Arcadian's Asylum (8 page)

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.”

He waved the Steyr in an arc. Some of the sec around them were confused whether to follow the blaster or to keep their weapons trained on the man. Ryan also saw the sec chief’s head twitch as he only just refrained from flinching.

“Well?” he continued, keeping the pressure on. “What are you going to do?”

“All I’m asking is that you lay down your weapons, as only sec carries them in here,” the sec chief said, his voice straining and cracking under the tension.

“Now you’re asking?” Ryan said softly. He wanted to press the point, but was wary of pushing the man over the edge.

“It’s…a courtesy,” the sec chief said hesitantly.

“Then you should have explained that from the start and not given orders. This way, we’re hardly likely to trust you,” Ryan countered.

Stalemate. For what seemed like an eternity, they
stood facing off. In the rooms beyond the hall activity had come to a halt.

Ryan knew that this couldn’t go on indefinitely. Jak would be standing unblinking—that alone being enough to unnerve most opposition—and he could rely on the others, even the comparatively frail Doc. His people could tough it out.

No, it would be Arcadian’s sec who would crack first. The only question was, would they start shooting or stand down? Right now, he’d bet on shoot first, apologize later. The only thing that could stop it would be if the baron himself stepped in. And Ryan had heard enough about Arcadian to figure that even though he was seemingly absent, he would have a very clear picture of what was occurring in his own palace.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs, coming from the third story. Slowly, they descended—just the one pair of footsteps—and the sec men didn’t look up.

The footsteps ceased, and the sound of slow clapping assailed them. Ryan risked a look up at the tall, strongly built man in purple robes over richly woven cloth. He was leaning over the second-story balcony rail, looking down at them with a wry grin, and as he caught Ryan’s eye he gave the briefest of nods.

“Very good. Very good, indeed. As, I think, you expected, I am here to greet you.

“I am Baron Eugene Arcadian.”

Chapter Six

“Schweiz, you can drop the weapons. I don’t think I have anything to fear from these people,” he stated, gesturing in an offhand manner to his sec chief.

The thin man looked up and was almost relieved, it seemed, to be given the excuse to back off. With the briefest of nods, he holstered his blaster and indicated that his men could stand down. It wasn’t, however, until he had also relaxed his stance and literally stepped back a pace that Jak let his Colt Python drop. Even then, the albino youth looked to Ryan for confirmation that he should do this. The one-eyed man gave the slightest of inclinations, and Jak holstered his weapon, the large blaster disappearing into the depths of his patched and glimmering camou jacket.

Following this lead, the rest of the companions likewise relaxed and holstered their armament.

“There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” Arcadian boomed from the balcony, his voice echoed and enlarged by the cavernous hall. His tone was supposedly friendly, but there was a note of assumption and control in it that was vaguely alarming. This was his territory, and he felt secure and completely in charge. It was an impression confirmed when Ryan looked up to see that the baron was casually leaning on the rail that circled
the staircase and upper balconies, his hands clasped loosely, relaxed, and in a posture that held no hint of defense.

A quick glance around revealed that the sec men had returned to their previous posts and duties, having obeyed the word of their baron without question. The only man to still be within any distance of them, and not occupied with any other activity, was Sec Chief Schweiz. His hatchet face was impassive and gave little away. He seemed relaxed, but to the experienced eye there were signs in his posture that, although he followed orders implicitly, there was some part of him that remained on edge.

A good man to have around, then, Ryan figured. But not perhaps so good as an enemy.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to join me and explain what you were doing blundering into Sector Eight?”

His tone was good-natured, and there was nothing but hospitality in the way he stepped back and gestured that they should ascend to his level. Yet the choice of words betrayed an underlying attitude that rankled with the companions as, led by Ryan, they made their way up the staircase.

Doc, his previous caution submerged beneath the surprise he felt at seeing so many predark treasures, found himself warming to the idea of the baron, if not the man himself. It was rare indeed that he should see so many artifacts that made him feel so much at home.

Certainly, on closer inspection, these were genuine treasures from the predark period. They had no currency value in these times, but represented a depth of old knowledge that was rare.

At the top of the stairs, they found Arcadian waiting for them. He wore no weapons of any kind, and with a knowing grin he noted that Ryan wasn’t the only one of the group to notice that.

“I carry no weapons as I am safe here. My men protect me, and they are loyal to the end. And, as you are no doubt aware,” he added with a wry touch, “I usually have visitors leave their weapons at the door.”

“So why not us? Why not just have your boys take them in the first place?”

Arcadian’s smile broadened. “Come now, I’m aware of your intelligence, Mr. Cawdor. You must already have worked it out. Would you have come this far so easily if a kind of mutual trust—a truce, at least—hadn’t been established? I think I have your curiosity. There’s little point in harming me. Nothing to gain.”

“But what’s to stop one or all of us going loco and chilling you for the sheer hell of it?”

“Is that likely?” Arcadian inquired in a manner that suggested he thought not.

“It’s always possible,” Ryan replied in level tones.

“I suppose most things are,” Arcadian said with a slight shrug. “The truly off-the-wall can never be predicted. But it would have to be insanity, or else you would realize that all that would happen is that my sec force would avenge me by wiping you from the face of the Earth. And who would gain from that, eh?”

While this exchange had occurred, Arcadian had led them off the balcony surrounding the lobby walls, and down a corridor that led to a number of smaller chambers. Some of these had their doors firmly closed, and their purpose was thus hidden. Others had open access,
and through the doorways they were able to see that the rooms nearest to the stairway were used for the purposes of running the ville. Behind desks, some of which were laden with paper and files, men and women toiled on what were obviously administrative tasks.

To Mildred, it looked like nothing so much as municipal offices in any small town of the predark era, and it was bizarre for her to see a sight that had once been a normal part of life transposed to an era where it seemed so out of place. There were many questions she wished to ask, all of which would have betrayed her own unusual history.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Mildred stated. “I can’t recall ever seeing a ville run like this.”

Arcadian looked back at her with an eyebrow raised. “You understand what they are doing? That’s very interesting. Most who have been this way, for whatever purpose, could not grasp that.” He let the matter drop, continuing in another vein. “I like to keep a close eye and a firm hand on Arcady. It’s the way we have always handled matters. So what better than to keep all the administrative bodies within the one building—and one in which I can simply walk out of my own chambers and check up at any time?”

As he spoke, they passed the small chamber in which the central radio transmitter was housed. J.B.’s eye was caught by the bank of equipment, and the operator, who was listening intently to a message that was coming through.

“Rebel force now outside Sector Five. Easily containable, but some backup may be necessary. Rebel quarters identified as on a line thirty-three west, a dis
tance of one mile and one-quarter between Five and Eight. Suggest recce party to be followed by…”

The rest was lost as they were out of earshot, and Arcadian’s voice drowned the faint and tinny voice from the receiver. But one thing was for sure: J.B. knew now how they had been tracked so simply—not one tracker, but many, relaying information. The baron had a pretty strong comm setup going here, and that was worth noting for future reference.

Meanwhile, Arcadian had reached a room at the far end of the corridor.

“This,” he said, standing aside and waving them through the double doors, “is where I conduct business for most of the day. It seems as good a place as any to continue our conversation.”

Ryan moved into the room first, followed by Krysty, Mildred, J.B. and Jak. Doc was still at the rear, slightly behind the others, taking in the remnants of the old world that hung on the wall spaces between the doorways. Framed paintings, posters and newspaper pages, photographs of people that Doc only partially recognized: celebrities from all walks of late twentieth-century life. It was a smorgasbord of predark life.

“Quite remarkable,” he murmured. “You must tell me how you came by all of this. By the Three Kennedys, this, too…” he said brokenly as he was assailed by the baron’s living quarters.

The room, bizarrely, resembled nothing less than a larger, more ornate version of a 1970s suburban lounge, as Doc had seen on TV programs and videotapes during his captivity with the whitecoats of Operation Chronos. A pit had been sunk into the center of the floor, which
was thickly carpeted in a white, cream and brown pattern. The pit was lined with cushions that were tasseled and covered in a variety of fabrics, mostly velvet in texture, and decorated with tapestrylike designs.

Away from this central feature, a fireplace that was presumably in use during the colder months had been inlaid with tiling of many colors, and had a mantel that was lined with ceramics and ornaments from a variety of eras.

Furnishings around the room were of battered but well-polished leather: a chesterfield, sofas and easy chairs, with footstools covered in dark, thickly padded fabric. A dining suite such as might have graced an affluent suburban home at the end of the twentieth century stood by a long window, the real glass made opaque by lace hangings, with thick, plum-velvet drapes on either side.

It was a monument to another time and place, one that was lost on most of the people assembled in the room. To them, it was just plain weird, and unlike anything they had seen before. But to Doc and Mildred, it was like stepping back into a previous life. And was, perhaps, a clue as to where the mind of Eugene Arcadian was rooted.

“It is rather nice,” Arcadian said, with a pride in his tone that belied the mildness of his words. “Please, this way, be seated and I will call for refreshments.” He indicated the pit, but said nothing when Ryan opted to move toward the leather furniture that was clustered close to the fireplace. A flicker of amusement passed Arcadian’s lips, which caused Ryan a brief moment of
irritation. He realized that the baron could see he was unwilling to lead his people into the pit, and therefore a position that had a greater vulnerability. It was as though the baron found Ryan’s caution in some way funny.

Maybe it was. For the simple reason that Arcadian seemed to have nothing but the best of intentions. As the companions settled themselves into the plush leather furniture in a manner that would have seemed bizarre if they could have seen themselves, Arcadian called for a servant, and ordered food and drink. He then excused himself and exited the room.

“Think this is some kind of test?” J.B. asked softly.

“See if we take a little look around?” Krysty added. “Could be. Better, mebbe, if we let him show his hand his way for now?”

“I’d go with that,” Ryan said.

They waited in a silence that was odd and pregnant, wondering if the baron truly had business to attend to, or if he was watching them in some way.

If he had been, he showed no sign of it when he reentered the room a short time later, followed by women bearing trays of fruits, meat and bread, which they laid on the table. Pitchers of juice, water and wine followed.

“Forgive the delay,” the baron said, “I had some matters of administration to attend to.”

The manner in which he said this made J.B. wonder if those matters were tied to the message he had overheard. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. Leave it for when they were alone.

Seating himself, the baron indicated that they should take any food or drink that they wished. Then, seeing
their reluctance, he rose first and went to the table, taking a small sample from every dish that was laid out, before pouring a small measure from each jug into a goblet. He tasted everything that had been brought in.

“You see?” he said with a sly grin. “Everything is fine. It would be less than subtle of me to bring you all this way and then attempt to drug you. I wouldn’t insult your intelligence. Besides, there is much I want to hear from you. And there’s much that I have to tell you.”

He stepped back from the table, urging them to take their fill. When they had, and when they had finished eating, he asked once again how it was that they came to stumble back into his ville.

“For I know you. I didn’t meet any of you, but I know that you were here recently with Trader Toms. He spoke highly of you, and I’m surprised that he let you go.”

“Didn’t exactly happen like that…” Ryan began.

Briefly he told Arcadian of how they had traveled out of the ville with the convoy and had then been dumped in what—to them—was the middle of nowhere. Arcady being the only ville within any distance that they knew of, they had decided to head back this way. As he detailed how they had come across the roadblocks, and of their detour over the maze, he watched the baron carefully to see if there was any flicker of recognition.

Arcadian kept up a facade of interested ignorance. There was no clue in his face that he was aware of any of this, or had engineered it. Ryan figured it had been a good call to say nothing of Toms’s informing them of Arcadian’s deal with him. A trader had to live on and walk the tightrope, and the fat man had played as fair
with them as he could under the circumstances. No sense in getting him chilled. Besides, their knowledge of Arcadian’s desire to have them here was a useful card to keep hidden, especially as the baron was playing his cards close.

When Ryan reached the part of his story where they encountered the coldhearts, Arcadian’s brow clouded.

“Rebels.” He spit with disdain. “We have some problems with those who wish to live outside our society, yet still take from it without contributing. I cannot—and will not—abide such unfairness taking place. If they choose to go up against my sec, then they will inevitably come off second best. But it’s their choice.”

Ryan held his tongue. Where had the sec been when they were attacked? If their patrols were used to this activity, then why wasn’t a patrol nearby when the confrontation occurred? Simply because they had been shadowing Ryan’s group and had presumably held back to assess their skills.

Letting these issues pass, he took up their story to the point where they had been picked up by the black-clad sec. While he spoke, the others stayed silent, listening to him as intently as the baron. Just how or what the one-eyed man said dictated how much the baron should know, and would inform them of how much they could give away—or not—if questioned separately at any point.