Shadow of the Giant (5 page)

“Hot Soup has just taken over in China,” said Petra.

“So I’ve heard.”

“And he’s taking the title of emperor,” she added.

“Back to the good old days.”

“A new dynasty in Beijing now faces the restored Caliphate in Damascus,” said Petra. “It would be a terrible thing, for members of the Jeesh to have to choose up sides and wage war against each other. Surely that’s not what Battle School was ever meant to accomplish.”

“Battle School?” said Alai. “They may have identified us, but we already were who we were before they laid a hand on us. Do you think that without Battle School, I could not be where I am, or Han Tzu where he is? Look at Peter Wiggin—
he
didn’t go to Battle School, but he got himself appointed Hegemon.”

“An empty title,” said Peter.

“It was when you got it,” said Alai. “Just as my title was until two minutes ago. But when you sit in the chair and wear the hat, some people don’t understand that it’s just a play and start obeying you as if you had real power. And then you
have
real power. Neh?”

“Eh,” said Petra.

Peter smiled. “I’m not your enemy, Alai,” he said.

“You’re not my friend, either,” said Alai. But then he smiled. “The question is whether you’ll turn out to be a friend to humanity. Or whether I will.” He turned back to Petra. “And so much depends on what your husband chooses to do before he dies.”

Petra nodded gravely. “He’d prefer to do nothing except enjoy the months or perhaps years he’ll have with me and our child.”

“God willing,” said Alai, “that’s all he’ll be required to do.”

A soldier came pounding across the flagstones. “Sir, the compound is secure and none of the council have escaped.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” said Alai.

“Three councilmen are dead, sir,” said the soldier. “It could not be helped.”

“I’m sure that’s the truth,” said Alai. “They are now in God’s hands. The rest are in mine, and now I must try to do what God would have me do. Now, my son, will you take these two friends of the Caliph safely back to their hotel? Our conversation is finished, and I wish them to be free to leave Damascus, unhindered and unrecognized. No one will speak of their presence in this garden on this day.”

“Yes, my Caliph,” said the soldier. He bowed, and then turned to Peter and Petra. “Will you come with me, friends of the Caliph?”

“Thank you,” Petra said. “The Caliph is blessed with true servants in this house.”

The man did not acknowledge her praise. “This way,” he said to Peter.

As they followed him back to the enclosed van, Peter wondered whether he might have unconsciously planned for the events that happened here today, or whether it was just dumb luck.

Or whether Petra and Alai planned it, and Peter was nothing more than their pawn, thinking foolishly that he was making his own decisions and conducting his own strategy.

Or are we, as the Muslims believe, only acting out the script of God?

Not likely. Any God worth believing in could make up a better plan than the mess the world was in now.

In my childhood I set my hand to improving the world, and for a while I succeeded. I stopped a war through words I wrote on the nets, when people didn’t know who I was. But now I have the empty title of Hegemon. Wars are swirling back and forth across swathes of the Earth like a reaper’s scythe, vast populations are seething under the whips of new oppressors, and I am powerless to change a thing.

Bean stooped to pass through the doorway. He wasn’t actually tall enough to bang his head. But it had happened often enough, in other doorways that once would have given him plenty of room, that now he was overcautious. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, either. They seemed too big for any job he might need them for. Pens were like toothpicks; his finger filled the trigger guard of many a pistol. Soon he’d have to butter his finger to get it out, as if the pistol were a too-tight ring.

And his joints ached. And his head hurt sometimes like it was going to split in two. Because, in fact, it was trying to do exactly that. The soft spot on the top of his head could not seem to expand fast enough to make room for his growing brain.

The doctors loved that part. To find out what it did to the mental function of an adult to have the brain grow. Did it disrupt memory? Or merely add to capacity? Bean submitted to their questions and measurements and scans and bloodlettings because he might not find all his children before he died, and anything they learned from studying him might help them.

But at times like this he felt nothing but despair. There was no help for him, and none for them, either. He would not find them. And if he did, he could not help them.

What difference has my life made? I killed one man. He was a monster, but I had it in my power to kill him at least once before, and failed to do it. So don’t I share in the responsibility for what he did in the intervening years? The deaths, the misery.

Including Petra’s suffering when she was his captive. Including our own suffering over the children he stole from us.

And yet he went on searching, using every contact he could think of, every search engine on the nets, every program he could devise for manipulating the public records in order to be ready to identify which births were of his children, implanted in surrogates.

For of that much he was certain. Achilles and Volescu had never intended to give the embryos back to him and Petra. That promise had only been a lure. A man of less malice than Achilles might have killed the embryos—as he pretended to do when he broke test tubes during their last confrontation in Ribeirão Preto. But for Achilles, killing itself was never a pleasure. He killed when he thought it was necessary. When he actually wanted to make someone suffer, he made sure the suffering lingered as long as possible.

Bean’s and Petra’s children would be born to mothers unknown to them, probably scattered throughout the world by Volescu.

But Achilles had done his work well. Volescu’s travels were completely erased from the public record. And there was nothing about the man to make him particularly memorable. They could show his picture to a million airline workers and another million cab drivers throughout the world and half of them might remember seeing a man who looked “like that” but none of them would be sure of anything and Volescu’s path could not be retraced.

And when Bean had tried to appeal to Volescu’s lingering shreds of decency—which he hoped existed, against all evidence—the man had gone underground and now all Bean could hope for was that somebody, some agency somewhere, would find him, arrest him, and hold him long enough for Bean to…

To what? Torture him? Threaten him? Bribe him? What could possibly induce Volescu to tell him what he needed to know?

Now the International Fleet had sent him some officer to give him “important information.” What could they possibly know? The I.F. was forbidden to operate on the surface of Earth. Even if they had agents who had discovered Volescu’s whereabouts, why would they risk exposing their own illegal activities just to help Bean find his babies? They had made a big deal about how loyal they were to the Battle School graduates, especially to Ender’s Jeesh, but he doubted it went
that
far. Money, that’s what they offered. All the Battle School grads had a nice pension. They could go home like Cincinnatus and farm for the rest of their lives, without even having to worry about the weather or the seasons or the harvest. They could grow weeds and still prosper.

Instead, I stupidly allowed children of my deformed and self-destructive genes to be created
in vitro
and now Volescu has planted them in foreign wombs and I must find them before he and people like him can exploit them and use them up and then watch them die of giantism, like me, before they turn twenty.

Volescu knows. He would never leave it to chance. Because he still imagined himself to be a scientist. He would want to gather data about the children. To him, it was all one big experiment, with the added inconvenience of being illegal and based on stolen embryos. To Volescu, those embryos belonged to him by right. To him, Bean was nothing but the experiment that got away. Anything he produced was part of Volescu’s long-term study.

An old man sat at the table in the conference room. It took Bean a moment to decide whether his skin was naturally dark or merely weathered into a barnwood color and texture. Both, probably.

I know him, thought Bean. Mazer Rackham. The man who saved humanity in the Second Bugger Invasion. Who should have been dead many decades ago, but who surfaced long enough to train Ender himself for the last campaign.

“They send
you
to Earth?”

“I’m retired,” said Rackham.

“So am I,” said Bean. “So is Ender. When does
he
come to Earth?”

Rackham shook his head. “Too late to be bitter about that,” he said. “If Ender had been here, do you think there’s any chance he would be both alive and free?”

Rackham had a point. Back when Achilles was arranging for all of Ender’s Jeesh to be kidnapped, the greatest prize of all would have been Ender himself. And even if Ender had evaded capture—as Bean had done—how long before someone else tried to control him or exploit him in order to achieve some imperial ambition? With Ender, being an American as he was, maybe the United States would have stirred from its torpor and now, instead of China and the Muslim world being the main players in the great game, America would be flexing its muscles again and then the world really would be in turmoil.

Ender would have hated that. Hated himself for being part of it. It really was better that Graff had arranged to send him off on the first colony ship to a former Bugger world. Right now, each second of Ender’s life aboard the starship was a week to Bean. While Ender read a paragraph of a book, a million babies would be born on Earth, a million old people and soldiers and sick people and pedestrians and drivers would die and humanity would move forward another small step in its evolution into a starfaring species.

Starfaring species. That was Graff’s program.

“You’re not here for the fleet, then,” said Bean. “You’re here for Colonel Graff.”

“For the Minister of Colonization?” Rackham nodded gravely. “Informally and unofficially, yes. To inform you of an offer.”

“Graff has nothing that I want. Before any starship could arrive on a colony world, I’d be dead.”

“You’d undoubtedly be an…interesting choice to head a colony,” said Rackham. “But as you said, your term in office would be too brief to be effective. No, it’s a different kind of offer.”

“The only things I want, you don’t have.”

“Once upon a time, I believe, you wanted nothing more than survival.”

“It’s not within your power to offer me.”

“Yes it is,” said Rackham.

“Oh, from the vast medical research facilities of the International Fleet there comes a cure for a condition that is suffered by only one person on Earth?”

“Not at all,” said Rackham. “The cure will have to come from others. What we offer you is the ability to wait until it’s ready. We offer you a starship, and lightspeed, and an ansible so you can be told when to come home.”

Precisely the “gift” they gave Rackham himself, when they thought they might need him to command all the fleets when they arrived at the various Bugger worlds. The chance of survival rang inside him like the tolling of a great bell. He couldn’t help it. If there was anything that had ever driven him, it was that hunger to survive. But how could he trust them?

“And in return, what do you want from me?”

“Can’t this be part of your retirement package from the fleet?”

Rackham was good at keeping a straight face, but Bean knew he couldn’t be serious. “When I come back, there’s going to be some poor young soldier I can train?”

“You’re not a teacher,” said Rackham.

“Neither were you.”

Rackham shrugged. “So we become whatever we need to be. We’re offering you life. We’ll continue to fund research on your condition.”

“What, using my children as your guinea pigs?”

“We’ll try to find them, of course. We’ll try to cure them.”

“But they won’t get their own starships?”

“Bean,” said Rackham. “How many trillions of dollars do you think your genes are worth?”

“To me,” said Bean, “They’re worth more than all the money in the world.”

“I don’t think you could pay even the interest on that loan.”

“So I don’t have as high a credit rating as I hoped.”

“Bean, take this offer seriously. While there’s still time. Acceleration is hard on the heart. You have to go while you’re still healthy enough to survive the voyage. As it is, we’ll be cutting it rather fine, don’t you think? A couple of years to accelerate, and at the end, a couple more to decelerate. Who gives you four years?”

“Nobody,” said Bean. “And you’re forgetting. I have to come home. That’s four more years. It’s already far too late.”

Rackham smiled. “Don’t you think we’ve taken that into account?”

“What, you’ve figured out a way to turn while traveling at lightspeed?”

“Even light bends.”

“Light is a wave.”

“So are you, when you’re traveling that fast.”

“Neither of us is a physicist.”

“But the people who planned our new generation of messenger ship are,” said Rackham.

“How can the I.F. afford to build new ships?” asked Bean. “Your funding comes from Earth and the emergency is over. The only reason the nations of Earth even pay your salaries and continue to supply you is because they’re buying your neutrality.”

Rackham smiled.

“Somebody’s paying you to keep developing new ships,” said Bean.

“Speculation is pointless.”

“There’s only one nation that could afford to do that, and it’s the one nation that could never keep it secret.”

“So it’s not possible,” said Rackham.

“Yet you’re promising me a kind of ship that couldn’t exist.”

“You go through acceleration in a compensatory gravity field, so there’s no additional strain on your heart. That lets us accelerate in a week instead of two years.”

“And if the gravity fails?”

“Then you’re torn to dust in an instant. But it doesn’t fail. We’ve tested it.”

“So messengers can go from world to world without losing more than a couple of weeks of their lives.”

“Of their
own
lives,” said Rackham. “But when we send someone out on such a voyage, thirty or fifty lightyears, everyone they ever knew is dead long before they come back. Volunteers are few.”

Everyone they ever knew. If he got on this starship, he’d leave Petra behind and never see her again.

Was he heartless enough for that?

Not heartless at all. He could still feel the pain of losing Sister Carlotta, the woman who saved him from the streets of Rotterdam and watched over for him for years, until Achilles finally murdered her.

“Can I take Petra with me?”

“Would she go?”

“Not without our children,” said Bean.

“Then I suggest you keep searching,” said Rackham. “Because even though the new technology buys you a bit more time, it’s not forever. Your body imposes a deadline that we can’t put off.”

“And you’ll let me bring Petra, if we find our children.”

“If she’ll go,” said Rackham.

“She will,” said Bean. “We have no roots in this world, except our children.”

“Already they’re children in your imagination,” said Rackham.

Bean only smiled. He knew how Catholic it made him sound, but that’s how it felt to him and Petra both.

“We ask only one thing,” said Rackham.

Bean laughed. “I knew it.”

“As long as you’re waiting around anyway, searching for your children,” said Rackham. “We’d like you to help Peter unite the world under the office of the Hegemon.”

Bean was so astonished he stopped laughing. “So the fleet intends to meddle in earthside affairs.”

“We aren’t meddling at all,” said Rackham. “You are.”

“Peter doesn’t listen to me. If he did, he would have let me kill Achilles back in China when we first had the chance. Peter decided to ‘rescue’ him instead.”