Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Roark and Iris looked at each other. For a split second they stood rigid. Then they shot out of the side street, kicking up slush in their wake. The Revinians, who were usually static as pillars by now, were looking around wildly, calling out to each other in confusion.

  Another tortured shout.

  Roark poured on more speed, leaving Iris in the dust. Thoughts of The Quiet Song swelled in his head, forcing out his better judgment. His hood flew back, revealing his cropped hair. His glasses bumped against the bridge of his nose. Swearing, he ripped them off and stuffed them in his pocket.

  “Hurry up!” a masculine voice shouted from the alleyway ahead. “Forty-five seconds!”

  Roark skidded to a halt, the traction of his boots keeping him from sprawling across the slick cobblestones. Iris slammed into him a moment later, gasping for air. She clutched his arm as they stared into the shadow-drenched alley. Four pairs of eyes stared back, three blazing with adrenaline, one shivering with fear. Three men were crowded around one, pinning him to the wall. The victim was rail thin with a greasy ponytail and a proudly glinting Singer. Unbridled fear flashed in his murky brown eyes.

  Roark started forward, his hand flying to his stinger, but Iris yanked him back. “Wait,” she hissed. “Look.” He squinted into the dimness. A speck of white latched his gaze, the white emblem of The Conductor glaring at him from the chest of the apparent victim. He was an Off.

  “Keep moving, pitchers,” barked one of the aggressors, a boy about their age with soot dark hair. He stepped back from his prisoner, trusting his friends to hold him steady. The Officer struggled in vain, reaching for his high-powered stinger lying on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Iris asked carefully.

  “This bastard raped my sister,” the boy spat, his eyes still on the Off. He delivered a solid blow to his gut. The man wheezed, his eyes popping in their deep sockets. “Now I can make him pay.”

  “Thirty seconds, Lou,” one of the boys warned, checking his watch as if he could squeeze more time out of it.

  Lou reached into his coat and drew a serrated blade. Iris clapped her hand over her mouth. Roark stepped in front of her protectively. His eyes never left the scene. “My sister says she can still feel your hands on her,” Lou spat, saliva flying from his lips. The Off whimpered, thrashing against the two boys restraining him. “She couldn’t say no to an Off, not that you would have listened.”

  The captured Officer wriggled like a leech on a hook. The boys held him steady. Their eyes were trained on Lou, unflinching and unquestioning. One of them was muttering something under his breath, but Roark could not make out the words.

  “Y—you cannot do this,” the Off stuttered, his oily head whipping back and forth between the young men who restrained him. “The Conductor will protect me … The Music will … ”

  “May the Siren give me strength,” Lou proclaimed, his cracked fingers tracing the curve of his Singer.

  Then, without a moment of deliberation, he cranked his arm back and stabbed the Off in the gut. The man went rigid, shuddered, then slumped against the wall. Blood bubbled up over his lips, spilling down the front of his uniform. He choked out a laugh, spraying Lou with gore. The boy blinked rapidly, but did not move to clean it off.

  “Should have check—ed my pock—ets,” the Off managed to say. His eyes rolled back into their sockets. As the life fled him, the boys released his body. Iris flinched when the corpse hit the ground with a jarring thud. Lou crouched next to his body, patting down his pockets. Feeling something, he dug in and yanked out a portable radio. A pinprick of red light flashed from its face. It was on.

  Lou dropped the radio and crushed it beneath his boot. He looked up at the Anthemites. “Westervelt,” he said quietly. “Victor Westervelt III, the traitor.”

  Roark tensed, his hand flashing back to the stinger hidden in his coat. He cursed himself internally for abandoning his disguise. The broadcast would be over any second now. The Offs would arrive on the heels of The Music. The voice of the Siren would fade, and with it their only cover.

  “Lou,” one of the boys whimpered. Roark shifted his gaze to him for a split second. His eyes were wide, his skin drained of color. His trembling hand covered his Singer.

  “I hear it,” Lou growled, tearing his gaze from the Anthemites and looking down at the lifeless Off. His hands were slick with blood, which was almost black in the shadows of the alley. Out on the main road, the Revinians were beginning to go about their business again, the echoes of their emotions suffocated beneath the hands of The Night Song. Roark put up his hood.

  Lou collapsed with a soft cry. His friend, the one who had spoken, crashed to his knees in a puddle of sludge. The other was absolutely still, his shoulders hunched and his hands clamped over his ears. Iris stepped out from behind Roark.

  “Stay back,” Lou barked through gritted teeth. “You gotta get outta here.” He lifted his chin. Two ribbons of blood slithered from his nose, settling between his lips. “If you stay much longer I’ll … ” He slammed his eyes shut, sagging toward the ground.

  Iris glanced back at Roark fearfully. He barely noticed, his gaze trained on the three teenagers. The one on his knees had bowed his head, his fingers twined in his shaggy hair. The other was still on his feet, paralyzed. “Remember what she said,” Lou ground out. “Remember what the Siren said. Say it with me … ”

  “Little wars … ”

  “Little wars … I am … ”

  “I am … ”

  Shouts rang out from the street, mingled with the thunder of militant footsteps. “Roark,” Iris whispered shrilly, using his real name for the first time in a long time. “We have to go.”

  “Go,” Lou cried, slamming his fist into the bricks. Iris glanced over her shoulder at the passing crowds. Any second now they would be discovered. Still, Roark refused to look away from Lou. The teenager wiped his nose with the back of his wrist, then looked up. He was grinning, his teeth stained with his own blood. “Get outta here. Tell the Siren, tell her … we’re fighting for her.”

  “I will,” Roark promised, snagging Iris by the hand and backing away. “I swear.”

  He and Iris spun and launched back into the throngs, their faces angled toward the ground. Shouts of surprise flew up as they jostled shoulders and stomped on feet, but no one stopped them. They reached the side street where Roark had hidden his motorcycle under a tarp. Working as one, they ripped the damp fabric off the vehicle and climbed on.

  “Go, go,” Iris begged as he popped the kickstand. “Come on.”

  Roark revved the engine, sending up a spray of slush. As they shot out of the alley, the sound of gunfire ripped the night. They did not stop. They did not look back.

  36: Aim

  “And then we came home,” Roark finished anticlimactically. He glanced over at Iris to see if she wanted to add anything. The surgeon shook her head. Her milk white skin was tinged green. She appeared dangerously close to vomiting.

  Samson whistled through his teeth. “Skitz.”

  Ronja nodded in silent agreement. Skitz was about the only word she could think of to describe the situation. They were gathered in the bedroom she and Roark shared. She sat with Evie and Samson on the right-hand bunk. Mouse was perched above them, his skinny legs kicking back and forth hypnotically. Terra refused to sit still, electing instead to pace. Roark and Iris were seated across from them, still wearing their disguises. At least, one of them was. The boy had discarded his glasses and scarf. Ronja vowed to chew him out for it later.

  “We haven’t seen anything like that on our runs, right Terra?” Samson asked, glancing up at the blonde as she carved a trench down the middle of the room.

  “No,” she replied tersely, spinning on her heel when she hit the far end of the room.

  “What are you guys moping about?” Evie demanded. “This is great, people are fighting back!”

  “And dying for it,” Samson pointed out darkly.

  Evie snapped and aimed two fi
ngers at the captain, rather like a pistol. “But not by The Music.”

  “Evie’s right,” Iris said softly. All eyes shifted to the surgeon, who was staring at her knees, her mousy wig like curtains drawn around her face. She slipped it off absentmindedly, revealing tussled red locks. “They triggered The Quiet Song, they were bleeding from their noses and ears.” She looked up, locking eyes with each of them in turn. “But they were fighting it off.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Roark said with a slow shake of his head. “Not even when Ronja went into The Quiet. They could talk, they could move. They were in a ton of pain, but I doubt it would have killed them.” A shadow passed over his features. “Until the Offs arrived.”

  “You say they were fighting it off,” Terra spoke up. She was facing the door, her callused hands twined behind her back. “How?”

  Roark smiled, a spark igniting in his rueful face. “They were singing. Well,” he amended. “They were speaking lyrics. Little Wars, the first song Ronja broadcasted. Before he killed the Off, Lou asked the Siren to give him strength.”

  Six pairs of eyes fell on Ronja, who wanted nothing more than to sink into the mattress. Her thoughts warred. She knew she should be ecstatic. This was what she wanted, for the people to rise up against The Conductor and his men. Against violence and injustice. Part of her was proud that her voice had allowed Lou to do what had to be done to avenge his sister. A sliver of her soul reveled in the knowledge that an abuser had been killed in her name. Still …

  “This is … ” Ronja began, trailing off as her thoughts slipped through the cracks in her mind. Her head sagged. She cradled it in her hands. Samson reached out and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She did not react. “Dangerous.” She lifted her head and let her hands fall. Everyone watched her intently save for Terra, who had returned to pacing with increased fervor. “If we’re not careful, we’ll create anarchy.”

  Terra froze mid step, this time facing the cracked porcelain sink. Ronja braced herself as the agent turned slowly, her hands still clasped behind her. Her long blonde hair was braided back, revealing the brutal scar behind her right temple. “What did you think was going to happen, Siren?” she asked softly. “Did you think you were going to sing and make everyone hold hands?”

  “No,” Ronja answered curtly. Across the room, Roark shot her a warning look. Her fingers curled into fists against her thighs. Her scabs had mostly healed from her last altercation with Terra, but her knuckles were still capped with pink. “But we want to start a rebellion, not a bloodbath.”

  Terra barked a humorless laugh. Her hazel eyes were as sharp as the blades sheathed at her sides. “Did you think there was a difference? Are you really that naive?”

  “Look,” Ronja snapped, getting to her feet. “It sounds like that Off got what was coming to him. If I was Lou I probably would have done the same thing. But what about next time? What if next time we broadcast, someone takes revenge on the wrong person, or kills someone innocent?”

  “I agree,” Roark interjected.

  “Of course you do,” Terra snarled, tossing him a black look. He opened his mouth to retort, but Iris beat him to the punch.

  “They are new to emotion,” she said, splaying her hands before her thoughtfully. Her skin had lost its greenish tint. She looked as she did before she was going to perform an operation. Focused. Pragmatic. “We’ve given them the ability to feel, but not the tools to control those feelings.”

  “No.” Ronja shook her head as a slow epiphany rolled over her. “No, we don’t want them to hold back.”

  “We want them to direct their rage at the right target.”

  Roark was on his feet. She had not seen him move. Their eyes locked as understanding passed between them. “The Conductor,” she said. “We’ve given them the ability to rebel. Now, we need to remind them who to rebel against.”

  37: The Call

  “Are you ready?”

  Ronja looked up from the microphone. Roark stood before her. Lost in the forest of her thoughts, she had not heard him approach. Bluish shadows ringed his eyes, his short hair stuck out in all directions. She knew she did not look much better. Their meeting had not ended until after midnight, meaning they only got a few hours of sleep before the morning broadcast pulled them downstairs.

  “Yeah,” she lied. She crowned herself with the headphones that wreathed her neck. “Ready.”

  Roark gave her a reassuring smile then stepped back, his footsteps muffled through the leather pads. Ronja fixated on the dashboard. Mouse and Evie sat side by side before the machine, their fingers flying across the field of switches and buttons. Her gaze travelled upward, climbing the red wires to the metal towers that flung her voice across the city. Static filled her as the machine came to life.

  “Ten seconds,” Evie called over her shoulder. “We’ll signal you when you’re halfway through.”

  Ronja stuck out her thumb, too focused to vocalize her response. Singing had become second nature to her, as easy as breathing. This was different. This was more than just a vague concept she was exhaling into the microphone. This was a call to arms, a declaration of war.

  “Ro,” came a distant voice. She flicked her gaze to the side. Roark stood with his back to the wooden walls, his arms folded across his chest. He smiled. Her pulse crescendoed. “You can do this.”

  Evie stuck her hand in the air. She let a finger fall with each passing second. “Five, four, three, two … ” The techi made a fist. Ronja sucked in a deep breath and sang.

  Blood in my veins and you say it’s cold

  But if you cut my skin it will come out gold

  The brain waves are crashing on the walls of my mind

  And if you stare too long then you may go blind

  The song tasted different on her tongue, now that she knew it had been used to stave off The Quiet Song after a killing in her name. That difference was reflected in the black clouds that grew from her words. Ronja kept her eyes on them as she sang, searching for meaning in their depths. Today, they were heavier. There were no gaps to let the light in.

  May the Siren give me strength.

  She could almost see it, could almost hear the dull thud of the body hitting the ground. The bullets of the Officers cutting down the rebels. She did not feel guilty, not exactly. Rather, she felt the weight of an awesome responsibility. She had to be more than just the ammunition. She had to be the scope that aimed the rifle. Ronja gripped the microphone and poured out the chorus.

  I got little wars

  Little wars in my head

  Telling me wrong from right

  Out of mind out of sight

  Little wars

  I am a warrior

  Evie raised her fist again, signaling that the first part of the minute was gone. Ronja took another breath.

  “People of Revinia. For decades The Conductor has robbed us of the ability to think, to feel. He has tortured us, killed us, turned us into mutts and slaves. He has divided us.” She gripped the neck of the microphone. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. Above her, the black clouds had dissolved without her music to sustain them. It did not matter. Their energy was inside her. “Now, I call on you to rise up against Him. Rise up against The Music. Remember who your enemy is.” She took a deep breath, drawing on the resolve that had always been in her, just waiting to blossom. “This is the Siren. May your song guide you home.”

  The line went dead.

  38: Distractions

  Ronja had endured torture. She had survived both The Lost Song and The Quiet Song. Still, there was little that compared to the agony of waiting for Terra and Samson to return after the morning broadcast ended. The captain had radioed a few minutes after they shut down to tell them they would be lingering in the middle ring until early afternoon, watching for signs of unrest.

  “How did they react during the broadcast, though?” Ronja inquired, holding the portable communicator up to her mouth. Her hands were still trembling in the afterglow
of her adrenaline. She and the others stood in a knot in the center of the radio station, crowded around the microphone.

  Samson took his time responding. With each second that passed, the Siren felt her hopes shrivel. “No major changes yet,” he admitted. “But we’ll be watching. Right, Terra?”

  The agent did not answer, surprising no one.

  “Anyway,” the captain said pointedly. “We’ll be watching, Ronja.”

  The Siren swallowed dryly, then nodded. Realizing he could not see her, she wet her lips and spoke. “Thank you, Samson.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Roark purse his lips.

  “We should save the battery on this thing,” Sam told them regretfully. “We’ll radio later this afternoon when we’re headed back. Hang in there.”

  “You too,” Ronja replied, though she did not know exactly what she was referring to. Perhaps just spending an extended afternoon with Terra.

  The captain signed off with a crunch of static. Ronja shut off the communicator, dejected. Roark laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. She scarcely registered it. Logically, she knew Samson and Terra were making the right choice. But she had not expected their revolution to be filled with so much waiting.

  It was going to be a long day.

  “Maybe it was a fluke,” Mouse suggested later over their breakfast of canned fruit. He crammed another spoonful of syrupy pears into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Maybe this is as far as we go.” Evie swatted him on the back of the head with an open palm. He returned the blow and they launched into a squabble worthy of two toddlers fighting over sweets. Iris made a halfhearted effort to separate them, then gave up and returned to nibbling on her crust of bread anxiously.

  Roark leaned toward Ronja. His smell, something between rain and smoke, tickled her nose. “We’ll figure this out, love,” he murmured. “We always do.”

  The Siren just stared into her tin of pears sightlessly. Where she came from, they were a delicacy. The others seemed neutral to them. She could not imagine growing accustomed to such luxuries. A warm hand graced the back of her neck, massaging the stiff tendons. She sank into the touch with a heavy sigh. “Thanks,” she murmured.