“They’ve killed Zhi Li!” she yells. Around her there is shock, grief, hundreds of thousands of minds, screaming in horror at what they’ve done, huge numbers of them tuning in to the same few streams, some seeing the scene from the perspective of those watching Lu Song, some feeling Lu Song’s thoughts as they spill into the mind of mindstreamers near him.

Some replaying Zhi Li’s last few seconds over and over.

A giant angry scream goes up all around Pan Luli, the scream of half a million men and women who loved Zhi Li!

And then, more than a thousand kilometers away, Pan Luli sees through another woman’s eyes, hears through another woman’s ears, as Lu Song looks up to the sky, and screams himself, in rage that eclipses any he’s ever shown on the screen.

“BO JINTAO!” he roars, like an animal, like a creature in such pain it’s been driven mad. Veins bulge in his neck. His eyes are tinged in red.

“BO JINTAO!” he roars again, the cry of a man beyond hope, beyond fear, beyond anything but rage.

And in Beijing, in Tiananmen square, half a million lungs scream the name of the man who’s murdered his beloved.

“BO JINTAO!”

Pan Luli hears it all around her, hears it from every mouth of every man, every woman, every child. She feels it from their minds

Then, as one, half a million pairs of eyes turn, turn to the north and west, beyond the Gate of Heavenly Peace, beyond the soldiers and tanks and guns, towards the walled refuge of Zhongnanhai, the palace of the modern day Emperors of the nation.

And like a great, angered beast, enraged beyond its senses, the crowd surges.

“Nuclear attack,” Bao Zhuang whispered softly. “On Shanghai?”

Ouyang nodded.

“This is insanity!” Wang Wei cried. “She’s dead! We shut her down.”

“Shut up old man,” Fu Ping said.

“Tactical weapons?” Bo Jintao asked.

Ouyang shook his head. “No. She is a kilometer down. Her forces control the surface all around her. Strategic weapons must be used. Even then they may not destroy her. But they will knock out her connections to the outside world.”

The blood left Bo Jintao’s face entirely.

Bao Zhuang spoke softly, “The death toll?”

“Twenty to thirty million,” Ouyang said. His voice was steady, his face a mask.

Inside he felt sick with it. His stomach was rebelling at the thought. Could he kill millions of his own people?

“Better than a billion,” he said aloud.

“Is there no other way?” Bo Jintao asked.

“Authorize it,” Ouyang said. “I’ll wait until the last possible moment. We’ll do everything possible to win via conventional means. But if defeat appears imminent – if she seizes control of more military assets – then we must strike immediately.”