Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja craned her neck. Her itching eyes widened as they crested a hill.

  The wild prairie morphed into a sea of golden wheat that stretched far past the horizon. Dozens of hulking trucks, their beds sagging with the crop, idled along the road. Pinprick white splotches studded the monotonous field.

  As they drew closer, the bright flecks morphed into people. They were garbed in stained white uniforms and carried wicked-looking scythes they were using to reap the wheat. They worked mechanically, reminding Ronja of the workers in the outer ring library.

  “How are there shortages with this much land?” she shouted over the gale.

  “Most of the food’s going to the core,” Evie replied with a voice that could cut steel.

  Ronja felt her stomach cinch.

  All those winters spent trudging to soup kitchens for meals. Pawing through garbage bins in search of half-eaten leftovers. Swiping fruit from stalls. Things had improved when she quit school and took on a second job, but her family had never left the edge.

  Ronja clenched her teeth, rolled her fingers into fists in her lap. Her head began to throb ominously. It felt not unlike the start of one of her migraines, which she’d hoped she had left behind with her Singer.

  “After we take down The Conductor, we’ll open the fields to everyone.”

  Ronja swiveled to face Roark. He had shoved a gray woolen stocking cap over his dark locks. His nearly black eyes appraised her from behind escaped strands of hair.

  “Why are you smiling?” Roark asked.

  “Forget it,” Ronja replied, twisting again to face the front. “It’s just, you’re not so bad for a shiny.”

  Night was bleeding into dusk by the time they reached their destination.

  Part of Ronja had hoped they would be headed straight for Red Bay, but of course that did not make any sense. They had no plan that she knew of. Without one, they would be killed before they could take one step into the compound. Still, she had to fight a scream of frustration when they pulled into the driveway of a quaint whitewashed cottage.

  “What is this place?” she asked instead as they clambered from the auto, working the knots from their muscles.

  “My family’s summer cottage,” Roark replied, unlatching the trunk and yanking his bag from the deep compartment. “My father never comes here.”

  “Bit plain for a Westervelt,” Ronja commented.

  The house was only one story. It possessed a single square window of distorted glass and a squat red door with a brass knob. Ivy snaked up the pale walls, and a copper roof stained with turquoise corrosion flared in the dying light. The tall grass hugged the base of the cottage. The air was full of cricket songs, tranquil and jarring all at once.

  “I like my house, thank you very much,” Roark said stiffly.

  “Yes, yes, we know it’s simple chic,” Iris sighed, shoving the boy away from the trunk with a bump of her hip.

  The surgeon heaved her duffle out with a dainty grunt. She shouldered the bag and returned her attention to Ronja.

  “The Westervelt estate is all the way south of the territory, about as far away from here as possible.”

  “As well it should be,” Roark interjected darkly.

  “Won’t the Anthem follow us?” Ronja asked, glancing uneasily at the horizon.

  “The only people that know about this place are here now,” Roark assured her, starting to shuffle backward toward the door. “As long as they still buy that you’re a mutt, they’ll expect you to go straight to the nearest Off station, anyway.”

  “Wilcox definitely believed it,” Ronja muttered, brushing her tender neck with the tips of her fingers.

  She was not eager to appraise herself in a mirror; she imagined her neck was a network of bruises. The dread in her stomach sparked a memory, and a question.

  “What do you think Terra told Wilcox?” she asked. “He called me a mutt, but he was acting like I was a spy.”

  Roark scraped to a halt and gave an exhausted sigh.

  “Terra,” he began, massaging the bridge of his nose with his free hand, “is a master manipulator. She could get him to believe we were all aliens if she had the time.”

  “You think she told him we were traitors?” Iris asked, a twinge of hysteria creeping into her voice.

  Roark shook his head slowly, contemplatively.

  “No, I doubt it,” he said. “If Wilcox really thought we were traitors, he would have just shot us on the spot.”

  “You think Terra told him we were duped,” Evie cut in, slamming the auto door and sidling up to the trio, her hulking rifle slung over her shoulder.

  Roark shrugged, his stingers tapping together in his pack as his muscles bulged.

  “That makes the most sense. The question is, why?”

  “She hates me,” Ronja said morosely.

  “Roark!”

  The quartet glanced toward the auto. Henry had popped the hood and was leaning over the engine, scratching his head. A trail of smoke snaked from the innards of the vehicle. Ronja did not know much about autos, but was fairly certain that was not supposed to happen.

  “What did you do?” Roark growled, dropping his pack and stalking toward the boy.

  “Terra doesn’t even know you,” Iris scoffed, ignoring the interruption.

  “Tell me about it,” Ronja replied.

  “That girl had better come clean. I am not going to die a traitor.”

  Iris whipped around and marched toward the cottage, her clanking bag drowning out the crickets.

  “Don’t mind her,” Evie implored, pulling another loose cigarette from her coat. She coaxed her lighter to life, then pressed it to the rolled paper. “She isn’t really mad at you, she’s just scared.”

  “You sure about that?” Ronja asked with a humorless laugh.

  “Iris lost her family when she was twelve,” Evie said, watching the smoke slither away to join the clouds. “We’re all she’s got.”

  “I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me.”

  Evie barked a laugh, startling Ronja.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we aren’t here for you.”

  Ronja flushed. The black-haired girl flicked her cigarette into the dirt, then stomped on it with her heel.

  “Well, maybe Roark and Henry are,” Evie amended with a considerate tilt of her head. “But Iris and I, we’re here for those pitchers skitzing up the auto over there. Wilcox may be in charge, but Roark is our leader, has been since we were kids. If he wants to go staggering around Red Bay for a girl he just met, you bet your ass we’re going to be right there with him.”

  Ronja looked down at the gravel, nudged a clump with her toe. What must it have been like, growing up in the Belly? Dangerous, certainly, but to grow up free, to be raised among such loyal, unyielding friends . . .

  “Not that we don’t like you,” Evie said hastily, misunderstanding her downcast eyes. “Actually, Iris wouldn’t shut up about you, but—”

  “You don’t really know me,” Ronja finished, raising her chin. “I understand. Thank you.”

  “Roark! Where’s the skitzing key? It isn’t under the rock!” Iris screeched from the front door, stamping her foot petulantly.

  Evie smiled, her nose crinkling.

  “Coming, coming,” Roark placated from the auto. In a lower voice, he added, “I told you to set traps, H. Pitch me.”

  The two boys slammed the hood and jogged toward Iris, loathe to keep her waiting. Evie and Ronja followed at a slower pace, their boots crunching the rocks in time.

  When he reached the cottage, Roark withdrew a ring crowded with several dozen keys. He pawed through his vast collection methodically, then settled on a large, brass one. He unlocked the door with a clunk of tumblers.

  “Shoes at the door,” he ordered as he crossed the threshold, stepping out of his heavy boots and kicking them onto the rug beside the door.

  Henry, Iris, and Evie shared a knowing look, then removed their shoes. Ronja followed suit quickl
y.

  Roark flicked on the electric lights, and Ronja sucked in a breath.

  The cottage was small, but far from stifling. The walls were whitewashed like the exterior and adorned with a handful of small paintings hung from wooden pegs. Twin red sofas squatted comfortably around the brick hearth. A coffee table sat before the couches, stacked with several dozen books. A pinewood shelf housed more volumes, some stacked and others standing. Two stooped doorways opposing the fireplace led to a bathroom and a bedroom, Ronja assumed. Adjacent to them was a kitchenette with an icebox, stove, oven, and brass sink.

  The rebels were already dropping onto the sofas like stones. Roark had moved off to his bedroom. Ronja could see him through the cracked doorway, shedding his coat and stretching toward the ceiling. The hem of his sweater climbed up, revealing his chiseled abdomen.

  Ronja reddened and turned away. She collapsed onto the empty cushion next to Henry, who was supporting his head with his hand. She allowed her own head to sag onto his shoulder while Iris and Evie conversed in hushed tones. Henry reached around her shoulders absentmindedly and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  Ronja must have fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes, the room was swathed in the glow of a merry fire. She lay on her side on the couch, wrapped in a knit throw. She sat up quickly, sweeping her unruly hair from her brow and blinking her surroundings into focus.

  Iris sat cross-legged on the hearth with her chin in her palm, staring numbly into space. She looked up at Ronja as she disentangled herself from the blanket. The surgeon appeared slightly less agitated than before, and Ronja thought she could read a trace of an apology on her heart-shaped face.

  “She’s awake,” Iris called.

  Ronja rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peeked over the lip of the sofa. Evie, Roark, and Henry stood in a semicircle in the kitchen, talking quietly.

  “Good,” Roark said in a louder voice, clapping his hands together. “Let’s begin.”

  34: Twenty on Three

  “Over the past few months, there’s been a massive upswing in the number of prisoners going into Red Bay, and a considerable decrease in the number of mutts coming out,” Roark began.

  They had filtered back into the parlor. Unsurprisingly, Iris and Evie sat together again. Henry sat by Ronja with his elbows on his knees, his fingers knit loosely. Roark stood before them all, leaning against the warm bricks of the chimney. Firelight played across the facets of his tawny face, highlighting his dark freckles and high cheekbones.

  “Why?” Ronja asked, though she was not sure she truly wanted to know the answer.

  “We don’t know, but I actually don’t think it’s a bad sign.”

  Ronja shared a look with Henry, who was stony-faced.

  “Red Bay is as much a lab as it is a prison,” Roark continued, scratching his stubble-shaded jaw contemplatively. “They’re constantly experimenting with everything from genetics to The Music. If your cousins were already mutts, they’d have been sent home by now.”

  “So, what do we think is going on, then?” Evie asked.

  “That’s the catch,” Roark said grimly, folding his arms across his chest. “Nothing good ever happens at Red Bay.”

  “So, they’re either dead or being experimented on,” Ronja inferred flatly.

  Roark inclined his head, respecting her enough not to sugarcoat his answer.

  “How are we going to do this?” Evie asked after a moment of silence.

  “Bishop Street.”

  A collective chuckle rippled through the Anthemites. Even Henry shook his head with a vague smile.

  “Bishop Street?” Ronja asked, looking from face to face inquisitively.

  “Our first rogue op,” Evie said with an inappropriate air of fondness. “Bishop Street was the location of an intelligence office with direct links to The Conductor.”

  “Or so we thought,” Iris cut in.

  “It was a trap, the office was empty,” Henry continued the tale. “We were a team of twelve. Iris was our medic, Evie our sniper, Roark was on the ground, and I was running surveillance.”

  “Eleven of us got out, but Ito was left behind,” Roark picked up. “Wilcox ordered us to leave, but the four of us went back later that night. We saved Ito before she was forced to pop her cyanide. She was a little beaten up, but Iris patched her up just fine.”

  “Okay, so it was a rescue mission,” Ronja concluded. “What does that have to do with saving my family?”

  “Same strategy, larger scale,” Roark explained, surveying them with calculating eyes. “At Bishop Street, I used my name to get us inside to save Ito. We’ll do the same thing here tonight.”

  “We can’t walk in through the front door,” Evie pointed out. “You’ll attract too much attention.”

  “No,” Roark agreed. “But I can phone Dr. Berik and have him let us in through his apartment.”

  “Dr. Berik?” Ronja asked.

  Roark gave a thin smile. “I wasn’t lying when I told the Off my personal physician resided at Red Bay. Among other things, he leads the team that oversees mutt procedures.”

  “And you think he’ll just let us in, no questions asked?” Henry inquired dubiously.

  “He owes me a favor, not to mention he’s a bloody coward. Even The Music can’t obliterate cowardice.”

  Henry considered this, then motioned for Roark to continue, his brow scrunched in incredulity and anxiety.

  “I’ll phone Berik tonight and tell him that a friend of mine is in need of his assistance,” Roark said, starting to pace purposefully back and forth across the luxurious rug. “We’ll tell him Ronja is ill, and he’ll take her to his private office. In all likelihood, he’ll leave us in his living quarters.”

  “What if he sees my ear?” Ronja asked.

  “He won’t have time. As soon as he closes the door, you’ll jam this into his neck.”

  Roark stopped pacing and dug into his pants pocket. He withdrew a folded silk kerchief and tossed it at her. Ronja caught it ungracefully and dumped the contents into her palm. It was an unprogrammed stingring coated with dully gleaming gold.

  “The shock is enough to knock him out for several hours,” Roark went on. “Once you’ve stung him, come find us outside. We’ll break the lock and trap him so he can’t call for backup.”

  Ronja nodded, scrutinizing the tiny weapon, then slid it onto her right index finger. She winced as the metal grew hot, syncing with her skin. The burn faded quickly and left a firm sense of security in its wake.

  “Evie.” Roark turned his attention to the techi.

  “Hilltop?” she inquired with a slightly manic grin.

  “Hilltop,” Roark confirmed. “Wouldn’t put you and Lux anywhere else.”

  Evie shot a fond glance at Lux, her long-range, over the ridge of the couch.

  “What happens after Ronja takes Berik down?” Iris asked.

  “We make for prison control. They should keep a list of every prisoner in the compound. Once we find them, we’ll sedate Ronja’s family so they don’t roll into The Quiet, and get the hell out.”

  “And if we’re seen?” Ronja prodded.

  “We shouldn’t have a problem if we look the part.”

  “And who are we going to look like?” Iris asked, her eyes narrowed dubiously.

  Roark grinned.

  “A surprise inspection crew from WI, led by Mr. Victor Roark Westervelt III himself.”

  There was a pause filled only by the incongruently cheery crackling of the fire. Then Evie barked a sardonic laugh, going so far as to slap her knee.

  “An inspection led by four teenagers in the middle of the night? Shall we take bets on how quickly this will go south? Anyone?”

  “Twenty on three minutes,” Iris muttered.

  “My father has been known for his eccentricity,” Roark said with a withering glance at the couple. “Frankly, I’m sure it won’t be the first late-night inspection.”

  “Led by his philandering, gambling-addicted son?” Evie dr
awled.

  “Not my fault The Bard doesn’t have anything better to talk about than my cover life,” Roark said defensively.

  “Oh please,” Evie laughed. “Don’t act like you don’t enjoy strutting around with those shiny ninety-pound numbers from the core on your arm.”

  “Guys,” Henry and Iris sighed at the same time.

  “Wait,” Ronja said, throwing up a hand. “That’s it? That’s the plan?”

  The somber atmosphere was reinstated as Roark mulled over her potent question.

  “Sometimes the simplest plans are the best,” he replied. “Less can go wrong when there are fewer moving parts.”

  “No,” Ronja said sharply, standing and fixing her gaze on him. “No,” she continued in a lower voice. “This won’t work.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Roark retorted flatly. “But I don’t think you fully comprehend the influence my family has. We are built into The Music. People are trained to want to please us, nearly as much as they are The Conductor. It will work.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” Ronja asked, advancing on him until they nearly touched.

  She had to crane her neck to maintain his gaze. She could feel three pairs of eyes, probably flown wide with surprise, drilling into her back. Ronja swallowed dryly. “I’m not saying it’s a bad plan. I’m saying maybe Iris was right.” She gestured back toward the surgeon, who shifted in her place. Ronja went on. “Answer me truthfully: has anyone ever escaped Red Bay?”

  Silence was her only reply. It was answer enough.

  “Exactly,” she continued hollowly. “We can’t do this. Iris was right, this is suicide.”

  A harsh noise of disgust caused Ronja to whirl. Evie was observing her with cinched brows and a snarl. “Are you seriously going to back down now?” she demanded.

  “No, of course not! But I can’t let you come with me. I won’t let you risk your lives.”

  “You won’t let us?” Evie released a ringing laugh. “Do you really think you have any control over what any of us do?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Being an Anthemite is about being able to make your own choices, even if they cost you. I don’t know about the rest of you pitchers, but I already made my choice. I’m going to help you, and I’m going to protect my brothers.”