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

To this end, live music was declared a first-degree drug on account of its perceived hypnotic influence and volatile effect on behaviour. Legislation was passed making it illegal to participate in, perform or associate with any activity related to live music. Enforcement would be ruthless, he warned, punishment severe.

The emblems that represented the four bands at the heart of the Scene were also outlawed. Wallace had long been looking for an excuse. He distrusted the musicians that commanded such loyalty, suspicious of the respect so freely given by those who followed. The relationship was incompatible with his version of what it meant to lead and what it meant to follow. He read a subtext of power that posed a threat to his own. The emblems had to go.

Flags were confiscated and destroyed; badges stitched to tunics and caps, torn off; tattoos surgically censored. Visible association with any one of the Music Makers became a criminal offence, carrying excessive penalties designed to deter.

In addition, any form of protest or public demonstration, peaceful or otherwise, was pronounced an act of treason against the state. Legislation on sentencing was toughened substantially.

To cater for the impact, Itherside Hold high-security penitentiary was built. It was an unequivocal demonstration of the Authority’s intent – a message clearly stated in steel bars and concrete.

These interventions were punitive – an exercise in consequence for challenging the rule of the Authority. Meanwhile, Wallace and his Chief of Police, Commissioner Blix, remained focused on the only consequence that meant anything to them.

Blix had witnessed the mesmerised crowd, how the musicians’ intangible power dwarfed her own. She concluded there was something in the Makers’ music, a force words could not describe. She saw first-hand how this significantly undermined the control of the police officers present and, by default, the sovereignty of the Authority.

United in their ambition, Wallace and Blix both feared this new threat to achieving absolute control. Privately, they swore they would have their revenge upon the Music Makers – the source of the sociogenic disease.

Through a carefully crafted communication campaign, the Authority demonised the illness, claiming it a catastrophic threat to the peace and stability of Wydeye. The messages were tailored to sway public opinion on the cause and the cost. Citizens were to regard the festival and rebellion dead as culpable participants in mass hysteria, rather than innocent victims of an avoidable tragedy.

While the propaganda machine maintained its course, words were backed by action. The Authority’s Special Forces diversified. The Deaf Squad were created first, mindful of the lessons on vulnerability learnt from Rideout. They operated with impunity and without restriction on the use of force. Unit Superiors were recruited from the state police and the military. The Squad’s foot soldiers were made up of civilian volunteers and convicted violent criminals who opted for re-education and a full term of service in favour of indefinite incarceration in one of the state’s unregulated detention centres.

Then came the Allears. Invasive experimentation was conducted on early recruits to establish viable methods of sensory manipulation to enhance aural capability. The resultant methods of adjustment proved effective.

Adding to ears on the ground, the first whisper dishes appeared around Coxen Lyme and Crow, Hundreds historically synonymous with the city’s once-thriving music scene.

Despite the severity of risk and repercussion, the Scene continued, albeit at a far-reduced level and with elaborate precautions to preserve secrecy. Even so, events were raided, musicians lost to Itherside Hold, followers brutally beaten and imprisoned.

Soon, the only bands remaining were those the Authority had labelled the Music Makers: four groups of players who had dominated the Scene for decades.

Their capture became Governor Wallace and Commissioner Blix’s all-consuming obsession.

And once, only once, they came very close indeed.

A raid was made on an old warehouse in Coxen Lyme, following positive detection by a unit of Allears. The warehouse was stormed in a dramatic display of excessive force and disproportionate aggression. A number of the audience were killed in the assault. Scores were arrested and subsequently tortured for information.

Of the band who was performing at the time, the drummer was captured and promptly transported to the most secure detention unit in the Authority Complex: the notorious C-Block. There, the drummer endured a protracted interrogation.

Rumours regarding his horrific torture became the subject of legend down in the streets and markets of Wydeye. Yet, as far as any citizen knew, the drummer did not betray his band, for they were never captured.

The band was Bend Sinister.

Chapter Six

“Today, we prepare. Tomorrow, we play.”

Deep underground, Chief looked to each of her players, who formed a circle around her. They all dressed the same: bespoke outfits constructed from pieces of grey cloth adorned with strips of leather, buckles and steel chain. Their faces were pale and ageless, their eyes intense.

“It will be a poignant occasion,” she said. “Many followers may not know of Saltire’s passing, but word will soon spread. Our music will not diminish their sorrow, but it can cradle it. This is our responsibility. Tonight, we play in memory of our lost leader and her players. Let us feel their presence and remember.”

They were stood in a cavernous space, the cave’s ceiling arching high above. The limestone walls were smooth and undulating. Soda straws hung from the ceiling like the pipes of an inverted church organ. As they stood, heads bowed, a steady trickle of water denied them silence.

After a period of reflection, Chief raised her head. “Any questions?”

“Will the others be there?” asked the drummer.

“Bend Sinister, possibly. I doubt very much that Pale Dexter will attend.”

“Do you anticipate followers of Saltire will come?” said the bassist.

“Yes. Of those who know her fate, I imagine a number will. They must feel displaced. Despite their grief, they will need to find a new home.”

The guitarist raised his eyebrows. “Is that why Pale Dexter opposed our request to perform?”

“Quite possibly.” She flicked her silver dreads and crossed her arms. “Although, I am sure he will find a way to