Enders In Exile

another retch. He had his jacket and shirt off, tossed on the
floor near the door—at least the kid had thought ahead and
arranged not to get vomit on his suit. "Anything I can do to help?"
asked Morgan.
    Wiggin looked at him,
his face a mask of barely controlled nausea. "I can't keep this up
forever," he said weakly, managing a faint smile. "I'll be fine in a
minute."
    And then he turned his
face toward the bowl again. Morgan closed the door and suppressed a
smile. So much for any worries that the kid might not cooperate. Wiggin
was going to miss his own grand entrance, and it wasn't even going to
be Morgan's fault.
    Sure enough, the
midshipman he sent for Wiggin returned with a message, not the boy. "He
says he'll come out as soon as he can."
    Morgan toyed with
sending back word that he was
not
going to have
Wiggin's late arrival distract from his own speech. But no, he could
afford to be magnanimous. Besides, it didn't look as if Wiggin would be
ready any time soon.
    The air of Shakespeare
was pleasant but strange; there was a light breeze, and it carried some
kind of pollen on it. Morgan was quite aware that just by breathing, he
might be poisoning himself with the blood-sucking worm that almost
killed this colony at the start, but they had treatments for it, and
they'd get their first dose in plenty of time. So he savored
the smell of planetside air for the first time in ages—he had
last been on Earth six years before this voyage began.
    In the middle distance,
the scenery was savannah-like—trees dotting the landscape
here and there, lots of bushes. But on either side of the runway, there
were crops growing, and he realized that the only way they could
accommodate the runway was in the midst of their fields. They had to
resent that—it was a good thing he had thought of sending out
the skimmers first, to take their minds off the damage their landing
had done to the crops.
    The people were
surprisingly numerous. He vaguely remembered that the hundreds in the
original invasion force would now be more than two thousand, since
they'd been reproducing like rabbits, even with the relatively few
women in the original force.
    What mattered most was
that they were applauding when he came out. Their applause might be
more for the skimmers than for him, but he was content with that, as
long as there was no resistance.
    His aides had set up a
public address system, but Morgan didn't think they'd need it. The
crowd was numerous, but many of them were children, and were so crowded
together that from the top of the ramp they were all within easy
hailing distance. Still, now that the lectern had been set up, it would
look foolish of Morgan not to use it. So he strode to it and gripped it
with both hands.
    "Men and women of
Shakespeare Colony, I bring the greetings of the International Fleet
and the Ministry of Colonization."
    He had expected
applause for that, but . . . nothing.
    "I am Rear Admiral
Quincy Morgan, the captain of the ship that brought the new colonists,
and new equipment and supplies, to your settlement."
    Again, nothing. Oh,
they were attentive, and not at all hostile, but they only nodded, and
only a few of them. As if they were waiting. Waiting for what?
    Waiting for Wiggin. The
thought came to him like bile into his throat. They know that Wiggin is
supposed to be their governor, and they're waiting for him.
    Well, they'll find out
soon enough just what Wiggin is—and isn't.
    Then Morgan heard the
sound of running footfalls from inside the shuttle and coming out onto
the ramp. Wiggin couldn't have timed it better. This really
would
go more smoothly with him for the crowd to look at.
    The crowd's attention
shifted toward Wiggin, and Morgan smiled. "I give you . . ."
    But they didn't hear
his answer. They knew who it was. The applause and shouting overpowered
Morgan's voice, even with the amplification, and he did not need to say
Wiggin's name, because the crowd was shouting it.
    Morgan turned to give a
welcoming gesture to the boy, and was shocked to see that Wiggin was in
full dress uniform. His decorations were almost obscenely
vast—dwarfing anything on Morgan's chest. It was so
ridiculous—Wiggin had been playing videogames, for all he
knew, and here he was wearing decorations for every battle in the war,
along with all the other medals he was given after his victory.
    And the little bastard
had deliberately deceived him. Wearing civilian clothes, and then
changing in the bathroom, just so he could