Читать книгу Arcadian's Asylum - James Axler - Страница 10

At first they couldn’t hear it. Jak knew which from which direction it originated, but all they could go on was his judgment. Sound enough, but still bewildering when you listened for something you knew had to be there, but couldn’t find.

They stood, poised, feeling that they should do something—but what? Until they could scent the danger for themselves there was little they could do to effectively prepare.

And then they heard it—a deep, distant rustling. Small noises made by the small animals and birds that inhabited the dense woodlands had been identified to such an extent that the friends were no longer even conscious of them. Now there was a louder rustling that seemed to stretch over a wider expanse of ground.

“Spread out,” Ryan ordered. “Stay in sight, but keep down.”

There was little else to say. Blasters drawn and ready, the six companions spread out in a skirmish line, facing to the east of the maze wall.

Ryan and Jak took each end of the line. J.B. moved to the middle to act as anchor man as the friends spread out. Mildred and Krysty were nearest to him, while Doc remained between Mildred and Jak. With J.B. acting as anchor, it was an uneven line, but as always there was the unspoken assessment that Doc was the least effective fighter in such situations. Protecting him in this way didn’t go unnoticed by those who watched.

“THEY’RE CLOSING IN on each other. Our targets have taken a formation that protects the old man. The one-eye and the guy in glasses know their strengths, and have used that to get a little balance.”

Arcadian’s voice crackled over the air. “How many are they facing?”

The team leader looked to his men. Heat-seeking and infrared showed blobs of heat and light that fused and melded. Some of the attacking party were moving too close together to be counted accurately. He looked to the observer with the high-powered scope.

“Hard to say for sure. I count twelve at some times, fourteen at others. Think that there may be up to three others I can’t pin down. I’d say they’re outnumbered three to one.”

The team leader whistled softly. “Don’t like those odds. Should we step in and take the rebels out?” he asked the baron.

There was a pause while Arcadian considered. Finally his reply came through. “Leave them. It would be simple to deploy men and disperse them, but this way we get to test their true mettle. It may save wasting time later on. Do not—I repeat, do not—intervene.”

The team leader raised an eyebrow. “Very well, sir.” He shrugged at the questioning glances of his team. “It’s not down to me. It’s going to be a bloodbath down there.”

RYAN LOOKED across the line. Jak and Doc were out of sight, though he could see Mildred’s head bobbing in the undergrowth. J.B. was still upright, scoping the line. Krysty was close enough for him to see clearly. He knew that his thoughts would be echoed in the minds of all of them. As the enemy—assume that now, ask questions later—approached, the sounds of their progress began to separate so that it was possible to pick out numbers and more accurate locations.

They seemed to be moving in four groups, three or four in each. The sound of their footsteps on the undergrowth, no matter how silently they tried to move, was audible. Bramble and fallen branches littered the forest floor so thickly that it was impossible for them not to snap and break some of the dry, dead foliage. Volleys of small, sharp sounds announced the multiple numbers of each group.

Because they moved in clusters, rather than as individuals, it was impossible for them not to cause disturbance in the foliage that they used as cover. Ripples of green spread across a line, a wave of motion that would have made tracking hard if they had moved as individuals. But in a group, the epicenter of each breaking wave was easily spotted.

A bloodbath, all right—Ryan knew it would have to be if they were going to take out the superior numbers before they had a real chance to attack. To do this the companions would have to keep their positions unknown for as long as possible. The only way to gain an edge would be to stay still and hold your nerve until it was time to fire.

Ryan looked at his friends. They would know this, but a hand signal relayed his intent to J.B. and Krysty. In turn, the Armorer passed it on down the line.

If they had just been unlucky enough to be here when an enemy stumbled on them, then it should work. If the enemy was headed this way because they had a location, then it might be different.

Whatever, there was only one thing they could do now.

Wait.

“REPORT,” Arcadian’s voice snapped.

The team leader looked directly into the mangroves. Their targets were in plain sight from the post now that they had traversed the maze, and the rebel force moving toward them was now in vision.

“Our targets are staying put, keeping down. They’re letting the rebels come to them.”

“Do the rebels know they are there?” the baron asked.

The team leader sucked in his breath. “Can’t say for sure. It doesn’t look like it, though. Scavengers headed for Sector Eight, at a guess.”

“Very well. Keep them all in view and do not interfere. This should be instructive.”

“It should be a whole lot more than that,” the team leader muttered under his breath. “A whole lot more.”

THEY WERE CLOSING in. Ryan sank closer to the ground, hunkered on his haunches. He could see that Krysty and J.B. were doing the same. The others were already out of sight. Now, as he rested the Steyr on his thigh, cradling it gently, he felt alone. Insects buzzed and hummed in the grass and bramble around him, swooping in and out of the tangled vines that were now at eye level.

Sweat prickled at his hairline, itching as it ran down his face, under the eye patch and into the empty socket. He moved his free hand slowly, using the back of it to wipe sweat out of his good eye.

His thighs started to ache. He shifted his weight, careful to keep his balance. The rustling ahead of him was getting louder with each beat of his heart. The waves of movement started to move the grass and vine that was only a hundred or so yards from him.

He raised the Steyr, cocked and ready to fire on sight.

No way could he blink. The warm air, moist as it was, seemed to dry out his eye, make him want to blink. He felt it begin to water.

He couldn’t blink; that would be the moment they were on him.

And then the grasses and vines parted. Three people moved in a crouch. Were they armed? He couldn’t see, and there wasn’t time to ask.

Down the line, someone fired. The staccato chatter of J.B.’s mini-Uzi, set on 3-shot burst, was followed by a scream.

It was enough to make at least one of the group in front of him look around. Frozen for a moment, distracted, he wasn’t the immediate danger. Ryan took out one of the others instead. Squeeze, ride the recoil as the Steyr exploded, then roll to the side so that any return fire would hit empty space.

The man he had aimed at—skinny limbs, paunch, in camou rags—suddenly had no face. There had only been the briefest impression of a lined face, watery eyes and a gray-flecked beard. Now there was only blood, his head snapped back on his neck by the impact.

One of the other two yelled, then raised the blaster in his fist, a remake of a revolver of some kind—long barrel, maybe a Colt Peacemaker.

The man with the revolver fired blindly in the direction from which he thought the shot had come. He would still have missed Ryan. As it was, he didn’t stand a chance. The next shell from the Steyr clipped him on the shoulder, spinning him as he fell back, down but possibly not out. He was spared from a chilling by Ryan having to fire while still slightly off balance.

The third man, initially distracted, was now much more alert. He had a battered subgun, raking the area where he thought the fire had originated. Ryan went flat, his head down, tasting the bitter grass and the grit of the dirt beneath. The SMG fire flew above his head, hitting tree trunk and vine alike. Sweet sap splattered him, the smell blending oddly with the cordite from the Steyr. Chips of bark rained on him.

The fire stopped, and Ryan risked raising his head.

Both men were gone from view.

Blasterfire came from his right. He recognized, without having to think, the roar of Doc’s LeMat as the old man loosed the shot charge. That accounted for some of the high-pitched, agonized screams. This close, the old blaster couldn’t fail to hit home.

But let the others look out for themselves. At least for the moment. He couldn’t help them until he was safe himself.

Who were these guys? They seemed to have just stumbled on the companions rather than tracked them. There was no plan of attack that Ryan could see. So if they had been tracked, as Jak thought, then that had to mean another group was out there somewhere.

But that was irrelevant. It passed through the back of his mind while his forebrain concentrated on staying alive.

One down. Two standing. One wounded, the other gone to ground. How many more? Ryan, belly to the ground, slithered across the grass and vine, ignoring the brambles that snagged his clothes and tore at his skin. They’d been careful not to be pricked before, in case the thorns were venomous. Screw that. He’d take a chance rather than be blasted to oblivion.

He moved toward where the second man had fallen. Straining his neck to see upward as he crawled, he could see the feet of the chilled man.

Branches cracked to his left. He rolled so that he was on his back, his stomach muscles straining to pull his torso up at the waist. The guy with the subgun moved out from behind a tree. Almost in slow motion, the world slowed to an agonizing degree; he could see the man’s biceps pulse as he squeezed the trigger.

Ryan squeezed off a round from the Steyr, which caught the man full in the chest, above the cradle of his arms as they steadied the SMG. He pitched backward, the arc of his fire spewing upward and out as he fired while buying the farm, one arm holding the SMG while the other flew off in impact.

The one-eyed man threw himself backward, his muscles protesting at the sudden reverse in direction. The fire roared over his head and torso. He could almost feel the hot lead as it raked the air above him.

His stomach muscles felt as if they were made of that same hot lead. He wanted to gasp, breath deeply, recover, but there was no time.

Not yet. Two down. One still out there. At least, he hoped it was just one. He was fucked if the others hadn’t dealt with their opponents, or if the enemy was fluid.

There was only one way to find out.

Without pause, Ryan rolled again, his head raised as he came onto his stomach, scoping out the territory. In the maelstrom of sound that had erupted—and was still in full blast—from his left, it was almost impossible to pick out small sounds that were happening closer. But that was what he needed to do. Ryan needed some indication, some sign of where the immediate enemy was.

Cautiously, he got to one knee, lifting himself a little, using his left elbow to support himself as he moved a little farther up from the ground. Scanning the area, he could neither see nor hear the enemy.

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.

“Triple red,” Ryan murmured. It was perfunctory, as they had all primed and cocked as soon as they emerged into the open. “Jak, I can’t see any sign of life from here. You see or hear anything?”

The albino youth shook his head. “Hard with noise in distance. Not much here. But they behind us. Far, but there.”

“Okay. We move in, recce and see if we can find shelter if it really is empty. If not, then…”

“Business as usual,” Mildred murmured.

“Right,” Ryan agreed.

By this time, they had reached the outermost buildings. Procedure was simple: while the majority of the group checked and covered the surrounding area, two would take the entrance to a building, one covering the other as they swept the interior.

Ryan, not trusting his leg, let J.B. and Krysty take the sweep. The first two buildings—even to call them that was an exaggeration, as they seemed to be barely standing—were empty. There were signs that people had lived here until recently, but had now departed: rotting food, soiled bedding and dirty rags that passed for clothing.

“Where did they go?” Ryan murmured, casting a searching glance at the seemingly deserted shanty ville.

“Mayhap they were frightened of us?” Doc suggested. “Or, more pertinently, afraid of those we recently fought?”

“That’s a good idea,” Ryan said softly. “Thing is, if they think we’re those bastards, then what will they have in store for us?”

“Caution should most definitely be the watchword,” Doc replied.

Proceeding in such a manner, they took in a number of buildings. All of them had the look of the recently deserted.

“It’s like they ran scared,” J.B. said with a shake of the head. “How do they manage to survive if that’s what they do?”

“Perhaps that’s how,” Doc answered. J.B. grimaced. “Can’t run forever. Bound to catch up with you sooner or later. We all know that. Besides, if this is Arcady, then where are the sec that we heard so much about?”

“Probably on our tails,” Mildred muttered wryly. “Still out there, Jak?”

“Yeah, someone,” the albino teen said, looking into the clearing between the mangrove and shanty.

“But if this is Arcady,” Krysty said, taking a look around, “then why is it like this? People living in shit? I thought Arcadian was a good baron, giving his people a good life. And a rich baron, who could afford it.”

“That’s what fat boy led us to think,” Ryan mused. “And this certainly doesn’t look like any part of Arcady we saw. Unless the baron likes to let outlanders see and think one thing…”

“I suspect it may not be as clear cut as that,” Doc mused. Then, to answer questioning glances he added, “Come—keep watch, but please…”

He led the main body of the party into three separate huts. In each, he merely said, “Observe, please,” before leading them out. Jak kept watch while Doc did that. Finally, the old man led them back to the point from which they had started.

“So what were we supposed to be looking for?” J.B. asked, puzzled.

Doc smiled, his strong white teeth giving the smile a sardonic edge. “I think Krysty hit the nail on the head, as the old saying goes. She talked of people living in shit. But they do not. Shit, piss, the kind of buildup of human ordure that we usually see in a shanty like this. Where is it? Where is the smell?”

Doc paused while they took this in: he was right. While not as sweet-smelling as it could be, there was only the smell of unwashed bodies lingering in the air. The dirt roads and paths were barely muddy.

“Fireblast!” Ryan exclaimed as it suddenly hit him. “Those huts have got latrines in them, and there’s a faucet stand in the corner of each.”

“Running water? Sanitation? What kind of a slum shanty has that?” Mildred posited. “That’s insane. If they have that, then why do they live like this?”

“We may discover that if we unearth any of them,” Doc mused. “They are supplied with water and sanitation. Moreover, those clothes may have been ragged and dirty, but they had been made that way by those who wore them. They must have plentiful clothing, otherwise why leave it behind? Have you known that before? And the food—that, too, must be plentiful, as there were many scraps. Ever known people in a seemingly poor shanty ville like this leave food lying around in such a manner?”

“But if they’re not really that poor, then why live like this?” J.B. queried.

“I suspect that we may find out, if we stay around here long enough,” Doc answered cryptically. “There are machinations afoot here that are hidden to us. Perhaps intentionally.”

“Worry ’bout later,” Jak said. “Got company.”

He indicated a direction farther into the shanty ville. Ryan waved his companions back into the shelter of two huts that stood on either side of the dust road. Checking that nothing was coming up from the rear, they assumed defensive positions—Ryan, Krysty and Jak on one side, with Mildred, Doc and J.B. taking the opposite point—while waiting for whatever was headed their way.

When it came, it was somewhat of a surprise. Slowly, moving with a caution that was edged with fright, a group of raggedly clad people moved from the shadows of far-flung huts. Despite their clothing, they were far from ill-nourished. In truth, some of them were paunchy to the point of obesity. They moved almost as one amorphous mass: men, women and children, all jockeying for position. No one wanted to be in the lead, and those who found themselves thrust to the front were quick to try to fall back, pushing against those who came up behind them. It made their progress slow and shuffling. The fear and fright was so strong coming off them that the companions could almost smell it.

The two groups of three exchanged bemused glances across the distance between them. It was difficult to know what to make of this. If these people were really that scared, then why had they come out of the shadows?

Ryan took a calculated risk. He could see no blasters among the crowd jostling slowly toward them. He stepped forward, cradling the Steyr nose down in a relaxed grip. But not so relaxed that it couldn’t be brought into play easily and quickly.

As he emerged, the group of ville dwellers stopped suddenly. It was almost as though they cowered at the sight of him. Some even flinched, as though he was about to fire on them. When he stood his ground and did nothing, some of them looked up.

“You’re…you’re not going to take from us?” a man said haltingly.

“Why should I?” Ryan asked. “Is that what the others do?”

Mutterings shot through the crowd. He could make out some of it. They were talking about him, and not about who “the others” might be.

A woman stepped forward and pointed at him, yelling, “He only got one eye” and laughing before running back into the crowd, many of whom were now giggling.

“The others,” Ryan repeated. “Who are the others?”

Many of them looked at one another, as though they found the one-eyed man beyond their comprehension. The man who had spoken first said, “Others take stuff, want to hurt us. I think they like that bit. It’s not nice.”

Ryan was taken aback. “You don’t try to defend yourselves?”

The man shrugged. “They go soon enough. Then other others come and help, but sometimes they don’t. Mebbe you know them? Mebbe you got more stuff for us?”

A satisfied murmur rippled through the crowd, and they moved forward. Ryan took a step back, not because he thought they would attack, but because for one moment it seemed that they might overwhelm him.

His people took that as their cue to step out into the open. Their presence caused the approaching mob to stop momentarily, before gasping in amazement and moving forward. Before any of Ryan’s people had a chance to draw breath, the ville dwellers were milling around them, touching them and asking questions.

“You know others?”

“You have stuff?”

“Why you so white?”

“Why you so brown?”

Yet none of them waited for answers to the questions they posed before babbling on about something completely different.

Ryan looked, bewildered, over the heads of the milling throng to where he could see Krysty. She shrugged. She was as confused as he was by their behavior.

“They appear to be like sheep,” Doc yelled above the babble. “Passive, and completely without any kind of—”

“What’s sheep?” one of them said, tugging him on the arm.

“I—” Doc began, but was cut short by Jak’s terse comment.

“They’re here. Ones who follow.”

Melting out of the shadows and forming into black-clad pairs holding blasters—was this where his earlier opponent had got his blaster? Ryan wondered—came six teams. Their blasters were raised in the air, but there was little doubting their intent.

“Drop your weapons and come with us,” one of the black-clad men called. “You people,” he added in a harsher tone, “move away from the outlanders.”

The mob did as it had been told. Soon, they were standing apart, watching the proceedings. Ryan and his people were now surrounded on all sides, outnumbered two to one.

“You took out those rebels okay,” the black-clad leader said, as if sensing their mood, “but we’re ready for you, and better trained than that scum.”

“So what do you want? You want a firefight?” Ryan asked in a hard voice, his muscles tensed as he took in the manner in which they had been surrounded. These people were good. But his, he knew, could be better.

“Don’t want that any more than you do,” the men said tightly. “What we want is for you to come with us. Arcadian wants to meet you.”

“He’s got a real strange way of going about that,” Ryan replied.

“Mebbe. But he has his reasons. You might like ’em.”

Ryan took another look around at the black-clad sec, then at his companions. He could see from their expressions that they were with him.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “we’ll come with you. Might be interesting. But we don’t surrender blasters. You got nothing to hide? It won’t matter.”

The sec boss grinned. “Like your style, One-eye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He lowered his blaster so that it pointed at the dirt. “Let’s do it.”