Though of course that was silly—she didn’t have to be there, she had access to any documents she wanted through the ansible, since one of the key provisions of Graff’s ColMin was the absolute assurance that every colony had complete access to every library and repository of records in all the human worlds.

It wasn’t until the seventh volume came out and Peter read The Hive Queen that he found the biographer that made him think: I want him to write about me.

The Hive Queen wasn’t long. And while it was well written, it wasn’t particularly poetic. It was very simple. But it painted a picture of the Hive Queens that was as they might have written it themselves. The monsters that had frightened children for more than a century—and continued to do so even though all were now dead—suddenly became beautiful and tragic.

But it wasn’t a propaganda job. The terrible things they did were recognized, not dismissed.

And then it dawned on him who wrote it. Not Valentine, who rooted things in fact. It was written by someone who could understand an enemy so well that he loved him. How often had he heard Petra quote what Ender said about that? She—or Bean, or somebody—had written it down. “I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves.”

That’s what the writer of The Hive Queen, who called himself Speaker for the Dead, had done for the aliens who once haunted our nightmares.

And the more people read that book, the more they wished they had understood their enemy, that the language barrier had not been insuperable, that the Hive Queens had not all been destroyed.

The Speaker for the Dead had made humans love their ancient enemy.

Fine, it’s easy to love your enemies after they’re safely dead. But still. Humans give up their villains only reluctantly.

It had to be Ender. And so Peter had written to Valentine, congratulating her, but also asking her to invite Ender to write about him. There was some back and forth, with Peter insisting that he didn’t want approval of anything. He wanted to talk to his brother. If a book emerged from it, fine. If the book painted him to be a monster, if that’s what Speaker for the Dead saw in him, so be it. “Because I know that whatever he writes, it’ll be a lot closer than most of the kuso that gets published here.”

Valentine scoffed at his use of words like kuso. “What are you doing using Battle School slang?”

“It’s just part of the language now,” Peter told her in an answering email.

And then she wrote, “He won’t email you. He doesn’t know you anymore, he says. The last he saw of you, he was five years old and you were the worst older brother in the world. He has to talk to you.”

“That’s expensive,” Peter wrote back, but in fact he knew the FPE could afford it and would not refuse him. What really held him back was fear. He had forgotten that Ender had only known him as a bully. Had never seen him struggle to build a world government, not by conquest, but by free choice of the people voting nation by nation. He doesn’t know me.