"You mean with all the computer expertise and all the computer facilities of the Fleet, you can't devise a neutral program to handle Ender's money?"
"Why are you so set on software doing it?"
"Because software doesn't get greedy and try to steal. Even for a noble purpose."
"So what if Peter is using Ender's money--that's what you're worried about, right?--if we suddenly cut it off, won't he notice? Won't that set back his efforts?"
"Ender saved the world. He's entitled to have his full pension, when and if he ever wants it. There are laws to protect child actors. Why not war heroes traveling at lightspeed?"
"Ah," said Graff. "So you are thinking about what will happen when you take off in the scoutship we offered you."
"I don't need you to manage my money. Petra will do it just fine. I want her to have the use of the money."
"Meaning you think you'll never come back."
"You're changing the subject. Software. Managing Ender's investments."
"A semi-autonomous program that--"
"Not semi. Autonomous."
"There are no autonomous programs. Besides which, the stock market is impossible to model. Nothing that depends on crowd behavior can be accurate over time. What computer could possibly deal with it?"
"I don't know," said Bean. "Didn't that mind game you had us play predict human behavior?"
"It's very specialized educational software."
"Come on," said Bean. "It was your shrink. You analyzed the behavior of the kids and--"
"That's right. Listen to yourself. We analyzed."
"But the game also analyzed. It anticipated our moves. When Ender was playing, it took him places the rest of us never saw. But the game was always ahead of him. That was one cool piece of software. Can't you teach it to play Investment Manager?"
Graff looked impatient. "I don't know. What does an ancient piece of software have to do with...Bean, do you realize how much effort you're asking me to go to in order to protect Ender's pension? I don't even know that it needs protecting."
"But you should know that it doesn't."
"Guilt. You, the conscienceless wonder, are actually using guilt on me."
"I spent a lot of time with Sister Carlotta. And Petra's no slouch, either."
"I'll look at the program. I'll look at Ender's money."
"Just out of curiosity, what is the program being used for now that you don't have any kids up there?"
Graff snorted. "We have nothing but kids here. The adults are playing it now. The Mind Game. Only I promised them never to let the program do analyses on their gameplay."
"So the program does analyze."
"It does pre-analysis. Looking for anomalies. Surprises."
"Wait a minute," said Bean.
"You don't want me to have it run Ender's finances?"
"I haven't changed my mind about that. I'm just wondering--maybe it could look at a really massive database we've got here and analyze...well, find some patterns that we're not seeing."
"The game was created for a very specific purpose. Pattern finding in databases wasn't--"
"Oh, come on," said Bean. "That's all it did. Patterns in our behavior. Just because it assembled the database of our actions on the fly doesn't change the nature of what it was doing. Checking our behavior against the behavior of earlier children. Against our own normal behavior. Seeing just how crazy your educational program was making us."
Graff sighed. "Have your computer people contact my computer people."
"With your blessing. Not some foot-dragging fob-them-off-with-smoke-and-mirrors 'effort' that deliberately leads nowhere."
"You really care about what we do with Ender's money?"
"I care about Ender. Someday he may need that money. I once made a promise that I'd keep Peter from hurting Ender. Instead, I did nothing while Peter sent Ender away."
"For Ender's own good."
"Ender should have had a vote."
"He did," said Graff. "If he had insisted on going home to Earth, I would have let him. But once Valentine came up to join him, he was content."
"Fine," said Bean. "Has he given consent to have his pension pillaged?"
"I'll see about turning the mind game into a financial manager. The program is a complex one. It does a lot of self-programming and self-alteration. So maybe if we ask it to, it can rewrite its own code in order to become whatever you want it to be. It is magic, after all. This computer stuff."
"That's what I always thought," said Bean. "Like Santa Claus. You adults pretend he doesn't exist, but we know that he really does."
When he ended the conversation with Graff, Bean immediately called Ferreira. It was full daylight now, so Ferreira was actually awake. Bean told him about the plan to have the Mind Game program analyze the impossibly large database of vague and mostly useless information about the movements of pregnant women with low-birth-weight babies and Ferreira said he'd get right on it. He said it without enthusiasm, but Bean knew that Ferreira wasn't the kind of man to say he'd do something and not do it, just because he didn't believe in it. He'd keep his word.
How do I know that? Bean wondered. How do I know that I can trust Ferreira to go off on wild goose chases, once he gives his word to do it? While I know without even knowing that I know it, that Peter is partly financing his operations by stealing from Ender. That was bothering me for days before I understood it.
Damn, but I'm smart. Smarter than any computer program, even the Mind Game.
If only I could control it.
I may not have the capacity to consciously deal with a vast database and find patterns in it. But I could deal with the database of stuff I observe in the Hegemony and what I know about Peter and without my even asking the question, out pops an answer.
Could I always do that? Or is my growing brain giving me ever-stronger mental powers?
I really should look at some of the mathematical conundrums and see if I can find proofs of...whatever it is they can't prove but want to.
Maybe Volescu isn't so wrong after all. Maybe a whole world full of minds like mine...
Miserable, lonely, untrusting minds like mine. Minds that see death looming over them all the time. Minds that know they'll never see their children grow up. Minds that let themselves get sidetracked on issues like taking care of a friend's pension that he'll probably never need.
Peter is going to be so furious when he finds out that those pension checks aren't going to him anymore. Should I tell him it was my meddling? Or let him think the I.F. did it on their own?
And what does it say about my character that I am absolutely going to tell him I did it?
Theresa didn't actually see Peter until noon, when she and John Paul and their illustrious son sat down to a lunch of papaya and cheese and sliced sausage.
"Why do you always drink that stuff?" asked John Paul.
Peter looked surprised. "Guarana? It's my duty as an American to never drink Coke or Pepsi in a country that has an indigenous soft drink. Besides which, I like it."
"It's a stimulant," said Theresa. "It fuzzes your brain."
"It also makes you fart," said John Paul. "Constantly."
"Frequently would be the more accurate term," said Peter. "And it's sweet of you to care."
"We're just looking out for your image," said Theresa.
"I only fart when I'm alone."
"Since he does it in front of us," said John Paul to Theresa, "what exactly does that make us?"
"I meant 'in private,'" said Peter. "And flatulence from carbonated beverages is odorless."
"He thinks it doesn't stink," said John Paul.
Peter picked up the glass and drained it. "And you wonder why I don't look forward to these little family get-togethers."
"Yes," said Theresa. "Family is so inconvenient for you. Except when you can spend their pension checks."
Peter looked back and forth between her and John Paul. "You aren't even on a pension. Either of you. You're not
even fifty yet."
Theresa just looked at him like he was stupid. She knew that look drove him crazy.
But Peter refused to bite. He simply went back to eating his lunch.
His very incuriosity was proof enough to Theresa that he knew exactly what she was talking about.
"You mind telling me what this is about?" asked John Paul.
"Why, Andrew's pension," said Theresa. "Bean thinks that Peter's been stealing it."
"So naturally," said Peter with his mouth full, "Mother believes him."
"Oh, haven't you, then?" asked Theresa.
"There's a difference between investing and stealing."
"Not when you invest it in Hegemony bonds. Especially when a circle of huts in Amazonas has a higher bond rating than you."
"Investing in the future of world peace is a sound investment."
"Investing in your future," said Theresa. "Which is more than you did for Andrew. But now that Bean knows, you can be sure that source of funding will dry up very quickly."
"How sad for Bean," said Peter. "Since that was what was paying for his and Petra's search."
"It wasn't until you decided it was," said John Paul. "Are you really that petty?"
"If Bean decides unilaterally to cut off a funding source, then I have to reduce spending somewhere. Since spending on his personal quest has nothing to do with Hegemony goals, it seems only fair that the meddler's pet project be the first to go. It's all moot anyway. Bean has no claim on Ender's pension. He can't touch it."
"He's not going to touch it himself," said Theresa. "He doesn't want the money."
"So he'll turn it over to you? What will you do, keep it in an interest-bearing debit account, the way you do with your own money?" Peter laughed.
"He seems unrepentant," said John Paul.
"That's the problem with Peter," said Theresa.
"Only the one?" said Peter.
"Either it doesn't matter or it's the end of the world. No in between for him. Absolute confidence or utter despair."
"I haven't despaired in years. Well, weeks."
"Just tell me, Peter," said Theresa. "Is there no one you won't exploit to accomplish your purposes?"
"Since my purpose is saving the human race from itself," said Peter, "the answer is no." He wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin on his plate. "Thanks for the lovely lunch. I do enjoy our little times together."
He left.
John Paul leaned back in his chair. "Well. I think I'll tell Bean that if he needs any next-of-kin signatures for whatever he's doing with Andrew's pension, I'll be happy to help."
"If I know Julian Delphiki, no help will be needed."
"Bean saved Peter's whole enterprise by killing Achilles at great personal risk, and our son's memory is so short that he'll stop paying for the effort to rescue Bean's and Petra's children. What gene is it that Peter's missing?"
"Gratitude has a very short half-life in most people's hearts," said Theresa. "By now Peter doesn't even remember that he ever felt it toward Bean."
"Anything we can do about it?"
"Again, my dear, I think we can count on Bean himself. He'll expect retaliation from Peter, and he'll already have a plan."
"I hope his plan doesn't require appealing to Peter's conscience."
Theresa laughed. So did John Paul. It was the saddest kind of laughter, in that empty room.
10
GRIEF
From: FelixStarman%[email protected]
To: PeterWiggin%[email protected]
Re: Only one question remains
Dear Peter,
Your arguments have persuaded me. In principle, I am prepared to ratify the Constitution of the Free People of Earth. But in practice, one key issue remains. I have created in Rwanda the most formidable army and air force north of Pretoria and south of Cairo. That is precisely why you regard Rwanda as the key to uniting Africa. But the primary motivation of my troops is patriotism, which cannot help but be tinged with Tutsi tribalism. The principle of civilian control of the military is, shall we say, not as preeminent in their ethos.
For me to turn over my troops to a Hegemon who happens to be not only white, but American by birth, would run a grave risk of a coup that would provoke bloodshed in the streets and destabilize the whole region.
That is why it is essential that you decide in advance who the commander of my forces will be. There is only one plausible candidate. Many of my men got a good look at Julian Delphiki. Word has spread. He is viewed as something of a god. His record of military genius is respected by my officer corps; his enormous size gives him heroic stature; and his partial African ancestry, which is, fortunately, visible in his features and coloring, makes him a man that patriotic Rwandans could follow.
If you send Bean to me, to stand beside me as the man who will assume command of Rwandan forces as they become part of the Free People's army, then I will ratify and immediately submit the issue to my people in a plebiscite. People who would not vote for a Constitution with you at its head will vote for a Constitution whose face is that of the Giant Julian.
Sincerely, Felix
Virlomi spoke on the cellphone with her contact. "All clear?" she asked.
"It's not a trap. They're gone."
"How bad is it?"
"I'm so sorry."
That bad.
Virlomi put away the phone and walked from the shelter of the trees into the village.
There were bodies lying in the doorway of every house they passed. But Virlomi did not turn to the right hand or the left. They had to make sure they got the key footage first.
In the center of the village, the Muslim soldiers had spitted a cow and roasted it over a fire. The bodies of twenty or so Hindu adults surrounded the roasting pit.
"Ten seconds," said Virlomi.
Obediently, the vidman framed the shot and ran the camera for ten seconds. During the shot, a crow landed but did not eat anything. It merely walked a couple of steps and then flew again. Virlomi wrote her script in her head: The gods send their messengers to see, and in grief they fly away again.
Virlomi walked near the dead and saw that each corpse had a slab of half-cooked, bloody meat in its mouth. No bullets had been spent on the dead. Their throats were split and gaping open.
"Close up. These three, each in turn. Five seconds each."
The vidman did his work. Virlomi did not touch any of the bodies. "How many minutes left?"
"Plenty," said the vidman.
"Then take every one of them. Every one."
The vidman moved from body to body, taking the digital shots that would soon go out over the nets. Meanwhile, Virlomi now went from house to house. She hoped that there would be at least one person living. Someone they could save. But there was no one.
In the doorway of the village's largest house, one of Virlomi's men waited for her. "Please do not go in, Lady," he said.
"I must."
"You do not want this in your memory."
"Then it is exactly the thing that I must never forget."
He bowed his head and moved aside.
Four nails in a crossbeam had served the family as hooks for clothing. The clothing lay in a sodden mass on the floor. Except for the shirts that had been tied around the necks of four children, the youngest only a toddler, the eldest perhaps nine. They had been hung up on the hooks to strangle slowly.
Across the room lay the bodies of a young couple, a middle-aged couple, and an old woman. They had made the adults in the household watch the children die.
"When he is finished by the fire," said Virlomi, "bring him here."
"Is there enough light inside, Lady?"
"Take down a wall."
They took it down in minutes, and then light flooded into the dark place. "Start here," she told the vidman, pointing to the adults' bodies. Pan very slowly. And then pan, just a little faster, to what they were forced to watch. Hold on all four children. Then when I enter the frame, stay with me. But not
so close that you can't see everything I do with the child."
"You cannot touch a dead body," said one of her men.
"The dead of India are my children," she said. "They cannot make me unclean. Only the ones who murdered them are made filthy. I will explain this to the people who see the vid."
The vidman started, but then Virlomi noticed the shadows of the watching soldiers in the frame and made him start over. "It must be a continuous take," she said. "No one will believe it if it is not smooth and continuous."
The vidman started again. Slowly he panned. When he had focused on the children for a solid twenty seconds, Virlomi stepped into the frame and knelt before the body of the oldest child. She reached up and touched the lips with her fingers.
The men could not help it. They gasped.
Well, let them, thought Virlomi. So would the people of India. So would the people of the whole world.
She stood and took the child in her arms, raising him up. With no tension on the shirt, it came away easily from the nail. She carried him across the room and laid him in the arms of the young father.
"O Father of India," she said, loudly enough for the camera, "I lay your child, the hope of your heart, in your arms."
She got up and walked slowly back to the children. She knew better than to look to see if the camera was with her. She had to act as if she didn't know the camera was there. Not that anyone would be fooled. But looking toward the camera reminded people that there were other observers. As long as she seemed oblivious of the camera, the viewers would forget that there must be a vidman and would feel as if only they and she and the dead were in this place.
She knelt before each child in turn, then rose and freed them from the cruel nails on which they once hung shawls or school bags. When she laid the second child, a girl, beside the young mother, she said, "O Mother of the Indian house, here is the daughter who cooked and cleaned beside you. Now your home is permanently washed in the pure blood of the innocent."
When she laid the third child, a little girl, across the bodies of the middle-aged couple, she said, "O history of India, have you room for one more small body in your memory? Or are you full of our grief at last? Is this one body at last too many to bear?"
When she took the two-year-old boy from his hook, she could not walk with him. She stumbled and fell to her knees and wept and kissed his distorted, blackened face. When she could speak again, she said, "Oh, my child, my child, why did my womb labor to bring you forth, only to hear your silence instead of your laughter?"
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