Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

“Surrender will not be tolerated in this war!” Feric said.

“We must make an example of all these mutants states.”

In a few minutes, Feric’s tank entered the outskirts of Gormond, or rather what was left of the Borgravian capital: heaps of smoldering rubble here and there enlivened by a wooden building still brightly aflame. The corpses of mutants and mongrels were everywhere, many of them decently burned beyond recognition, but all too many clearly displaying the most ghastly genetic degeneration—tiny pinheads, long dangling arms, mottled skin, of blue, green, brown, or even purple, disgusting hairy humps, chitinous beaks or even carapaces, limbs terminating in clusters of wormlike tentacles, an altogether stomach-turning display of warped and twisted protoplasm.

As the tanks stormed through this flaming chamel heap of genetic refuse, occasionally smashing a freakishly intact structure with their cannon or routing a gaggle of grotesque survivors with their machine guns, Feric’s mind was drawn back to the horrid days of his exile, when these foul warrens were alive with disgusting vermin who made his every waking moment an offense to his humanity.

A Blueskin darted from one heap of rubble to the next, and Feric ripped it to pieces with a burst of his machine gun. “One less bag of twisted chromosomes to contaminate the world gene pool!” he exclaimed. “Best, you cannot conceive of the personal satisfaction it gives me to finally wipe this reeking cesspit from the face of the earth!”

Within an hour, the tank force had crunched its way through the ruins of Gormond, taking great care that not one structure was left standing, not one foul monstrosity left alive to spawn its unclean kind once more. Feric had not the slightest doubt that Remler and the SS were fully capable of purging the former territory of Borgravia of its last contaminating element and rendering it fit for incorporation into the Domain of Heldon. But it was a matter of personal honor that his own tank force should complete the purification of Gormond itself down to the last fetid structure and twisted gene. The cesspit to which the treachery of Karmak had condemned him for so many years must be expunged by fire from the face of the earth as if it had never been.

And as the tank force swept westward across the plains beyond what had been Gormond driving a horde of refugees before it like’ the subhuman swine they were, Feric peered through the rear periscope and saw nothing but a great pillar of smoke and fire boiling into the sky behind him where the dung heap of Gormond had been.

“I wonder if you can understand the personal satisfaction I feel at finally having totally removed this blot on the honor of my pedigree. Best,” he said softly.

“But my Commander, your ability to wield the Great Truncheon of Held is clear proof that your pedigree is the finest in the world!”

Feric smiled. “You’re quite right, of course,” he said.

“Still I somehow feel that a personal affront has been removed, and this redoubles my pleasure at a job well done.”

At this Best nodded enthusiastically. “That I can readily understand, my Commander!” he exclaimed.

The sun shone brightly over the clear waters of the Ulm as Feric’s newly polished black command car, escorted by a squad of equally spotless motorcycle SS, dashed across the Ulmgam bridge and into the province of South Ulmland, which only a month ago had been the mutant pestilence of Borgravia. At his side, Bors Remler beamed with pleasure, for even at this early stage, the industry and the fanaticism of the Helder people under the direction of the SS had performed miracles toward transforming the former genetic dung heap into a wholesome province suitable for true human habitation.

The border town that had been known as Pormi and was now Bridgehead had been completely renovated. Helder engineers had completely razed the squalid huts and hovels of the Borgravian town and laid out new streets paved with concrete in a pleasing pattern that combined a regular grid with a series of avenues radiating out from five great circular plazas. Many new buildings had already gone up and scores more were under construction. The public edifices were of black stone or pink-veined marble, constructed on an appropriately grand scale and suitably embellished with gleaming bronze traceries and heroic statuary in which the theme of continuity between the heroes of the past and the greater heroes of the Swastika predominated. The more mundane structures were of glazed brick in cheery hues of yellow, blue, red, and green, and more of them than not boasted artfully carved wooden facades. Bridgehead already boasted several hundred Helder colonists. These, along with the construction crews, lined the streets of the half-finished model town, waving little paper swastika flags, cheering, giving impromptu Party salutes, and shouting “Hail Jaggar!” as Feric’s car promenaded by.

For his part, Feric could not help grinning with pleasure as he stood erect in the back of the open car returning the salutes. Having just returned from a triumphant tour of Westlands, the new province which only a week ago had been Vetonia, he knew with total accuracy just how well the war was going. The southern and northern wings of the Helder army had linked up two weeks after the opening of the campaign, well ahead of schedule, and had squashed the Vetonian army flat within three days, and then utterly demolished the capital of Barthang with Waffing’s newly operational guided missiles. This took the remaining backbone out of what was left of Vetonia and sent the rabble screaming into the southern wildlands or into Husak. Now Waning was leading the army across Husak, and Kolchak was expected to fall in a day or so. Once the Husak capital was pulverized, the war would have reached its successful conclusion, and all that would remain would be the task of purifying the conquered lands and colonizing them with true humans.

And now he beheld the irrefutable evidence of the vigor and speed with which the Helder people, led by the SS, could purify conquered land and make it fit for incorporation into the Domain of Heldon.

As the convoy moved on out into the open countryside, Remler turned to Feric with perhaps a slight hint of trepidation on his face. “My Commander,” he said, “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the driver to take us to a nearby Classification Camp. We have a minor problem that I believe requires your personal decision, and I feel you should see a Borgravian Camp before you act.”

Feric nodded agreement somewhat absently, for he was absorbed in the Helder ingenuity and industriousness which were clearly in evidence here in the country as well.

The surface of the road was now hard gray concrete instead of Borgravian dust and mire. Here and there sturdy wooden Helder farmhouses dotted the landscape and homesteaders were in evidence putting the newly reclaimed human soil to the plow. Feric’s convoy toured on for more than twenty miles along the spanking new road through a countryside that was even now more Helder than Borgravian.

Indeed, of the former mongrelized denizens of Borgravia, nothing was in evidence until the convoy approached one of the great Classification Camps that had been set up throughout South Ulmland, carefully segregated from centers of human habitation.

This Camp, typical of those constructed in the conquered territories, was of far greater extent than those within old Heldon though built along the same basic lines, for the task here was proportionately greater. In this Camp alone, nearly a hundred thousand Borgravians were confined in a huge rectangle of electrified barbed wire and housed in a vast warren of barracks within this perimeter; moreover, such a Camp population was by no means atypical of the conditions that obtained in the new provinces.