The beginning of the end:

  “Zrakoplov,” said Nafai.

  “I can’t believe you remembered the word,” said Issib.

  “A machine. The people don’t just . . . fly. They use a machine.”

  “Don’t push it,” said Issib. “You’ll just make yourself sick. You have a headache already, right?”

  “But I’m right, yes?”

  “My best guess is that it was hollow, like a house, and people got inside it to fly. Like a ship, only through the air. With wings. But we had them here, I think. You know the district of Black Fields?”

  “Of course, just west of the market.”

  “The old name of it was Skyport. The name lasted until twenty million years ago, more or less. Skyport. When they changed it, nobody remembered what it even meant.”

  “I can’t think about this anymore,” said Nafai.

  “Do you want to remember it, though?” asked Issib.

  “How can I forget it?”

  “You will, you know. If I don’t remind you. Every day. Do you want me to? It’ll feel like this every time. It’ll make you sick. Do you want to just forget this, or do you want me to keep reminding you?”

  “Who reminded you?”

  “I left myself notes,” said Issib. “In the library computers. Reminders. Why do you think it took me a year to get this far?”

  “I want to remember,” said Nafai.

  TOR BOOKS BY ORSON SCOTT CARD

  Empire

  The Folk of the Fringe

  Future on Fire (editor)

  Future on Ice (editor)

  Hart’s Hope

  Invasive Procedures (with Aaron Johnston)

  Lovelock (with Kathryn Kidd)

  Pastwatch: The Redemption of Christopher Columbus

  Saints

  Songmaster

  Treason

  The Worthing Saga

  Wyrms

  ENDER

  Ender’s Game

  Speaker for the Dead

  Xenocide

  Children of the Mind

  Ender’s Shadow

  Shadow of the Hegemon

  Shadow Puppets

  Shadow of the Giant

  First Meetings

  A War of Gifts

  Ender in Exile

  THE TALES OF ALVIN MAKER

  Seventh Son

  Alvin Journeyman

  Prentice Alvin

  Red Prophet

  Heartfire

  The Crystal City

  HOMECOMING

  The Memory of Earth

  The Call of Earth

  The Ships of Earth

  Earthfall

  Earthborn

  WOMEN OF GENESIS

  Sarah

  Rebekah

  Rachel & Leah

  SHORT FICTION

  Maps in a Mirror: The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card (hardcover)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 1: The Changed Man (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 2: Flux (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 3: Cruel Miracles (paperback)

  Maps in a Mirror, Volume 4: Monkey Sonatas (paperback)

  HOMECOMING: VOLUME 1

  THE MEMORY

  OF EARTH

  ORSON SCOTT CARD

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  THE MEMORY OF EARTH

  Copyright © 1992 by Orson Scott Card

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Keith Parkinson

  Maps by Ellisa Mitchell

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 1-4299-6605-X

  ISBN 978-1-4299-6605-4

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 91-36596

  20 19 18 17 16

  To a good reader, a good friend,

  and, most important, a good man,

  Jeff Alton

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe many debts in the creation of this work, some more obvious than others.

  My wife, Kristine, as always was my reader of first resort; with this book, however, she was joined in this labor by our oldest son, Geoffrey, who proved himself to be a reader of great insight and an editor with a good eye for detail. The world has too few good editors. I’m proud to have found another one.

  I must also thank the many friends working with me on other projects, who waited patiently until this book was finished, so that I could return to other labors too long delayed. And thanks, again and always, to my agent, Barbara Bova, who proves that it is possible to do good business with a good friend.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright

  Dedication

  MAPS

  NOTES ON PARENTAGE

  NICKNAMES

  PROLOGUE

  1. FATHER’S HOUSE

  2. MOTHER’S HOUSE

  3. FIRE

  4. MASKS

  5. WHEELS

  6. ENEMIES

  7. PRAYER

  8. WARNING

  9. LIES AND DISGUISES

  10. TENTS

  11. BROTHERS

  12. FORTUNE

  13. FLIGHT

  14. ISSIB’S CHAIR

  15. MURDER

  16. THE INDEX OF THE OVERSOUL

  GUIDE TO PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES

  NOTES ON

  PARENTAGE

  Because of the marriage customs in the city of Basilica, family relationships can be somewhat complex. Perhaps these parentage charts can help keep things straight. Women’s names are in italics.

  WETCHIK’S FAMILY

  RASA’S FAMILY

  RASA’S NIECES

  (her prize students, “adopted” into a permanent relationship of sponsorship)

  Shedemei Dol Eiadh Hushidh and Luet (sisters)

  HOSNI’S FAMILY

  NICKNAMES

  Most names have diminutive or familiar forms. For instance, Gaballufix’s near kin, close friends, current mate, and former mates could call him Gabya. Other nicknames are listed here. (Again, because these names are so unfamiliar, names of female characters are set off in italics.):

  Dhelembuvex—Dhel

  Dol—Dolya

  Drotik—Dorya

  Eiadh—Edhya

  Elemak—Elya

  Hosni—Hosya

  Hushidh—Shuya

  Issib—Issya

  Kokor—Koya

  Luet—Lutya

  Mebbekew—Meb

  Nafai—Nyef

  Obring—Briya

  Rasa—(no diminutive)

  Rashgallivak—Rash

  Roptat—Rop

  Sevet—Sevya

  Shedemei—Shedya

  Truzhnisha—Truzhya

  Vas—Vasya

  Volemak—Volya

  Wetchik—(no diminutive; Volemak’s family title)

  Zdorab—Zodya

  PROLOGUE

  The master computer of the planet Harmony was afraid. Not in a way that any human would recognize—no clammy palms, no dry mouth, no sick dread in the pit of the stomach. It was only a machine without moving parts, drawing power from the sun and data from its satellites, its memory, and the minds of half a billion human beings. Yet it could feel a kind of fear, a sense that things were slipping out of its control, that it no longer had the power to influence the world as it had before.

  What it felt was, in short, the fear of death. Not its own death, for the master computer had no ego and cared not at all whether it continued to exist or not. Instead it had a mission, programmed into it millions of years before, to be the guardian of humanity on this world. If the computer became so feeble that it could no longer fulfill its mission, then it knew without doubt—every projection it was capable of making confirmed it—that within a few thousand years humanity would once again be faced with the one enemy that could destroy it: humanity itself, armed with such weapons that a whole planet could be killed.

  Now is the time, the master computer decided. I must act now, while I still have some influence in the world, or a world will die again.

  Yet the master computer had no idea how to act. One of the symptoms of its decline was the very confusion that kept it from being able to make a decision. It couldn’t trust its own conclusions, even if it could reach one. It needed guidance. It needed to be clarified, reprogrammed, or perhaps even replaced with a machine more sophisticated, better able to deal with the new challenges evolving among the human race.

  The trouble was, there was only one source it
could trust to give valid advice, and that source was so far away that the Oversoul would have to go there to get it. Once the Oversoul had been capable of movement, but that was forty million years ago, and even inside a stasis field there had been decay. The Oversoul could not undertake its quest alone. It needed human help.

  For two weeks the master computer searched its vast database, evaluating the potential usefulness of every human being currently alive. Most were too stupid or unreceptive; of those who could still receive direct communications from the master computer, only a few were in a position where they could do what was needed.

  Thus it was that the master computer turned its attention to a handful of human beings in the ancient city Basilica. In the dark of night, as one of the master computer’s most reliable satellites passed overhead, it began its work, sending a steady stream of information and instructions in a tightbeam transmission to those who might be useful in the effort to save a world named Harmony.

  ONE

  FATHER’S HOUSE

  Nafai woke before dawn on his mat in his father’s house. He wasn’t allowed to sleep in his mother’s house anymore, being fourteen years old. No self-respecting woman of Basilica would put her daughter in Rasa’s household if a fourteen-year-old boy were in residence—especially since Nafai had started a growth spurt at the age of twelve that showed no signs of stopping even though he was already near two meters in height.

  Only yesterday he had overheard his mother talking with her friend Dhelembuvex. “People are beginning to speculate on when you’re going to find an auntie for him,” said Dhel.

  “He’s still just a boy,” said Mother.

  Dhel hooted with laughter. “Rasa, my dear, are you so afraid of growing old that you can’t admit your little baby is a man?”

  “It’s not fear of age,” said Mother. “There’s time enough for aunties and mates and all that business when he starts thinking about it himself.”

  “Oh, he’s thinking about it already,” said Dhel. “He’s just not talking to you about it.”

  It was true enough; it had made Nafai blush when he heard her say it, and it made him blush again when he remembered it. How did Dhel know, just to look at him for a moment that day, that his thoughts were so often on “that business”? But no, Dhel didn’t know it because of anything she had seen in Nafai. She knew it because she knew men. I’m just going through an age, thought Nafai. All boys start thinking these thoughts at about this age. Anyone can point at a male who’s near two meters in height but still beardless and say, “That boy is thinking about sex right now,” and most of the time they’ll be right.

  But I’m not like all the others, thought Nafai. I hear Mebbekew and his friends talking, and it makes me sick. I don’t like thinking of women that crudely, sizing them up like mares to see what they’re likely to be useful for. A pack animal or can I ride her? Is she a walker or can we gallop? Do I keep her in the stable or bring her out to show my friends?

  That wasn’t the way Nafai thought about women at all. Maybe because he was still in school, still talking to women every day about intellectual subjects. I’m not in love with Eiadh because she’s the most beautiful young woman in Basilica and therefore quite probably in the entire world. I’m in love with her because we can talk together, because of the way she thinks, the sound of her voice, the way she cocks her head to listen to an idea she doesn’t agree with, the way she rests her hand on mine when she’s trying to persuade me.

  Nafai suddenly realized that the sky was starting to grow light outside his window, and here he was lying in bed dreaming of Eiadh, when if he had any brains at all he’d get up and get into the city and see her in person.

  No sooner thought of than done. He sat up, knelt beside his mat, slapped his bare thighs and chest and offered the pain to the Oversoul, then rolled up his bed and put it in his box in the corner. I don’t really need a bed, thought Nafai. If I were a real man I could sleep on the floor and not mind it. That’s how I’ll become as hard and lean as Father. As Elemak. I won’t use the bed tonight.

  He walked out into the courtyard to the water tank. He dipped his hands into the small sink, moistened the soap, and rubbed it all over. The air was cool and the water was cooler, but he pretended not to notice until he was lathered up. He knew that this chill was nothing compared to what would happen in a moment. He stood under the shower and reached up for the cord—and then hesitated, bracing himself for the misery to come.

  “Oh, just pull it,” said Issib.

  Nafai looked over toward Issib’s room. He was floating in the air just in front of the doorway. “Easy for you to say,” Nafai answered him.

  Issib, being a cripple, couldn’t use the shower; his floats weren’t supposed to get wet. So one of the servants took his floats off and bathed him every night. “You’re such a baby about cold water,” said Issib.

  “Remind me to put ice down your neck at supper.”

  “As long as you woke me up with all your shivering and chattering out here—”

  “I didn’t make a sound,” said Nafai.

  “I decided to go with you into the city today.”

  “Fine, fine. Fine as wine,” said Nafai.

  “Are you planning to let the soap dry? It gives your skin a charming sort of whiteness, but after a few hours it might begin to itch.”

  Nafai pulled the cord.

  Immediately ice-cold water cascaded out of the tank over his head. He gasped—it always hit with a shock—and then bent and turned and twisted and splashed water into every nook and crevice of his body to rinse the soap off. He had only thirty seconds to get clean before the shower stopped, and if he didn’t finish in that time he either had to live with the unrinsed soap for the rest of the day—and it did itch, like a thousand fleabites—or wait a couple of minutes, freezing his butt off, for the little shower tank to refill from the big water tank. Neither consequence was any fun, so he had long since learned the routine so well that he was always clean before the water stopped.

  “I love watching that little dance you do,” said Issib.

  “Dance?”

  “Bend to the left, rinse the armpit, bend the other way, rinse the left armpit, bend over and spread your cheeks to rinse your butt, bend over backward—”

  “All right, I get it,” said Nafai.

  “I’m serious, I think it’s a wonderful little routine. You ought to show it to the manager of the Open Theatre. Or even the Orchestra. You could be a star.”

  “A fourteen-year-old dancing naked under a stream of water,” said Nafai. “I think they’d show that in a different kind of theatre.”

  “But still in Dolltown! You’d still be a hit in Dolltown!”

  By now Nafai had toweled himself dry—except his hair, which was still freezing cold. He wanted to run for his room the way he used to do when he was little, jabbering nonsense words—“ooga-booga looga-booga” had been a favorite—while he pulled on his clothes and rubbed himself to get warm. But he was a man now, and it was only autumn, not winter yet, so he forced himself to walk casually toward his room. Which is why he was still in the courtyard, stark naked and cold as ice, when Elemak strode through the gate.

  “A hundred and twenty-eight days,” he bellowed.

  “Elemak!” cried Issib. “You’re back!”

  “No thanks to the hill robbers,” said Elemak. He walked straight to the shower, pulling off his clothes as he went. “They hit us only two days ago, way too close to Basilica. I think we killed one this time.”

  “Don’t you know whether you did or not?” asked Nafai.

  “I used the pulse, of course.”

  Of course? thought Nafai. To use a hunting weapon against a person?

  “I saw him drop, but I wasn’t about to go back and check, so maybe he just tripped and fell down at the exact moment that I fired.”