"Almost over," he said softly.
"Programmer General, please."
"Leanne. I've got to go. A public appearance will put the rebellion to rest once and for all."
"This ship! The Shillelagh!"
"I can't land in it, of course. That's why I'm going down in the dartabout."
"I know that," she said. The sharp edge to her voice contrasted with the soft way she usually spoke. He looked at her, wondering at her reaction to learning the fight was over and that he had won. He was going to sit once more in the Programmer General's control chair in the Residence, where he belonged.
Where he belonged with Kori, Bella, Ebony and Cletus. A tear welled in his eye. With the victory came defeat. His family was sundered. That meant he had to redouble his efforts to bring prosperity and peace to all of Burran so it never happened to other citizens. And perhaps Weir hadn't been far wrong. Eire and Uller had undoubtedly contributed to the uprising. Bringing them to heel might be required in the near future.
"This ship isn't a fit battle craft."
"What do you mean? Of course it is. It is even more powerful a weapon with the new power supplies."
"Programmer General, please listen. Your skill as a commander is ... underdeveloped. Burran has never had a navy capable of serious battle. Your efforts are directed inward, not out where a proper fleet with experienced commanders are necessary. The ease with which Weir uprooted you shows the soft belly of your system. It is too dependent on your master computer."
"The Blarney Stone has given us unprecedented affluence. Study our history on Earth you would know how difficult it was for us there. We have gone from a small island no one respected to a Class 3 civilized world."
"I've read of it. Even then, even with blight and famine, your history isn't filled with the struggle needed to build a warrior society, not for centuries."
"Of course not. We seek peace. I seek peace for my nation. For my world. Now excuse me. I need to give Captain Sullivan her final orders."
"As you wish, sir." Leanne drew herself up to her full height and still only came to his shoulder.
He almost called her back as she pivoted and marched from the bridge as if she went to her death. Donal glanced around, saw a half dozen displays glowing and double-checked to be sure no threat awaited him below. His closest examination showed only celebration in the capital and preparation for his landing.
"Will you have time to prepare a speech, sir?" Sullivan stood beside the captain's chair. He motioned her to sit and don the control helmet.
"I'll have a few minutes. This isn't the time for a long speech. Just a few heartfelt words to assure everyone the worst is over." He pushed the thought of his family from his mind.
Sullivan winced as the rush of data filled her head with details. She wiped her lips and blinked to focus on him.
"I have received your orders, sir. Is it wise to eliminate a potential threat in such a fashion?"
"I don't want this ship's weapons turned against the capital, should anything go wrong. The civilian casualties would be horrendous."
""With our additional capabilities, I can pick off one person from an entire platform full, should there be a risk to you, sir."
"One mistake and half the city vanishes in a whiff of plasma. I don't think there will be a problem. I have scoured the newscasts and not found any evidence of hidden uprisings. Only celebration at my return from one side of the country to the other."
"I've checked myself, sir. There are pockets of protest, but they are along the borders."
"Likely malcontents or even guerrillas from Eire or Uller."
"That might be so, sir." Sullivan settled the helmet more firmly. "I am to withdraw and establish complete interdiction of trade?"
"I won't have the citizens killed outright, not by anyone aboard the Shillelagh. It's better to cause an uprising that deposes anyone seizing the Programmer General's chair. Support the populace, don't use our weapons to kill those who would aid us."
"I think I understand, sir. Should I contact Commander Tomlins via message capsule? I'll need a preprogrammed Lift."
Donal considered letting his son know of their victory, but he would learn of it soon enough when he finished refitting the cruiser and returned to the Ballymore system.
"The message capsule isn't required."
"I can have a new Lift engine put together in a day or two from spare parts."
"Captain Sullivan, you might need those parts later." He wondered if he made a mistake not informing his son to prevent him from returning with all weapons blazing. Sending a message capsule required a LiftDrive almost the size of the one powering the Shillelagh. Worse, only he knew Scrutiny's coordinates so he had to protect that destination by programming it himself. That might require another week of work. The people of Burran required his return to the Programmer Generalship now, not in a week. He brushed aside the idea of trusting Sullivan with the coordinates required to drop the capsule just about the main settlement on Scrutiny. He had kept it as a secret for years. Letting Cletus know where the TZO lay troubled him, even though he trusted his son.
He heaved a sigh and came to a decision running counter to all he thought.
"Prepare a message capsule with news of our victory to send to Cletus." Donal worked on the HUD for several minutes, using the most esoteric programming methods he knew to prepare a guidance pack. "The guidance computer memory cube is frangible. The smallest scratch destroys the circuitry, so be very careful installing it."
"Understood, sir."
"Be on the lookout for Cletus' return. When he Drops back, contact him immediately. You have the security codes to authenticate anything you transmit."
"Two weeks, sir? That's your guess when he'll be here?"
"At least that. The Belfast has to be more completely outfitted, and Cletus will want to have a few training maneuvers to be certain the crew is using the new weapons and that everything functions properly."
"And to learn their limits," Sullivan said.
Donal knew there was more to it than that. Cletus needed to find if there were any traitors among his new crew. Captain O'Malley had surrendered his command a little too quickly for Donal's liking, but the man seemed straightforward and loyal. Still, Donal had to learn this for himself and replace the ship's commander if even a hint of insurrection turned his heart black.
"The dartabout is ready, sir." Sullivan turned her bright blue eyes up to him. "I can break orbit and follow you down until we touch the upper atmosphere."
"A dreadnought isn't designed for atmospheric maneuvering, Captain. Maintain orbit. You have your orders." He tapped the side of his head to remind her his orders had been recorded and left in the onboard computer. All she needed to do was bring up a special packet of orders, should anything happen to him.
"Yes, sir. Good flight." She stood and saluted. He returned the salute, feeling awkward. The Programmer General was a civilian position, in spite of the control he had over the military.
He hurried from the bridge, slowed when he passed his compartment, then lengthened his stride again to reach the cargo bay as quickly as possible. What belongings he had aboard could be transferred later. Or replaced. He smile wryly. Once again at his desk in the Residence, he need only issue a tiny thought and receive whatever he desired. No matter how little or how extensive, everything provided by the Blarney Stone came quickly. He never abused this power, unlike many of his predecessors.
More security should be put into place, especially after seeing how easy it had been for Weir to seize power.
As he entered the cargo bay, the crew snapped to attention and saluted. He made no effort to hide his grin. Regaining control on-world had been easier than he expected, thanks to Riddle and his double dealing. A speech would fire up the crew, but he wanted to save his passion and thanks for the crowd gathering near the Residence. A nationwide broadcast would rally support throughout Burran.
"Chief," he acknowledged. "All ready?"
"Just finished sealing up the dartabout's cargo, sir."
"Cargo? You mean cargo hatch?" Donal was distracted when the pilot came to the hatch and waved him aboard.
"That, too, sir. Ensign Milliken's ready to launch."
Donal swung up the ramp to where the ensign gave way in the hatch and motioned him to the pilot's chair.
"The captain said you wanted to pilot, sir."
The woman sounded angry. He read the signs immediately. She was a pilot and as humble as the dartabout was, it was her ship. Her mission might be nothing more than moving cargo or being an orbital garbage collector, but it was her command. Hers.
"Take us down, Ensign. I need to go over my speech and don't want to be distracted." He saw the clouds of anger blow away.
"As you wish, sir." She swung about and landed lightly in the pilot's chair. He settled next to her and found that she had already reset the contour chair for him. "Strap in. We launch in one minute or lose our orbital insertion window for another ninety minutes."
Donal barely got the safety harness connected before the engine cut in, sudden acceleration slamming him back but not with the force he expected. He frowned. The dartabout moved sluggishly as it slid from the dreadnought's bay. Once in free space, the small craft felt as if it moved through treacle.
"Is everything all right, Ensign?"
"Shipshape, sir, Why?"
She showed no hint of distress, and the control panel flashed nothing but green. Donal shrugged it off as his own anxiety at returning to a country profoundly changed by civil war. He settled back, closed his eyes and began working on his speech. Before he realized it, the atmosphere screamed past the sleek ship and heavy buffeting began as they braked for descent into even denser atmosphere. He watched as the pilot worked the controls. Again he wondered if something was wrong with the craft. It handled as if it was thousands of kilos heavier.
Then the sky exploded in front of them.
"Evasive action! Take evasive action!" He gripped the armrests on his chair and heaved to one side, as if this would turn the dartabout.
"Nothing to worry about, sir. Fireworks to welcome you. Nothing harmful in it. I've scanned it all."
Donal worked through the readouts and finally settled on a vidscreen showing a newscast from outside the Residence where tens of thousands of citizens cheered.
"Have you been cleared for landing on the Residence roof?"
"Your choice, sir. The roof, the landing field or at a pad about a half kilometer off. A private landing area, restricted now."
"The roof," he decided. Donal raced through what he would say, but his attention fixed on the landing pad on the roof. The dartabout settled down heavily, then the engine died with a throaty sigh.
"You may exit whenever you like, Programmer General," the ensign said. "They're expecting you."
He unhooked, went to the hatch and waited for it to open. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath of air. Fresh air. Free air. The sunlight warm on his face, the pull of gravity familiar once more, he walked across the roof to a raised platform at the edge of the Residence roof, already outfitted with full audio and video feeds. He stepped up.
The crowd below roared.
He raised his arms and acknowledged them.
"Welcome to a new era in Burran's history!"
The End
Darklight Pirates
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Sample chapter from the epic space opera trilogy Weapons of Chaos
Echoes of Chaos
by
Robert E. Vardeman
Chapter 1
"We are dying."
The gaunt, trembling figure turned and looked away from the others gathered around the long rectangular Table of Rules. Fordyne, advisor to the Council of State, statistician without peer, had never felt older and less able to deal with destiny. His burning amethyst eyes stared out the window of the towering Aerie and swept across the city stretched below him. From this height the chaos wasn't visible, but Fordyne knew it existed.
"You exaggerate," came the Chief of Rules' mocking voice. Fordyne's exhaustion vanished in a heady mixture of anger and frustration with such stubbornness. He spun, his embroidered chamber robes swirling around his lean frame.
"I do not." The fire in his reply took the Chief aback. Never had anyone spoken to the ruler of all civilization in such a manner. Politeness, if not duty, dictated only serene responses, measured tones, orderly emotions.
Fordyne had passed beyond accepted behavior. His world was dying around him and none of these fools believed!
"The facts are incontrovertible. Examine them. Have others you trust more do so. You will see." Anger faded, leaving only exhaustion--exhaustion and distress. He had worked hard for over three years, accumulating the evidence to support what his heart already had told him. The beige folders containing the results of the correlational study lay untouched in the center of the Table of Rules. No one at this meeting even dared open one and scan the first page abstract.
In their hearts they, too, knew what Fordyne had feared and had now shown true.
"Societal dynamics is a confusing issue, Fordyne," the Chief of Rules said, lounging back to nest in his feather-encrusted chair. He stared at the Council statistician. "You of all people know this. These ... disturbances. They're random. No organized attempt is being made to overthrow us." The Chief snorted derisively. He laid one finger alongside his thick, hard nose to accentuate the point. "The last attempt to subvert a government is almost two hundred years in the past. Merno is stable. The country is stable." The Chief leaned forward, four-fingered hands gripping the edge of the table until the yellow-taloned tips turned white. "We are all stable."
"This madness has nothing to do with the toppling of governments by an organization," said Fordyne. "It-its only characteristic is disorganization."
"Talk sense. You're a scholar, not some giddy doomster on a park perch prophesying the return of feathered Larn, bringing his vengeance for our sins."
Fordyne noted several Councilors around the table stiffen at the mention of the mythical god. While the Chief of Rules scoffed at the ancient religion, Fordyne had learned that many--some in that room--had again embraced the old ways. They were less able than he to articulate their fears, and they reached out for solace, for explanations of. why their secure nest/world was falling to pieces around them.
"Very well," Fordyne said, determination again rising within him. "A brief presentation. I trust its dryness will not unduly bore you."
Before the Chief could either approve or dismiss him, Fordyne reached into his robe and pulled forth a small projector. He aimed it at the far wall, and then stroked along its control surface. The window shutters closed, blocking off the deceptive serenity of Merno, the room lights dimmed, and a pale ruby beam stretched out over the surface of the wall. Tiny speckles set there burst into amorphous, colored life. To the eye came no scene; Fordyne's picture formed within the minds of all present.
"Fact: Accidental deaths have risen forty-six percent in the past seven years." The charts burned hotly into their brains. Many stirred uneasily but Fordyne had trapped them. They had to stay and witness the progression of evidence.
"Faulty control systems at General Guidance," muttered the Chief.
"Fact: Less than half of these deaths occurred during machine operation. Those that do have this profile indicate high probability, to the ninety-five percent confidence level, of operator error rather than machine malfunction."
"You're saying that all of these accidents are just that, accidents," pointed out the Chief. The others at the Table of Rules remained silent. They couldn't evade the numbers marching like a burning army through their brains, but they might dull their impact by concentrating on other, less disturbing ideas.
"The only malfunction, according to extensive autopsy evidence, is with the peopl
e." When the Chief said nothing to this, Fordyne pressed on. "Fact: Epilepsy has become epidemic among certain sectors of our population. It is my contention that the rise in accidental death is strongly linked to this factor."
"All these ... freaks caused their own deaths? That makes them murderers," blurted out a Councilor.
Fordyne felt revulsion at this. Epileptics were not spoken of in polite society. This, in part, made it even more difficult to force the others to believe in the seriousness of the matter. They refused to stroke the pinfeather because of the proscribed affliction.
"It has become an epidemic," Fordyne repeated. He closed his eyes and calmed his rampaging emotions. To lose control, to clack your dental ridges wildly, insanely, to twitch and thrash about, to lose all civilized behavior seemed a fate worse than death. The stark embarrassment of such a seizure had, no doubt, caused hundreds--or by his numbers, thousands--of the afflicted to tread the only honorable path and kill themselves.
"Epidemics can be blunted, the disease cured. Such unsightly behavior is not induced like a viral infection," scoffed another of the Councilors. "To say that such disgusting behavior is induced--contagious!--denigrates all our medical science."
"I realize that it is difficult to speak of such things. "Fordyne squeezed his projector so tightly that the plastic began to warp. He controlled himself and relaxed his grip. "But the facts will not go away simply because we wish for some other cause."
"Wheeze!" The Chief whistled derisively through his dental plate. "There's nothing wrong with this country, this world! We've never been so prosperous, our people so at peace with themselves and with their neighbors."
"Fact: Our population is in decline. The absolute number of.our people is beginning to drop."
"A mere anomaly," said the Chief.
"The birthrate fell to less than replacement fourteen years ago. The latest flash figures from the medical division show that the replacement figure has dropped below one." The projected image rustling through their brains contained sorrow, funeral processions, infinite cold untouched by the pure flame of rebirth.
Darklight Pirates Page 31
