Enders In Exile

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