Shadow Puppets (6 page)

“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.”

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

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 Mataró.”

“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 cutting 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.

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 Ribeirão 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 Ribeirão 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 itself, 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.”