BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

willing to trade, sees a copy, Special Forces will come down heavy. It’s inevitable. But before that happens, we need to get Bluemantle into the hands of as many citizens as we can. Only then will we have the volume we need for the walkout to work.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I have to believe it will, else what’s the point? Which is why you did what you did last night. Right?”

Wella smiled briefly, subconsciously touching the mark on her face.

A man walked past, making his way to the Wall of the Missing. Wella caught her breath and held her hand to her chest.

“What is it?” said Nial.

“I’ve got to go. There’s someone I need to speak to.”

She darted off in the direction of the man, who was now scanning the photos through welling eyes. She caught up and stood behind him. “Excuse me. It’s Evan, isn’t it?”

The man turned around and gazed at her through red-raw eyes.

“My name’s Wella,” she said. “I knew Cole. From underground. He often spoke of you. Carried your picture.”

He glanced over his shoulder, indicating the Wall. “His picture’s here, somewhere. But so many have been added, even in the short time since…” He wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Sorry. It doesn’t get any easier.”

“I saw his father. He doesn’t think the A have him.”

“I know. I beg the Deep that were true, but false hope is a fleeting friend.”

“But, if they have him, isn’t there real hope? If we win and force the A to release people, maybe—”

“Hope’s all well and good if you think there’s a crow’s chance. But I don’t. They will have tortured him, despite knowing he would never talk. It’s been twelve days. I have to… I have to believe it’s over, that he’s finally at peace.” He swallowed hard. “That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve walked out. We’ve got to put a stop to it. To what they do to people. We’ve sat back for too long. Acceptance makes us complicit.”

She looked at Evan, at the passion flushing his face and pulsing in his jaw. “I’m going to ask you a favour. You can say no, but I hope you don’t.”

“If it helps with this,” he gestured towards the Wall, “then I’ll do anything.”

“Please speak to people. Anyone here who will listen. Tell them about Cole and what he did. What he created and what he risked his life for. Tell them about Bluemantle and why it was important. Not just to Cole and the Scene. But what it meant about making a choice. The freedom to choose. Tell them what it cost Cole to create that freedom for others. Tell them that he knew what the cost would be. And that he did it anyway.”

–

Across the city, citizens began their commute to work. Delays on the tramways caused queues at the stops. Ordinarily reliable, the network was struggling to cope with an increasing number of absent drivers and signal operators. Commuters were unaccustomed to the disruption. They stood in line, anxiously clock-watching as their window to punch in approached.

Authority personnel manning the spring water distribution stations spotted the opportunity. Free bottles were handed out to those waiting in line. The morning was already warm; queuing commuters drank the water, grateful for the refreshment.

Followers also targeted the captive audience. Once the bottle distributors had moved on, followers worked down the lines, thrusting copies of Bluemantle into empty hands, murmuring, “Read this,” and, “Spread the word.” Citizens looked startled. Many dropped the pamphlet as if handed something contaminated. Most appraised the piece of folded paper with idle curiosity. Another tramway pulled in, then pulled out. The line shuffled forward. They had nothing better to do. So they read.

Murmurs rippled along the waiting lines, and in the cafés and tea bars where workers paused for breakfast. Citizens looked around them, wide-eyed, fearful they were in possession of some anti-Authority propaganda. Others looked at their free bottle of spring water, uncapped the lid and sniffed the contents. Above and around them loomed didactic murals: illustrated reminders of enemies of the state. Radios reinforced the narrative. “Laziness feeds off idle hands, restricting productivity. Resist! Keep fit and healthy and achieve your work goals. Citizens of Wydeye, watch out for the rats. The nest is near. Protect your family – keep your eyes open and tell us what you see. The Exchange is waiting for you, twenty-four seven. You know it makes sense.”

A jarring of voices. Conflicting messages.

Unease began to spread.

–

Up in the Authority Complex, the Council of Command sat in session. As acting leaders, the Chief of Command and Chief of Staff had called the emergency meeting. Eleven Commanders sat around a large, oval board table in the Authority’s Operations HQ. The seat of the twelfth Commander was vacant, as was the seat at the head of the table. Either side of this sat Wulfwin and the Chief of Staff, both deputising as Chair. The Chief of Staff did not speak a word.

“To implement the plan with any meaningful chance of success,” said Wulfwin, “we need adequate resources. It is my intention to mobilise the Allears, Deaf Squad and one hundred Special Forces troopers, as well as five transporter trucks, eight Ops trucks and the full fleet of field bikes.”

The Commanders looked to each other, heads shaking, establishing mutual resistance and a shared reluctance to be the one to disagree.

With evident unease, Special Forces Commander Fentlow mustered the courage to speak up. His tall frame and broad shoulders diminished beneath the pressure. “But that would leave less than two hundred troopers to cover the entire city. I’ve still got men on the Heights, remember. What about the situation outside the Exchange? If anything, we need more resources to contain it.”

“There’s nothing to contain. They’ve been playing ring-a-roses around the site for three days and still nothing’s happened. And nothing’s going to happen. The scum wouldn’t dare.” Plus, there’s the water, he thought, suppressing a self-satisfied sneer.

“But the numbers are growing.