The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  “And if not?”

  “It will. That's the end of discussion on the matter. And remember: Mora and the others are to know nothing of this next step until it's past the point of no return. Especially Mora!”

  Sayers was about to add further comment when Broohnin's abrupt entry through a side door cut him off.

  “Just heard from Seph Wolverton over at the Project Perseus Comm Center,” Broohnin said as soon as he caught sight of them. “That probe ship just popped into the system and is heading for Throne. Seems to be following instructions to the letter.”

  LaNague cursed silently. If only he had another month! The Imperium would be gone by then and there would be no one left in power to manipulate the hostile aliens in Perseus into a war threat. But that wasn't to be, and it was probably just as well that the probe returned now when he was able to deal with it personally, rather than leave it to the others. Their narrow vision was disconcerting, their lack of faith discouraging. If left to handle the probe pilot alone, they'd probably botch it.

  “All right,” LaNague said through a sigh. “Tell Wolverton to do all he can to keep the ship's presence in the system a secret. It can't remain a secret forever. The closer it moves, the more monitors it will alert. But we, at least, will have the most time to prepare.”

  “Why don't we just find a way to blow it out of the sky?” Broohnin said with a grin. “That'll solve the problem very nicely, I think.”

  LaNague paused for an instant, horrified by the realization that the very same solution had already occurred to him. He had discarded it, naturally, but the idea that his mind might even briefly follow a line of thought similar to Den Broohnin's was chilling.

  “We have to get to him first,” LaNague said, ostensibly deaf to Broohnin's suggestion. “We have to meet him, spirit him away, and see to it that nobody from the Imperium knows where to find him. After there's no more Imperium, he can tell all of Occupied Space what he found out toward the Perseus arm.”

  “That sounds like a tall order,” Sayers said.

  “Don't worry,” LaNague told him. “I'll see that it's done. Just leave it to me. I'll take care of everything. As usual.”

  Wafting briefly through his mind as he spoke was the thought that he sounded like a stranger to himself. He was acting like a pompous ass, impatient, intolerant of any challenge to his notions, of any opinion that deviated from his own. The thought became a question: were these symptoms of some occult malignancy devouring him from within, endangering not only himself, but the revolution and all who had worked for it? He brushed it away like an annoying insect. Nonsense. The revolution was secure. Victory was at hand. Nothing could stop him now. Nothing!

  XIX

  The Paternalistic State does give its people a sense of security. But a snug, secure populace tends to resist movement – especially forward movement.

  from The Second Book of Kyfho

  FROM THIS FAR OUT, Throne looked like any other Earth-class planet, blue, brown, swirled with white. Not too impressive, but it was home. And Salli was there. Vincen Stafford wondered what was going on planetside. Something was wrong, that was certain. He didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t known how big it was, but something tricky was going on. How else to explain the crazy orders he had received?

  Part one of the instructions had been logical – return directly to Throne at top speed, stop for nothing; use tight beam to signal comm center immediately upon arrival in Throne System. No problem. That’s what he had expected to be told, and was exactly what he wanted to do. One encounter with the Tarks was quite enough, thank you.

  The remaining instructions were the crazy ones. After notifying the comm center of his presence in the system, he was to proceed with all haste to Throne and establish an orbit that would pass over Throne latitude eighty degrees north and longitude ninety degrees east. At no time – this was repeated and doubly emphasized – was he to have further contact with anyone. Anyone. No matter who tried to contact him, he was neither to answer nor to listen. He was not to identify himself to anyone else. The Project Perseus Comm Center knew who he was and that was all that mattered. He would be met in orbit by a shuttle and taken down for debriefing.

  Something was up, but he couldn’t imagine what. Were they afraid he’d cause a panic down below by telling scare stories about the Tarks? They should know him better than that! Maybe they were just being careful, but the precautions seemed extraordinary. Why?

  He shrugged. The orders had come from Project Perseus Comm Center… his boss. Not his worry. Not his to reason why. He just wanted to get his feet planted firmly on Throne, find Salli, and celebrate the bonus due him for being the contact ship… an extra twenty thousand marks. They could do a lot of living on that.

  It would be good just to be home again.

  He slipped into Throne’s gravitational field on a flat trajectory early the next morning, ship’s time. The retros slowed him enough to allow the delicate but intractable fingers of the planet’s gravity to wrap around the ship and hold it at arm’s length. He had plotted the approach carefully during the three days since his arrival in the system, and now he smiled as he made the final minor course adjustments. Perfect! The probe ship’s orbit would pass right over the desired coordinates with hardly a second’s drift. He hadn’t spent all those years in navigation school for nothing!

  A small blip showed on his screen. He cued the image intensifier to home in on it and… there it was. An orbital shuttle, rising to meet him. He upped the intensity. Funny… no Imperial markings. But that sort of went with all the other craziness. If the Project Perseus heads were being so secretive about his return, it wasn’t all that strange to bring him down to the surface in an unmarked craft.

  The comm indicator flashed again. It had been doing that repeatedly for the past day and a half. But like a good soldier, he had followed orders and steadfastly ignored it. At first there had been a strong temptation to disconnect the light, but he had decided against it. Let it flash. Who cared? He was going home.

  “STILL NO ANSWER FROM THAT SHIP?” Haworth asked.

  The tiny face on the vidscreen in his hand wagged back and forth. “None, sir.”

  “Is there any sign that the ship may be out of control? Is the flight pattern erratic? Could the pilot be hurt?”

  “If he’s hurt, sir, I’d love to see him fly when he’s well. The ship seems to have a definite course in mind. His communicator console could be malfunctioning, but with all the fail-safes built in, it seems unlikely, unless there’s major damage. And the ship handles like an undamaged craft. I don’t know what to tell you, sir.”

  “Why weren’t we aware of his presence in the system sooner?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You’re paid to know,” Haworth gritted. “What good are you if you don’t know!”

  The insolence in the shrug was apparent even on the minuscule screen. “Not much, I guess.” His smile was insolent, too. No one seemed to have any respect any more.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Haworth said, passing over the veiled insult – he’d deal with the man later. His name was Wolverton. He wouldn’t forget. “Send a shuttle up there immediately and bring that pilot directly to me. I’ll debrief him personally. And then we’ll get to the bottom of all this.”

  “There’s already a shuttle on the way. You should know that, sir.”

  Haworth felt a brief, deep chill. “Why? How should I know?”

  “You sent it yourself.” The man glanced down at something off screen. “I’ve got the message right here from the shuttle. Said it was under direct orders from you to intercept the probe in orbit and bring the pilot to you.”

  “I gave no such order. Stop that shuttle!”

  “I don’t know if we can do that, sir. It looks like it’s already made contact.”

  “Then intercept it before it lands.” He looked at the man’s laconic expression and suddenly came to a decision. “No. Never mind. I’ll arrange that m
yself.” With no warning, he broke the circuit and began punching in the code for the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Guard. If he had to scramble a fleet of interceptors, he’d do it. He had to interrogate that probe pilot.

  THE MAN WHO CAME THROUGH the lock was not with the Imperial Guard. He was dressed in Lincoln green hose, a leather jerkin, and a feathered cap. And he held a blaster.

  “Quick! Through here. We’re taking you down.” He spoke without moving his lips.

  Stafford hesitated. “What’s going–?”

  “Move!”

  It suddenly became clear to Stafford just whom he was dealing with. The drawings had been flashed on the vid often enough: this was either Robin Hood himself or one of his Merry Men. A closer look revealed a barely perceptible shimmer along the edges of the man’s form, a sure sign of a holographic disguise.

  “Are you Robin Hood?” he asked, already moving toward the hatch. Despite the menacing presence of the blaster, he did not feel threatened. In fact, the blaster gave him good excuse to go along.

  “You’ll find out later. Hurry!”

  Stafford ducked through the lock and was propelled along a narrow corridor into an even narrower cubicle with a single seat.

  “Strap yourself in,” the figure said. “We may have a rough ride ahead.” The door slid shut and Stafford knew he was locked in. There was a jolt that signaled release of the probe from the shuttle, and increasing drag toward the rear of the cubicle as the craft picked up speed. Stafford decided to strap himself in. He had ridden many a shuttle, but could not remember any that could accelerate like this one.

  “WE LOST THEM,” Commander-in-chief Tinmer said flatly. There was enough of an edge of anger in his tone to warn Haworth against too much abuse. The man was looking for someone to lash out at, someone to trip his hammer. Haworth decided to let him save his wrath for the interceptor pilots who had evidently flubbed their mission. And besides, Haworth wanted the commander on his side.

  “How is that possible?” he said, employing concerned disappointment to mask his growing rage at the incompetence that confronted him at every turn.

  “For one thing, that shuttle was not exactly a standard model. It must have had a special drive or something because it pulled a few tricks that left our men sitting up there like hovercraft. Some of the men think it’s the same craft we’ve chased before on suspicion of smuggling – they were never able to catch that one either. Anyway, the ship went down in the western hinterlands and we’ve got search teams out now. But even if we find it, there’ll be no one on board.”

  Haworth closed his eyes in a moment of silent agony. How could this be happening to him? Everything was going wrong. He opened his eyes.

  “Find that pilot. It is absolutely imperative that we contact him and find out what he knows. Get the identification number of the probe, check with the Project Perseus center to get the pilot’s name and address. Track him down, bring him to me, and no more mistakes. I don’t care if you have to mobilize every Imperial Guardsman under your command and send them all out beating bushes and going door to door. That man must be found!”

  The commander stiffened visibly. “Everything that can be done will be done.”

  “See to it, Tinmer.”

  Daro Haworth stared at the screen after it had gone dark. He knew they would never find the pilot. The guardsmen who would be used for the search were worse than useless. Primus City and the surrounding garrisons were swollen with them; they were bored, inactive, and the less duty they were given, the less they wanted. At least they were assured of shelter and food and clothing, more than could be said for most of the civilian population now. It was costing a fortune to support them, but they had to be kept on ready… martial law was no longer an if, but a when. And that when was drawing nigh.

  He had thought the time had come yesterday when the dolee section of Primus had its first food riot. By the Core, that had been frightening! It took him back to his student days on Earth when he had almost been caught in one of those frequent outpourings of unfocused rage. If the fellow student with him hadn’t been an Earthie, and hadn’t developed a sixth sense for the riots, and hadn’t pulled him into a building… he didn’t allow his imagination to venture into the possibilities of what would have happened to a well-dressed out-worlder trapped in the middle of that frenzied torrent of humanity. But yesterday’s riot had been broken up by a few low-flying troop transports from the garrison out by the mint, and by a few well-placed warning blasts.

  Next time would not be so easy. With Food Vouchers being refused everywhere, the dolees were starving. The legislative machinery couldn’t raise their allotments fast enough to keep up with prices. And with all the people on the dole now, the mint was hard-pressed to put out currency fast enough to meet the demand. Haworth had heard of runaway inflation but had never thought he’d see it. Nothing he had read could even come close to the reality, however. Nothing. It was like a grossly obese dog chasing its tail… futility leading to fatality.

  That’s why the guardsmen had to take priority. The dolees had been the big power block before with their votes, but votes were no longer important. Blasters were going to be the legislature soon, and Haworth wanted to keep the men who had them happy. Keep them happy, keep them fed, keep them ready to run around and shoot their toys to keep the mobs in line. They weren’t good for much else.

  They’d certainly never find that pilot. The brazenness of the abduction – if in fact it really was an abduction – along with the perfect timing and daring escape maneuvers… all pointed to Robin Hood. It fit his modus operandi. And it was clear now that Robin Hood was more than an economic gadfly and tax rebel; he was steadily revealing himself as a full-fledged revolutionary. No mere wild-eyed bomb-thrower, but a crafty conspirator who had anticipated all the ills that had befallen the Imperium and had taken advantage of them. How had he seen it coming? How had he known? Unless…

  Ridiculous! No one man could kill the Imperial mark! Not even Robin Hood!

  If only they could capture him. That would be a boon to the Imperium’s cause. Take Robin Hood out of the picture – or even better, keep him in the picture and turn him to the Imperium’s advantage – and perhaps something could be salvaged. Haworth knew he’d like to sit down and have a long discussion with Robin Hood, whoever he was… find out where he was getting his funds, what his final goals were. It would be the most fascinating conversation he had ever had in his life, he was certain. And after it was over, it would be an even greater pleasure to kill Robin Hood.

  “Are you Robin Hood? I mean, the Robin Hood?”

  LaNague smiled, warmed by the glow of awe and open admiration in the other man’s face. “We never really decided who was actually Robin Hood. It’s been a group effort, really.”

  “But you seem to be in charge. Was the Robin Hood idea yours?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then you’re him.” The pilot thrust out his hand. “I’m proud to meet you.”

  LaNague grasped and shook the proffered hand in the age-old ceremony of greeting and good will, then watched the probe pilot as he walked around in a tight circle, taking in the interior details of the Angus black warehouse. The man was short, slight, and dark, with an appealing boyish face, now filled with wonder.

  “So this is the center of operations… this is where you plan all those raids and put out The Robin Hood Reader… never thought I’d ever see it.” He turned to LaNague. “But why am I here?”

  LaNague put a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the back office. “To keep you out of Haworth’s hands. Once he gets hold of you he’ll turn your information into a war scare to keep the out-worlds in line behind the Imperium. And especially to keep the people of Throne looking to the Imperium as protector from whatever might be coming out of the sky, rather than as culprit for all the misery they’re suffering. We can’t allow that to happen. Things are too close to the end point.”

  Stafford’s mouth opened to reply as he entered
the back office ahead of LaNague, and remained open but silent when he saw the occupants of the room. The two Merry Men who had shuttled him down from his probe ship had retreated to this office soon after depositing him in the warehouse. They were gone now, replaced by two black-robed figures.

  “Flinters!” Stafford squinted his eyes to detect a telltale shimmer along their outlines.

  “Those aren’t holosuits,” LaNague told him. He was watching Stafford’s reactions closely. “Does it bother you that Robin Hood is associated with Flinters?”

  Stafford hesitated, then: “Not really. It shows you mean business… that you aren’t just playing games and looking for attention.” He finally tore his eyes from Kanya and Josef and looked at LaNague. “Does this mean that I’m a prisoner?”

  “A guest,” LaNague said. “You’ll be kept comfortable and well treated for the next few weeks, but we must keep you out of Haworth’s hands.”

  Stafford’s features slackened. “But I won’t tell him anything! If you say he’s going to use the information to keep himself in power, I’ll see that he doesn’t get it.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t guarantee that,” LaNague said with a weary smile. “Haworth knows you know something, and a simple injection is all it will take to have you answering in minute detail every question he asks. I know you may mean well, but Haworth is quite ruthless.”

  “But my wife–”

  “We’ll bring her here and set up quarters for the two of you. We’ll do anything we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible.”

  “But I must stay,” Stafford said. There seemed to be a catch in his voice. He turned away and slumped into a chair, staring at the floor.

  “You all right?” LaNague asked.