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River had always fallen into the habit of getting to meetings early; it had begun when they had started teaching, when schedules were unpredictable and they could always use a few more minutes to themself to finish grading. Then, they were lucky if nobody showed up and they could finish their never-ending backlog; now, everything ran long, and the more time they got to discuss with anyone, the better.
This time, they opted to go over their inbox as people filtered in; the emails had piled up since they last checked it, around two hours ago now. Most senators had people to do this for them, but River didn’t want to miss anything important—and everything that passed through their inbox was important, from the middle-schoolers petitioning River to visit their class to the updates from the Senate. At the very top was an amendment to a bill someone was trying to pass, along with an invitation to dinner to discuss it further; River assented, downloading the attached document to make sure they knew all the details and forwarding the message to Mx Martinez to ensure the meeting made it onto the Schedule. There were more, too—automated messages from the Senate calendar, citizens fretting over energy prices, someone who clearly needed help but none River could provide.
When River surfaced from the virtual layer, people had nearly filled the long conference-room table, Mx Martinez at the head as the person who called the emergency meeting early this morning. They weren’t who River’s eyes rested on first, though; that honor belonged to January Stirling, white hair shining bright as silk at the other end of the room.
January looked up, as though he could sense River’s eyes on him—River inclined their head in acknowledgment. He startled, nodding back before his gaze slipped back down to the surface of the table. Something in River’s heart twisted painfully; they would have liked to cross the room, sit right across the table from him to exchange glances, barely arms-length from one another—but even the mere idea sent a spike of nausea-fear through River, and they were forced to stop thinking about it.
“Good morning everyone,” Mx Martinez started, half in the real world and half looking at their notes in the virtual layer; the room fell silent. “Thank you all for assembling on such short notice; I’d like to open with a few reminders…”
Mx Martinez gave the usual list of pre-meeting reminders about cybersecurity, seeming rather like they would rather be talking about anything else; River had to admit that they had stopped listening a little. Their interest was once again captured, however, when Mx Martinez circled back around to why the emergency had been called.
“We’ve had reports of a new haptic virus, concentrated in lower-level employees of the Great Houses; minimal information has been available thus far. We suspect that there have been measures taken to keep things quiet.”
River wouldn’t be surprised; this sort of disaster so close to the election would have spelled trouble for anyone. “Alright. Do we know what the symptoms are?”
“Nothing physical, that’s the issue—there’s no way to tell whether someone’s been infected without risking infection oneself. Emotionally, however, the virus causes extremely inhibited impulse control. The infected display difficulty lying, possibly as a result.”
“And that’s all we know?”
“And that’s all we know.”
River held up one long-fingered hand, attempting to make sure they understood the situation to the fullest. “So, we don’t know how it spreads, or who programmed it, or when things will be fixed—just that it decreases impulse control and prevents its victims from lying.” they recapped—in English, of course. River had always found that translation improved one’s understanding of an issue. Recontextualization always either cemented the knowledge, or exposed the gaps.1
Mx Martinez nodded, expression uncharacteristically troubled. “I believe that about covers it. Otherwise—the Senate and the stock market have been shut, obviously, but the Consul is unlikely to declare a state of emergency.”
“I see. Have there been any cases inside the House?”
“No—just two very befuddled interns, neither of whom have haptics. House Song has definitely been exposed, though, along with House Xue.”
River decided not to press for details on that. A different person might have rejoiced, or figured out how to leverage the crisis, but frankly everyone had enough to be getting on with. “Glad to hear everyone’s alright,” they settled on instead.
“I recommend that everyone cease reading and responding to email from this point forward,” Mx Martinez continued, amid a spate of horrified gasps. “Yes, I understand, but it’s a risk we can’t afford to take. Any external digital communication should be considered contaminated and disregarded. Additionally, Senator, I recommend against attending tonight’s charity gala.”
“Absolutely not,” Mx Francis piped up indignantly. “If House Ijiri hasn’t decided to cancel, then we’re going.”
Mx Martinez’s red braid swung as they wheeled on Mx Francis, scowling. “It’s an unconscionable security risk.”
“It shows that we as a colony are stronger than whatever crisis we’re facing—which, might I remind you, is a key part of Senator Gale’s campaign messaging!”
River sighed. “Mx Francis is right. If we stay here, shut in our ivory tower, it’s a point for House Song; virus or no virus, the Consul is going to be there tonight. We have to be, as well.”
“Senator, it’s not safe—”
“My decision is final, Mx Martinez,” River cut them off, wondering quietly what had gotten into them. Sasha Martinez had served House Gale for upwards of a decade; none of this, not the blatant insubordination or aggression, was typical. As it turned out, though, they wouldn’t need to worry for much longer.
“Frankly, I don’t know if your decisions can be trusted; you have a concerning lack of consideration for your own well-being. And for fuck’s sake, I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked you to call me Sasha.”
The whole room froze, arrested with sheer horror, as though someone had merely hit pause on a video recording; Mx Martinez clapped a hand over their own mouth, and River understood immediately what had happened.
“How about you go get some rest,” River suggested, attempting to strike the needed balance between gentle and authoritative—if they were too nice about it, Mx Martinez would chafe against the notion of needing consideration, but remembering the expression they had made upon realising what they had said made River worry.
“Yes, I…” Mx Martinez clenched their jaw, like they were trying to keep themself from saying anything else. “I believe that might be for the best, Senator.”
They stalked from the room, flanked by two of their own security officers; there was no keeping professional discipline after that, and River watched silently as people exited the conference room in twos and threes.
“Now what?” January inquired, still at the other end of the table. River found themself, foolishly, wishing he’d come closer.
They turned to face him, trying to banish the notion from their head. “Business as normal. I‘m not just being stubborn; unfortunately, there is an element of politics to this. Virus or no, we have to present a prepared, united front.”
January fell silent then, and if River had all the time in the world they would have stayed until he had time to think about it properly; he was the only one willing to give them a good fight, and that alone was worth something. But much as they would have liked to discuss with him further, they simply didn’t have room in the Schedule. Time, tide, and legislation stopped for no man.
So instead, River levered themself to their feet and inclined their head as they swept past him. “I shall see you tonight, Senator-Consort Stirling.”
Bewilderment written clear across his face, he nodded back.
The grand ballroom at the Tiangong was not so packed as it typically was, the news obviously having gotten around despite the attempts at keeping things quiet. It was still about half-full, though; House Ijiri’s main function was medical research and manufacture—a risky thing to seem as though you didn’t care about, to the point that some people had shown up obviously infected. River silently hoped that the press chalked it up to inebriation.
Still, at least some of the attendees had the presence of mind for business as usual. Senators in glittering robes clustered in little circles, discussing and debating. River had made the circuit already, but the people in attendance were largely their own supporters; they had exchanged pleasantries to be polite, but they desperately wished there was someone to give them a decent argument. Now, they had settled at one of the circular tables, watching and couples traced slow, intricate trajectories on the dance floor; with a start, they noticed that January was among them.
River couldn’t tell who he was dancing with at this distance; it didn’t matter, not really, not when they couldn’t tear their eyes away from him. The Gale pearls suited his pale coloring; with his skin and his hair, they made him seem almost otherworldly; a shade or a swan in the grand white act of a ballet.2 River took a sip of their champagne to distract themself—and nearly choked on it when they realised who it was. As he turned, following his erstwhile partner’s hand, the face of Guang Song came into view.
River liked to think of themself as rational; they had an innate respect for the people running against them, and tried their damnedest to take legitimate criticism where it was warranted. But something about Song’s hand on January’s shoulder blade had pushed any higher-order thoughts from their brain, and before they knew it they had risen from their seat and crossed the dance floor, attempting to be unobtrusive as they lingered a few paces away.
It only took Consul Song a moment to notice River. “Ah, Senator—come to tell me everything I got wrong in my Senate speech this morning?”3
River made their best attempt at a smile, thin and tight. “No, merely wanted to cut in—that is, after all, my husband you’re dancing with.”
January’s eyes widened at the descriptor—it was an archaic word, long fallen out of favor in Tharsese Mandarin. River didn’t know quite why they’d used it, but the surprise and pleasure on January’s face was more than worth it.
The Consul scoffed. “You can wait five minutes, go sit down.”
River didn’t know why, but they saw red then, drawing themself up to their full height. Song was a worthy opponent and a respectable legislator, but River drew the line at their fucking with January. “Or you could just let go of him.”
January nodded, and moved to step away from Consul Song; they stopped dead, closing a hand around his wrist, the tilt of their head making the jade beads in their locs click together. “January, you know you don’t have to go with them if you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine—really, I don’t mind.” January twisted his wrist to get Song to let go of him; they obeyed, bowing and drifting away.
River shook their head as they pulled January into frame, feet moving almost on autopilot to the slow six-count of the music. “I’m sorry for the scene; they made that far more painful than it had to be.” Suffering Christ—just the thought of Song’s hands on January like this made them angry. They tightened their grip on his shoulder blade, just a bit, as though they could retroactively overwrite Song’s presence; were they imagining it, or did January blush at the contact?
“You’re alright. Hey,” he said softly, and River looked down to make eye contact; the lights reflected in his black irises, like so many stars.
In that moment, the whole world narrowed to the pair of them, everything else—the city outside, Guang Song, the two senators obviously making out behind a column—falling away. River would have stayed like this forever, given the opportunity; their own little bubble of time, just them and January and the music on low.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” January inquired, and River, for perhaps the first time in their life, opened their mouth before their brain had time to catch up.
“Because I—“ River managed to snap off the inadvisable end of that sentence, but the last few words still rang in their head. …love you.
Abruptly, River knew what had happened, clear as crystal and just as cold. They pulled back from January, their hands balling into fists in their robes as they noticed the complete absence of fear and only just had the presence of mind to bow before they strode off the dance floor—whole body wound tight as a spring, determined not to look back.
For the rest of the night, River put all their concentration into not saying anything stupid. Inhibited impulse control, Mx Martinez had said, and difficulty lying. Not impossible, especially for someone with Great House press training. Functionally, though, that did translate to not responding whenever January spoke to them. He gave up trying an hour in, the whole train car falling silent.
River woke early the next morning with a splitting headache and roughly a thousand emails waiting for them. They sat up straight, scanning the subject lines of their inbox in the virtual layer. Nothing there was so important it couldn’t be handled after a cup of tea—nothing save for one thing. Update on recent haptic virus, the subject read, and River could have sworn they felt their heart rate spike as they rushed to read it.
Apologies for the disruption—group of dissident anarchists—sought to “reveal truth at heart of government”—patch pushed overnight, expecting return to normal.
“Patch pushed overnight;” excellent. January would be relieved—
That was ridiculous. No, he wouldn’t; because he didn’t have any haptics of his own, and because he didn’t care about River anyway. Why would he? They were Schrödinger’s cat; stupid to get emotionally attached to someone who might hurt you, and January was anything but. Sure, he was pleasant to River, but he was pleasant to everybody; because he was good, in a fundamental way that River wasn’t sure they had ever been capable of even before.
Somehow, the realization stung more than River had expected. They lay back down, as though recoiling from a punch; maybe they were still recovering from the virus, they hoped wildly.
But no—something in their heart wanted January Stirling the same way their lungs wanted oxygen. Wanted to run their fingers through his silk-white hair, wanted to look at him in public like he was the only person in the world. Wanted him, absurdly, to ask about the mammoth language project, and watch his expression as he listened. Wanted his esteem, his attention, his love.
For one brief, free-falling moment, they wondered how they were going to last the next five years. But that was stupid; there was too much at stake. They would just have to endure, they thought, smiling a bitter smile as they yanked on their prosthetic and prepared to face the rest of the House. They had certainly faced down worse.
1. And, okay, partially for January’s benefit, but that was just common courtesy. Pure immersion without the occasional bit of translation never helped anyone, just as tossing someone right into the deep end was a poor introduction to swimming. return to text
2. River had done some research, sue them.return to text
3. Consul Song had been wrong about a lot in that speech, but that was neither here nor there for River’s current purposes. return to text