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

“Great. And how, precisely, are we supposed to get to it?”

“We’re tracing the higher frequency sound, the sound that’s escaping. Where it comes out will give you your way in.” Dent watched Wulfwin attempt to process the implications. “This could work in our favour,” he added.

“And how the fuck do you figure that?”

“With limited ways in, there will be limited ways out. If we can locate all exit points, your men can have them covered. The Music Makers will be trapped inside. The Scene is a sitting target.”

Wulfwin’s eyes widened. His sneer stretched to a smile. “Good work, Lore. How long?”

“We’ve already found two openings. It’s possible you can gain entry straight away. We’ll continue to listen for others. With regards the first two, I’m handing over. We can’t get any closer.”

“Understood. My men will take it from here. I’ll leave enough men above ground to stand guard. If you find any more exits, inform Trooper Twelve immediately. He’ll ensure they’re covered.” Wulfwin put his helmet back on. Before placing his ear defenders into position, he said, “I knew I was right about you.”

–

The music swelled around Chase, a tangible force connecting him to its source. An umbilical cord, feeding and sustaining, lifegiving. He was aware of the crowd surrounding him as they shared the wave he was riding. They had congressed as many and now engaged as one. They stood, swayed or danced, in exaltation.

Before them, Bend Sinister played on. Their instruments had become prostheses, making them whole once more. As Bend Sinister sang, surveying the crowd, all thoughts of the Contest, of Saltire and Bluemantle, dispersed into the heady air. He inhaled the scent of contact, drank its sweet nectar and felt revived.

Ursel approached Chase, a woman at her side. The woman, slightly taller than Ursel and a year or so older, looked serene. Her fair hair was short and gelled back, her eyes darkened by liner. A small tattoo lay like a promise on her left cheekbone.

–

It hadn’t taken Ursel long to find Wella.

When Ursel had approached her, Wella had greeted her with a warm embrace and a wide, open smile. It was impossible to speak and be heard where they were, so they had slipped out to the antechamber that connected the three venues. There, with an uncanny drop in volume, they were able to talk.

“I’ve explained you’re safer here, but he wanted to see for himself,” Ursel had said.

“He’s never been bothered about me before. Why now?”

“I think you need to ask him that. But he is bothered. Enough to come here. Twice. He thinks he can persuade you to return overground. I’ve tried to discourage him, but he’s determined.”

“That sounds about right,” Wella said, sighing.

“Will you at least hear him out? If I’m reading it right, there’s something changing in him. That,” she said, gesturing towards the passageway that led to Bend Sinister’s cave, “will have an impact. I know it. If you explain, I think he’ll understand. Then he can respect your decision, feel like he’s done his ‘big brother’ bit and move on.”

“I’d be surprised if it were that easy.”

“But will you? Just listen to what he has to say. That’s it. No discussion.”

“Okay. But I’m doing it for you, not him. You’re a kind person. You’ve gone and taken him under your wing, made his cause your own. No doubt you’ll feel like you’ve failed him if he doesn’t get to say his piece.”

Ursel shrugged, eyes down.

Wella smiled. “It’s not a criticism. You’re doing a good thing. Just a shame it’s not for someone who deserves it.” She put her hand on Ursel’s shoulder. “I’ll go and speak to Chase; you return to Chief. All this time you’re fighting Chase’s corner, you’re missing their show. We can’t have that. This is a Contest. Headcount is the deciding factor.”

–

The Deaf Squad poured through the passageways, following the breadcrumb trail of gas lamps down into the bowels of the mountain. Sixty troopers, combat-ready, thirsting for a fight. Had Dent been listening, he would have heard their roars reverberate through karstic arteries as the mountain moaned from within.

Instead, Dent was tumbling down one of those arteries. He was drawn to the sound, a siren song luring him to a promised haven. Yet he was not powerless to resist; he knew he still had time to overcome its potency and pull back. But he did not. There was something in the sound, something fundamental in its core, that felt like reunion. He had to know what it was, this compelling force bidding him come. As he stepped through the gap and into the warm cave, beholding the man and the music, he found the answer.

Moments later, the first wave of troopers crashed into the antechamber, deaf to the screams of followers caught moving between the caves. The troopers witnessed the terror that their ears could not apprehend. With nowhere else to run, followers fled down the three dead ends, leading the troopers straight to their prey. Orders were shouted over in-helmet radios, units split. Troopers piled into the three caves, their jolting headlamps casting chaotic beams of light.

Bend Sinister, Pale Dexter and Chief were still playing, so sudden was the raid. Their followers were still staring stage-ward, oblivious to the Scene’s invasion. Time slowed in the moment when reality dawned. A freeze-frame of realisation while the gossamer layer between then and now was peeled away. Then instant recognition. And terror.

Bedlam flooded the caves. People screamed, eyes frantic. Some tried to resist or fight back, only to be beaten with coshes, slashed with chains and debilitated with agonising electroshocks. Others held up their hands in gestures of surrender, which were studiously ignored. Denied their sparing, they used their arms to protect their heads from repeated blows.

Troopers barged through the crowd, pushing people to the floor, trampling over their bodies. Some followers cowered against the cave walls, trapped and weeping. Others vented their fear, shouting inanely, refusing to accept.

Numbers dwindled. Followers were leaking