Darklight Pirates
Chapter Twenty-six

Commander in Chief Armed Forces Aaron Riddle enjoyed the solitude. The office was sealed from the outside world, leaving him to his own thoughts and plans. His subordinates had been instructed not to interrupt him. He had left it unstated that anyone bothering him would find themselves transferred to bioweapons research--as a test subject. Most of all he appreciated being away from the increasingly strident orders from his mysterious benefactor. While it was true, so far, that every tidbit of gossip had proven to be accurate and worthy of his attention, he sensed a breaking point approaching in their relationship.

He was the brawn, the muscle, the way things got done no matter the opposition. The time approached fast when he had to be the brains, as well. He flipped the levers of power in Burran and had wrested considerable control from Weir in the past weeks. Declaring martial law in the capital and seven other cities had cemented his power and robbed Weir of important support. City leaders responded better to the knife at their throat than they did to threats of slow starvation. Weir controlled the water, the food, the ebb and flow of goods throughout the nation, but Riddle’s presence was increasingly immediate. And he knew how to use that power.

More than one civic leader had been brought before a military tribunal on charges of treason. Those who had been acquitted were his most loyal allies. Fearful, yes, but loyal as long as the soldiers marched through the streets. A few of the old leaders had even been elevated to positions of command of those troops, further guaranteeing loyalty. Better yet, Riddle trusted his officers to report any hint of new treason.

Weir controlled the goods. Riddle held the reins of power, loosely so far, but the reins were in his hands. Soon enough he would draw back and stop the galloping beast in its tracks. By then his military programmers would have infiltrated the most secure portions of the Blarney Stone, and Weir would no longer be needed.

All Riddle had to do was prevent his ally from wresting that hard-won power from him. It galled him that his best efforts to identify the mind behind the shimmering pillar of gray fog on his desktop had failed. Relaxing allowed him to let his brain slip out of gear and coast along. He had purposefully refused k-chips for the past few days to better concentrate on the final plans necessary to depose Weir--and his benefactor. While he did not know for certain, it struck him as possible that he might be controlled through those k-chips. That would be a perfect way for him to be bent to another’s will.

No k-chip, no access to his brain, no chance of that happening.

He idly ran his fingertip around in odd patterns on his desktop, bringing up holograms of a vista of cities. He made a few small changes to how the patrols were conducted, even replacing one officer who slacked off and fraternized with a civilian. Overall, he approved of the effectiveness of his grip on the major population centers.

Riddle slipped to where he had to force himself to remain calm. Kori Tomlins had her most success along the borders with Eire and Uller. The aquaculture farmers presented a problem he needed to deal with later, after Weir was no longer pretending to help the farmers with his programming. The farmers had always been an independent bunch. Their loyalty bent with the political wind, but show them who was strongest and they would align that way. Guerrillas and even military units from adjoining nations were quickly sent running away. The natural tendency of the farmers toward the Sein Fenn and even Pope Seamus’ Irish Guard gave a different set of problems. Religion too often trumped governments, yet it all came to a single factor: power.

“Kori must be removed, her and that girl of hers meddling with the Blarney Stone.” He pushed away the holo of the border conflicts and let his mind tumble in a new direction. Bella Tomlins versus Programmer General Weir. Let them cancel each other. How?

He found a tiny thread of an idea but was interrupted when an insistent red indicator flared on his desktop. This was contrary to orders he had issued. But the priority level escalated. A blazing red hologram rocket arched upward and exploded. As the debris fell virtually to the desktop, the signal repeated. Riddle snapped his fingers. A worried officer’s visage floated above the desktop.

“Report,” Riddle said. “Was the mission successful?”

“Sir, I think so.”

“Either it was or it failed. Did the nutcracker crush Tomlins’ ship?”

“The pirate ship, sir? Yes, well, no. And yes.”

He expected the report. He had not expected such vacillation. Riddle sucked in a deep breath but failed to keep from snapping the obvious question.

“Was the pirate dreadnought destroyed?”

“It was reported as destroyed. By Captain O’Malley. He is a good officer, impeccable record.”

Riddle stared at his upset officer. He started to speak, then hesitated long enough to get his roiling thoughts in order. He asked, “How is that possible? The cruiser was programmed to blow up. Did O’Malley’s report come in before the detonation? I can’t imagine the captain escaped in a pod to relay such a report.” His plan had required the Burran vessels to both explode in coordination with Tomlins’ ship sandwiched between. There hadn’t been any reason to let either of his ship’s captains know he was on a suicide mission. He had wanted Tomlins killed, and dead heroes provided excellent propaganda. Martial law went better when plausible claims of defending the populace could be made.

“He ... he reported personally, sir. He was severely damaged in his attack but used his weapons to fire on the Shillelagh. He hit the cargo ship, and it detonated.”

“It blew up from his laser fire? Not from the detonation signal?”

“It seems that way, sir.”

He cursed under his breath. Eliminating Tomlins had been the intent of this ploy, but it still had not gone according to his careful planning. No computer scenario had the cruiser surviving. Hardly paying attention as the reporting officer babbled on, giving meaningless details, Riddle set up the tactical problem and let it run, hundreds of solutions a second being calculated. Every one ended with O’Malley’s ship being blown to hell and gone. Even if the cargo ship had been docked alongside the Shillelagh, even welded hull to hull, its explosion would not destroy a dreadnought. The dual explosion alone would have carried the day.

“Was the cruiser refitted before it launched?”

“No, sir, not that I am aware.”

“Find out. Not from O’Malley, from the space station dry dock personnel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Riddle leaned back. Eliminating Tomlins was good, but when details failed to mesh with the overall plans, he worried. Attention to details. That was important, almost as important as the flow of intelligence from his unknown benefactor. Riddle cursed again when he saw the tiny column of mist whirling about, trying to establish itself on his battle map. His electronic blockade prevented it--so far.

“Have Captain O’Malley report to me immediately. I want to give him a medal, have a press conference, the usual routine for a hero.”

“He is limping back to port, sir. He has reported extensive damage.”

“See that the after-action report is classified Eyes Only and sent directly to me.” Riddle waved his hand through the increasingly insistent misty column. “Now go.”

“Yes, sir.”

He made certain his electronic shields were up. The column, in spite of his efforts, grew in size and intensity. He started his monitors to analyze how those safeguards were circumvented.

“It’s done,” came the familiar voice. The gray mist hardened but never quite showed the usual dynamism. He recorded everything to find what technique proved the most effective block.

“Yes,” Riddle said. “It is done. I am moving to reinforce troops in the major cities before announcing Programmer General Weir’s unfortunate demise.”

“You must deal with Kori Tomlins first.”

He grimaced. Always Kori Tomlins and her daughter.

“Yes, of course.” Riddle waited for a reply. It never came. The fog whooshed out of existence, leaving him with his own thoughts--and his own objectives that had nothing to do with a secretive benefactor.

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