Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “You pitching piece of … ”

  “We are at war, Zipse!” Terra roared, spit flying from her lips. “The sooner you get over your grudge the sooner we can work together and strike!”

  Ronja lunged and snatched her by the ankles. Terra swore, shaking one of her legs free and nailing her in the chin. Rust exploded in Ronja’s mouth, fueling her rage. With a savage cry she yanked with all her strength. Terra went down, her back slamming into the platform before she was dragged into the pool. They went under, lashing out blindly with fists and knees. Two months ago, Ronja would have been no match for the highly trained agent, but she was no longer the malnourished mutt Roark had met on the subtrain tracks.

  She had killed. She had lost. She had been tortured. She had freed minds from The Music with nothing but her voice. She had died.

  Two hands snaked under her arms and plucked Ronja from the bath, shouting and writhing. They hauled her onto the platform, her bare back scraping against the rough wood. “Stop!” Evie shouted as she pulled. Ronja registered the command, but it was only white noise. Terra stood waist deep in the water, sporting a ballooning eye and a nasty scratch on her cheek. She was winded and doing everything she could to hide it.

  Satisfaction ripped through Ronja. “You better watch your back you pitcher!” she bellowed. “I swear … ” Evie’s callused hand clamped over Ronja’s mouth. She twisted to free herself. “If you ever come near my family I swear I’ll kill you!”

  A burst of red and white flooded her vision as a slap exploded across her cheek. Ronja stilled, her sparking brain doused. She looked up. A familiar form loomed above her, scarcely one hundred pounds with a head full of short red curls. “That is quite enough!” Iris shrieked.

  Ronja scowled up at her mutely, pressing her hand to her burning face. She leaned around Iris in search of her opponent, straining against Evie’s hold. Terra had already hoisted herself up onto the deck on the opposite side of the bath. She stood with her weapons in her hands, bristling like a wet dog. Iris stepped in front of Ronja, her hands on her slight hips. “You’re better than this.”

  “Says who? Evie, let me go!”

  The techi muttered something foul under her breath, then released her. Ronja clambered to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. She spat out the wad of blood in her mouth. It landed in the water with a sickening plop. Her eyes never left Terra, who still held her blades at the ready.

  “Really,” Iris huffed, stepping around Ronja to help Evie up.

  “Terra, get out of here,” the techi said when she was on her feet. “Go see Harrow for your cheek.”

  “Please,” Terra scoffed, hopping down to the tracks and landing without a sound. She moved with grace that was difficult to ignore. Even her loose harness failed to rattle as she strode toward the exit. “You know where to find me when you need me,” she called over her shoulder. “Might want to get your hands checked, singer.”

  Ronja glanced down. Her stomach bottomed out. Her knuckles were cross-stitched with red welts. They were swollen and bulbous, like smashed plums. Pain came flooding in as she registered the wounds, and she let out a squeak of shock.

  “Oh shut up, you deserve it,” Iris snipped. She grabbed Ronja by the elbow and dragged her down the steps, trailing blood and bathwater. Evie followed, not even attempting to smother her laughter. “Lucky for you we keep a first aid kit back here,” Iris continued as she led her toward the parlor. “Why did you have to start a fight today, of all days?”

  “Terra started it,” Ronja grumbled as they came upon the first of several vanities. The redhead rounded on her, grabbing her by the shoulders and sitting her on the upturned crate that served as a chair. Evie sidled up behind them. She was carrying the clothes and boots Ronja had left behind. Tossing the bundle onto the floor, the techi hopped up onto the dresser, the waterlogged wood groaning.

  “Oh, sure,” Iris replied icily. She spun around and squatted before the vanity cabinet. Opening it, she began to paw through the stash of junk inside. “Terra just decided to jump into the water with her radio, knives, and gun. That makes perfect sense.”

  Evie chuckled from her perch. Ronja shot her a withering look. The surgeon saw right through her, as usual. There was not a person above or below ground who could lie to Iris and get away with it. Shame took root in her. She dropped her eyes to her wounded hands, which were still tucked into fists. The cuts on her knuckles were already beginning to clot.

  “Ah,” Iris exclaimed triumphantly. She yanked a white box marked with a red cross from the depths of the cupboard and set it on the floor. She turned back to Ronja and took her hands. “Easy,” she soothed as the girl sucked in a breath of shock. “I think you might have fractured a knuckle.”

  “Worth it.”

  “Was it?” Evie asked. Ronja ignored her, keeping her jaw locked as the surgeon smoothed her fingers onto her legs, then retrieved the bottle of alcohol from the kit.

  “This is going to sting,” Iris warned as she unscrewed the lid. Her patient grimaced as the sharp odor of antiseptic pricked her nostrils. “On three. One, two … ”

  Ronja opened her mouth in a silent scream.

  “Easy, easy.”

  She took a series of deep shuddering breaths. The pain began to dissipate.

  “There you go.”

  Silence fell as the surgeon began to bind her injured digits with clean strips of cloth. Ronja watched the process with a distant sort of fascination. She had always thought if things had been different, she might have liked to be a doctor or a nurse. That idea was about as distant now as it was when she was a mutt.

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Ronja glanced up at Evie. The techi watched her with an inscrutable expression. The glow of the candles drew out the bluish half-moons under her eyes.

  “She deserved it,” Ronja growled.

  “So?” The techi shook her head, her raven hair flickering against her jaw. “Wilcox is just looking for a reason to throw you out, and we need you.”

  “Do you? Last time I checked, you and Roark were the ones running around topside while I was stuck down here.”

  “Your time is coming. I know you want to fight, but right now you gotta be patient.”

  “I am sick of being patient!” Iris gave her bandages a particularly firm tug. Ronja pretended not to feel it. “They’re getting closer to perfecting The New Music every day. If we wait much longer, we’re going to be too late.”

  Evie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her muscular thighs. “We make one mistake … ” She held up an ornately tattooed finger. “We’ll be caught, and this time they’re not going to throw us in prison, they’re going to kill us. We have to execute this perfectly, understand?”

  Ronja felt a blush creep into her hairline. She felt like a child being scolded for throwing a public tantrum. She gave a brisk nod to show she understood. The techi copied her, then began to hunt for a cigarette on her person. Iris snapped her fingers without looking up from her task. Evie stilled reluctantly.

  As Iris continued to bandage her hands, Ronja allowed her mind to wander. Her eyes drifted up to meet their twins in the cloudy looking glass.

  It was not just her body that had changed over the past months. Her face had also undergone a dramatic shift. The wardens had shaved her head at Red Bay but her dark curls were returning with remarkable speed. They already reached her temples. Her remaining ear was pierced several times, something she might not have agreed to if Evie and Iris had not forced one too many shots of whiskey down her throat. Her eyes, green shot with gray, were now the eyes of someone who had lost, who knew they might lose again.

  “That should do it,” Iris finally said. Ronja blinked rapidly to disperse her thoughts.

  “Thanks,” she said, glancing down at the pristine white wrappings. She laughed softly. The surgeon shot her a questioning look. “This feels familiar,” she explained.

  Iris gave a tight smile. “If you would just stop g
rabbing live stingers and getting in fights I could stop turning you into a mummy.”

  “What should I say, if anyone asks what happened?”

  “Just tell them you burned them cooking, or something. No one will believe it, but there were no witnesses.”

  “Except Terra,” Ronja pointed out.

  “She’ll keep her mouth shut if she knows what’s good for her,” Evie said. She sprang off the vanity and crammed her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants. “The only person Wilcox wants gone more than you is her.”

  Ronja itched the bridge of her nose anxiously, ignoring the dull agony that flared in her joints. “I guess.”

  “Imagine,” Iris quipped. “If you could just get a handle on your anger issues, we wouldn’t have to come up with a terrible cover story in the first place.”

  “Imagine, if you could mind your own business.”

  As soon as the words hit the air, Ronja wished she could retract them. Iris pinched her mouth into a thin line, her eyes unusually bright, and whirled to repack the first aid kit.

  Evie reached out and punched Ronja in the bicep. Hard.

  “Sorry, Iris,” Ronja mumbled. The techi struck her again in the exact same spot. Clutching her now throbbing arm, she pressed on earnestly. “Sorry you had to patch me up again, but thanks for doing it.”

  Iris slammed the lid on the box. “Mmm.”

  “Really,” Ronja continued, giving her bony shoulder a squeeze. Her knuckles screamed, but she ignored them. “Thanks. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  Those final words seemed to pacify both Iris and Evie. The surgeon stood up and turned back around, her tranquil mask securely in place. “Bleed out, most likely. Anyway, it’s my pleasure. Sorry I slapped you.”

  Ronja cracked a wry half smile. “I deserved it.”

  “We gotta go,” Evie cut in. “Our turn to collect the morning rations, right?”

  Iris beamed, her hazel eyes gleaming. “You remembered,” she exclaimed appreciatively.

  “Damn right,” the techi answered, hooking the redhead to her side. “If we hurry, I was thinking we could …” She pressed her lips to Iris’s ear, lowering her voice to a whisper. Iris blushed brighter than her hair, and Ronja examined her bandaged hands with renewed interest.

  “I guess we better be going,” Iris said breathlessly, rubbing her cheeks as if she could scrub away the color. “See you at breakfast, Ro. Keep out of trouble until tonight, please.”

  Ronja waved them off. The couple hurried away. She was left alone with her reflection, which seemed to watch her even when she turned away.

  5: Legend

  Ronja stood on the lip of the platform, watching the Anthemites shuffle by in sleepy packs. To the untrained eye they would have appeared to be wandering aimlessly, but she knew better.

  There were fifty cook fires scattered throughout the Belly, each manned by a collection of mismatched chairs and stools. Families and friends chose a fire and stuck to it. Roark, Evie, Iris and their large group of friends took their meals at a circle on the north side of the station. The trio insisted Ronja and her cousins were always welcome. She had yet to decide if that was true in the eyes of their friends.

  Ronja guessed she had a solid forty minutes before she had to be at the fire. Breakfast was supposed to begin at 7:00, but the ration line moved at a snail’s pace. It was likely that Iris and Evie would be late as it was. She toyed with the idea of going early and waiting for the rest of the crew to show up, but that meant more socializing. If she retreated to her tent, Georgie would doubtlessly wake up and have a meltdown over her hands. The same went for Roark. There was only one chance for peace.

  Ronja threw her hood over her damp curls and plunged into the fray. She moved quickly, the patter of her footfalls drowned out by the babel.

  … look at her hands …

  … Ronja …

  The girl winced as the whispers nicked her ear. Of course, her bandages would draw attention. She tucked her hands into her pockets, but it was too late. Word of her presence was spreading like a plague.

  … savior …

  … selfish …

  … how she did it …

  Ronja gritted her teeth and sped up. The words were not cruel, but they were laced with an unsettling combination of awe and distrust.

  The incomplete account of the events of Red Bay dredged up mixed reactions from the revolutionaries. Some called her a threat. They saw her only as the selfish girl who chose the lives of the few over the lives of the many. Others labeled her a hero, someone willing to do more than any Anthemite had done in decades. A scattered few did not care if she was brave or stupid, but saw her as some sort of messiah. The mystique only grew as she had not opened her mouth to sing since that fateful day. How word of her voice had gotten out, she did not know.

  … counteracts The Music …

  … sounds just like it …

  … human …

  Sometimes she wanted to scream at them all, though most treated her with more respect than she had known in nineteen years. Virtually no one in the Belly knew she had spent most of her life under the influence of a mutt Singer, a fact that would severely damage her reputation were it to come to light. Mutts were not allowed in the Anthem. They were too twisted, mentally and physically, to be brought back from the edge. Mutts were to be pitied, not trusted. When she joined the Anthem, Ronja was not just looking to fight, but to escape the aching loneliness inherent in her status.

  You got what you wanted, she reminded herself bitterly. She was no longer an outcast; she was a legend. She was starting to wonder if there was really a difference.

  Ronja darted down a narrow aisle between two huts, stepping over stacks of plywood and boxes too large to be kept inside the tiny homes. As she reemerged onto one of the central walkways, a pack of children shot across her path, immune to grogginess. They were young, no more than six or seven. Most had never known the touch of The Music. She wished she could say the same for Cosmin and Georgie.

  What would they be like if they never known The Music? Ronja wondered as she came upon her destination. Her cousins were children only in body. Their minds were laden with pain and suffering beyond their years.

  Her heart was heavy as she approached the red drapes that encompassed the hospital wing. The hangings rippled sluggishly as Anthemites breezed past. Beyond the cloth walls were six quaint rooms shrouded in inexplicable tranquility. One of them had been hers, not so long ago. The thought was jarring. It felt like years ago that she had woken up in the Belly fearing not The Conductor, but the strange boy who had knocked her out and dragged her into the unknown.

  Taking down her hood, Ronja padded to the room on the far left and peeked through the drapes.

  It was pleasantly cool and dark inside. The only light came from the muted flame of an oil lamp perched on the bedside table. The glow tumbled across the sleeping form on the cot. “Cosmin,” Ronja whispered. She stepped inside, allowing the curtain to sweep shut behind her. The form in the bed stirred. “Cos, you awake?”

  “I—I am now,” came a thick voice.

  “Can I stay for a bit?”

  Cosmin did not reply, but raised his right arm and stuck up his thumb. Ronja sighed in gratitude and crossed to the worn, upholstered armchair at the bedside. She plopped down and curled her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She looked down at the boy through heavy-lidded eyes.

  Over the past months, her younger cousin had changed as much as she had, perhaps even more. His ear was free of its cage. His wild black curls, shaved during his imprisonment, were returning as quickly as her own. His eyes were still a sharp shade of blue, but the spark they once contained had faded to a tired ember. “W—what the skit—z happened to y—your hands?” Cosmin asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

  Ronja groaned. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

  “Why?”

  “Common courtesy?”

  “F—fine but you gotta tell me
la—ater. Could use a go—od story.” Ronja gave him a shove. He smiled, lifting only one side of his mouth. “Hiding f—from Georgie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why—y are you up so ear—ly?”

  “Maybe I just wanted to talk to my baby cousin.”

  Cosmin laughed. The sound was unhindered, fluid. “N—not the best con—versation partner. Tr—y the lamp.”

  Ronja forced a smile. She would never let him see it, but his disjointed speech still cut her deep. He was showing signs of progress; a month ago he could not say a word without breaking it in half. He could now wiggle his left fingers and toes, but recovery was still a long way off. Cosmin put up a good front. For his benefit, she pretended she did not see through it, just as he pretended not to see through hers. They had made a silent pact not to dance around each other like wet sticks of dynamite as everyone else did. “You h—ave your meeting l—ater,” he noted.

  Ronja lifted a hand. “Can we not talk about that?” she asked, exhaustion bleeding into her tone. The boy nodded, just a quick bob of his head. She thanked him similarly and leaned back into the padded armchair. “Have you seen Charlotte lately?”

  Cosmin blushed scarlet and looked down, picking at a loose thread on his white sheets. “Iris is train—ing her to be the n—ext Singer surgeon. S—he comes to spee—ch therapy sometimes.”

  “Has she mentioned me at all?” Ronja asked, gesturing toward herself halfheartedly. The boy gave a pitying shake of his head. His cousin heaved a sigh and sank deeper into her chair. “Henry asked me to watch out for her, I promised him I would.”

  Cosmin frowned, his thick eyebrows scrunching. “She—” he began, then huffed and flicked a finger at the notebook and pen sitting on the table.

  “Iris says you need to work on your speech,” she replied. Cosmin groaned, rolled his eyes, then pointed again. She caved and tossed the items onto his bed. The boy struggled into an upright position, then flipped to a blank page and began to scribble furiously. He was lucky he was right handed. After a few beats, he held up the results for her to see.