“Breakfast of champions, Elliot.”
The younger Mason choked on his drink as Ronja twisted around to see Roark approaching. His hair was dry and tied into a knot at the base of his skull. He had shed his damp shirt in favor of a knit navy sweater, the same one he had worn the night he took her from the subtrain station.
The memory was still fresh, though it was veiled by The Music. She had been terrified of him. How could she have known that days later she would be pressing her lips to his desperately, plunging a stinger into her heart to protect him?
“What the hell happened to you?” Roark demanded as he came to a stop before her. Ronja twisted back around, crossing her hands in her lap as if it would somehow make them less noticeable.
“Cooking accident,” she muttered tonelessly.
Roark stepped over the vacant stool next to hers and sat heavily. “Oh, really? Did you get in a fight with a frying pan?”
“Actually, she got in a fight with a certain blonde we all know and love,” Kala answered with a breezy laugh. Ronja shot her a glance, both annoyed with and envious of her ability to bury her emotions so quickly. “Apparently, no one taught her how to punch properly.”
“I offered to help,” Samson piped up. Roark ignored him.
“Well, she did quite a bit of damage to my face a while back,” he said with a chuckle, working his jaw as if it stilled pained him. “I imagine Terra looks about as bad as I did.”
Ronja snorted. “Not quite.”
Roark grinned, exposing his sugar-white teeth.
“Does anyone know where Iris and Evie are?” Delilah inquired. She clutched her stomach as if worried it might digest itself. “They were supposed to bring breakfast.”
“I think they had an errand to run,” Ronja replied smoothly.
“They better get here soon,” James growled, looking first at his watch, then at his captain. Samson was oblivious, staring into space with his chin in his weathered hand. “My shift starts in a half hour; I want to get there early.”
Roark snorted quietly. Ronja tossed him a questioning glance. He rolled his eyes at the arching ceiling, then mouthed suck up. The girl smiled crookedly. Silence crept up on them, buffered only by the dull hiss of the blaze at their feet and the drone of conversations beyond their circle.
“Do you have your guitar, Sam?” Roark asked abruptly. Ronja arched a brow at him. He winked in reply. “I left my violin in my tent, but I suppose we could make do with you.”
Samson flashed his teeth, impervious to the jab. “I do, as a matter of fact.” He climbed to his feet and stepped over the stack of firewood. His cherry wood guitar waited patiently in its open case. He grabbed it by the neck and slung it over his shoulder by the leather slap. “Anyone up for a jam?”
Kala and James groaned in unison. The dark-haired girl slid down in her chair like a rag doll.
“I would love a song,” Elliot spoke up hopefully. Delilah nodded in agreement, linking arms with him. The boy blushed, the color creeping down his neck. Ronja got the feeling the blind girl knew.
“Majority rules,” Sam said.
“What about you, love?” Roark asked, tossing Ronja a crooked smile.
“What about me?”
“I hear music is healing, or something.”
Ronja looked down at her bandaged hands doubtfully, and saw him shake his head out of the corner of her eye. “Not that kind of healing.”
7: Wonder
Roark
He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was, sitting there in the light of the fire. Not the way other girls were, and certainly not in the way everyone would find attractive. She was vibrant and defiant and buzzing with possibility. Her scars did not negate her beauty, nor did they enhance it. They were simply a part of her, like her constellation of freckles, her full lips, her dark hair that was returning so quickly.
And those eyes. Every time she looked at him it reconfirmed he could not hide an inch of his soul from her. More nights than he cared to admit he had imagined her in his tent, her body entwined with his. He would not, could not, ask it of her. Not after what he had watched happen through the one-way glass. She had not spoken of it. Did she know he had seen it?
When she kissed him in the torture chamber, everything fell away. The chains on his ankles. The panic, the desperation, the rage. There was only her. For a fraction of an infinity, he had imagined it would only be her for the rest of his life.
Then she died, her mouth pressed to his, to save him. To save them all.
“Roark.”
Roark blinked. All eyes were on him. Ronja stared at him dubiously. That was when he realized he was gawking at her, his jaw unhinged. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I asked what song you had in mind,” Samson repeated slowly, as if Roark were a bit dense.
“Whatever you like,” he answered, shoving an escaped strand of hair out of his face. “I leave the choice in your semi-capable hands.” The captain laughed, his weathered fingers scuttling along the neck of the guitar. He began to strum out scales, fidgeting with the tuning pegs. Ronja watched, her lips parted and her eyes wide. Sometimes, Roark forgot how fresh the concept of music was to her. When she had sung to free him from The New Music, it seemed so natural.
“Ideas, anyone?” Sam asked.
Delilah snapped her fingers, a memory sparking in her white eyes. “What about Sparrow?”
“By Frequency?” The captain squinted up at the ceiling as if the lyrics were written there.
“Yeah.” Delilah licked her lips, then relayed the chorus. “You cannot be the one for me, you need your own damn recipe … ”
“But I wish, oh darling, please,” Samson picked up the tune. His singing voice was as ragged as his hair, but it was not unpleasant. “You could make me a part of your disease.”
“Nice choice,” Elliot commented. Delilah smiled softly and rested her head on his shoulder. Roark felt his lips quirk upward. They had been dancing around each other as long as he could remember. In his opinion, it was high time they stopped.
“All right,” Samson said, punctuating the word with a satisfying down strum. “One, two, three, four … ”
He burst into motion, carving out the melancholy rhythm with his fingers. Delilah disentangled herself from Elliot and popped to her feet. She twisted from side to side, arms loose and skirt rippling. Three bars came and went, then the lyrics poured from her.
I think I knew before you said so
But I still broke beneath your words.
You are a child until the day
They go away
Do you miss me in the mornings
When you would kiss me on the brow
Do you miss me in the mornings
When you would kiss me on the brow
Delilah paused, wetting her lips as Samson broke into a complex solo. She spun toward Kala, her hands clasped in pleading. The painter groaned. Delilah stuck out her hand, wriggling her fingers. Sighing, Kala got to her feet. She was a full head shorter than Delilah, a fact that never failed to surprise Roark. Her personality was deceptive. It made her seem ten feet tall.
The solo drew to a close, and the girls picked up the chorus.
You cannot be the one for me
You need your own damn recipe
Kala looked as if she would rather be yanking out her own teeth than singing before a crowd, but Roark saw through her. She would do anything to make Delilah happy. Their voices twined with the rhythmic guitar were infectious. He soon found himself tapping his foot to the beat. The chorus was just ending when he noticed Ronja was mouthing the words.
But I wish, oh darling, please
You could make me a part of your disease
Her eyes were closed, a meshwork of blushing veins sprawled across her lids. When he was a child he saw his mother drop to her knees and pray, her palms bared to the sky. In that moment, it looked as if Ronja were pleading with a deity sure to hear her call.
“Sing,” he heard himself say.
Her eyes flew open, her pupils shrinking like violets. He immediately regretted interrupting her. The weight of her gaze was suffocating. Kala and Delilah were still singing. Samson was still playing. Roark could barely hear them over the noise in his head.
Save them. Save them. Save them.
“Samson, oi, Sam!” The captain managed a final defiant strum before he muted the strings with his palm. Delilah and Kala fell silent in his wake. “Sorry to interrupt,” Evie said through the toothpick she was gnawing on. Her arms were laden with several loaves of bread and packages of dried fruits wrapped in newspaper. “But we need to borrow Trip and Ro.”
“We brought breakfast,” Iris chimed in, a large pot curled to her chest. Her short red curls were stiff with sweat, hinting at the nature of the ‘errand’ Ronja had mentioned. “Save a bit for us, would you?”
“You’re not staying?” Delilah asked.
“Nope,” Evie replied lightly. Her eyes flashed to Roark. He straightened, his muscles tightening. Anyone else might have missed the twinge of trepidation in her expression, but he knew her far too well. Something was wrong. “We just have something we need to take care of.”
8: Tripped
They abandoned the fire in a whirlwind of dodged questions and plastic smiles. As soon as they turned the corner on their comrades, they found an aisle between two vacant tents and ducked into it. They huddled in a tight knot. “What the hell is going on?” Ronja whispered. Her bandages were turning boggy with sweat.
“Wilcox moved up our meeting,” Evie replied.
“What? To when?”
“To right now,” Iris answered flatly.
Roark and Ronja looked at each other. “Why?” they asked at the same time.
“No bloody idea,” Evie replied sourly. She crossed her arms, chewing on her toothpick furiously. Iris peered around, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “He never moves appointments; the man practically schedules his shits.”
“When did you find out about this?” Roark asked.
“Five minutes ago,” Iris said. “He sent Barty to our tent with the message.”
“Thankfully we were already dressed,” Evie added under her breath.
“It could be nothing,” the surgeon cut in, glossing over the comment. “Maybe something came up this evening.”
“Or he could be trying to trip us up,” Roark countered darkly. “He’d like nothing more than to watch us skitz this.”
Iris stretched out a hand for Evie to take. She intercepted it absently. “If he finds a single hole in our plan … ” the surgeon murmured.
“He’ll run it into the ground,” Ronja finished, keeping her voice low so it did not shake. The three Anthemites shifted their attention to her, watching the gears of her mind spin through her green eyes. “We can’t let that happen.”
Roark clapped a bracing hand to her shoulder. She peered up at him, battering down her fear. He squeezed her stiff muscles, lifted one corner of his mouth. “We won’t,” he promised.
“This is adorable,” Evie drawled, popping her toothpick out of her mouth and sticking it in her pocket. “But we have to be on the other side of the station in about thirty seconds.”
The quartet was still for a moment, their joint anxiety swelling. Evie and Roark locked eyes, exchanged a nod. They did not wait to see if the others were ready, but shot out of the alley like death itself was on their heels.
Ronja and Iris shared a knowing glance, then followed. Two sharp turns later they exploded onto the central pathway that cut through the station, the Vein. Ronja had not used it in some time; it was far too crowded. It ran east to west across the Belly, and could have easily accommodated two lanes of autos. Thankfully, it was all but deserted in the middle of breakfast.
Snatches of casual conversations and the aroma of sizzling meat roared past Ronja as she ran. She kept her eyes on Evie and Roark, who were a good twelve paces ahead. They moved in perfect synchronization, their neurons knit after years of training side by side. Despite the adrenaline whistling through her veins, she felt a jolt of petty jealousy. She forced it down vehemently. Now was not the time. The west end of the station was approaching, nearly as high as the black walls that encircled Revinia.
They arrived with seconds to spare, scraping to a halt before the iron door that led to the debriefing room. Ronja felt her thoughts dissolve as she took in the rusted frame. It was beyond this door that she first learned the truth about Revinia, The Conductor, and The Music. It was here she first pledged herself to the resistance, only to abandon it hours later to save her family. Now, the roles were reversed.
She was here to convince the commander to make a move, not the other way around.
Evie wasted no time approaching the door and hammering on it with her fist. Iris padded up to stand beside her, twisting her hands anxiously.
Roark slipped back to speak to Ronja. “Just like we practiced,” he murmured.
The girl nodded mutely. Her hand twitched at her side, yearning for his. She tried to pass it off as a nervous tick, but nothing got by Roark. He curled his long fingers around her bandaged ones. His touch should have been painful, but was not.
The lock clanged, the door flew open. A woman stood in the frame, lean as a sapling with dyed orange hair and prominent cheekbones. She was dressed in a high-necked black sweater and matching slacks. She could have stepped out of the financial district were it not for the automatic pistol strapped to her thigh.
“Ito,” Evie greeted her levelly.
“Wick,” the lieutenant replied. Her eyes passed over the techi and landed on Ronja, who lifted her chin. She and Ito had not spoken since their talk on the airship. Welcome to the Anthem, singer. It was more than an address, it was a promise, one Ronja intended to make her keep. “Come in,” Ito said, pressing her back to the door to allow them to pass. “We’ve been waiting.”
“Yeah, for ten seconds,” Evie grumbled. She and Iris stepped inside and disappeared around the corner.
Ito gestured for Ronja and Roark to pass, but the girl found she was rooted to the spot. She cast her gaze to the boy. He was already looking at her. He gave her hand a squeeze so quick she thought she might have imagined it. Somehow, it was enough. They approached the entrance together, pulses and footsteps meshed.
“What happened?” Roark breathed as they passed Ito. The lieutenant only offered a subtle shake of her head.
Dank air washed over Ronja as they crossed the threshold. The room was just as she remembered. Low ceiling, featureless stone walls, an oak conference table wreathed with a dozen chairs. The last time she had been here they were filled with council members, men and women there to judge her. Now, only one seat was filled, the only one that mattered.
Tristen Wilcox sat at the head of the table, draped in the glow of a solitary light bulb. He was dressed in his counterfeit Off uniform, the white emblem of The Conductor stitched over his heart. His sharp gray eyes latched onto Ronja as she made her way to the opposite end of the table. Iris and Evie had already chosen seats on the far right, leaving the two chairs directly opposite the commander open. Thanks guys, she thought dully as she sat. The door slammed. The lock clicked. Roark slipped into the seat immediately to her right as Ito moved to stand beside her superior.
Silence echoed. The air was thick with the smell of groundwater. Wilcox did not even appear to breathe, staring her down across the wooden surface like a bull about to charge. Iris began to tap her fingernails against the table, but caught herself and started to chew them instead.
“Well, this is all very enlightening,” Roark finally said, reclining in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head to form a pillow. “But one of us should really say something within the next hour. Would you like to start, sir?”
Evie choked on a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Wilcox stiffened, his jaw bulging behind his stubbled cheek. Ronja wracked her brains, trying to remember the last time she had seen the commander unshaven
.
Ito stepped up to the edge of the table. “We all know why we’re here,” she said. Her voice seemed to echo despite the cramped space. “You four are advocating a preemptive strike against The Conductor and His Music. The commander wishes to hold back. I am here as a moderator. I’ll set my personal opinions aside and remain neutral during this discussion. The commander … ”
“Can speak for himself, Lieutenant,” Wilcox interjected coldly. Ito pursed her lips. A shadow of irritation passed over her elegant features, but was quickly scattered by her poise. The commander opened his arms in what would have been a welcoming gesture were it not for his condescending smirk. “So. The savior has requested an audience with me. To what do I owe the honor?”
“It can’t be that much of an honor. This is the third time we asked you to meet,” Ronja replied dryly.
“I have a revolution to run, Zipse. I don’t have time to indulge your every whim.”
But you have plenty of time to sit on your ass. “Of course not, sir. Thank you for meeting with us.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ronja saw Roark shoot her a relieved look. It was as if he could smell her blood boiling and knew how close she was to snapping at their superior.
“What is this about?” Wilcox inquired.
“Well … ” Ronja felt her mouth go dry. She glanced at her friends, who were watching her expectantly. They had agreed a long time ago that she would take the lead on the pitch. She was, after all, the linchpin of the operation. Now, with the commander staring at her like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, she was wondering if that was really the best course of action. Too late now. “We … we have a plan. We have a way to take down The Conductor and The Music.” Wilcox waited for her to continue in stony silence. “But we need your help.”
The commander smiled, a creeping twist of his lips that did not reach his eyes. “Then, as Westervelt so eloquently stated, we are short on time. You have ten minutes to convince me of your plan. If you fail, you will never speak of this again. If I hear that you have been stirring up dissent, you will be exiled. Is that clear?”
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