The Iron Dream (17 page)

"My Commander!" Best shouted, as his submachine gun tore two of the wretches to pieces. Feric felt the limitless power of the Steel Commander course through his being; with a savage battle cry, he swung the truncheon effortlessly through the air. It struck the first two attackers on the chest and passed through their flesh as if it were so much cheese, cutting them in half in an eruption of organs and gore. Recovering, Feric smashed the skulls of three more, while Best and Remler dealt with the rest with their submachine guns.

Like a herd of stampeding cattle or a pack of fear-crazed swine, the rabble scrambled frantically backward, crushing scores of their own comrades in their cowardly frenzy to escape the irresistible wrath of the forces of the Swastika. As the Swastika column fought its way up Torm Avenue, squads of Knights and SS entered the foul warrens, and dragged out suspicious wretches who had held 112

back from the fray; these were almost certainly Doms, and were summarily executed on the spot. Once they were cleared of these vermin, the tenements were put to the torch for good measure.

As the column advanced up the street toward Oak Park with ever-greater momentum, Feric's car passed through a corridor of fire and smoke as the tenements and warrens of malodorous Borburg went up in purifying flame. The street was strewn with more than the usual offal, that is to say, with the broken bodies of Dominators and their Universalist lackeys. A furtive figure darted out of the doorway of a flaming building; instantly Best cut the Dom to pieces with his submachine 'gun.

Suddenly, one of the bodies over which Feric's car was passing leaped up, caught hold of the body of the car, and thrust a long, gore-caked dagger at Feric's throat, screaming: "Die human filth!" Unable to bring the Steel Commander into play, Peric caught the howling Dom by the throat with his left hand, and squeezed until the creature's eyes rolled up white, then tossed the body back from whence it came.

Soon the column reached Lormer Street, which fronted on Oak Park itself. This was a wide expanse of ill-kempt lawn littered with all manner of muck and ordure; the putrid sour odor characteristic of Borburg prevailed in this open space as well, and the concrete pedestal of the public television receiver was thoroughly defaced by scrawled obscenities and vile political epithets. The entire park was crammed with the foulest of rabble, at least ten thousand of the sordid creatures, armed with clubs, knives, truncheons and firearms, and inflamed by their hidden masters with a thirst for blood.

Feric waved the Steel Commander thrice over his head, and at this signal, an intricate maneuver was carried out with the utmost precision and dash. The SS men poured from the cabin of the roadsteamer and became the spearheads of two great phalanxes of Knights, who advanced in either direction along Lormer Steret, driving the rabble before them and clearing the roadway of the enemy. More Knights poured up Torm Avenue into Lormer Street to join them, so that the entire length of Lormer Street facing Oak Park was soon entirely occupied by a massed Knight formation.

A momentary hush fell over the scene, broken only by the crackling of flame and the massed roar of the motor-113

cycle engines, as the craven rabble in the park were placed in sudden confrontation with a veritable wall of heroes in brown leather. Their dismay was audible in a great collective groan. Then, at another signal from Feric, the center of the Knight formation parted, and the SS motorcyclists, all gleaming black and shining chrome, wheeled to the fore-

front of the skirmish line, forming a shield of steel motorcycles and iron resolve in front of the foot troopers.

Finally, Feric's command car emerged to take the central position in this front line of heroes.

As for the motorized Knights and the other foot troops, Stag Stopa was at this moment leading them in a wide circle through the burning streets of Borburg to arrive at the rear of Oak Park and cut off any retreat.

Feric took one look at the confused rabble now jeering uncertainly and waving their weapons in a pitiful display of false bravado, then surveyed (he precise formations and uniformed elegance of his lusty Knights and fanatic SS elite, observing what a splendid contrast they made to the ragged filth they opposed. What a telling spectacle this would be on the public television receivers in public squares all over Heldon!

Feric stood erect on the floor of the command car cabin bracing himself against the back of Best's seat with his left hand; with his right, he pointed the shining steel fist that was the headpiece of the Great Truncheon at the heavens. "Hail Heldon!" he shouted, his mighty voice piercing the din. "Death to the Dominators and their Universalist slaves!" He brought the Steel Commander down in a great arc, and with an earthshaking roar of

"Hail Jaggar," the forces of the Swastika swept forward.

The line of motorcycles smashed into the leading edge of the horde in the park to the accompaniment of massed fire from squads of SS gunners. With great screams of fear and dismay, hundreds of the wild-eyed scum went down choking on their own blood while cold steel split skulls and wheels crushed the limbs of the fallen. Through the interstices in the forward line of motorcycles the Knights then charged, swinging their truncheons and swirling their chains, cracking limbs and smashing heads, con-solidating the opening that the motorized SS had given them. Feric's driver took the command car straight into the forefront of the battle. As Best and Render cut broad swathes through the panicked rabble with their submachine guns, Feric swung the Steel Commander in great 114

arcs of destruction, smashing dozens of heads, crushing scores of limbs, cutting the torsos of the enemy in twain, wreaking incredible havoc with every blow. What a dashing sight this was to viewers all over Heldon, and what an inspiration to his meni

After a few minutes of this furious onslaught, the ranks of the Universalists were thrown into total chaos and complete blind panic. Those in the heat of the fray were so thoroughly terrified by the efficiency of the force being applied by the troops of the Swastika that not even the wills of the Doms in the crowd could maintain any semblance of order. Their only thought was to flee before their brains, such as they were, were dashed out, and in their panic to escape many of the Universalists fought with those behind them who were still inflamed into bloodlust by the Dominators. The result was that they slew as many of their own number as they did Swastika troops.

As the command car penetrated deeper into the park, it was suddenly set upon by perhaps two score of the enemy armed with clubs and long knives and apparently fired to self-sacrificing fanaticism by some nearby Dom. Half of them went down before the furious submachine guns of Render and Best; Feric dispatched five more with a single sweep of the Steel Commander. Then he spied a gray, crabbed creature with gleaming black rodential eyes hanging back at the rear of this attack force.

Holding onto the rim of the cabin with his left hand for purchase, Feric leaned far out over the fray, and brought the headball of his weapon straight down on the skull of this cowardly Dom, sending a fountain of gray brains into the air. Almost at once, the Universalist filth who a moment 'before had rushed fearlessly at the command car fled every which way screaming in fear and horror.

Seeing this, the SS fanatics concentrated their attack on what Doms they could spy, and soon the raggedness and speed of the rout was more than redoubled. The contest was never in doubt. Though the Universalists fought with animal ferocity in the vicinity of a Dom's person, they lacked the will and discipline, not to mention the inspirational leadership, to maintain even a show of overall resistance. In hand-to-hand combat the individual Knight was worth at least ten of these soulless creatures, and as for the SS men, their superiority in will and fighting ability to the rabble could only be measured in astronomical figures.

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It was not long before the rabble lost all hope of victory and even the Doms commanding the slave horde could think of nothing but escape. With a great rearward surge, the ranks of the Universalist filth broke and ran toward Ophal Street, the northern border of the park, and as far away from the fray as they could hope to get. All at once the Knights and the SS were pursuing a broken, formless, and terrified herd of stampeding human cattle northward through the park.

Feric's command car rode at the very point of this triumphant pursuit, the guns of Remler and Best decimating the ranks of the rabble fleeing before the car, Feric's noble truncheon dispatching any and all stragglers. The fear-driven stampede could not outrun the motorized vanguard of the Swastika storm troops, and the command car and the motorized SS soon tore into the rear ranks, piling up great heaps of bloody and broken corpses.

Moreover, as the fleeing ruffians poured onto Ophal Street, Stopa's motorcyclists suddenly poured forth from every side street and alley, and behind them came Knights on foot with chains and truncheons. The rabble was caught between the hammer and the anvil.

Small groups of the enemy fled disjointedly in all directions, only to be run down by motorcycle squads and then knocked senseless by foot troopers. Those who managed to escape the immediate environs of Oak' Park into the flaming ruins of Borburg were not pursued. But all the Universalist scum still within the confines of the four streets bordering the park were broken down into smaller and smaller groups and smashed to pieces.

Since a few minutes of public television time remained after the last of the Universalists had been either slain, knocked senseless, or driven from the vicinity of Oak Park, Feric had the command car driven to the park's geometric center. Around him, the motorized SS, their engines idling, their black leather soiled with the honorable blood and dust of battle, formed a circle of honor. Facing their mounted comrades stood a rank of five hundred SS

foot soldiers at rigid attention. Behind this elite guard were first the ranks of Knight motorcyclists, and then the massed might of thousands of Knights of the Swastika, all heroic figures swaggering grandly in their uniforms of brown leather, most of which were liberally spattered with the blood of the enemy.'

All around this victorious army lay the evidence of its 116

prowess, ruthless fanaticism, and glorious victory. The bodies of Universalists and Dominators were strewn all over the park, singly and in great bloody heaps. Beyond the park, great billowing flames burned the last traces of pestilence out of the Borburg warrens.

Feric was handed a microphone as he stood on the seat of his command car to address his victorious troops. When he spoke, his voice reverberated throughout the High Republic as well as in the echoing streets of captured Borburg.

"Fellow Helder, I salute you! This great and glorious victory we have won today will live forever in the hearts of true humans everywhere. Hail Heldon! Hail the pure human genotype! Hail the total victory of the Swastika!"

The answering roar of "Hail Jaggar" shook all Heldon to its very foundations, and the men could not be restrained from repeating it a dozen times, each time with the jaunty clicking of the heels of thousands of boots, and a forest of Party salutes that challenged the heavens.

When the fervent cheering finally subsided, the final election rally drew to a solemn close with the massed singing of the new Party anthem, "The Swastika is Forever," which Feric had written for the occasion. The noble strains of this grand martial tune, coming as they did strictly from the throats of victorious heroes, were a note of sufficient dignity with which to close the day's proceedings.

After the crashing success of the Oak Park election rally, the remaining three days of the election campaign became nothing more than a victorious promenade for the Sons of the Swastika; the election of Feric Jaggar to the Council of State by the greatest margin in history was never again in serious doubt.

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As the gas cars of the Council members began pulling up to the formal entrance to the Palace of State, the scene was set for a truly historic moment. The first meeting of a newly elected Council of State was always an event of 117

prime importance, but this particular first meeting would be the first direct confrontation of the degenerate old order with the hero of the dawning New Age, Feric Jaggar.

It would hardly be an exaggeration to state that the people of Heldon were holding their racial breath.

The Palace itself was a fit setting for such a drama, being an impressive edifice of black marble, set off with four heroic bronze bas-reliefs of great battles in Helder history, one on each face of the building. The formal entrance faced Heldon Boulevard across a broad expanse of immaculate lawn. A long driveway curved gracefully up the gentle slope of the lawn to the entrance portico, and then returned in a curve of similar grace to the public boulevard, where a large crowd had gathered on the walkway. A line of army troops in field-gray uniforms and burnished steel helmets kept this throng from spilling over onto the Palace grounds.

The rather plain cars of the Councillors arrived one by one and were escorted up the drive by an honor guard of army motorcyclists. The equally plain-looking politicos disembarked and disappeared into the building, until all had arrived save Feric. The dramatic tension among the people in the crowd on the boulevard, as well as the vast audience watching on television in public squares all over Heldon, built to a crescendo as all awaited the climactic appearance of Feric Jaggar.

Finally, the roar of massed motorcycle engines was heard proceeding at speed up the boulevard toward the Palace of State, and, a moment later, Feric's gleaming black command car appeared behind a squad of ten SS

motorcyclists, resplendent in their black leather and red swastika capes, and bearing two huge Party flags at their head. Feric himself, a grand figure in his black-and-scarlet uniform with the dazzling brightwork catching flashes of afternoon sunlight, stood at attention in the rear of the open cabin, braced against the seat before bim with his left arm.