The Steel Ring

by R. A. Jones

  Finally, he coughed, bringing her out of her reverie.

  “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I was just thinking that I know why the papers have all started calling you ‘Amazing Man’.”

  “Yes … I wish they wouldn’t. I prefer to be called John. And you are …?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Again.” She thrust out one hand, which he took firmly but didn’t squeeze. “My name is Zona Henderson.”

  “Miss Henderson.”

  “Zona.”

  “Zona it is. Welcome to Oobang,” he said graciously. “It has few amenities to offer, I’m afraid, but you’re welcome to all of them.”

  “Thank you. I’m not taking you away from anything important, I hope,” she said, giving her head a slight jerk in the direction from which he had come.

  “Not at all,” he replied quickly. “I was mostly serving the purpose of a pack animal, anyway.” His easy smile showed he was not complaining.

  “A young couple just got married,” he explained, “and the rest of us decided to pitch in together and make their first house. Now that I’ve delivered plenty of raw materials, the rest of the men will have the hut up and ready for occupancy in no time.”

  “Just like an old-time barn raising,” she observed.

  “I assume you’re right.” He placed one hand on the small of Zona’s back and gestured forward with the other.

  “Walk with me to the village, won’t you? We can talk along the way.”

  “Of course.”

  As they began to walk, the curious villagers parted to either side before them. Zona noticed Aman smiled and nodded to each in turn, as if he was their king and they his adoring subjects. They, too, were smiling, but she noted with some concern that several of them were also sticking out their tongues at the couple.

  “Oh, dear,” she fretted. “Have I done something to offend them?”

  At this, Aman threw his head back and began to laugh with gusto (and Zona found she loved the sound of it), puzzling her even more.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he assured her. “In this part of the world, it’s intended to be a cordial greeting!”

  Her tense features relaxed and she joined him in laughing. So did several of the villagers, though doubtless they didn’t know exactly why.

  “Today is another special occasion,” Aman said. “It’s my mother’s birthday. She never asks for anything, but I’m hoping to find some little trinket in the village I can give her as a present.”

  “That’s sweet,” Zona said.

  “It’s far less than she deserves,” he asserted earnestly. “The villagers are going to throw a little party in her honor tonight. I hope you’ll come.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Zona replied, certain that the invitation was meant sincerely. “Two celebrations in one week. The villagers must be delighted, too.”

  “Oh, they are. Life is very hard for these people, Zona, and its rewards are often few and far between. Any chance they have to let a little joy into those lives, they take it.”

  “I can’t blame them,” she said.

  The two of them walked along in silence for a few minutes, during which Aman studied the woman out of the corner of his eye.

  “You’ve come a long way to get here,” he said at last.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because Oobang is a long way from anywhere, especially anywhere that has an airfield.”

  “True.”

  “And your voice. It’s American.” He turned his head, openly eyeing her now.

  “Ohio?”

  “Close. Indiana.”

  “And what brings a girl from the Midwest all the way to the top of the world?”

  “I came for you.”

  He chuckled softly.“That could be taken more than one way, Zona.”

  He laughed louder as she dipped her head sheepishly and grimaced. Then she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes, her face firm.

  “I’ve come to recruit you.”

  “Uncle Sam wants me, eh?”

  “I’m serious, John.”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  “And I don’t represent the government.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  “I’m a special field operative for a group, a society, called the Steel Ring.”

  Aman tensed at the words. His thumb absently rubbed against the ring he had worn since childhood.

  “My immediate superior,” Zona continued, “is a man known only as the Clock.”

  “I never heard of him,” Aman said. “Or this Steel Ring.”

  “I’m not surprised. But the Clock knows about you, John. That’s why he sent me to talk to you.”

  “Because you’re his best agent,” Aman asked, in a tone that now seemed to carry a mildly harsher edge, “or because you’re a woman?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Zona. I’m the equivalent of a big, dumb, farm boy, right? Raised by monks and ignorant of the ways of the world?”

  To his surprise, Zona now laughed.

  “You think I’m here to seduce you, John?”

  “Well,” he replied, now less sure of himself given her reaction, “you certainly have all the necessary tools.”

  “I’m also proficient with pistols and rifles. I’m an expert at self-defense. A trained pilot. Well educated. Strong enough and smart enough to achieve whatever I want – without using the ‘tools’ you’re referring to!”

  She was now glaring angrily at him, and his eyes locked with hers in a silent duel that lasted nearly a minute.

  Then he smiled and stuck his tongue out at her.

  Taken off-guard, she began to laugh without meaning to.

  “I apologize for offending you,” he said graciously, tipping his head to her.

  “Apology accepted,” she replied quickly. “Besides,” she reminded him, “I told you we know all about you, didn’t I? That includes knowing about the string of amorous conquests you’ve left behind you in your travels around the globe.”

  She snorted derisively.

  “Naïve farm boy, my petunias! That dicey little affair in Lisbon is still the talk of Europe!”

  “Touché, Miss Henderson,” Aman said, coughing uncomfortably. “Please continue from where I so rudely interrupted you. You’ve come to recruit me for what, exactly?”

  “For a secret but highly important mission for the Ring. If you agree to join us, or at least to aid us, I’m prepared to fly you back to America as soon as you say the word.”

  “That’s pretty vague, Zona.”

  “What else would you like to know?”

  “Well, a lot, actually. Why don’t we start with this Clock fellow? Who exactly is he? Does he run the Ring?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, “though he’s certainly very high up. I’m afraid only he can tell you any more than that about himself.”

  “All right. Then at least tell me what this mission you’re on is, and what will be expected of me in that regard.”

  Zona stopped in her tracks and Aman did likewise. Her expression was intense as she gazed up at him.

  “Because of your travels, John, I’m sure you know as well as anyone that the entire world is teetering on the brink of war.”

  Aman’s mind flashed back to the day when the Great Question had made the same declaration before him and the Council of Seven.

  “Even as we speak, dark forces are gathering that will ally themselves with the fascist powers in an effort to enslave every man, woman and child on the planet.”

  “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think, Zona?”

  “No, I don’t. If anything, I may be understating the level of danger we face.”

  “This mission you mentioned,” he said, again thinking harshly back on that day in the temple. “Is it this Steel Ring’s intention to seize control of the halls of power … for the good of the world, of course?”

  “No!” the woman snapped. �
�The Ring has existed for hundreds of years, John, and never once has it tried to exert its will on others. All it’s ever wanted is for men to have the right to determine their own course, free from the influence of fear. As you well know, a benign tyrant is still a tyrant – and usually far from benign.”

  “For the moment,” he said, “I’ll assume you’re being truthful. Just what is it you think I can do to help avert this catastrophic upheaval?”

  She gripped his arm tightly and her eyes blazed with new intensity.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I think, Amazing Man. I think this moment in history is the reason for your very existence. I think you’re destined to help lead the fight against the darkness I’ve described. I think you’re destined to help save the world!”

  Aman pulled away from her, his mouth turned in a frown. He couldn’t help but wonder if this “destiny” of which the woman spoke matched the “prophecy” about him that the monks who raised him had come to believe was true. Still, he also couldn’t help but remain skeptical.

  “Forgive me if I offend you again, Zona,” he said coolly, “but you’ve literally just dropped out of the sky, with a story that strains the imagination.” His eyes narrowed.

  “Why should I take your word on any of this?”

  “You probably shouldn’t,” she said, smiling with a hint of sadness. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  She released his arm and reached down with her left hand to peel the leather glove from her right.

  “But I was told this might help convince you.”

  Aman’s eyes widened as she raised her right hand and presented the back of it to him. On her middle finger rested a steel ring that appeared to be identical to the one the monks had found around his neck a quarter of a century earlier: the same ring he still wore on his own right hand.

  Nor did it merely appear to be his ring’s twin. A tingling in his ring, in his mind and in his heart told him both circlets had come from the same source.

  He was part of this, whether he chose to be or not.

  His eyes moved from Zona’s ring to her face, and the expectation in her eyes was evident. He hesitated to speak, though, unsure of what to say to her.

  The need for words fled in the next instant, though, as both he and the woman were distracted by the sounds of a mild commotion coming from the center of the village.

  With quick steps they made their way to where a crowd had gathered. As always, the mere presence of Aman caused the simple folk to step aside for his passage.

  When he reached the forefront of the crowd, another sound rose up to greet him. This was no human sound, however, but rather the rising and falling roar of a diesel engine. A large truck, its cargo bed covered with a high canvas tarp, was bounding up the pitted and rocky road that led up to the village.

  “Odd,” Aman commented. “Our little village is almost literally in the middle of nowhere – yet we receive two unexpected visitors on the same day.”

  “I don’t like this,” Zona said softly.

  “Do you know who they are?” he asked her.

  “No. But I have a bad feeling about them.”

  “They’d probably say the same thing about you,” Aman replied, smiling slightly. Zona shrugged, acknowledging that he was surely right.

  The transport truck’s large tires skidded across gravel and hard-packed earth as it screeched to a halt. From the passenger side of the front cab, a man in a gray uniform leaped down to the ground.

  At a barked command from him, a dozen similarly uniformed soldiers spilled from the back of the truck. Each was armed with either a rifle or a submachine gun. At a second command they fell into line, shoulder to shoulder, behind the first soldier, who was clearly their commander.

  In lock step, they advanced closely behind the officer as he began to stride toward the waiting villagers. Aman’s sharp eyes scanned them closely. All the soldiers appeared to be Asian, but not all of the same nationality. He could make out individual features distinctive to Japanese, Chinese, Indo-Chinese, Tibetan and others.

  The uniforms they wore were virtually identical, save for insignias probably denoting rank. To his puzzlement, he did not recognize them as matching the uniforms of any Asian army with which he was familiar.

  The officer and his men came to a halt about thirty feet away from the curious crowd. He seemed to glare at the villagers, but said nothing.

  “Welcome to Oobang,” Aman said, in a voice more wary than welcoming. “What brings you here?”

  The officer’s only reply was a sneer. Then he screeched out an order.

  At his command, the soldiers behind him raised their weapons and opened fire.

  As their arms were still rising, and before they could unleash a single shot, Aman reflexively swept his left arm back, so as to push the stunned Zona Henderson behind him.

  The Asian officer brought his sidearm to bear and began to fire directly at Aman. His men were far less discriminating, spraying lead without bothering to take careful aim.

  Aman winced, not from the slugs slapping into his chest, but from the death screams of men, women and children who were being cut down like autumn wheat.

  The mental anguish was immediate and great, but far less so any physical discomfort. As the slugs from the officer’s gun struck their intended target, they flattened but did not penetrate. Some ricocheted away: Most simply fell to the ground. They inflicted mild pain, but no real injury.

  “Stay back!” Aman snapped, as he detected Zona stepping around him and to one side, away from the protective cover of his body.

  “The hell I will!” the aviatrix yelled. From a side holster on her right hip, she had retrieved a gleaming, .45 automatic pistol.

  With cool detachment, she raised the gun to shoulder level. Feet apart and firmly planted, left hand joining the right in steadying the pistol, she opened fire.

  Like a marksman shooting at clay pipes in a carnival sideshow, her withering fire picked off one soldier after another. There was no waste of effort or bullets: Each shot brought down its intended target for good.

  Fearful for her continued safety because of her exposed position, Aman raced forward with blinding speed. One more bullet spanged harmlessly off his head and then he was upon the officer commanding this murderous troop.

  His left hand closed over the end of the barrel of the soldier’s pistol, blocking it just as the next shot was fired.

  With the bullet unable to leave the barrel, the gun exploded with fire and twisted metal, shredding the officer’s hand. He screamed in agony as most of the appendage vanished in a bloody spray.

  His misery ended quickly as a blow from Aman’s balled right fist crushed the top of the soldier’s skull.

  Aman stared at the palm of the hand he had used to stop the bullet from leaving the officer’s gun. It was black with a powder burn and was slightly numb. But like his senses, his mind and his muscles, his skin had continued to grow stronger with each passing year. Where once he could be temporarily and painfully sliced by the raking claws of a tiger, now even a bullet would find it hard to penetrate his flesh.

  He next stooped and retrieved the rifle that had fallen from the lifeless fingers of one of Zona’s victims. Holding it by the barrel and wielding it like a club, he laid into those soldiers still left standing. It was but the work of seconds to dispatch them all.

  Seeing all his comrades slain like Philistines, the driver of the troop truck savagely threw the gears into reverse. Pressing the accelerator to the floorboard with all his might, he felt falsely safe as it shot backwards down the side of the mountain path.

  With no more than a dozen blazing fast steps, Aman overtook the truck and grabbed its front grill with both hands. The driver was thrown against the back of his seat as Aman planted his feet and brought the vehicle snapping to a halt.

  The panicked driver again drove his foot against the accelerator, keeping it pinned to the floor. The engine whined mightily and smoke began to fill the cab as gears ground
helplessly against each other to no avail. With a cough and a mighty shudder, the motor died.

  “John, look!” Zona cried, running up and placing a hand on Aman’s shoulder. He looked up to see her pointing back in the direction of the village.

  His eyes immediately locked onto the object of her concern. From the east, a single aeroplane was racing toward them. With a screaming mechanical howl, it roared above them.

  As it did, Aman tried to make out any distinguishing markings on its fuselage, but it bore none that might identify its country of origin, though he thought it did perhaps resemble a German Heinkel. Zona, ever the flyer, made note of what made the craft truly remarkable.

  “Did you see, John?”

  “See what?”

  “The plane. It’s moving incredibly fast, much faster than any plane I’ve ever seen. But … it has no propeller!”

  As the plane swiftly banked before heading back toward the village, Aman could see that she was right. But given that it had no visible means of propulsion – what was keeping it in the air?

  As it swept low toward the village, the strange plane opened fire with wing-mounted machine guns and cannons. Heavy caliber slugs tore into helpless, fleeing villagers, sending their bloody bodies flying like bowling pins. Explosions claimed other lives and shattered stone dwellings.

  Apparently content with the one deadly run, the screeching plane pulled up and shot toward the top of the nearest mountain peak – in the side of which sat the Temple of Enlightened Anguish.

  Fearing the worst, Aman fell to one knee, then immediately jerked upward. As he did, he raised the entire front end of the troop truck up off the ground.

  The screaming driver tried to climb out the window of the cab and jump clear, but he was too late. With one great heave, Aman flipped the vehicle off the side of the mountain.

  When it struck rocks several hundred feet below, a dark and oily fireball erupted from the side of the mountain.

  Not sparing the wreckage even a parting glance, Aman quickly turned in the direction of the temple.

  As he did, he could see the mystery plane was flying straight toward it. He wondered momentarily if the pilot intended to suicidally ram the craft directly into the holy place.

  But the attacker’s actual intent was much deadlier. Aman saw a flare of light from beneath one of the plane’s wings. With a loud whoosh and a trail of smoke, what looked like a rocket leapt forward.