Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja boosted herself up onto the rough counter, swung her legs around, and dropped into to the kiosk. The loose floorboards below her rattled like chattering teeth.

  “You’d better go. I don’t think this thing can hold both of us,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and tucking it in the belly of the stand.

  “You sure? I can stick around for awhile,” Joseph offered half-heartedly.

  Ronja did not respond, only rummaged through the front pouch of her bag for something she was not looking for.

  Joseph stood watching her, toying with his Singer absentmindedly. After a long moment, he grasped the straps of his rucksack, flung it over his shoulder, and sprang across the counter with a shriek of wood.

  Ronja only got to her feet when she was certain he had gone. Now, a man in a woolen sweater stood before her, thick arms folded menacingly.

  “Haven’t got all day, mutt,” he growled.

  Ronja held out her hand for the cash. He dropped it into her palm. She reached beneath the counter for a Bard, drawing out the most rumpled copy she could find. The man snatched the paper from her and stalked away, muttering under his breath.

  “Next,” Ronja called politely.

  10: Split

  The library was only a block from the newsstand, and since her lunch break would not be filled with food, Ronja decided to fill it with words.

  The library was by far the most splendid building in the outer ring. Unlike most of the structures far from the core, it was maintained by an army of white-clad government laborers. They never spoke to the visitors and went about their work viciously. They scrubbed the marble floors until they gleamed like mirrors, dusted each shelf with clinical precision, and thumbed through newly-returned volumes with suspicious eyes, hunting for tears in the fragile pages.

  The Conductor’s official position on literature was that it was valuable in healthy doses, on specific subjects.

  “Words are powerful,” Ronja recalled his robust voice booming through her Singer during one of his monthly addresses. “They are the muscles that move ideas. Uncaged ideas can be dangerous, even deadly. However, if you read the proper, approved literature, your minds will be expanded in beautiful ways.”

  As Ronja pushed through the massive oak doors of the library, she found herself wondering if the looming shelves had once been full. Revinia was not a wasteful society, yet the stacks were not a tenth stocked. Pristine volumes with titles like The History of Revinia, Vol. 34 and A Brief Review of Post-War Culture in Revinia and The Great Crescendo stood like solitary trees in the maw of a vast desert.

  After being forced to drop out of school at fourteen, Ronja had promised herself that she would not forgo her education. Each evening she copied Cosmin’s mathematics exercises and solved them by lamplight after dinner. Cosmin was a night owl, so he often walked her through the more difficult problems. On rare holidays, she went to Henry’s house to copy from his history textbooks, but usually they ended up talking instead.

  Most importantly, Ronja dutifully made the journey to the library four times a week and spent an hour reading. For lack of a better option, she had decided to read the entire library in alphabetical order. Despite the sparseness of the available texts, this was a considerable undertaking. It had taken her a year just to make it through the A’s, and even longer to struggle through the B’s, which were present in inexplicably tremendous quantities.

  Nodding briefly at the birdlike librarian perched behind the front desk, Ronja made her way toward the back of the building, where the titles beginning with F were located.

  Running her callused finger along the spines of leather and cloth, Ronja felt some of the tension leech from her body. Her muscles unwound, and the constant ache in her head receded somewhat.

  The rough pad of her fingertip caught on the lip of a leather-bound volume entitled Flora and Fauna of the Revinian Countryside.

  Ronja pried the book from its niche and hugged it to her chest like a child. The promise of words humming against her ribcage, she strolled toward her armchair.

  Her chair was upholstered with cracked leather. It crouched with stubborn pride on squat legs in the furthest corner of the library. Tucked away between two nearly vacant stacks, Ronja could watch the movements of the knowledge-seekers undisturbed over the rim of her book.

  Ronja flopped into the pliant armchair and felt the material mold to her form. A vague smile on her lips, she kicked off her boots and tucked her stocking clad feet beneath her. She flipped through the pages of Flora and Fauna until she reached her mark, then sank into the text.

  With each word she consumed, The Day Song shrank a decibel.

  Ronja remained folded in the same position for nearly an hour. She shifted only to turn the page, or to track down a word she did not know in the fat dictionary lying open on the adjacent shelf. Certain words and their definitions were blotted out with generous blotches of ink. Many pages were torn out completely.

  When the long hand on her watch timidly clicked into place five minutes before the hour, Ronja yawned and stretched. She rolled her neck, snapping a wayward vertebra into place. The Day Song leaked back into her consciousness, as potent as ever.

  Ronja took Flora and Fauna under her arm, then slammed the dictionary shut. She shouldered her bag and trekked across the library to the front desk, the polished marble squeaking beneath her soles.

  The librarian smiled wearily at Ronja as she handed her the volume.

  “I’d like to check this out,” Ronja said unnecessarily, glancing down at her watch.

  She would have to run to make it back East and Crane.

  “Are you enjoying it?” the librarian asked Ronja as she took the book and wetted the date stamp.

  “Sure.”

  “Your kind can’t leave the city, right?”

  Ronja felt her gut cinch.

  “No,” she replied curtly.

  The librarian smashed the date stamp into the back of the book and shut the cover with a resounding thwack.

  “Don’t get this dirty. Understand?”

  Ronja agreed blandly and took the book back under her arm. She exited the library with leaden arms and heavy feet.

  Ronja completed the remainder of her shift without a hitch. After closing down and shooing away a handful of belated customers, she made the four-block trek to station 34, where she was scheduled to start her night. By the end of the walk, she sorely regretted checking out such a substantial volume.

  When she descended into the station, Ronja found it bustling with a hint of its former glory.

  On Saturday nights, the people of the outer ring scraped their cash together, donned their least-worn clothes, and rode the subtrain to the middle ring. There, the casino Adagio floated atop the central channel. Its spotlights of red, green, and violet were nearly as bright as the face of the great clock tower, and the lure was even stronger.

  When one stepped onto Adagio, it was said, The Night Song morphed, flowering into The Calm Song. It was rumored that The Calm Song filled the body with unimaginable warmth and pleasure, that it could cure hunger, sickness, and even sadness as long as it was in your ear.

  When Adagio closed at sunrise, the gamers were corralled and forcibly ejected from the floating palace. Gambling was a privilege that was not to interfere with their working lives.

  Ronja could not say if these words held truth. She had never possessed the funds or the desire to visit the casino. It was grounds for trouble.

  I’m in deep enough already, she thought, glancing at the package jutting from her bag. Her paranoia swelled and she thrust the parcel deeper into her pack.

  Ronja numbered her heartbeats as she waited on the platform alongside the Revinians preparing to deal away their time. The trick failed, so she focused on the people. The women’s eyelids glittered, their hair piled atop their crowns and pinned with brass masquerading as gold. The men’s jackets and waistcoats had faded from black to gray, but they looked proud. Still, it was all too easy to see t
hrough their facades.

  A keening flooded the atrium, tugging the crowd toward the tracks like moths to a flame. The steamer roared into the station with a blast of hot air, stirring Ronja’s tangled curls. The station blazed momentarily brighter. A baby screeched as the brakes locked. Her mother petted her soft head and cooed. The passenger doors yawned, exhaling a cloud of white-clad cleaners on their way home from the middle ring.

  “Coming through!” Ronja bellowed. “Excuse me!”

  The grumbles that followed her shouts quickly dissipated when people turned and spied her driver’s cap bobbing toward them. They split a path to the front car. For once, no insults filled the space they created. They respected her when they needed her.

  The previous driver was exiting when Ronja reached the foremost car.

  “Brakes are pitch on this one,” the old man said as he hobbled down the stairs. He swiped off his hat and rubbed the sweat from his balding head. “Ease into your stops.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Ronja said, mounting the steps. “Thanks.”

  Ronja waited until he had disappeared to slam the door and rip open the manila envelope containing the delivery instructions. She let the casing flit to the floor. In her hands was a single sheet of paper, smooth and rich as silk against her rough skin. In formal black type it read:

  The runner will be in sight of your train with his back to the third column from the left. Handle the package with care.

  Ronja crumpled the note and pressed a match to it. It caught fire quicker than expected, and her fingers were singed before she could release the wad. Cursing creatively, she stamped out the seething ashes. Sitting heavily, she yanked the whistle three times.

  Time moved slowly that evening. While her train roared along its tracks, night crawled toward morning with infuriating lethargy. A nervous tick had settled into her fingers, drumming out a beat that did not quite match the one in her ear. Sweat beaded on her forehead, stained the fabric of her sweater.

  All the while, The Night Song threatened to rupture the walls of her skull. The irregular notes and swooping pulses rattled her brain, honing the persistent ache.

  “When you have been naughty, The Music can tell. It will strengthen until it has you back in the proper place.”

  How long until I’m back in my place? she wondered, staring blankly into the near total darkness of the tube. Until I deliver the package? Until I turn in the tunneler? Until I stop thinking about . . . ?

  Electric light shattered the dark.

  Ronja yelped and wrenched back the brake. The train screamed to a halt in station 45, white sparks flying from its paralyzed wheels.

  Ronja leapt to her feet, rattled head throbbing. She released the passenger doors with trembling fingers and drew the package from her bag. She clutched it to her chest gingerly. It seemed to shiver against her ribcage. Sucking in a deep breath, Ronja donned her coat and hat, then stepped into the station.

  Her commuters were grumbling as they shuffled from their cars, massaging banged heads and elbows. Ronja stood by, apologizing lamely. She could hardly hear them cursing her genes over the clamor of The Night Song and her heartbeat.

  Ronja lingered by her train as the disgruntled passengers filtered out. She kept her back to the engine, her arms folded across the package. Her eyes darted about the emptying station wearily. There was no one waiting by the third column. She rose up on her tiptoes, peering into the far corners of the atrium. Was he running late? Was she early? She returned her gaze to the indicated pillar, and stiffened.

  He stood with his spine to the column, head thrown back and pressed to the stone. His hands were burrowed in the pockets of his long, leather overcoat. A pair of riding goggles flecked with sludge were draped about his neck. His dark hair was drawn into a knot at the base of his skull.

  “The tunneler,” Ronja murmured.

  As if he had heard her across the platform, the boy’s eyes flicked toward her. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, pulling in turn at her insides.

  Ronja braced herself and started toward him, pocketing her cap as she went. It was the longest walk of her life. She kept her eyes trained on her boots, counting each step, mindful of the acute gaze tracking her progress.

  When she reached the boy, she lifted her chin. Her stomach turned over. He was far more attractive than she might have guessed from their first meeting in the tunnels. At first look his eyes were nearly black, but a second glance exposed traces of honey. His features were strong and regal, but there was something about his countenance that seemed . . . wild.

  The boy spoke first.

  “You have something for me?”

  “Nice coat for a tunneler,” she replied.

  “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy said.

  A hint of mirth gleamed behind his professionalism.

  “Of course not,” Ronja said, holding out the slim package with two hands. He grabbed for it, but she did not relinquish her end. “You wouldn’t know much about Singers either.”

  To her indignation, the boy laughed loudly. Ronja glanced around fearfully, her throat constricting.

  “No, I would not,” he admitted.

  “So that’s a fake then,” Ronja nodded at the convincing silver piece that now clung to his ear.

  “Indeed.”

  “If you tell anyone I was here, I’ll report you,” Ronja threatened icily.

  “They won’t get far without my name. You’ve an empty hand, and I’ve nothing to fear.”

  Ronja clenched her jaw and tightened her grip on the package.

  “What are you so afraid of?” the boy asked, leaning toward her across the flat face of the cargo.

  He smelled like gasoline and rain.

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Even if the Offs discover you delivered an unauthorized package, it’s not exactly a capital offense.”

  Ronja snorted, imagining what sort of punishment the Offs would have in store for any crime committed by a mutt. The boy peered down at her curiously, as if trying to see into her mind.

  “Easy for you to say,” Ronja retorted.

  “The key is in the mask, love.”

  It was her turn to eye the boy inquisitively. She gave the package a brief shake. “What is this?” she asked.

  The boy arched an eyebrow. “I’m not at liberty to say, nor are you at liberty to ask.”

  “Lucky for me, I was never here, so I never asked,” Ronja shot back. “Is it dangerous?”

  “What makes you think it is?” he asked, cocking his head like a dark-feathered pigeon.

  “That,” Ronja jerked her chin at the alternative symbol.

  The boy blanched. His expressive eyes flattened, and he strengthened his grip on the parcel.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked in a low voice, speaking as though he walked barefoot over shattered glass. “It’s The Conductor’s emblem, may the ages hold His name.”

  “See, that’s what my friend told me, but it’s not. Anyone could see that.”

  “Except no one does.”

  The boy stepped closer, forcing the sharp edge of the package into her stomach. Ronja inhaled sharply, but refused to back away.

  “How many are there?” the boy growled.

  “How . . . what?”

  “How many of your friends are here?”

  “What do you—?”

  The tunneler grabbed her faster than her eyes could track. His fingers were curled around her wrist before she could jerk away. They were tan and strong juxtaposed with her papery complexion.

  “Cut the pitch,” he growled, tugging her toward him. Ronja snarled back, though she felt as though her bones were about to crumble. The station was completely empty. Her train idled on the track without a care, puffing a thin trail of steam into the weary lamps overhead. “You’ll be stuffed before you can signal them, understand?”

  “You think I’m an Off?” Ronja asked with a panicked laugh. “That’s the stupide
st thing I—”

  Before she could finish, the boy whipped out a pistol and smashed the butt into her skull.

  Only the dim headlights of the steamer bore witness as he heaved Ronja over his shoulder and carried her into the tunnels, the delivery tucked safely beneath his arm.

  11: Ashes

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  The delicate sound of dripping water was like a militant march. The noise came from somewhere near her head. Her mouth was parched and sour, and she yearned to taste the drops. Her head throbbed to the rhythm of the drip. Her limbs were leaden, and she had lost feeling in the tips of her fingers and toes.

  A low, angry rumble shook the room. The wooden chair she had been placed in creaked as the sound waves rattled it.

  I’m underground, she thought vaguely. Near the subtrain.

  “She’s got to be fifteen pounds under weight,” a female voice was saying. “Strange for an Off.”

  “Maybe they’re getting creative,” a familiar, male voice replied.

  “I think she’s coming around. How hard did you hit her?”

  “Not hard enough, evidently,” the boy answered darkly.

  “I don’t think it’ll scar.”

  “Everyone down here has scars. Maybe I should hit her again, even the score.”

  “Trip, are you sure about her?”

  “She recognized the record, Harrow. Someone tipped them off. If they know about me and it, who knows what else they know?”

  Ronja’s muscles coiled as Trip’s booted footfalls approached, then wrapped around her chair. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. She smothered a shiver.

  “I know you’re listening,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. “Open your eyes.”

  Ronja forced her leaden lids open. Slowly, her vision ate into the blinding sting of her migraine.

  The room was cramped, smaller than her basement chamber. Its walls were stone behind a sheen of groundwater. Rusted steel filing cabinets fortified with combination locks lined the walls floor to ceiling.

  A woman stood before Ronja, her arms folded anxiously over her bleached lab coat. She was squat and rotund. Even sitting, Ronja was almost taller than her. Her hair was blond and lusterless, but her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue.