Relief swept the people; cheers erupted, flags waving. “Our brave soldiers will defend us—mark my words.” He pointed as if at every individual in the throng. “General Crane and even my own beloved Colt are leading the charge. They will be victorious!”
As the cheers grew, Luther’s ego swelled. It wasn’t enough that they saw him as their leader; he also needed to be their savior. “These insurrectionists will be punished to the fullest extent, and their Seeds of Change terrorist group erased. Democracy must prevail!”
Luther held his head high as he left the platform through an opening in the keep’s wall to the sound of thunderous applause. He smiled at his wife, Amaretta, and son, Jace, who waited off stage. “Impressive speech, Dad,” Jace praised with an admiring smile. But Luther’s attention was focused on Amaretta.
He gripped her upper arm and brushed a kiss to her cheek. “What did you think?”
She stood rigid, beauty marred by suspicion. “Did those people really start an uprising? How many citizens did they kill?”
“You don’t need to worry about unpleasant details like that, sugar,” he placated, turning her to walk with him back inside. “It’s taken care of. Don’t I always take care of everything?”
“But you sent Colt into harm’s way.” Her lips pouted. She reached for Jace with her free hand. He took it.
Luther suppressed a grin, employing a dismissive tone. “Oh, he’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
“Our factory has finished outfitting machinery to produce shells for those twentieth-century bazookas you recovered from a vault at Old Fort Hood,” Jace declared eagerly. “Those will give us a huge advantage against Verdancia.”
Luther didn’t respond. Instead, he squeezed Amaretta ’s arm tighter and whispered, “Tread carefully, dear.”
At the same time in Chickasaw
Maddox jolted in the passenger seat as his Jeep barreled over a hill and around a curve. “Stop!” he shouted to the driver as the scene came into view. He needed to know what he was charging into before he could direct his troops. But the sight before him defied comprehension. General Garcia had arrived first and committed his troops to action. Smoke obscured half the town. Gunshots continued to ring out over screams and church bells clanging in rapid alarm. Iron Army uniforms were everywhere—pulling people out of houses, chasing them as they fled in terror.
He blinked, stood, and leaned over the windshield, raising binoculars to his eyes. The plainclothes residents carried no weapons—only signs and banners. “We’re Republicans Too,” read one. “Equal Taxes, Equal Rights,” printed on another.
Behind him, horses and vehicles rumbled to a halt. Boots stopped marching.
“General, what are your orders?” asked a major in charge of a company of riflemen.
Bile rose in Maddox’s throat, sickness threatening to floor him. He let fury stamp it down. Did Irons know? Did he purposefully send the army to murder peaceful protestors? Or had Vexler deceived him? This was an outrage, a crime against humanity. He couldn’t be part of it, but could he stop it, or was it already too late?
“Get me to General Garcia,” he snapped. “Major, hold the battalion here.” Before him, white soldiers wearing his uniform stabbed fleeing brown townspeople in the back with their bayonets while gunfire continued to pop.
His Jeep roared through the mayhem, a bullet whizzing close to Maddox’s head. He cursed under his breath. Chaos reigned as men, women, children, and elders fled the slaughter.It’s Sand Creek all over again, he fumed. A dead child clutched a doll. Beside her lay her mother, a calico smock splattered with blood, moccasins on her feet. The beadwork was artistry. A cloth sign affixed to a stick lay crumpled in the mud: “Our Lives Matter.” Guilt layered over Maddox’s rage.
His Jeep jerked to a stop on the hill where General Garcia commanded his forces. “Recall your soldiers this instant!” Crane bellowed as he jumped from his vehicle, tramping toward Fort Amarillo’s commandant.
Garcia twisted his head toward him, insult and offence filling his clean-shaven face. “I beg your pardon?” he growled.
“Stop this massacre at once, General, or I’ll bust you down to latrine corporal,” Maddox ordered, fists and jaw clenched. “I’m the commander-in-chief of the Iron Army, and you will obey this instant.”
“President Irons is the commander-in-chief of you, and he ordered me to bring a battalion and destroy all vestiges of rebellion.”
“I think you’ve already done that.” Maddox shifted his right hand to the holster on his belt. “Recall your soldiers—now.”If glares could draw blood, Garcia would already be dead.
The other general pursed his lips and shook his head. Then he nodded to the sergeant standing as his aide. The man picked up a green flag and waved it vigorously. A bugler took a deep breath and blasted out the tune for recall.
The shooting stopped. Soldiers jogged from the carnage, leaving wailing wounded, tearful survivors, and hundreds of dead on the banks of the lake—its placid blue waters undisturbed. A flock of ducks landed, wings flapping, then folding in. For a moment, Maddox imagined it hadn’t been real, that nobody had died, that all had been resolved. Then the smell hit him—coppery blood, gunpowder smoke. Rot. Guilt. The taste of iron coated his tongue, and, for an instant, he thought he might vomit.
“Look, General Crane,” Garcia rounded on him. “I don’t question my orders. I’m stuck out on the edge of civilization, safeguarding the rest of you from God knows what that spills over from the Burnt Wastes—dust storms, hostile nomads, thieves constantly sneaking into town, rustling cattle, murdering our prostitutes. When President Irons says, ‘Go quash a rebellion,’ I’m eager to obey.”
Maddox threw a hand toward the ruined town. “What rebellion? Did they have weapons? Did they open fire on you? For God’s sake, Garcia—these folkswere unarmed. They were just holding a peaceful protest. The president got faulty intel. We’re the only danger present here.”
Garcia shifted his gaze to the mourning and sobbing, the dead and dying between mud-brick houses and garden patches, fishing huts and churches, filling the market square. Broken pottery, burning roofs, blood, and despair. “We heard chanting, saw them holding poles—could have been pikes or spears. Who knows what they’ve stockpiled in their warehouses? Sergeant Blanchard, take a squad and search the town for contraband.”
“Yes, sir.” Blanchard waved at some soldiers and jogged away.
“And if you don’t find anything?” Maddox glared at the other general.
