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

more and more photos were added, along with more judicious statements asserting alibis and innocence. For the families who wrote them, they became the only way to present a defence case in the absence of a trial.

Weldon and Tinashe walked past the Exchange in silence, pausing briefly to take in the expanding court-by-proxy. Tinashe gazed at the headshots of haunted faces, lingering to read the pleas for mercy.

“Come on,” said Weldon, taking her by the arm and coaxing her away.

They walked the length of First Went and entered the Pentagon. It was Friday afternoon; most citizens were at work. Even taking that into account, the open expanse was unusually quiet, made more eerie by the desert smog that robbed the space of horizon. Weldon and Tinashe didn’t speak until they reached the shelter of the Brew tent on the opposite side. This, too, was uncharacteristically quiet.

Weldon walked up to the table-top bar while Tinashe had a rare pick of hay bales from which to select a seat.

“Got served straight away,” said Weldon, handing her a brimming glass of Kitson. “When’s it going to get back to normal?”

“What is normal?”

Weldon huffed and sat down on a bale opposite. They sipped their drinks in silence, glancing around the near-empty tent. Eventually Weldon said, “They’re building new whisper dishes. In Wakenfold and Darlem Fields. Some are twice the size. And they’re not to listen for holes.” He leant forward and lowered his voice. “Maybe the bigger ones are to hear conversations. Do you reckon they can do that? Eavesdrop with concrete ears?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I don’t remember it ever being like this. Never this bad.”

“I spoke to my old man. He said it reminded him of after Rideout. He said they were too afraid to go out for weeks. And he wasn’t even at the stadium or the protests.” She sighed and shook her head. “All this because of some stupid festival.”

“But it’s not, though, is it?” Passion sharpened an edge to his voice. “It was the music. The crowd. The drug. That’s why it’s still going on, why the selfish bastards still insist on going to the shows. They’re addicted.”

“According to the A.”

“According to anyone who’s got eyes and can see what’s happening. Why else would they do it? Why else put their lives, and the lives of everyone around them, at risk? They’re Users, worse than the fucking Meezels. They do as they damn well please to get their fix, then they’re too high to give a shit about the rest of us.”

“But we don’t know that. You heard what Chase said about that woman – Ursel. She doesn’t sound like some messed-up addict. And if she’s right and Wella is involved, then we both know Wella. She’s a good person. Strong.”

“When did you last see Wella? I know I haven’t spoken to her for months. Drugs change a person pretty quick. You don’t know what she’s become.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“And I think you’re missing the point. What about the swallow hole?” he said, frustration flaring.

“What about it?”

“It could happen again, at any time. The Allears were out listening for signs. They were protecting us, to save lives. And now they’re back on the hunt for the Music Makers. If another hole does open up, they won’t hear it to give the warning.”

“I’m sure that—”

“Have you been to Glos recently? Have you seen what they’ve done?”

Tinashe shook her head, shoulders sagging.

“The hole,” said Weldon. “They’ve filled it in. All twenty-seven million cubic metres of it. Plugged the entire thing and relaid the Westway Road. Carts and trucks going over it like the hole never existed. And still they never found a single body. What if there was an air pocket? Where survivors were waiting to be saved? What if Ursel’s wrong and Wella’s down there?”

“Shut it,” hissed Tinashe, grabbing Weldon’s wrist. “Don’t you ever go saying that to Chase.”

Wide-eyed, Weldon pulled back, his free hand held up. “Okay, okay. I was only making a point.”

“And your point is?”

“The Allears were trying to save lives. Now the A’s back to taking them. You saw the Wall outside the Exchange. How many? Hundred and fifty? Two hundred new photos? All because selfish fucking Users can’t kick the habit and stay away. If they did, the Scene would die out and we wouldn’t have to live in fear. This,” he said, sweeping his arm to encompass the deserted beer tent, “this isn’t because of the weather. No dust cloud has stopped people escaping their shithole quarters before.”

“I just think there’s more to it. You know better than to trust the A. Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

“Give me some credit, Tinashe.” Weldon stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some air.”

Tinashe watched Weldon as he stormed out of the tent. She remained seated, plucking strands of straw from the bale, processing his words. It’s not like him to become so fired up, she thought. He was usually the one providing light relief from the daily strains of life under the Authority. That was why she hung out with him. He reminded her to laugh every once in a while.

She glanced around the tent, at the huddles of people keeping close, repelling the space around them. Some whispered; others sat in silence. Their heads drooped and their bodies barely shifted. The atmosphere was heavy like the dust-clogged air outside.

The two young boys serving behind the bar stood idle, waiting for custom. No one entered.

The only thing to move freely was a brown, long-haired dog. Tinashe watched it play with a moth that fluttered above its nose, inches out of reach. The dog’s motion was light and unconscious. Its tail whirled in a blur while its head darted this way and that, tracking the taunting moth. The playful scene struck her as incongruous. The joy in oblivion. Carefree abandon.

Rising slowly, her spirit strained under the weight of the city. She weaved through the empty bales and out into the glare of the Pentagon.

–

That same afternoon, Chase stood before