Children of the Mind (Ender, Book 4) (Ender Quartet)

grimaced. "Miro, he won't see me."
    "Then what makes you think he'll see me ?"
    "Not you, Miro. Jane. The jewel in your ear."
    Miro looked at them in bafflement. "You mean Ender has removed his jewel?"
    In his ear, he heard Jane say, "I've been busy. I didn't think it was important to mention it to you."
    But Miro knew how it had devastated Jane before, when Ender cut her off. Now she had other friends, yes, but that didn't mean it would be painless.
    Old Valentine continued. "If you can go to him and get him to talk to Jane ..."
    Miro shook his head. "Taking out the jewel -- don't you see that that was final? He's committed himself to following Mother into exile. Ender doesn't back away from his commitments."
    They all knew it was true. Knew, in fact, that they had really come to Miro, not with the real hope that he would accomplish what they needed, but as a last feeble act of desperation. "So we let things wind down," said Grego. "We let things slide into chaos. And then, beset by interspecies war, we will die in shame when the fleet comes. Jane's lucky, I think; she'll already be dead when it gets here."
    "Tell him thanks," Jane said to Miro.
    "Jane says thanks," said Miro. "You're just too soft-hearted, Grego. "
    Grego blushed, but he didn't take back what he said.
    "Ender isn't God," said Miro. "We'll just do our best without him. But right now the best thing I can do is --"
    "Sleep, we know," said Old Valentine. "Not on the ship this time, though. Please. It makes us sick at heart to see how weary you both are. Jakt has brought the taxi. Come home and sleep in a bed."
    Miro glanced at Young Val, who still leaned sleepily on his shoulder.
    "Both of you, of course," said Old Valentine. "I'm not as distressed by her existence as you all seem to think."
    "Of course you're not," said Young Val. She reached out a weary arm, and the two women who bore the same name took each other's hand. Miro watched as Young Val slipped from his side to take Old Valentine's arm, and lean on her instead of him. His own feelings surprised him. Instead of relief that there was less tension between the two of them than he had thought, he found himself being rather angry. Jealous anger, that's what it was. She was leaning on me , he wanted to say. What kind of childish response was that?
    And then, as he watched them walk away, he saw what he should not have seen -- Valentine's shudder. Was it a sudden chill? The night was cool. But no, Miro was sure it was the touch of her young twin, and not the night air that made Old Valentine tremble.
    "Come on, Miro," said Olhado. "We'll get you to the hovercar and into bed at Valentine's house."
    "Is there a food stop along the way?"
    "It's Jakt's house, too," said Elanora. "There's always food."
    As the hovercar carried them toward Milagre, the human town, they passed near some of the dozens of starships currently in service. The work of migration didn't take the night off. Stevedores -- many of them pequeninos -- were loading supplies and equipment for transport. Families were shuffling in lines to fill up whatever spaces were left in the cabins. Jane would be getting no rest tonight as she took box after box Outside and back In. On other worlds, new homes were rising, new fields being plowed. Was it day or night in those other places? It didn't matter. In a way they had already succeeded -- new worlds were being colonized, and, like it or not, every world had its hive, its new pequenino forest, and its human village.
    If Jane died today, thought Miro, if the fleet came tomorrow and blew us all to bits, in the grand scheme of things, what would it matter? The seeds have been scattered to the wind; some, at least, will take root. And if faster-than-light travel dies with Jane, even that might be for the best, for it will force each of these worlds to fend for itself. Some colonies will fail and die, no doubt. On some of them, war will come, and perhaps one species or another will be wiped out there. But it will not be the same species that dies on every world, or the same one that lives; and on some worlds, at least, we'll surely find a way to live in peace. All that's left for us now is details. Whether this or that individual lives or dies. It matters, of course. But not the way that the survival of species matters.
    He must have been subvocalizing some of his thoughts, because Jane answered them. "Hath not an overblown computer program eyes and ears? Have I no heart or brain? When you tickle