Weird how you can know exactly what the enemy is doing to you and it still works. Like a play her parents took her to her second week back home after the war. It had a four-year-old girl on the stage asking her mother why her father wasn’t home yet. The mother is trying to find a way to tell her that the father was killed by an Azerbaijani terrorist bomb—a secondary bomb that went off to kill people trying to rescue survivors of the first, smaller blast. Her father died as a hero, trying to save a child trapped in the wreckage even after the police shouted at him to stay away, there was probably going to be a second blast. The mother finally tells the child.

  The little girl stamps her foot angrily and says, “He’s my papa! Not that little boy’s papa!” And the mother says, “That little boy’s mama and papa weren’t there to help him. Your father did what he hoped somebody else would do for you, if he couldn’t be there for you.” And the little girl starts to cry and says, “Now he isn’t ever going to be there for me. And I don’t want somebody else. I want my papa.”

  Petra sat there watching this play, knowing exactly how cynical it was. Use a child, play on the yearning for family, tie it to nobility and heroism, make the villains the ancestral enemy, and make the child say childishly innocent things while crying. A computer could have written it. But it still worked. Petra cried like a baby, just like the rest of the audience.

  That’s what isolation was doing to her and she knew it. Whatever they were hoping for, it would probably work. Because human beings are just machines, Petra knew that, machines that do what you want them to do, if you only know the levers to pull. And no matter how complex people might seem, if you just cut them off from the network of people who give shape to their personality, the communities that form their identity, they’ll be reduced to that set of levers. Doesn’t matter how hard they resist, or how well they know they’re being manipulated. Eventually, if you take the time, you can play them like a piano, every note right where you expect it.

  Even me, thought Petra.

  All alone, day after day. Working on the computer, getting assignments by mail from people who gave no hint of personality. Sending messages to the others in Ender’s jeesh, but knowing that their letters, too, were being censored of all personal references. Just data getting transferred back and forth. No netsearches now. She had to file her request and wait for an answer filtered through the people who controlled her. All alone.

  She tried sleeping too much, but apparently they drugged her water—they got her so hopped up she couldn’t sleep at all. So she stopped trying to play passive resistance games. Just went along, becoming the machine they wanted her to be, pretending to herself that by only pretending to be a machine, she wouldn’t actually become one, but knowing at the same time that whatever people pretend to be, they become.

  And then comes the day when the door opens and somebody walks in.

  Vlad.

  He was from Dragon Army. Younger than Petra, and a good guy, but she didn’t know him all that well. The bond between them, though, was a big one: Vlad was the only other kid in Ender’s jeesh who broke the way Petra did, had to be pulled out of the battles for a day. Everybody was kind to them but they both knew—it made them the weak ones. Objects of pity. They all got the same medals and commendations, but Petra knew that their medals meant less than the others, their commendations were empty, because they were the ones who hadn’t cut it while the others did. Not that Petra had ever talked about it with Vlad. She just knew that he knew the same things she knew, because he had been down the same long dark tunnel.

  And here he was.

  “Ho, Petra,” he said.

  “Ho, Vlad,” she answered. She liked hearing her own voice. It still worked. Liked hearing his, too.

  “I guess I’m the new instrument of torture they’re using on you,” said Vlad.

  He said it with a smile. That told Petra that he wanted it to seem like a joke. Which told her that it wasn’t really a joke at all.

  “Really?” she said. “Traditionally, you’re simply supposed to kiss me and let someone else do the torture.”

  “It’s not really torture. It’s the way out.”

  “Out of what?”

  “Out of prison. It’s not what you think, Petra. The hegemony is breaking up, there’s going to be war. The question is whether it drives the world down into chaos or leads to one nation ruling all the others. And if it’s one nation, which nation should it be?”

  “Let me guess. Paraguay.”

  “Close,” said Vlad. He grinned. “I know, it’s easier for me. I’m from Belarus, we make a big deal about being a separate country, but in our hearts, we don’t mind the thought of Russia being the country that comes out on top. Nobody outside of Belarus gives a lobster tit about how we’re not really Russians. So sure, I wasn’t hard to talk into it. And you’re Armenian, and they spent a lot of years being oppressed by Russia in the old Communist days. But Petra, just how Armenian are you? What’s really good for Armenia anyway? That’s what I’m supposed to say to you, anyway. To get you to see that Armenia benefits if Russia comes out on top. No more sabotage. Really help us get ready for the real war. You cooperate, and Armenia gets a special place in the new order. You get to bring in your whole country. That’s not nothing, Petra. And if you don’t help, that doesn’t do a thing for anybody. Doesn’t help you. Doesn’t help Armenia. Nobody ever knows what a hero you were.”

  “Sounds like a death threat.”

  “Sounds like a threat of loneliness and obscurity. You weren’t born to be nobody, Petra. You were born to shine. This is a chance to be a hero again. I know you think you don’t care, but come on, admit it—it was great being Ender’s jeesh.”

  “And now we’re what’s-his-name’s jeesh. He’ll really share the glory with us,” said Petra.

  “Why not? He’s still the boss, he doesn’t mind having heroes serve under him.”

  “Vlad, he’ll make sure nobody knows any of us existed, and he’ll kill us when he’s done with us.” She hadn’t meant to speak so honestly. She knew it would get back to Achilles. She knew it would guarantee that her prophecy would come true. But there it was—the lever worked. She was so grateful to have a friend there, even one who had obviously been coopted, that she couldn’t help but blurt.

  “Well, Petra, what can I say? I told them, you’re the tough one. I told you what’s on offer. Think about it. There’s no hurry. You’ve got plenty of time to decide.”

  “You’re going?”

  “That’s the rule,” said Vlad. “You say no, I go. Sorry.”

  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 modeling 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 trou, 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 color 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 humor,” 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 suppose 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.”