Lu Song had talked him out of it. “Take the medal,” Lu had said. “Take the fame. They’re tools. Use them for the cause.”

Yuguo saw the wisdom, though it left a sour taste in his mouth.

He looked over at Sun Liu, watched as the politician gave out another medal.

What did our blood buy? he wondered. Will you deliver what you promised?

If you don’t, Yuguo mentally thought at the man, just remember: We’ve learned we can topple those in power.

We won’t forget.

Lu Song crouched in the grass before Zhi Li’s grave.

Her real grave. Not the memorial set up for her fans to show their love, their loss.

His agent was calling daily, leaving messages telling Lu Song of offers, offers to star for ridiculous amounts, amounts never before paid to any actor in China.

Lu hadn’t called back.

There were more important things in life.

“I miss you,” he whispered. He could see her, see her dancing without care in his penthouse, see the mischief in her eyes as she suggested some new adventure, see her calling Bo Jintao’s coup a coup, see her lifting her sword on that stage at Jiao Tong, real flame spilling down it, an anxiety on her face that probably only he could read.

“You took part of me with you,” he said, a tear rolling down his face. “The best part.”

He closed his eyes, and she was there with him, her tiny, delicate hand stroking his broad, crude face.

“I’m going to do what you wanted, my love,” he said. “I’m going to finish this. It might take my lifetime and more. But I’m going to make China free.”

Feng walked with Ling, her hand in his, along Binjiang Dadao.

In the early morning, the river walk of the Bund was not yet too crowded. A few others were out for strolls in the brisk morning sunshine. Joggers passed them, some waving at Feng, with his now famous face. A park held men and women practicing T'ai Chi Ch'uan, moving slowly, gracefully through the ancient forms. Across the river they could see the Pudong, see the towers reaching for the sky, see their own building, with the loft that Ling had inherited, along with all the rest of Chen and Su-Yong’s estate, with Feng as her named guardian.

They walked.

Ling was quiet now. A bit more subdued. Less sure of herself. But every day she was stronger. Every day she regained more strength, more endurance, more use of her legs and arms. Every day her mind recolonized more of the nanites infused in her brain.

She might never be what she once was.

But she was still remarkable.

“Let’s sit, Feng,” she said, as they neared a bench.

It was good. Her farthest walk yet.

They sat, staring across the Huangpu River at the Pudong.