She sat up and drew her knees up to her chest, freeing the hem of her 
nightgown from between the sheets, then spun around and dropped to the floor 
soundlessly. Her bare feet took her silently between the rows of bunks and into 
the little lounge in the corner of the floor where the girls sat together, had 
tea, brushed their hair, watched old passives. It was empty now, the lights 
were off, the corner windows exposing a vast panorama: to the northeast, the 
lights of New Chusan and of the Nipponese and Hindustani concessions standing a 
few kilometers offshore, and the outlying parts of Pudong. Downtown Pudong was 
all around, its floating, mediatronic skyscrapers like biblical pillars of 
fire. To the northwest lay the Huang Pu River, Shanghai, its suburbs, and
the ravaged silk and tea districts beyond. No fires burned there now; the Feed 
lines had been burned all the way to the edge of the city, and the Fists had 
stopped at the outskirts and hunkered down as they sought a way to penetrate 
the tattered remains of the security grid.