The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  He reached down and picked up one of the small white slips of paper that fell with the currency.

  YOUR TAX REFUND –

  AS PROMISED.

  ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN

  Stafford looked up and saw nothing. The rain of money had stopped. He had never heard of Robin Hood… or had he? Wasn't there an old story about someone with that name? He'd have to ask Salli when she got home.

  As he walked about the yard, picking up what later totaled one hundred and fifty-six marks, he idly wondered if it might be stolen money. They weren't in any dire financial trouble, but the extra cash would certainly come in handy, especially with a new house to care for.

  Even if he never spent it, Stafford thanked Robin Hood, whoever he might be, for brightening up a dull evening.

  XII

  Pity the poor, diseased politician. Imagine: to spend your days and expend your efforts making rules for others to live by, thinking up ways to run other lives. Actually to strive for the opportunity to do so! What a hideous affliction!

  from THE SECOND BOOK OF KYFHO

  How many times are they going to show that sequence?” Metep VII catapulted himself out of his seat as he spoke and stalked about the small, darkened room, irritation evident in every move.

  Daro Haworth's reply was languid, distracted. “As long as they can get an audience for it.” His eyes were intent on the large, sharply focused vid globe in the center of the room. “Don't forget, they have an exclusive on this: they were the only ones on the street with a remote crew when the rains came.”

  “Which is just a little too pat, don't you think?”

  “We had security look into it. There's a logical explanation. They monitor the official frequencies just like the other two vid services, and heard the hijack alarm along with everybody else. But they've got a small budget with no remote crew on stand-by, so they were way behind their competition in getting to the scene. It so happened they were just about to take to the air when the money started to fall. A good example of how inefficiency can pay off once in a while.”

  Radmon Sayers’ familiar face filled the vid globe. Orange mark notes fluttered all around him, interspersed occasionally with flashes of white, all so real and seemingly solid that a viewer with a large holo set would be tempted to reach out and grab a handful. Sayers’ expression was a mixture of ecstatic delight and barely suppressed jubilation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said from within the globe, “if someone had told me about this, I'd have called him a liar. But here I am in the street outside our studio, and it's raining money! No, this is not a stunt and it's not a joke. There's money falling from the sky!”

  The camera panned up the side of a building to the dark sky yielding orange and white slips of paper out of its otherwise featureless blackness, then jumped to a wider angle on Sayers. He was holding one of the white slips. Behind and around him, people could be seen scurrying about, snatching up money from the street.

  “Do you remember those crazy little flyers we've been seeing around town for the past half-year or so? The Robin Hood Reader? One of the early ones promised a tax refund – ‘Look to the skies,’ it said, if I remember correctly. Well… I think I may be standing in the middle of that tax refund right now.”

  He held up the white piece of paper and the camera angle closed in on it, virtually thrusting his magnified hand into the room. The printing on the slip was clear: Your tax rebate as promised. Robin Hood and his Merry Men. For those who could not read or whose reception might be poor, Sayers read the inscription.

  “So it looks like this Robin Hood fellow kept his promise,” he said as the rain of paper tapered off to nothing. “There was an unconfirmed report of one of the Imperial Treasury convoys being hijacked this evening. If that's true, and this is the stolen money, then I fear Mr. Hood and his Merry Men are in big trouble.”

  The camera angle widened to a full-length shot of Sayers and the street. People could be seen standing here and there around him, faces upward, expectantly watching the sky, wads of bills clutched tightly in their hands. He went over to a middle-aged woman and put his arm around her shoulder. She obviously recognized him and smiled at the camera.

  “Let's ask this woman what she thinks of this whole affair.”

  “Oh, I think it's just wonderful!” she cooed. “I don't know who this Robin Hood fellow is, but he's welcome in my neighborhood any time!”

  “But the money may be stolen.”

  Her smile faltered. “From who?”

  “From the government, perhaps.”

  “Oh, that would be too bad. Too bad.”

  “What if the government confirmed that it was the same money that was hijacked from the Imperial Treasury ships and asked that all good citizens turn in the money they had picked up tonight… would you comply?”

  “You mean would I give it back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course I would!” Her expression was utterly deadpan as she spoke; then she smiled; then she began to giggle.

  “Of course.” Sayers, too, allowed a smile to play about his lips. He stepped away from the woman and faced the camera. “Well, it looks as if the monetary monsoon is over. This is Radmon Sayers saying good night from a scene that neither these people around me nor the Imperial Treasury officials are likely to forget for a long time. By the way, it might not be a bad idea to take a look outside your own window. Perhaps Robin Hood is delivering your tax refund right now.”

  The globe faded to gray and then the head of another vid-caster appeared. Haworth touched a groove in the arm of his chair and the globe went dark.

  “We all look like fools!” Metep said, still wandering the room. “We'll have to make a real example of these do-gooders when we catch them!”

  “That won't be too easy, I'm afraid.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because they didn't leave a single clue to their identities behind.”

  A SWEEP OF THOSE SHIPS turned up countless sets of fingerprints – all identical, all unregistered, all obviously phony – but not a single epidermis cell other than the crews’. And of course their use of holosuits during the entire affair precludes visual identification.”

  “Identifying them shouldn't be the problem!” Metep shouted. “We should have them in custody!”

  “Well, we don't, and there's no use ranting and raving about it. They pulled some very tricky maneuvers last night, the trickiest being the finale when they had everyone pursuing empty transports halfway back to the west coast.”

  “Idiots! We all look like idiots!”

  “Yes, I'm afraid we do,” Haworth said, rising to his feet and rubbing both hands up over his eyes and through the stark white of his hair. “But not as idiotic as we're going to look when the results of Krager's programs for voluntary return of the money are in. A ‘patriotic gesture,’ he called it! The old fool.”

  “Why? I think it's a good idea. We may even get a few million back.”

  “We'll get nothing back except a few token marks, and then we'll really look like idiots!”

  “I think you're wrong.”

  “Really? What would you do if you just found a tax-free bonus lying in your back yard, and knew it was stolen from the same people who had recently taken a sizable piece of your income in taxes? How would you respond when those people asked for their money back, and they didn't know exactly who had it? What would you do?”

  Metep considered this. “I see what you mean. What'll we do?”

  “Lie. What else? We'll announce that more than 90 per cent of the money had been returned and that only a greedy, disloyal few have failed to return the money that rightfully belongs to their fellow citizens.”

  “Sounds good. A little guilt is always good for the common man.”

  Haworth's smile was sardonic. “Assuming they'll feel guilty.” The smile faded. “But there's a lot about this Robin Hood character – if he's actually an individual at all – that bothers me. What's he up t
o? He doesn't call for your death or violent overthrow of the Imperium. He just talks about money. There's no heated rhetoric, no obvious ideology. Just money.”

  “That bothers you? Not me! I prefer what he's doing to threatening my life. After all, he could have robbed a military base and been dropping neutrons on us.”

  “It bothers me because I don't know where he's heading. And I sense there's method to his madness. He's got a goal in mind and I can't see what it is. Perhaps he'll let us know in his newsletter.”

  “Which we've already outlawed, naturally. Anyone caught in possession of a Robin Hood Reader from now on will be arrested and interrogated.”

  “And that's another thing that bothers me. We lend Robin Hood a certain mystique by officially declaring him and his silly little flyers illegal.”

  “But we have no choice. He's committed armed robbery. We can't ignore that!”

  Haworth didn't appear to be listening. He had walked to the wall and turned it to maximum transparency. The northern half of Primus City lay spread out before him.

  “How many people do you think got a handful or two of money last night?” he asked Metep.

  “Well, with two ships and sixty million marks… has to be thousands. Many thousands.”

  “And only a tiny fraction of those giving the money back.” He turned to Metep VII. “Do you know what that means, Jek? Do you know what he's done?”

  Metep could only shrug. “He's robbed us.”

  “Robbed us?” Haworth's expression could not disguise his contempt for his superior's obtuseness. “He's turned thousands of those people out there into accomplices.”

  “MY COMPLIMENTS TO YOU, SIR!” Doc Zack said, raising a glass of iced grain alcohol toward LaNague as they sat alone in one of the small offices that lined the rear of the Angus Black warehouse. “You have not only thumbed your nose at the Imperium, you've also succeeded in extracting joyful complicity from the public. A master stroke. Long live Robin Hood!”

  LaNague raised his own glass in response. “I'll drink to that!” But he only sipped lightly, finding the native Throne liquors harsh and bitter. He preferred Tolive's dry white wines, but importing them in quantity would be a foolish extravagance. He didn't need any ethanol now anyway. He was already high. He had done it! He had actually done it! The first overt act of sedition had come off flawlessly, without a single casualty on either side. Everyone was intact and free.

  There had been a few tense moments, especially after they had made the money drops over the various sectors of Primus City and the Imperial Guard cruisers were closing in. Dropping down to street level, the pilots had run a zigzag course toward the city limits. At a pre-determined point, the transports were halted in the dolee section of the city, all the crew poised at the cargo and boarding hatches. With touch-down, everyone jumped out and scattered. The pilots were the last to leave, having been assigned the duty of plugging in a final flight cassette designed to take the pursuing cruisers on a merry chase. LaNague's pilot must have been delayed inside, because Ship One was a full three meters off the ground before he appeared at the boarding hatch. But without a second's hesitation, he leaped into the air and hit the street running. Everyone melted away – into alleys, into doorways, into waiting ground cars. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the hijacked transports had arrived, discharged their human cargo, and departed, leaving the streets as they had been before, with no trace of their passing.

  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.