BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

Dexter who brought the assembly to a close. “We thank you for your consideration and insight. We must now withdraw and deliberate further, aided by the light you have shed.”

All three bowed graciously, stepped back and slipped away between the trees of the dell. Out of range of eye and ear, they reconvened.

“Illuminating, indeed,” said Chief.

“A most fruitful consultation,” said Pale Dexter.

Bend Sinister said nothing. His eyes darted this way and that; his breathing quickened. His counterparts watched with curiosity, distracted by his sudden agitation.

“Tell us,” said Chief. “What are you thinking?”

Bend Sinister looked them square in the eye. “They’ve demonised us for decades. That’s not who we are. It’s not what we do. But, if it works, it could be how we defend ourselves.”

“What are you suggesting?” said Pale Dexter.

“Something our pursuers would never expect.”

Chapter Forty

“Get the Chief of Command on the radio. Immediately!” snapped Commander Fentlow.

It was early morning. The Comms Control Centre was in chaos, radio operators unable to cope with the volume of traffic. Messages were being delivered by hand, their senders having given up on the clogged frequencies and jammed telephone lines.

Disruption was widespread. Half the tramway network was closed, the other half congestion-clogged. Queues of commuters lined the streets around the tramway stops, begrudging their forced dependence on the service. These were the citizens who had heard but had not listened, too loyal or too afraid. All around them walked those who had listened. Wide-eyed, awake, they moved calmly through the streets, filling the underpass, trapping authority vehicles attempting to ferry troopers to their posts.

The walkout was working.

Tens of thousands had joined the movement, crippling the infrastructure to the extent that many who wanted to work found themselves unable to do so.

The industrial engine of Coxen Lyme had stalled. The furnaces were non-operational, their huge smoke stacks breathing clean air. The neighbouring processing plants lacked the manpower and materials to perform their function. Power had been cut to Aldar Point and Ulden Cross, leaving a wasteland of lifeless factories and industrial units. There were no trains running to the limestone quarry, forcing production to grind to a halt. The freight depot waited, empty.

“What’s taking so long?” said Fentlow, fuming. “I want Wulfwin on the radio, now.”

“Sir,” stammered an operator, “we’ve been trying for several hours. We can’t reach him. Nor any of his men.”

“Damn it,” roared the Commander, staring at the monitors. “We’re in meltdown and our de facto leader goes off grid.”

He knew the situation was escalating.

Chase knew it too. In his hide, shut away from the world, he sensed the moment was at hand. And he knew he couldn’t miss it.

Ignoring the risk, he put on the wig and costume that Quince had lent him to make the drop. In the dim lamplight, the disguise was passable. In the bright glare of day, he knew it would be a different matter. Yet he no longer cared.

He scribbled a note for Wella and Naylor – a precaution in case one of them dropped by to update him. “I’m walking out,” was all it said.

With the tramways down, he had to travel on foot from Rader, through a ghost town Brolan, to the district of Glade. The pseudo-rush hour had passed, leaving the streets eerily quiet, apart from long queues of anxious commuters still trailing from each tramway stop. Here and there, aperture shutters on apartment blocks were left closed, flaunting an air of neglect. On street corners stood abandoned water distribution stations, unopened crates piled head high. Trodden into dust lay disowned copies of Bluemantle. All around, an air of desertion. A sign that could be foreboding or auspicious, Chase thought. He hoped to crow it was the latter.

When he crossed the Spire and made his way down the Bayley Road, his hope was realised. Whilst in the hide, he had spent countless hours imagining the scenes. His mind’s eye impression had failed to come close to the reality of this altered overground.

He stood before Glade Park, its boundaries erased, drowned by a sea of citizens. Gone were the seated groups of family and friends in nervous union. Instead, everyone stood, statuesque. They maintained their attitude of passivity, yet they were acutely alert, attuned to the change. They knew the tide had turned; something was going to happen.

Chase realised he had little hope of finding Wella, or Naylor, or Tinashe. That didn’t bother him. He was there, witnessing the spectacle, blown away by the scale. It was impossible to know; he could only guess. Twenty thousand? he thought. Maybe more?

Around the crowd, sentinel troopers had been forced to expand their circumference considerably, now stretched to the point of precariously thin. They maintained their posturing, hands on weapons, strained eyes fixed on the crowd. They had long since abandoned their attempts to provoke. Utterly overwhelmed, every trooper recognised their means of control had become woefully inadequate.

Meanwhile, up in the Operations HQ, Commander Fentlow continued to bark pointless orders. Several Council members hovered on the periphery, unwilling to speak up lest it result in taking on responsibility. Behind them hung the Chief of Staff. Whilst he was the only person present with any legitimate authority, he studiously obeyed Wulfwin’s parting orders to do nothing.

“Sir. Excuse me, sir,” said a young officer, addressing Fentlow.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Employment, Transport, Trade and Industry, sir. They demand an emergency meeting with the head of the Council. Representatives from each Division are already here, sir. They’re very insistent. What shall I tell them?”

“Why are you asking me? This is for the Chief of Staff. He has the Chair.” He spun around. “Where is he? He was here just now.”

“Sir, it was the Chief of Staff who instructed me to speak to you. He said he’s had to withdraw temporarily. He says you are to take his place. Until the Chief of Command returns.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Sir, the representatives are waiting. What should I say to them?”

–

One hundred miles away, unaware of the escalating crisis, Wulfwin was closing in. He had