Val grew alert at that. “Is that what the Hive Queen guesses, or does she know?”
“She’s predicting the future,” said Olhado. “Nobody knows the future. Not even really smart queen bees who bite their husbands’ heads off when they mate.”
They had no answer to what he said, and certainly nothing to say to his jocular tone.
“Well, if that’s all right now,” said Olhado, “back on your heads, everybody. We’ll leave the station open and recording in triplicate for any reports you make.”
Olhado’s face disappeared from the terminal space.
Miro swiveled his chair and faced the others: Ela, Quara, Val, the pequenino Firequencher, and the nameless worker, who watched them in perpetual silence, only able to speak by typing into the terminal. Through him, though, Miro knew that the Hive Queen was watching everything they did, hearing everything they said. Waiting. She was orchestrating this, he knew. Whatever happened to Jane, the Hive Queen would be the catalyst to get it started. Yet the things she said, she had said to Olhado through some worker there in Milagre. This one had typed in nothing but ideas concerning the translation of the language of the descoladores.
She isn’t saying anything, Miro realized, because she doesn’t want to be seen to push. Push what? Push whom?
Val. She can’t be seen to push Val, because … because the only way to let Jane have one of Ender’s bodies was for him to freely give it up. And it had to be truly free — no pressure, no guilt, no persuasion — because it wasn’t a decision that could be made consciously. Ender had decided that he wanted to share Mother’s life in the monastery, but his unconscious mind was far more interested in the translation project here and in whatever it is Peter’s doing. His unconscious choice reflected his true will. If Ender is to let go of Val, it has to be his desire to do it, all the way to the core of him. Not a decision out of duty, like his decision to stay with Mother. A decision because that is what he really wants.
Miro looked at Val, at the beauty that came more from deep goodness than from regular features. He loved her, but was it the perfection of her that he loved? That perfect virtue might be the only thing that allowed her — allowed Ender in his Valentine mode — to willingly let go and invite Jane in. And yet once Jane arrived, the perfect virtue would be gone, wouldn’t it? Jane was powerful and, Miro believed, good — certainly she had been good to him, a true friend. But even in his wildest imaginations he could not conceive of her as perfectly virtuous. If she started wearing Val, would she still be Val? The memories would linger, but the will behind the face would be more complicated than the simple script that Ender had created for her. Will I still love her when she’s Jane?
Why wouldn’t I? I love Jane too, don’t I?
But will I love Jane when she’s flesh and blood, and not just a voice in my ear? Will I look into those eyes and mourn for this lost Valentine?
Why didn’t I have these doubts before? I tried to bring this off myself, back before I even half understood how difficult it was. And yet now, when it’s only the barest hope, I find myself — what, wishing it wouldn’t happen? Hardly that. I don’t want to die out here. I want Jane restored, if only to get starflight back again — now that’s an altruistic motive! I want Jane restored, but I also want Val unchanged.
I want all bad things to go away and everybody to be happy. I want my mommy. What kind of childish dolt have I become?
Val was looking at him, he suddenly realized. “Hi,” he said. The others were looking at him, too. Looking back and forth between him and Val. “What are we all voting on, whether I should grow a beard?”
“Voting on nothing,” said Quara. “I’m just depressed. I mean, I knew what I was doing when I got on this ship, but damn, it’s really hard to get enthusiastic about working on these people’s language when I can count my life by the gauge on the oxygen tanks.”