Free Hope's Folly by Linnea Sinclair Page A

essentially functioning as a civilian ship, so we'll have minimal weapons until we get there. I'm going to cadge all the favors I can with planetary defenses. A couple of P-40s would help. A P-75 would be outstanding. But we can't count on that.”
    Martoni saw her, and because he did so did Guthrie, turning slightly as the commander's gaze flicked upward.
    Cut a few inches off at the ankles, Rya. And lose thirty pounds.
    Shut the hell up.
    Something flashed through Guthrie's blue eyes that she couldn't identify.
    “Subbie.”
    She nodded. “Present and accounted for, sir.” She quirked her mouth into a smile.
    He turned away.
    Her heart broke for reasons she couldn't define.
    “Questions?” he asked.
    There were many. She waited while he fielded them, watched as he gave thoughtful contemplation to each one as if the questioner were a lord of some ministry and not a still-wet-behind-the-ears ensign looking for fame and glory fighting for the Alliance.
    Finally he stood and, using the seat backs in place of the cane he'd left behind on Kirro, headed stiffly toward his “command center,” as he jokingly referred to the open decking between the shuttle's airlock and the galley.
    Rya strode in front of him, hand on her Stinger, watching everyone else's hands, occasionally committing faces to memory. She was back in ImpSec mode. Admiral Guthrie was her charge, her assignment, not her long-lost always-forever dream hero.
    A privacy curtain imprinted with the shuttle company's star-and-moon logo separated the front section of the shuttle—bridge and galley—from the passenger cabin. As Martoni drew it closed behind them, voices in the cabin hushed. They'd been in transit for almost two hours. Adrenaline was winding down. Exhaustion was setting in.
    Guthrie braced himself against the bulkhead, then slid down to the decking, his right leg out stiffly. The determined, almost heroic mien he'd worn in the passenger cabin shifted to humanly tired. He closed his eyes.
    She holstered her Stinger and remained standing, uncertain and extraneous. Then her training kicked in. “Let me get you another short trank, sir. It'll help with the pain.”
    Those magnificent blue eyes opened. “Take a load off, Subbie. Sit.”
    Oddly, being in close proximity to him was the last thing she wanted right now. “Tea? Something to eat? When's the last time you ate, sir?”
    “Right before Bralford dumped me on Kirro. Four or so hours ago. Sit.”
    “Sir—”
    “We need to talk about your father.”
    “I'm not one to fall apart. It won't happen again.”
    “Were you paying attention in there when I talked about the Folly?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Tell me why you want to serve on that ship, Lieutenant Bennton.”
    She assumed it would be Commander Adney asking that question. She had her answer prepared: “Because the Empire, under Darius Tage's direction, has become corrupt and dangerous. With the dissolution of the Admirals’ Council, our liberties and our lives are at risk. The Alliance is our only hope of staving off disaster.”
    He studied her for a moment. She cringed internally. Maybe she'd prepared too well. Her answer sounded rote, even to her ears. But she knew they'd be culling the daredevils, the thrill seekers, the misguided heroes. She didn't want to come across like that.
    “Your life is at risk fighting for the Alliance,” he said finally.
    “I'm aware of that, sir.”
    “We're underfunded, understaffed. You'll be serving— quite possibly fighting—under conditions you've never faced before. Being a rebel is not the glamour and glory the vids make it out to be.”
    “I'm aware of that too, sir.”
    “The danger doesn't concern you?”
    “Danger concerns any good officer. But I'm ImpSec, sir. Special Protection Service.”
    “Polite, professional, and prepared to kill?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He nodded slowly. “And if I put you in the same room with the man responsible for the death of your father and handed you a