Speaker for the dead

Miro didn't tell her he had seen the files, but he did steer conversations toward the subject and drew her out; she talked about her ideas willingly enough, once Miro showed his interest. Sometimes it was almost like old times. Except that he would hear the sound of his own slurred voice and keep most of his opinions to himself, merely listening to her, letting things he would have argued with pass right by. Still, seeing her confidential files allowed him to penetrate to what she was really interested in.

But how had he seen them?

It happened again and again. Files of Ela's, Mother's, Dom Crist o's. As the piggies began to play with their new terminal, Miro was able to watch them in an echo mode that he had never seen the terminal use before– it enabled him to watch all their computer transactions and then make some suggestions, change things a little. He took particular delight in guessing what the piggies were really trying to do and helping them, surreptitiously, to do it. But how had he got such unorthodox, powerful access to the machine?

The terminal was learning to accommodate itself to him, too. Instead of long code sequences, he only had to begin a sequence and the machine would obey his instructions. Finally he did not even have to log on. He touched the keyboard and the terminal displayed a list of all the activities he usually engaged in, then sca

At first he thought that Olhado had created the new program for him, or perhaps someone in the Mayor's office. But Olhado only looked blankly at what the terminal was doing and said, “Bacana,” that's great. And when he sent a message to the Mayor, she never got it. Instead, the Speaker for the Dead came to visit him.

“So your terminal is being helpful,” said Ender.

Miro didn't answer. He was too busy trying to think why the Mayor had sent the Speaker to answer his note.

“The Mayor didn't get your message,” said Ender. “I did. And it's better if you don't mention to anybody else what your terminal is doing.”

“Why?” asked Miro. That was one word he could say without slurring too much.

“Because it isn't a new program helping you. It's a person.”

Miro laughed. No human being could be as quick as the program that was helping him. It was faster, in fact, than most programs he had worked with before, and very resourceful and intuitive; faster than a human, but smarter than a program.

“It's an old friend of mine, I think. At least, she was the one who told me about your message and suggested that I let you know that discretion was a good idea. You see, she's a bit shy. She doesn't make many friends.”

“How many?”

“At the present moment, exactly two. For a few thousand years before now, exactly one.”

“Not human,” said Miro.

“Raman,” said Ender. “More human than most humans. We've loved each other for a long time, helped each other, depended on each other. But in the last few weeks, since I got here, we've drifted apart. I'm– involved more in the lives of people around me. Your family.”

“Mother.”

“Yes. Your mother, your brothers and sisters, the work with the piggies, the work for the hive queen. My friend and I used to talk to each other constantly. I don't have time now. We've hurt each other's feelings sometimes. She's lonely, and so I think she's chosen another companion.”

“Nao quero.” Don't want one.

“Yes you do,” said Ender. “She's already helped you. Now that you know she exists, you'll find that she's– a good friend. You can't have a better one. More loyal. More helpful.”

“Puppy dog?”

“Don't be a jackass,” said Ender. “I'm introducing you to a fourth alien species. You're supposed to be a xenologer, aren't you? She knows you, Miro. Your physical problems are nothing to her. She has no body at all. She exists among the philotic disturbances in the ansible communications of the Hundred Worlds. She's the most intelligent creature alive, and you're the second human being she's ever chosen to reveal herself to.”

“How?” How did she come to be? How did she know me, to choose me?

“Ask her yourself.” Ender touched the jewel in his ear. “Just a word of advice. Once she comes to trust you, keep her with you always. Keep no secrets from her. She once had a lover who switched her off. Only for an hour, but things were never the same between them after that. They became– just friends. Good friends, loyal friends, always until he dies. But all his life he will regret that one thoughtless act of disloyalty.”

Ender's eyes glistened, and Miro realized that whatever this creature was that lived in the computer, it was no phantom, it was part of this man's life. And he was passing it down to Miro, like father to son, the right to know this friend.

Ender left without another word, and Miro turned to the terminal. There was a holo of a woman there. She was small, sitting on a stool, leaning against a holographic wall. She was not beautiful. Not ugly, either. Her face had character. Her eyes were haunting, i

“Bom dia,” Miro said softly.

“Hi,” she said. “I asked him to introduce us.”

She was quiet, reserved, but it was Miro who felt shy. For so long, Ouanda had been the only woman in his life, besides the women of his family, and he had little confidence in the social graces. At the same time, he was aware that he was speaking to a hologram. A completely convincing one, but a midair laser projection all the same.

She reached up one hand and laid it gently on her breast. “Feels nothing,” she said. “No nerves.”

Tears came to his eyes. Self-pity, of course. That he would probably never have a woman more substantial than this one. If he tried to touch one, his caresses would be crude pawing. Sometimes, when he wasn't careful, he drooled and couldn't even feel it. What a lover.

“But I have eyes,” she said. “And ears. I see everything in all the Hundred Worlds. I watch the sky through a thousand telescopes. I overhear a trillion conversations every day.” She giggled a little. “I'm the best gossip in the universe.”

Then, suddenly, she stood up, grew larger, closer, so that she only showed from the waist up, as if she had moved closer to an invisible camera. Her eyes burned with intensity as she stared right at him. “And you're a parochial schoolboy who's never seen anything but one town and one forest in his life.”

“Don't get much chance to travel,” he said.

“We'll see about that,” she answered. “So. What do you want to do today?”

“What's your name?” he asked.

“You don't need my name,” she said.

“How do I call you?”

“I'm here whenever you want me.”

“But I want to know,” he said.

She touched her ear. “When you like me well enough to take me with you wherever you go, then I'll tell you my name.”

Impulsively, he told her what he had told no one else. “I want to leave this place,” said Miro. “Can you take me away from Lusitania?”

She at once became coquettish, mocking. “And we only just met! Really, Mr. Ribeira, I'm not that sort of girl.”

“Maybe when we get to know each other,” Miro said, laughing.

She made a subtle, wonderful transition, and the woman on the screen was a lanky feline, sprawling sensuously on a tree limb. She purred noisily, stretched out a limb, groomed herself. “I can break your neck with a single blow from my paw,” she whispered; her tone of voice suggested seduction; her claws promised murder. “When I get you alone, I can bite your throat out with a single kiss.”