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  “Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice drawled.

  Terra groaned and sheathed her weapons. She would have preferred a strike team of Offs to this. Two glaring orbs flickered into view, the lenses of a pair of night vision goggles refracting off her own. Half a beat later he was before her, a grin plastered across his face. “Where have you been?” she snarled.

  “Nowhere,” Roark answered in a singsong voice. He started to slink by, but she grabbed him by the bicep and hauled him back in front of her. His waterlogged overcoat squelched beneath her fingers.

  “Pitcher,” she hissed, pushing him back singlehandedly. The boy stumbled, his heel splashing in the pungent water.

  He laid an offended hand on his chest. “Language.”

  “You were outside.”

  “I would never disobey a direct order from our commander.”

  Terra narrowed her eyes behind her tinted lenses. “Where were you?”

  Roark shrugged offhandedly, his teeth flashing in the dimness. “Just out enjoying the weather. It was getting a bit stuffy down here.”

  “You sure it had nothing to do with the plan you and your friends are concocting?”

  The boy maintained his blithe grin, but she had known him far too long to be fooled. His jaw tightened subtly, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Nervous, a rabbit hearing a twig snap. She had him.

  “Tell me what you’re up to, Trip.”

  Roark laughed mirthlessly. “What, so you can go straight to Wilcox?”

  Terra shook her head, echoing his brittle chuckle. Her sweat-stiffened braids crunched. She was starting to consider shaving them off to match the right side of her skull. It was not as if she needed to hide her missing ear underground. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  Roark cocked an eyebrow, his smile dissolving into a tense line. “You would do anything to get back in his favor, including sell us out.”

  “There was a time when that was true. Not anymore.”

  The boy paused, regarding her with a shred of genuine curiosity. “What changed?”

  “We warned Wilcox we needed to move against The Conductor before they finish The New Music, but he has his head up his ass, apparently.” She took a step forward, swallowing the gap between them. Roark hid his discomfort well, but she could tell he wanted to retreat. “We need to strike now.”

  “Sounds like someone has given up her shot at command.”

  “I never said that. We need to prioritize. We have to work together or we all go down.”

  Roark observed her mutely, his expression unreadable. Terra waited with frozen breath, her heart thrumming like the blades of an aeroplane.

  “Pretty words, Vahl,” he finally said, sidestepping around her tauntingly. “If only they were true.” He clicked his tongue, then moved along down the tunnel. His footsteps lingered long after he disappeared.

  Terra stood motionless, her lenses fogging inexplicably. She sat back down on the damp stones and waited for the next rat to cross her path. This one she would nail between the eyes.

  2: Wake

  It always began the same way.

  She waited in the center of the room, her knees raw against the rough concrete. Her fingers twitched against her thighs, tapping out a rhythm only she could hear. She felt a searing gaze on her back, but every time she turned around she was greeted by an expressionless wall. She knew it was a dream because she had both ears again, full and round and perfectly symmetrical. Her long curls had returned; her scars were erased.

  Ronja took a steadying breath. The room breathed with her, its walls expanding and contracting with her lungs.

  1-2-3

  2-2-3

  3 …

  No matter how many times it happened, she still screamed each time the Offs burst through the door. Their bodies were blurred, only their hands were in focus. She scrambled backward until her spine struck the far wall.

  Ronja.

  She froze, choking on her own cries.

  Henry.

  She launched forward, snarling like a feral cat. She reached out, grasping at the disembodied voice of her best friend, her brother. He was just beyond the guards, just out of sight, she was sure of it.

  Then they were upon her, tearing at her clothes, her skin. A massive hand closed around her windpipe. She yelled but no sound escaped. He leaned toward her, his breath hot and foul in her face. His eyes were black holes. When he opened his mouth, his gums were studded with needles.

  “Ro!” The demonic Offs evaporated. The prison crumbled. Her lungs inflated and her lids snapped open. Ronja shot up, her arm cranked back into a punch. Her assailant reeled backward. “Easy!”

  The familiar voice punctured her terror. She breathed a sigh of relief, but did not drop her arm. Instead, she reached up and switched on the lantern hanging above. “Georgie,” Ronja rasped, blinking her cousin into focus. The child crouched beside her, her eyes round as records. The pools of light in her irises shivered as the lantern rocked on its hook. “What time is it?”

  “About 4:00.”

  Ronja groaned, kneading her aching eyes with her palms. Her skin was slick with cold sweat. This was the fifth consecutive night her dreams had jolted her from sleep. Iris had prescribed her a draught, but it did no good.

  Georgie lay down, scooting closer across the mattress they shared. Ronja flopped back onto her damp pillow with a gust of breath.

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “I just thought … ”

  “Nope.” Ronja curled the girl to her side, stroking her short hair. “Your hair is growing back fast,” she commented.

  “Not as fast as yours,” Georgie muttered enviously. She reached up and plucked one of Ronja’s corkscrew curls. The older girl shook her head, her dark locks whispering against her temples.

  “My hair is a beast,” she said earnestly. “It can take its time coming back.”

  Georgie giggled. The sweet sound batted away the reality that loomed over them like a guillotine.

  It only lasted a moment before Ronja cut the rope. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I shouldn’t be the one having nightmares.”

  Georgie did not respond immediately. Ronja turned her gaze skyward, working her jaw methodically. The lantern had stilled on its hook. Chains of dried flowers loped across the ceiling of the tent like telephone wires. Iris had taught Georgie to make them several weeks ago. Now their sanctuary was peppered with shriveled brown petals.

  “Ro,” Georgie finally said. “We talked about this. I don’t remember anything from Red Bay.”

  “They tortured you, you have every right to be angry.”

  “I am.” Georgie rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows, forcing Ronja to meet her gaze. The younger girl’s eyes were both stern and compassionate. Neat surgical scars decorated her right ear and temple, all that remained of the mutt Singer Iris had painstakingly disconnected. “But there is nothing for me to dream about. Whatever they did to me and Cos, it wiped our memories.”

  “Yeah, but … ”

  “You remember everything, I know you do.”

  Ronja did not reply, because she was right. She remembered every second of her time at the lab. She could still feel The Lost Song pounding on the walls of her skull, the razor on her scalp as they cut away her hair, the violent touch of her warden between her thighs. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Cosmin sprawled on the tiles, Roark chained to the wall, his face blazing with panic and desperation. Her mother falling from the airship, a bullet in her brain.

  Henry. His voice on the radio. Maybe the stars are alive after all.

  “What can I do?” Georgie asked, a hint of a plea in her voice.

  Ronja offered a tired smile. Her cousin was barely ten and was already twice as brave and ten times kinder than she would ever be. “Nothing. Get some sleep.” She kissed her on the brow, then shoved off her quilts and got to her feet. Groaning, she reach
ed her arms over her head, working the sleep from her muscles.

  “Where are you going?” Georgie asked, flipping over onto her back.

  “Running.” Ronja caught her ankle in her hand, moaning again as her stiff tendons creaked. Sometimes, she felt like an old woman at nineteen.

  “Again?”

  “It clears my head.”

  “How can you circle the Belly for so long? I’d die of boredom.”

  Ronja grunted. “Yeah, well, if I don’t get out of here soon I just might.” She stooped to grab her training gear from the stack of clean clothes in the corner. She peeled off her damp nightshift and crammed it into the overflowing laundry bag.

  “Oh,” Georgie exclaimed, sitting up partway. Her short hair stuck out at all angles like a stack of hay. “Your meeting with Wilcox is tonight.”

  It was not question, but Ronja found herself nodding anyway. She shook out her leggings with a snap, then tugged them over her freckled legs.

  “You nervous?”

  “No.” Ronja yanked her tunic over her head, the let her arms flop to her sides. “Resigned.”

  “He has to hear you out. He knows what they’re saying about you.”

  Ronja snorted. “Yeah, sure.” She dipped back into the laundry bag and pulled out her hooded sweater. It could survive one more run, she decided. Knotting it around her waist, she retrieved her laced boots from the opposite corner. Shoes were rarely worn in the Belly, but she had quickly discovered running barefoot on unforgiving stone was a bad idea.

  “He can only punish you for so long,” Georgie mused. “You were just trying to save us, not to mention you brought them Max—”

  “Shhh!” Ronja whipped around, a finger flying to her mouth. Her cousin bit her lip, her eyes darting around anxiously. The older girl let her hand fall slowly. “You’re not supposed to know about him.”

  “Who do you think is listening?” Georgie breathed.

  Ronja shrugged noncommittally, then plopped down on the edge of the mattress. She crammed her boots onto her feet, keenly aware of the anxious gaze pinned to her back.

  The truth was, she had no idea who, if anyone, might be listening. All she knew was that Commander Wilcox trusted her even less than he liked her. The last time they spoke directly was the night of their return from Red Bay. Her memories of that night were shrouded in fog, but there were things she did remember.

  Abandoning the Westervelt Industries airship outside the city. The hum of an auto engine beneath her cheek. Roark carrying her on his back through the sewers, her head thumping against his shoulder as she wove in and out of consciousness. Terra leading Maxwell by his bound hands, a black bag over his head. The doors rolling open on the Belly, tears of relief pricking the corners of her eyes.

  Then Wilcox was there, stalking toward them. All she wanted to do was go to sleep and never wake up, but the commander had other plans. Iris ferried Cosmin and Georgie off to remove their Singers. Terra led Maxwell to the holding cell. The rest of them were corralled into the debriefing room.

  Evie and Roark told their story. Ito chimed in occasionally, her voice and countenance smooth as glass. Ronja struggled to keep her eyes open against the dizzying pain of her stinger burns. Her brain sloshed around inside her skull. Only a handful of words made it through her agony.

  The Music. Victor. Tortured. Radio. Ronja. Henry. Sang. Freed.

  From what her friends told her, Wilcox did not react immediately. For a moment, he simply sat before them, his expression vacant. Then he laughed. He did not believe them. Ronja understood his doubt. The idea of The Music being able to travel without the aid of Singers was insane enough, but a voice that could counteract it … she was not entirely convinced it was possible herself. Real music was a mode of expression, not a weapon or a shield.

  Still …

  No matter how many times she revisited the scene in her mind, she always arrived at the same conclusion. Her voice had in fact stopped The Music. She had seen it. The whip-like arms of The New Music twisting around them, her own song engulfing them like a black hole. She had no idea how music could be seen, and told no one of her visions. But in the end, it did not matter what she saw. What mattered was that her voice was a weapon, and Wilcox was keeping it locked in her throat.

  Georgie spoke again, breaking Ronja from her contemplation. “He has to learn to trust you, you brought him so much information.”

  “Which he refuses to act on,” she snapped.

  Georgie shank back into her pillow, her expression tinged with hurt.

  Ronja sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. She felt a migraine budding, and if she did not run soon it would swallow her. “Sorry. Ito promised me … ”

  “What?”

  That I would be the weapon of the Anthem. That we would destroy The Conductor. That we would silence The Music. That I would have my revenge. That Henry and Layla did not die in vain.

  “Ro?”

  “Nothing.” Ronja attempted to smile, but the result was closer to a grimace. “Go back to sleep. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Ronja turned and brushed aside the entry flap. The dimly lit Belly unfurled before her, still mired in sleep.

  She was halfway outside when a tiny voice probed her eardrum. “You have to open up to someone, Ro.”

  She stepped outside, pretending not to hear.

  3: Circle Talk

  Ronja stood rigid outside her tent. The Belly was as still and cold as a headstone. Most of the blazing overhead lamps were off, only one in every cluster of six burned. When the cook fires were lit at 6:00 A.M., the air would flood with warmth and conversation. Not long ago, she would have welcomed the buzz. Now she reveled in its absence.

  Rolling the kinks from her neck, she hopped up and down on the balls of her feet. She glanced left and right down the walkway. It was deserted, just as she had hoped. Keen not to waste another moment of solitude, she took off down the path at a steady clip. With each stride the noise in her brain shrank a decibel. Soon there was nothing but the sound of her heart, the rush of her breath, and the steady drum of her soles.

  Ronja had started running two weeks after her return to the compound. She had never possessed the time or calories to do it before. Now, she had more time than she knew what to do with and three solid meals a day. Not to mention, it was the only thing that stopped her mind from ripping itself to shreds.

  She reached the end of the station without breaking a sweat, then veered toward the tracks. Tents and huts of scrap metal and plywood whipped past, enveloping families in their shabby arms. Ronja had quickly grown to love the tent she shared with Georgie, despite the thin walls and periodic showers of petals. It was far more welcoming than their decrepit house aboveground. It was stuffed with careworn quilts, pillows, and stacks of unfinished novels. With any luck, Cosmin would join them soon. Ronja knew he would love their sanctuary.

  At least, the old Cos would have.

  Ronja felt her heart seize at the thought of her cousin. He was still in the hospital wing, a husk of his former self. He could barely speak through his heavy stutter. The left half of his body was numb, useless. Despite her tireless work, Iris remained unsure what exactly had been done to him, what warped forms of The Music he had been exposed to. “You need to be prepared for the possibility that he will not make a full recovery,” Iris had told Ronja one night outside his hospital room. “Georgie is young enough that her brain is still quite plastic … ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means it is easier for it to form new connections around the damaged bits,” Iris explained patiently, forming a mass the relative size of a human brain with her scrubbed fingers. “Cosmin is almost thirteen, which means many of his pathways are already set.” She steepled her fingers before her pink lips. “He may have some very hard days ahead of him.”

  Ronja poured on more speed. She sprinted along the edge of the platform, pumping her arms as Evie had instru
cted her. Perspiration beaded on her skin, followed by the dull sting of her healing burns. Most of her stinger wounds had faded from red to white weeks ago, but they still pained her when she exerted herself. Strangely, the sting fueled her.

  She was coming up on the western mouth of the subtrain tunnel, which was cloaked in a sheer yellow curtain. The women’s bathhouse was just beyond. At this rate, she would need to pay it a visit soon.

  A burst of motion hooked her gaze. Ronja skidded to a halt, her boots squeaking on the floor. Her bewilderment dissolved when she caught sight of the dark figure slipping out from behind the curtain. Her teeth gnashed together. She launched into a dead sprint. The boy hoisted himself up onto the platform with feline grace. Climbing to his feet, he raked his long hair from his face, exposing his razor jawline and high cheekbones.

  He rounded on her thunder of footsteps, beaming. Ronja screeched to a stop in front of him. A bead of sweat rolled into her eye. “Again?” she panted, wiping it away angrily. “You went outside without me again?”

  Roark considered her with a teasing smile. “Maybe I was just having a morning bath with the ladies.”

  Ronja punched him in the bicep a bit too hard to be merely playful. He laughed, which only fanned her flames. “I bet you could have found a weak spot in the rubble in your bathhouse,” she grumbled, peeking over her shoulder to make sure they did not have an audience.

  The Anthemite popped up his hands in defense. “Evie found it, not me. Not to mention Wilcox has to clean up, too. How would it look if he found me rooting around in the rocks?”

  Ronja snorted. “You could always say you were looking for a bigger place to store your ego.” Roark chuckled, a sound that made her heart fidget in her ribs. “You never answered my question,” she probed. “You went out without me again?”

  The boy sobered. “We both know it’s way too dangerous out there for you right now,” he replied, shrugging off his dripping overcoat and tucking it under his arm. His black sweater was damp. It hugged the planes of his chest and arms. Ronja fixated on his face pointedly.

  “Oh, but not for you?”