“I care,” said the Speaker. “I need to know what the questions are.”
“OK, here's one. We have a herd of cabra here inside the fence. The cabra can't jump the fence, they don't even touch it. I've examined and tagged every single cabra in the herd, and you know something? There's not one male. They're all female.”
“Bad luck,” said the Speaker. “You'd think they would have left at least one male inside.”
“It doesn't matter,” said Ela. “I don't know if there are any males. In the last five years every single adult cabra has given birth at least once. And not one of them has mated.”
“Maybe they clone,” said the Speaker.
“The offspring is not genetically identical to the mother. That much research I could sneak into the lab without Mother noticing. There is some kind of gene transfer going on.”
“Hermaphrodites?”
“No. Pure female. No male sexual organs at all. Does that qualify as an important question? Somehow the cabras are having some kind of genetic exchange, without sex.”
“The theological implications alone are astounding.”
“Don't make fun.”
“Of which? Science or theology?”
“Either one. Do you want to hear more of my questions or not?”
“I do,” said the Speaker.
"Then try this. The grass you're lying on– we call it grama. All the watersnakes are hatched here. Little worms so small you can hardly see them. They eat the grass down to the nub and eat each other, too, shedding skin each time they grow larger. Then all of a sudden, when the grass is completely slimy with their dead skin, all the snakes slither off into the river and they never come back out. "
He wasn't a xenobiologist. He didn't get the implication right away.
“The watersnakes hatch here,” she explained, “but they don't come back out of the water to lay their eggs.”
“So they mate here before they go into the water.”
“Fine, of course, obviously. I've seen them mating. That's not the problem. The problem is, why are they watersnakes?”
He still didn't get it.
“Look, they're completely adapted to life underwater. They have gills along with lungs, they're superb swimmers, they have fins for guidance, they are completely evolved for adult life in the water. Why would they ever have evolved that way if they are born on land, mate on land, and reproduce on land? As far as evolution is concerned, anything that happens after you reproduce is completely irrelevant, except if you nurture your young, and the watersnakes definitely don't nurture. Living in the water does nothing to enhance their ability to survive until they reproduce. They could slither into the water and drown and it wouldn't matter because reproduction is over.”
“Yes,” said the Speaker. “I see now.”
“There are little clear eggs in the water, though. I've never seen a watersnake lay them, but since there's no other animal in or near the river large enough to lay the eggs, it seems logical that they're watersnake eggs. Only these big clear eggs– a centimeter across– they're completely sterile. The nutrients are there, everything's ready, but there's no embryo. Nothing. Some of them have a gamete– half a set of genes in a cell, ready to combine– but not a single one was alive. And we've never found watersnake eggs on land. One day there's nothing there but grama, getting riper and riper; the next day the grama stalks are crawling with baby watersnakes. Does this sound like a question worth exploring?”
“It sounds like spontaneous generation to me.”
“Yes, well, I'd like to find enough information to test some alternate hypotheses, but Mother won't let me. I asked her about this one and she made me take over the whole amaranth testing process so I wouldn't have time to muck around in the river. And another question. Why are there so few species here? On every other planet, even some of the nearly desert ones like Trondheim, there are thousands of different species, at least in the water. Here there's hardly a handful, as far as I can tell. The xingadora are the only birds we've seen. The suckflies are the only flies. The cabra are the only ruminants eating the capim grass. Except for the cabras, the piggies are the only large animals we've seen. Only one species of tree. Only one species of grass on the prairie, the capim; and the only other competing plant is the tropeqa, a long vine that wanders along the ground for meters and meters– the xingadora make their nests out of the vine. That's it. The xingadora eat the suckflies and nothing else. The suckflies eat the algae along the edge of the river. And our garbage, and that's it. Nothing eats the xingadora. Nothing eats the cabra.”
“Very limited,” said the Speaker.
“Impossibly limited. There are ten thousand ecological niches here that are completely unfilled. There's no way that evolution could leave this world so sparse.”
“Unless there was a disaster.”
“Exactly.”
“Something that wiped out all but a handful of species that were able to adapt.”
“Yes,” said Ela. “You see? And I have proof. The cabras have a huddling behavior pattern. When you come up on them, when they smell you, they circle with the adults facing inward, so they can kick out at the intruder and protect the young.”
“Lots of herd animals do that.”
“Protect them from what? The piggies are completely sylvan– they never hunt on the prairie. Whatever the predator was that forced the cabra to develop that behavior pattern, it's gone. And only recently– in the last hundred thousand years, the last million years maybe.”
“There's no evidence of any meteor falls more recent than twenty million years,” said the Speaker.
“No. That kind of disaster would kill off all the big animals and plants and leave hundreds of small ones, or maybe kill all land life and leave only the sea. But land, sea, all the environments were stripped, and yet some big creatures survived. No, I think it was a disease. A disease that struck across all species boundaries, that could adapt itself to any living thing. Of course, we wouldn't notice that disease now because all the species left alive have adapted to it. It would be part of their regular life pattern. The only way we'd notice the disease–”
“Is if we caught it,” said the Speaker. “The Descolada.”
“You see? Everything comes back to the Descolada. My grandparents found a way to stop it from killing humans, but it took the best genetic manipulation. The cabra, the watersnakes, they also found ways to adapt, and I doubt it was with dietary supplements. I think it all ties in together. The weird reproductive anomalies, the emptiness of the ecosystem, it all comes back to the Descolada bodies, and Mother won't let me examine them. She won't let me study what they are, how they work, how they might be involved with–”
“With the piggies.”
“Well, of course, but not just them, all the animals–”
The Speaker looked like he was suppressing excitement. As if she had explained something difficult. “The night that Pipo died, she locked the files showing all her current work, and she locked the files containing all the Descolada research. Whatever she showed Pipo had to do with the Descolada bodies, and it had to do with the piggies–”
“That's when she locked the files?” asked Ela.
“Yes. Yes.”
“Then I'm right, aren't I.”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. You've helped me more than you know.”
“Does this mean that you'll speak Father's death soon?”
The Speaker looked at her carefully. “You don't want me to Speak your father, really. You want me to Speak your mother.”
“She isn't dead.”
«But you know I can't possibly Speak Marc o without explaining why he married Novinha, and why they stayed married all those years.»
“That's right. I want all the secrets opened up. I want all the files unlocked. I don't want anything hidden.”
“You don't know what you're asking,” said the Speaker. “You don't know how much pain it will cause if all the secrets come out.”
>
“Take a look at my family, Speaker,” she answered. “How can the truth cause any more pain than the secrets have already caused?”
He smiled at her, but it was not a mirthful smile. It was– affectionate, even pitying. “You're right,” he said, “completely right, but you may have trouble realizing that, when you hear the whole story.”
“I know the whole story, as far as it can be known.”
“That's what everybody thinks, and nobody's right.”
“When will you have the Speaking?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Then why not now? Today? What are you waiting for?”
“I can't do anything until I talk to the piggies.”
“You're joking, aren't you? Nobody can talk to the piggies except the Zenadors. That's by Congressional Order. Nobody can get past that.”
“Yes,” said the Speaker. “That's why it's going to be hard.”
“Not hard, impossible–”
“Maybe,” he said. He stood; so did she. “Ela, you've helped me tremendously. Taught me everything I could have hoped to learn from you. Just like Olhado did. But he didn't like what I did with the things he taught me, and now he thinks I betrayed him.”
“He's a kid. I'm eighteen.”
The Speaker nodded, put his hand on her shoulder, squeezed. “We're all right then. We're friends.”
She was almost sure there was irony in what he said. Irony and, perhaps, a plea. “Yes,” she insisted. “We're friends. Always.”
He nodded again, turned away, pushed the boat from shore, and splashed after it through the reeds and muck. Once the boat was fairly afloat, he sat down and extended the oars, rowed, and then looked up and smiled at her. Ela smiled back, but the smile could not convey the elation she felt, the perfect relief. He had listened to everything, and understood everything, and he would make everything all right. She believed that, believed it so completely that she didn't even notice that it was the source of her sudden happiness. She knew only that she had spent an hour with the Speaker for the Dead, and now she felt more alive than she had in years.
She retrieved her shoes, put them back on her feet, and walked home. Mother would still be at the Biologista's Station, but Ela didn't want to work this afternoon. She wanted to go home and fix dinner; that was always solitary work. She hoped no one would talk with her. She hoped there'd be no problem she was expected to solve. Let this feeling linger forever.
Ela was only home for a few minutes, however, when Miro burst into the kitchen. “Ela,” he said. “Have you seen the Speaker for the Dead?”
“Yes,” she said. “On the river.”
“Where on the river!”
If she told him where they had met, he'd know that it wasn't a chance meeting. “Why?” she asked.
“Listen, Ela, this is no time to be suspicious, please. I've got to find him. We've left messages for him, the computer can't find him–”
“He was rowing downriver, toward home. He's probably going to be at his house soon.”
Miro rushed from the kitchen into the front room. Ela heard him tapping at the terminal. Then he came back in. “Thanks,” he said. “Don't expect me home for dinner.”
“What's so urgent?”
“Nothing.” It was so ridiculous, to say “nothing” when Miro was obviously agitated and hurried, that they both burst out laughing at once. “OK,” said Miro, “it isn't nothing, it's something, but I can't talk about it, OK?”
“OK.” But soon all the secrets will be known, Miro.
“What I don't understand is why he didn't get our message. I mean, the computer was paging him. Doesn't he wear an implant in his ear? The computer's supposed to be able to reach him. Of course, maybe he had it turned off.”
“No,” said Ela. “The light was on.”
Miro cocked his head and squinted at her. “You didn't see that tiny red light on his ear implant, not if he just happened to be out rowing in the middle of the river.”
“He came to shore. We talked.”
“What about?”
Ela smiled. “Nothing,” she said.
He smiled back, but he looked annoyed all the same. She understood: It's all right for you to have secrets from me, but not for me to have secrets from you, is that it, Miro?
He didn't argue about it, though. He was in too much of a hurry. Had to go find the Speaker, and now, and he wouldn't be home for dinner.
Ela had a feeling the Speaker might get to talk to the piggies sooner than she had thought possible. For a moment she was elated. The waiting would be over.
Then the elation passed, and something else took its place. A sick fear. A nightmare of China's papai, dear Libo, lying dead on the hillside, torn apart by the piggies. Only it wasn't Libo, the way she had always imagined the grisly scene. It was Miro. No, no, it wasn't Miro. It was the Speaker. It was the Speaker who would be tortured to death. “No,” she whispered.
Then she shivered and the nightmare left her mind; she went back to trying to spice and season the pasta so it would taste like something better than amaranth glue.
Chapter 14
Renegades
LEAF-EATER: Human says that when your brothers die, you bury them in the dirt and then make your houses out of that dirt. ( Laughs.)
MIRO: No. We never dig where people are buried.
LEAF-EATER: (becomes rigid with agitation): Then your dead don't do you any good at all!
– Ouanda Quenhatta Figueira Mucumbi, Dialogue Transcripts, 103:0:1969:4:13:111
Ender had thought they might have some trouble getting him through the gate, but Ouanda palmed the box, Miro opened the gate, and the three of them walked through. No challenge. It must be as Ela had implied– no one wants to get out of the compound, and so no serious security was needed. Whether that suggested that people were content to stay in Milagre or that they were afraid of the piggies or that they hated their imprisonment so much that they had to pretend the fence wasn't there, Ender could not begin to guess.
Both Ouanda and Miro were very tense, almost frightened. That was understandable, of course, since they were breaking Congressional rules to let him come. But Ender suspected there was more to it than that. Miro's tension was coupled with eagerness, a sense of hurry; he might be frightened, but he wanted to see what would happen, wanted to go ahead.
Ouanda held back, walked a measured step, and her coldness was not just fear but hostility as well. She did not trust him.
So Ender was not surprised when she stepped behind the large tree that grew nearest the gate and waited for Miro and Ender to follow her. Ender saw how Miro looked annoyed for a moment, then controlled himself. His mask of uninvolvement was as cool as a human being could hope for. Ender found himself comparing Miro to the boys he had known in Battle School, sizing him up as a comrade in arms, and thought Miro might have done well there. Ouanda, too, but for different reasons: She held herself responsible for what was happening, even though Ender was an adult and she was much younger. She did not defer to him at all. Whatever she was afraid of, it was not authority.
“Here?” asked Miro blandly.
“Or not at all.” said Ouanda.
Ender folded himself to sit at the base of the tree. “This is Rooter's tree, isn't it?” he asked.
They took it calmly– of course– but their momentary pause told him that yes, he had surprised them by knowing something about a past that they surely regarded as their own. I may be a framling here, Ender said silently, but I don't have to be an ignorant one.
"Yes," said Ouanda. "He's the totem they seem to get the most– direction from. Lately– the last seven or eight years. They've never let us see the rituals in which they talk to their ancestors, but it seems to involve drumming on the trees with heavy polished sticks. We hear them at night sometimes. "
“Sticks? Made of fallen wood?”
“We assume so. Why?”
“Because they have no stone or metal tools to cut the wood– isn't that right? Beside
s, if they worship the trees, they couldn't very well cut them down.”
“We don't think they worship the trees. It's totemic. They stand for dead ancestors. They– plant them. With the bodies.”
Ouanda had wanted to stop, to talk or question him, but Ender had no intention of letting her believe she– or Miro, for that matter– was in charge of this expedition. Ender intended to talk to the piggies himself. He had never prepared for a Speaking by letting someone else determine his agenda, and he wasn't going to begin now. Besides, he had information they didn't have. He knew Ela's theory.
“And anywhere else?” he asked. “Do they plant trees at any other time?”
They looked at each other. “Not that we've seen,” said Miro.
Ender was not merely curious. He was still thinking of what Ela had told him about reproductive anomalies. “And do the trees also grow by themselves? Are seedlings and saplings scattered through the forest?”
Ouanda shook her head. “We really don't have any evidence of the trees being planted anywhere but in the corpses of the dead. At least, all the trees we know of are quite old, except these three out here.”
“Four, if we don't hurry,” said Miro.
Ah. Here was the tension between them. Miro's sense of urgency was to save a piggy from being planted at the base of another tree. While Ouanda was concerned about something quite different. They had revealed enough of themselves to him; now he could let her interrogate him. He sat up straight and tipped his head back, to look up into the leaves of the tree above him, the spreading branches, the pale green of photosynthesis that confirmed the convergence, the inevitability of evolution on every world. Here was the center of all of Ela's paradoxes: evolution on this world was obviously well within the pattern that xenobiologists had seen on all the Hundred Worlds, and yet somewhere the pattern had broken down, collapsed. The piggies were one of a few dozen species that had survived the collapse. What was the Descolada, and how had the piggies adapted to it?
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