They dove deeper into the massive throng, walked around an ad hoc stage where a serious looking man was making an impassioned speech about civil liberties. A digital sign proclaimed a list of apparently notable speakers for the rest of the day. Rangan hadn’t heard of any of them. They passed med tents, food stations, water stations, row after row of portable washrooms, power charging stations fueled off portable fuel cells, tents for the hardcore who stayed out all night, a legal aid booth, a group of yellow-robed monks, a soundstage where a jam band was playing and where hundreds of people were rocking out, dancing, their coats and some of their shirts discarded in piles as their body heat built up from their joyous motion.

It was warm, this November. The warmest November on record so far, in what looked on track to be the warmest year ever recorded around the world or in North America. Apparently it wasn’t freezing at night yet. That had to be helping these crowds.

And all that body heat.

Three times they passed a scene where Rangan was sure he saw one person handing a vial of Nexus to another. He had no idea how many times he missed that.

“Wow,” Rangan said.

“Bigger every day,” Angel said quietly. “And charged up by the Supremes.”

Nexus was everywhere. He could feel the righteous fury coming off the minds of the sign-waving protesters, the deep tranquility from the little knot of shaven-headed monks, the trippy rhythmic trance in the thoughts of the drummers, the fugue of music-making from the jam band, the hardcore ecstasy of rocking from the dancers. It called to him. He wanted to just sink into it, let himself go, let himself go wild in this crowd…

“Stay on target,” Cheyenne said, putting a strong hand on his shoulder.

Rangan shuffled on, a court jester with bad hair and a worse limp.

“This is the place?” Rangan asked.

Angel nodded. The spot where the fight had broken out – where the projection of rage and violence had assaulted them – was nothing special now. The pro-Stockton protesters had been moved to a different area, on the other side of the Washington Monument, with two streets and a hill separating the two camps.

But Angel had wanted him to see this.

“This is where the N was densest?” Rangan asked.

“Yeah,” Angel confirmed, casually looking around, making sure no-one was close. “That’s why I dragged us over here. It seemed like a weird place for it.”

“The… transmission,” Rangan said. “The thing that hit you… It lasted for less than a minute?”

“Thirty-seven seconds,” Tempest answered. “I’ve gone over it again and again.”

“And not again since.”

No one said anything.

“And no outbreaks of violence at any other protest that day,” Rangan said.

They all shook their heads. They’d been over this already, more than once. Whatever had happened here had been unique.