The trouble was, all her identities were designed for a sixty-year-old woman who spoke languages that Petra had never learned. “This is absurd,” she told Bean when he handed her the fourth such identity. “No one will believe this for an instant.”

  “And yet they do,” said Bean.

  “And I’d like to know why,” she retorted. “I think there’s more to this than the paperwork. I think we’re getting help every time we pass through an identity check.”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” said Bean.

  “But every time you use some connection of yours to get a security guard to ignore the fact that I do not look old enough to be this person—”

  “Sometimes, when you haven’t had enough sleep—”

  “You’re too tall to be cute. So give it up.”

  “Petra, I agree with you,” said Bean at last. “These were all for Sister Carlotta, and you don’t look like her, and we are leaving a trail of favors asked for and favors done. So we need to separate.”

  “Two reasons why that won’t happen,” said Petra.

  “You mean besides the fact that traveling together was your idea from the beginning? Which you blackmailed me into because we both know you’d get killed without me?—which hasn’t stopped you from criticizing the way I go about keeping you alive, I notice.”

  “The second reason,” Petra said, ignoring his effort to pick a fight, “is that while we’re on the run you can’t do anything. And it drives you crazy not to do anything.”

  “I’m doing a lot of things,” said Bean.

  “Besides arranging for us to get past stupid security guards with bad ID?”

  “Already I’ve started two wars, cured three diseases, and written an epic poem. If you weren’t so self-centered you would have noticed.”

  “You’re such a jack of all trades, Julian.”

  “Staying alive isn’t doing nothing.”

  “But it isn’t doing what you want to do with your life,” said Petra.

  “Staying alive is all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, dear child.”

  “But in the end, you’re going to fail at that,” said Petra.

  “Most of us do. All of us, actually, unless Sister Carlotta and the Christians turn out to be right.”

  “You want to accomplish something before you die.”

  Bean sighed. “Because you want that, you think everyone does.”

  “The human need to leave something of yourself behind is universal.”

  “But I’m not human.”

  “No, you’re superhuman,” she said in disgust. “There’s no talking to you, Bean.”

  “And yet you persist.”

  But Petra knew perfectly well that Bean felt just as she did—that it wasn’t enough to stay in hiding, going from place to place, taking a bus here, a train there, a plane to some far-off city, only to start over again in a few days.

  The only reason it mattered that they stay alive was so they could keep their independence long enough to work against Achilles. Except Bean kept denying that he had any such motive, and so they did nothing.

  Bean had been maddening ever since Petra first met him in Battle School. He was the most incredibly tiny little runt then, so precocious he seemed snotty even when he said good morning, and even after they had all worked with him for years and had got the true measure of him at Command School, Petra was still the only one of Ender’s jeesh that actually liked Bean.

  She did like him, and not in the patronizing way that older kids take younger ones under their wing. There was never any illusion that Bean needed protection anyway. He arrived at Battle School as a consummate survivor, and within days—perhaps within hours—he knew more about the inner workings of the school than anyone else. The same was true at Tactical School and Command School, and during those crucial weeks before Ender joined them on Eros, when Bean commanded the jeesh in their practice maneuvers.

  The others resented Bean then, for the fact that the youngest of them had been chosen to lead in Ender’s place and because they feared that he would be their commander always. They were so relieved when Ender arrived, and didn’t try to hide it. It had to hurt Bean, but Petra seemed to be the only one who even thought about his feelings. Much good that it did him. The person who seemed to think about Bean’s feelings least of them all was Bean himself.

  Yet he did value her friendship, though he only rarely showed it. And when she was overtaken by exhaustion during a battle, he was the one who covered for her, and he was the only one who showed that he still believed in her as firmly as ever. Even Ender never quite trusted her with the same level of assignment that she had had before. But Bean remained her friend, even as he obeyed Ender’s orders and watched over her in all the remaining battles, ready to cover for her if she collapsed again.

  Bean was the one she counted on when the Russians kidnapped her, the one she knew would get the message she hid in an email graphic. And when she was in Achilles’s power, it was Bean who was her only hope of rescue. And he got her message, and he saved her from the beast.

  Bean might pretend, even to himself, that all he cared about was his own survival, but in fact he was the most perfectly loyal of friends. Far from acting selfishly, he was reckless with his own life when he had a cause he believed in. But he didn’t understand this about himself. Since he thought himself completely unworthy of love, it took him the longest time to know that someone loved him. He had finally caught on about Sister Carlotta, long before she died. But he gave little sign that he recognized Petra’s feelings toward him. Indeed, now that he was taller than her, he acted as though he thought of her as an annoying little sister.

  And that really pissed her off.

  Yet she was determined not to leave him—and not because she depended on him for her own survival, either. She feared that the moment he was completely on his own, he would embark on some reckless plan to sacrifice his own life to put an end to Achilles’s, and that would be an unbearable outcome, at least to Petra.

  Because she had already decided that Bean was wrong in his belief that he should never have children, that the genetic alterations that had made him such a genius should die with him when his uncontrolled growth finally killed him.

  On the contrary, Petra had every intention of bearing his children herself.

  Being in a holding pattern like this, watching him drive himself crazy with his constant busyness that accomplished nothing important while making him irritable and irritating, Petra was not so self-controlled as not to snap back at him. They genuinely liked each other, and so far they had kept their sniping at a level that both could pretend was “only joking,” but something had to change, and soon, or they really would have a fight that made it impossible to stay together—and what would happen to her plans for making Bean’s babies then?

  What finally got Bean to make a change was when Petra brought up Ender Wiggin.

  “What did he save the human race for?” she said in exasperation one day in the airport at Darwin.

  “So he could stop playing the stupid game.”

  “It wasn’t so Achilles could rule.”

  “Someday Achilles will die. Caligula did.”

  “With help from his friends,” Petra pointed out.

  “And when he dies, maybe somebody better will succeed him. After Stalin, there was Khrushchev. After Caligula, there was Marcus Aurelius.”

  “Not right after. And thirty million died while Stalin ruled.”

  “So that made thirty million he didn’t rule over any more,” said Bean.

  Sometimes he could say the most terrible things. But she knew him well enough by now to know that he spoke with such callousness only when he was feeling depressed. At times like that he brooded about how he was not a member of the human species and the difference was killing him. It was not how he truly felt. “You’re not that cold,” she said.

  He used to argue when she tried to reassure him about his humanity. She liked to think maybe she was accomplishing something, but she feared that he had stopped answering because he no longer cared what she thought.

  “If I settle into one place,” he said, “my chance of staying alive is nil.”

  It irked her that he still spoke of “my chance” instead of “ours.”

  “You hate Achilles and you don’t want him to rule the world and if you’re going to have any chance of stopping him, you have to settle in one place and get to work.”

  “All right, you’re so smart, tell me where I’d be safe.”

  “The Vatican,” said Petra.

  “How many acres in that particular kingdom? How eager are all those cardinals to listen to an altar boy?”

  “All right then, somewhere within the borders of the Muslim League.”

  “We’re infidels,” said Bean.

  “And they’re people who are determined not to fall under the domination of the Chinese or the Hegemon or anybody else.”

  “My point is that they won’t want us.”

  “My point is that whether they want us or not, we’re the enemy of their enemy.”

  “We’re two children, with no army and no information to sell, no leverage at all.”

  That was so laughable that Petra didn’t bother answering. Besides, she had finally won—he was finally talking about where, not whether, he’d settle down and get to work.

  They found themselves in Poland, and after taking the train from Katowice to Warsaw, they walked together through the Lazienki, one of the great parks of Europe, with centuries-old paths winding among giant trees and the saplings already planted to someday replace them.

  “Did you come here with Sister Carlotta?” Petra asked him.

  “Once,” said Bean. “Ender is part Polish, did you know that?”

  “Must be on his mother’s side,” said Petra. “Wiggin isn’t a Polish name.”

  “It is when you change it from Wieczorek,” said Bean. “Don’t you think Mr. Wiggin looks Polish? Wouldn’t he fit in here? Not that nationality means that much any more.”

  Petra laughed at that. “Nationality? The thing people die for and kill for and have for centuries?”

  “No, I meant ancestry, I suppose. So many people are part this and part that. Supposedly I’m Greek, but my mother’s mother was an Ibo diplomat, so…when I go to Africa I look quite Greek, and when I go to Greece I look rather African. In my heart I couldn’t care less about either.”

  “You’re a special case, Bean,” said Petra. “You never had a homeland.”

  “Or a childhood, I suppose,” said Bean.

  “None of us in Battle School actually had much experience of either,” said Petra.

  “Which is, perhaps, why so many Battle School kids are so desperate to prove their loyalty to their birth nation.”

  That made sense. “Since we have few roots, the ones we have, we cling to.” She thought of Vlad, who was so fanatically Russian, and Hot Soup—Han Tzu—so fanatically Chinese, that both of them had willingly helped Achilles when he seemed to be working for their nation’s cause.

  “And no one completely trusts us,” said Bean, “because they know our real nationality is up in space. Our strongest loyalties are to our fellow soldiers.”

  “Or to ourselves,” said Petra, thinking of Achilles.

  “But I’ve never pretended otherwise,” said Bean. Apparently he thought she had meant him.

  “You’re so proud of being completely self-centered,” said Petra. “And it isn’t even true.”

  He just laughed at her and walked on.

  Families and businessmen and old people and young couples in love all strolled through the park on this unusually sunny autumn afternoon, and in the concert stand a pianist played a work of Chopin, as had been going on every day for centuries. As they walked, Petra boldly reached out and took hold of Bean’s hand as if they, too, were lovers, or at least friends who liked to stay close enough to touch. To her surprise, he did not pull his hand away. Indeed, he gripped her hand in return, but if she harbored any notion that Bean was capable of romance, he instantly dispelled it. “Race you around the pond,” he said, and so they did.

  But what kind of race is it, when the racers never let go of each other’s hands, and the winner pulls the loser laughing over the finish line?

  No, Bean was being childish because he had no idea how to go about being manly, and so it was Petra’s job to help him figure it out. She reached out and caught his other hand and pulled his arms around her, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Mostly on the chin, because he recoiled a little, but it was a kiss nonetheless, and after a moment of consternation, Bean’s arms pulled her a little closer and his lips managed to find hers while suffering only a few minor nose collisions.

  Neither of them being particularly experienced at this, it wasn’t as though Petra could say whether they kissed particularly well. The only other kiss she’d known was with Achilles, and that kiss had taken place with a gun pressed into her abdomen. All she could say with certainty was that any kiss from Bean was better than any kiss from Achilles.

  “So you love me,” said Petra softly when the kiss ended.

  “I’m a raging mass of hormones that I’m too young to understand,” said Bean. “You’re a female of a closely related species. According to all the best primatologists, I really have no choice.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, reaching her arms around his back.

  “It’s not nice at all,” said Bean. “I have no business kissing anybody.”

  “I asked for it,” she said.

  “I’m not having children.”

  “That’s the best plan,” she said. “I’ll have them for you.”

  “You know what I meant,” said Bean.

  “It isn’t done by kissing, so you’re safe so far.”

  He groaned impatiently and pulled away from her, paced irritably in a circle, and then came right back to her and kissed her again. “I’ve wanted to do that practically the whole time we’ve been traveling together.”

  “I could tell,” she said. “From the way you never gave even the tiniest sign that you knew I existed, except as an annoyance.”

  “I’ve always had a problem with being too emotionally demonstrative.” He held her again. An elderly couple passed by. The man looked disapproving, as if he thought these foolish young people should find a more private place for their kissing and hugging. But the old woman, her white hair held severely by a head scarf, gave him a wink, as if to say, Good for you, young fellow, young girls should be kissed thoroughly and often.

  In fact, he was so sure that was what she meant to say that he quoted the words to Petra.

  “So you’re actually performing a public service,” said Petra.

  “To the great amusement of the public,” said Bean.

  A voice came from behind them. “And I assure you the public is amused.”

  Petra and Bean both turned to see who it was.

  A young man, but most definitely not Polish. From the look of him, he should be Burmese or perhaps Thai, certainly from somewhere around the South China Sea. He had to be younger than Petra, even taking into account the way that people from Southeast Asia seemed always to look far younger than their years. Yet he wore the suit and tie of an old-fashioned businessman.

  There was something about him—something in the cockiness of his stance, the amused way that he took for granted that he had a right to stand within the circle of their companionship and tease them about something as private as a public kiss—that told Petra that he had to be from Battle School.

  But Bean knew more about him than that. “Ambul,” he said.

  Ambul saluted in that half-sloppy, half-exaggerated style of a Battle School brat, and answered, “Sir.”

  “I gave you an assignment once,” said Bean. “To take a certain launchie and help him figure out how to use his flash suit.”

  “Which I carried out perfectly,” said Ambul. “He was so funny the first time I froze him in the battle room, I had to laugh.”

  “I can’t believe he hasn’t killed you by now,” said Bean.

  “My uselessness to the Thai government saved me.”

  “My fault, I fear,” said Bean.

  “Saved my life, I think,” said Ambul.

  “Hi, I’m Petra,” said Petra irritably.

  Ambul laughed and shook her hand. “Sorry,” he said. “Ambul. I know who you are, and I assumed Bean would have told you who I was.”

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” said Bean.

  “I don’t answer emails,” said Ambul. “Except by showing up and seeing if the email was really from the person it’s supposed to be from.”

  “Oh,” said Petra, putting things together. “You must be the soldier in Bean’s army who was assigned to show Achilles around.”

  “Only he didn’t have the foresight to push Achilles out an airlock without a suit,” said Bean. “Which I think shows a shameful lack of initiative on his part.”

  “Bean notified me as soon as he found out Achilles was on the loose. He figured there was no chance I wasn’t on Achilles’s hit list. Saved my life.”

  “So Achilles made a try?” asked Bean.

  They were away from the path now, out in the open, standing on the broad lawn stretching away from the lake where the pianist played. Only the faintest sound of the amplified Chopin reached them here.

  “Let’s just say that I’ve had to keep moving,” said Ambul.

  “Is that why you weren’t in Thailand when the Chinese invaded?” asked Petra.

  “No,” said Ambul. “No, I left Thailand almost as soon as I came home. You see, I was not like most Battle School graduates. I was in the worst army in the history of the battle room.”

  “My army,” said Bean.

  “Oh, come on,” said Petra. “You only played, what, five games?”

  “We never won a single one,” said Bean. “I was working on training my men and experimenting with combat techniques and—oh, yes, staying alive with Achilles in Battle School with us.”

  “So they discontinued Battle School, Bean got promoted to Ender’s jeesh, and his soldiers got sent back to Earth with the only perfect no-win record in the history of Battle School. All the other Thais from Battle School were given important places in the military establishment. But, oddly enough, they just couldn’t find a thing for me to do except go to public school.”