Evie thought for a moment, then recognition sparked in her gaze. There, Terra thought. She had her. The techi straightened up, raking her short hair out of her face.
“Do you think—” Evie breathed.
“I think it could work,” Terra cut her off. “Only way we’re going to know is if we try.” She peered out at the unsettling black room beyond the glass. It seemed to watch her in return. Her instincts twitched. She did not want to find out what the purpose of the room was, but got the feeling they would know soon if they did not act fast. “We have no choice.”
10: Relativity
Roark did most of the talking. He must have sensed the exhaustion creeping up on Ronja. She observed Easton while he listened. His expression betrayed nothing, not a shred of doubt or trust.
It took less than an hour to relay their story. When it was finished, Ronja was left with a pit in her stomach. It felt hollow, anticlimactic even. Roark had started with a brief history of Revinia, walking Easton through the creation and imposition of The Music. Then he launched into an overview of the Anthem—their cause, their failures and successes, and their current status. He had switched gears after that, telling the commander of the night he and Ronja met.
“She almost ran me over with a subtrain,” Roark admitted with a chuckle. She gave him a weak smile. Less than a year had passed since she had met Roark on the tracks, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Ronja had never been innocent, not since she was old enough to understand that as a mutt she was lower than dirt. She’d thought she had it tough when she was an outcast struggling to provide for her family.
Innocence was relative, she supposed.
Roark took Easton through Red Bay, their discovery of The New Music and her voice. Jonah listened intently as well, intermittently cracking his knuckles with his thumb. The Anthemite explained the creation of the radio station, the steady revolution that built only to collapse in a single night. “Ronja freed them, just for a moment,” he finished in quiet voice. She shifted uncomfortably, unsure where to look. She settled on watching the fire shiver in its ashes. “We would have taken the city back were it not for Maxwell.”
“And Jonah,” Ronja muttered under her breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him blanch. Good. She hoped he was on pins and needles.
“What exactly did this Maxwell do to . . . ” Easton glanced at the Siren. “Stop her?”
“He ambushed us and put The New Music into effect,” Roark repeated patiently.
Easton was silent for a while, digesting the massive amount of information he had just received. Jonah rolled a kink from his neck. Ronja picked at a loose thread on her knee.
“Do you believe she could have freed them again, if given the chance?” the commander finally asked.
Roark straightened his spine. “Yes,” he said confidently. “She was able to free me when I was exposed to it. I believe she can do it again.”
The commander reclined in his chair, itching the stubble that crept across his square jaw. “And you want our help to do this?”
“We just need enough men and women to take out the six mainframes and get me to the radio station,” Ronja said, breaking her silence. “The weapons, the ones Maxwell promised you. When we’re finished, you can have them.” She felt Roark look at her out of the corner of his eye, but kept her focus on Easton.
“And who are you to offer them to me, girl?” he asked with a condescending smirk.
Ronja tensed. She locked eyes with Jonah across the way, silently begging him not to say anything. Mercifully, he kept his mouth shut.
“Say I believe you,” Easton said when she failed to respond. “Why would I help you? I have my own war to fight, my own people to protect.”
“Because Maxwell is coming for Tovaire, too,” Roark jumped in. “He has an army of three million civilians utterly loyal to him under The New Music. He cut a deal with Vinta; they’re sending a fleet of transport ships. They should be arriving at the port any day now, if they’re not already there. If we do not take out The New Music, we’re all skitzed.”
Easton grit his teeth, his nostrils flaring. He cut his eyes to Jonah, who nodded in confirmation. The commander returned his attention to Ronja and Roark. Bitterness had seared away the last of his apathy. His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Yes,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “That sounds like Vinta.” They waited in limbo for him to say more, but he appeared to be lost in thought. Pascal twitched and snarled in his sleep. “You understand how this sounds,” he finally said.
Roark started to speak, but Ronja beat him to it. “Yeah, I still have trouble believing it myself.”
Easton’s mouth hooked into a wry smile.
“It’s true, sir,” Jonah spoke up. “I was there, I saw it.”
You caused half of it, she thought bitterly, but she held her tongue.
Easton heaved a sigh, and he sagged forward a fraction of an inch. He drummed his fingers on the cushioned arm of the chair. A log snapped on the fire, sending up a plume of sparks. “I need time to think,” he said.
“Did you hear what Roark said?” Ronja blurted. “Maxwell has an army of three million mindless soldiers. Innocent people, children. Those ships will arrive any day, and if they leave port we’ll miss our chance.”
“If what you say is true, then we are already out of time,” Easton said. “It would take a week to put together a team. The ships would leave port long before we were ready.”
Ronja bit her lip. Maybe he’s right, she thought. She knew as well as he did that the ships could have left days ago. They could be on their way to Tovaire. But something deep in her gut told her otherwise, something she had not given voice to until now. “Maxwell won’t leave without me.”
Roark turned to look at her, his shock searing the side of her face. She kept her eyes on Easton stubbornly.
“So sure of your importance, are you?” he asked with a sneer.
Ronja flushed. “You weren’t there,” she answered in a low voice. “You have no idea what he’s like. He . . . ” She searched for the right words amidst the bleak memories bubbling up in her psyche. “He thinks this is a game, and I am his favorite piece.”
It was not arrogance or false hope. If there were no chance that the fleet remained in Revinia, she would have accepted it and switched her focus to revenge. But no. Maxwell would not begin his conquest without her. That did not mean they had time to waste. The Anthem was compromised. Their friends were wasting away in prison.
Easton, however, was not convinced. He squinted at her as if he were staring into a bright light. Before Ronja could place his expression, Jonah took advantage of the hush. “Sir,” he said quietly. “There is one more thing.”
The commander tore his gaze from the Siren. Jonah sucked in a steadying breath. Ronja felt as though he had stolen it from her lungs.
Please, no.
“I believe she is the daughter of Darius Alezandri.”
11: Respite
Ronja had never been more grateful for a shower in her entire life. Partially because she was filthy from two weeks aboard a ship with limited fresh water, partially because she was desperate to get away from Jonah and Easton.
I believe she is the daughter of Darius Alezandri. She would have rather faced a unit of Offs with a butter knife than hear those words. Even worse was the spark of recognition that had flared in the eyes of the commander as he scrutinized her. What had he seen? What did he know? She was aching for answers, yet she dreaded nothing more.
Easton had asked them to leave so he could speak with Jonah in private. They gathered their things in silence while he pulled a cord that hung from the ceiling three times. A few painfully long moments later, a young woman with a round face and downcast eyes had appeared in the doorway to take them to their quarters.
“I’ll send for you when I have come to a decision,” Easton said as he ushered them to the exit. “Do not come looking for me.” The Anthemites stepped into th
e hall with the Tovairin girl, then wheeled around to face him.
“Thank you, sir,” Roark said formally, tapping his brow and heart. The commander responded in kind. Ronja peeked around them and locked eyes with Jonah. Something passed between them. Acknowledgement that their strange friendship—if their volatile relationship could be called that—was about to change drastically. Then the commander had shut the door with a clap, leaving them alone with the Tovairin girl.
“He . . . ” Roark started to say, but the girl just motioned for them to follow her and hurried off down the corridor. The Anthemites shared a perplexed look, then went after her.
They maintained their silence as they wound deeper into the temple. The hallways were less packed than the atrium, but they were far from empty. Half the pedestrians were dressed in thick, colorful clothing. They travelled in packs of two or three, chatting and laughing casually. The others were dressed for battle. Black leather armor, stained overcoats, blood and muck smeared across their skin. Exhaustion clung to their faces and weighed down their shoulders. The divergence between the two groups was striking. “I wonder where the front is,” Roark had whispered as they passed a woman supporting a stocky male soldier. “The beach seemed so peaceful.”
“Yeah, it did,” Ronja replied distantly. All she could think looking at the shabby soldiers was that they were in no state to face Maxwell and the Revinians.
Eventually, the mute girl had led them to a door deep in the bowels of the compound. She chose a brass key from a ring at her hip while they waited, then sprang the lock. Without so much as a nod, she brushed past them and scampered back the way they came. “You’d think they’d be monitoring us more carefully,” Ronja muttered, watching as the young woman disappeared down the hall.
The room was simple and serviceable. Most of the space was taken up by a double bed draped in thick quilts. Near the foot of the bed was a tray laden with food and drink—some familiar, some not. Several pieces of bread smothered in a delightfully tangy spread and a glass of water later, Ronja made for the door on the left hand side of the room. She nearly cried with relief when she discovered it was a bathroom complete with a tiled shower.
Now she stood beneath the scalding stream, wondering vaguely how the Kev Fairla managed to get such excellent water pressure in an ancient temple. Who cares, she thought. She craned her neck back, opening her mouth to taste the fresh water. With each second that passed, she felt the tension leak from her muscles, spiraling down the drain. Her fingers drifted up to her scalp, massaging her heavy curls.
“Ro?”
Ronja started, nearly slipping on the wet tiles. She caught herself, mouthed a swear, then stuck her dripping head out from behind the curtain. Roark stood in the door, fully clothed. “You’re letting out the heat,” she complained.
He made a noise reminiscent of a laugh, then stepped across the threshold and shut the door. He hovered near the sink, the steam curling around his body. She watched him, her drenched hair dripping onto the floor. She knew his presence was a question, not a demand. She found herself oscillating on the edge of it.
“Sorry,” Roark said abruptly, massaging the back of his neck. “I should have . . . sorry.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Skitz. Sorry, I’ll just . . . ”
“You better not open that door again,” Ronja warned him.
Roark let his fingers fall from the knob. “Yes, ma’am,” he said coyly.
She rolled her eyes and ducked back into the shower. She could practically hear Roark grinning through the curtain. No time, a tiny voice reminded her over the drone of the water. Her heart was high in her throat. It had been leaden for so long, as if she were still anchored to the floor of that mirrored prison. She had forgotten what it felt like for her pulse to race from anything but fear.
The cloth curtain shifted as Roark approached. “Can I come in?” he asked.
Ronja hesitated. Focus. She needed to focus. But Easton had said he needed time to consider their proposition. There was little they could do in the meantime. Before she could stop herself, she peeled back the curtain.
Her breath caught in her ribs. The shards of her focus slipped down the drain. Roark had added his clothes to the pile she had made in the corner. The last time she had seen him like this was at the warehouse in Revinia. It seemed like years had passed since then. There had been so much hope. Now the future was bleak, a shade of what they once believed possible. As far as Ronja was concerned, she did not have a future beyond shutting down The New Music and killing Maxwell.
That did not make her love him any less.
Roark stepped into the shower slowly, deliberately. Ronja moved back to accommodate him, her eyes never straying from his. He had changed so much since the night they met. His eyes were the eyes of someone twice his age. The mischievous spark that once lived in them was doused. His body was littered with white scars. They were nearly luminous against his golden brown skin. He had just as many as she did, maybe more.
He lifted his hand to her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. Ronja stood still, shivering despite the heat pouring over her. It had been weeks since he had touched her this way. She had not been well enough, mentally or physically, to even think about it on the journey over. From her frailty, cold focus had claimed Ronja, leaving little room for anything else.
But perhaps she could let herself thaw. Just for the night.
Ronja raised up on her tiptoes and kissed him. His hands drifted to her hips, pulling her toward him with gentle insistence. He parted her lips with his tongue. Their kisses grew deeper, more frantic. Ronja dragged her fingers through his hair, raked her nails down his back.
He lifted her effortlessly. She slung her arms around his neck, wrapped her legs around his torso. A low growl ripped from his chest. Roark pushed her up against the slick wall. His fingernails dug into her thighs. Her toes curled as he began to kiss down her arched neck.
“Ah!” Ronja yelped, swatting him on the arm. His teeth had nicked her collarbone.
“Sorry,” he murmured in a voice that indicated he was not sorry at all. The girl rolled her eyes and kissed him hungrily, moving her hips against his. Roark took the hint. There was very little talking after that.
12: The Amp
Evie
“Evie, wake up.”
The techi opened her eyes. Terra and Mouse stood over her. Their gazes were trained on the room beyond their glass prison. Her stomach twisted. She sprang to her feet, ignoring the dizziness that ensued. Her breath snagged in her lungs. Her teeth gnashed together. “Henry,” she snarled.
He stood about six feet from the glass, his hands clasped behind his back. He observed them with lusterless eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side. He wore a wireless headset complete with a curved microphone and thick pads. “Hello, Evelyn,” he greeted her peaceably, his voice crackling through the intercom.
“Where is Iris?” the techi demanded.
“She will be here shortly.”
“What have you done to her?”
Henry smiled, though it was closer to a smirk. Evie felt her blood run cold. “Nothing, yet. I am here to ask you a few questions.”
Evie looked at Mouse and Terra. The blonde had folded her muscular arms over her chest, staring daggers at Henry. Mouse was shifting from foot to foot, as if he were about to break into a sprint. The techi turned back to their interrogator. “What do you want?”
“We have the Belly surrounded,” he began. “The Conductor would prefer your comrades be taken alive.”
“How generous,” Terra seethed.
“Explosives are out of the question,” Henry continued. “We know there is a back door somewhere, some sort of emergency exit.” He made eye contact with each of them in turn. Evie swallowed dryly when his empty gaze landed on her. “One of you is going to tell us where it is.”
Evie licked her lips, her thoughts whirring like gears. If the elevator was a viable option, they would have used it by n
ow. There were six emergency exits scattered throughout the Belly, each sealed by mountainous walls of rubble. The only way they could be brought down was with powerful explosives buried deep within the stone. Why had they not blown them yet?
Unless . . .
Unless they used the explosives to blow the elevator and cave in the sewers to protect themselves from The New Music.
“The exit, Wick,” Henry promoted. “Where is it?”
“You know where it is,” Evie snapped, copying Terra and crossing her arms. Beyond the translucent wall, she saw Henry stiffen. She squinted out at him in the loaded silence. Something itched her about his last words. Then it hit her like a ton of bricks. “Unless you don’t remember,” she said slowly. “Unless The New Music skitzed up your brain.”
“You will tell us—” he started.
“The New Music scrambled your memory.” Evie stalked toward the glass. “How much do you remember? Do you remember us? Your family? Charlotte? Ronja?” Strange lightness settled over her, the slightest relief from an impossible burden. Somehow, it was easier to stomach Henry working for the enemy knowing he did not really remember them.
“You will tell us where the exit is,” he snapped, his voice rebounding off the curved walls of the black room.
“We’re not telling you shit,” Evie growled, the sheen of relief dissolving.
The boy smiled, a wickedness not native to him uncoiling in his eyes. “We’ll see.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the door, rapping it twice with a knuckle. It opened at once and he stepped aside. Two Offs stood in the frame, one male, one female. Between them was a wilted figure with flaming red hair.
“Iris!” Evie screamed.
Mouse clapped his hands over his mouth to cover a gasp. Terra remained stoic, but her fingers curled into fists at her thighs.
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