“Surely he has no authority with Starways Congress,” said the Bishop.
Dom Cristão nodded wisely. “San Angelo once wrote—in his private journals, which no one but the Children of the Mind ever read—”
The Bishop turned on him with glee. “So the Children of the Mind do have secret writings of San Angelo!”
“Not secret,” said Dona Cristã. “Merely boring. Anyone can read the journals, but we’re the only ones who bother.”
“What he wrote,” said Dom Cristão, “was that Speaker Andrew is older than we know. Older than Starways Congress, and in his own way perhaps more powerful.”
Bishop Peregrino snorted. “He’s a boy. Can’t be forty years old yet.”
“Your stupid rivalries are wasting time,” said Bosquinha sharply. “I called this meeting because of an emergency. As a courtesy to you, because I have already acted for the benefit of the government of Lusitania.”
The others fell silent.
Bosquinha returned the terminal to the original display. “This morning my program alerted me for a second time. Another systematic ansible access, only this time it was not the selective nondestructive access of three days ago. This time it is reading everything at data-transfer speed, which implies that all our files are being copied into offworld computers. Then the directories are rewritten so that a single ansible-initiated command will completely destroy every single file in our computer memories.”
Bosquinha could see that Bishop Peregrino was surprised—and the Children of the Mind were not.
“Why?” said Bishop Peregrino. “To destroy all our files—this is what you do to a nation or a world that is—in rebellion, that you wish to destroy, that you—”
“I see,” said Bosquinha to the Children of the Mind, “that you also were chauvinistic and suspicious.”
“Much more narrowly than you, I’m afraid,” said Dom Cristão. “But we also detected the intrusions. We of course copied all our records—at great expense—to the monasteries of the Children of the Mind on other worlds, and they will try to restore our files after they are stripped. However, if we are being treated as a rebellious colony, I doubt that such a restoration will be permitted. So we are also making paper copies of the most vital information. There is no hope of printing everything, but we think we may be able to print out enough to get by. So that our work isn’t utterly destroyed.”
“You knew this?” said the Bishop. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Forgive me, Bishop Peregrino, but it did not occur to us that you would not have detected this yourselves.”
“And you also don’t believe we do any work that is important enough to be worth printing out to save!”
“Enough!” said Mayor Bosquinha. “Printouts can’t save more than a tiny percentage—there aren’t enough printers in Lusitania to make a dent in the problem. We couldn’t even maintain basic services. I don’t think we have more than an hour left before the copying is complete and they are able to wipe out our memory. But even if we began this morning, when the intrusion started, we could not have printed out more than a hundredth of one percent of the files that we access every day. Our fragility, our vulnerability is complete.”
“So we’re helpless,” said the Bishop.
“No. But I wanted to make clear to you the extremity of our situation, so that you would accept the only alternative. It will be very distasteful to you.”
“I have no doubt of that,” said Bishop Peregrino.
“An hour ago, as I was wrestling with this problem, trying to see if there was any class of files that might be immune to this treatment, I discovered that in fact there was one person whose files were being completely overlooked. At first I thought it was because he was a framling, but the reason is much more subtle than that. The Speaker for the Dead has no files in Lusitanian memory.”
“None? Impossible,” said Dona Cristão.
“He is invisible to Starways Congress. If they place an embargo on all data transfers to and from Lusitania, his files will still be accessible because the computers do not see his file accesses as data transfers. They are original storage—yet they are not in Lusitanian memory.”
“Are you suggesting,” said Bishop Peregrino, “that we transfer our most confidential and important files as messages to that—that unspeakable infidel?”
“I am telling you that I have already done exactly that. The transfer of the most vital and sensitive government files is almost complete. It was a high priority transfer, at local speeds, so it runs much faster than the Congressional copying. I am offering you a chance to make a similar transfer, using my highest priority so that it takes precedence over all other local computer usage. If you don’t want to do it, fine—I’ll use my priority to transfer the second tier of government files.”
“But he could look in our files,” said the Bishop.
“Yes, he could.”
Dom Cristão shook his head. “He won’t if we ask him not to.”
“You are naive as a child,” said Bishop Peregrino. “There would be nothing to compel him even to give the data back to us.”
Bosquinha nodded. “That’s true. He’ll have everything that’s vital to us, and he can keep it or return it as he wishes. But I believe, as Dom Cristão does, that he’s a good man who’ll help us in our time of need.”
Dona Cristã stood. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’d like to begin crucial transfers immediately.”
Bosquinha turned to the Bishop’s terminal and logged into her own high priority mode. “Just enter the classes of files that you want to send into Speaker Andrew’s message queue. I assume you already have them prioritized, since you were printing them out.”
“How long do we have?” asked Dom Cristão. Dona Cristã was already typing furiously.
“The time is here, at the top.” Bosquinha put her hand into the holographic display and touched the countdown numbers with her finger.
“Don’t bother transferring anything that we’ve already printed,” said Dom Cristão. “We can always type that back in. There’s precious little of it, anyway.”
Bosquinha turned to the Bishop. “I knew this would be difficult.”
The Bishop gave one derisive laugh. “Difficult.”
“I hope you’ll consider carefully before rejecting this—”
“Rejecting it!” said the Bishop. “Do you think I’m a fool? I may detest the pseudo-religion of these blasphemous speakers for the dead, but if this is the only way God has opened for us to preserve the vital records of the Church, then I’d be a poor servant of the Lord if I let pride stop me from using it. Our files aren’t prioritized yet, and it will take a few minutes, but I trust that the Children of the Mind will leave us enough time for our data transfers.”
“How much time will you need, do you think?” asked Dom Cristão.
“Not much. Ten minutes at the most, I’d think.”
Bosquinha was surprised, and pleasantly so. She had been afraid the Bishop would insist on copying all his files before allowing the Children of the Mind to go ahead—just one more attempt to assert the precedence of the bishopric over the monastery.
“Thank you,” Dom Cristão said, kissing the hand that Peregrino extended to him.
The Bishop looked at Bosquinha coldly. “You don’t need to look surprised, Mayor Bosquinha. The Children of the Mind work with the knowledge of the world, so they depend far more on the world’s machines. Mother Church works with things of the Spirit, so our use of public memory is merely clerical. As for the Bible—we are so old-fashioned and set in our ways that we still keep dozens of leatherbound paper copies in the Cathedral. Starways Congress can’t steal from us our copies of the word of God.” He smiled. Maliciously, of course. Bosquinha smiled back quite cheerfully.
“A small matter,” said Dom Cristão. “After our files are destroyed, and we copy them back into memory from the Speaker’s files, what is to stop Congress from doing it again? And again, and again?”
> “That is the difficult decision,” said Bosquinha. “What we do depends on what Congress is trying to accomplish. Maybe they won’t actually destroy our files at all. Maybe they’ll immediately restore our most vital files after this demonstration of their power. Since I have no idea why they’re disciplining us, how can I guess how far this will go? If they leave us any way to remain loyal, then of course we must also remain vulnerable to further discipline.”
“But if, for some reason, they are determined to treat us like rebels?”
“Well, if bad came to worst, we could copy everything back into local memory and then—cut off the ansible.”
“God help us,” said Dona Cristã. “We would be utterly alone.”
Bishop Peregrino looked annoyed. “What an absurd idea, Sister Detestai o Pecado. Or do you think that Christ depends upon the ansible? That Congress has the power to silence the Holy Ghost?”
Dona Cristã blushed and returned to her work at the terminal.
The Bishop’s secretary handed him a paper with a list of files on it. “You can leave my personal correspondence off the list,” said the Bishop. “I’ve already sent my messages. We’ll let the Church decide which of my letters is worth preserving. They have no value to me.”
“The Bishop is ready,” said Dom Cristão. Immediately his wife arose from the terminal and the secretary took her place.
“By the way,” said Bosquinha, “I thought you’d want to know. The Speaker has announced that this evening, in the praça, he’ll speak the death of Marcos Maria Ribeira.” Bosquinha looked at her watch. “Very soon now, in fact.”
“Why,” said the Bishop acidly, “did you think that I would care?”
“I thought you might want to send a representative.”
“Thank you for telling us,” said Dom Cristão. “I think that I’ll attend. I’d like to hear a speaking by the man who spoke the death of San Angelo.” He turned to the Bishop. “I’ll report to you on what he says, if you’d like.”
The Bishop leaned back and smiled tightly. “Thank you, but one of my people will be in attendance.”
Bosquinha left the Bishop’s office and clattered down the stairs and out the Cathedral doors. She had to be back in her own rooms now, because whatever the Congress was planning, it would be Bosquinha who received their messages.
She had not discussed it with the religious leaders because it was really none of their business, but she knew perfectly well, at least in a general way, why Congress was doing this. The paragraphs that gave Congress the right to treat Lusitania like a rebellious colony were all tied to the rules dealing with contact with the piggies.
Obviously the xenologers had done something grossly wrong. Since Bosquinha had not known of any violations, it had to be something so big that its evidence showed up on the satellites, the only monitoring devices that reported directly to the committee without passing through Bosquinha’s hands. Bosquinha had tried to think of what Miro and Ouanda might have done—start a forest fire? Cut down trees? Led a war between the piggy tribes? Anything she thought of sounded absurd.
She tried to call them in to question them, but they were gone, of course. Through the gate, out into the forest to continue, no doubt, the same activities that had brought the possibility of destruction to Lusitania Colony. Bosquinha kept reminding herself that they were young, that it might all be some ridiculous juvenile mistake.
But they weren’t that young, and they were two of the brightest minds in a colony that contained many intelligent people. It was a very good thing that governments under the Starways Code were forbidden to own any instruments of punishment that might be used for torture. For the first time in her life, Bosquinha felt such fury that she might use such instruments, if she had them. I don’t know what you thought you were doing, Miro and Ouanda, and I don’t know what you did; but whatever your purpose might have been, this whole community will pay the price for it. And somehow, if there were any justice, I would make you pay it back.
Many people had said they wouldn’t come to any speaking—they were good Catholics, weren’t they? Hadn’t the Bishop told them that the Speaker spoke with Satan’s voice?
But other things were whispered, too, once the Speaker came. Rumors, mostly, but Milagre was a little place, where rumors were the sauce of a dry life; and rumors have no value unless they are believed. So word spread that Marcão’s little girl Quara, who had been silent since he died, was now so talkative that it got her in trouble in school. And Olhado, that ill-mannered boy with the repulsive metal eyes, it was said that he suddenly seemed cheerful and excited. Perhaps manic. Perhaps possessed. Rumors began to imply that somehow the Speaker had a healing touch, that he had the evil eye, that his blessings made you whole, his curses could kill you, his words could charm you into obedience. Not everybody heard this, of course, and not everybody who heard it believed it. But in the four days between the Speaker’s arrival and the evening of his speaking the death of Marcos Maria Ribeira, the community of Milagre decided, without any formal announcement, that they would come to the speaking and hear what the Speaker had to say, whether the Bishop said to stay away or not.
It was the Bishop’s own fault. From his vantage point, calling the Speaker satanic put Andrew Wiggin at the farthest extreme from himself and all good Catholics: The Speaker is the opposite of us. But to those who were not theologically sophisticated, while Satan was frightening and powerful, so was God. They understood well enough the continuum of good and evil that the Bishop referred to, but they were far more interested in the continuum of strong and weak—that was the one they lived with day by day. And on that continuum, they were weak, and God and Satan and the Bishop all were strong. The Bishop had elevated the Speaker to stand with him as a man of power. The people were thus prepared to believe the whispered hints of miracles.
So even though the announcement came only an hour before the speaking, the praça was full, and people gathered in the buildings and houses that fronted the praça, and crowded the grassy alleyways and streets. Mayor Bosquinha had—as the law required—provided the Speaker with the simple microphone that she used for the rare public meetings. People oriented themselves toward the platform where he would stand; then they looked around to see who was there. Everyone was there. Of course Marcão’s family. Of course the Mayor. But also Dom Cristão and Dona Cristã, and many a robed priest from the Cathedral. Dr. Navio, Pipo’s widow, old Conceição, the Archivist, Libo’s widow, Bruxinha, and her children. It was rumored that the Speaker also meant to speak Pipo’s and Libo’s deaths someday, too.
And finally, just as the Speaker stepped up onto the platform, the rumor swept the praça: Bishop Peregrino was here. Not in his vestments, but in the simple robes of a priest. Here himself, to hear the Speaker’s blasphemy! Many a citizen of Milagre felt a delicious thrill of anticipation. Would the Bishop rise up and miraculously strike down Satan? Would there be a battle here such as had not been seen outside the vision of the Apocalypse of St. John?
Then the Speaker stood before the microphone and waited for them to be still. He was fairly tall, youngish still, but his white skin made him look sickly compared to the thousand shades of brown of the Lusos. Ghostly. They fell silent, and he began to speak.
“He was known by three names. The official records have the first one: Marcos Maria Ribeira. And his official data. Born 1929. Died 1970. Worked in the steel foundry. Perfect safety record. Never arrested. A wife, six children. A model citizen, because he never did anything bad enough to go on the public record.”
Many who were listening felt a vague disquiet. They had expected oration. Instead the Speaker’s voice was nothing remarkable. And his words had none of the formality of religious speech. Plain, simple, almost conversational. Only a few of them noticed that its very simplicity made his voice, his speech utterly believable. He wasn’t telling the Truth, with trumpets; he was telling the truth, the story that you wouldn’t think to doubt because it’s taken for granted. Bishop Pereg
rino was one who noticed, and it made him uneasy. This Speaker would be a formidable enemy, one who could not be blasted down with fire from before the altar.
“The second name he had was Marcão. Big Marcos. Because he was a giant of a man. Reached his adult size early in his life. How old was he when he reached two meters? Eleven? Definitely by the time he was twelve. His size and strength made him valuable in the foundry, where the lots of steel are so small that much of the work is controlled directly by hand, and strength matters. People’s lives depended on Marcão’s strength.”
In the praça the men from the foundry nodded. They had all bragged to each other that they’d never talk to the framling atheist. Obviously one of them had, but now it felt good that the Speaker got it right, that he understood what they remembered of Marcão. Every one of them wished that he had been the one to tell about Marcão to the Speaker. They did not guess that the Speaker had not even tried to talk to them. After all these years, there were many things that Andrew Wiggin knew without asking.
“His third name was Cão. Dog.”
Ah, yes, thought the Lusos. This is what we’ve heard about speakers for the dead. They have no respect for the dead, no sense of decorum.
“That was the name you used for him when you heard that his wife, Novinha, had another black eye, walked with a limp, had stitches in her lip. He was an animal to do that to her.”
How dare he say that? The man’s dead! But under their anger the Lusos were uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. Almost all of them remembered saying or hearing exactly those words. The Speaker’s indiscretion was in repeating in public the words that they had used about Marcão when he was alive.
“Not that any of you liked Novinha. Not that cold woman who never gave any of you good morning. But she was smaller than he was, and she was the mother of his children, and when he beat her he deserved the name of Cão.”
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 62