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

a decent deal, I reckon. Meanwhile, they get intel out of her that could lead them straight to the nest.”

An image of Ursel flashed across Chase’s mind: strapped to a chair, skin torn and bleeding, eyes buried beneath swollen sockets. Bile rose up his throat and he almost gagged. He took a swig of beer to wash it down and buy time to recover.

“I’m serious,” said Weldon, oblivious. “It’s not like she’s a friend. You barely know her. Okay, you might feel bad, knowing what they’ll do to her. But if it means leading them to the Scene and an end to it once and for all… Think of all the suffering that’ll be avoided in the long run.”

The unconscious reaction had receded, leaving behind a wound of recognition, tender to coercion. “No. Leave Ursel out of this.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she’s trying to help. I know she’s part of the Scene, but it’s different.”

“How, exactly?”

“Because she’s Wella’s friend. She’s helping me in order to help Wella. I can’t go behind her back and betray her. Besides, I need her to take me to the next event. I hear what you’re saying about leaving Wella to face the music, but she’s still my sister. Unfortunately, blood runs deeper than reason. I have to at least speak to her. And I need Ursel to do that.”

“If she knows where and when the next event is, why doesn’t she just tell you? She doesn’t have to take you there.”

“It’s some secrecy pact they have. The details are in Bluemantle for those who can decipher them. They’re not allowed to actually tell anyone.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’ll take you there but can’t tell you anything? How’s that more secret?”

“I guess it’s so that word can’t get out beforehand, so the A don’t get wind of it.”

“She trusts you, right?”

“So she says.”

“Then push her. Come up with some excuse. Persuade her to tell you.”

“She won’t. I know she won’t. Besides, she might get suspicious if I start laying on the pressure.”

Weldon sat back, arms crossed, eyes small and delving. “Why are you protecting her?”

Again, Chase’s chest tightened; his gut rolled. “Look,” he said, with more force than he had intended, “I’m protecting Wella, not Ursel.” He attempted to reign in the sudden flush of frustration. “Ursel’s on our side and I need her to stay that way.”

“Everything Users do is a finger up to the rest of us. They don’t give a shit, as long as they get their fix. They’ve given up caring about the consequences, they’re that drugged up. Fine, protect her. If that’s what you want. But I’m telling you, if the next event is raided, and Wella’s captured, then remember you could’ve done something to stop it. When you’re arrested and tortured alongside the hundreds of innocent people who weren’t even at the fucking show, then spare a thought as to how things might’ve turned out different if you’d had the balls to act.” Weldon stood up. “I hope I’ve been straight enough. It’s over to you.” Denying Chase the final word, he turned and left.

Chase remained, bewildered in the debris of reaction. He had to protect Ursel as his source. He felt sure his rationale had stood up to the pressure. She was his ticket in. Without knowing where and when the event was to be held, she was the only way he’d find it once the time came. Then he’d get word to Wulfwin and the raid would be on. By then, he’d have time to get Wella out. And Ursel too.

He pictured Ursel’s face at the Chief show: an image of crystalline emotion that had lodged itself in his memory, reappearing repeatedly since that night. He reached up and touched the scab on his shoulder, suffering its nagging itch. Ursel’s different, he thought, believing his conviction without understanding why.

–

It was midnight. Weldon stumbled through the Pentagon, propelled by a toxic cocktail of alcohol, frustration and rage.

When he had walked out on Chase, he was too fired up to go home. Cutting through to First Went, he had headed for a Pyncher bar. One gill led to three, then four. Still, his temper would not rest. The arguments kept up relentlessly, stoking the fire of anger and resentment that burnt in his chest. Beside him, pasted onto the wall where he had sat, was an Authority-issued flyer. It depicted a terrified child pressing her hands against her ears, while crotchets and quavers stabbed like bloodied daggers through the walls. Above, the slogan: “Keep Our Children Safe. Do the Right Thing.”

Now in the Pentagon, the warm, sand-clogged air did nothing to clear his mind. All he could think about was the children who had gone missing the previous week. Rumours were rife. Stories of infant labour in one of the unmarked factories in Coxen Lyme, speculation about laboratory tests in the Science Centres of the Authority Complex, talk of their use in subterranean excavations beneath a top-secret military base in the Nanso Heights. There was no evidence to suggest their disappearance was somehow connected to both the Authority and the Scene, yet this was the theory that Weldon could not shake. The children’s abduction had appalled him. The thought of what might have happened to them filled him with horror.

The Pentagon was deserted. Gas lamps flickered around its perimeter, barely visible through the cloud. He headed what he had thought was west, aiming for Fifth Went and his route to Darlem Fields and home. Instead, he emerged on the underpass of First Went. In front of him stood the monolithic concrete structures of Wydeye’s municipal buildings: City Hall, the Civil Museum, Wallace Library, the Exchange.

All night long, the gas lamps burnt on the façade of the Exchange, luring custom towards its insatiable flame. No hour was too late to trade. Weldon felt the pull and approached the steps. He crossed the precinct and walked passively towards its open jaws, oblivious of the other stooped shadows that it sucked in and spewed out.

He didn’t