The voice reads on, and a lot of it is like babble in my ears, but the gist of it seems to be this: the sun above this wasteland has what the Federation calls an active period that strikes roughly every 116 years. Frequent flares erupt from the sun, causing geomagnetic storms of disastrous size, some lasting for days on end and occurring so frequently that they feel almost like one continuous storm. After about nine or ten moons of this, the sun will go quiet again, with the occasional dust storm or silent storm striking just a few times a year. And another 116 years later, the active period starts again.

Occasionally the solar cycle might be shorter or longer, perhaps by two or three years. There will be little warning if this happens, just an increase in flares and solar storms, kicking off the stretch of bad weather. The final warning sign will be an aurora that appears like a wide-stretching curtain, visible from the ground.

“I’m guessing that the storm Amory mentioned hit far more than two or three years early,” Reed says. “Otherwise those Federation people would never have brought weapons that could malfunction in the storms.”

“There must be another active period coming,” I say. “There’s been two silent storms just in the past two moons.”

He nods. “Meaning your plan will be the easiest to carry out soon. If Powder Town can build a fleet quickly, you’ll have a long stretch of silent storms to choose from when it comes to an attack on Bedrock.”

“It also means more chances for the General to realize that the weapons I trade him don’t work during the bad weather. If we can attack before the active period—maybe in the next storm or two, as the sun amps up—we might be able to pull it off. If we wait too long, we miss our chance.”

We load the wagon with all we can carry—one hundred and twenty mag-rifles, eighteen boxes stocked full of the bullet cases (each holding ten bullets), and two dozen plas bottles of water from the storeroom.

It takes all day to move the supplies onto the wind wagon. We cram what we can belowdecks, then stack the rest along the sideboards and near the stern. It weighs down the Gods Touched significantly. Between the load and the headwind, it’s going to take us a while to cross the barren stretch of desert, and by the time we’re ready to leave, the sun is setting.

“Should we wait until morning to shove off?” Asher asks.

“What’s the point?” I say. “We’ll take shifts—we know where we’re headed. Any extra time spent here just eats into our supplies.”