Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card
"Does his mother bring the mash that feeds him?"
Human looked horrified. "Speaker, I can't say that. Not in any language."
"Why not?"
"I told you. She was fat enough to feed all five of her little ones. Put back that little brother, and let the wife sing to the tree."
Ender put his hand near the trunk again and the little brother squirmed away. Shouter resumed her song. Ouanda glared at Ender for his impetuousness. But Ela seemed excited. "Don't you see? The newborns feed on their mother's body."
Ender drew away, repelled.
"How can you say that?" asked Ouanda.
"Look at them squirming on the trees, just like little macios. They and the macios must have been competitors." Ela pointed toward a part of the tree unstained by amaranth mash. "The tree leaks sap. Here in the cracks. Back before the Descolada there must have been insects that fed on the sap, and the macios and the infant piggies competed to eat them. That's why the piggies were able to mingle their genetic molecules with these trees. Not only did the infants live here, the adults constantly had to climb the trees to keep the macios away. Even when there were plenty of other food sources, they were still tied to these trees throughout their life cycles. Long before they ever became trees."
"We're studying piggy society," said Ouanda impatiently. "Not the distant evolutionary past."
"I'm conducting delicate negotiations," said Ender. "So please be quiet and learn what you can without conducting a seminar."
The singing reached a climax; a crack appeared in the side of the tree.
"They're not going to knock down this tree for us, are they?" asked Ouanda, horrified.
"She is asking the tree to open her heart," Human touched his forehead. "This is the mothertree, and it is the only one in all our forest. No harm may come to this tree, or all our children will come from other trees, and our fathers all will die."
All the other wives' voices joined Shouter's now, and soon a hole gaped wide in the trunk of the mothertree. Immediately Ender moved to stand directly in front of the hole. It was too dark inside for him to see.
Ela took her nightstick from her belt and held it out to him. Ouanda's hand flew out and seized Ela's wrist. "A machine!" she said. "You can't bring that here."
Ender gently took the nightstick out of Ela's hand. "The fence is off," said Ender, "and we all can engage in Questionable Activities now." He pointed the barrel of the nightstick at the ground and pressed it on, then slid his finger quickly along the barrel to soften the light and spread it. The wives murmured, and Shouter touched Human on the belly.
"I told them you could make little moons at night," he said. "I told them you carried them with you."
"Will it hurt anything if I let this light into the heart of the mothertree?"
Human asked Shouter, and Shouter reached for the nightstick. Then, holding it in trembling hands, she sang softly and tilted it slightly so that a sliver of the light passed through the hole. Almost at once she recoiled and pointed the nightstick the other direction. "The brightness blinds them," Human said.
In Ender's ear, Jane whispered, "The sound of her voice is echoing from the inside of the tree. When the light went in, the echo modulated, causing a high overtone and a shaping of the sound. The tree was answering, using the sound of Shouter's own voice."
"Can you see?" Ender said softly.
"Kneel down and get me close enough, and then move me across the opening." Ender obeyed, letting his head move slowly in front of the hole, giving the jeweled ear a clear angle toward the interior. Jane described what she saw. Ender knelt there for a long time, not moving. Then he turned to the others. "The little mothers," said Ender. "There are little mothers in there, pregnant ones. Not more than four centimeters long. One of them is giving birth."
"You see with your jewel?" asked Ela.
Ouanda knelt beside him, trying to see inside and failing. "Incredible sexual dimorphism. The females come to sexual maturity in their infancy, give birth, and die." She asked Human, "All of these little ones on the outside of the tree, they're all brothers?"
Human repeated the question to Shouter. The wife reached up to a place near the aperture in the trunk and took down one fairly large infant. She sang a few words of explanation. "That one is a young wife," Human translated. "She will join the other wives in caring for the children, when she's old enough."
"Is there only one?" asked Ela.
Ender shuddered and stood up. "That one is sterile, or else they never let her mate. She couldn't possibly have had children."
"Why not?" asked Ouanda.
"There's no birth canal," said Ender. "The babies eat their way out."
Ouanda muttered a prayer.
Ela, however, was more curious than ever. "Fascinating," she said. "But if they're so small, how do they mate?"
"We carry them to the fathers, of course," said Human. "How do you think? The father's can't come here, can they?"
"The fathers," said Ouanda. "That's what they call the most revered trees."
"That's right," said Human. "The fathers are ripe on the bark. They put their dust on the bark, in the sap. We carry the little mother to the father the wives have chosen. She crawls on the bark, and the dust on the sap gets into her belly and fills it up with little ones."
Ouanda wordlessly pointed to the small protuberances on Human's belly.
"Yes," Human said. "These are the carries. The honored brother puts the little mother on one of his carries, and she holds very tight all the way to the father." He touched his belly. "It is the greatest joy we have in our second life. We would carry the little mothers every night if we could."
Shouter sang, long and loud, and the hole in the mothertree began to close again.
"All those females, all the little mothers," asked Ela. "Are they sentient?"
It was a word that Human didn't know.
"Are they awake?" asked Ender.
"Of course," said Human.
"What he means," explained Ouanda, "is can the little mothers think? Do they understand language?"
"Them?" asked Human. "No, they're no smarter than the cabras. And only a little smarter than the macios. They only do three things. Eat, crawl, and cling to the carry. The ones on the outside of the tree, now--they're beginning to learn. I can remember climbing on the face of the mothertree. So I had memory then. But I'm one of the very few that remember so far back."
Tears came unbidden to Ouanda's eyes. "All the mothers, they're born, they mate, they give birth and die, all in their infancy. They never even know they were alive."
"It's sexual dimorphism carried to a ridiculous extreme," said Ela. "The females reach sexual maturity early, but the males reach it late. It's ironic, isn't it, that the dominant female adults are all sterile. They govern the whole tribe, and yet their own genes can't be passed on--"
"Ela," said Ouanda, "what if we could develop a way to let the little mothers bear their children without being devoured. A caesarean section. With a protein-rich nutrient substitute for the little mother's corpse. Could the females survive to adulthood?"
Ela didn't have a chance to answer. Ender took them both by the arms and pulled them away. "How dare you!" he whispered. "What if they could find a way to let infant human girls conceive and bear children, which would feed on their mother's tiny corpse?"
"What are you talking about!" said Ouanda.
"That's sick," said Ela.
"We didn't come here to attack them at the root of their lives," said Ender. "We came here to find a way to share a world with them. In a hundred years or five hundred years, when they've learned enough to make changes for themselves, then they can decide whether to alter the way their children are conceived and born. But we can't begin to guess what it would do to them if suddenly as many females as males came to maturity. To do what? They can't bear more children, can they? They can't compete with the males to become fathers, can they? What are they for?"
"But they're dying wit
"They are what they are," said Ender. "They decide what changes they'll make, not you, not from your blindly human perspective, trying to make them have full and happy lives, just like us."
"You're right," said Ela. "Of course, you're right, I'm sorry."
To Ela, the piggies weren't people, they were strange alien fauna, and Ela was used to discovering that other animals had inhuman life patterns. But Ender could see that Ouanda was still upset. She had made the raman transition: She thought of piggies as us instead of them. She accepted the strange behavior that she knew about, even the murder of her father, as within an acceptable range of alienness. This meant she was actually more tolerant and accepting of the piggies than Ela could possibly be; yet it also made her more vulnerable to the discovery of cruel, bestial behaviors among her friends.
Ender noticed, too, that after years of association with the piggies, Ouanda had one of their habits: At a moment of extreme anxiety, her whole body became rigid. So he reminded her of her humanity by taking her shoulder in a fatherly gesture, drawing her close under his arm.
At his touch Ouanda melted a little, laughed nervously, her voice low. "Do you know what I keep thinking?" she said. "That the little mothers have all their children and die unbaptized."
"If Bishop Peregrino converts them," said Ender, "maybe they'll let us sprinkle the inside of the mothertree and say the words."
"Don't mock me," Ouanda whispered.
"I wasn't. For now, though, we'll ask them to change enough that we can live with them, and no more. We'll change ourselves only enough that they can bear to live with us. Agree to that, or the fence goes up again, because then we truly would be a threat to their survival."
Ela nodded her agreement, but Ouanda had gone rigid again. Ender's fingers suddenly dug harshly into Ouanda's shoulder. Frightened, she nodded her agreement. He relaxed his grip. "I'm sorry," he said. "But they are what they are. If you want, they are what God made them. So don't try to remake them in your own image."
He returned to the mothertree. Shouter and Human were waiting.
"Please excuse the interruption," said Ender.
"It's all right," said Human. "I told her what you were doing."
Ender felt himself sink inside. "What did you tell her we were doing?"
"I said that they wanted to do something to the little mothers that would make us all more like humans, but you said they never could do that or you'd put back the fence. I told her that you said we must remain Little Ones, and you must remain humans."
Ender smiled. His translation was strictly true, but he had the sense not to get into specifics. It was conceivable that the wives might actually want the little mothers to survive childbirth, without realizing how vast the consequences of such a simple-seeming, humanitarian change might be. Human was an excellent diplomat; he told the truth and yet avoided the whole issue.
"Well," said Ender. "Now that we've all met each other, it's time to begin serious talking."
Ender sat down on the bare earth. Shouter squatted on the ground directly opposite him. She sang a few words.
"She says you must teach us everything you know, take us out to the stars, bring us the hive queen and give her the lightstick that this new human brought with you, or in the dark of night she'll send all the brothers of this forest to kill all the humans in your sleep and hang you high above the ground so you get no third life at all." Seeing the humans' alarm, Human reached out his hand and touched Ender's chest. "No, no, you must understand. That means nothing. That's the way we always begin when we're talking to another tribe. Do you think we're crazy? We'd never kill you! You gave us amaranth, pottery, the Hive Queen and the Hegemon."
"Tell her to withdraw that threat or we'll never give her anything else."
"I told you, Speaker, it doesn't mean--"
"She said the words, and I won't talk to her as long as those words stand."
Human spoke to her.
Shouter jumped to her feet and walked all the way around the mothertree, her hands raised high, singing loudly.
Human leaned to Ender. "She's complaining to the great mother and to all the wives that you're a brother who doesn't know his place. She's saying that you're rude and impossible to deal with."
Ender nodded. "Yes, that's exactly right. Now we're getting somewhere."
Again Shouter squatted across from Ender. She spoke in Males' Language.
"She says she'll never kill any human or let any of the brothers or wives kill any of you. She says for you to remember that you're twice as tall as any of us and you know everything and we know nothing. Now has she humiliated herself enough that you'll talk to her?"
Shouter watched him, glumly waiting for his response.
"Yes," said Ender. "Now we can begin."
Novinha knelt on the floor beside Miro's bed. Quim and Olhado stood behind her. Dom Cristao was putting Quara and Grego to bed in their room. The sound of his off-tune lullaby was barely audible behind the tortured sound of Miro's breathing.
Miro's eyes opened.
"Miro," said Novinha.
Miro groaned.
"Miro, you're home in bed. You went over the fence while it was on. Now Dr. Navio says that your brain has been damaged. We don't know whether the damage is permanent or not. You may be partially paralyzed. But you're alive, Miro, and Navio says that he can do many things to help you compensate for what you may have lost. Do you understand? I'm telling you the truth. It may be very bad for a while, but it's worth trying."
He moaned softly. But it was not a sound of pain. It was as if he were trying to talk, and couldn't.
"Can you move your jaw, Miro?" asked Quim.
Slowly Miro's mouth opened and closed.
Olhado held his hand a meter above Miro's head and moved it. "Can you make your eyes follow the movement of my hand?"
Miro's eyes followed. Novinha squeezed Miro's hand. "Did you feel me squeeze your hand?"
Miro moaned again.
"Close your mouth for no," said Quim, "and open your mouth for yes."
Miro closed his mouth and said, "Mm."
Novinha could not help herself; despite her encouraging words, this was the most terrible thing that had happened to any of her children. She had thought when Lauro lost his eyes and became Olhado--she hated the nickname, but now used it herself--that nothing worse could happen. But Miro, paralyzed, helpless, so he couldn't even feel the touch of her hand, that could not be borne. She had felt one kind of grief when Pipo died, and another kind when Libo died, and a terrible regret at Marcao's death. She even remembered the aching emptiness she felt as she watched them lower her mother and father into the ground. But there was no pain worse than to watch her child suffer and be unable to help.
She stood up to leave. For his sake, she would do her crying silently, and in another room.
"Mm. Mm. Mm."
"He doesn't want you to go," said Quim.
"I'll stay if you want," said Novinha. "But you should sleep again. Navio said that the more you sleep for a while--"
"Mm. Mm. Mm."
"Doesn't want to sleep, either," said Quim.
Novinha stifled her immediate response, to snap at Quim and tell him that she could hear his answers perfectly well for herself. This was no time for quarreling. Besides, it was Quim who had worked out the system that Miro was using to communicate. He had a right to take pride in it, to pretend that he was Miro's voice. It was his way of affirming that he was part of the family. That he was not quitting because of what he learned in the praca today. It was his way of forgiving her, so she held her tongue.
"Maybe he wants to tell us something," said Olhado.
"Mm."
"Or ask a question?" said Quim.
"Ma. Aa."
"That's great," said Quim. "If he can't move his hands, he can't write."
"Sem problema," said Olhado. "Scanning. He can scan. If we bring him in by the terminal, I can make it scan the letters and he just say
"That'll take forever," said Quim.
"Do you want to try that, Miro?" asked Novinha.
He wanted to.
The three of them carried him to the front room and laid him on the bed there. Olhado oriented the terminal so it displayed all the letters of the alphabet, facing so Miro could see them. He wrote a short program that caused each letter to light up in turn for a fraction of a second. It took a few trial runs for the speed to be right--slow enough that Miro could make a sound that meant this letter before the light moved on to the next one.
Miro, in turn, kept things moving faster yet by deliberately abbreviating his words.
P-I-G.
"Piggies," said Olhado.
"Yes," said Novinha. "Why were you crossing the fence with the piggies?"
"Mmmmm!"
"He's asking a question, Mother," said Quim. "He doesn't want to answer any."
"Aa."
"Do you want to know about the piggies that were with you when you crossed the fence?" asked Novinha. He did. "They've gone back into the forest. With Ouanda and Ela and the Speaker for the Dead." Quickly she told him about the meeting in the Bishop's chambers, what they had learned about the piggies, and above all what they had decided to do. "When they turned off the fence to save you, Miro, it was a decision to rebel against Congress. Do you understand? The Committee's rules are finished. The fence is nothing but wires now. The gate will stand open."
Tears came to Miro's eyes.
"Is that all you wanted to know?" asked Novinha. "You should sleep."
No, he said. No no no no.
"Wait till his eyes are clear," said Quim. "And then we'll scan some more."
D-I-G-A-F-A-L--
"Diga ao Falante pelos Mortos," said Olhado.
"What should we tell the Speaker?" asked Quim.
"You should sleep now and tell us later," said Novinha. "He won't be back for hours. He's negotiating a set of rules to govern relations between the piggies and us. To stop them from killing any more of us, the way they killed Pipo and L--and your father."
But Miro refused to sleep. He continued spelling out his message as the terminal scanned. Together the three of them worked out what he was trying to get them to tell the Speaker. And they understood that he wanted them to go now, before the negotiations ended.
So Novinha left Dom Cristao and Dona Crista to watch over the house and the little children. On the way out of the house she stopped beside her oldest son. The exertion had worn him out; his eyes were closed and his breathing was regular. She touched his hand, held it, squeezed it; he couldn't feel her touch, she knew, but then it was herself she was comforting, not him.