Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Then all at once, silence. Utter, deafening silence. Anthemites had radioed the Belly, the wonder in their voices replaced with terror. “No one is talking,” one agent had breathed into his microphone. “They’re in the streets, all of them. They’re walking like they’re a unit. Like they’re all one body. I think—”

  Ito never learned what he thought. Wilcox had shoved her out of the way and emptied his gun into the dashboard of the communication hub. “The New Music is here,” he had said quietly, his slate eyes fixed to the smoking piece of junk before them. “Rally the stationary guard. We’re going dark.”

  Hours later, they had been buried. On Wilcox’s order, the elevator was destroyed using the explosives originally intended to breach the rubble that guarded the six emergency exits. Without the aid of C4, the massive boulders were impossible to budge. The entrances to the sewers were welded shut. Even the air vents had been plugged with steel plates. The only grates that remained open were those connected to the CO2 scrubbers.

  “The Conductor is at our door, Ito,” Wilcox insisted, bringing her back to the present. “If we open it, they’ll flood the Belly with The New Music. We’d be better off dead.”

  “You may believe that, but you owe your people a choice,” she replied steadily.

  “Even if we were to get out, how would we survive The Air Song, hmmm?”

  “We’d find a way, we always do,” Ito said firmly. When Wilcox did not react, she pressed on. “We owe them a chance to escape. Dozens of our own are still out there. Evie, Iris, Terra, they’re still in the hands of The Conductor.”

  “Those traitors can rot,” Wilcox spat. Ito flinched despite herself. “Westervelt and his pet mutt started this mess. With any luck it will finish them.”

  “Sir—”

  “Enough, get out!”

  “Tristen—”

  The commander slammed his palms into the conference table, sending a shudder rippling through the wood. It took everything Ito had not to shrink back into her chair. Instead, she did what she always did. She lifted her chin and hardened her gaze. Across from her, Wilcox was panting like a wounded animal, his eyes shifting and his face the color of red wine. “Speak one more word of this and I’ll strip you of your rank,” he said. “Question me publicly and you’ll never speak another word.”

  The vent coughed above Ito, one of the air scrubbers tripping over itself. She pushed her chair back and got to her feet swiftly. Her heart thundered in her ears. Everything was brutally sharp, clear. “Your cowardice is going to get us all killed, sir,” she said softly.

  The commander tore his gaze from hers, his upper lip curling. “So be it.”

  3: The Edge

  The cliffs were considerably further from the waterline than they appeared. The trek was made more difficult by their heavy winter clothes and the uneven sand. It took them a good ten minutes to reach the base of the mountain. By the time they did, Ronja had worked up a sweat. “Now what?” she asked no one in particular, craning her neck back. Large white birds circled overhead, lolling about in the airwaves.

  “We climb,” Jonah answered as he adjusted his pack.

  “What?” Ronja yelped. Jonah and Larkin smirked at each other, then strode off toward a large boulder near the bottom of the cliffs. Roark and Ronja exchanged a glance. When they looked back at the Tovairins, they were gone.

  “Uh,” Roark said. “Do you think . . . ”

  “Hurry up, beveks!” Jonah called. His voice had a strange echoey quality to it, as if he were shouting at them down a long corridor.

  “Bevek means foreigner, right?” Roark asked, eyeing the spot where their guides had disappeared.

  “More or less,” Ronja replied absently. She was pretty sure it was some sort of slur, but was not in the mood to analyze it. “Come on,” she said. She stuck out her hand for Roark to take. His eyes ignited at the offer. She knew she had hurt him by refusing his help earlier. That was the last thing she wanted to do. That did not mean she wanted to sit around talking about her feelings.

  She wanted blood.

  Roark laced his fingers with hers as they approached the boulder cautiously. Ronja traced its damp surface as they rounded the bend. It was smooth and shone like a record. They found themselves in a cool sandy aisle between the cliffside and boulder. Carved into the mountain was an arching entryway, roughly six feet high and fringed with drooping moss.

  Ronja swallowed, her eyes trained on the entrance. She felt Roark watching her, scanning her features for signs of a breakdown. Irritation reared in her. Her mind was as cold and sharp as the rocky shores behind them. There was no room for weakness. There was no time to mourn those they had lost.

  She disentangled her hand from his and marched on, her boots whispering across the sand. Brushing aside the curtain of moss, she ducked into the mountain with Roark on her heels. Cool, surprisingly fresh air washed over her.

  “Took you long enough,” Jonah said. Ronja squinted ahead into the semi-darkness. The only light came from the weak electric lantern the captain held aloft. From what she could tell, they were in a dingy tunnel with rough walls. “Come on,” he continued, turning on his heel and marching into the unknown. “Larkin is probably already halfway up.”

  “Up?” Ronja asked. She jogged after him, Roark still trailing her. The sound of their footsteps rebounded off the walls of the tunnel, meshing with the pings of dripping water. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” Jonah answered. She got the sense he was being mysterious on purpose, which soured her already deteriorating mood.

  “I’d rather you just tell me,” she tried again when she reached his side. The lantern painted imposing patterns on his handsome face. “If you could just skitzing—”

  The world was pulled out from beneath her feet.

  Before fear could take hold of her, before she could blink, she was falling. A scream ripped from her throat as a hand snatched her by the forearm. She dangled like a pendulum over a bottomless maw. Panting, she looked up. Jonah stood above her. He had thrown the lantern aside, they were lucky it had not gone over the edge of the cliff with her. “Watch your step,” he said lamely.

  “Pull me up!” she screamed, her voice reflecting back at her. Her legs kicked uselessly, the tips of her boots scuffing against the rock. Roark shot into the ring of light and crashed to his knees, skidding to the edge.

  He reached down, his fingers straining. “Here!”

  With a grunt of effort Ronja reached up her free arm and grasped the offered hand. Working as a unit, they dragged her back to solid ground. As soon as her knees struck the stone, Jonah released her and went to retrieve the lantern. Roark yanked her into a desperate embrace. She mumbled that she was all right, but he just held her tighter. She could feel his heart thundering through his cloak. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to his arms.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Roark demanded, shouting at Jonah over her head.

  “How much time do you have?”

  “You let her walk off a pitching cliff!”

  “What, am I supposed to be babysitting her?”

  “She—”

  “Can speak for herself,” Ronja cut in, peeling back from Roark and glaring at Jonah. She got to her feet shakily. “What the hell kind of mountain is hollow?”

  Jonah arched a condescending eyebrow at her. “Who said this was a mountain?”

  “Wait . . . is this a volcano?” Ronja choked out.

  “Not an active one.” He raised his finger in the air. “The ancients sealed off the top, the rest is still hollow. It makes for a pretty good base.”

  Understanding dawned on the Siren. “Is this the headquarters of the Kev Fairla?”

  The Tovairin grinned, revealing stark white teeth. “Patience, princess.”

  “If you call me that one more time, I swear—” Ronja cut herself off with a gasp, backpedaling toward the exit as a rattling crash exploded above her. Befor
e the echoes had faded, Roark had drawn his borrowed knife, aiming it at the void. Jonah laughed, holding the lantern higher to scatter the shadows.

  “Larkin gets faster every time, I swear,” he said. Ronja took a cautious step toward the ledge. A rope ladder with metal rungs had descended from above. It swayed back and forth, creaking like the branches of an old tree.

  Jonah stepped up to the edge of the abyss and steadied the ladder with his free hand. “Ladies first,” he said.

  Ronja shook her tangled hair out of her face and flipped her cloak over her shoulders. Refusing eye contact with either boy, she grasped the closest rung. The ladder trembled more than she had expected it to, which did little to quiet her nerves.

  “Climb around to the other side,” Jonah directed her as she put her other hand on the rung. “Or you’ll bash your head on the—”

  “I get it.”

  Ronja secured her first foot on the ladder, then the second. Jonah continued to hold it steady as she navigated to the other side, scarcely daring to draw breath. The darkness seemed to reach up toward her, nipping at her ankles and wrapping around her calves.

  “Be careful,” Roark called from the edge. She locked eyes with him through the window of two rungs. His eyes glinted with concern, or maybe it was just the light of the lantern. She offered him a brief nod, not trusting herself to speak, and began to climb.

  4: Gods and Monsters

  Evie

  “Henry,” Evie breathed. She released Iris and approached the sheet of glass that separated them. “What the hell is going on?”

  Physically, he appeared in excellent health. He looked even stronger than he had when they last crossed paths in the clock tower. When he had hurt Ronja. When he had murdered Samson with a headshot, right in the center of his brow. Evie had watched his face when he pulled the trigger. There had not been a flicker of doubt. She gritted her teeth as rage boiled in her gut. The urge to fly at him swelled in her, but she knew her anger was misplaced. Her gaze flicked to the camera, then back to him.

  His dark features were as blank as the curved walls beyond their cell. He was not bored. He was not even apathetic. He was nothing. Every inch of his beautiful mind had been stripped by the gold Singer that clung to his ear. “Henry,” Evie tried again, keeping her voice low to prevent it from shaking. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” he answered. The techi could not help but flinch at the sound of his voice. It was as if she were hearing him speak on a recording captured a long time ago. Familiar, yet somehow foreign. “Evelyn Wick. Techi, sharpshooter, lifelong member of the terrorist organization known as the Anthem. Wanted for at least six counts of murder and high—”

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” she snapped. To her surprise, he shut his mouth at once. His lusterless eyes roved across her face, searching for something. Her skin prickling, Evie peeked over her shoulder. Iris had scooted back to stand between Terra and Mouse. Her lower lip quivered, but she still managed to hold her head high. That’s my girl.

  “Evie.”

  She cut her eyes to Terra. The blonde was watching her intensely, a warning blazing in her hazel eyes. Evie gave a subtle nod, then returned her attention to what remained of Henry. “What do you want, Henry?”

  “The Conductor has tasked me to collect intel from you,” he answered.

  “The Conductor is dead. You were there.”

  Evie was still grappling with the weight of the events at the clock tower. Seeing the crippled form of Atticus Bullon hunched in a wheelchair, sucking oxygen down through a tube, had turned her world upside down. The man she had fought her entire life was nothing but a puppet, a remnant of the dictator who had created The Music.

  Now he was dead, murdered by his own son. The game had changed, and she was a soldier without orders.

  “The Conductor has been reborn in his son and rightful heir of this world, His Excellency Maxwell Sebastian Bullon,” Henry answered smoothly.

  Evie barked a mirthless laugh, her breath clouding on the glass. “Reborn? Are you skitzing kidding me? What, do you think that bastard is some sort of god?”

  The techi flinched when Henry slammed his powerful fist into the glass. The wall shuddered, but did not crack. He leaned in, his nose nearly brushing the window. “Do not speak ill of The Conductor,” he whispered. “You will live to regret it.”

  “Doubt it,” Evie snarled.

  “I had planned to give you a chance,” Henry said, taking a step back and straightening his pristine suit. The red badge on his lapel hooked her gaze. Three crimson pillars that formed a perfect square. The white eye of Atticus Bullon had been retired. This was a new symbol for a new age. The age of Maxwell Bullon. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  Henry snapped his fingers, the little pop echoing through the cavernous room. Evie took an involuntary step backward and collided with Iris, who had scrambled up to stand beside her. Their hands found each other as the door to their cell was wrenched open, revealing a team of Offs brandishing crackling stingers. Evie counted six men, all twice her size. The four Anthemites drew into a tight knot, backing toward the far wall. “You won’t kill us, Henry,” she called out, her gaze fixed on the encroaching Offs.

  “Perhaps not,” Henry replied tonelessly.

  Evie gritted her teeth against her terror, scanning the clot of Offs. They were outnumbered and outgunned, but they had faced worse odds. Terra cracked her knuckles.

  “Guards,” Henry said in a cold voice. “The redhead.”

  Evie did not think. Her body worked without her consent. She whipped Iris behind her and launched herself at the nearest Off, kicking out his knees. As he went down, she spun to nail another in the face with her elbow. He fell into his comrade and they went over like dominos. Someone was screaming. They sounded very far away. Evie cranked her arm back and punched another Off in the trachea.

  Then there was nothing but white light and agony.

  5: Intimidation

  Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three.

  Ronja counted the beats of her ascension. She could have squeezed her eyes shut and it would have made no difference. Jonah had stowed the lantern in his pack for safe keeping. The world was at once unimaginably vast and unbearably claustrophobic. Her nerves were fraying, her teeth creaking under the strain of her grimace.

  Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.

  “How much further?” she called down to Jonah. He and Roark were some ten rungs below her. The ladder shuddered and swayed with each step they took.

  “Not much,” the captain yelled back. “Just another minute or two.”

  Wincing, Ronja forced herself to climb faster. Her soles whined against the metal rungs. Her thoughts wandered, her obsessive counting faded.

  The last time she had scaled a ladder like this was to escape Red Bay. Her feet had been bare, her body bruised, her mind still reeling from the series of impossible events that had slammed into her with the force of an auto. Looking back, everything then was so simple. Save her family. Get out.

  Now she was the fulcrum of a war bigger than she could have possibly imagined.

  A burst of light from above caused Ronja to freeze. Relief flooded her. A month ago she could not have imagined being enthusiastic about meeting the Kev Fairla. They were at best an unknown and at worst their enemy. Now she was desperate to be in their presence, especially if it meant getting off the flimsy ladder. She sped up, keeping her eyes fixed on the blossoming pocket of light.

  By the time she reached the top, Ronja was panting with exertion. Digging her callused fingers into the rock face, she heaved herself up with a grunt. She crawled forward until she was certain she would not fall again, then got to her feet. She scanned her new surroundings apprehensively.

  The light that had guided her to the top of the rock face was a large electric bulb sheathed in a metal grate. It dangled from the natural ceiling, its wires burrowing through the stone. An arched entryway that led to a tunnel s
imilar to the one at the beach was carved into the rock, and . . .

  “Ah!” Ronja yelped. “Skitzing hell, Larkin.” The Tovairin girl skulked near the entrance, draped in shadow. She was as still as the wall she leaned against and twice as unforgiving. Terra and her perpetual grimace popped into Ronja’s mind. A dull ache filled her bones. Ronja never thought she would see the day she missed Terra Vahl. “How did you get up here?” she asked, not at all sure the girl would understand. “Did you climb?”

  Larkin clicked her tongue. “Of course, I do it all the time,” she answered in a thick Tovairin accent.

  Ronja raised her eyebrows. “You speak the common language?” Two weeks crammed into that tiny ship like sardines and not once had Larkin given any indication she spoke anything but Tovairin. The Siren blushed, recalling her many awkward attempts at miming.

  “Only when speaking with enemies,” Larkin replied icily.

  “Enemies? We’re trying to save you.”

  “I do not see this.” Larkin peeled away from the wall and prowled toward Ronja. “All I see is an ugly, scarred little bevek who thinks she is better than us.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Siren said in a low voice. Anger rumbled deep in her chest.

  “My apologies, princess,” the Tovairin girl sneered. She bent mockingly at the waist. “Certainly, I will leave my island to rot at the hands of Vinta while we save your fiested city.”

  Ronja closed the space between them. She had two inches on Larkin, but it felt as if they were the same height. “Call me princess one more time.”

  “Jonah was supposed to bring back weapons. Instead, be brought you.” Larkin poked a finger into her sternum. Her white reshkas wound around the digit, ending in a hook at the root of her nail. “You are nothing more than a failed mission.”