The Velocity of Revolution

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Hey, asshole,” she said. “How far do you need to go?”

  “It’s not the distance, it’s the velocity,” he said. “Do you feel what’s coming out of her?”

  “I do,” she said. “I also feel a truck full of Alliance nucks racing up on us. And military tanks coming from the oil derricks. If this doesn’t work—”

  “It will,” he said. “But maybe get people in the train.”

  The energy coming off of Varazina rose, building as a vibration that filled every gram of Nália’s body, a song that came from the very earth beneath her feet.

  “What’s happening?” Ajiñe asked.

  “Can you feel it?” Nália asked back.

  “I can see it,” Mensi said, pointing to the group of armored trucks coming over the horizon. “We can’t run from that.”

  “Are there cycles or trucks we can grab?” Gabrána asked. “Get the train moving?”

  “No time,” Nicalla said.

  “We just need to buy Wenthi a couple swipes,” Nália said. “They’re almost ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Gabrána asked.

  “Her power,” Nália said.

  “Everyone in the train!” Ajiñe shouted. “Hurry, get inside!”

  People scrambled to get inside, as Nic and Fenito helped rally them in. Even Paulei and the other patrol officers were dragged in.

  “A few swipes?” Mensi asked. He picked up one of the guns left on the ground.

  “I suppose it’s a better way to go than slaving in the oil fields,” Gabrána said, taking another. Nicalla and Fenito grabbed a pair each and took their place in front of the train car the rest of the prisoners were hiding in.

  Ajiñe looked to Nália. “It’s going to work?”

  “It has to,” Nália said. As the armored trucks raced up, soldiers and officers jumped out, rifles at the ready.

  “Surrender or be fired upon!” one shouted. “You have no chance to resist!”

  “Get ready,” Ajiñe said.

  Nália pushed herself to Wenthi one last time. The cycle’s engine was blaring hot, white and gray smoke pouring from it, as he closed in at three hundred kilos. Varazina’s eyes were rolled back in her head, a white glow emanating from her whole body. She could feel the heat from Wenthi’s body, like he was on fire. It wouldn’t be much longer.

  “You did good,” she whispered to him, kissing him on the cheek with her phantom form.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said through strained teeth, even in his avatar. “There’s still plenty of work for you to do. And it’s going to be on you.”

  “Last warning!” the Alliance officers shouted. “We will open fire!”

  “Give it to them first?” Gab asked.

  “Get ready on my order,” Ajiñe said.

  “Light it up,” Nália told Wenthi. “And thanks, asshole.”

  The last words came as a whisper that brushed against her spirit. “You’re welcome.”

  Her sync with him snapped as a burst of white light erupted from the horizon, and a wave of light and power washed over the land.

  76

  Ajiñe was only on the edge of it—her sync with Nália and Wenthi and Varazina was muted, as if she had been sheltered from the brunt of it. But she felt the wave of Varazina’s power. The moments of Wenthi’s agony as his body was blown apart. Nália’s joy as the song of the land, the song that Varazina had composed with her power, played through her body and spirit.

  And the sky was blinding.

  And then Wenthi—Renzi, in her heart he was Renzi, and that was how he should be honored—was gone.

  The light washed over the world.

  “What do we—” Gab asked. Ajiñe knew she was just a meter to her left, but in the blinding light, she couldn’t see her.

  “Wait,” Ajiñe said. “Don’t pull iron until you can see them.”

  The light faded, and Ajiñe’s eyes adjusted, but the song still played in the back on her head, like a radio on the other side of a wall.

  The other sounds were crying and retching.

  When Ajiñe could make out the Alliance officers, they were all on the ground, on their knees. Thick black liquid—thick as blood, thick as oil—seeped from their mouths, noses, and eyes. They wailed, making sounds that more befit an animal being slaughtered than a human being.

  “Are they dying?” Mensi asked.

  “Don’t know,” Nicalla said. “But they look like they’re suffering.”

  “Shame,” Gab said. She strolled over and started taking their guns away. None of them—not one—was able to resist. “Do we put them out of their misery?”

  “No.”

  That was Nália. She walked over, her face filled with peace and serenity.

  “There’s no need to kill them. They should live, live with the pain of what they’ve done to us, to our country. That’s what they’re going through.”

  “What is that?” Nicalla said, looking closely at the black gunk that was coming out of one officer’s orifices, even as he weakly pleaded for help. “Is it oil?”

  “It does look like it,” Fenito said.

  “They’re feeling what the land felt,” Nália said. “Feeling what they had done to it.”

  The train doors opened again, and Miss Dallatan—Ajiñe had no idea she was among the prisoners here—stuck her head out. “Is it safe?”

  “It is,” Ajiñe said. “Come out, come out.” She watched the other prisoners as they came out, waiting to see her father. He came out, helped down by Isilla Henáca. Ajiñe went to him, wrapping her arms around him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her. “Did they hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. But his attention was on the Alliance officers on the ground.

  “What happened here?”

  “Varazina happened,” Nália said. “She released the full weight of her power, pouring it out of her dying body, and with that she cursed the people who intrude upon this country. The pain they put upon the people and the land will be visited back upon them sevenfold.”

  Fenito and Mensi had collected the guns, dragged the officers into the train’s prison cars, leaving them with the Civil Patrol officers who had already been locked up. Nicalla and Gabrána checked on the other survivors. Ajiñe held on to her father, never wanting to let go, while still the distant song vibrated in the back of her head.

  “You’re hearing it, aren’t you?” Nália asked.

  “What am I hearing?”

  “Varazina was made to reach into an empty space—where the vibrations connect us, our spirits and minds to the mushroom, and the mushroom to the land. Through that power she discovered it resonated with the frequencies of the radio. All the transmissions, all the receivers. You’re hearing the song she placed in there, the song that we can make our own. The song we can use to tune into those frequencies.”

  Ajiñe tried to wrap her mind around what Nália was saying.

  Nicalla came up, putting her hand into Ajiñe’s. “We can do it now. Take back this country. Teach the lessons of Varazina. Return Zapisia to what it was supposed to be.”

  “No,” Nália said. “We’re not going to do it that way. We’re not going to stay mired in the past. We have to look toward tomorrow.”

  “And who are you to say?” Nicalla said with a sneer. “I brought you in. You haven’t—”

  “She’s the one Varazina blessed,” Ajiñe said, wrapping a protective arm around Nália. “And the one who rescued us here. She’s the one with the power to lead us.”

  “You need to lead us,” Nália told Ajiñe. “That’s what she wanted. She trusted your vision. Your voice. She knew I could bring the power, but that you could be the just voice that Pinogoz needed.”

  Nicalla was still on it. “Pinogoz is a fake name, put upon us—”

 
“It’s our country,” Ajiñe said. “Pinogoz, Zapisia, whatever you call it. It should be ours. It’s high time we made it ours, now that we have the tools and the power to do it.”

  “How do we have power now?” Miss Dallatan asked.

  The radios in the armored trucks all sparked to life with a burst of static, and as Nália spoke, her voice came from all of them at once.

  “Because we can be heard. And we can call everyone to our cause.”

  Miss Dallatan bowed her head and stepped back. Nicalla looked shocked, and then stepped forward, taking Nália’s hand. “You are the one she blessed. I’ll follow wherever you say.” Many of the others stepped forward, bowing their heads. All ready to follow. All ready to fight.

  “So now what?” Gabrána asked, curling one arm around Ajiñe’s back. “Do we take those trucks and drive back to the city?”

  “We do take those trucks,” Ajiñe said, the smile coming to her mouth. “But they were expecting us at the work camps, and I think we shouldn’t let them down. Let’s go and show them what we think about that place.”

  Nália nodded. They would liberate the camps today. And then the country tomorrow.

  REFUEL: DIRECTIVE

  You’re listening to Alliance Voice 930, coming to you with the sound of freedom. The time marks three mark zero, and it’s the twentieth day of Tian. We hope you’re having a very productive day. You may have heard disturbing news about the situations in Outtown or in the country work camps and outskirt villages, but we assure you that every situation is very well in hand. We want to assure you that these rumors are unfounded, exaggerations of a few acts of terrorism by a handful of malcontents. Everything is under control in the city—

  Lies.

  Where did that—no, everything is under control. And we are happy to announce that the Alliance overseers are quite pleased, despite these minor disruptions, and they have every confidence in maintaining the planned schedule to elections and self-rule. The people of Pinogoz will soon have voice—

  They already have a voice.

  What is that? Someone is—I don’t know, find out. Listeners, we want to remind you that the Alliance is dedicated to building the country up so it can stand on its own feet—

  You feed them lies. The Alliance is not building anything. The Alliance is only making its own coffers fat. Lining the pockets of the petty officials off the misery of the people who belong to this land.

  I don’t know who it is. Cut them off! Shut it down!

  There is no cutting us off. There is no shutting us down. We are the voice of the people. We are the broadcasters of truth.

  Who is this?

  This is Ajiñe Osceba.

  This is Nália Enapi.

  We are the voice of resistance.

  We are the voice of tomorrow.

  And we have come with a message for all of you who have tried to plant your boot on the neck of this country.

  Nix xisisa. We have paid too much.

  Now your debts come due.

  You may have noticed burning pain in your muscles, black tears from your eyes, dry bramble in your throat. This is the curse upon anyone who was not born here. This is Zapisia telling you, you are not welcome here.

  We do not want you “building us up.”

  We do not want you deciding when we are ready.

  You must leave.

  Get on your steamer ships and your four-prop planes and leave this country, or you will be burned out, like a fever. We are humane, so we give you this chance to evacuate.

  But let it be clear: If you stay, you will die.

  And for the children of Zapisia, you who have been born to this land, no matter your heritage, join us. Baniz, jifoz, rhique, and even llipe. Are you out there? Can you hear the call of Varazina? Her blood is soaked into the land. She bled and died for you, for your freedom.

  Do you feel the strength of Renzi Llionorco? He repented his sins, opened his heart to us all, and gave freely of the love he had for you. He can no longer ride for us, so we look to you.

  Will you stand up, will you race out, will you fight back?

  Will you follow us?

  Will you fight with us?

  Will you join us to reclaim your home?

  Will you join us to reclaim tomorrow?

  LAP OF HONOR:

  THE BROADCASTS OF TOMORROW

  77

  Lathéi was not sick, but she seemed to be the only one getting on the steamer who wasn’t. What should have been a leisurely cruise to Dumamång was now practically a steerage ship, packed to the rafters with people fleeing Ziaparr. People couldn’t get out fast enough.

  Oshnå was sick, but she seemed to have it mild. Her body ached, and she only occasionally had a black drop fall from her eye. Lathéi wondered if, when Wenthi did whatever he did—faith, that wild, stupid boy—he made a point of sparing Oshnå the worst of it out of love for Lathéi.

  Though as she started to board the ship, she formed a new theory. She was familiar with quite a few of the Alliance Oversight ministers in the country—Mother did have to work with them, and some would come to the house—and she noticed many of them had drastic symptoms, especially in comparison to Oshnå. They were burning up, unable to stand, the black blood gushing from anywhere it could.

  She had heard the broadcasts, the ones that Enapi girl was somehow making. She decided it stood to reason that the Alliance folks who had been more in power, who had caused more hurt and anguish, especially to the poor people who were waging this civil war, were hit with the Zoika Plague hardest.

  That’s what they called it, as it was only the zoika caste—the honored foreigners, all the Alliance overseers—who were getting sick. Even Mother and some of the other awful people in the Provisional Council, the rest of the Prime Families, they were all fine. Whatever this was—curse, plague, what have you—it seemed to target only those who weren’t born here.

  Even Oshnå, but for someone like Oshnå, who merely visited the country as a tourist, the effects were mild. Regardless, Oshnå had to leave. Some people in the Ministries of Control, the people in the upper echelons of authority, had died already.

  No one else wanted to risk it. “Get out of this country and let those bastards be on their own.”

  Oshnå was more than happy to leave.

  “We’ll get back home, and forget all about this place,” she said as they settled into their cabin. “I mean, it was a lovely city, and it was exciting to help your brother with the insurgency. But I’m happy to be returning to a civilized place so we can get on with our lives.”

  “A civilized place?” Lathéi asked.

  “Of course,” Oshnå said. That soured Lathéi’s already bitter mood, and it must have shown on her face. “Oh, come now, Lathéi, it’s not like you didn’t say it yourself so many times. That Dumamång is the most modern and exciting city in the world, and you couldn’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else.”

  “I did say that,” Lathéi said quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m just quite out of sorts with all this.”

  “Of course you are,” Oshnå said. She sat behind Lathéi, wrapping her arms around her body. “You have suffered here more than anyone. I know how much you loved your brother, and your grief needs to run its course. I will be here for you, every step, until you are ready to face anything.”

  You can face anything.

  The voice came, faint and crackling, over the transistor radio in their cabin.

  “What?” Lathéi asked.

  “I said—” Oshnå started.

  You can face anything, Lathéi, the voice said. A voice Lathéi knew like her own heart. And you don’t have to go.

  “What is that?” Oshnå asked.

  “It’s Wenthi,” Lathéi said.

  Renzi.

  The name he used in his mission. “Can you hear me? Are yo
u . . . are you alive?”

  In a fashion. The whole island is alive, it is connected to everyone and everything, including the frequencies of your radio. A part of me is everywhere.

  “Not in Dumamång,” Lathéi said.

  That’s true. But you could stay.

  That hit her heart in ways she didn’t know was possible. Wenthi was gone, but here was his voice. He was talking to her. He was somehow still here. As the voice on the radio continued, two other voices mixed in with his. Just hints of feminine voices, echoing and amplifying what he was saying, growing stronger with each word.

  There’s still a fight for this nation. For your nation, Lathéi. And that fight needs your voice, too. You are a daughter of Zapisia, and this revolution can also be yours. There’s so much work left to do.

  Lathéi stood up. She looked to her bag, sitting under the bunk.

  Oshnå touched her face. “Tell me what you want.”

  Lathéi nodded. “My brother asked me to stay. I can’t—I know it’s crazy.”

  “It isn’t,” Oshnå said. “I want you in my life. I want you to spend your life with me in Dumamång. But I think . . . I never want to be a thing that stops you. It’s all right if you need to stay.”

  “I think I do,” Lathéi said, surprising herself how well she understood. “I would want to be with you, but . . . It’s my brother. And he was there whenever I needed him. And if he says he needs me, my . . . my country needs me, then I will be there for him.”

  Oshnå kissed her briefly and pulled away. “I’ll wire you when I’m home. Do what you have to.”

  Lathéi walked out of the cabin, part of her heart cracking. She was glad, at least, that Oshnå understood. That it made sense, in the center of her spirit, that she needed to stay. She needed to help.

  She made her way through the throng of sick people, down the gangplank to a nearly deserted dock.

  Nearly, but not entirely.

  “Were you waiting for me, Paulei?” she asked after kissing her brother’s closest friend and lover on the cheek.