“After last year’s boll weevil and corn rust, I put out a decree that all crop fields must be rotated. It took a monumental moving of equipment and laborers, but we managed, and almost every field has been planted in a different crop than it grew last summer. We also added three thousand acres divided between oats, potatoes, and cow pastures. Five thousand reclaimed acres have been planted with trees, mixed deciduous and pine, and thirty additional catfish ponds were dug over the winter.”
At least something survived in the muck.Azaleen thought.I suppose they’re safe to eat after nearly fifty years.
“Barring drought or flooding, we should expect a bumper crop—plenty to trade with the Frostlands for whatever we need,” Silas concluded.
Medicine,Azaleen thought. But do they have any? Does anyone?
Rising, the queen moved to the map. “Gather around.”
The secretaries did as they were bidden, peering at the immense table in curiosity.
“Here we are.” She pointed to Nelanta and the raised hump of Stone Mountain. “Across the vast river, teeming with alligators, snakes, and radiated fish monstrosities, lies our antagonist—President Luther Irons and his fake republic. He has more guns, yes—but not more ammo. More soldiers, but fewer farmers. More land—most of it scorched desert. Bottom line, river or no river, they want our food. Over here,” she directed their attention with a pointing stick, “is Appalachia. Right now, they’re feeding their smaller population, and just want to be left alone. How long will that last? They won’t even receive ourambassador because we aren’t ‘pure.’ We don’t bow down to their computer under the mountain and worship it like a god.”
Silas rolled his eyes, shook his head, and let out a sigh.
“Over here, to their west—the Burnt Plains.” Azaleen aimed her pointing stick at a flat, barren spot. “While there might be pockets of civilization hiding in the region, it’s mostly wild and dangerous. Decades of fires and drought turned much of the land into a dust bowl, while annual flooding from a sprawling river without levees has turned the rest of it into mosquito-infested marshlands. I’ve seen mutated species explorers brought back with them—glowing frogs the size of a cat, two-headed lizards, and carnivorous plants.”
Vera recoiled, wrinkling her nose, as if she found the mental images repugnant. Rosaland, on the other hand, leaned forward in keen interest.
“Far to the other side, the Shattered Coast, home to the Confederation of Pacifica,” the queen continued. “We don’t know much about them since we can’t get there. My grandfather told me about airplanes that flew through the sky, steel bullet trains, and automobiles. You’ve seen some of them—nothing but rusted-out shells stacked up on crumbling concrete lots. Grandfather said, when the bombs came, they emitted a special energy wave that destroyed anything electronic. Since all those vehicles were built with computers, and the computers were fried in the blasts, they’ll never work again. All we have are some antiques—old Jeeps, trucks, and motorcycles rigged to run on ethanol products instead of water or hydrogen fuel cells. So, we’ve no way to get there.”
She paused and tapped the end of her stick on the Frostlands to the far north. “If we’re to win the AlgonCree’s favor, this is where we must go.”
Irons was up to something—she knew it.Is he building pontoon bridges? Bribing borderland raiders to fight for him? Raising a navy?
“But that’s past the Dead Coast,” Rosalind said, concern etched in her expression, “the radioactive area where nothing can live. Nothing good ever comes back.”
“I know,” Azaleen admitted. “It’s a wasteland stretching between Appalachia and AlgonCree. I don’t know anyone who’s been there and returned to speak of it.”
“I have.”
A voice she didn’t recognize. Azaleen spun—hand instinctively brushing the knife sheathed beneath her kaftan. A stranger.
Chapter three
Copper, Coal, and Cults
In the War Room stood a tall Black man, older than the queen but still in his physical prime. Clad in rugged adventurer garb, he radiated a cocky ease, standing with hands planted on his hips like he owned the place.
“Guards!” Azaleen called, glaring at the intruder. “How did you get past my sentries?”
General Stark spun, fists tightening at his sides.
“I have skills.” Sweeping his hat from his bald head, the man bowed gallantly. Upon rising, he added, “Skills you may wish to have in your service.”
Four guards wearing leather vests and green identifying sashes rushed in, pikes in hand. “Yes, Queen Frost. You called?” the leader asked. They all halted, snapping to attention, boot heels clicking.
Azaleen studied the stranger, wariness edging her sharp gaze. “Who are you, and why shouldn’t I send you to the gallows as a spy or would-be assassin?”
“My name is Desmond Shaw, and your map is missing an important town.”
With the armed soldiers in the room, Azaleen’s tension eased just enough to step back, clearing a path to the table. “Pray tell, where exactly is this supposed missing town?”
She bristled at his claim. Her father had kept the map scrupulously current, and, since his death, she’d done the same. Yet, however rude and presumptuous the newcomer, the queen never turned away knowledge.
Shaw strolled around the table to the Dead Coast, picked up a marker tile, and set it in the hills to the west, a short distance north of Appalachia’s proclaimed border. The room stilled, all eyes flicking from the tile marker to the man who’d placed it.
“It’s called Coppertown,” he said. “I discovered it while searching for my lost father when I was a young man of eighteen.”
