The baron stood before them

“Your skills and capabilities will enhance the progress of my ville as we work toward the perfect society. I want you with me, not against me. And of your own free will.”

“Do we really have a choice?” Ryan asked. “We’re here, surrounded by your sec.”

Arcadian considered that. “You may have a point. If you made a break for freedom, we could stop you. The fact that we found Dr. Tanner proves we can sweep this ville with relative ease. But if you choose to run, a firefight would only take out some of my men and lead to your demise.”

“So if we say no?”

“Then you’ll be held until you say yes. And you will.”

There was a steel and ice there that betrayed a will that Ryan knew wouldn’t be refused.

“What do you have in mind for us?”

Arcadian’s Asylum

James Axler

Death Lands ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Freedom is not merely the opportunity to do as one pleases; neither is it merely the opportunity to choose between set alternatives. Freedom is, first of all, the chance to formulate the available choices, to argue over them—and then, the opportunity to choose.

—C. Wright Mills

1916–1962

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

“They say a week in a truck is a long time. ’Specially if you ain’t got no shitter, and no time to stop. Me? I say it’s how you get to know who your real friends are.”

Trader Toms cackled in a wheezing, cracked tone that broke down into a phlegm-ridden cough. Hacking and snorting, he drew up a phlegm ball that followed his trail of tobacco juice into a bucket bolted to the side of the wag. He was still wheezing and cackling, shaking his head and repeating the last four words to himself with a shake of the head when Doc Tanner politely cleared his throat.

“I believe the derivation of the phrase comes from ‘a week is a long time in politics,’ used by media commentators in the decades before skydark. They used it in much the same way, as it was not unknown for politicians to change their allegiances more often than they would change their underwear.”

Toms wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of a begrimed hand, leaving streaks of dirt in their wake. “Hell, that wouldn’t be difficult with me,” he breathed, the rattle in his chest making the words seem echoed and distant. “I gotta say, Doc, that’s why I like having you around. You may be madder than a bunch of stickies put in sack and beaten with clubs, but you know some seriously old and weird shit. Just like you, in fact.”

“Why, thank you,” Tanner replied mildly. To be sure, the fat man seated in front of him may have uttered those words in a tone that suggested he meant no insult—indeed, was growing fond of Doc—but the old man still had to bite back the bile and not heed to the temptation of taking the fat man’s equally fat head and ramming it into the bucket, so that he drowned in his own spit and phlegm.

Grinding his teeth, he glanced across to where Jak Lauren sat, cradling his 357 Magnum Colt Python as though it were a newborn babe. The albino youth’s face was as impassive as ever, but as their eyes met briefly there was a flicker that told Doc he would be backed up all the way.

But no: keep quiet, smile politely, and wait for the big payoff. It had been a long trek across the plains, with the companions unsure of where the next ville or settlement may lay, and their horses were almost exhausted—as were they—when the approaching convoy had become more than a cloud of dust on the horizon.

With no cover, and sapped of their energy, all that they could do was stand their ground and wait to see if the newcomers were hostile. Fortunately—or perhaps not, he mused as he watched the repulsive fat man wobbling on his seat—they had been greeted with nothing so much as deference. The convoy had drawn to a halt at a distance that had indicated no immediate attack would be forthcoming, and the fat man and his two sec lieutenants had dismounted from their wags to approach. This they did unarmed, before declaring themselves and making it known that, if little else, they had recognized Ryan and J.B. by description.

“You can see I got me one hell of a convoy, and I could use extra sec. ’Specially sec that knows what the hell it’s doing. And you boys do. Guess the rest of you ain’t no useless crap, either, else you wouldn’t be riding with One-eye and Four-eyes.”

The offensive words contrasted with the artless and disingenuous way in which they were spoken. If nothing else, Doc had to admit, they had been aware of Trader Toms’s failing from the first.

With little in the way of food and water left between them, and no real knowledge of the terrain, it had been an offer that couldn’t be refused.

Although, as the fat man shifted on his seat, raised one ass cheek and let rip with a fart so loud that it sounded above the whining note of the engine, Doc did ponder that a slow death from starvation and thirst may have been a better option. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jak tilt back slightly so that he could catch the fresh air that blew through an open port at the rear of the wag. As the fecal scent hit Doc, he wished that he had that option.

“You know, Doc, I love all that old shit,” Toms continued, with perhaps an inappropriate choice of words, in Doc’s view. “I like to try and pick up stuff like old mags, disks, vids… Funny, most people think they’re just junk, and they got no worth. Well, mebbe that’s right if you’re thinking just in terms of food or jack, and mebbe it’s right that you put that shit first, ’cause without it we ain’t gonna stand a chance. But that old stuff, man, the way people lived and thought before the big one… There’s wrinkles in there that can be used. Got a lot of ideas from that. Put me way up the food chain, more than people thought I ever would where I come from.”

“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Doc said, conscious of avoiding the irony in his voice while knowing at the same time that it would sail right over the greasy scalp of the trader. “However, the accumulation of knowledge, when applied, can reap dividends. Pay off,” he added, seeing the momentary look of puzzlement on Toms’s face.

The trader snapped his fingers and slapped a palm against a thigh covered with pants of a cloth so dirt encrusted as to be of indeterminate origin.

“Hell, that’s it exactly, Doc. Ain’t just what you know—it’s knowing who else knows it, and how the two of you can use that if you can’t turn it to your advantage on your own. That’s what I like about going to Arcady. That baron, Arcadian… There’s a man who knows his shit. Backward, forward, sideward and up a bear’s ass. Ain’t nothing that man don’t know. For real.”

Doc shrugged. “He certainly does seem to be a most learned man,” he murmured. Yes, he thought, and one who prized that knowledge and held it to himself jealously, unwilling to share. He had been cagey around Doc and his fellow travelers. Perhaps that could be put down to a healthy suspicion of those who didn’t usually journey alongside a trader with whom Arcadian seemed to do so much business.

But no. There was more to it than that. The baron was a ruler in every feudal sense that permeated these postskydark ages. Knowledge was one of the tools that he used to keep his people under the heel of his boot. Toms may have felt that he was a near equal—if not on a par—with the baron, but in truth he was a cretin in comparison. His learning was small, in real terms, if impressive for someone in this intellectually derelict wasteland. Doc would be the last to say this as a way of boosting his own ego—for where had all his learning got him in this world—but Toms was narrow-minded, and couldn’t visualize the uses of knowledge that Arcadian had seemed to have grasped with ease.

Because this was such a strong weapon in his armory, and because it was rarely challenged, so he had been unwilling to enter into the kind of discourse with Doc—particularly—and the others that Toms had tried to engineer. Toms could be ruthless in his business and the protection of his convoy and position. They had seen evidence of this. Despite his almost buffoonish persona, the workers on the convoy respected the way in which Toms had built up his convoy and given them a good livelihood in a world that placed such a thing at a premium.

Yet this was still a man who, when drunk on the potent brew that he carried for the recreation of his crews, could repeat endlessly the reasons why he liked to be called “The Don” whilst doing imitations of the actor from whom he had got the idea, cramming his cheeks with rags, shrugging and gesturing until he almost choked on the rags and his own laughter, falling flat and muttering about “Brando…brandy…” He thought he was so funny, Doc reflected, yet he was a harmless bore.

He couldn’t imagine Arcadian getting drunk, let alone having a repertoire of such party tricks. The baron had struck him as a man who could never allow himself to lose control in such a way. He had too much at stake: much that went beyond the wealth of the ville he ruled. Whatever it may be, Doc fervently hoped that he would never go back and find out.

Even as this thought crossed his mind, and he was aware of Toms burbling on about the conversion of his wags to run on water, not gas—and how he had seen something about this on an old vid, yet the motherfuck tape had frizzed to a snowstorm before all had been made clear—Doc could feel the cold fingers of fear tap at the nerves down his spine.

He looked at Jak. The albino youth’s normally impassive visage was curious. Doc shook his head slightly, then turned his attention back to the trader.

“Ah, yes, I believe one of the theories behind such vid wiping is to do with the way that oil companies liked to keep a monopoly on wag fuel. Not that different to now, really…”

It was the cue that Toms was waiting for: “Tell me about it. I did hear tell that the guy Ryan and B.J. ran with—” Doc had tired of the way in which Toms continuously got the Armorer’s name the wrong way around, but left correcting it for what seemed to be the thousandth time “—had a lake of gas. That would be cool, to find something like that again, instead of having to pay shit through the nose for what you can get. Then they complain when I have to up my prices because they up theirs. I mean, stands to any kind of reason, man, if…”

Doc allowed him to ramble on, half listening, yet disturbed by the ice that infused his blood.

RYAN CAWDOR and Krysty Wroth were riding in the eighth wag of the convoy, dead center. A fifteen-wag convoy was a pretty big undertaking and, like Doc, Ryan had decided that Toms wasn’t quite the idiot that he had first appeared to be. Nonetheless, both Krysty and himself had spent far too long in the lead wag, listening to his boring stories and putting up with the endless bodily functions that made this armored heat-trap seem preferable.

The center wag was under the command of K.T., one of the two sec lieutenants trusted with Toms’s convoy. A slim, almost girlish man of indeterminate age with dark circles under eyes that seemed to bulge out of his skull, K.T. was sharp but prone to fits of rage that seemed to come from nowhere. Ryan had wondered if it was jolt-induced when they first met, but had seen little sign of any narcotic usage on the convoy. Brew was okay. Toms drew the line at things that could truly impair efficiency. So it seemed that the sudden irrational fits of pique, and the colorful language that went with it, were merely part of K.T.’s natural state. Both Ryan and Krysty had heard some inventive cursing in their time, but had to admit that K.T. at full throttle showed a facility for stringing together obscenities that would make a deaf man blush. So it was that they were both secretly hoping that the sec lieutenant would blow his top over some trifling matter, as that was what seemed to trigger his temper. Ironically, under true pressure he was calm and collected.

But so far nothing on this leg of the journey—the first hop out of Arcady—had caused the sec man to explode. If anything, he seemed subdued by the ease of departure.

Given only a day’s notice of Toms’s desire to up and move on, the two sec lieutenants had marshaled the wag crews in a manner that had impressed Ryan. Not since he rode with Trader had he seen a crew respond so well to having their rest and recreation interrupted in such a manner. They were ordered to prepare for departure a good week ahead of the time that Toms had originally scheduled. When pressed by crew reps pissed at losing valuable drinking and gaudy time, he had said that Arcadian had given him a hint that there was some good business to be done in the ville of Jackson Spire, which was about 150 miles down the road. Close enough to reach within a day on good roads, two at most. Then they could camp while he went about negotiations, and return to their R & R.

Given that the crew reps weren’t in the best of conditions themselves, the way in which K.T. and his sideman Lou had gone about their business was interesting to behold. First, the two men had taken the initially pissed reps and dunked them in barrels of ice water to shock them into sobriety. Fishing them out of the barrels and slapping them into line where necessary, they had worked as a team. Lou was almost twice the size of K.T., and his opposite in almost every way. Where the smaller man had a manic stare, a loud voice, and seemed to be made of barbed wire, Lou was a giant who seemed to be encased in a roll of blubber. Yet despite that, and the fact that he had a laid-back manner and a soft-spoken, almost whispering voice, his almost seven-foot body had a hardness rippling beneath the fat that spoke of a layer of thickly developed muscle. And the hard strength showed in the way in which he picked up the complaining reps with one hand, sometimes lofting one in each massive paw before dunking them, lifting them out and handing them over to K.T. Here was where the smaller man’s temper and fire came in useful: the crew reps, stunned and shocked, perhaps still a little high from the brew in their veins, had him yelling in their faces, slapping them hard to make them pay attention.

Their orders were simple: go and collect the crews from your wags—you would know better than anyone else where they were. Get them out of the bars and the gaudys. No matter if they were on top of a slut or halfway down a glass. Back here within a half hour.

“Better do it, boys. It’s for the best,” Lou added mildly when K.T. had finished his tirade.

It was a routine that Mildred, watching at the time with Ryan, had described as “good-cop-bad-cop,” explaining at Ryan’s puzzled expression about the psychology of the soft and hard.

“That?” Ryan had asked with mild surprise. “That’s nothing new. Never heard that expression, though. And never seen it done quite like this.”

Yet such was the regard with which the crews held Toms, for all his oddities, that the crew reps were gone as soon as Lou’s mild words faded on the breeze, only to return a short while later with their crewmen in tow.

Ryan had doubted that the necessary maintenance and repairs could be made to ready the convoy in time. Half the crewmen were being held up by their fellows, and their level of tiredness, drunkenness and ability to concentrate on the task in hand was—to say the least—dubious.

And yet, harried and driven by the two sec lieutenants, each moving to the crews that he knew would respond best to his particular manner, it wasn’t long before the crews were beginning to look like the brew and lust had been riven from their blood. Goaded by the sec men and each other, they were soon fit enough to start the task in hand.

For the next eighteen hours straight they had worked, before resting prior to departure. Ryan and his people had been acting as sec and outriders for most of their short time with the convoy. Toms had told Ryan, as they stood on the melting pavement of the highway on which he had found them, that he knew from stories that Ryan and J.B. were survivors of the infamous Trader’s convoy. Since then, stories had circulated about their abilities to fight their way out of a tight corner. So their main purpose in being recruited was to provide additional and experienced sec to augment the force on a convoy that was swelling to the point of being unwieldy.

For the most part, this is what they had done. But now that they were about to leave Arcady sooner than originally intended, they had to earn their jack. They had been promised money and supplies on leaving the convoy, if that was what they preferred. They had also been assured a job as long as they wanted one. The benefits for this were obvious: Toms, while not generous, was an employer who believed that his crews would respond well to being well rewarded. Food was plentiful. Basic meds were stocked. Water was always well tanked. And there was jack for gambling, gaudys and brew when they hit a ville.

But in return, Toms demanded that his crews be ready to respond at an instant. They had to work hard, and turn their hand to anything that would assist the greater whole. So it was that Ryan and his people found themselves pressed into tasks that were alien to their usual way of working.

Yet the manner in which K.T. and Lou had managed the crews after the initial hard-taken tack had been revelatory. Despite the mouth that still could outcurse anyone across the breadth of the land, K.T. had been encouraging rather than scourging, and Lou had used his immense strength to facilitate speed on some tasks that would otherwise have been delayed by the need to find spare manpower for lifting.

Now, as Ryan and Krysty sat in the eighth wag with the sec lieutenant, and he said little or nothing as his protruding bug eyes scanned the horizon before flicking back to the instruments on the dash of the wag, checking the wag jockey’s progress, it was as though the stresses of the last day or so had never occurred.

“Taken this stretch of road before?” Ryan asked, wondering why the sec man seemed so intent on the surrounding territory. If what Toms had told them was correct, then Arcady was a regular on their route.

K.T. shook his head. “Shit, no. Trader tells us at the last minute that it’s another route out of the asswipe fucker of a ville. Usually take the road heading nor’ nor’ east, which is an old highway that’s been resurfaced in part. Smooth as a gaudy’s pussy after a close shave. Sweet, easy route. This pissing road leads who knows where.”

“Jackson Spire, presumably,” Krysty murmured. It passed through her mind that it was odd that this ville should be their destination, full of trading promise, when K.T. seemed never to have heard of it before. Her hair curled slightly.

“Yeah, probably does. ’Scepting that we’ve never been to that bastard pesthole ville before. Some ass-end-of-beyond piece of shit that ain’t got two turds to rub together, let alone serious trade.”

“Then why would it now?” Ryan questioned. K.T. shrugged. “Why the fuck should I know? Mebbe they got lucky and found some old stockpile on their doorstep while they were fucking each other and their pigs in the dirt. Mebbe they got some blasters and robbed some stupe ass convoy that wasn’t looking. Or mebbe Arcadian is setting them up in some way.”

“Setting them up? For what?” K.T. shrugged. “I don’t mean like the asshole wants to make ’em take a fall for something. But mebbe he wants to see if they can make something of themselves if they get a helping hand, or whether they’ll just piss it away like shithead scum.”

“That’s magnanimous of him,” Krysty murmured. “Kind of good,” she added as she noted the puzzled look K.T. shot her. K.T. sighed. “Weird fucker, that Arcadian. Me and Lou never really get much of a chance to be around when him and Toms are together, and I can’t say as I’m too pissed off about that. There’s just something about him that really puts the shits up me.”

His attention was taken by a patch of undergrowth on their left, and he peered toward it, cursing furiously under his breath as he tried to define if the rustling movement within it was a harmless animal, a possible predator or stickies waiting to attack.

While that occupied him, Ryan and Krysty exchanged looks. Such was the bond that had built between the two of them over the years they had been traveling that they could almost tell what the other was thinking.

If Arcadian had some motive for sending Toms to Jackson Spire, then they would be wise to be triple red. Maybe the baron was nothing more than a dabbler in trying to expand his empire than K.T. had half suggested. But maybe he had some motive that was as yet unfathomable, involving the convoy as much as—if not more than—the people of the ville.

The eighth wag of the convoy was an old military vehicle that had, at one time, been used as troop transport. Bench seats still filled the first half of its length before giving way to an area that had been cleared at the rear of the vehicle. Here were two mounted Brens, ancient but reliable, that covered both sides of the road. Currently they were manned by two of the wag crew. Ryan and Krysty were due to relieve them in an hour. Meantime, they tried to rest, knowing how uncomfortable the metal bucket seats of the Bren mountings could become. But it was far from easy, as Toms was a great believer in utilizing space to the max: cartons and wooden crates were piled precariously around them, barely contained by webbing. These were crew supplies, and were carried in sec wags to keep them separate from trade cargo. It was a reasonable system, except that it took no account of crew comfort during rest periods.

“Asshole trees,” K.T. cursed, louder than his previous mumblings. “Makes the land hard to read. You don’t read the land, you don’t know what’s gonna jump out at you.”

Which was precisely why Ryan and Krysty were themselves cursing at that moment. They were trying to get rested so that they could stay triple red, yet thinking that the only thing that was going to leap out at them on benches like these were their own kidneys.

It was going to be a long ride, despite the distance.

“DO YOU USUALLY follow this route?” J. B. Dix asked mildly, taking a look through the periscope attachment that had been welded into the roof of the rear wag. It was a fine piece of work, salvaged from who knew where and lovingly maintained. The welder had been a craftsman, the bearing-mounted swivel allowing J.B. to take a full 360-degree look at the territory through which they were passing.

Despite the mildness of his tone, J.B. felt uneasy. He had picked up from overheard murmurs that this wasn’t the usual route taken on leaving Arcady. The scope showed him that the roadsides were dense, impenetrable foliage, almost like a jungle—creeping vines, twisted and gnarled tree trunks with overhanging branches pendant with dark, oily leaves; thick, spiky grasses that poked out of gaps and lined the hillocks on which the trees rose and fell. Dark, ominous rustling from within could be danger, or could be just the movement of the heavy plant life.

This was the territory that had once been known as Missouri. Some of the vegetation he could see would have existed here before skydark, perhaps changed by the mutation of the nukecaust. But most of it was alien—not just to here, but to anywhere that he had ever been. Not least of which was the route they had taken into the ville. There was a sense of foreboding that hung over the old flat-top highway. It may have just been the darkness where the canopy of leaves blocked the sun, or it may have been the way in which the trees seemed to loom, as though waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Someone or something had laid this vegetation along this route. He’d bet on someone, and he also knew who would be his likely suspect. But the question was why? Was it a defense? In which case, why was the convoy being sent to Jackson Spire, which presumably was the only settlement along this old road, and the only place from which Arcady could want protection?

Or had they been sent this way because the foliage was part of an offensive rather than defensive measure? In which case, where was an attack to come from? The why could wait.

J.B.’s question was finally answered. “Not usual to go this way, no. But then, we’ve never been to Jackson Spire before. No reason to, really. As far as we were concerned, it was a dead-and-alive pesthole, with nothing to take us there. Nothing to trade, and no jack to buy.”

The giant Lou stretched himself, his arms rising so that they pushed against the roof of the wag, even from his seated position. He yawned, then pivoted on his swivel-mounted chair so that he faced the Armorer rather than the front of the wag.

“Why? Does it matter?” J.B. shrugged. He thought it might, but there was no need to cause unnecessary panic. “I was just wondering. It’s this weird shit at the sides of the road. Not what I remember when we came in.”

Lou thought about it for a moment, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “That’s true enough,” he said slowly. “Never seen anything like this around these parts before. Then again, Jackson Spire has a reputation for being rad-blasted, which is part of the reason people like us have avoided it before. Guess it’s just rad shit that’s done this.”

J.B. sniffed. “Yeah, guess so,” he agreed.

Of course he didn’t. There was an itch at the base of his neck, a sharp prickle that alerted him to a possible danger. If nothing else, he was going to stay triple red and be ready if it came at them.

Carefully, he stepped back from the scope, took off his spectacles and polished them with the hem of his shirt. As he did, he locked eyes with Mildred Wyeth. The doctor had been checking the med supplies that she always carried with her, separate to those of the convoy. It was the first chance she’d had, given the speed with which they had prepared for departure. But as she had listened to the exchange between the giant sec lieutenant and the Armorer, she had paused in her task. She knew J.B. far too well to take his words at face value, and she knew when he was trying to keep something back. Now, as he shot her a glance that was intended to stay hidden from the other crew members, she understood.

The wag that traveled at the rear of the convoy was longer than any others, and had a larger crew. Six people, besides J.B. and Mildred, were in the vehicle. A radio operator sat at a right angle to the wag jockey. All the vehicles were connected by an old shortwave system that, like the scope, had been salvaged and maintained with care. The whirling, crackling sounds of the rad-scoured ether were an ever-present low-volume background to the business of the wag, occasionally rising above the hum of the engine, sometimes blending with it almost hypnotically, broken now and then by the distorted voices of other wags passing messages.

The wag jockey had a sec man riding shotgun. Currently, an aging and emaciated man named Keef rode there, peering from behind spectacles thicker than those of the Armorer.

Behind these seats were chairs bolted to the floor of the wag. Lou reclined in one of these, and he was joined by another crew member. The final man in the wag crew—unusually, this was an all-male wag—was seated at the rear. A heavy-duty cannon was mounted over the rear axle, its barrel and scope exiting through the space that had once housed doors, but which had been modified to mold steel plate shielding around the blaster.

Around the chairs bolted into the floor were crew supplies, and along the sides of the wag were welded secure cabinets that housed meds and armament. It didn’t leave much room for the crew, cramming them close together. Yet, because of the low level of interior light—the windshield and wire-meshed glass on the side doors being augmented by fluorescent-lighting run off the battery—it was still possible for J.B. to convey all he wished to Mildred without anyone else in the wag being aware of what passed between them.

She moved across the floor of the steadily rolling wag, picking her way around the crates and cartons, so that she could take a look at the roadside. When she did, the sight took her by surprise: while inside the wag, having seen nothing of the outside since the convoy started to roll, she had assumed that they would be passing the kind of landscape that she had seen surrounding Arcady. This, however…

“Wow, that is kind of weird,” she said in the best ingenuous tone that she could muster. “Can I take a better look?” she asked, indicating the scope and looking toward Lou.

He shrugged, an indulgent smile on his face. “Sure. It is fascinating, I guess.”

It was obvious that he could see nothing to worry about, and was amused by the interest that the Armorer and Mildred were showing. Relieved that he had asked no awkward questions, she moved to the scope and took a look at the surrounding territory.

No question. There was something dark and disturbing about the land through which they were passing.

Without comment, she left the scope and returned to her former post. She continued to check the meds, but also found time to surreptitiously check her Czech-made ZKR blaster. J.B., catching her doing this, indicated with the slightest inclination of the head that he acknowledged her understanding.

The convoy rumbled on. The suspension on the vehicle was good, but even so they could still feel the bump and jolt of the road beneath. Looking out at the surface, it seemed unbroken, but it was undulating as they passed over it. Root systems from the trees and bushes on either side had burrowed deep into the soil and spread across the gap between, pushing up the earth but not yet breaking through.

This made progress slower than perhaps J.B. or Mildred would have liked. The sooner they were out of this landscape, the better.

J.B. returned to the scope. To the rear of the convoy, there was nothing except the ribbon of road, the ville of Arcady a distant memory hidden from view by the twist of the road and the canopy of foliage. On either side, all that could be seen were banks of oily, dark leaves and pointed grasses.

Looking ahead, J.B. could see the convoy snaking around a bend in the road. The way in which the vehicles moved erratically across the surface of the flattop gave some indication of how the wag jockeys had to wrestle with the steering, wrenching back wheels that wanted to move with the undulations rather than the will of the driver.

The fourteen vehicles ahead of them were of varied size and shape, some old container rigs, some predark military vehicles. All had been repainted in a variety of colors, the only recurring motif being that the same kind of colors had been used. Maybe, J.B. figured, Toms had found a stash of old vehicle paints and had spread their use among his wags. It wasn’t pretty, but it identified every vehicle as belonging to this convoy. Made sense—no coldheart could hijack one of Toms’s wags and hide it with any ease.

They traveled with a set distance between every wag. There was little variation, and any wag jockey who strayed too far distant or too close was quick to drop back or to catch up. It prevented them from crashing into each other should the front of the convoy be pulled up, or from being separated and split up if the convoy was attacked from the middle.

J.B. had to hand it to Toms. For such a crude, laughable figure, which he was in many ways, the man had an intelligence that went deeper than was apparent. Which made it all the more odd that he should be taking this route, going to a ville he didn’t know, and all on the say-so of Baron Arcadian. From what Lou and K.T. had told them—indeed, what Toms had said when they had joined him on the way into Arcady—Toms had a high regard for the baron, and felt that it was mutual.

J.B. hadn’t met Arcadian, but he was aware that Lou shared K.T.’s wariness. Was it possible that Toms’s opinion of the baron had blinded him to any possible duplicity or danger?

Trouble was, all J.B. had to go on was a gut feeling. He knew Mildred felt it, too. He didn’t know about Ryan, Krysty, Jak or Doc, but if they’d taken a look at the surrounding land, he was sure that he could guess.

All his foreboding came to fruition as the radio crackled to life. J.B. and Mildred exchanged puzzled glances as Toms’s voice came over the airwaves.

“Wag One to all wags. Slow to a halt over the next quarter of a mile. There’s something we need to attend to. Repeat—slow to a halt over the next quarter mile and maintain distance. Condition blue. No need to fuckin’ panic, guys.”

The trader’s tone had been easy and friendly, with no sign of panic. Yet what could have caused him to call a halt on a empty road, with no sign of the ville up ahead?

J.B., ignoring Lou’s questioning glance, spun the scope through 360 degrees once again, staying when facing front. There was no sign of any obstruction ahead, and through to the next bend there was no sign of Jackson Spire—even given that they had only been traveling a few hours.

“What’s this about?” he snapped at Lou.

The giant sec lieutenant shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Chapter Two

“And then Corleon turns to the guy who’s been trying to chill him all the way through, and he says, er…” Toms halted midway through the description and tugged at his beard, his beady, dark eyes darting around and taking a good look at the landscape that passed the windows of the wag.

Doc was relieved, in one way. This had to have been the fifth time he’d had to endure a blow-by-blow description of a scene from an old vid in the past few hours. In truth, he had ceased to pay full attention to what Toms was saying sometime back, and he had a sneaking suspicion that this particular scene was on its second run.

However, the way in which Toms stopped midstory was unnerving. The trader had found—he thought—a willing audience in Doc, and one that had knowledge of these old vids. Doc didn’t think it prudent to point out that an interest in one aspect of the past didn’t include an all-encompassing fascination.

Still, while Toms was droning on, Doc knew that all was well. For the trader to interrupt himself, something of moment had to be about to occur.

Hawklike, Doc studied the man as he paused, looked, then turned to the wag jockey. There was an unease in his manner, as though he had almost forgotten himself; as if he was about to do something that wasn’t necessarily to his liking.

“How far out are we?” he asked the wag jockey, his tone now businesslike.

The driver studied the odometer. “About fifteen miles,” he answered. His tone was curious, as though wondering why his boss had suddenly questioned him.

Toms nodded to himself, muttered, “Fuck, nearly screwed it.”

“A problem, perchance?” Doc queried.

Toms turned back, looking blank for a moment, before shaking his head and smiling uneasily. Doc noted that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“No, not problem. Just something that I nearly forgot to do.”

Doc could feel Jak stiffen, even though he couldn’t see him. The creeping apprehension that had flooded through him before now returned, and he knew that Jak’s sense of danger had also been pricked.

“Something we should know about?” Doc said, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Toms shook his head. “No. Well, kinda. But bear with me, you’ll know soon enough,” he told him.

Ah, yes, Doc mused, but would they like it?

“WHAT THE FUCK does that fat little shit think he’s doing? We’ve barely got the wags in gear and the prick is making us stop. What was the point of running the asswipe crews into the ground like a bunch of shitheaps if we’re going to stop and start like this?”

K.T. banged the palm of his hand on the side of the wag. Hard. So much so that Krysty winced, wondering how many bones the idiot had broken over the years because of his temper. It was a hard, flat sound in the enclosed space. K.T. cursed again through gritted teeth as the pain hit: not that it calmed him in any way.

“Pull the fucking wag up, then,” he yelled at the wag jockey. “Might as well pull out the bedrolls, light a fire and bed down for the bastard night,” he muttered fiercely.

“So you don’t know why Toms is doing this?” Ryan asked.

“Of course I don’t fucking know you shit rag. Think I’d be so fucking pissed otherwise?”

Ryan held his peace, knowing K.T. spoke crudely to everyone.

K.T. grabbed the handset for the shortwave. “Lou, bring it down to zero in three-fifty,” he said, visibly controlling his temper. The big man was the only one who could ever put him in his place, and resultantly he was always on his best behavior when talking to him.

“Sure, no problem,” came the big man’s mild tones. “And you keep it frosty, you hear?”

K.T. grinned. “I’ll try.”

He turned to Ryan and Krysty, the grin turning apologetic. “Shouldn’t have said that to you. Ain’t nothing to do with you if Toms goes weird on us.”

“That’s okay,” Ryan assured him. “But is there anything we should know? We’re supposed to be sec for you, so if there’s any problem…”

K.T. frowned, craning his head out the front window of the wag before answering. When he turned back, he had a puzzled expression. “Y’know, I’d tell you if I could, but I’ll be fucked sideways by a bunch of horny stickies if I can see anything weird at all out there. Far as I can see, there’s no reason why we should be stopping.”

Krysty’s hair pulled tighter around her throat, the coils moving in. “No reason” usually meant a real bad reason—just one that hadn’t jumped out to bite you on the ass yet.

LOU REPLACED the handset after speaking to K.T., pulling a face that bespoke his own bemusement.

“Guess you’d better get ready,” he said to J.B. and Mildred. “Guess we all had.” He stood with some difficulty in the cramped interior and moved to the metal gun cabinet bolted to the side of the wag. He took down a carbine and a Browning Hi-Power hand-blaster, checking that both were oiled and loaded before holstering the blaster and throwing the carbine over one massive shoulder. Both weapons were in decent condition.

“You see anything out there that could be why we’re stopping?” he continued, directing his question to J.B.

The Armorer shook his head. “Can’t see much, for sure,” he mused. “But there isn’t anything close enough to be visible or to cause too much disturbance to the cover.”

Lou chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Then what’s the stupe bastard playing at? Last thing we should be doing is just pulling up on an open road, especially with all that cover.”

J.B. studied the big man intently. There was little doubt that he was genuine. The sense of impending danger that had infected J.B. and Mildred caused the Armorer to wonder if the convoy itself was the source of apprehension. But if there was an enemy within, then Lou had no part of this. Nor did the other members of the wag crew, who were also murmuring their disquiet.

Was it like this in every wag? J.B. wondered. If so, then what did the fat man have up his hairy-armed and snot-stained sleeve?

The shortwave, up until then nothing more than a constant background undulation with a few crackling bursts of static, burst into life as messages were relayed from wag to wag, synchronizing the slowdown to a halt. At the same time, K.T. and Lou, as sec lieutenants, became focused on sec measures when the convoy had come to a stop. Each wag carried in its crew people who doubled as gear-humpers and sec. At a time such as this, all such personnel were focused on their sec duties. It was agreed that when the convoy had stopped, each wag’s sec contingent would exit first, backs to the wags, one on each side of the vehicle, covering both sides of the densely packed verge.

“Where do we fit?” J.B. asked.

“Good point,” Lou replied. He spoke into the handset. “K.T., if we deploy the usual people in defensive positions, what should we do with the additional sec group?”

“They’re evenly spaced along the convoy, right? I’d say they could act as outrunners, mebbe scout the roadside. What do you think?”

Lou turned to J.B. and Mildred, his expression begging the question. He beckoned J.B. to the handset.

“Sounds reasonable,” the Armorer began as he approached. “Ryan, we take it in pairs or go solo?”

Ryan’s voice crackled. “Way we’re spread, take it solo. One for each side. That way we don’t leave any gaps.”

“Sounds good to me,” J.B. agreed. “Jak? Doc?”

Doc’s voice came over the airwaves. “A perfectly reasonable assumption, John Barrymore, and one which I think the good Mr. Lauren and myself would find ourselves in agreement. It only remains to be given the nod, as it were, by our immediate superiors.”

Lou gave J.B. a look that was half confusion, half amusement. “Does that old crazy mean me and K.T.?”

J.B. couldn’t resist a grin. “Yeah.”

Lou shook his head with a throaty chuckle. “Weird old fucker.”

He was about to speak into the handset when Toms’s voice cut across.

“CANCEL THAT, boys,” Toms said quickly, moving in front of Doc and taking the handset from him. “Go ahead with the usual plan for our people, but make none for Ryan and his people. You guys, I need to see you urgently up by my wag. As soon as the area is secured, then get yourselves up here.”

He signed off and turned away from the handset, at the same time turning his back on Doc and Jak.

“What is this about?” Doc asked calmly, trying to keep the tension from his voice. He could feel Jak at his back, like a coiled spring, yet he knew that to the casual observer, the albino would seem at ease. The other crew members in the wag were exchanging puzzled looks. It was obvious that whatever agenda Toms may have, he hadn’t chosen to share it with the rest of his crew. And their reactions showed that his actions were uncharacteristic.

Doc was sure that whatever was going down wasn’t something that Toms was fully comfortable with.

The trader didn’t answer the old man for some while—or so it seemed—before saying in a voice that was cracked with tension, “You’ll soon find out. Best you know with the others.”

“You tell now,” Jak said. His voice was quiet, but as hard as flint. Doc could see unquiet in the eyes of the other crew members. They were scared of the wiry and impassive albino. They’d seen him in action. If he exploded as they seemed to be expecting, it could trigger a situation that couldn’t easily be controlled.

“No, Jak, it is perhaps for the best that we discover what is behind this when we are with Ryan and the others,” Doc said slowly. There was weight in his words, and an inference that the albino picked up on.

“Okay,” he said simply.

Over the shortwave, they heard K.T. and Lou give the synchronized order, once the convoy had stopped rolling, to disembark. Giving the old man and the albino a sideways glance, the sec detail in the lead wag slipped out to cover either side.

“Well, then,” he said softly after a pause, “should we be going?”

Toms turned to Jak and Doc. He looked everywhere but directly at them, nodding without being able to bring himself to utter the slightest word. He picked up a portable handset and made for the side door of the wag, Doc and Jak at his rear.

Both were poised, even if they still had—as yet—no idea what for….

RYAN AND KRYSTY climbed out of the wag, followed by K.T. Looking up and down the length of the convoy, they could see J.B. and Mildred walking toward them, the giant Lou in their wake. Between the middle and end wags, sec men were strung out in a line, backs to the wags, facing the blank wall of oily green vegetation with expressions that veered between the nervous and the confused. They had no doubt that their sec compatriots on the other side of the road looked exactly the same.

Looking toward the lead wag, they could see Trader Toms, shuffling on the pavement, holding a shortwave handset and pointedly looking away from Doc and Jak. Even at this distance, it was obvious that both men were having trouble in not betraying the tension they felt.

Ryan and Krysty stood still, intent on waiting for J.B. and Mildred to join them. It was pretty obvious that K.T. was in no hurry, either, an impression reinforced when he spoke softly as Lou came within earshot.

“Lou, what the fuck is shortass doing?”

The giant smiled amiably. “You think I can ever work out how his mind works? He knows, and we will soon enough. C’mon, let’s move.”

The six people began to move toward the front of the convoy, feeling the questioning glances of the sec men bore into them as they passed. The handsets that K.T. and Lou carried crackled briefly before Toms’s voice sounded.

“C’mon, what are you waiting for? Hurry up.”

His tone was far from happy, and Ryan couldn’t help but notice the look that shot between the two sec lieutenants. They had no idea what the fat man wanted, and they were concerned at the way he sounded.

If Toms wanted a firefight, he could have it. His people obviously had little idea, if this was his intent, so despite being outnumbered, Ryan was sure his people could take out the sec force, or go down with most of them. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

As they drew level with the leading wag, eye contact with Doc and Jak made it clear that they should be ready to fight. The ghost of a smile crossed the albino teen’s visage. When was there a time when he wasn’t ready for such an eventuality?

Toms stepped back from his sec lieutenants, Ryan’s people and the sec man who had stepped out of the lead wag with him. He looked over all of them, slowly. It seemed to go on forever. In the elongated and pregnant pause, it seemed to Ryan that the land around them closed in. He was aware of the humid heat as the sun rose in the sky, its rays of light barely penetrating the thick canopy of leaves even though the heat bounced off the road before reflecting back off the oily, dark leaves. They absorbed the heat and moisture before bearing it back down on the people beneath.

The entire world seemed amplified. The quiet in which they found themselves now that the wag engines had died and they waited for the silent trader to speak only served to make the undertones—otherwise hidden—seem greater.

Ryan felt like his nerve endings were stretched taut enough to break; he knew without looking that the rest of his companions felt the same.

Yet still the fat man couldn’t bring himself to speak. Finally, when he did, it wasn’t at them. Rather, it was into the handset.

“Stewie, make up the jack that we owe the newbies and bring it up to me.”

The tension wasn’t so much broken as deflated, like a tire with a knife in it. Whatever they had been expecting—all of them—it wasn’t this. K.T. and Lou looked at each other, confusion written on their faces.

“Why, pray tell, are you asking for monies owed?” Doc questioned. “You surely can’t be thinking of dispensing with our services?”

Toms shrugged, but still couldn’t bring himself to look at them. “Well, these things have to happen, see, and—”

“Have to happen bullshit,” Ryan exploded. “What the fuck are you playing at? Paying us off out here? What do you plan to do, just take off without us?”

Even as he spoke, he could see from Toms’s face that he was right. But why? It made no sense.

“Boss, we’re going to a new ville that we know jack-shit about, and you want to get rid of extra sec?” Lou frowned.

“That’s just plain stupe. Only a complete fuckwad would do something like that,” K.T. added in a more forthright manner.

“He’s right,” Ryan added, fighting to keep his temper. “And you know he is.”

The one-eyed man’s first instinct was to action—but of what kind? They weren’t being threatened—if anything, the sec lieutenants did not want them to go—and yet they were about to be cast adrift outside of a ville, on a deserted road, for no reason that he could see.

“But what have we done?” Doc continued in the tone he had earlier adopted. He cast a quick glance toward where Ryan and the others were grouped, hoping that they would let him run with this. He felt that he had an affinity with the trader, or at least an affinity that the trader perceived. Perhaps he could get an answer where they would fail.

Toms shrugged. “It’s not about what you’ve done. Shit, you’ve been really good the short time you’ve been with us. But that’s kinda what this is about, I guess. How good you are at what you do.”

Mildred sighed. “Man, you are making no sense at all. And you know that what you’re doing is just gonna piss us off. So if you don’t want things to turn nasty, then you’d sure as hell better start explaining. And make sense, this time.”

Toms sighed. “Okay, okay—I will, but let’s just get things settled, first.” He spoke into the handset. “Stewie, for fuck’s sake—”

“Just coming,” a voice crackled back. J.B. looked back as he heard a wag door, loud in the now oppressive silence of the road. A fat man—not as tall as Lou, but rounder, and without the impression of underlying muscle—jumped out and huffed his way toward them. He carried a bag that jumped and jangled in his hand. It obviously contained local currency, and a fair amount. It was heavy enough to swing out of time with the blubber on the fat man’s body as he ran toward them. Red-faced and sweating, short of breath, he reached them and handed the bag to the trader.

Toms took it without acknowledgment, then spoke once more into the handset. “Okay, this is for all sec. Our newbies are leaving us, as of now. I’m paying them off, and we leave them here. They show any resistance, chop ’em down. We look after our own first. That’s an order.”

Even as he spoke the words, Ryan and his people couldn’t believe what they were hearing. There had been no provocation on their part, and they still had little or no idea why they were being left.

It was obvious, too, that Lou and K.T. felt the same way.

“Boss, what’s this about?” Lou asked, restraining K.T. as the fiery sec lieutenant was about to speak.

Toms sighed, rubbed the back of his hand—the one in which he still grasped the crackling handset—across his forehead.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he began, speaking to no one in particular, “it’s like this. You don’t get anything for free in this world. There’s always a trade-off. Even if it’s one that you might not like that much. Take Jackson Spire, for example. You think they got trade and jack all of a sudden for no reason? Course they haven’t. They got it because Arcadian thinks it’d be a good idea for the villes ’round Arcady to start to grow and develop. Something to do with this idea he has about rebuilding a new society. And they got to abide by a few things he says to get that jack. In order that he’ll send trade their way, by putting us onto them.”

“So the asswipe gets to feel like he’s got a big cock by waving at them,” K.T. fumed. “What’s that got to do with us? He sends us there to make them feel good, but he don’t own us.”

“Are you sure about that?” Krysty murmured, eyeing the trader.

Toms screwed his face up in an expression of self-disgust. “It’s like I say, you don’t get anything without a trade-off. They get a trader coming through, and we get first pickings…as long as I do something for Arcadian in return.”

“And that something is to pay us off and leave us here?” Ryan asked, incredulous. “What does that profit him?”

Toms sucked in his breath. “You know,” he said at length, “I really don’t know. Not for sure. Far as I can see, you didn’t do anything to piss him off while you were in Arcady. And you ain’t been nothing but good for us. Fact is, I was telling him that. Mebbe he wants you to work for him.”

“Bastard strange way of going about it,” J.B. mused. “Why not just ask us?”

“Because we could say no,” Mildred stated. “This way…”

“We have nowhere to go other than back,” Doc finished.

“You don’t have to do what Arcadian says,” Krysty directed at Toms. “You could just drive on to Jackson Spire, then go beyond.”

Toms grinned. “I could. But then I don’t know if he has sec there that’ll report back. Mebbe he could make it hot, start a firefight. I could certainly never come back this way again, and Arcady is good trade. It’s not like I gotta have you chilled, is it?”

Jak spoke for the first time. His words were, perhaps, surprising.

“We take and go. Toms play fair—give us jack. Supplies?” The last was a question, directed at the trader, who nodded. “Not forcing us do anything. Mebbe we go back, mebbe we move on.”

Ryan shrugged. He figured that Jak was right. Toms was making it easy for them, despite the threat of retaliation if they started a firefight.

“Okay, if that’s how it’s got to be.”

Toms’s relief was palpable. “I’m pleased you see it that way. Last thing I want is to have to fight.”

Because you’d be the first to get chilled, Ryan thought. But he said nothing. This wasn’t the time, and Toms wasn’t the enemy.

Ryan and his people stood back from the convoy while Lou and K.T. directed that their supplies be brought out and left with them. Then, as Toms ordered his sec force back into their wags, the two sec lieutenants left their former comrades. Little was said, but their unease with the resolution was plain.

The convoy started up and began to rumble down the flattop. The companions stood back and watched it disappear around a bend in the road until the last wag, and its exhaust, had cleared their view. Even the sound of the engines had become a distant rumble, fading beneath the rustling of the groves at their backs.

“Well,” Doc said brightly, “do we press on for pastures new? Or do we find out what this crazed baron really wants?”

“You calling someone crazy,” Mildred snorted. “Now that really isn’t a good sign.”

Chapter Three

If they had wondered why Toms had taken them about fifty miles out of the ville before stopping, then they had their answer soon after they opted to return. In many ways, it was a simple decision to make. Ahead, they knew, lay only Jackson Spires, over 150 miles away, on a road that was surrounded by territory that was certainly far from friendly.

Go that way, and they had no idea what lay between themselves and the next ville. And at the end of the road would be a ville that was a satellite of Arcady, along with a convoy full of wag crews who would know from their leader the possible consequences of not playing along with Baron Arcadian.

It was trouble whichever way they chose to look at it.

To go back was what the baron expected. Going against his expectation would give them some edge of advantage. But this way they knew the land, as they had recently passed it. Besides which, fifteen miles was going to leave them a lot less exhausted than 150 would. They would need to be on top of their game for whatever they faced.

“So that’s why it was such a strange distance,” Mildred said with a sigh as the sight hit her.

“Think he wants to test our ability?” J.B. asked with a sardonic edge.

“Play games, might get kick in balls,” Jak warned.

Ryan, Doc and Krysty just stood and looked, lost in their own thoughts. It hadn’t been obvious as they approached the sharp bend in the flattop, but as soon as they crested the angle of the bend, they could see that Arcadian’s people had been busy in the short time since the convoy had passed this way.

The road was impassable. Linked chains of man-traps, interspersed with land mines, had been laid across the surface. Barbed-wire barricades had been erected at regular intervals between the chains and mines. Wires that threaded through the barbed strands trailed away to generators that lay at the far end of the track made by the road modifications. It was possible that the generators weren’t operational. It was possible that the mines were inactive. There was little doubt about the man-traps. There was also a strong possibility that there were men waiting to take potshots at them if they slowed as they crossed the tracks, which they inevitably would.

There would also be men watching them in the groves as they went off-road. They all knew this.

“So is this is a test of our ingenuity, or does he wish to see how we cope with the mangroves?” Doc mused.

“Mangroves…yeah, guess you’re right there, Doc,” Mildred said. “I wonder why he’s cultivated shit like this so far from where it’s supposed to grow?”

“Perhaps,” Doc said heavily, “if we pass his little tests, then we may be permitted to know why he deems such things necessary.”

Ryan nodded. “That’s about right. Guess we should get going, then. Don’t want to disappoint the man. That can come later.”

Indicating the direction they should take with a wave of his arm, the one-eyed man led his people off-road, moving to the right of the road as they faced Arcady.

“MOVING WEST. Quasi-military formation. The one with the glasses is taking point. The albino is at the rear. One-eye and the redhead are sandwiching the old man and the black woman. Suggests that they are considered the weak link—no, correction, not weak, but rather not as strong. There is no suggestion in their behavior that they consider any of the group to be inferior. Perhaps it is, rather, a system based on knowing the strengths and weaknesses of the group, and moving accordingly. Suggests excellent reasoning skills. We will pursue at a distance. They’re moving toward Sector Five. We may be forced to drop back and lose them. Team Six should stand by.”

The squat, muscular man in black dropped the small handset from his mouth and nodded to his companion. Taller, more angular and also clad in black, he acknowledged, and in silence the two men moved off.

The undergrowth was thick, and it was slow progress to move through the shrubs, tangles of bramble and vine, and twisted tree trunks. Overhanging branches with viscous leaves that seemed to suck at the men’s faces as they pushed through them appeared to bar every possible path. The two watchers found it difficult going, and they were used to the territory. It came as no surprise that they made ground on their target group with relative ease. Yet it was at the same time impressive to observe the manner in which the targets under observation were making progress. The one-eyed man and the one with spectacles were using a panga and a Tekna knife—a fine piece, rarely seen in these parts, they observed—to hack their way through the thickest of the undergrowth. In so doing, they were making little noise, which in itself was testament to their ability. The others followed in their wake, careful to actually cover the trail that was being cut as soon as they had passed through. It showed an admirable caution.

As, indeed, did the fact that the albino hung back, keeping a sharp eye on their tail. Once or twice, it seemed that he knew he was being watched, necessitating that they pause. They couldn’t afford to be discovered. They could, however, afford to let the observed pass on.

“The albino seems to have acute senses. I suspect we have been spotted, if not positively identified. They haven’t returned for us, but rather than risk confrontation before they’re truly tested, I suggest that Team Six take over…”

“FIREBLAST AND FUCK!” Ryan cursed through gritted teeth. Their progress had been slower than he would have liked, but it had been steady, and there had been nothing to impede them other than the thickness of the undergrowth itself.

But not now. Now there was this…

The random patterns of the undergrowth resolved themselves into a series of regular structures: a maze that ran for as far as they could see on either side.

“Figure it runs both sides of the road?” J.B. queried.

“Got to,” Ryan replied. “Probably around the ville on all sides, leaving only the road as the one clear way in and out.”

Without another word, he sent Krysty and Mildred one way, Jak and Doc the other, to try to define how far the maze stretched. They returned shortly, neither pair with anything he wanted to hear.

“Tell you what,” Mildred said, “I’m betting this proscribes one hell of a circle. Tested it, too. I figure part of the reason for this shit—” she flicked at the creepers, vine and brambles that snaked between the trees “—is to cover this, like camou. If you feel underneath, there’s stone behind the green.”

Ryan grimaced. “I hate these bastards,” he muttered. “Dead ends and traps. Can’t even figure on it being fixed,” he added, recalling the maze they had encountered surrounding the ville of Atlantis. That time, movable walls had made their task almost impossible.

“We could mark our path as best as possible,” Mildred added, “but I’m telling you, we don’t have much to do it with. Not without losing stuff we don’t want to lose.”

While they had been talking, Jak had taken a step back and was looking up into the dark canopy that lay over their heads and extended across the top of the maze. Doc noticed, and stepped back to join him.

“Sure we followed,” Jak said bluntly. “Good, though. Can’t be sure where are.”

Doc knew that if Jak had trouble locating their tail, then they were skilled trackers. He also figured that they were keeping back for a reason.

“Jak,” he said slowly, “are you perhaps studying the top of the maze for a reason. Say, for instance, that if the trees extended over the length of the maze, then they may provide us with a route, albeit a precarious one, over the obstacles?”

Jak nodded. “Could be. Not much life here. No big predator. Not much birds. Got to be reason.”

Ryan and J.B. had stopped their own conversation and, like Mildred and Krysty, were taking note of Jak and Doc. Both glanced around, then looked up.

“Why leave the top of the maze exposed?” J.B. queried. “Up and over? Too easy.” He was thinking of their previous experience with a maze.

Ryan was ahead of him. “Last time it was clear across the top. This gives us some cover. Besides, with all this—” he slapped at the vine and bramble covering the stone “—who’d want to risk some nasty fucker resting up there just waiting for fresh meat? You’d take your chance on the ground, right?”

“Right,” Krysty affirmed. “Except the chances are that there isn’t anything up there. And if there is, we’ll be ready.”

“They not pick us off anyway,” Jak said mildly. “Want see how we do this. Even if they do see us.”

“How do you know?” J.B. queried.

“The young man affirms that we are being tailed,” Doc said with a wry grin. “I see no reason to disbelieve that—after all, if this is a test…”

Ryan barked a short laugh. “Good point. Still take it triple red, though. Let’s go.”

“TEAM SIX IN POSITION. These guys are good. They didn’t just walk in. They’ve scouted it, and they’re not going to be hurried. Thinkers as well as doers. I figure Toms wasn’t wrong, Chief.”

The haggard-looking man let the handset drop. He was gaunt, lines of trauma and experience etched into his face. His slight stoop told of too long spent hunkered down on surveillance. Like the previous observers, he wore what was an approximation of old military black commando fatigues, as was the younger, more muscled man of a similar height who accompanied him. His shoulders were squared, and he was almost visibly bristling with energy.

“They’re not going in. They’re going to climb it?” It was half question, half exclamation. “But surely they’d suspect—”

He was stayed by a hand from his superior. “Keep it down. Yeah, they know the risk, but they’ve figured some odds and are taking the ones that come up best. This should be real interesting. Obs post Delta will need to take this up. We can’t follow without being spotted. And the little guy knows we’re here. Just can’t place us.”

“Probably just as well,” the younger man said.

The haggard observer grinned without mirth. “Yeah? For who?” He lifted the handset. “Look, Chief, we can’t take this on anymore. Delta needs to use the scopes if they’re going up and over. So far, though, I’d say your judgment was bearing up well.”

He let the handset fall. The younger man was giving him a dubious look.

“What?” the haggard man questioned. “Look, you know what the chief is like. A little ass-licking always goes down well with him. It’s not like he doesn’t realize…”

AS HE SAID THAT, he was unaware that his words were being monitored. All handsets were adapted so that they transmitted at all times, no matter what the user might think.

The recipient of the observer’s comments laughed softly as he heard them. It wasn’t, as the haggard man suspected, anything that was new to him. But to hear it confirmed that the men of his sec force weren’t stupes. That was good. Intelligence was always to be rewarded in his world.

And that was what the ville of Arcady meant to Baron Arcadian. It was his universe, and one that he intended to expand—for which he would need able assistance, in all departments of his research and expansion. When Toms had told him—boasted, in truth—of the one-eyed man and his companions, then Arcadian knew that he would have to assimilate them into his organization.

So far, things had been going according to plan. His smile broadened as he recalled how easy it had been to make the little fat man yield to his will. Pleased with the new recruits to his convoy, Toms had been less than willing to strike the bargain. But he was easily bought. His greed, like that of any trader, was transparent. Appeal to that and his vanity, and it became easy to manipulate the result required. A new territory for the convoy to plunder. A few baubles for the man’s vanity—in this case, some old vids and books that were of little consequence but touched that secret desire within Toms—and he had soon acquiesced.

Arcadian stretched, yawned and stood. He had been seated in the communications room of his palace, deciding to oversee this operation himself. The radio tech had been dismissed, and the baron had taken his place. Five paces each way, and he had covered the room. Its walls were painted yellow, and although the brocaded chair was comfortable, the desk equally so, the room had no windows. Arcadian could see how the radio tech could grow dissatisfied and bored on a long shift. It was more like a cell than a place of work. He made a mental note to change the location of the room. Somewhere with more air and light.

Yet this was no altruistic urge. Arcadian believed in treating well those who worked for him not because he spared the merest thought for them as human beings; rather, he knew from long research and empirical experience that a man who was at ease in his place of work was better able to concentrate, and to do a good job.

And that level of performance was his minimum requirement.

Arcadian pushed his flowing, curly, black hair back from his forehead. He was a handsome man, well-muscled. He kept himself in shape, training hard. He was, he knew, the result of careful breeding. His forefathers chose the mothers of their children with care, to maintain the highest level of physical and mental condition in a world stripped of certainties by the nukecaust. It was his duty to look after what he had been given. It was a gift, and one that he had to pass down to his successors, when he had selected a mother for his offspring.

Stretching cramped muscles once more, he settled down in front of the receiver and sent out a message to Observation Station Delta. Located on the edge of the ville, positioned on a tower fashioned from two of the tallest trees in the vicinity, the men of Delta were on a camouflaged platform equipped with tech that had been salvaged and maintained through the decades. Tech that included heat-seeking scopes and infrared taken from a military base where the founders of Arcady had once lived and worked.

If the trial group—as he thought of them—was taking a route over the top of the maze, then this tech would locate them with ease.

He liked their thinking, though. He had to admit to that.

NEGOTIATING THE CLIMB up the side of the maze wall was the easy part. Although the leaves on the vines were as slippery and oily as those that hung from the trees, it was easy to get a grip on the thick stems of the vines. Each of the companions was able to get strong hand- and footholds, feeling the vine stem—as strong as wood, yet more pliable—move and give way to their weight, shifting so that it settled beneath them, actually helping to support them as they climbed, rather than have the rigidity of wood, forcing them to bend to positions awkward to balance.

Jak took point position, pulling his light frame up with ease, snapping back any observations about the way that the vine moved, and how the bramble could be avoided. Not only painful, a thorn in the hand from the stringy growth could also spell infection. They had no idea if the thorns were poisonous, and no intention of finding out the hard way.

When he had reached the top, Jak lay flat along the edge of the maze wall. The closely intertwined growth of branch, vine and bramble made it impossible to move in anything more than a crouch. Despite the fact that he was higher than before, he found that—if anything—the light here was reduced. It was almost as though the growth had been trained to develop more densely at this point, perhaps to make the maze darker. For there was no roof to the maze other than the canopy of foliage. As he looked along, he could see dimly the shape of the maze, described by the top of each section of the wall. It seemed to stretch on to infinity, the darkness swallowing any shape into black.

Beckoning the others to follow, Jak waited until they had started to ascend—Krysty and Mildred, then Doc, with Ryan and J.B. keeping watch at the base of the wall before following on—before striking out in the gloom. Mindful of any birds or tree-dwelling reptiles that might be along the way, Jak forged a path through the overhanging branches and leaves. The dark green foliage seemed to cling to his clothes and skin as he passed. It was an unpleasant sensation, but if that was all the obstruction they would face, he would be more than satisfied.

The others followed as he picked his way across the tops of the stone walls. It was far from simple. The walls, although of thick stone, had jagged and uneven surfaces. Chunks and pebbles broke off underfoot, causing the companions to stumble and slip. As if this wasn’t enough, the walls were thick with guano from the small birds that nested in the branches that brushed the tops of their heads. The gloop built up in ridges that were treacherous underfoot. Slime from the leaves and vines only added to the unsure footing.

Looking down from time to time, they could see that the maze was complex. The light was dim, but it was still discernible that within the dead ends there were traps: areas of black with glinting metal points that caught the occasional stray ray of light betrayed a number of simple man-traps; grilles and spiked traps that were released by the passing of a man were also visible, the thin wires that triggered them catching the light from above, but invisible from ground level. Most insidious were the hinged sections that could be seen: anyone passing would trigger the hinged doors that would cut off passage back, leaving the unsuspecting wayfarer trapped between the door and a dead end, either to starve to death or to be retrieved by any sec.

Jak knew that they weren’t being shadowed as before. He could tell from the sounds and smells around him that they were alone up on top of the maze. Yet all the same he could feel something indefinable, yet there. Someone had an eye on them.

Someone who wasn’t yet hostile, but was biding his time.

But for what?

“DELTA REPORTING. Their progress so far is good. The small albino is leading them. He seems to be the most adept at this kind of maneuver. The one-eyed man, despite being leader, is bringing up the rear of the party. He’s not afraid to delegate. They appear to be scouting the maze as they go, perhaps for future note if they happen across it once more. The natural hazards seem to prevent no obstacle to them.”

The team leader of the Delta post paused and turned to where his three-man team was working. One of them was trying to make purely visual contact. It was still early afternoon, and the light was good—little cloud cover and a bright sun. However, the thick canopy of foliage that overlay the maze obstructed much direct viewing, and even with the high-powered rifle scope he was using to keep track, the sec man had to confess that he was losing sight of them more often than actually seeing them.

The other two members of the team had fared better, however. One was using an infrared scope that penetrated the gloom of the canopy. With that, he was able to see the order in which they had ascended, and also track their progress. His colleague, equipped with heat-seeking tracking equipment, was able to see in greater detail the way in which they were moving, and to detect when one of them paused to look down into the maze.

His only problem was that the image on his monitor would freeze or cut out for a few seconds, before returning as before. Like much of the equipment in Arcady that had been salvaged, maintenance was good, but age was beginning to tell. Word had it that Arcadian’s research team was back-engineering this equipment to learn fully how it worked, and to see if they could synthesize components that were unavailable in a post-nukecaust world.

The only reason that this crossed his mind was that the bastard screen did it again, just at the moment when the albino reached the lip of the maze wall on the ville side. He cursed as the screen flickered and went black, muttering to himself impatiently as he waited for it to come back.

“They’re clear,” he announced as the screen fizzed before clicking back into color, showing the group descending the wall.

“THAT WAS MOST unpleasant,” Doc said, dusting himself down with an expression of distaste at the guano he dislodged, “but if it is all we have to endure, then I think we should count ourselves lucky.”

“Somehow, I think there may be something in store for us,” Ryan mused.

They continued without pause. Now they were back on the ground, Ryan and J.B. took the lead, hacking a path through the undergrowth with the panga and the Tekna knife. Jak brought up the rear, and it was not long before he started to hang back.

“Jak?” Doc queried, noticing this. “Is there something we should know?”

“Not sure…something come. Too clumsy for watchers from before. Not animal.”

“WHOO-HOO!” exclaimed the Delta team member with a high-powered scope as he made a sweep of the surrounding country. “They’ve got trouble. The usual fuckers.”

“It’ll be interesting to see how they handle it,” the team leader said before reporting the sighting.

Chapter Four

At first they couldn’t hear it. Jak knew which from which direction it originated, but all they could go on was his judgment. Sound enough, but still bewildering when you listened for something you knew had to be there, but couldn’t find.

They stood, poised, feeling that they should do something—but what? Until they could scent the danger for themselves there was little they could do to effectively prepare.

And then they heard it—a deep, distant rustling. Small noises made by the small animals and birds that inhabited the dense woodlands had been identified to such an extent that the friends were no longer even conscious of them. Now there was a louder rustling that seemed to stretch over a wider expanse of ground.

“Spread out,” Ryan ordered. “Stay in sight, but keep down.”

There was little else to say. Blasters drawn and ready, the six companions spread out in a skirmish line, facing to the east of the maze wall.

Ryan and Jak took each end of the line. J.B. moved to the middle to act as anchor man as the friends spread out. Mildred and Krysty were nearest to him, while Doc remained between Mildred and Jak. With J.B. acting as anchor, it was an uneven line, but as always there was the unspoken assessment that Doc was the least effective fighter in such situations. Protecting him in this way didn’t go unnoticed by those who watched.

“THEY’RE CLOSING IN on each other. Our targets have taken a formation that protects the old man. The one-eye and the guy in glasses know their strengths, and have used that to get a little balance.”

Arcadian’s voice crackled over the air. “How many are they facing?”

The team leader looked to his men. Heat-seeking and infrared showed blobs of heat and light that fused and melded. Some of the attacking party were moving too close together to be counted accurately. He looked to the observer with the high-powered scope.

“Hard to say for sure. I count twelve at some times, fourteen at others. Think that there may be up to three others I can’t pin down. I’d say they’re outnumbered three to one.”

The team leader whistled softly. “Don’t like those odds. Should we step in and take the rebels out?” he asked the baron.

There was a pause while Arcadian considered. Finally his reply came through. “Leave them. It would be simple to deploy men and disperse them, but this way we get to test their true mettle. It may save wasting time later on. Do not—I repeat, do not—intervene.”

The team leader raised an eyebrow. “Very well, sir.” He shrugged at the questioning glances of his team. “It’s not down to me. It’s going to be a bloodbath down there.”

RYAN LOOKED across the line. Jak and Doc were out of sight, though he could see Mildred’s head bobbing in the undergrowth. J.B. was still upright, scoping the line. Krysty was close enough for him to see clearly. He knew that his thoughts would be echoed in the minds of all of them. As the enemy—assume that now, ask questions later—approached, the sounds of their progress began to separate so that it was possible to pick out numbers and more accurate locations.

They seemed to be moving in four groups, three or four in each. The sound of their footsteps on the undergrowth, no matter how silently they tried to move, was audible. Bramble and fallen branches littered the forest floor so thickly that it was impossible for them not to snap and break some of the dry, dead foliage. Volleys of small, sharp sounds announced the multiple numbers of each group.

Because they moved in clusters, rather than as individuals, it was impossible for them not to cause disturbance in the foliage that they used as cover. Ripples of green spread across a line, a wave of motion that would have made tracking hard if they had moved as individuals. But in a group, the epicenter of each breaking wave was easily spotted.

A bloodbath, all right—Ryan knew it would have to be if they were going to take out the superior numbers before they had a real chance to attack. To do this the companions would have to keep their positions unknown for as long as possible. The only way to gain an edge would be to stay still and hold your nerve until it was time to fire.

Ryan looked at his friends. They would know this, but a hand signal relayed his intent to J.B. and Krysty. In turn, the Armorer passed it on down the line.

If they had just been unlucky enough to be here when an enemy stumbled on them, then it should work. If the enemy was headed this way because they had a location, then it might be different.

Whatever, there was only one thing they could do now.

Wait.

“REPORT,” Arcadian’s voice snapped.

The team leader looked directly into the mangroves. Their targets were in plain sight from the post now that they had traversed the maze, and the rebel force moving toward them was now in vision.

“Our targets are staying put, keeping down. They’re letting the rebels come to them.”

“Do the rebels know they are there?” the baron asked.

The team leader sucked in his breath. “Can’t say for sure. It doesn’t look like it, though. Scavengers headed for Sector Eight, at a guess.”

“Very well. Keep them all in view and do not interfere. This should be instructive.”

“It should be a whole lot more than that,” the team leader muttered under his breath. “A whole lot more.”

THEY WERE CLOSING in. Ryan sank closer to the ground, hunkered on his haunches. He could see that Krysty and J.B. were doing the same. The others were already out of sight. Now, as he rested the Steyr on his thigh, cradling it gently, he felt alone. Insects buzzed and hummed in the grass and bramble around him, swooping in and out of the tangled vines that were now at eye level.

Sweat prickled at his hairline, itching as it ran down his face, under the eye patch and into the empty socket. He moved his free hand slowly, using the back of it to wipe sweat out of his good eye.

His thighs started to ache. He shifted his weight, careful to keep his balance. The rustling ahead of him was getting louder with each beat of his heart. The waves of movement started to move the grass and vine that was only a hundred or so yards from him.

He raised the Steyr, cocked and ready to fire on sight.

No way could he blink. The warm air, moist as it was, seemed to dry out his eye, make him want to blink. He felt it begin to water.

He couldn’t blink; that would be the moment they were on him.

And then the grasses and vines parted. Three people moved in a crouch. Were they armed? He couldn’t see, and there wasn’t time to ask.

Down the line, someone fired. The staccato chatter of J.B.’s mini-Uzi, set on 3-shot burst, was followed by a scream.

It was enough to make at least one of the group in front of him look around. Frozen for a moment, distracted, he wasn’t the immediate danger. Ryan took out one of the others instead. Squeeze, ride the recoil as the Steyr exploded, then roll to the side so that any return fire would hit empty space.

The man he had aimed at—skinny limbs, paunch, in camou rags—suddenly had no face. There had only been the briefest impression of a lined face, watery eyes and a gray-flecked beard. Now there was only blood, his head snapped back on his neck by the impact.

One of the other two yelled, then raised the blaster in his fist, a remake of a revolver of some kind—long barrel, maybe a Colt Peacemaker.

The man with the revolver fired blindly in the direction from which he thought the shot had come. He would still have missed Ryan. As it was, he didn’t stand a chance. The next shell from the Steyr clipped him on the shoulder, spinning him as he fell back, down but possibly not out. He was spared from a chilling by Ryan having to fire while still slightly off balance.

The third man, initially distracted, was now much more alert. He had a battered subgun, raking the area where he thought the fire had originated. Ryan went flat, his head down, tasting the bitter grass and the grit of the dirt beneath. The SMG fire flew above his head, hitting tree trunk and vine alike. Sweet sap splattered him, the smell blending oddly with the cordite from the Steyr. Chips of bark rained on him.

The fire stopped, and Ryan risked raising his head.

Both men were gone from view.

Blasterfire came from his right. He recognized, without having to think, the roar of Doc’s LeMat as the old man loosed the shot charge. That accounted for some of the high-pitched, agonized screams. This close, the old blaster couldn’t fail to hit home.

But let the others look out for themselves. At least for the moment. He couldn’t help them until he was safe himself.

Who were these guys? They seemed to have just stumbled on the companions rather than tracked them. There was no plan of attack that Ryan could see. So if they had been tracked, as Jak thought, then that had to mean another group was out there somewhere.

But that was irrelevant. It passed through the back of his mind while his forebrain concentrated on staying alive.

One down. Two standing. One wounded, the other gone to ground. How many more? Ryan, belly to the ground, slithered across the grass and vine, ignoring the brambles that snagged his clothes and tore at his skin. They’d been careful not to be pricked before, in case the thorns were venomous. Screw that. He’d take a chance rather than be blasted to oblivion.

He moved toward where the second man had fallen. Straining his neck to see upward as he crawled, he could see the feet of the chilled man.

Branches cracked to his left. He rolled so that he was on his back, his stomach muscles straining to pull his torso up at the waist. The guy with the subgun moved out from behind a tree. Almost in slow motion, the world slowed to an agonizing degree; he could see the man’s biceps pulse as he squeezed the trigger.

Ryan squeezed off a round from the Steyr, which caught the man full in the chest, above the cradle of his arms as they steadied the SMG. He pitched backward, the arc of his fire spewing upward and out as he fired while buying the farm, one arm holding the SMG while the other flew off in impact.

The one-eyed man threw himself backward, his muscles protesting at the sudden reverse in direction. The fire roared over his head and torso. He could almost feel the hot lead as it raked the air above him.

His stomach muscles felt as if they were made of that same hot lead. He wanted to gasp, breath deeply, recover, but there was no time.

Not yet. Two down. One still out there. At least, he hoped it was just one. He was fucked if the others hadn’t dealt with their opponents, or if the enemy was fluid.

There was only one way to find out.

Without pause, Ryan rolled again, his head raised as he came onto his stomach, scoping out the territory. In the maelstrom of sound that had erupted—and was still in full blast—from his left, it was almost impossible to pick out small sounds that were happening closer. But that was what he needed to do. Ryan needed some indication, some sign of where the immediate enemy was.

Cautiously, he got to one knee, lifting himself a little, using his left elbow to support himself as he moved a little farther up from the ground. Scanning the area, he could neither see nor hear the enemy.

He hadn’t chilled the guy. It was only a shoulder shot. Ryan might have taken him down if he wasn’t that strong, but he’d still be alive and dangerous.

But where?

Ryan looked diligently from side to side as he searched for some sign of his opponent.

It was his alertness that saved him. The dry crack of a twig, the harsh rattle of quickly drawn breath, and the held-down, almost silenced grunt of effort all added up to one thing.

The bastard had gotten behind him.

Ryan tried to twist so that he could meet the man head-on, but it was too late for that. Muscles burned, tendons and sinews strained, but his foot stayed locked in the grip of the warm turf, and as the man landed on him, pushing him back, the one-eyed man could feel an intense burn in his calf as his twisted leg was forced into a position contrary to nature. It was so sudden that it almost took his breath away. The desire to survive made him grit his teeth and hold on.

He tried to bring the rifle around so that he could fire—the SIG-Sauer would have been better at closer range, but there was no chance he could unholster it in time—but only succeeded in getting it across his chest.

Just as well. As he fell back under the impact, his assailant driving into him, the rifle across his chest acted as a barrier. The man had a knife, and it pricked at Ryan’s clothes and skin as the man slashed wildly, the rifle shaft taking the brunt of the blows. Close up, the attacker’s eyes were fogged with pain, wild and despairing. He knew this was his only chance of survival.

The man reeked of fear, sweat pouring from him, making his flesh slippery, his ragged clothes damp and heavy. For a moment, the two men were frozen in position as Ryan’s push upward met the resistance of his opponent’s weight on the down.

With an effort that made stars of light burst behind his good eye, he heaved and pushed the man to one side. As he did so, he rolled with the momentum and came up onto his haunches, thighs straining and his calf burning like a hot knife had been thrust into the muscle.

Ryan dropped the Steyr at his feet, his hand snaking down to the scabbard on his thigh where he kept the panga. The wickedly razored blade slid from its sheath with ease, sitting comfortably in his hand like an old friend. He took a step forward.

The wounded man had landed on his back and was flailing, arms and legs pumping as he desperately tried to right himself. He still grasped the knife, but was in no position to make use of it. Tears of fear or frustration trickled down his face. Blood still seeped from the wound in his shoulder, a black patch of lost fluid staining his camou vest.

“You or me,” Ryan whispered, cleaving down with the panga. It bit into flesh, jarred against bone. From the injured shoulder the panga slashed across the throat, rupturing artery and vein. Gouts of blood spurted rhythmically, growing fainter as life receded.

Ryan stood over the man for the few seconds it took him to buy the farm. He had to be sure the enemy was down permanently. It gave him no pleasure to chill a wounded man. It was necessity. All the while, he kept alert to what was going on around him.

When the blood was just a trickle, and the eyes were glassy and sightless, Ryan turned away and retrieved the Steyr. His calf ached, but already the pain was ebbing, and more bearable. It wouldn’t impede him.

But what about the others? The firing was now sporadic, most identifiable as blasters used by his people. There was little other sound. Battle was almost at a close.

Cautiously, he made his way across the line they had drawn. Krysty had chilled two men and a woman. Two by clean shots, one by a gouge in the side and a broken neck that lay at an unnatural angle. Farther on, J.B.’s area was clear: four corpses, all drilled by the mini-Uzi a testament to the shooting powers of the Armorer.

By the time he reached the area where Mildred had been, he found that he was the last to join the group. Jak and Doc had joined Krysty and J.B. in moving toward the middle of the line. Krysty was pleased to see Ryan.

“We all through here?” the one-eyed man asked.

“Me and Doc get seven between us.” Jak shrugged. “Mildred took three, Krysty three, J.B. four. How about you?”

“Just the three,” Ryan replied, “but one of the bastards just wouldn’t lie down and buy the farm.”

“Always one,” the Armorer muttered. “Make that twenty. Not bad odds, I guess. Headed toward the ville, too. So where did they come from?”

“Dunno,” Ryan mused, “and now isn’t the time to wonder. We can do that later. There might be more of them, and they’ll be pissed at what we’ve done. Let’s head toward the ville. At least we know we’re expected there.”

There was a general agreement, and with barely a backward glance, the group moved in the direction where they knew Arcady lay.

ARCADIAN SAT LISTENING to the observation post report on the skirmish that had taken place. When it had concluded, he sat back and thought for a moment.

“Let them pass through to Sector Eight,” he finally stated. “They’ve shown their mettle, I think. They’ve also saved us the trouble of mopping up the rebels this time around. Team Four, do you copy?”

“Baron?”

“Follow them as far as Sector Eight and let them get a look around. At the first sign of any interaction, from either side, you move in with backup and apprehend. I want them to get a flavor of that sector. It may serve them well.”

He sat back, satisfied by his plan of action. If things continued in this manner, he had found some useful personnel to add to his team. And they, too, would see it that way.

Eventually.

WITH J.B. ON POINT, the group headed in the direction of Arcady. Taking a reading with the minisextant was almost an impossibility, given the canopy of mangrove that still covered them. Despite that, they had a sure enough sense of the direction to know that they would come across the edge of the ville eventually. Ryan figured they’d covered at least two-thirds of the distance, although the maze and the subsequent firefight had made it difficult to look back and make an accurate assessment.

For Ryan, it couldn’t come soon enough. Allowing Mildred and Krysty to take positions ahead of him, the one-eyed man had dropped back, finding the pace punishing as his calf ached and throbbed. He could still walk, bear weight on it, so it wasn’t a bad injury, but it was enough to slow him. He needed to rest the leg, and let Mildred get a good look at it.

But not now. The undergrowth was still too thick, and hacking their way through was slow. They were all exhausted but knew that this wasn’t a good time to halt. The companions might have to fight others, and they were probably being followed.

It was with some relief that J.B. noted the undergrowth beginning to thin out in front of him. It became easier to make a path and suggested that they were within reach of Arcady.

The Armorer slowed, raising a hand. “Easy. Ville’s coming up.”

Despite tired limbs and aching eyes, the knowledge that they were within striking distance of their target added vigor to their step. It also caused them to prime blasters and resume vigilance that torpor may have blunted. After all, they had no idea whether Arcady would present as friend or foe.

The last mile was torturous, and seemed to stretch out forever. Each step, although taking them closer, seemed to be removing them. The next patch of thick vines and brambles to be cleared should reveal a distant ville, but revealed…nothing more than vines and brambles, interspersed with twisted bark.

Jak, at the rear of the party, was keeping a sharp eye for those who had been on their tail before they reached the maze. But there was no indication of anyone following in their wake. Which, in itself, was unsettling. The companions had been tailed for a reason, so why had that stopped? He said as much, in a few terse words.

“Could be that they’ve got ways of following us without having to get close,” Ryan mused.

“If this baron is as, ah, advanced as the fat man suggested, then it could be that he has some old surveillance technology that is useable,” Doc interjected.

“Could be. Could also be that they don’t need to follow us now, ’cause we’re right on top of them,” Ryan added.

“I hope that’s right,” Mildred murmured, casting an eye over Ryan’s leg. From the way he was walking, she knew that he needed to rest it soon.

J.B., hacking at the undergrowth, was finding it easier and easier. The vines and brambles were dwindling, leaving just the thick grass between trees that were now becoming more and more evenly spaced, as though the untamed forest had, at this point, suddenly become tamed and laid out to a plan. Moving aside a tangle of vine, the thick oily leaves sticking to him as he parted them, the Armorer saw that ahead lay a patch of sparser grassland, dotted with only a few trees.

And there, in the shadows of late afternoon, were the outlines of a few tumbledown buildings. To the rear of them lay not the outline of distant trees, but that of taller buildings, stretching back as far as could be seen.

“At last,” J.B. breathed, almost to himself.

“THEY’RE IN SIGHT of Sector Eight,” the observer whispered into his handset.

“Good. Keep them in full view. Wait and see what happens when they meet the natives. I want to monitor their reactions. But you must—I repeat, must—intervene if there is any chance of revelation.”

“Copy,” the observer whispered. “All teams, converge on Sector Eight, be ready for takedown.”

THE FRIENDS MADE THEIR WAY across the open ground toward the buildings with caution. It might be easier to traverse, but by the same token it was also exposed. They would need to stay alert, as there was no place to hide.

At first sight, the buildings in front of them seemed deserted. Windows that were little more than holes cut in sheets of rusting metal, or framed by ill-cut wood that was only vaguely fitted into salvaged cinder block and brick, were black holes showing no signs of life within. It was almost as quiet here as it had been in the undergrowth. In the far distance, the indistinct sounds of movement—vehicles, masses of people, the clamor of a ville’s early evening routines—could be picked out. But here, it was as though this rough pesthole had been set up for some ill-defined purpose and then deserted.

“Triple red,” Ryan murmured. It was perfunctory, as they had all primed and cocked as soon as they emerged into the open. “Jak, I can’t see any sign of life from here. You see or hear anything?”

The albino youth shook his head. “Hard with noise in distance. Not much here. But they behind us. Far, but there.”

“Okay. We move in, recce and see if we can find shelter if it really is empty. If not, then…”

“Business as usual,” Mildred murmured.

“Right,” Ryan agreed.

By this time, they had reached the outermost buildings. Procedure was simple: while the majority of the group checked and covered the surrounding area, two would take the entrance to a building, one covering the other as they swept the interior.

Ryan, not trusting his leg, let J.B. and Krysty take the sweep. The first two buildings—even to call them that was an exaggeration, as they seemed to be barely standing—were empty. There were signs that people had lived here until recently, but had now departed: rotting food, soiled bedding and dirty rags that passed for clothing.

“Where did they go?” Ryan murmured, casting a searching glance at the seemingly deserted shanty ville.

“Mayhap they were frightened of us?” Doc suggested. “Or, more pertinently, afraid of those we recently fought?”

“That’s a good idea,” Ryan said softly. “Thing is, if they think we’re those bastards, then what will they have in store for us?”

“Caution should most definitely be the watchword,” Doc replied.

Proceeding in such a manner, they took in a number of buildings. All of them had the look of the recently deserted.

“It’s like they ran scared,” J.B. said with a shake of the head. “How do they manage to survive if that’s what they do?”

“Perhaps that’s how,” Doc answered. J.B. grimaced. “Can’t run forever. Bound to catch up with you sooner or later. We all know that. Besides, if this is Arcady, then where are the sec that we heard so much about?”

“Probably on our tails,” Mildred muttered wryly. “Still out there, Jak?”

“Yeah, someone,” the albino teen said, looking into the clearing between the mangrove and shanty.

“But if this is Arcady,” Krysty said, taking a look around, “then why is it like this? People living in shit? I thought Arcadian was a good baron, giving his people a good life. And a rich baron, who could afford it.”

“That’s what fat boy led us to think,” Ryan mused. “And this certainly doesn’t look like any part of Arcady we saw. Unless the baron likes to let outlanders see and think one thing…”

“I suspect it may not be as clear cut as that,” Doc mused. Then, to answer questioning glances he added, “Come—keep watch, but please…”

He led the main body of the party into three separate huts. In each, he merely said, “Observe, please,” before leading them out. Jak kept watch while Doc did that. Finally, the old man led them back to the point from which they had started.

“So what were we supposed to be looking for?” J.B. asked, puzzled.

Doc smiled, his strong white teeth giving the smile a sardonic edge. “I think Krysty hit the nail on the head, as the old saying goes. She talked of people living in shit. But they do not. Shit, piss, the kind of buildup of human ordure that we usually see in a shanty like this. Where is it? Where is the smell?”

Doc paused while they took this in: he was right. While not as sweet-smelling as it could be, there was only the smell of unwashed bodies lingering in the air. The dirt roads and paths were barely muddy.

“Fireblast!” Ryan exclaimed as it suddenly hit him. “Those huts have got latrines in them, and there’s a faucet stand in the corner of each.”

“Running water? Sanitation? What kind of a slum shanty has that?” Mildred posited. “That’s insane. If they have that, then why do they live like this?”

“We may discover that if we unearth any of them,” Doc mused. “They are supplied with water and sanitation. Moreover, those clothes may have been ragged and dirty, but they had been made that way by those who wore them. They must have plentiful clothing, otherwise why leave it behind? Have you known that before? And the food—that, too, must be plentiful, as there were many scraps. Ever known people in a seemingly poor shanty ville like this leave food lying around in such a manner?”

“But if they’re not really that poor, then why live like this?” J.B. queried.

“I suspect that we may find out, if we stay around here long enough,” Doc answered cryptically. “There are machinations afoot here that are hidden to us. Perhaps intentionally.”

“Worry ’bout later,” Jak said. “Got company.”

He indicated a direction farther into the shanty ville. Ryan waved his companions back into the shelter of two huts that stood on either side of the dust road. Checking that nothing was coming up from the rear, they assumed defensive positions—Ryan, Krysty and Jak on one side, with Mildred, Doc and J.B. taking the opposite point—while waiting for whatever was headed their way.

When it came, it was somewhat of a surprise. Slowly, moving with a caution that was edged with fright, a group of raggedly clad people moved from the shadows of far-flung huts. Despite their clothing, they were far from ill-nourished. In truth, some of them were paunchy to the point of obesity. They moved almost as one amorphous mass: men, women and children, all jockeying for position. No one wanted to be in the lead, and those who found themselves thrust to the front were quick to try to fall back, pushing against those who came up behind them. It made their progress slow and shuffling. The fear and fright was so strong coming off them that the companions could almost smell it.

The two groups of three exchanged bemused glances across the distance between them. It was difficult to know what to make of this. If these people were really that scared, then why had they come out of the shadows?

Ryan took a calculated risk. He could see no blasters among the crowd jostling slowly toward them. He stepped forward, cradling the Steyr nose down in a relaxed grip. But not so relaxed that it couldn’t be brought into play easily and quickly.

As he emerged, the group of ville dwellers stopped suddenly. It was almost as though they cowered at the sight of him. Some even flinched, as though he was about to fire on them. When he stood his ground and did nothing, some of them looked up.

“You’re…you’re not going to take from us?” a man said haltingly.

“Why should I?” Ryan asked. “Is that what the others do?”

Mutterings shot through the crowd. He could make out some of it. They were talking about him, and not about who “the others” might be.

A woman stepped forward and pointed at him, yelling, “He only got one eye” and laughing before running back into the crowd, many of whom were now giggling.

“The others,” Ryan repeated. “Who are the others?”

Many of them looked at one another, as though they found the one-eyed man beyond their comprehension. The man who had spoken first said, “Others take stuff, want to hurt us. I think they like that bit. It’s not nice.”

Ryan was taken aback. “You don’t try to defend yourselves?”

The man shrugged. “They go soon enough. Then other others come and help, but sometimes they don’t. Mebbe you know them? Mebbe you got more stuff for us?”

A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd, and they moved forward. Ryan took a step back, not because he thought they would attack, but because for one moment it seemed that they might overwhelm him.

His people took that as their cue to step out into the open. Their presence caused the approaching mob to stop momentarily, before gasping in amazement and moving forward. Before any of Ryan’s people had a chance to draw breath, the ville dwellers were milling around them, touching them and asking questions.

“You know others?”

“You have stuff?”

“Why you so white?”

“Why you so brown?”

Yet none of them waited for answers to the questions they posed before babbling on about something completely different.

Ryan looked, bewildered, over the heads of the milling throng to where he could see Krysty. She shrugged. She was as confused as he was by their behavior.

“They appear to be like sheep,” Doc yelled above the babble. “Passive, and completely without any kind of—”

“What’s sheep?” one of them said, tugging him on the arm.

“I—” Doc began, but was cut short by Jak’s terse comment.

“They’re here. Ones who follow.”

Melting out of the shadows and forming into black-clad pairs holding blasters—was this where his earlier opponent had got his blaster? Ryan wondered—came six teams. Their blasters were raised in the air, but there was little doubting their intent.

“Drop your weapons and come with us,” one of the black-clad men called. “You people,” he added in a harsher tone, “move away from the outlanders.”

The mob did as it had been told. Soon, they were standing apart, watching the proceedings. Ryan and his people were now surrounded on all sides, outnumbered two to one.

“You took out those rebels okay,” the black-clad leader said, as if sensing their mood, “but we’re ready for you, and better trained than that scum.”

“So what do you want? You want a firefight?” Ryan asked in a hard voice, his muscles tensed as he took in the manner in which they had been surrounded. These people were good. But his, he knew, could be better.

“Don’t want that any more than you do,” the men said tightly. “What we want is for you to come with us. Arcadian wants to meet you.”

“He’s got a real strange way of going about that,” Ryan replied.

“Mebbe. But he has his reasons. You might like ’em.”

Ryan took another look around at the black-clad sec, then at his companions. He could see from their expressions that they were with him.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “we’ll come with you. Might be interesting. But we don’t surrender blasters. You got nothing to hide? It won’t matter.”

The sec boss grinned. “Like your style, One-eye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He lowered his blaster so that it pointed at the dirt. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter Five

As they fell in with the black-clad sec men, Ryan’s group had a lot to ponder. It had been couched in terms that were reasonable, but they all knew that resistance would have been met with a firefight. Arcadian wanted them, for reasons as yet unknown. If he wanted them to work for him willingly, he was showing a real lack of understanding. His behavior had done nothing less than to put them on triple red, with the utmost suspicion. If he wanted to just use them, regardless of whether or not they wished to acquiesce, then he was cutting them too much slack.

For, as they were escorted on foot through the outlying districts of the ville, there was much to observe and absorb for possible future use.

The sec team that escorted them was very careful about its chosen route. Instead of traveling in what seemed a direct route to the center of the ville, they took what appeared to be meaningless detours. Straight roads would be ignored in favor of sudden sharp turns to the left or right. Obviously, that was to keep them within a sector they had already seen, and not cross some kind of line. For there wasn’t a single one of them who had any doubt that Arcady was a ville of sharply differing sectors.

The Arcady they had seen when with Trader Toms was one of wealth and freedom. The center sections of the ville were filled with trade stores, craftsmen and bars providing brew and gaudys. The relative financial well-being of a ville could always be determined by the number and quality of those. The people they had met had been free to go about their business unimpeded. The sec had been present, but not overbearing—they had only stepped in when trouble flared because of arguments caused by brew or jack. The buildings had been old, for the most part obviously built by the founders of the ville or adapted from the main street and surrounding area of the old predark town that they had chosen to use as their shell, but there had been evidence of ongoing maintenance and new building that gave work to the people of the ville, and were again proof of its growing affluence.

None of which tallied with the run-down shanty ville full of tumbledown shacks that looked like their dwellers paid them no heed. For most of their winding trek through the outer reaches of the ville, this was all they had seen. Row upon row of virtually derelict shacks, but none that were empty. All showed signs of habitation, and by people very like those they had seen on their entry to the ville.

As they passed through the phalanx of sec men, they could see blank, drooling faces staring out at them. The people were fat, dirty, and even before you could see them the smell of their unwashed bodies assailed the senses. Some of them—the braver specimens—came outside their huts or stood in the doorways, watching or, if they felt particularly courageous, shouting at the newcomers in slurred, brain-numbed voices that were sometimes difficult to understand.

And yet these were people with running water and sanitation. Even the most advanced of villes that the companions had seen on their many journeys across the ravaged lands of the post-nukecaust America had been hard-pushed to have a sanitation and water system that came anywhere near aping that of the days before skydark. There had been some rich or advanced villes that had reconstructed pumping stations, and used old pipes to try to reconstruct that aspect of predark life. But never anything that had seemed to be as good as the systems they were familiar with from the many redoubts they had used during their journeys.

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