Authors: Linnea Sinclair
It solidified when he recognized in her soul a companion to his.
And Chaz wasn't?
Yes, Chaz was. But Chaz's path was different. He knew that long before he ever opened the discussion of divorce. He was important in Chaz Bergren's life for a period of time. But only a short period of time.
He had to go through what he did with Chaz in order to understand, to appreciate Rya Bennton. Chaz was a lesson—not without pain—that he had to learn.
But Rya—he now saw in himself one who could bring tremendous pain into Rya's life. As if killing her father weren't enough.
Con was right about one thing: a chunk of years separated them. Twenty-nine was mere memory to him. But twenty-nine was something she lived daily.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall wearily back against his chair. He'd made a promise to Captain Cory, to keep his only child safe. Maybe it was time for Philip Guthrie to realize that keeping Rya safe didn't also mean keeping her in his arms.
She'd be better off on the
Nowicki.
He'd give her a top recommendation, put her transfer through when they hit Ferrin's. She'd have to work second to Jodey's current security chief, but Philip would make sure Rya Bennton was on the first new ship the Alliance commissioned, with full rank and privileges. She'd do well. Hell, she was Cory's kid. She'd do spectacularly.
He would help her launch her career, make a name for herself. Make her father and “Uncle” Philip—he cringed—proud.
He turned toward his deskscreen and tapped up the databox with the transfer forms, wondering how something so good could make him feel so miserable.
Rya dragged the crust of bread through the remnants of the stew in her bowl as she pondered Sachi's question. “The most afraid I've been in my career? Hell, I don't know.” She glanced from Sachi, whose elbow was on the ready-room table, chin on her palm, to Con Welford, lounging back in his chair with Captain Folly—Captain Folly!—snoring in his lap. So much for her theory. Captain Folly hadn't sneezed once. He hadn't even twitched a whisker. He had, however, enjoyed a bowl of stew.
Now they were playing twenty questions, or rather she and Sachi were. Welford seemed content to listen. And seemed a bit less monstrous than he had a few hours before. Whatever had set him on edge had disappeared. “You both have been in Fleet longer than I have.”
“Yeah, but you're the one who has to go up against the crazies we only hear about when we hit dock,” Sachi said.
“We didn't get all that many crazies on Calth Nine. But SPS stationed me in Port Chalo on Talgarrath for three months. You're talking dirtsiders. All that wide open space and no limits. Lots of crazies. And lots of twilighters.” Port Chalo was a sanctuary port. Anybody and anything could land there, no questions asked.
That left it wide open for the illegal drug and arms trade.
Rya chewed the last of her bread. Sachi was still staring wide-eyed at her. Evidently the stories of her hostage-scenario exercises on station weren't enough. “Okay, there was an arms-smuggling ring ImpSec was tasked to take down a couple years ago. It was summer in Chalo. I remember how hot and sticky it was in my tac gear. Orders came down to set up a sting. They needed someone to pose as the money and someone to pose as the ammo-head who could verify the shipment.”
“Let me guess,” Sachi cut in. “You were the ammo-head.”
“Hey!” Rya held her hands outward in mock innocence. “So I know my weapons. Anyway, I knew we were in trouble when the runner insisted we go on board his freighter to make the deal. His territory, no easy exits, you know? My lieutenant—he was the money—made the excuses, but the runner had none of it. At the ramp we were ordered to dump clean—hand over our weapons. I had a low-end Mag-Five.” She shot an apologetic glance at Welford, remembering too late that's what he usually carried. “Sorry. I just don't think the weapon can … Well, never mind. So I gave them that and they found my L7, but I thought they would. It was when they were scanning me really closely that I began to get nervous. The Lou and I both carried zero-tracs—those are small pistols that read null on scanners, you know—and I had a clearknife in each boot.
“One of their security had a modified Norlack. Not as good as this one,” she patted the weapon on the seat next to her, “but an ugly weapon can kill you as dead as a pretty one.”
Sachi laughed. Welford only nodded.
“So the most scared I've ever been was probably in that cargo bay. It wasn't like my usual missions, where things happen quickly, you respond, it's over. This was something that unfolded slowly. About ten minutes in, the Lou and I knew we'd been burned. We knew our chances of getting out of there alive were rapidly disintegrating. I think waiting to die has to be the most frightening. I'd rather take a shot, point-blank, to the head. That's the way I always handled my—”
Rya stopped. Welford was no longer nodding. Sachi was staring.
She'd just reminded them there was an ImpSec operative in their midst.
“You're one scary woman,” Sachi said after a long moment. “But, hey, you're on our side. So how did you get out?”
Rya shrugged, then laughed softly. Maybe her story wasn't the best dinner conversation, but Sachi was still her friend. “The weapons they had to sell were real. They had a Norlack and a bunch of high-end Carvers but didn't seem worried the Lou and I had a case of hand cannons in reach. Val-Nine Punishers. Bulky things, you know. Powerful, but they can be complicated to fire—unless you know about the emergency kill-point release by the trigger. Most people, even lots of ammo-heads, don't know that. Lets you ratch up and fire like that.”
She raised her hand, flicking her thumb quickly over her index finger. “If it makes any difference,” and judging from the look of disapproval on Welford's face, it didn't, “they fired first.”
Later, sorting through the last of the personnel jackets Ferrin's had sent, she thought of something her father told her: most people in the Empire, civilians or Fleet, hadn't experienced the hard realities of war in over twenty years—longer than that in the secured inner stations and worlds of Aldan sector. They thought enemies never lied at the bargaining tables. They thought criminals and twilighters were simply misunderstood. There was a time for talk, but there was a time for action.
The Admirals’ Council had gone soft, he told her. It was all about talk now. About resolutions and committees. The council funded studies when they should be funding new weapons and better ships. They'd forgotten how to take action.
So she changed tracks her first year in the academy and signed on with ImpSec. She never wanted to forget how to take action.
Tage hadn't. He now chose his assassins from ImpSec's ranks. That almost made her regret—made her
ashamed
of—her career choice. Except those same skills Tage now had working for him, she offered to the Alliance. It made Welford's disapproving looks and Adney's suspicions worth it.
But it also made her realize she could never underestimate the opposition.
Rya passed Martoni and Corvang in the stairwell on Deck 3 on her way up to 2 Forward. She hadn't seen Philip since they crossed the C-6, more than seven hours ago. She was officially—or semi-officially, considering the situation—off duty. Maybe he was less busy. Maybe—
“Great shirt, Bennton!” Martoni was laughing.
“What?” She followed his gaze, which was centered on her chest. She knew why most men stared at her chest. This time, however, the reason was different.
“Looks like you and that cat traded uniforms,” Corvang said, his low voice holding his own growl of laughter.
It did. Her dark shirt was smeared with white fur. She brushed at it. “He kept me company in divisionals the past few hours.”
“Shedding, not sneezing, eh?” Martoni asked.
She'd just stepped past him. She turned. “What?” she said for the second time in as many minutes.
“Sneezing. Didn't you see him on Mather's console before we hit jump? Cat was sneezing and spitting all over poor Commo. Pissed Mather off. Welford had to grab him. The cat, not Commo. Thought you were there.”
Her mind raced. “Yes. Right.”
“Lieutenant Bennton, you know you're not supposed to be alone,” Corvang reminded her.
“Right,” she said again.
Martoni and Corvang trudged past her, heading down the stairs. Rya stood, unmoving, the scene playing over in her mind: Welford grasping the hissing cat by the neck. Philip ordering her to lock the cat in his quarters.
Because Captain Folly had been spitting—and sneezing—all over Burnaby Mather. The same Burnaby Mather who brought her water and who very clearly harbored a grudge against Philip Guthrie. Who so easily drew information out of her—a goddamned rookie, shit-for-brains, slag-headed security chief—about the firebomb. About disty-boom. About Captain Folly's ability to track down the chemical that was their lone lead to the enemy agent on board.
The same Burnaby Mather who denied ever seeing the cat sneeze. Good ol’ Commo.
Just doing what I can to make things right,
he said when he left her office in divisionals.
God. No.
Heart pounding, she raced up the stairs. She had to find Captain Folly before Mather did.
She slapped the palm pad at the main door to Philip's quarters, waited a few seconds to see if he answered, then tapped in her security override codes, hand shaking. “Guthrie!” she shouted as the door opened. No answer. The main salon was empty.
“Guthrie?” She sprinted to his bedroom. Empty but for a dark jacket thrown on the corner of his bed, white fur striping one corner. Folly had been here, but she didn't know how long ago. The jacket wasn't warm to the touch.
“Folly? Kitty-kitty?” She dropped to her knees, but the bed was on a platform. The cat couldn't fit under there.
“Folly!” Nothing in Philip's clothes closet—the others were locked. Nothing in his lav across the small hallway.
Back in the main salon again.
Think, Rya. Think like a cat.
She checked under the couch, checked the dining-area chairs. Fur. No Captain Folly.
The door to Philip's office was open. Surely if the cat was in there, he would have come to her call.
Or not. He could be sleeping, curled up under …
She dove for Philip's desk, pushing his chair back. No cat. She turned, the glow from his deskscreen catching her eye.
That and her name. For two, three seconds she stared. This was Philip's private deskscreen. The
admiral's
private deskscreen. She had no right to—
Oh, God. He was transferring her off the ship. Immediately. As soon as they made Ferrin's. Her heart plummeted, her throat tightening as disappointment and defeat threatened to choke her.
She pushed away from the desk. There was no time for that now.
To hell with you, Philip Guthrie.
Captain Folly needed her. And she needed to stop Burnaby Mather.
Dillon, at helm, turned when Rya trotted onto the bridge. Jasli was talking to Tramer over at weapons, though the console was dark. Philip's command chair was empty.
“Seen Commo?” she asked as lightly as she could. It occurred to her—her ImpSec training kicking in as she'd raced up the bridge stairs—that Mather might not be working alone. She had to assume he wasn't. ImpSec Rule Number One: trust no one. ImpSec Rule Number Two: trust no one.
She'd already violated that rule by seeing Mather as command staff and trusting him with the information about disty-boom and Captain Folly.
Stupid slag-head.
“You just missed him,” Dillon said. “He came by five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, well, I'm late.” Her growing annoyance at herself made her sound genuinely grumpy. “Guess he got tired of waiting. Did he say where he was going?”
“No. Sorry. You want to put a shout out on intra-ship?”
“It's not that important.” She did not want to warn Mather she was coming. “But if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him, okay?”
“You're not supposed to be wandering around the ship alone. Admiral's orders.”
“I wouldn't be alone if I could find Mather!” she called out over her shoulder. She hit the stairs, checked the corridor on Deck 2 Forward again quickly. “Folly? Kitty-kitty?”
No cat. No Commo.
Decks 3 and 4 were under restricted access. That didn't mean Mather wasn't there—he was command staff, he was permitted entry. He could have gone back to his cabin on Deck 4. Philip said all bridge and command staff were to bunk in on 1 and 2. She hadn't had time to retrieve her pillow and blanket yet, but Mather was commo and off duty since they cleared the gate. He'd had plenty of time—
—to move any disatone tylethelene. He wouldn't want it to be found in his quarters. He probably didn't know the cat would smell it anyway. Disty-boom traces stayed around a long time. Odorless, colorless, and damned hard to get rid of.
Unless you put it into another bomb. What did he say just before he left?
Providing someone doesn't blow us out of the space lanes before we get there. … There
was Ferrin's.
No, there wasn't a lot for a commo to do in jump.
Except build another bomb. And hunt down the cat who could expose him.
Mather wouldn't be in his quarters on Deck 4. He'd be in the maintenance shop on 5. Right where she'd startled him the other day. Right next to the shuttle bays. The vulnerable center of a Stryker-class heavy cruiser.
Philip Guthrie wasn't the only one who knew how to blow up a ship.
It had been a long, painful climb down with no working lifts, but Philip Guthrie was determined. He was not going to raise Sparks on intraship, pull the man out of engineering and up into his office. The admiral's office had the propensity to make people call him “sir.” He needed honesty from Sparks, not deference.
Still, trepidation mixed with relief when he eased down into one of the metal-framed chairs in Sparks's small office. It felt so damned good to sit down. He just wasn't sure he was going to like what Sparks had to say.
Not after Con's lecture. Losing Constantine's respect hurt more than Philip thought it would. The younger man made it clear he no longer trusted Philip's judgment.