An Enemy of the State

by Wilson, F. Paul

  When Broohnin entered, the already low level of chatter at the bar lowered further as it does when any outsider ventures near an insular group such as this. He knew his uneasiness showed. His lips were tight behind his beard as his eyes scanned the room. He spotted a blond stranger waving from the corner. Conversation gradually returned to its previous level.

  With every muscle in his body tense and ready to spring at the first sign of danger, Broohnin stalked warily to the booth and slid in opposite LaNague.

  He was now truly seeing the stranger for the first time. He had spoken to a shadowy wraith last night; the figure before him now was flesh and blood…and not exactly an imposing figure. A thin, angular face with an aquiline nose dividing two green eyes, intense, unwavering, all framed with unruly almost kinky, blond hair. Long neck, long limbs, long tapered fingers, almost delicate. Alarmingly thin now without the bulk of last night's cloak, and dressed only in a one-piece shirtsuit and a vest, all dark green.

  “Where are your friends?” Broohnin asked as his eyes roamed the room.

  “Outside.” The stranger, who already held a dark ale, signaled the barman, who brought the tray he had been holding aside. He placed before Broohnin a small glass of colorless, potent liquor made from hybrid Throne corn with a water chaser beside it.

  Broohnin ran the back of his hand across his mouth in an attempt to conceal his shock: this was what he drank, just the way he drank it. Any hope he had held of dealing with this man on an equal footing had been crushed beyond repair by that one little maneuver. He was completely outclassed and he knew it.

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  “I certainly hope so. I want you to be in such complete and total awe of my organization and my approach to a…change…that you'll drop your own plans and join me.”

  “I don't see that I have much choice.”

  “You can go back to Nolevatol.”

  “That's hardly a choice. Neither is dealing with your Flinter friends.” He lifted his glass. “To a new order, or whatever you have in mind.”

  The stranger hoisted his ale mug by the handle, but did not drink. He waited instead until Broohnin had swallowed his sip of liquor, then made his own toast.

  “To no order.”

  “I'll drink to that,” Broohnin said, and took another burning pull from his glass while the other quaffed half a mugful. That particular toast appealed to him. Perhaps this wouldn't turn out too badly after all.

  “LaNague is the name,” the stranger said. “Peter LaNague.” He brought out a small cube and laid it on the table. “The Flinters gave me this. It creates a spheroid shell that distorts all sound waves passing through its perimeter. Radius of about a meter. It's quite unlikely that anyone here would be much interested in our conversation, but we'll be discussing some sensitive matters, and with all the assassination attempts lately”—a pause here, a disapproving twist of the thin lips—“I don't want some overzealous citizen accusing us of sedition.”

  He pressed the top of the cube and suddenly the chatter from the bar was muted and garbled. Not a single word was intelligible.

  “Very handy,” Broohnin said with an appreciative nod. He could think of dozens of uses immediately.

  “Yes, well, the Flinter society is obsessed with the preservation of personal privacy. Nothing really new technologically. Only the pocket size is innovative. Now…”

  “When does the Imperium fall?” Broohnin's interjected question was half facetious, half deadly earnest. He had to know.

  LaNague answered with a straight face. “Not for years.”

  “Too long! My men won't wait!”

  “They had better wait.” The words hung in the air like a beckoning noose. Broohnin said nothing and kept his eyes on his glass as he swirled the colorless fluid within. The moment passed and LaNague spoke again.

  “Most of your men are Throners, I believe.”

  “All but myself and one other.”

  “A very important part of my plan will require a group such as yours. It will help if they're natives. Will they co-operate?”

  “Of course…especially if they have no other choice.”

  LaNague's head moved in a single, quick, emphatic shake. “I'm not looking for that kind of co-operation. I called you here because you seem to be an intelligent man and because we are both committed to bringing the Out-world Imperium to an end. You've developed an underground of sorts—an infrastructure of dedicated people and I don't think they should be denied the chance to play a part. But you and they must play according to my plan. I want to enlist your aid. The plan requires informed, enthusiastic participation. If that is beyond you and your cohorts, then you'll not participate at all.”

  Something was wrong here. Broohnin sensed it. Too much was being withheld. Something did not ring true, but he could not say where. And there was an air of—was it urgency?—about the slight man across the table from him. Under different circumstances he would have played coy and probed until he had learned exactly what was going on. But this fellow had Flinters at his beck and call. Broohnin wanted no part of any games with them.

  “And just what is this plan of yours? What brings a Tolivian to Throne as a revolutionary?”

  LaNague smiled. “I'm glad to see I didn't underestimate your quickness. The accent gave me away, I suppose?”

  “That, and the Flinters. But answer the question.”

  “I'm afraid you're not in a position of confidence at this point. Be secure in the knowledge that the stage is being set to bring down the Imperium with a resounding crash—but without slaughter.”

  “Then you're a dreamer and a fool! You can't smash the Imperium without taking Metep and the Council of Five out of the picture. And the only way those fecaliths will be moved is to burn a few holes in their brain pans. Then see how fast things fall apart! Anything else is wasted time! Wasted effort! Futility!”

  As he spoke, Broohnin's face had become contorted with rage, saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth and threatening to fly in all directions. His voice rose progressively in volume and by the end of his brief outburst he was shouting and pounding on the table. He caught himself with an effort, suddenly glad LaNague had brought the damper box along.

  The Tolivian shook his head with deliberate slowness. “That will accomplish nothing but a changing of the guard. Nothing will be substantially different, just as nothing is substantially different now from the pre-Imperium days when Earth controlled the out-worlds.”

  “You forget the people!” Broohnin said, knowing he sounded as if he were invoking an ancient god. “They know that everything's gone wrong. The Imperium's only two centuries old and already you can smell the rot! The people will rise up in the confusion following Metep's death and—”

  “The people will do nothing! The Imperium has effectively insulated itself against a popular revolution on Throne—and only on Throne would a revolution be of any real significance. Insurgency on other worlds amounts to a mere inconvenience. They're light years away and no threat to the seat of power.”

  “There's no such thing as a revolution-proof government.”

  “I couldn't agree more. But think: more than half—half!—the people on Throne receive all or a good part of their income from the Imperium.”

  Broohnin snorted and drained his glass. “Ridiculous!”

  “Ridiculous—but true.” He began ticking off points on the fingers of his left hand: “Dolees, retirees, teachers, police and ancillary personnel, everyone in or connected to the armed forces”—then switched to his right—“Sanitary workers, utility workers, tax enforcers/collectors, prison officials and all who work for them, all the countless bureaucratic program shufflers…” He ran out of fingers. “The list goes on to nauseating length. The watershed was quietly reached and quietly passed eleven standard years ago when 50 per cent of Throne's population became financially dependent on the Imperium. A quiet celebration was held. The public was not invited.”

  Broohnin sa
t motionless, the rim of his glass still touching his lower lip, a slack expression on his face as LaNague watched him intently. Finally, he set the glass down.

  “By the Core!” The Tolivian was right!

  “Ah! The light!” LaNague said with a satisfied smile. “You now see what I meant by insulation: the state protects itself from being bitten by becoming the hand that feeds. It insinuates itself into the lives of as many of its citizens as possible, always dressed in the role of helper and benefactor but always leaving them dependent on it for their standard of living. They may not wind up loving the state, but they do wind up relying on it to increasing degrees. And chains of economic need are far harder to break than those of actual physical slavery.”

  Broohnin's voice was hoarse. “Incredible! I never thought—”

  “The process is not at all original with the Out-world Imperium, however. States throughout history have been doing it with varying degrees of success. This one's been slyer than most in effecting it.”

  As he turned off the sound damper and signaled the waiter for another round, the conversation drifting over from the bar became mildly intelligible. After the drinks had been delivered and the shield was operating again, LaNague continued.

  “The Imperium has concentrated its benefits on the citizenry of Throne to keep them in bovine somnolence. The other out-worlds, with Flint and Tolive as notable exceptions, get nothing but an occupation force—‘pardon me, defense garrison’ is what it's called, I believe. And why this disparity? Because outraged citizens on other planets can be ignored; outraged Throners could bring down the Imperium. The logical conclusion: to bring down the Imperium, you must incite the citizens of Throne to outrage against the state. Against the state! Not against a madman who murders elected officials and thus creates sympathy for the state. He then becomes the enemy instead of the state.”

  Broohnin slumped back in his seat, his second drink untouched before him, a danse macabre of conflicting emotions whirling across his mind. He knew this was obviously a crucial moment. LaNague was watching him intently, waiting to see if he would accept an indirect approach to felling the Imperium. If he still insisted on a frontal assault, there would be trouble.

  “Have I made myself clear?” LaNague asked, after allowing a suitable period of brooding silence. “Do you still think killing Metep will bring down the Imperium?”

  Broohnin took a long slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand, and hedged. “I'm not sure what I think right now.”

  “Answer honestly, please. This is too important a matter to cloud with face-saving maneuvers.”

  Broohnin's head shot up and his gaze held LaNague's. “All right—no. Killing Metep will not end the Imperium. But I still want him dead!”

  “Why? Something personal?” LaNague appeared struck by Broohnin's vehemence.

  “No…something very general. He's there!”

  “And is that why you want the Imperium overthrown? Because it's there?”

  “Yes.” Silence followed.

  “I'll accept that,” LaNague said after a moment's consideration. “And I can almost understand it.”

  “What about you?” Broohnin asked, leaning forward intently. “Why are you here? And don't tell me it's something personal—you've got money, power, and Flinters behind you. The gnomes of Tolive wouldn't get involved in something like this unless there was some sort of profit to be made. What's their stake? And how, by the Core, are we going to pull this off?”

  LaNague inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of the “we” from Broohnin, then reached into his vest and withdrew three five-mark notes.

  “Here is the Imperium's insulation. We will show the higher-ups and all who depend on it just how thin and worthless it really is. Part of the work has already been done for me by the Imperium itself.” He separated the oldest bill and handed it to Broohnin. “Read the legend in the lower right corner there.”

  Broohnin squinted and read stiltedly: “‘Redeemable in gold on demand at the Imperial Treasury.’ “

  “Look at the date. How old is it?”

  He glanced down, then up again. “Twenty-two years.” Broohnin felt bewildered, and simultaneously annoyed at being bewildered.

  LaNague handed over the second bill. “This one's only ten years old. Read its legend.”

  “ ‘ This is legal tender for all debts, public and private, and is redeemable in lawful money at the Imperial Treasury.’” Broohnin still had no idea where the demonstration was leading.

  The third bill was handed over. “I picked this one up today—it's the latest model.”

  Broohnin read without being prompted. “‘This note is legal tender for all debts public and private.’” He shrugged and handed back all three mark notes. “So what?”

  “I'm afraid that's all I can tell you now.” LaNague held up the oldest note. “But just think: a little over two standard decades ago this was, for all intents and purposes, gold. This”—he held up the new bill—“is just paper.”

  “And that's why you're trying to topple the Imperium?” Broohnin shook his head in disbelief. “You're crazier than I am!”

  “I'll explain everything to you once we're aboard ship.”

  “Ship? What ship? I'm not going anywhere!”

  “We're going to Earth. That is, if you want to come.”

  Broohnin stared as the truth hit him. “You're not joking, are you?”

  “Of course not.” The tone was testy. “There's nothing humorous about going to Earth.”

  “But why would—” He stopped short and drew in a breath, narrowing his eyes. “You'd better not be bringing Earthies into this! If you are, I'll wring your neck here and now and not an army of Flinters will save you!”

  LaNague's face reflected disgust at the thought of complicity with Earth. “Don't be obscene. There's a man on Earth I must see personally. The entire success or failure of my plan may hinge on his response to a certain proposal.”

  “Who is he? Chief Administrator or some other overgrown fecalith?”

  “No. He's well known, but has nothing to do with the government. And he doesn't know I'm coming.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I'll tell you when we get there. Coming?”

  Broohnin shrugged. “I don't know…I just don't know. I've got to meet with my associates tonight and we'll discuss it.” He leaned forward. “But you've got to tell me where all this is leading. I need something more than a few hints.”

  Broohnin had noted that LaNague's expression had been carefully controlled since the moment he had entered the tavern. A small repertoire of bland, casual expressions had played across his face, displayed for calculated effect. But true emotions came through now. His eyes ignited and his mouth became set in a fierce, tight line.

  “Revolution, my dear Broohnin. I propose a quiet revolution, one without blood and thunder, but one which will shake this world and the entire out-world mentality such as no storm of violence ever shall. History is filled with cosmetic revolutions wherein a little paint is daubed on an old face or, in the more violent and destructive examples, a new head set on an old body.

  Mine will be different. Truly radical…which means it will strike at the root. I'm going to teach the out-worlds a lesson they will never forget. When I'm through with the Imperium and everything connected with it, the people of the out-worlds will swear to never again allow matters to reach the state they are in now. Never again!”

  “But how, damn you?”

  “By destroying these”—LaNague threw the mark notes on the table—“and substituting this.” He reached into another pocket of his vest and produced a round metal disk, yellow, big enough to cover a dead man's eye, and heavy—very heavy. It was stamped on both sides with a star inside an ohm.

  THE CIRCLE WAS TO MEET at the usual place tonight. Broohnin always referred aloud to the members of his tiny revolutionist cadre as “my associates.” But in his mind and in his heart they were always called “th
e Broohnin circle.” It was a varied group—Professor Zachariah Brophy from Out-world University; Radmon Sayers, an up-and-coming vid-caster; Seph Wolverton, a worker with the communications center; Gram Hootre in the Treasury Department; Erv Singh at one of the Regional Revenue Centers. There were a few fringe members who were in and out as the spirit moved them. The first two, Zack and Sayers, had been out lately, protesting murder as a method; the rest seemed to be going along, although reluctantly. But then, who else did they have?

  There was only one man on the rooftop: Seph Wolverton.

  “Where are the others?

  “Not coming,” Seph said. He was a big-boned, hard-muscled man; a fine computer technician. “No one's coming.”

  “Why not? I called everyone. Left messages. I told them this was going to be an important meeting.”

  “You've lost them, Den. After last night, they're all convinced you're crazy. I've known you a long time now, and I'm not so sure they're wrong. You took all our money and hired that assassin without telling us, without asking our approval. It's over, Den.”

  “No, it's not! I started this group! You can't push me out—”

  “Nobody's pushing. We're just walking away.” There was regret in Seph's voice, but a note of unbending finality, too.

  “Listen. I may be able to work a new deal. Something completely different.” Broohnin's mind was racing to stay ahead of his tongue. “I made a contact tonight who may be able to put a whole new slant on this. A new approach to stopping the Imperium. Even Zack and Sayers won't want to miss out.”

  Seph was shaking his head. “I doubt it. They're—”

  “Tell them to give it a chance!”

  “It'll have to be awfully good before they'll trust you again.”

  “It will be. I guarantee it.”

  “Give me an idea what you're talking about.”

  “Not yet. Got to take a trip first.”

  Seph shrugged. “All right. We've got plenty of time. I don't think the Imperium's going anywhere.” He turned without saying good-by and stepped into the drop-chute, leaving Broohnin alone on the roof. He didn't like Seph's attitude. He would have much preferred angry shouts and raised fists. Seph looked at him as if he had done something disgusting. He didn't like that look.