And for some local color, Alliance Guard reports there was quite a dustup in the 14th Senja, as their investigators have worked tirelessly to find the ringleaders of a shoplifting scheme that was stealing dry goods from local vendors throughout the outer senjas. The guard, with the assistance of the dedicated local men and women of the Civil Patrol, executed several warrants on twelve people, arresting Felita Mereto, Marin Mereto, and Anninia Mereto, amongst others, all jifozi caste. Anninia was the supposed brains of the operation, and she had run from patrol, finally caught hiding in the home of Miss Niliza Dallatan, a name our listeners have heard time and time again in the crime report. As a result of the raid, cloth, rice, and corn flour, valuing up to fifteen thousand ration points, were recovered. I’m sure our listeners are happy to hear of their recovery, for they know the Maretos and their accomplices—jifozi all—were stealing from their pockets as much as from the local vendors. We at ZPR 1140 are all glad to hear the goods have been recovered and hope that the jifozi neighbors of the Maretos learn that crime hurts all of us, especially you. But they have been caught, and once the hospital releases all the Maretos, you can be assured they will be tried and sent to Hanezcua Penitentiary where they belong
We’ll be playing a selection from Ngei Zhiun’s Fourth Symphony, as performed by the Orchestra of the Union Order, brought to you by Oalka Coffee. When you need that rich, strong flavor, you need Oalka . . .
SECOND CIRCUIT:
RENZI LLIONORCO
16
Wenthi startled awake to the loud drone of engines. Deafening.
He was strapped in a seat. Roaring in his ears.
Her screams—Nália Enapi—in his ears.
Where was she?
Where was he?
He realized there was someone else in another chair, across from him, also strapped in.
“Officer Tungét,” she shouted over the roar. “You all right?”
“I—what is going on?”
“I was told you’d be disoriented,” she said. “It’s Lieutenant Canwei. Do you remember what happened yesterday?”
“Yesterday,” he said. The words eased into his brain amid the echoes of extra voices bouncing around. His eyes focused on Canwei.
“I wasn’t sure if you would wake up before we landed.”
“Landed?” he asked. His head was still thrumming, and the roaring around him didn’t help.
“We’re in a four-prop flyer, about thirty klicks outside of Hanezcua. We land there and then you’ll be put on a prison transport train back to Ziaparr. The story is you’ve just been released from Hanez Penitentiary and are being shipped out for relocation. That should give you cover to get yourself situated in your new identity.”
“New—” The words bounced around in his head. “Sorry, I—I’m a little . . .”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll try to explain the magic bullshit they did to you best I can. Shebiruht was able to forge an extended, long-term myco sync between you and Miss Enapi—the woman you arrested?”
“Right,” Wenthi said. The obvious question came up through his cloudy brain. “Why?”
“You’re going to be trying to infiltrate people who regularly use the myco with each other, to coordinate, to communicate. You needed—how did Shebiruht explain it?”
Shebiruht. The Mushroom Monster. The Witch. She had done this.
“You’re going to need a shield to protect your real self in those connections, when you use the myco in the field.”
That brought Wenthi back to the present moment, giving him a better sense of where he was. Sparse cargo hold, metal walls, porthole windows. This was the first time Wenthi had been in any sort of flyer, and the sudden realization that he was high in the air made his stomach jump. He dared a glance out the porthole, but all he saw besides the thick white-and-gray of cloud cover was the wide metal wing and two whirling propellers. The only other person here besides him and the lieutenant was the pilot at the stick.
“Why would I—” he started, then understanding came. “I’ll need to do the myco with them to join in, to fit with others.”
“Precisely,” Canwei said. “This sync with Enapi, Shebiruht says it’ll act as a magical mask you can use to protect who you really are. When you myco sync with someone else, it will make you ‘feel’ like Enapi does, or is supposed to. Plus you should be able to access some of her memories, her instincts, which will help you blend in with your new identity.”
“New identity.” That was something he could latch on to. “I’ve got the gist, you’ll load me on the train, so when I get off at Ziaparr everyone will think I’ve just been let free with the rest of the new releases.”
“You’ve got it,” she said. She handed him a few cards. “Those identify you as a jifoz named Renzi Llionorco.”
“All right,” he said. They clearly chose “Renzi” because it was the local version of his Sehosian name “Wenthi.” He’d learn to react naturally to that quickly enough. But “Llionorco” was an odd choice, putting him in mind of Mother’s warning. “Do you know how they chose that name? The family name, specifically.”
“That stuff came from above me. Usually for something like this, they choose a name that had a lot of casualties in the war. That way when people ask who your people are, you say they died in the bombings of Second, or Great Noble. Bombings are a good one to use, they never ask follow-ups.”
That sounded like it came from experience. “You did this before?”
“Four seasons in deep with some smuggling crews in Xaopan. But those folks were just working the docks, bringing in contraband. Nothing like this, with the mushroom or rebellions.”
[Revolution.]
That didn’t quite come from Wenthi’s own head. It was like a radio that hadn’t landed on the station, half heard through the static.
“So we’ll be on the train together?” he asked.
“Once we land, I treat you like a prisoner, and bring you to the trainyard. I’m gonna be a bit rough, fair warning.”
The four-prop suddenly bucked, jerking him to the side.
“Lot a wind!” the pilot shouted.
“You all right?” Canwei asked, reached out to him.
“Get your hands off me, tory!” he snapped reflexively, though he immediately wondered why. He had never said something like that before.
“Good,” she said. “Like your instincts. We’ll keep that up as we get on the train, and no one will doubt you.”
“All right,” he said. “So I have my papers and new identity, what’s my next step when I get back to Ziaparr?”
“Establish yourself in a jifozi district. Ideally one of the patches in the 14th Senja.”
[Miahez.]
Wenthi shook that off. “And then work to find my way into one of these rebellion gangs. Use this . . . connection? . . . with Enapi to guide my way.”
“Right. The bosses are hoping that you’re going to know who to find, where to go. From there, your goal is to get in deep enough to meet Varazina, or at least someone high up enough in the inner circle to reach her.”
“These are cycle gangs,” he said. “I’m going to need a cycle. I presume I’m not going to have a patrol-issued Ungeke.”
“Of course not,” she said. “When you get off the prison train back in town, you’ll be issued your personal effects. Well, the ones listed under Renzi Llionorco.”
“Which are?”
She looked at her files. “Looks like a pull shirt, denim coat and slacks, helmet and a Puegoiz 960.”
[What color?] Still so much static.
“What color?” he asked, echoing the voice in his skull.
She glanced at the file again. “Cold blue and chrome.”
[Mine!]
That hit him hard and clear, like an anchor pulling him down. The radio fully tuned.
“Yeah, that
’s mine,” he said. “I mean, that’s Miss Enapi’s. Is that wise?”
“It’s available. It’s not like you can ride a shiny factory-fresh Ungeke.”
“All right, that makes sense. If I have that cycle, I can use it and hopefully get in with the same people that I—” He shook that off for a second. “That Miss Enapi was in with.”
“You all right?” she asked.
“I feel—” He tried to find the words for what was going on. “I feel like part of me is still left on the ground, in my gut, pulling me down. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what part of that has to do with the ‘sync’ they did to me, and what’s just being in the flyer.”
“Ten swipes to ground!” the pilot shouted.
“Thanks!” Canwei shouted back. “When we land, you take a few to get your bearings. There’s a cooler box in the back with a couple tortas—achiote pork and pickled onion—as well as a Dark Shumi. Take your time with that, and then we’ll shackle your wrists and ankles, and load you in a truck to the train depot. From that point on, you are Llionorco, and I’m going to treat you as such.”
“Got it,” he said.
“People ask, you were in Ward Eight at Hanez. Everyone in there was in solo lock, so no one would be able to claim different.”
“Strap up!” the pilot shouted.
The roaring props sputtered and thundered, as the flyer broke out from the wall of white. Out the porthole, the gray and brown city lay below, a sprawling metro belching flame and smoke. Hanezcua was an industrial town, where they refined the raw crude from the oil plains between here and Ziaparr. Filled with steel refineries, machine plants, and assembly factories. They made the Puegoiz cycles here, the Kathia autos and trucks, not to mention the gunrollers and bombers that the Alliance was using in the war.
The ground came up faster and harder, making Wenthi’s stomach drop and heart hammer like a raildigger. With a jarring slam, the flyer lurched back. Wenthi almost puked all over Lieutenant Canwei.
“On the ground,” she said. “First one’s always the hardest.”
“Nah!” the pilot shouted. “It’s the last one that’ll always get you.”
Canwei unbuckled herself as the flyer rolled to a stop, and then got Wenthi out of his seat. Only now did he realize he was wearing a white prison gown.
“Eat up,” she said. “I mean, take your time, but we do have a train to catch.”
17
Wenthi was slammed into a seat, Lieutenant Canwei shoving her finger in his face.
“Give me an excuse, Llionorco,” she said. “Give me any excuse to drag you right back to the hole we pulled you out of.”
“Maybe I will,” Wenthi said.
“And maybe I’ll get to put you on a train right back here,” she said. She made a good show of knocking his face, spat on him, and stalked off.
“Nice lady,” said the fellow sitting next to him. “You Bind with her for a bit or something?”
“She wishes,” Wenthi said. The guy was dark amber-skinned, with an accent that sounded like he came from the outer senjas of Ziaparr. Probably a jifoz. “You know how these tories get attached.”
“Just don’t bring me trouble,” he said. “I don’t need whatever she has over you to spill over on me.”
“I’ll ride good and quiet,” Wenthi said.
The prison car was filled with amber- and copper-skinned people, all in white jumpsuits. Most of them thick-haired, swarthy beards on the men. Jifoz and baniz, clearly. Wenthi wondered if he stood out as a rhique compared to them. Not that he was going to make a scene comparing his tawny-bronze arm to the man next to him. But the papers he now carried said he was jifoz, so he doubted any of them would question it.
Guards came through and checked the shackles of all the prisoners. It seemed a bit odd to Wenthi, given that everyone here was probably coming to Ziaparr for release. There wasn’t a penitentiary in Ziaparr, just the holding jails in various headquarters. Nothing for long-term prisoners, so they were being sent to freedom. He wondered why they even bothered shackling at this stage. Trying to escape or run now seemed absurd.
Of course, these men and women hadn’t exactly made smart choices up until now. So perhaps it was best to prevent temptation.
That thought made his stomach turn. These people didn’t have choices. They were desperate, did what they had to do to stay alive, to keep working, to feed their families. They had been punished for that. Most of them had probably been targeted by the patrol for being jifoz or baniz.
“No,” he said out loud. That wasn’t true. He knew it wasn’t true.
“I thought you’d be quiet,” the man next to him said.
Wenthi sneered at his seatmate. “Don’t give me reason not to.”
But he fought back against the thought that percolated up. No, Patrol didn’t target the undercastes. Crime was more common in the senjas where they lived.
[Because that’s where people are the most desperate, asshole.]
That thought hit hard. That wasn’t him, that was Nália. Her emotions—roiling anger at the guards, rage over the shackles, the pity and fury looking at the sallow faces of underfed prisoners—all bubbled and churned within him.
He closed his eyes and pushed those feelings down. What had the mad doctor said? He was supposed to dominate the link with the girl. Her emotions shouldn’t rule over him. He had an assignment, and he would perform his duty, but he would not be ruled by the emotions of a silly young woman with aspirations of revolution and liberation.
Rebellion. Even her words were seeping into his thoughts. He had to reclaim control.
Two guards came through the prison cabin, one with a clipboard and the other an inkpad. They spoke briefly to each prisoner, quickly working through the room. Eventually they reached Wenthi’s bench.
“Name?” they asked the man next to him.
“Cerlos,” he said. “Beniché Cerlos.”
The one with the clipboard flipped through pages. “Is this a work release?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Cerlos asked. “I served my time.”
Clipboard turned to his companion. “I’m not seeing it on here, so mark him black.”
The guard with the inkpad stamped it and put a black mark on Cerlos’s hand.
“And you?” he asked Wenthi.
“Llionorco. Renzi Llionorco.”
“Here it is,” the guard said. “So nice when they get the paperwork right.”
“It helps,” his friend said. “What’s he get?”
“Blue,” the first said. “This guy is going home.”
As the guard stamped Wenthi’s hand with a blue spot, Cerlos grew agitated.
“I am going home,” he said. “I did my time. I should get the blue.”
“You’re not on the list,” the guard with the board said.
“No, I am going home. My son, he—”
The guard knocked Cerlos across his face with the clipboard. “You’re not on the list. And you deserve the black.” He glanced at Wenthi. “You gonna be a problem, Llionorco?”
“I’m going where I need to be,” Wenthi said.
“Good,” he said, and the guards moved on.
So whatever the black mark meant, it wasn’t release. Wenthi glanced around. Most of the hands he saw were marked black. Hardly anyone on this train was going to freedom.
Another emotion from Nália. He tamped down on that, thinking of a box, with a lid and a lock, and put her feelings inside it. The people who were going free, and there were a few with the blue mark, were the ones who had served their sentence. The rest had surely been put on this train, marked black, for good reason. He didn’t know what, and neither did the silly girl trying to needle her way into his skull.
Nália. Her name was Nália Enapi.
And his was now Renzi Llionorco. He kept repeating that in
his head as the train fired up and started to roll.
18
The train had thundered through the night, but the lights in the prison cabin stayed on, though flickering and weak, the whole time. There was also a radio speaker, crackling out hourly news and prop broadcasts about victories in Ikriba and Runura. “We are fighting on for the good of the Alliance, to stop the next Rodiguen before they gain too much power. We fight now so there shall be no more Transoceanic Wars, for we are united in strength and peace.”
Wenthi tried to sleep, but found only fitful dozing and troubled dreams. Dreams of the crowded 16th Senja—the Ako Favel—where there were no roads, just bombed-out patches where ramshackle homes made of scrap metal were crammed on top of each other. He wandered from there to the 14th Senja—but in his head he kept calling it Miahez—all of it nightmarish but also familiar.
He woke with the train whistle blowing hard and sharp, morning daylight smashing through the windows into his skull.
“Welcome to Ziaparr, those of you that are staying,” one of the guards shouted. He held a heavy baton, while the two behind him carried heavy rifles. “This is how it’s going to work. All of you will stand up, and we will unshackle you each in turn. You step out and follow instructions as given by the guards outside. You will not speak, you will not question, and you will not disrupt the order of things, else example will be made of you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”
None of the prisoners responded.
“Good. Now, stand up, and we will get you unloaded in a decent and orderly manner.”
They went through each row of benches, unlatching the shackles and leading them out of the car. After several swipes of this, the guards got to Wenthi’s bench, letting him and Cerlos up at the same time and leading them out.
Out in the depot—exactly where in town, Wenthi wasn’t sure, probably in the 19th Senja—another set of guards glanced at the ink on their hands. “Blue, over there into the hut for release process. Black, follow them onto the trucks.”
The Velocity of Revolution Page 9