Shadow of the giant

and video were so wasteful of bandwidth that they were
routinely compressed and then reinflated at the other end, so despite the
instantaneity of ansible communications, there was a noticeable timelag between
sides of the conversation.
    No picture. Peter had to draw the line somewhere. And Ender
hadn't insisted. It would be too painful for both of them—for Ender to see how
much time had passed during his relativistic voyage out to Shakespeare, and for
Peter to be forced to see how young Ender still was, how much life he still had
ahead of him while Peter was looking coolly at his own old age and approaching
death.
    "I'm here, Ender."
    "It's good to hear your voice, Peter."
    And then silence.
    "No small talk, is there?" said Peter. "It's
been too long a time for me, too brief a time for you. Ender, I know I was a
slumbitch to you as a kid. No excuses. I was full of rage and shame and I took
it out on you and Valentine but mostly on you. I don't think I ever said a kind
thing to you, not when you were awake anyway. I can talk about that if you
want."
    "Later maybe," said Ender. "This isn't a
family therapy session. I just want to know what you did and why."
    "Which things I did?"
    "The ones that matter to you," said Ender.
"What you choose to tell me is as important as what you say about those
events."
    "There's a lot. My mind is still clear. I remember a
lot."
    "Good. I'm listening."
    He listened for hours that day. And more hours, more days.
Peter poured out everything. The political struggles. The wars. The
negotiations. The essays on the nets. Building up intelligence networks.
Seizing opportunities. Finding worthwhile allies.
    It wasn't until near the end of their last session that
Peter dredged up memories of when Ender was a baby. "I really loved you.
Kept begging Mom to let me feed you. Change you. Play with you. I thought you
were the best thing that ever existed. But then I noticed. I'd be playing with
you and have you laughing and then Valentine would walk into the room and you'd
just rivet on her. I didn't exist anymore.
    "She was luminous, of course you reacted that way.
Everybody did. I did. But at the same time, I was just a kid. I saw it as,
Ender loves Valentine more than me. And when I realized you were born because
they regarded me as a failure—the Battle School people, I mean—it was just one
more resentment. That doesn't excuse anything. I didn't have to be a bastard
about it. I'm just telling you, I realize now that's where it started."
    "OK," said Ender.
    "I'm sorry," said Peter. "That I wasn't
better to you as a kid. Because, see, my whole life, all the things I've told
you about in all these incredibly expensive conversations, I would find myself
thinking, that was OK. I did OK that time. Ender would like that I did
that."
    "Please don't tell me you did it all for me."
    "Are you kidding? I did it because I'm as competitive a
marubo as ever was born on this planet. But my standard of judgment was: Ender
would like that I did that."
    Ender didn't answer.
    "Aw, hell, kid. It's way simpler than that. What you
did by the time you were twelve made my whole life's work possible."
    "Well, Peter, what you did while I was voyaging, that's
what made my ... victory worth winning."
    "What a family Mr. and Mrs. Wiggin had."
    "I'm glad we talked, Peter."
    "Me too."
    "I think I can write about you."
    "I hope so."
    "Even if I can't, though, it doesn't mean I wasn't
glad. To find out who you grew up to be."
    "Wish I could be there," said Peter, "to see
who you grow up to be."
    "I'm never going to grow up, Peter," said Ender.
"I'm frozen in history. Forever twelve. You had a good life, Peter. Give
Petra my love. Tell her I miss her. And the others. But especially her. You got
the best of us, Peter."
    At that moment, Peter almost told him about Bean and his
three children, flying through space somewhere, waiting for a cure that didn't
look very promising now.
    But then he realized that he couldn't. The story wasn't his
to tell.
     
     
    If Ender wrote about it, then people would start looking for
Bean. Somebody might try to contact him. Someone might call him home. And then
his voyage would have been for nothing. His sacrifice. His Satyagraha.
    They never spoke again.
    Peter lived for some time after that, despite his weak
heart. Hoping the whole time that Ender might write the book he wanted. But
when he died, the book was still unwritten.
     
     
    So it was Petra who read the short biography called,