Free Flagship by Mike Resnick

unworthy of the trust the citizens of the Republic have placed in you. You have one Standard day in which to resign your position. If you do not, then be assured that you will be forcibly removed from it. This is not an idle threat, and I am not grandstanding: if you have not resigned within one Standard day, we shall be at hazard. And this time I won't be running from you, but toward you."
    He nodded to Rachel, who coded and scrambled the message, then turned back to Briggs.
    "This will be transmitted to Sokolov and Moyer," he said. "Once they've each captured or disabled a ship, I want these messages sent uncoded to the recipients I name, but I don't want them sent separately. I want them sent within a minute of each other, from totally different sectors."
    "That shouldn't be a problem."
    "Good. And even though Sokolov and Moyer aren't in military ships, I want them to get the hell out of the area, at least fifty light-years, before those messages are sent. If they can't find the proper wormholes, have them contact Pilot; he's been around forever and he knows every damned wormhole in the galaxy—or at least it feels like he does."
    "I'll tell them, sir," said Briggs. "You haven't told me where you want the message sent."
    "I want Moyer's sent to the Xerxes —Admiral Susan Garcia's flagship."
    "It'll probably be picked up by thirty other ships first. It could take a long time to go through channels and reach her."
    "Once they check my voiceprint, it'll take about twenty seconds," replied Cole confidently.
    "And the other message, the one we're giving to Vladimir Sokolov?"
    Cole smiled. "You haven't guessed? Have it sent to Deluros VIII, to the personal attention of Egan Wilkie, the Secretary of the Republic."
    "So you're sending them a threatening holo," said Val. "So what? They'll laugh their heads off."
    "No, they won't," said Cole. "They'll home in on the two ships, which I hope will be a couple of thousand light-years apart, and blow them to hell and gone—but at the same time they'll realize that we're a force of more than one. And then they'll start checking on how many of their ships have turned up missing. Probably some were brought down by the Teronis, and a few malfunctioned, but we'll take credit for—and be blamed for—every last one. Any power plant blows, any shipbuilding world is sabotaged—some will be our doing but most won't—they'll credit it all to us. They'll spread themselves thin, thinner than they should be while they're fighting the Teronis, and while we keep feinting and ducking, they'll keep responding—and sooner or later we'll find the weakness in their armor."
    "It's a hell of a way to fight a war," snorted Val.
    "I know it's going to disappoint the hell out of you," said Cole, "but I have no interest in fighting a war." She stared at him curiously. "I'm only interested in winning the war, and if I can do it without firing a single shot, I'll be just as happy."
    "We're growing a strange crop of heroes this year," said Val.
    "Heroes fight bravely and die young," said Cole. "I'm just a guy who's playing the cards that were dealt to him."
    "Besides," said Sharon's disembodied voice, "maybe Garcia and Wilkie will take the hint and resign."
    "Yeah," said Val. "Right after the stars stop in their courses and I run off with David Copperfield."
    "If I were a bookmaker," said Cole, "I'd call it six-to-five pick 'em."

 
    Cole's messages had an immediate and deleterious effect. Not on the Teddy R, which was a third of a galaxy away from Deluros VIII, but on almost anything that moved and didn't bear the insignia of the Republic.
    A convoy of eleven ships, carrying ore from the mining worlds of the Frontier to the shipbuilding world of Spica II, didn't identify itself quickly enough and was obliterated.
    Two men—one high on whiskey, one high on drugs—got into a fight on Bishawn IV. Weapons were drawn, a single pulse blast was fired, it went wild and hit a bystander, more guns and shots were