Speedreed

SPEAKER

FOR

THE

DEAD

by

Orson

Scott

Card

(c)

1986

Orson

Scott

Card

Prologue

In

the

year

1830,

after

the

formation

of

Starways

Congress,

a

robot

scout

ship

sent

a

report

by

ansible:

The

planet

it

was

investigating

was

well

within

the

parameters

for

human

life.

The

nearest

planet

with

any

kind

of

population

pressure

was

Ba¡a;

Starways

Congress

granted

them

the

exploration

license.

So

it

was

that

the

first

humans

to

see

the

new

world

were

Portuguese

by

language,

Brazilian

by

culture,

and

Catholic

by

creed.

In

the

year

1886

they

disembarked

from

their

shuttle,

crossed

themselves,

and

named

the

planet

Lusitania--

the

ancient

name

of

Portugal.

They

set

about

cataloguing

the

flora

and

fauna.

Five

days

later

they

realized

that

the

little

forest-dwelling

animals

that

they

had

called

porquinhos--

piggies--

were

not

animals

at

all.

For

the

first

time

since

the

Xenocide

of

the

Buggers

by

the

Monstrous

Ender,

humans

had

found

intelligent

alien

life.

The

piggies

were

technologically

primitive,

but

they

used

tools

and

built

houses

and

spoke

a

language.

"It

is

another

chance

God

has

given

us,"

declared

Archcardinal

Pio

of

Ba¡a.

"We

can

be

redeemed

for

the

destruction

of

the

buggers."

The

members

of

Starways

Congress

worshipped

many

gods,

or

none,

but

they

agreed

with

the

Archcardinal.

Lusitania

would

be

settled

from

Ba¡a,

and

therefore

under

Catholic

License,

as

tradition

demanded.

But

the

colony

could

never

spread

beyond

a

limited

area

or

exceed

a

limited

population.

And

it

was

bound,

above

all,

by

one

law:

the

piggies

were

not

to

be

disturbed.

Chapter

1

--

Pipo

Since

we

are

not

yet

fully

comfortable

with

the

idea

that

people

from

the

next

village

are

as

human

as

ourselves,

it

is

presumptuous

in

the

extreme

to

suppose

we

could

ever

look

at

sociable,

tool-making

creatures

who

arose

from

other

evolutionary

paths

and

see

not

beasts

but

brothers,

not

rivals

but

fellow

pilgrims

journeying

to

the

shrine

of

intelligence.

Yet

that

is

what

I

see,

or

yearn

to

see.

The

difference

between

raman

and

varelse

is

not

in

the

creature

judged,

but

in

the

creature

judging.

When

we

declare

an

alien

species

to

be

raman,

it

does

not

mean

that

they

have

passed

a

threshold

of

moral

maturity.

It

means

that

we

have.

--

Demosthenes,

Letter

to

the

Framlings

Rooter

was

at

once

the

most

difficult

and

the

most

helpful

of

the

pequeninos.

He

was

always

there

whenever

Pipo

visited

their

clearing,

and

did

his

best

to

answer

the

questions

Pipo

was

forbidden

by

law

to

come

right

out

and

ask.

Pipo

depended

on

him--

too

much,

probably--

yet

though

Rooter

clowned

and

played

like

the

irresponsible

youngling

that

he

was,

he

also

watched,

probed,

tested.

Pipo

always

had

to

beware

of

the

traps

that

Rooter

set

for

him.

A

moment

ago

Rooter

had

been

shimmying

up

trees,

gripping

the

bark

with

only

the

horny

pads

on

his

ankles

and

inside

his

thighs.

In

his

hands

he

carried

two

sticks--

Father

Sticks,

they

were

called--

which

he

beat

against

the

tree

in

a

compelling,

arhythmic

pattern

all

the

while

he

climbed.

The

noise

brought

Mandachuva

out

of

the

log

house.

He

called

to

Rooter

in

the

Males'

Language,

and

then

in

Portuguese.

"P'ra

baixo,

bicho!"

Several

piggies

nearby,

hearing

his

Portuguese

wordplay,

expressed

their

appreciation

by

rubbing

their

thighs

together

sharply.

It

made

a

hissing

noise,

and

Mandachuva

took

a

little

hop

in

the

air

in

delight

at

their

applause.

Rooter,

in

the

meantime,

bent

over

backward

until

it

seemed

certain

he

would

fall.

Then

he

flipped

off

with

his

hands,

did

a

somersault

in

the

air,

and

landed

on

his

legs,

hopping

a

few

times

but

not

stumbling.

"So

now

you're

an

acrobat,"

said

Pipo.

Rooter

swaggered

over

to

him.

It

was

his

way

of

imitating

humans.

It

was

all

the

more

effective

as

ridicule

because

his

flattened

upturned

snout

looked

decidedly

porcine.

No

wonder

that

offworlders

called

them

"piggies."

The

first

visitors

to

this

world

had

started

calling

them

that

in

their

first

reports

back

in

'86,

and

by

the

time

Lusitania

Colony

was

founded

in

1925,

the

name

was

indelible.

The

xenologers

scattered

among

the

Hundred

Worlds

wrote

of

them

as

"Lusitanian

Aborigines,"

though

Pipo

knew

perfectly

well

that

this

was

merely

a

matter

of

professional

dignity--

except

in

scholarly

papers,

xenologers

no

doubt

called

them

piggies,

too.

As

for

Pipo,

he

called

them

pequeninos,

and

they

seemed

not

to

object,

for

now

they

called

themselves

"Little

Ones."

Still,

dignity

or

not,

there

was

no

denying

it.

At

moments

like

this,

Rooter

looked

like

a

hog

on

its

hind

legs.

"Acrobat,"

Rooter

said,

trying

out

the

new

word.

"What

I

did?

You

have

a

word

for

people

who

do

that?

So

there

are

people

who

do

that

as

their

work?"

Pipo

sighed

silently,

even

as

he

froze

his

smile

in

place.

The

law

strictly

forbade

him

to

share

information

about

human

society,

lest

it

contaminate

piggy

culture.

Yet

Rooter

played

a

constant

game

of

squeezing

the

last

drop

of

implication

out

of

everything

Pipo

said.

This

time,

though,

Pipo

had

no

one

to

blame

but

himself,

letting

out

a

silly

remark

that

opened

unnecessary

windows

onto

human

life.

Now

and

then

he

got

so

comfortable

among

the

pequeninos

that

he

spoke

naturally.

Always

a

danger.

I'm

not

good

at

this

constant

game

of

taking

information

while

trying

to

give

nothing

in

return.

Libo,

my

close-mouthed

son,

already

he's

better

at

discretion

than

I

am,

and

he's

only

been

apprenticed

to

me--

how

long

since

he

turned

thirteen?

--four

months.

"I

wish

I

had

pads

on

my

legs

like

yours,"

said

Pipo.

"The

bark

on

that

tree

would

rip

my

skin

to

shreds."

"That

would

cause

us

all

to

be

ashamed.

"

Rooter

held

still

in

the

expectant

posture

that

Pipo

thought

of

as

their

way

of

showing

mild

anxiety,

or

perhaps

a

nonverbal

warning

to

other

pequeninos

to

be

cautious.

It

might

also

have

been

a

sign

of

extreme

fear,

but

as

far

as

Pipo

knew

he

had

never

seen

a

pequenino

feel

extreme

fear.

In

any

event,

Pipo

spoke

quickly

to

calm

him.

"Don't

worry,

I'm

too

old

and

soft

to

climb

trees

like

that.

I'll

leave

it

to

you

younglings."

And

it

worked;

Rooter's

body

at

once

became

mobile

again.

"I

like

to

climb

trees.

I

can

see

everything."

Rooter

squatted

in

front

of

Pipo

and

leaned

his

face

in

close.

"Will

you

bring

the

beast

that

runs

over

the

grass

without

touching

the

ground?

The

others

don't

believe

me

when

I

say

I

saw

such

a

thing."

Another

trap.

What,

Pipo,

xenologer,

will

you

humiliate

this

individual

of

the

community

you're

studying?

Or

will

you

adhere

to

the

rigid

law

set

up

by

Starways

Congress

to

govern

this

encounter?

There

were

few

precedents.

The

only

other

intelligent

aliens

that

humankind

had

encountered

were

the

buggers,

three

thousand

years

ago,

and

at

the

end

of

it

the

buggers

were

all

dead.

This

time

Starways

Congress

was

making

sure

that

if

humanity

erred,

their

errors

would

be

in

the

opposite

direction.

Minimal

information,

minimal

contact.

Rooter

recognized

Pipo's

hesitation,

his

careful

silence.

"You

never

tell

us

anything,"

said

Rooter.

"You

watch

us

and

study

us,

but

you

never

let

us

past

your

fence

and

into

your

village

to

watch

you

and

study

you."

Pipo

answered

as

honestly

as

he

could,

but

it

was

more

important

to

be

careful

than

to

be

honest.

"If

you

learn

so

little

and

we

learn

so

much,

why

is

it

that

you

speak

both

Stark

and

Portuguese

while

I'm

still

struggling

with

your

language?"

"We're

smarter."

Then

Rooter

leaned

back

and

spun

around

on

his

buttocks

so

his

back

was

toward

Pipo.

"Go

back

behind

your

fence,"

he

said.

Pipo

stood

at

once.

Not

too

far

away,

Libo

was

with

three

pequeninos,

trying

to

learn

how

they

wove

dried

merdona

vines

into

thatch.

He

saw

Pipo

and

in

a

moment

was

with

his

father,

ready

to

go.

Pipo

led

him

off

without

a

word;

since

the

pequeninos

were

so

fluent

in

human

languages,

they

never

discussed

what

they

had

learned

until

they

were

inside

the

gate.

It

took

a

half

hour

to

get

home,

and

it

was

raining

heavily

when

they

passed

through

the

gate

and

walked

along

the

face

of

the

hill

to

the

Zenador's

Station.

Zenador?

Pipo

thought

of

the

word

as

he

looked

at

the

small

sign

above

the

door.

On

it

the

word

XENOLOGER

was

written

in

Stark.

That

is

what

I

am,

I

suppose,

thought

Pipo,

at

least

to

the

offworlders.

But

the

Portuguese

title

Zenador

was

so

much

easier

to

say

that

on

Lusitania

hardly

anyone

said

xenologer,

even

when

speaking

Stark.

That

is

how

languages

change,

thought

Pipo.

If

it

weren't

for

the

ansible,

providing

instantaneous

communication

among

the

Hundred

Worlds,

we

could

not

possibly

maintain

a

common

language.

Interstellar

travel

is

far

too

rare

and

slow.

Stark

would

splinter

into

ten

thousand

dialects

within

a

century.

It

might

be

interesting

to

have

the

computers

run

a

projection

of

linguistic

changes

on

Lusitania,

if

Stark

were

allowed

to

decay

and

absorb

Portuguese--

"Father,"

said

Libo.

Only

then

did

Pipo

notice

that

he

had

stopped

ten

meters

away

from

the

station.

Tangents.

The

best

parts

of

my

intellectual

life

are

tangential,

in

areas

outside

my

expertise.

I

suppose

because

within

my

area

of

expertise

the

regulations

they

have

placed

upon

me

make

it

impossible

to

know

or

understand

anything.

The

science

of

xenology

insists

on

more

mysteries

than

Mother

Church.

His

handprint

was

enough

to

unlock

the

door.

Pipo

knew

how

the

evening

would

unfold

even

as

he

stepped

inside

to

begin.

It

would

take

several

hours

of

work

at

the

terminals

for

them

both

to

report

what

they

had

done

during

today's

encounter.

Pipo

would

then

read

over

Libo's

notes,

and

Libo

would

read

Pipo's,

and

when

they

were

satisfied,

Pipo

would

write

up

a

brief

summary

and

then

let

the

computers

take

it

from

there,

filing

the

notes

and

also

transmitting

them

instantly,

by

ansible,

to

the

xenologers

in

the

rest

of

the

Hundred

Worlds.

More

than

a

thousand

scientists

whose

whole

career

is

studying

the

one

alien

race

we

know,

and

except

for

what

little

the

satellites

can

discover

about

this

arboreal

species,

all

the

information

my

colleagues

have

is

what

Libo

and

I

send

them.

This

is

definitely

minimal

intervention.

But

when

Pipo

got

inside

the

station,

he

saw

at

once

that

it

would

not

be

an

evening

of

steady

but

relaxing

work.

Dona

Cristƒ

was

there,

dressed

in

her

monastic

robes.

Was

it

one

of

the

younger

children,

in

trouble

at

school?

"No,

no,"

said

Dona

Crist

.

"All

your

children

are

doing

very

well,

except

this

one,

who

I

think

is

far

too

young

to

be

out

of

school

and

working

here,

even

as

an

apprentice.

"

Libo

said

nothing.

A

wise

decision,

thought

Pipo.

Dona

Crist

was

a

brilliant

and

engaging,

perhaps

even

beautiful,

young

woman,

but

she

was

first

and

foremost

a

monk

of

the

Order

of

the

Filhos

da

Mente

de

Cristo,

Children

of

the

Mind

of

Christ,

and

she

was

not

beautiful

to

behold

when

she

was

angry

at

ignorance

and

stupidity.

It

was

amazing

the

number

of

quite

intelligent

people

whose

ignorance

and

stupidity

had

melted

somewhat

in

the

fire

of

her

scorn.

Silence,

Libo,

it's

a

policy

that

will

do

you

good.

"I'm

not

here

about

any

child

of

yours

at

all,"

said

Dona

Crist

.

"I'm

here

about

Novinha."

Dona

Crist

did

not

have

to

mention

a

last

name;

everybody

knew

Novinha.

The

terrible

Descolada

had

ended

only

eight

years

before.

The

plague

had

threatened

to

wipe

out

the

colony

before

it

had

a

fair

chance

to

get

started;

the

cure

was

discovered

by

Novinha's

father

and

mother,

Gusto

and

Cida,

the

two

xenobiologists.

It

was

a

tragic

irony

that

they

found

the

cause

of

the

disease

and

its

treatment

too

late

to

save

themselves.

Theirs

was

the

last

Descolada

funeral.

Pipo

clearly

remembered

the

little

girl

Novinha,

standing

there

holding

Mayor

Bosquinha's

hand

while

Bishop

Peregrino

conducted

the

funeral

mass

himself.

No--

not

holding

the

Mayor's

hand.

The

picture

came

back

to

his

mind,

and,

with

it,

the

way

he

felt.

What

does

she

make

of

this?

he

remembered

asking

himself.

It's

the

funeral

of

her

parents,

she's

the

last

survivor

in

her

family;

yet

all

around

her

she

can

sense

the

great

rejoicing

of

the

people

of

this

colony.

Young

as

she

is,

does

she

understand

that

our

joy

is

the

best

tribute

to

her

parents?

They

struggled

and

succeeded,

finding

our

salvation

in

the

waning

days

before

they

died;

we

are

here

to

celebrate

the

great

gift

they

gave

us.

But

to

you,

Novinha,

it's

the

death

of

your

parents,

as

your

brothers

died

before.

Five

hundred

dead,

and

more

than

a

hundred

masses

for

the

dead

here

in

this

colony

in

the

last

six

months,

and

all

of

them

were

held

in

an

atmosphere

of

fear

and

grief

and

despair.

Now,

when

your

parents

die,

the

fear

and

grief

and

despair

are

no

less

for

you

than

ever

before--

but

no

one

else

shares

your

pain.

It

is

the

relief

from

pain

that

is

foremost

in

our

minds.

Watching

her,

trying

to

imagine

her

feelings,

he

succeeded

only

in

rekindling

his

own

grief

at

the

death

of

his

own

Maria,

seven

years

old,

swept

away

in

the

wind

of

death

that

covered

her

body

in

cancerous

growth

and

rampant

funguses,

the

flesh

swelling

or

decaying,

a

new

limb,

not

arm

or

leg,

growing

out

of

her

hip,

while

the

flesh

sloughed

off

her

feet

and

head,

baring

the

bones,

her

sweet

and

beautiful

body

destroyed

before

their

eyes,

while

her

bright

mind

was

mercilessly

alert,

able

to

feel

all

that

happened

to

her

until

she

cried

out

to

God

to

let

her

die.

Pipo

remembered

that,

and

then

remembered

her

requiem

mass,

shared

with

five

other

victims.

As

he

sat,

knelt,

stood

there

with

his

wife

and

surviving

children,

he

had

felt

the

perfect

unity

of

the

people

in

the

Cathedral.

He

knew

that

his

pain

was

everybody's

pain,

that

through

the

loss

of

his

eldest

daughter

he

was

bound

to

his

community

with

the

inseparable

bonds

of

grief,

and

it

was

a

comfort

to

him,

it

was

something

to

cling

to.

That

was

how

such

a

grief

ought

to

be,

a

public

mourning.

Little

Novinha

had

nothing

of

that.

Her

pain

was,

if

anything,

worse

than

Pipo's

had

been--

at

least

Pipo

had

not

been

left

without

any

family

at

all,

and

he

was

an

adult,

not

a

child

terrified

by

suddenly

losing

the

foundation

of

her

life.

In

her

grief

she

was

not

drawn

more

tightly

into

the

community,

but

rather

excluded

from

it.

Today

everyone

was

rejoicing,

except

her.

Today

everyone

praised

her

parents;

she

alone

yearned

for

them,

would

rather

they

had

never

found

the

cure

for

others

if

only

they

could

have

remained

alive

themselves.

Her

isolation

was

so

acute

that

Pipo

could

see

it

from

where

he

sat.

Novinha

took

her

hand

away

from

the

Mayor

as

quickly

as

possible.

Her

tears

dried

up

as

the

mass

progressed;

by

the

end

she

sat

in

silence,

like

a

prisoner

refusing

to

cooperate

with

her

captors.

Pipo's

heart

broke

for

her.

Yet

he

knew

that

even

if

he

tried,

he

could

not

conceal

his

own

gladness

at

the

end

of

the

Descolada,

his

rejoicing

that

none

of

his

other

children

would

be

taken

from

him.

She

would

see

that;

his

effort

to

comfort

her

would

be

a

mockery,

would

drive

her

further

away.

After

the

mass

she

walked

in

bitter

solitude

amid

the

crowds

of

well-meaning

people

who

cruelly

told

her

that

her

parents

were

sure

to

be

saints,

sure

to

sit

at

the

right

hand

of

God.

What

kind

of

comfort

is

that

for

a

child?

Pipo

whispered

aloud

to

his

wife,

"She'll

never

forgive

us

for

today."

"Forgive?"

Conceicao

was

not

one

of

those

wives

who

instantly

understood

her

husband's

train

of

thought.

"We

didn't

kill

her

parents--"

"But

we're

all

rejoicing

today,

aren't

we?

She'll

never

forgive

us

for

that."

"Nonsense.

She

doesn't

understand

anyway;

she's

too

young."

She

understands,

Pipo

thought.

Didn't

Maria

understand

things

when

she

was

even

younger

than

Novinha

is

now?

As

the

years

passed--

eight

years

now--

he

had

seen

her

from

time

to

time.

She

was

his

son

Libo's

age,

and

until

Libo's

thirteenth

birthday

that

meant

they

were

in

many

classes

together.

He

heard

her

give

occasional

readings

and

speeches,

along

with

other

children.

There

was

an

elegance

to

her

thought,

an

intensity

to

her

examination

of

ideas

that

appealed

to

him.

At

the

same

time,

she

seemed

utterly

cold,

completely

removed

from

everyone

else.

Pipo's

own

boy,

Libo,

was

shy,

but

even

so

he

had

several

friends,

and

had

won

the

affection

of

his

teachers.

Novinha,

though,

had

no

friends

at

all,

no

one

whose

gaze

she

sought

after

a

moment

of

triumph.

There

was

no

teacher

who

genuinely

liked

her,

because

she

refused

to

reciprocate,

to

respond.

"She

is

emotionally

paralyzed,"

Dona

Crist

said

once

when

Pipo

asked

about

her.

"There

is

no

reaching

her.

She

swears

that

she's

perfectly

happy,

and

doesn't

see

any

need

to

change."

Now

Dona

Crist

had

come

to

the

Zenador's

Station

to

talk

to

Pipo

about

Novinha.

Why

Pipo?

He

could

guess

only

one

reason

for

the

principal

of

the

school

to

come

to

him

about

this

particular

orphaned

girl.

"Am

I

to

believe

that

in

all

the

years

you've

had

Novinha

in

your

school,

I'm

the

only

person

who

asked

about

her?"

"Not

the

only

person,"

she

said.

"There

was

all

kinds

of

interest

in

her

a

couple

of

years

ago,

when

the

Pope

beatified

her

parents.

Everybody

asked

then

whether

the

daughter

of

Gusto

and

Cida,

Os

Venerados,

had

ever

noticed

any

miraculous

events

associated

with

her

parents,

as

so

many

other

people

had."

"They

actually

asked

her

that?"

"There

were

rumors,

and

Bishop

Peregrino

had

to

investigate."

Dona

Crist

got

a

bit

tight-lipped

when

she

spoke

of

the

young

spiritual

leader

of

Lusitania

Colony.

But

then,

it

was

said

that

the

hierarchy

never

got

along

well

with

the

order

of

the

Filhos

da

Mente

de

Cristo.

"Her

answer

was

instructive.

"

"I

can

imagine."

"She

said,

more

or

less,

that

if

her

parents

were

actually

listening

to

prayers

and

had

any

influence

in

heaven

to

get

them

granted,

then

why

wouldn't

they

have

answered

her

prayer,

for

them

to

return

from

the

grave?

That

would

be

a

useful

miracle,

she

said,

and

there

are

precedents.

If

Os

Venerados

actually

had

the

power

to

grant

miracles,

then

it

must

mean

they

did

not

love

her

enough

to

answer

her

prayer.

She

preferred

to

believe

that

her

parents

still

loved

her,

and

simply

did

not

have

the

power

to

act."

"A

born

sophist,"

said

Pipo.

"A

sophist

and

an

expert

in

guilt:

she

told

the

Bishop

that

if

the

Pope

declared

her

parents

to

be

venerable,

it

would

be

the

same

as

the

Church

saying

that

her

parents

hated

her.

The

Petition

for

canonization

of

her

parents

was

proof

that

Lusitania

despised

her;

if

it

was

granted,

it

would

be

proof

that

the

Church

itself

was

despicable.

Bishop

Peregrino

was

livid."

"I

notice

he

sent

in

the

petition

anyway."

"For

the

good

of

the

community.

And

there

were

all

those

miracles."

"Someone

touches

the

shrine

and

a

headache

goes

away

and

they

cry

'Milagre!--

os

santos

me

abenqoaram!'"

Miracle!--

the

saints

have

blessed

me!

"You

know

that

Holy

Rome

requires

more

substantial

miracles

than

that.

But

it

doesn't

matter.

The

Pope

graciously

allowed

us

to

call

our

little

town

Milagre,

and

now

I

imagine

that

every

time

someone

says

that

name,

Novinha

burns

a

little

hotter

with

her

secret

rage."

"Or

colder.

One

never

knows

what

temperature

that

sort

of

thing

will

take."

"Anyway,

Pipo,

you

aren't

the

only

one

who

ever

asked

about

her.

But

you're

the

only

one

who

ever

asked

about

her

for

her

own

sake,

and

not

because

of

her

most

Holy

and

Blessed

parents."

It

was

a

sad

thought,

that

except

for

the

Filhos,

who

ran

the

schools

of

Lusitania,

there

had

been

no

concern

for

the

girl

except

the

slender

shards

of

attention

Pipo

had

spared

for

her

over

the

years.

"She

has

one

friend,"

said

Libo.

Pipo

had

forgotten

that

his

son

was

there--

Libo

was

so

quiet

that

he

was

easy

to

overlook.

Dona

Crist

also

seemed

startled.

"Libo,"

she

said,

"I

think

we

were

indiscreet,

talking

about

one

of

your

schoolmates

like

this."

"I'm

apprentice

Zenador

now,"

Libo

reminded

her.

It

meant

he

wasn't

in

school.

"Who

is

her

friend?"

asked

Pipo.

"Marc

o."

"Marcos

Ribeira,"

Dona

Crist

explained.

"The

tall

boy--"

"Ah,

yes,

the

one

who's

built

like

a

cabra."

"He

is

strong,"

said

Dona

Crist

.

"But

I've

never

noticed

any

friendship

between

them."

"Once

when

Marc

o

was

accused

of

something,

and

she

happened

to

see

it,

she

spoke

for

him."

"You

put

a

generous

interpretation

on

it,

Libo,"

said

Dona

Crist

.

"I

think

it

is

more

accurate

to

say

she

spoke

against

the

boys

who

actually

did

it

and

were

trying

to

put

the

blame

on

him."

"Marcdo

doesn't

see

it

that

way,"

said

Libo.

"I

noticed

a

couple

of

times,

the

way

he

watches

her.

It

isn't

much,

but

there

is

somebody

who

likes

her."

"Do

you

like

her?"

asked

Pipo.

Libo

paused

for

a

moment

in

silence.

Pipo

knew

what

it

meant.

He

was

examining

himself

to

find

an

answer.

Not

the

answer

that

he

thought

would

be

most

likely

to

bring

him

adult

favor,

and

not

the

answer

that

would

provoke

their

ire--

the

two

kinds

of

deception

that

most

children

his

age

delighted

in.

He

was

examining

himself

to

discover

the

truth.

"I

think,"

Libo

said,

"that

I

understood

that

she

didn't

want

to

be

liked.

As

if

she

were

a

visitor

who

expected

to

go

back

home

any

day."

Dona

Crist

nodded

gravely.

"Yes,

that's

exactly

right,

that's

exactly

the

way

she

seems.

But

now,

Libo,

we

must

end

our

indiscretion

by

asking

you

to

leave

us

while

we--"

He

was

gone

before

she

finished

her

sentence,

with

a

quick

nod

of

his

head,

a

half-smile

that

said,

Yes,

I

understand,

and

a

deftness

of

movement

that

made

his

exit

more

eloquent

proof

of

his

discretion

than

if

he

had

argued

to

stay.

By

this

Pipo

knew

that

Libo

was

annoyed

at

being

asked

to

leave;

he

had

a

knack

for

making

adults

feel

vaguely

immature

by

comparison

to

him.

"Pipo,"

said

the

principal,

"she

has

petitioned

for

an

early

examination

as

xenobiologist.

To

take

her

parents'

place."

Pipo

raised

an

eyebrow.

"She

claims

that

she

has

been

studying

the

field

intensely

since

she

was

a

little

child.

That

she's

ready

to

begin

the

work

right

now,

without

apprenticeship."

"She's

thirteen,

isn't

she?"

"There

are

precedents.

Many

have

taken

such

tests

early.

One

even

passed

it

younger

than

her.

It

was

two

thousand

years

ago,

but

it

was

allowed.

Bishop

Peregrino

is

against

it,

Of

course,

but

Mayor

Bosquinha,

bless

her

practical

heart,

has

pointed

out

that

Lusitania

needs

a

xenobiologist

quite

badly--

we

need

to

be

about

the

business

of

developing

new

strains

of

plant

life

so

we

can

get

some

decent

variety

in

our

diet

and

much

better

harvests

from

Lusitanian

soil.

In

her

words,

'I

don't

care

if

it's

an

infant,

we

need

a

xenobiologist.'"

"And

you

want

me

to

supervise

her

examination?"

"If

you

would

be

so

kind."

"I'll

be

glad

to."

"I

told

them

you

would."

"I

confess

I

have

an

ulterior

motive."

"Oh?"

"I

should

have

done

more

for

the

girl.

I'd

like

to

see

if

it

isn't

too

late

to

begin."

Dona

Crist

laughed

a

bit.

"Oh,

Pipo,

I'd

be

glad

for

you

to

try.

But

do

believe

me,

my

dear

friend,

touching

her

heart

is

like

bathing

in

ice."

"I

imagine.

I

imagine

it

feels

like

bathing

in

ice

to

the

person

touching

her.

But

how

does

it

feel

to

her?

Cold

as

she

is,

it

must

surely

burn

like

fire."

"Such

a

poet,"

said

Dona

Crist

.

There

was

no

irony

in

her

voice;

she

meant

it.

"Do

the

piggies

understand

that

we've

sent

our

very

best

as

our

ambassador?"

"I

try

to

tell

them,

but

they're

skeptical."

"I'll

send

her

to

you

tomorrow.

I

warn

you--

she'll

expect

to

take

the

examinations

cold,

and

she'll

resist

any

attempt

on

your

part

to

pre-examine

her.

"

Pipo

smiled.

"I'm

far

more

worried

about

what

will

happen

after

she

takes

the

test.

If

she

fails,

then

she'll

have

very

bad

problems.

And

if

she

passes,

then

my

problems

will

begin."

"Why?"

"Libo

will

be

after

me

to

let

him

examine

early

for

Zenador.

And

if

he

did

that,

there'd

be

no

reason

for

me

not

to

go

home,

curl

up,

and

die."

"Such

a

romantic

fool

you

are,

Pipo.

If

there's

any

man

in

Milagre

who's

capable

of

accepting

his

thirteen-year-old

son

as

a

colleague,

it's

you.

"

After

she

left,

Pipo

and

Libo

worked

together,

as

usual,

recording

the

day's

events

with

the

pequeninos.

Pipo

compared

Libo's

work,

his

way

of

thinking,

his

insights,

his

attitudes,

with

those

of

the

graduate

students

he

had

known

in

University

before

joining

the

Lusitania

Colony.

He

might

be

small,

and

there

might

be

a

lot

of

theory

and

knowledge

for

him

yet

to

learn,

but

he

was

already

a

true

scientist

in

his

method,

and

a

humanist

at

heart.

By

the

time

the

evening's

work

was

done

and

they

walked

home

together

by

the

light

of

Lusitania's

large

and

dazzling

moon,

Pipo

had

decided

that

Libo

already

deserved

to

be

treated

as

a

colleague,

whether

he

took

the

examination

or

not.

The

tests

couldn't

measure

the

things

that

really

counted,

anyway.

And

whether

she

liked

it

or

not,

Pipo

intended

to

find

out

if

Novinha

had

the

unmeasurable

qualities

of

a

scientist;

if

she

didn't,

then

he'd

see

to

it

she

didn't

take

the

test,

regardless

of

how

many

facts

she

had

memorized.

Pipo

meant

to

be

difficult.

Novinha

knew

how

adults

acted

when

they

planned

not

to

do

things

her

way,

but

didn't

want

a

fight

or

even

any

nastiness.

Of

course,

of

course

you

can

take

the

test.

But

there's

no

reason

to

rush

into

it,

let's

take

some

time,

let

me

make

sure

you'll

be

successful

on

the

first

attecipt.

Novinha

didn't

want

to

wait.

Novinha

was

ready.

"I'll

jump

through

any

hoops

you

want,"

she

said.

His

face

went

cold.

Their

faces

always

did.

That

was

all

right,

coldness

was

all

right,

she

could

freeze

them

to

death.

"I

don't

want

you

to

jump

through

hoops,"

he

said.

"T'he

only

thing

I

ask

is

that

you

line

them

up

all

in

a

row

so

I

can

jump

through

them

quickly.

I

don't

want

to

be

put

off

for

days

and

days."

He

looked

thoughtful

for

a

moment.

"You're

in

such

a

hurry."

"I'm

ready.

The

Starways

Code

allows

me

to

challenge

the

test

at

any

time.

It's

between

me

and

the

Starways

Congress,

and

I

can't

find

anywhere

that

it

says

a

xenologer

can

try

to

second-guess

the

Interplanetary

Examinations

Board."

"Then

you

haven't

read

carefully."

"The

only

thing

I

need

to

take

the

test

before

I'm

sixteen

is

the

authorization

of

my

legal

guardian.

I

don't

have

a

legal

guardian."

"On

the

contrary,"

said

Pipo.

"Mayor

Bosquinha

was

your

legal

guardian

from

the

day

of

your

parents'

death."

"And

she

agreed

I

could

take

the

test."

"Provided

you

came

to

me."

Novinha

saw

the

intense

look

in

his

eyes.

She

didn't

know

Pipo,

so

she

thought

it

was

the

look

she

had

seen

in

so

many

eyes,

the

desire

to

dominate,

to

rule

her,

the

desire

to

cut

through

her

determination

and

break

her

independence,

the

desire

to

make

her

submit.

From

ice

to

fire

in

an

instant.

"What

do

you

know

about

xenobiology!

You

only

go

out

and

talk

to

the

piggies,

you

don't

even

begin

to

understand

the

workings

of

genes!

Who

are

you

to

judge

me!

Lusitania

needs

a

xenobiologist,

and

they've

been

without

one

for

eight

years.

And

you

want

to

make

them

wait

even

longer,

just

so

you

can

be

in

control!"

To

her

surprise,

he

didn't

become

flustered,

didn't

retreat.

Nor

did

he

get

angry

in

return.

It

was

as

if

she

hadn't

spoken.

"I

see,"

he

said

quietly.

"It's

because

of

your

great

love

of

the

people

of

Lusitania

that

you

wish

to

become

xenobiologist.

Seeing

the

public

need,

you

sacrificed

and

prepared

yourself

to

enter

early

into

a

lifetime

of

altruistic

service."

It

sounded

absurd,

hearing

him

say

it

like

that.

And

it

wasn't

at

all

what

she

felt.

"Isn't

that

a

good

enough

reason?"

"If

it

were

true,

it

would

be

good

enough."

"Are

you

calling

me

a

liar?"

"Your

own

words

called

you

a

liar.

You

spoke

of

how

much

they,

the

people

of

Lusitania,

need

you.

But

you

live

among

us.

You've

lived

among

us

all

your

life.

Ready

to

sacrifice

for

us,

and

yet

you

don't

feel

yourself

to

be

part

of

this

community."

So

he

wasn't

like

the

adults

who

always

believed

lies

as

long

as

they

made

her

seem

to

be

the

child

they

wanted

her

to

be.

"Why

should

I

feet

like

part

of

the

community?

I'm

not.

"

He

nodded

gravely,

as

if

considering

her

answer.

"What

community

are

you

a

part

of?"

"The

only

other

communities

on

Lusitania

are

the

piggies,

and

you

haven't

seen

me

out

there

with

the

tree-worshippers.

"

"There

are

many

other

communities

on

Lusitania.

For

instance,

you're

a

student--

there's

a

community

of

students.

"Not

for

me."

"I

know.

You

have

no

friends,

you

have

no

intimate

associates,

you

go

to

mass

but

you

never

go

to

confession,

you

are

so

completely

detached

that

as

far

as

possible

you

don't

touch

the

life

of

this

colony,

you

don't

touch

the

life

of

the

human

race

at

any

point.

From

all

the

evidence,

you

live

in

complete

isolation."

Novinha

wasn't

prepared

for

this.

He

was

naming

the

underlying

pain

of

her

life,

and

she

didn't

have

a

strategy

devised

to

cope

with

it.

"If

I

do,

it

isn't

my

fault."

"I

know

that.

I

know

where

it

began,

and

I

know

whose

fault

it

was

that

it

continues

to

this

day."

"Mine?"

"Mine.

And

everyone

else's.

But

mine

most

of

all,

because

I

knew

what

was

happening

to

you

and

I

did

nothing

at

all.

Until

today."

"And

today

you're

going

to

keep

me

from

the

one

thing

that

matters

to

me

in

my

life!

Thanks

so

much

for

your

compassion!"

Again

he

nodded

solemnly,

as

if

he

were

accepting

and

acknowledging

her

ironic

gratitude.

"In

one

sense,

Novinha,

it

doesn't

matter

that

it

isn't

your

fault.

Because

the

town

of

Milagre

is

a

community,

and

whether

it

has

treated

you

badly

or

not,

it

must

still

act

as

all

communities

do,

to

provide

the

greatest

possible

happiness

for

all

its

members."

"Which

means

everybody

on

Lusitania

except

me--

me

and

the

piggies."

"The

xenobiologist

is

very

important

to

a

colony,

especially

one

like

this,

surrounded

by

a

fence

that

forever

limits

our

growth.

Our

xenobiologist

must

find

ways

to

grow

more

protein

and

carbohydrate

per

hectare,

which

means

genetically

altering

the

Earthborn

corn

and

potatoes

to

make--"

"To

make

maximum

use

of

the

nutrients

available

in

the

Lusitanian

environment.

Do

you

think

I'm

planning

to

take

the

examination

without

knowing

what

my

life's

work

would

be?"

"Your

life's

work,

to

devote

yourself

to

improving

the

lives

of

people

you

despise."

Now

Novinha

saw

the

trap

that

he

had

laid

for

her.

Too

late;

it

had

sprung.

"So

you

think

that

a

xenobiologist

can't

do

her

work

unless

she

loves

the

people

who

use

the

things

she

makes?"

"I

don't

care

whether

you

love

us

or

not.

What

I

have

to

know

is

what

you

really

want.

Why

you're

so

passionate

to

do

this."

"Basic

psychology.

My

parents

died

in

this

work,

and

so

I'mixying

to

step

into

their

role."

"Maybe,"

said

Pipo.

"And

maybe

not.

What

I

want

to

know,

Novinha,

what

I

must

know

before

I'll

let

you

take

the

test,

is

what

community

you

do

belong

to."

"You

said

it

yourself!

I

don't

belong

to

any."

"Impossible.

Every

person

is

defined

by

the

communities

she

belongs

to

and

the

ones

she

doesn't

belong

to.

I

am

this

and

this

and

this,

but

definitely

not

that

and

that

and

that.

All

your

definitions

are

negative.

I

could

make

an

infinite

list

of

the

things

you

are

not.

But

a

person

who

really

believes

she

doesn't

belong

to

any

community

at

all

invariably

kills

herself,

either

by

killing

her

body

or

by

giving

up

her

identity

and

going

mad."

"That's

me,

insane

to

the

root."

"Not

insane.

Driven

by

a

sense

of

purpose

that

is

frightening.

If

you

take

the

test

you'll

pass

it.

But

before

I

let

you

take

it,

I

have

to

know:

Who

will

you

become

when

you

pass?

What

do

you

believe

in,

what

are

you

part

of,

what

do

you

care

about,

what

do

you

love?"

"Nobody

in

this

or

any

other

world."

"I

don't

believe

you."

"I've

never

known

a

good

man

or

woman

in

the

world

except

my

parents

and

they're

dead!

And

even

they--

nobody

understands

anything."

"You."

"I'm

part

of

anything,

aren't

I?

But

nobody

understands

anybody,

not

even

you,

pretending

to

be

so

wise

and

compassionate

but

you're

only

getting

me

to

cry

like

this

because

you

have

the

power

to

stop

me

from

doing

what

I

want

to

do--"

"And

it

isn't

xenobiology."

"Yes

it

is!

That's

part

of

it,

anyway."

"And

what's

the

rest

of

it?"

"What

you

are.

What

you

do.

Only

you're

doing

it

all

wrong,

you're

doing

it

stupidly."

"Xenobiologist

and

xenologer."

"They

made

a

stupid

mistake

when

they

created

a

new

science

to

study

the

piggies.

They

were

a

bunch

of

tired

old

anthropologists

who

put

on

new

hats

and

called

themselves

Xenologers.

But

you

can't

understand

the

piggies

just

by

watching

the

way

they

behave!

They

came

out

of

a

different

evolution!

You

have

to

understand

their

genes,

what's

going

on

inside

their

cells.

And

the

other

animals'

cells,

too,

because

they

can't

be

studied

by

themselves,

nobody

lives

in

isolation."

Don't

lecture

me,

thought

Pipo.

Tell

me

what

you

feel.

And

to

provoke

her

to

be

more

emotional,

he

whispered,

"Except

you."

It

worked.

From

cold

and

contemptuous

she

became

hot

and

defensive.

"You'll

never

understand

them!

But

I

will!"

"Why

do

you

care

about

them?

What

are

the

piggies

to

you?"

"You'd

never

understand.

You're

a

good

Catholic."

She

said

the

word

with

contempt.

"It's

a

book

that's

on

the

Index."

Pipo's

face

glowed

with

sudden

understanding.

"The

Hive

Queen

and

the

Hegemon."

"He

lived

three

thousand

years

ago,

whoever

he

was,

the

one

who

called

himself

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

But

he

understood

the

buggers!

We

wiped

them

all

out,

the

only

other

alien

race

we

ever

knew,

we

killed

them

all,

but

he

understood."

"And

you

want

to

write

the

story

of

the

piggies

the

way

the

original

Speaker

wrote

of

the

buggers."

"The

way

you

say

it,

you

make

it

sound

as

easy

as

doing

a

scholarly

paper.

You

don't

know

what

it

was

like

to

write

the

Hive

Queen

and

the

Hegemon.

How

much

agony

it

was

for

him

to--

to

imagine

himself

inside

an

alien

mind--

and

come

out

of

it

filled

with

love

for

the

great

creature

we

destroyed.

He

lived

at

the

same

time

as

the

worst

human

being

who

ever

lived,

Ender

the

Xenocide,

who

destroyed

the

buggers--

and

he

did

his

best

to

undo

what

Ender

did,

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead

tried

to

raise

the

dead--"

"But

he

couldn't."

"But

he

did!

He

made

them

live

again--

you'd

know

it

if

you

had

read

the

book!

I

don't

know

about

Jesus,

I

listen

to

Bishop

Peregrino

and

I

don't

think

there's

any

power

in

their

priesthood

to

turn

wafers

into

flesh

or

forgive

a

milligram

of

guilt.

But

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead

brought

the

hive

queen

back

to

life."

"Then

where

is

she?"

"In

here!

In

me!"

He

nodded.

"And

someone

else

is

in

you.

The

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

That's

who

you

want

to

be."

"It's

the

only

true

story

I

ever

heard,"

she

said.

"The

only

one

I

care

about.

Is

that

what

you

wanted

to

hear?

That

I'm

a

heretic?

And

my

whole

life's

work

is

going

to

be

adding

another

book

to

the

Index

of

truths

that

good

Catholics

are

forbidden

to

read?"

"What

I

wanted

to

hear,"

said

Pipo

softly,

"was

the

name

of

what

you

are

instead

of

the

name

of

all

the

things

that

you

are

not.

What

you

are

is

the

hive

queen.

What

you

are

is

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

It's

a

very

small

community,

small

in

numbers,

but

a

great-hearted

one.

So

you

chose

not

to

be

part

of

the

bands

of

children

who

group

together

for

the

sole

purpose

of

excluding

others,

and

people

look

at

you

and

say,

poor

girl,

she's

so

isolated,

but

you

know

a

secret,

you

know

who

you

really

are.

You

are

the

one

human

being

who

is

capable

of

understanding

the

alien

mind,

because

you

are

the

alien

mind;

you

know

what

it

is

to

be

unhuman

because

there's

never

been

any

human

group

that

gave

you

credentials

as

a

bona

fide

homo

sapiens."

"Now

you

say

I'm

not

even

human?

You

made

me

cry

like

a

little

girl

because

you

wouldn't

let

me

take

the

test,

you

made

me

humiliate

myself,

and

now

you

say

I'm

unhuman?"

"You

can

take

the

test."

The

words

hung

in

the

air.

"When?"

she

whispered.

"Tonight.

Tomorrow.

Begin

when

you

like.

I'll

stop

my

work

to

take

you

through

the

tests

as

quickly

as

you

like."

"Thank

you!

Thank

you,

I--"

"Become

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

I'll

help

you

all

I

can.

The

law

forbids

me

to

take

anyone

but

my

apprentice,

my

son

Libo,

out

to

meet

the

pequeninos.

But

we'll

open

our

notes

to

you.

Everything

we

learn,

we'll

show

you.

All

our

guesses

and

speculation.

In

return,

you

also

show

us

all

your

work,

what

you

find

out

about

the

genetic

patterns

of

this

world

that

might

help

us

understand

the

pequeninos.

And

when

we've

learned

enough,

together,

you

can

write

your

book,

you

can

become

the

Speaker.

But

this

time

not

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

The

pequeninos

aren't

dead."

In

spite

of

herself,

she

smiled.

"The

Speaker

for

the

Living."

"I've

read

the

Hive

Queen

and

the

Hegemon,

too,"

he

said.

"I

can't

think

of

a

better

place

for

you

to

find

your

name."

But

she

did

not

trust

him

yet,

did

not

believe

what

he

seemed

to

be

promising.

"I'll

want

to

come

here

often.

All

the

time."

"We

lock

it

up

when

we

go

home

to

bed."

"But

all

the

rest

of

the

time.

You'll

get

tired

of

me.

You'll

tell

me

to

go

away.

You'll

keep

secrets

from

me.

You'll

tell

me

to

be

quiet

and

not

mention

my

ideas."

"We've

only

just

become

friends,

and

already

you

think

I'm

such

a

liar

and

cheat,

such

an

impatient

oaf."

"But

you

will,

everyone

does;

they

all

wish

I'd

go

away--"

Pipo

shrugged.

"So?

Sometime

or

other

everybody

wishes

everybody

would

go

away.

Sometimes

I'll

wish

you

would

go

away.

What

I'm

telling

you

now

is

that

even

at

those

times,

even

if

I

tell

you

to

go

away,

you

don't

have

to

go

away."

It

was

the

most

bafflingly

perfect

thing

that

anyone

had

ever

said

to

her.

"That's

crazy."

"Only

one

thing.

Promise

me

you'll

never

try

to

go

out

to

the

pequeninos.

Because

I

can

never

let

you

do

that,

and

if

somehow

you

do

it

anyway,

Starways

Congress

would

close

down

all

our

work

here,

forbid

any

contact

with

them.

Do

you

promise

me?

Or

everything--

my

work,

your

work--

it

will

all

be

undone."

"I

promise."

"When

will

you

take

the

test?"

"Now!

Can

I

begin

it

now?"

He

laughed

gently,

then

reached

out

a

hand

and

without

looking

touched

the

terminal.

It

came

to

life,

the

first

genetic

models

appearing

in

the

air

above

the

terminal.

"You

had

the

examination

ready,"

she

said.

"You

were

all

set

to

go!

You

knew

that

you'd

let

me

do

it

all

along!"

He

shook

his

head.

"I

hoped.

I

believed

in

you.

I

wanted

to

help

you

do

what

you

dreamed

of

doing.

As

long

as

it

was

something

good."

She

would

not

have

been

Novinha

if

she

hadn't

found

one

more

poisonous

thing

to

say.

"I

see.

You

are

the

judge

of

dreams."

Perhaps

he

didn't

know

it

was

an

insult.

He

only

smiled

and

said,

"Faith,

hope,

and

love--

these

three.

But

the

greatest

of

these

is

love."

"You

don't

love

me,"

she

said.

"Ah,"

he

said.

"I

am

the

judge

of

dreams,

and

you

are

the

judge

of

love.

Well,

I

find

you

guilty

of

dreaming

good

dreams,

and

sentence

you

to

a

lifetime

of

working

and

suffering

for

the

sake

of

your

dreams.

I

only

hope

that

someday

you

won't

declare

me

innocent

of

the

crime

of

loving

you."

He

grew

reflective

for

a

moment.

"I

lost

a

daughter

in

the

Descolada.

Maria.

She

would

have

been

only

a

few

years

older

than

you.

"

"And

I

remind

you

of

her?"

"I

was

thinking

that

she

would

have

been

nothing

at

all

like

you."

She

began

the

test.

It

took

three

days.

She

passed

it,

with

a

score

a

good

deal

higher

than

many

a

graduate

student.

In

retrospect,

however,

she

would

not

remember

the

test

because

it

was

the

beginning

of

her

career,

the

end

of

her

childhood,

the

confirmation

of

her

vocation

for

her

life's

work.

She

would

remember

the

test

because

it

was

the

beginning

of

her

time

in

Pipo's

Station,

where

Pipo

and

Libo

and

Novinha

together

formed

the

first

community

she

belonged

to

since

her

parents

were

put

into

the

earth.

It

was

not

easy,

especially

at

the

beginning.

Novinha

did

not

instantly

shed

her

habit

of

cold

confrontation.

Pipo

understood

it,

was

prepared

to

bend

with

her

verbal

blows.

It

was

much

more

of

a

challenge

for

Libo.

The

Zenador's

Station

had

been

a

place

where

he

and

his

father

could

be

alone

together.

Now,

without

anyone

asking

his

consent,

a

third

person

had

been

added,

a

cold

and

demanding

person,

who

spoke

to

him

as

if

he

were

a

child,

even

though

they

were

the

same

age.

It

galled

him

that

she

was

a

full-fledged

xenobiologist,

with

all

the

adult

status

that

that

implied,

when

he

was

still

an

apprentice.