Ender 7
Shadow Puppets
Orson Scott Card
CONTENTS
1. GROWN
2. SURIYAWONG'S KNIFE
3. MOMMIES AND DADDIES
4. CHOPIN
5. STONES IN THE ROAD
6. HOSPITALITY
7. THE HUMAN RACE
8. TARGETS
9. CONCEPTION
10. LEFTAND RIGHT
11. BABIES
12. PUTTING OUT FIRES
13. CALIPH
14. SPACE STATION
15, WAR PLANS
16. TRAPS
17. PROPHETS
18. THE WARONTHEGROUND
19. FAREWELLS
20. HOME
GROWN
From: NoAddress@Untraceable.com#
1 4hPccO/SIGN
UP NOW AND STAY ANONYMOUS!
To: Trireme%Solamis@Aftico-vs-Sporta.hst
Re: Find
decision
Wiggin:
Subject not to be killed. Subject will be
transported according to plan 2, route 1 Dep Tue. 0400, checkpoint #3 @ 0600,
which is First light. Please be smart enough to remember the international
dateline. He is yours if you want him.
Ii your intelligence is vice versa, you
advice, but I have outweighs your ambition you will try to use him. You did
seen him in action: Kill him.
True, without on antagonist to frighten the
world you will never retrieve the power the office of Hegemon once had. It
would be the end of your career. will kill him. not ask my Let him live, and it
is the end of your life, and you will leave the world in his power when you
die. Who is the monster? Or at least monster #2?
And I have told you how to get him. Am I
monster #3? Or merely fool #1?
Your faithful servant in motley.
Bean kind of liked being tall, even though it
was going to kill him.
And
at the rate he was growing, it would be sooner rather than later. How long did
he have? A year? Three? Five? The ends of his bones were still like a child's,
blossoming, lengthening; even his head was growing, so that like a baby he had
a soft patch of cartilage and new bone along the crest of his skull.
It
meant constant adjustment, as week by week his arms reached farther when he
flung them out, his feet were longer and caught on stairs and sills, his legs
were longer so that as he walked he covered ground more quickly, and companions
had to hurry to keep up. When he trained with his soldiers, the elite company
of men that constituted the entire military force of the Hegemony, he could now
run ahead of them, his stride longer than theirs.
He
had long since earned the respect of his men. But now, thanks to his height,
they finally, literally, looked up to him.
Bean
stood on the grass where two assault choppers were waiting for his men to
board. Today the mission was a dangerous one-to penetrate Chinese air space and
intercept a small convoy transporting a prisoner from Beijing toward the
interior. Everything depended on secrecy, surprise, and the extraordinarily
accurate information the Hegemon, Peter Wiggin, had been receiving from inside
China in the past few months.
Bean
wished he knew the source of the intelligence, because his life and the lives
of his men depended on it. The accuracy up to now could easily have been a
setup. Even though "Hegemon" was essentially an empty title now,
since most of the world's population resided in countries that had withdrawn
their recognition of the authority of the office. Peter Wiggin had been using
Bean's soldiers well. They were a constant irritant to the newly expansionist
China, inserting themselves here and there at exactly the moment most
calculated to disrupt the confidence of the Chinese leadership.
The
patrol boat that suddenly disappears, the helicopter that goes down, the spy
operation that is abruptly rolled up, blinding the Chinese intelligence service
in yet another country-officially the Chinese hadn't even accused the Hegemon
of any involvement in such incidents, but that only meant that they didn't want
to give any publicity to the Hegemon, didn't want to boost his reputation or
prestige among those who feared China in these years since the conquest of
India and Indochina. They almost certainly knew who was the source of their
woes.
Indeed,
they probably gave Bean's little force the credit for problems that were
actually the ordinary accidents of life. The death of the foreign minister of a
heart attack in Washington, D.C. only minutes before meeting with the U.S.
president-they might really think Peter Wiggin's reach was that long, or that
he thought the Chinese foreign minister, a party hack, was worth assassinating.
And
the fact that a devastating drought was in its second year in India, forcing
the Chinese either to buy food on the open market or allow relief workers from
Europe and the Americas into the newly captured and still rebellious
subcontinent-maybe they even imagined that Peter Wiggin could control the
monsoon rains.
Bean
had no such illusions. Peter Wiggin had all kinds of contacts throughout the
world, a collection of informants that was gradually turning into a serious
network of spies, but as far as Bean could tell, Peter was still just playing a
game. Oh, Peter thought it was real enough, but he had never seen what happened
in the real world. He had never seen people die as a result of his orders.
Bean
had, and it was not a game.
He
heard his men approaching. He knew without looking that they were very close,
for even here, in supposedly safe territory-an advance staging area in the
mountains of Mindanao in the Philippines- they moved as silently as possible.
But he also knew that he had heard them before they expected him to, for his
senses had always been unusually keen. Not the physical sense organs-his ears
were quite ordinary-but the ability of his brain to recognize even the
slightest variation from the ambient sound. That's why he raised a hand in
greeting to men who were only just emerging from the forest behind him.
He
could hear the changes in their breathing-sighs, almost-silent chuckles-that
told him they recognized that he had caught them again. As if it were a
grown-up game of Mother-May-I, and Bean always seemed to have eyes in the back
of his head.
Suriyawong
came up beside him as the men filed by in two columns to board the choppers,
heavily laden for the mission ahead.
"Sir,"
said Suriyawong.
That
made Bean turn. Suriyawong never called him sir
His
second-in-command, a Thai only a few years older than Bean, was now half a head
shorter. He saluted Bean, and then turned toward the forest he had just come
from.
When
Bean turned to face the same direction, he saw Peter Wiggin, the Hegemon of
Earth, the brother of Ender Wiggin who saved the world from the Formic invasion
only a few years before-Peter Wiggin, the conniver and gamesman. What was he
playing at now?
"I
hope you aren't insane enough to be coming along on this mission," said
Bean.
"What
a cheery greeting," said Peter. "That is a gun in your pocket, so I
guess you aren't happy to see me."
Bean
hated Peter most when Peter tried to banter so he said nothing. Waited.
"Julian
Delphiki, there's been a change of plans," said Peter
Calling
him by his full name, as if he were Bean's father. Well, Bean had a father-even
if he didn't know he had one until after the war was over, and they told him
that Nikolai Delphiki wasn't just his friend, he was his brother. But having a
father and mother show up when you're eleven isn't the same as growing up with
them. No one had called Bean "Julian Delphiki" when he was little. No
one had called him anything at all, until they tauntingly called him Bean on
the streets of Rotterdam.
Peter
never seemed to see the absurdity of it, talking down to Bean. I fought in the
war against the Buggers. Bean wanted to say. I fought beside your brother
Ender, while you were playing your little games with rabble-rousing on the
nets. And while you've been filling your empty little role as Hegemon, I've
been leading these men into combat that actually made a difference in the
world. And you tell me there's been a change of plans?
"Let's
scrub the mission." said Bean. "Last-minute changes in plan lead to
unnecessary losses in battle."
"Actually,
this one won't," said Peter "Because the only change is that you're
not going."
"And
you're going in my place?" Bean did not have to show scorn in his voice or
on his face. Peter was bright enough to know that the idea was a joke. Peter
was trained for nothing except writing essays, shmoozing with politicians,
playing at geopolitics.
"Suriyawong
will command this mission," said Peter
Suriyawong
took the sealed envelope that Peter handed him, but then turned to Bean for
confirmation.
Peter
no doubt noticed that Suriyawong did not intend to follow Peter's orders unless
Bean said he should. Being mostly human, Peter could not resist the temptation
to jab back. "Unless," said Peter, "you don't think Suriyawong
is ready to lead the mission. Bean looked at Suriyawong, who smiled back at
him.
"Your
Excellency, the troops are yours to command," said Bean. "Suriyawong
always leads the men in battle, so nothing important will be different."
Which
was not quite true-Bean and Suriyawong often had to change plans at the last
minute, and Bean ended up commanding all or part of a mission as often as not,
depending on which of them had to deal with the emergency. Still, difficult as
this operation was, it was not too complicated. Either the convoy would be
where it was supposed to be, or it would not. If it was there, the mission
would probably succeed. If it was not there, or if it was an ambush, the
mission would be aborted and they would return home. Suriyawong and the other
officers and soldiers could deal with any minor changes routinely.
Unless,
of course, the change in mission was because Peter Wiggin knew that it would
fail and he didn't want to risk losing Bean. Or because Peter was betraying
them for some arcane reason of his own.
"Please
don't open that," said Peter, "until you're airborne."
Suriyawong
saluted. "Time to leave," he said.
"This
mission," said Peter, "will bring us significantly closer to breaking
the back of Chinese expansionism."
Bean
did not even sigh. But this tendency of Peter's to make laims about what would
happen always made him a little tired.
"Godspeed,"
said Bean to Suriyawong. Sometimes when he said that, Bean remembered Sister
Carlotta and wondered if she was actually with God now, and perhaps heard Bean
say the closest thing to prayer that ever passed his lips.
Suriyawong jogged to the chopper. Unlike the
men, he carried no equipment beyond a small daypack and his sidearm. He had no
need heavy weaponry, because he expected to remain with the choppers along this
operation. There were times when the commander had to be in combat, but not on
a mission like this, where communication was everything and he had to be able
to make instant decisions that would be communicated to everyone at once. So he
would stay with the e-maps that monitored the positions of every soldier, and
talk with them by scrambled satellite uplink.
He
would not be safe, there in the chopper. Quite the contrary. If the Chinese
were aware of what was coming, or if they were able to respond in time,
Suriyawong would be sitting inside one of the two biggest and easiest targets
to hit.
That's
my place, thought Bean as he watched Suriyawong bound up into the chopper,
helped by the outstretched hand of one of the men.
The
door of the chopper closed. The two aircraft rose from the ground in a storm of
wind and dust and leaves, flattening the grass below them.
Only
then did another figure emerge from the forest. A young woman. Petra.
Bean
saw her and immediately erupted with anger. “What are you thinking?" he
shouted at Peter over the diminishing sound of the rising choppers. "Where
are her bodyguards? Don't you know she's in danger whenever she leaves the
safety of the compound?"
"Actually,"
said Peter-and now the choppers were high enough up that normal voices could be
heard-"she's probably never been safer in her life."
"If
you think that," said Bean, "you're an idiot."
"Actually,
I do think that, and I'm not an idiot." Peter grinned. "You always underestimate
me."
"You
always overestimate yourself."
"Ho,
Bean."
Bean
turned to Petra. "Ho, Petra." He had seen her only three days ago,
just before they left on this mission. She had helped him plan it; she knew it
backward and forward as well as he did. "What's this eemo doing to our
mission?" Bean asked her. Petra shrugged. "Haven't you figured it out?"
Bean
thought for a moment. As usual, his unconscious mind had been processing
information in the background, well behind what he was aware of. On the
surface, he was thinking about Peter and Petra and the mission that had just
left. But underneath, his mind had already noticed the anomalies and was ready
to list them.
Peter
had taken Bean off the mission and given sealed orders to Suriyawong.
Obviously, then, there was some change in the mission that he didn't want Bean
to know about. Peter had also brought Petra out of hiding and yet claimed she
had never been safer. That must mean that for some reason he was sure Achilles
was not able to reach her here.
Achilles
was the only person on earth whose personal network rivaled Peter's for its
ability to stretch across national boundaries. The only way Peter could be sure
that Achilles could not reach Petra, even here, was if Achilles was not free to
act. Achilles was a prisoner, and had been for some time.
Which
meant that the Chinese, having used him to set up their conquest of India,
Burma, Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia, and to arrange their alliance
with Russia and the Warsaw Pact, finally noticed that he was a psychopath and
locked him up.
Achilles
was a prisoner in China. The message contained in Suriyawong's envelope
undoubtedly told him the identity of the prisoner that they were supposed to
rescue from Chinese custody. That information could not have been communicated
before the mission departed, because Bean would not have allowed the mission to
go forward if he had known it would lead to Achilles's release.
Bean
turned to Peter, "You're as stupid as the German politicians who conspired
to bring Hitler to power, thinking they could use him."
"I
knew you'd be upset," said Peter calmly.
"Unless
the new orders you gave Suriyawong were to kill the prisoner after all."
"You
realize that you're way too predictable when it comes to this guy. Just
mentioning his name sets you off. It's your Achilles heel. Pardon the
jest."
Bean
ignored him. Instead he reached out and took Petra's hand. "If you already
knew what he was doing, why did you come with him?"
"Because
I wouldn't be safe in Brazil anymore," said Petra, "and so I'd rather
be with you."
"Both
of us together only gives Achilles twice the motivation," said Bean.
"But
you're the one who survives no matter what Achilles throws at you," said
Petra. "That's where I want to be."
Bean
shook his head. "People close to me die."
"On
the contrary," said Petra. "People only die when they aren't with
you."
Well,
that was true enough, but irrelevant. In the long run, Poke and Sister Carlotta
both died because of Bean. Because they made the mistake of loving him and
being loyal to him.
"I'm
not leaving your side," said Petra.
"Ever?"
asked Bean.
Before
she could answer, Peter interrupted. "All this is very touching, but we
need to go over what we're doing with Achilles after we get him back."
Petra
looked at him as if he were an annoying child. "You really are dim,"
she said.
"I
know he's dangerous,' said Peter. "That's why we have to be very careful
how we handle this."
"Listen
to him," said Petra. "Saying 'we.'"
"There's
no 'we,' " said Bean. "Good luck." Still holding Petra's hand,
Bean started for the forest. Petra had only a moment to wave cheerily at Peter
and then she was beside Bean, jogging toward the trees.
"You're
going to quit?" shouted Peter after them. "Just like that? When we're
finally close to being able to get things moving our way?" They didn't
stop to argue. Later, on the private plane Bean chartered to get them from
Mmdanao to Celebes, Petra mocked Peter's words. " 'When we're finally
close to being able to get things moving our way?' Bean laughed.
"When
was it ever our way?" she went on, not laughing now. "It's all about
increasing Peter's influence, boosting his power and prestige. Our way."
"I
don't want him dead," said Bean.
"Who,
Achilles?"
"No!"
said Bean. "Him I want dead. It's Peter we have to keep alive. He's the
only balance."
"He's
lost his balance now," said Petra. "How long before Achilles arranges
to have him killed?"
"What
worries me is, how long before Achilles penetrates and co-opts his entire
network?"
"Maybe
we're assigning Achilles supernatural powers," said Petra. "He isn't
a god. Not even a hero. Just a sick kid."
"No,"
said Bean. "I'm a sick kid. He's the devil."
"Well,
so," said Petra, "maybe the devil's a sick kid."
"So
you're saying we should still try to help Peter."
"I'm
saying that if Peter lives through his little brush with Achilles, he might be
more prone to listen to us.
"Not
likely," said Bean. "Because if he survives, he'll think it proves
he's smarter than we are, so he'll be even less likely to hear us.
"Yeah,"
said Petra. "It's not like he's going to learn anything."
"First
thing we need to do," said Bean, "is split up."
"No,"
said Petra.
"I've
done this before, Petra. Going into hiding. Keeping from getting caught."
"And
if we're together we're too identifiable, Ia Ia Ia," she said.
"Saying
'Ia la Ia' doesn't mean it isn't true."
"But
I don't care," said Petra. "That's the part you're leaving out of
your calculations."
"And
I do care," said Bean, "which is the part you're leaving out of
yours."
"Let
me put it this way," said Petra. "If we separate, and Achilles finds
me and kills me first, then you'll just have one more female you love deeply
who is dead because you didn't protect her."
"You
fight dirty."
"I
fight like a girl."
"And
if you stay with me, we'll probably end up dying together."
"No
we won't," said Petra.
"I'm
not immortal, as you well know."
"But
you are smarter than Achilles. And luckier. And taller. And nicer."
"The
new improved human."
She
looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, now that you're tall, we could
probably travel as man and wife."
Bean
sighed. "I'm not going to marry you.
"Just
as camouflage."
It
had begun as hints but now it was quite open, her desire to marry him.
"I'm not going to have children," he said. "My species ends with
me."
"I
think that's pretty selfish of you. What if the first homo sapiens had felt
that way? We'd all still be Neanderthals, and when the Buggers came they would
have blasted us all to bits and that would be that."
"We
didn't evolve from Neanderthals," said Bean.
"Well,
it's a good thing we have that little fact squared away," said Petra.
"And
I didn't evolve at all. I was manufactured. Genetically created."
"Still
in the image of God," said Petra.
"Sister
Carlotta could say those things, but it's not funny coming from you."
"Yes
it is," said Petra.
"Not
to me."
"I
don't think I want to have your babies, if they might inherit your sense of
humor."
"That's
a relief." Only it wasn't. Because he was attracted to her and she knew
it. More than that. He truly cared about her, liked being with her. She was his
friend. If he weren't going to die, if he wanted to have a family, if he had
any interest in marrying, she was the only female human that he would even
consider. But that was the trouble- she was human, and he was not.
After
a few moments of silence, she leaned her head on his shoulder and held his hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"For
what I don't know."
"For
letting me save your life."
"When
did that happen?" asked Bean.
"As
long as you have to look out for me," said Petra, "you won't
die."
"So
you're coming along with me, increasing our risk of being identified and
allowing Achilles to get his two worst nemeses with one well-placed bomb, in
order to save my life?"
"That's
right, genius boy," said Petra.
"I
don't even like you, you know." At this moment, he was annoyed enough that
the statement was almost true.
"As
long as you love me, I don't mind."
And
he suspected that her lie, too, was almost true.
SURIYAWONG'S KNIFE
From: Salaom%Spaceboy@Inshallab.com
To: Watcber%GnDuty@International.net
Re: What
you asked
My Dear Mr. Wiggin/Locke,
Philosophically speaking, all guests in a
Muslim home are treated as sacred visitors sent by God and under his care. In
practice, for two extremely talented, famous, and unpredictable persons who are
hated by one powerful non-Muslim figure and aided by another, this is a very
dangerous part of the world, particularly if they seek to remain both hidden
and free. I do not believe they will be foolish enough to seek refuge in a
Muslim county.
I regret to tell you, however, that your
interest and mine do not coincide on this matter, so despite our occasional
cooperation in the past, I most certainly will not tell you whether I encounter
them or hear news of them.
Your accomplishments are many, and I have
helped you in the past and will in the Future. But when Ender led us in
Fighting the Formics these Friends were beside me. Where were you?
Respectfully yours,
Aloi
Suriyawong opened his orders and was not
surprised. He had led missions inside China before, but always for the purpose
of sabotage or intelligence gathering, or "involuntary high officer force
reduction," Peter's mostly-ironic euphemism for assassination. The fact
that this assignment had been to capture rather than kill suggested that it was
a person who was not Chinese. Suriyawong had rather hoped it might be one of
the leaders of a conquered country-the deposed prime minister of India, for
instance, or the captive prime minister of Suriyawong’s native Thailand.
He
had even entertained, briefly, the thought that it might be one of his own
family.
But
it made sense that Peter was taking this risk, not for someone of mere
political or symbolic value, but for the enemy who had put the world into this
strange and desperate situation.
Achilles.
Erstwhile gimp-legged cripple, frequent murderer, fulltime psychotic, and
warmonger extraordinaire, Achilles had a knack for finding out just what the
leaders of nations aspired for and promising them a way to get it. So far he
had convinced a faction in the Russian government, the heads of the Indian and
Pakistani governments, and various leaders in other lands to do his bidding.
When Russia found him a liability, he had fled to India where he already had
friends waiting for him. When India and Pakistan were both doing exactly what
he had arranged for them to do, he betrayed them using his connections inside
China.
The
next move, of course, would have been to betray his friends in China and jump
ahead of them to a position of even greater power. But the ruling coterie in
China was every bit as cynical as Achilles and recognized his pattern of
behavior, so not all that long after he had made China the world's only effective
superpower, they arrested him.
If
the Chinese were so smart, why wasn't Peter? Hadn't Peter himself said,
"When Achilles is most useful and loyal to you, that is when he has most
certainly betrayed you?” So why was he thinking he could use this monstrous
boy?
Or
had Achilles managed to convince Peter, despite all the proof that Achilles
kept no promises, that this time he would remain loyal to an ‘ally'?
I
should kill him, thought Suriyawong. In fact, I will. I will report to Peter
that Achilles died in the chaos of the rescue. Then the world will be a safer
place.
It's
not as if Suriyawong hadn't killed dangerous enemies before. And from what Bean
and Petra had told him, Achilles was by definition a dangerous enemy,
especially to anyone who had ever been kind to him.
"If
you've ever seen him in a condition of weakness or helplessness or
defeat," Bean had said, "he can't bear for you to stay alive. I don't
think it's personal. He doesn't have to kill you with his own hands or watch
you die or anything like that. He just has to know that you no longer live in
the same world with him."
"So
the most dangerous thing you can do," Petra had said, "is to save
him, because the very fact that you saw that he needed saving is your death
sentence in his mind."
Had
they never explained this to Peter?
Of
course they had. So in sending Suriyawong to rescue Achilles, Peter knew that
he was, in effect, signing Suriyawong's death warrant.
No
doubt Peter imagined that he was going to control Achilles, and therefore
Suriyawong would be in no danger
But
Achilles had killed the surgeon who repaired his gimp leg, and the girl who had
once declined to kill him when he was at her mercy. He had killed the nun who
found him on the streets of Rotterdam and got him an education and a chance at
Battle School.
To
have Achilles's gratitude was clearly a terminal disease. Peter had no power to
make Suriyawong immune. Achilles never left a good deed unpunished, however
long it might take, however convoluted the path to vengeance might be.
I
should kill him, thought Suriyawong, or he will surely kill me.
He's
not a soldier, he's a prisoner. To kill him would be murder, even in a war.
But
if I don't kill him, he's bound to kill me. May a man not defend himself?
Besides,
he's the one who masterminded the plan that put my people into subjugation to
the Chinese, destroying a nation that had never been conquered, not by the
Burmese, not by colonizing Europeans, not by the Japanese in the Second World
War, not by the Communists in their day. For Thailand alone he deserves to die,
not to mention all his other murders and betrayals.
But
if a soldier does not obey orders, killing only as he is ordered to kill, then
what is he worth to his commander? What cause does he serve? Not even his own
survival, for in such an army no officer would be able to count on his men, no
soldier on his companions.
Maybe
I'll be lucky, and his vehicle will blow up with him inside.
Those
were the thoughts he wrestled with as they flew below radar, brushing the
crests of the waves of the China Sea.
They
skimmed over the beach so quickly there was barely time to register the fact,
as the onboard computers made the assault craft jog left and right, jerk upward
and then drift down again, avoiding obstacles on the ground while trying to
stay below radar. Their choppers were thoroughly masked, and the onboard
dis-info pretended to all watching satellites that they were anything other
than what they actually were. Before long they reached a certain road and
turned north, then west, zipping over what Peter's intelligence sources had
tagged as checkpoint number three. The men at that checkpoint would radio a
warning to the convoy transporting Achilles, of course, but they wouldn't have
finished the first sentence before Suriyawong's pilot spotted the convoy.
"Armor
and troop transport fore and aft," he said. "Take out all support
vehicles."
"What
if the prisoner has been put in one of the support vehicles?"
"Then
there will be a tragic death by friendly fire," said Suriyawong.
The
soldiers understood, or at least thought they understood- Suriyawong was going
through the motions of rescuing the prisoner, but if the prisoner died he would
not mind.
This
was not, strictly speaking, true, or at least not at this moment. Suriyawong
simply trusted the Chinese soldiers to go absolutely by the book. The convoy was
merely a show of force to keep any local crowds or rebels or rogue military
groups from attempting to interfere. They had not contemplated the possibility
of-or even a motive for- a rescue from some outside force. Certainly not from
the tiny commando force of the Hegemon.
Only
a half dozen Chinese soldiers were able to get out of the vehicles before the
Hegemony missiles blew them up. Suriyawong's soldiers were already firing
before they leapt from the settling choppers, and he knew that in moments all resistance
would be over.
But
the prison van carrying Achilles was undisturbed. No one had emerged from it,
not even the drivers.
Violating
protocol, Suriyawong jumped down from the command chopper and walked toward the
back of the prison van. He stood close as the soldier assigned to blow the door
slapped on the unlocking charge and detonated it. There was a loud pop, but no
back blast at all as the explosive tore open the latch.
The
door jogged open a couple of centimeters.
Suriyawong
extended an arm to stop the other soldiers from going into the van to rescue
the prisoner, Instead he opened the door only far enough to toss his own combat
knife onto the floor of the van. Then he pushed the door back into place and
stood back, waving his men back also.
The
van rocked and lurched from some violent activity inside it. Two guns went off.
The door flew open as a body collapsed backward into the dirt at their feet.
Be
Achilles, thought Suriyawong, looking down at the Chinese officer who was
trying to gather his entrails with his hands. Suriyawong had the irrational
thought that the man ought really to wash his organs before jamming them back
into his abdomen. It was so unsanitary.
A
tall young man in prison pajamas appeared in the van door, holding a bloody
combat knife in his hand.
You
don't look like much, Achilles, thought Suriyawong. But then, you don't have to
look all that impressive when you've just killed your guards with a knife you
didn't expect someone to throw on the floor at your feet.
"All
dead inside?" asked Suriyawong.
A
soldier would have answered yes or no, along with a count of the living and
dead. But Achilles hadn't been a soldier in Battle School for more than a few
days. He didn't have the reflexes of military discipline.
"Very
nearly." said Achilles. "Whose stupid idea was it to throw me a knife
instead of opening the mossin' door and blasting the hell out of those
guys?"
"Check
to see if they're dead," Suriyawong said to his nearby men. Moments later
they reported that all convoy personnel had been killed. That was essential if
the Hegemon was to be able to preserve the fiction that it was not a Hegemony
force that had carried out this raid.
"Choppers,
in twenty," said Suriyawong.
At
once his men scrambled to the choppers.
Suriyawong
turned to Achilles. "My commander respectfully invites you to allow us to
transport you out of China."
"And
if I refuse?"
"If
you have your own resources in country, then I will bid you good-bye with my
commander's compliments."
This
was not at all what Peter's orders said, but Suriyawong knew what he was doing.
"Very
well," said Achilles ."Go away and leave me here."
Suriyawong
immediately jogged toward his command chopper.
"Wait,"
called Achilles.
"Ten
seconds," Suriyawong called over his shoulder. He jumped inside and turned
around. Sure enough, Achilles was close behind, reaching out a hand to be taken
up into the bird.
"I'm
glad you chose to come with us," said Suriyawong.
Achilles
found a seat and strapped himself into it. "I assume your commander is
Bean and you're Suriyawong," said Achilles.
The
chopper lifted off and began to fly by a different route toward the coast.
"My
commander is the Hegemon," said Suriyawong. "You are his guest."
Achilles
smiled placidly and silently looked around at the soldiers who had just carried
out his rescue.
"What
if I had been in one of the other vehicles?" said Achilles. "If I had
been in charge of this convoy, there's no chance the prisoner would have been
in the obvious place."
"But
you were not commanding the convoy," said Suriyawong.
Achilles's
smile broadened a little. "So what was that business with tossing in a
knife? How did you know my hands would even be free to get the thing?"
"I
assumed that you would have arranged to have free hands," said Suriyawong.
"Why?
I didn't know you were coming."
"Begging
your pardon, sir," said Suriyawong. "But whatever was or wasn't
coming, you would have had your hands free,"
"Those
were your orders from Peter Wiggin?"
"No
sir, that was my judgment in battle," said Suriyawong. It galled him to
address Achilles as "sir," but if this little play was to have a
happy ending, this was Suriyawong's role for the moment.
"What
kind of rescue is this, where you toss the prisoner a knife and stand and wait
to see what happens?"
"There
were too many variables if we flung open the door," said Suriyawong.
"Too great a danger of your being killed in the crossfire."
Achilles
said nothing, just looked at the opposite wall of the chopper.
"Besides,"
said Suriyawong. "This was not a rescue operation."
"What
was it, target practice? Chinese skeet?"
"An
offer of transportation to an invited guest of the Hegemon," said
Suriyawong. "And the loan of a knife."
Achilles
held up the bloody thing, dangling it from the point. "Yours?" he
asked.
"Unless
you want to clean it," said Suriyawong.
Achilles
handed it to him. Suriyawong took out his cleaning kit and wiped down the
blade, then began to polish it.
"You
wanted me to die," said Achilles quietly.
"I
expected you to solve your own problems," said Suriyawong, "without
getting any of my men killed. And since you accomplished it, I believe my
decision has proven to be, if not the best course of action, at least a valid
one."
"I
never thought I'd be rescued by Thais," said Achilles. "Killed by
them, yes, but not saved."
"You
saved yourself," said Suriyawong coldly. "No one here saved you. We
opened the door for you and I lent you my knife. I assumed you might not have a
knife, and the loan of mine might speed up your victory so you would not delay
our return flight."
"You're
a strange kind of boy," said Achilles.
"I
was not tested for normality before I was entrusted with this mission,"
said Suriyawong. "But I have no doubt that I would fail such a test."
Achilles
laughed. Suriyawong allowed himself a slight smile.
He
tried not to guess what thoughts the inscrutable faces of his soldiers might be
hiding. Their families, too, had been caught up in the Chinese conquest of
Thailand. They, too, had cause to hate Achilles, and it had to gall them to
watch Suriyawong sucking up to him.
For
a good cause, men-I'm saving our lives as best I can by keeping Achilles from
thinking of us as his rescuers, by making sure he believes that none of us ever
saw him or even thought of him as helpless.
"Well?"
said Achilles. "Don't you have any questions?"
"Yes,"
said Suriyawong. "Did you already have breakfast or are you hungry?"
"I
never eat breakfast," said Achilles.
"Killing
people makes me hungry," said Suriyawong. "I thought you might want a
snack of some kind."
Now
he caught a couple of the men glancing at him, only their eyes barely moving,
but it was enough that Suriyawong knew they were reacting to what he said.
Killing makes him hungry? Absurd. Now they must know that he was lying to
Achilles. It was important to Suriyawong that his men know he was lying without
him having to tell them. Otherwise he might lose their trust. They might
believe he had really given himself to the service of this monster.
Achilles
did eat, after a while. Then he slept.
Suriyawong
did not trust his sleep. Achilles no doubt had mastered the art of seeming to
be asleep so he could hear the conversations of others. So Suriyawong talked no
more than was necessary to debrief his men and get a full count of the
personnel from the convoy that they had killed.
Only
when Achilles got off the chopper to pee at the airfield on Guam did Suriyawong
risk sending a quick message to Ribeiro Preto.
There was one person who had to know that
Achilles was coming to stay with the Hegemon: Virlomi, the lndian
Battle-Schooler who had escaped from Achilles in Hyderabad and had become the
goddess guarding a bridge in eastern India until Suriyawong had rescued her. If
she was in Ribeirao Preto when Achilles got there, her life would be in danger.
And
that was very sad for Suriyawong, because it would mean he would not see
Virlomi for a long time, and he had recently decided that he loved her and
wanted to marry her when they both grew up.
MOMMIES AND DADDIES
encrypt key
decrypt key
To: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin.gov
From Locke%erasmus@polnet.gov
Re: Unofficial
request
I appreciate your warning, but I assure you
that I do not underestimate the danger of having X in RP. In fact, that is a
matter with which I could use your help, if you are inclined to give it. With
3D and PA in hiding, and S compromised by having rescued X, persons close to
them ore in danger, either directly or through being used as hostages by X. We
need to have them out of X's reach, and you are uniquely able to accomplish
this. 3D's parents are used to being in hiding, and have had some near misses;
PA's parents, having already suffered one kidnapping, will also be inclined to
cooperate.
The difficulty will come from my parents.
There is no chance they will accept protective concealment if I propose it. If
it comes from you, they might. I do not need to have my parents here, exposed
to danger, where they might be used for leverage or to distract me from what
must be accomplished.
Can you come yourself to RP to gather them up
before I return with X? You would have about 30 hours to accomplish this. I
apologize for the inconvenience, but you would once again have my gratitude and
continue to have my support, both of which, I hope, will someday be more
valuable than they are under present circumstances. There’s a Wiggin knew Graff
was coming, since Elena Delphiki gave her a hurried call as soon as he had left
her house. But she did not change her plans in the slightest. Not because she
hoped to deceive him, but because there were papayas on the trees in the back
yard that had to be harvested before they dropped to the ground. She had no
intention of letting Graff interfere with something really important.
So
when she heard Graff politely clapping his hands at the front gate, she was up
on a ladder clipping off papayas and laying them into the bag at her side.
Aparecida, the maid, had her instructions, and so Theresa soon heard Graff's
footsteps coming across the tiles of the terrace.
"Mrs.
Wiggin," he said.
"You've
already taken two of my children," said Theresa without looking at him.
"I suppose you want my firstborn, now?”
"No,"
said Graff. "It's you and your husband I'm after this time."
"Taking
us to join Ender and Valentine?" Even though she was being deliberately
obtuse, the idea nevertheless had a momentary appeal. Ender and Valentine had
left all this business behind.
"I'm
afraid we can't spare a follow-up ship to visit their colony for several years
yet," said Graff.
"Then
I'm afraid you have nothing to offer us that we want," said Theresa.
"I'm
sure that's true," said Graff. "It's what Peter needs. A free
hand."
"We
don't interfere in his work."
"He's
bringing a dangerous person here," said Graff. "But I think you know
that."
"Gossip
flies around here, since there's nothing else for the parents of geniuses to do
but twitter to each other about the doings of their brilliant boys and girls.
The Arkanians and Delphikis have their children all but married off. And we get
such fascinating visitors from outer space. Like you."
"My,
but we're testy today," said Graff.
"I'm
sure Bean's and Petra's families have agreed to leave Ribeiro Preto so that
their children don't have to worry about Achilles taking them hostage. And
someday Nikolai Delphiki and Stefan Arkanian will recover from having been mere
bit players in their siblings' lives. But John Paul's and my situation is not
at all the same. Our son is the idiot who decided to bring Achilles here."
"Yes,
it must hurt you to have the one child who simply isn't at the same
intellectual level as the others," said Graff.
Theresa
looked at him, saw the twinkle in his eye, and laughed in spite of herself.
"All right, he isn't stupid, he's so cocky he can't conceive of any of his
plans failing. But the result is the same. And I have no intention of hearing
about his death through some awful little email message. Or-worse-from a news
report talking about how 'the brother of the great Ender Wiggin has failed in
his bid to revive the office of Hegemon' and then watch how even in death
Peter's obituary is accompanied by more footage of Ender after his victory over
the Formics."
"You
seem to have a very clear view of all the future possibilities," said
Graff.
"No,
just the unbearable ones. I'm staying, Mr. Colonization Minister You'll have to
find your completely inappropriate middle-aged recruits somewhere else."
"Actually,
you're not inappropriate. You're still of childbearing age."
"Having
children has brought me such joy," said Theresa, "that it's really
marvelous to contemplate having more of them."
"I
know perfectly well how much you've sacrificed for your children, and how much
you love them. And I knew coming here that you wouldn't want to go."
"So
you have soldiers waiting to take me with you by force? You already have my
husband in custody?"
"No,
no," said Graft. "I think you're right not to go."
"Eh."
"But
Peter asked me to protect you, so I had to offer. No, I think it's a good thing
for you to stay."
"And
why is that?"
"Peter
has many allies," said Graft. "But no friends."
"Not
even you?"
"I'm
afraid I studied him too closely in his childhood to take any of his present
charisma at face value."
"He
does have that, doesn't he. Charisma. Or at least charm."
"At
least as much as Ender, when he chooses to use it."
Hearing
Graff speak of Ender-of the kind of young man Ender had become before he was
pitched out of the solar system in a colony ship after saving the human
race-filled Theresa with familiar, but no less bitter, regrets. Graft knew
Ender Wiggin at age seven and ten and twelve, years when Theresa's only links
to her youngest, most vulnerable child were a few photographs and fading
memories and the ache in her arms where she could remember holding him, and the
last lingering sensation of his little arms flung around her neck.
"Even
when you brought him back to Earth," said Theresa to Graft, "you
didn't let us see him. You took Val to him, but not his father, not me.
"I'm
sorry," said Graft. "I didn't know he would never come home at war's
end. Seeing you would have reminded him that there was someone in the world who
was supposed to protect him and take care of him."
"And
that would have been a bad thing?"
"The
toughness we needed from Ender was not the person he wanted to be. We had to
protect it. Letting him see Valentine was dangerous enough."
"Are
you so sure that you were right?"
"Not
sure at all. But Ender won the war, and we can never go back and try it another
way to see if it would have worked as well."
"And
I can never go back and try to find some way through all of this that doesn't
end up filling me with resentment and grief whenever I see you or even think of
you."
Graff
said nothing for the longest time.
"If
you're waiting for me to apologize," began Theresa.
"No,
no," said Graft. "I was trying to think of any apology I could make
that wouldn't be laughably inadequate. I never fired a gun in the war, but I
still caused casualties, and if it's any consolation, whenever I think of you
and your husband I am also filled with regret."
"Not
enough."
"No,
I'm sure not," said Graff. "But I'm afraid my deepest regrets are for
the parents of Bonzo Madrid, who put their son into my hands and got him back
in a box."
Theresa
wanted to fling a papaya at him and smear it all over his face. "Reminding
me that I'm the mother of a killer?"
"Bonzo
was the killer, ma'am," said Graft. "Ender defended himself. You
entirely mistook my meaning. I'm the one who allowed Bonzo to be alone with
Ender. I, not Ender, am the one responsible for his death. That's why I feel
more regret toward the Madrid family than toward you. I've made a lot of
mistakes. And I can never be sure which ones were necessary or harmless or even
left us better off than if I hadn't made them."
"How
do you know you're not making a mistake now, letting me and John Paul
stay?"
"As
I said, Peter needs friends."
"But
does the world need Peter?" asked Theresa.
"We
don't always get the leader that we want," said Graff. "But sometimes
we get to choose among the leaders that we have."
"And
how will the choice be made?" asked Theresa. "On the battlefield or
the ballot box?"
"Maybe,"
said Graft, "by the poisoned fig or the sabotaged car."
Theresa
took his meaning at once. "You may be sure we'll keep an eye on Peter's
food and his transportation."
"What,"
said Graff, "you'll carry all his food on your person, buying it from
different grocers every day, and your husband will live in his car, never
sleeping?"
"We
retired young. One has to fill the empty hours."
Graft
laughed. "Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do all that needs doing. Thanks
for talking with me."
"Let's
do it again in another ten or twenty years," said Theresa.
"I'll
mark it on my calendar."
And
with a salute-which was rather more solemn than she would have expected-he
walked back into the house and, presumably, on out through the front garden and
into the street.
Theresa
seethed for a while at what Graft and the International fleet and the Formics
and fate and God had done to her and her family. And then she thought of Ender
and Valentine and wept a few tears onto the papayas. And then she thought of
herself and John Paul, waiting and watching, trying to protect Peter. Graft was
right. They could never watch him perfectly.
They
would sleep. They would miss something. Achilles would have an opportunity-many
opportunities-and just when they were most complacent he would strike and Peter
would be dead and the world would be at Achilles's mercy because who else was
clever and ruthless enough to fight him? Bean? Petra? Suriyawong? Nikolai? One
of the other Battle School children scattered over the surface of Earth? If
there was any who was ambitious enough to stop Achilles, he would have surfaced
by now.
She
was carrying the heavy bag of papayas into the house-sidling through the door,
trying not to bump and bruise the fruit when it dawned on her what Graft's
errand had really been about.
Peter
needs a friend, he said. The issue between Peter and Achilles might be resolved
by poison or sabotage, he said. But she and John Paul could not possibly watch
over Peter well enough to protect him from assassination, he said. Therefore,
in what way could she and John Paul possibly be the friends that Peter needed?
The
contest between Achilles and Peter would be just as easily resolved by
Achilles's death as by Peter's.
At
once there flashed into her memory the stories of some of the great poisoners
of history, by rumor if not by proof. Lucretia Borgia. Cleopatra.
What's-her-name who poisoned everybody around the Emperor Claudius and probably
got him in the end, as well.
In
olden days, there were no chemical tests to determine conclusively whether
poison had been used. Poisoners gathered their own herbs, leaving no trail of
purchases, no co-conspirators who might confess or accuse. If anything happened
to Achilles before Peter had decided the monster boy had to go, Peter would
launch an investigation.., and when the trail led to his parents, as it
inevitably would, how would Peter respond? Make an example of them, letting
them go on trial? Or would he protect them, trying to cover up the result of
the investigation, leaving his reign as Hegemon to be tainted by the rumors about
Achilles's untimely death. No doubt every opponent of Peter's would resurrect
Achilles as a martyr, a much-slandered boy who offered the brightest hope to
mankind, slain in his youth by the crawlingly vile Peter Wiggin, or his mother
the witch or his father the snake.
It
was not enough to kill Achilles. It had to be done properly, in a way that
would not harm Peter in the long run.
Though
it would be better for Peter to endure the rumors and legends about Achilles's
death than for Peter himself to be the slain one. She dare not wait too long.
My
assignment from Graff, thought Theresa, is to become an assassin in order to
protect my son.
And
the truly horrifying thing is that I'm not questioning whether to do it, but
how. And when.
CHOPIN
encrypt key ********
decrypt key *****
To: Rythian%Iegume@nowyouseeitnovtyou.com
From: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin.gov
Re: Aren't
we cute
I suppose you can be allowed to indulge your
adolescent humor by using obvious pseudonyms like pythian%Iegume, and I know
this is a use-once identify, but really, it smocks of a careless insouciance
that worries me. We can't afford to lose you or your traveling companion
because you had to make a joke.
Enough of imagining could possibly influence
your decisions. The first few weeks since the Belgian arrived in RP have been
eventless. Your and your companion's parents are in training and quarantine,
preparatory to going up to one of the colony ships. I will not actually take
them off planet without your approval unless some emergency comes up. However,
the moment I keep them past their training group's embarkation date, they
become unusual and rumors will start to travel, it's dangerous to keep them
Earthside for too long. And yet once we get them off world, it will be even
more difficult to get them back. I don't wish to pressure you, but your
families' futures are at stoke, and so far you haven't even consulted with them
directly.
As for the Belgian, PW has given him a
job-Assistant to the Hegemon. He has his own letterhead and email identity, a
sort of minister without portfolio, with no bureaucracy to command and no money
to disburse. Yet he keeps busy all day long. I wonder what be does.
I should have said that the Belgian has no
official staff. Unofficially, Sun seems to be at his beck and call. I've heard
from several observers that the change in him is quite astonishing. He never
showed such exaggerated respect to you or PW as he does to the Belgian. They
dine together often, and while the Belgian has never actually visited the
barracks and training ground or gone on assignments or maneuvers with your
little army, the inference that the Belgian is cultivating some degree of
influence or even control over the Hegemony’s small fighting force is
inescapable. Are you in contact with Sun? When I tried to broach the subject
with him, he never so much as answered.
As far you, my brilliant young friend, I hope
you realize that all of Sister Carlotta's false identities were provided by the
Vatican, and your use of them blares like a trumpet within Vatican walls. They
have asked me to assure you that Achilles has no support within their ranks,
and never did have, even before he murdered Carlotta, but if they can track you
so easily, perhaps someone else can as well. As they say, a word to the wise is
sufficient. And here I've gone and written five paragraphs.
-Graff
Petra and Bean traveled together for a month
before things came to a head. At first Petra was content to let Bean make all
the decisions. After all, she had never gone underground like this, traveling
with false identities. He seemed to have all sorts of papers, some of which had
been with him in the Philippines, and the rest in various hiding places
scattered throughout the world.
The
trouble was, all her identities were designed for a sixty-year old woman who
spoke languages that Petra had never learned. "This is absurd," she
told Bean when he handed her the fourth such identity. "No one will
believe this for an instant."
"And
yet they do," said Bean.
"And
I'd like to know why," she retorted. "I think there's more to this
than the paperwork. I think we're getting help every time we pass through an
identity check."
"Sometimes
yes, sometimes no," said Bean.
"But every time you use some connection
of yours to get a security guard to ignore the fact that I do not look old
enough to be this person- "Sometimes, when you haven't had enough
sleep-" "You're too tall to be cute. So give it up."
"Petra. I agree with you," said Bean
at last. "These were all for Sister Carlotta, and you don't look like her,
and we are leaving a trail of favors asked for and favors done. So we need to
separate."
"Two
reasons why that won't happen," said Petra.
"You
mean besides the fact that traveling together was your idea from the beginning?
Which you blackmailed me into because we both know you'd get killed without
me?-which hasn't stopped you from criticizing the way I go about keeping you
alive, I notice."
"The
second reason," Petra said, ignoring his effort to pick a fight, "is
that while we're on the run you can't do anything. And it drives you crazy not
to do anything."
"I'm
doing a lot of things," said Bean.
"Besides
arranging for us to get past stupid security guards with bad ID?"
"Already
I've started two wars, cured three diseases, and written an epic poem. If you
weren't so self-centered you would have noticed."
"You're
such a jack of all trades, Julian."
"Staying
alive isn't doing nothing."
"But
it isn't doing what you want to do with your life," said Petra.
"Staying
alive is all I've ever wanted to do with my life, dear child."
"But
in the end, you're going to fail at that," said Petra.
"Most
of us do. All of us, actually, unless Sister Carlotta and the Christians turn
out to be right."
"You
want to accomplish something before you die."
Bean
sighed. "Because you want that, you think everyone does."
"The
human need to leave something of yourself behind is universal."
"But
I'm not human."
"No,
you're superhuman," she said in disgust. "There's no talking to you,
Bean."
"And
yet you persist."
But
Petra knew perfectly well that Bean felt just as she did-that it wasn't enough
to stay in hiding, going from place to place, taking a bus here, a train there,
a plane to some far-off city, only to start over again in a few days.
The
only reason it mattered that they stay alive was so they could keep their
independence long enough to work against Achilles. Except Bean kept denying
that he had any such motive, and so they did nothing.
Bean
had been maddening ever since Petra first met him in Battle School. He was the
most incredibly tiny little runt then, so precocious he seemed snotty even when
he said good morning, and even after they had all worked with him for years and
had got the true measure of him at Command School, Petra was still the only one
of Ender's jeesh that actually liked Bean.
She
did like him, and not in the patronizing way that older kids take younger ones
under their wing. There was never any illusion that Bean needed protection
anyway. He arrived at Battle School as a consummate survivor, and within
days-perhaps within hours-he knew more about the inner workings of the school
than anyone else. The same was true at Tactical School and Command School, and
during those crucial weeks before Ender joined them on Eros, when Bean
commanded the jeesh in their practice maneuvers.
The
others resented Bean then, for the fact that the youngest of them had been
chosen to lead in Ender's place and because they feared that he would be their
commander always. They were so relieved when Ender arrived, and didn't try to
hide it. It had to hurt Bean, but Petra seemed to be the only one who even
thought about his feelings. Much good that it did him. The person who seemed to
think about Bean's feelings least of them all was Bean himself.
Yet
he did value her friendship, though he only rarely showed it. And when she was
overtaken by exhaustion during a battle, he was the one who covered for her,
and he was the only one who showed that he still believed in her as firmly as
ever. Even Ender never quite trusted her with the same level of assignment that
she had had before. But Bean remained her friend, even as he obeyed Ender's
orders and watched over her in all the remaining battles, ready to cover for
her if she collapsed again.
Bean
was the one she counted on when the Russians kidnapped her, the one she knew
would get the message she hid in an email graphic. And when she was in
Achilles's power, it was Bean who was her only hope of rescue. And he got her
message, and he saved her from the beast.
Bean
might pretend, even to himself, that all he cared about was his own survival,
but in fact he was the most perfectly loyal of friends. Far from acting
selfishly, he was reckless with his own life when he had a cause he believed
in. But he didn't understand this about himself. Since he thought himself
completely unworthy of love, it took him the longest time to know that someone
loved him. He had finally caught on about Sister Carlotta, long before she
died. But he gave little sign that he recognized Petra's feelings toward him.
Indeed, now that he was taller than her, he acted as though he thought of her
as an annoying little sister
And
that really pissed her off.
Yet
she was determined not to leave him-and not because she depended on him for her
own survival, either. She feared that the moment he was completely on his own,
he would embark on some reckless plan to sacrifice his own life to put an end
to Achilles's, and that would be an unbearable outcome, at least to Petra.
Because
she had already decided that Bean was wrong in his belief that he should never
have children, that the genetic alterations that had made him such a genius
should die with him when his uncontrolled growth finally killed him.
On
the contrary, Petra had every intention of bearing his children herself.
Being
in a holding pattern like this, watching him drive himself crazy with his
constant busyness that accomplished nothing important while making him
irritable and irritating, Petra was not so self-controlled as not to snap back
at him. They genuinely liked each other, and so far they had kept their sniping
at a level that both could pretend was only joking, but something had to
change, and soon, or they really would have a fight that made it impossible to
stay together and what would happen to her plans for making Bean's babies then?
What finally got Bean to make a change was when Petra brought up Ender Wiggin.
"What
did he save the human race for?" she said in exasperation one day in the
airport at Darwin. "So he could stop playing the stupid game.
"It
wasn't so Achilles could rule."
"Someday
Achilles will die. Caligula did."
"With help from his friends," Petra
pointed out.
"And
when he dies, maybe somebody better will succeed him. After Stalin, there was
Khrushchev. After Caligula, there was Marcus Aurelius."
"Not
right after. And thirty million died while Stalin ruled."
"So
that made thirty million he didn't rule over any more," said Bean.
Sometimes
he could say the most terrible things. But she knew him well enough by now to
know that he spoke with such callousness only when he was feeling depressed. At
times like that he brooded about how he was not a member of the human species
and the difference was killing him. It was not how he truly felt. "You're
not that cold," she said.
He
used to argue when she tried to reassure him about his humanity. She liked to
think maybe she was accomplishing something, but she feared that he had stopped
answering because he no longer cared what she thought.
"If
I settle into one place," he said, "my chance of staying alive is
nil.”
It
irked her that he still spoke of "my chance" instead of "ours.”
"You
hate Achilles and you don't want him to rule the world and if you're going to
have any chance of stopping him, you have to settle in one place and get to
work."
"All
right, you're so smart, tell me where I'd be safe."
"The
Vatican," said Petra.
"How
many acres in that particular kingdom? How eager are all those cardinals to
listen to an altar boy?"
"All
right then, somewhere within the borders of the Muslim League."
"We're
infidels," said Bean.
"And
they're people who are determined not to fall under the domination of the
Chinese or the Hegemon or anybody else."
"My
point is that they won't want us.”
"My
point is that whether they want us or not, we're the enemy of their
enemy."
"We're
two children, with no army and no information to sell, no leverage at
all."
That
was so laughable that Petra didn't bother answering. Besides, she had finally
won-he was finally talking about where, not whether, he'd settle down and get
to work.
They found themselves in Poland, and after
taking the train from Katowice to Warsaw, they walked together through the
Lazienki, one of the great parks of Europe, with centuries-old paths winding
among giant trees and the saplings already planted to someday replace them.
"Did
you come here with Sister Carlotta?" Petra asked him.
"Once,"
said Bean. "Ender is part Polish, did you know that?"
"Must
be on his mother's side," said Petra. "Wiggin isn't a Polish name.
"It
is when you change it from Wieczorek," said Bean. "Don't you think
Mr. Wiggin looks Polish? Wouldn't he fit in here? Not that nationality means
that much any more."
Petra
laughed at that. "Nationality? The thing people die for and kill for and
have for centuries?"
"No,
I meant ancestry, I suppose. So many people are part this and part that.
Supposedly I'm Greek, but my mother's mother was an Ibo diplomat, so... when I
go to Africa I look quite Greek, and when I go to Greece 1 look rather African.
In my heart I couldn't care less about either."
"You're
a special case, Bean," said Petra. "You never had a homeland."
"Or
a childhood. I suppose," said Bean.
"None
of us in Battle School actually had much experience of either," said
Petra.
"Which
is, perhaps, why so many Battle School kids are so desperate to prove their
loyalty to their birth nation."
That
made sense. "Since we have few roots, the ones we have, we cling to."
She thought of Vlad, who was so fanatically Russian. and Hot Soup-Han Tzu-so
fanatically Chinese, that both of them had willingly helped Achilles when he
seemed to be working for their nation's cause.
"And
no one completely trusts us," said Bean, "because they know our real
nationality is up in space. Our strongest loyalties are to our fellow
soldiers."
"Or
to ourselves," said Petra, thinking of Achilles.
"But
I've never pretended otherwise," said Bean. Apparently he thought she had
meant him.
"You're
so proud of being completely self-centered," said Petra. "And it
isn't even true."
He
just laughed at her and walked on.
Families
and businessmen and old people and young couples in love all strolled through
the park on this unusually sunny autumn afternoon, and in the concert stand a
pianist played a work of Chopin. as had been going on every day for centuries.
As they walked, Petra boldly reached out and took hold of Bean's hand as if
they, too, were lovers, or at least friends who liked to stay close enough to
touch. To her surprise, he did not pull his hand away. Indeed, he gripped her
hand in return, but if she harbored any notion that Bean was capable of
romance, he instantly dispelled it. "Race you around the pond," he
said, and so they did.
But
what kind of race is it, when the racers never let go of each other's hands,
and the winner pulls the loser laughing over the finish line?
No,
Bean was being childish because he had no idea how to go about being manly, and
so it was Petra's job to help him figure it out. She reached out and caught his
other hand and pulled his arms around her, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
Mostly on the chin, because he recoiled a little, but it was a kiss
nonetheless, and after a moment of consternation, Bean's arms pulled her a
little closer and his lips managed to find hers while suffering only a few
minor nose collisions.
Neither
of them being particularly experienced at this, it wasn't as though Petra could
say whether they kissed particularly well. The only other kiss she'd known was
with Achilles, and that kiss had taken place with a gun pressed into her
abdomen. All she could say with certainty was that any kiss from Bean was
better than any kiss from Achilles.
"So
you love me," said Petra softly when the kiss ended.
"I'm
a raging mass of hormones that I'm too young to understand," said Bean.
"You're a female of a closely related species. According to all the best
primatologists, I really have no choice."
"That's
nice," she said, reaching her arms around his back.
"It's
not nice at all," said Bean. "I have no business kissing
anybody."
"I
asked for it," she said.
"I'm
not having children."
"That's
the best plan," she said. "I'll have them for you."
"You
know what I meant," said Bean.
"It
isn't done by kissing, so you're safe so far."
He
groaned impatiently and pulled away from her, paced irritably in a circle, and
then came right back to her and kissed her again. "I've wanted to do that
practically the whole time we've been traveling together"
"I
could tell," she said. "From the way you never gave even the tiniest
sign that you knew I existed, except as an annoyance."
"I've
always had a problem with being too emotionally demonstrative." He held
her again. An elderly couple passed by. The man looked disapproving, as if he
thought these foolish young people should find a more private place for their
kissing and hugging. But the old woman, her white hair held severely by a head
scarf gave him a wink, as if to say, Good for you, young fellow, young girls should
be kissed thoroughly and often.
In
fact, he was so sure that was what she meant to say that he quoted the words to
Petra.
"So
you're actually performing a public service," said Petra.
"To
the great amusement of the public," said Bean.
A
voice came from behind them. "And I assure you the public is amused."
Petra
and Bean both turned to see who it was.
A
young man, but most definitely not Polish. From the look of him, he should be
Burmese or perhaps Thai, certainly from somewhere around the South China Sea.
He had to be younger than Petra, even taking into account the way that people
from Southeast Asia seemed always to look far younger than their years. Yet he
wore the suit and tie of an old-fashioned businessman.
There
was something about him-something in the cockiness of his stance, the amused
way that he took for granted that he had a ringlet to stand within the circle
of their companionship and tease them about something as private as a public
kiss-that told Petra that he had to be from Battle School.
But
Bean knew more about him than that. "Ambul," he said.
Ambul
saluted in that half-sloppy, half-exaggerated style of a Battle School brat,
and answered, "Sir."
"I
gave you an assignment once," said Bean. "To take a certain launchie
and help him figure out how to use his flash suit."
"Which
I carried out perfectly," said Ambul. "He was so funny the first time
I froze him in the battle room, I had to laugh."
"I
can't believe he hasn't killed you by now," said Bean.
"My
uselessness to the Thai government saved me.”
"My
fault, I fear," said Bean.
"Saved
my life, I think," said Ambul.
"Hi,
I'm Petra," said Petra irritably.
Ambul
laughed and shook her hand. "Sorry," he said. "Ambul. I know who
you are, and I assumed Bean would have told you who I was.
"I
didn't think you were coming," said Bean.
"I
don't answer emails," said Ambul. "Except by showing up and seeing if
the email was really from the person it's supposed to be from."
"Oh,"
said Petra, putting things together. "You must be the soldier in Bean's
army who was assigned to show Achilles around."
"Only
he didn't have the foresight to push Achilles out an airlock without a
suit," said Bean. "Which 1 think shows a shameful lack of initiative
on his part."
"Bean
notified me as soon as he found out Achilles was on the loose. He figured there
was no chance I wasn't on Achilles's hit list. Saved my life."
"So
Achilles made a try?" asked Bean.
They
were away from the path now, out in the open, standing on the broad lawn
stretching away from the lake where the pianist played. Only the faintest sound
of the amplified Chopin reached them here.
"Let's
just say that I've had to keep moving," said Ambul.
"Is
that why you weren't in Thailand when the Chinese invaded?" asked Petra.
"No,"
said Ambul. "No, I left Thailand almost as soon as I came home. You see, I
was not like most Battle School graduates. I was in the worst army in the
history of the battle room."
"My
army," said Bean.
"Oh,
come on," said Petra. "You only played, what, five games?"
"We
never won a single one," said Bean. "I was working on training my men
and experimenting with combat techniques and-oh, yes, staying alive with
Achilles in Battle School with us."
"So
they discontinued Battle School, Bean got promoted to Ender's jeesh, and his
soldiers got sent back to Earth with the only perfect no-win record in the
history of Battle School. All the other Thais from Battle School were given
important places in the military establishment. But, oddly enough, they just
couldn't find a thing for me to do except go to public school."
"But
that's simply stupid," said Petra. "What were they thinking?"
"It
kept me nice and obscure," said Ambul. "It gave my family the freedom
to travel out of the country and take me with them- there are advantages to not
being perceived as a valuable national resource.
"So
you weren’t in Thailand when it fell."
"Studying
in London," said Ambul. "Which made it almost convenient to hop over
the North Sea and zip over to Warsaw for a clandestine meeting."
"Sorry,"
said Bean. "I offered to pay your way."
"The
letter might not have been from you," said Ambul. "And whoever sent
it, if I let them buy my tickets, they'd know which planes I was on.
"He
sounds as paranoid as we are," said Petra.
"Same
enemy, said Ambul. "So, Bean, sir; you sent for me, and here I am. Need a
witness for your wedding? Or an adult to sign permission forms for you?"
"What
I need," said Bean, "is a secure base of operations, independent of
any nation or bloc or alliance."
"I
suggest you find a nice asteroid somewhere," said Ambul. "The world
is pretty well divvied up these days."
"I
need people I can trust absolutely," said Bean. "Because at any time
we may find ourselves fighting against the Hegemony."
Ambul
looked at him in surprise. "I thought you were commander of Peter Wiggin's
little army."
"I
was. Now I don't even command a decent hand of pinochle," said Bean.
"He
does have a first-rate executive officer," said Petra. "Me."
"Ah,"
said Ambul. "Now I understand why you called on me. You two officers need
somebody who'll salute you."
Bean
sighed. "I'd appoint you king of Caledonia if I could, but the only
position I can actually offer anybody is friend. And I'm a dangerous friend to
have, these days."
"So
the rumors are true," said Ambul. Petra figured it was about time he put
together the information he was gleaning from this conversation. "Achilles
is with the Hegemony."
"Peter
hoisted him out of China, on his way to prison camp." said Bean.
"Got
to give the Chinese credit, they're no eemos, they knew when to get rid of
him."
"Not
really," said Petra. "They were only sending him into internal exile,
and in a low-security caravan at that. Practically invited rescue.
"And
you wouldn't do it,' asked Ambul. "That's how you got fired?"
"No,"
said Bean. "Wiggin pulled me off the mission at the last minute. Gave
sealed orders to Suriyawong and didn't tell me what they were till he had
already left. Whereupon I resigned and went into hiding."
"Taking
your girl toy with you." said Ambul.
"Actually,
Peter sent me along to keep him under very close surveillance," said
Petra.
"You
seem to be the right person for the job," said Ambul.
"She's
not that good," said Bean. "I've come close to noticing her several
times."
"So,"
said Ambul. "Sun went ahead and hoisted Achilles out of China."
"Of
all the missions to execute flawlessly," said Bean, "Sun had to pick
that one."
"I,
on the other hand," said Ambul, "was never one to obey an order if I
thought it was stupid."
"That's
why I want you to join my completely hopeless operation," said Bean.
"If you get killed, I'll know it's your own fault, and not because you
were obeying my orders."
"I'll
need fedda," said Ambul. "My family isn't rich. And technically I'm
still a kid. Speaking of which, how the hell did you get so much taller than
me?"
"Steroids,"
said Bean.
"And
I stretch him on a rack every night," said Petra.
"For
his own good, I'm sure," said Ambul.
"My
mother told me," said Petra, "that Bean is the kind of boy who has to
grow on you."
Bean
playfully covered her mouth. "Pay no attention to the girl, she's besotted
with love."
"You
two should get married," said Ambul.
"When
I turn thirty," said Bean.
Which,
Petra knew, meant never.
They
had already been out in the open longer than Bean had ever allowed since they'd
gone into hiding. As Bean started telling Ambul what he wanted him to do, they
began to walk toward the nearest exit from the park.
It
was a simple enough assignment-go to Damascus, the headquarters of the Muslim
League, and get a meeting with Alai, one of Ender's closest friends and a
member of Ender's jeesh.
"Oh,"
said Ambul. "I thought you wanted me to do something possible."
"I
can't get any email to him," said Bean.
"Because
as far as I know he's been completely incommunicado ever since the Russians
released him, that time when Achilles kidnapped everybody," said Ambul.
Bean
seemed surprised. "You know this because…”
"Since
my parents took me into hiding," said Ambul, "I've been tapping every
connection I could get, trying to get information about what was happening. I'm
good at networking, bean. Making and keeping friends. I would have been a good
commander, if they hadn't canceled Battle School out from under me.
"So
you already know Alai?" said Petra. "Toguro."
"But
like I said," Ambul repeated, "he's completely incommunicado."
"Ambul,
I need his help," said Bean. "1 need the shelter of the Muslim
League. It's one of the few places on Earth that isn't susceptible to either
Chinese pressure or Hegemony wheedling."
"I,"
said Ambul, "and they achieve that by not letting any non-Muslims within
the circle."
"I
don't want to be in the circle. I don't want to know their secrets."
"Yes
you do," said Ambul. "Because if you aren't, if you don't have their
complete trust, you'll have no power to do anything at all within their
borders. Non-Muslims are officially completely free, but in practical terms,
they can't do anything but shop and play tourist."
"Then
I'll convert," said Bean.
"Don't
even joke about it," said Ambul. "They take their religion very
seriously, and to speak of converting as a joke-"
"Ambul,
we know that," said Petra. "I'm a friend of Alai's, too, but you
notice Bean didn't send me."
Ambul
laughed. "You can't mean that the Muslims would lose respect for Alai if
he let a woman influence him! The full equality of the sexes is one of the six
points that ended the Third Great Jihad."
"You
mean the Fifth World War?" asked Bean.
"The
War for Universal Liberty," said Petra. "That's what they called it
in Armenian schools."
"That's
because Armenia is bigoted against Muslims," said Ambul.
"The
only nation of bigots left on Earth," said Petra ruefully.
"Listen,
Ambul, if it's impossible to get to Alai," said Bean, "I'll just find
something else."
"I
didn't say it was impossible," said Ambul.
"Actually,
that's exactly what you said," Petra said.
"But
I'm a Battle Schooler," said Ambul. "We had classes in doing the
impossible. I got A's."
Bean
grinned. "Yes, but you didn't graduate from Battle School, did you, so
what chance do you have?"
"Who
knew that being assigned to your army in school would ruin my entire
life?" said Ambul.
"Oh,
stop whining," said Petra. "If you'd been a top graduate, now you’d
be in a Chinese reeducation camp.
"See?"
said Ambul. "I'm missing out on all the character-building
experiences."
Bean
handed him a slip of paper. "Go there and you'll find the identity stuff
you need."
"Complete
with holographic ID?" asked Ambul doubtfully.
"It'll
adjust to you the first time you use it. Instructions are with it. I've used
these before."
"Who
does stuff like that?" asked Ambul. "The Hegemony?"
"The
Vatican," said Bean. "These are leftovers from my days with one of
their operatives."
"All
right," said Ambul.
"It'll
get you to Damascus, but it won't get you to Alai. You'll need your real
identity for that."
"No,
I'll need an angel walking before me and a letter of introduction from Mohammed
himself."
"The
Vatican has those," said Petra. "But they only give them to their top
people."
Ambul
laughed, and so did Bean, but the air was thick with tension.
"I'm
asking you for a lot," said Bean.
"And
I don't owe you much," said Ambul.
"You
don't owe me anything," said Bean, "and if you did, I wouldn't try to
collect it. You know why I asked you, and I know why you're doing it."
Petra
knew, too. Bean asked him because he knew Ambul could do it if anyone could.
And Ambul was doing it because he knew that if there was to be any hope of
stopping Achilles from uniting the world under his rule, it would probably
depend on Bean.
"I'm
so glad we came to this park," said Petra to Bean. "So romantic."
"Bean
knows how to show a girl a good time," said Ambul. He spread his arms
wide. "Take a good look. I'm it."
And
then he was gone.
Petra
reached out and took Bean's hand again.
"Satisfied?"
asked Bean.
"More
or less," said Petra. "At least you did something."
"I've
been doing something all along."
"I
know," said Petra.
"In
fact," said Bean, "you're the one who just goes online to shop."
She
chuckled. "Here we are in this beautiful park. Where they keep alive the
memory of a great man. A man who gave unforgettable music to the world. What
will your memorial be?"
"Maybe
two statues. Before and after. Little Bean who fought in Ender's jeesh. Big
Julian who brought down Achilles."
"I
like that," said Petra. "But I have a better idea."
"Name
a colony planet after me?"
"How
about this-they have a whole planet populated by your descendants."
Bean's
expression soured and he shook his head. "Why? To make war against them? A
race of brilliant people who breed as fast as they can because they're going to
die before they're twenty. And every one of them curses the name of their
ancestor because he didn't end this travesty with his own death."
"It's
not a travesty," said Petra. "And what makes you think your...
difference will breed true?"
"You're
right," said Bean, "if I marry a long-lived stupid short girl like
you, my progeny should average out to a bunch of average minds who live to be
seventy and grow to be six feet tall."
"Do
you want to know what I've been doing?" said Petra.
"Not
shopping."
"I've
been talking to Sister Carlotta."
He
stiffened, looked away from her.
"I've
been walking down the paths of her life," said Petra. "Talking to
people she knew. Seeing what she saw. Learning what she learned."
"I
don't want to know," said Bean.
"Why
not? She loved you. Once she found you, she lived for you.
"I
know that," said Bean. "And she died for me. Because I was stupid and
careless. I didn't even need her to come, I just thought I did for a little
while and by the time I found out 1 didn't, she was already in the air, already
heading for the missile that killed her."
"There's
somewhere I want us to go," said Petra. "While we're waiting for
Ambul to pull off his miracle."
"Listen,"
said Bean, "Sister Carlotta already told me how to get in touch with the
scientists who were studying me. Every now and then I write to them and they
tell me how soon they estimate my death will come and how exciting it is, all the
progress they're making in understanding human development and all kinds of
other kuso because of my body and all the little cultures they've got, keeping
my tissues alive. Petra. when you think about it, I'm immortal. Those tissues
will be alive in labs all over the world for a thousand years after I'm dead.
That's one of the benefits of being completely weird."
"I'm
not talking about them," said Petra.
"What,
then? Where do you want to go?"
"Anton,"
she said. "The one who found the key, Anton's Key. The genetic change that
resulted in you."
"He's
still alive?"
"He's
not only alive, he's free. War's over. Not that he's able to do serious
research now. The psychological blocks aren't really removable. He has a hard
time talking about. . . well, at least writing about what happened to
you."
"So
why bother him?"
"Got
anything better to do?"
"I've
always got something better to do than go to Romania."
"But
he doesn't live there," said Petra. "He's in Catalunya."
"You're
kidding."
"Sister
Carlotta's homeland. The town of Matard."
"Why
did he go there?" asked Bean.
"Excellent
weather," said Petra. "Nights on the rambla. Tapas with friends. The
gentle sea lapping the shore. The hot African wind. The breakers of the winter
sea. The memory of Columbus coming to visit the king of Aragon."
"That
was Barcelona."
"Well,
he talked about seeing the place. And a garden designed by Gaudi. Things he
loves to look at. I think he goes from place to place. I think he's very
curious about you."
"So
is Achilles," said Bean.
"I
think that even though he's no longer on the cuffing edge of science, there are
things he knows that he was never able to tell."
"And
still can't."
"It
hurts him to say it. But that doesn't mean he couldn't say it, once, to the
person who most needs to know."
"And
that is?"
"Me,"
said Petra.
Bean
laughed. "Not me?"
"You
don't need to know," said Petra. "You've decided to die. But I need
to know, because I want our children to live."
"Petra,"
said Bean. "I'm not going to have any children. Ever."
"Fortunately,"
said Petra, "the man never does."
She
doubted she could ever persuade Bean to change his mind. With luck, though, the
uncontrollable desires of the adolescent male might accomplish what reasonable
discussion never could. Despite what he thought, Bean was human; and no matter
what species he belonged to, he was definitely a mammal. His mind might say no,
but his body would shout yes much louder
Of
course, if there was any adolescent male who could resist his need to mate, it
was Bean. It was one of the reasons she loved him, because he was the strongest
man she had ever known. With the possible exception of Ender Wiggin, and Ender
Wiggin was gone forever.
She
kissed Bean again, and this time they were both somewhat better at it.
STONES IN THE ROAD
From: PW
To: TV'!
Re: What
are you doing?
What is this housekeeper thing about? I'm not
letting you take a job in the Hegemony, certainly not as a housekeeper. Are you
tying to shame me, making it look like I have my mother on the payroll and (b)
I have my mother working for me as a menial? You already refused the
opportunity I wanted you to take.
From: TV'!
To: PW
Re: a
serpent's tooth
You are always so thoughtful, giving me such
interesting things to do. Touring the colony worlds. Staring at the walls of my
nicely air-conditioned apartment. You do remember that your birth was not
parthenogenetic. You are the only person on God's green earth who thinks I'm
too stupid to be anything but a burden around your neck. But please don't
imagine that I'm criticizing you. I am the image of a perfect, dating mother. I
know how well that plays on the vids. When Virlomi got Suriyawong's message,
she understood at once the danger she was in. But she was almost glad of having
a reason to leave the Hegemon's compound.
She
had been thinking about going for some time, and Suriyawong himself was the
reason. His infatuation with her had become too sad for her to stay much
longer.
She
liked him, of course, and was grateful to him-he was the one who had truly
understood, without being told, how to play the scene so that she could escape
from India under the guns of soldiers who would most certainly have shot down
the Hegemony helicopters. He was smart and funny and good, and she admired the
way he worked with Bean in commanding their fiercely loyal troops, conducting
raid after raid with few casualties and, so far, no loss of life.
Suriyawong
had everything Battle School was designed to give its students. He was bold,
resourceful, quick, brave, smart, ruthless and yet compassionate. And he saw
the world through similar eyes, compared to the westerners who otherwise seemed
to have the Hegemon's ear.
But
somehow he had also fallen in love with her. She liked him too well to shame
him by rebuffing advances he had never made, yet she could not love him. He was
too young for her, too ... what? Too intense about his tasks. Too eager to
please. Too Annoying.
There
it was. His devotion irritated her. His constant attention. His eyes on her
every move. His praise for her mostly trivial achievements.
No,
she had to be fair. She was annoyed at everyone, and not because they did
anything wrong, but because she was out of her place. She was not a soldier. A
strategist, yes, even a leader, but not in combat. There was no one in Ribeiro
Preto who was likely to follow her, and nowhere that she wanted to lead them.
How
could she fall in love with Suriyawong? He was happy in the life he had, and
she was miserable. Anything that made her happier would make him less happy.
What future was there in that?
He
loved her, and so he thought of her on the way back from China with Achilles
and warned her to be gone before he returned. It was a noble gesture on his
part, and so she was grateful to him all over again. Grateful that he had quite
possibly saved her life.
And
grateful that she wouldn't have to see him again.
By
the time Graff arrived to pull people out of Ribeiro Preto, she was gone. She
never heard the offer to go into the protection of the Ministry of
Colonization. But even if she had, she would not have gone.
There
was, in fact, only one place she would even think of going. It was where she
had been longing to go for months. The Hegemony was fighting China from the
outside, but had no use for her. So she would go to India, and do what she
could from inside her occupied country.
Her
path was a fairly direct one. From Brazil to Indonesia, where she connected
with Indian expatriates and obtained a new identity and Sri Lankan papers. Then
to Sri Lanka itself where she persuaded a fishing boat captain to put her ashore
on the southeastern coast of India. The Chinese simply didn't have enough of a
fleet to patrol the shores of India, so the coasts leaked in both directions.
Virlomi
was of Dravidian ancestry, darker-skinned than the Aryans of the north. She fit
in well in this countryside. She wore clothing that was simple and poor,
because everyone's was; but she also kept it clean, so she would not look like
a vagabond or beggar. In fact, however, she was a beggar, for she had no vast
reserves of funds and they would not have helped her anyway. In the great
cities of India there were millions of connections to the nets, thousands of
kiosks where bank accounts could be accessed. But in the countryside, in the
villages-in other words, in India-such things were rare. For this
simple-looking girl to use them would call attention to her, and soon there
would be Chinese soldiers looking for her, full of questions.
So
she went to the well or the market of each village she entered, struck up
conversations with other women, and soon found herself befriended and taken in.
In the cities, she would have had to be wary of quislings and informers, but
she freely trusted the common people, for they knew noting of strategic
importance, and therefore the Chinese did not bother to scatter bribes among
them.
Nor,
however, did they have the kind of hatred of the Chinese that Virlomi had
expected. Here in the south of India, at least, the Chinese ruled lightly over
the common people. It was not like Tibet, where the Chinese had tried to
expunge a national identity and the persecutions had reached down to every
level of society. India was simply too large to digest all at once, and like
the British before them, the Chinese found it easier to rule India by
dominating the bureaucratic class and leaving the common folk alone.
Within
a few days, Virlomi realized that this was precisely the situation she had to
change.
In
Thailand, in Burma, in Vietnam, the Chinese were dealing ruthlessly with
insurgent groups, and still the guerrilla warfare continued. But India
slumbered, as if the people didn't care who ruled them. In fact, of course, the
Chinese were even more ruthless in India than elsewhere-but since all their
victims were of the urban elite, the rural areas felt only the ordinary pain of
corrupt government, unreliable weather, untrustworthy markets, and too much
labor for too little reward.
There
were guerrillas and insurgents, of course, and the people did not betray them.
But they also did not join them, and did not willingly feed them out of their
scant food supply, and the insurgents remained timid and ineffective. And those
that resorted to brigandage found that the people grew instantly hostile and
turned them in to the Chinese at once.
There
was no solidarity. As always before, the conquerors were able to rule India
because most Indians did not know what it meant to live in "India."
They thought they lived in this village or that one, and cared little about the
great issues that kept the cities in turmoil.
I
have no army, thought Virlomi. But I had no army when I fled Hyderabad to
escape Achilles and wandered eastward. I had no plan, except a need to get word
to Petra's friends about where Petra was. Yet when I came to a place where
there was an opportunity, I saw it, I took it, and I won. That is the plan I
have now. To watch, to notice, to act.
For
days, for weeks she wandered, watching everything, loving the people in every
village she stopped at, for they were kind to this stranger, generous with the
next-to-nothing that they had. How can I plot to bring the war to their level,
to disrupt their lives? Is it not enough that they're content? If the Chinese
are leaving them alone, why can't I?
Because
she knew the Chinese would not leave them alone forever. The Middle Kingdom did
not believe in tolerance. Whatever they possessed, they made it Chinese or they
destroyed it. Right now they were too busy to bother with the common people.
But if the Chinese were victorious everywhere, then they would be free to turn
their attention to India. Then the boot would press heavily upon the necks of
the common folk. Then there would be revolt after revolt, riot after riot, but
none of them would succeed. Gandhi's peaceful resistance only worked against an
oppressor with a free press. No, India would revolt with blood and terror, and
with blood and horror China would suppress the revolts, one at a time.
The
Indian people had to be roused from their slumber now, while there were still
allies outside their borders who might help them, while the Chinese were still
overextended and dared not devote too many resources to the occupation.
I
will bring war down on their heads to save them as a nation, as a people, as a
culture. I will bring war upon them while there is a chance of victory, to save
them from war when there is no possible outcome but despair.
It
was pointless, though, to wonder about the morality of what she intended to do,
when she had not yet thought of a way to do it.
It
was a child who gave her the idea.
She
saw him with a bunch of other children, playing at dusk in the bed of a dry
stream. During monsoon season, this stream would be a torrent; now it was just
a streak of stones in a ditch.
This
one child, this boy of perhaps seven or eight, though he might have been older,
his growth stunted by hunger, was not like the other children. He did not join
them in running and shouting, shoving and chasing, and tossing back and forth
whatever came to hand. Virlomi thought at first he must be crippled, but no,
his staggering gait was because he was walking right among the stones of the
streambed, and had to adjust his steps to keep his footing.
Every
now and then he bent over and picked up something. A little later, he would set
it back down.
She
came closer, and saw that what he picked up was a stone, and when he set it
back down it was only a stone among stones.
What
was the meaning of his task, on which he worked so intently, and which had so
little result?
She
walked to the stream, but well behind his path, and watched his back as he
receded into the gathering gloom, bending and rising, bending and rising.
He
is acting out my life, she thought. He works at his task, concentrating, giving
his all, missing out on the games of his playmates. And yet he makes no
difference in the world at all.
Then,
as she looked at the streambed where he had already walked, she saw that she
could easily find his path, not because he left footprints, but because the
stones he picked up were lighter than the others, and by leaving them on the
top, he was marking a wavering line of light through the middle of the
streambed.
It
did not really change her view of his work as meaningless-if anything, it was
further proof. What could such a line possibly accomplish? The fact that there
was a visible result made his labor all the more pathetic, because when the
rains came it would all be swept away, the stones re-tumbled upon each other,
and what difference would it make that for a while, at least, there was a
dotted line of lighter stones along the middle of the streambed?
Then,
suddenly, her view of it changed. He was not marking a line. He was building a
stone wall.
No,
that was absurd. A wall whose stones were as much as a meter apart? A wall that
was never more than one stone high?
A
wall, made of the stones of India. Picked up and set down almost where they had
been found. But the stream was different because the wall had been built.
Is
this how the Great Wall of China had begun? A child marking off the boundaries
of his world?
She
walked back to the village and returned to the house where she had been fed and
where she would be spending the night. She did not speak of the child and the
stones to anyone; indeed, she soon thought of other things and did not think to
ask anyone about the strange boy. Nor did she dream of stones that night.
But
in the morning, when she awoke with the mother and took her two water pitchers
to the public spigot, so she did not have to do that task today, she saw the
stones that had been brushed to the sides of the road and remembered the boy.
She
set down the pitchers at the side of the road, picked up a few stones, and
carried them to the middle of the road. There she set them and returned for
more, arranging them in broken a line right across the road.
Only
a few dozen stones, when she was done. Not a barrier of any kind. And yet it
was a wall. It was as obvious as a monument. She picked up her pitchers and
walked on to the spigot.
As
she waited her turn, she talked with the other women, and a few men, who had
come for the day's water. "1 added to your wall," she said after a
while.
"What
wall?" they asked her
"Across
the road," she said.
"Who
would build a wall across a road?" they asked.
"Like
the ones I've seen in other towns. Not a real wall. Just a line of stones. Haven't
you seen it?"
"I
saw you putting stones out into the road. Do you know how hard we work to keep
it clear?" said one of the men.
"Of
course. If you didn't keep it clear everywhere else," said Virlomi,
"no one would see where the wall was." She spoke as though what she
said were obvious, as though he had surely had this explained to him before.
"Walls
keep things out," said a woman. "Or they keep things in. Roads let
things pass. If you build a wall across, it isn't a road anymore.
"Yes,
you at least understand," said Virlomi, though she knew perfectly well
that the woman understood nothing. Virlomi barely understood it herself, though
she knew that it felt right to her, that at some level below sense it made
perfect sense.
"I
do?" said the woman.
Virlomi
looked around at the others. "It's what they told me in the other towns
that had a wall. It's the Great Wall of India. Too late to keep the barbarian
invaders out. But in every village, they drop stones, one or two at a time, to make
the wall that says, We don't want you here, this is our land, we are free.
Because we can still build our wall."
"But
...it' s only a few stones!" cried the exasperated man who had seen her
building it. "I kicked a few out of my way, but even if I hadn't, the wall
wouldn't have stopped a beetle, let alone one of the Chinese trucks!"
"It's
not the wall," said Virlomi. "It's not the stones. It's who dropped
them, who built it, and why. It's a message. It's ...it's the new flag of
India."
She
was seeing comprehension in some of the eyes around her
"Who
can build such a wall?" asked one of the women.
"Don't
all of you add to it? It's built a stone or two at a time. Every time you pass,
you bring a stone, you drop it there." She was filling her pitchers now.
"Before I carry these pitchers back, I pick up a small stone in each hand.
When I pass over the wall, I drop the stones. That's how I've seen it done in
the other villages with walls."
"Which
other villages?" demanded the man.
"I
don't remember their names," said Virlomi. "I only know that they had
Walls of India. But I can see that none of you knew about it, so perhaps it was
only some child playing a prank, and not a wall after all."
"No,"
said one of the women. "I've seen people add to it before." She
nodded firmly. Even though Virlomi had made up this wall only this morning, and
no one but her had ever added to one, she understood what the woman meant by
the lie. She wanted to be part of it. She wanted to help create this new flag
of India.
"It's
all right, then, for women to do it?" asked one of the women doubtfully.
"Oh.
of course," said Virlomi. "Men are fighters. Women build the
walls."
She
picked up her stones and gripped them between her palms and the jar handles.
She did not look back to see if any of the others also picked up stones. She
knew, from their footfalls, that many of them-perhaps all-were following her,
but she did not look back. When she reached what was left of her wall, she did
not try to restore any of the stones the man had kicked away. Instead she
simply dropped her two stones in the middle of the largest gap in the line.
Then she walked on, still without looking back.
But
she heard a few plunks of stones being dropped into the dusty road.
She
found occasion twice more during the day to walk back for more water, and each
time found more women at the well, and went through the same little drama.
The
next day, when she left the town, she saw that the wall was no longer a few
stones making a broken line. It crossed the road solidly from side to side, and
it was as much as two hands high in places. People made a point of stepping
over it, never walking around, never kicking it. And most dropped a stone or
two as they passed.
Virlomi
went from village to village, each time pretending that she was only passing
along a custom she had seen in other places. In a few places, angry men swept
away the stones, too proud of their well-kept road to catch the vision she
offered. But in those places she simply made, not a wall, hut a pile of stones
on both sides of the road, and soon the village women began to add to her piles
so they grew into sizable heaps of stone, narrowing the road, the stones too
numerous to be kicked or swept out of the way. Eventually they, too, would
become walls.
In
the third week she came for the first time to a village that really did already
have a wall. She did not explain anything to them, for they already knew-the
word was spreading without her intervention. She only added to the wall and
moved quickly on.
It
was still only one small corner of southern India, she knew. But it was
spreading. It had a life of its own. Soon the Chinese would notice. Soon they
would begin tearing down the walls, sending bulldozers to clear the road-or
conscripting Indians to move the stones themselves.
And
when their walls were torn down, or the people were forced to remove their
walls, the real struggle would begin. For now the Chinese would be reaching
down into every village, destroying something that the people wanted to have.
Something that meant "India" to them. That's what the secret meaning
of the wall had been from the moment she started dropping stones to make the
first one.
The
wall existed precisely so that the Chinese would tear it down. And she named
the wall the "flag of India" precisely so that when the people saw
their walls destroyed, they would See and feel the destruction of India. Their
nation. A nation of wall-builders.
And
so, as soon as the Chinese turned their backs, the Indians walking from place
to place would carry stones and drop them in the road, and the wall would grow
again.
What
would the Chinese do about it? Arrest everyone who carried stones? Make stones
illegal? Stones were not a riot. Stones did not threaten soldiers. Stones were
not sabotage. Stones were not a boycott. The walls were easily bypassed or
pushed aside. It caused the Chinese no harm at all.
Yet
it would provoke them into making the Indian people feel the boot of the
oppressor.
The
walls were like a mosquito bite, making the Chinese itch but never bleed. Not
an injury, just an annoyance. But it infected the new Chinese Empire with a
disease. A fatal one, Virlomi hoped.
On
she walked through the heat of the dry season, working her way back and forth,
avoiding big cities and major highways, zigzagging her way northward. Nowhere
did anyone identify her as the inventor of the walls. She did not even hear
rumors of her existence. All the stoles spoke of the wall-building as having
begun somewhere else.
They
were called by many names, these walls. The Flag of India. The Great Indian
Wall. The Wall of Women. Even names that Virlomi had never imagined. The Wall
of Peace. Thc Taj Mahal. The Children of India. The Indian Harvest.
All
the names were poetry to her. All the names said freedom.
HOSPITALITY
From: Ftandres%A-Heg@idl.gov
To: mpp%administrator@prison
. hs. ru
Re: Funds
for HI prisoners
The office of the Hegemon appreciates your
continuing to hold prisoners for crimes against the International Defense
League, despite the lack of funding. Dangerous persons need to continue in
detention for the full term of their sentences. Since IDE policy was to
allocate prisoners according to the size and means of the guardian countries,
as well as the national origin of the prisoners, you may be sure that Romania
does not have more than its fair share of such prisoners. As funds become
available, the costs incurred in prisoner maintenance will be reimbursed on a
pro rata basis.
However, given that the original international
emergency is over, each guardian nation’s courts or prison supervisors may
determine whether the international laws which each IDE prisoner violated is
still in force and conforms with local laws. Prisoners should not be held for
crimes which are no longer crimes, even if the original sentence has not been
fully served.
Categories of laws that may not apply include
research restrictions whose purpose was political rather than defensive. In
particular, the restriction against genetic modification of human embryos was
devised to hold the league together in the face of opposition from Muslim,
Catholic, and other “respect-for-life’ nations, and as quid pro quo for
accepting the restrictions on family size. Prisoners convicted under such laws
should be released without prejudice. However, they are not entitled to
compensation for time served, since they were lawfully found guilty of crimes
and their conviction is not being overturned.
If you have any questions, feel free to ask.
Sincerely,
Achilles de Flandres, Assistant to the Hegemon
When Suriyawong brought Achilles out of China,
Peter knew exactly what he meant to do with Achilles.
He
would study him for as long as he considered him harmless, and then turn him
over to, say, Pakistan for trial.
Peter
had prepared very carefully for Achilles’s arrival. Every computer terminal in
the Hegemony already had shepherds installed, recording every keystroke and
taking snapshots of every text page and picture displayed. Most of this was
discarded after a fairly short time, but anything Achilles did would be kept
and studied, as a way of tracing all his connections and identifying his
networks.
Meanwhile,
Peter would offer him assignments and see what he did with them. There was no
chance that Achilles would, even for a moment, act in the interest of the
Hegemony, but he might be useful if Peter kept him on a short enough tether.
The trick would be to get as much use out of him as possible, learn as much as
possible, but then neutralize him before he could dish up the betrayal he
would, without question, be cooking up.
Peter
had toyed with the idea of keeping Achilles locked up for a while before
actually letting him take part in the operations of the Hegemony. But that sort
of thing was only effective if the subject was susceptible to such human
emotions as fear or gratitude. It would be wasted on Achilles.
So
as soon as Achilles had had a chance to clean up after his flights across the
Pacific and over the Andes, Peter invited him to lunch.
Achilles
came, of course, and rather surprised Peter by not seeming to do anything at
all. He thanked him for rescuing him and for lunch in virtually the same
tone-sincerely but not extravagantly grateful. His conversation was informal,
pleasant, sometimes funny but never seeming to try for humor. He did not bring
up anything about world affairs, the recent wars, why he had been arrested in
China, or even a single question about why Peter had rescued him or what he
planned to do with him now.
He
did not ask Peter if there was going to be a war crimes trial.
And
yet he did not seem to be evading anything at all. It seemed as though Peter
had only to ask what it had been like, betraying India and subverting Thailand
so all of south Asia dropped into his hands like a ripe papaya, and Achilles
would tell several interesting anecdotes about it and then move on to discuss
the kidnapping of the children from Ender’s group at Command School.
But
because Peter did not bring it up, Achilles modestly refrained from talking
about his achievements.
“I
wondered,” said Peter, “if you wanted to take a break from working for world
peace, or if you’d like to lend a hand around here.”
Achilles
did not bat an eye at the bitter irony, but instead he seemed to take Peter’s
words at face value. “I don’t know that I’d be much use,” he said. “I’ve been
something of an orientalist lately, but I’d have to say that the position your
soldiers found me in shows that I wasn’t a very good one.”
“Nonsense,”
said Peter, “everyone makes an error now and then. I suspect your only error
was too much success. Is it Buddhism, Taoism, or Confucianism that teaches that
it is a mistake to do something perfectly? Because it would provoke resentment,
and therefore wouldn’t be perfect after all?”
“I
think it was the Greeks,” said Achilles. ”Perfection arouses the envy of the
gods.”
“Or
the Communists,” said Peter. “Snick off the heads of any blades of grass that
rise higher than the rest of the lawn.”
“If
you think I have any value,” said Achilles, “I’d be glad to do whatever is
within my abilities.”
“Thank
you for not saying ‘my poor abilities,’” said Peter. “We both know you’re a
master of the great game, and I, for one, never intend to try to play
head-to-head against you.”
“I’m
sure you’d win handily,” said Achilles.
“Why
would you think that?” said Peter, disappointed at what seemed, for the first
time, like flattery.
“Because,”
said Achilles, “it’s hard to win when your opponent holds all the cards.”
Not
flattery, then, but a realistic assessment of the situation.
Or.
. . maybe flattery after all, because of course Peter did not hold all the
cards. Achilles almost certainly had plenty of them left, once he was in a
position to get to them.
Peter
found that Achilles could be very charming. He had a sort of reticence about
him. He walked rather slowly-perhaps a habit that originated before the surgery
that fixed his gimp leg-and made no effort to dominate a conversation, though
he was not uncomfortably silent, either. He was almost nondescript. Charmingly
nondescript- was such a thing possible?
Peter
had lunch with him three times a week and each time gave him various
assignments. Peter gave him letterhead and a net identity that anointed him
“Assistant to the Hegemon,” but of course that only meant that, in a world
where the Hegemon’s power consisted of the fading remnants of the unity that
had been forced on the world during the Formic Wars, Achilles had been granted
the shadow of a shadow of power
“Our
authority,” Peter remarked to him at their second lunch, “lies very lightly on
the reins of world government.”
“The
horses seem so comfortable it’s almost as though they were not being guided at
all,” said Achilles, entering into the joke without a smile.
“We
govern so skillfully that we never need to use spurs.”
“Which
is a good thing,” said Achilles. “Spurs being in short supply around here these
days.”
But
just because the Hegemony was very nearly an empty shell in terms of actual
power did not mean there was no real work to do. Quite the contrary. When one
has no power, Peter knew, then the only influence one has comes, not from fear,
but from the perception that one has useful favors to offer. There were plenty
of institutions and customs left over from the decades when the Triumvirate of
Hegemon, Polemarch, and Strategos had governed the human race.
Newly
formed governments in various countries were formed on shaky legal ground; a
visit from Peter was often quite helpful in giving the illusion of legitimacy.
There were countries that owed money to the Hegemony, and since there was no
chance of collecting it, the Hegemon could win favor by making a big deal of
forgiving the accruing interest because of various noble actions on the part of
a government. Thus when Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia rushed aid to Italy,
sending a fleet when Venice was plagued with a flood and an earthquake at the
same time, they were all given amnesty on interest. “Your generous assistance
helps bind the world together, which is all that the Hegemony hopes to
achieve.” It was a chance for the heads of government to get their positive
coverage and face time in the vids.
And
they also knew that as long as it didn’t cost them much, keeping the Hegemony
in play was a good idea, since it and the Muslims were the only groups openly
opposing China’s expansionism. What if China turned out to have ambitions
beyond the empire it had already conquered? What if the world beyond the Great
Wall suddenly had to unite just to survive? Wouldn’t it be good to have a
viable Hegemon ready to assume leadership? And the Hegemon, young as he might
be, was the brother of the great Ender Wiggin, wasn’t he?
There
were lesser tasks to be accomplished, too. Hegemony libraries that needed to
try to secure local funding. Hegemony police stations all over the world whose
archives from the old days needed to stay under Hegemony control even though
all the funding came from local sources. Some nasty things had been done as
part of the war effort, and there were still plenty of people alive who wanted
those archives sealed. Yet there were also powerful people who wanted to make
sure the archives were not destroyed. Peter was very careful not to let
anything uncomfortable come to light from any of the archives-but was not above
letting an uncooperative government know that even if they seized the archive
within their own boundaries, there were other archives with duplicate records
that were under the control of rival nations.
Ah,
the balancing act. And each negotiation, each trade-off, each favor done and
favor asked for, Peter treated very carefully, for it was vital that he always
get more than he gave, creating the illusion in other nations of more influence
and power than he actually had.
For
the more influence and power they believed he had, the more influence and power
he actually had. The reality lagged far behind the illusion, but that’s why it
became all the more important to maintain the illusion perfectly.
Achilles
could be very helpful at that.
And
because he would almost certainly use his opportunities for his own advantage,
letting him have a broad range of action would invite him to expose his plans
in ways that Peter’s spy systems would surely catch. “You won’t catch a fish if
you hold the hook in one hand and the bait in the other. You need to put them
together, and give them a lot of string.” Peter’s father had said this, and
more than once, too, which implied that the poor fellow thought it was clever
rather than obvious. But it was obvious because it was true. To get Achilles to
reveal his secrets, Peter had to give him the ability to communicate with the
outside world at will.
But
he couldn’t make it too easy, either, or Achilles would guess what Peter really
wanted. Therefore Peter, with a great show of embarrassment, put severe
restrictions on Achilles’s access to the nets. “I hope you realize that there’s
too much history for me simply to give you carte blanche,” he explained. “In
time, of course, these restrictions might be lifted, but for now you may write
only messages that pertain directly to your assigned tasks, and all your
requests to send emails will need to he cleared by my office.”
Achilles
smiled. “I’m sure your added sense of safety will more than compensate for the
delays in what I accomplish.”
“I
hope we’ll all stay safe,” said Peter.
This
was about as close as Peter and Achilles came to admitting that their
relationship was that of jailer to prisoner, or perhaps that of a monarch to a
thrice-traitorous courtier.
But
to Peter’s chagrin, his spy systems turned up. . . nothing. If Achilles sent
coded messages to old confederates, Peter could not detect how. The Hegemony
compound was in a broadcast bubble, so that no electronic transmissions could
enter or leave except through the instruments controlled and monitored by
Peter.
Was
it possible that Achilles was not even attempting to contact the network of
contacts he had been using during his astonishing (and, with luck, permanently
terminated) career?
Maybe
all his contacts had been burned by one betrayal or another. Certainly
Achilles’s Russian network had to have given up on him in disgust. His Indian
and Thai contacts were obviously useless now. But wouldn’t he still have some
kind of network in place in Europe and the Americas?
Did
he already have someone within the Hegemony who was his ally? Someone who was
sending messages for him, bringing him information, carrying out his errands?
At
that point Peter could not help but remember his mother’s actions back when
Achilles first arrived. It began during Peter’s first meeting with him, when
the head custodian of all the compound buildings reported to him that Mrs.
Wiggin had attempted at first simply to take a key to Achilles’s room, and when
she was caught at it, to ask for and finally demand it. Her excuse, she said,
was that she had to make sure the empregadas had done a better job cleaning the
room of such an important guest than they did on her house.
When
Peter emailed her a query about her behavior, she got snippy. Mother had long
been frustrated by the fact that she was unable to do any meaningful work. In
vain did he point out that she could continue her researches and writing, and
consult with colleagues by email, as many in her field did by preference. She
kept insisting that she wanted to be involved in Hegemony affairs. “Everyone
else is,” she said. Peter had interpreted this housekeeping venture as more of
the same.
Now
her actions offered a different possible meaning. Was she trying to leave a
message for Achilles? Was she on a more definite errand, like sweeping the room
for bugs? That was absurd-what did Mother know of electronic surveillance?
Peter
watched the vid of Mother’s attempt to steal the key, and her attitude during
the confrontation with the empregada who caught her and, after a short time,
the housekeeper. Mother was imperious, demanding, impatient.
He
had never seen this side of her.
The
second time he watched the scene, though, he realized that from the beginning
she was tense. Upset. Whatever she was doing, she wasn’t used to it. Was
reluctant to do it. And when she was confronted, she was not reacting honestly,
as Mother normally would. She instead seemed to become someone else. The cliché
of the mother of a ruler, vain about her close association with his power.
She
was acting.
And
acting quite well, since the housekeeper and empregada believed the
performance, and Peter had believed it, too, on the first viewing.
It
had never occurred to him that Mother might be good at acting.
So
good that the only way he knew that it was an act was because she had never
shown him the slightest sign of being impressed by his power, or of enjoying it
in any way. She had always been irritated by the things that his position
required her and Father to do.
What
if the Theresa Wiggin on this vid was the real Theresa Wiggin, and the one he
had seen at home for all these years was the act- the performance, literally,
of a lifetime?
Was
it possible that Mother was somehow involved with Achilles? Had he corrupted
her somehow? It might have happened a year ago, or even earlier. It certainly
wouldn’t have been a bribe. But perhaps it was extortion that turned her. A
threat from Achilles: I can kill your son at any time, so you’d better
cooperate with me.
But
that was absurd, too. Now that Achilles was in Peter’s power, why would she
continue to fear such a threat? It was something else.
Or
nothing else. It was unthinkable that Mother could be betraying him for any
reason. She would have told him. Mother was like a child that way, showing
everything-excitement, dismay, anger, disappointment, surprise-the moment she
felt it, saying whatever came to mind. She could never sustain a secret like
that. Peter and Valentine used to laugh about how obvious Mother was in
everything she did-they had never yet been surprised by their birthday and
Christmas gifts, not by the main gift, anyway, because Mother just couldn’t
keep a secret, she kept letting hints slip out.
Or
was that, too, an act?
No,
no, that would be madness, that would imply that Mother had been acting his
whole life, and why would she do that?
It
made no sense, and he had to make sense of it. So he invited his father to his
office.
“What
did you want to see me about, Peter?” asked Father, standing near the door.
“Sit
down, Dad, for heaven’s sake, you’re standing there like a junior employee
expecting to be sacked.”
“Laid
off, anyway,” said Father with a thin smile. “Your budget shrinks month by
month.”
“I
thought we’d solve that by printing our own money,” said Peter.
“Good
idea,” said Father. “A sort of international money that could be equally
worthless in every country, so that it becomes the benchmark against which all
other currencies are weighed. The dollar is worth a hundred billion
‘hedges’-that’s a good name for it, don’t you think? The ‘hedge’?-and the yen
is worth twenty trillion, and so on.”
“That’s
assuming that we could keep the value just above zero, said Peter. “The
computers would all crash if it ever became truly worthless.”
“But
here’s the danger,” said Father. “What if it accidentally became worth
something? It might cause a depression as other currencies actually fell
against the hedge.”
Peter
laughed.
“We’re
both busy,” said Father. “What did you want to see me about?”
Peter
showed him the vid.
Father
shook his head through most of it. “Theresa, Theresa,” he murmured at the end.
“What
is she trying to do?” asked Peter.
“Well,
obviously, she’s figured out a way to kill Achilles and it requires getting
into his room. Now she’ll have to think of another way.”
Peter
was astounded. “Kill Achilles? You can’t be serious.”
“Well,
I can’t think of any other reason for her to be doing this. You don’t think she
actually cares if his room is clean, do you? More likely she’d carry a
basketful of roaches and disease-carrying lice into the room.”
“She
hates him? She never said anything about that.”
“To
you,” said Father
“So
she’s told you she wants to kill him?”
“Of
course not. If she had, I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you. I don’t betray her
confidences. But since she hasn’t seen fit to tell me what’s going on, I’m
perfectly free to give you my best guess, and my best guess is that Theresa has
decided that Achilles poses a danger to you-not to mention the whole human
race-and so she’s decided to kill him. It really makes sense, once you know how
your mother thinks.”
“Mother
doesn’t even kill spiders.”
“Oh,
she kills them just fine when you and I aren’t there. You don’t think she
stands in the middle of the room and goes eek-eekeek until we come home, do
you?”
“You’re
telling me that my mother is capable of murder?”
“Preemptive
assassination,” said Father. “And no, I don’t think she’s capable of it. But I
think she thinks she’s capable of it.” He thought for a moment. “And she might
be right. The female of the species is more deadly than the male, as they say.”
“That
makes no sense,” said Peter.
“Well,
then, I guess you wasted your time and mine bringing me down here. I’m probably
wrong anyway. There’s probably a much more rational explanation. Like.., she
really cares how well the maids do their work. Or... she’s hoping to have a
love affair with a serial killer who wants to rule the world.”
“Thanks,
Father,” said Peter. “You’ve been very helpful. Now I know that I was raised by
an insane woman and I never knew it.”
“Peter,
my boy, you don’t know either of us.”
“What’s
that supposed to mean?”
“You
study everybody else, but your mother and I are like air to you: you just
breathe us without noticing we’re there. But that’s all right, that’s how
parents are supposed to be in their children’s lives. Unconditional love, right?
Don’t you suppose that’s the difference between Achilles and you? That you had
parents who loved you, and he didn’t?”
“You
loved Ender and Valentine,” said Peter. It slipped out before he realized what
he was saying.
“And
not you?” said Father. “Oh. My mistake. I guess there is no difference between
your upbringing and Achilles’s. Too bad, really. Have a nice day, son!”
Peter
tried to call him back, but Father pretended not to have heard him and went on
his way, whistling the Marseillaise, of all things.
All
right, so his suspicions of Mother were absurd, though Father had a twisted way
of saying so. What a clever family he had, everybody always making a puzzle or
a drama out of everything. Or a comedy. That’s what he’d just played out with
his father, wasn’t it? A farce. An absurdity.
If
Achilles had a collaborator here, it was probably not Peter’s parents. Who
else, then? Should he make something of the way Achilles and Suriyawong
consulted? But he’d watched the vids of their occasional lunches and they said
nothing beyond ordinary chat about the things they were working on. If there
was a code it was a very subtle one. It’s not even like they were friends-the
conversation was always rather stiff and formal, and if anything bothered Peter
about them, it was the way Suriyawong always seemed to phrase things in a
subservient way.
He
certainly never acted subservient to Bean or to Peter.
That
was something to think about, too. What had really passed between Sun and
Achilles during the rescue and the return to Brazil?
What
silliness, Peter told himself. If Achilles has a confederate, they doubtless
communicate through dead drops and coded messages in emails or something like
that. Spy stuff.
Not
dumb attempts to break into Achilles’s room-Achilles surely would not stake his
life on confederates as dumb as that. And Suriyawong how could Achilles
possibly hope to corrupt him? It’s not as if Achilles had influence in the
Chinese empire now, so he could use Sun’s family as hostages.
No,
Peter would have to keep looking, keep the electronic surveillance going, until
he found out what Achilles was doing to subvert Peter’s work-or take it over.
What
was not possible was that Achilles had simply given up on his ambitions and was
now trying to make a place for himself in the bright future of a world united
under the rule of Peter Wiggin.
But
wouldn’t it be nice if he had.
Maybe
it was time to give up on learning anything from Achilles, and start setting
him up for destruction.
THE HUMAN RACE
From: unreody%cincinnotus@anon.set
To: Demosthenes%Tecumseh@freeamerica
org
Re: Ill
help you
So, Mr. Wonderboy Hegemon, now that you’re no
longer Demosthenes of “freeamerica.org”, is there any good reason why my
telling you what I see from the sky wouldn’t be treason?
From: Demosthenes%Tecumseh@freeamerica.org
To: unready%cincinnatus@anon.set
Re: Because
. .
Because only the Hegemony is actually doing
anything about China, or actively trying to get Russia and the Warsaw Pact out
of bed with Beijing.
From: unready%cincinnatus@anon.set
To: Demosthenes%Tecumseh@freeamerica
org
Re: Bullshit
We saw your little army pull somebody out of a
prisoner convoy on a highway in China. If that was who we think it was no way
are you ever seeing anything from me again. My info doesn’t go to psycho
megalomaniacs. Except you, of course.
From Demosthenes%Tecumseb@freeamerica .org
To: unready%cincinnatus@anon.set
Re: Good
call
Good call. Not safe. Here’s what. If there’s
something you should know because you can’t act and I can, deaddrop it to my
former cinc at a weblink that will come to you from IComeAnon. He’ll know what
to do with it. He isn’t working for me any more for the same reason you’re not
helping. But he’s still on our side-and, fyi, I’M still on our side, too.
Professor Anton had no laboratory and no
library. There was no professional journal in his house, nothing to show he had
ever been a scientist. Bean was not surprised. Back when the DL was hunting
down anyone doing research into altering the human genome, Anton was considered
the most dangerous of men. He had been served with an order of inhibition,
which meant that for many years he bore within his brain a device that, when he
tried to concentrate on his area of study, he would have a panic attack. He had
the strength, once, to hint to Sister Carlotta more than he should have about
Bean’s condition. But otherwise, he had been shut down in the prime of his
career.
Now
the order of inhibition had been lifted, but too late. His brain had been trained
to avoid thinking deeply about his area of specialization. There was no going
back for him.
“Not
a problem,” said Anton. “Science goes on without me. For instance, there’s a
new bacterium in my lung that undoes my cancer, bit by bit. I can’t smoke any
more, or the cancer grows faster than the bacteria can undo it. But I’m getting
better, and they didn’t have to take out my lungs to do it. Walk with me-I
actually enjoy walking now.”
They
followed him through the garden to the front gate. In Brazil, the gardens were
in the front of the house, so passersby could see over the front wall and the
greenery and flowers could decorate the street. In Catalunya, as in Italy. the
gardens were hidden away in a central courtyard, and the street got no gift but
plaster walls and heavy wooden doors. Bean had not realized how much he had
come to regard Ribeirao Preto as his home, but he missed it now, walking down
the charming yet unrelentingly lifeless street.
Soon
they reached the rambla, the broad central avenue that in all the coastal towns
led down the slope of the city toward the sea. It was nearing noon, and the
rambla was busy with people on errands. Anton pointed out shops and other
buildings, telling them about the people who owned them or who worked there or
lived there.
“I
see you’ve become quite involved in the life of this city,” said Petra.
“Superficially,”
said Anton. “An old Russian, long exited in Romania, I’m a curiosity. They talk
to me, but not about things that matter in their soul.”
“So
why not go back to Russia?” asked Bean.
“Ah,
Russia. So many things about Russia. Just to remember them brings back the
glorious days of my career, when I was gambling about inside the nucleus of the
human cell like a happy little lamb. But you see, those thoughts make me start
to panic a little. So. . . I don’t go where I get reminded.”
“You’re
thinking about it now,” said Bean.
“No,
I’m saying words about it,” said Anton. “And besides, if I didn’t intend to
think about it, I wouldn’t have consented to see you.”
“And
yet,” said Bean, “you seem unwilling to look at me.”
“Ah,
well,” said Anton. “If I keep you in my peripheral vision, if I don’t think
about thinking about you. . you are the one fruit that my tree of theory bore.”
“There
were more than a score of us,” said Bean. “But the others were murdered.”
“You
survived,” said Anton. “The others didn’t. Why was that, do you think?”
“I
hid in a toilet tank.”
“Yes,
yes,” said Anton, “so I gleaned from Sister Carlotta, God rest her soul. But
why did you, and you alone, sneak out of your bed and go into the bathroom and
hide in such a dangerous and difficult place? Scarcely a year old, too. So
precocious. So desperate to survive. Yet genetically identical to all your
brothers, da?”
“Cloned,”
said Bean, “so . . . Yes.”
“It
is not all genetics, is it?” said Anton. “It is not all anything. So much left
to learn. And you are the only teacher”
“I
don’t know anything about that. I’m a soldier.”
“It
is your body that would teach us. And every cell inside it.”
“Sorry,
but I’m still using them,” said Bean.
“As
I’m still using my mind,” said Anton, “even though it won’t go where I most
want it to take me.”
Bean
turned to Petra. “Is that why you brought me here? So Professor Anton could see
what a big boy I’ve become?”
“No,”
said Petra.
“She
brought you here,” said Anton, “so I can persuade you that you are human.”
Bean
sighed, though what he wanted to do was walk away, get a cab to the airport,
fly to another country, and be alone. Be away from Petra and her demands on
him.
“Professor
Anton,” said Bean, “I’m quite aware that the genetic alteration that produced
my talents and my defects is well within the range of normal variation of the
human species. I know that there is no reason to suppose that I could not
produce viable offspring if I mated with a human woman. Nor is my trait
necessarily dominant-I might have children with it, I might have children
without. Now can we simply enjoy our walk down to the sea?”
“Ignorance
is not a tragedy,” said Anton, “merely an opportunity. But to know and refuse
to know what you know, that is foolishness.”
Bean
looked at Petra. She was not meeting his gaze. Yes, she certainly knew how
annoyed he was, and yet she refused to cooperate with him in exiting the
situation.
I
must love her, thought Bean. Otherwise I would have nothing to do with her, the
way she thinks she knows better than I do what’s good for me. We have it on
record-I’m the smartest person in the world. So why are so many other people
eager to give me advice?
“Your
life is going to be short,” said Anton. “And at the end, there will be pain,
physical and emotional. You will grow too large for this world, too large for
your heart. But you have always been too large of mind for an ordinary life,
da? You have always been apart. A stranger. Human by name, but not truly a
member of the species, excluded from all clubs.”
Till
now, Anton’s words had been mere irritants, floating past him like falling
leaves. Now they struck him hard, with a sudden rush of grief and regret that
left him almost gasping. He could not help the hesitation, the change of stride
that showed the others that these words had suddenly begun to affect him. What
line had Anton crossed? Yet he had crossed it.
“You
are lonely,” said Anton. “And humans are not designed to be alone. It’s in our
genes. We’re social beings. Even the most introverted person alive is
constantly hungry for human association. You are no exception Bean.”
There
were tears in his eyes, but Bean refused to acknowledge them. He hated
emotions. They took control of him, weakened him.
“Let
me tell you what I know,” said Anton. “Not as a scientist- that road may not be
utterly closed to me, but it’s mostly washed out, and full of ruts, and I don’t
use it. But my life as a man, that door is still open.”
“I’m
listening,” said Bean.
“I
have always been as lonely as you,” he said. “Never as intelligent, but not a
fool, either. I followed my mind into my work, and let it be my life. I was
content with that, partly because I was so successful that my work brought
great satisfaction, and partly because I was of a disposition not to look upon
women with desire.” He smiled wanly. “In that era, of my youth, the governments
of most countries were actively encouraging those of us whose mating instinct
had been short-circuited to indulge those desires and take no mate, have no
children. Part of the effort to funnel all of human endeavor into the great
struggle with the alien enemy. So it was almost patriotic of me to indulge
myself in fleeting affairs that meant nothing, that led nowhere. Where could
they lead?”
This
is more than I want to know about you, thought Bean. It has nothing to do with
me.
“I
tell you this,” said Anton, “so you understand that I know something of
loneliness, too. Because all of a sudden my work was taken away from me. From
my mind, not just from my daily activities. I could not even think about it.
And I quickly discovered that my friendships were not. . . transcendent. They
were all tied to my work, and when my work went away, so did these friends.
They were not unkind, they still inquired after me, they made overtures, but
there was nothing to say, our minds and hearts did not really touch at any
point. I discovered that I did not know anybody, and nobody knew me.
Again,
that stab of anguish in Bean’s heart. This time, though, he was not unprepared,
and he breathed a little more deeply and took it in stride.
“I
was angry, of course, as who would not be?” said Anton. “And do you know what I
wanted?”
Bean
did not want to say what he immediately thought of: death.
“Not
suicide, never that. My life wish is too strong, and I was not depressed. I was
furious. Well, no, I was depressed, but I knew that killing myself would only
help my enemies-the government-accomplish their real purpose without having had
to dirty their hands. No, I did not wish to die. What I wanted, with all my
heart, was. . . to begin to live.”
“Why
do I feel a song coming on?” said Bean. The sarcastic words slipped out of him
unbidden.
To
his surprise, Anton laughed. “Yes, yes, it’s such a cliché that it should be
followed by a love song, shouldn’t it? A sentimental tune that tells of how I
was not alive until I met my beloved, and now the moon is new, the sea is blue,
the month is June, our love is true.”
Petra
burst out laughing. “You missed your calling. The Russian Cole Porter”
“But
my point was serious,” said Anton. “When a man’s life is bent so that his
desire is not toward women, it does not change his longing for meaning in his
life. A man searches for something that will outlast his life. For immortality
of a kind. For a way to change the world, to have his life matter. But it is
all in vain. I was swept away until I existed only in footnotes in other men’s
articles. It all came down to this, as it always does. You can change the
world-as you have, Bean, Julian Delphiki-you and Petra Arkanian, both of you,
all those children who fought, and the ones who did not fight, all of you-you
changed the world. You saved the world. All of humanity is your progeny. And
yet. .. it is empty, isn’t it? They didn’t take it away from you the way they
took my work from me. But time has taken it away. It’s in the past, and yet you
are still alive, so what is your life for?”
They
were at the stone steps leading down into the water Bean wanted simply to keep
going, to walk into the Mediterranean, down and down, until he found old
Poseidon at the bottom of the sea, and deeper, to the throne of Hades. What is
my life for?
“You
found purpose in Thailand,” said Anton. “And then saving Petra, that was a
purpose. But what did you save her for? You have gone to the lair of the dragon
and carried off the dragon’s daughter- for that is what the myth always means,
when it doesn’t mean the dragon’s wife-and now you have her, and. . you refuse
to see what you must do, not to her, but with her”
Bean
turned to Petra with weary resignation. “Petra, how many letters did it take to
make clear to Anton precisely what you wanted him to say to me?”
“Don’t
leap to conclusions, foolish boy,” said Anton. “She only wanted to find out if
there was any way to correct your genetic problem. She did not speak to me of
your personal dilemma. Some of it I learned from my old friend Hyrum Graff.
Some of it I knew from Sister Carlotta. And some of it I saw simply by looking
at the two of you together. You both give off enough pheromones to fertilize
the eggs of passing birds.”
“I
really don’t tell our business to others,” said Petra.
“Listen
to me, both of you. Here is the meaning of life: for a man to find a woman, for
a woman to find a man, the creature most unlike you, and then to make babies
with her, with him, or to find them some other way, but then to raise them up,
and watch them do the same thing, generation after generation, so that when you
die you know you are permanently a part of the great web of life. That you are
not a loose thread, snipped off.”
“That’s
not the only meaning of life,” said Petra. sounding a little annoyed. Well,
thought Bean, you brought us here, so take your medicine, too.
“Yes
it is,” said Anton. “Do you think I haven’t had time to think about this? I am
the same man, with the same mind, I am the man who found Anton’s Key, I have
found many other keys as well, but they took away my work, and I had to find
another. Well, here it is. I give it to you, the result of all my. . . study.
Shallow as it had to be, it is still the truest thing I ever found. Even men
who do not desire women, even women who do not desire men, this does not exempt
them from the deepest desire of all, the desire to be an inextricable part of
the human race.”
“We’re
all part of it no matter what we do,” said Bean. “Even those of us who aren’t
actually human.”
“It’s
hardwired into all of us. Not just sexual desire-that can be twisted any which
way, and it often is. And not just a desire to have children, because many
people never get that, and yet they can still he woven into the fabric. No,
it’s a deep hunger to find a person from that strange, terrifyingly other sex
and make a life together. Even old people beyond mating, even people who know
they can’t have children, there’s still a hunger for this. For actual marriage,
two unlike creatures becoming, as best they can, one.”
“I
know a few exceptions,” said Petra wryly. “I’ve known a few people of the
‘never-again’ persuasion.”
“I’m
not talking about politics or hurt feelings,” said Anton. “I’m talking about a
trait that the human race absolutely needed to succeed. The thing that makes us
neither herd animals nor solitaries, but something in between. The thing that
makes us civilized or at least civilizable. And those who are cut off from it
by their own desires, by those twists and bends that turn them in another
way-like you, Bean, so determined are you that no more children will be born
with your defect, and that there will be no children orphaned by your death-
those who are cut off because they think they want to be cut off, they are
still hungry for it, hungrier than ever, especially if they deny it. It makes
them angry, bitter, sad, and they don’t know why, or if they know, they can’t
bear to face the knowledge.”
Bean
did not know or care whether Anton was right, that this desire was inescapable
for all human beings, though he suspected that he was-that this life wish had
to be present in all living things for any species to continue as they all
desperately struggled to do. It isn’t a will to survive-that is selfish, and
such selfishness would be meaningless, would lead to nothing. It is a will for
the species to survive with the self inside it, part of it, tied to it, forever
one of the strands in the web-Bean could see that now.
“Even
if you’re right,” Bean said, “that only makes me more determined to overcome
that desire and never have a child. For the reasons you just named. I grew up
among orphans. I’m not going to leave any behind me.
“They
wouldn’t be orphans,” said Petra. “They’d still have me.”
“And
when Achilles finds you and kills you?” said Bean harshly. “Are you counting on
him being merciful enough to do what Volescu did for my brothers? What I
cheated myself out of by being so damned smart?”
Tears
leapt to Petra’s eyes and she turned away.
“You’re
a liar when you speak like that,” said Anton softly. “And a cruel one, to say
such things to her.”
“I
told the truth,” said Bean.
“You’re
a liar,” said Anton, “but you think you need the lie so you won’t let go of it.
I know what these lies are-I kept my sanity by fencing myself about with lies,
and believing them. But you know the truth. If you leave this world without
your children in it, without having made that bond with such an alien creature
as a woman, then your life will have meant nothing to you, and you’ll die in
bitterness and alone.”
“Like
you,” said Bean.
“No,”
said Anton. “Not like me.”
“What,
you’re not going to die? Just because they reversed the cancer doesn’t mean
something else won’t get you in the end.”
“No,
you mistake me,” he said. “I’m getting married.”
Bean
laughed. “Oh, I see. You’re so happy that you want everyone to share your
happiness.”
“The
woman I’m going to marry is a good woman, a kind one. With small children who
have no father. I have a pension now-a generous one-and with my help these
children will have a home. My proclivities have not changed, but she is still
young enough, and perhaps we will find a way for her to bear a child that is
truly my own. But if not, then I will adopt her children into my heart. I will
rejoin the web. My loose thread will he woven in, knotted to the human race. I
will not die alone.”
“I’m
happy for you,” said Bean, surprised at how bitter and insincere he sounded.
“Yes”
said Anton, “I’m happy for myself. This will make me miserable, of course. I
will be worried about the children all the time-I already am. And getting along
with a woman is hard even for men who desire them. Or perhaps especially for
them. But you see, it will all mean something.”
“I
have work of my own to do,” said Bean. “The human race faces an enemy almost as
terrible, in his own way, as the Formics ever were. And I don’t think Peter
Wiggin is up to stopping him. In fact it looks to me as if Peter Wiggin is on
the verge of losing everything to him, and then who will be left to oppose him?
That’s my work. And if I were selfish and stupid enough to marry my widow and
father orphans on her, it would only distract me from that work. If I fail,
welt, how many millions of humans have already been born and died as loose
threads with their lives snipped off? Given the historical rates of infant
mortality, it might be as many as halt certainly at least a quarter of all
humans born. All those meaningless lives. I’ll be one of them. I’ll just be one
who did his best to save the world before he died.”
To
Bean’s surprise-and horror-Anton flung his arms around him in one of those
terrifying Russian hugs from which the unsuspecting westerner thinks he may
never emerge alive. “My boy, you are so noble!” Anton let go of him, laughing.
“Listen to yourself! So full of the romance of youth! You will save the world!”
“I
didn’t mock your dream,” said Bean.
“But
I’m not mocking you!” cried Anton. “I celebrate you! Because you are, in a way,
a small way, my son. Or at least my nephew. And look at you! Living a life
entirely for others!”
“I’m
completely selfish!” cried Bean in protest.
“Then
sleep with this girl, you know she’ll let you! Or marry her and then sleep with
anybody else, father children or not, why should you care? Nothing that happens
outside your body matters. Your children don’t matter to you! You’re completely
selfish!”
Bean
was left with nothing to say.
“Self-delusion
dies hard,” said Petra softly, slipping her hand into his.
“I
don’t love anybody,” said Bean.
“You
keep breaking your heart with the people you love,” said Petra. “You just can’t
ever admit it until they’re dead.”
Bean
thought of Poke. Of Sister Carlotta.
He
thought of the children he never meant to have. The children that he would make
with Petra, this girl who had been such a wise and loyal friend to him, this
woman whom, when he thought he might lose her to Achilles, he realized that he
loved more than anyone else on Earth. The children he kept denying, refusing to
let them exist because ...
Because
he loved them too much, even now, when they did not exist, he loved them too
much to cause them the pain of losing their father, to risk them suffering the
pain of dying young when there was no one who could save them.
The
pain he could bear himself he refused to let them bear, he loved them so much.
And
now he had to stare the truth in the face: What good would it do to love his
children as much as he already did, if he never had those children?
He
was crying, and for a moment he let himself go, shedding tears for the dead
women he had loved so much, and for his own death, so that he would never see
his children grow up, so he would never see Petra grow old beside him, as women
and men were meant to do.
Then
he got control of himself, and said what he had decided, not with his mind, but
with his heart. “If there’s some way to be sure that they don’t have-that they
won’t have Anton’s Key. Then I’ll have children. Then I’ll marry Petra.”
She
felt her hand tighten in his. She understood. She had won.
“Easy,”
said Anton. “Still just the tiniest bit illegal, but it can be done.”
Petra
had won, but Bean understood that he had not lost. No, her victory was his as
well.
“It
will hurt,” said Petra. “But let’s make the most of what we have, and not let
future pain ruin present happiness.”
“You’re
such a poet,” murmured Bean. But then he flung one arm over Anton’s shoulders,
and another around Petra’s back, and held to both of them as his blurring eyes
looked out over the sparkling sea.
Hours later, after dinner in a little Italian
restaurant with an ancient garden, after a walk along the rambla in the noisy
frolicking crowds of townspeople enjoying their membership in the human race
and celebrating or searching for their mates, Bean and Petra sat in the parlor
of Anton’s old-fashioned home, his fiancée shyly sifting beside him, her
children asleep in the back bedrooms.
“You
said it would he easy,” said Bean. “To be sure my children wouldn’t be like
me.”
Anton
looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes,” he finally said. “There is one man who not
only knows the theory, but has done the work. Nondestructive tests in newly
formed embryos. It would mean fertilization in vitro.”
“Oh
good,” said Petra. “A virgin birth.”
“It
would mean embryos that could be implanted even after the father is dead,” said
Anton.
“You
thought of everything, how sweet,” said Bean.
“I’m
not sure you want to meet him,” said Anton.
“We
do,” said Petra. “Soon.”
“You
have a bit of history with him, Julian Delphiki.” said Anton.
“I
do?” asked Bean.
“He
kidnapped you once,” said Anton. “Along with nearly two dozen of your twins.
He’s the one who turned that little genetic key they named for me. He’s the one
who would have killed you if you hadn’t hid in a toilet.”
“Volescu,”
said Petra, as if the name were a bullet to be pried out of her body.
Bean
laughed grimly. “He’s still alive?”
“Just
released from prison,” said Anton. “The laws have changed. Genetic alteration
is no longer a crime against humanity.”
“Infanticide
still is,” said Bean. “Isn’t it?”
“Technically,”
said Anton, “under the law it can’t be murder when the victims had no legal
right to exist. I believe the charge was ‘tampering with evidence.’ Because the
bodies were burned.”
“Please
tell me,” said Petra, “that it isn’t perfectly legal to murder Bean.”
“You
helped save the world between then and now,” said Anton. “I think the politics
of the situation would be a little different now.”
“What
a relief,” said Bean.
“So
this non-murderer, this tamperer with evidence,” said Petra. “I didn’t know you
knew him.”
“I
didn’t-I don’t,” said Anton. “I’ve never met him, but he’s written to me. Just
a day before Petra did, as a matter of fact. I don’t know where he is. But I
can put you in touch with him. You’ll have to take it from there.”
“So
I finally get to meet the legendary Uncle Constantine,” said Bean. “Or, as
Father calls him-when he wants to irritate Mother- ‘My bastard brother.’”
“How
did he get out of jail, really?” asked Petra.
“I
only know what he told me. But as Sister Carlotta said, the man’s a liar to the
core. He believes his own lies. In which ease, Bean, he might think he’s your
father. He told her that he cloned you and your brothers from himself.”
“And you think he should help us have
children?” asked Petra.
“I
think if you want to have children without Bean’s little problem, he’s the only
one who can help you. Of course, many doctors can destroy the embryos and tell
you whether they would have had your talents and your curse. But since my
little key has never been turned by nature, there’s no nondestructive test for
it. And in order to get anyone to develop a test, you would have to subject
yourself to examination by doctors who would regard you as a career-making
opportunity. Volescu’s biggest advantage is he already knows about you, and
he’s in no position to brag about finding you.”
“Then give us his email,” said Bean. “We’ll go
from there.”
TARGETS
From Betterman%CroMagnon@HomeAddress.com FREE
email! Sign up a friend!]
To: Humble%Assistant@HomeAddress.com
UESUS loves you! ChosenOnes.0rg]
Re: Thanks
for your help
Dear Anonymous Benefactor,
I may have been in prison but I wasn’t biding
under a rock. I know who you are, and I know what you’ve done. So when you
offer to help me continue the research that was interrupted by my life
sentence, and imply that you are responsible far having my charges reduced and
my sentence commuted, I must suspect an ulterior motive.
I think you plan to use my supposed rendezvous
with these supposed people as a means of killing them. Sort of like Herod
asking the Wise Men to tell him where the newborn king was, so be could go and
worship him also.
From: Humble%Assistant@HomeAddress.com
[Don’t go
home ALONEI LonelyHearts]
To: Befterman%CroMagnon@HomeAddress.com
[Your ADS get seen! Free E-ma il]
Re: You
have misjudged me
Dear Doctor,
You hove misjudged me. I have no interest in
anyone’s death. I want you to help them make babies that don’t have any of the
father’s gifts or problems. Make a dozen for them.
But along the way, if you happen to get any
nice little embryos that do hove the father’s gifts, don’t discard them,
please. Keep them nice and safe. For me. For us. There are people who would
very much like to raise a little garden full of beans.
John Paul Wiggin had noticed some years ago
that the whole childrearing thing wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be.
Supposedly somewhere there was such a thing as a normal child, but none of them
had come anywhere near his house.
Not
that he didn’t love his kids. He did. More than they would ever know; more, he
suspected, than he knew himself. After all, you never know how much you love
somebody until the real test comes. Would you die for this person? Would you
throw yourself on the grenade, step in front of the speeding car, keep a secret
under torture, to save his life? Most people never know the answer to that
question. And even those who do know are still not sure whether it was love or
duty or self-respect or cultural conditioning or any number of other possible
explanations.
John
Paul Wiggin loved his kids. But either he didn’t have enough of them, or he had
too many. If he had more, then having two of them take off for some faraway
colony from which they could never return in his lifetime, that might not have
been so bad, because there’d still be several left at home for him to enjoy, to
help, to admire as parents wanted to admire their children.
And
if there had been one fewer If the government had not requisitioned a third
child from them. If Andrew had never been born, had never been accepted into a
program for which Peter was rejected, then perhaps Peter’s pathological
ambition might have stayed within normal bounds. Perhaps his envy and
resentment, his need to prove himself worthy after all, would not have tainted
his life, darkening even his brightest moments.
Of
course, if Andrew hadn’t been born, the world might now be honeycombed with
Formic hives, and the human race nothing but a few ragged bands surviving in
some hostile environment like Tierra del Fuego or Greenland or the Moon.
It
wasn’t the government requisition, either. Little known fact:
Andrew had almost certainly been conceived
before the requisition came. John Paul Wiggin wasn’t all that good a Catholic,
until he realized that the population control laws forbade him to be. Then,
because he was a stubborn Pole or a rebellious American or simply because he
was that peculiar mix of genes and memory called John Paul Wiggin, there was
nothing more important to him than being a good Catholic, particularly when it
came to disobeying the population laws.
It
was the basis of his marriage with Theresa. She wasn’t Catholic herself-which
showed that John Paul wasn’t that strict about following all the rules-but she
came from a big-family tradition and she agreed with him before they got
married that they would have more than two children, no matter what it cost
them.
In
the end, it cost them nothing. No loss of job. No loss of prestige. In fact,
they ended up greatly honored as the parents of the savior of the human race.
Only
they would never get to see Valentine or Andrew get married, would never see
their children. Would probably not live long enough to know when they arrived
at their colony world.
And
now they were mere fixtures attached to the life of the child they liked the
least.
Though
truth to tell, John Paul didn’t dislike Peter as much as his mother did. Peter
didn’t get under his skin the way he irritated Theresa. Perhaps that was
because John Paul was a good counterbalance to Peter-John Paul could be useful
to him. Where Peter kept a hundred things going at once, juggling all his
projects and doing none of them perfectly, John Paul was a man who had to dot
every i, cross every t. So without exactly telling anyone what his job was,
John Paul kept close watch on everything Peter was doing and followed through
on things so they actually got done. Where Peter assumed that underlings would
understand his purpose and adapt. John Paul knew that they would misunderstand
everything, and spelled it out for them, followed through to make sure things
happened just right.
Of
course, in order to do this, John Paul had to pretend that he was acting as
Peter’s eyes and ears. Fortunately, the people he straightened out had no
reason to go to Peter and explain the dumb things they had been doing before
John Paul showed up with his questions, his checklists, his cheerful chats that
didn’t quite come right out and admit to being tutorials.
But
what could John Paul do when the project Peter was advancing was so deeply
dangerous and, yes, stupid that the last thing John Paul wanted to do was help
him with it?
John
Paul’s position in this little community of Hegemoniacs did not allow him to
obstruct what Peter was doing. He was a facilitator, not a bureaucrat; he cut
the red tape, he didn’t spin it out like a spider web.
In
the past, the most obstructive thing John Paul could do was not to do anything
at all. Without him there, nudging, correcting, things slowed down, and often a
project died without his help.
But
with Achilles, there was no chance of that. The Beast, as Theresa and John Paul
called him, was as methodical as Peter wasn’t. He seemed to leave nothing to
chance. So if John Paul simply left him alone, he would accomplish everything
he wanted.
“Peter,
you’re not in a position to see what the Beast is doing,” John Paul said to
him.
“Father,
I know what I’m doing.”
“He’s
got time for everybody,” said John Paul. “He’s friends with every clerk, every
janitor, every secretary, every bureaucrat. People you breeze past with a wave
or with nothing at all, he sits and chats with them, makes them feel
important.”
“Yes,
he’s a charmer, all right.”
“Peter-”
“It’s
not a popularity contest, Father.”
“No,
it’s a loyalty contest. You accomplish exactly as much as the people who serve
you decide you’ll accomplish, and nothing more. They are your power, these
public servants you employ, and he’s winning their loyalty away from you.
“Superficially,
perhaps,” said Peter.
“For
most people, the superficial is all there is. They act on the feelings of the
moment. They like him better than you.”
“There’s
always somebody that people like better,” said Peter with a vicious little
smile.
John
Paul restrained himself from making the obvious one-word retort, because it
would devastate Peter. The single crushing word would have been “yes.”
“Peter,”
said John Paul, “when the Beast leaves here, who knows how many people he’ll
leave behind who like him well enough to slip him a bit of gossip now and then?
Or a secret document?”
“Father,
I appreciate your concern. And once again, I can only tell you that I have
things under control.”
“You
seem to think that anything you don’t know isn’t worth knowing,” said John
Paul, not for the first time.
“And
you seem to think that anything I’m doing is not being done well enough,” said
Peter for at least the hundredth time.
That’s
how these discussions always went. John Paul did not push it farther than
that-he knew that if he became too annoying, if Peter felt too oppressed by
having his parents around, they’d be moved out of any position of influence.
That
would be unbearable. It would mean losing the last of their children.
“We
really ought to have another child or two,” said Theresa one day. “I’m still
young enough, and we always meant to have more than the three the government
allotted us.”
“Not
likely,” said John Paul.
“Why
not? Aren’t you still a good Catholic, or did that last only as long as being a
Catholic meant being a rebel?”
John
Paul didn’t like the implications of that, particularly because it might have
some truth in it. “No, Theresa, darling. We can’t have more children because
they’d never let us keep them.”
“Who?
The government doesn’t care how many children we have now. They’re all future
taxpayers or baby makers or cannon fodder to them.”
“We’re
the parents of Ender Wiggin, of Demosthenes, of Locke. Our having another child
would be international news. I feared it even before Andrew’s battle companions
were all kidnapped, but after that there was no doubt.”
“Do you seriously think people would assume
that because our first three children were so- “Darling.” said John
Paul-knowing that she hated it when he called her darling because he couldn’t
keep the sarcasm out of the term, “they’d have the babies out of the cradle,
that’s how fast they’d strike. They’d be targets from the moment of conception,
just waiting for somebody to come along and turn them into puppets of one
regime or another. And even if we were able to protect them, every moment of
their lives would be deformed by the press of public curiosity. If we thought
Peter was messed up by being in Andrew’s shadow, think what it would be like
for them.”
“It
might be easier for them,” said Theresa. “They would never remember not being
in the shadow of their brothers.”
“That
only makes it worse,” said John Paul. “They’ll have no idea of who they are, apart
from being somebody’s sib.”
“It
was just a thought.”
“I
wish we could do it,” said John Paul. It was easy to be generous after she had
given in.
“I
just.. . miss having children around.”
“So
do I. And if I thought they could be children...
“None
of our kids was ever really a child,” said Theresa sadly. “Never really
carefree.”
John
Paul laughed. “The only people who think children are carefree are the ones
who’ve forgotten their own childhood.”
Theresa
thought for a moment and then laughed. “You’re right. Everything is either
heaven on earth or the end of the world.”
That
conversation had been back in Greensboro, after Peter went public with his real
identity and before he was given the nearly empty title of Hegemon. They rarely
referred back to it.
But
the idea was looking more attractive now. There were days when John Paul wanted
to go home, sweep Theresa into his arms and say, “Darling”-and he wouldn’t be
even the tiniest bit sarcastic-”I have our tickets to space. We’re joining a
colony. We’re leaving this world and all its cares behind, and we’ll make new
babies up in space where they can’t save the world or take it over, either”
Then
Theresa did this business with trying to get into Achilles’s room and John Paul
honestly wondered if the stress she was under had affected her mental
processes.
Precisely because he was so concerned about
what she did, he deliberately did not discuss it with her for a couple of days,
waiting to see if she brought it up.
She
did not. But he didn’t really expect her to.
When
he judged that the first blush of embarrassment was over and she could discuss
things without trying to protect herself, he broached the subject over dessert
one night.
“So
you want to be a housekeeper,” he said.
“I
wondered how long it would take you to bring that up,” said Theresa with a
grin.
“And
I wondered how long before you would,” said John Paul- with a grin as laced
with irony as her own.
“Now
you’ll never know,” she said.
“I
think,” said John Paul, “that you were planning to kill him.”
Theresa
laughed. “Oh. definitely, I was under assignment from my controller”
“I
assumed as much.”
“I
was joking,” said Theresa at once.
“I’m
not. Was it something Graff said? Or just a spy novel?”
“I
don’t read spy novels.”
“I
know.”
“It
wasn’t an assignment,” said Theresa. “But yes, he did put the thought into my
mind. That the best thing for everybody would be for the Beast not to leave
Brazil alive.”
“Actually,
I don’t think that’s so,” said John Paul.
“Why
not? Surely you don’t think he has any value to the world.”
“He
brought everybody out of hiding, didn’t he’?” said John Paul. “Everybody showed
their true colors.”
“Not
everybody. Not yet.”
“Things
are out in the open. The world is divided into camps. The ambitions are
exposed. The traitors are revealed.”
“So
the job is done,” said Theresa, “and there’s no more use for him.”
“I
never really thought of you as a murderer”
“I’m
not.”
“But
you had a plan, right?”
“I
was testing to see if any plan was possible-if I could get into his room. The
answer was no.
“Ah.
So the objective remains the same. Only the method has been changed.”
“I
probably won’t do it,” said Theresa.
“I
wonder how many assassins have told themselves that-right up to the moment when
they fired the gun or plunged in the knife or served the poisoned dates?”
“You
can stop teasing me now,” said Theresa. “I don’t care about politics or the
repercussions. If killing the Beast cost Peter the Hegemony, I wouldn’t care.
I’m just not going to sit back and watch the Beast devour my son.
“But
there’s a better way,” said John Paul.
“Besides
killing him?”
“To
get him away from where he can kill Peter. That’s our real goal, isn’t it? Not
to save the world from the Beast, but to save Peter. If we kill Achilles-”
“I
don’t recall inviting you into my evil conspiracy.”
“Then
yes, the Beast is dead, but so is Peter’s credibility as Hegemon. He’s forever
after as tainted as Macbeth.”
“I
know, I know.”
“What
we need is to taint the Beast, not Peter.”
“Killing
is more final.”
“Killing
makes a martyr, a legend, a victim. Killing gives you St. Thomas a Becket. The
Canterbury pilgrims.”
“So
what’s your better plan?”
“We
get the Beast to try to kill us.”
Theresa
looked at him dumbfounded.
“We
don’t let him succeed,” said John Paul.
“And
I thought Peter was the one who loved brinksmanship. Good heavens. Johnny P,
you’ve just explained where his madness comes from. How in the world can you
arrange for someone to try to kill you in such a public way that it becomes
discovered-and at the same time be absolutely sure that he won’t succeed.”
“We
don’t actually let him fire a bullet,” said John Paul, a little impatiently.
“All we do is gather evidence that he’s preparing the attempt. Peter will have
no choice but to send him away-and then we can make sure people know why. I may
be resented a bit here, but people really like you. They won’t like the Beast
after he plotted to harm their Teresa.
“But
nobody likes you,” said Theresa. “What if it’s you he goes for first?”
“Whichever,”
said John Paul.
“And
how will we know what he’s plotting?”
“Because
I put keyboard-reading programs into all the computers on the system and
software to analyze his actions and give me reports on everything he does.
There’s no way for him to make a plan without emailing somebody about
something.”
“I
can think of a hundred ways, one of which is-he does it himself, without
telling anybody.”
“He’ll
have to look up our schedule then, won’t he? Or something. Something that will
be suspicious. Something that I can show to Peter and force him to get rid of
the boy.”
“So
the way to shoot down the Beast is to paint big targets on our own foreheads.”
said Theresa.
“Isn’t
that a marvelous plan?” said John Paul, laughing at the absurdity of it. “But I
can’t think of a better one. And it’s nowhere near as bad as yours. Do you
actually believe you could kill somebody?”
“Mother
bear protects the cub,” said Theresa.
“Are
you with me? Promise not to slip a fatal laxative into his soup?”
“I’ll
see what your plan is, when you actually come up with one that sounds like it might
succeed.”
“We’ll
get the beast thrown out of here,” said John Paul. “One way or another” That
was the plan-which, John Paul knew, was no plan at all, since Theresa hadn’t
actually promised him she’d give up on her plot to become a killer-by-stealth.
The
trouble was that when he accessed the programs that were monitoring Achilles’s
computer use, the report said, “No computer use.”
This
was absurd. John Paul knew the boy had used a computer because he had received
a few messages himself-innocent inquiries, but they bore the screen name that
Peter had given to the Beast.
But
he couldn’t ask anybody outright to help him figure out why his spy programs
weren’t catching Achilles’s sign-ons and reading his keystrokes. The word would
get around, and then John Paul wouldn’t seem quite such an innocent victim when
Achilles’s plot-whatever it was-came to light.
Even
when he actually saw Achilles with his own eyes, logging in and typing away on
a message, the report that night-which affirmed that the keystroke monitor was
at work on that very machine- still showed no activity from Achilles.
John
Paul thought about this for a good long while, trying to imagine how Achilles
could have circumvented his software without logging on at least once.
Until
it finally dawned on him to ask his software a different question.
“List
all log-ons from that computer today,” he typed into his desk.
After
a few moments, the report came up: “No log-ons.”
No
log-ons from any of the nearby computers. No log-ons from any of the faraway
computers. No log-ons, apparently, in the entire Hegemony computer system.
And
since people were logging on all the time, including John Paul himself, this
result was impossible.
He
found Peter in a meeting with Ferreira, the Brazilian computer expert who was
in charge of system security. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but it’s even
better to tell you this when both of you are together.”
Peter
was irritated, but answered politely enough. “Go ahead.”
John
Paul had tried to think of some benign explanation for his having tried to
mount a spy operation throughout the Hegemony computer network, but he
couldn’t. So he told the truth, that he was trying to spy on Achilles-but said
nothing about what he intended to do with the information.
By
the time he was done, Peter and Ferreira were laughing- bitterly, ironically,
but laughing.
“What’s
funny?”
“Father,”
said Peter. “Didn’t it occur to you that we had software on the system doing
exactly the same job?”
“Which
software did you use?” asked Ferreira.
John
Paul told him and Ferreira sighed. “Ordinarily my software would have detected
his and wiped it out.” he said. “But your father has a very privileged access
to the net. So privileged that my snoopware had to let it by.”
“But
didn’t your software at least tell you?” asked Peter, annoyed.
“His
is interrupt-driven, mine is native in the operating system,” said Ferreira.
“Once his snoopware got past the initial barrier and was resident in the
system, there was nothing to report. Both programs do the same job, just at
different times in the machine’s cycle. They read the keypress and pass the
information on to the operating system, which passes it on to the program. They
also pass it on to their own keystroke log. But both programs clear the buffer
so that the keystroke doesn’t get read twice.”
Peter
and John Paul both made the same gesture-hands to the forehead, covering the
eyes. They understood at once, of course.
Keystrokes
came in and got processed by Ferreira’s snoopware or by John Paul’s-but never
by both. So both keystroke logs would show nothing but random letters, none of
which would amount to anything meaningful. None of which would ever look like a
log-on- even though there were log-ons all over the system all the time.
“Can
we combine the logs?” asked John Paul. “We have all the keystrokes, after all.”
“We
have the alphabet, too,” said Ferreira, “and if we just find the right order to
arrange them in, those letters will spell out everything that was ever
written.”
“It’s
not as bad as that,” said Peter. At least the letters are in order. It
shouldn’t be that hard to meld them together in a way that makes sense.”
“But
we have to meld all of them in order to find Achilles’s logons.
“Write
a program,” said Peter “One that will find everything that might be a log-on by
him, and then you can work on the material immediately following those
possibles.”
“Write
a program,” murmured Ferreira.
“Or
I will,” said Peter. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
That
sarcasm doesn’t make people love you, Peter, said John Paul silently.
Then
again, there was no chance. Given Peter’s parents, that such sarcasm would not
come readily to his lips.
“I’ll
sort it out,” said Ferreira.
“I’m
sorry,” said John Paul.
Ferreira
only sighed. “Didn’t it at least cross your mind that we would have software
already in place to do the same job?”
“You
mean you had snoopware that would give me regular reports on what Achilles was
writing?” asked John Paul. Oops. Peter’s not the only sarcastic one. But then,
I’m not trying to unite the world.
“There’s
no reason for you to know,” said Peter.
Time
to bite the bullet. “I think Achilles is planning to kill your mother.”
“Father,”
said Peter impatiently. “He doesn’t even know her.”
“Do
you think there’s any chance that he didn’t hear that she tried to get into his
room.”
“But
... kill her?” asked Ferreira.
“Achilles
doesn’t do things by half-measures,” said John Paul. “And nobody is more loyal
to Peter than she is.”
“Not
even you, Father?” asked Peter sweetly.
“She
doesn’t see your faults,” lied John Paul. “Her motherly instincts blind her.”
“But
you have no such handicap.”
“Not
being your mother,” said John Paul.
“My
snoopware should have caught this anyway,” said Ferreira. “I blame only myself.
The system shouldn’t have had that kind of back door”
“Systems
always do,” said John Paul.
After
Ferreira left, Peter said a few cold words. “I know how to keep Mother
completely safe,” he said. “Take her away from here. Go to a colony world. Go
somewhere and do something, but stop trying to protect me.
“Protect
you?”
“Do
you think I’m so stupid that I’ll believe this cockamamy story about Achilles
wanting to kill Mother?”
“Ah.
You’re the only person here worth killing.”
“I’m
the only one whose death would remove a major obstacle from Achilles’s path.”
John
Paul could only shake his head.
“Who
else, then?” Peter demanded.
“Nobody
else, Peter,” said John Paul. “Not a soul. Everybody’s safe, because, after
all, Achilles has shown himself to be a perfectly rational boy who would never,
ever kill somebody without a perfectly rational purpose in view.”
“Well,
yes, of course, he’s psychotic,” said Peter “I didn’t mean he wasn’t
psychotic.”
“So
many psychotics, so few really effective drugs,” said John Paul as he left the
room. That night when he told Theresa, she groaned. “So he’s been getting a
free ride.”
“We’ll
put it all together soon enough, I’m sure,” said John Paul.
“No,
Johnny P. We aren’t sure that it will be soon enough. For all we know, it’s
already too late.”
CONCEPTION
To: Stone%CoId©IComeAnon
corn
From: Third%Party@MysteriousEast.org
Re: Definitely
not vicbyssoise
I don’t know who you are, don’t know what this
message
means, He is in China. I was a tourist there,
walking along
a public sidewalk. He gave me a folded slip of
paper and
asked me to post a message to this emailing
site, with the
subject shown above. So here it is:
“He thinks I told him where Caligulo would be
but I did not.”
I hope this means something to you and that
you get it, because be seemed very intense about this. As for me, you don’t
know who am, neither does he, and that’s the way I like it.
“It’s not the same city,” said Bean.
“Well,
of course not,” said Petra. “You’re taller”
It
was Bean’s first return to Rotterdam since he left as a very young child to go
into space and learn to be a soldier. In all his wanderings with Sister
Carlotta after the war, she never once suggested coming here, and he never
thought of it himself.
But
this was where Volescu was-he had had the chutzpah to reestablish himself in
the city where he had been arrested. Now, of course, he was not calling his
work research-even though it had been illegal for many years. other scientists
had pursued it quietly and when, after the war, they were able to publish
again, they left all of Volescu’s achievements in the dust.
So
his offices, in an old but lovely building in the heart of the city, were
modestly labeled, in Common, REPRODUCTIVE SAFETY SERVICE S.
“Safety,”
said Petra. “An odd name, considering how many babies he killed.”
“Not
babies,” said Bean mildly. “Illegal experiments were terminated, but no actual
legal babies were ever involved.”
“That
really stops your hogs, doesn’t it,” she said.
“You
watch too many vids. You’re beginning to pick up American slang.”
“What
else can I do, with you spending all your time online, saving the world?”
“I’m
about to meet my maker,” said Bean. “And you’re complaining to me about my
spending too much time on pure altruism.”
“He’s
not your maker,” said Petra.
“Who
is, then? My biological parents? They made Nikolai. I was leftovers in the
fridge.”
“I
was referring to God,” said Petra.
“1
know you were,” said Bean, smiling. “Me, I can’t help but think that I exist
because God blinked. If he’d been paying attention, I could never have happened.”
“Don’t
goad me about religion,” said Petra. “I won’t play.”
“You
started it,” said Bean.
“I’m
not Sister Carlotta.”
“I
couldn’t have married you if you were. Was that your choice? Me or the
nunnery?”
Petra
laughed and gave him a little shove. But it wasn’t much of a shove. Mostly it
was just an excuse to touch him. To prove to herself that he was hers, that she
could touch him when she liked, and it was all right. Even with God, since they
were legally married now. A necessity before in vitro fertilization, so that
there could be no question about paternity or joint ownership of the embryos.
A
necessity, but also what she wanted.
When
had she started wanting this? In Battle School, if anyone had asked her whom
she would eventually marry, she would have said, “A fool, since no one smarter
would have me,” but if pressed, and if she trusted her inquisitor not to blab,
she would have said, “Dink Meeker.” He was her closest friend in Battle School.
Dink
was even Dutch. He wasn’t in the Netherlands these days, however The
Netherlands had no military. Dink had been lent to England, rather like a prize
football player, and he was cooperating in joint Anglo-American planning, which
was such a waste of his talent, since on neither side of the Atlantic was there
the slightest desire to get involved in the turmoil that was rocking the rest
of the world.
She
didn’t even regret his absence. She still cared about him, had fond memories of
him-even, perhaps, loved him in a vaguely-more than-platonic way. But after
Battle School, where he had been a brave rebel challenging the system, refusing
to command an army in the battle room and joining her in helping Ender in his
struggle against the teachers-after Battle School, they had worked together
almost continuously, and perhaps came to know each other too well. The rebel
pose was gone, and he stood revealed as a brilliant but cocky commander. And
when she was shamed in front of Dink, when she was overcome by fatigue during a
game that turned out to be real, it became a barrier between her and the
others, but it was an unfaultable wall between her and Dink.
Even
when Ender’s jeesh was kidnapped and confined together in Russia, she and Dink
bantered with each other just like old times, but she felt no spark.
Through
all that time, she would have laughed if anyone suggested that she would fall
in love with Bean, and a scant three years later would be married to him.
Because if Dink had been the most likely candidate for her heart in Battle
School, Bean had to be the least likely. She had helped him a bit, yes, as she
had helped Ender when he first started out, but it was a patronizing kind of
help, giving a hand up to an underdog.
In
Command School, she had come to respect Bean, to see something of his struggle,
how he never did anything to win the approval of others, but always gave
whatever it took to help his friends. She came to understand him as one of the
most deeply altruistic and loyal people she had ever seen-even though he did
not see either of these traits in himself, but always found some reason why
everything he did was entirely for his own benefit.
When
Bean was the only one not kidnapped, she knew at once that he would try
anything to save them. The others talked about trying to contact him on the
outside, but gave up at once when they heard that he had been killed. Petra
never gave up on him. She knew that Achilles could not possibly have killed him
so easily. She knew that he would find a way to set her free.
And
he had done it.
She
didn’t love him because he had saved her. She loved him because, during all her
months in captivity, constantly having to bear Achilles’s looming presence with
his leering threat of death entwined with his lust to own her, Bean was her
dream of freedom. When she imagined life outside of captivity, she kept
thinking of it as life with him. Not as man and wife, but simply: When I’m
free, then we’ll find some way to fight Achilles. We. Will. And the “we” was
always her and Bean.
Then
she learned about his genetic difference. About the death that awaited him from
overgrowing his body’s ability to nurture itself. And she knew at once that she
wanted to bear his children. Not because she wanted to have children who
suffered from some freakish affliction that made them brilliant ephemera,
butterflies catching the sunlight only for a single day, but because she did
not want Bean’s life to leave no child behind. She could not bear to lose him,
and desperately wanted something of him to stay with her when he was gone.
She
could never explain this to him. She could hardly explain it to herself.
But
somehow things had come together better than she hoped. Her gambit of getting
him to see Anton had persuaded him far more quickly than she had thought would
be possible.
It
led her to believe that he, too, without even realizing it, had come to love
her in return. That just as she wanted him to live on in his children, he now
wanted her to be the mother who cared for them after he died.
If
that wasn’t love, it would do.
They
married in Spain, with Anton and his new bride looking on. It had been
dangerous to stay there as long as they did, though they tried to take the
curse off it by leaving frequently with all their bags and then returning to
stay in a different town each time. Their favorite city was Barcelona, which
was a fairyland of buildings that looked as if they had all been designed by
Gaudi-or, perhaps, had sprung from Gaudi’s dreams. They were married in the
Cathedral of the Sagrada Familia. it was one of the few genuine Gaudis still
standing, and the name made it the perfect place for a wedding. Of course the
“sagrada familia” referred officially to the sacred family of Jesus. But that
didn’t mean it couldn’t also apply to all families. Resides, weren’t her
children going to be immaculately conceived?
The
honeymoon, such as it was-a week together, island-hopping through the
Balearics, enjoying the Mediterranean Sea and the African breezes-was still a
week longer than she had hoped for. After knowing Bean’s character about as
well as one person ever gets to know another person, Petra had been rather shy
about getting to know his body, and letting him know hers. But here Darwin
helped them, for the passions that made species survive helped them to forgive
each other’s awkwardness and foolishness and ignorance and hunger.
She
was already taking pills to regulate her ovulation and more pills to stimulate
as many eggs as possible to come to maturity. There was no possibility of their
conceiving a baby naturally before they began the in vitro fertilization
process. But she wished for it all the same, and twice she woke from dreams in
which a kindly doctor told them, “I’m sorry, I can’t implant embryos, because
you’re already pregnant.”
But
she refused to let it trouble her. She would have his baby soon enough.
Now
they were here in Rotterdam, getting down to business. Looking, not for the
kindly doctor of her dream, but for the mass murderer who only spared Bean’s
life by accident to provide them with a child who would not die as a giant by
the age of twenty.
“If
we wait long enough,” said Bean, “they’ll close the office.”
“No,”
said Petra. “Volescu will wait all night to see you. You’re his experiment that
succeeded despite his cowardice.”
“I
thought it was my success, not his.”
She
pressed herself against his arm. “It was my success,” she said.
“Yours?
How?”
“It
must have been. I’m the one who ended up with all the prizes.”
“If
you had ever said things like that in Battle School, you would have been the
laughingstock of all the armies.”
“That’s
because the armies were all composed of prepubescent children. Grownups don’t
think such things are embarrassing.”
“Actually,
they do,” said Bean. “There’s only this brief window of adolescence where
extravagantly romantic remarks are taken for poetry.”
“Such
is the power of hormones that we absolutely understand the biological causes of
our feelings, and yet we still feel them.”
“Let’s
not go inside,” said Bean. “Let’s go back to the inn and have some more
feelings.”
She
kissed him. “Let’s go inside and make a baby.”
“Try
for a baby,” said Bean. “Because I won’t let you have one in which Anton’s Key
is turned on.”
“I
know,” she said.
“And
I have your promise that embryos with Anton’s Key will all be discarded.”
“Of
course,” she said. That satisfied him, though she was sure that he would notice
that she had never actually said the words. Maybe he did, unconsciously, and
that was why he kept asking.
It
was hypocritical and dishonest of her, of course, and she almost felt bad about
it sometimes, but what happened after he died would be none of his business.
“All
right then,” he said.
“All
right then,” she answered. “Time to go meet the baby killer,
“I
don’t suppose we should call him that to his face, though, right?”
“Since
when are you the one who worries about good manners?”
Volescu was a weasel, just as Petra knew he
would be. He was all business, playing the role of Mr. Scientist, but Petra
knew well what lay behind the mask. She could see the way he couldn’t keep his
eyes off Bean, the mental measurements he was making. She wanted to make some
snide remark about how prison seemed to have done him good, he was carrying
some extra weight, needed to walk that off... but they were here to have the
man choose them a baby, and it would serve no purpose to irritate him.
“I
couldn’t believe I was going to meet you,” said Volescu. “I knew from that nun
who visited me that one of you had lived, and I was glad. I was already in
prison by then, the very thing that destroying the evidence had been designed
to prevent. So I didn’t need to destroy it after all. I wished I hadn’t. Then
here she comes and tells me the lost one lived. It was the one ray of hope in a
long night of despair. And here you are.
Again
he eyed Bean from head to toe.
“Yes,”
said Bean, “here I am, and very tall for my age, too, as you seem to keep
trying to verify.”
“I’m
sorry,” said Volescu. “I know that other business has brought you here. Very
important business.”
“You’re
sure,” said Bean, “that your test for Anton’s Key is absolutely accurate and
nondestructive?”
“You
exist, don’t you? You are what you are, yes? We would not have kept any in
which the gene did not take. We had a safe, reliable test.”
“Every
one of the cloned embryos was brought to life.” said Bean. “It worked in every
one of them?”
“I
was very good with planter viruses in those days. A skill that even now isn’t
much called for in procedures with humans, since alterations are still
illegal.” He chuckled, because everyone knew that there was a lively business
in tailored human babies in various places around the world, and that skill in
gene alteration was in more demand than ever. That was almost certainly
Volescu’s real business, and the Netherlands was one of the safest places to
practice it.
But
as Petra listened to him, she became more and more uneasy. Volescu was lying
about something. The change in his manner had been slight, but after spending
months observing every tiny nuance in Achilles’s demeanor, simply as a matter
of survival, she had turned herself into a very precise observer of other
people. The signs of deception were there. Energized speech, overly rhythmic,
too jovial. Eyes that kept darting away from theirs. Hands that wouldn’t stop
touching his coat, his pencil.
What
would he be lying about?
It
was obvious, once she thought about it.
There
was no test. Back when he created Bean, Volescu had simply introduced the
planter virus that was supposed to alter all the cells of the embryos, and then
waited to see if any embryos lived, and which of the survivors had been successfully
altered. It happened that they all survived. But not all of them necessarily
had Anton’s Key.
Maybe
that was why, of all the nearly two dozen babies, only Bean escaped.
Maybe
Bean was the only one in whom the alteration was successful. The only one with
Anton’s Key. The only one who was so preternaturally intelligent that he was
able, at one year of age, to realize there was danger, climb out of his
bassinet, get himself inside a toilet tank, and actually stay alive there until
the danger passed.
That
had to be Volescu’s lie. Maybe he had developed a test since then, but that was
unlikely. Why would he imagine he’d need it? But he said that he had such a
test so he could.., could do what?
Start
his experiment again. Take their leftover embryos, and instead of discarding
the ones with Anton’s Key, he’d keep them all and raise them and study them.
This time it wouldn’t be just one out of two dozen who had the enhanced intelligence
and the shortened lifespan. This time, the genetic odds suggested a fifty-fifty
distribution of Anton’s Key among the embryos.
So
now Petra had a decision to make. If she said out loud what she was so certain
of in her mind, Bean would probably realize she was right and the entire deal
would be off. lf Volescu had no way to test, it was certain nobody else did.
Bean would refuse to have children at all.
So
if she was to have Bean’s child, Volescu had to be the one to do it, not
because he had a test for Anton’s Key, but because Bean believed he did.
But
what about the other embryos? They would be her children, too, growing up as
the slaves, the experimental subjects of a man like this, completely without
morals.
“Of
course you know,” said Petra, “that you won’t do the actual implantation.”
Since
Bean had never heard this wrinkle in their plans, he was no doubt
surprised-but, being Bean, he showed nothing, merely smiled a bit to show that
she was speaking for both of them. Such trust. She didn’t even feel guilty that
he trusted her so much at a moment when she was working so hard to deceive him.
She may not be doing what he thought that he wanted, but she knew she was doing
what he really desired, deep down in his genes.
Volescu
showed surprise, however. “But. . . what do you mean?”
“Forgive
me,” said Petra, “but we will stay with you through the entire fertilization
process, and we will watch as every fertilized embryo is taken to the Women’s
Hospital. Where they will be under hospital security until the implantation
takes place.”
Volescu’s
face reddened. “What do you accuse me of?”
“Of
being the man you have already proven yourself to be.”
“Many
years ago, and I paid my debt.”
Bean
understood now-enough, at least, to join in, his tone of voice as light and
cheerful as Petra’s. “We have no doubt of that, but of course we want to make
sure we don’t have any of our little embryos with Anton’s Key waking up to some
unpleasant surprises in a room full of children, as I did once.”
Volescu
rose to his feet. “This interview is over.”
Petra’s
heart sank. She shouldn’t have said anything at all. Now there would be no
implantation and Bean would discover...
“So
we proceed to extract the eggs?” asked Bean. “The time is right, I believe.
That’s why we made the appointment for this day.”
Volescu
looked at him sharply. “After you insulted me?”
“Come
now, Doctor,” said Bean. “You take the eggs from her, and then I make my
donation. That’s how salmon do it. It’s really quite natural. Though I’d like
to skip the swim upstream, if I can.”
Volescu
eyed him for a long moment, then smiled his tight little smile. “My little
half-nephew Julian has such a sense of humor.”
Petra
waited, hardly wanting to breathe, definitely not wishing to speak, though a
thousand words raced through her head.
“All
right, yes, of course you can protect the fertilized embryos however you want.
I understand your… lack of trust. Even though I know it is misplaced.”
“Then
while you and Petra do whatever it is you’re going to do,” said Bean, “I’ll
call for a couple of couriers from the fertility center at Women’s Hospital to
come and await the embryos and take them to be frozen.”
“It
will be hours before we reach that stage,” said Volescu.
“We
can afford to pay for their time,” said Petra. “And we don’t want any chance of
slipups or delays.”
“I
will have to have access to the embryos again for several hours, of course,”
said Volescu. “In order to separate them and test them.”
“In
our presence,” said Petra. “And the fertility specialist who is going to
implant the first one.”
“Of
course,” said Volescu with a tight smile. “I will sort them out for you, and
discard the-”
“We
will discard and destroy any that have Anton’s Key,” said Bean.
“That
goes without saying,” said Volescu stiffly.
He
hates these rules we’ve sprung on him, thought Petra. She could see it in his
eyes, despite the calm demeanor. He’s furious. He’s even... embarrassed, yes.
Well, since that’s probably as close as he’s ever come to feeling shame, it’s
good for him.
While Petra was examined by the staff doctor
who would do the implantation, Bean saw to hiring a security service. A guard
would be on duty at the embryo “nursery,” as the hospital staff charmingly
called it, all day, every day. “Since you’re the one who first started being
paranoid,” Bean told Petra, “I have no choice but to outparanoid you.”
It
was a relief actually. During the days before the embryos were ready for
implantation, while Volescu was no doubt trying frantically to devise some
nondestructive procedure that he could pretend was a genetic test, Petra was
glad not to have to stay in the hospital personally watching over the embryos
the whole time.
It
gave her a chance to explore the city of Bean’s childhood. Bean, however,
seemed determined to visit only the tourist sites and then get back to his
computer. She knew that it made him
nervous to stay in one city for so long, especially because for the first time,
their whereabouts were known to another person whom they did not trust. It was
doubtful Volescu knew any of their enemies. But Bean insisted on changing
hotels every day, and walking blocks from their hotel in order to hail a taxi,
so that no enemy could set an easy trap for them.
He
was evading more than his enemies, though. He was also evading his past in this
city. She scanned a city map and found the area that Bean was clearly avoiding.
And the next morning, after Bean had chosen the first cab of the day, she
leaned forward and gave the taxi driver directions.
It
took Bean only a few moments to realize where the cab was going. She saw him
tense up. But he did not refuse to go or even complain about her having compelled
him. How could he? It would be an admission that he was avoiding the places he
had known as a child. A confession of pain and fear.
She
was not going to let him pass the day in silence, however “I remember the
stories you’ve told me,” she said to him, gently. “There aren’t many of them,
but still I wanted to see for myself. I hope it’s not too painful for you. But
even if it is, I hope you’ll bear it. Because someday I’ll want to tell our
children about their father. And how can I tell the stories if I don’t know
where they took place?”
After
the briefest pause, Bean nodded.
They
left the cab and he took her through the streets of his childhood, which had
been old and shabby even then. “It’s changed very little,” said Bean. “Really
just the one difference. There aren’t thousands of abandoned children
everywhere. Apparently somebody found the budget to deal with the orphans.”
She
kept asking questions, paying close attention to the answers, and finally he
understood how serious she was, how much it meant to her Bean began taking her
off the main streets. “I lived in the alleys,” he explained. “In the shadows.
Like a vulture, waiting for things to die. I had to watch for scraps that other
children didn’t see. Things discarded at night. Spills from garbage bins.
Anything that might have a few calories in it.”
He
walked up to one dumpster and laid his hand against it. “This one,” he said. “This
one saved my life. There was a restaurant then, where that music shop is. I
think the restaurant employee who dumped their garbage knew I was lurking. He
always took out most of the cooking garbage in the late afternoon, in daylight.
The older kids took everything. And then the scraps from the night’s meals,
those got dumped in the morning, in daylight again, and the other kids got
that, too. But he usually came outside once in the darkness. To smoke right
here by the garbage bin. And after his smoke, in the darkness, there’d be a
scrap of something, right here.”
Bean
put his hand on a narrow shelf formed by the frame that allowed the garbage
truck to lift the bin.
“Such
a tiny dinner table,” said Petra.
“I
think he must have been a survivor of the street himself,” said Bean, “because
it was never something so large as to attract attention. It was always
something I could slip into my mouth all at once, so no one ever saw me holding
food in my hand. I would have died without him. It was only a couple of months
and then he stopped- probably lost his job or moved on to something else-and I
have no idea who he was. But it kept me alive.”
“What
a lovely thing, to think such a person could have come out of the streets,”
said Petra.
“Well,
yes, now I see that,” said Bean. “But at the time I didn’t think of that sort
of thing at all. I was ... focused. I knew he was doing it deliberately, but I
didn’t bother to imagine why, except to eliminate the possibility that it was a
trap, or that he had drugged it or poisoned it somehow.”
“How
did you eliminate that possibility?”
“I
ate the first thing he put there and I didn’t die, and I didn’t keel over and
then wake up in a child whorehouse somewhere.”
“They
had such places?”
“There
were rumors that that’s what happened to children who disappeared from the
street. Along with the rumors that they were cooked into spicy stews in the
immigrants’ section of town. Those I don’t believe.”
She
wrapped her arms around his chest. “Oh, Bean, what a hellish place.”
“Achilles
came from here, too,” he said.
“He
was never as small as you were.”
“But
he was crippled. That bad leg. He had to be smart to stay alive. He had to keep
everyone else from crushing him for no better reason than because they could.
Maybe his thing about having to eliminate anyone who sees his
helplessness-maybe that was a survival mechanism for him, under these
circumstances.”
“You’re
such a Christian,” said Petra. “So full of charity.”
“Speaking
of which,” said Bean. “I assume you’re going to raise our child Armenian
Catholic, right?”
“It
would make Sister Carlotta happy, don’t you think?”
“She
was happy no matter what I did,” said Bean. “God made her happy. She’s happy
now, if she’s anything at all. She was a happy person.
“You
make her sound-what?-mentally deficient?”
“Yes.
She was incapable of holding on to malice. A serious defect.”
“I
wonder if there’s a genetic test for it,” said Petra. Then she regretted it
immediately. The last thing she wanted was for Bean to think too much about
genetic tests, and realize what seemed so obvious to her, that Volescu had no
test.
They
visited many other places, and more and more of them made him tell her little
stories. Here’s where Poke used to hide a stash of food to reward kids who did
well. Here’s where Sister Carlotta first sat down with us to teach us to read.
This was our best sleeping place during the winter, until some bigger kids
found us and drove us out.
“Here’s
where Poke stood over Achilles with a cinderblock in her hands,” said Bean,
“ready to dash his brains out.”
“If
only she had,” said Petra.
“She
was too good a person,” said Bean. “She couldn’t imagine the evil that might be
in him. I didn’t, either, until I saw him lying there, what was in his eyes
when he looked up at that cinderblock. I’ve never seen so much hate. That was
all-no fear. I saw her death in his eyes right then. I told her she had to do
it. Had to kill him. She couldn’t. But it happened just the way I warned her.
If you let him live, he’ll kill you, I said, and he did.”
“Where
was it?” asked Petra. “The place where Achilles killed her? Can you take me
there?”
He
thought about it for a few moments, then walked her to the waterfront among the
docks. They found a clear place where they could see between the boats and
ships and barges out to where the great Rhine swept past on its way to the
North Sea.
“What
a powerful place,” said Petra.
“What
do you mean?”
“It
just-the river, so strong. And yet human beings were able to build this along
its banks. This harbor Nature is strong but the human mind is stronger”
“Except
when it isn’t,” said Bean.
“He
gave her body to the river, didn’t he?”
“He
dumped her into the water, yes.”
“But
the way Achilles saw what he did. Giving her to the water Maybe he romanticized
it.”
“He
strangled her,” said Bean. “I don’t care what he thought while he did it, or
afterward. He kissed her and then he strangled her.”
“You
didn’t see the murder, I hope!” said Petra. It would be too terrible if Bean
bad been carrying such an image in his mind all these years.
“I
saw the kiss,” said Bean. “I was too selfish and stupid to see what it meant.”
Petra
remembered her own kiss from Achilles, and shuddered. “You thought what anyone
would have thought,” said Petra. “You thought his kiss meant what mine does.”
And she kissed him.
He
kissed her back. Hungrily.
But
when the kiss ended, his face grew wistful again. “I would undo everything, all
that I’ve done with my life since then,” said Bean, “if I could only go back
and undo that one moment.”
“What,
you think you could have fought him? Have you forgotten how small you were
then?”
“If
I’d been there, if he’d known I was watching, he wouldn’t have done it.
Achilles never risks discovery if he can help it.”
“Or
he might have killed you, too.”
“He
couldn’t kill us both at once. Not with that gimp leg. Whichever one he went
for, the other would scream bloody murder and go for help.”
“Or
hit him over the head with a cinderblock.”
“Yes,
well, Poke could have done that, but I couldn’t have lifted it higher than his
head. And I don’t think dropping a stone on his toe would have done the job.”
They
stayed by the dock for a little longer, and then made the walk back to the
hospital.
The
security guard was on duty. All was right with the world.
Bean
had gone back to his childhood range and he hadn’t cried much, hadn’t turned
away, hadn’t fled back to some safe place.
Or
so she thought, until they left the hospital, returned to their hotel, and he
lay in the bed, gasping for breath until she realized that he was sobbing.
Great dry wracking sobs that shook his whole body. She lay beside him and held
him until he slept.
Volescu’s fakery was so good that for a few
moments Petra wondered if he might really have the ability to test the embryos.
But no, it was flimflam-he was simply smart enough, scientist enough, to find
convincing flimflam that was realistic enough to fool extremely intelligent
laypeople like them, and even the fertility doctor they brought with them. He
must have made it look like the tests these doctors performed to test for a
child’s sex or for major genetic defects.
Or
else the doctor knew perfectly well it was a scam, but said nothing because all
the baby-fixers played the same game, pretending to check for defects that
couldn’t actually be checked for, knowing that by the time the fakery was
discovered, the parents would already have bonded with the child-and even if
they hadn’t, how could they sue for failing to perform an illegal procedure
like sorting for athletic prowess or intellect? Maybe all these baby boutiques
were fakers.
The
only reason Petra wasn’t fooled is that she didn’t watch the procedure, she
watched Volescu, and by the end of the procedure she knew that he was way too
relaxed. He knew that nothing he was doing would make the slightest difference.
There was nothing at stake. The test meant nothing.
There
were nine embryos. He pretended to identify three of them as having Anton’s
Key. He tried to hand the containers to one of his assistants to dispose of,
but Bean insisted that he give them to their doctor for disposal.
“I
don’t want any of these embryos to accidentally become a baby,” said Bean with
a smile.
But
to Petra, they already were babies, and it hurt her to watch as Bean supervised
the pouring out of the three embryos into a sink, the scouring of the
containers to make sure an embryo hadn’t managed to thrive in some remaining
droplet.
I’m
imagining this, thought Petra. For all she knew, the containers he flushed had
never contained embryos at all. Why would Volescu sacrifice any of them, when
all he had to do was lie and merely say that these three had contained embryos
with Anton’s Key?
So,
self persuaded that no actual harm to a child of hers was being done, she
thanked Volescu for his help and they waited for him to leave before anything
else was done. Volescu carried nothing from the room that he hadn’t come in
with.
Then
Bean and Petra both watched as the six remaining embryos were frozen, their
containers tagged, and all of them secured against tampering.
The morning of the implantation, they both
awoke almost at first light, too excited, too nervous to sleep. She lay in bed
reading, trying to calm herself; he sat at the table in the hotel room, working
on email, scanning the nets.
But
his mind was obviously on the morning’s procedure. “It’s going to be
expensive,” he said. “Keeping guard over the ones we don’t implant.”
She
knew what he was driving at. “You know we’ve got to keep them frozen until we
know if the first implant works. They don’t always take.”
Bean
nodded. “But I’m not an idiot, you know. I’m perfectly aware that you intend to
keep all the embryos and implant them one by one until you have as many of my
children as possible.”
“Well
of course,” said Petra. “What if our firstborn is as nasty as Peter Wiggin?”
“Impossible,”
said Bean. “How could a child of mine have any but the sweetest disposition?”
“Unthinkable,
I know,” said Petra. “And yet somehow I thought of it.”
“So
this security, it has to continue for years.
“Why?”
said Petra. “No one wants the babies that are left. We destroyed the ones with
Anton’s Key.”
“We
know that,” said Bean. “But they’re still the children of two members of
Ender’s jeesh. Even without my particular curse, they’ll still be worth
stealing.”
“But
they won’t be old enough to be of any value for years and years,” said Petra.
“Not
all that many years,” said Bean. “How old were we? How old are we even now?
There are plenty of people willing to take the children and invest not that
many years of training and then put them to work. Playing games and winning
wars.”
“I’ll
never let any of them anywhere near military training,” said Petra.
“You
won’t be able to stop them,” said Bean.
“We
have plenty of money, thanks to the pensions Graff got for us,” said Petra.
“I’ll make sure the security is intense.”
“No,
I mean you’ll never be able to stop the children. From seeking out military
service.
He
was right, of course. The testing for Battle School included a child’s
predilection for military command, for the contest of battle. For war. Bean and
Petra had proven how strong that passion was in them. It would be unlikely that
any child of theirs would be happy without ever having a taste of the military
life.
“At
least,” said Petra, “they won’t have to destroy an alien invader before they
turn fifteen.”
But
Bean wasn’t listening. His body had suddenly grown alert as he scanned a
message on his desk.
“What
is it?” she asked.
“I
think it’s from Hot Soup,” said Bean.
She
got up and came over to look.
It
was an email through one of the anonymous services, this one an Asian-based
company called Mysterious East. The subject line was “definitely not
vichyssoise.” Not cold soup, then. Hot Soup. The Battle school nickname of Han
Thu. who had been in Ender’s jeesh and was now assumed to be deeply involved in
the highest levels of strategy in China.
A
message from him to Bean, until recently the military commander of the
Hegemon’s forces, would be high treason. This message had been handed to a
stranger on a street in China. Probably a European- or African-looking tourist.
And the message wasn’t hard to understand:
He thinks I told him where Coligula would be
but I did not.
“Caligula”
could only refer to Achilles. “He” had to refer to Peter.
Han
Thu was saying that Peter thought he was the source of the information about
where the prison convoy would be on the day Suriyawong liberated Achilles.
No
wonder Peter was sure his source was reliable-Han Tzu himself! Since Han Tzu
had been one of the group Achilles kidnapped, he would have plenty of reason to
hate him. Motive enough for Peter to believe that Han Tzu would tell him where
Achilles would be.
But
it wasn’t Han Tzu.
And
if it wasn’t Han Tzu, then who else would send such a message, pretending that
it came from him? A message that turned out to be correct?
“We
should have known it wasn’t from Han Thu all along,” said Bean.
“We
didn’t know Han Tzu was supposed to be the source,” said Petra reasonably.
“Han
Tzu would never give information that would lead to innocent Chinese soldiers
getting killed. Peter should have known that.”
“We
would have known it,” said Petra, “but Peter doesn’t know Hot Soup. And he
didn’t tell us Hot Soup was his source.”
“So
of course we know who the source was,” said Bean.
“We’ve
got to get word to him at once,” said Petra.
Bean
was already typing.
“Only
this has to mean that Achilles went in there completely prepared,” said Petra.
“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t found a way to read Peter’s mail.”
“I’m
not writing to Peter,” said Bean.
“Who,
then?”
“Mr.
and Mrs. Wiggin,” said Bean. “Two separate messages. Pieces of a puzzle.
Chances are that Achilles won’t be watching their mail, or at least not closely
enough to realize he should put these together.”
“No,”
said Petra. “No puzzles. Whether he’s watching or not, there’s no time to lose.
He’s been there for months now.
“If
he sees an open message it might precipitate action on his part. It might be
Peter’s death warrant.”
“Then
notify Graff, send him in.”
“Achilles
undoubtedly knows Graff already came once to get our parents out,” said Bean.
“Again, his arrival might trigger things.”
“OK,”
said Petra, thinking. “OK. Here’s what. Suriyawong.”
“No,”
said Bean.
“He’ll
get a coded message instantly. He thinks that way.”
“But
I don’t know if he can be trusted,” said Bean.
“Of
course he can,” said Petra. “He’s only pretending to be Achilles’s man.”
“Of
course he is,” said Bean. “But what if he isn’t just pretending?”
“But
he’s Suriyawong!”
“I
know,” said Bean. “But I can’t be sure.
“All
right,” said Petra. “Peter’s parents, then. Only don’t be too subtle.”
“They’re
not stupid,” said Bean. “I don’t know Mr. Wiggin that well, but Mrs. Wiggin
is-well, she’s very subtle. She knows more than she lets on.”
“That
doesn’t mean she’s wary. That doesn’t mean she’ll get the code or talk it over
with her husband right away so they can put the messages together.”
“Trust
me,” said Bean.
“No,
I’ll proofread before you send it,” said Petra. “First rule of survival, right?
Just because you trust someone’s motives doesn’t mean you can trust them to do
it right.”
“You’re
a cold, cold woman,” said Bean.
“It’s
one of my best features.”
A
half hour later, they both agreed that the messages should work. Bean sent them.
It was a few hours earlier in kibeirao Preto. Nothing would happen till the
Wiggins woke up.
“We’ll
have to be ready to leave immediately after the implantation,” said Petra. If
Achilles had been in control of things from the start, then chances were good
that his whole network was still in place and he knew exactly where they were
and what they were doing.
“I
won’t be with you,” said Bean. “I’ll be getting our tickets. Have the guards
right in the room with you.”
“No,”
said Petra. “But just outside.”
Petra
showered first, and she was completely packed when Bean came out of the
bathroom. “One thing,” said Petra.
“What?”
asked Bean as he put his few belongings into the one bag he carried.
“Our
tickets-should be to separate destinations.”
He
stopped packing and looked at her. “I see,” he said. “You get what you want
from me, and then you walk away.”
She
laughed nervously. “Well, yes,” she said. “You’ve been telling me this whole
time that it’s more dangerous for us to travel together.”
“And
now that you’ll have my baby in you, you don’t need to be with me any more,”
said Bean. He was still smiling, but she knew that beneath the jest there was
true suspicion.
“Whatever
the Wiggins do, all hell is going to break loose,” said Petra. “I’ve memorized
all your dead drops and you’ve memorized all of mine.”
“I
gave you all of yours,” said Bean.
“Let’s
get back together in a week or so,” said Petra. “If I’m like my mother, I’ll be
puking my guts out by then.”
“If
the implantation is successful.”
“I’ll
miss you every moment,” said Petra.
“God
help me, but I’ll miss you too.”
She
knew what a painful, frightening thing that was for Bean. To allow himself to
love someone so much that he would actually miss her, that was no small matter
for him. And the two other women he had allowed himself to love with all his
heart had been murdered.
“I
won’t let anybody hurt our baby,” she said.
He
thought for a moment, and then his face softened. “That baby is probably the
best protection you could have.”
She
understood and smiled. “No, they won’t kill me till they see what our baby
turns out like,” she said. “But that’s no protection from being kidnapped and
held until the child is born.”
“As
long as you and the baby are alive, I’ll come and get you.”
“That’s
the thing that frightens me,” said Petra. “That we might be the bait they use
to set a trap for you.”
“We’re
looking too far ahead,” said Bean. “They aren’t going to catch us. You or me.
And if they do, well, we’ll deal with that.”
They
were packed. They both went over the room one more time to make sure they were
leaving nothing behind, no sign they had ever been there. Then they left for
Women’s Hospital and the child who waited for them there, a bundle of genes
wrapped in a few undifferentiated cells, eager to implant themselves in a womb,
to start to draw nutrients from a mother’s blood, to begin to divide and
distinguish themselves into heart and bowel, hands and feet, eyes and ears,
mouth and brain.
LEFT AND RIGHT
From: PW
To: TW,
jPW
Re: Reconciliation
of keyboard cogs
You’ll be happy to learn that we were able to
sort out oil the cogs. We hove tracked every computer entry by the person in
question. All his entries dealt with official business and assignments he was
carrying out for me. Nothing that was in any way improper was done.
Personally, I find this disturbing. Either he
found a way to fool both our programs (not likely), or he is actually doing
nothing but what he should (even less likely), or he is playing a very deep
game about which we have no idea extremely likely).
Let’s talk tomorrow.
Theresa woke up when John Paul got out of bed
to pee at four AM. It worried her that he couldn’t make it through the night
anymore. He was still a little young to be having prostate problems.
But
it wasn’t her husband’s slackening bladder capacity that kept her awake. It was
the memo from Peter informing them that Achilles had done absolutely nothing
but what he was supposed to do.
This
was impossible. Nobody does exactly what they’re supposed to and nothing else.
Achilles should have had some friend, some ally, some contact whom he needed to
notify that he was out of China and safe. He had a network of informants and
agents, and as he showed when he hopped from Russia to India to China, he was
always one step ahead of everybody. The Chinese finally wised up to his pattern
and short-circuited it, but that didn’t mean Achilles didn’t have his next move
planned. So why hadn’t he done anything to set it in motion?
There
were more possibilities than the ones Peter listed, of course. Maybe Achilles
had a means of bypassing the electromagnetic shield that surrounded the
Ribeirào Preto compound. Of course, he couldn’t have brought such a device with
him when he was rescued, or it would have shown up in the search that was
conducted during his first bath in Ribeiräo. So someone would have to have
brought it to him. And Peter was convinced that no such device could exist.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe
Achilles’s next move was something he planned to do entirely alone.
Maybe
there was something he had that he was able to smuggle into Brazil inside his
body. Did the surveillance cameras show him, perhaps, combing through his bowel
movements? Peter must surely have checked for that.
While
she lay there thinking. John Paul had come back from the bathroom. But now she
noticed that he had not resumed snoring.
“You’re
awake?” she asked.
“Sorry
I woke you.”
“I
can’t sleep anyway,” she said.
“The
Beast?”
“We’re
missing something,” said Theresa. “He hasn’t suddenly become a loyal servant of
the Hegemony.”
“I’m
not going to get back to sleep either,” said John Paul. He got up and padded in
bare feet to his computer. She heard him typing and knew that he was checking
his mail first.
Busy
work, but it was better than lying here staring at the dark ceiling. She got up
also, took her desk from the table, and brought it back to bed, where she began
checking her own email.
One
of the benefits of being the mother of the Hegemon was that she didn’t actually
have to answer the tedious mail-she could forward it on to one of Peter’s
secretaries to deal with, since it consisted mostly of tedious attempts of
people trying to get her to use her supposed influence with Peter to get him to
do something that was not within his power to do, was illegal even if he could
do it, and which he would certainly not do even if it were legal.
It
left her with very few pieces of mail that she needed to deal with personally.
Most
of it could be answered with a few sentences and she dealt with it quickly, if
a bit sleepily.
She
was about to shut down her desk and try again to get back to sleep when a new
piece of mail came in.
To: T%Hegmom@Hegemony.gov
From: Rock%HardPlace©IComeAnon.com
Re: And
when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know
what thy right hand doeth.
What
was this? Some religious fanatic? But the address was her most private one,
used only by John Paul, Peter, and a handful of people she actually liked and
knew well.
So
who sent it?
She
skipped to the bottom. No signature. The message was short. You’ll never guess.
There I was at a party-the boring but dangerous kind, with fine china that you
know you’re going to break, and a tablecloth you’re bound to spill India ink on-and
do you know what happens? Along comes the very man with wham I wanted to tie
the knot. He thinks he’s rescuing me from the party. But in fact, he was the
very reason I came to the party in the first place. Not that I’ll ever tell
him! He would BLOW UP if he knew. And then, of course, I’m so nervous I bump
into the tureen and hot soup spills all aver everything. But . - - you know met
just a big oaf.
That
was the complete text of the message. It was really annoying, because it didn’t
sound like anyone she knew. She didn’t have friends who sent letters as empty
and pointless as this one. Gossip about a party. Somebody hoping to marry
somebody else.
But
before she could make any progress on figuring it out, another piece of mail
came in.
To: T%Hegmom@Hegemony.gov
From: Sheep%NotGoats@lComeAnon
.com
Re: Even
as ye have done it unto the least of these - . -
Another
biblical quote. Same person? Bound to be.
But
the message was not chatty at all. In fact, it continued the scriptural motif
from the subject line. It had nothing to do with the previous message.
Ye took me in, but I was not naked. I took you
in, because you were foolish. Ye never knew me, but I knew you.
When
does the judgment day come? Like a thief in the night. In an hour when ye look
not for me. The fool says, He is not coming. Let us eat drink and be merry for
he is not coming. Behold I stand at the door and knock In sorrow shall ye bear
children, will have the power to crush your head but ye will have the power to
bite my heel.
A time to sow, and a time to reap. A time to
gather stones together, a time to run like hell.
She who has ears to hear. How beautiful upon
the mountains
are the feet. I come to bring not peace but a
sword.
Theresa
got out of bed. John Paul had to see these letters. They meant something, she
knew that, especially arriving together like this. The number of people who
knew this address was very, very small. And not one of them would write either
of these letters.
Therefore
either this address had been compromised-but who would bother? She was only the
mother of the Hegemon-or these letters were meant to convey a message. And it
was from someone who thought that even at this address, her mail might be
intercepted by someone else.
Who
was that paranoid, but Bean?
Big
oaf, that’s who he said he was. Bean, definitely.
“John
Paul,” she said as she padded up behind him.
“This
is so strange,” he said.
She
assumed he was going to tell her about a similar pair of messages, so she
waited.
“The
Chinese have imposed a completely absurd law in India. About rocks! People
aren’t allowed to carry rocks without a permit! Anyone caught with rocks is
subject to arrest-and they’re actually enforcing it. Have they lost their
minds?”
She
found it impossible to be interested in the idiocies of China’s policies in
India. “John Paul, I have to show you something.”
“Sure,”
he said, turning to look at the desk she set down on the table next to his
computer
“Read
these letters,” she said.
He
glanced at one, and before she could imagine he had actually read the whole
thing, he flipped to the next one. “Yeah, I got them too,” he said. “A dullbob
and a crenchee. You shouldn’t let these things get to you.”
“No,”
she said. “Look at them closer. They came to my private address. I think
they’re from Bean.”
He
looked up at her, then turned to his own computer and called up his own copies
of the letters. “Me too,” he said. “I didn’t notice that. Just looked like junk
mail, but nobody uses this address.”
“The
subject lines-”
“Yes,”
said John Paul. “Both scriptures, even though the first one-”
“Yes,
and the first one is about left and right hands, and the second one is from the
parable or whatever it is when Jesus speaks to the people on his right hand and
the people on his left hand.”
“So
they both have left and right hands.” said John Paul.
“Two
parts to the same message.
“Could
be,” he said.
“The
scriptures are all twisted.” said Theresa.
“You
Mormons learn your scriptures,” said John Paul. “We Catholics regard that as a
really Protestant thing to do.”
“The
real scripture says, I was naked, and you clothed me, I was homeless or
something like that and you took me in.”
“I
was a stranger and you took me in,” said John Paul.
“So
you did read scripture.”
“I
woke up once during the homily.”
“It’s
word games.” said Theresa. “I think the second ‘took you in’ means ‘fooled
you.’ not ‘provided shelter for you.’
By
now John Paul was studying the other letter “This one’s geopolitical. Fine
China. India ink. And it ends with ‘blow up’ in all caps.
‘Tie
the knot,’ “ said Theresa, looking at the first letter “The ‘tie’ could mean
somebody from Thailand.’”
“That’s
stretching it a little,” said John Paul, chuckling.
“It’s
all word games.” said Theresa. “ ‘Power to bite my heel’- that has to refer to
the Beast, don’t you think? Achilles, who could only be hurt in the heel.”
“And
Achilles was rescued by a Thai-Suriyawong.”
“So
now you think ‘tie’ might be ‘Thai’?”
“Yes,
you told me so.”
“The
Thai thinks he’s rescuing this person from a party. Sun rescues Achilles, but
Achilles is keeping a secret. He would blow up if he knew.”
Now
John Paul was looking at the second letter “A time to run like hell. Is this a
warning?”
“That’s
what the last line has to be. She who has ears, let her hear. Use your feet.
Because he comes to bring not peace but the sword.”
“Mine
says ‘He who has ears to hear’”
“You’re
right, they weren’t identical.”
“Who’s
the ‘I’ in these scriptures?”
“Jesus.”
“No,
no, I mean, what does the message mean by ‘I’? I think it’s Achilles. I think
it’s written as if Achilles were talking. I took you in because you were
foolish. Thief in the night, when we aren’t looking for him. We’re stupid
because we think he’s not coming but he’s here at the door”
“A
time to run like hell,” said Theresa.
John
Paul leaned back and closed his eyes. “A warning from Bean, maybe. Sun thought
he was rescuing Achilles but it was exactly what Achilles wanted him to do. And
the other letter-that reference to stones, that has to be Petra. They sent us a
pair of messages that fit together.”
And
now it all fell into place. “This is what’s been bothering me, said Theresa.
“This is why I couldn’t sleep.”
“You
didn’t get these letters till just now,” said John Paul.
“No,
the thing that was keeping me awake, it was how Achilles has done nothing since
he got here except his official duties. I was thinking that even though he was
short-circuited by the Chinese arresting him, it made no sense for him not to
make contact with his network. But what if the Chinese didn’t arrest him at
all? What if that was a setup? ‘You took me in but I was not naked.’”
John
Paul nodded. “And I took you in, because you were foolish.” “So the whole point
of this was to get Achilles inside the compound.”
“But
so what?” said John Paul. “We’ve been suspicious of him anyway.
“But
this is more than suspicion,” said Theresa. “Or they wouldn’t have sent it.”
“There’s
no evidence here. Nothing that would persuade Peter.”
“Yes
there is,” said Theresa. “Hot soup. He looked at her blankly.”
“From
Ender’s jeesh. Han Tzu. Inside China. He would know. He’s the authority. He
‘spilled everything.’ Definitely a setup.”
“OK,”
said John Paul, “so we have the evidence. We know Achilles wasn’t really a
prisoner, he wanted to be taken.”
“Don’t
you see? This means he really understands Peter. He knew that Peter couldn’t
resist rescuing him. Maybe he even knew that Bean and Petra would leave. Think
about it-we all knew how dangerous Achilles could be, so maybe he was counting
on that.”
“Everybody
closest to Peter left, except us-”
“And
Peter tried to get us to go.”
“And
Suriyawong.”
“And
Achilles has co-opted him.”
“Or
Sun has Achilles convinced he has.”
They’d
been back and forth on that one before. “Whatever,” said Theresa. “Simply by
arriving here, Achilles has succeeded in isolating Peter. Then he’s spent his
whole time being Mr. Nice Guy, doing everything right-and making friends with
everybody while he’s at it. Everything’s going smoothly. Except-”
“Except
that he’s in a position to kill Peter.”
“If
he can do it in a way that doesn’t implicate him.”
“Ready
to step in, as Peter’s assistant, and say, ‘Everything’s going smoothly at the
Hegemony, we’ll just keep things going till a new Hegemon is chosen,’ and long
before they can choose one, he’s compromised all the codes, he’s neutralized
the army, and China is completely rid of the Hegemony once and for all. They’ll
get advance word of one of Sun’s missions and they wipe out our brave little
army and-”
“Why
wipe it out, if it already obeys you?” said Theresa.
“We
don’t know that Sun-”
“What
do you think would happen if Peter tried to leave?” she asked.
John
Paul thought about that. “Achilles would take over while he was gone. There’s a
long tradition of that maneuver.
“And
just as long a tradition of declaring him sick and keeping anyone from having
access to him.”
“Well,
he can’t restrict access to Peter as long as we’re here,” said John Paul.
They
looked at each other for a long moment.
“Get
your passport,” said Theresa.
“We
can’t pack anything.”
“Wipe
the computers.”
“What
do you think he’ll use? Poison? Some bio-agent?”
“Bio-agent
is likeliest. He could have smuggled that in.”
“Does
it matter?”
“Peter’s
not going to believe us.
“He’s
stubborn and self-willed and he thinks we’re idiots,” said John Paul. “But that
doesn’t mean he’s stupid.”
“But
he might think he can handle it.”
John
Paul nodded. “You’re right. He is exactly that stupid.”
“Wipe
all your files on the system and-”
“It
doesn’t matter,” said John Paul. “There are backups.”
“Not
of these letters, at least.”
John
Paul printed them out and then destroyed them in the computer’s memory, while
Theresa wiped them from her desk.
Carrying
the paper copies of the letters, they headed for Peter’s room.
Peter was sleepy, surly, and impatient with
them. He kept dismissing their concerns and insisting they wait until morning
until finally John Paul lost his temper and dragged Peter out of bed like a
teenager. He was so shocked at being treated in such a way that he actually
fell silent.
“Stop
thinking this is between you and your parents,” John Paul said. “These letters
are from Bean and Petra, and they’re relaying a message from Han-Tzu in China.
These are three of the smartest military minds alive, and all three of them
have been proven to be smarter than you.”
Peter’s
face reddened with anger.
“Have
I got your attention now?” said John Paul. “Will you actually listen?”
“What
does it matter if I listen?” said Peter. “Let one of them be Hegemon, they’re
so much smarter than me.”
Theresa
bent down and got right in his face. “You’re acting like a rebellious teenager
while we’re trying to tell you the house is on fire.”
“Process
this information,” said John Paul, “as if we were a couple of your informants.
Pretend that you think we actually know something. And while you’re at it, take
a quick poll and see how effectively Achilles has driven away everybody around
you who was completely trustworthy-except us.”
“I
know you mean well,” said Peter, but his voice betrayed his anger.
“Shut
up,” said Theresa. “Just shut up with your patronizing tone. You saw the
letters. We didn’t make that up. Hot Soup found a way to tell Bean and Petra
that the whole rescue was a setup. You were had, smart boy. Achilles has this
whole place sussed by now. Every move you make, somebody tells him.”
“For
all we know,” said John Paul, “the Chinese have an operation ready to roll.”
“Or
you’re going to be arrested by Sun’s soldiers,” said Theresa.
“In
other words, you have no idea what I’m even supposed to be afraid of.”
“That’s
right,” said Theresa. “That’s exactly right. Because you played into his hands
as if he handed you a script and you read your lines like a robot.”
“You’re
the puppet right now, Peter,” said John Paul. “You thought you held the
strings, but you’re the puppet.”
“And
you have to leave now,” said Theresa.
“What’s
the emergency?” said Peter impatiently. “You don’t know what he’s going to do
or when.”
“Sooner
or later you’re going to have to go,” said Theresa. “Or do you plan to wait
until he kills you? Or us? And when you do go, it has to be sudden, unexpected,
unplanned. There’s no better opportunity than now. While the three of us are
still alive. Can you guarantee that will still be true tomorrow? This
afternoon? I didn’t think so.
“Before
dawn,” said John Paul. “Out of the compound, into the city, onto a plane, out
of Brazil.”
Peter
just sat there, looking from one to the other. But the irritated look was gone
from his face. Was it possible? Could he have actually heard something that
they said?
“If
I leave,” said Peter, “they’ll say I abdicated.”
“You
can say that you didn’t.”
“I’ll
look like a fool. I’ll be completely discredited.”
“You
were a fool,” said Theresa. “If you say it first, nobody else gets any points
for saying it. Cover up nothing. Get a press release out while you’re in the
air. You’re Locke. You’re Demosthenes. You can spin anything.”
Peter
stood up. started pulling clothes out of his dresser drawers. “I think you’re
right,” he said. “I think your analysis is absolutely right.”
Theresa
looked at John Paul.
John
Paul looked at Theresa.
Was
this Peter talking?
“Thank
you for not giving up on me,” he said. “But this Hegemon thing is done. I’ve
lost any chance of making it work. I had my chance, and I blew it. Everybody
told me not to bring Achilles here. I had all these plans on how to lead him
into a trap. But I was already caught in his.”
“I’ve
already told you to shut up once this morning,” said Theresa. “Don’t make me do
it again.”
Peter
didn’t bother buttoning his shirt. “Let’s go,” he said.
Theresa
was glad to see that he didn’t try to take anything with him. He only stopped
at his computer and typed in a single command.
Then
he headed for the door
“Aren’t
you going to wipe out your files?” asked John Paul. “Alert your head of
security?”
“I
just did,” said Peter
So
he had been prepared for such a day as this. He already had the program in
place that would automatically destroy everything that needed destroying. And
it would alert those who needed to be alerted.
“We
have ten minutes before the people I used to trust get warned to evacuate,”
said Peter. “Since we don’t know which of them we can still trust, we have to
be out of here by then.”
His
plan included looking after those who were still loyal to him, whose lives
would be in danger when Achilles took over. Theresa had not imagined Peter
would think of such a thing. It was a good thing to know about him.
They
didn’t skulk or run, just walked through the grounds toward the nearest gate,
engaged in animated conversation. It might be early in the morning, but who
would imagine that the Hegemon and his parents were making a getaway? No
luggage, no hurry, no stealth. Arguing. A perfectly normal scene.
And
the argument was real enough. They spoke softly, because in the stillness of
dawn they might be overheard even at a distance. But there was plenty of
intensity in their hushed voices.
“Skip
the melodrama,” said John Paul. “Your life isn’t over. You made a huge mistake,
and there are people who are going to say that running out like this is an even
bigger one. But your mother and I know that it isn’t. As long as you’re alive,
there’s hope.”
“The
hope is Bean,” said Peter “he hasn’t shot himself in the foot. I’ll throw my
support behind Bean. Or maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe my support would just be the
kiss of death.”
“Peter,”
said John Paul, “you’re the Hegemon. You were elected. You, not this compound.
In fact, you’re the one who moved the Hegemony offices here. Now you’re going
to move them somewhere else. Wherever you are, that’s the Hegemony. Don’t you
ever say one thing to imply otherwise. Even if your entire power in the world
consists of you and me and your mother, that’s not nothing. Because you are
Peter Wiggin, and dammit, we’re John Paul Wiggin and Theresa Wiggin and
underneath our charming and civilized exteriors, we’re some pretty tough
bunducks.”
Peter
said nothing.
“Well,
actually,” said Theresa to John Paul, “we’re the bunducks. Peter’s the big
sabeek.”
Peter
shook his head.
“You
are,” Theresa insisted. “And do you know how I know you are? Because you were
smart enough to listen to us and get out in time.”
“I
was just thinking,” said Peter quietly.
“What?”
prompted Theresa, before John Paul could give his standard joking reply: It’s
about time. It would be the wrong joke for this moment, but John Paul was never
very good about knowing when it was the wrong time for his standard jokes. They
came out by reflex, without being processed through his brain first.
“I’ve
underestimated you two,” he said.
“Well,
yes,” said Theresa.
“In
fact, I’ve been a little shit to you for a long time.”
“Not
so little,” said John Paul.
Theresa
cocked a warning eyebrow at him.
“But
I still never did anything as dumb as flying to get into his bedroom to kill
him,” said Peter.
Theresa
looked at him sharply. He was grinning at her.
John
Paul laughed. She couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t help retaliating. After all,
she had just given him the dreaded eyebrow.
“OK,
well, you’re right,” said Theresa. “That was pretty stupid. But I didn’t know
what else to do to save you.
“Maybe
saving me isn’t such a great idea.”
“You’re
the only copy of our DNA left on Earth,” said John Paul. “We really don’t want
to have to start all over, making babies. That’s for younger people now.
“Besides,”
said Theresa. “Saving you means saving the world.”
“Right,”
said Peter derisively.
“You’re
the only hope,” said Theresa.
“Then
good luck, world.”
“1
do believe,” said John Paul, “that that was almost a prayer. Don’t you think
so, Theresa? I think Peter said a prayer.”
Peter
chuckled. “Yeah, why not. Good luck, world. Amen.”
They
got to the gate well before the ten minutes were up. There was a cab driver
asleep at a cab stand in front of the biggest hotel outside the compound. John
Paul woke him and handed him a very large sum of money.
“Take
us to the airport,” said Theresa.
“But
not this one,” said John Paul. “I think we want to fly out of Araraquara.”
“That’s
an hour away,” said Theresa.
“And
we have an hour till the earliest flight anywhere,” said John Paul. “Do you
want to spend that hour just sitting in an airport that’s fifteen minutes away
from the compound?”
Peter
laughed. “That is so paranoid,” he said. Just like Bean.”
“Bean’s
alive,” said John Paul.
“I’m
OK with that,” said Peter. “Being alive is good.”
Peter had his press release out from one of
the computers in the Araraquara airport. But Achilles didn’t waste any time,
either.
Peter’s
story was all flue, though he left a few things out. He admitted that he had
been fooled into thinking that he was rescuing Achilles when in fact he was
bringing the Trojan Horse inside the walls of Troy. It was a terrible mistake
because Achilles was serving the Chinese Empire all along, and Hegemony
headquarters was completely compromised. Peter declared that he was moving
Hegemony headquarters to another location and urged all Hegemony employees who
were still loyal to him to wait for word about where to reassemble.
Achilles’s
press release declared that he, General Suriyawong, and Ferreira, the head of
Hegemony computer security, had discovered that Peter was embezzling Hegemony
funds and hiding them in secret accounts-money that should have gone to paying
Hegemony debts and feeding the poor and trying to achieve world peace. He
declared that the office of the Hegemon would continue to function under the
control of Suriyawong as the ranking military leader of Hegemony forces, and
that he would help Suriyawong only if he was asked. Meanwhile, a warrant had
been issued for Peter Wiggin’s arrest to answer charges of embezzlement,
malfeasance in office, and high treason against the International Defense
League.
In
a press release later that day he announced that Hyrum Graff had been removed
as Minister of Colonization and was to be arrested for complicity with Peter
Wiggin in the conspiracy to defraud the Hegemony.
“The
son of a bitch,” said John Paul.
“Graff
won’t obey him,” said Theresa. “He’ll simply declare that you’re still Hegemon
and that he answers only to you and Admiral Chamrajnagar.”
“But
it’ll dry up a lot of his funds,” said Peter. “He’ll have a lot less freedom of
movement. Because now there’s a price on his head, and in some countries they’d
just love to arrest him and turn him over to the Chinese.”
“Do
you really think Achilles is serving the Chinese interest?” asked Theresa.
“Every
bit as loyally as he served mine,” said Peter.
Before
the plane landed in Miami, Peter had his safe haven. In, of all places, the
USA.
“I
thought America was determined not to get involved,” said John Paul.
“It’s
just temporary,” said Peter
“But
it puts them clearly on our team,” said Theresa. ‘Them’?” said Peter. “You’re
Americans. So am I. The U.S. isn’t
‘them,’ it’s us.”
“Wrong,”
said Theresa. “You’re the Hegemon. You’re above nationality. And so, I might
add, are we.”
BABIES
From: Chamrajnagar%sacredriver@ifcom.gov
To: Flandres7oA-Heg©idl.gav
Re: MinCol
Mr. Handres:
The position of Hegemon is not and never was
vacant. Peter
Wiggin continues to hold that office.
Therefore your dismissal
of the Han. Hyrum Graff as Minister of
Colonization is void.
Graff continues to exercise all previous
authority in regard to
MinCd affairs off the surface of Earth.
Furthermore, lFCom will regard any
interference with his operations on Earth, or with his person as he carries out
his duties, as obstruction of a vital operation of the International Meet, and
we will take all appropriate steps.
From: Flandres%A-Heg@idl.gav
To: Chamrajnagar%sacredriver@ifcam.gav
Re: MinCa~
Admiral Chamrajnagar, sir:
I cannot imagine why you would write to me
about this matter.
I am not acting Hegemon, I am Assistant
Hegemon. I hove
forwarded your letter to Genera[ Suriyawong,
and I hope all
future correspondence about such matters will
be directed to
him.
Your humble servant,
Achilles Flandres
From: Chamrajnagar%sacredriver@ifcom.gov
To: Flandres%A-Heg@idl.gov
Re: MinCoJ
Forward my letters wherever you like. I know
the game you are playing. I am playing a different one. In my game. I hold all
the cards. Your game, on the other hand, will only last until people notice
that you have no actual cards at all.
The events in Brazil were already all over the
nets and the vids when the implantation procedure was complete and Petra was
wheeled out into the waiting room of the fertility clinic at Women’s Hospital.
Bean was waiting for her With balloons.
They
wheeled her out into the reception area. At first she didn’t notice him,
because she was busy talking with the doctor. Which was fine with him. He
wanted to look at her, this woman who might be carrying his child now.
She
looked so small.
He
remembered looking up at her when they first met in Battle School. This
girl-rare in a place that tested for aggressiveness and a certain degree of
ruthlessness. To him, a newcomer, the youngest child ever admitted to the
school, she seemed so cool, so tough, like the quintessential bullyboy,
smart-mouthed and belligerent. It was all an act, but a necessary one.
Bean
had seen at once that she noticed things. Noticed him, for starters, not with
amusement or amazement like the other kids, who could only see how small he was.
No, she clearly gave him some thought, found him intriguing. Realized, perhaps,
that his presence at Battle School when he was clearly underage implied
something interesting about him.
It
was partly that trait of hers that led Bean to turn to her-that and the fact
that as a girl she was almost as much of a misfit as he was bound to be.
She
had grown since those days, of course, but Bean had grown far more, and was now
quite a bit taller than her. It wasn’t just height, either. He had felt her rib
cage under his hands, so small and brittle, or so it seemed. He felt as though
he always had to be gentle with her, or he might inadvertently break her
between his hands.
Did
all men feel this way? Probably not. For one thing, most women were not as
light-bodied as Petra, and for another thing, most men stopped growing when
they reached a certain point. But Bean’s hands and feet were still
disproportioned to his body, like an adolescent’s, so that even though he was a
tallish man, it was clear his body meant to grow taller still. His hands felt
like paws. Hers seemed as lost within his as a baby’s.
How,
then, will the baby she carries inside her now seem to me when it is born? Will
I be able to cradle the child in one hand? Will there be a genuine danger of my
hurting the baby? I’m not so good with my hands these days.
And
by the time the baby is big enough, robust enough for me to handle safely, I’ll
be dead.
Why
did I consent to do this?
Oh,
yes. Because I love Petra. Because she wants my child so badly. Because Anton
had some cock-and-bull story about how all men crave marriage and family even
if they don’t care about sex.
Now
she noticed him, and noticed the balloons, and laughed.
He
laughed back and went to her, handed her the balloons.
“Husbands
don’t usually give their wives balloons,” she said.
“I
thought having a baby implanted was a special occasion.”
“I
suppose so,” she said, “when it’s professionally done. Most babies are
implanted at home by amateurs, and the wives don’t get balloons.”
“I’ll
remember that and try always to have a few on hand.”
He
walked beside her as an attendant pushed her wheelchair down the hallway toward
the entrance.
“So
where is my ticket to?” she asked.
“I
got you two,” said Bean. “Different airlines, different destinations. Plus this
train ticket. If either of the flights gives you a bad feeling, even if you
can’t decide why you have misgivings, don’t get on it. Just go to the other
airline. Or leave the airport and take the train. The train ticket is an EU
pass so you can go anywhere.”
“You
spoil me,” said Petra.
“What
do you think?” asked Bean. “Did the baby hook itself onto the uterine wall?”
“I’m
not equipped with an internal camera,” said Petra, “and I lack the pertinent
nerves to be able to feel microscopically small fetuses implant and start to
grow a placenta.”
“That’s
a very poor design,” said Bean. “When I’m dead, I’ll have a few words with God
about that.”
Petra
winced. “Please don’t joke about death.”
“Please
don’t ask me to be somber about it.”
“I’m
pregnant. Or might be. I’m supposed to get my way about everything.”
The
attendant pushing Petra’s wheelchair started to take her toward the front cab
in a line of three. Bean stopped him.
“The
driver’s smoking,” said Bean.
“He’ll
put it out,” said the attendant.
“My
wife will not get into a car with a driver whose clothing is giving off
cigarette smoke residue.”
Petra
looked at him oddly. He raised an eyebrow, hoping she’d realize that this was
not about tobacco.
“He’s
the first taxi in line,” said the attendant, as if it were an incontrovertible
law of physics that the first cab in line had to be the one to get the next
passengers.
Bean
looked at the other two cabs. The second driver looked at him impassively. The third
driver smiled. He looked Indonesian or Malay, and Bean knew that in their
culture, a smile was pure reflex when facing someone bigger or richer than you.
Yet
for some reason he did not feel the mistrust about the Indonesian driver that
he felt about the two Dutch drivers ahead of him.
So
he pushed her wheelchair toward the third cab. Bean asked, and the driver said
yes, he was from Jakarta. The attendant, truly irritated at this breach of
protocol, insisted on helping Petra into the cab. Bean had her bag and put it
in the back seat beside her-he never put anything in the trunks of cabs, in
case he had to run for it.
Then
he had to stand there as she drove off. No time for elaborate good-byes. He had
just put everything that mattered in his life into a cab driven by a smiling
stranger, and he had to let it drive away.
Then
he went to the first cab in line. The driver was showing his outrage at the way
Bean had violated the line. The Netherlands was back to being a civilized
place, now that it was self-governing again, and lines were respected.
Apparently the Dutch now prided themselves on being better at queues than the
English, which was absurd, because standing cheerfully in line was the English
national sport.
Bean
handed the driver a twenty-five-dollar coin, which he looked at with disdain.
“It’s stronger than the Euro right now,” said Bean. “And I’m paying you a fare,
so you didn’t lose anything because I put my wife in another cab.”
“What
is your destination?” said the driver curtly, his English laced with a prim BBC
accent. The Dutch really needed to have better programming in their own
language so their citizens didn’t have to watch English vids and listen to
English radio all the time.
Bean
did not answer him until he was inside the cab, the door closed.
“Drive
me to Amsterdam,” said Bean.
“What?”
“You
heard me,” said Bean.
“That’s
eight hundred dollars,” said the driver.
Bean
peeled a thousand-dollar bill off his roll and gave it to him. “Does the video
unit in this car actually work?” he asked.
The
driver made a show of scanning the bill to see if it was counterfeit. Bean wish
he had used a Hegemony note. You don’t like dollars? Well see how you like
this! But it was unlikely that anybody would take Hegemony money for any
purpose these days. What with Achilles’s and Peter’s faces on every vid in the
city and all the talk about how Peter had embezzled Hegemony funds.
Their
faces were on the video in the cab, too, when the driver finally got it
working. Poor Peter, thought Bean. Now he knows how the popes and anti-popes
felt when there were two with a claim to St. Peter’s throne. What a lovely
taste of history for him. What a mess for the world.
And
to Bean’s surprise, he found that he didn’t actually care that much whether the
world was in a mess-not when the messiness wasn’t going to affect his own
little family.
I’m
actually a civilian now, he realized. All I care about is how these world
events will affect my family.
Then
he remembered: I used to care about world events only insofar as they affected
me. I used to laugh at Sister Carlotta because she was so concerned.
But
he did care. He kept track. He paid attention. He told himself it was so he’d
know where he’d be safe. Now, though, with far more reason to worry about
safety, he found the whole business of Peter and Achilles fundamentally boring.
Peter was a fool to think he could control Achilles, a fool to trust a Chinese
source on such a matter. How well Achilles must understand Peter, to know that
he would rescue Achilles instead of killing him. But why shouldn’t Achilles
understand Peter? All he had to do was think of what he would do, if he were in
Peter’s position, but dumber.
Still,
even though he was bored, the story from the news people began to make sense,
when combined with the things Bean knew. The embezzling story was ludicrous, of
course, obviously disinformation from Achilles, though all the predictable
nations were in an uproar about it, demanding inquiries: China, Russia, France.
What seemed to be true was that Peter and his parents slipped out of the
Hegemon’s compound in Ribeirao Preto just before dawn this morning, drove to
Araraquara, then flew to Montevideo, where they got official permission to fly
to the United States as guests of the U.S. government.
It
was possible, of course, that their sudden flight was precipitated by something
Achilles did or some information they learned about Achilles’s immediate plans.
But Bean was reasonably sure that these events were triggered by the emails he
and Petra had sent early this morning when they got Han Tzu’s message.
Apparently
the Wiggins had been up either very late or very early, because they must have
got the letters almost as soon as they were sent. Got them, deciphered the
message, realized the implication of Han Tzu’s tip, and then, incredibly
enough, persuaded Peter to pay attention and get out without a moment’s delay.
Bean
had assumed it would take days before Peter would realize the significance of
what he had been told. Part of the problem would be his relationship with his
parents. Bean and Petra knew how smart the Wiggins were, but most people in the
Hegemony didn’t have a clue, least of all Peter. Bean tried to imagine the
scene when they explained to him that he had been fooled by Achilles. Peter,
believing his parents when they told him he had made a mistake? Unthinkable.
And
yet he must have believed them right away.
Or
they drugged him.
Bean
laughed a little at the thought, and then looked up from the vid because the
cab was turning sharply.
They
were pulling off the main road into a side street. They shouldn’t be.
By
reflex Bean had the door open and was flinging himself out the door by the time
the cab driver could get his gun up from the seat and aim it at him. The bullet
zipped over his head as Bean hit the ground and rolled. The cab came to a stop
and the driver leapt out to finish the job. Abandoning his bag. Bean scrambled
to get around the corner. But he’d never get far enough down the street-which
had no pedestrians on it, here in the warehouse district-to get out of the
range of a bullet once the cabbie followed him onto the main street.
Another
shot came just as he made it past the edge of the building. He thought of
pressing himself against the side of the building, in the hopes that the gunman
was really stupid and would barrel around the corner without looking.
But
that wouldn’t work, because the cab that had been second in line was pulling to
the curb right in front of him, and the driver was raising his own gun to point
it at Bean.
He
dived for the ground and two bullets hit the wall where he had been standing.
By sheer chance, his leap took him directly in front of the first driver, who
was indeed stupid enough to be running around the corner at top speed. He fell
over Bean and when he hit the ground, his gun flew out of his hand.
Bean
might have gone for the gun, but the second driver was already partly out of
his door and would be able to shoot Bean before he could get to it. So Bean
scrambled back to the first cab, which was idling in the side street. Could he
get the cab between him and either of the gunmen before they could shoot at him
again?
He
knew he couldn’t. But there was nothing to do but try, and hope that, like bad
guys in the vids, these two would be terrible shots and miss him every time.
And when he got in the cab to drive it away, it would be very nice if the
upholstery of the driver’s seat were made of that miracle fabric that stops
bullets fired through the back window.
Pop.
Pop-pop. And then.., the ratatat of an automatic weapon.
The
two cab drivers didn’t have automatic weapons.
Bean
was around the front of the cab now, keeping low. To his surprise, neither
driver was standing at the corner, pointing a gun at him. Perhaps they had
been, a moment ago, but now they were lying there on the ground, filled with
bullets and seeping copious amounts of blood all over the pavement.
And
around the corner charged two Indonesian-looking men, one with a pistol and the
other with a small plastic automatic weapon. Bean recognized the Israeli
design, because that was the weapon his own little army had used on missions
where they had to be able to conceal their weapons as long as possible.
“Come
with us!” shouted one of the Indonesians.
Bean
thought this was probably a good idea. Since the assassination attempt had
included one backup, it might include more, and the sooner he got out of there
the better.
Of
course, he didn’t know anything about these Indonesians, or why they would have
been there at this moment to save his life, but the fact that they had guns and
weren’t firing them at him implied that for the moment, at least, they were his
dearest friends.
He
grabbed his suitcase and ran. The front right door of a nondescript German car
was open, waiting for him. The moment he dived in, he said, “My wife-she’s in
another cab.”
“She
safe,” said the man in the back seat, the one with the automatic weapon. “Her
driver is one of us. Very good choice of cab for her. Very bad choice for you.”
“Who
are you?”
“Indonesian
immigrant,” said the driver with a grin.
“Muslim,”
said Bean. “Alai sent you?”
“No,
not a lie. True,” said the man.
Bean
didn’t bother correcting him. If the name Alai meant nothing to him, what was
the point in pursuing the matter? “Where’s Petra? My wife?”
“Going
to airport. She not using ticket you giving her.” The man in the back seat
handed him an airline ticket. “She going here.”
Bean
looked at his ticket. Damascus.
Apparently
Ambul’s mission had gone well. Damascus was, for all intents and purposes, the
capital of the Muslim world. Even though Alai had dropped out of sight, it was
unlikely that he was anywhere else.
“Are
we going there as guests?” asked Bean.
“Tourists,”
said the man in the back.
“Good,”
said Bean. “Because we left something in the hospital here that we might have
to come back for.” Though it was obvious that Achilles’s people-or whoever it
was-knew everything about what they were doing at Women’s Hospital. In fact. .
. there was almost no chance that anything of theirs remained in Women’s
Hospital.
He
looked back at the man in the back seat. He was shaking his head. “Sorry, they
telling me when we stop here and shoot guys for you, security guard in hospital
stealing what you left there.”
Of
course. You don’t fight your way past a security guard. You just hire him.
And
now it was all clear to him. If Petra had gotten in the first cab, it wouldn’t
have been an assassination, it would have been a kidnapping. This wasn’t about
killing Bean-that was just a bonus. It was about getting Bean’s babies.
Bean
knew they hadn’t been followed here. They had been betrayed since arriving.
Volescu. And if Volescu was in on it, then the embryos that were stolen
probably had Anton’s Key after all. There was no particular reason for anyone
to want his babies if there wasn’t at least a chance that they would be
prodigies of the kind Bean was.
Volescu’s
screening test was probably a fraud. Volescu probably had no idea which of the
embryos had Anton’s Key and which didn’t. They’d implant them in surrogates and
then see what happened when they were born.
Bean
had been taken in by Volescu as surely as Peter had been by Achilles. But it
wasn’t as if they had trusted Volescu. They had simply trusted him not to be in
league with Achilles.
Though
it didn’t have to be him. Just because he had kidnapped Ender’s jeesh didn’t
mean that he was the only would-be kidnapper in the world. Bean’s children, if
they had his gifts, would be coveted by any ambitious nation or would-be
military leader. Raise them up knowing nothing about their real parents, train
them here on Earth as intensely as Bean and the other kids had been trained in
Battle School, and by the age of nine or ten you can put them in command of
strategy and tactics.
It
might even be an entrepreneurial scheme. Maybe Volescu did this alone, hiring
gunmen, bribing the security guard, so that he could sell the babies later to
the highest bidder.
“Bad
news, sorry,” said the man in the back seat. “But you still got one baby, yes?
In wife, yes?”
“Still
the one,” said Bean. If they had the ordinary amount of good luck.
Which
didn’t seem to be the trend at the moment.
Still,
going to Damascus If Alai was really
taking them into his protection, Petra would be safe there. Petra and perhaps
one child-who might have Anton’s Key after all, might be doomed to die without
ever seeing the age of twenty. At least those two would be safe.
But
the others were out there, children of Bean’s and Petra’s who would be raised by
strangers, as tools, as slaves.
There
had been nine embryos. One had been implanted, and three were discarded. That
would leave five in the possession of Volescu or Achilles or whoever it was who
took them.
Unless
Volescu had actually found a way to switch the three that were supposedly
discarded, switching containers somehow. There might be eight embryos
unaccounted for but probably not, probably only the five they knew about. Bean
and Petra had both been watching Volescu too carefully for him to get away with
the first three, hadn’t they?
By
force of will, Bean turned his thoughts away from worries he could do nothing
about at this moment, and took stock of his situation.
“Thank
you,” said Bean to the men in the car. “I was careless. Without you, I’d be
dead.”
“Not
careless,” said the man in the back. “Young man in love. Wife has baby in her
Time of hope.”
Followed
immediately, Bean realized, by a time of near despair. He should never have
agreed to father children, no matter how much Petra wanted to, no matter how
much he loved Petra, no matter how much he too yearned for offspring, for a
family. He should have stood firm, because then this would not have been
possible. There would have been nothing for his enemies to steal from him. He
and Petra would still have been in hiding, undetected, because they would never
have had to go to a snake like Volescu.
“Babies
good,” said the man in the back. “Make you scared, make you crazy. Somebody
take away babies, somebody hurt babies, make you crazy. But good anyway. Babies
good.”
Yeah.
Well. Maybe Bean would live long enough to know about that, and maybe he
wouldn’t.
Because
now he knew his life’s work, for whatever time he had left before he died of
giantism.
He
had to get his babies back. Whether they should ever have existed or not, they
existed now, each with its own separate genetic identity, each very much alive.
Until they were taken, they had been nothing to him but cells in a solution-all
that mattered was the one that would be implanted in Petra, the one that would
grow and become part of their family. But now they all mattered. Now they were
all alive to him, because someone else had them, meant to use them.
He
even regretted the ones that had been disposed of. Even if the test had been
real, even if they had had Anton’s Key, what right did he have to snuff out
their genetic identity, just because he oh-so-altruistically wanted to spare
them the sorrow of a life as short as his?
Suddenly
he realized what he was thinking. What it meant.
Sister
Carlotta, you always wanted me to turn Christian-and not just Christian,
Catholic. Well, here I am, thinking that as soon as sperm and egg combine,
they’re a human life, and it’s wrong to harm them.
Well,
I’m not Catholic, and it wasn’t wrong to want children to grow up to have a
full life instead of this fifth-of-a-life that I’m headed for.
But
how was I different, flushing three of those embryos, from Volescu? He flushed
twenty-two of them, I flushed three. He waited till they were nearly two years
further along in development-gestation plus a year-but in the end, is it really
all that different?
Would
Sister Carlotta condemn him for that? Had he committed a mortal sin? Was he
only getting what he deserved now, losing five because he willingly threw away
three?
No,
he could not imagine her saying that to him. Or even thinking it to herself.
She would rejoice that he had decided to have a child at all. She would be glad
if Petra really was pregnant.
But
she would also agree with him that the five that were now in someone else’s
hands, the five that might be implanted in someone else and turned into babies,
he couldn’t just let them go. He had to find them and save them and bring them
home.
PUTTING OUT FIRES
From: Han
Tzu
To: Snow Tiger
Re: stones
I am pleased and honored to have the chance
once again to offer my poor counsel to your bright magnificence. My previous
advice to ignore the piles of stones in the road was obviously foolish, and you
saw that a much wiser course was to declare stone-carrying to be illegal.
Now I once again have the glorious privilege
of giving bad advice to him who does not need counsel.
Here is the problem as I see it:
1. Having declared a law against
stone-carrying, you cannot back down and repeal the law without showing
weakness.
2. The law against stone-carrying puts you
in the position of arresting and punishing women and small children,
which is filmed and smuggled out of India to
the great embarrassment of the Universal Peoples State.
3. The coastline of India being so
extensive and our navy so small, we cannot stop the smuggling of these vids.
4. The stones block the roads, making
transportation of troops and supplies unpredictable and dangerous, disrupting
schedules.
5. The stone piles are being called “The
Great Wall of India” and other names which make them a symbol of revolutionary
defiance of the Universal People’s State.
You tested me by suggesting that there were
only two possibilities, which in your wisdom you knew would lead to disastrous
consequences. Repealing the law or ceasing to enforce it would encourage
further lawlessness. Stricter enforcement will only make martyrs, inflame the
opposition, shame us among the ignorant barbarian nations, and encourage
further lawlessness.
Through unbelievable luck, I have not failed
your clever test. I have found the third alternative that you already saw:
I see now that your plan is to fill trucks
with fine gravel and huge stones. Your soldiers will go to villages which have
built these new, higher barricades. They will back the trucks up to the
barricades and dump the gravel and the boulders in front of their pile, but not
on top of it.
1
. The rebellious, ungrateful Indian people will reflect upon the difference in
size between the Great Wall of India and the Gravel and Boulders of China.
2. Because you will have blocked all roads
into and out of each village, they will not get any trucks or buses into or out
of their village until they have moved not only the Great Wall of India but
also the Gravel and Boulders of China.
3. They will find that the gravel is too
small and the boulders are too large to be moved easily. The great exertion
that they must use to clear the roads will be a sufficient teacher without any
further punishment of any person.
4. Any vids smuggled out of India will
show that we have only done to their roads what they voluntarily did
themselves, only more. And the only punishment foreigners will see is Indians
picking up rocks and moving them, which is the very thing they chose to do
themselves in the first place.
5. Because there are not enough trucks in
India to pile gravel and boulders in more than a small fraction of the villages
which have built a Great Wall of India, the villages which receive this treatment
should be chosen with care to make sure that the maximum number of roads are
blocked, disrupting trade and food supplies throughout India.
6. You will also make sure sufficient
roads are kept open for our supplies, but checkpoints will be set up far from
villages and in places that cannot be filmed from a distance. No civilian
trucks will be allowed to pass.
7. Certain villages that are starving will
be supplied with small amounts of food airlifted by the Chinese military, who
will come as saviors bringing food to those who innocently suffer because of
the actions of the rebellious and disobedient blockers of roads. We will
provide film of these humanitarian operations by our military to all foreign
news media.
I applaud your wisdom in thinking of this
plan, and thank you for allowing one so foolish as myself to have this chance
to examine your way of thinking and see how you will turn embarrassment to a
great lesson for the ungrateful Indian people. Unless, like last time, you have
a plan that is even more subtle and wise, which I have been unable to
anticipate.
From this child who prostrates himself at your
feet to learn wisdom,
Han Tzu
Peter did not want to get out of bed.
This
had never happened to him before in his life.
No,
not strictly true. He had often wanted not to get out of bed, but he had always
gone ahead and gotten out of bed anyway. What was different today was that he
was still in bed at nine-thirty in the morning, even though he had a press
conference scheduled for less than half an hour from now in a conference room
in the 0. Henry Hotel in his home town of Greensboro, North Carolina.
He
could not plead jet lag. There was only an hour’s time difference between
Ribeirao Preto and Greensboro. It would be a great embarrassment if he did not
get up. So he would get up. Very soon now.
Not
that it would make any difference. He might, for the moment, still have the
title of Hegemon, but there were people in many countries with tides like
“king” and “duke” and “marquis,” who nevertheless cooked or took pictures or
fixed automobiles for a living. Perhaps he could go back to college under
another name and train himself for a career like his father’s, a quiet one
working for a company somewhere.
Or
he could go into the bathroom and fill the tub with water and lie down in it
and breathe the water in. A few moments of panic and flailing around, and then
the whole problem would go away. In fact, if he hit himself very hard in
various places on his body, it might look as though he struggled with an
assailant and was murdered. He might even be considered a martyr. At least
people might think that he was important enough to have an enemy who thought he
was worth killing.
Any
minute now, thought Peter, I will get up and shower so I don’t look so
bedraggled to the media.
I
ought to prepare a statement, he thought. Something to the effect of, “Why I am
not as pathetic and stupid as my recent actions prove me to be.” Or perhaps the
direct approach: “Why I am even more pathetic and stupid than my recent actions
might indicate.”
Given
his recent track record, he would probably be saved from the bathtub, given
CPR, and then someone would notice the bruises on his body and the lack of an
assailant and the story would get out about his pathetic effort to make his
suicide attempt look like a brutal murder, thus making his life even more
worthless than it already was.
Another
knock on the door. Couldn’t the maid read the do-not-disturb sign? It was
written in four languages. Could she possibly be illiterate in all four of
them? No doubt she was also illiterate in a fifth.
Twenty-five
minutes until the press conference. Did I doze off? That would be nice. Just. .
. doze. . . off. Sorry, I overslept. I’ve been so very busy. It’s exhausting
work to turn over-to a megalomaniac killer-everything I built up through my
entire life.
Knock
knock knock. It’s a good thing I didn’t kill myself. All this knocking would
have ruined my concentration and entirely spoiled my death scene. I should die
like Seneca, with fine last speeches. Or Socrates, though that would be harder,
since I don’t have hemlock but I do have a bathtub. No razor blades, though. I
don’t grow enough of a beard to need any. Just another sign that I’m only a
stupid kid who should never have been permitted to take a role in the grownup
world.
The
door to his room opened and jammed against the locking bar.
How
outrageous. Who dare to use a passkey on his room?
And
not just a passkey! Someone had the tool that opened the locking bar and now
his door was wide open.
Assassins!
Well, let them kill me here in the bed, facing them, not cowering in a corner
begging them not to shoot.
“Poor
baby,” said Mother
“He’s
depressed,” said Father “Don’t make fun of him.”
“I
can’t help but think of what Ender went through, fighting the Formics almost
every day for weeks, completely exhausted, and yet he always got up and fought
again.”
Peter
wanted to scream at her. How dare she compare what he had just gone through
with Ender’s legendary “suffering.” Ender never lost a battle, did she think of
that? And he had just lost the war! He was entitled to sleep.
“Ready?
One, two, three.”
Peter
felt the whole mattress slide down the bed until he was awkwardly dumped onto
the floor, banging his head against the frame of the bedsprings.
“Ow!”
he cried.
Wouldn’t
that make a noble last word to be recorded by posterity?
How
did the great Peter Wiggin, Hegemon of Earth (and, of course, brother of Ender
Wiggin, sainted savior), meet his end?
He
sustained a terrible head injury when his parents dragged him out of a hotel
bed the morning after his ignominious escape from his own compound where not
one person had threatened him in any way and he had no evidence of any
impending threat against his person.
And
what were his last words?
A
one-word sentence, fit to be engraved on his monument. Ow.
“I
don’t think we can get him into the shower without actually touching his sacred
person,” said Mother
“I
think you’re right,” said Father
“And
if we touch him,” said Mother, “there’s a real possibility that we will be
struck dead on the spot.”
Other
people had mothers who were compassionate, tender, comforting, understanding.
His mother was a sarcastic hag who clearly hated him and always had.
“Ice
bucket,” said Father.
“No
ice.”
“But
it holds water.”
This
was too stupid. The old throw-water-on-the-sleeping-teenager trick.
“Just
go away, I’m getting up in a couple of minutes.”
“No,”
said Mother. “You’re getting up now. Your father is filling the ice bucket. You
can hear the water running.”
“OK,
OK, leave the room so I can take my clothes off and get in the shower. Or is
this just a subterfuge so you can see me naked again? You’ve never let me
forget how you used to change my diapers, so apparently that was a very
important stage in your life.”
He
was answered by having water dashed in his face. Not a whole bucketful, but
enough to soak his head and shoulders.
“Sorry
I didn’t have time to fill it,” said Father. “Hut when you started making crude
sexual innuendos to my wife, I had to use whatever amount of water was at hand
to shut you up before you said enough that I would have to beat your bratty
little face in.”
Peter
got up from the mattress on the floor and pulled off the shorts he slept in.
“Is this what you came in to see?”
“Absolutely,”
said Father. “You were wrong, Theresa: he does have balls.”
“Not
enough of them, apparently.”
Peter
stalked between them and slammed the bathroom door behind him.
Half an hour later, after keeping the press
waiting only ten minutes past the appointed time, Peter walked alone onto the
platform at one end of a packed conference room. All the reporters were holding
up their little steadycams, the lenses peering out between the fingers of their
clenched fists. It was the best turnout he had ever had at a press
conference-though to be fair he had never actually held one in the United
States. Maybe here they would all have been like this.
“I’m
as surprised as you are to find myself here today,” said Peter with a smile.
“But I must say I’m grateful to the source that provided me with information
that allowed me to make my exit, along with my family, from a place that had
once been a safe haven, but which had become the most dangerous place in the
world to me.
“I
am also grateful to the government of the United States, which not only invited
me to bring the office of Hegemon here, on a temporary basis, of course, but
also provided me with a generous contingent of the Secret Service to secure the
area. I don’t believe they’re necessary, at least not in such numbers, but
then, until recently I didn’t think I needed any protection inside the Hegemony
compound in Ribeirao Preto.”
His
smile invited a laugh, and he got one. More of a release of tension than real
amusement, but it would do. Father had stressed that-make them laugh now and
then, so everybody feels relaxed. That will make them think you’re relaxed and
confident, too.
“My
information suggests that the many loyal employees of the Office of Hegemon are
in no danger whatsoever, and when a new permanent headquarters is established,
I invite all those who want to, to resume their jobs. The disloyal employees,
of course, already have other employment.”
Another
laugh-but a couple of audible groans, too. The press smelled blood, and it
didn’t help that Peter looked-and was-so very young. Humor, yes, but don’t look
like a wise-cracking kid. Especially don’t look like a wise-cracking kid whose
parents had to drag him out of bed this morning.
“I
will not give you any information that would compromise my recent benefactor.
What I can tell you is this: My inconveniently sudden journey-this disruption
in the Office of Hegemon-is entirely my fault.”
There.
That wasn’t what a kid would say. That wasn’t even what adult politicians
usually said.
“Against
the advice of my military commander and others, I brought the notorious
Achilles Flandres, at his own request and with his assurances of loyalty to me,
into my compound. I was warned that he could not be trusted, and I believed
those warnings.
“However,
I thought I was clever enough and careful enough to detect any betrayal on his
part in plenty of time. That was a miscalculation on my part. Thanks to the
help of others, it was not a fatal one.
“The
disinformation now coming from Achilles Flandres in the former Hegemony
compound about my alleged embezzlement is, of course, false. I have always
maintained the financial records of the Hegemony in public. The broad
categories of income and disbursement have been published every year on the
nets, and this morning I have opened up the entire set of financial records of
the Hegemony, and my own personal records, on a secure site with the address
‘Hegemon Financial Disclosure.’ Except for a few secret items in the budget,
which any military analyst can tell you is barely enough to account for the
very few military actions of my office over the past few years, every dollar is
accounted for. And, yes, we do keep those records in dollars, since the
Hegemony currency has fluctuated widely in value, but with a distinctly
downward trend, in recent years.”
Another
laugh. But everyone was writing like crazy, too, and he could see that this
policy of full disclosure was working.
“Besides
seeing that nothing has been embezzled from the Hegemony,” Peter went on, “you
will also see that the Hegemony has been working with extremely limited funds.
It has been a challenge, with so little money, to marshal the nations of the
world to oppose the imperialistic designs of the so-called ‘Universal People’s
State’ otherwise known as the Chinese Empire. We have been extremely grateful
to those nations who have continued to support the Hegemony at one level or
another. In deference to some of them who prefer their contribution remain
secret, we have withheld some twenty names. You are free to speculate about
their identity but I will say neither yes or no, except to tell you candidly
that China is not one of them.”
The
biggest laugh yet, and a couple of people even clapped their hands a few times.
“I
am outraged that the usurper Achilles Flandres has called into question the
credentials of the Minister of Colonization. But if there were any doubts about
Flandres’s plans, the fact that this was his first act should tell you a great
deal about the future he plans for us all. Achilles Flandres will not rest
until every human being is under his complete control. Or, of course, dead.”
Peter
paused, looked down at the rostrum as if he had notes there, though of course
he didn’t.
“One
thing I do not regret, however, about bringing Achilles Flandres to Ribefrào
Preto, is that I have had a chance now to take his measure as a human
being-though it is only by the broadest definition that I include him in that
category. Achilles Flandres has achieved his power in the world, not by his own
intelligence or courage, but by exploiting the intelligence and courage of
others. He engineered the kidnapping of the children who helped my brother,
Ender Wiggin, save humanity from the alien invaders. Why? Because he knew that
he himself did not have any hope of ruling the world if any of them were
working against him.
“Achilles
Flandres’s power comes from the willingness of others to believe his lies. But
his lies will no longer bring him new allies as they have in the past. He has
hitched his little wagon to China and drives China like an ox. But I have heard
him laughing at the poor fools in the Chinese government who believed him,
mocking them for their petty ambitions, as he told me how unworthy they were to
have him guiding their affairs otherwise known as the Chinese Empire.
“No
doubt much of this was merely part of his attempt to convince me that he was no
longer working with them. But his ridicule was by name and very specific. His
contempt for them was genuine. I almost feel sorry for them-because if his
power is ever solidified and he has no further use for them, then they will see
what I saw.
“Of
course, he has scorn for me as well, and if he’s laughing at me right now, I
can only agree with him. I was snookered, ladies and gentlemen. In that, I join
a distinguished company, some of whom fell from power in Russia after the
kidnappings, some of whom are now suffering as political prisoners after
China’s conquest of India, and some of whom even now are arresting people in
India for… carrying stones.
“I
only hope that I will turn out to be the last person so vain and foolish as to
think that Achilles Flandres can be controlled or exploited to serve some
higher purpose. Achilles Flandres serves only one purpose-his own pleasure. And
what pleases him. . . would be to rule over every man, woman, and child in the
human race.
“I
was not a fool when I committed the Hegemony to opposing the imperialistic acts
of the Chinese government. Now, because of my own mistakes, the prestige of the
Hegemony is temporarily diminished. But my opposition to the Chinese Empire’s
oppression of more than half the people of the world is not diminished. I am
the implacable enemy of emperors.
That
was as good a stopping point as any.
Peter
bowed his head briefly to acknowledge their polite applause. Some in the crowd
applauded more than politely-but he was also aware of those who did not clap at
all.
The
questions began then, but because he had accused himself from the start, he
fielded them easily. Two questioners tried to get more information on the
source who tipped him off and what it was he tipped Peter off about, but Peter
only said, “If I say anything more on this subject, someone who has been kind
to me will certainly die. I am surprised you would even ask.” After the second
time he said this-word for word-no one asked such a question again.
As
to those whose questions were merely veiled accusations, he agreed with all
those who implied that he had been foolish. When he was asked if he had proven
himself too foolish to hold the office of Hegemon, his first reply was a joke:
“I was told when I took the job in the first place that accepting it proved I
was too dimwitted to serve.” Laughter, of course. And then he said, “But I have
tried to use that office to serve the cause of peace and self-government for
all of humanity, and I challenge anyone to show that I did anything other than
advance that cause as much as was possible with the resources I had.”
Fifteen
minutes later, he apologized for having no further time. “But please email me
any further questions you might have, and my staff and I will try to get
answers back to you in time for your deadlines. One final word before I go.”
They
fell silent, waiting.
“The
future happiness of the human race depends on good people who want to live at
peace with their neighbors, and who are willing to protect their neighbors from
those who don’t want peace. I’m only one of those people. I’m probably not the
best of them, and I hope to God I’m not the smartest. But I happen to be the
one who was entrusted with the office of Hegemon. Until my term expires or I am
lawfully replaced by the nations that have supported the Hegemony, I will
continue to serve in that office.”
More
applause-and this time he allowed himself to believe that there might be some
real enthusiasm in it. He came back to his room exhausted.
Mother
and Father were there, waiting. They had refused to go downstairs with him. “If
your mother and father are with you,” Father had said, “then this better be the
press conference where you resign. But if you intend to stay in office, then
you go down there alone. Just you. No staff. No parents. No friends. No notes.
Just you.”
Father
had been right. Mother had been right, too. Ender, bless his little heart, was
the example he had to follow. If you lose, you lose, but you don’t give up.
“How
did it go?” asked Mother
“Well
enough, I think,” said Peter “I took questions for fifteen minutes, but they
were starting to repeat themselves or get off on wild tangents so I told them
to email me any further questions. Was it carried on the vid?”
“We
polled thirty news stations,” said Father, “and the top twenty or so newswebs,
and most of them had it live.”
“So
you watched?” said Peter
“No,
we flipped through,” said Mother “But what we saw looked and sounded good. You
didn’t bat an eye. I think you brought it off.”
“We’ll
see.”
“Long
term,” said Father “You’re going to have a bumpy couple of months. Especially
because you can count on it that Achilles hasn’t emptied his quiver yet.”
“Bow
and arrow analogies?” said Peter “You are so old.”
They
chuckled at his joke.
“Mom.
Dad. Thanks.”
“All
we did,” said Father, “was what we knew that tomorrow you would have wished we
had done today.”
Peter
nodded. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Man, I can’t believe I was so
dumb. I can’t believe I didn’t listen to Bean and Petra and Sun and-”
“And
us,” said Mother helpfully.
“And
you and Graft” said Peter
“You
trusted your own judgment,” said Father, “and that’s exactly what you have to
do. You were wrong this time, but you haven’t been wrong often, and I doubt
you’ll ever be this wrong again.”
“For
heaven’s sake don’t start taking a vote on your decisions,” said Mother. “Or
looking at opinion polls or trying to guess how your actions will play with the
press.”
“I
won’t,” said Peter.
“Because,
you see, you’re Locke,” said Mother. “You already ended one war. After a few
days or weeks, the press will start remembering that. And you’re
Demosthenes-you have quite a fervent following.”
“Had,”
said Peter.
“They
saw what they expected from Demosthenes,” said Mother. “You didn’t weasel, you
didn’t make excuses, you took the blame you deserved and refused the
accusations that were false. You put out your evidence-”
“That
was good advice, Dad, thanks,” said Peter
“And,”
said Mother, “you showed courage.”
“By
running away from Ribeiräo Preto before anyone so much as glared at me?”
“By
getting out of bed,” she answered.
Peter
shook his head. “Then my courage is nothing but borrowed courage.
“Not
borrowed,” said Mother “Stored up. In us. Like a bank. We’ve seen your courage
and we saved some for you when you temporarily ran out and needed some of it
back.”
“Cash
flow problem, that’s all it was,” said Father
“How
many times are you two going to have to save me from myself before this whole
drama runs its course?” asked Peter.
“I think… six times,” said Father “No, eight,”
said Mother. “You two think you’re so cute,” said Peter “Mm-hm.”
A
knock at the door “Room service!” called a voice from outside.
Father
was at the door in two quick strides. “Three tomato juices?” he asked.
“No,
no, nothing like that. Lunch. Sandwiches. Bowl of ice cream.”
Even
with that reassurance, Father stepped to the side of the door and pulled it
open as far as the lock bar allowed. Nobody fired a weapon, and the guy with
the food laughed. “Oh, everybody forgets to undo that thing, happens all the
time.”
Father
opened the door and stepped outside long enough to make sure nobody else was in
the hail waiting to follow room service inside.
When
the waiter was coming through the door Peter turned around to get out of his
way, just in time to see Mother slipping a pistol back into her purse.
“Since
when did you start packing?” he asked her.
“Since
your chief of computer security turned out to be Achilles’s good friend,” she
said.
“Ferreira?”
asked Peter
“He’s
been telling the press that he installed snoopware to find out who was
embezzling funds, and was shocked to discover it was you.”
“Oh,”
said Peter. “Of course they ran a press conference opposite mine.”
“But
almost everybody carried yours live and his was just excerpted. And they all
followed the Ferreira clip with a repeat of you announcing that you were
posting the Hegemony financial records on the nets.”
“Bet
we crash the server.”
“No,
all the news organizations cloned it first thing.”
Father
had finished signing off on the meal and the waiter was gone, the door
relocked.
“Let’s
eat,” said Father “If I recall, this place always has great lunches.”
“It’s
good to be home,” said Mother “Well, not home, but in town, anyway.
Peter
took a bite and it was good.
They
had ordered exactly the sandwich he would have ordered, that’s how well they
knew him. Their lives really were focused on their children. He couldn’t have
ordered their sandwiches. Three place settings on the little rolling cart the
waiter had wheeled in. There should have been five. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“For
what?” asked Father, his mouth full.
“That
I’m the only kid you’ve got on Earth.”
“Could
be worse,” said Father “Could have been none.” And Mother reached over and
patted his hand.
CALIPH
From: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin
.gov
To: [ocke%erasmus@polnet.gov
Re: The
better part of valor
I know you don’t want to hear from me. But
given that you are no longer in a secure situation, and our mutual foe is
playing again on the world stage, I offer you and your parents sanctuary. I am
not suggesting that you go into the colony program. Quite the contrary-I regard
you as the only hope of rallying worldwide opposition to our foe. That is why
your physical protection is of the utmost importance to us.
For that reason, I have been authorized to
invite you to a facility off planet for a few days, a few weeks, a few months.
It has full connections to the nets and you will be returned to Earth within
forty-eight hours of your request. No one will even know you are gone. But it
will put you out of reach of any attempt either to kill or capture you or your
parents.
Please take this seriously. Now that we know
our enemy has not severed his connections with his previous host, certain
intelligence already obtained now makes a different kind of sense. Our best
interpretation of this data is that an attempt on your life is imminent.
A temporary disappearance from the surface of
the Earth would be very useful to you right now. Think of it as the equivalent
of Lincoln’s secret journey through Baltimore in order to assume the
presidency. Or, if you prefer a less lofty precedent, Lenin’s journey to Russia
in a sealed railroad car.
Petra assumed that she had been taken to
Damascus because Ambul had succeeded in making contact with Alai, but neither
of them met her at the airport. Nor was there anyone waiting for her at the
security gates. Not that she wanted someone carrying a sign that said “Petra
Arkanian”-she might as well send Achilles an email telling him where she was.
She
had felt nauseated through the entire flight, but she knew it could not
possibly be from pregnancy, not this quickly. It took at least a few hours for
the hormones to start to flow, It had to be the stark fear that started when
she realized that if Alai’s people could find exactly where she was, and have a
cab waiting for her, so could Achilles’s.
How
did Bean know to choose the cab he chose for her? Was it some predilection for
Indonesians? Did he reason from evidence she didn’t even notice? Or did he
choose the third cab simply because he didn’t trust the concept of “next in
line”?
What
cab had he got into, and who was driving it?
Someone
bumped into her from behind, and for a moment she had a rush of adrenaline as
she thought: This is it! I’m being killed by an assassin who approached me from
behind because I was too stupid to look around!
After
the momentary panic-and the momentary self-blame-she realized that of course it
was not an assassin, it was simply a passenger from her flight, hurrying to get
out of the airport, while she, uncertain and lost in her own thoughts, had been
walking too slowly and obstructing traffic.
I’ll
go to a hotel, she thought. But not one that Europeans always go to. But wait,
if I go to a hotel where everybody but me is Arab looking, I’ll stand out. Too
obvious. Bean would tease me for not having developed any useful survival
habits. Though at least I thought twice before checking into an Arab hotel.
The
only luggage she had was the bag she was carrying over her shoulder, and at
customs she went through the usual questions. “This is all your luggage?”
“Yes.” “How long do you plan to stay?” “A couple of weeks, I expect.” “Two
weeks, and no more clothing than this?” “I plan to shop.”
It
always aroused suspicions to enter a country with too little luggage, but as
Bean said, it’s better to have a few more questions at customs or passport
control than to have to go to the baggage claim area and stand round where bad
people have plenty of time to find you.
The
only thing worse, in Bean’s view, was to use the first restroom in the airline
terminal. “Everybody knows women have to pee incessantly,” said Bean.
“Actually,
it’s not incessant, and most men don’t notice even if it is,” said Petra. But
considering that Bean seemed never to need to pee at all, she supposed that her
normal human needs seemed excessive to him.
She
was well trained now, however. She didn’t even glance at the first restroom she
passed, or the second. She probably wouldn’t use a bathroom until she got to
her hotel room.
Bean,
when are you coming? Did they get you onto the next flight? How will we find
each other in this city?
She knew he would be furious, however, if she
lingered in the airport hoping to meet his flight. For one thing, she would
have no idea where his flight would be coming from-he was wont to choose very
odd itineraries, so that he could very easily be on a flight from Cairo,
Moscow, Algiers, Rome, or Jerusalem. No, it was better to go to a hotel, check
in under an alias that he knew about, and- “Mrs. Delphiki?”
She
turned at once at the sound of Bean’s mother’s name, and then realized that the
tall, white-haired gentleman was addressing her.
“Yes.”
She laughed. “I’m still not used to the idea of being called by my husband’s
name.”
“Forgive
me,” said the man. “Do you prefer your birth name?”
“I
haven’t used my own name in many months,” said Petra. “Who sent you to meet
me?”
“Your
host,” said the man.
“I
have had many hosts in my life,” said Petra. “Some of whom I do not wish to
visit again.”’
“But
such people as that would not live in Damascus.” There was a twinkle in his
eye. Then he leaned in close. “There are names that it is not good to say
aloud.”
“Mine
apparently not being one of them,” she said with a smile.
“In
this time and place,” he said, “you are safe while others might not be.”
“I’m
safe because you’re with me?”
“You
are safe because I and my. . . what is your Battle School slang?.. . my jeesh
and I are here watching over you.”
“I
didn’t see anybody watching over me.”
“You
didn’t even see me,” said the man. “This is because we’re very good at what we
do.”
“I
did see you. I just didn’t realize you had taken any notice of me.
“As
I said.”
She
smiled. “Very well, I will not name our host. And since you won’t either, I’m
afraid I can’t go with you anywhere.”
“Oh,
so suspicious,” he said with a rueful smile. “Very well, then. Perhaps I can
facilitate matters by placing you under arrest.” He showed her a very
official-looking badge inside a wallet. Though she had no idea what
organization had issued the badge, since she had never learned the Arabic
alphabet, let alone the language itself.
But
Bean had taught her: Listen to your fear, and listen to your trust. She trusted
this man, and so she believed his badge without being able to read it. “So you’re
with Syrian law enforcement,” she said.
“As
often as not,” he replied, smiling again as he put his wallet away.
“Let’s
walk outside,” she said.
“Let’s
not,” he said. “Let’s go into a little room here at the airport.”
“A
toilet stall?” she asked. “Or an interrogation room?”
“My
office,” he said.
If
it was an office, it was certainly well disguised. They got to it by stepping
behind the El Al ticket counter and going into the employees’ back room.
“El
Al?” she asked. “You’re Israeli?”
“Israel
and Syria are very close friends for the past hundred years. You should keep up
on your history.”
They
walked down a corridor lined with employee lockers, a drinking fountain, and a
couple of restroom doors.
“I
didn’t think the friendship was close enough to allow Syrian law enforcement to
use Israel’s national airline,” said Petra.
“I
lied about being with Syrian law enforcement,” he said.
“And
did they lie out front about being El Al?”
He
palmed open an unmarked door, but when she made as if to follow him through it,
he shook his head. “No no, first you must place the palm of your hand..
She
complied, but wondered how they could possibly have her palm print and sweat
signature here in Syria.
No.
They didn’t, of course. They were getting them right now, so that wherever else
she went, she would be recognized by their computer security systems.
The
door led to a stairway that went down.
And
farther down, and farther yet, until they had to be well underground.
“I
don’t think this complies with international handicapped access regulations,”
said Petra.
“What
the regulators don’t see won’t hurt us,” said the man.
“A
theory that has gotten so many people into so much trouble,” said Petra.
They
came to an underground tunnel, where a small electric car was waiting for them.
No driver. Apparently her companion was going to drive.
Not
so. He got into the backseat beside her, and the car took off by itself.
“Let
me guess,” said Petra. “You don’t take most of your VIPs through the El Al
ticket counter.”
“There
are other ways to get to this little street,” said the man. “But the people
looking for you would not have staked out El Al.”
“You’d
be surprised at how often my enemy is two steps ahead.”
“But
what if your friends are three steps ahead?” Then he laughed as if it had been
a joke, and not a boast.
“We’re
alone in a car,” said Petra. “Let’s have some names now.
“I
am Ivan Lankowski,” he said.
She
laughed in spite of herself. But when he did not smile, she stopped. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “You don’t look Russian, and this is Damascus.”
“My
paternal grandfather was ethnic Russian, my grandmother was ethnic Kazakh, both
were Muslims. My mother’s parents are still living, thanks be to Allah, and
they are both Jordanian.”
“And
you never changed the name?”
“It
is the heart that makes the Muslim. The heart and the life. My name contains
part of my genealogy. Since Allah willed me to be born in this family, who am I
to try to deny his gift?”
“Ivan
Lankowski,” said Petra. “The name I’d like to hear is the name of the one who
sent you.”
“One’s
superior officer is never named. It is a basic rule. of security.”
Petra
sighed. “I suppose this proves I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
“I
don’t believe,” said Lankowski, “that you have ever been in Kansas, Mrs.
Delphiki.”
“It
was a reference to-”
“I
have seen The Wizard of Oz,” said Lankowski. “I am, after all, an educated man.
And... I have been in Kansas.”
“Then
you have found wisdom I can only dream of.”
He
chuckled. “It is an unforgettable place. Just like Jordan was right after the
Ice Age, covered with tall grasses, stretching forever in every direction, with
the sky everywhere, instead of being confined to a small patch above the
trees.”
“You
are a poet,” said Petra. “And also a very old man, to remember the Ice Age.”
“The
Ice Age was my father’s time. I only remember the rainy times right after it.”
“I
had no idea there were tunnels under Damascus.”
“In
our wars with the west,” said Lankowski, “we learned to bury everything that we
did not want blown up. Individually-targeted bombs were first tested on Arabs,
did you know that? The archives are full of pictures of exploding Arabs.”
“I’ve
seen some of the pictures,” said Petra. “I also recall that during those wars,
some of the individuals targeted themselves by strapping on their own bombs and
blowing them up in public places.”
“Yes,
we did not have guided missiles, but we did have feet.”
“And
the bitterness remains?”
“No,
no bitterness,” said Lankowski. “We once ruled the known world, from Spain to
India. Muslims ruled in Moscow. and our soldiers reached into France, and to
the gates of Vienna. Our dogs were better educated than the scholars of the
West. Then one day we woke up and we were poor and ignorant, and somebody else
had all the guns. We knew this could not be the will of Allah, so we fought.”
“And
discovered that the will of Allah was . . . 7”
“The
will of Allah was for many of our people to die, and for the West to occupy our
countries again and again until we stopped fighting. We learned our lesson. We
are very well behaved now. We abide by all the treaty terms. We have freedom of
the press, freedom of religion, liberated women, and democratic elections.”
“And
tunnels under Damascus.”
“And
memories.” He smiled at her “And cars without drivers.”
“Israeli
technology, I believe.”
“For
a long time we thought of Israel as the enemy’s toehold in our holy land. Then
one day we remembered that Israel was a member of our family who had gone away
into exile, learned everything our enemies knew, and then came home again. We
stopped fighting our brother, and our brother gave us all the gifts of the
West, but without destroying our souls. How sad it would have been if we had
killed all the Jews and driven them out. Who would have taught us then? The
Armenians?”
She
laughed at his joke, but also listened to his lecture. So this was how they
lived with their history-they assigned meanings to everything that allowed them
to see God’s hand in everything. Purpose. Even power and hope.
But
they also still remembered that Muslims had once ruled the world. And they
still regarded democracy as something they adopted in order to placate the
West.
I
really should read the Q’uran. she thought. To see what lies underneath the
façade of western-style sophistication.
This
man was sent to meet me, she thought, because this is the face they want
visitors to Syria to see. He told me these stories, because this is the
attitude they want me to believe that they have.
But
this is the pretty version. The one that has been tailored to fit Western ears.
The bones of the stories, the blood and the sinews of it, were defeat,
humiliation, incomprehension of the will of God, loss of greatness as a people,
and a sense of ongoing defeat. These are people with something to prove and
with lost status to retrieve. A people who want, not vengeance, but
vindication.
Very
dangerous people.
Perhaps
also very useful people, to a point.
She
took her observations to the next step, but couched her words in the same kind
of euphemistic story that he had told. “From what you tell me,” said Petra,
“the Muslim world sees this dangerous time in world history as the moment Allah
has prepared you for. You were humbled before, so you would be submissive to
Allah and ready for him to lead you to victory.”
He
said nothing at all for a long time.
“I
did not say that.”
“Of
course you did,” said Petra. “It was the premise underlying everything else you
said. But you don’t seem to realize that you have told this, not to an enemy,
but to a friend.”
“If
you are a friend of God,” said Lankowski, “why do you not obey his law?”
“But
I did not say 1 was a friend of God,” said Petra. “Only that I was a friend of
yours. Some of us cannot live your law, but we can still admire those who do,
and wish them well, and help them when we can.”
“And
come to us for safety because in our world there is safety to be had, while in
your world there is none.
“Fair
enough,” said Petra.
“You
are an interesting girl,” said Lankowski.
“I’ve
commanded soldiers in war,” said Petra, “and I’m married, and I might very well
be pregnant. When do I stop being just a girl? Under Islamic law, I mean.”
“You
axe a girl because you are at least forty years younger than I am. It has
nothing to do with Islamic law. When you are sixty and I am a hundred,
inshallah, you will still be a girl to me.”
“Bean
is dead, isn’t he?” asked Petra.
Lankowski
looked startled. “No,” he said at once. It was a blurt, unprepared for, and
Petra believed him.
“Then
something terrible has happened that you can’t bear to tell me. My parents-have
they been hurt?”
“Why
do you think such a thing?”
“Because
you’re a courteous man. Because your people changed my ticket and brought me
here and promised I’d be reunited with my husband. And in all this time we’ve
been walking and riding together, you have never so much as hinted about when
or whether I would see Bean.”
“I
apologize for being remiss,” said Lankowski. “Your husband boarded a later
flight that came by a different route, but he is coming. And your family is
fine, or at least we have no reason to think they’re not.”
“And
yet you are still hesitant,” said Petra.
“There
was an incident,” said Lankowski. “Your husband is safe. Uninjured. But there
was an attempt to kill him. We think if you had been the one who got into the
first cab, it would not have been a murder attempt. It would have been a
kidnapping.”
“And
why do you think that? The one who wants my husband dead wants me dead as
well.”
“Ah,
but he wants what you have inside you even more,” said Lankowski.
It
took only a moment for her to make the logical assumption about why he would
know that. “They’ve taken the embryos,” she said.
“The
security guard received a rise in salary from a third party, and in return he
allowed someone to remove your frozen embryos.”
Petra
had known Volescu was lying about being able to tell which babies had Anton’s
Key. But now Bean would know it, too. They both knew the value of Bean’s babies
on the open market, and that the highest price would come if the babies had
Anton’s Key in their DNA, or the would-be buyers believed they did.
She
found herself breathing too rapidly. It would do no good to hyperventilate. She
forced herself to calm down.
Lankowski
reached out and patted her hand lightly. Yes, he sees that I’m upset. I don’t
yet have Bean’s skill at hiding what I feel. Though of course his skill might
be the simple result of not feeling anything.
Bean
would know that Volescu had deceived them. For all they knew, the baby in her
womb might be afflicted with Bean’s condition. And Bean had vowed that he would
never have children with Anton’s Key.
“Have
there been any ransom demands?” she asked Lankowski.
“Alas,
no,” he replied. “We do not think they wish to trouble themselves with the near
impossibility of trying to obtain money from you. The risk of being outsmarted
and arrested in the process of trying to exchange items of value is too high,
perhaps, when compared with the risk involved in selling your babies to third
parties.”
“I
think the risks involved in that are very nearly zero,” said Petra.
“Then
we agree on the assessment. Your babies will be safe, if that’s any
consolation.”
“Safe
to be raised by monsters,” said Petra.
“Perhaps
they don’t see themselves that way.”
“Are
you confessing that you people are in the market for one of them to raise to be
your boy or girl genius?”
“We
do not traffic in stolen flesh,” said Lankowski. “We long had a problem with a
slave trade that would not die. Now if someone is caught owning or selling or
buying or transporting a slave, or being in an official position and tolerating
slavery, the penalty is death. And the trials are swift, the appeals never
granted. No, Mrs. Delphiki, we are not a good place for someone to bring stolen
embryos to try to sell them.”
Even
in her concern about her children-her potential children- she realized what he
had just confessed: That the “we” he spoke of was not Syria, but rather some
kind of pan-Islamic shadow government that did not, officially at least, exist.
An authority that transcended nations.
That
was what Lankowski meant when he said that he worked for the Syrian government
“as often as not.” Because as often as not he worked for a government higher
than that of Syria.
They
already have their own rival to the Hegemon.
“Perhaps
someday,” she said, “my children will be trained and used to help defend some
nation from Muslim conquest.”
“Since
Muslims do not invade other nations anymore, I wonder how such a thing could
happen?”
“You
have Alai sequestered here somewhere. What is he doing, making baskets or
pottery to sell at the fair?”
“Are
those the only choices you see? Pottery-making or aggressive war?”
But
his denials did not interest her. She knew her analysis was as correct as it
could be without more data-his denial was not a disproof, it was more likely to
be an inadvertent confirmation.
What
interested her now was Bean. Where was he? When would he get to Damascus? What
would he do about the missing embryos?
Or
at least that was what she tried to pretend to herself that she was interested
in.
Because
all she could really think, in an undercurrent monologue that kept shouting at
her from deep inside her mind, was:
He
has my babies. Not the Pied Piper, prancing them away from town. Not Baba Yaga,
luring them into her house on chicken legs. Not the witch in the gingerbread
cottage, keeping them in cages and fattening them up. None of those grey
fantasies. Nothing of fog and mist. Only the absolute black of a place where no
light shines, where light is not even remembered.
That’s
where her babies were.
In
the belly of the Beast.
The car came to a stop at a simple platform.
The underground road went on, to destinations Petra did not bother trying to
guess. For all she knew, the tunnel ran to Baghdad, to Amman, under the
mountains to Ankara, maybe even under the radioactive desert to arise in the
place where the ancient stone waits for the half-life of the half-life of the
half-life of death to pass, so pilgrims can come again on haj.
Lankowski
reached out a hand and helped her from the car, though she was young and he was
old. His attitude toward her was strange, as if he had to treat her very
carefully. As if she was not robust, as if she could easily break.
And
it was true. She was the one who could break. Who broke.
Only
I can’t break now. Because maybe I still have one child. Maybe putting this one
inside me did not kill it, but gave it life. Maybe it has taken root in my
garden and will blossom and bear fruit, a baby on a short twisted stem. And
when the fruit is plucked, out will come stem and root as well, leaving the
garden empty. And where will the others be then? They have been taken to grow
in someone else’s plot. Yet I will not break now, because I have this one,
perhaps this one.
“Thank
you,” she said to Lankowski. “But I’m not so fragile as to need help getting
out of a car.”
He
smiled at her, but said nothing. She followed him into the elevator and they
rose up into...
A
garden. As lush as the Philippine jungle clearing where Peter gave the order
that would bring the Beast into their house, driving them out.
She
saw that the courtyard was glassed over. That’s why it was so humid here.
That’s how it stayed so moist. Nothing was given up to the dry desert air.
Sitting
quietly on a stone chair in the middle of the garden was a tall, slender man,
his skin the deep cacao brown of the upper Niger where he had been born.
She
did not walk up to him at once, but stood admiring what she saw. The long legs,
clad not in the business suit that had been the uniform of westerners for
centuries now, but in the robes of a sheik. His head was not covered, however
And there was no beard on his chin. Still young, and yet also now a man.
“Alai,”
she murmured. So softly that she doubted he could hear.
And
perhaps he did not hear, but chose that moment only by coincidence, to turn and
see her. His brooding expression softened into a smile. But it was not the
boyish grin that she had known when he bounded along the low-gravity inner
corridors of Battle School. This smile had weariness in it, and old fears long
mastered but still present. It was the smile of wisdom.
She
realized then why Alai had disappeared from view.
He
is Caliph. They have chosen a Caliph again, all the Muslim world under the
authority of one man, and it is Alai.
She
could not know this, not just from his place here in a garden. Yet she knew
from the way he sat in it that this was a throne. She knew from the way she was
brought here, with no trappings of power, no guards, no passwords, just a
simple man of elegant courtesy leading her to the boy-man seated on the ancient
throne. Alai’s power was spiritual. In all of Damascus there was no safer place
than here. No one would bother him. Millions would die before letting an
uninvited stranger set foot here.
He
beckoned to her, and it was the gentle invitation of a holy man. She did not
have to obey him, and he would not mind if she did not come. But she came.
“Salaam,”
said Alai.
“Salaam,”
said Petra.
“Stone
girl,” he said.
“Hi,”
she said. The old joke between them, him punning on the meaning of her name in
the original Greek, her punning on the jai of jai chat.
“I’m
glad you’re safe,” he said.
“Your
life has changed since you regained your freedom.”
“And
yours, too,” said Alai. “Married now.”
“A
good Catholic wedding.”
“You
should have invited me,” he said.
“You
couldn’t have come,” she said.
“No,”
he agreed. “But I would have wished you well.”
“Instead
you have done well by us when we needed it most.”
“I’m
sorry that I did nothing to protect the other. . . children. But I didn’t know
about them in time. And I assumed that Bean and you would have had enough
security. . . no, no, please, I’m sorry, I’m reminding you of pain instead of
soothing you.”
She
sank down and sat on the ground before his throne, and he leaned over to gather
her into his arms. She rested her head and arms on his lap, and he stroked her
hair “When we were children, playing the greatest computer game in the world,
we had no idea.”
“We
were saving the world.”
“And
now we’re creating the world we saved.”
“Not
me,” said Petra. “I’m no longer a player.”
“Are
any of us players?” said Alai. “Or are we only the pieces moved in someone
else’s game?”
“lnshallah,”
said Petra.
She
had rather expected Alai to chuckle, but he only nodded. “Yes, that is our
belief, that all that happens comes from the will of God. But I think it is not
your belief.”
“No.
We Christians have to guess the will of God and try to bring it to pass.”
“It
feels the same, when things are happening,” said Alai. “Sometimes you think
that you’re in control, because you make things change by your own choices. And
then something happens that sweeps all your plans away as if they were nothing,
just pieces on a chessboard.”
“Shadows
that children make on the wall,” said Petra, “and someone turns the light off.”
“Or
turns a brighter one on,” said Alai, “and the shadows disappear.
“Alai,”
said Petra, “will you let us go again? I know your secret.”
“Yes,
I’ll let you go,” said Alai. “The secret can’t be kept for long. Too many
people know it already.”
“We
would never tell.”
“I
know,” said Alai. “Because we were once in Ender’s jeesh. But I’m in another
jeesh now. I stand at the head of it, because they asked me to do it, because
they said God had chosen me. I don’t know about that. I don’t hear the voice of
God, I don’t feel his power inside me. But they come to me with their plans,
their questions, the conflicts between nations, and I offer suggestions. And
they take them. And things work out. So far at least, they’ve always worked. So
perhaps I am chosen by God.”
“Or
you’re very clever”
“Or
very lucky.” Alai looked at his hands. “Still, it’s better to believe that some
high purpose guides our steps than to think that nothing matters except our own
small miseries and happiness’s.”
“Unless
our happiness is the high purpose.”
“If
our happiness is the purpose of God,” said Alai, “why are so few of us happy?”
“Perhaps
he wants us to have the happiness that we can only find for ourselves.”
Alai
nodded and chuckled. “We Battle School brats, we all have a bit of the imam in
us, don’t you think?”
“The
Jesuit. The rabbi. The lama.”
“Do
you know how I find my answers? Sometimes, when it’s very hard? I ask myself
‘What would Ender do?’”
Petra
shook her head. “It’s the old joke. ‘I ask myself What would a person smarter
than me do in this circumstance, and then I do it.’”
“But
Ender isn’t imaginary. He was with us, and we knew him. We saw how he built us
into an army, how he knew us all, found the best in us, pushed us as hard as we
could bear, and sometimes harder, but himself hardest of all.”
Petra
felt once again the old sting, that she was the only one he had pushed harder
than she could bear.
It
made her sad and angry, and even though she knew that Alai had not even been
thinking of her when he said it, she wanted to lash back at him.
But
he had been kind to her and Bean. Had saved them, and brought them here, even
though he did not need or want non-Muslims helping him, since his new role as
the leader of the world’s Muslims required a certain purity, if not in his
soul, then certainly in his companionship.
Still,
she had to offer.
“We’ll
help you if you let us,” said Petra.
“Help
me what?” asked Alai.
“Help
you make war against China,” she said.
“But
we have no plans to make war against China,” said Alai. “We have renounced
military jihad. The only purification and redemption we attempt is of the
soul.”
“Do
all wars have to be holy wars?”
“No,
but unholy wars damn all those who take part in them.”
“Who
else but you can stand against China?”
“The
Europeans. The North Americans.”
“It’s
hard to stand when you have no spine.”
“They’re
an old and tired civilization. We were, too, once. It took centuries of decline
and a series of bitter defeats and humiliations before we made the changes that
would allow us to serve Allah in unity and hope.”
“And
yet you maintain armies. You have a network of operatives who shoot their guns
when they need to.”
Alai
nodded gravely. “We’re prepared to use force to defend ourselves if we’re
attacked.”
Petra
shook her head. For a moment she had felt frustrated because the world needed
rescuing, and it sounded as though Alai and his people were renouncing war. Now
she was just as disappointed to realize that nothing had really changed. Alai
was planning war-but intended to wait until some attack made his war
“defensive.” Not that she disagreed with the justness of defensive war. It was
the falseness of pretending that he had renounced war when he was in fact
planning for it.
Or
maybe he meant exactly what he said.
It
seemed so unlikely.
“You’re
tired,” said Alai. “Even though the jet lag from the Netherlands is not so bad,
you should rest. I understand you were ill on your flight.”
She
laughed. “You had someone on the plane, watching me?”
“Of
course,” he said. “You’re a very important person.”
Why
should she be important to the Muslims? They didn’t want to use her military
talents, and she had no political influence in the world. It had to be her baby
that made her valuable-but how would her child, if she even had one, have any
value to the Islamic world?
“My
child,” she said, “will not be raised to be a soldier.”
Alai
raised a hand. “You leap to conclusions, Petra,” he said. “We are led, we hope,
by Allah. We have no wish to take your child, and while we hope that there will
someday be a world in which all children will be raised to know Allah and serve
him, we have no desire to take your child from you or keep him here with us.”
“Or
her,” said Petra, unreassured. “If you don’t want our baby, why am I an
important person?”
“Think
like a soldier,” said Alai. “You have in your womb what our worst enemy wants
most. And, even if you don’t have a baby, your death is something that he has
to have, for reasons deep in the evil of his heart. His need to reach for you
makes you important to those of us who fear him and want to block his path.”
Petra
shook her head. “Alai,” she said, “I and my child could die and it would be a
mere blip on the rangeflnder to you and your people.”
“It’s
useful for us to keep you alive,” said Alai.
“How
pragmatic of you. But there’s more to it than that.”
“Yes,”
said Alai. “There is.”
“Are
you going to tell me?”
“it
will sound very mystical to you,” said Alai.
“But
that’s hardly a surprise, coming from the Caliph.”
“Allah
has brought something new into the world-I speak of Bean, the genetic
difference between him and the rest of humanity. There are imams who declare
him to be an abomination, conceived in evil. There are others who say he is an
innocent victim, a child who was conceived as a normal embryo but was altered
by evil and can’t help what was done to him. But there are others-and the
number is by far larger-who say that this could not have been done except by
the will of Allah. That Bean’s abilities were a key part of our victory over
the Formics, so it must have been God’s will that brought him into existence at
the time we needed him. And since God has chosen to bring this new thing into
the world, now we must watch and see whether God allows this genetic change to
breed true.”
“He’s
dying, Alai,” said Petra.
“I
know,” said Alai. “But aren’t we all?”
“He
didn’t want to have children at all.”
“And
yet he changed his mind,” said Alai. “The will of God blossoms in all hearts.”
“So
maybe if the Beast kills us, that’s the will of God as well. Why did you bother
to prevent it?”
“Because
my friends asked me to,” said Alai. “Why are you making this so complicated?
The things I want are simple. To do good wherever it’s within my power, and
where I can’t do good, at least do no harm.”
“How...
Hippocratic of you.”
“Petra,
go to bed, sleep, you’re becoming bitchy.”
It
was true. She was out of sorts, fretting about things she could do nothing to
change, wanting Bean to be with her, wanting Alai not to have changed into this
regal figure, this holy man.
“You’re
not happy with what I’ve become,” said Alai.
“You
can read minds?” asked Petra.
“Faces,”
said Alai. “Unlike Achilles and Peter Wiggin, I didn’t seek this. I came home
from space with no ambition other than to lead a normal life and perhaps serve
my country or my God in one way or another Nor did some party or faction choose
me and set me in my place.”
“How
could you end up in this garden, on that chair, if neither you nor anyone else
put you there?” asked Petra. It annoyed her when people lied-even to
themselves-about things that simply didn’t need to be lied about.
“I
came home from my Russian captivity and was put to work planning joint military
maneuvers of a pan-Arab force that was being trained to join in the defense of
Pakistan.”
Petra
knew that this pan-Arab force probably began as an army designed to help defend
against Pakistan, since right up to the moment of the Chinese invasion of
India, the Pakistani government had been planning to launch a war against other
Muslim nations to unite the Muslim world under their rule.
“Or
whatever,” said Alai, laughing at her consternation when, once again, he had
seemed to read her mind. “It became a force for the defense of Pakistan. It put
me in contact with military planners from a dozen nations, and more and more
they began to come to me with questions well beyond those of military strategy.
It was nobody’s plan, least of all mine. I didn’t think my answers were
particularly wise, I simply said whatever seemed obvious to me, or when nothing
was clear, I asked questions until clarity emerged.”
“And
they became dependent on you.”
“I
don’t think so,” said Alai. ‘They simply. . . respected me. They began to want
me in meetings with the politicians and diplomats, not just the soldiers. And
the politicians and diplomats began asking me questions, seeking my support for
their views or plans, and finally choosing me as the mediator between the
parties in various disputes.”
“A
judge,” said Petra.
“A
Battle School graduate,” said Alai, “at a time when my people wanted more than
a judge. They wanted to be great again, and to do that they needed a leader
that they believed had the favor of Allah. I try to live and act in such a way
as to give them the leader they need. Petra, I am still the same boy I was in
Battle School. And, like Ender, I may be a leader, but I am also the tool my
people created to accomplish their collective purpose.
“Maybe,”
said Petra, “I’m just jealous. Because Armenia has no great purpose, except to
stay alive and free. And no power to accomplish that without the help of great
nations.”
“Armenia
is in no danger from us,” said Alai.
“Unless,
of course, we provoke the Azerbaijanis,” said Petra. “Which we do by breathing,
I must point out.”
“We
will not conquer our way to greatness, Petra,” said Alai.
“What,
then, you’ll wait for the whole world to convert to Islam and beg to be
admitted to your new world order?”
“Yes”
said Alai. ‘That’s just what we’ll do.”
“As
plans go,” said Petra, “that’s about the most self-delusional one I’ve ever
heard of.”
He
laughed. “Definitely you need a nap, my beloved sister. You don’t want that to
be the mouth Bean has to listen to when he arrives.”
“When
will he arrive?”
“Well
after dark,” said Alai. “Now you see Mr. Lankowski waiting for you at that
gate. He’ll lead you to your room.
“I
sleep in the palace of the Caliph tonight?” asked Petra.
“It’s
not much, as palaces go,” said Alai. “Most of the rooms are public spaces,
offices, things like that. I have a very simple bedroom and... this garden.
Your room will also be very simple-but perhaps it will make it seem luxurious
if you think of it as being identical with the one where the Caliph sleeps.”
“I
feel as if I’ve been swept away into one of Scheherazade’s stories.”
“We
keep a sturdy roof. You have nothing to fear from rocks.”
“You
think of everything,” said Petra.
“We
have an excellent doctor on call, should you wish for medical attention of any
kind.”
“It’s
still too soon for a pregnancy test to mean anything,” said Petra. “If that’s
what you meant.”
“I
meant,” said Alai, “that we have an excellent doctor on call, should you wish
for medical attention of any kind.”
“In
that case,” said Petra, “my answer is, ‘You think of everything.’”
She thought she couldn’t sleep, but she had
nothing better to do than lie on the bed in a room that was downright
Spartan-with no television and no book but an Armenian translation of the
Q’uran. She knew what the presence of this book in her room implied. For many
centuries, translations of the Q’uran were regarded as false by definition,
since only the original Arabic actually conveyed the words of the Prophet. But
in the great opening of Islam that followed their abject defeat in a series of
desperate wars with the West, this was one of the first things that was
changed.
Every
translated copy of the Q’uran contained, on the title page, a quotation from
the great imam Zuqaq-the very one who brought about the reconciliation of
Israel and the Muslim world. “Allah is above language. Even in Arabic, the
Q’uran is translated from the mind of God into the words of men. Everyone
should be able to hear the words of God in the language he speaks in his own
heart.”
So
the presence of the Q’uran in Armenian told her, first, that in the palace of
the Caliph, there was no recidivism, no return to the days of fanatical Islam,
when foreigners were forced to live by Islamic law, women were veiled and
barred from the schools and the roads, and young Muslim soldiers strapped bombs
to their bodies to blow up the children of their enemies.
And
it also told her that her coming was anticipated and someone had taken great
pains to prepare this room for her, simple as it seemed. To have the Q’uran in
Common Speech, the more-or-less phonetically spelled English that had been
adopted as the language of the International Fleet, would have been sufficient.
They wanted to make the point, though, that here in the heart-no, the head-of
the Muslim world, they had regard for all nations, all languages. They knew who
she was, and they had the holy words for her in the language she spoke in her
heart.
She
appreciated the gesture and was annoyed by it, both at once. She did not open
the book. She rummaged through her bag, then unpacked everything. She showered
to clear the must of travel from her hair and skin, and then lay down on the
bed because in this room there was nowhere else to sit.
No
wonder he spends his time in the garden, she thought. He has to go out there
just to turn around.
She
woke because someone was at the door. Not knocking. Just standing there,
pressing a palm against the reader. What could she possibly have heard that
woke her? Footsteps in the corridor?
“I’m
not dressed,” she called out as the door opened.
“That’s
what I was hoping,” said Bean.
He
came in carrying his own bag and set it down beside the one dresser.
“Did
you meet Alai?” asked Petra.
“Yes,
but we’ll talk of that later,” said Bean.
“You
know he’s Caliph,” she insisted.
“Later,”
he said. He pulled his shoes off.
“I
think they’re planning a war, but pretending that they’re not,” said Petra.
“They
can plan what they like,” said Bean. “You’re safe here, that’s what I care
about.”
Still
in his traveling clothes, Bean lay down on the bed beside her, snaking one arm
under her, drawing her close to him. He stroked her back, kissed her forehead.
“They
told me about the other embryos,” she said. “How Achilles stole them.”
He
kissed her again and said, “Shhhh.”
“I
don’t know if I’m pregnant yet,” said Petra.
“You
will be,” said Bean.
“I
knew that he hadn’t checked for Anton’s Key,” said Petra. “I knew he was lying
about that.”
“All
right,” said Bean.
“I
knew but I didn’t tell you,” said Petra.
“Now
you’ve told me.”
“I
want your child, no matter what.”
“Well,”
said Bean, “in that case we can start the next one the regular way.
She
kissed him. “I love you,” she said.
“I’m
glad to hear that.”
“We
have to get the others back,” said Petra. “They’re our children and I don’t
want somebody else to raise them.”
“We’ll
get them back,” said Bean. “That’s one thing I know.”
“He’ll
destroy them before he lets us have them.”
“Not
so,” said Bean. “He wants them alive more than he wants us dead.”
“How
can you possibly know what the Beast is thinking?”
Bean
rolled onto his back and lay there facing the ceiling. “On the plane I did a
lot of thinking. About something Ender said. How he thought. You have to know
your enemy, he said. That’s why he studied the Formics constantly. All the
footage of the First War, the anatomies of the corpses of the dead Bugger
soldiers, and what he couldn’t find in the books and vids, he imagined.
Extrapolated. Tried to think of who they were.
“You’re
nothing like Achilles,” said Petra. “You’re the opposite of him. If you want to
know him, think of whatever you’re not, and that’ll be him.”
“Not
true,” said Bean. “In his sad, twisted way, he loves you, and so, in my own sad
twisted way, do I.”
“Not
the same twists, and that makes all the difference.”
“Ender
said that you can’t defeat a powerful enemy unless you understand him
completely, and you can’t understand him unless you know the desires of his
heart, and you can’t know the desires of his heart until you truly love him.”
“Please
don’t tell me that you’ve decided to love the Beast,” said Petra.
“I
think,” said Bean, “that I always have.”
“No,
no, no,” said Petra in revulsion and she rolled away from him, turned her back
on him.
“Ever
since I saw him limping up to us, the one bully we thought we could overpower,
we little children. His twisted foot, the dangerous hate he felt toward anyone
who saw his weakness. The genuine kindness and love he showed to everyone but
me and Poke-Petra, that’s what nobody understands about Achilles, they see him
as a murderer, and a monster-”
“Because
he is one.”
“A
monster who keeps winning the love and trust of people who should know better.
I know that man, the one whose eyes look into your soul and judge you and find
you worthy. I saw how the other children loved him, turned their loyalty from
Poke to Achilles, made him their father, truly, in their hearts. And even
though he always kept me at a distance, the fact is... I loved him too.”
“I
didn’t,” said Petra. The memory of Achilles’s arms around her as he kissed
her-it was unbearable to her, and she wept.
She
felt Bean’s hand on her shoulder, then stroking her side, gently soothing her
“I’m going to destroy him, Petra,” said Bean. “But I’ll never do it the way
I’ve been going about it up till now. I’ve been avoiding him, reacting to him.
Peter had the right idea after all. He was dumb about it, but the idea was
right, to get close to him. You can’t treat him as something faraway and
unintelligible. A force of nature, like a storm or earthquake, where you have
no hope but to run for shelter. You have to understand him. Get inside his
head.”
“I’ve
been there,” said Petra. “It’s a filthy place.”
“Yes,
I know,” said Bean. “A place of fear and fire. But remember-he lives there all
the time.”
“Don’t
tell me I’m supposed to pity him because he has to live with himself!”
“Petra,
I spent the whole flight trying to be Achilles, trying to think of what he yearns
for, what he hopes for, to think of how he thinks.”
“And
you threw up? Because I did, twice on my flight, and I didn’t have to get
inside the Beast to do it.”
“Maybe
because you have a little beast inside you.”
She
shuddered. “Don’t call him that. Her It. I’m not even pregnant yet, probably.
It was only this morning. My baby is not a beast.”
“Bad
joke, I’m sorry.” said Bean. “But listen, Petra, on the flight I realized
something. Achilles is not a mysterious force. I know exactly what he wants.”
“What
does he want? Besides us, dead?”
“He
wants us to know that the babies are alive. He won’t even implant them yet.
He’ll leave little clues for us to follow-nothing too obvious, because he wants
us to think we discovered something he’s trying to keep hidden. But we’ll find
out where they are because he wants us to. They’ll all be in one place. Because
he wants us to come for them.”
“Bait,”
she said.
“No,
not just bait,” said Bean. “He could send us a note right now if he wanted
that. No, it’s more than that. He wants us to think we’re very smart to have
found out where they are. He wants us to be full of hope that we might rescue
them. To be excited, so we’ll hurtle into a situation completely unprepared for
the fact that he’s waiting for us. That way he can see us fall from triumphant
hope to utter despair. Before he kills us.”
Bean
was right, she knew it. “But how can you even pretend to love someone so evil?”
“No,
you still don’t understand,” said Bean. “It’s not our despair he wants. It’s
our hope. He has none. He doesn’t understand it.”
“Oh.
please,” said Petra. “An ambitious person lives on hope.”
“He
has no hope. No dream. He tries everything to find one. He goes through the
motions of love and kindness, or anything else that might work, and still
nothing means anything. Each new conquest only leaves him hungry for another.
He’s hungry to find something that really matters in life. He knows we have it.
Both of us, before we even found each other, we had it.”
“I
thought you were famous for having no faith,” said Petra.
“But
you see,” said Bean, “Achilles knew me better than I knew myself. He saw it in
me. The same thing Sister Carlotta saw.”
“Intelligence?”
asked Petra.
“Hope,”
said Bean. “Relentless hope. It never crosses my mind that there’s no solution,
no chance of survival. Oh, I can conceive of that intellectually, but never are
my actions based on despair, because I never really believe it. Achilles knows
that I have a reason to live. That’s why he wants me so badly. And you, Petra.
You more than me.
“And
our babies-they are our hope. A completely insane kind of hope, yes, but we
made them, didn’t we?”
“So,”
said Petra, grasping the picture now, “he doesn’t just want us to die, the way
he was perfectly content to let Sister Carlotta die in an airplane, when he was
far away. He wants us to see him with our babies.”
“And
when we realize we can’t have them back, that we’re going to die after all, the
hope that drains out of us, he thinks it’ll become his own. He thinks that
because he has our babies, he has our hope.”
“And
he does,” said Petra.
“But
the hope can never be his. He’s incapable of it.”
“This
is all very interesting,” said Petra, “but completely useless.”
“But
don’t you see?” said Bean. “This is how we can destroy him.”
“What
do you mean?”
“He’s
going to fall into the pit he dug for us.”
“We
don’t have his babies.”
“He
hopes we’ll come and give him what he wants. But instead, we’ll come prepared
to destroy him.”
“He’s
going to be laying an ambush for us. If we come in force, he’ll either slip
away or-as soon as it’s clear he’s doomed-he’ll kill our babies.”
“No,
no, we’ll let him spring his trap. We’ll walk right into it. So that when we
face him, we see him in his moment of triumph. Which is always the moment when
somebody is at their stupidest.”
“You
don’t have to be smart when you have all the guns.”
“Relax,
Petra,” said Bean. “I’m going to get our babies back. And kill Achilles while
I’m at it. And I’ll do it soon, my love. Before I die.”
“That’s
good,” said Petra. “It will be so much harder for you to do it afterward.”
And
then she wept, because, contrary to what Bean had just said, she had no hope.
She was going to lose her husband, her children were going to lose their
father. No victory over Achilles could change the fact that in the end, she was
going to lose him.
He
reached out for her again, held her close, kissed her brow, her cheek. “Have
our baby,” he said. “I’ll bring home its brothers and sisters before it’s
born.”
SPACE STATION
To: Locke%erosmus@polnet.gov
From: SitePostAlert
Re: Girl
on bridge
Now you are not in cesspool can communicate
again. Have no e-mail here, Stones ore mine. Back on bridge soon. War in
earnest. Post to me only, this site, pickup name BridgeGiri password not
stepstool.
Peter found spaceflight boring, just as he’d
suspected he would. Like air travel, only longer and with less scenery.
Thank
heaven Mother and Father had the good sense not to get all sentimental about
the shuttle flight to the Ministry of Colonization. After all, it was the same
space station that had been Battle School. They were going to set foot at last
where precious little Ender had had his first triumphs-and, oh yes, killed a
boy.
But
there were no footprints here. Nothing to tell them what it was like for Ender
to ride a shuttle to this place. They were not small children taken away from
their homes. They were adults, and the fate of the world just might rest in
their hands.
Come
to think of it, that was like Ender, wasn’t it.
The
whole human race was united when Ender came here. The enemy was clear, the
danger real, and Ender didn’t even have to know what he was doing to win the
war.
By
comparison, Peter’s task was much more difficult. It might seem simpler-find a
really good assassin and kill Achilles.
But
it wasn’t that simple. First, Achilles, being an assassin and a user of
assassins, would be ready for such a plot. Second, it wasn’t enough to kill
Achilles. He was not the army that conquered India and Indochina. He was not
the government that ruled more than half the people of the world. Destroy
Achilles, and you still have to roll back all the things he did.
It
was like Hitler back in World War II. Without Hitler, Germany would never have
had the nerve to conquer France and sweep to the gates of Moscow. But if Hitler
had been assassinated just before the invasion of Russia, then in all
likelihood the common language of the International Fleet would have been
German. Because it was Hitler’s mistakes, his weaknesses, his fears, his
hatreds, that lost the back half of the war, just as it was his drive, his
decisions, that won the front half.
Killing
Achilles might do nothing more than guarantee a world governed by China.
Still,
with him out of the way, Peter would face a rational enemy. And his own assets
would not be so superstitiously terrified. The way Bean and Petra and Virlomi
fled at the mere thought of Achilles coming to Ribeirao Preto. . . though of
course in the long run they weren’t wrong, still, it complicated things
enormously that he kept having to work alone, unless you counted Mother and
Father.
And
since they were the only assets he had that he could rely on to serve his
interests, he definitely counted them.
Counted
them, but was angry at them all the same. He knew it was irrational, but the
whole way up to MinCol, he kept coming back to the same seething memory of the
way his parents had always judged him as a child and found him wanting, while
Ender and Valentine could do no wrong. Being a fundamentally reasonable person,
he took due notice of the fact that since Val and Ender left in a colony ship,
his parents had been completely supportive of him. Had saved him more than
once. He could not have asked any more from them even if they had actually
loved him. They did their duty as parents, and more than their duty.
But
it didn’t erase the pain of those earlier years when everything he did seemed
to be wrong, every natural instinct an offense against one of their versions of
God or the other. Well, in all your judging, remember this-it was Ender who
turned out to be Cain, wasn’t it! And you always thought it was going to be me.
Stupid
stupid stupid, Peter told himself Ender didn’t kill his brother, Ender defended
himself against his enemies. As I have done.
I
have to get over this, he told himself again and again during the voyage.
I
wish there were something to look at besides the stupid vids. Or Dad snoring.
Or Mother looking at me now and then, sizing me up, and then winking. Does she
have any idea how awful that is? How demeaning? To wink at me! What about
smiling? What about looking at me with that dreamy fond expression she used to
have for Val and Ender? Of course she liked them.
Stop
it. Think about what you have to do, fool.
Think
about what you have to write and publish, as Locke and as Demosthenes, to rouse
the people in the free countries, to goad the governments of the nations ruled
from above. There could be no business as usual, he couldn’t allow that. But it
was hard to keep the people’s attention on a war in which no shots were being
fired. A war that took place in a faraway land. What did they care, in
Argentina, that the people of India had a government not of their choosing? Why
should it matter to a light farmer tending his photovoltaic screens in the
Kalahari Desert whether the people of Thailand were having dirt kicked in their
faces?
China
had no designs on Namibia or Argentina. The war was over, Why wouldn’t people
just shut up about it and go back to making money?
That
was Peter’s enemy. Not Achilles, ultimately. Not even China. It was the apathy
of the rest of the world that played into their hands.
And
here I am in space, no longer free to move about, far more dependent than I’ve
ever been before. Because if Graff decides not to send me back to Earth, then I
can’t go. There’s no alternative transport. He seems to be entirely on my side.
But it’s his former Battle School brats that have his true loyalty. He thinks
he can use me as I thought I could use Achilles. I was wrong. But probably he
is right.
After
all the voyaging, it was so frustrating to be there and still have to wait
while the shuttle did its little dance of lining up with the station dock.
There was nothing to watch. They blanked the “windows” because it was too
nauseating in zero-G to watch the Earth spin madly as the shuttle matched the
rotation of the great wheel.
My
career might already be over. I might already have earned whatever mention I’ll
have in history. I might already be nothing but a footnote in other people’s
biographies, a paragraph in the history books.
Really,
at this point my best strategy for beefing up my reputation is probably to be
assassinated in some colorful way.
But
the way things are going, I’ll probably die in some tragic airlock accident
while doing a routine docking at the MinCol space station.
“Stop
wallowing,” said Mother.
He
looked at her sharply. “I’m not,” he said.
“Good,”
she said. “Be angry at me. That’s better than feeling sorry for yourself.”
He
wanted to snap back angrily, but he realized the futility of denying what they
all knew was true. He was depressed, definitely, and yet he still had to work.
Like the day of his press conference when they dragged him out of bed. He
didn’t want a repeat of that humiliation. He’d do his work without having to
have his parents prod him like some adolescent. And he wouldn’t get snippy at
them when they merely told him the truth.
So
he smiled at her. “Come on, Mother, you know that if I were on fire, nobody
would so much as pee on me to put it out.”
“Be
honest, son,” said his father. “There are hundreds of thousands of people back
on Earth who have only to be asked. And some dozens who would do it without waiting
for an invitation, if they saw an opportunity.”
“There
are some good points about fame,” Peter observed. “And those with empty
bladders would probably chip in with a little spit.”
“This
is getting quite disgusting,” said Mother.
“You
say that because it’s your job to say it,” said Peter.
“I’m
underpaid, then,” said Mother “Because it’s nearly a fulltime position.”
“Your
role in life. So womanly. Men need civilizing, and you’re just the one to do
it.”
“I’m
obviously not very good at it.”
At
that moment the IF sergeant who was their flight steward came into the main
cabin and told them it was time to go.
Because
they docked at the center of the station, there was no gravity. They floated
along, gripping handrails as the steward flipped their bags so they sailed
through the airlock just under them. They were caught by a couple of orderlies
who had obviously done this a hundred times, and were not the least bit impressed
by having the Hegemon himself come to MinCol.
Though
in all probability nobody knew who they were. They were traveling under false
papers, of course, but Graff had undoubtedly let someone in the station know
who they really were.
Probably
not the orderlies, though.
Not
until they were down one spoke of the wheel to a level where there was a
definite floor to walk on did they meet anyone of real status in the station. A
man in the grey suit that served MinCol as a uniform waited at the foot of the
elevator, his hand outstretched. “Mr. and Mrs. Raymond,” he said. “I’m
Underminister Dimak. And this must be your son, Dick.”
Peter
smiled wanly at the faint humor in the pseudonym Graff had arbitrarily assigned
to him.
“Please
tell me that you know who we really are so we don’t have to keep up this
charade,” said Peter.
“I
know,” said Dimak softly, “but nobody else on this station does, and I’d like
to keep it that way for now.”
“Graft
isn’t here?”
“The
Minister of Colonization is returning from his inspection of the outfitting of
the newest colony ship. We’re two weeks away from first leg on that one, and
starting next week you won’t believe the traffic that’ll come through here,
sixteen shuttles a day, and that’s just for the colonists. The freighters go
directly to the dry dock.”
“Is
there,” said Father innocently, “a wet dock?”
Dimak
grinned. “Nautical terminology dies hard.”
Dimak
led them along a corridor to a down tube. They slid down the pole after him.
The gravity wasn’t so intense yet as to make this a problem, even for Peter’s
parents, who were, after all, in their forties. He helped them step out of the
shaft into a lower-and therefore “heavier”-corridor.
There
were old-fashioned directional stripes along the walls. “Your palm prints have
already been keyed,” said Dimak. “Just touch here, and it will lead you to your
room.
“This
is left over from the old days, isn’t it?” said Father “Though I don’t imagine
you were here when this was still-”
“But
I was here,” said Dimak. “I was mother to groups of new kids. Not your son, I’m
afraid. But an acquaintance of yours, I believe.”
Peter
did not want to put himself in the pathetic position of naming off Battle
School graduates he knew. Mother had no such qualms.
“Petra?”
she said. “Suriyawong?”
Dimak
leaned in close, so his voice would not have to be pitched loud enough that it
might be overheard. “Bean,” he said.
“He
must have been a remarkable boy,” said Mother.
“Looked
like a three-year-old when he got here,” said Dimak. “Nobody could believe he
was old enough for this place.”
“He
doesn’t look like that now,” said Peter dryly.
“No,
I ... I know about his condition. It’s not public knowledge, but Colonel
Graff-the minister, I mean-he knows that I still care what happens to-well, to
all my kids, of course-but this one was . . . I imagine your son’s first
trainer felt much the same way about him.”
“I
hope so,” said Mother.
The
sentimentality was getting so sweet Peter wanted to brush his teeth. He palmed
the pad by the entrance and three strips lit up. “Green green brown,” said
Dimak. “But soon you won’t be needing this. It’s not as if there’s miles of
open country here to get lost in. The stripe system always assumes that you
want to go back to your room, except when you touch the pad just outside the
door of your room, and then it thinks you want to go to the bathroom-none
inside the rooms, I’m afraid, it wasn’t built that way. But if you want to go
to the mess hall, just slap the pad twice and it’ll know.”
He
showed them to their quarters, which consisted of a single long room with bunks
in rows along both sides of a narrow aisle. “I’m afraid you’ll have company for
the week we’re loading up the ship, but nobody’ll be here very long, and then
you’ll have the place to yourself for three more weeks.”
“You’re
doing a launch a month?” said Peter “How, exactly, are you funding a pace like
that?”
Dimak
looked at him blankly. “I don’t actually know,” he said.
Peter
leaned in close and imitated the voice Dimak used for secrets. “I’m the
Hegemon,” he said. “Officially, your boss works for me.
Dimak
whispered back, “You save the world, we’ll finance the colony program.”
“I
could have used a little more money for my operations, I can tell you,” said
Peter.
“Every
Hegemon feels that way,” said Dimak. “Which is why our funding doesn’t come
through you.”
Peter
laughed. “Smart move. If you think the colonization program is very very
important.”
“It’s
the future of the human race, said Dimak simply. “The Buggers-pardon me, the
Formics-had the right idea. Spread out as far as you can, so you can’t be wiped
out in a single disastrous war. Not that it saved them, but. . . we aren’t hive
creatures.”
“Aren’t
we?” said Father.
“Well,
if we are, then who’s the queen?” asked Dimak.
“In
this place,” said Father, “I suspect it’s Graff.”
“And
we’re all just his little arms and legs?”
“And
mouths and. . . well, yes, of course. A little more independent and a little
less obedient than the individual Formics, of course, but that’s how a species
comes to dominate a world the way we did, and they did. Because you know how to
get a large number of individuals to give up their personal will and subject
themselves to a group mind.”
“So
this is philosophy we’re doing here,” said Dimak.
“Or
very cutting-edge science,” said Father “The behavior of humans in groups.
Degrees of allegiance. I think about it a lot.”
“How
interesting.”
“I
see that you’re not interested at all,” said Father. “And that I’m now in your
book as an eccentric who brings up his theories. But I never do, actually. I
don’t know why I did just now. I just. . . it’s the first time I’ve been in
Graff’s house, so to speak. And meeting you was very much like visiting with
him.”
“I’m..
. flattered,” said Dimak.
“John
Paul,” said Mother, “I do believe you’re making Mr. Dimak uncomfortable.”
“When
people feel great allegiance to their community, they start to take on the
mannerisms as well as the morals of their leader,” said Father, refusing to give
up.
“If
their leader has a personality,” said Peter
“How
do you get to be a leader without one?” asked Father.
“Ask
Achilles,” said Peter “He’s the opposite. He takes on the mannerisms of the
people he wants to have follow him.”
“I
don’t remember that one,” said Dimak. “He was only here a few days before
he-before we discovered he had a track record of murder back on Earth.”
“Someday
you have to tell me how Bean got him to confess. He won’t tell.”
“If
he won’t tell, neither will I,” said Dimak.
“How
loyal,” said Father.
“Not
really,” said Dimak. “I just don’t know myself. I know it had something to do
with a ventilation shaft.”
“That
confession,” said Peter “The recordings wouldn’t still be here, would they?”
“No,
they wouldn’t,” said Dimak. “And even if they were, they’re part of a sealed
juvenile record.”
“Of
a mass murderer.”
“We
only notice laws when they act against our interest,” said Dimak.
“See?”
said Father. “We’ve traded philosophies.”
“Like
tribesmen swapping at a potlatch,” said Dimak. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to
have you talk with Security Chief Uphanad before dinner”
“What
about?”
“The
colonists aren’t a problem-they have a one-way flow and they can’t easily
communicate planetside. But you’re probably going to be recognized here. And
even if you’re not, it’s hard to maintain a false story for long.”
“Then
let’s not have a false story,” said Peter.
“No.
let’s have a really good one,” said Mother.
“Let’s
just not talk to anybody,” said Father.
“Those
are precisely the issues that Major Uphanad wants to discuss with you.”
Once
Dimak had left, they chose bunks at the back of the long room. Peter took a top
bunk, of course, but while he was unloading his bags into the locker in the
wall behind the bunk, Father discovered that each set of six bunks-three on
each side-could be separated from the others by a privacy curtain.
“It
has to be a retrofit,” said Father. “I can’t believe they would let the kids
seal themselves off from each other.”
“How
soundproof is this material?” asked Mother.
Father
pulled it around in a circular motion, so it irised shut with him on the other
side. They heard nothing from him. Then he dilated it open.
“Well?”
he asked.
“Pretty
effective sound barrier,” said Mother.
“You
did try to talk to us, didn’t you?” asked Peter.
“No,
I was listening for you,” said Father.
“Well
we were listening for you, John Paul,” said Mother.
“No,
I spoke. I didn’t shout, but you couldn’t hear me, right?”
“Peter,”
said Mother, “you just got moved to the next compartment over.”
“That
won’t work when the colonists come through.”
“You
can come back and sleep in Mommy’s and Daddy’s room when the visitors come,”
said Mother.
“You’ll
have to walk through my room in order to get to the bathroom,” said Peter.
“That’s
right,” said Father. “I know you’re Hegemon and should have the best room, but
then, we’re not likely to walk in on you making love.”
“Don’t
count on it,” said Peter sourly.
“We’ll
open the door just a little and say ‘knock knock’ before we come through,” said
Mother. “It’ll give you time to smuggle your best pal out of sight.”
It
made him faintly nauseated to be having this discussion with his parents. “You
two are so cute. I’m really glad to change rooms here, believe me.”
It
was good to have solitude, once the door was closed, even if the price of it
was moving all his stuff out of the locker he had just loaded and putting it in
a locker in the next section. Now he got a lower bunk, for one thing. And for
another thing, he didn’t have to put up with listening to his parents try to
cheer him up.
He
had to have thinking time.
So
of course he promptly fell asleep.
Dimak
woke him by speaking to him over the intercom. “Mr. Raymond, are you there?”
It
took Peter a split second to remember that he was supposed to be Dick Raymond.
“Yes. Unless you want my father.”
“Already
spoke to him,” said Dimak. “I’ve keyed the guidebars to lead you to the
security department.”
It
was on the top level, with the lowest gravity-which made sense, because if
security action were required, officers dispersing from the main office would
have a downhill trip to wherever they were going.
When
they stepped inside the office, Major Uphanad was there to greet them. He
offered his hand to all of them.
“Are
you from India?” asked Mother, “or Pakistan?”
“India,”
said Uphanad, not breaking his smile at all.
“I’m
so sorry for your country, said Mother.”
“I
haven’t been back there since-in a long time.”
“I
hope your family is faring welt under the Chinese occupation.”
“Thank
you for your concern,” said Uphanad, in a tone of voice that made it clear this
topic was finished.
He
offered them chairs and sat down himself-behind his desk, taking full advantage
of his official position. Peter resented it a little, since he had spent a good
while now as the man who was always in the dominant place. He might not have
had much actual power, as Hegemon, but protocol always gave him the highest place.
But
he was not supposed to be known here. So he could hardly be treated differently
from any civilian visitor.
“I
know that you are particular guests of the Minister,” said Uphanad, “and that
you wish your privacy to be undisturbed. What we need to discuss is the
boundary of your privacy. Are your faces likely to be recognized?”
“Possibly,”
said Peter. “Especially his.” He pointed to his father. This was a lie, of
course, and probably futile, but.
“Ah,”
said Uphanad. “And I assume your real names would be recognized.”
“Likely,”
said Father.
“Certainly,”
said Mother, as if she were proud of the fact and rather miffed that he had
cast any doubt on it at all.
“So...
should meals be brought to you? Do we need to clear the corridors when you go
to the bathroom?”
Sounded
like a nightmare to Peter.
“Major
Uphanad, we don’t want to advertise our presence here, but I’m sure your staff
can be trusted to be discreet.”
“On
the contrary,” said Uphanad. “Discreet people make it a point not to take the
staff’s loyalty for granted.”
“Including
yours?” asked Mother sweetly.
“Since
you have already lied to me repeatedly,” said Uphanad. “I think it safe to say
that you are taking no one’s loyalty for granted.”
“Nevertheless,”
said Peter, “I’m not going to stay cooped up in that tube. I’d like to be able
to use your library-I’m assuming you have one-and we can take our meals in the
mess hall and use the toilet without inconveniencing others.”
“There,
you see?” said Uphanad. “You are simply not security minded.”
“We
can’t live here as prisoners,” said Peter.
“He
didn’t mean that,” said Father. “He was talking about the way you simply
announced the decision for the three of us. So much for me being the one most
likely to be recognized.”
Uphanad
smiled. “The recognition problem is a real one,” he said. “I knew you at once,
from the vids, Mr. Hegemon.”
Peter
sighed and leaned back.
“Your
face is not as recognizable as if you were an actual politician,” said Uphanad.
“They thrive on putting their faces before the public. Your career began, if I
remember correctly, in anonymity.”
“But
I’ve been on the vids,” said Peter.
“Listen,”
said Uphanad. “Few on our staff even watch the vids. I happen to be a news
addict, but most people here have rather cut their ties with the gossip of
Earth. I think your best way to remain under cover here is to behave as if you
had nothing to hide. Be a bit standoffish-don’t get into conversations with
people that lead to mutual explanations of what you do and who you are, for
instance. But if you’re cheerful and don’t act mysterious, you should be fine.
People won’t expect to see the Hegemon living with his parents in one of the
bunk rooms here.” Uphanad grinned. “It will be our little secret, the six of
us.”
Peter
did the count. Him, his parents, Uphanad, Dimak. and... oh, Graff, of course.
“I
think there will be no assassination attempt here,” said Uphanad, “because
there are very few weapons on board, all are kept under lock and key, and
everybody coming up here is scanned for weaponry. So I suggest you not attempt
to carry sidearms. You are trained in hand-to-hand combat?”
“No,”
said Peter.
“There
is a gym on the bottom level, very well equipped. And not just with childsize
devices, either. The adults also need to stay fit. You should use the facility
to maintain your bone mass, and so forth, but also we can arrange martial arts
classes for you, if you’re interested.”
“I’m
not interested,” said Peter. “But it sounds like a good idea.”
“Anyone
they send against us, though,” said Mother, “will be very much better trained
in it than we will.”
“Perhaps
so, perhaps not,” said Uphanad. “If your enemies attempt to get to you here,
they will have to rely on someone they can get through our screening. People
who seem particularly athletic are subjected to special scrutiny. We are, you
see, paranoid about one of the anti-colonization groups getting someone up here
just to perform an act of sabotage or terrorism.”
“Or
assassination.”
“You
see?” said Uphanad. “But I assure you I and my staff are very thorough. We
never leave anything unchecked.”
“In
other words, you knew who we were before we walked in the door.”
“Before
your shuttle took off, actually,” said Uphanad. “Or at least I had a fairly
good guess.”
They
said their good-byes, then settled into the routine of life in a space station.
Day
and night were kept on Greenwich time, for no particular reason but that it was
at zero longitude and they had to pick some time. Peter found that his parents
were not so awfully intrusive as he had feared, and he was relieved that he
could not hear their lovemaking or their conversations about him through the
divider
What
he did, mostly, was go to the library and write.
Essays,
of course, on everything, for every conceivable forum. There were plenty of
publications that were happy to have pieces from Locke or Demosthenes,
especially now that everyone knew these identities belonged to the Hegemon.
With most serious work appearing first on the nets, there was no way to target
particular audiences. But he still talked about subjects that would have particular
interest in various regions.
The
aim of everything he wrote was to fan the flames of suspicion of China and
Chinese ambitions. As Demosthenes, he wrote quite directly about the danger of
allowing the conquest of India and Indochina to stand, with a lot of who’s-next
rhetoric. Of course he couldn’t stoop to any serious rabble-rousing, because
every word he said would be held against the Hegemon.
Life
was so much easier when he was anonymous on the nets.
As
Locke, however, he wrote statesmanlike, impartial essays about problems that
different nations and regions were facing. “Locke” almost never wrote against
China directly, but rather took it for granted that there would be another
invasion, and that longterm investments in probable target countries might be
unwise, that sort of thing.
It
was hard work, because every essay had to be made interesting, original,
important, or no one would pay attention to it. He had to make sure he never
sounded like someone riding a hobby horse- rather the way Father had sounded
when he started spouting off about his theories of group loyalty and character
to Dimak. Though, to be fair, he’d never heard Father do that before, it still
gave him pause and made him realize how easily Locke and Demosthenes-and therefore
Peter Wiggin himself-could become at first an irritant, at last a
laughingstock.
Father
called this process stassenization and made various suggestions for essay
topics, some of which Peter used. As to what Father and Mother did with their
days, when they weren’t reading his essays and commenting on them, catching
errors, that sort of thing-well, Peter had no idea.
Maybe
Mother had found somebody’s room to clean.
Graft stopped in for a brief visit on their
first morning there, but then was off again-returned to Earth, in fact, on the
shuttle that had brought them. He did not return for three weeks, by which time
Peter had written nearly forty essays, all of which had been published in
various places. Most of them were Locke’s essays. And, as usual, most of the
attention went to Demosthenes.
When
Graff returned, he invited them to dine with him in the Minister’s quarters,
and they had a convivial dinner during which nothing important was discussed.
Whenever the subject seemed to be turning to a matter of real moment, Graff
would interrupt with the pouring of water or a joke of some kind-only rarely
the funny kind.
This
puzzled Peter, because surely Graff could count on his own quarters being
secure. But apparently not, because after dinner he invited them on a walk,
leading them quickly out of the regular corridors and into some of the service
passages. They were lost almost at once, and when Graff finally opened a door
and took them onto a wide ledge overlooking a ventilation shaft, they had lost
all sense of direction except, of course, where “down” was.
The
ventilation shaft led “down” . . . a very long way.
“This
is a place of some historical importance,” said Graff. “Though few of us know
it.”
“Ah,”
said Father knowingly.
And
because he had guessed it, Peter realized it should be guessable, and so he
guessed. “Achilles was here,” he said.
‘This,”
said Graft, “is where Bean and his friends tricked Achilles. Achilles thought
he was going to be able to kill Bean here, but instead Bean got him in chains,
hanging in the shaft. He could have killed Achilles. His friends recommended
it.”
“Who
were the friends?” asked Mother.
“He
never told me, but that’s not surprising-I never asked. I thought it would be
wiser if there were never any kind of record, even inside my head, of which
other children were there to witness Achilles’s humiliation and helplessness.”
“It
wouldn’t have mattered, if he had simply killed Achilles. There would have been
no murders.”
“But,
you see,” said Graff, “if Achilles had died, then I would have had to ask those
names, and Bean could not have been allowed to remain in Battle School. We
might have lost the war because of that, because Ender relied on Bean quite
heavily.”
“You
let Ender stay after he killed a boy,” said Peter.
“The
boy died accidentally,” said Graff, “as Ender defended himself.”
“Defended
himself because you left him alone,” said Mother
“I’ve
already faced trial on those charges, and I was acquitted.”
“But
you were asked to resign your commission,” said Mother.
“But
I was then given this much higher position as Minister of Colonization. Let’s
not quibble over the past. Bean got Achilles here, not to kill him, but to
induce him to confess. He did confess, very convincingly, and because I heard
him do it, I’m on his death list, too.”
“Then
why are you still alive?” asked Peter.
“Because,
contrary to widespread belief, Achilles is not a genius and he makes mistakes.
His reach is not infinite and his power can be blocked. He doesn’t know
everything. He doesn’t have everything planned. I think half the time he’s
winging it, putting himself in the way of opportunity and seizing it when he sees
it.”
“If
he’s not a genius, then why does he Keep beating geniuses?” asked Peter.
“Because
he does the unexpected,” said Graft. “He doesn’t actually do things remarkably
well, he simply does things that no one thought he would do. He stays a jump ahead.
And our finest minds were not even thinking about him when he brought off his
most spectacular successes. They thought they were civilians again when he had
them kidnapped. Bean wasn’t trying to oppose Achilles’s plans during the war,
he was trying to find and rescue Petra. You see? I have Achilles’s test scores.
He’s a champion suckup, and he’s very smart or he wouldn’t have got here. He
knew how to ace a psych test, for instance, so that his violent tendencies
remained hidden from us when we chose him to come in the last group we brought
to Battle School. He’s dangerous, in other words. But he’s never had to face an
opponent, not really. What the Formics faced, he’s never had to face.”
“So
you’re confident,” said Peter.
“Not
at all,” said Graft. “But I’m hopeful.”
“You
brought us here just to show us this place?” said Father.
“Actually,
no. I brought you here because I came up earlier in the day and swept it
personally for eavesdropping devices. Plus, I installed a sound damper here, so
that our voices are not carrying down the ventilation shaft.”
“You
think MinCol has been penetrated,” said Peter
“I
know it has,” said Graft “Uphanad was doing his routine scan of the logs of
outgoing messages, and he found an odd one that was sent within hours of your
arrival here. The entire message consisted of the single word on. Uphanad’s
routine scan, of course, is more thorough than most people’s desperate search.
He found this one simply by looking for anomalies in message length, language
patterns, etc. To find codes, you see.
“And
this was in code?” asked Father.
“Not
a cipher, no. And impossible to decode for that reason. It could simply mean
‘affirmative,’ as in ‘the mission is on.’ It might be a foreign word-there are
several dozen common languages in which ‘on’ has meaning by itself. It might be
‘no’ backward. You see the problem? What alerted Uphanad, besides its brevity,
was the fact that it was sent within hours of your arrival-after your
arrival-and both the sender and the receiver of the message were anonymous.”
“How
could the sender be anonymous from a secure military0-designed facility?” asked
Peter.
“Oh,
it’s quite simple, really,” said Graff. “The sender used someone else’s
sign-on.”
“Whose?”
“Uphanad
was quite embarrassed when he showed me the printout of the message. Because as
far as the computer was concerned, it was sent by Uphanad himself.”
“Someone
got the log-on of the head of security?” said Father.
“Humiliating,
you may be sure,” said Graft.
“You’ve
fired him?” asked Mother
“That
would not make us more secure, to lose the man who is our best defense against
whatever operation that message triggered.”
“So
you think it is the English word ‘on’ and it means somebody is preparing to
move against us.”
“I
think that’s not unlikely. I think the message was sent in the clear. It’s only
undecipherable because we don’t know what is ‘on.’”
“And
you’ve taken into account,” said Mother, “the possibility that Uphanad actually
sent this message himself, and is using the fact that he told you about it as
cover for the fact that he’s the perpetrator”
Graft
looked at her a long time, blinked, and then smiled. “I was telling myself,
‘suspect everybody,’ but now I know what a truly suspicious person is.”
Peter
hadn’t thought of it either. But now it made perfect sense.
“Still,
let’s not leap to conclusions, either,” said Graff. “The real sender of the
message might have used Major Uphanad’s sign-on precisely so that the chief of
security would be our prime suspect.”
“How
long ago did he find this message?” asked Father
“A
couple of days,” said Graff. “I was already scheduled to come, so I stuck to my
schedule.”
“No
warnings?”
“No,”
said Graff. “Any departure from routine would let the sender know his signal was
discovered and perhaps interpreted. It would lead him to change his plans.”
“So
what do we do?” asked Peter.
“First,”
said Graff, “I apologize for thinking you’d be perfectly safe here. Apparently
Achilles’s reach-or perhaps China’s-is longer than we thought.”
“So
do we go home?” asked Father
“Second,”
said Graff, “we can’t do anything that would play into their hands. Going home
right now, before the threat can be identified and neutralized, would expose
you to greater danger Our betrayer could give another signal that would tell
them when and where you were going to arrive on Earth. What your trajectory of
descent is going to be. That sort of thing.”
“Who
would risk killing the Hegemon by downing a shuttle?” said Peter. “The world
would be outraged, even the people who’d be happy to see me dead.”
“Anything
we do that changes our pattern would let the traitor know his signal was
intercepted. It might rush the project, whatever it is, before we’re ready. No,
I’m sorry to say this, but. . . our best course of action is to wait.”
“And
what if we disagree?” said Peter.
“Then
I’ll send you home on the shuttle of your choosing, and pray for you all the
way down.”
“You’d
let us go?”
“You’re
my guest,” said Graff. “Not my prisoner.”
“Then
let’s test it,” said Peter “We’re leaving on the next shuttle. The one that
brought you-when it goes back, we’ll be on it.”
“Too
soon,” said Graff. “We have no time to prepare.”
“And
neither does he. I suggest,” said Peter, “that you go to Uphanad and make sure
he knows that he has to put a complete blanket of secrecy on our imminent
departure. He’s not even to tell Dimak.”
“But
if he’s the one,” said Mother, “then-”
“Then
he can’t send a signal,” said Peter “Unless he can find a way to let the
information slip out and become public knowledge on the station. That’s why
it’s vital, Minister Graft, that you remain with him at all times after you
tell him. So if it’s him, he can’t send the signal.”
“But
it’s probably not him,” said Graff, “and now you’ve let everybody know.”
“But
now we’ll be watching for the outgoing message.”
“Unless
they simply kill you as you’re boarding the shuttle.”
“Then
our worries will be over,” said Peter. “But I think they won’t kill us here,
because this agent of theirs is too useful to them- or to Achilles, depending
on whose man he is-for them to use him up completely on this operation.”
Graff
pondered this. “So we watch to see who might be sending the message-”
“And
you have agents stationed at the landing point on Earth to see if they can spot
a would-be assassin.
“I
can do that,” said Graff. “One tiny problem, though.”
“What’s
that?” said Peter.
“You
can’t go.”
“Why
can’t I?” said Peter
“Because
your one-man propaganda campaign is working. The people who read your stuff
have drifted more strongly into the anti-China camp. It’s still a fairly slight
movement, but it’s real.”
“I
can write my essays there,” said Peter.
“In
danger of being killed at any moment,” said Graff.
“That
could happen here, too,” said Peter.
“Well-but
you yourself said it was unlikely.”
“Let’s
catch the mole who’s working your station,” said Peter, “and send him home.
Meanwhile, we’re heading for Earth. It’s been great being here, Minister Graft.
But we’ve got to go.”
He
looked at his mother and father.
“Absolutely,”
said Father
“Do
you think,” said Mother, “that when we get back to Earth we can find a place
with little tiny beds like these?” She clung more tightly to Father’s arms.
“It’s made us so much closer as a family.”
WAR PLANS
From: Demosthenes%Tecumseh@freeamerica.org
To: DropBox%Feijoada@ICameAnon.net
Re: ~
Encrypted using code
Decrypted using code
I spend
half my memory capacity just holding on to whatever online identity you’re
using from week to week. Why not rely on encryption? Nobody’s broken hyperprime
encryption yet.
Here it is, Bean: Those stones in India?
Virlomi started it, of course. Got a message from her: Now you are not in
cesspool, can communicate again. Have no email here. Stones are mine. Back on
bridge soon. War in earnest. Post to me only, this site, pickup name BridgeGirl
password not stepstool.
At least I think that’s what “stones are mine”
means. And what does “password not stepstool” mean? That the password is “not
stepstool”? Or that the password is not “stepstool,” in which case it’s
probably not ‘aardvark” either, but how does that help?
Anyway, I think she’s offering to begin war in
earnest inside India. She can’t possibly have a nationwide network, but then,
maybe she doesn’t need one. She was certainly enough in tune with the Indian
people to get them all piling stones in the road. And now the whole stone wall
business has taken off. Lots of skirmishes between angry hungry citizens and
Chinese soldiers. Trucks hijacked. Sabotage of Chinese offices proceeding
apace. What can she do more than is already happening?
Given where you are, you may have more need of
her information and/or help than I do. But I’d appreciate your help
understanding the parts of the message that are opaque to me.
From: LostlboBoy%Novy©IComeAnon.net
To: Demosthenes%Tecumseh©freeamerica.org
Re: >blank<
Encrypted using code ********
Decrypted using code ***********
Here’s why I keep changing identities. First,
they don’t have to decrypt the message to get information if they see patterns
in our correspondence-it would be useful for them to know the frequency and
timing of our correspondence and the length of our messages. Second, they don’t
have to decrypt the whole message, they only hove to guess our encrypt and
decrypt codes. Which I bet you have written down somewhere because you don’t
actually care whether I get killed because you’re too lazy to memorize. Of
course I mean that in the nicest possible way, 0 right honorable Mr. Hegemon.
Here’s what Virlomi meant. Obviously she
intended that you not be able to understand the message and correspond with her
properly unless you talked to me or Sun. That means she doesn’t trust you
completely. My guess is that if you wrote to her and left a message using the
password “not stepstool,” she’d know that you hadn’t talked to me. (You don’t
know how tempting it was lust to leave you with that guess.)
When we picked her up from that bridge near
the Burmese border, she boarded the chopper by stepping on Suriyawong’s back as
he lay prostrate before her. The password is not stepstool, it’s the real name
of her stepstool. And she’s going to be back at that bridge, which means she’s
made her way across India to the Burmese border, where she’ll be in a position
to disrupt Chinese supply of their troops in India-or, conversely, Chinese
attempts to move their troops out of India and back into China or Indochina.
Of course she’s only going to be a stone
bridge. But my guess is that she’s already setting up guerrilla groups that are
getting ready to disrupt traffic on the other roads between Burma and India,
with a strong possibility that she’s set up something along the Himalayan
border as well. I doubt she can seal the borders, but she can slow and harass
their passage, tying up troops trying to protect supply lines and making the
Chinese less able to mount offensives or keep their troops supplied with
ammunition-always a problem for them.
Personally, I think you should tell her not to
tip her hand too soon. I may be able to tell you when to post a reply asking
her to start in earnest on a particular date. And no, I won’t post myself
because I am most certainly watched here, and I don’t wont them to know about
her directly. I’ve already caught two snoopware intrusions on my desk, which
cost me twenty minutes each time, scrambling them so they send back false
information to the snoops. Encrypted email like this I can send, but messages
posted to dead drops can be picked up by snoopware on the local net.
And yes these are indeed my friends. But
they’d be fools not to keep track of what I’m sending out-if they can.
Bean measured himself in the mirror. He still
looked like himself, more or less. But he didn’t like the way his head was
growing. Larger in proportion to his body. Growing faster.
I
should be getting smarter, shouldn’t I? More brain space and all?
Instead
I’m worrying about what will happen when my head gets too big, my skull and
brains too heavy for my neck to hold the whole assemblage in a vertical
position.
He
measured himself against the coat closet, too. Not all that long ago, he had to
stand on tiptoe to reach coat hangers. Then it became easy. Now he was reaching
a bit downward from shoulder height.
Door
frames were not a problem yet. But he was beginning to feel as though he should
duck.
Why
should his growth be accelerating now? He already hit the puberty rush.
Petra
staggered past him, went into the bathroom, and puked up nothing for about five
agonizing minutes.
“They
should have drugs for that,” he told her afterward.
“They
do,” said Petra. “But nobody knows how they might affect the baby.”
“There’ve
been no studies? Impossible.”
“No
studies on how they might affect your children.”
“Anton’s
Key is just a couple of code spots on the genome.”
“Genes
often do double and triple duty, or more.”
“And
the baby probably doesn’t even have Anton’s Key. And it’s not healthy for the
baby if you can’t keep any food down.”
“This
won’t last forever,” said Petra. “And I’ll get fed intravenously if I have to.
I’m not doing anything to endanger this baby, Bean. Sorry if my puking ruins
your appetite for breakfast.”
“Nothing
ruins my appetite for breakfast,” said Bean. “I’m a growing boy.”
She
retched again.
“Sorry,”
said Bean.
“I
don’t do this,” she whispered miserably, “because your jokes are so bad.”
“No,”
said Bean. “It’s cause my genes are.”
She
retched again and he left the room, feeling guilty about leaving, but knowing
he’d be useless if he stayed. She wasn’t one of those people who need petting
when they’re sick. She preferred to be left alone in her misery. It was one of
the ways they were alike. Sort of like injured animals that slink off into the
woods to get better-or die-alone.
Alai
was waiting for him in the large conference room. Chairs were gathered around a
large holo on the floor, where a map was being projected of the terrain and
militarily significant roads of India and western China.
By
now the others were used to seeing Bean there, though there were some who still
didn’t like it. But the Caliph wanted him there, the Caliph trusted him.
They
watched as the known locations of Chinese garrison troops were brought up in
blue, and then the probable locations of mobile forces and reserves in green.
When he first saw this map, Bean made the faux pas of asking where they were
getting their information. He was informed, quite coldly, that both Persia and
the Israeli-Egyptian consortium had active satellite placement programs, and
their spy satellites were the best in orbit. “We can get the blood type of
individual enemy soldiers,” said Alai with a smile. An exaggeration, of course.
But then Bean wondered-some kind of spectroanalysis of their sweat?
Not
possible. Alai was joking, not boasting.
Now,
Bean trusted their information as much as they did-because of course he had
made discreet inquiries through Peter and through some of his own connections.
Putting together what Vlad could tell him from Russian intelligence and what
Crazy Tom was giving him from England. plus Peter’s American sources, it was
clear that the Muslims-the Crescent League-had everything the others had. And
more.
The
plan was simple. Massive troop movements along the border between India and
Pakistan, bringing Iranian troops up to the front. This should draw a strong
Chinese response, with their troops also concentrated along that border
Meanwhile,
Turkic forces were already in place on, and sometimes inside, China’s western
border, having traveled over the past few months in disguise as nomads. On
paper, the western region of China looked like ideal country for tanks and
trucks, but in reality, fuel supply lines would be a recurring nightmare. So
the first wave of Turks would enter as cavalry, switching to mechanized transport
only when they were in a position to steal and use Chinese equipment.
This
was the most dangerous aspect of the plan, Bean knew. The Turkic armies,
combining forces from the Hellespont to the Aral Sea and the foothills of the
Himalayas, were equipped like raiders, yet had to do the job of an invading
army. They had a couple of advantages that might compensate for their lack of
armor and air support. Having no supply lines meant the Chinese wouldn’t have
anything to bomb at first. The native people of the western China province of
Xinjiang were Turkic too, and like the Tibetans, they had never stopped
seething under the rule of Han China.
Above
all, the Turks would have surprise and numbers on their side during the crucial
first days. The Chinese garrison troops were all massed on the border with
Russia. Until those forces could be moved, the Turks should have an easy time,
striking anywhere they wanted, taking out police and supply stations-and, with
luck, every airfield in Xinjiang.
By
the time Chinese troops moved off the Russian border and into the interior to
deal with the Turks, the fully mechanized Turkish troops would be entering
China from the west. Now there would be supply lines to attack, but deprived of
their forward air bases, and forced to face Turkish fighters which would now be
using them, China would not have clear air superiority.
Taking
underdefended air bases with cavalry was just the sort of touch Bean would have
expected from Alai. They could only hope that Han Tzu would not anticipate Alai
having complete authority over the inevitable Muslim move, for the Chinese
would have to be crazy not to be planning to defend against a Muslim invasion.
At
some point, it was hoped that the Turks would do well enough that the Chinese
would be forced to begin shifting troops from India north into Xinjiang. Here
the terrain favored Alai’s plan, for awhile some Chinese troops could be
airlifted over the Tibetan Himalayas, the Tibetan roads would be disrupted by
Turkic demolition teams, and the Chinese troops would all have to be moved
eastward from India, around the Himalayas, and into western China from the east
rather than the south.
It
would take days, and when the Muslims believed that the maximum number of
Chinese troops were in transit, where they could not fight anybody, they would
launch the massive invasion over the border between Pakistan and India.
So
much depended on what the Chinese believed. At first, the Chinese had to
believe that the real assault would come from Pakistan, so that the main
Chinese force would remain tied up on that frontier. Then, at a crucial point
several days into the Turkic operation, the Chinese had to be convinced that
the Turkic front was, in fact, the real invasion. They had to be so convinced
of this that they would withdraw troops from India, weakening their forces
there.
How
else does an inexperienced three-million-man army defeat an army of ten million
veterans?
They
went through contingency plans for the several days following the commitment of
Muslim troops in Pakistan, but Bean knew, as did Alai, that nothing that
happened after the Muslim troops began crossing the Indian border could be
predicted. They had plans in case the invasion failed utterly, and Pakistan had
to be protected at fallback positions well inside the Pakistani border They had
plans for dealing with a complete rout of the Chinese forces-not likely, as
they knew. But in the most likely scenario-a difficult back-and-forth battle
across a thousand-mile front-plans would have to be improvised to take
advantage of every turn of events.
“So,”
said Alai. “That is the plan. Any comments?”
Around
the circle, one officer after another voiced his measured confidence. This was
not because they were all yes-men, but because Alai had already listened
carefully to the objections they raised before and had altered the plans to
deal with those he thought were serious problems.
Only
one of the Muslims offered any objection today, and it was the one nonmilitary
man, Lankowski, whose role, as best Bean could tell, was halfway between
minister-without-portfolio and chaplain. “I think it is a shame,” he said,
“that our plans are so dependent upon what Russia chooses to do.”
Bean
knew what he meant. Russia was completely unpredictable in this situation. On
the one hand, the Warsaw Pact had a treaty with China that had secured China’s
long northern border with Russia, freeing them to conquer India in the first
place. On the other hand, the Russians and Chinese had been rivals in this
region for centuries, and each believed the other held territory that was
rightfully theirs.
And
there were unpredictable personal issues as well. How many loyal servants of
Achilles were still in positions of trust and authority in Russia? At the same
time, many Russians were furious at how they had been used by him before he
went to India and then China.
Yet
Achilles brokered the secret treaty between Russia and China, so he couldn’t be
all that detested, could he?
But
what was that treaty really worth? Every Russian schoolchild knew that the
stupidest Russian tsar of them all had been Stalin, because he made a treaty
with Hitler’s Germany and then expected it to be kept. Surely the Russians did
not really believe China would stay at peace with them forever.
So
there was always the chance that Russia, seeing China at a disadvantage, would
join the fray. The Russians would see it as a chance to seize territory and to
preempt the inevitable Chinese betrayal of them.
That
would be a good thing, if the Russians attacked in force but were not terribly
successful. It would bleed Chinese troops from the battle against the Muslims.
But it would be a very bad thing if Russia did too well or too badly. Too well,
and they might slice down through Mongolia and seize Beijing. Then the Muslim
victory would become a Russian one. Alai did not want to have Russia in a
dominant role in the peace negotiations.
And
if Russia entered the war but lost quickly, Chinese troops would not have to
watch the Russian border. Free to move, those garrison troops might be hurled
against the Turks, or they might be sent through Russian territory to strike
into Kazakhstan, threatening to cut off Turkish supply lines.
That
was why Alai had expressed his hope that the Russians would be too surprised to
do anything at all.
“There’s
no helping it,” said Alai. “We have done all we can do.
What Russia does is in the hands of God.”
“May
I speak?” said Bean.
Alai
nodded. All eyes turned to him. At previous meetings, Bean had said nothing,
preferring to talk with Alai in private, where he did not risk committing an
error in the way he spoke to the Caliph.
“When
you have committed to battle,” said Bean, “I believe I can use my own contacts,
and persuade the Hegemon to use his, to urge Russia to pursue whatever course
you think most advisable.”
Several
of the men shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
“Please
reassure my worried friends here,” said Alai, “that you have not already been
in discussion with the Hegemon or anyone else about our plans.”
“The
opposite is true,” said Bean. “You are the ones who are preparing to take
action. I have been providing you with all the information I learned from them.
But I know these people, and what they can do. The Hegemon has no armies, but
he does have great influence on world opinion. Of course he will speak in favor
of your action. But he also has influence inside Russia, which he could use
either to urge intervention, or to argue against it. My friends, also.”
Bean
knew that Alai knew that the only friend worth mentioning was Vlad, and Vlad
had been the only one of the kidnapped members of Ender’s jeesh to join with
Achilles and take his side. Whether that had been because he had truly become a
follower of Achilles or because he thought Achilles was acting in the interest
of Mother Russia, Bean still had not figured out. Vlad provided him with
information sometimes, but Bean always looked for a second source before he
fully trusted it.
“Then
I will tell you this,” said Alai. “Today I don’t know what would be more
useful, for Russia to join in the attack or for Russia to stand by doing
nothing. As long as they don’t attack us, I’ll be content. But as events unfold,
the picture may become clearer.”
Bean
did not need to point out to Alai that Russia would not enter the war to rescue
a failing Muslim invasion-only if the Russians scented victory would they put
their own forces at risk. So if Alai waited too long to ask for help, it would
not come.
They
took a break for the noon meal, but it was very brief, and when they returned
to the conference room, the map had changed. There was a third part of the
plan, and Bean knew that this was the one that Alai was least certain about.
For
months now, Arab armies from Egypt, Iraq, and every other Arab nation had been
transported on oil tankers from Arab ports to Indonesia. The Indonesian navy
was one of the most formidable in the world, and its carrier-based air force was
the only one in the region that rivaled the Chinese in equipment and armament.
Everyone knew that it was because of the Indonesian umbrella that the Chinese
had not taken Singapore or ventured into the Philippines.
Now
it was proposed that the Indonesian navy be used to transport a combined
Arab-Indonesian army to effect a landing in Thailand or Vietnam. Both nations
were filled with people who longed for deliverance from the Chinese conquerors.
When
the plans for the two possible landing sites had been fully laid out, Alai did
not ask for criticisms-he had his own. “I think in both cases, our plans for
the landing are excellent. My misgiving is the same one I’ve had all along.
There is no serious military objective there to be achieved. The Chinese can
afford to lose battle after battle there, using only their available forces,
retreating farther and farther, while waiting to see the outcome of the real
war. I think the soldiers we sent there would risk dying for no good purpose.
It’s too much like the Italian campaign in World War II. Long, slow, costly,
and ineffective, even if we win every battle.”
The
Indonesian commander bowed his head. “I am grateful for the Caliph’s concern
for the lives of our soldiers. But the Muslims of Indonesia could not bear to
stand by while their brothers fight. If these objectives are meaningless, find
us something meaningful to do.”
One
of the Arab officers added his agreement. “We’ve committed our troops to this
operation. Is it too late, then, to bring them back and let them join with the
Pakistanis and Iranians in the liberation of India? Their numbers might make a
crucial difference there.”
“The
time draws close for the weather to be at its best for our purposes,” said
Alai. “There’s no time to bring back the Arab armies. But I can see no value in
sending soldiers into battle for no better reason than solidarity, or delaying
the invasion in order to bring the Arab armies into a different theater of war.
If it was a mistake to send them to Indonesia, the mistake is my own.
They
murmured their disagreement. They could not agree with blaming the Caliph for
any mistakes. At the same time, Bean knew that they appreciated knowing they
were led by a man who did not blame others. It was part of the reason they
loved him.
Alai
spoke over their objections. “I have not decided yet whether to launch the
third front. But if we do launch it, then the objective we should plan for is
Thailand, not Vietnam. I realize the risks of leaving the fleet exposed for a
longer time at sea-we will have to count on the Indonesian pilots to protect
their ships. I choose Thailand because it is a more coherent country, with
terrain more suitable for a swift conquest. In Vietnam, we would have to fight
for every inch of territory, and our progress would look slow on the map-the
Chinese would feel safe. In Thailand, our progress will look very quick and
dangerous. As long as they forget that Thailand is not important to them in the
overall war, it might cause them to send troops there to oppose us.
After
a few more niceties, the meeting ended. One thing that no one mentioned was the
actual date of the invasion. Bean was sure that one had been chosen and that
everyone in the room but him knew what it was. He accepted that-it was the one
piece of information which he had no need to know, and the most crucial one to
withhold from him if he could not be trusted after all.
Back
in their room, Bean found Petra asleep. He sat down and used his desk to access
his email and check a few sites on the nets. He was interrupted by a light
knock on the door Petra was instantly awake-pregnant or not, she still slept
like a soldier-and she was at the door before Bean could shut down his
connection and step away from the table.
Lankowski
stood there, looking apologetic and regal, a combination that only he could
have mastered. “If you will forgive me,” he said, “our mutual friend wishes to
speak with you in the garden.”
“Both
of us?” asked Petra.
“Please,
unless you are too ill.”
Soon
they were seated on the bench beside Alai’s garden throne- though of course he
never called it that, referring to it only as a chair.
“I’m
sorry Petra, that I couldn’t bring you into the meeting. Our Crescent League is
not recidivist, but it would make some of them too uncomfortable to have a
woman present at such meetings.”
“Alai,
do you think I don’t know that?” she said. “You have to deal with the culture
around you.”
“I
assume that Bean has acquainted you with our plans?”
“I
was asleep when he returned to the room,” said Petra, “so anything that’s
changed since last time, I don’t know.”
“I’m
sorry, then, but perhaps you can pick up what’s happening from the context.
Because I know Bean has something to say and he didn’t say it yet.”
“I
saw no flaw in your plans,” said Bean. “I think you’ve done everything that
could possibly be done, including being smart enough not to think you can plan
what will happen once battle has been joined in India.”
“But
such praise is not what I saw on your face,” said Alai.
“I
didn’t think my face was readable,” said Bean.
“It
isn’t,” said Alai. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“We’ve
received an offer that I think you’ll be glad of,” said Bean.
“From?”
“I
don’t know if you ever knew Virlomi,” said Bean.
“Battle
School?”
“Yes.”
“Before
my time, I think. I was a young boy and paid no attention to girls anyway.” He
smiled at Petra.
“Weren’t
we all,” said Bean. “Virlomi was the one who made it possible for me and
Suriyawong to retrieve Petra from Hyderabad and save the Indian Battle School
graduates from being slaughtered by Achilles.”
“She
has my admiration, then,” said Alai.
“She’s
back in India. All that building of stone obstacles, the so called Great Wall
of India-apparently she’s the one who started that.”
Now
Alai’s interest looked like more than mere politeness.
“Peter
received a message from her. She has no idea about you and what you’re doing,
and neither does Peter, but she sent the message in language that he couldn’t
understand without conferring with me-a very careful and wise thing for her to
do, I think.”
They
exchanged smiles.
“She
is in place in the area of a bridge spanning one of the roads between India and
Burma. She may be able to disrupt one, many, or even all of the major roads
leading between India and China.”
Alai
nodded.
“It
would be a disaster, of course.” said Bean, “if she acted on her own and cut
the roads before the Chinese are able to move any troops out of India. In other
words, if she thinks the real invasion is the Turkish one, then she might think
her most helpful role would he to keep Chinese troops in India. Ideally, what
she would do is wait until they start trying to move hoops hack into India, and
then cut the roads, keeping them out.”
“But
if we tell her,” said Alai, “and the message is . . . intercepted, then the
Chinese will know that the Turkic operation is not the main effort.”
“Well,
that’s why I didn’t want to bring this up in front of the others. I can tell
you that I believe communication between her and Peter, and between Peter and
me, is secure. I believe that Peter is desperate for your invasion to succeed,
and Virlomi will be too, and they will not tell anyone anything that would
compromise it. But it’s your call.”
“Peter
is desperate for our invasion to succeed?” asked Alai.
“Alai,
the man’s not stupid. I didn’t have to tell him about your plans or even that
you had plans. He knows that you’re here, in seclusion, and he has satellite
reports of the troop movements to the Indian frontier. He hasn’t discussed it
with me, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he also knew about the Arab presence
in Indonesia- that’s the kind of thing he always finds out about because he has
contacts everywhere.”
“Sorry
to suspect you,” said Alai, “but I’d be remiss if I didn’t.”
“Think
about Virlomi, anyway.” said Bean. “It would be tragic if, in her effort to
help, she actually hindered your plan.”
“But
that’s not all you wanted to say,” said Alai.
“No,”
said Bean, and he hesitated.
“Go
on.”
“Your
reason for not wanting to open the third front was a sound one,” said Bean.
“Not wanting to waste lives taking militarily unimportant objectives.”
“So
you think I shouldn’t use that force at all,” said Alai.
“No,”
said Bean. “I think you need to be bolder with them. I think you need to waste
more lives on an even more spectacular nonmilitary objective.”
Alai
turned away. “I was afraid you’d see that.”
“I
was sure you’d already thought of it.”
“I
was hoping one of the Arabs or the Indonesians themselves would propose it,”
said Alai.
“Propose
what?” asked Petra.
“The
military goal,” said Bean, “is to destroy their armies, which is done by
attacking them with superior force, achieving surprise, and cutting off their
supply and escape routes. Nothing you do with the third front can achieve any
of those objectives.”
“I
know,” said Alai.
“China
isn’t a democracy. The government doesn’t have to win elections. But they need
the support of their people all the more because of that.”
Petra
sighed her understanding. “Invade China itself.”
“There
is no hope of success in such an invasion,” said Alai. “On the other fronts, we
will have a citizenry that welcomes us and cooperates with us, while
obstructing them. In China, the opposite would be true. Their air force would
be working from nearby airfields and could fly sortie after sortie between each
wave of our planes. The potential for disaster would be very great.”
“Plan
for disaster.” said Bean. “Begin with disaster.”
“You’re
too subtle for me,” said Alai.
“What’s
disaster in this case? Besides actually getting stopped at the beach-not
likely, since China has one of the most inevasible shorelines in the world-a
disaster is for your force to be dispersed, cut off from supply, and operating
without coordinating central control.”
“Land
them,” said Alai, “and have them immediately begin a guerrilla campaign? But
they won’t have the support of the people.”
“I
thought about this a lot,” said Bean. “The Chinese people are used to
oppression-when have they not been oppressed?-but they’ve never become
reconciled to it. Think how many peasant revolts there’ve been-and against
governments far more benign than this one. Now, if your soldiers go into China
like Sherman’s march to the sea, they’ll be opposed at every step.”
“But
they have to live off the land, if they’re cut off from supply.” said Alai.
“Strictly
disciplined troops can make this work.” said Bean. “But this will be hard for
the Indonesians, given the way the Chinese have always been regarded within
Indonesia itself.”
“Trust
me to control my troops.”
“Then
here’s what they do. In every village they come to, they take half the food-but
only half. They make a big point of leaving the rest, and you tell them it’s
because Allah did not send you to make war against the Chinese people. If you
had to kill anybody to get control of the village, apologize to the family or
to the whole village, if it was a soldier who died. Be the nicest invaders
they’ve ever imagined.”
“Oh,”
said Alai. “That’s asking a lot, from mere discipline.”
Petra
was getting the vision of this. ”Maybe if you quote to your soldiers that
passage from The Elevated Places, where it says, ‘Maybe your Lord will destroy
your enemy and make you rulers in the land. Then He will see how you act.’”
Alai
looked at her in genuine consternation. “You quote the Q’uran to me?”
“I
thought the verse was appropriate,” she said. “Isn’t that why you had them put
it in my room? So I’d read it?”
Alai
shook his head. “Lankowski gave you the Q’uran.”
“And
she read it,” added Bean. “We’re both surprised.”
“It’s
a good passage to use,” said Alai. “Maybe God will make us rulers in China.
Let’s show from the start that we can do it justly and righteously.”
“The
best part of the plan.” said Bean, “is that the Chinese soldiers will come
right afterward, and fearing that their own armies will be left without
supplies, or in the effort to deprive your army of further provender, they will
probably seize all the rest of the food.”
Alai
nodded, smiled, then laughed. “Our invading army leaves the Chinese people
enough to eat, but the Chinese army makes them starve.”
“The
likelihood of a public relations victory is very high,” said Bean.
“And
meanwhile,” said Petra, “the Chinese soldiers in India and Xingjian are going
crazy because they don’t know what’s going on with their families back home.”
“The
invasion fleet doesn’t mass for the attack,” said Bean. “It’s done in Filipino
and Indonesian fishing boats, small forces up and down the coast. The
Indonesian fleet, with its carriers, waits far offshore, until they’re called
in on air strikes against identified military targets. Every time they try to
find your army, you melt away. No pitched battles. At first the people will
help them; soon enough, the people will help you. You resupply with ammunition and
demolition equipment by air drops at night. Food they find for themselves. And
all the time they move farther and farther inland, destroying communications,
blowing up bridges. No dams, though. Leave the dams alone.”
“Of
course,” said Alai darkly. “We remember Aswan.”
“Anyway,
that was my suggestion.” said Bean. “Militarily, it does nothing for you during
the first weeks. The attrition rate will be high at first, until the teams get
in from the coast and get used to this kind of combat. But if even a quarter of
your contingents are able to remain free and effective, operating inside China,
it will force the Chinese to bring more and more troops home from the Indian
front.”
“Until
they sue for peace,” said Alai. “We don’t actually want to rule over China. We
want to liberate India and Indochina, bring back all the captives taken into
China, and restore the rightful governments, but with a treaty allowing
complete privileges to Muslims within their borders.”
“So
much bloodshed, for such a modest goal,” said Petra.
“And,
of course, the liberation of Turkic China,” said Alai.
“They’ll
like that,” said Bean.
“And
Tibet,” said Alai.
“Humiliate
them enough.” said Petra, “and you’ve merely set the stage for the next war.”
“And
complete freedom of religion in China as well.”
Petra
laughed. “It’s going to be a long war, Alai. The new empire they’d probably
give up-they haven’t held it that long, and it’s not as if it brought them
great wealth and honor. But they’ve held Tibet and Turkic China for centuries.
There are Han Chinese all over both territories.”
“Those
are problems to be solved later,” said Alai, “and not by you. Probably not by
me, either. But we know what the West keeps forgetting. If you win, win.”
“I
think that approach was proven a disaster at Versailles.”
“No”’
said Alai. “It was only proven a disaster after Versailles, when France and
England didn’t have the spine, didn’t have the will, to compel obedience to the
treaty. After World War II, the Allies were wiser. They left their troops on
German soil for nearly a century. In some cases benignly, in some cases
brutally, but always definitely there.”
“As
you said,” Bean answered, “you and your successors will find out how well this
works, and how to solve the new problems that are bound to come up. But I warn
you now, that if liberators turn out to be oppressors, the people they
liberated will feel even more betrayed and hate them worse.”
“I’m
aware of that,” said Alai. “And I know what you’re warning me of.”
“I
think,” said Bean, “that you won’t know whether the Muslim people have actually
changed from the bad old days of religious intolerance until you put power in
their hands.”
“What
the Caliph can do,” said Alai, “I will do.”
“I
know you will,” said Petra. “I don’t envy you your responsibility.”
Alai
smiled. “Your friend Peter does. In fact, he wants more.”
“And
your people,” said Bean, “will want more on your behalf. You may not want to
rule the world, but if you win in China, they’ll want you to, in their name.
And at that point, Alai, how can you tell them no?”
“With
these lips,” said Alai. “And this heart.”
TRAPS
To: Locke%erasmus@potnet.gov
From: Sand%Water@ArabNet.net
Re: Invitation
to a party
You don’t wont to miss this one. Kemal
upstairs thinks he’s the whole show, but when Show and Pock get started in the
basement, that’s when the fireworks stop say wait for the downstairs party
before you pop any corks.
“John
Paul,” said Theresa Wiggin quietly, “I don’t understand what Peter’s doing
here.”
John
Paul closed his suitcase. “That’s the way he likes it.”
“We’re
supposed to be doing this secretly, but he-”
“Asked
us not to talk about it in here.” John Paul put his finger to his lips, then
picked up her suitcase as well as his and started on the long walk to the
bunkroom door.
Theresa
could do nothing but sigh and follow him. After all they’d been through with
Peter, you’d think he could confide in them. But he still had to play these
games where nobody knew everything that was going on but him. It was only a few
hours since he had decided they were going to leave on the next shuttle, and
supposedly they were supposed to keep it an absolute secret.
So
what does Peter do? Asks practically every member of the permanent station crew
to do some favor for him, run some errand, “and you’ve got to get it to me by
1800.”
They
weren’t idiots. They all knew that 1800 was when everyone going on the next
flight had to board for a 1900 departure.
So
this great secret had been leaked, by implication, to everybody on the crew.
And
yet he still insisted that they not talk about it, and John Paul was going
along with him! What kind of madness was this? Peter was clearly not being
careless, he was too systematic for it to be an accident. Was he hoping to
catch someone in the act of transmitting a warning to Achilles? Well, what if,
instead of a warning, they just blew up the shuttle? Maybe that was the
operation-to sabotage whatever shuttle they were going home on. Did Peter think
of that?
Of
course he did. It was in Peter’s nature to think of everything.
Or
at least it was in Peter’s nature to think he had thought of everything.
Out
in the corridor, John Paul kept walking too quickly for her to converse with
him, and when she tried anyway, he put his fingers to his lips.
“It’s
OK,” he murmured.
At
the elevator to the hub of the station, where the shuttles docked, Dimak was
waiting for them. He had to be there, because their palms would not activate
the elevator.
“I’m
sorry we’ll be losing you so soon,” said Dimak.
“You
never did tell us,” said John Paul, “which bunk room was Dragon Army’s.”
“Ender
never slept there anyway,” said Dimak. “He had a private room. Commanders
always did. Before that he was in several armies, but..
“Too
late now, anyway,” said John Paul.
The
elevator door opened. Dimak stepped inside, held the door for them, palmed the
controls, and entered the code for the right flight deck.
Then
he stepped back out of the elevator. “Sorry I can’t see you off, but
Colonel-the Minister suggested I shouldn’t know about this.”
John
Paul shrugged.
The
elevator doors closed and they began their ascent.
“Johnny
P.,” said Theresa, “if we’re so worried about being bugged, what was that
about, talking so openly with him?”
“He
carries a damper,” said John Paul. “His conversations can’t be listened to.
Ours can, and this elevator is definitely bugged.”
“What,
Uphanad told you that?”
“It
would be insane to set up security in a tube like this station without bugging
the funnel through which everybody has to pass to get inside.”
“Well
excuse me for not thinking like a paranoid spy.”
“I
think that’s one of your best traits.”
She
realized that she couldn’t say anything she was thinking. And not just because
it might be overheard by Uphanad’s security system. “I hate it when you ‘deal’
with me.”
“OK,
what if I ‘handle’ you instead?” suggested John Paul, leering just a little.
“If
you weren’t carrying my bag for me,” said Theresa, “I’d…”
“Tickle
me?”
“You
aren’t in on this any more than I am,” said Theresa. “But you act as if you
know everything.” Gravity had quickly faded, and now she was holding onto the
side rail as she hooked her feet under the floor rail.
“I’ve
guessed some things,” said John Paul. “For the rest, all I can do is trust. He
really is a very smart boy.”
“Not
as smart as he thinks,” said Theresa.
“But
a lot smarter than you think,” said John Paul.
“I
suppose your evaluation of his intelligence is just right.”
“Such
a Goldilocks line. Makes me feel so . . . ursine.”
“Why
can’t you just say ‘bearlike’?”
“Because
I know the word ‘ursine,’ and so do you, and it’s fun to say.”
The
elevator doors opened.
“Carry
your bag for you, Ma’am?” said John Paul.
“If
you want,” she said, “but I’m not going to tip you.”
“Oh,
you really are upset,” he murmured.
She
pulled herself past him as he started tossing bags to the orderlies.
Peter
was waiting at the shuttle entrance. “Cut it rather fine, didn’t we?” he said.
“Is
it eighteen hundred?” asked Theresa.
“A
minute before,” said Peter.
“Then
we’re early,” said Theresa. She sailed past him, too, and on into the airlock.
Behind
her, she could hear Peter saying, “What’s got into her?” and John Paul
answering, “Later.”
It
took a moment to reorient herself once she was inside the shuttle. She couldn’t
shake the sensation that the floor was in the wrong place- down was left and in
was out, or some such thing. But she pulled herself by the handholds on the
seat backs until she had found a seat. An aisle seat, to invite other
passengers to sit somewhere else. But there were no other passengers. Not even
John Paul and Peter. After waiting a good five minutes, she became too
impatient to sit there any longer.
She
found them standing in midair near the airlock, laughing about something.
“Are
you laughing at me?” she asked, daring them to say yes.
“No,”
said Peter at once.
“Only
a little,” said John Paul. “We can talk now. The pilot has cut all the links to
the station, and... Peter’s wearing a damper, too.”
“How
nice,” said Theresa. “Too bad they didn’t have one for me or your father to
use.”
“They
didn’t,” said Peter “I’ve got Graff’s. It’s not like they keep them in stock.”
“Why
did you tell everybody you met here that we were leaving on this shuttle? Are
you trying to get us killed?”
“Ah,
what tangled webs we weave, when we practice to deceive,” said Peter.
“So
you’re playing spider,” said Theresa. “What are we, threads? Or flies?”
“Passengers,”
said John Paul.
And
Peter laughed.
“Let
me in on the joke,” said Theresa, “or I’ll space you, I swear I will.”
“As
soon as Graft knew he had an informer here at the station, he brought his own
security team here. Unbeknownst to anyone but him, no messages are actually
going into or out of the station. But it looks to anyone on the station as if
they are.
“So
you’re hoping to catch someone sending a message about what shuttle we’re on,”
said Theresa.
“Actually,
we expect that no one will send a message at all.”
“Then
what is this for?” said Theresa.
“What
matters is, who doesn’t send the message.” And Peter grinned at her
“I
won’t ask anything more,” said Theresa, “since you’re so smug about how clever
you are. I suppose whatever your clever plan is, my dear clever boy thought it
up.”
“And
people say Demosthenes has a sarcastic streak,” said Peter.
A
moment ago she didn’t get it. And now she did. Something clicked, apparently.
The right mental gear had shifted, the tight synapse had sizzled with
electricity for a moment. “You wanted everybody to think they had accidentally
discovered we were leaving. And gave them all a chance to send a message,” said
Theresa. “Except one person. So if he’s the one...
John
Paul finished her sentence. “Then the message won’t get sent.”
“Unless
he’s really clever,” said Theresa.
“Smarter
than us?” said Peter.
He
and John Paul looked at each other. Then both of them shook their heads, said,
“Naw,” and then burst out laughing.
“I’m
glad you too are bonding so well,” she said.
“Oh,
Mom, don’t be a butt about this,” said Peter “I couldn’t tell you because if he
knew it was a trap it wouldn’t work, and he’s the one person who might be
listening to everything. And for your information I only just got the damper.”
“I
understand all that,” said Theresa. “It’s the fact that your father guessed it
and I didn’t.”
“Mom,”
said Peter, “nobody thinks you’re a Lackwit, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
“Lackwit?
In what musty drawer of some dead English professor’s dust-covered desk did you
find that word? I assure you that never in my worst nightmares did I ever
suppose that I was a Lackwit.”
“Good,”
said Peter “Because if you did, you’d be wrong.”
“Shouldn’t
we be strapping in for takeoff?” asked Theresa.
“No,”
said Peter. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Why
not?”
“The
station computers are busily running a simulation program saying that the
shuttle is in its launch routine. Just to make it look right, we’ll be cut
loose and drift away from the station. As soon as the only people in the dock
are Graff’s team from outside, we’ll come back and get out of this can.”
“This
seems like a pretty elaborate shade to catch one informer.”
“You
raised me with such a keen sense of style, Mom,” said Peter “I can’t overcome
my childhood at your knee.”
Lankowski knocked at the door at nearly
midnight. Petra had already been asleep for an hour. Bean logged off,
disconnected his desk, and opened the door
“Is
there something wrong?” he asked Lankowski.
“Our
mutual friend wishes to see the two of you.”
“Petra’s
already asleep,” said Bean. But he could see from the coldness of Lankowski’s
demeanor that something was very wrong. “Is Alai all right?”
“He’s
very well, thank you,” said Lankowski. “Please wake your wife and bring her
along as quickly as possible.”
Fifteen
minutes later, adrenaline making sure that neither he nor Petra was the least
bit groggy, they stood before Alai, not in the garden, but in an office, and
Alai was sitting behind a desk.
He
had a single sheet of paper on the desk and slid it across to Bean.
Bean
picked it up and read it.
“You
think I sent this,” said Bean.
“Or
Petra did,” said Alai. “I tried to tell myself that perhaps you hadn’t
impressed upon her the importance of keeping this information from the Hegemon.
But then I realized that I was thinking like a very old-fashioned Muslim. She
is responsible for her own actions. And she understood as well as you did that
maintaining secrecy on this matter was vital.”
Bean
sighed.
“I
didn’t send it,” said Bean. “Petra didn’t send it. We not only understood your
desire to keep this secret, we agreed with it. There is zero chance we would
have sent information about what you’re doing to anyone, period.”
“And
yet here is this message, sent from our own netbase. From this building!”
“Alai,”
said Bean, “we’re three of the smartest people on Earth. We’ve been through a
war together, and the two of you survived Achilles’s kidnapping. And yet when
something like this happens, you absolutely know that we’re the ones who
betrayed your trust.”
“Who
else from outside our circle knew this?”
“Well,
let’s see. All the men at that meeting have staffs. Their staffs are not made
up of idiots. Even if no one explicitly told them, they’ll see memos, they’ll
hear comments. Some of these men might even think it’s not a breach of security
to tell a deeply trusted aide. And a few of them might actually be only
figureheads, so they have to tell the people who’ll be doing the real work or
nothing will get done.”
“I
know all these men,” said Alai.
“Not
as well as you know us,” said Petra. “Just because they’re good Muslims and
loyal to you doesn’t mean they’re all equally careful.”
“Peter
has been building up a network of informants and correspondents since he was
... well, since he was a kid. Long before any of them knew he was just a kid.
It would be shocking if he didn’t have an informant in your palace.”
Alai
sat staring at the paper on the desk. “This is a very clumsy sort of disguise
for the message,” said Alai. “I suppose you would have done a better job of
it.”
“I
would have encrypted it,” said Bean, “and Petra probably would have put it
inside a graphic.”
“I
think the very clumsiness of the message should tell you something,” said
Petra. “The person who wrote this is someone who thinks he only needs to hide
this information from somebody outside the inner circle. He would have to know
that if you saw it, you’d recognize instantly that ‘Shaw’ refers to the old rulers
of Iran, and ‘Pack’ refers to Pakistan, while ‘Kemal’ is a transparent
reference to the founder of post-Ottoman Turkey. How could you not get it?”
Alai
nodded. “So he’s only coding it like this to keep outsiders from understanding
it, in case it gets intercepted by an enemy.”
“He
doesn’t think anybody here would search his outgoing messages,” said Petra.
“Whereas Bean and I know for a fact that we’ve been bugged since we got here.”
“Not
terribly successfully,” said Alai with a tight little smile.
“Well,
you need better snoopware, to start with,” said Bean.
“And
if we had sent a message to Peter,” said Petra, “we would have told him
explicitly to warn our Indian friend not to block the Chinese exit from India,
only their return.”
“We
would have had no other reason to tell Peter about this at all,” said Bean. “We
don’t work for him. We don’t really like him all that much.”
“He’s
not,” said Petra firmly, “one of us.”
Alai
nodded, sighed, leaned back in his chair. “Please, sit down,” he said.
“Thank
you,” said Petra.
Bean
walked to the window and looked out over lawns sprinkled by purified water from
the Mediterranean. Where the favor of Allah was, the desert blossomed. “I don’t
think there’ll be any harm from this,” said Bean. “Aside from our losing a bit
of sleep tonight.”
“You
must see that it’s hard for me to suspect my closest colleagues here.”
“You’re
the Caliph,” said Petra, “but you’re also still a very young man, and they see
that. They know your plan is brilliant, they love you, they follow you in all
the great things you plan for your people. But when you tell them, Keep this an
absolute secret, they say yes, they even mean it, but they don’t take it really
quite seriously because, you see, you’re..
“Still
a boy,” said Alai.
“That
will fade with time,” said Petra. “You have many years ahead of you. Eventually
all these older men will be replaced.”
“By
younger men that I trust even less,” said Alai ruefully.
“Telling
Peter is not the same thing as telling an enemy,” said Bean. “He shouldn’t have
had this information in advance of the invasion. But you notice that the
informer didn’t tell him when the invasion would start.”
“Yes
he did,” said Alai.
“Then
I don’t see it,” said Bean.
Petra
got up again and looked at the printed-out email. “The message doesn’t say
anything about the date of the invasion.”
“It
was sent,” said Alai, “on the day of the invasion.”
Bean
and Petra looked at each other. “Today?” said Bean.
“The
Turkic campaign has already begun,” said Alai. “As soon as it was dark in
Xinjiang. By now we have received confirmation via email messages that three
airfields and a significant part of the power grid are in our hands. And so
far, at least, there is no sign that the Chinese know anything is happening.
It’s going better than we could have hoped.”
“It’s
begun,” said Bean. “So it was already too late to change the plans for the
third front.”
“No,
it wasn’t,” said Alai. “Our new orders have been sent. The Indonesian and Arab
commanders are very proud to be entrusted with the mission that will take the
war home to the enemy.”
Bean
was appalled. “But the logistics of it... there’s no time to plan.”
“Bean,”
said Alai with amusement. “We already had the plans for a complicated beach
landing. That was a logistical nightmare. Putting three hundred separate forces
ashore at different points on the Chinese coast, under cover of darkness, three
days from today, and supporting them with air raids and air drops-my people can
do that in their sleep. That was the best thing about your idea, Bean, my
friend. It wasn’t a plan at all, it was a situation, and the whole plan is for
every individual commander to improvise ways to fulfill the mission objectives.
I told them, in my orders, that as long as they keep moving inland, protect
their men, and cause maximum annoyance to the Chinese government and military,
they can’t fail.”
“It’s
begun,” said Petra.
“Yes,”
said Bean. “It’s begun, and Achilles is not in China.”
Petra
looked at Bean and grinned. “Let’s see what we can do about keeping him away.”
“More
to the point,” said Bean. “Since we have not given Peter the specific message
he needs to convey to Virlomi in India, may we do so now, with your
permission?”
Alai
squinted at him. “Tomorrow. After news of the fighting in Xinjiang has started
to come out. I will tell you when.”
In Uphanad’s office, Graff sat with his feet
on the desk as Uphanad worked at the security console.
“Well,
sir, that’s it,” said Uphanad. “They’re off.”
“And
they’ll arrive when?” said Graff.
“I
don’t know,” said Uphanad. “That’s all about trajectories and very complicated
equations balancing velocity, mass, speed-I wasn’t the astrophysics teacher in
Battle School, you recall.”
“You
were small-force tactics, if I remember,” said Graff. “And when you tried that
experiment with military music- having the boys learn to sing together-”
Graff
groaned. “Please. Don’t remind me. What a deeply stupid idea that was.”
“But
you saw that at once and let us mercifully drop the whole thing.”
“Esprit
de corps my ass,’ said Graff.
Uphanad
hit a group of keys on the console keyboard and the screen showed that he had
just logged off. “All done here. I’m glad you found out about the informer here
in MinCol. Having the Wiggins leave was the only safe option.”
“Do
you remember,” said Graff, “the time I accused you of letting Bean see your
log-on?”
“Like
yesterday,” said Uphanad. “I don’t think you were going to believe me until
Dimak vouched for me and suggested Bean was crawling around the duct system and
peeking through vents.”
“Yes.
Dimak was sure that you were so methodical you could not possibly have broken
your habits in a moment of carelessness. He was right, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,”
said Uphanad.
“I
learned my lesson,” said Graff. “I trusted you ever since.”
“I
hope I have earned that trust.”
“Many
times over. I didn’t keep all the faculty from Battle School. Of course, there
were some who thought the Ministry of Colonization was too tame for their
talents. But it isn’t really a matter of personal loyalty, is it?”
“What
isn’t, sir?”
“Our
loyalty should be to something larger than a particular person, don’t you
think? To a cause, perhaps. I’m loyal to the human race-that’s a pretentious
one, don’t you think?-but to a particular project, spreading the human genome
throughout as many star systems as possible. So our very existence can never be
threatened again. And for that, I’d sacrifice many personal loyalties. It makes
me completely predictable, but also someone unreliable, if you get what I
mean.”
“I
think I do, sir.
“So
my question, my good friend, is this: What are you loyal to?”
“To
this cause, sir. And to you.”
“This
informant who used your log-on. Did he peer at you through the vents again, do
you think?”
“Very
unlikely, sir I think it much more probable that he penetrated the system and
chose me at random, sir.”
“Yes,
of course. But you must understand that because your name was on that email, we
had to eliminate you as a possibility first.”
“That
is only logical, sir.”
“So
as we sent the Wiggins home on the shuttle, we made sure that every member of
the permanent staff found out that they were leaving and had every opportunity
to send a message. Except you.
“Except
me, sir?”
“I
have been with you continuously since they decided to go. That way, if a
message was sent, even if it used your log-on, we would know it wasn’t you who
sent it. But if a message wasn’t sent, well. .. it was you who didn’t send it.”
“This
is not likely to be foolproof, sir,” said Uphanad. “Someone else might have not
sent the message for reasons of his or her own, sir. It might be that their
departure was not something for which a message was necessary.”
“True,”
said Graff. “But we would not convict you of a crime on the basis of a message
not sent. Merely assign you to a less critical responsibility. Or give you the
opportunity to resign with pension.”
“That
is very kind of you, sir”
“Please
don’t think of me as kind, I-”
The
door opened. Uphanad turned, obviously surprised. “You can’t come in here,” he
said to the Vietnamese woman who stood in the doorway.
“Oh,
I invited her,” said Graff. “I don’t think you know Colonel Nguyen of the IF
Digital Security Force.”
“No,”
said Uphanad, rising to offer his hand. “I didn’t even know your office
existed. Per se.
She
ignored his hand and gave a paper to Graff.
“Oh,”
he said, not reading it yet. “So we’re in the clear in this room.
“The
message did not use his log-on,” she said.
Graff
read the message. It consisted of a single word: “Off.” The log-on was that of
one of the orderlies from the docks.
The
time in the message header showed it had been sent only a couple of minutes
before. “So my friend is in the clear,” said Graff.
“No
sir,” said Nguyen.
Uphanad,
who had been looking relieved, now seemed baffled. “But I did not send it. How
could I?”
Nguyen
did not answer him, but spoke only to Graff. “It was sent from this console.”
She
walked over to the console and started to log back on.
“Let
me do that,” said Uphanad.
She
turned around and there was a stun gun in her hand. “Stand against the wall,”
she said. “Hands in plain view.”
Graff
got up and opened the door “Come on in,” he said. Two more IF soldiers entered.
“Please inspect Mr. Uphanad for weapons or other lethal items. And under no
circumstances is he to be allowed to touch a computer. We wouldn’t want him to
activate a program wiping out critical materials.”
“I
don’t know how this thing was done,” said Uphanad. “but you’re wrong about me.”
Graff
pointed to the console. “Nguyen is never wrong,” he said. “She’s even more
methodical than you.”
Uphanad
watched. “She’s signing on as me.” And then, “She used my password. That’s
illegal!”
Nguyen
called Graff over to look at the screen. “Normally, to log off, you press these
two keys, you see? But he also pressed this one. With his little finger, so you
wouldn’t actually notice it had been pressed. That key sequence activated a
resident program that sent the email, using a random selection from among the
staff identities. It also launched the ordinary log-off sequence, so to you, it
looked like you had just watched somebody log off in a perfectly normal way.”
“So
he had this ready to send at any time,” said Graft.
“But
when he did send it, it was within five minutes of the actual launch.”
Graff
and Nguyen turned around to look at Uphanad. Graff could see in his eyes that
he saw he had been caught.
“So,”
said Graff, “how did Achilles get to you? You’ve never met him, I don’t think.
Surely he didn’t form some attachment with you when he was here for a few days
as a student.”
“He
has my family,” said Uphanad, and he burst into tears.
“No
no,” said Graff. “Control yourself act like a soldier, we have very little time
here in which to correct your failure of judgment. Next time you’ll know, if
someone comes to you with a threat like this, you come to me.”
“They
said they’d know if I told you.”
“Then
you would tell me that, too,” said Graff, “But, now you have told me. So let’s
make this thing work to our advantage. What happens when you send this second
message’?”
“I
don’t know,” said Uphanad. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She just sent it again.
When they get the same message twice, they’ll know something is wrong.
“Oh,
they didn’t get the message either time,” said Graff. “We cut this console off.
We cut off the whole station from earthside contact. Just as the shuttle never
actually left.”
The
door opened yet again, and in came Peter, John Paul, and Theresa.
Uphanad
turned his face to the wall. The soldiers would have turned him back around,
but Graff gave them a gesture: Let be. He knew how proud Uphanad was. This
shame in front of the people he had tried to betray was unbearable. Give him
time to compose himself.
Only
when the Wiggins were sitting did Graff invite Uphanad also to take a seat. He
obeyed, hanging his head like a caricature of a whipped dog.
“Sit
up. Uphanad, and face this like a man. These are good people, they understand
that you did what you thought you must for your family. You were unwise not to
trust me more, but even that is understandable.”
From
Theresa’s face, Graff could see that she, at least, was not half so
understanding as he seemed to assume. But he won her silence with a gesture.
“I’ll
tell you what,” said Graff. “Let’s make this work to our advantage. I actually
have a couple of shuttles at my disposal for this operation-compliments of
Admiral Chamrajnagar by the way-so the real quandary is deciding which of them
to send when we actually allow your email to go out.”
“Two
shuttles?” asked Peter.
“We
have to make a guess about what Achilles planned to do with this information.
If he means to attack you upon landing, well, we have a very heavily armed
shuttle that should be able to deal with anything he can throw against it from
the ground or the air. I think what he’s planning is probably a missile as
you’re over flying some region where he can get a portable launch platform.”
“And
your heavily armed shuttle can deal with that?” asked Peter.
“Easily.
The trouble is, this shuttle is not supposed to exist. The IF charter
specifically forbids any weaponization of atmospheric craft. It’s designed to
go along with colony ships, in case the extermination of the Formics was not
complete and we run into resistance. But if such a shuttle enters Earth’s
atmosphere and proves its capabilities by shooting down a missile, we could
never tell anyone about it without compromising the IF. So we could use this
shuttle to get you safely to Earth, but could never tell anyone about the
attempt on your life.”
“I
could live with that,” said Peter.
“Except
that you don’t actually have to get to Earth at this time.”
“No,
I don’t.”
“So
we can send a different shuttle. Again, one whose existence is not known, but
this time it is not illegal. Because it hasn’t been weaponized at all. In fact,
while it’s quite expensive compared to, say, a bazooka, it’s very, very cheap
compared with a real shuttle. This one’s a dummy. It is carefully designed to
match the velocity and radar signature of a real shuttle, but it lacks a few
things-like any place to put a human being, or any capability of a soft
landing.”
“So
you send this one down,” said John Paul, “draw their fire, and then have a
propaganda field day.”
“We’ll
have IF observers watching for the boost and we’ll be on that launch platform
before it can be dismantled, or at least before the perpetrators can get away.
Whether it ends up pointing to Achilles or China, either way we can demonstrate
that someone on Earth fired at an IF shuttle.”
“Puts
them in a very bad position,” said Peter. “Do we announce that I was the
target?”
“We
can decide that based on their response, and on who is getting the blame. If
it’s China, I think we gain more by making it an attack on the International
Fleet. If it’s Achilles, we gain more by making him out to be an assassin.”
“You
seem to have been quite free about discussing these things in front of us,”
said Theresa. “I suppose now you have to kill us.”
“Just
me,” whispered Uphanad.
“Well,
I do have to fire you,” said Graff. “And I do have to send you back to Earth,
because it just wouldn’t do to have you stay on here. You’d just depress
everyone else, slinking around looking guilty and unworthy.”
Graft’s
tone was light enough to help keep Uphanad from bursting into tears again.
“I’ve
heard,” Graft went on, “that the Indian people need to have loyal men who’ll
fight for their freedom. That’s the loyalty that transcends your loyalty to the
Ministry of Colonization, and I understand it. So you must go where your
loyalty leads you.
“This
is unbelievable mercy, sir,” said Uphanad.
“It
wasn’t my idea,” said Graft. “My plan was to have you tried in secret by the IF
and executed. But Peter told me that, if you were guilty and it turned out you
were protecting family members in Chinese custody, it would be wrong to punish
you for the crime of imperfect loyalty.”
Uphanad
turned to look at Peter, “My betrayal might have killed you and your family.”
“But
it didn’t,” said Peter.
“I
like to think,” said Graft, “that God sometimes shows mercy to us by letting
some accident prevent us from actually carrying out our worst plans.”
“I
don’t believe that,” said Theresa coldly. “I believe if you point a gun at a
man’s head and the bullet was a dud, you’re still a murderer in the eyes of
God.”
“Well
then,” said Graff, “when we’re all dead, if we find that we still exist in some
form or other, we’ll just have to ask God to tell us which of us is right.”
PROPHETS
SecureSite. net
From: Locke%erosmus@pcdnetgov
PASSWORD: Suriyowong
Re: giH
on bridge
Rehoble source begs: Do not interfere with
Chinese egress from India. But when they need to return or supply, Hock cli
possible routes.
The Chinese thought at first that the
incidents in Xinjiang province were the work of the insurgents who had been
forming and reforming guerrilla groups for centuries. In the protocol-burdened
Chinese army, it was not until late afternoon in Beijing that Han Tzu was
finally able to get enough information together to prove this was a major
offensive originating outside China.
For
the fiftieth time since taking a place in the high command in Beijing, Han Tzu
despaired of getting anything done. It was always more important to show respect
for one’s superiors’ high status than to tell them the truth and make things
happen. Even now, holding in his hands evidence of a level of training,
discipline, coordination, and supply that made it impossible for these
incidents in Xinjiang to be the work of local rebels, Han Tzu had to wait hours
for his request for a meeting to be processed through all the oh-so-important
aides, flunkies, functionaries, and poobahs whose sole duty was to look as
important and busy as possible while making sure that as little as possible
actually got done.
It
was fully dark in Beijing when Han Tzu crossed the square separating the
Strategy and Planning section from the Administrative section-another bit of
mindlessly bad structure, to separate these two sections by a long walk in the
open air. They should have been across a low divider from each other,
constantly shouting back and forth. Instead, Strategy and Planning were
constantly making plans that Administrative couldn’t carry out, and
Administrative was constantly misunderstanding the purpose of plans and
fighting against the very ideas that would make them effective.
How
did we ever conquer India? thought Han Tzu.
He
kicked at the pigeons scurrying around his feet. They fluttered a few meters
away, then came back for more, as if they thought his feet might have shed
something edible with each step.
The
only reason this government stays in power is that the people of China are
pigeons. You can kick them and kick them, and they come back for more. And the
worst of them are the bureaucrats. China invented bureaucracy, and with a
thousand-year head start on the rest of the world, they’d kept advancing the
arts of obfuscation, kingdombuilding, and tempests-in-teapots to a level
unknown anywhere else. Byzantine bureaucracy was, by comparison, a forthright
system.
How
did Achilles do it? An outsider, a criminal, a madman-and all of this was well
known to the Chinese government yet he was able to cut through the layers of
fawning backstabbers and get straight to the decision-making level. Most people
didn’t even know where the decision-making level was, since it was certainly
not the famous leaders at the top, who were too old to think of anything new
and too frightened of losing their perks or getting caught out in their decades
of criminal acts ever to do anything but say, “Do as you think wise,” to their
underlings.
It
was two levels down that decisions were made, by aides to the top generals. It
had taken Han Tzu six months to realize that a meeting with the top man was
useless, because he would confer with his aides and follow their
recommendations every time. Now he never bothered to meet with anyone else. But
to set up such a meeting, of course, required that an elaborate request be made
to each general, acknowledging that while the subject of the meeting was so
vital it must be held immediately, it was so trivial that each general only
needed to send his aide to the meeting in his place.
Han
Tzu was never sure whether all this elaborate charade was merely to show proper
respect for tradition and form, or whether the generals actually were fooled by
all this and made the decision, each time, whether to attend in person or send
their aide.
Of
course, it was also possible that the general never saw the messages, and the
aides made the decision for him. Most likely, though, his memo went to each
general with a commentary: “Noble and worthy general would be slighted if not
in attendance,” for instance, or “Tedious waste of heroic leader’s time,
unworthy aide will be glad to take notes and report if anything important is
said.”
Han
Tzu had no loyalty to any of these buffoons. Whenever they made decisions on
their own, they were hopelessly wrong. The ones that weren’t completely bound
by tradition were just as controlled by their own egos.
Yet
Han Tzu was completely loyal to China. He had always acted in China’s best
interest, and always would.
The
trouble was, he often defined “China’s best interest” in a way that might
easily get him shot.
Like
that message he sent to Bean and Petra, hoping they’d realize the danger to the
Hegemon if he really believed Han Tzu had been the source of his information.
Sending such a bit of information was definitely treason, since Achilles’s
adventure had been approved at the highest levels and therefore represented
official Chinese policy. And yet it would be a disaster for China’s prestige in
the world at large if it became known that China had sent an assassin to kill
the Hegemon.
Nobody
seemed to understand that sort of thing, mostly because they refused to see
China as anything other than the center of the universe, around which all other
nations orbited. What did it matter if China was regarded as a nation of
tyrants and assassins? If someone doesn’t like what China does, then that
someone can go home and cry in his beer.
But
no nation was invincible, not even China. Han Tzu understood that, even if the
others did not.
It
didn’t help that the conquest of India had been so easy. Han Tzu had insisted
on devising all sorts of contingency plans when things went wrong with the
surprise attack on the Indian, Thai, and Vietnamese armies. But Achilles’s
campaign of deception had been so successful, and the Thai strategy of defense
had been so effective, that the Indians were fully committed, their supplies
exhausted, and their morale at rock bottom when the Chinese armies began
pouring across the borders, cutting the Indian army to pieces, and swallowing
up each piece within days-sometimes within hours.
All
the glory went to Achilles, of course, though it had been Han Tzu’s careful
planning with his staff of nearly eighty Battle School graduates that put the
Chinese armies exactly where they needed to be at exactly the time they needed
to be there. No, even though Han Tzu’s team had written up the orders, they had
actually been issued by Administrative, and therefore it was Administrative
that won the medals, while Strategy and Planning got a single group
commendation that had about the same effect on morale as if some lieutenant
colonel had come in and said, “Nice try, boys, we know you meant well.”
Well,
Achilles was welcome to the glory, because in Han Tzu’s opinion, invading India
had been pointless and self-defeating-not to mention evil. China did not have
the resources to take on India’s problems. When Indians governed India, the
suffering people could only blame their fellow Indians. But now when things
went wrong- which they always did in India it would all be blamed on the
Chinese.
The
Chinese administrators who were sent in to govern India stayed surprisingly free
of corruption and they worked hard but the fact is that no nation is governable
except by overwhelming force or complete cooperation. And since there was no
way conquering Chinese officials would get complete cooperation, and there was
no hope of being able to pay for overwhelming force, the only question was when
the resistance would become a problem.
It
became a problem not long after Achilles left for the Hegemony, when the
Indians started piling up stones. Han Tzu had to hand it to them, when it came
to truly annoying but symbolically powerful civil disobedience, the Indians
were truly the daughters and sons of Gandhi. Even then, the bureaucrats hadn’t
listened to Han Tzu’s advice and ended up getting themselves into a steadily
worsening cycle of reprisals.
So
. . . it doesn’t matter what the outside world thinks, right? We can do
whatever we want because no one else has the power or the will to challenge us,
is that the story?
What
I have in my hands is the answer to that theory.
“What
does it mean that they’ve done nothing to acknowledge our offensive?” said
Alai.
Bean
and Petra sat with him, looking at the holomap that showed every single
objective in Xinjiang taken on schedule, as if the Chinese had been handed a
script and were doing their part exactly as the Crescent League had asked them
to.
“I
think things are going very well,” said Petra.
“Ridiculously
well,” said Alai.
“Don’t
be impatient,” said Bean. “Things move slowly in China. And they don’t like
making public pronouncements about their problems. Maybe they still see this as
a group of local insurgents. Maybe they’re waiting to announce what’s going on
until they can tell about their devastating counterattack.”
“That’s
just it,” said Alai. “Our satintel says they’re doing nothing. Even the nearest
garrison troops are still in place.”
“The
garrison commanders don’t have the authority to send them into battle,” said
Bean. “Besides, they probably don’t even know anything’s wrong. Your forces
have the land-based communications grid under control, right?”
“That
was a secondary objective. That’s what they’re doing now, just to keep busy.”
Petra
began to laugh. “I get it,” she said.
“What’s
so funny?” asked Alai.
“The
public announcement,” said Petra. “You can’t announce that a Caliph has been
named unanimously by all the Muslim nations.”
“We
can announce it any time,” said Alai, irritated.
“But
you’re waiting. Until the Chinese make their announcement that some unknown
nation has attacked them. Only when they’ve either admitted their ignorance or
committed to some theory that’s completely false do you come out and tell
what’s really happening. That the Muslim world is fully united under a Caliph,
and that you have taken responsibility for liberating the captive nations from
the godless imperialist Chinese.”
“You
have to admit the story plays better that way,” said Alai.
“Absolutely,”
said Petra. “I’m not laughing because you’re wrong to do it that way, I’m
simply laughing at the irony that you are so successful and the Chinese so
completely unprepared that it’s actually delaying your announcement! But… have
patience, dear friend. Somebody in the Chinese high command knows what’s
happening, and eventually the rest of them will listen to him and they’ll mobilize
their forces and make some kind of announcement.”
“They
have to,” said Bean. “Or the Russians will deliberately misunderstand their
troop movements.”
“All
right,” said Alai. “But unfortunately, all the vids of my announcement were
shot during daylight hours. It never crossed our minds that they would take
this long to respond.”
“You
know what?” said Bean. “No one will mind a bit if the vids are clearly
prerecorded. But even better would be for you to go on camera, live, to declare
yourself and to announce what your armies are doing in Xinjiang.”
“The
danger with doing it live is that I might let something slip, telling them that
the Xinjiang invasion is not the main offensive,”
“Alai,
you could announce outright that this was not the main offensive, and half the
Chinese would think tat was disinformation designed to keep their troops in
India pinned down along the Pakistani border. In fact, I advise you to do that.
Because then you’ll have a reputation as a truthteller. It will make your later
lies that much more effective.”
Alai
laughed. “You’ve eased my mind.”
“You’re
suffering,” said Petra, “from the problem that plagues all the top commanders
in this age of rapid communications. In the old days, Alexander and Caesar were
right there on the field of battle. They could watch, issue orders, deal with
things. They were needed. But you’re stuck here in Damascus because here is
where all the communications come together If you’re needed, you’ll be needed
here. So instead of having a thousand things to keep your mind busy, you have
all this adrenaline flowing and nowhere for it to go.”
“I
recommend pacing,” said Bean.
“Do
you play handball?” asked Petra.
“I
get the picture,” said Alai. “Thank you. I’ll be patient.”
“And
think about my advice,” said Bean. “To go on live and tell the truth. Your
people will love you better if they see you as being so bold you can simply
tell the enemy what you’re going to do, and they can’t stop you from doing it.”
“Go
away now,” said Alai. “You’re repeating yourself.” Laughing, Bean got up. So
did Petra.
“I
won’t have time for you after this, you know,” said Alai.
They
paused, turned.
“Once
it’s announced, once everybody knows, I’ll have to start holding court. Meeting
people. Judging disputes. Showing myself to be the true Caliph.”
“Thank
you for the time you’ve spent with us till now,” said Petra.
“I
hope we never have to oppose each other on the field of battle,” said Bean.
“The way we’ve had to oppose Han Tzu in this war.”
“just
remember,” said Alai. “Han Tzu’s loyalties are divided. Mine are not.”
“I’ll
remember that,” said Bean.
“Salaam,”
said Alai. “Peace be in you. “And in you,” said Petra, “peace.”
When the meeting ended, Han Tzu did not know
whether his warning had been believed. Well, even if they didn’t believe him
now, in a few more hours they’d have no choice. The major force in the Xinjiang
invasion would undoubtedly start their assault just before dawn tomorrow.
Satellite intelligence would confirm what he’d told them today. But at the cost
of twelve more hours of inaction.
The
most frustrating moment, however, had come near the end of the meeting, when
the senior aide to the senior general had asked, “So if this is the beginning
of a major offensive, what do you recommend?”
“Send
all available troops in the north-I would recommend fifty percent of all the
garrison troops on the Russian border Prepare them not only to deal with these
horse-borne guerrillas but also with a major mechanized army that will probably
invade tomorrow.”
“What
about the concentration of troops in India?” asked the aide.
“These
are our best soldiers, the most highly trained, and the most mobile.”
“Leave
them where they are,” said Han Tzu.
“But
if we strip the garrisons along the Russian border, the Russians will attack.”
Another
aide spoke up. “The Russians never fight well outside their own borders. Invade
them and they’ll destroy you, but if they invade you, their soldiers won’t
fight.”
Han
Tzu tried not to show his contempt for such ludicrous judgments. “The Russians
will do what they do, and if they attack, we’ll do what we need to do in
response. However, you don’t keep your troops from defending against a present
enemy because they might be needed for a hypothetical enemy.”
All
well and good. Until the senior aide to the senior general said, “Very well. I
will recommend the immediate removal of troops from India as quickly as
possible to meet this current threat.”
“That’s
not what I meant,” said Han Tzu.
“But
it is what I mean,” said the aide.
“I
believe this is a Muslim offensive,” said Han Tzu. “The enemy across the border
in Pakistan is the same enemy attacking us in Xinjiang. They are certainly
hoping we’ll do exactly what you suggest, so their main offensive will have a
better chance of success.”
The
aide only laughed, and the others laughed with him. “You spent too many years
out of China during your childhood, Han Tzu. India is a faraway place. What does
it matter what happens there? We can take it again whenever we want. But these
invaders in Xinjiang, they are inside China. The Russians are poised on the
Chinese border. No matter what the enemy thinks, that is the real threat.”
“Why?”
said Han Tzu, throwing caution to the winds as he directly challenged the
senior aide. “Because foreign troops on Chinese soil would mean the present
government has lost the mandate of heaven?”
From
around the table came the hiss of air suddenly gasped between clenched teeth.
To refer to the old idea of the mandate of heaven was poisonously out of step
with government policy.
Well,
as long as he was irritating people, why stop with that? “Everyone knows that
Xinjiang and Tibet are not part of Han China,” said Han Tzu. “They are no more
important to us than India- conquests that have never become fully Chinese. We
once owned Vietnam before, long ago, and lost it, and the loss meant nothing to
us. But the Chinese army, that is precious. And if you take troops out of
India, you run the grave risk of losing millions of our men to these Muslim
fanatics. Then we won’t have the mandate of heaven to worry about. We’ll have
foreign troops in Han China before we know it- and no way to defend against
them.”
The
silence around the table was deadly. They hated him now, because he had spoken
to them of defeat-and told them, disrespectfully, that their ideas were wrong.
“I
hope none of you will forget this meeting,” said Han Tzu.
“You
can be sure that we will not,” said the senior aide.
“If
I am wrong, then I will bear the consequences of my mistake, and rejoice that
your ideas were not stupid after all. What is good for China is good for me,
even if I am punished for my mistakes. But if I am right, then we’ll see what
kind of men you are. Because if you’re true Chinese, who love your country more
than your careers, you’ll remember that I was right and you’ll bring me back
and listen to me as you should have listened to me today. But if you’re the
disloyal selfish garden-pigs I think you are, you’ll make sure that I’m killed,
so that no one outside this room will ever know that you heard a true warning
and didn’t listen to it when there was still time to save China from the most
dangerous enemy we have faced since Genghis Khan.”
What
a glorious speech. And how refreshing actually to say it with his lips to the
people who most needed to hear it, instead of playing the speech over and over
in his mind, ever more frustrated because not a word of it had been said aloud.
Of
course he would be arrested tonight, and quite possibly shot before morning.
Though the more likely pattern would be to arrest him and charge him with
passing information to the enemy, blaming him for the defeat that only he
actually tried to prevent. There was something about irony that had a special
appeal to Chinese people who got a little power. There was a special pleasure
in punishing a virtuous man for the powerful man’s own crimes.
But
Han Tzu would not hide. It might be possible, at this moment, for him to leave
China and go into exile. But he would not do it.
Why
not?
He
could not leave his country in its hour of need. Even though he might be killed
for staying, there would be many other Chinese soldiers his age who would die
in the next days and weeks. Why shouldn’t he be one of them? And there was
always the chance, however small and remote, that there were enough decent men
among those at that meeting that Han Tzu would be kept alive until it was clear
that he was right. Perhaps then-contrary to all expectation- they would bring
him back and ask him how to save themselves from this disaster they had brought
upon China.
Meanwhile,
Han Tzu was hungry, and there was a little restaurant he liked, where the
manager and his wife treated him like one of the family. They did not care
about his lofty rank or his status as one of the heroes of Ender’s jeesh. They
liked him for his company. They loved the way he devoured their food as if it
were the finest cuisine in the world-which, to him, it was. If these were his
last hours of freedom, or even of life, why not spend them with people he
liked, eating food he enjoyed?
As night fell in Damascus, Bean and Petra
walked freely along the streets, looking into shop windows. Damascus still had
the traditional markets, where most fresh food and local handwork were sold.
But supermarkets, boutiques, and chain stores had reached Damascus, like almost
every other place on earth. Only the wares for sale reflected local taste.
There was no shortage of items of European and American design for sale, but
what Bean and Petra enjoyed was the strangeness of items that would never find
a market in the West, but which apparently were much in demand here.
They
traded guesses about what each item was for.
They
stopped at an outdoor restaurant with good music played softly enough that they
could still converse. They had a strange combination of local food and
international cuisine that had even the waiter shaking his head, but they were
in the mood to please themselves.
“I’ll
probably just throw it up tomorrow,” said Petra.
“Probably,”
said Bean. “But it’ll be a better grade of-”
“Please!”
said Petra. “I’m trying to eat.”
“But
you brought it up,” said Bean.
“I
know it’s unfair, but when I discuss it, it doesn’t make me sick. It’s like
tickling. You can’t really nauseate yourself.”
“I
can,” said Bean.
“I
have no doubt of it. Probably one of the attributes of Anton’s Key.”
They
continued talking about nothing much, until they heard some explosions, at
first far away, then nearby.
“There
can’t possibly be an attack on Damascus,” said Petra under her voice.
“No,
I think it’s fireworks,” said Bean. “I think it’s a celebration.”
One
of the cooks ran into the restaurant and shouted out a stream of Arabic, which
was of course completely unintelligible to Bean and Petra. All at once the
local customers jumped up from the table. Some of them ran out of the
restaurant-without paying, and nobody made to stop them. Others ran into the
kitchen.
The
few non-Arabiphones in the restaurant were left to wonder what was going on.
Until
a merciful waiter came out and announced in Common Speech, “Food will be delay,
I very sorry to tell you. But happy to say why. Caliph will speak in a minute.”
“The
Caliph?” asked an Englishman. “isn’t he in Baghdad?”
“I
thought Istanbul,” said a Frenchwoman.
“There
has been no Caliph in many centuries,” said a professorial-looking Japanese.
“Apparently
they have one now,” said Petra reasonably. “I wonder if they’ll let us into the
kitchen to watch with them.”
“Oh,
I don’t know if I want to,” said the Englishman. “If they’ve got themselves a
new Caliph, they’re going to be feeling quite chauvinistic for a while. What if
they decide to start hanging foreigners to celebrate?”
The
Japanese scholar was outraged at this suggestion. While he and the Englishman
politely went for each other’s throats, Bean, Petra, the Frenchwoman, and
several other westerners went through the swinging door into the kitchen, where
the kitchen help barely noticed they were there. Someone had brought a
nice-sized flat vid in from one of the offices and set it on a shelf, leaning
it against the wall.
Alai
was already on the screen.
Not
that it did them any good to watch. They couldn’t understand a word of it.
They’d have to wait for the full translation on one of the newsnets later.
But
the map of western China was pretty self-explanatory. No doubt he was telling
them that the Muslim people had united to liberate long-captive brothers in Xinjiang.
The waiters and cooks punctuated almost every sentence with cheers-Alai seemed
to know this would happen, because he left pauses after each declaration.
Unable
to understand his words, Bean and Petra concentrated on other things. Bean
tried to determine whether this speech was going out live. The clock on the
wall was no indicator-of course they would insert it digitally into a
prerecorded vid during the broadcast so that no matter when it was first aired,
the clock would show the current time. Finally he got his answer when Alai
stood up and walked to the window. The camera followed him, and there spread
out below him were the lights of Damascus, twinkling in the darkness. He was
doing it live. And whatever he said while pointing to the city, it was
apparently very effective, because at once the cheering cooks and waiters were
weeping openly, without shame, their eyes still glued to the screen.
Petra.
meanwhile, was trying to guess how Alai must look to the Muslim people watching
him. She knew his face so well, so that she had to try to separate the boy she
had known from the man he now was. The compassion she had noticed before was
more visible than ever. His eyes were full of love. But there was fire in him,
too, and dignity. He did not smile-which was proper for the leader of nations
which were now at war, and whose sons were dying in combat, and killing, too.
Nor did he rant, whipping them up into some kind of dangerous enthusiasm.
Will
these people follow him into battle? Yes, of course, at first, when he has a
tale of easy victories to tell them. But later, when times are hard and fortune
does not favor them, will they still follow him?
Perhaps
yes. Because what Petra saw in him was not so much a great general-though yes,
she could imagine Alexander might have looked like this, or Caesar-as a
prophet-king. Saul or David, both young men when first called by prophecy to
lead their people into war in God’s name. Joan of Arc.
Of
course, Joan of Arc ended up dying at the stake, and Saul fell on his own
sword-or no, that was Brutus or Cassius, Saul commanded one of his own soldiers
to kill him, didn’t he? A bad end for both of them. And David died in disgrace,
forbidden by God to build the holy temple because he had murdered Uriah to get
Bathsheba into a state of marriageable widowhood.
Not
a good list of precedents, that.
But
they had their glory, didn’t they, before they fell.
THE WAR ON THE GROUND
To: Chamrajnagar%Jawaharlal@ifcom.gov
From: AncientFire%Embers@hangov
Re: Official
statement coming
My esteemed friend and colleague,
It grieves me that you would even suppose that
in this time of trouble, when China is assailed by unprovoked assaults from
religious fanatics, we would have either the desire or the resources to provoke
the International Fleet. We have nothing but the highest esteem for your
institution, which so recently saved all humankind from the onslaught of the
star dragons.
Our official statement, which will be released
forthwith, does not include our speculations an who is in fact responsible for
the tragic shooting down of the IF shuttle while it over flew Brazilian
territory. While we do not admit to having any participation in or
foreknowledge of the event, we have performed our own preliminary investigation
and we believe you will find that the equipment in question may in fact hove
originated with the Chinese military.
This causes us excruciating embarrassment, and
we beg you not to publicize this information. Instead, we provide you with the
attached documentation showing that our one missile launcher which is not
accounted for, and which therefore may have been used to commit this crime, was
released into the control of a certain Achilles de Flandres, ostensibly for
military operations in connection with our preemptive defensive action against
the Indian aggressor as it ravaged Burma. We believed this material had been
returned to us, but we discover upon investigation that it was not.
Achilles de Flandres at one time was under our
protection, having rendered us a service in connection with forewarning us of
the danger that India posed to peace in Southeast Asia. However, certain crimes
be committed prior to this service came to our attention, and we arrested him
(see documentation). As he was being conveyed to his place of reeducation,
unknown forces raided the convoy and released Achilles de Flandres, killing all
of the escorting soldiers.
Since Achilles de Flandres ended up almost
immediately in the Hegemony compound in Ribeiroo Preto, Brazil, and he has been
in a position to do much mischief there since the hasty departure of Peter
Wiggin, and since the missile was fired from Brazilian territory and the
shuffle was shot down over Brazil, we suggest that the place to look for
responsibility for this attack on the IF is in Brazil, specifically the
Hegemony compound.
Ultimate responsibility for all of de
Flandres’s actions after his abscondment from our custody must lie with those
who took him, namely, Hegemon Peter Wiggin and his military forces, headed by
Julian Delphiki and, more recently, the Thai national, Suriyawong, who is
regarded by the Chinese government as a terrorist.
I hope that this information, provided to you
off the record, will prove useful to you in your investigation. If we con be of
any other service that is not inconsistent with our desperate struggle for
survival against the onslaught of the barbarian hordes from Asia, we will be
glad to provide it.
Your humble and unworthy colleague,
Ancient Fire
From: Chamrajnagar%Jawaharlal@ifcom
.gov
To: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin.gov
Re: Who
will take the blame?
Dear Hyrum,
You see from the attached message from the
esteemed bead of the Chinese government that they have decided to offer up
Achilles as the sacrificial lamb. I think they’d be glad if we got rid of him
for them. Our investigators will officially report that the launcher is of
Chinese manufacture and has been traced back to Achilles de Flandres without
mentioning that it was originally provided to him by the Chinese government.
When asked, we will refuse to speculate. That’s the best they can hope for from
us.
Meanwhile, we now have the legal basis firmly
established for an Earthside intervention-and from evidence provided by the
nation most likely to complain about such an intervention. We will do nothing
to affect the outcome or progress of the war in Asia. We will first seek the
cooperation of the Brazilian government but will make it clear that such
cooperation is not required, legally or militarily. We will ask them to isolate
the Hegemony compound so that no one con get in or out, pending the arrival of
our forces.
I ask that you inform the Hegemon and that you
make your plans accordingly. Whether Mr. Wiggin should be present at the taking
of the compound is a matter on which I hove no opinion.
Virlomi never went into town herself. Those
days were over. When she had been free to wander, a pilgrim in a land where
people either lived their whole lives in one village or cut themselves loose
and spent their whole lives on the road, she had loved coming to villages, each
one an adventure, filled with its own tapestry of gossip, tragedy, humor,
romance, and irony.
In
the college she had briefly attended, between coming home from space and being
brought into Indian military headquarters in Hyderabad, she had quickly
realized that intellectuals seemed to think that their life-the life of the
mind, the endless self-examination, the continuous autobiography afflicted upon
all comers-was somehow higher than the repetitive, meaningless lives of the
common people.
Virlomi
knew the opposite to be true. The intellectuals in the university were all the
same. They had precisely the same deep thoughts about exactly the same shallow
emotions and trivial dilemmas. They knew this, unconsciously, themselves. When
a real event happened, something that shook them to the heart, they withdrew
from the game of university life, for reality had to be played out on a
different stage.
In
the villages, life was about life, not about one-upmanship and display. Smart
people were valued because they could solve problems, not because they could
speak pleasingly about them. Everywhere she went in India, she constantly heard
herself thinking, I could live here. I could stay among these people and marry
one of these gentle peasant men and work beside him all my life.
And
then another part of her answered, No you couldn’t. Because like it or not, you
are one of those university people after all. You can visit in the real world,
but you don’t belong there. You need to live in Plato’s foolish dream, where
ideas are real and reality is shadow. That is the place you were born for, and
as you move from village to village, it is only to learn from them, to teach
them, to manipulate them, to use them to achieve your own ends.
But
my own ends, she thought, are to give them gifts they need: wise government, or
at least self-government.
And
then she laughed at herself, because the two were usually opposites. Even if an
Indian ruled over Indians, it was not self-government, for the ruler governed
the people, and the people governed the ruler. It was mutual government. That’s
the best that could be aspired to.
Now,
though, her pilgrim days were over. She had returned to the bridge where the
soldiers stationed to protect it and the nearby villagers had made a kind of
god of her.
She
came back without fanfare, walking into the village that had taken her most to
heart and falling into conversation with women at the well and in the market.
She went to the washing stream and lent a hand with the washing of clothes;
someone offered to share clothing with her so she could wash her dirty traveling
rags, but she laughed and said that one more washing would rub them into dust,
but she would like to earn some new clothing by helping a family that had a bit
they could spare for her.
“Mistress,”
said one shy woman, “did we not feed you at the bridge, for nothing?”
So
she was recognized.
“But
I wish to earn the kindness you showed me there.”
“You
have blessed us many times, lady,” said another.
“And
now you bless us by coming among us.”
“And
washing clothes.”
So
she was still a god.
“I’m
not what you think I am,” she said. “I am more terrible than your worst fear.”
“To
our enemies, we pray, lady,” said a woman.
“Terrible
to them, indeed,” said Virlomi. “But I will use your sons and husbands to fight
them, and some of them will die.”
“Half
our sons and husbands were already taken in the war against the Chinese.”
“Killed
in battle.”
“Lost
and could not find their way home.”
“Carried
off into captivity by the Chinese devils.”
Virlomi
raised a hand to still them. “I will not waste their lives, if they obey me.”
“You
shouldn’t go to war, lady,” said one old crone. “There’s no good in it. Look at
you, young, beautiful. Lie down with one of our young men, or one of our old
ones if you want, and make babies.”
“Someday,”
said Virlomi, “I’ll choose a husband and make babies with him. But today my
husband is India, and he has been swallowed by a tiger. I must make the tiger
sick, so he will throw my husband up.”
They
giggled, some of them, at this image. But others were very grave.
“How
will you do this?”
“I
will prepare the men so they don’t die because of mistakes. I will assemble all
the weapons we need, so no man is wasted because he is unarmed. I will bide my
time, so we don’t bring down the wrath of the tiger upon us, until we’re ready
to hurt them so badly that they never recover from the blow.”
“You
didn’t happen to bring a nuclear weapon with you, lady?” asked the crone.
Clearly something of an unbeliever.
“It’s
an offense against God to use such things,” said Virlomi. “The Muslim God was
burned out of his house and turned his face against them because they used such
weapons against each other.”
“I
was joking,” said the crone, ashamed.
“I
am not,” said Virlomi. “If you don’t want me to use your men in the way I have
described, tell me, and I’ll go away and find another place that wants me.
Perhaps your hatred of the Chinese is not so fierce as mine. Perhaps you are
content with the way things are in this land.”
But
they were not content, and their hatred was hot enough, it seemed.
There
wasn’t much time for training, despite her promise, but then, she wasn’t going
to use these men for firefights. They were to be saboteurs, thieves, demolition
experts. They conspired with construction workers to steal explosives; they
learned how to use them; they built dry storage pits in the jungles that clung
to the steep hills.
And
they went to nearby towns and recruited more men, and then went farther and
farther a field, building a network of saboteurs near every key bridge that
could be blown up to block the Chinese from the use of the roads they would
need to bring troops and supplies back and forth, in and out of India.
There
could be no rehearsals. No dry runs. Nothing was done to arouse suspicion of
any kind. She forbade her men to make any gestures of defiance, or do anything
to interfere with the smooth running of the Chinese transportation network
through their hills and mountains.
Some
of them chafed at this, but Virlomi said, “I gave my word to your wives and
mothers that I would not waste your lives. There will be plenty of dying ahead,
but only when your deaths will accomplish something, so that those who live can
bear witness: We did this thing, it was not done for us.”
Now
she never went to town, but lived where she had lived before, in a cave near
the bridge that she would blow up herself, when the time came.
But
she could not afford to be cut off from the outside world. So three times a
day, one of her people would sign on to the nets and check her dead drop sites,
print out the messages there, and bring them to her. She made sure they knew
how to wipe the information out of the computer’s memory, so no one else could
see what the computer had shown, and after she read the messages they brought,
she burned them.
She
got Peter Wiggin’s message in good time. So she was ready when her people
started coming to her, running, out of breath, excited.
“The war with the Turks is going badly for the
Chinese,” they said. “We have it on the nets, the Turks have taken so many
airfields that they can put more planes in the sky in Xinjiang than the Chinese
can. They have dropped bombs on Beijing itself, lady!”
“Then
you should weep for the children who are dying there,” said Virlomi. “But the
time for us to fight is not yet.”
And
the next day, when the trucks began to rumble across the bridges, and line up
bumper to bumper along the narrow mountain roads, they begged her, “Let us blow
up just one bridge, to show them that India is not sleeping while the Turks
fight our enemy for us!”
She
only answered them, “Why should we blow up bridges that our enemy is using to
leave our land?”
“But
we could kill many if we timed the explosion just right!”
“Even
if we could kill five thousand by blowing up all the bridges at exactly the
right moment, they have five million. We will wait. Not one of you will do
anything to warn them that they have enemies in these mountains. The time is
soon, but you must wait for my word.”
Again
and again she said it, all day long, to everyone who came, and they obeyed. She
sent them to telephone their comrades in faraway towns near other bridges, and
they also obeyed.
For
three days. The Chinese-controlled news talked about how devastating armies
were about to be brought to bear against the Turkic hordes, ready to punish
them for their treachery. The traffic across the bridges and along the mountain
roads was unrelenting. Then came the message she was waiting for.
Now.
No
signature, but it was in a dead drop that she had given to Peter Wiggin. She
knew that it meant that the main offensive had been launched in the west, and
the Chinese would soon begin sending troops and equipment back from China into
India.
She
did not burn the message. She handed it to the child who had brought it to her
and said, “Keep this forever. It is the beginning of our war.”
“Is
it from a god?” asked the child.
“Perhaps
the shadow of the nephew of a god,” she answered with a smile. “Perhaps only a
man in a dream of a sleeping god.”
Taking
the child by the hand, she walked down into the village. The people swarmed
around her. She smiled at them, patted the children’s heads, hugged the women
and kissed them.
Then
she led this parade of citizens to the office of the local Chinese
administrator and walked inside the building. Only a few of the women came with
her. She walked right past the desk of the protesting officer on duty and into the
office of the Chinese official, who was on the telephone.
He
looked up at her and shouted, first in Chinese, then in Common. “What are you
doing! Get out of here.”
But
Virlomi paid no attention to his words. She walked up to him, smiling, reached
out her arms as if to embrace him.
He
raised his hands in protest, to fend her off with a gesture.
She
took his arms, pulled him off balance, and while he staggered to regain his
footing, she flung her arms around him, gripped his head, and twisted it sharply.
He
fell dead to the floor.
She
opened a drawer in his desk, took out his pistol, and shot both of the Chinese
soldiers who were rushing into the office. They, too, fell dead to the floor
She
looked calmly at the women. “It is time. Please get on the telephones and call
the others in every city. It is one hour till dark. At nightfall, they are to
carry out their tasks. With a short fuse. And if anyone tries to stop them,
even if it’s an Indian, they should kill them as quietly and quickly as
possible and proceed with their work.”
The
repeated the message to her, then set to work at the telephones.
Virlomi
went outside with the pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt. When the other
two Chinese soldiers in this village came running, having heard the shots, she
started jabbering to them in her native dialect. They did not realize that it
was not the local language at all, but a completely unrelated tongue from the
Dravidian south. They stopped and demanded that she tell them in Common what
had happened. She answered with a bullet into each man’s belly before they even
saw that she had a gun. Then she made sure of them with a bullet to each head
as they lay on the ground.
“Can
you help me clean the street?” she asked the people who were gawking.
At
once they came out into the road and carried the bodies back inside the office.
When
the telephoning was done, she gathered them all together at the door of the
office. “When the Chinese authorities come and demand that you tell them what
happened, you must tell them the truth. A man came walking down the road, an
Indian man but not from this village. He looked like a woman, and you thought
he must be a god, because he walked right into this office and broke the neck
of the magistrate. Then he took the magistrate’s pistol and shot the two guards
in the office, and then the two who came running up from the village. Not one
of you had time to do anything but scream. Then this stranger made you carry
the bodies of the dead soldiers into the office and then ordered you to leave
while he made telephone calls.”
“They
will ask us to describe this man.”
“Then
describe me. Dark. From the south of India.”
“They
will say, if he looked like a woman, how do you know she was not a woman?”
“Because
he killed a man with his bare hands. What woman could do that?” They laughed.
“But
you must not laugh,” she said. “They will be very angry. And even if you do not
give them any cause, they may punish you very harshly for what happened here.
They may think you are lying and torture you to try to get you to tell the
truth. And let me tell you right now, you are perfectly free to tell them that
you think it may have been the same person who lived in that little cave near
the bridge. You may lead them to that place.”
She
turned to the child who had brought her Peter Wiggin’s message. “Bury that
paper in the ground until the war is over. It will still be there when you want
it.”
She
spoke to them all once more. “None of you did anything except carry the bodies
of the dead to the places I told you to carry them. You would have told the
authorities, but the only authorities you know are dead.”
She
stretched out her arms. “Oh, my beloved people, I told you I would bring
terrible days to you.” She did not have to pretend to be sad, and her tears
were real as she walked among them, touching hands, cheeks, shoulders one more
time. Then she strode out along the road and out of the village. The men who
were assigned to do it would blow up the nearby bridge an hour from now. She
would not be there. She would be walking along paths in the woods, heading for
the command post from which she would run this campaign of sabotage.
For
it would not be enough to blow up these bridges. They had to be ready to kill
the engineers who would come to repair them, and kill the soldiers who would
come to protect them, and then, when they brought enough soldiers and enough
engineers that they could not be stopped from rebuilding the bridges, they
would have to cause rockfalls and mudslides to block the narrow canyons.
If
they could seal this border for three days the advancing Muslim armies would
have time, if they were competently led, to break through and cut off the huge
Chinese army that still faced them, so that the reinforcements, when they
finally made it through, would be far, far too late. They, too, would be cut
off in their turn. Ambul had asked for only one favor from Alai, after setting
up the meeting between him and Bean and Petra. “Let me fight as if I were a
Muslim, against the enemy of my people.”
Alai
had assigned him, because of his race, to serve among the Indonesians, where he
would not look so very different.
So
it was that Ambul went ashore on a stretch of marshy coast somewhere south of
Shanghai. They went as near as they could on fishing boats, and then clambered
into flatbottomed marsh skimmers, which they rowed among the reeds, searching
for firm ground.
In
the end, though, as they knew they would, they had to leave the boats behind
and trudge through miles of mud. They carried their boots in their backpacks,
because the mud would have sucked them off if they had tried to wear them.
By
the time the sun came up, they were exhausted, filthy, insect-bitten, and
famished.
So
they rubbed the mud off their feet and ankles, pulled on their socks, put on
their boots, and set off at a trot along a trace that soon became a trail, and
then a path along the low dike between rice paddies. They jogged past Chinese
peasants and said nothing to them.
Let
them think we’re conscripts or volunteers from the newly conquered south, on a
training mission. We don’t want to kill civilians. Get in from the coast as far
as you can. That’s what their officers had said to them, over and over.
Most
of the peasants might have ignored them. Certainly they saw no one take off at
a run to spread the alarm. But it was not yet noon when they spotted the dust
plume of a fast-moving vehicle on a road not far off.
“Down,”
said their commander in Common.
Without
hesitation they flopped down in the water and then frogged their way to the
edge of the dike, where they remained hidden. Only their officer raised his
head high enough to see what was happening, and his whispered commentary was
passed quietly along the line so all fifty men would know.
“Military
truck,” he said.
Then,
“Reservists. No discipline.”
Ambul
thought: This is a dilemma. Reservists are probably local troops. Old men,
unfit men, who treated their military service like a social club, until now,
when somebody trotted them out because they were the only soldiers in the area.
Killing them would be like killing peasants.
But
of course they were armed, so not killing them might be committing suicide.
They
could hear the Chinese commander yelling at his part-time soldiers. He was very
angry-and very stupid, thought Ambul. What did he think was happening here? If
it was a training exercise by some portion of the Chinese army, why would he
bring along a contingent of reservists? But if he thought it was a genuine
threat, why was he yelling? Why wasn’t he trying to reconnoiter with stealth so
he could assess the danger and make a report?
Well,
not every officer had been to Battle School. It wasn’t second nature to them,
to think like a true soldier. This fellow had undoubtedly spent most of his
military service behind a desk.
The
whispered command came down the line. Do not shoot anybody, but take careful
aim at somebody when you are ordered to stand up.
The
voice of the Chinese officer was coming nearer.
“Maybe
they won’t notice us,” whispered the soldier beside Ambul.
“It’s time to make them notice us,” Ambul
whispered back.
The
soldier had been a waiter in a fine restaurant in Jakarta before volunteering
for the army after the Chinese conquest of Indochina. Like most of these men,
he had never been under fire.
For
that matter, neither have I, thought Ambul. Unless you count combat in the
battle room.
Surely
that did count. There was no blood, but the tension, the unbearable suspense of
combat had been there. The adrenaline, the courage, the terrible disappointment
when you knew you had been shot and your suit froze around you, locking you out
of the battle. The sense of failure when you let down the buddy you were
supposed to protect. The sense of triumph when you felt like you couldn’t miss.
I’ve
been here before. Only instead of a dike, I was hiding behind a three-meter cube,
waiting for the order to fling myself out, firing at whatever enemies might be
there.
The
man next to him elbowed him. Like all the others, he obeyed the signal and
watched their commander for the order to stand up.
The
commander gave the sign, and they all rose up out of the water.
The
Chinese reservists and their officer were nicely lined up along a dike that ran
perpendicular to the one the Indonesian platoon had been hiding behind. Not one
of them had his weapon at the ready.
The
Chinese officer had been interrupted in mid-yell. He stopped and turned
stupidly to look at the line of forty soldiers, all pointing their weapons at
him.
Ambul’s
commander walked up to the officer and shot him in the head.
At
once the reservists threw down their weapons and surrendered.
Every
Indonesian platoon had at least one Chinese-speaker, and usually several.
Ethnic Chinese in Indonesia had been eager to show their patriotism, and their
best interpreter was very efficient in conveying their commander’s orders. Of
course it was impossible to take prisoners. But they did not want to kill these
men.
So
they were told to remove all their clothing and carry it to the truck they had
arrived in. While they were undressing, the order was passed along the line in
Indonesian: Do not laugh at them or show any sign of ridicule. Treat them with
great honor and respect.
Ambul
understood the wisdom of this order. The purpose of stripping them naked was to
make them look ridiculous, of course. But the first people to ridicule them
would be Chinese, not Indonesians. When people asked them, they would have to
say that the Indonesians treated them with nothing but respect. The public
relations campaign was already under way.
Half
an hour later, Ambul was with the sixteen men who rode into town in the
captured Chinese truck, with one naked and terrified old reservist showing them
the way. Just before reaching the small military headquarters, they slowed down
and pushed him out of the truck.
It
was quick and bloodless. They drove right into the small compound and disarmed
everyone there at the point of a gun. The Chinese soldiers were all herded
naked into a room without a telephone, and they stayed there in utter silence
while the sixteen Indonesians commandeered two more trucks, clean underwear and
socks, and a couple of Chinese military radios.
Then
they piled all the remaining ammunition and explosives, weapons and radios in
the middle of the courtyard, surrounded them with the remaining military vehicles,
and set a small amount of plastique in the middle of the pile with a
five-minute fuse.
The
Chinese interpreter ran to the door of the room where the prisoners were being
held, shouted to them that they had five minutes to evacuate this place before
everything blew up, and they should warn the townspeople to get away from here.
Then
he unlocked the door and ran out to one of the waiting trucks.
Four
minutes out of town, they heard the fireworks begin. It was like a war back
there-bullets going off, explosions, and a plume of smoke.
Ambul
imagined the naked soldiers running from door to door, warning people. He hoped
that no one would die because they stopped to laugh at the naked men instead of
obeying them.
Ambul
was assigned to sit up front beside the driver of one of the captured trucks.
He knew they would not have these vehicles for long-they would be too easy to
spot-but they would carry them away from this place and give some of the
soldiers a chance to catch a quick nap in the back of the truck.
Of
course, it was also possible that they would return to the rest of the platoon
to find them slaughtered, with a large contingent of Chinese veterans waiting
to blow them to bits.
Well,
if that happened, it would happen. Nothing he could do in this truck would
affect such an outcome in any way. All he could do was keep his eyes open and
help the driver stay awake.
There
was no ambush. When they got back to the other men, they found most of them
asleep, but all the sentries awake and watchful.
Everyone
piled into the trucks. The men who had slept a little were assigned to the
front seats to drive; the men who had not slept were put in the backs of the
trucks to sleep as best they could while the truck jolted along on back roads.
Ambul
was one of those who discovered that if you’re tired enough, you can indeed
sleep sitting up on a hard bench in a truck with no springs on a rough road.
You just can’t sleep for very long at a time.
He
woke up once to find them moving smoothly along a wellpaved road. He stayed
awake just long enough to think, Is our commander an idiot, using a highway
like this? But he didn’t care enough about it to stay awake.
The
trucks stopped after only three hours of driving. Everyone was still exhausted,
but they had much to do before they could get a real meal, and genuine sleep.
The commander had called a halt beside a bridge. He had the men unload
everything from the trucks. Then they pushed them off the bridge into the
stream.
Ambul
thought: That was a foolish mistake. They should have left them neatly parked,
and not together, so that air surveillance would not recognize them.
But
no, speed was more important than concealment. Besides, the Chinese air force
was otherwise engaged. Ambul doubted there’d be many planes available for
surveillance any time soon.
While
the noncoms were distributing captured supplies among the men, they were told
some of what their commander had learned from listening to the captured radios
during the drive. The enemy kept speaking of them as paratroopers and assumed
they were heading for a major military objective or some rendezvous point.
“They don’t know who we are or what we’re doing, and they’re looking for us in
all the wrong places,” said the commander. “That won’t last long, but it’s the
reason we weren’t blown while we were driving along. Plus, they think we’re at
least a thousand men.”
They
had made good progress inland, those hours on the road. The terrain was almost
hilly here, and despite the fact that every arable inch of China had been under
cultivation for millennia, there was some fairly wild country here. They might
actually get far enough from this road before night that they could get a
decent sleep before taking off again.
Of
course, they would do most of their movement by night, most of their sleeping
by day.
If
they lived through the night. If they survived another day.
Carrying
more now than they had when they first came ashore the previous night, they
staggered off the road and into the woods alongside the stream. Heading west.
Upstream. Inland.
FAREWELLS
To: Porto%Aberto@BateRopo.Org
From: Locke%erosmus@polnet.gov
Re: Ripe
Encryption seed:
Decryption key:
Is this Bean or Petra? Or both?
After all his subtle strategies and big
surprises, it was a petty murder attempt that tagged him. I don’t know if the
news of the shooting down of an IF shuttle even penetrated the war coverage
where you are, but he thought was aboard. I wasn’t, but the Chinese named him
as the smoke, and suddenly the IF has legal basis for an Earthside operation.
The Brazilian government is cooperating, has the compound on lockdown,
The only trouble is, the compound seems to be
defended by your little army. We want to do this without loss of life, but you
trained your soldiers very well, and Sun doesn’t respond to my feeble attempts
to contact him. Before left, he seemed to be in Achilles’s pocket. That might
have been protective coloration, but who knows what happened on that return
trip from China?
Achilles has a way of getting to people. An
Indian officer at MinCol who had known Graff for years was the one who fingered
me for the shuttle, because the fact that his family was in a camp in China was
used to control him. Does Achilles have a way to control Sun? If Sun commands
the soldiers to protect Achilles, will they?
Would it make a difference if you were there?
I will be there, but I’m afraid I never quite trusted your assurance that the
soldiers would absolutely obey me. I have a feeling that I lost face when I
fled the compound. But you know them, I don’t.
Your advice would be appreciated. Your
presence would be very helpful. I will understand if you choose to provide
neither. You owe nothing to me-you were right when I was wrong, and I
jeopardized everybody. But at this point, I’d like to do this without killing
any of your soldiers, and especially without being killed myself-I wouldn’t
want to pretend my motives are entirely altruistic. I have no choice but to be
there myself. If I’m not on the ground for the penetration of the compound, I
can kiss my future as Hegemon good-bye.
Meanwhile, the Chinese don’t seem to be doing
so well, do they? My congratulations to the Caliph. I hope he will be more
generous to his conquered foes than the Chinese were.
Petra found it hard to concentrate on her
search of the nets. It was too tempting to switch to the news stories about the
war. It was the genetic disease that the doctors had found in her as a child,
the disease that sent her into space to spend her formative years in Battle
School. She just couldn’t leave war alone. Appalling as it was, combat still
held irresistible allure. The contest of two armies, each striving for mastery,
with no rules except those forced on them by the limitations of their forces
and their fear of reprisal in kind.
Bean
had insisted that they search for some signal from Achilles. It seemed absurd
to her, but Bean was positive that Achilles wanted them to come to him.
“He’s
on his last legs,” said Bean. “Everything’s turned against him. He thought he’d
positioned himself to take my place. Then he reached too far in shooting down
that shuttle, just at the moment that the Crescent League pulled China out from
under him. He can’t go back there, can’t even leave Ribeirao. So he’s going to
make whatever plays he has left to make. We’re loose ends. He doesn’t want to
leave us dangling. So... he’s going to call us in.”
“Let’s
not go,” Petra had said then, but Bean only laughed. “If I thought you meant
that,” he said, “I might consider it. But I know you don’t. He has our babies.
He knows we’ll come.”
Maybe
they would and maybe they wouldn’t. What good would it do those embryos if
their parents walked into a trap and died?
And
it would be a trap. Not a fair trade, not a bargain, my freedom for your
babies. No, Achilles was not capable of that, not even to save his own life.
Bean had trapped him once before, forced a confession out of him, which led to
his being put in a mental institution. He’d never go back there again. Like
Napoleon, he’d escaped from one captivity, but from the next there’d be no more
escaping. So he wouldn’t go. That much both Bean and Petra agreed on. He would
only summon them to kill them.
Yet
still she searched, wondering how they’d even know when they found what they
were looking for.
And
while she searched, the war kept drawing her. The campaign in Xinjiang had
already moved eastward into the fringes of Han China. The Persians and
Pakistanis were on the verge of encircling both halves of the Chinese army in
western India.
The
news about the Indonesians and Arabs operating inside China was a little more
oblique. The Chinese were complaining loudly about Muslim paratroopers
performing terrorist attacks inside China, and threatening that they would be
treated as spies and war criminals when they were caught. The caliph responded
immediately by declaring that these were regular troops, in uniform, and the
only thing that bothered the Chinese was that the war they had been so willing
to inflict on others had finally come home. “We will hold every level of the
Chinese military and the Chinese government personally and individually
responsible for each crime against our captured soldiers.”
That
was the language that only the presumed victors could afford to use, but the
Chinese clearly took it to heart, immediately announcing that they had been
completely misunderstood, and any soldiers found to be in uniform would be
treated as prisoners.
To
Petra, though, the most entertaining aspect of the Chinese posturing was that
they kept referring to the Indonesian and Arab troops as paratroopers. They
simply could not believe that troops landed on the coasts had got so far inland
so quickly.
And
one other little bit of information. One of the American newsnets had a
commentary by a retired general who almost certainly was being given briefings
about what American spy satellites were showing. What caught Petra’s attention
was when he said, “What I can’t understand is why the Chinese troops that were
moved out of India a few days ago, to meet the threat in Xinjiang, are not
being used in Xinjiang or being sent back into India. Fully a quarter of the
Chinese military is just sitting there not being used.”
Petra
showed this to Bean, who smiled. “Virlomi is very good. She’s pinned them down
for three days. How long before the Chinese army inside India simply runs out
of ammunition?”
“You
can’t really start a betting pool with just the two of us,” said Petra.
“Stop
watching the war and get back to work.”
“Why
wait for Achilles to send this signal that I still don’t think he’s going to
send?” asked Petra. “Why not just accept Peter’s invitation and join him for
the storming of the compound?”
“Because
if Achilles thinks he’s luring us into a trap, he’ll let us get inside without
firing a shot. Nobody dies.”
“Except
us.”
“First,
Petra, there’s no us. You’re a pregnant woman, and I don’t care how brilliant
you are at military affairs, I can’t possibly deal with Achilles if the woman
who’s carrying my baby is standing there in jeopardy.”
“So
I’m supposed to sit outside watching, not knowing what’s going on, whether
you’re alive or dead?”
“Do
we have to have the argument about how I’m going to die in a few years anyway,
and you’re not, and if I’m dead but we rescue the embryos you can still have
babies, but if you’re dead, we can’t even have the baby you’ve already got
inside you?”
“No,
we don’t have to have that argument,” said Petra angrily.
“And
second, you won’t be sitting outside watching, because you’ll be here in
Damascus, following the war news and reading the Q’uran.”
“Or
clawing my own eyes out in the agony of not knowing. You’d really leave me
here?”
“Achilles
himself may be trapped inside the Hegemony compound, but he has people to run
his errands everywhere. I doubt that many of them were lost when the China
connection dried up. If it dried up. I don’t want you leaving here because it
would be just like Achilles to kill you long before you came anywhere near the
compound.”
“So
why don’t you think he’ll kill you?”
“Because
he wants me to watch the babies die.”
Petra
couldn’t help it. She burst into tears and bowed over her desk.
‘I’m
sorry,” said Bean. “I didn’t mean to make you-”
“Of
course you didn’t mean to make me cry,” said Petra. “I didn’t mean to cry,
either. Just ignore this.”
“I
can’t ignore it,” said Bean. “I can barely understand what you’re saying, and
you’re about to drip snot on your desk.”
“It’s
not snot!” Petra shouted at him, then touched her nose and discovered that it
was. She sniffed and then laughed and ran into the bathroom and blew her nose
and finished crying by herself.
When
she came out, Bean was lying on the bed, his eyes closed.
“I’m
sorry,” said Petra.
“I’m
sorrier,” said Bean softly.
“I
know you have to go alone. I know I have to stay here. I know all of that, but
I hate it, that’s all.”
Bean
nodded.
“So
why aren’t you searching the nets?”
“Because
the message just came.”
She
walked over to his desk and looked into the display. Bean had connected to an
auction site, and there it was: Wanted: A good womb.
Five human embryos ready for implantation.
Battle School graduate parents, died in tragic accident. Estate needs to
dispose of them immediately. Likely to be extraordinarily brilliant children.
Trust fund will be set up for each child successfully implanted and brought to
term. Applicants must prove they do not need the money. Top five bidders will
have their funds held in escrow by certified accounting firm, pending
evaluation.
“Did
you reply?” asked Petra. “Or bid?”
“I
sent an inquiry in which I suggested that I’d like to have all five, and I’ll
pick them up in person. I told him to reply to one of my dead drop sites.”
“And
you’re not checking your mail to see if your dead drop has forwarded anything
yet?”
“Petra,
I’m scared.”
“That’s
a relief. It suggests you aren’t insane.”
“He’s
the best survivor I’ve ever known. He’ll have a way out of this.”
“No,”
said Petra. “You’re a survivor. He’s a killer.”
“He’s
not dead,” said Bean. “That makes him a survivor.”
“Nobody’s
been trying to kill him for half his life,” said Petra. “His survival is no big
deal. You’ve had a pathological killer on your trail for years, and yet here
you are.”
“It’s
not so much that I’m afraid of him killing me,” said Bean, “though I don’t find
it an appealing way to go. I still plan to die by growing so tall I’m hit by a
low-flying plane.”
“I’m
not playing your macabre little how-I’d-like-to-die game.”
“But
if he does kill me, and then gets out of there alive somehow, what will happen
to you?”
“He
won’t get out of there alive.”
“So
maybe not. But what if I’m dead, and all the babies are dead?”
“I’ll
have this one.”
“You’ll
wish you hadn’t loved me. I still haven’t figured out why you do.”
“I’ll
never wish I hadn’t loved you, and I’ll always be glad that after I pestered
you long enough, you finally decided you loved me too.’,
“Don’t
let anybody call the kid by some stupid nickname based on how small she is.”
“No
legume names?”
The incoming-mail icon flashed on his desk.
“You’ve got mail,” said Petra.
Bean sighed, sat up, slid over onto the chair,
and opened the letter
My oldest friend. I have five little presents
with your name written all over them, and not much time left in which to give
them to you. I wish you trusted me more, because I’ve never meant you any harm,
but I know you don’t, and so you are free to bring an armed escort with you.
Well meet in the open air, the east garden. The east gate will be open. You and
the first five with you can come in; any more than that try to come in and
you’ll all be shot.
I don’t know where you are, so I don’t know
how long it will take for you to get here. When you come, I’ll have your
property in a refrigerated container, good for six hours at the right
temperature. If one of your escort is a specialist with a microscope, you are
free to examine the specimens on the spot, and then have the specialist carry
them out.
But I hope you and I can chat for a while
about old times. Reminisce about the good old days, when we brought
civilization to the streets of Rotterdam. We’ve been down a good long road
since then. Changed the world, both of us. Me more than you, kid. Eat your
heart out,
Of course, you married the only woman I ever
loved, so maybe things balance out in the end.
Naturally, our conversation will be more
pleasant if it ends with you taking me out of the compound and giving me safe
passage to a place of my own choosing. But I realize that may not be within
your power. We really are limited creatures, we geniuses. We know what’s best
for everybody, but we still don’t get our way until we can persuade the lesser
creatures to do our bidding. They just don’t understand how much happier they’d
be if they stopped thinking for themselves. They’re so unequipped for it.
Relax, Bean. That was a joke. Or an indecorous
truth. Often the same thing.
Give Petra a kiss for me. Let me know when to
open the gate.
“Does
he really expect you to believe that he’ll just let you take the babies?”
“Well,
he does imply a swap for his freedom,” said Bean.
“The
only swap he implies is your life for theirs,” said Petra.
“Oh,”
said Bean. “Is that how you read it?”
‘That’s
what he’s saying and you know it. He expects the two of you to die together,
right there.”
“The
real question,” said Bean, “is whether he’ll really have the embryos there.”
“For
all we know,” said Petra, “they’re in a lab in Moscow or Johannesburg or
already in the garbage somewhere in Ribeirao.”
“Now
who’s the grim one?”
“It’s
obvious that he wasn’t able to place them out for implantation. So to him they
represent failure. They have no value now. Why should he give them to you?”
“I
didn’t say I’d accept his terms,” said Bean.
“But
you will.”
“The
hardest thing about a kidnapping is always the swap, ransom for hostage.
Somebody always has to trust somebody, and give up their piece before they’ve
received what the other one has. But this case is really weird, because he’s
not really asking for anything from me.”
“Except
your death.”
“But
he knows I’m dying anyway. It all seems so pointless.”
“He’s
insane, Julian. Haven’t you heard?”
“Yes,
but his thinking makes sense inside his own head. I mean, he’s not
schizophrenic, he sees the same reality as the rest of us. He’s not delusional.
He’s just pathologically conscience-free. So how does he see this playing out?
Will he just shoot me as I come in? Or will he let me win, maybe even let me
kill him, only the joke’s on me because the embryos he gives me aren’t ours,
they’re from the tragic mating of two really dumb people. Perhaps two
journalists.”
“You’re
joking about this, Bean, and I-”
“I
have to catch the next flight. If you think of anything else that I should
know, email me, I’ll check in at least once before I go in and see the lad.”
“He
doesn’t have them,” said Petra. “He already gave them out to his cronies.”
“Quite
possible.”
“Don’t
go.”
“Not
possible.”
“Bean,
you’re smarter than he is, but his advantage is, he’s more brutal than you
are.”
“Don’t
count on it,” said Bean.
“Don’t
you realize that I know both of you better than anyone else in the world?”
“And
no matter how well we think we know people, the fact is we’re all strangers in
the end.”
“Oh,
Bean, tell me you don’t believe that.”
“It’s
self-evident truth.”
“I
know you!” she insisted.
“No.
You don’t. But that’s all right, because I don’t really know me either, let
alone you. We never understand anybody, not even ourselves. But Petra, shh,
listen. What we’ve done is, we’ve created something else. This marriage. It
consists of the two of us, and we’ve become something else together. That’s
what we know. Not me, not you, but what we are, who we are together. Sister
Carlotta quoted somebody in the Bible about how a man and a woman marry and
they become one flesh. Very mystical and borderline weird. But in a way it’s
true. And when I die, you won’t have Bean, but you’ll still have
Petra-with-Bean, Bean-with-Petra, whatever we call this new creature that we’ve
made.”
“So
all those months I spent with Achilles, did we build some disgusting monstrous
Petra-with-Achilles thing? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,”
said Bean. “Achilles doesn’t build things. He just finds them, admires them,
and tears them apart. There is no Achilles-with anybody. He’s just.. . empty.”
“So
what happened to that theory of Ender’s, that you have to know your enemy in
order to beat him?”
“Still
true.”
“But
if you can’t know anybody..”
“It’s
imaginary,” said Bean. “Ender wasn’t crazy, so he knew it was just imaginary.
You try to see the world through your enemy’s eyes, so you can see what it all
means to him. The better you do at it, the more time you spend in the world as
he sees it, the more you understand how he views things, how he explains to
himself the things he does.”
“And
you’ve done that with Achilles.”
“Yes.”
“So
you think you know what he’s going to do.”
“I
have a short list of things I expect.”
“And
what if you’re wrong? Because that’s the one certainty in all of this-that
whatever you think Achilles is going to do, you’re wrong.”
“That’s
his specialty.”
“So
your short list. .”
“Well,
see, the way I made my list, I thought of all the things I thought he might do,
and then I didn’t put any of those on my list, I only put on the things I
didn’t think he’d do.”
“That’ll work,” said Petra. “Might,” said
Bean.
“Hold me before you go,” she said. He did.
“Petra,
you think you aren’t going to see me again. But I’m pretty sure you are.
“Do
you realize how it scares me that you’re only pretty sure?”
I
could die of appendicitis in the plane on the way to Ribeirao. I’m never more
than pretty sure of anything.”
“Except
that I love you.”
“Except
that we love each other.”
Bean’s flight was the normal misery of hours
in a confined space. But at least he was flying west, so the jet lag wasn’t as
debilitating. He thought he might just go directly in as soon as he arrived,
but thought better of it. He needed to think clearly. To be able to improvise
and act quickly on impulse. He needed to sleep.
Peter
was waiting for him at the doorway of the airplane. Being Hegemon gives you a
few privileges denied to other people in airports.
Peter
led him down the stairs instead of out the jetway, and they got in a car that
drove them directly to the hotel that had been set up as the IF command post.
IF soldiers were at every entrance, and Peter assured him there were sharpshooters
in every surrounding building, and in this one, too.
“So,”
said Peter, when they were alone in Bean’s room, “what’s the plan?”
“You
sound as if you think I have one,” said Bean.
“Not
even a goal?”
“Oh,
I have two goals,” said Bean. “I promised Petra right after he stole our
embryos that I’d get them back for her, and that I’d kill Achilles in the
process.”
“And
you have no idea how you’ll do that.”
“Some.
But nothing I plan will work anyway, so I don’t let myself get too attached to
any of them.”
“Achilles
really isn’t that important now,” said Peter. “I mean, he’s important because
in essence everyone inside that compound is his hostage, but on the world
stage-he’s lost all his influence. Went up in smoke when he shot down that
shuttle and the Chinese disavowed him.”
Bean
shook his head. “Do you really think, if he gets out of this alive, he won’t be
back at his old games? You think he won’t have any takers for his medicine
show?”
“I
suppose there’s no shortage of government people with dreams of power he can
seduce them with, or fears that he can exploit.”
“Peter,
I’m here so he can torment me and then kill me. That’s why I’m here. His
purpose. His goal.”
“Well,
if his is the only plan, then. .”
“That’s
right, Peter. He’s the one with the plan this time. And I’m the one who can
surprise him by not doing what he expects.”
“All
right,” said Peter “I’m in.”
“What?”
“You’ve
convinced me. I’m in.”
“You’re
in what?”
“I’m
going in the gate with you.”
“No
you’re not.”
“I’m
Hegemon. I’m not standing outside while you go in and save my people.”
“He’ll
be very happy to kill you along with me.”
“You
first.”
“No,
you first.”
“Whatever,”
said Peter. “You’re not getting through that gate unless I’m one of your five.”
“Look,
Peter,” said Bean. “The reason we’re in this predicament is that you think
you’re smarter than everybody else, so no matter what advice you get, you go
off half-cocked and do something astonishingly dumb.”
“But
I stay around to pick up the pieces.”
“I
give you credit for that.”
“I
won’t do anything you don’t tell me to,” said Peter. “It’s your show.”
“I
need to have all five of my escort be highly trained soldiers.”
“No
you don’t,” said Peter “Because if there’s any shooting, five won’t be enough
anyway. So you have to count on there being no shooting. So I might as well be
one of the five.”
“But
I don’t want to die with you beside me,” said Bean.
“Fine
with me, I don’t want to die beside you, either.”
“You
have another seventy or eighty years ahead of you. You’re going to gamble with
that? Me, I’m just playing with house money.”
“You’re
the best, Bean,” said Peter.
“That
was in school. What armies have I commanded since then? Other people are doing
all the fighting now. I’m not the best, I’m retired.”
“You
don’t retire from your own mind.”
“People
retire from their minds all the time. What won’t let you alone is your
reputation.”
“Well,
I love arguing philosophy with you,” said Peter abruptly, “but you need your
sleep and I need mine. See you at the east gate in the morning.”
In
a moment he was out the door
So
what was that sudden departure about?
Bean
had the sneaking suspicion that maybe Peter finally believed him that he didn’t
have a plan and had no guarantee of winning. Not even, in fact, a decent chance
of winning, if by winning he meant an outcome in which Bean was alive, Achilles
was dead, and Bean had the babies. No doubt Peter had to run and get a life
insurance policy. Or drum up some last minute emergency that would absolutely
prevent him from going through the gate with Bean after all. “So sorry, I wish
I were going with you, but you’ll do fine, I know it.”
Bean
thought he’d have trouble getting to sleep, what with the catnaps he got on the
plane and the tension of tomorrow’s events preying on his mind.
So
naturally he fell asleep so fast he didn’t even remember turning off the light.
In the morning, Bean got up and posted a
message to Achilles, naming a time about an hour later for their meeting. Then
he wrote a brief note to Petra, just so she’d know he was thinking of her in
case this was the last day of his life. Then another note to his parents, and
one to Nikolai. At least if he managed to bring Achilles down with him, they’d
be safe. That was something.
He
walked downstairs to find Peter already waiting beside the IF car that would
take them to the perimeter that had been established around the compound. They
rode in near silence, because there was really nothing more to say.
At
the perimeter, near the east gate, Bean found out very quickly that Peter
hadn’t lied-the IF was standing behind his determination to go in with Bean’s
group. Well, that was fine. Bean didn’t really need his companions to do much.
As
he had requested before leaving Damascus, the IF had a uniformed doctor, two
highly trained sharpshooters, and a fully equipped hazard squad, one of whom
was to come in with Bean’s party.
“Achilles
will have a container that purports to be a transport refrigerator for a half
dozen frozen embryos,” Bean said to the hazardist. “If I have you carry it
outside, then that means I’m sure it’s a bomb or contains some toxin, and I
want it treated that way-even if I say something different inside there. If it
turns out to have been embryos after all, well, that’s my own mistake, and I’ll
explain it to my wife. If I have the doctor here carry it, that means I’m sure
it’s the embryos, and the package is to be treated that way.”
“And what if you’re not sure?” asked Peter.
“I’ll
be sure,” said Bean, “or I won’t give it to anybody.”
“Why
don’t you just carry it yourself?” asked the hazardist, “and tell us what to do
when it gets outside?”
Peter
answered for him. “Mr. Delphiki doesn’t expect to get back out alive.”
“My
goal for all four of you,” said Bean, “is for you to walk out of there
uninjured. There’s no chance of that if you start shooting, for any reason.
That’s why none of you is going to carry a loaded weapon.”
They
looked at him as if he were insane.
“I’m
not going in there unarmed,” said one of the other men.
“Fine,”
said Bean. “Then there’ll be one less. He didn’t say I had to bring five.”
“Technically,”
said Peter to the other sharpshooter, “you won’t be unarmed. Just unloaded. So
they’ll treat you as if did have bullets, because they won’t know you don’t.”
“I’m
a soldier, not a sap,” said the man, and he walked away.
“Anybody
else?” said Bean.
In
answer, the other sharpshooter took the full clip out of his weapon, popped out
the bullets one by one, and then ejected the first bullet from the chamber.
“I
don’t carry a weapon anyway,” said the doctor.
“Don’t
need a loaded pistol to carry a bomb,” said the hazardist.
With
a slim plastic .22-caliber pistol already tucked into the back of his pants,
Bean was now the only person in his party with a loaded gun.
“I
guess we’re ready to go,” said Bean.
It was a dazzling tropical morning as they
stepped through the gate into the east garden. Birds in all the trees ranted
their calls as if they were trying to memorize something and just couldn’t get
it to stick. There was not a soul in sight.
Bean
wasn’t going to wander around searching for Achilles. He definitely wasn’t
going to get far from the gate. So, about ten paces in, he stopped. So did the
others.
And
they waited.
It
didn’t take long. A soldier in the Hegemony uniform stepped out into the open.
Then another, and another, until the fifth soldier appeared.
Suriyawong.
He
gave no sign of recognition. Rather he looked right past both Bean and Peter as
if they were nothing to him.
Achilles
stepped out behind them-but stayed close to the trees, so he wouldn’t be too
easy a target for sharpshooters. He was carrying, as promised, a small
transport fridge.
“Bean,”
he said with a smile. “My how you’ve grown.”
Bean
said nothing.
“Oh,
we aren’t in a jesting mood,” he said. “I’m not either, really. It’s almost a
sentimental moment for me, to see you again. To see you as a man. Considering I
knew you when you were this high.”
He
held out the transport fridge. “Here they are, Bean.”
“You’re
just going to give them to me?”
“I
don’t really have a use for them. There weren’t any takers in the auction.”
“Volescu went to a lot of trouble to get these
for you,” said Bean.
“What
trouble? He bribed a guard. Using my money.
“How did you get Volescu to help you, anyway?”
asked Bean.
“He
owed me,” said Achilles. “I’m the one who got him out of jail. I got our
brilliant Hegemon here to give me authority to authorize the release of
prisoners whose crimes had ceased to be crimes. He didn’t make the connection
that I’d be releasing your creator into the wild.” Achilles grinned at Peter.
Peter
said nothing.
“You
trained these men well, Bean,” said Achilles. “Being with them is like… well,
it’s like being with my family again. Like on the streets, you know?”
Bean
said nothing.
“Well,
all right, you don’t want to chat, so take the embryos.”
Bean
remembered one very important fact. Achilles didn’t care about killing his
victims with his own hands. It was enough for him that they die, whether he was
present or not.
Bean
turned to the hazardist. “Would you do me a favor and take this just outside
the gate? I want to stay and talk with Achilles for a couple of minutes.”
The
hazardist walked up to Achilles and took the transport fridge from him. “Is it
fragile?” he asked.
Achilles
answered, “It’s very securely packed and padded, but don’t play football with
it.”
In
only a few steps, he was out the gate.
“So
what did you want to talk about?” asked Achilles.
“A
couple of little questions I’m curious about.”
“I’ll
listen. Maybe I’ll answer.”
“Back
in Hyderabad. There was a Chinese officer who knocked you unconscious to break
our stalemate.”
“Oh,
is that who did it?”
“Whatever
happened to him?”
“I’m
not sure. I think his chopper was shot down in combat only a few days later”
“Oh,”
said Bean. “Too bad. I wanted to ask him what it felt like to hit you.”
“Really,
Bean, aren’t we both too old for that sort of gibe?”
Outside
the gate there was a muffled explosion.
Achilles
looked around, startled. “What was that?”
“I’m
pretty sure,” said Bean, “that it was an explosion.”
“Of
what?”
“Of
the bomb you just tried to give me,” said Bean. “Inside a containment chamber.”
Achilles
tried, for a moment, to look innocent. “I don’t know what you…”
Then
he apparently realized there was no point in feigning ignorance when the thing
had just exploded. He pulled the remote detonator out of his pocket, pressed
the button a couple of times. “Damn all this modern technology, nothing ever
works right.” He grinned at Bean. “Got to give me credit for trying.”
“So.
. . do you have the embryos or not?” asked Bean.
“They’re
inside, safe,” said Achilles.
Bean
knew that was a lie. In fact, he had decided yesterday that it was most likely
the embryos had never been brought here at all.
But
he’d get more mileage out of this by pretending to believe Achilles. And there
was always the chance that it wasn’t a lie.
“Show
me,” Bean said.
“You
have to come inside, then,” said Achilles.
“OK.”
“That’ll
take us outside the range of the sharpshooters you no doubt have all around the
compound, waiting to shoot me down.”
“And
inside the range of whoever you have waiting for me there.”
“Bean.
Be realistic. You’re dead whenever I want you dead.”
“Well,
that’s not strictly true,” said Bean. “You’ve wanted me dead a lot more often
than I’ve died.”
Achilles
grinned. “Do you know what Poke was saying just before she had that accident
and fell into the Rhine?”
Bean
said nothing.
“She
was saying that I shouldn’t hold a grudge against you for telling her to kill
me when we first met. He’s just a little kid, she said. He didn’t know what he
was saying.”
Still,
Bean said nothing.
“I
wish I could tell you Sister Carlotta’s last words, but… you know how
collateral damage is in wartime. You just don’t get any warning.”
“The
embryos,” said Bean. “You said you were going to show me where they are.”
“All
right then,” said Achilles. “Follow me.”
As
soon as Achilles’s back was turned, the doctor looked at Bean and frantically
shook his head.
“It’s
all right,” Bean told the doctor and the other soldier. “You can go on out. You
won’t be needed any more.”
Achilles
turned back around. “You’re letting your escort go?”
“Except
for Peter,” said Bean. “He insists on staying with me.”
“I
didn’t hear him say that,” said Achilles. “I mean, he seemed so eager to get
away when he left this place, I thought for sure he didn’t want to see it
again.”
“I’m
trying to figure out how you were able to fool so many people,” said Peter.
“But
I’m not trying to fool you,” said Achilles. “Though I can see how someone like
you would long to find a really masterful liar to study with.” Laughing,
Achilles turned his back again, and led the way toward the main office
building.
Peter
came closer to Bean as they followed him inside. “Are you sure you know what
you’re doing?” he asked quietly.
“I
told you before, I have no idea.”
Once
inside, they were indeed confronted by another dozen soldiers. Bean knew them
all by name. But he said nothing to them, and none of them met his gaze or
showed any sign that they knew him.
What
does Achilles want? thought Bean. His first plan was to send me out of the
compound with a remote-controlled bomb, so it’s not as if he planned to keep me
alive. Now he’s got me surrounded by soldiers, and doesn’t tell them to shoot.
Achilles
turned around and faced him. “Bean,” he said. “I can’t believe you didn’t make
some kind of arrangement for me to get out of here.”
“Is
that why you tried to blow me up?” asked Bean.
“That
was when I believed you’d try to kill me as soon as you thought you had the
embryos. Why didn’t you?”
“Because
I knew I didn’t have the embryos.”
“Do
you and Petra already think of them as your children? Have you named them yet?”
“There’s
no arrangement to get you out of here, Achilles, because there’s no place for
you to go. The only people that still had any use for you are busy getting
their butts kicked by a bunch of pissed-off Muslims. You saw to it that you
couldn’t go anywhere in space when you shot down that shuttle.”
“In
all fairness, Bean, you have to remember that nobody was supposed to know it
was me who did it. But someone really should tell me-why wasn’t Peter on that
shuttle? I suppose somebody caught my informant.” He looked back and forth from
Peter to Bean, looking for an answer.
Bean
did not confirm or deny. Peter, too, kept his silence. What if Achilles lived
through this somehow? Why bring down Achilles’s wrath on a man who already had
enough trouble in his life?
“But
if you caught my informant,” said Achilles, “why in the world would
Chamrajnagar-or Graft, if it was him-launch the shuttle anyway? Was catching me
doing something naughty so important they’d risk a shuttle and its crew just to
catch me? I find that quite flattering. Sort of like winning the Nobel Prize
for scariest villain.”
“I
think,” said Bean, “that you don’t have the embryos at all. I think you
dispersed them as soon as you got them. I think you already had them implanted
in surrogates.”
“Wrong,”
said Achilles. He reached inside his pants pocket and took out a small
container. Exactly like the ones in which the embryos had been frozen. “I
brought one along, just to show you. Of course, he’s probably thawed quite a
bit. My body heat and all that. What do you think? Do we still have time to get
this little sucker implanted in somebody? Petra’s already pregnant. I hear, so
you can’t use her. I know! Peter’s mother! She always likes to be so helpful,
and she’s used to giving birth to geniuses. Here, Peter, catch!”
He
tossed the container toward Peter, but too hard, so it sailed over Peter’s
upstretched hands and hit the floor. It didn’t break, but instead rolled and
rolled.
“Aren’t
you going to get it?” Achilles asked Bean.
Bean
shrugged. He walked over to where the container had come to rest. The liquid
inside it sloshed. Fully thawed.
He
stepped on it, broke it, ground it under his foot.
Achilles
whistled. “Wow. You are some disciplinarian. Your kids can’t get away with
anything with you.”
Bean
walked toward Achilles.
“Now,
Bean, I can see how you might be irritated at me, but I never claimed to be an
athlete. When did I have a chance to play ball, will you tell me that? You grew
up where I did. I can’t help it that I don’t know how to throw accurately.”
He
was still affecting his ironic tone of voice, but Bean could see that Achilles
was afraid now. He had been expecting Bean to beg, or grieve-something that
would keep him off balance and give control to Achilles. But Bean was seeing
things through Achilles’s eyes now, and he understood: You do whatever your
enemy can’t believe that you would even think of doing. You just do it.
Bean
reached into the butt holster that rode inside his pants, hanging from the
waistband, and pulled out the flat .22-caliber pistol concealed there. He
pointed it at Achilles’s right eye, then the left.
Achilles
took a couple of steps backward. “You can’t kill me,” he said. “You don’t know
where the embryos are.”
“I
know you don’t have them,” said Bean, “and that I’m not going to get them
without letting you go. And I’m not letting you go. So I guess that means the
embryos are forever lost to me. Why should you go on living?”
“Suri,”
said Achilles. “Are you asleep?”
Suriyawong
pulled his long knife from its sheath.
“That’s
not what’s needed here,” said Achilles. “He has a gun.”
“Hold
still, Achilles,” said Bean. “Take it like a man. Besides, if I miss, you might
live through it and spend the rest of your days as a brain-damaged shell of a
man. We want this to be nice and clean and final, don’t we?”
Achilles
pulled another vial out of his pockets. “This is the real thing, Bean.” He
reached out his hand, offering it. “You killed one, but there are still the
other four.”
Bean
slapped it out of his hand. This one broke when it hit the floor.
“Those
are your children you’re killing!” cried Achilles.
“I
know you,” said Bean. “I know that you would never promise me something you
could actually deliver.”
“Suriyawong!”
shouted Achilles. “Shoot him!”
“Sir,”
said Suriyawong.
It
was the first sound he’d made since Bean came through the east gate.
Suriyawong
knelt down, laid his knife on the smooth floor, and slid it toward Achilles
until it rested at his feet.
“What’s
this supposed to be?” demanded Achilles.
“The
loan of a knife,” said Suriyawong.
“But
he has a gun!” cried Achilles.
“I
expect you to solve your own problems,” said Suriyawong, “without getting any
of my men killed.”
“Shoot
him!” cried Achilles. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I
told you from the start,” said Suriyawong. “I serve the Hegemon.” And with
that, Suriyawong turned his back on Achilles.
So
did all the other soldiers.
Now
Bean understood why Suriyawong had worked so hard to earn Achilles’s trust: so
that at this moment of crisis, Suri was in a position to betray him.
Achilles
laughed nervously. “Come on now, Bean. We’ve known each other a long time.” He
had backed up against a wall. He tried to lean against it. But his legs were a
little wobbly and he started to slide down the wall. “I know you, Bean,” he
said. “You can’t just kill a man in cold blood, no matter how much you hate
him. It’s not in you to do that.”
“Yes
it is,” said Bean.
He
aimed the pistol down at Achilles’s right eye and pulled the trigger. The eye
snapped shut from the wind of the bullet passing between the eyelids and from
the obliteration of the eye itself. His head rocked just a little from the force
of the little bullet entering, but not leaving.
Then
he slumped over and sprawled out on the floor. Dead.
It
didn’t bring back Poke, or Sister Carlotta, or any of the other people he had
killed. It didn’t change the nations of the world back to the way they were
before Achilles started making them his building blocks, to break apart and put
together however he wanted. It didn’t end the wars Achilles had started. It
didn’t make Bean feel any better. There was no joy in vengeance, and precious
little in justice, either.
But
there was this: Achilles would never kill again.
That
was all Bean could ask of a little .22.
HOME
From: YourFresh%Vegetoble@Freebie.net
To: MyStone%Maiden@Freebie.net
Re: Come
home
He’s dead.
I’m not.
He didn’t have them.
We’ll find them, one way or another, before I
die.
Come home. There’s nobody trying to kill you
any more.
Petra flew on a commercial jet, in a reserved
seat, under her own name, using her own passport.
Damascus
was full of excitement, for it was now the capital of a Muslim world united for
the first time in nearly two thousand years. Sunni and Shiite leaders alike had
been declaring for the Caliph. And Damascus was the center of it all.
But
her excitement was of a different kind. It was partly the baby that was
maturing inside her, and the changes already happening to her body. It was
partly the relief at being free of the death sentence Achilles had passed on
her so long ago.
Mostly,
though, it was that giddy sense of having been on the edge of losing
everything, and winning after all. It swept over her as she was walking down
the aisle of the plane, and her knees went rubbery under her and she almost
fell.
The
man behind her took her elbow and helped her regain her legs. “Are you all
right?” he asked.
“I’m
just a little bit pregnant,” she said.
“You
must get over this business of falling down before the baby gets too big.”
She
laughed and thanked him, then put her own bag in the overhead-without needing
help, thank you-and took her seat.
On
the one hand, it was sad flying without her husband beside her.
On
the other hand, it was wonderful to be flying home to him.
He met her at the airport and gathered her
into a huge hug. His arms were so long. Had they grown in the few days since he
left her?
She
refused to think about that.
“I
hear you saved the world,” she said to him when the embrace finally ended.
“Don’t
believe those rumors.” “My hero,” she said. “I’d rather be your lover,” he
whispered. “My giant,” she whispered back. In answer, he embraced her again,
and then leaned back, lifting her off
her feet. She laughed as he whirled her around like a child. The way her father
had done when she was little. The way he would never do with their children.
“Why are you crying?” he asked her.
“It’s
just tears in my eyes,” she said. “It’s not crying. You’ve seen crying, and
this isn’t it. These are happy-to-see-you tears.”
“You’re
just happy to be in a place where trees grow without waiting around to be
planted and irrigated.”
They
walked out of the airport a few minutes later and he was right, she was happy
to be out of the desert. In the years they had lived in Ribeirào she had
discovered an affinity for lush places. She needed the Earth to be alive around
her, everything green, all that photosynthesis going on in public, without a
speck of modesty. Things that ate sunlight and drank rain. “It’s good to be
home,” she said.
“Now
I’m home, too,” said Bean.
“You
were here already,” she said. “But you weren’t, till now.”
She
sighed and clung to him a little. They took the first cab.
They went to the Hegemony compound, of course,
but instead of going to their house-it indeed, it was their house, since they
had given it up when they resigned from the Hegemon’s service that day back in
the Philippines-Bean took her right to the Hegemon’s office.
Peter
was waiting there for her, along with Graff and the Wiggins. There were hugs
that became kisses and handshakes that became hugs.
Peter
told all about what happened up in space. Then they made Petra tell about
Damascus, though she protested that it was nothing at all, just a city happy
with victory.
“The
war’s not over yet,” said Peter.
“They’re
full of Muslim unity,” said Petra.
“Next
thing you know,” said Graff, “the Christians and Jews will get back together.
The only thing standing between them, after all, is that business with Jesus.”
“It’s
a good thing,” said Theresa, “to have a little less division in the world.”
“I
think it’s going to take a lot of divisions,” said John Paul, “to bring about
less division.”
“I
told you they were happy in Damascus, not that I thought they were right to
be,” said Petra. “There are signs of trouble ahead. There’s an imam preaching
that India and Pakistan should be reunited under a single government again.”
“Let
me guess,” said Peter. “A Muslim one.”
“If
they liked what Virlomi did to the Chinese,” said Bean, “they’ll love what she
can get the Hindus to do to get free of the Pakistanis.”
“And
Peter will love this one,” said Petra. “An Iraqi politician made a speech in
Baghdad in which he very pointedly said, ‘In a world where Allah has chosen a
Caliph, why do we need a Hegemon?’”
They
laughed, but their faces were serious when the laughing stopped.
“Maybe
he’s right,” said Peter “Maybe when this war is over, the Caliph will be the
Hegemon, in fact if not in name. Is that a bad thing? The goal was to unite the
world in peace. I volunteered to do it, but if somebody else gets it done, I’m
not going to get anybody killed just to take the job away from him.”
Theresa
took hold of his wrist, and Graff chuckled. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll
understand why I’ve been supporting you all these years.”
“The
Caliph is not going to replace the Hegemon,” said Bean, “or erase the need for
one.”
“No?”
asked Peter.
“Because
a leader can’t take his people to a place where they don’t want to go.”
“But
they want him to rule the world,” said Petra.
“But
to rule the world, he has to keep the whole world content with his rule,” said
Bean. “And how can he keep non-Muslims content without making orthodox Muslims
extremely discontented? It’s what the Chinese found in India. You can’t swallow
a nation. It finds a way to get itself vomited out. Begging your pardon,
Petra.”
“So
your friend Alai will realize this, and not try to rule over non-Muslim
people?” asked Theresa.
“Our
friend Alai would have no problem with that idea,” said Petra. “The question is
whether the Caliph will.”
“I
hope we won’t remember this day,” said Graff, “as the time when we first
started fighting the next war.”
Peter
spoke up. “As I said before, this war’s not over yet.”
“Both
of the frontline Chinese armies in India have been surrounded and the noose is
tightening,” said Graff. “I don’t think they have a Stalingrad-style defense in
them, do you? The Turkic armies have reached the Hwang He and Tibet just
declared its independence and is slaughtering the Chinese troops there. The
Indonesians and Arabs are impossible to catch and they’re already making a
serious dent in internal communications in China. It’s just a matter of time
before they realize it’s pointless to keep killing people when the outcome is
inevitable.”
“It
takes a lot of dead soldiers before governments ever catch on to that,” said
Theresa.
“Mother
always takes the cheerful view,” said Peter, and they laughed.
Finally,
though, it was time for Petra to hear the story of what happened inside the
compound. Peter ended up telling most of it, because Bean kept skipping all the
details and rushing straight to the end.
“Do
you think Achilles believed Suriyawong would really kill Bean for him?” asked
Petra.
“I
think,” said Bean, “that Suriyawong told him that he would.”
“You
mean he intended to do it, and changed his mind?”
“I
think,” said Bean, “that Sun planned that moment from the start. He made
himself indispensable to Achilles. He won his trust. The cost of it was losing
the trust of everyone else.”
“Except
you,” said Petra.
“Well,
you see, I know Sun. Even though you can’t ever really know anybody-don’t throw
my own words back up to me, Petra-”
“I
didn’t! I wasn’t!”
“I
walked into the compound without a plan, and with only one real advantage. I
knew two things that Achilles didn’t know. I knew that Sun would never give
himself to the service of a man like Achilles, so if he seemed to be doing so,
it was a lie. And I knew something about myself. I knew that I could, in fact,
kill a man in cold blood if that’s what it took to make my wife and children
safe.”
“Yes,”
said Peter, “I think that’s the one thing he just didn’t believe, not even at
the end.”
“It
wasn’t cold blood,” said Theresa.
“Yes
it was,” said Bean.
“It
was, Mother,” said Peter. “It was the right thing to do, and he chose to do it,
and it was done. Without having to work himself up into a frenzy to do it.”
“That’s
what heroes do,” said Petra. “Whatever’s necessary for the good of their
people.”
“When
we start saying words like ‘hero,’ “ said Bean, “it’s time to go home.”
“Already?”
said Theresa. “I mean, Petra just got here. And I have to tell her all my
horrible stories about how hard each of my deliveries was. It’s my duty to
terrify the mother-to-be. It’s a tradition.”
“Don’t
worry, Mrs. Wiggin,” said Bean. “I’ll bring her back every few days, at least.
It’s not that far.”
“Bring
me back?” said Petra.
“We
left the Hegemon’s employ, remember?” said Bean. “We only worked for him so
we’d have a legal pretext for fighting Achilles and the Chinese. So there’d be
nothing for us to do. We have enough money from our Battle School pensions. So
we aren’t going to live in Ribeirao Preto.”
“But
I like it here,” said Petra.
“Uh-oh,
a fight, a fight,” said John Paul.
“Only
because you haven’t lived in Araraquara yet. It’s a better place to raise
children.”
“I
know Araraquara,” said Petra. “You lived there with Sister Carlotta, didn’t
you?”
“I
lived everywhere with Sister Carlotta,” said Bean. “But it’s a good place to
raise children.”
“You’re
Greek and I’m Armenian. Of course we need to raise our children to speak
Portuguese.”
The house Bean had rented was small, but it
had a second bedroom for the baby, and a lovely little garden, and monkeys that
lived in the tall trees on the property behind them. Petra imagined her little
girl or boy coming out to play and hearing the chatter of the monkeys and
delighting in the show they put on for all comers.
“But
there’s no furniture,” said Petra.
“I
knew I was taking my life in my hands picking out the house without you,” said
Bean. “The furniture is up to you.”
“Good,” said Petra. “I’ll make you sleep in a
frilly pink room.” “Will you be sleeping there with me?”
“Of
course.”
“Then
frilly pink is fine with me, if that’s what it takes.”
Peter, unsentimental as he was, saw no reason
to hold a funeral for Achilles. But Bean insisted on at least a graveside
service, and he paid for the carving of the monument. Under the name “Achilles
de Flandres,” the year of his birth, and the date of his death, the inscription
said:
Born crippled in body and spirit,
He changed the face of the world.
Among all the hearts he broke
And lives he ended far too young
Were his own heart
And his own life.
May he find peace.
It was a small group gathered there in the
cemetery in Ribcirao Preto.
Bean and Petra, the Wiggins, Peter Graff had
gone back to space.
Suriyawong had led his little army back to
Thailand, to help their
homeland drive out the conquerors and restore
itself.
No
one had anything much to say over Achilles’s grave. They could not pretend that
they weren’t all glad that he was dead. Bean read the inscription he had
written, and everyone agreed that it wasn’t just fair to Achilles, it was
generous.
In
the end it was only Peter who had something he could say from the heart.
“Am
I the only one here who sees something of himself in the man who’s lying in
this box?”
No
one had an answer for him, either yes or no.
Three bloody weeks later, the war ended. If
the Chinese had accepted the terms the Caliph had offered in the first place,
they would have lost only their new conquests, plus Xinjiang and Tibet.
Instead, they waited until Canton had fallen, Shanghai was besieged, and the
Turkic troops were surrounding Beijing.
So
when the Caliph drew the new map, the province of Inner Mongolia was given to
the nation of Mongolia, and Manchuria and Taiwan were given their independence.
And China had to guarantee the safety of teachers of religion. The door had
been opened to Muslim proselytizing.
The
Chinese government promptly fell. The new government repudiated the ceasefire
terms, and the Caliph declared martial law until new elections could be held.
And
somewhere in the rugged terrain of easternmost India, the goddess of the bridge
lived among her worshipers, biding her time, watching to see whether India was
going to be free or had merely changed one tyranny for another. In the
aftermath of war, while Indians, Thais, Burmese, Vietnamese, Cambodians and
Laotians searched their onetime conquerors’ land for family members who had
been carried off Bean and Petra also searched as best they could by computer,
hoping to find some record of what Volescu and Achilles had done with their
lost children.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In writing this sequel to Ender's Shadow and
Shadow of the Hegemon, I faced two new problems. First, I was expanding the
roles of several minor characters from earlier books, and ran the serious risk
of inventing aspects of their appearance or their past that would contradict
some long-forgotten detail in a previous volume. To avoid this as much as
possible, I relied on two online communities.
The
Philotic Web (http://www.philoticweb.net) carries a timeline combining the
story flows of Ender~c Game and Ender’s Shadow, which proved invaluable to me.
It was created by Nathan M. Taylor with the help of Adam Spieckermann.
On
my own website, Hatrack River (http://www.hatrack.com), I posted the first five
chapters of the manuscript of this novel, in the hope that readers who had read
the other books in the series more recently than I might be able to catch
inadvertent inconsistencies and other problems. The Hatrack River community did
not disappoint me. Among the many who responded-and I thank them all-I found
particular value in the suggestions of Keiko A. Haun (“accio”), .Justin Pollen,
Chris Bridges, Josh Galvez (“Zevlag”), David Tayman (“Taalcon”), Alison Purnell
(“Eaquae Legit”), Vicki Norris (“CKDexterHaven”), Michael Sloan (“Papa Moose”),
and Oliver Withstandley.
In
addition, I had the help, chapter by chapter through the whole book, of my
regular crew of first readers-Phillip and Em Absher, Kathryn H. Kidd, and my
son Geoffrey. My wife, Kristine A. Card, as usual read each chapter while the
pages were still warm from the LaserJet. Without them I could not have
proceeded with this book.
The
second problem posed by this novel was that I wrote it during the war in
Afghanistan between the U.S. and its allies and the Taliban and Al Qaeda
forces. Since in Shadow Puppets I had to show the future state of relations
between the Muslim and Western worlds, and between Israel and its Muslim
neighbors, I had to make a prediction about how the current hate-filled
situation might someday be resolved. Since I take quite seriously my
responsibility to the nations and peoples I write about, I was dependent for
much of my understanding of the causes of the present situation on Bernard
Lewis’s What Went Wrong?: Western Impact and Middle Eastern Response (Oxford
University Press, 2001).
This
book is dedicated to my wife’s parents. Besides the fact that much of the peace
and joy in Kristine’s and my lives comes from our close and harmonious
relationship with both our extended families, I owe an additional debt to James
B. Allen, for his excellent work as a historian, yes, but more personally for
having taught me to approach history fearlessly, going wherever the evidence
leads, assuming neither the best nor the worst about people of the past, and
adapting my personal worldview wherever it needs adjustment, but never
carelessly throwing out previous ideas that remain valid.
To
my assistants, Kathleen Bellamy and Scott Allen, I owe much more than I pay
them. As for my children, Geoffrey, Emily. and Zina, and my wife, Kristine,
they are the reason it’s worth getting out of bed each day.