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  Libo nodded gravely. The Arbiter was not bringing him into his protection; he was asking Libo to become a protector.

  The Arbiter turned to Novinha. “And I think you should go home,” he said.

  Only then did she understand that his invitation had not included her. Why should it? Pipo had not been her father. She was just a friend who happened to be with Libo when the body was discovered. What grief could she experience?

  Home! What was home, if not this place? Was she supposed to go now to the Biologista's Station, where her bed had not been slept in for more than a year, except for catnaps during lab work? Was that supposed to be her home? She had left it because it was so painfully empty of her parents; now the Zenador's Station was empty, too: Pipo dead and Libo changed into an adult with duties that would take him away from her. This place wasn't home, but neither was any other place.

  The Arbiter led Libo away. His mother, Conceicao, was waiting for him in the Arbiter's house. Novinha barely knew the woman, except as the librarian who maintained the Lusitanian archive. Novinha had never spent time with Pipo's wife or other children, she had not cared that they existed; only the work here, the life here had been real. As Libo went to the door he seemed to grow smaller, as if he were a much greater distance away, as if he were being borne up and off by the wind, shrinking into the sky like a kite; the door closed behind him.

  Now she felt the magnitude of Pipo's loss. The mutilated corpse on the hillside was not his death, it was merely his death's debris. Death itself was the empty place in her life. Pipo had been a rock in a storm, so solid and strong that she and Libo, sheltered together in his lee, had not even known the storm existed. Now he was gone, and the storm had them, would carry them whatever way it would. Pipo, she cried out silently. Don't go! Don't leave us! But of course he was gone, as deaf to her prayers as ever her parents had been.

  The Zenador's Station was still busy; the Mayor herself, Bosquinha, was using a terminal to transmit all of Pipo's data by ansible to the Hundred Worlds, where experts were desperately trying to make sense of Pipo's death.

  But Novinha knew that the key to his death was not in Pipo's files. It was her data that had killed him, somehow. It was still there in the air above her terminal, the holographic images of genetic molecules in the nuclei of piggy cells. She had not wanted Libo to study it, but now she looked and looked, trying to see what Pipo had seen, trying to understand what there was in the images that had made him rush out to the piggies, to say or do something that had made them murder him. She had inadvertently uncovered some secret that the piggies would kill to keep, but what was it?

  The more she studied the holos, the less she understood, and after a while she didn't see them at all, except as a blur through her tears as she wept silently. She had killed him, because without even meaning to she had found the pequeninos' secret. If I had never come to this place, if I had not dreamed of being Speaker of the piggies' story, you would still be alive, Pipo; Libo would have his father, and be happy; this place would still be home. I carry the seeds of death within me and plant them wherever I linger long enough to love. My parents died so others could live; now I live, so others must die.

  It was the Mayor who noticed her short, sharp breaths and realized, with brusque compassion, that this girt was also shaken and grieving. Bosquinha left others to continue the ansible reports and led Novinha out of the Zenador's Station.

  “I'm sorry, child,” said the Mayor, “I knew you came here often, I should have guessed that he was like a father to you, and here we treat you like a bystander, not right or fair of me at all, come home with me–”

  “No,” said Novinha. Walking out into the cold, wet night air had shaken some of the grief from her; she regained some clarity of thought. “No, I want to be alone, please.” Where? “In my own Station.”

  “You shouldn't be alone, on this of all nights,” said Bosquinha.

  But Novinha could not bear the prospect of company, of kindness, of people trying to console her. I killed him, don't you see? I don't deserve consolation. I want to suffer whatever pain might come. It's my penance, my restitution, and, if possible, my absolution; how else will I clean the bloodstains from my hands?

  But she hadn't the strength to resist, or even to argue. For ten minutes the Mayor's car skimmed over the grassy roads.

  “Here's my house,” said the Mayor. “I don't have any children quite your age, but you'll be comfortable enough, I think. Don't worry, no one will plague you, but it isn't good to be alone.”

  “I'd rather.” Novinha meant her voice to sound forceful, but it was weak and faint.

  “Please,” said Bosquinha. “You're not yourself.”

  I wish I weren't.

  She had no appetite, though Bosquinha's husband had a cafezinho for them both. It was late, only a few hours left till dawn, and she let them put her to bed. Then, when the house was still, she got up, dressed, and went downstairs to the Mayor's home terminal. There she instructed the computer to cancel the display that was still above the terminal at the Zenador's Station. Even though she had not been able to decipher the secret that Pipo found there, someone else might, and she would have no other death on her conscience.

  Then she left the house and walked through the Centro, around the bight of the river, through the Vila das Aguas, to the Biologista's Station. Her house.

  It was cold, unheated in the living quarters– she hadn't slept there in so long that there was thick dust on her sheets. But of course the lab was warm, well-used– her work had never suffered because of her attachment to Pipo and Libo. If only it had.

  She was very systematic about it. Every sample, every slide, every culture she had used in the discoveries that led to Pipo's death– she threw them out, washed everything clean, left no hint of the work she had done. She not only wanted it gone, she wanted no sign that it had been destroyed.

  Then she turned to her terminal. She would also destroy all the records of her work in this area, all the records of her parents' work that had led to her own discoveries. They would be gone. Even though it had been the focus of her life, even though it had been her identity for many years, she would destroy it as she herself should be punished, destroyed, obliterated.

  The computer stopped her. “Working notes on xenobiological research may not be erased,” it reported. She couldn't have done it anyway. She had learned from her parents, from their files which she had studied like scripture, like a roadmap into herself: Nothing was to be destroyed, nothing forgotten. The sacredness of knowledge was deeper in her soul than any catechism. She was caught in a paradox. Knowledge had killed Pipo; to erase that knowledge would kill her parents again, kill what they had left for her. She could not preserve it, she could not destroy it. There were walls on either side, too high to climb, pressing slowly inward, crushing her.

  Novinha did the only thing she could: put on the files every layer of protection and every barrier to access she knew of. No one would ever see them but her, as long as she lived. Only when she died would her successor as xenobiologist be able to see what she had hidden there. With one exception– when she married, her husband would also have access if he could show need to know. Well, she'd never marry. It was that easy.

  She saw her future ahead of her, bleak and unbearable and unavoidable. She dared not die, and yet she would hardly be alive, unable to marry, unable even to think about the subject herself, lest she discover the deadly secret and inadvertently let it slip; alone forever, burdened forever, guilty forever, yearning for death but forbidden to reach for it. Still, she would have this consolation: No one else would ever die because of her. She'd bear no more guilt than she bore now.

  It was in that moment of grim, determined despair that she remembered the Hive Queen and the Hegemon, remembered the Speaker for the Dead. Even though the original writer, the original Speaker was surely thousands of years in his grave, there were other Speakers on many worlds, serving as priests to people who acknowledged no god and ye
t believed in the value of the lives of human beings. Speakers whose business it was to discover the true causes and motives of the things that people did, and declare the truth of their lives after they were dead. In this Brazilian colony there were priests instead of Speakers, but the priests had no comfort for her; she would bring a Speaker here.

  She had not realized it before, but she had been planning to do this all her life, ever since she first read and was captured by the Hive Queen and the Hegemon. She had even researched it, so that she knew the law. This was a Catholic License colony, but the Starways Code allowed any citizen to call for a priest of any faith, and the Speakers for the Dead were regarded as priests. She could call, and if a Speaker chose to come, the colony could not refuse to let him in.

  Perhaps no Speaker would be willing to come. Perhaps none was close enough to come before her life was over. But there was a chance that one was near enough that sometime– twenty, thirty, forty years from now– he would come in from the starport and begin to uncover the truth of Pipo's life and death. And perhaps when he found the truth, and spoke in the clear voice that she had loved in the Hive Queen and the Hegemon, perhaps that would free her from the blame that burned her to the heart.

  Her call went into the computer; it would notify by ansible the Speakers on the nearest worlds. Choose to come, she said in silence to the unknown hearer of the call. Even if you must reveal to everyone the truth of my guilt. Even so, come.

  * * *

  She awoke with a dull pain low in her back and a feeling of heaviness in her face. Her cheek was pressed against the clear top of the terminal, which had turned itself off to protect her from the lasers. But it was not the pain that had awakened her. It was a gentle touch on her shoulder. For a moment she thought it was the touch of the Speaker for the Dead, come already in answer to her call.

  “Novinha,” he whispered. Not the Falante pelos Muertos, but someone else. Someone that she had thought was lost in the storm last night.

  “Libo,” she murmured. Then she started to get up. Too quickly– her back cramped and her head spun. She cried out softly; his hands held her shoulders so she wouldn't fall.

  “Are you all right?”

  She felt his breath like the breeze of a beloved garden and felt safe, felt at home. “You looked for me.”

  “Novinha, I came as soon as I could. Mother's finally asleep. Pipinho, my older brother, he's with her now, and the Arbiter has things under control, and I–”

  “You should have known I could take care of myself,” she said.

  A moment's silence, and then his voice again, angry this time, angry and desperate and weary, weary as age and entropy and the death of the stars. “As God sees me, Ivanova, I didn't come to take care of you.”

  Something closed inside her; she had not noticed the hope she felt until she lost it.

  “You told me that Father discovered something in a simulation of yours. That he expected me to be able to figure it out myself. I thought you had left the simulation on the terminal, but when I went back to the station it was off.”

  “Was it?”

  “You know it was, Nova, nobody but you could cancel the program. I have to see it.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “I know you're sleepy, Novinha, but surely you've realized that whatever Father discovered in your simulation, that was what the piggies killed him for.”

  She looked at him steadily, saying nothing. He had seen her look of cold resolve before.

  “Why aren't you going to show me? I'm the Zenador now, I have a right to know.”

  “You have a right to see all of your father's files and records. You have a right to see anything I've made public.”

  “Then make this public.”

  Again she said nothing.

  “How can we ever understand the piggies if we don't know what it was that Father discovered about them?” She did not answer. “You have a responsibility to the Hundred Worlds, to our ability to comprehend the only alien race still alive. How can you sit there and– what is it, do you want to figure it out yourself? Do you want to be first? Fine, be first, I'll put your name on it, Ivanova Santa Catarina von Hesse–”

  “I don't care about my name.”

  “I can play this game, too. You can't figure it out without what I know, either– I'll withhold my files from you, too!”

  “I don't care about your files.”

  It was too much for him. “What do you care about then? What are you trying to do to me?” He took her by the shoulders, lifted her out of her chair, shook her, screamed in her face. “It's my father they killed out there, and you have the answer to why they killed him, you know what the simulation was! Now tell me, show me!”

  “Never,” she whispered.

  His face was twisted in agony. “Why not!” he cried.

  “Because I don't want you to die.”

  She saw comprehension come into his eyes. Yes, that's right, Libo, it's because I love you, because if you know the secret, then the piggies will kill you, too. I don't care about science, I don't care about the Hundred Worlds or relations between humanity and an alien race, I don't care about anything at all as long as you're alive.

  The tears finally leapt from his eyes, tumbled down his cheeks. “I want to die,” he said.

  “You comfort everybody else,” she whispered. “Who comforts you?”

  “You have to tell me so I can die.”

  And suddenly his hands no longer held her up; now he clung to her so she was supporting him. “You're tired,” she whispered, “but you can rest.”

  “I don't want to rest,” he murmured. But still he let her hold him, let her draw him away from the terminal.

  She took him to her bedroom, turned back the sheet, never mind the dust flying. “Here, you're tired, here, rest. That's why you came to me, Libo. For peace, for consolation.” He covered his face with his hands, shaking his head back and forth, a boy crying for his father, crying for the end of everything, as she had cried. She took off his boots, pulled off his trousers, put her hands under his shirt to ride it up to his arms and pull it off over his head. He breathed deeply to stop his sobbing and raised his arms to let her take his shirt.

  She laid his clothing over a chair, then bent over him to pull the sheet back across his body. But he caught her wrist and looked pleadingly at her, tears in his eyes. “Don't leave me here alone,” he whispered. His voice was thick with desperation. “Stay with me.”

  So she let him draw her down to the bed, where he clung to her tightly until in only a few minutes sleep relaxed his arms. She did not sleep, though. Her hand gently, dryly slipped along the skin of his shoulder, his chest, his waist. «Oh, Libo, I thought I had lost you when they took you away, I thought I had lost you as well as Pipo.» He did not hear her whisper. «But you will always come back to me like this.» She might have been thrust out of the garden because of her ignorant sin, like Eva. But, again like Eva, she could bear it, for she still had Libo, her Ad o.

  Had him? Had him? Her hand trembled on his naked flesh. She could never have him. Marriage was the only way she and Libo could possibly stay together for long– the laws were strict on any colony world, and absolutely rigid under a Catholic License. Tonight she could believe he would want to marry her, when the time came. But Libo was the one person she could never marry.

  For he would then have access, automatically, to any file of hers that he could convince the computer he had a need to see– which would certainly include all her working files, no matter how deeply she protected them. The Starways Code declared it. Married people were virtually the same person in the eyes of the law.

  She could never let him study those files, or he would discover what his father knew, and it would be his body she would find on the hillside, his agony under the piggies' torture that she would have to imagine every night of her life. Wasn't the guilt for Pipo's death already more than she could bear? To marry him would be to murder him. Yet not to ma
rry him would be like murdering herself, for if she was not with Libo she could not think of who she would be then.

  How clever of me. I have found such a pathway into hell that I can never get back out.

  She pressed her face against Libo's shoulder, and her tears skittered down across his chest.

  Chapter 4

  Ender

  We have identified four piggy languages. The “Males' Language” s the one we have most commonly heard. We have also heard snatches of “Wives' Language,” which they apparently use to converse with the females (how's that for sexual differentiation!), and “Tree Language,” a ritual idiom that they say is used in praying to the ancestral totem trees. They have also mentioned a fourth language, called “Father Tongue,” which apparently consists of beating different-sized sticks together. They insist that it is a real language, as different from the others as Portuguese is from English. They may call it Father Tongue because it's done with sticks of wood, which come from trees, and they believe that trees contain the spirits of their ancestors.

  The piggies are marvelously adept at learning human languages– much better than we are at learning theirs. In recent years they have come to speak either Stark or Portuguese among themselves most of the time when we're with them, Perhaps they revert to their own languages when we aren't present. They may even have adopted human languages as their own, or perhaps they enjoy the new languages so much that they use them constantly as a game. Language contamination is regrettable, but perhaps was unavoidable if we were to communicate with them at all.

  Dr. Swingler asked whether their names and terms of address reveal anything about their culture. The answer is a definite yes, though I have only the vaguest idea what they reveal. What matters is that we have never named any of them. Instead, as they learned Stark and Portuguese, they asked us the meanings of words and then eventually announced the names they had chosen for themselves (or chosen for each other). Such names as “Rooter” and “Chupaceu” (sky-sucker) could be translations of their Male Language names or simply foreign nicknames they chose for our use.