The Covert Academy by Peter Laurent

own safety, we do not want you getting any... distressing ideas. Therefore, I have no choice but to outlaw any congregation with over twenty people. You have 30 seconds to disperse.’
    The image of Simeon separated into chunks as the drones packed away their displays.
    No one moved. But then, no one cared.
    Simeon’s words simply bounced off the crowd, too immured to notice. People shuffled around as aimlessly as they always had, lost in their own worlds. A small child buried in his mother’s clothing tugged on her rags and pointed up, trying to get her to notice the drones. Despair hung in the air like a fog, while the people sat and waited for death to come.
    But they weren’t expecting it to be today.
    The drones finished packing away the monitors and whipped out their cannons, like gunslingers from a Western.
    They fired mercilessly into the crowd.
     
    Simeon switched control of the drones over to their built-in artificial intelligence program and tore himself away from his desk. Controlling his drones manually was just too much fun, but he had had little luck in locating the General’s iPC with the bio-ID in this way. He couldn’t see everything. Not yet.
    He walked over to General Withers’ liquor cabinet and fetched a fine bottle of Scotch whiskey. They didn’t make these any more. Another relic.
    The man knew how to relax , Simeon thought, as he poured a drink and leaned back on the counter. He surveyed the gigantic living quarters that had once been the General’s, right at the very top of the Tower.
    A rich mahogany desk, with spare iPCs, networked AI hard drives, and built in wireless chargers occupied the centre of the room. Plush carpets that massaged his feet with low currents of static electricity. It might have been pleasant to someone else, but not to Simeon. He’d rearrange the room to his liking soon enough. It was prime real estate after all, and he couldn’t let it go to waste.
    An entire wall dedicated to banks of monitors showed areas in and around the Tower, with a special section for the private rooms of the rest of the Confederacy’s High Council members.
    So Withers was as paranoid as the rest of us , he thought. Not paranoid enough apparently . He could only watch the Council members while they relaxed in their rooms. A mistake Simeon would not repeat.
    The final touch for Simeon’s new den was the stunning vista. He stopped at the edge and gazed out. It was even higher up the Tower than the Conference room from where the General fell. Simeon might as well have been floating on a cloud from here. Another few drinks and he may well feel like it anyway.
    He looked down at the Tower falling away before his feet, into the heart of the Colonnade hundreds of metres below ground. The workshops churned away like a beehive, producing weapons, supplies and equipment for his soldiers. Factories spat out troop air transports and the indispensable drones, among other projects. Simeon squinted down at the laboratories.
    ‘Where is that bloody egghead?’ he asked aloud in frustration.
    He pulled up his iPC inbox and checked for new messages. Pointless really, since the system would ping him the instant a new one arrived. His life revolved around those damn ping sounds.
    He glanced at the wall monitors covering the labs to check if the doctor was in there or his private office. He wasn’t. These monitors were useful, but too limited. Simeon would have to fix that.
    He’d had enough of waiting. Since his troops and drones had failed to find General Withers’ iPC with the bio-ID, he had scooped up the General’s own laboratories and assigned everyone possible to copying that damned brilliant man’s work. Dr. Prewett.
    Simeon’s lead researcher was supposed to have had a progress update for him by now.
    With a huff, he strode for the door, entered the elevator, and punched the button for his private aircraft’s landing pad.
    He stepped out into the exposed elements. Simeon made a show of