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Chapter Eight
Bread Van
TO: Demosthenes%Tecumseh@freeamerica.org
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From: unready%cincinnatus@anon.set
Re: satrep
Satellite reports from date Delphiki family killed: Nine vehicles simultaneous departure from northern Russia location, 64 latitude. Encrypted destination list attached. Genuine dispersal? Decoy? What's our best strategy, my friend? Eliminate or rescue? Are they children or weapons of mass destruction? Hard to know. Why did that bastard Locke get Ender Wiggin sent away? We could use that boy now I think. As for why only nine, not ten vehicles: maybe one is dead or sick. Maybe one has turned. Maybe two have turned and were sent together. All guesswork. I only see raw satdat, not intelnetcom reports. If you have other sources on that, feed some back to me?
Custer
Petra knew that loneliness was the tool they were using against her. Don't let the girl talk to any human at all, then when one shows up she'll be so grateful she'll blurt confessions, she'll believe lies, she'll make friends with her worst enemy.
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 corrupted, 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."
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 organizations 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 maneuvers. 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 maneuver. 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 apologize 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. "That 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 behavior-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 preemptive use of ultimate force. I only do what I learned from your hero."
"I'm surprised you did this one yourself," said Petra.
"What do you mean, 'this one'?" said Achilles.
"I assumed you were stopping the other rescues, too."
"You forget," said Achilles, "I've already had months to evaluate you. Why keep the others, when I can have the best?"
"Are you flirting with me?" She said it with as much disdain as she could muster. Those words usually worked to shut down a boy who was being smug. But he only laughed.
"I don't flirt," he said.
"I forgot," said Petra. "You shoot first, and then flirting isn't necessary."
That got to him a little-made him pause a moment, brought the slightest hint of a quickening of breath. It occurred to Petra that her mouth was indeed going to get her killed. She had never actually seen someone get shot before, except in movies and vids. Just because she thought of herself as the protagonist of this biographical vid she was trapped in didn't mean she was safe. For all she knew, Achilles meant to kill her, too.
Or did he? Could he have really meant that she was the only one of the team he was keeping? Vlad would be so disappointed.
"How did you happen to choose me?" she asked, changing the
"Like I said, you're the best."
"That is such kuso," said Petra. "The exercises I did for you weren't any better than anyone else's."
"Oh, those battle plans, those were just to keep you busy while the real tests were going on. Or rather, to make you think you were keeping us busy."
"What was this real test, then, since I supposedly succeeded at it better than anyone else?"
"Your little dragon drawing," said Achilles.
She could feel the blood drain from her face. He saw it and laughed.
"Don't worry," said Achilles. "You won't be punished. That was the test, to see which of you would succeed in getting a message outside."
"And my prize is staying with you?" She said it with all the disgust she could put in her voice.
"Your prize," said Achilles, "is staying alive."
She felt sick at heart. "Even you wouldn't kill all the others, for no reason."
"If they're killed, there's a reason. If there's a reason, they'll be killed. No, we suspected that your dragon drawing would have some meaning to someone. But we couldn't find a code in it."
"There wasn't a code in it," said Petra.
"Oh yes there was," said Achilles. "You somehow encoded it in such a way that someone was able to recognize it and decode it. I know this because the news stories that suddenly appeared, triggering this whole crisis, had some specific information that was more or less correct. One of the messages you guys tried to send must have gotten through. So we went back over every email sent by every one of you, and the only thing that couldn't be accounted for was your dragon clip art."
"If you can read a message in that," said Petra, "then you're smarter than I am."
"On the contrary," said Achilles. "You're smarter than I am, at least about strategy and tactics-like evading the enemy while keeping in close communication with allies. Well, not all that close, since it took them so long to publish the information you sent."
"You bet on the wrong horse," said Petra. "It wasn't a message, and therefore however they got the news it must have come from one of the other guys."
Achilles only laughed. "You're a stubborn liar, aren't you?"
"I'm not lying when I tell you that if I have to keep riding with these corpses in this compartment, I'm going to get sick." .
He smiled. "Vomit away."
"So your pathology includes a weird need to hang around with the dead," said Petra. "You'd better be careful-you know where that leads. First you'll start dating them, and then one day you'll bring a dead person home to meet your mother and father. Oops. I forgot, you're an orphan."
"So I brought them to show you."
"Why did you wait so long to shoot them?" asked Petra.
"I wanted it set up just right. So I could shoot the one while he was standing in the doorway. So his body would block any returning fire from the other guy. And besides, I was also enjoying the way you took them apart. You know, arguing with them like you did. Sounded like you hate shrinks almost as much as I do. And you were never even committed to a mental institution. I would have applauded several of your best bon mots, only I might have been overheard."
"Who's driving this van?" asked Petra, ignoring his flattery.
"Not me," said Achilles. "Are you?"
"How long are you planning to keep me imprisoned?" asked Petra.
"As long as it takes."
"As long as it takes to do what?"
"Conquer the world together, you and I. Isn't that romantic? Or, well, it will be romantic, when it happens."
"It will never be romantic," said Petra. "Nor will I help you conquer your dandruff problem, let alone the world."
"Oh, you'll cooperate," said Achilles. "I'll kill the other members of Ender's jeesh, one by one, until you give in."
"You don't have them," said Petra. "And you don't know where they are. They're safe from you."
Achilles grinned mock-sheepishly. "There's just no fooling Genius Girl, is there? But, you see, they're bound to surface somewhere, and when they do, they'll die. I don't forget."
"That's one way to conquer the world," said Petra. "Kill every body one by one until you're the only one left."
"Your first job," said Achilles, "is to decode that message you sent out."
"What message?"
Achilles picked up his gun and pointed it at her
"Kill me and you'll always wonder if I really sent out a message at all," said Petra.
"But at least I won't have to listen to your smug voice lying to me," said Achilles. "That would almost be a consolation."
"You seem to be forgetting that I wasn't a volunteer on this expedition. If you don't like listening to me, let me go."
"You're so sure of yourself," said Achilles. "But I know you better than you know yourself."
"And what is it you think you know about me?" asked Petra.
"I know that you'll eventually give in and help me,"
"Well, I know you better than you know yourself, too," said Petra.
"Oh, really?"
"I know that eventually you'll kill me. Because you always do. So let's just skip all the boring stuff in between. Kill me now. End the suspense."
"No," said Achilles. "Things like that are much better as a surprise. Don't you think? At least, that's the way God always did it."
"Why am I even talking to you?" asked Petra.
"Because you're so lonely after being in solitary for all these months that you'd do anything for human company. Even talk to me."
She hated that he was probably right. "Human company-apparently you're under the delusion that you qualify."
"Oh, you're mean," said Achilles, laughing. "Look, I'm bleeding."
"You've got blood on your hands, all right."
"And you've got it all over your face," said Achilles. "Come on, it'll be fun."
"And here I thought nothing would ever be more tedious than solitary confinement."
"You're the best, Petra," said Achilles. "Except for one."
"Bean," said Petra.
"Ender," said Achilles. "Bean is nothing. Bean is dead."
Petra said nothing.
Achilles looked at her searchingly. "No smart remarks?"
"Bean is dead and you're alive," said Petra. "There's no justice."
The van slowed down and stopped.
"There," said Achilles. "Our lively conversation made the time fly by."
Fly. She heard an airplane overhead. Landing or taking off?
"Where are we flying?" she asked.
"Who says we're flying anywhere?"
"I think we're flying out of the country," said Petra, speaking the ideas as they came to her. "I think you realized that you were going to lose your cushy job here in Russia, and you're sneaking out of the country."
"You're really very good. You keep setting a new standard for cleverness," said Achilles.
"And you keep setting a new standard for failure."
He hesitated a moment, then went on as if she hadn't spoken. "They're going to pit the other kids against me," he said. "You already know them. You know their weaknesses. Whoever I'm up against, you're going to advise me."
"Never."
"We're in this together," said Achilles. "I'm a nice guy. You'll like me, eventually."
"Oh, I know," said Petra. "What's not to like?"
"Your message," said Achilles. "You wrote it to Bean, didn't you?"
"What message?" said Petra.
"That's why you don't believe he's dead."
"I believe he's dead," said Petra. But she knew her earlier hesitation had given her away.
"Or else you wonder-if he got your message before I had him killed, why did it take so long after he died to have it hit the news? And here's the obvious answer, Pet. Somebody else figured it out. Somebody else decoded it. And that really pisses me off. So don't tell me what the message said. I'm going to decode it myself. It can't be that hard."
"Downright easy," said Petra. "After all, I'm dumb enough to end up as your prisoner. So dumb, in fact, that I never sent anybody a message."
"When I do decode it, though, I hope it won't say anything disparaging about me. Because then I'd have to beat the shit out of you."
"You're right," said Petra. "You are a charmer."
Fifteen minutes later, they were on a small private jet, flying south by southeast. It was a luxurious vehicle, for its size, and Petra wondered if it belonged to one of the intelligence services or to some faction in the military or maybe to some crime lord. Or maybe all three at once.
She wanted to study Achilles, watch his face, his body language. But she didn't want him to see her showing interest in him. So she looked out the window, wondering as she did so whether she wasn't just doing the same thing the dead psychologist had done-looking away to avoid facing bitter truth.
When the chime announced that they could unbelt themselves, Petra got up and headed for the bathroom. It was small, but compared to commercial airplane toilets it was downright commodious. And it had cloth towels and real soap.
She did her best with a damp towel to wipe blood and body matter from her clothes. She had to keep wearing the dirty clothing but she could at least get rid of the visible chunks. The towel was so foul by the time she finished the job that she tossed it and got a fresh one to start in on her face and hands. She scrubbed until her face was red and raw, but she got it all off. She even soaped her hair and washed it as best she could in the tiny sink. It was hard to rinse, pouring one cup of water at a time over her head.
The whole time, she kept thinking of the fact that the psychiatrist's last minutes were spent listening to her tell him how stupid he was and point out the worthlessness of his life's work. And yes, she was right, as his death proved, but that didn't change the fact that however impure his motives might have been, he was trying to save her from Achilles. He had given his life in that effort, however badly planned it might have been. All the other rescues went off smoothly, and they were probably just as badly planned as hers. So much depended on chance. Everybody was stupid about some things. Petra was stupid about the things she said to people who had power over her. Goading them. Daring them to punish her. She did it even though she knew it was stupid. And wasn't it even stupider to do something stupid that you know is stupid?
What did he call her? An ungrateful little girl.
He tagged me, all right.
As bad as she felt about his death, as horrified over what she had seen, as frightened as she was to be in Achilles' control, as lonely as she had been for these past weeks, she still couldn't figure out a way to cry about it. Because deeper than all these feelings was something even stronger. Her mind kept thinking of ways to get word to someone about where she was. She had done it once, she could do it again, right? She might feel bad, she might be a miserable specimen of human life, she might be in the midst of a traumatic childhood experience, but she was not going to submit to Achilles for one moment longer than she had to.
The plane lurched suddenly, throwing her against the toilet. She half-fell onto it-there wasn't room to fall down all the way-but she couldn't get up because the plane had gone into a steep dive, and for a few moments she found herself gasping as the oxygen-rich air was replaced by cold upper-level air that left her dizzy.
The hull was breached. They've shot us down.
And for all that she had an indomitable will to live, she couldn't help but think: Good for them. Kill Achilles now, and no matter who else is on the plane, it'll be a great day for humanity.
But the plane soon leveled out, and the air was breathable before she blacked out. They must not have been very high when it happened.
She opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the main cabin.
The side door was partway open. And standing a couple of meters back from it was Achilles, the wind whipping at his hair and clothes. He was posing, as if he knew just how fine a figure he cut, standing there on the brink of death.
She approached him, glancing at the door to make sure she stayed well back from it, and to see how high they were. Not very, compared to cruising altitude, but higher than any building or bridge or dam. Anyone who fell from this plane would die.
Could she get behind him and push?
He smiled broadly when she got near.
"What happened?" she shouted over the noise of the wind.
"It occurred to me," he yelled back, "that I made a mistake bringing you with me."
He opened the door on purpose. He opened it for her.
Just as she began to step back, his hand lashed out and seized her by the wrist.
The intensity of his eyes was startling. He didn't look crazy. He looked . . . fascinated. Almost as if he found her amazingly beautiful. But of course it wasn't her It was his power over her that fascinated him. It was himself that he loved so intensely.
She didn't try to pull away. Instead, she twisted her wrist so that she also gripped him.
"Come on, let's jump together," she shouted. "That would be the most romantic thing we could do."
He leaned close. "And miss out on all the history we're going to make together?" he said. Then he laughed. "Oh, I see, you thought I was going to throw you out of the plane. No, Pet, I took hold of you so that I could anchor you while you close the door. Wouldn't want the wind to suck you out, would we?"
"I have a better idea," said Petra. "I'll be the anchor, you close the door."
"But the anchor has to be the stronger, heavier one," said Achilles. "And that's me."
"Let's just leave it open, then," said Petra.
"Can't fly all the way to Kabul with the door open."
What did it mean, his telling her their destination? Did it mean that he trusted her a little? Or that it didn't matter what she knew, since he had decided she was going to die?
Then it occurred to her that if he wanted her dead, she would die. It was that simple. So why worry about it? If he wanted to kill her by pushing her out the door, how was that different from a bullet in the brain? Dead was dead. And if he didn't plan to kill her, the door needed to be closed, and having him serve as anchor was the second-best plan.
"Isn't there somebody in the crew who can do this?" she asked.
"There's just the pilot," said Achilles. "Can you land a plane?"
She shook her head.
"So he stays in the cockpit, and we close the door."
"I don't mean to be a nag," said Petra, "but opening the door was a really stupid thing to do."
He grinned at her.
Holding tight to his wrist, she slid along the wall toward the door. It was only partially open, the kind of door that worked by sliding up. So she didn't have to reach very far out of the plane. Still, the cold wind snatched at her arm and made it very hard to get a grip on the door handle to pull it down into place. And even when she got it down into position, she simply didn't have the strength to overcome the wind resistance and pull it snug.
Achilles saw this, and now that the door wasn't open enough for anyone to fall out and the wind could no longer suck anybody out, he let go of her and of the bulkhead and joined her in pulling at the handle.
If I push instead of pulling, thought Petra, the wind will help me, and maybe we'll both get sucked right out.
Do it, she told herself. Do it. Kill him. Even if you die doing it, it's worth it. This is Hitler, Stalin, Genghis, Attila all rolled into one.
But it might not work. He might not get sucked out. She might die alone, pointlessly. No, she would have to find a way to destroy him later, when she could be sure it would work.
At another level, she knew that she simply wasn't ready to die. No matter how convenient it might be for the rest of humanity, no matter how richly Achilles deserved to die, she would not be his executioner, not now, not if she had to give her own life to kill him. If that made her a selfish coward, so be it.
They pulled and pulled and finally, with a whoosh, the door passed the threshold of wind resistance and locked nicely into place. Achilles pulled the lever that locked it.
"Traveling with you is always such an adventure," said Petra.
"No need to shout," said Achilles. "I can hear you just fine."
"Why can't you just run with the bulls at Pamplona, like any normal self-destructive person?" asked Petra.
He ignored her gibe. "I must value you more than I thought." He said it as if it took him rather by surprise.
"You mean you still have a spark of humility? You might actually need someone else?"
Again he ignored her words. "You look better without blood all over your face."
"But I'll never be as pretty as you."
"Here's my rule about guns," said Achilles. "When people are getting shot, always stand behind the shooter. It's a lot less messy there."
"Unless people are shooting back."
Achilles laughed. "Pet, I never use a gun when someone might shoot back."
"And you're so well-mannered, you always open a door for a lady."
His smile faded. "Sometimes I get these impulses," he said. "But they're not irresistible."
"Too bad. And here you had such a good insanity defense going."
His eyes blazed for a moment. Then he went back to his seat.
She cursed herself. Goading him like this, how is it different from jumping out of the airplane?
Then again, maybe it was the fact that she spoke to him without cringing that made him value her.
Fool, she said to herself. You are not equipped to understand this boy-you're not insane enough. Don't try to guess why he does what he does, or how he feels about you or anybody or anything. Study him so you can learn how he makes his plans, what he's likely to do, so that someday you can defeat him. But don't ever try to understand. If you can't even understand yourself, what hope do you have of comprehending somebody as deformed as Achilles?
They did not land in Kabul. They landed in Tashkent, refueled, and then went over the Himalayas to New Delhi.
So he lied to her about their destination. He hadn't trusted her after all. But as long as he refrained from killing her, she could endure a little mistrust.
