Shadow of the Giant (23 page)

“Couldn’t you?”

“I never had two infants at the same time, let alone three. There aren’t many multiple births in our family.”

“Well, I’ve found the perfect way to have nonuplets. Get eight other women to help.” She managed a feeble laugh at her own black humor.

The baby cried again.

“It’s definitely Bella, she’s always more insistent. Bean will change her, and then he’ll bring her to me.”

“I could do that and he could go back to sleep,” Mother offered.

“It’s some of our best time together,” said Petra. “Caring for the babies.”

Mother pecked her on the cheek. “I can take a hint.”

“Thanks for talking to me, Mother.”

“Thanks for coming home.”

Mother went inside. Petra stood at the edge of the balcony. After a while, Bean came padding out in bare feet. Petra pulled her T-shirt up and Bella started slurping noisily. “Good thing your brother Ender got my milk factory started,” said Petra. “Or it would have been the bottle for you.”

As she stood there, nursing Bella and looking out over the nighttime city, Bean’s huge hands held her shoulders and stroked her arms. So gentle. So kind.

Once as tiny as this little girl.

But always a giant, long before his body showed it.

Caliph Alai and Virlomi sat beside each other at the head of a conference table in Chichlam—which the Muslim press still called Hyderabad.

Alai couldn’t understand why it bothered Virlomi that he refused to insist that the Muslims call the city by its pre-Muslim name. He had problems enough to worry about without a needlessly humiliating name change. After all, the Indians hadn’t
won
their independence. They had married their way to self-government. Which was a far better method than war—but without having won a victory on the field of battle, it was unseemly for Virlomi to insist on tokens of triumph like making your undefeated conquerors change the name
they
used to refer to their own seat of government.

In the past few days, Alai and Virlomi had met with several groups.

At a conference of heads of Muslim states they had listened to the woes and suggestions of such widely separated peoples as Indonesians, Algerians, Kazakhs, and Yemenis.

At a much quieter conference of Muslim minorities, they had indulged the revolutionary fantasies of Filipino, French, Spanish, and Thai would-be jihadists.

And in between, they had put on banquets for—and listened to stern counsel from—the French, American, and Russian foreign ministers.

These lords of the ancient, weary empires—hadn’t they noticed that their nations had long since retired from the world? Yes, the Russians and Americans still had a formidable military, but where was their will to empire? They thought they could still boss around people like Alai, who had power and knew how to use it.

But it did Caliph Alai no harm to pretend that these nations still mattered in the world. Placate them with wise nods and palliative words, and they would go home and feel good about having helped promote “peace on Earth.”

Alai had complained to Virlomi afterward. Wasn’t it enough for the Americans that the whole world used their dollar and let them dominate the I.F.? Wasn’t it enough for the Russians that Caliph Alai was keeping his armies away from their frontier and was doing nothing to support Muslim rebel groups inside their borders?

And the French—what did they expect Alai to
do
when he heard what their government’s opinion was? Didn’t they understand that they were spectators now in the great game, by their own choice? The players were not going to let the fans call the plays, no matter how well they played back in their day.

Virlomi listened benignly and said nothing in all these meetings. Most of the visitors came away with the impression that she was a figurehead, and Caliph Alai was in complete control. This impression did no harm. But as Alai and his closest advisers knew, it was also completely false.

Today’s meeting was far more important. Gathered at this table were the men who actually ran the Muslim empire—the men Alai trusted, who made sure that the heads of the various Muslim states did what Alai needed them to do, without chafing at how thoroughly they were under the Caliph’s thumb. Since Alai had the ecstatic support of most of the Muslim people, he had enormous leverage in gaining the cooperation of their governments. But Alai did not yet have the clout to set up an independent system of finance. So he was dependent on contributions from the various republics and kingdoms and Islamic states that served him.

The men at this table made sure that the money flowed inward toward Hyderabad, and obedience flowed outward, with the least possible friction.

The most remarkable thing about these men was that they were no richer now than they had been when he appointed them. Despite all their opportunities to take a bribe here or exact a bit of a kickback there, they had remained pure. They were motivated by devotion to the Caliph’s cause and pride in their positions of trust and honor.

Instead of one wazir, Alai had a dozen. They were gathered at this table, to counsel him and hear his decisions.

And every single one of them resented Virlomi’s presence at the table.

And Virlomi did nothing to help alleviate this. Because even though she spoke softly and briefly, she persisted in using the quiet voice and enigmatic attitude that had played so well among Hindus. But Muslims had no goddess tradition, except perhaps in Indonesia and Malaysia, where they were especially alert to stamp out such tendencies where they found them. Virlomi was like an alien being among them.

There were no cameras here. The role wasn’t working for this audience. So why did she persist in acting the goddess here?

Was it possible she believed it? That after years of playing the part in order to keep Indian resistance alive she now believed that she was divinely inspired? Ridiculous to think she actually believed she was divine herself. If the Muslim people ever believed she thought
that,
they would expect Alai to divorce her and have done with this nonsense. They accepted the idea that the Caliph, like Solomon of old, might marry women from many kingdoms in order to symbolize the submission of those kingdoms to Islam as a wife submits to a husband.

She couldn’t believe she was a goddess. Alai was sure of that. Such superstitions would have been stamped out in Battle School.

Then again, Battle School was over years ago, and Virlomi had lived in isolation and adulation during most of that time. Things had happened that would change anybody. She had told him about the campaign of stones in the road, the “Great Wall of India,” how she had seen her own actions turn into a vast movement. About how she first became a holy woman and then a goddess in hiding in eastern India.

When she taught him about Satyagraha, he thought he understood. You sacrifice anything and everything in order to stand for what’s right without causing harm to another.

And yet she had also killed men with a gun she held in her own hand. There were times when she did not shrink from war. When she told him of her band of warriors who had stood off the whole Chinese army, preventing them from flooding back into India, from even resupplying the armies that Alai’s Persians and Pakistanis were systematically destroying, he realized how much he owed to her brilliance as a commander, as a leader who could inspire incredible acts of bravery from her soldiers, as a teacher who could train peasants to be brutally efficient soldiers.

Somewhere between Satyagraha and slaughter, there had to be a place where Virlomi—the girl from Battle School—actually lived.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps the cruel contradictions of her own actions had led her to put the responsibility elsewhere. She served the gods. She was a god herself. Therefore it was not wrong for her to live by Satyagraha one day, and wipe out an entire convoy in a landslide the next.

The irony was that the longer he lived with her, the more Alai loved her. She was a sweet and generous lover, and she talked with him openly, girlishly, as if they were friends in school. As if they were still children.

Which we are, aren’t we?

No. Alai was a man now, despite being in his teens. And Virlomi was older than he was, not a child at all.

But they had had no childhood. Alone together, their marriage was more like
playing
at being husband and wife than anything else. It was still fun.

And when they came to a meeting like this, Virlomi could switch off that playfulness, set aside the natural girl and become the irritating Hindu goddess that continued to drive a wedge between Caliph Alai and his most trusted servants.

Naturally, the counsel was worried about Peter Wiggin and Bean and Petra and Suriyawong. That Martel essay was taken very seriously.

So naturally, in order to be irritating, Virlomi dismissed it. “Martel can write what he wants, it means nothing.”

Careful not to contradict her, Hadrubet Sasar—“Thorn”—pointed out the obvious. “The Delphikis really are in Armenia and have been for a week.”

“They have family there,” said Virlomi.

“And they’re on vacation taking the babies to visit grandfather and grandmother,” said Alamandar. As usual, his irony was so dry you could easily miss the fact that he was utterly scornful of the idea.

“Of course not,” said Virlomi—and her scorn was not subtle. “Wiggin
wants
us to think they’re planning something. We withdraw Turkish troops from Xinjiang to invade Armenia. Then Han Tzu strikes in Xinjiang.”

“Perhaps al-Caliph has some intelligence indicating that the Emperor of China is in alliance with the Hegemon,” said Thorn.

“Peter Wiggin,” said Virlomi, “knows how to use people who don’t know they’re being used.”

Alai listened to her and thought: That principle might as easily apply to the Armenians as to Han Tzu. Perhaps
they’re
being used by Peter Wiggin without their consent. A simple matter to send Bean and Petra to visit the Arkanians, and then plant a false story that this means the Armenians are about to join the FPE.

Alai raised a hand. “Najjas. Would you compare the language in the Martel essays with the writings of Peter Wiggin, including the Locke essays, and tell me if they might be written by the same hand?”

A murmur of approval around the table.

“We will not take action against Armenia,” said Caliph Alai, “based on unsubstantiated rumors from the nets. Nor based on our longstanding suspicion of the Armenians.”

Alai watched their reaction. Some nodded approvingly, but most hid their reactions. And Musafi, the youngest of his wazirs, showed his skepticism.

“Musafi, speak to us,” said Alai.

“It makes little difference to the people,” said Musafi, “whether we can prove that the Armenians are plotting against us or not. This isn’t a court of law. They are being told by many that instead of gaining India peacefully by marriage, we lost it the same way.”

Alai did not look at Virlomi; nor did he sense any stiffening or change in her attitude.

“We did nothing when the Hegemon humiliated the Sudanese and stole Muslim land in Nubia.” Musafi raised his hand to the inevitable objection. “The people
believe
the land was stolen.”

“So you fear that they will think the Caliph is ineffective.”

“They expected you to spread Islam throughout the world. Instead, you seem to be losing ground. The very fact that Armenia cannot be the source of a serious invasion also means that it’s a safe place to take some limited action that will assure the people that the Caliphate is still watching over Islam.”

“And how many men should die for this?” said Alai.

“For the continued unity of the Muslim people?” asked Musafi. “As many as love God.”

“There’s wisdom in this,” said Alai. “But the Muslim people are not the only people in the world. Outside of Islam, Armenia is perceived as a heroic victim nation. Isn’t there a chance that any kind of action in Armenia will be seen as proof that Islam is expanding, just as Martel charges? Then what happens to the Muslim minorities in Europe?”

Virlomi leaned forward, looking each of the counselors boldly in the face, as if she had authority at this table. Her stance was more aggressive than Alai ever showed to his friends. But then, these were not her friends. “You care about unity?”

“It’s always been a problem in the Muslim world,” said Alamandar. Some of the men chuckled.

“The ‘Free People’ can’t invade us because we’re more powerful than they are at any point where they might attack,” said Virlomi. “Is our goal to unite the world under the leadership of Caliph Alai? Then our great rival is not Peter Wiggin. It’s Han Tzu. He came to me with plots against Caliph Alai. He proposed marriage with me, so India and China could unite against Islam.”