“Mr. President,” Dalia Ren addressed in a tone teetering between respectful and scolding.
Maddox liked Dalia. A woman in her mid-forties, she was shrewd, efficient, fair, and didn’t talk too much. She wore her earthy hair down in pleasant waves around a heart-shaped face. Her brown eyes never revealed all, as if some deep secret lay within, waiting for the right person to reveal it. Yes, she was single. Smart. Attractive. But those days were long over for Maddox. His full attention rested with duty—and his son, Marcus. He pinned her with a curious stare.
“Are you aware of how much yesterday’s production cost? The parade, the stadium, the decorations, the free popcorn and beer? And that’s without adding in the fuel to run the generators. I know you love to present your populist message in the most flamboyant ways possible, but we must operate within the budget.”
“Must we?” Luther’s withering stare melted into a mocking grin. He pointed at her. “I guarantee it costs a hell of a lot less to appease the masses, to keep them enraptured with our message, to keep them loyal, than it would to go about putting down rebellions and bribing hundreds of thousands of voters. Free beer and snacks, free entertainment, and an afternoon of indoctrination? Peanuts. Haven’t you ever read your history, Ms. Ren? Roman emperors used to do this all the time. Bread and circuses. Keep the people happy and distracted, and they won’t even know you’re amassing all the power to yourself. Isn’t that right?”
He glanced around the table.
“The people must hear a message many times before they accept it as true,” said Reverend Quell. “If we wish to convince them their pittance of rationings is a feast, they must hear it time and again. Luther did a brilliant job of painting us in a superior light to our neighbors. The fact that they received food, music, and a cause to celebrate will only reinforce why they love their leader so much. He gives them what they want—within reason—and tells them what they want to hear.”
Maddox considered the strategy. Distraction often worked on the battlefield as well. Keep their attention in front of them, and they won’t see the soldiers creeping in at their flanks. It was clear Irons wished to consolidate power, but to what end? Maddox had always believed in democracy. Surely, Irons did too.
“See there?” Irons said and downed the rest of his water. “Ren, my other boy tells me our munitions production is booming. That so?”
“Indeed,” Dalia answered. She removed a neat handwritten sheet from her folder and passed it down the table. “These are the summer projections. We should hit a million boxes by mid-July, divided between .9 mm and .45 caliber for handguns, 6.8 mm ammo for the XMZ 5000 machine guns, and .22 caliber for long rifles. They’re not as lethal as the big guns, but our troops have a lot more of them.”
Irons granted her a satisfied nod. “Anyone here remember how folks used to make fun of Texas for having more guns than people?”
Maddox figured he and Dr. Venz were the only old-timers who remembered anything before the Reckoning.
“Well, they aren’t laughing now, are they?” Irons concluded. “Great news about the ammo.”
“None too soon,” Maddox commented in his deep, gravelly voice. “I received a letter from Fort Rustin requesting more munitions and supplies. Thankfully, they’ve got better access to food and water in the east, but the soldiers’ paychecks are weeks overdue. Many have families to support.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Fort Rustin is our most critical base. Graves, what was it you started to tell me about last night?” He pivoted to the calculating woman.
“About the upcoming elections. Your spot is secure, as it isn’t a presidential year, but I’ve put together some projections based on what my spies have reported and the trends from the past few elections.” She rolled out a map of the Red River Republic with lines drawn in color to mark the congressional districts.
A blood-red nail, matching the hue of her lips, tapped on a spot near the top of the map. “The old Unity Coalition is still strong in this northern border region. Between there and the Ozarks, Unitists are projected to win the majority of local elections and congressional seats. Over here,” she said, shifting to the east, “is divided between the Loyalists and the Agrarians. We all know a vote for the Loyalists is merely a vote for the Dominion Party in disguise. The people need the illusion of choice, after all.”
The expression of glee on Luther Irons’ face troubled Maddox.Two more years, and someone else could win the presidency.But he didn’t truly believe it.
“Fort Rustin and the surrounding community are sure to vote Dominion Party, but our seat of power is here, in the central region, and the scattered villages of the west. Not a lot of seats come from there, as the population is so sparse, but the capital’s votes make up for it. The people here love you, and they’ll vote for your party against their own interests if it comes to it. Mr. President, I believe if you were to travel, go on tour to the east, you could win them over. Do something the Agrarians want—show them you’re on their side—and they’ll switch parties.”
“Out of the question,” declared Vexler. “It’s too dangerous. Even if you rode the train, you’d have to pass the craters of death, no-man’s-land, and bandit country before you reached Fort Rustin. Your life is too important to risk.”
“I’ll think on it. Anything else?” He steepled his fingers and glanced back at Graves.
“There is the matter of the dissenters who were arrested for protesting against the anti-miscegenation laws.”
Maddox’s neck tensed. This was a prickly subject in the army. Many Black and Hispanic soldiers served with honor, but new laws Maddox had pushed through Congress forbade mixed-race applicants from being accepted. He’d hadthe unfortunate duty of dismissing over a thousand soldiers who had signed on before the law was passed. He’d fought to grandfather them in. Lost.
“Protests are serious business,” Luther stated gravely. “Everyone thinks it’s the riots, the rock-throwing, the bashing of windows, and looting that are the problem, but they aren’t. Violent protests are inherently unpopular. Law-abiding citizens reject whatever cause they’re pushing out of principle. It’s the peaceful ones you have to watch out for. Words are power. We can’t allow the wrong ones to be heard.”
Luther Irons always talked about freedom in his speeches. But the more Maddox thought about it, the fewer freedoms he could identify that the current regime protected. Rationing of water, food, clothing, and fuel was practical. Necessary. Prioritizing a state religion as a unifying factor had been agreed upon early on, long before Irons’ rise to power. But all this doctrine of racial purity …And I have a niece who lives with her Black woman friend. What if the government got nosy? What if they persecute them? They aren’t hurting anyone. They can’t even produce children, let alone half-breeds. Still …
“I’ve just completed a new study,” Dr. Venz asserted. He turned on his electronic tablet. Maddox stuck to paper notebooks. More reliable.
“I conducted a battery of tests in my lab on subjects Ms. Graves supplied and have concluded—without question—that mixed-race mongrels are defective, inferior in every way to purebreds. Intellect, muscle tone, immunity to disease, and so forth.”
The overhead lights gleamed off his frizzy tufts of gray hair as he hunched over his information pad. “Now, people might ask, how can one study be conclusive? Although we can’t make it public, I’ve been in contact with scientists in Clover Hollow, in the Spires. They’ve concluded the same. Their Oracle, their all-knowing AI, matches couples to marry—which I would never suggestwedo,” he swore. “But it never pairs partners of different races.”
“The Tower of Babel,” pronounced Reverend Quell. “The Almighty separated people by language, which means by race, and sent them out to be separate. It is heresy to disobey His directive.”
“We could make a public example of the protestors,” Vexler suggested. “A beating or a hanging. Put some fear into the people’s hearts.”
“That could backfire,” Graves countered. “President Irons must be viewed as a champion of the people, not a vindictive bully. Your strategy risks turning the criminals into martyrs. I can make them disappear. Quietly. Permanently.”
