BLUEMANTLE

head and sighed. “But you know the score. I have a duty. Responsibilities. I can’t ignore the call, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”
“But—”
“I’ve been straight with you from the start. I explained what I do and why. Please, don’t let’s fight about something I won’t stop doing.”
Evan’s gaze fell to the table. Helpless and afraid.
Cole was right, of course. Evan had known from the outset about Cole’s creation – his singlehanded mission. Bluemantle.
Cole had produced the inaugural copy of the fanzine when he was just sixteen. He had attended his first event – an experience that changed his life forever. Although he had been far too young to witness the Rideout Rebellion, his outrage at what had happened fired his spirit beyond his own adolescent grasp. It was only when he saw Bend Sinister perform for the first time that he finally understood. Bluemantle was born from a faith that truth was there for the finding.
For that first edition, he worked through the night in his bedroom in his parent’s house in the Old Town. Equipped with a typewriter, pens, scissors and glue, he constructed a magazine-style montage of music journalism.
When legislation outlawing live music was passed, the Authority was heavy-handed in enforcement. Citizens were afraid of blurred distinctions so steered clear of music altogether. For this reason, the fanzine’s content was entirely fictitious: reviews, interviews and biographies of bands dreamt up in Cole’s spirited imagination.
Yet, buried beneath the cut and paste text, between stylised sketches and graffiti-esque motifs, were traces of fact. Information hidden through advanced encryption, a skill he’d learnt from his father. An elusive treasure: date, time and place of the next event.
Cole was under no illusion. He knew that what he had created, and what he continued to create and disseminate each time an event was planned, was highly illegal and incredibly dangerous. He’d once been beaten, his flesh torn by the Deaf Squad. He knew about their raids on suspected sites, of the torture of those arrested, the indefinite incarceration without trial or parole. He knew people who had gone missing, their families too afraid to ask questions of the Authority. Sometimes their loved ones reappeared following an intel trade at the Exchange. More often they remained a greyscale headshot posted on a row of huge boards beside the building – the ‘Wall of the Missing’. It was a haunting parade, created by citizens and maintained by the Authority as an effective aide-memoire.
Even so, Cole saw the danger pale in the light of purpose. He’d once described himself as a graffiti existentialist – Bluemantle, an expression of his will. He knew the risks. He simply believed they were worth taking.
He reached out and held Evan’s hand. “I must do this.”
–
Despite the approaching dusk, the air remained hot and sultry. Cole left his flat, ascended the nearest iron stairwell to the Elevated and caught a railmotor into Spire Wells. The double-deck trailers were packed, hauling hundreds of stony-faced commuters home from work. No one spoke. The clatter of the wheels over rusted track created a rhythm that lulled the weary workforce. Few looked through the open windows at the concrete view. Most travelled with their eyes closed, straining to ignore the smell of sulphur that seeped from the locomotive.
Careful to shake any potential tail, Cole changed lines several times. His route looped through the concrete monoliths of the Messam, the street below flooded with office workers, hurrying to reach home before curfew. At the tramway’s terminus just north of Drayloc Market, he switched to the Darlem line, taking him west into less frenetic suburbia. He got off at a stop on the tip of Westedge, a residential district on the outskirts of the city. From there he proceeded on foot, avoiding the main road through Westgate Arch that led out of Wydeye. Passage was unrestricted; however, WatcherCams were trained on the thoroughfare. Cole never took the risk.
Once clear of the city’s limits, he faced a long trek north into the Nanso Heights – a mountain range that shouldered the north-west corner of the city. The climb was tough, the air thick with humidity. Cole was accustomed to its demands, but it wasn’t that that lessened the strain. These periodical summonses instilled in him a fierce loyalty and a modest pride – rich fuel for the journey.
Despite his familiarity with the area, it always took him a while to find the narrow crevice, effectively obscured by the ridges in the escarpment in which it lay. He eased himself through the opening and felt the familiar relief of cool air as he moved along the limestone passage. It was dark; he had to feel his way. Tentative fingertips reading stone; feet shuffling in cautious half-steps. Eventually he reached an opening: a small cave dimly lit with a single gas lamp. The Reception.
Cole waited.
Before long, Chief entered, her silver dreadlocks framing her pale face like a frozen Medusa. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
“It is my honour, Chief.” He always felt the urge to bow, although he knew it wasn’t necessary and he feared she would think him foolish. Instead he gave what he hoped was a courteous nod.
“You took the usual precautions?”
“Yes.”
“That is good news. We appreciate the risk you have taken in coming here. And the risks inherent in what you are about to do for us.”
“A small price to pay.”
“In which case, here is what you need to know.” She handed him a small slip of paper, folded in half. “We are aware of the heightened activity overground. The risks are greater than usual. However, it is a necessary step.” She held her hand to her chest and paused, catching her breath. “I anticipate numbers will be low, but as long as people know.”
“I will get the information to them. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Bluemantle.” She smiled faintly, stepped back, then turned and slipped away.
Cole stood motionless, waiting for the awe to subside and release his muscles. He followed Bend Sinister and