If I am being tested, then there must be some correct thing for me to do.
I must do what I have always done, only this time I must not wait for the gods to instruct me. They have wearied of telling me every day and every hour when I needed to be purified. It is time for me to understand my own impurity without their instructions. I must purify myself, with utter perfection; then I will have passed the test, and the gods will receive me once again.
She dropped to her knees. She found a woodgrain line, and began to trace it.
There was no answering gift of release, no sense of rightness; but that did not trouble her, because she understood that this was part of the test. If the gods answered her immediately, the way they used to, then how would it be a test of her dedication? Where before she had undergone her purification under their constant guidance, now she must purify herself alone. And how would she know if she had done it properly? The gods would come to her again.
The gods would speak to her again. Or perhaps they would carry her away, take her to the palace of the Royal Mother, where the noble Han Jiang-qing awaited her. There she would also meet Li Qing-jao, her ancestor-of-the-heart. There her ancestors would all greet her, and they would say, The gods determined to try all the godspoken of Path. Few indeed have passed this test; but you, Qing-jao, you have brought great honor to us all. Because your faithfulness never wavered. You performed your purifications as no other son or daughter has ever performed them. The ancestors of other men and women are all envious of us. For your sake the gods now favor us above them all.
“What are you doing?” asked Father. “Why are you tracing the woodgrain lines?”
She did not answer. She refused to be distracted.
“The need for that has been taken away. I know it has—I feel no need for purification.”
Ah, Father! If only you could understand! But even though you will fail this test, I will pass it—and thus I will bring honor even to you, who have forsaken all honorable things.
“Qing-jao,” he said. “I know what you’re doing. Like those parents who force their mediocre children to wash and wash. You’re calling the gods.”
Give it that name if you wish, Father. Your words are nothing to me now. I will not listen to you again until we both are dead, and you say to me, My daughter, you were better and wiser than I; all my honor here in the house of the Royal Mother comes from your purity and selfless devotion to the service of the gods. You are truly a noble daughter. I have no joy except because of you.
The world of Path accomplished its transformation peacefully. Here and there, a murder occurred; here and there, one of the godspoken who had been tyrannical was mobbed and cast out of his house. But by and large, the story given by the document was believed, and the former godspoken were treated with great honor because of their righteous sacrifice during the years when they were burdened with the rites of purification.
Still, the old order quickly passed away. The schools were opened equally to all children. Teachers soon reported that students were achieving remarkable things; the stupidest child now was surpassing all averages from former times. And despite Congress’s outraged denials of any genetic alteration, scientists on Path at last turned their attention to the genes of their own people. Studying the records of what their genetic molecules had been, and how they were now, the women and men of Path confirmed all that the document had said.
What happened then, as the Hundred Worlds and all the colonies learned of Congress’s crimes against Path—Qing-jao never knew of it. That was all a matter for a world that she had left behind. For she spent all her days now in the service of the gods, cleansing herself, purifying herself.
The story spread that Han Fei-tzu’s mad daughter, alone of all the godspoken, persisted in her rituals. At first she was ridiculed for it—for many of the godspoken had, out of curiosity, attempted to perform their purifications again, and had discovered the rituals to be empty and meaningless now. But she heard little of the ridicule, and cared nothing for it. Her mind was devoted solely to the service of the gods—what did it matter if the people who had failed the test despised her for continuing to attempt to succeed?
As the years passed, many began to remember the old days as a graceful time, when the gods spoke to men and women, and many were bowed down in their service. Some of these began to think of Qing-jao, not as a madwoman, but as the only faithful woman left among those who had heard the voice of the gods. The word began to spread among the pious: “In the house of Han Fei-tzu there dwells the last of the godspoken.”
They began to come then, at first a few, then more and more of them. Visitors, who wanted to speak with the only woman who still labored in her purification. At first she would speak to some of them; when she had finished tracing a board, she would go out into the garden and speak to them. But their words confused her. They spoke of her labor as being the purification of the whole planet. They said that she was calling the gods for the sake of all the people of Path. The more they talked, the harder it was for her to concentrate on what they said. She was soon eager to return to the house, to begin tracing another line. Didn’t these people understand that they were wrong to praise her now? “I have accomplished nothing,” she would tell them. “The gods are still silent. I have work to do.” And then she would return to her tracing.
Her father died as a very old man, with much honor for his many deeds, though no one ever knew his role in the coming of the Plague of the Gods, as it was now called. Only Qing-jao understood. And as she burned a fortune in real money—no false funeral money would do for her father—she whispered to him so that no one else could hear, “Now you know, Father. Now you understand your errors, and how you angered the gods. But don’t be afraid. I will continue the purification until all your mistakes are rectified. Then the gods will receive you with honor.”
She herself became old, and the Journey to the House of Han Qing-jao was now the most famous pilgrimage of Path. Indeed, there were many who heard of her on other worlds, and came to Path just to see her. For it was well-known on many worlds that true holiness could be found in only one place, and in only one person, the old woman whose back was now permanently bent, whose eyes could now see nothing but the lines in the floors of her father’s house.
Holy disciples, men and women, now tended the house where servants once had cared for her. They polished the floors. They prepared her simple food, and laid it where she could find it at the doors of the rooms; she would eat and drink only when a room was finished. When a man or woman somewhere in the world achieved some great honor, they would come to the House of Han Qing-jao, kneel down, and trace a woodgrain line; thus all honors were treated as if they were mere decorations on the honor of the Holy Han Qing-jao.
At last, only a few weeks after she completed her hundredth year, Han Qing-jao was found curled up on the floor of her father’s room. Some said that it was the exact spot where her father always sat when he performed his labors; it was hard to be sure, since all the furniture of the house had been removed long before. The holy woman was not dead when they found her. She lay still for several days, murmuring, muttering, inching her hands across her own body as if she were tracing lines in her flesh. Her disciples took turns, ten at a time, listening to her, trying to understand her muttering, setting down the words as best they understood them. They were written in the book called The God Whispers of Han Qing-jao.
Most important of all her words were these, at the very end. “Mother,” she whispered. “Father. Did I do it right?” And then, said her disciples, she smiled and died.
She had not been dead for a month before the decision was made in every temple and shrine in every city and town and village of Path. At last there was a person of such surpassing holiness that Path could choose her as the protector and guardian of the world. No other world had such a god, and they admitted it freely.
Path is blessed above all other worlds, they said. For the God of Path is Gloriously Bright.
> PRONUNCIATION
A few names may seem strange to English-speaking readers. From Chinese, Qing-jao is pronounced “tching jow”; Jiang-qing is “jee-eng tching.” From Portuguese, Quim is pronounced “keeng”; Novinha is “no-VEEN-ya”; Olhado is “ol-YAH-doe.” From Swedish, Jakt is “yahkt.”
Other names are either easier to pronounce as written, or repeated rarely enough that they shouldn’t cause difficulty.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A chance meeting with James Cryer in the Second Foundation Bookstore in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, led directly to the story of Li Qing-jao and Han Fei-tzu at the heart of this book. Learning that he was a translator of Chinese poetry, I asked him on the spot if he could give me a few plausible names for some Chinese characters I was developing. My knowledge of Chinese culture was rudimentary at best, and my idea for these characters was for them to play a fairly minor, though meaningful, role in the story of Xenocide. But as James Cryer, one of the most vigorous, fascinating, and generous people I have known, told me more and more about Li Qing-jao and Han Fei-tzu—as he showed me their writings and told me more stories about other figures in Chinese history and literature—I began to realize that here was the real foundation of the tale I wanted this book to tell. I owe him much, and regret that I have passed up my best opportunities to repay.
I also give my thanks to many others: To Judith Rapaport, for her book The Boy Who Couldn’t Stop Washing, which was the source of the information about obsessive-compulsive disorder in this novel. To my agent Barbara Bova, who called this book into existence by selling it in England before I had ever thought of writing it. To my American publisher Tom Doherty, for extraordinary faith and generosity that I hope will all be justified in the end. To Jim Frenkel, the editor who wisely turned down the first outline of this book when I offered it to Dell back in 1978, telling me—correctly—that I wasn’t ready yet to write such an ambitious novel. To my British publisher, Anthony Cheetham, who has believed in my work from the start of my career, and has patiently waited for this book far longer than either of us bargained for. To my editor Beth Meacham, for being a friend, adviser, and protector through the preparation of this and many other books. To the many readers who have written to me urging me to return to Ender’s story; their encouragement helped a great deal as I struggled through the most difficult writing project of my career so far. To Fred Chappell’s graduate writing workshop at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, for looking over and responding to the first draft of the Qing-jao storyline. To Stan Schmidt at Analog, for being willing to publish such an extraordinarily long portion of the novel as the story “Gloriously Bright.” To my assistants, Laraine Moon, Erin Absher, and Willard and Peggy Card, who, serving well in such completely different ways, gave me the freedom and help that I needed in order to write at all. To friends like Jeff Alton and Philip Absher, for reading early drafts to help me ensure that this hodgepodge of characters and storylines actually did make sense. And to my children, Geoffrey, Emily, and Charlie, for being patient with me through the crabbiness and neglect that always Seem to accompany my bursts of writing, and for letting me borrow from their lives and experiences as I create the characters I love the most.
Above all, I give my thanks to my wife, Kristine, who has suffered through every arduous step in the creation of this book, raising questions, catching errors and contradictions, and—most important—responding so favorably to those aspects of the story that worked well that I found in her the confidence to go on. I have no idea who I would be, as a writer or as a person, without her; I intend never to have occasion to find out.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
XENOCIDE
Copyright © 1991 by Orson Scott Card
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
eISBN 9781429963961
First eBook Edition : July 2011
Several chapters of this book appeared first in Analog magazine as the novella “Gloriously Bright.”
Quotations from Li Qing-jao are from James Cryer, trans., Plum Blossom: Poems of Li Ch’ing-Chao (Carolina Wren Press, 1984), by permission of the translator.
Quotations from Han Fei-tzu are from Burton Watson, trans., Han Fei Tzu: Basic Writings (Columbia University Press, 1964), by permission of the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Card, Orson Scott.
Xenocide / Orson Scott Card. p. cm.
Sequel to: Ender’s game.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-312-86187-7 (pbk.) ISBN 978-1-4299-6396-1
I. Title.
PS3553.A655X46 1991
813’.54—dc20
90-27108
CIP
CHILDREN OF THE MIND
ORSON SCOTT CARD
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
CHILDREN OF THE MIND
Copyright © 1996 by Orson Scott Card
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Card, Orson Scott.
Children of the mind / Orson Scott Card.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-312-86191-5
ISBN 978-0-312-86191-9
I. Title.
PS3553.A655 C48 1996
813'.54—dc20
95-53262
To Barbara Bova,
whose toughness, wisdom, and empathy
make her a great agent
and an even better friend
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to:
Glenn Makitka, for the title, which seems so obvious now, but which never crossed my mind until he suggested it in a discussion in Hatrack River on America Online;
Van Gessel, for introducing me to Hikari and Kenzaburo Oe, and for his masterful translation of Shusaku Endo’s Deep River;
Helpful readers in Hatrack River, like Stephen Boulet and Sandi Golden, who caught typographical errors and inconsistencies in the manuscript;
Tom Doherty and Beth Meacham at Tor, who allowed me to split Xenocide in half in order to have a chance to develop and write the second half of the story properly;
My friend and fellow weeder in the vineyards of literature, Kathryn H. Kidd, for her chapter-by-chapter encouragement;
Kathleen Bellamy and Scott J. Allen for Sisyphean service;
Kristine and Geoff for careful reading that helped me resolve contradictions and unclarities; and
My wife, Kristine, and my children, Geoffrey, Emily, Charlie Ben, and Zina, for patience with my strange schedule and self-absorption during the writing process, and for teaching me all that is worth telling stories about.
This novel was begun at home in Greensboro, North Carolina, and finished on the road at Xanadu II in Myrtle Beach, in the Hotel Panama in San Rafael, and in Los Angeles in the home of my dear cousins Mark and Margaret Park, whom I thank for their friendship and their hospitality. Chapters were uploaded in manuscript form into the Hatrack River Town Meeting on America Online, where several dozen fellow citizens of that virtual community downloaded it, read it, and commented on it to the book’s and my great benefit.
> 1
“I’M NOT MYSELF”
“Mother. Father. Did I do it right?”
The last words of Han Qing-jao, from
The God Whispers of Han Qing-jao
Si Wang-mu stepped forward. The young man named Peter took her hand and led her into the starship. The door closed behind them.
Wang-mu sat down on one of the swiveling chairs inside the small metal-walled room. She looked around, expecting to see something strange and new. Except for the metal walls, it could have been any office on the world of Path. Clean, but not fastidiously so. Furnished, in a utilitarian way. She had seen holos of ships in flight: the smoothly streamlined fighters and shuttles that dipped into and out of the atmosphere; the vast rounded structures of the starships that accelerated as near to the speed of light as matter could get. On the one hand, the sharp power of a needle; on the other, the massive power of a sledgehammer. But here in this room, no power at all. Just a room.
Where was the pilot? There must be a pilot, for the young man who sat across the room from her, murmuring to his computer, could hardly be controlling a starship capable of the feat of traveling faster than light.
And yet that must have been precisely what he was doing, for there were no other doors that might lead to other rooms. The starship had looked small from the outside; this room obviously used all the space that it contained. There in the corner were the batteries that stored energy from the solar collectors on the top of the ship. In that chest, which seemed to be insulated like a refrigerator, there might be food and drink. So much for life support. Where was the romance in starflight now, if this was all it took? A mere room.
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 132