Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Hey, I wanted to get you up, but Georgie said you needed to rest.”

  Ronja huffed in vexation, but let it be. It made no difference, anyway. Her day job did not start until 1:00, and she had little hope of finding a week’s work before then.

  “I’ll let you tame your hair, then,” Cosmin said, backing toward the steps. “Do you want some shears, or do you want me to just hack it off with a knife?”

  Ronja yanked off her boot and lobbed it at Cosmin, but he was already halfway up the stairs, cackling.

  “Do the pitching dishes!” she shouted after him, but the door cracked her words in half.

  Ronja went to her dresser, a reluctant grin on her mouth. She grabbed a clean sweater, loose trousers, and underwear from the dresser. She slid out of her remaining boot and scooped up its mate on her way up the stairs.

  The kitchen and hallway were empty when she emerged from her room. The house was still, as if holding its breath. Georgie was likely outside tending her garden. Cos was bound to be studying, never mind the fact that it was Saturday morning. Layla, with any luck, was comatose.

  Ronja crept up the staircase and into the single bathroom.

  Brittle autumn air leaked in through the poorly insulated window above the bath. Ronja leaned across the tub and drew the curtain on the little portal, then spun the knob all the way to the left. Freezing water spewed from the faucet, stinging her fingers.

  It took nearly three minutes for warm water to be coaxed forth. When steam finally began to billow, Ronja plugged the drain. Shivering, she climbed out of her clothes and clambered into the steadily-filling bath.

  She sat quickly and leaned back against the porcelain, forcing herself to become accustomed to the intense heat. She wrapped her svelte arms around her legs, rested her chin on her knees. Dirt and grease were already sloughing off her body, though the water had barely reached her midsection. Her messy curls were teased into wilder waves by the ballooning steam. Goose pimples rose on the backs of her arms where the warmth had not yet enveloped her.

  When the water reached her shoulders, she slipped beneath its lip.

  It was nearly silent beneath the waterline, save for the hum of the stream. Even The Day Song was less potent. The water provided a cushion against the incessant, meandering tune. Ronja allowed her eyelids to part slowly. She blinked against the dull sting, sending twin shoots of air bubbles to the somehow distant surface. The gleam of the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling danced through the lens of the water.

  Tangled thoughts bobbed to the surface of her mind. The tunneler, her sliced paycheck, Layla, Georgie, Cosmin . . . the tunneler.

  The Day Song prodded her lightly through the liquid barrier.

  I have to report it today, she thought with a wave of decisiveness. It’s the right thing to do.

  One thing at a time, advised a tranquil voice in the back of her head. The voice sounded far too much like Georgie’s to ignore.

  Okay. First, I have to find a job.

  Henry’s bright face materialized in her mind’s eye, his signature grin clicked into place.

  Ronja shot up from beneath the seal, her drenched mane slinging droplets onto the walls and mirror.

  “Henry,” she said aloud.

  Henry would help her. He always knew how to get her out of a pinch. A subtrain driver himself, he had probably already heard of her misstep. Wasserman gossiped more than a teenage girl and was always eager to diminish Ronja in Henry’s eyes. Like the rest of Revinia, he strongly disapproved of a mutt-human friendship.

  This had not deterred Henry thus far.

  Hope bulging in her throat, Ronja snatched the bar of soap from the windowsill. She began to scrub her body furiously, desperate to scrape away the remains of the night.

  By the time Ronja had bathed, made an attempt to comb her hair, and dressed, the world outside was pulsing with life. The rain had recommenced. Throngs of Revinians struggled against each other, traveling in innumerable directions. Shouts rang out when feet were crushed, when shoulders were jostled. Black umbrellas and sopping white newspapers peppered the writhing crowds.

  If the subtrain were working, the streets wouldn’t be nearly this clogged, Ronja thought with vague annoyance.

  She drew a deep breath, shoved her cap over her already damp curls, and plunged into the fray.

  Ronja kept her elbows out as she walked, ready to jab anyone who came at her. She had seen too many people engulfed by the treacherous mobs, then spat out with bruises the size of oranges and bags half their original weight. She did not intend to become an unfortunate casualty of a traffic backup.

  Around her, shops were open for business. Customers cycled through the swinging doors like bees revolving through hives. Street vendors raised their voices, hoping in vain to penetrate both The Day Song and the metropolitan cacophony.

  Ronja ducked down one alley, then another, working her way from the overwrought avenues into the shady maze of backstreets. Following an internal map impossible to sketch, she eventually reached a narrow, unassuming passage between two decrepit tenant homes. A bum slouched against one of the walls, cradling a flask similar to her mother’s. His eyes were closed, and a rumbling snore stirred his beard every few moments.

  She turned to the wall the man faced and let her eyelids fall shut.

  For a moment, she stood static in the lazy rain, allowing it to wring the babel from her mind. She breathed in deeply though her nose, then exhaled through her mouth. She counted her heartbeats, tapping them out against her thigh with her index finger.

  1-2-3

  2-2-3

  3-2-3

  Beat by beat, The Day Song was pacified. Sensing her muted mind and falling vitals, it loosened its grip, believing she had reached placidity.

  Ronja opened her eyes. A small smile built on her lips. She forced it away and focused her mind. She ran her index finger along the face of the wall, counting seven bricks to the left of a vacant doorway. On the seventh brick she stopped, and pried the loose stone from its nook. It was far lighter than it appeared, its core chiseled out.

  A rustling from the belly of the hollow brick pricked her ears. She sent out a silent thank you to her friend, and dumped the contents of their secret mailbox into her hand.

  A note, scrawled on a clipping from the The Bard, tumbled into her palm. Ronja unfolded the fragile paper carefully.

  HEARD YOU PISSED OFF W — NICE — GOT A JOB FOR YOU — GOOD PAY BUT THE WHOLE THING IS SKITZ — OFFICE AT NOON — ASK FOR A. — MORNING HERRING

  Ronja reached into her pocket and produced her matchbook. She tore one of the sticks from the cardboard and scuffed it against the scratchpad. A feeble flame coughed to life. She pressed it to the crumpled note. Energized, it devoured the clipping. She tossed the remains into the air before the fire could lick her palm.

  She replaced the brick, spun around, and froze.

  The bum was watching her, his eyes like foggy windowpanes. He fingered his Singer doubtfully. Ronja swallowed a wad of nonexistent spit and touched her own Singer, which had begun to fidget, sensing her fear.

  The Music Hears You.

  Ronja dug into her bag and withdrew three of her remaining six notes. She advanced on him, waving the bills like flags of surrender. His eyes latched on to the gray and green notes. He licked his stained, cracked lips with a blackened tongue. Ronja glanced at his fingers, which were also bruised black.

  He’s on the sap, she realized.

  The sap was the cheapest drug on the market. Popular, and easy to make. It could be shot, but was usually chewed. Needles were as expensive as they were rare. The drug turned the mouth and fingers black, and corroded the users organs until he or she was a tent of skin held aloft by a skeleton.

  But it stimulated the senses, made everything sharp, while suppressing The Music.

  “Hey, you’re out, yeah?” Ronja whispered urgently, crouching before him. She gave the bills a shake. They whispered against the humid air.

  The addict
’s eyes darted to Ronja’s own Singer. His stained finger tapped nervously against his tin flask.

  “You can have the cash if you promise not to tell about my box.”

  The man grabbed at the notes, but Ronja held them out of his reach.

  “Swear you won’t say a word.”

  “I swear,” he rasped, his voice limp in his blackened mouth.

  “On?” Ronja pressed, fighting against her churning gut and throbbing right ear.

  “The sap.”

  Ronja thrust the man his notes, then faded into the rain.

  7: Balance

  The Office crouched in the basement of a pawn shop toward the edge of the outer ring. It was guarded by a barrel-chested man robed in tattoos who dosed himself daily with minute amounts of the sap. The tiny hits muffled the nagging cries of The Music, which crescendoed with each illegal endeavor. The trouble was, if The Music got too loud without him knowing, the Offs would be notified, and the Office discovered.

  It was a tricky balance, but the scales had yet to tip.

  The legality of the Office was questionable, to say the least. It provided short notice, temporary employment for the people of the outer ring. Most available jobs were hard labor, and all had dubious sources.

  The Conductor mandated that all businesses had to be registered, approved, and surveyed by the government. The process could take months, even years depending on the profession. Some would starve before they received their permit.

  The Office was one of the only secrets the Revinians kept from The Conductor. Even The Music could not quell hunger.

  Ronja’s throat constricted as she stepped across the threshold of the pawnshop. Her skin prickled when the tinny bell over the entryway announced her presence. She loosed a resolute sigh as she shut the door on obedience.

  Ronja worked her way through the maze of overflowing shelves. Dolls and stuffed animals wilted with neglect watched her with milky eyes. Mismatched shoes, empty bottles, bent silverware, cracked plates and bowls, costume jewelry, and innumerable stacks of useless files lined the racks. The only thing the shop lacked was customers.

  Ronja rounded the end of the aisle, and nearly smashed into the guard.

  Her eyes met his torso. A swollen lattice of black veins trickled down his thick biceps, flaring against his pallor. A bandage was wound tightly around his right forearm. She supposed it hid the branching wound that spread each time he shot up. Ronja craned her neck to view his face, wondering how much they paid the guard to ravage his body this way.

  He peered down at her with blackened eyes, his lip curling as if he could smell the mutt genes festering beneath her skin.

  “Morning herring,” she said loudly.

  The man sighed audibly and motioned for her to shut her eyes. She did so slowly, her fingers wound tightly around the strap of her bag.

  Two sausage fingers pressed against her neck, seeking her pulse. Ronja shivered, then stilled herself. The Office could not allow emotional patrons to enter. If her vitals betrayed fear, she would be sent away.

  Ronja inhaled meditatively. Her heartbeat slowed, and The Music deflated.

  The guard removed his fingers from her neck. Ronja cracked an eyelid.

  The man regarded her skeptically, searching for a hint of deception. After a tense moment, he rolled his eyes and turned his back on her. He shoved a pair of books aside, revealing a brass lever.

  Ronja shuffled backward as the guard pulled the lever and pried the hinged cabinet from its recess, unveiling a stooped doorway framed by a stone arch.

  Rippling voices swelled from below, and a warm glow crawled up the rickety, wooden stairwell.

  Ronja nodded at the man and stepped toward the portal, but he swung out a massive arm to stop her.

  “What?” she snapped.

  The guard rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, eyebrows high on his bald head.

  “I don’t have any pitching money, why do you think I’m here?”

  Ronja did not wait for an answer. She ducked beneath the brawny arm and strode down the staircase. A shock of stale air blasted her from behind as the sentry closed the door.

  The odor of sweat and anxiety crept up to meet her as she descended. Voices mingled with the thick stench. Doing her best to refrain from holding her nose, Ronja stepped from the stair and rounded a tight corner.

  Pipes oozing steam and suspicious fluids decorated the walls and ceiling like road maps. A dozen desks lined the walls, manned by exhausted employees with green armbands. Customers swarmed around the desks, ignoring the hand-painted sign that begged them to form a queue.

  Ronja slipped into one of the clusters, her fingers knotted behind her. She hung toward the back, listening to the patrons vie for attention. A part of her wondered why the guard bothered to check their pulses at all. As soon as they crossed the threshold tensions mounted. Ronja could sense despair leaking through the dam of The Music.

  “Oi, oi!”

  A young employee leapt to his feet and raised his hands soothingly. Ronja recognized his face and knew he ran in Henry’s circle, but could not place his name.

  He must be A, she realized, but her thoughts were cut short when the boy spoke again.

  “You’re all going to get jobs so kindly shut it and wait your turn.”

  He’s lying, Ronja realized with a surge of anxiety.

  The falsehood glinted plainly in his murky brown eyes.

  Sudden resolve shocked her muscles into motion. Ronja lunged into the crush of the unemployed, her sharp elbows jabbing into protruding ribs, triggering cries of pain and surprise.

  Ronja tumbled from the mob with a final grunt of effort. Her palms slammed onto the aged wooden desk, stirring the papers and rocking the inkpot.

  The employee lurched back on his chair, the legs scraping against the dirt floor. His nose wrinkled distastefully as he looked her over.

  “Henry Romancheck sent me,” Ronja called over the knot of voice.

  The irritated sheen over A’s eyes melted. An understanding smile snapped into place on his mouth.

  “Oh yeah, he dropped by earlier. You Ronja?”

  Ronja dipped her chin.

  “He said you work the subtrain, yeah? What shift?”

  “Nine to three.”

  “A.M. to P.M? P.M. to A.M?”

  “P.M. to A.M.”

  A grunted sympathetically.

  “What happened?” he asked as he rifled through his papers.

  “My paycheck got cut,” Ronja explained sheepishly. “Henry found out, sent me to you.”

  A whistled through the gap in his teeth.

  “Good friend you’ve got there, especially for a . . . ” He trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Ronja replied blandly.

  A fell silent and continued to thumb through his files methodically. Ronja waited, painfully aware of the growing disquiet behind her.

  1-2-3

  2-2-3

  “Ah, gotcha.”

  Ronja’s attention switched back to A. The boy licked his index finger and pried a thin manila envelope from the stack.

  “Private delivery to some kid up in 45. Package has to ride in the front with you.”

  “That’s not possible,” Ronja snapped, abruptly on edge. Her right ear and temple began to throb dangerously. “Cargo’s gotta ride in the back.”

  3-2-3

  A shrugged blithely. He tossed the envelope onto his overflowing desk and reclined in his chair, his fingers knit to support his curly blond head.

  “No skin off my back. You want the job, better take it now. People are getting antsy.”

  Ronja glanced over her shoulder and was greeted by a sea of disgruntled faces. She turned back to A, grimacing.

  “How much?” she asked resignedly.

  “Thirty, even.”

  “Thirty?” Ronja balked, her eyebrows shooting up her freckled forehead. “What is it?”

  A shrugged again.

  “I’ll take it,” Ronja said.

 
“Fine.”

  A unlaced his fingers and passed her the envelope. It was lighter than she had expected. Ronja eyed the employee, her query written plainly on her face.

  “Those are the delivery instructions. Henry’s holding the package, said he knew you’d take the job.”

  “Of course he did,” Ronja grumbled.

  She thanked A and wormed back through the crowd, mumbling apologies and keeping her eyes trained on the exit.

  1-2-3

  2-2-3

  3 . . .

  Ronja took the stairs two at a time, the envelope tucked snugly in the crook of her elbow. She rapped the door with a fist, perhaps too ferociously. When the guard threw it open, he was scowling at her.

  The girl dropped her gaze to her boots. She sprinted past the sentinel and out of the shop.

  8: The Voice of Reason

  The slim envelope grew heavy as Ronja trudged through the steady rain. It was as if the paper cloaked a slab of lead. Her mouth was dry, and her stomach writhed. Her head pulsed to the irregular beat of The Day Song.

  “Desperation is apt to muffle The Music’s voice of reason,” she recalled an Off explaining at an assembly in grade school.

  The woman had worn the finest clothes Ronja had ever seen. A royal blue dress that dusted the floor, sheer stockings, and pointed heels. Pinned to her lapel was The Conductor’s insignia: three concentric white rings. Her Singer was threaded with gold, and diamonds drooped from her earlobes.

  “You must not give in to your trials,” the woman continued. “The Conductor knows best. His wisdom is transmitted to you directly, children. The Music knows when you are naughty. It will strengthen until it has you back in the proper place. This is for the best.”

  As if in reply, The Day Song bucked again.

  Pain ripped through her skull, and Ronja stumbled into a broad-shouldered man lugging a crate of wilted vegetables. He shoved her off with a grunt.

  Ronja stood hunched in the middle of the bustling road, gathering her wits. White spots like bullet holes flared behind her eyelids. She pressed her rain-slick palms to her sockets to smother the pain.

  “Ro!”

  The familiar voice pricked her free ear and Ronja smiled through the agony. She uncurled her spine and forced her eyes open.