The Iron Dream (26 page)
truncheons and submachine guns. Beyond this, the rest of the shed was hidden by a sheet-steel wall broken only by four unmarked doorways. As each man completed his tests, he was directed through one of the doors for further processing. Feric noted that most of the men were ushered through the doorway on the .extreme right.
"We've recently developed four additional tests," Remler told Peric proudly. "Each Helder must now meet twenty-three genetic criteria, and of course the entrance requirements for the SS are infinitely more stringent. Since we've already uncovered close to seventy thousand SS
recruits in the Camps, we've been able to upgrade the SS
criteria once more. The women's Camps have produced nearly forty thousand females found genetically suitable for mating with the SS. Can you imagine what incredible specimens the next generation will produce, my Commander?"
'There's no doubt about it, Remler," Feric said, "you've worked wonders."
Glowing with well-deserved pride, Remler led Feric through the extreme left-hand doorway, and into a small cubicle where two SS men armed with submachine guns and truncheons snapped to instant attention and saluted smartly at the sight of the Supreme Commander. In the floor of the cubicle was a dramhole; a water-hose was attached to a spigot projecting from a wall. The concrete floor was nevertheless stained a subtle reddish-brown.
"Thus far, we've uncovered only a few thousand Doms,"
Remler said. "However, SS scientists are very close to developing a specific test for the Dominator genotype. As it is, I'm afraid that some Doms do escape with the more ordinary mongrels and mutants."
Feric returned the salutes of the SS exterminators and nodded to Remler. "When a foolproof specific test has been developed, it will be a relatively simple matter to reprocess the sterilees and thus expunge the last Dominator gene from the face of Heldon."
"At any rate, the problem will be solved in the next generation one way or the other," Remler pointed out.
Remler led Feric through the far door of the extermination chamber, across a corridor, and into a large room filled with grinning, excited Helder queued up before a wall of storage bins to receive their new certificates of genetic purity and^their street clothes.
Before the SS Commandant could make a move to call 170
for a salute, Feric was noticed and a slightly ragged massed chant of "Hail Jaggar!" accompanied by somewhat individualistic saluting broke out among these exuberant folk. This was followed by over a minute of spontaneous cheering.
Feric could not help breaking into a grin himself as he saluted in return. These Helder had good cause for rejoicing—they had passed the new stringent genetic tests and had been readmitted to the communion of true humanity.
Feric was deeply moved by their infectious joyousness; it renewed his iron determination to insure that true humans and only true humans inherited the future of the world.
Next Remler conducted him across the corridor again and into a long rectangular room that was obviously his pride and joy. The portal leading from the main processing area debouched directly in front of a counter behind which stood five SS genetic analysts, tall blond specimens all. Beyond this battery of genetic experts was an SS
doctor equipped with all sorts of precision medical paraphernalia. The rear of the room was occupied by a series of desks at which sat tall, blond young men busily writing in test booklets under the supervision of an SS captain.
The sense of patriotic fervor and excitement in this room was all but palpable, for here those inmates who had given indication in the general testing were given the opportunity to pass the incredibly stringent genetic, somatic, mental, and patriotic rigors of the SS entrance examination.
At the sight of Feric, everyone in the room snapped to rigid attention, saluted, and roared "Hail Jaggar!" Feric saluted briefly in reply, and then indicated with a motion of his hand that the solemn testing should be carried out without taking note of his presence by further demonstrations. He himself led Remler out of the room through a side door, for these lads deserved to have their attention undivided at a time like this, and certainly the presence of their Supreme Commander at such a moment could hardly be called undistracting!
As he stepped through the doorway, Feric found himself confronting a queue of white-faced, stricken-looking specimens. SS men armed with truncheons and submachine guns guarded this line of unfortunates at regular intervals. At the head of the line stood an SS major with a clipboard and a scriber; beyond him were two doorways.
As Peric entered, he heard this functionary addressing 171
the grim-faced Helder at the head of (he line, a decent-looking specimen by superficial appearence.
"It is my duty to inform you that you have failed to entirely measure up to the standards of the pure human genotype. You have two options: exile from the Fatherland forever or sterilization. Which do you choose?"
The fellow hesitated a moment; Feric spied tears in his eyes. Then suddenly Feric's presence was noted and everyone—SS men and sour-faced inmates alike—snapped out Party salutes and shouted "Hail Jaggar!" with a vigor and enthusiasm that left nothing to be desired. Feric was deeply touched by such a demonstration of racial solidarity, coming as it did from those called upon to sacrifice their hope of future progeny for the good of the Fatherland.
A moment later, the Holder at the front of the line squared his shoulders, clicked his heels, came to attention^
and replied to the SS major clearly and firmly: "I choose sterilization for the good of the Fatherland!" He then gave a letter-perfect Party salute and marched resolutely through the right-hand doorway.
"Eighty-five percent of the rejects choose sterilization over exile," Render whispered quietly in Feric's ear.
Tears of mingled joy and sadness came to Feric's eyes, for as reject after reject marched stoically through the right-hand door to be shorn of their generative powers, he knew that before his eyes was the ultimate proof of the justice of his cause and the triumph of the Swastika.
Field Marshall High Commander Lar Waffing arose somewhat ponderously to his feet, glanced at the great map behind Feric's elevated chair, nodded at the generals assembled in the War Room of the Star Keep, smiled directly at Feric himself, then made his formal report.
"My Commander, it is both my honor and my pleasure to report that the renovation of the army may now be considered complete. Our forces now boast over three hundred tanks and the new factories continue to pour out scores more every week. We now have over two hundred fighters and dive-bombers and scores more rolling off the assembly lines. Half a million fine new men have been added to the ranks, and I'm proud to say that every Helder soldier is now equipped with a spanking new submachine gun as well as a formidable truncheon. Ammunition is in copious supply, and we've stockpiled enough 172
petrol for a month of all-out war. Army scientists are in the process of reconstructing guided missiles and many other weapons of the ancients.
"In short, my Commander, you now have at your disposal a force awaiting only your orders to spring into action!"
"Well done, Waffing!" Feric said with considerable enthusiasm as the High Commander reseated himself. The army and the SS needed only quick action in order to hone their fighting edge. The only question now was where and how.
"Do you think we're ready to annihilate Zind, Waffing?" he asked.
Waffing lost himself in thought for a few moments. "I have no doubt we could defeat Zind if we attacked now,"
he said. "But the war would be a long and arduous one.
Give us six months and our army will have doubled its size, well have thousands of tanks and planes, and the speed of our advance across Zind will be limited chiefly by the velocity of which our tanks are capable. We'd pulverize the swine in a lightning war."
Feric pondered this assessment of the situation. It would certainly be better to wait a few months until the hosts of Heldon were up to projected full force before launching the final attack on Zind. On the other hand, the army could use some immediate action.
"Waffing, would it be possible for Zind to attack us within the next six weeks?" he inquired.
"Hardly," the High Commander replied. "Their logistical system is quite sluggish. We would know of such an assault far in advance. No such preparations are now under way."
Feric rose to his feet, his mind made up. He tamed to face the huge war map on the wall behind him, and addressed his commanders.
"Within two weeks, Heldon will march. One great column will sweep through Borgravia, take Gormond, and proceed westward into Vetonia. At the same time, the northern arm of our forces will march into Vetonia through Feder, linking up with the southern army at the capital. The combined force will then storm across Husak along a wide front, smash all opposition, and drive the remnants of the Husak forces into the western wildlands to perish. As our troops secure Borgravia, every mud hut in Cressia, Arbona, and Karmath will be leveled by the air 173
force and the vermin driven into the southern wildlands.
Thus we will secure our rear for the final showdown with Zind. Should this entire operation take more than a month, I will be sorely disappointed."
The jaws of the old generals fell open at the audacity of this plan; Waning, however, pounded his fist on the table, grinning with pleasure. "If the operation takes more than a month, my Commander," he declared, "I will personally shoot every officer in the army, then demote myself to the rank of a common foot soldier, put the muzzle of my submachine gun in my mouth, and execute myself for high treason!"
Feric chuckled with good-natured appreciation of Waffing's drollery. Waning himself could not contain his own high spirits and burst into guffaws. In a moment even the dour generals joined in the merriment.
Still, Feric realized that the very spirit that moved Waffing to make such an extreme vow would move him to carry it out in the inconceivable event that such expiation should prove necessary. What a fine troop of heroes it was his honor to command!
As the hour of midnight approached, Feric Jaggar assumed his position in the observer's seat of the lead Helder tank. Beside him in the driver's position, Ludolf Best's eyes shone with excitement and fanaticism. The true battle in this campaign would be with time itself, for the Borgravian army hardly qualified as a joke. Therefore the vanguard of the force that Feric had assembled just inside the southeastern margin of the Emerald Wood consisted of a hundred and fifty tanks, well stocked with incendiary and high-explosive shells. Combined with the devastating force of a hundred dive-bombers even now winging their way toward the Borgravian capital, these tanks would be enough to pulverize all organized opposition within Borgravia in a matter of hours. As the tanks swept eastward across Borgravia, motorized infantry and motorcycle SS
would mop up in their van, and by the time the tank force reached the Vetonian border. Render would already have Classification Camps under construction.
Feric had decided to lead the initial advance into Borgravia himself and remain at the head of the Helder forces cleaning out that cesspit until Gormond was leveled; this for personal reasons as well as considerations of general morale. He could conceive of few sights that 174
would please him more than that of the wretched Borgravian capital in which his youth had been wasted smashed flat and going up in flames.
Best had been checking his timepiece eagerly almost every thirty seconds. Once more he checked it; then, with a boyish grin, he started the tank engine. "It's time, my Commander!" he said.
Smiling at Best's youthful enthusiasm, Feric drew the Great Truncheon of Held, stood up, and thrust the shaft of his weapon high over his head through the open hatch of the tank, its gleaming headball catching a silvery flash of moonlight. Abruptly, the night came alive with the chattering thunder of scores of gas engines sputtering and
.catching. The powerful thrumming of the engine of Feric's own tank set the very molecules of his flesh marching to a stirring martial beat. Feric sheathed the Steel Commander, dogged the hatch above him shut, strapped himself in, turned on his throat microphone, and gave the long-awaited command to Best and to his forces: "Forward!"
Grinding earth and shrubbery beneath its massive iron treads, the tank leapt forward, out of the clearing which served as the marshalling area. As Best slowly brought the tank up to speed, Feric looked through his rear periscope, and saw a solid sea of tanks following close behind, surging across the clearing and onto the road that led to the Ulm fording. The formation was simplicity itself: Feric's tank at the point, and behind it ten ranks of fifteen tanks each. The motorized infantry and motorcycle divisions would not begin their advance behind this shield of Steel until two hours later.
At Bogel's instigation—though certainly not without Feric's wholehearted approval—the tanks had been decked out for this occasion in heroic grandeur. The body of each was painted a glossy black, while the turrets were scarlet with great black swastikas in white circles on either side. In addition, a red swastika flag streamed proudly from the radio mast of each dreadnaught. As the formation of tanks reached the broad plain that debouched upon the Ulm, this inspiring spectacle was being televised not only throughout Heldon but to Husak and Vetonia as well, the better to paralyze their forces with well-justified fear of the armed might of Heldon. What a grand sight this phalanx of gleaming black might accented with bold scarlet and heroic swastikas made as it swept toward the Ulm, filling the air for miles around with man-made 175
thunder and surrounding itself with a great cloud of boiling dust!
At this longitude, the Ulm was little more than a shallow stream; the Borgravian border fortifications on its far bank consisted of little more than a few trenches filled with mongrels behind rolls of barbed wire. Nevertheless, as the tanks ground toward the river through the darkness, the night was suddenly lit up by flashes of fire from the Borgravian positions, and Feric could hear a few random bullets spatter harmlessly off the impenetrable armor of his dreadnaught. No doubt the squadrons of aerial dreadnaughts that had crossed the border half an hour ago had alerted the pathetic wretches, for all the good it would do them.