The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  Which was what he really wanted: to go to sleep. Nicalla said something would happen tomorrow, something crucial. The sooner that happened, the sooner all this would be done.

  43

  Wenthi woke up eating a taco in the zocalo.

  The taco was literally in his mouth, and he was in the process of chewing, while Lajina was talking about meat deliveries and rolling out tortillas by hand.

  “Oh, you’re finally here,” Nália said. Her phantom body sat next to him, leaning against his arm. “You really are a sound sleeper.”

  “How—” he asked. He still had a mouth full of taco, which he kept chewing and then swallowed.

  “Well,” she said, getting up and walking about the zocalo. “You fell asleep, very heavy with very smutty dreams about the crew, and Partinez, and me—which, odd, but I get it—and that was nice until it switched into dark stuff with your sister, running through winding alleys while shadows chased you. I wanted none of that, so I . . . pulled myself up and found myself up and about in your body.”

  “That is unacceptable—” He stopped himself from saying more and looking like a lunatic in front of Lajina, who was still talking about pork.

  “Yes, that is,” Lajina said. “I tell him, he needs to deliver what I pay for.”

  Nália chuckled even as she looked over Lajina’s grill, the spiced meat sizzling away, the tortillas browning. “I know, very wrong. But there I was, awake with your body, and craving tacos. So here we are.”

  Despite himself, he was hungry, and the rest of the taco was still in his hand. He took another bite, which was delightfully sharp and smoky. So good.

  “That was delicious,” Nália said as he finished it.

  “Of course it was,” Lajina said. “I know what the fuck I am doing.”

  Wenthi realized Nália had spoken with his mouth. Just like she had taken his body while he was asleep. He had to stop her, protect himself from her doing something like that again.

  “Of course,” Wenthi said. “It was worth saying, though. Thank you.”

  “Now that you are done, you should find out what Urka wants with you.”

  That was odd. “What do you mean?”

  “When you came up to me, I told you that Urka had said to send you to her house when I saw you.”

  Wenthi chuckled nervously. “Right. I was kind of only half awake when I came out here. This might sound odd, but . . . did I say anything . . . strange?”

  “The only thing you said was, ‘first two Ureti with extra salsa and cheese.’ Which I understand.”

  “Right, I . . . Sorry. I was still half in a dream about your tacos, I think.”

  “That’s a good dream,” Lajina said. “I had a dream about you, maybe later today we make that one true?”

  “She does like you,” Nália said. “That would be interesting.”

  “All right,” he said, giving her a smile. “We’ll see what Miss Dallatan wants of me, though.” He left Lajina to her work.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me take charge of that experience,” Nália said. She was walking with him, sensual thoughts radiating off her. He found himself almost shaking with rage, which he kept tamped down. No need to look like a madman in the middle of Street Xaomico.

  “What the shit did you say when I was asleep?” Wenthi said.

  “Like she said, I ordered two tacos.”

  “You cannot—”

  “Listen, little flower,” she said. “Could I take control of your mouth, say something to get you found out? Yeah, maybe I could. But will I?”

  “Will you?” he asked after her pause was too interminable.

  “Do you know what they would do to you?” she asked. “If they found out you were a tory officer? They would chain you to the back of a cycle and drag you through the racetrack. Then they’d set dogs on you. And then, if you were very lucky, they would chain your legs to one cycle and arms to another and drive in separate directions. But rest assured, they would play with you for days, Officer Tungét. Days.”

  Wenthi swallowed hard.

  “Sounds like you’d like that.”

  “I would,” she said. “I’d love to see it. But what I wouldn’t like to do is experience it. I’m not so much of a martyr for the cause to go through that just to rat you out. Not yet, anyway. Maybe you’ll prove too horrid to keep safe. So test me, Tungét.”

  He went to Miss Dallatan’s house, knocking on the gate and setting the dogs off. She was outside in a moment. “Took you long enough.”

  “Got a couple tacos first,” he said.

  “That makes sense, of course. Sorry, I’m in a bit of a—it’s fine. But we’ve got something real here, and I don’t like it when this sort of thing comes in person to my door, you hear? But come in.”

  “Is this a job for me?” he asked as he slipped through the gate, which he opened just enough to not let the dogs get out.

  “Something like that,” she said. “Not from me.”

  In her sitting room were Ajiñe and Gabrána, both looking very serious—if tired—as well as an older gentleman Wenthi hadn’t seen before. He had the bearing of the sort of person who was used to being listened to, but he was clearly baniz. Rich, dark skin. Heavy features. Wenthi doubted he had a drop of Sehosian or Outhic blood.

  “So this is Renzi Llionorco,” he said in a deep timber. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Can’t say the same,” Renzi said. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Mister Hocnupec,” he said plainly. “You all are interested in joining the cause of Varazina. Of being inducted into the Inner Circles of the Fists of Zapi.”

  “Being inducted?” Gabrána asked. “I thought we were already part of it. We’ve been doing plenty.”

  “Plenty for the cause, yes. But that is not the same as being inducted. You need to fully understand what you are getting into.”

  “This sounds like some shit,” Gabrána said, getting to her feet.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m being needlessly obtuse. We’ve been using secrecy to protect the cause.”

  “And you’re part of this?” Wenthi asked Miss Dallatan.

  “Not precisely,” she said. “But you know me, fingers in the dough.”

  “Oh, spirits,” Nália said, walking around Wenthi. “You really impressed someone, didn’t you?”

  “He’s here now,” Ajiñe said, staring knives at Gabrána. “So can we move on with whatever this is? I presume it’s all of my crew that are joining?”

  “Being inducted,” Hocnupec said. “I’m not being glib when I say that what this involves will change you. You—all of you—will have a choice. You have to choose.”

  “And if we refuse?” Gabrána asked.

  “Gab!” Ajiñe said. “You don’t—”

  “I have a lot of questions,” Gabrána said.

  “Like, who are you, and who is Varazina?” Wenthi asked, taking the lead she gave him. “Are you part of the Inner Circle? Are you leading us toward something, a proper goal, or playing games in the shadows?”

  “This is no game—”

  “Renzi—” Ajiñe started.

  “I’m really wondering,” Wenthi said. “I mean, you all take mysterious orders from a voice on the radio, with no sense of who she really is, what she’s trying to accomplish. Is she on your side?”

  “Very rich from you, tory,” Nália said.

  “Her side is our side,” Hocnupec said.

  “So say you,” Gabrána said. “But he is right. Do we get to meet her? Do we get to ask her questions? Or are we expected to just follow her instructions blindly?”

  “You have reasonable questions,” Hocnupec said. “Choose to become one with us if you wish, and do that with grace. Or you can keep doing the good work you’ve been doing for us. We will welcome that. Your free choice i
s the most important part.”

  “What an interesting concept,” Nália said sharply. “Giving someone a choice.”

  Wenthi glared at her. “And how do we choose? Do we say yes or no now?”

  “Now?” Hocnupec said. “Of course not. You don’t know what you’d be saying yes to. No, first you must come with me and learn what we really are.”

  “Wait, wait,” Gabrána said. “What do you mean by that? This is freaking me out. Are the Fists something more than a rebellion?”

  “Gab, please,” Ajiñe said.

  Wenthi was grateful that Gabrána kept asking the questions, because he wanted to ask the same things, figure out where this was going. Her asking kept him from looking too suspicious. But even still, he wanted to be able to get more control over this situation. Hopefully get word to Paulei.

  “Much more,” Hocnupec said. “If you want to know more, come with me. And after you know, you will have more choices to make.” He knelt down in front of her and Ajiñe. “You deserve to know what we are, and more importantly, what you are.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Ajiñe said.

  Hocnupec held out an open hand to her. “Then find out.” She took it, and Gabrána did as well.

  “And you, Mister Llionorco?” he asked, holding out his other hand. Wenthi started to reach out, but some instinct held him back.

  “This is what you’ve been waiting for, Wenthi,” Nália said mockingly. “You’ll be able to crack this whole case and go home. Are you afraid they’ll find out what you are?” She came up close to him. “Or are you afraid you’ll find out what you are?”

  Wenthi took his hand.

  44

  The cycles were left behind. Instead, Hocnupec had an old military truck—a Sehosian transport rumbler from the Great Noble—

  “The Tyrant’s War,” Nália said absently from beside him. “No one here calls it Noble.”

  So now she could even pull idle thoughts from him. Wonderful.

  The Sehosian rumbler had a tented bed, and with the canvas shut, Wenthi and the others wouldn’t be able to see anything of where they were or where they were going. Which was probably the point. Hocnupec gestured for them to get in the back.

  “Load in, friends,” he said. Ajiñe got in without hesitation, which seemed to be enough to spur Gabrána. Wenthi got in right behind them, not wanting to show any lack of enthusiasm. Wherever they were going, this was the key to his mission. He had already been more successful with infiltrating the Fists of Zapi than any other officer, and that was something to be proud of.

  “It’s really not,” Nália offered.

  But if this led to the Inner Circle, the leaders, and hopefully Varazina, then . . . then all this would be worth it.

  “I’m starting to think you don’t love me, Wenthi,” Nália said. “All the pity.”

  The truck went through the back alley and up and down the hills, twisting through so many curves of road that Wenthi lost all sense of direction. By the time they stopped, for all he knew, they could be anywhere in Outtown, Lowtown, or Hightown. And when Hocnupec opened up the canvas, the surroundings didn’t help. They were in a closed garage, with no sign of the outside.

  They were led through a dark hallway, down steps into a wide cellar, lit with colored candles. Seated on the floor already were Mensi, Fenito, and Nicalla.

  “Now we’re all here,” Nicalla said. “What took you?”

  “Renzi took his sweet time joining us,” Gabrána snapped. Her mood could strip paint.

  “There’s no rush, all will be in due time,” Hocnupec said. “Take off your shoes, sit, and contemplate.”

  They all did, and sat in uncomfortable silence, as Hocnupec looked upon them all with a beaming smile, constantly seeming like he was about to speak but never doing so. Multiple times one of the others—usually Gabrána—looked like they were about to say something, but then Hocnupec’s gaze went on them, which was just enough to keep them from speaking up.

  Finally, it was Ajiñe who snapped.

  “What is this, exactly?” she asked.

  “You are here to learn who you really are.”

  They all turned to the source of the voice—an old baniz woman, wearing only a brightly colored woven blanket draped over her body, reminding Wenthi of pictures in the history books from school.

  “Who are we really?” he asked.

  “You don’t want them to know,” Nália said, though the old woman had her rapt attention.

  She came and sat in the center of them, holding a tray with cups of steaming tea. The aroma coming off them made it clear that it was made from the mushroom—the scent was the same but stronger, richer. Far more potent, most likely.

  “And what is that?” Fenito asked.

  “This will connect us to each other. Like you have connected before, but deeper, purer. Drink of this, and I can show you my heart, and the heart of the land.”

  “But who are you?” Gabrána asked.

  “They gave me a name when I was born,” the woman said. “And the invaders gave me another. But I found a name whispered by the spirits that guided me, and that is what I should be known by.”

  “Which is?” Fenito asked after an uncomfortable pause.

  “Jendiscira.”

  “Forgive me,” Nicalla said. “But that doesn’t sound like a Zapi name, or a baniz one, or . . .”

  “Baniz,” Miss Jendiscira said with an ugly scoff. “That is another label the invaders gave me. Like they called you jifoz. They separated you and yours from me and mine, tried to make you think, thank my spirits at least I’m not baniz. All to divide us.” She presented the tea tray again. “Take of this, of our land, and we can be united.”

  Ajiñe took one of the cups and drank it. Wenthi wanted to hesitate, but his hand—perhaps at Nália’s bidding—snatched one as well. It went down hot and bitter, and as soon as the liquid touched his mouth, he felt like something was pushing in through his teeth, up his skull. It dropped into his stomach, and the feeling, like a spreading wildfire, went out of his body.

  Nicalla and the others took theirs, with Gabrána the last. When they had all consumed theirs, Miss Jendiscira did the same.

  “I will tell you the tale my grandmother told me, which was told to her by hers, which was told to her by hers, and thus came before any outsider sullied our land with their ways.”

  Wenthi didn’t like how that sounded, nor did he like the queasy sensation of the room swaying, the candles melting into the walls, fire dancing around them.

  “Long ago, there were five sisters who made the world,” Miss Jendiscira said, her words turning into shapes that swirled into images around them like a cinescope show. “They cried out the oceans and they reached deep down into the waters to pull up the land, island after island. And they looked upon the land they pulled up, and knew it was beautiful.

  “Their ecstasy at the beauty of the land was so great, it filled their wombs, and children sprang forth from them, to become the people of the land. The sisters looked upon their children, these beautiful people, and they said, ‘We must give all we can to them. We must tear our hearts out so our blood can bless the land and give them the gifts they need to survive.’”

  Wenthi’s body was frozen. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—and furthermore, had no desire to do either—as the old woman’s story played out in front of him in shadow and fire.

  “The eldest said, ‘My children must have bounty to harvest,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and the corn sprung up from where her blood spilled. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would be blessed with its nourishing riches.

  “The second said, ‘My children must have strength to forge,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and it soaked deep into the ground into veins of iron. She fell and died happy, know
ing her children would be blessed with it, to build great things.

  “The third said, ‘My children must delight with fire on their tongues,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and where it fell, the chiles grew, red and yellow and green. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would be blessed with rich flavors to dance in their mouths.

  “The fourth said, ‘My children must know each other,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and where it fell the mushrooms grew. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would use them to join heart and flesh and spirit, and be of one people.

  “And the people looked to the last sister, and asked, ‘What of you, dear Mother? What gift will your blood bring?’ And she said, ‘My gift you will not understand, not for many years. I will give you water that is fire, fire that is water.’ And the people asked, ‘Why do you do this? How will this help us?’ As she cut out her heart, she said, ‘For you will need it when the world is full of enemies, and they will come for you. My sisters gave you nourishment, and strength, and flavor, and connection, but my gift will one day give you speed.’ She squeezed her heart and her blood—thick and black—soaked deep, deep into the ground. ‘And when you have that, your enemies shall never catch you.’”

  Then the image of the last sister faded, and the black blood rose up from the ground, filling the room, covering Wenthi’s face. For only a moment, he panicked as he drowned in the thick black, which then turned into pure darkness of nothing.

  He threw out his hand out of instinct and made contact with another. He pulled himself toward the owner of the hand, to that body, wrapping himself around them out of pure instinct, to hold on to something, anything, to survive. Another body wrapped around him, and another, all intertwined and entangled limbs.

  Then a sudden clap, and instead of thick, drowning darkness, the room was back to normal, except all of them—Wenthi and all of Ajiñe’s crew—were now coiled up in a seven-person embrace with Miss Jendiscira. Ajiñe had her legs wrapped around Wenthi’s waist, strong and powerful, while her fingers were buried deep in his hair.