The Ender Quintet (Omnibus)

by Card, Orson Scott

  “I’d invite you to join me for supper tonight,” said Virlomi, “only one of my affectations is to eat little, and of course, as a Hindu, I eat an entirely vegetarian cuisine.”

  “Sounds excellent,” said Valentine.

  “Tell us when and where, and we’ll be there,” said Ender.

  With a few more parting words, Virlomi left.

  Valentine turned on Ender, angry and sad, both at once. “Did you bring me here to watch you die?”

  “I didn’t bring you anywhere,” said Ender. “You just came.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Everyone dies, Valentine. Mother and Father are dead. Peter is dead. Graff is probably dead by now.”

  “You forget that I know you, Ender,” said Valentine. “You have decided to die. You’ve decided to provoke this boy into killing you.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Look at the names you chose for passwords, Ender! You can’t live with the guilt.”

  “Not guilt, Val,” said Ender. “Responsibility.”

  “Don’t make this boy kill you,” said Valentine.

  “I won’t make anybody do anything. How about that?”

  “I should have stayed home and watched Peter conquer the world.”

  “Oh, no, Valentine. We’re on a much more interesting trajectory through space-time.”

  “I’m not going to sleep through my life like you are, Ender. I have work to do. I’m going to write my histories. I’m not burdened with a death wish.”

  “If I wished to be dead,” said Ender, “I would have let Bonzo Madrid and his friends beat my brains out in a bathroom in Battle School.”

  “I know you,” said Valentine.

  “I know you think you do,” said Ender. “And if I die, you’ll think I chose to. The truth is much more complicated. I don’t intend to die. But I’m not afraid of the risk of death. Sometimes a soldier has to put himself in harm’s way in order to achieve victory.”

  “It’s not your war,” said Valentine.

  Ender laughed. “It’s always my war.”

  CHAPTER 22

  To: VWiggin%Ganges@ColLeague.Adm/voy

  From: AWiggin%Ganges@ColLeague.Adm/voy

  Subj: If I am dead

  Dear Val,

  I don’t expect to be dead. I expect to be alive, in which case, you won’t receive this, because I will keep sending the do-not-deliver code until after the coming confrontation.

  This is about the case. The code to unlock it is the name of your favorite stuffed animal when you were six. When you open it, hold what you find in your hands for a good long time. If you come up with some good ideas, then act on them; otherwise, please repack the item exactly as you found it, and arrange to ship it to Abra Tolo on Shakespeare with a message: “This is what I found that day. Please don’t let it be destroyed.”

  But you won’t need this, because, as is my fashion, I expect to win.

  Love,

  your demanding and mysterious little brother,

  Ender

  or, I suppose I should now say: Ended

  Since the starship had not arrived full of new colonists, it was almost inconsequential to most of the people of the city of Andhra. Of course everyone turned out to watch the shuttle land. And there was some commotion as a few trade goods were loaded off and many supplies were loaded on. But the tasks being carried out were repetitive and people quickly lost interest and went back to their work. Governor Virlomi’s visit to the shuttle was taken as good manners by those who heard about it—few knew or cared what the ordinary protocol would be, and so didn’t realize that it had been altered. And those who did know simply took it as part of Virlomi’s character—or her pose—that she did not make the visitors come to her.

  Only when that evening’s supper saw strangers come to Virlomi’s house—which Achilles and his fellow “Natives of Ganges” liked to refer to as “the governor’s mansion”—did anyone’s curiosity get aroused. A teenage boy; a young woman of about twenty. Why were they the only passengers on the starship? Why was Virlomi giving them special honors? Were they new colonists or government officials or…what?

  Since this was the ship that was supposed to take Achilles into exile for his “crime” of striking the governor, he was, quite naturally, anxious to find out anything he could to derail the plan. These guests were unusual, unexpected, unannounced, unexplained. That had to mean they presented an opportunity to embarrass Virlomi, at the very least—to stymie her or destroy her, if things went well.

  It took two days of having his supporters consort with the crew before someone finally got their hands on the manifest and discovered the names of the passengers. Valentine Wiggin, student. Andrew Wiggin, student.

  Student?

  Achilles didn’t even have to look anything up. The ship’s last call had been to Shakespeare Colony. Up to the time of that ship’s arrival, the governor of Shakespeare had been Andrew Wiggin, retired admiral of the I.F. and much-cited commander of the I.F. forces in the Third Formic War. Two starflights at relativistic speed explained the boy’s age. Boy? One year older than Achilles.

  Wiggin was tall, but Achilles was taller; strong, but Achilles was stronger. Wiggin was chosen for Battle School because he was smart, but Achilles had never encountered anyone in his life who was as intelligent as he. Virlomi was Battle School bright—but she forgot things that he remembered, overlooked things that he noticed, thought two moves ahead instead of ten. And she was the closest to being in his league.

  Achilles had learned to conceal just how intelligent he was, and to treat others as if he thought them his equal. But he knew the truth and counted on it: He was quicker, smarter, deeper, subtler than anyone else. Hadn’t he, as a mere boy on a faraway colony world, using only the lowest-priority ansible messaging, created a significant political movement on Earth?

  Even intelligent people are sometimes just plain lucky. Wiggin’s arrival just at this time clearly fell into that category. Wiggin couldn’t have known that he was coming to the colony where dwelt the son of Achilles the Great, whom Ender’s brother had arranged to murder. And when Achilles-who-was-called-Randall launched his attack on the reputation of Ender Wiggin, labeling him as Ender the Xenocide, he had no idea that within the month that very Andrew Wiggin would be having supper at Virlomi’s house.

  It was an easy thing to get pictures of Virlomi and Wiggin together. It was just as easy to get, from the nets, pictures of Peter the Hegemon at roughly the same age as Ender was now. Juxtaposing their pictures made it easy to see they were brothers, the resemblance was so strong. Achilles then put pictures of Ender and Virlomi, so that anyone could see that Peter’s brother was consorting with the anti-native governor of Ganges.

  Never mind that it was Peter who had sent Virlomi into exile. Achilles dismissed that as an obvious fraud—Virlomi had been part of Peter’s conspiracy all along. Her consorting with Ender Wiggin proved it, if anyone had doubts.

  Now Achilles could paint his exile as the result of an obvious conspiracy between Virlomi and her Wiggin masters—Ender’s sister was along for the ride. They were exiling him so that Wiggin’s xenocidal, anti-native plots could proceed on Ganges without opposition.

  It would take a week for any of this story to reach Earth, but the computers worked impartially, and Virlomi couldn’t stop him from sending them. And locally, the story and pictures went up immediately.

  Achilles watched with delight as people began watching the Wiggins’ every move. Everything he did or said was seen through the lens of Achilles’ accusations. Even the Indians, who regarded Achilles with suspicion or hostility, were convinced by the pictures that Achilles was not lying. What was going on?

  It’s costing you, Virlomi. You attacked my father, and through him, me. You tried to exile me—hoping my troublesome mother would disappear along with me. Well, I have attacked Ender Wiggin, and through him, you—and you very kindly have taken him in as your honored guest at pre
cisely the moment when it was most useful to me.

  Three days after his public tagging of Ender Wiggin, Achilles made his next move. This time, he used a surrogate writer—one of his brighter supporters, who could actually put sentences together coherently—to put out the allegation, disguised as a denial, that Virlomi’s plan was to have Ender Wiggin himself murder Randall Firth on the trip to Earth. He would be sent into exile, supposedly, but he would never be seen again.

  Randall Firth has offended, not just the Wiggin stooge Virlomi, but the whole hegemonistic conspiracy. He has to be eliminated, or so the story goes. But we have found no evidence to corroborate this account, and therefore we must dismiss it as nothing but a rumor, a mere suspicion. How else can we explain Wiggin’s multiple secret meetings with Virlomi?

  Randall Firth himself, when questioned, asserted that Virlomi is too intelligent to consort openly with Wiggin if she were planning any violent action against Firth. Therefore he fears nothing.

  But we wonder: Does Virlomi count on Firth making that assumption, so that his guard will be down? Will she insist that he goes into stasis, from which Wiggin, aboard the ship, will make sure he never wakes up? It would be so easy to call it an accident.

  Firth is too brave for his own good. His friends are more worried about him than he is about himself.

  This time Achilles’ foray brought a response from Virlomi—which was, after all, what he wanted. “Andrew Wiggin’s visit here is an obvious coincidence—he set out on his voyage when Randall Firth was still an infant on a starship and Ganges Colony had not even been founded.”

  “This is an obvious nondenial denial,” wrote Achilles’ surrogate. “Virlomi says that it is a coincidence that Wiggin is here. She does not say that Randall Firth will not be at Wiggin’s mercy on his voyage of ‘exile’—or, as some assert, ‘death.’”

  The colony was now riven with heated arguments, and Achilles noted with delight that there were even Indians now on the side that said, “You can’t send Randall out on the same ship with Wiggin.” “Isn’t Wiggin the one who already murdered two children?” “Randall Firth’s crime is not worthy of the death penalty.”

  There was a groundswell building to commute Randall Firth’s sentence and keep him on Ganges. Meanwhile, there was even talk of arresting Ender Wiggin for his crimes against humanity. Achilles publicized these proposals by making statements opposing them. “The statute of limitations has surely passed, even for the monstrous crime of xenocide,” he wrote. “It has been sixty-one years since Ender Wiggin wiped out the hive queens. What court has jurisdiction now?”

  By now the demand from Earth was so great that any writings of Achilles or his surrogates were being moved up to a higher priority in the queue. On Earth, there were open demands that the I.F. arrest Andrew Wiggin and bring him back to Earth for trial, and polls showing that a small but growing minority was demanding justice for the murder of the hive queens.

  It was time for Randall Firth to meet Ender Wiggin face to face.

  It was easy enough to arrange. Achilles’ supporters kept watch on Wiggin, and when he, his sister, and the governor passed along the banks of the great river one morning, Achilles was there—alone.

  Virlomi stiffened when she saw him, and tried to draw Ender away, but Wiggin strode forward to meet Achilles and held out his hand. “I’ve wanted to meet you, Mr. Firth,” he said. “I’m Andrew Wiggin.”

  “I know who you are,” said Achilles, letting scorn and amusement into his voice.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Ender, his apparent amusement even greater. “But I’ve been wanting to see you, and I think the governor has been trying to keep us apart. I know you have been aching for this moment.”

  Achilles wanted to say, What do you know about me? But he knew that’s what Wiggin wanted him to say—that Wiggin wanted to determine the course of the conversation. So instead he asked, “Why would you want to see me? You’re the celebrity, I think.”

  “Oh, we’re both quite famous enough,” said Ender, now chuckling outright. “Me for what I’ve done. You for what you’ve said.”

  And with that, Ender smiled. Mockingly?

  “Are you trying to goad me into some ill-considered action, Mr. Wiggin?”

  “Please,” said Ender. “Call me Andrew.”

  “The name of a Christian saint,” said Achilles. “I prefer to call you by the name of a monstrous war criminal…Ender.”

  “If there were some way to bring back the hive queens,” said Ender, “and restore them to their former glory and power, would you do it, Mr. Firth?”

  Achilles recognized the trap at once. It was one thing to read The Hive Queen and shed a tear for a vanished race. It was quite another to wish for them to return—it was an invitation for headlines saying, “Leader of Natives Movement would bring back formics,” along with grisly pictures from the Scouring of China.

  “I don’t indulge in hypotheticals,” said Achilles.

  “Except the hypothetical charge that I plan to kill you in your sleep during the voyage back to Earth.”

  “Not my accusation,” said Achilles. “I was quoted in your defense.”

  “Your ‘defense’ is the only reason anyone heard of the accusation,” said Ender. “Please don’t think that I’m fooled.”

  “Who would hope to fool a genius like you?”

  “Well, we’ve sparred long enough. I just wanted to look at you.”

  Achilles made a flamboyant turn, so Ender could inspect him from all sides. “Is that enough?”

  Suddenly tears came into Ender’s eyes.

  What game was he playing now?

  “Thank you,” Ender said. Then he turned away to rejoin his sister and the governor.

  “Wait,” said Achilles. He didn’t understand what that teary-eyed thing meant, and it disconcerted him.

  But Wiggin didn’t wait, or turn back. He simply walked to the others and they turned away from the river, walking back into the city.

  Achilles had meant this confrontation—which was being recorded by zoom lens and microphone—for a propaganda vid. He had expected to be able to goad Ender into some rash statement or absurd denial. Even a clip of Ender angry would have done the job. But he was unflappable, he had fallen into no traps, and with that last bit of maudlin emotion he may well have set or sprung one, though Achilles could not think of what the trap might be.

  An unsatisfactory encounter in every way. And yet he could not explain to his followers why he didn’t want to use the vid they had so painstakingly created. So he allowed them to post it, then waited for the other shoe to drop.

  No one on Earth knew what to make of it, either. Commentators noticed the tears in Ender’s eyes, of course, and speculated about it. Some Nativists proclaimed it to be crocodile tears—the weeping of the predator at the coming fate of his victim. But some saw something else. “Ender Wiggin did not look the part he’s been cast in—the killer, the monster. Instead, he seemed to be a gentle young man, bemused at the obviously planned confrontation. At the end, those infamous tears seemed to me to be a kind of compassion. Perhaps even love for his challenger. Who is trying to pick the fight here?”

  That was terrible—but it was only one voice among many. And Achilles’ supporters on Earth quickly replied: Who would dare to pick a fight with Ender the Xenocide? It always turns out so badly for those who do.

  All his life, Achilles had been able to control things. Even when unexpected things happened, he had adapted, analyzed, and learned. This time he had no idea what to learn.

  “I don’t know what he’s doing, Mother,” said Achilles.

  She stroked his head. “Oh, my poor darling,” she said. “Of course you don’t, you’re such an innocent. Just like your father. He never saw their plots. He trusted that Suriyawong monster.”

  Achilles didn’t actually like it when she talked that way. “It’s not our place to pity him, Mother.”

  “But I do. He had such great gifts, but in the end, his trusti
ng nature betrayed him. It was his tragic flaw, that he was too kind and good.”

  Achilles had studied his father’s life and had seen strength and hardness, the willingness to do whatever was necessary. Compassion and a trusting nature were not obvious attributes of Achilles the Great, however.

  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.”