Shadow of the giant

would be the children of a god, at least in the eyes of the
people. Since parthenogenesis was out of the question, she needed a husband.
And that's why she had summoned Peter Wiggin.
    Wiggin, the brother of the great Ender. The older brother.
Who then could doubt that her children would carry the best genes available on
Earth? They would found a dynasty that could unite the world and rule forever.
By marrying her, Peter would be able to add India to his FPE, transforming it
from a sideshow into more than half the population of the world. And she—and
India—would be raised above any other nation. Instead of being the leader of a
single nation, like China, or the head of a brutal and backward religion, like
Alai, she would be the wife of the enlightened Locke, the Hegemon of Earth, the
man whose vision would bring peace to all the world at last.
    Peter's boat wasn't huge—clearly he wasn't a wasteful man.
But it wasn't a primitive fisherman's dhow; Peter's boat had modern lines and
it looked as if it was designed to rise up and fairly fly over the waves.
Speed. No time to waste in Peter Wiggin's world.
    She had once belonged to that world. For years now she had
slowed herself down to the pace of life in India. She had walked slowly when
people were watching her. She had to maintain the simple grace they expected of
someone in her position. And she had to hold silence while men argued, speaking
only as much as was appropriate for her to say. She could not afford to do
anything to diminish herself in their eyes.
    But she missed the speed of things. The shuttles that took
her to and from Battle School and Tactical School. The clean polished surfaces.
The quickness of games in the Battle Room. Even the intensity of life in
Hyderabad among other Battle Schoolers before she fled to let Bean know where
Petra was. It was closer to her true inclinations than this pose of
primitiveness.
    You do what victory requires. Those with armies, train the
armies. But when Virlomi started, she had only herself. So she trained and
disciplined herself to seem as she needed to seem.
    In the process, she had become what she needed to be.
    But that didn't mean she had lost her ability to admire the
sleek, fast vessel that Peter had brought to her.
    The fishermen helped her out of the dhow and into the
rowboat that would take her between the two vessels. Out in the Gulf of Mannar,
there were undoubtedly much heavier waves, but the little islands of Adam's
Bridge protected the water here, so it was only slightly choppy.
    Which was just as well. There was a faint nausea that had
been with her ever since she got aboard. Vomiting was not something she needed
to show these sailors. She hadn't expected seasickness. How could she have
known she was susceptible? Helicopters didn't bother her, or cars on winding
roads, or even freefall. Why should a bit of chop on the water nearly do her
in?
    The rowboat was actually better than the dhow. More
frightening, but less nauseating. Fear she could deal with. Fear didn't make
her want to throw up. It only made her more determined to win.
    Peter himself was at the side of his boat, and it was his
hand that she took to help her climb aboard. That was a good sign. He wasn't
trying to play games and force her to come to him.
    Peter had her men tie the dinghy to his craft, and then
brought them aboard to rest in relative comfort on the deck while she went
inside the main cabin with Peter.
    It was beautifully and comfortably decorated, but not overly
large or pretentious. It struck just the right note of restrained opulence. A
man of taste.
    "It's not my boat, of course," said Peter.
"Why would I waste FPE money on owning a boat? This is a loan."
    She said nothing—after all, saying nothing was part of who
she was now. But she was just a little disappointed. Modesty was one thing; but
why did he feel compelled to tell her that he didn't own it, that he was
frugal? Because he believed her image of seeking traditional Indian
simplicity—no poverty—as something she really meant, and not just something she
staged in order to hold on to the hearts of the Indian people.
    Well, I could hardly expect him to be as perceptive as me.
He wasn't admitted to Battle School, after all.
    "Have a seat," he said. "Are you
hungry?"
    "No thank you," she said softly. If only he knew
what would happen to any food she tried to eat at sea!
    "Tea?"
    "Nothing," she said.
    He shrugged—with embarrassment? That she had turned him
down?