Darklight Pirates

Cletus held down the anxiety building inside him like a summer thunderstorm crashing into the Kilkenny Mountains back home. If he showed too much interest in the cargo being loaded aboard the Shillelagh, it would draw Captain Sorrel’s attention, but he had to be sure the crates were secured properly. He shuffled back and forth in front of the observation deck viewscreen, hating himself for such obvious apprehension over what should have been stowing routine cargo. The crates had been marked as farm equipment and only he and Leanne knew differently. His father suspected--how could he not?--but had been too occupied with other negotiations to pay much attention when Cletus had said the dartabouts were bringing agri-equipment samples aboard. The automated loaders moved the crates from the heavy cargo dartabouts through the zero-gee hold so slowly he wanted to coddle the smaller carbon composite crates containing the exoskeleton armor, to be sure they weren’t damaged. That thought alone told him how he needed to keep his emotions in check. Nothing short of a small nuke would damage the contents.

Excitement, yes, but smuggling added to the thrill of such powerful fighting suits on their way to Ballymore where a single patrol wearing the exos could hold an entire company of Eire soldiers at bay. He wanted to train with those Burran Low Guard troopers, feel the added power to arms and legs, the way the equipment enhanced all his senses. Cletus reached out and closed his fingers into a fist. If he wore an exo, that simple gesture could send a stream of flechettes surging out to independently target individual enemy soldiers. The Eire incursions would be stopped within weeks.

He caught his breath when he saw the next dartabout from Far Kingdom dock at the cargo hold. This one held the pair of warbots, all disassembled and marked as experimental farm machinery. Piloting one of those mechanical behemoths changed any battle. Cletus felt lightheaded when the cargomaster made her way to the shuttle and waved off the attempt to load.

Cletus touched the comlink and heard the complaint that the crates wouldn’t fit into the hold. He started to order the cargomaster to jettison other freight already loaded. Much of it was samples of luxury goods intended to whet the appetite on Ballymore for Far Kingdom spices and silks. From his father’s brief description, jettisoning the samples of the acidic wine might be considered an act of war, if not seriously dangerous to the Shillelagh’s hull.

The deal he had made with Leanne to get the warbots and exos paled in comparison to a strong trade agreement, but he saw the need for the robotic armament. Such trade in the future might be more important to both Ballymore and Far Kingdom than any gewgaw or spice or even the automated farm equipment.

Before he could link to the cargomaster, she queried the XO for orders. For a moment, Cletus heard screeching feedback, then hastily switched off the comlink. The feedback came because Commander McManus had come to the cargo viewer and stood immediately behind him, thumb on his lapel microphone. McManus’ voice echoed in the room, caught the pickup in front of Cletus and looped through the cargomaster’s link. Cletus slipped back into the dark corner of the room as McManus pressed closer to the microphone mounted under the viewscreen, now focused on a different portion of the hold. Cletus had not even noticed the XO because of his thrill at the exos and warbots being loaded. He cursed himself and vowed to pay more attention to everything around him.

A small smile crept to his lips when he realized McManus had been no more aware of him than he was of the XO.

“I don’t see the mass reqs for those crates on the manifest,” McManus said. He tapped his tablet to leaf through the endless pages of information about the cargo. “There’s nothing about the size, either. How’s it marked, Chief?”

“Farm equipment.”

“Yeah, I see it now. What the hell is experimental about farm equipment?”

“Sir, the shuttle is beginning to precess and will pull free of the hold lock in a few minutes. What do you want done?”

“This must be part of Tomlins’ damned attempt to mollify the FKers.”

McManus turned that into a curse. Cletus started to comment, then stopped when Captain Sorrel entered the compartment. Cletus pressed even harder against the bulkhead, sure the pounding in his chest was loud enough to draw the commander’s attention.

“You need to be at your post, Commander, not here.”

“Sir, I know. A mistake with any of this and we’re all up on charges.”

Cletus straightened and cocked his head to get a better sense of what McManus meant.

“We’ll be heroes, not traitors.”

“Sir, what about the crates?” McManus muttered and looked at the captain, saw the answer in the dour expression, then tapped the comlink open to say, “Get it all stowed, Chief. I don’t care where or how. There is more important work to be done so we can get underway on schedule.”

“I can--” The chief was cut off before she described her fix for the added mass and ungainly crates.

“Do what you need, Chief. Do I have to tell you how to do your job?” McManus slammed his palm into the comlink, turning it off with more of a shove than a flip. “Sorry, sir,” he said to the captain.

“We cannot miss the rendezvous, and we are running a half hour behind schedule.”

Cletus watched the officers leave, wondering what Sorrel meant. Donal Tomlins was a stickler for detail, but they had no Lift schedule returning to Burran. They could leave tomorrow as easily as now without anyone being upset. Anyone but Captain Sorrel.

After waiting a few minutes to see that the cargomaster jockeyed the crates with the warbot parts into the hold and the cargo dartabout safely away, he left the observation deck to find his father. Sorrel’s exasperated orders to the XO and his veiled words upset Cletus.

Halfway to the bridge, Cletus stopped when warning lights flashed. The Shillelagh was on the edge of a StringSpaceLift that would thrust them into new dimensions. Sometimes the transition lasted long, aching seconds, and other times it came as a sharp blow to the gut. Cletus pressed his hand into his belly as the universe folded around him. This Lift had been violent. If he had suspected it would happen so soon, he could have taken drugs to ease the hyper dimensional twisting. The StringSpaceDrop would occur within a few minutes. He had time to get the medicine, but what he had overheard had to be reported.

He sucked in a deep breath of air and gagged. The constant scrubbing, even using the best nano particle filters, never quite took away the sharp ammonia stench that built within a Liftship. The longer they were away from orbit around Ballymore the worse it became. Cletus knew true spacemen never noticed it after a few hours, or so they said. He had spent almost as much time aboard dreadnoughts as he had on-planet working with the Low Forces, as befitting a military commander of all the services. Space was only part of the defense--the offense--when guerrilla incursions presented the most blatant threat to Burran. He loved the tactics of ground movements and had studied mightily until it came naturally to him, but he required a k-chip for space warfare.

The tight knot in his belly passed as he stood straight, rubbing his chest. This time the pain moved from his bowels into his diaphragm. None of that was unusual, only annoying. He sucked in a deep breath and choked again. When the spasm passed, he made his way to the bridge and pressed his hand against the lock panel. For a moment he thought his father had sealed the hatch, but after an unexpected pause, it slid open silently, allowing him to step in.

Both his father and Leanne looked up from a complex 3D plot that slowly turned in the large space at the center of the half spherical bridge. From what he could tell from his glimpse, they studied the border Burran shared with Uller. The small glowing red attack vectors showed possible points of weakness that he had studied extensively along the western farmlands.

“We’re busy,” Donal Tomlins said brusquely.

He glanced at his father, then Leanne. The woman’s face remained emotionless, but her dark eyes danced as if she had just spied the most engrossing sight in the cosmos. Small, nervous twitches of her ring-studded fingers betrayed her. Whatever they discussed interested her greatly, to the point of arousal that approached the sexual.

“I was in the cargo observation compartment,” Cletus started.

“Yes, we know. The special crates were successfully stowed.” Donal glanced at Leanne, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “We will need the contents reassembled and in readiness within a few hours of offloading.”

“A campaign against Uller? What’s happened?”

“The suzerain thinks it appropriate to seize fifty kilometers of coast line and not a few hectares of prime farmland because I went to Far Kingdom.”

“How did you find out?” Cletus frowned. His father might have heard from another ship arriving from Ballymore, and he knew that wasn’t possible. The Shillelagh had been the only one outfitted for a Lift. Another possibility was a message packet, but that required the use of a Lift engine almost as large as the one hurling the dreadnought between the stars. Opening higher dimensions took immense power, no matter the size of the ship—or message packet.

“Captain Sorrel,” Donal said. He cut off any more protest from his son with an impatient gesture.

“This is a solution for such boldness,” Leanne said. Her petite hand slipped through the hologram so that elements Cletus recognized as Uller mechanized divisions whirled about in a fine red mist and then disappeared.

“I was in the observation compartment,” Cletus pressed on, “when I overheard McManus and the captain in what can only be a plot.”

“To do what?” Donal looked at his son and frowned. “Captain Sorrel and I differ on many things, but he is a loyal officer. You shouldn’t spy on him. Perhaps he had just learned of the Uller incursion.”

“I’m not so sure,” Cletus said. He repeated verbatim what he had overheard. His father shrugged, but Leanne showed the first flash of animation. For a moment he thought she was going to blurt out.

“Forget it, Cletus. I have been hard at work with a new Directives Program. Burran will mobilize and launch a counteroffensive within a few days of our return. Your new toys will prove very useful, especially the warbot.” Donal looked around to see if any of the bridge officers had overheard. They worked to prepare the Shillelagh for the Drop back into normal space, Captain Sorrel included.

Cletus wanted to stand behind the captain and watch his HUD to see what occupied him. The Drop was handled automatically, calculated before the Lift.

“Remember, Programmer General,” Leanne said, “the warriorobot pilots require considerable training to get the greatest effect. As I pointed out earlier, use of the exoskeletons to enhance individual ground troopers will be more useful. There are four of them, but only two warbots, and could be of greater use as support for conventional units.”

“Shock ’em with the sight of a warbot towering high above them, I say.” Donal motioned to bring back the military units lost when Leanne had dismissed them with a careless wave of her hand. “They have a few main battle tanks but the majority of their advance is supported by drone and helo. The warbot can scare the ground pounders and take out the air support. We won’t have to use any of our Middle Guard, which is a good thing since it is the weakest of our three forces.”

“That is a function of the robots, yes, Programmer General, but--”

“This sortie has to be over quickly. My new programs are slower to tweak the economy than I thought. There was a 15 percent chance this would occur, but I had expected better implementation on their part instead of a half-assed attack. That possibility, among other things, prompted my desire for greater trade with Far Kingdom. Until our manufacturing power increases in a year, we cannot endure a war of attrition. Fast. Lightning fast and we will chase them back across their border. It’ll take Uller years to recover and threaten our territory again. By then our economy will be running full tilt.”

“It works against you if inexperienced pilots lose both warbots in battle. The enemy is emboldened at the sight of the robots being brought down. They are powerful but not invincible, even against the weapons Uller can bring to bear against them.”

Cletus looked from his father to Leanne. That the Programmer General confided such details to an emissary of another planet took him aback. Then he realized he had confided a great deal to her about Burran’s military capabilities that should never have been mentioned outside a secured planning room. Somehow, he simply assumed she knew all this—and that he trusted her to be on the side of the nation conducting the trade negotiations. He tried to find the information about Far Kingdom’s past dealings with other planets hidden away in his k-chip but couldn’t.

That didn’t keep him from trusting Leanne. His father must, also, or he wouldn’t have confided so much in her. Then it hit Cletus what wasn’t being said.

“Why did you let me sneak the armament aboard rather than telling Captain Sorrel?” Cletus’ question caused his father to catch his breath, then look around the bridge. His gaze stopped on Captain Sorrel, who instructed the XO on a hidden HUD.

“The fewer who know, the more likely our new weapons will have the effect I need. A sudden, invincible attack. That’s what we need. Blitzkrieg it was called back on Earth.”

“I’ve studied the strategy,” Cletus said. “Is that why you didn’t tell Sorrel we’re carrying warbots and exos?”

“The captain spoke with your XO?” Leanne’s fingers worked nervously over her rings, left fingers stroking the blue and green gem-studded white gold bands on her right hand. She glanced down. Cletus caught a glint, then realized the rings formed a small computer that beamed the result directly onto her retina using a low-power laser. She calculated probabilities and who knew what else to bolster her opinions.

“I told you exactly what they said. It wasn’t routine ship’s business.”

The warning lights flickered again warning that StringSpaceDrop was imminent. The stardrive took them into higher dimensions, and elapsed transit time in the base universe depended a little on luck and a great deal on skill. Insertion and destination were precise; the uncertainty lay in the time spent in those extra string theory derived dimensions. On Burran they would be gone hardly longer than it seemed to those aboard the Shillelagh. Cletus understood a little of the theory. Those who made the trip to Far Kingdom were a few seconds younger than those they left behind. That was a small penalty when general relativity and sub-ftl travel in ordinary space would have turned that difference into centuries.

“Do you have any--” Cletus’ request for medicine was choked off as the ship Dropped back into normal space. With any skill on the navigator’s part, they would be less than a day’s travel from orbit around Ballymore using conventional rockets.

The punch to his gut doubled him over. He dropped to one knee. More than the discomfort bothered him. Both Sorrel and McManus left their posts and exited the bridge, pointedly closing the hatch once they were through. Cletus called out to ask why the senior officers weren’t checking to be certain the Drop had left the dreadnought in the proper spot to reach Ballymore when the hatch flew open. Only the ship’s officers were permitted into this room, but a spaceman class three stood in the hatchway, a laserifle braced against the bulkhead. The man’s eyes darted about. His expression combined fear and exultation in a deadly mixture. He probably had never levelled a weapon at anyone before, much less the Programmer General and the Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces.

Cletus reached for his sidearm, then remembered he had not worn it since he had returned to the Shillelagh. On Far Kingdom it had been part of his uniform as well as a reminder to the Supreme Leader that he dealt with a man trained in the way of war. The actual experience Cletus had in the field was limited to a few skirmishes, but he had acquitted himself well in the face of injury or even death.

“Don’t anyone go for a weapon!”

“Lower that rifle, Spaceman,” Cletus grated out. “Stand at attention!”

This drew the man’s attention. The laserifle shifted away from Donal Tomlins to center on Cletus. Without a weapon of his own, Cletus knew only one course of action was possible. He sprang forward from his half crouch, ignoring the pain in his gut and chest. If he lacked projectile or energy weapons, he still possessed his hands and feet, the knowledge of hand to hand combat as real to him as troop movement or dreadnoughts converging in space battle.

He closed the distance, reaching for the laserifle to deflect it. He saw the shivering nimbus around the discharge ring at the end of the barrel and knew he was a fraction of a second too late. The pain from the Drop plaguing his chest turned to sudden fire as the laser unleashed its hellish beam.

Cletus blacked out as he fell to the deck, the stench of burned fabric and flesh in his nostrils.