The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  And she was on his, holding on to him.

  “What?” she shouted, almost losing her cycle as they went into the dark of the water tunnel.

  “Keep with it,” he whispered in her ear. “Keep your velocity. That’s what powers the myco. Pulling us together.”

  Then it was her on the Ungeke, him on the ’goiz. No, she looked over her shoulder to see herself on the ’goiz, charging through the water tunnel like a bullet from a gun. She was on the Ungeke, but she was Enzu. And Enzu was her. And she was also still holding on to him from the back of the cycle, and being held.

  All while hammering around the curves of the aqueduct gully.

  She had had a few rides of the myco, usually while bedding down some piece of pretty flesh who had done the same. Sex on the mushroom was a trip—every touch linked bodies, sensations reverberating, nerves firing together. Feeding off each other’s pleasure.

  But nothing like this. That was a pale echo, a memory of touch compared to this.

  “Too much!” she shouted. She let go of the throttle and let herself slow down to a stop. Still herself, still on the ’goiz. Enzu passed her, then slowed and turned around, stopping in front of her.

  The intensity faded, but she could still feel him. His heart beating in his chest, his pulse racing, the rumble of his engine between his thighs.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re synced for now.”

  “For . . .” She wasn’t sure which mouth she was talking out of at first. “For how long?”

  “Hard to say,” he said, idling his cycle and getting off. “The speed, that’s what binds us. The faster you go, the stronger the bond. More intense, and you can feel each other even when physically apart. It lasts longer too, maybe all night? Maybe longer.”

  “I don’t know if I like you that much,” Nália said. “Why are we doing the run this way?”

  “So we can do everything we need to as one,” he said. “And even then, it’s going to be hard.” He moved closer, gingerly touching her hand. The sensation was electric, a circuit closing in her body as she felt every inch of him, become her. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” She closed her eyes and let herself flow into it. Like when she rode her cycle. Revving the throttle, being one with the machine. Faster, faster, faster, filling her spirit with the thrill of speed.

  Her eyes were closed, but she could still see. See herself, through his eyes.

  She opened her eyes. “I’ve got a handle on it, I think.”

  “Good,” he said. He looked up at the railbridge spanning over their head. “Because the job is going to come thundering through here, and we need to be ready. Ready to race?”

  She smiled, and powered up her engine again. “Always.”

  2

  Enzu tossed her a pair of packs that were stashed away in a sluice, then grabbed a pair more. “Good, the other crew did their jobs.”

  “What’s the play?” Nália asked. “You done one of these before?”

  “Twice,” he said. “Strap that onto your cowl. Hurry up.”

  She was going to ask why, but then she felt it. Or more correctly, felt what he did, and knew what it meant because he knew. Not quite reading thoughts as words—she didn’t think the mushroom could do that—but she knew because he did. The low vibration from the railbridge. The train was coming. She strapped the packs onto the back of the cycle and got on, kicking the engine back to life.

  He did the same, roaring off, and she was already with him without even moving.

  “Come on!” he said in her ear, holding on right behind her. She still needed a swipe to find herself, remember where she really was on her own 960 and not with him on the Ungeke K’am, even as it was racing away.

  She revved up and shot off. She knew what she needed to do now, because he was already—she was already—doing it: cranking hard as the aqueduct curved and banked, ramping up the side with a hard throttle and gear shift. The train was thundering overhead, going just as fast as they were.

  Enzu—she felt it as if it were her own body, but still him—hit the ramp and flew high, leaning hard as he reached the apex of the jump to land on the train tankcar with a jarring slam, braking before he went flying off the front of the tankcar.

  He nailed it perfectly, and the fear, the thrill, the rush of it all surged through her body as well as his, just as she hit the ramp the same way on the 960.

  She didn’t land clean, slipping the wheel and sliding to the side of the tankcar. But as she braked and skidded to the edge, he was there, grabbing her arm and locking his foot under the walk rail. She felt his ankle wrench, his shoulder pop, felt the pain as if it were her own. She recovered from the slip and pulled back to the middle of the tankcar.

  She would ask if he was all right, but she knew, she felt it: He was fine, he would walk it off.

  Nália righted herself on top of the train, getting her cycle in place on the top. Enzu was already at work, taking off the packs.

  “Now?” she asked him, screaming over the racing winds of the train.

  “We hope none of the nucks in the train noticed us, or tories saw us jump. Get the siphon going. I’ll reach out.”

  He hadn’t spoken, not with his actual mouth. Instead, it was the manifestation of him that was right next to her, whispering in her ear. His actual body tossed her the pack off the back of his bike and stood at the front of the tankcar, which thundered along the track above the winding streets, toward Ako Favel. She knew the track—of course she did, she had lived with it over her head for so many years—knowing it would curve hard in two kilos. One swipe away, at best.

  “Right,” his manifestation whispered as she unpacked the siphon hoses and canvas bags. “Get braced for that. The pass is after the curve, as we go down along Southwall.” His body lashed their cycles to the top rails of the tankcar.

  “Got it,” she said out loud, though she wondered if she really needed to. She opened the hatch at the top of the tankcar, and the hard, volatile scent of the petroleum inside crawled up her nose. Sweet and rich, by her spirits, she wondered how many kiloliters there were in there. Fuel for so many cycles, autos, and trucks. Enough for everyone she knew to drive all the kilometers they’d need for the rest of the year. Spirits watching, probably every jifoz and baniz in Ziaparr. A shit of a lot more than the drops of ration they’d normally get.

  Instead this was headed for the railyard, to then get loaded in tanker ships. Fuel to serve the tanks, planes, and cars in the Alliance’s wars. Fuel for the Eight Nations.

  But barely a drop for the Pinogozi people. While the world drank deeply on their oil, they were thirsting for the blood of their own land. At least the jifoz were. The rhique dogs and their llipe masters were given more fuel, more food, more everything by virtue of their blood. Shit-mouthed guzzlers, the lot of them.

  She felt Enzu reach into the speed of the train. That was the only way she could describe what he did—it was as if the very velocity of it racing along the track became a part of his mind, and from that his own eyes and ears expanded all around him. She could feel it as well—as they came up to the hard curve, there were trucks in position on the road that ran parallel to the track. Each truck had a driver in the cab and someone else in the bed. She could feel they were part of the same vibration, all the crews lightly in sync. Not the same intensity she and Enzu were sharing, but a faint touch of matched frequency.

  In the train, bursts of static. Nucks—Alliance Guard—working the train, standing guard. Farther out, she could feel tories on the road, hitting her senses with that same crack of static. Not tuned to her or Enzu. Not their allies.

  The train hit the curve, and Enzu grabbed hold of the top rail of the tankcar. Nália did the same before she went flying off, but also stayed focused on her task. She hooked one of the canvas sacks to the top rail, and let it unfold over the side of
the tankcar. She then dropped the siphon hose down into the sweet, golden nectar. Enzu skittered over to the edge of the tankcar, grabbing the other end of the hose. He sucked on one end, and in a moment, spat out the rush of petrol that hit his mouth. Nália felt it burn in her mouth and throat as it hit, as if she had sucked it out of the hose herself.

  Enzu jammed the hose into the nozzle of the bag, and it started to fill with fuel. Nália got to work unfolding and hanging the other bags.

  “How much?” she asked, this time having the sense to ask with her mind, the part of her that was wrapped close to him, whispering in his ear.

  “Each bag holds sixty liters,” he said. “We want at least twelve bags. Fifteen, if we can.”

  Just a shave off the top of this tankcar, but it would mean so much to the mission, to everyone in the crews, and the movement—the revolution—behind it all. Hopefully this would prove that she deserved to be with them, that she had the skills and the drive.

  They worked quickly, starting another hose siphoning, getting the bags filled. As they did it, she felt the trucks drive up parallel to the train, and at the speed they were going, Nália brushed on the wavelengths of the drivers and the catchers in each one, enhancing her sync to their minds. Not the same degree that she had with Enzu, but enough to feel where they were, feel how ready they were.

  “Now,” Enzu whispered in her ear. She went to the first bag, now full, nozzles sealed. She unhooked it from the safety rail—spirits, it was heavy—and locked eyes and sync with the catcher in the bed of the first truck. He was a real bruiser, with arms like the tires on the truck. She threw the bag, full of precious fuel, to him, and he was right in place to catch it, despite the heavy wallop of it. He strapped it down in the bed. Sixty liters secure.

  They kept that up until the first one had six full bags in the bed, and they started to work on the next one. Two bags in, and then Nália felt a hard burst of static hit across her skull.

  She reached out and felt it. Tories on cycles, racing up the road behind the trucks.

  Enzu had felt it as well, and he gave a signal to the truck drivers. Throwing the last full bag down, he started tossing the empties and the hoses off the train.

  “There’s no turnoff for another kilo. The trucks are dead targets unless we draw off the tories.”

  Nália understood. The trucks had the petrol, they had to get back. She and Enzu could be the hares that the dogs chased. They could afford to get caught, if it came to that. What mattered was the fuel.

  She unstrapped her ’goiz 960 and kicked it up.

  “Let’s give them a race.”

  3

  Nália wished she had a handcannon strapped to her thigh right now. The tories were racing up on their cycles, ready to crack every one of them and haul them down to the 9th Senja in shackles. A couple of shots from the nine-piece she kept under her cot would do the job quite nicely.

  But the orders from Nic had made one thing clear: Do Not Go Armed. If she had brought her nine-piece, there would be no chance she’d get brought into the crew. The job was to get the fuel and get out, and it was likely to go bad right now.

  “Yeah, it might,” Enzu whispered to her. Her thoughts must have been plain to him. “Which is why you don’t want to get caught with a gun. It’d be the difference between a clang and a hang.”

  That was an odd way to put it—she’d never heard that idiom—but she understood. Plus, it wasn’t like the tories would hesitate to pull iron on a jifoz girl if they thought they were going to get some back. She had known enough folks who caught a slug just for holding something that looked like a handcannon.

  He kept whispering. “Stay with the trucks, get them to the turnoff. I’ll dust up the tories and keep them off your wheels.”

  Nália revved her engine and launched off, kicking herself up as she went off the edge of the tankcar. She landed next to one of the trucks with a hard jar, but the 960 took it and went like a shot once she touched dirt. Povo’s son Nezzu had rebuilt the shocks, and done a beautiful job of it. Nália couldn’t ask for better.

  She was with Enzu when he landed, but while she stayed with the trucks, he fell back and stopped, spinning his back wheel to kick up clouds of dust and dirt. Then she felt the jagged lines of the tories—three of them on cycles, slow down as they hit those clouds. Enzu dropped his cycle down into the gully, through the aqueduct, and off at high speed. Two of the tories went after him, while the third stayed on the road, on her trail.

  Then Enzu faded from her—probably too far away for her to still feel, same with the tories on his tail. She only had the taste of the truck crews, a vague feel of sync with them, not the full body connection she had had with Enzu. She almost felt empty from his absence, at least for a moment. But she didn’t have time to think about that. There was the tory to knock off their trail. She had to draw him away from the trucks.

  She had a plan, but she had to let the drivers in the trucks know. If the speed made the mushroom stronger, and they were all rolling with the train, was that enough? She tried to push herself to them, touch them each a little stronger, like the connection she had had with Enzu.

  That push was all it took—she found herself in the cab of each of the trucks. All the trucks at once. Surprised and disoriented—she was in four places at once, while still riding her cycle—she didn’t waste any time.

  “Turn off your lights,” she said to them. “Keep them off through the turnoff, until you’re back on concrete.”

  Each of them complied as she let herself snap back completely into her body. She dropped back behind the third truck. That last tory was racing up close. All she had to do was draw them off for a few minutes, let the trucks get away.

  She revved her engine, loud as thunder, as the trucks turned off in the dark. As the last one turned away, she could feel the tory crackling up on her, headlights shining on her back. Up to racing gear, throttle cranked, she swung off the road, under the pylons holding up the railway. Faster, faster, she weaved her way around the metal and concrete, knowing the tory was trying hard to stay on her.

  But she could feel him, all static and jagged lines. Just like she had been in sync with Enzu, the tory—so intent on stopping her—was so out of sync with her that she felt him with as much intensity. She could feel his desperation, feel him struggle with every curve and weave.

  He wasn’t anywhere close to being the rider she was.

  She cleared the next pylon and took a hard left, almost scraping the ground with her knee as she leaned with the turn, and then dropping into the aqueduct.

  The tory didn’t make the turn. He spun out and went down in a tumble.

  The truck crews faded from her senses, but the last thing she felt was them reaching a paved road, lights on, joining the wind of normal traffic. Made it.

  She howled with joy as she sped down the aqueduct, through one tunnel and out the other end. Laughing, she came to a stop and powered down her 960.

  They pulled it off. Liters and liters of petrol, all away safe. She leaped off the cycle and jumped up and down in pure exhilaration. They had pulled it the fuck off.

  She hoped Enzu had made it as well. He’d better have. She was so buzzed with the thrill, not to mention the rush of the myco, that she wanted the release of a ride with him, especially if they stayed synced to each other for it.

  If not, she’d find some other willing flesh at the carbon hut near her fasai. It’d be a shame not to have Enzu, though.

  She took a moment to catch her breath, but she knew she needed to move. She could still feel the crackle of that tory, under the rails. He might get back on his ride and catch up and—

  A cycle roared out of the tunnel, coming right between her and her own 960. Before she even knew what was happening, the rider was off the cycle, boots on the pavement, gun drawn.

  Black coat. Hard leather uniform. Heavy iron pulled on her.<
br />
  A tory. Not the one who had chased her. He was still a kilo away. Where did this one come from?

  “On the ground!” he shouted. “Hands spread, touch nothing!”

  Staring down his handcannon, she knew she had no choice.

  She held out her arms, fingers spread wide, and got on her knees. As she lay face down on the ground, he grabbed one hand and clapped the shackles on it.

  “Consider yourself detained,” he said as he finished locking her down. “Expect to face punitive action in response to your criminal acts.”

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she muttered.

  He hauled her up on her feet. She now got a good look at him. Light, tawny complexion, with cool, cruel eyes and hair cut far too short. Of course he was rhique. Most of the tories were; traitors to their own blood and people. “Do you have your cards, or are we also going to charge you with failure to carry?”

  “Of course I do,” she said. Like she would ever try to go about without her identification. Like you could even walk three circles in Miahez without a tory asking for a card check, or even get into the senjas without it.

  He shoved his hand roughly into her pocket and pulled out her cards.

  “Nália Enapi, jifoz, residence assigned to the 14th Senja.”

  Like anyone called Miahez anything but the ’hez.

  And, fortunately, the residence listed on those cards was her old room in the factory dormitory. Nothing in those papers to lead back to the fasai above the machine shop and, thankfully, Povo and the cousins.

  “Do you have work papers to enter the 19th?” he asked her.

  “Is that where we are?” Nália snarled.

  “You’re just making it worse for yourself,” he said. “Precinct violation on top of the other charges. I would hate to be you right now, Nália Enapi.”

  4

  Nália had her fingers inked and her face plated, had her denim and boots taken, and every crevice of her body probed and checked to make sure she wasn’t hiding a weapon. The tories then left her, alone, in a concrete cell with no bars or windows of any kind—just a hard, heavy door. The gray prison gown they gave her did nothing to cut the chill.