“How did it end?” asked the Speaker.
“It ended when the piggies killed Libo. That’s how much Mother hated the man. When he died she celebrated by forgiving her son. That night when Miro came home, it was after dinner was over, it was late at night. A terrible night, everybody was so afraid, the piggies seemed so awful, and everybody loved Libo so much—except Mother, of course. Mother waited up for Miro. He came in and went into the kitchen and sat down at the table, and Mother put a plate down in front of him, put food on the plate. Didn’t say a word. He ate it, too. Not a word about it. As if the year before hadn’t happened. I woke up in the middle of the night because I could hear Miro throwing up and crying in the bathroom. I don’t think anybody else heard, and I didn’t go to him because I didn’t think he wanted anybody to hear him. Now I think I should have gone, but I was afraid. There were such terrible things in my family.”
The Speaker nodded.
“I should have gone to him,” Ela said again.
“Yes,” the Speaker said. “You should have.”
A strange thing happened then. The Speaker agreed with her that she had made a mistake that night, and she knew when he said the words that it was true, that his judgment was correct. And yet she felt strangely healed, as if simply speaking her mistake were enough to purge some of the pain of it. For the first time, then, she caught a glimpse of what the power of speaking might be. It wasn’t a matter of confession, penance, and absolution, like the priests offered. It was something else entirely. Telling the story of who she was, and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate.
If I’m not that frightened girl who heard her brother in desperate pain and dared not go to him, who am I? But the water flowing through the grillwork under the fence held no answers. Maybe she couldn’t know who she was today. Maybe it was enough to know that she was no longer who she was before.
Still the Speaker lay there on the grama, looking at the clouds coming darkly out of the west. “I’ve told you all I know,” Ela said. “I told you what was in those files—the Descolada information. That’s all I know.”
“No it isn’t,” said the Speaker.
“It is, I promise.”
“Do you mean to say that you obeyed her? That when your mother told you not to do any theoretical work, you simply turned off your mind and did what she wanted?”
Ela giggled. “She thinks so.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I’m a scientist, even if she isn’t.”
“She was once,” said the Speaker. “She passed her tests when she was thirteen.”
“I know,” said Ela.
“And she used to share information with Pipo before he died.”
“I know that, too. It was just Libo that she hated.”
“So tell me, Ela. What have you discovered in your theoretical work?”
“I haven’t discovered any answers. But at least I know what some of the questions are. That’s a start, isn’t it? Nobody else is asking questions. It’s so funny, isn’t it? Miro says the framling xenologers are always pestering him and Ouanda for more information, more data, and yet the law forbids them from learning anything more. And yet not a single framling xenobiologist has ever asked us for any information. They all just study the biosphere on their own planets and don’t ask Mother a single question. I’m the only one asking, and nobody cares.”
“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 water snakes 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 water snake 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 tropeça, a long vine that wanders along the ground for meters and meters—the xingadora make their ne
sts 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 Marcão 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.
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 wanted to get out of the compound, 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.
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 58
