Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Not that there’s anything noble about playing with people’s emotions,” Roark muttered darkly.

  Ronja considered him out of the corner of her eye. His countenance was stiff, and a twitch had settled into his forefinger. It tapped against the table quietly, a rapid pulse nearly muted by the whir of the projector.

  “I don’t understand,” Ronja admitted, refocusing on Ito.

  The woman snapped her fingers at Teller, who exchanged the portrait of Westervelt for another moving picture.

  The image was grainy. The camera lens was clogged with rain and mud. Through the haze, Ronja discerned a crush of bodies charging down a street. They were somewhere near the core, judging by the wide paved avenue and elegant marble buildings. Blotches of white glinted amid the gray scene, torches held aloft to scatter the dark. Though the sound had been sucked from the image, Ronja knew rage was thick in the air.

  “Revinia was a city of artists, writers, musicians, creators,” Ito continued. It was no longer only the glare of the projector that made her eyes gleam. She seemed to speak more to herself than to Ronja, who was now sufficiently lost. “It was not a city of soldiers, but of human beings of the purest form. They were not fools, though. When their rights were stolen, they were not blind to the injustice. So the artist became the soldier.”

  Ito fell silent. Most of the council members regarded the unsteady images bleakly. Others bowed their heads, including Roark. Ronja wondered if some of the older members had witnessed the riots first hand. The owl-eyed woman trembled as she gazed at her interlocking fingers. The room itself seemed to hold its breath. Through the fog of the lens, Ronja watched the Offs arrive on the scene.

  She could not help but jump when the gunfire started. The protestors fell like dominos to the ballistics, and for a moment Ronja was thankful the images were so blurry.

  “Together, Westervelt and Bullon crafted a plan to suppress the riots and to keep Revinians from deserting the city.”

  “The Music,” Ronja murmured.

  The moving picture shifted to a new scene. Ronja braced herself.

  There were three men in the frame, two of whom had turned their backs to the camera. They were garbed in white lab coats. The third man was a prisoner. His wrists and ankles were fixed to a gurney with thick leather buckles. Ronja could not see his face clearly, but his muscles were twisted with fear.

  The two white-clad scientists turned to face the camera in unison, gaudy smiles plastered across their faces.

  The first man was Victor Westervelt I. He appeared much younger than when he sat for his famous portrait. His hair was black rather than gray, and the lines that mapped his stress were not so deep. He was almost handsome in his youth.

  The other man Ronja did not recognize. He was younger than Westervelt, with light hair and nearly translucent irises. He held a device that was faintly reminiscent of a Singer, but much bulkier and far less refined. The earpiece was attached to a crown of adjustable leather straps.

  “The first Singer,” Ito named it.

  Ronja was too engrossed to nod.

  The bleached man handed the antique Singer to Westervelt at his request. Westervelt exited the frame, turning the device over in his hands almost tenderly as he left. The colorless man advanced on the prisoner, saying something to his partner out of view of the camera. The captive began to struggle against his restraints, but the man seized his head, steadied it.

  Westervelt came back into the shot.

  The prisoner thrashed with increased ferocity as Westervelt leaned over him, Singer in hand. Just as the machine was about to settle on his head, the prisoner did something Ronja would never forget.

  He spat in Victor Westervelt’s face.

  Ronja felt her hands fly to her mouth of their own volition.

  The Westervelt family was held in the highest regard, almost level with The Conductor. To see someone disrespect him in such a blatant way was unthinkable.

  Westervelt withdrew. He closed his eyes. A vein in his temple twanged. He set the antique Singer on a nearby table with careful fingers, as if he were handling a child.

  The man lashed to the table was screaming something, but his words were sucked away by the limitations of the moving picture.

  Westervelt lashed out, striking the man once in the groin, once in the neck, then twice across his face. Blood spurted from his nose as he gulped for air, his back arching in agony.

  Westervelt snatched the device from the table and launched forward, cramming it onto the subject’s skull before he could twist away. His fingers slick with black Ronja knew was truly red, Victor fumbled with the chin strap that secured the Singer. Meanwhile, the pale man tightened the cranial buckles.

  Victor and his partner stood back and regarded their handy work. The prisoner flailed and shouted, but the two men grinned at each other as if they had just been awarded a prize. Westervelt laughed soundlessly and wiped his bloody hands on a spare rag.

  The pale man disappeared from view, only to reappear a moment later carrying a fist-sized box. He offered it to Westervelt, who cradled it with both hands and admired it like a rare trinket. He said something to the cameraman, who angled the lens toward his cupped palms.

  Ronja squinted at the screen. It was not a box at all, but a small radio studded with a handful of switches and dials.

  Westervelt turned his back on the lens, which redirected upward. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a steadying breath. He aimed the radio at the prisoner, and flicked a switch.

  The man’s empty screams halted. His eyes scattered, trailing different paths across the room. His jaw slackened, his tongue lolling inside his open mouth. Blood flowed generously from his nose and ears, showing no signs of stopping.

  “The Quiet Song?” Ronja asked as the film came to a staggering halt. For half a moment Ronja wondered what she had looked like beneath the influence of The Quiet Song, but then she realized she did not want to know.

  “No. The Day Song, before it was perfected,” Ito corrected tonelessly. Her mouth was stitched into a grim line. “This is the same prisoner three months later.”

  A photograph sprang up onto the wall, coming into focus in a spray of black and white.

  There were four men in the picture. One was Westervelt. He stood with his arms crossed and his chin high, his ego radiating. To his immediate left was Bullon, his faintly crossed eyes glittering triumphantly. Ronja did not recognize the third man, but he was forgettable juxtaposed with the two social giants.

  The last man was the prisoner.

  He knelt on the ground before the trio. It was undoubtedly the same man from the horrible film—his jutting nose and generous quantities of dark hair proved that—but Ronja would not have recognized him out of context.

  In the first film, his hair had been matted, his eye sockets deep trenches, his nose spurting blood. This man was crisply dressed. His hair was slicked back, the ragged edges trimmed. Perched atop his head like a bizarre crown was another Singer, slightly less cumbersome than the prototype, but far less elegant than the current model.

  The subject knelt on the floor before the trio and gazed up at them reverently.

  Teller jabbed a button on the projector and the image disappeared. Another photograph slipped into its place half a beat later. Ronja felt her gut contort as the significance of the image soaked in.

  The scene was fundamentally identical to its predecessor, with one major change. The prisoner was bent forward, his forearms pressed against the lush rug that blanketed the hardwood floor.

  His lips were pressed to The Conductor’s onyx shoe.

  “The Music was not crafted to protect the people of Revinia from their demons. It is a muzzle, one that purges all powerful emotions and rebellious inclinations, prevents tumult in the face of Bullon’s injustice. It exchanges your natural-born passions for a single thought: Be loyal to The Conductor.”

  Ito paced toward Ronja as she spoke. Her shadow elongated on the screen, obliterating The Conducto
r and his confidants.

  “Every notion you have against Him and His laws is pulverized with a flourish of sound,” Ito stepped around Ronja’s chair and placed her hands on her shoulders. The girl flinched, but did not duck out. “Everything you ever felt besides strict loyalty—love of a partner, hate of an enemy, terror, excitement, anxiety—all are muted by The Music. Every time your passions spike, they are beat down. You have lived your life shackled to a weightless iron ball.”

  “No . . . ” Ronja twisted in her seat to view Ito, who towered above her. She could not read Ito’s expression. “I loved my cousins . . . my friend.”

  “Of course you did,” Ito threw up her hands violently. “They can’t take away everything. When they are completely drained of emotion, people become sloths. Can’t work. Can’t pay taxes. Most importantly, they can’t feel devotion.”

  “But . . . I was . . . ” Ronja trailed off.

  The cords that anchored her mind to her body had been snipped. She was floating somewhere far above the claustrophobic chamber.

  You have lived your life shackled to a weightless iron ball.

  “But you . . . you were different, weren’t you?”

  The question yanked Ronja back into the room. Ito was regarding her with piercing eyes.

  “You felt anger toward Him, didn’t you?”

  Ronja turned toward the screen, which was now blank. Ito’s gaze prickled on the back of her neck. Sweat beaded under her dense curls. Her heart bucked in her chest.

  “You hated Him. Maybe you couldn’t string the words together, or even write it down, but you despised Him.”

  “Not when I had a Singer. I was good, I tried to be good.”

  Oxygen was draining from the room. The walls were inching closer, pressing against her body, cracking her ribs.

  “Most people under The Music react accordingly. They wander through life in a muted state, caring, but not loving. Disliking, but not hating. But you, you felt more. The Music is a beast, Ronja. A living, breathing beast that has its claws on your pulse. When your heart races, it clutches you harder. Pain is the secondary tool in The Conductor’s belt. Unorthodox thoughts and sensations are smashed with blinding migraines. Usually the pain is enough to put people back in their place, and their resistance dies. But you kept fighting.”

  “I—”

  “You fought it, why?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You’re a smart girl. You understood that the pain would fade if you simply stopped thinking so damn much. If you stopped noticing. So, why didn’t you?”

  Ronja slammed her fists into the table, sending a shudder rippling down the surface.

  “I DIDN’T WANT TO, OKAY?” she roared, shooting to her feet. “I HATE HIM! I HATE THE CONDUCTOR NOW, AND I HATED HIM THEN, AND I DIDN’T WANT HIM TO WIN!”

  19: Oxygen

  The room was silent save for Ronja’s ragged breaths. Her shouts had replenished the oxygen, shoved the walls back into their rightful places. Her chest was empty, as though screaming had somehow dispelled the dust from her lungs, making room for much needed air.

  “Well, I believe you have your answer, Ito,” Roark drawled.

  Ito smirked at Roark, a sardonic expression reminiscent of the one Ronja and Cosmin often shared. The pair quickly disguised their joking manner, and the solemn atmosphere was reinstated.

  Ito paced back to her chair, surveying the room with unwavering eyes. Ronja remained standing, her spine rigid, her hands curled into fists at her thighs.

  “You have two options,” Ito said, coming to a stop behind her chair and staring Ronja down. “You may leave our compound and reenter Revinian society. You will go directly to a government hospital and receive a new Singer. We will tail you to ensure that is your intention. Then you will forget any of this ever happened. You will never hear from us again.”

  Ronja snorted disdainfully.

  “What’s my second option?”

  “You stay in the Belly, and fight for us.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question: who are you?”

  “Have you really not guessed?” a new voice intoned.

  Ronja tracked the disdainful words to a young woman seated at Ito’s immediate right.

  The girl had a forgettable, though not unattractive face. The left half of her skull was shaved, but the rest was heavy with thick blond hair. Her exposed ear was pierced many times, including a twisted copper rod through her cartilage. She rested her pointed chin in her hand, her expression a combination of distrust and vexation.

  Ronja swallowed a scathing reply and shook her head.

  “We’re the resistance, love,” Roark said, touching her elbow softly. “We call ourselves the Anthem. We’re going to take down The Conductor.”

  Anthem.

  The word was foreign to Ronja’s ear, but the way Roark said it made her feel as though she already knew its definition. The word took root in her chest and made her shiver with inexplicable elation.

  “Take your time, answer carefully,” Ito warned her.

  I can’t go back.

  Not after everything she had seen. Her world had been twisted beyond recognition. It seemed disrespectful, to wash away her knowledge of the past and present horrors. Her gut begged her to stay and fight. Her rage whispered, beckoned.

  Still.

  Her family awaited her aboveground, still suffocating beneath The Music. They probably thought she was dead. Had the Offs come to speak to them yet? Was it worse for them to believe she was dead, or a traitor? In their warped vision of reality it was probably better they thought she was dead than disloyal.

  I am disloyal, she realized with an abrupt chill. I am Singerless.

  “I have a family,” Ronja finally said. “Two cousins. My mother can’t care for them. I’m all they’ve got. I can’t leave them.”

  Ito made eye contact with Roark across the table. Ronja saw him incline his head in her peripheral vision.

  “Your cousins, can they pull their own weight?” Ito asked.

  Ronja felt her heart stutter. She nodded vigorously, her curls bobbing like springs.

  “Yes, yes! Absolutely. Cosmin’s twelve, Georgie’s nine. Cos is bright for his age and Georgie can . . . ”

  Ito raised a hand to silence her. Ronja bit the inside of her cheek to keep from talking.

  “What of your mother?”

  “She’s . . . ”

  Could she confide in these people Layla’s nature, in the strangeness of her own? Would they even believe her? She had never heard of a mutt giving birth to a normal child. They might think she was lying, or hiding something else.

  “She’s an alcoholic,” Ronja finally said.

  There. It was not a lie, but it was not the whole truth.

  Ito sighed empathetically.

  “Not an uncommon side effect of The Music, especially in the outer ring. When her Singer is removed, we can help her through rehab.”

  A screech of wood against stone forced Ronja to clutch her remaining ear.

  “Hold up a pitching second!”

  Ronja swallowed.

  The girl who had spoken before was on her feet, her chair shoved against the far wall. An escaped blonde lock swayed like a pendulum before her rage stricken face.

  “We know nothing about this girl,” she hissed. “Ito, you’re going to allow her and her entire skitzed-up family to just move in?”

  The girl did not bother to look at Ronja as she spoke, which made her comments sting all the more.

  “We know enough, Terra,” Ito retorted firmly. “I trust Trip’s opinion. Remember, our ultimate goal is to free the entire city. To do that, we need to take chances now and again.”

  “So, you admit this is a gamble,” Terra growled.

  Ito rolled her eyes.

  “Stepping outside the Belly is a gamble,” she sighed, massaging her temples. She dropped her hands and looked back to Ronja, signifying she was done with Terra. “Can your family survive the night alone?”r />
  Ronja considered. There was some food remaining when she had disappeared five days ago. Cosmin knew where the emergency funds were. By her count, the pair could subsist for a week on their own. Layla ate very little these days, so Ronja hardly counted her.

  “Yes, they’ll be fine.”

  “Excellent. We will collect them tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re sure they’re okay, you know, since The Conductor tried to kill me?”

  “At most, some lower level Offs will search your house, ask your family a few questions. They can’t lie through their Singers, and as they know nothing of your disappearance, they are in no danger.”

  Roark beamed at her impishly, and Ronja gave him a shove.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, looking Ito directly in the eye. “I’ll stay and fight for the Anthem.”

  20: Smash

  “Are you okay?”

  The meeting had disbanded ten minutes ago. At its terminus, Ito had swooped out with a flash of her artificially-orange hair and a brief nod toward Ronja. Terra followed moments later, her expression a broiling storm. The rest had filtered out at their own pace, talking amongst themselves, shooting curious glances and tentative smiles at Ronja. She’d returned them with as much fervor as she could muster while endeavoring not to hyperventilate.

  Presently, she and Roark sat alone in the conference room. Roark eyed her anxiously. She appreciated his concern, but his gaze was not aiding her in her attempt to breathe normally.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Ronja replied, rubbing the bridge of her nose without looking at him.

  “Do you believe it?”

  Ronja let her hands fall, keeping her eyes fixed on the far wall.

  “What?”

  Roark gestured, as if “it” was omnipresent.

  “All of it. The Conductor. The Music. The Anthem. It must be rather difficult to believe after a lifetime of being told the opposite.”