The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Then that's it,” Waters said. “It's all set.”

  “Yes… yes, I think so.”

  “What about this Broohnin you mention?” It was Silvera, youngest of the three and an eminent architect before she became a Trustee. “He worries me.”

  “Worries me, too,” Peter said. “But I think – I hope – I've dazzled him enough to keep him off balance for a while.”

  “He does sound dangerous,” Connors added. “Violent, too.”

  “He's a wild card – as dangerous as they come and as unpredictable. But I can't bring the revolution through in the necessary time period without his contacts. I don't like him, I don't trust him, but without his co-operation there can be no revolution.”

  The three Trustees considered this in silence. Only Connors had further comment.

  “Is your five-year limit that strict? Can't we afford a year or two extra to slip our own people into sensitive positions?”

  “Absolutely not!” Peter replied, shaking his head vigorously. “The economic situation is going to deteriorate rapidly on its own. If we allow seven, or even six years before we bring the house down, there may be nothing left to salvage. We figure that twenty years from now the Imperium, even if left alone, will be in such disarray that Earth could move in unchallenged. What we need is quick collapse and quick reconstruction before Earth is able to make its move. We can do it on a five-year schedule. On a seven-year schedule, I doubt we could move fast enough to keep the Earthies out.” He held up the fingers of his right hand. “Five years. No more. And only four are left.”

  Connors persisted: “Couldn't we use Broohnin's organization without him?”

  “Possibly. But that could be risky. We might be suspected of collusion with the Imperium. If that happened, we'd get no cooperation at all. Broohnin has valuable contacts in most of the trade guilds, in the Imperial communications centers, in the Treasury itself. Plus, there's a minor vid personality and a professor at the University of the Out-worlds who might prove useful. They're peripherally associated with Broohnin's group, not necessarily out of approval of his methods, but because he's the only resistance they've got. I need Broohnin to reach them.”

  “I see then we have no choice,” Connors said resignedly. “But it feels wrong, and that bothers me.”

  “You're not alone.”

  DESPITE HER BEST EFFORTS to stanch them, tears were brimming and spilling over Mora's lower eyelids. She faced away from the smooth, flat expanse of the spaceport grid and the orbital shuttle patiently waiting on it.

  “I don't want you to go,” she said against her husband's chest. “Something's going to happen, I know it.”

  “The Imperium's going to come crashing down,” Peter said with all the confidence he could muster. “That's what's going to happen.”

  “No. To you. Something bad. I can feel it. Let somebody else go.”

  “I can't.”

  “You can!” She lifted her head and looked at him. “You've done your share – more! All the groundwork is laid. It's just a matter of time from now on. Let somebody else finish it!”

  Peter shook his head sadly. There was nothing in Occupied Space he wanted more than to stay right where he was. But that couldn't be.

  “It has to be me, Mora. It's my plan. I've got to handle it, I've got to be there myself.”

  “There must be some other person you can trust!” Mora's tears were drying in the heat of growing anger. “Surely you don't think you're the only one capable of overseeing the revolution. You can't tell me that!”

  “I must know! I can't sit light years away and entrust this to someone else. It's too delicate. The future of everything we've worked for is at stake. I can't walk away. I want to – but I cannot.”

  “But you can walk away from me – and from Laina. Is that so much easier?”

  “Mora, please – that's not fair.”

  “Of course it's not fair! And it's not fair that your daughter won't see you for years now. Maybe never again! She was so upset about your leaving again that she wouldn't even come down to the spaceport! And as for my having a husband–” She pulled free of his arms.

  “Mora!”

  “Maybe Laina had the right idea!” She was backing away from him as she spoke. “Maybe we both should have stayed home and let you come here all by yourself. We're both second place in your life now anyway.” She swung around and began walking away.

  “Mora!” Peter heard his voice break as he called after his wife. He started to follow her but stopped after two steps. She was beyond gentle reasoning now. They were two stubborn people who shared a life as fierce in its discord as in its lovemaking. He knew from long experience that it would be hours before the two of them could carry on a civil conversation… and there were no hours left to him on Tolive. There were complex interstellar travel connections to be made and he had to leave now. If he tarried too long, his arrival on Throne could be delayed as long as a standard month.

  He watched her until she rounded a bend in the corridor, hoping she would look back, just once. She never did.

  Peter LaNague entered the boarding tube that would drop him at the waiting shuttle. Dealing with Den Broohnin, keeping the Flinters in line, masterminding a revolution that still hinged on too many variables, that if successful would significantly alter the course of human history… none of these disturbed his wah as much as an argument with that stubborn, hot-tempered, and occasionally obnoxious creature called Mora, who could make his life so miserable at times, and yet make it all so worthwhile. He would never understand it.

  It helped somewhat when he glimpsed her standing on the observation tower, gripping the railing with what he knew must be painful intensity, watching the shuttle, waiting for lift-off. It helped, but it failed to loosen the knot that had tightened to the fraying point in the center of his chest, nor did it lighten the lead cast that sat where his stomach had been.

  He could not allow himself to dwell on Mora, nor on Laina. They were a part of his life that had to be completely walled off if he were to function effectively on Throne. As the shuttle rose toward the stars, he cast Mora as Fortunato, played Montresor himself, and began the brickwork.

  It hurt.

  XI

  The free man will ask neither what his country can do for him nor what he can do for his country.

  Milton Friedman

  It was just another warehouse on the outskirts of Primus City, no different from the dozens of others surrounding it. The name across the front wall, Angus Black Imports, told the passerby nothing about the company or what lay within. It could house crates of vid sets, racks of open-seamed clothing ready for autofitting, or seafood delicacies from planets like Friendly or Gelk. Just another warehouse. LaNague wanted it that way.

  Tonight was the first step in the active phase, the first blow against the empire, the first physical act of sedition. The principals were all present, along with a few extraneous characters who were there to see them off and wish them well. Faces that had been new three months ago could be seen here and there across the wide, empty interior of the warehouse… LaNague had come to know them all intimately since his return from Tolive, gaining their confidence, and they gaining his. Singly, then in pairs, then in a group, they approached him as he entered the warehouse carrying a box under his arm.

  Zachariah Brophy, professor of economics at the University of the Out-worlds, was the first. Very tall, bony, knobby, and sixtyish, he raised a knotted fist toward LaNague's face.

  “Either you let me go along or I flatten you right here and now!”

  LaNague laughed. “Sorry, Doc, but we don't have a holosuit to fit you, and I'm afraid some of your former students would recognize you even if we did.”

  “Aahh!” he sighed with exaggerated despondency, unfolding his fist and laying the open hand on the younger man's thin shoulder. “You've been telling me no all along. I guess now I'll have to believe you.”

  LaNague had developed a genuine affection for the old
er man, loved his wit, his intelligence, his integrity. And Doc Zack, as his students had called him for years, reciprocated warmly. Apparently he saw many things he liked in LaNague, the same things he had sought and found lacking in Broohnin. He made no secret of his relief at the fact that LaNague had superseded him.

  “Why don't you try your hand at one of the flyers,” LaNague suggested. “We've fallen behind schedule because of all the calling cards we've been duplicating for tonight. You can draft up the next Robin Hood Reader while we're out playing the part.”

  “Fair enough. At least I'll get to be one of the Merry Men one way or another.” He squeezed LaNague's shoulder where his hand rested. “Good luck tonight.” He turned and made his way toward the bank of duplicators against the rear wall.

  Radmon Sayers was next, stopping briefly on his way out. He was portrait handsome with the perfect features and meticulous grooming that befitted a vid personality. His sleek black hair reflected the ceiling lights as it lay plastered against his scalp in the latest fashion. His eyes were less calculating and more genuinely lively tonight.

  “It's really going to happen, isn't it!” he said, rubbing gloved hands together in barely suppressed glee.

  “Did you think all these preparations were for some elaborate hoax?” LaNague replied evenly, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice. He had found Sayers aloof and hard to like. He gave news reports on one of the smaller independent vid systems on Throne. He was good – able to project sincerity, objectivity, and concern as well as anybody else in the business, but was condemned to relative obscurity by the fact that most of Throne's population watched the Imperial Vid System, which had long ago commandeered the best wavelengths and transmitted with the strongest signal. His obscurity, however, was destined to be short-lived if LaNague had his way.

  “No, of course not,” Sayers said. “But still, it's hard to believe that tonight I've been involved in making some news instead of just reading it. That'll be nice for a change. Very nice.”

  “You've got your diversion set?”

  Sayers nodded. “We'll monitor the official channels, as usual. When we hear them talking about the hijack, I'll delay the remote crew until it starts to rain.”

  “Good. Just watch the time.”

  There were further words of encouragement to say to the tense men who were gathered around the large, enclosed flitter lorry sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor. Computer experts, communication technicians, Flinters, street toughs, all gravitated toward the one who would make them into wanted men tonight. Only Broohnin hung back, conspicuous by his lack of enthusiasm.

  “All right,” LaNague said after a while. “It's full dark outside by now and time to go. But first, I want you all to wear these.”

  He opened the box he had been carrying under his arm and began handing out pairs of transparent, gossamer-light gloves.

  “What're these?” someone asked.

  “They serve two purposes. First of all, they protect all of you from any chance of leaving epidermic clues behind. All the Imperial investigators have to do is find one of your skin cells when they go over the hijacked ships tomorrow – and believe me, they'll go over them as they've never been gone over before – and they'll have your genotype, which they'll try to match against every type on record. Some of you had to have a genotype recording made when you applied for the sensitive jobs you're in. If one of your cells is identified, you're as good as caught.

  “The second reason for wearing these gloves has to do with the fine little pattern of whorls you'll notice on the palmar surface. The gloves are made of a micropore material that will let sweat and skin oils through… enough to leave good fingerprints.”

  A sudden murmur of protest arose from the group, but LaNague quelled it by raising his hand.

  “Don't worry. They won't be your fingerprints. They'll be my great-grandfather's. He knew the revolution would come someday, and knew he wouldn't be around to see it. So his dying request was that someone wear gloves like these at some time during the revolution, just so he could say he had a hand in the downfall of the Imperium.”

  The ensuing laughter lightened the mood as the men, fifteen of them, filed quickly and spiritedly into the flitter. LaNague felt no lightness, however. His palms were moist and he had a pain crawling up the back of his head from his neck – this was the first overt move and everything had to be just right. But he hid his fears well, pretending to have everything under control, exuding confidence and competence he did not feel.

  Josef acted as pilot on the way out; another would return the ship after the Merry Men were dropped off. The wide warehouse doors opened and allowed the flitter to slide out into the night. It flew low and slow until past the Primus City limits, then rose to thirty meters where it could pick up speed and be safe from interfering treetops.

  “Everyone have their projectors secured?” LaNague asked once they had reached cruising speed. There was a murmured assent from the group crowded into the cargo area. “All right. Let's try them.”

  The holosuit was a whimsical concoction, designed for imaginative types who found stimulation in role-playing. The most popular models were sexual in nature, but those to be employed tonight had been specially modified. They were the standard six-piece models consisting of two wrist bands, two ankle bands, a belt, and a skull cap. When activated, they formed a holographic sheath around the wearer, a costume of light that could make him appear to be anything he chose – a male, a female, a demon, a lover. Anything, depending on what had been programmed into the unit.

  The suits flickered to life one by one, causing their wearers to fade from view, replaced by lean and wolfish outlaws garbed in leather and Lincoln green, topped by jaunty, feathered caps. To any of their contemporaries, the men in the command flitter would be as alien in appearance as creatures from another galaxy. A few adjustments had to be made, especially on one man's skull cap which failed to activate, leaving his own head and shoulders exposed. This was quickly remedied, bringing his appearance into line with his companions’.

  “This is stupid!”

  It was Broohnin. He had already doused his holosuit and leaned sullenly against the wall opposite LaNague, scowling through his beard.

  “I expected that from you,” LaNague replied without missing a beat. “Care to give us grounds for your opinion? We've got time to listen.”

  Broohnin swaggered into the middle of the group. It was obvious that he still considered himself the unacknowledged leader, despite the fact that LaNague was giving the orders. He was keeping to his role of the tough, hard-hitting, no-quarter revolutionary. It had worked before, and there was no reason why it shouldn't work now.

  “We're just playing games with these funnysuits! This is no masquerade ball – this is the real thing! We're not going to get prizes for how good we look; we're just going to get stunned and maybe even blasted into a couple of pieces by the fecaliths guarding this shipment. We have to hit them hard! Make them remember us. Let them know we mean business. Make them leave the lights on at night when they go to sleep. Never let them forget we're out here, ready to strike at any time, without warning!”

  “Then you think we should forget disguise and mount a frontal assault?” LaNague said, unmoved by the oratory.

  “Absolutely!”

  “What about the multiple cameras in each of the ships we're going after tonight? Our images will be transmitted to the Imperial Guard the instant we board the first currency ship. We'll all be marked men after that!”

  “Don't board!” Broohnin snarled. “Blow them to bits! Then let the cameras try to take our pictures!”

  “There are men on board each of those ships. They'll be killed.”

  “They're Imperial lackies – they take the pay, they take the chances. This time they lose.”

  And what of your own man on board the second ship. You intend to blow him up, too?”

  “Of course not! We'll get him off first, then blow the rest.”

&nb
sp; The momentum of the argument was swinging toward Broohnin. He offered easy solutions, hard and fast victory. But he had left an opening for LaNague.

  “You realize, don't you, that as the only survivor, your man will become an instant fugitive. Every Imperial Guardsman on Throne will be hunting him as an accomplice in the slaughter of their comrades. Do you wish that on him?”

  Broohnin paused for an instant, and in that instant he lost his audience. LaNague had shown that he had considered the problem from more sides than his burlier counterpart; and while it might be said that he seemed to be overly concerned for the well-being of the men guarding the targeted currency shipment, it was also obvious that he was equally concerned about the men who would be at his side during tonight's raid.

  But LaNague would not let it go at that. He had to win these men firmly to his side. So firmly, that if it came to a choice between Peter LaNague and Den Broohnin, the men would choose LaNague.

  “There's more to these holosuits than a mere masquerade ball, I assure you,” he said, ostensibly speaking to Broohnin, but letting his gaze rest in turn on each and every man in the flitter. “We need to protect our identities – that's our primary requirement for success. If we can't move about freely on Throne, we've lost our usefulness. Another thing: there's always a chance that one or even all of us might someday be captured; how we're treated then will depend a lot on how we treat the crews of the transports tonight, and how we treat all Imperial Guardsmen in the future. Remember that. So – if we intend to leave live witnesses behind, we need disguises. And if we intend to use disguises, why not make a point with them!”

  He paused to let this sink in. He was marking a trail of logic and he wanted no one to lose his way. All eyes were on him. Even Broohnin's.

  “The Robin Hood motif was not chosen capriciously. As most of you remember, he was a mythical do-gooder on Old Earth who supposedly robbed from the rich and gave to the poor. But that's the sanitized, government-approved version of the legend. Anyone reading between the lines will see that Robin Hood was the archetypical tax rebel. He robbed from the rich, yes – but those rich happened to be King John's tax collectors. And he gave to the poor – but his beneficiaries were those who had been looted by the tax collectors. He merely returned their own property.