Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

This brilliant pack of gleaming machines stormed onto the roadway and took off after the steamer in a mighty sweep of graceful power. Almost at once, the cyclists were upon the steamer, surrounding it easily, fore and aft, left and right, and Feric could clearly discern what manner of men sat astride these heroic stallions of metal.

Truly these were men to match their machines! Great robust fellows wearing wild garments of black and brown leathers, and flamboyant capes in many colors embroidered with swastikas, death’s heads, lightning bolts, and other virile designs which streamed behind them like proud pennants. Their costumes were liberally decorated with all manner of metal brightwork—chains, plating, medallions.

They wore broad belts set off with studs from which were slung daggers and pistols and formidable truncheons. A few wore helmets of chromed or enameled steel, but most let their wild blond hair ride free in the breeze.

“The Black Avengers!” Bogel gasped.

“Magnificent!” Feric exclaimed.

Feric could all but taste the fear of the passengers in the roadsteamer cabin; beside him Bogel was pale and nervous. He conceded to himself that a certain concern at the appearance of these beings was nothing less than logical; still there was something about their spirit and dash, the manly vigor of the spectacle, that thrilled him. Barbarians they were, but what magnificent barbarians!

When they had the steamer quite thoroughly surrounded, several of the Black Avengers drew pistols and fired warning shots into the air, the reports of the guns flattened somewhat by contrast with the mighty din of the massed engines. Nevertheless, their meaning was quite clear to the driver of the roadsteamer; he hit the brakes, bled steam from the engine, and brought the vehicle to a huffing halt by the side of the road. At once the motorcyclists formed a circle around the steamer, and, while the bulk of the Avengers remained mounted on their idling machines which continued to bark and roar like a pack of feral metal hounds; a dozen or so of the fellows dismounted, propped their motorcycles up on stands, and swaggered toward the cabin door with pistols and truncheons in their hands.

Almost immediately, there was a great pounding on the door, and a powerful harsh voice roared: “Open for the Avengers, or we’ll rip this peapod open with our bare hands and eat you all alive!”

The passengers nearest the door bolted from their seats and attempted to cram themselves together in the rear of the cabin while the trembling hostess unbarred the door; a craven performance, Feric thought, and one hardly calculated to win the admiration of men such as these.

Into the cabin burst an enormous man of Feric’s height and even more massively muscled. He wore a sleeveless black jerkin which displayed to good advantage the serpents tattooed up and around both of his arms. About his neck on a silver chain hung a nearly life-sized chromium skull. A pistol was tucked into his belt which was fastened with a huge steel buckle embossed with a blood-red swastika, and in his hand was a chromed steel truncheon of impressive length and thickness with a gleaming skull for a headpiece. His shoulder-length blond hair and full blond beard were wild and matted. In his right earlobe was a heavy golden band. His eyes were honest, open, and icy blue. Behind him trailed a black cloak onto which twin red lightning strokes had been sewn.

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 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 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.