Sound of Sirens by Jen Minkman (best free ebook reader for pc TXT) 📕

“Yeah.” I shrug noncommittally on purpose, because I can feel Sytse’s eyes on me. “As expected.” My eyes don’t follow Royce as he leaves the stage. Instead, I peer at the flyer lying on our picnic blanket. “How long is Twarres going to play for?”

“That depends,” Sytse says, his mouth twitching with nerves.

“On what?” Dani wants to know.

He exhales. “Just watch.”

And so we do. Under everybody’s watchful eyes, four young men and one woman wheel gigantic carts containing instruments onto the stage. Actually, one of the carts seems to contain a stack of barrels connected by wires. Some kind of mainland drum set? The woman steps forward and introduces herself as Mirjam, the singer of the band. As the other band members set up their equipment behind them, she plays a beautiful acoustic song on guitar while singing in German. After a roaring applause, the others join in, playing another simple song on two guitars, one viola, and drums, the lyrics in Frisian this time. I look up at the band with a smile, still a bit unable to believe that the Skelta managed to invite this band from the mainland to play at our festival. They sound good, and they’re clearly proud of their heritage.

And then, a blinding light floods the stage. I yelp, raising a hand to shield my eyes. Before I can even say anything, a collective gasp runs through the audience as the full band segues into their next song, which sounds unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. The guitars cut through the air with a strangely distorted sound. I can hear the woman’s voice, loud and clear, and she’s not using a loud-hailer. Her singing seems to be amplified somehow.

“Oh my God,” Dani hisses. “They’re using electricity. In front of everybody.”

“No way,” I blurt out, but I realize it’s true. Somehow, Twarres has hacked into the Grid. My jaw drops when my eyes adjust to the light and I can make out its source. A brilliant spark running between two dark pillars that look like charred wood.

“Is that – burning charcoal?” I venture.

Sytse flashes me a self-satisfied smirk. “It is charcoal, but it’s not burning. Those two pillars are conducting energy, creating a current between them. Tesla calls it an arc light.”

Only then does it sink in that the vocalist is now singing in Skylgian. The lyrics jolt me out of my stupor. “Trochloftich folk fan Skylge,” the vocalist sings in our old tongue, “wês jimmer op dyn Skylgerlân great, fol eare en trots.”

Respectable people of Skylge, be forever proud of your Skylger land full of honor and pride. She’s singing to us, not to the Currents, and she’s blasting out her message in a foreign language the Anglians don’t understand, by means of forbidden electricity. No wonder Sytse and Alke were nervous before. This is going to cause outrage. Palpable excitement hovers over the crowd. Already, I can see Mayor Edison jumping up from his seat in the grand stand, storming down the steps in a huff to put an end to the performance that’s breaking every single law on the island.

Meanwhile, the crowd around us is getting agitated. Lots of people here still understand the old tongue, even though it is prohibited to speak it in public places. Twarres is inciting us to stand up for ourselves and break the bonds of slavery to St. Brandan’s Fire.

“What are they doing?” I say breathlessly, still unable to believe this is really happening. “They’ll get arrested.” Nervously, I glance around. Most of the people in front of the stage are Skylgers, but I do spot some Currents in the audience on the town square, too, and they don’t look too pleased.

A deafening drum roll ends the band’s protest song in Skylgian. “Welcome to our show, all of you,” the female singer addresses us in Anglian once more. “We have an evening filled with entertainment planned for you.”

“Not if he can help it,” Dani comments, pointing at the mayor, who has finally managed to push through the gathering and is presently climbing onto the stage.

“You are to stop this travesty at once!” he blares, trying to grab the strange device the singer’s holding in her hand. This seems to be the thing that’s amplifying her voice, because Edison’s protest suddenly increases in volume too.

“What travesty?” Mirjam calmly replies.

“You are abusing St. Brandan’s Fire.” The mayor turns red in the face.

“Not at all.” She turns sideways to address the audience. “We’re not plugged into your Grid. We don’t need your Grid to generate electricity. We can make our own.”

A stupefied look spreads on Edison’s face. He stumbles back, like a flustered actor who has realized he’s forgotten his lines. Frantically, he starts to look around him, dashing to and fro to inspect Twarres’s instruments. Meanwhile, Mirjam hasn’t stopped talking to the crowd staring up at her from below.

“Please, don’t be servants to your Current elite anymore,” she pleads. “They’re about to lose their edge. You’ve seen what we can do. You can all be a part of this – all of you.”

I blink. Out of nowhere, she’s tackled to the ground by three police officers rushing up to grab her. I hadn’t even seen them coming. With a sickening thwack, her head hits the floor and blood starts to trickle from her nose. The other band members seem to be frozen for a split second before they sprint forward to help their friend.

“How will you stop the Sirens?” Mayor Edison hollers at the top of his voice. “You can’t! You know you can’t!” He turns toward his own people on the bleachers. “We can’t allow them to insult St. Brandan,” he continues in a dark voice. “Some people should be put back into their places.”

It’s only when I feel the crowd pushing into my back that I realize fights have broken out behind me. All of a sudden, the town square has turned into a living nightmare. Police officers are everywhere, trying to force the gathered Skylgers to leave, but my people aren’t too eager to move. Some of them are still watching the events unfolding on stage with morbid interest, others are kicking and screaming at the law enforcers dragging them away from the stage. Currents are trying to beat them into submission, spurred on by Mayor Edison’s words about our civil disobedience and disregard of their holy ancestor. A nauseating, claustrophobic fear clawing at my insides debilitates me when I suddenly feel the hands of a law enforcer on me and he yanks me away from my brother and friends. It only takes a split second to completely lose sight of them in the clamor around me.

“Let go of me!” I howl, shaking off my paralysis and trying to fight off the policeman. “You have no right.”

I lash out at him, but of course he easily dodges my punch. His face is a flinty mask. “Resisting arrest?” he growls. “Don’t make it any worse for yourself, young lady.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I gripe, but of course my protest falls on deaf ears. Amidst the violent commotion, there’s nothing I can do when the law enforcer marches me toward the left side of the stage, his hands like iron grips around my shoulders. As soon as the crowd disperses a little, though, I try to wrestle myself free and make a run for it. Bad move – this side of the stage is full of Currents, some of them already fighting the Skylgers, some of them looking for trouble. I gasp when my eyes land on a familiar face with burning, blue eyes and dark eyebrows knitted into a worried frown. He’s on a low platform behind the stage, specially erected to accommodate the artists after their performances and supply them with refreshments.

“Royce!” I call out, cupping my hands around my mouth to make myself heard over the din, to reach out to him over there, safely sequestered away in his own world.

He catches my eye, just before a cluster of hands grab me and knock me down. I taste blood on my tongue as I tumble to the ground. Desperate for help, I look up and search his eyes once more. I see his gentle mouth and remembered how he kissed me. My gaze lingers on his face. He locks eyes with me once more.

And then, he looks away. Only now do I notice his two older brothers and his father standing next to him holding glasses of champagne. They all look perplexed and slightly disgusted by the fights that have erupted everywhere. Mr. Bolton laughs awkwardly and points at me, and Royce joins in, as though he has never seen me before.

He’s pretending not to know me. After all the things we shared.

The world grinds to a stop and drains my heart of all the warmth I kept tucked away there. Cold washes over my entire body. As they start to drag me away, I don’t attempt to call out to him again.

I hang my head in shame when Heit shows up a few hours later to bail both me and Sytse out. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one to resist arrest and kick up a fuss. In jail, we weren’t in the same cell – I was stuck in a horrible, dark hole together with some fierce-looking Skylger women, and he was behind bars in the men’s holding cell across the hall. Every once in a while my brother smiled at me to encourage me. I could see a strange kind of admiration in his eyes. Maybe being in prison together felt like a bonding moment to him. Siblings, standing united against the Current oppressors.

“Thanks, Dad,” Sytse mumbles demurely as we follow him down the hall. “I will pay everything back. The Skelta will help.”

My father whips around and unexpectedly fixes Sytse with a fierce, blazing stare. “Why did you have to involve Enna in this? You knew what that Frisian band was up to. How they were trying to start a riot. Your sister could have been trampled to death or mortally injured.”

Sytse sighs impatiently. “It wasn’t that bad. Besides, Enna needed to see Tesla’s invention. Everyone out there needs to know the truth. We’ve sat back and played at complacency for far too long.”

“You could have made sure she was nowhere near the stage,” Dad doggedly maintains.

“She is standing right here,” I interrupt sourly. “And she honestly doesn’t give a shit right now.” My voice suddenly cracks with the deepest sadness I have ever felt.

Dad slips an arm around my shoulder. “What happened, darling?”

“Her Current friend ignored her pleas for help,” Sytse says when I remain silent, making me flinch. So he saw what happened – he must have been behind me, escorted off the square by another policeman.

I glare at him, but I have nothing to say. He’s right. Royce was a complete jerk back there. When I think of how he was standing on the platform with his family, looking down on me from above, I suddenly seethe with anger. In troubled times, he obviously turns to the familiar comfort of his Current life instead of standing up for ‘real’ people like me. I want to hold on to this anger eating away at me, because I know what will inevitably come once it drains from my