Shadow Puppets (27 page)

“Just remember,” said Alai. “Han Tzu’s loyalties are divided. Mine are not.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Bean.

“Salaam,” said Alai. “Peace be in you.”

“And in you,” said Petra, “peace.”

When the meeting ended, Han Tzu did not know whether his warning had been believed. Well, even if they didn’t believe him now, in a few more hours they’d have no choice. The major force in the Xinjiang invasion would undoubtedly start their assault just before dawn tomorrow. Satellite intelligence would confirm what he’d told them today. But at the cost of twelve more hours of inaction.

The most frustrating moment, however, had come near the end of the meeting, when the senior aide to the senior general had asked, “So if this is the beginning of a major offensive, what do you recommend?”

“Send all available troops in the north—I would recommend fifty percent of all the garrison troops on the Russian border. Prepare them not only to deal with these horse-borne guerrillas but also with a major mechanized army that will probably invade tomorrow.”

“What about the concentration of troops in India?” asked the aide.
“These are our best soldiers, the most highly trained, and the most mobile.”

“Leave them where they are,” said Han Tzu.

“But if we strip the garrisons along the Russian border, the Russians will attack.”

Another aide spoke up. “The Russians never fight well outside their own borders. Invade them and they’ll destroy you, but if they invade you, their soldiers won’t fight.”

Han Tzu tried not to show his contempt for such ludicrous judgments. “The Russians will do what they do, and if they attack, we’ll do what we need to do in response. However, you don’t keep your troops from defending against a present enemy because they might be needed for a hypothetical enemy.”

All well and good. Until the senior aide to the senior general said, “Very well. I will recommend the immediate removal of troops from India as quickly as possible to meet this current threat.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Han Tzu.

“But it is what
I
mean,” said the aide.

“I believe this is a Muslim offensive,” said Han Tzu. “The enemy across the border in Pakistan is the same enemy attacking us in Xinjiang. They are certainly hoping we’ll do exactly what you suggest, so their main offensive will have a better chance of success.”

The aide only laughed, and the others laughed with him. “You spent too many years out of China during your childhood, Han Tzu. India is a faraway place. What does it matter what happens there? We can take it again whenever we want. But these invaders in Xinjiang, they are inside China. The Russians are poised on the Chinese border. No matter what the enemy thinks,
that
is the real threat.”

“Why?” said Han Tzu, throwing caution to the winds as he directly challenged the senior aide. “Because foreign troops on Chinese soil would mean the present government has lost the mandate of heaven?”

From around the table came the hiss of air suddenly gasped between clenched teeth. To refer to the old idea of the mandate of heaven was poisonously out of step with government policy.

Well, as long as he was irritating people, why stop with that? “Everyone knows that Xinjiang and Tibet are not part of Han China,” said Han Tzu. “They are no more important to us than India—conquests that have never become fully Chinese. We once owned Vietnam before, long ago, and lost it, and the loss meant nothing to us. But the Chinese army, that is precious. And if you take troops out of India, you run the grave risk of losing millions of our men to these Muslim fanatics. Then we won’t have the mandate of heaven to worry about. We’ll have foreign troops in Han China before we know it—and no way to defend against them.”

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.