DAW BOOKS PRESENTS THE NOVELS OF MARSHALL RYAN MARESCA
THE VELOCITY OF REVOLUTION
Maradaine
THE THORN OF DENTONHILL
THE ALCHEMY OF CHAOS
THE IMPOSTERS OF AVENTIL
—
Maradaine Constabulary
A MURDER OF MAGES
AN IMPORT OF INTRIGUE
A PARLIAMENT OF BODIES
—
Streets of Maradaine
THE HOLVER ALLEY CREW
LADY HENTERMAN’S WARDROBE
THE FENMERE JOB
—
Maradaine Elite
THE WAY OF THE SHIELD
SHIELD OF THE PEOPLE
PEOPLE OF THE CITY
Copyright © 2021 by Marshall Ryan Maresca.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Matthew Griffin.
Cover design by Katie Anderson.
Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1875.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Ebook ISBN: 9780756416744
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Also by Marshall Ryan Maresca
Title Page
Copyright
Maps
The Castes of Ziaparr and Pinogoz
Opening Heat: The Siphon Run
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Refuel: Newsreel
First Circuit: The Patrol Assignment
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Refuel: Broadcast
Second Circuit: Renzi Llionorco
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Refuel: Memory
Third Circuit: The Fists of Zapi
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Refuel: Memorandum
Fourth Circuit: Ceremonies of Speed and Hunger
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Refuel: Vision
Fifth Circuit: The Voice of the Revolution
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Refuel: Report
Sixth Circuit: The Traitors of Zapisia
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Refuel: Directive
Lap of Honor: The Broadcasts of Tomorrow
Chapter 77
Acknowledgments
About the Author
THE CASTES OF ZIAPARR AND PINOGOZ
Llipe (jyee-pay): The uppermost caste, of Pinogozi people whose bloodlines are almost entirely of Sehosian or Outhic descent, especially descended directly from one of the original Sehosian Prime Families from the initial colonization of the Zapisian Islands. The upper class of Ziaparr, living and working entirely in the inner senjas (Intown).
Rhique (rhee-kay): The lesser overcaste, of mixed-race people of primarily Sehosian or Outhic descent, with a minimal amount of local Zapisian parentage. The middle class of Pinogoz, living and working throughout the city, especially the outer senjas of Hightown and Lowtown, and with limited access to the senjas of Intown.
Jifoz (hee-fahz): The undercaste, of mixed-race people of primarily Zapisian heritage, with some Sehosian or Outhic parentage. The working class of Pinogoz, living primarily in the run-down outer senjas of Outtown.
Baniz (bah-neez): The lowest caste, people of entirely Zapisian descent. The underclass of Ziaparr, forbidden from living within the city limits without special dispensation, crowded into the ruined slums of Gonetown.
Zoika (zoh-ee-kah): The honorary caste of “respected foreigner”—tourists or officials of the occupational oversight government. Allowed residence in the Intown senjas, especially the governmental center of the Damas Kom.
OPENING HEAT:
THE SIPHON RUN
1
The steel cruisers are out tonight, my friends. Boys and girls get something thrumming between your legs, and find communion with your spirits. Faster, faster, let the speed fill you, and chase down the night. Rattle some cages!”
The cool alto voice crackled through the tinny speakers of the transistor radio dangling over the kitchen stove. The message was just a brief interruption of the usual bullshit, and then with a burst of static, the prop broadcast kicked back in.
“—doing YOUR part for the war efforts, paying back the debt we owe—”
Nália Enapi tuned that out. Same old bullshit she heard every day, every sweep, without fail. The important thing was the interrupting signal.
“Was that for you?” Queña Povo asked. He and the cousins, about to sit down to their rationed portions of rice and beans, all looked to Nália. He lowered his voice. “Was that her?”
“Yeah,” Nália said, pushing her bowl to one of the cousins and getting up from the table. “Got to ride.”
“Don’t bring that back here,” Povo said. “We can’t risk it.”
“I know,” she said, grabbing her denim coat. “This is just on me.” She went out the door.
Of course Povo couldn’t risk it. He—not actually her uncle, nor were his kids her cousins, but they were family enough—was baniz caste. Trying to pass as jifoz caste like Nália. Living illegally in Outtown with forged identity cards. Castejumper. An offense that would get him a life sentence in the Alliance work camps. Nália wasn’t going to bring trouble on him or his kids.
And the trouble was out there. She had barely gone down the steps from the fasai—the room above the machine shop she shared with Povo and the cousins—and walked across the street to the phonebox when a pair of Civil Patrol came right up to her.
“You got cards, jifo?” one asked. Like most tories, he was rhique caste. Bootlickers working for the Alliance nucks, privileged due to having only a little native blood in their veins.
She produced her identification. Her cards were legitimate, but that didn’t stop these tories from squinting at them and holding them up to the sodium streetlight. “Where you off to at this sweep?”
“I got a call to make,” she said, pointing to the phonebox.
“Calling for myco?”
“Just calling a couple lovers for tonight,” she said. “Can I go?”
They scowled but handed her the cards back, waving her off. She hurried over to it, waiting for them to be out of earshot before dialing in her exchange. They had already found another jifoz to harass. As the call rang through, her eyes focused on the prop poster plastered on the wall next to the phonebox. Couldn’t round a circle in this part of town without seeing one of them. This one had three folks in coveralls building a warplane, with PAYING IT BACK painted along the bottom. Someone had scrawled “nix xisisa” across it. She knew only a few words of old Zapi, but she knew that. We have paid too much.
“Well?” the woman said when the call connected. Nália recognized the voice—Nic, the woman who had recruited her. Her only contact with the cell so far.
“The message came,” Nália said. “This is Nália.”
Nic sighed. “Did you already park your cycle?”
“In the alley as usual,” she said. The alley led behind the machine shop, and that was where she always kept her baby, so she could see it through the dirty window next to her cot.
“There’s the taco cart at the mouth of the alley. Get yourself a nice dinner, and your date tonight will meet you.”
Her date. As in her partner for the job she was about to do.
“And then?”
Nic had already disconnected.
Nália glanced about to check again for tories—they were gone for now—and made her way to the cart, sweet smells of pork and corn roasting wafting into her nose. Her stomach growled in anticipation of the rare treat of Ziaparr street tacos. Normally she wouldn’t dare the extravagance of even an ear of grilled corn. Not with the small amount of extra coin she earned on top of her ration chits.
If the job went well, she was promised coin to spare and a place in the cell. That money could help Povo and the cousins a lot. If it didn’t go well, she’d likely be tethered by the tories, so she might as well have one last decent meal.
“Two sweet pork,” she told the cart chef. “And an ear.”
“You want the raina on that ear?” he asked. He took a good look at her, and nodded. “Yeah, you want the raina.”
He was right, she wanted the spice. He could plainly see she was jifoz, like him. Not that any overcaste rhique or, spirits forgive, conceited llipe folk would be buying street tacos in the Miahez neighborhood, unless they were the posers trying to act authentic. But even they wouldn’t come dressed like she was, cycle cat style, in hard raw denim, stained with grease and oil from engine work.
“That’s nine and two,” the cart chef said as he handed her the corn.
“I got it.” A slick young man with smoky dark eyes came up and handed coins to the chef. “And a pair of tang chicken for me.”
“I don’t need some—” Nália started.
“You’re Nália, right?” he asked. “Enzu.”
Her partner for the job. “Where’s your cycle?” She greedily bit into the corn, slathered with spices and salt and lime, pure joy on her tongue.
“Down the alley, like I was told,” he said. “Yours the cold blue 960?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Style, girl,” he said with a disarming smile.
The radio dangling over the food cart, this one playing some old Intown brass, crackled out again, and the cool woman’s voice came back in. “Spirits and skulls on the dark ride, friends. The time is ripe.” Static again, and the music went back on like nothing had happened.
“That’s the signal,” Enzu whispered, nudging her on the arm.
“What is?” Nália asked as the cart chef wrapped up sweet spiced pork and onions into tortillas, slathering them with roasted tomatillo sauce.
“On the radio,” he hissed. “That’s Varazina. She’s calling to us.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Nália grabbed her tacos from the vendor and ran down the alley slope to the bottom of the step, where her Puegoiz 960 was leaning against the cracked concrete wall. The blue and chrome beauty could clock nearly one-fifty kilos per sweep, and that was with cornering the curves of the aqueducts. She figured on a straight run, she could hit three hundred. Nália had worked with the cousins to crank its engine power so it ran like a 1296. When Nália was sitting on her ’goiz, she was lightning on two wheels, she was fire and steel powering through Ziaparr streets.
Of course, she rarely built up much momentum before reaching a patrol checkpoint.
Pausing before getting on her cycle, she took a bite of her taco. Savory pork and spicy tomatillo created an explosion of alchemy on her tongue.
“Hold up,” Enzu said, catching up to her. “I like the hustle, zyiza, but there’s a reason for the tacos.”
“Because they’re delicious?” Nália asked through a mouthful.
“Yeah,” he said with a far too pretty smile. Back in the sodium light of the alley, Enzu looked like he might be a perfect example of jifoz beauty: dark eyes—that lit up with every one of his smiles—which complemented the tawny bronze of his skin. His black hair was slicked back, like how most of the jifozi cycleboys would do it, and his dark denim slacks and jacket hugged his thin frame. Nália was wearing the same thing, of course, but the curves of her hips strained the copper rivets holding the pants together. The cousin who had passed them on to her had been a skinny rail. “But that’s not all of it.”
He opened up a small leather pouch and sprinkled a bit of powder on her taco.
“We need to run on the myco?”
He nodded. “You’ve ridden on it before?”
“Yeah,” she said, hesitant to take a bite. Everyone she knew had tried the magic of the myco with some willing flesh. She wasn’t opposed to doing that with Enzu before the night was over, but his expression told her that wasn’t what he was thinking. “Oh, you mean on the cycle. No.”
“Be ready,” he said, sprinkling some on his own taco, and then biting into it. “When you get up to speed, that’s when it really kicks in.”
She finished the taco, disappointed that it now had a slightly bitter aftertaste. Getting on her cycle, she asked, “Where’s the run?”
“Just keep up,” he said, getting on his own Ungeke K’am. A Sehosian cycle, which seemed like treason to Nália. It was all compact and polished casing, no style or character. It was elegant, but it wasn’t beauty like hers. His looked like it had just rolled out of the factory, no personality. No love. That said, it had more power and speed than a regular ’goiz 960 ever would.
But Nália wasn’t riding a regular 960, and she sure as shit wasn’t a regular rider. She kicked the engine on, a glorious roar of petrol
and steel that echoed through the alley. Putting on her helmet, she said, “You’re going to regret that one.”
“I better,” he said, kicking his cycle up. His purred like an angry cat, ready to pounce. Not bothering with a helmet, he was down the alley like a bullet.
Nália was not about to let herself get outridden by any fool on an Ungeke, and she cranked the throttle to rush after him. Out of the alley, she chased him around two curves, dodging cable cars and trucks round the circles through the Miahez neighborhood. She hit cruising gear as she caught his tail. He roared up Avenue Nodlion, weaving in between the idling autos that lined up for half a kilometer for their petrol ration from the fuel station at the circle. She was going to burn through a quint of her month’s supply on this raid tonight, so she needed it to keep her riding tight.
She needed this to pay off. For herself, for Povo and the cousins.
And, in some small way, for all their freedom.
Enzu signaled he was dropping right, which made no sense, since there was no turning circle coming up. Then he swerved off the road, through a bombed-out empty lot, and fell out of sight. She had no idea what crazy shit he was up to, but she was committed now. She followed right after, loose gravel in the lot flying behind her as she cranked her cycle into racing gear. If he can do ninety-six kilos across this lot, she’d do one-oh-eight.
The heat from the engine crept into her thighs as she crested over the bank at the edge of the lot, and the ground dropped out beneath her. She fought the urge to brake and pull back, and she saw Enzu hurtling down the dry aqueduct gully that divided Fomidez from Miahez. Under the bridges, under the checkpoints. And he was really racing, nearly one-twenty. She wasn’t going to be shown up. Not here, not tonight.
She landed hard, wind racing as the cycle threatened to skid out underneath her. She leaned left, pulling herself up and revving the throttle hard. One-eight kilos, gear shift. One-twenty. One-thirty-two. Passing gear. Closing the distance to Enzu.
Then he was there. On her bike with her, his arms wrapped around her waist.
The Velocity of Revolution Page 1
