Darklight Pirates

“Everything is set for the--”

“Be quiet!” Chief Operations Officer Weir snapped at the senior officer. Sometimes he thought Aaron Riddle didn’t have enough sense to find his own ass with both hands and GPS coordinates. He looked around to see if anyone had overheard. The bureaucrats hurrying about the expansive office trying to look busy took no interest in them. If anything, they pointedly looked away, as if they hadn’t ever seen the panoramic images slowly marching along the walls. Some of the more senior officers were clearly nervous. Others pretended they weren’t bothered by the rumors. Weir knew they were juniors with no idea anything out of the ordinary was about to happen, but they still felt the tension.

Weir approved of the confusion. He wanted them to fear him if they couldn’t respect him. The planets only knew too few of them showed any signs of respect when addressing him. Anger built when he compared that with how they worshipped Donal Tomlins, as if the man had anything important to offer them. He spent all his time hooked into the neural net and fiddling with the main computer, pretending to run the country when all he accomplished was maintaining the status quo. No progress. Burran was caught in mediocrity thanks to him. Malignant mediocrity that was about to change.

“I need to tell you something important. Now,” insisted Riddle so vehemently that the medals on his chest bounced and clinked together. He pulled himself up to his full height and only came to Weir’s chin. Short men puffed themselves up, trying to appear important rather than doing important things. The Planetary Guard Commander was no different. Weir tried not to sneer at any officer wearing a full-dress uniform for no reason other than to impress. It took more than hunks of metal and a few flashing LED ribbons for that.

“In here.” Weir steered the officer into a small conference room. He wished there was time to sweep it for spy equipment, but events moved too swiftly. His security team, loyal as they were, would ask unnecessary questions. He wanted as few to know what he planned as possible. A quick pass of his hand opaqued the glass walls and imprisoned them inside a black cube.

He did not invite Riddle to sit as he sank into a chair. For a man who fancied himself a stalwart warrior, Riddle showed nothing but anxiety no different from the bureaucrats in the outer office. A man in command should demonstrate more fortitude. His ordinarily pallid face flushed all the way to his receding hairline, and his blue eyes blazed.

“They just Dropped. The Shillelagh is preparing to orbit now.”

“What did Sorrel say?”

“He reported that Tomlins is dead, gunned down by one of his trusted crewmembers.”

“What of the boy? What of Cletus?” Weir saw the cloud come over Riddle. He had expected to be promoted to the Commander in Chief Armed Forces when the old bitch holding that post finally had the good grace to die and had been shocked when Cletus assumed the position, jumping a dozen officers with greater seniority. Weir knew Riddle had helped the former Commander in Chief Armed Forces along her way to the lovely state funeral with a bit of sabotage on her private jet. It came as no surprise that Riddle was such a willing helper in deposing Donal Tomlins since the Programmer General’s son was part of the betrayal. Once he plugged into the Blarney Stone as Programmer General taking Donal’s place, Weir knew his power would be complete. All he had to do was dangle the military command in front of Riddle so he would do anything asked of him. So far, he had done well, but then playing off his thwarted ambition was simple. There hadn’t even been need to use his part in the former Commander in Chief Armed Forces’s assassination as blackmail.

“Sorrel failed to report his death. There was an observer from Far Kingdom aboard, too. A child from the way he described her.”

“Supreme Leader wouldn’t send a child, not even one of his own. Especially not one of his own. What became of the observer?”

Riddle shook his head and drew his lips into a thin line. The flush died in his cheeks, but the fanatical glow remained in his eyes.

“No word there, either. But Tomlins is dead. Sorrel is sure of that.”

Weir shifted his weight in the chair. It failed to adapt to his bulk. He studied the man who commanded the Burran Low Force and decided Riddle still offered some utility. Sorrel, though, presented a different problem.

“How is Tomlins’ death to be explained? I assume Sorrel bulled his way in and shot him with a lasepistol.”

“A crewman with a laserifle, he said.” Riddle stood a little straighter, as if reporting to his superior. Weir liked that because it was true. Letting Riddle know his place immediately eliminated a problem in his staff. His new staff as Programmer General.

Weir threw up his hands in disgust.

“There will be too many questions asked about how that happened.”

“Some of the crew went space crazy. It happens,” Riddle said. “Or the crew smuggled aboard some mind ripping drug from Far Kingdom. The planet is infamous for their recreational drugs.”

“If Cletus is still alive, there will be unfortunate answers to questions I don’t even want asked.” Weir ignored the pathetic excuses Riddle generated with such ease.

He worried also about the observer. She was an unknown quantity. She might be bribed. What did Supreme Leader expect from her? Trade concessions negotiated? A nonaggression treaty? Such trivia meant more to the other planets in spite of only one abortive attempt of those fools on Saud trying to invade Quagan. Desert dwellers attacking an ice world? Still, Supreme Leader might need such worthless promises for internal political reasons. From the Intel Weir gathered, Far Kingdom was a seething ball of political intrigue internally.

“Sorrel can kill whoever lasered Tomlins and present the body as evidence of quelling a mutiny.”

“You’re going from bad to worse, Commander Riddle. No, any hint of mutiny aboard the Programmer General’s flagship has to be quashed. Explaining what actually happened would be too difficult.”

“I think it would work. Sorrel fought bravely and put down the mutiny. Give him a medal, and that’ll keep him quiet.”

“Cletus,” Weir mused. “I need to be sure Donal’s bastard son is dead, too.”

“Bastard? I never heard that. If that’s so, we release the evidence and make it look as if Cletus killed his own father to take over as Programmer General.”

“That’d never work. When he was promoted to Commander in Chief, Cletus said he had no designs on the real power and that his sister was next in line.”

“So he lied.”

“So he spoke under voice print security. He wasn’t lying.”

“Times change. He found ambition beyond being Commander in Chief Armed Forces.”

“How fast can you get Lochlan into action?”

“The captain of the heavy cruiser? How’d you know about him?”

“I’m the Chief Operations Officer, you fool.” Weir clamped his teeth shut. Getting angry now worked against him and put Riddle into the position of thinking he wasn’t the one to assume power. “Only Donal has--had--more information access. Don’t try to keep secrets from me, Riddle.” The officer’s face turned whiter than his uniform jacket, making Weir wonder what he held back. It had to be more than the clandestine talks he’d had with Lochlan in an attempt to secure his own base with an eye toward seizing power himself. Weir shrugged it off. First, he had to be certain Tomlins’ death caused no disturbance in Burran worthy of in-depth Council investigation. He could worry about Riddle and his ambitions later, after the Tomlinses’ deaths had been verified.

“How long?”

“You know everything. You’re the Chief Operations Officer.”

Weir started to retort, then decided such passive-aggressive behavior was all he expected from the officer. He swung around and pressed his hand against the back wall. The black swirled about and formed an active display. A few quick passes brought up the sitrep. Lochlan could launch from the orbital base in less than an hour.

“Do you want to give the orders or should I?” Weir held his hand a centimeter above the screen.

“I will.” Riddle reached to his comlink, snarled when it didn’t work, then glowered when Weir opened a band allowing it to connect. Riddle stared at the display a moment, then tapped five times in an obvious code. He had been ready to launch Lochlan and his cruiser if so few command buttons were used to destroy the Shillelagh.

“Get the military CIO ready with a news release, all the usual disclaimers, we don’t know what happened, it’s being investigated, tribute to Tomlins, that sort of thing. Or do you want me to do that, too?”

“We’re not enemies,” Riddle said almost petulantly. He stiffened and canted his head to one side. His eyes widened a little, then he stood straighter. “Together we can make the coup work. You need me and I certainly need you, with your unparalleled knowledge of the computer and how to keep daily life undisturbed.”

“The citizens will never know there is a new Programmer General,” Weir said. It was good seeing how Riddle understood their position. “If commerce continues and no one starves or goes cold or is otherwise inconvenienced, they don’t care who pulls the levers of government.”

“Tomlins was a popular figure.”

“He put himself forward to bolster his weak performance at the job. Never did he try to improve the citizens’ lot, opting instead for the lowest possible levels.”

“You are the obvious choice to replace him ... Programmer General Weir.”

In spite of himself, Weir smiled. That sounded good, very good.

“Keep me posted on the cruiser’s progress ... Commander in Chief Armed Forces Riddle.”

The way Riddle puffed up amused him. Dangle the title in front of him and he would do whatever was necessary, a useful puppet. Weir brought up several hologram displays. His hands passed through some and skirted others. The entire planet was his command, or at least Burran. As the most prosperous, powerful nation, whoever controlled Burran ruled Ballymore. The other countries would fall eventually. Why Tomlins had never pressed his advantage as Programmer General of the richest and most powerful nation in the world had been part of their constant arguments. Tomlins had been weak, willing to maintain the status quo and never push for greater authority on the planet. Considering how feeble their nearest planetary neighbors were, Tomlins could have expanded the Burran sphere of influence and been Programmer General of a cluster of worlds. A hegemony? No, that wasn’t possible between the stars.

Weir saw this failure as another indication of Tomlins’ ineptitude.

He leaned back and watched the progression of events. The cruiser left the space station, trajectory plotted to intercept the Shillelagh. Dozens of other matters popped up in smaller holograms, begging for his attention. He dealt with them quickly. Commerce surged in the few weeks Tomlins had been gone and Weir programming the master computer, showing how much greater Burran could be. Weir considered an analogy with the Hanseatic League back on old Earth, centuries before the Great Farewell. Trade. That was the key. With Burran--and him--playing the league for great benefit.

Weir’s fingers spun through the display and produced reports on Tomlins’ trade mission to Far Kingdom. That had been his first off-world trip to generate trade, as if the former Programmer General finally realized Burran’s potential. Uller and Eire held nothing but random natural resources, nothing that couldn’t be replaced with off-planet trade or even asteroid mining. Worlds such as Far Kingdom promised immense wealth for Burran. That thought set his fingers tap dancing across a projection and brought a smile to his lips.

With a pass of his hand, he blanked everything. He needed more control than a conference room afforded. Stride long and confident, he left and crossed the open office to the ornately carved wooden portal. He lifted his hand to the lock on the Programmer General’s door. When the door didn’t open, he cursed, stopped and pressed his palm to the lock, then entered an override code on the keypad. He heard a few snickers since the door hadn’t opened automatically for him--it was still set for Tomlins and anyone else, including a temporary Programmer General, needed more extensive access codes.

Weir vowed to change that immediately. The door opened, and he went into the Programmer General’s office. His office now. Soon.

He circled the huge desk and settled down. It took a few seconds to build the towers and sweeping info spears on the desktop that relayed every bit, every byte, of information about Burran. Only when he assured himself all was well did he brush it all aside to pick up the Programmer General’s control helmet. He settled the fragile, spidery device on his head, gasped as the sudden rush of information inundated his mind, twisting neurons and causing vivid false displays to flare in his eyeballs. He finally fought to the surface of the torrential flow. He gingerly touched one subroutine after another, reallocating resources, playing with them as if they were gamboling children waiting for adult supervision. Just a little here, a little there so the citizens would never realize a change had occurred in their world. Satisfactorily controlling the guide algorithm proved too difficult for him because Tomlins had written and implemented it. The best he could do at the moment was feed in slightly altered data until he rewrote that guide himself. His control would be complete then, and progress, true progress, could begin.

“Programmer General?”

He blinked away the internal display and brought up the external HUD. He stared at Riddle’s image as if he were only a meter in front of him. Shifting from the vast world of rampaging data on every aspect of life in Burran to the anxious officer took a few seconds.

“What is it?”

“The Highlander just launched.”

Weir took off the helmet and reached to a spot on his desk display. A cruiser sprang up in 3D and slowly turned before a flare shot from its aft.

“You’re blocking my full feed,” Weir said. “All I’m picking up is a view of Lochlan’s vessel.”

“Sorry. I kept it confidential so my staff wouldn’t ask questions.”

“It’s entirely off their screens?”

“For all they know, the cruiser is still docked at the station.”

Weir watched closely as Riddle allowed the hidden data to pour forth. A new view filled the space. A tiny red speck marked where Tomlins’ vessel had Dropped from LiftSpace. A thin yellow spiral showed the least-time orbit the Highlander followed to intercept.

“Have Lochlan use a missile. Blow up the Shillelagh so only atoms remain. If he uses energy weapons, there’s a chance he will only disable the ship.”

“Already done. I ordered him to use a missile with a mechanical drill to penetrate the hull at the bridge. The warhead will explode after hull breach and take out all command personnel, as well. Sorrel won’t be a problem then.”

Weir approved. The Shillelagh was a dreadnought but not completely outfitted with offensive weapons. Tomlins had ordered all long-range energy weapons removed so Far Kingdom wouldn’t see his visit as a military incursion. That worked against the dreadnought now, as if Sorrel would challenge the Highlander as it approached. If Lochlan had any sense, he would signal the Shillelagh that he was an honor guard to escort the dreadnought to the orbital docking station, then blow the ship out of space.

He shrugged that off. It hardly mattered what Lochlan did, if he succeeded. A quick swipe cleared the ever-changing rainbow display of everything other than the two ships and the approach vector.

The yellow line vanished, centimeter by centimeter as the Highlander neared the point where Weir would make history. He reflected how easily he had assumed control of the Burran computerized control network. There wouldn’t be even a ripple in the vast ocean when Tomlins died and he assumed the position of Programmer General. A perfect coup. No one in Burran would even know it happened. The perfect crime, the perfect transition of power.

“Do you want a parade proclaiming your assumption of the post?”

He blinked. He had been lost in how perfect his scheme was, and Riddle interrupted with an inane question.

“Of course not. I’ll appear physically at the funeral, his body in absentia. A cenotaph will be built somewhere not too important. Maybe at his Emerald Isle summer mansion.” He checked the estimate on the Highlander’s approach. Minutes. “There are other matters to take care of.”

“His family?”

“His wife is going to be a problem since she has so publicly announced their daughter will become the next Programmer General. Kori will take this proclamation public and create a great furor if she is not silenced beforehand.”

“I have that taken care of, Programmer General.”

Weir stared at Riddle’s hologram, wishing the man were present so he could throttle him. It did no good to dismiss the floating image.

“What have you done? She’s on Emerald Isle, and I’ve blocked all com from it so it all comes through the CIO desk.”

“Can you trust the Chief Information Officer?”

That question bothered him. He trusted no one, much less the CIO, but he trusted him more than he did Riddle.

“I can. Scarlotti’s a spineless slug. The promise of just keeping his job will get him in line.” Weir heard something in Riddle’s words that he didn’t like. “How have you taken care of Tomlins’ family?”

“It is a training mistake. The GPS target for a commando raid was off by a single digit.”

“You’ve ordered a military unit to kill her and her brats?”

“You make it sound outrageous. You assassinated the Programmer General and are going to destroy the evidence using the Highlander. My promotion left a gap in the chain of command and the new Low Guard Commander was not yet fully aware of all training operations. I will decry the tragic mistake made by a low-ranking officer in attacking the Programmer General’s family home and won’t have to sacrifice a veteran officer.”

“Too many deaths all at once makes it look suspicious.”

“You worry too much, Programmer General. You control the news cycle.”

“I’ll flood it with sympathy for Tomlins, of course, but the citizens will wonder why his family isn’t heard from.”

“A carrier crash as they rush to the capital? Kori demanded they leave without proper check down.”

“That’s absurd.” Weir felt himself tensing. He hadn’t expected Riddle to make such overt moves against the surviving Tomlinses. “Order your commandos to withdraw. Now, Riddle, do it now. There will be other opportunities.”

“Such as Eire guerrillas taking advantage of Tomlins’ death to kill off Bella Tomlins? The daughter was his heir apparent. Kori Tomlins said so. Donal hinted at it repeatedly. This puts Eire directly in your laser sights. Perhaps the Shillelagh’s destruction was caused by an Eire missile? This could be the opening battle in a major offensive against Burran.”

“That is more likely.” Weir considered Riddle’s scheme. The Planetary Guard Commander had stumbled onto a stratagem that held just a gram of truth and would be believed if a concerted news assault presented it properly. It covered up a great deal and afforded alibis for all concerned with the coup. “I can do all I can to hold down the understandable outrage. Burran will respond, but it has to be with measured and reasonable actions.”

“It will take you some time to consolidate your power by changing Tomlins’ guide algorithm.”

Weir looked sharply at the hologram. He thought more deeply than before. When the original coup had been outlined, all Riddle talked about was displacing Cletus Tomlins and taking what he thought was his rightful post as Commander in Chief Armed Forces. Riddle’s military training must have been more intensive than Weir had realized. His background suggested no practical experience in the field--who in Burran had such combat experience, anyway? Riddle might be more than a petty bureaucrat if he took action without authorization. This posed a threat to his own power, but once the guide algorithm was changed, he could make sure neither Riddle or any cabal could displace him.

But that took time. First came the Shillelagh. The rest would follow.

The yellow line disappeared. A tiny white star appeared. Lochlan had launched the missile with its drill bit. Weir sucked in his breath and held it. Then he exhaled.

The brilliant flare announced the destruction of the dreadnought and everyone aboard. Donal Tomlins was shot down. Now Sorrel and the other conspirators were plasma. It was now time to complete the silent coup d’etat.