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  RADIO: Book Two of the Vinyl Trilogy

  Copyright © 2017 Calida Lux Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-0-692-86632-0

  Editor: Katherine Catmull

  Cover Design: Docshot

  Printing: Createspace

  Print and eBook Formatting: Heather Adkins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.

  For Maya

  RADIO

  PART I: SILENCE AND NOISE

  Prologue: Mouse

  Roark

  The cold was the sort that no amount of clothing could bar, but the boy hardly felt it as he trudged down the gas-lit avenue. A bitter wind gusted, threatening to yank back his hood. He huffed and tugged it lower on his brow. A rustling to the left pricked his sensitive ears. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he scuffed to a halt. He gripped the leather hilt of his stinger, warm with bottled electricity, and slid his gaze toward the source. He let his hand fall, grimacing. “Figures,” he muttered.

  The wanted poster flapped limply against the brick wall. The words were unreadable, dissolved by the elements, but he knew them by heart.

  WANTED FOR HIGH TREASON

  VICTOR ROARK WESTERVELT III

  REWARD: 300,000 N

  Below the blurred lettering was a photograph of the fugitive at a gala in the core. Every inch of him exuded opulence and authority. His silver-trimmed suit and polished shoes. His naked ear, unburdened by a Singer, a public demonstration of his unwavering loyalty to The Conductor. Shinys with diamond crusted Singers crowded around him, clambering to be near him.

  If they could see me now, Roark thought with a wry twist of his lips. Skulking around the outer ring in the dead of night, armed to the teeth, the crest of the Anthem tattooed over his heart.

  The poster strained against the nails that anchored it, inflating like a sail. Roark squinted at his former self, searching for a crack in his expressionless mask. Thunder rolled overhead. His gaze travelled further down the wall, where a similar flyer was posted.

  WANTED FOR HIGH TREASON

  RONJA FEY ZIPSE

  REWARD: 300,000 N

  Roark felt his stomach clench as he drank in the accompanying photograph. Though it was black and white, he could have sworn he saw a hint of green in her eyes. Her wild curls spiraled past her shoulders. Her mouth was pinched into a grim line. He could practically hear her teeth creaking under the strain of her grimace.

  The poster billowed, and the girl morphed before his eyes. Her hair was stripped to reveal her white scalp and missing ear, the consequences of his unchecked paranoia. As he watched, her lips formed two words.

  Save them.

  Roark spun on his heel and stalked down the deserted street. His memories haunted him enough in sleep; he could not allow them to dog him while awake.

  The duel winter moons, Carin and Calux, were setting by the time he reached his destination, an apartment complex on the edge of the outer ring. Half its windows were choked with boards, the others were shuttered. It was the last building before the rings gave way to the slums. Unequipped with electricity, the slums were all but invisible in the weary moonlight.

  Roark, his back to the building, squinted out across the shantytown, his chest tightening like a vice as he took in the mammoth black wall at the edge of the slums. Hungry searchlights roamed the tent city, pouring down from the watchtowers. Reminding himself that the cold light could not reach this far, he mounted the steps to the gated door of the apartment building. He jabbed the buzzer labeled L. Constantine. No sooner had his finger left the button than the intercom crackled to life.

  “Pitch off.”

  “Open up,” Roark commanded, his breath mushrooming in the frigid air. There was a brief pause filled with the irritated hiss of static.

  “Password?”

  “Come on, Mouse, I know you can see me.” The Anthemite leaned around the entry alcove and waved pointedly at the last window on the fourth floor. There was a flash of silver like fish scales as the resident whipped his spyglass back through the drapes.

  “Password.”

  “Fine. Six string.”

  “That was two weeks ago.”

  “Sonata?” The lock sprang. Roark popped the metal gate and put his shoulder into the stubborn door. He nearly tripped when it caved with a screech. Cursing, he slammed the door and swiped his hood from his head. His dark eyes flicked around the entry hall, scanning for trouble.

  Dust motes swirled in the stagnant air. Four armchairs upholstered in faded salmon crouched around a hearth stuffed with cigarette butts and cans. A naked bulb dangled from a wire above the narrow staircase. The silence was palpable. It played on his skin, raising a mountain range of gooseflesh.

  Clutching his stinger, Roark started up the steps at a jog. By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was sweating under his thick winter clothes. He glanced either way down the corridor. Peeling doors stood like soldiers on either side. He turned left and strode to the end, halting before apartment 407. He tapped the frame with a knuckle. “Candy gram.” The rolling click of tumblers, the scrape of a deadbolt, and the door flew open.

  Roark was greeted by the yawning barrel of a gun. “Put that down before you pull something,” he snarked, batting it away and shouldering past the boy half his size.

  “Shouldn’t you be a bit more concerned about being shot?” Mouse grumbled, slamming the door with a crack.

  Roark snorted. “Not if you’re aiming at me.” He surveyed the room, his nose wrinkling. Precarious stacks of documents higher than his waist dominated the studio. The couch and table were drowning in stripped machinery and tangled wires. Debris from abandoned meals littered the floor. The twin bed in the corner was suffocating beneath scraps of paper and books. He wandered to the kitchen table, grimacing as the odor of sour milk tickled his nostrils. “You missed garbage … year.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy,” Mouse grouched, punctuating the final word with the thud of the deadbolt. Roark glanced over his shoulder, a wry smile surfacing on his mouth.

  Though Mouse was not a day over eighteen, his hair was stark white. His irises were translucent, his skin a soft shade of fawn that was almost pink in certain lights. A dead Singer clung to his right ear. It had shorted out when he was fourteen, allowing him to pursue his calling as a black market trader. Iris was itching to dissect it, but he was adamant it was safer to leave it intact. Roark was fairly sure that was just his phobia of needles talking.

  “Busy getting what you lot requested, I might add,” Mouse went on, brushing past the Anthemite to set his revolver on the table. He squinted up at Roark, his expression darkening. “Skitz, when was the last time you slept?”

  “Where is it?”

  Mouse jerked his chin at the writing desk against the far wall. Roark crossed to it swiftly and found what he was looking for at once. It waited patiently in a clearing of copper wires and chicken bones. Evie had shown him a sketch, but he had expected it to be bigger. “This is the capacitor?” he asked, picking it up and scrutinizing it doubtfully. It was roughly the size of a coin with twin prongs and a flat red base. Nothing special.

  “Tell Evie she owes me one.”

  “Where the hell did you find it, anyway?”

  “One of my contacts in the middle ring, goes by the name Cicada.” Mouse shook his head in wonderment. “No idea how he gets his hands on all this stuff.”

  “Are you sure it’ll work?”

  “Positiv
e.” Mouse sniffed, moving to stand beside Roark. They were silent for a moment, their eyes glued to the tiny device, basking in the tangled aura of anxiety and possibility that radiated from it.

  This changes everything, Roark realized dimly.

  “Oh,” Mouse shattered the hush. “I meant to ask, did you ever get that record I snagged for you a couple months back? What was it called?”

  Roark felt his blood still in his veins. “The Moor,” he answered, pocketing the capacitor.

  “Right, what did you think? I thought her voice was a bit … ”

  Firelight. Ronja in her black and gold dress. The needle tracing the curve of the record. Evie polishing her rifle. Henry making lists in his notebook. Then the cold bite of manacles at his wrists. Ronja screaming, begging as his father tortured her with The Lost Song. Henry, his voice on the radio. Maybe the stars are alive after all.

  Roark crashed back into his body. Mouse was still talking, oblivious. “ … if there were any scratches, they happened after it left my hands.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Mouse crossed his arms, settling easily into the mold of businessman. “Fifty.”

  “Oh, come on. You know father dearest and I had a falling out.”

  The trader snapped his fingers. “Right, I forgot about my special deal for sob stories. If we factor in your crocodile tears and my apathy that brings us to … fifty.”

  “Pitch you,” Roark growled, drawing his dwindling roll of cash from the inner pocket of his coat. Mouse held out his blushing palm expectantly. The Anthemite peeled off five notes and slammed them onto the desk. “You’re lucky we’re friends.”

  The trader swiped up the bills and folded them into a neat square. “Mmm, whatever you say. If it makes you feel any better, it’s for a good cause. I have to go visit Theo in the core.”

  “Always happy to fund your love life,” Roark replied with an involuntary smile. “Theo has been a great help to us, we can never have enough spies up there.”

  “Oh, he knows it. Barely shuts up about it, in fact.”

  “I expect not.”

  “How’s your girl?”

  Roark tensed, his muscles tightening like springs. “What girl?”

  “You know. One ear, about three inches of hair, looks like she could kill you with her thumb.” Mouse jabbed him in the sternum with a finger, snickering. “She has more wanted posters than you do.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course not.” Roark glanced toward the window. Dawn was bleeding through the gap in the curtains, gray and sleepy. “I have to get back to the Belly. Wilcox has us on lockdown. Punishment for reckless behavior, or something.”

  “Lockd … what are you doing here?” Mouse yelped. “Do you see this place?” He gestured around the studio wildly. Roark shrugged, knowing it would only fuel his agitation. “They break down my door, how forgiving do you think they’re gonna be?”

  “Please,” Roark scoffed. “I wasn’t followed. Do you think we would be having this conversation if I was?” The trader gulped, his pupils dilating. The Anthemite chuckled, then offered his friend a lazy salute and started toward the door. “Stay sharp, kid.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Say hello to your girl for me.”

  Roark felt his eye twitch. He was thankful his back was to Mouse. “Not my girl.”

  “Sure.” He could still hear the trader chuckling when he closed the door on his apartment. Roark reached into his coat and withdrew his portable radio, grateful for Evie’s secure connection. He clicked it and raised it to his lips. “Chimera, this is Drakon,” he muttered. “I have the package and am bringing it home.”

  1: Below

  Terra

  Terra Vahl was not the sentimental type, but after two months underground she was starting to miss sunlight. Of course, waiting for the sun in a Revinian winter was like waiting for whiskey to spout from the sink. Still, she would have taken the icy winds over the dank sewer air she now stewed in.

  The Anthemite shifted against the wall in a vain attempt to relieve the ache in her left buttock. She let her head loll backward. Her night vision goggles clicked and whirred as they refocused on the curved crown of the tunnel. It looked even slimier through the green lenses.

  She was about as far from the surface as she could be, at least a quarter mile below the Belly. Her watch had only started an hour ago, but the minutes were stretched by monotony. Her throwing knives remained sheathed, strapped to her thighs and hips. The only unwelcome guests in the sewer were the rats.

  A drop of what she hoped was water struck her on the forehead. She swore, the curse echoing as she wiped away the bead. Sighing, she shut her eyes. Bitter memories stirred behind her lids.

  A week after their return from Red Bay, Ito had shed her like an old coat, placing her on guard duty in the sewers. “It was not my idea, Terra,” her mentor defended herself after breaking the news. She sat behind her desk, long fingers laced and hooded eyes unforgiving. Terra had stood before her, fighting the urge to scream. Her hands trembled at her sides. She folded her arms to hide them. “Wilcox wants you out of the field, and he certainly wants you off the council. You’re lucky he’s not exiling you.”

  “He might as well be.”

  Ito pursed her lips. Terra glanced away, examining the navy drapes that enveloped the office. They swayed gently as Anthemites ambled by, their voices buffered by the heavy fabric. A lump of pain ballooned in her throat. How many times had she come here seeking guidance, and though she would never admit it, comfort? Terra swallowed the troublesome stone and spoke. “Six years of training, four years as your second … and you abandon me after one mistake.”

  It was not a question, but Ito had answered anyway. “You lied to your commander. You went rogue.”

  Terra snapped her gaze back to the lieutenant. She was greeted by an ivory mask of indifference. That had stung more than any insults or hard truths she could have hurled at her. “We went rogue.”

  Ito rose slowly, pressing her palms to the desk. Strands of her dyed orange hair slipped into her face. Her eyes were scorching. It was in moments like these Terra had wondered why Wilcox was the commander when it was so clear Ito was in charge. “I followed you to Red Bay to save Trip and the others from their conceit and your selfishness.”

  “Selfishness?” Terra barked a humorless laugh. “You want to talk about selfishness? Talk to Ronja. She risked everyone in this compound for two and a half people who were most likely dead anyway.”

  Ito considered, tilting her head to the side. “Perhaps,” she granted after a beat. “But she was trying to save lives, not destroy them.”

  “What do you think I was trying to do?” Terra bellowed, slamming her fists onto the desk. The inkwell shuddered, loose papers fled to the floor. The lieutenant did not so much as flinch. “I was trying to make up for my mistakes.”

  “That doesn’t change what you did, and it certainly doesn’t excuse you from punishment.”

  “You want someone to blame?” Terra leaned across the desk until she was nose to nose with her superior. At this distance, she could see the age lines branching from the corners of her eyes. A bolt of twisted satisfaction knifed through her, as if she had discovered a flaw in the masterpiece. “Blame that pitcher from the outer ring everyone is calling the next messiah.”

  “I do,” Ito replied softly. Her head sagged a fraction of an inch, exhaustion seeping through the cracks in her poise. “I blame everyone involved in this, myself included.”

  “Even Henry?”

  Ito lifted her chin, a warning sparking in her gaze.

  Terra ignored it. “I know I messed up, Ito, but we have the son of The Conductor locked in a safe house and a new form of The Music that can reach Revinians with or without Singers. We’re skitzed and you know it. You need me, now more than ever.”

  “No,” Ito had countered tonelessly. She took her seat and returned her attention to a report held together by a strainin
g clip. She licked her finger, flipped the page. “I do not.”

  Terra had not spoken to the lieutenant since. In fact, she barely talked to anyone. She kept her head down, her jaw locked, her solitary ear closed to the whispers that trailed her.

  Outside Wilcox, no one knew exactly what went down at Red Bay. They knew only what they were told, that the actions of the rash young Anthemites resulted in the death of Henry Romancheck. That Victor Westervelt II had fallen. The commander ordered them to keep their mouths shut about the rest, but it made no difference. The thing about secrets, Terra had come to know, was the harder you squeezed them, the easier they slipped away.

  Fact and fiction blended, stories began to swell. Stories of the girl from the outer ring with a voice like wildfire. It was said she could destroy The Music with nothing but her voice. Wilcox was furious, but no matter how he tried, he could not pinpoint the origin of the rumors. The gossip about Terra, he likely fueled himself.

  No one knew why Ito had abandoned her right hand. Some called Terra a traitor. Others said she had simply lost her touch, slipped up on a mission and endangered lives. The truth was far worse, and she damn well knew it.

  Terra Vahl. The coldest heart and the sharpest mind. Everyone knew that if Wilcox fell, Ito would take his place and appoint Terra her first lieutenant. When the time came, she would lead the Anthem. She was marked for command, the only realistic choice. Roark was too recognizable, Evie, too erratic. In his life, Henry might have been a good option were he not a self-proclaimed pacifist.

  No, it had to be her.

  Terra knew she was hard to swallow. She was abrasive, confrontational, at times even cruel. But she was trusted, and above all, she was necessary. At least, she used to be.

  The scuffing of boots bucked her from her thoughts. Terra was on her feet in an instant, twin blades ready. They felt so natural in her hands. Adrenaline seeped into her palms through the cool metal. She squinted into the greenish gloom. “Show yourself,” she demanded. Her voice matched her core, guarded but calm.