ENDER IN EXILE

Let Mother sentimentalize him as she wished. After all, didn't she now "remember" that Achilles the Great had actually visited her and slept with her in order to conceive a son? Yet when he was little she had made no such claim, and had talked of the messenger who arranged to have her ova fertilized with Achilles' precious sperm. From that—and many other examples of shifting memory—he knew that she was no longer a reliable witness.

Yet she was the only one who knew his true name. And she loved him with perfect devotion. He could talk to her without fear of censure.

"This Ender Wiggin," he said. "I can't read him."

"I'm glad you can't understand the mind of a devil."

But she had not called him a devil until Achilles' own propaganda campaign against him. She had ignored Ender Wiggin, because he had never actually fought against her precious Achilles Flandres, even if his brother had.

"I don't know what to do with him now, Mother."

"Well, you'll avenge your father, of course."

"Ender didn't kill him."

"He's a killer. He deserves to die."

"Not at my hands, Mother."

"The son of Achilles the Great slays the monster," said Mother. "No better hands than yours."

"They would call me a murderer."

"They called your father by that name as well," she said. "Are you better than him?"

"No, Mother."

She seemed to think that closed the discussion. He was disconcerted. Was she saying she wanted him to murder a man?

"Let the Hegemon's nearest blood pay for the murder of my Achilles," she said. "Let all the Wiggins be extinguished. All that vicious tribe."

Oh, no, she was in her bloody vengeance mood. Well, he had brought it on, hadn't he? He knew better. Now he'd have to hear her out.

On and on she went, about how great crimes could only be expunged by the shedding of blood. "Peter Wiggin outsmarted us by dying of his heart attack while we were on the voyage," she said. "But now his brother and sister have come to us. How can you pass up what fate has brought into your hands?"

"I'm not a murderer, Mother."

"Vengeance for your father's death is not murder. Who do you think you are, Hamlet?"

And on and on she went.

Usually when she went off like this, Achilles only half-listened. But now the words dug at him. It really did feel like some kind of portentous fate that brought Wiggin to him at this very time. It was irrational—but only mathematics was rational, and not always at that. In the real world, irrational things happened, impossible coincidences happened, because probability required that coincidences rarely, but not never, occur.

So instead of ignoring her, he found himself wondering: How could I arrange for Ender Wiggin to die without having to kill him myself?

And from there, he went on to a more subtle plan: I have already half destroyed Ender Wiggin—how could I complete the process?

To murder him would make a martyr of him. But if Wiggin could be provoked into killing again—killing another child—he would be destroyed forever. It was his pattern. He sensed a rival; he goaded him into making an attack; then he killed him in self-defense. Twice he had done it and been exonerated. But his protectors weren't here—they were almost certainly all dead. Only the facts remained.

Could I get him to follow the pattern again?

He told his idea to his mother.

"What are you talking about?" she said.

"If he murders again—this time a sixteen-year-old, but still a child, no matter how tall—then his reputation will be destroyed forever. They'll put him on trial, they'll convict him this time—they can't believe he just happened to kill in 'self-defense' three times!—and that will be a far more thorough destruction than a merely ending the life of his body. I'll destroy his name forever."

"You're talking about letting him kill you?"

"Mother, people don't have to let Ender Wiggin kill them. They just have to provide him with the pretext, and he does the rest quite nicely by himself."

"But—you? Die?"

"As you said, Mother. To destroy Father's enemies is worth any sacrifice."

She leapt to her feet. "I didn't give birth to you just so you could throw your life away! You're half a head taller than him—he's a dwarf compared to you. How could he possibly kill you?"

"He was trained as a soldier. And not that long ago, Mother. What have I been trained as? A farmer. A mechanic. Whatever odd jobs have been required of a teenager who happens to be preternaturally large and clever and strong. Not war. Not fighting. I haven't fought anyone since I was so tiny and had to battle constantly to keep them from picking on me."

"Your father and I did not conceive you so that you could die at the hands of a Wiggin, like your father did!"

"Technically, Father died at the hands of a Delphiki. Julian to be precise."

"Delphiki, Wiggin—sides of the same coin. I forbid you to let him kill you."

"I told you, Mother. He'll find a way. It's what he does. He's a warrior."

"No!"