Zeck turned a blank face toward him.

  “You did this,” said Dink softly.

  “I’m a Christian. I don’t tell Muslims when to pray.” Zeck regretted speaking as soon as he finished. He should have remained silent.

  “You’re not a good liar, Zeck,” said Dink. And now he was talking loud enough that the rest of the table could hear. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s one of your best points—you’re used to telling the truth, so you never learned the skill of telling lies.”

  “I don’t lie,” said Zeck.

  “Your words were literally true, I’m sure. Our Muslim friends did not consult you on the timetable. But as an answer to my accusation that you did this, it was such a pathetically obvious lie. A dodge. If you really had nothing to do with it, you wouldn’t have needed a dodge. You answered like someone with something to hide.”

  This time Zeck said nothing.

  “You think this will help your chances of getting out of Battle School. Maybe you even think it will disrupt Battle School and hurt the war effort—which makes you a traitor, from one point of view, or a hero of Christianity, from another. But you won’t stop this war, and you won’t hurt Battle School in the long run. You want to know what you really accomplished? Someday this war will end. If we win, then we’ll all go home. The kids in this school are the brightest military minds of our generation. They’ll be running things in country after country. Ahmed—someday he’ll be Pakistan. And you just guaranteed that he will hate the idea of trying to live with non-Muslims in peace. In other words, you just started a war thirty or forty years from now.”

  “Or ten,” said Wiggin.

  “Ahmed will still be pretty young in ten years,” said Flip, chuckling a little.

  Zeck hadn’t thought of what this might lead to back on Earth. But what did Dink know? He couldn’t predict the future. “I didn’t start promoting Santa Claus,” said Zeck, meeting Dink’s gaze.

  “No, you just reported a little private joke between two Dutch kids and made a big deal out of it,” said Dink.

  “You made a big deal out of it,” said Zeck. “You made it into a cause. You.”

  Zeck waited.

  Dink sighed. “É. I did.” He got up from the table.

  So did everyone else.

  Zeck started to get up too.

  Two hands on his shoulders pushed him back down. Hands from two different kids from Rat Army. They weren’t rough. They were just firm. Stay here for a while. You’re not one of us. Don’t come with us.

  * * *

  The Santa Claus thing was over. Dink didn’t imagine that he controlled it any more—it had grown way past him now. But when the Muslim kids were arrested in the mess hall, it stopped being a game. It stopped being just a way to tweak the nose of authority. There were real consequences, and as Zeck had pointed out, they were more Dink’s fault than anyone else’s.

  So Dink asked all his friends to ask everybody they knew to stop doing the stocking thing. To stop giving gifts that had anything to do with Santa Claus.

  And, within a day, it stopped.

  He thought that would be the end of it.

  But it wasn’t the end. Because of Zeck.

  Nothing Zeck did, of course. Zeck was Zeck, completely unchanged. Zeck didn’t do anything in practice except fly around, and he didn’t do anything in battle except take up space. But he went to class, he did his schoolwork, he turned in his assignments.

  And everybody ignored him. They always had. But not like this.

  Before, they had ignored him in a kind of tolerant, almost grudgingly respectful way: He’s an idiot, but at least he’s consistent.

  Now they ignored him in a pointed way. They didn’t even bother teasing him or jostling him. He just didn’t exist. If he tried to speak to anybody, they turned away. Dink saw it, and it made him feel bad. But Zeck had brought it on himself. It’s one thing to be an outsider because you’re different. It’s another thing to get other people in trouble for your own selfish reasons. And that’s what Zeck had done. He didn’t care about the no-religion rule—he violated it all the time himself. He just used Dink’s Sinterklaas present to Flip as a means of making a lame point with the commandant.

  So I was childish too, thought Dink. I knew when to stop. He didn’t.

  Not my fault.

  And yet Dink couldn’t stop observing him. Just glances. Just . . . noticing. He had read a little bit about primate behavior, as part of the theory of group loyalties. He knew how chimps and baboons that were shut out of their troop behaved, what happened to them. Depression. Self-destruction. Before, Zeck had seemed to thrive on isolation. Now that the isolation was complete, he wasn’t thriving anymore.

  He looked drawn. He would start walking in some direction and then just stop. Then go again, but slowly. He didn’t eat much. Things weren’t going well for him.

  And if there was one thing Dink knew, it was that the counselors and teachers weren’t worth a bucket of hog snot when it came to actually helping a kid with real problems. They had their agenda—what they wanted to make each kid do. But if it was clear the kid wouldn’t do it, then they lost interest. The way they had lost interest in Dink. Even if Zeck asked for help, they wouldn’t give it. And Zeck wouldn’t ask.

  Despite knowing how futile it was, Dink tried anyway. He went to Graff and tried to explain what was happening to Zeck.

  “Interesting theory,” said Graff. “He’s being shunned, you think.”

  “I know.”

  “But not by you?”

  “I’ve tried to talk to him a couple of times, he shuts me out.”

  “So he’s shunning you.”

  “But everybody else is shunning him.”

  “Dink,” said Graff, “ego te absolvo.”

  “Whatever you might think,” said Dink, “that wasn’t Dutch.”

  “It was Latin. From the Catholic confessional. I absolve you of your sin.”

  “I’m not Catholic.”

  “I’m not a priest.”

  “You don’t have the power to absolve anybody from anything.”

  “But it was worth a try. Go back to your barracks, Dink. Zeck is not your problem.”

  “Why don’t you just send him back home?” asked Dink. “He’s never going to be anything in this army. He’s a Christian, not a soldier. Why can’t you let him go home and be a Christian?”

  Graff leaned back in his chair.

  “OK, I know what you’re going to say,” said Dink.

  “You do?”

  “The same thing everybody always says. If I let him do it, then I have to let everybody else do it.”

  “Really?”

  “If Zeck’s noncompliance or whatever it is gets him sent home, then pretty soon you’ll have a lot more kids being noncompliant. So they can go home, too.”

  “Would you be one of those?” asked Graff.

  “I think your school is a waste of time,” said Dink. “But I believe in the war. I’m not a pacifist, I’m just anti-incompetence.”

  “But you see, I wasn’t going to make that argument,” said Graff. “Because I already know the answer. If the only way a kid can go home is acting like Zeck and being treated like Zeck, there’s not a kid in this school who’d do it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “But I do,” said Graff. “Remember, you were all tested and observed. Not just for logic, memory, spatial relationships, verbal ability, but also character attributes. Quick decision-making. Ability to grasp the whole of a situation. The ability to get along well with other people.”

  “So how the hell did Zeck get here in the first place?”

  “Zeck is brilliant at getting along with people,” said Graff. “When he wants to.”

  Dink didn’t believe it.

  “Zeck can handle even megalomaniacal sociopaths and keep them from harming other people. He’s a natural peacemaker in a human community, Dink. It’s his best gift.”

  “That’s just kuso,” said Dink. “Everybody hated him right from the start.”

  “Because he wanted you to. He’s getting exactly what he wants, right now. Including you coming here to talk to me. All exactly what he wants.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Dink.

  “That’s because you don’t know the thing that I was debating with myself about telling you.”

  “So tell me.”

  “No,” said Graff. “The side arguing for discretion won, and I won’t tell.”

  Dink ignored the obfuscation. Graff wanted him to beg. Instead, Dink thought about what Graff had said about Zeck’s abilities. Had Zeck somehow been playing him? Him and everybody else?

  “Why?” asked Dink. “Why would he deliberately alienate everybody?”

  “Because nobody hated him enough,” said Graff. “He needed to be so hated that we gave up on him and sent him home.”

  “I think you give him credit for more plans than he actually has,” said Dink. “He didn’t know what would happen.”

  “I didn’t say his plan was conscious. He just wants to go home. He believes he has to go home.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t trust you.”

  “If I say I won’t repeat a story, I won’t repeat it.”

  “Oh, I know you can be discreet. I just don’t think I can trust you to do the job that needs doing.”

  “And what job is that?”

  “Healing Zeck Morgan.”

  “I tried. He won’t let me near him.”

  “I know,” said Graff. “So the thing you want to know, I’m going to tell to someone else. Someone who is also discreet. Someone who can heal him.”

  Dink thought about that for a few moments.

  “Ender Wiggin.”

  “That’s your nominee?” asked Graff.

  “No,” said Dink. “He’s yours. You think he can do anything.”

  Graff smiled a little Mona Lisa smile, if Mona Lisa had been a pudgy colonel.

  “I hope he can,” said Dink. “Should I send him to you?”

  “I’ll bet you,” said Graff, “that Ender never needs to come to me at all.”

  “He’ll just know what to do without being told.”

  “He’ll act like Ender Wiggin, and in the process he’ll find out what he needs to know from Zeck himself.”

  “Wiggin doesn’t talk to Zeck either.”

  “You mean that you haven’t seen him talk to Zeck.”

  Dink nodded. “OK, that’s what I mean.”

  “Give him time,” said Graff.

  Dink got up from his chair.

  “I haven’t dismissed you, soldier.”

  Dink stopped and saluted. “Permission to leave your office and return to my barracks to continue feeling like a complete shit, sir.”

  “Denied,” said Graff. “Oh, you can feel like whatever you want, that’s not my business. But your effort on behalf of Zeck has been duly noted.”

  “I didn’t come here for a commendation.”

  “And you’re not getting one. All you’re getting from this is my good opinion of your character. It’s not easily won, but once won, my good opinion is hard to lose. It’s a burden you’ll have to carry with you for some time. Learn to live with it. Now get out of here, soldier.”

  * * *

  Zeck came upon Wiggin at one of the elevator wells. It wasn’t one much used by students—it was out of the normal lanes of traffic, and mostly teachers used it, when it was used at all. Zeck used it precisely for that reason. He could wait in line at the busier elevators for a long time, but somehow he never got to the front of the line until everyone else had gone. That was usually fine with Zeck, but at mealtime, when everyone was headed for the same destination, it was the difference between a hot meal with a lot of choices and a colder one with almost no choices left.

  So there was Wiggin, sitting with his back to the wall, gripping his left leg so tightly that his head rested on his own knee. He was obviously in pain.

  Zeck almost walked past him. What did he owe any of these people?

  Then he remembered the Samaritan who stopped for the injured man—and the priest and the Levite who didn’t.

  “Something wrong?” asked Zeck.

  “Thinking about something and didn’t watch where I was stepping,” said Wiggin through gritted teeth.

  “Bruise? Broken skin?”

  “Twisted ankle,” said Wiggin.

  “Swollen?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Wiggin. “When I move it, it throbs.”

  “Bring your other leg up so I can compare ankles.”

  Wiggin did. Zeck pulled his shoes and socks off, despite the way Wiggin winced when he moved his left foot. The bare ankles looked exactly alike, as far as he could tell. “Doesn’t look swollen.”

  “Good,” said Wiggin. “Then I guess I’m OK.” He reached out and grabbed Zeck’s upper arm and began to pull himself up.

  “I’m not a firepole,” said Zeck. “Let me help you up instead of just grabbing my arm.”

  “Sure, sorry,” said Wiggin.

  In a moment, Wiggin was up and wincing as he tried to walk off the injury. “Owie owie owie,” he breathed, in a parody of a suffering toddler. Then he gave Zeck a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Zeck. “Now what did you want to talk to me about?”

  Wiggin smiled a little more broadly. “I don’t know,” he said. No attempt to deny that this whole thing had been staged to have an opportunity to talk. “I just know that whatever your plan is, it’s working too well or it isn’t working at all.”

  “I don’t have a plan,” said Zeck. “I just want to go home.”

  “We all want to go home,” said Wiggin. “But we also want other things. Honor. Victory. Save the world. Prove you can do something hard. You don’t care about anything except getting out of here, no matter what it costs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, why? And don’t tell me you’re homesick. We all cried for mommy and daddy our first few nights here, and then we stopped. If there’s anybody here tough enough to take a little homesickness, it’s you.”

  “So now you’re my counselor? Forget it, Wiggin.”

  “What are you afraid of?” asked Wiggin.

  “Nothing,” said Zeck.

  “Kuso,” said Wiggin.

  “Now I’m supposed to pour out my heart to you, is that it? Because you asked what I was afraid of, and that shows me how insightful you are, and I tell you all my deepest fears, and you make me feel better, and then we’re lifelong friends and I decide to become a good soldier to please you.”

  “You don’t eat,” said Wiggin. “Humans can’t live in the kind of isolation you’re living in. I think you’re going to die. If your body doesn’t die, your soul will.”

  “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but you don’t believe in souls.”

  “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious,” said Wiggin, “but you don’t know squat about what I believe. I have religious parents too.”

  “Having religious parents says nothing about what you believe.”

  “But nobody here is religious without religious parents,” said Wiggin. “Come on, how old were we when they took us? Six? Seven?”

  “I hear you were five.”

  “And now we’re so much older. You’re eight now?”

  “Almost nine.”

  “But we’re so mature.”

  “They picked us because we have a mental age much higher than the norm.”

  “I have religious parents,” said Wiggin. “Unfortunately not the same religion, which caused a little conflict. For instance, my mother doesn’t believe in infant baptism and my father does, so my father thinks I’m baptized and my mother doesn’t.”

  Zeck winced a little at the idea. “You can’t have a strong marriage when the parents don’t share the same faith.”

  “Well, my parents do their best,” said Wiggin. “And I bet your parents don’t agree on everything.”

  Zeck shrugged.

  “I bet they don’t agree on you.”

  Zeck turned away. “This is completely none of your business.”

  “I bet your mother was glad you went into space. To get you away from your father. That’s how much they disagree on religion.”

  Zeck turned around to face him, furious now. “What did those bunducks tell you about me? They have no right.”

  “Nobody told me anything,” said Wiggin. “It’s you, oomay. Back when people were still talking to you, when you first came into Rat Army, it was always, your father this, your father that.”

  “You only just joined Rat yourself.”

  “People talk outside their armies,” said Wiggin. “And I listen. Always your father. Like your father was some kind of prophet. And I thought, I bet his mother’s glad he isn’t under his father’s influence anymore.”

  “My mother wants me to respect my father.”

  “She just doesn’t want you to live with him. He beat you, didn’t he?”

  Zeck shoved Wiggin. Before he even thought of doing it, there was his hand, shoving the kid away.

  “Come on,” said Wiggin. “You shower. People see the scars. I’ve seen the scars.”

  “It was purification. There’s no way a pagan like you would understand that.”

  “Purification of what?” asked Wiggin. “You were the perfect son?”

  “Graff’s been feeding you information from their observation of me, hasn’t he! That’s illegal!”

  “Come on, Zeck. I know you. If you decide something’s right, then that’s the thing you’ll do, no matter what it costs you. You believe in your father. Whatever he says, you’ll do. So what have you done wrong that makes it so you need all this purification?”

  Zeck didn’t answer. He just closed down. Refused to listen. He let his mind go off somewhere else. To the place where it always went when Father purified him. So he wouldn’t scream. So he wouldn’t feel anything at all.

  “There it is,” said Wiggin. “That’s the Zeck he made you into. The Zeck who isn’t really here. Doesn’t really exist.”

  Zeck heard him without hearing.

  “And that’s why you have to get home,” said Wiggin. “Because without you there, he’ll have to find somebody else to purify, won’t he? Do you have a brother? A sister? Some other kid in the congregation? Or . . . oh, I know. It’s your mother, isn’t it? Do you think he’ll try to purify your mother?”