Hope's Folly (49 page)

Philip ran up the dark stairs after her, using the railing to pull himself up each step. The pain in his leg wouldn't matter if he was dead. The pain in his heart— if he lost Rya—would never end.

She grabbed his arm, half-dragging him into the stairwell and under the green glow of the emergency overheads. The ship shimmied, lurching to port again. The Gritter, firing. There was still thirty, forty feet of corridor. One more shot could set it off, shearing away decks.

“Tell Dillon to start a shutdown!” He shoved her away.

She broke into a run, boots pounding, the light from her handbeam zigzagging through the corridor.

He limped quickly after her, praying Dillon didn't panic, praying he initiated the shutdown in the right sequence. Praying … just praying.

Suddenly the corridor lights flickered on brightly but, before his eyes could adjust, went out again, plunging him into darkness. A good sign or a ship in the throes of death? He didn't know.

He careened into engineering, raking his gaze over the forms silhouetted by console screens. Screens were on. That meant primary computers were on. The bridge was working. The bridge had to be working.

“Philip!”

He saw her next to the taller, ponytailed Dillon at a line of consoles on the left. “Off line yet?” he gasped out as he headed for them.

“Captain Welford needs a little more time,” Dillon answered.

“We don't have any more damned time. If that Gritter blows, it's taking this whole section with it.” He came to a halt at Dillon's console and realized Ensign Jasli was next to Rya. Intraship was definitely out.

“You just come from the bridge?” he asked her.

“Yes, sir—”

“Status!”

“Both P-75s are destroyed. The
Drey's
hit bad, but, sir, so are we. Deck Three Aft and the starboard shuttle bay.”

He'd felt that one. That was probably what sent him and Rya to their knees. But the patrol ships, gone. A small taste of victory. “What else?”

“Shields are down to sixty percent port, forty-three starboard. At least they were a few minutes ago. Captain Welford said that Gritter is our only hope.”

He wanted to ask about casualties, how many injured, how many dead. No time. “Dillon, let me at that program. There might be one more thing we can try.”

“A Taison loop?”

“You can do one?”

“Already started.”

He almost forgave the man for kissing Rya, right then and there. The loop was a temporary stabilization program that could regulate the pulses of energy surging through the Gritter, dovetailing one into the next. It would be one less thing jostling the feeds out of position. But it, too, would eventually fail as the energy surges piled up, coming faster than the loop could handle them.

But it could buy them twenty, thirty minutes. Maybe.

He nodded to Jasli. “Tell Captain Welford he has twenty minutes. Go!”

She bolted for the corridor.

“How did we lose power?” he asked Dillon.

“Jasli said Sparks did that. He's using the power from the lights, lifts, and intraship and rerouting it to the shields. Or they'd be gone.”

Miracle worker. “Stay on that program. If you see a rupture coming, shut down the Gritter, even if it's five minutes from now. I'm not going to help the Imperials by blowing a hole in our own hull.

“Rya.” Philip put his hand on her shoulder. “Bridge.”

It would be a long climb. But he wanted to be there if the
Folly
destroyed the
Drey.
And he had to be there if the Gritter failed and the
Drey
put that fatal shot into the
Folly

“Lean on me,” Rya said. They'd reached Deck 3, and she could tell Philip was in pain by his harsh breathing. And the occasional bitter epithet he said under his breath and thought she couldn't hear.

She heard them all. But the most important words were the ones said on Deck 6:
a man who loves you.
Her throat tightened even now as she replayed those words in her mind, hearing emotions roughen his voice.

“The Old Man will make it,” Philip said.

“You damned well better. I'm already picking out that tattoo parlor.”

He answered with a harsh laugh, but he let her put her arm around his waist.

At the stairwell for 2 Forward he stopped, pulling her back.

“Rya.” Her name was a low rumble in his chest and then she was against his chest, her back to the stairwell bulkhead, his mouth searing hers with a kiss she was sure would make the Gritter's detonation look like the weak flare of a match. She shoved the handbeam into her utility belt, then ran her hands up the hard planes of his back, feeling muscles bunched in pain, feeling the dampness of his shirt. She clung to him, kissing him with a blinding desperation. If the Gritter blew, if the
Drey's
torpedo found that last target, then this is where she wanted to be, in Philip's arms.

He pulled back, cupping her face with his hands. He brushed his thumb over her lips. “Okay, Mrs. Guthrie,” he said softly. “Now we can go on.”

Something bumped against her leg. She glanced down quickly, saw the white cat now greenish in the emergency lights.

“Captain Folly too,” Philip said as she picked up the cat, holding him against her chest. He butted her chin with his soft head.

The ship rumbled, lurching, voices from the bridge suddenly spilling down the stairs.

“This is it.” Philip's voice went tight. “We need to be on the bridge. Now.”

Fear and hope clashed somewhere in the middle of Rya's chest. She held Captain Folly more tightly against her and moved quickly up the final set of stairs, Philip just behind her.

“Shields down to twenty, sector four-seventeen!”

“Starboard side, incoming. Fire!”

“Helm, execute—”

The ship lurched. Rya stumbled against the bridge door. She felt Philip's hand on her back, then he lunged past her, heading for the command chair, staring at the forward screens.

She stared too, her breath catching. The Imperial Arrow-class destroyer looked massive, spiky with weapons jutting from aft and forward ports as it revolved slowly through the black starfield. Gaping holes charred its hull, debris spewing left and right. Entire sections of hull had no lights. Only a few were still lit on its narrow bridge, which rose amidships on a short column.

Con Welford turned as Philip's hand found his chair. Rya caught up with him and braced herself against the XO's console on the left. Con had a gash on his forehead, a thin line of blood trickling down his cheek.

She looked around quickly, saw Corvang, Sparks, Sachi. Others with their backs to her. She knew there were injuries, but she couldn't tell in the dim lighting who were at their posts and who were replacements.

“We've almost got her, Guthrie,” Con said. “I need one more good shot … Sparks!” Con jerked to his right.

“Gritter's powering up. But she's overloading fast. This could be the last one. It could take her out. It could blow us apart.”

Voices hushed on the bridge.

“Dillon has a Taison loop running,” Philip said. “But that's no guarantee.”

“Drey's
powering her ion cannons.” Martoni at weapons. Rya recognized his voice.

“It's us or them,” Philip said quietly. He held his arm out toward her. She lunged into his embrace, bundling the cat between them. He brushed her forehead with a kiss. “I love you, Rya.”

“And I love you, Philip,” she whispered against his neck. Then she raised her face and stared at the hulking Imperial destroyer on the forward screen.

“Admiral?” Con's face clearly held the desperation they all felt.

Philip nodded. “Fire.”

The ship shuddered, bucking. Philip's grip on Rya tightened. For three, four heartbeats there wasn't a sound on the bridge. Then a flash of light on the screen and a million jagged bolts of lightning seemed to race across the
Drey's
hull.

“Direct hit,” Martoni called out, voice shaking. “She's—”

The destroyer fractured, her bridge shearing off, sections of bulkhead wheeling away into the darkness.

“Gone,” Con said.

The
Padrin Drey
was gone.

“Sparks, disarm the Gritter!” Philip bellowed, turning away from Rya but not letting her go.

She realized she was shaking, adrenaline coursing through her body.

“Disarming,” Sparks called back. “Dillon's mirroring the program up here to my screens. He's on it, Skipper. Power surges are backing down. No ruptures yet. She's holding. She's holding. She's—”

Rya could see the older man's shoulders trembling, even in the dim lighting. He wiped one hand over his face, clearing his throat noisily. Was something wrong? The Gritter could still explode, take out engineering, kill dozens, strand the ship. Panic seized her for a moment, then—

“She's off line. Disarmed.” His voice cracked. “We'll make it, Skipper.”

She felt Philip shudder out a breath, then he straightened forcefully, as if drawing energy from his reserves. “Constantine, how far to the gate?”

“ Forty-five minutes, sir.”

“Sparks, get us moving. Martoni, keep an eye out for more bogies. They'll send someone after us once they realize the
Drey
is gone. But I sincerely doubt they're going to get anyone out here in the next forty-five minutes.”

“Aye, sir.”

Philip stepped forward, bringing her with him. She could feel his heart pounding, his grip on her still tight. He drew in a deep breath and, for a long moment, made sure everyone on the bridge felt his gaze.

“I could tell you all that you're magnificent, but that would be an understatement.” His voice was firm and clear, in spite of the pounding of his heart. “Your dedication and your courage will not be forgotten. I know we've suffered losses. I know we have repairs to do. Right now there will be no time for either celebrations or grieving. Those things will come. Your tears will be mine. So will your joys. But we have done the impossible, and that is something to be very, very proud of. And I am very, very proud of all of you.” He paused, turning slightly. “Now, Captain Welford—”

“Damage control is already working,” Con said.

“Sublights have a bit of a shimmy, but the jump-drives are fine,” Sparks called out.

“Now, Captain Welford, if I can have one more moment of the bridge's attention?”

“Sir?”

Philip plucked the cat from Rya's arms and handed him to Con, along with his cane.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have one bit of good news to share. Sub-Lieutenant Bennton is no longer just your
chief of security.” He drew her around, hands on her shoulders. Rya felt heat rising rapidly to her face, her heart hammering in her chest. She dipped her chin, but he brought her face back up with the slight pressure of two fingers.

“She's also now my wife. Rya Bennton Guthrie. You've all not only helped me do the impossible but you've brought the most incredible woman into my life. And for that, I'm very grateful.”

And with those words, her long-lost always-forever dream hero kissed her. Right in front of Con Welford and everybody.

Philip didn't know what was the more beautiful sight framed by the wide viewports of the Officers’ Club on Ferrin's Station:
Hope's Folly,
tethered to the end of the shipyard's long repair dock, the starfield twinkling around her, or his wife, Rya, across the table from him in the most incredible dark-green dress that put golden shimmers in her hazel eyes and clung oh-so-enticingly to the curves of her body. When she was standing. Right now she was sitting, so he couldn't see all the curves, but even so, yes, she was definitely the more beautiful sight.

She took a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.

“So, how's our second week of dating going so far?” he asked. Most people dated first, then got married, but that wasn't how their life had worked out. Marrying her had been an impulsive move. But it was a move he wanted to be permanent.

So did Rya. The fact that she now had her M-R-S degree, as she called it, was no guarantee of permanency. A real marriage took work. Commitment. Patience and respect.