Card, Orson Scott - Ender's Saga 5 - Ender's Shadow

by Orson Scott Card

  CHAPTER 11 — DADDY

  "Sir. I asked for a private interview."

  "Dimak is here because your breach of security affects his work."

  "Breach of security! This is why you reassign me?"

  "There is a child who used your log-in to the master teacher system. He found the log-in record files and rewrote them to give himself an identity."

  "Sir, I have faithfully adhered to all regulations. I never sign on in front of the students."

  "Everyone says they never sign on, but then it turns out they do."

  "Excuse me, sir, but Uphanad does not. He's always on the others when he catches them doing it. Actually, he's kind of anal about it. Drives us all crazy."

  "You can check my log-in records. I never sign on during teaching hours. In fact, I never sign on outside my quarters."

  "Then how could this child possibly get in using your log-in?"

  "My desk sits on my table, like so. If I may use your desk to demonstrate."

  "Of course."

  "I sit like so. I keep my back to the door so no one can even see in. I never sign on in any other position."

  "Well it's not like there's a window he can peek through!"

  "Yes there is, sir."

  "Dimak?"

  "There is a window, sir. Look. The vent."

  "Are you seriously suggesting that he could —"

  "He is the smallest child who ever —"

  "It was that little Bean child who got my log-in?"

  "Excellent, Dimak, you've managed to let his name slip out, haven't you."

  "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Ah. Another security breach. Will you send Dimak home with me?"

  "I'm not sending anybody home."

  "Sir, I must point out that Bean's intrusion into the master teacher system is an excellent opportunity."

  "To have a student romping through the student data files?"

  "To study Bean. We don't have him in the fantasy game, but now we have the game he chooses to play. We watch where he goes in the system, what he does with this power he has created for himself."

  "But the damage he can do is —"

  "He won't do any damage, sir. He won't do anything to give himself away. This kid is too street-smart. It's information he wants. He'll look, not touch."

  "So you've got him analysed already, is that it? You know what he's doing at all times?"

  "I know that if there's a story we really want him to believe, he has to discover it himself. He has to steal it from us. So I think this little security breach is the perfect way to heal a much more important one."

  "What I'm wondering is, if he's been crawling through the ducts, what else has he heard?"

  "If we close off the duct system, he'll know he was caught, and then he won't trust what we set up for him to find."

  "So I have to permit a child to crawl around through the ductwork and —"

  "He can't do it much longer. He's growing, and the ducts are extremely shallow."

  "That's not much comfort right now. And, unfortunately, we'll still have to kill Uphanad for knowing too much."

  "Please assure me that you're joking."

  "Yes, I'm joking. You'll have him as a student soon enough, Captain Uphanad. Watch him very carefully. Speak of him only with me. He's unpredictable and dangerous."

  "Dangerous. Little Bean."

  "He cleaned your clock, didn't he?"

  "Yours too, sir, begging your pardon."

  *** Bean worked his way through every student at Battle School, reading the records of a half dozen or so per day. Their original scores, he found, were the least interesting thing about them. Everyone here had such high scores on all the tests given back on Earth that the differences were almost trivial. Bean's own scores were the highest, and the gap between him and the next highest, Ender Wiggin, was wide — as wide as the gap between Ender and the next child after him. But it was all relative. The difference between Ender and Bean amounted to half of a percentage point; most of the children clustered between 97 and 98 percent. Of course, Bean knew what they could not know, that for him getting the highest possible score on the tests had been easy. He could have done more, he could have done better, but he had reached the boundary of what the test could discover. The gap between him and Ender was much wider than they supposed. And yet ... in reading the records, Bean came to see that the scores were merely a guide to a child's potential. The teachers talked most about things like cleverness, insight, intuition; the ability to develop rapport, to outguess an opponent; the courage to act boldly, the caution to make certain before committing, the wisdom to know which course was the appropriate one. And in considering this, Bean realised that he was not necessarily any better at these things than the other students. Ender Wiggin really did know things that Bean did not know. Bean might have thought to do as Wiggin did, arranging extra practices to make up for being with a commander who wouldn't train him. Bean even might have tried to bring in a few other students to train with him, since many things could not be done alone. But Wiggin had taken all comers, no matter how difficult it became to practice with so many in the battle room, and according to the teachers' notes, he spent more time now training others than in working on his own technique. Of course, that was partly because he was no longer in Bonzo Madrid's army, so he got to take part in the regular practices. But he still kept working with the other kids, especially the eager launchies who wanted a head start before they were promoted into a regular army. Why? Is he doing what I'm doing, studying the other students to prepare for a later war on Earth? Is he building some kind of network that reaches out into all the armies? Is he somehow mis-training them, so he can take advantage of their mistakes later? From what Bean heard about Wiggin from the kids in his launch group who attended those practices, he came to realise that it was something else entirely. Wiggin seemed really to care about the other kids doing their best. Did he need so badly for them to like him? Because it was working, if that's what he was trying for. They worshipped him. But there had to be more to it than some hunger for love. Bean couldn't get a handle on it. He found that the teachers' observations, while helpful, didn't really help him get inside Wiggin's head. For one thing, they kept the psychological observations from the mind game somewhere else that Bean didn't have access to. For another, the teachers couldn't really get into Wiggin's mind because they simply didn't think at his level. Bean did. But Bean's project wasn't to analyse Wiggin out of scientific curiosity, or to compete with him, or even to understand him. It was to make himself into the kind of child that the teachers would trust, would rely on. Would regard as fully human. For that project, Wiggin was his teacher because Wiggin had already done what Bean needed to do. And Wiggin had done it without being perfect. Without being, as far as Bean could tell, completely sane. Not that anyone was. But Wiggin's willingness to give up hours every day to training kids who could do nothing for him — the more Bean thought about it, the less sense it made. Wiggin was not building a network of supporters. Unlike Bean, he didn't have a perfect memory, so Bean was quite sure Wiggin was not compiling a mental dossier on every other kid in Battle School. The kids he worked with were not the best, and were often the most fearful and dependent of the launchies and of the losers in the regular armies. They came to him because they thought being in the same room with the soldier who was leading in the standings might bring some luck to them. But why did Wiggin keep giving his time to them? Why did Poke die for me? That was the same question. Bean knew it. He found several books about ethics in the library and called them up on his desk to read. He soon discovered that the only theories that explained altruism were bogus. The stupidest was the old socio-biological explanation of uncles dying for nephews — there were no blood ties in armies now, and people often died for strangers. Community theory was fine as far as it went — it explained why communities all honoured sacrificial heroes in their stories and rituals, but it still didn't explain the heroes themselves. For that was what Bean saw in
Wiggin. This was the hero at his root. Wiggin really does not care as much about himself as he does about these other kids who aren't worth five minutes of his time. And yet this may be the very trait that makes everyone focus on him. Maybe this is why in all those stories Sister Carlotta told him, Jesus always had a crowd around him. Maybe this is why I'm so afraid of Wiggin. Because he's the alien, not me. He's the unintelligible one, the unpredictable one. He's the one who doesn't do things for sensible, predictable reasons. I'm going to survive, and once you know that, there's nothing more to know about me. Him, though, he could do anything. The more he studied Wiggin, the more mysteries Bean uncovered. The more he determined to act like Wiggin until, at some point, he came to see the world as Wiggin saw it. But even as he tracked Wiggin — still from a distance — what Bean could not let himself do was what the younger kids did, what Wiggin's disciples did. He could not call him Ender. Calling him by his last name kept him at a distance. A microscope's distance, anyway. What did Wiggin study when he read on his own? Not the books of military history and strategy that Bean had blown through in a rush and was now rereading methodically, applying everything to both space combat and modern warfare on Earth. Wiggin did his share of reading, too, but when he went into the library he was just as likely to look at combat vids, and the ones he watched most often were of Bugger ships. Those and the clips of Mazer Rackham's strike force in the heroic battle that broke the back of the Second Invasion. Bean watched them too, though not over and over again — once he saw them, he remembered them perfectly and could replay them in his mind, with enough detail that he could notice things later that he hadn't realised at first. Was Wiggin seeing something new each time he went back to these vids? Or was he looking for something that he hadn't yet found? Is he trying to understand the way the Buggers think? Why doesn't he realise that the library here simply doesn't have enough of the vids to make it useful? It's all propaganda stuff here. They withheld all the terrible scenes of dead guys, of fighting and killing hand to hand when ships were breached and boarded. They didn't have vids of defeats, where the Buggers blew the human ships out of the sky. All they had here was ships moving around in space, a few minutes of preparation for combat. War in space? So exciting in the made-up stories, so boring in reality. Occasionally something would light up, mostly it was just dark. And, of course, the obligatory moment of Mazer Rackham's victory. What could Wiggin possibly hope to learn? Bean learned more from the omissions than from what he actually saw. For instance, there was not one picture of Mazer Rackham anywhere in the library. That was odd. The Triumvirates' faces were everywhere, as were those of other commanders and political leaders. Why not Rackham? Had he died in the moment of victory? Or was he, perhaps, a fictitious figure, a deliberately-created legend, so that there could be a name to peg the victory to? But if that were the case, they'd have created a face for him — it was too easy to do that. Was he deformed? Was he really, really small? If I grow up to be the commander of the human fleet that defeats the Buggers, will they hide my picture, too, because someone so tiny can never be seen as a hero? Who cares? I don't want to be a hero. That's Wiggin's gig. *** Nikolai, the boy across from him. Bright enough to make some guesses Bean hadn't made first. Confident enough not to get angry when he caught Bean intruding on him. Bean was so hopeful when he came at last to Nikolai's file. The teacher evaluation was negative. "A place-holder." Cruel — but was it true? Bean realised: I have been putting too much trust in the teachers' evaluations. Do I have any real evidence that they're right? Or do I believe in their evaluations because I am rated so highly? Have I let them flatter me into complacency? What if all their evaluations were hopelessly wrong? I had no teacher files on the streets of Rotterdam. I actually knew the children. Poke — I made my own judgement of her, and I was almost right, just a few surprises here and there. Sergeant — no surprises at all. Achilles — yes, I knew him. So why have I stayed apart from the other students? Because they isolated me at first, and because I decided that the teachers had the power. But now I see that I was only partly right. The teachers have the power here and now, but someday I will not be in Battle School, and what does it matter then what the teachers think of me? I can learn all the military theory and history that I want, and it will do me no good if they never entrust me with command. And I will never be placed in charge of an army or a fleet unless they have reason to believe that other men would follow me. Not men today, but boys, most of them, a few girls. Not men, but they will be men. How do they choose their leaders? How do I make them follow one who is so small, so resented? What did Wiggin do? Bean asked Nikolai which of the kids in their launch group practised with Wiggin. "Only a few. And they on the fringes, neh? Suck ups and brags." "But who are they?" "You trying to get in with Wiggin?" "Just want to find out about him." "What you want to know?" The questions bothered Bean. He didn't like talking so much about what he was doing. But he didn't sense any malice in Nikolai. He just wanted to know. "History. He the best, neh? How he get that way?" Bean wondered if he sounded quite natural with the soldier slang. He hadn't used it that much. The music of it, he still wasn't quite there. "You find out, you tell me." He rolled his eyes in self-derision. "I'll tell you," said Bean. "I got a chance to be best like Ender?" Nikolai laughed. "You got a chance, the way you learn." "Wiggin's snot ain't honey," said Bean. "What does that mean?" "He human like anybody. I find out, I tell you, OK?" Bean wondered why Nikolai already despaired about his own chances of being one of the best. Could it be that the teachers' negative evaluation was right after all? Or had they unconsciously let him see their disdain for him, and he believed them? From the boys Nikolai had pointed out — the brags and suck ups, which wasn't an inaccurate evaluation as far as it went — Bean learned what he wanted to know. The names of Wiggin's closest friends. Shen. Alai. Petra — her again! But Shen the longest. Bean found him in the library during study time. The only reason to go there was for the vids — all the books could be read from the desks. Shen wasn't watching vids, though. He had his desk with him, and he was playing the fantasy game. Bean sat down beside him to watch. A lion-headed man in chain mail stood before a giant, who seemed to be offering him a choice of drinks — the sound was shaped so that Bean couldn't hear it from beside the desk, though Shen seemed to be responding; he typed in a few words. His lion-man figure drank one of the substances and promptly died. Shen muttered something and shoved the desk away. "That the Giant's Drink?" said Bean. "I heard about that." "You've never played it?" said Shen. "You can't win it. I thought." "I heard. Didn't sound fun." "Sound fun? You haven't tried it? It's not like it's hard to find." Bean shrugged, trying to fake the mannerisms he'd seen other boys use. Shen looked amused. Because Bean did the cool-guy shrug wrong? Or because it looked cute to have somebody so small do it? "Come on, you don't play the fantasy game?" "What you said," Bean prompted him. "You thought nobody ever won it." "I saw a guy in a place I'd never seen. I asked him where it was, and he said, 'Other side of the Giant's Drink.'" "He tell you how to get there?" "I didn't ask." "Why not?" Shen grinned, looked away. "It be Wiggin, neh?" asked Bean. The grin faded. "I didn't say that." "I know you're his friend, that's why I came here." "What is this? You spying on him? You from Bonzo?" This was not going well. Bean hadn't realised how protective Wiggin's friends might be. "I'm from me. Look, nothing bad, OK? I just — look, I just want to know about — you know him from the start, right? They say you been his friend from launchy days." "So what?" "Look, he got friends, right? Like you. Even though he always does better in class, always the best on everything, right? But they don't hate him." "Plenty bichão hate him." "I got to make some friends, man." Bean knew that he shouldn't try to sound pitiful. Instead, he should sound like a pitiful kid who was trying really hard not to sound pitiful. So he ended his maudlin little plea with a laugh. As if he was trying to make it sound like a joke. "You're pretty short," said Shen. "Not on the planet I'm from," said Bean. For the first time, Shen let a genuine smile come to his face. "The planet of the pygmies."
"Them boys too big for me." "Look, I know what you're saying," said Shen. "I had this funny walk. Some of the kids were ragging me. Ender stopped them." "How?" "Ragged them more." "I never heard he got a mouth." "No, he didn't say nada. Did it on the desk. Sent a message from God." Oh, yeah. Bean had heard about that. "He did that for you?" "They were making fun of my butt. I had a big butt. Before workouts, you know? Back then. So he make fun of them for looking at my butt. But he signs it God." "So they didn't know it was him." "Oh, they knew. Right away. But he didn't say anything. Out loud." "That's how you got to be friends? He the protector of the little guys?" Like Achilles ... "Little guys?" said Shen. "He was the smallest in our launch group. Not like you, but way small. Younger, see." "He was youngest, but he became your protector?" "No. Not like that. No, he kept it from going on, that's all. He went to the group — it was Bernard, he was getting together the biggest guys, the tough guys —" "The bullies." "Yeah, I guess. Only Ender, he goes to Bernard's number one, his best friend. Alai. He gets Alai to be his friend, too." "So he stole away Bernard's support?" "No, man. No, it's not like that. He made friends with Alai, and then got Alai to help him make friends with Bernard." "Bernard ... he's the one, Ender broke his arm in the shuttle." "That's right. And I think, really, Bernard never forgave him, but he saw how things were." "How were things?" "Ender's good, man. You just — he doesn't hate anybody. If you're a good person, you're going to like him. You want him to like you. If he likes you, then you're OK, see? But if you're scum, he just makes you mad. Just knowing he exists, see? So Ender, he tries to wake up the good part of you." "How do you wake up 'good parts'?" "I don't know, man. You think I know? It just ... you know Ender long enough, he just makes you want him to be proud of you. That sounds so ... sounds like I'm a baby, neh?" Bean shook his head. What it sounded like to him was devotion. Bean hadn't really understood this. Friends were friends, he thought. Like Sergeant and Poke used to be, before Achilles. But it was never love. When Achilles came, they loved him, but it was more like worship, like ... a god, he got them bread, they gave bread back to him. Like ... well, like what he called himself. Papa. Was it the same thing? Was Ender Achilles all over again? "You're smart, kid," said Shen. "I was there, neh? Only I never once thought, How did Ender do it? How can I do the same, be like him? It's like that was Ender, he's great, but it's nothing I could do. Maybe I should have tried. I just wanted to be ... with him." "Cause you're good, too," said Bean. Shen rolled his eyes. "I guess that's what I was saying, wasn't it? Implying, anyway. Guess that makes me a brag, neh?" "Big old brag," said Bean, grinning. "He's just ... he makes you want to ... I'd die for him. That sounds like hero talk, neh? But it's true. I'd die for him. I'd kill for him." "You'd fight for him." Shen got it at once. "That's right. He's a born commander." "Alai fight for him too?" "A lot of us." "But some not, yes?" "Like I said, the bad ones, they hate him, he makes them crazy." "So the whole world divides up — good people love Wiggin, bad people hate Wiggin." Shen's face went suspicious again. "I don't know why I told you all that merda. You too smart to believe any of it." "I do believe it," said Bean. "Don't be mad at me." He'd learned that one a long time ago. Little kid says, Don't be mad at me, they feel a little silly. "I'm not mad," said Shen. "I just thought you were making fun of me." "I wanted to know how Wiggin makes friends." "If I knew that, if I really understood that, I'd have more friends than I do, kid. But I got Ender as my friend, and all his friends are my friends too, and I'm their friend, so ... it's like a family." A family. Papa. Achilles again. That old dread returned. That night after Poke died. Seeing her body in the water. Then Achilles in the morning. How he acted. Was that Wiggin? Papa until he got his chance? Achilles was evil, and Ender was good. Yet they both created a family. Both had people who loved them, who would die for them. Protector, papa, provider, mama. Only parent to a crowd of orphans. We're all street kids up here in Battle School, too. We might not be hungry, but we're all still wishing for a family. Except me. Last thing I need. Some papa smiling at me, waiting with a knife. Better to be the papa than to have one. How can I do that? Get somebody to love me the way Shen loves Wiggin? No chance. I'm too little. Too cute. I got nothing they want. All I can do is protect myself, work the system. Ender's got plenty to teach those that have some hope of doing what he's done. But me, I have to learn my own way. Even as he made the decision, though, he knew he wasn't done with Wiggin. Whatever Wiggin had, whatever Wiggin knew, Bean would learn it. And so passed the weeks, the months. Bean did all his regular classwork. He attended the regular battle room classes with Dimak teaching them how to move and shoot, the basic skills. On his own he completed all the enrichment courses you could take at your own desk, certifying in everything. He studied military history, philosophy, strategy. He read ethics, religion, biology. He kept track of every student in the school, from the newly arrived launchies to the students about to graduate. When he saw them in the halls, he knew more about them than they knew about themselves. He knew their nation of origin. He knew how much they missed their families and how important their native country or ethnic or religious group was to them. He knew how valuable they might be to a nationalist or idealist resistance movement. And he kept reading everything Wiggin read, watching everything Wiggin watched. Hearing about Wiggin from the other kids. Watching Wiggin's standings on the boards. Meeting more of Wiggin's friends, hearing them talk about him. Bean listened to all the things Wiggin was quoted as saying and tried to fit them into some coherent philosophy, some world-view, some attitude, some plan. And he found out something interesting. Despite Wiggin's altruism, despite his willingness to sacrifice, not one of his friends ever said that Wiggin came and talked over his problems. They all went to Wiggin, but who did Wiggin go to? He had no more real friends than Bean did. Wiggin kept his own counsel, just like Bean. Soon Bean found himself being advanced out of classes whose work he had already mastered and being plunged into classwork with older and older groups, who looked at him with annoyance at first, but later simply with awe, as he raced past them and was promoted again before they were half done. Had Wiggin been pushed through his classwork at an accelerated rate? Yes, but not quite as fast. Was that because Bean was better? Or because the deadline was getting closer? For the sense of urgency in teacher evaluations was getting greater. The ordinary students — as if any child here were ordinary — were getting briefer and briefer notations. They weren't being ignored, exactly. But the best were being identified and lifted out. The seeming best. For Bean began to realise that the teachers' evaluations were often coloured by which students they liked the best. The teachers pretended to be dispassionate, impartial, but in fact they got sucked in by the more charismatic children, just as the other students did. If a kid was likeable, they gave him better comments on leadership, even if he was really just glib and athletic and needed to surround himself with a team. As often as not, they tagged the very students who would be the least effective commanders, while ignoring the ones who, to Bean, showed real promise. It was frustrating to watch them make such obvious mistakes. Here they had Wiggin right before their eyes — Wiggin, who was the real thing — and they still went on misreading everybody else. Getting all excited about some of these energetic, self-confident, ambitious kids even though they weren't actually producing excellent work. Wasn't this whole school set up in order to find and train the best possible commanders? The Earthside testing did pretty well — there were no real dolts among the students. But the system had overlooked one crucial factor: How were the teachers chosen? They were career military, all of them. Proven officers with real ability. But in the military you don't get trusted positions just because of your ability. You also have to attract the notice of superior officers. You have to be liked. You have to fit in with the system. You have to look like what the officers above you think that officers should look like. You have to think in ways that they are comfortable with. The result was that you ended up with a command structure that was top-heavy with guys who looked good in uniform and talked right
and did well enough not to embarrass themselves, while the really good ones quietly did all the serious work and bailed out their superiors and got blamed for errors they had advised against until they eventually got out. That was the military. These teachers were all the kind of people who thrived in that environment. And they were selecting their favourite students based on precisely that same screwed-up sense of priorities. No wonder a kid like Dink Meeker saw through it and refused to play. He was one of the few kids who was both likeable and talented. His likeability made them try to make him commander of his own army; his talent let him understand why they were doing it and turn them down because he couldn't believe in such a stupid system. And other kids, like Petra Arkanian, who had obnoxious personalities but could handle strategy and tactics in their sleep, who had the confidence to lead others into war, to trust their own decisions and act on them — they didn't care about trying to be one of the guys, and so they got overlooked, every flaw became magnified, every strength belittled. So Bean began constructing his own anti-army. Kids who weren't getting picked out by the teachers, but were the real talents, the ones with heart and mind, not just face and chat. He began to imagine who among them should be officers, leading their own toons under the command of ... Of Ender Wiggin, of course. Bean could not imagine anyone else in that position. Wiggin would know how to use them. And Bean knew just where he should be. Close to Wiggin. A toon leader, but the most trusted of them. Wiggin's right-hand man. So when Wiggin was about to make a mistake, Bean could point out to him the error he was making. And so that Bean could be close enough to maybe understand why Wiggin was human and he himself was not. *** Sister Carlotta used her new security clearance like a scalpel, most of the time, slicing her way into the information establishment, picking up answers here and new questions there, talking to people who never guessed what her project was, why she knew so much about their top-secret work, and quietly putting it all together in her own mind, in memos to Colonel Graff. But sometimes she wielded her top security clearance like a meat-axe, using it to get past prison wardens and security officers, who saw her unbelievable level of need-to-know and then, when they checked to make sure her documents weren't a stupid forgery, were screamed at by officers so high-ranked that it made them want to treat Sister Carlotta like God. That's how, at last, she came face to face with Bean's father. Or at least the closest thing to a father that he had. "I want to talk to you about your installation in Rotterdam." He looked at her sourly. "I already reported on everything. That's why I'm not dead, though I wonder if I made the right choice." "They told me you were quite the whiner," said Sister Carlotta, utterly devoid of compassion. "I didn't expect it to surface so quickly." "Go to hell." He turned his back on her. As if that meant anything. "Dr. Volescu, the records show that you had twenty-three babies in your organ farm in Rotterdam." He said nothing. "But of course that's a lie." Silence. "And, oddly enough, I know that the lie is not your idea. Because I know that your installation was not an organ farm indeed, and that the reason you aren't dead is because you agreed to plead guilty to running an organ farm in exchange for never discussing what you were really doing there." He slowly turned around again. Enough that he could look up and see her with a sidelong glance. "Let me see that clearance you tried to show me before." She showed it to him again. He studied it. "What do you know?" he asked. "I know your real crime was continuing a research project after it was closed down. Because you had these fertilised eggs that had been meticulously altered. You had turned Anton's key. You wanted them to be born. You wanted to see who they would become." "If you know all that, why have you come to me? Everything I knew is in the documents you must have read." "Not at all," said Sister Carlotta. "I don't care about confessions. I don't care about logistics. I want to know about the babies." "They're all dead," he said. "We killed them when we knew we were about to be discovered." He looked at her with bitter defiance. "Yes, infanticide. Twenty-three murders. But since the government couldn't admit that such children had ever existed, I was never charged with the crimes. God judges me, though. God will press the charges. Is that why you're here? Is that who gave you your clearance?" You make jokes about this? "All I want to know is what you learned about them." "I learned nothing, there was no time, they were still babies." "You had them for almost a year. They developed. All the work done since Anton found his key was theoretical. You watched the babies grow." A slow smile crept across his face. "This is like those Nazi medical crimes all over again. You deplore what I did, but you still want to know the results of my research." "You monitored their growth. Their health. Their intellectual development." "We were about to start the tracking of intellectual development. The project wasn't funded, of course, so it's not as if we could provide much more than a clean warm room and basic bodily needs." "Their bodies, then. Their motor skills." "Small," he said. "They are born small, they grow slowly. Undersized and underweight, all of them." "But very bright?" "Crawling very young. Making pre-speech sounds far earlier than normal. That's all we knew. I didn't see them often myself. I couldn't afford the risk of detection." "So what was your prognosis?" "Prognosis?" "How did you see their future?" "Dead. That's everyone's future. What are you talking about?" "If they hadn't been slaughtered, Dr. Volescu, what would have happened?" "They would have kept on growing, of course." "And later?" "There is no later. They keep on growing." She thought for a moment, trying to process the information. "That's right, Sister. You're getting it. They grow slowly, but they never stop. That's what Anton's key does. Unlocks the mind because the brain never stops growing. But neither does anything else. The cranium keeps expanding — it's never fully closed. The arms and legs, longer and longer." "So when they reach adult height ..." "There is no adult height. There's just height at time of death. You can't keep growing like that forever. There's a reason why evolution builds a stop-clock into the growth control of long-lived bodies. You can't keep growing without some organ giving out, eventually. Usually the heart." The implications filled Sister Carlotta with dread. "And the rate of this growth? In the children, I mean? How long until they are at normal height for their age?" "My guess was that they'd catch up twice," said Volescu. "Once just before puberty, and then the normal kids would leap ahead for a while, but slow and steady wins the race, n'est-ce pas? By twenty, they would be giants. And then they'd die, almost certainly before age twenty-five. Do you have any idea how huge they would be? So my killing them, you see — it was a mercy." "I doubt any of them would have chosen to miss out on even the mere twenty years you took from them." "They never knew what happened to them. I'm not a monster. We drugged them all. They died in their sleep and then the bodies were incinerated." "What about puberty? Would they ever mature sexually?" "That's the part we'll never know, isn't it?" Sister Carlotta got up to go. "He lived, didn't he?" asked Volescu. "Who?" "The one we lost. The one whose body wasn't with the others. I counted only twenty-two going into the fire." "When you worship Moloch, Dr. Volescu, you get no answers but the ones your chosen god provides." "Tell me what he's like." His eyes were so hungry. "You know it was a boy?" "They were all boys," said Volescu. "What, did you discard the girls?" "How do you think I got the genes I worked with? I implanted my own altered DNA into de-nucleated eggs." "God help us, they were all your own twins?" "I'm not the monster you think I am," said Volescu. "I brought the frozen embryos to life because I had to know what they would become. Killing them was my greatest sorrow." "And yet you did it — to save yourself." "I was afraid. And the thought came to me: They're only copies. It isn't murder to discard the copies." "Their souls and lives were their own." "Do you think the government would have let them live? Do you really think they would have survived? Any of them?" "You don't deserve to have a son," said Sister Carlotta. "But I have one, don't l?" He laughed. "While you, Miss Carlotta, perpetual bride of the invisible God, how many do you have?" "They may have been copies, Volescu, but even dead they're worth more than the original." He continued laughing as she walked down the corridor away from him, but
it sounded forced. She knew his laughter was a mask for grief. But it wasn't the grief of compassion, or even of remorse. It was the grief of a damned soul. Bean. God be thanked, she thought, that you do not know your father, and never will. You're nothing like him. You're far more human. In the back of her mind, though, she had one nagging doubt. Was she sure Bean had more compassion, more humanity? Or was Bean as cold of heart as this man? As incapable of empathy? Was he all mind? Then she thought of him growing and growing, from this too-tiny child to a giant whose body could no longer sustain life. This was the legacy your father gave you. This was Anton's key. She thought of David's cry, when he learned of the death of his son. Absalom! Oh Absalom! Would God I could die for thee, Absalom, my son! But he was not dead yet, was he? Volescu might have been lying, might simply be wrong. There might be some way to prevent it. And even if there was not, there were still many years ahead of Bean. And how he lived those years still mattered. God raises up the children that he needs, and makes men and women of them, and then takes them from this world at his good pleasure. To him all of life is but a moment. All that matters is what that moment was used for. And Bean would use it well. She was sure of that. Or at least she hoped it with such fervour that it felt like certainty.