Messages arrived now from fellow protesters in America, in Russia, in Venezuela, in Egypt, in countries all across the globe, all seeking to overthrow the tyrannies they faced. Holes poked through firewalls let the Chinese people suddenly have access to services they’d only heard of. Services where they could upload what they saw, heard, felt, and thought, as files to be re-experienced by others using Nexus. Services where they could share what they were living through in real-time for anyone to tap into. Services where they could find and watch the experiences of others, protesting in countries around the world.

Revolution was here.

Revolution was everywhere.

Bo Jintao met Bao Zhuang in the Presidential office.

Bao Zhuang seemed pensive.

“How did your call with American President go?” Bo Jintao asked.

Bao Zhuang turned and looked out the window. It was moments before he answered. When he did, he still faced away. “You have the transcript. He says his country played no part in inciting unrest here. He expressed concern over the ‘human rights’ situation here.” Now Bao Zhuang did turn, a twinkle in his eye. “I expressed my own concern over the human rights situation in the United States, of course.”

Bo Jintao frowned. “And the military situation?” he asked. “The carrier groups redeployed to just outside our seas? The missiles and robotic aircraft within strike range of Beijing?”

Bao Zhuang shook his head. “Purely defensive measures, he said. Precautions given the political changes. No hostile intent.”

“You believe him?” Bo Jintao asked.

Bao Zhuang took his time before answering. “Even now, it’s difficult for me to believe the Americans would start a war. But policy isn’t about belief. It’s about contingencies.”

“Contingencies,” Bo Jintao said, “Well, on General Ouyang’s recommendation, we will move our own forces into a more forward posture. If the Americans are hostile, we need be able to destroy their naval units before they can launch the bulk of their aircraft or missiles.”

Bao Zhuang sighed. “That is military doctrine, isn’t it?” The President turned back to one of the wallscreens rotating through drone’s-eye-views of the massive protests in Tiananmen Square and the People’s Square in Shanghai, protests that rings of tanks and soldiers had not yet managed to intimidate out of existence.

“Why not just talk to our citizens, Bo Jintao?” the President asked. He turned and looked at Bo. “Send a message. Make a gesture. Restore Sun Liu, even. He’d still be outnumbered on the Standing Committee, unable to actually do anything.” Bao Zhuang shrugged. “You could give Sun Liu my seat.” He gestured at a wallscreen. “I could even go and talk to the protesters in Beijing – they’re hardly a stone’s throw away.”