“You’ve given up,” Ronja breathed.
“We have everything we need down here to keep living for decades,” the commander said, more to himself than to her. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep my people safe.”
“Sir,” Ronja said softly. “No one is safe anymore. The New Music is coming for all of us. But I … I think we can stop it. If you would just give us a chance … ”
“Get out.”
“What?”
Several things happened at once.
In one massive stride Wilcox was a breath from Ronja, his hand wrapped around her bicep. He yanked her toward the door like a rag doll and she was too stunned to protest. Evie leapt to her feet, her chair hitting the wall with a ringing crack. Roark launched forward, shoving his superior into the table with one hand and curling Ronja to his side with the other. His familiar musk enveloped her.
“GET OUT! NOW!” Wilcox bellowed, braced against the table.
“Go,” Ito implored them urgently. “Now.”
Roark ushered Ronja out the door, eyeing the unhinged commander ferociously. Evie and Iris hurried in their wake. They slammed the door on the commander and lieutenant. Just before it closed, they caught the start of an argument that could shake rain from the sky.
11: Recorder
They stood in stunned silence outside the debriefing room, their hearts as heavy as their limbs. Roark still clutched Ronja to his side protectively. She let him, fearing her knees might buckle. Her mind was pulsing, her arm still throbbed where Wilcox had grabbed her.
“Well,” Evie finally said with a bleak laugh. “Looks like Ronja was right all along. Wilcox is a piece of — ”
“Shhh!” Iris exclaimed. She snatched her girlfriend by the hand, her hazel eyes darting around the station. “Not here.” Without waiting for their response, she started back down the Vein, dragging Evie behind her. Ronja and Roark exchanged a glance, then followed. Curious gazes trailed them as they traipsed down the path, but no one said anything.
You’ve done nothing wrong, Ronja reminded herself as an Anthemite with gray hair and weathered skin passed her a scathing look. Yet.
They did not speak again until they had arrived at the powder blue tent Iris and Evie called home. Relative calm washed over Ronja as she passed through the entrance. The space was cramped but not claustrophobic, and bursting with color. Embroidered pillows and quilts drowned the wide cot in the corner. Dried flowers hung from the ceiling. A small dresser that doubled as a writing desk sat in the corner. The air was thick with the smell of soil, dying petals, and stale sweat.
Besides her own tent and the hospital wing, Ronja spent more time here than anywhere else. She often fell asleep on the padded floor, up late listening to records on the lowest volume, whispering about things she had never been able to talk about before. The language of young women was foreign to her. Sitting on the rug listening to stories of first kisses and crushes was one of the first times she had felt truly human. Not a mutt. Not a slave. Not even a revolutionary. Just a girl with her friends.
“Well … ” Evie began again. Iris swatted her on the arm, tapped her finger to her lips. The techi rolled her eyes as the surgeon crossed the tent, then knelt before the turntable that sat on a low wooden stool. A record was already in place, waiting patiently to be heard. Ronja craned her neck. No matter how many times she saw a record come to life, it never failed to fascinate her. Iris dropped the needle. Gentle piano music poured from the speakers. Ronja blinked. Colors blossomed from the sound. This time, light blue and a pale shade of green. Relief flooded her. These colors were not particularly distracting.
“Well that was terrible,” Evie said dryly
“Yeah,” Roark agreed. “I think we all know what this means.”
Ronja raised her eyebrows at him. He passed her a weary smile. “Ready to see the sky again, love?”
Her heart stuttered. They had known from the start they were going to follow through with their plan with or without the support of the commander. Still, despite her surface doubts, a part of her always believed they would find a way to make him see reason.
But now she understood. Wilcox had given up on fighting a long time ago. He was not a general, but a warden cowering below the crust of the planet. Bile rose in her throat. Did the Anthemites still believe they were fighting a war? Did they know there was no endgame, no final battle with Tristen Wilcox at the helm?
“When do we leave?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.
“Are you ready?” Roark asked.
Ronja nodded. She had packed a knapsack weeks ago and hidden it under her stack of laundry. It contained all her necessities as well as the collapsible stingers Evie had gifted her. She had yet to explain to the techi she was about as skilled with stingers as she was at socializing.
“In that case, we leave tonight.”
“Tonight?” Iris gasped.
“Yeah,” Evie concurred, massaging her chin with her thumb and forefinger. “Wilcox would never expect us to hit eject so soon.”
“And for good reason,” the surgeon whispered shrilly. “Do we even know how we’re getting out?”
Evie tilted her head to the side. “Good question.” She sat heavily on the cot, which groaned under her weight. Iris plopped down beside her, chewing on her pinky nail. Following their lead, Ronja hopped up onto the dresser with a loud squeak. The tips of her boots brushed the rug. “Well,” the techi started slowly. “The bathhouse exit is out.”
“Why?” Iris asked.
“The sewers will be crawling with guards,” Roark explained.
“How else can we get out?” Ronja inquired, her eyes shifting between her comrades. Roark began to pace, his footfalls muffled by the thick rug. “We have emergency exits, right?”
Evie nodded. “Six of them, actually.” She flopped back onto the mountain of pillows, massaging her eyes with her tattooed palms. “Problem is, they’re all sealed off. They’re rigged to blow if we ever need a quick exit, but even if we got our hands on the detonators … ”
“We would leave the Belly defenseless,” Ronja finished. Evie nodded against the pillows, her hair whispering against the fabric. “So what are we left with? The front door?”
Roark scuffed to a halt, facing the exit. He put his hands on his hips, tilted his head to the side.
“No,” Ronja hissed, raising a warning finger he could not see. “No way.”
“Are you kidding me, Trip?” Iris moaned.
The boy spun to face them, beaming. Green bands ringed his body, pulsing in time with the piano. Ronja squinted through them. “Hardly,” he said.
“It’ll never work,” Evie said. “This is pitched, even for you.”
“It’ll work,” Roark countered smugly. “If we have the captain of the guard with us.”
Ronja blinked. The record continued to spin obliviously. A cello had joined the forlorn piano, casting rivers of gold across the tent.
Evie broke the stream with a chuckle. “You skitzer.”
Roark smiled wickedly. “I spoke with Sam a while back. We have his allegiance.”
Iris let out a scandalized squawk and aimed a kick at Roark. He sidestepped her easily. “How long has he known?”
“About a month,” Roark muttered, massaging the back of his head. When all three girls began to complain, he threw up his hands. “Listen, he and I agreed that the fewer people who knew the better.”
Iris folded her twig arms. Evie just shook her head, staring daggers at her blood brother.
“Wait, how much does Sam know?” Ronja inquired from her perch.
Roark glanced at her over his shoulder, a flicker of jealousy flaring in his eyes. “Everything.”
Of course, she thought dimly. It all made sense now. Samson had always treated her gently. He was infinitely more welcoming than Kala and the others. She assumed he was just a kind soul. Clearly, it was more than that.
“How is this going to work, exactly?” Iris asked, her practical
ity overwhelming her annoyance. “Having Sam with us only takes care of the topside guards. People are still going to see us leaving.”
“Not if we leave in the middle of the night,” Ronja pointed out.
“So,” Evie began, tapping a mocking finger to her lips. “We are banking on the hope that absolutely nobody is going to need to take a piss in the middle of the night?”
“People come and go from the Belly all the time,” Ronja argued.
Iris shook her head, her brief locks fluttering. “But everyone knows we’re on lockdown.”
“You three worry too much,” Roark said with a weighty sigh. Ronja glowered at him. If he felt the sting of her gaze, he chose to ignore it. “Really, your lives would be much better if you just relaxed a bit.”
“Spit it out, Trip,” Evie goaded him. “What have you got up your sleeve?”
“Music.”
The record skipped like a startled rabbit. Ronja jumped. The colors swimming in her vision shivered in response. A violin had joined the fray, adding a hopeful tinge to the melancholy tune. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Roark beamed, exposing his sugar-white teeth. “I think it’s time the Anthem heard your voice.”
Ronja’s breath caught in her lungs, her lips parted in shock. “No,” she breathed. She could feel Evie and Iris watching her with perplexed eyes, but kept her gaze fixed on Roark. His smile had slipped a fraction of an inch, but he still radiated confidence. “Absolutely not.”
Roark dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small black machine. It resembled a handheld radio, though instinct told Ronja it was not. He offered it to her with an encouraging nod. She eyed it as if it might bite her, then grasped it tentatively. It was lighter than she had expected. “What is it?” she asked, turning it over by the tips of her bandaged fingers.
“An audio recorder,” Roark answered, peering down at it fondly. “Mouse got it for me a few weeks back, I have a few of them. It records your voice and spits it back out again.”
“What does that have to do with getting out?” Iris inquired.
“Everyone has been dying to hear this one sing,” Roark explained, jabbing his thumb at Ronja, then holding out his free hand for the recorder. She set it in his palm sullenly, wondering if she could set his hair on fire if she stared hard enough. “She sings into these.” He gave the device a little shake. “The recorders have amplified playback. We set them up at three different locations, set them to go off at the same time and … ”
“Bolt when everyone is trying to figure out where all the noise is coming from,” Evie finished with a laugh. “Not bad, I like it.”
“Why does it have to be me?” Ronja mumbled dejectedly. The three Anthemites raised their eyebrows at her. She flushed, fidgeting on her perch.
“What are you afraid of?” Roark asked after a brief pause. His voice was maddeningly gentle.
“I am not afraid.”
“Of course not. When was the last time you sang?”
Ronja gritted her teeth, daring him to push her. “To save your skin from The New Music.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why?’” she hissed, sliding off the edge of the dresser. Roark regarded her down his long nose, his expression smooth as glass. “Because you were about to pledge your allegiance to The Conductor.”
“Yes, but you haven’t opened your mouth to sing since then. Why?”
Ronja tucked her sore fingers into fists, shrinking in his shadow. Suddenly, she hated how he towered over her. “There hasn’t been a need.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Do you need a reason to sing?”
“Yes!” she barked, drowning the flow of classical music. Iris shushed her, peering around anxiously. Ronja drew a rattling breath, then continued in a softer tone. “Yes, I do.”
Roark’s dark eyes roamed across the planes of her face. She trembled beneath his penetrating gaze, fighting the urge to reach up and itch her nose. “Why?” he finally asked.
“Because,” she whispered. “Whenever I think about singing, I choke. All I can think of is … ” Her words turned to cotton in her mouth. She gestured broadly at the unspeakable. Her bandaged hand passed through a band of green. It rippled like curling steam.
“Why did you agree to the broadcast if you feel this way?” Roark asked. There was no pity in his eyes, only curiosity and devastating kindness. It made her want to scream.
“Because it has to be done. My voice is a weapon; I’ll use it when I have to.”
Roark smiled ruefully. “Your voice is an instrument of freedom. It can free you too, if you let it.”
Ronja bit her lip until it went numb. She wanted to shout that he was wrong, to shake his shoulders until he understood that nothing short of the destruction of The Music and the death of The Conductor could set her free. But he looked so sincere standing there before her …
“Fine,” she growled, tossing up her hands. “Just tell me what to do.”
Roark beamed. “Follow me.”
12: The Brink
“The best part about living back here is that it’s pretty much deserted during the day,” Roark told her as they approached his quarters for the second time that morning. “Not to mention, sound doesn’t carry the way it does on the platform.”
“Yeah,” Ronja laughed. “I bet you love that.”
The boy laughed as they arrived at his tent. “I just meant you don’t have to worry about anyone hearing you sing.”
“Sure.”
Roark shoved aside the entrance flap, jerking his head to indicate she should pass first. She ducked through the opening, the boy close on her heels. The room was just as she had left it, with one small change. A full pack sat on the floor near the hammock. “You knew we would be leaving,” she murmured.
Roark sighed, scratching the back of his skull and eyeing the pack with distaste. “I hoped not, but always better to be prepared.”
“You should have told us about Sam, Roark,” Ronja scolded him. She crossed her arms, staring him down. He squirmed under her harsh gaze. “We can’t be keeping secrets from each other, not anymore.”
“You’re right,” he conceded. He bowed his head, a strand of black hair falling into his face. “I’m sorry.”
Ronja nodded brusquely. She had not been expecting an apology right off the bat and was not entirely sure what to do with it. “No more secrets.”
“No more secrets,” he promised solemnly. “Now.” He reached into his back pocket and produced the recorder. “Are you ready, singer?” he asked, tossing the device high into the air and catching it with the opposite hand.
A sudden thought slammed into Ronja. “Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “Wilcox lives back here.”
Roark strode back to the entrance, stuck his head through the flaps, then retreated. “He never comes back during the day,” he promised, smoothing his mussed hair. “Frankly, I can’t remember the last time he came back before two in the morning.”
Despite her keen dislike for the commander, Ronja felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He was misguided, perhaps a bit of a coward, but he was dedicated and had given her family shelter. That was worth something.
“Ready?” Roark coaxed, holding out the device for her to take.
“Why can’t you do it?” she grumbled as she snatched the device from him. “You could sing, or play the violin.”
Roark chuckled. “You do not want to hear me sing, love. Besides, like I said. People have been waiting to hear your voice since that rumor struck up.”
“Oh, right, the one you definitely didn’t start?” Ronja inquired dryly.
The boy groaned. “Are we still on that?”
“Always. How are people supposed to know it’s me singing?” Ronja inquired, sitting down on the hammock. She sank deeper into the cushions than expected and fought to keep her dignity as she struggled to plant her feet on the floor.
Roark smiled down at her, his eyes glinting mischievously. “A voice like y
ours would never go unnoticed down here. Believe me, love. They’ll know.”
Ronja could not resist a quiet laugh. “No need to flirt with me.”
“Please,” he scoffed, fluttering a dismissive hand. “That was not flirting. If I was flirting with you, you would know.”
“Oh?” She folded her arms in mock scandalization.
The boy winked. Her stomach cartwheeled. “You’ll know.”
Ronja sobered, letting her wrapped hands fall to her lap. Roark followed her lead, his cheeky smile fading into a dour line. “You know, we never talked,” she said, her voice the size of a pinhead. There was no need to elaborate; he knew what she was referring to.
“I know.” Roark dragged his fingers through his thick hair, his eyes on the patterned rug. It might have been a trick of the light, but she was fairly certain there was a hint of color in his face. “I know it was just in the moment, and after what happened … ”
“What do you mean?” Ronja asked too quickly, glancing down and away. She could feel his heavy gaze resting atop her curls.
“I saw what the guards did to you.”
The girl raised her head despite the immense weight that bowed it. “You were behind the mirror.”
Roark looked as if he might be sick, his blush replaced by a nauseated pallor. It was answer enough.
Ronja sighed, reaching up to massage her left temple. Her headache was back. “I guess I knew that. You’re the reason they stopped, aren’t you?”
“I begged my father,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “When they left I thought you were safe, but when you showed up in the torture chamber I realized he had just changed his technique.” Shame bent his spine. “I just made things worse.”
“No,” Ronja replied. “Torture I can endure. But if they had gone through with it, if they had … ” She swallowed. The words were in her mouth, but they stuck to her teeth like gum. “If they had raped me.” Roark flinched as if she had slapped him. “I might have broken.”
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