Suddenly Olhado screamed in frustration, as his fleet disappeared in a series of explosions. “I didn't see it! I can't believe you did that! I didn't even see it coming!”
“So, don't yell about it,” said the Speaker. “Play it back and see how I did it, so you can counter it next time.”
“I thought you Speakers were supposed to be like priests or something. How did you get so good at tactics?”
The Speaker smiled pointedly at Novinha as he answered. “Sometimes it's a little like a battle just to get people to tell you the truth.”
Olhado leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, as he replayed what he saw of the game.
“You've been prying,” said Novinha. “And you weren't very clever about it. Is that what passes for 'tactics' among Speakers for the Dead?”
“It got you here, didn't it?” The Speaker smiled.
“What were you looking for in my files?”
“I came to Speak Pipo's death.”
“I didn't kill him. My files are none of your business.”
“You called me here.”
“I changed my mind. I'm sorry. It still doesn't give you the right to–”
His voice suddenly went soft, and he knelt in front of her so that she could hear his words. “Pipo learned something from you, and whatever he learned, the piggies killed him because of it. So you locked your files away where no one could ever find it out. You even refused to marry Libo, just so he wouldn't get access to what Pipo saw. You've twisted and distorted your life and the lives of everybody you loved in order to keep Libo and now Miro from learning that secret and dying.”
Novinha felt a sudden coldness, and her hands and feet began to tremble. He had been here three days, and already he knew more than anyone but Libo had ever guessed. “It's all lies,” she said.
“Listen to me, Dona Ivanova. It didn't work. Libo died anyway, didn't he? Whatever your secret is, keeping it to yourself didn't save his life. And it won't save Miro, either. Ignorance and deception can't save anybody. Knowing saves them.”
“Never,” she whispered.
“I can understand your keeping it from Libo and Miro, but what am I to you? I'm nothing to you, so what does it matter if I know the secret and it kills me?”
“It doesn't matter at all if you live or die,” said Novinha, “but you'll never get access to those files.”
“You don't seem to understand that you don't have the right to put blinders on other people's eyes. Your son and his sister go out every day to meet with the piggies, and thanks to you, they don't know whether their next word or their next act will be their death sentence. Tomorrow I'm going with them, because I can't speak Pipo's death without talking to the piggies–”
“I don't want you to Speak Pipo's death.”
“I don't care what you want, I'm not doing it for you. But I am begging you to let me know what Pipo knew.”
“You'll never know what Pipo knew, because he was a good and kind and loving person who–”
“Who took a lonely, frightened little girl and healed the wounds in her heart.” As he said it, his hand rested on Quara's shoulder.
It was more than Novinha could bear. “Don't you dare to compare yourself to him! Quara isn't an orphan, do you hear me? She has a mother, me, and she doesn't need you, none of us need you, none of us!” And then, inexplicably, she was crying. She didn't want to cry in front of him. She didn't want to be here. He was confusing everything. She stumbled to the door and slammed it behind her. Quim was right. He was like the devil. He knew too much, demanded too much, gave too much, and already they all needed him too much. How could he have acquired so much power over them in so short a time?
Then she had a thought that at once dried up her unshed tears and filled her with terror. He had said that Miro and his sister went out to the piggies every day. He knew. He knew all the secrets.
All except the secret that she didn't even know herself, the one that Pipo had somehow discovered in her simulation. If he ever got that, he'd have everything that she had hidden for all these years. When she called for the Speaker for the Dead, she had wanted him to discover the truth about Pipo; instead, he had come and discovered the truth about her.
The door slammed. Ender leaned on the stool where she had sat and put his head down on his hands.
He heard Olhado stand up and walk slowly across the room toward him.
“You tried to access Mother's files,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” said Ender.
“You got me to teach you how to do searches so that you could spy on my own mother. You made a traitor out of me.”
There was no answer that would satisfy Olhado right now; Ender didn't try. He waited in silence as Olhado walked to the door and left.
The turmoil he felt was not silent, however, to the hive queen. He felt her stir in his mind, drawn by his anguish. No, he said to her silently. There's nothing you can do, nothing I can explain. Human things, that's all, strange and alien human problems that are beyond comprehension.
<Ah.> And he felt her touch him inwardly, touch him like the breeze in the leaves of a tree; he felt the strength and vigor of upward-thrusting wood, the firm grip of roots in earth, the gentle play of sunlight on passionate leaves. <See what we've learned from him, Ender, the peace that he found.> The feeling faded as the hive queen retreated from his mind. The strength of the tree stayed with him, the calm of its quietude replaced his own tortured silence.
It had been only a moment; the sound of Olhado, closing the door still rang in the room. Beside him, Quara jumped to her feet and skipped across the floor to his bed. She jumped up and bounced on it a few times.
“You only lasted a couple of days,” she said cheerfully. “Everybody hates you now.”
Ender laughed wryly and turned around to look at her. “Do you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I hated you first of all, except maybe Quim.” She slid off the bed and walked to the terminal. One key at a time, she carefully logged on. A group of double-column addition problems appeared in the air above the terminal. “You want to see me do arithmetic?”
Ender got up and joined her at the terminal. “Sure,” he said. “Those look hard, though.”
“Not for me,” she said boastfully. “I do them faster than anybody.”
Chapter 13
Ela
MIRO: The piggies call themselves males, but we're only taking their word for it.
OUANDA: Why would they lie?
MIRO: I know you're young and naive. but there's some missing equipment.
OUANDA: I passed physical anthropology. Who says they do it the way we do it?
MIRO: Obviously they don't. (For that matter, WE don't do it at all.) Maybe I've figured out where their genitals are. Those bumps on their bellies, where the hair is light and fine.
OUANDA: Vestigial nipples. Even you have them.
MIRO: I saw Leaf-eater and Pots yesterday, about ten meters off, so I didn't see them WELL, but Pots was stroking Leaf-eater's belly, and I think those belly-bumps might have tumesced.
OUANDA: Or they might not.
MIRO: One thing for sure. Leaf-eater's belly was wet– the sun was reflected off it– and he was enjoying it.
OUANDA: This is perverted.
MIRO: Why not? They're all bachelors, aren't they? They're adults, but their so-called wives haven't introduced any of them to the joys of fatherhood.
OUANDA: I think a sex-starved zenador is projecting his own frustrations onto his subjects.
– Marcos Vladimir “Miro” Ribeira von Hesse and Ouanda Quenhatta, Figueira Mucumbi, Working Notes, 1970: 1:430