F. Wilson: An Enemy of the State

As he spoke, Broohnin's face had become contorted with rage, saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth and threatening to fly in all directions. His voice rose progressively in volume and by the end of his brief outburst he was shouting and pounding on the table. He caught himself with an effort, suddenly glad LaNague had brought the damper box along.

The Tolivian shook his head with deliberate slowness. “That will accomplish nothing but a changing of the guard. Nothing will be substantially different, just as nothing is substantially different now from the pre-Imperium days when Earth controlled the out-worlds.”

“You forget the people!” Broohnin said, knowing he sounded as if he were invoking an ancient god. “They know that everything's gone wrong. The Imperium's only two centuries old and already you can smell the rot! The people will rise up in the confusion following Metep's death and-”

“The people will do nothing! The Imperium has effectively insulated itself against a popular revolution on Throne-and only on Throne would a revolution be of any real significance. Insurgency on other worlds amounts to a mere inconvenience. They're light years away and no threat to the seat of power.”

“There's no such thing as a revolution-proof government.”

“I couldn't agree more. But think: more than half-half! — the people on Throne receive all or a good part of their income from the Imperium.”

Broohnin snorted and drained his glass. “Ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous-but true.” He began ticking off points on the fingers of his left hand: “Dolees, retirees, teachers, police and ancillary personnel, everyone in or connected to the armed forces”-then switched to his right-“Sanitary workers, utility workers, tax enforcers/collectors, prison officials and all who work for them, all the countless bureaucratic program shufflers…” He ran out of fingers. “The list goes on to nauseating length. The watershed was quietly reached and quietly passed eleven standard years ago when 50 per cent of Throne's population became financially dependent on the Imperium. A quiet celebration was held. The public was not invited.”

Broohnin sat motionless, the rim of his glass still touching his lower lip, a slack expression on his face as LaNague watched him intently. Finally, he set the glass down.

“By the Core!” The Tolivian was right!

“Ah! The light!” LaNague said with a satisfied smile. “You now see what I meant by insulation: the state protects itself from being bitten by becoming the hand that feeds. It insinuates itself into the lives of as many of its citizens as possible, always dressed in the role of helper and benefactor but always leaving them dependent on it for their standard of living. They may not wind up loving the state, but they do wind up relying on it to increasing degrees. And chains of economic need are far harder to break than those of actual physical slavery.”

Broohnin's voice was hoarse. “Incredible! I never thought-”

“The process is not at all original with the Outworld Imperium, however. States throughout history have been doing it with varying degrees of success. This one's been slyer than most in effecting it.”

As he turned off the sound damper and signaled the waiter for another round, the conversation drifting over from the bar became mildly intelligible. After the drinks had been delivered and the shield was operating again, LaNague continued.

“The Imperium has concentrated its benefits on the citizenry of Throne to keep them in bovine somnolence. The other out-worlds, with Flint and Tolive as notable exceptions, get nothing but an occupation force-‘pardon me, defense garrison’ is what it's called, I believe. And why this disparity? Because outraged citizens on other planets can be ignored; outraged Throners could bring down the Imperium. The logical conclusion: to bring down the Imperium, you must incite the citizens of Throne to outrage against the state. Against the state! Not against a madman who murders elected officials and thus creates sympathy for the state. He then becomes the enemy instead of the state.”

Broohnin slumped back in his seat, his second drink untouched before him, a danse macabre of conflicting emotions whirling across his mind. He knew this was obviously a crucial moment. LaNague was watching him intently, waiting to see if he would accept an indirect approach to felling the Imperium. If he still insisted on a frontal assault, there would be trouble.

“Have I made myself clear?” LaNague asked, after allowing a suitable period of brooding silence. “Do you still think killing Metep will bring down the Imperium?”

Broohnin took a long slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand, and hedged. “I'm not sure what I think right now.”

“Answer honestly, please. This is too important a matter to cloud with face-saving maneuvers.”

Broohnin's head shot up and his gaze held LaNague's. “All right-no. Killing Metep will not end the Imperium. But I still want him dead!”

“Why? Something personal?” LaNague appeared struck by Broohnin's vehemence.

“No…something very general. He's there!”

“And is that why you want the Imperium overthrown? Because it's there?”

“Yes.” Silence followed.

“I'll accept that,” LaNague said after a moment's consideration. “And I can almost understand it.”

“What about you?” Broohnin asked, leaning forward intently. “Why are you here? And don't tell me it's something personal-you've got money, power, and Flinters behind you. The gnomes of Tolive wouldn't get involved in something like this unless there was some sort of profit to be made. What's their stake? And how, by the Core, are we going to pull this off?”

LaNague inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of the “we” from Broohnin, then reached into his vest and withdrew three five-mark notes.

“Here is the Imperium's insulation. We will show the higher-ups and all who depend on it just how thin and worthless it really is. Part of the work has already been done for me by the Imperium itself.” He separated the oldest bill and handed it to Broohnin. “Read the legend in the lower right corner there.”

Broohnin squinted and read stiltedly: “‘Redeemable in gold on demand at the Imperial Treasury.’ “

“Look at the date. How old is it?”

He glanced down, then up again. “Twenty-two years.” Broohnin felt bewildered, and simultaneously annoyed at being bewildered.

LaNague handed over the second bill. “This one's only ten years old. Read its legend.”

“ ‘ This is legal tender for all debts, public and private, and is redeemable in lawful money at the Imperial Treasury.’” Broohnin still had no idea where the demonstration was leading.

The third bill was handed over. “I picked this one up today-it's the latest model.”

Broohnin read without being prompted. “‘This note is legal tender for all debts public and private.’” He shrugged and handed back all three mark notes. “So what?”

“I'm afraid that's all I can tell you now.” LaNague held up the oldest note. “But just think: a little over two standard decades ago this was, for all intents and purposes, gold. This”-he held up the new bill-“is just paper.”

“And that's why you're trying to topple the Imperium?” Broohnin shook his head in disbelief. “You're crazier than I am!”

“I'll explain everything to you once we're aboard ship.”

“Ship? What ship? I'm not going anywhere!”

“We're going to Earth. That is, if you want to come.”

Broohnin stared as the truth hit him. “You're not joking, are you?”

“Of course not.” The tone was testy. “There's nothing humorous about going to Earth.”