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

profound of Ursel’s injuries. “To force her to speak, they destroyed what they thought she valued the most. Now she will never hear music. Never feel the joy that gave her strength to live.”

“Their cruelty is truly abhorrent,” said Bend Sinister, his face drawn.

“A despicable act of violence,” said Pale Dexter. “Unthinkable.”

“You articulate what is obvious, my friends. As did I. But we must not trail off with expressions of disgust, leaving our statements empty of deed.”

“What do you mean?” said Pale Dexter.

“Our reaction should not end there. That’s tantamount to complicity.”

“Chief,” said Bend Sinister, “we have not the strength nor number to take on the might of the Authority.”

“So, what? We don’t even try?” She looked from her counterparts to their silent retinue and addressed them. “Loyal followers. You have found a way. You have broken free from the influence of that oppressive sovereign power. Surely others can do the same? Please, explain for us. What holds their tongue? What binds them to their lot?”

The followers looked nervous, unaccustomed to such an invitation. It was the mohawk man who tentatively rose and stepped forward. “The A bends your ear. Gnaws at you so you see it differently.” He hesitated.

“Go on,” said Chief.

“They paint a picture, giving you enough to think it’s the real deal. Free health, free education, free tramways pass. Rent’s low, food’s cheap, booze even cheaper.” Passion gave him confidence. He spoke with bitter contempt. “The rate they dish out Meezel at the Exchange means the benefits of towing the line and grassing on those that don’t is an attractive trade. It’s no wonder half the city’s addicted; Meezel’s become a state-sponsored currency. You see, the A make life seem easy if you stay on the right side of the line. Meanwhile, they send a clear message to the switched-on minority who don’t. Ask any poor, beggared Wether. That’s what happens when you don’t play ball. What they did to Ursel is unforgiveable—” His voice broke. He took a moment to pull himself together. “Sorry. She’s a good friend.”

“Take your time,” said Chief.

“What they’ve done to her is horrific. But she ain’t no way near the only one. The centres are brimming with cases like hers. That’s why the Wall only ever gets longer.”

“The Wall?” said Bend Sinister.

“The citizens’ one and only gesture at making a stand. They post pictures of the people that go missing. Or those that are arrested and never released. The A put a stop to visiting rights years ago. If you’re locked up, you’re damned lucky if you ever get out again. There’s no such thing as a fair trial ’cos there ain’t no trial to begin with.”

“So what value is the Wall?”

“It’s a record. A way of letting the A know we’re keeping tabs and we ain’t forgotten. There used to be petitions, too, for parole, or compassionate release. But that died a death a few years back.”

“Why?”

“Those pushing the petitions were seen as dissidents. They’d discover their rent cap had been lifted without warning and they were suddenly in the red. Or they’d have their tramway pass invalidated, so they couldn’t get to work. Then they’d lose their job, right before they lost their dingy quarters for unpaid rent. That’s when someone bends their ear, suggests a way out. Snippet of intel here, spread the word there. Before they know it, they’re a regular at the Exchange, passing the Wall to trade in the interests of the A, walking right past the spot where they’d posted their petition. The handful strong enough to resist lose everything; they end up like a wretched gelded goat ’cos of what the A takes away.

“Once you’re sucked in, you’re part of the machine. More and more’s feeding the machine. That’s what binds them. That and the fact most have become dependent on the state. The freebies make it attractive to stay; the restrictions make it pretty much impossible to leave. While they grow to rely on the bungs, they ignore the fact they’re not allowed to own their own vehicle, or telephone, or travel permit. That’s why they don’t make a stand. And it’s why they never leave. That and fear. Dependency makes for a good reason to stick around.”

“And if it’s not Meezel they’re doped up on, it’s likely to be Chromatofen,” said Dent Lore, stepping into the clearing, his eyes bloodshot and bleary. When he’d returned to the camp a few hours earlier, he’d made sure Ursel was taken care of before collapsing himself. He’d made the one hundred-mile journey three times in the last three days, with little rest. Once they knew he was asleep rather than unconscious, Bend Sinister’s players had picked him up and carried him to their portion of the camp.

“Drummer,” said Bend Sinister. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Thank you.” He bowed before Bend Sinister, then to Pale Dexter and Chief. “I awoke to hear this young man’s account. I have further news of my own, learnt during my mission to save Ursel.”

“What news?”

Dent addressed the Troubadours and the crowd of wary faces. “The Governor has ordered for Chromatofen to be released into Wydeye’s fresh water supply. They plan to drug every citizen in the city.”

A sharp intake of breath. Murmurs among the troupe. Even the followers, who were familiar with the true nature of the Authority’s interventions, stared, mouths agape.

The Troubadours looked to each other in gravest alarm.

Pale Dexter turned to Dent. “What is this Chromatofen?” he said. “Will it cause harm?”

“It is a psychoactive depressant. It manipulates attitude and behaviour to achieve compliance. New recruits are treated with prolonged high doses to assist in their adjustment and re-education. They become malleable, believing, trusting. Obedience is easily won, until the effects of brainwashing make the drug an unnecessary intervention. They also dope civilians who operate on their behalf: members of the surveillance operation, field administrative staff, informers. They have an implant, slowly releasing the drug over time. Ensures continued cooperation.”

“I’ve heard of the drug,” ventured the mohawk