Chapter 22 Selective Truth
Chapter twenty-two
Selective Truth
Dominion, Red River Republic, same day
Jace Irons stood before the mirror in his room, perfecting his shave.
Gone were his unruly brown curls, a sharp executive haircut in their place.
The white dress shirt and red western tie were also new for a man known more for indulgence than discipline.
He’d been managing an ammunition factory for five years but didn’t dress for the grimy factory.
Until now, Jace had taken little in his privileged life seriously; however, today was special.
It’s not like he wished his older brother ill.
Colt had been there for him when they were kids, after all.
It’s his own fault, he reminded himself as he ran a comb through his impeccable hair.
He peered into the amber eyes in the mirror, butterflies flapping in his gut.
With Dad’s golden boy banished in disgrace, today marked Jace’s first official meeting with the president and his advisors.
Colt’s out and I’m in. As much as he’d dreamed of this moment, it didn’t settle right on Jace’s conscience. He would never question his father’s decisions. Luther Irons was a great man—powerful and charismatic, a visionary. He had always believed it.
What possessed Colt to oppose him? he wondered. Did General Crane deserve to be executed?
Ever since the day of the trial, his father had been …
different. Jace was thrilled he’d been invited to attend the meeting, to have his father’s favor and possibly be groomed to take his place one day instead of his older brother.
If it weren’t for that hard seed of doubt he couldn’t uproot. What if Colt was right?
He couldn’t think about that. Today was Jace’s day to stand with the father he loved and admired, despite the years he’d been overlooked.
He would back up every word the president uttered and learn as much as he could.
Maybe he’d only been invited to give a report about bullet production; he convinced himself it was more.
Satisfied that he looked like a respectable adult, one who could be trusted with responsibility, Jace left his comfortable quarters in the keep, his leather-soled shoes tapping across polished tile.
He passed a member of the cleaning staff while descending the stairs, and several clerks on the main level.
Symbols of power lined the walls; busts of the founders and portraits of presidents watched from above.
This morning, as Jace passed familiar rooms—Justice Hall, the Founders’ Chamber, and the Greeting Parlor—it was as if he were seeing them for the first time.
A tapestry picturing a fallen soldier clinging to the national flag bore the words, “Truth. Sacrifice. Unity.”
Jace paused outside the Command Hall to take a deep breath and straighten his tie. A uniformed attendant stationed at the door opened it for him. “Mr. Irons,” he said with a bow. Squaring his thin shoulders, the president’s younger son strode in.
The windowless room seemed smaller than he recalled, chairs set around a table, the constant whir of a fan filling his ears.
Red and steel dominated the room, hammers and anvils branded into walls and tabletops.
Even the air felt industrial. For a split second, Jace felt as if he’d stepped into the jaws of a trap.
Then, Economics and Resource Advisor Dalia Ren smiled at him.
“Welcome, Jace. Here. Take the seat by me.”
A friendly face was exactly what he needed. He slid in beside the forty-something-year-old, impeccably dressed woman, her medium-brown hair casually draping her shoulders.
“Good morning, Director Ren.”
Across from them, the severe, older blonde woman in a cold gray suit never glanced up from the folder she was inspecting. Jace had always been a little scared of Beatrice Graves, Minister of Internal Order.
The others filed in: eccentric Dr. Rourke Venz, Minister of Advancement; pious Reverend Abram Quell; Vice President Randall Reagan; and the dubious head of the secret police, Colonel Bram Vexler. All stood when the doorman announced, “The honorable President Luther Irons.”
Jace’s chest filled with pride as his father strode in, holding his average frame with authority.
His strawberry-blond pompadour and bushy sideburns remained stubbornly free of gray.
However, Jace quickly realized his father was not happy.
He glowered through Reverend Quell’s opening prayer. Then they all took their seats.
The chamber held its breath until Luther’s fist struck the table. “Damn that Maddox Crane! Why did he have to defy me? Now we’re stuck with that fool Garcia leading my invasion.”
No one dared point out that it was the president who ordered Crane’s execution and appointed General Garcia as commander of the Republic’s joint military forces. However, Vexler, who leaned back in his chair, chewing a matchstick, said, “You can replace him, Mr. President.”
Vexler, wiry and bald, wore black leather like a uniform of menace.
Jace’s dad pursed his lips, his brows scrunched down over his eyes. “It’s too late for that.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket and pulled out a fist, crumpling a sheet of paper. “Do you know what this is?” He slammed it on the table.
The advisors stared. Venz appeared distracted, Graves indifferent.
Vice President Reagan began to sweat and loosened his tie, while Ren and Quell looked curious about why the president was so angry.
Jace was riveted and quite indignant that everyone else wasn’t as well.
Still, he held his tongue. He didn’t want to step out of line and cause his father’s fury to fall on him.
“A report from the front,” Luther growled.
“They haven’t even reached their first objective, and we’re already down fifteen thousand men.
The Navy failed to capture New Charleston—can you believe it?
Lost their ships and crew. Captured or destroyed.
And Garcia got caught with his pants down in an ambush in some godforsaken swamp. I tell you this is all Crane’s fault!”
“What of the enemy losses?” questioned Vexler. “Surely they lost more, which is a greater blow as they have fewer troops to begin with.”
Luther shoved the crumpled paper toward him. “See for yourself.”
“My solar-powered laser cannons.” Venz sat up, adjusted his glasses, and appeared interested for the first time. “Did they work?”
Vexler scanned the report. “It says the Navy successfully captured Forts Hammond and Jasper and holds the Gulf Coast. Garcia couldn’t say how many Verdancians attacked his caravan, but estimates they killed five thousand—and they captured an important general, son of some high-ranking lord.”
“Yeah.” Luther flicked his wrist and wiggled a shoulder. “I received a letter from the queen’s ambassador requesting a prisoner exchange or some such nonsense. I’ll see those prisoners executed before I give them over to her to continue their resistance.”
“But, Mr. President,” Reagan said timidly. “Don’t we want our prisoners returned?”
Luther smirked. “We have legions of soldiers and more rushing to enlist every day,” he answered dismissively. “They do not.”
“We can spin this to our advantage,” declared Minister Graves. She reminded Jace of his old school principal, whose rod of discipline and sharp threats terrified the children. Jace faced her like a grown man, her superior’s son, curious about her proposal.
“We report an overwhelming victory in our first land encounter with the enemy and play up the capture of Fort Hammond. Tell the people we now control the mouth of the Mother River and soon all of Verdancia,” she explained. “The public has no need to hear casualty figures.”
“I agree,” said Reverend Quell. The distinguished-looking revival preacher had been a close friend of Jace’s father for years and often joined the family for meals. He was kind of like an uncle, though Jace always thought of him as a snake oil salesman.
“The Scriptures of Dominion, a holy companion to the old Bible, say that omitting a fact or engaging in selective truth-telling is not the same as lying. We are well within our moral rights.”
Director Ren, who now held the report, said, “These lost ships can’t easily be replaced. It will take time, resources, and manpower. Thank heavens Garcia’s artillery and vehicles are all accounted for, save a few motorbikes.”
“What does it say about my laser cannons?” Dr. Venz snatched the page from her hand, scrutinizing it like a bug under a magnifying glass.
Graves resumed her proposal. “The president should make a formal announcement praising General Garcia’s progress and our naval victories.
No mention of New Charleston, of course.
Then our two major newspapers should print differing reports to encourage conversation and debate.
One paper should celebrate our brave soldiers and fearless leaders; the other should highlight the enemy’s underhanded guerrilla tactics. ”
“I don’t want to praise that stupid Garcia,” Irons thundered. “I want to pummel some sense into him.”
“Now, now, Luther,” Quell soothed in a placating, rhythmic tone. “God can use even fools to accomplish his will and purpose. We must present a united front before the masses.”
Luther grumbled, drumming his fingers on the wooden tabletop.
“I suppose I can overlook his stupidity in my speech. After all, congressional elections are coming up, and the Dominion Party must hold its majority. We shall present a unified message of success where the war is concerned. Jace,” he said, recognizing him for the first time. “How goes our ammunition production?”