I'll check with Graff, see whether the I.F. is paying out the pension to Peter. And if it is, I'll have to kill the boy. Or at least make my disappointed-in-you face and then curse about him to John Paul when we're alone.
Bean told Petra he was going to train with Suri and the boys. And he did—go where they were training, that is. But he spent his time in one of the choppers, making a scrambled and encrypted call to the old Battle School space station, where Graff was assembling his fleet of colony ships.
"Going to come visit me?" said Graff. "Want to take a trip into space?"
"Not yet," said Bean. "Not till I've found my lost kids."
"So you have other business to discuss?"
"Yes. But you'll immediately realise that the business I want to talk about is none of my business."
"Can't wait. No, got to wait. Call I can't turn down. Wait just a minute please."
The hiss of atmosphere and magnetic fields and radiation between the surface of the Earth and the space station. Bean thought of breaking off the connection and waiting for another time. Or maybe dropping the whole stupid line of inquiry.
Just as Bean was going to terminate the call, Graff came back on. "Sorry, I'm in the middle of tricky negotiations with China to let breeding couples emigrate. They want to send us some of their surplus males. I told him we were forming a colony, not fighting a war. But... negotiating with the Chinese. You think you hear yes, but the next day you find out they said no very delicately and then tittered behind their hands."
"All those years controlling the size of their population, and now they won't let go of a measly few thousand," said Bean.
"So you called me. What is it that's none of your business?"
"I get my pension. Petra gets hers. Who gets Ender's?"
"My, but you're to the point."
"Is it going to Peter?"
"What an excellent question."
"May I make a suggestion?"
"Please. As I recall, you have a history of making interesting suggestions."
"Stop sending the pension to anybody."
"I'm the Minister of Colonisation now," said Graff. "I take my orders from the Hegemon."
"You're in bed so deep with the I.F. that Chamrajnagar thinks you're a haemorrhoid and wakes up scratching at you."
"You have a vast untapped potential as a poet," said Graff.
"My suggestion," said Bean, "is to get the I.F. to turn Ender's money over to a neutral party."
"When it comes to money, there are no neutral parties. The I.F. and the colony program both spend money as fast as it comes in. We have no idea where to begin an investment program. And if you think I'm trusting some earth side mutual fund with the entire savings of a war hero who won't even be able to inquire about the money for another thirty years, you're insane."
"I was thinking that you could turn it over to a computer program."
"You think we didn't think of that? The best investment programs are only two percent better at predicting markets and bringing a positive return on investment than closing your eyes and stabbing the stock listings with a pin."
"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 travelling at lightspeed?"
"Ah," said Graff. "So you are thinking about what will happen when you take off in the scout ship 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 behaviour 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 behaviour?"
"It's very specialised educational software."
"Come on," said Bean. "It was your shrink. You analysed the behaviour of the kids and—"
"That's right. Listen to yourself. We analysed."
"But the game also analysed. 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 realise 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 game play."
"So the program does analyse."
"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 analyse ... 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 behaviour. Just because it assembled the database of our actions on the fly doesn't change the nature of what it was doing. Checking our behaviour against the behaviour of earlier children. Against our own normal behaviour. 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 analyse 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 any more. 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. "Guaraná? 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 odourless."
"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.
CHAPTER 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 pre-eminent 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 destabilise 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 colouring, 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 centre 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.
Orson Scott Card - Ender 08 - Shadow of the Giant Page 11
