Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

“Very well, Remler,” he said to the SS Commandant, who stood eagerly at his side, “you will keep the men here while Waning and I go up to the gate and order the fellows to open it. Once this is accomplished, you will lead the men inside. Shooting must be prevented at all costs until we reach the officers’ quarters.”

“But my Commander, I want to be in the forefront of the battle! Let me come with you!”

Peric was deeply moved by Remler’s fanaticism and certainly understood how he felt, but Remler’s presence certainly wouldn’t make things easier when it came to confronting the guards. “I’m sorry, Remler,” he said, “but if you show your face, the guards are bound to know something’s up.”

In response, Remler clicked his heels together and gave a silent Party salute. Peric favored him with a small smile, returned the salute, and led Waning up out of the shadows and onto the roadway which led to the main gate.

They had not come more than halfway up the knoll when they were pinned in a circle Of light; at least Stopa’s perfidy had not caused the efficiency of the garrison to deteriorate to zero. As the spotlight illumined their way to the gate, Feric wrapped himself deeply in his scarlet swastika cape, hunched himself over somewhat, and fell in behind the unmistakable girth of Waffing, who stalked grandly toward the nervous gate guards, playing it to the hilt.

Feric hung back in the shadows as Waffing reached the gate and bellowed at the machine gunners behind it.

“Open the gate at once!”

“Commandant Stopa has ordered us to admit no one tonight,” one of the gunners said uneasily, fully cognizant of the identity of the officer he faced.

“Open the gate or I’ll have you shot for insubordination, you swine!” Waffing replied. “I’m High Commander Waffing and my orders supercede Stopa’s.”

“We’ve been given strict orders to admit no one on pain of death,” the other gunner stammered. “Would you ask us to violate a direct order by a superior?”

Peric realized that these good lads were in a moral quandry, uncertain of which order it was their duty to obey. Only he himself could resolve their doubt. Swirling his cape behind him and deliberately revealing himself with a flamboyant gesture, Feric stepped into the full glare of the light.

Instantly, the two young gunners snapped to attention with clicks of their heels, shot out their arms in salute, and shouted “Hail Jaggar!” in perfect unison.

Feric returned the salute and issued orders sharply. “I’m taking direct command of this garrison. Commandant Stopa is relieved. You will follow no orders but my own.

You will open the gate at once and admit the SS squad that follows. When they have entered, you will close the gate and allow no one to enter or leave until I myself order otherwise. You will notify no one of our arrival. Is all this understood?”

“Yes, my Commander!”

“Very well lads,” Feric said more softly. “I’ll remember the sound judgment and devotion to duty you’ve displayed tonight.”

Within two minutes, Feric had the three hundred SS men gathered about him within the compound. With no more than a nod of Feric’s head toward the large officers’ barracks in the center of the camp, they went about their business. Feric had issued simple orders. Each SS man was to creep up as closely to the officers’ barracks as possible and was not to open fire until he first heard a shot. The closer they got, the greater the surprise would be, and the quicker and neater the whole unpleasant business would get done.

Most of the camp was deep in darkness at this late hour, with the Knights having long since gone to their bunks. Thus Feric had hopes that no early alarm would be given. The SS squad fanned out among the rows of plain wooden buildings, stealing up on the officers’ barracks in small silent groups, their black leather uniforms serving admirably to melt them into the general darkness.

The officers’ quarters, however, showed lights in the windows; moreover, there were two guards at the door and sentries covering all four directions positioned at the comers of the barracks. There was no question but that they would have to shoot their way in.

Feric, Waning, and Remler approached the entrance to the barracks together, crooking their submachine guns in their arms and staying within the cover of the darkened barracks’ building until they were within twenty yards of their objective.

Feric called a momentary halt and gave terse orders.

“We’ll start the attack. There are two sentries and the door guards in our field of fire. I’ll take the door guards myself; Remler, you take the sentry on the right, Waffing the one on the left. We’ve got to get them with our first bursts. Good luck!”

With that, Feric leveled his submachine gun, took aim at the two door guards, pressed home his trigger, and dashed straight at the barracks at full speed.

Abruptly the night silence was fractured forever by the chatter of hundreds of submachine guns, man-made thunder fit to split the heavens apart. Sentries and guards went down in an instant together, before any of them could get off a shot. As he ran for the entrance to the building, firing at random through the windows, Feric could see a horde of men in black leather descending on the officers’ quarters from all sides, their submachine guns flashing fire. The door opened and two dazed-looking Knights in rumpled brown uniforms began firing wildly into the night. Feric brought both of them down with a quick burst. Three more Knights appeared and were immediately felled by massed fire from the scores of SS men who followed on Peric’s heels as he dashed up the short flight of stairs, kicked the door aside with his steel-shod boot, and stormed into. the building behind his flame-spurting submachine gun.

Inside was confusion and horror. The inferior of the officers’ barracks reeked like a brewery; there were puddles of beer everywhere, and three great overturned barrels. Stopa’s cronies were all out of uniform, some wearing only breeches, others wearing only shirts, some running about naked in their boots, the lot of them in a drunken panic, dashing every which way to avoid the hail of bullets like a coop full of startled chickens. Further, there were a dozen or more naked females shrieking and moaning; these were not true, humans but pleasure sluts of the sort the Dominators bred for themselves in Zind—mindless creatures with oversized hips and breasts motivated solely by a boundless need for copulation.

Feric fired his submachine gun furiously into this nest of corruption; he was aware of Render and Waffing at his side blasting away, their faces stricken with loathing and revulsion. SS troops by the score poured into the barracks filling the air with the roar of gunfire and the bracing smell of powder.

Peric glimpsed Stag Stopa, naked to his boots, reaching to grab up the weapon of a fallen Knight. He caught the traitor with a burst to the stomach. Stopa screamed, coughed blood, and collapsed, writhing in his death agonies. Feric ended it with a burst to Stopa’s head; even a traitor deserved that much mercy.

In less than a minute, it was over. Bunks and floor were Strewn with the bodies of the traitors and the pleasure sluts from Zind. Here and there an SS man terminated someone’s agony with a short burst. Then there was silence.

Suddenly Render shouted: “My Commander!”

Feric turned and saw that the SS Commandant had hold by the throat of a bleeding man that yet lived and was pulling him erect. As Feric saw the eyes of the dying thing, he realized that this was no man but a loathsome Dom. The cold hate that the creature exuded left no doubt there!

Feric approached and peered down at the dying Dom.