by Jason Letts
Gasps erupted from Razi and Maglum. Sierra instantly recognized the small, winged creature hopping around on her legs. Nemi had returned, looking as chipper and friendly as ever.
“What?” Sierra mused, delighted, before the buzzing behind her head returned. She looked over her shoulder to find at least two dozen of the tiny dragons in the air and scampering about the beach. Looking up, she saw a handful of the larger dragons descending from above in graceful arcs.
“Liquid hell!” Tommack groaned, gulping in a sudden panic.
“Wait. Don’t move,” Sierra urged him, watching the dragons glide to the ground and land around them. A moment passed and Sierra became surer that the dragons meant them no harm, despite an increasing cacophony of chirping and crying. Nemi had crawled onto her shoulder and settled in as he had so long before.
“Sierra?” Her mother was ill at ease as well.
“We’re fine. Trust me, we’re fine. In fact, we might be better off than we were before,” she said, getting the impression they were there to stay. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were joining us. I have no evidence whatsoever to support this, but maybe you’re not to blame for what happened to the dragon by the docks. It was Velo Wozniak who slammed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide you were holding against its side. Maybe they’re smart enough not to blame you for that. If I had to say, I’d think they want to help us in our fight against the ones who took my father.”
Slowly, Sierra rose to her feet and approached one of the larger creatures, whose black scales and perceptive eyes were nothing short of magnificent. She reached out and touched it between the nostrils at the end of its long snout. It felt warm, but the creature was obviously making an effort not to scald her.
Sierra looked back at Tommack, who had his arms crossed in front of his stomach. He was apprehensive but accepting. If the dragons wouldn’t blame him, how could she? In the end, it had been a last ditch effort to get her father back, and blaming anyone for its failure was not productive. All she could do now was fight on in his name with those who wanted to stand by her side.
“It looks like we’re going to have some company on our trip,” she said to him. “Are you with me or against me?”
“I’m with you,” he said, shaking his head and grinning.
Razi and Maglum, both fearless adventurers, were quick to take a liking to their new companions. While the smaller dragons scuttled about, the two Madorans climbed onto one of the larger ones and settled in as they had for the ride back from the canyon. The dragon groaned under the weight, and Sierra laughed.
“I promised I’d take you to Cumeria, and you’re about to get all you can stomach of it,” she said.
It seemed that in the blink of an eye their prospects had improved dramatically. With the help of the dragons, Sierra and her family now had a bit more muscle with which to make their case back home. Nemi crawled on top of her head and then slid down onto her nose. It tickled, and she laughed again.
“It’s good to have you back,” she whispered.
With a handful of giant dragons beside her and dozens of little ones, all of them able to melt steel, crack iron, and explode cement, how could anything stand in her way?
CHAPTER 16
“Let me tell you what I like about Randall Bracken. I’m serious here. This guy was at the top, now he’s at the bottom, and he’s doing anything he can to claw his way back up. He’s scrappy, and best of all I know he’s looking out for me. A Cumerian government that revolves solely around just one man isn’t healthy for the nation or its citizens, and we all want to get Randall Bracken in there so we can restore the Grand Council. Someone tell me I’m wrong.”
People on the TV always had such nice things to say about Randall, who watched from a small room with a cot and a single electrical outlet inside an abandoned hotel that his campaign had taken over for their headquarters. He punched the power button to turn it off, knowing the reality was much less rosy than it seemed.
“You’re wrong,” he said, leaning against a bare wall with a crack running through it that branched out like a tree.
Since Chancellor Aggart had made the election official, Randall’s campaign had broken out into the open and multiplied into a complex operation with funding, staff, and transportation all provided by the Lu Dynasty. Right now there were a dozen people below on the ground floor plotting his next move and conducting polls. Randall had just completed an entire lap around the country, hitting Rock Shield by the Seasand Desert, the cities in the southwest, the university towns in the southeast, and some of the rebel strongholds lining the Acetelyne Mountains along Cumeria’s backbone.
Despite great speeches and fiery deliveries, not to mention a receptive audience that was already skeptical of the chancellor’s moves, Randall was not convinced he was wowing the crowds in a way that would lead to the infectious outpouring of support it would take to win. He woke up each cycle praying for news that Taylor had finished off Aggart, but until then, or in the case that he didn’t succeed, Randall had no choice but to put his all into the campaign.
A knock came at the door, rattling Randall, who also had a sneaking fear the chancellor would break his promise and try to take him out before the election.
“Yes,” he said, watching as Dodson the canny journalist slipped through and closed the door behind him. He carried some papers and a pork muffin, mediocre-tasting specialties of the town they were in between Toine and Ristle. “Have you found her yet?”
“Not yet,” he answered. The man had a dour, no-nonsense look on his bearded face that made it clear Randall wasn’t about to get the good news he was hoping for.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got the new numbers after your tour. If the election were today, we estimate you’d get about thirty-three percent of the vote,” he said, circling the number on his paper.
“That’s higher than it was,” Randall noted.
“But still less than the forty-two percent who disapproved of the chancellor before his takeover,” Dodson added.
At heart, Dodson was not a campaign manager, and didn’t have the bedside manner Randall remembered from working with his old staff. But Niffer, Skunky, and Fast Talker still wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and neither would any other members of the old political establishment they were able to dig up. Randall and the Bracken name were still toxic, and losing the election put anyone involved at risk of more than just being out of work. Still, he knew there was someone out there who really supported him.
“Do we have a plan?” Randall asked, trying to fight off his own pessimism.
“We’ve got a few ideas, some appearances here or food deliveries there, but nothing major. Time is running out, and if we don’t find a way to shake up this race we’re going to come up extremely short,” Dodson said.
Pursing his lips, Randall looked at the dark screen and tried to imagine something that would generate some real excitement.
“What if we went back to the rebel towns and tried to broker a peace agreement? Instead of giving speeches and food to the hungry again, we meet with the leaders and see if they’ll stop the raids,” Randall proposed.
Dodson had an uncomfortable look on his face.
“I wish that were a real option, but you’d never get the Wozniaks or the Illiams at the table with you, and then the only thing you’re really prodding the rebels toward is surrender, which they’d never accept. The move might cost you your only strong source of support,” Dodson explained.
The pair sat in silence for a moment. Randall sighed, inwardly thanking Dodson for not mentioning more reasons his idea wouldn’t work that quickly sprang to mind. The Wozniaks and the Illiams would sooner slit his throat than give him one second of their time. Rumors were already floating around that they had his father, and he was one of only a few people who knew they were true.
“We’ve still got a few weeks left. It’s not over, right?” Randall asked.
“Twenty percent is a huge g
ap. The only thing that makes winning still a possibility is that we have no idea what the turnout will be like on Election Day. If the people along the south really take the election to heart and the fighting ties up a lot of the north, we might find ourselves shitting gold when all the votes get counted.”
Randall snorted and shared a smile with a guy who had turned into as close to a real friend as he’d had in a while. In a way he felt bad for Dodson though, that he was forced to take up the losing side of this fight because his bosses ordered it.
“Look, I just want to say I’m sorry I’m not connecting with people as strongly as we thought I would. It seemed so easy on paper, just run against the power-hungry madman and win, but that’s not enough for people. I’m getting hard-hitting policy questions from everyday folks about what I would do if I were elected, and the answers I give them don’t hit home. Even with a shabby suit and unkempt hair, they just don’t see me as one of them.”
“They will. We’ll find a way to make it work,” Dodson said, putting his arm over Randall’s shoulder.
“It would help if Cori were here. She always knew the right way to steer me,” Randall said, looking down.
“Nobody knows where she is. We’ve looked everywhere and talked to everyone. As far as we know, she’s—”
“Don’t say it, Dodson. I know she’s out there and nothing’s going to convince me differently,” Randall insisted.
The journalist swallowed and scratched the back of his neck.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything or load you up with bad news. We’ve got some prep work to do while it’s dark and then you’ve got some aid groups to meet with. Oh, and we got word that Angela Lu wants to be patched in for a call as well,” he said casually, as if the time hadn’t come for her to start grinding his nuts in a vise.
When Floret handed Randall a small device and told him he had to keep it on his body at all times, Randall didn’t need to wonder what it was for. After a moment of awe at a cell phone like no other that had circular antennae forming a ring around a device that would easily fit in his pocket, the purpose of having it hit home to him. The phone had no buttons and barely had a mouthpiece at all. Communication was meant to go one way, from the Lu Dynasty back in Iron City to Randall, who had promised them he’d do what they wanted in exchange for a shot at the chancellorship.
They had delivered, leaving Randall to wonder what they wanted to collect.
For two cycles the phone was nothing more than a rock in his pocket, weighing him down as he got on his soapbox to speak or shook hands with locals and visitors to his headquarters. But as he was boosting morale at a phone bank trying to solicit donations for his cause, it began to buzz in his pocket, and he quickly ducked away and leapt up the stairs to his room. Failing to answer was not an option when everything he had depended on came from the ones who were on the other end of the line.
He closed his door and his eyes, collecting himself before reaching into his pocket and producing the phone, which seemed to answer itself as he raised it.
“Angela Lu?”
“Randall Bracken?” came the stiff, accentless voice of arguably the most powerful woman in the world.
“Yes,” he answered, knowing full well it was a word he would have to employ at every possible opportunity.
“I need to be sure this is you, so you must answer this question that only someone who has seen me in person can answer. How many younger sisters do I have?”
“Umm,” Randall stammered, kicking himself for not remembering such a detail. He remembered Taylor trying to flirt with one, but there were more to Angela’s right along that long table. Were there three, or two? They all looked so much alike, bringing Randall back to the thought that they’d somehow been cloned, making them not sisters at all.
A deep sigh and heavy breathing came through the receiver.
“Randall Bracken, I trust you are pleased with the progress of our agreement. Our subsidiaries in the Cumerian media have worked nonstop to help you force this election and build support for your candidacy. Is there anything else you need from us to help you accomplish your goal?”
Some better poll numbers. A more informed electorate. A fucking human being who isn’t here just because of your money.
“I can’t think of a thing,” Randall replied, but some of the exasperation must’ve crept through in his voice, because Angela didn’t hesitate to pivot toward his hardships.
“We understand that if the election were held today, you would not come close to winning the popular vote and supplanting Aggart as Chancellor of Cumeria. The public is still skeptical of you and many voters in the country are unreachable by any means we have. The time to change the course of this campaign is now, but the path ahead is likely to only grow more difficult.”
“What do you mean?” Randall asked, putting his hand to his forehead. He already felt like the whole operation was one nail away from being sealed in a coffin, and the promise of more bad news seemed the only thing worse than imposing demands from his secret financier.
“I regret to inform you that we’ve identified a new threat to your candidacy, or more precisely a threat to our ability to deliver your message to the people of Cumeria. Chancellor Aggart has instructed the Cumerian Guard to begin severing what are known as the alpha lines delivering electricity, phone, and television service to parts of the country you are gaining traction with,” she explained.
“That’s treasonous,” Randall gasped. The idea that the chancellor was willing to sabotage his own nation in order to secure a win in the election singed Randall’s insides. “Do we have any proof?”
“One of the alpha lines south of Ristle running along the east coast has already been cut off, leading to outages for tens of thousands. We’re rushing to repair the damage, but it’ll take time.”
“Wait,” Randall said, pacing back and forth. “I’ve got an idea. We need to expose the chancellor on this and make the case to everyone that he’s perfectly willing to sacrifice people’s wellbeing for a political edge. If you hold off on repairing the break, I’ll get down there immediately with the cameras, and we’ll use this as the turning point we need to get through to people.”
He waited for a moment, anxious for Angela’s response. This could put the chancellor on the defensive in the best possible way, not to mention stop him from severing any more power lines.
“That could work. We’ll pass along the coordinates of the break,” Angela replied, dousing Randall with a euphoric sense of relief. “But I urge one caution. You must not tell anyone how you heard about this information.”
That couldn’t have been more obvious to Randall, who had lost sleep thinking about what would happen if it got out that the Lu Dynasty was propping up his candidacy. It would completely delegitimize him and make it impossible for him to get into power, even if Taylor was able to successfully create an opening for him. There’d be riots in the streets. Randall recalled that a candidate fifty or so years ago had been burned alive at the mere mention by a rival that he was in cahoots with the southern lords.
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” he said, but as it was Randall guessed people in Aggart’s camp had their suspicions about all that glowing TV coverage. The only thing that made it plausible was that in every election there was usually a candidate who outright bought full-throated support from every media outlet in the country. Aggart had done it himself in recent memory. While the Brackens didn’t have much money at the moment, it was widely perceived they were calling in favors. That was the only thing keeping out the idea of some Lu influence.
“You’ll hear from us again.”
Randall looked at the phone, getting the sense that the call had ended with that threat from Angela. He put it away and focused on the task at hand. Throwing open the door and trotting down the stairs, Randall found he didn’t need to fake the excitement that was so crucial to winning.
“Dodson, Floret, get the cameras ready and get to the van. We�
�ve got some driving to do,” he called, flashing a smile at the people in the phone bank.
“What is it?” Dodson asked, looking up from some papers.
“Aggart’s cutting power lines to keep people in the dark about us,” Randall said.
“No kidding?” Floret added.
Within a half hour they had everything they needed in the van and were ready to go. A handful of crewmembers joined them, but Floret didn’t as they needed her at Headquarters to monitor the broadcast link and the national conversation on the much-diminished wire. Dodson was at the helm next to Randall in the passenger’s seat, and they spent the entire ride discussing how best to spin the situation.
They reached the site in the first few hours of daylight, and everyone was anxious to get away from the stuffy smell of body odor that had built up from everyone huddling together for so long. After piling out, Dodson took them for a walk along a wooded meadow as he attempted to reconcile his map with the coordinates from the Lus.
They spotted their destination through the thinning trees, a huge mound of dirt as tall as any of them. It seemed unnatural in this otherwise undisturbed section of meadow. They climbed the hill and looked down into a hole at least ten feet deep that exposed a section of tubing and wire that had been hacked open and lay in pieces.
“Get the cameras up here now and take some shots while it’s still shooting sparks,” Dodson ordered to his compliant crew.
Randall stared for a moment at the wreckage, getting steamed over Chancellor Aggart’s egregious misuse of power. He had to go, but it wouldn’t do for Randall to appear on camera overly angry about it. He had to strike the right tone, something demonstrating strong disapproval with an underlying optimism for something better.
“I don’t understand why he would do this if he’s still so far up in the polls,” Randall said.