The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “That hasn’t stopped with the arrests?”

  “It’s gotten worse. But that means anyone who’s off shift and here will have a lot of tension to blow off.”

  Wenthi lay back on the bed, his thoughts scattered. Thoughts still on the reasons behind making the mushroom illegal, scaring people from using it. Thoughts on the people from Street Xaomico arrested. Thoughts on the idea that there was still uproar in the Outtown streets, that nothing he had done had quelled it. If anything, he might have made it worse, and more riots were coming.

  Paulei opened up the door to find someone already there.

  “Oh!” Lathéi said. “I was about to knock.”

  “Didn’t think you’d come see us up here in our hovel,” Paulei said lightly.

  “It wasn’t my first choice, but this silly boy has been off his mission for days and hasn’t come to see me.”

  “The fool,” Paulei said. “Go in there, it’s fine.”

  “You sure?” she asked both of them.

  “I’m off to round up some people to fuck some sense into him, but that will take me a bit.”

  “It’s fine, Lath, get in here,” Wenthi called out as he pulled his own robe on. She came farther into the room as Paulei went off.

  “I wasn’t certain you wanted to see me,” she said, coming over to the bed and sitting on the edge. She was dressed in what Wenthi assumed was the high fashion of the season in Ziaparr, her green dress fitting tight at the waist and flaring out at her knees. She wore what Wenthi could only describe as the tiniest hat he had ever seen, pinned to the top of her hair with lace and wisps of ribbon that elegantly framed the sides of her face.

  “Why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

  “Well, you haven’t made much of an effort to come out, have you?” she asked.

  “You mean come to Mother’s house,” he said.

  “I’ve been enduring that household all alone.”

  “With Oshnå.”

  “Practically alone.”

  He pointed to the pile of newspapers and magazines on the floor. “Paulei collected those for me while I was gone. It looks like you spent the past season getting your tinplate plastered all over Intown.” Society, fashion, and gossip pages were filled with pictures of Lathéi and Oshnå, and every young llipe and rhique in the city tried to get tinplated with her. He had already seen how most young folk in the 9th were now dressing like she and Oshnå were that night at the brass club.

  “I didn’t ask to be a style influencer. It’s quite annoying.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I wore this hat for the first time today, and five people plated me on my way here. Mark me, brother, you will see this all over town in three days. It’s tiresome.”

  He knew Lathéi well enough to know she was being honest, she didn’t relish this sort of attention. “I wonder what would happen if you dressed like I had to this whole time. Boots and raw denim.”

  “Oh, I could get the whole town dressing like that if I wanted. Phony followers, the lot of them. They were all, ‘oh, Lathéi, you and your girlfriend are so elegant, so Outhic, so sophisticated.’ It’s like no one has ever gone to Hemisheuk before.”

  “I bet you’re ready to go back.”

  “Quite. And Mother keeps making noises about how my place is here and there is no need to go across the sea again, which is just impossible of her.”

  “When do you go?”

  “Five days,” she said, giving a playful slap to his arm. “Which makes your failure to come see me almost unforgivable.”

  “As long as it’s almost.”

  She sighed. “You look exhausted, though. Was it the assignment, or is it the ongoing celebration?”

  “Bit of both.”

  “I don’t begrudge you your fun, but unless you are getting on that steamer with me, I refuse to lose another day of seeing you.”

  “I can’t get on that steamer,” he said. “I would have had to apply for travel permits two seasons ago.”

  “Faith, they make it so hard. Normally I’d say Mother could find a way, but she doesn’t even want me to go, let alone let you leave the country as well.”

  “I think she’d be fine with it.”

  “Not at all!”

  “Lath,” he said, “she wants you here because you are the presumptive heir to her place in the Prime Families. The ranking Tungét.”

  “Like anyone really cares about such a thing,” she scoffed.

  “Do you want to hear something wild?”

  “Always.”

  “Mother gained her place because she was the only surviving member of the Tungét line, but she had nearly been disinherited. Apparently it was only because the rest of the family was killed in the Second Trans that they didn’t have time to remove her standing.”

  “You lie!” Lathéi said with a laugh. “Wherever did you hear such a thing? Mother has never talked about that. I think she was born thirty.”

  “Do you remember during the Tyrant’s War—”

  “The what?”

  “The Great Noble,” he corrected. “The bunker, the camps? Being lost in the Smokewalks?”

  “Only in the vaguest ways,” she said. “I remember you taking care of me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Partly,” he said.

  “Which is why I want to take care of you now,” she said. “And I can. I can take you to Hemisheuk, and I think it would do you a lot of good to get out of this country. At least the city. We could take a train to Ureti for a day or two, live it up—”

  “I appreciate that, Lathéi.”

  “But you don’t want to do that,” she said, her face sinking a bit. “I get it, I do. Fine. Well, I have one more piece to play, and after that I’ll leave you to your celebration.”

  “I am glad to see you, you know,” he said. “It’s just—”

  “I know, dear,” she said, caressing his face with her gloved hand. “Mother is holding a dinner gathering tomorrow night. She has said it is in honor of your success, how the rebellion was quelled thanks to your work, but was very vague about if she intended to invite you.”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “In which case, I am inviting you as my extension. Are your measurements still on record at the haberdasher? You didn’t thicken your waist too much on jifozi tacos while on mission?”

  “No risk of overeating on the mission,” he said. She had no idea how hungry the jifoz were.

  “Good. I’ll have a proper suit for this bash made and delivered to you tomorrow—on my account, don’t worry.”

  “So Oshnå will miss the party?”

  “Oh, she’s coming,” Lathéi said. “If I am the heir apparent of the Tungét seat or whatever, I will make a thing of having all the caste-breaking guests I want at a party.”

  “It won’t be trouble?”

  “It probably will be,” Lathéi said. “But honestly, the idea of Mother hosting a thing to celebrate what you did without inviting you to it? It sickens me. I will not stand.”

  He smiled. “Hold on to that spirit,” he said. “No matter where you go, what position or seat you have. Remember how you feel right now and lock it into yourself, so it can always guide you.”

  “What a peculiar thing to say,” she said, getting on her feet. She leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  “I think Mother forgot more about who she was,” he said. “What she used to fight for. I don’t want you to do the same.”

  She gave him a peculiar regard. “You have more story than you’re letting on. I’ll press you on it tomorrow. See you then.” She went out the door, leaving it open so Paulei could return with a half-dozen half-naked patrol officers who had just gotten off duty.

  “Heard there was a sad hero here who needed cheering,” Hwokó said as she threw her blouse on
the ground. “Let’s get on it.”

  Wenthi put on a good face and waved them all into his bed. It would be wonderful, of course, despite being stuck in only his own skin.

  61

  Wenthi’s Ungeke K’am was still stabled at Mother’s house in the 2nd Senja, so he had little choice but to take Nália’s junkbashed Puegoiz 960 to the party. He was surprised that no one had asked him to turn in the keys, and when he pressed, Canwei told him to get the cycle out of the headquarters garage for now. What else would he do but ride it? Even though it looked like junk next to the Ungekes the other patrol who lived in his building drove, he knew what kind of machine it was, how much it was capable of. Still, it did look like an Outtown cycle, which was surely quite a sight when paired with his lime green vest and suspender suit, with violet brim-cap and cravat. It was an odd look, nothing like anything Wenthi had worn before. It was, he suspected, an outfit Lathéi had curated specifically to annoy Mother. That was a purpose Wenthi could respect.

  It did look good, in a foppish, young llipe sort of way, though the fabric was hardly what he’d call comfortable.

  Maybe you got too used to the raw denim against your skin.

  For a moment, he was about to tell Nália to be quiet, but it wasn’t her thought. It was just his.

  That would be what Nália would say, after she mocked him for this outfit.

  He was given a bit of a hard time at the checkpoint between the 9th and 2nd Senjas, as there were now double the Alli nucks working the spot, and none of them were the usual familiar faces.

  “You’re going into the 2nd at this sweep?”

  “Invited to an event,” Wenthi said. He pointed to his card. “You’ll see I have dispensation to cross into the 2nd at any time.”

  “Don’t tell me what I see, son,” the nuck said. He peered at the card, held it up to the light, squinted at it again. “What’s it say your family name is?”

  “Tungét.”

  “There is that thing at the Tungét home tonight,” one of the other nucks said. “A lot of llipe Prime folk are going there.”

  “And this rhique, apparently,” the one still inspecting his card said. “On a junker cycle, at that.”

  “Why are you riding that like some jifo?”

  “Bit of a loaner,” Wenthi said. “My proper cycle is at the house I’m going to.”

  “You’re going to a house in the 2nd? Not to work one of the shops?”

  “That’s right,” Wenthi said. “My mother’s home.”

  “Oh, well then,” the first nuck said with a mocking tone. “That explains why a rhique who leans dark like you has the dispensation privilege.”

  “What does—”

  “I took you for a shop scrub,” he said.

  “Ride along,” the second guard said, opening the checkpoint gate before Wenthi could respond. “Party is waiting.”

  Wenthi drove in, not sure how he wanted to respond.

  There were plenty of sedans parked all along the road to Mother’s house, and more inside the gate. Wenthi threaded the ’goiz between them all and parked it next to his Ungeke, leaning against the wall of the grounds in a far corner.

  “Hello, Mister Wenthi,” Isacha said from the work shack. He was sitting inside the metal structure with the door open. Wenthi had never looked in there before, only now realizing that there was a cot with all the garden tools. Was this where the old man always slept?

  “It’s good to see you,” Wenthi said. “How has the household been?”

  “We keep it going,” Isacha said. “Though Miss Angú thought I should stay out of sight for the party.”

  “How long have you known my mother?” Wenthi asked. “Well before I was born, yes?”

  “Yes, Mister Wenthi.”

  “So you knew my father, then?”

  Isacha didn’t answer, but looked to the floor.

  “His name was Renzi, wasn’t it? Renzi Llionorco?”

  Isacha looked up. “He was a good friend. Your mother would never say so, but she still misses him, I think.”

  Wenthi moved closer to the old man. “They were part of a movement or something?”

  Isacha chuckled ruefully. “We made some noise, not that anyone really cared.”

  “You were part of it, too?”

  “Foolishness of youth,” Isacha said. “Every generation thinks they can change things, I think. We tried to tear down the system, decry the castes. All it did was divide the people, open us up for the tyrant to step in. Your father, he had . . . such ambitions.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Brilliant, beautiful man,” Isacha said. “He didn’t deserve what they—”

  “Wenthi!” Lathéi came over to them. “People heard you had arrived, but you hadn’t come inside yet.”

  “Sorry,” Wenthi said. “I was talking to Isacha about—”

  “Let the poor man alone,” Lathéi said. “Faith knows he’s worked enough today.”

  “Right,” Wenthi said.

  “Another time,” Isacha said.

  “Come along,” Lathéi said, leading him to the door. “You are welcome to the house.”

  “Isn’t it odd you have to say it every time?” he asked her as they went in.

  “It’s custom,” she said.

  The household—at least the grand dining and sitting rooms, as well as the back garden behind it all—was filled with the upper elite of Ziaparr. Almost anyone here who wasn’t staff was llipe, except for the handful of zoika foreigners like Oshnå, who was leaning against one wall quietly nursing a rum and carbon. Wenthi knew exactly who most of the people here were, at least by reputation. Mostly members of the Prime Families, as well as leaders in the city government, the Provisional Council, and a handful of Alliance administrators.

  “Great gentles and friends,” Lathéi announced as she led Wenthi down the steps to the grand dining room. “You’ve all been singing praises of what he accomplished, and now he is here with us. My dear half-brother, savior of the city, Officer Wenthi Tungét.”

  People all looked over to them, and gave a smattering of polite applause, followed by murmurs of discontent. Wenthi had seen those disapproving looks before; they all had opinions about his presence here.

  One of them did walk up, though. Ainiro Hwungko strolled up to him, smart and styled in a silk robesuit, with a small entourage of hangers-on walking behind her. “Officer Tungét. It’s very agreeable to see you again.”

  “Councilwoman,” Wenthi said with a polite nod of the head. “I’m happy to be seen.”

  “I was thrilled to see you had been so successful with your mission. I’ll confess I was uncertain how you would fare, but you proved quite capable. We are all very pleased with that work, and there will be rewards in due time.”

  “Thank you,” Wenthi said. “Just doing my job.”

  “Humility is a grossly underrated virtue. It looks quite fetching on you.” She turned to her people. “Some of you could stand to take a lesson at this.”

  “The councilwoman was saying earlier how we need to take advantage of the opportunities you’ve given us,” one of her hangers-on said.

  “What opportunities are those?” Wenthi asked.

  “Finally revitalizing the outer senjas. Most of the 14th—”

  “Miahez,” Wenthi said instinctively.

  “Pardon?” Missus Hwungko asked.

  “In Outtown, they call that senja ‘Miahez,’” Wenthi said.

  “How very charming,” the hanger-on said. “But imagine, most of that area is run-down, never properly rebuilt since the bombings of the war.”

  “That’s true,” Wenthi said.

  “We could make it into a place proper people could actually live.”

  “We could what?” His voice went harsher and louder than he had intended, causing that hange
r-on to lurch back in surprise.

  Lathéi took his arm. “I haven’t gotten you anything to eat yet. Terrible oversight.”

  “One thing,” Missus Hwungko said. “Someone has something he needs to say to you.”

  She waved, and a handsome young man stepped up, his gaze fully on his own shoes.

  “Enzúri,” she said sternly. “What do you say to Officer Tungét?”

  “Thank you for your service,” he said quietly. “You’ve made this city safer.”

  “Very good, Enzúri,” she said. “Now go find me something to drink.”

  Lathéi said some final pleasantry as she pulled Wenthi away from them toward the banquet table. Wenthi glanced back at Enzúri as he went to the bar. He was the one who had run with Nália when she was arrested. Why had he been part of that? He wouldn’t have been unless Varazina had called him, or Nicalla had recruited him. How had he joined in with the Fists that night? Why had he? How had that all happened?

  “As much as I delight in tweaking everyone’s nose by having you here,” Lathéi said. “Let’s not actually shout at Mother’s guests.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just—plenty of good, decent people are ones who live in Miahez.”

  “I’m sure they are. Zoyua, could you make a plate for Wenthi here?”

  Wenthi put on his best smile and looked at Zoyua, standing behind the banquet table. “Thank you, Zoyua, I appreciate it.”

  “What you want?” Zoyua said coldly. Mother had clearly spared no expense laying out this banquet. In addition to several Sehosian and Hemish delicacies, there was a wide array of Pinogozi standards: chicken, beef, fish, rajas, cheese, and salsas, and Eunitio pressing tortillas and cooking them fresh on a griddle right there.

  “The tang chicken, with the pickled onions and tomatillo salsa,” he said. All Izamio’s specialties.

  In as much as someone could plate a pair of tacos with rage and disdain, Zoyua put together his plate with harsh motions and loud clatter.

  “Zoy, are you all right?” Lathéi asked.

  “I am fine,” Zoyua said crisply. “Mister Wenthi is a hero.” She held out his plate with a jerking motion.