The Ender Quintet (Omnibus)

by Card, Orson Scott

  The starship performed the Park shift; in an immeasurable moment its velocity changed relative to the rest of the universe. Or, rather, the theory had it that in fact the velocity of the rest of the universe changed, while the starship remained truly motionless. No one could be sure, because there was nowhere to stand to observe the phenomenon. It was anybody’s guess, since nobody understood why philotic effects worked anyway; the ansible had been developed half by accident, and along with it the Park Instantaneity Principle. It may not be comprehensible, but it worked.

  The windows of the starship instantly filled with stars as light became visible again in all directions. Someday a scientist would discover why the Park shift took almost no energy. Somewhere, Ender was certain, a terrible price was being paid for human starflight. He had dreamed once of a star winking out every time a starship made the Park shift. Jane assured him that it wasn’t so, but he knew that most stars were invisible to us; a trillion of them could disappear and we’d not know it. For thousands of years we would continue to see the photons that had already been launched before the star disappeared. By the time we could see the galaxy go blank, it would be far too late to amend our course.

  “Sitting there in paranoid fantasy,” said Jane.

  “You can’t read minds,” said Ender.

  “You always get morose and speculate about the destruction of the universe whenever you come out of starflight. It’s your peculiar manifestation of motion sickness.”

  “Have you alerted Lusitanian authorities that I’m coming?”

  “It’s a very small colony. There’s no Landing Authority because hardly anybody goes there. There’s an orbiting shuttle that automatically takes people up and down to a laughable little shuttleport.”

  “No clearance from Immigration?”

  “You’re a speaker. They can’t turn you away. Besides, Immigration consists of the Governor, who is also the Mayor, since the city and the colony are identical. Her name is Faria Lima Maria do Bosque, called Bosquinha, and she sends you greetings and wishes you would go away, since they’ve got trouble enough without a prophet of agnosticism going around annoying good Catholics.”

  “She said that?”

  “Actually, not to you—Bishop Peregrino said it to her, and she agreed. But it’s her job to agree. If you tell her that Catholics are all idolatrous, superstitious fools, she’ll probably sigh and say, I hope you can keep those opinions to yourself.”

  “You’re stalling,” said Ender. “What is it you think I don’t want to hear?”

  “Novinha canceled her call for a speaker. Five days after she sent it.”

  Of course, the Starways Code said that once Ender had begun his voyage in response to her call, the call could not legally be canceled; still, it changed everything, because instead of eagerly awaiting his arrival for twenty-two years, she would be dreading it, resenting him for coming when she had changed her mind. He had expected to be received by her as a welcome friend. Now she would be even more hostile than the Catholic establishment. “Anything to simplify my work,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not all bad, Andrew. You see, in the intervening years, a couple of other people have called for a speaker, and they haven’t canceled.”

  “Who?”

  “By the most fascinating coincidence, they are Novinha’s son Miro and Novinha’s daughter Ela.”

  “They couldn’t possibly have known Pipo. Why would they call me to speak his death?”

  “Oh, no, not Pipo’s death. Ela called for a Speaker only six weeks ago, to speak the death of her father, Novinha’s husband, Marcos Maria Ribeira, called Marcão. He keeled over in a bar. Not from alcohol—he had a disease. He died of terminal rot.”

  “I worry about you, Jane, consumed with compassion the way you are.”

  “Compassion is what you’re good at. I’m better at complex searches through organized data structures.”

  “And the boy—what’s his name?”

  “Miro. He called for a Speaker four years ago. For the death of Pipo’s son, Libo.”

  “Libo couldn’t be older than forty—”

  “He was helped along to an early death. He was xenologer, you see—or Zenador, as they say in Portuguese.”

  “The piggies—”

  “Exactly like his father’s death. The organs placed exactly the same. Three piggies have been executed the same way while you were en route, though farther from the gate. But they plant trees in the middle of the piggy corpses—no such honor for the dead humans.”

  Both xenologers murdered by the piggies, a generation apart. “What has the Starways Council decided?”

  “It’s very tricky. They keep vacillating. They haven’t certified either of Libo’s apprentices as xenologer. One is Libo’s daughter, Ouanda. And the other is Miro, the one who called for a speaker.”

  “Do they maintain contact with the piggies?”

  “Officially, no. There’s some controversy about this. After Libo died, the Council forbade contact more frequently than once a month. But Libo’s daughter categorically refused to obey the order.”

  “And they didn’t remove her?”

  “The majority for cutting back on contact with the piggies was paper thin. There was no majority for censuring her. At the same time, they worry that Miro and Ouanda are so young. Two years ago a party of scientists was dispatched from Calicut. They should be here to take over supervision of piggy affairs in only thirty-three more years.”

  “Do they have any idea this time why the piggies killed the xenologer?”

  “None at all. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  The answer would have been easy, except that the hive queen nudged him gently in the back of his mind. Ender could feel her like wind through the leaves of a tree, a rustling, a gentle movement, and sunlight. Yes, he was here to speak for the dead. But he was also here to bring the dead back to life.

 

  The hive queen was making the enormous effort to speak to him during near lightspeed flight.

 

  The piggies? They think the way you do?

 

  The hive queen withdrew, and Ender was left to ponder the thought that with Lusitania he may have bitten off more than he could chew.

  Bishop Peregrino delivered the homily himself. That was always a bad sign. Never an exciting speaker, he had become so convoluted and parenthetical that half the time Ela couldn’t even understand what he was talking about. Quim pretended he could understand, of course, because as far as he was concerned the bishop could do no wrong. But little Grego made no attempt to seem interested. Even when Sister Esquecimento was roving the aisle, with her needle-sharp nails and cruel grip, Grego fearlessly performed whatever mischief entered his head.

  Today he was prying the rivets out of the back of the plastic bench in front of them. It bothered Ela how strong he was—a six-year-old shouldn’t be able to work a screwdriver under the lip of a heat-sealed rivet. Ela wasn’t sure she could do it.

  If Father were here, of course, his long arm would snake out and gently, oh so gently, take the screwdriver out of Grego’s hand. He would whisper, “Where did you get this?” and Grego would look at him with wide and innocent eyes. Later, when the family got home from mass, Father would rage at Miro for leaving tools around, calling him terrible names and blaming him for all the troubles of the family. Miro would bear it in silence. Ela would busy herself with preparation for the evening meal. Quim would sit uselessly in the corner, massaging the rosary and murmuring his useless little prayers. Olhado was the lucky one, with his electronic eyes—he simply turned them off or played back some favorite scene from the past and paid no attention. Quara went off and cowered in the corner. And little Grego stood there triumphantly, his hand clutching Father’s pantleg, watching as the blame for everything he did was poured out on Miro’s h
ead.

  Ela shuddered as the scene played itself out in her memory. If it had ended there, it would have been bearable. But then Miro would leave, and they would eat, and then—

  Sister Esquecimento’s spidery fingers leapt out; her fingernails dug into Grego’s arm. Instantly, Grego dropped the screwdriver. Of course it was supposed to clatter on the floor, but Sister Esquecimento was no fool. She bent quickly and caught it in her other hand. Grego grinned. Her face was only inches from his knee. Ela saw what he had in mind, reached out to try to stop him, but too late—he brought his knee up sharply into Sister Esquecimento’s mouth.

  She gasped from the pain and let go of Grego’s arm. He snatched the screwdriver out of her slackened hand. Holding a hand to her bleeding mouth, she fled down the aisle. Grego resumed his demolition work.

  Father is dead, Ela reminded herself. The words sounded like music in her mind. Father is dead, but he’s still here, because he left his monstrous little legacy behind. The poison he put in us all is still ripening, and eventually it will kill us all. When he died his liver was only two inches long, and his spleen could not be found. Strange fatty organs had grown in their places. There was no name for the disease; his body had gone insane, forgotten the blueprint by which human beings were built. Even now the disease still lives on in his children. Not in our bodies, but in our souls. We exist where normal human children are expected to be; we’re even shaped the same. But each of us in our own way has been replaced by an imitation child, shaped out of a twisted, fetid, lipidous goiter that grew out of Father’s soul.

  Maybe it would be different if Mother tried to make it better. But she cared about nothing but microscopes and genetically enhanced cereals, or whatever she was working on now.

  “. . . so-called Speaker for the Dead! But there is only One who can speak for the dead, and that is Sagrado Cristo . . .”

  Bishop Peregrino’s words caught her attention. What was he saying about a speaker for the dead? He couldn’t possibly know she had called for one—

  “. . . the law requires us to treat him with courtesy, but not with belief! The truth is not to be found in the speculations and hypotheses of unspiritual men, but in the teachings and traditions of Mother Church. So when he walks among you, give him your smiles, but hold back your hearts!”

  Why was he giving this warning? The nearest planet was Trondheim, twenty-two lightyears away, and it wasn’t likely there’d be a speaker there. It would be decades till a speaker arrived, if one came at all. She leaned over Quara to ask Quim—he would have been listening. “What’s this about a Speaker for the Dead?” she whispered.

  “If you’d listen, you’d know for yourself.”

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll deviate your septum.”

  Quim smirked, to show her he wasn’t afraid of her threats. But, since in fact he was afraid of her, he then told her. “Some faithless wretch apparently requested a speaker back when the first xenologer died, and he arrives this afternoon—he’s already on the shuttle and the Mayor is on her way out to meet him when he lands.”

  She hadn’t bargained for this. The computer hadn’t told her a speaker was already on the way. He was supposed to come years from now, to speak the truth about the monstrosity called Father who had finally blessed his family by dropping dead; the truth would come like light to illuminate and purify their past. But Father was too recently dead for him to be spoken now. His tentacles still reached out from the grave and sucked at their hearts.

  The homily ended, and eventually so did the mass. She held tightly to Grego’s hand, trying to keep him from snatching someone’s book or bag as they threaded through the crowd. Quim was good for something, at least—he carried Quara, who always froze up when she was supposed to make her way among strangers. Olhado switched his eyes back on and took care of himself, winking metallically at whatever fifteen-year-old semi-virgin he was hoping to horrify today. Ela genuflected at the statues of Os Venerados, her long-dead, half-sainted grandparents. Aren’t you proud to have such lovely grandchildren as us?

  Grego was smirking; sure enough, he had a baby’s shoe in his hand. Ela silently prayed that the infant had come out of the encounter unbloodied. She took the shoe from Grego and laid it on the little altar where candles burned in perpetual witness of the miracle of the Descolada. Whoever owned the shoe, they’d find it there.

  Mayor Bosquinha was cheerful enough as the car skimmed over the grassland between the shuttleport and the settlement of Milagre. She pointed out herds of semi-domestic cabra, a native species that provided fibers for cloth, but whose meat was nutritionally useless to human beings.

  “Do the piggies eat them?” asked Ender.

  She raised an eyebrow. “We don’t know much about the piggies.”

  “We know they live in the forest. Do they ever come out on the plain?”

  She shrugged. “That’s for the framlings to decide.”

  Ender was startled for a moment to hear her use that word; but of course Demosthenes’ latest book had been published twenty-two years ago, and distributed through the Hundred Worlds by ansible. Utlanning, framling, raman, varelse—the terms were part of Stark now, and probably did not even seem particularly novel to Bosquinha.

  It was her lack of curiosity about the piggies that left him feeling uncomfortable. The people of Lusitania couldn’t possibly be unconcerned about the piggies—they were the reason for the high, impassable fence that none but the Zenadors could cross. No, she wasn’t incurious, she was avoiding the subject. Whether it was because the murderous piggies were a painful subject or because she didn’t trust a speaker for the dead, he couldn’t guess.

  They crested a hill and she stopped the car. Gently it settled onto its skids. Below them a broad river wound its way among grassy hills; beyond the river, the farther hills were completely covered with forest. Along the far bank of the river, brick and plaster houses with tile roofs made a picturesque town. Farmhouses perched on the near bank, their long narrow fields reaching toward the hill where Ender and Bosquinha sat.

  “Milagre,” said Bosquinha. “On the highest hill, the Cathedral. Bishop Peregrino has asked the people to be polite and helpful to you.”

  From her tone, Ender gathered that he had also let them know that he was a dangerous agent of agnosticism. “Until God strikes me dead?” he asked.

  Bosquinha smiled. “God is setting an example of Christian tolerance, and we expect everyone in town will follow.”

  “Do they know who called me?”

  “Whoever called you has been—discreet.”

  “You’re the Governor, besides being Mayor. You have some privileges of information.”

  “I know that your original call was canceled, but too late. I also know that two others have requested speakers in recent years. But you must realize that most people are content to receive their doctrine and their consolation from the priests.”

  “They’ll be relieved to know that I don’t deal in doctrine or consolation.”

  “Your kind offer to let us have your cargo of skrika will make you popular enough in the bars, and you can be sure you’ll see plenty of vain women wearing the pelts in the months to come. It’s coming on to autumn.”

  “I happened to acquire the skrika with the starship—it was of no use to me, and I don’t expect any special gratitude for it.” He looked at the rough, furry-looking grass around him. “This grass—it’s native?”

  “And useless. We can’t even use it for thatch—if you cut it, it crumbles, and then dissolves into dust in the next rain. But down there, in the fields, the most common crop is a special breed of amaranth that our xenobiologist developed for us. Rice and wheat were feeble and undependable crops here, but the amaranth is so hardy that we have to use herbicides around the fields to keep it from spreading.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a quarantined world, Speaker. The amaranth is so well-suited to this environment that it would soon choke out the native grasses. The idea is not to
terraform Lusitania. The idea is to have as little impact on this world as possible.”

  “That must be hard on the people.”

  “Within our enclave, Speaker, we are free and our lives are full. And outside the fence—no one wants to go there, anyway.”

  The tone of her voice was heavy with concealed emotion. Ender knew, then, that the fear of the piggies ran deep.

  “Speaker, I know you’re thinking that we’re afraid of the piggies. And perhaps some of us are. But the feeling most of us have, most of the time, isn’t fear at all. It’s hatred. Loathing.”

  “You’ve never seen them.”

  “You must know of the two Zenadors who were killed—I suspect you were originally called to speak the death of Pipo. But both of them, Pipo and Libo alike, were beloved here. Especially Libo. He was a kind and generous man, and the grief at his death was widespread and genuine. It is hard to conceive of how the piggies could do to him what they did. Dom Cristão, the abbot of the Filhos da Mente de Cristo—he says that they must lack the moral sense. He says this may mean that they are beasts. Or it may mean that they are unfallen, having not yet eaten of the fruit of the forbidden tree.” She smiled tightly. “But that’s theology, and so it means nothing to you.”

  He did not answer. He was used to the way religious people assumed that their sacred stories must sound absurd to unbelievers. But Ender did not consider himself an unbeliever, and he had a keen sense of the sacredness of many tales. But he could not explain this to Bosquinha. She would have to change her assumptions about him over time. She was suspicious of him, but he believed she could be won; to be a good Mayor, she had to be skilled at seeing people for what they are, not for what they seem.

  He turned the subject. “The Filhos da Mente de Cristo—my Portuguese isn’t strong, but does that mean ‘Sons of the Mind of Christ’?”

  “They’re a new order, relatively speaking, formed only four hundred years ago under a special dispensation of the Pope—”