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

in Aldar Point were down to the dregs of their energy. With an hour left until the end of their shift, they let themselves dream of their pending reward: a shower, a cold Kitson, a hit of Meezel or simply sleep.

In the tannery, next door to where Cole lay foetal in the basement, they poured water onto the concrete floor of the fleshing room. On raw hands and knees, they scrubbed at the blood, torn flesh and fat that had fallen from the rolling machine. The hide detritus and water mixed with the chemicals spilt from the dehairing vats and trickled down waste drains laid into the floor. It spewed out into the Spire, fouling Wydeye’s spring-source river.

As the klaxons sounded, thousands of workers punched their cards and filed through the gates of the various factories and processing plants. They merged together in silence and shuffled along the central artery, heading for the tramway stop and their journey to the marginally less squalid Rader tenements. Home.

An hour after the shift-end klaxon, Aldar Point fell silent. The dereliction and decay lent it the appearance of a post-apocalypse wasteland. There was no birdsong, no stray cats, no abandoned goats. The only foliage was the invasive grey-green Latchet weed, which bound itself around posts, pillars and poles, strangling vine-like. The sun hung low in the sky, darkening the dust cloud to an eerie amber smog. Silence prevailed.

Then, a thunderous boom. A deafening crash.

Reinforced concrete collapsed in on itself, steel rods jutting like splintered bones through flesh. The mass of rubble and crushed-flat machinery was sucked down into a black chasm, swallowing the wreckage before dust had chance to rise. The roar of toppling concrete was muffled the further down it sank, the sound trapped inside a grave a hundred metres deep.

The swallow hole opened in a second – devoured in less.

For a fraction of that moment, Cole screamed, his petrified eyes staring without comprehending. A lonely instant of utter terror – face white, hands reaching out, failing to grasp a handhold over death’s own abyss.

Then nothing. No one.

In the space of two unbuildings and in the place of a precious life lost, yawned a vast, black hole.

PART TWO

 

WITHOUT A MAP

Chapter Twenty-one

The shift-start klaxon was accompanied by a wail of sirens. The Emergency Division had been called at first light after a security guard almost stumbled into the gaping swallow hole. He had tottered on its brink, staring at where the tannery and the disused factory used to be. He couldn’t look down. The horror of the hole was too much to bear.

The Emergency Division had arrived before the bleary-eyed workers streamed from the tramway stop. They cordoned off the site, widening the hazard zone to include the adjacent buildings in case of further collapse. Workers at those buildings, plus the absent tannery, were sent home without pay. There were no security guards or night workers at the tannery. And, taking into account the old factory had been vacant for years, it was reported that, mercifully, there had been no loss of life.

“As if that’ll make a difference,” said Blix, arms crossed, pacing her office.

Wulfwin stood before her, impatient. “We’ll tell them it does,” he hissed. “Today, of all fucking days.”

“We’ve time on that score. Messaging on the hole must be dealt with immediately. It doesn’t take long for fear to spread, for the hysteria to take hold. Pull back some of your men. I want units on the street. Order must be maintained.”

“Governor, the event—”

“The event is tonight. Fifteen hours away. You have time to divert resources to manage this potential crisis. Insurrection can be avoided with the precaution of swift intervention. Lest you have forgotten, mass hysteria can be triggered by exposure to a shared stimulus. This second hole could have infected citizens with a latent virus. All it takes is a single person’s over-reaction to wake it up. Rideout, Wulfwin. I’m sure you don’t need reminding.”

Wulfwin stared at her, frustration erupting. “With all due respect, Governor,” he said, failing to keep his voice level, “it is the memory of Rideout that is at the forefront of my mind. The Music Makers are finally within our grasp. We hold the upper hand. I will not stand by and let us squander this opportunity by pre-empting panic over a sodding hole.”

Blix faltered, momentarily unnerved by the strength of his reaction. She was well aware of his reputation, played it to her advantage even, but had always managed to keep him on side. Wary of his volatility, she sought to concede ground without losing face. “We seek the same end, Commander. So yes, we can spare the Deaf Squad. Keep them in Glos. But I want troopers on the streets. Muscle, to send a message.”

“As you wish, Governor.”

“Good. I shall visit the base this afternoon to assess readiness. We can review the citizen issue then.” She hesitated, about to say something else, but changed her mind. Instead she said, “Dismissed,” with considerably less authority than she had intended.

Wulfwin clipped his heels, turned on the spot and marched out.

Blix stared at the open door. A cadet, stationed on the other side, stepped forward to gently close it. The moment she heard the latch, Blix spun around and hurried to her desk. Hands trembling, she fumbled with the silver pillbox, dropping its contents to the floor. On hands and knees, she picked up three of the small white pills and swallowed them. She remained kneeling on the floor, eyes closed, willing forward the effect.

–

Dent Lore sat beside the driver in the cab of an Ops truck. Behind him, either side of the truck’s canvas-covered rear, sat twenty Allears. They were facing each other in silence, faces operation-grim.

Dent stared through the passenger window, sensing the friction that gripped the city. He noticed how citizens peered sideways at their truck, trying to look without looking. Others scurried into open doorways, swallowed by the darkness within. The tension was palpable, mixing with the cloud