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

coat-tails hung the Chief of Staff. Protocol for Article Twenty-One demanded that power be devolved to both the serving Chief of Staff and Chief of Command until the incumbent Governor be investigated for the charges brought against them. All decisions must be jointly made. All interventions mutually ratified.

Wulfwin held the megaphone. The Chief of Staff hovered – a silent, visible nod to the rulebook.

All around them, the bustle of orders in action. Squads of troopers marched towards transit vehicles, kitted for detail. Officers darted between buildings, laden with crates or shouting orders into radios. A convoy of crawling trucks snaked along the road, north of the parade ground, towards the Complex’s west exit. Their cargo was one hundred iron cylinders painted hazard-yellow. The troopers marching alongside the convoy carried gas masks and goggles.

“Trooper Forty-Eight,” called Wulfwin through the megaphone. “Halt and report immediately.”

In the distance, the Unit Superior leading the detachment turned around to those behind him. The squad halted and stood to attention. The trucks ceased their cautious crawl, stopping nose to tail. The Superior ran across the parade ground towards Wulfwin, arriving with a breathless salute. “Sir!”

“Trooper Forty-Eight. You lead only three units of men. You have 120 square miles of subterranean caves to treat. Starting tomorrow, you have two days to do it in. Tell me. How the fuck does that work?”

“Sir, the orders were for staged release. Health and safety.”

“Well, the orders have changed. Leave your second IC to lead that rabble. While they march with the elephant line, I want you to assemble seven more units.”

“Sir, there aren’t enough gas masks.”

“Then they’ll have to hold their breath. Dismissed.”

The Superior hesitated briefly, then snapped a salute and ran back to his squad.

In his place appeared another Superior, his face cement-grey and sweating. “Trooper Sixty, sir,” he said, offering a trembling salute. “I received your message.”

“Oh, good. And do you know why I ordered you to report to me?”

“The sleeper, sir. I… I assume you want an update.”

“You assume correct. Meanwhile, bearing in mind the importance of your task, I had assumed I wouldn’t have to fucking ask.”

“Sir, I… I was waiting for something more… more concrete to report.”

“I take it from that you haven’t found our missing person?”

“No, sir.”

“Trooper Sixty, it’s been five days. I don’t have a reputation for patience, so why are you testing it?”

“Sir, I—”

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If you don’t deliver in that time, consider the test a catastrophic failure. Now, get out of my sight and find the damned sleeper.”

The trooper saluted, then turned and stumbled forward, fear compromising his balance.

Wulfwin surveyed the battle ground, selecting his next target. His gaze landed on the bleak façade of the Comms Control Centre. Switching from loudhailer to radio, he said, “Charlie-Bravo-One, this is Delta-Charlie-One. Do you read? Over.”

The crackle of static, then a flustered, “Delta-Charlie-One. This is Charlie-Bravo-One. Copy. Over.”

“Change of plan. Proceed with the mandatory broadcasts immediately. Set the levels high. I want to hear those radios from up here. You read?”

“Copy that, Delta-Charlie-One.” A rattle in the background. “Live on air. Over.”

“Good. Keep it going all day. Monitor the figures closely. Alert me as soon as drop-off exceeds five per cent. Over and out.”

Across the city, radios switched themselves on. Citizen’s thoughts and conversations were swallowed by the blaring monologue, broadcast at a non-adjustable volume. Muddled minds were forced to focus on the day’s message: “Citizens of Wydeye, access to Nanso Heights is strictly prohibited. This is for security reasons. Do not be alarmed. Instead, stay focused on your work. Those production targets won’t reach themselves. Workers of Wydeye, the Authority’s priority is the prosperity of our great city and the welfare of all who call it home. The dust cloud has lifted, exposing once more the ferocious sun. To keep you healthy and hydrated, the Authority is gifting bottles of water, fresh from our very own Spire Spring. Watch out for bottle distribution stations on a street near you. Coming soon, so don’t miss out. Beat the heat with free fresh water. You can’t say fairer than that. Citizens of Wydeye…”

Wulfwin heard the script in his head, written and recorded just an hour ago. He had inspected the monitoring procedures. Tweaks had been made, communication loops tightened. It was already impossible to turn off public radios. Now, if the owner of any radio, public or private, sought to tamper with their set, a break in reception would be detected and drop-off recorded.

Wulfwin rubbed his chin. That leaves the water, he thought.

Despite declaring, in his litany of allegations to the Chief of Staff, that Governor Blix had intended to secretly drug the entire population of the city, ‘a despicable plan that served as proof of her lack of rational judgement and her consuming paranoia’, Wulfwin had every intention of implementing his own idea. He did not share Blix’s fear that the citizens might become out of control. He simply thought a doped, compliant populace made for an easier life. Then he’d be able to focus on the Music Makers, without the headache of a city to run.

When it had dawned on him that he had told Lore about the plan, he was livid. He would never suffer fools, yet he’d been the fool, he thought, trusting that spineless yes-man. At first, he’d assumed he would have to ditch the scheme entirely. It then occurred to him that, wherever Lore was hiding, wherever he’d taken Ursel, he wouldn’t be back to blow the whistle. To return would be insane, he thought.

He hadn’t decided what to do about the Lore situation. He found the deceit utterly abhorrent. Action had to be taken, yet he hadn’t the headspace to properly consider his options. All he knew was that Lore wouldn’t dare show his face, which bought precious time. To account for his absence, Wulfwin put word out that Lore’s continued illness was contagious. He was to be quarantined in his quarters – no contact permitted under any circumstance.

Wulfwin’s fury at the thought of Lore