The first part of all of that was typical. She had been hauled in by the tories before, usually for something like carrying an expired card or fare-jumping the cable. The full ritual of plating, inking, and probing was the way it went. But after that, she was always put in a holding pen with fifty others, one big cage where they’d have to all eat, sleep, and shit in front of each other. Then after a day or so, released again.
This clearly was leading to a different kind of lockup, not just a few nights at the tory center in the 9th Senja. She didn’t know how this would go, but more likely than not, a train ride to Hanez Pen. Or maybe something worse; she had heard stories of the work camps. But she had thought that would mean being hauled in front of a justice bench, not locked in a concrete room.
She didn’t know how long she had been in that room—no way to get a sense of time in there. She was starting to think they had forgotten her when she felt something pull at her.
A hard yank brought her out of that room and into another. No, this was the mushroom sync. She was still in the concrete cell, but also in the other room—well lit, table, comfortable chairs. Two nuck officers—the kind with long leather coats and wide ties, instead of the black tory uniforms you saw on the streets—stood over the table. Over Enzu.
Enzu sat at the table, looking distressed, sweaty, pale.
Very pale in the light.
“Enzu?” she asked.
He looked up and met her eyes.
“How—” he said out loud. Then he shook his head.
“What’s the story, Hwungko?” one of the officers asked. Strong accent. Nália wondered where he was from. “Who are you talking to?”
“Nothing,” Enzu said.
“Hwungko?” Nália asked. It was very uncommon for a jifoz to have a Sehosian familial name. It might have been illegal, she wasn’t sure.
But there wasn’t a single jifoz she had met who had a Prime Family name.
“Nothing, I—” he stammered, trying not to look Nália in the eye. She could feel him pushing against her. “I wanted to know how long this is going to be.”
“Shouldn’t be too long,” the other officer said. “We made the call twenty swipes ago. Unless you think she’d let you stew for a while.”
“No, no,” Enzu said. “I just—can I get another sparkling?”
“Sure, sure,” the first officer said mockingly. “I mean, you want to feel refreshed when she gets here.”
“Please,” Enzu said.
“The shit is this?” she shouted at him.
She knew, she knew even if she couldn’t believe it. She didn’t see it from the beginning, but she should have. She let it all cloud her—that pretty smile, the fact that he was on the ride with her, that he could ride as well as he did. She thought he was like her, that he was with her.
The Ungeke K’am should have made it obvious.
Now, in the light, seeing his boots, his denim pants and coat—all spotless, not a scratch or tear. Like they were fresh off the shelf.
A woman came in—gray at the temples of her dry, thin hair; cool and light complexion; waistcoat and robe of painted purple silk. Head to heel, pure Sehosian.
“What has my nephew done now?” she announced, staring hard at Enzu.
“I’m sorry, sedsa!” Enzu cried.
“You’re sorry?” Nália shouted at him. Only he could hear her, of course, and he cringed away from her.
Enzu was a llipe. It was plain as the sun now.
“I’ll be taking him home now,” the woman said.
“We’re going to have some questions, Councilwoman Hwungko,” the first officer said. “We’ve had the courtesy of waiting until you arrived, but we need—”
“Thank you for your diligence, gentlemen,” the woman—the shit-filled councilor! —said. She wasn’t just an overweening llipe, she was one of the traitors collaborating with the Alliance overseers. “I’ll be taking him home. You can question him there, tomorrow, with our counsel present.”
“Of course,” the tory officer said. “We’ll call your office to schedule it.”
“You’re going home while I’m locked in a box here!” Nália shouted. “Just like a llipe, act like you own everything!”
“I’m sorry!” he said. “You were supposed to get away!”
“Who are you talking to?” the councilor asked.
“Is he on the myco?” the first officer asked. “Is he bonding with someone?”
“You would dare?” the councilor asked. “You foolish, insipid idiot, Enzúri.”
“Oh,” the second officer said. “That jifoz cat down in lockbox.”
“I didn’t want you—” Enzu cried.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Nália snarled. She wanted to be sick. She slammed her fist against the hard wall. Make herself hurt, make him feel it.
“All the more reason to get him away from here,” the councilor said. “I appreciate you both dealing with this with discretion.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the first officer said. “We’re all striving together to build a better city and nation. We can’t do that without good people like you.”
“Thank you,” she said coldly.
The first officer helped Enzu to his feet. “Make sure your friend knows you’ve been a big help, Hwungko. And she’s going to help us, too.”
“What does that mean?” Nália asked.
“I’m sorry,” Enzu said again before his aunt grabbed him by the collar of his denim coat and pulled him out.
“And dressed like this, like you were some common jifoz trash,” the councilor said as the connection faded, and Nália found herself just in her cell, alone again.
REFUEL: NEWSREEL
Thank you for joining us at the cinescope this evening for our feature presentation of The Beaches of Ikriba, a glorious epic of the Second Transoceanic War, brought to you by the Alliance Ministry of Entertainment! Starring Hodesat Tibog and Xang Xewung, the biggest cinescope stars on two continents! We hope you enjoy this grand and accurate depiction of the events of the war.
But before we start, let us extend our thanks to the great Alliance of Eight Nations. The greatest good this world has ever seen, made possible due to the great treaties at the end of the Second Trans! They are making the world a greater, stronger, more peaceful place.
For example, the Office of Alliance Oversight is helping build the nation of Pinogoz and the capital city of Ziaparr into the great, modern nation we all know it can be. We all know that this beautiful island country, with its simple, native people, has thrived over the years as it was supported by the Sehosian Empire, and then later by Outhic nations like Reloumene and Hemisheuk. We wept as it weathered repeated devastation in the Second Trans, and cheered as their Prime Families, descended from old regal houses of the empire, tried nobly to rebuild. Then this poor nation suffered further tragedies under the tyrant Rodiguen.
And the Alliance was there for the people of Pinogoz in the Great Noble War! They came, dedicating personnel and resources to the very important task of ousting Rodiguen and his corrupt regime, stopping his reign of terror before he could launch his doomsday weapon.
Now the Alliance overseers have been there: rebuilding the city, rebuilding the country, getting the people on their feet. They’re working with the Prime Families to oversee a provisional government, and they’re getting the nation ready to finally have free and open elections.
The Alliance has done so much, so it’s good that the people of Pinogoz are happy to work to repay that debt! They’re growing food, making steel, and drilling for the precious oil found in such abundance in their lush, fruitful land. And they are tightening their belts, rationing themselves in their own use, so even more can go to our efforts in the Third Transoceanic War.
Working together, the people of Pinogoz can repay their debt, and all of us can make the wo
rld a greater, stronger, more peaceful place!
Now to the cinescope . . .
FIRST CIRCUIT:
THE PATROL ASSIGNMENT
5
Wenthi Tungét waited patiently outside the investigators’ office, as he had been told to do, even though it had made him nervous. He had never been called up to the third floor before.
He was the only one up here who was Civil Patrol—the fledgling local police force—as opposed to Alliance Guard officers. All of them zoika—the honored foreigner caste. Folks from the High Sehosian Unity or Outhic nations like Reloumene or Hemisheuk, mostly. In his mind they were all looking at him as if he was intruding.
He was, even if they had ordered him up here. The first floor was for the Civil Patrol, who were almost all rhique and assigned to street duty, mostly in the senjas of Outtown, Hightown, and Lowtown. Only in the past couple of seasons had anyone in Civil Patrol been assigned to work Intown. Those assignments went to the non-officers of the guard—the “nucks”—who also handled the checkpoints between senjas.
And the third floor was for the offices of the high officers from the Alliance Bureau of Welfare. The guard leadership, and the investigators who handled the deep crimes: murder, robbery, caste and ration violations.
A llipe woman came hustling out of one of the meeting rooms, almost dragging a young man behind her. They went through so quickly, Wenthi didn’t even get a good look at them, though he was certain he had seen them before. Despite being rhique, he had spent much of his youth in llipe circles. Whoever they were, Mother knew them, and they knew Mother, surely.
Two investigators came out of the meeting room, chuckling and patting each other on the back. One of them took note of Wenthi and came over.
“You are the one who caught the girl, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Wenthi said. “Wenthi Tungét.”
“Tungét?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “As in—”
“My mother,” Wenthi said. No need to belabor the obvious question.
“And you’re here working patrol? Interesting.” The investigator shook his head, as if in disbelief. “And good job at that, son. Quite good. Did you know that tonight is the first time we’ve actually caught any of those jifoz petrol thieves alive in the act?”
“I did not, sir.”
“I mean, we’ve had a few like that one—bored llipe kids who want to ‘do something’ or some bullshit, am I right?”
“I don’t know about that, sir,” Wenthi said. He had no idea what point this investigator was leading to. “I just ran down the girl on my cycle, and caught up to her when she clearly thought she had shook me.”
“That’s just it, Tungét,” he said. “Every other time, they have shook patrol. I have to tell you, some of us up here were starting to think you Civil Patrol folk weren’t actually trying. A little look the other way.”
“No, sir,” Wenthi said. “I chased her down and had her tethered.”
“And good work,” the investigator said. “Restored our faith in you folk. Thanks to you, we have a real shot to get some answers, find our way to the center of this thing.”
“The center?”
“Son,” he said, putting an arm around Wenthi’s shoulders, “you think a bunch of organized robberies of petrol off a series of trains isn’t organized from a center? It goes deeper, Tungét. Deeper.”
“That makes sense,” Wenthi said. Though nothing they had been told on the first floor by the Alliance supervisors had made it clear it was anything other than cycle gangs stealing fuel. Did they think it was something bigger? What exactly?
“That’s the kind of thinking we like to see up here, Tungét. You are exactly what we need more of. You the only rhique boy who can get it done? Somebody is gonna have to step up, be a leader. Can you encourage the rest of your compatriots to get on it?”
“I can do that,” Wenthi said. None of the local Civil Patrol had been promoted to leadership yet. He could prove he deserved to be the first.
“Good. Keep riding hard, catching these scoundrels, bring them in. The more you get, the more we can interrogate.”
“And put an end to the petrol robberies?”
“Hopefully. And more, if it comes to it. Again, good work.” He looked at his watch. “About seven on the fifty. Your stint is about to end, right?”
“Yes, sir. Ready to sign out for the night.”
“Well, get out of here. Celebrate with your cadre, hmm? You’ve earned it.”
He slapped Wenthi on the chest with familiar congeniality, which was a bit odd since Wenthi didn’t even know this investigator’s name. Or much anyone’s name up here. Other than Lieutenant Yitsemt—the languid Reloumene officer who gave out the stint assignments and collected reports—the patrol riders rarely saw anyone from the leadership. Let alone formed a friendly rapport.
“Yes, sir,” Wenthi said, and made his way to the stairwell as quickly as he could.
6
Heard you got a petrol thief, Tungét,” one of the late stint riders called as Wenthi came into the uniform room. The room was filled with Civil Patrol officers coming off the night stint and more coming on the late stint, same as it was every night at seven on fifty.
“Nice catch!” Hwokó said, grabbing Wenthi by the front of his uniform. She pulled him close to her. “How you thinking of celebrating?”
“Getting every late-stinter coming off shift to jump into his bunk?” Paulei suggested. Paulei Jéngka had been Wenthi’s riding partner on the night stint for the past season, and friend, lover, and compatriot since training cohort. Paulei was a good cop, the kind of rider everyone in the late stint cadre wanted by their side, especially when patrolling the upper senjas. He was also the one most everyone wanted to meet for drinks after shift, and whatever followed.
“That sounds promising,” Wenthi said.
“Mmm,” Hwokó said, giving him a playful slap. “Shame I’m double-stinting, or I’d join you all.”
“They did say I should celebrate,” Wenthi said. “Up on third.”
“What?” Minlei said as she changed out of her uniform into her civilian slacks. “They call you up there? And you weren’t in trouble?”
“Some vesti just wanted to praise me,” Wenthi said. “Though—” He wasn’t sure how to put it.
“What’s up?” Guand asked.
“Nothing,” Wenthi said, swallowing the uncomfortable comment the investigator had made about thinking they were letting the thieves escape, looking the other way. Surely none of them here were doing that.
“Well, thank spirits someone is doing their job.” Whoever said that—a late sweeper Wenthi didn’t know—knocked Paulei on the arm.
“Wait, wait,” Paulei said. “Let me tell you, because, yeah, I fouled it up.”
“Heard you slid your cycle, Jéngka!”
“Slid it hard,” Wenthi said. “I’m amazed his leg isn’t torn up.”
“It is!” Paulei said, taking off his uniform pants. Sure enough, his tan, muscular leg was scraped, though the damage didn’t look too bad. Paulei was laughing and showing it off to everyone in the room. “But hear it. Radio calls that a couple jifoz had torn through the 14th, probably checkpoint jumpers. We’re on Outtown patrol around the 17th, you know, rounding the circles like any night.”
“Get to the damned point, Paulei,” Hwokó said as she put on her uniform coat.
“The mouth on her,” Paulei said teasingly.
“You like my mouth, Jéngka.”
“You sure you’re not jifoz, Hwokó?”
“If anyone’s got a jifo greasehead, it’s Tungét,” Hwokó said, roughly rubbing Wenthi’s head. “Tell the story.”
Wenthi chuckled and went to his niche while Paulei went on. It wasn’t the first time Hwokó—or anyone else in the Civil Patrol—had made such a comment about his hair. He didn’t mind
most of the time, and he had had a good shift, so he wasn’t about to let Hwokó ruin his mood. He changed out of his uniform and put on his civilian duds. He was hardly that stylish in his dress, but he cut a good figure in his lime-green pegged trousers and wide matching tie and suspenders. Paulei, in the midst of his recounting Wenthi’s arrest for the night, was still in his cotton top and briefs, not in any hurry to finish getting dressed. Not that Wenthi or anyone else in the room minded the delay.
“So we charge after this wildcat on her ’goiz, and she’s weaving and curving around the pylons, doing at least 120. Crazy one, she is, and I can’t keep up with her. She whips around one pylon and drops into the aqueduct without so much as a gearshift. I blow that turn and skid along the gravel. You’re lucky you still have a partner, Wenthi.”
“Am I, though?” Wenthi teased back. “I mean, you were kind of useless tonight.”
“Knock him, knock him.” Hwokó laughed as she got her boots laced up.
“Fair, boy,” Paulei went on. “I mean, I’m on the ground, next thing I know, the cat is off like a shot, and boom, Wenthi is down in that aqueduct in highest gear, off down that tunnel. I manage to get on my feet and haul my cycle back on its wheels, and my radio buzzes. Here’s this boy, cool as a Hemish winter. ‘Hey. I got shackles clapped. Call me a roll.’”
Everyone laughed, even though it was only because Paulei had made it funny.
“Hey, come on,” Wenthi said. “It’s not like Minlei and Guand didn’t bring in their own catch.”
“You didn’t hear?” someone answered. “That fool was a llipe. That catch is getting tossed from the files.”
“What is a llipe boy doing on a siphon steal with a bunch of jifos? Doesn’t he have something better to do?”
“Don’t the jifos?” Hwokó asked.
“Don’t you?” Wenthi shot at her. “Don’t you got a shift to ride?”
The Velocity of Revolution Page 3
