Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  VINYL: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

  ISBN-10: 0-692-56983-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-56983-2

  Editor: Katherine Catmull

  Cover Design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.

  Printing: Createspace

  Print and eBook Formatting: Heather Adkins

  Front Cover Photography: Marta Bevacqua

  Back Cover and Author Photography: Docshot

  Copyright © 2015 Calida Lux Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.

  For my Parents

  “Born again from the rhythm...”

  Jeff Buckley

  VINYL

  Prologue: The Devil is in the Details

  Roark

  Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails.

  The two familiar faces flared in the rain-soaked sun as the boy rolled them between his fingertips. The alloy was slick with his anxiety, yet their haughty expressions remained unsympathetic.

  “Are you listening to me, boy?”

  Roark started, his tailored suit coat squeaking against the leather seat of the auto. Victor Westervelt II glowered at him from across the compartment, his wolfish head backlit by the window.

  “Yes,” Roark replied, hastily pocketing the coin.

  “Repeat it back to me.”

  “Passion is perilous. Emotion is treacherous.”

  “I have allowed you to grow up without the crutch of a Singer because I believe you are better than these people,” his father said, gesturing at the dilapidated houses slinking by. “Nevertheless, you must learn to govern your emotions. If you cannot control these outbursts, I may need to reconsider.”

  Roark cast his eyes down to his forearms, sheathed by the silk-threaded jacket. Beneath the finery was a growing constellation of cigarette burns.

  The auto lurched to a halt. Roark rocked in his seat, peered out at the dingy avenue.

  His father reached forward with his oak walking stick and rapped the sealed privacy partition. “Why are we stopping?” he demanded loudly. “The shipment is due in less than an hour.”

  There was no response. Roark shuddered internally, reached for the talisman in his pocket. There would be harsh repercussions for the driver if he did not answer soon.

  “Go have a word with the driver,” Victor ordered.

  “But the rain . . . ” Roark began, disguising his reach for the coin as an itch at his thigh.

  Victor gave his son a blistering look.

  Restraining a sigh, the boy donned his bowler hat and opened the door on the driving rain. It was colder than he expected, and he wrinkled his nose at the pungent blend of fish and sewage characteristic of the outer ring. Slamming the door as hard as he dared, Roark started toward the front of the auto.

  He had not taken half a step when a pair of monstrously large arms wrapped around his chest, lifting him from the soaked cobblestones.

  Roark screamed, kicking wildly. His foot connected with the door at an angle, and a bolt of pain shot through him. His hat fell and rolled away down the street.

  “Dad! DAD!”

  The towering assailant hardly seemed fazed by his writhing as he pitched Roark over his shoulder and hurtled down the street. The boy continued to scream for help, his voice cracking, but the avenue was empty. The boarded windows of the houses looked on with vacant eyes; the gas lamps regarded him somberly.

  Roark reached back desperately as the auto grew smaller behind them. He could see his father’s silhouette through the rivulets of water slithering down the glass. The man was utterly still.

  The kidnapper rounded a corner into an alleyway and skidded to a halt, reaching into his jacket. Roark squirmed, trying to see what he was doing.

  “Hold still,” the man hissed.

  Before Roark could tell him to pitch off, a needle was jammed into his leg and a dose of searing fluid flooded the boy’s bloodstream.

  Roark gave a final, defiant twist and went limp.

  The man dipped again into his coat and withdrew a black, palm-sized radio. He extended the spindly antenna, then clicked a button with his meaty thumb. Static spouted forth.

  “This is Sphinx. The devil is in the details.”

  He waited in the fog of the static that returned. The freezing rain darkened his gray brushed hair and soaked his stolen Off uniform. He might have been shivering were it not for the adrenaline charging through his veins.

  Three words shattered the white noise.

  “This is Harpy,” a female voice replied, losing its clarity somewhere over the waves. “The crows are flying.”

  A brief smile dusted the lips of the phony Off. He jabbed the button again and brought the radio to his mouth.

  “Understood. I have the package and am bringing it home.”

  The man let the radio slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. Hefting the boy higher on his shoulder, he slammed his booted heel into the device. It splintered, revealing copper entrails. He swept it into the gutter with his leather boot, then tore off down the alley, his prisoner thumping against his back.

  Roark did not know if it was the throbbing ache in his head or the harsh words that awoke him. He had been propped up in a hard-backed chair. He did not try to move. He could feel the cold bite of manacles at his wrists and kept his eyes screwed shut, listened.

  “—he can’t be more than twelve, Wilcox,” a woman was saying in a thick, rusty voice. She sounded as if she had been crying. “We can’t just kill a child.”

  Roark felt the blood drain from his face as he struggled heroically not to move, to scream.

  “What use is he to us now?” a man demanded.

  A shudder ripped through the boy as he recognized the voice of his kidnapper.

  “What good will killing him do?” the woman asked.

  “His father massacred twelve of ours, we will eliminate his heir.”

  There was a jarring clang as the woman slammed something against a metal surface.

  “No!” she bellowed. “There has been enough death today!”

  “Wait,” the man said, his voice abruptly lowered.

  “No! I will not—!”

  “He’s listening.”

  Roark’s muscles seized. He ceased breathing, hoping he could somehow bleed into his surroundings.

  The man advanced on him, his steady footfalls thudding across damp stones. He leaned in close to Roark, who kept his eyes closed, struggling not to inhale the hot, foul breath of his warden.

  “I want you to hear me, boy,” the man hissed. Roark twitched, but managed to keep his eyes locked shut. “We were banking that your father would send the Offs guarding the shipment after you and leave the warehouse ripe for the taking.”

  “Wilcox—” the woman warned.

  “When our team arrived . . . Every. Single. Off. Remained. Your father couldn’t even spare one man to save you.”

  “That’s enough, Tristen.”

  “He couldn’t even be bothered to take one of our agents prisoner. He had them all beheaded, left their heads sitting real polite-like next to their bodies. Right now, I’ll bet you anything he’s sleeping sound, knowing his fresh Singers are safe. He must despise you.”

  Roark smashed his teeth together. His eyes flew open. Wilcox’s slate eyes were narrowed, rimmed with red. His mouth was twisted into a snarl born of agony, not true malevolence.

  Roark knew the difference.


  “He can keep his damn Singers,” the boy growled. “I hate him.”

  Wilcox jerked back, appraising Roark calculatingly, then gazing over his shoulder at the woman. She was tall and willowy with a shock of dyed orange hair. The skin around her eyes was swollen, but she radiated undeniable strength and elegance.

  For a split second, Wilcox whipped around to view Roark, his expression now inscrutable. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. “Do what you will,” he spat as he passed the woman. He slammed the iron door on his way out, shaking dust from the low, stone ceiling.

  As soon as Wilcox was gone, the woman crossed the room in four strides and knelt before Roark, digging into her pocket. The boy twisted away at first, but stilled when he saw what she had produced. A key.

  “I was bait, then?” he asked quietly as the woman freed his left wrist.

  She inclined her head without looking up from her task.

  “My father sent no one,” he went on, more to himself than to her.

  The woman nodded again as she sprang his other wrist and climbed to her feet, staring down at him with a vaguely absent expression.

  Roark massaged the sore rings on his wrists, wincing as he accidentally brushed one of the burns his father had given him.

  The woman caught his hand. Roark flinched, peered up at her fearfully. Instead of striking him as he had expected, she knelt before him and turned his palm to the ceiling. Slowly, carefully, she rolled back the sleeve of his damp shirt, revealing discoid wounds, some white, others red and oozing.

  She sucked in a deep, trembling breath through her nose, closed her eyes, then released him. Roark shoved his sleeve down, embarrassed.

  “There has been so much suffering,” she murmured.

  Roark fidgeted uneasily in his stiff chair. He was highly unaccustomed to anyone showing so much emotion, least of all pity.

  “Victor—” the woman began.

  “I go by Roark.”

  She dipped her chin in understanding.

  “My name is Ito, Roark,” she said, her bleak gaze mirroring the dim light of the room. “I think we may be able to help each other.”

  1: The Tunneler

  Subtrain station 42 was drenched in a sickly green hue and reeked of vomit. Even through the sealed windows of her driver’s cabin, Ronja could smell it.

  She yanked her scarf higher over her nose, inhaled the sweet musk of wool. The stubborn odor still crept through the knit fibers.

  Ronja huffed exasperatedly, let her head loll to the side. Her pale green eyes roved across the station. It was deserted, save for the barefoot man who sprawled across the benches each night. That is, until the 4 A.M. Off patrol threw him out mid-snore.

  Ronja’s gaze lingered on the bedraggled man for a moment. He lurched violently in his sleep, flung his fist out in a pitiful strike. His arm fell limp, swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

  The girl turned from the pathetic sight. She folded her legs to her chest, rested her chin on the crest of her knees.

  She was halfway tempted to invite the bum to board her train free of charge, just so she could have a new passenger to deliver someplace.

  Her train seated a hundred. She now carried seventeen passengers.

  The subtrain had once been the pinnacle of Revinian public transportation. In recent years, however, the tunnels had deteriorated. The constant redirection of routes made it an incredibly inconvenient way to travel. The once robust sea of rail riders had dwindled to just a few scant customers. The rest took to the streets, preferring the torrential autumn rains to falling rock.

  Ronja herself wasn’t keen on plunging headlong through the crumbling caverns, but wasn’t likely to find better employment above ground.

  She shoved back her sleeve, squinted at the cloudy face of her watch. 2:26 A.M. Wasserman had instructed her to wait at least ten minutes at each station on the late shift just in case any straggling customers needed shuttling.

  Then again, her boss was not here. He was probably in his office, shoveling canned beef into his face.

  Ronja glanced about the station, craning her neck to survey the furthest corners of the room.

  No late-night passengers awaited her.

  I could leave early, she mused. Cram in a few extra minutes of sleep.

  The thought snapped in two.

  Ronja winced, clutching her right ear as The Night Song spiked. The cool, metal Singer grafted into her skin tightened its grip on her cartilage, forcing her to listen. The listless, curling notes of The Music sharpened each time the smallest defiant notion flickered in her mind. A warning born of a pounding rhythm.

  The driver screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the frantic notes to subside.

  After a few minutes, The Night Song lulled. Ronja released her knees, rubbed the exhaustion from her eyes.

  Disobedience is destruction.

  The phrase, plastered across the faces of buildings and the undersides of bridges in massive red block letters, flared in her psyche each time The Music condemned her actions.

  Ronja tucked her chin into her chest, nestled deeper into the furls of her scarf.

  Waited.

  It seemed an age before her departure time rolled onto the face of the clock. Ronja had been too tired to open her book, so she amused herself by tracking the flow of The Night Song. It was a game they were taught as children; to unravel the pattern stitched into The Music. Her schoolmates had insisted one existed, but Ronja could never find it.

  She shook the fog from the valleys of her mind, cracked her stiff knuckles, then slid to the edge of her oversized chair and began to wake the train.

  The engine yawned, purring beneath the soles of her boots. A cloud of steam built outside the windshield and was inhaled by the hungry vents above.

  Ronja let her gaze slip out into the station. The false luminescence of the electric lights swelled as their gears were spun by the excess steam from the train. Fully powered, the lights were more yellow than green. The atrium seemed less desolate saturated by the friendly glow.

  The girl refocused on her task.

  She yanked the lever dangling from the ceiling, releasing a shrill, warning blast. The bum stirred in his sleep. A terrified rat scampered into its hole. With the push of a button, Ronja sealed the doors on her scant riders.

  She shoved the joystick forward with a grunt of effort. The steamer groaned and began to roll forward, quickly gathering speed.

  Yawning, Ronja flipped a brass switch, and the headlamps flickered to life, illuminating the gaping tunnel. The light struck a reflective surface and catapulted back, momentarily blinding her.

  “Skitz!”

  Ronja slammed her boot into the brake, choking down the scream in her throat. The train lurched to a halt with a hiss and a sickening clang. Black smoke peppered with white sparks seeped from the dashboard.

  Ronja waved her hand, coughing into the crook of her elbow. The smoke dissipated slowly, leaking through the vents.

  She squinted through the singed windshield.

  Standing rigid in the arch of the tunnel was a boy not much older than herself. He was tall, with tawny skin and dark hair knotted at the base of his skull. His eyes refracted the glare of the headlamps so powerfully that Ronja was seized by the urge to blink, but it was the silver pendant resting against his chest that had blinded her. He was garbed in plain dark clothing, not the stark white uniform of a maintenance worker.

  That meant he could be only one thing.

  A tunneler.

  Ronja swore colorfully. She leaned forward and punched a button. The intercom shrieked to life, rebounding off the walls of the cavern. The tunneler grimaced and clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Oi!” Ronja roared into the com. “Off the tracks! You think you’re just gonna bounce off the front of a steamer?”

  The boy shook his head, a slow grin sweeping across his face. His shoulders trembled and Ronja clenched her teeth. He was laughing.

  She jabbed
the button again.

  “If you don’t pitch off, I’ll report you.”

  “I’m not afraid of the Offs,” he called back.

  The intercom crackled with his laughter. Ronja swallowed, glad of the glass between her and the obviously unbalanced tunneler.

  “Leave now and maybe I’ll let you off—”

  The Night Song screeched in her ear. Ronja winced.

  It was against the law to aid the tunnelers, who lived in the bowels of the city and stole from obedient citizens aboveground. Ronja tugged at her ear as if she could peel away the Singer burrowed in her skin. The boy squinted at her through the glare, curiosity etched into his features. Ronja realized she had been staring at him blankly. Blushing fiercely, she punched the intercom again.

  “Look, I’m leaving,” she said, hoping her voice was steady. “With or without you on the tracks.”

  The boy sneered. His teeth were as white and straight as the capitol building’s marble bricks. He raised both hands in mock surrender. Ronja’s lips curled into a snarl.

  “All right, you got me,” he drawled. “I’m leaving. You can get back to your precious schedule.”

  He turned around to leave. The headlights bathed his sharp profile in yellow light.

  Ronja sucked in a shallow breath. The microphone picked up her inhalation, projecting it down the tube. She pressed her hands to her mouth as if she could retract the sound.

  The boy paused. He turned his face back to hers, sneer now a genuine grin. He winked blithely and melted into the black.

  Ronja sat petrified in her chair. In her right ear The Night Song roared, the notes wordlessly bidding her to drive forward, to report the incident, then to forget.

  In her left ear was the frantic tick of her watch, warning her that she was behind schedule. The image of the boy played like a moving picture on the gritty face of the windshield. His straight jaw, his sly grin . . . and his naked right ear.

  The boy did not have a Singer.

  2: Cut

  By the time she revived the ancient engine an hour later, her train was nearly empty, and she was elbow deep in black grease.