The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  67

  As they moved closer to the source of Nália, static buzzed and flashed across Wenthi’s brain, and he could tell Enzúri was feeling it as well. Like a streethammer to the skull, which each felt for themselves and in each other, feeding back like an angry microphone.

  “What is that?” Enzúri asked. “It’s not just the guards down here.”

  Wenthi remembered. “There’s a different breed of the mushroom growing in the walls. We must be feeling that.”

  Enzúri nodded. “Yeah. It’s stronger as we get closer to that room.”

  Which was exactly where he felt Nália. Wenthi tried the door. Locked. He took a chance and tried the elevator key. No luck.

  “Well?” Enzúri asked.

  “In for it all now,” Wenthi said, and kicked hard at the door, knocking it open. He pulled Enzúri in and did his best to shut it behind them. “People heard that. Let’s hurry.”

  This was the room Nália was in, as she was on a bed, hooked up to electrodes, drip bags connected to needles in her arms, strapped down to the table. Her eyes were shut, she was clearly unconscious. Despite that, this close, Wenthi could feel her faintly, struggling to push out of the dark. He pulled off the electrodes, undid the straps, pulled the needles out.

  “Give me a dose,” he told Enzúri. He handed over a packet of the mushroom, and Wenthi opened Nália’s mouth and poured it in. He kept one hand on her chest, letting the connection spread out from there into her, feeling himself sink into her darkness and she lifted up into him. Both of them were together in a place that was neither body, deep into the space between them that was beyond the physical plane.

  Wake up.

  [What?]

  Wake up.

  [What are you doing here, asshole?]

  Getting you out of here.

  [This is a shitty trick you’re trying to pull.]

  No trick. Look.

  That hint of her that pushed into him opened his eyes, looked down at her own body. And with that, like a radio tuning to the right station, there was a sudden lightning burst of energy flowing through him, into her, jolting her eyes open. And for a moment, they saw each other, saw themselves, were each other, completely and fully.

  Then with a sharp crack, a sudden slam that hit Wenthi in body and spirit, they were pulled apart, on every level. Wenthi was knocked into the blackness, and then back into his body as he went flying down to the ground. Breath and sight and connection returned, to find Doctor Shebiruht standing over him, carrying a crusted baton. Six officers came into the room, a pair each grabbing him, Enzúri, and Nália.

  “Officer Tungét, what a fascinating surprise to see you here. I had a feeling you were very special, and that your connection with Miss Enapi would yield incredible results, but I had no idea it would do something like this. Fascinating.”

  “You witch, you’ll—” was all Wenthi managed to say before the baton slammed across his head, and with that, again, shocked him out of his body and tore through the connection he had with Nália. She screamed at the same moment he was struck.

  As he snapped back into himself, Shebiruht ran her gloved finger across the encrusted baton. “An interesting crossbreed of the mycopsilaria sehosi and ikusa. The Iku apparently brew teas out of their myco, and with proper rituals, are able to briefly leave their bodies. Combined with the disruptive, blocking abilities of the sehosi, it makes for an effective blunt instrument.”

  Wenthi forced himself, through the disorienting haze of pain, to reconnect with Nália, reestablish that bond that was surely stronger than either of them had fully realized.

  Help me.

  The guards pulled his hands behind him, as the others worked to strap Nália back down to the table, despite her valiant efforts to fight them off. She was a wildcat, but she was still weak and woozy, and they had numbers and determination. Enzúri was pinned to the floor.

  “But I’m very glad to have you here, Officer Tungét. I’ve been studying your blood, as well as Miss Enapi’s, and there is something truly fascinating. I may have lost dear Penda to play with, but the two of you have opened up whole new avenues to explore. And I will enjoy learning everything your bodies have to teach me.”

  She pushed the baton against him again, holding it on his chest, and it forced everything that he was to fall out of his body, into an empty blackness. He fell deeper and deeper into that abyss, losing any sense that he had ever had a body.

  Then a hard burst of light, like a rope thrown into the ocean, that he pulled himself back with. Nália, on the other end, dragging him back into the real world, still apart from his body, seizing on the floor. She was on the table, getting strapped down, one of the guards about to inject her with something.

  But her phantom form was with his, holding his hand, fully connected.

  “Remember Ajiñe on the highway?” she asked.

  He understood. Despite the pain and disconnection that was coming from his own body, he drew strength from Nália, and channeled that into pushing his energy into the guards holding him. He and Nália took control of their bodies; what they had done on instinct with Ajiñe, they now did with intention.

  They jumped on Doctor Shebiruht, pulling the baton from her hands and pulling her to the ground. He half snapped into his own body, while holding control over the guard. He and Nália expanded their control to the guards holding Enzúri. With the guards’ own tether cuffs, they subdued the guards on Nália and locked them up. Shebiruht’s face was an expression of horror as the four guards they held control over dragged her to the table while Nália got off it. Quickly she was strapped down, and then Nália used the syringe that they were about to inject her with to knock out the guards.

  “Impossible,” Doctor Shebiruht said.

  “Not at all,” Nália said. “You said we were extraordinary.”

  “You just had no idea how much,” Wenthi said.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Shebiruht said, struggling with her bonds.

  “I don’t care,” Nália said, picking up the baton. She tore open Shebiruht’s blouse. “You are an absolute monster. You will pay for what you did to me, to him, to Varazina, and the people of this country.”

  She ground the baton onto Shebiruht’s bare, clammy flesh, and the woman screamed as her eyes rolled back. Then she froze in a rictus of open-mouthed agony. Nália left the baton on her chest. Wenthi hoped no one would ever take it off.

  Nália turned to Wenthi, almost smiling at him. “Now what, asshole?”

  68

  First we get you out of the building,” Wenthi said. “Then we’ve got a train to catch.”

  “Train?”

  “Everyone else is being shipped to the oil derricks, sentenced to hard labor.”

  “And you care about that?” she asked. But they were fully connected, the same level of sync they had shared for over a season, even as they stood face to face. Emotion and thought and sensation were all one, like their two bodies were part of one person. “You do. You—” She shook her head. “Still an asshole, Wenthi, but at least your head isn’t still wedged in yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So how do I get out?” she asked. She held out her arms and spun around, pointing out the medical gown she was wearing. “I can’t exactly go out in this.”

  “Where I come in,” Enzúri said, starting to take off his smartly styled suit. “You walk out wearing this.”

  “What?” she asked as he handed her his coat. “That’s absurd. And what are you even doing here, you—”

  “Llipe asshole?” he offered. “Setting it right.” He gave her his slacks. She sighed and stripped off the gown.

  “What are you going to do? Stay here in the gown?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And in about a sweep, my aunt—the councilwoman—will get a call that I’ve been abducted and I’m down here. So I’ll
be fine.”

  She finished getting dressed, and while the suit wasn’t a perfect fit, she looked pretty decent. “I still look like a jifoz playing dress up.”

  “Nothing we have time to do anything about,” Wenthi said. “Just keep your head down while we walk.”

  Nália stopped and touched Enzúri’s face. “Thank you. And thank you for . . . for being on the right side of things.”

  “There are more of us than you think,” Enzúri said. “Now go.”

  Wenthi led her down the hall, back to the lift, and with the key, back to the main floor. He took her by the arm as they walked out, and he made a point to move with his head up, confidently.

  He dropped the key back on the clerk’s desk, keeping Nália positioned so her back was to them. “Bosses keep changing their mind. Now I’ve got to take him home.”

  “They do that, don’t they?” the clerk said. “Good luck.”

  “You too,” Wenthi said, and took her out the bus doors onto the street.

  “That easy?” she asked.

  “Probably not,” he said. “We’re out of the building, but any swipe now, one of those guards will wake up, and he’ll sound an alert, and there will be an outcall for you.”

  “And then?”

  “Every patrol on a cycle will be looking for you. Come on.”

  He went around a curve through a tight alley, up the steps to the indented niche between a paper shop and a clothing store, where Lathéi and Oshnå were waiting with the cycles.

  “This is her?” Lathéi asked. She looked over Nália with approval. “I thought Enzúri looked a bit overdone in that outfit, but you? Rather spruce.”

  “Thank you?” Nália responded. “Who are these llipe minces? And why are they dressed like—”

  “I’m not llipe, I’m Hemish,” Oshnå said. “This is all very exciting.”

  “You know who she is,” Wenthi said, nodding to Lathéi.

  Nália looked back. “Oh, this is the famous sister. I should have guessed. You kept showing up in his dreams, you know.”

  “Really?” Lathéi asked. “Not improperly, I hope.”

  “Rarely,” Nália said.

  Wenthi started taking off his stolen uniform. “Get out of those clothes,” he told her. “When the call comes, they’ll be looking for that outfit.”

  “And wear what?” Nália asked.

  “Oh, we’ve got that for you,” Oshnå said, handing over a pair of bundles. Nália realized what she had been given: her raw denim coat and pants. Her own, which still fit perfectly despite Wenthi having worn them for days and days. Wenthi had his own set, though his didn’t have the mileage of grease and wear like hers did.

  “You got this back for me?” she asked.

  “I knew how much those meant to you,” he said. “Just like that does.” He pointed to the ’goiz 960 in the niche.

  “My baby,” she said, caressing the machine. She looked it over. Wenthi had been taking good care of it. “And the tank is full.”

  Lathéi spoke up. “Well, I have this ridiculous petrol ration. I might as well use it for some good.”

  Nália got on her cycle, which felt so good to have beneath her. Not that she knew where she could go. “So, what now? If we ride out of here as denimed up cycle cats, we’re definitely going to stand out.”

  “Oh, no,” Lathéi said. “I’ve already taken care of that.”

  69

  Wenthi had come to his sister with a crazy plan, but he had been truly amazed by how easily she had made her part work. She and Oshnå left the brass club, called on a clothier to open their doors for her—which they did without hesitation—changed into new outfits and returned to the brass club. They took to the floor, danced up a storm, chatted vivaciously with several acquaintances, and went home to make a few calls.

  Shortly after zero on the naught, she and Oshnå strolled into the offices of ZV880, the preferred station for Lathéi’s generation to hear the hot music, news, and gossip at all sweeps of the day. Among the crowds that danced at the brass clubs, followed the fashion trends, and paid close attention to the most notable of notables, ZV880 was the station to listen to. The announcer for the morning shift was enamored enough of Lathéi Tungét that with one call, he happily had her come on live air and talk about the fashion stir she had caused at the Fire Chile last night.

  “It’s very simple,” Lathéi had said. “I was thinking to myself, you know who has it figured out? You know who understands a look? It’s the jifoz cycle cats. That hard denim, cut clean, shining brass rivets. It’s making a statement, and that statement is hot. They look good. They look like they can do things. They look authentic.”

  “But Miss Tungét,” the announcer said, “you don’t think that’s a bit volatile, so shortly after the Outtown riots?”

  “Style is about volatility. Being in style means embracing change. We have been stuck in a rut, my friend. Same broad-shouldered suits for years, same wide-brimmed hats for years. The colors changed, but did the style? No. I come back here with a few Hemish dresses and people go crazy. What this tells me is people are craving something new, and something of their own. And we’re not going to find that by looking across the oceans to Hemish or Reloumene and definitely not to Sehosia. We’re building a new nation here, we’re going to be holding elections here, and part of that means looking about what makes us, us. And spirits help me, I think the look that will bring that is raw, it’s hard, and it’s real. It’s who we are, friends. Just like the cycles that our streets were made for.”

  “I’ll admit, Miss Tungét, you and your paramour do look smashing in your jackets and slacks.”

  “We absolutely do. And we’re committed to embracing this look. Tell you what, friends. You get yourself this look. You get on your cycles, and you ride down to Circle Yendwei in the 9th Senja at three on the naught. If I see you there, and you look good, then the tacos are on me.”

  Wenthi had pulled Nália out of the patrol headquarters in the 9th Senja at two on the sixty, and by the time they were dressed in denims and riding their cycles, it was two on the eighty, and the streets were swarming with young overcaste folks on cycles, dressed in denim.

  Wenthi and Nália delivered Lathéi and Oshnå to Circle Yendwei, where there was a whole crowd of people, all dressed the same way. None of them stood out at all, save Lathéi and Oshnå, who were expected as the hosts of this impromptu event.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Lathéi asked Wenthi as she dismounted.

  “Are you?” he responded. “That’s a lot of tacos for you to buy.”

  “I’ll manage,” she said. “But you’re—” She held her hand over his heart. “We’re seeing each other again, yes?”

  “I hope so,” he told her. “I plan to survive this.”

  “And then?”

  “Then . . . we’ll see what happens.”

  “I love you so much, Wenthi.”

  “Love you more,” he said. He looked to Oshnå. “You better be good to her, all right?”

  “All my heart,” Oshnå said. “See you soon, on this world or beyond.”

  The radio on Wenthi’s Ungeke K’am crackled. “All points, all points, be alert. We have an escaped fugitive from the 9th Senja headquarters. Be on the watch for Nália Enapi, jifoz, age twenty-three. She is possibly armed and has accomplices.”

  “Oh, accomplices,” Lathéi said. “Very exciting. Time to do my part.” She turned to the crowd. “Hello, my beauties! You look amazing!” She and Oshnå waded into the crowd.

  Wenthi got on his radio, using Paulei’s callsign. “Rider 309. Possible suspect spotted running north toward 8th Senja. In pursuit, send aid.”

  “Confirmed 309.”

  “Now?”

  “West, to Southwall, then out of town along the tracks. That train is surely out of the city already, and we need to run i
t down.”

  “Well then, asshole,” she said with a wicked grin. “Try to keep up.” She kicked up her ’goiz and gunned the throttle, rocketing through the circle, winding and weaving through the crowd until she jetted out the Northway exit. Wenthi was right behind, doing his best to keep up.

  But she was already fire on that ’goiz.

  “Damn right, I am,” her phantom said in his ear. “Don’t you forget it.”

  “Rider 193. Possible suspect—on cycle in denim outfit. North toward the Mixala Crossing.”

  “Rider 821. I’ve got one on cycle in jifo denim.”

  “Walker 032. Half the people in the shitting 9th are in jifo denim. What the shit is this?”

  “Rider 309,” Wenthi replied. “Can confirm many people dressed in denim. What was suspect last wearing?”

  “I don’t shitting know.”

  “Backup at the Mixala. This cycle is gunning hard at you!”

  That was clearly someone on Nália’s tail. As he closed the distance, he saw a cycle tory trying to get on her. She wasn’t having it, weaving back and down, whipping into a narrow slope alley, and then whipping a half circle to fly at him. He swerved out of panic, and she whipped out to join Wenthi as they neared the crossing.

  Several officers were congregating at the tunnel entrance, pulling out their handguns.

  “That’s a problem,” Wenthi told Nália.

  “Not at this speed,” she said. “Feel me?”

  He was on her wavelength, and as they accelerated, he let the part of him that was on her cycle, with her, slip forward and dive into one of the tories. Just as with the guards in the ice room, he was able to grab hold of the man’s body and use him as a puppet. He threw the gun away, and then grabbed the next officer’s gun and threw it away.

  “What?” that tory asked, before another—the one Nália had jumped in to pilot—knocked him down with a punch.

  “Faster, faster,” she said as they buzzed past the brawling guards and down into the crossing tunnel. “When we catch up with that train, we’ll be unstoppable.”