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

it’s so much more than that. The A have stepped up their campaign, even by their standards. And it’s working. You’ve seen the murals: images of raised fists and jackboot-trampled rats. They’re engendering resentment and reinforcing division. I’ve heard people talk. Even in The Raven. They’re soaking up the A’s fiction and regurgitating it as fact. They’re no longer simply wary of the Scene. There’s a hatred brewing, fuelled by the lies the A feeds them. What chance has the Scene to counter the message? How can it compete other than to prove the truth?

“When I started out, all I wanted to do was to share what I had discovered. To grow the audience so that others could experience what I had felt at that first Bend Sinister show. I was sixteen, yet I remember it like it was yesterday. The experience changed my life. I knew others would feel the same, if only they had access. I believed more would be prepared to take the risk if they knew the reward. My hope has always been that the tide might then reverse. If enough people overcame their fear, despite the risks, then there’s hope for a movement to challenge the A. Deny the fiction. Growing the audience – that’s always been my aim.”

“And you’re achieving that,” said Ursel. “There are hundreds of us. I see new faces each time I go. You’re still reaching people; it’s still working.”

“But it’s not enough. It’s not happening fast enough. I’m afraid the Scene is close to collapsing. Bluemantle can’t compete anymore. It can’t counter the growing force of prejudice. Hatred and blame are a disease that citizens are too weak to resist. Fear has left them too blind to challenge.”

“But that’s what you’ve always responded to. Bluemantle invites the challenge. I appreciate progress may feel slow. But it can’t be about pace of change. Because what’s the alternative? Do nothing and let them win?”

“No, of course not. But at this rate, popular sentiment will overpower us. They portray us as vermin. I can see us becoming drowning rats.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

He shook his head and sighed. “No. I don’t.”

Ursel reached out her hand and held his. “You’re upset. What’s just happened with Evan, that’s terrible. I know how close you guys are. And I don’t want to say anything now that encourages you to act one way or another. But on the question of Bluemantle, I will say this. It has to stand firm. It’s the only invitation. It’s our only chance.”

Cole nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. It has to keep going. I have to keep it going. It’s just that now, on top of everything, I risk losing the only other thing that means anything to me.”

Wary of interfering, Ursel hesitated, then said, “Was it specifically about attending the Contest? Or was it also about making the drop? If he’s asked you to choose, is making the drop part of it too?”

“For him, yes, I believe it is.”

“And for you?”

Cole sighed and slowly stood up. His shoulders sagged; his arms hung limp by his sides. “The Contest is less of an issue. However important it is, however much I long to be there and have my vote counted, I guess it can happen without me. But Bluemantle is different. Making the drop. That’s where I don’t have a choice. I’ve made a commitment. I have to…” He broke off, noticing the silence surrounding them. “The copier…” He disappeared behind the dresser. A few moments later, the whir of industry resumed. He reappeared, holding a wad of printed sheets. “I’d best get folding. Excuse me.”

“I came by to help. I know you normally manage on your own, but I figured they’d want you to print more. I can do some of the folding. Singlehanded,” she added with a smile. “I can help with the drops too, if you like.”

Cole hesitated, staring at the spot where Evan had stood. Then he nodded once and placed the copies on the desk. They both stood in silence, pressing fold after defiant fold.

After two hours’ work, the fanzine was ready for distribution. Copies were packed into tight, brick-like bundles, wrapped in brown paper bags and stacked tall like a sandbag wall. Ordinarily, Cole would then work his way around the city, hiding bundles in secure locations familiar to followers. This time, however, he had been asked to double the quantity. He knew he couldn’t carry too many at a time and still remain inconspicuous. The job of distribution would take several days.

Cole noticed Ursel surveying the wall of bags. “I can manage,” he said. “You’ve already saved me hours on the prep. I can handle it from here.”

“I know you can. But you don’t have to do this alone.”

He brought his fingers to his eyes and gently rubbed.

“But I don’t want to interfere,” she added, unsure of how to read his hesitation. “This is your deal. I’ll do whatever you want. Just know that I’m happy to help.”

It was only then that Cole realised what felt odd. Usually by now he would be high on adrenalin, having worked flat out to produce his prized creation. The job of distribution was fraught with danger, yet it was such a crucial part of the whole operation that it usually rewarded him with a deep sense of accomplishment – a rare moment of humble pride. This time it was different. He felt detached from the process, numb to the purpose and what it represented. Pride was replaced by guilt. His sense of accomplishment, now a daunting obligation to a promise already made.

He turned around and picked up a long roll of paper that was leant against the dresser. He knelt down on the floor and unrolled the paper, placing makeshift weights on each corner. It was a large, handdrawn map of Wydeye. “If you’re sure, then I would appreciate your help,” he said, looking up at Ursel.

She nodded and knelt down beside him, listening carefully as