The Iron Dream (8 page)

This individual proceeded to pinch the rear of the hostess with crude good humor and then kissed the blushing young woman full on the mouth while ten of his comrades erupted into the steamer cabin behind him.

These fellows resembled the first in general style: they were all great hearty lads with wild hair and florid beards or mustaches somewhat in need of trimming, dressed extravagantly in loose-fitting leathers adorned with all manner of bright metalwork, emblems, pendants and medallions. They brandished pistols, truncheons, daggers, or various combinations of weapons, according to personal taste. Many of them were tattooed, and earrings of gold, silver, chrome, or stainless steel were common. They were all in serious need of a bath, being liberally coated with the sweat and dust of the road.

When he had finished greeting the hostess in his barbaric fashion, the huge Avenger turned a sour expression upon the passengers cowering in the rear of the steamer.

"A slimy gang of underwear cleaners and manure merchants, eh Stopa?" observed a clean-shaven Avenger with 55

long, somewhat brownish hair, and a silver ring in his right ear. "Look like candidates for a mutant squash to me."

"We'll see about that, Karm," the huge fellow said.

"Just remember who's the commander here. When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it." Karm glowered silently while the others laughed. Clearly this Stopa had the correct instincts of a leader of men, albeit roughhewn.

"All right you bugs," Stopa said, addressing himself to the passengers, "in case you haven't been out from under your rocks lately, I'm Stag Stopa, and we're the Black Avengers, and if you don't know what that means, you're about to find out. We like riding our bikes and getting drunk and wenching and a good fight and stomping mutants and big mouths and not much else. We don't like back talk, mutants, police, or Doms. If we don't like someone, we pound him into the ground; our life is as simple and honest as that."

Stopa's speech was as pleasing to Feric as might have been that of a small boy who lacked nothing but a stern and wiser father to channel his healthy animal instincts in the proper direction. What a splendid figure these Avengers cut beside the townfolk huddled in the rear of the cabin!

"What I want you bugs to understand," Stopa continued, "is that in our own way, we're idealists and patriots.

When we think some slug is a stinking mutant, we kill him on the spot. We clear the woods of a lot of genetic garbage that way. We're doing everyone a favor. And since we're doing everyone a favor, we figure we got a right to ask a few favors back. So to begin with, all of you empty your pockets and band over your wallets and pouches."

A great moan of dismay and anger issued forth from the passengers, but when Stopa and some of his men took a few steps toward them, a vertible shower of pouches, wallets, and valuables hit the floor of the cabin. Even Bogel reached for his pouch and wallet and would no doubt have handed them over had not Feric, with a touch of his hand and a steely look, restrained him. A fine lot of true men these cowards and poltroons were! Racially, one of these rude barbarians was worth ten of their ilkl As his men began scooping up the booty, Stopa stalked up to the seats where Feric and Bogel sat conspicuously isolated and immobile. He glared at Bogel, brandished his 56

truncheon meaningfully, and snarled: "Where are your valuables,' you 'little worm? You look like you could be a mutant to me, maybe even a Dom. We tear Dom's arms and legs off before we roast them alive."

Bogel went white as a sheet and froze, but Feric spoke up loudly and boldly: "This man is under my protection.

Moreover, you have my word of honor that his pedigree is spotless."

"Who do you think you are?" Stopa bellowed, leaning his great torso over Bogel so as to fix Feric with a fierce stare. "You open your mouth again and you'll find my truncheon in it."

Slowly and deliberately, not averting his own unflinching gaze from Stopa's eyes for an instant, Feric rose to his full height so that the two huge men were both standing erect, their eyes locked in a contest of will above the still-seated Bogel. For a long moment, Stopa's blue eyes stared levelly into Feric's while Feric channeled every ounce of his formidable will into his iron-hard and absolutely resolute gaze. Then Stopa's will broke, and he felt constrained to look elsewhere for respite from this irresistible psychic onslaught.

In this moment, Feric said simply: "I am Feric Jaggar."

Recovering somewhat, Stopa demanded: "Where are your valuables, Trueman Jaggar?" But the final shade of iron conviction was now lacking in his voice.

"Both my wallet and my pouch are secured to my belt as you can see," Feric said evenly. "There they will remain."

"I told you we're doing everyone a favor," Stopa said, raising his truncheon once more. "If you won't contribute to the cause, you must be some kind of mutant or mongrel, and that kind we kill. So you better prove your purity by handing your things over, or we're going to have ourselves a mutant squash."

"Let me say first of all that I heartily approve of your sentiments. I myself rid the world of one more Dom only yesterday. We serve the same noble cause. In you, I recognize a fellow like myself, ruthlessly determined to protect the genetic purity of Heldon with fist and-iron."

Feric's words seemed to vex Stopa in some manner; he studied Feric's face uncertainly as if some elusive ultimate meaning might be written thereon. His comrades, however, had finished gathering up the valuables of the other 57

passengers during this exchange, and were new growing sullen, impatient, somewhat surly.

"Come on Stopa, smash his face and let's get out of here!"

"Stomp the big-mouthed pig!"

At this, Stopa whirled around, in a fury, whipping his heavy truncheon in a great swath through the air. "The next one of you bugs that opens his mouth will carry his teeth back to the den in a sack!"

Even these rough and burly fellows cowered before Stopa's rage.

Stopa returned his attention to Feric, his face still reddened, his eyes hot with anger. "Now look," he roared,

"you seem like a better sort than the rest of these worms, Jaggar, more like my kind of man, so I don't really want to have to pulverize you. But nobody wins an argument with Stag Stopa, so why don't you just hand your stuff over, and we'll be on our way."

Feric pondered for a moment. Throughout the exchange, he had acted on the impulse of his instincts alone, sensing that these Avengers were in some way linked to his destiny, that it would ill-serve him to appear as anything but an iron-willed hero in their eyes. Now it appeared that he would either have to fight them all, in which case he would be slain, or give over his money and lose both his modest fortune and their respect. Bogel, for his part, was clearly terrified to the point where he dared not interfere, even with craven advice. Finally, fixing Stopa with a contemptuous gaze, Feric opted for the utmost in audacity.

"You present a magnificent physical appearance, Stopa," he said. "I would not have taken you for a craven coward."

Stopa's face purpled, his teeth ground into each other, and the muscles of his arms stood out in great knotted ridges.

"You would not dare threaten me thus without your men at your back, your truncheon in your hand, and myself weaponless," Feric continued. "You know that in a fair fight I would be more than your equal."

A great animal howl went up from Stopa's men, which turned into derisive laughter. Stopa turned and glowered at the Avengers, but to little effect. This troop was organized like a wolf ^ pack; the leader commanded only so long as he defeated all comers. Now that he had been 58

challenged, his power over the others was weakened until the matter was settled. Stopa himself clearly understood the situation, at least on an instinctual level, for when he looked once more at Feric, there was a narrowed shrewdness about his eyes that belied his flushed features.

"You dare to challenge Stopa?" he roared belligerently.

"Only an Avenger may challenge the commander as an equal. I give you three choices, Jaggar: hand over your valuables meekly like any other worm, be smashed on the spot by us all, or undergo an Avenger's initiation rites. If you live through that, we'll settle the rest between us."

Feric smiled broadly, for this was precisely the end he had desired. "I'll go through your initiation, Stopa," he said calmly. "This cabin has cramped my muscles; I could do with a bit of light exercise."

The Avengers roared their appreciation of this gallant jest. Clearly, they were fine material, needing only a firm hand, a shining example, and a clear goal to become a shock troop of the highest esprit.

"You ride with us then!" Stopa said, and it seemed to Feric that his anger had become tempered with admiration of the sort one old wolf gives another, whether they are fated to fly at each other's throats in the next instant or not.

"My friend here will come along for the ride," Feric said, indicating Bogel. "He's not a robust fellow and the fresh air will do him good."

Once again, the Avengers broke into good-natured laughter in which even Stopa could not help but join.

Bogel, for his part, looked as if he would like nothing better than to find a hole to drop out of sight through.

"Drag your lap dog along then!" Stopa said. "He can ride with Kami. You, Jaggar, will ride with me."

So saying, Stopa and his Avengers rudely ushered Feric and Bogel out into the cool evening air, where the rumbling circle of motorcycles awaited.

59

4

Although the deep shadows and cool breezes of evening had descended upon the Emerald Wood, the area immediately around the roadsteamer seemed like a heady inferno of gleaming metal, a howling, barking din, and hot intoxi-cating petrol fumes. Feric followed Stopa toward his motorcycle which stood silently admidst the horde of champing metal steeds.

Stopa's machine was of a size and design appropriate to his station. Its engine seemed larger than the others and its chrome plating shone like a mirror. The steering bars were similarly chromed and worked in the likeness of the horns of some enormous ram; so huge were they that when Stopa mounted the motorcycle and gripped them, his fists were about the level of his head, his arms stretched out majestically to their full length. The panniers of the motorcycle were enameled in jet black, and affixed to the side of each was a chromium death's head of the sort Stopa wore about his neck. The petrol tank was also black, embellished on either side with twin red lightning strokes. The black leather seat was of a size that easily accommodated two, with room to spare for Feric's bag.

At the rear of the motorcycle rose twin chromed fins worked in the likeness of an eagle's wings. A great silver eagle's head was affixed to the front wheel guard; an electric globe shone forth from its shrieking beak.

As Feric climbed aboard, Stopa kicked the mighty engine into life with one powerful application of his steel-shod boot to the starting lever. Through the seat, Feric could feel the throb of the engine between his thighs.

Stopa turned half-around, and smiled wolfishly at Feric.

"Hang on for your life," he said. Then, shouting above the din to his men: "We ride!"

With a surge that fairly took Feric's breath away, and an ear-shattering bellow, Stopa's motorcycle shot forward, leaned over at'a perilous angle, swirled about in a 60

tight turn, and headed back down the road toward the gully already doing at least forty miles an hour. What a machine! What a rider! What a storm troop these Avengers would make!

Feric craned his neck around and saw that the other cyclists were following Stopa in a tightly packed if somewhat ragged horde, with Bogel, his face ghostly pale, his eyes all but shut, clinging for dear life to the seat of the machine directly behind Stopa's. Feric laughed wildly into the breeze of passage. What dash these vehicles had, what a fine impression they made en masse! All that was lacking was uniformity and order.

Upon reaching the gully that led off into the Wood, Stopa did not hesitate, indeed hardly slackened speed. The motorcycle leaped off the paved roadway and onto the rough forest track and dashed off through the great dark sylvan corridors with the entire troop howling close behind it.

There followed a wild ride through the dark woods and over the irregular forest floor the like of which Feric would not have imagined in the most extravagant fancy.

Careening at exhilarating speed through the random aisles between the trees, bouncing and sliding over roots and rocks and all manner of underbrush, Stopa guided his steed with a sure instinct and a sense of dash and spirit that succeeded in putting Feric totally at his ease. It seemed as if destiny guided the motorcycle and Stopa on some level was aware of this; machine, rider, and passenger were a juggernaut of fate—swift, sure, unstoppable.

Though it seemed almost at every moment that the motorcycle would dash itself to pieces against some great looming tree or be flung headlong by a rock or pit or root, Feric was able to relax and enjoy the feeling of power and danger, the wind in his face, the mighty throb of the engine beneath him.

Indeed, he felt a certain regret when, after an hour or so of this demon's ride, Stopa turned onto a rude path which a few minutes later debouched into a treeless hollow between two deeply wooded hills in which stood what was obviously the Avengers' camp.

A dozen or so huts were scattered about the clearing in no particular order. They were small, primitive affairs; a few of the finer specimens boasted tin doors and small windows appropriated from wrecked steamers and gas cars.

There was one larger such hut, and two big sheds pieced together from rusty steel sheeting. Directly behind this 61

small settlement was the mouth of a cave where a beaten path and scattered bits of debris gave evidence of human habitation. All in all a squalid camp that indicated only primitive knowledge of the builder's art.

Stopa drove into the center of the encampment and brought his machine to a halt with a flourish, spinning it about in its own length as he kicked down the stand and cut the engine, so that it finished upright in a cloud of dust. Moments later, the others brought up their motorcycles in similar style.