Darklight Pirates

by Robert E. Vardeman

  "Warhead," came Sorrel's voice, as if in the far distance. The captain slammed his hand down on the armrest controls, spinning an eye-blurring dozen layers of virtual control panel into the center of the bridge.

  Donal tried to watch the captain, but the rotating drill drew him like a magnet. When the diamond drill head bored a large enough hole, he saw the parallel yellow stripes on the warhead attached behind the drill. He counted the stripes. Two. It wasn't the biggest explosive missile in a cruiser's arsenal, but it would kill everyone on the bridge.

  The Shillelagh shuddered again as the dreadnought begin rotating about its major axis. Donal was flung high toward the bulkhead. He slammed in hard, held flat by the centrifugal force as the massive ship began to spin faster. Sorrel tried to kill them! Then Donal realized the captain was responsible for the rotation, spinning the ship to throw the warhead free of the hull. The Shillelagh was ponderous, massive, but it carried little in the way of armament and nothing that could cut away the warhead drill. Most of their bulk lay in the aft quarters of the ship. The fusion power plants giving life to the vessel whined as their full power was diverted to steering jets responsible for the rotation.

  "It's going to blow!" Cletus slipped between Leanne and the drill to protect her from the warhead's blast, as if that mattered. Even a small missile would erase all life on the command deck.

  The Shillelagh rotated faster. Donal watched the warhead wobble in its berth, then the drill spun mindlessly but cut through nothing but atmosphere on the bridge─what was left of it. Sorrel performed the last desperate act. A huge gust from the air ducts rushed forth. This added a small pressure that, along with the ship's radial velocity, sent the warhead hurling back into space.

  Through the hole Donal saw the violent detonation in space. Then he gasped for air and relented to the inevitable spin pressing him against the bulkhead.

  Sure he was dying, he tried to bring up mental images of his lovely wife Kori and daughters Ebony and Bella. He tried and failed. His neural patterns tried to mimic that of the ship and hid such last-hope visuals behind a veil of circuitry and executing programs.

  In anguish, he fell to his knees. It took a few seconds to understand why that was important. The Shillelagh no longer rotated furiously. And air! He sucked in the dry, dull air, and his lungs didn't explode with vacuum. Wiping blood from his eyes, he saw the chaos on the bridge. Half the officers were down. And Captain Sorrel sprawled across the deck, a huge hole burned in his side. Part of his arm had been severed along with much of his chest, leaving the unburned half his face untouched. His look of surprise told that he understood death had found him but hadn't been given enough time to fight.

  "Part of the drill broke off and caught him," Leanne said, helping him to his feet. "He saved us, though."

  "Cletus?"

  "He is capable of handling the ship in combat."

  "How do you know that?" He looked hard at her. Then he knew. Leanne Chang had studied Cletus and him and the Shillelagh and probably everything about Burran and the planet thoroughly before being sent along by Supreme Leader.

  "I know his combat scores from the last exercise," she said softly. She helped him sit up. Donal knew some part of him didn't hurt like hell but couldn't identify it. "The Shillelagh is damaged but repairs proceed already. A wounded dreadnought against a heavy cruiser is an interesting match up. It is reminiscent of the naval encounter where the pocket battleship Graf Spee fought against three lesser vessels in an Earthly seaborne conflict."

  "Interesting, hell. That cruiser came armed for battle! We don't have missiles. Our own ship and it came to destroy us!"

  "The laser batteries will suffice." She pointed to the fire control HUD floating just to the side of the captain's chair. Cletus worked on the virtual control panels to bring their guns to bear even as he sought to evade.

  "I can use the helmet to get back into the computer and direct repairs. That's one thing I know how to do." Donal took a shaky step toward the captain's chair.

  "A good idea." Leanne led him by the arm as if he were a small child threatening to run from its mother. She picked up the spidery helmet and held it a moment. A few quick words to Cletus gave her the permission to pass along the control helmet.

  Donal realized then that his son was in command. He had to get permission and not simply do what he intended. It unsettled him and caused a flurry of extraneous thoughts that had to be dampened before he could work efficiently.

  "With com back we should contract the planetary controller and have him call off the cruiser." Donal fitted the helmet so the electrodes touched his temples, forehead and shaved spots at the back of his head to facilitate electrical conduction.

  He gasped when he estimated the extent of destruction done to the Shillelagh. With a single command to the ship's computer, he dispatched hundreds of Robot Repair Units to the task of fixing the worst damage first, then working down an ordered list. The RRUs operated independently once set on a task, relieving him of the need to supervise everything. All he had to do was prioritize. Evaluation reports threatened to blind him as every section of the ship still functioning filled his head with demands for repair.

  "I ... I can't repair the laser turrets around the ship's circumference. The cruiser blasted all of them off as we spun to get rid of the warhead. But─"

  He never got out the rest of his warning. The explosion aft wiped out all electronics on the bridge. Hooked into the ship's brain as he was, his brain overloaded along with the computer. The world went dark and silent all around him as he floated away into emptiness.

  Chapter Five

  "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 t
o 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.