The Shadow of the Hegemon - Orson Scott Card

by Orson Scott Card

  He got up.

  She watched him go out the door. She wanted to say something clever and brave. She wanted some name to call him to make him feel bad for throwing in his lot with Achilles. But she knew that anything she said would be used against her one way or another. Anything she said would reveal another lever to the lever-pullers. What she'd already said was bad enough.

  So she kept her silence and watched the door close and lay there on her bed until her computer beeped and she went to it and there was another assignment and she went to work and solved it and sabotaged it just like usual and thought, This is going rather well after all, I didn't break or anything.

  And then she went to bed and cried herself to sleep. For a few minutes, though, just before she slept, she felt that Vlad was her truest, dearest friend and she would have done anything for him, just to have him back in the room with her.

  Then that feeling passed and she had one last fleeting thought: If they were really all that smart, they would have known that I'd feel like that, right that moment; and Vlad would have come in and I would have leapt from my bed and thrown my arms around him and told him yes, I'll do it, I'll work with you, thank you for coming to me like that, Vlad, thank you.

  Only they missed their chance.

  As Ender had once said, most victories came from instantly exploiting your enemy's stupid mistakes, and not from any particular brilliance in your own plan. Achilles was very clever. But not perfect. Not all-knowing. He may not win. I may even get out of here without dying.

  Peaceful at last, she fell asleep.

  They woke her in darkness.

  "Get up."

  No greeting. She couldn't see who it was. She could hear footsteps outside her door. Boots. Soldiers?

  She remembered talking to Vlad. Rejecting his offer. He said there was no hurry; she had plenty of time to decide. But here they were, rousting her in the middle of the night. To do what?

  Nobody was laying a hand on her. She dressed in darkness-they didn't hurry her. If this was supposed to be some sort of torture session or interrogation they wouldn't wait for her to dress, they'd make sure she was as uncomfortable, as off-balance as possible.

  She didn't want to ask questions, because that would seem weak. But then, not asking questions was passive.

  "Where are we going now?"

  No answer. That was a bad sign. Or was it? All she knew about these things was from the few fictional war vids she'd seen in Battle School and a few spy movies in Armenia. None of it ever seemed believable to her, yet here she was in a real spy-movie situation and her only source of information about what to expect was those stupid fictional vids and movies. What happened to her superior reasoning ability? The talents that got her into Battle School in the first place? Apparently those only worked when you thought you were playing games in school. In the real world, fear sets in and you fall back on lame made-up stories written by people who had no idea how things like this really worked.

  Except that the people doing these things to her had also seen the same dumb vids and movies, so how did she know they weren't modelling their actions and attitudes and even their words on what they'd seen in the movies? It's not like anybody had a training course on how to look tough and mean when you were rousting a pubescent girl in the middle of the night. She tried to imagine the instruction manual. If she is going to be transported to another location, tell her to hurry, she's keeping everyone waiting. If she's going to be tortured, make snide comments about how you hope she got plenty of rest. If she is going to be drugged, tell her that it won't hurt a bit, but laugh snidely so she'll think you're lying. If she is going to be executed, say nothing.

  Oh, this is good, she told herself, Talk yourself into fearing the absolute worst. Make sure you're as close to a state of panic as possible.

  "I've got to pee," she said.

  No answer.

  "I can do it here. I can do it in my clothes. I can do it naked. I can do it in my clothes or naked wherever we're going. I can dribble it along the way. I can write my name in the snow. It's harder for girls, it requires a lot more athletic activity, but we can do it."

  Still no answer.

  "Or you can let me go to the bathroom."

  "All right," he said.

  "Which?"

  "Bathroom." He walked out the door.

  She followed him. Sure enough, there were soldiers out there. Ten of them. She stopped in front of one burly soldier and looked up at his face. "It's a good thing they brought you. If it had just been those other guys, I would have made my stand and fought to the death. But with you here, I had no choice but to give myself up. Good work, soldier."

  She turned and walked on toward the bathroom. Wondering if she had seen just the faintest hint of a smile on that soldier's face. That wasn't in the movie script, was it? Oh, wait. The hero was supposed to have a smart mouth. She was right in character. Only now she understood that all those clever remarks that heroes made were designed to conceal their raw fear. Insouciant heroes aren't brave or relaxed. They're just trying not to embarrass themselves in the moments before they die.

  She got to the bathroom and of course he came right in with her. But she'd been in Battle School and if she'd had a shy bladder she would have died of urea poisoning long ago. She dropped down, sat on the john, and let go. The guy was out the door long before she was ready to flush.

  There was a window. There were ceiling air ducts. But she was in the middle of nowhere and it's not like she had anywhere she could run. How did they do this in the vids? Oh, yeah. A friend would have already placed a weapon in some concealed location and the hero would find it, assemble it, and come out firing. That's what was wrong with this whole situation. No friends.

  She flushed, rearranged her clothing, washed her hands, and walked back out to her friendly escorts.

  They walked her outside to a convoy, of sorts. There were two black limousines and four escort vehicles. She saw two girls about her size and hair colour get into the back of each of the limos. Petra, by contrast, was kept close to the building, under the eaves, until she was at the back of a bakery van. She climbed in. None of her guards came with her. There were two men in the back of the van, but they were in civilian clothes. "What am I, bread?" she asked.

  "We understand your need to feel that you're in control of the situation through humour," said one of the men.

  "What, a psychiatrist? This is worse than torture. What happened to the Geneva convention?"

  The psychiatrist smiled. "You're going home, Petra."

  "To God? Or Armenia?"

  "At this moment, neither. The situation is still… flexible."

  "I'd say it's flexible, if I'm going home to a place where I've never been before."

  "Loyalties have not yet been sorted out. The branch of government that kidnapped you and the other children was acting without the knowledge of the army or the elected government—"

  "Or so they say," said Petra.

  "You understand my situation perfectly."

  "So who are you loyal to?"

  "Russia."

  "Isn't that what they'll all say?"

  "Not the ones who turned our foreign policy and military strategy over to a homicidal maniac child."

  "Are those three equal accusations?" asked Petra. "Because I'm guilty of being a child. And homicide, too, in some people's opinion."

  "Killing buggers was not homicide."

  "I suppose it was insecticide." The psychiatrist looked baffled. Apparently he didn't know Common well enough to understand a wordplay that nine-year-olds thought was endlessly funny in Battle School.

  The van began to move.

  "Where are we going, since it's not home?"

  "We're going into hiding to keep you out of the hands of this monster child until the breadth of this conspiracy can be discovered and the conspirators arrested."

  "Or vice versa," said Petra.

  The psychiatrist looked baffled again. But then he understood. "I s
uppose that's possible. But then, I'm not an important man. How would they know to look for me?"

  "You're important enough that you have soldiers who obey you."

  "They're not obeying me. We're all obeying someone else."

  "And who is that?"

  "If, through some misfortune, you were retaken by Achilles and his sponsors, you won't be able to answer that question."

  "Besides, you'd all be dead before they could get to me, so your names wouldn't matter anyway, right?"

  He looked at her searchingly. "You seem cynical about this. We are risking our lives to save you."

  "You're risking my life, too."

  He nodded slowly. "Do you want to return to your prison?"

  "I just want you to be aware that being kidnapped a second time isn't exactly the same thing as being set free. You're so sure that you're smart enough and your people are loyal enough to bring this off. But if you're wrong, I could get killed. So yes, you're taking risks—but so am I, and nobody asked me."

  "I ask you now."

  "Let me out of the van right here," said Petra. "I'll take my chances alone."

  "No," said the psychiatrist.

  "I see. So I am still a prisoner."

  "You are in protective custody."

  "But I am a certified strategic and tactical genius," said Petra, "and you're not. So why are you in charge of me?"

  He had no answer.

  "I'll tell you why," said Petra. "Because this is not about saving the little children who were stolen away by the evil wicked child. This is about saving Mother Russia a lot of embarrassment. So it isn't enough for me to be safe. You have to return me to Armenia under just the right circumstances, with just the right spin, that the faction of the Russian government that you serve will be exonerated of all guilt."

  "We are not guilty."

  "My point is not that you're lying about that, but that you regard that as a much higher priority than saving me. Because I assure you, riding along in this van, I fully expect to be retaken by Achilles and his… what did you call them? Sponsors."

  "And why do you suppose that this will happen?"

  "Does it matter why?"

  "You're the genius," said the psychiatrist. "Apparently you have already seen some flaw in our plan."

  "The flaw is obvious. Far too many people know about it. The decoy limousines, and soldiers, the escorts. You're sure that not one of those people is a plant? Because if any of them is reporting to Achilles' sponsors, then they already know which vehicle really has me in it, and where it's going."

  "They don't know where it's going."

  "They do if the driver is the one who was planted by the other side."

  "The driver doesn't know where we're going."

  "He's just going around in circles?"

  "He knows the first rendezvous point, that's all."

  Petra shook her head. "I knew you were stupid, because you became a talk-therapy shrink, which is like being a minister of a religion in which you get to be God."

  The psychiatrist turned red. Petra liked that. He was stupid, and he didn't like hearing it, but he definitely needed to hear it because he clearly had built his whole life around the idea that he was smart, and now that he was playing with live ammunition, thinking he was smart was going to get him killed.

  "I suppose you're right, that the driver does know where we're going first, even if he doesn't know where we plan to go from the first rendezvous." The psychiatrist shrugged elaborately. "But that can't be helped. You have to trust someone."

  "And you decided to trust this driver because…?"

  The psychiatrist looked away.

  Petra looked at the other man. "You're talkative."

  "I am think," said the man in halting Common, "you make Battle School teachers crazy with talk."

  "Ah," said Petra. "You're the brains of the outfit."

  The man looked puzzled, but also offended—he wasn't sure how he had been insulted, since he probably didn't know the word outfit, but he knew an insult had been intended.

  "Petra Arkanian," said the psychiatrist, "since you're right that I don't know the driver all that well, tell me what I should have done. You have a better plan than trusting him?"

  "Of course," said Petra. "You tell him the rendezvous point, plan with him very carefully how he'll drive there."

  "I did that," said the psychiatrist.

  "I know," said Petra. "Then, at the last minute, just as you're loading me into the van, you take the wheel and make him ride in one of the limousines. And then you drive to a different place entirely. Or better yet, you take me to the nearest town and turn me loose and let me take care of myself."

  Again, the psychiatrist looked away. Petra was amused at how transparent his body language was. You'd think a shrink would know how to conceal his own tells.

  "These people who kidnapped you," said the psychiatrist, "they are a tiny minority, even within the intelligence organisations they work for. They can't be everywhere."

  Petra shook her head. "You're a Russian, you were taught Russian history, and you actually believe that the intelligence service can't be everywhere and hear everything? What, did you spend your entire childhood watching American vids?"

  The psychiatrist had had enough. Putting on his finest medical airs, he delivered his ultimate put-down. "And you're a child who never learned decent respect. You may be brilliant in your native abilities, but that doesn't mean you understand a political situation you know nothing about."

  "Ah," said Petra. "The you're-just-a-child, you-don't-have-as-much-experience argument."

  "Naming it doesn't mean it's untrue."

  "I'm sure you understand the nuances of political speeches and manoeuvres. But this is a military operation."

  "It is a political operation," the psychiatrist corrected her. "No shooting."

  Again, Petra was stunned at the man's ignorance. "Shooting is what happens when military operations fail to achieve their purposes through manoeuvre. Any operation that's intended to physically deprive the enemy of a valued asset is military."

  "This operation is about freeing an ungrateful little girl and sending her home to her mama and papa," said the psychiatrist.

  "You want me to be grateful? Open the door and let me out."

  "The discussion is over," said the psychiatrist. "You can shut up."

  "Is that how you end your sessions with your patients?"

  "I never said I was a psychiatrist," said the psychiatrist.

  "Psychiatry was your education," said Petra. "And I know you had a practice for a while, because real people don't talk like shrinks when they're trying to reassure a frightened child. Just because you got involved in politics and changed careers doesn't mean you aren't still the kind of bonehead who goes to witch-doctor school and thinks he's a scientist."

  The man's fury was barely contained. Petra enjoyed the momentary thrill of fear that ran through her. Would he slap her? Not likely. As a psychiatrist, he would probably fall back on his one limitless resource—professional arrogance.

  "Laymen usually sneer at sciences they don't understand," said the psychiatrist.

  "That," said Petra, "is precisely my point. When it comes to military operations, you're a complete novice. A layman. A bonehead. And I'm the expert. And you're too stupid to listen to me even now."

  "Everything is going smoothly," said the psychiatrist. "And you'll feel very foolish and apologise as you thank me when you get on the plane to return to Armenia."

  Petra only smiled tightly. "You didn't even look in the cab of this delivery van to make sure it was the same driver before we drove off."

  "Someone else would have noticed if the driver changed," said the psychiatrist. But Petra could tell she had finally made him uneasy.

  "Oh, yes, I forgot, we trust your fellow conspirators to see all and miss nothing, because, after all, they aren't psychiatrists."

  "I'm a psychologist," he said.

  "Ouch," said Petra. "Th
at must have hurt, to admit you're only half-educated."

  The psychologist turned away from her. What was the term the shrinks in Ground School used for that behaviour-avoidance? Denial? She almost asked him, but decided to leave well enough alone.

  And people thought she couldn't control her tongue.

  They rode for a while in bristling silence.

  But the things she said must have been working on him, nagging at him. Because after a while he got up and walked to the front and opened the door between the cargo area and the cab.

  A deafening gunshot rang through the closed interior, and the psychiatrist fell back. Petra felt hot brains and stinging bits of bone spatter her face and arms. The man across from her started reaching for a weapon under his coat, but he was shot twice and slumped over dead without touching it.

  The door from the cab opened the rest of the way. It was Achilles standing there, holding the gun in his hand. He said something.

  "I can't hear you," said Petra. "I can't even hear my own voice."

  Achilles shrugged. Speaking louder and mouthing the words carefully, he tried again. She refused to look at him.

  "I'm not going to try to listen to you," she said, "while I still have his blood all over me."

  Achilles set down the gun—far out of her reach—and pulled off his shirt. Bare-chested, he handed it to her, and when she refused to take it, he started wiping her face with it until she snatched it out of his hands and did the job herself.

  The ringing in her ears was fading, too. "I'm surprised you didn't wait to kill them until you'd had a chance to tell them how smart you are," said Petra.

  "I didn't need to," said Achilles. "You already told them how dumb they were."

  "Oh, you were listening?"

  "Of course the compartment back here was wired for sound," said Achilles. "And video."

  "You didn't have to kill them," said Petra.

  "That guy was going for his gun," said Achilles.

  "Only after his friend was dead."

  "Come now," said Achilles. "I thought Ender's whole method was the pre-emptive use of ultimate force. I only do what I learned from your hero."

  "I'm surprised you did this one yourself," said Petra.