Hope's Folly (46 page)

“Someplace easy to get to but not on the weapons console,” Philip said.

Sparks ran a hand over his wide face. “Skipper, we've got no scanners, no sensors. Even if that Gritter is working, we can't target anything. And we're hitting that gate exit in less than two hours.”

“Get those scanners and sensors up. I don't care how you do it. Forget lights, intraship, lifts.” He plucked the handbeam off a nearby console and gave it to her. “Rya and I, and any other ammo-heads I can find, will head down to Six and take a look at that Gritter.”

But first he had to stop in his quarters.

He tucked his hand in hers and pulled her out of the stairwell when they hit Deck 2.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Atoning for my sins.”

He hit the palm pad on the door and led her inside the darkened main salon. The light from her beam swept across the decking. “I'm a complete and total idiot. Of course, that's probably no news to you,” he said to her. “Or you,” he told the cat, sprawled on his galley counter, the emergency overheads turning the white parts of his fur green. “But this ship is not safe. No place is really safe, especially not with the Alliance so new. And Tage so intent on destroying us. And so, knowing that, what do I do? I let you loose on this ship without a means to defend yourself.”

The puzzlement on her face changed to triumph. “I have a mean bite,” she said.

“Yes, but I'm the only one you're allowed to use it on.” He headed for the bedroom, Rya still in tow. She played the beam around the room. Green lights glowed along the edge of the decking. He tapped in the code on his locked closet, reading off the numbers as he did so.

“Got it?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Repeat it back to me.”

She did without hesitation.

“One error corrected,” he said. He released her hand to pull out her weapons belt, Carver, and L7. Her clothes he tossed on the bed, along with her boot knife. He found her handbeam and turned it on, setting it on its side on the top shelf of the closet. A second cone of light cut through the room.

When he turned, she'd put her beam down on his bed and was strapping on her holster. The L7 had already disappeared down the back of her pants. He envied its view. She had a terrific ass.

She picked up the knife and bent over, boot on the edge of the bed as she secured it under her pant leg. Left, inside.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I put you at risk. I never, ever meant to do that.”

“And I shouldn't have tried to trank you,” she answered. “But I can't … ” and she hesitated. “I told you. I won't lose you. Not that way.”

He heard the pain and fear in her voice clearly. He reached for her face, cupping her cheek with his hand. “You're not going to lose me, beautiful.” He wished the cabin had more light, because he wanted desperately to read something in her eyes, her face. And he couldn't. And he desperately wanted to tell her what was in his heart. And he couldn't. There was no time.

So he drew her into his arms and kissed her, hoping she understood. And praying to God and stars above for just a little more time.

They ran into Ensign Jasli in the forward stairwell between Decks 3 and 4. Rya was ahead of him, Carver in one hand, beam in the other. He was, by necessity, bringing up the rear. It wasn't a position he usually took, but the view was definite compensation.

“Dillon said he and Captain Welford must have missed one of Mather's sabotage programs,” he heard Jasli say. “He said the pattern is familiar.” She raised the datapad in her hand. “I have a copy. Sparks and Captain Welford should be able to break it down.”

“Go, Ensign.” There wasn't much time. “Good work,” he called after her.

“Thank you, sir!” floated back down over the hammering of her boots.

“The ghost of Burnaby Mather?” Rya moved ahead.

“Or the specter of ittle-doos. But to be fair”—and, damn, if going down these stairs was this painful, how in hell was he going to get back up?—“we've all been working on far too many problems with far too little time and resources.” He saw her slow. “Don't wait for me. See what ammo-heads Dillon can spare from engineering. I'll catch up with you on Six.”

“Philip—”

“Go!” He waved his handbeam at her.

She clambered down the stairs, curls bouncing.

He hoped to hell Dillon had some ammo-heads he could spare. It had been a long time since Philip had had to hook up a weapon into a ship's systems. His specialty was hand-held weapons like Val-9s, Norlacks, and Surgers. He didn't know if he could rig a Gritter in the time they had.

He didn't know if he had much of a choice.

When he reached Deck 6, Rya was waiting, two men by her side. He was surprised to see Martoni but more surprised to see Dillon, who was tapping something into a small hand-held. He knew how much Sparks valued Dillon and hoped the fact that this was the admiral's project hadn't pulled Dillon away from what needed to be done in engineering.

“Sparks can spare you?” Philip asked, leaning a little more heavily on his cane than he wanted to. It made him feel older, weaker, and that was something his ego didn't like dwelling on around Rya.

“Kagdan's handling everything,” Dillon answered. “She's almost as much of a miracle worker as Sparks.”

Miracle workers were good. A flock of angels would come in handy right about now.

“Didn't know you were an ammo-head, Martoni,” Philip said as they proceeded down the corridor.

The younger man cleared his throat. “I, uh, had an aunt who had a freighter business, sir. Operated out of Dock Five. During school breaks, I spent lots of time … That is, I got to know Gritters pretty well. Then my parents divorced and after that we lost touch with that side of the family. It never appeared on my transcripts or my jacket. Fleet wouldn't have approved. Sir.”

He heard Rya snort softly.

“This admiral approves, Mr. Martoni.”

“Thank you, sir. It's a relief to know that.”

“Here,” Rya said, training her handbeam on an open doorway.

Philip followed them in, watched in silence as Martoni and Dillon inspected the housing and then removed a side panel. Definitely a Gritter, and one helluva nice unit too.

But there was one huge problem, and he saw it just as Dillon, squatting next to the unit, spoke out: “It's not hooked up yet. It needs to be installed to the weapons system, calibrated and tested.”

In under two hours.

Rya was behind Dillon, holding her handbeam over the engineer's dark head. Philip tapped her leg with the edge of his cane. “Scoot over, Rebel. Let me take a look.”

Dillon was right. The unit was brand-new. A gift from the gods, perhaps, but unwrapping this present could take more time than they had.

“ Hot-patch it in,” he said finally. He could do one in fifteen minutes. Ten, if pressed and he had the right tools.

Dillon frowned up at him. “Sir, that's—”

“Risky? Damned right it's risky.” A hot patch was dangerous, dirty, and—if it failed—could blow out a huge chunk of bulkheading. Right amidships, aft. Right next to engineering. Sparks had more to worry about than an Imperial torpedo.

“Give me another option, Mr. Dillon.”

“I might be able to work her through the starboard laser banks, trick the system into accepting her.”

He studied the unit again. Possible … “But we'd lose starboard lasers.”

“Yes, sir, we would.”

Helluva choice: hole in his ship's hull or half of her meager defenses dead. And they were still standing in the dark. That meant sensors and scanners were also down.

Tage shouldn't have bothered sending a strike force to stop the
Folly.
The ship was going to fall apart of its own accord as soon as it cleared the gate.

“Disconnect starboard lasers and run the Gritter through there. You have forty-five minutes, Mr. Dillon. If we can't get her functional by that time, I'm hot-patching her in.”

“Understand, sir.” Dillon unhooked the utility belt and put it on the floor next to him, then pushed up his gray coverall sleeves.

Philip lowered himself to the decking next to Dillon with an ungraceful thud. “Martoni, aim that beam over here.” He rolled up his sleeves as he spoke. “Rya, scour those tool lockers. Bring me everything you find.”

He had no idea if there'd be anything useful. But his words to Jodey Bralford back on the
Nowicki
were
now a constant in his mind:
beggars—rebels, in this case—can't be choosers.
If he was lucky, he just might invent the first ittle-doo that actually did. And get to live long enough to take his new wife to dinner.

He'd happily provide her with a fork and a supply of peas.

Rifling through storage lockers in the dark took Rya back to one of the earlier raids she'd worked as a novice ImpSec agent. The freighter's captain had deliberately blown the power core, hoping to buy some time, to slow down the seizure of his ship. But very few things slowed down Lieutenant Kat “Kick Down the Door” Andrico. Rya had learned a lot from the woman, including don't assume, don't overlook, and don't second-guess. And deal with what you have, which right now was no lights, no time, and … No, she couldn't say no hope.

She didn't want to believe that. For all its awkward and uncertain beginnings, the
Folly
and her crew were coming solidly together. There had to be some divine intervention that put Martoni, Dillon, and the Gritter on the same ship. And Sparks and Welford. Their talents meshed. Where one was weak, the other was strong.

And Philip. She'd never known of any other admiral to be on the decking, shirtsleeves pushed up, sweating and swearing like some crusty rim-station dockhand. No mere pretty boy, her pretty boy.

Her … but, oh, there was that H-word, and, oh, how it frightened her. It could mean far too much if she let it. That was where her hope died, in spite of that fact he'd called her “beautiful.”

She'd also called him a slag-headed bastard. It didn't mean she really felt that way.

Most of the time.

She put the next tray of components she found on the decking between Philip and Dillon, holding her handbeam over it. Martoni was one deck up in engineering, finishing the disconnect of the starboard laser banks.

“Ah, Dillon, look at this!” Philip sounded gleeful as he plucked a large square something from the tray that was all wires and crystal parts.

Dillon took it from Philip, held it up in the light. “Totally apex! Uh, sir.”

Rya made a mental note to introduce Dillon to Lyza, if Matt was bored with her by then. Or, more likely, if Lyza was bored with Matt.

Philip laughed. “That just saved us fifteen minutes of aggravation.”

But would it be enough? They were a little more than an hour from gate exit.

Boot steps in the corridor had her fingers grasping her Carver, but it was Martoni, returning.

“Done,” he said, meaning the starboard laser banks.

“Good. Cory, give me a hand with this.” Dillon waved him over. “Look what Rya found.”

Somewhere in the process of installing the Gritter, Martoni became Cory, Dillon was Alek, and she was no longer Bennton but Rya. Except for Philip, who was still “sir.” The fact that Martoni shared a name with her father didn't bother her. If anything, she clung to it as a positive omen. If Cap'n Cory were here, he'd definitely be in the thick of things, helping.

Martoni and Dillon moved to a panel on the bulkhead and began what seemed to be a delicate process of attaching whatever it was she'd found. Philip was still on his back, knees bent, next to the Gritter's main power unit. He angled up on his elbows. “Over here.”

She squatted down next to him and directed her beam where she thought he wanted it.

His hand snaked around her neck and, the next thing she knew, she was against his chest and he was kissing her. She almost dropped the handbeam as she returned his kiss, matching the passion and desperation she could feel in the pressure of his fingers at the nape of her neck, his lips on hers.

He pulled back. “It's not like I have time to waste,” he said, his voice deep, rasping, “but that was not time wasted.”

“We'll make it.” She wasn't sure she believed that, but she had to say it.

He studied her for a heartbeat longer with those magnificent blue eyes, sending her pulse racing. Then Dillon called out, “Admiral Guthrie?”

He released his hold on her with obvious reluctance. “What do you have?”

“Your oranges.”

“What?”

Rya straightened, surprised.

“Well, not quite,” Dillon continued. “What I am seeing and feeling on a section of this access panel is evidence of corrosion. There's a secondary cargo hold above us. Regular cargo, not plated with anti-corrosives for perishables. The fruit may be gone but the oils, the acids, never left. They're part of the bulk-heading wherever the previous owner stored fruit, because a Stryker normally doesn't have that kind of anti-corrosive plating.”

Philip barked out a short laugh. “Does it affect the Gritter?”

“Not in the least.”

One mystery solved, a dozen problems to go. Warmed by Philip's kiss and laughter, Rya returned to pilfering lockers, running parts and tools back and forth, and adjusting handbeams.