The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  She looked up at him with cordial warmth. “Wenthi,” she said coolly. “Thank you for responding with such promptness. I’m glad you’re here.” She gestured for him to sit.

  “Today’s going very unplanned,” he said as he took a seat.

  “I have heard,” she said. She gave a small snap to Zoyua, the tiny jifoz woman who had served the house for the past eight years. Zoyua silently brought over a cup for Wenthi and poured the coffee for him. “Are you hungry?”

  “A bit,” he said. He knew she would find it rude if he said he was ravenous.

  “Bring him some fruit and cohechas,” she told Zoyua as the woman spooned a small amount of sugar into Wenthi’s cup. As Zoyua reached forward with the sugar, her arm stretched out of the sleeve of her violet pullover, showing the old, twisting scars that Wenthi knew covered the entire left side of her body. She was one of the few to survive the bombing of her village, which had been utterly destroyed in the bombing campaigns near the end of the Great Noble. She was very fortunate to have survived, and fortunate that Mother had always taken good care of her.

  As much as Mother frustrated him, Wenthi had to admit she was always very good to her staff.

  “Right away,” Zoyua said, and she slipped into the house through the back door to the kitchen.

  “I have heard,” Mother said once Zoyua was gone, “that they are giving you a very important assignment.”

  “I’m kind of amazed they’ve done so much so fast. No one must have slept last night.”

  “Certainly not in the Hwungko households,” she said. “Such indignity they must feel. Did you see Enzúri when he was arrested? Do you know him?”

  Wenthi had not. “I don’t think we were ever cohorted together. I think he’s more Lath’s age.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  “And he wasn’t the one I arrested. I brought in the girl he was working with. I had no idea about his part of it until a few swipes ago.” Though now he remembered that he had seen Enzúri and senia Hwungko on the third floor.

  “Of course,” she said. “But I’m told they have quite a few hopes for you. This is an excellent chance to impress your superiors, Wenthi, as well as the governing board.”

  “I hope to live up to their expectations,” he said.

  “We are working very hard to get this country on its feet, Wenthi. Part of that involves having an independent law-keeping organization, and our people in charge of that. That it might be someone like you . . . that could be very important.”

  He stirred his coffee, not sure how to respond. He wanted to believe that she wanted what was best for him: promotion, authority, a strong career. But he couldn’t help but feel that he was just being used as a pawn in her political ambitions.

  She took a pull off her cigarillo. “I am worried about what this is asking of you, though. You’ll have to live as a jifozi. You didn’t take it very well having to live as a rhique.”

  “That was seven years ago, Mother,” he said, sipping at the sweet, hot coffee. Far better than what they had at the headquarters. “This is a very different situation.”

  “I just worry,” she said.

  “It’s not like I’ll actually be a jifoz,” he said with a light chuckle. “It’s just an assignment, papers to cover the identity and such.”

  Mother watched him with dark, piercing eyes for a long while, and took another drag of her smoke. “It’s all just papers, of course. What are they putting on yours?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I mean, if they’re making a false identity for you, I’m curious if you know what it’s going to be. They could hardly put Wenthi Tungét on a card that says you’re jifoz. That wouldn’t be credible, would it?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” Wenthi said. He hadn’t had much time to think about any of this yet. “I suppose whatever they decide. Covert Operations has protocol, I’m sure.”

  “Foolishness,” she said with a scoff. “If . . . since you’re going to do this, you need to have a name that means something, that will . . . have weight. It can’t be just any name.”

  “I’m sure—”

  Zoyua came back out with a tray and brought it to Wenthi. As she placed the plate of sliced mango and piña in front of him, Mother looked at her pointedly. “Zoy, remind me of your siblings’ names.”

  Zoyua shook her head. “Yes, senia. There’s Onicé and Eriva, and with my papé there’s Sanlí, Leoza, and Davillo, and with mamé there’s Yeñi and Nolu.”

  “Those are the ones still alive.”

  “Yes, senia.”

  “And how many side-mothers did you have?”

  “Three, senia.”

  “Side-fathers?”

  “Four, senia. No, five.”

  “And side-siblings? Cousins?”

  She put the plate of cohechas—poached eggs over black beans spread on thick bread, dotted with salt and grated cheese—in front of Wenthi. “Oh, senia, I would have to think to count them all.”

  “It’s fine, Zoy. S’enj.”

  Zoyua bowed her head and went off.

  “What was that?” Wenthi asked as he took his utensils up to stab each piece of fruit.

  “You need to remember, boy,” she said pointedly, “that among the undercastes, families spread wider. They all have people. Baniz rarely even bother to formally Bind, they just all pile up in houses together.”

  “I’m sure—” he started to say.

  “You just take any old name, try to pass yourself off as jifoz, they’ll sniff you out. Wonder who your people are, where you came from.”

  “They’ll probably give me an identity from Uretichan or one of the other northern cities,” Wenthi said. “So I wouldn’t be expected to have people in Ziaparr.”

  “That won’t—” She sighed, shook her head. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll make some calls.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” he said as he took a bite of the cohechas. Fantastic as they always were. “We’ve agreed—”

  “Letting your career alone is one thing. I’ve done nothing to influence anyone, and you’ve earned every accolade on your own. Even if people do still call me to an annoying degree whenever you as much as scrape a knee.”

  “Mother—”

  “But I will not sit by and let some minor bureaucrat get you killed for not knowing better. I will make some calls.”

  Angú Tungét had spoken, and Wenthi knew better than to argue.

  “I have been up through the night,” he said. “And given all that’s going on, I would be honored if I was able to sleep here a few sweeps.”

  “Of course,” Mother said. “When you finish eating, you can go and use the oxué near the kitchen. I’ll make sure the bed is made up for you.” She extinguished her cigarillo and finished her coffee. “And, of course, you are welcome to the house today.”

  She kissed his forehead as she got up, and went inside. He knew, through the years of doing this, that much of the ritual of him entering the house was simply the semblance of propriety, following the rules of society for whenever a rhique came to a llipe house, even if it was his family home. Mother never actually refused him entry.

  But he was offered a bed in the oxué—the servant room—instead of his old bedroom.

  He took his time eating the fruit and cohechas. With this assignment, it’d probably be some time before he ate like this again.

  13

  Wenthi woke up, not sure of the time. The sun was still up, streaming through the window of the oxué, strong enough that there was no getting back to sleep. While he was asleep, someone had slipped in and taken his clothing—appropriate for late evenings in the city, but not for daylight hours—and replaced it with clean linen slacks and shirt. The shirt was one with short arms and several pockets on the front, the preferred fashion for older gentlemen with larger bellies and fewer r
esponsibilities. The straw hat completed the look, and made it clear these clothes had been Oscéi’s. Aleiv’s father. Wenthi and Oscéi had, at best, tolerated each other’s presence during the time he had been Bound with Mother, and Wenthi did not miss him one bit when they announced Disunion. He wondered why clothes had been left behind.

  Putting the clothes on, though, did spark some of Wenthi’s earliest memories, from the years these styles had been in fashion. Wenthi had only vague images of those days, he had been so young—before Rodiguen, before the Great Noble—but he had memories of bright, sunny days in the city circles, bustling with happy people, dressed like he was now. He remembered his mother—or his idea of what his mother was like when she was his age—in bright silk dresses and rounded caps. Celebration and flowers. Flowers everywhere.

  “Where is the supper?” a young voice pierced through the air. “I have arrived, and where is the supper?”

  Wenthi left the oxué and went through the kitchen, where Zoyua, Eunitio, and Izamio were putting together plates of seasoned fish and grilled vegetables. A tinny radio played a traditional Pino song, one older that Wenthi’s mother. He gave them a friendly smile as he passed through, out to the dining table, where Aleiv, dressed in her school knee-skirt and blazer, paced about.

  “What were you doing in the kitchen?” she asked. “Why are you even here?”

  “Don’t be rude, Ale,” Lathéi said. She was on the other side of the room slouched in one of the lounging chairs, clear carbon in one hand. “Tell Wen it’s good to see him.”

  “Why are you wearing Oscéi’s clothing?” Aleiv asked.

  “They were left out for me,” Wenthi said.

  “You aren’t having supper with us, are you?”

  “I’ve not been invited,” he said.

  Lathéi got to her feet and glided over. “I would invite you myself, but I’ve already used mine for Oshnå.”

  “No worries,” Wenthi said. “Were you two all right? I know Paulei got you home, but—”

  “All fine. Though that whole incident was unacceptable.”

  “The nucks were out of line,” Wenthi said.

  “What, did they arrest you?” Aleiv asked with a sneer. “Did you get called for breaking curfew or checkpoints?”

  “He’s patrol,” Lathéi said. “He gets dispensation.”

  “Why haven’t they served supper?” Aleiv said, walking away from them both. “Probably waiting for Mother to ring the bell. I’ll go find her.” She skulked off.

  “This is what you’re leaving me with, Wen,” Lathéi said. “A whole season of this.”

  “Work,” he said. “It’s important.”

  “Yes, Mother told me, and then she made me listen to the radio with her for a sweep. All sorts of horrors about the scourge of insurgents, attacking trains, sabotaging fuel rations. All they’re doing is hurting everyone.”

  “I know,” Wenthi said. “That’s why I’m taking this assignment.”

  “Not fair,” she said. “Barely got to see you. Even if you’re dressed like a character in an old cinescope.”

  “I haven’t been to the scopes in a long time,” he said.

  “If we had time today, I’d take you,” she said. “All the more reason to come back to Hemisheuk with me,” she added in a lowered voice. “All the best ones are made there.”

  “If you say so,” he said. Though he truly had very little interest in going to any of the Outhic nations, even with Lathéi.

  Mother came down with Aleiv in tow. “We should ring the bell. Is your guest here?”

  “She’s taking an auto, so she should be here shortly.”

  “Slowest way,” Wenthi muttered.

  “Wenthi will join us for supper, yes?” Lathéi asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Mother said. She came up to him and kissed his cheek. “I hope you rested, love, but you will need to move along.”

  “So soon?” he asked.

  “I’ve received some calls,” she said. “Nothing you need to worry about, but they—” She hesitated. “There have been some new developments, and with that, a grander opportunity. They’ll need you at the headquarters as soon as you can be there.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you know what—”

  She came over to him and rested a gloved hand on his cheek. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Of course, Mother, but do you know—”

  Her hand was trembling as she pulled away. “You shouldn’t waste time and get moving. That was made clear.”

  “I should get back to my apartment—”

  “Yes, you should,” Aleiv said.

  “Peace, Ale,” Lathéi said.

  “They said as soon as you can,” Mother said sharply. “I’ll send someone around to your place to take care of your icebox, cables, any other loose ends.”

  “And my cycle?” he asked.

  “Have someone bring it here, and we’ll keep it in the garage.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He kissed his mother on the cheek.

  Lathéi grabbed him in an embrace. “Not fair,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Nothing is,” he said. He let go and looked to Aleiv. “Try not to miss me too much.”

  “Don’t get killed,” she said. “Or Mother will be impossible. Can we start supper now?”

  “Yes,” Mother said, squeezing Wenthi’s shoulder one more time before sitting at the table and ringing the bell next to her place.

  Wenthi knew what that meant, what was expected of him, so with a last wink to Lathéi, he went back through the kitchen, past the hallway of the oxué and pantries, and out the delivery door.

  14

  Wenthi arrived at the headquarters of the 9th Senja and was ushered quickly down into a sub-basement he had never previously gone to. He had worked at this house for three years, and he had always assumed that these levels were for evidence storage or files. Instead he was placed in an odd white room, where a pair of nurses proceeded to wordlessly undress him, prod and probe him, and draw an absurd amount of blood.

  Then they left him alone, in far too cold a room to be sitting on a metal table while nearly naked.

  Nearly a sweep passed before anyone else came in, a pale older woman whose flaxen hair was streaked with gray. “So, this is Officer Tungét.” Her Reloumene accent was uncommonly thick, so thick he had a hard time understanding her.

  “That’s me, ma’am,” he said.

  “Yes, promising. Promising.” She looked through a folder of tissue-thin mimeotyped pages. “Twenty-seven years old. Born right here in Ziaparr. Interesting, interesting. Very healthy, very healthy, good.” She grabbed his jaw and leaned in, inspecting his face. “And you were classified rhique?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “My mother—”

  The woman chuckled. “I know all about your mother, young man. All about.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She looked at the mimeotype. “The bloodwork is very promising, yes. Very interesting. Your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Who was he?”

  “Died in the Second Transoceanic.”

  “A soldier?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Or a casualty?”

  “Soldier. Died on the beach of Hessinfoth,” Wenthi said.

  “Interesting. That isn’t listed in your file,” she said.

  “Did you serve in that war?” he asked. She looked like she would have been prime fighting age at the end of Second Trans. She easily might have been in in the Reloumene Sovereign Order, piloting a laufmobon bomber or gunning on an umshpri single-prop. “You look like you could have been airguard.”

  “Oh, I served, young man,” she said. She stepped back and took a case out of her pocket, taking out a tightly rolled cigarillo. “Served then, served again, and am serving n
ow. Believe me.” With unsteady hands, she lit the cigarillo and took a long draw on it. “And you are as well, serving the city, serving the country. Proud boy, yes?”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “You caught the jifozi girl, yes? She was riding the mycopsilaria, wasn’t she? And yet you slipped under her senses.” The word “slipped” danced off her tongue, like that very idea delighted her.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Remarkable.” She drew another breath of smoke. “What do you know of the local mycopsilaria, hmm?”

  Everyone was asking him that today. “It’s dangerous, but plenty folks—undercaste, mostly—use it for sex.”

  “Yes, that is the main use here, isn’t it? A little taste, link up your senses with a willing partner. Or two or three. Very intense, I see the appeal.” She said all that with a dead affect, and scoffed. “Imagine, the very hand of god, being used for shadow puppets. Foolish waste.”

  “It’s foolish, yes,” Wenthi said. “I’m well aware of the dangers. You can lose yourself into it. Too much, you go all the way into yourself, into the other person, and both of you become shells, locked into your body. Or a mindless empty.”

  “Is that what they say?” she asked. She took another long pull, her jaw tightening. “This is what they teach you?”

  “Teach us?”

  “At your schools here. Or in your patrol training?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said.

  “And you never dared try it yourself? A little taste, see what the fuss is about?”

  “No, of course not. We’ve seen—”

  “What?” she asked, leaning in so close the stale reek of her smoke invaded his face. “What have you seen?”

  “We’ve all seen it. In—”

  “You’re going to say Nemuspia, aren’t you? They point to that disaster and say that could happen here. But it wouldn’t, of course. Mycopsilaria nemuspiana is completely different than your strains here,” she said, her voice rising, her accent harsher.

  “I—”

  “You know nothing, boy!” she shouted, her sallow, blanched face quickly turning red. She stormed out of the room.