Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Strange, how easy it is to change our minds,” Ronja commented after a pause.

  “Soon as I got my Singer off I ran smack into this one carrying a stack of books about as tall as she was,” Evie said, smiling down at Iris, whose snores had deepened. “It was right out of a picture show, I swear. I picked up her books, and when I looked into her eyes, I was gone.”

  “I’m glad you found each other,” Ronja said, and found she truly meant it.

  She turned back to the arching ceiling, tracing patterns in the stones. She felt safe underground, but she missed the dull flare of the stars in the smog-choked skies.

  “What did you think of it?” Evie asked after awhile.

  “Of the jam? It was incredible.”

  “See, that’s real music. Not The Music. Just music. Plain and simple.”

  “It doesn’t seem so simple to me.”

  Evie snapped her fingers and pointed at Ronja, who started. “That’s it. That’s the thing about music, it’s whatever you want it to be,” Evie said. She shifted to better look into her seatmate’s face. “I might think a song—”

  “What is a song?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, it ain’t The Day Song or the goddamn Quiet Song. Those are all made up. Stolen. A song is a piece of music about this or that, like a chapter is to a book. Anyway, I might hear a song and think it’s about one thing, and you might hear it and think of something totally different.”

  “So, music is whatever you want it to be,” Ronja repeated, kneading the concept in her mind.

  “Bingo.” Evie snapped her fingers again.

  The dark-haired girl switched her attention to Iris, who was still comatose in her lap. Evie prodded her shoulder gently, and the surgeon twitched awake. Sighing loudly, Iris disentangled herself from her partner and clambered to her feet. She stretched her lean arms toward the arching ceiling, her eyes closed. Evie stood, smirking, and grabbed Iris by a porcelain hand.

  “You’ve got company,” Evie alerted Ronja, nodding to their left.

  Ronja followed the gesture to Roark, who was approaching at a leisurely pace. He had washed the swaths of paint from his arms and face, and his sweat-stiffened hair was pulled into a knot.

  “G’night, mate,” Evie called, leading Iris down one of the paths.

  Ronja waved, then turned back to Roark.

  “Evie’s great, isn’t she?” he asked, coming to a stop beside her.

  “Yeah, seems like it,” Ronja replied, offering him the bottle. He accepted with an arched brow.

  “Seems?” he asked, taking a generous gulp. He dropped down beside her on the bench, his shoulder brushing hers lightly. Darren and her friends were breaking apart across the fire. They whipped good natured insults over their shoulders as they went their separate ways.

  Ronja twisted to face Roark, her spine abruptly stiff. “This all seems just a little too good to be true, know what I mean?”

  Roark shook his head.

  “I just . . . ” She paused, unsure of how to convey her thoughts.

  Ronja leaned forward, pressed her elbows into her knees. Her eyes swam as they fixated on the shuddering flames. Her memories were returning in the afterglow of the jam, battering her skull from the inside out. Spurred by her thoughts, she shot to her feet and whirled to face Roark. His regal features were jagged in the firelight.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Ronja blurted.

  A crease formed between Roark’s eyebrows, but he nodded. The whiskey stood beside him on the bench, forgotten.

  “I ran the package because my family was going to starve within a matter of weeks,” she said. “I’m the only provider for my two cousins and my mother, who’s completely . . . disabled.”

  Roark’s face was impassive. He waited patiently for her to continue.

  “When I was fourteen I had to drop school,” she continued. “I tried to finish on my own, but it was hard. I’m not book-smart any more than you’re poor, but I understand things. I always have.”

  The words were spilling from her, and there was no dam in the world that could stop what she was going to say next.

  “Since I was a kid I’ve been forced to the outside of everything because of stupid, skitzing prejudice. I have one friend, two cousins, and a mother who treats me like shit. You know what that gave me? Perspective.”

  Her hands trembled now. She clasped them behind her to calm them. Her voice had pitched an octave higher than she thought it could.

  “You keep saying The Music alters your perspective, makes the bad seem normal. It put me in a lot of pain, skitzed up the way I saw myself, but . . . I don’t think it ever really worked on me. I was too miserable. Nothing could have convinced me that everything was okay.”

  Ronja fell silent, gathering her scattered notions as she sank to the seat. A disintegrating piece of plywood shifted among the flames. Clumps of ash peeled away from it with sleepy sighs. The girl rubbed her aching temples.

  “What are you saying?” Roark asked after a long moment.

  Ronja rolled her fingers into fists. The room was tilting on its axis, the ceiling was rotating, but her soul felt as still as a stagnant lake.

  “Thank you,” Ronja heard herself say. “Not for showing me that The Conductor was evil, because I think I always knew that, even if I could never say it. Thank you for freeing me from my Singer, and for letting me know that . . . ”

  “What?” Roark reached forward and grabbed her balled fist, unfurling her fingers with his cool touch.

  Thank you for letting me know that I’m not a bad person. Thank you for showing me there’s something better out there. Thank you for showing me music. Thank you for setting me free.

  “Nothing. Just, thank you.”

  Roark looked like he was burning to ask her more, but he just smiled and nodded softly. “You’re welcome.”

  Suddenly it seemed as though the air between them had evaporated, the space compressed. The boy tightened his fingers around her curled fists, pulling her gently toward him. A thousand thoughts whipped through her mind, but they all led in one direction: Roark.

  “Trip!” a man called.

  Roark leapt to his feet, stepping around her hastily. Ronja rose and spun on her heel, her heart in her mouth. A gasp tore from her chest and she stumbled forward into the bench. The whisky bottle tumbled from the rickety seat and shattered on the floor, spraying her bare calves.

  “Offs,” she choked.

  A small knot of Offs strode toward them, their trench coats fanning behind them and their stingers gleaming at their hips. The Conductor’s bleached insignia scowled from their lapels. Ronja snatched Roark by the arm, but the boy was standing at attention, his spine rigid.

  “Roark?” she breathed, tugging at his arm. The boy glanced down at her curiously, but did not budge. “We have to run.”

  “Run?” the head Off asked. He came to a stop before them, and his team followed suit. His buzzed brown hair was peppered gray, and his eyes were the color of steel. Canyons carved by stress branched across his forehead, and he was four days late for a shave.

  “Who is this girl, Trip?” the man inquired, turning to the boy.

  “This is Ronja. She arrived a few nights ago,” Roark replied.

  “Was she cleared?”

  “By Ito, yes.”

  “I see,” the Off raised a gloved hand to Ronja’s face, and she jerked away, a chunk of glass crunching under the heel of her boot. Surprise flickered across the man’s weathered features. “I’m not going to hurt you—I just wanted to see if you had a Singer.”

  Her heart wriggling in her chest, Ronja clenched her jaw and tilted her head so he could see the puckered scar where her ear used to be. The man appraised the newly freed flesh with a satisfied nod.

  “So what was this, then?” Ronja asked, keeping her voice low so it did not tremble. “Some sort of test? A trick? Seems like a lot of trouble for one skitzer from the outer ring.”

  The Off cocked his head as he mulled o
ver her words. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he finally admitted.

  “Couldn’t give me a peaceful death, huh?” Ronja asked, her voice caustic. “So, what’s it going to be? A new Singer? Stingers? Or are you finally going to finish what you started with my mother?”

  The man looked to Roark now, a thick eyebrow arched. For a moment the boy appeared just as baffled as the older man. Then he slammed his palm into his forehead.

  “Oh!” Roark exclaimed. “You’re in your Off uniforms!”

  Ronja froze. Silence fell.

  The team burst into a fit of rumbling laughter. The ringleader cracked a wry smile, though he did not join in the loud guffaws. Ronja gaped at them, jaw slack.

  “I’m so sorry, love,” Roark said, swallowing his own laughter. “They’re—.”

  “Infiltrating the Offs,” Ronja muttered under her breath, ducking her chin to hide her mortified blush. She had completely forgotten Iris’s explanation.

  “They won’t hurt you,” Roark went on, trying heroically to smother his chuckles. “Although, judging by your expression, you might need another day or two to recover.”

  The gray-eyed man stepped in and extended his hand for Ronja to grasp. “Apologies, Ronja…”

  “Zipse,” Ronja replied curtly. She grasped the offered hand and matched his viselike grip. “Ronja Zipse.”

  “An interesting name,” the man replied, pulling his hand away rather quickly. “I’m Tristen Wilcox.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ronja said icily.

  “I’m sorry we frightened you, it was not our intention,” Wilcox apologized. Ronja’s lip curled, but she did not respond. “What do you think of our operation?” the man went on.

  “It’s fine, I suppose,” Ronja replied curtly. “I could have done without the kidnapping and mutilation, but it’s nice to have the buzzing out of my head.”

  “Ah.”

  Wilcox glanced at Roark, who wore a blank mask in place of his trademark grin. The man turned back to Ronja, who regarded him levelly.

  “I assume you’re staying in the medical wing. We can find you some permanent housing tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Ronja said. “I’ll need space for my family as well.”

  “Your family?” Wilcox asked, arching a silvery brow.

  “Ito said they could stay,” Ronja said, crossing her arms defensively.

  “I have the final say in all matters,” Wilcox replied in a clipped tone. “You look like you’re from the outer ring, there are many large families out there. How many siblings do you have?”

  Ronja felt her remaining ear grow hot.

  “Zero,” she replied flatly. “Two cousins, and my mother.”

  “Wilcox,” Roark said, stepping forward, his hands raised placatingly. A fragment of glass crunched under his boot. “She was heavily resistant to The Music.”

  “Is that so?” Wilcox peered at Ronja, vague curiosity sparking in his iron gaze.

  “It is,” Ronja replied, swelling with unexpected pride.

  Wilcox chewed on his words. A muscle bulged in his cheek.

  “Your family is welcome among us,” Wilcox finally said. “It was a pleasure, Ronja.” He spun and marched away, his coat trailing him like a black storm cloud. His team followed, chattering among themselves.

  “That,” Roark said, “was fantastic.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Ronja muttered. She turned her nose up and stalked away, realizing faintly that she had no idea where she was going.

  “Oi!” Roark shouted, jogging after her. “Are you really upset about that? Wilcox is harsh, but he’s like that with everyone.”

  “No,” Ronja lied. “But I have to go now. My cousins need me.”

  “We’re going to get them tomorrow, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I have to make sure they’re safe.”

  “One night isn’t going to change anything.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Ronja, what’s going on? Three minutes ago you were thanking me. Why are you so upset?”

  “I . . . ”

  Ronja slowed her pace, then stopped, fixating on her boots.

  She did not know, precisely. Wilcox was undeniably harsh, but she was not one to quail in the face of a blunt personality, especially when it matched her own. Perhaps it was seeing the Offs and thinking the worst. It had shaken her to the bone. Ito and Roark had promised her that no harm would come to her family, but mutts were monitored far more closely than the average Revinian. What if . . .

  Panic burgeoned in her mind.

  What if she had been deluding herself? She wanted desperately to believe this place was a haven for herself and her family, but what if Roark and Ito were wrong? What if there were real repercussions for her family? She would not put it past the Offs. Even if Georgie, Cosmin, and Layla swore they knew nothing of her actions, would it be enough?

  Ronja stared up at the stone barrier that encased them. It seemed to fold in on itself. The walls of the fabric homes inched closer. The dying fires hissed back to life behind her, fueled by her fear.

  “I have to make sure they’re okay” she muttered, her voice low.

  “Don’t be—”

  “Roark.” Ronja glanced around like a frightened rabbit. The narrow walkway was empty, save for an old man stoking a fire several huts down. All the bones they had ever broken, all the bruises they had inflicted, all the insults smeared across her skin, were begging her not to tell.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Roark, why do you think they played The Quiet Song for me as soon as I got down here?”

  Roark furrowed his brow, shifted on his feet. “The Music responds to changes in your emotions,” he said. “Too much fear, too much doubt, too many questions and it builds. When it peaks, it rolls over into The Quiet.”

  “But you’d never seen that happen to anyone that quickly, right?” Ronja asked, knowing the answer.

  “No, but—”

  “My family’s Singers are different.”

  She waited for Roark to respond, but he said nothing. His expression was impassive, but she could see the curiosity lurking behind his eyes.

  I wonder how he’ll look at me after this.

  “My—my mother’s a mutt.”

  Roark stiffened. Ronja felt her bones turn to dust, yet somehow she remained standing.

  “Oh, skitz,” Roark whispered. His eyes were glazed, blank. Ronja could see herself reflected in them, frail and terrified.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” she croaked. “Please don’t . . . you have to understand I’m not really a mutt. I’m still—”

  “We have to go, now,” Roark said mechanically.

  He seized her hand and tore off down the walkway, dragging her in his wake. Ronja followed as fast as her recovering legs would allow.

  “What’s happening?” she gasped.

  Roark ignored her, continuing to pull her across the platform. When they reached the west end, he yanked her around a corner and into a tighter wing of the station, where gaggles of hawkers and merchants once sold their wares. There were only half a dozen tents in the compact alcove, but they were larger than the ones on the main floor.

  Roark released her and ducked into one of them. The cloth door flapped shut behind him. Ronja folded her arms over her chest, trying to soothe her trembling hands. She listened as the boy rummaged through his belongings. After a moment, he reappeared, dressed in his black coat and boots that crested his knees. His riding goggles ringed his neck.

  He carried a black-muzzled pistol trimmed with thin ribbons of gold.

  Ronja swallowed, eyed the gun fearfully.

  “Can you shoot?” Roark asked, drawing a plainer pistol from the holster at his hip.

  Ronja reached for the weapon cautiously. A chill lanced through her when her fingers brushed the handle, but she grasped it firmly. Roark released the gun to her. It was heavier than she had expected.

  “No,” she admitted, examining the weapon. “Why w
ould I need to?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Ronja let the pistol fall to her side, disbelief plastered across her face. “Why would I?” she hissed. “It’s not something to be proud of. Anyway, as far as I know I’m not really a mutt.”

  “I can see that,” Roark growled. “But your mother is, correct? That means your entire extended family has mutt Singers.”

  “Ye . . . yeah.”

  “We need to get to your house. Fast. How well do you know the streets?”

  “Like the back of my hand.”

  “Good, because we don’t have any time for dawdling.”

  Roark reached for her arm, but she tucked it behind her and took a tiny step backward.

  “First, tell me what’s going on,” she demanded.

  Roark glanced about anxiously. Panic simmered in his eyes. “When someone becomes a mutt, their entire family feels the repercussions.”

  “No skitz,” Ronja muttered.

  “Their entire family is outfitted with new Singers in case the disobedience is genetic.”

  “Do you have a point?”

  “Their Singers are connected. If one person hears The Quiet Song . . . ”

  “Everyone else hears it too,” Ronja breathed.

  “Not exactly,” Roark corrected hastily. “The link is like an echo. They just get a taste of it, enough to put them in a temporary coma. But . . . ”

  “But?”

  “After that they’re usually taken in and . . . reconditioned.”

  “Reconditioned. You mean—”

  “Ronja, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “No . . . no . . . no . . . ” Ronja dropped the gun. It clattered to the floor, cartwheeling over her laces. She crumpled to her knees, dragging her fingers through her hair.

  “Ronja, listen to me,” Roark crouched down and grasped her bare shoulders with his gloved hands. She blinked up at him hazily. “There is still a chance. The coma lasts for days if undisturbed. Sometimes the Offs in the outer ring are slow. Your family might not be gone yet, but we have to go now.”

  Ronja sucked in an electric breath of air and grabbed the pistol. She staggered to her feet.

  Faster than her brain could track, she was sprinting down the platform toward the service elevator. Roark’s footsteps commenced behind her, powerful and lithe.