The White Room
Jess opened the door to the long, white hallway. Metal doors faced each other attentively in pairs down the corridor. The colors from the stage behind them started up again as the next band took the stage, but as the door slowly closed, they were left in monotone silence.
“Wow,” Jack said, his footsteps echoing, the only clear sound.
“You’ve heard of the Resonance before?” Jess asked as they walked.
“Yeah—– Yes,” he said more firmly. “I’ve suspected that there had to be an organization setting up concerts, laying out hints, you know, to where the shows were. I stumbled upon my first one by mistake, but I guess I got into the loop after that. They were easy enough to track down.”
“I hope not too easy.” She stopped before one of the doors, turned her back against it to look up at Jack. “I had hoped that you had heard of the Resonance before, so that the card wouldn’t be ignored.”
“I started hearing the name some months ago.” He scratched the back of his head, looking down at his feet. “And then… I don’t know. I just started hearing it everywhere. Seemed like everyone was whispering it.”
“That’s the idea. Plant enough little whispers, and soon they’ll echo, resonate—if you will—into someone much louder.” She smiled. He looks up, with something like fear, something like awe in his wide eyes.
“A music conspiracy.” Jack’s mouth twitched.
“A musical revolution.”
“So, now…”
“You’re going to see it. The revolution that you’ve search for.” Jess grabbed the handle, felt the click, and opened the door. “Jack, welcome to the Resonance.”
Jack stepped through the door, frowning as bursts of blue realization crept into the back of his mind, through his wide, curious eyes.
It was a recording studio.
The walls were brilliantly white. Along them were shelves filled with strange panels Jack had never seen before—– they were covered with small switches and levers, and a few scattered papers. Small speakers were mounted all over the room, also white. Across from him was long panel of glass, and beside it another door. Through the vivid reflections on the glass, he saw a plain white room filled with a small group of people sitting in a circle on simple chairs, a microphone hanging from the ceiling between them.
After fussing with the equipment, Jess led him into this room, and at once, everyone’s eyes were on her. Even Jack did a double take—– it was as if, upon entering the studio, she had become a different person. Her easy smile was gone, replaced by a calm expression. As she walked around the circle, introducing the others to Jack, even her voice sounded different, soft and commanding. No one spoke when she did.
“Everyone, this is Jack,” Jess said, holding out a hand. “He’ll be joining us for tonight.”
No one seemed to question this, even though Jack didn’t feel wrong in thinking that he was trespassing, bringing an unbalanced beat to an established harmony. They looked at him a long while as Jess introduced them.
“This is Scherzo.” Jess gestured at an older man with thinning hair and a toothy smile.
“Good to meet you.” Scherzo nodded. “I’m the genius that made the recording studios. Stole the equipment from the movies, yah see. Had to alter it o’course.”
“These two you know from the show,” Jess said, walking behind two of the band members Jack had seen before.
“Fang,” said the front man with the shock of light hair. “Singer.”
“I’m Sid!” the other said enthusiastically. “Sid Vivace, don’t forget it.”
Jack recognized him as the bassist. The kid looked around his age, maybe a bit younger… he had talent though.
“Friday helps us choose venues,” Jess said. Friday, a man who looked older than he probably should, grunted, arms folded around a heavy jacket.
The woman next to him spoke before Jess could introduce her. She was all curves and had a voice like silk. “And I’m Wednesday. Voice of the Resonance. If you’re sticking around, kid, you’ll be hearing me via the voice box. Setting up a pirate radio, we are.”
“Cool.” Jack grinned. He certainly wouldn’t mind hearing that voice on the radio. “Do you know about Wolfgang’s pirate radio?”
Wednesday nodded. “We’re going to make something more secure. It wont just play music and tell where the show’s at, but also where safe-houses are going to be, and when meetings are.”
Jack nodded, and looked at the last man in the circle. He was oldest second to Scherzo, maybe in his mid-twenties. His skin was a medium hue, and his eyes were large. They looked tired. His everything looked tired. He wore clothes of the 1920s, and a bowler hat spun in his hands.
“I’m Cadence, I guess.” He shrugged, barely looking at Jack. “I’m just here.”
Jess sat next to him, folding her legs. Jack thought they might have shared a look, but he couldn’t guess what meaning the gaze might have held. She gave his hand a squeeze.
“Don’t be shy. Cadence makes instruments for us. He’s been here since the beginning.” She smiled up at Jack, but it was without enthusiasm. “I suppose I should introduce myself as well. Jess is just a pseudonym. Call me Path.”
Jack sat down in between Sid and Friday, feeling a shiver creep through him.
“And I’m just here too.” Path looked around the circle. “Friday, will you start us off?”
“Word.” Friday sniffed loudly, and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “Well, things still seem to be good with the guy who owns the King’s Fool Inn. Should be fine for maybe the rest of the month, until the guy gets smart enough and realizes he can ask for more bribe money to keep quiet or worse, realizes he can make some noise for a hellova lot more cash. I don’t wanna risk it. So we’re gonna look for more openings along different tracks, and get ready to seal the doors on this place if worse comes to worse.”
“It’ll be impossible to move the equipment,” Scherzo said. “Just… impossible! Maybe we can find another entrance, but we have to keep the headquarters here if we want to use the recording equipment. And I want to use the recording equipment still. Am I the only one?”
“No.” Wednesday spoke up. “If we want to continue the radio broadcasts, we need these rooms and this equipment to stay hooked up. But I’m with Friday on this one.” She smiled at him, but it wasn’t returned. “We have to keep these people safe. And stay hidden, for now.”
“If we’re moving locations we’ll have to let everyone know.” Fang rested his elbows on his knees, and looked around the circle intently. “Having all that information go out at once is what will get us found.”
“Not if we use the radio––” Wednesday began.
“Tapping into a radio signal isn’t too hard,” Fang interrupted. “Probably easy-peasy for That I Am and his gang.”
That I Am? Jack though to himself, frowning. Where have I heard that before? But he didn’t want to interrupt, and just observed. Across the circle from him, Path seemed to be doing the same thing—watching the conversation as it moved back and forth.
“Well, uh, I’m still working on that,” Scherzo mumbled. “Gotta… adjust…”
“Hey.” The kid Sid said suddenly. He paused, as if to test whether his voice would be heard, and then continued. “So, um. What exactly is keeping us from taking care of this tavern-owning guy?”
All eyes were on him, silent. Sid trembled a bit in his seat.
“C’mon, don’t make me explain what I mean. You all know what I mean.” Sid looked to Fang for support, but the singer stayed quiet. “Look I know we all said that we wouldn’t kill anyone, but can we stop fooling ourselves already? That’s not a decision we made, it’s a fact that we’re ignoring! We’re starting a war, and there’s gonna be some killing, maybe not today, maybe not this year, but…”
“We get it Sid,” Fang muttered.
“Might as well be us who makes the first move.” Sid ducked his head, cheeks flushed.
Jack stared at his hands. Here was this kid, no older than him, talking about killing a man? Everyone else was quiet in shock as well, but they didn’t seem as surprised. Why should they? This was a topic they already discussed, debated, and tried to lay to rest. He looked at Path. Could she kill someone?
It was Cadence who spoke first. “You’ve got a lot of guts, speaking up like that. I guess that’s why Path brought you here.” Sid looked up, eyes wide. “But you’re an idiot,” Cadence snapped. “The man who owns the Tavern, he has a name. John Ambrose. And he’s not working for That I Am, he’s not an apostle, not even a gentleman. He’s an innocent bystander who we awakened. And no, we’re not going to kill him.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Fang asked.
One by one, all eyes turned to Path. She held her hands gently folded over one knee, resting on silence. She licked her lips.
“Cadence is right,” she said. “We’re not going to kill Ambrose. We made an agreement. And killing him will draw attention. We’re going to continue to pay him to keep our secret. In the meantime we’ll look for another entrance to the subway tracks—Friday, you can organize that. We’ll keep two recording studios here, one for Wednesday to work in. But Scherzo, we’ll need to move eventually, so you should work on making the equipment portable. Let’s hope that we can keep the white room here, and just close the 1873 front. Until we do, let’s close down the underground. Rest and wait, no more concerts for a while.”
Everyone nodded.
It went on like that for a while; each person would bring up the topic next on the agenda, the conversations would go on for a while, and Jack could see a pattern starting. For the most part Friday and Wednesday took opposing sides against Sid and Fang. Sid was drastic and brash, but usually brought up points no one else would. Cadence was smart and skeptical, playing devil’s advocate for most, while Wednesday usually broke the tension. Each member contributed something different; looked at an issue with a different eye. They had a perfect harmony.
The topic would bounce back and forth, until the group seemed to be at a schism and undecided. At that point, Path would speak up for the first time. She made the compromise, the tough decision. Was she the one in charge? Or did they just always look to her? Jack watched for a long while, and still wasn’t sure.
After a while Jack caught on to some of the slang that they were using. Apostles seemed to refer to the people working directly with That I Am; Gentlemen and Waltzers referred to either hit men or spies who were lower in the power hierarchy. But who was That I Am? Where did this opposing organization come from?
Eventually they turned their attention to Jack.
“So, Path, you going to tell us what’s up with the kid?” Wednesday grinned over at Jack. “Not that we don’t trust your judgment…”
“I’d feel more secure knowing what’s up with him,” said Friday.
Path smiled. “I met Jack today.”
“Jesus!” Friday snapped. “You don’t waste any time do you Path? And you think you can trust him?”
Jack recoiled from Friday. Now all eyes were on him.
“I watched him play,” Path replied calmly. “No color-hating, god-serving agent can play like Jack can. No one who loves music like that would betray what we’re working for.”
Wednesday touched Friday’s leg, and he closed his mouth. “So what’s the kid doing here,” she asked for him.
“I need him. He’s going to help me out with a project.”
Jack looked up. “Huh?”
“Some research and development, if you will.” Path locked eyes with Jack. “I can’t talk about it now.”
No one pressed the matter further. Jack was glad when the meeting was called to an end, and the tension in the room dispersed. He let out a long sigh, and sunk into his chair. Everyone else was getting up and chatting casually, not yet leaving the room. Jack held his head in his hands. So this is the Resonance, he thought. The underground musical resistance, the only organization of musicians and music supporters. And it’s a handful of strays like me, sitting in a recording studio, anticipating a guerrilla war.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cadence grab Path’s hand and lead her back through the studio to the hallway outside. There was urgency in his stride—– Path had to skip to keep up—– and Jack thought he saw him glance his way…
The door between the white recording room and the small studio was closing slowly. Path and Cadence had left the hallway door open. He stood up without too much urgency, and moved into the recording room, pretending to examine the equipment. Path’s and Cadence’s voices wafted in from the hallway.
“Some ‘research and development’?” Cadence said accusingly. “What secret project is he helping you with, exactly?”
“Cadence…”
“Don’t. You can tell me what you’re doing… we can talk about this!”
“I need to know more, before I can tell the others. Before I can tell you.”
“So you are attempting to send him through.”
Silence. Jack heard his heart hammering in his throat, and wondered in a moment of paranoia if they could hear it too.
“You can’t keep taking stray musicians off the street and… whatever you are doing with them.” Cadence’s voice was strained.
“I wouldn’t be doing anything if I didn’t already know it was going to help us in the end—– help all of us. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”
“And which one is he? How many, Path?”
She didn’t answer.
The door behind Jack opened, and Wednesday, Friday and Scherzo came into the small recording room. They passed Jack and went out into the white hallway, talking about setting up a pirate radio.
“Gotta have some secret code to map out the safe houses,” Friday said.
“What about music symbols or chords?” Wednesday suggested. “What waltzer is going to know his C sus minor?”
Jack exited the room after them, putting on his most innocent face as he walked up to Path and Cadence. She was up against the wall, and he hovered protectively over her.
“I’ll talk to you later,” she whispered to him, and then looked to Jack. “So, what did you think?”
“It’s quite an operation you have going on here,” he replied. “I think—well, honestly, I don’t know what to think. I guess I was expecting something a bit more, well…”
“Impressive?” Cadence offered.
Jack shrugged. “Seems like you guys are mostly flying by the seat of your pants.”
“You know, you are very perceptive.” Path walked up to Jack, smiling lightly.
“I am?”
“Well, it was nice to meet you Jack.” Cadence held out his hand. Jack shook it. “Good luck with everything.” He nodded solemnly, and turned down the hallway to catch up with the others.
Path lead him further down the white hallway, stopping by another metal door. Shhhk she inserted a key and click popped the lock. “I bet you see colors all the time, don’t you?” she voiced out of the blue.
“Well, I mean, I am a musician—–“
“No, I mean besides that.”
Jack sighed.
“Well, it’s true, at least I think that’s what you’re saying, that when I’m in a quieter Era not everything’s simply black and white.” He paused at the arch of his inhale, as if wondering whether he should continue or not. Then he took the dive. “The whistle of the wind has a color, when it blows through the trees sometimes I see orange, and then a lot of times around animals, and people too, they just seem to have a sort of… aura or something about them, the way they speak, if it’s rough and low or smooth and pretty, like a sing-song you know?”
Path nodded. “You know Jack…” She twisted her hand around the knob and pushed it open. “The world isn’t supposed to be like this…”
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…And a small white hand pulled the small white rope and the small white curtains were hoisted up, revealing a small white stage…
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“The world is supposed to be full with color, you, me, everyone completely colored in, with all these different shades of red, blue, green… the world should be bursting with color. No black and white and grey, but all mixes of every color imaginable, every single color you could possibly sing! There should be so much color in this world that people glow with it; that it bursts from their fingers!”
It was another recording studio, almost identical as the first.
“What are you talking about?” Jack leaned up against a white wall. “You mean a world with more color?”
“No, it’s all color!” Path walked over to the recording panel, flipping on one of the switches. She pointed to the small, glowing lights above a series of knobs. “Imagine that these would glow red, and that the text could be… could be any color at all! You did learn what the different colors are, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, my music teacher showed me.” Was this Path’s manifesto? He walked over next to her, the confused, curious look on his face growing as he struggled with the right words. His eyes shifted, as if he was on the brink of realization, as if it was on the tip of his tongue, as if it was nagging in the back of his mind, and had always been there, waiting dormant for Jack to just open his eyes and truly see.
“But I still don’t understand… you mean to say that it would sing? Or that music would come from here? What you’re talking about isn’t… color, it’s just grey.”
“Do you know what grey is?” Path glanced up at him as she adjusted a few knobs, setting up the recording equipment.
“It’s a mixture of black and white.” Jack crossed his arms, struggling with this new idea of hers.
“And black and white aren’t colors—“
“Exactly.”
“But isn’t white the mix of all colors together? Isn’t black the absence of color, or rather that it absorbs all colors—you know, scientists figured it out, I’ve looked at their research, that light gets bounced off of everything and—–“
“Wait, wait, wait…” Jack held up his hands to stop Path, chuckling slightly. She paused. Her small hands hovered over the recording panel.
“Light… but light isn’t color,” Jack said loftily.
“Not here it isn’t.”
Jack stared down at her lips, as if he couldn’t believe that they had moved at all, as if he was unsure if he had heard those words or just imagined it. What was she implying? Not here? What other ‘here’ was there? His eyes narrowed and for a minute they both stood there, half looking at each other and completely still.
Waiting for the ball to drop.
At last Path broke into a smile, unable to hold a serious expression. “I suppose that you’ll see in good time, but first––” She swung her hand up, index finger raised to the ceiling. “We have more pressing matters to talk about. Why don’t we step into the room, and you can tell me about your music teacher.”
“You, uh, want to record it?” Jack couldn’t see how his music teacher would be more important than this crazy idea of hers, or whatever secret ‘project’ she was enlisting him in.
“Just to keep a record,” she said quickly, walking past Jack and swinging open the door. Jack stepped into the isolation booth after her, and noticed two stools situated by a single microphone. All the walls in this room were white too—Jack didn’t know anything about recording music, but he suspected that the white paint job was so that the music could be picked up easier.
“Have a seat.” Path hopped up on one of the stools hooking her feet around the metal legs and gripping the edge of the stool with her two hands. Jack sat on the stool opposite her.
“My music teacher?” He glanced at the corner of the room, where an acoustic guitar and Path’s cherub harp were leaned up against the wall. Why did she want to know? “What do you want to know?”
“Just talk about him for a bit.”
Jack paused. Breathed. Looked at his hands, as if they held the memories of his childhood.
“Well, he took me under his wing when I was about eight or so,” Jack began. “He was a young man then, and more or less adopted me. You know how things are here. He took me away from the 19th Century and showed me the rest of the world—– he opened my eyes to the City of All Cities, and then to music…”
Jack trailed off, caught up in memories of sitting in a small studio, watching mysterious colors fly from a piano and the fingers that played it. He remembered being mesmerized, confused and scared, and then how wonderful it felt to be able to create this color too.
“He taught me the piano, the guitar and how to sing. At first I couldn’t hold a color for more than a few seconds. It took many years until I could play music that really filled the room with color. He told me that music wasn’t about the notes, but about the heart that you put into it. And he taught me the colors too. He was… very talented. He could play a melody that would isolate one color at a time. I could never do that… not even the easiest colors, red, green and blue.”
Path glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows as the corners of her mouth twitched into a smirk. Jack held up his hands to his face, running his right thumb over the calluses on his fingers, remembering the blisters and pains from playing guitar day after day.
“He was like a father to me.” Jack dropped his hands.
“And where is he now?” Path asked in a soft voice, eyes gleaming blue with sympathy as if she already knew the answer.
“I dunno. One day, I came home, and the studio was trashed. All the instruments broken. They took him away, I guess… whoever they are.”
They sat in the silence of reawakened memories for a moment, solemn thoughts reverberating across the white walls, remorse humming in their ears like the echo of far off screams. The twisted City of All Cities moving zigzag across timelines above them felt so far away, it might have just been blurs of a memory… the only thing that seemed real in that moment was the white of the walls.
“I’m sorry,” Path finally said, her voice low. “I wish… I wish I could say that this is a shock, that I’ve never heard stories like yours before. I wish that I could bring your teacher back, and all those musicians whose lives were snuffed out.”
Jack couldn’t speak. He was becoming more and more aware of her grey skin, of her color-less eyes. He wasn’t looking for sympathy, but was starting to find it in himself, because Path spoke with the timid voice of someone who had loved and lost.
“I’m not here to save you, Jack, from any tragedy you’ve been a part of.”
“I’m not looking for a savior.”
“I know, I––” She caught herself in a smile. “I didn’t mean to imply. Recently I’ve had to accept that stories like yours are only going to become more common, truer. Sometimes I feel hopeless to it all. The only thing I can hope to offer you is a glance at the truth.”
She spread her arms out to the pure white studio. “Look around, Jack. Why do you think we have to be so secretive about places like the Punk Underground? Why should we have to hide? There’s nothing wrong with music, and yet hardly anyone can hear it in safety. Every musician in this city is scared. Even you. Even me.”
Jack swallowed.
“The only people who live without fear are the Sleepers. If you can call them people.”
“Sleepers?”
“We made up the word,” Path explained. “You know them though. The people sealed in Eras, blissfully unaware of life outside their castle walls. Or those trapped within their own timeline. The Resonance is here to wake those people up.”
“That’s a good word. But I thought the Resonance was about music?”
“Of course it is. Music is the way to truth.”
He was almost afraid to ask. “What truth?”
Path traced the map of her jaw with a finger. A new trail took the digit to her temple, to the corner of her eye. “There’s an organization behind the musician kidnappings and killings,” she said slowly. “You’ve no doubt guessed this yourself. They don’t know the name Resonance, but they call us musicians the Color Conspiracy. They think we are polluting the pure black and white of their world with our songs.”
“They want the world to be grey, so they’ve… they’ve killed musicians?” Jack asked, hating how the word came from his lips harsh, like a slap. He’d heard the rumors, felt the fear himself, as if someone was watching, stalking, but in moments of clarity he knew it was just paranoia. But now, this girl Path was taking his suspicions and realizing them, showing them plain and true and real before him.
He felt sick.
“You’re talking about a conspiracy.”
“I’m talking about the truth.” Path leaned forward on her stool, pushing against Jack with her thoughts. “Some of those rumors are true. Of a god who waits at the end of time. Of cameras watching everywhere. Of a network of guards across every time stationed to keep Eras sealed. Someone has to keep them organized. No doubt you’ve seen the holograms—– they’re crude constructions, but most people don’t want to see through them, and see skyscrapers in their 17th century.
“They’ve killed many,” Path continued, spreading her hands out to him, laying out the facts. “They hire guards and assassins to take out most musicians. We’ve been trying to fight back, but all we can do now is hide in the abandoned times like rats! Jack, people have been stalking you…”
Jack clapped his hands to his head. “Path, stop!” he yelled, curling up to a knee. “Just STOP! This is too much!”
Path said nothing.
“Why the hell are you telling me all this?! I don’t know anything about a goddamn conspiracy. It’s just luck that I’m still alive, I guess; not just another dead musician that no one remembers. Assassins? Fucking—– What do you want me to do? Fight some goddamn ninjas?!” Jack didn’t realize when he had sat up, but now he was pacing around the recording room, all but smacking the walls with his fists. “I’m just trying to survive here!”
When he turned back to her, Path’s eyes were steady. A sudden heat rushed to his cheeks—his outburst was shameful, useless against her calm. He hit the wall with his back, and crumpled to the floor, but didn’t break their gaze.
“No. I don’t want you to fight.” Her voice was weak, breaking, and it took Jack by surprise. “But if you’re lost where you’re meant to be, how will you find your way where you aren’t?”
Jack shrugged. An emptiness grew larger inside of him, large enough to occupy the entire room. He heard Path sigh.
“I want to tell you everything that I know. You can do whatever you want with the information. Will you listen?”
He thought he heard a please arch at the end of her sentence. He nodded numbly.
She walked over to the corner, and took the harp in her hands. She held it in the crook of her arm, and with two slender fingers she plucked one of the seven strings.
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…And a painter’s hand lifted up the small white lid, and the music box sang small white notes…
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Twang.
“Alright.” Path sat back down on the stool with the harp. Jack looked to the side—– and for a fraction of a second he saw a figure in white sitting there in a burst of music-less color–— and he snapped his head up, and the image was gone. “I’ll tell you everything…”
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…And the stage began to spin, round and round…