Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Henry! Over here!”

  Henry Romancheck’s grimy face slid into view between an age-crumpled woman and a man leading a goat. Ronja raised her hand in greeting. Her friend beamed and lifted a thick hand in return.

  “Hear you’ve gotten me into trouble,” Ronja whispered, tapping her Singer emphatically. “Visits to the Office are strictly forbidden.”

  Henry laughed and drew her into a rough embrace, which Ronja returned enthusiastically. It had been nearly two weeks since they had last seen each other. They both worked tirelessly, especially in the winter. Like Ronja for her family, Henry was the sole provider for his sister Charlotte, who was a year older than Georgie.

  “A simple thank you would suffice,” he muttered in her free ear.

  Ronja drew back from the embrace and rolled her eyes toward the gray clouds, still holding her friend by his forearms.

  “Thank you,” she drawled. She sobered. “How’d you figure out I was in trouble so fast?”

  The boy shrugged nonchalantly.

  “You know Wasserman, he gossips more than Tahlia Davidson. Remember her?”

  “I remember you making out with her in the broom closet seventh year,” Ronja replied dryly.

  Henry squinted into the distance for a moment, then a spark of recognition lit his face.

  “Oh yeah! I forgot about that.”

  Ronja shook her head in mock disgust.

  “I hear you have a package for me,” she said.

  “Yeah, it’s back at the office, come on.”

  Henry grabbed her hand and began to lead her through the crowd. Warmth immediately spread from Ronja’s fingertips to the rest of her body, melting the white patches in her vision.

  Ronja and Henry had been like kin since their first days of primary school. Their peers suspected some scandalous romance, but the pair knew better. Henry had tried to kiss Ronja in the fourth grade. She had broken his nose, and they had been best friends since.

  Ronja squeezed the boy’s hand. He returned the gesture automatically.

  Henry led her through the maze of streets, tossing greetings at friends and family as they wandered past. Their replies dissolved when they saw who Henry towed in his wake. The word “mutt” slithered through the avenues like a snake through tall grass. Henry was oblivious, as usual.

  As they navigated the city, the rain trickled to a halt, but the humidity was still dense in the air. Ronja’s curls stuck out at all angles, protruding from her cap like twisted strands of ivy. The midmorning light shivered as it fell through the lifting steam.

  They reached the subtrain office at noon when the sun crested the sky, illuminating the cracks in the building’s foundation and the rust that crept up the bars of the gate.

  “Wait,” Ronja wrenched her hand back and scraped to a stop.

  Henry peered back at her, arching a thick brow.

  “Problem?”

  “Wasserman,” Ronja hissed.

  “He cut your check, Ro. It’s not a big deal.”

  Ronja crossed her arms, Wasserman’s hateful words pooling in her memories.

  “Look. I just . . . don’t think I should go in before my shift, okay?”

  Henry sighed deeply and ran a hand over his cropped hair.

  “It’ll be fine, just say you forgot something.”

  Ronja made a noise close to a growl, then threw up her hands in defeat. “Fine,” she muttered.

  Henry’s mouth quirked into a smile, which he quickly smothered to avoid her wrath.

  Ronja stalked forward, one hand curled into a fist, the other clenched around the envelope. The sweaty silhouette of her palm bled into the yellow paper. Henry chuckled dryly and followed.

  Wasserman was snoring in his leather-backed armchair when they slipped in through the front door. His great breaths rattled the windowpane he slumped against.

  Ronja flicked an obscene gesture at the behemoth, drawing a scarcely muffled snort from Henry.

  The boy ushered Ronja toward the back room, which served as an office for the three junior managers. The trio consisted of Henry, a sinewy man called Pete, and an elderly woman named Doris with hair liked dried brambles and an even drier wit. Henry was the only one who had been awarded his position sans bribery. Ronja knew her friend thought little of Wasserman, yet he continued to show him every respect.

  It drove her mad.

  Still, Ronja figured she could not complain. If Henry were not so good natured, she would be entirely friendless.

  The office of the junior managers was little more than a collection of three desks drowning in stacks of papers hip high. Henry’s desk crouched in the far corner beneath the street-level window and was by far the best kept.

  Ronja dropped her bag and tossed the damp envelope onto the desk. She cleared away a bundle of alphabetized papers, then perched on the polished wood. She knew Henry hated it, but this time he did not reprimand her.

  Henry sank into his chair, which creaked dangerously beneath his weight. He leaned back, observing Ronja with quiet eyes. “What happened?” he asked after a moment.

  “My engine choked,” she snapped, thrusting out a burnt hand for him to see.

  The image of the tunneler’s naked ear hit her harder than a wave of The Day Song. She shivered and swept the memories away.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Henry said gently. “What happened with your m . . . with Layla?”

  “Oh.”

  Ronja’s gaze fell to her lap. She wanted to sink into the folds of her coat, to pull the brim of her hat down over her filling eyes.

  “How’d you know?” she asked.

  “I always know. What was it this time?”

  “The usual.”

  “Pitch.”

  “Yeah,” Ronja agreed. “Still not worth talking about. Doesn’t change what she is. A mutt’s a mutt.”

  “You shouldn’t call her that.”

  “What should I call her?” Ronja inquired vehemently. “I shouldn’t deny it, they don’t.” She thrust a finger at the narrow window, through which the worn boots of the populous could be seen. “They think I’m like her,” Ronja said softly.

  “I know you’re not.”

  “You’re you.”

  Henry cocked his head, considering.

  “I don’t care what they think of me,” Ronja assured him. “But it’s hurting Georgie and Cos. You know, some kids in Georgie’s class cornered her in the bathroom, dunked her head in the toilet until she barked?”

  Henry looked queasy.

  “What did she do?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s not fair,” Henry said after awhile. “You don’t even know what your mother did.”

  Ronja snorted mirthlessly and reclined against the wall. She closed her eyes. The gray light from the window seeped through her translucent lids along with her friend’s heavy gaze.

  “Just leave it, Henry. Please,” she begged.

  Henry inhaled, preparing a chiding speech. Ronja tensed. Thankfully, her friend swallowed his comments. His chair groaned as he shifted uncomfortably, but all else beyond the constant rustling of The Music was quiet.

  After some time, Henry changed the subject.

  “How long has your head been hurting you?”

  Ronja’s eyelids fluttered open. Her thumbs had started massaging her temples of their own volition. She screwed up her brow.

  “It started to get bad last night after . . . ” She bit her tongue.

  “After?” Henry prompted.

  Ronja shook her head, perhaps too forcefully.

  “Nothing, just a headache. Where’s my package?”

  Henry parted his lips, but his words died on his tongue when he saw her expression. He sighed heavily and reached into the knapsack at the foot of his desk. He withdrew a slim, square package. It was slightly larger than a dinner plate and was swathed in newspaper.

  Ronja frowned as she took the cargo with careful hands. It was heavier than she had expected. She laid it i
n her lap and ran her rough hand across its level face. The paper whispered beneath her palm.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked, curiosity dripping from her voice.

  Henry shrugged.

  “No idea. Not a book, is it?”

  “No, you’d be able to feel the pages around the edges,” Ronja murmured.

  She flipped the package lightly in her hands. Henry hissed and reached out to catch it.

  “Relax,” Ronja said, laughing softly.

  “Getting this for you cost me breakfast, and it’ll cost you more if you break it,” Henry whispered harshly.

  “Sorry,” Ronja muttered. She looked up, eyes flickering earnestly. “I’ll be careful.”

  Henry started to make a comment about her apathy, but Ronja’s mind had turned from her friend. She bent toward the face of the package, squinting at the familiar symbol sketched over the mind-numbing words of a fashion column. She grazed it with her thumb. Something was strange about it.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  Ronja’s head snapped up.

  “What?”

  Henry made an exasperated noise, sank further into his chair.

  “Henry, look at this.” Ronja offered him the package. He took it, glaring at her across its rim. “Look,” she implored.

  Henry perused the box for a moment, then glanced up at her dubiously. “It’s a package wrapped in The Bard.”

  “Yeah, look at the fashion column.”

  “You’d like me to start wearing pearls?”

  “No, skitz-head.”

  The radiator hummed in the corner. The paper crinkled as Henry turned the parcel upside down. Ronja’s impatience swelled.

  “I don’t—” Henry began.

  “Look!”

  Ronja snatched the package and jabbed her index finger at the emblem. Henry squinted.

  “It’s The Conductor’s emblem, may the ages hold His name,” Henry said, tossing up his hands.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is. Three concentric circles. Did you learn anything in school?”

  “But it’s black.”

  The symbol always appeared in white. The rings represented the three districts of the city: the core, where The Conductor resided, the middle ring, and the outer ring. They were always inscribed in white, symbolizing the purity of Revinia and its leader.

  Henry shrugged indifferently.

  “So? Who has a white pen?”

  “They should have just stuck one of the official stamps on it. Come to think of it, why mark it at all if they’re sending it through the back channels?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ronja admitted, itching the bridge of her nose contemplatively. “It’s just strange.”

  Henry massaged his eyes with his palms. The triplet lines that appeared between his brows when he was stressed had surfaced.

  “Just let it go, please.”

  “But—”

  “Ronja, you’re looking for something that isn’t there.”

  Ronja’s jaw bulged. She dropped her gaze to her rolled fists. Henry thrust the wrapped item back at her and rose.

  “I have to go,” he said curtly.

  Ronja nodded without looking up. Henry grabbed his bag from the floor and draped his coat over his shoulders. She scarcely registered his movement.

  Then he was kneeling before her, his dark hands clasped around her small, clenched fists. “If you go looking for trouble, you’ll find it,” he warned, his voice low. “Running a package is one thing, but if you start asking questions, you’ll end up with The Quiet Song in your ear.”

  Ronja finally looked up from her lap, but she did not see. She smiled feebly.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid. Like think. Or feel.”

  “Ronja—”

  “I’m gonna be late,” she said tightly.

  She wrenched her hands away and swiped her pack from the floor. She jammed her hat lower on her head, flipped up her collar, then shouldered past her friend and out the door.

  9: Pressure Points

  Ronja’s day job paid less than her graveyard shift as a driver. Half a note per hour. The task, at least, was simple. From one to eight she manned the shabby news kiosk at the corner of East and Crane. For seven hours she stood behind the plywood counter and sold stacks of crisp, white Bards delivered each morning from the core.

  Some years ago gossip and specialty magazines had been available for purchase, but they had since been discontinued. Bankrupted, The Conductor had reported, though Ronja recalled them selling well. She still had some of the nature magazines stashed in the depths of her desk, as they had not technically been outlawed.

  It was a six-block trek from the subtrain office to East and Crane. The optimistic sun that had shown up at noon had bundled itself away behind another pregnant cloud. An airship branded with the massive, golden WI for Westervelt Industries powered into the thunderheads, doubtlessly headed for one of the many factories and warehouses beyond the wall. The groan of the propellers filtered into the streets, filling the cracks between old cobblestones and the spaces between the notes in their ears.

  Ronja tore her gaze from the airship and walked briskly, spurred by the damp wind at her back. Her conversation with Henry had taken longer than she had expected, and had gone in an unexpected direction. Even in the cold, her cheeks still burned.

  Ronja had known Henry for nearly eleven years. She knew things about him no one else knew. She would do anything for him, and knew he felt the same way.

  Still.

  Ronja hugged her shoulders against the mounting chill.

  There were pieces of Henry that eluded her, parts of him that were paradoxical, incongruent. He would risk his reputation and safety just to snag her a run, but invalidated her most pressing questions.

  He’s probably right, she thought dully. But . . .

  Ronja glanced down at her sling bag. The corner of her charge poked out innocently. She brushed its edge with her fingertip, trying to smooth the waves of anxiety that radiated from it. The dark variant of the crest glared at her, its central ring a scrutinizing pupil.

  Ronja tugged her collar higher around her neck and pressed forward, doing her best to ignore the black gaze.

  By the time she reached the news kiosk, a fresh drizzle had begun to seep from the fat clouds. Soot-blackened puddles burgeoned. Shops locked their shutters. Gas lamps were lit reluctantly. Umbrellas bloomed, and those without made for the pubs.

  The weather could not deter the news-seekers, though. They huddled around the bare-bones newsstand, nestled deep into their coats, shawls wound around their stringy hair. The Bard was their only connection to the core, especially now that the subtrain was scarcely functioning.

  “Afternoon, Joe,” Ronja called over the babel.

  Joseph looked out over the small crowd and smiled blandly when he spotted her approaching. He waved, then turned back to a woman rummaging through her handbag for coins.

  “Hurry up,” the man behind her grumbled.

  “Haven’t got all day,” another cut in.

  One of the men, his face dappled with grime and stubble, shoved her roughly from behind. The woman gasped. Her coins scattered, singing against the cobblestones. She cried out and clambered for them, making a boat in the folds of her dress.

  She did not notice her assailant stoop and pocket three of her silver pieces.

  “Oi!” Ronja barked.

  The man whipped around, his pupils dilated.

  “Hand them over, pitcher,” Ronja ordered, stalking toward him with her hand outstretched.

  The crowd parted for her. Their whispers filled the gap.

  Mutt.

  Disgusting.

  Look at it.

  Ronja halted before the crook, her expectant palm catching the quickening rain.

  The thief’s apprehension dissolved when he heard the murmurs rippling around them. He sneered, revealing rotting teeth and
gums. Ronja curled her lip in revulsion.

  “My Singer agrees. You a mutt. You got no right to tell me what to do.”

  “Maybe,” Ronja said softly, her eyes fixated unblinkingly on his shifting gaze.

  She came to a halt a breath from his pockmarked face, her jaw slightly unhinged, her breath coming out in short pants. The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He took a small step backward.

  “I would still give her back the money, though,” she growled under her breath.

  The thief shuffled from foot to foot, looking anywhere but the thunderous face of the mutt. The gawking crowd made no move to assist him, unwilling to risk touching the revolting creature he faced.

  Ronja growled again at his prolonged hesitation, her teeth gnashed together.

  He flinched, then jammed his hand into his pocket and retrieved the coins he had lifted. He dropped them into her palm, careful not to let their skin brush.

  “Interest,” Ronja said, adopting a sudden air of professionalism.

  The crook dug into his pocket again, glowering at her through the rain. Slowly, deliberately, he pinched two coppers between this thumb and forefinger and let them fall to the slick street. Ronja did not look down when they bounced off her boot and ran away down the cobblestones.

  The thief turned, and with a reverberating guffaw to mask his fear, melted back into the crowd.

  The ring of onlookers dispersed as Ronja glanced around for the twin coppers. She caught sight of one glinting dully in the gray daylight, but the second had either been snatched or had rolled into the gutter.

  Ronja retrieved the coin, then turned back to the victim. She stood still, her lips parted slightly, her dress still a cradle for the runway coins.

  Ronja dumped the money into the waiting fabric and the woman shuddered, averting her eyes. She whirled and took off down the avenue, her cash clinking, her sopping dress slapping against her bare legs.

  Ronja watched the woman retreat, then wrenched her gaze away, abruptly hot in the frigid downpour.

  She set her bag on the newsstand countertop with a soft thud. Joseph, who had watched the scene unfold, sought her eyes, but she kept them firmly on her hands.

  Joseph had always been kind to her. Rather, he had never been unkind.