Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja glanced at her friends. The gravity of the ultimatum sank in as she scanned their expressions. Enemies of the state were written into The Music. Every citizen was trained to know their faces, meaning nowhere under the bruised Revinian sky was safe for them. She turned back to Wilcox, eyes simmering with determination and scarcely veiled fear. “Yes, sir.”

  9: The Pitch

  Ronja pushed back her chair with a screech and got to her feet. She kept her hands locked behind her, both to still them and to hide her bandages. The scarred oak table sprawled before her. The commander waited, expressionless and cold. She took a deep breath, swallowed a lump of nonexistent saliva, and began.

  “Two months ago, Roark kidnapped me from a subtrain station in the middle ring, mistaking me for an undercover Off.” Relief flowered in her chest as her words hit the air. Her voice sounded far steadier than she felt. “The Music spiked in my Singer, triggering The Quiet Song. My mother, as you know, is … was a mutt.” Ronja winced internally at the slip up. It was still natural to refer to her mother in the present tense. She wondered when the impulse would fade, for Layla and everyone else she had lost.

  “I know all this.” Wilcox sighed. His eyes darted to his watch pointedly. “Clock’s ticking, Zipse.”

  “My family was taken by the government after falling victim to the echo effect,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “We infiltrated Red Bay to save them but were captured. Victor Westervelt II was there. He interrogated us, seeking intel on the Anthem.”

  Wilcox smiled bitterly and reclined in his high-backed chair, which groaned under his weight. “Yes, I am sure the Anthemites exposed by our own Mr. Westervelt are as familiar with this part of the story as I am.”

  Ronja watched out of the corner of her eye as Roark flushed. She was seized both by the urge to embrace him and to kick him. She needed him present, not wallowing in guilt. “Roark did what he had to do to keep us safe,” she said firmly, returning her attention to Wilcox. “I owe him more than my life.”

  “What do you mean?” the commander asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone. Ito crossed her arms, her brows knitting thoughtfully.

  “Uh … ” Ronja stumbled, a hare caught between a wolf and a trap. She had said too much, hinted at something she wished to keep buried. Roark did not know she knew. She wanted to keep it that way. She shook her head, her brief curls shivering. “Roark was put in an impossible situation. He made the best choice he could.”

  Wilcox rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. Roark relaxed slightly. Ronja breathed a sigh of relief. Her hands were slick beneath the layers of gauze, the salt working its way into her wounds. She flexed her fingers in a vain attempt to relieve the sting, successfully making it worse.

  “While we were at Red Bay, we discovered what Westervelt was working on,” she went on, speaking authoritatively. “A new form of The Music that can reach people with or without Singers. For the sake of simplicity, we are calling it ‘The New Music.’ Both Roark and I felt the effects of these Songs. I was exposed to The Lost Song, which impacts the pain centers of the brain. Roark was hit with The Air Song.”

  “The Air Song,” Ito repeated, a question ringing in her inflection.

  “Yes,” Ronja repeated eagerly. “It’s similar to The Music we know, but way more powerful.”

  “It drains you,” Roark spoke up. Ronja cast her eyes at him sidelong. He stared at the face of the table, but she knew he was not really seeing it. “It does more than just dampen your emotions, it obliterates them. All you have left is your obedience to The Conductor.”

  Ronja nodded, suppressing the urge to reach out and take him by the hand. “According to our source,” she went on. “The New Music will be finished in a matter of months. Before his death, Victor planned to release it on all of Revinia, including the Anthemites. Without a doubt, The Conductor plans to do the same.”

  “How do you know when it will be finished?” Wilcox asked.

  “Our prisoner,” Ronja said. “Maxwell.”

  “Ah yes, the bastard son of The Conductor that no one has ever seen or heard from who just happens to have a fully functioning Singer.” Wilcox smirked, leaning back in his chair. It creaked beneath the increased pressure.

  Skitz. “Sir,” Ronja began carefully. “I agree, it’s strange given his supposed status, but Roark and I were both exposed to these Songs and we can assure you, they work. Even if Maxwell is lying about the timeline, it will be released eventually. If anything, our attack on Red Bay may have sped things up.”

  “I suppose we have you to thank for that.” Wilcox ground the words out.

  Ronja smiled blandly. “Actually, sir, you have us to thank for warning you about it in the first place.”

  Evie coughed again. Iris swatted her on the arm.

  “Fine,” Wilcox said. He checked his watch. “You have five minutes. Are you going to get around to explaining this plan of yours?”

  Ronja felt the blood drain from her face as all eyes fell on her yet again. This was it, the moment she had been waiting for. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, yet somehow she was able to speak. “We want to hack the Singers and play real music,” she said. “We want to use my voice to free the city before The New Music is finished. We want to start a revolution.”

  Wilcox was utterly still across from her, his eyes dull as slate. Ronja continued, reining in her voice as it attempted to rocket through the speech. “I was able to free Roark from The Air Song in just a few seconds by singing to him,” she explained. “Even though The Air Song is more powerful than The Music, it will probably take longer because the Revinians have been under The Music their whole lives. But we think it could work.”

  By the time the final word escaped her lips, Ronja was trembling. Wilcox was silent. The only sign that he was still breathing was the throbbing vein in his temple. Ito broke the bone-deep hush. “Is it possible?” Her voice did not sound like her own. It was childlike, uncertain.

  “Yes,” Iris said fervently, speaking up for the first time. “Singers are capable of receiving radio waves as well as the waves The Music travels on.”

  “How do you know this?” Ito probed.

  Iris smiled, a bit of pride glinting in her eyes. “I am a Singer surgeon, ma’am. As I was saying, they can receive radio waves. The Conductor occasionally transmits speeches via radio directly into the Singers, a little extra propaganda to fuel the masses.”

  Ronja found herself nodding. She remembered well the sudden, booming voice that echoed over the erratic notes of The Music. Passion is perilous. Emotion is treacherous. Disobedience is destruction. Even now, free from her Singer, those words were ingrained in her.

  “I have already tested it using a transmitter and a disconnected Singer,” Iris said. “The audio comes through just fine.”

  Those words were what finally snapped Wilcox from his catatonic state. “Where did you get this Singer?” he demanded. “I ordered you to destroy them all.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I need the practice,” the surgeon said mildly. “It’s not often I get to perform an actual surgery.”

  On the surface, the comment seemed benign, but Ronja felt the potency beneath it. She dipped her chin, smirking at the table. Sometimes, she forgot that Iris was every bit as fierce as Roark and Evie.

  “Is this what you have been doing since I ordered your lockdown?” Wilcox growled. “Testing Singers, building transmitters, concocting some insane plan that hinges on the daughter of a mutt and her supernatural voice?”

  Ronja slammed her teeth together to pin down a scathing reply.

  “Not supernatural,” Roark corrected him. His voice was poised, but Ronja could tell his patience was wearing thin. “Science.”

  “Science is rooted in evidence.”

  “We have more evidence. I am not the only one Ronja freed from The New Music, sir.”

  Wilcox opened his mouth, closed it. His face was vaguely purple in the low light.

  Roark stepped out from behi
nd his chair smoothly, straightened his sweater, then crossed to the iron door. He looked past the stunned commander to Ito. She nodded mutely. Roark cracked a grin, then flipped the lock. Light and noise poured into the room. A slight figure stood in the doorframe, silhouetted by the glow of the Belly. “Come in, Sawyer, thank you for waiting.”

  10: Waltz

  Wilcox shot to his feet. His chair rocked violently and would have toppled had Ito not steadied it. “This is a private meeting, get out!” he snapped.

  Sawyer Gailes hopped across the threshold, tossing the commander an amused look. Her short hair was a rare shade of dark red, her skin smooth as cream. Her eyes were brown and far too intense for her age. A series of puckered scars decorated her right ear. “Settle,” she drawled.

  Wilcox took a massive step around the table. Sawyer scuttled back into Roark, who caught her by the shoulders. The crown of her head barely reached his sternum.

  “Tristen,” Ito warned. “Perhaps we should hear what she has to say.”

  Wilcox rounded on his lieutenant. For a brief moment, the room was suspended. The cacophony of the Belly drifted in through the door, distorted by the sluggish flow of time. Ronja held her breath. Finally, Wilcox caved. He sat heavily and snapped his fingers at Roark, who shut the door with a triumphant clang.

  “Sawyer,” Roark prompted. “Will you tell the commander what you told us?”

  “Save it, shiny,” she answered, peeling away from Roark. She looked him up and down, snorted disdainfully, then turned her attention to Wilcox. Evie chuckled. Roark shot her a scalding glance. “I was in the middle of eating a perfectly good meal when some kid slipped me a note that said the secret club meeting was about to start.”

  “Who passed you this message?” Wilcox growled. “Was it Bartholomew?”

  The girl put her nose in the air and crossed her arms. “I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Sawyer.” Roark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Please.”

  She passed him a sour look. “Yes, yes, all right. Zipse and her voice freed me from The New Music,” she said, her voice gravelly with irritation. “It was like clouds parting over a field full of bunnies and flowers. Can I go now?”

  Ronja dropped her gaze to her boots, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Sawyer was not doing them any favors, but she had to admire her spunk.

  “In a moment,” Ito assured the girl, raising a hand. “Tell me what you remember from that day.”

  Sawyer heaved a sigh, popping her hip to the side. “I woke up in my cell like any other day, smelling like shit and hoping for a bullet to the brain. Then one of the goons came to get me and put me on a stage in front of the entire pitching lab with a mutt and some humans.”

  Ronja pursed her lips. She was accustomed to her mother being placed in a separate, subhuman category, but it never failed to fray her nerves. Sawyer went on, oblivious.

  “Westervelt—the older one, not this one.” She gestured to Roark, who shifted uncomfortably. “Was there. He brought Trip up on stage and started playing the … ” She wiggled her fingers next to her temple as if she could draw the words out. “What was it?”

  “The Lost Song,” Roark reminded her.

  “Right. He started playing The Lost Song over the speakers, on top of The Day Song. Good thing I was already half deaf, or it would have fried my brains.” She flicked her right earlobe pointedly. “Anyway, we were on stage and this girl came plowing through the doors, bald as … well as me and covered in blood.” She turned to Ronja and cracked a droll smile. “You looked like a skitzing nightmare.”

  “I felt like one,” Ronja replied dryly.

  Sawyer laughed loudly. “Anyway, baldy and her friend, the blonde one, got tackled and Westervelt started up that other Song.”

  “The Air Song?” Ito broke in.

  “Air Song?” Sawyer repeated thoughtfully. She nodded to herself. “Yeah, I guess, the one that can travel without Singers.”

  “Sawyer.” Roark sighed.

  “Right, anyway, I blacked out, then I woke up to her singing.” She jabbed a finger at Ronja. “She was singing to her boyfriend, but I heard it anyway.”

  Roark cleared his throat loudly. Ronja bit her lip.

  “And then?” Ito pressed.

  Sawyer shrugged. “And then you came in through the roof, which was insane, by the way.” Ito smiled, an ember of humor igniting in her eyes. The girl must have sensed the glimmer of affection, because her voice softened. “Thanks for that.”

  “No need to thank me, it was Trip and Ronja who pulled you from the rubble.”

  Sawyer nodded, but did not appear to be in the mood to thank them.

  “Is there anything else you can recall?” Ito questioned. “Anything that might help us?”

  “Yeah, there is actually,” Sawyer answered slowly, chewing her lip as she rifled through her thoughts. Ronja went rigid. This was not part of the plan. “When she sang, I could still hear The Music, but it was easier to ignore.”

  “You could work around it,” Ronja muttered under her breath.

  “What was that, Zipse?” Ito asked.

  Ronja did not answer, her eyes still on Sawyer. “It was like you could hear it, but you could work around it.”

  The teenager nodded eagerly, excitement bursting through her bored mask. “Right,” she confirmed. “Exactly.”

  “Like you could recognize its command, but could refuse,” Roark added. Ronja and Sawyer rounded on him, their eyes widening. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I felt it, too.”

  A memory ignited in Ronja, drawing a quiet gasp from her. “I used to count,” she breathed. Roark stepped forward to stand beside her, trying to meet her gaze. She was long gone, her mind reeling back into the past. Her mouth continued to move of its own accord. “It made The Music easier to ignore. 1-2-3, 2-2-3 … ”

  Roark whipped around toward Evie and Iris. The techi and the surgeon looked at each other, their brains spinning faster than words could contain. “It sounds like she was keeping time,” Evie said, her voice wobbling slightly. “Ro, who taught you to count like that?”

  Before Ronja could respond, Roark turned back to face her, his eyes glinting like match heads. “Counting like that, switching the set number for the first number, is distinctly musical. It correlates with a specific type of song called a waltz.” He took an eager step toward her, color high in his cheeks. “Who taught you to count like that?”

  “I … I … ” Ronja wracked her brains. She had learned to count in elementary school, like anyone else. But that specific practice … where had she learned it? Her head began to throb. She kneaded her temples to soothe the ache. Her memories from her years under The Music were muted, sapped of color. Sifting through them was like walking through a maze choked with fog. “I don’t know.”

  “Enough.” Dread pooled in her stomach as Ronja turned to Wilcox. She had forgotten his presence entirely. “Gailes, get out.”

  Sawyer sniffed. “Were you not hugged enough as a baby?”

  “Leave,” Wilcox hissed. The teenager threw her hands up in defeat, then ambled toward the exit.

  “Keep me posted,” Sawyer ordered, the command obviously aimed at Ronja and her friends. Before they could respond, she wrenched open the metal door with strength she should not have possessed. A gust of cool air washed over the room when it slammed shut.

  “Sir,” Roark began.

  “Quiet, Westervelt,” Wilcox barked. “I have heard enough.”

  “You have your proof.”

  “Proof?” The commander laughed hollowly. “You call that proof? She is an outsider; her words mean nothing. You could have bribed her; you could have recruited her for your cause.”

  “My cause?” Roark demanded. “Last time I checked we were on the same side.”

  “I am your commander,” Wilcox reminded him, his voice sinking another octave. “You act like you own this place, running around with your little band of disciples. Your
cover is blown; you are no longer necessary.” Roark blanched, his shoulders sagging beneath the truth. Ronja gritted her teeth. Only once had she seen him look so defeated, in the presence of his sadistic father. The commander continued relentlessly. “You have endangered this operation for the last time.”

  “What are you so afraid of?” Several beats of her heart came and went before Ronja realized she had spoken aloud.

  Wilcox stiffened. He stared at her blankly, his expression reminiscent of the precarious calm in the eye of a hurricane. “Excuse me?”

  “How long have you been in charge of the Anthem?” Ronja demanded. The man seemed to vibrate with rage, though it may have been the flicker of the electric light playing on his skin. “Twenty years? What have you done in that time?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he growled.

  “I know enough!” Somewhere in the back of her mind, Ronja realized she was shouting, but she could not find it in her to care. Her blood was roaring louder than a subtrain. “I know you’ve infiltrated the highest Off stations, but you haven’t stopped their abuse. You’ve destroyed Singer shipments, but they just replace them with better models. You had a spy inside Westervelt Industries and it is still standing. When was the last time you brought in a new recruit, huh?” Wilcox maintained his silence. “How many minds have you freed since Roark brought me in? Do you even want to see Revinia go free?”

  Ronja forced herself not to flinch when the commander slammed his fist into the table. A shudder ripped through the wood, through her bones. “Do you have any idea what you are saying?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “I have been fighting The Conductor since before you were born, and do you want to know what I have learned? He cannot be defeated.”

  “He has to be in His eighties,” Ronja shot back, the spark fading from her voice as her confidence wavered. “Even if we don’t take Him out, He’ll die someday soon. The government will be destabilized and we can … ”

  “You think that matters?” Wilcox jabbed a finger at the ceiling, pointing up at the choked city. “I could kill Him tomorrow. I could string His body up at the palace doors and nothing would change. Do you know why? Because He will live forever in The Music, inspiring fear and reverence and obedience. We cannot win.”