Shadow of the Giant Page 6

  "Even if you have to have the help of non-humans like me."

  "Bean, when I spoke of human beings at their best, whom do you think I was talking about?"

  "Ender Wiggin," said Bean.

  "And Julian Delphiki," said Rackham. "The other little boy we trusted to save the world."

  Bean shook his head and stood up. "Not so little now," said Bean. "And dying. But I'll take your offer because it gives me a hope for my little family. And apart from that, I have no hope at all. Tell me where Volescu is, and I'll go see him."

  "You'll have to secure him yourself," said Rackham. "We can't have I.F. agents involved."

  "Give me the address and I'll do the rest."

  Bean ducked again to leave the room. And he was trembling as he walked through the park, back toward his office in the Hegemony compound. Huge armies prepared to clash, in a struggle for supremacy. And off to one side, not even on the surface of Earth, there were a handful of men who intended to turn those armies to their own purposes.

  They were Archimedes, preparing to move the Earth because they finally had a lever big enough.

  I'm the lever.

  And I'm not as big as they think I am. Not as big as I seem. It can't be done.

  Yet it might just be worth doing.

  So I'll let them use me to try to pry the world of men loose from its age-old path of competition and war.

  And I'll use them to try to save my life and the lives of my children who share my disease.

  And the chance of both projects succeeding is so slim that the odds are much better of the Earth being hit by a disastrously huge meteor first.

  Then again, they probably already have a plan to deal with a meteor strike. They probably have a plan for everything. Even a plan they can turn to if...when...I fail.

  5

  SHIVA

  From: Figurehead%Parent@hegemon.gov

  To: PeterWiggin%Private@hegemon.gov

  Password: ********

  Re: Speaking as a mother

  After all these years of posing as the Madonna in your little Pieta, it occurs to me that I might whisper something in your oh-so busy ear:

  Ever since Achilles's little kidnapping venture, the not-so-secret weapon in everyone's arsenal is whatever array of Battle School graduates they're able to acquire, keep, and deploy. Now it's even worse. Alai is Caliph in fact as well as name. Han Tzu is emperor of China. Virlomi is...what, a goddess? That's what I hear, coming out of India.

  Now they will go to war against each other.

  What are YOU doing? Betting on the winner and choosing up sides?

  Quite apart from the fact that many of these children were Ender's friends and fellow soldiers, the whole human race owes them our very survival. We took away their childhood. When do they get a life they can call their own?

  Peter, I've read history. Men like Genghis and Alexander were deprived of a normal childhood and absolutely focused on war and you know what? It deformed them. They were unhappy all the days of their lives. Alexander didn't know who he was when he stopped conquering people. If he stopped moving forward, slaughtering all the way, he died.

  So how about setting these children free? Have you given any thought to that? Talk to Graff. He'll listen to you. Give these children an out. A chance. A life.

  If for no other reason than because they're Andrew's friends. They're like Andrew. They didn't choose themselves for Battle School.

  You, on the other hand, didn't go to Battle School. You volunteered to save the world. So you have to stay and see it through.

  Your loving and ever-supportive mother

  A woman's face appeared on the screen. She was dressed in the simple work-stained clothing of a Hindu peasant woman. But she bore herself like a lady of the highest caste--a concept that still had meaning, despite the long-ago banning of all outward markers of caste.

  Peter did not know her. But Petra did. "It's Virlomi."

  "All this time," said Bean, "she hasn't shown her face. Till now."

  "I wonder," said Petra, "how many thousands of people in India already know her face."

  "Let's listen," said Peter. He moused the PLAY button.

  "No one is faithful to God who has no choice. That is why Hindus are truly faithful, for they may choose not to be Hindus and no harm comes to them.

  "And that is why there are no true Muslims in the world, because they may not choose to cease to be Muslims. If a Muslim tries to become a Hindu or a Christian or even a simple unbeliever, some fanatical Muslim will kill him."

  Pictures were flashed on the screen of beheaded bodies. Well-known images, but still potent as propaganda.

  "Islam is a religion that has no believers," she said. "Only people who are compelled to call themselves Muslims and live as Muslims under fear of death."

  Standard pictures of Muslims en masse, bowing down to pray--the very footage that was often used to show the piety of Muslim populations. But now, framed as Virlomi had framed it, the images seemed to be those of puppets, acting in unison out of fear.

  Her face reappeared on the screen. "Caliph Alai: We welcomed your armies as liberators. We sabotaged and spied and blocked Chinese supply routes to help you defeat our enemy. But your followers seem to think they conquered India rather than liberating us. You did not conquer India. You will never conquer India."

  Now there was new footage: Ragged Indian peasants bearing modern Chinese arms, marching like old-fashioned soldiers.

  "We have no need of false Muslim soldiers. We have no need of false Muslim teachers. We will never accept any Muslim presence on Indian soil until Islam becomes a true religion and allows people the freedom to choose not to be Muslim, without any penalty."

  Virlomi's face again. "Do you think your mighty armies can conquer India? Then you do not know the power of God, for God will always help those who defend their homeland. Any Muslim that we kill on Indian soil will go straight to hell, for he does not serve God, he serves Shaitan. Any imam who tells you otherwise is a liar and a shaitan himself. If you obey him, you will be condemned. Be true Muslims and go home to your families and live at peace, and let us live in peace with our own families, in our own land."

  Her face looked calm and sweet as she uttered these condemnations and threats. Now she smiled. Peter thought she must have practiced the smile for hours, for days in front of a mirror, because she absolutely looked like a god, even though he had never seen a god and did not know how one should look. She was radiant. Was it a trick of the light?

  "My blessing upon India. I bless the Great Wall of India. I bless the soldiers who fight for India. I bless the farmers who feed India. I bless the women who give birth to India and raise India to manhood and womanhood. I bless the great powers of the Earth who unite to help us regain our stolen freedom. I bless the Indians of Pakistan who have embraced the false religion of Islam: Make your religion true by going home and letting us choose not to be Muslim. Then we will live at peace with you, and God will bless you.

  "My blessing above all blessings on Caliph Alai. O noble of heart, prove that I am wrong. Make Islam a true religion by giving freedom to all Muslims. Only when Muslims can choose not to be Muslims are there any Muslims on Earth. Set your people free to serve God instead of being captives of fear and hate. If you are not the conqueror of India, then you will be the friend of India. But if you intend to be the conqueror of India, then you will make yourself nothing in the eyes of God."

  Great tears rolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. This was all done in a single take, so the tears were real enough. What an actress, thought Peter.

  "Oh, Caliph Alai, how I long to embrace you as a brother and friend. Why do your servants make war on me?"

  She made a strange series of movements with her hands, then drew three fingers backhanded across her forehead.

  "I am Mother India," she said. "Fight for me, my children."

  Her image remained on the screen as all motion stopped.

  Peter looked from B
ean to Petra and back again. "So my question is simple enough. Is she insane? Does she really believe she's a god? And will this work?"

  "What was that business at the end, with the fingers on her forehead?" asked Bean.

  "She was drawing the mark of Shiva the Destroyer on her forehead," said Peter. "It was a call to war." He sighed. "They'll be destroyed."

  "Who?" said Petra.

  "Her followers," said Peter.

  "Alai won't let them," said Bean.

  "If he tries to stop them, he'll fail," said Peter. "Which may be what she wants."

  "No," said Petra. "Don't you see? The Muslim occupation of India absolutely counts on supplying their armies from Indian produce and Indian revenues. But Shiva will be there first. They'll destroy their own crops rather than let the Muslims have it."

  "Then they'll die in famine," said Peter.

  "And they'll absorb many bullets," said Petra, "and beheaded Hindu bodies will litter the ground. But then the Muslims will run out of bullets and they'll discover that they can't get more because the roads are blocked. And for every Hindu they killed, there will be ten more to overwhelm them with their bare hands. Virlomi understands her nation. Her people."

  "And all of this you understand," said Peter, "because you were a prisoner in India for a few months?"

  "India has never been led into war by a god," said Petra. "India has never gone to war with perfect unity."

  "A guerrilla war," insisted Peter.

  "You'll see," said Petra. "Virlomi knows what she's doing."

  "She wasn't even part of Ender's Jeesh," said Peter. "Alai was. So he's smarter, right?"

  Petra and Bean looked at each other.

  "Peter, it's not about brains," said Bean. "It's about playing the hand you're dealt."

  "Virlomi has the stronger hand," said Petra.

  "I don't see it," said Peter. "What am I missing?"

  "Han Tzu won't just sit there while the Muslim armies try to subdue India. The Muslim supply lines either run across the vast Asian desert or through India or by sea from Indonesia. If the Indian supply lines are cut, how long can Alai hold his armies there in numbers sufficient to keep Han Tzu contained?"

  Peter nodded. "So you think Alai will run out of food and bullets before Virlomi runs out of Indians."

  "I think," said Bean, "that what we just saw was a marriage proposal."

  Peter laughed. But since Bean and Petra weren't laughing..."What are you talking about?"

  "Virlomi is India," said Bean. "She just said so. And Han Tzu is China. And Alai is Islam. So will it be India and China against the world, or Islam and India against the world? Who can sell that marriage to their own people? Which throne will sit beside the throne of India? Whichever one it is, that's more than half the population of the world, united."

  Peter closed his eyes. "So we don't want either to happen."

  "Don't worry," said Bean. "Whichever happens, it won't last."

  "You're not always right," said Peter. "You can't see that far ahead."

  Bean shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. I'll be dead before it all shakes out."

  Petra growled and stood up and paced.

  "I don't know what to do," said Peter. "I tried to talk to Alai, and all I did was provoke a coup. Or rather, Petra did that." He couldn't hide his annoyance. "I wanted him to control his people, but they're out of control. They're roasting cows in the streets of Madras and Bombay and then killing the Hindus who riot. They're beheading any Indian that someone accuses of being a lapsed Muslim--or even the grandchild of lapsed Muslims. Do I just sit here and watch the world collapse into war?"

  Petra snapped at him. "I thought that was part of your plan. To make yourself seem indispensable."

  "I don't have a great plan," said Peter. "I just...respond. And I'm asking you about it instead of figuring things out on my own because the last time I ignored your advice it was a disaster. But now I find out you don't actually have any advice. Just predictions and assumptions."

  "I'm sorry," said Bean. "It didn't cross my mind you were asking for advice."

  "Well, I am," said Peter.

  "Here's my advice," said Bean. "Your goal isn't to avoid war."

  "Yes it is," said Peter.

  Bean rolled his eyes. "So much for listening."

  "I'm listening," said Peter.

  "Your goal is to establish a new order in which war between nations becomes impossible. But to get to that utopian place, there's going to have to be enough war that people will know the thing they're desperate to avoid."

  "I'm not going to encourage war," said Peter. "It would discredit me completely as a peacemaker. I got this job because I'm Locke!"

  "If you stop objecting and listen," said Petra, "you'll eventually get Bean's advice."

  "I'm the great strategist, after all," said Bean with a wry smile. "And the tallest man in the Hegemony compound."

  "I'm listening," said Peter again.

  "You're right, you can't encourage war. But you also can't afford to try to stop wars that can't be stopped. If you're seen to try and fail, you're weak. The reason Locke was able to broker a peace between the Warsaw Pact and the West was that neither side wanted war. America wanted to stay home and make money, and Russia didn't want to run the risk of provoking I.F. intervention. You can only negotiate peace when both sides want it--badly enough to give up something in order to get it. Right now, nobody wants to negotiate. The Indians can't--they're occupied, and their occupiers don't believe they pose a threat. The Chinese can't--it's politically impossible for a Chinese ruler to settle for any boundary short of the borders of Han China. And Alai can't because his own people are so flushed with victory that they can't see any reason to give anything up."

  "So I do nothing."

  "You organize relief efforts for the famine in India," said Petra.

  "The famine that Virlomi is going to cause."

  Petra shrugged.

  "So I wait until everybody's sick of war," said Peter.

  "No," said Bean. "You wait until the exact moment when peace is possible. Wait too long, and the bitterness will run too deep for peace."

  "How do I know when the time is right?"

  "Beats me," said Bean.

  "You're the smart ones," said Peter. "Everyone says so."

  "Stop the humble act," said Petra. "You understand perfectly what we're saying. Why are you so angry? Any plan we make now will crumble the first time somebody makes a move that isn't on our script."

  Peter realized that it wasn't them he was angry at. It was his mother and her ridiculous letter. As if he had the power to "rescue" the Caliph and the Chinese emperor and this brand new Indian goddess and "set them free" when they had all clearly maneuvered themselves into the positions they were in.

  "I just don't see," said Peter, "how I can turn any of this to my advantage."

  "You just have to watch and keep meddling," said Bean, "until you see a place where you can insert yourself."

  "That's what I've been doing for years."

  "And very well, too," said Petra. "Can we go now?"

  "Go!" said Peter. "Get your evil scientist. I'll save the world while you're out."

  "We expect no less," said Bean. "Just remember that you asked for the job. We didn't."

  They got up. They started for the door.

  "Wait a minute," said Peter.

  They waited.

  "I just realized something," Peter said.

  They waited some more.

  "You don't care."

  Bean looked at Petra. Petra looked at Bean. "What do you mean we don't care?" said Bean.

  "How can you say that?" said Petra. "It's war, it's death, it's the fate of the world."

  "You're treating it like...like I was asking advice about a cruise. Which cruise line to go on. Or...or a poem, whether the rhymes are good."

  Again they looked at each other.

  "And when you look at each other like that," said Peter. "It's like you're laughing, onl
y you're too polite to show it."

  "We're not polite people," said Petra. "Especially not Julian."

  "No, that's right, it's not that you're polite. It's that you're so much wrapped up in each other that you don't have to laugh, it's like you already laughed and only you two know about it."

  "This is all so interesting, Peter," said Bean. "Can we go now?"

  "He's right," said Petra. "We aren't involved. Like he is, I mean. But it's not that we don't care, Peter. We care even more than you do. We just don't want to get involved in doing anything about it because...."

  They looked at each other again and then, without saying another word, they started to leave.

  "Because you're married," said Peter. "Because you're pregnant. Because you're going to have a baby."

  "Babies," said Bean. "And we'd like to get on with trying to find out what happened to them."

  "You've resigned from the human race is what you've done," said Peter. "Because you invented marriage and children, suddenly you don't have to be part of anything."

  "Opposite," said Petra. "We've joined the human race. We're like most people. Our life together is everything. Our children are everything. The rest is--we do what we have to. Anything to protect our children. And then beyond that, what we have to. But it doesn't matter to us as much. I'm sorry that bothers you."

  "It doesn't bother me," said Peter. "It did before I understood what I was seeing. Now I think...sure, it's normal. I think my parents are like that. I think that's why I thought they were stupid. Because they didn't seem to care about the outside world. All they cared about was each other and us kids."

  "I think the therapy is proceeding nicely," said Bean. "Now say three Hail Marys while we get on with our limited domestic concerns, which involve attack helicopters and getting to Volescu before he makes another change of address and identity."

  And they were gone.

  Peter seethed. They thought they knew something that nobody else knew. They thought they knew what life was about. But they could only have a life like that because people like Peter--and Han Tzu and Alai and that wacko self-deifying Virlomi--actually concentrated on important matters and tried to make the world a better place.

  Then Peter remembered that Bean had said almost exactly what his mother said. That Peter chose to be Hegemon, and now he had to work it out on his own.

  Like a kid who tries out for the school play but he doesn't like the part he's been given. Only if he backs out now the show can't go on because he has no understudy. So he's got to stick it out.