The Ender Quintet (Omnibus)

by Card, Orson Scott

  The pain in her hip flared even as she thought of it. She nodded in satisfaction. It’s no more than I deserve, and I’ll be sorry when it heals.

  She stood up and walked, not limping at all even though the pain was more than enough to make her favor the hip. I’ll not coddle myself, not in anything. It’s no worse than I deserve.

  She walked to the door, closed it behind her. The computer turned off the lights as soon as she was gone, except those needed for the various plants in forced photosynthetic phase. She loved her plants, her little beasts, with surprising intensity. Grow, she cried out to them day and night, grow and thrive. She would grieve for the ones that failed and pinch them dead only when it was plain they had no future. Now as she walked away from the station, she could still hear their subliminal music, the cries of the infinitesimal cells as they grew and split and formed themselves into ever more elaborate patterns. She was going from light into darkness, from life into death, and the emotional pain grew worse in perfect synchronicity with the inflammation of her joints.

  As she approached her house from over the hill, she could see the patches of light thrown through the windows and out onto the hill below. Quara’s and Grego’s room was dark; she would not have to bear their unbearable accusations—Quara’s in silence, Grego’s in sullen and vicious crimes. But there were too many other lights on, including her own room and the front room. Something unusual was going on, and she didn’t like unusual things.

  Olhado sat in the living room, earphones on as usual; tonight, though, he also had the interface jack attached to his eye. Apparently he was retrieving old visual memories from the computer, or perhaps dumping out some he had been carrying with him. As so many times before, she wished she could also dump out her visual memories and wipe them clean, replace them with more pleasant ones. Pipo’s corpse, that would be one she’d gladly be rid of, to be replaced by some of the golden glorious days with the three of them together in the Zenador’s Station. And Libo’s body wrapped in its cloth, that sweet flesh held together only by the winding fabric; she would like to have instead other memories of his body, the touch of his lips, the expressiveness of his delicate hands. But the good memories fled, buried too deep under the pain. I stole them all, those good days, and so they were taken back and replaced by what I deserved.

  Olhado turned to face her, the jack emerging obscenely from his eye. She could not control her shudder, her shame. I’m sorry, she said silently. If you had had another mother, you would doubtless still have your eye. You were born to be the best, the healthiest, the wholest of my children, Lauro, but of course nothing from my womb could be left intact for long.

  She said nothing of this, of course, just as Olhado said nothing to her. She turned to go back to her room and find out why the light was on.

  “Mother,” said Olhado.

  He had taken the earphones off, and was twisting the jack out of his eye.

  “Yes?”

  “We have a visitor,” he said. “The Speaker.”

  She felt herself go cold inside. Not tonight, she screamed silently. But she also knew that she would not want to see him tomorrow, either, or the next day, or ever.

  “His pants are clean now, and he’s in your room changing back into them. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Ela emerged from the kitchen. “You’re home,” she said. “I poured some cafezinhos, one for you, too.”

  “I’ll wait outside until he’s gone,” said Novinha.

  Ela and Olhado looked at each other. Novinha understood at once that they regarded her as a problem to be solved; that apparently they subscribed to whatever the Speaker wanted to do here. Well, I’m a dilemma that’s not going to be solved by you.

  “Mother,” said Olhado, “he’s not what the Bishop said. He’s good.”

  Novinha answered him with her most withering sarcasm. “Since when are you an expert on good and evil?”

  Again Ela and Olhado looked at each other. She knew what they were thinking. How can we explain to her? How can we persuade her? Well, dear children, you can’t. I am unpersuadable, as Libo found out every week of his life. He never had the secret from me. It’s not my fault he died.

  But they had succeeded in turning her from her decision. Instead of leaving the house, she retreated into the kitchen, passing Ela in the doorway but not touching her. The tiny coffee cups were arranged in a neat circle on the table, the steaming pot in the center. She sat down and rested her forearms on the table. So the Speaker was here, and had come to her first. Where else would he go? It’s my fault he’s here, isn’t it? He’s one more person whose life I have destroyed, like my children’s lives, like Marcão’s, and Libo’s, and Pipo’s, and my own.

  A strong yet surprisingly smooth masculine hand reached out over her shoulder, took up the pot, and began to pour through the tiny, delicate spout, the thin stream of hot coffee swirling into the tiny cafezinho cups.

  “Posso derramar?” he asked. What a stupid question, since he was already pouring. But his voice was gentle, his Portuguese tinged with the graceful accents of Castilian. A Spaniard, then?

  “Desculpa-me,” she whispered. Forgive me. “Trouxe o senhor tantos quilômetros—”

  “We don’t measure starflight in kilometers, Dona Ivanova. We measure it in years.” His words were an accusation, but his voice spoke of wistfulness, even forgiveness, even consolation. I could be seduced by that voice. That voice is a liar.

  “If I could undo your voyage and return you twenty-two years, I’d do it. Calling for you was a mistake. I’m sorry.” Her own voice sounded flat. Since her whole life was a lie, even this apology sounded rote.

  “I don’t feel the time yet,” said the Speaker. Still he stood behind her, so she had not yet seen his face. “For me it was only a week ago that I left my sister. She was the only kin of mine left alive. Her daughter wasn’t born yet, and now she’s probably through with college, married, perhaps with children of her own. I’ll never know her. But I know your children, Dona Ivanova.”

  She lifted the cafezinho and drank it down in a single swallow, though it burned her tongue and throat and made her stomach hurt. “In only a few hours you think you know them?”

  “Better than you do, Dona Ivanova.”

  Novinha heard Ela gasp at the Speaker’s audacity. And, even though she thought his words might be true, it still enraged her to have a stranger say them. She turned to look at him, to snap at him, but he had moved, he was not behind her. She turned farther, finally standing up to look for him, but he wasn’t in the room. Ela stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.

  “Come back!” said Novinha. “You can’t say that and walk out on me like that!”

  But he didn’t answer. Instead, she heard low laughter from the back of the house. Novinha followed the sound. She walked through the rooms to the very end of the house. Miro sat on Novinha’s own bed, and the Speaker stood near the doorway, laughing with him. Miro saw his mother and the smile left his face. It caused a stab of anguish within her. She had not seen him smile in years, had forgotten how beautiful his face became, just like his father’s face; and her coming had erased that smile.

  “We came here to talk because Quim was so angry,” Miro explained. “Ela made the bed.”

  “I don’t think the Speaker cares whether the bed was made or not,” said Novinha coldly. “Do you, Speaker?”

  “Order and disorder,” said the Speaker, “they each have their beauty.” Still he did not turn to face her, and she was glad of that, for it meant she did not have to see his eyes as she delivered her bitter message.

  “I tell you, Speaker, that you’ve come on a fool’s errand,” she said. “Hate me for it if you will, but you have no death to speak. I was a foolish girl. In my naivete I thought that when I called, the author of the Hive Queen and the Hegemon would come. I had lost a man who was like a father to me, and I wanted consolation.”

  Now he turned to her. He was a youngish man, younger than her, at least, but his eyes were s
eductive with understanding. Perigoso, she thought. He is dangerous, he is beautiful, I could drown in his understanding.

  “Dona Ivanova,” he said, “how could you read the Hive Queen and the Hegemon and imagine that its author could bring comfort?”

  It was Miro who answered—silent, slow-talking Miro, who leapt into the conversation with a vigor she had not seen in him since he was little. “I’ve read it,” he said, “and the original Speaker for the Dead wrote the tale of the hive queen with deep compassion.”

  The Speaker smiled sadly. “But he wasn’t writing to the buggers, was he? He was writing to humankind, who still celebrated the destruction of the buggers as a great victory. He wrote cruelly, to turn their pride to regret, their joy to grief. And now human beings have completely forgotten that once they hated the buggers, that once they honored and celebrated a name that is now unspeakable—”

  “I can say anything,” said Ivanova. “His name was Ender, and he destroyed everything he touched.” Like me, she did not say.

  “Oh? And what do you know of him?” His voice whipped out like a grass-saw, ragged and cruel. “How do you know there wasn’t something that he touched kindly? Someone who loved him, who was blessed by his love? Destroyed everything he touched—that’s a lie that can’t truthfully be said of any human being who ever lived.”

  “Is that your doctrine, Speaker? Then you don’t know much.” She was defiant, but still his anger frightened her. She had thought his gentleness was as imperturbable as a confessor’s.

  And almost immediately the anger faded from his face.

  “You can ease your conscience,” he said. “Your call started my journey here, but others called for a speaker while I was on the way.”

  “Oh?” Who else in this benighted city was familiar enough with the Hive Queen and the Hegemon to want a speaker, and independent enough of Bishop Peregrino to dare to call for one? “If that’s so, then why are you here in my house?”

  “Because I was called to speak the death of Marcos Maria Ribeira, your late husband.”

  It was an appalling thought. “Him! Who would want to think of him again, now that he’s dead!”

  The Speaker did not answer. Instead Miro spoke sharply from her bed. “Grego would, for one. The Speaker showed us what we should have known—that the boy is grieving for his father and thinks we all hate him—”

  “Cheap psychology,” she snapped. “We have therapists of our own, and they aren’t worth much either.”

  Ela’s voice came from behind her. “I called for him to speak Father’s death, Mother. I thought it would be decades before he came, but I’m glad he’s here now, when he can do us some good.”

  “What good can he do us!”

  “He already has, Mother. Grego fell asleep embracing him, and Quara spoke to him.”

  “Actually,” said Miro, “she told him that he stinks.”

  “Which was probably true,” said Ela, “since Greguinho peed all over him.”

  Miro and Ela burst into laughter at the memory, and the Speaker also smiled. This more than anything else discomposed Novinha—such good cheer had been virtually unfelt in this house since Marcão brought her here a year after Pipo’s death. Against her will Novinha remembered her joy when Miro was newly born, and when Ela was little, the first few years of their lives, how Miro babbled about everything, how Ela toddled madly after him through the house, how the children played together and romped in the grass within sight of the piggies’ forest just beyond the fence; it was Novinha’s delight in the children that poisoned Marcão, that made him hate them both, because he knew that none of it belonged to him. By the time Quim was born, the house was thick with anger, and he never learned how to laugh freely where his parents might notice. Hearing Miro and Ela laugh together was like the abrupt opening of a thick black curtain; suddenly it was daylight again, when Novinha had forgotten there was any season of the day but night.

  How dared this stranger invade her house and tear open all the curtains she had closed!

  “I won’t have it,” she said. “You have no right to pry into my husband’s life.”

  He raised an eyebrow. She knew Starways Code as well as anyone, and so she knew perfectly well that he not only had a right, the law protected him in the pursuit of the true story of the dead.

  “Marcão was a miserable man,” she persisted, “and telling the truth about him will cause nothing but pain.”

  “You’re quite right that the truth about him will cause nothing but pain, but not because he was a miserable man,” said the Speaker. “If I told nothing but what everyone already knows—that he hated his children and beat his wife and raged drunkenly from bar to bar until the constables sent him home—then I would not cause pain, would I? I’d cause a great deal of satisfaction, because then everyone would be reassured that their view of him was correct all along. He was scum, and so it was all right that they treated him like scum.”

  “And you think he wasn’t?”

  “No human being, when you understand his desires, is worthless. No one’s life is nothing. Even the most evil of men and women, if you understand their hearts, had some generous act that redeems them, at least a little, from their sins.”

  “If you believe that, then you’re younger than you look,” said Novinha.

  “Am I?” said the Speaker. “It was less than two weeks ago that I first heard your call. I studied you then, and even if you don’t remember, Novinha, I remember that as a young girl you were sweet and beautiful and good. You had been lonely before, but Pipo and Libo both knew you and found you worthy of love.”

  “Pipo was dead.”

  “But he loved you.”

  “You don’t know anything, Speaker! You were twenty-two lightyears away! Besides, it wasn’t me I was calling worthless, it was Marcão!”

  “But you don’t believe that, Novinha. Because you know the one act of kindness and generosity that redeems that poor man’s life.”

  Novinha did not understand her own terror, but she had to silence him before he named it, even though she had no idea what kindness of Cão’s he thought he had discovered. “How dare you call me Novinha!” she shouted. “No one has called me that in four years!”

  In answer, he raised his hand and brushed his fingers across the back of her cheek. It was a timid gesture, almost an adolescent one; it reminded her of Libo, and it was more than she could bear. She took his hand, hurled it away, then shoved past him into the room. “Get out!” she shouted at Miro. Her son got up quickly and backed to the door. She could see from his face that after all Miro had seen in this house, she still had managed to surprise him with her rage.

  “You’ll have nothing from me!” she shouted at the Speaker.

  “I didn’t come to take anything from you,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t want anything you have to give, either! You’re worthless to me, do you hear that? You’re the one who’s worthless! Lixo, ruina, estrago—vai fora d’aqui, não tens direito estar em minha casa!” You have no right to be in my house.

  “Não es estrago,” he whispered, “es solo fecundo, e vou plantar jardim aí.” Then, before she could answer, he closed the door and was gone.

  In truth she had no answer to give him, his words were so outrageous. She had called him estrago, but he answered as if she had called herself a desolation. And she had spoken to him derisively, using the insultingly familiar tu for “you” instead of o Senhor or even the informal você. It was the way one spoke to a child or a dog. And yet when he answered in the same voice, with the same familiarity, it was entirely different. “Thou art fertile ground, and I will plant a garden in thee.” It was the sort of thing a poet says to his mistress, or even a husband to his wife, and the tu was intimate, not arrogant. How dare he, she whispered to herself, touching the cheek that he had touched. He is far crueler than I ever imagined a speaker might be. Bishop Peregrino was right. He is dangerous, the infidel, the anti-Christ, he walks brazenly into places in my hea
rt that I had kept as holy ground, where no one else was ever permitted to stand. He treads on the few small shoots that cling to life in that stony soil, how dare he, I wish I had died before seeing him, he will surely undo me before he’s through.

  She was vaguely aware of someone crying. Quara. Of course the shouting had wakened her; she never slept soundly. Novinha almost opened the door and went out to comfort her, but then she heard the crying stop, and a soft male voice singing to her. The song was in another language. German, it sounded to Novinha, or Nordic; she did not understand it, whatever it was. But she knew who sang it, and knew that Quara was comforted.

  Novinha had not felt such fear since she first realized that Miro was determined to become a Zenador and follow in the footsteps of the two men that the piggies had murdered. This man is unknotting the nets of my family, and stringing us together whole again; but in the process he will find my secrets. If he finds out how Pipo died, and speaks the truth, then Miro will learn that same secret, and it will kill him. I will make no more sacrifices to the piggies; they are too cruel a god for me to worship anymore.

  Still later, as she lay in bed behind her closed door, trying to go to sleep, she heard more laughter from the front of the house, and this time she could hear Quim and Olhado both laughing along with Miro and Ela. She imagined she could see them, the room bright with mirth. But as sleep took her, and the imagination became a dream, it was not the Speaker who sat among her children, teaching them to laugh; it was Libo, alive again, and known to everyone as her true husband, the man she had married in her heart even though she refused to marry him in the Church. Even in her sleep it was more joy than she could bear, and tears soaked the sheet of her bed.

  9

  CONGENITAL DEFECT