“What’s funny?” asked Cousin Andrew.
Jace wrinkled his nose. Was that smell coming from Andrew? How could they be related?
“Rust it all, Andrew,” Jace swore quietly. “Have you no sense of humor?”
“Now, Colt, show everyone your new captain’s bars,” Dad instructed, pride resonating in his voice. It wasn’t fair. There sat Colt, with his pretty wife, Harmony, and their adorable baby girl, Chloe. How was Jace supposed to compete with a cute baby, for ruin’s sake? Did Dad announce Jace’s soccer goals or their big win? No.
Jace brooded. He drank. He flirted with Tabitha and the waitress. Who knew? He could get lucky. After ten minutes of boring chatter, Jace had had enough.
“Hey, Dad, did you get the report about Redline Munitions’ projections?” He lifted hopeful eyes to Irons, who sat three meters away at the head of the table, dipping a tortilla into his soup. The president glanced up at him for the first time, as if only now recognizing Jace was present.
Jace might not be as strong and heroic as his big brother—didn’t want to copy him anyway—but he followed his father’s humble beginnings by forging his own career path in industry. He started at the plant before Luther was elected president, and now, at only twenty-six, he had risen to a management position. Between that and his sports competitions, Dad should take notice.
“Director Ren handles all that,” Luther answered, biting into his sopped flatbread.
Jace continued, undeterred. “We got a new shipment of sulfur in from old Fort Stockton in the southwest desert. Add that to the saltpeter and charcoal the factories here in Dominion have been turning out, and soon the Republic will have more bullets and dynamite than all the other kingdoms put together. Colt and the army can’t do much without our ammunition, huh, Dad?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered patronizingly. “You’re doing well too. Your little factory makes a huge contribution to the Iron Forces. Hey,” he added, turning his enthusiasm up a notch from nil to one. “Someone’s keeping tally of how many rounds you’re producing, right?”
“I think so,” Jace answered hesitantly. Counting wasn’t his department.
“When you get to a million, we’ll have a big to-do. A fair, with a pie contest and games for the kiddies. We’ll fly banners and sell raffle tickets. One lucky winner gets the millionth bullet—that sort of thing. What do you think?”
Luther Irons glanced around the table, expecting full cooperation. He got it. Everyone echoed what a brilliant idea it was, and the discussion devolved into planning a site for the event. Jace splashed his spoon into an empty soup bowl and swigged more wine. Glanced at Colt. His brother didn’t seem to be engaged in the discussion. Instead, he beamed at his pretty wife, bouncing a laughing baby on his knee.
Maybe it’s not his fault. Everything just comes so easy for him, like he was born under a lucky star or some such New Religion crap. You wait, Golden Boy. My time’s comin’.
Chapter thirteen
Sanctioned
The next morning, General Crane sat at a table in his spartan quarters, cleaning his revolver, killing time until the executive meeting. He’d showered, polished his boots, trimmed his beard, and finished his single cup of rationed coffee. Dominion was down to its last case—all reserved for party leaders and high officials. He thought back to the day three years ago when a trading vessel from the West African Coalition had come up the southeast bayou to Port Freedom. He’d been sent with a division of soldiers to make sure their motives were peaceful. Merchants from all over eastern Red River Republic came with trucks, carts, or wagons to trade for coffee and quality cotton cloth. Luther had cut off trade with Verdancia the year before, so cotton—the preferred fabric for hot weather—was at a premium.
Unfortunately, Charles Ramirez, the former Economic Advisor and Resource Director, had opened his big, stupid mouth, pointing out how we should be courting the West African Coalition, since they were now the most powerful, influential nation in the world. Irons had thrown a fit, fired Ramirez, who subsequently “moved to Tucson,” and declared a tariff on West African imports so high that trade essentially stopped. So much for coffee.One more thing I love—gone.
He forced himself up, slipped into a crisp uniform, and holstered his clean, oiled sidearm. Looking every inch the Republic’s top officer, Maddox strode down the passageway toward the Command Hall. The keep had rooms fordifferent purposes. Iron Hall was where the Congress met, Justice Hall for important trials, and Founders’ Chamber served as a chapel. He passed the Greeting Parlor for meeting important guests and the dining hall where the president, his family, and invited friends shared meals, bedrooms and bathrooms, private sitting areas, and a library. There were other rooms. In the basement.
Maddox was early, as usual. He’d been indoctrinated that on time was late, punctuality the apex. Beatrice Graves arrived next, gray suit, severe bun, glasses this time. She glided into her seat with the grace of a venomous snake—without a word of greeting—and opened a ledger.
No point disturbing her with a customary hello,he thought.
Soon they were all there: the egghead Dr. Rourke Venz, the zealot Reverend Abram Quell, the more recent Economic Advisor and Resource Director Dalia Ren, and the rot off a private’s boot Colonel Bram Vexler. A staffer passed out glasses of water, precious as gold.
The fact that water was quite literally life out here wasn’t lost on Maddox. He appreciated every drop that came from the city’s prime source—Possum Kingdom Lake, a reservoir on the Brazos River. Most of the groundwater here, along with the old mineral springs, was toxic. Deadly. The river and reservoir water still had to go through a purification process, but the city had that running decades ago. There wouldn’t have been a city if they hadn’t. He remembered a lot of people died drinking radiated groundwater, spring water, not knowing any better. Maddox lingered over his sip of the pure liquid. Rainwater would be better—if it ever rained.
“That’s right, Colt,” Luther was saying as he and his oldest son entered the official chamber. It was patriotic—the flag and seal, steel-plated walls, red curtains drawn over pretend windows, portraits of the founders and first president on the walls. Electric lights hummed. A fan whirred. A metallic scent in the air.
“It would be better,” Colt offered hesitantly with a shrug.
“I’ll think on it, son. Now.” Raising an assessing glance over the members of the advisory board, Irons took his seat at the oval table, Colt at his right hand. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“Isn’t Vice President Reagan planning to attend?” asked the stenographer, an older man, built like a bent twig with a tuft of hair slapped on it.
“What do we need him for?” Irons scoffed, like the question insulted him. “Born politician. Why’d I ever consider advice from him?” He scooped up his glass, jostling some over the sides, and gulped.
“It’s just that, sir,” the twig with eyes stammered, “he usually attends.”
“Only because somehow he keeps finding out about the meetings,” Irons grumbled, slapping his water glass back down. “It’s not like I invite him. Anyway, on to business.”
