Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Stripped down to her tank top, her cap backward on her damp curls, Ronja rolled into the final station with heavy lidded eyes and a fresh collection of burns on her callused fingers. With any luck she could get her hands on some salve, but luck did not appear to be on her side this week.

  Charged by the final hysterical stage of exhaustion, she hopped from her cabin to coax her few remaining passengers homeward. She slid her stingring onto her forefinger in case they were agitated. The ring was cool, but snapped with violent electricity upon contact with an assailant’s skin.

  Fortunately, these commuters were the quiet sort. A few exhausted businessmen in rumpled pinstripes, a handful of bums reeking of the sap, and a call girl with smeared makeup puffing a slim.

  They were worlds apart, but all were united by their silver Singers implanted at birth. The tiny, identical devices curled about their cartilages, plunged and snaked into their ear canals, pouring out whatever Song The Conductor deemed appropriate for the hour.

  The tunneler’s exposed ear leapt to the front of her mind, but she forced it back.

  Later, she promised herself. Or perhaps she was promising The Night Song, which flared as she suppressed her unwitting knowledge of the crime.

  Ronja paced along the railcars, peeking through the windows in search of any lingerers. Finding none, the girl sighed gratefully and returned to her cabin. She applied the emergency break, gathered her bag, and locked the door behind her.

  Ronja took the stone steps to the surface at a jog, eager to feel the splash of the cool, 5 A.M. air. She broke out of the tunnels like a moth bursting from its cocoon.

  The city unfurled around her, steel and brass and layer upon layer of brown brick. The Conductor’s words sprawled lazily across the soot-tarnished blocks in red letters:

  PASSION IS PERILOUS

  EMOTION IS TREACHEROUS

  DISOBEDIENCE IS DESTRUCTION

  The buildings around her were simple and dull, but in the distance glowed the core. The gold-trimmed capitol building was illuminated by electric power even in the pre-dawn gray. The mammoth clock at the tower’s crown peered at Ronja from afar, stealing her seconds with a warm smile.

  Wine-red airships pregnant with helium roamed the bleary skies, whirring softly. They shed their behemoth shadows on the glimmering upper ring.

  Ronja ripped her gaze from the core, a brief crescendo of The Night Song reprimanding her jealousy.

  She trotted across the empty street to the subtrain office, the hour she’d lost to the tunneler itching her. The worn soles of her boots slapped against the wet cobblestones, spraying murky water across the tail of her overcoat.

  Georgie’s plants needed water, she’ll be glad it rained again, she thought as she approached the office.

  The subtrain office was pinched between a bicycle shop and an abandoned tenant home. It was a squat building with a single, square window and a gated door. A kind word for it might be “rustic,” but “dilapidated” was more appropriate. A wooden sign above the locked door read:

  SUBTRAIN: ROARING TOWARD THE FUTURE

  Ronja’s fingers trembled as she rummaged through her bag for her keys. It was not long ago that Wasserman had entrusted her with her own set. She imagined him snatching them from her hands, enraged by her incompetence. Her fingers closed around the cool teeth of the gate key.

  The door burst open in a flurry of light and sound. Ronja stumbled backward, fumbling with her keys and dropping them.

  A man of immense size loomed in the doorway. He was almost as wide as he was tall. His neck boiled over the lip of his tight collar. The top button of his shirt strained heroically against its burden. His eyes were hooded by thick pockets of fat, though his lips were surprisingly thin.

  “You’re late,” Wasserman rumbled.

  Ronja arranged her face into an apologetic mask, twined her fingers behind her back to still them. “There was a disturbance in 42,” she replied.

  “You shoulda dealt with it, I didn’ give you steamies them stingrings for nothin’.”

  Ronja spun her weapon around its axis.

  “It wasn’t that kind of disturbance. I had to stop suddenly and my engine choked.”

  “You sure took your time dealin’ with it, then.”

  “I apologize, Mr. Wasserman.”

  The man grunted, itched his ear. A shower of dead skin rained down like dirty snow, dragging Ronja’s eyes to his Singer. The machine was caked with rust. The skin around it looked raw, sick.

  “You got somethin’ to say, girl?” Wasserman snarled.

  “No sir, it’s just—”

  “What?”

  “I think your ear might be septic.”

  A telltale sheen built on Wasserman’s bloated face, followed by a creeping, violet blush. Ronja could imagine The Night Song building in his infected ear, imploring him to discipline his employee for her impudence.

  Ronja dropped her eyes and face, but the man caught her chin with two beefy fingers, forcing her to look at him.

  “You think you’re smarter than me? You think that mutt mother of yours gave you some kinda smarts the rest of us don’ know about?”

  Ronja sighed internally, felt her muscles go lax. They had arrived at her mother, as they always did. Wasserman never missed a chance to remind her of her inferior status.

  “No, sir,” she heard herself say.

  “Bein’ a mutt ain’t something to be proud of. Bein’ a mutt’s kid ain’t any better.”

  He spat bitterly at her boots.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ any delusions in that punkass little head.”

  Wasserman shoved Ronja back with his swollen hand. She tripped, catching herself on the open gate. Her stingring struck the metal and a shower of blue sparks leapt from it, flitting harmlessly to the ground.

  “That’s my time you’re spending, understand? I can’t leave till the last train’s in.”

  Ronja swallowed the bitter lump in her throat, nodded mechanically.

  “You’re goin’ home with twenty-five,” her boss hissed through his stained teeth. He reached into his threadbare waistcoat, withdrawing a wad of cash. He peeled six bills from the mass and thrust them at her. “I’ll throw in an extra note—remember, I’m generous.”

  “That won’t last a week,” Ronja whispered hoarsely.

  “Twenty-five would last less,” Wasserman replied unhelpfully.

  “I’ve got a family.”

  “So do I, punk. ’Sides, don’ mutts just eat outta the garbage, anyway?”

  Wasserman guffawed to himself. Ronja felt her ears grow hot. Her boss’s blubbery neck loomed so close.

  The Night Song soothed her anger with a heavy barrage of notes. Ronja breathed in through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, and snatched the bills from Wasserman. She stuffed them into the deepest pocket of her overcoat.

  “Scram, mutt. I’m lockin’ up.”

  Ronja whirled and careened into the empty street. Her path bled in and out of view in the puddles of light cast by the gas lamps.

  When she reached her street, Ronja slowed to a jog. The sun had been roused behind the rows of cramped houses. It stretched its luminous, pink arms over the rooftops, but in their wake the shadows only lengthened.

  Ronja settled into a walk, her legs heavy with dread. Georgie and Cosmin would be stirring soon, but it was her mother’s rising she feared.

  She never knew what it might bring.

  3: The Gap

  By the time she reached her row house, a languid drizzle had given way to a downpour. Ronja stood immobile on the gum-spotted sidewalk, the curls that peeked from beneath her hat growing dark with rain. Black grease slithered down her arms and face, ferried by the cool water. The burns on her palms sighed with relief.

  Her front door had once gleamed red to match the airships drifting overhead, but it had long since faded to a tired gray. In fact, everything about the house was weary. The crumbling bricks were smeared w
ith soot. Georgie’s winter squash had withered in the polluted air. Even the cast iron railing lining the steps sagged with an unseen burden.

  Ronja steeled herself at the base of the stairs, stroking her stingring with a callused thumb. The Night Song had faded to a sigh. Soon it would disappear altogether, only to be replaced by The Day Song.

  The girl hitched her bag over her shoulder, tapped up the steps, and unlocked the door.

  The tilting entry corridor was uncommonly still and dark. Stale air seeped out into the rain like a slow exhalation.

  Ronja tiptoed across the threshold, now clutching her bag to her chest to keep it from jostling. She closed the door softly, pausing when the hinge moaned, cringing when the lock clicked.

  She stilled, listening.

  Only the dying thrum of The Night Song and the patter of rain greeted her.

  She trudged to the kitchen, placed her knapsack on the table. Resting her palms on the surface, Ronja peered around through drooping lids.

  Dust motes swirled lazily in the air. The hands of the clock trudged in steady circles. A portrait of The Conductor, Atticus Bullon, regarded her from above the icebox. Bullon was a beefy man with a mustache like a squirrel’s tail and small, beady eyes. Though he was not attractive, he radiated undeniable prowess and grace.

  Prickling beneath The Conductor’s acrylic gaze, Ronja moved to the sink where last night’s dishes lay waiting. She made a mental note to smack Cosmin for neglecting his chores. Too exhausted to bother with the soggy food and curdled milk, Ronja moved to the squat icebox and crouched before it.

  Once she popped the stubborn door, her stomach plummeted. The shelves were nearly empty, save for a hunk of cheese and half a quart of milk. There was bread in the cabinet, a few of Georgie’s vegetables might be salvageable, but . . .

  “Ro?”

  Ronja spun and rose quickly, shutting the icebox with a soft clap.

  A slight form stood in the door, hair frazzled from sleep, nightgown equally rumpled. Remi, the child’s plush rabbit, dangled from her fist by a ragged ear.

  Ronja felt a smile budding on her lips despite the emptiness in her gut, and she opened her arms to her cousin.

  “Morning, Georgie,” she called quietly.

  “Why are you covered in grease?”

  “Engine choked. Come here.”

  Georgie shuffled forward, bare feet whispering on the wooden floor, and leaned into Ronja’s embrace. The younger girl was all elbows and knees. Her shoulder blades jutted out like the wings of an aeroplane, and her Singer was cold and unforgiving against Ronja’s neck.

  “How did you sleep?” Ronja asked into her mussed hair.

  “Bad,” Georgie yawned, her voice muffled.

  “Why?”

  “Night Song was too loud.”

  “You know you could fix that if—”

  “I stopped dreaming so much, I know.”

  Ronja released her cousin and held her at arms length. Georgie met the elder girl’s tense stare with irritable hazel eyes.

  “Georgie, I’m serious,” Ronja reprimanded in a low voice. “This is the third night this week your dreams have raised your Song. If you cross the threshold too many times, the Offs will be notified, or worse you’ll trigger The Recovery Song.”

  “But I’m not a mutt, they don’t watch me as close as you and Aunt Layla,” Georgie grumbled.

  Ronja swallowed, her nostrils flaring.

  “You’re close enough,” she said flatly, releasing Georgie’s arms as if they stung her. “You’ve got a mutt Singer. Doesn’t really matter if you have the genes or not, The Music’s still stronger.”

  Georgie looked down, her teeth gritted. Ronja sighed wearily and returned to the icebox. She wrenched it open, snatched the hunk of cheese from the top shelf, then sealed the door with a dull thud.

  “Ro—” Georgie began, wringing the ears of her rabbit.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Ronja said, waving off the pending apology.

  She set the cheese on the table absentmindedly and rested her elbows on the wood. The rain ceased.

  “I didn’t mean to sound harsh, you just need to be more careful.”

  Georgie nodded sharply.

  “Passion is perilous.”

  “Emotion is treacherous,” Ronja replied in the customary format.

  She drew the kitchen knife from its block and plunged it into the firm cheese.

  A ray of sunlight passed across Ronja’s knuckles as she sliced. She paused and glanced up in time to see the shaft peeking through the half-curtained window. She followed the beam as it tumbled across the floor, exposing every scratch and scuff left in the wake of their lives.

  The clock caught up to the sun, striking five-thirty with a satisfying click.

  Georgie’s eyelids flickered shut. Ronja watched her, their breakfast abandoned.

  Waited.

  The Night Song ceased in a flurry of high-pitched notes.

  The wall clock was impossibly loud. The creak of the floorboards twined with the rattling of a passing motorcar. A pigeon cooed from a streetlamp, a sound she could hear but never quite grasp beneath the veil of The Music.

  The world was deafening in The Music’s absence, but Ronja’s mind was quiet.

  Her breathing slowed; her heart rate followed. Her senses unfurled. Her fingertips brushed the rough surface of the table, feeling the scar left there by the knife lying before her. The deep gash sparked the wick of a memory she did not wish to recall. Ronja shook her head, shifted her attention back to Georgie. The way the sunlight perched itself upon her unruly locks. The way she always clutched Remi by the same worn ear, worrying it until the fabric was in tatters.

  Feeling abruptly overstimulated, Ronja shut her eyes and waited for the ear-splitting silence to end.

  The quiet cacophony lasted sixty-three seconds. Then The Day Song stirred in her caged ear. It was faster than The Night Song. More urgent, and just as persuasive.

  Ronja shivered as she settled into the anxious flutter of notes. The surrounding world fell back into its usual muted state. The sounds, the sights, lost their potency. What was seconds ago laced with memory was now hollow. The sunlight was just sunlight. The mark on the table was just a mark, not a scar.

  “Sit down,” Ronja ordered briskly, gesturing to the chair opposite her with the knife.

  She recommenced hacking away the tainted bits of the cheese as Georgie clambered into the chair. It sagged even under her slight weight.

  “Where’s your brother?” Ronja asked.

  “Sleeping.”

  “And my mother?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Do you know if she . . . slept well?”

  Ronja paused and glanced up, waiting for an answer. Georgie’s eyes slid up to meet her cousin’s. The girl pursed her lips thoughtfully. Even Remi was somehow quieter.

  “I don’t know,” Georgie admitted.

  “How was she last night?”

  “How she usually is.”

  “Vegetable-like?”

  Georgie nodded.

  “Good, with any luck she’ll stay that way.”

  Georgie regarded Ronja from behind wisps of ashen hair.

  “Did something happen, Ro?” she asked.

  Ronja sighed, resting the blade on the table. Georgie had always been insightful beyond her years. She was almost as hard to lie to as a Singer.

  I can’t tell her about the boy, Ronja decided. But she needs to know about the money.

  “My paycheck got cut,” she admitted. “I was late checking in, Wasserman and I both got pissed. Actually my Night Song rose too, so I guess I’m a hypocrite.”

  As if on cue, The Day Song swelled. Georgie and Ronja cringed in unison. It was not unusual for their Singers to sync when in conversation. Dangerous thoughts seemed to grow between them.

  “How much did we lose?” Georgie asked when the spike ended.

  “Not much,” Ronja lied. “We’ll be fine, but I’ll have to take up an extra job this
week.”

  “Ro,” Georgie leaned across the table, eyes like searchlights. The rabbit slipped to the hardwood, forgotten. “We have to turn the heat on soon. You gotta let me and Cos help.”

  “Absolutely not.” Ronja returned to flaying the cheese with increased ferocity.

  “You started working when you were my age.”

  “I was ten, you’re nine.”

  “Yeah, and I’m already more mature than you.”

  Ronja tossed an irritated glance across the table, but Georgie only grinned, exposing her missing front teeth.

  Ronja returned to her task, but froze a moment later. Georgie stretched down to the floor for Remi’s ear.

  Even through the curtain of The Day Song, Ronja registered the significance of the large, bare feet trampling down the wooden staircase.

  She swallowed her nonexistent saliva.

  “Good morning, Layla,” she called.

  4: Spiked

  “Damn,” Georgie muttered.

  “Language,” Ronja hissed back, glancing toward the empty doorframe. “I thought you said she was in her usual state!”

  Georgie shrugged helplessly.

  “I can’t predict when she’s gonna have a fit!”

  Ronja’s eyes darted from the open door to the cheese, the slices so thin they resembled cloudy windowpanes. She dropped the knife and hurried toward the cabinet where the bread was housed.

  Georgie joined the hustle, leaping from her chair and beginning to scrub the dirty dishes in the sink.

  Layla’s bare heel struck the second step from the bottom. The wood shrieked. Ronja flew to the icebox, kicking herself internally, and grabbed the last of the milk.

  “Georgie, cup,” she whispered urgently.

  The girl tossed a dripping mug at Ronja. She caught it, pried the cork, and poured the last of the frothy drink into the waiting cup.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  Ronja tensed. Georgie paused mid-scrub, lip curled in helpless disgust. Ronja sniffed the air discreetly and grimaced, empathizing with her cousin’s discomfort.

  “I asked you a question, Georgie, Ronja.”

  Ronja turned, plastering a smile to her lips.

  “It’s five-thirty. The Day Song just started.”