Shadow of the Giant (17 page)

Virlomi shook her head. “I will never need government. Perhaps someday India will choose to have a government, but
I
will never need it.”

“So you wouldn’t stop me from urging exactly that course. On the nets.”

She smiled. “Whoever comes to your site, let them agree or disagree with you as they see fit.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” said Chapekar.

“Ah,” said Virlomi. “And you find this frustrating?”

“India needs better than a lone woman in a hut.”

“And yet this lone woman in a hut held up the Chinese Army in the passes of the east, long enough for the Muslims to have their victory. And this lone woman led the guerrilla war and the riots against the Muslim occupiers. And this lone woman brought the Caliph from Damascus to Hyderabad in order to seize control of his own army, which was committing atrocities against India.”

“And you’re very proud of your achievements.”

“I’m pleased that the gods saw fit to give me something useful to do. I’ve offered you something useful, too, but you refuse.”

“You’ve offered me humiliation and futility.” He stood to go.

“Exactly the gifts I once had from your hand.”

He turned back to her. “Have we met?”

“Have you forgotten? You once came to see the Battle School graduates who were planning your strategy. But you discarded all our plans. You despised them, and followed instead the plans of the traitor Achilles.”

“I saw all your plans.”

“No, you saw only the plans Achilles wanted you to see.”

“Was that my fault? I
thought
they were from you.”

“I foresaw the fall of India as Achilles’s plans overextended our armies and exposed our supply lines to attack from China. I foresaw that you would do nothing except futile rhetoric—like the monstrous act of appointing Wahabi as ruler of India—as if the rule of India were yours to bequeath to another in your will. I saw—we all saw—how useless and vain and stupid you were in your ambition, and how easily Achilles manipulated you by flattery.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Then go,” said Virlomi. “I say nothing that doesn’t play over and over again in the secret places in your heart.”

He did not go.

“After I left, to notify the Hegemon of what was happening, so that perhaps my friends from Battle School could be saved from Achilles’s plan to murder them all—when that errand was done, I set up resistance to Chinese rule in the mountains of the East. But back in Battle School, led by a brilliant and brave and beautiful young man named Sayagi, the Battle Schoolers drew up plans that would have saved India, if you had followed them. At risk of their own lives, they published it on the nets, knowing that Achilles would let none of it get to you if they submitted it through him. Did you see the plans?”

“I was not in the habit of getting my war plans from the nets.”

“No. You got your plans from our enemy.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You should have known. It was plain enough what Achilles was. You saw what we saw. The difference is, we hated him, and you admired him—for exactly the same traits.”

“I never saw the plans.”

“You never asked the most brilliant minds in India for a shred of advice. Instead, you trusted a Belgian psychopath. And followed his advice to make unprovoked war on Burma and Thailand, pouring out war on nations that had done no harm to us. A man who embraces the voice of evil when it whispers in his ear is no less evil than the whisperer.”

“I’m not impressed by your ability to coin aphorisms.”

“Sayagi defied Achilles to his face, and Achilles shot him dead.”

“Then he was foolish to do it.”

“Dead as he is, Sayagi has more value to India than you have ever had or will ever have in all the days of your life.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead. But I’m not dead.”

“You’re mistaken. Sayagi lives on in the spirit of India. But you are dead, Tikal Chapekar. You are as dead as a man can be, and still breathe.”

“So now it comes to threats.”

“I asked my aides to bring you to me so I could help you understand what will now happen to you. There is nothing for you in India. Sooner or later you will leave and make a life for yourself somewhere else.”

“I will never leave.”

“Only on the day you leave will you begin to understand Satyagraha.”

“Peaceful noncompliance?”

“Willingness to suffer, yourself and in person, for a cause you believe is right. Only when you are willing to embrace Satyagraha will you begin to atone for what you have done to India. Now you should go.”

Chapekar did not realize anyone had been listening. He might have stayed to argue, but the moment she said those words, a man came into the hut and drew him out.

He had thought they would let him go, but they didn’t, not until they led him into the town and sat him down in the back room of a small office and brought up a notice on the nets.

It was his own picture. A short vid taken as the young man tossed dirt onto him.

“Tikal Chapekar is back,” said a voice.

The picture changed to show Chapekar in his glory days. Brief clips and stills.

“Tikal Chapekar brought war to India by attacking Burma and Thailand without any provocation, all to try to make himself a great man.”

Now there were pictures of Indian victims of atrocities. “Instead, he was taken captive by the Chinese. He wasn’t here to help us in our hour of need.”

The picture of him with dirt being flung on him returned to the screen.

“Now he’s back from captivity, and he wants to rule over India.”

A picture of Chapekar talking cheerfully with the Muslim guards outside the gates of the compound. “He wants to help our Muslim overlords rule over us forever.”

Again with the dirt-flinging.

“How can we rid ourselves of this man? Let us all pretend he doesn’t exist. If no one speaks to him, waits on him, shelters him, feeds him, or helps him in any way, he will have to turn to the foreigners he invited into our land.”

That was when they ran the footage of Chapekar turning the government of India over to Wahabi.

“Even in defeat, he invited evil upon us. But India will not punish him. India will simply ignore him until he goes away.”

The program ended—with, of course, the dirt-flinging picture.

“Clever set-up,” said Chapekar.

They ignored him.

“What do you want from me, so you won’t publish that piece of trash?”

They ignored him.

After a while, he began to rage, and tried to fling the computer to the ground. That was when they restrained him and put him out of doors.

Chapekar walked down the street, looking for lodging. There were houses with rooms to rent. They opened the door when he called out, but when they saw his face, they closed the doors again.

Finally he stood in the street and shouted. “All I want is a place to sleep! And a bite to eat! What you would give a dog!”

But no one even told him to shut up.

Chapekar went to the train station and tried to buy a ticket out, using some of the money the Chinese had given him to help him make his way home. But no one would sell him a ticket. Whatever window he went to was closed in his face, and the line moved over to the next one, making no room for him.

At noon the next day, exhausted, hungry, thirsty, he made his way back to the Muslim military compound and, after being fed and clothed and given a place to bathe and sleep by his enemies, he was flown out of India, then out of Muslim territory. He ended up in the Netherlands, where public charity would support him until he found employment.

The second visitor followed no known road to come to the hut. Virlomi merely opened her eyes in the middle of the night, and despite the complete darkness, she could see Sayagi sitting on the mat near the door.

“You’re dead,” she said to him.

“I’m still awaiting rebirth,” he said.

“You should have lived,” Virlomi told him. “I admired you greatly. You would have been such a husband for me and such a father for India.”

“India is already alive. She does not need you to give birth to her,” said Sayagi.

“India does not know she’s alive, Sayagi. To wake someone from a coma is to bring them to life as surely as a mother brings forth life when she bears a baby.”

“Always have an answer, don’t you? And the way you talk now—like a god. How did it happen, Virlomi? Was it when Petra chose you to confide in?”

“It was when I decided to take action.”

“Your action succeeded,” said Sayagi. “Mine failed.”

“You should not have spoken to Achilles. You should simply have killed him.”

“He said he had the building wired with explosives.”

“And you believed him?”

“There were other lives besides mine. You escaped in order to save the lives of the Battle Schoolers. Should I then have thrown their lives away?”

“You misunderstand me, Sayagi. All I say now is, either you act or you don’t act. Either you do the thing that makes a difference, or you do nothing at all. You chose a middle way, and when it comes to war, the middle way is death.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Sayagi, why have you come to me?”

“I haven’t. I’m only a dream. You’re awake enough to realize that. You’re making up both sides of this conversation.”

“Then why am I making you up? What do I need to learn from you?”

“My fate,” said Sayagi. “So far all your gambits have worked, but that’s because you have always played against fools. Now Alai is in control of one enemy, Han Tzu another, and Peter Wiggin is the most dangerous and subtle of all. Against these adversaries, you will not win so easily. Death lies down this road, Virlomi.”

“I’m not afraid to die. I’ve faced death many times, and when the gods decide it’s time for me to—”

“See, Virlomi? You’ve already forgotten that you don’t believe in the gods.”

“But I do, Sayagi. How else can I explain my string of impossible victories?”

“Superb training in Battle School. Your innate brilliance. Brave and wise Indians who awaited only a decisive leader to show them how to act like people worthy of their own civilization. And very, very stupid enemies.”

“And couldn’t it be the gods who arranged for me to have these things?”

“It was an unbroken network of causality leading back to the first human who wasn’t a chimp. And farther back, to the coalescing of the planets around the sun. If you wish to call that God, go ahead.”

“The cause of everything,” said Virlomi. “The
purpose
of everything. And if there are no gods, then my own purposes will have to do.”

“Making you the only god that actually exists.”

“If I can call you back from the dead by the power of my mind alone, I’d say I’m pretty powerful.”

Sayagi laughed. “Oh, Virlomi, if only we had lived! Such lovers we could have been! Such children we could have had!”

“You may have died, but I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you? The real Virlomi died the day you escaped from Hyderabad, and this impostor has been playing the part ever since.”

“No,” said Virlomi. “The real Virlomi died the day she heard you had been killed.”

“
Now
you say it. When I was alive, not one little kiss, nothing. I think you didn’t even fall in love with me until I was safely dead.”

“Go away,” she said. “It’s time for me to sleep.”

“No,” he said. “Wake up, light your lamp, and write down this vision. Even if it is only a manifestation of your unconscious, it’s a fascinating one, and it’s worth pondering over. Especially the part about love and marriage. You have some cockeyed plan to marry dynastically. But I tell you the only way you’ll be happy is to marry a man who loves you, not one who covets India.”

“I knew that,” said Virlomi. “I just didn’t think it mattered whether I was happy.”

That’s when Sayagi left her tent. She wrote and wrote and wrote. But when she woke in the morning, she found that she had written nothing. The writing was also part of the dream.

It didn’t matter. She remembered. Even if he denied that he was really the spirit of her dead friend and mocked her for believing in the gods, she did believe, and knew that he was a spirit in transit, and that the gods had sent him to her to teach her.