Speedreed

XENOCIDE

by

Orson

Scott

Card

(c)

1991

Orson

Scott

Card

Chapter

1

--

A

PARTING

<Today

one

of

the

brothers

asked

me:

Is

it

a

terrible

prison,

not

to

be

able

to

move

from

the

place

where

you're

standing?>

<You

answered

...>

<I

told

him

that

I

am

now

more

free

than

he

is.

The

inability

to

move

frees

me

from

the

obligation

to

act.>

<You

who

speak

languages,

you

are

such

liars.>

Han

Fei-tzu

sat

in

lotus

position

on

the

bare

wooden

floor

beside

his

wife's

sickbed.

Until

a

moment

ago

he

might

have

been

sleeping;

he

wasn't

sure.

But

now

he

was

aware

of

the

slight

change

in

her

breathing,

a

change

as

subtle

as

the

wind

from

a

butterfly's

passing.

Jiang-qing,

for

her

part,

must

also

have

detected

some

change

in

him,

for

she

had

not

spoken

before

and

now

she

did

speak.

Her

voice

was

very

soft.

But

Han

Fei-tzu

could

hear

her

clearly,

for

the

house

was

silent.

He

had

asked

his

friends

and

servants

for

stillness

during

the

dusk

of

Jiang-qing's

life.

Time

enough

for

careless

noise

during

the

long

night

that

was

to

come,

when

there

would

be

no

hushed

words

from

her

lips.

"Still

not

dead,"

she

said.

She

had

greeted

him

with

these

words

each

time

she

woke

during

the

past

few

days.

At

first

the

words

had

seemed

whimsical

or

ironic

to

him,

but

now

he

knew

that

she

spoke

with

disappointment.

She

longed

for

death

now,

not

because

she

hadn't

loved

life,

but

because

death

was

now

unavoidable,

and

what

cannot

be

shunned

must

be

embraced.

That

was

the

Path.

Jiang-qing

had

never

taken

a

step

away

from

the

Path

in

her

life.

"Then

the

gods

are

kind

to

me,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"To

you,"

she

breathed.

"What

do

we

contemplate?"

It

was

her

way

of

asking

him

to

share

his

private

thoughts

with

her.

When

others

asked

his

private

thoughts,

he

felt

spied

upon.

But

Jiang-qing

asked

only

so

that

she

could

also

think

the

same

thought;

it

was

part

of

their

having

become

a

single

soul.

"We

are

contemplating

the

nature

of

desire,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"Whose

desire?"

she

asked.

"And

for

what?"

My

desire

for

your

bones

to

heal

and

become

strong,

so

that

they

don't

snap

at

the

slightest

pressure.

So

that

you

could

stand

again,

or

even

raise

an

arm

without

your

own

muscles

tearing

away

chunks

of

bone

or

causing

the

bone

to

break

under

the

tension.

So

that

I

wouldn't

have

to

watch

you

wither

away

until

now

you

weigh

only

eighteen

kilograms.

I

never

knew

how

perfectly

happy

we

were

until

I

learned

that

we

could

not

stay

together.

"My

desire,"

he

answered.

"For

you."

"'You

only

covet

what

you

do

not

have.'

Who

said

that?"

"You

did,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"Some

say,

'what

you

cannot

have.'

Others

say,

'what

you

should

not

have.'

I

say,

'You

can

truly

covet

only

what

you

will

always

hunger

for.'"

"You

have

me

forever."

"I

will

lose

you

tonight.

Or

tomorrow.

Or

next

week."

"Let

us

contemplate

the

nature

of

desire,"

said

Jiang-qing.

As

before,

she

was

using

philosophy

to

pull

him

out

of

his

brooding

melancholy.

He

resisted

her,

but

only

playfully.

"You

are

a

harsh

ruler,"

said

Han

Feitzu.

"Like

your

ancestor-of-theheart,

you

make

no

allowance

for

other

people's

frailty."

Jiang-qing

was

named

for

a

revolutionary

leader

of

the

ancient

past,

who

had

tried

to

lead

the

people

onto

a

new

Path

but

was

overthrown

by

weak-hearted

cowards.

It

was

not

right,

thought

Han

Fei-tzu,

for

his

wife

to

die

before

him:

her

ancestor-of-the-heart

had

outlived

her

husband.

Besides,

wives

should

live

longer

than

husbands.

Women

were

more

complete

inside

themselves.

They

were

also

better

at

living

in

their

children.

They

were

never

as

solitary

as

a

man

alone.

Jiang-qing

refused

to

let

him

return

to

brooding.

"When

a

man's

wife

is

dead,

what

does

he

long

for?"

Rebelliously,

Han

Fei-tzu

gave

her

the

most

false

answer

to

her

question.

"To

lie

with

her,"

he

said.

"The

desire

of

the

body,"

said

Jiang-qing.

Since

she

was

determined

to

have

this

conversation,

Han

Fei-tzu

took

up

the

catalogue

for

her.

"The

desire

of

the

body

is

to

act.

It

includes

all

touches,

casual

and

intimate,

and

all

customary

movements.

Thus

he

sees

a

movement

out

of

the

corner

of

his

eye,

and

thinks

he

has

seen

his

dead

wife

moving

across

the

doorway,

and

he

cannot

be

content

until

he

has

walked

to

the

door

and

seen

that

it

was

not

his

wife.

Thus

he

wakes

up

from

a

dream

in

which

he

heard

her

voice,

and

finds

himself

speaking

his

answer

aloud

as

if

she

could

hear

him."

"What

else?"

asked

Jiang-qing.

"I'm

tired

of

philosophy,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"Maybe

the

Greeks

found

comfort

in

it,

but

not

me."

"The

desire

of

the

spirit,"

said

Jiang-qing,

insisting.

"Because

the

spirit

is

of

the

earth,

it

is

that

part

which

makes

new

things

out

of

old

ones.

The

husband

longs

for

all

the

unfinished

things

that

he

and

his

wife

were

making

when

she

died,

and

all

the

unstarted

dreams

of

what

they

would

have

made

if

she

had

lived.

Thus

a

man

grows

angry

at

his

children

for

being

too

much

like

him

and

not

enough

like

his

dead

wife.

Thus

a

man

hates

the

house

they

lived

in

together,

because

either

he

does

not

change

it,

so

that

it

is

as

dead

as

his

wife,

or

because

he

does

change

it,

so

that

it

is

no

longer

half

of

her

making."

"You

don't

have

to

be

angry

at

our

little

Qing-jao,"

said

Jiang-qing.

"Why?"

asked

Han

Fei-tzu.

"Will

you

stay,

then,

and

help

me

teach

her

to

be

a

woman?

All

I

can

teach

her

is

to

be

what

I

am--

cold

and

hard,

sharp

and

strong,

like

obsidian.

If

she

grows

like

that,

while

she

looks

so

much

like

you,

how

can

I

help

but

be

angry?"

"Because

you

can

teach

her

everything

that

I

am,

too,"

said

Jiang-qing.

"If

I

had

any

part

of

you

in

me,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu,

"I

would

not

have

needed

to

marry

you

to

become

a

complete

person."

Now

he

teased

her

by

using

philosophy

to

turn

the

conversation

away

from

pain.

"That

is

the

desire

of

the

soul.

Because

the

soul

is

made

of

light

and

dwells

in

air,

it

is

that

part

which

conceives

and

keeps

ideas,

especially

the

idea

of

the

self.

The

husband

longs

for

his

whole

self,

which

was

made

of

the

husband

and

wife

together.

Thus

he

never

believes

any

of

his

own

thoughts,

because

there

is

always

a

question

in

his

mind

to

which

his

wife's

thoughts

were

the

only

possible

answer.

Thus

the

whole

world

seems

dead

to

him

because

he

cannot

trust

anything

to

keep

its

meaning

before

the

onslaught

of

this

unanswerable

question."

"Very

deep,"

said

Jiang-qing.

"If

I

were

Japanese

I

would

commit

seppuku,

spilling

my

bowel

into

the

jar

of

your

ashes."

"Very

wet

and

messy,"

she

said.

He

smiled.

"Then

I

should

be

an

ancient

Hindu,

and

burn

myself

on

your

pyre."

But

she

was

through

with

joking.

"Qing-jao,"

she

whispered.

She

was

reminding

him

he

could

do

nothing

so

flamboyant

as

to

die

with

her.

There

was

little

Qing-jao

to

care

for.

So

Han

Fei-tzu

answered

her

seriously.

"How

can

I

teach

her

to

be

what

you

are?"

"All

that

is

good

in

me,"

said

Jiang-qing,

"comes

from

the

Path.

If

you

teach

her

to

obey

the

gods,

honor

the

ancestors,

love

the

people,

and

serve

the

rulers,

I

will

be

in

her

as

much

as

you

are."

"I

would

teach

her

the

Path

as

part

of

myself,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"Not

so,"

said

Jiang-qing.

"The

Path

is

not

a

natural

part

of

you,

my

husband.

Even

with

the

gods

speaking

to

you

every

day,

you

insist

on

believing

in

a

world

where

everything

can

be

explained

by

natural

causes."

"I

obey

the

gods."

He

thought,

bitterly,

that

he

had

no

choice;

that

even

to

delay

obedience

was

torture.

"But

you

don't

know

them.

You

don't

love

their

works."

"The

Path

is

to

love

the

people.

The

gods

we

only

obey."

How

can

I

love

gods

who

humiliate

me

and

torment

me

at

every

opportunity?

"We

love

the

people

because

they

are

creatures

of

the

gods."

"Don't

preach

to

me."

She

sighed.

Her

sadness

stung

him

like

a

spider.

"I

wish

you

would

preach

to

me

forever,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"You

married

me

because

you

knew

I

loved

the

gods,

and

that

love

for

them

was

completely

missing

from

yourself.

That

was

how

I

completed

you."

How

could

he

argue

with

her,

when

he

knew

that

even

now

he

hated

the

gods

for

everything

they

had

ever

done

to

him,

everything

they

had

ever

made

him

do,

everything

they

had

stolen

from

him

in

his

life.

"Promise

me,"

said

Jiang-qing.

He

knew

what

these

words

meant.

She

felt

death

upon

her;

she

was

laying

the

burden

of

her

life

upon

him.

A

burden

he

would

gladly

bear.

It

was

losing

her

company

on

the

Path

that

he

had

dreaded

for

so

long.

"Promise

that

you

will

teach

Qing-jao

to

love

the

gods

and

walk

always

on

the

Path.

Promise

that

you

will

make

her

as

much

my

daughter

as

yours."

"Even

if

she

never

hears

the

voice

of

the

gods?"

"The

Path

is

for

everyone,

not

just

the

godspoken."

Perhaps,

thought

Han

Fei-tzu,

but

it

was

much

easier

for

the

godspoken

to

follow

the

Path,

because

to

them

the

price

for

straying

from

it

was

so

terrible.

The

common

people

were

free;

they

could

leave

the

Path

and

not

feel

the

pain

of

it

for

years.

The

godspoken

couldn't

leave

the

Path

for

an

hour.

"Promise

me."

I

will.

I

promise.

But

he

couldn't

say

the

words

out

loud.

He

did

not

know

why,

but

his

reluctance

was

deep.

In

the

silence,

as

she

waited

for

his

vow,

they

heard

the

sound

of

running

feet

on

the

gravel

outside

the

front

door

of

the

house.

It

could

only

be

Qing-jao,

home

from

the

garden

of

Sun

Cao-pi.

Only

Qing-jao

was

allowed

to

run

and

make

noise

during

this

time

of

hush,

They

waited,

knowing

that

she

would

come

straight

to

her

mother's

room.

The

door

slid

open

almost

noiselessly.

Even

Qing-jao

had

caught

enough

of

the

hush

to

walk

softly

when

she

was

actually

in

the

presence

of

her

mother.

Though

she

walked

on

tiptoe,

she

could

hardly

keep

from

dancing,

almost

galloping

across

the

floor.

But

she

did

not

fling

her

arms

around

her

mother's

neck;

she

remembered

that

lesson

even

though

the

terrible

bruise

had

faded

from

Jiang-qing's

face,

where

Qing-jao's

eager

embrace

had

broken

her

jaw

three

months

ago.

"I

counted

twenty-three

white

carp

in

the

garden

stream,"

said

Qing-jao.

"So

many,"

said

Jiang-qing.

"I

think

they

were

showing

themselves

to

me,"

said

Qing-jao.

"So

I

could

count

them.

None

of

them

wanted

to

be

left

out."

"Love

you,"

whispered

Jiang-qing.

Han

Fei-tzu

heard

a

new

sound

in

her

breathy

voice--

a

popping

sound,

like

bubbles

bursting

with

her

words.

"Do

you

think

that

seeing

so

many

carp

means

that

I

will

be

godspoken?"

asked

Qing-jao.

"I

will

ask

the

gods

to

speak

to

you,"

said

Jiang-qing.

Suddenly

Jiang-qing's

breathing

became

quick

and

harsh.

Han

Fei-tzu

immediately

knelt

and

looked

at

his

wife.

Her

eyes

were

wide

and

frightened.

The

moment

had

come.

Her

lips

moved.

Promise

me,

she

said,

though

her

breath

could

make

no

sound

but

gasping.

"I

promise,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

Then

her

breathing

stopped.

"What

do

the

gods

say

when

they

talk

to

you?"

asked

Qing-jao.

"Your

mother

is

very

tired,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"You

should

go

out

now."

"But

she

didn't

answer

me.

What

do

the

gods

say?"

"They

tell

secrets,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"No

one

who

hears

will

repeat

them."

Qing-jao

nodded

wisely.

She

took

a

step

back,

as

if

to

leave,

but

stopped.

"May

I

kiss

you,

Mama?"

"Lightly

on

the

cheek,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

Qing-jao,

being

small

for

a

four-year-old,

did

not

have

to

bend

very

far

at

all

to

kiss

her

mother's

cheek.

"I

love

you,

Mama."

"You'd

better

leave

now,

Qing-jao,"

said

Han

Fei-tzu.

"But

Mama

didn't

say

she

loved

me

too."

"She

did.

She

said

it

before.

Remember?

But

she's

very

tired

and

weak.

Go

now."

He

put

just

enough

sternness

in

his

voice

that

Qing-jao

left

without

further

questions.

Only

when

she

was

gone

did

Han

Fei-tzu

let

himself

feel

anything

but

care

for

her.

He

knelt

over

Jiang-qing's

body

and

tried

to

imagine

what

was

happening

to

her

now.

Her

soul

had

flown

and

was

now

already

in

heaven.

Her

spirit

would

linger

much

longer;

perhaps

her

spirit

would

dwell

in

this

house,

if

it

had

truly

been

a

place

of

happiness

for

her.

Superstitious

people

believed

that

all

spirits

of

the

dead

were

dangerous,

and

put

up

signs

and

wards

to

fend

them

off.

But

those

who

followed

the

Path

knew

that

the

spirit

of

a

good

person

was

never

harmful

or

destructive,

for

their

goodness

in

life

had

come

from

the

spirit's

love

of

making

things.

Jiang-qing's

spirit

would

be

a

blessing

in

the

house

for

many

years

to

come,

if

she

chose

to

stay.

Yet

even

as

he

tried

to

imagine

her

soul

and

spirit,

according

to

the

teachings

of

the

Path,

there

was

a

cold

place

in

his

heart

that

was

certain

that

all

that

was

left

of

Jiang-qing

was

this

brittle,

dried-up

body.

Tonight

it

would

burn

as

quickly

as

paper,

and

then

she

would

be

gone

except

for

the

memories

in

his

heart.

Jiang-qing

was

right.

Without

her

to

complete

his

soul,

he

was

already

doubting

the

gods.

And

the

gods

had

noticed--

they

always

did.

At

once

he

felt

the

unbearable

pressure

to

do

the

ritual

of

cleansing,

until

he

was

rid

of

his

unworthy

thoughts.

Even

now

they

could

not

leave

him

unpunished.

Even

now,

with

his

wife

lying

dead

before

him,

the

gods

insisted

that

he

do

obeisance

to

them

before

he

could

shed

a

single

tear

of

grief

for

her.

At

first

he

meant

to

delay,

to

put

off

obedience.

He

had

schooled

himself

to

be

able

to

postpone

the

ritual

for

as

long

as

a

whole

day,

while

hiding

all

outward

signs

of

his

inner

torment.

He

could

do

that

now--

but

only

by

keeping

his

heart

utterly

cold.

There

was

no

point

in

that.

Proper

grief

could

come

only

when

he

had

satisfied

the

gods.

So,

kneeling

there,

he

began

the

ritual.

He

was

still

twisting

and

gyrating

with

the

ritual

when

a

servant

peered

in.

Though

the

servant

said

nothing,

Han

Fei-tzu

heard

the

faint

sliding

of

the

door

and

knew

what

the

servant

would

assume:

Jiangqing

was

dead,

and

Han

Fei-tzu

was

so

righteous

that

he

was

communing

with

the

gods

even

before

he

announced

her

death

to

the

household.

No

doubt

some

would

even

suppose

that

the

gods

had

come

to

take

Jiang-qing,

since

she

was

known

for

her

extraordinary

holiness.

No

one

would

guess

that

even

as

Han

Feitzu

worshiped,

his

heart

was

full

of

bitterness

that

the

gods

would

dare

demand

this

of

him

even

now.

O

Gods,

he

thought,

if

I

knew

that

by

cutting

off

an

arm

or

cutting

out

my

liver

I

could

be

rid

of

you

forever,

I

would

seize

the

knife

and

relish

the

pain

and

loss,

all

for

the

sake

of

freedom.

That

thought,

too,

was

unworthy,

and

required

even

more

cleansing.

It

was

hours

before

the

gods

at

last

released

him,

and

by

then

he

was

too

tired,

too

sick

at

heart

to

grieve.

He

got

up

and

fetched

the

women

to

prepare

Jiang-qing's

body

for

the

burning.

At

midnight

he

was

the

last

to

come

to

the

pyre,

carrying

a

sleepy

Qing-jao

in

his

arms.

She

clutched

in

her

hands

the

three

papers

she

had

written

for

her

mother

in

her

childish

scrawl.

"Fish,"

she

had

written,

and

"book"

and

"secrets."

These

were

the

things

that

Qing-jao

was

giving

to

her

mother

to

carry

with

her

into

heaven.

Han

Fei-tzu

had

tried

to

guess

at

the

thoughts

in

Qing-jao's

mind

as

she

wrote

those

words.

Fish

because

of

the

carp

in

the

garden

stream

today,

no

doubt.

And

book--

that

was

easy

enough

to

understand,

because

reading

aloud

was

one

of

the

last

things

Jiang-qing

could

do

with

her

daughter.

But

why

secrets?

What

secrets

did

Qing-jao

have

for

her

mother?

He

could

not

ask.

One

did

not

discuss

the

paper

offerings

to

the

dead.

Han

Fei-tzu

set

Qing-jao

on

her

feet;

she

had

not

been

deeply

asleep,

and

so

she

woke

at

once

and

stood

there,

blinking

slowly.

Han

Fei-tzu

whispered

to

her

and

she

rolled

her

papers

and

tucked

them

into

her

mother's

sleeve.

She

didn't

seem

to

mind

touching

her

mother's

cold

flesh--

she

was

too

young

to

have

learned

to

shudder

at

the

touch

of

death.

Nor

did

Han

Fei-tzu

mind

the

touch

of

his

wife's

flesh

as

he

tucked

his

own

three

papers

into

her

other

sleeve.

What

was

there

to

fear

from

death

now,

when

it

had

already

done

its

worst?

No

one

knew

what

was

written

on

his

papers,

or

they

would

have

been

horrified,

for

he

had

written,

"My

body,"

"My

spirit,"

and

"My

soul."

Thus

it

was

that

he

burned

himself

on

Jiang-qing's

funeral

pyre,

and

sent

himself

with

her

wherever

it

was

she

was

going.

Then

Jiang-qing's

secret

maid,

Mu-pao,

laid

the

torch

onto

the

sacred

wood

and

the

pyre

burst

into

flames.

The

heat

of

the

fire

was

painful,

and

Qing-jao

hid

herself

behind

her

father,

only

peeking

around

him

now

and

then

to

watch

her

mother

leave

on

her

endless

journey.

Han

Fei-tzu,

though,

welcomed

the

dry

heat

that

seared

his

skin

and

made

brittle

the

silk

of

his

robe.

Her

body

had

not

been

as

dry

as

it

seemed;

long

after

the

papers

had

crisped

into

ash

and

blown

upward

into

the

smoke

of

the

fire,

her

body

still

sizzled,

and

the

heavy

incense

burning

all

around

the

fire

could

not

conceal

from

him

the

smell

of

burning

flesh.

That

is

what

we're

burning

here:

meat,

fish,

carrion,

nothing.

Not

my

Jiang-qing.

Only

the

costume

she

wore

into

this

life.

That

which

made

that

body

into

the

woman

that

I

loved

is

still

alive,

must

still

live.

And

for

a

moment

he

thought

he

could

see,

or

hear,

or

somehow

feel

the

passage

of

Jiang-qing.

Into

the

air,

into

the

earth,

into

the

fire.

I

am

with

you.

Chapter

2

--

A

MEETING

<The

strangest

thing

about

humans

is

the

way

they

pair

up,

males

and

females.

Constantly

at

war

with

each

other,

never

content

to

leave

each

other

alone.

They

never

seem

to

grasp

the

idea

that

males

and

females

are

separate

species

with

completely

different

needs

and

desires,

forced

to

come

together

only

to

reproduce.>

<Of

course

you

feel

that

way.

Your

mates

are

nothing

but

mindless

drones,

extensions

of

yourself,

without

their

own

identity.>

<We

know

our

lovers

with

perfect

understanding.

Humans

invent

an

imaginary

lover

and

put

that

mask

over

the

face

of

the

body

in

their

bed.>

<That

is

the

tragedy

of

language,

my

friend.

Those

who

know

each

other

only

through

symbolic

representations

are

forced

to

imagine

each

other.

And

because

their

imagination

is

imperfect,

they

are

often

wrong.>

<That

is

the

source

of

their

misery.>

<And

some

of

their

strength,

I

think.

Your

people

and

mine,

each

for

our

own

evolutionary

reasons,

mate

with

vastly

unequal

partners.

Our

mates

are

always,

hopelessly,

our

intellectual

inferiors.

Humans

mate

with

beings

who

challenge

their

supremacy.

They

have

conflict

between

mates,

not

because

their

communication

is

inferior

to

ours,

but

because

they

commune

with

each

other

at

all.>

Valentine

Wiggin

read

over

her

essay,

making

a

few

corrections

here

and

there.

When

she

was

done,

the

words

stood

in

the

air

over

her

computer

terminal.

She

was

feeling

pleased

with

herself

for

having

written

such

a

deft

ironic

dismemberment

of

the

personal

character

of

Rymus

Ojman,

the

chairman

of

the

cabinet

of

Starways

Congress.

"Have

we

finished

another

attack

on

the

masters

of

the

Hundred

Worlds?"

Valentine

did

not

turn

to

face

her

husband;

she

knew

from

his

voice

exactly

what

expression

would

be

on

his

face,

and

so

she

smiled

back

at

him

without

turning

around.

After

twenty-five

years

of

marriage,

they

could

see

each

other

clearly

without

having

to

look.

"We

have

made

Rymus

Ojman

look

ridiculous."

Jakt

leaned

into

her

tiny

office,

his

face

so

close

to

hers

that

she

could

hear

his

soft

breathing

as

he

read

the

opening

paragraphs.

He

wasn't

young

anymore;

the

exertion

of

leaning

into

her

office,

bracing

his

hands

on

the

doorframe,

was

making

him

breathe

more

rapidly

than

she

liked

to

hear.

Then

he

spoke,

but

with

his

face

so

close

to

hers

that

she

felt

his

lips

brush

her

cheek,

tickling

her

with

every

word.

"From

now

on

even

his

mother

will

laugh

behind

her

hand

whenever

she

sees

the

poor

bastard."

"It

was

hard

to

make

it

funny,"

said

Valentine.

"I

caught

myself

denouncing

him

again

and

again."

"This

is

better."

"Oh,

I

know.

If

I

had

let

my

outrage

show,

if

I

had

accused

him

of

all

his

crimes,

it

would

have

made

him

seem

more

formidable

and

frightening

and

the

Rule-of-law

Faction

would

have

loved

him

all

the

more,

while

the

cowards

on

every

world

would

have

bowed

to

him

even

lower."

"If

they

bow

any

lower

they'll

have

to

buy

thinner

carpets,"

said

Jakt.

She

laughed,

but

it

was

as

much

because

the

tickling

of

his

lips

on

her

cheek

was

becoming

unbearable.

It

was

also

beginning,

just

a

little,

to

tantalize

her

with

desires

that

simply

could

not

be

satisfied

on

this

voyage.

The

starship

was

too

small

and

cramped,

with

all

their

family

aboard,

for

any

real

privacy.

"Jakt,

we're

almost

at

the

midpoint.

We've

abstained

longer

than

this

during

the

mishmish

run

every

year

of

our

lives."

"We

could

put

a

do-not-enter

sign

on

the

door."

"Then

you

might

just

as

well

put

out

a

sign

that

says,

'naked

elderly

couple

reliving

old

memories

inside.'"

"I'm

not

elderly."

"You're

over

sixty."

"If

the

old

soldier

can

still

stand

up

and

salute,

I

say

let

him

march

in

the

parade."

"No

parades

till

the

voyage

is

over.

It's

only

a

couple

of

weeks

more.

We

only

have

to

complete

this

rendezvous

with

Ender's

stepson

and

then

we're

back

on

course

to

Lusitania."

Jakt

drew

away

from

her,

pulled

himself

out

of

her

doorway

and

stood

upright

in

the

corridor--

one

of

the

few

places

on

the

starship

where

he

could

actually

do

that.

He

groaned

as

he

did

it,

though.

"You

creak

like

an

old

rusty

door,"

said

Valentine.

"I've

heard

you

make

the

same

sounds

when

you

get

up

from

your

desk

here.

I'm

not

the

only

senile,

decrepit,

miserable

old

coot

in

our

family."

"Go

away

and

let

me

transmit

this."

"I'm

used

to

having

work

to

do

on

a

voyage,"

said

Jakt.

"The

computers

do

everything

here,

and

this

ship

never

rolls

or

pitches

in

the

sea."

"Read

a

book."

"I

worry

about

you.

All

work

and

no

play

makes

Val

a

mean-tempered

old

hag."

"Every

minute

that

we

talk

here

is

eight

and

a

half

hours

in

real

time."

"Our

time

here

on

this

starship

is

just

as

real

as

their

time

out

there,"

said

Jakt.

"Sometimes

I

wish

Ender's

friends

hadn't

figured

out

a

way

for

our

starship

to

keep

up

a

landside

link."

"It

takes

up

a

huge

amount

of

computer

time,"

said

Val.

"Until

now,

only

the

military

could

communicate

with

starships

during

near-lightspeed

flight.

If

Ender's

friends

can

achieve

it,

then

I

owe

it

to

them

to

use

it."

"You're

not

doing

all

this

because

you

owe

it

to

somebody."

That

was

true

enough.

"If

I

write

an

essay

every

hour,

Jakt,

it

means

that

to

the

rest

of

humanity

Demosthenes

is

publishing

something

only

once

every

three

weeks."

"You

can't

possibly

write

an

essay

every

hour.

You

sleep,

you

eat."

"You

talk,

I

listen.

Go

away,

Jakt."

"If

I'd

known

that

saving

a

planet

from

destruction

would

mean

my

returning

to

a

state

of

virginity,

I'd

never

have

agreed

to

it."

He

was

only

half

teasing.

Leaving

Trondheim

was

a

hard

decision

for

all

her

family--

even

for

her,

even

knowing

that

she

was

going

to

see

Ender

again.

The

children

were

all

adults

now,

or

nearly

so;

they

saw

this

voyage

as

a

great

adventure.

Their

visions

of

the

future

were

not

so

tied

to

a

particular

place.

None

of

them

had

become

a

sailor,

like

their

father;

all

of

them

were

becoming

scholars

or

scientists,

living

the

life

of

public

discourse

and

private

contemplation,

like

their

mother.

They

could

live

their

lives,

substantially

unchanged,

anywhere,

on

any

world.

Jakt

was

proud

of

them,

but

disappointed

that

the

chain

of

family

reaching

back

for

seven

generations

on

the

seas

of

Trondheim

would

end

with

him.

And

now,

for

her

sake,

he

had

given

up

the

sea

himself.

Giving

up

Trondheim

was

the

hardest

thing

she

could

ever

have

asked

of

Jakt,

and

he

had

said

yes

without

hesitation.

Perhaps

he

would

go

back

someday,

and,

if

he

did,

the

oceans,

the

ice,

the

storms,

the

fish,

the

desperately

sweet

green

meadows

of

summer

would

still

be

there.

But

his

crews

would

be

gone,

were

already

gone.

The

men

he

had

known

better

than

his

own

children,

better

than

his

wife--

those

men

were

already

fifteen

years

older,

and

when

he

returned,

if

he

returned,

another

forty

years

would

have

passed.

Their

grandsons

would

be

working

the

boats

then.

They

wouldn't

know

the

name

of

Jakt.

He'd

be

a

foreign

shipowner,

come

from

the

sky,

not

a

sailor,

not

a

man

with

the

stink

and

yellowy

blood

of

skrika

on

his

hands.

He

would

not

be

one

of

them.

So

when

he

complained

that

she

was

ignoring

him,

when

he

teased

about

their

lack

of

intimacy

during

the

voyage,

there

was

more

to

it

than

an

aging

husband's

playful

desire.

Whether

he

knew

he

was

saying

it

or

not,

she

understood

the

true

meaning

of

his

overtures:

After

what

I've

given

up

for

you,

have

you

nothing

to

give

to

me?

And

he

was

right--

she

was

pushing

herself

harder

than

she

needed

to.

She

was

making

more

sacrifices

than

needed

to

be

made--

requiring

overmuch

from

him

as

well.

It

wasn't

the

sheer

number

of

subversive

essays

that

Demosthenes

published

during

this

voyage

that

would

make

the

difference.

What

mattered

was

how

many

people

read

and

believed

what

she

wrote,

and

how

many

then

thought

and

spoke

and

acted

as

enemies

of

Starways

Congress.

Perhaps

more

important

was

the

hope

that

some

within

the

bureaucracy

of

Congress

itself

would

be

moved

to

feel

a

higher

allegiance

to

humanity

and

break

their

maddening

institutional

solidarity.

Some

would

surely

be

changed

by

what

she

wrote.

Not

many,

but

maybe

enough.

And

maybe

it

would

happen

in

time

to

stop

them

from

destroying

the

planet

Lusitania.

If

not,

she

and

Jakt

and

those

who

had

given

up

so

much

to

come

with

them

on

this

voyage

from

Trondheim

would

reach

Lusitania

just

in

time

to

turn

around

and

flee--

or

be

destroyed

along

with

all

the

others

of

that

world.

It

was

not

unreasonable

for

Jakt

to

be

tense,

to

want

to

spend

more

time

with

her.

It

was

unreasonable

for

her

to

be

so

single-minded,

to

use

every

waking

moment

writing

propaganda.

"You

make

the

sign

for

the

door,

and

I'll

make

sure

you

aren't

alone

in

the

room."

"Woman,

you

make

my

heart

go

flip-flop

like

a

dying

flounder,"

said

Jakt.

"You

are

so

romantic

when

you

talk

like

a

fisherman,"

said

Valentine.

"The

children

will

have

a

good

laugh,

knowing

you

couldn't

keep

your

hands

off

me

even

for

the

three

weeks

of

this

voyage."

"They

have

our

genes.

They

should

be

rooting

for

us

to

stay

randy

till

we're

well

into

our

second

century."

"I'm

well

into

my

fourth

millennium."

"When

oh

when

can

I

expect

you

in

my

stateroom,

Ancient

One?"

"When

I've

transmitted

this

essay."

"And

how

long

will

that

be?"

"Sometime

after

you

go

away

and

leave

me

alone."

With

a

deep

sigh

that

was

more

theatre

than

genuine

misery,

he

padded

off

down

the

carpeted

corridor.

After

a

moment

there

came

a

clanging

sound

and

she

heard

him

yelp

in

pain.

In

mock

pain,

of

course;

he

had

accidentally

hit

the

metal

beam

with

his

head

on

the

first

day

of

the

voyage,

but

ever

since

then

his

collisions

had

been

deliberate,

for

comic

effect.

No

one

ever

laughed

out

loud,

of

course--

that

was

a

family

tradition,

not

to

laugh

when

Jakt

pulled

one

of

his

physical

gags--

but

then

Jakt

was

not

the

sort

of

man

who

needed

overt

encouragement

from

others.

He

was

his

own

best

audience;

a

man

couldn't

be

a

sailor

and

a

leader

of

men

all

his

life

without

being

quite

self-contained.

As

far

as

Valentine

knew,

she

and

the

children

were

the

only

people

he

had

ever

allowed

himself

to

need.

Even

then,

he

had

not

needed

them

so

much

that

he

couldn't

go

on

with

his

life

as

a

sailor

and

fisherman,

away

from

home

for

days,

often

weeks,

sometimes

months

at

a

time.

Valentine

went

with

him

sometimes

at

first,

when

they

were

still

so

hungry

for

each

other

that

they

could

never

be

satisfied.

But

within

a

few

years

their

hunger

had

given

way

to

patience

and

trust;

when

he

was

away,

she

did

her

research

and

wrote

her

books,

and

then

gave

her

entire

attention

to

him

and

the

children

when

he

returned.

The

children

used

to

complain,

"I

wish

Father

would

get

home,

so

Mother

would

come

out

of

her

room

and

talk

to

us

again."

I

was

not

a

very

good

mother,

Valentine

thought.

It's

pure

luck

that

the

children

turned

out

so

well.

The

essay

remained

in

the

air

over

the

terminal.

Only

a

final

touch

remained

to

be

given.

At

the

bottom,

she

centered

the

cursor

and

typed

the

name

under

which

all

her

writings

were

published:

DEMOSTHENES

It

was

a

name

given

to

her

by

her

older

brother,

Peter,

when

they

were

children

together

fifty--

no,

three

thousand

years

ago.

The

mere

thought

of

Peter

still

had

the

power

to

upset

her,

to

make

her

go

hot

and

cold

inside.

Peter,

the

cruel

one,

the

violent

one,

the

one

whose

mind

was

so

subtle

and

dangerous

that

he

was

manipulating

her

by

the

age

of

two

and

the

world

by

the

age

of

twenty.

When

they

were

still

children

on

Earth

in

the

twentysecond

century,

he

studied

the

political

writings

of

great

men

and

women,

living

and

dead,

not

to

learn

their

ideas--

those

he

grasped

instantly--

but

to

learn

how

they

said

them.

To

learn,

in

practical

terms,

how

to

sound

like

an

adult.

When

he

had

mastered

it,

he

taught

Valentine,

and

forced

her

to

write

low

political

demagoguery

under

the

name

Demosthenes

while

he

wrote

elevated

statesmanlike

essays

under

the

name

Locke.

Then

they

submitted

them

to

the

computer

networks

and

within

a

few

years

were

at

the

heart

of

the

greatest

political

issues

of

the

day.

What

galled

Valentine

then--

and

still

stung

a

bit

today,

since

it

had

never

been

resolved

before

Peter

died-

-

was

that

he,

consumed

by

the

lust

for

power,

had

forced

her

to

write

the

sort

of

thing

that

expressed

his

character,

while

he

got

to

write

the

peace-loving,

elevated

sentiments

that

were

hers

by

nature.

In

those

days

the

name

"Demosthenes"

had

felt

like

a

terrible

burden

to

her.

Everything

she

wrote

under

that

name

was

a

lie;

and

not

even

her

lie--

Peter's

lie.

A

lie

within

a

lie.

Not

now.

Not

for

three

thousand

years.

I've

made

the

name

my

own.

I've

written

histories

and

biographies

that

have

shaped

the

thinking

of

millions

of

scholars

on

the

Hundred

Worlds

and

helped

to

shape

the

identities

of

dozens

of

nations.

So

much

for

you,

Peter.

So

much

for

what

you

tried

to

make

of

me.

Except

that

now,

looking

at

the

essay

she

had

just

written,

she

realized

that

even

though

she

had

freed

herself

from

Peter's

suzerainty,

she

was

still

his

pupil.

All

she

knew

of

rhetoric,

polemic--

yes,

of

demagoguery--

she

had

learned

from

him

or

because

of

his

insistence.

And

now,

though

she

was

using

it

in

a

noble

cause,

she

was

nevertheless

doing

exactly

the

sort

of

political

manipulation

that

Peter

had

loved

so

much.

Peter

had

gone

on

to

become

Hegemon,

ruler

of

all

humanity

for

sixty

years

at

the

beginning

of

the

Great

Expansion.

He

was

the

one

who

united

all

the

quarreling

communities

of

man

for

the

vast

effort

that

flung

starships

out

to

every

world

where

the

buggers

had

once

dwelt,

and

then

on

to

discover

more

habitable

worlds

until,

by

the

time

he

died,

all

the

Hundred

Worlds

had

either

been

settled

or

had

colony

ships

on

the

way.

It

was

almost

a

thousand

years

after

that,

of

course,

before

Starways

Congress

once

again

united

all

of

humankind

under

one

government--

but

the

memory

of

the

first

true

Hegemon--

*the*

Hegemon--

was

at

the

heart

of

the

story

that

made

human

unity

possible.

Out

of

a

moral

wasteland

like

Peter's

soul

came

harmony

and

unity

and

peace.

While

Ender's

legacy,

as

far

as

humanity

remembered,

was

murder,

slaughter,

xenocide.

Ender,

Valentine's

younger

brother,

the

man

she

and

her

family

were

voyaging

to

see--

he

was

the

tender

one,

the

brother

she

loved

and,

in

the

earliest

years,

tried

to

protect.

He

was

the

good

one.

Oh,

yes,

he

had

a

streak

of

ruthlessness

that

rivaled

Peter's,

but

he

had

the

decency

to

be

appalled

by

his

own

brutality.

She

had

loved

him

as

fervently

as

she

had

loathed

Peter;

and

when

Peter

exiled

his

younger

brother

from

the

Earth

that

Peter

was

determined

to

rule,

Valentine

went

with

Ender--

her

final

repudiation

of

Peter's

personal

hegemony

over

her.

And

here

I

am

again,

thought

Valentine,

back

in

the

business

of

politics.

She

spoke

sharply,

in

the

clipped

voice

that

told

her

terminal

that

she

was

giving

it

a

command.

"Transmit,"

she

said.

The

word

transmitting

appeared

in

the

air

above

her

essay.

Ordinarily,

back

when

she

was

writing

scholarly

works,

she

would

have

had

to

specify

a

destination--

submit

the

essay

to

a

publisher

through

some

roundabout

pathway

so

that

it

could

not

readily

be

traced

to

Valentine

Wiggin.

Now,

though,

a

subversive

friend

of

Ender's,

working

under

the

obvious

code

name

of

"Jane,"

was

taking

care

of

all

that

for

her--

managing

the

tricky

business

of

translating

an

ansible

message

from

a

ship

going

at

near-light

speed

to

a

message

readable

by

a

planetbound

ansible

for

which

time

was

passing

more

than

five

hundred

times

faster.

Since

communicating

with

a

starship

ate

up

huge

amounts

of

planetside

ansible

time,

it

was

usually

done

only

to

convey

navigational

information

and

instructions.

The

only

people

permitted

to

send

extended

text

messages

were

high

officials

in

the

government

or

the

military.

Valentine

could

not

begin

to

understand

how

"Jane"

managed

to

get

so

much

ansible

time

for

these

text

transmissions--

and

at

the

same

time

keep

anyone

from

discovering

where

these

subversive

documents

were

coming

from.

Furthermore,

"Jane"

used

even

more

ansible

time

transmitting

back

to

her

the

published

responses

to

her

writings,

reporting

to

her

on

all

the

arguments

and

strategies

the

government

was

using

to

counter

Valentine's

propaganda.

Whoever

"Jane"

was--

and

Valentine

suspected

that

"Jane"

was

simply

the

name

for

a

clandestine

organization

that

had

penetrated

the

highest

reaches

of

government--

she

was

extraordinarily

good.

And

extraordinarily

foolhardy.

Still,

if

Jane

was

willing

to

expose

herself--

themselves--

to

such

risks,

Valentine

owed

it

to

her--

them--

to

produce

as

many

tracts

as

she

could,

and

as

powerful

and

dangerous

as

she

could

make

them.

If

words

can

be

lethal

weapons,

I

must

provide

them

with

an

arsenal.

But

she

was

still

a

woman;

even

revolutionaries

are

allowed

to

have

a

life,

aren't

they?

Moments

of

joy--

or

pleasure,

or

perhaps

only

relief--

stolen

here

and

there.

She

got

up

from

her

seat,

ignoring

the

pain

that

came

from

moving

after

sitting

so

long,

and

twisted

her

way

out

of

the

door

of

her

tiny

office--

a

storage

bin,

really,

before

they

converted

the

starship

to

their

own

use.

She

was

a

little

ashamed

of

how

eager

she

was

to

get

to

the

room

where

Jakt

would

be

waiting.

Most

of

the

great

revolutionary

propagandists

in

history

would

have

been

able

to

endure

at

least

three

weeks

of

physical

abstinence.

Or

would

they?

She

wondered

if

anyone

had

done

a

study

of

that

particular

question.

She

was

still

imagining

how

a

researcher

would

go

about

writing

a

grant

proposal

for

such

a

project

when

she

got

to

the

four-bunk

compartment

they

shared

with

Syfte

and

her

husband,

Lars,

who

had

proposed

to

her

only

a

few

days

before

they

left,

as

soon

as

he

realized

that

Syfte

really

meant

to

leave

Trondheim.

It

was

hard

to

share

a

cabin

with

newlyweds--

Valentine

always

felt

like

such

an

intruder,

using

the

same

room.

But

there

was

no

choice.

Though

this

starship

was

a

luxury

yacht,

with

all

the

amenities

they

could

hope

for,

it

simply

hadn't

been

meant

to

hold

so

many

bodies.

It

had

been

the

only

starship

near

Trondheim

that

was

remotely

suitable,

so

it

had

to

do.

Their

twenty-year-old

daughter,

Ro,

and

Varsam,

their

sixteen-year-old

son,

shared

another

compartment

with

Plikt,

who

had

been

their

lifelong

tutor

and

dearest

family

friend.

The

members

of

the

yacht's

staff

and

crew

who

had

chosen

to

make

this

voyage

with

them--

it

would

have

been

wrong

to

dismiss

them

all

and

strand

them

on

Trondheim--

used

the

other

two.

The

bridge,

the

dining

room,

the

galley,

the

salon,

the

sleeping

compartments--

all

were

filled

with

people

doing

their

best

not

to

let

their

annoyance

at

the

close

quarters

get

out

of

hand.

None

of

them

were

in

the

corridor

now,

however,

and

Jakt

had

already

taped

a

sign

to

their

door:

STAY

OUT

OR

DIE.

It

was

signed,

"The

proprietor."

Valentine

opened

the

door.

Jakt

was

leaning

against

the

wall

so

close

to

the

door

that

she

was

startled

and

gave

a

little

gasp.

"Nice

to

know

that

the

sight

of

me

can

make

you

cry

out

in

pleasure."

"In

shock."

"Come

in,

my

sweet

seditionist."

"Technically,

you

know,

I'm

the

proprietor

of

this

starship."

"What's

yours

is

mine.

I

married

you

for

your

property."

She

was

inside

the

compartment

now.

He

closed

the

door

and

sealed

it.

"That's

all

I

am

to

you?"

she

asked.

"Real

estate?"

"A

little

plot

of

ground

where

I

can

plow

and

plant

and

harvest,

all

in

their

proper

season."

He

reached

out

to

her;

she

stepped

into

his

arms.

His

hands

slid

lightly

up

her

back,

cradled

her

shoulders.

She

felt

contained

in

his

embrace,

never

confined.

"It's

late

in

the

autumn,"

she

said.

"Getting

on

toward

winter."

"Time

to

harrow,

perhaps,"

said

Jakt.

"Or

perhaps

it's

already

time

to

kindle

up

the

fire

and

keep

the

old

hut

warm

before

the

snow

comes."

He

kissed

her

and

it

felt

like

the

first

time.

"If

you

asked

me

to

marry

you

all

over

again

today,

I'd

say

yes,"

said

Valentine.

"And

if

I

had

only

met

you

for

the

first

time

today,

I'd

ask."

They

had

said

the

same

words

many,

many

times

before.

Yet

they

still

smiled

to

hear

them,

because

they

were

still

true.

***

The

two

starships

had

almost

completed

their

vast

ballet,

dancing

through

space

in

great

leaps

and

delicate

turns

until

at

last

they

could

meet

and

touch.

Miro

Ribeira

had

watched

the

whole

process

from

the

bridge

of

his

starship,

his

shoulders

hunched,

his

head

leaned

back

on

the

headrest

of

the

seat.

To

others

this

posture

always

looked

awkward.

Back

on

Lusitania,

whenever

Mother

caught

him

sitting

that

way

she

would

come

and

fuss

over

him,

insist

on

bringing

him

a

pillow

so

he

could

be

comfortable.

She

never

seemed

to

grasp

the

idea

that

it

was

only

in

that

hunched,

awkward-seeming

posture

that

his

head

would

remain

upright

without

any

conscious

effort

on

his

part.

He

would

endure

her

ministrations

because

it

wasn't

worth

the

effort

to

argue

with

her.

Mother

was

always

moving

and

thinking

so

quickly,

it

was

almost

impossible

for

her

to

slow

down

enough

to

listen

to

him.

Since

the

brain

damage

he

had

suffered

passing

through

the

disruptor

field

that

separated

the

human

colony

and

the

piggies'

forest,

his

speech

had

been

unbearably

slow,

painful

to

produce

and

difficult

to

understand.

Miro's

brother

Quim,

the

religious

one,

had

told

him

that

he

should

be

grateful

to

God

that

he

was

able

to

speak

at

all--

the

first

few

days

he

had

been

incapable

of

communicating

except

through

alphabetic

scanning,

spelling

out

messages

letter

by

letter.

In

some

ways,

though,

spelling

things

out

had

been

better.

At

least

then

Miro

had

been

silent;

he

hadn't

had

to

listen

to

his

own

voice.

The

thick,

awkward

sound,

the

agonizing

slowness

of

it.

Who

in

his

family

had

the

patience

to

listen

to

him?

Even

the

ones

who

tried--

his

next-younger

sister,

Ela;

his

friend

and

stepfather,

Andrew

Wiggin,

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead;

and

Quim,

of

course--

he

could

feel

their

impatience.

They

tended

to

finish

his

sentences

for

him.

They

needed

to

hurry

things.

So

even

though

they

said

they

wanted

to

talk

with

him,

even

though

they

actually

sat

and

listened

as

he

spoke,

he

still

couldn't

speak

freely

to

them.

He

couldn't

talk

about

ideas;

he

couldn't

speak

in

long,

involved

sentences,

because

by

the

time

he

got

to

the

end

his

listeners

would

have

lost

track

of

the

beginning.

The

human

brain,

Miro

had

concluded,

just

like

a

computer,

can

only

receive

data

at

certain

speeds.

If

you

get

too

slow,

the

listener's

attention

wanders

and

the

information

is

lost.

Not

just

the

listeners,

either.

Miro

had

to

be

fair--

he

was

as

impatient

with

himself

as

they

were.

When

he

thought

of

the

sheer

effort

involved

in

explaining

a

complicated

idea,

when

he

anticipated

trying

to

form

the

words

with

lips

and

tongue

and

jaws

that

wouldn't

obey

him,

when

he

thought

of

how

long

it

would

all

take,

he

usually

felt

too

weary

to

speak.

His

mind

raced

on

and

on,

as

fast

as

ever,

thinking

so

many

thoughts

that

at

times

Miro

wanted

his

brain

to

shut

down,

to

be

silent

and

give

him

peace.

But

his

thoughts

remained

his

own,

unshared.

Except

with

Jane.

He

could

speak

to

Jane.

She

had

come

to

him

first

on

his

terminal

at

home,

her

face

taking

form

on

the

screen.

"I'm

a

friend

of

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead,"

she

had

told

him.

"I

think

we

can

get

this

computer

to

be

a

little

more

responsive."

From

then

on,

Miro

had

found

that

Jane

was

the

only

person

he

could

talk

to

easily.

For

one

thing,

she

was

infinitely

patient.

She

never

finished

his

sentences.

She

could

wait

for

him

to

finish

them

himself,

so

that

he

never

felt

rushed,

never

felt

that

he

was

boring

her.

Perhaps

even

more

important,

he

didn't

have

to

form

his

words

as

fully

for

her

as

he

did

for

human

listeners.

Andrew

had

given

him

a

personal

terminal--

a

computer

transceiver

encased

in

a

jewel

like

the

one

Andrew

wore

in

his

own

ear.

From

that

vantage

point,

using

the

jewel's

sensors,

Jane

could

detect

every

sound

he

made,

every

motion

of

the

muscles

in

his

head.

He

didn't

have

to

complete

each

sound,

he

had

only

to

begin

it

and

she

would

understand.

So

he

could

be

lazy.

He

could

speak

more

quickly

and

be

understood.

And

he

could

also

speak

silently.

He

could

subvocalize--

he

didn't

have

to

use

that

awkward,

barking,

yowling

voice

that

was

all

his

throat

could

produce

now.

So

that

when

he

was

talking

to

Jane,

he

could

speak

quickly,

naturally,

without

any

reminder

that

he

was

crippled.

With

Jane

he

could

feel

like

himself.

Now

he

sat

on

the

bridge

of

the

cargo

ship

that

had

brought

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead

to

Lusitania

only

a

few

months

ago.

He

dreaded

the

rendezvous

with

Valentine's

ship.

If

he

could

have

thought

of

somewhere

else

to

go,

he

might

have

gone

there--

he

had

no

desire

to

meet

Andrew's

sister

Valentine

or

anybody

else.

If

he

could

have

stayed

alone

in

the

starship

forever,

speaking

only

to

Jane,