Ender would hate the notoriety. Peter was so hungry for it that he intended to steal as much of Ender's as he could get.
Oh, he'd never admit that, thought Valentine. Peter will have all kinds of reasons why it's for Ender's own good. Probably the very reasons I've thought of.
And since that's the case, am I doing just what Peter does? Have I come up with all these reasons for Ender not to come home, solely because in my heart I don't want him here?
At that thought, such a wave of emotion swept over her that she found herself weeping at her homework table. She wanted him home. And even though she understood that he couldn't really come home—Colonel Graff was right—she still yearned for the little brother who was stolen from her. All these years with the brother I hate, and now, for the sake of the brother I love, I'll work to keep him from . . .
From me? No, I don't have to keep him from me. I hate school, I hate my life here, I hate hate hate being under Peter's thumb. Why should I stay? Why shouldn't I go out into space with Ender? At least for a while. I'm the one he's closest to. I'm the only one he's seen in the past seven years. If he can't come home, one bit of home—me—can come to him!
It was all a matter of persuading Peter that it wasn't in his best interest to have Ender come back to Earth—without letting Peter know that she was trying to manipulate him.
It just made her tired, because Peter wasn't easy to manipulate. He saw through everything. So she had to be quite forthright and honest about what she was doing—but do it with such subtle overtones of humility and earnestness and dispassion and whatever that Peter could get past his own condescension toward everything she said and decide that he had thought that way all along and . . .
And is my real motive that I want to get off planet myself? Is this about Ender or about me getting free?
Both. It can be both. And I'll tell Ender the truth about that—I won't be giving up anything to be with him. I'd rather be with him in space and never see Earth again than stay here, with or without him. Without him: an aching void. With him: the pain of watching him lead a miserable, frustrated life.
Val began to write a letter to Colonel Graff. Mother had been careless enough to include Graff's address. That was almost a security breach. Mother was so naive sometimes. If she were an I.F. officer, she would have been cashiered long ago.
At dinner that night, Mother couldn't stop talking about Ender's homecoming. Peter listened with only half his attention, because of course Mother couldn't see past her personal sentimentality about her "lost little boy coming back to the nest" whereas Peter understood that Ender's return would be horribly complicated. So much to prepare for—and not just the stupid bedroom. Ender could have Peter's own bed, for all he cared—what mattered was that for a brief window of time, Ender would be the center of the world's attention, and that was when Locke would emerge from the cloak of anonymity and put an end to the speculation about the identity of the "great benefactor of humanity who, because of his modesty in remaining anonymous, cannot receive the Nobel prize that he so richly deserves for having led us to the end of the last war of mankind."
That from a rather gushy fan of Locke's—who also happened to be the head of the opposition party in Great Britain. Naive to imagine even for a moment that the brief attempt by the New Warsaw Pact to take over the I.F. was the "last war." There's only one way to have a "last war," and that's to have the whole of Earth under a single, effective, powerful, but popular leader.
And the way to introduce that leader would be to find him on camera, standing beside the great Ender Wiggin with his arm flung across the hero's shoulders because—and who should be surprised by this?—the "Boy of War" and the "Man of Peace" are brothers!
And now Father was blathering about something. Only he had addressed something to Peter directly and so Peter had to play the dutiful son and listen as if he cared.
"I really think you need to commit to the career you want to pursue before your brother gets home, Peter."
"And why is that?" asked Peter.
"Oh, don't pretend to be so naive. Don't you realize that Ender Wiggin's brother can get into any college he wants?"
Father pronounced the words as if they were the most brilliant ever spoken aloud by someone who had not yet been deified by the Roman senate or sainted by the Pope or whatever. It would never occur to Father that Peter's perfect grades and his perfect score on all the college-entry tests would already get him into any school he wanted. He didn't have to piggyback on his brother's fame. But no, to Father everything good in Peter's life would always be seen as flowing from Ender. Ender Ender Ender Ender what a stupid name.
If Father's thinking this way, no doubt everybody else will, too. At least everybody below a certain minimum intelligence.
All Peter had been seeing was the publicity bonus that Ender's homecoming would offer. But Father had reminded him of something else—that everything he did would be discounted in people's minds precisely because he was Ender the Great's older brother. People would see them standing side by side, yes—but they'd wonder why Ender's brother had not been taken into Battle School. It would make Peter look weak and inferior and vulnerable.
There he'd stand, noticeably taller, the brother who stayed home and didn't do anything. "Oh, but I wrote all the Locke essays and shut down the conflict with Russia before it could turn into a world war!" Well, if you're so smart, why weren't you helping your little brother save the human race from complete destruction?
Public relations opportunity, yes. But also a nightmare.
How could he use the opportunity Ender's great victory offered, yet not have it look like he was nothing but a hanger-on, sucking at his brother's fame like a remora? How ghastly if his announcement sounded like some sad kind of me-too-ism. Oh, you think my brother's cool? Well, I'll have you know that I saved the world too. In my own sad, needy little way.
"Are you all right, Peter?" asked Valentine.
"Oh, is something wrong?" asked Mother. "Let me look at you, dear."
"I'm not taking my shirt off or letting you use a rectal thermometer on me, Mother, because Val is hallucinating and I look just fine."