An Enemy of the State - a novel of the LaNague Federation (The LaNague Federation Series)

by F. Paul Wilson

  And now all were safe. Yes, he had done it. It was an exhilarating feeling. And an immense relief.

  “But what happens to Broohnin now that Robin Hood has arrived?”

  “He remains a part of the revolution,” LaNague replied. “I promised him that.”

  “You always keep your promises?”

  “Always. I promised Broohnin a front row seat at the Imperium's demise if he would turn over his Throne contacts to me, and if he didn't interfere in my plans. I intend to keep that promise.”

  “Den is a sick man, I'm afraid.”

  “Then why were you a member of his group?”

  Doc Zack laughed. “A member of his group? Please, sir, you insult me! He contacted me after a few of my critical remarks about the Imperium's shortsighted policies reached the public. We met a few times and had a few disjointed conversations. It was refreshing to talk to someone who was as anti-Imperium as myself—the halls of academe on Throne are filled with yea-sayers who fear for their positions, and who thus follow the safest course by mouthing the proper attitudes and platitudes. But I could see that violence was just a hair's breadth away from Broohnin's surface and so I kept my distance.”

  “And Radmon Sayers? How did he and Broohnin make contact?”

  “That I don't know, but I get the impression they knew each other in their younger days, before Broohnin became obsessed with overthrowing the Imperium and Sayers became a public face. But enough of Broohnin and Sayers and myself. Tell me, my friend,” Zack said, leaning back in his chair and luxuriating in the mellow mood induced by his third glass of spirits. “Isn't there a lot more to this Robin Hood pose than meets the eye? I mean, I can see drawing on archetypes and so on, but this goes beyond that.”

  “Just what do you mean? Specifically.” LaNague was quite willing to tell the professor, but wanted to see if the man could draw an accurate conclusion on his own.

  “As I see it, the Robin Hood gambit provides the average out-worlder with a flesh and blood human being as a focus, a conduit for his discontent. Through the persona of Robin Hood he can conceptualize his aggressions and vicariously act them out. Isn't that what you have in mind?”

  LaNague laughed. “Maybe. I don't think in those terms, Doc. My initial idea was to provide something concrete for the out-worlder to respond to. He lives a tough life and doesn't have much room left in the hours of his day for abstractions. He won't respond to an idea. Robin Hood will hopefully provide him with that man.”

  “But what of the final act? You're going to have to set things up so the out-worlder—at least the ones here on Throne—will have to make a choice between Metep and Robin Hood. How are you going to arrange that?”

  “I'm not sure yet,” LaNague said slowly. “I'll have to see how things develop. Any definite plans I make now will undoubtedly have to be altered later on…so I'm not making any.”

  “And me—when do I get to play my part?”

  “Not for a while yet. We first have to build Radmon Sayers’ reputation up a little, to make sure you get the kind of coverage your part will deserve.” He glanced at the glowing figures on the wall clock. “His ratings will begin a long and steady climb as of tonight.”

  “You going to feed him some exclusives, or what?”

  “No…he's going to find a very loyal friend in the central ratings computer.”

  Doc Zack nodded with gleeful insight. “Ah, yes! So you're putting Seph to work tonight.”

  “He should be at it right now.”

  HE HAD A CLEARANCE for the building, but without an official work requisition, he'd have a tough time explaining his presence in this particular section. Viewer preferences were tabulated here, and adjustments made accordingly. Every vid set manufactured on Throne contained a tiny monitoring device that informed the rating computer when the set was on and to which program it was tuned. The presence of the device was no secret, and it was quite legal to have it removed after purchase of the set. But few people bothered. The Imperium said it was there to better tune programming to the current tastes of the public, so why not leave it in the set and forego the trouble and expense of having it removed?

  Everyone knew the value of the vid as a propaganda weapon; that was self-evident, and so any attempts at overt propaganda would be routinely ignored. Since it licensed every transmitter, it would be a simple matter for the Imperium to impose its will directly and forcefully on the vid companies. But this was not necessary. The Imperium had many friends in all the media, seen and unseen, who liked to be considered part of the inner circle, who liked to help in any way they could in molding and mobilizing public opinion. Certain themes would begin to recur in dramas, or even comedies; certain catchwords and catch phrases would be mouthed by popular newsreaders and personalities. Soon public opinion would begin to shift; imperceptibly at first, then by slow degrees, then in a giant leap, after which it would never occur to anyone that he had ever thought any differently. Vid addicts were totally unaware of the process; only those who ignored the pervasive entertainment machine could see what was happening, but their cries of warning went unheeded. No one liked to admit that he or she could be so easily manipulated.

  Seph Wolverton locked himself in with the central ratings computer and began removing a plate over an inspection port. Here was the starting point for all public influence operations. This particular section of the central computer tallied the number of sets tuned to a given program at a given time. A crucially important operation, since the best way to reach people through the vid was to reach them via the programs they liked best.

  Seph laid a small black box in the palm of his hand. It popped open at a touch and revealed two compartments. One was empty; the other held a tiny sphere, onyx black. He had spent weeks programming that little sphere. Now it was time to put it to work.

  He attached a light plate to his forehead and turned it on. A world of tiny geometric shapes, arranged in seemingly incomprehensible patterns and matrices, opened up before his eyes as he thrust the upper half of his body into the inspection port. Using an insulated, socket-tipped tool in his right hand, he removed a black sphere from the matrix of spheres and replaced it with the one he had brought with him. The old one was placed in the box for safekeeping and the inspection port closed. Soon he was back in the corridor and on his way to a section of the building in which he belonged.

  The new chip would soon be at work, subtly altering the delicate magnetic fields the computer used to store new information and retrieve old. Seph had formed a crossover in the matrix that would funnel a percentage of the impulses from Sugar! Sugar!—a popular late-night comedy about a praline-crazed dwarf and his misadventures on and between the out-worlds—over to the Radmon Sayers news report. Sayers would be experiencing an expected boost in ratings now anyway, due to his coverage of “the money monsoon.” That would be short-lived, however, since no news program could normally hold out against Sugar! Sugar! for long. What Seph Wolverton had done tonight would convince the people who monitored such things that perhaps Radmon Sayers was on his way to becoming the new fair-haired boy of the newsreaders, and that perhaps it might be wise if one of the larger networks offered him a spot in a better time slot, one that would take full advantage of the man's obvious drawing powers.

  Seph glanced at the row of vids in the monitoring station as he passed. Yes, there was Sayers now, halfway through his show.

  “…and on the business scene: The Solar Stock Exchange experienced a mild selling panic today when it was learned that Eric Boedekker, the wealthy asteroid mining magnate, has dumped every single share of stock, common and preferred, in every one of his many portfolios. He has been doing it gradually for the past few months through numerous brokers, and he has been selling the stocks for cash. This amounts to billions of Solar credits! No one knows if he's reinvesting it elsewhere. But fearing that the notoriously shrewd and ruthless Boedekker might know something they do not, a large number of smaller investors sold their own holdings today, causing a
precipitous dip in many stock prices. The situation seems to have stabilized at this time, however, after numerous assurances from many investment counselers and brokerage houses that investor concern is unwarranted, that Earth's economy is sounder than it has ever been. Eric Boedekker has remained steadfastly unavailable for comment throughout the entire affair.

  “On the home front: Throne…authorities have yet to track down any of the culprits in last night's daring hijack of an Imperial Treasury currency shipment, and the subsequent dumping of that shipment into the air over Primus City. Police say they have some good leads as to the identity of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, as the hijackers call themselves, but are not commenting yet on the nature of those leads.

  “Last night, this reporter was an eyewitness to the now infamous ‘money monsoon,’ and for those of you who may have missed that particular vidcast, and its various replays during the course of today's programming, here it is again…”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “…when you see the misery it brings, you'd need to be a madman, or a coward, or stone blind, to give in tamely to the plague”

  Dr. Rieux

  LaNague sat silent and unmoving, listening to dissension brewing…and so soon. But the deaths of four good men could do that. “Retaliate!” Broohnin said, standing in the center of the office. “We've got to retaliate!”

  For once, LaNague found himself ready to agree. Perhaps it was what he had seen a few hours ago, perhaps it was the long day and the sleepless night that lay behind him. Whatever the cause, something dark within him was demanding revenge and he was listening.

  No…he couldn't allow himself the luxury of giving in to that seductive siren call. But four lives! Gone! And so early on. They were only three quarters through the Year of the Tiller and already four lives lost. All his fault, too.

  Everything had been going according to plan during the three months since the first hijack. Robin Hood had been keeping a low profile, with only the Reader to keep him in the public consciousness. Distribution of the Reader had been going well, too, experiencing a dramatic increase in interest and circulation since being outlawed after the “money monsoon.” Metep and the Council of Five were making all the expected moves as the economy picked up speed in its downward spiral, right on schedule. The time finally arrived when the Imperium needed another jolt to its complacency. Another raid by Robin Hood and his Merry Men. Another “money monsoon.”

  It wasn't going to be quite so easy this time, of course. Currency shipments to and from the Central Treasury were now escorted by heavily armed cruisers. There would be no simple way to relieve the Imperium of its flat money en route. So the obvious conclusion was to hit the currency transports before they linked up to their escorts and became an armed convoy. Hit them before they ever left the ground.

  The East Coast Regional Revenue Center was chosen as target this time. It was located in the port city of Paramer, and handled smaller volumes of currency due to the fact that most of the population and industry on Throne were concentrated around and to the west of Primus City. But the amounts funneled through it were more than adequate for the purposes of Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

  The tax depot was hit with precise timing—the strike had to occur immediately after the transports were loaded and before the escort cruisers arrived. Sonic weapons were again used, then the two loaded transports were manned with four Merry Men each and programmed with flight routes that would take one ship over Paramer itself, and the other north to the smaller Echoville. LaNague would have preferred to make another run over Primus City, but it was too far away…they never could have flown the transports from Paramer to the center of the continent without being intercepted. It was probably just as well; it wouldn't do to have the east coast towns feel slighted.

  While the transports made their deliveries into the air over the two target towns, LaNague, Broohnin, and the Flinters manned four speedy little sport flitters, ready to act as interceptors if the escort cruisers happened to appear ahead of schedule. They had been scheduled to arrive from the Imperial garrison to the south, but unknown to LaNague and the rest, an unexpected change had been made in the plans: they had been routed to a repair station in Paramer itself. They would depart from the repair station directly to the tax depot.

  And so it was with growing concern that LaNague and his lieutenants awaited the arrival of the cruisers, ready to fly into their faces and lead them away from the transports. It would be dangerous, but their smaller craft had speed and maneuverability on their side and could outrun anything in the sky. They didn't know that while they were waiting, the escort happened upon the transport assigned to Paramer just as it was making its final pass over the center of the town. The chase was short, the battle brief, the transport a ball of flaming wreckage by the time it slammed into the sea.

  “They were only doing their duty, Den,” Radmon Sayers said, watching Broohnin carefully.

  “And it's our duty to even the score! If we don't they'll know they can kill as many of us as they want whenever they get the chance. We owe it to ourselves and to those four dead men!”

  “We all knew what we were risking when we started out last night,” LaNague said, fatigue putting an edge on his voice. “We all knew there was a chance some of us might not come back one of these times. This happened to be the night. It was just bad luck—rotten, stinking, lousy luck that the tight routine the escort cruisers have followed for months was altered last night.”

  “Luck?” Broohnin sneered. “Tell those dead men about luck.” He turned to Doc Zack and Sayers. “I say we retaliate. I want a vote on it right now!”

  “Forget it, Den,” Doc said in a low voice. “That's not what we're about here.”

  “Then what are we about?” Broohnin asked, piercing them with his fierce gaze. “Where's all this leading us? What have we done so far besides play a few games and lose a few lives? Are we any closer to ending the Imperium? If we are, show me how and where and I'll shut up!”

  “That was not your original demand,” Doc Zack said softly, maintaining his professional cool. “You want us to turn killer. We decline. I'd like to be sure you understand that before we go on to other topics.”

  Broohnin's beard hid most of his expression, but what could be seen of his mouth was a thin, tight line. “And I just want you to understand,” he said, stabbing his fingers at Sayers and Doc, “that I'm not going to die for him.” The finger went toward LaNague on the last word. After a final glare at all present, he wheeled and strode from the room.

  “He's right,” LaNague said after he was gone. “I am responsible for those deaths. Those men were following my orders when they died. If I had checked just a little more carefully last night, they'd be out on the warehouse floor celebrating now.” He rose from his seat and walked over to where Pierrot sat on a shelf, its drooping leaves reflecting his master's mood. “If I hadn't come here and started this whole thing, they'd still be alive. Maybe I should have stayed on Tolive.”

  He was speaking more to himself than to anyone else. The other two occupants of the cubicle realized this and allowed him a few moments of silence.

  “Den did have a point at the last there,” Zack said finally. “Where is all this leading? It's all very dramatic and great copy for guys like Radmon, but where is it taking us?”

  “To the end of the Imperium.”

  “But how? I'd like to know. I'd like to go to bed at night and know that something I've done that day has pushed us closer to getting this very weighty piece of government off our backs. But that's not happening. I mean, I seem to be doing a lot, and it's all antigovernment, but I don't see any dents in the Imperium. I see no cracks in the foundation, no place to drive a wedge in. We're winning psychological victories, but every morning I wake up and find we're still at square one.”

  “Fair question,” Sayers said. “We're big boys, and we can be trusted. I think we deserve to know where you're leading us.”

  LaNague turned and faced
them. He wanted to tell them, wanted to unburden himself to someone. He desperately wished Mora were at his side at that very moment. He had a pounding in both his temples and a pain at the back of his head that felt like a muscular hand had arisen from his neck and clamped the back of his skull in a death grip. Tension headaches were no strangers, but this one was one of the worst he could remember. He almost felt he could chase it away if he could tell these two good men what he had in mind for their world. But he couldn't risk it. Not yet. Not even Josef and Kanya knew.

  “You're right, both of you,” he said. “But you'll have to trust me. I know that's a lot to ask,” he said quickly, sensing the objections forming on their lips, “it's the way I have to work it. The fewer people who know exactly where all this is heading, the less chance of someone telling all when and if one of us is captured. And don't kid yourselves—a simple intravenous injection and any one of us, no matter how strong-willed he thinks he is, will answer any question without the slightest hesitation.”