Irons nodded toward Reverend Quell. “We couldn’t have done so without the blessing of the God of our fathers and their fathers before them. The Old Religion has proven true. It unites us as much as our language, our values, and our shared struggle to rebuild. Our God will reward us—count on it.”
Voices in the throng agreed. Once hushed, Irons continued.
“Of all the nations of Ashland, the fractured fragments of a once-powerful empire, only ours has retained a democratic form of government. Only ours honors the Old Religion above all others. Only ours has the true God’s blessing. You may say, why then did the bombs fall on our cities? Why were we punished with the rest? I tell you, it was a reckoning, but also a wake-up call. A call to return to justice, to the truth, to the Old Religion.”
Maddox had thought as much many times. In the first year after the war, he’d lost faith completely, fallen in with the doubters. Then he realized it must be a test. The world had become overpopulated. Something had to thin folks out. Those chosen to rebuild, to repopulate, survived. Their children would be stronger. He thought of his son, Marcus—a fine young man, dedicated tothe Republic, an officer serving at Fort Rustin near the border with Verdancia. Though he had lost his one true love, Amira, just after the founding, she lived on in Marcus, who had her eyes and her smile.
“Take a look around at our neighbors,” Irons continued. “To the west, Pacifica, a confederation of city-states interspersed with wilderness, promotes the New Religion over the old. Why do you think half the coast split off and sank into the ocean? It’s a land of desolate mountain peaks and a violent shore. They are weak, leaving each member to their own governance. Should they rule over us?”
“No! Never!” The audience lapped up Luther’s words and passionate delivery.
“And what of the Burnt Wastes? Just a bunch of charfall ash-breathers. Rusty raiders, thieves, Cowboys, bike-gangers, mutant waste of air spare parts. All they want to do is destroy. They don’t even have a government, a religion, an ordered society. Will we let them overrun us, grab up our resources?”
“Hell, no!” echoed from the crowd. The excitement level rose with each of Irons’ pronouncements, a buzz electrifying the air.
“There’s no point mentioning the Frostlands—AlgonCree, they call themselves.” Luther smirked, rolling his eyes. People laughed. “Sit around in igloos eating blubber and seal meat, gathering in powwows. Real civilized, huh?” He waved a hand in the air. “Crater bait. They don’t count. Then there’s Appalachia, an ‘oligarchy of intellectuals,’” he mocked using air-quotes. More laughter. From the corner of his eye, Maddox noticed Colt Irons shift uneasily in his chair.
Irons rolled a finger around the side of his head. “Fruitcakes left over from a hundred Christmases ago, am I right? Who worships a machine? Who lets geeky scientists call all the shots? No offense, Dr. Venz. Our guy is one of the sane ones.”
Maddox wasn’t sure he agreed with that assessment, but Venz had gotten the power plant refitted to run on steam engines.
“Then there’s Verdancia.”
Irons’ demeanor shifted from comical to severe. The celebrators grew deathly silent, every eye and ear trained on their leader.
“It’s bad enough they resurrected a medieval form of government, total domination by a supreme ruler, but now that ruler is a woman—Queen Frost. Even her own people dub her a cold-hearted bitch. Let me enumerate the sins of those wickboned swamp spawn. They think declaring ‘freedom of religion,’”more air quotes, “makes them righteous. It makes them heretics. Their laws allow any adult to engage in sexual activities with any other adult—marry them too. Mingling of races, homosexuality, incest—what’s next? Bestiality? Pedophilia?”
Murmurs of disapproval wove through the stadium to the shaking of heads and angry frowns. A child in the choir clutched her flag more tightly, unease marring her features. In the stands, others peered up at parents.
“Why should they have their bellies filled from the bounty of their land while we must contend with strict rationing? I mean, really. How many nukes landed on their cities? What?” he cupped his hand to his ear. “You said, ‘What cities?’ Precisely. The southeast was once the poorest region. Lazy attitudes. Outstretched hands. Fish-fed fools. No wonder our enemies dropped so few nukes on them—no point wasting good bombs.”
President Irons made some good points. Maddox wasn’t denying that. Still, he could’ve just put it in theDominion Voice. Not that many citizens could read it, as education kept getting bumped to the bottom of the list.
“Verdancia is filled with morally depraved half-breeds, even if their queen can trace her pedigree back to seventeenth-century royalty. Now, you know I believe all races were created equally—they just weren’t meant to mingle willy-nilly. And while I don’t believe we should behead homosexuals for being freaks, their immoral behavior isn’t to be tolerated in a righteous society like ours. The Queen’s Land presents a clear and present danger to our own—moral corruption, outdated autocratic ideas, and they’ve been fortifying their border more and more every day. Does she have invasion plans? Who knows?”
He glanced around, inspecting the worried looks on faces.
“Manifest Destiny.” Irons dropped the words like atom bombs. “The Old Religion tells us that the chosen people have the right to claim the PromisedLand. This land.” He outstretched his arms in a zealous motion. “All this land, from sea to shining sea, is meant to be ours—the Republic’s. When that day comes, each of you will live with full bellies, warm homes, and power to spare. Timber from the Shattered Coast, technology from Appalachia, and as much food and cotton as you could ever desire from Verdancia.”
The shift in mood was palpable as eager listeners squared their shoulders, raised their chins.
“Here at Unity Stadium on our thirty-fourth birthday, I declare to you we will continue to rise from the ashes, a strong and righteous nation, forged from the blood of our ancestors. We will take what is rightfully ours and defeat any force that might rage against us. Strength remakes the world. One will. One continent. One Republic. Long live the Iron Realm!”
Citizens leaped to their feet in thunderous applause as Luther Irons returned to his seat. Their response still rang in Maddox’s ears long after he retired to the keep. Maybe the fuel hadn’t been wasted after all.
Chapter twelve
Bitter Wine
Jace Irons trailed into the presidential dining hall behind the rest of the family—as usual. Dad slapped a hand on Colt’s shoulder. “That’s my son,” he boomed. “Tonight, we celebrate!”
Jace narrowed his eyes, a frown carved deep into a face covered in stubble, a face accustomed to being overlooked. It didn’t matter what Colt might have done or said—he’d still have gotten a pat on the back. He was the golden boy, with his golden-blond hair and muscular build, being the firstborn and heir apparent. So what if he just got promoted to captain in the Iron Forces? Any fool could march around in uniform. Dad hadn’t been a military man. It’s not like Colt had followed in his footsteps.
“Come in and take your seats,” invited a sharply dressed host with a gracious bow. The elegant dining hall, large enough to cram in half of Dominion, was decked out for Founding Day, with black and red streamers, banners, and bows, some yellow thrown in for contrast. A gentleman gave Mom a bouquet of spring flowers, accented with green fronds.
“Thank you,” Amaretta replied sweetly, taking them with a bashful smile.
His mother’s eyes twinkled as she inhaled the bouquet, and, for a moment, Jace forgot about Colt. Theywerehere to celebrate. His brother shouldn’t take that away from him too.
