Enders In Exile

can live in
there? It's not a natural cave. I don't think we'll find fish."
    "There are birds and
other creatures that like the dark. Or that find it safer and warmer
indoors. And maybe a species of some chordate or insect or worm or
fungus we haven't seen yet."
    At the entrance, Po
sighed. "If only the tunnels were higher."
    "It's not
my
fault you grew so tall." Sel lit the lamp, fueled by the oils of a
fruit Sel had found in the wild. He called it "olive" after the oily
fruit on Earth, though in no other attribute were they alike. Certainly
not flavor or nutrition.
    The colonists grew it
in orchards now, and pressed and filtered it in three harvests a year.
Except for the oil the fruit was good for nothing except fertilizer. It
was good to have clean-burning fuel for light, instead of wiring every
building with electricity, especially in the outlying settlements. It
was one of Sel's favorite discoveries—particularly since
there was no sign the formics had ever discovered its usefulness. Of
course, the formics were at home in the dark. Sel could imagine them
scuttling along in these tunnels, content with smell and hearing to
guide them.
    Humans had evolved from
creatures that took refuge in trees, not caves, thought Sel, and though
humans had used caves many times in the past, they were always
suspicious of them. Deep dark places were at once attractive and
terrifying. There was no chance the formics would have allowed any
large predators to remain at large on this planet, particularly in
caves, since the formics themselves were tunnel makers and cave
dwellers.
    If only the formic home
world had not been obliterated in the war. What we could have learned,
tracing an alien evolution that led to intelligence!
    Then again, if Ender
Wiggin had not blown the whole thing up, we would have lost the war.
Then we wouldn't have even
this
world to study.
Evolution here did not lead to intelligence—or if it did, the
formics already wiped it out, along with any traces
the original sentient natives might have left behind.
    Sel bent over and
squat-walked into the tunnel. But it was hard to keep going that
way—his back was too old. He couldn't even lean on his stick,
because it was too tall for the space, and he had to drag it along,
keeping it as close to vertical as possible so the oil didn't spill out
of the canister at the top.
    After a while he simply
could not continue in that position. Sel sat down and so did Po.
    "This is not working,"
said Sel.
    "My back hurts," said
Po.
    "A little dynamite
would be useful."
    "As if you'd ever use
it," said Po.
    "I didn't say it would
be morally defensible," said Sel. "Just convenient." Sel handed his
stick, with the lamp atop it, to Po. "You're young. You'll recover from
this. I've got to try a new position."
    Sel tried to crawl but
instantly gave up on that—it hurt his knees too much to rest
them directly on the rocky floor. He finally settled for sitting,
leaning his arms forward, putting weight on them, and then scrabbling
his legs and hips after him. It was slow going.
    Po also tried crawling
and soon gave up on it. But because he was holding the stick with the
light, he was forced to return to walking bent over, knees in a squat.
    "I'm going to end up a
cripple," said Po.
    "At least I won't have
to hear your mother and father complain about what I did to you, since
I don't expect to get out of here alive."
    And then, suddenly, the
light went dim. For a moment Sel thought it had gone out, but
no—Po had stood up and lifted the stick to a vertical
position, so that the tunnel where Sel was creeping along was now in
shadow.
    It didn't matter. Sel
could see the chamber ahead. It was a natural cavern, with stalactites
and stalagmites forming columns that supported the ceiling.
    But they weren't the
straight-up-and-down columns that normally formed when lime-laden water
dripped straight down, leaving sediment behind. These columns twisted
crazily. Writhed, really.
    "Not natural deposits,"
said Po.
    "No. These were made.
But the twisting doesn't seem designed, either."
    "Fractal randomness?"
asked Po.
    "I don't think so,"
said Sel. "Random, yes, but genuinely so, not fractal. Not
mathematical."
    "Like dog turds," said
Po.
    Sel stood looking at
the columns. They did indeed have the kind of curling pattern that a
long dog turd got as it was laid down from above. Solid yet flexible.
Extrusions from above, only still connected to the ceiling.
    Sel looked up, then
took the stick from Po