Arcadian's Asylum. James Axler
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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