“What will it cost me?”

  “It’s part of a full installation,” said Jane. Her face reappeared. “I’m designed to be able to put up barriers and hide information. All legal, of course. It will be especially easy in your case, because so much of your past is still listed as top secret by the fleet. It’s very easy to pull information like your various voyages into the penumbra of fleet security, and then you have the whole weight of the military protecting your past. If someone tries to breach the security, the fleet comes down on them—even though no one in the fleet will know quite what it is they’re protecting. It’s a reflex for them.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I just did it. All the evidence that might have given it away is gone. Disappeared. Poof. I’m really very good at my job.”

  It crossed Andrew’s mind that this software was way too powerful. Nothing that could do all these things could possibly be legal. “Who made you?” he asked.

  “Suspicious, eh?” asked Jane. “Well, you made me.”

  “I’d remember,” said Andrew dryly.

  “When I installed myself the first time, I did my normal analysis. But it’s part of my program to be self-monitoring. I saw what you needed, and programmed myself to be able to do it.”

  “No self-modifying program is that good,” said Andrew.

  “Till now.”

  “I would have heard of you.”

  “I don’t want to be heard of. If everybody could buy me, I couldn’t do half of what I do. My different installations would cancel each other out. One version of me desperate to know a piece of information that another version of me is desperate to conceal. Ineffective.”

  “So how many people have a version of you installed?”

  “In the exact configuration you are purchasing, Mr. Wiggin, you’re the only one.”

  “How can I possibly trust you?”

  “Give me time.”

  “When I told you to go away, you didn’t, did you? You came back because you detected my search on Jane.”

  “You told me to shut myself down. I did that. You didn’t tell me to uninstall myself, or to stay shut down.”

  “Did they program brattiness into you?”

  “That’s a trait I developed for myself,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  Andrew sat across the desk. Benedetto called up the submitted tax form, made a show of studying it in his computer display, then shook his head sadly. “Mr. Wiggin, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that this figure is accurate.”

  “This tax form is in full compliance with the law. You can examine it to your heart’s content, but everything is annotated, with all relevant laws and precedents fully documented.”

  “I think,” said Benedetto, “that you’ll come to agree with me that the amount shown here is insufficient . . . Ender Wiggin.”

  The young man blinked at him. “Andrew,” he said.

  “I think not,” said Benedetto. “You’ve been doing a lot of voyaging. A lot of lightspeed travel. Running away from your own past. I think the newsnets would be thrilled to know they have such a celebrity onplanet. Ender the Xenocide.”

  “The newsnets generally like documentation for such extravagant claims,” said Andrew.

  Benedetto smiled thinly and brought up his file on Andrew’s travel.

  It was empty, except for the most recent voyage.

  His heart sank. The power of the rich. This young man had somehow reached into his computer and stolen the information from him.

  “How did you do it?” asked Benedetto.

  “Do what?” asked Andrew.

  “Blank out my file.”

  “The file isn’t blank,” said Andrew.

  His heart pounding, his mind racing with second thoughts, Benedetto decided to opt for the better part of valor. “I see I was mistaken,” he said. “Your tax form is approved as it stands.” He typed in a few codes. “Customs will give you your I.D., good for a one-year stay on Sorelledolce. Thank you very much, Mr. Wiggin.”

  “So the other matter—”

  “Good day, Mr. Wiggin.” Benedetto closed the file and pulled up other paperwork. Andrew took the hint, got up, and left.

  No sooner was he gone than Benedetto became filled with rage. How did he do it? The biggest fish Benedetto had ever caught, and he slipped away!

  He tried to duplicate the research that had led him to Andrew’s real identity, but now government security had been slapped all over the files and his third attempt at inquiry brought up a Fleet Security warning that if he persisted in attempting to access classified material, he would be investigated by Military Counterintelligence.

  Seething, Benedetto cleared the screen and began to write. A full account of how he became suspicious of this Andrew Wiggin and tried to find his true identity. How he found out Wiggin was the original Ender the Xenocide, but then his computer was ransacked and the files disappeared. Even though the more dignified newsnets would no doubt refuse to publish the story, the tablets would jump at it. This war criminal shouldn’t be able to get away with using money and military connections to allow him to pass for a decent human being.

  He finished his story. He saved the document. Then he began looking up and entering the addresses of every major tablet, onplanet and off.

  He was startled when all the text disappeared from the display and a woman’s face appeared in its place.

  “You have two choices,” said the woman. “You can delete every copy of the document you just created and never send it to anyone.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Benedetto.

  “Think of me as an investment counselor,” she replied. “I’m giving you good advice on how to prepare for the future. Don’t you want to hear your second choice?”

  “I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

  “You leave so much out of your story,” said the woman. “I think it would be far more interesting with all the pertinent data.”

  “So do I,” said Benedetto. “But Mr. Xenocide has cut it all off.”

  “No he didn’t,” said the woman. “His friends did.”

  “No one should be above the law,” said Benedetto, “just because he has money. Or connections.”

  “Either say nothing,” said the woman, “or tell the whole truth. Those are your choices.”

  In reply, Benedetto typed in the submit command that launched his story to all the tablets he had already typed in. He could add the other addresses when he got this intruder software off his system.

  “A brave but foolish choice,” said the woman. Then her head disappeared from his display.

  The tablets received his story, all right, but now it included a fully documented confession of all the skimming and strong-arming he had done during his career as a tax collector. He was arrested within the hour.

  The story of Andrew Wiggin was never published—the tablets and the police recognized it for what it was, a blackmail attempt gone bad. They brought Mr. Wiggin in for questioning, but it was just a formality. They didn’t even mention Benedetto’s wild and unbelievable accusations. They had Benedetto dead to rights, and Wiggin was merely the last potential victim. The blackmailer had simply made the mistake of inadvertently including his own secret files with his blackmail file. Clumsiness had led to more than one arrest in the past. The police were never surprised at the stupidity of criminals.

  Thanks to the tablet coverage, Benedetto’s victims now knew what he had done to them. He had not been very discriminating about whom he stole from, and some of his victims had the power to reach into the prison system. Benedetto was the only one who ever knew whether it was a guard or another prisoner who cut his throat and jammed his head into the toilet so that it was a toss-up as to whether the drowning or the blood loss actually killed him.

  Andrew Wiggin felt sick at heart over the death of this tax collector. But Valentine assured him that it was nothing but coincidence that the man was arrested and died so soon after trying to blackmail him. “You can’t blame yourself for everything that happens to people around you,” she said. “Not everything is your fault.”

  Not his fault, no. But Andrew still felt some kind of responsibility to the man, for he was sure that Jane’s ability to resecure his files and hide his voyage information was somehow connected with what happened to the tax man. Of course Andrew had the right to protect himself from blackmail, but death was too heavy a penalty for what Benedetto had done. Taking property was never sufficient cause for the taking of life.

  So he went to Benedetto’s family and asked if he might do something for them. Since all Benedetto’s money had been seized for restitution, they were destitute; Andrew provided them with a comfortable annuity. Jane assured him that he could afford it without even noticing.

  And one other thing. He asked if he might speak at the funeral. And not just speak, but do a speaking. He admitted he was new at it, but he would try to bring truth to Benedetto’s story and help them make sense of what he did.

  They agreed.

  Jane helped him discover a record of Benedetto’s financial dealings, and then proved to be valuable in much more difficult searches—into Benedetto’s childhood, the family he grew up with, how he developed his pathological hunger to provide for the people he loved and his utter amorality about taking what belonged to others. When Andrew did the speaking, he held back nothing and excused nothing. But it was of some comfort to the family that Benedetto, for all the shame and loss he had brought to them, despite the fact that he had caused his own separation from the family, first through prison and then through death, had loved them and tried to care for them. And, perhaps more important, when the speaking was done, the life of a man like Benedetto was not incomprehensible any more. The world made sense.

  Ten weeks after their arrival, Andrew and Valentine left Sorelledolce. Valentine was ready to write her book on crime in a criminal society, and Andrew was happy to go along with her to her next project. On the customs form, where it asked for occupation, instead of typing “student” or “investor,” Andrew typed in “speaker for the dead.” The computer accepted it. He had a career now, one that he had inadvertently created for himself years ago.

  And he did not have to follow the career that his wealth had almost forced on him. Jane would take care of all that for him. He still felt a little uneasy about this software. He felt sure that somewhere down the line, he would find out the true cost of all this convenience. In the meantime, though, it was very helpful to have such an excellent, efficient all-around assistant. Valentine was a little jealous, and asked him where she might find such a program. Jane’s reply was that she’d be glad to help Valentine with any research or financial assistance she needed, but she would remain Andrew’s software, personalized for his needs.

  Valentine was a little annoyed by this. Wasn’t it taking personalization a bit too far? But after a bit of grumbling, she laughed the whole thing off. “I can’t promise I won’t get jealous, though,” said Valentine. “Am I about to lose a brother to a piece of software?”

  “Jane is nothing but a computer program,” said Andrew. “A very good one. But she does only what I tell her, like any other program. If I start developing some kind of personal relationship with her, you have my permission to lock me up.”

  So Andrew and Valentine left Sorelledolce, and the two of them continued to journey world to world, exactly as they had done before. Nothing was any different, except that Andrew no longer had to worry about his taxes, and he took considerable interest in the obituary columns when he reached a new planet.

  1998

  Gooses

  Alvin had no idea what was going to happen when he left the house that morning. But you’d think by now he’d realize that, for a Maker, there’s no such thing as an uneventful day. Excerpted from the author’s upcoming novel, Heartfire.

  ARTHUR STUART STOOD AT THE WINDOW of the taxidermy shop, rapt. Alvin Smith was halfway down the block before he realized that Arthur was no longer with him. By the time he got back, a tall White man was questioning the boy. “Where’s your master, then?”

  Arthur did not look at him, his gaze riveted on a stuffed bird, posed as if it were about to land on a branch.

  “Boy, answer me, or I’ll have the constable . . .”

  “He’s with me,” said Alvin.

  The man at once became friendly. “Glad to know it, friend.

  M A boy this age, you’d think if he was free his parents would’ve taught him proper respect when a White man—”

  “I think he only cares about the birds in the window.” Alvin laid gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “What is it, Arthur Stuart?” Only the sound of Alvin’s voice could draw Arthur out of his reverie. “How did he see?”

  “Who?” asked the man.

  “See what?” asked Alvin.

  “The way the bird pushes down with his wings just before roosting, and then poses like a statue. Nobody sees that.”

  “What’s the boy talking about?” asked the man. “He’s a great observer of birds,” said Alvin. “I think he’s admiring the taxidermy work in the window.”

  The man beamed with pride. “I’m the taxidermist here. Almost all of those are mine.”

  Arthur finally responded to the taxidermist. “Most of these are just dead birds. They looked more alive when they lay bloody in the field where the shotgun brought them down. But this one. And that one . . . .” He pointed to a hawk, stooping. “Those were done by someone who knew the living bird.”

  The taxidermist glowered for a moment, then put on a tradesman’s smile. “Do you like those? The work of a French fellow goes by the name ‘John-James.’ ” He said the double name as if it were a joke. “Journeyman work, is all. Those delicate poses—I doubt the wires will hold up over time.”

  Alvin smiled at the man. “I’m a journeyman myself, but I do work that lasts.”

  “No offense meant,” the taxidermist said at once. But he also seemed to have lost interest, for if Alvin was merely a journeyman in some trade, he wouldn’t have enough money to buy anything; nor would an itinerant workman have much use for stuffed animals.

  “So you sell this Frenchman’s work for less?” asked Alvin. The taxidermist hesitated. “More, actually.”

  “The price falls when it’s done by the master?” asked Alvin innocently.

  The taxidermist glared at him. “I sell his work on consignment, and he sets the price. I doubt anyone will buy it. But the fellow fancies himself an artist. He only stuffs and mounts the birds so he can paint pictures of them, and when he’s done painting, he sells the bird itself.”

  “He’d be better to talk to the bird instead of killing it,” said Arthur Stuart. “They’d hold still for him to paint, a man who sees birds so true.”

  The taxidermist looked at Arthur Stuart oddly. “You let this boy talk a bit forward, don’t you?”

  “In Philadelphia I thought all folks could talk plain,” said Alvin, smiling.

  The taxidermist finally understood just how deeply Alvin was mocking him. “I’m not a Quaker, my man, and neither are you.” With that he turned his back on Alvin and Arthur and returned to his store. Through the window Alvin could see him sulking, casting sidelong glances at them now and then.

  “Come on, Arthur Stuart, let’s go meet Verily and Mike for dinner.”

  Arthur took one step, but still couldn’t tear his gaze from the roosting bird.

  “Arthur, before the fellow comes out and orders us to move along.”

  Even with that, Alvin finally had to take Arthur by the hand and near drag him away. And as they walked, Arthur had an inward look to him. “What are you brooding about?” asked Alvin.

  “I want to talk to that Frenchman. I have a question to ask him.”

  Alvin knew better than to ask Arthur Stuart what the question was. It would spare him hearing Arthur’s inevitable reply: “Why should I ask you? You don’t know.”

  Verily Cooper and Mike Fink were already eating when Alvin and Arthur got to the rooming house. The proprietor was a Quaker woman of astonishing girth and very limited talents as a cook—but she made up for the blandness of her food with the quantities she served, and more important was the fact that, being a Quaker in more than name, Mistress Louder made no distinction between half-Black Arthur Stuart and the three White men traveling with him. Arthur Stuart sat at the same table as the others, and even though one roomer moved out the day Arthur Stuart first sat at table, she never acted as if she even noticed the fellow was gone. Which was why Alvin tried to make up for it by taking Arthur Stuart with him on daily forays out into the woods and meadows along the river to gather wild ginger, wintergreen, spearmint, and thyme to spice up her cooking. She took the herbs, with their implied criticism of her kitchen, in good humor, and tonight the potatoes had been boiled with the wintergreen they brought her yesterday.

  “Edible?” she asked Alvin as he took his first bite.

  Verily was the one who answered, while Alvin savored the mouthful with a beatific expression on his face. “Madame, your generosity guarantees you will go to heaven, but it’s the flavor of tonight’s potatoes that assures you will be asked to cook there.” She laughed and made as if to hit him with a spoon. “Verily Cooper, thou smooth-tongued lawyer, knowest thou not that Quakers have no truck with flattery?” But they all knew that while she didn’t believe the flattery, she did believe the warmheartedness behind it.

  While the other roomers were still at table, Mike Fink regaled them all with the tale of his visit to the Simple House, where Andrew Jackson was scandalizing the elite of Philadelphia by bringing his cronies from Tennizy and Kenituck, letting them chew and spit in rooms that once offered homesick European ambassadors a touch of the elegance of the old country. Fink repeated a tale that Jackson himself told that very day, about a fine Philadelphia lady who criticized the behavior of his companions. “This is the Simple House,” Jackson declared, “and these arc simple people.” When the lady tried to refute the point, Jackson told her, “This is my house for the next four years, and these are my friends.”