Darklight Pirates
Chapter Thirteen

“I could have prevented their escape,” Aaron Riddle said, forcing himself to keep his anger in check. The tiny voice in his head warned him against doing anything that jeopardized his position with the government. Right now government meant Goram Weir. Any fool could see that Weir still felt insecure and saw no reason to allow anyone to remain in a position of power who was less than 100 percent loyal.

“How?”

“I should have been directly linked to the battle computer. The ground commanders weren’t coordinated in their attacks because you refused linkage.”

“At the beginning of the battle there was some confusion,” Weir said, sitting behind his desk and only occasionally glancing at the display popping up emergencies everywhere he looked. The entire needs of a huge continent covering three-quarters the surface area of Ballymore were his to satisfy now, to supply immediately as well as dealing with the projections of need. Even without cracking the control algorithm, he had immense power, if he wasn’t distracted. Another few weeks were necessary for him to install his AI modules, but until they powered up to aid him, he had to make all the decisions. Just like that fool Donal Tomlins had done. Like Riddle insisted on doing now. “As the fight progressed, the fight went in our direction.”

“I have heard of warriorobots, of course,” Riddle said. “The only explanation for their appearance is Donal Tomlins.”

“He’s not dead? You said the explosion in orbit showed that Captain Lochlan eradicated this ... bother. Who’s lying to me? You or Lochlan?”

“Programmer General, I haven’t had contact with the Highlander or Lochlan since the fireball was recorded.” Riddle listened more intently to the soft voice telling him things he had never known about the Blarney Stone master computer and what Weir was doing--trying to do--while arguing that the fight at Cork had gone well.

Riddle wasn’t sure how to use the steady flow of information, and that made him even angrier.

“You are failing at your new position, Commander in Chief. But then, you were still Low Guard Commander until Tomlins was killed, and I promoted you. If he is alive, is your promotion valid?”

“Don’t skirt the real problem, Weir.” Riddle snapped. He leaned over the display and swept his arm through the small holograms. Everywhere his arm moved, tiny rainbows formed and the image blurred for a moment before reforming around his arms. The movement took Weir’s attention off the holos and focused it on him. “Those were warriorobots from Far Kingdom. Tomlins had to have brought them back and launched them to rescue his wife and daughter.”

“Perhaps also his CIO.”

Riddle sneered. He knew better. Tomlins would destroy the planet to rescue his wife. Why he wanted the bitch in his bed provoked a new surge of ire. She had denied his advances repeatedly, as had his daughters, forcing him to replace other sources of information from the Programmer General’s office.

“Scarlotti meant nothing to him. He was a hireling, to be replaced at a whim.”

“Ah, you begin to realize the power of Programmer General.” Weir leaned back and tented his fingers before resting his chin on the tips. His cold eyes bored into Riddle in a way that would have been intimidating before. Not now. Riddle had knowledge as his ally, even if it was knowledge possessed by his unseen confidant and passed to him as necessary.

“I begin to see the limitations. Both warbots escaped after destroying a major base. Casualties are in the hundreds. Human lives, in the hundreds! That’s the worst defeat this country has had in more than forty years.”

“The neo-Viking incursion,” Weir said, in a whisper. He gestured and brought up a new display that occupied him for a moment. “We survived that a dozen years ago. This requires a little more work to give the proper slant. The killed and missing will be tallied and blamed on Eire guerrillas.”

“Too many soldiers died for that to be believed.” Riddle pressed his palm against the side of his head. Information flooded in, coupled with invective directed at Weir. He ignored that. Sometimes his benefactor slipped when it came to describing personal behavior or family heritage. Recognizing that failing kept his own temper in check. “The fliers acted as observers. The drone swarm caught the warbots in action, not Eire soldiers. Everything was recorded from orbit. You might suppress some of that, but you can’t keep it all tamped down. Civilians also witnessed the warriorobots and what they did.”

“None was close enough to photograph the fight. We have all the military pictures blocked for distribution under the secrets act.”

Riddle had been a soldier all his life and knew the limits of that law. It never failed that one malcontent leaked the data or, more likely, some green recruit accidentally released it, not knowing the importance or believing it didn’t matter. Newsers sweet-talking a young bureaucrat was not out of the question, either.

“I have control of the news media. Enough to bottle this up until it is no longer important.” Weir closed his eyes and made Riddle wonder if the Programmer General went to sleep.

“Let me access the Blarney Stone directly. The robots returned to what has to be the Shillelagh. If Tomlins is alive and broadcasts any recording of the battle from orbit, all your supposed control of the news is moot.”

“I have an interdiction process in place.”

“Even if he contacts Eire or Uller? Either of those countries would be willing to report a coup as proof of our weakness.”

“He won’t. Burran controls everything in orbit.”

“You overestimate the force we can bring to bear. We control commerce but not all the spaceships. We don’t have enough of a space navy to deal with even the merchanteers.”

“When I finally crack the protection on the control algorithm and install enough AI to monitor everything interactively, our planetary adversaries will replace themselves cut off from off-planet trade. Everything will go through our ports and orbital stations. What Tomlins considered safeguards will be permanently removed and proper taxation goes into effect.”

Riddle knew he had to press now or Weir would consolidate his position--without him in the circle of power. What parts of the economy, the very culture, he didn’t control now, were hidden, but persistence would break open the kernel needed to give him total power. Moving the lifeblood of Burran was one thing. Cracking the CA and rewriting it for his own purposes let him do projections of the future that had to include crushing opposition to his power, both internal to the government personnel and external.

“Let me into the neural net. Those robot fighting machines are a weapon we cannot ignore. Destroy them now and you will succeed. Let them rearm and there’s no telling where they will be used next. Do you want to look out the front doors of the Programmer General’s Residence and see those warbots striding across the newly mowed lawn--coming for you?”

Weir opened his eyes. Riddle didn’t like the polar stare. Better to face a commando squad than this, but he didn’t flinch. To do so would doom him. Weir held the reins of power adequate to promote someone else to the Commander in Chief Armed Forces who would bend to his will.

“Review the videos with an eye toward improving response to those robots. The tank corps severely damaged them. Anti-aircraft fire further impaired their attack capability. Unless they return to Far Kingdom for repair facilities, those robots will never be a problem again. If they show up again, you must have a tactic in place destroy them.”

Riddle didn’t need the small voice warning him that Tomlins might have more in his dreadnought’s hold than a pair of warriorobots. Without a look at the cargo manifest, his return posed one giant unknown problem after another.

“I will see to rebuilding the base. Between the robots and the orbital laser cannons, not much was left. The crater will remain molten for some time.”

“Build a new base somewhere else. Better yet, close it all down. I’ll authorize the money. Let me know the location before you begin construction.”

“What of Kori Tomlins and her daughter? We had a report that Scarlotti was killed by a squad sent after them.” Riddle knew Weir had read the report how that squad had all been killed. Two deaths had been attributed to the warriorobots but the other six remained a mystery.

“If Scarlotti died, so did they. We shall proceed with their deaths considered to be factual. The same for Donal Tomlins and his son.”

“Very well, Programmer General. Your information flow is greater than mine.”

“Remember that.” Weir began working to restructure the display in front of him, sending support to cities needing it, choking off dissent, expanding his aerial spy swarms. In one corner a new forecast built, running through data and projecting how much time and resources would be needed. Riddle tried to guess what the forecast portended but couldn’t.

Seeing the Programmer General’s attention entirely on the desktop proposals and projections, Riddle stormed from the office, fuming. He left the Capitol Building soon to be named after Donal Tomlins, in memory of his service, stopping for a moment on the broad marble steps to regain control of his emotions. Riddle and his ally opposed this renaming of the building. If Donal Tomlins were still alive, and it seemed likely, such a move could turn against Weir in a flash. The conquering hero’s rich, positive legacy would be obvious in the building’s name and trying to discredit him would be that much more difficult. Better to name it after Weir to reinforce who controlled the economy and dispensed everything necessary for life in Burran to continue undisturbed.

Riddle saw many ways of using such a renaming against the Programmer General.

“Your car, sir.” A crisply uniformed High Guard lt lieutenant opened the carrier door for him.

Riddle made a vague gesture in acknowledgment and climbed in. He needed to consult with his benefactor to replace a way to protect his position and advance it if Weir made a misstep. That appeared increasingly likely because the new Programmer General overestimated his own power to influence the populace. Simply feeding and clothing and giving shelter did nothing to win the propaganda battles forming like summer storms over the Kilkenny Mountains. Incidents such as that at the Cork base could not be kept secret. Riddle frowned as he thought on ways to turn that to his benefit while darkening Weir’s appeal.

The carrier accelerated smoothly and launched. Riddle appreciated his pilot’s skill but still checked the small HUD in the rear of the carrier to be certain they followed the proper route to his office and that no one trained spy devices on him. The sky was even uncharacteristically clear of drones at the moment. Settling back, he tried to figure out what he ought to do now, should Weir falter.

When Weir faltered. It had to happen. Riddle had to decide what he wanted out of the resulting chaos. Ultimate power for himself when he wasn’t trained as a Programmer General? Or did that matter? With the military under his command, perhaps he need do nothing more than hire a legion of programmers to keep Burran thriving. Donal Tomlins had played well on the idea that a single programmer was best for security and satiation of the nation. A brigade, each performing a small task under the Commander in Chief Armed Forces’ orders might work better.

With Commander in Chief Armed Forces Aaron Riddle in charge.

The carrier settled lightly on the roof of the ten-story Military Directorate Building in a perfect landing, taxied closer to the elevator that went directly to his office, then powered down. Riddle popped out, waved off the pilot and pressed his hand against the ident plate to summon the elevator. He stepped into the small car through the silently opening door, dropped more than a thousand meters and stepped out on the lowest level of the building. The corridor was eerily deserted for this time of day. Riddle made his way to his secured office, keyed himself in and went to his desk in the inner office. The outer where his aide-de-camp had a workstation was also empty. A quick glance at the daily itinerary showed an indoctrination meeting had been scheduled, draining the building of its personnel.

Riddle had disagreed with the Programmer General about these sessions before realizing Weir wanted indoctrination among his officers. He wanted reeducation to support him and him alone. When the power shifted again, Riddle would cancel the classes and win back the staff’s approval. He keyed himself into his office and settled down in his broad, comfortable pleather chair. A single gesture produced a virtual desk filled with all the information he needed.

Dozens of holograms danced on his display showing the damage at Cork, unit placement around the smoking crater and how reinforcements moved in to further cordon off the area. A pass of his hand cast the images into oblivion. He stared at the side of his desktop a moment, then pressed his thumb on a nondescript gray spot. A new holographic figure appeared.

His benefactor. The holo’s display face was generic. Riddle recognized it as one used in a popular hologame. The long red hair glowed as if on fire, but the eyes were shielded and the figure of indeterminate sex. Although they had been allies for only a short while, Riddle thought his mysterious friend was a woman. He had no proof of this, but certain responses brought forth a flood of anger more in keeping with a spurned lover than a power rival whenever Donal Tomlins was mentioned.

“How long before he opens the CA and reconfigures it?” He expected an immediate answer to his question. Riddle had found pleasantries were neither exchanged nor appreciated. Business. Only business. That suited him just fine.

“He might never crack it, but he is not without a low-level cunning. Working around it and replacing its function with subroutine CAs is more likely. You are right to press him on configuring your brain into the neural net. Fast response to military threats becomes more important.”

“That was Donal Tomlins’ doing at Cork? He was responsible for the warriorobots?”

“Of course it was. The Highlander blew up, not the Shillelagh. I have no source to replace who piloted the warbots.”

Riddle pursed his lips. Warbots. His training had not included such war machines. To give himself a few seconds to consider what this meant, he performed a complete spybot search of his office. A Faraday cage prevented overt spying, but the tiniest of drones provided more information leakage than he wanted to consider. Powerful suction backed with nanometer filtration swept the air of even microscopic spybots, and constant vigilance for recording devices that produced output intended for physical pickup and later carry out had turned up four since the Shillelagh Dropped back into Ballymore orbit. He had been ahead of his benefactor on those. She--and he would think of his source of information as she rather than him--had alerted him to one planted by a subaltern from Tactics and Advice division. His quick elimination of the threat, even as she warned him, had given him a small boost in her estimation. At least she no longer spoke to him as if she thought he was an inferior life form. If their alliance continued much longer, she might even talk to him as if he were something above idiot level intelligence.

“I haven’t been able to locate the Shillelagh, if it is still in orbit. That might mean its power plant is dead.”

“Tomlins is cleverer than that. If he isn’t, his son certainly is. They hide in space debris or by maintaining an orbit with Ballymore between the ship and the space platform.”

“I’ve launched a swarm, but the conditions in near-planet orbit space degrade the electronics quickly. Using a nanoswarm for space recon is tricky at the best of times.”

“Worry about the warbots.” The hologram began to pace, hands clenched behind its back.

Riddle wondered if the actual person showed such nervousness or if this was an artifact of the connection. He had found an ancient foptic cable that had been decommissioned years earlier. Using a repeater at the far end, out in the Defense Department Honors Cemetery where fallen heroes were interred, he avoided the safeguards blocking all other com in or out of his office that didn’t follow official channels. He had tried to trace the signal to wherever she received it, but the com had disappeared into a welter of connections in the Blarney Stone, showing she had more than a passing acquaintance with the highest levels of government bureaucracy and power. That she used the master computer as if it were her own and Weir had not discovered her presence yet reinforced Riddle’s faith he had chosen the right side in this political chicanery.

“Threat analysis and foresight projection is complete. If a squadron of fighters armed with somewhat larger than standard warheads or a tank battalion can be deployed within two kilometers, a warbot can be destroyed.” Riddle set the tactical computer’s playback for her to see. The hologram never glanced toward the readouts.

“The warbots carried weaponry they didn’t use. Both had aurora guns.”

“I missed that.” Riddle scowled as he scanned videos from the attack, hunting for evidence the powerful energy weapons had been mounted. Small nodules on the upper torso might hold the aurora guns, but he couldn’t be certain. “Why weren’t they used rather than allowing the warbots to be scared off? Perhaps those aren’t operational but are only mock nodules to make the enemy think the firepower is greater than it is? Or were the guns useless because of poor fusion plants powering them?” Even as the questions left his lips he knew the answer before his holographic ally supplied it.

“The prisoners, you fool. Tomlins wanted his wife and daughter back. The aurora guns would have leveled the entire base with a single blast.”

“What is your best guess? Did Kori and Bella escape?”

For a moment Riddle thought the fiber optic cable had somehow developed static. Then he realized his benefactor was hissing like a snake. When this quieted, she said, “Yes. I am hunting for them. Concern yourself with preparations for a new attack by the warbots.”

“The orbiting laser cannons are more than a match for them. Neutralize the Shillelagh and the robots have no safe harbor.” He began working on a new simulation. “Even if those mechanized fighters attacked the station, they wouldn’t be able to take it.”

“Those warbots are ground units, not ones intended for space battles. There is a high probability the Highlander was partially disabled and marines in exoskeletons boarded. What com I had from the cruiser shows this and that Lochlan was unprepared for it. The comlink to the Highlander was broken early in the engagement. It is likely Lochlan thought he was sending a detailed report when nothing of the sort happened and we instead were out of touch.”

“It’s not possible to cover every contingency. I am sure the captain had trained for many more likely attacks.”

“The one you are unprepared for will destroy you completely.” The advice didn’t fall on deaf ears. Riddle understood the problems facing him better than his benefactor.

“My senior officers are working on this,” Riddle said, “especially the Middle Guard and the Low Guard. In combined attack, they will destroy any warbot touching down on-planet. Already scenarios are being plotted and training will be instituted to counter the warbots.”

“Good. That is where the most serious threat awaits us.”

Riddle hesitated, then asked, “When can we meet? Face to face?”

“When you are installed as Programmer General.”

“I could never handle the Blarney Stone. There is a genetic component to programming that I lack. It would be better if I assumed the position of military ruler and let the programmers handle the daily, menial load. Someone else, a figurehead as Programmer General, would be a better course to follow.”

“You are right. You’re not fit for the job genetically.” The laugh that accompanied the agreement struck Riddle as cruel, mocking. It quickly died. “Burran became a powerful country because of its fighting forces. After the Great Migration, only a strong military kept us alive long enough to terraform the world.”

“I can make it happen again,” Riddle said confidently. “Both Uller and Eire can fall, uniting the planet for the first time. With your help, I can make it happen.” Riddle held his breath, wondering if the praise came off as too effusive. He held the woman is as much contempt as she did him, but he still needed her sources of information until he secured his position--and Weir was added to history as a small footnote of no real importance.

“Such a fusion of leadership would benefit those countries. Their constant sniping tells of internal problems that you could solve easily. With my help.”

The hologram simply vanished. Riddle let out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Having such an ally carried incredible risks. Whoever she was, ruling the entire world as a dictator appealed to her. Riddle leaned forward and began working on new combat simulations. In the field he was tactician enough to survive. In the ranks of government bureaucrats, he had to become the master strategist to consolidate his power. Otherwise Burran would be split apart and be laid to waste by its voracious neighbors.

Uncovering the identity of his benefactor ranked very high on his list of ways to maintain his authority. She would discard him the instant he was no longer useful. He could be no less merciless when it came to their partnership.