The municipal ticker in the corner of the valve shelter began to chatter at ten minutes past nine.
It was an old Western Union telegraph punch, bolted to a shelf above the drainage sump. Its brass escapement clicked with a dry, insect rattle, spitting narrow ribbons of white paper into an empty grease bucket on the floor.
Jonah Price bent over the tape, catching the curls between his thumb and forefinger.
“It’s Venn,” Jonah said. His face was white in the lantern light. “He’s running the emergency carrier across the entire district. It’s feeding into the street horns in town and the dormitory loudspeakers.”
Mara stepped up beside him and read the punched purple letters inked across the paper tape:
EMERGENCY CITIZEN DIRECTIVE THIRTY-ONE. REGIONAL LIFE SUPPORT SABOTAGED BY OUTSIDE CONSPIRATORS. FUGITIVES HAVE DAMAGED PRIMARY HIGHWAY INTAKE AND THREATEN HEAT TO DORMITORIES FOUR AND SIX. FULL WINTER RATION ALLOTMENT AND UNCONDITIONAL AMNESTY OFFERED TO ANY CITIZEN WHO ASSISTS IN THE RECOVERY OF MINOR WARD JUNE MERCER. ALL UNAUTHORIZED MOVEMENTS OUTSIDE QUARTERS WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL DETENTION.
The tape fell silent with three rapid staccato clicks.
Inside the shelter, a heavy silence settled over the twelve people huddled on the concrete floor.
