corridor from his. He might have stashed things in there.”
Rya grasped the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. “I’ll go with you.”
Philip held her chair in place. “Sit, Lieutenant.”
“I know what I’m looking for. Sir,” she added because she knew her doing so irked him. And she couldn’t help herself. Must be the pain meds.
He didn’t let go of her chair. “Request denied. Now, sit!”
She sat, but she glared at him.
He glared back at her.
“I’ll go check those cabins.” Sachi ducked quickly out of the ready room.
“I can and will,” Philip said with a soft but insistent tone in his voice, his gaze unwavering, “beat you with my cane.”
Welford made a disgusted noise. “I might as well go help Holton.” He headed for the corridor. Or at least Rya thought he did. She was still staring at the marvelous blue eyes and wasn’t totally sure of what else was happening in the ready room.
Damned pain meds.
Philip turned away abruptly, dragging Welford’s datapad in front of him.
She refocused, pushing away her pain, the physical and the emotional.
“Even self-destructs leave behind something,” she reiterated, because she knew what bothered him about Welford’s report. The same thing that bothered her. The problem was larger than they thought. And their only source of information was dead.
Hope's Folly Page 27
