Speedreed

CHILDREN

OF

THE

MIND

by

Orson

Scott

Card

(c)

1996

Orson

Scott

Card

Chapter

1

--

"I'M

NOT

MYSELF"

"Mother.

Father.

Did

I

do

it

right?"

--

The

last

words

of

Han

Qing-jao,

from

The

God

Whispers

of

Han

Qing-jao

Si

Wang-mu

stepped

forward.

The

young

man

named

Peter

took

her

hand

and

led

her

into

the

starship.

The

door

closed

behind

them.

Wang-mu

sat

down

on

one

of

the

swiveling

chairs

inside

the

small

metal-walled

room.

She

looked

around,

expecting

to

see

something

strange

and

new.

Except

for

the

metal

walls,

it

could

have

been

any

office

on

the

world

of

Path.

Clean,

but

not

fastidiously

so.

Furnished,

in

a

utilitarian

way.

She

had

seen

holos

of

ships

in

flight:

the

smoothly

streamlined

fighters

and

shuttles

that

dipped

into

and

out

of

the

atmosphere;

the

vast

rounded

structures

of

the

starships

that

accelerated

as

near

to

the

speed

of

light

as

matter

could

get.

On

the

one

hand,

the

sharp

power

of

a

needle;

on

the

other,

the

massive

power

of

a

sledgehammer.

But

here

in

this

room,

no

power

at

all.

Just

a

room.

Where

was

the

pilot?

There

must

be

a

pilot,

for

the

young

man

who

sat

across

the

room

from

her,

murmuring

to

his

computer,

could

hardly

be

controlling

a

starship

capable

of

the

feat

of

traveling

faster

than

light.

And

yet

that

must

have

been

precisely

what

he

was

doing,

for

there

were

no

other

doors

that

might

lead

to

other

rooms.

The

starship

had

looked

small

from

the

outside;

this

room

obviously

used

all

the

space

that

it

contained.

There

in

the

corner

were

the

batteries

that

stored

energy

from

the

solar

collectors

on

the

top

of

the

ship.

In

that

chest,

which

seemed

to

be

insulated

like

a

refrigerator,

there

might

be

food

and

drink.

So

much

for

life

support.

Where

was

the

romance

in

starflight

now,

if

this

was

all

it

took?

A

mere

room.

With

nothing

else

to

watch,

she

watched

the

young

man

at

the

computer

terminal.

Peter

Wiggin,

he

said

his

name

was.

The

name

of

the

ancient

Hegemon,

the

one

who

first

united

all

the

human

race

under

his

control,

back

when

people

lived

on

only

one

world,

all

the

nations

and

races

and

religions

and

philosophies

crushed

together

elbow

to

elbow,

with

nowhere

to

go

but

into

each

other's

lands,

for

the

sky

was

a

ceiling

then,

and

space

was

a

vast

chasm

that

could

not

be

bridged.

Peter

Wiggin,

the

man

who

ruled

the

human

race.

This

was

not

him,

of

course,

and

he

had

admitted

as

much.

Andrew

Wiggin

sent

him;

Wang-mu

remembered,

from

things

that

Master

Han

had

told

her,

that

Andrew

Wiggin

had

somehow

made

him.

Did

this

make

the

great

Speaker

of

the

Dead

Peter's

father?

Or

was

he

somehow

Ender's

brother,

not

just

named

for

but

actually

embodying

the

Hegemon

who

had

died

three

thousand

years

before?

Peter

stopped

murmuring,

leaned

back

in

his

chair,

and

sighed.

He

rubbed

his

eyes,

then

stretched

and

groaned.

It

was

a

very

indelicate

thing

to

do

in

company.

The

sort

of

thing

one

might

expect

from

a

coarse

fieldworker.

He

seemed

to

sense

her

disapproval.

Or

perhaps

he

had

forgotten

her

and

now

suddenly

remembered

that

he

had

company.

Without

straightening

himself

in

his

chair,

he

turned

his

head

and

looked

at

her.

"Sorry,"

he

said.

"I

forgot

I

was

not

alone."

Wang-mu

longed

to

speak

boldly

to

him,

despite

a

lifetime

retreating

from

bold

speech.

After

all,

he

had

spoken

to

her

with

offensive

boldness,

when

his

starship

appeared

like

a

fresh-sprouted

mushroom

on

the

lawn

by

the

river

and

he

emerged

with

a

single

vial

of

a

disease

that

would

cure

her

home

world,

Path,

of

its

genetic

illness.

He

had

looked

her

in

the

eye

not

fifteen

minutes

ago

and

said,

"Come

with

me

and

you'll

be

part

of

changing

history.

Making

history."

And

despite

her

fear,

she

had

said

yes.

Had

said

yes,

and

now

sat

in

a

swivel

chair

watching

him

behave

crudely,

stretching

like

a

tiger

in

front

of

her.

Was

that

his

beast-of-the-heart,

the

tiger?

Wang-mu

had

read

the

Hegemon.

She

could

believe

that

there

was

a

tiger

in

that

great

and

terrible

man.

But

this

one?

This

boy?

Older

than

Wang-mu,

but

she

was

not

too

young

to

know

immaturity

when

she

saw

it.

He

was

going

to

change

the

course

of

history!

Clean

out

the

corruption

in

the

Congress.

Stop

the

Lusitania

Fleet.

Make

all

colony

planets

equal

members

of

the

Hundred

Worlds.

This

boy

who

stretched

like

a

jungle

cat.

"I

don't

have

your

approval,"

he

said.

He

sounded

annoyed

and

amused,

both

at

once.

But

then

she

might

not

be

good

at

understanding

the

inflections

of

one

such

as

this.

Certainly

it

was

hard

to

read

the

grimaces

of

such

a

round-eyed

man.

Both

his

face

and

his

voice

contained

hidden

languages

that

she

could

not

understand.

"You

must

understand,"

he

said.

"I'm

not

myself."

Wang-mu

spoke

the

common

language

well

enough

at

least

to

understand

the

idiom.

"You

are

unwell

today?"

But

she

knew

even

as

she

said

it

that

he

had

not

meant

the

expression

idiomatically

at

all.

"I'm

not

myself,"

he

said

again.

"I'm

not

really

Peter

Wiggin."

"I

hope

not,"

said

Wang-mu.

"I

read

about

his

funeral

in

school."

"I

do

look

like

him,

though,

don't

I?"

He

brought

up

a

hologram

into

the

air

over

his

computer

terminal.

The

hologram

rotated

to

look

at

Wang-mu;

Peter

sat

up

and

assumed

the

same

pose,

facing

her.

"There

is

a

resemblance,"

she

said.

"Of

course,

I'm

younger,"

said

Peter.

"Because

Ender

didn't

see

me

again

after

he

left

Earth

when

he

was--

what,

five

years

old?

A

little

runt,

anyway.

I

was

still

a

boy.

That's

what

he

remembered,

when

he

conjured

me

out

of

thin

air."

"Not

air

at

all,"

she

said.

"Out

of

nothing."

"Not

nothing,

either,"

he

said.

"Conjured

me,

all

the

same."

He

smiled

wickedly.

"I

can

call

spirits

from

the

vasty

deep."

These

words

meant

something

to

him,

but

not

to

her.

In

the

world

of

Path

she

had

been

expected

to

be

a

servant

and

so

was

educated

very

little.

Later,

in

the

house

of

Han

Fei-tzu,

her

abilities

had

been

recognized,

first

by

her

former

mistress,

Han

Qing-jao,

and

later

by

the

master

himself.

From

both

she

had

acquired

some

bits

of

education,

in

a

haphazard

way.

What

teaching

there

had

been

was

mostly

technical,

and

the

literature

she

learned

was

of

the

Middle

Kingdom,

or

of

Path

itself.

She

could

have

quoted

endlessly

from

the

great

poet

Li

Qing-jao,

for

whom

her

one-time

mistress

had

been

named.

But

of

the

poet

he

was

quoting,

she

knew

nothing.

"I

can

call

spirits

from

the

vasty

deep,"

he

said

again.

And

then,

changing

his

voice

and

manner

a

little,

he

answered

himself.

"Why

so

can

I,

or

so

can

any

man.

But

will

they

come

when

you

do

call

for

them?"

"Shakespeare?"

she

guessed.

He

grinned

at

her.

She

thought

of

the

way

a

cat

smiles

at

the

creature

it

is

toying

with.

"That's

always

the

best

guess

when

a

European

is

doing

the

quoting,"

he

said.

"The

quotation

is

funny,"

she

said.

"A

man

brags

that

he

can

summon

the

dead.

But

the

other

man

says

that

the

trick

is

not

calling,

but

rather

getting

them

to

come."

He

laughed.

"What

a

way

you

have

with

humor."

"This

quotation

means

something

to

you,

because

Ender

called

you

forth

from

the

dead."

He

looked

startled.

"How

did

you

know?"

She

felt

a

thrill

of

fear.

Was

it

possible?

"I

did

not

know,

I

was

making

a

joke."

"Well,

it's

not

true.

Not

literally.

He

didn't

raise

the

dead.

Though

he

no

doubt

thinks

he

could,

if

the

need

arose."

Peter

sighed.

"I'm

being

nasty.

The

words

just

come

to

my

mind.

I

don't

mean

them.

They

just

come."

"It

is

possible

to

have

words

come

to

your

mind,

and

still

refrain

from

speaking

them

aloud."

He

rolled

his

eyes.

"I

wasn't

trained

for

servility,

the

way

you

were."

So

this

was

the

attitude

of

one

who

came

from

a

world

of

free

people--

to

sneer

at

one

who

had

been

a

servant

through

no

fault

of

her

own.

"I

was

trained

to

keep

unpleasant

words

to

myself

as

a

matter

of

courtesy,"

she

said.

"But

perhaps

to

you,

that

is

just

another

form

of

servility."

"As

I

said,

Royal

Mother

of

the

West,

nastiness

comes

unbidden

to

my

mouth."

"I

am

not

the

Royal

Mother,"

said

Wang-mu.

"The

name

was

a

cruel

joke--"

"And

only

a

very

nasty

person

would

mock

you

for

it."

Peter

grinned.

"But

I'm

named

for

the

Hegemon.

I

thought

perhaps

bearing

ludicrously

overwrought

names

was

something

we

might

have

in

common."

She

sat

silently,

entertaining

the

possibility

that

he

might

have

been

trying

to

make

friends.

"I

came

into

existence,"

he

said,

"only

a

short

while

ago.

A

matter

of

weeks.

I

thought

you

should

know

that

about

me."

She

didn't

understand.

"You

know

how

this

starship

works?"

he

said.

Now

he

was

leaping

from

subject

to

subject.

Testing

her.

Well,

she

had

had

enough

of

being

tested.

"Appareptly

one

sits

within

it

and

is

examined

by

rude

strangers,"

she

said.

He

smiled

and

nodded.

"Give

as

good

as

you

get.

Ender

told

me

you

were

nobody's

servant."

"I

was

the

true

and

faithful

servant

of

Qing-jao.

I

hope

Ender

did

not

lie

to

you

about

that."

He

brushed

away

her

literalism.

"A

mind

of

your

own."

Again

his

eyes

sized

her

up;

again

she

felt

utterly

comprehended

by

his

lingering

glance,

as

she

had

felt

when

he

first

looked

at

her

beside

the

river.

"Wangmu,

I

am

not

speaking

metaphorically

when

I

tell

you

I

was

only

just

made.

Made,

you

understand,

not

born.

And

the

way

I

was

made

has

much

to

do

with

how

this

starship

works.

I

don't

want

to

bore

you

by

explaining

things

you

already

understand,

but

you

must

know

what--

not

who--

I

am

in

order

to

understand

why

I

need

you

with

me.

So

I

ask

again--

do

you

know

how

this

starship

works?"

She

nodded.

"I

think

so.

Jane,

the

being

who

dwells

in

computers,

she

holds

in

her

mind

as

perfect

a

picture

as

she

can

of

the

starship

and

all

who

are

within

it.

The

people

also

hold

their

own

picture

of

themselves

and

who

they

are

and

so

on.

Then

she

moves

everything

from

the

real

world

to

a

place

of

nothingness,

which

takes

no

time

at

all,

and

then

brings

it

back

into

reality

in

whatever

place

she

chooses.

Which

also

takes

no

time.

So

instead

of

starships

taking

years

to

get

from

world

to

world,

it

happens

in

an

instant."

Peter

nodded.

"Very

good.

Except

what

you

have

to

understand

is

that

during

the

time

that

the

starship

is

Outside,

it

isn't

surrounded

by

nothingness.

Instead

it's

surrounded

by

uncountable

numbers

of

aiuas."

She

turned

away

her

face

from

him.

"You

don't

understand

aiuas?"

"To

say

that

all

people

have

always

existed.

That

we

are

older

than

the

oldest

gods

..."

"Well,

sort

of,"

said

Peter.

"Only

aiuas

on

the

Outside,

they

can't

be

said

to

exist,

or

at

least

not

any

kind

of

meaningful

existence.

They're

just

...

there.

Not

even

that,

because

there's

no

sense

of

location,

no

there

where

they

might

be.

They

just

are.

Until

some

intelligence

calls

them,

names

them,

puts

them

into

some

kind

of

order,

gives

them

shape

and

form."

"The

clay

can

become

a

bear,"

she

said,

"but

not

as

long

as

it

rests

cold

and

wet

in

the

riverbank."

"Exactly.

So

there

was

Ender

Wiggin

and

several

other

people

who,

with

luck,

you'll

never

need

to

meet,

taking

the

first

voyage

Outside.

They

weren't

going

anywhere,

really.

The

point

of

that

first

voyage

was

to

get

Outside

long

enough

that

one

of

them,

a

rather

talented

genetic

scientist,

could

create

a

new

molecule,

an

extremely

complex

one,

by

the

image

she

held

of

it

in

her

mind.

Or

rather

her

image

of

the

modifications

she

needed

to

make

in

an

existing...

well,

you

don't

have

the

biology

for

it.

Anyway,

she

did

what

she

was

supposed

to

do,

she

created

the

new

molecule,

calloo

callay,

only

the

thing

is,

she

wasn't

the

only

person

doing

any

creating

that

day."

"Ender's

mind

created

you?"

asked

Wang-mu.

"Inadvertently.

I

was,

shall

we

say,

a

tragic

accident.

An

unhappy

side

effect.

Let's

just

say

that

everybody

there,

everything

there,

was

creating

like

crazy.

The

aiuas

Outside

are

frantic

to

be

made

into

something,

you

see.

There

were

shadow

starships

being

created

all

around

us.

All

kinds

of

weak,

faint,

fragmented,

fragile,

ephemeral

structures

rising

and

falling

in

each

instant.

Only

four

had

any

solidity.

One

was

that

genetic

molecule

that

Elanora

Ribeira

had

come

to

create."

"One

was

you?"

"The

least

interesting

one,

I

fear.

The

least

loved

and

valued.

One

of

the

people

on

the

ship

was

a

fellow

named

Miro,

who

through

a

tragic

accident

some

years

ago

had

been

left

somewhat

crippled.

Neurologically

damaged.

Thick

of

speech,

clumsy

with

his

hands,

lame

when

he

walked.

He

held

within

his

mind

the

powerful,

treasured

image

of

himself

as

he

used

to

be.

So--

with

that

perfect

self-image,

a

vast

number

of

aiuas

assembled

themselves

into

an

exact

copy,

not

of

how

he

was,

but

of

how

he

once

was

and

longed

to

be

again.

Complete

with

all

his

memories--

a

perfect

replication

of

him.

So

perfect

that

it

had

the

same

utter

loathing

for

his

crippled

body

that

he

himself

had.

So

...

the

new,

improved

Miro--

or

rather

the

copy

of

the

old,

undamaged

Miro--

whatever--

he

stood

there

as

the

ultimate

rebuke

of

the

crippled

one.

And

before

their

very

eyes,

that

old

rejected

body

crumbled

away

into

nothing."

Wang-mu

gasped,

imagining

it.

"He

died!"

"No,

that's

the

point,

don't

you

see?

He

lived.

It

was

Miro.

His

own

aiua--

not

the

trillions

of

aiuas

making

up

the

atoms

and

molecules

of

his

body,

but

the

one

that

controlled

them

all,

the

one

that

was

himself,

his

will--

his

aiua

simply

moved

to

the

new

and

perfect

body.

That

was

his

true

self.

And

the

old

one

..."

"Had

no

use."

"Had

nothing

to

give

it

shape.

You

see,

I

think

our

bodies

are

held

together

by

love.

The

love

of

the

master

aiua

for

the

glorious

powerful

body

that

obeys

it,

that

gives

the

self

all

its

experience

of

the

world.

Even

Miro,

even

with

all

his

self-loathing

when

he

was

crippled,

even

he

must

have

loved

whatever

pathetic

remnant

of

his

body

was

left

to

him.

Until

the

moment

that

he

had

a

new

one."

"And

then

he

moved."

"Without

even

knowing

that

he

had

done

so,"

said

Peter.

"He

followed

his

love."

Wang-mu

heard

this

fanciful

tale

and

knew

that

it

must

be

true,

for

she

had

overheard

many

a

mention

of

aiuas

in

the

conversations

between

Han

Fei-tzu

and

Jane,

and

now

with

Peter

Wiggin's

story,

it

made

sense.

It

had

to

be

true,

if

only

because

this

starship

really

had

appeared

as

if

from

nowhere

on

the

bank

of

the

river

behind

Han

Fei-tzu's

house.

"But

now

you

must

wonder,"

said

Peter,

"how

I,

unloved

and

unlovable

as

I

know

I

am,

came

into

existence."

"You

already

said.

Ender's

mind."

"Miro's

most

intensely

held

image

was

of

his

own

younger,

healthier,

stronger

self.

But

Ender,

the

images

that

mattered

most

in

his

mind

were

of

his

older

sister

Valentine

and

his

older

brother

Peter.

Not

as

they

became,

though,

for

his

real

older

brother

Peter

was

long

dead,

and

Valentine--

she

has

accompanied

or

followed

Ender

on

all

his

hops

through

space,

so

she

is

still

alive,

but

aged

as

he

has

aged.

Mature.

A

real

person.

Yet

on

that

starship,

during

that

time

Outside,

he

conjured

up

a

copy

of

her

youthful

self.

Young

Valentine.

Poor

Old

Valentine!

She

didn't

know

she

was

so

old

until

she

saw

this

younger

self,

this

perfect

being,

this

angel

that

had

dwelt

in

Ender's

twisted

little

mind

from

childhood

on.

I

must

say,

she's

the

most

put-upon

victim

in

all

this

little

drama.

To

know

that

your

brother

carries

around

such

an

image

of

you,

instead

of

loving

you

as

you

really

are--

well,

one

can

see

that

Old

Valentine--

she

hates

it,

but

that's

how

everyone

thinks

of

her

now,

including,

poor

thing,

herself--

one

can

see

that

Old

Valentine

is

really

having

her

patience

tried."

"But

if

the

original

Valentine

is

still

alive,"

said

Wang-mu,

puzzled,

"then

who

is

the

young

Valentine?

Who

is

she

really?

You

can

be

Peter

because

he's

dead

and

no

one

is

using

his

name,

but

..."

"Quite

puzzling,

isn't

it?"

said

Peter.

"But

my

point

is

that

whether

he's

dead

or

not,

I'm

not

Peter

Wiggin.

As

I

said

before,

I'm

not

myself."

He

leaned

back

in

his

chair

and

looked

up

at

the

ceiling.

The

hologram

above

the

terminal

turned

to

look

at

him.

He

had

not

touched

the

controls.

"Jane

is

with

us,"

said

Wang-mu.

"Jane

is

always

with

us,"

said

Peter.

"Ender's

spy."

The

hologram

spoke.

"Ender

doesn't

need

a

spy.

He

needs

friends,

if

he

can

get

them.

Allies

at

least."

Peter

reached

idly

for

the

terminal

and

turned

it

off.

The

hologram

disappeared.

This

disturbed

Wang-mu

very

much.

Almost

as

if

he

had

slapped

a

child.

Or

beaten

a

servant.

"Jane

is

a

very

noble

creature,

to

treat

her

with

such

disrespect."

"Jane

is

a

computer

program

with

a

bug

in

the

id

routines."

He

was

in

a

dark

mood,

this

boy

who

had

come

to

take

her

into

his

starship

and

spirit

her

away

from

the

world

of

Path.

But

dark

as

his

mood

might

be,

she

understood

now,

with

the

hologram

gone

from

the

terminal,

what

she

had

seen.

"It

isn't

just

because

you're

so

young

and

the

holograms

of

Peter

Wiggin

the

Hegemon

are

of

a

mature

man,"

said

Wang-mu.

"What,"

he

said

impatiently.

"What

isn't

what?"

"The

physical

difference

between

you

and

the

Hegemon."

"What

is

it,

then?"

"He

looks--

satisfied."

"He

conquered

the

world,"

said

Peter.

"So

when

you

have

done

the

same,

you

will

get

that

look

of

satisfaction?"

"I

suppose

so,"

said

Peter.

"It's

what

passes

for

a

purpose

in

my

life.

It's

the

mission

Ender

has

sent

me

on."

"Don't

lie

to

me,"

said

Wang-mu.

"On

the

riverbank

you

spoke

of

the

terrible

things

I

did

for

the

sake

of

my

ambition.

I

admit

it--

I

was

ambitious,

desperate

to

rise

out

of

my

terrible

lowborn

state.

I

know

the

taste

of

it,

and

the

smell

of

it,

and

I

smell

it

coming

from

you,

like

the

smell

of

tar

on

a

hot

day,

you

stink

of

it."

"Ambition?

Has

a

stench?"

"I'm

drunk

with

it

myself."

He

grinned.

Then

he

touched

the

jewel

in

his

ear.

"Remember,

Jane

is

listening,

and

she

tells

Ender

everything."

Wang-mu

fell

silent,

but

not

because

she

was

embarrassed.

She

simply

had

nothing

to

say,

and

therefore

said

nothing.

"So

I'm

ambitious.

Because

that's

how

Ender

imagined

me.

Ambitious

and

nasty-minded

and

cruel."

"But

I

thought

you

were

not

yourself,"

she

said.

His

eyes

blazed

with

defiance.

"That's

right,

I'm

not."

He

looked

away.

"Sorry,

Gepetto,

but

I

can't

be

a

real

boy.

I

have

no

soul."

She

didn't

understand

the

name

he

said,

but

she

understood

the

word

soul.

"All

my

childhood

I

was

thought

to

be

a

servant

by

nature.

To

have

no

soul.

Then

one

day

they

discovered

that

I

have

one.

So

far

it

has

brought

me

no

great

happiness."

"I'm

not

speaking

of

some

religious

idea.

I'm

speaking

of

the

aiua.

I

haven't

got

one.

Remember

what

happened

to

Miro's

broken-down

body

when

his

aiua

abandoned

it."

"But

you

don't

crumble,

so

you

must

have

an

aiua

after

all."

"I

don't

have

it,

it

has

me.

I

continue

to

exist

because

the

aiua

whose

irresistible

will

called

me

into

existence

continues

to

imagine

me.

Continues

to

need

me,

to

control

me,

to

be

my

will."

"Ender

Wiggin?"

she

asked.

"My

brother,

my

creator,

my

tormentor,

my

god,

my

very

self."

"And

young

Valentine?

Her

too?"

"Ah,

but

he

loves

her.

He's

proud

of

her.

He's

glad

he

made

her.

Me

he

loathes.

Loathes,

and

yet

it's

his

will

that

I

do

and

say

every

nasty

thing.

When

I'm

at

my

most

despicable,

remember

that

I

do

only

what

my

brother

makes

me

do."

"Oh,

to

blame

him

for--"

"I'm

not

blaming,

Wang-mu.

I'm

stating

simple

reality.

His

will

is

controlling

three

bodies

now.

Mine,

my

impossibly

angelic

sister's,

and

of

course

his

own

very

tired

middle-aged

body.

Every

aiua

in

my

body

receives

its

order

and

place

from

his.

I

am,

in

all

ways

that

matter,

Ender

Wiggin.

Except

that

he

has

created

me

to

be

the

vessel

of

every

impulse

in

himself

that

he

hates

and

fears.

His

ambition,

yes,

you

smell

his

ambition

when

you

smell

mine.

His

aggression.

His

rage.

His

nastiness.

His

cruelty.

His,

not

mine,

because

I

am

dead,

and

anyway

I

was

never

like

this,

never

the

way

he

saw

me.

This

person

before

you

is

a

travesty,

a

mockery!

I'm

a

twisted

memory.

A

despicable

dream.

A

nightmare.

I'm

the

creature

hiding

under

the

bed.

He

brought

me

out

of

chaos

to

be

the

terror

of

his

childhood."

"So

don't

do

it,"

said

Wang-mu.

"If

you

don't

want

to

be

those

things,

don't

do

them."

He

sighed

and

closed

his

eyes.

"If

you're

so

bright,

why

haven't

you

understood

a

word

I've

said?"

She

did

understand,

though.

"What

is

your

will,

anyway?

Nobody

can

see

it.

You

don't

hear

it

thinking.

You

only

know

what

your

will

is

afterward,

when

you

look

back

in

your

life

and

see

what

you've

done."

"That's

the

most

terrible

trick

he's

played

on

me,"

said

Peter

softly,

his

eyes

still

closed.

"I

look

back

on

my

life

and

I

see

only

the

memories

he

has

imagined

for

me.

He

was

taken

from

our

family

when

he

was

only

five.

What

does

he

know

of

me

or

my

life?"

"He

wrote

The

Hegemon."

"That

book.

Yes,

based

on

Valentine's

memories,

as

she

told

them

to

him.

And

the

public

documents

of

my

dazzling

career.

And

of

course

the

few

ansible

communications

between

Ender

and

my

own

late

self

before

I--

he--

died.

I'm

only

a

few

weeks

old,

yet

I

know

a

quotation

from

Henry

X,

Part

I,

Owen

Glendower

boasting

to

Hotspur.

Henry

Percy.

How

could

I

know

that?

When

did

I

go

to

school?

How

long

did

I

lie

awake

at

night,

reading

old

plays

until

I

committed

a

thousand

favorite

lines

to

memory?

Did

Ender

somehow

conjure

up

the

whole

of

his

dead

brother's

education?

All

his

private

thoughts?

Ender

only

knew

the

real

Peter

Wiggin

for

five

years.

It's

not

a

real

person's

memories

I

draw

on.

It's

the

memories

Ender

thinks

that

I

should

have."

"He

thinks

you

should

know

Shakespeare,

and

so

you

do?"

she

asked

doubtfully.

"If

only

Shakespeare

were

all

he

had

given

me.

The

great

writers,

the

great

philosophers.

If

only

those

were

the

only

memories

I

had."

She

waited

for

him

to

list

the

troublesome

memories.

But

he

only

shuddered

and

fell

silent.

"So

if

you

are

really

controlled

by

Ender,

then

...

you

are

him.

Then

that

is

yourself.

You

are

Andrew

Wiggin.

You

have

an

aiua."

"I'm

Andrew

Wiggin's

nightmare,"

said

Peter.

"I'm

Andrew

Wiggin's

self-loathing.

I'm

everything

he

hates

and

fears

about

himself.

That's

the

script

I've

been

given.

That's

what

I

have

to

do."

He

flexed

his

hand

into

a

fist,

then

extended

it

partway,

the

fingers

still

bent.

A

claw.

The

tiger

again.

And

for

a

moment,

Wang-mu

was

afraid

of

him.

Only

a

moment,

though.

He

relaxed

his

hands.

The

moment

passed.

"What

part

does

your

script

have

in

it

for

me?"

"I

don't

know,"

said

Peter.

"You're

very

smart.

Smarter

than

I

am,

I

hope.

Though

of

course

I

have

such

incredible

vanity

that

I

can't

really

believe

that

anyone

is

actually

smarter

than

I

am.

Which

means

that

I'm

all

the

more

in

need

of

good

advice,

since

I

can't

actually

conceive

of

needing

any."

"You

talk

in

circles."

"That's

just

part

of

my

cruelty.

To

torment

you

with

conversation.

But

maybe

it's

supposed

to

go

farther

than

that.

Maybe

I'm

supposed

to

torture

you

and

kill

you

the

way

I

so

clearly

remember

doing

with

squirrels.

Maybe

I'm

supposed

to

stake

your

living

body

out

in

the

woods,

nailing

your

extremities

to

tree

roots,

and

then

open

you

up

layer

by

layer

to

see

at

what

point

the

flies

begin

to

come

and

lay

eggs

in

your

exposed

flesh."

She

recoiled

at

the

image.

"I

have

read

the

book.

I

know

the

Hegemon

was

not

a

monster!"

"It

wasn't

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead

who

created

me

Outside.

It

was

the

frightened

boy

Ender.

I'm

not

the

Peter

Wiggin

he

so

wisely

understood

in

that

book.

I'm

the

Peter

Wiggin

he

had

nightmares

about.

The

one

who

flayed

squirrels."

"He

saw

you

do

that?"

she

asked.

"Not

me,"

he

said

testily.

"And

no,

he

never

even

saw

him

do

it.

Valentine

told

him

later.

She

found

the

squirrel's

body

in

the

woods

near

their

childhood

home

in

Greensboro,

North

Carolina,

on

the

continent

of

North

America

back

on

Earth.

But

that

image

fit

so

tidily

into

his

nightmares

that

he

borrowed

it

and

shared

it

with

me.

That's

the

memory

I

live

with.

Intellectually,

I

can

imagine

that

the

real

Peter

Wiggin

was

probably

not

cruel

at

all.

He

was

learning

and

studying.

He

didn't

have

compassion

for

the

squirrel

because

he

didn't

sentimentalize

it.

It

was

simply

an

animal.

No

more

important

than

a

head

of

lettuce.

To

cut

it

up

was

probably

as

immoral

an

act

as

making

a

salad.

But

that's

not

how

Ender

imagined

it,

and

so

that's

not

how

I

remember

it."

"How

do

you

remember

it?"

"The

way

I

remember

all

my

supposed

memories.

From

the

outside.

Watching

myself

in

horrified

fascination

as

I

take

a

fiendish

delight

in

cruelty.

All

my

memories

prior

to

the

moment

I

came

to

life

on

Ender's

little

voyage

Outside,

in

all

of

them

I

see

myself

through

someone

else's

eyes.

A

very

odd

feeling,

I

assure

you."

"But

now?"

"Now

I

don't

see

myself

at

all,"

he

said.

"Because

I

have

no

self.

I

am

not

myself."

"But

you

remember.

You

have

memories.

Of

this

conversation,

already

you

remember

it.

Looking

at

me.

You

must,

surely."

"Yes,"

he

said.

"I

remember

you.

And

I

remember

being

here

and

seeing

you.

But

there

isn't

any

self

behind

my

eyes.

I

feel

tired

and

stupid

even

when

I'm

being

my

most

clever

and

brilliant."

He

smiled

a

charming

smile

and

now

Wang-mu

could

see

again

the

true

difference

between

Peter

and

the

hologram

of

the

Hegemon.

It

was

as

he

said:

Even

at

his

most

self-deprecating,

this

Peter

Wiggin

had

eyes

that

flashed

with

inner

rage.

He

was

dangerous.

You

could

see

it

looking

at

him.

When

he

looked

into

your

eyes,

you

could

imagine

him

planning

how

and

when

you

would

die.

"I

am

not

myself,"

said

Peter.

"You

are

saying

this

to

control

yourself,"

said

Wang-mu,

guessing

but

also

sure

she

was

right.

"This

is

your

incantation,

to

stop

yourself

from

doing

what

you

desire."

Peter

sighed

and

leaned

over,

laying

his

head

down

on

the

terminal,

his

ear

pressed

against

the

cold

plastic

surface.

"What

is

it

you

desire?"

she

said,

fearful

of

the

answer.

"Go

away,"

he

said.

"Where

can

I

go?

This

great

starship

of

yours

has

only

one

room."

"Open

the

door

and

go

outside,"

he

said.

"You

mean

to

kill

me?

To

eject

me

into

space

where

I'll

freeze

before

I

have

time

to

suffocate?"

He

sat

up

and

looked

at

her

in

puzzlement.

"Space?"

His

confusion

confused

her.

Where

else

would

they

be

but

in

space?

That's

where

starships

went,

through

space.

Except

this

one,

of

course.

As

he

saw

understanding

come

to

her,

he

laughed

aloud.

"Oh,

yes,

you're

the

brilliant

one,

they've

remade

the

entire

world

of

Path

to

have

your

genius!"

She

refused

to

be

goaded.

"I

thought

there

would

be

some

sensation

of

movement.

Or

something.

Have

we

traveled,

then?

Are

we

already

there?"

"In

the

twinkling

of

an

eye.

We

were

Outside

and

then

back

Inside

at

another

place,

all

so

fast

that

only

a

computer

could

experience

our

voyage

as

having

any

duration

at

all.

Jane

did

it

before

I

finished

talking

to

her.

Before

I

said

a

word

to

you."

"Then

where

are

we?

What's

outside

the

door?"

"We're

sitting

in

the

woods

somewhere

on

the

planet

Divine

Wind.

The

air

is

breathable.

You

won't

freeze.

It's

summer

outside

the

door."

She

walked

to

the

door

and

pulled

down

the

handle,

releasing

the

airtight

seal.

The

door

eased

open.

Sunlight

streamed

into

the

room.

"Divine

Wind,"

she

said.

"I

read

about

it--

it

was

founded

as

a

Shinto

world

the

way

Path

was

supposed

to

be

Taoist.

The

purity

of

ancient

Japanese

culture.

But

I

think

it's

not

so

very

pure

these

days."

"More

to

the

point,

it's

the

world

where

Andrew

and

Jane

and

I

felt--

if

one

can

speak

of

my

having

feelings

apart

from

Ender's

own--

the

world

where

we

might

find

the

center

of

power

in

the

worlds

ruled

by

Congress.

The

true

decision

makers.

The

power

behind

the

throne."

"So

you

can

subvert

them

and

take

over

the

human

race?"

"So

I

can

stop

the

Lusitania

Fleet.

Taking

over

the

human

race

is

a

bit

later

on

the

agenda.

The

Lusitania

Fleet

is

something

of

an

emergency.

We

have

only

a

few

weeks

to

stop

it

before

the

fleet

gets

there

and

uses

the

Little

Doctor,

the

M.D.

Device,

to

blow

Lusitania

into

its

constituent

elements.

In

the

meantime,

because

Ender

and

everyone

else

expects

me

to

fail,

they're

building

these

little

tin

can

starships

as

fast

as

possible

and

transporting

as

many

Lusitanians

as

they

can--

humans,

piggies,

and

buggers--

to

other

habitable

but

as

yet

uninhabited

planets.

My

dear

sister

Valentine--

the

young

one--

is

off

with

Miro--

in

his

fresh

new

body,

the

dear

lad--

searching

out

new

worlds

as

fast

as

their

little

starship

can

carry

them.

Quite

a

project.

All

of

them

betting

on

my--

on

our--

failure.

Let's

disappoint

them,

shall

we?"

"Disappoint

them?"

"By

succeeding.

Let's

succeed.

Let's

find

the

center

of

power

among

humankind,

and

let's

persuade

them

to

stop

the

fleet

before

it

needlessly

destroys

a

world."

Wang-mu

looked

at

him

doubtfully.

Persuade

them

to

stop

the

fleet?

This

nasty-minded,

cruel-hearted

boy?

How

could

he

persuade

anyone

of

anything?

As

if

he

could

hear

her

thoughts,

he

answered

her

silent

doubt.

"You

see

why

I

invited

you

to

come

along

with

me.

When

Ender

was

inventing

me,

he

forgot

the

fact

that

he

never

knew

me

during

the

time

in

my

life

when

I

was

persuading

people

and

gathering

them

together

in

shifting

alliances

and

all

that

nonsense.

So

the

Peter

Wiggin

he

created

is

far

too

nasty,

openly

ambitious,

and

nakedly

cruel

to

persuade

a

man

with

rectal

itch

to

scratch

his

own

butt."

She

looked

away

from

him

again.

"You

see?"

he

said.

"I

offend

you

again

and

again.

Look

at

me.

Do

you

see

my

dilemma?

The

real

Peter,

the

original

one,

he

could

have

done

the

work

I've

been

sent

to

do.

He

could

have

done

it

in

his

sleep.

He'd

already

have

a

plan.

He'd

be

able

to

win

people

over,

soothe

them,

insinuate

himself

into

their

councils.

That

Peter

Wiggin!

He

can

charm

the

stings

out

of

bees.

But

can

I?

I

doubt

it.

For,

you

see,

I'm

not

myself."

He

got

up

from

his

chair,

roughly

pushed

his

way

past

her,

and

stepped

outside

onto

the

meadow

that

surrounded

the

little

metal

cabin

that

had

carried

them

from

world

to

world.

Wang-mu

stood

in

the

doorway,

watching

him

as

he

wandered

away

from

the

ship;

away,

but

not

too

far.

I

know

something

of

how

he

feels,

she

thought.

I

know

something

of

having

to

submerge

your

will

in

someone

else's.

To

live

for

them,

as

if

they

were

the

star

of

the

story

of

your

life,

and

you

merely

a

supporting

player.

I

have

been

a

slave.

But

at

least

in

all

that

time

I

knew

my

own

heart.

I

knew

what

I

truly

thought

even

as

I

did

what

they

wanted,

whatever

it

took

to

get

what

I

wanted

from

them.

Peter

Wiggin,

though,

has

no

idea

of

what

he

really

wants,

because

even

his

resentment

of

his

lack

of

freedom

isn't

his

own,

even

that

comes

from

Andrew

Wiggin.

Even

his

self-loathing

is

Andrew's

self-loathing,

and

...

And

back

and

back,

in

circles,

like

the

random

path

he

was

tracing

through

the

meadow.

Wang-mu

thought

of

her

mistress--

no,

her

former

mistress--

Qing-jao.

She

also

traced

strange

patterns.

It

was

what

the

gods

forced

her

to

do.

No,

that's

the

old

way

of

thinking.

It's

what

her

obsessive-compulsive

disorder

caused

her

to

do.

To

kneel

on

the

floor

and

trace

the

grain

of

the

wood

in

each

board,

trace

a

single

line

of

it

as

far

as

it

went

across

the

floor,

line

after

line.

It

never

meant

anything,

and

yet

she

had

to

do

it

because

only

by

such

meaningless

mind-numbing

obedience

could

she

win

a

scrap

of

freedom

from

the

impulses

controlling

her.

It

is

Qing-jao

who

was

always

the

slave,

and

never

me.

For

the

master

that

ruled

her

controlled

her

from

inside

her

own

mind.

While

I

could

always

see

my

master

outside

me,

so

my

inmost

self

was

never

touched.

Peter

Wiggin

knows

that

he

is

ruled

by

the

unconscious

fears

and

passions

of

a

complicated

man

many

light-years

away.

But

then,

Qing-jao

thought

her

obsessions

came

from

the

gods.

What

does

it

matter,

to

tell

yourself

that

the

thing

controlling

you

comes

from

outside,

if

in

fact

you

only

experience

it

inside

your

own

heart?

Where

can

you

run

from

it?

How

can

you

hide?

Qing-jao

must

be

free

by

now,

freed

by

the

carrier

virus

that

Peter

brought

with

him

to

Path

and

put

into

the

hands

of

Han

Fei-tzu.

But

Peter--

what

freedom

can

there

be

for

him?

And

yet

he

must

still

live

as

if

he

were

free.

He

must

still

struggle

for

freedom

even

if

the

struggle

itself

is

just

one

more

symptom

of

his

slavery.

There

is

a

part

of

him

that

yearns

to

be

himself.

No,

not

himself.

A

self.

So

what

is

my

part

in

all

of

this?

Am

I

supposed

to

work

a

miracle,

and

give

him

an

aiua?

That

isn't

in

my

power.

And

yet

I

do

have

power,

she

thought.

She

must

have

power,

or

why

else

had

he

spoken

to

her

so

openly?

A

total

stranger,

and

he

had

opened

his

heart

to

her

at

once.

Why?

Because

she

was

in

on

the

secrets,

yes,

but

something

else

as

well.

Ah,

of

course.

He

could

speak

freely

to

her

because

she

had

never

known

Andrew

Wiggin.

Maybe

Peter

was

nothing

but

an

aspect

of

Ender's

nature,

all

that

Ender

feared

and

loathed

about

himself.

But

she

could

never

compare

the

two

of

them.

Whatever

Peter

was,

whoever

controlled

him,

she

was

his

confidante.

Which

made

her,

once

again,

someone's

servant.

She

had

been

Qing-jao's

confidante,

too.

She

shuddered,

as

if

to

shake

from

her

the

sad

comparison.

No,

she

told

herself.

It

is

not

the

same

thing.

Because

that

young

man

wandering

so

aimlessly

among

the

wildflowers

has

no

power

over

me,

except

to

tell

me

of

his

pain

and

hope

for

my

understanding.

Whatever

I

give

to

him

I

will

give

freely.

She

closed

her

eyes

and

leaned

her

head

against

the

frame

of

the

door.

I

will

give

it

freely,

yes,

she

thought.

But

what

am

I

planning

to

give

him?

Why,

exactly

what

he

wants--

my

loyalty,

my

devotion,

my

help

in

all

his

tasks.

To

submerge

myself

in

him.

And

why

am

I

already

planning

to

do

all

this?

Because

however

he

might

doubt

himself,

he

has

the

power

to

win

people

to

his

cause.

She

opened

her

eyes

again

and

strode

out

into

the

hip-high

grass

toward

him.

He

saw

her

and

waited

wordlessly

as

she

approached.

Bees

buzzed

around

her;

butterflies

staggered

drunkenly

through

the

air,

avoiding

her

somehow

in

their

seemingly

random

flight.

At

the

last

moment

she

reached

out

and

gathered

a

bee

from

a

blossom

into

her

hand,

into

her

fist,

but

then

quickly,

before

it

could

sting

her,

she

lobbed

it

into

Peter's

face.

Flustered,

surprised,

he

batted

away

the

infuriated

bee,

ducked

under

it,

dodged,

and

finally

ran

a

few

steps

before

it

lost

track

of

him

and

buzzed

its

way

out

among

the

flowers

again.

Only

then

could

he

turn

furiously

to

face

her.

"What

was

that

for!"

She

giggled

at

him--

she

couldn't

help

it.

He

had

looked

so

funny.

"Oh,

good,

laugh.

I

can

see

you're

going

to

be

fine

company."

"Be

angry,

I

don't

care,"

said

Wang-mu.

"I'll

just

tell

you

this.

Do

you

think

that

away

off

on

Lusitania,

Ender's

aiua

suddenly

thought,

'Ho,

a

bee!'

and

made

you

brush

at

it

and

dodge

it

like

a

clown?"

He

rolled

his

eyes.

"Oh,

aren't

you

clever.

Well

gosh,

Miss

Royal

Mother

of

the

West,

you

sure

solved

all

my

problems!

I

can

see

I

must

always

have

been

a

real

boy!

And

these

ruby

shoes,

why,

they've

had

the

power

to

take

me

back

to

Kansas

all

along!"

"What's

Kansas?"

she

asked,

looking

down

at

his

shoes,

which

were

not

red.

"Just

another

memory

of

Ender's

that

he

kindly

shared

with

me,"

said

Peter

Wiggin.

He

stood

there,

his

hands

in

his

pockets,

regarding

her.

She

stood

just

as

silently,

her

hands

clasped

in

front

of

her,

regarding

him

right

back.

"So

are

you

with

me?"

he

finally

asked.

"You

must

try

not

to

be

nasty

with

me,"

she

said.

"Take

that

up

with

Ender."

"I

don't

care

whose

aiua

controls

you,"

she

said.

"You

still

have

your

own

thoughts,

which

are

different

from

his--

you

feared

the

bee,

and

he

didn't

even

think

of

a

bee

right

then,

and

you

know

it.

So

whatever

part

of

you

is

in

control

or

whoever

the

real

'you'

happens

to

be,

right

there

on

the

front

of

your

head

is

the

mouth

that's

going

to

be

speaking

to

me,

and

I'm

telling

you

that

if

I'm

going

to

work

with

you,

you

better

be

nice

to

me."

"Does

this

mean

no

more

bee

fights?"

he

asked.

"Yes,"

she

said.

"That's

just

as

well.

With

my

luck

Ender

no

doubt

gave

me

a

body

that

goes

into

shock

when

I'm

stung

by

a

bee."

"It

can

also

be

pretty

hard

on

the

bee,"

she

said.

He

grinned

at

her.

"I

find

myself

liking

you,"

he

said.

"I

really

hate

that."

He

strode

off

toward

the

starship.

"Come

on!"

he

called

out

to

her.

"Let's

see

what

information

Jane

can

give

us

about

this

world

we're

supposed

to

take

by

storm."

Chapter

2

--

"YOU

DON'T

BELIEVE

IN

GOD!"

"When

I

follow

the

path

of

the

gods

through

the

wood,

My

eyes

take

every

twisting

turn

of

the

grain,

But

my

body

moves

straight

along

the

planking,

So

those

who

watch

me

see

that

the

path

of

the

gods

is

straight,

While

I

dwell

in

a

world

with

no

straightness

in

it."

--

from

The

God

Whispers

of

Han

Qing-jao

Novinha

would

not

come

to

him.

The

gentle

old

teacher

looked

genuinely

distressed

as

she

told

Ender.

"She

wasn't

angry,"

the

old

teacher

explained.

"She

told

me

that

..."

Ender

nodded,

understanding

how

the

teacher

was

torn

between

compassion

and

honesty.

"You

can

tell

me

her

words,"

he

said.

"She

is

my

wife,

so

I

can

bear

it."

The

old

teacher

rolled

her

eyes.

"I'm

married

too,

you

know."

Of

course

he

knew.

All

the

members

of

the

Order

of

the

Children

of

the

Mind

of

Christ--

Os

Filhos

da

Mente

de

Cristo--

were

married.

It

was

their

rule.

"I'm

married,

so

I

know

perfectly

well

that

your

spouse

is

the

one

person

who

knows

all

the

words

you

can't

bear

to

hear."

"Then

let

me

correct

myself,"

said

Ender

mildly.

"She

is

my

wife,

so

I

am

determined

to

hear

it,

whether

I

can

bear

it

or

not."

"She

says

that

she

has

to

finish

the

weeding,

so

she

has

no

time

for

lesser

battles."

Yes,

that

sounded

like

Novinha.

She

might

tell

herself

that

she

had

taken

the

mantle

of

Christ

upon

her,

but

if

so

it

was

the

Christ

who

denounced

the

Pharisees,

the

Christ

who

said

all

those

cruel

and

sarcastic

things

to

his

enemies

and

his

friends

alike,

not

the

gentle

one

with

infinite

patience.

Still,

Ender

was

not

one

to

go

away

merely

because

his

feelings

were

hurt.

"Then

what

are

we

waiting

for?"

asked

Ender.

"Show

me

where

I

can

find

a

hoe."

The

old

teacher

stared

at

him

for

a

long

moment,

then

smiled

and

led

him

out

into

the

gardens.

Soon,

wearing

work

gloves

and

carrying

a

hoe

in

one

hand,

he

stood

at

the

end

of

the

row

where

Novinha

worked,

bent

over

in

the

sunlight,

her

eyes

on

the

ground

before

her

as

she

cut

under

the

root

of

weed

after

weed,

turning

each

one

up

to

bum

to

death

in

the

hot

dry

sun.

She

was

coming

toward

him.

Ender

stepped

to

the

unweeded

row

beside

the

one

Novinha

worked

on,

and

began

to

hoe

toward

her.

They

would

not

meet,

but

they

would

pass

close

to

each

other.

She

would

notice

him

or

not.

She

would

speak

to

him

or

not.

She

still

loved

and

needed

him.

Or

not.

But

no

matter

what,

at

the

end

of

this

day

he

would

have

weeded

in

the

same

field

as

his

wife,

and

her

work

would

have

been

more

easily

done

because

he

was

there,

and

so

he

would

still

be

her

husband,

however

little

she

might

now

want

him

in

that

role.

The

first

time

they

passed

each

other,

she

did

not

so

much

as

look

up.

But

then

she

would

not

have

to.

She

would

know

without

looking

that

the

one

who

joined

her

in

weeding

so

soon

after

she

refused

to

meet

with

her

husband

would

have

to

be

her

husband.

He

knew

that

she

would

know

this,

and

he

also

knew

she

was

too

proud

to

look

at

him

and

show

that

she

wanted

to

see

him

again.

She

would

study

the

weeds

until

she

went

half

blind,

because

Novinha

was

not

one

to

bend

to

anyone

else's

will.

Except,

of

course,

the

will

of

Jesus.

That

was

the

message

she

had

sent

him,

the

message

that

had

brought

him

here,

determined

to

talk

to

her.

A

brief

note

couched

in

the

language

of

the

Church.

She

was

separating

herself

from

him

to

serve

Christ

among

the

Filhos.

She

felt

herself

called

to

this

work.

He

was

to

regard

himself

as

having

no

further

responsibility

toward

her,

and

to

expect

nothing

more

from

her

than

she

would

gladly

give

to

any

of

the

children

of

God.

It

was

a

cold

message,

for

all

the

gentleness

of

its

phrasing.

Ender

was

not

one

to

bend

easily

to

another's

will,

either.

Instead

of

obeying

the

message,

he

came

here,

determined

to

do

the

opposite

of

what

she

asked.

And

why

not?

Novinha

had

a

terrible

record

as

a

decision

maker.

Whenever

she

decided

to

do

something

for

someone

else's

good,

she

ended

up

inadvertently

destroying

them.

Like

Libo,

her

childhood

friend

and

secret

lover,

the

father

of

all

her

children

during

her

marriage

to

the

violent

but

sterile

man

who

had

been

her

husband

until

he

died.

Fearing

that

he

would

die

at

the

hands

of

the

pequeninos,

the

way

his

father

had

died,

Novinha

withheld

from

him

her

vital

discoveries

about

the

biology

of

the

planet

Lusitania,

fearing

that

the

knowledge

of

it

would

kill

him.

Instead,

it

was

the

ignorance

of

that

very

information

that

led

him

to

his

death.

What

she

did

for

his

own

good,

without

his

knowledge,

killed

him.

You'd

think

she'd

learn

something

from

that,

thought

Ender.

But

she

still

does

the

same

thing.

Making

decisions

that

deform

other

people's

lives,

without

consulting

them,

without

ever

conceiving

that

perhaps

they

don't

want

her

to

save

them

from

whatever

supposed

misery

she's

saving

them

from.

Then

again,