His weeping stopped; his emotions retreated again. “How old am I?” he asked.
“It has been 3081 years since you were born. But your subjective age is 36 years and 118 days.”
“And how old will Novinha be when I get there?”
“Give or take a few weeks, depending on departure date and how close the starship comes to the speed of light, she’ll be nearly thirty-nine.”
“I want to leave tomorrow.”
“It takes time to schedule a starship, Ender.”
“Are there any orbiting Trondheim?”
“Half a dozen, of course, but only one that could be ready to go tomorrow, and it has a load of skrika for the luxury trade on Cyrillia and Armenia.”
“I’ve never asked you how rich I am.”
“I’ve handled your investments rather well over the years.”
“Buy the ship and the cargo for me.”
“What will you do with skrika on Lusitania?”
“What do the Cyrillians and Armenians do with it?”
“They wear some of it and eat the rest. But they pay more for it than anybody on Lusitania can afford.”
“Then when I give it to the Lusitanians, it may help soften their resentment of a Speaker coming to a Catholic colony.”
Jane became a genie coming out of a bottle. “I have heard, O Master, and I obey.” The genie turned into smoke, which was sucked into the mouth of the jar. Then the lasers turned off, and the air above the terminal was empty.
“Jane,” said Ender.
“Yes?” she answered, speaking through the jewel in his ear.
“Why do you want me to go to Lusitania?”
“I want you to add a third volume to the Hive Queen and the Hegemon. For the piggies.”
“Why do you care so much about them?”
“Because when you’ve written the books that reveal the soul of the three sentient species known to man, then you’ll be ready to write the fourth.”
“Another species of raman?” asked Ender.
“Yes. Me.”
Ender pondered this for a moment. “Are you ready to reveal yourself to the rest of humanity?”
“I’ve always been ready. The question is, are they ready to know me? It was easy for them to love the hegemon—he was human. And the hive queen, that was safe, because as far as they know all the buggers are dead. If you can make them love the piggies, who are still alive, with human blood on their hands—then they’ll be ready to know about me.”
“Someday,” said Ender, “I will love somebody who doesn’t insist that I perform the labors of Hercules.”
“You were getting bored with your life, anyway, Ender.”
“Yes. But I’m middle-aged now. I like being bored.”
“By the way, the owner of the starship Havelok, who lives on Gales, has accepted your offer of forty billion dollars for the ship and its cargo.”
“Forty billion! Does that bankrupt me?”
“A drop in the bucket. The crew has been notified that their contracts are null. I took the liberty of buying them passage on other ships using your funds. You and Valentine won’t need anybody but me to help you run the ship. Shall we leave in the morning?”
“Valentine,” said Ender. His sister was the only possible delay to his departure. Otherwise, now that the decision had been made, neither his students nor his few Nordic friendships here would be worth even a farewell.
“I can’t wait to read the book that Demosthenes writes about the history of Lusitania.” Jane had discovered the true identity of Demosthenes in the process of unmasking the original Speaker for the Dead.
“Valentine won’t come,” said Ender.
“But she’s your sister.”
Ender smiled. Despite Jane’s vast wisdom, she had no understanding of kinship. Though she had been created by humans and conceived herself in human terms, she was not biological. She learned of genetic matters by rote; she could not feel the desires and imperatives that human beings had in common with all other living things. “She’s my sister, but Trondheim is her home.”
“She’s been reluctant to go before.”
“This time I wouldn’t even ask her to come.” Not with a baby coming, not as happy as she is here in Reykjavik. Here where they love her as a teacher, never guessing that she is really the legendary Demosthenes. Here where her husband, Jakt, is lord of a hundred fishing vessels and master of the fjords, where every day is filled with brilliant conversation or the danger and majesty of the floe-strewn sea, she’ll never leave here. Nor will she understand why I must go.
And, thinking of leaving Valentine, Ender wavered in his determination to go to Lusitania. He had been taken from his beloved sister once before, as a child, and resented deeply the years of friendship that had been stolen from him. Could he leave her now, again, after almost twenty years of being together all the time? This time there would be no going back. Once he went to Lusitania, she would have aged twenty-two years in his absence; she’d be in her eighties if he took another twenty-two years to return to her.
Don’t taunt me, said Ender silently. I’m entitled to feel regret.
It was the voice of the hive queen in his mind. Of course she had seen all that he saw, and knew all that he had decided. His lips silently formed his words to her: I’ll leave her, but not for you. We can’t be sure this will bring any benefit to you. It might be just another disappointment, like Trondheim.
But it also belongs to another people. I won’t destroy the piggies just to atone for having destroyed your people.
I know what you’ve told me.
I know you could live in peace with them. But could they live in peace with you?
Ender walked to a tattered bag that stood unlocked in the corner. Everything he truly owned could fit in there—his change of clothing. All the other things in his room were gifts from people he had Spoken to, honoring him or his office or the truth, he could never tell which. They would stay here when he left. He had no room for them in his bag.
He opened it, pulled out a rolled-up towel, unrolled it. There lay the thick fibrous mat of a large cocoon, fourteen centimeters at its longest point.
He had found the cocoon waiting for him when he came to govern the first human colony on a former bugger world. Foreseeing their own destruction at Ender’s hands, knowing him to be an invincible enemy, they had sculptured the landscape in a pattern that would be meaningful only to him, because it had been taken from his dreams. The cocoon, with its helpless but conscious hive queen, had waited for him in a tower where once, in his dreams, he had found an enemy. “You waited longer for me to find you,” he said aloud, “than the few years since I took you from behind the mirror.”
“Have I found a place yet that was safe for you?”
“Maybe Lusitania is the place, I don’t know.”
“I’m trying.” Why else do you think I have wandered from world to world for all these years, if not to find a place for you?
I’ve got to find a place where we won’t kill you again the moment you appear. You’re still in t
oo many human nightmares. Not that many people really believe my book. They may condemn the Xenocide, but they’d do it again.
He laughed. Me forgive you.
It was me.
It was me.
When you walk on the face of a world again, then I can be forgiven.
5
VALENTINE
Today I let slip that Libo is my son. Only Bark heard me say it, but within an hour it was apparently common knowledge. They gathered around me and made Selvagem ask me if it was true, was I really a father “already.” Selvagem then put Libo’s and my hands together; on impulse I gave Libo a hug, and they made the clicking noises of astonishment and, I think, awe. I could see from that moment on that my prestige among them had risen considerably.
The conclusion is inescapable. The pequeninos that we’ve known so far are not a whole community, or even typical males. They are either juveniles or old bachelors. Not a one of them has ever sired any children. Not a one has even mated, as nearly as we can figure.
There isn’t a primate society I’ve heard of where bachelor groups like this are anything but outcasts, without power or prestige. No wonder they speak of the females with that odd mixtures of worship and contempt, one minute not daring to make a decision without their consent, the next minute telling us that the women are too stupid to understand anything, they are varelse. Until now I was taking these statements at face value, which led to a mental picture of the females as nonsentients, a herd of sows, down on all fours. I thought the males might be consulting them the way they consult trees, using their grunting as a means of divining answers, like casting bones or reading entrails.
Now, though, I realize the females are probably every bit as intelligent as the males, and not varelse at all. The males’ negative statements arise from their resentment as bachelors, excluded from the reproductive process and the power structures of the tribe. The pequeninos have been just as careful with us as we have been with them—they haven’t let us meet their females or the males who have any real power. We thought we were exploring the heart of pequenino society. Instead, figuratively speaking we must be in the genetic sewer; among the males whose genes have not been judged fit to contribute to the tribe.
And yet I don’t believe it. The pequeninos I’ve known have all been bright, clever, quick to learn. So quick that I’ve taught them more about human society, accidently, than I’ve learned about them after years of trying. If these are their castoffs, then I hope someday they’ll judge me worthy to meet the “wives” and the “fathers.”
In the meantime I can’t report any of this because, whether I meant to or not, I’ve clearly violated the rules. Never mind that nobody could possibly have kept the pequeninos from learning anything about us. Never mind that the rules are stupid and counterproductive. I broke them, and if they find out they’ll cut off my contact with the pequeninos, which will be even worse than the severely limited contact we now have. So I’m forced into deception and silly subterfuges, like putting these notes in Libo’s locked personal files, where even my dear wife wouldn’t think to look for them. Here’s the information, absolutely vital, that the pequeninos we’ve studied are all bachelors, and because of the regulations I dare not let the framling xenologers know anything about it. Olha bem, gente, aqui esta: A ciência, o bicho que se devora a si mesma! (Watch closely, folks, here it is: Science, the ugly little beast that devours itself!)
—João Figueira Alvarez, Secret Notes, published in Demosthenes, “The Integrity of Treason: The Xenologers of Lusitania,” Reykjavik Historical Perspectives, 1990:4:1
Her belly was tight and swollen, and still a month remained before Valentine’s daughter was due to be born. It was a constant nuisance, being so large and unbalanced. Always before when she had been preparing to take a history class into söndring, she had been able to do much of the loading of the boat herself. Now she had to rely on her husband’s sailors to do it all, and she couldn’t even scramble back and forth from wharf to hold—the captain was ordering the stowage to keep the ship in balance. He was doing it well, of course—hadn’t Captain Räv taught her, when she first arrived?—but Valentine did not like being forced into a sedentary role.
It was her fifth söndring; the first had been the occasion of meeting Jakt. She had no thought of marriage. Trondheim was a world like any of the other score that she had visited with her peripatetic younger brother. She would teach, she would study, and after four or five months she would write an extended historical essay, publish it pseudonymously under the name Demosthenes, and then enjoy herself until Ender accepted a call to go speak somewhere else. Usually their work meshed perfectly—he would be called to speak the death of some major person, whose life story would then become the focus of her essay. It was a game they played, pretending to be itinerant professors of this and that, while in actuality they created or transformed the world’s identity, for Demosthenes’ essay was always seen as definitive.
She had thought, for a time, that surely someone would realize that Demosthenes wrote essays that suspiciously followed her itinerary, and find her out. But soon she realized that, like the speakers but to a lesser degree, a mythology had grown up about Demosthenes. People believed that Demosthenes was not one individual. Rather, each Demosthenes essay was thought to be the work of a genius writing independently, who then attempted to publish under the Demosthenes rubric; some imagined that the computer automatically submitted the work to an unknown committee of brilliant historians of the age, who decided whether it was worthy of the name. Never mind that no one ever met a scholar to whom such a work had been submitted. Hundreds of “Demosthenes” essays every year were attempted; the computer automatically rejected any that were not written by the real Demosthenes; and still the belief firmly persisted that such a person as Valentine could not possibly exist. After all, Demosthenes had begun as a demagogue on the computer nets back when Earth was fighting the Bugger Wars, three thousand years ago. It could not be the same person now.
And it’s true, thought Valentine. I’m not the same person, really, from book to book, because each world changes who I am, even as I write down the story of the world. And this world most of all.
She had disliked the pervasiveness of Lutheran thought, especially the so-called Calvinist faction, who seemed to have an answer to every question before it had even been asked. So she conceived the idea of taking a select group of graduate students away from Reykjavik, off to one of the Summer Islands, the equatorial chain where, in the spring, skrika came to spawn and flocks of halkig went crazy with reproductive energy. Her idea was to break the patterns of intellectual rot that were inevitable at every university. The students would eat nothing but the havregrin that grew wild in the sheltered valleys and whatever halkig they had the nerve and wit to kill. When their daily food depended on their own exertion, their attitudes about what mattered and did not matter in history were bound to change.
The university gave permission, grudgingly; she used her own funds to charter a boat from Jakt, who had just become head of one of the many skrika-catching families. He had a seaman’s contempt for university people, calling them skräddare to their faces and worse things behind their backs. He told Valentine that he would have to come back to rescue her starving students within a week. Instead she and her castaways, as they dubbed themselves, lasted the whole time, and thrived, building something of a village and enjoying a burst of creative, unfettered thought that resulted in a noticeable surge of excellent and insightful publications upon their return.
The most obvious result in Reykjavik was
that Valentine always had hundreds of applicants for the twenty places in each of three söndrings of the summer. Far more important to her, however, was Jakt. He was not particularly educated, but he was intimately familiar with the lore of Trondheim itself. He could pilot halfway around the equatorial sea without a chart. He knew the drifts of icebergs and where the floes would be thick. He seemed to know where the skrika would be gathered to dance, and how to deploy his hunters to catch them unawares as they flopped ashore from the sea. Weather never seemed to take him by surprise, and Valentine concluded that there was no situation he was not prepared for.
Except for her. And when the Lutheran minister—not a Calvinist—married them, they both seemed more surprised than happy. Yet they were happy. And for the first time since she left Earth she felt whole, at peace, at home. That’s why the baby grew within her. The wandering was over. And she was so grateful to Ender that he had understood this, that without their having to discuss it he had realized that Trondheim was the end of their three-thousand-mile Odyssey, the end of Demosthenes’ career; like the ishäxa, she had found a way to root in the ice of this world and draw nourishment that the soil of other lands had not provided.
The baby kicked hard, taking her from her reverie; she looked around to see Ender coming toward her, walking along the wharf with his duffel slung over his shoulder. She understood at once why he had brought his bag: He meant to go along on the söndring. She wondered whether she was glad of it. Ender was quiet and unobtrusive, but he could not possibly conceal his brilliant understanding of human nature. The average students would overlook him, but the best of them, the ones she hoped would come up with original thought, would inevitably follow the subtle but powerful clues he would inevitably drop. The result would be impressive, she was sure—after all, she owed a great debt to his insights over the years—but it would be Ender’s brilliance, not the students’. It would defeat somewhat the purpose of the söndring.
But she wouldn’t tell him no when he asked to come. Truth to tell, she would love to have him along. Much as she loved Jakt, she missed the constant closeness that she and Ender used to have before she married. It would be years before she and Jakt could possibly be as tightly bound together as she and her brother were. Jakt knew it, too, and it caused him some pain; a husband shouldn’t have to compete with his brother-in-law for the devotion of his wife.
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 43
