Arcadian's Asylum

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.