"Why do you always drink that stuff?" asked John Paul.
Peter looked surprised. "Guaraná? It's my duty as an American to never drink Coke or Pepsi in a country that has an indigenous soft drink. Besides which, I like it."
"It's a stimulant," said Theresa. "It fuzzes your brain."
"It also makes you fart," said John Paul. "Constantly."
"Frequently would be the more accurate term," said Peter. "And it's sweet of you to care."
"We're just looking out for your image," said Theresa.
"I only fart when I'm alone."
"Since he does it in front of us," said John Paul to Theresa, "what exactly does that make us?"
"I meant 'in private,' " said Peter. "And flatulence from carbonated beverages is odorless."
"He thinks it doesn't stink," said John Paul.
Peter picked up the glass and drained it. "And you wonder why I don't look forward to these little family get-togethers."
"Yes," said Theresa. "Family is so inconvenient for you. Except when you can spend their pension checks."
Peter looked back and forth between her and John Paul. "You aren't even on a pension. Either of you. You're not even fifty yet."
Theresa just looked at him like he was stupid. She knew that look drove him crazy.
But Peter refused to bite. He simply went back to eating his lunch.
His very incuriosity was proof enough to Theresa that he knew exactly what she was talking about.
"You mind telling me what this is about?" asked John Paul.
"Why, Andrew's pension," said Theresa. "Bean thinks that Peter's been stealing it."
"So naturally," said Peter with his mouth full, "Mother believes him."
"Oh, haven't you, then?" asked Theresa.
"There's a difference between investing and stealing."
"Not when you invest it in Hegemony bonds. Especially when a circle of huts in Amazonas has a higher bond rating than you."
"Investing in the future of world peace is a sound investment."
"Investing in your future," said Theresa. "Which is more than you did for Andrew. But now that Bean knows, you can be sure that source of funding will dry up very quickly."
"How sad for Bean," said Peter. "Since that was what was paying for his and Petra's search."
"It wasn't until you decided it was," said John Paul. "Are you really that petty?"
"If Bean decides unilaterally to cut off a funding source, then I have to reduce spending somewhere. Since spending on his personal quest has nothing to do with Hegemony goals, it seems only fair that the meddler's pet project be the first to go. It's all moot anyway. Bean has no claim on Ender's pension. He can't touch it."
"He's not going to touch it himself," said Theresa. "He doesn't want the money."
"So he'll turn it over to you? What will you do, keep it in an interest-bearing debit account, the way you do with your own money?" Peter laughed.
"He seems unrepentant," said John Paul.
"That's the problem with Peter," said Theresa.
"Only the one?" said Peter.
"Either it doesn't matter or it's the end of the world. No in between for him. Absolute confidence or utter despair."
"I haven't despaired in years. Well, weeks."
"Just tell me, Peter," said Theresa. "Is there no one you won't exploit to accomplish your purposes?"
"Since my purpose is saving the human race from itself," said Peter, "the answer is no." He wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin on his plate. "Thanks for the lovely lunch. I do enjoy our little times together."
He left.
John Paul leaned back in his chair. "Well. I think I'll tell Bean that if he needs any next-of-kin signatures for whatever he's doing with Andrew's pension, I'll be happy to help."
"If I know Julian Delphiki, no help will be needed."
"Bean saved Peter's whole enterprise by killing Achilles at great personal risk, and our son's memory is so short that he'll stop paying for the effort to rescue Bean's and Petra's children. What gene is it that Peter's missing?"
"Gratitude has a very short half-life in most people's hearts," said Theresa. "By now Peter doesn't even remember that he ever felt it toward Bean."
"Anything we can do about it?"
"Again, my dear, I think we can count on Bean himself. He'll expect retaliation from Peter, and he'll already have a plan."
"I hope his plan doesn't require appealing to Peter's conscience."
Theresa laughed. So did John Paul. It was the saddest kind of laughter, in that empty room.
10
GRIEF
From: FelixStarman%backdoor@Rwanda.gov.rw
To: PeterWiggin%personal@hegemon.gov
Re: Only one question remains
Dear Peter,
Your arguments have persuaded me. In principle, I am prepared to ratify the Constitution of the Free People of Earth. But in practice, one key issue remains. I have created in Rwanda the most formidable army and air force north of Pretoria and south of Cairo. That is precisely why you regard Rwanda as the key to uniting Africa. But the primary motivation of my troops is patriotism, which cannot help but be tinged with Tutsi tribalism. The principle of civilian control of the military is, shall we say, not as preeminent in their ethos.
For me to turn over my troops to a Hegemon who happens to be not only white, but American by birth, would run a grave risk of a coup that would provoke bloodshed in the streets and destabilize the whole region.
That is why it is essential that you decide in advance who the commander of my forces will be. There is only one plausible candidate. Many of my men got a good look at Julian Delphiki. Word has spread. He is viewed as something of a god. His record of military genius is respected by my officer corps; his enormous size gives him heroic stature; and his partial African ancestry, which is, fortunately, visible in his features and coloring, makes him a man that patriotic Rwandans could follow.
If you send Bean to me, to stand beside me as the man who will assume command of Rwandan forces as they become part of the Free People's army, then I will ratify and immediately submit the issue to my people in a plebiscite. People who would not vote for a Constitution with you at its head will vote for a Constitution whose face is that of the Giant Julian.
Sincerely, Felix
Virlomi spoke on the cellphone with her contact. "All clear?" she asked.
"It's not a trap. They're gone."
"How bad is it?"
"I'm so sorry."
That bad.
Virlomi put away the phone and walked from the shelter of the trees into the village.
There were bodies lying in the doorway of every house they passed. But Virlomi did not turn to the right hand or the left. They had to make sure they got the key footage first.
In the center of the village, the Muslim soldiers had spitted a cow and roasted it over a fire. The bodies of twenty or so Hindu adults surrounded the roasting pit.
"Ten seconds," said Virlomi.
Obediently, the vidman framed the shot and ran the camera for ten seconds. During the shot, a crow landed but did not eat anything. It merely walked a couple of steps and then flew again. Virlomi wrote her script in her head: The gods send their messengers to see, and in grief they fly away again.
Virlomi walked near the dead and saw that each corpse had a slab of half-cooked, bloody meat in its mouth. No bullets had been spent on the dead. Their throats were split and gaping open.