Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  “Excellent,” Terra said. “Get going.”

  “Hold up a pitching second,” Ronja said, snatching Terra by the arm. “You expect me to abandon my family?”

  “No,” the girl replied, knocking her hand away. “I expect you to let your family get out first. You’ll be no help to them in your condition, but you might be able to help Roark.”

  “How?” Ronja asked incredulously.

  “Roark will fight for you, like you did for him,” Terra said offhandedly, wiping her blood-slick knife on her pants and jamming it back into its sheath. “If he sees you’re alive, he might even fight this Lost Song.”

  Ronja regarded the girl grimly, but could not muster a reasonable counterargument.

  “It’s settled then,” Terra said with irrefutable finality. “Ronja, Henry, put on your headphones. Everyone grab a weapon.”

  53: The New Methods

  Roark

  Roark figured Victor was marching him to a laboratory of some sort, but this assumption proved incorrect. As they rounded a corner, Roark’s footsteps faltered. His father glanced at him over his shoulder, though his pace did not waver.

  Roark’s eyebrows cinched, and a familiar sense of foreboding took root in his stomach.

  “The atrium,” he muttered under his breath.

  The pair of double doors thrown open at the terminus of the corridor led to the central lobby. Even from afar, Roark could see the vast, sterile room was burgeoning with hundreds of loyal employees. Their words wove themselves into a bubbling hum. Roark fought the urge to run. His dread grew with each forward step.

  He lifted his chin as they approached the entryway. His blood froze as he crossed the threshold, and he cringed when he heard Offs slam the doors in his wake.

  Conversation spiked and plummeted in rapid waves as the employees laid eyes first on Victor, then on Roark. He kept his eyes trained on his father’s back, but still saw people pointing at him like a zoo animal in his peripheral vision.

  Roark could not blame them, he supposed.

  His family was the second best-known in Revinia, and certainly the most gossiped about. Roark in particular was targeted by rumors. He often disappeared for weeks at a time on Anthem business, which understandably aroused suspicion. As far as The Bard was concerned, he had been murdered, addicted to the sap, addicted to gambling, and had slept with half of the core.

  He let the rumors fester, even fueled them. Better to be branded as a philanderer than a traitor.

  Now, it seemed, he might be regarded as both.

  Victor escorted him to a newly-erected wooden stage at the far end of the hall. Roark’s stomach twisted as he mounted the flimsy flight of steps to the platform. When he reached the top, he scanned the room.

  The atrium had been converted into a theater of sorts. The stage looked out over a sea of folding chairs. Chemis, techis, Offs, and physicians of all ranks mingled among them. The makeshift theater possessed only one visible exit, the double doors through which they had entered. There would be no escaping that way. It was nearly thirty meters away and blocked by a tight knot of Offs.

  If he ran now, he would be taken down. He did not care to discover if his demise would come in the form of a bullet or The Quiet Song. Could they reach him with The Quiet Song yet? Had it been converted?

  “Showtime,” Victor murmured under his breath.

  Roark slid his gaze sidelong. Victor licked his thin lips and gave the audience a dazzling smile. He raised a silencing palm. The babel fizzled, then died as people took their seats.

  “Devoted employees, citizens of Revinia, thank you for being here today,” Victor began.

  His voice swallowed the room, as if his words were their own Music.

  “These past months you have poured your time and energy into fulfilling our Exalted Conductor’s wishes. You have His personal thanks.”

  Applause gathered, then dissipated.

  “Nearly fifty years ago Revinia was ravaged by civil war. We had severed ourselves from the world in hopes of avoiding such things, but ultimately the violence rose from the heart of our city. Seeing no end to the savagery, our esteemed leader Atticus Bullon looked for a way out.”

  “May the ages hold his name,” the audience droned.

  Victor inclined his head solemnly, then continued.

  “Bullon came to my father with a simple question: Why continue to fight a ceaseless battle when other options may exist?”

  Victor laced his fingers behind him and began to prowl the stage. The scalding spotlights deepened the branching lines on his face.

  “The Conductor spoke of The Music, of course. At the time it was merely a nebulous concept, but my father saw the genius in it. With The Conductor’s help, he created The Music that now guides us. We would not be the great city we are today without the notes in your ears right now.”

  The audience members bobbed their heads, touched their Singers affectionately.

  “Unfortunately, The Music as we know it is no longer enough to snuff the disobedience so innate in human nature.”

  Roark felt his heart sputter in his chest. Victor’s suited back was to him, but his smugness radiated.

  “We have some special guests here today to exhibit your fine work. If you would bring them forth, Bayard.”

  Roark looked to his left, his gut plummeting.

  Bayard, the Off with the black ponytail, emerged from the shadows. A length of cord was wound around his wrist. He checked over his shoulder and gave the wire a tug. Gasps rose from the crowd. A few people even stood. Roark craned his neck to see who the massive man led.

  There were four of them bound to Bayard by their necks and wrists. The first was an elderly man whose mousy hair was coming out in chunks. His eyes were glazed and slightly crossed. After him came a young girl with stubble almost as fiery as Ito’s. She peered around sullenly, her small nose wrinkled. After her was a wiry man with dark skin and a nervous tick in his fingers. All three wore Singers.

  The final prisoner was a woman. A mutt, Roark quickly realized. Her fingers were clubbed, her skin sallow. Her features were coarse and her eyes yellow, but there was something about the shape of her mouth . . .

  “Layla,” Roark breathed.

  The woman’s head snapped up, her mustard eyes ablaze. She had heard him halfway across the auditorium.

  “Bring them here,” Victor commanded.

  Bayard yanked the chain gang roughly, and they tripped forward like dominos. Someone in the audience guffawed loudly, but most chuckled under their breath. Roark swallowed the lump of anger in his throat.

  The four prisoners were led to the center of the stage, where Bayard began to unchain them.

  “Do not try to run,” Victor intoned, strolling along the aisle of prisoners. “You will be gunned down before you reach the door. In but a moment, you will realize you do not wish to run.”

  The redheaded girl snarled. Roark eyed her curiously. Her Singer glinted proudly in the spotlight, doubtlessly imploring her to respect Victor. She appeared to pay it little mind.

  Ronja’s indignant face flashed in his mind. Their second meeting on the platform. Her migraines. Her curiosity. Her persistence. Her scarcely-veiled rage.

  “The people of Revinia have developed a subtle deafness to The Music,” Victor said, turning back to face the audience.

  They observed him raptly. Their attention appeared genuine. Roark wondered if they would be so attentive if their Singers were removed.

  “In some cases this tolerance is harmless,” Victor continued in his silky voice. “For example, the outer ring recently created an office that offers impoverished citizens unapproved jobs. While not sanctioned by The Conductor, this organization is fundamentally benign. However,” Victor raised a slim finger. “Far more serious rebels lurk in our city. They call themselves the Anthem.”

  Whispers thick with fear and revulsion gathered above the crowd. Roark felt his insides writhe. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “The
se criminals hide like cowards in our midst, mutilating their members, children, by cutting off their ears as well as their Singers. They are barbarians in the worst sense of the word. They are the embodiment of the thing The Music strives to stamp out.

  “Classically these criminals would have been turned into mutts.” Victor gestured to Layla, who gave a soft growl. “But this practice is outdated and messy. If we were to mutate every wayward citizen, there would be more mutts than humans among us.”

  The audience shuddered collectively and exchanged hushed words of agreement. Roark might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Layla lift her chin.

  “Is it not more prudent to pull out the roots of this problem rather than to cut its branches?” Victor asked, spreading his hands peaceably.

  A ripple of agreement passed through the hall, chilling Roark to the bone.

  “We did our best to allow the public some leeway, but it would seem they cannot handle even an ounce of freedom.”

  “You call this freedom?”

  Victor stiffened. He turned toward Roark slowly, his chest ballooning with rage. Not long ago Roark might have quelled, but not today. He could not allow himself the luxury of fear.

  “Would you care to tell us what you mean?” Victor asked.

  He spoke cautiously, as if his words might shatter glass.

  “No one in Revinia is free,” Roark said, moving to face his father. He had never realized that he was taller than Victor by a full three inches. “Not even you. You may be free of The Music, but you still serve The Conductor.”

  “By my own choice,” Victor replied, smiling sweetly.

  “Choice,” Roark snorted. “Your choices are going to get you killed one of these days. I only hope I get to be the one who pulls the trigger.”

  The room erupted.

  People leapt to their feet and jeered at him, screaming threats and throwing whatever they could get their hands on. Roark ducked as a clipboard narrowly missed his temple and cracked against the wall. Papers fluttered to the ground halfheartedly.

  Victor raised his hands and calm descended.

  “My son has been misled by the Anthem.”

  The audience loosed a collective gasp. Victor nodded calmly, then went on.

  “They captured him when he was a child and reared him to be their spy. He was weak to fall for their trickery, but is not past redemption. I had hoped I might be able to sway him with my words alone, but the more I speak with my son, the more I realize how far gone he truly is.”

  Victor flicked a finger at Bayard, who had been standing inert at the edge of the stage. The behemoth lumbered forward and offered his master a pair of black headphones. Panic gripped Roark. Before he could bolt, Bayard was squeezing his shoulders with his meaty fingers, his foul breath on the back of his neck.

  “You will find a pair of noise-canceling headphones beneath each of your chairs,” Victor said, slicking back his peppered hair and donning his own. “If you would please tune them to channel one, you will be able to hear what I say.”

  “How do you know I’m not resistant?” Roark spat.

  Victor smiled.

  “Judging by the terror in your eyes, I do not think that will be a problem.”

  54: Sightless

  Evie

  “They’re just around the corner—we put the children in the same cell to save space,” Maxwell said quietly. The boney man glanced behind them, his fingers flickering between his glasses and his Singer agitatedly. “We don’t have much time.”

  “How can you live with yourself, experimenting on children?” Iris whispered bitingly as she peeked around the bend. Evie had given her girlfriend her stinger, which she now white knuckled. Iris motioned for Evie and Maxwell to follow her.

  “This one,” the chemi said, hastily pointing at a door labeled 649.

  The trio came to a halt, glaring at Maxwell expectantly. He stood motionless, staring at the door with glassy eyes.

  “Hurry up, pitcher,” Evie growled.

  She shoved Maxwell roughly and he tripped toward the portal, his key ring jangling in his clammy fingers.

  Evie guarded the door while Maxwell fumbled with the keys. Iris shifted from foot to foot nervously, twirling the stinger between her middle and index fingers like one of her surgical tools. Charged by the adrenaline, Evie assumed. A part of her hoped that Iris would recover quickly from whatever she had endured. She had only been in Red Bay for a night; how much damage could they have done to her?

  The image of Ronja’s mangled body strewn across the conveyor belt flared in her mind, and her doubts were resurrected.

  The lock clicked behind her.

  Evie turned to find Maxwell opening the cell door. She pushed him out of the way brazenly and strode across the threshold. Iris followed, her bare feet whispering on the tiles.

  They were engulfed by the foul combination of body odor, urine, and mold. Iris put her hands over her nose and mouth, but shock left Evie immobile.

  She shook herself free from the grasp of horror.

  “I’ll put them under,” Evie said.

  “Be gentle,” Iris implored from behind her.

  Evie shot a wry glance over her shoulder, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth for a half second. “Right,” she drawled sardonically. “I’ll knock them out as gently as possible.”

  Evie turned back and crouched by the boy before Iris could berate her. His eyes, green shot with gray, were spread wide. They regarded the ceiling blankly, and she knew they did not truly see. He was dangerously thin, his face a map of yellowing of bruises.

  “You resisted,” she murmured under her breath. “You have her blood.”

  Evie suddenly realized she did not know either of their names. She had never stopped to ask Ronja. She reached to her hip and drew the stinger she had lifted from a fallen Off, twirling it between her fingers uncertainly. Could these two survive a shock of this magnitude? Evie wished Iris still had the sedatives, but of course they had been confiscated along with her hair and clothes.

  Evie clenched her teeth, the stinger still dancing in her fingers. If the shock was too powerful the children would be killed. If it was not powerful enough The Quiet would doubtlessly consume them. When she had brought Ronja back to life Evie had not held back. She had flooded the dead girl with the strongest current her stinger could muster. This was a much more delicate process; one she was not certain she could handle.

  “If they go into The Quiet they’ve got no chance,” Iris said gently, squatting down next to her and clamping a firm hand on her shoulder.

  Evie whistled out a steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking into the gaunt face of the boy.

  She flicked the switch with her thumb and drove the weapon into his neck. He convulsed violently, but his blank eyes registered no pain.

  Evie pulled back her stinger, holding her breath as she waited. Iris squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

  The boy’s eyes rolled back into his head, and his vein-checkered lids closed over them.

  Evie stood and backed away as Iris knelt beside him. She placed her fingers on his blotchy neck, just above the burn. Iris nodded after a long moment, and Evie released the breath she did not know she was still holding. She stepped around the boy delicately and knelt beside the girl.

  She was free of bruises, but was frailer than her brother. Her skin was almost gray in the cold light, and her chest rose and fell shallowly. Her eyes were wide like her brothers and roved across the blank ceiling in search of something that was not there.

  “Could you?” Evie asked softly, nodding toward the little girl.

  Iris did not need to ask. She knelt next to the child’s mousy, brown head. With careful fingers, she closed the girl’s fragile lids over her wandering eyes, then touched two fingers to her brow.

  “May your song guide you home,” Iris whispered.

  Evie flicked the stinger to life and pressed it to the girl’s neck. She closed her eyes as the electric current ri
pped through her feeble body, and she did not open them until she wrenched the stinger away.

  “That should do it,” Iris said, feeling for her pulse. “That’ll keep her down for awhile.”

  Evie got to her feet, pushing down her relief to make room for professionalism. “Maxwell,” she barked. “You carry the girl. I’ll take the boy.”

  “Are you sure you can manage?” Maxwell asked from the door.

  “You certainly can’t, so I can.”

  Maxwell blushed fiercely, then adjusted his spectacles in an attempt to hide it.

  Gently as she could, Evie slid her hands under the boy’s shoulders and knees. She hefted him into her arms with a grunt of effort. One of his arms flopped over her bicep, and his head lolled backward. His sightless eyes peeked out from beneath his thick lashes, unnerving her.

  Maxwell maneuvered around Evie and her charge and squatted by the girl. He lifted her with awkward gentleness and curled her toward his chest.

  “Which way?” Evie asked.

  “Left,” Maxwell said.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you.”

  “I expect so.”

  55: Surreal

  It was surreal, watching the world rush by in utter silence. They met no further resistance as they hurtled down the halls, but Ronja still white-knuckled the large automatic she had stolen from the fallen Off. It was longer than her forearm, and she had to hold it with both hands.

  Terra threw up her fist and Ronja slammed to a halt, her bare feet scuffing against the tiles. She felt rather than heard Henry screech to a stop behind her.

  With an open palm, the blond girl gestured for them to wait then flashed a glance around the corner. She nodded over her shoulder, and for half a moment they relaxed.

  Ronja reached up to her headphones and tentatively peeled away one of the cups. Hearing nothing, she swiped them off her head. The others followed suit.

  “There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to an atrium. That has to be where Roark is,” Terra whispered. “Six guards, all wearing headphones. Even if we can get past them, there’s no way we can get to him inside. There are probably hundreds of people in there.”