Outside the Exchange, word spread. The citizens were ready; they had been ready for days. They could tell their moment was at hand, however it might play out. They had the A’s attention – a most unfamiliar and precarious position to hold.
Within minutes of the Officer appearing, the unspoken invitation reached Chase and Wella.
“I told you,” said Wella.
They looked at each other, acknowledging the turning point and the question of what next.
“You do it,” said Chase. “I would. I want to. But what with them watching me…”
“Okay. But only if you’re sure. This was all your idea.”
“I’m sure. But be careful. It could be a trap. I don’t trust those bastards.”
“I’ve plenty of witnesses if they try anything dirty.”
She took a deep breath, then made her way through the crowd. People parted, clearing a path. Those close by patted her back or touched her arm. Everyone who could see her attempted to communicate their encouragement in barely perceptible ways. They knew they couldn’t react now, not when they had come this far, when they were so close.
Half an hour after giving the order, Dent was back in the Chair, all eyes upon him. In his hand was a message transcript. “Colleagues, we’ve received news. It appears I was right. They are there for a reason.”
“What is it?” said Fentlow. “What do they want?”
“They’ve proposed an exchange. The citizens want to trade.”
Chapter Forty-Two
The negotiations were protracted. The Commanders could not adjust to the altered authorship of influence. The situation made clear who held the upper hand, yet the majority of the Council were incapable of accepting the fact. The crisis was unprecedented. They felt their control waning. They dug in their heels and braced themselves.
Meanwhile, productivity plummeted. The knock-on effect of the walkout on infrastructure, supply chains, manufacturing and commerce escalated at a staggering rate. As the negotiations continued through the night and into a new day, the Divisions of Trade, Industry and Revenue were warning of a state of emergency. “The long view,” they insisted. “Look at the long view.” Targets missed could not be caught up. The forecast shortfall in gross domestic income could not be recovered. Significant cuts in spending would have to be made to fill the predicted deficit.
The pressure was mounting on the Council to accept the trade.
“They’re not even criminals,” said Employment, face flushed in frustration. The Council had agreed to hold a joint meeting with the Division representatives, who refused to leave the building until a decision was reached. “The prisoners they want freed haven’t been convicted. Why not release them?”
“The detention centres are full to capacity,” chipped in Revenue. “If there’s one obvious way to claw back money, it’s to clear them of citizens who needn’t be there. Do you know how much the state spends a day running those centres?”
Throughout the negotiations, Dent had remained quiet, biding his time. He made contributions when necessary, but they were passive, non-committal. He felt he had succeeded in his masquerade; he was wary of jeopardising the whole plan by pushing the point through impatience. He remembered how things worked, the habitual deference of the Council. If Blix or Wulfwin were present, he knew the situation would be in stark contrast. They wouldn’t have entertained the idea of listening to the citizens’ demands, for a start. Their leadership style demanded dependency. In their absence, the lack of direction was unsurprising, the arduous debating of the issues inevitable. Dent held back, waiting for the invitation that he knew would come eventually.
By one o’clock, twenty-four hours after the trade had been proposed, six days after the walkout began, that invitation came. An hour into the joint meeting, Fentlow turned to Dent and said, “Commander Lore, this was all your idea. Yet you’ve remained characteristically quiet. I urge you to speak your mind. We must resolve this. What would you propose we do?”
–
Wella emerged from the Exchange, bleary eyes blinking in the bright sunshine.
The majority of the gathered had remained outside the building and in Glade Park throughout the night. Their representative spoke for them all: they would maintain their presence for as long as it took. Volunteer messengers were on standby to make the cross-town dash to the park the moment there was word.
It turned out the word was a gesture. With thousands of expectant faces upon her, there was only one way to spread the news. She held up her fist in triumph.
The crowd roared.
All attempts to contain emotion were abandoned. The gathered swelled, a tsunami of elation and relief.
Troopers circling the crowd aimed their guns, trigger fingers trembling. Unit Superiors barked into radios, demanding new orders between shouting, “Hold your fire!”
The gathered ignored them. Their victory held no place for intimidation. They had no room for fear. Instead, they looked to their representative and returned her salute. Then came the surge, flooding the great hall of the Exchange.
Around Glade Park, outnumbered troopers braced themselves, weapons raised. The twenty thousand-strong crowd took no heed. News of the deal reached a small group on the park’s northern tip. Within seconds, word spread across the masses. Within minutes, the gathered began to drift in the direction of Five Wents.
Special Forces attempted to bar their way. Unit Superiors screamed into their radios. “We’ve lost control. Permission to fire.”
In the main surveillance room in the Comms Control Centre, Dent and Fentlow studied the bank of monitors. Fentlow’s face was white, his eyes twitching. “What do you think?” he said, holding up his radio. “Should we give it?”
“No,” said Dent. “Wait. Watch. See how they move?”
“They’ve stormed a state building. We have staff in there. They’re at risk.”
“Look at them. And think about it. Why kick off now? They’ve got what they wanted. Why throw it away?”
“They’re out of control. We must maintain order.”
“Look at them.”
The bank of monitors showed citizens sitting in the cups of whisper dishes, standing in front
