Miro remembered it very clearly. One moment he was sitting in the starship, looking at this perfect image of himself, strong and young and healthy; the next moment he was that image, had always been that image, and what he looked at was the crippled, broken, brain-damaged version of himself. And as he watched, that unloved, unwanted body crumbled into dust and disappeared.
“I don’t think he hates you,” said Miro, “the way I hated my old self.”
“He doesn’t have to hate me. It wasn’t hate anyway that killed your old body.” Young Val didn’t meet his eyes. In all their hours together exploring worlds, they had never talked about anything so personal. She had never dared to discuss with him that moment when both of them had been created. “You hated your old body while you were in it, but as soon as you were back in your right body, you simply stopped paying any attention to the old one. It wasn’t part of you anymore. Your aiъa had no more responsibility for it. And with nothing to hold it together — pop goes the weasel.”
“Wooden doll,” said Miro. “Now weasel. What else am I?”
Old Valentine ignored his bid for a laugh. “So you’re saying Ender finds you uninteresting.”
“He admires me,” said Young Val. “But he finds me dull.”
“Yes, well, me too,” said Old Valentine.
“That’s absurd,” said Miro.
“Is it?” asked Old Valentine. “He never followed me anywhere; I was always the one who followed him. He was searching for a mission in life, I think. Some great deed to do, to match the terrible act that ended his childhood. He thought writing The Hive Queen would do it. And then, with my help in preparing it, he wrote The Hegemon and he thought that might be enough, but it wasn’t. He kept searching for something that would engage his full attention and he kept almost finding it, or finding it for a week or a month, but one thing was certain, the thing that engaged his attention was never me, because there I was in all the billion miles he traveled, there I was across three thousand years. Those histories I wrote — it was no great love for history, it was because it helped in his work. The way my writing used to help in Peter’s work. And when I was finished, then, for a few hours of reading and discussion, I had his attention. Only each time it was less satisfying because it wasn’t I who had his attention, it was the story I had written. Until finally I found a man who gave me his whole heart, and I stayed with him. While my adolescent brother went on without me, and found a family that took his whole heart, and there we were, planets apart, but finally happier without each other than we’d ever been together.”
“So why did you come to him again?” asked Miro.
“I didn’t come for him. I came for you.” Old Valentine smiled. “I came for a world in danger of destruction. But I was glad to see Ender, even though I knew he would never belong to me.”
“This may be an accurate description of how it felt to you,” said Young Val. “But you must have had his attention, at some level. I exist because you’re always in his heart.”
“A fantasy of his childhood, perhaps. Not me.”
“Look at me,” said Young Val. “Is this the body you wore when he was five and was taken away from his home and sent up to the Battle School? Is this even the teenage girl that he knew that summer by the lake in North Carolina? You must have had his attention even when you grew up, because his image of you changed to become me.”
“You are what I was when we worked on The Hegemon together,” said Old Valentine sadly.
“Were you this tired?” asked Young Val.
“I am,” said Miro.
“No you’re not,” said Old Valentine. “You are the picture of vigor. You’re still celebrating your beautiful new body. My twin here is heartweary.”
“Ender’s attention has always been divided,” said Young Val. “I’m filled with his memories, you see — or rather, with the memories that he unconsciously thought I should have, but of course they consist almost entirely of things that he remembers about my friend here, which means that all I remember is my life with Ender. And he always had Jane in his ear, and the people whose deaths he was speaking, and his students, and the Hive Queen in her cocoon, and so on. But they were all adolescent connections. Like every itinerant hero of epic, he wandered place to place, transforming others but remaining himself unchanged. Until he came here and finally gave himself wholly to somebody else. You and your family, Miro. Novinha. For the first time he gave other people the power to tear at him emotionally, and it was exhilarating and painful both at once, but even that he could handle just fine, he’s a strong man, and strong men have borne more. Now, though, it’s something else entirely. Peter and I, we have no life apart from him. To say that he is one with Novinha is metaphorical; with Peter and me it’s literal. He is us. And his aiъa isn’t great enough, it isn’t strong or copious enough, it hasn’t enough attention in it to give equal shares to the three lives that depend on it. I realized this almost as soon as I was … what shall we call it, created? Manufactured?”