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

She looked away from him, touching the side of her neck with her long, pale fingers. Beneath her skin, she could feel her flesh pulsate in time with the thudding in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I hear your counsel. We hold back. For now. In the meantime, I demand regular updates. Everything you know, I must know. Immediately.”

“As you wish, Governor.”

Back in her office, alone at last, Blix collapsed in the chair behind her desk. She had locked her door and drawn the blinds, blocking out the orange glow from the thickening dust cloud. Fumbling to open a drawer beside her, she pulled out a small, silver box. With trembling hands, she opened the box and tipped out two white pills. She put them in her mouth, wincing as she swallowed.

A sheen had formed on her face, dampening the edge of her hair where it was scraped back into a bun. Her neck had flushed from pale to pink where her clipped nails had attacked the creeping itch. Anxiety wracked her body, agitating every nerve, causing her heart to race.

What had begun as a commitment to Governor Wallace’s legacy had grown into a dark, consuming obsession. She had expanded the Deaf Squad, strengthened the Allears, built countless more whisper dishes. Yet, in twenty years of being in power, she had failed to claim the life of a single Music Maker. She felt their very existence to be a perpetual taunt, a pervasive threat to her control of the city and its impressionable citizens.

She would not rest until they were destroyed.

She gripped the edge of the chair and struggled to slow her breathing. Her eyes fell on the latest Project Alpha report, which lay on the desk before her. She picked it up and flicked through the pages until she found a table densely filled with numbers. Below this were charts in various format. As she ran a finger along lines of data, her breathing gradually slowed and the faintest, most diluted hint of colour returned to her cheeks.

She had read the report several times already. The project was ahead of schedule and achieving positive outcomes. Her ambition for export diversification and wealth generation was one step closer to becoming a reality.

Closing the report, Blix leant back against the chair and closed her eyes, relishing the calming effects of order, success and the five hundred milligrams of Meezel dissolving into her bloodstream.

–

Dent Lore stood before the glazed aperture, silently observing the scene within. The room was like a small hospital ward, with two rows of four beds facing each other. In the beds lay eight small bodies in striped pyjamas. Bandages were wrapped around their heads, covering their eyes and nose. Tubes ran from raised pouches of opaque liquid down to limp arms. A man in a white lab coat moved from one bed to another, administering an injection into the upper left arm of each occupant, then scribbling something on a clipboard at the end of their bed.

It had been five days since the children had been taken, two days since their physical adjustment. They were now receiving their first dose of Chromatofen. Dressings would be removed tomorrow. Training scheduled to commence the day after.

The man in the white coat injected the last child. As he moved around the bed to pick up the clipboard, he caught sight of Dent through the window. Their eyes met.

The contact was fleeting, but it was enough for Dent to read the man’s expression. The faintest trace of accusation, laced with muted disgust. Then the man looked down at the clipboard and jotted something. He replaced it, checked the child’s pulse and left the room.

Eight minors, aged between fourteen and sixteen. Five girls, three boys. In twenty-four hours, the remainder of their adjustment would become Dent’s responsibility. Aside from the daily dose of Chromatofen to ensure compliance, it would be his own devised programme of training and re-education that would transform them from civilian minors into an elite Special Force. And his time to achieve this end had been reduced by half.

When Wulfwin had told him about the deadline, he had believed it impossible. Then he refocused, summoned resolution. If the Governor willed it to be done, then it must be done. If the timescale was required to serve the Authority’s needs, then he had to do everything in his power to achieve success. This was his motivation, his sole ambition.

Despite his ploy to minimise their suffering, the damage had already been done by hands not his own. The children had been forcibly taken, their bodies unnecessarily mutilated. He could not undo the violence. What else, then, but to endeavour to ensure it wasn’t all for nothing? The logic salved his conscience. The look in the man’s eyes was a passing stab at an already tender wound. Dent repressed the hurt with faith that it wouldn’t last.

Submerged in his thoughts, he failed to hear footsteps approach. A voice directly behind him, close to his left ear, brought him rushing to the surface. “Tell me what you see,” it said.

Dent spun around and came face to face with Blix. “Governor—”

“Look at them, not me,” she said in a cut-glass half-whisper. “I repeat. Tell me what you see.”

His heart pounding, Dent grappled with composure. Taking deep breaths, he surveyed the scene through Allear eyes. “I see potential, Governor. Latent talent that is my responsibility to make manifest and maximise.”

“Interesting. You say it is your responsibility. I am curious to know your will.”

“My will is to serve you, Governor Blix, and the Authority. I am loyal to the cause.”

“You mention loyalty. I did not.” She stepped back. “Turn and face me.” Dent obeyed, looking ahead in the poise of salute. “Look at me.” A moment’s hesitation, then Dent met and held her piercing stare. “Now respond in a way that isn’t textbook arse-licking.”

Faint lines crept across Dent’s brow as he struggled to reformulate his response. Wary of how hesitation may