Speaker for the Dead

Five days after she sent it."
      Of course, the Starways Code said that once Ender had begun his voyage in response to her call, the call could not legally be canceled; still, it changed everything, because instead of eagerly awaiting his arrival for twenty-two years, she would be dreading it, resenting him for coming when she had changed her mind. He had expected to be received by her as a welcome friend. Now she would be even more hostile than the Catholic establishment. "Anything to simplify my work," he said.
      "Well, it's not all bad, Andrew. You see, in the intervening years, a couple of other people have called for a Speaker, and they haven't canceled."
      "Who?"
      "By the most fascinating coincidence, they are Novinha's son Miro and Novinha's daughter Ela."
      "They couldn't possibly have known Pipo. Why would they call me to speak his death?"
      "Oh, no, not Pipo's death. Ela called for a Speaker only six weeks ago, to speak the death of her father, Novinha's husband, Marcos Maria Ribeira, called Marcão. He keeled over in a bar. Not from alcohol-- he had a disease. He died of terminal rot."
      "I worry about you, Jane, consumed with compassion the way you are."
      "Compassion is what you're good at. I'm better at complex searches through organized data structures."
      "And the boy-- what's his name?"
      "Miro. He called for a Speaker four years ago. For the death of Pipo's son, Libo."
      "Libo couldn't be older than forty--"
      "He was helped along to an early death. He was xenologer, you see-- or Zenador, as they say in Portuguese."
      "The piggies--"
      "Exactly like his father's death. The organs placed exactly the same. Three piggies have been executed the same way while you were en route. But they plant trees in the middle of the piggy corpses-- no such honor for the dead humans."
      Both xenologers murdered by the piggies, a generation apart. "What has the Starways Council decided?"
      "It's very tricky. They keep vacillating. They haven't certified either of Libo's apprentices as xenologer. One is Libo's daughter, Ouanda. And the other is Miro."
      "Do they maintain contact with the piggies?"
      "Officially, no. There's some controversy about this. After Libo died, the Council forbade contact more frequently than once a month. But Libo's daughter categorically refused to obey the order."
      "And they didn't remove her?"
      "The majority for cutting back on contact with the piggies was paper thin. There was no majority for censuring her. At the same time, they worry that Miro and Ouanda are so young. Two years ago a party of scientists was dispatched from Calicut. They should be here to take over supervision of piggy affairs in only thirty-three more years."
      "Do they have any idea this time why the piggies killed the xenologer?"
      "None at all. But that's why you're here, isn't it?"
      The answer would have been easy, except that the hive queen nudged him gently in the back of his mind. Ender could feel her like wind through the leaves of a tree, a rustling, a gentle movement, and sunlight. Yes, he was here to speak the dead. But he was also here to bring the dead back to life.
     
      Everybody's always a few steps ahead of me.
     
      The piggies? They think the way you do?
     
      The hive queen withdrew, and Ender was left to ponder the thought that with Lusitania he may have bitten off more than he could chew.
     
     
     
      Bishop Peregrino delivered the homily himself. That was always a bad sign. Never an exciting speaker, he had become so convoluted and parenthetical that half the time Ela couldn't even understand what he was talking about. Quim pretended he could understand, of course, because as far as he was concerned the bishop could do no wrong. But little Grego made no attempt to seem interested. Even when Sister Esquecimento was roving the aisle, with her needle-sharp nails and cruel grip, Grego fearlessly performed whatever mischief entered his head.
      Today he was prying the rivets out of the back of the plastic bench in front of them. It bothered Ela how strong he was-- a six-year-old shouldn't be able to work a screwdriver under the lip of a heat-sealed rivet. Ela wasn't sure she could do it.
      If Father were here, of course, his long arm would snake out and gently, oh so gently, take the