The Iron Breed Read online

  What was wrong! Did the devastating energy within the rods only last for two or three times use? Jony looked about wildly. Where could he find another? In the boxes left before him?

  He leaped for the nearest, grabbed at its top and pulled. There was no response. Fastenings like those on the cages in the Big Ones' ship? Holding down his impatience, he examined the upper edges, searching for some indications of locks. With his fingers he alternately pressed and pulled. All at once the lid yielded, and Jony tore it up and back furiously.

  The glitter of what lay within was visible even in the dusk. He ran his hand through the contents. Smooth bits of bright metal, sparkling stones . . . but no rod.

  “That's the place, right ahead, captain!”

  Jony whirled about. Those words resounding within his helmet were a startling warning that he had no more time for searching. Rod? The only one which remained that he knew of was that in the sleeper's hands. He caught up the one he had tossed aside, moving swiftly up to stand beside that stone in which the sleeper was encased. For the first time he dared to run his bare hand across the transparent surface of the block. It felt far smoother than stone to his touch. Could he break through it? Holding the dead rod in both hands, as Maba had fiercely beat upon the machine in the ship, so did Jony bring down the useless weapon upon the smooth lid on the block.

  Once, twice. There was no sign of any cracking or breaking. Jony tried to strike in the same place each time, hoping that the concentrated pounding could bring about such results. The surface remained unmarked.

  When again he used his fingers over the area where he had been striking there was no promising roughness to his touch. Was this sealed in some way as were the boxes?

  Falling to his hands and knees, Jony began a closer inspection of the rim where that clear surface joined the sides. He pressed and pulled, striving to wedge the end of the rod into some invisible joint as a lever. But there was no spot he could find to apply such a pressure.

  Getting to his feet again, wild with frustration, Jony looked down in despair at the red mask of that shrouded form, and the rod. He had no time to search those other boxes—no time!

  Once more he ran his hand down the length of the box. If he could only locate some join, some sign that there was an opening! Then—

  Jony stiffened, jerked his hand away. He stared at the box in wild astonishment. Just as his first touch against the palm of the stone woman had informed him that he had tapped an unknown source of energy, so had he now gained a similar shock.

  Tentatively he leaned closer, using just the tips of his fingers to trace a space immediately above the mask which covered the unknown's face. There was something there, no fissure. No, his fingers told him that what he could not see was an area shaped like the hand of the woman.

  He marked its outward edging by the tingling response of his own flesh. To his eyes there was no evidence of any such marking. Jony reached forth his hand, poised it above that unseen space which seemed attuned to energy. Was this the lock of the box, so different from the cage locks he had been able to handle long ago?

  “Spread out!” Once more the order rang in the helmet. “Under as much cover as you can.”

  No more time! Jony brought his hand down on the place over the mask.

  A charge of energy flashed back from that contact, into his body. Was this a protective device to make sure that the sleeper was not disturbed? It was too late for fear now; he could not withdraw his hand, even when he put his full will and strength to do that. Rather, there came a sensation of his flesh and bone being firmly entrapped, being drawn down into the clear substance of that cover. Yet his eyes assured him that was not so. Instinctively Jony countered with that very personal weapon of his own talent. He concentrated his full will on the opening of the box, the freeing of his hand.

  Now! Suddenly a network of fine cracks ran out and away from where his fingers rested. Those merged, as more and more appeared, becoming thicker, shattering so that splinters dropped away from their cleavage to lie on the sleeper. Then Jony was free as the whole portion he had touched gave away.

  Only that did not end the crackling of the protective cover. The breaks still ran on and on, until they reached the stone rim. All that clear substance fell away in small broken bits, some as fine as dust. There was a puff of air, cold, smelling of acrid liquids, which Jony vaguely identified with the lab.

  He had no time for any exploration or examination. Nor did he want in the least to disturb the mask on the sleeper's face. Instead his freed hand grabbed for the rod, drawing it out of that light grip. If only the rod still worked!

  Without another glance at the sleeper, Jony descended in two leaps to the floor of the wide-walled den. He leveled the button, pressed, not quite daring to hope until he saw the results.

  Flame answered. The boxes were gone!

  He kept on raising and lowering the weapon of the unknown, working with wild haste to clear the floor of all those boxes the spacemen had brought out of the storage place. What still lay below there must be completely destroyed also, though he might not have time to do it now.

  “Captain—there ahead! Who's that?”

  Jony instinctively dodged behind the nearest tree of stone. He had accomplished this much. Now he had to face the invaders and carry out the rest of his impossible plan. He swung up the rod. The energy which had disposed of the boxes might now blot out men!

  Only he found he could not press that button. He raged inside at this unexpected inability to blast into nothingness his own kind. Instead he groped for the stunner.

  There were four—no, five of them—slipping from the shadow of one pillar to the next. They all carried arms held at ready. But two (he could not tell them apart with their heads all encased in the bubble helmets) had weapons which were different, probably more potent than stunners.

  Jony aimed at the first of those. The figure buckled slowly, fell face down, his weapon skidding out of his loosened grip along the floor. Jony saw the others whirl at the sound of that fall.

  One of them darted toward the weapon. Jony used the stunner again.

  “Stay back!” That order was sharp. “Whoever he is, he's over there. Use the laser, Mofat!”

  A beam of eye-dazzling light sped, to wreathe the pillar behind which Jony had sheltered for his second shot. As if the stone were a tree struck by lightning, it blazed up. Heat scorched Jony's hand as he crouched in what he knew now was not a safe hiding place.

  “Must have fried him, captain!” the second voice was exultant.

  But what the captain might have added to his first command was lost. There was a sound throughout the whole den—not one that the ear could pick up, rather a vibration which filled the body. And Jony's mind! He put his hands to his head, tore off the helmet. His brain! He . . . what was happening to him?

  Dimly now he saw those others reel into the open. They, too, were tearing at their head coverings, throwing them down, as if to wear those protections was a torment they could not bear.

  And the den was no longer dark. There was light from the glowing pillar. Also there beamed radiance from another site: the box in which the sleeper had lain. All those bits of colored glitter about its sides were on fire, brilliant enough to affect one's eyes. And the shrouded form which had lain within was rising, but not as a sleeper leaves his bed; only the masked head lifted slowly on stiff and unbending shoulders.

  The sleeper stood erect now. However, nothing about the shrouded form suggested he was alive. There was no rippling movement in any of the limbs, no turning of the masked head; nor did he attempt to leave the box.

  From the air about them thundered sounds, words that Jony at first could not understand. But then—the pain in his head was gone. At that moment he was filled with an exultation, a sense of power which lifted him beyond all weariness of body, all confusion of mind.

  He stood up. This was the Awakening, as had been foretold—by whom, asked a part of him who was still Jony—but he had no
time for questions now. He must make sure that all was safe. Without fear, Jony stepped into the open, toward those others who still twisted and moved feebly. He raised the rod.

  Danger must be swept from the place of the Great One . . .

  No! That was not right. Jony shook his head trying to clear it. He felt as if he were now two people—being swept first this way and that. Use the force. Blot out those who came in anger and greed. No . . . protested the other Jony.

  He could not think straight. Kill—no! Destroy—no! The two orders contradicted each other with a rising need for action. On the next “no” he fired—with the stunner.

  The intruders crumpled. See—they were safely quiet now. The Great One was safe. He must approach, make ready the return of . . .

  Jony moved with swift strides up toward the standing figure wearing the blank metal mask. The roused sleeper was as stiff as the stone woman. Stone Woman? Gulfa of the Cloud Power. A name floated out of somewhere into his mind. Gulfa, who would never die because of the forces sealed within her. But this was not the hour of Gulfa. This was the Hour of the Return . . . the Awakening which was designed to be—

  Jony climbed the steps, moving to face the masked one. As he went he mouthed words he did not know nor understand. Gulfa had rightly entrusted him with the power to rouse the sleeper. Now he must use it.

  He put out his hand. The mask! Draw aside the mask so the Great One could breathe, could live again. For this one act alone had he been born, been schooled—the half-memory, the purpose which had flowed to him from Gulfa's touch was strong.

  However, in him now struggled that same queer doubt which had kept him from first using the rod to destroy those who had come unbidden into the place of the Great One. There was another fear. He must not take the mask from that head. That was untrue, this was his great mission: to return the Great One to the world. No . . . yes . . .

  No!

  Jony came aware, fully conscious, as one might wake from sleep. This was his once dreamt nightmare of terror. He was himself, Jony. He was not tied to this thing of dread rising out of a broken box!

  He swung up the rod, pressed the button.

  There was a far-off sound, like a thin scream of uttermost despair.

  Nothing stood in the box. Jony lurched closer to look within. Nothing lay there now. Somehow he had been saved from a danger he did not understand, but which he sensed was greater than any this world or the spacemen had ever threatened.

  Shuddering, he turned around. The bodies of the invaders lay on the floor. He did not know how this thing had come to pass; but he had won this part of the battle against double odds.

  Jony descended to inspect his prisoners. They were all unconscious. From them he took their weapons, gathered these into a pile, and used the rod.

  Now—for the ship.

  He found the flyer easily enough. They had left a guard; but Jony's helmet, his ship's garb, gained him the entrance. Once more he disarmed and destroyed a weapon, letting the guard see plainly what he did. Under the threat of a similar raying, the spaceman flew him back to the towering ship.

  Jony stood below the star-pointing bulk of the ship, gazing up its side into the heavens where dawn had already broken. A ship which never returned—it would not be the first one lost on such exploration. This party had come here purely by chance. The only records of what they had discovered were on board. Those would never be delivered now to the distant authority who meant to make this world theirs.

  Perhaps, in time, there would come another ship—by chance. But then the People would be warned, ready. Jony would see that this story would be kept alive so that they would know what must be done if that did happen.

  Men of his own kind had built this ship, had had the courage to take it into the far reaches of space. He could understand their pride of achievement when he looked upon it. Only, in truth they had not achieved very much. Things they could make: machines to obey them—to set them among the stars—to live in new worlds. But they had other machines which they took pride in using. Jony grimaced at what he had seen in the lab—Yaa in the grip of equipment set to tear the secrets of her life out of her.

  Perhaps the men his act would leave here for the rest of their lives would never understand. Perhaps some of them could learn—in time. Jony did not care, or know. He was only aware of what he must do.

  Men were not “things.” Nor were “animals” things—to be used, discarded, experimented upon. All had life-force in common and that life-force was a precious gift. Man could not create it. If he destroyed a machine, as Maba had destroyed the one in the lab, that could be rebuilt. But if the invaders had destroyed Yaa during their ruthless quest for knowledge, who could make her live again?

  Men, the Big Ones—all the arrogant kind who believed that their will should rule . . .

  Slowly Jony began to walk around the ship. Geogee's information had been sketchy, but the older boy had learned enough to guess what he must do. He had destroyed the motor power of the flyer and stunned the pilot before he had left it. Now this larger craft must die in turn.

  With the rod of the Great One, Jony took careful aim at the casing above the fins on which the ship balanced. How many levels above lay its motor power he was not quite sure. But he was going to hold the rod on his target until he had done all the visible damage he could.

  Under the glare of the ray a hole appeared raggedly in the smooth casing of the ship. Through that Jony continued to pour the energy he did not understand. He could feel the pulsation of the power as it left the rod. There could be no repairing the destruction he now wrought. Then he turned in a half-circle to cut away the fins, so that the ship crashed to the ground, broken, dead, and harmless. There was still life inside, he could sense that. Men bewildered by his attack. He had no quarrel with them now. They would be weaponless, helpless—forced to come to terms with this world—not dominate it.

  For a long moment Jony surveyed the crumpled bulk. He dropped his stunner to the ground, and destroyed that in turn. The rod he must keep—for a while. Until he was sure all danger from the invaders was over.

  What would happen to them after this was up to them. If they learned to accept the People, they might eventually become one with this world. If they could not, then they must exist as best they might.

  Jony took the helmet from his head, hurling it away. He tore at the fastening of the ship garment, dropped that onto the ground. The wind about his body felt fresh, clean. He touched his throat once, remembering the collar. But he, Jony, was not a “thing”; he was a man. As Voak, Otik, all the rest were men—and would remain so.

  Turning his back on the fallen ship, Jony began to walk north into a new future.

  EPILOGUE

  “Hey—Lookit this! A box all torn up and, gee, Johnny, there's a dead kitten in it!”

  “Let's see. Boy, think of someone throwing out a kitten just like it was old rubbish or something.”

  The cat raised her head at the sound of voices. She was not yet wary or abused enough to fear such sounds. They had always meant food, warmth, comfort. She mewed.

  “Well, I'll be! Now, lookit here—in this old fridge! There's a cat, and one—two—three kittens. I'll bet they were all in that old box! What are you doing, Johnny?”

  “Doing? I'm going to take her back home. Here, you empty out this bigger box. Get those rags over there. No, you dummy, don't take those wet ones on top, get the dry ones. There ought to be some still dry underneath.”

  “Your Mom is going to have fits if you turn up with a cat and three kittens. 'Member how she took on 'bout that old dog?”

  “Sure. But he got a good home with the Wilsons, once we fed him up and cleaned him, and everything. This is a good cat. See, she likes me. See her rub against my hand? Anyway, I wouldn't leave anything here just to die—nothing at all. Sometimes I just don't dig people. They don't care about animals. You'd think they were broken toasters or something. Throw 'em out and forget them!”

  “Well,
you can't be a one-man army to save all the animals—”

  “Maybe not—but I tell you, if somebody doesn't start doing something—then someday . . .”

  “Someday what? Animals get back at us? Shut us up in cages? Leave us on dumps? That what you mean?”

  “I dunno. I just have a feeling we've got to learn how to live so everything has a fair chance. There was something I read once, had to learn it for my book report. ‘Animals are not brethren nor underlings, but others, caught with ourselves in a net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of earth.'”

  “Huh? What's all that mean in plain talk now—”

  “That we're all part of this world together—and—well, we've got to learn to live together in another kind of way. Or else we've all lost.”

  “You and your books! Come on anyway. I'll give you a hand with the box . . .”

  * * *

  A thousand years later and half the galaxy away, Jony rubbed his throat again. He could scent the camp of the People. He wore no collar, nor did they. No iron cages waited for either of them—alien to each other though they might be. He threw his arms wide, and the feeling of freedom made him almost giddy.

  BREED TO COME

  With appreciation for their invaluable aid in research,

  my thanks to my resident people-in-fur

  (in order of seniority)

  Timmie

  Punch

  Samwise

  Frodo

  Su Li

  and to the valiant memory of