"So . . . you owe it to them to carry on, to marry, to have more children who'll remember them both for your sake."
Bean stared off into space. "I have a better idea. Let me tell you about them. And you tell your children. Will you do that? If you could promise me that, then I think that I could bear all this, because they wouldn't just disappear from memory when I die."
"Of course I'll do that, Bean, but you're talking as if your life were already over, and it's just beginning. Look at you, you're getting along, you'll have a man's height before long, you'll--"
He touched her lips, gently, to silence her. "I'll have no wife, Petra. No babies."
"Why not? If you tell me you've decided to become a priest I'll kidnap you myself and get you out of this Catholic country."
"I'm not human, Petra," Bean replied. "And my species dies with me."
She laughed at his joke.
But as she looked into his eyes, she saw that it wasn't a joke at all. Whatever he meant by that, he really thought that it was true. Not human. But how could he think that? Of all the people Petra knew, who was more human than Bean?
"Let's go back home," Bean finally said, "before somebody comes along and shoots us just for loitering."
"Home," said Petra.
Bean only halfway understood. "Sorry it's not Armenia."
"No, I don't think Armenia is home either," she said. "And Battle School sure wasn't, nor Eros. This is home, though. I mean, Ribeirao Preto. But here, too. Because. . . my family's here, of course, but. . ."
And then she realized what she was trying to say.
"It's because you're here. Because you're the one who went through it all with me. You're the one who knows what I'm talking about. What I'm remembering. Ender. That terrible day with Bonzo. And the day I fell asleep in the middle of a battle on Eros. You think you have shame." She laughed. "But it's OK to remember even that with you. Because you knew about that, and you still came to get me out."
"Took me long enough," said Bean.
They walked out of the cemetery toward the train station, holding hands because neither of them wanted to feel separate right now.
"I have an idea," said Petra.
"What?"
"If you ever change your mind--you know, about marrying and having babies--hang on to my address. Look me up."
Bean was silent for a long moment. "Ah," he finally said, "I get it. I rescued the princess, so now I can marry her if I want."
"That
's the deal."
"Yeah, well, I notice you didn't mention it until after you heard my vow of celibacy."
"I suppose that was perverse of me."
"Besides, it's a cheat. Aren't I supposed to get half the kingdom, too?"
"I've got a better idea," she answered. "You can have it all."
AFTERWORD
Just as Speaker for the Dead was a different kind of novel from Ender's Game, so also is Shadow of the Hegemon a different kind of book from Ender's Shadow. No longer are we in the close confines of Battle School or the asteroid Eros, fighting a war against insectoid aliens. Now, with Hegemon, we are on Earth, playing what amounts to a huge game of Risk--only you have to play politics and diplomacy as well in order to get power, hold onto it, and give yourself a place to land if you lose it.
Indeed, the game that this novel most resembles is the computer classic Romance of the Three Kingdoms, which is itself based on a Chinese historical novel, thus affirming the ties between history, fiction, and gaming. While history responds to irresistible forces and conditions (pace the extraordinarily illuminating book Guns, Germs, and Steel, which should be required reading by everyone who writes history or historical fiction, just so they understand the ground rules), in the specifics, history happens as it happens for highly personal reasons. The reasons European civilization prevailed over indigenous civilizations of the Americas consist of the implacable laws of history; but the reason why it was Cortez and Pizarro who prevailed over the Aztec and Inca empires by winning particular battles on particular days, instead of being cut down and destroyed as they might have been, had everything to do with their own character and the character and recent history of the emperors opposing them. And it happens that it is the novelist, not the historian, who has the freer hand at imagining what causes individual human beings to do the things they do.
Which is hardly a surprise. Human motivation cannot be documented, at least not with any kind of finality. After all, we rarely understand our own motivations, and so, even when we write down what we honestly believe to be our reasons for making the choices we make, our explanation is likely to be wrong or partly wrong or at least incomplete. So even when a historian or biographer has a wealth of information at hand, in the end he still has to make that uncomfortable leap into the abyss of ignorance before he can declare why a person did the things he did. The French Revolution inexorably led to anarchy and then tyranny for comprehensible reasons, following predictable paths. But nothing could have predicted Napoleon himself, or even that a single dictator of such gifts would emerge.