The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You’re being too cautious on the curves,” Nália said. “My baby can take it.”

  She wasn’t in his head. She was on the back of the cycle, arms clutched about his waist, whispering in his ear with perfect clarity despite the racing winds.

  “The fuck—”

  “You’re going to lose,” she said.

  “I’ve got this,” he said.

  “Then kick up to fire gear and get past that asshole on the junkbash,” she said. He hadn’t pushed past racing gear on this stretch, and the temperature gauge was showing things were scorching hot. He didn’t know how much more the cycle could take if he went any harder.

  “This baby can take it,” she said. “Let me.”

  She said that, and in a disorienting flash, she was in front, hands on the bars, gunning the throttle so the revs rammed well into the white. Wenthi was on back, clutching her.

  And somewhere in the dark, in the cold, only muffled beeping sounds in the distance.

  In the moments it took him to attune and acclimate to what was going on, she had shifted up to fire, gunned her way up the slope, and then slammed back down to the channel in front of the junkbash, speed never dropping below one-thirty as she weaved the curve. She didn’t step down to racing gear until she hit the tunnel.

  Ajiñe was powering well ahead of them in the tunnel, moving like she was made of light. Despite that Nália pushed hard, laughing as she whipped through the curves that Wenthi had been cautious about.

  “Crash!” Wenthi shouted as they fired up to a pile of three cycles all but blocking the tunnel.

  “See it,” Nália said, banking on the slope of the tunnel, never losing more than a hair of her speed.

  She was fucking incredible.

  They popped out of the tunnel, Ajiñe half the length of the straightaway ahead.

  Nália let loose, shifting to fire and pushing the revs well past the wide. Temp gauge screamed, Wenthi felt his legs—Nália’s legs—no, his, only he was on the cycle, only his body—he couldn’t keep it straight—singe with the searing heat from the engine. He was sure it would blow any second.

  Speedometer kept driving up as Nália closed the distance. One-forty-eight. One-fifty. One-fifty-two.

  “You’re out of straight!” he shouted. The curve was coming faster than he could imagine, and they were about to taste Ajiñe’s wheel.

  “Like shit I am!”

  Wenthi glanced at the speedometer as she came up to the curve.

  One-sixty-two.

  Sweet fucking spirits, she did it.

  She hit the brake hard, down shifting as they made the turn, dropping into the trench. No place to pass here, and Ajiñe still had that lead. No way to get past her, and every gauge on the cycle was telling Wenthi that the engine was on the verge of exploding. White and gray smoke was already pouring out of the manifold.

  “We’re gonna blow!”

  “I know my baby!”

  She didn’t let up, staying right on Ajiñe like they were tethered together. As they dropped into the second tunnel, she made her move.

  Except Ajiñe was ready. Nália banked up the tunnel way to make the pass, and Ajiñe gunned it and matched the back. Curve for curve, bank for bank, she kept with them and made it impossible to pass.

  “Shit!” Nália shouted.

  They emerged out of the tunnel, the crowd wild. There was enough space for Nália to push to the left and get around Ajiñe, all while gunning back up to fire gear. Ajiñe didn’t let up, even as Nália inched her way up on her.

  Both cycles had smoke pouring out, ridiculous amounts.

  Nália still pushed. She was relentless.

  As she edged up, the half-dressed attendants waved their coveralls like wild.

  Ajiñe skidded to a hard stop, and Nália did the same, overshooting the chalk line massively, leaving a tearing skid mark across the floor of the channel.

  Soon the other cycles—the red junkbash and the other ones that remained, came screaming down, crossing the chalk line.

  “Amazing!” Paza shouted in his megaphone. “By only a tire, the winner is Ajiñe Osceba!”

  Ajiñe was off her cycle, which was still smoking, and she grinned maniacally as she took her helmet off.

  “And in second, newcomer Renzi Llionorco! Let’s hear it, folks!”

  The crowd screamed wildly.

  “You really did it,” Wenthi told Nália.

  Except she wasn’t there anymore. It was just him, in his body, still sitting on the cycle. He turned off the engine—the damn thing needed to cool, and it was amazing it didn’t explode. Probably the only reason it didn’t was because it had nearly no petrol left in it.

  Nália had fallen back into being just a cold, angry feeling in the bottom of his skull.

  Several of the other racers got off their cycle, came and shook his hand, and then went to Ajiñe to do the same. Paza walked over as well.

  “I wasn’t sure you had it in you, son,” he said. “That last lap, though, it was like one of your spirits filled you.”

  “Something like that.”

  The pair of suited folks came over to them. “So did he hit it.”

  “One-sixty-two,” Wenthi said.

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  Ajiñe came over. “He was gaining on me while I was doing one-fifty-two. No way he could do that unless he was going at least one-fifty-six.”

  The suited man grumbled. “Fair’s fair. I’ll go siphon off five liters for you.”

  He and his entourage wandered off.

  “Thanks,” Wenthi said. “I wouldn’t have had the fuel to get home without that.”

  “Quite the race you had in you,” she said. “And we’re both going home with more fuel. Nice.”

  “You do this often?” he asked.

  “Among other things,” she said. “Hey, once we’re fueled and our cycles cool the shit down, how about we get some tacos and talk?”

  28

  The crowd slowly dispersed from the aqueducts, and Wenthi was surprised that it didn’t involve patrol breaking it up. A few casual questions of Paza and the folks he had won the five liters off of made it clear this was a somewhat regular occurrence. He found it astounding that something like these races, with a crowd of onlookers and a set track, could have been going on without patrol being aware.

  Of course, this was on the outskirts of the Ako Favel, at the edge of the city. Parts that had taken heavy fire in the Second Trans, and had been all but obliterated in the Great Noble. Save for the stretch where the rail line came through, he had never been called to ride out here on patrol. No one cared. Maybe someone was slipped some coin or ration chits to not care.

  He’d let Paulei know about it on his next check-in.

  He was also shocked that, despite the smoke that had been pouring out of the engine at the end of the race, the ’goiz seemed to be in good shape once it cooled down. A piston damned well should have seized, and he had no idea why it hadn’t. Or why Nália had been so certain that it wouldn’t, that the cycle could handle that kind of abuse.

  “If you want, you can use our shop to check your boy out,” Ajiñe said as they wheeled their cycles out of the gully and back to the road. “I’m guessing you’ve got a couple hoses that melted a bit.” She leaned in to the ’goiz and sniffed. “Yeah, both coolant and oil.”

  “I didn’t come out here planning to race,” he said. “I got kind of pulled into it.”

  “Yeah,” she said, giving him a skeptical look. “We’re gonna talk about that, friend. But let’s make sure you can get back to Street Xaomico.” She knelt down next to his cycle. “Yeah, I see the hoses you blew.”

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Are you gonna need oil or coolant right away?”

  He checked the reservoirs while she dug in her
bag, taking out a roll of tape. They were definitely low, but not completely empty. She finished her work and stood back up.

  “That’s pretty ugly, but it’ll hold you back to our shop. Long as you don’t push your boy at all.”

  “Definitely not,” he said.

  She looked at him, her dark eyes drinking him in. “Interesting,” she said after a long pause.

  “What?”

  “Come on,” she said, getting on her cycle. “There’s a good stand that serves all night in Circle Hyunma.”

  He followed her there, keeping his eye on all the gauges and never daring to go past cruising gear. The ’goiz held up, but he could feel something wasn’t quite right, and that feeling wasn’t just from Nália’s wordless grumbling in the back of his head.

  He still didn’t understand what had happened with her in the race. Their connection didn’t just have intensity, but a real . . . tangibility. Like their bodies were a singular thing, for just a moment. That occluded darkness he felt—was that what she was experiencing, sedated in the ice room? Why had their connection intensified during the race? Was it just her love of the race, the cycle itself? She took control, and she wanted to win as much as he did.

  Whatever it was, it had been a strain on her, as she was now all but silent. Just a low rumble of emotion at the base of his skull.

  They reached the taco stand—a cart with a wood grill parked under the statue of Hyunma, a Sehosian pilot in the First Trans whose exact significance Wenthi had forgotten after finishing his history courses—where the two cart chefs were still hard at work, and more than a few patrons were eating at the scattered tables about the square. This deep into the night, Wenthi was surprised there were as many people as there were.

  “You’re buying,” Ajiñe said as they walked up.

  “Why am I?”

  “Because you came in second,” she said. “Winners don’t buy their own tacos. It’s a rule.”

  “Fine,” he said. He did have a bit of coin to spare for it, thanks to Miss Niliza’s deliveries. “What’ll you have?”

  She grinned and leaned over to the cart chef. “What are you grilling?”

  The chef launched into it. “We got the sweet pork, the sharp fish, we got the rajas and the Ureti beef and the fruit pork, the tang chicken, the city cheese, the crumbly cheese, we got all the corn, the tomatoes, the chiles, the tomatillos. We got spice and for the salsa, we got the fired red and the burning orange and the sweet green.”

  “The best damn cart,” she said to Wenthi. “Give me a sharp fish, a tang chicken, an Ureti beef, city cheese on all of that, an ear with the raina.”

  “Salsas?”

  “Fired red on the beef and chicken, green on the fish.”

  “And you, zyiza?” the cart chef asked Wenthi. “What are you getting?”

  “Sweet pork and fruit pork, both with crumbly,” he said. “And a tang chicken with the rajas. Sweet green for all of it.”

  “No corn?”

  “Give him an ear, raina and cheese,” Ajiñe said. “He deserves it.”

  “You’re gonna break me,” he said.

  “I’m gonna help you fix your hoses in my papa’s shop,” she said. “So you’ll be fine.”

  “Fair.”

  “What’s the name?” the chef asked.

  “Llionorco,” she told him. “All right, racer, let’s sit.”

  They took a spot at one of the wooden tables scattered around the taco stand in the patch of park in the center of the traffic circle.

  “So, Llionorco, what’s the story?”

  “The story?”

  “You following me to the races.”

  He shrugged, trying to decide the best way to play this. “You caught my eye at your sister’s Spirit Dance. You were cool on your toes when the tories whipped around.”

  “You too,” she said. “And you watched over Ziva, and her crown. So I was inclined to think well of you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But,” she said sharply, “you’re also new blood in this city, and you’ve already made close friends on Street Xaomico.”

  “I wouldn’t say close.”

  “Your cock has been in at least three people on that street, so that’s close enough.”

  “Are we keeping count?”

  “I’m making note,” she said. “I mean, Miss Niliza likes you, but she likes a lot of people. You came to our patch right when you got your walking papers from the prison train?”

  “Not right to it. But I met Daro on the train, and he said he knew where I could use the vouchers to stay.”

  “So he brought you over.”

  “You knew that already,” he said.

  “I always have my eye open when new meat comes to the patch. Especially when he comes on a cycle.”

  “That got your attention?”

  “A custom tricked Puegoiz 960? Shit, yes. You don’t see many of those.”

  “I suppose not,” Wenthi said.

  “Llionorco!” the cart chef called.

  “Go get our order.”

  Wenthi went over to the cart, where the chef had laid out the whole order on a tray made out of a hubcap. “I need that back, son.”

  “Sure,” Wenthi said.

  He took the tacos and corn ears over to the table, where Ajiñe had acquired a pair of carbons. These were bright piñas instead of a cola, and were probably crazy sweet. Which was fine. She handed one to him as he put their tacos on the table.

  “So,” she said, picking up a taco, “you come here from Hanez, but you get your cycle back from impound, and settle in on Street Xaomico, in good with Miss Niliza, running piece for her. Not bad for a new bit of meat.”

  “If you say so,” he said. He tucked into the fruit pork first—seasoned with a sweet fruit mash, seared and served with cilantro and onions and the fruit relish, then with a crumble of cheese and the tomatillo salsa. He had had the same taco a month before at the brass club—fancy and highly priced on Lathéi’s credit—and had thought that one was astounding. But this taco—this one was sublime in ways the expensive ones could never touch. “Dear spirits, that is so good.”

  “I told you,” she said. “Love this place after a race.”

  “I can see why.”

  “So,” she said, working on her sharp fish. “Normally I wouldn’t give a kilo of shit about some new side of beef, but you’ve got that cycle, and you showed tonight, you can really ride.”

  “I didn’t win.” He took a swig of the piña carbon. A little too sweet, but fine.

  “Everyone on that track who isn’t me didn’t win,” she said. “But you came shitting close.”

  “Close doesn’t mean much.”

  “You won your side bet, aren’t going home empty.”

  “I suppose,” he said. He glanced over to her cycle, with the bladders of her winnings strapped onto it. “But you really scored.”

  “Is that what you raced for?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ve been puttering by on my petrol rations. I needed something to make the difference.” The fruit pork done, he moved onto the tang chicken. This had been a specialty of Izamio’s in Mother’s household, and more than a few times Wenthi had sat in the kitchen studying while she prepared the chicken. Marinated in a paste of ground chile, orange juice and zest, garlic and vinegar, it was always sweet and acidic, and that first bite took him all the way back to that. “Wow.”

  “You’ve got to stop doing that.”

  “Sorry, it just made me think of Iza, she—she took care of me a lot when I was a kid.”

  “One of your side-mothers?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Never knew my father, so, I . . . didn’t know any side-mothers either.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “How come you didn’t know your father
? Did he get it in one of the purges?”

  He knew he shouldn’t say it, but the truth poured out of him. “Died before I was born, at the end of the Second Trans. My mother, she . . . she never talked much about him. I had side-fathers, of course, but, well, I think he was something special to her.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “My mother, she got taken for the mines during the Great Noble, five days after Ziva was born. My father, he . . . people told him he should Bind up again, but he said he had never broken union with my mother, so it wouldn’t be right. Raised Ziva and me in that garage by himself.”

  “He seems a good sort,” Wenthi said. A few more swigs of the carbon to wash down the heat of the salsas. She had devoured all her tacos and was working on the corn.

  “But you, you I’m still figuring out, Renzi Llionorco, driving a custom ’goiz 960.”

  “What do you want to figure out?”

  “What someone like you wants,” she said.

  He shrugged. “What does anyone want? A good meal, a good race, a good fuck—”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself here, Llionorco. Like I said, still figuring you out.”

  “I wasn’t presuming.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “So you followed me tonight. Hoping to just peel me out of my denim or something more?”

  “What more would there be?” The sweet pork was just as good as the others, if a hint spicier than he expected. He had to wash that one down with the carbon, even if it was sickly sweet.

  “That’s what I want to know. Are you just a piece of meat, biding his time until he’s back at Hanez . . . or are you wanting to be something bigger?”

  “Bigger?”

  “Or . . .” she said, leaning in, “are you already part of something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m wondering if you’re a patrol officer working some infil angle.”

  “That’s ridi—” he started to say, but his mouth felt numb, no longer quite obeying him.

  “Not that ridiculous,” she said. Suddenly two more people were sitting at the table, shoulder to shoulder with Wenthi on either side, pressing against him. The two men from the truck, the ones he made the bet with.

  He wanted to say something else in protest, but his mouth and tongue were completely out of his control. Ajiñe, across from him, was becoming a blur, even as the fancily dressed woman from the truck came and took her hand. He tried to stand up, but his legs refused to move at all.