A long stroke running the length of her nose.
Her family, her Anthem.
A black line straight through her lips.
Roark.
She set the canister on the edge of the sink with a quiet clatter. Her hands were no longer shaking. In fact, every cell in her body felt steady, concrete. She turned slowly to face the people she loved.
“I’m ready.”
46: Drawn
Ronja clung to Roark as they roared through the middle ring. She kept her cheek pressed to his leather-clad back. Her eyes watered against the sting of the frigid air whipping past, but she forced herself to keep them open. It was a beautiful night, uncommonly clear and bright. A part of her was acutely aware that it might very well be her last.
Carin and Calux were high in the sky, pouring their light through the haze of winter clouds. The houses whipped past, silent and watchful. They were magnificent, tall and pale as cream. When she was a child she used to imagine herself sitting in the parlor of one such home, reading by a roaring hearth, Cosmin and Georgie eating their fill in the kitchen. Henry was there. Charlotte, too. Usually bickering on the sofa or playing a board game.
It was a lovely image, marred only by the Singers clinging to their ears. That was not the life she wanted, not anymore. She wanted something better for all of them. She tightened her grip around Roark.
“We’re coming up on the core,” he called back to her, his voice buffeted by the wind. “Should be right on time.”
“Where’s the tower?” Ronja shouted.
Roark made a hard left onto Central Avenue. Ronja slammed her eyes shut against the nausea that spiked in her stomach.
“Look up.”
She opened her eyes, lifting her chin.
It was more massive than she ever could have imagined. Her view from the outer ring rooftop was deceptive. The tower sliced through the clouds, its golden crown veiled by the haze. The two faces of the clock she could see were wrought of glass and metal, blazing against the dark sky.
Yes, something in her whispered. The radio station had to be there. She set her jaw, craning her neck back to keep her eyes on the time. The avenue was empty, though it was not yet midnight. “Where is everyone?” Ronja called forward.
“Curfew,” Roark shot back.
“What?” she shouted over the roar of the engine.
“Most of these people do not have Singers.” He lifted a gloved hand from the handlebars to gesture at the sleeping mansions flying past them.
Ronja followed his hand, her long wig fluttering behind her like a banner. The houses were all stone with spectacular front doors lined with pillars. Their windows were as large as their entrances. All of them were curtained, though shards of warm light slipped out through the cracks.
“The Conductor has to control them somehow,” Roark added.
Ronja nodded against his back, her jaw tightening. How many bowed to Atticus Bullon without the aid of a Singer? What would they do, when the revolution knocked on their doors? They were about to find out.
They ran out of road before they were ready. A sprawling concrete square surrounded the behemoth clock tower, dotted with cast iron lamps and stone park benches. Roark slowed to a virtual crawl, rolling them into a narrow alley between two mansions before she had time to take it in. Ronja dismounted on unsteady legs, pulling her hood up over her head. Roark switched off the engine and got off the bike. He patted the handlebars fondly, an expression that did not match the fierce black war paint on his features. With a final glance at his beloved motorcycle, he took Ronja by the hand and led her toward the avenue.
“Walk fast, head down,” he murmured as they approached the mouth of the alley.
“We’ll be exposed,” she whispered, slowing her pace so that he was practically dragging her forward “Completely. Someone could look out their window any second.”
“Trust me, Ronja,” he assured her as they reached the lip of the street. “I know these people. They keep their eyes and blinds shut. No one will be looking.” The girl nodded, suddenly incapable of speech. Roark checked his watch. “We have two minutes to get to the north side of the tower. Knowing Terra, she’ll be right on time.”
“What about Offs? Guards?” she asked, still wavering on the edge of the street. “Where are they?”
“Most of the security is concentrated around the palace a few blocks from here. The tower itself is a fortress,” Roark explained patiently, giving her hand a firm squeeze. “If anyone is inside, we’ll take them out.”
Ronja nodded, forcing herself to breathe through her nose. The eyes of the clock tower seared her skin. She rolled her fingers into fists, setting her jaw. She would burn it to the ground. Without another word she stepped out onto the avenue and started toward the clock tower, taking Roark with her.
The square was as still and silent as a graveyard. Their footsteps echoed as they neared the tower, their shadows elongating across the plane of concrete. Ronja kept her eyes trained on the tower. The great clocks themselves were now obscured by cloud, their glow scattered by the vapor. As she drew nearer to the base of the building, pressure began to build in her skull. It was like a drumbeat, one she could not escape. She swallowed in an attempt to relieve it. Nothing happened.
“You all right?” Roark murmured, glancing over his shoulder to check that they were still alone.
“Fine,” Ronja lied through gritted teeth. White spots were eating into her vision. “Fine.”
They slowed their pace as they approached the edge of the great tower. A massive stone door stared them down from its niche in the wall. Its face was engraved with swirling patterns. They were almost artistic in nature, Ronja realized with a jolt. There was no knocker, no handle, no keyhole. “Maxwell will be able to open it, right?” she whispered, not taking her eyes off the door.
“He has to,” Roark replied grimly.
“He certainly does.”
Ronja and Roark whipped around, their hands flying to their weapons. The Siren breathed a sigh of relief, sagging slightly as her pulse slackened. “Terra,” she exhaled. “You made it.”
The agent offered a bleak smile as she came to a halt before them. She wore her overcoat open, revealing the leather hilts of the knives at her hips. Her blonde hair was knotted, her cheek bruised. Ronja frowned at the sight, opening her mouth to ask what had happened. “Not now,” Terra said, lifting a hand to stop her.
“Where are Samson and Maxwell?” Roark inquired.
Terra jerked her thumb behind her just as two forms rounded the corner of the tower, silhouetted by the glaring streetlamp behind them. One was muscular and sure footed, the other waifish and awkward.
“Maxwell,” Ronja breathed.
They stood in silence as Samson approached with the prisoner. The captain did not lead Maxwell as they walked, though his hand was hidden in the folds of his leather jacket, doubtlessly resting on the handle of his automatic. “Ro, Trip,” Samson greeted them as he arrived.
Roark replied with as much warmth as he could muster amidst their peril. Ronja, on the other hand, could not take her eyes off their captive.
She had only seen Maxwell Bullon once. It was just in passing as they were moving him from the Belly to the safe house Terra and Samson had broken him out of. He had been wearing a bag over his head then, so all she saw was his wiry body and large hands and feet. His face did not match the rest of him. His blue eyes were sharp as tacks, his black hair slick with grease. He sported a patchy beard a shade lighter than the hair on his crown. He was paler than she was. When he grinned, her blood stilled in her veins.
“I do not believe we have met,” he said in a strange, whispery voice. “My name is Maxwell Bullon, but you already know that.” He offered his unusually large hand for her to shake. Samson grabbed him by the arm, his tan fingers encircling his bicep. The prisoner looked up at his warden, his smile stretching wider. “Now, now, I was just being polite to the girl.”
Ronja fought the urge to spit
in his face.
“You know why you are here, I presume,” Roark said, stepping toward Maxwell in silent warning.
“Yes, yes,” the prisoner exclaimed, clapping his hands together excitedly. Ronja glanced over her shoulder as the sound bounced around the square. The houses were still, the drapes remained drawn. Roark had been right. “The bargain, the lovely bargain. I let you into the tower and show you where my dear father broadcasts his messages and you let me walk free.” His too wide smile slipped a fraction of an inch, replaced by a genuine spark of interest. “How did you know that his station was in the tower?” he asked, gazing around at them with shining eyes.
Ronja shifted on her feet, wincing as pain knifed through her skull. “Just let us inside,” she ordered through her teeth. “Now.”
Maxwell zeroed in on her. Behind that manic spark was something else, something calculating and sinister. She lifted her chin, forcing herself to hold eye contact with him. It was easier said than done. Her vision swam, her brain throbbed.
“You heard her,” Terra snapped, giving Maxwell a shove toward the sealed door. “Get it open, now.”
“Of course, of course.” Maxwell crossed to the tower, his feet slapping against the hard ground. They watched as he pressed his palms to the stone door and began to run them across the twisting designs, hunting for something. “They make it so remarkably easy,” he commented, his hands stilling at the center of a diamond pattern near the edge of the entrance. There was a hiss as a hidden panel rolled open to reveal a board full of faded brass keys. “Those with Singers revere the tower, those without are terrified of it.”
He might have said something else, but Ronja was no longer listening. Her feet moved forward of their own accord. Her arms were loose at her sides, her lips parted slightly. Her bones hummed, her skin tingled. The drum in her head grew louder with each breath she took. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard someone call out her name. She ignored it. She reached the door. It was whispering to her, calling her. An old friend.
She raised her right palm and placed it at the nucleus of a sprawling circle. Heat flared beneath her skin. The door caved with a hiss.
“Oh!”
Ronja crashed back into her body. Maxwell stood next to her, his index finger hovering over the keypad. They locked eyes. A chill passed through her. He was looking at her as if seeing straight into the bottom of her soul.
“It worked,” he said, not tearing his eyes away from her. He let his hand fall. “You can go in now.”
Ronja turned around just as Roark came to stand beside her. He put a hand on her waist. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing,” Ronja replied, looking back at the door. Her palm was still hot from touching it. The designs seemed to revolve before her eyes. “Nothing.”
“No time to waste,” Samson said, stepping up behind them. He had drawn his gun and held it up before him, his jaw clenched.
Terra whipped out her machetes as Ronja reached into her coat and drew her stingers. They were heavy in her hands, comforting. She ignited them with a twitch of her wrists. Their tips flared blue. Roark gave her waist a comforting squeeze, then reached out and pushed open the door with a large hand.
47: Mainframe
Ronja squinted through the portal, her knuckles bleaching around her stingers. It was pitch black inside. Heat and sound poured through the entrance, a constant clicking and humming that raised goose bumps on her arms. Around her, the Anthemites tensed, ready for an onslaught. It never came. She glanced over at Roark, a question in her eyes. He responded with an offhand shrug, then passed over the threshold, gun up.
They followed single file. As soon as the last of them passed through, the door slid shut smoothly, plunging them into near total blackness. Ronja fought to keep her breathing steady as she held her stingers aloft, trying to snuff the black with the pale light. The humming seemed to come from everywhere, wrapping around them. It was thicker than the darkness.
“Maxwell, get the lights,” Samson growled from somewhere in the shadows.
“Certainly,” came the cheery reply. A moment later, bright light flared from above. Ronja felt the blood leave her face.
“What the hell is that?” she breathed.
“Oh, that?” Maxwell smiled genially. “Mainframe number three, of course. Did you not know it was here?”
The rebels were silent, momentarily forgetting their mission. Ronja blinked rapidly, gathering her vision. Her stomach bottomed out. Her knees buckled and she struggled to remain standing. She wanted to call the darkness back. In the dark she could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.
When she imagined The Music, it was always some disembodied creature, formless, weightless, able to slip between the folds of the brain in the blink of an eye. It was the stain no amount of soap could scrub away. The chill no clothing could bar. But it was not. It was a physical entity, a black beast of wire and metal and coal. It scaled the inside of the tower, stretching further than the eye could see. It whirred and hissed and throbbed like an inorganic heart.
“Beautiful, beautiful.”
Ronja cut her eyes to the side, where Samson was holding Maxwell by the arm. The son of The Conductor stared up at the machine, shaking his head in awe.
“Take us to the station,” Roark ordered him. “We’ll deal with it later.”
Maxwell heaved a sigh, then tore his gaze from the machine. “The elevator is this way, I believe,” he said.
“You believe?” Terra hissed, her voice dangerously low.
“I have not been here for many years,” Maxwell admitted, glancing back at the mainframe with adoration.
“Just take us to the damn elevators,” Ronja demanded, lifting one of her live stingers to his face.
He squeaked and elongated, terror flashing in his ever-shifting eyes. “Fine, fine, this way.” He turned his back on the machine reluctantly and started toward the south end of the tower. There was a spring in his step, as if he were a child on his way to a picture show.
The Anthemites held back for a moment, tension growing between them. “No guards,” Terra muttered, her sharp eyes shifting around the massive room.
“Could be a trap,” Samson agreed.
“How?” Roark asked, desperation ringing in his tone. “How could he set a trap? He’s been a prisoner for almost three months. He had no idea we were coming here.”
“This is our only shot,” Ronja said firmly, setting her sights on the odd man ten steps ahead of them. Maxwell gave a little skip, then his hand twitched up to touch his Singer. “We’ll never have another.”
48: Rising
Ronja had endured several awkward elevator rides over the course of her life, but none quite as charged as the trip to the top of the clock tower. Maxwell seemed incapable of standing still for more than a couple seconds at a time. He stood at the center of the capsule, fidgeting as the cables outside the cherrywood compartment creaked and groaned. Ronja pressed herself against Roark, trying to put as much distance between her and the madman as possible. Terra followed suit, shooting him disgusted looks from the opposite corner. Samson maintained his grip on Maxwell, though he looked like he would rather be yanking out his own teeth.
When the elevator finally shuddered to a halt after the long crawl, Ronja could not resist a sigh of relief. It was quickly extinguished, however, when Terra reached out and slammed a red button with her fist. Ronja slapped her hand over her ear as an alarm flared outside.
“Terra, Sam,” Roark said, jerking his head at the far side of the elevator. The captain released Maxwell and went to stand with Terra. Moving as a unit, they crouched low, their respective weapons held at the ready. The prisoner moved to follow them, but Roark snapped his fingers at him. “You stay right there,” he ordered, pointing at the center of the compartment. “If anyone is gonna get shot, it’ll be you.”
“No one will be in,” Maxwell told him. “No one comes up here except my father and his aides.”<
br />
Ronja twitched, her fingers tightening around her weapons. Something about the statement itched her. Before she could place it, Roark tapped her on the elbow and crouched down, his gun trained on the polished elevator doors. She copied him, twisting her stingers to life again and raising them before her.
“Ready?” Terra asked from the opposite side of the compartment. A series of nods rippled through them. Ronja glanced up at Maxwell, who was the last one standing. He was gnawing on his lower lip, shifting from foot to foot. Her brow furrowed. His personality was constantly in flux. He was as volatile as a wet stick of dynamite.
Fear cut through Ronja. Her lips parted, forming around a word of warning, but it was too late. Terra hit another button and the elevator doors rolled open with a polite peel of chimes. Ronja tensed and felt her friends do the same.
Silence.
“I told you,” Maxwell said in a singsong voice. He stepped out of the elevator confidently, his long arms swinging at his sides. “Come in, come in.”
The Anthemites shared a loaded glance, then slowly rose to their feet, peering out into the unknown. “Whoa,” Ronja breathed.
“Yeah,” Roark agreed.
There was almost no furniture in the sprawling room, save for a high-backed leather chair that stood before a hulking dashboard. It was painted deep red, full of dozens of gold switches and levers. There was no freestanding microphone, but a pair of brown leather headphones with a mouthpiece lay at the edge of the machine. As impressive as the setup was compared to their makeshift station, what was truly impressive was the room itself.
The floors were white marble, the ceiling gilded gold. An intricately carved door stood opposite the elevator, likely leading to a staircase. The walls were not walls at all. They were the glass undersides of the great clocks. Through them, the metal gears of the machines revolved in perfect synchronization. The eight hands of the clocks crept in steady circles.
Radio Page 25
