The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The server handed the first bottle to Lathéi. She took a sip and, again, showed her approval. The server took the bottle back and poured some of the Dark Shumi into one tumbler, expertly managing her pour to keep the carbonation head under control. She did the same with the other three bottles and tumblers, then left the bottles on the table with the remainder of the sweet carbon.

  Wenthi took a sip, letting the sugary sweet notes of caramel and vanilla and hints of orange, cinnamon, and other spices glide over his tongue. It was rare nowadays that he had the luxury of a Dark Shumi, usually getting the cheaper—but nowhere near as good—Arlacasta or Fusdaful. But the taste brought him right back to being twelve years old, right after the Great Noble ended. He and Lathéi and Mother, after separation and camps and hiding and exile, had finally been able to return to Ziaparr, to her grand new house in the 2nd Senja, with its own refrigeration and freezing appliances, and the pantry was stocked with Dark Shumi. He had drunk so many in the first weeks that he nearly got sick—and Lathéi did—but at the time they were not sure how long it would really last.

  “Stop,” Lathéi said.

  “What?”

  “Dwelling on the bad days,” she said. “Like I said, you should come to Dumamång. It’s gorgeous, it’s got no haunted memories, and Mother can only reach you via cablegram.”

  “For one,” Wenthi said, taking another sip, “I’m not looking to escape Mother.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with you,” Lathéi said, accompanied with a trill of laughter.

  “For another,” he said pointedly, “unlike you, I can’t just go to Hemisheuk.” He loved that Lathéi never denigrated him or belittled him for his rhique status, but more often than not she just plain forgot that he didn’t have her privileges.

  “If I petition for permanent residency, then I can sponsor you,” she said.

  “If and if,” he said. “Besides, I actually like my job. I’m good at it.”

  “You can drive cycles anywhere,” she said.

  Paulei and Oshnå came back up, both looking a bit winded, Paulei with a hint of a limp. Perhaps pushing his scraped-up leg was a bit too much. But “a bit too much” was how Paulei lived his life.

  “Now, perhaps I’m missing something,” Oshnå said as she sat. “But if I was dancing with him, why was every other person trying to jump in and dance with the both of us? Weren’t we claimed?”

  Wenthi had no idea what she meant, but Lathéi laughed. “No, no, I’ve told you, that’s just . . . it’s not a thing here. Unless you’re in a binding, no one is locked to a partner here.”

  “Binding is . . . like married?”

  “Mostly?” Lathéi said uncertainly. “It doesn’t mean the same thing in Pinogoz as it does in the east. Frankly, by our rules here, you and I are bound.”

  “Interesting,” Oshnå said. She sipped her drink. “Oh, my, that’s a delight and more.”

  “Isn’t it?” Paulei said.

  The server came back with plates of tacos and ears of corn, with bowls of spice garnish on the side.

  “Are you ready for this?” Wenthi asked.

  “Everything,” Oshnå said. “Whatever this city wants to throw at me, I want a taste.”

  “Everything?” Wenthi asked. “Because Lathéi told me—”

  “Oh, she made a scandal her first season, let me tell you,” Oshnå said. “She does not like the rules of polite society in Hemisheuk.”

  “But you do,” Lathéi said.

  “I do,” Oshnå said, with an odd expression. “But we’re in Ziaparr, and the rules are different here.”

  “Are you serious?” Lathéi asked.

  “Maybe,” Oshnå said in a way that made Wenthi think she was trying to seem open-minded, but had many reservations. “In fact, do you know where we can get your mush—”

  “No,” Paulei and Wenthi said in unison.

  “Don’t even finish that thought,” Paulei said.

  “That stuff is dangerous and illegal,” Wenthi said. “You don’t know how many stories we hear about people being carted to the hospital—”

  “If not the morgue.”

  “Their faces locked in a blissed-out rictus.”

  “They’re patrol,” Lathéi said gently.

  “Just having it, that’s three years in penitence,” Wenthi said.

  “All right,” Oshnå said. “I had heard stories about the famed Pinogozi mushroom bliss, but if you say it’s too dangerous.”

  “Very,” Wenthi said. His heart was racing at just the suggestion. Didn’t she realize? She had heard the stories, and she wanted to try it? Didn’t she know about Nemuspia? Or what Rodiguen had tried to build? Wenthi remained astounded that people ever tried the mushroom for pure recreation. Didn’t they know?

  It was a mind destroyer. As a schoolboy, that point was made decidedly clear by several teachers. It was driven home with photoplates and cinescopes of the aftermath of the Nemuspian Atrocity at the end of the First Transoceanic, where weapons made from the mushroom had been deployed, leaving the entire populace of the far continent mindless beasts.

  A horror.

  Lathéi must have noticed his panic, as she took his hand and squeezed.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Let’s get more drinks. We’re celebrating.”

  “More drinks,” he said, forcing himself to calm down. “It’s been a good night.”

  9

  Wenthi had stopped at one carbon and rum, at least in terms of the rum, as had Paulei. The same could not be said for Lathéi or Oshnå, who each had several. Both of them were giggling and stumbling as they left the club, the last to leave when the doors were shut at nine on the naught.

  “How do we get home?” Oshnå asked. “I mean, the hotel called me an autotaxi before—horrid drive—”

  “I don’t know why they even bother bringing autos to the central part of the city,” Paulei said. “The streets aren’t made for it.”

  Oshnå looked at the curving alley, with its sharp drop as they made their way down to where the cycles were parked. “I might get sick from all these curves and winds. Don’t you Pinos believe in straight lines?”

  “You’ve had too much,” Lathéi said. “We need to get you to your hotel.”

  “Well, get me an autotaxi,” Oshnå whined, waving her hand to the green car winding through the tight street ahead of them.

  Wenthi and the others laughed at that, pulling her back into the alley.

  “You never want to just hail an autotaxi,” Wenthi said. “Have one called from your hotel in the 1st, sure, because they know who to call. But on the street? At this sweep? Anyone could be driving.”

  “Yeah,” Oshnå said, stumbling through a bit of a slur. “But this is a safe neighborhood, right? No . . . what do you call them . . . banzi here?”

  “Baniz,” Lathéi said. She helped lead the pale girl down the next curving alley slope, guiding her to the walking steps. “Probably not, but you have jifoz who work here, and they’re nearly as bad. They have to get a work permit to come in here, of course.”

  “So what’s the—”

  “I’ve heard stories. They’ll patch together cars, paint them green, and dolly up fake papers, all so they can grab rich, drunk folks and rob them blind.”

  “And worse,” Paulei said. “Heard it too many times.”

  Lathéi snapped her fingers, pointing at Paulei. “Yeah. And a zoika girl like you stands out.”

  “Like you don’t,” Oshnå said. “Well, I’m not going to walk to the 1st Senja.”

  “No, we’ll get you there,” Wenthi said. They had come up on the spot where he and Paulei had parked the patrol cycles.

  “What, on those?” Oshnå asked. “Are you crazy? Are they crazy?”

  “It’s what they do,” Lathéi assured her. “They’re cycle cops.”

 
“No, no,” Oshnå said. “These streets are crazy enough.”

  “Let’s show her it’ll be fine,” Wenthi said to his sister. He gave her his helmet as he mounted, and she got on behind him.

  “Really,” Lathéi said. “Best way to get around.”

  “I will likely vomit,” Oshnå said, joining Paulei on his cycle.

  “I can take it,” Paulei said. It would hardly be the first time they had been vomited on by someone who had had a few too many rums.

  Wenthi kicked his cycle up. Patrol issue Ungeke K’au, high-quality Sehosian engineering. One of the better machines on the market. Not quite the Ungeke K’am, or the Reloumene Maherœk 500. He had gotten to try a ’rœk once, and that was nothing short of divinity between his legs.

  With his sister holding on, he cranked up the throttle, up the hill as the road curved around a statue of General Esobåk, an Alliance hero of the Great Noble, and then split into a main road up toward the Damas Kom, and a narrow fork down the hill. Wenthi weaved to one side of a trio of cars—all but stopped on this street as the first one tried to park—and then darted around a traffic circle to pop down into the tunnel leading to the 1st Senja.

  If they had taken an auto, they would have had to have gone around the long way, probably gotten stuck behind three snarls, and taken an entire sweep to get Oshnå where she was staying. Between that and petrol rations, he honestly didn’t understand why anyone chose an auto over a cycle. Of course, truck drivers had no choice; they drove those to haul cargo. But to just get through the narrow streets, the wild curves, the rising hills, and sudden drops of the Ziaparr streets? The cycle was the only way to go.

  He revved it up a gear, seeing that Paulei and Oshnå were right on pace with him, racing through the Bidsaip Tunnel at a speed that would be dangerous if the two of them hadn’t been old hands at this sort of thing.

  A hard horn wail came up from behind them. Two others on cycles behind them, blue and white uniforms with full mask helmets. Alliance Guard. Wenthi yielded to one side, giving a hand signal for them to pass, but as they reached the end of the tunnel to emerge in the 1st Senja, the Alli nucks pulled parallel, making it clear they needed to pull to the side.

  “What’s going on?” Lathéi asked as he braked to a stop.

  “Probably just want to give us a bit of grief,” Wenthi said. “Maybe we buzzed past a checkpoint. Shouldn’t be an issue.”

  The two nucks came up, lifting up the visors of their helmets. Both of them looked full-blooded Sehosian, which wasn’t that different from Paulei or Lathéi.

  “Where you racing to?” the first one asked. She gave Lathéi an odd look. “And I’m going to have to see some cards.”

  “Of course,” Wenthi said, handing over his identity card. Lathéi did the same. “Did we miss the checkpoint for the 1st Senja?”

  “I’ll ask the questions,” she said. “Like why is a rhique patrol officer riding a student through the tunnels, especially one who’s llipe?”

  “She’s my sister,” Wenthi said.

  “Half-sister,” the second nuck said, throwing Wenthi’s card back at him. “You’re not on duty. So why are you riding around after nine stint?”

  “Is there a problem with being out late?” Lathéi asked. “I thought curfew locks were lifted years ago.”

  “Hush, miss.” The first frowned. “And those two? Also mixed-caste siblings?”

  “No, he’s also an officer in the Civil Patrol,” Wenthi said. “And she’s from Hemisheuk.”

  “She’s got all her travel papers and entry documents,” Lathéi added.

  “I’m sure,” the first nuck said. She pointed at Paulei. “You planning on fucking her? Last thing she needs is you putting a rhique baby in her.”

  “I will report you!” Oshnå shouted.

  “No, don’t, don’t,” Paulei said sharply. “Leave it.”

  The first one glared back at Wenthi, and then Lathéi. “Same mother?”

  “That’s right,” Lathéi said. “Angú Tungét?”

  The nuck looked back at Wenthi. “So did she start with jifoz trash to have you, and then get her senses on with her father?”

  “Do you know who our mother is?” Lathéi snarled.

  “If she has rhique and llipe children, she sounds like a dirty castejum—”

  That got Lathéi’s blood up. “You will regret that, when she gets word—”

  “Can we move on?” Wenthi asked quickly, not wanting this to escalate further. Though it was clear this nuck was one of those Alliance types who took blood caste very seriously. “You can see our family name on our cards.”

  “They can,” the second nuck said. He waved to Paulei to drive off. “But your sister will have to find her own way. We’ve got a call to bring in one Wenthi Tungét to the Damas Kom on sight. So you better come with us.”

  Lathéi got off the cycle and gave him his helmet. “This is probably Mother’s doing.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about?” Wenthi asked the nuck.

  “No,” the first nuck said. “But we’d rather you come quickly and easily.”

  “Of course,” he said. He gave a glance to Paulei, who signaled that he would take care of Lathéi, make sure she got home all right. Paulei was already on the radio, calling for an escort support. He had it covered. Wenthi put on his helmet and started up his cycle again. “Lead the way.”

  10

  The Damas Kom was the administrative center of Ziaparr, the heart of the capital, where Sehosian modernity and Reloumic ingenuity melded with Pinogozi style. In the early dim of dawn, the electric lamps along the streets still brought a majestic, ethereal glow to the buildings, monuments of stone and glass.

  Wenthi rode flanked by the two Alliance nucks, stopping at the checkpoint to enter the district. Even the nucks had their cards checked. Zoika, just like almost everyone in the Damas Kom. The Alliance Oversight governors administrated the rest of the country from here. The Alliance Oversight Occupation had done incredible work, rebuilding the city and the country since the war, just like they had throughout the Zapisian Islands. Most of the Zapisian nations had now elected their own local governments, and a couple had become full members of the Alliance. Pinogoz would be holding elections soon enough. Soon all the work the Alliance Oversight had done with the Provisional Council would pay off.

  The sun was coming over the horizon, down in the bay, as they parked their cycles in front of the Bureau of Welfare. From here, near the top of the hill, the view to the water was spectacular, as the roads of the first four senjas spun and curved below, circles filling up with the traffic of the morning activity. Radio speakers on the corner, tuned to Alliance Voice 930, rang a chime with the time, followed by the announcer’s voice.

  “And that marks zero sweep zero, brand-new day. It’s the twelfth of Komu, year aught-aught-forty-nine of the High Sehosian Unity, and we welcome you to this new day. We hope you have a joyful and productive day. All A and B ration cards with serial numbers ending in three can be validated today, so make sure to fuel up and stock your larders. Rationing helps us all pay the debt we owe to the Alliance for all their generosity in these trying times. We’ll be playing a selection from the recordings of the Hãmzhe’oki Orchestra in a few swipes, but first the news. Victory in Ikriba as—”

  The Bureau of Welfare housed the central body governing the Alliance Guard as well as the city Civil Patrol. Wenthi had only ever been in front of the building once before, on the day he had been sworn into uniform. He and his fellow cadets—the first cohort of local law enforcement officers under the Oversight—had been marched in, in crisp red dress and coat uniforms, standing in formation at the bottom of the steps. The city elite were on the top steps, in front of the high pillars, in sight of the statues on the roof: heroes of the Second Transoceanic and the Great Noble. The high captain of the Welfare Forces gave a speech—newscasters from a
ll five radio networks were on hand to broadcast it—of how proud he was to induct the first cohort of local, Pinogozi nationals to help the guard protect and serve the city, and the great precedent it would set.

  That was three years ago.

  Now there was no ceremony, just Wenthi being led—more manhandled, as the rough lady insisted on holding his upper arm as they went up the steps—inside the building.

  “What’s this?” the desk clerk in the lobby asked as they came in. Unlike the nucks, who were clearly Sehosian, the clerk had the sallow, pale complexion of one of the Outhic countries. Probably Reloumic.

  “We heard the points to bring in Wenthi Tungét. This is him.”

  The clerk looked puzzled, and then opened up a log book. “Yes, all right, a points was called out to all hands to find and call in with Officer Tungét. You didn’t signal back you had him, did you?”

  “We thought the call was to bring him in.”

  “I mean, yes, but . . .” The clerk sighed. “My apologies, Officer Tungét, for any misunderstanding.”

  “Am I not needed?” he asked.

  “You have been summoned, but—” He crossed over and pulled the nuck’s hand off Wenthi’s arm. “There was no need for them to treat you like a hostile.”

  “I mean, he’s a rhique. Do we really take that chance?” the nuck said.

  The clerk sighed. “He’s a sworn patrol officer, and a well-regarded one at that. Officer. Tungét.” He really stressed Wenthi’s family name as he ticked his head in disappointment. “Please, one moment. You two, report back to your section chief, and I will be marking you as well.” He went back behind his desk as the nucks went off, both of them glaring at Wenthi as they left.

  The clerk plugged in a connection on his hardline switchboard, holding a headset over his ear. “Hello, yes, this is Mister Lächisec up front. I have Officer Tungét here. He should—yes, of course.”

  He disconnected the switchboard jack and stood back up. “I need you to go down that hallway, all the way to the end, and then take a right until you reach a door marked ‘baths.’ Go there.”