Arcadian's Asylum

Chapter One

“They say a week in a truck is a long time. ’Specially if you ain’t got no shitter, and no time to stop. Me? I say it’s how you get to know who your real friends are.”

Trader Toms cackled in a wheezing, cracked tone that broke down into a phlegm-ridden cough. Hacking and snorting, he drew up a phlegm ball that followed his trail of tobacco juice into a bucket bolted to the side of the wag. He was still wheezing and cackling, shaking his head and repeating the last four words to himself with a shake of the head when Doc Tanner politely cleared his throat.

“I believe the derivation of the phrase comes from ‘a week is a long time in politics,’ used by media commentators in the decades before skydark. They used it in much the same way, as it was not unknown for politicians to change their allegiances more often than they would change their underwear.”

Toms wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of a begrimed hand, leaving streaks of dirt in their wake. “Hell, that wouldn’t be difficult with me,” he breathed, the rattle in his chest making the words seem echoed and distant. “I gotta say, Doc, that’s why I like having you around. You may be madder than a bunch of stickies put in sack and beaten with clubs, but you know some seriously old and weird shit. Just like you, in fact.”

“Why, thank you,” Tanner replied mildly. To be sure, the fat man seated in front of him may have uttered those words in a tone that suggested he meant no insult—indeed, was growing fond of Doc—but the old man still had to bite back the bile and not heed to the temptation of taking the fat man’s equally fat head and ramming it into the bucket, so that he drowned in his own spit and phlegm.

Grinding his teeth, he glanced across to where Jak Lauren sat, cradling his 357 Magnum Colt Python as though it were a newborn babe. The albino youth’s face was as impassive as ever, but as their eyes met briefly there was a flicker that told Doc he would be backed up all the way.

But no: keep quiet, smile politely, and wait for the big payoff. It had been a long trek across the plains, with the companions unsure of where the next ville or settlement may lay, and their horses were almost exhausted—as were they—when the approaching convoy had become more than a cloud of dust on the horizon.

With no cover, and sapped of their energy, all that they could do was stand their ground and wait to see if the newcomers were hostile. Fortunately—or perhaps not, he mused as he watched the repulsive fat man wobbling on his seat—they had been greeted with nothing so much as deference. The convoy had drawn to a halt at a distance that had indicated no immediate attack would be forthcoming, and the fat man and his two sec lieutenants had dismounted from their wags to approach. This they did unarmed, before declaring themselves and making it known that, if little else, they had recognized Ryan and J.B. by description.

“You can see I got me one hell of a convoy, and I could use extra sec. ’Specially sec that knows what the hell it’s doing. And you boys do. Guess the rest of you ain’t no useless crap, either, else you wouldn’t be riding with One-eye and Four-eyes.”

The offensive words contrasted with the artless and disingenuous way in which they were spoken. If nothing else, Doc had to admit, they had been aware of Trader Toms’s failing from the first.

With little in the way of food and water left between them, and no real knowledge of the terrain, it had been an offer that couldn’t be refused.

Although, as the fat man shifted on his seat, raised one ass cheek and let rip with a fart so loud that it sounded above the whining note of the engine, Doc did ponder that a slow death from starvation and thirst may have been a better option. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jak tilt back slightly so that he could catch the fresh air that blew through an open port at the rear of the wag. As the fecal scent hit Doc, he wished that he had that option.

“You know, Doc, I love all that old shit,” Toms continued, with perhaps an inappropriate choice of words, in Doc’s view. “I like to try and pick up stuff like old mags, disks, vids… Funny, most people think they’re just junk, and they got no worth. Well, mebbe that’s right if you’re thinking just in terms of food or jack, and mebbe it’s right that you put that shit first, ’cause without it we ain’t gonna stand a chance. But that old stuff, man, the way people lived and thought before the big one… There’s wrinkles in there that can be used. Got a lot of ideas from that. Put me way up the food
chain, more than people thought I ever would where I come from.”

“A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing,” Doc said, conscious of avoiding the irony in his voice while knowing at the same time that it would sail right over the greasy scalp of the trader. “However, the accumulation of knowledge, when applied, can reap dividends. Pay off,” he added, seeing the momentary look of puzzlement on Toms’s face.

The trader snapped his fingers and slapped a palm against a thigh covered with pants of a cloth so dirt encrusted as to be of indeterminate origin.

“Hell, that’s it exactly, Doc. Ain’t just what you know—it’s knowing who else knows it, and how the two of you can use that if you can’t turn it to your advantage on your own. That’s what I like about going to Arcady. That baron, Arcadian… There’s a man who knows his shit. Backward, forward, sideward and up a bear’s ass. Ain’t nothing that man don’t know. For real.”

Doc shrugged. “He certainly does seem to be a most learned man,” he murmured. Yes, he thought, and one who prized that knowledge and held it to himself jealously, unwilling to share. He had been cagey around Doc and his fellow travelers. Perhaps that could be put down to a healthy suspicion of those who didn’t usually journey alongside a trader with whom Arcadian seemed to do so much business.

But no. There was more to it than that. The baron was a ruler in every feudal sense that permeated these postskydark ages. Knowledge was one of the tools that he used to keep his people under the heel of his boot. Toms may have felt that he was a near equal—if not on a
par—with the baron, but in truth he was a cretin in comparison. His learning was small, in real terms, if impressive for someone in this intellectually derelict wasteland. Doc would be the last to say this as a way of boosting his own ego—for where had all his learning got him in this world—but Toms was narrow-minded, and couldn’t visualize the uses of knowledge that Arcadian had seemed to have grasped with ease.

Because this was such a strong weapon in his armory, and because it was rarely challenged, so he had been unwilling to enter into the kind of discourse with Doc—particularly—and the others that Toms had tried to engineer. Toms could be ruthless in his business and the protection of his convoy and position. They had seen evidence of this. Despite his almost buffoonish persona, the workers on the convoy respected the way in which Toms had built up his convoy and given them a good livelihood in a world that placed such a thing at a premium.

Yet this was still a man who, when drunk on the potent brew that he carried for the recreation of his crews, could repeat endlessly the reasons why he liked to be called “The Don” whilst doing imitations of the actor from whom he had got the idea, cramming his cheeks with rags, shrugging and gesturing until he almost choked on the rags and his own laughter, falling flat and muttering about “Brando…brandy…” He thought he was so funny, Doc reflected, yet he was a harmless bore.

He couldn’t imagine Arcadian getting drunk, let alone having a repertoire of such party tricks. The baron had struck him as a man who could never allow himself to lose control in such a way. He had too much at stake:
much that went beyond the wealth of the ville he ruled. Whatever it may be, Doc fervently hoped that he would never go back and find out.

Even as this thought crossed his mind, and he was aware of Toms burbling on about the conversion of his wags to run on water, not gas—and how he had seen something about this on an old vid, yet the motherfuck tape had frizzed to a snowstorm before all had been made clear—Doc could feel the cold fingers of fear tap at the nerves down his spine.

He looked at Jak. The albino youth’s normally impassive visage was curious. Doc shook his head slightly, then turned his attention back to the trader.

“Ah, yes, I believe one of the theories behind such vid wiping is to do with the way that oil companies liked to keep a monopoly on wag fuel. Not that different to now, really…”

It was the cue that Toms was waiting for: “Tell me about it. I did hear tell that the guy Ryan and B.J. ran with—” Doc had tired of the way in which Toms continuously got the Armorer’s name the wrong way around, but left correcting it for what seemed to be the thousandth time “—had a lake of gas. That would be cool, to find something like that again, instead of having to pay shit through the nose for what you can get. Then they complain when I have to up my prices because they up theirs. I mean, stands to any kind of reason, man, if…”

Doc allowed him to ramble on, half listening, yet disturbed by the ice that infused his blood.

R YAN C AWDOR and Krysty Wroth were riding in the eighth wag of the convoy, dead center. A fifteen-wag
convoy was a pretty big undertaking and, like Doc, Ryan had decided that Toms wasn’t quite the idiot that he had first appeared to be. Nonetheless, both Krysty and himself had spent far too long in the lead wag, listening to his boring stories and putting up with the endless bodily functions that made this armored heat-trap seem preferable.

The center wag was under the command of K.T., one of the two sec lieutenants trusted with Toms’s convoy. A slim, almost girlish man of indeterminate age with dark circles under eyes that seemed to bulge out of his skull, K.T. was sharp but prone to fits of rage that seemed to come from nowhere. Ryan had wondered if it was jolt-induced when they first met, but had seen little sign of any narcotic usage on the convoy. Brew was okay. Toms drew the line at things that could truly impair efficiency. So it seemed that the sudden irrational fits of pique, and the colorful language that went with it, were merely part of K.T.’s natural state. Both Ryan and Krysty had heard some inventive cursing in their time, but had to admit that K.T. at full throttle showed a facility for stringing together obscenities that would make a deaf man blush. So it was that they were both secretly hoping that the sec lieutenant would blow his top over some trifling matter, as that was what seemed to trigger his temper. Ironically, under true pressure he was calm and collected.

But so far nothing on this leg of the journey—the first hop out of Arcady—had caused the sec man to explode. If anything, he seemed subdued by the ease of departure.

Given only a day’s notice of Toms’s desire to up and
move on, the two sec lieutenants had marshaled the wag crews in a manner that had impressed Ryan. Not since he rode with Trader had he seen a crew respond so well to having their rest and recreation interrupted in such a manner. They were ordered to prepare for departure a good week ahead of the time that Toms had originally scheduled. When pressed by crew reps pissed at losing valuable drinking and gaudy time, he had said that Arcadian had given him a hint that there was some good business to be done in the ville of Jackson Spire, which was about 150 miles down the road. Close enough to reach within a day on good roads, two at most. Then they could camp while he went about negotiations, and return to their R & R.

Given that the crew reps weren’t in the best of conditions themselves, the way in which K.T. and his sideman Lou had gone about their business was interesting to behold. First, the two men had taken the initially pissed reps and dunked them in barrels of ice water to shock them into sobriety. Fishing them out of the barrels and slapping them into line where necessary, they had worked as a team. Lou was almost twice the size of K.T., and his opposite in almost every way. Where the smaller man had a manic stare, a loud voice, and seemed to be made of barbed wire, Lou was a giant who seemed to be encased in a roll of blubber. Yet despite that, and the fact that he had a laid-back manner and a soft-spoken, almost whispering voice, his almost seven-foot body had a hardness rippling beneath the fat that spoke of a layer of thickly developed muscle. And the hard strength showed in the way in which he picked up the complaining reps with one hand, sometimes
lofting one in each massive paw before dunking them, lifting them out and handing them over to K.T. Here was where the smaller man’s temper and fire came in useful: the crew reps, stunned and shocked, perhaps still a little high from the brew in their veins, had him yelling in their faces, slapping them hard to make them pay attention.

Their orders were simple: go and collect the crews from your wags—you would know better than anyone else where they were. Get them out of the bars and the gaudys. No matter if they were on top of a slut or halfway down a glass. Back here within a half hour.

“Better do it, boys. It’s for the best,” Lou added mildly when K.T. had finished his tirade.

It was a routine that Mildred, watching at the time with Ryan, had described as “good-cop-bad-cop,” explaining at Ryan’s puzzled expression about the psychology of the soft and hard.

“That?” Ryan had asked with mild surprise. “That’s nothing new. Never heard that expression, though. And never seen it done quite like this.”

Yet such was the regard with which the crews held Toms, for all his oddities, that the crew reps were gone as soon as Lou’s mild words faded on the breeze, only to return a short while later with their crewmen in tow.

Ryan had doubted that the necessary maintenance and repairs could be made to ready the convoy in time. Half the crewmen were being held up by their fellows, and their level of tiredness, drunkenness and ability to concentrate on the task in hand was—to say the least—dubious.