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

detected the whiff of bullshit. These are her orders, not mine. She wants to see you get your hands dirty.”

They turned left into a stairwell and climbed two flights in silence. They emerged in a corridor identical to the one they had just walked down. “First, training,” Wulfwin continued, still walking ahead, his back to Dent. “And today is a dive in at the deep end. Observe the master.”

Dent heard Wulfwin’s smile as he said this, a saccharin tone of self-amusement coating his voice. His heart sank with lead-weight dread. For the first time since his revelation in the cave, he felt utterly trapped, imprisoned inside the person he had become. Now desperate to break free, he knew he would have to bide his time, play along so as not to arouse suspicion. If he displayed any form of resistance, Wulfwin wouldn’t hesitate long enough to blink before hauling him up for insubordination. Common knowledge of the associated punishment contributed to the staggeringly high level of discipline in the ranks.

They branched right and stopped at the mouth of a wide corridor, brightly lit with steel doors running down its length on either side. A security guard at the corridor’s entrance snapped to attention.

“Here’s the deal,” Wulfwin said, ignoring the guard. “In cell thirty-two we have ourselves a little gem. User. Apprehended at the Scene. Source of one of our sleepers. She’s connected to the Music Makers. We don’t yet know how close, but close enough to make her a special case. And, we assume, close enough to make her a tough fucker to break. Hence, she’s mine.” He leant forward, his eyes twitching. “Watch and learn, Allear.”

Wulfwin turned and led Dent to one of the steel doors, followed by the security guard. The guard wielded a cluster of keys and inserted one into the brick-like lock. There was a low, metallic clunk as multiple bolts slid from their mortices. Wulfwin pushed open the door and entered. Dent followed. As the guard closed the door behind them, the sound of the lock’s engagement reverberated, trapped by impenetrable walls.

The cell was four metres square. The walls and floor were rendered and painted in washable grey emulsion, although the option to clean was unused. Against the far wall was a steel rack, six feet by four, heavy-duty straps hanging limp like broken arms. Paraphernalia lay scattered on a table on the left. On the right, a bucket and standpipe. On the floor in the centre, wearing a brown, sleeveless tunic, slumped a slight figure, hair wet from water, sweat or blood, Dent couldn’t tell.

At first, he averted his eyes, but he knew the gesture was empty. He was there, in the cell, on the side of the Authority. He made himself look. Any lingering loyalty needed to be exorcised by witnessing atrocity. He knew this was Blix’s test. He also knew he’d be applying utterly different criteria by which to judge success. So, he stared at the crumpled figure, his face rigid, screaming from the inside.

“She’s unconscious,” said Wulfwin, circling the prisoner. “We’ll leave her for the moment, let her body recover just enough to survive another round. In the meantime, lesson number one. Take note. Interrogation is a game, the prisoner your opponent. The game itself is ironically subtle: a delicate dance between strategy and puzzle-solving. Essentially, your opponent has something that you want, much like territory in Ribatchi. To win, you have to take that territory. To lose, your opponent must deny you the pleasure.

“In this game, you are obviously playing for information. You need to select and apply the most effective strategy in order to win the information your opponent is holding from you. And, like any game, there are penalties. Push too hard in the wrong direction and your opponent dies, taking the information with them. Death is their greatest defence. Your supreme offence is to make a move that forces your opponent to surrender the information before that happens.

“In short, you need to locate their weak spot. Their own particular breaking point. That could be some form of personal injury to them, perhaps. A threat to parent or partner. The untimely death of their child, even. Who the fuck knows. It’s your job to find out. That’s the point of the game. Got it?”

Dent nodded, too sickened to speak and pull it off.

“Thus far, our opponent here has proved adept at the game. She doesn’t want to share. We’ve even made it easy for her. Narrowed it down. One question is all she needs to answer. One simple fucking question. But she’s holding her ground. My colleagues have applied some pressure, as you can see. Their powers of persuasion haven’t won us any territory, unfortunately. So now it’s my turn. Time to find her weakness. And this, Lore, is your training.” He stepped up to Dent, their faces close. “Watch. Don’t react. Don’t say anything. Witness. Let it happen. Learn.”

An agonising groan came from Ursel’s slumped form.

“Ah, she wakes!” Wulfwin walked over to the cell door and banged twice with his fist. Four troopers entered, dressed in black fatigues, faces expressionless. Two stood either side of Ursel; the other two moved to either side of Dent.

Dent looked at them both, then at Wulfwin, alarmed.

“Don’t look so fucking freaked,” said Wulfwin. “I know you’re yellow. They’re there to make sure you keep watching.” He sneered and turned back to the troopers beside Ursel. “Strap her to the rack. Tight. Restrain her head.”

Once stretched out on the steel frame, the extent of Ursel’s injuries became apparent. Her face was bruised and swollen. Congealed blood stuck to cuts on her cheeks and her arm. The skin where her right arm should have been was burnt, the flesh beetle-black and blistering. Her bare legs were whip-slashed. Battered and bloodied, it was only her eyes that retained any sign of life. They darted around the room, assessing, counting, weighing up. Finally, they landed on the man before her and darkened, obsidian-hard.

“Welcome back,” said