Once we sorted it all out, though, the package itself was very informative. Apparently you were cursed by some pseudo-Confucian to live in interesting times. Please send follow-ups. But make them low enough priority, please, that regular ship's communications can continue. And don't let Graff address it to Ender. It comes to me as a colonist, not to the governor-designate.
Seems to me that you're doing all right. Though that all might have changed between your sending and my reply. Ain't space travel grand?
Has Ender written to the parents yet? I can't ask him (well, I HAVE asked him, but I can't get answers) and I can't ask THEM or they'll know I've been trying to get him to write, which would hurt them all the more if he hasn't written and discount the emotional value of his letters if he has.
Stay smart. They can't take that away from you.
Your former puppet,
Demosthenes
Alessandra was happy when word came that the play reading was back on again. Mother had been devastated, though she showed it only to Alessandra in the privacy of their stateroom. She made a great show of not weeping, which was good, but she stalked around the tiny space, opening and closing things and slamming things and stomping her feet at every opportunity, and now and then emitting some fierce but gnomic statement like:
"Why are we always in the backwash of somebody else's boat?"
Then, in the midst of a game of backgammon: "In the wars of men, women always lose!"
And through the bathroom door: "There is no pleasure so simple that somebody won't take it away just to hurt you!"
In vain did Alessandra try to mollify her. "Mother, this wasn't aimed at you, it was clearly aimed at Ender."
Such responses always triggered a long emotional diatribe in which no amount of logic could cause Mother to change her mind—though moments later, she might have completely adopted Alessandra's point of view after all, acting as if that's how she had felt all along.
Yet if Alessandra didn't answer her mother's epigrammatic observations, the storming about got worse and worse—Mother needed a response the way other people needed air. To ignore her was to smother her. So Alessandra answered, took part in the meaningless but intense conversation, and then ignored her mother's inability to admit that she had changed her mind even though she had.
It never seemed to occur to her mother that Alessandra herself was disappointed, that playing Bianca to Ender's Lucentio had made her feel . . . what? Not love—she was definitely not in love. Ender was nice enough, but he was exactly as nice to Alessandra as to everyone else, so it was plain she was nothing special to him, and she was not interested in bestowing her affection on someone who had not first bestowed his on her. No, what Alessandra felt was glory. It was reflected, of course, from her mother's quite stunning performance of Kate and from Ender's fame as savior of the human race—and his notoriety as a child-killing monster, which Alessandra did not believe but which certainly added to the fascination.
All disappointment was forgotten the moment the message came through to everyone's desk: The reading was back on for the following night, and the admiral himself would attend.
Alessandra immediately thought: The admiral? There are two admirals on this voyage, and one of them was part of the program from the start. Was this a calculated slight, that the message sounded as if only one officer held that lofty rank? The very fact that Ender had been summoned so peremptorily to see Admiral Morgan was another sign—did Ender really warrant so little respect? It made her a little angry on his behalf.
Then she told herself: I have no bond with Ender Wiggin that should make me protective of his privileges. I've been infected with Mother's disease, of acting as if her plans and dreams were already real. Ender is not in love with me, any more than I am with him. There will be girls on Shakespeare when we get there; by the time he's old enough to marry, what will I be to him?
What have I done, coming on this voyage to a place where there won't be enough people my age to fill a city bus?
Not for the first time, Alessandra envied her mother's ability to make herself cheerful by sheer force of will.
