Hope's Folly (23 page)

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.”

“If the emperor dies, there'll be a challenge, probably from some of the baronies in Aldan.” Philip could think of three or four other “old guard” types who were loyal to Prew and less so to Tage.

“Prew's body is healthy. It's his mind that's gone. Tage can be the emperor's voice for decades yet.”

Philip scrubbed his hands over his face, the undeniable truth in Sparks's words grating. The Alliance was not on a firm foundation and faced an enemy that— even with the depletion of Fleet—was certainly more well organized and well financed.

“Chaz sounded good,” Sparks said.

Philip gave himself a mental shake at the engineer's abrupt change of subject, but that was also typical Sparks. His conversations, like his mind, jumped back and forth in odd directions.

“Talked to her ten days or so ago,” Sparks went on. “Told me how you damned near crash-landed your pinnace in Sullivan's bay. Told me she's happy.”

“Sullivan's good for her,” Philip admitted, still surprised that he actually meant it. “And he can keep her a lot safer than I can.” Not that his ex-wife needed anyone to keep her safe. She'd excelled in his combat-training classes and was top of her class in hand-to-hand. She also wielded a mean Stinger and was no stranger to a modified Norlack.

“You were good for her in your own way.”

Philip slanted a glance at the older man. Sparks had been Chaz's chief engineer and probably had spent almost as much time with her as Philip had, given that his and Chaz's careers had kept them apart for lengths at a time. “I tried,” Philip said: “But I failed her in a lot of ways. It was more my fault than hers. I could blame my family”—choosing a military career against his parents’ expectations had made him try harder, after marrying Chaz, to fit in with the wealthy, entrepreneurial Guthries—“but the reality is, I'm more hardwired for duty than relationships.”

Losing Chaz had cemented that belief.

Sparks was frowning at his analyzer. “This—”

The overhead lights flickered. Philip tensed, one hand automatically grasping the Carver at his hip.

“—is just us, testing,” Sparks continued. He swiveled around in his chair and slapped at his console. “That's a go, Kagdan. Let's not scare the locals any more tonight. Secure and shut down.”

“Got it, Sparks,” said a disembodied female voice through the console speaker.

Philip grabbed his cane, then shoved himself to his feet. “We need to get to Ferrin's.”

“There are a few tricks I haven't tried yet. I'll give them a go tomorrow,” Sparks promised.

Belatedly, Philip remembered—as he stripped off his clothes, his body craving sleep—that the doors to his quarters and his office no longer locked.

“You're on guard duty,” he told the cat nestled at the foot of his bed, one white paw curled over his face in protest of the cabin lights.

Philip put the L7 on his nightstand. And the Carver, safety off, inside the nightstand drawer. As he and Sparks had agreed, he didn't feel the problem was a stowaway. But the thought of moles made him sleep very lightly.

So he was aware two hours later when the cat jumped off the bed and headed for his cabin's main room. That didn't bother him, until he heard footsteps that were distinctly uncatlike.

His breath hitched, then slowed as he segued into defense mode. Someone besides the cat was in his quarters.

He slipped his legs soundlessly from under the covers, his bare feet finding the lightweight drawstring pants he'd left on the floor. One hand pulled the pants to his waist, the other palmed the L7. Whoever this was, it would be close range. A stunner would do.

Plus, he wanted whoever this was alive and talking.

He grabbed his cane—as much for defense as for balance—then stood by his bedroom's open doorway, listening. The short hallway was dark, but his eyes didn't need to adjust. He'd awakened in darkness. And he'd trained in low-light and night combat for years.

He'd even written a manual on the subject.

The noises he thought he heard stopped. He slowed his breath. Could he have been wrong? He wasn't used to sleeping with a domestic pet. He could have misinterpreted the cat's explorations—

No, definitely a footfall. Soft, measured. Had he not written a manual on the subject, he might have missed it.

Someone was well trained. But so was he. Just as softly, he moved into his quarters’ short hallway, watching for shifting shadows. He heard only one person. He couldn't discount there could be another standing as motionless as he had been seconds before.

It was a common ploy—one agent to distract, one to act. He didn't believe for a moment the Farosians had given up on kidnapping him. Or killing him. They wanted Sheldon Blaine's freedom badly, and his body was a ticket they could use to ensure that.

He also believed they'd make an attempt before the
Folly
left the shipyards. Logistically, it was easier than attacking the ship in transit. And they probably saw an injured admiral as an easy target.

They were about to learn just how wrong they were.

Noises moved, nothing much more than a shifting of breath, an infinitesimal displacement of air. The cat was the cause of one. Something larger was the other. Philip felt more than saw his intruder near the small galley to his left. But he'd have to swing around the corner of the hallway wall to get a position, and that would mean leaving his back exposed.

He stood silently a few more heartbeats, straining to discern if anyone was waiting to his right—or if that same someone might be behind him when he moved. Nothing. Not that that was a guarantee.

He swung out, muscles tensed, stunner trained on his armed intruder—

“Philip!”

—and almost shot Rya the Rebel.

“Rya? What in hell's fat ass … ?” Thumbing the safety back on the stunner, he stepped toward her. “Lights on, galley.” The overhead flickered, then glowed, and he could clearly see that what he'd taken for a weapon in her right hand was a small dish. In her other was a cup, likely filled with cream or milk, because the cat was on the counter behind her, waiting, tail thumping softly but insistently.

“Rya,” he repeated, because he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't involve a healthy dose of epithets. His heart still raced, his trigger finger still itched, and with all his senses on overload he was far too aware that he was damned near naked. And that she was far too close to him, her mouth parted in surprise.

Or as if waiting for a kiss …

Power down, Guthrie.

She tilted her face slightly, which only made the whole kiss scenario flare in his mind and his blood heat again. “You have a cat?”

He tore his gaze from the softness of her mouth and glanced at the beast. “Came with the ship. Lives here because—Rya, what are you doing in my quarters?” He blurted the last part out, because all this inane talk about the cat was just that: inane. And because for reasons he didn't want to explore, the incident reminded him of when Chaz had slipped into his small cabin on the
Karn
months back, awakening him to ask for his help. “You can't be here for the reason I'd like you to be,” he'd quipped to his ex-wife.

He'd almost said that to Rya.

Her attention was on the milk she poured for the cat. “I'm security, sir. You disabled the lock. We've had serious security breaches and a few attempts on your life. It seemed advisable.”

Philip grunted. “Would have been nice for Commander Adney to inform me so I didn't end up shooting—” Philip stopped again. Rya was scratching the cat's head, and the beast was actually purring. Purring! And leaning into her hand, eyes half closed.

“Martoni and Commander Adney are still working out formal shift schedules,” Rya said, obviously unaware she risked life and limb by touching the beast. She glanced briefly over at him, almost shyly, he thought. Except
shy
wasn't an adjective that came to mind when he thought of Rya the Rebel. “I didn't mean to wake you. I'm usually very good at being silent. I was just surprised by your cat.”

“He's not my cat,” Philip said. “I'm a light sleeper, especially considering current circumstances.”

“Yes, sir. That's why I'm here, sir. You could close your bedroom door if my presence disturbs you.”

A lot of “sirs” from someone who had a noticeable lack of them a few hours before.

“Your presence … ” He did not want Rya here, closed door or not. “I don't need a bodyguard.”

“Without a lockable door, yes, you do.”

“Are you telling me you and Adney found proof we
have stowaways?” He knew they hadn't. He would have been notified long before now if they had.

“No, but—”

“Get some sleep, Lieutenant.” He hefted the small L7 as a reminder he wasn't helpless, then used it to point toward the corridor. “And not here.”

Rya glared at him. He stepped toward her and straightened because that let him glare down at her. The extra height didn't help, nor did it get her moving for the door. But the movement did put him that much closer to her, and that was a bad, bad idea. A stray curl had escaped from under the edge of her beret and dangled across one eyebrow. Had he not been holding—
clutching
—the L7, he would already be reaching to brush it away, reaching to touch her face …

Cap'n Cory is really going to kick my ass.

“Out, Rya. Now.” His voice was harsher than he wanted it to be, but it did the trick. Something flared in her eyes, then she turned.

“I'll be in your office,” she said.

That would put two closed doors between them. He would have to live with that. “That's acceptable.”

She disappeared into the dark opening, and seconds later he heard the low squeak of his office chair. He crossed his small living room, then palmed the door to the office shut.

He was at his own bedroom door when he heard the muted whoosh of his office door opening in direct defiance. So he climbed into bed, damning Rya Bennton, damning his malfunctioning body and perversely fully functioning libido, damning the Farosians, the Imperials, Tage, oranges, and cats. And knew there was no way he was going to get to sleep wearing those damned drawstring pants.

Which meant there'd be hell to pay tomorrow.

IMPERIAL SECURITY BULLETIN

72453-X3TEncryption Level Aldan 1/Top Secret

Immediate Action Required:

Reports from Seth operatives confirm rebel leader and Imperial traitor Philip Guthrie is in possession of the former Imperial ship
Alric Stockwell
. Command Prime urges the utilization of the ship's state of disrepair to initiate sabotage that will delay Guthrie at Seth, pending our strike team's arrival. All ship movements must be reported to Command Prime immediately. This bulletin self-destructs in thirty seconds.

“Black tea,” Philip called from the bedroom, in answer to Rya's question about his morning beverage of choice. “If you can coax some from the damned unit.” She could, because she'd already made one for herself and didn't know whether it was the unit's rhythmic thumping that had awakened Philip or if he was simply an early riser. And it was early—0545—but he was awake, which meant she could officially be off her unofficial duty of guarding Philip. With luck she'd catch a few hours’ sleep before she was back on duty. On her official duty. Which, she felt sure, would soon include watching after Philip. As soon as Adney and Martoni finalized duty schedules …

She blinked. Her mind was looping. It had been a while since she'd worked a double shift. Stifling a yawn, she retrieved the cup of hot tea from the dispenser and was putting it on the counter when Philip appeared around the corner of the short hallway to his bedroom. He was half dressed, his hair damp and mussed, his gray uniform shirt hanging open, the zipper pull dangling at the halfway point. A frown creased his forehead, lessening when he reached for the tea.

“Mine?”

“Yours.”
All yours,
she amended mentally, then chastised herself.
It's just a crush. It'll fade over time.

He took a sip of his tea, eyeing her from over the rim of the cup.