Haworth closed his eyes in a moment of silent agony. How could this be happening to him? Everything was going wrong. He opened his eyes.
“Find that pilot. It is absolutely imperative that we contact him and find out what he knows. Get the identification number of the probe, check with the Project Perseus center to get the pilot's name and address. Track him down, bring him to me, and no more mistakes. I don't care if you have to mobilize every Imperial Guardsman under your command and send them all out beating bushes and going door to door. That man must be found!”
The commander stiffened visibly. “Everything that can be done will be done.”
“See to it, Tinmer.”
Daro Haworth stared at the screen after it had gone dark. He knew they would never find the pilot. The guardsmen who would be used for the search were worse than useless. Primus City and the surrounding garrisons were swollen with them; they were bored, inactive, and the less duty they were given, the less they wanted. At least they were assured of shelter and food and clothing, more than could be said for most of the civilian population now. It was costing a fortune to support them, but they had to be kept on ready…martial law was no longer an if, but a when. And that when was drawing nigh.
He had thought the time had come yesterday when the dolee section of Primus had its first food riot. By the Core, that had been frightening! It took him back to his student days on Earth when he had almost been caught in one of those frequent outpourings of unfocused rage. If the fellow student with him hadn't been an Earthie, and hadn't developed a sixth sense for the riots, and hadn't pulled him into a building…he didn't allow his imagination to venture into the possibilities of what would have happened to a well-dressed out-worlder trapped in the middle of that frenzied torrent of humanity. But yesterday's riot had been broken up by a few low-flying troop transports from the garrison out by the mint, and by a few well-placed warning blasts.
Next time would not be so easy. With Food Vouchers being refused everywhere, the dolees were starving. The legislative machinery couldn't raise their allotments fast enough to keep up with prices. And with all the people on the dole now, the mint was hard-pressed to put out currency fast enough to meet the demand. Haworth had heard of runaway inflation but had never thought he'd see it. Nothing he had read could even come close to the reality, however. Nothing. It was like a grossly obese dog chasing its tail…futility leading to fatality.
That's why the guardsmen had to take priority. The dolees had been the big power block before with their votes, but votes were no longer important. Blasters were going to be the legislature soon, and Haworth wanted to keep the men who had them happy. Keep them happy, keep them fed, keep them ready to run around and shoot their toys to keep the mobs in line. They weren't good for much else.
They'd certainly never find that pilot. The brazenness of the abduction—if in fact it really was an abduction—along with the perfect timing and daring escape maneuvers…all pointed to Robin Hood. It fit his modus operandi. And it was clear now that Robin Hood was more than an economic gadfly and tax rebel; he was steadily revealing himself as a full-fledged revolutionary. No mere wild-eyed bomb-thrower, but a crafty conspirator who had anticipated all the ills that had befallen the Imperium and had taken advantage of them. How had he seen it coming? How had he known? Unless…
Ridiculous! No one man could kill the Imperial mark! Not even Robin Hood!
If only they could capture him. That would be a boon to the Imperium's cause. Take Robin Hood out of the picture—or even better, keep him in the picture and turn him to the Imperium's advantage—and perhaps something could be salvaged. Haworth knew he'd like to sit down and have a long discussion with Robin Hood, whoever he was…find out where he was getting his funds, what his final goals were. It would be the most fascinating conversation he had ever had in his life, he was certain. And after it was over, it would be an even greater pleasure to kill Robin Hood.
“ARE YOU ROBIN HOOD? I mean, the Robin Hood?”
LaNague smiled, warmed by the glow of awe and open admiration in the other man's face. “We never really decided who was actually Robin Hood. It's been a group effort, really.”
“But you seem to be in charge. Was the Robin Hood idea yours?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then you're him.” The pilot thrust out his hand. “I'm proud to meet you.”
LaNague grasped and shook the proferred hand in the age-old ceremony of greeting and good will, then watched the probe pilot as he walked around in a tight circle, taking in the interior details of the Angus black warehouse. The man was short, slight, and dark, with an appealing boyish face, now filled with wonder.
“So this is the center of operations…this is where you plan all those raids and put out The Robin Hood Reader… never thought I'd ever see it.” He turned to LaNague. “But why am I here?”
LaNague put a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the back office. “To keep you out of Haworth's hands. Once he gets hold of you he'll turn your information into a war scare to keep the out-worlds in line behind the Imperium. And especially to keep the people of Throne looking to the Imperium as protector from whatever might be coming out of the sky, rather than as culprit for all the misery they're suffering. We can't allow that to happen. Things are too close to the end point.”
Stafford's mouth opened to reply as he entered the back office ahead of LaNague, and remained open but silent when he saw the occupants of the room. The two Merry Men who had shuttled him down from his probe ship had retreated to this office soon after depositing him in the warehouse. They were gone now, replaced by two black-robed figures.
“Flinters!” Stafford squinted his eyes to detect a telltale shimmer along their outlines.
“Those aren't holosuits,” LaNague told him. He was watching Stafford's reactions closely. “Does it bother you that Robin Hood is associated with Flinters?”
Stafford hesitated, then: “Not really. It shows you mean business…that you aren't just playing games and looking for attention.” He finally tore his eyes from Kanya and Josef and looked at LaNague. “Does this mean that I'm a prisoner?”
“A guest,” LaNague said. “You'll be kept comfortable and well treated for the next few weeks, but we must keep you out of Haworth's hands.”
Stafford's features slackened. “But I won't tell him anything! If you say he's going to use the information to keep himself in power, I'll see that he doesn't get it.”
“I'm afraid you can't guarantee that,” LaNague said with a weary smile. “Haworth knows you know something, and a simple injection is all it will take to have you answering in minute detail every question he asks. I know you may mean well, but Haworth is quite ruthless.”
“But my wife—”
“We'll bring her here and set up quarters for the two of you. We'll do anything we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”
“But I must stay,” Stafford said. There seemed to be a catch in his voice. He turned away and slumped into a chair, staring at the floor.
“You all right?” LaNague asked.
Stafford's voice was low. “For some reason, I thought things were going to be different. When I saw Merry Men operating the shuttle, I figured Metep and all the rest were on the way out, that things were going to be different now. Better. But they're not. And they never will be, will they?”
“I don't understand.”
“I mean, you're going to set yourself up as another Metep, aren't you?”
“Of course not!”
“Then let me go home.”
“I can't. You don't seem to understand that I—”
“All I understand,” Stafford said, rising to his feet and gesturing angrily, “is that I had it better under Metep VII. I could walk the streets. I could sleep in my home. I can't do that now!”
“You wouldn't be able to do it if Haworth found you, either,” LaNague replied. “Think of that.”
“The only thing I'm thinking is that I'm a pris
oner and you're my jail keeper. Which makes you no better than anyone else in the Imperium. In fact, it makes you worse.”
The words struck LaNague like so many blows. He mentally fought the implications, but finally had to accept them: he had put aside everything he believed in, his entire heritage, in order to further the revolution.
Above all else: Kyfho… Adrynna's words came back to him …forget Kyfho in your pursuit of victory over the enemy, and you will become the enemy…worse than the enemy, for he doesn't know he is capable of anything better.
“The enemy…me,” he muttered, feeling weak and sick. Stafford looked at him questioningly. “You wouldn't understand,” he told him. He glanced at Kanya and Josef and saw sympathy there, but no help. It was his battle, one that could only be won alone.
So close…so close to victory that victory itself had become his cause. How had he let that happen? Was this what power did to you? It was horrifying. He had always felt himself immune to that sort of lure…above it. Instead, he had placed himself above all others, ready and willing to subject their personal desires to his ultimate vision—the very reason for which he so loathed the Imperium!
When had he begun to yield? He couldn't say. The onset had been so insidious he had never noticed the subtle changes in perspective. But he should have realized something was wrong that day by the mint when he had been willing to risk the lives of some of the guards inside rather than delay activating the Barsky box. Since when had a Robin Hood caper meant more than a human life? He should have known then. He was embracing the “can't make an omelet without breaking eggs” attitude that had brought the out-worlds to the brink of ruin. Ends had never justified means for him in the past. Why had he let them do so now?
If not for Mora that day, he might have killed someone. And life was what his whole revolution was about…letting life grow, allowing it to expand unhindered, keeping it free. The revolution he had originally envisioned was for everyone on all the out-worlds, not just a few. And if his revolution was to be everyone's, it had to be for the men in the Imperial Guard, too. They had to have their chance for a new future along with everybody else. But dead men weren't free; neither was a probe pilot locked up in a warehouse.
He wanted to run, to kick down the doors, and flee into the night. But not to Mora—anywhere but to Mora. He felt so ashamed of himself now, especially after the way he had been treating her, that he couldn't bear the thought of facing her…not until he had made things right.
“You can leave,” he said, his voice barely audible as he leaned back against the office doorframe.
Stafford took an uncertain step forward. “What? You mean that?”
LaNague nodded, not looking at him. “Go ahead. But be warned: Primus City is not as you left it. It's night out there now, and the streets belong to whoever feels strong enough or desperate enough to venture onto them. You won't like it.”
“I've got to get to my wife.”
LaNague nodded again, stepping away from the doorway. “Find her. Bring her back here if you wish, or take your chances out there. I leave the choice up to you. But remember two things: the Imperium is looking everywhere for you, and we offer you and your wife safety here.”
“Thank you,” Stafford said, glancing between LaNague and the two Flinters. Hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence, he walked past LaNague, across the warehouse floor, and out the side door. He only looked back three times before he was out of sight.
LaNague was silent for a while, gathering his thoughts. The next steps would have to be moved up, the schedule accelerated. “Follow him,” he told Kanya and Josef. “Make sure he's left with a choice. If a few Imperial Guardsmen should get hold of him, let him go with them if that's what he wants. But if he decides he'd prefer to stay with us, then see to it that they don't get in his way.”
The Flinters nodded, glad for an opportunity to do something besides sit and wait. They adjusted their holosuits to the middle-aged male images, and started for the door.
“One thing,” LaNague said as they were leaving. “Don't bring him back here. Take him and his wife to my apartment. Under no circumstances bring him back here.”
LaNague could see no expression through the enveloping holograms, but knew the Flinters must have looked puzzled.
“Trust me,” he said. The words tasted stale on his tongue.
They were not gone long when Broohnin entered. “Where's the probe pilot?” he asked, his head swiveling back and forth in search of Stafford.
“Gone.” LaNague had taken over the seat Stafford had vacated.
“Where'd you hide him?”
“I let him go.”
It took a moment for the truth of that statement to register on Broohnin. At first he reacted as if to an obvious and rather silly attempt at humor, then he looked closely into LaNague's face.
“You what?”
“I don't believe in imprisoning a man completely innocent of any wrongdoing.”
The small amounts of facial skin visible above Broohnin's beard and below his hairline had turned crimson. “You fool! You idiot! Are you insane? What he knows could ruin everything—you said so yourself!”
“I realize that,” LaNague said. An icy calm had slipped over him. “I also realize that I cannot allow one unpleasant fact to overcome a lifetime's belief.”
“Belief?” Broohnin stormed across the office. “We're talking about revolution here, not belief!” He went to the desk and started rifling through the drawers.
“What do you believe in, Broohnin? Anything?”
Pulling a hand blaster from a drawer, Broohnin wheeled and pointed the lens directly at LaNague's face. “I believe in revolution,” he said, his breathing ragged. “And I believe in eliminating anyone who gets in the way of that belief!”
LaNague willed his exterior to complete serenity. “Without me, there is no revolution, only a new, stronger Imperium.”
After a breathless pause that seemed to go on forever, Broohnin finally lowered the blaster. Without a word, he stalked to the far exit and passed through to the street.
LaNague lifted his left hand and held it before his eyes. It was trembling. He could not remember being exposed to the raw edge of such violent fury before. He let the hand fall back to his lap and sighed. It would not be the last. Before this thing was over, he might well come closer to even greater physical danger. He might even die. But there was no other way.
He heaved himself out of the chair and toward the disheveled desk. Time to move.
“WHY DON'T YOU calm down?” Metep VII said from his formfitting lounger as he watched Daro Haworth pace the floor. There was an air of barely suppressed excitement about the younger man that had grown continually during the few moments he had been present in the room.
“I can't! We've just heard from the municipal police commissioner. They've had a tip on the whereabouts of Robin Hood.”
“We've been getting those ever since the first currency heist. They've all been phony. Usually someone with a grudge on somebody else, or a prankster.”
“The commissioner seems to think this is the real thing,” Haworth said. “The caller gave the location of a warehouse he says is the center of all the Robin Hood activities. Says we'll find Robin Hood himself there along with enough evidence to convince a dead man that he's the genuine article.” Haworth's hands rubbed together as if of their own will. “If only it's true! If only it's true!”
Metep coughed as he inhaled a yellow vapor from the vial in his hand. He had always liked the euphorogenic gases, but appeared to be using them with greater frequency and in greater quantities lately, especially since the recall talk had started. The calls for votes of confidence in the legislature recently had only compounded his depression. “I'm not so sure the commissioner is the right man to oversee such a project. After all, the municipal police lately have been—”
“I know that,” Haworth snapped. “That's why I've told them to wait until Tinmer, our illustrious commander-
in-chief of the Imperial Guard, can arrive with reinforcements and redeem himself after bungling the capture of that orbital shuttle this morning.”
“Let's hope so,” Metep said. “Speaking of the shuttle incident, you still have men out looking for that pilot?”
“Of course. I've also got them waiting at his apartment here in the city just in case he shows up looking for his wife.” Haworth smiled. “Wouldn't that be nice: Robin Hood himself, and our elusive probe pilot in hand before daybreak. That would change everything!”
VINCEN STAFFORD HAD NEVER SEEN the streets of Primus dark before. Glo-globes had always kept the shadows small and scarce. But someone had decided to smash every globe up and down the street, and no one had bothered to replace them. As he walked on, the intersections he crossed gave dark testimony to the fact that this was not the only street to be victimized so. Every street was dark, lined with useless pedestals supporting dim, dark shattered fragments.
He was not alone on the street. There were dark forms huddled in doorways and skulking in the deeper shadows. He was also aware of other pedestrians ahead of him and behind; not many, but enough to make him feel that he could at least count on some help should there be any trouble.
As Stafford walked on, he had the distinct impression that he was under scrutiny. But by whom? He could detect no one following him. Soon the sensation passed, replaced by a gnawing fear.
Robin Hood had been right. This was not the Primus City he had left a year ago. That city had been bright and lively—dingy on the edges, true, but nothing like this. The streets were choked with litter; ground-effect vehicles were virtually absent from view, and only one or two flitters crossed the night sky. After walking two kilometers, he gave up hope of ever seeing a taxi. He'd have to try the monorail.
As he entered the business district of town, he was in for an even greater shock. A number of the stores stood dark and empty, their fronts smashed open, their insides either stripped of their contents or gutted by fire. The ones that were intact but closed had left their lights on. Stafford peered into the window of one and saw a man sitting conspicuously under a light in a chair against the rear wall of the store. A short-range, wide-beam blaster rifle rested across his knees. When he noticed that Stafford did not move on immediately, he lifted the weapon and cradled it in his arms. Stafford moved on.
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