The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “All right,” he said, not sure where this was going. Any secret she might tell him would bring him one step closer to the center, one step closer to ending this assignment. But as this whole process went deeper into inductions and visions and diving into the divinity of mushrooms and the people of Pinogoz, the more he wanted to extract himself from it.

  “Many people believe there are hidden patches all over the city, all over the island, where the mushroom grows, but they are wrong. It isn’t patches of mushrooms at all. It is all one mushroom, a singular, ancient lifeform that has tendrils that spread throughout the island. The patches we harvest are the tiny bits that spring forth above the land. It connects us all because it is already part of the very island.”

  “I’m not sure I fully understand.”

  “And maybe none us truly do,” she said. She reached out and caressed his cheek. “But consider this: the ancient Zapi connected with it, this ancient life, a reservoir of connections and thoughts that we still touch today. Buried within that reservoir is the memory of our people for generations upon generations. Histories, languages, cultures that have been lost to foreign incursion and colonization. But it isn’t lost. It remains living memory. We can hold on to that, immerse ourselves into it.”

  “That’s hard to believe. And I do not see how that ties to me joining the cell and how that got your attention.”

  “We were all connected to you during the meat truck run, and the train robbery. We felt you go farther and deeper in sync than we’ve ever seen before, Renzi. Briefly, you weren’t just feeling what Ajiñe felt, but you truly inhabited her, made her body an extension of your own. You shone brighter than we could imagine. There is something very special about you. And we want—we hope you want—to explore what that means, and how far that can let us go.”

  Wenthi was more than a little disturbed about this. It sounded like madness, running counter to everything he had been taught about the mushroom and the people who use it. But he couldn’t deny the experience he had had while on it, experience they had all sensed.

  “And how much of that is because you aren’t you, but us?” Nália asked, back at his side.

  “It frightens you,” Miss Jendiscira said, stopping in front of one dilapidated home. “And I understand that. That’s why I’ve brought you here, so you can see how deep and true the connections between us all can be. Especially in terms of family.”

  “What’s here?”

  She smiled and knocked on the empty doorframe. “Focoiz! Cuthinon Jendi!”

  Several baniz youths—at least a dozen—came out, some as old as Lathéi, some still toddlers. Two of the older ones had babies on their hips. All of them were in filthy, hole-filled clothes, most of them with no shoes.

  “What what, Jendi?” the oldest looking girl said, passing off the baby to one of the other ones. “You come with the trucks again?”

  “I did,” Jendiscira said. “And I brought a friend. Renzi, this is Tyeja, and her siblings, halfs, and sides. There’s a lot of names and I don’t remember them all.”

  Wenthi offered his hand. “Renzi Llionorco,” he said.

  Tyeja gasped and then grabbed him in a huge embrace. “Quid!” she shouted. “Nonfuz quid!” The others all swarmed him with embraces and kisses.

  “What?” he asked. “I don’t understand what this is.”

  “You’re home,” Jendiscira said. “Tyeja and the rest are all named Llionorco.”

  “Blessed kin,” Tyeja said, her eyes filling with tears. She looked to the others. “Go, go, get what’s on the trucks before it’s all gone.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wenthi said.

  “I do,” Nália said. “Looks like you just got caught.”

  “I know you don’t,” Jendiscira said. “But meet your people and learn who they are. We’ll fetch you before the trucks leave.”

  “Let me see you,” Tyeja said, looking him up and down. “Oh, you’re very handsome, yes. Where were you from?”

  “Tofozaun,” he said.

  “We lost a lot of kin in the wars, some shipped off to Tofo. At least that’s what queña says. He’ll know who your people are. But you are here and we love you.”

  “You don’t even know me,” Wenthi said.

  “That’s the truth,” Nália added.

  “But you are kin. Come in.”

  She led him into the dark hovel. It was little more than a shack with dirt floor, ratty blankets on the floor. Wenthi couldn’t imagine as many people as he had seen were living there. The only proper furniture was a single wooden chair, where an old baniz man sat.

  “What’s the ruckus?” he asked. He looked up at Wenthi and his dark eyes lit up. “What’s this fellow?”

  “Miss Jendi brought him, queña,” Tyeja said. “He’s kin.”

  “Renzi Llionorco,” Wenthi said. He was stuck here; he needed to keep playing the part. “Though I don’t know if we are actually family at all.”

  “Hmm,” the old man said with a dark chuckle. “No, you most certainly are.”

  That was surprising. “I’m not from here, just—”

  The old man waved him off. “Tyeja, did the others go to the trucks?”

  “They did.”

  “Go join them, make sure they don’t get stupid, hmm?”

  “Gia, queña,” she said with a bow of her head, and left.

  Wenthi looked back to the old man, who had a smile wider than Pino Sound. “Look at you, child. You’ve done well.”

  “Sir, maybe you’re confused—” Wenthi said.

  “Not in the slightest,” the old man said. “I know exactly who you are, Wenthi.”

  47

  Nália was cackling, which made it impossible for Wenthi to concentrate.

  “My . . . my name is Renzi, sir—”

  “Wenthi Tungét,” the old man said with a wide grin that showed how many teeth were missing. “How is your mama? Don’t listen to the radio much anymore, it’s mostly prop garbage from whoever is pretending to be in charge, but last I heard she was doing good for herself.”

  “How . . . I don’t . . . you must be mistaken.”

  “Hmm,” the old man said. “Oh, of course. You’re pretending to be ‘Renzi Llionorco’ for some reason. Some reason that Jendi woman and the rest of her folk probably wouldn’t like.” He laughed a little. “I tell you, I don’t cotton to any of that stuff either. So sit your shit down, Wenthi, I’m not going to turn you in or anything.”

  “Why?” Wenthi asked.

  “Excellent question,” Nália added, her joviality diminishing.

  “For exactly what Tyeja said, boy. You’re kin. Did you not realize that?”

  “No,” Wenthi said.

  “Then why the shit are you using the name Renzi Llionorco?”

  “It was . . . they assigned me the name with the identity documents.”

  The old man chuckled. “Does your mother, by any chance, have some sort of influence over the people who would assign such things?”

  “Yes,” Wenthi admitted. “Who are you? Queña?”

  “Queña is what they all call me. More or less means ‘uncle’ in the old tongue. Less accurate for many of them, more accurate for you.” He sighed. “And you really don’t remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “Sit, sit,” the old man said, indicating he should take a spot on the floor. Wenthi did, and Nália took her place next to him, her face showing that she was as fascinated by this development as Wenthi was. How could a destitute old man in Northsprawl know his mother, claim to be family, know Wenthi? It was beyond understanding.

  “So you think you’re my uncle?” The uncomfortable truth of what had to be coming crept up Wenthi’s spine, and he tried to hold it down. There was only one thing coming that could make even the slightest sense, and irrational panic gripped Wenthi as
he fought against the idea of it.

  “Think,” the old man said with a scoff. “I am, son. Ocullo Llionorco, oldest of seven. They’re all lost, including the youngest boy. My brother Renzi. Your father.”

  He knew that was coming, and still it defied belief.

  “No,” Wenthi said. “No, that’s not—”

  “You’re his very image, if a bit paler and narrow about the eyes. Your mother’s blood.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Wenthi said. He didn’t want to accept this. “My father was rhique, he served . . . he served in the Second Trans and died on the beach of Hessinfoth.”

  “Your mother told you all that?” Ocullo shook his head. “She always was a storyteller.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know what she was like as a young woman? Do you know what this city was like before the Second Trans landed on our asses?”

  “Not really.” History books talked about rebuilding the world between the First and Second Trans, as the Shattered Dynasties moved into the High Sehosian Unity. The details of Pinogoz and Ziaparr were glossed over.

  “There were a few years, just a few, when I was a young man, where it really looked like this was going to be its own country, with its own identity. And the Prime Families were scrambling to stay in power, and the caste system served their needs. So they cracked down on it even harder, forbidding caste-jumping, caste-mixing, all of it. But before the Second Trans hit our island, there was a movement to abolish the castes, to be one people. Your mother was only sixteen—and the youngest daughter of the Tungét tree—and was already a powerful voice for the cause. And she loved your father.”

  “My mother?” The idea of her as anything resembling a political radical was beyond comprehension. Especially one who challenged the castes.

  “I thought she had taken up with a baniz boy as some sort of political statement. Using him as a toy to show off and prove how open she was, and definitely piss off her family. But when I actually saw them together, well, they convinced me they were the real thing.”

  “So what happened to her?” Nália asked.

  “Yes, what happened?” Wenthi asked.

  “The Second Trans happened. The whole island became a battleground between the High Unity and Reloumene, and Ziaparr was a critical game piece that kept switching hands. People were conscripted—pressed, really—into fighting for both sides. Renzi and I were both forced to fight. I don’t know how he died, exactly—no one does, far as I know—but I do know he never went to Hessinfoth. He died in Ziaparr in the last seasons of the war. And Angú was already pregnant with you.”

  “Wait,” Wenthi said. “If my father was baniz—”

  “Then you shouldn’t be rhique,” Nália said. “You’d be jifoz. What is that shit?”

  There was no way Ocullo heard her, but he chuckled like he had just the same. Maybe he understood exactly what Wenthi was asking. “The funny thing is, her family had the intention of disowning her for cavorting with my brother, but they had been killed in some of the final bombings before they had formalized it. When the dust settled at the end of the war, the Prime Families united to maintain some kind of control, some semblance of civility to rebuild with . . . and your mother was the only Tungét left. She dropped her talk of caste dissolution then. And I didn’t see her—or you—for years.”

  “You expected me to remember.”

  “In the Tyrant’s War. Or the Great Noble or whatever shit they call it. You were taken from your mother’s bunker, do you remember?”

  “It’s a blur,” Wenthi said. “I remember Mother hid Lathéi and me in there, and we were alone for days and days. Then Rodiguen’s soldiers came, and we were at camps, and . . . then when the camp fell, we were alone in the Smokewalks until Mother found us.”

  “That’s how you remember it?” Ocullo and Nália asked simultaneously. Nália reached out and touched his face—spirits, her hand felt so real—and her touch made memories break through like a flood.

  The camp. Packed into bunks, everyone sleeping head-to-toe like fish tins. So many people—baniz, jifoz, rhique, all together—with almost no food. Tempers flaring. People screaming. Half the bunkhouse wanted to smother the little girl—Lathéi. Too loud, too needy, too much trouble. Too llipe. She’ll grow up to stomp us all anyway so do it to her now.

  And the old man—the one who looked out for children in the bunkhouse—standing up to them. The words Wenthi had forgotten after all those years. “He is my blood, and she is his blood, and we are all each other’s. We’ll not turn on them.”

  The bombing of the camp. Running away, the old man guiding the children away. Getting them safe, carrying Lathéi so Wenthi could run. Hiding in the ruins, gathering cans of food, making sure Wenthi ate. Making sure Lathéi survived.

  Then Mother arriving in an Alliance car, with soldiers and officials. Taking Wenthi and Lathéi up in her arms.

  Stopping the soldier who was about to shoot the old man.

  “He’s a friend.”

  Nália let go, bringing Wenthi back to the present moment.

  “You were there,” Wenthi said. “I . . . the camp, the Smokewalks, it . . .”

  “You were young, and it was all a horror,” Ocullo said. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to remember.”

  “Why did my mother lie to me, though?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, shitface?” Nália asked. “She had to lie about who your father was so you could be rhique. Bitch couldn’t have a jifoz child.”

  “To protect you, probably,” Ocullo said. He reached out and took Wenthi’s hand. “Which I did as well, and will keep doing.”

  “You wouldn’t if you knew—” Nália started.

  “I’m a tory,” Wenthi said. “I’m supposed to infiltrate and take down the Fists of Zapi.”

  “Hmm,” Ocullo said, nodding slowly. “Sounds like you’ve got a tough job ahead of you.”

  “You’re not going to stop me?” Wenthi asked.

  “I’m an old man,” Ocullo said. “You’ll do what you need to. Besides, Miss Jendi is always talking about how we are of one blood. That doesn’t stop being true for you.”

  Tyeja came in, carrying armfuls of food, fear in her face. “Some soldiers are coming up. You better get back to the trucks, cousin.”

  “She’s right,” Ocullo said. “Run off now. Come back when you can, we’ll talk more about your father.”

  “You know who he is?” Tyeja asked.

  “I do,” Ocullo said. “And I think he’s starting to as well.”

  Ajiñe came up, sticking her head in the hovel. “There you are. Come on, Renzi, we’ve got to roll. Now.”

  48

  Ajiñe held Wenthi’s hand tight and pulled him down the dirt path.

  “What is going on?”

  “Alliance soldiers,” she said. “Not the nucks, but actual soldiers in Reloumene uniforms.”

  “Yeah, that’s who has jurisdiction outside of the city,” Wenthi said. He knew from Mother’s work that the Alliance stewardship worked to rebuild the cities, to eventually establish the independent, elected government, but outside the city needed more than they had the manpower or infrastructure to handle. So the Reloumene Army handled the countryside, especially getting the farms, mines, and oil fields back into shape after the wars had torn them apart. It took years before they got operations to the point where they could sustain Pinogoz and contribute their share to the war efforts.

  “Are they policing?” he asked as she pulled him into a niche between two shanties, pressing her lean, muscular body against him in the tight space.

  “I don’t know what they’re doing, but I’d guess they got word we were here, and came to crack down.”

  “Let’s get back to the trucks.”

  The trucks weren’t where they had left them.

  “Shit!” Ajiñe muttered. “D
id they leave without us?”

  Wenthi noted the tracks in the mud, leading down the road, around one curve through another set of shanties. “That way.”

  They tracked the path through another row of shanties and huts, no sign of the trucks.

  “What are we going to do?” Wenthi asked.

  A pair of hands grabbed them both and pulled them into a narroway. Nicalla and Fenito.

  “Thank your spirits,” Nicalla said. “We thought they had nabbed you both.”

  “Are they nabbing?” Wenthi asked. “What for?”

  “For just being here, I guess,” Nicalla said.

  “I heard a couple of the kids say something about how they round up for work detail,” Fenito said. “When we heard them coming, Miss Jendi went to hide the trucks, and the locals said we needed to hide ourselves.”

  “Where are we going to hide?” Ajiñe said. “How do we get to the trucks?”

  Wenthi looked back out at the wide path—not a proper road, but wide enough for the truck to pass through. “Looks like there’s a set of shacks down the way there, big enough for the trucks to fit in. I would bet—”

  Gabrána charged over to them all, tears streaming down her face. “They grabbed Mensi.”

  “Where?” Ajiñe asked.

  “Down that way,” Gabrána said. “Four of them, taking him toward their gunroller. I’m . . . I’m sorry, I panicked, I was scared, I didn’t . . .”

  “We need to find him,” Ajiñe said. “But I don’t see how we can—”

  “We’re still in faint sync with him,” Wenthi said, realizing it was true. He could feel all of them, including Mensi, vibrating on the edge of his senses. “And with each other. That must be how we found each other right now.”

  “I just ran on instinct,” Gabrána said. “And it brought me right here.”

  “We can’t—” Fenito started.

  “You all, follow the tracks, get to where Miss Jendi hid the truck, and stay with it. I’ll go for Mensi.”

  “Alone?” Fenito asked.