When Malu learned in turn what had been said, he pointed at Peter. “You! You came here to bring the god!” Then he pointed at Wang-mu. “And you came here to bring the man.”
“Whatever that means,” said Peter.
But Wang-mu thought she understood. They had survived one crisis, but this peaceful hour was only a lull. The battle would be joined again, and this time the outcome would be different. If Jane was to live, if there was to be any hope of restoring instantaneous starflight, Ender had to give at least one of his bodies to her. If Malu was right, then Ender had to die. There was a slight chance that Ender’s aiъa might still keep one of the three bodies, and go on living. I am here, Wang-mu said silently, to make sure that it is Peter who survives, not as the god, but as the man.
It all depends, she realized, on whether Ender-as-Peter loves me more than Ender-as-Valentine loves Miro or Ender-as-Ender loves Novinha.
With that thought she almost despaired. Who was she? Miro had been Ender’s friend for years. Novinha was his wife. But Wang-mu — Ender had only learned of her existence mere days or at most weeks ago. What was she to him?
But then she had another, more comforting and yet disturbing thought. Is it as important who the loved one is as it is which aspect of Ender desires him or her? Valentine is the perfect altruist — she might love Miro most of all, yet give him up for the sake of giving starflight back to us all. And Ender — he was already losing interest in his old life. He’s the weary one, he’s the worn-out one. While Peter — he’s the one with the ambition, the lust for growth and creation. It’s not that he loves me, it’s that he loves me, or rather that he wants to live, and part of life to him is me, this woman who loves him despite his supposed wickedness. Ender-as-Peter is the part of him that most needs to be loved because he least deserves it — so it is my love, because it is for Peter, that will be most precious to him.
If anyone wins at all, I will win, Peter will win, not because of the glorious purity of our love, but because of the desperate hunger of the lovers.
Well, the story of our lives won’t be as noble or pretty, but then, we’ll have a life, and that’s enough.
She worked her toes into the sand, feeling the tiny delicious pain of the friction of tiny chips of silicon against the tender flesh between her toes. That’s life. It hurts, it’s dirty, and it feels very, very good.
Over the ansible, Olhado told his brother and sisters on the starship what had happened with Jane and the mothertrees.
“The Hive Queen says it can’t last long this way,” said Olhado. “The mothertrees aren’t all that strong. They’ll slip, they’ll lose control, and pretty soon Jane will be a forest, period. Not a talking one, either. Just some very lovely, very bright, very nurturing trees. It was beautiful to see, I promise you, but the way the Hive Queen tells it, it still sounds like death.”
“Thanks, Olhado,” Miro said. “It doesn’t make much difference to us either way. We’re stranded here, and so we’re going to get to work, now that Val isn’t bouncing off the walls. The descoladores haven’t found us yet — Jane got us in a higher orbit this time — but as soon as we have a workable translation of their language we’ll wave at them and let them know we’re here.”
“Keep at it,” said Olhado. “But don’t give up on coming back home, either.”
“The shuttle really isn’t good for a two-hundred-year flight,” said Miro. “That’s how far away we are, and this little vehicle can’t even get close to the speeds necessary for relativistic flight. We’d have to play solitaire the whole two hundred years. The cards would wear out long before we got back home.”
Olhado laughed — too lightly and sincerely, Miro thought — and said, “The Hive Queen says that once Jane gets out of the trees, and once the Congress gets their new system up and running, she may be able to jump back in. At least enough to get into the ansible traffic. And if she does that, then maybe she can go back into the starflight business. It’s not impossible.”