James Axler - Arcadian's Asylum

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.”

“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.