"You've done enough bleeding," said Wiggin. "In my opinion, anyway."
"Don't tell," whispered Zeck. "Don't tell anybody."
"You haven't done anything wrong," said Wiggin, "except try to get home to protect your mother. Because you know your father is crazy and dangerous."
"Just like me," said Zeck.
"No," said Wiggin. "The opposite of you. Because you controlled it. You stopped yourself from beating the little kid. Even when he deliberately provoked you. Your father couldn't stop himself from beating you--even when you did absolutely nothing wrong at all. You are not alike."
"The rage," said Zeck.
"One of the soldierly virtues," said Wiggin. "Turn it on the Buggers instead of on yourself or your father. And especially instead of me."
"I don't believe in war."
"Not many soldiers do," said Wiggin. "You could get killed doing that stuff. But you train to fight well, so that when a war does come, you can win and come home and find everything safe."
"There's nothing safe at home."
"I bet that things are fine at home," said Wiggin. "Because, see, with you not there, your mother doesn't have any reason to stay with your father, does she? So I think she's not going to put up with any more crap from him. Don't you think so? She can't be weak. If she were weak, she could never have produced somebody as tough as you. You couldn't have gotten your toughness from your father--he doesn't have much, if he can't even keep himself from doing what he did. So your toughness comes from her, right? She'll leave him if he raises his hand against her. She doesn't have to stay to look out for you anymore."
It was as much the tone of Wiggin's voice as the words he said that calmed him. Zeck pulled his body together, rolled himself up into a sitting position. "I keep expecting to see some teacher rush down the corridor demanding to know what's going on."
"I don't think so," said Wiggin. "I think they know exactly what's going on--probably watching it on a holo somewhere--and maybe they're keeping any other kids from coming along here to see. But they're going to let us work it out on our own."
"Work what out?" said Zeck. "I got no quarrel with you."
"You had a quarrel with everybody who stood between you and going home."
"I still hate this place. I want to get out of here."
"Welcome to the club," said Wiggin. "Look, we're missing lunch. You can do what you want, but I'm going to go eat."
"You still planning to limp on that left ankle?"
"Yes," said Wiggin. "After you kicked me? I won't have to act."
"Chest okay? I didn't break any ribs, did I?"
"You sure have an inflated opinion of your own strength," said Wiggin.
Then he stepped into the elevator and held the bar as it drifted upward, carrying him along with it.
Zeck sat there awhile longer, looking at nothing, thinking about what just happened. He wasn't sure if anything had been decided. Zeck still hated Battle School. And everybody in Battle School hated him. And now he hated his father and didn't believe in his father's phony pacifism. Wiggin had pretty much convinced him that his father was no prophet. Hell, Zeck had known it all along. But believing in his father's spirituality was the only way he could keep himself from hating him and fearing him. The only way he could bear it. Now he didn't have to bear it anymore. Wiggin was right. Mother was free, now that she didn't have to look out for Zeck.
He unclenched his fist and saw what Wiggin had stuffed into it to stanch the bleeding. One of his socks, covered in blood.
10
GRACE
Dink saw how Wiggin walked with his food tray and knew something was wrong. And it wasn't just because his tray was double-loaded. Who was he getting lunch for? Didn't matter--what mattered was that Wiggin was in pain. Dink pulled out the chair beside him.
"What happened?" he asked as soon as Wiggin sat down.
"Got lunch for Zeck," said Wiggin.
"I mean what happened to you," said Dink.