Chains of Loyalty
Dominion, the Red River Republic, the first day of summer
General Maddox Crane scratched an itch on his arm, struggling to maintain his focus in the meeting President Irons had called. The inner circle was all present to listen to Luther pontificate, expecting lockstep agreement with every word. He kept his thoughts to himself. If he was going to protect his country from the myriad of dangers pressing in from every side, he had to remain in his post.A few more years and someone else will be president,he reminded himself.
“Purification, plain and simple,” Irons droned on. “I’ll tell you, one thing the Oligarchy has going for them is successfully brainwashing the public. That’s why we need to lean more into religion, convince them serving the state is no different from serving God, isn’t that right, Reverend Quell?”
“The scriptures do instruct us to obey our leaders,” the finely dressed, middle-aged revival preacher replied in his compelling, charismatic tone.
Maddox tugged at his collar. The official chamber was stuffy, even with the rotating fan. The windowless, steel-plated walls pressed in on him like a giant tomb, the founders’ portraits inspecting him, finding him wanting. Electric lights gleamed overhead, brighter and colder than the sun.
Dalia Ren opened the door, poked her head in. “Mr. President, he’s here.”
He’d wondered why Dalia hadn’t been at the table from the start. At least she gave him someone interesting to look at while enduring Irons’ political scheming.
“Excellent!” A rare, broad smile and twinkle of interest glowed on Luther’s face. He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and glanced at himself in a mirror. He gently adjusted a stray strand of strawberry-blond hair, brushed down his bushy sideburns. Returning his gaze to the Economic Advisor and Resource Director, he said, “Show him in.”
Dalia nodded and ushered in a man Maddox noticed for all the wrong reasons. His narrow frame looked stretched like a scarecrow that someone had forgotten to stuff properly. A long, beak-like nose dominated his tan, leathery face, while deep-set eyes took in the room with a calculating measure. He wore his dark hair—what remained of it—slicked back, drawing attention to his receding hairline.
“Mr. President, cabinet members, this is Mr. Franklin Pickett, former Procurement Secretary of Verdancia,” Dalia announced.
Irons stood, the table following. He extended a hand, motioning to an empty seat. “Mr. Pickett, so glad to meet you at last. I see Verdancia still has one bright bulb,” he said with a laugh, “or used to. Come. Join us. Dalia, introduce everyone to Mr. Pickett.” The council retook their seats.
Pickett fidgeted as he settled into his chair, eyes darting from face to face. He was clean, smelling of brisk aftershave, dressed in Dominion fashion, a narrow gold watch chain draping from his breast pocket to a button. Clearly, he hadn’t just arrived in town.
Dalia called each advisory board member’s name in turn: Colonel Bram Vexler, Dr. Rourke Venz, Ms. Beatrice Graves, Reverend Abram Quell, and General Maddox Crane.
“One of my spies discovered Secretary Pickett drowning his sorrows in a wayside tavern in Falcon’s Point along the eastern bank of the Great River,” Vexler expounded with a crocodile smile. “Fortunately for all parties, he was ready to make a deal.”
“What is it you wish in exchange for the information you offer?” Beatrice stared at him, pinched-faced. Maddox wondered if having her hair pulled back so tightly caused her physical pain, adding to her disagreeable manner. Her steel-gray suit, stiff as an industrial smokestack, seemed to belong to this chamber. He shifted uneasily, hoping he wouldn’t be called upon to perform an execution.
“As Samuel Clemens—the spy’s codename, I presume—and I discussed, all I request is safe passage to Colorado. I hear there’s free land along the Arkansas River near the Pueblo Reservoir. They say the water’s clean, and the Confederacy pays little attention to their eastern-most member. I tire of rulers constantly telling me what to do.” Pickett shrugged. “If you deem my intel worth a small reward, I wouldn’t object. Mainly, I just want to live free—something folks can do out west.”
Maddox had heard similar tales yet couldn’t vouch for their validity.
Irons sat back, studying the man, who by any definition would be called a traitor. As a rule, Maddox detested traitors, even when their information proved beneficial. However, he could see Pickett’s angle. Who wouldn’t wish to retire on a lake in Colorado with practically no government taxing you or imposing laws you disagreed with? And if he’d caught a whiff on the breeze that war was coming, and his side would probably lose, making a deal with the superior force would be in his best interest. Still … traitor. It reeked of rotten fish.
Irons nodded. “And here I thought you’d demand chests of gold.”
Pickett’s keen eyes returned the president’s gaze. “That would be quite foolish for a man in my position. But I see you’re a businessman at heart, who realizes torturing me instead would be a waste of time and effort. By setting a reasonable price for what I’m selling, I ensure you’ll grant it. We both get something we want, and you’ll have eyes and ears in the west, should Pacifica ever land in your sights.”
Irons grinned. A thumping noise rose from below, jerking Maddox’s attention away. He shifted uneasily in his seat. A metallic clang. Another thump. A thundering, wailing cry. Irons’ face scrunched in on itself in annoyance.
“Colonel Vexler, do something about all that racket.” Irons made a shooing motion. “Rats in the basement,” he said to Pickett. “Big ones. Now, I believe you were about to share your inside knowledge regarding the queen’s strengths and weaknesses.”
Maddox narrowed his brows at the black-clad leader of Dominion’s secret police, who nodded his bald head and skittered from the room like a scorpion.
“If you have a tablet, I can write down the figures as I give them to you,” the traitor offered.
“I’ll take dictation,” Beatrice declared, looking down on Pickett with scorn. “That way I can ensure a legible script. And be accurate. Remember, loyalty isn’t proven by words alone. Youareswearing your loyalty to President Irons, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean,” Pickett scrambled, nervously twirling his fingers, “I swear to tell you the truth, not to raise arms against my old neighbors.”
“That will be satisfactory,” Maddox answered. He couldn’t bear to listen to Beatrice’s sharp tongue any longer than necessary. “You were in procurement, correct?” Pickett nodded. “Then you can tell us about Verdancia’s resources and supplies.”
“Yes, sir, and about their troop counts and where they’re stationed.”
“Technology?” Dr. Venz inquired. He even raised his gaze from the electronic pad he constantly fiddled with.
