Page 54 of The Mars House

January looked at up at them. “Why would they fake it? They nearly died.”

“But no one did die,” Mx Francis said, widening their eyes. “Maybe they weren’t real explosives. Maybe it was so that House Gale could make a big old show of rescuing you from the nasty police. Maybe it’s all a ploy to get sympathy votes.”

“Seems like a lot of effort with a lot of unpredictable variables.”

“That never seems to put people off coming up with this conspiracy crap.” Then, “Did you just say unpredictable variables?”

“Yes?”

Mx Francis stepped back. “The Senator . . . is . . . infectious . . .”

January laughed, and found unexpectedly that he liked being able to say things like that. It felt the same as pulling off a tricky spin for the first time. “So if people start saying that. What do we do?”

“It’s going to be more of a you thing than a we thing,” Mx Francis said with a little wince. “Which is why I bring it up. I’d really like to get you on film hearing one of the crazies say that and then saying something funny. You’re good at funny. Is that all right?”

“Of course.”

Mx Francis paused. “Just to check. You don’t—secretly suspect that the Senator did this on purpose?”

“I think you can be a genius without being an evil genius,” January promised, but as he said it, he realized he couldn’t tell to what extent he was lying. He looked back towards Gale and the increasingly frustrated halo operator, and found himself hoping for a sudden furore where someone else’s halo lit up and sirens went off with big neon signs that said AHA! THIS PERSON DID IT, IRREFUTABLY, but the dining room continued quiet.

Even when everyone at Songshu had been tested—it took all day—there was nobody whose scan was suspicious.

Except Gale’s, which even the senior specialist couldn’t decode.

“Yeah,” concluded Mx Francis, eyes flaring blue to warn people that they were seeing social media halls overlaid across the real world. “Maybe don’t go onto our socials for a bit.”

January had to look around, because Mx Francis’s focus was moving like January was sitting at the edge of a crowd of people, even though they were just having ramen in the production room. It was past nine. January had stayed around so that he could film the thing Mx Francis wanted if everyone’s tests came back negative.

Aware it was probably a mistake, he held up his phone to see, and then put it down again quickly. There were lot of people yelling and waving angry banners. It was amazing how many people had the energy to make a sign and go and be furious with someone they didn’t know—even just virtually—after a day at work. But then, maybe that was an extension of how passionately people here cared about politics and politicians. If you could run out of power or water if a single person like Gale screwed up, then it was life or death, not something of passing interest.

He was glad he couldn’t hear the yelling. Mx Francis would be able to, with the full suite of implants. And smell the food adverts, and taste the smoke from the virtual grills, and maybe even feel the heat.

“Crowdrage,” Mx Francis said dully, rubbing their forehead.

“What was that, sorry?”

“Huh? Oh. There’s a feeling that comes with a big swell of social media interest, or a big change in the stock market, or a breaking news story. Groupsorrow is when an AI dies, you can feel a sort of absence in everything. Crowdjoy is when loads of people are celebrating something online; you get it even if you don’t know what they’re talking about. No?”

“No, yeah, I know, I just didn’t know there were words,” January said palely. Tasting and feeling things that only existed in the imagination of an internet server seemed bad enough, but this was a lot worse. “Do you really not mind having all that plugged into your brain?”

Mx Francis patted him on the head. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault you’re from a hole in the ground.”

“The Royal Opera House.”

“A hole in the ground,” Mx Francis said soothingly. “Now be a good cave person and come up with an amazing put-down for these idiots.”

“But you can’t be in the shot, because that cardigan will make everyone want to kill you,” he said. Grudgingly, he did actually understand Gale’s joy in the fight. The only difference was degree. What January liked was playing conkers, and what Gale liked was impaling people on spikes.

“It’s designer!” Mx Francis protested.

“It’s mustard. You look like a hotdog. But sure, let’s film me saying Senator Gale definitively isn’t an evil genius. You know the more we say that, the more evil-genius they look, right?”

“Yes, but your accent sounds so penetratingly stupid that people can’t imagine you’re clever enough to be lying,” Mx Francis said, but January knew he’d won, because they looked concerned about the cardigan.

“Really though,” he said. “What does it mean, about the halo tests? If no one’s memory shows anything . . . ?”

“Honestly I don’t know.” They sighed. “I think it might mean those messages were faked to make it look like she was talking to you. Someone’s out for you, Jan, as well as the Senator.”