You have a hero ask them. A celebrity. Rangan wasn’t much of a celebrity. But the Eccentric article claiming he was in DC had been seen millions of times, now. His music was suddenly enjoying its greatest ever popularity. Somewhere, some bank account of his, seized by the ERD, was collecting royalties he’d never see. There were fan clubs talking about him.

There were masks of his face. There were people out there in those protests, wearing his face. He watched footage and he’d see himself, dozens of himself.

The old him. Bleached blonde. Crazy grin. Cocky as all hell. The him that had never failed. That had never done anything for anyone but himself.

Rangan shook his head.

There was a pit where his stomach should be. This was going to come back to bite him. He knew it. It was going to be bad. Really, really bad.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Angel nodded. Cheyenne held her left hand up, and Rangan high fived her.

“Let’s frack this guy’s plans up, yo,” she said.

Tempest shook her head. “You all are crazy,” she said.

Then she went off, with her copy of the messages, to log in from an anonymous location, and send an open letter in Rangan Shankari’s name to the net, via the incredibly well-trafficked site, Eccentric.

And Rangan sat down, tunneled through layers and layers of anonymizing crypto services to hide his trail, and prepared to check their changes into all the most popular Nexus code repositories.

In his name.

75
The Clearing of Jiao Tong

Tuesday 2041.01.08

“You are ordered to clear the square! This is your final warning!”

Yuguo tensed as the police blared the message again. Around him he felt fear and resolve war in the minds that remained.

“Hold!” Lifen yelled, standing tall atop a wooden table someone had dragged into the square, a white-shirted hero in the Shanghai night, one of her fists thrust high into the air, illuminated by the police spotlights. “This is our square!”

Her eyes glittered in the bright white beams. Her face was alive, animated with passion as she exhorted the students to hold fast. In her mind, victory beckoned. Victory where they rose up, came together, rose together.

Yuguo had never seen anyone so beautiful. He’d never met anyone so beautiful inside or out.

He’d never been so terrified.

Twenty four hours ago the police had come, in their metal shields and their mirrored helmets that obscured their faces, with their bludgeons and gas guns and water cannons. Rows and rows of them, hundreds of police, maybe as many as there were protesters, completely surrounding the square.

The orders to leave had come, amplified, reinforced with promises of lenience for all who departed, threats of jail for all who remained.

Twenty four hours.

Half their numbers were gone now.

And the deadline was up.