Oh, he’d never admit that, thought Valentine. Peter will have all kinds of reasons why it’s for Ender’s own good. Probably the very reasons I’ve thought of.

  And since that’s the case, am I doing just what Peter does? Have I come up with all these reasons for Ender not to come home, solely because in my heart I don’t want him here?

  At that thought, such a wave of emotion swept over her that she found herself weeping at her homework table. She wanted him home. And even though she understood that he couldn’t really come home—Colonel Graff was right—she still yearned for the little brother who was stolen from her. All these years with the brother I hate, and now, for the sake of the brother I love, I’ll work to keep him from . . .

  From me? No, I don’t have to keep him from me. I hate school, I hate my life here, I hate hate hate being under Peter’s thumb. Why should I stay? Why shouldn’t I go out into space with Ender? At least for a while. I’m the one he’s closest to. I’m the only one he’s seen in the past seven years. If he can’t come home, one bit of home—me—can come to him!

  It was all a matter of persuading Peter that it wasn’t in his best interest to have Ender come back to Earth—without letting Peter know that she was trying to manipulate him.

  It just made her tired, because Peter wasn’t easy to manipulate. He saw through everything. So she had to be quite forthright and honest about what she was doing—but do it with such subtle overtones of humility and earnestness and dispassion and whatever that Peter could get past his own condescension toward everything she said and decide that he had thought that way all along and . . .

  And is my real motive that I want to get off planet myself? Is this about Ender or about me getting free?

  Both. It can be both. And I’ll tell Ender the truth about that—I won’t be giving up anything to be with him. I’d rather be with him in space and never see Earth again than stay here, with or without him. Without him: an aching void. With him: the pain of watching him lead a miserable, frustrated life.

  Val began to write a letter to Colonel Graff. Mother had been careless enough to include Graff’s address. That was almost a security breach. Mother was so naive sometimes. If she were an IF officer, she would have been cashiered long ago.

  At dinner that night, Mother couldn’t stop talking about Ender’s homecoming. Peter listened with only half his attention, because of course Mother couldn’t see past her personal sentimentality about her “lost little boy coming back to the nest” whereas Peter understood that Ender’s return would be horribly complicated. So much to prepare for—and not just the stupid bedroom. Ender could have Peter’s own bed, for all he cared—what mattered was that for a brief window of time, Ender would be the center of the world’s attention, and that was when Locke would emerge from the cloak of anonymity and put an end to the speculation about the identity of the “great benefactor of humanity who, because of his modesty in remaining anonymous, cannot receive the Nobel prize that he so richly deserves for having led us to the end of the last war of mankind.”

  That from a rather gushy fan of Locke’s—who also happened to be the head of the opposition party in Great Britain. Naive to imagine even for a moment that the brief attempt by the New Warsaw Pact to take over the IF was the “last war.” There’s only one way to have a “last war,” and that’s to have the whole of Earth under a single, effective, powerful, but popular leader.

  And the way to introduce that leader would be to find him on camera, standing beside the great Ender Wiggin with his arm flung across the hero’s shoulders because—and who should be surprised by this?—the “Boy of War” and the “Man of Peace” are brothers!

  And now Father was blathering about something. Only he had addressed something to Peter directly and so Peter had to play the dutiful son and listen as if he cared.

  “I really think you need to commit to the career you want to pursue before your brother gets home, Peter.”

  “And why is that?” asked Peter.

  “Oh, don’t pretend to be so naive. Don’t you realize that Ender Wiggin’s brother can get into any college he wants?”

  Father pronounced the words as if they were the most brilliant ever spoken aloud by someone who had not yet been deified by the Roman senate or sainted by the Pope or whatever. It would never occur to Father that Peter’s perfect grades and his perfect score on all the college-entry tests would already get him into any school he wanted. He didn’t have to piggyback on his brother’s fame. But no, to Father everything good in Peter’s life would always be seen as flowing from Ender. Ender Ender Ender Ender what a stupid name.

  If Father’s thinking this way, no doubt everybody else will, too. At least everybody below a certain minimum intelligence.

  All Peter had been seeing was the publicity bonus that Ender’s homecoming would offer. But Father had reminded him of something else—that everything he did would be discounted in people’s minds precisely because he was Ender the Great’s older brother. People would see them standing side by side, yes—but they’d wonder why Ender’s brother had not been taken into Battle School. It would make Peter look weak and inferior and vulnerable.

  There he’d stand, noticeably taller, the brother who stayed home and didn’t do anything. “Oh, but I wrote all the Locke essays and shut down the conflict with Russia before it could turn into a world war!” Well, if you’re so smart, why weren’t you helping your little brother save the human race from complete destruction?

  Public relations opportunity, yes. But also a nightmare.

  How could he use the opportunity Ender’s great victory offered, yet not have it look like he was nothing but a hanger on, sucking at his brother’s fame like a remora? How ghastly if his announcement sounded like some sad kind of me-too-ism. Oh, you think my brother’s cool? Well, I’ll have you know that I saved the world too. In my own sad, needy little way.

  “Are you all right, Peter?” asked Valentine.

  “Oh, is something wrong?” asked Mother. “Let me look at you, dear.”

  “I’m not taking my shirt off or letting you use a rectal thermometer on me, Mother, because Val is hallucinating and I look just fine.

  “I’ll have you know that if and when I start hallucinating,” said Val, “I can think of something better that seeing your face looking pukish.”

  “What a great commercial idea,” said Peter, almost by reflex now. “Choose Your Own Hallucination! Oh, wait, they have that one—they call it ‘illegal drugs.’ ”

  “Don’t sneer at us needy ones,” said Val. “Those who are addicted to ego don’t need drugs.”

  “Children,” said Mother. “Is this what Ender will find when he comes home?”

  “Yes,” said Val and Peter simultaneously.

  Father spoke up. “I’d like to think he might find you a bit more mature.”

  But by now Peter and Val were laughing uproariously. They couldn’t stop, so Father sent them from the table.

  Peter glanced through Val’s essay on Russian nukes. “This is so boring.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Valentine. “They have the nukes and that keeps other countries from slapping them down when they need it—which is often.”

  “What’s this thing you’ve got against Russia?”

  “It’s Demosthenes who has something against Russia,” said Val with fake nonchalance.

  “Good,” said Peter. “So Demosthenes will not be worried about Russian nuclear weapons, he’ll be worried about Russia getting its hands on the most valuable weapon of them all.”

  “The Molecular Disruption Device?” asked Val. “The IF will never bring it within firing range of earth.”

  “Not the M.D. Device, you poor sap. I’m referring to our brother. Our civilization-destroying junior sib.”

  “Don’t you dare talk about him so mockingly!”

  Peter’s expression turned into a mocking simper. But behind his visage there was anger and hurt. She still had the power to get to him, just by making it clear how much more she loved Ender.

  “Demosthenes is going to write an essay pointing out that America must get Andrew Wiggin back to Earth immediately. No more delays. The world is too dangerous a place for America not to have the immediate services of the greatest military leader the world has ever known.”

  Immediately a fresh wave of hatred for Peter swept over Valentine. Partly because she realized his approach would work far better than the essay she had already written. She hadn’t internalized Demosthenes as well as she thought. Demosthenes would absolutely call for Ender’s immediate return and enlistment in the American military.

  And that would be as destabilizing, in its own way, as a call for forward deployment of nukes. Demosthenes’ essays were watched very carefully by the rivals and enemies of the United States. If he called for Ender to come home at once, they would all start maneuvering to keep Ender in space; and some, at least, would openly accuse America of having aggressive intentions.

  It would then be Locke’s place, in a few days or weeks, to come up with a compromise, a statesmanlike solution: Leave the kid in space.

  Valentine knew exactly why Peter had changed his mind. It was that stupid remark of Father’s at dinner—his reminder that Peter would be in Ender’s shadow, no matter what he did.

  Well, even political sheep sometimes said something that had a good result. Now Val wouldn’t even have to persuade Peter of the need to keep Ender away from Earth. It would be all his idea instead of hers.

  Theresa once again sat on the bed, crying. Strewn about her were printouts of the Demosthenes and Locke essays that she knew would keep Ender from returning home.

  “I can’t help it,” she said to her husband. “I know it’s the right thing—just as Graff wanted us to understand it. But I thought I’d see him again. I really did.”

  John Paul sat beside her on the bed and put his arms around her. “It’s the hardest thing we ever did.”

  “Not giving him up in the first place?”

  “That was hard,” said John Paul, “but we didn’t have a choice. They were going to take him anyway. This time, though. You know that if we went on the nets and put up vids of us pleading for our son to come home—we’d have a pretty good chance.”

  “And our little boy is going to wonder why we don’t do it.”

  “Not he’s not.”

  “Oh, you think he’s so smart he’ll figure out what we’re doing? Why we’re doing nothing?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Because he doesn’t know us,” said Theresa. “He doesn’t know what we think or feel. As far as he can tell, we’ve forgotten all about him.”

  “One thing I feel good about, in this whole mess,” said John Paul. “We’re still good at manipulating our genius children.”

  “Oh, that,” said Theresa dismissively. “It’s easy to manipulate your children when they’re absolutely sure you’re stupid.”

  To: hgraff%educadmin@ifcom.gov

  From: demosthenes@LastBestHopeOfEarth.pol

  Re: You know the truth

  You know who decides what to write. No doubt you can even guess why. I’m not going to try to defend my essay, or how it’s being used by others.

  You once used the sister of Andrew Wiggin to persuade him to go back into space and win that little war you were fighting. She did her job, didn’t she? Such a good girl, fulfills all her assignments.

  Well I have an assignment for her. You once sent her brother to her, for comfort and company. He’ll need her again, more than ever, only he can’t come to her. No house by the lake this time. But there’s no reason she can’t go out into space to be with him. Enlist her in the IF, pay her as a consultant, whatever it takes. But she and her brother need each other. More than either of them needs Life On Earth.

  Don’t second guess her on this. Remember that she’s smarter than you are, and she loves her younger brother more than you do, and besides, you’re a decent man. You know this is right and good. You always try to bring about what’s right and good, don’t you?

  Do us both a favor. Take this letter and shred it and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

  Your devoted and humble servant—everybody’s devoted and humble servant—the humble and devoted servant of truth and noble jingoism—Demosthenes.

  Geriatric Ward

  Sandy started babbling on Tuesday morning and Todd knew it was the end.

  “They took Poogy and Gog away from me,” Sandy said sadly, her hand trembling, spilling coffee on the toast.

  “What?” Todd mumbled.

  “And never brought them back. Just took them. I looked all over.”

  “Looked for what?”

  “Poogy,” Sandy said, thrusting out her lower lip. The skin of her cheeks was sagging down to form jowls. Her hair was thin and fine, now, though she kept it dyed dark brown. “And Gog.”

  “What the hell are Poogy and Gog?” Todd asked.

  “You took them,” Sandy said. She started to cry. She kicked the table leg. Todd got up from the table and went to work.

  The university was empty. Sunday. Damn Sunday, never anyone there to help with the work on Sunday. Waste too much damn time looking up things that students should be sent to find out.

  He went to the lab. Ryan was there. They looked over the computer readouts. “Blood,” said Ryan, “just plain ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  “Not one thing,” Todd said.

  “Plenty of tests left to run.”

  “No tests left to run except the viral microscopy, and that’s next week.”

  Ryan smiled. “Well, then, the problem must be viral.”

  “You know damn well the problem isn’t viral.”

  Ryan looked at him sharply, his long grey hair tossing in the opposite direction. “What is it then? Sunspots? Aliens from outer space? God’s punishment? The Jews? Yellow Peril?”

  Todd didn’t answer. Just settled down to doublechecking the figures. Outside he heard the Sunday parade. Pentecostal. Jesus Will Save You, Brother, When You Go Without Your Sins. How could he concentrate?

  “What’s wrong?” Ryan asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Todd answered. Nothing. Sweet Jesus, you old man, if I could live to thirty-three I’d let them hang my corpse from any cross they wanted. If I could live to thirty.

  Twenty-four. Birthday June 28. They used to celebrate birthdays. Now everyone tried to keep it secret. Not Todd, though. Not well-adjusted Todd. Even had a few friends over, they drank to his health. His hands shook at night now, like palsy, like fear, and his teeth were rotting in his mouth. He looked down at the paper where his hands were following the lines. The numbers blurred. Have to have new glasses again, second time this year. The veins on his hands stuck out blue and evil-looking.

  And Sandy was over the edge today.

  She was only twenty-two; it hit the women first. He had met her just before college, they had married, had nine children in nine years—duty to the race. It must be child-bearing that made the women get it sooner. But the race had to go on.

  Somehow. And now their older children were grown up, having children of their own. Miracles of modern medicine. We don’t know why you get old so young, and we can’t cure it, but in the meantime we can give you a little more adulthood—accelerated development, six-month gestation, puberty at nine, not a disease left you could catch except the one. But the one was enough. Not as large as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve.

  His chin quivered and tears dropped down wrinkled cheeks onto the page.

  “What is it?” Ryan asked, concerned. Todd shook his head. He didn’t need comfort, not from a novice of eighteen, only two years out of college.

  “What is it?” Ryan persisted.

  “It’s tears,” Todd answered. “A salty fluid produced by a gland near the eye, used for lubrication. Also serves double-duty as a signal to other people that stress cannot be privately coped with.”

  “So don’t cope privately. What is it?”

  Todd got up and left the room. He went to his office and called the medical center.

  “Psychiatric,” he said to the moronic voice that answered.

  Psychiatric was busy. He called again and got through. Dr. Lassiter was in.

  “Todd,” Lassiter said.

  “Val,” Todd answered. “Got a problem.”

  “Can it wait? Busy day.”

  “Can’t wait. It’s Sandy. She started babbling today.”

  “Ah,” said Val. “I’m sorry. Is it bad?”

  “She remembers her separation therapy. Like it was yesterday.”

  “That’s it then, Todd,” Val said. “I’m really sorry. Sandy’s a wonderful woman, good researcher, but there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be able to see signs before she reaches this stage?”

  “Usually,” Val answered, “but not always. Think back, though. I’m sure you’ll remember signs.”

  Todd swallowed. “Have you got a space, Val? You knew Sandy back in the old days, back when we were kids in the—”

  “Is this pressure, Todd?” Val asked abruptly. “Appeal to friendship? Don’t you know the law?”

  “I know the law, dammit, I’m asking you, one medical researcher to another, is there room?”

  “There’s room, Todd,” Val answered, “for the treatables. But if she’s reverted to separation therapy, then what can I do? It’s a matter of weeks. For your own safety you have to turn her over, never know what’s going to happen during the final senility, you know. Hallucinations. Sometimes violence. There’s still strength in the old bones.”

  “She’s committed no crime.”

  “It’s also the law,” Val reminded him. “Good-bye.”

  Todd hung up the phone. Turn her over? He’d never thought it would come to Sandy so suddenly. He couldn’t just turn her over, she’d hate him, she had enough of herself left in herself to know what was going on. They’d been married thirteen years.

  He went back to Ryan in the lab and told him to put the computers on the viral microscopy tomorrow.