Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “I am not here for a chat, Cicada,” she snapped.

  “Clearly,” he answered in a clipped tone. He set his wine aside and got to his feet, straightening his navy suit coat with a snap. He prowled toward her, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Terra regarded him with a stony expression. Unruffled, uncaring.

  “I looked for you, for years,” he said.

  Terra swallowed. “I know.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “You taught me well.”

  Cicada smiled, just a quirk of his lips. “Too well, it seems.”

  “I knew you would never let me go.”

  “I would have let you go,” he corrected her. “Once your debt was paid.”

  Terra did not reply. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. She fought the urge to grasp the hilt of her blade.

  “Where did you go?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Terra sighed wearily. “You already know that.”

  “I would like to hear you say it,” Cicada replied with a tight smile. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

  “I went to the Anthem,” she said, unconsciously straightening her spine. She was almost as tall as he was, now. Still, she felt he was looking down on her.

  “Why?” The word was pinched with the sting of betrayal.

  “I needed revenge, you know that.”

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Cicada murmured, reaching out with a ringed hand to caress her cheek. Terra stepped backward, her fingers flying to the hilt of her closest blade. The trader let his hand fall to his side. “I thought we were beyond all that.”

  “You know I’ll never be beyond it.”

  Cicada shook his head, clicking his tongue admonishingly. “Such a waste,” he murmured. “You would have been my successor.”

  “I need your help, Cicada,” Terra snapped. “I need you to tell me what you know about a Tovairin man named Jonah.”

  Cicada rolled his eyes. The Anthemite bristled silently. He strode back to the coffee table and took a generous swig from his wine glass, smacking his lips in satisfaction. “And what would you offer me, in exchange?”

  “My debt to you, paid in full.”

  Cicada fell silent. His jeweled fingers tightened around the stem of the goblet. “There was a time that you would have swayed me,” he said softly. “But things are different now. Soon, none of this will matter.”

  “What are you … ?”

  The doorbell chimed from the hall. Terra whipped out two of her blades, which flashed in the warm electric light. Cicada snapped and pointed at the closet in the far corner of the room. The agent did not need to be asked twice. Sheathing one of her knives, she darted over to the door and wrenched it open. She ducked inside. Cicada slammed the door in her wake. Darkness engulfed her. She squatted among the coats and folded towels and pressed her eye to the keyhole.

  Caterpillar, a distant voice whispered.

  She ignored it, watching with muscles coiled as Cicada disappeared out the door. His footsteps sang down the corridor, mingling with another barrage of knocks. “One moment,” he called, his voice distant. A reverberating bang caused Terra to reel backward, landing silently on a tower of pillows. She scrambled back to the keyhole, for once thankful she was alone in the dark.

  “Ah, Visser, what can I do for you?” Cicada greeted his guest warmly.

  “This is not a social call, Cicada,” The voice was deep and monotone, dripping with distaste.

  “Of course, but do come in out of the cold.” The distant clunk of heavy boots, then a rush of air and a sharp clap as Cicada closed the front door. Terra wound up like a spring as the footsteps drew nearer. They were coming into the parlor.

  Pitch you, Cicada.

  Two figures walked through the door, one after the other. Terra swallowed the stone in her throat. Cicada, who was of average height, seemed tiny in comparison to the man behind him. Still, his size was not what unnerved her. It was the black uniform he wore, and the white eye of The Conductor that clung to his lapel.

  Skitz.

  “Brandy? Wine?” Cicada asked smoothly.

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.” Cicada poured himself another full glass and sank into his armchair with a sigh. He gestured at the chair next to him. The Off just stared.

  “What is this about?” the trader inquired, taking a sip from his glass.

  “Bullon has moved up the release of the improvements to The Music. If all goes as planned it will go live tomorrow evening. He is waiting on one last requirement.”

  Terra inhaled sharply, then clapped her own hand over her mouth. At the same moment, Cicada choked on his drink, sputtering and coughing. The Off watched him, unmoved.

  “Why?” the trader floundered, trying in vain to dab the red wine from his ruined button-down.

  “None of your concern,” the Off snapped, showing his first trace of emotion. “We need you to speed things up on your end.”

  Cicada set his glass on the table. His discomfort was almost palpable. “Ah … you see … my contacts are already working as fast as they can. The best we can do is four weeks.”

  “Have everything ready in three.”

  “I … ”

  “No exceptions.” Visser smiled, a slow curve of his lips like the bend of a scythe. “You do wish to continue living without a Singer, correct?”

  “Yes, quite.” Cicada bowed his head. “They will be here in three weeks.”

  “For your sake, I hope that is true.” Visser reached down and patted Cicada on his stubbly cheek. The trader flinched. “I’ll return tomorrow to check in on your progress. Do not fail me, Cicada.” He puffed his chest out, pride flickering in his dull eyes like a banner. “Bullon has promised me command of the Offs. I am free to do what I wish with … unnecessary assets.”

  “Of course,” Cicada said quickly, getting to his feet and sticking out his jeweled hand. “I’ll wait for your call.”

  Visser nodded brusquely, then turned on his heel and marched from the room. Cicada let his hand fall limp at his side and collapsed into his armchair.

  Terra waited until she heard the bang of the front door before slipping out of the closet. Her hands trembled around her blades, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Cicada, what have you done?”

  Her father got to his feet slowly. The wine he had spilled was like a spray of blood on his pristine white shirt. His eyes were bottomless. “Forget the debt,” he said softly. “Or consider it paid. You need to get out of the city. Take your boyfriend and run.”

  “Cicada,” Terra growled in a low voice.

  “This is … more complicated than I imagined it would be.”

  “Father.”

  Cicada froze, paralyzed by the word. He slicked back his hair with his fingers, straightened his suit. Not looking at her, staring at the carpet. “I negotiated a contract for new ships with the Vintian government.”

  Terra knew the answer before she asked. “For what?”

  “For the conquest.”

  44: Drawing Straws

  “So,” Mouse began, his voice an octave higher than usual. “How do we decide who goes to go get them? Do we draw straws?” He fell silent when he received a barrage of dirty looks from the irritable Anthemites. The trader sagged in his chair, whining like a dying animal. “Why do I have to go?”

  “Because you know Bug,” Roark explained.

  “Cicada,” Ronja corrected him halfheartedly. He waved her off.

  “Do all traders have animal related names?” Iris asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  “No,” Mouse said absently. “But about the trip … ”

  “Mouse, you have to go,” Roark said with a shake of his head.

  The boy sank deeper into the desk chair, muttering under his breath about hypothermia. Ronja and Roark shared a glance loaded with dark humor. The silent exchange warmed her insides, despite their increasingly complicated situation. They had gathered in their bedroom with t
he rest of the crew. Jonah was locked in the bathroom. After ten minutes of waiting, he had apparently gotten bored and was now taking another shower.

  Evie was still playing with the knife she had wrestled from him, attempting to balance it on her fingertip the way Terra did. “I’ll go with Mouse,” she offered, the blade wobbling on her pointer finger. Iris snatched the weapon away from her with an indignant huff and set in on the desk.

  “Can you drive my bike?” Roark asked.

  “I taught you how to drive, shiny,” the techi said sweetly.

  Ronja covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. Roark shot her a withering look, which she met with a smile.

  “If we leave now, we can make it before the broadcast tonight,” Evie said, hopping to her feet. She stretched out a hand for Mouse to grasp. He eyed it like a picky child staring at a plateful of raw vegetables. “Seriously, kid,” the techi warned. “I will come down there.”

  Static. Frantic breaths.

  The Anthemites went rigid, the blood draining from their faces in the hush that followed the outburst.

  “This is Medusa! Over! Pitching hell … left, left, Sam … I mean Griffin! Mother — !”

  The audio cut off. Ronja shot to her feet and leapt over Iris, who let out a squeak of shock. She snatched the black communicator off the desk and slammed her thumb into the button.

  “Medusa!” she shouted unnecessarily, whipping around to face her friends. “This is Siren, where are you?”

  “Siren!” Terra barked a laugh. “Never thought I would be glad to hear from you.”

  Ronja grinned up at her comrades, her eyes flashing like oncoming headlights. Everyone was on their feet now, even Mouse. They crowded around her. She held out the radio so they could all hear. “Where the hell have you been?” she asked.

  “Forget it. Left — make a left!” Terra bellowed. “Siren, The Conductor is releasing The New Music tomorrow night.”

  Ronja felt the breath leave her lungs. Her vision faded to gray. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear it. Somehow, she maintained her grip on the communicator. Her brain kicked into high gear.

  “Medusa,” she said in a voice that did not match her reeling body. “Are you coming back?”

  “Yeah, if Griffin and this stupid truck can get us there.”

  “Oi!” Mouse cried, wounded. Iris shushed him.

  “Medusa, listen to me,” Ronja implored. “The prisoner, the one we pulled from Red Bay, do you know where he is?”

  Silence. She imagined Terra in the passenger seat of the auto, gaping at the windshield as Samson careened through the city streets. “Yeah,” she finally replied, uncertainty dripping from her tone. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Get him,” Ronja commanded. “Bring him to the clock tower at midnight.” She flinched as she said the words, hoping against hope that the line was still secure.

  “What? Why?”

  “Medusa,” she begged. “Please. I need you to trust me, just for today. Find him. Bring him to the clock tower. We’ll meet you there.” Ronja tightened her grip around the communicator, as if she could wring the response she wanted from Terra. She felt her comrades shifting uncertainly around her, waiting.

  “We’ll be there,” Terra finally said.

  The line went dead.

  “The clock tower,” Roark asked at once, bewildered. “Why?”

  “Because,” Ronja answered levelly. “His radio station is there.”

  “Wait,” Evie interjected, throwing up her hands to halt the conversation. “How do you know?”

  “I just … I know.” Ronja shifted uncomfortably on her feet as her family stared at her like she was speaking in tongues. Even Mouse, who was practically born bored, looked thunderstruck. “Look,” she said, lacing her fingers before her pleadingly. “I know it sounds skitzed, but I am sure the radio station is there. When The Conductor would broadcast messages into our Singers, I felt its pull. We just need Maxwell to get us in.”

  “She is right,” Iris said. Her cheeks were flush with color. She looked left at Evie, who was nodding slowly.

  “Makes sense to me,” the techi exclaimed. Her dark eyes were on fire, her lips split into a manic grin. She looked to Roark. “In fact, it is obvious. It is the perfect place for a radio station.”

  Roark did not react.

  “Do I have to go?” Mouse squeaked, glancing back and forth between Roark and Ronja desperately.

  “No,” the Siren sighed. “There are only two seats on the damn motorbike, anyway.”

  Mouse snatched Roark by the arm. “I believe her, I believe her.” He might as well have been a buzzing mosquito, as the Anthemite had eyes only for Ronja.

  “You never had to convince me,” he said. “I trust your instincts.”

  “Wait, wait,” Iris said, stepping toward the Siren. “Even if we can free them from The Music, what’s the game plan? I mean, we had some time before to see how it unfolded, but now … ”

  Ronja swelled up, standing taller. She locked eyes with Roark. “We free them with a song,” she began.

  “ … then call on them to destroy the mainframes that produce The Music,” he finished for her through a radiant grin.

  “We don’t know where the mainframes are,” Iris pointed out, her voice sparking with apprehension.

  “Someone does,” Ronja replied. “Someone protects them, maintains them. If we can reach those people, they will destroy them. The revolution will unfold from there.”

  “We have to warn Ito,” Roark said at once. “If this goes south and we get caught, it could mean the discovery of the Belly.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the Siren muttered under her breath.

  “I got it,” Evie said, glancing first at Roark, then Ronja. “You two get to the tower, I’ll contact our lieutenant.”

  “She is gonna be pissed,” Iris murmured.

  “Better pissed than dead,” Ronja answered.

  Before she could push them down, the faces of her cousins, of Charlotte, buoyed to the surface of her mind. Her throat constricted. She hated risking their safety like this, but it was their only shot at freedom. If they did not interfere now, eventually the Belly would be found. The New Music would flood the compound, drowning minds and lives.

  “All right,” Roark said, clapping his hands together to dispel the moment. “Ronja, get your stuff.”

  45: Nightmare

  There was no debate on who would accompany the Siren to the clock tower. Roark simply started packing and no one stopped him. Iris and Evie hovered while they prepared for the mission. The surgeon was dripping with melancholy. Her girlfriend did a better job of hiding her fears with mocking jokes. Mouse had disappeared. Evidently, he was not one for sappy goodbyes.

  “When have we ever failed a mission, Iris?” Roark asked as he shrugged on the holster that held his revolver. He fiddled with the buckle, swearing when he lost hold of it. Ronja made a noise of annoyance and moved to help him with it. He glanced down at her, amused and warmed by the gesture.

  “When have we ever done anything like this?” Iris muttered darkly.

  “Well, technically,” Evie said, tapping her chin in mock consideration. “We aren’t doing anything.”

  “Maybe if Roark hadn’t hocked his auto we could all go,” Ronja grumbled, shooting him a biting glance.

  “Even so,” Evie taunted. “It is an awfully big bike. Compensating for something?”

  Roark cracked a lopsided grin as he threw on his overcoat. “Ronja can confirm there’s no need.” Ronja blushed as Evie dissolved into a fit of cackles. Even Iris mustered a vague smile.

  “But really,” the surgeon went on, worrying the hem of her sweater. “We should bring Terra and Samson back here first, then take the truck in together. Safety in numbers.”

  “There’s no time,” Roark said gently.

  They all fell silent. Ronja went to her bag to collect her wig, then crossed to the mirror that hung over the sink. She was dressed in black, down to
her socks. The stingers Evie had given her were strapped to her hips. A small knife was tucked into her boot and an automatic with a full clip was in a holster under her arm. Around her neck were a pair of riding goggles. She pulled her wig over her curls with ease, shifting it back and forth on her scalp until it settled properly.

  “Here.” Ronja spun around just in time for Evie to toss her a black stocking cap. “It’ll keep your wig from flying off on the ride over.”

  She smiled at the techi in thanks, then pulled the hat over her false hair. It squeezed her scalp, but her wig was certainly not going anywhere.

  “Almost perfect,” Roark said, appraising her with a satisfied nod. “One more thing.” He held up a small black tin the size of his palm.

  Ronja gasped softly, her eyes flaring wide. “Really?” she asked. “Should we?”

  “Soon enough, it won’t matter if we attract attention,” he reasoned.

  Ronja grinned as Roark tossed her the black tin of war paint. She turned back toward the cloudy mirror, popping the container with trembling hands. She dipped two fingers inside, shivering as the cold paste kissed her skin. She locked eyes with herself in the looking glass and raised her fingers to her brow. She hesitated.

  The first time she wore war paint was at a jam in the Belly. It was only a few months ago, though it seemed like a lifetime. That night, she danced without ever being taught how. Roark played his violin, reviving something in her that had almost withered beneath The Music. If she could replicate that feeling, cast it from the highest tower so that it rained down over the city, she could free them. She felt it in her bones, storming through her like a drumbeat.

  Atticus Bullon, she thought as she pressed a blackened finger to her forehead. I am coming for you. She drew a line down the center of her brow.

  For Henry.

  Two lines branching from the first, crawling diagonally toward her scalp, disappearing beneath her false bangs.

  For Cosmin and Georgie.

  She shut her eyes, drew two columns from her eyebrows to her cheekbones. The paint was cool and damp sliding across her lids. She paused for a moment, allowing them to crust, then opened her eyes. Sawyer had said she looked like a nightmare. Ronja had not understood what she meant, until now.