Ronja reached out and tugged the blankets up around her thin shoulders. Georgie shifted, her pale eyelids shuddering, then stilled. The older girl dropped her gaze to her thighs, where a sealed envelope rested. It was blank, expressionless. When she had gone to write their names, her hands had failed. The letter inside was brief. There was no closing. She had not even bothered to sign it. If she had told them how much she loved them or begged for their forgiveness, she would have shattered.
She would have stayed.
Ronja rose on one knee. The letter slipped, landing on the mattress soundlessly. She got to her feet slowly, stooping to avoid the low ceiling. Strands of raven hair dripped into her face, cloaking her vision. Curiosity got the better of her. She padded over to the square mirror that stood atop their tower of books. Her lips parted in shock.
Her eyes were luminous against the long black wig. Iris had dropped it off earlier wrapped in newspaper along with a tube of what she initially thought was paint. A second look revealed it was foundation meant to cover her freckles. The makeup was a shade too dark for her pallor. It altered her features a startling amount. Her cheeks and nose were empty without the smattering of freckles, though the effect was not entirely unpleasant.
Ronja glanced down at her watch again. The long hand had limped through another sixty seconds. 2:57. Almost there, she coaxed herself. As the day passed, she had grown increasingly concerned that Roark and the others had somehow forgotten to tell her what time they were leaving. It was only when she went to crumple up the newspaper her wig and makeup arrived in that she glimpsed the note scrawled inside.
Diversion at 2:58. Elevator at 3:00.
— S
Ronja returned to her reflection. The collar of her trench coat rose past her chin, shielding her mouth. Her heavy knapsack was slung over her shoulders, her stingers tucked safely inside. I look like an Anthemite, she realized. All this time underground, her voice caught in the back of her throat, she had not felt like a revolutionary but a recluse. Back to her watch. The second hand oscillated around the thirty-second mark, then crept onward.
Ronja stooped to set the letter on her pillow. Somehow, it made her side of the bed look even emptier. Three seconds. She turned her back on the sanctuary, on her family, on her unspoken words. Lifting her hood, she closed her eyes as the minute hand locked into place.
Goodbye, Georgie.
Her lips were sealed when her voice ripped through the Belly.
Ronja exploded from the tent. The lights were low, the scattered lamps like exhausted moons above her. She stood thunderstruck outside her quarters as Anthemites stumbled from their homes, blinking in the face of the deafening lyrics. Shouts and curses rang out. They looked around wildly, searching for the source of the voice that beamed down at them from all angles.
Be still, my friend
Tomorrow is so far, far around the bend
Her own voice tickled her ear as she launched into the bewildered crowd. It did not sound as she expected it to. It was steady as a mountain, rough around the edges. It was not beautiful, exactly. It was powerful.
Cast your troubles off the shore
Unlace your boots and cry no more
Because today my friend, I promise you are on the mend
Her words faded out on a sigh she did not remember heaving. The relative quiet raised chills on her skin. She dipped her head lower, tugging on the edge of her hood. Around her the Anthemites were still struggling to identify the source of the song. They jostled her shoulders, their attention slipping over her as if she were a wraith.
Ronja.
Ronja.
Ronja.
Her name was on their lips. Roark was right, they knew her voice without ever having heard it. Reeling, she moved as quickly as she could without running. Her paranoia burgeoned. It was unnecessary. For the first time in months, no one was paying her any mind. It was working. She cut between two tents and slipped into the Vein.
The elevator burst into view at the end of the wide aisle. Her heart leapt into her throat. She had trained herself to ignore the exit. The thought of leaving had become so distant there was no sense taunting herself with it. Green and white designs spiraled across the metallic doors, a mosaic of farmland viewed from an airship.
Almost there. Perspiration beaded on her brow. She was gaining on the exit too fast. They could not linger outside the elevator waiting for a wayward member of the mob to break ranks. Their only chance was to coast straight through the doors when Samson opened them at 3:00, a blip in the babel. Ronja slowed to a virtual crawl, allowing herself to be jostled by the writhing throng.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the recorder looped, blasting her voice into the Belly again. The Anthemites redoubled their efforts to discover the source.
Be still, my friend
Tomorrow is so far, far around the bend
Cast your troubles off the shore
A gentle hand touched the space between her shoulder blades. Ronja flinched. A familiar form slipped into her peripheral vision. His face was obscured by his deep cowl, but she would know his swagger anywhere. “I prefer your real hair,” he murmured.
Ronja smiled grimly, though she knew he could not see it. “Where are they?”
“On their way.”
Unlace your boots and cry no more
For today my friend,
I promise you are on the mend.
Ronja checked her timepiece. “Fifteen seconds,” she muttered. She felt rather than saw Roark tense beside her. They were only meters from the elevator. The world was shrinking in diameter, narrowing toward their escape. Behind them, the Anthemites were still running around like chickens with their heads cut off. “How many times is it set to repeat?”
“Three.”
As if in reply, the recording began its final loop.
Be still, my friend
Tomorrow is so far, far around the bend
They were only steps away. The harder Ronja stared at the elevator doors, the more the painted patterns seemed to dance. Two sets of footsteps struck up behind them, one light and hurried, the other heavy and sure. Ronja peeked over her shoulder, relief welling in her chest. Evie and Iris were nearly unrecognizable. The techi sported a mousy brown wig and a cracked pair of glasses that magnified her rich brown eyes. The surgeon wore a braided blonde wig and a ratty newsboy cap.
Ronja twisted back around and came to a stop before the elevator. The world shuddered to a halt. For a terrible moment, her breath was suspended.
Then the doors rolled open like a hungry mouth, spilling greenish light across them. Samson stood in the compartment garbed in an oversized bomber jacket and heavy black pants. She knew beneath his coat he was armed to the teeth. Somehow, that did not make her feel better. “Get in,” the captain ordered sharply.
Ronja hitched up her bag and stepped across the threshold. Her friends filed in after her. They shuffled around to face the front, tensed for an assault. The Belly sprawled before them, teeming with baffled Anthemites and light and sound. Ronja felt her soul clench. Though it had become something of a prison over the past months, the underground station was the first place she ever felt truly free. It was their first home, their only home. She would protect it and her cousins, no matter the cost.
I promise you are on the mend
“Ronja!”
No.
Ronja felt her legs give, yet somehow she remained upright. Her friends stiffened around her, their hands flying to their respective weapons. Hundreds of pairs of eyes rounded on them as her name echoed in the wake of the song. A wave of devastating silence washed over the Belly. Samson slammed his fist into the button. The elevator doors began to roll shut.
A slight form shot out of the stagnant crowd. Her eyes were wide with panic and anguish. A crumpled letter was clenched in her fist. She skidded to a halt a dozen paces from the closing doors, her night dress swirling around her knees. “Georgie,” Ronja breathed. She took a half step forward but Roark wra
pped a restraining arm around her waist.
The doors closed with a polite peal of chimes.
15: Ascension
The elevator crawled up the shaft unhurriedly, the gears groaning through the thin walls. Five pairs of lungs drew on the air. No one dared speak. Roark maintained his grip on Ronja, as if she might attempt to pry open the iron doors. She had not so much as blinked since they shut. “So … do you think they saw us?” Evie finally asked.
“Yeah,” Samson replied tonelessly. He swore, slamming his fist into the wall with a reverberating thud. “They saw us.”
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Iris exclaimed with a scalding glance at Roark. “Going out through the pitching front door … ”
“The sewers would have been crawling with guards, you know that,” the shiny shot back, releasing Ronja. She touched the place where his hand had been, only vaguely aware of the argument taking place around her. Her mind was still anchored below. “I’d like to point out it was working perfectly until … ”
An earsplitting screech and the elevator jerked to a stop. The lights winked out. Iris let out a squeak. Samson swore. Ronja crashed back into her bones. She swiped her hood from her head as if it would allow her to see better. Silence fell as the compartment swayed, suspended from dangling cables.
“Are you going to say it or should I?” Evie asked out of the black.
“They must have cut the power,” Roark growled.
“You think?” Iris shouted. “Great, now we’re all going to suffocate.”
Roark made a noise of dissent. “No need to be defeatist.”
A flashlight flared in the dense shadows. Ronja blinked as her pupils pulled in on themselves. Samson aimed the cold beam at the ceiling, his neck craned to examine the cheap tiles. “The center panel is an exit,” he said. “If we can … ”
Roark scooted Iris aside gently, reached up, and palmed the panel upward, sliding it out of view. The darkness of the elevator shaft was somehow deeper than that around them.
“Yeah, that,” Samson said. He turned the flashlight on his face. The beam carved out deep shadows in his eye sockets. “I’ll go first, then I’ll pull the rest of you up.”
“Excuse me,” Roark cut in. “I think the strongest of us should go first.”
The captain laughed, the sound filling the already cramped space. “We can compare shoe sizes another time.” He shed his bulky pack and set it on the floor with a ringing clang. Handing the flashlight off to Evie, he reached up with ease and gripped either side of the portal. He hoisted himself up with a grunt, kicking Roark in the chest.
“Oi!” Roark yelled after him, but Samson was already through. The remaining Anthemites crowded under the hole, squinting into the gloom. The flashlight cut through nothing but air and dust. Heavy footfalls studded the roof.
“We’re only a few feet below the door,” Sam called down. “I can get it open.” A collective sigh of relief swept through the group. There was a charged pause, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal grinding against metal. Ronja shivered as cold air rushed down through the portal, stirring the tips of her wig.
“Don’t move,” came a voice from above.
Evie clicked off the flashlight. Ronja felt rather than heard her and Roark draw their stingers. She cursed herself internally for storing her own weapons so deep in her bag. “James,” Samson said loudly. Ronja stiffened and felt Roark do the same to her right. “What are you doing here?”
“My job.”
“I told you I was going to cover your shift.”
“And I told you there was no need.”
A pause. Ronja held her breath. Sweat trickled down her spine. Iris was shivering nearby, terror rolling off her body in waves. Ronja forced down the urge to reach out to her, fearing making a sound.
“Wilcox just radioed me,” James went on, his voice hard as stone. “He told me to cut the power on the elevator, that it was full of traitors.”
“James … ”
“This is pitch, Sam!” the elder Mason bellowed.
“Keep your voice down.”
“You know Ronja is insane, right?”
Ronja felt her temper flare. She gritted her teeth to keep from bellowing an insult. Roark shifted on his feet. She imagined his grip tightening around the hilt of his stinger.
“That girl is going to get us all killed.”
“Or she could save us.”
A hollow laugh. “You really believe that?”
Samson paused for a beat. “How much do you know, James?” he asked cautiously.
“Everything.” Ronja could almost see his smug smile in the blank slate before her. “Wilcox trusts me, he told me everything.”
“Then you know the rumors about her are true.”
“I know she believes them, but come on, Samson.” Frustration saturated his boastful tone. “How can you believe them so easily?”
The captain was quiet for a long moment. Ronja thought her bones might shatter beneath the weight of the pause. “Roark, Evie, and Iris are my family. If they trust Ronja, I do too. I thought you were part of that family.”
Time reached out into the darkness, toying with them in the claustrophobic compartment. Each breath felt like twenty. Finally, the suspension snapped. “Get on your knees,” James ordered.
“Jim … ”
A resounding click, the safety of a gun being switched off. Roark went rigid. His stinger flared, painting the shadows blue and white. Evie followed his lead. The combined glow was enough to reveal their tense faces.
“Get up here and get on your knees.” The elevator swayed as Samson pushed off from the roof. “Hands behind your head.” Leather crunched. Static spiked as James flipped on his radio. “Sir, I have them. What should I — ”
Crack.
Roark swore, stuffing his weapon into its holster and shoving Ronja and Iris out of the way. Ronja braced herself against the wall as the boy started to lift himself through the portal. A thud like a bag of flour slamming into the ceiling shook the elevator. Roark yelled and crashed back onto the floor, landing on his arm awkwardly. “Sam!” he bellowed, scrambling to his feet gracelessly and clutching his shoulder. “Samson!”
“I’m … I’m good,” came the breathless reply. Evie raised her crackling stinger to the hole in the ceiling. A muscular arm drooped over the edge, lifeless. It was white as the belly of a fish.
“James,” Ronja murmured. “Is he alive?”
Iris stepped forward, her confidence snapped firmly into place, and pinched his wrist. Everyone in the compartment ceased breathing until she released him with a quick nod. Ronja sighed, relieved. As much as she loathed him, she did not wish him dead.
“How did you take him down?” Roark shouted up to Samson, admiration ringing in his tone.
“I didn’t,” the captain replied shortly. A soft thump graced the roof, followed by the whisper of lithe footsteps. The Anthemites glanced at each other in the harsh aura of the stingers. A heavy scraping pulled their eyes skyward, just as James was dragged from view. Another hand, lean and strong, shot through the gap.
“Terra,” Ronja spat.
16: Bitter
“Grab my hand,” Terra ordered. Ronja bristled. She curled her fingers into fists, ignoring the throbbing pain that resulted. The last thing she wanted was to touch Terra, unless it was to add a broken nose to her list of injuries.
“What are you doing here?” Evie asked.
“Saving your skins, again,” Terra replied. The techi chuckled, holstering her stinger and plunging them into darkness yet again. A split second later she flicked on the flashlight and passed it to Roark. “Any time, Wick.”
Evie clasped the offered hand. The agent yanked her up fluidly, despite the techi’s muscular frame and bag. A moment later, Evie reached down, crooking a finger at Iris. The surgeon stepped forward and was pulled through like a rag doll. Ronja and Roark were left alone in the compartment.
“Go ahead,” Ronja said, jabbing her thumb at
the portal. Roark shook his head and stuffed the flashlight into his coat pocket. The girl eyed him dubiously. “What are you … oi!” He had grabbed her by the waist and lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all. Cursing colorfully, she braced her hands on either side of the hole and hoisted herself up. Roark released her just as she clipped the side of his head with her shoe.
“Is this going to become a tradition?” he yelled after her. Ronja was no longer paying attention. Scrambling to her feet, she peered around the shaft. She was alone on the roof save for James, who lay motionless on his side. His mountainous torso rose and fell steadily.
“Ro, come on!” Ronja looked up. Evie knelt in the doorway several feet above, her tattooed hand outstretched. Terra had moved out of sight, much to her relief. Iris and Samson lingered at the door, conversing in hushed tones. The captain glanced down at his fallen subordinate periodically, his face clouded with warring emotions. “Hurry up,” the techi said, a twinge of uncharacteristic anxiety coloring her tone. “Wilcox is probably on his way.”
Ronja took her hand and allowed the techi to drag her up, pack and all. Her knees scraped the sharp lip of the floor and she hissed in pain. Evie helped her to her feet. Brushing the dirt from her knees, Ronja glanced around the room.
The aboveground station had not improved since her last visit. Heaps of trash and junk littered the dimly lit space. Pale winter moonlight spilled through the slats in the boarded windows, landing in puddles on the stone floor.
Moonlight. Ronja felt her throat tighten. Her eyes flooded, and she was gripped by the urge to reach out and pocket the glow.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Anger suffocated the bliss enveloping her. Ronja had almost forgotten about Terra. Curling her mouth into a snarl, she rounded on the agent, who leaned up against the wall, her half shaven head resting against the bricks. Even in the faint light, the violet bruising around her eye was visible, though it was not as impressive as Samson had made it out to be. “What are you doing here?” Ronja growled.
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