The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  “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 sat 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 destr
uctive 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 “the 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.

  Broohnin looked up at the stars. Whether he wanted to or not, it appeared he would be going to Earth with LaNague. There was no other choice left to him, no other way to hold on to the tattered remnants of “the Broohnin circle.” He would use LaNague to pull everyone back together, and then take up again where he had left off. Once he got a feel for LaNague he was sure he could find ways to maneuver him into a useful position.

  Off to Earth… and why not? Who could pass up a free trip like that anyway? Few out-worlders ever got there. And right now he was curious enough about what was going on in that Tolivian head to go just about anywhere to find out.

  VI

  Nor law, nor duty bade me fight.

  Nor public men nor cheering crowds.

  A lonely impulse of delight

  Drove to this tumult…

  William Butler Yeats

  Vincen Stafford hung lazily suspended alongside the Lucky Teela with only a slim cord restraining him from eternity. As Second Assistant Navigator, the fascinating but unenviable duty of checking out all the control module's external navigation equipment fell to him. The job required a certain amount of working familiarity with the devices, more than the regular maintenance crew possessed. Only someone in the Navigator Guild would do. And since Stafford had the least seniority imaginable – this was his first assignment from the guild – he was elected.

  Although finished with the checklist, he made no move to return to the lock where he could remove his gear and regain his weight. Instead he floated free and motionless, his eyes fixed on the ring of cargo pods encircling the control module… a gently curving necklace of random, oddly shaped stones connected by an invisible thread, reflecting distant fire.

  The out-world-to-Earth grain run was ready to move. The area here at the critical point in the gravity well of Throne's star was used as a depot for Earth-bound exports from many of the agricultural worlds. The cargo pods were dropped off and linked to each other by intersecting hemispheres of force. When the daisy chain was long enough to assure sufficient profit from the run, the control module and its crew were linked up and all was set to go.

  This run would not be completely typical, however. There were two passengers bound for Earth aboard. Unusual. Few if any out-worlders outside the diplomatic service had contact with Earth. The diplomats traveled in official cruisers, all others traveled any way they could. The two passengers within had to be wealthy – passage to Earth, even on a grain run, was not booked cheaply. They didn't look rich, those two… one dark of clothing, beard, and mood, the other blond and intense and clutching a small potted tree under his arm. An odd pair. Stafford wondered –

  He realized he was wasting time. This was his maiden voyage in a navigational capacity and he had to be in top form. It had taken a long time for the guild to find him this post. After spending the required six standard years in intense encephaloaugmented study until he had become facile in every aspect of interstellar flight – from cosmology to subspace physics, from the intricacies of the proton-proton drive to the fail-safe aspects of the command module's thermostat – he was ready for the interstellar void. Unfortunately the void was not ready for him. The runs were not as frequent as they used to be and he had spent an unconscionably long time at the head of the list of applicants waiting for an assignment.

  Vincen Stafford did not ask much of life. All he wanted was a chance to get in between the stars and earn enough to support himself and his wife. Perhaps to put away enough to eventually afford a home of their own and a family. No dreams of riches, no pot of gold.

  When he had almost despaired of ever being assigned, word had come; he was now officially a spacer. His career had begun. He laughed inside the helmet as his cord reeled him toward the Teela's lock. Life was good. He had never realized how good it could be.

  “WHY THE BUSH? You carry it around like you're related to it.”

  “It's not a bush,” LaNague said. “It's a tree. And one of my best friends.”

  If the remark was meant to be amusing, Broohnin did not find it so. He was edgy, fidgety, feeling mean. The Lucky Teela had dropped in and out of subspace three times in its course toward Earth, accompanied by the curious, much-investigated but little-explained wrenching nausea each time.

  LaNague did not seem to mind, at least outwardly, but for Broohnin, who had not set foot on an interstellar ship since fleeing Nolevatol, each drop was an unnerving physical trial, causing the sweat to pour off him as his intestines tried to reach the outside world through both available routes simultaneously. In fact, the entire trip was a trial for Broohnin. It reminded him of that farmhouse on Nolevatol where he grew up, a tiny island of wood in the middle of a sea of grain, no one around but his mother, his brother, and that idiot who pretended to be a father. He had often felt like this on the farm… trapped, confine
d, with nothing outside the walls. He found himself wandering the corridors of the control ship incessantly, his palms continually moist, his fingers twitching endlessly as if possessed of a life of their own. At times the walls seemed to be closing in on him, threatening to crush him to currant jelly.

  When his mental state reached that stage – when he could swear that if he looked quickly, without warning, to his right or left he could actually catch a trace of movement at the edges of the walls, always toward him, never away – he popped a couple of Torportal tablets under his tongue, closed his eyes, and waited. They dissolved rapidly, absorbed through the sublingual mucosa and into the venous circulation almost immediately. A few good pumps of his heart and the active metabolite was in his brain and at work on the limbic system, easing the tension, pushing back the walls, allowing him to sit still and actually carry on a coherent conversation… as he was doing now.

  He wondered how LaNague could sit so calmly across the narrow expanse of the tight little cabin. Space was precious on these freight runs: the chairs on which they sat, the table on which LaNague's tree stood, all had sprung from the floor at the touch of an activator plate; the bed folded down from the wall when needed; all identical to Broohnin's quarters across the hall. A common-use toilet and washroom were located down the corridor. Everything was planned for maximal usage of available space, which meant that everything was cramped to a maddening degree. Yet LaNague seemed unperturbed, a fact which would have infuriated Broohnin to violence were he not presently in a drugged state. He wondered if LaNague used any psychotropics.

  “That's Pierrot,” LaNague was saying, indicating the tree which stood almost within Broohnin's reach on the table afterward and between them. “He started as a misho many years ago and is now a stunted version of the Tolivian equivalent of the flowering mimosa. He shows he's comfortable and at ease now by assuming the bankan position.”

  “You talk like it's a member of the family or something.”