Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

Remler could hardly contain himself. “Exactly, my Commander!” he cried. “But our more visionary scientists believe they are well on the way to developing something even better: the technique of cloning. A tissue sample from SS of the highest pedigree is taken. In nutrient vats, a new SS man is grown from this somatic tissue, genetically identical to the donor. Thus, the vagaries of sexual reproduction are entirely bypassed. Further, one donor can produce hundreds, even thousands, of genetically identical clones. Thus the master race may be achieved within a single generation! The research, however, is presently in an early stage.”

Throughout this exchange, Waffing had been fidgeting in his chair, drinking deeply of his beer, obviously anxious to match Remler’s tale of achievement with one of his own.

“I can see that you’re bursting with more than beer, Waffing,” Feric said with a grin. “Give us your report before you explode.”

“The army hasn’t exactly been sitting on its hands while the SS worked wonders,” Waffing said. “We’re getting production out of the workers that even I find hard to believe, and our scientists are rediscovering the martial arts of the ancients by leaps and bounds. Our latest tanks are equipped with devices capable of throwing great tongues of flame against the enemy as well as the usual cannon and machine guns. Soon our new jet fighter-bombers will be operational; these dreadnaughts will be capable of speeds greater than that of sound! As for production, we’ve now got over a thousand tanks and as many aerial dreadnaughts, modern weapons enough for a million-man army, as well as mountains of ammunition.

Once we get our hands on the oil fields of southwestern Zind, our logistical problems will be solved for all time.”

Waffing paused to fortify himself with a great swallow of beer and perhaps for dramatic effect as well. “But I’ve saved the best for last, my Commander,” he said with a triumphant grin. “Our rocket scientists have developed missiles capable of dropping a three-ton payload on the enemy over a distance of four thousand miles. All Zind now lies within our range.”

“Well done, Waffing!” Feric exclaimed.

Once more Waffing brought his beer mug to his lips, this time clearly for dramatic emphasis, for when he laid it down, he was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

“That’s only the half of it, my Commander!” he said.

“One of our research groups has discovered techniques for obtaining the legendary ingredients of the Fire of the Ancients: enriched uranium, plutonium, and heavy water.

Give us a few months, and we’ll be able to burn all Zind from the face of the earth with the ultimate weapon of the Ancients—nuclear missiles!”

It seemed to Feric that in the utter silence that followed he could all but hear the fall of dust particles through the air.

Nuclear weapons! The Fire of the Ancients that had devastated the earth, created the radioactive wildlands, thoroughly polluted the gene pool, caused the Dominator mutation! The Fire was directly responsible for the state of affairs that it was the sacred duty of all true humans to remedy. What madness to think of once more unleashing this force! One experiment gone wrong, and the purification of the gene pool might be set back generations. As for waging nuclear war, the prospect was unthinkable!

How could one purify the earth with the very Fire that had polluted it in the first place?

Best and Bogel were properly aghast, but Remler had some grim, unreadable expression on his face.

Feric finally broke the awful silence. “Waffing, I absolutely forbid this line of research. Bringing back the Fire is unthinkable.”

Waffing opened his mouth to protest, but it was Remler who got the words out first: “To us, my Commander, but not to the Doms.”

“I find it difficult to believe that even Dominators would stoop to such abysmal evil,” Feric muttered.

“It’s common knowledge that the creatures expose the germ plasm of their slaves to radiation for the purpose of breeding new and ever more ghastly perversions of protoplasm,” Render pointed out.

The point was well taken. Feric had little hope that monsters capable of this ultimate obscenity would be restrained by moral scruples when it came to employing nuclear weapons. “You’re right, of course,” he said softly.

“But surely the matter is academic. The technological level of Zind is rudimentary by our standards.”

“Perhaps,” Remler said uneasily. “But on the other hand, there are certainly some unsettling reports coming out of Zind. We know that the Doms have sent an expedition of slaves deeper into the eastern wildlands than their minions have ever penetrated before; these wildlands are so contaminated that these creatures will perish horribly in a matter of months. There must be something there of great importance to the Doms for them to expend so much protoplasm. And it is common knowledge that many powerful nuclear weapons were stored in those environs in the day of the Ancients.”

“Surely the nuclear weapons of the Ancients will not still be operational at this late date, even if Zind should uncover them,” Feric said.

“Quite so, my Commander,” Remler said. “Perhaps this is merely an act of desperation on the part of the Doms, for they must know that their hour of destruction is close at hand.”

“But on the other hand,” Waning said, “my scientists inform me that the nuclear materials do not deteriorate for thousands of years, and manufacturing these arcane substances is the most difficult aspect of building nuclear weapons. Even the dolts of Zind could eventually renovate Ancient nuclear weapons if such were discovered.”

Feric’s heart sank, for Waffing’s logic was irrefutable. If Zind discovered the weapons of the Ancients, they could bring back the Fire; if the Doms had the Fire, they would use it. Yet he retained his absolute moral determination that Heldon would never risk the final irreparable contamination of the gene pool by toying with the Fire. There must be some way out! A sudden thought struck him.

“Assuming the worst, Waffing,” he asked, “how long would it take Zind to actually come up with an arsenal of usable nuclear weapons?”

Waning sipped at his beer for long moments. “Who knows?” he finally said. “They must find the weapons of the Ancients, discover their principles, then renovate them. If our luck is foul, and theirs is good, they might be in possession of such working weapons within six months.”

“But not within two weeks?”

“Utterly inconceivable!”

Feric suddenly bolted to his feet, drawing the Great Truncheon of Held. “Very well!” he declared. “It’s decided! Ready or not, we will throw our full force against Zind within the next ten days and expunge the filth from the face of the earth before the Fire can even enter the question!”

Instantly, Best, Bogel, Remler, and even the portly Waning were on their feet with their beer mugs in their hands and fire in their eyes.

“Death to the Dominators!” Best shouted.

“Long live final victory!”

“Hail Heldon!” cried Bogel.

“A toast to our glorious leader, Feric Jaggar!” Waffing roared, raising his mug high in the air. The other High Commanders clinked their mugs with his; all shouted “Hail Jaggar!” and poured the beer down their throats.

For his part, Feric felt a wild joy wash away all doubt; there was nothing like a life-and-death struggle to raise a man or a people to superhuman heights of glory. He elevated his own beer mug and proclaimed a further toast: “To the force of evolution! To blood and iron and the total victory of the fittest!”

Following Waffing’s lead, the High Commanders gave a great spontaneous cheer and smashed their beer mugs against the wall.