But the Bishop’s eagerness to baptize Miro was not echoed in his attitude toward Peter and young Val. “It’s absurd to think of these monstrous things as people,” he said. “They can’t possibly have souls. Peter is an echo of someone who already lived and died, with his own sins and repentances, his life’s course already measured and his place in heaven or hell already assigned. And as for this—girl, this mockery of feminine grace—she cannot be who she claims to be, for that place is already occupied by a living woman. There can be no baptism for the deceptions of Satan. By creating them, Andrew Wiggin has built his own Tower of Babel, trying to reach into heaven to take the place of God. He cannot be forgiven until he takes them back to hell and leaves them there.”
Did Bishop Peregrino imagine for one moment that that was not exactly what he longed to do? But Jane was adamant about it, when Ender offered the idea. “That would be foolish,” she said. “Why do you think they would go, for one thing? And for another, what makes you think you wouldn’t simply create two more? Haven’t you ever heard the story of the sorcerer’s apprentice? Taking them back there would be like cutting the brooms in half again—all you’d end up with is more brooms. Leave bad enough alone.”
So here they were, walking to the lab together—Peter, with Mayor Kovano completely in his pocket. Young Val, who had won over Quara no less completely, though her purpose was altruistic instead of exploitative. And Ender, their creator, furious and humiliated and afraid.
I made them—therefore I’m responsible for everything they do. And in the long run, they will both do terrible harm. Peter, because harm is his nature—at least the way I conceived him in the patterns of my mind. And young Val, despite her innate goodness, because her very existence is a deep injury to my sister Valentine.
“Don’t let Peter goad you so,” whispered Jane in his ear.
“People think he belongs to me,” Ender subvocalized. “They figure that he must be harmless because I’m harmless. But I have no control over him.”
“I think they know that.”
“I’ve got to get him away from here.”
“I’m working on that,” said Jane.
“Maybe I should pack them up and take them off to some deserted planet somewhere. Do you know Shakespeare’s play The Tempest?”
“Caliban and Ariel, is that what they are?”
“Exile, since I can’t kill them.”
“I’m working on it,” said Jane. “After all, they’re part of you, aren’t they? Part of the pattern of your mind? What if I can use them in your place, to allow me to go Outside? Then we could have three starships, and not just one.”
“Two,” said Ender. “I’m never going Outside again.”
“Not even for a microsecond? If I take you out and then right back in again? There was no need to linger there.”
“It wasn’t the lingering that did the harm,” said Ender. “Peter and young Val were there instantly. If I go Outside again, I’ll create them again.”
“Fine,” she said. “Two starships, then. One with Peter, one with young Val. Let me figure it out, if I can. We can’t just make that one voyage and then abandon faster-than-light flight forever.”
“Yes we can,” said Ender. “We got the recolada. Miro got himself a healthy body. That’s enough—we’ll work everything else out ourselves.”
“Wrong,” said Jane. “We still have to transport pequeninos and hive queens off this planet before the fleet comes. We still have to get the transformational virus to Path, to set those people free.”
“I won’t go Outside again.”
“Even if I can’t use Peter and young Val to carry my aiúa? You’d let the pequeninos and the hive queen be destroyed because you’re afraid of your own unconscious mind?”
“You don’t understand how dangerous Peter is.”
“Perhaps not. But I do understand how dangerous the Little Doctor is. And if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own misery, Ender, you’d know that even if we end up with five hundred little Peters and Vals running around, we’ve got to use this starship to carry pequeninos and the hive queen to other worlds.”
He knew she was right. He had known it all along. That didn’t mean that he was prepared to admit it.
“Just work on trying to move yourself into Peter and young Val,” he subvocalized. “Though God help us if Peter is able to create things when he goes Outside.”
“I doubt he can,” said Jane. “He’s not as smart as he thinks he is.”
“Yes he is,” said Ender. “And if you doubt it, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
Ela was not the only one who prepared for Glass’s final test by going to visit Planter. His mute tree was still only a sapling, hardly a balance to Rooter’s and Human’s sturdy trunks. But it was around that sapling that the surviving pequeninos had gathered. And, like Ela, they had gathered to pray. It was a strange and silent kind of prayer service. The pequenino priests offered no pomp, no ceremony. They simply knelt with the others, and they murmured in their several languages. Some prayed in Brothers’ Language, some in tree language. Ela supposed that what she was hearing from the wives gathered there was their own regular language, though it might as easily be the holy language they used to speak to the mothertree. And there were also human languages coming from pequenino lips—Stark and Portuguese alike, and there might even have been some ancient Church Latin from one of the pequeninos priests. It was a virtual Babel, and yet she felt great unity. They prayed at the martyr’s tomb—all that was left of himself—for the life of the brother who was following after him. If Glass died utterly today, he would only echo Planter’s sacrifice. And if he passed into the third life, it would be a life owed to Planter’s courage and example.
Because it was Ela who had brought back the recolada from Outside, they honored her with a brief time alone at the very trunk of Planter’s tree. She wrapped her hand around the slender wooden pole, wishing there were more of his life in it. Was Planter’s aiúa lost now, wandering in the wherelessness of Outside? Or had God in fact taken it as his very soul and brought it into heaven, where Planter now communed with the saints?
Planter, pray for us. Intercede for us. As my venerated grandparents carried my prayer to the Father, go now to Christ for us and plead with him to have mercy on all your brothers and sisters. Let the recolada carry Glass into the third life, so that we can, in good conscience, spread the recolada through the world to replace the murderous descolada. Then the lion can lie down with the lamb indeed, and there can be peace in this place.
Not for the first time, though, Ela had her doubts. She was certain that their course was the right one—she had none of Quara’s qualms about destroying the descolada throughout Lusitania. But what she wasn’t sure of was whether she should have based the recolada on the oldest samples of the descolada they had collected. If in fact the descolada had caused recent pequenino belligerence, their hunger to spread to new places, then she could consider herself as restoring the pequeninos to their previous “natural” condition. But then, the previous condition was just as much a product of the descolada’s gaialogical balancing act—it only seemed more natural because it was the condition the pequeninos were in when humans arrived. So she could just as easily see herself as causing a behavioral modification of an entire species, conveniently removing much of their aggressiveness so that there would be less likelihood of conflict with humans in the future. I am making good Christians of them now, whether they like it or not. And the fact that Human and Rooter both approve of this doesn’t remove the onus from me, if this should turn out ultimately to the pequeninos’ harm.
O God, forgive me for playing God in the lives of these children of yours. When Planter’s aiúa comes before you to plead for us, grant the prayer he carries on our behalf—but only if it is your will to have his species altered so. Help us do good, but stop us if we would unwittingly cause harm. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
&
nbsp; She took a tear from her cheek onto her finger, and pressed it against the smooth bark of Planter’s trunk. You aren’t there to feel this, Planter, not inside the tree. But you feel it all the same, I do believe that. God would not let such a noble soul as yours be lost in darkness.
It was time to go. Gentle brothers’ hands touched her, pulled at her, drew her onward to the lab where Glass was waiting in isolation for his passage into the third life.
When Ender had visited with Planter, he had been surrounded with medical equipment, lying on a bed. It was very different now inside the isolation chamber. Glass was in perfect health, and though he was wired up to all the monitoring devices, he was not bed-bound. Playful and happy, he could scarcely contain his eagerness to proceed.
And now that Ela and the other pequeninos had come, it could begin.
The only wall maintaining his isolation now was the disruptor field; outside it, the pequeninos who had gathered to watch his passage could see all that transpired. They were the only ones who watched in the open, however. Perhaps out of a sense of delicacy for pequenino feelings, or perhaps so they could have a wall between them and the brutality of this pequenino ritual, the humans had all gathered inside the lab, where only a window and the monitors let them see what would actually happen to Glass.
Glass waited until the sterile-suited brothers were in place beside him, wooden knives in hand, before he tore up capim and chewed it. It was the anesthetic that would make this bearable for him. But it was also the first time that a brother bound for the third life had chewed native grass that contained no descolada virus within it. If Ela’s new virus was right, then the capim here would work as the descolada-ruled capim had always worked.
“If I pass into the third life,” said Glass, “the honor belongs to God and to his servant Planter, not to me.”
It was fitting that Glass had chosen to use his last words of brother-speech to praise Planter. But his graciousness did not change the fact that thinking of Planter’s sacrifice caused many among the humans to weep; hard as it was to interpret pequenino emotions, Ender had no doubt that the chattering sounds from the pequeninos gathered outside were also weeping, or some other emotion appropriate to Planter’s memory. But Glass was wrong to think that there was no honor for him in this. Everyone knew that failure was still possible, that despite all the cause for hope they had, there was no certainty that Ela’s recolada would have the power to take a brother into the third life.
The sterile-suited brothers raised their knives and set to work.
Not me, this time, thought Ender. Thank God I don’t have to wield a knife to cause a brother’s death.
Yet he didn’t avert his gaze, as so many others in the lab were doing. The blood and gore were not new to him, and even if that made it no less pleasant, at least he knew that he could bear it. And what Glass could bear to do, Ender could bear to witness. That was what a speaker for the dead was supposed to do, wasn’t it? Witness. He watched as much as he could see of the ritual, as they opened up Glass’s living body and planted his organs in the earth, so the tree could start to grow while Glass’s mind was still alert and alive. Through it all, Glass made no sound or movement that suggested pain. Either his courage was beyond reckoning, or the recolada had done its work in the capim grass as well, so that it maintained its anesthetic properties.
At last it was done, and the brothers who had taken him into the third life returned to the sterile chamber, where, once their suits were cleansed of the recolada and viricide bacteria, they shed them and returned naked into the lab. They were very solemn, but Ender thought he could see the excitement and exultation that they concealed. All had gone well. They had felt Glass’s body respond to them. Within hours, perhaps minutes, the first leaves of the young tree should arise. And they were sure in their hearts that it would happen.
Ender also noticed that one of them was a priest. He wondered what the Bishop would say, if he knew. Old Peregrino had proved himself to be quite adaptable to assimilating an alien species into the Catholic faith, and adapting ritual and doctrine to fit their peculiar needs. But that didn’t change the fact that Peregrino was an old man who didn’t enjoy the thought of priests taking part in rituals that, despite their clear resemblance to the crucifixion, were still not of the recognized sacraments. Well, these brothers knew what they were doing. Whether they had told the Bishop of one of his priests’ participation or not, Ender wouldn’t mention it; nor would any of the other humans present, if indeed any of them noticed.
Yes, the tree was growing, and with great vigor, the leaves visibly rising as they watched. But it would still be many hours, days perhaps, before they knew if it was a fathertree, with Glass still alive and conscious within it. A time of waiting, in which Glass’s tree must grow in perfect isolation.
If only I could find a place, thought Ender, in which I could also be isolated, in which I could work out the strange things that have happened to me, without interference.
But he was not a pequenino, and whatever unease he suffered from was not a virus that could be killed, or driven from his life. His disease was at the root of his identity, and he didn’t know if he could ever be rid of it without destroying himself in the process. Perhaps, he thought, Peter and Val represent the total of who I am; perhaps if they were gone, there’d be nothing left. What part of my soul, what action in my life is there that can’t be explained as one or the other of them, acting out his or her will within me?
Am I the sum of my siblings? Or the difference between them? What is the peculiar arithmetic of my soul?
Valentine tried not to be obsessed with this young girl that Ender had brought back with him from Outside. Of course she knew it was her younger self as he remembered her, and she even thought it was rather sweet of him to carry inside his heart such a powerful memory of her at that age. She alone, of all the people on Lusitania, knew why it was at that age that she lingered in his unconscious. He had been in Battle School till then, cut off completely from his family. Though he could not have known it, she knew that their parents had pretty much forgotten him. Not forgotten that he existed, of course, but forgotten him as a presence in their lives. He simply wasn’t there, wasn’t their responsibility anymore. Having given him away to the state, they were absolved. He would have been more a part of their lives if he had died; as it was, they didn’t have even a grave to visit. Valentine didn’t blame them for this—it proved that they were resilient and adaptable. But she wasn’t able to mimic them. Ender was always with her, in her heart. And when, after being inwardly battered as he was forced to meet all the challenges they threw at him in Battle School, Ender now resolved to give up on the whole enterprise—when he, in effect, went on strike—the officer charged with turning him into a pliant tool came to her. Brought her to Ender. Gave them time together—the same man who had torn them apart and left such deep wounds in their hearts. She healed her brother then—enough that he could go back and save humanity by destroying the buggers.
Of course he holds me in his memory at that age, more powerfully than any of our countless experiences together since. Of course when his unconscious mind brings forth its most intimate baggage, it is the girl I was then who lingers most deeply in his heart.
She knew all this, she understood all this, she believed all this. Yet still it rankled, still it hurt that this almost mindlessly perfect creature was what he really thought of her all along. That the Valentine that Ender truly loved was a creature of impossible purity. It was for the sake of this imaginary Valentine that he was so close a companion to me all the years before I married Jakt. Unless it was because I married Jakt that he returned to this childish vision of me.
Nonsense. There was nothing to be gained by trying to imagine what this young girl meant. Regardless of the manner of her creation, she was here now, and must be dealt with.
Poor Ender—he seemed to understand nothing. He actually thought at first that he should keep young Val with him. “Isn’t she my daughte
r, after a fashion?” he had asked.
“After no fashion is she your daughter,” she had answered. “If anything, she’s mine. And it is certainly not proper for you to take her into your home, alone. Especially since Peter is there, and he isn’t the most trustworthy co-guardian who ever lived.” Ender still didn’t fully agree—he would rather have got rid of Peter than Val—but he complied, and since then Val had lived in Valentine’s house. Valentine’s intention had been to become the girl’s friend and mentor, but in the event she simply couldn’t do it. She wasn’t comfortable enough in Val’s company. She kept finding reasons to leave home when Val was there; she kept feeling inordinately grateful when Ender came to let her tag along with him and Peter.
What finally happened was that, as so often before, Plikt silently stepped in and solved the problem. Plikt became Val’s primary companion and guardian in Valentine’s house. When Val wasn’t with Ender, she was with Plikt. And this morning Plikt had suggested setting up a house of her own—for her and Val. Perhaps I was too hasty in agreeing, thought Valentine. But it’s probably as hard on Val to share a house with me as for me to share a house with her.
Now, though, watching as Plikt and Val entered the new chapel on their knees and crawled forward—as all the other humans who entered had also crawled—to kiss Bishop Peregrino’s ring before the altar, Valentine realized that she had done nothing for “Val’s own good,” whatever she might have told herself. Val was completely self-contained, unflappable, calm. Why should Valentine imagine that she could make young Val either more or less happy, more or less comfortable? I am irrelevant to this girlchild’s life. But she is not irrelevant to mine. She is at once an affirmation and a denial of the most important relationship of my childhood, and of much of my adulthood as well. I wish that she had crumbled into nothingness Outside, like Miro’s old crippled body did. I wish I had never had to face myself like this.
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 128
