An Enemy of the State

by Wilson, F. Paul

  The final segment of the recording, wherein Doc Zack was dragged kicking and pleading from the classroom, was rerun, and then Radmon Sayers’ face filled the screen again.

  “And now, new word from Earth on the mysterious behavior of Eric Boedekker, the wealthy asteroid mining magnate, who has just sold the remainder of his asteroid mineral rights to a consortium of prospectors for an undisclosed but undoubtedly enormous sum. Still no hint as to what he's doing or plans to do with all that credit.

  “And on Neeka—”

  Metep VII touched a stud on the armrest of his chair and the holovid globe went dark. “That Sayers is a good man,” he told Haworth, who sat an arm's length away to his left.

  “Think so?”

  “Sure. Look how he defended the regents. That could have been a very embarrassing recording. It would take nothing to exploit it into an example of repression of academic freedom, freedom of speech, creeping fascism, or whatever other nonsense you want. But Sayers turned it into a testimonial to the way the regents and the Imperium are ever on guard against misuse and abuse of educational taxes. He turned it into a plus for us and kept Brophy a miscreant instead of elevating him to a martyr.”

  “You think he's on our side, then?”

  “Definitely. Don't you?”

  “I don't know.” Haworth was pensive. “I really don't know. If he were really on our side, I don't think he would have shown that recording at all.”

  “Come now—he's a newsman! He couldn't pass up a story like that.”

  “Yes, that's very obvious. But it all seems too pat. I mean, how did he happen to know that Brophy would be giving that lecture against the orders of the regents?”

  “Probably one of the students told him.”

  “Possible. But do you realize that even if the regents had left Brophy to his own devices and let him give his course as originally scheduled with no interference, only a few thousand would have heard him over the closed-circuit vid? And if it weren't for Sayers, only twenty or thirty would have heard him today. But now, after showing that recording on the prime time news, Professor Brophy's message has reached millions. Millions!”

  “Yes, but it was a silly message. There are a dozen stories like that going around every month about waste in government. Nobody pays them too much mind.”

  “But the contempt in his voice,” Haworth said, frowning. “The utter contempt…it came across so strongly.”

  “But it doesn't matter, Daro. Sayers negated any points that old bird managed to score by painting him as a tax waster and a disloyal employee.”

  “Did he? I hope so. Maybe he made Brophy look silly to you and me, but what about all those sentimental slobs out there? How did Brophy look to them? Are they going to remember what Radmon Sayers said about him, or is the one thing that sticks in their minds going to be the image of a skinny old man being forcibly dragged from view by a couple of young, husky, uniformed guards?”

  “AND WHAT WAS all that supposed to prove?” Broohnin asked as Radmon Sayers’ face faded from the globe.

  “It proves nothing,” LaNague replied. “Its purpose was merely to plant a seed in the backlot of the public mind to let it know what kind of power the Imperium has.”

  “I'm not impressed. Not a bit. We could have had a full-scale riot on the campus if we had planned it right. The Imperial Guard would have been called out and then Sayers would have really had something to show on his news show.”

  “But the effect wouldn't have been the same, Den,” Zack said from his seat in the corner. “There's big competition for on-campus placement at U. of O., and people seeing the students out on the grounds rioting would only resent the sight of rare opportunity being wasted. They'd want the Imperial Guard to step in; they'd cheer them on. And people would get hurt, which is what we're trying to avoid.”

  “We could see to it that a lot of the Guard got hurt!” Broohnin said with a grin. “And if a few students got banged up, all the better. I mean, after all, you wanted to show the oppressive powers of the Imperium. What better evidence than a few battered skulls?”

  Zack shook his head in exasperated dismay and looked at LaNague. “I give up. You try.”

  LaNague didn't relish the task. He was beginning to think of Broohnin more and more as a lost cause. “Look at it this way: the Imperium is not an overtly oppressive regime. It controls the populace in a more devious manner by controlling the economy. And it controls life within its boundaries as effectively via the economy as with a club. The indirection of the Imperium's controls makes us forget that it still has the club and is holding it in reserve. The only reason we don't see the club is because the Imperium has found ways to get what it wants without it. But as soon as necessity dictates, out it will come. And it will be used without hesitation. We didn't want the club brought out today, because that would mean bloodshed. We just wanted the public to get a peek into the sack where it's kept…just a reminder that it's there.”

  “And it was relatively painless,” Zack said, rubbing his axillae. “The worst I got out of it was a couple of sore armpits.”

  “But what the public saw,” LaNague continued, “was an elderly man—”

  “Not so elderly!”

  “—who is a renowned professor, being pulled from the classroom by force. He wasn't destroying the campus or disrupting the educational process. All he was doing was standing and talking—teaching!—a group of students. And for that he was dragged away by two uniformed men. And believe me, there's something in the sight of uniformed henchmen laying their hands on a peaceful civilian that raises the hackles of out-worlders.”

  “But what did they do? There've been no protests, no cries of outrage, no taking to the streets? Nothing!”

  “Right,” LaNague said. “And there won't be, because it was a minor incident. Doc Zack wasn't arrested and he wasn't beaten to a pulp. But he was silenced and he was dragged away by force. And I think people will remember that.”

  “And so what if they do?” Broohnin said, as belligerent as ever. “The Imperium isn't weakened one erg.”

  “But its image is. And that's enough for now.”

  “Well, it's not enough for me!” Broohnin rose and wandered aimlessly around the room, pulling something from his pocket as he moved. LaNague watched him pop whatever it was under his tongue—he guessed it to be a mood elevator—and stand and wait for it to take effect. Yes, Broohnin was definitely on the brink. He would have to be watched closely.

  “Hear about the meeting?” Zack said into the tension-filled silence.

  “What meeting?” LaNague said.

  “Metep and the Council of Five. Word's come down that they've called a special hush-hush super-secret enclave next week. Even Krager's cutting his vacation short and coming back for it.”

  “Sounds important. Anybody know what it's about?”

  Zack shrugged. “Ask Den…One of his people picked it up.”

  Broohnin turned and faced them. The anger lines in his face had smoothed slightly. His voice was calm, even. “Nobody's sure exactly what it's about, but Haworth's behind it. He wants the meeting and he wants it soon.”

  That troubled LaNague. “Haworth, eh?”

  “Something wrong with that?” Zack asked.

  “It's probably nothing of any real importance, but there's always the chance that Haworth has come up with some sort of brainstorm to temporarily pull them out of the current crunch…”

  “I thought you had all exits covered,” Broohnin said, barely hiding a sneer. “Afraid Haworth'll slip something past you?”

  “With a man like Haworth around, it doesn't pay to get overconfident. He's shrewd, he's sly, he's smart, and he's ruthless. I'll be anxious to see what comes out of this meeting.”

  “I'd worry along with you if I could,” Zack said. “But since you're the only one who knows where all this is taking us, I'm afraid you're going to have to sleep with those worries alone.” He paused, watching LaNague closely. “I do have a few ideas about y
our plan, however, gathered from what I've seen and heard during the past year.”

  “Keep them to yourself, please.”

  “I will. But do you actually think there's any way Haworth or anybody else can turn this whole thing around?”

  LaNague shook his head. “No. The Imperium has started its descent and only magic can save it.”

  “Well, let's just hope Haworth doesn't know any magic,” Zack said.

  “He might. But just in case they run dry of things to say at the meeting, I think Robin Hood should be able to find a way to keep the conversation going.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Heroes don't take money! They work on a government subsidy!

  Roger Ramjet

  It's no good, Vin. He's not coming.”

  “Yes, he is. He's got to come.” As persistent and patient and straight as a tree rooted in the soil, Vincen Stafford stood with his arm around his wife's shoulders and waited in the back yard of what had once been their house. It stood locked, barred, and empty behind him as he watched the sky. Better to stare into the empty blackness above them than to stare into the empty bleakness of the structure behind. The house had become the symbol of all his failures and of all the things that had failed him. He couldn't bear to look at it.

  The drop-off in grain runs to Sol System had started it all, causing him to be bumped from one scheduled flight after another due to his lack of seniority. Finally, he had been laid off. The imperial Grain Export Authority had let him down—promising him full-time employment when he signed on, and then leaving him grounded. That was bad, but he knew he could make it through on his unemployment benefits from the Spacers Guild. Salli had a part-time job and they had a little money in the bank. It would be tight, but they could squeak through until something broke loose for him.

  But the only things that broke loose were prices. Everything except grain seemed to cost more—food, clothing, transportation, everything. Only his mortgage payment had remained fixed. The bank had tried to get him to refinance at a higher interest rate but he had resisted, despite the advice of the Robin Hood Reader to borrow all he could and invest it in gold and silver. That, he now realized, had been his biggest blunder. As daily living expenses went up, he and Salli had found it harder and harder to scrape together the mortgage payments each month. Their savings were soon gone and the bank was soon penalizing them for late payments.

  Then catastrophe: the Spacers Guild cut his benefits in half due to the drain put on its finances by heavy layoffs. Then the benefits stopped altogether; the Spacers Guild had arbitrarily cut him off in order to concentrate benefits on the senior members. Even his union had let him down.

  Vin and Salli had immediately tried to refinance the house, but the bank was no longer interested. Mortgage money had dried up and there was none to spare for an out-of-work interstellar navigator. They put the house on the market, but with so little mortgage money around, nobody was buying at the current inflated prices. They missed payments; the bank foreclosed. They were locked out of their own home.

  Vincen Stafford was now at the lowest point of his entire life. He and Salli lived in a shabby one-room apartment in the dolee section of town…and why not? He was on the dole.

  When they weren't screaming at each other, they sat in stony silence across the room from each other. Only tonight had brought them together. Robin Hood was coming.

  “He's not going to show, Vin,” Salli said. “Now let's go home.”

  “Home? We have no home. It was taken from us. And he is coming. Just wait a little longer. You'll see.”

  Robin Hood was just about the only thing on this world or any other that Vincen Stafford had left to hold onto. When the first “money monsoon” had come, he had turned in the money he had collected. At that time it seemed like the right thing to do…after all, the money belonged to the Imperium. And when he analyzed it to any depth, he admitted that he had hoped his name would show up somewhere on a list of exemplary citizens and he would have a crack at the next grain run out, seniority or no. But that hadn't happened. He hadn't made a single run since. His friends had laughed at his naïveté then, and he cursed himself for it now. What he wouldn't give to have those mark notes in his hand right now. A year and a half could make a lot of changes in a man.

  If only he'd listened to that newsletter and followed its advice. He knew a couple of men his age who had done just that—refinanced their homes, borrowed to the limit of their credit, and invested it all in gold and silver and other precious metals. One had used the profits from the soaring prices of the commodities to supplement his income and keep him in the black and in his home. Another had let the bank repossess his home and had moved into an apartment. He was now sitting on a pile of gold coins that was growing more and more valuable every day while the bank was stuck with a house it couldn't sell.

  Vincen Stafford wasn't going to get caught looking the other way this time. Robin Hood and his Merry Men had robbed a currency shipment this morning; if they held true to form, there'd be money raining down soon.

  “This is ridiculous,” Salli said. “I'm going back to the apartment. You heard what they said on the vid. He's not coming.”

  Stafford nodded in the darkness. “I heard what they said. But I don't believe it.” Police authorities had been on the air all day telling the public that Robin Hood and his Merry Men were now robbing tax collections and keeping the money for personal uses, showing themselves for the common thieves and renegades they really were. Anyone waiting for another “money monsoon” would be bitterly disappointed. But Stafford didn't believe it. Couldn't—wouldn't believe it.

  One of the stars winked out overhead, then another to its left. Then the original star came on again.

  “Wait!” he told Salli, reaching for her arm. “Something's up there!”

  “Where? I don't see anything.”

  “That's the whole idea.”

  When the first mark notes began slipping down into sight, a great cheer was heard all over the neighborhood…Stafford and his wife were not alone in their nocturnal vigil.

  “Look, Vin!” Salli said excitedly. “It's really happening. I can't believe it! It's money!” She began scrambling around the yard, picking up the mark notes, disregarding the white calling cards. “Come on, Vin! Help!”

  Vincen Stafford found himself unable to move just yet. He merely stood with his face tilted upward, tears streaming down his cheeks, silent sobs wracking his chest.

  At least there was still somebody left you could count on.

  “…AND IT APPEARS that Robin Hood and his Merry Men have lowered their sights, physically and figuratively. After more than seven months of inaction since the costly east coast caper, with only the caustic, omnipresent Robin Hood Reader as evidence of his continued presence among us, Robin Hood has struck again. A ground effect vehicle, carrying a large shipment of fresh currency from the Central Treasury to the North Sector branch of the First Out-world Bank of Primus, was waylaid on the streets of the city early this morning.

  “The death of four of his Merry Men last year should have made Robin Hood more cautious, but he appears to be as daring as ever. The vehicle was stopped and its guards overpowered in the bright light of morning before a crowd of onlookers. The shipment of currency was quickly transferred to two sport flitters which took off in different directions. No one was hurt, no witnesses could identify any of the perpetrators due to the holosuits they wore, and no evidence was left behind other than the customary arrow with the inscribed shaft.

  As news of the robbery spread, people rushed out into their streets and yards, anticipating a rain of mark notes. But none came; the authorities began to suspect that either Robin Hood was now stealing taxpayer money for personal gain, or that the caper was the work of clever imitators.

  “People steadfastly waited all day. So did the imperial Guard. But alas! No Robin. The majority of hopefuls went home, but a large number of the faithful hung on into the dark. However, it began to look l
ike the police were right. There would be no money monsoon tonight.

  “And then it happened. After a year-and-a-half-long drought, the skies of Primus City opened up at 17.5 tonight and began to pour marks down on the parched populace. The fall was much lighter than on the previous occasion—sixty million had been hurled into the air then; tonight's precipitation amounted to approximately one fourth of that. But from the cheers and shouts of joy that arose from every quarter of the city, it is evident that anything was welcomed by the citizens of Primus City.

  “If this reporter might be permitted a comment or two: I find it reprehensible that so many of our fellow citizens demean themselves by standing and waiting to receive stolen money from this Robin Hood charlatan. There are no solutions to be found in thievery and cheap showmanship. The real solutions lie with the Imperium's leaders. We should seek solutions there, not in the dark skies of night.

  “And now to other news:

  “Word from Earth shows that Eric Boedekker, the wealthy asteroid mining magnate, is still at it. Having disposed of his extraterrestrial holdings, he has now sold all of his Earthside property—millions of square meters’ worth of land on all of the planet's five continents. And if you think land is getting expensive here on the out-worlds, you should look into the prices on Earth! Eric Boedekker has now amassed a liquid fortune that must be unparalleled in the financial history of the human race. No indication as yet as to just what he's doing with it. Is he reinvesting it or just keeping it in a huge account? The entire interstellar financial community is buzzing with curiosity.

  “And speaking of buzzing, insiders here on Throne are doing a little of their own as they speculate on the sudden premature return of Treasury Minister Krager from his Southland vacation. Is something afoot in the inner circles of the Imperium? We'll see…”