An echo of footfall crept into the cave. Then the source could be heard, becoming steadily louder. The players glanced at each other and turned towards the arched opening that formed the entrance to their camp. A shadow appeared first, bleeding across the floor like an oil slick, followed by a tall silhouette. “Chief. Forgive my intrusion. May I speak with you a while?”
“Bend Sinister. Please, enter,” said Chief. “We were about to head to the location to prepare, but I can spare some time.” She looked to her players. “You go on ahead. I will join you shortly.”
The bassist, guitarist and drummer gave a courteous nod to Bend Sinister and filed out of the cave.
“I apologise for interrupting and for coming without prior arrangement,” said Bend Sinister.
“That is quite alright. What is on your mind?”
“I’ve heard word from one of my followers. Activity on the streets is escalating far beyond what we would ordinarily expect.” He stepped forward and spoke gravely. “I tell you this not to dissuade you from playing. I understand your motivation to perform.”
“Then why?”
“To warn you of the danger, so that you may take whatever precautions are necessary. End as soon as you feel replenished. Give yourself and your followers opportunity to escape.” He held out his hands. “There were four of us. Now there are three. This isn’t forever anymore.”
Chief nodded. “Thank you for your words of caution. I appreciate your concern. It is unfortunate that I find myself in this weakened state, otherwise I would postpone. As it stands, I must play.”
“And I respect that.”
“Will you attend?”
“That would be my wish. However, I find my spirits are low.”
“You miss her.”
“Very much so.”
“I will endeavour to make a fitting dedication in her honour. The event will not pass without tribute, I assure you.”
“I trust that you will, and I am grateful for that.” Bend Sinister bowed. “I have taken up much of your time. You have a show to prepare for. I shall bid you farewell.” He bowed once more, stepped back, then turned and left the cave, his shadow trailing in his wake.
Chief watched him depart, then knelt on the floor, her head raised to the ceiling. Cobalt eyes stared into the gloom, unblinking. Her shoulders sagged and her hands lay spent in her lap. “We are our every need,” she whispered. “We are the hunger that defines us. We are the very dependency on to which we cling, powerless to let go.”
She imagined the scene overground. Experience lent the images a terrifying clarity. Troopers marching through the city, weapons in hand; Allears poised like hungry trigger fingers; citizens cowering in shadow disguises. She could feel their fear permeate the two hundred metres of rock above her head.
“Oh, to be free of that which will destroy us.”
–
Overground, the Exchange basked in the sun – a vast grey beast formed of windowless towers and jutting balconies suspended above a paved precinct. It was a bleak, imposing structure that epitomised the building’s function.
Wulfwin hurried up the steep stone steps that led to the precinct and the gaping maw of the main entrance. He glanced to his left, at the ever-expanding Wall of the Missing. A wry sneer shortened his scar. He found the juxtaposition of the Wall and the building it abutted to be an irony that validated the stupidity of the crowd. As if validation were necessary, he thought, before striding through the open doors.
Inside, the space was cavernous, the air filled with echoes of footfall as people crisscrossed the expanse of the central hall. All around the perimeter were closed doors, with a number painted in white on a board above. Rooms one to twenty were for trade in health and social support. Twenty-one to forty were for cash or commercial arrangements, such as lump-sum swaps or fixed-term tax relief. Rooms forty-one to eighty were reserved for trade in dependencies, principally Meezel.
Meezel was a synthetic drug, widely available in the city, despite being technically illegal. Its correct name was Cordexafed, but it earnt the tag ‘Meezel’ on account of the itchy rash that was the drug’s predominant side effect. A growing number of citizens, across the demographic spectrum, were turning to the drug as a means of escape.
Rooms forty-one to eighty proved the most lucrative from the Authority’s perspective, having passed amendments to legislation that allowed for medicinal dispensation of the drug. Wulfwin marched towards number forty-six, sweeping past cowering citizens who scurried out of his path.
He walked through the doorway, entering a small room reminiscent of a neglected cell. In the centre was a desk and a chair occupied by a scrawny man, who shot up to attention on Wulfwin’s entrance. To its left was a wooden bench, on which huddled a child.
“Is this the boy?” Wulfwin said to the man.
“Yes, sir.” He stooped and held out one arm, gesturing to the child by way of introduction.
Wulfwin stepped up to the boy, towering over him in his long leather trench coat. “Name,” he boomed.
“Wasif—”
“How old are you?”
“Nine.” The boy cowered, not daring to look up.
“Tell me what you told this man.”
“Sir… I heard rumour, sir. Talk of a show…” He gulped, wringing his trembling hands.
“Go on.”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Honest to crow. That’s all I heard.”
“Who told you this?”
“I hears it. On Second Went. Two men whispering. But I still hears them. They cuss, sayin’ it ain’t right.”
“These men, do you know them? Would you recognise them?”
The child shook his head. “No. Don’t know them. Don’t recognise.”
“We’ll see about that.” Wulfwin stepped back and crossed his arms. Leather creaked. “Tell me. What does a nine-year-old kid want with a wrap of Meezel?” He looked to the man who was still hovering behind him. “That’s the swap, isn’t it?”
The man sneered. “Yes, sir. The kids are starting young these days.”
“Not for me…” said the child.
Wulfwin spun back around. “Is that right, now? In that case, who are you trading for?”
“My mum. She needs it. She’s poorly. Meezel helps.”
“Well,
