The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “That—” Ajiñe managed to say. “That’s a very Sehosian name. Very llipe.” She stared at him in disbelief. “That’s one of the Prime Families.”

  “All true,” he said with his head down.

  The old woman coughed and shuddered, but kept her eyes locked on Ajiñe. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s do this effectively.”

  She lashed out with a pale, bony hand and grabbed Ajiñe’s face, and like a completed circuit, there was a full connection of touch from Renzi to Varazina to Ajiñe to Nália. Instead of their bodies coming together, though, Ajiñe felt herself being snapped out of her flesh, with such force her legs dropped out from under her.

  73

  Wenthi found himself at his mother’s dining table, in her house, but with nothing but bright, white emptiness in the windows beyond. Penda Rodiguen sat at the head of the table, where Mother would always sit. Nália sat at his left, and Ajiñe across the table.

  “How did we get here?” Ajiñe asked. “What is this?”

  “There was too much to say, and every click of every swipe matters,” Penda said. “Time has less meaning in this space with the mushroom, beyond our bodies, where we can stretch out the moment within the blink of an eye.” As she said this, she slowly shifted into a fuller, healthier version of herself. Never losing the appearance of Penda Rodiguen, but somehow taking on the essence, the presence, that made Varazina.

  “But why are we all in my bed?” Ajiñe asked.

  “What do you mean?” Nália asked. “We’re in my cousin’s motor shop.” She looked to Wenthi.

  “My mother’s dining room,” he said.

  “Your minds made this into something familiar, drawn from an uncomfortable memory. Wherever you are, it was likely a place where you were told something you didn’t want to hear. You already know that’s what’s going to happen, and you’re readying yourself for that hard truth.”

  Wenthi understood. This was where Mother made it clear that, due to his caste, he had to leave the house, and would no longer be welcome to come in without explicit invite, and never to stay the night.

  This was where she had banished him.

  “What is this hard truth?” Ajiñe asked.

  “That you’re going to have to fight for a free country. A country that exists on your terms, that you make.”

  “That’s not a hard truth,” Ajiñe said. “I’ve been in this fight.”

  “You’ve been in it, Ajiñe Osceba,” Varazina said—and in many ways in this moment she was Varazina, in ways Wenthi couldn’t describe but understood at his very core. “Why do you think I chose you? Why do you think I guided you to him in the first place?”

  “And who is he? Is he Renzi or Wenthi or—and who is this Nália girl?”

  Wenthi sighed. He had to tell her. “I’m a Civil Patrol officer who was assigned to infiltrate one of the cells of the Fists of Zapi and find my way to the Inner Circle and Varazina.”

  “What?” Ajiñe tried to get to her feet, but seemed to be unable to. Perhaps they were each experiencing this psychic space in different ways, and her experience and his couldn’t interact properly. “What is this shit? That can’t be true. We synced with him. We were united with him. We would have sensed he was there to betray us. It can’t be true.”

  “It is,” Nália said. “You didn’t sense him because they had bonded us together, using me to make a mask for him. But the mask, our sync with each other, was more complicated than they expected.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ajiñe said.

  “You know who Doctor Shebiruht is,” Wenthi said. “We talked about her the other night.”

  “The Witch? So she is alive? And she’s capable of . . . I don’t even know what this is. I don’t even know where we are.”

  Varazina spoke. “We’re still standing outside the train, Ajiñe. The shock of this is making you fall to your knees. Right now, you’re still falling.”

  “And you—”

  “I’m still dying,” Varazina said. “I was made to be a weapon, a weapon made by weaving the myco into my very physical being. To a lesser extent, so were Wenthi and Nália.”

  “What?” Nália asked. “How is that—”

  “Your parents strove to alter themselves, and through that, altered you. But you two are so different than me. Your connection to the mushroom and your bodies and spirits are all in harmony. I was created in a far more vicious manner, and while it gave me power, the cost was my body.”

  “That’s why you’re dying,” Wenthi said. “Shebiruht was keeping you alive, and without her care—”

  “I can only last so long. And I want my death to matter.”

  “How?” Ajiñe asked.

  “Because I was made to be a weapon, and I wasn’t given a choice about that,” Varazina said. “But I can choose where I aim that weapon. My grandfather wanted to use me against the world. The Sehosians and their Alliance the same.”

  “Really?” Wenthi asked.

  “That was the only reason they kept me alive all this time. They told me pretty bullshit like they wanted to have me unite the Vailic, to heal Nemuspia, but . . . I could see the truth in their hearts. So I spent years putting together my fight, building my plan. Deciding who I wanted to be a weapon for. And it was clear that this place, this country I was born in—we all were born in—deserved to be its own nation. Deserved to be its own land. Deserved to no longer be infected by people who are not of this place.”

  “And how will you do that?” Ajiñe asked.

  “I can’t do it all. I can light the spark. You have to be my fire.” She pointed to Ajiñe, Nália, and Wenthi in succession. “You need to be the mind, the voice, and the power behind this fight.”

  “You mean the Fists,” Ajiñe said.

  “I mean the three of you. Together. It has to be that way.”

  “That can’t work,” Wenthi said. “I—”

  “If he’s a stinking shithole tory, there’s no way,” Ajiñe said. “To think we welcomed him into our arms, out beds—”

  “It wasn’t just him,” Nália said. “It was me. When we finished the induction, the effect on the two of us was beyond profound.”

  Ajiñe’s face screwed up in thought. “The vision of the fires. Your insistence of pushing through to reach Varazina.”

  “That was me,” Nália said. “The Renzi who you stood over and protected was me. Renzi was . . . the both of us. Together.” She chuckled. “And that was the point, wasn’t it, Varazina? You wanted Wenthi and me to melt into each other, to the point where we worked together now to rescue the others. To turn him to the cause, but also curb the edge of my anger.”

  Wenthi understood. “Because you want us to build a Pinogoz that’s just. That’s why you decided on us instead of the likes of Jendiscira or Hocnupec.”

  “Their hearts were in the right place, their passion extraordinary, but they . . . they petrified. Ultimately, they would have built something founded on toxic ideas. I can’t . . . I can’t see where the future goes, but I can see they would happily visit the oppression they suffered onto others. That Inner Circle, I couldn’t trust them. But I think I can trust you, if you work together.”

  “Why would I need him?” Ajiñe said.

  “Because his heart knows the truth,” Varazina said. “And he is brimming with power, which you will need. And he can’t do it alone because this fight will need a voice, a leader—”

  Wenthi understood.

  “And I’m just a tory spy, a spoiled rhique son of a llipe councilwoman. I can’t be that voice, because the people won’t follow.”

  “Exactly why I had to become Varazina,” she said, her majestic persona melting away to the frail form of Penda. “Because no one would answer to a revolution from this woman.”

  “How can I trust any of this?” Ajiñe asked.

  “The
two of them are already deeply entwined, their spirits have tendrils like mycelium stretching between them. Reach out to them, feel the truth between them, share everything of yourself, and I will share what I can.”

  “What you can?” Nália asked.

  “I mean my power,” Varazina said. “I’ll give you what I can, what you need, and you’ll give it all to each other.”

  Wenthi took Nália’s hand, a symbol more than anything in this space, since they were already so connected. He reached across the table to Ajiñe. “Believe in her, if you can’t believe in me.”

  She took his hand, and her spirit, her pain, her anguish, her fire all flowed into him.

  “Good,” Varazina said, as the space they were in—this image of Mother’s home—started to crack and crumble. “You’ll be ready before your knees touch the ground. And then we’ll have to hurry, because I don’t have much time left.”

  74

  Wenthi snapped back into awareness of his body as Ajiñe dropped to her knees.

  “Spirits,” he whispered. In the last moments of communion with each other, Varazina had touched each of them with just a portion of her knowledge, her power, and in that brief touch, Nália had felt the lifetime Varazina had known as Penda Rodiguen. The constant pain of her body, the needles, the tests, the apartment that had every amenity but was still very much a prison, all because the Alliance condemned her existence but still hoped to make use of her power.

  Which made Varazina’s intended use for that power all the sweeter. He needed to help her.

  “She doesn’t have much time,” Wenthi said, pulling up Varazina as she gasped for air. “Let’s unhitch the engine, get her on there and get her up to speed.”

  “Right,” Ajiñe said, catching her own breath as she stood up. “I’m . . . I had no idea. We need to—”

  “On the ground!” someone shouted. “Consider yourselves detained!”

  Half a dozen Civil Patrol closed in on them all, guns drawn. Wenthi hadn’t noticed them approach. Had they been in a different part of the train? Had they arrived separately just now? Why hadn’t he felt them as the sharp static, like he had with the officers on the train?

  Then he saw why.

  Paulei was front and center in a group of officers: Minlei, Guand, Hwokó, Cinden, Peshka. The whole cadre, Wenthi’s closest friends and lovers. His mushroom-activated senses didn’t register them as a threat.

  “Paulei, I—”

  “Shut up!” Paulei shouted. “You drop your sidearm and get on the damned ground!”

  But before Wenthi could react, Ajiñe grabbed his gun and got it up, and Nália did the same with hers. Wenthi quickly got his hands out and put himself in between them all.

  “No, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said. “Paulei—”

  “How dare you, Wenthi,” Paulei said. “What are you even doing?”

  “The right thing for once,” Wenthi said. “Just put down your guns, no one needs to get hurt—”

  “People are already hurt!” Paulei said. “We found Enrin and Thei, a kilo back, both a mess of broken bones. What did you do?”

  “Saved these people—”

  “People you brought in!” Paulei shouted.

  Gabrána and Fenito were to the side, hands up. “Is that true? Renzi, what is this?” Gab asked.

  “Renzi?” Paulei asked. “Did you get in so damn deep you actually think you’re Renzi?”

  “He is Renzi,” Ajiñe said. “He may have been one of you once, but he is Renzi Llionorco now. He is ours now.”

  “I’m not sure who you tricked more, Wenthi! These fools or yourself.”

  “These people are trying to make our country what it’s supposed to be,” Wenthi said. “You could be a part of that, too.”

  “I am a part of that,” Paulei said. “I am an officer of the law, and I—”

  Nália’s hand shook, and Wenthi felt that, and saw Minlei’s finger go to her trigger.

  “No!” Wenthi shouted, pushing his will into Minlei. All he had time to do, taking control over her body, was throw her arm up wild, so the shot wouldn’t hit anyone. All the other officers—all once dear friends, who he had shared everything with, responded by trying to shoot.

  There were six of them, and Wenthi couldn’t control all of their bodies at once. Not standing still. With no speed to fuel his power, all he could do was take hold over their trigger fingers, keep them from being able to shoot.

  “What—why can’t I—”

  “Paulei,” Wenthi begged. “Drop the guns. Stop this. We can all walk away.”

  “Wenthi,” Varazina wheezed. “We don’t have time.”

  “We need to end this,” Nália said. She pushed her own control onto Paulei, bringing his gun up to his temple.

  “What is this?” Paulei shouted. “What are you doing to us?”

  “Please,” Wenthi pleaded. “Drop the gun.”

  I’ll do it, Nália thought at Wenthi. We have to stop them.

  “No—” Wenthi said.

  I know how much you love him. All of them. And us. I wish you didn’t have to choose.

  “If you don’t drop the guns, you will die,” Wenthi said.

  “We can’t let them live,” Gabrána said.

  “We have to be better,” Wenthi said. “We have to give them a chance.”

  Mensi came up, a hand on Wenthi’s shoulder. “A chance,” he said quietly. “But only one.”

  Wenthi didn’t have the strength to exert more control over their bodies, to fight them and Nália, who had brought all the guns to their temples. All he had was keeping their fingers from pulling the triggers. But maybe he could reach them.

  He closed his eyes, dug into his memories, and pushed them into their minds. The story of this land from Varazina. The pain and degradation of the baniz in Gonetown. The radiant joy of Ziva Osceba’s Spirit Dance. The constant fear in Miahez the people felt for patrol. The torture of the derrick labor camps. The dead and maimed in the name of taking Zapisian oil. The love shared between Ajiñe and Gabrána and Mensi and Fenito and Nicalla and Nália and himself and everyone who had been inducted under Varazina.

  Tears formed in Paulei’s eyes, and his hand spasmed, dropping the gun. The other officers did as well. Various Fists ran in, pulled the guns away, and starting tethering them with their own cuffs.

  Paulei was on his knees, hands bound behind him, crying.

  “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I . . . I’ve been so cruel.”

  “Shh,” Wenthi said, caressing Paulei’s beautiful face. “You see it now. You can still change.”

  “This is the mushroom?” Paulei whispered. “This is what it lets you feel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No wonder they called it dangerous,” he said. “It’s full of truth.”

  “Will someone explain to me what’s happening?” Gabrána asked. “Why is Renzi half making out with the tory, and why did they call him Wenthi and—”

  “It’s too much for right now,” Ajiñe said. “We don’t have time to—”

  “You don’t,” Paulei said, looking back up. “We called for backup. The Alli nucks and the military are roaring in, just a few clicks away. You have to run—”

  “No time,” Varazina said. Nália holding her up was the only thing keeping her on her feet. “I don’t have much strength left. I need . . . I need . . . the speed.”

  “Get her to the engine,” Wenthi said. “We need to—”

  “That’ll take too long,” Nália said. “The only thing that can get fast enough, quick enough—” Her eyes darted to the side.

  Wenthi saw what she was looking to.

  Her custom junkbashed Puegoiz 960.

  75

  Nália let Wenthi help her as they brought Varazina over to the cycle. “I’ve got to hurry,” she told him.


  “You’ve got to?” Wenthi asked. “No, I’m doing this.”

  “Who’s doing what?” Ajiñe asked, coming over with the rest of the cell. “What’s the plan?”

  “My cycle. Like we told you at the track, this baby, on the flat open, can crack three hundred.” Nália looked out to the barren scrubland, the tracks leading toward the derricks. “It doesn’t get much more flat open than that.”

  Ajiñe hesitated. “But she can’t drive the cycle in her condition, and if you take her—”

  “You won’t survive being next to me when I go,” Varazina said weakly.

  “Well, someone—” Nália started.

  “It has to be me,” Wenthi said firmly. “Like she said. Someone has to be the voice and the heart. That’s you.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m a tory, Nália. I am a rhique son of a llipe councilwoman from a Prime Family. My name is a Prime Family. I can’t lead the charge that this will need. I can’t be that voice. So I have to do this.”

  “It’s my cycle—”

  “It’s your fight,” Wenthi said, getting on the cycle, wrapping Varazina’s weak arms around him. “Besides, you can build another one.” He winked and kicked on the engine.

  “But we need—” Nália started, but her words were drowned out by the engine as Wenthi tore off in a cloud of dust.

  “What is he doing?” Gabrána asked. “Will someone please explain to me what is going on? Who was the llipe woman Renzi just rode off with, who is this girl, and is Renzi really a tory? Ajiñe, please?”

  “That was Varazina,” Ajiñe said. “She was made by the tyrant and the Witch of the War to be a weapon. Made from the mushroom, made to tear the world apart. But she chose to be our weapon. She’s choosing to die, so she could save us.”

  “And you are?” Mensi asked Nália.

  “The better version of the person you knew as Renzi Llionorco, Mensi,” she said with a wink. Despite her outward cheek, her attention was still with Wenthi, her avatar on the cycle with him. Varazina was shuddering and seizing as he knocked the cycle up to passing gear, racing gear, fire gear, tearing the engine into the white. The speedometer was already past two hundred, almost to the limit of what it could read.