Siren

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  31: Bedside Manner

  Iris

  Waking up felt like dying. Every fiber of Iris’s being was twisted, knotted, and frayed. Her head was the worst, aching and pulsing like a relentless drum. She raised her hand to touch it. Sharp pain pricked her wrist. She forced her eyes open. The world blared white, then gray, then drew into focus.

  She was in a bare bones hospital room with white walls. They had placed her on a small cot with bleached sheets and a thin pillow. The sting at her wrist was an IV. Iris followed the clear tubing with her eyes, landing on a bag of fluid dangling above her. Saline. They were keeping her alive to torture her again. The irony was not lost on her, but she did not have the energy to crack a smile.

  “You’re awake.”

  Iris jerked beneath her crisp sheets, sitting up on her elbows. Terror crawled into her throat. “Henry,” she rasped. The boy sat directly opposite her cot, legs crossed and arms folded. His Singer glinted from the crest of his ear, and the red badge on his chest stared her down. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was sent to observe you,” he replied tonelessly.

  Iris felt her hopes wither; a small part of her had hoped some fragment of his former self had drawn him to her room. “How long was I out?”

  “Seventeen hours and nineteen minutes.”

  “Where is my family?”

  Henry cocked his head to the side. “Family?”

  “Yes, family.” Iris winced as she maneuvered herself into a fully upright position. “Evie and the others are my family. You were part of that family, too. You still are.”

  “No, I am a faithful servant of The Conductor.”

  Iris opened her mouth to rebut him, but a question came out instead. “What happened to you, that day at Red Bay? We heard the shot over the radio. We thought you were dead.” Maybe the stars are alive after all. His last words still crept up on her when she was on the edge of sleep. Part of her wished they were his last words. Henry—the Henry she knew—would rather have died saving his family than live as a shell.

  “The details of my survival are unimportant,” Henry told her.

  “You don’t remember,” Iris murmured. He did not answer, but his dark eyes flickered subtly. That confirmed Evie’s theory, then. Extended exposure to The New Music caused partial amnesia. “Do you remember me?”

  “I remember your trade, mutilating abiding citizens, cutting them off from The Music.”

  “I set them free,” Iris snapped, surprising herself with the power of her voice. “You know that.”

  “No, you burdened them with emotion.” Henry uncrossed his limbs and leaned forward in his chair.

  Iris glowered at him, refusing to shrink herself. “Even Maxwell sees the value in emotion.”

  “The Conductor understands that honed rage can be a valuable tool in small doses.”

  “What do you feel right now, Henry?” Iris asked quietly, pinning him with her gaze.

  Henry drew himself up in his seat. “I am free of emotion by the hand of The New Music.”

  “What about when you killed Samson? What did you feel then?”

  Henry got to his feet swiftly, advancing on her until he loomed at the edge of her bed. She raised her chin, feigning defiance as she scanned his features. There was something there, in the tightness around his mouth, at the corners of his eyes. Or maybe it was just her scrambled brain playing a cruel joke on her. Henry had the capacity to feel rage when triggered by the Siren’s voice—was it possible to draw it out without her intervention?

  “I am honored to serve The Conductor,” he said in a dangerously soft voice. “The traitor dug his own grave by joining the rebels.”

  “No, you don’t get to run from the blame. You murdered him.” Iris swallowed the burgeoning lump in her throat. What would happen, if she pushed him too far? “He was your blood brother. He taught you to read, to fight, to play the drums with your hands.”

  “Enough,” Henry said through his teeth. He clutched the bedrail and bent toward her, his knuckles whitening. “I do not have to listen to you, scum.”

  “Then shut me up,” Iris dared him, opening her arms wide, ignoring the way her IV tugged at her skin. “Go on, do it. Kill me. I can’t stop you.”

  “The Conductor wants you alive.”

  “To torture me.” The surgeon shook her head with a reckless laugh. “Another round of The Lost Song will kill me.” It was not a bluff. Henry had said she could tolerate three rounds in The Amp, but she knew her body. She knew The Music. She was one note away from system failure. It should have scared her. Not long ago, it would have. But she did not fear death anymore. She only feared leaving Evie alone in this horrible place. “If you think torturing me is going to get the others to give up the Anthem, you’re wrong.”

  “You are mistaken,” Henry replied smoothly. “Your comrade has already made a deal. She will lead us into the Belly within a day.”

  Iris felt the blood drain from her face. Her lips split, but no sound came out. No. It was not possible. They were trained to guard their home with their lives. Even Evie would never crack, she was almost sure of it. Something didn’t add up. “Terra,” Iris muttered under her breath. “Terra did this.” Dozens of different scenarios cycled through her head. Betrayal. Self-preservation. Treachery. Or—a ruse, a plan.

  Henry did not answer. Instead, he spun toward the exit. It was then Iris noticed that he was trembling. “Sleep,” he said in a perfectly level voice. “You will need it.” Before she could reply, he opened the metal door and slammed it behind him, leaving her alone with her scattered thoughts.

  32: Discarded

  Henry

  He stood at the center of his bedroom, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes trained on the floor. The New Music shivered against him, a palpable entity running over his skin, his clothes. It was as unpredictable as a skittish stray. One moment, it was high and feather light. The next, it would threaten to crush him.

  He would let it, if The Conductor determined it best.

  What did you feel? the girl had asked. He recognized her from his past life. Iris Harte, the surgeon hell-bent on separating people from their Singers. From the very thing that prevented them from descending into chaos.

  Evil, The New Music hissed without words.

  What did evil look like, he wondered vaguely. Did it have a face, a name? What did it matter?

  A knock at the door. Henry turned on his heel and opened it at once, standing at attention. He relaxed slightly when he saw it was only Thomas. Like Henry, he had been a lost rebel before The Conductor found them. He had not been a member of the Anthem, but of a small group of anarchists that had cropped up in the middle ring after the Siren started spewing her blasphemy.

  “The Exalted Conductor requests your presence in ten minutes,” Thomas informed him.

  “Thank you.”

  Thomas saluted him, then retreated down the stone hallway, his reddish hair glowing in the gaslight. Henry shut the door, turning back to face his pristine cot. His room was bare and clean. The Conductor was incredibly generous to allow him and the other upper level Officers to stay in the palace basement.

  What did The Conductor want with him at this hour? The New Music pinched him and he shook his head. Questions were counterproductive. He grabbed his stiff jacket from the hook and put it on with a snap. He did up the clasps slowly, painstakingly. His fingers hovered over the red badge at his chest. It felt oddly warm beneath his fingertips. He flicked off the lights and stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind him. The lock on his door had been disabled.

  It did not matter. He had nothing to hide.

  Henry made his way to the far end of the palace basement, walking with his hands behind his back. It was the middle of the night, so he encountered few Offs along the way. Those he did intercept paused to salute him. He nodded back politely, but did not stop. The Conductor did not like to be kept waiting.

  By the time he reached
the elevator, Henry had only two minutes to spare. He fidgeted impatiently as the rickety gate rolled open, revealing the aged wooden interior of the elevator. Stepping inside, he punched the button labeled “5.” The elevator sealed itself and began its shuddering ascent.

  What did you feel when you killed Samson? The voice of the rebel pricked him through the protective shield of The New Music. It was like a buzzing gnat he could not shake. The way she had looked at him, her eyes luminous and wet, her face crusted with her own dried blood.

  His stomach heaved. He must have eaten something rotten.

  The elevator ground to a halt and opened with a polite peal of chimes. A shining reception hall sprawled before Henry, cold and fine. Towering windows with crystal panes looked out over the palace grounds. Between them, black and red banners hung proudly. The hall was empty, save for a servant girl in a black shift polishing a vase halfway down.

  Henry started forward, his boots tapping against the polished marble. His gaze swept to the side. The winter moons were bloated in the midnight sky. The palace grounds were pitch black, save for the blazing searchlights that swung back and forth above the gates a hundred yards out. Beyond the walls, Revinia shone like a beacon. It expanded as far as the eye could see, an inferno of electricity and brass. The great clock tower loomed large in his view, less than a mile away.

  What did you—?

  “Henry.”

  “Sir.” Henry snapped to attention. Somehow he had failed to notice The Conductor step out of his chambers and into the hall. “You sent for me.”

  “Right on time, as usual.” The Conductor smiled widely. His teeth were as bright as the marble beneath them. He wore a black silk robe. His feet were bare and pale. He nodded toward the metropolis, moving up to stand beside Henry. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me what you see, Mr. Romancheck,” The Conductor said, clapping an enthusiastic hand to his shoulder. He gave Henry a little shake, gesturing at the view.

  “The palace grounds, the clock tower, the—”

  “Peace, Henry.” The Conductor dug his fingers into his shoulder. In the past, it might have hurt him, but he had been freed from the burden of pain. “You’re looking at peace that I proctored.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shut it.” Henry tripped forward as he was whacked on the back of the head. Confusion sparked in him, but was instantly doused by The New Music. “Ah, you do not feel pain, do you boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Conductor rolled his eyes with a huff, then paced forward to stand before the window. Henry remained rooted to the spot. He had not been invited to stand beside him. “What do you think of the girl, Terra?”

  “Sir?”

  The Conductor sighed, silhouetted against the light of the moons. “What memories do you have of her?”

  Henry wracked his brains, torn between not wanting to disappoint his leader and the frantic hum of The New Music in his ear, telling him not to poke at the disjointed memories. “She—she was strong. Cruel. But dedicated. Sir.”

  “She’s a born commander, that one.” The Conductor chuckled to himself, slipping his hands into the pockets of his robe. Still, he did not turn around. “Do you think I am a fool?” he asked softly.

  “S-sir?”

  “DO YOU THINK I AM A FOOL?” Rather than waiting for Henry to answer, he stalked over to a nearby table and snatched up a decorative vase. He hurled it toward the elevator with a savage cry. It shattered against the marble. Someone screamed. Henry rounded on the sound to find the servant girl staring at them with wide eyes. “COME HERE, GIRL!” The Conductor shouted, spit flying from his lips.

  The girl shuffled toward him slowly. She was short and thin with milky skin. As she drew closer, Henry saw she was covered in angry purple bruises centered around her neck and wrists. In the end, they were not what secured his gaze. It was her naked right ear. She did not have a Singer.

  “You look surprised, Mr. Romancheck,” The Conductor said, grabbing the girl by her battered wrist and yanking her to his side. She was stiff as a board, her gray eyes on the floor.

  “She . . . she has no Singer.”

  “No, indeed.” He tucked a strand of limp blond hair over her bare ear. She shivered at the touch, biting her lip until it bleached white. “The New Music has saved this city. Soon it will save the world. But forgive me, Henry, when I tell you that you lot have become—well—boring.”

  “Sir?”

  “Valorie here spent her entire life without a Singer, living off scraps in the slums with her brother.” The Conductor gave Valorie a rough shake. Henry felt his stomach tighten again. He wracked his brains, trying to remember what he had eaten that day.

  “Her brother gave me too much trouble—I stuck a Singer on him weeks ago. But I kept this one as she is. She does keep things interesting.”

  Henry did not respond. He could not seem to take his eyes off the girl.

  “I have never been betrayed, Henry,” The Conductor continued. “Because I cannot be betrayed. If you so much as consider aiding the enemy, The New Music will destroy you. I will destroy you.”

  “I would never betray you, sir,” Henry answered vehemently, bringing his gaze back to The Conductor.

  “Even if it were Iris in my grasp? Or perhaps, Ronja?”

  The New Music surged in Henry’s head, battering the walls of his skull. His vision went white. He blinked rapidly. “I would never betray you, sir,” he repeated.

  “My little bird will return soon. She has flown far away.” There was a wistfulness in The Conductor’s voice that did not match his exterior. “I want to ensure that there will be no problems when she returns. She must be punished, of course, before my conquest can begin properly.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The air was oddly thin.

  What did you feel?

  “Excellent,” The Conductor said with a grin. “Tomorrow, you will take Terra into the city to confirm her claim. Watch her carefully, and report back to me.”

  Henry raised his hand to salute his commander. “Yes, sir.”

  “The New Music hears you, Henry.” The Conductor took Valorie by the waist, drawing a whimper from her bruised mouth. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world. “I hear you.” Without another word, he swept past Henry, dragging the girl with him.

  The boy remained in the hall long after the door slammed.

  33: The Aura

  The last thing Ronja wanted to do was eat, but both her body and Roark insisted. She gulped down a steaming bowl of soup, barely tasting it, then chased it with two slices of bread and a glass of water. “Happy?” she asked, setting her empty cup on the table.

  Roark smiled, but did not reply. They sat across from each other at one of the trié’s long tables, which had been pushed to the far end of the great room. The other side was packed with refugees from the town. Kev Fairlans were handing out blankets, bottles of water, and bowls of the same reddish soup Ronja had choked down. In the southeast corner, a medical station had been set up to treat minor burns and wounds. Those with lacerations, broken bones, and missing limbs were taken to the infirmary. The drone of conversation was enough to drown out their horrific screams, but they still echoed through her brain.

  When they arrived back in the hangar, the mood had been frantic and grim. Jonah opened the back of the truck and the townspeople flooded out. Some cried, some clutched at their loved ones, others were silent. They were gray-faced and exhausted, so quiet they could bleed into thin air. Ronja and Roark quickly discovered that the rebels had a well-oiled system when it came to processing hundreds of frightened civilians. The Anthemites tried to assist them, but mostly ended up getting in the way. Defeated, they had retreated to the far end of the trié.

  “How are you feeling?” Roark asked.

  Ronja reached up to brush her temple with her fingertips. It still ached distantly, but it was nothing compared to the
constant barrage of pain The Music had once inflicted. “Fine.”

  “How many do you think there are?” Roark asked, looking out over the throngs of listless Tovairins.

  “Two hundred, three?” she guessed. Whatever the number, there should have been seven more. They fell silent for a time, hypnotized by the shifting crowds. Ronja stiffened when she spotted Kai walking with purpose across the room. He approached an elderly woman in a deep blue headscarf and threw his arms around her, holding her while she wept. Ronja turned away, her skin prickling.

  “Strange,” Roark murmured, following her line of sight to the heartfelt exchange. There was a question ringing in the word, one he did not need to voice. The same one was on her mind. How could someone demonstrate such cruelty, then turn around and act with such warmth?

  “I guess no one is all one thing,” Ronja finally concluded.

  Roark chuckled. “Well said.”

  Faint warmth washed over Ronja, tugging a smile onto her mouth. Her face fell when a thought struck her. She leaned toward him across the table. “Roark, the zethas.”

  The boy dug into his pocket and produced the two little black orbs Jonah had given him, weighing them in his open palm. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “Yeah,” Ronja said with a nod. She took one of the zethas from his hand, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. “Jonah said Paxton invented them. I think Evie would like him. Mouse, too.”

  “Yeah,” Roark agreed. “Yeah, they would.” He closed his fingers around the solitary zetha, his brow furrowed. “We’re not talking about the bigger problem we have here.”

  Ronja snorted, rolling her eyes at the stalactites far above them. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “The Kev Fairlans are fighting their own battles, and by the looks of it they’re outgunned. Badly. There is no way in hell they’re going to leave this place defenseless.”