The silence around the table was deadly. They hated him now, because he had spoken to them of defeat—and told them, disrespectfully, that their ideas were wrong.

  “I hope none of you will forget this meeting,” said Han Tzu.

  “You can be sure that we will not,” said the senior aide.

  “If I am wrong, then I will bear the consequences of my mistake, and rejoice that your ideas were not stupid after all. What is good for China is good for me, even if I am punished for my mistakes. But if I am right, then we’ll see what kind of men you are. Because if you’re true Chinese, who love your country more than your careers, you’ll remember that I was right and you’ll bring me back and listen to me as you should have listened to me today. But if you’re the disloyal selfish garden-pigs I think you are, you’ll make sure that I’m killed, so that no one outside this room will ever know that you heard a true warning and didn’t listen to it when there was still time to save China from the most dangerous enemy we have faced since Genghis Khan.”

  What a glorious speech. And how refreshing actually to say it with his lips to the people who most needed to hear it, instead of playing the speech over and over in his mind, ever more frustrated because not a word of it had been said aloud.

  Of course he would be arrested tonight, and quite possibly shot before morning. Though the more likely pattern would be to arrest him and charge him with passing information to the enemy, blaming him for the defeat that only he actually tried to prevent. There was something about irony that had a special appeal to Chinese people who got a little power. There was a special pleasure in punishing a virtuous man for the powerful man’s own crimes.

  But Han Tzu would not hide. It might be possible, at this moment, for him to leave China and go into exile. But he would not do it.

  Why not?

  He could not leave his country in its hour of need. Even though he might be killed for staying, there would be many other Chinese soldiers his age who would die in the next days and weeks. Why shouldn’t he be one of them? And there was always the chance, however small and remote, that there were enough decent men among those at that meeting that Han Tzu would be kept alive until it was clear that he was right. Perhaps then—contrary to all expectation—they would bring him back and ask him how to save themselves from this disaster they had brought upon China.

  Meanwhile, Han Tzu was hungry, and there was a little restaurant he liked, where the manager and his wife treated him like one of the family. They did not care about his lofty rank or his status as one of the heroes of Ender’s jeesh. They liked him for his company. They loved the way he devoured their food as if it were the finest cuisine in the world—which, to him, it was. If these were his last hours of freedom, or even of life, why not spend them with people he liked, eating food he enjoyed?

  As night fell in Damascus, Bean and Petra walked freely along the streets, looking into shop windows. Damascus still had the traditional markets, where most fresh food and local handwork were sold. But supermarkets, boutiques, and chain stores had reached Damascus, like almost every other place on earth. Only the wares for sale reflected local taste. There was no shortage of items of European and American design for sale, but what Bean and Petra enjoyed was the strangeness of items that would never find a market in the West, but which apparently were much in demand here.

  They traded guesses about what each item was for.

  They stopped at an outdoor restaurant with good music played softly enough that they could still converse. They had a strange combination of local food and international cuisine that had even the waiter shaking his head, but they were in the mood to please themselves.

  “I’ll probably just throw it up tomorrow,” said Petra.

  “Probably,” said Bean. “But it’ll be a better grade of—”

  “Please!” said Petra. “I’m trying to eat.”

  “But you brought it up,” said Bean.

  “I know it’s unfair, but when I discuss it, it doesn’t make me sick. It’s like tickling. You can’t really nauseate yourself.”

  “I can,” said Bean.

  “I have no doubt of it. Probably one of the attributes of Anton’s Key.”

  They continued talking about nothing much, until they heard some explosions, at first far away, then nearby.

  “There can’t possibly be an attack on Damascus,” said Petra under her voice.

  “No, I think it’s fireworks,” said Bean. “I think it’s a celebration.”

  One of the cooks ran into the restaurant and shouted out a stream of Arabic, which was of course completely unintelligible to Bean and Petra. All at once the local customers jumped up from the table. Some of them ran out of the restaurant—without paying, and nobody made to stop them. Others ran into the kitchen.

  The few non-Arabiphones in the restaurant were left to wonder what was going on.

  Until a merciful waiter came out and announced in Common Speech, “Food will be delay, I very sorry to tell you. But happy to say why. Caliph will speak in a minute.”

  “The Caliph?” asked an Englishman. “Isn’t he in Baghdad?”

  “I thought Istanbul,” said a Frenchwoman.

  “There has been no Caliph in many centuries,” said a professorial-looking Japanese.

  “Apparently they have one now,” said Petra reasonably. “I wonder if they’ll let us into the kitchen to watch with them.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I want to,” said the Englishman. “If they’ve got themselves a new Caliph, they’re going to be feeling quite chauvinistic for a while. What if they decide to start hanging foreigners to celebrate?”

  The Japanese scholar was outraged at this suggestion. While he and the Englishman politely went for each other’s throats, Bean, Petra, the Frenchwoman, and several other westerners went through the swinging door into the kitchen, where the kitchen help barely noticed they were there. Someone had brought a nice-sized flat vid in from one of the offices and set it on a shelf, leaning it against the wall.

  Alai was already on the screen.

  Not that it did them any good to watch. They couldn’t understand a word of it. They’d have to wait for the full translation on one of the newsnets later.

  But the map of western China was pretty self-explanatory. No doubt he was telling them that the Muslim people had united to liberate long-captive brothers in Xinjiang. The waiters and cooks punctuated almost every sentence with cheers—Alai seemed to know this would happen, because he left pauses after each declaration.

  Unable to understand his words, Bean and Petra concentrated on other things. Bean tried to determine whether this speech was going out live. The clock on the wall was no indicator—of course they would insert it digitally into a prerecorded vid during the broadcast so that no matter when it was first aired, the clock would show the current time. Finally he got his answer when Alai stood up and walked to the window. The camera followed him, and there spread out below him were the lights of Damascus, twinkling in the darkness. He was doing it live. And whatever he said while pointing to the city, it was apparently very effective, because at once the cheering cooks and waiters were weeping openly, without shame, their eyes still glued to the screen.

  Petra, meanwhile, was trying to guess how Alai must look to the Muslim people watching him. She knew his face so well, so that she had to try to separate the boy she had known from the man he now was. The compassion she had noticed before was more visible than ever. His eyes were full of love. But there was fire in him, too, and dignity. He did not smile—which was proper for the leader of nations which were now at war, and whose sons were dying in combat, and killing, too. Nor did he rant, whipping them up into some kind of dangerous enthusiasm.

  Will these people follow him into battle? Yes, of course, at first, when he has a tale of easy victories to tell them. But later, when times are hard and fortune does not favor them, will they still follow him?

  Perhaps yes. Because what Petra saw in him was not so much a great general—though yes, she could imagine Alexander might have looked like this, or Caesar—as a prophet-king. Saul or David, both young men when first called by prophecy to lead their people into war in God’s name. Joan of Arc.

  Of course, Joan of Arc ended up dying at the stake, and Saul fell on his own sword—or no, that was Brutus or Cassius, Saul commanded one of his own soldiers to kill him, didn’t he? A bad end for both of them. And David died in disgrace, forbidden by God to build the holy temple because he had murdered Uriah to get Bathsheba into a state of marriageable widowhood.

  Not a good list of precedents, that.

  But they had their glory, didn’t they, before they fell.

  18

  THE WAR ON THE GROUND

  To: Chamrajnagar%Jawaharlal@ifcom.gov

  From: AncientFire%Embers@han.gov

  Re: Official statement coming

  My esteemed friend and colleague,

  It grieves me that you would even suppose that in this time of trouble, when China is assailed by unprovoked assaults from religious fanatics, we would have either the desire or the resources to provoke the International Fleet. We have nothing but the highest esteem for your institution, which so recently saved all humankind from the onslaught of the stardragons.

  Our official statement, which will be released forthwith, does not include our speculations on who is in fact responsible for the tragic shooting down of the IF shuttle while it overflew Brazilian territory. While we do not admit to having any participation in or foreknowledge of the event, we have performed our own preliminary investigation and we believe you will find that the equipment in question may in fact have originated with the Chinese military.

  This causes us excruciating embarrassment, and we beg you not to publicize this information. Instead, we provide you with the attached documentation showing that our one missile launcher which is not accounted for, and which therefore may have been used to commit this crime, was released into the control of a certain Achilles de Flandres, ostensibly for military operations in connection with our preemptive defensive action against the Indian aggressor as it ravaged Burma. We believed this materiel had been returned to us, but we discover upon investigation that it was not.

  Achilles de Flandres at one time was under our protection, having rendered us a service in connection with forewarning us of the danger that India posed to peace in Southeast Asia. However, certain crimes he committed prior to this service came to our attention, and we arrested him (see documentation). As he was being conveyed to his place of reeducation, unknown forces raided the convoy and released Achilles de Flandres, killing all of the escorting soldiers.

  Since Achilles de Flandres ended up almost immediately in the Hegemony compound in Ribeirao Preto, Brazil, and he has been in a position to do much mischief there since the hasty departure of Peter Wiggin, and since the missile was fired from Brazilian territory and the shuttle was shot down over Brazil, we suggest that the place to look for responsibility for this attack on the IF is in Brazil, specifically the Hegemony compound.

  Ultimate responsibility for all of de Flandres’s actions after his abscondment from our custody must lie with those who took him, namely, Hegemon Peter Wiggin and his military forces, headed by Julian Delphiki and, more recently, the Thai national, Suriyawong, who is regarded by the Chinese government as a terrorist.

  I hope that this information, provided to you off the record, will prove useful to you in your investigation. If we can be of any other service that is not inconsistent with our desperate struggle for survival against the onslaught of the barbarian hordes from Asia, we will be glad to provide it.

  Your humble and unworthy colleague,

  Ancient Fire

  From: Chamrajnagar%Jawaharlal@ifcom.gov

  To: Graff%pilgrimage@colmin.gov

  Re: Who will take the blame?

  Dear Hyrum,

  You see from the attached message from the esteemed head of the Chinese government that they have decided to offer up Achilles as the sacrificial lamb. I think they’d be glad if we got rid of him for them. Our investigators will officially report that the launcher is of Chinese manufacture and has been traced back to Achilles de Flandres without mentioning that it was originally provided to him by the Chinese government. When asked, we will refuse to speculate. That’s the best they can hope for from us.

  Meanwhile, we now have the legal basis firmly established for an Earthside intervention—and from evidence provided by the nation most likely to complain about such an intervention. We will do nothing to affect the outcome or progress of the war in Asia. We will first seek the cooperation of the Brazilian government but will make it clear that such cooperation is not required, legally or militarily. We will ask them to isolate the Hegemony compound so that no one can get in or out, pending the arrival of our forces.

  I ask that you inform the Hegemon and that you make your plans accordingly. Whether Mr. Wiggin should be present at the taking of the compound is a matter on which I have no opinion.

  Virlomi never went into town herself. Those days were over. When she had been free to wander, a pilgrim in a land where people either lived their whole lives in one village or cut themselves loose and spent their whole lives on the road, she had loved coming to villages, each one an adventure, filled with its own tapestry of gossip, tragedy, humor, romance, and irony.

  In the college she had briefly attended, between coming home from space and being brought into Indian military headquarters in Hyderabad, she had quickly realized that intellectuals seemed to think that their life—the life of the mind, the endless self-examination, the continuous autobiography afflicted upon all comers—was somehow higher than the repetitive, meaningless lives of the common people.

  Virlomi knew the opposite to be true. The intellectuals in the university were all the same. They had precisely the same deep thoughts about exactly the same shallow emotions and trivial dilemmas. They knew this, unconsciously, themselves. When a real event happened, something that shook them to the heart, they withdrew from the game of university life, for reality had to be played out on a different stage.

  In the villages, life was about life, not about one-upmanship and display. Smart people were valued because they could solve problems, not because they could speak pleasingly about them. Everywhere she went in India, she constantly heard herself thinking, I could live here. I could stay among these people and marry one of these gentle peasant men and work beside him all my life.

  And then another part of her answered, No you couldn’t. Because like it or not, you are one of those university people after all. You can visit in the real world, but you don’t belong there. You need to live in Plato’s foolish dream, where ideas are real and reality is shadow. That is the place you were born for, and as you move from village to village, it is only to learn from them, to teach them, to manipulate them, to use them to achieve your own ends.

  But my own ends, she thought, are to give them gifts they need: wise government, or at least self-government.

  And then she laughed at herself, because the two were usually opposites. Even if an Indian ruled over Indians, it was not self-government, for the ruler governed the people, and the people governed the ruler. It was mutual government. That’s the best that could be aspired to.

  Now, though, her pilgrim days were over. She had returned to the bridge where the soldiers stationed to protect it and the nearby villagers had made a kind of god of her.

  She came back without fanfare, walking into the village that had taken her most to heart and falling into conversation with women at the well and in the market. She went to the washing stream and lent a hand with the washing of clothes; someone offered to share clothing with her so she could wash her dirty traveling rags, but she laughed and said that one more washing would rub them into dust, but she would like to earn some new clothing by helping a family that had a bit they could spare for her.

  “Mistress,” said one shy woman, “did we not feed you at the bridge, for nothing?”

  So she was recognized.

  “But I wish to earn the kindness you showed me there.”

  “You have blessed us many times, lady,” said another.

  “And now you bless us by coming among us.”

  “And washing clothes.”

  So she was still a god.

  “I’m not what you think I am,” she said. “I am more terrible than your worst fear.”

  “To our enemies, we pray, lady,” said a woman.

  “Terrible to them, indeed,” said Virlomi. “But I will use your sons and husbands to fight them, and some of them will die.”

  “Half our sons and husbands were already taken in the war against the Chinese.”

  “Killed in battle.”

  “Lost and could not find their way home.”

  “Carried off into captivity by the Chinese devils.”

  Virlomi raised a hand to still them. “I will not waste their lives, if they obey me.”

  “You shouldn’t go to war, lady,” said one old crone. “There’s no good in it. Look at you, young, beautiful. Lie down with one of our young men, or one of our old ones if you want, and make babies.”

  “Someday,” said Virlomi, “I’ll choose a husband and make babies with him. But today my husband is India, and he has been swallowed by a tiger. I must make the tiger sick, so he will throw my husband up.”

  They giggled, some of them, at this image. But others were very grave.

  “How will you do this?”

  “I will prepare the men so they don’t die because of mistakes. I will assemble all the weapons we need, so no man is wasted because he is unarmed. I will bide my time, so we don’t bring down the wrath of the tiger upon us, until we’re ready to hurt them so badly that they never recover from the blow.”

  “You didn’t happen to bring a nuclear weapon with you, lady?” asked the crone. Clearly something of an unbeliever.

  “It’s an offense against God to use such things,” said Virlomi. “The Muslim God was burned out of his house and turned his face against them because they used such weapons against each other.”