Her eyes caught those of that boy, Yuguo’s, in the front, and he hit a button on his phone.

And the blade of her sword burst into flame.

The crowd went wild in voice and mind. Flashbulbs burst.

And Zhi Li tried not to flinch from the burning object she held above her head.

A thousand kilometers away, in Tiananmen Square, in the heart of Beijing, Peng Luli screams in joy as her idol, Zhi Li, lifts the flaming sword into the sky! Hundreds of thousands in Tiananmen see through the eyes of men and women in Shanghai, and cheer just as loudly.

In Guangzhou, in Hong Kong, in Dalian, in Shenzhen, in Chengdu, in Wuhan, in Dongguan, millions more see the same sight, experience the same sight through the eyes and ears of just thousands at Jiao Tong, and roar their approval.

Zhi Li is with them! The revolution cannot fail!

“They’re coming again!” someone yelled, hours later.

Zhi crouched down lower behind the overturned table in the darkness, goggles pulled down over her eyes, wet bandana wrapped over her mouth and nose. Next to her Lu Song crouched protectively, a long pipe in his hand. Qi and Dai were on either side of them, hands in the pockets of their wind blazers. Where their pistols were.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZT.

She groaned as the blast hit her again. Subsonic vibrations moved through her bones, her bowels. Her head throbbed.

She heard popping sounds, the distinctive noise of the teargas grenade launchers.

And then thuds as they came down. Hissing as the gas came out of them at high pressure, barely visible in the darkness, except where it blocked the red flames.

Coughing. She felt coughing in the minds around her, even with the bandanas, the few gas masks.

NOW! Yuguo sent.

Was the boy twenty? Nineteen? Some sort of nerd. And somehow he’d become the leader here.

Two-person teams of protesters leapt to their feet from behind shelter, illuminated by the light of the burning barricades. Each had a shield-holder, hoisting a human-sized piece of wood or stiff plastic or sheet metal, gleaming in the firelight; and a thrower, cocking back a Molotov cocktail. On the ground next to them would be a third person, lighting the cocktail, handing them another if there was time for a second throw.

Twenty lit cocktails soared into the air, up over the burning barrier between them and the army forces.

More flame now. Less cheering.

Army shooters fired back with rubber bullets, knocking one girl down, spinning another thrower around, forcing all the rest to take cover.

Through the eyes of the lookouts linked to them, Zhi Li saw the fuel-filled bottles slam into the upheld shields of soldiers and riot police moving in, saw them burst into flame, saw the line fall back, their advance halted.

Slingshots! Yuguo sent.