“Not this run,” Bindeniz said. “This is the call, no more catwalking the mission. That train full of petrol tanks is about to thunder into the city, and by my spirits, we’re going to take every single drop of it.”
37
Ajiñe didn’t know how many crews were in play right now. Casintel and Bindeniz barked out orders and positions so quickly, all Ajiñe could really do was note her own responsibilities, and make sure her people were in place to act. Each crew was on their own strain of the mushroom, and then each crew had their Nicalla, and all of them were connected to each other as well. Which meant all of them, taking places along the tracks, getting into position on their cycles. It was the biggest thing she had ever seen the Fists of Zapi try to do.
She wondered why now. Up until this, they had been mosquitos, nipping bits of fuel and food from Alliance transports, taking what they could to make up for the shortfalls of rationing, ease the suffering of the undercastes.
Renzi surely felt her fear and doubt and churning unease in her gut.
“This run is very different than anything you’ve done before,” he said. They were staged in one of the abandoned tunnels, both sitting on his Puegoiz 960, waiting for their signal to move. Her cycle was with the rest of the cell, on the back of the truck.
“That’s the truth,” she said.
“We do this,” he said, “we follow the plan we’ve been given, the Alliance, the Provisional Council, the patrol . . . they’re going to come down hard. You know that, right?”
“I know,” she said. “This is a declaration of war.”
“You’re all right with that?”
“You aren’t? You’re the one saying this needed to matter.”
Their sync connection was light at the moment, but she felt a conflict brewing in him, like he was having an argument with himself. “It’s just I hadn’t expected something this big quite so soon,” he said.
“Same,” she said. “I recognize this is a lot for your second run with us, but . . . you are in, right?”
He was troublingly silent.
“Renzi,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “People are counting on us. Plus, you already know the plan.”
He looked back at her. “Are you saying you would force me?”
“No, but . . . if you’re out, we’re going to stay right here, together, until it’s all over.”
“You don’t trust me?” he asked. “Think I’d go to the tories or something?”
“It’s not about trust,” she said. “Let’s say you leave here right now. Let’s say you drive off, but the tories spot you and tether you up.”
“Then I’m arrested.”
“They’re doing some dark shit, I’ve heard,” she said. “I’ve heard stories of what they do when they’ve got people. Especially to people who are in mushroom sync. A cousin of a friend of mine told me—listen to this shit—that the Alliance and the Provisional Council are keeping members of the tyrant’s inner circle around. Alive and well.”
“What?” he asked.
“It’s what I heard. My friend’s cousin has this Intown job cleaning toilets for some fancy set of fasai right outside the Damas Kom, and you know who she heard lives there?”
“Who?”
“Doctor Shebiruht. You know, the tyrant’s Mushroom Witch?”
Renzi went pale and stammered. “You . . . you’ve heard that?”
“After the horrors that woman did in the Tyrant’s War, after the shit in the purge camps—I’ve got spirit tins up for an aunt and two side-uncles that she twisted to death—they have her alive and well and living fancy. Probably still doing experiments.”
“No . . .” he said. “No, that . . . that can’t be true.”
“I totally believe, if they had you, saw you were still synced, that witch or someone like her could pull all of it out of your head. Just yank that shit out of you. Get everyone you’re synced to. Why do you think we’re so careful about who knows what?”
“Sure,” he said, faltering a bit. “It all makes sense. But . . . but with this . . .”
“You’ve seen a lot of faces. If they didn’t have you in time to stop the run, they definitely would roll through Outtown and tether everyone they could identify.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“Shit, they’ll probably roll through anyway and crack heads open just because.”
“No, no,” he said halfheartedly.
A buzz flew through her body and his. Train was coming.
“Renzi?” she asked. “We good?”
His response was to kick on the engine and rocket forward.
The train was already racing along the tracks, with other Fists riding alongside in the narrow patch of road at this section. In about five kilos, the tracks would cross over the bridge into Sunkentown, and from there on out, the track elevated. Not much time.
Their target was the third tankcar—there were six in all, each of them carrying approximately 9,600 liters of petroleum fuel. She couldn’t even contemplate the madness of this run.
They raced up on the car, as their compatriots each approached their own assignments.
“Get ready!” Renzi rode hard, riding so close to the train tankcar his exhaust pipe brushed against it, sparks flying like a burning tail behind them. Feeling his every motion as much as if she were driving the cycle herself, Ajiñe pulled her feet up onto the seat and stood in a crouch.
“Now!”
He gunned the throttle and bumped up on the front wheel, and in that same moment Ajiñe jumped, flying high enough to grab the upper edge of the train car. She pulled herself up as Renzi spun around and rode off into the gravel.
But he was still right beside her, her velocity from the train and his on the cycle locking them together. The sync loved speed.
“Nice moves!” he said.
“Same,” she said. She scrambled over to the front of the car and then down the ladder to the hitch. She could feel that the teams behind her had already done their jobs, unhitching the cars and applying the brakes. Uncoupling the hitch was easy; two flips of the latch and it was done. Immediately her car separated from the rest of the train. Up the ladder to the top again, she dashed to the back.
Something slammed across the side of her brain. That was a feeling she knew.
“What was that?” Renzi asked.
“Tories,” she said. “When you’re on the mushroom, fully in the sync like we are, it’s like you can feel the folks who are at hard angles to you.”
“I see their cycles,” he said, and the part of her that was with him could see them heading toward the train. “I’ll buy you some time.”
She kept her focus on herself as he whipped around and careened toward the patrol cycles. She had to reach the brake before they reached the bridge, which was maybe a kilo away.
She climbed down the back ladder as Renzi raced circles around the tories. There were three of them that she could feel, and one of them tried to draw iron while also riding. Renzi wasn’t a target they could catch, weaving his way through the gravel yard, taking them farther and farther from the train. Good.
The brake handle was right below her. She dropped down with one hand on the ladder to guide her, and pulled the handle strong and hard. Sparks flew and the train wheels seized, grinding to a stop.
Her job was done. The next part relied on another cell, racing into position. They came driving up, in a small fleet of tank trucks. They must have been working for seasons to get everything together. That must have been why this run was happening now. They needed to hur—
Danger crashed across her skull, but not soon enough. A tory cycle buzzed past her as the rider leaped off it, tackling her and pulling her off the train to the ground. The tory tried to get hold of her wrists as they tumbled together. She wouldn’t let him, throwing wild punches to keep him f
rom getting his hands on her, or worse, the shackles.
Then he slammed one foot on the ground, getting his weight on her as he pulled his iron. He didn’t quite get it trained on her, so she went for his wrist while jamming her knee into his balls. She didn’t get a great grip on him, but was able to knock the gun out of his hands. It skittered to the side, but he remained undeterred.
His fist pounded into her face, dazing her.
“The shit are you doing, jifo?” he snarled. “You’re shitmouth crazy if you think you can—”
She brought her fist up into his face, knocking him off of her. They both stumbled to their feet as he drew out his baton.
“Now you’re going to pay your debt, jifo,” he said.
“Hey, tory!”
Ajiñe didn’t need to look, because she felt it. She was right there with him.
Renzi had the tory’s gun trained on the asshole.
“Don’t you even—” was all the tory got out before Renzi fired.
The tory went down in a heap.
Renzi grabbed Ajiñe’s hand, and the electric intensity of the shared bond, of being each other, taking each other’s hands and being taken at once, hammered through her.
“We’ve got to—” she started.
He pulled her to his cycle and got on it with her.
“We’ve got to draw the rest of the tories away, protect our siphon teams until they can get away.”
She glanced over to the dead tory on the ground there. Spirits, that really just happened. She would have been tethered and locked away if Renzi hadn’t been there.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, tossing the gun away as he fired up the cycle. “Run isn’t over until we finish it.”
38
The crews had done their jobs, quick and hard, draining the train tanks down to nothing, leaving them empty and abandoned on the tracks. More patrol tories had shown up, but the cycle riders kept them occupied, drawing their attention away from the tanker crews. By the time a real patrol presence had managed to get to the tracks, the tanks were drained and the crews had slipped off into the night with almost all the fuel.
Almost.
They had left behind a bit of fuel, on a patch of concrete a short distance from the scene of empty, abandoned train cars. When the last crew got on their cycles to drive off, they lit a match and threw it at the fuel.
Flaming words greeted the tories that arrived on the scene.
¡Nix xisisa!
THE DEBT IS PAID.
OUR FIST IS CLOSED.
VARAZINA SAVES!
Ajiñe hadn’t been able to see it all. She had been on the ’goiz 960 with Renzi, tearing through the streets to keep the tories away until everything was done. When Gabrána, who had been able to watch it all, gave them the signal that the job was done, she and Renzi dropped off the streets into the old tunnels, giving all the tories the slip.
They never had a chance.
Ajiñe knew this day was coming, but she was still astounded it was here. Here heart hammered with fear and excitement and joy as Renzi cranked his cycle to racing gear through the old tunnel under the Ako Favel, coming up near Street Cohecta, not a single tory anywhere in sight. They surely were all swarming around the train site.
She led him to the bomb-out, parking his cycle in a hidden niche before heading in.
“Is this where you brought me the other night?” he asked.
“Fond memories?”
“It had its good points,” he said. “So, what we just did—”
“Crazy, hmm?” she said. “Look, I . . . I appreciate what you did there with the tory who was on me.”
“It was nothing,” he said, his head down. “I mean, him or us there, right?”
“It’s not nothing,” she said. She put her hand under his chin—his delightfully sharp chin—so she could look him in the eyes. Spirits, Gabrána was right about him. “I know you went to Hanez on a trump up, so . . . I know you’ve never had to do anything quite like that before.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But, you know, you can’t be squeamish in a war.”
“You think this is a war?” she asked.
“I think it is going to be one now,” he said. “Up until now, we, the, uh—”
“The Fists of Zapi,” she said. They hadn’t said the name around him yet, except when he was drugged. He deserved to know, and his eyes lit up at hearing that.
“The Fists of Zapi, yes. You’ve mostly been just a nuisance to the Alliance and the government and all. This is a new level, and they’re going to hit back hard.”
“Probably.”
“And, are . . . are we ready for that? Like, where did the fuel go? Who’s going to keep it safe? Where’s it going to go?”
“Too many questions,” she said. They got to the door of their hidden apartment. “Today we’re just going to celebrate the victory.”
“Right,” he said. “What do I smell?”
“That is Nicalla cooking in there.” She opened the door, and sure enough, Nic had set up a small grill pit with smoldering wood chips and the sweet smell of seasoned meat filled the place.
“We got a win,” Nicalla said. “And we have this lovely meat from the other job. I had been marinating it all day, figuring we’d either be celebrating, or it would be a last meal. Either way, worth it.”
“Celebration,” Ajiñe said, touching Nicalla on the arm gently—all the physical affection she would bear.
“Where are the others?” Nicalla asked. “I dropped sync as soon as the job was done.”
“You really are missing out when you do that,” Ajiñe said, snatching a sliver of meat off the grill.
“I’m really not,” Nicalla said firmly.
“But then you can’t do this,” Ajiñe said, putting the piece of meat in her mouth and letting the flavors play and dance on her tongue. “What do you think, Renzi?”
He ran his tongue across his teeth. “That’s . . . really delicious.”
“Indeed it is,” Ajiñe said.
“Spirits, what a joy, tasting things I didn’t put in my mouth,” Nicalla said flatly. “Whatever will I do without this in my life?”
“Nic,” Ajiñe said firmly. “I love you, I do. But you’re also very boring.”
“How I like it. Where are the others?”
The sync with the other three had been faint and fading, but Ajiñe still had a vague sense of them. “They’re almost here. And they aren’t waiting to celebrate.”
“Tell me none of them are trying to drive and fuck at the same time.”
“No,” Renzi said, and then he started laughing. “They are not trying that.”
“What are they doing?” Nicalla asked with an exasperated tone.
“You don’t want to know,” Ajiñe told her. “They’re celebrating a bit early, let’s leave it at that.”
“Spirits, I don’t know how you have that kind of energy,” Nicalla said. “I would appreciate it if you all just kept that to a low simmer for an hour or so while we eat and talk about what’s next, then I can go and you all can violate yourselves and each other however you like.”
Renzi raised an eyebrow at Ajiñe as if to tell her he was more than interested in that idea.
“Simmering it down,” Ajiñe said.
“Absolutely,” Renzi said as he sat down, but at the same time Renzi—or at least the connection of him—was right behind her, hand on her waist, kissing the back of her neck. That Renzi whispered in her ear, “Just a low simmer.”
“How are you doing that?” she asked out loud. She had been able to visit and project with the sync when at a high speed, and for a little bit afterward, but she had never known anyone to do it like this, sitting still and calm while their own projection was right there with them.
“Not entirely sure,” the real him said.
“Do you mind it?” he asked through the projection.
“Not at all,” she said, enjoying the sensation and the secret thrill of it all.
“Good,” his projection said, moving around in front of her. “This is really quite fascinating.”
“Disgusting,” a feminine voice said in her ear as another set of hands went around her waist. “She would nev—”
Then the projection of Renzi vanished, along with those additional hands.
“What was that?” she asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never . . . I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“What just happened?” Nicalla asked.
“Renzi and I are still in strong sync,” Ajiñe said. “And for a moment, someone new was with us.”
“Like, a stranger slipping into your sync?” Nicalla asked. Her brow furrowed in thought.
“Do you know what that is?”
“I’ve heard . . . just heard . . . that Varazina can do that. Like she does with the radio, she can slip into the frequency of the sync. She can feel her way in and join you.”
“That . . . that must be it,” Renzi said. It had clearly spooked him. For a bit, he looked rhique pale.
The door opened and Gabrána, Fenito, and Mensi poured in, hands on each other’s exposed skin and lips attached to each other.
“Ease it down!” Nicalla said. “I thought you were getting it out of your systems.”
“These two were definitely getting it into their system,” Gabrána said. “And it better be my turn soon.”
“Eat and plan first,” Ajiñe said. “Then the rest once Nicalla leaves. Out of respect.”
“Of course,” Gabrána said. She looked to Nicalla. “That’s how much I love you.”
“Same,” Nicalla said flatly. She had taken the last of the meat off the grill, laying it out on a platter with charred onions and chiles and tomatoes and a pile of tortillas. “But let’s eat this glory and then—”
The feeling hit Ajiñe hard. Tory angles. Static. From every direction.
“They found us!” she said. “We need to bolt!”
The Velocity of Revolution Page 20
