Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Repeatedly.

  It was only then that Ronja realized how close she and Roark had grown. They were barely a breath away from each other, and his hand still rested on her cheek. Ronja made a small noise of shock and reeled away. Roark chuckled and scratched the back of his head with mock humility.

  Henry motioned brusquely for Ronja to follow him and disappeared around the corner. She did so with her head drooping, like a dog caught sneaking scraps from the table. Roark tried to say something in her ear as she slunk past, but she ignored him.

  Henry’s room was at the end of the hallway. He was already inside, but had left the door ajar. Despite the warm light that spilled through the crack, Ronja felt cold entering the familiar space.

  The boy was waiting for her behind a monster of a camera, which was propped up on groaning wooden stilts. He was busying himself preparing the shot. He fiddled with the lens and checked the spotlight that loomed beyond the contraption.

  “Shut the door, would you?” he asked, sounding far too casual.

  He twisted the light bulb in its socket, and the electric lamp glowed brighter.

  Ronja closed the door softly, pressed her back to the wood.

  “I never knew you had a camera,” she said, trying to fill the yawning gap between them.

  Henry nodded without looking up.

  “I forge everyone’s papers, make sure they stay under the radar.”

  “I always thought of you as so straitlaced. I was always the one getting in trouble, but here you are, Singerless. Did you ever have one?”

  “No.”

  “Wow,” Ronja murmured, perching on the edge of the pristinely-made bed. “It looks so real,” she commented, motioning at his false Singer. “How does it stay on?”

  “It’s pierced,” he explained, still not meeting her eyes. “All Anthemites that spend a lot of time aboveground get them pierced in. I got mine so I could go to school up here.”

  “Why?”

  Henry shrugged.

  Silence bloomed between them again. Ronja punctured it.

  “You could have told me, you know,” she said.

  Henry’s hand twitched, nearly knocking the camera from its perch.

  “About the Anthem? You wouldn’t have been able to resist telling someone,” Henry gestured at the wound on the side of her head, the gravestone for her Singer.

  “I wouldn’t have ratted out my best friend,” Ronja replied.

  “You don’t know what you would and wouldn’t have done,” he countered stiffly. “Doesn’t matter now. I did what I thought was best.”

  “Why don’t you go down to the Belly anymore?”

  “I do sometimes,” he shot back defensively.

  “But you live up here.”

  “This is where I’m useful,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not a spy, or a solider, or a leader. I’m good with forgeries, so that’s what I do.”

  “Are you sure it’s not because of what happened to your parents?”

  Henry went rigid. He had been adjusting the lens with his back to her, but now he turned on his heel slowly, his eyes aflame. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed.

  Ronja wilted. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was out of line.”

  Henry deflated. The embers behind in his eyes smoldered, then died. Exhaustion creased his dark brow. He looked far older than his age.

  “It was a long time ago, Ro,” he said with a voice that matched his countenance. “I never wanted you to get mixed up in this pitching mess.”

  Ronja felt her pity dissolve. “What, so you were just going to leave me to rot from the inside out?” she asked, her long-suppressed rage sparking. “Starving? Drowning in The Music? They used to torture me between classes, you know. The other kids.”

  “I was there. I was the one who saved you.”

  “Not always!” Ronja leapt to her feet. “Not often enough! Not when they . . . ” Ronja gnashed her teeth together. Flashbacks came crashing through the roof of her mind, so potent her knees nearly buckled. They were bitingly clear, almost tangible.

  She could still feel their hands tearing at her clothes, roving across her skin.

  “When they what, Ronja?” Henry asked softly.

  “Nothing,” she said gruffly, dropping back onto the mattress. “Forget it.”

  “No,” Henry reached forward and snatched her hands. “Tell me what happened.”

  Ronja shook her head mutely.

  They left her in the alleyway on her hands and knees, her clothes torn and her face bloodied. She did not cry. She was empty. Her shell flaked away, piece by papery piece.

  Ronja put her face in her hands, gazing blankly at her palms. “What’s happening to me?” she asked to no one in particular.

  “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Henry murmured, sitting down beside her and rubbing her back briskly. “You’re seeing your past as it was for the first time. It sometimes helps to talk.”

  “No,” she said too loudly. “No . . . not now.”

  She uncurled from her hunched position and slapped her cheeks, hoping to work some of the feeling back into them. “Weren’t you going to take my picture?” she asked briskly.

  Henry considered for a moment. The radiator beneath the window grumbled. Ronja breathed in deeply, bracing herself.

  1-2-3

  2-2-3

  “Yeah,” Henry finally said. “Stand against that wall.”

  27: Too Far Gone

  As hard as he tried, Henry could not coax her mouth into a smile. Ronja stood with her hands clasped, her shoulders back, her lips pursed, and her eyes vacant.

  Ronja had only been photographed once in her life, for her official mutt documents. It was the only picture she was allowed to have of herself. She had been ill that day, her skin wan, her cheekbones sunken, her hair matted and greasy. She tried to cover the snapshot with her thumb each time she was required to produce her papers, but most Offs required her to show it. Their noses wrinkled with disgust each time.

  “Three . . . two . . . ”

  A blinding flash and a satisfying click. Ronja blinked rapidly. As her vision settled, she caught sight of a plume of smoke rising from the body of the camera.

  “Did my face break it?” she asked.

  “Surprisingly, no. That’s supposed to happen,” Henry replied.

  He plucked the camera from its tripod and tucked it carefully under his arm. “I’ll develop this and print it. You and Roark can go get your stuff from the Belly.”

  “Okay,” Ronja said.

  She reached out toward Henry for a tentative embrace, but he shook his head, smiling slightly. “I’ll see you soon, understand?”

  Ronja nodded, dropping her arms and scratching her nose to mask her disappointment.

  “Ronja, are you coming or what?” Roark called from the hallway.

  Ronja rolled her eyes at Henry, who responded in kind. She stalked to the door and threw it open. Roark was standing outside, his fist raised to knock again.

  Ronja shouldered past him with a pointed look. He huffed and fell into step behind her.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” Roark said as they descended the cracked stone steps to the sidewalk.

  “You’re telling me,” Ronja said, skipping the final crumbling step and landing on the bricks with a thud. “Henry was the most compliant person I knew. Then again, he was pretty much the only person I knew.”

  “He’s a convincing actor,” Roark agreed.

  They walked in silence for a while. The sun was rising in earnest now, and the streets were packed with Revinians on their way to their respective pubs and places of work. Roark wore his hat low and kept his face angled toward the ground.

  “Is there enough food to go around in the Belly?” Ronja asked after awhile.

  “Plenty, why?”

  “Henry and Charlotte struggled last winter.”

  A crease formed between the heir’s dark brows.

  “He should have told me,” Roark mu
ttered, jamming his fists into his pockets like a petulant child. “I would have helped.”

  Ronja shrugged. “Henry never really talks about himself,” she said, sidestepping a woman lugging a careworn briefcase. “He gives his all and asks for nothing in return. It’s part of what makes him such a good friend . . . incidentally, it’s also why I hate him.”

  Roark shot her an amused look beneath the shadow of his cap. “Why is that?”

  “Because he never lets me help him.”

  They reached the vacant subtrain station and slipped into the alleyway. Ronja much preferred the side street when it was robed in shadow; in the glow of the rising sun, every droplet of sludge and piece of rotting fruit could be seen in full detail.

  Roark unlocked the door and ushered Ronja inside. He followed quickly, slamming and sealing the entry behind him.

  “Morning, Samson,” Roark called.

  Samson did not appear to have moved since they left him. His eyes flashed open, but Ronja doubted he had truly been sleeping. His dirt-caked lips parted as he drank in the Roark’s bruised face.

  “Trip!” he exclaimed, starting to get to his feet.

  Roark threw up a hand, grinning through his bruises.

  “It’s a fantastic tale of ex-lovers and daring deeds, but I have a hangover to sleep off, so if we could do this tomorrow, Sam?”

  Samson gaped at Roark for a tense half moment, then broke into a fit of uproarious laughter.

  Roark beamed and slung his arm around Ronja’s shoulders, shepherding her toward the elevator. He jammed the button with his knuckle, still chuckling along with Samson. Ronja remained silent, her mouth pinched into a smile masquerading as a grimace. She was a horrible actress. Relief flooded her when the bell rang politely and the door opened on the green-tinged compartment.

  It was surreal, descending back into the subterranean city. When Ronja had returned to the surface, her time spent below ground had seemed like a dream, too good to be true.

  And it was.

  She had selfishly chosen to stay with the Anthem, and now her family had paid the price.

  “I will save them,” Ronja muttered to herself as the bell announced their arrival.

  The door sidled into its recess and the pair stepped into the Belly, which was already flush with activity in the early morning.

  Ronja was about to ask Roark what their next step was when he clamped his hand over her mouth and yanked her into the shadows.

  She shoved his hand away roughly. “What?” she snapped.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” Roark muttered.

  “What, did you get my father arrested from beyond the grave?”

  “Mutts aren’t allowed in the Anthem.”

  Ronja paused. “Why?” she finally asked in a dangerously calm voice.

  “It’s complicated,” Roark said, tugging at his collar agitatedly.

  “Simplify it.”

  Roark craned his neck to view the ceiling, as if he was sorting his thoughts on the plane of bricks. Ronja narrowed her eyes.

  “Think about it,” Roark said, snapping his gaze back to her. “You got scared once and triggered The Quiet. You were almost dead in five minutes, and as far as we know you aren’t even a real mutt. Imagine what would happen if we brought a full-blooded mutt down here. We would never be able to cut their Singer off in time.”

  “Have you tried?” Ronja asked bitterly.

  “Yes,” Roark replied gravely. “We did. One man survived the operation as well as The Quiet Song. He lived here all of two days before he tried to escape to inform The Conductor of our location. We barely caught him in time. The next year, another mutt, a woman, survived the operation. Three days later we caught her trying to escape with her Singer in her pocket.

  “She wanted it back,” Ronja said softly.

  Roark nodded.

  “What about mutt families? People without the genes? Can they live here?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said honestly, raking a tan hand through his hair. “It’s never been done. That’s actually the second reason we stopped trying to save the mutts. If we save a mutt and they go into The Quiet . . . ”

  “Their family pays the price.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m not . . . I mean I don’t look or act like a mutt.”

  Roark’s eyes roved across her face. A subtrain roared through a nearby tunnel, shaking dust from the arching ceiling.

  “You’re certain your mother gave birth to you post-serum?”

  “Positive.”

  “But you aren’t a mutt.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t know how to explain your condition, but I’m sure we can convince Wilcox and Ito to let you and your cousins stay.”

  “What about my mother?”

  Roark was silent. It was answer enough.

  Ronja pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, attempting to trap her swarming thoughts. Splotches of color danced across the backs of her compressed lids, and for a long moment she watched them.

  “My mother is a pitcher, but she is also my responsibility. I will not abandon her,” Ronja finally said, peeling her palms from her face. “If we can’t stay in the city, and if we can’t stay with you, then there’s no place for us here. We can flee into Arutia, cross the sea if we have to.”

  Every book Ronja had ever read maintained that Arutia crumbled in the wake of the war, but Ronja guessed that it was not entirely true. Even if Arutia had fallen, there were other countries they could hide in, free of The Music.

  Roark maintained his silence for a long moment.

  “If that’s what you think is best I will help you get out,” he finally said, his voice heavy. “But first, we have to get your family out of Red Bay and cut their Singers.”

  “They’ll be just as sensitive as me,” Ronja said, itching her nose nervously. “We need to be fast.”

  Roark gave a ghost of a smile.

  “I know just who to ask.”

  28: Doppelgänger

  Ronja followed Roark through the maze of huts, keeping her face angled toward the ground, as if her dormant mutt genes would suddenly burst through her human facade.

  The Belly was swarming with activity. Individual songs peppered the station. Ronja strained to catch snippets of the music, cupping her remaining ear to amplify the sounds.

  Little watcher, little waiter

  Little seer, little lion with your

  Claws torn out . . . out . . . out . . .

  A young woman sang from a bench as she knitted a blanket. Her voice was flawed, it cracked on the high notes, but was soothing all the same. A boy not much younger than Georgie played around her ankles. He hummed along with the tune, sketching pictures on the floor with a lump of charcoal. Ronja craned her neck to view the drawings, but found they were mostly squiggles. Still, they did not appear to be meaningless. They were continuous with the melody. When it crescendoed, the boy turned his chalk sharply to make a wicked edge. When the pitch fell, he created a softer curve.

  Ronja hoped that there would be music wherever she was bound.

  Roark came to an abrupt halt and spun on her. “Get your things. I’ll get my stuff and find our surgeon,” he said quietly, gesturing toward her room. Ronja had not noticed they had arrived back at her curtained chambers. She nodded and ducked inside wordlessly.

  Her quarters had been tidied since her departure. The cot was made with military precision. A single flower bathed in water stood beside the amber bottles on the nightstand. It was a lily, the first she had seen in years. Three petals had fallen from it, their edges bruised brown. They curled in on themselves as if in pain. Her scarf, hat, and overcoat had replaced the saline drip on the coatrack.

  Ronja donned her belongings methodically. By the time she had laced her boots and buttoned her coat, she felt almost whole. She swiped the medications from the table and dumped them
into her knapsack.

  She shouldered her bag, the pills rattling like rain on a tin roof. She made for the exit, but something stopped her. Ronja peered back over her shoulder.

  The burgundy drapes seemed to breathe with her. When she had first awoken in the chamber, she had feared for her life. Now, all she wanted to do was curl up on the cot and let the musty walls embrace her.

  Mutts were not allowed in the Anthem. Even if they could verify that the virus did not run in her veins, nothing but time could prove that her loyalties did not lie with The Conductor, that The Music did not continue to hold her though it had been silenced. Even if the Anthemites allowed her and her cousins to remain in the Belly, Layla would doubtlessly be sent away.

  Layla.

  Ronja’s eyes slipped from focus. Her bed, the coatrack, the lily approaching its twilight, doubled.

  Layla was not long for this world. Her mutated genes were eating away at her mind as well as her body. She would never again be the woman in the photograph. Still, a part of Ronja had hoped that if, by some miracle, they could free her from her Singer, her mind might come wandering back. That she might finally get to meet even a shade of the woman cradled in the faceless man’s arms . . . but she was gone.

  Layla was chained to The Conductor indefinitely. It went beyond The Music. It was engrained in her DNA.

  Ronja heaved a sigh, blinking rapidly. The blurry doubles snapped back into place. She whipped back around and swept the curtain aside.

  “Okay, let’s—”

  Her boots scuffed against the flagstones.

  “Where do you think you’re off to, mutt?” Terra snarled.

  Terra stood behind Roark, who was stiff beneath his bulky pack. The leather handles of two matching chrome stingers jutted from the open mouth of his bag. His fists were bleached white at his sides. He locked eyes with Ronja, then glanced down to his right. She followed his line of sight. Her jaw clenched.

  Terra held a wicked blade with a serrated edge. Its jagged tip poked into Roark’s stomach.

  “Get back inside, now,” Terra commanded.