Then he closed his eyes and breathed, just breathed, like he’d learned from Kade, like Kade had learned from so many others.

Letting go.

Then they were at the gate, and he was opening his eyes, rising. He was pulling his other bag down, the only possessions in his life besides ideas and memories and data, and he was disembarking from the plane, a lump growing in his chest.

He still wasn’t sure this was real.

It had been a long, roundabout trip from the moment he’d made that call. Container ship from Baltimore. At-sea transfer somewhere in the Atlantic. A different ship headed the other way, to Panama, to cross through the canal. Over land to Guatemala.

And now this. On a Cuban passport. This flight. To a place where he’d be a citizen. Where he’d be legit. Maybe someday he’d head for India, see if he could make that work. Maybe someday there would even be a pardon in the US, as unlikely as that sounded, as uncertain as he was if he’d be willing to go back even if it came through.

But for now…

For now it was Cuba. For now there was work to do. A lot of work. Coercion was still far too easy with Nexus. Emotional manipulation was still far too easy – Breece had shown that with the riots he’d started, the violence he’d incited. Kade had planned to address parts of that with Nexus 6. He’d said the Indians were on board…

Rangan shook his head. It wasn’t their job. It wasn’t something he trusted any government to do, anyway.

It was something the community had to do. The community of Nexus developers. It had to be done in the open. Transparently. And Rangan was going to do his damndest to make that happen.

The line moved. He shuffled forward, bags in hand, step by step. He came off the plane and there were uniformed officers waiting for him, guns holstered in their belts.

The lump in his chest grew thicker.

“Senor Shankari?” one asked.

“Si,” Rangan said.

“Venga con nosotros, por favor,” the officer said, gesturing. Come with us, please.

Rangan nodded. “Si.”

They took his bags. One officer followed behind, while the other led him, down the jet way, past the line, down the concourse of the airport, to immigration, into his own line, where his passport was stamped, then out, through a customs line that seemed to exist just for him, where nothing was searched.

Through a door, a different door than everyone else was taking.

There was a crowd on the other side. Hundreds of people. A banner held high.

WELCOME RANGAN SHANKARI, HERO OF THE PEOPLE

Then he saw faces. Faces he knew.

His father. His mother.

Then his mother’s arms were around him, gripping him tight, her face buried in his neck, crying.