Radio

by Sophia Elaine Hanson

  Ronja stepped from the elevator, the world falling away behind her. She crossed to the nearest clock, her heart thundering in her chest. Her head still throbbed, but the pain seemed distant now. She pressed her palm to the cool glass. The hum of machinery tickled her skin. The city sprawled beneath her for miles. She could see the core, the middle ring, the outer ring, all the way to the slums. The onyx wall was almost invisible save for its many watchtowers that flung glaring searchlights over the shantytown. What they were searching for, she would never know. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps they were only there to instill fear.

  “Ronja.”

  Ronja peeled her hand from the glass and turned around. Terra had taken a seat at the dashboard. Samson stood before the elevator doors, his hand on the gun strapped to his side. Maxwell roamed the room aimlessly, a faint smile hanging off the corner of his mouth. Roark stood before her, watching her curiously.

  “It looks so small,” she said, jerking her head at the city beneath them.

  “It does,” he agreed. He jerked his head at the machine behind him. “Come on, no time to waste.”

  Ronja nodded and swept past him. She shrugged off her heavy overcoat, letting it crumple on the floor. Terra was staring at the dashboard from her seat. Her eyes roamed across the field of switches and dials.

  “Do you know how to work it?” Ronja asked.

  “Yes,” Terra answered flatly. “Evie taught me.”

  “What are you waiting for, then?”

  Terra glanced up. To Ronja’s surprise, the cross expression Terra typically reserved for her was gone. There was a vulnerability flashing in her eyes she had never seen before. Terra Vahl was afraid. “Terra,” the Siren said quietly, leaning down toward her so the boys would not hear. “Remember at Red Bay, when you told me to keep walking, after I almost got incinerated.”

  Terra snorted. “Yeah.”

  “Well … walk.”

  For a moment, the agent did not react. Ronja kicked herself internally. You had to go and say something, she chastised herself. Then Terra smiled. Not a quirk of the lips or a sardonic smirk, but a grin.

  “All right, Siren,” she said, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulders. “Here we go.”

  49: Clarity

  “That should do it,” Terra said. She exhaled sharply, then climbed to her feet. Ronja and Roark pressed toward the console eagerly. It was far quieter than Abe. Heat did not pour from it, either. Ronja might not have known it was on were it not for the flashing red light on the corner of the switchboard. “Ronja,” Terra said, sidestepping out of the way. She inclined her head toward the impressive leather chair. “All yours.”

  Ronja nodded mutely. Her mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust. She stepped in front of the chair, her eyes fixed on the humming machine before her. This was where The Conductor sat. It was His throne. He never made public appearances; there was no need when he had a direct line to the minds of His citizens. A sliver of her mind, the part that still responded to the word mutt, bucked against the thought.

  She crushed it in the palm of her hand and lowered herself onto the throne.

  The tower did not crumble beneath her. The glass walls did not shatter. Ronja closed her eyes, bracing her hands against the slick leather arms of the chair.

  “How long do you need?” Terra asked.

  “Three minutes?” Ronja said, opening her eyes and blinking up at the girl. “Can we do that?”

  “Yeah,” the agent answered, nodding and turning a dial on the far side of the dashboard. “We can. This is different, though. We are not hacking the gap. We are cutting straight through The Music.”

  Ronja took a steadying breath. “Will I be able to hear The Music?”

  “No,” Terra shook her head.

  “As soon as you finish, we need to split,” Roark spoke up to her right. He smiled crookedly, dark humor flaring in his gaze. “Unless we want to go down with the tower.”

  “Will we be able to make it out in time?” Ronja asked, looking from him to Terra anxiously.

  “This was your plan,” the boy pointed out with a low chuckle.

  “True, but to be fair, I didn’t know we were going to be at the top of the bloody tower, and I didn’t know about the mainframe.”

  “Almost no one in the core is going to hear you,” Roark reminded her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll take time for the people of the other rings to make it up here.”

  “Not to mention, we’ll have to open the door for them,” Samson pointed out. Ronja twisted around in the chair, peeking over the winged back to lock eyes with the captain. He still held his automatic in his gloved hand. Maxwell hovered near him, bouncing from foot to foot and gazing around the room with childlike interest.

  “True,” Ronja said with a forced laugh. “All right. Put me through.”

  “Headphones,” Terra said, nodding at the pair on the edge of the switchboard.

  Ronja crowned herself with the headset, adjusting the mouthpiece so it hovered an inch from her lips. The device quelled all sound but the gusts of her breath in the microphone. She looked up at Roark blankly. His lips were moving. “What?” she asked, peeling off one of the pads. The world came screaming back.

  “I asked if you knew what you were going to sing,” he said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Roark cocked his head to the side. “And?”

  Ronja let the earpiece slap back down over her scar. “It’s a surprise.” She winked up at him, settling herself on the edge of the throne. She locked eyes with Terra. “Go,” she said. It was strange to have her voice projected directly into her ear. It felt almost too close.

  Terra leaned over the dashboard, her long hair sweeping forward to obscure her features. She paused for a moment, her tan fingers hovering over a gold-trimmed lever. Then, in one swift motion, she slammed it down.

  Ronja closed her eyes.

  Silence erupted. The absence of The Music played on her skin, though she could not hear it. She was with them, all of them, as it jolted them from sleep, stopped them in their tracks on their way home from work. Their fear and confusion were reflected back at her through the wires. They were expecting The Conductor, wondering why he was contacting them at such a late hour. Ronja began to sing.

  When the day shakes

  Beneath the hands of night

  When your page is ripped

  From the Book of Life

  When your knees crash

  Into the ground

  And your desperate lips

  Won’t make a sound

  With each word the shackles of her past fell away. All the fear, all the rage, all the agony, extinguished. Red Bay receded, swallowed by the waters it was named for. Her mother was laid to rest on a hillside. Henry waded through the stars.

  When you’re all alone

  And the night is deep

  When you’re surrounded

  But you want to weep

  When the morning comes

  And it’s all but bleak

  When you want to scream

  But instead you’re meek

  Ronja raised her eyes to the ceiling. Hot tears spilled over her lids, hitting the dashboard without a sound. The thunderheads that blossomed from her voice were no longer black. They were clear as glass. They crackled with energy as if charged by stingers, shedding sparks that would never burn their skin.

  Sing my friend

  Into the dark

  Sing my friend

  Into the deep

  Sing my friend

  Into the black

  Sing my friend

  There and back

  Ronja climbed to her feet, her clammy hands clutching the edge of the dashboard for support. Though her song had ended, the white clouds did not rupture. They remained above her, guarding her. “People of Revinia,” she began. Her words echoed as if bounding down a long corridor. “My name is Ronja Fey Zipse and I am the Siren. I spent most of my life a prisoner of The Music, made to serve The Conduct
or with every breath I took, just like you. Three months ago, I was freed from my Singer. I saw Atticus Bullon for what He really was, a liar and a coward. He has enslaved us, taken everything that makes us human. He divides us. He manipulates us and warps us.

  “Tomorrow, He will release a new form of The Music. It will drain you of all emotion and take away the last shreds of your free will. But you can stop it. You must help us destroy the mainframes that generate The Music. Some of you know where they are. Seek them out and destroy them. The rest of you, head for the palace. I will meet you there. This is the Siren, signing off for the last time. May your song guide you home.”

  Ronja fell silent. She drew a deep, shuddering breath and slipped off the headset. The quiet hum of the machine, the unsteady breathing of her friends, came roaring back. She turned around leaned up against the dashboard. Roark was watching her with full eyes. Samson and Terra were grinning ear-to-ear. “Do you think it worked?” she asked.

  Before any of them could respond, Maxwell began to laugh.

  50: Encore

  “Bravo!” he shouted, applauding fervently. He bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet. “That was incredible, truly inspired.”

  Ronja glowered at him. Roark stepped between her and the madman, beaming. “Ignore him,” he said, offering his hand. He jerked his chin toward the glass clock nearest to them. “We have more important things to worry about.”

  Ronja reached out and took his hand. His skin stilled the tremors coursing through her. They hurried over to the window facing north. Samson followed, his heavy boots thumping across the marble. Terra stayed back, holding Maxwell in place, her machete ready to skewer him from behind.

  Ronja held her breath as they approached the towering face of the clock. The great gears slowed as she approached, their groans fading to silence as she pressed her brow to the cold surface. Her breath fogged as she squinted down at the distant city.

  The Siren ceased to breathe.

  Revinia was on fire.

  Electric lights and blazing torches sliced through the night. Every window, every door, every streetlamp was illuminated. Snow had begun to fall. It was painted orange, sparks drifting down from burning clouds.

  “What the hell is that?” Samson asked from behind her.

  “What?” Roark asked, squinting down at the metropolis. “What are you seeing?”

  “That,” Ronja breathed. She pressed the tip of her finger to the glass, her lips parted with shock. Amber light shivered in his dark irises as Roark followed her gaze to the boulevard that ran from the tower to the middle ring. It had come alive, a fiery river inching toward them step by step. “The Revinians,” Ronja breathed. Her breath formed a halo on the glass, veiling the march. “They’re coming.”

  Samson let out a whoop, jamming his fist into the air. A female voice joined his cries: Terra. Ronja turned around just in time to see the captain knock Maxwell out of the way and sweep the agent off her feet into a passionate kiss. Terra blinked rapidly, her mouth pressed to his, then sank into the moment, twining her fingers in his long hair.

  “Well,” Roark said with laugh. “I, for one, am not about to be upstaged by those two.”

  Ronja smiled through a sheen of tears as he took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her brow. “You did it,” he whispered against her skin. “You did it.”

  “We did it,” she murmured, slipping her arms around his waist. The future curled around them, expanding as far as they could see. Further than they had ever been.

  “All right, all right, enough!” Ronja and Roark looked around to see Terra step back from Samson. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her lips puffy. The captain ran his fingers through his shaggy hair, his eyes wide with internalized disbelief. “We have a mainframe to destroy, then apparently, we have to get you to the palace.”

  Ronja barked a disbelieving laugh, wiping away her tears with the heels of her hands. She stepped back from Roark, still holding him by the hand. “All right,” she said in a firm voice. “You heard the woman, time to go.”

  Terra smiled, her hazel eyes crinkling around the edges. Ronja returned the gesture.

  “Ah, about that.” Maxwell lifted a single finger.

  Ronja rounded on him, her hand drifting toward her stinger. “You know,” she snapped. “Maybe we should just leave you up here.”

  “I second that,” Terra said, prowling toward the chemi. Her knives were back in her hands. Ronja had not even seen her draw them. Maxwell just smiled, exposing far too many of his teeth.

  “We’ll all be leaving this tower,” he assured them. “But you will not be going home.”

  Ronja glanced over at Roark. His war paint was smeared with sweat, the black lines mingling with the orange glow of the mob drawing steadily nearer. His free hand was on his revolver. The Siren shifted her gaze back to Maxwell. His eyes were on her. In the aura of the revolution below, they were almost red. His lips formed a single word.

  “Now.”

  Ronja did not even have time to scream. The door burst open and a flood of Offs rushed in. Roark swore and knocked her backward. She cried out when her shoulder struck the unforgiving floor and she heard a sickening pop. Clutching her arm to her side, she scrambled to her feet and drew her gun.

  Chaos reigned. Roark had already emptied his revolver and was fighting with his twin stingers. He was a storm, twisting and striking with deadly precision. But he was not untouchable. Blood gushed from his nose and a thick gash on his brow. Samson had one Off in a headlock. When another jumped on his back, with a roar the captain slammed him into the eastern clock. The glass spidered behind them just as Terra let one of her blades fly, nailing the Off Samson was suffocating between the eyes.

  Terra was fighting from the top of the dashboard, a ring of bodies at her feet. She was down to her last two knives, fending off multiple attackers at once. She did not notice the man sneaking up behind her, black stinger rippling with deadly electricity.

  Ronja did not even think. She shut one eye, aimed at the Off and fired. The bullet lodged in his shoulder. Dark blood oozed from the wound, soaking his uniform. The Off blinked, glanced down at the wound as if it were a mosquito bite, then struck Terra with his stinger.

  Her scream of agony filled the clock tower just as Ronja was forced to her knees. Her vision was flooded with Offs. She twisted and bit at her captors as her revolver was ripped from her hands, her stingers from their holsters. They crossed her arms behind her back. She roared as white hot pain flared in her dislocated shoulder. Somewhere over the din, Roark was shouting her name.

  Terra was silent.

  “Enough,” came a lazy command.

  The hands restraining her disappeared. The Offs backed away. Ronja scrambled to her feet, clutching her throbbing shoulder. She took stock of the room. It was filled to capacity with Offs. At least, at first glance they looked like Offs. Their uniforms were dark and lined with silver buttons, but the symbol over their hearts did not belong to The Conductor. Three red pillars against a black backdrop. Many of them were bleeding, including the one she had shot, but none of them appeared to register the pain.

  Samson and Roark had both been forced to their knees and remained there, guns pressed to their temples. They were covered in blood, their own mixed with that of their enemies. Ronja tasted rust in her mouth and knew she looked the same. Terra was crumpled on the floor, lifeless.

  “Do you understand now, Siren?” Ronja tore her eyes from Terra. Maxwell stood at the center of the room, bathed in the inferno of the approaching revolution. He no longer bobbed up and down on his feet. The manic smile had slipped from his mouth, replaced by a smirk.

  “Whatever you have planned,” Ronja said through her teeth. “It’s too late. The Revinians are free. They’ll destroy this tower with us in it, we’ll all go down.”

  “How poetic,” Maxwell purred. “What an end to the story that would be.”

  “What story?” Roark growled.

  Maxwell snapped his
fingers without taking his eyes off Ronja. The Off holding Roark at gunpoint cranked his arm back and slammed the butt of his automatic into his skull. Ronja screamed, clamping her hand over her mouth as the boy cried out in shock and pain.

  “How I hate being interrupted,” Maxwell sighed, shaking his head.

  “You’ve got a big one coming,” the Siren spat.

  “Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me.” Maxwell raised his pallid hand to his Singer, then spun a tiny dial between his thumb and forefinger. “Begin the countdown,” he said.

  Ronja felt her heart still in her ribs. Her body went numb, yet somehow she remained standing. She slid her gaze to Roark. His face was dripping with blood and war paint. It did nothing to hide the panic flaring in his eyes.

  “The best thing about being mad,” Maxwell said, shifting the little dial again, “is that when you appear to be talking to yourself, people assume you are.”

  “Your Singer is a transmitter,” Ronja whispered.

  Maxwell smiled absently, still fiddling with the device that bracketed his ear. “My Singer is a lot of things, Siren.” He raised a long finger to shush her. “Fel nevin.”

  A chill lanced through Ronja. “Tovairin.” She swallowed. “The language you were speaking in your cell, it was Tovairin.”

  “How astute. If only my guards had been so keen.” A knock at the door. Ronja took an involuntary step backward, turning her back foot to the side as Samson had taught her. “Come in, come in,” Maxwell called.

  The door swung open. Jonah filled the frame, a pair of hulking Offs at his back. His lip was split, blood was crusted on his chin. He locked eyes with Ronja.

  “Allies,” she snarled. She spit on the marble floor. “I should have let Evie kill you.”

  The Tovairin flinched, then shifted his gaze to Maxwell.

  “Yes, you should have,” Maxwell agreed. “Your heart is far too good for war, my dear.”

  “Tell that to the guards I killed at Red Bay,” Ronja hissed.