espera..

GROWN


From: NoAddress@Untraceable.com  #14h9cc0/SIGN UP NOW AND STAY ANONYMOUS!
To: Trireme%Salamis@Attica-vs-Sparta.hst
Re: Final decision


Wiggin:


Subj not to be killed. Subj 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.


If your intelligence outweighs your ambition you will kill him. If vice versa, you will try to use him. You did not ask my advice, but I have seen him in action: Kill him.


True,  without  an 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.


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 set-up. 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 DC 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 grownup 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?



Bean.

“I hope you aren't insane enough to be coming along on this mission,” said



“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 claims about what would happen always made him a little tired.


“Godspeed,” said Bean to Suriyawong. Sometimes when he said this, Bean remembered Sister Carlotta and wondered if she was actually with God now, and perhaps heard Bean say the closest thing to a 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 of  heavy weaponry, because he expected to remain with the choppers during this operation. There were

times when the commander  had to lead 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.





all.”

“Unless the new orders you gave Suriyawong were to kill the prisoner after



“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 Mindanao 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 coopts 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.





caught.”

“I've  done  this  before,  Petra.  Going  into  hiding.  Keeping  from  getting



“And if we're together we're too identifiable, la la la,” she said. “Saying 'la la la' 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.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER TWO


SURIYAWONG'S KNIFE


From: Salaam%Spaceboy@Inshallah.com To: Watcher%OnDuty@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 country.


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, Alai


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.





family.

He had even entertained, briefly, the thought that it might be one of his own

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.





war.

He's not a soldier, he's a prisoner. To kill him would be murder, even in a



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  disinfo 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 backblast 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.”





asked.

Achilles held up the bloody thing, dangling it from the point. “Yours?” he

“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?”





hungry?”

“Yes,” said Suriyawong. “Did you already have breakfast or  are you



“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 Ribeirao Preto. There was one person who had to know that Achilles was coming to stay with the Hegemon: Virlomi, the Indian  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.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER THREE


MOMMIES AND DADDIES


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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 JD and PA in hiding, and S compromised by having rescued X, persons close to them are 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. JD'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.


PW



Theresa 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 followup 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.”





that.”

“He's bringing a dangerous person here,” said Graff. “But I think you know



“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 Ribeirao 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.”





Graff.

“You seem to have a very clear view of all the future possibilities,”  said



“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 child-bearing 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 Graff. “I think you're right not to go.” “Oh.”
“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 Graff. “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. Graff 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 Graff, “you didn't let us see him. You took Val to him, but not his father, not me.”


“I'm sorry,” said Graff. “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 Graff. “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 Graff. “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 Graff, “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.”
Graff 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 Graff 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. Graff 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 Graff'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.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER FOUR


CHOPIN


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To:   Rythian%Iegume@nowyouseeitdontyou.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 Rythian%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 offworld, 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, Suri 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 Suri? 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.”



Bean.”

“No, you're superhuman,”  she said in disgust. “There's no talking to you,



“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 selfcontrolled 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.





enemy.”

“My point is that whether they want us or not, we're the enemy of their






all.”

“We're two children, with no army and no information to sell, no leverage at



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 I 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.





Petra.

“None of us in Battle School actually had much experience of either,” said



“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 scart 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 right 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.





was.

"Ambul. I know who you are, and I assumed Bean would have told you who I



“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 I 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.





Petra.

“Is that why you weren't in Thailand when the Chinese invaded?” asked



“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 divided 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 girltoy 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.





times.”

“She's not that good,” said Bean. “I've come close to noticing her several



“So,” said Ambul. “Suri went ahead and hoisted Achilles out of China.”





one.”

“Of all the missions to execute flawlessly,” said Bean, “Suri had to pick that



“I, on the other hand,” said Ainbul, “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. “I 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.”


“E[?],” said Ambul, “and they achieve that by not letting any nonMuslims 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.”





people.”

“The Vatican has those,” said Petra. “But they only give them to their top



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 I 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.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER FIVE


STONES IN THE ROAD



From: PW To:   TW
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 (a) 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: TW 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 Ribeirao 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 Ribeirao 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 itselt 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 nothing 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 retumbled 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. “I 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 wallbuilders.


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. The Taj Mahal. The Children of India. The Indian Harvest.


All the names were poetry to her All the names said freedom.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER SIX


HOSPITALITY


From: Flandres%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 IDL 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 law(s} which each IDL 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 “respectfor-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.





cards.”

“Because,” said Achilles, “it's hard to win when your opponent holds all the



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 reliable 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 cliche 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.





door.

“What did you want to see me about, Peter?” asked Father, standing near the



“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 Suri 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 Suri'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.

Card, Orson Scott - Ender 07 - Shadow Puppets (v2.1)

CHAPTER SEVEN


THE HUMAN RACE


From: unready%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%Tecumseh@freeamerica.org
To:   unready%cincinnatus@anon.set
Re:   Good call



Good call. Not safe. Here's what. If there's something I 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 IDL 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 gamboling 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.





human.”

“She brought you here,” said Anton, “so I can persuade you that you are



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.”





sounded.

“I'm happy for you,” said Bean, surprised at how bitter and insincere he



“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, well, 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. Alt 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, taughing. “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 sellfish!”


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.





much.

The pain he could bear himselt he refused to let them bear, he loved them so



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.”





body.

“Volescu,” said Petra, as if the name were a bullet to be pried out of her



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 case, 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.”