“Too bad, too,” said Miro, “because I bet you’d be great in the virtual sack.”
“The best,” Jane said.
And then silence for a little while.
Only when they approached Jakt’s house, a new building on the outskirts of Milagre, did Jane speak again. “Keep in mind, Miro, that whatever Ender does with his own self, when Young Valentine speaks it’s still Ender’s aiъa talking.”
“The same with Peter,” said Miro. “Now there’s a charmer. Let’s just say that Young Val, sweet as she is, doesn’t exactly represent a balanced view of anything. Ender may control her, but she’s not Ender.”
“There are just too many of him, aren’t there,” said Jane. “And, apparently, too many of me, at least in the opinion of Starways Congress.”
“There are too many of us all,” said Miro. “But never enough.”
They arrived. Miro and Young Val were led inside. They ate feebly; they slept the moment they reached their beds. Miro was aware that voices went on far into the night, for he did not sleep well, but rather kept waking a little, uncomfortable on such a soft mattress, and perhaps uncomfortable at being away from his duty, like a soldier who feels guilty at having abandoned his post.
Despite his weariness, Miro did not sleep late. Indeed, the sky outside was still dim with the predawn seepage of sunlight over the horizon when he awoke and, as was his habit, rose immediately from his bed, standing shakily as the last of sleep fled from his body. He covered himself and went out into the hall to find the bathroom and discharge his bladder. When he emerged, he heard voices from the kitchen. Either last night’s conversation was still going on, or some other neurotic early risers had rejected morning solitude and were chatting away as if dawn were not the dark hour of despair.
He stood before his own open door, ready to go inside and shut out those earnest voices, when Miro realized that one of them belonged to Young Val. Then he realized that the other one was Old Valentine. At once he turned and made his way to the kitchen, and again hesitated in a doorway.
Sure enough, the two Valentines were sitting across the table from each other, but not looking at each other. Instead they stared out the window as they sipped one of Old Valentine’s fruit-and-vegetable decoctions.
“Would you like one, Miro?” asked Old Valentine without looking up.
“Not even on my deathbed,” said Miro. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Good,” said Old Valentine.
Young Val continued to say nothing.
Miro came inside the kitchen, went to the sink, and drew himself a glass of water, which he drank in one long draught.
“I told you it was Miro in the bathroom,” said Old Valentine. “No one processes so much water every day as this dear lad.”
Miro chuckled, but he did not hear Young Val laugh.
“I am interfering with the conversation,” he said. “I’ll go.”
“Stay,” said Old Valentine.
“Please,” said Young Val.
“Please which?” asked Miro. He turned toward her and grinned.
She shoved a chair toward him with her foot. “Sit,” she said. “The lady and I were having it out about our twinship.”
“We decided,” said Old Valentine, “that it’s my responsibility to die first.”
“On the contrary,” said Young Val, “we decided that Gepetto did not create Pinocchio because he wanted a real boy. It was a puppet he wanted all along. That real-boy business was simply Gepetto’s laziness. He still wanted the puppet to dance — he just didn’t want to go to all the trouble of working the strings.”
“You being Pinocchio,” said Miro. “And Ender …”
“My brother didn’t try to make you,” said Old Valentine. “And he doesn’t want to control you, either.”
“I know,” whispered Young Val. And suddenly there were tears in her eyes.
Miro reached out a hand to lay atop hers on the table, but at once she snatched hers away. No, she wasn’t avoiding his touch, she was simply bringing her hand up to wipe the annoying tears out of her eyes.
“He’d cut the strings if he could, I know,” said Young Val. “The way Miro cut the strings on his old broken body.”