Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

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 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 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.

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 intoxicating 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 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.