Ramez Naam - Apex

Wei had lost an eye.

Lee had died when the Army attacked.

Qian had bled to death after a shell exploded near him.

Lifen…

Lifen was still missing. Yuguo had played that video again and again, of the two State Security thugs hauling her away, trying to find some identification of the two of them, hoping it might give him a clue as to where she was, if she was still alive… Failing.

Sun Liu had swept into power, promising reforms, promising new freedoms, promising steps towards open provincial elections, a role for other parties at the local level, maybe even free national elections one day.

Sun Liu had also come in promising reconciliation. National healing. Amnesty on both sides.

No prosecution for the police who’d beaten Xiaobo to death. Who’d taken Wei’s eye.

No prosecution for the thugs who’d hauled Lifen away to whatever fate…

It was enough that Yuguo almost hadn’t come. That, to his mother’s horror, he’d almost turned down the medal.

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.

“I’m going to be a scientist,” Ling said. It was a common refrain, something she’d said recently. “Like my mother. I’m going to study the mind. All kinds of minds.”

Feng nodded and smiled widely at her. “You’ll be very good at it, Ling. You’re so good at it already.” He stroked her hair.

She smiled back, squinting into the morning sunshine.

“What will you do, Feng?” Ling asked.

Another jogger passed by, smiling and waving at Feng.

Feng smiled at the jogger, waved back.

Bai. Bai had done that, had made their shared face famous, and loved, with his short speech. We’re brothers. We’re Confucian Fist. We serve the people .

His short speech and the blood the Fists had spilled while the cameras watched. Their own blood. Their own lives. Sacrificed, defending the people in that square.

Defending the idea of the people.

Defending the idea that a nation could be governed by its people.

Feng turned and looked at Ling, at his eight year-old friend. His little sister.

Lu Song’s invitation was still fresh in his mind.

“I think,” Feng said. “I’m going to try my hand at politics.”

Ayesha Dani sipped chai and looked out the window, down onto the grassy lawn, where a half dozen children laughed and screamed and chased each other about, in some game whose rules were as fluid as the politics of South Asia.

Her grandchildren.

She spoke, without turning, to the woman behind her. “So you’re back on schedule?”

“Yes, Madam Prime Minister,” Lakshmi Dabir said. “We expect to be ready for wide scale deployment this summer.”

“Good.” Ayesha Dani took another sip of her chai. The children were running around a tree now, all clockwise, then suddenly reversing, all the other way, laughing.

Lakshmi Dabir cleared her throat. “Madame Prime Minister, if I may… Will things be ready on the political front?”

Ayesha Dani sipped her chai again before answering, then put the delicate china cup down on its saucer. “This will be the most significant anti-poverty measure of the last twenty years,” she said. “An unprecedented boost in education and development. I’ll push it through.” She smiled grimly. “The fundamentalists will probably try to assassinate me again.” She shrugged and snorted at that.

Lakshmi Dabir seemed taken aback, then spoke again. “Madame Prime Minister, if you really think they’re going to try to kill you…”

Ayesha Dani turned away from the window, facing the tall, angular scientist for the first time. “They’re welcome to try,” she laughed. “I hope their aim is no better than ten years ago!”

Dabir nodded and pursed her lips. “As you say, Madam Prime Minister.”

Ayesha Dani locked eyes with the woman. “This is about people power, Dr,” she said. “You told me once this century’s most vital raw material is the human mind, did you not?”

Lakshmi Dabir nodded again.

“Good,” Ayesha Dani said. “Because we seem to have more of those than anyone. Now go unlock them. This will be the Indian Century.”

Varun Verma walked slowly across the Bangalore research campus, watching the restoration work in progress.

So much devastation had been done here in such a short time. More than a hundred killed in that attack. Scientists. Technicians. Soldiers.

He was thankful every day that it hadn’t been worse.

Thankful he was still alive.

Thankful the whole world was still here.

His mind drifted back to the top secret report he’d read on the events in Shanghai.

Varun shook his head in admiration. Lane had stayed true to his principles, all the way through. He’d seen the second order effects, the importance of precedent, of how a history of violence led to more violence, a history of cooperation led to more cooperation.

Simple iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma. But Lane saw it. Lane put it into action.

And he’d engineered cooperation, somehow salvaged it out of the worst possible case of enslavement, torture, and the very edge of the worst possible retribution.