The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  It was as if there had been an explosion during the assault on him and he had been ground zero. His attackers were strewn in all directions, either sprawled flat on the pavement, slumped on piles of debris, or slung over the stairway railing. Someone or something had pulled them off him and hurled them in all directions, battering them unmercifully in the process. No one was moving – wait – the one who had done all the talking was slowly lifting his head from the ground. Stafford limped over to see if there was to be more trouble. No… apparently not. The man grunted something unintelligible through a bloody, ruined mouth, then slumped down again, unconscious.

  Stafford turned and lurched away, gradually forcing his headlong gait into some semblance of a trot. He could only guess at what had happened, but after seeing two Flinters back at Robin Hood’s warehouse and knowing of Robin Hood’s concern for his safety, it seemed reasonable to assume that he had acquired two incredibly efficient bodyguards. He just hoped that they stuck with him past Imperial Park and to his apartment.

  After that, he’d no longer need them. He hoped.

  The journey through the city became a blur of surreal confusion as his legs and arms became leaden and the very air seared his lungs. But he persisted despite the physical agony, for the mental agony of not knowing what he might find at home was greater. He moved through a city that had lost all resemblance to the place where he had dwelt for years, past people who were not like any he had ever known. There were times when he wondered through the haze of his oxygen-starved brain if he had landed on the wrong planet.

  Finally, he found himself before the entrance to his own apartment building, gasping, weak, nauseated. The door was still keyed to his palm, for it opened when he pushed against it. Inside was an oasis of light and warmth, shelter from the dark, silent storm raging behind him. As he trudged to the float-chute, he thought he caught a hint of movement behind him, but saw nothing when he turned, only the entry door slowly sliding closed.

  The chute was operating, further testimony to the wisdom of some ancient designer’s insistence on decentralized power; each building had its own solar energy collectors and amplifiers. The anti-grav field was a physical joy for Stafford at this moment – he would have spent the rest of the night in the chute if he had not been so frightened for Salli. The fifth floor was his. He grasped a rung and hauled himself out into the real world of weight and inertia.

  The door to his apartment was to the right and slid open when it recognized his palm. He saw Salli sitting in a chair straight ahead of him, watching the vid. She gasped and rose to her feet when she saw him, but did not come forward. So Stafford went to her.

  “You’re all right?” he asked, slipping his arms slowly, hesitantly around her. Her coolness puzzled him. “How did you possibly survive all this alone?”

  “I managed.” Her eyes kept straying away from his.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Salli’s gaze had come to rest at a point over his right shoulder. He turned. Two members of the Imperial Guard were approaching from the inner corner of the room, weapons drawn.

  “Vincen Stafford?” said the one in the lead. “We’ve been waiting for you. You’re under arrest for crimes against the Imperium.”

  “WE’VE GOT THE PILOT, SIR.”

  It was all Haworth could do to keep from shouting with joy. But he had to maintain his bearing. After all, this was just a callow trooper on the screen. “Very good. Where is he?”

  “Here at his apartment with us.”

  “You mean you haven’t brought him to the Complex yet?” He heard his voice rising.

  “We were told to call you directly as soon as he was in custody, sir.”

  True – he had demanded that. “All right. How many with you now?”

  “Just one other.”

  “Did he resist at all?”

  “No, sir. He just walked in and we arrested him.”

  Haworth considered the situation. As much as he wanted to interrogate that pilot, he doubted the wisdom of allowing a pair of unseasoned Imperial Guards to escort him in. Who’d have ever thought he’d be stupid enough to return to his own apartment?

  “Wait there until I send an extra squad to back you up. I don’t want any slip-ups.”

  “Very well, sir.” The guardsman didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t want any slip-ups either.

  Haworth arranged for the extra squad to go to Stafford’s apartment, then he turned to Metep and clapped his hands.

  “This is the night! We’ve already got the pilot, and within the hour Robin Hood will be in custody, too!”

  “What’s taking so long with Robin Hood?” Metep asked. His words were slurred from the excess inhalant in his system.

  “I’m not leaving a single thing to chance with him. All the city maps have been combed for any possible underground escape route. Every building around the warehouse is being taken over by Imperial Guards; every street is being blocked; even the air space over that building is being sealed off. When we finally close the trap, not even an insect will get through unless we let it. This is it, Jek! Tonight we start getting things under control again.”

  Metep VII smiled foggily and put the open end of the vial to his nose again. “That’s nice.”

  THE DOOR CHIMED and one of the two Imperial Guardsmen approached it warily. It was much too early for the backup squad to arrive. The viewer set in the door revealed two rather plain-looking middle-aged men on the other side. They kept shuffling around, turning their heads back and forth. “

  We know you’re in there, Mr. Stafford, and we want our money.” The guardsman wasn’t sure which one of them spoke. They kept wandering in and out of the range of the viewer.

  “Go away! Stafford is under arrest.”

  There was laughter on the other side. “Now that’s a new one!”

  “It’s true. This is a member of the Imperial Guard speaking.”

  More laughter. “We’ll have to see that to believe it!”

  The guard angrily cycled the door open. “Now do you–”

  He was suddenly on the floor and a figure was vaulting through the door, a stunner aimed at the other guard’s head. There was no sound from the attacker, the guard, or the weapon, but the guard closed his eyes and joined his comrade on the floor.

  “If you wish to go with them, you may,” said the bland-looking male invader in a female voice as the pistol was holstered. “We are only here to give you a choice. Someone is offering you and your mate a safe place if you want it. Otherwise, you may wait until they regain consciousness.”

  “We’ll go with you,” Stafford said without hesitation.

  “Vin!” It was Salli.

  He turned to her. “It’s all right. We’ll be safer with them than with anybody else. I know who they are.”

  Salli made no reply. She merely clung to him, looking physically exhausted and emotionally drained. She watched as the two newcomers closed the apartment door and arranged the two guardsmen neatly on the floor.

  BROOHNIN FLOATED IN THE CHUTE, holding his position with a foot and a hand each hooked into a safety rung. Popping his head into the hall, he took a quick look up and down, then arched back into the chute. He had no idea what lay on the other side of Stafford’s apartment door, but he had to go through. He had to be sure Stafford had not told what he knew – would never tell what he knew.

  As he prepared to thrust himself into the hall, he heard the whisper of a door cycling open… it came from the direction of Stafford’s apartment. Broohnin had two options: he could let go of the rungs and float up to the next floor, or he could step out and confront whoever it was.

  He chose the latter. If nothing else, he’d have surprise and a drawn weapon on his side. Placing his right foot flat against the rear wall of the chute, he gave a kick and catapulted himself into the hall.

  Broohnin almost vomited when he saw Stafford’s escort. The holosuit images were all too familiar to him. But it was too late to do anything but act.

&n
bsp; “Stop right there!” he said, pointing the blaster at the middle of the pilot’s chest. “Another step and he dies!”

  They stopped. All four of them – the pilot, a woman, and the two Flinters flanking them. “What is wrong with you, Broohnin?” said a male voice that appeared to be coming from the left: Josef’s voice. “There’s a squad of Imperial Guard on its way here now. Let us by without any further trouble.”

  “I’ll let three of you by,” Broohnin said warily, watching the Flinters for any sign of movement. He was far enough away that no one could reach him before he fired, and he was too close to miss if he did. He had to play this scene very carefully. There would be time for only one blast; the Flinters would be on him after that. The blast would have to kill the pilot, and then Broohnin would have to drop his weapons immediately. There was a chance they’d let him live then, and return to LaNague, who would do nothing, as usual. But at least the pilot would be dead. The thing he had to be absolutely sure

  not to do was to hit one of the Flinters with the blast, because there was no telling what the other one would do when he or she got hold of him.

  “What do you mean, ‘three’?” Kenya’s voice.

  “The pilot’s got to die.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” Josef said. “He’s decided to stay with us. We’re taking him back to LaNague.”

  “I don’t care what he’s decided or where you’re taking him. He could change his mind and walk out again… or Metep could publicly offer him a huge reward if he turns himself in.” Broohnin shook his head. “No… can’t risk it. He could ruin everything. You know that.”

  Broohnin didn’t realize what had happened until it was too late. While he was talking, the Flinters had edged closer and closer to Stafford and his wife. Then, with one quick sideward step from each, they had placed themselves in front of the couple, completely eclipsing Broohnin’s intended target.

  “Don’t do that! Move aside!”

  “Best to give us the weapon, Broohnin,” Kanya said. Moving in unison, they began to approach him, one slow step after another.

  “I’ll fire!” he said, aching to retreat but finding himself rooted to the floor. “I’ll kill you both, and then him!”

  “You might kill one of us,” Josef said. “But that would be the last thing you would do. Ever.”

  The blaster was suddenly snatched out of his hand. He saw it in Kanya’s, but the exchange had been a complete blur. He hadn’t seen her move.

  “Quickly, now,” Josef said, turning to Stafford and his wife and motioning them toward the drop-chute. “The backup squad will be here any time now.”

  As Stafford passed, Kanya handed him Broohnin’s blaster. “Put this in your waistband and forget about it unless we tell you to use it.”

  “What about me?” Broohnin asked, fearing the answer more than he had feared anything in his life.

  Kanya and Josef merely glanced his way with their expressionless holosuit faces, then followed the pilot and his wife down the chute. Broohnin hurried after them. If Imperial Guardsmen were on their way, he didn’t want to be caught here and have to explain the pilot’s empty apartment. He was right behind them when they all pushed their way out to the street and came face to face with the backup squad as it debarked from a lorry flitter. The squad leader recognized Stafford immediately – no doubt his features had been drummed into their brains since his escape earlier in the day.

  “What’s going on here?” he yelled and readied the blaster rifle he had been cradling in his arms. “Where are the others? Who are these?”

  Kanya and Josef edged toward the front of their group. Josef’s voice was low but audible to the rest of the civilians. “Be calm, stand quiet, let us handle everything. There’s only six of them.”

  “I asked you a question!” the squad leader said to anyone who would listen. “Where are the two Imperial Guardsmen who are supposed to be with you?”

  “I assure you we don’t know what you mean,” Josef said. “We are not with these others.”

  The squad leader leveled his blaster at Josef as the other five members of his squad arrayed themselves behind him. “Show me some identification. It had better be perfect or we’re all going upstairs to find out what’s going on here.”

  Broohnin felt panic welling up within him, shutting off his air, choking him. This was it – they were either going to be killed or wind up Metep’s prisoners. One was as bad as the other. He had to do something. He saw Stafford standing just ahead and to his left, his arms folded cautiously across his chest. His wife was clinging to his left arm and his attention was on her. Peeking out from under his right elbow was the butt of Broohnin’s confiscated blaster.

  Without thinking, without a conscious effort on his part, Broohnin’s hand reached out and snatched at the weapon. He had to have it. It was floating debris on a storm-tossed sea, a chance for survival. No guarantee that it would carry him to safety, but it seemed to be all he had right now.

  Stafford spun reflexively as he felt the weapon pulled from his waistband and grabbed for it. “Hey!”

  Now was as good a time as any to get rid of the damn pilot, so Broohnin squeezed the trigger as soon as his finger found it. But Stafford’s reflexes were faster. He thrust Broohnin’s arm upward and Salli screamed as the beam flashed upward, striking no one.

  Josef was not so lucky. At the sound of the scream and the sight of a blaster held high and firing, the squad leader responded by pressing his own trigger. There was a brief glare between the guardsman and Josef, illuminating the features of the former, briefly washing away the holosuit effect of the latter. Josef fell without a sound, a few of the accouterments on his weapons belt detaching with the impact, seeming to pop right out of his body as they passed through the holosuit image and landed on the pavement.

  Everyone dropped then, including Broohnin. Kanya was the exception. She dove into the midst of the squad of guardsmen and began to wreak incredible havoc – punching, kicking, swirling, dodging, making it impossible for them to fire at her for fear of blasting a fellow guardsman. Broohnin found himself in sole possession of his blaster again. Stafford had rolled on top of his wife and both had their hands clasped protectively and uselessly over their heads. He was about to put an end to the pilot’s threat once and for all when something on the pavement caught his eye.

  A white disc with a small red button at its center lay beside Josef’s inert form. Broohnin could not tell how badly the Flinter was hurt, or even if he was still alive, because of the camouflaging effect of the holosuit. There was no pool of blood around him, but then there seldom was much bleeding from a blaster wound due to the cauterizing effect of the heat. Deciding to risk it, he crawled over to Josef on his belly, reached for the disc, then began to crawl away. A glance over his shoulder revealed that Kanya had just about disposed of the entire squad, so he rose to his feet and sprinted in the other direction, into the safety of the darkness down the street.

  With the disc in his left hand and the blaster in his right, Broohnin ran as fast as his pumping legs would carry him, through back alleys, across vacant lots, changing streets, altering direction, but always heading away from the center of town, away from Imperium Park and the Imperium Complex that surrounded it. He no longer needed LaNague or the Flinters or anyone else. The destruction of the Imperium was clutched in his left hand.

  XX

  In the constant sociability of our age people shudder at solitude to such a degree that they do not know of any other use to put it to but… as a punishment for criminals.

  Søren Kierkegaard

  “JOSEF DEAD?” LaNague wanted to scream. The quiet, pensive man who had been with him for nearly five years, who was walking death down to his finger tips and yet so gentle and peace loving at heart, was dead. It was easy to think of Flinters as nothing more than killing machines, living weapons with no personalities, no identities. Yet they were all individuals, philosophically sophisticated, profoundly moral in their own
way, human, mortal…

  “How?”

  Calmly, briefly, Kanya explained it to him, her face on the vidscreen displaying no trace of emotion. Flinters were like that: emotions were not for public display; she would suffer her grief in private later.

  “I tried to bring his body back to the warehouse for storage until it could be returned home,” she concluded, “but there was no access. They have the building surrounded – on the street level and in the air, with infrared monitors every twenty meters. I could not approach without being detected.”

  “Poor Josef,” LaNague said, his mind still rebelling at the news of his death. “I’m so sorry, Kanya.” He watched her on the screen. How do you comfort a Flinter? He wished he could put an arm around her, knew there would be no steel or stone beneath his hand, but soft, yielding flesh. He sensed her grief. He wanted to pull her head down to his shoulder and let her cry it out. But that would never happen, even if she were standing next to him. Absolute emotional control was an integral part of Flinter rearing. A being skilled in a hundred, a thousand, ways of killing could not allow emotions to rule, ever.

  Kanya was demonstrating that control now as she spoke. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re trapped. We’ve got to get you out.”

  LaNague shook his head. “I know what’s going on outside. I’ve been watching. I’ll wait for them here… no resistance. How’s the pilot?”

  “He and his wife are safe with Mora.”

  “And Broohnin? Is he safe where he can cause no more trouble?”

  Kanya’s face darkened for an instant; lightning flashed in her eyes. “Not yet. But he will be soon.”

  LaNague stiffened involuntarily. “What aren’t you telling me, Kanya?”

  “Josef is dead because of Broohnin,” she said flatly. “If he had not delayed us at the pilot’s apartment, we would have been gone before the squad of Imperial Guard arrived. Even after we were halted in front of the building, if he had followed directions and stood quietly, there would have been no shooting. Josef would be alive and beside me now.”