Norman Spinrad - The Iron Dream

“You must tell me about your party when this is over,” Feric replied tersely.

“With pleasure. But how do you mean this business to end? Your goal seems beyond my comprehension.”

“My goal is simple enough,” Feric told him. “The death of the Dominator in the fortress. If you seek to gain men’s fanatical devotion you must allow them a baptism in blood.”

Across the bridge the mob marched resolutely, ten across, five ranks deep, a motly group of tavern loungers converted into a temporary storm troop of warriors by one man’s will. It was a deeply satisfying feeling for Feric to march at the head of the column of men; it was everything he had imagined when he entertained the notion of a military career, and more. He could feel the power of the massed formation of men at his command course through his being, filling him with a sense of absolute faith in his own destiny. He was a leader. When he spoke, men would listen; when he commanded, they would follow. This without any formal training or official authority; his superiority in these matters was a quality other men could not help sense as intrinsic, no doubt graven in his genes themselves.

Just as a herd of wild horses recognizes the supremacy of the lead stallion or as a wolf pack acknowledges the strongest animal as the natural leader, so these men whom he had never before seen were carried along in his van by the authority inherent in his voice and person alone.

It was an awesome and terrible power that must be used only for patriotic and idealistic ends. Indeed the very strength of his will was no doubt partly the result of his complete dedication to the cause of genetic purity and the final triumph of true men everywhere. Only the ideal marriage of idealism and ruthless fanaticism could generate such an overpowering will.

Soon the mob had reached the customs fortress. The soldier guarding the entrance portal drew his truncheon as Feric and his followers approached and brandished the weapon aloft, but there was fear in his eyes and a quaver in his voice as he challenged the troop of aroused men:

“Halt! What is this?”

In reply, a bluff red-faced blond fellow stepped out of the press of men and slammed the unfortunate guard over the skull with a beer mug. The guard fell in a heap clutching his gashed head. Someone snatched his truncheon from him, and with a great roar, the vanguard of the mob stormed into the fortress, immediately followed by Feric, Bogel, and the rest of the impromptu shock troop.

The mob surged into the examination room, rudely • pushing aside the prospective citizens queued up along the black stone counter,, confronting the four officials behind it with a solid phalanx of sturdy bodies and reddened outraged faces. The three true men displayed as much astonishment as fear at this peculiar behavior; the loathsome Mork feigned stolidity, but Feric could sense him wildly and desperately attempting to throw his net of dominance over this new and clearly menacing press of Helder.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” the bearded old officer demanded. “Remove yourselves from this area at once!”

Feric sensed a sudden slackness in the fervor of the mob; Mork’s psychic onslaught had been aided by the firmness of the gallant old warrior and the resolution of Feric’s troop was shaken.

Feric pressed his way through the throng and reached the counter. Reaching across the black stone with his powerful right arm, he clasped the Dominator Mork about the neck, cutting off the creature’s breath with the grip of his hand, and pulled the wretch half over the counter.

Mork’s face purpled from lack of oxygen, and Feric could sense his psychic powers waning.

“This is the foul creature!” Feric shouted. “This monster is the Dom that holds this fortress in thrall!”

“... drown in your own bile, human filth!” Mork managed to gurgle at Feric, seeing that the game was up.

Feric tightened his grip and the babblings of the Dom became a hoarse choking sound. A great feral roar went up from the mob. Innumerable arms reached across the counter, clutching Mork by the shoulders, hair, and arms, and, with a communal effort, the men pulled the semi-conscious Dom off his feet, dragged him across the counter, and dashed him to the floor in their midst.

Mork was too weakened by lack of breath to attempt any serious defense; moreover no Dominator could hope to subdue the communal will of more than two-score Helder fully aware of his noxious identity and aroused to righteous wrath.

“One day you will all bow down to Zind and follow our command, worthless animals!” the Dom wheezed as he attempted feebly to struggle to his feet.

At once, half a dozen stoutly booted feet caught the miscreant in the rib cage, knocking the wind out of him, and more. Another kick, this one to the head, rendered the Dom unconscious. As he fell limply on his back, a great roar went up, and his body disappeared in a forest of feet and fists and impromptu clubs.

In a minute or two, Mork was naught but a bloody sack of crashed bones lying in a heap on the tiled floor of the customs fortress.

Feric turned his attention to the three Helder standing mutely behind the counter. Slowly their dazed expressions became masks «f horror.

The youngest officer was the first’to fully recover his wits. “I feel as if I have just emerged from a long horrible dream,” he muttered. “I feel a man again. What happened?”

“A Dominator happened, Rupp!” the old soldier said.

He reached across the counter and seized Feric firmly by the shoulder. “You were right, Trueman Jaggar!” he exclaimed. “Now that the filthy vermin has been crushed and his dominance pattern broken, I realize that we have all been less than true men since Mork arrived here. We owe you our manhood!”

“You owe your manhood not to me, but to the sacred cause of genetic purity,” Feric told him. He half-turned so as to face the troop of townsfolk. “Let this be a lesson to us all!” he declared. “See how easily even customs guards were ensnared in a dominance pattern. The Doms are everywhere and nowhere; you can rarely see or sense them, and you are powerless to extricate yourself if you fall into their web. But when you observe others acting as if they are trapped in the tentacles of a nominator’s mind, you can free them as easily as you wring the neck of a scrawny chicken. We are all our racial brothers’ keeper! Let this small victory bum as a beacon in your hearts. Death to the Dominators! Long live Heldon! Let no true man rest until the last Dom is ground into the dust, the last habitable inch of soil on earth under the iron rule of true men! Drown all Dominators and mongrels in a sea of their own blood!”

A great cheer went up; customs troops and even prospective citizens joined the troop of townsfolk in fervent celebration. Feric felt strong hands on his body, and before he quite knew what was about, he was aloft on the shoulders of the cheering men. Still cheering and shouting, the good Helder bore him in triumph out of the customs fortress and onto the bridge.

Thus did Feric Jaggar make his second and true entrance into Heldon: not as an anonymous supplicant for certification, but as a triumphant hero on the shoulders of his followers.

After their comrades of the afternoon’s work had celebrated their victory and gone their various ways, Feric and Bogel, at Bogel’s suggestion, repaired to the Forest Glen Inn. In addition to a large public room similar to that of the Eagle’s Nest, this establishment boasted a series of three smaller and more intimate salons. A headwaiter in a forest green uniform trimmed with brown leather piping ushered them into an oak-paneled room with a low, vaulted ceiling of natural, rough-cut brick. Electric globes on the individual tables cunningly crafted to simulate torchlight were the sole source of illumination. The tables themselves were slabs of gray granite separated from each other by the high backs of the upholstered benches which faced each other across them, effectively dividing up the salon into a series of private booths. Here they could converse in private.