Chapter 2 Stars in the Dust #2
Mixed race was so common in Verdancia that few citizens could trace a racially pure lineage.
Although Azaleen’s fair skin, blue eyes, and palest blonde hair suggested the absence of Black, Hispanic, or Native genes, nobody cared.
The only race that mattered here was the human race—mutants didn’t count.
Camille’s father had been King Edric’s ambassador to the West African Coalition, and, as a young woman, she’d spent five years abroad. Azaleen had not picked her based on her alluring beauty, but on her qualifications.
“I’ve met with his diplomats several times over the past year,” Camille reminded her.
“A waste of time!” Stark interrupted. “They lie and say whatever Irons commands.”
Camille pivoted, regarding the general with polished grace.
“Indubitably. However, I’m no fool. It’s how they say it and what they leave out that informs us all we need to know.
And if you’ve any delusions about a preemptive strike, remember, that kilometers-wide river—with its bayous and swamps—presents the same barrier to our troops as it does to the Iron Realm’s.
I’ve concluded that our efforts are best spent courting the favor of AlgonCree. ”
“The Frostlands?” questioned Silas Beaudean, his brows shooting up in surprise. “Don’t they just huddle around in igloos, sustaining themselves on seals and blubber?”
“Hardly!” Camille looked appalled. Stark laughed. Rosalind buried her face in her palm.
Azaleen pinned her agriculture secretary with an icy stare.
“The AlgonCree are the most prosperous of all the post-war nations of Ashland, based on my reports. In the past decades, the snows have lessened, and they enjoy a reasonable growing season. Additionally, their government is stable and trustworthy. Twelve years ago, when King Edric Frost sent a trade delegation, they established an agreement with the AlgonCree to trade our corn and soybeans for their handcrafted wood and leather goods. Our merchants brought home enough fine bows to equip most of our fighting men and women. They traded fairly and honored the arrangement.”
“Precisely,” Camille agreed. “We all know Appalachia is an isolationist nation—xenophobic to the core—and, quite frankly, unstable. I’ve been there. Talked to them. Listened. But the AlgonCree are resilient, like us, peaceful, and reasonable people. A powerful alliance—”
“A military alliance,” Stark inserted, sudden interest beaming on his face.
“We’d have leverage dealing with Irons,” Azaleen concluded. War was the last thing she wanted—but two against one? That changed the odds.
“More research into their customs and beliefs is warranted,” suggested Rosalind. “We don’t want to make a diplomatic misstep that might alienate our chances of becoming allies.”
“A trip to the far north will be expensive,” Vera pointed out. “We’ll need to raise more capital. Were you considering travel by ship or risking taking hot air balloons over the mountains?”
“Either way, you chance crashing or washing up onto Core Cult land,” Stark added, a worry wrinkle dampening his enthusiasm.
“The matter requires further study and planning, as Secretary Keane has stated.” Azaleen turned to Silas. “And what are our crop projections for this year?”
“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 our ambassador 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.