Arcadian's Asylum

by James Axler

  While those thoughts had been passing through the minds of the friends, in their differing ways, they had traversed the shanty sectors and were now about to enter the center of the ville.

  They turned another corner, and the shacks and tumbledown huts suddenly fell away. A bare expanse of ground, about fifty yards in length, lay ahead of them. Beyond that was a wire fence that stretched in either direction. There were no guard posts.

  The sec boss spoke for the first time since they had begun the march. He had obviously caught the way in which they had all looked at the ground, and also the glances that passed between them.

  “This patch is just to make sure that the people of this sector don’t stray too far. Must be obvious they ain’t the brightest, but Arcadian looks after even the feeble. We don’t let ’em buy the farm, not when there’s enough to go around.”

  “Very admirable, such altruism,” Doc murmured. Much as he tried, he couldn’t keep the sardonic edge from his voice. The sec boss noticed.

  “Listen, other villes can do things the way they want. Arcadian believes in the greater good for the greatest number. We all do. That’s how we live in these parts.”

  And presumably those who don’t think that way don’t live here for long, one way or another, Doc thought. But he kept it to himself, figuring it wiser to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

  In silence, the group walked along the edge of the barren ground until they reached a path that had been trodden flat. It was straight and led to a gate in the fence. Although the wire fence was about twelve feet high, the gate was only half that, and was only wide enough for two people to pass though at a time. On the other side, barely a few yards from the fence, were the backs of better constructed, better maintained buildings. Through the windows, covered in what appeared to be plastic, they could see people going about their business and sparing not a second look for the fence, the group, or the shanty ville beyond. There was something about their complete unconcern that seemed odd. They were so used to this segregation that it was invisible to them.

  As they turned onto the narrow path, the sec force was very careful to herd them so that they moved three abreast—a sec man on either side of one of Ryan’s group—and stayed very particularly on the beaten path. Both Ryan and J.B. spared a glance for the blank expanse of dirt on either side of them. Could the area be mined? Or was this just a piece of behavior that was ingrained? Both knew that to ask would be pointless; all the same, knowing could be important at some future point.

  If either man had to lay odds, they would have put their jack on it being ingrained behavior. What happened next determined that. As they reached the gate, Ryan was astounded when the sec boss stepped up to the gate and simply pulled it open.

  There was no lock. No charge running through the fence. It was simply an access cut into the wire fence that could be passed through at any time, by anyone.

  They were ushered into another sector, and as they walked through the gate, each wondered about the kind of ville Arcady might be. It would appear, on first impressions, that people acted in predetermined ways simply because they had always done so, and to step outside that box would be something that would not—could not—cross their consciousness. Yet how could this tally with the thriving ville they had seen when they were with Toms? And if the sec force was as blandly rigid as it appeared to be right now, how could it act as a defense against outside forces?

  Too many questions, and as of yet no indications of answers.

  As they passed through the gate, all of them noticed that the sec guards seemed to loosen a little. Blasters fell from the poised to the casual; those who had been marching in step now went out of step with each other. It was hard to tell whether it was an unconscious move, now that they had crossed into another territory, or whether it was designed to make the group less conspicuous. If that was the aim, then it certainly seemed to be working. The formal procession that they had formed in the shanty ville now became a loose group. Rather than being the guarded and the guards, they seemed to be walking together. And the people who passed them on the streets didn’t give them a second glance.

  There was no doubt now that they had moved into a sector of the ville that they knew. This was the central area that they had stayed and worked in when passing through with Toms. It struck them all as odd that the shanty ville and the affluent sectors should be so close together. The reasons for that might become apparent, once they met with the baron and were, hopefully, made privy to his reasons for wanting them back in his ville.

  For now, they could only marvel at the differences between two sectors of the same ville, so closely aligned geographically and yet so far apart in every other way.

  Now, rather than people standing and staring in slack-jawed incomprehension, the companions were barely noticed as they walked the streets. In part, this was due to the way in which the black-clad sec stood slightly away from the companions, keeping their presence known yet retaining an unobtrusive air. However, part of it was also because this main section of the ville was busy—people had neither time nor inclination to stare or wonder at the group that moved among them.

  As they traveled from the less-populated streets that ran near the wire fence and toward the more densely populated center of the ville, the number of people bustling in the thoroughfares became greater. Absorbed by whatever business they were going about, they had no reason to give a second glance to the group. Indeed, from the manner in which they moved, weaving their way in and out of the spaces between Ryan’s people and the sec who were now merely—seemingly—accompa nying them, they not only hardly seemed to notice that the companions were there, but also gave cover should the outlanders feel the need to make a break for it.

  The thought may have briefly crossed Ryan’s mind, but it was swiftly dismissed. To try to escape from the clutches of the sec would be pointless. First, although they could use the crowds as cover, where would they go? The sec seemed to have the ville sewn up tighter than the pussy of a gaudy who hadn’t yet been handed the jack. Second, if they did get past any of these obstacles, then where could they head? Jackson Spire was the nearest ville they knew of, and that was a few days away, as well as being an Arcady satellite. Third—and perhaps most importantly—Arcadian had wanted them. Ryan figured they’d better find out why before any action was taken.

  Early evening was beginning to fall, and the lamps that lit the streets were glowing, the lamplighters whose task it was to keep the oil and tallow lamps filled going about their business. The interiors of stores and bars were brightly illuminated. Some used tallow, oil or gas. The ville seemed able to generate electricity, as well, from the plant housed in a building that lay just a little off the square, behind another building that Mildred recognized from a thousand journeys, TV shows and magazine photographs of her youth. There had been a time when every small U.S. town had a library like the gray stone building fronted by covered steps, the roof supported by Doric columns. There weren’t many of them left now.

  The clock set on the tower that climbed above the building had long since ceased to operate. Not that it mattered in this land where the chron was used for convenience rather than to be strictly adhered to. The stone had been blasted by water or sand so that it was now as clean as the day that it had been erected. Hanging from the roof of the covered steps was a banner that hung low enough to obscure the old inscription that had been carved over the building’s double doors. The banner was in red, purple, yellow and green. It was a tapestry with one word—Excelsior—that was resplendent over a number of scenes that showed men and women—all smiling—performing constructive tasks in the field and in the town. It reminded Mildred of something she had seen when young. It wasn’t until they were almost at the foot of the steps that she was able to recall the images it drew upon. Communist banners from the old Soviet Union under the leadership of Stalin—images of the noble worker that hid a regime of terror and poverty, half remembered from old newsreel and TV footage in histor
y classes.

  She wondered if Arcadian was aware of this, and—whether he was or not—it was somehow a clue to his character.

  Meanwhile, as they crossed the square, other thoughts had been passing through the minds of her companions.

  Jak had been looking for a means of escape. Like Ryan, he had considered the advantages and disadvantages of making a break, and like Ryan he could see that it was heavily weighted in favor of them staying. However, Jak was itchy as if he were infested with bugs at the idea of containment, and if for nothing other than a kind of security blanket, he looked for an escape route.

  The crowded center of the ville had unattended wags, and he figured that it wouldn’t be too hard for them to slip past the sec and head for one of those wags. Steal it, hope that it had enough gas to get them out of there. The problem was, how would he let the others know of his plan? How could he get them to go along with it on the spur of the moment? And how could he be sure that he would pick a wag that had enough gas? Too many questions to really do it.

  Ryan was assessing a similar set of odds. Like Jak, the thought of being contained was anathema to him, and so he was looking for ways of escape. But the notion of just breaking for it had too many holes. Ryan didn’t like leaving too much to chance. He didn’t take the responsibility of leadership lightly. He wanted to see what the baron wanted from them first. Their skills? Their knowledge? Did Arcadian, in some way, know about their experiences with old tech? Ryan would bide his time until he met the baron and heard the terms on which he greeted them.

  J.B. knew that Ryan would be weighing the odds, and he figured that it was his task as right-hand man to attend to the practicalities. Besides, that was the way his mind worked best. Already, he had scanned the square to take in the roads that led into and out of it. How wide or narrow they were. What was on the corners. From the falling sun, he worked out compass points. He knew where the wags were clustered at their most dense. He also noted what kind of wags they were—weighing up which had been on long hauls, and which had been standing awhile; from their condition, which were incoming or ready for going out; which would have the best chance of full fuel tanks; where there were supplies of gas, spare tanks ready to be loaded.

  He’d also scoped the area for sec. Not just those that were cautiously shepherding them to the baron, but the regular sec who were not so conspicuous. J.B. could spot sec at a hundred yards. He could see where they were positioned, and where they patrolled; the kind of ordnance they carried; the kind of ordnance that the ordinary citizens carried; the way they carried it, which was always an indication of how well they could use it.

  All this information was at his fingertips, and could be brought to bear as soon as he knew how Ryan’s plans were shaping.

  All thoughts were banished when the companions mounted the steps and were shown through the heavy oak double doors, which, it didn’t escape their notice, had been reinforced.

  J.B. whistled slowly. “No wonder we didn’t get to see this before.”

  How many of the citizens of Arcady had set foot through these doors? Even out of those who were obviously favored and dwelled in this section of the ville? Come to that, how many of the traders and other local barons—those within a hundred miles in these sparsely populated parts—got to see this? Toms had given the impression that he had been favored, and it wasn’t hard to see how he had formed this notion.

  The companions and their black-clad guard were dwarfed by the vast lobby of the building, which echoed to their footsteps as they trod the polished hardwood floor. There were other sec guards in everyday dress who were stationed throughout the lobby and at the spiral staircase. Two guards strode forward as the two parties entered. They were obviously expected, as the black-clad sec left without a backward glance after a whispered exchange, leaving the companions in the hands of the on-site sec. One of the two who had approached was obviously the sec chief. His bearing showed this, and the manner in which he spoke left any other doubts ground into dust.

  “I see Rodriguez has been slack. As usual. You can drop those blasters on the floor now, and anything else you’re carrying.”

  He snapped out the words, almost barked them, in the manner of one who was used to being instantly obeyed. The fact that he was completely ignored did nothing other than irk him.

  “Drop, now!” he commanded, raising the Walther PPK he carried. A good handblaster, it had none of the power a sec chief would usually demand, but it had clean lines and was in good condition. As this sec chief had a thin, hatchet face with buzz-cut hair and clothes that were immaculate, it suited him better.

  It hadn’t been until his second, louder command, that his words had really registered with Ryan or his people. The reason for that was simple—for the moment, they had been completely overwhelmed by the riches that the lobby of the old building revealed to them. But not the riches of jack, furniture and fine cloth. That kind of ostentation was something they had seen from a thousand tawdry barons who sought to flaunt their wealth and station. This was more than that. Much more.

  “How the hell did he get this stuff?” Mildred murmured to herself, rather than to anyone in particular. For it was a question that, if she should find the answer, would doubtless explain much about Baron Arcadian.

  The lobby of the old library was filled with display cases. Highly polished wood and glass, maintained with care, these displayed artifacts of the predark era that were beyond price. What looked to be the first telephone; Teletype machines; cumbersome early comps; pieces of machinery, isolated from their use and polished, with cards beneath revealing their uses and their innovations; book manuscripts from writers whose names, they had once believed, would live forever. The walls in the lobby and up the staircases were hung with documents, paintings and photographs, all preserved behind what appeared to be immaculately cleaned glass. Just the briefest of glances showed images and names that were familiar to Mildred and Doc, and also to Ryan and Krysty, who had acquired knowledge of the predark days. To J.B. and Jak, even though the greater significance was perhaps lost, the manner in which it had been maintained and its magnitude were telling.

  So it was that the words of the sec chief were little more than background noise until the harsh tone of his second command cut through the reverie.

  They each, in their own way, returned to the present to find that he or she was now flanked by guards who had moved in at all points from their stations, hands poised over armament.

  Jak, not waiting for Ryan’s lead on this one, was the first to react. His .357 Magnum Colt Python was in his fist before the sec chief’s second command had ceased to echo. It was rock steady and would put a slug through the man’s forehead before his own finger had tightened on the Walther’s trigger.

  Ryan had shrugged the Steyr off his shoulder and brought it to hand in one fluid motion. His companions, being of similar nature, had also responded to the command in a similar contrary manner.

  It was obvious both that the sec chief was used to being blindly obeyed, and that he had little notion of how to treat intruders on his turf who posed a real threat.

  Stalemate.

  “There are more of us than you,” the sec chief hissed. “You don’t stand a chance.”

  “Be better if you weren’t sweating like you were pegged out under the sun while you said that,” Ryan replied calmly. “Thing is, your boy Rodriguez used the same argument on us when we met him. He was right. But he said it in a reasonable way, not like he was going to blast us as soon as we laid down. And he didn’t take our weapons. He trusted us ’cause we trusted him. So why is it different now? And if it is, then why didn’t he take them from us at the start?”

  The sec chief’s lip curled. “That’s a lot of questions for someone staring down the barrel of a blaster.”

  “That’s some answer for a man doing likewise,” Ryan countered.

  Up until this point, all the companions had kept their blasters trained on the sec men who had closed in to surround them.
Now, Doc broke that pattern. He turned the LeMat so that it was directly in line with three glass cases, running between the gathered sec.

  “My dear man,” he said in a loud, clear and considered tone, “it may very well be that you consider your men expendable. That is the nature of the beast. However, I must tell you that this pistol—if you do not recognize it—has two distinct chambers. The first is filled with shot. Wonderful thing, shot. If I discharged the chamber from this angle, the shot would disperse over a displacement of around fifty yards. Until it reaches that point, give or take, it still has enough force to carve a man in two. Or, if you wish to look at it another way—and I think you may—enough force to gouge out that metal and glass, and to impart irreparable damage to the treasures within. I do not think your baron would appreciate that at all. Furthermore, there would still be the second chamber with which to contend. This fires a single ball. Enough, I think, for me to, ah, take out, as it were, and with a simple change of angle, any one of those priceless and—I might point out—irreplaceable artworks that line the stair wall. In light of these facts, you may care to reconsider your stance.”

  Doc had spoken slowly and clearly. Normally, Ryan felt that the old man’s verbosity was at best an irritation, at worst a menace. But in this instance, he knew that Doc was deliberately elaborate. The longer he spoke, the longer the sec chief had time to absorb what he was saying, to consider the consequences.

  From the sweat pouring down the sec chief’s forehead, and the small vein throbbing in his neck, seeming to make his left eye tic, all of these possible consequences had hit home.

  “No one carries blasters in the Palace of Arcady except the appointed agents of the baron,” the sec chief said slowly.

  Ryan’s top lip twitched in a stifled grin. “Who taught you that, and how long did it take?” he asked, keeping the Steyr steady. The sec chief might want to evade the issue, but Ryan was going to hammer it home. “You’re probably thinking that you could chill Doc. That you could chill all of us. And so you could. But not without losing a few men. More important, who says we’ll aim at the men? Doc’s got a good point, there. Where’s your precious baron going to find replacements for the things we shoot bastard big holes through? You can replace men easy enough, but I’m guessing that you can’t replace any of this shit.”