Dear god. They’d been paralyzed. Paralyzed by electronic attacks.

And the mob had rifles now, was firing on the soldiers, was hurling Molotovs.

“Order the evacuation!” he yelled to the radio man in the co-pilots seat. The soldier was already screaming into the mic of his headset.

Ouyang looked down.

Molotovs were crashing among the core buildings of Zhongnanhai. The mob was close behind.

It was too late.

125
Darkest

Monday 2041.01.20

Professor Somdet Phra Ananda sat on the thin mat, his legs crossed in lotus, thumbs and forefingers joined, backs of his palms resting on his knees. His body sat in the great meditation hall of this millennia-old monastery nestled against the side of a mountain, high above the lush plains of Thailand.

His mind was here and beyond. He was enmeshed, part of something far vaster, far more real, far more beautiful than himself.

A mind greater than the sum of its parts. A mind of paramount peace. A being of unrivaled insight and reflection. A being of unequaled wisdom.

Nirvana here on Earth.

Almost.

Twenty-five children and a hundred monks, together, here, a nucleus. A hub.

Three dozen more monasteries around the world, now, another two thousand meditators, linked at the speed of light, breathing as one, perceiving as one, the stuff of mind proxied by photon and electron, a web of consciousness, nearly circling the planet.

And out there, a million more minds they’d glimpsed, waiting for them to reach out. Ten million more they might pull in. Bits of technology whizzing around the planet at high speed to assist them.

All to save one woman’s soul.

And perhaps the world.

Fear rippled through the tiny fraction of the greater self that was Professor Somdet Phra Ananda. Fear of the woman named Su-Yong Shu. Fear of the woman he’d named a friend. Fear of the woman he’d admired. Fear of what she could do in her insanity.

Words rose up, unbidden.

I accept rebirth, until all sentient beings have attained enlightenment.

I accept suffering, until all may know peace.

They rose up, rippled out into the greater self and were gone.

Where they had been there was only peace.

And then a connection was opening, a connection to a chamber a kilometer beneath Shanghai.

And utter insanity burst forth from it.

Kade coughed, pain wrenching through his chest.

“Get the first aid kit,” he heard Sam say.

He’d seen something. In the agent’s mind. He had to warn Rangan.

Kade reached out with his thoughts, activated the network access point they’d brought down with them on the end of more than a kilometer of ultra-high grade fiber. He felt it come alive, instantly, felt it proxy him through the net via its satellite-linked mate near the surface.

He reached through it to send a message to Rangan.

Rangan, he sent. Not the protest. The Capitol. That’s where it’s going to happen. The Capitol.