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Several voices now. "No."
"Why not? Humans are humans, aren't we?"
"I didn't kill any children," said the spokesman. He was defending himself now. And the "we" was gone from his speech. He was an individual now, alone. The mob was fading, breaking apart.
"We burned the mothertree," said Grego.
Behind him there began a keening sound, several soft, high-pitched whines. For the brothers and surviving wives, it was the confirmation of their worst fears. The mothertree had burned.
"That giant tree in the middle of the forest--inside it were all their babies. All of them. This forest did us no harm, and we came and killed their babies."
Miro stepped forward, put his hand on Grego's shoulder. Was Miro leaning on him? Or helping him stand?
Miro spoke then, not to Grego, but to the crowd. "All of you. Go home."
"Maybe we should try to put the fire out," said Grego. But already the whole forest was ablaze.
"Go home," Miro said again. "Stay inside the fence."
There was still some anger left. "Who are you to tell us what to do?"
"Stay inside the fence," said Miro. "Someone else is coming to protect the pequeninos now."
"Who? The police?" Several people laughed bitterly, since so many of them were police, or had seen policemen among the crowd.
"Here they are," said Miro.
A low hum could be heard, soft at first, barely audible in the roaring of the fire, but then louder and louder, until five fliers came into view, skimming the tops of the grass as they circled the mob, sometimes black in silhouette against the burning forest, sometimes shining with reflected fire when they were on the opposite side. At last they came to rest, all five of them sinking down onto the tall grass. Only then were the people able to distinguish one black shape from another, as six riders arose from each flying platform. What they had taken for shining machinery on the fliers was not machinery at all, but living creatures, not as large as men but not as small as pequeninos, either, with large heads and multi-faceted eyes. They made no threatening gesture, just formed lines before each flier; but no gestures were needed. The sight of them was enough, stirring memories of ancient nightmares and horror stories.
"Deus nos perdoe!" cried several. God forgive us. They were expecting to die.
"Go home," said Miro. "Stay inside the fence."
"What are they?" Nimbo's childish voice spoke for them all.
The answers came as whispers. "Devils." "Destroying angels." "Death."
And then the truth, from Grego's lips, for he knew what they had to be, though it was unthinkable. "Buggers," he said. "Buggers, here on Lusitania."
They did not run from the place. They walked, watching carefully, shying away from the strange new creatures whose existence none of them had guessed at, whose powers they could only imagine, or remember from ancient videos they had studied once in school. The buggers, who had once come close to destroying all of humanity, until they were destroyed in turn by Ender the Xenocide. The book called the Hive Queen had said they were really beautiful and did not need to die. But now, seeing them, black shining exoskeletons, a thousand lenses in their shimmering green eyes, it was not beauty but terror that they felt. And when they went home, it would be in the knowledge that these, and not just the dwarfish, backward piggies, waited for them just outside the fence. Had they been in prison before? Surely now they were trapped in one of the circles of hell.
At last only Miro, Grego, and Nimbo were left, of all the humans. Around them the piggies also watched in awe--but not in terror, for they had no insect nightmares lurking in their limbic node the way the humans did. Besides, the buggers had come to them as saviors and protectors. What weighed on them most was not curiosity about these strangers, but rather grief at what they had lost.
"Human begged the hive queen to help them, but she said she couldn't kill humans," said Miro. "Then Jane saw the fire from the satellites in the sky, and told Andrew Wiggin. He spoke to the hive queen and told her what to do. That she wouldn't have to kill anybody."
"They aren't going to kill us?" asked Nimbo.
Grego realized that Nimbo had spent these last few minutes expecting to die. Then it occurred to him that so, too, had he--that it was only now, with Miro's explanation, that he was sure that they hadn't come to punish him and Nimbo for what they set in motion tonight. Or rather, for what Grego had set in motion, ready for the single small nudge that Nimbo, in all innocence, had given.
Slowly Grego knelt and set the boy down. His arms barely responded to his will now, and the pain in his shoulder was unbearable. He began to cry. But it wasn't for the pain that he was weeping.
The buggers moved now, and moved quickly. Most stayed on the ground, jogging away to take up watch positions around the perimeter of the city. A few remounted the fliers, one to each machine, and took them back up into the air, flying over the burning forest, the flaming grass, spraying them with something that blanketed the fire and slowly put it out.
Bishop Peregrino stood on the low foundation wall that had been laid only that morning. The people of Lusitania, all of them, were gathered, sitting in the grass. He used a small amplifier, so that no one could miss his words. But he probably would not have needed it--all were silent, even the little children, who seemed to catch the somber mood.
Behind the Bishop was the forest, blackened but not utterly lifeless--a few of the trees were greening again. Before him lay the blanket-covered bodies, each beside its grave. The nearest of them was the corpse of Quim--Father Estevao. The other bodies were the humans who had died two nights before, under the trees and in the fire.
"These graves will be the floor of the chapel, so that whenever we enter it we tread upon the bodies of the dead. The bodies of those who died as they helped to bring murder and desolation to our brothers the pequeninos. Above all the body of Father Estevao, who died trying to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to a forest of heretics. He dies a martyr. These others died with murder in their hearts and blood on their hands.
