The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  The kids swarmed about and pulled tacos out of the bag.

  “Make sure there’s a couple for your uncle,” Wenthi said. The kids savaged most of the contents of the bag, but did leave a few at the bottom. “All right if I go in?” he asked Tyeja.

  “You bring tacos, kin, you can do whatever you need,” she said with a wink. “I’m gonna sit on your ride in the meantime so no one tries to take it.”

  “Fair,” he said, and went in. Ocullo was sitting in his chair, just like before.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” he said.

  “Brought you something,” Wenthi said, handing him the remaining tacos.

  “Quite kind of you, boy,” Ocullo said. “I’m never so proud as not to take a free meal.”

  “So my father was some sort of mushroom genius?” Wenthi asked as Ocullo started eating.

  Ocullo shrugged. “Not my place to say. I guess he fancied himself that. Not that it mattered.”

  “It matters to me,” Wenthi said. “I think he . . . I think I might be . . . he might have made me more powerful than he could have guessed.”

  “Hmm,” Ocullo said. “And what did you do with that power?”

  “I—” Wenthi started. He hesitated, knowing how shameful it was. But he found himself unable to lie to this man. “I found the woman who was behind everything, got all the folks in the Fists arrested.”

  “I guess that’s why there’s been no fuel or food trucks in here of late,” Ocullo said. “That’s been a damned shame.”

  “You don’t seem angry about that.”

  “After all I’ve lived through, it takes quite a bit to get angry. Shit is bad, shit has been bad, shit will continue to be bad. You didn’t do anything that changed that situation significantly.” He chuckled. “You think I should be mad. You think I should be angry at you.”

  “Maybe?”

  “I’ve got too few years left to waste on that.” He shook his head. “You came here for, what? Blame? Wisdom? I ain’t got either for you. Looks like you’re kicking yourself plenty.”

  “You knew about Varazina, right?”

  “She that lady who gave orders over the radio? Not that we have radios here. Or current.”

  “She’s the one. Like I said, I found her, turned her in. She’s . . . not what I expected.”

  “How so?”

  “She was a llipe woman, living in confinement in Intown.”

  The old man chuckled as he started his second taco. “Would not have guessed that.”

  “Here’s the thing, she was—constructed to be a weapon. One that uses the mushroom, or the underlying power of it, and that was what she was made for. She didn’t ask to be made, ask to be llipe, ask for any of it.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That I might be just as much of a weapon as she was. Or at least I was made to be one.”

  “That wasn’t what your father did,” Ocullo said, for the first time with a bit of heat in his voice. “He did a lot of things I never understood. Talked about how the mushroom had levels of potential we don’t understand. But I know this about him: He did not make weapons. He did not make you to be a weapon. He was about love, connection.”

  “Really?” Wenthi couldn’t accept that. “How different am I from her?”

  “I don’t know. But . . . there she was, and she knew she had power, right? So what did she decide to do?”

  “Sow chaos,” Wenthi said. “Her words.”

  “And you?” Ocullo slowly stood up from his chair. He pointed a dark, withered finger at Wenthi’s chest. “You’re saying you’ve got power, too? Renzi made you into a weapon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hmm,” Ocullo said as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I think the real question is, what do you want?”

  “I just . . . I don’t know. Justice? I always thought that was the point of the Civil Patrol, what I joined for, but now . . .”

  “Son,” Ocullo said, taking Wenthi by the shoulders. “I can’t tell you who you are. Sorry if you think I can. You got to figure out who that is.”

  “Am I Wenthi Tungét, or Renzi Llionorco?”

  “I wouldn’t make it that simple,” Ocullo said with an empty laugh. “But if that’s a real question you’re asking yourself, maybe you’ve got to make it that simple.”

  Wenthi nodded, not feeling any clearer, but glad he had come nonetheless. “Is there something I can do to help you all out here? I don’t know, food, money? I can get Mother to—”

  “You’ve got a good heart,” Ocullo said. “Listen to that, and you’ll be all right. Now you should get out of here. Sun’ll go down soon, you don’t want too much trouble getting back into the city.”

  Wenthi came out of the hovel, the sinking sun glaring in his eyes as he came up to the cycle.

  “I look like I belong on this, huh?”

  He knew it was Tyeja on the cycle, but for a moment, her voice, her face, everything was Nália.

  Are you out there? he thought out.

  He couldn’t tell if he felt a faint hint of anger and fear at the edge of his senses, or if it was just his imagination.

  “You look good,” he said. “Next time I come out, I’ll give you a proper run on him.”

  “Hold you to that, cousin,” she said as she got off. He got on the cycle and made his way back to the city.

  65

  Wenthi had no urge to go to another brass club, especially a pricy one in the 3rd Senja filled with llipe swells and rhique posers, but with Lathéi leaving in a few days, he didn’t want to miss his chance to see her. He could handle it.

  He went on his own, once again riding Nália’s ’goiz 960. He had grown attached to the cycle, enjoying it more than any other vehicle he’d ever ridden. He was going to miss it when he had to go back to the patrol issue Ungeke.

  Crossing from the 9th to the 8th was no problem, but that changed when he crossed into the 3rd.

  “What is this garbage?” the Alliance officer asked as he rode up to the checkpoint.

  “What do you mean?”

  The officer kicked the front tire of the ’goiz. “This junk you’re riding. This is some baniz junk.”

  “It’s a re-fit Puegoiz 960 with an inline four, and it can outrun whatever you might ride,” Wenthi said.

  “Is that attitude?” the officer asked. “Give me your cards.”

  Wenthi handed over his identity cards, which the officer took over to a lamp in the guard booth next to the checkpoint barrier. After scrutinizing it for a moment, he shouted, “What are you going to the 3rd for?”

  “Going to a brass club called the Fire Chile,” Wenthi said.

  “Why?”

  Wenthi sighed. This was one of those guys. “Meeting my sister.”

  The guard looked at the cards again, then looked at Wenthi. “Get over here.”

  Wenthi stopped the cycle and came over to the man. As soon as he got close, the man pulled out a baton and slammed it in Wenthi’s chest, and then against his arm. Before Wenthi could react or recover, the officer swept his leg and knocked him to the ground. He got on top, pressing his knee into Wenthi’s back.

  “You try and pull this bullshit? You think you could pass as rhique, you jifo piece of shit, riding your jifo garbage cycle?”

  “That’s my card,” Wenthi said.

  “Right, you’re just a dark rhique who rides a trash cycle that only a jifo would. And you’re so fucking stupid you made a fake card with the name Tungét. Really? A Prime Family?”

  “That’s my name—”

  “Your name is gonna be my boot, you’re gonna get knocked with caste falsification, identity falsification, crossing incursion, and if you’re lucky it’ll just mean a train ride to Hanez.”

  “I’m a patrol officer,” Wenthi said.

 
; “Bullshit,” he said, putting cuffs on Wenthi’s wrists. He hauled him up and put him in the chair in the guard booth.

  “Call the patrol headquarters in the 9th Senja,” Wenthi said. “And then call my mother, the councilwoman.”

  That made the guard flinch for a moment. “You stay in that fucking chair. I’m going to call you in.”

  He went over to the outside of the guard booth and got on the phone. Wenthi felt a trickle of blood in his nose, but he couldn’t do anything about that. All he could do was sit and wait, with the muffled conversation of the guard on the phone, his radio playing the news prop in the background.

  “And local adjudicators have made rulings on the cases of the ringleaders in the riots, including the revolutionary leader they called Varazina and several other key agitators. We are proud to announce that all of them will be sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor at the Genzha Oil Fields in Upper Zian. They will drill for oil, a fitting punishment for people who stole petrol, destined for our war efforts overseas. They will work hard to replace the precious fuel they sought to steal. With these malefactors brought to justice and sentenced for their crimes, we look forward to a return to normalcy in our beautiful—”

  The guard came in, scowling. “Your story appears to check out.” He unlatched the cuffs and threw the identity cards at Wenthi’s feet.

  “You mean my cards were accurate and you made a stupid assumption,” Wenthi said as he picked them up.

  “Don’t push it with the attitude,” the guard said. Wenthi noted his name badge. Utnow. Wenthi would remember that.

  “I’m free to go?” Wenthi asked.

  “Get out of my sight,” Utnow said. “Like we can even tell any of you apart.”

  “Charming,” Wenthi said. He got on the cycle, gunning it as hard as he could as he tore out of the checkpoint. He whisked and wound through the curves of the 3rd, not slowing down a jot as he dodged the slow autos and parked sedans.

  As his speed peaked, for a moment he felt a hint of them on the edge of his senses. Ajiñe, Gabrána, Nicalla, Fenito, Mensi. They were in cells at patrol headquarters with the others, waiting for the transfer. A train to take them away. In the morning.

  And Nália. In the basement. Strapped to a gurney. Blood being drawn. Electrodes applied to her head. Doctor Shebiruht hovering over her.

  Wenthi pulled his brakes and came to a hard stop, forcing the experience to fade. But while he wasn’t living it, he still felt it. He understood. He was full of anger and rage, but more importantly, purpose and certainty.

  He parked the cycle and strode into the club, heading up the spiral and pushing past the worker planning on impeding his path to his sister. She smiled at his approach—sitting with Oshnå in peach jumpsuits, which half the people on the dance floor had mimicked. Good. An idea was forming in his head, and seeing a club full of people copying Lathéi showed him exactly how it could work.

  “I need you,” he said as he sat down.

  “Well, good,” she said, waving off the two employees who had stormed over to the table. “Does that mean I can finally convince you to come to Dumamång with me?”

  “No,” he said. “I—I’m going to do something drastically stupid, and I need your help.”

  “Oh, my,” Oshnå said.

  “Intriguing,” Lathéi said as she sipped her drink. “Will this irritate Mother?”

  “Absolutely. To start.”

  She put her drink down and really looked at him. “This is something serious, isn’t it? Not just to irritate Mother, but . . .”

  She left it hanging.

  “Drastically stupid,” he said. “But it is right. And just. And I can’t do it without you.”

  A tear formed at the corner of her eye. “I don’t know if I . . . I know I don’t understand what happened to you on this mission, how it changed you.”

  “Lath—”

  “Let me finish,” she said. “You asked before if I remember what happened during the war, and I can tell you I remember one thing very clearly. You were there for me. You kept me alive. So if you need something stupid, or irritating or—”

  “Rebellious?” Oshnå asked. “Revolutionary?”

  “Any of that,” Lathéi confirmed, with a quick glance at her paramour that confirmed they were on the same page. “Anything you need, anything at all, I am there for you.”

  “I love you,” Wenthi said.

  “I know,” she said. “So what do you need?”

  “First, I need you to reach out to Enzúri Hwungko and get him over here.”

  66

  Tungét, what are you doing here? I thought you were still on paid leave for another ten days.”

  Wenthi put on his best smile to the desk clerk at the garage entrance, whose name escaped him. “Oh, I absolutely am. I’m not formally here, so don’t check me in or anything like that.”

  “Really?” the clerk asked. “That’s kind of against protocol.”

  “Listen,” Wenthi said, leaning in close, speaking like he was confiding. “They’re about to ship out all those rebel shitheels I caught, and I’m, you know, not supposed be part of the team who takes them to the train and such. But I just want to see them get shuffled out.”

  “I hear you,” the clerk said. “Just keep your head low.”

  Wenthi winked and went inside, keeping his face from showing how uncomfortable and out of sorts he was coming in the headquarters. He had taken a dose of mushroom, and while he was not synced with anyone, it pushed his senses to the edge. He tried to feel for Ajiñe, Nália, Mensi, anyone. Recapture that feeling he had last night. But he couldn’t reach them.

  Every member of the patrol put off that same spiky, static sensation, which helped him wind his way to the uniform room without otherwise being spotted. The fewer people who saw him right now, made note of him, the better. Not that he’d be able to go back to work once he did this. There was no going back. But every swipe was going to count, so anything that kept patrol off his trail for a few moments was going to be worth it.

  No one was in the uniform room. Good. He quickly stripped out of his clothes and dressed in full cycle uniform: black coat buttoned up, gloves, helmet, and goggles on. He dug through the lockers, hoping that someone had been sloppy, and of course someone was: Cresai. One of the laziest riders on the night sweep, always leaving his gear anywhere. He found Cresai’s badge and ident plate, pinned them to his coat. A glance in the mirror: perfect. No one would look twice at him. No one would note him as Wenthi Tungét.

  He strode out of the uniform room, through the operations floor. He gave a glance at the assignment board, noting that several cycle patrol were escorting the transport trucks to the train platform. He checked the times and the clock.

  Shit, he was already too late. They left twenty-five swipes ago. That’s why he couldn’t feel any of them.

  He kept moving, making his way toward the main doors. Next part of the plan. He had anticipated this. It didn’t matter. He needed to move on, to the most important part of his plan. The part that could only happen at the stationhouse. The rest would sort out. It had to.

  He left the stationhouse, flashing Cresai’s plate at the desk as he went, and went around the curve to the alley behind a fancy carbon shop. Enzúri Hwungko was waiting nervously there.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Too late, plan two,” Wenthi said. “Ready?”

  “Not really,” Enzúri said. “But I suppose we don’t have time for me to be ready.” He took a packet out of his pocket and deposited a bit of the mushroom on his tongue. Wenthi had gambled when he made this plan that not only would Enzúri be willing to join in, but that he still had a stash of the mushroom. He couldn’t have done this without it.

  Enzúri stroked Wenthi’s cheek, and the contact confirmed them getting into sync with each other.

  “Come on,” Wenth
i said. He slapped his tether cuffs on Enzúri and took him by the arm, leading him back to the headquarters. This time, using the bus doors on the side. This would have been where the prisoners were all unloaded into trucks, now long gone. Wenthi brought him through to the intake desks. Spiking static all around him, going over to the clerk who looked youngest and newest. Needed someone who he didn’t know, and, hopefully, didn’t know Cresai. He flashed the plate again.

  “Got one for the cells?” the clerk asked. “He looks—”

  “Yeah,” Wenthi said, lowering his voice to a gruff whisper. “He’s not just llipe, but from one of the Families, hear?”

  “Spirits,” the clerk said. “So are you—”

  “He’s also buzzing like anything on the myco. I already have orders and it’s crucial that it’s, you know, quiet. Not an embarrassment.”

  “When my aunt finds out I’ll have your uniform,” Enzúri said.

  “Quiet,” Wenthi said. “You deserve to be celled up for the rest of the season.”

  “So what do you need?” the clerk asked him.

  “I need to take him to the ice rooms in the subbasement. That way we can cut off his buzz.”

  “Right,” the clerk said, nodding with understanding. He produced a key from his desk. “Down that hall, take the lift, and use that key to get access to the sublevels.”

  “Thanks,” Wenthi said. He pulled Enzúri along.

  “That was too easy,” Enzúri said as they reached the lift.

  “I wonder if this happens more often than I realized,” Wenthi said. They got inside, turned the key in the access panel, and started down.

  “How will we find our way down there?” Enzúri asked. “Do you know what we’re getting into?”

  “Not entirely,” Wenthi said as the doors opened to the sublevel. Pale, cold walls, unmarked doors. He would not normally be able to navigate his way through the place. But on the mushroom, synced with Enzúri, he could feel the spiky static coming off everyone down here.

  Almost everyone.

  There it was: the hint of the familiar connection of Nália Enapi. She was here.

  “Got her,” Wenthi said. “Let’s go.”