Free The Iron Dream by Norman Spinrad

Barbarians they were, but what magnificent barbarians!
    When they had the steamer quite thoroughly surrounded, several of the Black Avengers drew pistols and fired warning shots into the air, the reports of the guns flattened somewhat by contrast with the mighty din of the massed engines. Nevertheless, their meaning was quite clear to the driver of the roadsteamer; he hit the brakes, bled steam from the engine, and brought the vehicle to a huffing halt by the side of the road. At once the motorcyclists formed a circle around the steamer, and, while the bulk of the Avengers remained mounted on their idling machines which continued to bark and roar like a pack of feral metal hounds; a dozen or so of the fellows dismounted, propped their motorcycles up on stands, and 54
    swaggered toward the cabin door with pistols and truncheons in their hands.
    Almost immediately, there was a great pounding on the door, and a powerful harsh voice roared: "Open for the Avengers, or we'll rip this peapod open with our bare hands and eat you all alive!"
    The passengers nearest the door bolted from their seats and attempted to cram themselves together in the rear of the cabin while the trembling hostess unbarred the door; a craven performance, Feric thought, and one hardly calculated to win the admiration of men such as these.
    Into the cabin burst an enormous man of Feric's height and even more massively muscled. He wore a sleeveless black jerkin which displayed to good advantage the serpents tattooed up and around both of his arms. About his neck on a silver chain hung a nearly life-sized chromium skull. A pistol was tucked into his belt which was fastened with a huge steel buckle embossed with a blood-red swastika, and in his hand was a chromed steel truncheon of impressive length and thickness with a gleaming skull for a headpiece. His shoulder-length blond hair and full blond beard were wild and matted. In his right earlobe was a heavy golden band. His eyes were honest, open, and icy blue. Behind him trailed a black cloak onto which twin red lightning strokes had been sewn.
    This individual proceeded to pinch the rear of the hostess with crude good humor and then kissed the blushing young woman full on the mouth while ten of his comrades erupted into the steamer cabin behind him.
    These fellows resembled the first in general style: they were all great hearty lads with wild hair and florid beards or mustaches somewhat in need of trimming, dressed extravagantly in loose-fitting leathers adorned with all manner of bright metalwork, emblems, pendants and medallions. They brandished pistols, truncheons, daggers, or various combinations of weapons, according to personal taste. Many of them were tattooed, and earrings of gold, silver, chrome, or stainless steel were common. They were all in serious need of a bath, being liberally coated with the sweat and dust of the road.
    When he had finished greeting the hostess in his barbaric fashion, the huge Avenger turned a sour expression upon the passengers cowering in the rear of the steamer.
    "A slimy gang of underwear cleaners and manure merchants, eh Stopa?" observed a clean-shaven Avenger with 55
    long, somewhat brownish hair, and a silver ring in his right ear. "Look like candidates for a mutant squash to me."
    "We'll see about that, Karm," the huge fellow said.
    "Just remember who's the commander here. When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it." Karm glowered silently while the others laughed. Clearly this Stopa had the correct instincts of a leader of men, albeit roughhewn.
    "All right you bugs," Stopa said, addressing himself to the passengers, "in case you haven't been out from under your rocks lately, I'm Stag Stopa, and we're the Black Avengers, and if you don't know what that means, you're about to find out. We like riding our bikes and getting drunk and wenching and a good fight and stomping mutants and big mouths and not much else. We don't like back talk, mutants, police, or Doms. If we