The shiny gave a thin smile. “I rarely need to.”
Jonah shrugged, the tough fabric of his jacket crunching. “Fair enough.”
With one last glance between Roark and Jonah, Ronja flipped up her hood and crossed to the exit. She brushed aside one of the flaps and paused at the edge of the platform, squinting into the semidarkness. Bitter wind slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs. “What the hell … ” she muttered.
A month ago Roark had informed them that they would be broadcasting from one of his private residences in the city. She assumed he meant some sort of townhouse or apartment, maybe even a mansion. They had agreed not to discuss exactly where they were headed for security reasons.
This was the last thing Ronja expected.
They were parked in a broad alleyway strewn with industrial waste. Scraps of metal warped by time, partially dissected engines, bundles of frayed wires. It was not houses or apartment complexes that framed the street, but huge stone warehouses. They were windowless, roofed with oxidized copper. At the head of each building was the unmistakable emblem of The Conductor, overlaid with the glaring WI of Westervelt Industries. As impressive as the buildings were, they were not what stole her breath.
It was the looming black wall that rose from the ground like a bloated storm, only a couple hundred yards before her. Under the influence of The Music it would have instilled awe and reverence in her. Now, it squeezed her ribs, struck terror into her heart. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to hide. Instead, she stood rooted on the spot.
“Ro, come on,” Iris called.
Ronja blinked. The redhead, Evie, and Samson were already halfway down the gravel path. Terra was nowhere in sight. She was likely off stalking the perimeter. Wrapping her fingers around the straps of her bag, Ronja jumped off the truck and hurried after her friends, the soggy pebbles crunching beneath her soles.
“What are we doing here?” Ronja asked. The three Anthemites glanced at each other, clearly weighing their response. An old wound flared in her chest. “You can trust me,” she reminded them.
“We know,” Iris soothed her. “But it’s … ”
“Hard to talk about,” Evie finished.
Ronja looked at her boots. “Oh.”
For a long moment there was only the sound of their footfalls on the gravel, the wind throwing itself against the great wall that was far too close. Iris tugged at the tail of her false braid, her teeth chattering silently. Sam was stoic, his face unreadable. Evie appeared in desperate need of a cigarette. Ronja had never liked smoking, but at that moment it sounded good.
A dozen painfully quiet paces later they arrived at an iron door near the center of the building. They stared at it blankly, as if waiting for it to open itself and invite them in. “If I had known Trip was going to bring us here,” Evie finally said. “Skitz. How long has it been?”
“Three years?” Samson guessed.
Ronja cranked her head back, scanning the massive building with a puckered brow. “You’ve been here before?” she asked. The structure appeared to have been abandoned for years; its stone walls were caked with soot and filth.
“Yeah,” Evie replied, her voice oddly tender. She reached out and ran the pads of her fingers across the door. Her tattoos were almost invisible in the waning light of the moon. “This is where Peter and Beatrix Romancheck died.”
21: Memorials and Mantras
Ronja wanted to speak. She felt she should say something, anything, but all the appropriate words tasted wrong. Evie, Samson, and Iris watched as she digested the information, their faces wrought with empathy.
For most of their friendship, Ronja believed what Henry told her, that his parents died in an auto accident when he was a child. The truth was far worse. Peter and Beatrix Romancheck were agents of the Anthem. Their team was tasked with disrupting a shipment of upgraded Singers that had been delivered to a Westervelt Industries warehouse on the edge of the city. They were ambushed by a squad of Offs and tortured on the floor of the factory for hours before they were beheaded. The building was subsequently abandoned by the company.
It was a sickeningly perfect place to hide.
“You told her, then?”
Ronja whipped around, her expression fractured with horror. Roark was approaching with Jonah in tow. The rogue appeared more at ease than the shiny, drinking in his new surroundings with muted interest. Terra prowled behind them, the moonlight glancing off her exposed blades.
“Yeah, they told me,” Ronja rasped as the trio came to a stop before them. “Why would you bring us here?”
Roark did not answer, his mouth pressed into hard line. He did not need to explain. He knew she knew the answer. It was more than just a logical hiding place. It was a tribute to Henry, to his sacrifice and that of his parents.
Roark tore his eyes away from Ronja and started toward the door, digging into his coat pocket and pulling out his collection of copied keys. Terra took his place next to Jonah, pressing the tip of her knife to his kidney. The Tovairin passed her an amused look, which she ignored.
Roark picked through his key ring, his leather-clad back to them. He located the right one and unlocked the door with a satisfying click of tumblers. He shoved it open, his gun raised. The Anthemites tensed behind him. Jonah yawned. Stale air leaked through the portal. Ronja shivered, rising on her tiptoes to peek into the factory. There was nothing to see; it was pitch black.
An auto door slammed and they all spun around. A slight figure with white hair was sprinting toward them, coat and scarf flying. He slid to a stop in front of them, sending up a spray of slush and gravel. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded between huffs. “Get inside and open up the pitching garage!”
“You’re Mouse,” Ronja realized, her anguish dissipating as curiosity took hold. He was small for his age and eerily beautiful. His skin was a delicate shade of fawn, his eyes nearly translucent.
He fluttered a dismissive hand in her face, not looking at her. “Yes, yes, hello, do shut up.” Ronja blinked in shock as Mouse rounded on Roark. “Seriously, the longer we’re out here …” He cut himself off. His jaw dropped when he caught sight of Jonah. “Who the hell is this?”
“Your stowaway,” Roark replied, a hint of a threat in his voice.
Mouse floundered, looking back and forth between the shiny and Jonah. “Excuse me?”
“We found him lurking in the back of your truck.” Roark folded his arms, considering the black market trader with narrowed eyes. “We were actually wondering how he got there.”
“Trip,” Mouse all but squeaked. “I can promise you I had nothing to do with this, I dunno how he got back there, but I swear, I had no idea and I…”
“Okay, okay! Calm down.” Roark rolled his eyes. “Just, get back to the truck, drive around. We’ll open up the north garage for you in a minute.”
Mouse shot a seething look at Jonah. “I’ll deal with you later,” he ground out.
Jonah made a noise too harsh and brief to be a laugh, looking the tiny boy up and down before turning his gaze to the sweeping black wall. Mouse grumbled something foul under his breath, then raced back toward the idling truck, his breaths mushrooming in the air. Roark shook his head, then stepped into the warehouse. They filed in after him. Ronja felt her lungs empty as she stepped inside. The air was thick and musty. It was only slightly warmer inside than it was in the alley. Her footsteps echoed. It felt as if the blackness were listening.
“Trip, hit the bloody lights,” Evie complained.
“Trying,” came his disembodied reply. “Gotta prime the generator.” There was a bit of scuffling, then a noise of vindication. Electric light flooded the space. Ronja shielded her eyes as her pupils contracted.
“Whoa,” she breathed, dropping her hand. Somehow, the factory seemed far larger on the inside. The floor was concrete, the walls stitched with exposed pipes. Hundreds of wooden crates were scattered across the room. Some were solitary; others were stacked in towers of six or sev
en. All of them were branded with the initials of Westervelt Industries and the emblem of The Conductor. “What are they?” Ronja asked no one in particular.
Roark ambled over to her, his arms folded loosely as he surveyed the warehouse. It was a tiny fraction of the estate he was once destined to inherit. “They used to hold Singers,” he told her. He switched gears before Ronja could ask why they were still sitting around. “Sam, help me open the garage, would you?”
The captain was in the process of securing the door. He forced the corroded deadbolt into its niche, the grating sound drawing another wince from Ronja. “Sure,” he answered. He shrugged off his pack and set it on the floor with a hollow thud. Roark followed suit.
“Trip,” Terra spoke up. “Where do you want him?” She stood next to Jonah, the tip of her knife still poised to skewer his vital organs. The Tovairin appeared as relaxed as ever, peering around as if he were sight-seeing.
“The basement,” Roark replied, regarding the prisoner warily. He dug into his coat pocket and produced his set of keys. He tossed them at Terra, who caught them with her free hand. “Fourth key in, the big brass one. Put him in the storeroom.”
“What should I do with him then?”
The venom in her words was enough to wither flowers. Still, Jonah appeared unconcerned. Roark considered the apathetic man with a tilted head. “Nothing for now,” he finally said. “We’ll talk later.”
Terra inclined her head, then shoved Jonah forward roughly.
“Easy, blondie,” the Tovairin grumbled. “That is not what I mean when I say I like it rough.”
She gave him another push, her blade inches from his back. Jonah sniggered, then marched forward dutifully. The remainder of the Anthemites watched the pair until they were swallowed by a bend in the forest of wooden crates.
“Sam,” Roark called out to the captain. “Mouse is going to have a hernia.”
“Right,” Samson agreed. They started off across the factory floor at a jog, their footsteps bouncing off the soaring walls.
“Make yourselves at home,” Roark shouted back.
“Where?” Ronja asked lamely, turning to Evie and Iris for an explanation. She could sleep just about anywhere, but was hoping to do a bit better than the unforgiving ground. The couple smiled at each other, passing between them a bittersweet glance.
“Follow us,” Iris said.
It took them two full minutes to cross the warehouse. As they wove between the maze of boxes, Ronja fought chills she could not entirely explain. Perhaps it was knowing what they once held. Or maybe it was knowing that at any given moment, she might be passing over the spot where Peter and Beatrix and the others were slaughtered. Had their blood been scrubbed away, or did it linger? Where were their remains; were they burned, buried?
A thought struck her with the force of a bullet. What had been done with Henry? Was he incinerated in the oven that had almost claimed her body? Had they kept his corpse for scientific purposes? Red Bay was a laboratory, after all. Nausea clutched her stomach and she swayed. Evie steadied her.
“Easy,” the techi said with a nervous chuckle. “You all right, mate?” Ronja shrugged her off roughly, ignoring her kindness. Evie let her hand drop like a stone. “Sorry about your coat. Did I burn you?”
“No.”
“Good.” Evie fell silent, clearly waiting for Ronja go on. When she refused, she tried again. “Why did you get in my way?”
Ronja halted, the silken tips of her wig swinging. Both Iris and Evie managed another step before they doubled back. Iris was blushing fiercely. The techi looked baffled. “Are you kidding me?” Ronja hissed. “You attacked him unprovoked.”
“Unprovoked? Do you know what he called me?” Evie spat. “Pestre, it means whore. Specifically, Arexian whore. I may not speak Tovairin, but I damn well know that word.”
“So you hit him in the head with a live stinger? You could have killed him.”
Evie crossed her arms, anger seeping from her every pore. Red blotches were starting to appear on her neck and cheeks. “We might have been better off.”
“Yeah,” Ronja shrugged. “Maybe, but we can’t just go around killing people who offend us.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?” the techi barked. Iris laid a warning hand on her elbow. She might as well have been a gnat. “My family fled Arexis because the Tovairins were slaughtering us. My mother was pregnant with me, she almost died trying to get out of the country. We fled to Revinia and it was sealed a year later.”
Ronja considered her friend quietly, her green eyes shifting as she took in her blotchy skin, her straining jaw, her clenched fists. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I didn’t know.” She paused, selecting her words with the utmost care. Evie was a stick of wet dynamite. “But that doesn’t justify killing a stranger in cold blood.”
Evie erupted.
“Tovairins are liars and killers, the whole lot of them!” She stalked over to Ronja and stopped a few inches from her. The singer had to lift her chin to hold eye contact.
“All of them?” she inquired calmly.
Evie opened her mouth, closed it. The stains on her face and neck bled into one another until she was entirely red. “Did you hear what I said? They murdered my people! It was genocide.”
“I know,” Ronja said quietly, reaching out a tentative hand to touch Evie on the shoulder. The techi flinched as if her skin burned. “But Jonah was probably a child when that war ended, just like you.”
Evie knocked her hand away with a brittle laugh. Ronja fought a wince as her bruised knuckles throbbed. “What, are you saying we should just trust him? Do you trust him?”
“No, of course not, but it has nothing to do with his nationality.”
Evie let out a jarring laugh. She shook her head, her lips parted. Ronja tried again, her voice slow and even. “I am not asking you to trust him, or forgive him, or even talk to him. I am asking as your friend … ” She licked her dry lips, hoping her voice did not tremble. “As your family, to put aside your prejudice until we know more.”
The techi snarled. A chill lanced through Ronja, weakening her knees and spine. “My prejudice?” Evie hissed. “You think that skitzer hates me any less than I hate him?”
Ronja felt her patience wane. She folded her arms and hardened her coaxing expression. “Look,” she growled. “Jonah might be a threat; he might be an ally. We need him breathing until we know for sure. So pull yourself together. Now.”
The final syllable was an ultimatum. It did not need to be explained; it was inherent in her tone. She watched as Evie absorbed it like a blow to the stomach. It was then Ronja felt the true weight of her power. She was the crux of their plan. Their only plan. Without her, everything would crumble. Roark might be their leader, but her word was final.
Evie gave a sluggish shake of her head, as if her muscles were coated in honey. Her eyes never left Ronja, who held her ground despite the voice in her head begging her to back down. As sudden as a match igniting, Evie whipped around and stalked off across the factory.
“Where are you going?” Iris called desperately. Evie waved without turning back, both a farewell and a signal to leave her alone. The surgeon sighed, her petite form sagging. “Come on, Ro,” she said quietly.
They made their way to the far side of the factory in charged silence. Ronja focused on counting her footsteps. She kept her eyes down, pretending she did not notice the apprehensive looks the surgeon shot her every few seconds.
1-2-3
2-2-3
3-2-3 …
Eventually, they reached the terminus of the warehouse where two iron doors waited. Iris opened the one on the left with a grunt of effort. Stale air rolled over them. Ronja wrinkled her nose, tucking deeper into the high collar of her coat. The surgeon reached around the frame, hunting for the light switch. A line of electric bulbs coughed to life, bounding up a narrow stairwell.
Iris stood aside, motioning for her to step through. “After you,�
� she said.
Ronja thanked her, hitched up her bag, and started up the stairs.
It was long haul to the top of the warehouse. With each step, Ronja felt the burden on her shoulders grow heavier. Exhaustion and anxiety were starting to get the best of her. Less than an hour ago, she had wanted nothing more than to dive headfirst into action. Now, all she wanted was to sleep.
“Here we are,” Iris said as they crested the landing. “Home sweet home. Good thing Mouse came a couple of days ago and started the heater.”
Ronja peered around curiously. The attic was considerably more compact than the main floor. It was little more than a short, dingy corridor framed by nine doors, four on each side and one capping the end. The floors were scratched hardwood, the walls whitewashed. Dust motes stirred sleepily in the unexpectedly warm air.
“Pick a room,” Iris said.
Ronja tossed her a surprised glance. “These are all bedrooms?”
“All but the one on the end, that’s the bathroom.” The redhead offered a tentative smile. “If Evie and I share, which is a big if at the moment, there should be enough for everyone to have their own.”
“Okay.” Ronja smiled tiredly, then made for the closest room on the left.
“Wait,” Iris yelped. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Ronja froze, her boots chafing against the floorboards. “Not now, Iris,” she sighed. She shut her eyes, willing the girl to disappear. “Can we do this later?”
“Oh … ummm … ”
“Sorry, Iris,” Ronja sighed, lifting a hand to her temple to massage it. “I just need to sleep.”
“Of course,” the surgeon replied too quickly. “I completely understand. We can talk later.”
Ronja nodded. Her burden felt twice as heavy as she trudged over to her chosen room. She spun the brass knob and stepped inside, tapping the door shut with her heel. Total blackness engulfed her. It was oddly peaceful. In the dark she could be anywhere. She reached back with a sigh, feeling for the switch, then snuffed the dark.
The room was square and plain with white walls and wooden floors, just like the hallway. Two bunk beds with naked mattresses stood on either side and a sink crouched against the far wall. A cloudy mirror hung above it. Nearby was a writing desk and chair, complete with a typewriter blanketed in dust. Her heart leapt at the sight of the machine. She had only used one once before at a library in the outer ring. As soon as the librarian heard the click of the keys and the whir of the carriage he shooed her away. Mutts should not be using such complicated instruments, he scolded.
Radio Page 13
