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Speedreed

ENDER'S

GAME

by

Orson

Scott

Card

Chapter

1

--

Third

"I've

watched

through

his

eyes,

I've

listened

through

his

ears,

and

tell

you

he's

the

one.

Or

at

least

as

close

as

we're

going

to

get."

"That's

what

you

said

about

the

brother."

"The

brother

tested

out

impossible.

For

other

reasons.

Nothing

to

do

with

his

ability."

"Same

with

the

sister.

And

there

are

doubts

about

him.

He's

too

malleable.

Too

willing

to

submerge

himself

in

someone

else's

will."

"Not

if

the

other

person

is

his

enemy."

"So

what

do

we

do?

Surround

him

with

enemies

all

the

time?"

"If

we

have

to."

"I

thought

you

said

you

liked

this

kid."

"If

the

buggers

get

him,

they'll

make

me

look

like

his

favorite

uncle."

"All

right.

We're

saving

the

world,

after

all.

Take

him."

***

The

monitor

lady

smiled

very

nicely

and

tousled

his

hair

and

said,

"Andrew,

I

suppose

by

now

you're

just

absolutely

sick

of

having

that

horrid

monitor.

Well,

I

have

good

news

for

you.

That

monitor

is

going

to

come

out

today.

We're

going

to

just

take

it

right

out,

and

it

won't

hurt

a

bit."

Ender

nodded.

It

was

a

lie,

of

course,

that

it

wouldn't

hurt

a

bit.

But

since

adults

always

said

it

when

it

was

going

to

hurt,

he

could

count

on

that

statement

as

an

accurate

prediction

of

the

future.

Sometimes

lies

were

more

dependable

than

the

truth.

"So

if

you'll

just

come

over

here,

Andrew,

just

sit

right

up

here

on

the

examining

table.

The

doctor

will

be

in

to

see

you

in

a

moment."

The

monitor

gone.

Ender

tried

to

imagine

the

little

device

missing

from

the

back

of

his

neck.

I'll

roll

over

on

my

back

in

bed

and

it

won't

be

pressing

there.

I

won't

feel

it

tingling

and

taking

up

the

heat

when

I

shower.

And

Peter

won't

hate

me

anymore.

I'll

come

home

and

show

him

that

the

monitor's

gone,

and

he'll

see

that

I

didn't

make

it,

either.

That

I'll

just

be

a

normal

kid

now,

like

him.

That

won't

be

so

bad

then.

He'll

forgive

me

that

I

had

my

monitor

a

whole

year

longer

than

he

had

his.

We'll

be--

not

friends,

probably.

No,

Peter

was

too

dangerous.

Peter

got

so

angry.

Brothers,

though.

Not

enemies,

not

friends,

but

brothers--

able

to

live

in

the

same

house.

He

won't

hate

me,

he'll

just

leave

me

alone.

And

when

he

wants

to

play

buggers

and

astronauts,

maybe

I

won't

have

to

play,

maybe

I

can

just

go

read

a

book.

But

Ender

knew,

even

as

he

thought

it,

that

Peter

wouldn't

leave

him

alone.

There

was

something

in

Peter's

eyes,

when

he

was

in

his

mad

mood,

and

whenever

Ender

saw

that

look,

that

glint,

he

knew

that

the

one

thing

Peter

would

not

do

was

leave

him

alone.

I'm

practicing

piano,

Ender.

Come

turn

the

pages

for

me.

Oh,

is

the

monitor

boy

too

busy

to

help

his

brother?

Is

he

too

smart?

Got

to

go

kill

some

buggers,

astronaut?

No,

no,

I

don't

want

your

help.

I

can

do

it

on

my

own,

you

little

bastard,

you

little

Third.

"This

won't

take

long,

Andrew,"

said

the

doctor.

Ender

nodded.

"It's

designed

to

be

removed.

Without

infection,

without

damage.

But

there'll

be

some

tickling,

and

some

people

say

they

have

a

feeling

of

something

missing.

You'll

keep

looking

around

for

something.

Something

you

were

looking

for,

but

you

can't

find

it,

and

you

can't

remember

what

it

was.

So

I'll

tell

you.

It's

the

monitor

you're

looking

for,

and

it

isn't

there.

In

a

few

days

that

feeling

will

pass."

The

doctor

was

twisting

something

at

the

back

of

Ender's

head.

Suddenly

a

pain

stabbed

through

him

like

a

needle

from

his

neck

to

his

groin.

Ender

felt

his

back

spasm,

and

his

body

arched

violently

backward;

hi

head

struck

the

bed.

He

could

feel

his

legs

thrashing,

and

his

hands

were

clenching

each

other,

wringing

each

other

so

tightly

that

they

ached.

"Deedee!"

shouted

the

doctor.

"I

need

you!"

The

nurse

ran

in,

gasped.

"Got

to

relax

these

muscles.

Get

it

to

me,

now!

What

are

you

waiting

for!"

Something

changed

hands;

Ender

could

not

see.

He

lurched

to

one

side

and

fell

off

the

examining

table.

"Catch

him!"

cried

the

nurse.

"Just

hold

him

steady."

"You

hold

him,

doctor,

he's

too

strong

for

me."

"Not

the

whole

thing!

You'll

stop

his

heart."

Ender

felt

a

needle

enter

his

back

just

above

the

neck

of

his

shirt.

It

burned,

but

wherever

in

him

the

fire

spread,

his

muscles

gradually

unclenched.

Now

he

could

cry

for

the

fear

and

pain

of

it.

"Are

you

all

right,

Andrew?"

the

nurse

asked.

Andrew

could

not

remember

how

to

speak.

They

lifted

him

onto

the

table.

They

checked

his

pulse,

did

other

things;

he

did

not

understand

it

all.

The

doctor

was

trembling;

his

voice

shook

as

he

spoke.

"They

leave

these

things

in

the

kids

for

three

years,

what

do

they

expect?

We

could

have

switched

him

off,

do

you

realize

that?

We

could

have

unplugged

his

brain

for

all

time."

"When

does

the

drug

wear

off'?"

asked

the

nurse.

"Keep

him

here

for

at

least

an

hour.

Watch

him.

If

he

doesn't

start

talking

in

fifteen

minutes,

call

me.

Could

have

unplugged

him

forever.

I

don't

have

the

brains

of

a

bugger."

***

He

got

back

to

Miss

Pumphrey's

class

only

fifteen

minutes

before

the

closing

bell.

He

was

still

a

little

unsteady

on

his

feet.

"Are

you

all

right,

Andrew?"

asked

Miss

Pumphrey.

He

nodded.

"Were

you

ill?"

He

shook

his

head.

"You

don't

look

well."

"I'm

OK."

"You'd

better

sit

down,

Andrew."

He

started

toward

his

seat,

but

stopped.

Now

what

was

I

looking

for?

I

can't

think

what

I

was

looking

for.

"Your

seat

is

over

there,"

said

Miss

Pumphrey.

He

sat

down,

but

it

was

something

else

he

needed,

something

he

had

lost.

I'll

find

it

later.

"Your

monitor,"

whispered

the

girl

behind

him.

Andrew

shrugged.

"His

monitor,"

she

whispered

to

the

others.

Andrew

reached

up

and

felt

his

neck.

There

was

a

bandaid.

It

was

gone.

He

was

just

like

everybody

else

now.

"Washed

out,

Andy?"

asked

a

boy

who

sat

across

the

aisle

and

behind

him.

Couldn't

think

of

his

name.

Peter.

No,

that

was

someone

else.

"Quiet,

Mr.

Stilson,"

said

Miss

Pumphrey.

Stilson

smirked.

Miss

Pumphrey

talked

about

multiplication.

Ender

doodled

on

his

desk,

drawing

contour

maps

of

mountainous

islands

and

then

telling

his

desk

to

display

them

in

three

dimensions

from

every

angle.

The

teacher

would

know,

of

course,

that

he

wasn't

paying

attention,

but

she

wouldn't

bother

him.

He

always

knew

the

answer,

even

when

she

thought

he

wasn't

paying

attention.

In

the

corner

of

his

desk

a

word

appeared

and

began

marching

around

the

perimeter

of

the

desk.

It

was

upside

down

and

backward

at

first,

but

Ender

knew

what

it

said

long

before

it

reached

the

bottom

of

the

desk

and

turned

right

side

up.

THIRD

Ender

smiled.

He

was

the

one

who

had

figured

out

how

to

send

messages

and

make

them

march--

even

as

his

secret

enemy

called

him

names,

the

method

of

delivery

praised

him.

It

was

not

his

fault

he

was

a

Third.

It

was

the

government's

idea,

they

were

the

ones

who

authorized

it--

how

else

could

a

Third

like

Ender

have

got

into

school?

And

now

the

monitor

was

gone.

The

experiment

entitled

Andrew

Wiggin

hadn't

worked

out

alter

all.

If

they

could,

he

was

sure

they

would

like

to

rescind

the

waivers

that

had

allowed

him

to

be

born

at

all.

Didn't

work,

so

erase

the

experiment.

The

bell

rang.

Everyone

signed

off

their

desks

or

hurriedly

typed

in

reminders

to

themselves.

Some

were

dumping

lessons

or

data

into

their

computers

at

home.

A

few

gathered

at

the

printers

while

something

they

wanted

to

show

was

printed

out.

Ender

spread

his

hands

over

the

child-size

keyboard

near

the

edge

of

the

desk

and

wondered

what

it

would

feel

like

to

have

hands

as

large

as

a

grown-up's.

They

must

feel

so

big

and

awkward,

thick

stubby

fingers

and

beefy

palms.

Of

course,

they

had

bigger

keyboards--

but

how

could

their

thick

fingers

draw

a

fine

line,

the

way

Ender

could,

a

thin

line

so

precise

that

he

could

make

it

spiral

seventy-nine

times

from

the

center

to

the

edge

of

the

desk

without

the

lines

ever

touching

or

overlapping.

It

gave

him

something

to

do

while

the

teacher

droned

on

about

arithmetic.

Arithmetic!

Valentine

had

taught

him

arithmetic

when

he

was

three.

"Are

you

all

right.

Andrew?"

"Yes,

ma'am."

"You'll

miss

the

bus."

Ender

nodded

and

got

up.

The

other

kids

were

gone.

They

would

be

waiting,

though,

the

bad

ones.

His

monitor

wasn't

perched

on

his

neck,

hearing

what

heard

and

seeing

what

he

saw.

They

could

say

what

they

liked.

They

might

even

hit

him

now--

no

one

could

see

anymore,

and

so

no

one

would

come

to

Ender's

rescue.

There

were

advantages

to

the

monitor,

and

he

would

miss

them.

It

was

Stilson,

of

course.

He

wasn't

bigger

than

most

other

kids,

but

he

was

bigger

than

Ender.

And

he

had

some

others

with

him.

He

always

did.

"Hey,

Third."

Don't

answer.

Nothing

to

say.

"Hey,

Third,

we're

talkin

to

you,

Third,

hey

bugger-lover,

we're

talkin

to

you."

Can't

think

of

anything

to

answer.

Anything

I

say

will

make

it

worse.

So

will

saying

nothing.

"Hey,

Third,

hey,

turd,

you

flunked

out,

huh?

Thought

you

were

better

than

us,

but

you

lost

your

little

birdie,

Thirdie,

got

a

bandaid

on

your

neck."

"Are

you

going

to

let

me

through?"

Ender

asked.

"Are

we

going

to

let

him

through?

Should

we

let

him

through?"

They

all

laughed.

"Sure

we'll

let

you

through.

First

we'll

let

your

arm

through,

then

your

butt

through,

then

maybe

a

piece

of

your

knee."

The

others

chimed

in

now.

"Lost

your

birdie,

Thirdie.

Lost

your

birdie,

Thirdie."

Stilson

began

pushing

him

with

one

hand,

someone

behind

him

then

pushed

him

toward

Stilson.

"See-saw,

marjorie

daw,"

somebody

said.

"Tennis!"

"Ping-pong!"

This

would

not

have

a

happy

ending.

So

Ender

decided

that

he'd

rather

not

be

the

unhappiest

at

the

end.

The

next

time

Stilson's

arm

came

out

to

push

him,

Ender

grabbed

at

it.

He

missed.

"Oh,

gonna

fight

me,

huh?

Gonna

fight

me,

Thirdie?"

The

people

behind

Ender

grabbed

at

him,

to

hold

him.

Ender

did

not

feel

like

laughing,

but

he

laughed.

"You

mean

it

takes

this

many

of

you

to

fight

one

Third?"

"We're

people,

not

Thirds,

turd

face.

You're

about

as

strong

as

a

fart!"

But

they

let

go

of

him.

And

as

soon

as

they

did,

Ender

kicked

out

high

and

hard,

catching

Stilson

square

in

the

breastbone.

He

dropped.

It

took

Ender

by

surprise

he

hadn't

thought

to

put

Stilson

on

the

ground

with

one

kick.

It

didn't

occur

to

him

that

Stilson

didn't

take

a

fight

like

this

seriously,

that

he

wasn't

prepared

for

a

truly

desperate

blow.

For

a

moment,

the

others

backed

away

and

Stilson

lay

motionless.

They

were

all

wondering

if

he

was

dead.

Ender,

however,

was

trying

to

figure

out

a

way

to

forestall

vengeance.

To

keep

them

from

taking

him

in

a

pack

tomorrow.

I

have

to

win

this

now,

and

for

all

time,

or

I'll

fight

it

every

day

and

it

will

get

worse

and

worse.

Ender

knew

the

unspoken

rules

of

manly

warfare,

even

though

he

was

only

six.

It

was

forbidden

to

strike

the

opponent

who

lay

helpless

on

the

ground;

only

an

animal

would

do

that.

So

Ender

walked

to

Stilson's

supine

body

and

kicked

him

again,

viciously,

in

the

ribs.

Stilson

groaned

and

rolled

away

from

him.

Ender

walked

around

him

and

kicked

him

again,

in

the

crotch.

Stilson

could

not

make

a

sound;

he

only

doubled

up

and

tears

streamed

out

of

his

eyes.

Then

Ender

looked

at

the

others

coldly.

"You

might

be

having

some

idea

of

ganging

up

on

me.

You

could

probably

beat

me

up

pretty

bad.

But

just

remember

what

I

do

to

people

who

try

to

hurt

me.

From

then

on

you'd

be

wondering

when

I'd

get

you,

and

how

bad

it

would

be."

He

kicked

Stilson

in

the

face.

Blood

from

his

nose

spattered

the

ground

nearby.

"It

wouldn't

be

this

bad,"

Ender

said.

"It

would

be

worse."

He

turned

and

walked

away.

Nobody

followed

him,

He

turned

a

corner

into

the

corridor

leading

to

the

bus

stop.

He

could

hear

the

boys

behind

him

saying,

"Geez.

Look

at

him.

He's

wasted."

Ender

leaned

his

head

against

the

wall

of

the

corridor

and

cried

until

the

bus

came.

I

am

just

like

Peter.

Take

my

monitor

away,

and

I

am

just

like

Peter.

Chapter

2

--

Peter

"All

right,

it's

off.

How's

he

doing?"

"You

live

inside

somebody's

body

for

a

few

years,

you

get

used

to

it.

I

look

at

his

face

now,

I

can't

tell

what's

going

on.

I'm

not

used

to

seeing

his

facial

expressions.

I'm

used

to

feeling

them."

"Come

on,

we're

not

talking

about

psychoanalysis

here.

We're

soldiers,

not

witch

doctors.

You

just

saw

him

beat

the

guts

out

of

the

leader

of

a

gang."

"He

was

thorough.

He

didn't

just

beat

him,

he

beat

him

deep.

Like

Mazer

Rackham

at

the--"

"Spare

me.

So

in

the

judgment

of

the

committee,

he

passes.

"Mostly.

Let's

see

what

he

does

with

his

brother,

now

that

the

monitor's

off."

"His

brother.

Aren't

you

afraid

of

what

his

brother

will

do

to

him?"

"You

were

the

one

who

told

me

that

this

wasn't

a

no-risk

business."

"I

went

back

through

some

of

the

tapes.

I

can't

help

it.

I

like

the

kid.

I

think

were

going

to

screw

him

up."

"Of

course

we

are.

It's

our

job.

We're

the

wicked

witch.

We

promise

gingerbread,

but

we

eat

the

little

bastards

alive."

***

"I'm

sorry,

Ender,"

Valentine

whispered.

She

was

looking

at

the

bandaid

on

his

neck.

Ender

touched

the

wall

and

the

door

closed

behind

him.

"I

don't

care.

I'm

glad

it's

gone."

"What's

gone?"

Peter

walked

into

the

parlor,

chewing

on

a

mouthful

of

bread

and

peanut

butter.

Ender

did

not

see

Peter

as

the

beautiful

ten-year-old

boy

that

grown-ups

saw,

with

dark,

thick,

tousled

hair

and

a

face

that

could

have

belonged

to

Alexander

the

Great.

Ender

looked

at

Peter

only

to

detect

anger

or

boredom,

the

dangerous

moods

that

almost

always

led

to

pain.

Now

as

Peter's

eyes

discovered

the

bandaid

on

his

neck,

the

telltale

flicker

of

anger

appeared.

Valentine

saw

it

too.

"Now

he's

like

us,"

she

said,

trying

to

soothe

him

before

he

had

time

to

strike.

But

Peter

would

not

be

soothed.

"Like

us?

He

keeps

the

little

sucker

till

he's

six

years

old.

When

did

you

lose

yours?

You

were

three.

I

lost

mine

before

I

was

five.

He

almost

made

it,

little

bastard,

little

bugger."

This

is

all

right,

Ender

thought.

Talk

and

talk,

Peter.

Talk

is

fine.

"Well,

now

your

guardian

angels

aren't

watching

over

you,"

Peter

said.

"Now

they

aren't

checking

to

see

if

you

feel

pain,

listening

to

hear

what

I'm

saying,

seeing

what

I'm

doing

to

you.

How

about

that?

How

about

it?"

Ender

shrugged.

Suddenly

Peter

smiled

and

clapped

his

hands

together

in

a

mockery

of

good

cheer.

"Let's

play

buggers

and

astronauts,"

he

said.

"Where's

Mom?"

asked

Valentine.

"Out,"

said

Peter.

"I'm

in

charge."

"I

think

I'll

call

Daddy."

"Call

away,"

said

Peter.

"You

know

he's

never

in."

"I'll

play,"

Ender

said.

"You

be

the

bugger,"

said

Peter.

"Let

him

be

the

astronaut

for

once,"

Valentine

said.

"Keep

your

fat

face

out

of

it,

fart

mouth,"

said

Peter.

"Come

on

upstairs

and

choose

your

weapons."

It

would

not

be

a

good

game,

Ender

knew

it

was

not

a

question

of

winning.

When

kids

played

in

the

corridors,

whole

troops

of

them,

the

buggers

never

won,

and

sometimes

the

games

got

mean.

But

here

in

their

flat,

the

game

would

start

mean,

and

the

bugger

couldn't

just

go

empty

and

quit

the

way

buggers

did

in

the

real

wars.

The

bugger

was

in

it

until

the

astronaut

decided

it

was

over.

Peter

opened

his

bottom

drawer

and

took

out

the

bugger

mask.

Mother

had

got

upset

at

him

when

Peter

bought

it,

but

Dad

pointed

out

that

the

war

wouldn't

go

away

just

because

you

hid

bugger

masks

and

wouldn't

let

your

kids

play

with

make-believe

laser

guns.

The

better

to

play

the

war

games,

and

have

a

better

chance

of

surviving

when

the

buggers

came

again.

If

I

survive

the

games,

thought

Ender.

He

put

on

the

mask.

It

closed

him

in

like

a

hand

pressed

tight

against

his

face.

But

this

isn't

how

it

feels

to

he

a

bugger,

thought

Ender.

They

don't

wear

this

face

like

a

mask,

it

is

their

face.

On

their

home

worlds,

do

the

buggers

put

on

human

masks,

and

play?

And

what

do

they

call

its?

Slimies,

because

we're

so

soft

and

oily

compared

to

them?

"Watch

out,

Slimy,"

Ender

said.

He

could

barely

see

Peter

through

the

eyeholes.

Peter

smiled

at

him.

"Slimy,

huh?

Well,

bugger-wugger,

let's

see

how

you

break

that

face

of

yours."

Ender

couldn't

see

it

coming,

except

a

slight

shift

of

Peter's

weight;

the

mask

cut

our

his

peripheral

vision.

Suddenly

there

was

the

pain

and

pressure

of

a

blow

to

the

side

of

his

head;

he

lost

balance,

fell

that

way.

"Don't

see

too

well,

do

you,

bugger?"

said

Peter.

Ender

began

to

take

off

the

mask.

Peter

put

his

toe

against

Ender's

groin.

"Don't

take

off

the

mask,"

Peter

said.

Ender

pulled

the

mask

down

into

place,

took

his

hands

away.

Peter

pressed

with

his

foot.

Pain

shot

through

Ender;

he

doubled

up.

"Lie

flat,

bugger.

We're

gonna

vivisect

you,

bugger.

At

long

last

we've

got

one

of

you

alive,

and

we're

going

to

see

how

you

work."

"Peter,

stop

it,"

Ender

said.

"Peter,

stop

it.

Very

good.

So

you

buggers

can

guess

our

names.

You

can

make

yourselves

sound

like

pathetic,

cute

little

children

so

we'll

love

you

and

be

nice

to

you.

But

it

doesn't

work.

I

can

see

you

for

what

you

really

are.

They

meant

you

to

be

human,

little

Third,

but

you're

really

a

bugger,

and

now

it

shows."

He

lifted

his

toot,

took

a

step,

and

then

knelt

on

Ender,

his

knee

pressing

into

Ender's

belly

just

below

the

breastbone.

He

put

more

and

more

of

his

weight

on

Ender.

It

became

hard

to

breathe.

"I

could

kill

you

like

this,"

Peter

whispered.

"Just

press

and

press

until

you're

dead.

And

I

could

say

that

I

didn't

know

it

would

hurt

you,

that

we

were

just

playing,

and

they'd

believe

me,

and

everything

would

be

fine.

And

you'd

be

dead.

Everything

would

be

fine."

Ender

could

not

speak;

the

breath

was

being

forced

from

his

lungs.

Peter

might

mean

it.

Probably

didn't

mean

it,

but

then

he

might.

"I

do

mean

it,"

Peter

said.

"Whatever

you

think.

I

mean

it.

They

only

authorized

you

because

I

was

so

promising.

But

I

didn't

pan

out.

You

did

better.

They

think

you're

better.

But

I

don't

want

a

better

little

brother,

Ender.

I

don't

want

a

Third."

"I'll

tell,"

Valentine

said.

"No

one

would

believe

you."

"They'd

believe

me."

"Then

you're

dead,

too,

sweet

little

sister."

"Oh,

yes,"

said

Valentine.

"They'll

believe

that.

'I

didn't

know

it

would

kill

Andrew.

And

when

he

was

dead,

I

didn't

know

it

would

kill

Valentine

too.'"

The

pressure

let

up

a

little.

"So.

Not

today.

But

someday

you

two

won't

be

together.

And

there'll

be

an

accident."

"You're

all

talk,"

Valentine

said.

"You

don't

mean

any

of

it."

"I

don't?"

"And

do

you

know

why

you

don't

mean

it?"

Valentine

asked.

"Because

you

want

to

be

in

government

someday.

You

want

to

be

elected.

And

they

won't

elect

you

if

your

opponents

can

dig

up

the

fact

that

your

brother

and

sister

both

died

in

suspicious

accidents

when

they

were

little.

Especially

because

of

the

letter

I've

put

in

my

secret

file,

which

will

be

opened

in

the

event

of

my

death."

"Don't

give

me

that

kind

of

crap,"

Peter

said.

"It

says,

I

didn't

die

a

natural

death.

Peter

killed

me,

and

if

he

hasn't

already

killed

Andrew,

he

will

soon.

Not

enough

to

convict

you,

but

enough

to

keep

you

from

ever

getting

elected."

"You're

his

monitor

now,"

said

Peter.

"You

better

watch

him,

day

and

night.

You

better

be

there."

"Ender

and

I

aren't

stupid.

We

scored

as

well

as

you

did

on

everything.

Better

on

some

things.

We're

all

such

wonderfully

bright

children.

You're

not

the

smartest,

Peter,

just

the

biggest."

"Oh,

I

know.

But

there'll

come

a

day

when

you

aren't

there

with

him,

when

you

forget.

And

suddenly

you'll

remember,

and

you'll

rush

to

him,

and

there

he'll

be

perfectly

all

right.

And

the

next

time

you

won't

worry

so

much,

and

you

won't

come

so

fast.

And

every

time,

he'll

be

all

right.

And

you'll

think

that

I

forgot.

Even

though

you'll

remember

that

I

said

this,

you'll

think

that

I

forgot.

And

years

will

pass.

And

then

there'll

be

a

terrible

accident,

and

I'll

find

his

body,

and

I'll

cry

and

cry

over

him,

and

you'll

remember

this

conversation,

Vally,

but

you'll

be

ashamed

of

yourself

for

remembering,

because

you'll

know

that

I

changed,

that

it

really

was

an

accident,

that

it's

cruel

of

you

even

to

remember

what

I

said

in

a

childhood

quarrel.

Except

that

it'll

be

true.

I'm

gonna

save

this

up,

and

he's

gonna

die,

and

you

won't

do

a

thing,

not

a

thing.

But

you

go

on

believing

that

I'm

just

the

biggest."

"The

biggest

asshole,"

Valentine

said.

Peter

leaped

to

his

feet

and

started

for

her.

She

shied

away.

Ender

pried

off

his

mask.

Peter

flopped

back

on

his

bed

and

started

to

laugh.

Loud,

but

with

real

mirth,

tears

coming

to

his

eyes.

"Oh,

you

guys

are

just

super,

just

the

biggest

suckers

on

the

planet

earth."

"Now

he's

going

to

tell

us

it

was

all

a

joke,"

Valentine

said.

"Not

a

joke,

a

game.

I

can

make

you

guys

believe

anything.

I

can

make

you

dance

around

like

puppets."

In

a

phony

monster

yoice

he

said,

"I'm

going

to

kill

you

and

chop

you

into

little

pieces

and

put

you

into

the

garbage

hole."

He

laughed

again.

"Biggest

suckers

in

the

solar

system."

Ender

stood

there

watching

him

laugh

and

thought

of

Stilson,

thought

of

how

it

felt

to

crunch

into

his

body.

This

is

who

needed

it.

This

is

who

should

have

got

it.

As

if

she

could

read

his

mind,

Valentine

whispered,

"No,

Ender."

Peter

suddenly

rolled

to

the

side,

flipped

off

the

bed,

and

got

in

position

for

a

fight.

"Oh,

yes,

Ender,"

he

said.

"Any

time,

Ender."

Ender

lifted

his

right

leg

and

took

off

the

shoe.

He

held

it

up.

"See

there,

on

the

toe?

That's

blood,

Peter."

"Ooh.

Ooh,

I'm

gonna

die,

I'm

gonna

die.

Ender

killed

a

capper-tiller

and

now

he's

gonna

kill

me."

There

was

no

getting

to

him.

Peter

was

a

murderer

at

heart,

and

nobody

knew

it

but

Valentine

and

Ender.

Mother

came

home

and

commiserated

with

Ender

about

the

monitor.

Father

came

home

and

kept

saying

it

was

such

a

wonderful

surprise,

they

had

such

fantastic

children

that

the

government

told

them

to

have

three

and

now

the

government

didn't

want

to

take

any

of

them

after

all,

so

here

they

were

with

three,

they

still

had

a

Third...

until

Ender

wanted

to

scream

at

him,

I

know

I'm

a

Third,

I

know

it,

if

you

want

I'll

go

away

so

you

don't

have

to

be

embarrassed

in

front

of

everybody,

I'm

sorry

I

lost

the

monitor

and

now

you

have

three

kids

and

no

obvious

explanation,

so

inconvenient

for

you,

I'm

sorry

sorry

sorry.

He

lay

in

bed

staring

upward

into

the

darkness...

On

the

bunk

above

him,

he

could

hear

Peter

turning

and

tossing

restlessly.

Then

Peter

slid

off

the

bunk

and

walked

out

of

the

room.

Ender

heard

the

hushing

sound

of

the

toilet

clearing;

then

Peter

stood

silhouetted

in

the

doorway.

He

thinks

I'm

asleep.

He's

going

to

kill

me.

Peter

walked

to

the

bed,

and

sure

enough,

he

did

not

lift

himself

up

to

his

bed.

Instead

he

came

and

stood

by

Ender's

head.

But

he

did

not

reach

for

a

pillow

to

smother

Ender.

He

did

not

have

a

weapon.

He

whispered,

"Ender,

I'm

sorry,

I'm

sorry,

I

know

how

it

feels.

I'm

sorry,

I'm

your

brother.

I

love

you."

A

long

time

later,

Peter's

even

breathing

said

that

he

was

asleep.

Ender

peeled

the

bandaid

from

his

neck.

And

for

the

second

time

that

day

he

cried.

Chapter

3

--

Graff

"The

sister

is

our

weak

link.

He

really

loves

her."

"I

know.

She

can

undo

it

all,

from

the

start.

He

won't

wont

to

leave

her."

"So,

what

are

you

going

to

do?"

"Persuade

him

that

he

wants

to

come

with

us

more

than

he

wants

to

stay

with

her."

"How

will

you

do

that?"

"I'll

lie

to

him."

"And

if

that

doesn't

work?"

"Then

I'll

tell

the

truth.

We're

allowed

to

do

that

in

emergencies.

We

can't

plan

for

everything,

you

know."

***

Ender

wasn't

very

hungry

during

breakfast.

He

kept

wondering

what

it

would

be

like

at

school.

Facing

Stilson

after

yesterday's

fight.

What

Stilson's

friends

would

do.

Probably

nothing,

but

he

couldn't

be

sure.

He

didn't

want

to

go.

"You're

not

eating,

Andrew,"

his

mother

said.

Peter

came

into

the

room.

"Morning.

Ender.

Thanks

for

leaving

your

slimy

washcloth

in

the

middle

of

the

shower."

"Just

for

you,"

Ender

murmured.

"Andrew,

you

have

to

eat."

Ender

held

out

his

wrists,

a

gesture

that

said,

So

feed

it

to

me

through

a

needle.

"Very

funny."

Mother

said.

"I

try

to

be

concerned,

but

it

makes

no

difference

to

my

genius

children."

"It

was

all

your

genes

that

made

us,

Mom."

said

Peter.

"We

sure

didn't

get

any

from

Dad."

"I

heard

that,"

Father

said,

not

looking

up

from

the

news

that

was

being

displayed

on

the

table

while

he

ate.

"It

would've

been

wasted

if

you

hadn't."

The

table

beeped.

Someone

was

at

the

door.

"Who

is

it?"

Mother

asked.

Father

thumbed

a

key

and

a

man

appeared

on

hts

video.

He

was

wearing

the

only

military

uniform

that

meant

anything

anymore,

the

IF,

the

International

Fleet.

"I

thought

it

was

over,"

said

Father.

Peter

said

nothing,

just

poured

milk

over

his

cereal.

And

Ender

thought,

Maybe

I

won't

have

to

go

to

school

today

after

all.

Father

coded

the

door

open

and

got

up

from

the

table.

"I'll

see

to

it,"

he

said.

"Stay

and

eat."

They

stayed,

but

they

didn't

eat.

A

few

moments

later,

Father

came

back

into

the

room

and

beckoned

to

Mother.

"You're

in

deep

poo,"

said

Peter.

"They

found

out

what

you

did

to

Stilson,

and

now

they're

gonna

make

you

do

time

out

in

the

Belt."

"I'm

only

six,

moron.

I'm

a

juvenile."

"You're

a

Third,

turd.

You've

got

no

rights."

Valentine

came

in,

her

hair

in

a

sleepy

halo

around

her

face.

"Where's

Mom

and

Dad?

I'm

too

sick

to

go

to

school."

"Another

oral

exam,

huh?"

Peter

said.

"Shut

up,

Peter,"

said

Valentine.

"You

should

relax

and

enjoy

it,"

said

Peter.

"It

could

be

worse."

"I

don't

know

how."

"It

could

be

an

anal

exam."

"Hyuk

hyuk,"

Valentine

said.

"Where

are

Mother

and

Father?"

"Talking

to

a

guy

from

IF."

Instinctively

she

looked

at

Ender.

After

all,

for

years

they

had

expected

someone

to

come

and

tell

them

that

Ender

had

passed,

that

Ender

was

needed.

"That's

right,

look

at

him,"

Peter

said.

"But

it

might

he

me,

you

know.

They

might

have

realized

I

was

the

best

of

the

lot

after

all."

Peter's

feelings

were

hurt,

and

so

he

was

being

a

snot,

as

usual.

The

door

opened.

"Ender,"

said

Father,

"you

better

come

in

here."

"Sorry,

Peter,"

Valentine

taunted.

Father

glowered.

"Children,

this

is

no

laughing

matter."

Ender

followed

Father

into

the

parlor.

The

IF

officer

rose

to

his

feet

when

they

entered,

but

he

did

not

extend

a

hand

to

Ender.

Mother

was

twisting

her

wedding

band

on

her

finger.

"Andrew,"

she

said.

"I

never

thought

you

were

the

kind

to

get

in

a

fight."

"The

Stilson

boy

is

in

the

hospital,"

Father

said.

"You

really

did

a

number

on

him.

With

your

shoe,

Ender,

that

wasn't

exactly

fair."

Ender

shook

his

head.

He

had

expected

someone

from

the

school

to

come

about

Stilson,

not

an

officer

of

the

fleet.

This

was

more

serious

than

he

had

thought.

And

yet

he

couldn't

think

what

else

he

could

have

done.

"Do

you

have

any

explanation

for

your

behavior,

young

man?"

asked

the

officer.

Ender

shook

his

head

again.

He

didn't

know

what

to

say,

and

he

was

afraid

to

reveal

himself

to

be

any

more

monstrous

than

his

actions

had

made

him

out

to

be.

I'll

take

it,

whatever

the

punishment

is,

he

thought.

Let's

get

it

over

with.

"We're

willing

to

consider

extenuating

circumstances,"

the

officer

said.

"But

I

must

tell

you

it

doesn't

look

good.

Kicking

him

in

the

groin,

kicking

him

repeatedly

in

the

face

and

body

when

he

was

down--

sounds

like

you

really

enjoyed

it."

"I

didn't,"

Ender

whispered.

"Then

why

did

you

do

it?"

"He

had

his

gang

there,"

Ender

said.

"So?

This

excuses

anything?"

"No."

"Tell

me

why

you

kept

on

kicking

him.

You

had

already

won."

"Knocking

him

down

won

the

first

fight.

I

wanted

to

win

all

the

next

ones,

too,

right

then,

so

they'd

leave

me

alone."

Ender

couldn't

help

it,

he

was

too

afraid,

too

ashamed

of

his

own

acts:

though

he

tried

not

to,

he

cried

again.

Ender

did

not

like

to

cry

and

rarely

did;

now,

in

less

than

a

day,

he

had

done

it

three

times.

And

each

time

was

worse.

To

cry

in

front

of

his

mother

and

father

and

this

military

man,

that

was

shameful.

"You

took

away

the

monitor,"

Ender

said.

"I

had

to

take

care

of

myself,

didn't

I?"

"Ender,

you

should

have

asked

a

grown-up

for

help,"

Father

began.

But

the

officer

stood

up

and

stepped

across

the

room

to

Ender.

He

held

out

his

hand.

"My

name

is

Graff.

Ender.

Colonel

Hyrum

Graff.

I'm

director

of

primary

training

at

Battle

School

in

the

Belt.

I've

come

to

invite

you

to

enter

the

school."

After

all.

"But

the

monitor--"

"The

final

step

in

your

testing

was

to

see

what

would

happen

if

the

monitor

comes

off.

We

don't

always

do

it

that

way,

but

in

your

case--"

"And

I

passed?"

Mother

was

incredulous.

"Putting

the

Stilson

boy

in

the

hospital?

What

would

you

have

done

if

Andrew

had

killed

him,

given

him

a

medal?"

"It

isn't

what

he

did,

Mrs.

Wiggin.

It's

why."

Colonel

Graff

handed

her

a

folder

full

of

papers.

"Here

are

the

requisitions.

Your

son

has

been

cleared

by

the

IF

Selective

Service.

Of

course

we

already

have

your

consent,

granted

in

writing

at

the

time

conception

was

confirmed,

or

he

could

not

have

been

born.

He

has

been

ours

from

then,

if

he

qualified."

Father's

voice

was

trembling

as

he

spoke.

"It's

not

very

kind

of

you,

to

let

us

think

you

didn't

want

him,

and

then

to

take

him

after

all."

"And

this

charade

about

the

Stilson

boy,"

Mother

said.

"It

wasn't

a

charade,

Mrs.

Wiggin.

Until

we

knew

what

Ender's

motivation

was,

we

couldn't

be

sure

he

wasn't

another--

we

had

to

know

what

the

action

meant.

Or

at

least

what

Ender

believed

that

it

meant."

"Must

you

call

him

that

stupid

nickname?"

Mother

began

to

cry.

"I'm

sorry,

Mrs.

Wiggin.

But

that's

the

name

he

calls

himself."

"What

are

you

going

to

do,

Colonel

Graff?"

Father

asked.

"Walk

out

the

door

with

him

now?"

"That

depends,"

said

Graff.

"On

what?"

"On

whether

Ender

wants

to

come."

Mother's

weeping

turned

to

bitter

laughter.

"Oh,

so

it's

voluntary

after

all,

how

sweet!"

"For

the

two

of

you,

the

choice

was

made

when

Ender

was

conceived.

But

for

Ender,

the

choice

has

not

been

made

at

all.

Conscripts

make

good

cannon

fodder,

but

for

officers

we

need

volunteers."

"Officers?"

Ender

asked.

At

the

sound

of

his

voice,

the

others

fell

silent.

"Yes,"

said

Graff.

"Battle

School

is

for

training

future

starship

captains

and

commodores

of

flotillas

and

admirals

of

the

fleet."

"Let's

not

have

any

deception

herc!"

Father

said

angrily.

"How

many

of

the

boy's

at

the

Battle

School

actually

end

up

in

command

of

ships!"

"Unfortunately,

Mr.

Wiggin,

that

is

classified

information.

But

I

can

say

that

none

of

our

boys

who

makes

it

through

the

first

year

has

ever

failed

to

receive

a

commission

as

an

officer.

And

none

has

served

in

a

position

of

lower

rank

than

chief

executive

officer

of

an

interplanetary

vessel.

Even

in

the

domestic

defense

forces

within

our

own

solar

system,

there's

honor

to

be

had."

"How

many

make

it

through

the

first

year?"

asked

Ender.

"All

who

want

to,"

said

Graff.

Ender

almost

said,

I

want

to.

But

he

held

his

tongue.

This

would

keep

him

out

of

school,

but

that

was

stupid,

that

was

just

a

problem

for

a

few

days.

It

would

keep

him

away

from

Peter--

that

was

more

important,

that

might

be

a

matter

of

life

itself.

But

to

leave

Mother

and

Father,

and

above

all,

to

leave

Valentine.

And

become

a

soldier.

Ender

didn't

like

fighting.

He

didn't

like

Peter's

kind,

the

strong

against

the

weak,

and

he

didn't

like

his

own

kind

either,

the

smart

against

the

stupid.

"I

think,"

Graff

said,

"that

Ender

and

I

should

have

a

private

conversation."

"No,"

Father

said.

"I

won't

take

him

without

letting

you

speak

to

him

again,"

Graff

said.

"And

you

really

can't

stop

me."

Father

glared

at

Graff

a

moment

longer,

then

got

up

and

left

the

room.

Mother

paused

to

squeeze

Ender's

hand.

She

closed

the

door

behind

her

when

she

left.

"Ender,"

Graff

said,

"if

you

come

with

me,

you

won't

be

back

here

for

a

long

time.

There

aren't

any

vacations

from

Battle

School.

No

visitors,

either.

A

full

course

of

training

lasts

until

you're

sixteen

years

old--

you

get

your

first

leave,

under

certain

circumstances,

when

you're

twelve.

Believe

me,

Ender,

people

change

in

six

years,

in

ten

years.

Your

sister

Valentine

will

be

a

woman

when

you

see

her

again,

if

you

come

with

me.

You'll

be

strangers.

You'll

still

love

her,

Ender,

but

you

won't

know

her.

You

see

I'm

not

pretending

it's

easy."

"Mom

and

Daddy?"

"I

know

you,

Ender.

I've

been

watching

the

monitor

disks

for

some

time.

You

won't

miss

your

mother

and

father,

not

much,

not

for

long.

And

they

won't

miss

you

long,

either."

Tears

came

to

Ender's

eyes,

in

spite

of

himself.

He

turned

his

face

away,

but

would

not

reach

up

to

wipe

them.

"They

do

love

you,

Ender.

But

you

have

to

understand

what

your

life

has

cost

them.

They

were

born

religious,

you

know.

Your

father

was

baptized

with

the

name

John

Paul

Wieczorek.

Catholic.

The

seventh

of

nine

children."

Nine

children.

That

was

unthinkable.

Criminal.

"Yes,

well,

people

do

strange

things

for

religion.

You

know

the

sanctions,

Ender--

they

were

not

as

harsh

then,

but

still

not

easy.

Only

the

first

two

children

had

a

free

education.

Taxes

steadily

rose

with

each

new

child.

Your

father

turned

sixteen

and

invoked

the

Noncomplying

Families

Act

to

separate

himself

from

his

family.

He

changed

his

name,

renounced

his

religion,

and

vowed

never

to

have

more

than

the

allotted

two

children.

He

meant

it.

All

the

shame

and

persecution

he

went

through

as

a

child--

he

vowed

no

child

of

his

would

go

through

it.

Do

you

understand?"

"He

didn't

want

me."

"Well,

no

one

wants

a

Third

anymore.

You

can't

expect

them

to

be

glad.

But

your

father

and

mother

are

a

special

case.

They

both

renounced

their

religions--

your

mother

was

a

Mormon--

but

in

fact

their

feelings

are

still

ambiguous.

Do

you

know

what

ambiguous

means?"

"They

feel

both

ways."

"They're

ashamed

of

having

come

from

noncompliant

families.

They

conceal

it.

To

the

degree

that

your

mother

refuses

to

admit

to

anyone

that

she

was

born

in

Utah,

lest

they

suspect.

Your

father

denies

his

Polish

ancestry,

since

Poland

is

still

a

noncompliant

nation,

and

under

international

sanction

because

of

it.

So,

you

see,

having

a

Third,

even

under

the

government's

direct

instructions,

undoes

everything

they've

been

trying

to

do."

"I

know

that."

"But

it's

more

complicated

than

that.

Your

father

still

named

you

with

legitimate

saints'

names.

In

fact,

he

baptized

all

three

of

you

himself

as

soon

as

he

got

you

home

after

you

were

born.

And

your

mother

objected.

They

quarreled

over

it

each

time,

not

because

she

didn't

want

you

baptized,

but

because

she

didn't

want

you

baptized

Catholic.

They

haven't

really

given

up

their

religion.

They

look

at

you

and

see

you

as

a

badge

of

pride,

because

they

were

able

to

circumvent

the

law

and

have

a

Third.

But

you're

also

a

badge

of

cowardice,

because

they

dare

not

go

further

and

practice

the

noncompliance

they

still

feel

is

right.

And

you're

a

badge

of

public

shame,

because

at

every

step

you

interfere

with

their

efforts

at

assimilation

into

normal

complying

society."

"How

can

you

know

all

this?"

"We

monitored

your

brother

and

sister,

Ender.

You'd

be

amazed

at

how

sensitive

the

instruments

are.

We

were

connected

directly

to

your

brain.

We

heard

all

that

you

heard,

whether

you

were

listening

carefully

or

not.

Whether

you

understood

or

not.

We

understand."

"So

my

parents

love

me

and

don't

love

me?"

"They

love

you.

The

question

is

whether

they

want

you

here.

Your

presence

in

this

house

is

a

constant

disruption.

A

source

of

tension.

Do

you

understand?"

"I'm

not

the

one

who

causes

tension."

"Not

anything

you

do,

Ender.

Your

life

itself.

Your

brother

hates

you

because

you

are

living

proof

that

he

wasn't

good

enough.

Your

parents

resent

you

because

of

all

the

past

they

are

trying

to

evade."

"Valentine

loves

me."

"With

all

her

heart.

Completely,

unstintingly,

she's

devoted

to

you,

and

you

adore

her.

I

told

you

it

wouldn't

be

easy."

"What

is

it

like,

there?"

"Hard

work.

Studies,

just

like

school

here,

except

we

put

you

into

mathematics

and

computers

much

more

heavily.

Military

history.

Strategy

and

tactics.

And

above

all,

the

Battle

Room."

"What's

that?"

"War

games.

All

the

boys

are

organized

into

armies.

Day

after

day,

in

zero

gravity,

there

are

mock

battles.

Nobody

gets

hurt,

but

winning

and

losing

matter.

Everybody

starts

as

a

common

soldier,

taking

orders.

Older

boys

are

your

officers,

and

it's

their

duty

to

train

you

and

command

you

in

battle.

More

than

that

I

can't

tell

you.

It's

like

playing

buggers

and

astronauts--

except

that

you

have

weapons

that

work,

and

fellow

soldiers

fighting

beside

you,

and

your

whole

future

and

the

future

of

the

human

race

depends

on

how

well

you

learn,

how

well

you

fight.

It's

a

hard

life,

and

you

won't

have

a

normal

childhood.

Of

course,

with

your

mind,

and

as

a

Third

to

boot,

you

wouldn't

have

a

particularly

normal

childhood

anyway."

"All

boys?"

"A

few

girls.

They

don't

often

pass

the

tests

to

get

in.

Too

many

centuries

of

evolution

are

working

against

them.

None

of

them

will

be

like

Valentine,

anyway.

But

there'll

be

brothers

there,

Ender."

"Like

Peter?"

"Peter

wasn't

accepted,

Ender,

for

the

very

reasons

that

you

hate

him."

"I

don't

hate

him.

I'm

just--"

"Afraid

of

him.

Well,

Peter

isn't

all

bad,

you

know.

He

was

the

best

we'd

seen

in

a

long

time.

We

asked

your

parents

to

choose

a

daughter

next

they

would

have

anyway

hoping

that

Valentine

would

be

Peter,

but

milder.

She

was

too

mild.

And

so

we

requisitioned

you."

"To

be

half

Peter

and

half

Valentine."

"If

things

worked

out

right."

"Am

I?"

"As

far

as

we

can

tell.

Our

tests

are

very

good,

Ender.

But

they

don't

tell

us

everything.

In

fact,

when

it

comes

down

to

it,

they

hardly

tell

us

anything.

But

they're

better

than

nothing."

Graff

leaned

over

and

took

Ender's

hands

in

his.

"Ender

Wiggin,

if

it

were

just

a

matter

of

choosing

the

best

and

happiest

future

for

you,

I'd

tell

you

to

stay

home.

Stay

here,

grow

up,

be

happy.

There

are

worse

things

than

being

a

Third,

worse

things

than

a

big

brother

who

can't

make

up

his

mind

whether

to

be

a

human

being

or

a

jackal.

Battle

School

is

one

of

those

worse

things.

But

we

need

you.

The

buggers

may

seem

like

a

game

to

you

now,

Ender,

but

they

damn

near

wiped

us

out

last

time.

But

it

wasn't

enough.

They

had

us

cold,

outnumbered

and

outweaponed.

The

only

thing

that

saved

us

was

that

we

had

the

most

brilliant

military

commander

we've

ever

found.

Call

it

fate,

call

it

God,

call

it

damnfool

luck,

we

had

Mazer

Rackham."

"But

we

don't

have

him

now,

Ender.

We've

scraped

together

everything

mankind

could

produce,

a

fleet

that

makes

the

one

they

sent

against

us

last

time

seem

like

a

bunch

of

kids

playing

in

a

swimming

pool.

We

have

some

new

weapons,

too.

But

it

might

not

be

enough,

even

so.

Because

in

the

eighty

years

since

the

last

war,

they've

had

as

much

time

to

prepare

as

we

have.

We

need

the

best

we

can

get,

and

we

need

them

fast.

Maybe

you're

not

going

to

work

out

for

us,

and

maybe

you

are.

Maybe

you'll

break

down

under

the

pressure,

maybe

it'll

ruin

your

life,

maybe

you'll

hate

me

for

coming

here

to

your

house

today.

But

if

there's

a

chance

that

because

you're

with

the

fleet,

mankind

might

survive

and

the

buggers

might

leave

us

alone

forever

then

I'm

going

to

ask

you

to

do

it.

To

come

with

me."

Ender

had

trouble

focusing

on

Colonel

Graff.

The

man

looked

far

away

and

very

small,

as

if

Ender

could

pick

him

up

with

tweezers

and

drop

him

in

a

pocket.

To

leave

everything

here,

arid

go

to

a

place

that

was

very

hard,

with

no

Valentine,

no

Mom

and

Dad.

And

then

he

thought

of

the

films

of

the

buggers

that

everyone

had

to

see

at

least

once

a

year.

The

Scathing

of

China.

The

Battle

of

the

Belt.

Death

and

suffering

and

terror.

And

Mazer

Rackham

and

his

brilliant

maneuvers,

destroying

an

enemy

fleet

twice

his

size

and

twice

his

firepower,

using

the

little

human

ships

that

seemed

so

frail

and

weak.

Like

children

fighting

with

grown-ups.

And

we

won.

"I'm

afraid,"

said

Ender

quietly.

"But

I'll

go

with

you."

"Tell

me

again,"

said

Graff.

"It's

what

I

was

born

for,

isn't

it?

If

I

don't

go,

why

am

I

alive?"

"Not

good

enough,"

said

Graff.

"I

don't

want

to

go,"

said

Ender,

"but

I

will."

Graff

nodded.

"You

can

change

your

mind.

Up

until

the

time

you

get

in

my

car

with

me,

you

can

change

your

mind.

After

that,

you

stay

at

the

pleasure

of

the

International

Fleet.

Do

you

understand

that?"

Ender

nodded.

"All

right.

Let's

tell

them."

Mother

cried.

Father

held

Ender

tight.

Peter

shook

his

hand

and

said,

"You

lucky

little

pinheaded

fart-eater."

Valentine

kissed

him

and

left

her

tears

on

his

cheek.

There

was

nothing

to

pack.

No

belongings

to

take.

"The

school

provides

everything

you

need,

from

uniforms

to

school

supplies.

And

as

for

toys--

there's

only

one

game."

"Good-bye,"

Ender

said

to

his

family.

He

reached

up

and

took

Colonel

Graff's

hand

and

walked

out

the

door

with

him.

"Kill

some

buggers

for

me!"

Peter

shouted.

"I

love

you,

Andrew!"

Mother

called.

"We'll

write

to

you!"

Father

said.

And

as

he

got

into

the

car

that

waited

silently

in

the

corridor,

he

heard

Valentine's

anguished

cry.

"Come

back

to

me!

I

love

you

forever!"

Chapter

4

--

Launch

"With

Ender,

we

have

to

strike

a

delicate

balance.

Isolate

him

enough

that

he

remains

creative--

otherwise

he'll

adopt

the

system

here

and

we'll

lose

him.

At

the

same

time,

we

need

to

make

sure

he

keeps

a

strong

ability

to

lead."

"If

he

earns

rank,

he'll

lead."

"lt

isn't

that

simple.

Mazer

Rackham

could

handle

his

little

fleet

and

win.

By

the

time

this

war

happens,

there'll

be

too

much,

even

for

a

genius.

Too

many

little

coats.

He

has

to

work

smoothly

with

his

subordinates."

"Oh.

good.

He

has

to

be

a

genius

and

nice.

too."

"Not

nice.

Nice

will

let

the

buggers

have

us

all,"

"So

you're

going

to

isolate

him."

"I'll

have

him

completely

separated

from

the

rest

of

the

boys

by

the

time

we

get

to

the

School."

"I

have

no

doubt

of

it.

I'll

be

waiting

for

you

to

get

here.

I

watched

the

vids

of

what

he

did

to

the

Stilson

boy.

This

is

not

a

sweet

little

kid

you're

bringing

up

here."

"That's

where

you're

mistaken.

He's

even

sweeter.

But

don't

worry.

We'll

purge

that

in

a

hurry."

"Sometimes

I

think

you

enjoy

breaking

these

little

geniuses."

"There

is

an

art

to

it,

and

I'm

very,

very

good

at

it.

But

enjoy?

Well,

maybe.

When

they

put

back

the

pieces

afterward,

and

it

makes

them

better."

"You're

a

monster."

"Thanks.

Does

this

mean

I

get

a

raise?"

"Just

a

medal.

The

budget

isn't

inexhaustible."

***

They

say

that

weightlessness

can

cause

disorientation,

especially

in

children,

whose

sense

of

direction

isn't

yet

secure.

But

Ender

was

disoriented

before

he

left

Earth's

gravity.

Before

the

shuttle

launch

even

began.

There

were

nineteen

other

boys

in

his

launch.

They

filed

out

of

the

bus

and

into

the

elevator.

They

talked

and

joked

and

bragged

and

laughed.

Ender

kept

his

silence.

He

noticed

how

Graff

and

the

other

officers

were

watching

them.

Analyzing.

Everything

we

do

means

something,

Ender

realized.

Them

laughing.

Me

not

laughing.

He

toyed

with

the

idea

of

trying

to

be

like

the

other

boys.

But

he

couldn't

think

of

any

jokes,

and

none

of

theirs

seemed

funny.

Wherever

their

laughter

came

from,

Ender

couldn't

find

such

a

place

in

himself.

He

was

afraid,

and

fear

made

him

serious.

They

had

dressed

him

in

a

uniform,

all

in

a

single

piece;

it

felt

funny

not

to

have

a

belt

cinched

around

his

waist.

He

felt

baggy

and

naked,

dressed

like

that.

There

were

TV

cameras

going,

perched

like

animals

on

the

shoulders

of

crouching,

prowling

men.

The

men

moved

slowly,

catlike,

so

the

camera

motion

would

be

smooth.

Ender

caught

himself

moving

smoothly,

too.

He

imagined

himself

being

on

TV,

in

an

interview.

The

announcer

asking

him,

How

do

you

feel,

Mr.

Wiggin?

Actually

quite

well,

except

hungry.

Hungry?

Oh,

yes,

they

don't

let

you

eat

for

twenty

hours

before

the

launch.

How

interesting,

I

never

knew

that.

All

of

us

are

quite

hungry,

actually.

And

all

the

while,

during

the

interview,

Ender

and

the

TV

guy

would

slink

along

smoothly

in

front

of

the

cameraman,

taking

long,

lithe

strides.

For

the

first

time,

Ender

felt

like

laughing.

He

smiled.

The

other

boys

near

him

were

laughing

at

the

moment,

too,

for

another

reason.

They

think

I'm

smiling

at

their

joke,

thought

Ender.

But

I'm

smiling

at

something

much

funnier.

"Go

up

the

ladder

one

at

a

time,"

said

an

officer.

"When

you

come

to

an

aisle

with

empty

seats,

take

one.

There

aren't

any

window

seats."

It

was

a

joke.

The

other

boys

laughed.

Ender

was

near

the

last,

but

not

the

very

last.

The

TV

cameras

did

not

give

up,

though.

Will

Valentine

see

me

disappear

into

the

shuttle?

He

thought

of

waving

at

her,

of

running

to

the

cameraman

and

saying,

"Can

I

tell

Valentine

good-bye?"

He

didn't

know

that

it

would

be

censored

out

of

the

tape

if

he

did,

for

the

boys

soaring

out

to

Battle

School

were

all

supposed

to

be

heroes.

They

weren't

supposed

to

miss

anybody.

Ender

didn't

know

about

the

censorship,

but

he

did

know

that

running

to

the

cameras

would

be

wrong.

He

walked

the

short

bridge

to

the

door

in

the

shuttle.

He

noticed

that

the

wall

to

his

right

was

carpeted

like

a

floor.

That

was

where

the

disorientation

began.

The

moment

he

thought

of

the

wall

as

a

floor,

he

began

to

feel

like

he

was

walking

on

a

wall.

He

got

to

the

ladder,

and

noticed

that

the

vertical

surface

behind

it

was

also

carpeted.

I

am

climbing

up

the

floor.

Hand

over

hand,

step

by

step.

And

then,

for

fun,

he

pretended

that

he

was

climbing

down

the

wall.

He

did

it

almost

instantly

in

his

mind,

convinced

himself

against

the

best

evidence

of

gravity.

He

found

himself

gripping

the

seat

tightly,

even

though

gravity

pulled

him

firmly

against

it.

The

other

boys

were

bouncing

on

their

seats

a

little,

poking

and

pushing,

shouting.

Ender

carefully

found

the

straps,

figured

out

how

they

fit

together

to

hold

him

at

crotch,

waist,

and

shoulders.

He

imagined

the

ship

dangling

upside

down

on

the

undersurface

of

the

Earth,

the

giant

fingers

of

gravity

holding

them

firmly

in

place.

But

we

will

slip

away,

he

thought.

We

are

going

to

fall

off

this

planet.

He

did

not

know

its

significance

at

the

time.

Later,

though,

he

would

remember

that

it

was

even

before

he

left

Earth

that

he

first

thought

of

it

as

a

planet,

like

any

other,

not

particularly

his

own.

"Oh,

already

figured

it

out,"

said

Graff.

He

was

standing

on

the

ladder.

"Coming

with

us?"

Ender

asked.

"I

don't

usually

come

down

for

recruiting,"

Graff

said.

"I'm

kind

of

in

charge

there.

Administrator

of

the

School.

Like

a

principal.

They

told

me

I

had

to

come

back

or

I'd

lose

my

job."

He

smiled.

Ender

smiled

back.

He

felt

comfortable

with

Graff.

Graff

was

good.

And

he

was

principal

of

the

Battle

School.

Ender

relaxed

a

little.

He

would

have

a

friend

there.

The

other

boys

were

belted

in

place,

those

who

hadn't

done

as

Ender

did.

Then

they

waited

for

an

hour

while

a

TV

at

the

front

of

the

shuttle

introduced

them

to

shuttle

flight,

the

history

of

space

flight,

and

their

possible

future

with

the

great

starships

of

the

IF.

Very

boring

stuff.

Ender

had

seen

such

films

before.

Except

that

he

had

not

been

belted

into

a

seat

inside

the

shuttle.

Hanging

upside

down

from

the

belly

of

Earth.

The

launch

wasn't

bad.

A

little

scary.

Some

jolting,

a

few

moments

of

panic

that

this

might

be

the

first

failed

launch

in

the

history

of

the

shuttle.

The

movies

hadn't

made

it

plain

how

much

violence

you

could

experience,

lying

on

your

back

in

a

soft

chair.

Then

it

was

over,

and

he

really

was

hanging

by

the

straps,

no

gravity

anywhere.

But

because

he

had

already

reoriented

himself,

he

was

not

surprised

when

Graff

came

up

the

ladder

backward,

as

if

he

were

climbing

down

to

the

front

of

the

shuttle.

Nor

did

it

bother

him

when

Graff

hooked

his

feet

under

a

rung

and

pushed

off

with

his

hands,

so

that

suddenly

he

swung

upright,

as

if

this

were

an

ordinary

airplane.

The

reorientations

were

too

much

for

some.

One

boy

gagged;

Ender

understood

then

why

they

had

been

forbidden

to

eat

anything

for

twenty

hours

before

the

launch.

Vomit

in

null

gravity

wouldn't

be

fun.

But

for

Ender,

Graff's

gravity

game

was

fun,

And

he

carried

it

further,

imagining

that

Graff

was

actually

hanging

upside

down

from

the

center

aisle,

and

then

picturing

him

sticking

straight

out

from

a

side

wall.

Gravity

could

go

any

which

way.

However

I

want

it

to

go.

I

can

make

Graff

stand

on

his

head

and

he

doesn't

even

know

it.

"What

do

you

think

is

so

funny,

Wiggin?"

Graff's

voice

was

sharp

and

angry.

What

did

I

do

wrong,

thought

Ender.

Did

I

laugh

out

loud?

"I

asked

you

a

question,

soldier!"

barked

Graff.

Oh

yes.

This

is

the

beginning

of

the

training

routine.

Ender

had

seen

some

military

shows

on

TV,

and

they

always

shouted

a

lot

at

the

beginning

of

training

before

the

soldier

and

the

officer

became

good

friends.

"Yes

sir,"

Ender

said.

"Well

answer

it,

then!"

"I

thought

of

you

hanging

upside

down

by

your

feet.

I

thought

it

was

funny."

It

sounded

stupid,

now,

with

Graff

looking

at

him

coldly.

"To

you

I

suppose

it

is

funny.

Is

it

funny

to

anybody

else

here?"

Murmurs

of

no.

"Well

why

isn't

it?"

Graff

looked

at

them

all

with

contempt.

"Scumbrains,

that's

what

we've

got

in

this

launch.

Pinheaded

little

morons.

Only

one

of

you

had

the

brains

to

realize

that

in

null

gravity

directions

are

whatever

you

conceive

them

to

be.

Do

you

understand

that,

Shafts?"

The

boy

nodded.

"No

you

didn't.

Of

course

you

didn't.

Not

only

stupid,

but

a

liar

too.

There's

only

one

boy

on

this

launch

with

any

brains

at

all,

and

that's

Ender

Wiggin.

Take

a

good

look

at

him,

little

boys.

He's

going

to

he

a

commander

when

you're

still

in

diapers

up

there.

Because

he

knows

how

to

think

in

null

gravity,

and

you

just

want

to

throw

up."

This

wasn't

the

way

the

show

was

supposed

to

go.

Graff

was

supposed

to

pick

on

him,

not

set

him

up

as

the

best.

They

were

supposed

to

be

against

each

other

at

first,

so

they

could

become

friends

later.

"Most

of

you

are

going

to

ice

out.

Get

used

to

that,

little

boys.

Most

of

you

are

going

to

end

up

in

Combat

School,

because

you

don't

have

the

brains

to

handle

deep-space

piloting.

Most

of

you

aren't

worth

the

price

of

bringing

you

up

here

to

Battle

School

because

you

don't

have

what

it

takes.

Some

of

you

might

make

it.

Some

of

you

might

be

wotth

something

to

humanity.

But

don't

bet

on

it.

I'm

betting

on

only

one."

Suddenly

Graff

did

a

backflip

and

caught

the

ladder

with

his

hands,

then

swung

his

feet

away

from

the

ladder.

Doing

a

handstand,

if

the

floor

was

down.

Dangling

by

his

hands,

if

the

floor

was

up.

Hand

over

hand

he

swung

himself

back

along

the

aisle

to

his

seat.

"Looks

like

you've

got

it

made

here,"

whispered

the

boy

next

to

him.

Ender

shook

his

head.

"Oh,

won't

even

talk

to

me?"

the

boy

said.

"I

didn't

ask

him

to

say

that

stuff,"

Ender

whispered.

He

felt

a

sharp

pain

on

the

top

of

his

head.

Then

again.

Some

giggles

from

behind

him.

The

boy

in

the

next

seat

back

must

have

unfastened

his

straps.

Again

a

blow

to

the

head.

Go

away,

Ender

thought.

I

didn't

do

anything

to

you.

Again

a

blow

to

the

head.

Laughter

from

the

boys.

Didn't

Graff

see

this?

Wasn't

he

going

to

stop

it?

Another

blow.

Harder.

It

really

hurt.

Where

was

Graff?

Then

it

became

clear.

Graff

had

deliberately

caused

it.

It

was

worse

than

the

abuse

in

the

shows.

When

the

sergeant

picked

on

you,

the

others

liked

you

better.

But

when

the

officer

prefers

you,

the

others

hate

you.

"Hey,

fart-eater,"

came

the

whisper

from

behind

him.

He

was

hit

in

the

head

again.

"Do

you

like

this?

Hey,

super-brain,

this

is

fun?"

Another

blow,

this

one

so

hard

that

Ender

cried

out

softly

with

the

pain.

If

Graff

was

setting

him

up,

there'd

be

no

help

unless

he

helped

himself.

He

waited

until

he

thought

another

blow

was

about

to

come.

Now,

he

thought.

And

yes,

the

blow

was

there.

It

hurt,

but

Ender

was

already

trying

to

sense

the

coming

of

the

next

blow.

Now.

And

yes,

right

on

time.

I've

got

you,

Ender

thought.

Just

as

the

next

blow

was

coming,

Ender

reached

up

with

both

hands,

snatched

the

boy

by

the

wrist,

and

then

pulled

down

on

the

arm,

hard.

In

gravity,

the

boy

would

have

been

jammed

against

Ender's

seat

back,

hurting

his

chest.

In

null

gravity,

however,

he

flipped

over

the

seat

completely,

up

toward

the

ceiling.

Ender

wasn't

expecting

it.

He

hadn't

realized

how

null

gravity

magnified

even

a

child's

strength.

The

boy

sailed

through

the

air,

bouncing

against

the

ceiling,

then

down

against

another

boy

in

his

seat,

then

out

into

the

aisle,

his

arms

flailing

until

he

screamed

as

his

body

slammed

into

the

bulkhead

at

the

front

of

the

compartment,

his

left

arm

twisted

under

him.

It

took

only

seconds.

Graff

was

already

there,

snatching

the

boy

out

of

the

air.

Deftly

he

propelled

him

down

the

aisle

toward

the

other

man.

"Left

arm.

Broken.

I

think,"

he

said.

In

moments

the

boy

had

been

given

a

drug

and

lay

quietly

in

the

air

as

the

officer

ballooned

a

splint

around

his

arm.

Ender

felt

sick.

He

had

only

meant

to

catch

the

boy's

arm.

No.

No,

he

had

meant

to

hurt

him,

and

had

pulled

with

all

his

strength.

He

hadn't

meant

it

to

be

so

public,

but

the

boy

was

feeling

exactly

the

pain

Ender

had

meant

him

to

feel.

Null

gravity

had

betrayed

him,

that

was

all.

I

am

Peter.

I'm

just

like

him.

And

Ender

hated

himself.

Graff

stayed

at

the

front

of

the

cabin.

"What

are

you,

slow

learners?

In

your

feeble

little

minds,

hayen't

you

picked

up

one

little

fact?

You

were

brought

here

to

be

soldiers.

In

your

old

schools,

in

your

old

families,

maybe

you

were

the

big

shot,

maybe

you

were

tough,

maybe

you

were

smart.

But

we

chose

the

best

of

the

best,

and

that's

the

only

kind

of

kid

you're

going

to

meet

now.

And

when

I

tell

you

Ender

Wiggin

is

the

best

in

this

launch,

take

the

hint,

pinheads.

Don't

mess

with

him.

Little

boys

have

died

in

Battle

School

before.

Do

I

make

myself

clear?"

There

was

silence

the

rest

of

the

launch.

The

boy

sitting

next

to

Ender

was

scrupulously

careful

not

to

touch

him.

I

am

not

a

killer,

Ender

said

to

himself

over

and

over.

I

am

not

Peter.

No

matter

what

he

says,

I

wouldn't.

I'm

not.

I

was

defending

myself.

I

bore

it

a

long

time.

I

was

patient.

I'm

not

what

he

said.

A

voice

over

the

speaker

told

them

they

were

approaching

the

school;

it

took

twenty

minutes

to

decelerate

and

dock.

Ender

lagged

behind

the

others.

They

were

not

unwilling

to

let

him

be

the

last

to

leave

the

shuttle,

climbing

upward

in

the

direction

that

had

been

down

when

they

embarked.

Graff

was

waiting

at

the

end

of

the

narrow

tube

that

led

from

the

shuttle

into

the

heart

of

the

Battle

School.

"Was

it

a

good

flight,

Ender?"

Graff

asked

cheerfully.

"I

thought

you

were

my

friend."

Despite

himself,

Ender's

voice

trembled.

Graff

looked

puzzled.

"Whatever

gave

you

that

idea,

Ender?"

"Because

you--"

Because

you

spoke

nicely

to

me,

and

honestly.

"You

didn't

lie."

"I

won't

lie

now,

either,"

said

Graff.

"My

job

isn't

to

be

friends.

My

job

is

to

produce

the

best

soldiers

in

the

world.

In

the

whole

history

of

the

world.

We

need

a

Napoleon.

An

Alexander.

Except

that

Napoleon

lost

in

the

end,

and

Alexander

flamed

out

and

died

young.

We

need

a

Julius

Caesar,

except

that

he

made

himself

dictator,

and

died

for

it.

My

job

is

to

produce

such

a

creature,

and

all

the

men

and

women

he'll

need

to

help

him.

Nowhere

in

that

does

it

say

I

have

to

make

friends

with

children."

"You

made

them

hate

me."

"So?

What

will

you

do

about

it?

Crawl

into

a

corner?

Start

kissing

their

little

backsides

so

they'll

love

you

again?

There's

only

one

thing

that

will

make

them

stop

hating

you.

And

that's

being

so

good

at

what

you

do

that

they

can't

ignore

you.

I

told

them

you

were

the

best.

Now

you

damn

well

better

be."

"What

if

I

can't?"

"Then

too

bad.

Look,

Ender.

I'm

sorry

if

you're

lonely

and

afraid.

But

the

buggers

are

out

there.

Ten

billion,

a

hundred

billion,

a

million

billion

of

them,

for

all

we

know.

With

as

many

ships,

for

all

we

know.

With

weapons

we

can't

understand.

And

a

willingness

to

use

those

weapons

to

wipe

us

out.

It

isn't

the

world

at

stake,

Ender.

Just

us.

Just

humankind.

As

far

as

the

rest

of

the

earth

is

concerned,

we

could

be

wiped

out

and

it

would

adjust,

it

would

get

on

with

the

next

step

in

evolution.

But

humanity

doesn't

want

to

die.

As

a

species,

we

have

evolved

to

survive.

And

the

way

we

do

it

is

by

straining

and

straining

and,

at

last,

every

few

generations,

giving

birth

to

genius.

The

one

who

invents

the

wheel.

And

light.

And

flight.

The

one

who

builds

a

city,

a

nation,

an

empire.

Do

you

understand

any

of

this?"

Ender

thought

he

did,

but

wasn't

sure,

and

so

said

nothing.

"No.

Of

course

not.

So

I'll

put

it

bluntly.

Human

beings

are

free

except

when

humanity

needs

them.

Maybe

humanity

needs

you.

To

do

something.

I

think

humanity

needs

me--

to

find

out

what

you're

good

for.

We

might

both

do

despicable

things,

Ender,

but

if

humankind

survives,

then

we

were

good

tools."

"Is

that

all?

Just

tools?"

"Individual

human

beings

are

all

tools,

that

the

others

use

to

help

us

all

survive."

"That's

a

lie."

"No.

It's

just

a

half

truth.

You

can

worry

about

the

other

half

after

we

win

this

war."

"It'll

be

over

before

I

grow

up,"

Ender

said.

"I

hope

you're

wrong,"

said

Grail.

"By

the

way,

you

aren't

helping

yourself

at

all,

talking

to

me.

The

other

boys

are

no

doubt

telling

each

other

that

old

Ender

Wiggin

is

back

there

licking

up

to

Graff.

If

word

once

gets

around

that

you're

a

teachers'

boy,

you're

iced

for

sure."

In

other

words,

go

away

and

leave

me

alone.

"Goodbye,"

Ender

said.

He

pulled

himself

hand

over

hand

along

the

tube

where

the

other

boys

had

gone.

Graff

watched

him

go.

One

of

the

teachers

near

him

said,

"Is

that

the

one?"

"God

knows,"

said

Graff.

"If

it

isn't

Ender,

then

he'd

better

show

up

soon."

"Maybe

it's

nobody,"

said

the

teacher.

"Maybe.

But

if

that's

the

case,

Anderson,

then

in

my

opinion

God

is

a

bugger.

You

can

quote

me

on

that."

"I

will."

They

stood

in

silence

a

while

longer.

"Anderson."

"Mmm."

"The

kid's

wrong.

I

am

his

friend."

"I

know."

"He's

clean.

Right

to

the

heart,

he's

good."

"I've

read

the

reports."

"Anderson,

think

what

we're

going

to

do

to

him."

Anderson

was

defiant.

"We're

going

to

make

him

the

best

military

commander

in

history."

"And

then

put

the

fate

of

the

world

on

his

shoulders.

For

his

sake,

I

hope

it

isn't

him.

I

do."

"Cheer

up.

The

buggers

may

kill

us

all

before

he

graduates."

Graff

smiled.

"You're

right.

I

feel

better

already."

Chapter

5

--

Games

"You

have

my

admiration.

Breaking

an

arm--

that

was

a

master

stroke."

"That

was

an

accident."

"Really?

And

I've

already

commended

you

in

your

official

report."

"It's

too

strong.

It

makes

that

other

little

bastard

into

a

hero.

It

could

screw

up

training

for

a

lot

of

kids.

I

thought

he

might

call

for

help."

"Call

for

help?

I

thought

that

was

what

you

valued

most

in

him

that

he

settles

his

own

problems.

When

he's

out

there

surrounded

by

an

enemy

fleet,

there

ain't

gonna

be

nobody

to

help

him

if

he

calls."

"Who

would

have

guessed

the

little

sucker'd

be

out

of

hs

seat?

And

that

he'd

land

just

wrong

against

the

bulkhead?"

"Just

one

more

example

of

the

stupidity

of

the

military.

If

you

had

any

brains,

you'd

be

in

a

real

career,

like

selling

life

insurance."

"You,

too,

mastermind."

"We've

just

got

to

face

the

fact

that

we're

second

rate.

With

the

fate

of

humanity

in

our

hands.

Gives

you

a

delicious

feeling

of

power,

doesn't

it?

Especially

because

this

time

if

we

lose

there

won't

be

any

criticism

of

us

at

all."

"I

never

thought

of

it

that

way.

But

let's

not

lose."

"See

how

Ender

handles

it.

If

we've

already

lost

him,

if

he

can't

handle

this,

who

next?

Who

else?"

"I'll

make

up

a

list."

"In

the

meantime,

figure

out

how

to

unlose

Ender."

"I

told

you.

His

isolation

can't

be

broken.

He

can

never

come

to

believe

that

anybody

will

ever

help

him

out.

ever.

If

he

once

thinks

there's

an

easy

way

out,

he's

wrecked."

"You're

right.

That

would

be

terrible,

if

he

believed

he

had

a

friend."

"He

can

have

friends.

It's

parents

he

can't

have."

***

The

other

boys

had

already

chosen

their

bunks

when

Ender

arrived.

Ender

stopped

in

the

doorway

of

the

dormitory,

looking

for

the

sole

remaining

bed.

The

ceiling

was

low

Ender

could

reach

up

and

touch

it.

A

child-size

room,

with

the

bottom

bunk

resting

on

the

floor.

The

other

boys

were

watching

him,

cornerwise.

Sure

enough,

the

bottom

bunk

right

by

the

door

was

the

only

empty

bed.

For

a

moment

it

occurred

to

Ender

that

by

letting

the

others

put

him

in

the

worst

place,

he

was

inviting

later

bullying.

Yet

he

couldn't

very

well

oust

someone

else.

So

he

smiled

broadly.

"Hey,

thanks,"

he

said.

Not

sarcastically

at

all.

He

said

it

as

sincerely

as

if

they

had

reserved

for

him

the

best

position.

"I

thought

I

was

going

to

have

to

ask

for

low

bunk

by

the

door."

He

sat

down

and

looked

in

the

locker

that

stood

open

at

the

foot

of

the

bunk.

There

was

a

paper

taped

to

the

inside

of

the

door.

Place

your

hand

on

the

scanner

at

the

head

of

your

bunk

and

speak

your

name

twice.

Ender

found

the

scanner,

a

sheet

of

opaque

plastic.

He

put

his

left

hand

on

it

and

said,

"Ender

Wiggin.

Ender

Wiggin."

The

scanner

glowed

green

for

a

moment.

Ender

closed

his

locker

and

tried

to

reopen

it.

He

couldn't.

Then

he

put

his

hand

on

the

scanner

and

said,

"Ender

Wiggin."

The

locker

popped

open.

So

did

three

other

compartments.

One

of

them

contained

four

jumpsuits

like

the

one

he

was

wearing,

and

one

white

one.

Another

compartment

contained

a

small

desk,

just

like

the

ones

at

school.

So

they

weren't

through

with

studies

yet.

It

was

the

largest

compartment

that

contained

the

prize.

It

looked

like

a

spacesuit

at

first

glance,

complete

with

helmet

and

gloves.

But

it

wasn't.

There

was

no

airtight

seal.

Still,

it

would

effectively

cover

the

whole

body.

It

was

thickly

padded.

It

was

also

a

little

stiff.

And

there

was

a

pistol

with

it.

A

lasergun,

it

looked

like,

since

the

end

was

solid,

clear

glass.

But

surely

they

wouldn't

let

children

have

lethal

weapons--

"Not

laser,"

said

a

man.

Ender

looked

up.

It

was

one

he

hadn't

seen

before.

A

young

and

kind-looking

man.

"But

it

has

a

tight

enough

beam.

Well-focused.

You

can

aim

it

and

make

a

three-inch

circle

of

light

on

a

wall

a

hundred

meters

off."

"What's

it

for?"

Ender

asked.

"One

of

the

games

we

play

during

recreation.

Does

anyone

else

have

his

locker

open?"

The

man

looked

around.

"I

mean,

have

you

followed

directions

and

coded

in

your

voices

and

hands?

You

can't

get

into

the

lockers

until

you

do.

This

room

is

your

home

for

the

first

year

or

so

here

at

the

Battle

School,

so

get

the

bunk

you

want

and

stay

with

it.

Ordinarily

we

let

you

elect

your

chief

officer

and

install

him

in

the

lower

bunk

by

the

door,

but

apparently

that

position

has

been

taken.

Can't

recode

the

lockers

now.

So

think

about

whom

you

want

to

choose.

Dinner

in

seven

minutes.

Follow

the

lighted

dots

on

the

floor.

Your

color

code

is

red

yellow

yellow--

whenever

you're

assigned

a

path

to

follow,

it

will

be

red

yellow

yellow,

three

dots

side

by

side--

go

where

those

lights

indicate.

What's

your

color

code,

boys?"

"Red,

yellow,

yellow."

"Very

good.

My

name

is

Dap.

I'm

your

mom

for

the

next

few

months."

The

boys

laughed.

"Laugh

all

you

like,

but

keep

it

in

mind.

If

you

get

lost

in

the

school,

which

is

quite

possible,

don't

go

opening

doors.

Some

of

them

lead

outside."

More

laughter.

"Instead

just

tell

someone

that

your

mom

is

Dap,

and

they'll

call

me.

Or

tell

them

your

color,

and

they'll

light

up

a

path

for

you

to

get

home.

If

you

have

a

problem,

come

talk

to

me.

Remember,

I'm

the

only

person

here

who's

paid

to

be

nice

to

you,

but

not

too

nice.

Give

me

any

lip

and

I'll

break

your

face,

OK?"

They

laughed

again.

Dap

had

a

room

full

of

friends,

Frightened

children

are

so

easy

to

win.

"Which

way

is

down,

anybody

tell

me?"

They

told

him.

"OK,

that's

true.

But

that

direction

is

toward

the

outside.

The

ship

is

spinning,

and

that's

what

makes

it

feel

like

that

is

down.

The

floor

actually

curves

around

in

that

direction.

Keep

going

long

enough

that

way,

and

you

come

back

to

where

you

started.

Except

don't

try

it.

Because

up

that

way

is

teachers'

quarters,

and

up

that

way

is

the

bigger

kids.

And

the

bigger

kids

don't

like

Launchies

butting

in.

You

might

get

pushed

around.

In

fact,

you

will

get

pushed

around.

And

when

you

do,

don't

come

crying

to

me.

Got

it?

This

is

Battle

School,

not

nursery

school."

"What

are

we

supposed

to

do,

then?"

asked

a

boy,

a

really

small

black

kid

who

had

a

top

hunk

near

Ender's.

"If

you

don't

like

getting

pushed

around,

figure

out

for

yourself

what

to

do

about

it,

but

I

warn

you--

murder

is

strictly

against

the

rules.

So

is

any

deliberate

injury.

I

understand

there

was

one

attempted

murder

on

the

was

up

here.

A

broken

arm.

That

kind

of

thing

happens

again,

somebody

ices

out.

You

got

it?"

"What's

icing

out?"

asked

the

boy

with

his

arm

puffed

up

in

a

splint.

"Ice.

Put

out

in

the

cold.

Sent

Earthside.

Finished

at

Battle

School."

Nobody

looked

at

Ender.

"So,

boys,

if

any

of

you

are

thinking

of

being

troublemakers,

at

least

be

clever

about

it.

OK?"

Dap

left.

They

still

didn't

look

at

Ender.

Ender

felt

the

fear

growing

in

his

belly.

The

kid

whose

arm

he

broke--

Ender

didn't

feel

sorry

for

him.

He

was

a

Stilson.

And

like

Stilson,

he

was

already

gathering

a

gang.

A

little

knot

of

kids,

several

of

the

bigger

ones,

they

were

laughing

at

the

far

end

of

the

room,

and

every

now

and

then

one

of

them

would

turn

to

look

at

Ender.

With

all

his

heart,

Ender

wanted

to

go

home.

What

did

any

of

this

have

to

do

with

saving

the

world?

There

was

no

monitor

now.

It

was

Ender

against

the

gang

again,

only

they

were

right

in

his

room.

Peter

again,

but

without

Valentine.

The

fear

stayed,

all

through

dinner

as

no

one

sat

by

him

in

the

mess

hall.

The

other

boys

were

talking

about

things--

the

big

scoreboard

on

one

wall,

the

food,

the

bigger

kids.

Ender

could

only

watch

in

isolation.

The

scoreboards

were

team

standings.

Won-loss

records,

with

the

most

recent

scores.

Some

of

the

bigger

boy's

apparently

had

bets

on

the

most

recent

games.

Two

teams,

Manticore

and

Asp,

had

no

recent

score--

that

box

was

flashing.

Ender

decided

they

must

be

playing

right

now.

He

noticed

that

the

older

boys

were

divided

into

groups,

according

to

the

uniforms

they

wore.

Some

with

different

uniforms

were

talking

together,

but

generally

the

groups

each

had

thcir

own

area.

Launchies--

their

own

group,

and

the

two

or

three

next

older

groups

all

had

plain

blue

uniforms.

But

the

big

kids,

the

ones

that

were

on

teams,

they

were

wearing

much

more

flamboyant

clothing.

Ender

tried

to

guess

which

ones

went

with

which

name.

Scorpion

and

Spider

were

easy.

So

were

Flame

and

Tide.

A

bigger

boy

came

to

sit

by

him.

Not

just

a

little

bigger-

he

looked

to

be

twelve

or

thirteen.

Getting

his

man's

growth

started.

"Hi,"

he

said.

"Hi,"

Ender

said.

"I'm

Mick."

"Ender."

"That's

a

name?"

"Since

I

was

little.

It's

what

my

sister

called

me."

"Not

a

bad

name

here.

Ender.

Finisher.

Hey."

"Hope

so."

"Ender,

you

the

bugger

in

your

launch?"

Ender

shrugged.

"I

noticed

you

eating

all

alone.

Every

launch

has

one

like

that.

Kid

that

nobody

takes

to

right

away.

Sometimes

I

think

the

teachers

do

it

on

purpose.

The

teachers

aren't

very

nice.

You'll

notice

that."

"Yeah."

"So

you

the

bugger?"

"I

guess

so."

"Hey.

Nothing

to

cry

about,

you

know?"

He

gave

Ender

his

roll,

and

took

Ender's

pudding.

"Eat

nutritious

stuff.

It'll

keep

you

strong."

Mick

dug

into

the

pudding.

"What

about

you?"

asked

Ender.

"Me?

I'm

nothing.

I'm

a

fart

in

the

air

conditioning.

I'm

always

there,

but

most

of

the

time

nobody

knows

it."

Ender

smiled

tentatively.

"Yeah,

funny,

but

no

joke.

I

got

nowhere

here.

I'm

getting

big

now.

They're

going

to

send

me

to

my

next

school

pretty

soon.

No

way

it'll

be

Tactical

School

for

me.

I've

never

been

a

leader,

you

see.

Only

the

guys

who

get

to

be

leaders

have

a

shot

at

it."

"How

do

you

get

to

be

a

leader?"

"Hey,

if

I

knew,

you

think

I'd

be

like

this?

How

many

guys

my

size

you

see

in

here?"

Not

many.

Ender

didn't

say

it.

"A

few.

I'm

not

the

only

half-iced

bugger-fodder.

A

few

of

us.

The

other

guys--

they're

all

commanders.

All

the

guys

from

my

launch

have

their

own

teams

now.

Not

me."

Ender

nodded.

"Listen,

little

guy.

I'm

doing

you

a

favor.

Make

friends.

Be

a

leader.

Kiss

butts

if

you've

got

to,

but

if

the

other

guys

despise

you--

you

know

what

I

mean?"

Ender

nodded

again.

"Naw,

you

don't

know

anything.

You

Launchies

are

all

alike.

You

don't

know

nothing.

Minds

like

space.

Nothing

there.

And

if

anything

hits

you,

you

fall

apart.

Look,

when

you

end

up

like

me,

don't

forget

that

somebody

warned

you.

It's

the

last

nice

thing

anybody's

going

to

do

for

you."

"So

why

did

you

tell

me?"

asked

Ender.

"What

are

you,

a

smart

mouth?

Shut

up

and

eat."

Ender

shut

up

and

ate.

He

didn't

like

Mick.

And

he

knew

there

was

no

chance

he

would

end

up

like

that.

Maybe

that

was

what

the

teachers

were

planning,

but

Ender

didn't

intend

to

fit

in

with

their

plans.

I

will

not

be

the

bugger

of

my

group,

Ender

thought.

I

didn't

leave

Valentine

and

Mother

and

Father

to

come

here

just

to

be

iced.

As

he

lifted

the

fork

to

his

mouth,

he

could

feel

his

family

around

him,

as

they

always

had

been.

He

knew

just

which

way

to

turn

his

head

to

look

up

and

see

Mother,

trying

to

get

Valentine

not

to

slurp.

He

knew

just

where

Father

would

be,

scanning

the

news

on

the

table

while

pretending

to

be

part

of

the

dinner

conversation.

Peter,

pretending

to

take

a

crushed

pea

out

of

his

nose--

even

Peter

could

he

funny.

It

was

a

mistake

to

think

of

them.

He

felt

a

sob

rise

in

his

throat

and

swallowed

it

down;

he

could

not

see

his

plate.

He

could

not

cry.

There

was

no

chance

that

he

would

be

treated

with

compassion.

Dap

was

not

Mother.

Any

sign

of

weakness

would

tell

the

Stilsons

and

Peters

that

this

boy

could

be

broken.

Ender

did

what

he

always

did

when

Peter

tormented

him.

He

began

to

count

doubles.

One,

two,

four,

eight.

sixteen,

thirty-two,

sixty-four.

And

on,

as

high

as

he

could

hold

the

numbers

in

his

head:

128,

256,

512,

1024,

2048,

4096,

8192,

16384,

32768,

65536,

131072,

262144.

At

67108864

he

began

to

be

unsure--

had

he

slipped

out

a

digit?

Should

he

be

in

the

ten

millions

or

the

hundred

millions

or

just

the

millions?

He

tried

doubling

again

and

lost

it.

1342

something.

16?

Or

17738?

It

was

gone.

Start

over

again.

All

the

doubling

he

could

hold.

The

pain

was

gone.

The

tears

were

gone.

He

would

not

cry.

Until

that

night,

when

the

lights

went

dim,

and

in

the

distance

he

could

hear

several

boys

whimpering

for

their

mothers

or

fathers

or

dogs.

He

could

not

help

himself.

His

lips

formed

Valentine's

name.

He

could

hear

her

voice

laughing

in

the

distance,

just

down

the

hall.

He

could

see

Mother

passing

his

door,

looking

in

to

he

sure

he

was

all

right.

He

could

hear

Father

laughing

at

the

video.

It

was

all

so

clear,

and

it

would

never

he

that

way

again.

I'll

be

old

when

I

ever

see

them

again,

twelve

at

the

earliest.

Why

did

I

say

yes?

What

was

I

such

a

fool

for?

Going

to

school

would

have

been

nothing.

Facing

Stilson

every

day.

And

Peter.

He

was

a

pissant.

Ender

wasn't

afraid

of

him.

I

want

to

go

home,

he

whispered.

But

his

whisper

was

the

whisper

he

used

when

he

cried

out

in

pain

when

Peter

tormented

him.

The

sound

didn't

travel

farther

than

his

own

ears,

and

sometimes

not

that

far.

And

his

tears

could

fall

unwanted

on

his

sheet,

but

his

sobs

were

so

gentle

that

they

did

not

shake

the

bed;

so

quiet

they

could

not

be

heard.

But

the

ache

was

there,

thick

in

his

throat

and

the

front

of

his

face,

hot

in

his

chest

and

in

his

eyes.

I

want

to

go

home.

Dap

came

to

the

door

that

night

and

moved

quietly

among

the

beds,

touching

a

hand

here.

Where

he

went

there

was

more

crying,

not

less.

The

touch

of

kindness

in

this

frightening

place

was

enough

to

push

some

over

the

edge

into

tears.

Not

Ender,

though.

When

Dap

came,

his

crying

was

over,

and

his

face

was

dry.

It

was

the

lying

face

he

presented

to

Mother

and

Father,

when

Peter

had

been

cruel

to

him

and

he

dared

not

let

it

show.

Thank

you

for

this,

Peter.

For

dry

eyes

and

silent

weeping.

You

taught

me

how

to

hide

anything

I

felt.

More

than

ever,

I

need

that

now.

***

There

was

school.

Every

day,

hours

of

classes.

Reading.

Numbers.

History.

Videos

of

the

bloody

battles

in

space,

the

Marines

spraying

their

guts

all

over

the

walls

of

the

bugger

ships.

Holos

of

clean

wars

of

the

fleet,

ships

turning

into

puffs

of

light

as

the

spacecraft

killed

each

other

deftly

in

the

deep

night.

Many

things

to

learn.

Ender

worked

as

hard

as

anyone;

all

of

them

struggled

for

the

first

time

in

their

lives,

as

for

the

first

time

in

their

lives

they

competed

with

classmates

who

were

at

least

as

bright

as

they,

But

the

games--

that

was

what

they

lived

for.

That

was

what

filled

the

hours

between

waking

and

sleeping.

Dap

introduced

them

to

the

game

room

on

their

second

day.

It

was

up,

way

above

the

decks

where

the

boys

lived

and

worked.

They

climbed

ladders

to

where

the

gravity

weakened,

and

there

in

the

cavern

they

saw

the

dazzling

lights

of

the

games.

Some

of

the

games

they

knew;

some

they

had

even

played

at

home.

Simple

ones

and

hard

ones.

Ender

walked

past

the

two-dimensional

games

on

video

and

began

to

study

the

games

the

bigger

boys

played,

the

holographic

games

with

objects

hovering

in

the

air.

He

was

the

only

Launchy

in

that

part

of

the

room,

and

every

now

and

then

one

of

the

bigger

boys

would

shove

him

out

of

the

way.

What're

you

doing

here?

Get

lost.

Fly

off.

And

of

course

he

would

fly,

in

the

lower

gravity

here,

leave

his

feet

and

soar

until

he

ran

into

something

or

someone.

Every

time,

though,

he

extricated

himself

and

went

back,

perhaps

to

a

different

spot,

to

get

a

different

angle

on

the

game.

He

was

too

small

to

see

the

controls,

how

the

game

was

actually

done.

That

didn't

matter.

He

got

the

movement

of

it

in

the

air.

The

way

the

player

dug

tunnels

in

the

darkness,

tunnels

of

light,

which

the

enemy

ships

would

search

for

and

then

follow

mercilessly

until

they

caught

the

player's

ship.

The

player

could

make

traps:

mines,

drifting

bombs,

loops

in

the

air

that

forced

the

enemy

ships

to

repeat

endlessly.

Some

of

the

players

were

clever.

Others

lost

quickly.

Ender

liked

it

better,

though,

when

two

boys

played

against

each

other.

Then

they

had

to

use

each

other's

tunnels,

and

it

quickly

became

clear

which

of

them

were

worth

anything

at

the

strategy

of

it.

Within

an

hour

or

so,

it

began

to

pall.

Ender

understood

the

regularities

by

then.

Understood

the

rules

the

computer

was

following,

so

that

he

knew

he

could

always,

once

he

mastered

the

controls,

outmaneuver

the

enemy.

Spirals

when

the

enemy

was

like

this;

loops

when

the

enemy

was

like

that.

Lie

in

wait

at

one

trap.

Lay

seven

traps

and

then

lure

them

like

this.

There

was

no

challenge

to

it,

then,

just

a

matter

of

playing

until

the

computer

got

so

fast

that

no

human

reflexes

could

overcome

it.

That

wasn't

fun.

It

was

the

other

boys

he

wanted

to

play.

The

boys

who

had

been

so

trained

by

the

computer

that

even

when

they

played

against

each

other

they

each

tried

to

emulate

the

computer.

Think

like

a

machine

instead

of

a

boy.

I

could

beat

them

this

way.

I

could

beat

them

that

way.

"I'd

like

a

turn

against

you,"

he

said

to

the

boy

who

had

just

won.

"Lawsy

me,

what

is

this?"

asked

the

boy.

"Is

it

a

bug

or

a

bugger?"

"A

new

flock

of

dwarfs

just

came

aboard,"

said

another

boy.

"But

it

talks.

Did

you

know

they

could

talk?"

"I

see,"

said

Ender.

"You're

afraid

to

play

me

two

out

of

three."

"Beating

you,"

said

the

boy,

"would

be

as

easy

as

pissing

in

the

shower."

"And

not

half

as

fun,"

said

another.

"I'm

Ender

Wiggin."

"Listen

up,

scrunchface.

You

nobody.

Got

that?

You

nobody,

got

that?

You

not

anybody

till

you

gots

you

first

kill.

Got

that?"

The

slang

of

the

older

boys

had

its

own

rhythm.

Ender

picked

it

up

quick

enough.

"If

I'm

nobody,

then

how

come

you

scared

to

play

me

two

out

of

three?"

Now

the

other

guys

were

impatient.

"Kill

the

squirt

quick

and

let's

get

on

with

it."

So

Ender

took

his

place

at

the

unfamiliar

controls.

His

hands

were

small,

but

the

controls

were

simple

enough.

It

took

only

a

little

experimentation

to

find

out

which

buttons

used

certain

weapons.

Movement

control

was

a

standard

wireball.

His

reflexes

were

slow

at

first.

The

other

boy,

whose

name

he

still

didn't

know,

got

ahead

quickly.

But

Ender

learned

a

lot

and

was

doing

much

better

by

the

time

the

game

ended.

"Satisfied,

launchy?"

"Two

out

of

three."

"We

don't

allow

two

out

of

three

games."

"So

you

beat

me

the

first

time

I

ever

touched

the

game,"

Ender

said.

"If

you

can't

do

it

twice,

you

can't

do

it

at

all."

They

played

again,

and

this

time

Ender

was

deft

enough

to

pull

off

a

few

maneuvers

that

the

boy

had

obviously

never

seen

before.

His

patterns

couldn't

cope

with

them.

Ender

didn't

win

easily,

but

he

won.

The

bigger

boys

stopped

laughing

and

joking

then.

The

third

game

went

in

total

silence,

Ender

won

it

quickly

and

efficiently.

When

the

game

ended,

one

of

the

older

boys

said,

"Bout

time

they

replaced

this

machine.

Getting

so

any

pinbrain

can

beat

it

now."

Not

a

word

of

congratulation.

Just

total

silence

as

Ender

walked

away.

He

didn't

go

far.

Just

stood

off

in

the

near

distance

and

watched

as

the

next

players

tried

to

use

the

things

he

had

shown

them.

Any

pinbrain?

Ender

smiled

inwardly.

They

won't

forget

me.

He

felt

good.

He

had

won

something,

and

against

older

boys.

Probably

not

the

best

of

the

older

boys,

but

he

no

longer

had

the

panicked

feeling

that

he

might

be

out

of

his

depth,

that

Battle

School

might

he

too

much

for

him.

All

he

had

to

do

was

watch

the

game

and

understand

how

things

worked,

and

then

he

could

use

the

system,

and

even

excel.

It

was

the

waiting

and

watching

that

cost

the

most.

For

during

that

time

he

had

to

endure.

The

boy

whose

arm

he

had

broken

was

out

for

vengeance.

His

name,

Ender

quickly

learned,

was

Bernard.

He

spoke

his

own

name

with

a

French

accent,

since

the

French,

with

their

arrogant

Separatism,

insisted

that

the

teaching

of

Standard

not

begin

until

the

age

of

four,

when

the

French

language

patterns

were

already

set.

His

accent

made

him

exotic

and

interesting;

his

broken

arm

made

him

a

martyr;

his

sadism

made

him

a

natural

focus

for

all

those

who

loved

pain

in

others.

Ender

became

their

enemy.

Little

things.

Kicking

his

bed

every

time

they

went

in

and

out

of

the

door.

Jostling

him

with

his

meal

tray.

Tripping

him

on

the

ladders.

Ender

learned

quickly

not

to

leave

anything

of

his

outside

his

lockers;

he

also

learned

to

be

quick

on

his

feet,

to

catch

himself.

"Maladroit,"

Bernard

called

him

once,

and

the

name

stuck.

There

were

times

when

Ender

was

very

angry.

With

Bernard,

of

course,

anger

was

inadequate.

It

was

the

kind

of

person

he

was--

a

tormentor.

What

enraged

Ender

was

how

willingly

the

others

went

along

with

him.

Surely

they

knew

there

was

no

justice

in

Bernard's

revenge.

Surely

they

knew

that

he

had

struck

first

at

Ender

in

the

shuttle,

that

Ender

had

only

been

responding

to

violence.

If

they

knew,

they

acted

as

if

they

didn't;

even

if

they

did

not

know,

they

should

be

able

to

tell

from

Bernard

himself

that

he

was

a

snake.

After

all,

Ender

wasn't

his

only

target.

Bernard

was

setting

up

a

kingdom,

wasn't

he?

Ender

watched

from

the

fringes

of

the

group

as

Bernard

established

the

hierarchy.

Some

of

the

boys

were

useful

to

him,

and

he

flattered

them

outrageously.

Some

of

the

boys

were

willing

servants,

doing

whatever

he

wanted

even

though

he

treated

them

with

contempt.

But

a

few

chafed

under

Bernard's

rule.

Ender,

watching,

knew

who

resented

Bernard.

Shem

was

small,

ambitious,

and

easily

needled.

Bernard

had

discovered

that

quickly,

and

started

calling

him

Worm.

"Because

he's

so

small,"

Bernard

said,

"and

because

he

wriggles.

Look

how

he

shimmies

his

butt

when

he

walks."

Shen

stormed

off,

but

they

only

laughed

louder.

"Look

at

his

butt.

Seeya,

Worm!"

Ender

said

nothing

to

Shen--

it

would

be

too

obvious,

then,

that

he

was

starting

his

own

competing

gang.

He

just

sat

with

his

desk

on

his

lap,

looking

as

studious

as

possible.

He

was

not

studying.

He

was

telling

his

desk

to

keep

sending

a

message

into

the

interrupt

queue

every

thirty

seconds.

The

message

was

to

everyone,

and

it

was

short

and

to

the

point.

What

made

it

hard

was

figuring

out

how

to

disguise

who

it

was

from,

the

way

the

teachers

could.

Messages

from

one

of

the

boys

always

had

their

name

automatically

inserted.

Ender

hadn't

cracked

the

teachers

security

system

yet,

so

he

couldn't

pretend

to

be

a

teacher.

But

he

was

able

to

set

up

a

file

for

a

nonexistent

student,

whom

he

whimsically

named

God.

Only

when

the

message

was

ready

to

go

did

he

try

to

catch

Shen's

eye.

Like

all

the

other

boys,

he

was

watching

Bernard

and

his

cronies

latigh

and

joke,

making

fun

of

the

math

teacher,

who

often

stopped

in

midsentence

and

looked

around

as

if

he

had

been

let

off

the

bus

at

the

wrong

stop

and

didn't

know

where

he

was.

Eventually,

though,

Shen

glanced

around.

Ender

nodded

to

him,

pointed

to

his

desk,

and

smiled.

Shen

looked

puzzled.

Ender

held

up

his

desk

a

little

and

then

pointed

at

it.

Shen

reached

for

his

own

desk.

Ender

sent

the

message

then,

Shen

saw

it

almost

at

once.

Shen

read

it,

then

laughed

aloud.

He

looked

at

Ender

as

if

to

say,

Did

you

do

this?

Ender

shrugged,

to

say,

I

don't

know

who

did

it

but

it

sure

wasn't

me.

Shen

laughed

again,

and

several

of

the

other

boys

who

were

not

close

to

Bernard's

group

got

out

their

desks

and

looked.

Every

thirty

seconds

the

message

appeared

on

every

desk,

marched

around

the

screen

quickly,

then

disappeared.

The

boys

laughed

together.

"What's

so

funny?"

Bernard

asked,

Ender

made

sure

he

was

not

smiling

when

Bernard

looked

around

the

room,

imitating

the

fear

that

so

many

others

felt.

Shen,

of

course,

smiled

all

the

more

defiantly.

It

took

a

moment;

then

Bernard

told

one

of

his

boy's

to

bring

out

a

desk.

Together

they

read

the

message.

COVER

YOUR

BUTT.

BERNARD

IS

WATCHING.

--GOD

Bernard

went

red

with

anger.

"Who

did

this!"

he

shouted.

"God,"

said

Shen.

"It

sure

as

hell

wasn't

you,"

Bernard

said.

"This

takes

too

much

brains

for

a

worm."

Ender's

message

expired

after

five

minutes.

After

a

while,

a

message

from

Bernard

appeared

on

his

desk.

I

KNOW

IT

WAS

YOU.

--BERNARD

Ender

didn't

look

up.

He

acted,

in

fact,

as

if

he

hadn't

seen

the

message.

Bernard

just

wants

to

catch

me

looking

guilty.

He

doesn't

know.

Of

course,

it

didn't

matter

if

he

knew.

Bernard

would

punish

him

all

the

more,

because

he

had

to

rebuild

his

position.

The

one

thing

he

couldn't

stand

was

having

the

other

boys

laughing

at

him.

He

had

to

make

clear

who

was

boss.

So

Ender

got

knocked

down

in

the

shower

that

morning.

One

of

Bernard's

boys

pretended

to

trip

over

him,

and

managed

to

plant

a

knee

in

his

belly.

Ender

took

it

in

silence.

He

was

still

watching,

as

far

as

the

open

war

was

concerned.

He

would

do

nothing.

But

in

the

other

war,

the

war

of

desks,

he

already

had

his

next

attack

in

place.

When

he

got

back

from

the

shower,

Bernard

was

raging,

kicking

beds

and

yelling

at

boys.

"I

didn't

write

it!

Shut

up!"

Marching

constantly

around

every

boy's

desk

was

this

message:

I

LOVE

YOUR

BUTT.

LET

ME

KISS

IT.

--BERNARD

"I

didn't

write

that

message!"

Bernard

shouted.

After

the

shouting

had

been

going

on

for

some

time,

Dap

appeared

at

the

door.

"What's

the

fuss?"

he

asked.

"Somebody's

been

writing

messages

using

my

name."

Bernard

was

sullen.

"What

message."

"It

doesn't

matter

what

message!"

"It

does

to

me."

Dap

picked

up

the

nearest

desk,

which

happened

to

belong

to

the

boy'

who

bunked

above

Ender.

Dap

read

it,

smiled

very

slightly,

gave

back

the

desk.

"Interesting,"

he

said.

"Aren't

you

going

to

find

out

who

did

it?"

demanded

Bernard.

"Oh,

I

know

who

did

it,"

Dap

said.

Yes,

Ender

thought.

The

system

was

too

easily

broken.

They

mean

us

to

break

it,

or

sections

of

it.

They

know

it

was

me.

"Well,

who,

then?"

Bernard

shouted.

"Are

you

shouting

at

me,

soldier?"

asked

Dap,

very

softly.

At

once

the

mood

in

the

room

changed.

From

rage

on

the

part

of

Bernard's

closest

friends

and

barely

contained

mirth

among

the

rest,

all

became

somber.

Authority

was

about

to

speak.

"No,

sir,"

said

Bernard.

"Everybody

knows

that

the

system

automatically

puts

on

the

name

of

the

sender."

"I

didn't

write

that!"

Bernard

said.

"Shouting?"

asked

Dap.

"Yesterday

someone

sent

a

message

that

was

signed

GOD,"

Bernard

said.

"Really?"

said

Dap.

"I

didn't

know

he

was

signed

onto

the

system."

Dap

turned

and

left,

and

the

room

filled

with

laughter.

Bernard's

attempt

to

be

ruler

of

the

room

was

broken--

only

a

few

stayed

with

him

now.

But

they

were

the

most

vicious.

And

Ender

knew

that

until

he

was

through

watching,

it

would

go

hard

on

him.

Still,

the

tampering

with

the

system

had

done

its

work,

Bernard

was

contained,

and

all

the

boys

who

had

some

quality

were

free

of

him.

Best

of

all,

Ender

had

done

it

without

sending

him

to

the

hospital.

Much

better

this

way.

Then

he

settled

down

to

the

serious

business

of

designing

a

security

system

for

his

own

desk,

since

the

safeguards

built

into

the

system

were

obviously

inadequate.

If

a

six-yearold

could

break

them

down,

they

were

obviously

put

there

as

a

plaything,

not

serious

security.

Just

another

game

that

the

teachers

set

up

for

us.

And

this

is

one

I'm

good

at.

"How

did

you

do

that?"

Shen

asked

him

at

breakfast.

Ender

noted

quietly

that

this

was

the

first

time

another

Launchy

from

his

own

class

had

sat

with

him

at

a

meal.

"Do

what?"

he

asked.

"Send

a

message

with

a

fake

name.

And

Bernard's

name!

That

was

great.

They're

calling

him

Buttwatcher

now.

Just

Watcher

in

front

of

the

teachers,

but

everybody

knows

what

he's

watching."

"Poor

Bernard,"

Ender

murmured.

"And

he's

so

sensitive."

"Come

on,

Ender.

You

broke

into

the

system.

How'd

you

do

it?"

Ender

shook

his

head

and

smiled.

"Thanks

for

thinking

I'm

bright

enough

to

do

that.

I

just

happened

to

see

it

first,

that's

all."

"OK,

you

don't

have

to

tell

me,"

said

Shen.

"Still,

it

was

great."

They

ate

in

silence

fora

moment.

"Do

I

wiggle

my

butt

when

I

walk?"

"Naw."

Ender

said.

"Just

a

little.

Just

don't

take

such

big

long

steps,

that's

all."

Shen

nodded.

"The

only

person

who'd

ever

notice

was

Bernard."

"He's

a

pig,"

said

Shen.

Ender

shrugged.

"On

the

whole,

pigs

aren't

so

bad."

Shen

laughed.

"You're

right.

I

wasn't

being

fair

to

the

pigs."

They

laughed

together,

and

two

other

Launchies

joined

them.

Ender's

isolation

was

over.

The

war

was

just

beginning.

Chapter

6

--

The

Giant's

Drink

"We've

had

our

disappointments

in

the

past,

hanging

on

for

years,

hoping

they'll

pull

through,

and

then

they

don't.

Nice

thing

about

Ender,

he's

determined

to

ice

within

the

first

six

months."

"Oh?"

"Don't

you

see

what's

going

on

here?

He's

stuck

at

the

Giant's

Drink

in

the

mind

game.

Is

the

boy

suicidal?

You

never

mentioned

it."

"Everybody

gets

the

Giant

sometime."

"But

Ender

won't

leave

it

alone.

Like

Pinual."

"Everybody

looks

like

Pinual

at

one

time

or

another.

But

he's

the

only

one

who

killed

himself.

I

don't

think

it

had

anything

to

do

with

the

Giant's

Drink."

"You're

betting

my

life

on

that.

And

look

what

he's

done

with

his

launch

group."

"Wasn't

his

fault,

you

know."

"I

don't

care.

His

fault

or

not,

he's

poisoning

that

group.

They're

supposed

to

bond,

and

right

where

he

stands

there's

a

chasm

a

mile

wide."

"I

don't

plan

to

leave

him

there

very

long,

anyway."

"Then

you'd

better

plan

again.

That

launch

is

sick,

and

he's

the

source

of

the

disease.

He

stays

till

it's

cured."

"I

was

the

source

of

the

disease.

I

was

isolating

him,

and

it

worked."

"Give

him

time.

To

see

what

he

does

with

it."

"We

don't

have

time."

"We

don't

have

time

to

rush

a

kid

ahead

who

has

as

much

chance

of

being

a

monster

as

a

military

genius."

"Is

this

an

order?"

"The

recorders

on,

it's

always

on,

your

ass

is

covered,

go

to

hell."

"If

it's

an

order,

then

I'll--"

"It's

an

order.

Hold

him

where

he

is

until

we

see

now

he

handles

things

in

his

launch

group.

Graff,

you

give

me

ulcers."

"You

wouldn't

have

ulcers

if

you'd

leave

the

school

to

me

and

take

care

of

the

fleet

yourself."

"The

fleet

is

looking

for

a

battle

commander.

There's

nothing

to

take

care

of

until

you

get

me

that."

***

They

filed

clumsily

into

the

battleroom,

like

children

in

a

swimming

pool

for

the

first

time,

clinging

to

the

handholds

along

the

side.

Null

gravity

was

frightening,

disorienting;

they

soon

found

that

things

went

better

if

they

didn't

use

their

feet

at

all.

Worse,

the

suits

were

confining.

It

was

harder

to

make

precise

movements,

since

the

suits

bent

just

a

bit

slower,

resisted

a

bit

more

than

any

clothing

they

had

ever

worn

before.

Ender

gripped

the

handhold

and

flexed

his

knees.

He

noticed

that

along

with

the

sluggishness,

the

suit

had

an

amplifying

effect

on

movement.

It

was

hard

to

get

them

started,

but

the

suit's

legs

kept

moving,

and

strongly,

after

his

muscles

had

stopped.

Give

them

a

push

this

strong,

and

the

suit

pushes

with

twice

the

force.

I'll

be

clumsy

for

a

while.

Better

get

started.

So,

still

grasping

the

handhold,

he

pushed

off

strongly

with

his

feet.

Instantly

he

flipped

around,

his

feet

flying

over

his

head,

and

landed

fiat

on

his

back

against

the

wall.

The

rebound

was

stronger,

it

seemed,

and

his

hands

tore

loose

from

the

handhold.

He

flew

across

the

battleroom,

tumbling

over

and

over.

For

a

sickening

moment

he

tried

to

retain

his

old

up-and-down

orientation,

his

body

attempting

to

right

itself,

searching

for

the

gravity

that

wasn't

there.

Then

he

forced

himself

to

change

his

view.

He

was

hurtling

toward

a

wall.

That

was

down.

And

at

once

he

had

control

of

himself.

He

wasn't

flying,

he

was

falling.

This

was

a

dive.

He

could

choose

how

he

would

hit

the

surface.

I'm

going

too

fast

to

catch

ahold

and

stay,

but

I

can

soften

the

impact,

can

fly

off

at

an

angle

if

I

roll

when

I

hit

and

use

my

feet--

It

didn't

work

at

all

the

way

he

had

planned.

He

went

off

at

an

angle,

but

it

was

not

the

one

he

had

predicted.

Nor

did

he

have

time

to

consider.

He

hit

another

wall,

this

time

too

soon

to

have

prepared

for

it.

But

quite

accidently

he

discovered

a

way

to

use

his

feet

to

control

the

rebound

angle.

Now

he

was

soaring

across

the

room

again,

toward

the

other

boys

who

still

clung

to

the

wall.

This

time

he

had

slowed

enough

to

be

able

to

grip

a

rung.

He

was

at

a

crazy

angle

in

relation

to

the

other

boys,

but

once

again

his

orientation

had

changed,

and

as

far

as

he

could

tell,

they

were

all

lying

on

the

floor,

not

hanging

on

a

wall,

and

he

was

no

more

upside

down

than

they

were.

"What

are

you

trying

to

do,

kill

yourself?"

asked

Shen.

"Try

it,"

Ender

said.

"The

suit

keeps

you

from

hurting

yourself,

and

you

can

control

your

bouncing

with

your

legs,

like

this."

He

approximated

the

movement

he

had

made.

Shen

shook

his

head--

he

wasn't

trying

any

fool

stunt

like

that.

But

one

boy

did

take

off,

not

as

fast

as

Ender

had,

because

he

didn't

begin

with

a

flip,

but

fast

enough.

Ender

didn't

even

have

to

see

his

face

to

know

that

it

was

Bernard.

And

right

after

him,

Bernard's

best

friend,

Alai.

Ender

watched

them

cross

the

huge

room,

Bernard

struggling

to

orient

himself

to

the

direction

he

thought

of

as

the

floor,

Alai

surrendering

to

the

movement

and

preparing

to

rebound

from

the

wall.

No

wonder

Bernard

broke

his

arm

in

the

shuttle,

Ender

thought.

He

tightens

up

when

he's

flying.

He

panics.

Ender

stored

the

information

away

for

future

reference.

And

another

bit

of

information,

too.

Alai

did

not

push

off

in

the

same

direction

as

Bernard.

He

aimed

for

a

corner

of

the

room.

Their

paths

diverged

more

and

more

as

they

flew,

and

where

Bernard

made

a

clumsy,

crunching

landing

and

bounce

on

his

wall,

Alai

did

a

glancing

triple

bounce

on

three

surfaces

near

the

corner

that

left

him

most

of

his

speed

and

sent

him

flying

off

at

a

surprising

angle.

Alai

shouted

and

whooped,

and

so

did

the

boys

watching

him.

Some

of

them

forgot

they

were

weightless

and

let

go

of

the

wall

to

clap

their

hands.

Now

they

drifted

lazily

in

many

directions,

waving

their

arms,

trying

to

swim.

Now,

that's

a

problem,

thought

Ender.

What

if

you

catch

yourself

drifting?

There's

no

way

to

push

off.

He

was

tempted

to

set

himself

adrift

and

try

to

solve

the

problem

by

trial

and

error.

But

he

could

see

the

others,

their

useless

efforts

at

control,

and

he

couldn't

think

of

what

he

would

do

that

they

weren't

already

doing.

Holding

onto

the

floor

with

one

hand,

he

fiddled

idly

with

the

toy

gun

that

was

attached

to

his

suit

in

front,

just

below

the

shoulder.

Then

he

remembered

the

hand

rockets

sometimes

used

by

marines

when

they

did

a

boarding

assault

on

an

enemy

station.

He

pulled

the

gun

from

his

suit

and

examined

it.

He

had

pushed

all

the

buttons

back

in

the

room,

but

the

gun

did

nothing

there.

Maybe

here

in

the

battleroom

it

would

work.

There

were

no

instructions

on

it.

No

labels

on

the

controls.

The

trigger

was

obvious--

he

had

had

toy

guns,

as

all

children

had,

almost

since

infancy.

There

were

two

buttons

that

his

thumb

could

easily

reach,

and

several

others

along

the

bottom

of

the

shaft

that

were

almost

inaccessible

without

using

two

hands.

Obviously,

the

two

buttons

near

his

thumb

were

meant

to

be

instantly

usable.

He

aimed

the

gun

at

the

floor

and

pulled

back

on

the

trigger.

He

felt

the

gun

grow

instantly

warm;

when

he

let

go

of

the

trigger,

it

cooled

at

once.

Also,

a

tiny

circle

of

light

appeared

on

the

floor

where

he

was

aiming.

He

thumbed

the

red

button

at

the

top

of

the

gun,

and

pulled

the

trigger

again.

Same

thing.

Then

he

pushed

the

white

button.

It

gave

a

bright

flash

of

light

that

illuminated

a

wide

area,

but

not

as

intensely.

The

gun

was

quite

cold

when

the

button

was

pressed.

The

red

button

makes

it

like

a

laser--

but

it

is

not

a

laser,

Dap

had

said--

while

the

white

button

makes

it

a

lamp.

Neither

will

be

much

help

when

it

comes

to

maneuvering.

So

everything

depends

on

how

you

push

off,

the

course

you

set

when

you

start.

It

means

we're

going

to

have

to

get

very

good

at

controlling

our

launches

and

rebounds

or

we're

all

going

to

end

up

floating

around

in

the

middle

of

nowhere.

Ender

looked

around

the

room.

A

few

of

the

boys

were

drifting

close

to

walls

now,

flailing

their

arms

to

catch

a

handhold.

Most

were

bumping

into

each

other

and

laughing;

some

were

holding

hands

and

going

around

in

circles.

Only

a

few,

like

Ender,

were

calmly

holding

onto

the

walls

and

watching.

One

of

them,

he

saw,

was

Alai.

He

had

ended

up

on

another

wall

not

too

far

from

Ender.

On

impulse,

Ender

pushed

off

and

moved

quickly

toward

Alai.

Once

in

the

air,

he

wondered

what

he

would

say.

Alai

was

Bernard's

friend.

What

did

Ender

have

to

say

to

him?

Still,

there

was

no

changing

course

now.

So

he

watched

straight

ahead,

and

practiced

making

tiny

leg

and

hand

movements

to

control

which

way

he

was

facing

as

he

drifted.

Too

late,

he

realized

that

he

had

aimed

too

well.

He

was

not

going

to

land

near

Alai--

he

was

going

to

hit

him.

"Here,

snag

my

hand!"

Alai

called.

Ender

held

out

his

hand.

Alai

took

the

shock

of

impact

and

helped

Ender

make

a

fairly

gentle

landing

against

the

wall.

"That's

good,"

Ender

said.

"We

ought

to

practice

that

kind

of

thing."

"That's

what

I

thought,

only

everybody's

turning

to

butter

out

there,"

Alai

said.

"What

happens

if

we

get

out

there

together?

We

should

be

able

to

shove

each

other

in

opposite

directions."

"Yeah."

"OK?"

It

was

an

admission

that

all

might

not

be

right

between

them.

Is

it

OK

for

us

to

do

something

together?

Ender's

answer

was

to

take

Alai

by

the

wrist

and

get

ready

to

push

off.

"Ready?"

said

Alai.

"Go."

Since

they

pushed

off

with

different

amounts

of

force,

they

began

to

circle

each

other.

Ender

made

some

small

hand

movements,

then

shifted

a

leg.

They

slowed.

He

did

it

again.

They

stopped

orbiting.

Now

they

were

drifting

evenly.

"Packed

head,

Ender."

Alai

said.

It

was

high

praise.

"Let's

push

off

before

we

run

into

that

bunch."

"And

then

let's

meet

over

in

that

corner."

Ender

did

not

want

this

bridge

into

the

enemy

camp

to

fail.

"Last

one

there

saves

farts

in

a

milk

bottle,"

Alai

said.

Then,

slowly,

steadily,

they

maneuvered

until

they

faced

each

other,

spread-eagled,

hand

to

hand,

knee

to

knee.

"And

then

we

just

scrunch?"

asked

Alai.

"I've

never

done

this

before

either,"

said

Ender.

They

pushed

off.

It

propelled

them

faster

than

they

expected.

Ender

ran

into

a

couple

of

boys

and

ended

up

on

a

wall

that

he

hadn't

expected.

It

took

him

a

moment

to

reorient

and

find

the

corner

where

he

and

Alai

were

to

meet.

Alai

was

already

headed

toward

it.

Ender

plotted

a

course

that

would

include

two

rebounds,

to

avoid

the

largest

clusters

of

boys.

When

Ender

reached

the

corner,

Alai

had

hooked

his

arms

through

two

adjacent

handholds

and

was

pretending

to

doze.

"You

win."

"I

want

to

see

your

fart

collection,"

Alai

said.

"I

stored

it

in

your

locker.

Didn't

you

notice?"

"I

thought

it

was

my

socks."

"We

don't

wear

socks

anymore."

"Oh

yeah."

A

reminder

that

they

were

both

far

from

home.

It

took

some

of

the

fun

out

of

having

mastered

a

bit

of

navigation.

Ender

took

his

pistol

and

demonstrated

what

he

had

learned

about

the

two

thumb

buttons.

"What

does

it

do

when

you

aim

at

a

person?"

asked

Alai.

"I

don't

know."

"Why

don't

we

find

out?"

Ender

shook

his

head.

"We

might

hurt

somebody."

"I

meant

why

don't

we

shoot

each

other

in

the

foot

or

something.

I'm

not

Bernard,

I

never

tortured

cats

for

fun."

"Oh."

"It

can't

be

too

dangerous,

or

they

wouldn't

give

these

guns

to

kids."

"We're

soldiers

now."

"Shoot

me

in

the

foot."

"No,

you

shoot

me."

"Let's

shoot

each

other."

They

did.

Immediately

Ender

felt

the

leg

of

the

suit

grow

stiff,

immobile

at

the

knee

and

ankle

joints.

"You

frozen?"

asked

Alai.

"Stiff

as

a

board."

"Let's

freeze

a

few,"

Alai

said.

"Let's

have

our

first

war.

Us

against

them."

They

grinned.

Then

Ender

said,

"Better

invite

Bernard."

Alai

cocked

an

eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"And

Shen."

"That

little

slanty-eyed

butt-wiggler?"

Ender

decided

that

Alai

was

joking.

"Hey,

we

can't

all

be

niggers."

Alai

grinned.

"My

grandpa

would've

killed

you

for

that."

"My

great

great

grandpa

would

have

sold

him

first,"

"Let's

go

get

Bernard

and

Shen

and

freeze

these

bugger-lovers."

In

twenty

minutes,

everyone

in

the

room

was

frozen

except

Ender,

Bernard,

Shen,

and

Alai.

The

four

of

them

sat

there

whooping

and

laughing

until

Dap

came

in.

"I

see

you've

learned

how

to

use

your

equipment,"

he

said.

Then

he

did

something

to

a

control

he

held

in

his

hand.

Everybody

drifted

slowly

toward

the

wall

he

was

standing

on.

He

went

among

the

frozen

boys,

touching

them

and

thawing

their

suits.

There

was

a

tumult

of

complaint

that

it

wasn't

fair

how

Bernard

and

Alai

had

shot

them

all

when

they

weren't

ready.

"Why

weren't

you

ready?"

asked

Dap.

"You

had

your

suits

just

as

long

as

they

did.

You

had

just

as

many

minutes

flapping

around

like

drunken

ducks.

Stop

moaning

and

we'll

begin."

Ender

noticed

that

it

was

assumed

that

Bernard

and

Alai

were

the

leaders

of

the

battle.

Well,

that

was

fine.

Bernard

knew

that

Ender

and

Alai

had

learned

to

use

the

guns

together.

And

Ender

and

Alai

were

friends.

Bernard

might

believe

that

Ender

had

joined

his

group,

but

it

wasn't

so.

Ender

had

joined

a

new

group.

Alai's

group.

Bernard

had

joined

it

too.

It

wasn't

obvious

to

everyone;

Bernard

still

blustered

and

sent

his

cronies

on

errands.

But

Alai

now

moved

freely

through

the

whole

room,

and

when

Bernard

was

crazy,

Alai

could

joke

a

little

and

calm

him

down.

When

it

came

time

to

choose

their

launch

leader,

Alai

was

the

almost

unanimous

choice.

Bernard

sulked

for

a

few

days

and

then

he

was

fine,

and

everyone

settled

into

the

new

pattern.

The

launch

was

no

longer

divided

into

Bernard's

in-group

and

Ender's

outcasts.

Alai

was

the

bridge.

***

Ender

sat

on

his

bed

with

his

desk

on

his

knees.

lt

was

private

study

time,

and

Ender

was

doing

Free

Play.

It

was

a

shifting,

crazy

kind

of

game

in

which

the

school

computer

kept

bringing

up

new

things,

building

a

maze

that

you

could

explore.

You

could

go

back

to

events

that

you

liked,

for

a

while;

if

you

left

them

alone

too

long,

they

disappeared

and

something

else

took

its

place.

Sometimes

funny

things.

Sometimes

exciting,

and

he

had

to

be

quick

to

stay

alive.

He

had

lots

of

deaths,

but

that

was

OK,

games

were

like

that,

you

died

a

lot

until

you

got

the

hang

of

it.

His

figure

on

the

screen

had

started

out

as

a

little

boy.

For

a

while

it

had

changed

into

a

bear.

Now

it

was

a

large

mouse,

with

long

and

delicate

hands.

He

ran

his

figure

under

a

lot

of

large

items

of

furniture.

He

had

played

with

the

cat

a

lot,

but

now

it

was

boring--

too

easy

to

dodge,

he

knew

all

the

furniture.

Not

through

the

mousehole

this

time,

he

told

himself.

I'm

sick

of

the

Giant.

It's

a

dumb

game

and

I

can't

ever

win.

Whatever

I

choose

is

wrong.

But

he

went

through

the

mousehole

anyway,

and

over

the

small

bridge

in

the

garden.

He

avoided

the

ducks

and

the

divebombing

mosquitoes--

he

had

tried

playing

with

them

but

they

were

too

easy,

and

if

he

played

with

the

ducks

too

long

he

turned

into

a

fish,

which

he

didn't

like.

Being

a

fish

reminded

him

too

much

of

being

frozen

in

the

battleroom,

his

whole

body

rigid,

waiting

for

the

practice

to

end

so

Dap

would

thaw

him.

So,

as

usual,

he

found

himself

going

up

the

rolling

hills.

The

landslides

began.

At

first

he

had

got

caught

again

and

again,

crushed

in

an

exaggerated

blot

of

gore

oozing

out

from

under

a

rock

pile.

Now,

though,

he

had

mastered

the

skill

of

running

up

the

slopes

at

an

angle

to

avoid

the

crush,

always

seeking

higher

ground.

And,

as

always,

the

landslides

finally

stopped

being

jumbles

of

rock.

The

face

of

the

hill

broke

open

and

instead

of

shale

it

was

white

bread,

puffy,

rising

like

dough

as

the

crust

broke

away

and

fell.

It

was

soft

and

spongy;

his

figure

moved

more

slowly.

And

when

he

jumped

down

off

the

bread,

he

as

standing

on

a

table.

Giant

loaf

of

bread

behind

him;

giant

stick

of

butter

beside

him.

And

the

Giant

himself

leaning

his

chin

in

his

hands,

looking

at

him.

Ender's

figure

was

about

as

tall

as

the

Giant's

head

from

chin

to

brow.

"I

think

I'll

bite

your

head

off,"

said

the

Giant,

as

he

always

did.

This

time,

instead

of

running

away

or

standing

there,

Ender

walked

his

figure

up

to

the

Giant's

face

and

kicked

him

in

the

chin.

The

Giant

stuck

out

his

tongue

and

Ender

fell

to

the

ground.

"How

about

a

guessing

game?"

asked

the

Giant.

So

it

didn't

make

any

difference--

the

Giant

only

played

the

guessing

game.

Stupid

computer.

Millions

of

possible

scenarios

in

its

memory,

and

the

Giant

could

only

play

one

stupid

game.

The

Giant,

as

always,

set

two

huge

shot

glasses,

as

tall

as

Ender's

knees,

on

the

table

in

front

of

him.

As

always,

the

two

were

filled

with

different

liquids.

The

computer

was

good

enough

that

the

liquids

had

never

repeated,

not

that

he

could

remember.

This

time

the

one

had

a

thick,

creamy

looking

liquid.

The

other

hissed

and

foamed.

"One

is

poison

and

one

is

not,"

said

the

Giant.

"Guess

right

and

I'll

take

you

into

Fairyland."

Guessing

meant

sticking

his

head

into

one

of

the

glasses

to

drink.

He

never

guessed

right.

Sometimes

his

head

was

dissolved.

Sometimes

he

caught

on

fire.

Sometimes

he

fell

in

and

drowned.

Sometimes

he

fell

out,

turned

green,

and

rotted

away.

It

was

always

ghastly,

and

the

Giant

always

laughed.

Ender

knew

that

whatever

he

chose

he

would

die.

The

game

was

rigged.

On

the

first

death,

his

figure

would

reappear

on

the

Giant's

table,

to

play

again.

On

the

second

death,

he'd

come

back

to

the

landslides.

Then

to

the

garden

bridge.

Then

to

the

mousehole.

And

then,

if

he

still

went

back

to

the

Giant

and

played

again,

and

died

again,

his

desk

would

go

dark,

"Free

Play

Over"

would

march

around

the

desk

and

Ender

would

lie

back

on

his

bed

and

tremble

until

he

could

finally

go

to

sleep.

The

game

was

rigged

but

still

the

Giant

talked

about

Fairyland,

some

stupid

childish

three-year-old's

Fairyland

that

probably

had

some

stupid

Mother

Goose

or

Pac-Man

or

Peter

Pan,

it

wasn't

even

worth

getting

to,

but

he

had

to

find

some

way

of

beating

the

Giant

to

get

there.

He

drank

the

creamy

liquid.

Immediately

he

began

to

inflate

and

rise

like

a

balloon.

The

Giant

laughed.

He

was

dead

again.

He

played

again,

and

this

time

the

liquid

set,

like

concrete,

and

held

his

head

down

while

the

Giant

cut

him

open

along

the

spine,

deboned

him

like

a

fish,

and

began

to

eat

while

his

arms

and

legs

quivered.

He

reappeared

at

the

landslides

and

decided

not

to

go

on.

He

even

let

the

landslides

cover

him

once.

But

even

though

he

was

sweating

and

he

felt

cold,

with

his

next

life

he

went

back

up

the

hills

till

then

turned

into

bread,

and

stood

on

the

Giant's

table

as

the

shot

glasses

were

set

before

him.

He

stared

at

the

two

liquids.

The

one

foaming,

the

other

with

waves

in

it

like

the

sea.

He

tried

to

guess

what

kind

of

death

each

one

held.

Probably

a

fish

will

come

out

of

the

ocean

one

and

eat

me.

The

foamy

one

will

probably

asphyxiate

me.

I

hate

this

game.

It

isn't

fair.

It's

stupid.

It's

rotten.

And

instead

of

pushing

his

face

into

one

of

the

liquids,

he

kicked

one

over,

then

the

other,

and

dodged

the

Giant's

huge

hands

as

the

Giant

shouted,

"Cheater,

cheater!"

He

jumped

at

the

Giant's

face,

clambered

up

his

lip

and

nose,

and

began

to

dig

in

the

Giant's

eye.

The

stuff

came

away

like

cottage

cheese,

and

as

the

Giant

screamed,

Ender's

figure

burrowed

into

the

eye,

climbed

right

in,

burrowed

in

and

in.

The

Giant

fell

over

backward,

the

view

shifted

as

he

fell,

and

when

the

Giant

came

to

rest

on

the

ground,

there

were

intricate,

lacy

trees

all

around.

A

bat

flew

up

and

landed

on

the

dead

Giant's

nose.

Ender

brought

his

figure

up

out

of

the

Giant's

eye.

"How

did

you

get

here?"

the

bat

asked.

"Nobody

ever

comes

here."

Ender

could

not

answer,

of

course.

So

he

reached

down,

took

a

handful

of

the

Giant's

eyestuff,

and

offered

it

to

the

bat.

The

bat

took

it

and

flew

off,

shouting

as

it

went,

"Welcome

to

Fairyland."

He

had

made

it.

He

ought

to

explore.

He

ought

to

climb

down

from

the

Giant's

face

and

see

what

he

had

finally

achieved.

Instead

he

signed

off,

put

his

desk

in

his

locker,

stripped

off

his

clothes

and

pulled

his

blanket

over

him.

He

hadn't

meant

to

kill

the

Giant.

This

was

supposed

to

be

a

game.

Not

a

choice

between

his

own

grisly

death

and

an

even

worse

murder.

I'm

a

murderer,

even

when

I

play.

Peter

would

be

proud

of

me.

Chapter

7

--

Salamander

"Isn't

it

nice

to

know

that

Ender

can

do

the

impossible?"'

"The

player's

deaths

have

always

been

sickening.

I've

always

thought

the

Giant's

Drink

was

the

most

perverted

part

at

the

whole

mind

game,

but

going

for

the

eye

like

that--

this

is

the

one

we

want

to

put

in

command

of

our

fleets?"

"What

matters

is

that

he

won

the

game

that

couldn't

be

won."

"I

suppose

you'll

move

him

now."

"We

were

waiting

to

see

how

he

handled

the

thing

with

Bernard.

He

handled

it

perfectly."

"So

as

soon

as

he

can

cope

with

a

situation,

you

move

him

to

one

he

can't

cope

with.

Doesn't

he

get

any

rest?"

"He'll

have

a

month

or

two,

maybe

three,

with

his

launch

group.

That's

really

quite

a

long

time

in

a

child's

life."

"Does

it

ever

seem

to

you

that

these

boys

aren't

children?

I

look

at

what

they

do,

the

way

they

talk,

and

they

don't

seem

like

little

kids."

"They're

the

most

brilliant

children

in

the

world,

each

in

his

own

way."

"But

shouldn't

they

still

act

like

children?

They

aren't

normal.

They

act

like--

history.

Napoleon

and

Wellington.

Caesar

and

Brutus."

"We're

trying

to

save

the

world,

not

heal

the

wounded

heart.

You're

too

compassionate."

"General

Levy

has

no

pity

for

anyone.

All

the

videos

say

so.

But

don't

hurt

this

boy."

"Are

you

joking?"

"I

mean,

don't

hurt

him

more

than

you

have

to."

***

Alai

sat

across

from

Ender

at

dinner.

"I

finally

figured

out

how

you

sent

that

message.

Using

Bernard's

name."

"Me?"

asked

Ender.

"Come

on.

who

else?

It

sure

wasn't

Bernard.

And

Shen

isn't

too

hot

on

the

computer.

And

I

know

it

wasn't

me.

Who

else?

Doesn't

matter.

I

figured

out

how

to

fake

a

new

student

entry.

You

just

created

a

student

named

Bernard-blank,

B-E-R-N-A-R-D-space,

so

the

computer

didn't

kick

it

out

as

a

repeat

of

another

student."

"Sounds

like

that

might

work,"

said

Ender.

"OK,

OK.

It

does

work.

But

you

did

that

practically

on

the

first

day."

"Or

somebody.

Maybe

Dap

did

it,

to

keep

Bernard

from

getting

too

much

control."

"I

found

something

else.

I

can't

do

it

with

your

name."

"Oh?"

"Anything

with

Ender

in

it

gets

kicked

out.

I

can't

get

inside

your

files

at

all,

either.

You

made

your

own

security

system."

"Maybe."

Alai

grinned.

"I

just

got

in

and

trashed

somebody's

files.

He's

right

behind

me

on

cracking

the

system.

I

need

protection,

Ender.

I

need

your

system."

"If

I

give

you

my

system,

you'll

know

how

I

do

it

and

you'll

get

in

and

trash

me."

"You

say

me?"

Alai

asked.

"I

the

sweetest

friend

you

got!"

Ender

laughed.

"I'll

setup

a

system

for

you."

"Now?"

"Can

I

finish

eating?"

"You

never

finish

eating."

It

was

true.

Ender's

tray

always

had

food

on

it

after

a

meal.

Ender

looked

at

the

plate

and

decided

he

was

through.

"Let's

go

then."

When

they

got

to

the

barracks.

Ender

squatted

down

by

his

bed

and

said,

"Get

your

desk

and

bring

it

over

here.

I'll

show

you

how."

But

when

Alai

brought

his

desk

to

Ender's

bed,

Ender

was

just

sitting

there,

his

lockers

still

closed.

"What

up?"

asked

Alai.

In

answer

Ender

palmed

his

locker.

"Unauthorized

Access

Attempt,"

it

said.

It

didn't

open.

"Somebody

done

a

dance

on

your

head,

mama,"

Alai

said.

"Somebody

eated

your

face."

"You

sure

you

want

my

security

system

now?"

Ender

got

up

and

walked

away

from

his

bed.

"Ender,"

said

Alai.

Ender

turned

around.

Alai

was

holding

a

little

piece

of

paper.

"What

is

it?"

Alai

looked

up

at

him.

"Don't

you

know?

This

was

on

your

bed.

You

must

have

sat

on

it."

Ender

took

it

from

him.

ENDER

WIGGIN

--

ASSIGNED

SALAMANDER

ARMY

--

COMMANDER

BONZO

MADRID

--

EFFECTIVE

IMMEDIATELY

--

CODE

GREEN

GREEN

BROWN

--

NO

POSSESSIONS

TRANSFERRED

"You're

smart,

Ender,

but

you

don't

do

the

battle-room

any

better

than

me."

Ender

shook

his

head.

It

was

the

stupidest

thing

he

could

think

of,

to

promote

him

now.

Nobody

got

promoted

before

they

were

eight

years

old.

Ender

wasn't

even

seven

yet.

And

launches

usually

moved

into

the

armies

together,

with

most

armies

getting

a

new

kid

at

the

same

time.

There

were

no

transfer

slips

on

any

of

the

other

beds.

Just

when

things

were

finally

coming

together.

Just

when

Bernard

was

getting

along

with

everybody,

even

Ender.

Just

when

Ender

was

beginning

to

make

a

real

friend

out

of

Alai.

Just

when

his

life

was

finally

getting

livable.

Ender

reached

down

to

pull

Alai

up

from

the

bed.

"Salamander

Army's

in

contention,

anyway,"

Alai

said.

Ender

was

so

angry

at

the

unfairness

of

the

transfer

that

tears

were

coming

to

his

eyes.

Mustn't

cry,

he

told

himself.

Alai

saw

the

tears

but

had

the

grace

not

to

say

so.

"They're

fartheads,

Ender,

they

won't

even

let

you

take

anything

you

own."

Ender

grinned

and

didn't

cry

after

all.

"Think

I

should

strip

and

go

naked?"

Alai

laughed,

too.

On

impulse

Ender

hugged

him,

tight,

almost

as

if

he

were

Valentine.

He

even

thought

of

Valentine

then

and

wanted

to

go

home.

"I

don't

want

to

go,"

he

said.

Alai

hugged

him

back.

"I

understand

them,

Ender.

You

are

the

best

of

us.

Maybe

they're

in

a

hurry

to

teach

you

everything."

"They

don't

want

to

teach

me

everything,"

Ender

said.

"I

wanted

to

learn

what

it

was

like

to

have

a

friend."

Alai

nodded

soberly.

"Always

my

friend,

always

the

best

of

my

friends,"

he

said.

Then

he

grinned.

"Go

slice

up

the

buggers."

"Yeah."

Ender

smiled

back.

Alai

suddenly

kissed

Ender

on

the

cheek

and

whispered

in

his

ear.

"Salaam."

Then,

red

faced,

he

turned

away

and

walked

to

his

own

bed

at

the

back

of

the

barracks.

Ender

guessed

that

the

kiss

and

the

word

were

somehow

forbidden.

A

suppressed

religion,

perhaps.

Or

maybe

the

word

had

some

private

and

powerful

meaning

for

Alai

alone.

Whatever

it

meant

to

Alai,

Ender

knew

that

it

was

sacred;

that

he

had

uncovered

himself

for

Ender,

as

once

Ender's

mother

had

done

when

he

was

very

young,

before

they

put

the

monitor

in

his

neck,

and

she

had

put

her

hands

on

his

head

when

she

thought

he

was

asleep,

and

prayed

over

him.

Ender

had

never

spoken

of

that

to

anyone,

not

even

to

Mother,

but

had

kept

it

as

a

memory

of

holiness,

of

how

his

mother

loved

him

when

she

thought

that

no

one,

not

even

he,

could

see

or

hear.

That

was

what

Alai

had

given

him:

a

gift

so

sacred

that

even

Ender

could

not

be

allowed

to

understand

what

it

meant.

After

such

a

thing

nothing

could

be

said.

Alai

reached

his

bed

and

turned

around

to

see

Ender.

Their

eyes

held

for

only

a

moment,

locked

in

understanding.

Then

Ender

left.

***

There

would

be

no

green

green

brown

in

this

part

of

the

school;

he

would

have

to

pick

up

the

colors

in

one

of

the

public

areas.

The

others

would

be

finished

with

dinner

very

soon;

he

didn't

want

to

go

near

the

mess

hall.

The

game

room

would

be

nearly

empty.

None

of

the

games

appealed

to

him,

the

way

he

felt

now.

So

he

went

to

the

bank

of

public

desks

at

the

back

of

the

room

and

signed

on

to

his

own

private

game.

He

went

quickly

to

Fairyland.

The

Giant

was

dead

when

he

arrived

now;

he

had

to

climb

carefully

down

the

table,

jump

to

the

leg

of

the

Giant's

overturned

chair,

and

then

make

the

drop

to

the

ground.

For

a

while

there

had

been

rats

gnawing

at

the

Giant's

body,

but

Ender

had

killed

one

with

a

pin

from

the

Giant's

ragged

shirt,

and

they

had

left

him

alone

after

that.

The

Giant's

corpse

had

essentially

finished

its

decay.

What

could

be

torn

by

the

small

scavengers

was

torn;

the

maggots

had

done

their

work

on

the

organs,

now

it

was

a

dessicated

mummy,

hollowed-out,

teeth

in

a

rigid

grin,

eyes

empty,

fingers

curled.

Ender

remembered

burrowing

through

the

eye

when

it

had

been

alive

and

malicious

and

intelligent.

Angry

and

frustrated

as

he

was,

Ender

wished

to

do

such

murder

again.

But

the

Giant

had

become

part

of

the

landscape

now,

and

so

there

could

be

no

rage

against

him.

Ender

had

always

gone

over

the

bridge

to

the

castle

of

the

Queen

of

Hearts,

where

there

were

games

enough

for

him;

but

none

of

those

appealed

to

him

now.

He

went

around

the

giant's

corpse

and

followed

the

brook

upstream,

to

where

it

emerged

from

the

forest.

There

was

a

playground

there,

slides

and

monkeybars,

teeter-totters

and

merry-gorounds,

with

a

dozen

children

laughing

as

they

played.

Ender

came

and

found

that

in

the

game

he

had

become

a

child,

though

usually

his

figure

in

the

games

was

adult.

In

fact,

he

was

smaller

than

the

other

children.

He

got

in

line

for

the

slide.

The

other

children

ignored

him.

He

climbed

up

to

the

top,

watched

the

boy

before

him

whirl

down

the

long

spiral

to

the

ground.

Then

he

sat

and

began

to

slide.

He

had

not

slid

for

a

moment

when

he

fell

right

through

the

slide

and

landed

on

the

ground

under

the

ladder.

The

slide

would

not

hold

him.

Neither

would

the

monkey

bars.

He

could

climb

a

ways,

but

then

at

random

a

bar

seemed

to

be

insubstantial

and

he

fell.

He

could

sit

on

the

see-saw

until

he

rose

to

the

apex;

then

he

fell.

When

the

merry-go-round

went

fast,

he

could

not

hold

onto

any

of

the

bars,

and

centrifugal

force

hurled

him

off.

And

the

other

children:

their

laughter

was

raucous,

offensive.

They

circled

around

him

and

pointed

and

laughed

for

many

seconds

before

they

went

back

to

their

play.

Ender

wanted

to

hit

them,

to

throw

them

in

the

brook.

Instead

he

walked

into

the

forest.

He

found

a

path,

which

soon

became

an

ancient

brick

road,

much

overgrown

with

weeds

but

still

usable.

There

were

hints

of

possible

games

off

to

either

side,

but

Ender

followed

none

of

them.

He

wanted

to

see

where

the

path

led.

It

led

to

a

clearing,

with

a

well

in

the

middle,

and

a

sign

that

said,

"Drink,

traveler."

Ender

went

forward

and

looked

at

the

well.

Almost

at

once,

he

heard

a

snarl.

Out

of

the

woods

emerged

a

dozen

slavering

wolves

with

human

faces.

Ender

recognized

them--

they

were

the

children

from

the

playground.

Only

now

their

teeth

could

tear;

Ender,

weaponless,

was

quickly

devoured.

His

next

figure

appeared,

as

usual,

in

the

same

spot,

and

was

eaten

again,

though

Ender

tried

to

climb

down

into

the

well.

The

next

appearance,

though,

was

at

the

playground.

Again

the

children

laughed

at

him.

Laugh

all

you

like,

Ender

thought.

I

know

what

you

are.

He

pushed

one

of

them.

She

followed

him,

angry.

Ender

led

her

up

the

slide.

Of

course

he

fell

through;

but

this

time,

following

so

closely

behind

him,

she

also

fell

through.

When

she

hit

the

ground,

she

turned

into

a

wolf

and

lay

there,

dead

or

stunned.

One

by

one

Ender

led

each

of

the

others

into

a

trap.

But

before

he

had

finished

off

the

last

of

them,

the

wolves

began

reviving,

and

were

no

longer

children.

Ender

was

torn

apart

again.

This

time,

shaking

and

sweating,

Ender

found

his

figure

revived

on

the

Giant's

table.

I

should

quit,

he

told

himself.

I

should

go

to

my

new

army.

But

instead

he

made

his

figure

drop

down

from

the

table

and

walk

around

the

Giant's

body

to

the

playground.

This

time,

as

soon

as

the

child

hit

the

ground

and

turned

into

a

wolf,

Ender

dragged

the

body

to

the

brook

and

pulled

it

in.

Each

time,

the

body

sizzled

as

though

the

water

were

acid;

the

wolf

was

consumed,

and

a

dark

cloud

of

smoke

arose

and

drifted

away.

The

children

were

easily

dispatched,

though

they

began

following

him

in

twos

and

threes

at

the

end.

Ender

found

no

wolves

waiting

for

him

in

the

clearing,

and

he

lowered

himself

into

the

well

on

the

bucket

rope.

The

light

in

the

cavern

was

dim,

but

he

could

see

piles

of

jewels.

He

passed

them

by,

noting

that,

behind

him,

eyes

glinted

among

the

gems.

A

table

covered

with

food

did

not

interest

him.

He

passed

through

a

group

of

cages

hanging

from

the

ceiling

of

the

cave,

each

containing

some

exotic,

friendly-looking

creature.

I'll

play

with

you

later,

Ender

thought.

At

last

he

came

to

a

door,

with

these

words

in

glowing

emeralds:

THE

END

OF

THE

WORLD

He

did

not

hesitate.

He

opened

the

door

and

stepped

through.

He

stood

on

a

small

ledge,

high

on

a

cliff

overlooking

a

terrain

of

bright

and

deep

green

forest

with

dashes

of

autumn

color

and

patches

here

and

there

of

cleared

land,

with

oxdrawn

plows

and

small

villages,

a

castle

on

a

rise

in

the

distance,

and

clouds

riding

currents

of

air

below

him.

Above

him,

the

sky

was

the

ceiling

of

a

vast

cavern,

with

crystals

dangling

in

bright

stalactites.

The

door

closed

behind

him.

Ender

studied

the

scene

intently.

With

the

beauty

of

it,

he

cared

less

for

survival

than

usual.

He

cared

little,

at

the

moment,

what

the

game

of

this

place

might

be.

He

had

found

it,

and

seeing

it

was

its

own

reward.

And

so,

with

no

thought

of

consequences,

he

jumped

from

the

ledge.

Now

he

plummeted

downward

toward

a

roiling

river

and

savage

rocks;

but

a

cloud

came

between

him

and

the

ground

as

he

fell,

and

caught

him,

and

carried

him

away.

It

took

him

to

the

tower

of

the

castle,

and

through

the

open

window,

bearing

him

in.

There

it

left

him,

in

a

room

with

no

apparent

door

in

floor

or

ceiling,

and

windows

looking

out

over

a

certainly

fatal

fall.

A

moment

ago

he

had

thrown

himself

from

a

ledge

carelessly;

this

time

he

hesitated.

The

small

rug

before

the

fire

unraxeled

itself

into

a

long,

slender

serpent

with

wicked

teeth.

"I

am

your

only

escape,"

it

said.

"Death

is

your

only

escape.

Ender

looked

around

the

room

for

a

weapon,

when

suddenly

the

screen

went

dark.

Words

flashed

around

the

rim

of

the

desk.

REPORT

TO

COMMANDER

IMMEDIATELY.

YOU

ARE

LATE.

--

GREEN

GREEN

BROWN.

Furious,

Ender

snapped

off

the

desk

and

went

to

the

color

wall,

where

he

found

the

ribbon

of

green

green

brown,

touched

it,

and

followed

it

as

it

lit

up

before

him.

The

dark

green,

light

green,

and

brown

of

the

ribbon

reminded

him

of

the

early

autumn

kingdom

he

had

found

in

the

game.

I

must

go

back

there,

he

told

himself.

The

serpent

is

a

long

thread;

I

can

let

myself

down

from

the

tower

and

find

my

way

through

that

place.

Perhaps

it's

called

the

end

of

the

world

because

it's

the

end

of

the

games,

because

I

can

go

to

one

of

the

villages

and

become

one

of

the

little

boys

working

and

playing

there,

with

nothing

to

kill

and

nothing

to

kill

me,

just

living

there.

As

he

thought

of

it,

though,

he

could

not

imagine

what

"just

living"

might

actually

be.

He

had

never

done

it

in

his

life.

But

he

wanted

to

do

it

anyway.

***

Armies

were

larger

than

launch

groups,

and

the

army

barracks

room

was

larger,

too.

It

was

long

and

narrow,

with

bunks

on

both

sides;

so

long,

in

fact,

that

you

could

see

the

curvature

of

the

floor

as

the

far

end

bent

upward,

part

of

the

wheel

of

the

Battle

School.

Ender

stood

at

the

door.

A

few

boys

near

the

door

glanced

at

him,

but

they

were

older,

and

it

seemed

as

though

they

hadn't

even

seen

him.

They

went

on

with

their

conversations,

lying

and

leaning

on

bunks.

They

were

discussing

battles,

of

course;

the

older

boys

always

did.

They

were

all

much

larger

than

Ender.

The

ten-

and

eleven-yearolds

towered

over

him;

even

the

youngest

were

eight,

and

Ender

was

not

large

for

his

age.

He

tried

to

see

which

of

the

boys

was

the

commander,

but

most

were

somewhere

between

battle

dress

and

what

the

soldiers

always

called

their

sleep

uniform--

skin

from

head

to

toe.

Many

of

them

had

desks

out,

but

few

were

studying.

Ender

stepped

into

the

room.

The

moment

he

did,

he

was

noticed.

"What

do

you

want?"

demanded

the

boy

who

had

the

upper

bunk

by

the

door.

He

was

the

largest

of

them.

Ender

had

noticed

him

before,

a

young

giant

who

had

whiskers

growing

raggedly

on

his

chin.

"You're

not

a

Salamander."

"I'm

supposed

to

be,

I

think,"

Ender

said.

"Green

green

brown,

right?

I

was

transferred."

He

showed

the

boy,

obviously

the

doorguard,

his

paper.

The

doorguard

reached

for

it.

Ender

withdrew

it

just

out

of

reach.

"I'm

supposed

to

give

it

to

Bonzo

Madrid."

Now

another

boy

joined

the

conversation,

a

smaller

boy,

but

still

larger

than

Ender,

"Not

bahn-zoe,

pisshead.

Bone-So.

The

name's

Spanish.

Bonzo

Madrid.

Aqui

nosotros

hablamos

espa¤ol,

Se¤or

Gran

Fedor."

"You

must

be

Bonzo,

then?"

Ender

asked,

pronouncing

the

name

correctly.

"No,

just

a

brilliant

and

talented

polyglot.

Petra

Arkanian.

The

only

girl

in

Salamander

Army.

With

more

balls

than

anybody

else

in

the

room."

"Mother

Petra

she

talking?"

said

one

of

the

boys.

"She

talking,

she

talking."

Another

one

chimed

in.

"Shit

talking

...

shit

talking,

shit

talking!"

Quite

a

few

laughed.

"Just

between

you

and

me,"

Petra

said,

"if

they

gave

the

Battle

School

an

enema,

they'd

stick

it

in

at

green

green

brown."

Ender

despaired.

He

already

had

nothing

going

for

him:

grossly

undertrained,

small,

inexperienced,

doomed

to

be

resented

for

early

advancement.

And

now,

by

chance,

he

had

made

exactly

the

wrong

friend.

An

outcast

in

Salamander

Army,

and

she

had

just

linked

him

with

her

in

the

minds

of

the

rest

of

the

army.

A

good

day's

work.

For

a

moment,

as

Ender

looked

around

at

the

laughing,

jeering

faces,

he

imagined

their

bodies

covered

with

hair,

their

teeth

pointed

for

tearing.

Am

I

the

only

human

being

in

this

place?

Are

all

the

others

animals,

waiting

only

to

devour?

Then

he

remembered

Alai.

In

every

army,

surely,

there

was

at

least

one

worth

knowing.

Studdenly,

though

no

one

said

to

be

quiet,

the

laughter

stopped

and

the

group

fell

silent.

Ender

turned

to

the

door.

A

boy

stood

there,

tall

and

dark

and

slender,

with

beautiful

black

eyes

and

slender

lips

that

hinted

at

refinement.

I

would

follow

such

beauty,

said

something

inside

Ender.

I

would

see

as

those

eyes

see.

"Who

are

you?"

asked

the

boy

quietly.

"Ender

Wiggin,

sir,"

Ender

said.

"Reassigned

from

launch

to

Salamander

Army."

He

held

out

the

orders.

The

boy

took

the

paper

in

a

swift,

sure

movement,

without

touching

Ender's

hand.

"How

old

are

you,

Wiggin?"

he

asked.

"Almost

seven."

Still

quietly,

he

said,

"I

asked

how

old

you

are,

not

how

old

you

almost

are."

"I

am

six

years,

nine

months,

and

twelve

days

old."

"How

long

have

you

been

working

in

the

batle

room?"

"A

few

months,

now.

My

aim

is

better."

"Any

training

in

battle

maneuvers?

Have

you

ever

been

part

of

a

toon?

Have

you

ever

carried

out

a

joint

exercise?"

Ender

had

never

heard

of

such

things.

He

shook

his

head.

Madrid

looked

at

him

steadily.

"I

see.

As

you

will

quickly

learn,

the

officers

in

command

of

this

school,

most

notably

Major

Anderson,

who

runs

the

game,

are

fond

of

playing

tricks.

Salamander

Army

is

just

beginning

to

emerge

from

indecent

obscurity.

We

have

won

twelve

of

our

last

twenty

games.

We

have

surprised

Rat

and

Scorpion

and

Hound,

and

we

are

ready

to

play

for

leadership

in

the

game.

So

of

course,

of

course

I

am

given

such

a

useless,

untrained,

hopeless

specimen

of

of

underdevelopment

as

yourself."

Petra

said,

quietly,

"He

isn't

glad

to

meet

you."

"Shut

up,

Arkanian,"

Madrid

said.

"To

one

trial

we

now

add

another.

But

whatever

obstacles

our

officers

choose

to

fling

in

our

path,

we

are

still--"

"Salamander!"

cried

the

soldiers,

in

one

voice.

Instinctively,

Ender's

perception

of

these

events

changed.

It

was

a

pattern,

a

ritual.

Madrid

was

not

trying

to

hurt

him,

merely

taking

control

of

a

surprising

event

and

using

it

to

strengthen

his

control

of

his

army.

"We

are

the

fire

that

will

consume

them,

belly

and

bowel,

head

and

heart,

many

flames

of

us,

but

one

fire."

"Salamander!"

they

cried

again.

"Even

this

one

will

not

weaken

us."

For

a

moment,

Ender

allowed

himself

to

hope.

"I'll

work

hard

and

learn

quickly,"

he

said.

"I

didn't

give

you

permission

to

speak,"

Madrid

answered.

"I

intend

to

trade

you

away

as

quickly

as

I

can.

I'll

probably

huve

to

give

up

someone

valuable

along

with

you,

but

as

small

as

you

are

you

are

worse

than

useless.

One

more

frozen,

inevitably,

in

every

battle,

that's

all

you

are,

and

we're

now

at

a

point

where

every

frozen

soldier

makes

a

difference

in

the

standings.

Nothing

personal,

Wiggin,

but

I'm

sure

you

can

get

your

training

at

someone

else's

expense."

"He's

all

heart,"

Petra

said.

Madrid

stepped

closer

to

the

girl

and

slapped

her

across

the

face

with

the

back

of

his

hand.

It

made

little

sound,

for

only

his

fingernails

had

hit

her.

But

there

were

bright

red

marks,

four

of

them,

on

her

cheek,

and

little

pricks

of

blood

marked

where

the

tips

of

his

fingernails

had

struck.

"Here

are

your

instructions,

Wiggin.

I

expect

that

it

is

the

last

time

I'll

need

to

speak

to

you.

You

will

stay

out

of

the

way

when

we're

training

in

the

battleroom.

You

have

to

be

there,

of

course,

but

you

will

not

belong

to

any

toon

and

you

will

not

take

part

in

any

maneuvers.

When

we're

called

to

battle,

you

will

dress

quickly

and

present

yourself

at

the

gate

with

everyone

else.

But

you

will

not

pass

through

the

gate

until

four

full

minutes

after

the

beginning

of

the

game,

and

then

you

will

remain

at

the

gate,

with

your

weapon

undrawn

and

unfired,

until

such

time

as

the

game

ends."

Ender

nodded.

So

he

was

to

be

a

nothing.

He

hoped

the

trade

happened

soon.

He

also

noticed

that

Petra

did

not

so

much

as

cry

out

in

pain,

or

touch

her

cheek,

though

one

spot

of

blood

had

beaded

and

run,

making

a

streak

down

to

her

jaw.

Outcast

she

may

be,

but

since

Bonzo

Madrid

was

not

going

to

be

Ender's

friend,

no

matter

what,

he

might

as

well

make

friends

with

Petra.

He

was

assigned

a

bunk

at

the

far

end

of

the

room.

The

upper

bunk,

so

that

when

he

lay

on

his

bed

he

couldn't

even

seen

the

door;

the

curve

of

the

ceiling

blocked

it.

There

were

other

boys

near

him,

tired-looking

boys,

sullen,

the

ones

least

valued.

They

had

nothing

of

welcome

to

say

to

Ender.

Ender

tried

to

palm

his

locker

open,

but

nothing

happened.

Then

he

realized

the

lockers

were

not

secured.

All

four

of

them

had

rings

on

them,

to

pull

them

open.

Nothing

would

be

private,

then,

now

that

he

was

in

an

army.

There

was

a

uniform

in

the

locker.

Not

the

pale

green

of

the

Launchies,

but

the

orangetrimmed

dark

green

uniform

of

Salamander

Army.

It

did

not

fit

well.

But

then,

they

had

probably

never

had

to

provide

such

a

uniform

for

a

boy

so

young.

He

was

starting

to

take

it

off

when

he

noticed

Petra

walking

down

the

aisle

toward

his

bed.

He

slid

off

the

bunk

and

stood

on

the

floor

to

greet

her.

"Relax,"

she

said.

"I'm

not

an

officer."

"You're

a

toon

leader,

aren't

you?"

Someone

nearby

snickered.

"Whatever

gave

you

that

idea,

Wiggin?"

"You

have

a

bunk

in

the

front."

"I

bunk

in

the

front

because

I'm

the

best

sharpshooter

in

Salamander

Army,

and

because

Bonzo

is

afraid

I'll

start

a

revolution

if

the

toon

leaders

don't

keep

an

eye

on

me.

As

if

I

could

start

anything

with

boys

like

these."

She

indicated

the

sullen-faced

boys

on

the

nearby

bunks.

What

was

she

trying

to

do,

make

it

worse

than

it

already

was?

"Everybody's

better

than

I

am,"

Ender

said,

trying

to

dissociate

himself

from

her

contempt

for

the

boys

who

would,

after

all,

be

his

near

bunkmates.

"I'm

a

girl,"

she

said,

"and

you're

a

pissant

of

a

six-year-old.

We

have

so

much

in

common,

why

don't

we

be

friends?"

"I

won't

do

your

deskwork

for

you,"

he

said.

In

a

moment

she

realized

it

was

a

joke.

"Ha,"

she

said.

"It's

all

so

military,

when

you're

in

the

game.

School

isn't

like

it

is

for

Launchies.

Histories

and

strategy

and

tactics

and

buggers

and

math

and

stars,

things

you'll

need

as

a

pilot

or

a

commander.

You'll

see."

"So

you're

my

friend.

Do

I

get

a

prize?"

Ender

asked.

He

was

imitating

her

swaggering

way

of

speaking,

as

if

she

cared

about

nothing.

"Bonzo

isn't

going

to

let

you

practice.

He's

going

to

make

you

take

your

desk

to

the

battleroom

and

study.

He's

right,

in

a

way--

he

doesn't

want

a

totally

untrained

little

kid

start

screwing

up

his

precision

maneuvers."

She

lapsed

into

giria,

the

slangy

talk

that

imitated

the

pidgin

English

of

uneducated

people.

"Bonzo,

he

pre-cise.

He

so

careful,

he

piss

on

a

plate

and

never

splash."

Ender

grinned.

"The

battleroom

is

open

all

the

time.

If

you

want,

I'll

take

you

in

the

off

hours

and

show

you

some

of

the

things

I

know,

I'm

not

a

great

soldier,

but

I'm

pretty

good,

and

I

sure

know

more

than

you."

"If

you

want,"

Ender

said.

"Starting

tomorrow

morning

after

breakfast."

"What

if

somebody's

using

the

room?

We

alway's

went

right

after

breakfast,

in

my

launch."

"No

problem.

There

are

really

nine

battlerooms."

"I

never

heard

of

any

others."

"They

all

have

the

same

entrance.

The

whole

center

of

the

battle

school,

the

hub

of

the

wheel,

is

battlerooms.

They

don't

rotate

with

the

rest

of

the

station.

That's

how

they

do

the

nullg,

the

no-gravity--

it

just

holds

still.

No

spin,

no

down.

But

they

can

set

it

up

so

that

any

one

of

the

rooms

is

at

the

battleroom

entrance

corridor

that

we

all

use.

Once

you're

inside,

they

move

it

along

and

another

battleroom's

in

position."

"Oh."

"Like

I

said.

Right

after

breakfast."

"Right,"

Ender

said.

She

started

to

walk

away.

"Petra,"

he

said.

She

turned

back.

"Thanks."

She

said

nothing,

just

turned

around

again

and

walked

down

the

aisle.

Ender

climbed

back

up

on

his

bunk

and

finished

taking

off

his

uniform.

He

lay

naked

on

the

bed,

doodling

with

his

new

desk,

trying

to

decide

if

they

had

done

anything

to

his

access

codes.

Sure

enough,

they

had

wiped

out

his

security

system.

He

couldn't

own

anything

here,

not

even

his

desk.

The

lights

dimmed

a

little.

Getting

toward

bedtime.

Ender

didn't

know

which

bathroom

to

use.

"Go

left

out

of

the

door,"

said

the

boy

on

the

next

bunk.

"We

share

it

with

Rat,

Condor,

and

Squirrel."

Ender

thanked

him

and

started

to

walk

on

past.

"Hey,"

said

the

boy.

"You

can't

go

like

that.

Uniforms

at

all

times

out

of

this

room."

"Even

going

to

the

toilet?"

"Especially.

And

you're

forbidden

to

speak

to

anyone

from

any

other

army.

At

meals

or

in

the

toilet.

You

can

get

away

with

it

sometimes

in

the

game

room,

and

of

course

whenever

a

teacher

tells

you

to,

but

if

Bonzo

catch

you,

you

dead,

eh?"

"Thanks."

"And,

uh,

Bonzo

get

mad

if

you

skin

by

Petra."

"She

was

naked

when

I

came

in,

wasn't

she?"

"She

do

what

she

like,

but

you

keep

you

clothes

on.

Bonzo's

orders."

That

was

stupid.

Petra

still

looked

like

a

boy,

it

was

a

stupid

rule.

It

set

her

apart,

made

her

different,

split

the

army.

Stupid

stupid.

How

did

Bonzo

get

to

be

a

commander,

if

he

didn't

know

better

than

that?

Alai

would

be

a

better

commander

than

Bonzo.

He

knew

how

to

bring

a

group

together.

I

know

how

to

bring

a

group

together,

too,

thought

Ender.

Maybe

I'll

be

commander

someday.

In

the

bathroom,

he

was

washing

his

hands

when

somebody

spoke

to

hmm.

"Hey,

they

putting

babies

in

Salamander

uniforms

now?"

Ender

didn't

answer

just

dried

off

his

hands.

"Hey,

look!

Salamander's

getting

babies

now!

Look

at

this!

He

could

walk

between

my

legs

without

touching

my

balls!"

"Cause

you

got

none,

Dink,

that's

why,"

somebody

answered.

As

Ender

left

the

room,

he

heard

somebody

else

say,

"It's

Wiggin.

You

know,

the

smartass

from

the

game

room."

He

walked

down

the

corridor

smiling.

He

may

be

short,

but

they

knew

his

name.

From

the

game

room,

of

course,

so

it

meant

nothing.

But

they'd

see.

He'd

be

a

good

soldier,

too.

They'd

all

know

his

name

soon

enough.

Not

in

Salamander

Army,

maybe,

but

soon

enough.

***

Petra

was

waiting

in

the

corridor

that

led

to

the

battleroom.

"Wait

a

minute,"

she

said

to

Ender.

"Rabbit

Army

just

went

in,

and

it

takes

a

few

minutes

to

change

to

the

next

battleroom."

Ender

sat

down

beside

her.

"There's

more

to

the

battleroom

than

just

switching

from

one

to

the

next,"

he

said.

"For

instance,

why

is

there

gravity

in

the

corridor

outside

the

room,

just

before

we

go

in?"

Petra

closed

her

eyes.

"And

if

the

battlerooms

are

really

free-floating,

what

happens

when

one

is

connected?

Why

doesn't

it

start

to

move

with

the

rotation

of

the

school?"

Ender

nodded.

"These

are

the

mysteries,"

Petra

said

in

a

deep

whisper.

"Do

not

pry

into

them.

Terrible

things

happened

to

the

last

soldier

who

tried.

He

was

discovered

hanging

by

his

feet

from

the

ceiling

of

the

bathroom,

with

his

head

stuffed

in

the

toilet."

"So

I'm

not

the

first

person

to

ask

the

question."

"You

remember

this,

little

boy."

When

she

said

little

boy

it

sounded

friendly,

not

contemptuous.

"They

never

tell

you

any

more

truth

than

they

have

to.

But

any

kid

with

brains

knows

that

there've

been

some

changes

in

science

since

the

days

of

old

Mazer

Rackham

and

the

Victorious

Fleet.

Obviously

we

can

now

control

gravity.

Turn

it

on

and

off,

change

the

direction,

maybe

reflect

it--

I've

thought

of

lots

of

neat

things

you

could

do

with

gravity

weapons

and

gravity

drives

on

starships.

And

think

how

starships

could

move

near

planets.

Maybe

tear

big

chunks

out

of

them

by

reflecting

the

planet's

own

gravity

back

on

itself,

only

from

another

direction,

and

focused

down

to

a

smaller

point.

But

they

say

nothing."

Ender

understood

more

than

she

said.

Manipulation

of

gravity

was

one

thing;

deception

by

the

officers

was

another;

but

the

most

important

message

was

this:

the

adults

are

the

enemy,

not

the

other

armies.

They

do

not

tell

us

the

truth.

"Come,

little

boy,"

she

said.

"The

battleroom

is

ready.

Petra's

hands

are

steady.

The

enemy

is

deady."

She

giggled.

"Petra

the

poet,

they

call

me."

"They

also

say

you're

crazy

as

a

loon."

"Better

believe

it,

baby

butt."

She

had

ten

target

balls

in

a

bag.

Ender

held

onto

her

suit

with

one

hand

and

the

wall

with

the

other,

to

steady

her

as

she

threw

them,

hard,

in

different

directions.

In

the

null

gravity,

they

bounced

every

which

way.

"Let

go

of

me,"

she

said.

She

shoved

off,

spinning

deliberately;

with

a

few

deft

hand

moves

she

steadied

herself,

and

began

aiming

carefully

at

ball

after

ball.

When

she

shot

one,

its

glow

changed

from

white

to

red.

Ender

knew

that

the

color

change

lasted

less

than

two

minutes.

Only

one

ball

had

changed

back

to

white

when

she

got

the

last

one.

She

rebounded

accurately

from

a

wall

and

came

at

high

speed

back

to

Ender.

He

caught

her

and

held

her

against

her

own

rebound,

one

of

the

first

techniques

they

had

taught

him

as

a

Launchy.

"You're

good,"

he

said.

"None

better.

And

you're

going

to

learn

how

to

do

it."

Petra

taught

him

to

hold

his

arm

straight,

to

aim

with

the

whole

arm.

"Something

most

soldiers

don't

realize

is

that

the

farther

away

your

target

is,

the

longer

you

have

to

hold

the

beam

within

about

a

two-centimeter

circle.

It's

the

difference

between

a

tenth

of

a

second

and

a

half

a

second,

but

in

battle

that's

a

long

time.

A

lot

of

soldiers

think

they

missed

when

they

were

right

on

target,

but

they

moved

away

too

fast.

So

you

can't

use

your

gun

like

a

sword,

swish

swish

slice-em-in-half.

You

got

to

aim."

She

used

the

ballcaller

to

bring

the

targets

back,

then

launched

them

slowly,

one

by

one.

Ender

fired

at

them.

He

missed

every

one.

"Good,"

she

said.

"You

don't

have

any

bad

habits."

"I

don't

have

any

good

ones,

either,"

he

pointed

out.

"I

give

you

those."

They

didn't

accomplish

much

that

first

morning.

Mostly

talk.

How

to

think

while

you

were

aiming.

You've

got

to

hold

your

own

motion

and

your

enemy's

motion

in

your

mind

at

the

same

time.

You've

got

to

hold

your

arm

straight

out

and

aim

with

your

body,

so

in

case

your

arm

is

frozen

you

can

still

shoot.

Learn

where

your

trigger

actually

fires

and

ride

the

edge,

so

you

don't

have

to

pull

so

far

each

time

you

fire.

Relax

your

body,

don't

tense

up;

it

makes

you

tremble.

It

was

the

only

practice

Ender

got

that

day.

During

the

army's

drills

in

the

afternoon,

Ender

was

ordered

to

bring

his

desk

and

do

his

schoolwork,

sitting

in

a

corner

of

the

room.

Bonzo

had

to

have

all

his

soldiers

in

the

battleroom,

but

he

didn't

have

to

use

them.

Ender

did

not

do

his

schoolwork,

however.

If

he

couldn't

have

drill

as

a

soldier,

he

could

study

Bonzo

as

a

tactician.

Salamander

Army

was

divided

into

the

standard

four

toons

of

ten

soldiers

each.

Some

commanders

set

up

their

toons

so

that

A

toon

consisted

of

the

best

soldiers,

and

D

toon

had

the

worst.

Bonzo

had

mixed

them,

so

that

each

consisted

of

good

soldiers

and

weaker

ones.

Except

that

B

toon

had

only

nine

boys.

Ender

wondered

who

had

been

transferred

to

make

room

for

him.

It

soon

became

plain

that

the

leader

of

toon

B

was

new.

No

wonder

Bonzo

was

so

disgusted--

he

had

lost

a

toon

leader

to

get

Ender.

And

Bonzo

was

right

about

another

thing.

Ender

was

not

ready.

All

the

practice

time

was

spent

working

on

maneuvers.

Toons

that

couldn't

see

each

other

practiced

performing

precision

operations

together

with

exact

timing;

toons

practiced

using

each

other

to

make

sudden

changes

of

direction

without

losing

formation.

All

these

soldiers

took

for

granted

skills

that

Ender

didn't

have.

The

ability

to

make

a

soft

landing

and

absorb

most

of

the

shock.

Accurate

flight.

Course

adjustment

using

the

frozen

soldiers

floating

randomly

through

the

room.

Rolls,

spins,

dodges.

Sliding

along

the

walls--

a

very

difficult

maneuver

and

yet

one

of

the

most

valuable,

since

the

enemy

couldn't

get

behind

you.

Even

as

Ender

learned

how

much

he

did

not

know,

he

also

saw

things

that

he

could

improve

on.

The

well-rehearsed

formations

were

a

mistake.

It

allowed

the

soldiers

to

obey

shouted

orders

instantly,

but

it

also

meant

they

were

predictable.

Also,

the

individual

soldiers

were

given

little

initiative.

Once

a

pattern

was

set,

they

were

to

follow

it

through.

There

was

no

room

for

adjustmemmt

to

what

the

enemy

did

against

the

formation.

Ender

studied

Bonzo's

formations

like

an

enemy

commander

would,

noting

ways

to

disrupt

the

formation.

During

free

play

that

night,

Ender

asked

Petra

to

practice

with

him.

"No,"

she

said.

"I

want

to

be

a

commander

someday,

so

I've

got

to

play

the

game

room."

It

was

a

common

belief

that

the

teachers

monitored

the

games

and

spotted

potential

commanders

there.

Ender

doubted

it,

though.

Toon

leaders

had

a

better

chance

to

show

what

they

might

do

as

commanders

than

any

video

player.

But

he

didn't

argue

with

Petra.

The

after-breakfast

practice

was

generous

enough.

Still,

he

had

to

practice.

And

he

couldn't

practice

alone,

except

a

few

of

the

basic

skills.

Most

of

the

hard

things

required

partners

or

teams.

If

only

he

still

had

Alai

or

Shen

to

practice

with.

Well,

why

shouldn't

he

practice

with

them?

He

had

never

heard

of

a

soldier

practicing

with

Launchies,

but

there

was

no

rule

against

it.

It

just

wasn't

done;

Launchies

were

held

in

too

much

contempt.

Well,

Ender

was

still

being

treated

like

a

Launchy

anyway.

He

needed

someone

to

practice

with,

and

in

return

he

could

help

them

learn

some

of

the

things

he

saw

the

older

boys

doing.

"Hey,

the

great

soldier

returns!"

said

Bernard.

Ender

stood

in

the

doorway

of

his

old

barracks.

He'd

only

been

away

for

a

day,

but

already

it

seemed

like

an

alien

place,

and

the

others

of

his

launch

group

were

strangers.

Almost

he

turned

around

and

left.

But

there

was

Alai,

who

had

made

their

friendship

sacred.

Alai

was

not

a

stranger.

Ender

made

no

effort

to

conceal

how

he

was

treated

in

Salamander

Army.

"And

they're

right.

I'm

about

as

useful

as

a

sneeze

in

a

spacesuit."

Alai

laughed,

and

other

Launchies

started

to

gather

around.

Ender

proposed

his

bargain.

Free

play,

every

day,

working

hard

in

the

battleroom,

under

Ender's

direction.

They

would

learn

things

from

the

armies,

from

the

battles

Ender

would

see;

he

would

get

the

practice

he

needed

in

developing

soldier

skills.

"We'll

get

ready

together."

A

lot

of

boys

wanted

to

come,

too.

"Sure,"

Ender

said.

"If

you're

coming

to

work.

If

you're

just

farting

around,

you're

out.

I

don't

have

any

time

to

waste."

They

didn't

waste

any

time.

Ender

was

clumsy,

trying

to

describe

what

he

had

seen,

working

out

ways

to

do

it.

But

by

the

time

free

play

ended,

they

had

learned

some

things.

They

were

tired,

but

they

were

getting

the

knack

of

a

few

techniques.

"Where

were

you?"

asked

Bonzo.

Ender

stood

stiffly

by

his

commander's

bunk.

"Practicing

in

a

battleroom."

"I

hear

you

had

some

of

your

oid

Launchy

group

with

you."

"I

couldn't

practice

alone."

"I

won't

have

any

soldiers

in

Salamander

Army

hanging

around

with

Launchies.

You're

a

soldier

now."

Ender

regarded

him

in

silence.

"Did

you

hear

me,

Wiggin?"

"Yes,

sir."

"No

more

practicing

with

those

little

farts."

"May

I

speak

to

you

privately?"

asked

Ender.

It

was

a

request

that

commanders

were

required

to

allow.

Bonzo's

face

went

angry,

and

he

led

Ender

out

into

the

corridor.

"Listen,

Wiggin,

I

don't

want

you,

I'm

trying

to

get

rid

of

you,

but

don't

give

me

any

problems

or

I'll

paste

you

to

the

wall."

A

good

commander,

thought

Ender,

doesn't

have

to

make

stupid

threats.

Bonzo

grew

annoyed

at

Ender's

silence.

"Look,

you

asked

me

to

come

out

here,

now

talk."

"Sir,

you

were

correct

not

to

place

me

in

a

toon.

I

don't

know

how

to

do

anything."

"I

don't

need

you

to

tell

me

when

I'm

correct."

"But

I'm

going

to

become

a

good

soldier.

I

won't

screw

up

your

regular

drill,

but

I'm

going

to

practice,

and

I'm

going

to

practice

with

the

only

people

who

will

practice

with

me,

and

that's

my

Launchies."

"You'll

do

what

I

tell

you,

you

little

bastard."

"That's

right,

sir.

I'll

follow

all

the

orders

that

you're

authorized

to

give.

But

free

play

is

free.

No

assignments

can

be

given.

None.

By

anyone.

He

could

see

Bonzo's

anger

growing

hot.

Hot

anger

was

bad.

Ender's

anger

was

cold,

and

he

could

use

it.

Bonzo's

was

hot,

and

so

it

used

him.

"Sir,

I've

got

my

own

career

to

think

of.

I

won't

interfere

in

your

training

and

your

battles,

but

I've

got

to

learn

sometime.

I

didn't

ask

to

be

put

into

your

army,

you're

trying

to

trade

me

as

soon

as

you

can.

But

nobody

will

take

me

if

I

don't

know

anything,

will

they?

Let

me

learn

something,

and

then

you

can

get

rid

of

me

all

the

sooner

and

get

a

soldier

you

can

really

use."

Bonzo

was

not

such

a

fool

that

anger

kept

him

from

recognizing

good

sense

when

he

heard

it.

Still,

he

couldn't

let

go

of

his

anger

immediately.

"While

you're

in

Salamander

Army,

you'll

obey

me."

"If

you

try

to

control

my

free

play,

I

can

get

you

iced."

It

probably

wasn't

true.

But

it

was

possible.

Certainly

if

Ender

made

a

fuss

about

it,

interfering

with

free

play

could

conceivably

get

Bonzo

removed

from

command.

Also,

there

was

the

fact

that

the

officers

obviously

saw

something

in

Ender,

since

they

had

promoted

him.

Maybe

Ender

did

have

influence

enough

with

the

teachers

to

ice

somebody.

"Bastard,"

said

Bonzo.

"It

isn't

my

fault

you

gave

me

that

order

in

front

of

everybody,"

Ender

said.

"But

if

you

want,

I'll

pretend

you

won

this

argument.

Then

tomorrow

you

can

tell

me

you

changed

your

mind."

"I

don't

need

you

to

tell

me

what

to

do."

"I

don't

want

the

other

guys

to

think

you

backed

down.

You

wouldn't

be

able

to

command

as

well."

Bonzo

hated

him

for

it,

for

the

kindness.

It

was

as

if

Ender

were

granting

him

his

command

as

a

favor.

Galling,

and

yet

he

had

no

choice.

No

choice

about

anything.

It

didn't

occur

to

Bonzo

that

it

was

his

own

fault,

for

giving

Ender

an

unreasonable

order.

He

only

knew

that

Ender

had

beaten

him,

and

then

rubbed

his

nose

in

it

by

being

magnanimous.

"I'll

have

your

ass

someday,"

Bonzo

said.

"Probably,"

said

Ender.

The

lights

out

buzzer

sounded.

Ender

walked

back

into

the

room,

looking

dejected.

Beaten.

Angry.

The

other

boy's

drew

the

obvious

conclusion.

And

in

the

morning,

as

Ender

was

leaving

for

breakfast,

Bonzo

stopped

him

and

spoke

loudly.

"I

changed

my

mind,

pinprick.

Maybe

by

practicing

with

your

Launchies

you'll

learn

something,

and

I

can

trade

you

easier.

Anything

to

get

rid

of

you

faster."

"Thank

you,

sir,"

Ender

said.

"Anything,"

whispered

Boozo.

"I

hope

you're

iced."

Ender

smiled

gratefully

and

left

the

room.

After

breakfast

he

practiced

again

with

Petra.

All

afternoon

he

watched

Bonzo

drill

and

figured

out

ways

to

destroy

his

army.

During

free

play

he

and

Alai

and

the

others

worked

themselves

to

exhaustion.

I

can

do

this,

thought

Ender

as

he

lay

in

his

bed,

his

muscles

throbbing,

unknotting

themselves.

I

can

handle

it.

***

Salamander

Army

had

a

battle

four

days

later.

Ender

followed

behind

the

real

soldiers

as

they

jogged

along

the

corridors

to

the

battleroom.

There

were

two

ribbons

along

the

walls,

the

green

green

brown

of

Salamander

and

the

black

white

black

of

Condor.

When

they

came

to

the

place

where

the

battleroom

had

always

been,

the

corridor

split

instead,

with

green

green

brown

heading

to

the

left

and

black

white

black

to

the

right.

Around

another

turn

to

the

right,

and

the

army

stopped

in

front

of

a

blank

wall.

The

toons

formed

up

in

silence.

Ender

stayed

behind

them

all.

Bonzo

was

giving

his

instructions.

"A

take

the

handles

and

go

up.

B

left,

C

right,

D

down."

He

saw

that

the

toons

were

oriented

to

follow

instructions,

then

added,

"And

you,

pinprick,

wait

four

minutes,

then

come

just

inside

the

door.

Don't

even

take

your

gun

off

your

suit."

Ender

nodded.

Suddenly

the

wall

behind

Bonzo

became

transparent.

Not

a

wall

at

all,

then,

but

a

forcefield.

The

battleroom

was

different,

too.

Huge

brown

boxes

were

suspended

in

midair,

partially

obstructing

the

view.

So

these

were

the

obstacles

that

the

soldiers

called

stars.

They

were

distributed

seemingly

at

random.

Bonzo

seemed

not

to

care

where

they

were.

Apparently

the

soldiers

already

knew

how

to

handle

the

stars.

But

it

soon

became

clear

to

Ender,

as

he

sat

and

watched

the

battle

from

the

corridor,

that

they

did

not

know

how

to

handle

the

stars.

They

did

know

how

to

softland

on

one

and

use

it

for

cover,

the

tactics

of

assaulting

the

enemy's

position

on

a

star.

They

showed

no

sense

at

all

of

which

stars

mattered.

They

persisted

in

assaulting

stars

that

could

have

been

bypassed

by

wall-sliding

to

a

more

advanced

position.

The

other

commander

was

taking

advantage

of

Bonzo's

neglect

of

strategy.

Condor

Army

forced

the

Salamanders

into

costly

assaults.

Fewer

and

fewer

Salamanders

were

unfrozen

for

the

attack

on

the

next

star.

It

was

clear,

after

only

five

or

six

minutes,

that

Salamander

Army

could

not

defeat

the

enemy

by

attacking.

Ender

stepped

through

the

gate.

He

drifted

slightly

downward.

The

battlerooms

he

had

practiced

in

always

had

their

doors

at

floor

level.

For

real

battles,

however,

the

door

was

set

in

the

middle

of

the

wall,

as

far

from

the

floor

as

from

the

ceiling.

Abruptly

he

felt

himself

reorient,

as

he

had

in

the

shuttle.

What

had

been

down

was

now

up,

and

now

sideways.

In

null-g,

there

was

no

reason

to

stay

oriented

the

way

he

had

been

in

the

corridor.

It

was

impossible

to

tell,

looking

at

the

perfectly

square

doors,

which

way

had

been

up.

And

it

didn't

matter.

For

now

Ender

had

found

the

orientation

that

made

sense.

The

enemy's

gate

was

down.

The

object

of

the

game

was

to

fall

toward

the

enemy's

home.

Ender

made

the

motions

that

oriented

himself

in

his

new

direction.

Instead

of

being

spread

out,

his

whole

body

presented

to

the

enemy,

now

Ender's

legs

pointed

toward

them.

He

was

a

much

smaller

target.

Someone

saw

him.

He

was,

after

all,

drifting

aimlessly

in

the

open.

Instinctively

he

pulled

his

legs

up

under

him.

At

that

moment

he

was

flashed

and

the

legs

of

his

suit

froze

in

position.

His

arms

remained

unfrozen,

for

without

a

direct

body

hit,

only

the

limbs

that

were

shot

froze

up.

It

occurred

to

Ender

that

if

he

had

not

been

presenting

his

legs

to

the

enemy,

it

would

have

been

his

body

they

hit.

He

would

have

been

immobilized.

Since

Bonzo

had

ordered

him

not

to

draw

his

weapon,

Ender

continued

to

drift,

not

moving

his

head

or

arms,

as

if

they

had

been

frozen,

too.

The

enemy

ignored

him

and

concentrated

their

fire

on

the

soldiers

who

were

firing

at

them.

It

was

a

bitter

battle.

Outnumbered

now,

Salamander

Army

gave

ground

stubbornly.

The

battle

disintegrated

into

a

dozen

individual

shootouts.

Bonzo's

discipline

paid

off

now,

for

each

Salamander

that

froze

took

at

least

one

enemy

with

him.

No

one

ran

or

panicked,

everyone

remained

calm

and

aimed

carefully.

Petra

was

especially

deadly.

Condor

Army

noticed

it

and

took

great

effort

to

freeze

her.

They

froze

her

shooting

arm

first,

and

her

stream

of

curses

was

only

interrupted

when

they

froze

her

completely

and

the

helmet

clamped

down

on

her

jaw.

In

a

few

minutes

it

was

over.

Salamander

Army

offered

no

more

resistance.

Ender

noted

with

pleasure

that

Condor

could

only

muster

the

minimal

five

soldiers

necessary

to

open

the

gate

to

victory.

Four

of

them

touched

their

helmets

to

the

lighted

spots

at

the

four

corners

of

Salamander's

door,

while

the

fifth

passed

through

the

forcefield.

That

ended

the

game.

The

lights

came

back

on

to

their

full

brightness,

and

Anderson

came

out

of

the

teacher

door.

I

could

have

drawn

my

gun,

thought

Ender,

as

the

enemy

approached

the

door.

l

could

have

drawn

my

gun

and

shot

just

one

of

them,

and

they

would

have

been

too

few.

The

game

would

have

been

a

draw.

Without

four

men

to

touch

the

four

corners

and

a

fifth

man

to

pass

through

the

gate,

Condor

would

have

had

no

victory.

Bonzo,

you

ass,

I

could

have

saved

you

from

this

defeat.

Maybe

even

turned

it

to

victory,

since

they

were

sitting

there,

easy

targets,

and

they

wouldn't

have

known

at

first

where

the

shots

were

coining

from.

I'm

a

good

enough

shot

for

that.

But

orders

were

orders,

and

Ender

had

promised

to

obey.

He

did

get

some

satisfaction

out

of

the

fact

that

on

the

official

tally

Salamandem

Army

recorded,

not

the

expected

forty-one

disabled

or

eliminated,

but

rather

forty

eliminated

and

one

damaged.

Bonzo

couldn't

understand

it,

until

he

consulted

Anderson's

book

and

realized

who

it

was.

Damaged,

Bonzo,

thought

Ender.

I

could

still

shoot,

He

expected

Bonzo

to

come

to

him

and

say,

"Next

time,

when

it's

like

that,

you

can

shoot."

But

Bonzo

didn't

say

anything

to

him

at

all

until

the

next

morning

after

breakfast.

Of

course,

Bonzo

ate

in

the

commanders

mess,

but

Ender

was

pretty

sure

the

odd

score

would

cause

as

much

stir

there

as

it

did

in

the

soldiers

dining

hall.

In

every

other

game

that

wasn't

a

draw,

every

member

of

the

losing

team

was

either

eliminated--

totally

frozen--

or

disabled,

which

meant

they

had

some

body

parts

still

unfrozen,

but

were

unable

to

shoot

or

inflict

damage

on

the

enemy.

Salamander

was

the

only

losing

army

with

one

man

in

the

Damaged

but

Active

category.

Ender

volunteered

no

explanation,

but

the

other

members

of

Salamander

Army

let

it

be

known

why

it

had

happened.

And

when

other

boys

asked

him

why

he

hadn't

disobeyed

orders

and

fired,

he

calmly

answered,

"I

obey

orders."

After

breakfast,

Bonzo

looked

for

him.

"The

order

still

stands,"

he

said,

"and

don't

you

forget

it."

It

will

cost

you,

you

fool.

I

may

not

be

a

good

soldier,

but

I

can

still

help

and

there's

no

reason

you

shouldn't

let

me.

Ender

said

nothing.

An

interesting

side

effect

of

the

battle

was

that

Ender

emerged

at

the

top

of

the

soldier

efficiecies

list.

Since

he

hadn't

fired

a

shot,

he

had

a

perfect

record

on

shooting--

no

misses

at

all.

And

since

he

had

never

been

eliminated

or

disabled,

his

percentage

there

was

excellent.

No

one

else

came

close.

It

made

a

lot

of

boys

laugh,

and

others

were

angry,

but

on

the

prized

efficiency

list,

Ender

was

now

the

leader.

He

kept

sitting

out

the

army

practice

sessions,

and

kept

working

hard

on

his

own,

with

Petra

in

the

mornings

and

his

friends

at

night.

More

Launchies

were

joining

them

now,

not

on

a

lark

but

because

they

could

see

results--

they

were

getting

better

and

better.

Ender

and

Alai

stayed

ahead

of

them,

though.

In

part,

it

was

because

Alai

kept

trying

new

things,

which

forced

Ender

to

think

of

new

tactics

to

cope

with

them.

In

part

it

was

because

they

kept

making

stupid

mistakes,

which

suggested

things

to

do

that

no

selfrespecting,

well-trained

soldier

would

even

have

tried.

Many

of

the

things

they

attempted

turned

out

to

be

useless.

But

it

was

always

fun,

always

exciting,

and

enough

things

worked

that

they

knew

it

was

helping

them.

Evening

was

the

best

time

of

the

day.

The

next

two

battles

were

easy

Salamander

victories;

Ender

came

in

after

five

minutes

and

remained

untouched

by

the

defeated

enemy.

Ender

began

to

realize

that

Condor

Army,

which

had

beaten

them,

was

unusually

good;

Salamander,

weak

as

Bonzo's

grasp

of

strategy

might

be,

was

one

of

the

better

teams,

climbing

steadily

in

the

ratings,

clawing

for

fourth

place

with

Rat

Army.

Ender

turned

seven.

They

weren't

much

for

dates

and

calendars

at

the

Battle

School,

but

Ender

had

found

out

how

to

bring

up

the

date

on

his

desk,

and

he

noticed

has

birthday.

The

school

noticed

it,

too:

they

took

his

measurements

and

issued

him

a

new

Salamander

uniform

and

a

new

flash

suit

for

the

battleroom.

He

went

back

to

the

barracks

with

the

new

clothing

on.

It

felt

strange

and

loose,

like

his

skin

no

longer

fit

properly.

He

wanted

to

stop

at

Petra's

bunk

and

tell

her

about

his

home,

about

what

his

birthdays

weme

usually

like,

just

tell

her

it

was

his

birthday

so

she'd

say

something

about

it

being

a

happy

one.

But

nobody

told

birthdays.

It

was

childish.

It

was

what

landsiders

did.

Cakes

and

silly

customs.

Valentine

baked

him

his

cake

on

his

sixth

birthday.

It

fell

and

it

was

terrible.

Nobody

knew

how

to

cook

anymore;

it

was

the

kind

of

crazy

thing

Valentine

would

do.

Everybody

teased

Valentine

about

it,

but

Ender

saved

a

little

bit

of

it

in

his

cupboard.

Then

they

took

out

his

monitor

and

he

left

and

for

all

he

knew,

it

was

still

there,

a

little

piece

of

greasy

yellow

dust.

Nobody

talked

about

home,

not

among

the

soldiers;

there

had

been

no

life

before

Battle

School.

Nobody

got

letters,

and

nobody

wrote

any.

Everybody

pretended

that

they

didn't

care.

But

I

do

care,

thought

Ender.

The

only

reason

I'm

here

is

so

that

a

bugger

won't

shoot

out

Valentine's

eye,

won't

blast

her

head

open

like

the

soldiers

in

the

videos

of

the

first

battles

with

the

buggers.

Won't

split

her

head

with

a

beam

so

hot

that

her

brains

burst

the

skull

and

spill

out

like

rising

bread

dough,

the

way

it

happens

in

my

worst

nightmares,

in

my

worst

nights,

when

I

wake

up

trembling

but

silent,

must

keep

silent

or

they'll

hear

that

I

miss

my

family.

I

want

to

go

home.

It

was

better

in

the

morning.

Home

was

merely

a

dull

ache

in

the

back

of

his

memory.

A

tiredness

in

his

eyes.

That

morning

Bonzo

came

in

as

they

were

dressing.

"Flash

suits!"

he

called.

It

was

a

battle.

Ender's

fourth

game.

The

enemy

was

Leopard

Army.

It

would

be

easy.

Leopard

was

new,

and

it

was

always

in

the

bottom

quarter

in

the

standings.

It

had

been

organized

only

six

months

ago,

with

Pol

Slattery

as

its

commander.

Ender

put

on

his

new

battle

suit

and

got

into

line;

Bonzo

pulled

him

roughly

out

of

line

and

made

him

march

at

the

end.

You

didn't

need

to

do

that,

Ender

said

silently.

You

could

have

let

me

stay

in

line.

Ender

watched

from

the

corridor.

Pol

Slattery

was

young,

but

he

was

sharp,

he

had

some

new

ideas.

He

kept

his

soldiers

moving,

darting

from

star

to

star,

wallsliding

to

get

behind

and

above

the

stolid

Salamanders.

Ender

smiled.

Bonzo

was

hopelessly

confused,

and

so

were

his

men.

Leopard

seemed

to

have

men

in

every

direction.

However,

the

battle

was

not

as

lopsided

as

it

seemed.

Ender

noticed

that

Leopard

was

losing

a

lot

of

men,

too--

their

reckless

tactics

exposed

them

too

much.

What

mattered,

however,

was

that

Salamander

was

defeated.

They

had

surrendered

the

initiative

completely.

Though

they

were

still

fairly

evenly

matched

with

the

enemy,

they

huddled

together

like

the

last

survisors

of

a

massacre,

as

if

they

hoped

the

enemy

would

overlook

them

in

the

carnage.

Ender

slipped

slowly

through

the

gate,

oriented

himself

so

the

enemy's

gate

was

down,

and

drifted

slowly

eastward

to

a

corner

where

he

wouidn't

be

noticed.

He

even

fired

at

his

own

legs,

to

hold

them

in

the

kneeling

position

that

offered

him

the

best

protection.

He

looked

to

any

casual

glance

like

another

frozen

soldier

who

had

drifted

helplessly

out

of

the

battle.

With

Salamander

Army

waiting

abjectly

for

destrucdon,

Leopard

obligingly

destroyed

them.

Tney

had

nine

boys

left

when

Salamander

finally

stopped

firing.

They

formed

up

and

started

to

open

the

Salamander

gate.

Ender

aimed

carefully

with

a

straight

arm,

as

Petra

had

taught

him.

Before

anyone

knew

what

was

happening,

he

froze

three

of

the

soldiers

who

were

about

to

press

their

helmets

against

the

lighted

corners

of

the

door.

Then

some

of

the

others

spotted

him

and

fired--

but

at

first

they

hit

only

his

already

frozen

legs.

It

gave

him

time

to

get

the

last

two

men

at

the

gate.

Leopard

had

only

four

men

left

unfrozen

when

Ender

was

finally

hit

in

the

arm

and

disabled.

The

game

was

a

draw,

and

they

never

had

hit

him

in

the

body.

Pol

Slattery

was

furious,

but

there

had

been

nothing

unfair

about

it.

Everyone

in

Leopard

Army

assumed

that

it

bad

been

a

strategy

of

Bonzo's,

to

leave

a

man

till

the

last

minute.

It

didn't

occur

to

them

that

little

Ender

had

fired

against

orders.

But

Salamander

Army

knew.

Bonzo

knew,

and

Ender

could

see

from

the

way

the

commander

looked

at

him

that

Bouzo

hated

him

for

rescuing

him

from

total

defeat.

I

don't

care,

Ender

told

himself.

It

will

just

make

me

easier

to

trade

away,

and

in

the

meantime

you

won't

drop

so

far

in

the

standings.

You

trade

me.

I've

learned

all

I'm

ever

going

to

learn

from

you.

How

to

fail

with

style,

that's

all

you

know,

Bonzo.

What

have

I

learned

so

far?

Ender

listed

things

in

his

mind

as

he

undressed

by

his

bunk.

The

enemy's

gate

is

down.

Use

my

legs

as

a

shield

in

battle.

A

small

reserve,

held

back

until

the

end

of

the

game,

can

be

decisive.

And

soldiers

can

sometimes

make

decisions

that

are

smarter

than

the

orders

they've

been

given.

Naked,

he

was

about

to

climb

into

bed

when

Bonzo

came

toward

him,

his

face

hard

and

set.

I

have

seen

Peter

like

this,

thought

Ender,

silent

with

murder

in

his

eye.

But

Bonzo

is

not

Peter.

Bonzo

has

more

fear.

"Wiggin,

I

finally

traded

you.

I

was

able

to

persuade

Rat

Army

that

your

incredible

place

on

the

efficiency

list

is

more

than

an

accident.

You

go

over

there

tomorrow."

"Thank

you,

sir,"

Ender

said.

Perhaps

he

sounded

too

grateful.

Suddenly

Bonzo

swung

at

him,

caught

his

jaw

with

a

vicious

open-handed

slap.

It

knocked

Ender

sideways,

into

his

bunk,

and

he

almost

fell.

Then

Bonzo

slugged

him,

hard,

in

the

stomach.

Ender

dropped

to

his

knees.

"You

disobeyed

me,"

Bonzo

said.

Loudly,

for

all

to

hear.

"No

good

soldier

ever

disobeys."

Even

as

he

cried

from

the

pain,

Ender

could

not

help

but

take

vengeful

pleasure

in

the

murmurs

he

heard

rising

through

the

barracks.

You

fool,

Bonzo.

You

aren't

enforcing

discipline,

you're

destroying

it.

They

know

I

turned

defeat

into

a

draw.

And

now

they

see

how

you

repay

me.

You

made

yourself

look

stupid

in

front

of

everyone.

What

is

your

discipline

worth

now?

The

next

day,

Ender

told

Petra

that

for

her

sake

the

shooting

practice

in

the

morning

would

have

to

end.

Bonzo

didn't

need

anything

that

looked

like

a

challenge

now,

and

so

she'd

better

stay

clear

of

Ender

for

a

while.

She

understood

perfectly.

"Besides,"

she

said,

"you're

as

close

to

being

a

good

shot

as

you'll

ever

be."

He

left

his

desk

and

flash

suit

in

the

locker.

He

would

wear

his

Salamander

uniform

until

he

could

get

to

the

commissary

and

change

it

for

the

brown

and

black

of

Rat.

He

had

brought

no

possessions

with

him;

he

would

take

none

away.

There

were

none

to

have--

everything

of

value

was

in

the

school

computer

or

his

own

head

and

hands.

He

used

one

of

the

public

desks

in

the

game

room

to

register

for

an

earth-gravity

personal

combat

course

during

the

hour

immediately

after

breakfast.

He

didn't

plan

to

get

vengeance

on

Bonzo

for

hitting

him.

But

he

did

intend

that

no

one

would

he

able

to

do

that

to

him

again.

Chapter

8

--

Rat

"Colonel

Graff,

the

games

have

always

been

run

fairly

before.

Either

random

distribution

of

stars,

or

symmetrical."

"Fairness

is

a

wonderful

attribute,

Major

Anderson.

It

has

nothing

to

do

with

war."

"The

game

will

be

compromised.

The

comparative

standings

will

become

meaningless."

"Alas."

"It

will

take

months.

Years,

to

develop

the

new

battlerooms

and

run

the

simulations."

"That's

why

I'm

asking

you

now.

To

begin.

Be

creative.

Think

of

every

stacked,

impossible,

unfair

star

arrangement

you

can.

Think

of

other

ways

to

bend

the

rules.

Late

notification.

Unequal

forces.

Then

run

the

simulations

and

see

which

ones

are

hardest,

which

easiest.

We

want

an

intelligent

progression

here.

We

want

to

bring

him

along."

"When

do

you

plan

to

make

him

a

commander?

When

he's

eight?"

"Of

course

not.

I

haven't

even

assembled

his

army

yet."

"Oh,

so

you're

stacking

it

that

way,

too?"

"You're

getting

too

close

to

the

game,

Anderson.

You're

forgetting

that

it

is

merely

a

training

exercise.

"It's

also

status,

identity,

purpose,

name;

all

that

makes

these

children

who

they

are

comes

out

of

this

game.

When

it

becomes

known

that

the

game

can

be

manipulated,

weighted,

cheated,

it

will

undo

this

whole

school.

I'm

not

exaggerating."

"I

know."

"So

I

hope

Ender

Wiggin

truly

is

the

one,

because

you'll

have

defeated

the

effectiveness

of

our

training

method

for

a

long

time

to

come."

"If

Ender

isn't

the

one,

if

his

peak

of

military

brilliance

does

not

coincide

with

the

arrival

of

our

fleets

at

the

bugger

homeworlds,

then

it

doesn't

really

matter

what

our

training

method

is

or

isn't."

"I

hope

you

will

forgive

me,

Colonel

Graff,

but

I

feel

that

I

must

report

your

orders

and

my

opinion

of

their

consequences

to

the

Strategos

and

the

Hegemon."

"Why

not

our

dear

Polemarch?"

"Everybody

knows

you

have

him

in

your

pocket."

"Such

hostility

Major

Anderson.

And

I

thought

we

were

friends."

"We

are.

And

I

think

you

may

ne

right

about

Ender.

I

just

don't

believe

you,

and

you

alone,

should

decide

the

fate

of

the

world."

"I

don't

even

think

it's

right

for

me

to

decide

the

fate

of

Ender

Wiggin."

"So

you

won't

mind

if

I

notify

them?"

"Of

course

I

mind,

you

meddlesome

ass.

This

is

something

to

be

decided

by

people

who

know

what

they're

doing,

not

these

frightened

politicians

who

got

their

office

because

they

happen

to

be

politically

potent

in

the

country

they

came

from."

"But

you

understand

why

I'm

doing

it."

"Because

you're

such

a

short-sighted

little

bureaucratic

bastard

that

you

think

you

need

to

cover

yourself

in

case

things

go

wrong.

Well,

if

things

go

wrong

we'll

all

be

bugger

meat.

So

trust

me

now,

Anderson,

and

don't

bring

the

whole

damn

Hegemony

down

on

review.

What

I'm

doing

is

hard

enough

without

them."

"Oh,

is

it

unfair?

Are

things

stacked

against

you?

You

can

do

it

to

Ender,

but

you

can't

take

it,

is

that

it?"

"Ender

Wiggin

is

ten

times

smarter

and

stronger

than

am.

What

I'm

doing

to

him

will

bring

out

his

genius.

If

I

had

to

go

through

it

myself,

it

would

crush

me.

Major

Anderson,

I

know

I'm

wrecking

the

game,

and

I

know

you

love

it

better

than

any

of

the

boys

who

play.

Hate

me

if

you

like,

but

don't

stop

me."

"I

reserve

the

right

to

communicate

with

the

Hegemony

and

the

Strategoi

at

any

time.

But

for

now

do

what

you

want."

"Thank

you

ever

so

kindly."

***

"Ender

Wiggin,

the

little

farthead

who

leads

the

standings,

what

a

pleasure

to

have

you

with

us."

The

commander

of

Rat

Army

lay

sprawled

on

a

lower

bunk

wearing

only

his

desk.

"With

you

around,

how

can

any

army

lose?"

Several

of

the

boys

nearby

laughed.

There

could

not

here

been

two

more

opposite

armies

than

Samamander

and

Rat.

The

room

was

rumpled,

cluttered,

noisy.

Alter

Bonzo

Ender

had

thought

that

indiscipline

would

be

a

welcome

relief.

Instead,

he

found

that

he

had

come

to

expet

quiet

and

order,

and

the

disorder

here

made

him

uncomfortable.

"We

doing

OK,

Ender

Bender.

I

Rose

de

Nose,

Jewboy

extraordinaire,

and

you

ain't

nothin

but

a

pinheaded

pinprick

of

a

goy.

Don't

you

forget

it."

Since

the

IF

was

formed

the

Strategos

of

the

military

forces

had

always

been

a

Jew.

There

was

a

myth

that

Jewish

generals

didn't

lose

wars.

And

so

far

it

was

still

true.

It

made

any

Jew

at

the

Battle

School

dream

of

being

Strategos,

and

conferred

prestige

on

him

from

the

start.

It

also

caused

resentment.

Rat

Army

was

often

called

the

Kike

Force,

half

in

parody

of

Mazer

Rackham's

Strike

Force.

There

were

many

who

liked

to

remember

that

during

the

Second

Invasion,

even

though

an

American

Jew,

as

President,

was

Hegemon

of

the

alliance,

an

Israeli

Jew

was

Strategos

in

overall

command

of

IF,

and

a

Russian

Jew

was

Polemarch

of

the

fleet,

it

was

Mazer

Rackham,

a

little-known,

twicecourt-martialled,

half-Maori

New

Zealander

whose

Strike

Force

broke

up

and

finally

destroyed

the

bugger

fleet

in

the

action

around

Saturn.

If

Mazer

Rackham

could

save

the

world,

then

it

didn't

matter

a

bit

whether

you

were

a

Jew

or

not,

people

said.

But

it

did

matter,

and

Rose

the

Nose

knew

it.

He

mocked

himself

to

forestall

the

mocking

comments

of

anti-semites--

almost

everyone

he

defeated

in

battle

became,

at

least

for

a

time,

a

Jew-hater--

but

he

also

made

sure

everyone

knew

what

he

was.

His

army

was

in

second

place,

bucking

for

first.

"I

took

you

on,

goy,

because

I

didn't

want

people

to

think

I

only

win

because

I

got

great

soldiers.

I

want

them

to

know

that

even

with

a

little

puke

of

a

soldier

like

you

I

can

still

win.

We

only

got

three

rules

here.

Do

what

I

tell

you

and

don't

piss

in

the

bed."

Ender

nodded.

He

knew

that

Rose

wanted

him

to

ask

what

the

third

rule

was.

So

he

did.

"That

was

three

rules.

We

don't

do

too

good

in

math

here."

The

message

was

clear.

Winning

is

more

important

than

anything.

"Your

practice

sessions

with

half-assed

little

Launchies

are

over,

Wiggin.

Done.

You're

in

a

big

boys'

army

now.

I'm

putting

you

in

Dink

Meeker's

toon.

From

now

on,

as

far

as

you're

concerned,

Dink

Meeker

is

God."

"Then

who

are

you?"

"The

personnel

officer

who

hired

God."

Rose

grinned.

"And

you

are

forbidden

to

use

your

desk

again

until

you've

frozen

two

enemy

soldiers

in

the

same

battle.

This

order

is

out

of

self-defense.

I

hear

you're

a

genius

programmer.

I

don't

want

you

screwing

around

with

my

desk.

Everybody

erupted

in

laughter.

It

took

Ender

a

moment

to

understand

why.

Rose

had

programmed

his

desk

to

display--

and

animate--

a

bigger-than-life

sized

picture

of

male

genitals,

which

waggled

back

and

forth

as

Rose

held

the

desk

on

his

naked

lap.

This

is

just

the

sort

of

commander

Bonzo

would

trade

me

to,

thought

Ender.

How

does

a

boy

who

spends

his

time

like

this

win

battles?

Ender

found

Dink

Meeker

in

the

game

room,

not

playing,

just

sitting

and

watching.

"A

guy

pointed

you

out,"

Ender

said.

"I'm

Ender

Wiggin."

"I

know,"

said

Meeker.

"I'm

in

your

toon."

"I

know,"

he

said

again.

"I'm

pretty

inexperienced."

Dink

looked

up

at

him.

"Look,

Wiggin,

I

know

all

this.

Why

do

you

think

I

asked

Rose

to

get

you

for

me?"

He

had

not

been

dumped,

he

had

been

picked

up,

he

had

been

asked

for.

Meeker

wanted

him.

"Why?"

asked

Ender.

"I've

watched

your

practice

sessions

with

the

Launchies.

I

think

you

show

some

promise.

Bonzo

is

stupid

and

I

wanted

you

to

get

better

training

than

Petra

could

give

you.

All

she

can

do

is

shoot."

"I

needed

to

learn

that."

"You

still

move

like

you

were

afraid

to

wet

your

pants."

"So

teach

me."

"So

learn."

"I'm

not

going

to

quit

my

freetime

practice

sessions."

"I

don't

want

you

to

quit

them."

"Rose

the

Nose

does."

"Rose

the

Nose

can't

stop

you.

Likewise,

he

can't

stop

you

from

using

your

desk."

"I

thought

commanders

could

order

anything."

"They

can

order

the

moon

to

turn

blue,

too,

but

it

doesn't

happen.

Listen,

Ender,

commanders

have

just

as

much

authority

as

you

let

them

have.

The

more

you

obey

them,

the

more

power

they

have

over

you."

"What's

to

stop

them

from

hurting

me?"

Ender

remembered

Bonzo's

blow.

"I

thought

that

was

why

you

were

taking

personal

attack

classes."

"You've

really

been

watching

me,

haven't

you?"

Dink

didn't

answer.

"I

don't

want

to

get

Rose

mad

at

me.

I

want

to

be

part

of

the

battles

now,

I'm

tired

of

sitting

out

till

the

end."

"Your

standings

will

go

down."

This

time

Ender

didn't

answer.

"Listen,

Ender,

as

long

as

you're

part

of

my

toon,

you're

part

of

the

battle."

Ender

soon

learned

why.

Dink

trained

his

toon

independently

from

the

rest

of

Rat

Army,

with

discipline

and

vigor;

he

never

consulted

with

Rose,

and

only

rarely

did

the

whole

army

maneuver

together.

It

was

as

if

Rose

commanded

one

army,

and

Dink

commanded

a

much

smaller

one

that

happened

to

practice

in

the

battleroom

at

the

same

time.

Dink

started

out

the

first

practice

by

asking

Ender

to

demonstrate

his

feet-first

attack

position.

The

other

boys

didn't

like

it.

"How

can

we

attack

lying

on

our

backs?"

they

asked.

To

Ender's

surprise,

Dink

didn't

correct

them,

didn't

say,

"You

aren't

attacking

on

your

back,

you're

dropping

downward

toward

them."

He

had

seen

what

Ender

was

doing,

but

he

had

not

understood

the

orientation

that

it

implied.

It

soon

became

clear

to

Ender

that

even

though

Dink

was

very,

very

good,

his

persistence

in

holding

onto

the

corridor

gravity

orientation

instead

of

thinking

of

the

enemy

gate

as

downward

was

limiting

his

thinking.

They

practiced

attacking

an

enemy-held

star.

Before

trying

Ender's

feet-first

method,

they

had

always

gone

in

standing

up,

their

whole

bodies

available

as

a

target.

Even

now,

though,

they

reached

the

star

and

then

assaulted

the

enemy

from

one

direction

only;

"Over

the

top,"

cried

Dink,

and

over

they

went.

To

his

credit,

he

then

repeated

the

exercise,

calling,

"Again,

upside

down,"

but

because

of

their

insistence

on

a

gravity

that

didn't

exist,

the

boys

became

awkward

when

the

maneuver

was

under,

as

if

vertigo

seized

them.

They

hated

the

feet-first

attack.

Dink

insisted

that

they

use

it.

As

a

result,

they

hated

Ender.

"Do

we

have

to

learn

how

to

fight

from

a

Launchy?"

one

of

them

muttered,

making

sure

Ender

could

hear.

"Yes,"

answered

Dink.

They

kept

working.

And

they

learned

it.

In

practice

skirmishes,

they

began

to

realize

how

much

harder

it

was

to

shoot

an

enemy

attacking

feet

first.

As

soon

as

they

were

convinced

of

that,

they

practiced

the

maneuver

more

willingly.

That

night

was

the

first

time

Ender

had

come

to

a

practice

session

after

a

whole

afternoon

of

work.

He

was

tired.

"Now

you're

in

a

real

army,"

said

Alai.

"You

don't

have

to

keep

practicing

with

us."

"From

you

I

can

learn

things

that

nobody

knows,"

said

Ender.

"Dink

Meeker

is

the

best.

I

hear

he's

your

toon

leader."

"Then

let's

get

busy.

I'll

teach

you

what

I

learned

from

him

today."

He

put

Alai

and

two

dozen

others

through

the

same

exercises

that

had

worn

him

out

all

afternoon.

But

he

put

new

touches

on

the

patterns,

made

the

boys

try

the

maneuvers

with

one

leg

frozen,

with

both

legs

frozen,

or

using

frozen

boys

for

leverage

to

change

directions.

Halfway

through

the

practice,

Ender

noticed

Petra

and

Dink

together,

standing

in

the

doorway,

watching.

Later,

when

he

looked

again,

they

were

gone.

So

they're

watching

me,

and

what

we're

doing

is

known.

He

did

not

know

whether

Dink

was

his

friend;

he

believed

that

Petra

was,

but

nothing

could

be

sure.

They

might

be

angry

that

he

was

dome

what

only

commanders

and

toon

leaders

were

supposed

to

do--

drilling

and

training

soldiers.

They

might

be

offended

that

a

soldier

would

associate

so

closely

with

Launchies.

It

made

him

uneasy,

to

have

older

chiidrcn

watching.

"I

thought

I

told

you

not

to

use

your

desk."

Rose

the

Nose

stood

by

Ender's

bunk.

Ender

did

not

look

up.

"I'm

completing

the

trigonometry

assignment

for

tomorrow."

Rose

bumped

his

knee

into

Ender's

desk.

"I

said

not

to

use

it."

Ender

set

the

desk

on

his

bunk

and

stood

up.

"I

need

trigonometry

more

than

I

need

you."

Rose

was

taller

than

Ender

by

at

least

forty

centimeters.

But

Ender

was

not

particularly

worried.

It

would

not

come

to

physical

violence,

and

if

it

did,

Ender

thought

he

could

hold

his

own.

Rose

was

lazy

and

didn't

know

personal

combat.

"You're

going

down

in

the

standings,

boy,"

said

Rose.

"I

expect

to.

I

was

only

leading

the

list

because

of

the

stupid

way

Salamander

Army

was

using

me."

"Stupid?

Bonzo's

strategy

won

a

couple

of

key

games."

"Bonzo's

strategy

wouldn't

win

a

salad

fight.

I

was

violating

orders

every

time

I

fired

my

gun."

Rose

hadn't

known

that.

It

made

him

angry.

"So

everything

Bonzo

said

about

you

was

a

lie.

You're

not

only

short

and

incompetent,

you're

insubordinate,

too."

"But

I

turned

defeat

into

stalemate,

all

by

myself."

"We'll

see

how

you

do

all

by

yourself

next

time."

Rose

went

away.

One

of

Ender's

toonmates

shook

his

head.

"You

dumb

as

a

thumb."

Ender

looked

at

Dink,

who

was

doodling

on

his

desk.

Dink

looked

up,

noticed

Ender

watching

him,

and

gazed

steadily

back

at

him.

No

expression.

Nothing.

OK,

thought

Ender,

I

can

take

care

of

myself.

Battle

came

two

day's

later.

It

was

Ender's

first

time

fighting

as

part

of

a

toon;

he

was

nervous.

Dink's

toon

lined

up

against

the

right-hand

wall

of

the

corridor

and

Ender

was

very

careful

not

to

lean,

not

to

let

his

weight

slip

to

either

side.

Stay

balanced.

"Wiggin!"

called

Rose

the

Nose.

Ender

felt

dread

come

over

him

from

throat

to

groin.

a

tingle

of

fear

that

made

him

shudder.

Rose

saw

it.

"Shivering?

Trembling?

Don't

wet

your

pants,

little

Launchy."

Rose

hooked

a

finger

over

the

butt

of

Ender's

gun

and

pulled

him

to

the

forcefield

that

hid

the

battleroom

from

view.

"We'll

see

how

well

you

do

now,

Ender.

As

soon

as

that

door

opens,

you

jump

through,

go

straight

ahead

toward

the

enemy's

door."

Suicide.

Pointless,

meaningless

self-destruction.

But

he

had

to

follow

orders

now,

this

was

battle,

not

school.

For

a

moment

Ender

raged

silently;

then

he

calmed

himself.

"Excellent,

sir,"

he

said.

"The

direction

I

fire

my

gun

is

the

direction

of

their

main

contingent."

Rose

laughed.

"You

won't

have

time

to

fire

anything,

pinprick."

The

wall

vanished.

Ender

jumped

up,

took

hold

of

the

ceiling

handholds,

and

threw

himself

out

and

down,

speeding

toward

the

enemy

door.

It

was

Centipede

Army,

and

they

only

beginning

to

emerge

from

their

door

when

Ender

was

halfway

across

the

battleroom.

Many

of

them

were

able

to

get

under

cover

of

stars

quickly

but

Ender

had

doubled

up

his

legs

under

him

and,

holding

his

pistol

at

his

crotch,

he

was

firing

between

his

legs

and

freezing

many

of

them

as

they

emerged.

They

flashed

his

legs,

but

he

had

three

precious

seconds

before

they

coud

hit

his

body

and

put

him

out

of

action.

He

froze

several

more,

then

flung

out

his

arms

in

equal

and

opposite

directions.

The

hand

that

held

his

gun

ended

up

pointing

toward

the

main

body

of

Centipede

Army.

He

fired

into

the

mass

of

the

enemy,

and

then

they

froze

him.

A

second

later

he

smashed

into

the

forcefield

of

the

enemy's

door

and

rebounded

with

a

crazy

spin.

He

landed

in

a

group

of

enemy

soldiers

behind

a

star;

they

shoved

him

off

and

spun

him

even

more

rapidly.

He

rebounded

out

of

control

through

the

rest

of

the

battle,

though

gradually

friction

with

the

air

slowed

him

down.

He

had

no

way

of

knowing

how

many

men

he

had

frozen

before

getting

iced

himself,

but

he

did

get

the

general

idea

that

Rat

Army

won

again,

as

usual.

After

the

battle

Rose

didn't

speak

to

him.

Ender

was

still

first

in

the

standings,

since

he

had

frozen

three,

disabled

two,

and

damaged

seven.

There

was

no

more

talk

about

insubordination

and

whether

Ender

could

use

his

desk.

Rose

stayed

in

his

part

of

the

barracks,

and

left

Ender

alone.

Dink

Meeker

began

to

practice

instant

emergence

from

the

corridor--

Ender's

attack

on

the

enemy

while

they

were

still

coming

out

of

the

door

had

been

devastating.

"If

one

man

can

do

that

much

damage,

think

what

a

toon

can

do."

Dink

got

Major

Anderson

to

open

a

door

in

the

middle

of

a

wall,

even

during

practice

sessions,

instead

of

just

the

floor

level

door,

so

they

could

practice

launching

under

battle

conditions.

Word

got

around.

From

now

on

no

one

could

take

five

or

ten

ar

fifteen

seconds

in

the

corridor

to

size

things

up.

The

game

had

changed.

More

battles.

This

time

Ender

played

a

proper

role

within

a

toon.

He

made

mistakes.

Skirmishes

were

lost.

He

dropped

from

first

to

second

in

the

standings,

then

to

fourth.

Then

he

made

fewer

mistakes,

and

began

to

feel

comfortable

within

the

framework

of

the

toon,

and

he

went

back

up

to

third,

then

second,

then

first.

After

practice

one

afternoon,

Ender

stayed

in

the

battleroom.

He

had

noticed

that

Dink

Meeker

usually

came

late

to

dinner,

and

he

assumed

it

was

for

extra

practice.

Ender

wasn't

very

hungry,

and

he

wanted

to

see

what

it

was

Dink

practiced

when

no

one

else

could

see.

But

Dink

didn't

practice.

He

stood

near

the

door,

watching

Ender.

Ender

stood

across

the

room,

watching

Dink.

Neither

spoke.

It

was

plain

Dink

expected

Ender

to

leave.

It

was

just

as

plain

that

Ender

was

saying

no.

Dink

turned

his

back

on

Ender,

methodically

took

off

his

flash

suit,

and

gently

pushed

off

from

the

floor.

He

drifted

slowly

toward

the

center

of

the

room,

very

slowly,

his

body

relaxing

almost

completely,

so

that

his

hands

and

arms

seemed

to

be

caught

by

almost

nonexistent

air

currents

in

the

room.

After

the

speed

and

tension

of

practice,

the

exhaustion,

the

alertness,

it

was

restful

just

to

watch

him

drift.

He

did

it

for

ten

minutes

or

so

before

he

reached

another

wall.

Then

he

pushed

off

rather

sharply,

returned

to

his

flash

suit,

and

pulled

it

on.

"Come

on,"

he

said

to

Ender.

They

went

to

the

barracks.

The

room

was

empty,

since

all

the

boys

were

at

dinner.

Each

went

to

his

own

bunk

and

changed

into

regular

uniforms.

Ender

walked

to

Dink's

bunk

and

waited

for

a

moment

till

Dink

was

ready

to

go.

"Why

did

you

wait?"

asked

Dink.

"Wasn't

hungry."

"Well,

now

you

know

why

I'm

not

a

commander."

Ender

had

wondered.

"Acttually,

they

promoted

me

twice,

and

I

refused."

"Refused?"

"They

took

away

my

old

locker

and

bunk

and

desk,

assigned

me

to

a

commander

cabin

and

gave

me

an

army.

But

I

just

stayed

in

the

cabin

until

they

gave

in

and

put

me

back

into

somebody

else's

army."

"Why?"

"Because

I

won't

let

them

do

it

to

me.

I

can't

believe

you

haven't

seen

through

all

this

crap

yet,

Ender.

But

I

guess

you're

young.

These

other

armies,

they

aren't

the

enemy.

It's

the

teachers,

they're

the

enemy.

They

get

us

to

fight

each

other,

to

hate

each

other.

The

game

is

everything.

Win

win

win,

it

amounts

to

nothing.

We

kill

ourselves,

go

crazy

trying

to

beat

each

other,

and

all

the

time

the

old

bastards

are

watching

us,

studying

us,

discovering

our

weak

points,

deciding

whether

we're

good

enough

or

not.

Well,

good

enough

for

what?

I

was

six

years

old

when

they

brought

me

here.

What

the

hell

did

I

know?

They

decided

I

was

right

for

the

program,

but

nobody

ever

asked

me

if

the

program

was

right

for

me."

"So

why

don't

you

go

home?"

Dink

smiled

crookedly.

"Because

I

can't

give

up

the

game."

He

tugged

at

the

fabric

of

his

flash

suit,

which

lay

on

the

bunk

beside

him.

"Because

I

love

this."

"So

why

not

be

a

commander?"

Dink

shook

his

head.

"Never.

Look

what

it

does

to

Rosen.

The

boy's

crazy.

Rose

de

Nose.

Sleeps

in

here

with

us

instead

of

in

his

cabin.

Why?

Because

he's

scared

to

be

alone,

Ender.

Scared

of

the

dark."

"Rose?"

"But

they

made

him

a

commander

and

so

he

has

to

act

like

one.

He

doesn't

know

what

he's

doing.

He's

winning,

but

that

scares

him

worst

of

all,

because

he

doesn't

know

what

he's

winning,

except

that

I

have

something

to

do

with

it.

Any

minute

somebody

could

find

out

that

Rosen

isn't

some

magic

Israeli

general

who

can

win

no

matter

what.

He

doesn't

know

why

anybody

wins

or

loses.

Nobody

does."

"It

doesn't

mean

he's

crazy,

Dink."

"I

know,

you've

been

here

a

year,

you

think

these

people

are

normal.

Well,

they're

not.

We're

not.

I

look

in

the

library,

I

call

up

books

on

my

desk.

Old

ones,

because

they

won't

let

us

have

anything

new,

but

I've

got

a

pretty

good

idea

what

children

are,

and

we're

not

children.

Children

can

lose

sometimes,

and

nobody

cares.

Children

aren't

in

armies,

they

aren't

commanders,

they

don't

rule

over

forty

other

kids,

it's

more

than

anybody

can

take

and

not

get

a

little

crazy."

Ender

tried

to

remember

what

other

children

were

like,

in

his

class

at

school,

back

in

the

city.

But

all

he

could

think

of

was

Stilson.

"I

had

a

brother.

Just

a

normal

guy.

All

he

cared

about

was

girls.

And

flying.

He

wanted

to

fly.

He

used

to

play

ball

with

the

guys.

A

pickup

game,

shooting

balls

at

a

hoop,

dribbling

down

the

corridors

until

the

peace

officers

confiscated

your

ball.

We

had

a

great

time.

He

was

teaching

me

how

to

dribble

when

I

was

taken."

Ender

remembered

his

own

brother,

and

the

memory

was

not

fond.

Dink

misunderstood

the

expression

on

Ender's

face.

"Hey,

I

know,

nobody's

supposed

to

talk

about

home.

But

we

came

from

somewhere.

The

Battle

School

didn't

create

us,

you

know.

The

Battle

School

doesn't

create

anything.

It

just

destroys.

And

we

all

remember

things

from

home.

Maybe

not

good

things,

but

we

remember

and

then

we

lie

and

pretend

that--

look,

Ender,

why

is

that

nobody

talks

about

home,

ever?

Doesn't

that

tell

you

how

important

it

is?

That

nobody

even

admits

that--

oh

hell."

"No,

it's

all

right,"

Ender

said.

"I

was

just

thinking

about

Valentine.

My

sister."

"I

wasn't

trying

to

make

you

upset."

"It's

OK.

I

don't

think

of

hut

very

much,

because

I

always

get

like

this."

"That's

right,

we

never

cry.

Christ,

I

never

thought

of

that.

Nobody

ever

cries.

We

really

are

trying

to

be

adult.

Just

like

our

fathers.

I

bet

your

father

was

like

you.

I

bet

he

was

quiet

and

took

it,

and

then

busted

out

and--"

"I'm

not

like

my

father."

"So

maybe

I'm

wrong.

But

look

at

Bonzo,

your

old

commander.

He's

got

an

advanced

case

of

Spanish

honor.

He

can't

allow

himself

to

have

weaknesses.

To

be

better

than

him,

that's

an

insult.

To

be

stronger,

that's

like

cutting

off

his

balls.

That's

why

he

hates

you,

because

you

didn't

suffer

when

he

tried

to

punish

you.

He

hates

you

for

that,

he

honestly

wants

to

kill

you.

He's

crazy.

They're

all

crazy."

"And

you

aren't?"

"I

be

crazy

too,

little

buddy,

but

at

least

when

I

be

craziest,

I

be

floating

all

alone

in

space

and

the

crazy,

she

float

out

of

me,

she

soak

into

the

walls,

and

she

don't

come

out

till

there

be

battles

and

little

boy's

bump

into

the

walls

and

squish

out

de

crazy."

Ender

smiled.

"And

you

be

crazy

too,"

said

Dink.

"Come

on,

let's

go

eat."

"Maybe

you

can

be

a

commander

and

not

be

crazy.

Maybe

knowing

about

the

craziness

means

you

don't

have

to

fall

for

it."

"I'm

not

going

to

let

the

bastards

run

me,

Ender.

They've

got

you

pegged,

too,

and

they

don't

plan

to

treat

you

kindly,

look

what

they've

done

to

you

so

far."

"They

haven't

done

anything

except

promote

me."

"And

she

make

you

life

so

easy,

neh?"

Ender

laughed

and

shook

his

head.

"So

maybe

you're

right."

"They

think

they

got

you

on

ice.

Don't

let

them."

"But

that's

what

I

came

for,"

Ender

said.

"For

them

to

make

me

into

a

tool.

To

save

the

world."

"I

can't

believe

you

still

believe

it."

"Believe

what?"

"The

bugger

menace.

Save

the

world.

Listen.

Ender,

if

the

buggers

were

coming

back

to

get

us,

they'd

he

here.

They

aren't

invading

again.

We

beat

them

and

they're

gone.

"But

the

videos--"

"All

from

the

First

and

Second

Invasions.

Your

grandparents

weren't

born

yet

when

Mazer

Rackham

wiped

them

out.

You

watch.

It's

all

a

fake.

There

is

no

war,

and

they're

just

screwing

around

with

us."

"But

why?"

"Because

as

long

as

people

are

afraid

ot

the

buggers,

the

IF

can

stay

in

power,

and

as

long

as

the

IF

is

in

power,

certain

countries

can

keep

their

hegemony.

But

keep

watching

the

vids,

Ender.

People

will

catch

onto

this

game

pretty

soon,

and

there'll

be

a

civil

war

to

end

all

wars.

That

is

the

menace,

Ender,

not

the

buggers.

And

in

that

war,

when

it

comes,

you

and

I

won't

be

friends.

Because

you're

American,

just

like

our

dear

teachers.

And

I

am

not."

They

went

to

the

mess

hall

and

ate,

talking

about

other

things.

But

Ender

could

not

stop

thinking

about

what

Dink

had

said.

The

Battle

School

was

so

enclosed,

the

game

so

important

in

the

minds

of

the

children,

that

Ender

had

forgotten

there

was

a

world

outside.

Spanish

honor.

Civil

war.

Politics.

The

Battle

School

was

really

a

very

small

place,

wasn't

it?

But

Ender

did

not

reach

Dink's

conclusions.

The

buggers

were

real.

The

threat

was

real.

The

IF

controlled

a

lot

of

things,

but

it

didn't

control

the

videos

and

the

nets.

Not

where

Ender

had

grown

up.

In

Dink's

home

in

the

Netherlands,

with

three

generations

under

Russian

hegemony,

perhaps

it

was

all

controlled,

but

Ender

knew

that

lies

could

not

last

long

in

America.

So

he

believed.

Believed,

but

the

seed

of

doubt

was

there,

and

it

stayed,

and

every

now

and

then

sent

out

a

little

root.

It

changed

everything,

to

have

that

seed

growing.

It

made

Ender

listen

more

carefully

to

what

people

meant,

instead

of

what

they

said.

It

made

him

wise.

***

There

weren't

as

many

boys

at

the

evening

practice,

not

by

half.

"Where's

Bernard?"

asked

Ender.

Alai

grinned.

Shen

closed

his

eves

and

assumed

a

look

of

blissful

meditation.

"Haven't

you

heard?"

said

another

boy,

a

Launchy

from

a

younger

group.

"Word's

out

that

any

Launchy

who

comes

to

your

practice

sessions

won't

ever

amount

to

anything

in

anybody's

army.

Word's

out

that

the

commanders

don't

want

any

soldiers

who've

been

damaged

by

your

training."

Ender

nodded.

"But

the

way

I

brain

it,"

said

the

Launchy,

"I

be

the

best

soldier

I

can,

and

any

commander

worth

a

damn,

he

take

me.

Neh?"

"Eh,"

said

Ender,

with

finality.

They

went

on

with

practice.

About

a

half

hour

into

it,

when

they

were

practicing

throwing

off

collisions

with

frozen

soldiers,

several

commanders

in

different

uniforms

came

in.

They

ostentatiously

took

down

names.

"Hey,"

shouted

Alai.

"Make

sure

you

spell

my

name

right!"

The

next

night

there

were

even

fewer

boys.

Now

Ender

was

hearing

the

stories

little

Launchies

getting

slapped

around

in

the

bathrooms,

or

having

accidents

in

the

mess

hall

and

the

game

room,

or

getting

their

files

trashed

by

older

boys

who

had

broken

the

primitive

security

system

that

guarded

the

Launchies'

desks.

"No

practice

tonight,"

Ender

said.

"The

hell

there's

not,"

said

Alai.

"Give

it

a

few

days.

I

don't

want

any

of

the

little

kids

getting

hurt."

"If

you

stop,

even

one

night,

they'll

figure

it

works

to

do

this

kind

of

thing.

Just

like

if

you'd

ever

backed

down

to

Bernard

back

when

he

was

being

a

swine."

"Besides,"

said

Shen.

"We

aren't

scared

and

we

don't

care,

so

you

owe

it

to

us

to

go

on.

We

need

the

practice

and

so

do

you."

Ender

remembered

what

Dink

had

said.

The

game

was

trivial

compared

to

the

whole

world.

Why

should

anybody

give

every

night

of

his

life

to

this

stupid,

stupid

game?

"We

don't

accomplish

that

much

anyway,"

Ender

said.

He

started

to

leave.

Aiai

stopped

him.

"They

scare

you,

too?

They

slap

you

up

in

the

bathroom?

Stick

you

head

in

the

pissah?

Somebody

gots

a

gun

up

you

bung?"

"No,"

Ender

said.

"You

still

my

friend?"

asked

Alai,

more

quietly.

"Yes."

"Then

I

still

you

friend,

Ender,

and

I

stay

here

and

practice

with

you."

The

older

boys

came

again,

but

fewer

of

them

were

commanders.

Most

were

members

of

a

couple

of

armies.

Ender

recognized

Salamander

uniforms.

Even

a

couple

of

Rats.

They

didn't

take

names

this

time.

Instead,

they

mocked

and

shouted

and

ridiculed

as

the

Launchies

tried

to

master

difficult

skills

with

untrained

muscles.

It

began

to

get

to

a

few

of

the

boys.

"Listen

to

them,"

Ender

said

to

the

other

boys.

"Remember

the

words.

If

you

ever

want

to

make

your

enemy

crazy,

shout

that

kind

of

stuff

at

them.

It

makes

them

do

dumb

things,

to

be

mad.

But

we

don't

get

mad."

Shen

took

the

idea

to

heart,

and

after

each

jibe

from

the

older

boys,

he

had

a

group

of

four

Launchies

recite

the

words,

loudly,

five

or

six

times.

When

they

started

singing

the

taunts

like

nursery

rhymes,

some

of

the

older

boys

launched

themselves

from

the

wall

and

came

out

for

a

fight.

The

flash

suits

were

designed

for

wars

fought

with

harmless

light;

they

offered

little

protection

and

seriously

hampered

movement

if

it

came

to

hand-to-hand

fighting

in

nullo.

Half

the

boys

were

flashed,

anyway,

and

couldn't

fight;

but

the

stiffness

of

their

suits

made

them

potentially

useful.

Ender

quickly

ordered

his

Launchies

to

gather

in

one

corner

of

the

room.

The

older

boys

laughed

at

them

even

more,

and

some

who

had

waited

by

the

wall

came

forward

to

join

in

the

attack,

seeing

Ender's

group

in

retreat.

Ender

and

Alai

decided

to

throw

a

frozen

soldier

in

the

face

of

an

enemy.

The

frozen

Launchy

struck

helmet

first,

and

the

two

careened

off

each

other.

The

older

boy

clutched

his

chest

whcrc

the

helmet

had

hit

him,

and

screamed

in

pain.

The

mockery

was

over.

The

rest

of

the

older

boys

launched

themselves

to

enter

the

battle.

Ender

didn't

really

have

much

hope

of

any

of

the

boy's

getting

away

without

some

injury.

But

the

enemy

was

coming

haphazardly,

uncoordinatedly;

they

had

never

worked

together

before,

while

Ender's

little

practice

army,

though

there

were

only

a

dozen

of

them

now,

knew

each

other

well

and

knew

how

to

work

together.

"Go

nova!"

shouted

Ender.

The

other

boys

laughed.

They

gathered

into

three

groups,

feet

together,

squatting,

holding

hands

so

they

formed

small

stars

against

the

back

wall.

"We'll

go

around

them

and

make

for

the

door.

Now!"

At

his

signal,

the

three

stars

burst

apart,

each

boy

launching

in

a

different

direction,

but

angled

so

he

could

rebound

off

a

wall

and

head

for

the

door.

Since

all

of

the

enemy

were

in

the

middle

of

the

room,

where

course

changes

were

far

more

difficult,

it

was

an

easy

maneuver

to

carry

out.

Ender

had

positioned

himself

so

that

when

he

launched,

he

would

rendezvous

with

the

frozen

soldier

he

had

just

used

as

a

missile.

The

boy

wasn't

frozen

now,

and

he

let

Ender

catch

him,

whirl

him

around

and

send

him

toward

the

door,

Unfortunately,

the

necessary

result

of

the

action

was

for

Ender

to

head

in

the

opposite

direction,

and

at

a

reduced

speed.

Alone

of

all

his

soldiers,

he

was

drifting

fairly

slowly,

and

at

the

end

of

the

battleroom

where

the

older

boys

were

gathered.

He

shifted

himself

so

he

could

see

that

all

his

soldiers

were

sarely

gathered

at

the

far

wall.

In

the

meantime,

the

furious

and

disorganized

enemy

had

just

spotted

him.

Ender

calculated

how

soon

he

would

reach

the

wall

so

he

could

launch

again.

Not

soon

enough.

Several

enemies

had

already

rebounded

toward

him.

Ender

was

startled

to

see

Stilson's

face

among

them.

Then

he

shuddered

and

realized

he

had

been

wrong.

Still,

it

was

the

same

situation,

and

this

time

they

wouldn't

sit

still

for

a

single

combat

settlement.

There

was

no

leader,

as

far

as

Ender

knew,

and

these

boys

were

a

lot

bigger

than

him.

Still,

he

had

learned

some

things

about

weightshifting

in

personal

combat

class,

and

about

the

physics

of

moving

objects.

Game

battles

almost

never

got

to

hand-to-hand

combat--

you

never

bumped

into

an

enemy

that

wasn't

frozen.

So

in

the

few

seconds

he

had,

Ender

tried

to

position

himself

to

receive

his

guests.

Fortunately,

they

knew

as

little

about

nullo

fighting

as

he

did,

and

the

few

that

tried

to

punch

him

found

that

throwing

a

punch

was

pretty

ineffective

when

their

bodies

moved

backward

just

as

quickly

as

their

fists

moved

forward.

But

there

were

some

in

the

group

who

had

bone-breaking

on

their

minds,

as

Ender

quickly

saw.

He

didn't

plan

to

be

there

for

it,

though.

He

caught

one

of

the

punchers

by

the

arm

and

threw

him

as

hard

as

he

could.

It

hurled

Ender

out

of

the

way

of

the

rest

of

the

first

onslaught,

though

he

still

wasn't

getting

any

closer

to

the

door.

"Stay

there!"

he

shouted

at

his

friends,

who

obviously

were

forming

up

to

come

and

rescue

him.

"Just

stay

there!"

Someone

caught

Ender

by

the

foot.

The

tight

grip

gave

Ender

some

leverage;

he

was

able

to

stamp

firmly

on

the

other

boy's

ear

and

shoulder,

making

him

cry

out

and

let

go.

If

the

boy

had

let

go

just

as

Ender

kicked

downward,

it

would

have

hurt

much

less

and

allowed

Ender

to

use

the

maneuver

as

a

launch.

Instead,

the

boy

had

hung

on

too

well;

his

ear

was

torn

and

scattering

blood

in

the

air,

and

Ender

was

drifting

even

more

slowly.

I'm

doing

it

again,

thought

Ender.

I'm

hurting

people

again,

just

to

save

myself.

Why

don't

they

leave

me

alone,

so

I

don't

have

to

hurt

them?

Three

more

boys

were

converging

on

him

now,

and

this

time

they

were

acting

together.

Still,

they

had

to

grab

him

before

they

could

hurt

him.

Ender

positioned

himself

quickly

so

that

two

of

them

would

take

his

feet,

leaving

his

hands

free

to

deal

with

the

third.

Sure

enough,

they

took

the

bait.

Ender

grasped

the

shoulders

of

the

third

boy's

shirt

and

pulled

him

up

sharply,

butting

him

in

the

face

with

his

helmet.

Again

a

scream

and

a

shower

of

blood.

The

two

boys

who

had

his

legs

were

wrenching

at

them,

twisting

him.

Ender

threw

the

boy

with

the

bleeding

nose

at

one

of

them;

they

entangled,

and

Ender's

leg

came

free.

It

was

a

simple

matter

then

to

use

the

other

boy's

hold

for

leverage

to

kick

him

firmly

in

the

groin,

then

shove

off

him

in

the

direction

of

the

door.

He

didn't

get

that

good

a

launch,

so

that

his

speed

was

nothing

special,

but

it

didn't

matter.

No

one

was

following

him.

He

got

to

his

friends

at

the

door.

They

caught

him

and

handed

him

along

to

the

door.

They

were

laughing

and

slapping

him

playfully.

"You

bad!"

they

said.

"You

scary!

You

flame!"

"Practice

is

over

for

the

day,"

Ender

said.

"They'll

be

back

tomorrow,"

said

Shen.

"Won't

do

them

any

good,"

said

Ender.

"If

they

come

without

suits,

we'll

do

this

again.

If

they

come

with

suits,

we

can

flash

them."

"Besides,"

said

Alai,

"the

teachers

won't

let

it

happen."

Ender

remembered

what

Dink

had

told

him,

and

wondered

if

AIai

was

right.

"Hey

Ender!"

shouted

one

of

the

older

boys

as

Ender

left

the

battleroom.

"You

nothing,

man!

You

be

nothing!"

"My

old

corornander

Bonzo,"

said

Ender.

"I

think

he

doesn't

like

me."

Ender

checked

the

rosters

on

his

desk

that

night.

Four

boys

turned

up

on

medical

report.

One

with

bruised

ribs,

one

with

a

bruised

testicle,

one

with

a

torn

ear,

and

one

with

a

broken

nose

and

a

loose

tooth.

The

cause

of

injury

was

the

same

in

all

cases:

ACCIDENTAL

COLLISION

IN

NULL

G

If

the

teachers

were

allowing

that

to

turn

up

on

the

official

report,

it

was

obvious

they

didn't

intend

to

punish

anyone

for

the

nasty

little

skirmish

in

the

battleroom.

Aren't

they

going

to

do

anything?

Don't

they

care

what

goes

on

in

this

school?

Since

he

was

back

to

the

barracks

earlier

than

usual,

Ender

called

up

the

fantasy

game

on

his

desk.

It

had

been

a

while

since

he

last

used

it.

Long

enough

that

it

didn't

start

him

where

he

had

left

off.

Instead,

he

began

by

the

Giant's

corpse.

Only

now,

it

was

hardly

identifiable

as

a

corpse

at

all,

unless

you

stood

off

a

ways

and

studied

it.

The

body

had

eroded

into

a

hill,

entwined

with

grass

and

vines.

Only

the

crest

of

the

Giant's

face

was

still

visible,

and

it

was

white

bone,

like

limestone

protruding

from

a

discouraged,

withering

mountain.

Ender

did

not

look

forward

to

fighting

with

the

wolf-children

again,

but

to

his

surprise

they

weren't

there.

Perhaps,

killed

once,

they

were

gone

forever.

It

made

him

a

little

sad.

He

made

his

way

down

underground,

through

the

tunnels,

to

the

cliff

ledge

overlooking

the

beautiful

forest.

Again

he

threw

himself

down,

and

again

a

cloud

caught

him

and

carried

him

into

the

castle

turret

room.

The

snake

began

to

unweave

itself

from

the

rug

again,

only

this

time

Ender

did

not

hesitate.

He

stepped

on

the

head

of

the

snake

and

crushed

it

under

his

foot.

It

writhed

and

twisted

under

him,

and

in

response

he

twisted

and

ground

it

deeper

into

the

stone

floor.

Finally

it

was

still.

Ender

picked

it

up

and

shook

it,

until

it

unwove

itself

and

the

pattern

in

the

rug

was

gone.

Then,

still

dragging

the

snake

behind

him,

he

began

to

look

for

a

way

out.

Instead,

he

found

a

mirror.

And

in

the

mirror

he

saw

a

face

that

he

easily

recognized.

It

was

Peter,

with

blood

dripping

down

his

chin

and

a

snake's

tail

protruding

from

a

corner

of

his

mouth.

Ender

shouted

and

thrust

his

desk

from

him.

The

few

boys

in

the

barracks

were

alarmed

at

the

noise,

but

he

apologized

and

told

them

it

was

nothing.

They

went

away.

He

looked

again

into

his

desk.

His

figure

was

still

there,

staring

into

the

mirror.

He

tried

to

pick

up

some

of

the

furniture,

to

break

the

nurror,

but

it

could

not

be

moved.

The

mirror

would

not

come

off

the

wall,

either.

Finally

Ender

threw

the

snake

at

it.

The

mirror

shattered,

leaving

a

hole

in

the

wail

behind

it.

Out

of

the

hole

came

dozens

of

tiny

snakes

which

quickly

bit

Ender's

figure

again

and

again.

Tearing

the

snakes

frantically

from

itself,

the

figure

collapsed

and

died

in

a

writhing

heap

of

small

serpents.

The

screen

went

blank,

and

words

appeared.

PLAY

AGAIN?

Ender

signed

off

and

put

the

desk

away.

***

The

next

day,

several

commanders

came

to

Ender

or

sent

soldiers

to

tell

him

not

to

worry,

most

of

them

thought

the

extra

practice

sessions

were

a

good

idea,

he

should

keep

it

up.

And

to

make

sure

nobody

bothered

him,

they

were

sending

a

few

of

their

older

soldiers

who

needed

extra

practice

to

come

join

him.

"They're

as

big

as

most

of

the

buggers

who

attacked

you

last

night.

They'll

think

twice."

Instead

of

a

dozen

boys,

there

were

forty-five

that

night,

more

than

an

army,

and

whether

it

was

because

of

the

presence

of

older

boys

on

Ender's

side

or

because

they

had

had

enough

the

night

before,

none

of

their

enemies

came.

Ender

didn't

go

back

to

the

fantasy

game.

But

it

lived

in

his

dreams.

He

kept

remembering

how

it

felt

to

kill

the

snake,

grinding

it

in,

the

way

he

tore

the

ear

off

that

boy,

the

way

he

destroyed

Stilson,

the

way

he

broke

Bernard's

arm.

And

then

to

stand

up,

holding

the

corpse

of

his

enemy,

and

find

Peter's

face

looking

out

at

him

from

the

mirror,

This

game

knows

too

much

about

me.

This

game

tells

filthy

lies.

I

am

not

Peter.

I

don't

have

murder

in

my

heart.

And

then

the

worse

fear,

that

he

was

a

killer,

only

better

at

it

than

Peter

ever

was;

that

it

was

this

very

trait

that

pleased

the

teachers.

It's

killers

they

need

for

the

bugger

wars.

It's

people

who

can

grind

the

enemy's

face

into

the

dust

and

spatter

their

blood

all

over

space.

Well,

l'm

your

man.

I'm

the

bloody

bastard

you

wanted

when

you

had

me

spawned.

I'm

your

tool,

and

what

difference

does

it

make

if

I

hate

the

part

of

me

that

you

most

need?

What

difference

does

it

make

that

when

the

little

serpents

killed

me

in

the

game,

I

agreed

with

them,

and

was

glad.

Chapter

9

--

Locke

and

Demosthenes

"I

didn't

call

you

in

here

to

waste

time.

How

in

hell

did

the

computer

do

that?"

"I

don't

know."

"How

could

it

pick

up

a

picture

of

Ender's

brother

and

put

it

into

the

graphics

in

this

Fairyland

routine?"

"Colonel

Graff,

I

wasn't

there

when

it

was

programmed.

All

I

know

is

that

the

computer's

never

taken

anyone

to

this

place

before.

Fairyland

was

strange

enough,

but

this

isn't

Fairyland

anymore.

It's

beyond

the

End

of

the

World,

and--"

"I

know

the

names

of

the

places,

I

just

don't

know

what

ney

mean."

"Fairyland

was

programmed

in.

It's

mentioned

in

a

few

other

places.

But

nothing

talks

about

the

End

of

the

World.

We

don't

have

any

experience

with

it."

"I

don't

like

having

the

computer

screw

around

with

Ender's

mind

that

way.

Peter

Wiggin

is

the

most

potent

person

in

his

life,

except

maybe

his

sister

Valentine."

"And

the

mind

game

is

designed

to

help

shape

them,

help

them

find

worlds

they

can

be

comfortable

in."

"You

don't

get

it,

do

you,

Major

Imbu?

I

don't

want

Ender

being

comfortable

with

the

end

of

the

world.

Our

business

here

is

not

to

be

comfortable

with

the

end

of

the

world!"

"The

End

of

the

World

in

the

game

isn't

necessarily

the

end

of

humanity

in

the

bugger

wars.

It

has

a

private

meaning

to

Ender."

"Good.

What

meaning?"

"I

don't

know,

sir.

I'm

not

the

kid.

Ask

him."

"Major

Imbu,

I'm

asking

you."

"There

could

be

a

thousand

meanings."

"Try

one."

"You've

been

isolating

the

boy.

Maybe

he's

wishing

for

the

end

of

this

world,

the

Battle

School.

Or

maybe

it's

about

the

end

of

the

world

he

grew

up

with

as

a

little

boy,

his

home,

coming

here.

Or

maybe

it's

his

way

of

coping

with

having

broken

up

so

many

other

kids

here.

Ender's

a

sensitive

kid,

you

know,

and

he's

done

some

pretty

bad

things

to

people's

bodies,

he

might

be

wishing

for

the

end

of

that

world."

"Or

none

of

the

above."

"The

mind

game

is

a

relationship

between

the

child

and

the

computer.

Together

they

create

stories.

The

stories

are

true,

in

the

sense

that

they

reflect

the

reality

of

the

child's

life.

That's

all

I

know."

"And

I'll

tell

you

what

I

know,

Major

Imbu.

That

picture

of

Peter

Wiggin

was

not

one

that

could

have

been

taken

from

our

files

here

at

the

school.

We

have

nothing

on

him,

electronically

or

otherwise,

since

Ender

came

here.

And

that

picture

is

more

recent."

"It's

only

been

a

year

and

a

half,

sir,

how

much

can

the

boy

change?"

"He's

wearing

his

hair

completely

differently

now.

His

mouth

was

redone

with

orthodontia.

I

got

a

recent

photograph

from

landside

and

compared.

The

only

way

the

computer

here

in

the

Battle

School

could

have

got

that

picture

was

by

requisitioning

it

from

a

landside

computer.

And

not

even

one

connected

with

the

IF.

That

takes

requisitionary

powers.

We

can't

just

go

into

Guilford

County

North

Carolina

and

pluck

a

picture

out

of

school

files.

Did

anyone

at

this

school

authorize

getting

this?"

"You

don't

understand,

sir.

Our

Battle

School

computer

is

only

a

part

of

the

IF

network.

lf

we

want

a

picture,

we

have

to

get

a

requisition,

but

if

the

mind

game

program

determines

that

the

picture

is

necessary--"

"It

can

just

go

take

it."

"Not

just

every

day.

Only

when

it's

for

the

child's

own

good."

"OK,

it's

for

his

good.

But

why.

His

brother

is

dangerous,

his

brother

was

rejected

for

this

program

because

he's

one

of

the

worst

human

beings

we've

laid

hands

on.

Why

is

he

so

important

to

Ender?

Why,

after

all

his

time?"

"Honestly,

sir.

I

don't

know.

And

the

mind

game

program

is

designed

so

that

it

can't

tell

us.

It

may

not

know

itself,

actually.

This

is

uncharted

territory."

"You

mean

the

computer's

making

this

up

as

it

goes

along?"

"You

might

put

it

that

way."

"Well,

that

does

make

me

feel

a

little

better.

I

thought

l

was

the

only

one."

***

Valentine

celebrated

Ender's

eighth

birthday

alone,

in

the

wooded

back

yard

of

their

new

home

in

Greensboro.

She

scraped

a

patch

of

ground

bare

of

pine

needles

and

leaves,

and

there

scratched

his

name

in

the

dirt

with

a

twig.

Then

she

made

a

small

teepee

of

twigs

and

needles

and

lit

a

small

fire.

It

made

smoke

that

interwove

with

the

branches

and

needles

of

the

pine

overhead.

All

the

way

into

space,

she

said

silently.

All

the

way

to

the

Battle

School.

No

letters

had

ever

come,

and

as

far

as

they

knew

their

own

letters

had

never

reached

him.

When

he

first

was

taken,

Father

and

Mother

sat

at

the

table

and

keyed

in

long

letters

to

him

every

few

days.

Soon,

tnough,

it

was

once

a

week,

and

when

no

answers

came,

once

a

month.

Now

it

had

been

two

years

since

he

went,

and

there

were

no

letters,

none

at

all,

and

no

remembrance

on

his

birhday.

He

is

dead,

she

thought

bitterly,

because

we

have

forgotten

him.

But

Valentine

had

not

forgotten

him.

She

did

not

let

her

parents

know,

and

above

all

never

hinted

to

Peter

how

often

she

thought

about

Ender,

how

often

she

wrote

him

letters

that

she

knew

he

would

not

answer.

And

when

Mother

and

Father

announced

to

them

that

they

were

leaving

the

city

to

move

to

North

Carolina,

of

all

places,

Valentine

knew

that

they

never

expected

to

see

Ender

again.

They

were

leaving

the

only

place

where

he

knew

to

find

them.

How

would

Ender

find

them

here,

among

these

trees,

under

this

changeable

and

heavy

sky?

He

had

lived

deep

in

corridors

all

his

life,

and

if

he

was

still

in

the

Battle

School,

there

was

less

of

nature

there.

What

would

he

make

of

this?

Valentine

knew

why

they

had

moved

here.

It

was

for

Peter,

so

that

living

among

trees

and

small

animals,

so

that

nature

in

as

raw

a

form

as

Mother

and

Father

could

conceive

of

it,

might

have

a

softening

influence

on

their

strange

and

frightening

son.

And,

in

a

way,

it

had.

Peter

took

to

it

right

away.

Long

walks

out

in

the

open,

cutting

through

woods

and

out

into

the

open

country--

going

sometimes

for

a

whole

day,

with

only

a

sandwich

or

two

sharing

space

with

his

desk

in

the

pack

on

his

back,

with

only

a

small

pocket

knife

in

his

pocket.

But

Valentine

knew.

She

had

seen

a

squirrel

half-skinned,

spiked

by

its

little

hands

and

feet

with

twigs

pushed

into

the

dirt.

She

pictured

Peter

trapping

it,

staking

it,

then

carefully

parting

and

peeling

back

the

skin

without

breaking

into

the

abdomen,

watching

the

muscles

twist

and

ripple.

How

long

had

it

taken

the

squirrel

to

die?

And

all

the

while

Peter

had

sat

nearby,

leaning

against

the

tree

where

perhaps

the

squirrel

had

nested,

playing

with

his

desk

while

the

squirrel's

life

seeped

away.

At

first

she

was

horrified,

and

nearly

threw

up

at

dinner,

watching

how

Peter

ate

so

vigorously,

talked

so

cheerfully.

But

later

she

thought

about

it

and

realized

that

perhaps,

for

Peter,

it

was

a

kind

of

magic,

like

her

little

fires;

a

sacrifice

that

somehow

stilled

the

dark

gods

that

hunted

for

his

soul.

Better

to

torture

squirrels

than

other

children.

Peter

has

always

been

a

husbandman

of

pain,

planting

it,

nurturing

it,

devouring

it

greedily

when

it

was

ripe;

better

he

should

take

it

in

these

small,

sharp

doses

than

with

dull

cruelty

to

chldren

in

the

school.

"A

model

student,"

said

his

teachers.

"I

wish

we

had

a

hundred

others

in

the

school

just

like

him.

Studies

all

the

tlme,

turns

in

all

his

work

on

time.

He

loves

to

learn."

But

Valentine

knew

it

was

a

fraud.

Peter

loved

to

learn,

all

right,

but

the

teachers

hadn't

taught

him

anything,

ever.

He

did

his

learning

through

his

desk

at

home,

tapping

into

libraries

ano

databases,

studying

and

thinking

and,

above

all,

talking

to

Valentine.

Yet

at

school

he

acted

as

though

he

were

excited

about

the

puerile

lesson

of

the

day.

Oh,

wow,

I

never

knew

that

frogs

looked

like

this

inside,

he'd

say,

and

then

at

home

he

studied

the

binding

of

celIs

into

organisms

through

the

philotic

collation

of

DNA.

Peter

was

a

master

ot

flattery,

and

all

his

teachers

bought

it.

Still,

it

was

good.

Peter

never

fought

anymore.

Never

bullied.

Got

along

well

with

everybody.

It

was

a

new

Peter.

Everyone

believed

it.

Father

and

Mother

said

it

so

often

it

made

Valentine

want

to

scream

at

them.

It

isn't

the

new

Peter!

It's

the

old

Peter,

only

smarter!

How

smart?

Smarter

than

you,

Father.

Smarter

than

you,

Mother.

Smarter

than

anybody

you

have

ever

met.

But

not

smarter

than

me.

"I've

been

deciding,"

said

Peter,

"whether

to

kill

you

or

what."

Valentine

leaned

against

the

trunk

of

the

pine

tree,

her

little

fire

a

few

smoldering

ashes.

"I

love

you,

too,

Peter."

"It

would

be

so

easy.

You

always

make

these

stupid

little

fires.

It's

just

a

matter

of

knocking

you

out

and

burning

you

up.

You're

such

a

firebug."

"I've

been

thinking

of

castrating

you

in

your

sleep."

"No

you

haven't.

You

only

think

of

things

like

that

when

I'm

with

you.

I

bring

out

the

best

in

you.

No,

Valentine,

I've

decided

not

to

kill

you.

I've

decided

that

you're

going

to

help

me."

"I

am?"

A

few

years

ago,

Valentine

would

have

been

terrified

at

Peter's

threats.

Now,

though,

she

was

not

so

afraid.

Not

that

she

doubted

that

he

was

capable

of

killing

her.

She

couldn't

think

of

anything

so

terrible

that

she

didn't

believe

Peter

might

do

it.

She

also

knew,

though,

that

Peter

was

not

insane,

not

in

the

sense

that

he

wasn't

in

control

of

himself.

He

was

in

better

control

of

himself

than

anyone

she

knew.

Except

perhaps

herself.

Peter

could

delay

any

desire

as

long

as

be

needed

to;

he

could

conceal

any

emotion.

And

so

Valentine

knew

that

he

would

never

hurt

her

in

a

fit

of

rage.

He

would

only

do

it

if

the

advantages

outweighed

the

risks.

And

they

did

not.

In

a

way,

she

actually

preferred

Peter

to

other

people

because

of

this.

He

always,

always

acted

out

of

intelligent

self-interest.

And

so,

to

keep

herself

safe,

all

she

had

to

do

was

make

sure

it

was

more

in

Peter's

interest

to

keep

her

alive

than

to

have

her

dead.

"Valentine,

things

are

coming

to

a

head.

I've

been

tracking

troop

movements

in

Russia."

"What

are

we

talking

about?"

"The

world,

Val.

You

know

Russia?

Big

empire?

Warsaw

Pact?

Rulers

of

Eurasia

from

the

Netherlands

to

Pakistan?"

"They

don't

publish

their

troop

movements,

Peter."

"Of

course

not.

But

they

do

publish

their

passenger

and

freight

train

schedules.

I've

had

my

desk

analyzing

those

schedules

and

figuring

out

when

the

secret

troop

trains

are

moving

over

the

same

tracks.

Done

it

backward

over

the

past

three

years.

In

the

last

six

months,

they've

stepped

up,

they're

getting

ready

for

war.

Land

war."

"But

what

about

the

League?

What

about

the

buggers?"

Valentine

didn't

know

what

Peter

was

getting

at,

but

he

often

launched

discussions

like

this,

practical

discussions

of

world

events.

He

used

her

to

test

his

ideas,

to

refine

them.

In

the

process,

she

also

refined

her

own

thinking.

She

found

that

while

she

rarely

agreed

with

Peter

about

what

the

world

ought

to

be,

they

rarely

disagreed

about

what

the

world

actually

was.

They

had

become

quite

deft

at

sifting

accurate

information

out

of

the

stories

of

the

hopelessly

ignorant,

gullible

news

writers.

The

news

herd,

as

Peter

called

them.

"The

Polemarch

is

Russian,

isn't

he?

And

he

knows

what's

happening

with

the

fleet.

Either

they've

found

out

the

buggers

aren't

a

threat

after

all,

or

we're

about

to

have

a

big

battle.

One

way

or

another,

the

bugger

war

is

about

to

be

over.

They're

getting

ready

for

after

the

war."

"If

they're

moving

troops,

it

must

be

under

the

direction

of

the

Strategos."

"It's

all

internal,

within

the

Warsaw

Pact."

This

was

disturbing.

The

facade

of

peace

and

cooperation

had

been

undisturbed

almost

since

the

bugger

wars

began.

What

Peter

had

detected

was

a

fundamental

disturbance

in

the

world

order.

She

had

a

mental

picture,

as

clear

as

memory,

of

the

way

the

world

had

been

before

the

buggers

forced

peace

unon

them.

"So

it's

back

to

the

way

it

was

before."

"A

few

changes.

The

shields

make

it

so

nobody

bothers

with

nuclear

weapons

anymore.

We

have

to

kill

each

other

thousands

at

a

time

instead

of

millions."

Peter

grinned.

"Val,

it

was

bound

to

happen.

Right

now

there's

a

vast

international

fleet

and

army

in

existence,

with

American

hegemony.

When

the

bugger

wars

are

over,

all

that

power

will

vanish,

because

it's

all

built

on

fear

of

the

buggers.

And

suddenly

we'll

look

around

and

discover

nat

all

the

old

alliances

are

gone,

dead

and

gone,

except

one,

the

Warsaw

Pact.

And

it'll

be

the

dollar

against

five

million

lasers.

We'll

have

the

asteroid

belt,

but

they'll

have

Earth,

and

you

run

out

of

raisins

and

celery

kind

of

fast

out

there,

without

Earth."

What

disturbed

Valentine

most

of

all

was

that

Peter

did

not

seem

at

all

worried.

"Peter,

why

do

I

get

the

idea

that

you

are

thinking

of

this

as

a

golden

opportunity

for

Peter

Wiggin?"

"For

both

of

us,

Val."

"Peter,

you're

twelve

years

old.

I'm

ten.

They

have

a

word

for

people

our

age.

They

call

us

children

and

they

treat

us

like

mice."

"But

we

don't

think

like

other

children,

do

we,

Val?

We

don't

talk

like

other

children.

And

above

all,

we

don't

write

like

other

children."

"For

a

discussion

that

began

with

death

threats,

Peter,

we've

strayed

from

the

topic,

I

think."

Still,

Valentine

found

herself

getting

excited.

Writing

was

something

Val

did

better

than

Peter.

They

both

knew

it.

Peter

had

even

named

it

once,

when

he

said

that

he

could

always

see

what

other

people

hated

most

about

themselvee,

and

bully

them,

while

Val

could

always

see

what

other

people

liked

best

about

themselves,

and

flatter

them.

It

was

a

cynical

way

of

putting

it,

but

it

was

true.

Valentine

could

persuade

other

people

to

her

point

of

view--

she

could

convince

them

that

they

wanted

what

she

wanted

them

to

want.

Peter,

on

the

other

hand,

could

only

make

them

fear

what

he

wanted

them

to

fear.

When

he

first

pointed

this

out

to

Val,

she

resented

it.

She

had

wanted

to

believe

she

was

good

at

persuading

people

because

she

was

right,

not

because

she

was

clever.

But

no

matter

how

much

she

told

herself

that

she

didn't

ever

want

to

exploit

people

the

way

Peter

did,

she

enjoyed

knowing

that

she

could,

in

her

way,

control

other

people.

And

not

just

control

what

they

did.

She

could

control,

in

a

way,

what

they

wanted

to

do.

She

was

ashamed

that

she

took

pleasure

in

this

power,

and

yet

she

found

herself

using

it

sometimes.

To

get

teachers

to

do

what

she

wanted,

and

other

students.

To

get

Mother

and

Father

to

see

things

her

way.

Sometimes,

she

was

able

to

persuade

even

Peter.

That

was

the

most

frightening

thing

of

all--

that

she

could

understand

Peter

well

enough,

could

empathize

with

him

enough

to

get

inside

him

that

way.

There

was

more

Peter

in

her

than

she

could

bear

to

admit,

though

sometimes

she

dared

to

think

ahout

it

anyway.

This

is

what

she

thought

as

Peter

spoke:

You

dream

of

power,

Peter,

but

in

my

own

way

I

am

more

powerful

than

you.

"I've

been

studying

history,"

Peter

said.

"I've

been

learning

things

about

patterns

in

human

behavior.

There

are

times

when

the

world

is

rearranging

itself,

and

at

times

like

that,

the

right

words

can

change

the

world.

Think

what

Pericles

did

in

Athens,

and

Demosthenes--"

"Yes,

they

managed

to

wreck

Athens

twice."

"Pericles,

yes,

but

Demosthenes

was

right

about

Philip--"

"Or

provoked

him--"

"See?

This

is

what

historians

usually

do,

quibble

about

cause

and

effect

when

the

point

is,

there

are

times

when

the

world

is

in

flux

and

the

right

voice

in

the

right

place

can

move

the

world.

Thomas

Paine

and

Ben

Franklin,

for

instance.

Bismarek.

Lenin."

"Not

exactly

parallel

cases,

Peter."

Now

she

was

disagreeing

with

him

out

of

habit;

she

saw

what

he

was

getting

at,

and

she

thought

it

might

just

be

possible.

"I

didn't

expect

you

to

understand.

You

still

believe

that

teachers

know

something

worth

learning."

I

understand

more

than

you

think,

Peter.

"So

you

see

yourself

as

Bismarck?"

"I

see

myself

as

knowing

how

to

insert

ideas

into

the

public

mind.

Haven't

you

ever

thought

of

a

phrase,

Val,

a

clever

thing

to

say,

and

said

it,

and

then

two

weeks

or

a

month

later

you

hear

some

adult

saying

it

to

another

adult,

both

of

them

strangers?

Or

you

see

it

on

a

video

or

pick

it

up

on

a

net?"

"I

always

figured

I

heard

it

before

and

only

thought

I

was

making

it

up."

"You

were

wrong.

There

are

maybe

two

or

three

thousand

people

in

the

world

as

smart

as

us,

little

sister.

Most

of

them

are

making

a

living

somewhere.

Teaching,

the

poor

bastards,

or

doing

research.

Precious

few

of

them

are

actually

in

positions

of

power."

"I

guess

we're

the

lucky

few."

"Funny

as

a

one-legged

rabbit,

Val."

"Of

which

there

are

no

doubt

several

in

these

woods."

"Hopping

in

neat

little

circles."

Valentine

laughed

at

the

gruesome

image

and

hated

herself

for

thinking

it

was

funny.

"Val,

we

can

say

the

words

that

everyone

else

will

be

saying

two

weeks

later.

We

can

do

that.

We

don't

have

to

wait

until

we're

grown

up

and

safely

put

away

in

some

career."

"Peter,

you're

twelve."

"Not

on

the

nets

I'm

not.

On

the

nets

I

can

name

myself

anything

I

want,

and

so

can

you."

"On

the

nets

we

are

clearly

identified

as

students,

and

we

can't

even

get

into

the

real

discussions

except

in

audience

mode,

which

means

we

can't

say

anything

anyway."

"I

have

a

plan."

"You

always

do."

She

pretended

nonchalance

but

she

listened

eagerly.

"We

can

get

on

the

nets

as

full-fledged

adults.

with

whatever

net

names

we

want

to

adopt,

if

Father

gets

us

onto

his

citizen's

access."

"And

why

would

he

do

that?

We

alreads

have

student

access.

What

do

you

tell

him,

I

need

citizen's

access

so

I

can

take

over

the

world?"

"No,

Val.

I

won't

tell

him

anything.

You'll

tell

him

how

you're

worried

about

me.

How

I'm

trying

so

very

hard

to

do

well

at

school,

but

you

know

it's

driving

me

crazy

because

I

can

never

talk

to

anybody

intelligent,

everybody

always

talks

down

to

me

because

I'm

young,

I

never

get

to

converse

with

my

peers.

You

can

prove

that

the

stress

is

getting

to

me."

Valentine

thought

of

the

corpse

of

the

squirrel

in

the

woods

and

realized

that

even

that

discovery

was

part

of

Peter's

plan.

Or

at

least

he

had

made

it

part

of

his

plan,

after

it

happened.

"So

you

get

him

to

authorize

us

to

share

his

citizen's

access.

To

adopt

our

own

identities

there,

to

conceal

who

we

are

so

people

will

give

us

the

intellectual

respect

we

deserve."

Valentine

could

challenge

him

on

ideas,

but

never

on

things

like

this.

She

could

not

say,

What

makes

you

think

you

deserve

respect?

She

had

read

about

Adolf

Hitler.

She

wondered

what

he

was

like

at

the

age

of

twelve.

Not

this

smart,

not

like

Peter

that

way,

but

craving

honor,

probably

that.

And

what

would

it

have

meant

to

the

world

if

in

childhood

he

had

been

caught

in

a

thresher

or

trampled

by

a

horse?

"Val,"

Peter

said.

"I

know

what

you

think

of

me.

I'm

not

a

nice

person,

you

think."

Valentine

threw

a

pine

needle

at

him.

"An

arrow

through

your

heart."

"I've

been

planning

to

come

talk

to

you

for

a

long

time.

But

I

kept

being

afraid."

She

put

a

pine

needle

in

her

mouth

and

blew

it

at

him.

It

dropped

almost

straight

down.

"Another

failed

launch."

Why

was

he

pretending

to

be

weak?

"Val,

I

was

afraid

you

wouldn't

believe

me.

That

you

wouldn't

believe

I

could

do

it."

"Peter,

I

believe

you

could

do

anything,

and

probably

will."

"But

I

was

even

more

afraid

that

you'd

believe

me

and

try

to

stop

me."

"Come

on,

threaten

to

kill

me

again,

Peter."

Did

he

actually

believe

she

could

be

fooled

by

his

nice-and-humble-kid

act?

"So

I've

got

a

sick

sense

of

humor.

I'm

sorry.

You

know

I

was

teasing.

I

need

your

help."

"You're

just

what

the

world

needs.

A

twelve-year-old

to

solve

all

our

problems."

"It's

not

my

fault

I'm

twelve

right

now.

And

it's

not

my

fault

that

right

now

is

when

the

opportunity

is

open.

Right

now

is

the

time

when

I

can

shape

events.

The

world

is

always

a

democracy

in

times

of

flux,

and

the

man

with

the

best

voice

will

win.

Everybody

thinks

Hitler

got

to

power

because

of

his

armies,

because

they

were

willing

to

kill,

and

that's

partly

true,

because

in

the

real

world

power

is

always

built

on

the

threat

of

death

and

dishonor.

But

mostly

he

got

to

power

on

words--

on

the

right

words

at

the

right

time."

"I

was

just

thinking

of

comparing

you

to

him."

"I

don't

hate

Jews,

Val.

I

don't

want

to

destroy

anybody.

And

I

don't

want

war,

either.

I

want

the

world

to

hold

together.

Is

that

so

bad?

I

don't

want

us

to

go

back

to

the

old

way.

Have

you

read

about

the

world

wars?"

"Yes."

"We

can

go

back

to

that

again.

Or

worse.

We

could

find

ourselves

locked

into

the

Warsaw

Pact.

Now,

there's

a

cheerful

thought."

"Peter,

we're

children,

don't

you

understand

that?

We're

going

to

school,

we're

growing

up--"

But

even

as

she

resisted,

she

wanted

him

to

persuade

her.

She

had

wanted

him

to

persuade

her

from

the

beginning.

But

Peter

didn't

know

that

he

had

already

won.

"If

I

believe

that,

if

I

accept

that,

then

I've

got

to

sit

back

and

watch

while

all

the

opportunities

vanish,

and

then

when

I'm

old

enough

it's

too

late.

Val,

listen

to

me.

I

know

how

you

feel

about

me,

you

always

have.

I

was

a

vicious,

nasty

brother.

I

was

cruel

to

you

and

crueler

to

Ender

before

they

took

him.

But

I

didn't

hate

you.

I

loved

you

both,

I

just

had

to

be--

had

to

have

control,

do

you

understand

that?

lt's

the

most

important

thing

to

me,

it's

my

greatest

gift,

I

can

see

where

the

weak

points

are,

I

can

see

how

to

get

in

and

use

them,

I

just

see

those

things

without

even

trying.

I

could

become

a

businessman

and

run

some

big

corporation,

I'd

scramble

and

maneuver

until

I

was

at

the

top

of

everything

and

what

would

I

have?

Nothing.

I'm

going

to

rule,

Val,

I'm

going

to

have

control

of

something.

But

I

want

it

to

be

something

worth

ruling.

I

want

to

accomplish

something

worthwhile.

A

Pax

Americana

through

the

whole

world.

So

that

when

somebody

else

comes,

after

we

beat

the

buggers,

when

somebody

else

comes

here

to

defeat

us,

they'll

find

we've

already

spread

over

a

thousand

worlds,

we're

at

peace

with

ourselves

and

impossible

to

destroy.

Do

you

understand?

I

want

to

save

mankind

from

self-destruction."

She

had

never

seen

him

speak

with

such

sincerity.

With

no

hint

of

mockery,

no

trace

of

a

lie

in

his

voice.

He

was

getting

better

at

this.

Or

maybe

he

was

actually

touching

on

the

truth.

"So

a

twelve-year-old

boy

and

his

kid

sister

are

going

to

save

the

world?"

"How

old

was

Alexander?

I'm

not

going

to

do

it

overnight.

I'm

just

going

to

start

now.

If

you'll

help

me."

"I

don't

believe

what

you

did

to

those

squirrels

was

part

of

an

act.

I

think

you

did

it

because

you

love

to

do

it."

Suddenly

Peter

wept

into

his

hands.

Val

assumed

that

he

was

pretending,

but

then

she

wondered.

It

was

possible,

wasn't

it,

that

he

loved

her,

and

that

in

this

time

of

terrifying

opportunity

he

was

willing

to

weaken

himself

before

her

in

order

to

win

her

love.

He's

manipulating

me,

she

thought,

but

that

doesn't

mean

he

isn't

sincere.

His

cheeks

were

wet

when

he

took

his

hands

away,

his

eyes

rimmed

in

red.

"I

know,"

he

said.

"It's

what

I'm

most

afraid

of.

That

I

really

am

a

monster.

I

don't

want

to

be

a

killer

but

I

just

can't

help

it."

She

had

never

seen

him

show

such

weakness.

You're

so

clever,

Peter.

You

saved

your

weakness

so

you

could

use

it

to

move

me

now.

And

yet

it

did

move

her.

Because

if

it

were

true,

even

partly

true.

then

Peter

was

not

a

monster,

and

so

she

could

satisfy

her

Peter-like

love

of

power

without

fear

of

becoming

monstrous

herself.

She

knew

that

Peter

was

calculating

even

now,

but

she

believed

that

under

the

calculations

he

was

telling

the

truth.

It

had

been

hidden

layers

deep,

but

he

had

probed

her

until

he

found

her

trust.

"Val,

if

you

don't

help

me,

l

don't

know

what

I'll

become.

But

if

you're

there,

my

partner

in

everything,

you

can

keep

me

from

becoming

--

like

that.

Like

the

bad

ones."

She

nodded.

You

are

only

pretending

to

share

power

with

me,

she

thought,

but

in

fact

i

have

power

over

you.

even

though

you

don't

know

it.

"I

will.

I'll

help

you."

***

As

soon

as

Father

got

them

both

onto

his

citizen's

access,

they

began

testing

he

waters.

They

staved

away

from

the

nets

that

required

use

of

a

real

name.

That

wasn't

hard

because

real

names

only

had

to

do

with

money.

They

didn't

need

money.

They

needed

respect,

and

that

they

could

earn.

With

false

names,

on

the

right

nets,

they

could

be

anybody.

Old

men,

middle-aged

women,

anybody,

as

long

as

they

were

careful

about

the

way

they

wrote.

All

that

anyone

would

see

were

their

words,

their

ideas.

Every

citizen

started

equal,

on

the

nets.

They

used

throwaway

names

with

their

early

efforts.

not

the

identities

that

Peter

planned

to

make

famous

and

influential.

Of

course

they

were

not

invited

to

take

part

in

the

great

national

and

international

political

forums

--

they

could

only

be

audiences

there

until

they

were

invited

or

elected

to

take

part.

But

they

signed

on

and

watched,

reading

some

of

the

essays

published

by

the

great

names,

witnessing

the

debates

that

played

across

their

desks.

And

in

the

lesser

conferences,

where

common

people

commented

about

the

great

debates,

they

began

to

insert

their

comments.

At

first

Peter

insisted

that

they

be

deliberately

inflammatory.

"We

can't

learn

how

our

style

of

writing

is

working

unless

we

get

responses

--

and

if

we're

bland,

no

one

will

answer."

They

were

not

bland,

and

people

answered.

The

responses

that

got

posted

on

the

public

nets

were

vinegar;

the

responses

that

were

sent

as

mail,

for

Peter

and

Valentine

to

read

privately,

were

poisonous.

But

they

did

learn

what

attributes

of

their

writing

were

seized

upon

as

childish

and

immature.

And

they

got

better.

When

Peter

was

satisfied

that

they

knew

how

to

sound

adult,

he

killed

the

old

identities

and

they

began

to

prepare

to

attract

real

attention.

"We

have

to

seem

completely

separate.

We'll

write

about

different

things

at

different

times.

We'll

never

refer

to

each

other.

You'll

mostly

work

on

the

west

coast

nets,

and

I'll

mostly

work

in

the

south.

Regional

issues,

too.

So

do

your

homework."

They

did

their

homework.

Mother

and

Father

worried

sometimes,

with

Peter

and

Valentine

constantly

together,

their

desks

tucked

under

their

arms.

But

they

couldn't

complain--

their

grades

were

good,

and

Valentine

was

such

a

good

influence

on

Peter.

She

had

changed

his

whole

attitude

toward

everything.

And

Peter

and

Valentine

sat

together

in

the

woods,

in

good

weather,

and

in

pocket

restaurants

and

indoor

parks

when

it

rained,

and

they

composed

their

political

commentaries.

Peter

carefully

designed

both

characters

so

neither

one

had

all

of

his

ideas;

there

were

even

some

spare

identities

that

they

used

to

drop

in

third

party

opinions.

"Let

both

of

them

find

a

following

as

they

can,"

said

Peter.

Once,

tired

of

writing

and

rewriting

until

Peter

was

satisfied,

Val

despaired

and

said,

"Write

it

yourself,

then!"

"I

can't,"

he

answered.

"They

can't

both

sound

alike.

Ever.

You

forget

that

someday

we'll

be

famous

enough

that

somebody

will

start

running

analyses.

We

have

to

come

up

as

different

people

every

time."

So

she

wrote

on.

Her

main

identity

on

the

nets

was

Demosthenes

--

Peter

chose

the

name.

He

called

himself

Locke.

They

were

obvious

pseudonyms,

but

that

was

part

of

the

plan.

"With

any

luck,

they'll

start

trying

to

guess

who

we

are."

"If

we

get

famous

enough,

the

government

can

always

get

access

and

find

out

who

we

really

are."

"When

that

happens,

we'll

be

too

entrenched

to

suffer

much

loss.

People

will

be

shocked

that

Demosthenes

and

Locke

are

two

kids,

hut

they'll

already

be

used

to

listening

to

us."

They

began

composing

debates

for

their

characters.

Valentine

would

prepare

en

opening

statement,

and

Peter

would

invent

a

throwaway

name

to

answer

her.

His

answer

would

be

intelilgent

and

the

dehate

would

be

lively,

lots

of

clever

invective

and

good

political

rhetoric.

Valentine

had

a

knack

for

alliteration

that

made

her

phrases

memorable.

Then

they

would

enter

the

debate

into

the

network,

separated

by

a

reasonable

amount

of

time,

as

if

they

were

actually

making

them

up

on

the

spot.

Sometimes

a

few

other

netters

would

interposee

comments,

but

Peter

and

Val

would

usually

ignore

them

or

change

their

own

comments

only

slightly

to

accommodate

what

had

been

said.

Peter

took

careful

note

of

all

their

most

memorable

phrases

and

then

did

searches

from

time

to

time

to

find

those

phrases

cropping

up

in

other

nlaces.

Not

all

of

them

did,

but

most

of

them

were

repeated

here

and

there,

and

some

of

them

even

showed

up

in

the

major

debates

on

the

prestige

nets.

"We're

being

read,"

Peter

said.

"The

ideas

are

seeping

out."

"The

phrases,

anyway."

"That's

just

the

measure.

Look,

we're

having

some

influence.

Nobody

quotes

us

by

name,

yet,

but

they're

discussing

the

points

we

raise.

We're

helping

set

the

agenda.

We're

getting

there."

"Should

we

try

to

get

into

the

main

debates?"

"No.

We'll

wait

until

they

ask

us."

They

had

been

doing

it

only

seven

months

when

one

of

the

west

coast

nets

sent

Demosthenes

a

message.

An

offer

for

a

weekly

column

in

a

pretty

good

newsnet.

"I

can't

do

a

weekly

column,"

Valentine

said.

"I

don't

even

have

a

monthly

period

yet."

"The

two

aren't

related,"

Peter

said.

"They

are

to

me.

I'm

still

a

kid."

"Tell

them

yes,

but

since

you

prefer

not

to

have

your

true

identity

revealed,

you

want

them

to

pay

you

in

network

time.

A

new

access

code

through

their

corporate

identity."

"So

when

the

government

traces

me--"

"You'll

just

be

a

person

who

can

sign

on

through

CalNet.

Father's

citizen's

access

doesn't

get

involved.

What

I

can't

figure

out

is

why

they

wanted

Demosthenes

before

Locke."

"Talent

rises

to

the

top."

As

a

game,

it

was

fun.

But

Valentine

didn't

like

some

of

the

positions

Peter

made

Demosthenes

take.

Demosthenes

began

to

develop

as

a

fairly

paranoid

anti-Warsaw

writer.

It

bothered

her

because

Peter

was

the

one

who

knew

how

to

exploit

fear

in

his

writing

--

she

had

to

keep

coming

to

him

for

ideas

on

how

to

do

it.

Meanwhile,

his

Locke

followed

her

moderate,

empathic

strategies.

It

made

sense,

in

a

way.

By

having

her

write

Demosthenes,

it

meant

he

also

had

some

empathy,

just

as

Locke

also

could

play

on

others

fears.

But

the

main

effect

was

to

keep

her

inextricably

tied

to

Peter.

She

couldn't

go

off

and

use

Demosthenes

for

her

own

purposes.

She

wouldn't

know

how

to

use

him.

Still,

it

worked

both

ways.

He

couldn't

write

Locke

without

her.

Or

could

he?

"I

thought

the

idea

was

to

unify

the

world.

If

I

write

this

like

you

say

I

should,

Peter,

I'm

pretty

much

calling

for

war

to

break

up

the

Warsaw

Pact."

"Not

war,

just

open

nets

and

prohibition

of

interception.

Free

flow

of

information.

Compliance

with

the

League

rules,

for

heaven's

sake."

Without

meaning

to,

Valentine

started

talking

in

Demosthenes'

voice,

even

though

she

certainly

wasn't

speaking

Demosthenes'

opinions.

Everyone

knows

that

from

the

beginning

the

Warsaw

Pact

was

to

be

regarded

as

a

single

entity

where

those

rules

were

concerned.

International

free

flow

is

still

open.

But

between

the

Warsaw

Pact

nations

these

things

are

internal

matters.

That

was

why

they

were

willing

to

allow

American

hegemony

in

the

League."

"You're

arguing

Locke's

part,

Val.

Trust

me.

You

have

to

call

for

the

Warsaw

Pact

to

lose

official

status.

You

have

to

get

a

lot

of

people

really

angry.

Then,

later,

when

you

begin

to

recognize

the

need

for

compromise--"

"Then

they

stop

listening

to

me

and

go

off

and

fight

a

war."

"Val,

trust

me.

I

know

what

I'm

doing."

"How

do

you

know?

You're

not

any

smarter

than

me,

and

you've

never

done

this

before

either."

"I'm

thirteen

and

you're

ten."

"Almost

eleven."

"And

I

know

how

these

things

work."

"All

right,

I'll

do

it

your

way.

But

I

won't

do

any

of

these

liberty

or

death

things."

"You

will

too."

"And

someday

when

they

catch

us

and

they

wonder

why

your

sister

was

such

a

warmonger.

I

can

just

bet

you'll

tell

them

that

you

told

me

to

do

it."

"Are

you

sure

you're

not

having

a

period,

little

woman?"

"I

hate

you,

Peter

Wiggin."

What

bothered

Valentine

most

was

when

her

column

got

syndicated

into

several

other

regional

newsnets,

and

Father

started

reading

it

and

quoting

from

it

at

table.

"Finally,

a

man

with

some

sense,"

he

said.

Then

he

quoted

some

of

the

passages

Valentine

hated

worst

in

her

own

work.

"It's

fine

to

work

with

these

hegemonist

Russians

with

the

buggers

out

there,

but

after

we

win,

I

can't

see

leaving

half

the

civilized

world

as

virtual

helots,

can

you,

dear?"

"I

think

you're

taking

this

all

too

seriously,"

said

Mother.

"I

like

this

Demosthenes.

I

like

the

way

he

thinks.

I'm

surprised

he

isn't

in

the

major

nets.

I

looked

for

him

in

the

international

relations

debates

and

you

know,

he's

never

taken

part

in

any

of

them."

Valentine

lost

her

appetite

and

left

the

table.

Peter

followed

her

after

a

respectable

interval.

"So

you

don't

like

lying

to

Father."

he

said.

"So

what?

You're

not

lying

to

him.

He

doesn't

think

that

you're

really

Demosthenes,

and

Demosthenes

isn't

saying

things

you

really

believe.

They

cancel

each

other

out,

they

amount

to

nothing."

"That's

the

kind

of

reasoning

that

makes

Locke

such

an

ass."

But

what

really

bothered

her

was

not

that

she

was

lying

to

Father

--

it

was

the

fact

that

Father

actually

agreed

with

Demosthenes.

She

had

thought

that

only

fools

would

follow

him.

A

few

days

later

Locke

got

picked

up

for

a

column

in

a

New

England

newsnet,

specifically

to

provide

a

contrasting

view

for

their

popular

column

from

Demosthenes.

"Not

bad

for

two

kids

who've

only

got

about

eight

pubic

hairs

between

them,"

Peter

said.

"It's

a

long

way

between

writng

a

newsnet

column

and

ruling

the

world,"

Valentine

reminded

him.

"It's

such

a

long

way

that

no

one

has

ever

done

it."

"They

have,

though.

Or

the

moral

equivalent.

I'm

going

to

say

snide

things

about

Demosthenes

in

my

first

column."

"Well,

Demosthenes

isn't

even

going

to

notice

that

Locke

exists.

Ever."

"For

now."

With

their

identities

now

fully

supported

by

their

income

from

writing

columns,

they

used

Father's

access

now

only

for

the

throwaway

identities.

Mother

commented

that

they

were

spending

too

much

time

on

the

nets.

"All

work

and

no

play

makes

Jack

a

dull

boy,"

she

reminded

Peter.

Peter

let

his

hand

tremhle

a

little,

and

he

said,

"If

you

think

I

should

stop,

I

think

I

might

be

able

to

keep

things

under

control

this

time.

I

really

do."

"No,

no,"

Mother

said.

"I

don't

want

you

to

stop.

Just

be

careful,

that's

all."

"I'm

careful,

Mom."

***

Nothing

was

different

--

nothing

had

changed

in

a

year.

Ender

was

sure

of

it,

and

yet

it

all

seemed

to

have

gone

sour.

He

was

stil

the

leading

soldier

in

the

standings,

and

no

one

doutbted

that

he

deserved

it

now.

At

the

age

of

nine

he

was

a

toon

leader

in

the

Phoenix

Army,

with

Petra

Arkanian

as

his

commander.

He

still

led

his

evening

practice

sessions,

and

now

they

were

attended

by

an

elite

group

of

soldiers

nominated

by

their

commanders,

though

any

Launchy

who

wanted

to

could

still

come.

Alai

was

also

a

toon

leader,

in

another

army,

and

they

were

still

good

friends;

Shen

was

not

a

leader,

but

that

was

no

barrier.

Dink

Meeker

had

finally

accepted

command

and

succeeded

Rose

the

Nose

in

Rat

Army's

command.

All

is

going

well,

very

well,

I

couldn't

ask

for

anything

better--

So

why

do

I

hate

my

life?

He

went

through

the

paces

of

the

practices

and

games.

He

liked

teaching

the

boys

in

his

toon,

and

they

followed

him

loyally.

He

had

the

respect

of

everyone,

and

he

was

treated

with

deference

in

his

evening

practices.

Commanders

came

to

study

what

he

did.

Other

soldiers

approached

his

table

at

mess

and

asked

permission

to

sit

down.

Even

the

teachers

were

respectful.

He

had

so

much

damn

respect

he

wanted

to

scream.

He

watched

the

young

kids

in

his

army,

fresh

out

of

their

launch

groups,

watched

how

they

played,

how

they

made

fun

of

their

leaders

when

they

thought

no

one

was

looking.

He

watched

the

camaraderie

of

old

friends

who

had

known

each

other

in

the

Battle

School

for

years,

who

talked

and

laughed

about

old

battles

and

long-graduated

soldiers

and

commanders.

But

with

his

old

friends

there

was

no

laughter,

no

remembering.

Just

work.

Just

intelligence

and

excitement

about

the

game,

but

nothing

beyond

that.

Tonight

it

had

come

to

a

head

in

the

evening

practice.

Ender

and

Alai

were

discussing

the

nuances

of

openspace

maneuvers

when

Shen

came

up

and

listened

for

a

few

moments,

then

suddenly

took

Alai

by

the

shoulders

and

shouted,

"Nova!

Nova!

Nova!"

Alai

burst

out

laughing,

and

for

a

moment

or

two

Ender

watched

them

remember

together

the

battle

where

openroom

maneuvering

had

been

for

real,

and

they

had

dodged

past

the

older

boys

and--

Suddenly

they

remembered

that

Ender

was

tnere.

"Sorry,

Ender,"

Shen

said.

Sorry.

For

what?

For

being

friends?

"I

was

there,

too,

you

know,"

Ender

said.

And

they

apologized

again.

Back

to

business.

Back

to

respect.

And

Ender

realized

that

in

their

laughter,

in

their

friendship,

it

had

not

occurred

to

them

that

he

was

included.

How

could

they

think

I

was

part

of

it?

Did

I

laugh?

Did

I

join

in?

Just

stood

there,

watching,

like

a

teacher.

Thats

how

they

think

of

me,

too.

Teacher.

Legendary

soldier.

Not

one

of

them.

Not

someone

that

you

embrace

and

whisper

Salaam

in

his

ear.

That

only

lasted

while

Ender

still

seemed

a

victim.

Still

seemed

vulnerable.

Now

he

was

the

master

soldier,

and

he

was

completely,

utterly

alone.

Feel

sorry

for

yourself,

Ender.

He

typed

the

words

on

his

desk

as

he

lay

on

his

bunk.

POOR

ENDER.

Then

he

laughed

at

himself

and

cleared

away

the

words.

Not

a

boy

or

girl

in

this

school

who

wouldn't

he

glad

to

trade

places

with

me.

He

called

up

the

fantasy

game.

He

walked

as

he

often

did

through

the

village

that

the

dwarves

had

built

in

the

hill

made

by

the

Giant's

corpse.

It

was

easy

to

build

sturdy

walls,

with

the

ribs

already

curved

just

right,

just

enough

space

between

them

to

leave

windows.

The

whole

corpse

was

cut

into

apartments,

opening

onto

the

path

down

the

Giant's

spine,

The

public

amphitheatre

was

carved

into

the

pelvic

bowl,

and

the

common

herd

of

ponies

was

pastured

between

the

Giant's

legs.

Ender

was

never

sure

what

the

dwarves

were

doing

as

they

went

about

their

business,

but

they

left

him

alone

as

he

picked

his

way

through

the

village,

and

in

return

he

did

them

no

harm

either.

He

vaulted

the

pelvic

bone

at

the

base

of

the

public

square,

and

walked

through

the

pasture.

The

ponies

shied

away

from

him.

He

did

not

pursue

them.

Ender

did

not

understand

how

the

game

functioned

anymore.

In

the

old

days,

before

he

had

first

gone

to

the

End

of

the

World,

everything

was

combat

and

puzzles

to

solve

defeat

the

enemy

before

he

kills

you,

or

figure

out

how

to

get

past

the

obstacle.

Now,

though,

no

one

attacked,

there

was

no

war,

and

wherever

he

went,

there

was

no

obstacle

at

all.

Except,

of

course,

in

the

room

in

the

castle

at

the

End

of

the

World.

It

was

the

one

dangerous

place

left.

And

Ender,

however

often

he

vowed

that

he

would

not,

always

went

back

there,

always

killed

the

snake,

always

looked

his

brother

in

the

face,

and

always,

no

matter

what

he

did

next,

died.

It

was

no

different

this

time.

He

tried

to

use

the

knife

on

the

table

to

pry

through

the

mortar

and

pull

out

a

stone

from

the

wall.

As

soon

as

he

breached

the

seal

of

the

mortar,

water

began

to

gush

in

through

the

crack,

and

Ender

watched

his

death

as

his

figure,

now

out

of

his

control,

struggled

madly

to

stay

alive,

to

keep

from

drowning.

The

windows

of

his

room

were

gone,

the

water

rose,

and

his

figure

drowned.

All

the

while,

the

face

of

Peter

Wiggin

in

the

mirror

stayed

and

looked

at

him.

I'm

trapped

here,

Ender

thought,

trapped

at

the

End

of

the

World

with

no

way

out.

And

he

knew

at

last

the

sour

taste

that

had

come

to

him,

despite

all

his

successes

in

the

Battle

School.

lt

was

despair.

***

There

were

uniformed

men

at

the

entrances

to

the

school

when

Valentine

arrived.

They

weren't

standing

like

guards,

but

rather

slouched

around

as

if

they

were

waiting

for

someone

inside

to

finish

his

business.

They

wore

the

uniforms

of

IF

Marines,

the

same

uniforms

that

exeryone

saw

in

bloody

combat

on

the

videos.

It

lent

an

air

of

romance

to

that

day

at

school:

all

the

other

kids

where

excited

about

it.

Valentine

was

not.

It

made

her

think

of

Ender,

for

one

thing.

And

for

anotther

it

made

her

afraid.

Someone

had

recently

published

a

savage

commentary

on

the

Demosthenes'

collected

writings.

The

commentary,

and

therefore

her

work,

had

been

discussed

on

te

open

conference

of

the

international

relations

net,

with

some

of

the

most

important

people

of

the

day

attacking

and

defending

Demosthenes.

What

worried

her

most

was

the

comnuent

of

an

Englishman:

"Whether

he

likes

it

or

not,

Demosthenes

cannot

remain

incognito

forever.

He

has

outraged

too

many

wise

men

and

pleased

too

many

fools

to

hide

behind

his

too-appropriate

pseudonym

much

longer.

Either

he

will

unmask

himself

in

order

to

assume

leadership

of

the

forces

of

stupidity

he

has

marshalled,

or

his

enemies

will

unmask

him

in

order

to

better

understand

the

disease

that

has

produced

such

a

warped

and

twisted

mind."

Peter

had

been

delighted,

but

then

he

would

be.

Valentine

was

afraid,

that

enough

powerful

people

had

been

annoyed

by

the

vicious

persona

of

Demosthenes

that

she

would

indeed

be

tracked

down.

The

IF

could

do

it,

even

if

the

American

government

was

constitutionally

bound

not

to.

And

here

were

IF

troops

gathered

at

Western

Guilford

Middle

School,

of

all

places.

Nor

exactly

the

regular

recruiting

grounds

for

the

IF

Marines.

So

she

was

not

surprised

to

find

a

message

marching

around

her

desk

as

soon

as

she

logged

in.

PLEASE

LOG

OFF

AND

GO

TO

DR.

LINEBERRY'S

OFFICE

AT

ONCE.

Valentine

waited

nervously

outside

the

principal's

office

until

Dr.

Lineberry

opened

the

door

and

beckoned

her

inside.

Her

last

doubt

was

removed

when

she

saw

the

soft-bellied

man

in

the

uniform

of

an

IF

colonel

sitting

in

the

one

comfortable

chair

in

the

room.

"You're

Valentine

Wiggin,"

he

said.

"Yes,"

she

whisnered.

"I'm

Colonel

Graff.

We've

met

before."

Before?

When

had

she

had

any

dealings

with

the

IF?

"I've

come

to

talk

to

you

in

confidence,

about

your

brother."

It's

not

just

me,

then,

she

thought.

They

have

Peter.

Or

is

this

something

new?

Has

he

done

something

crazy?

I

thought

he

stopped

doing

crazy

things.

"Valentine,

you

seem

frightened.

There's

no

need

to

be.

Please,

sit

down.

I

assure

you

that

your

brother

is

well.

He

has

more

than

fulfilled

our

expectations."

And

now,

with

a

great

inward

gush

of

relief,

she

realized

that

it

was

Ender

they

had

come

about.

Ender.

It

wasn't

punishment

at

all,

it

was

little

Ender,

who

had

disappeared

so

long

ago,

who

was

no

part

of

Peter's

plots

now.

You

were

the

lucky

one,

Ender.

You

got

away

before

Peter

could

trap

you

into

his

conspiracy.

"How

do

you

feel

about

your

brother,

Valentine?"

"Ender?"

"Of

course."

"How

can

I

feel

about

him?

I

haven't

seen

him

or

heard

from

him

since

I

was

eight."

"Dr.

Lineberry,

will

you

excuse

us?"

Lineberry

was

annoyed.

"On

second

thought,

Dr.

Lineberry,

I

think

Valentine

and

I

will

have

a

much

more

productive

conversation

if

we

walk

outside.

Away

from

the

recording

devices

that

your

assistant

principal

has

placed

in

this

room."

It

was

the

first

time

Valentine

had

seen

Dr.

Lineberry

speechless.

Colonel

Graff

lifted

a

picture

out

from

the

wall

and

peeled

a

sound-sensitive

membrane

from

the

wall,

along

with

its

small

broadcast

unit.

"Cheap,"

said

Graff,

"but

effective.

I

thought

you

knew."

Lineberry

took

the

device

and

sat

down

heavily

at

her

desk.

Graff

led

Valentine

outside,

They

walked

out

into

the

football

field.

The

soldiers

followed

at

a

discreet

distance:

they

split

up

and

formed

a

large

circle,

to

guard

them

from

the

widest

possible

perimeter.

"Valentine,

we

need

your

help

for

Ender."

"What

kind

of

help?"

"We

aren't

even

sure

of

that.

We

need

you

to

help

us

figure

out

how

you

can

help

us."

"Well,

what's

wrong?"

"That's

part

of

the

problem.

We

don't

know."

Valentine

couldn't

help

but

laugh.

"I

haven't

seen

him

in

three

years!

You've

got

him

up

there

with

you

all

the

time!"

"Valentine,

it

costs

more

nuoney

than

your

father

will

make

in

his

lifetime

for

me

to

fly

to

Earth

and

back

to

the

Battle

School

again.

I

don't

commute

casually."

"The

king

had

a

dream,"

said

Valentine,

"but

he

forgot

what

it

was,

so

he

told

his

wise

men

to

interpret

the

dream

or

they'd

die.

Only

Daniel

could

interpret

it,

because

he

was

a

prophet."

"You

read

the

Bible?"

"We're

doing

classics

this

year

in

advanced

English.

I'm

not

a

prophet."

"I

wish

I

could

tell

you

everything

about

Ender's

situation.

But

it

would

take

hours,

maybe

days,

and

afterward

I'd

have

to

put

you

in

protective

confinement

because

so

much

of

it

is

strictly

confidential.

So

let's

see

what

we

can

do

with

limited

information.

There's

a

game

that

our

students

play

with

the

computer."

And

he

told

her

about

the

End

of

the

World

and

the

closed

room

and

the

picture

of

Peter

in

the

mirror.

"It's

the

computer

that

puts

the

picture

there,

not

Ender.

Why

not

ask

the

computer?"

"The

computer

doesn't

know."

"I'm

supposed

to

know?"

"This

is

the

second

time

since

Ender's

been

with

us

that

he's

taken

this

game

to

a

dead

end.

To

a

game

that

seems

to

have

no

solution.".

"Did

he

solve

the

first

one?"

"Eventually."

"Then

give

him

time,

he'll

probably

solve

this

one."

"I'm

not

sure.

Valentine,

your

brother

is

a

very

unhappy

little

boy."

"Why?"

"I

don't

know."

"You

don't

know

much,

do

you?"

Valentine

thought

for

a

moment

that

the

man

might

get

angry.

Instead,

though,

he

decided

to

laugh.

"No,

not

much.

Valentine,

why

would

Ender

keep

seeing

your

brother

Peter

in

the

mirror?"

"He

shouldn't.

It's

stupid."

"Why

is

it

stupid?"

"Because

if

there's

ever

anybody

who

was

the

opposite

of

Ender,

it's

Peter."

"How?"

Valentine

could

not

think

of

a

way

to

answer

that

wasn't

dangerous.

Too

much

questioning

about

Peter

could

lead

to

real

trouble.

Valentine

knew

enough

about

the

world

to

know

that

no

one

would

take

Peter's

plans

for

world

domination

seriously,

as

a

danger

to

existing

governments.

But

they

might

well

decide

he

was

insane

and

needed

treatment

for

his

megalomania.

"You're

preparing

to

lie

to

me,"

Graff

said.

"I'm

preparing

not

to

talk

to

you

anymore,"

Valentine

answered.

"And

you're

afraid.

Why

are

you

afraid?"

"I

don't

like

questions

about

my

family.

Just

leave

my

family

out

of

this."

"Valentine,

I'm

trying

to

leave

your

family

out

of

this.

I'm

coming

to

you

so

I

don't

have

to

start

a

battery

of

tests

on

Peter

and

question

your

parents.

I'm

trying

to

solve

this

problem

now,

with

the

person

Ender

loves

and

trusts

most

in

the

world,

perhaps

the

only

person

he

loves

and

trusts

at

all.

If

we

can't

solve

it

this

way,

then

we'll

sequester

your

family

and

do

as

we

like

from

then

on.

This

is

not

a

trivial

matter,

and

I

won't

just

go

away."

The

only

person

Ender

loves

and

trusts

at

all.

She

felt

a

deep

stab

of

pain,

of

regret,

of

shame

that

now

it

was

Peter

she

was

close

to.

Peter

who

was

the

center

of

her

life.

For

you,

Ender,

I

light

fires

en

your

birthday.

For

Peter

I

help

fulfil

all

his

dreams.

"I

never

thought

you

were

a

nice

man.

Not

when

you

came

to

take

Ender

away,

and

not

now."

"Don't

pretend

to

be

an

ignorant

little

girl.

I

saw

your

tests

when

you

were

little,

and

at

the

present

moment

there

aren't

very

many

college

professors

who

could

keep

up

with

you."

"Ender

and

Peter

hate

each

other."

"I

knew

that.

You

said

they

were

opposites.

Why?"

"Peter

--

can

be

hateful

sometimes."

"Hateful

in

what

way?"

"Mean.

Just

mean,

that's

all."

"Valentine,

for

Ender's

sake,

tell

me

what

he

does

when

he's

being

mean."

"He

threatens

to

kill

people

a

lot.

He

doesn't

mean

it.

But

when

we

were

little,

Ender

and

I

were

both

afraid

of

him.

He

told

us

he'd

kill

us.

Actually,

he

told

us

he'd

kill

Ender."

"We

monitored

some

of

that."

"It

was

because

of

the

monitor."

"Is

that

all?

Tell

me

more

about

Peter."

So

she

told

him

about

the

children

in

every

school

that

Peter

attended.

He

never

hit

them,

but

he

tortured

them

just

the

same.

Found

what

they

were

most

ashamed

of

and

told

it

to

the

person

whose

respect

they

most

wanted.

Found

what

they

most

feared

and

made

sure

they

faced

it

often.

"Did

he

do

this

with

Ender?"

Valentine

shook

her

head.

"Are

you

sure?

Didn't

Ender

have

a

weak

place?

A

thing

he

feared

most,

or

that

he

was

ashamed

of?"

"Ender

never

did

anything

to

be

ashamed

of."

And

suddenly,

deep

in

her

own

shame

for

having

forgotten

and

betrayed

Ender,

she

started

to

cry.

"Why

are

you

crying?"

She

shook

her

head.

She

couldn't

explain

what

it

was

like

to

think

of

her

little

brother,

who

was

so

good,

whom

she

had

protected

for

so

long,

and

then

remember

that

now

she

was

Peter's

ally,

Peter's

helper,

Peter's

slave

in

a

scheme

that

was

completely

out

of

her

control.

Ender

never

surrendered

to

Peter,

but

I

have

turned,

I've

become

part

of

him,

as

Ender

never

was.

"Ender

never

gave

in,"

she

said.

"To

what?"

"To

Peter.

To

being

like

Peter."

They

walked

in

silence

along

the

goal

line.

"How

would

Ender

ever

be

like

Peter?"

Valentine

shuddered,

"I

already

told

you."

"But

Ender

never

did

that

kind

of

thing.

He

was

just

a

little

boy."

"We

both

wanted

to,

though.

We

both

wanted

to

to

kill

Peter."

"Ah."

"No,

that

isn't

true.

We

never

said

it,

Ender

never

said

that

he

wanted

to

do

that.

I

just

--

thought

it.

It

was

me,

not

Ender.

He

never

said

that

he

wanted

to

kill

him."

"What

did

he

want?"

"He

just

didn't

want

to

be--"

"To

be

what?"

"Peter

tortures

squirrels.

He

stakes

them

out

on

the

ground

and

skins

them

alive

and

sits

and

watches

them

until

they

die.

He

did

that,

he

doesn't

do

it

now.

But

he

did

it.

If

Ender

knew

that,

if

Ender

saw

him,

I

think

that

he'd--"

"He'd

what?

Rescue

the

squirrels?

Try

to

heal

them?"

"No,

in

those

days

you

didn't

undo

what

Peter

did.

You

didn't

cross

him.

But

Ender

would

be

kind

to

squirrels.

Do

you

understand?

He'd

feed

them."

"But

if

he

fed

them,

they'd

become

tame,

and

that

much

easier

for

Peter

to

catch."

Valentine

began

to

cry

again.

"No

matter

what

you

do,

it

always

helps

Peter.

Everything

helps

Peter,

everything,

you

just

can't

get

away,

no

matter

what."

"Are

you

helping

Peter?"

asked

Graff.

She

didn't

answer.

"Is

Peter

such

a

very

bad

person,

Valentine?"

She

nodded.

"Is

Peter

the

worst

person

in

the

world?"

"How

can

he

be?

I

don't

know.

He's

the

worst

person

I

know."

"And

yet

you

and

Ender

are

his

brother

and

sister.

You

have

the

same

genes,

the

same

parents,

how

can

he

be

so

bad

if--"

Valentine

turned

and

screamed

at

him,

screamed

as

if

he

were

killing

her.

"Ender

is

not

like

Peter!

He

is

not

like

Peter

in

any

way!

Except

that

he's

smart,

that's

all--

in

every

other

way

a

person

could

possibly

be

like

Peter

he

is

nothing

nothing

nothing

like

Peter!

Nothing!"

"I

see,"

said

Graff.

"I

know

what

you're

thinking,

you

bastard,

you're

thinking

that

I'm

wrong,

that

Ender's

like

Peter.

Well

maybe

I'm

like

Peter,

but

Ender

isn't,

he

isn't

at

all,

I

used

to

tell

him

that

when

he

cried,

I

told

him

that

lots

of

times,

you're

not

like

Peter,

you

never

like

to

hurt

people,

you're

kind

and

good

and

not

like

Peter

at

all!"

"And

it's

true."

His

acquiescence

calmed

her.

"Damn

right

it's

true.

It's

true."

"Valentine,

will

you

help

Ender?"

"I

can't

do

anything

for

him

now."

"It's

really

the

same

thing

you

always

did

for

him

before.

Just

comfort

him

and

tell

him

that

he

never

likes

to

hurt

people,

that

he's

good

and

kind

and

not

like

Peter

at

all,

That's

the

most

important

thing.

That

he's

not

like

Peter

at

all."

"I

can

see

him?"

"No.

I

want

you

to

write

a

letter."

"What

good

does

that

do?

Ender

never

answered

a

single

letter

I

sent."

Graff

sighed.

"He

answered

every

letter

he

got."

It

took

only

a

second

for

her

to

understand.

"You

really

stink."

"Isolation

is

--

the

optimum

environment

for

creativity.

It

was

*his*

ideas

we

wanted,

not

the

--

never

mind,

I

don't

have

to

defend

myself

to

you."

Then

why

are

you

doing

it,

she

did

not

ask.

"But

he's

slacking

off.

He's

coasting.

We

want

to

push

him

forward,

and

he

won't

go."

"Maybe

I'd

be

doing

Ender

a

favor

if

I

told

you

to

go

stuff

yourself."

"You've

already

helped

me.

You

can

help

me

more.

Write

to

him."

"Promise

you

won't

cut

out

anything

I

write."

"I

won't

promise

any

such

thing."

"Then

forget

it."

"No

problem.

I'll

write

your

letter

myself.

We

can

use

your

other

letters

to

reconcile

the

writing

styles.

Simple

matter."

"I

want

to

see

him."

"He

gets

his

first

leave

when

he's

eighteen."

"You

told

him

it

would

be

when

he

was

twelve."

"We

changed

the

rules."

"Why

should

I

help

you!"

"Don't

help

me.

Help

Ender.

What

does

it

matter

if

that

helps

us,

too?"

"What

kind

of

terrible

things

are

you

doing

to

him

up

there?"

Graff

chuckled.

"Valentine,

my

dear

little

girl,

the

terrible

things

are

only

about

to

begin."

***

Ender

was

four

lines

into

the

letter

before

he

realized

that

it

wasn't

from

one

of

the

other

soldiers

in

the

Battle

School.

It

had

come

in

the

regular

way

--

a

MAIL

WAlTING

message

when

he

signed

into

his

desk.

He

read

four

lines

into

it,

then

skipped

to

the

end

and

read

the

signature.

Then

he

went

back

to

the

beginning,

and

curled

up

on

his

bed

to

read

the

words

over

and

over

again.

ENDER,

THE

BASTARDS

WOULDN'T

PUT

ANY

OF

MY

LETTERS

THROUGH

TILL

NOW.

I

MUST

HAVE

WRITTEN

A

HUNDRED

TIMES

BUT

YOU

MUST

HAVE

THOUGHT

I

NEVER

DID.

WELL,

I

DID.

I

HAVEN'T

FORGOTTEN

YOU.

I

REMEMBER

YOUR

BIRTHDAY.

I

REMEMBER

EVERYTHING.

SOME

PEOPLE

MIGHT

THINK

THAT

BECAUSE

YOU'RE

BEING

A

SOLDIER

YOU

ARE

NOW

A

CRUEL

AND

HARD

PERSON

WHO

LIKES

TO

HURT

PEOPLE,

LIKE

THE

MARINES

IN

THE

VIDEOS,

BUT

I

KNOW

THAT

ISN'T

TRUE.

YOU

ARE

NOTHING

LIKE

YOU-KNOW-WHO.

HE'S

NICER-SEEMING

BUT

HE'S

STILL

A

SLUMBITCH

INSIDE.

MAYBE

YOU

SEEM

MEAN,

BUT

IT

WON'T

FOOL

ME.

STILL

PADDLING

THE

OLD

KNEW,

ALL

MY

LOVE

TURKEY

LIPS,

VAL

DON'T

WRITE

BACK

THEY'LL

PROBLY

SIKOWANALIZE

YOUR

LETTER.

Obviously

it

was

written

with

the

full

approval

of

the

teachers.

But

there

was

no

doubt

it

was

written

by

Val.

The

spelling

of

psychoanalyze,

the

epithet

slumbitch

for

Peter,

the

joke

about

pronouncing

knew

like

canoe

were

all

things

that

no

one

could

know

but

Val.

And

yet

they

came

pretty

thick,

as

though

someone

wanted

to

make

very

sure

that

Ender

believed

that

the

letter

was

genuine.

Why

should

thry

be

so

eager

if

it's

the

real

thing?

It

isn't

the

real

thing

anyway.

Even

if

she

wrote

it

in

her

own

blood,

it

isn't

the

real

thing

because

they

made

her

write

it.

She'd

written

before,

and

they

didn't

let

any

of

those

letters

through.

Those

might

have

been

real,

but

this

was

asked

for,

this

was

part

of

their

manipulation.

And

the

despair

filled

him

again.

Now

he

knew

why.

Now

he

knew

what

he

hated

so

much.

He

had

no

control

over

his

own

life.

They

ran

everything.

They

made

all

the

choices.

Only

the

game

was

left

to

him,

that

was

all,

everything

else

was

them

and

their

rules

and

plans

and

lessons

and

programs,

and

all

he

could

do

was

go

this

way

or

that

way

in

battle.

The

one

real

thing,

the

one

precious

real

thing

was

his

memory

of

Valentine,

the

person

who

loved

him

before

he

ever

played

a

game,

who

loved

him

whether

there

was

a

bugger

war

or

not,

and

they

had

taken

her

and

put

her

on

their

side.

She

was

one

of

them

now.

He

hated

them

and

all

their

games.

Hated

them

so

badly

that

he

cried,

reading

Val's

empty

asked-for

letter

again.

The

other

boys

in

Phoenix

Army

noticed

and

looked

away.

Ender

Wiggin

crying?

That

was

disturbing.

Something

terrible

was

going

on.

The

best

soldier

in

any

army,

lying

on

his

bunk

crying.

The

silence

in

the

room

was

deep.

Ender

deleted

the

letter,

wiped

it

out

of

menuory

and

then

punched

up

the

fantasy

game.

He

was

not

sure

why

he

was

so

eager

to

play

the

game,

to

get

to

the

End

of

the

World,

but

he

wasted

no

time

getting

there.

Only

when

he

coasted

on

the

cloud,

skimming

over

the

autumnal

colors

of

the

pastoral

world,

only

then

did

he

realize

what

he

hated

most

about

Val's

letter.

All

that

it

said

was

about

Peter.

About

how

he

was

not

at

all

like

Peter.

The

words

she

had

said

so

often

as

she

held

him,

comforted

him

as

he

trembled

in

fear

and

rage

and

loathing

after

Peter

had

tortured

him,

that

was

all

that

the

letter

had

said.

And

that

was

what

they

had

asked

for.

The

bastards

knew

about

that,

and

they

knew

about

Peter

in

the

mirror

in

the

castle

room,

they

knew

about

everything

and

to

them

Val

was

just

one

more

tool

to

use

to

control

him,

just

one

more

trick

to

play.

Dink

was

right,

they

were

the

enemy,

they

loved

nothing

and

cared

for

nothing

and

he

was

not

going

to

do

what

they

wanted,

he

was

damn

well

not

going

to

do

anything

for

them.

He

had

had

only

one

memory

that

was

safe,

one

good

thing,

and

those

bastards

had

plowed

it

into

him

with

the

rest

of

the

manure

--

and

so

he

was

finished,

he

wasn't

going

to

play.

As

always

the

serpent

waited

in

the

tower

room,

unraveling

itself

from

the

rug

on

the

floor.

But

this

time

Ender

didn't

grind

it

underfoot.

This

time

he

caught

it

in

his

hands,

knelt

before

it,

and

gently,

so

gently,

brought

the

snake's

gaping

mouth

to

his

lips.

And

kissed.

He

had

not

meant

to

do

that.

He

had

meant

to

let

the

snake

bite

him

on

the

mouth.

Or

perhaps

he

had

meant

to

eat

the

snake

alive,

as

Peter

in

the

mirror

had

done,

with

his

bloody

chin

and

the

snake's

tail

dangling

from

his

lips.

But

he

kissed

it

instead.

And

the

snake

in

his

hands

thickened

and

bent

into

another

shape.

A

human

shape.

It

was

Valentine,

and

she

kissed

him

again.

The

snake

could

not

be

Valentine.

He

had

killed

it

too

often

for

it

to

be

his

sister.

Peter

had

devoured

it

too

often

to

bear

it

that

it

might

have

been

Valentine

all

along.

Was

this

what

they

planned

when

they

let

him

read

her

letter?

He

didn't

care.

She

arose

from

the

floor

of

the

tower

room

and

walked

to

the

mirror.

Ender

made

his

figure

also

rise

and

go

with

her.

They

stood

before

the

mirror,

where

instead

of

Peter's

cruel

reflection

there

stood

a

dragon

and

a

unicorn.

Ender

reached

out

his

hand

and

touched

the

mirror;

the

wall

fell

open

and

revealed

a

great

stairway

downward,

carpeted

and

lined

with

shouting,

cheering

multitudes.

Together,

arm

in

arm,

he

and

Valentine

walked

down

the

stairs.

Tears

filled

his

eyes,

tears

of

relief

that

at

last

he

had

broken

free

of

the

End

of

the

World.

And

because

of

the

tears,

he

didn't

notice

that

every

member

of

the

multitude

wore

Peter's

face.

He

only

knew

that

wherever

he

went

in

this

world,

Valentine

was

with

him.

***

Valentine

read

the

letter

that

Dr.

Lineberry

had

given

her.

"Dear

Valentine,"

it

said,

"We

thank

you

and

commend

you

for

your

efforts

on

behalf

of

the

war

effort.

You

are

hereby

notified

that

you

have

been

awarded

the

Star

of

the

Order

of

the

League

of

Humanity,

First

Class,

which

is

the

highest

military

award

that

can

be

given

to

a

civilian.

Unfortunately,

IF

security

forbids

us

to

make

this

award

public

until

after

the

successful

conclusion

of

current

operations,

but

we

want

you

to

know

that

your

efforts

resulted

in

complete

success.

Sincerely,

General

Shimon

Levy,

Strategos."

When

she

had

read

it

twice

Dr.

Lineberry

took

it

from

her

hands.

"I

was

instructed

to

let

you

read

it,

and

then

destroy

it."

She

took

a

cigarette

lighter

from

a

drawer

and

set

the

paper

afire.

It

burned

brightly

in

the

ashtray.

"Was

it

good

or

bad

news?"

she

asked.

"I

sold

my

brother,"

Valentine

said,

"and

they

paid

me

for

it."

"That's

a

bit

melodramatic,

isn't

it,

Valentine?"

Valentine

went

back

to

class

without

answering.

That

night

Demosthenes

published

a

scathing

denunctalion

of

the

population

limitation

laws.

People

should

be

allowed

to

have

as

many

children

as

they

like,

and

the

surplus

population

should

be

sent

to

other

worlds,

to

spread

mankind

so

far

across

the

galaxy

that

no

disaster,

no

invasion

could

ever

threaten

the

human

race

with

annihilation.

"The

most

noble

title

any

child

can

have,"

Demosthenes

wrote,

"is

Third."

For

you,

Ender,

she

said

to

herself

as

she

wrote.

Peter

laughed

in

delight

when

he

read

it.

"That'll

make

them

sit

up

and

take

notice.

Third!

A

noble

title!

Oh,

you

have

a

wicked

streak."

Chapter

10

--

Dragon

"Now?"

"I

suppose

so.

"It

has

to

be

an

order,

Colonel

Graff.

Armies

don't

move

because

a

commander

says

'I

suppose

it's

time

to

attack.'"

"I'm

not

a

commander.

I'm

a

teacher

of

little

children."

"Colonel,

sir,

I

admit

I

was

on

you,

I

admit

I

was

a

pain

in

the

ass,

but

it

worked,

everything

worked

just

like

you

wanted

it

to.

The

last

few

weeks

Ender's

even

been,

been--"

"Happy."

"Content.

He's

doing

well.

His

mind

is

keen,

his

play

is

excellent.

Young

as

he

is.

we've

never

had

a

boy

better

prepared

for

command.

Usually

they

go

at

eleven.

but

at

nine

and

a

half

he's

top

flight."

"Well,

yes.

For

a

few

minutes

there,

it

actually

occurred

to

me

to

wonder

what

kind

of

a

man

would

heal

a

broken

child

of

some

of

his

hurt,

just

so

he

could

throw

him

back

into

battle

again.

A

little

private

moral

dilemma.

Please

overlook

it.

I

was

tired."

"Saving

the

world,

remember?"

"Call

him

in."

"We're

doing

what

must

be

done,

Colonel

Graff."

"Come

on,

Anderson,

you're

just

dying

to

see

how

he

handles

all

those

rigged

games

I

had

you

work

out."

"That's

a

pretty

low

thing

to--"

"So

I'm

a

low

kind

of

guy.

Come

on,

Major.

We're

both

the

scum

of

the

earth.

I'm

dying

to

see

how

he

handles

them,

too.

After

all,

our

lives

depend

on

him

doing

real

well.

Neh?"

"You're

not

starting

to

use

the

boys'

slang,

are

you?"

"Call

him

in,

Major.

I'll

dump

the

rosters

into

his

files

and

give

him

his

security

system.

What

we're

doing

to

him

isn't

all

bad,

you

know.

He

gets

his

privacy

again."

"Isolation,

you

mean."

"The

loneliness

of

power.

Go

call

him

in."

"Yes

sir.

I'll

be

back

with

him

in

fifteen

minutes."

"Good-bye.

Yes

sir

yessir

yezzir.

I

hope

you

had

fun,

I

hope

you

had

a

nice,

nice

time

being

happy,

Ender.

It

might

be

the

last

time

in

your

life.

Welcome,

little

boy.

Your

dear

Uncle

Graff

has

plans

for

you."

***

Ender

knew

what

was

happening

from

the

moment

they

brought

him

in.

Everyone

expected

him

to

go

commander

early.

Perhaps

not

this

early,

but

he

had

topped

the

standings

almost

continuously

for

three

years,

no

one

else

was

remotely

close

to

him,

and

his

evening

practices

had

become

the

most

prestigious

group

in

the

school.

There

were

some

who

wondered

why

the

teachers

had

waited

this

long.

He

wondered

which

army

they'd

give

him.

Three

commanders

were

graduating

soon,

including

Petra,

but

it

was

beyond

hope

for

them

to

give

him

Phoenix

Army.

No

one

ever

succeeded

to

command

of

the

same

army

he

was

in

when

he

was

promoted.

Anderson

took

him

first

to

his

new

quarters.

That

sealed

it

--

only

commanders

had

private

rooms.

Then

he

had

him

fitted

for

new

uniforms

and

a

new

flash

suit.

He

looked

on

the

forms

to

discover

the

name

of

his

army.

Dragon,

said

the

form.

There

was

no

Dragon

Army.

"I've

never

heard

of

Dragon

Army,"

Ender

said.

"That's

because

there

hasn't

been

a

Dragon

Army

in

four

years.

We

discontinued

the

name

because

there

was

a

superstition

about

it.

No

Dragon

Army

in

the

history

of

the

Battle

School

ever

won

even

a

third

of

its

games.

It

got

to

be

a

joke."

"Well,

why

are

you

reviving

it

now?"

"We

had

a

lot

of

extra

uniforms

to

use

up."

Graffsat

at

his

desk,

looking

fatter

and

wearier

than

the

last

time

Ender

had

seen

him.

He

handed

Ender

his

hook,

the

small

box

that

commanders

used

to

go

where

they

wanted

in

the

battleroom

during

practices.

Many

times

during

his

evening

practice

sessions

Ender

wished

that

he

had

a

hook,

instead

of

having

to

rebound

off

walls

to

get

where

he

wanteu

to

go.

Now

that

he'd

got

quite

deft

at

maneuvering

without

one,

here

it

was.

"It

only

works,"

Anderson

pointed

out,

"during

your

regularly

scheduled

practice

sessions."

Since

Ender

already

planned

to

have

extra

practices,

it

meant

the

hook

would

only

be

useful

some

of

the

time.

It

also

explained

why

so

many

commanders

never

held

extra

practices.

They

depended

on

the

hook,

and

it

wouldn't

do

anything

for

them

during

the

extra

times.

If

they

felt

that

the

hook

was

their

authority,

their

power

over

the

other

boys,

then

they

were

even

less

likely

to

work

without

it.

That's

an

advantage

I'll

have

over

some

of

my

enemies,

Ender

thought.

Graff's

official

welcome

speech

sounded

bored

and

over-rehearsed.

Only

at

the

end

did

he

begin

to

sound

interested

in

his

own

words.

"We're

doing

something

unusual

with

Dragon

Army.

I

hope

you

don't

mind.

We've

assembled

a

new

army

by

advancing

the

equivalent

of

an

entire

launch

course

early

and

delaying

the

graduation

of

quite

a

few

advanced

students.

I

think

you'll

be

pleased

with

the

quality

of

your

soldiers.

I

hope

you

are,

because

we're

forbidding

you

to

transfer

any

of

them."

"No

trades?"

asked

Ender.

It

was

how

commanders

always

shored

up

their

weak

points,

by

trading

around.

"None.

You

see,

you

have

been

conducting

your

extra

practice

sessions

for

three

years

now.

You

have

a

following.

Many

good

soldiers

would

put

unfair

pressure

on

their

commanders

to

trade

them

into

your

army.

We've

given

you

an

army

that

can,

in

time,

be

competitive.

We

have

no

intention

of

letting

you

dominate

unfairly."

"What

if

I've

got

a

soldier

I

just

can't

get

along

with?"

"Get

along

with

him."

Graff

closed

his

eyes.

Anderson

stood

up

and

the

interview

was

over.

Dragon

was

assigned

the

colors

grey,

orange,

grey;

Ender

changed

into

his

flash

suit,

then

followed

the

ribbons

of

light

until

he

came

to

the

barracks

that

contained

his

army.

They

were

there

already,

milling

around

near

the

entrance.

Ender

took

charge

at

once.

"Bunking

will

be

arranged

by

seniority.

Veterans

to

the

back

of

the

room,

newest

soldiers

to

the

front."

It

was

the

reverse

of

the

usual

pattern,

and

Ender

knew

it.

He

also

knew

that

he

didn't

intend

to

be

like

many

commanders,

who

never

even

saw

the

younger

boys

because

they

were

always

in

the

back.

As

they

sorted

themselves

out

according

to

their

arrival

dates,

Ender

walked

up

and

down

the

aisle.

Almost

thirty

of

his

soldiers

were

new,

straight

out

of

their

launch

group.

completely

inexperienced

in

battle.

Some

were

even

underage

--

the

ones

nearest

the

door

were

pathetically

small.

Ender

reminded

himself

that

that's

how

he

must

have

looked

to

Bonzo

Madrid

when

he

first

arrived.

Still,

Bonzo

had

had

only

one

underage

soldier

to

cope

with.

Not

one

of

the

veterans

belonged

to

Ender's

elite

practice

group.

None

had

ever

been

a

toon

leader.

None,

in

fact,

was

older

than

Ender

himself,

which

meant

that

even

his

veterans

didn't

have

more

than

eighteen

months'

experience.

Some

he

didn't

even

recogmze,

they

had

made

so

little

impression.

They

recognized

Ender,

of

course,

since

he

was

the

most

celebrated

soldier

in

the

school.

And

some,

Ender

could

see,

resented

him.

At

least

they

did

me

one

favor

--

none

of

my

soldiers

is

older

than

me.

As

soon

as

each

soldier

had

a

bunk,

Ender

ordered

them

to

put

on

their

flash

suits

and

come

to

practice.

"We're

on

the

morning

schedule,

straight

to

practice

after

breakfast.

Officially

you

have

a

free

hour

between

breakfast

and

practice.

We'll

see

what

happens

after

I

find

out

how

good

you

are."

After

three

minutes,

though

many

of

them

still

weren't

dressed,

he

ordered

them

out

of

the

room.

"But

I'm

naked!"

said

one

boy.

"Dress

faster

next

time.

Three

minutes

from

first

call

to

running

out

the

door

--

that's

the

rule

this

week.

Next

week

the

rule

is

two

minutes.

Move!"

lt

would

soon

be

a

joke

in

the

rest

of

the

school

that

Dragon

Army

was

so

dumb

they

had

to

practice

getting

dressed.

Five

of

the

boys

were

completely

naked,

carrying

their

flash

suits

as

they

ran

through

the

corridors;

few

were

fully

dressed.

They

attracted

a

lot

of

attention

as

they

passed

open

classroom

doors.

No

one

would

be

late

again

if

he

could

help

it.

In

the

corridors

leading

to

the

battleroom,

Eider

made

them

run

back

and

forth

in

the

halls,

fast,

so

they

were

sweating

a

little,

while

the

naked

ones

got

dresseo.

Then

he

led

them

to

the

upper

door,

the

one

that

opened

into

the

middle

of

the

battleroom

just

like

the

doors

in

the

actual

games.

Then

he

made

them

jump

up

and

use

the

ceiling

handholds

to

hurl

themselves

into

the

room.

"Assemble

on

the

far

wall,"

he

said.

"As

if

you

were

going

for

the

enemy's

gate."

They

revealed

themselves

as

they

jumped,

four

at

a

time,

through

the

door.

Almost

none

of

them

knew

how

to

establish

a

direct

line

to

the

target,

and

when

they

reached

the

far

wall

few

of

the

new

ones

had

any

idea

how

to

catch

on

or

even

control

their

rebounds.

The

last

boy

out

was

a

small

kid,

obviously

underage.

There

was

no

way

he

was

going

to

reach

the

ceiling

handhold.

"You

can

use

a

side

handhold

if

you

want,"

Ender

said.

"Go

suck

on

it,"

said

the

boy.

He

took

a

flying

leap,

touched

the

ceiling

handhold

with

a

finger

tip,

and

hurtled

through

the

door

with

no

control

at

all,

spinning

in

three

directions

at

once.

Ender

tried

to

decide

whether

to

like

the

little

kid

for

refusing

to

take

a

concession

or

to

be

annoyed

at

his

insubordinate

attitude.

They

finally

got

themselves

together

along

the

wall.

Ender

noticed

that

without

exception

they

had

lined

up

with

their

heads

still

in

the

directioiu

that

had

been

up

in

the

corridor.

So

Ender

deliberately

took

hold

of

what

they

were

treating

as

a

floor

and

dangled

from

it

upside

down.

"Why

are

you

upside

down,

soldiers?"

he

demanded.

Some

ot

them

started

to

turn

the

other

way.

"Attention!"

They

held

still.

"I

said

why

are

you

upside

down!"

No

one

answered.

They

didn't

know

what

he

expected.

"I

said

why

does

every

one

of

you

have

his

feet

in

the

air

and

his

head

toward

the

ground!"

Finally

one

of

them

spoke.

"Sir,

this

is

the

direction

we

were

in

coming

out

of

the

door."

"Well

what

difference

is

that

supposed

to

make!

What

difference

does

it

make

what

the

gravity

was

back

in

the

corridor!

Are

we

going

to

fight

in

the

corridor?

Is

there

any

gravity

here?"

No

sir.

No

*sir*.

"From

now

on,

you

forget

about

gravity

before

you

go

through

that

door.

The

old

gravity

is

gone,

erased.

Understand

me?

Whatever

your

gravity

is

when

you

get

to

the

door,

remember

--

the

enemy's

gate

is

down.

Your

feet

are

toward

the

enemy's

gate.

Up

is

toward

your

own

gate.

North

is

that

way,

south

is

that

way,

east

is

that

way,

west

is

--

what

way?"

They

pointed.

"That's

what

I

expected.

The

only

process

you've

mastered

is

the

process

of

elimination,

and

the

only

reason

you've

mastered

that

is

because

you

can

do

it

in

the

toilet.

What

was

the

circus

I

saw

out

here!

Did

you

call

that

forming

up?

Did

you

call

that

flying?

Now

everybody,

launch

and

form

up

on

the

ceiling!

Right

now!

Move!"

As

Ender

expected,

a

good

number

of

them

instinctively

launched,

not

toward

the

wall

with

the

door

in

it,

but

toward

the

wall

that

Ender

had

called

north,

the

direction

that

had

been

up

when

they

were

in

the

corridor.

Of

course

they

quickly

realized

their

mistakem,

but

too

late

--

they

had

to

wait

to

change

things

until

they

had

rebounded

off

the

north

wall.

In

the

meantime,

Ender

was

mentally

grouping

them

into

slow

learners

and

fast

learners.

The

littlest

kid,

the

one

who

had

been

last

out

of

the

door,

was

the

first

to

arrive

at

the

correct

wall,

and

he

caught

himself

adroitly.

They

had

been

right

to

advance

him.

He'd

do

well.

He

was

also

cocky

and

reheltious,

and

probably

resented

the

fact

that

he

had

been

one

of

the

ones

Ender

had

sent

naked

through

the

corridors.

"You!"

Ender

said,

pointing

at

the

small

one.

"Which

way

is

down?"

"Toward

the

enemy

door."

The

answer

was

quick.

It

was

also

surly,

as

if

to

say,

OK,

OK,

now

get

on

with

the

important

stuff.

"Name,

kid?"

"This

soldier's

name

is

Bean,

sir."

"Get

that

for

size

or

for

brains?"

The

other

boys

laughed

a

little.

"Well,

Bean,

you're

right

onto

things.

Now

listen

to

me,

because

this

matters.

Nobody's

going

to

get

through

that

door

without

a

good

chance

of

getting

hit.

In

the

old

days,

you

had

ten,

twenty

seconds

before

you

even

had

to

move.

Now

if

you

aren't

already

streaming

out

of

the

door

when

the

enemy

comes

out,

you're

frozen.

Now,

what

happens

when

you're

frozen?"

"Can't

move,"

one

of

the

boys

said.

"That's

what

frozen

means,"

Enden

said.

"But

what

happens

to

you?"

It

was

Bean,

not

intimidated

at

all,

who

answered

intelligently.

"You

keep

going

in

the

direction

you

started

in.

At

the

speed

you

were

going

when

you

were

flashed."

"That's

true.

You

five,

there

on

the

end,

move!"

Startled,

the

boys

looked

at

each

other,

Ender

flashed

them

all.

"The

next

five,

move!"

They

moved.

Ender

flashed

them,

too,

but

they

kept

moving,

heading

toward

the

walls.

The

first

five,

though,

were

drifting

uselessly

near

the

main

group.

"Look

at

these

so-called

soldiers,"

Ender

said.

"Their

commander

ordered

them

to

move,

and

now

look

at

them.

Not

only

are

they

frozen,

they're

frozen

right

here,

where

they

can

get

in

the

way.

While

the

others,

because

they

moved

when

they

were

ordered,

are

frozen

down

there,

plugging

up

the

enemy's

lanes,

blocking

the

enemy's

vision.

I

imagine

that

about

five

of

you

have

understood

the

point

of

this.

And

no

doubt

Bean

is

one

of

them.

Right,

Bean?"

He

didn't

answer

at

first.

Ender

looked

at

him

until

he

said,

"Right,

sir."

"Then

what

is

the

point?"

"When

you

are

ordered

to

move,

move

fast,

so

if

you

get

iced

you'll

bounce

around

instead

of

getting

in

the

way

of

your

own

army's

operations."

"Excellent.

At

least

I

have

one

soldier

who

can

figure

things

out."

Ender

could

see

resentment

growing

in

the

way

the

other

soldiers

shifted

their

weight

and

glanced

at

each

other,

the

way'

they

avoided

looking

at

Bean.

Why

am

I

doing

this?

What

does

this

have

to

do

with

being

a

good

commander,

making

one

boy

the

target

of

all

the

others?

Just

because

they

did

it

to

me,

why

should

I

do

it

to

him?

Ender

wanted

to

undo

his

taunting

of

the

boy,

wanted

to

tell

the

others

that

the

little

one

needed

their

help

and

friendship

more

than

anyone

else.

But

of

course

Ender

couldn't

do

that.

Not

on

the

first

day.

On

the

first

day

even

his

mistakes

had

to

look

like

part

of

a

brilliant

plan.

Ender

hooked

himself

nearer

the

wall

and

pulled

one

of

the

boys

away

from

the

others.

"Keep

your

body

straight,"

said

Ender.

He

rotated

the

boy

in

midair

so

his

feet

pointed

toward

the

others.

When

the

boy

kept

moving

his

body,

Ender

flashed

him.

The

others

laughed.

"How

much

of

his

body

could

you

shoot?"

Ender

asked

a

boy

directly

under

the

frozen

soldier's

feet.

"Mostly

all

I

can

hit

is

his

feet."

Enden

turned

to

the

boy

next

to

him.

"What

about

you?"

"I

can

see

his

body."

"And

you?"

A

boy

a

little

farther

down

the

wall

answered.

"All

of

him."

"Feet

aren't

very

big.

Not

much

protection."

Ender

pushed

the

frozen

soldier

out

of

the

way.

Then

he

doubled

his

legs

under

him,

as

if

he

were

kneeling

in

midair,

and

flashed

his

own

legs.

Immediately

the

legs

of

his

suit

went

rigid,

holding

them

in

that

position.

Ender

twisted

himself

in

the

air

so

that

he

knelt

above

the

other

boys.

"What

do

you

see?"

he

asked.

A

lot

less,

they

said.

Ender

thrust

his

gun

between

his

legs.

"I

can

see

tine,"

he

said,

and

proceeded

to

flash

the

boys

directly

under

him.

"Stop

me!"

he

shouted.

"Try

and

flash

me!"

They

finally

did,

but

not

until

he

had

flashed

more

than

a

third

of

them.

He

thumbed

his

hook

and

thawed

himself

and

every

other

frozen

soldier.

"Now,"

he

said

"which

way

is

the

enemy's

gate?"

"Down!"

"And

what

is

our

attack

position?"

Some

started

to

answer

with

words,

but

Bean

answered

by

flipping

himself

away

from

the

wall

with

his

legs

doubled

under

him,

straight

toward

the

opposite

wall,

flashing

between

his

legs

all

the

way.

For

a

moment

Ender

wanted

to

shout

at

him,

to

punish

him;

then

he

caught

himself,

rejected

the

ungenerous

impulse.

Why

should

I

be

so

angry

at

this

little

boy?

"Is

Bean

the

only

one

who

knows

how?"

Ender

shouted.

Immediately

the

entire

army

pushed

off

toward

the

opposiie

wall,

kneeling

in

the

air,

firing

between

their

legs,

shouting

at

the

top

of

their

lungs.

There

may

be

a

time,

thought

Ender,

when

this

is

exactly

the

strategy

I'll

need

--

forty

screaming

boys

in

an

unbalancing

attack.

When

they

were

all

at

the

other

side,

Ender

called

for

them

to

attack

him,

all

at

once.

Yes,

thought

Ender.

Not

bad.

They

gave

me

an

untrained

army,

with

no

excellent

veterans,

but

at

least

it

isn't

a

crop

of

fools.

I

can

work

with

this.

When

they

were

assembled

again,

laughing

and

exhilarated,

Ender

began

the

real

work.

He

had

them

freeze

their

legs

in

the

kneeling

position.

"Now,

what

are

your

legs

good

for,

in

combat?"

Nothing,

said

some

boys.

"Bean

doesn't

think

so,"

said

Ender.

"They're

the

best

way

to

push

off

walls."

"Right,"

Ender

said,

The

other

boy's

started

to

complain

that

pushing

off

walls

was

movement,

not

combat.

"There

is

no

combat

without

movement,"

Ender

said.

They

fell

silent

and

hated

Bean

a

little

more.

"Now,

with

your

legs

frozen

like

this,

can

you

push

off

walls?"

No

one

dared

answer,

for

fear

they'd

he

wrong.

"Bean?"

asked

Ender.

"I've

never

tried

it,

but

maybe

if

you

faced

the

wall

and

doubled

over

at

the

waist--"

"Right

but

wrong.

Watch

me.

My

back's

to

the

wall,

legs

are

frozen.

Since

I'm

kneeling,

my

feet

are

against

the

wall.

Usually,

when

you

push

off

you

have

to

push

downward,

so

you

sring

out

your

body

behind

you

like

a

string

bean,

right?"

Laughter.

"But

with

my

legs

frozen,

I

use

pretty

much

the

same

force,

pushing

downward

from

the

hips

and

thighs,

only

now

it

pushes

my

shoulders

and

my

feet

backward,

shoots

out

my

hips,

and

when

I

come

loose

my

body's

tight,

nothing

stringing

out

behind

me.

Watch

this."

Ender

forced

his

hips

forward,

which

shot

him

away

from

the

wall;

in

a

moment

he

readjusted

his

position

and

was

kneeling,

legs

downward,

rushing

toward

the

opposite

wall.

He

landed

on

his

knees,

flipped

over

on

his

back,

and

jackknifed

off

the

wall

in

another

direction.

"Shoot

me!"

he

shouted.

Then

he

set

himself

spinning

in

the

ar

as

he

took

a

course

roughly

parallel

to

the

boys

alang

the

far

wall.

Because

he

was

spinning,

they

couldn't

get

a

continuous

beam

on

him.

He

thawed

his

suit

and

hooked

himself

back

to

them.

"That's

what

we're

working

on

for

the

first

half

hour

today.

Build

up

some

muscles

you

didn't

know

you

had.

Learn

to

use

your

legs

as

a

shield

and

control

your

movements

so

you

can

get

that

spin.

Spinning

doesn't

do

any

good

up

close,

but

far

away,

they

can't

hurt

you

if

you're

spinning

--

at

that

distance

the

beam

has

to

hit

the

same

spot

for

a

couple

of

moments,

and

if

you're

spinning

it

can't

happen.

Now

freeze

yourself

and

get

started."

"Aren't

you

going

to

assign

lanes?"

asked

a

boy.

"No

I'm

not

going

to

assign

lanes.

I

want

you

bumping

into

each

other

and

learning

how

to

deal

with

it

all

the

time,

except

when

we're

practicing

formations,

and

then

I'll

usually

have

you

bump

into

each

other

on

purpose.

Now

move!"

When

he

said

move,

they

moved.

Ender

was

the

last

one

out

after

practice,

since

he

stayed

to

help

some

of

the

slower

ones

improve

on

technique.

They'd

had

good

teachers,

but

the

inexpenienced

soldiers

fresh

out

of

their

launch

groups

were

completely

helpless

when

it

came

to

doing

two

or

three

things

at

the

same

time.

It

was

fine

to

practice

jackknifing

with

frozen

legs,

they

had

no

trouble

maneuvering

in

midair,

but

to

launch

in

one

direction,

fire

in

another,

spin

twice,

rebound

with

a

jackknife

off

a

wall,

and

come

out

firing,

facing

the

right

direction

--

that

was

way

beyond

them.

Drill

drill

drill,

that

was

all

Ender

would

be

able

to

do

with

them

for

a

while.

Strategies

and

formations

were

nice,

but

they

were

nothing

if

the

army

didn't

know

how

to

handle

themselves

in

battle.

He

had

to

get

this

army

ready

now.

He

was

early

at

being

a

commander,

and

the

teachers

were

changing

the

rules

now,

not

letting

him

trade,

giving

him

no

top-notch

veterans.

There

was

no

guarantee

that

they'd

give

him

the

usual

three

months

to

get

his

army

together

before

sending

them

into

battle.

At

least

in

the

evenings

he'd

have

Alai

and

Shen

to

help

him

train

his

new

boys.

He

was

still

in

the

corridor

leading

out

of

the

battleroom

when

he

found

himself

face

to

face

with

little

Bean.

Bean

looked

angry.

Ender

didn't

want

problems

right

now.

"Ho,

Bean."

"Ho,

Ender."

Pause.

"*Sir*,"

Ender

said

softly.

"I

know

what

you're

doing,

Ender,

sir,

and

I'm

warning

you."

"Warning

me?"

"I

can

be

the

best

man

you've

got,

but

don't

play

games

with

me."

"Or

what?"

"Or

I'll

be

the

worst

man

you've

got.

One

or

the

other,"

"And

what

do

you

want,

love

and

kisses?"

Ender

was

getting

angry

now.

Bean

looked

unworried.

"I

want

a

toon."

Ender

walked

back

to

him

and

stood

looking

down

into

his

eyes.

"Why

should

you

get

a

toon?"

"Because

I'd

know

what

to

do

with

it."

"Knowing

what

to

do

with

a

toon

is

easy,"

Ender

said.

"It's

getting

them

to

do

it

that's

hard.

Why

would

any

soldier

want

to

follow

a

little

pinprick

like

you?"

"They

used

to

call

you

that,

I

hear.

I

hear

Bonzo

Madrid

still

does."

"I

asked

you

a

question,

soldier."

"I'll

earn

their

respect,

if

you

don't

stop

me."

Ender

grinned.

"I'm

helping

you."

"Like

hell,"

said

Bean.

"Nobody

would

notice

you,

except

to

feel

sorry

for

the

little

kid.

But

I

made

sure

they

all

noticed

you

today.

They'll

be

watching

every

move

you

make.

All

you

have

to

do

to

earn

their

respect

now

is

be

perfect."

"So

I

don't

even

get

a

chance

to

learn

before

I'm

being

judged."

"Poor

kid.

Nobody's

treatin

him

fair."

Ender

gently

pushed

Bean

back

against

the

wall.

"I'll

tell

you

how

to

get

a

toon.

Prove

to

me

you

know

what

you're

doing

as

a

soldier.

Prove

to

me

you

know

how

to

use

other

soldiers.

And

then

prove

to

me

that

somebody's

willing

to

follow

you

into

battle.

Then

you'll

get

your

toon.

But

not

bloody

well

until."

Bean

smiled.

"That's

fair.

If

you

actually

work

that

way,

I'll

be

a

toon

leader

in

a

month."

Ender

reached

down

and

grabbed

the

front

of

his

uniform

and

shoved

him

into

the

wall.

"When

I

say

I

work

a

certain

way,

Bean,

then

that's

the

way

I

work."

Bean

just

smiled.

Ender

let

go

of

him

and

walked

away.

When

he

got

to

his

room

he

lay

down

on

his

bed

and

trembled.

What

am

I

doing?

My

first

practice

session

and

I'm

already

bullying

people

the

way

Bonzo

did.

And

Peter.

Shoving

people

around.

Picking

on

some

poor

little

kid

so

the

others'll

have

somebody

they

all

hate.

Sickening.

Everything

I

hated

in

a

commander,

and

I'm

doing

it.

Is

it

some

law

of

human

nature

that

you

inevitably

become

whatever

your

first

commander

was?

I

can

quit

right

now,

if

that's

so.

Over

and

over

he

thought

of

the

things

he

did

and

said

in

his

first

practice

with

his

new

army.

Why

couldn't

he

talk

like

he

always

did

in

his

evening

practice

group?

No

authority

except

excellence.

Never

had

to

give

orders,

just

made

suggestions.

But

that

wouldn't

work,

not

with

an

army.

His

informal

practice

group

didn't

have

to

learn

to

do

things

together.

They

didn't

have

to

develop

a

group

feeling;

they

never

had

to

learn

how

to

hold

together

and

trust

each

other

in

battle.

They

didn't

have

to

respond

instantly

to

command.

And

he

could

go

to

the

other

extreme,

too.

He

could

be

as

lax

and

incompetent

as

Rose

the

Nose,

if

he

wanted.

He

could

make

stupid

mistakes

no

matter

what

he

did.

He

had

to

have

discipline,

and

that

meant

demanding

--

and

getting

--

quick,

decisive

obedience.

He

had

to

have

a

well-trained

army,

and

that

meant

drilling

the

soldiers

over

and

over

again,

long

after

they

thought

they

had

mastered

a

technique,

until

it

was

so

natural

to

them

that

they

didn't

have

to

think

about

it

anymore.

But

what

was

this

thing

with

Bean?

Why

had

he

gone

for

the

smallest,

weakest,

and

possibly

the

brightest

of

the

boys?

Why

had

he

done

to

Bean

what

had

been

done

to

Ender

by

commanders

that

he

despised.

Then

he

remembered

that

it

hadn't

begun

with

his

commanders.

Before

Rose

and

Bonzo

had

treated

him

with

contempt,

he

had

been

isolated

in

his

launch

group.

And

it

wasn't

Bernard

who

began

that,

either.

It

was

Graff.

It

was

the

teachers

who

had

done

it.

And

it

wasn't

an

accident.

Ender

realized

that

now.

It

was

a

strategy.

Graff

had

deliberately

set

him

up

to

be

separate

from

the

other

boys,

made

it

impossible

for

him

to

be

close

to

them.

And

he

began

now

to

suspect

the

reasons

behind

it.

It

wasn't

to

unify

the

rest

of

the

group

--

in

fact,

it

was

divisive.

Graff

had

isolated

Ender

to

make

him

struggle.

To

make

him

prove,

not

that

he

was

competent,

but

that

he

was

far

better

than

everyone

else.

That

was

the

only

way

he

could

win

respect

and

friendship.

It

made

him

a

better

soldier

than

he

would

ever

have

been

otherwise.

It

also

made

him

lonely,

afraid,

angry,

untrusting.

And

maybe

those

traits,

too,

made

him

a

better

soldier.

That's

what

I'm

doing

to

you,

Bean.

I'm

hurting

you

to

make

you

a

better

soldier

in

every

way.

To

sharpen

your

wit.

To

intensify

your

effort.

To

keep

you

off

balance,

never

sure

what's

going

to

happen

next,

so

you

always

have

to

be

ready

for

anything,

ready

to

improvise,

determined

to

win

no

matter

what.

I'm

also

making

you

miserable.

That's

why

they

brought

you

to

me,

Bean.

So

you

could

be

just

like

me.

So

you

could

grow

up

to

be

just

like

the

old

man.

And

me

--

am

I

supposed

to

grow

up

like

Graff?

Fat

and

sour

and

unfeeling,

manipulating

the

lives

of

little

boys

so

they

turn

out

factory

perfect,

generals

and

admirals

ready

to

lead

the

fleet

in

defense

of

the

homeland.

You

get

all

the

pleasures

of

the

puppeteer.

Until

you

get

a

soldier

who

can

do

more

than

anyone

else.

You

can't

have

that.

It

spoils

the

symmetry.

You

must

get

him

in

line,

break

him

down,

isolate

him,

beat

him

until

he

gets

in

line

with

everyone

else.

Well,

what

I've

done

to

you

this

day,

Bean,

I've

done.

But

I'll

be

watching

you,

more

compassionately

than

you

know,

and

when

the

time

is

right

you'll

find

that

I'm

your

friend,

and

you

are

the

soldier

you

want

to

be.

Ender

did

not

go

to

classes

that

afternoon.

He

lay

on

his

bunk

and

wrote

down

his

impressions

of

each

of

the

boys

in

his

army,

the

things

he

noticed

right

about

them,

the

things

that

needed

more

work.

In

practce

tonight,

he

would

talk

with

Alai

and

they'd

figure

out

ways

to

teach

small

groups

the

things

they

needed

to

know.

At

least

he

wouldn't

be

in

this

thing

alone.

But

when

Ender

got

to

the

battleroom

that

night,

while

most

others

were

still

eating,

he

found

Major

Anderson

waiting

for

him.

"There

has

been

a

rule

change,

Ender.

From

now

on,

only

members

of

the

same

army

may

work

together

in

a

battleroom

during

freetime.

And,

therefore,

battlerooms

are

available

only

on

a

scheduled

basis.

After

tonight,

your

next

turn

is

in

four

days."

"Nobody

else

is

holding

extra

practices."

"They

are

row,

Ender.

Now

that

you

command

another

army,

they

don't

want

their

boys

practicing

with

you.

Surely

you

can

understand

that.

So

they'll

conduct

their

own

practices."

"I've

alway's

been

in

another

army

from

them.

They

still

sent

their

soldiers

to

me

for

training."

"You

weren't

commander

then."

"You

gave

me

a

completely

green

army,

Major

Anderson,

sir--"

"You

have

quite

a

few

veterans."

"They

aren't

any

good."

"Nobody

gets

here

without

being

brilliant,

Ender.

Make

them

good."

"I

needed

Alai

and

Shen

to--"

"It's

about

time

you

grew

up

and

did

some

things

on

your

own,

Ender.

You

don't

need

these

other

boys

to

hold

your

hand.

You're

a

commander

now.

So

kindly

act

like

it,

Ender."

Ender

walked

past

Anderson

toward

the

battleroom.

Then

he

stopped,

turned,

asked

a

question.

"Since

these

evening

practices

are

now

regularly

scheduled,

does

it

mean

I

can

use

the

hook?"

Did

Anderson

almost

smile?

No.

Not

a

chance

of

that.

"We'll

see,"

he

said.

Ender

turned

his

back

and

went

on

into

the

battleroom.

Soon

his

army

arrived,

and

no

one

else;

either

Anderson

waited

around

to

intercept

anyone

coming

to

Ender's

practice

eroup,

or

word

had

already

passed

through

the

whole

school

that

Ender's

informal

evenings

were

through.

It

was

a

good

practice,

they

accomplished

a

lot,

but

at

the

end

of

it

Ender

was

tired

and

lonely.

There

was

a

half

hour

before

bedtime.

He

couldn't

go

into

his

army's

barracks

--

he

had

long

since

learned

that

the

best

commanders

stay

away

unless

they

have

some

reason

to

visit.

The

boy's

have

to

have

a

chance

to

be

at

peace,

at

rest,

without

someone

listening

to

favor

or

despise

them

depending

on

the

way

they

talk

and

act

and

think.

So

he

wandered

to

the

game

room,

where

a

few

other

boys

were

using

the

last

half

hour

before

final

bell

to

settle

bets

or

beat

their

previous

scores

on

the

games.

None

of

the

games

looked

interesting,

but

he

played

one

anyway,

an

easy

animated

game

designed

for

Launchies.

Bored,

he

ignored

the

objectives

of

the

game

and

used

the

little

player-figure,

a

bear,

to

explore

the

animated

scenery

around

him.

"You'll

never

win

that

way."

Ender

smiled,

"Missed

you

at

practice,

Alai."

"I

was

there.

But

they

had

your

army

in

a

separate

place.

Looks

like

you're

big

time

now,

can't

play

with

the

little

boys

anymore."

"You're

a

full

cubit

taller

than

I

am."

"Cubit!

Has

God

been

telling

you

to

build

a

boat

or

something?

Or

are

you

in

an

archaic

mood?"

"Not

archaic,

just

arcane.

Secret,

subtle,

roundabout.

I

miss

you

already,

you

circumcised

dog."

"Don't

you

know?

We're

enemies

now.

Next

time

I

meet

you

in

battle,

I'll

whip

your

ass."

It

was

banter,

as

always,

but

now

there

was

too

much

truth

behind

it.

Now

when

Ender

heard

Alai

talk

as

if

it

were

all

a

joke,

he

felt

the

pain

of

losing

a

friend,

and

the

worse

pain

of

wondering

if

Alai

really

felt

as

little

pain

as

he

showed.

"You

can

try,"

said

Ender.

"I

taught

you

everything

you

know.

But

I

didn't

teach

you

everything

I

know."

"I

knew

all

along

that

you

were

holding

something

back,

Ender.

A

pause.

Ender's

bear

was

in

trouble

on

the

screen.

He

climbed

a

tree.

"I

wasn't,

Alai.

Holding

anything

back."

"I

know."

said

Alai.

"Neither

was

I."

"Salaam,

Alai."

"Alas,

it

is

not

to

be."

"What

isn't?"

"Peace.

It's

what

salaam

means.

Peace

be

unto

you."

The

words

brought

forth

an

echo

from

Ender's

memory.

His

mother's

voice

reading

to

him

softly,

when

he

was

very

young.

Think

not

that

I

came

to

send

peace

on

earth.

I

came

not

to

send

peace,

but

a

sword.

Ender

had

pictured

his

mother

piercing

Peter

the

Terrible

with

a

bloody

rapier,

and

the

words

had

stayed

in

his

mind

along

with

the

image.

In

the

silence,

the

bear

died.

It

was

a

cute

death,

with

funny

music.

Ender

turned

around.

Alai

was

already

gone.

He

felt

like

part

of

himself

had

been

taken

away,

an

inward

prop

that

was

holding

up

his

courage

and

confidence.

With

Alai,

to

a

degree

impossible

even

with

Shen,

Ender

had

come

to

feel

a

unity

so

strong

that

the

word

we

came

to

his

lips

much

more

easily

than

I.

But

Alai

had

left

something

behind.

Ender

lay

in

bed,

dozing

into

the

night,

and

felt

Alai's

lips

on

his

cheek

as

he

muttered

the

word

peace.

The

kiss,

the

word,

the

peace

were

with

him

still.

I

am

only

what

I

remember,

and

Alai

is

my

friend

in

memories

so

intense

that

they

can't

tear

him

out.

Like

Valentine,

the

strongest

memory

of

all.

The

next

day

he

passeed

Alai

in

the

corridor,

and

they

greeted

each

other,

touched

hands,

talked,

but

they

both

knew

that

there

was

a

wall

now.

It

might

be

breached,

that

wall,

sometime

in

the

future,

but

for

now

the

only

real

conversation

between

them

was

the

roots

that

had

already

grown

low

and

deep,

under

the

wall,

where

they

could

not

be

broken.

The

most

terrible

thing,

though,

was

the

fear

that

the

wall

could

never

be

breached,

that

in

his

heart

Alai

was

glad

of

the

separation,

and

was

ready

to

be

Ender's

enemy.

For

now

that

they

could

not

be

together,

they

must

be

infinitely

apart,

and

what

had

been

sure

and

unshakable

was

now

fragile

and

insubstantial;

from

the

moment

we

are

not

together,

Alai

is

a

stranger,

for

he

has

a

life

now

that

will

be

no

part

of

mine,

and

that

means

that

when

I

see

him

we

will

not

know

each

other.

It

made

him

sorrowful,

but

Ender

did

not

weep.

He

was

done

with

that.

When

they

had

turned

Valentine

into

a

stranger,

when

they

had

used

her

as

a

tool

to

work

on

Ender,

from

that

day

forward

they

could

never

hurt

him

deep

enough

to

make

him

cry

again.

Ender

was

certain

of

that.

And

with

that

anger,

he

decided

he

was

strong

enough

to

defeat

them,

the

teachers,

his

enemies.

Chapter

11

--

Veni

Vidi

Vici

"You

can't

be

serious

about

this

schedule

of

battles."

"Yes

I

can."

"He's

only

had

his

army

three

and

a

half

weeks."

"I

told

you.

We

did

computer

simulations

on

probable

results.

And

here

is

what

the

computer

estimated

Ender

would

do."

"We

want

to

teach

him,

not

give

him

a

nervous

breakdown."

"The

computer

knows

him

better

than

we

do."

"The

computer

is

also

not

famous

for

having

mercy."

"If

you

wanted

to

be

merciful,

you

should

have

gone

to

a

monastery."

"You

mean

this

isn't

a

monastery?"

"This

is

best

for

Ender,

too.

We're

bringing

him

to

his

full

potential."

"I

thought

we'd

give

him

two

years

as

commander.

We

usually

give

them

a

battle

every

two

weeks,

starting

after

three

months.

This

is

a

little

extreme."

"Do

we

have

two

years

to

spare?"

"I

know.

I

just

have

this

picture

of

Ender

a

year

from

now.

Completely

useless,

worn

out,

because

he

was

pushed

farther

than

he

or

any

living

person

could

go."

"We

told

the

computer

that

our

highest

priority

was

having

the

subject

remain

useful

after

the

training

program."

"Well,

as

long

as

he's

usefull--"

"Look,

Colonel

Graff,

you're

the

one

who

made

me

prepare

this,

over

my

protests,

if

you'll

remember."

"I

know,

you're

right,

I

shouldn't

burden

you

with

my

conscience.

But

my

eagerness

to

sacrifice

little

children

in

order

to

save

mankind

is

wearing

thin.

The

Polemarch

has

been

to

see

the

Hegemon.

It

seems

Russian

intelligence

is

concerned

that

some

of

the

active

citizens

on

the

nets

are

already

figuring

how

America

ought

to

use

the

IF

to

destroy

the

Warsaw

Pact

as

soon

as

the

buggers

are

destroyed."

"Seems

premature."

"It

seems

insane.

Free

speech

is

one

thing,

but

to

jeopardize

the

League

over

nationalistic

rivalries

--

and

it's

for

people

like

that,

short-sighted,

suicidal

people,

that

we're

pushing

Ender

to

tho

edge

of

human

endurance."

"I

think

you

underestimate

Ender."

"But

I

fear

that

I

also

underestimate

the

stupidity

of

the

rest

of

mankind.

Are

we

absolutely

sure

that

we

ought

to

win

this

war?"

"Sir,

those

words

sound

like

treason."

"It

was

black

humor."

"It

wasn't

funny.

When

it

comes

to

the

buggers,

nothing--"

"Nothing

is

funny,

I

know."

***

Euder

Wiggin

lay

on

his

bed

staring

at

the

ceiling.

Since

becoming

commander,

he

never

slept

more

than

five

hours

a

night.

But

the

lights

went

off

at

2200

and

didn't

come

on

again

until

0600.

Sometimes

he

worked

at

his

desk,

anyway,

straining

his

eyes

to

use

the

dim

display.

Usually,

though,

he

stared

at

the

invisible

ceiling

and

thought.

Either

the

the

teachers

had

heen

kind

to

him

after

all,

or

he

was

a

better

commander

than

he

thought.

His

ragged

little

group

of

veterans,

utterly

without

honor

in

their

previous

armies,

were

blossoming

into

capable

leaders.

So

much

so

that

instead

of

the

usual

four

toons,

he

had

created

five,

each

with

a

toon

leader

and

a

second;

every

veteran

had

a

position.

He

had

the

army

drill

in

eight

man

toon

maneuvers

and

four-man

half-toons,

so

that

at

a

single

command,

his

army

could

be

assigned

as

many

as

ten

separate

maneuvers

and

carry

them

out

at

once.

No

army

had

ever

fragmented

itself

like

that

before,

but

Ender

was

not

planning

to

do

anything

that

had

been

done

before,

either.

Most

armies

practiced

mass

maneuvers,

preformed

strategies.

Ender

had

none.

Instead

he

trained

his

toon

leaders

to

use

their

small

units

effectively

in

achieving

limited

goals.

Unsupported,

alone,

on

their

own

initiative.

He

staged

mock

wars

after

the

first

week,

savage

affairs

in

the

practice

room

that

left

everybody

exhausted.

But

he

knew,

with

less

than

a

mouth

of

training,

that

his

army

had

the

potential

of

being

the

best

fighting

group

ever

to

play

the

game.

How

much

of

this

did

the

teachers

plan?

Did

they

know

they

were

giving

him

obscure

but

excellent

boys?

Did

they

give

him

thirty

Launchies,

many

of

them

underage,

because

they

knew

the

little

boys

were

quick

learners,

quick

thinkers?

Or

was

this

what

any

similar

group

could

become

under

a

commander

who

knew

what

he

wanted

his

army

to

do,

and

knew

how

to

teach

them

to

do

it?

The

question

bothered

him,

because

he

wasn't

sure

whether

he

was

confounding

or

fulfilling

their

expectations.

All

he

was

sure

of

was

that

he

was

eager

for

battle.

Most

armies

needed

three

months

because

they

had

to

memorize

dozens

of

elaboration

formations.

We're

ready

now.

Get

us

into

battle.

The

door

opened

in

darknes.

Ender

listened.

A

shuffling

step.

The

door

closed.

He

rolled

off

his

bunk

and

crawled

in

the

darkness

the

two

meters

to

the

door.

There

was

a

slip

of

paper

there.

He

couldn't

read

it,

of

course,

but

he

knew

what

it

was.

Battle.

How

kind

of

them.

I

wish,

and

they

deliver.

***

Ender

was

already

dressed

in

his

Dragon

Army

flash

suit

when

the

lights

came

on.

He

ran

down

the

corridor

at

once,

and

by

0601

he

was

at

the

door

of

his

army's

barracks.

"We

have

a

battle

with

Rabbit

Army

at

0700.

I

want

us

warmed

up

in

gravity

and

ready

to

go.

Strip

down

and

get

to

the

gym.

Bring

your

flash

suits

and

we'll

go

to

the

battleroom

from

there."

What

about

breakfast?

"I

don't

want

anybody

throwing

up

in

the

battleroom."

Can

we

at

least

take

a

leak

first?

"No

more

than

a

decaliter."

They

laughed.

The

ones

who

didn't

sleep

naked

stripped

down;

everyone

bundled

up

their

flash

suits

and

followed

Ender

at

a

jog

through

the

corridors

to

the

gym.

He

put

them

through

the

obstacle

course

twice,

then

split

them

into

rotations

on

the

tramp,

the

mat,

and

the

bench.

"Don't

wear

yourselves

out,

just

wake

yourselves

up."

He

didn't

need

to

worry

about

exhaustion.

They

were

in

good

shape,

light

and

agile,

and

above

all

excited

about

the

battle

to

come.

A

few

of

them

spontaneously

began

to

wrestle

--

the

gym,

instead

of

being

tedious,

was

suddenly

fun,

because

of

the

battle

to

come.

Their

confidence

was

the

supreme

confidence

of

those

who

have

never

been

into

the

contest,

and

think

they

are

ready.

Well,

why

shouldn't

they

think

so?

They

are.

And

so

am

I.

At

0640

he

had

them

dress

out.

He

talked

to

the

toon

leaders

and

their

seconds

while

they

dressed.

"Rabbit

Army

is

mostly

veterans,

but

Carn

Carby

was

made

their

commander

only

five

months

ago,

and

I

never

fought

them

under

him.

He

was

a

pretty

good

soldier,

and

Rabbit

has

done

fairly

well

in

the

standings

over

the

years.

But

I

expect

to

see

formations,

and

so

I'm

not

worried."

At

0650

he

made

them

all

lie

down

on

the

mats

and

relax.

Then,

at

0656,

he

ordered

them

up

and

they

jogged

along

the

corridor

to

the

battleroom,

Ender

occasionally

leaped

up

to

touch

the

ceiling.

The

boys

all

jumped

to

touch

the

same

spot

on

the

ceiling.

Their

ribbon

of

color

led

to

the

left;

Rabbit

Army

had

already

passed

through

to

the

right.

And

at

0658

they

reached

their

gate

to

the

battleroom.

The

toons

lined

up

in

five

columns.

A

and

F

ready

to

grab

the

side

handholds

and

flip

themselves

out

toward

the

sides.

B

and

D

lined

up

to

catch

the

two

parallel

ceiling

holds

and

flip

upward

into

nul

gravity.

C

toon

were

ready

to

slap

the

sill

of

the

doorway

and

flip

downward.

Up,

down,

left,

right;

Ender

stood

at

front,

between

columns

so

he'd

be

out

of

the

way

and

reoriented

them.

"Which

way

is

the

enemy's

gate?"

Down,

they

all

said,

laughing.

And

in

that

moment

up

became

north,

down

became

south,

and

left

and

right

became

east

and

west.

The

grey

wall

in

front

of

them

disappeared,

and

the

battleroom

was

visible.

It

wasn't

a

dark

game,

but

it

wasn't

a

bright

one

either

--

the

lights

were

about

half,

like

dusk.

In

the

distance,

in

the

dim

light,

he

could

see

the

enemy

door,

their

lighted

flash

suits

already

pouring

out.

Ender

knew

a

moment's

pleasure.

Everyone

had

learned

the

wrong

lesson

from

Boozo's

misuse

of

Ender

Wiggin.

They

all

dumped

through

the

door

immediately,

so

that

there

was

no

chance

to

do

anything

other

than

name

the

formation

they

would

use.

Commanders

didn't

have

time

to

think.

Well,

Ender

would

take

the

time,

and

trust

his

soldiers'

ability

to

fight

with

flashed

legs

to

keep

them

intact

as

they

came

late

through

the

door.

Ender

sized

up

the

shape

of

the

battleroom.

The

familiar

open

grid

of

most

early

games,

like

the

monkey

bars

at

the

park,

with

seven

or

eight

stars

scattered

through

the

grid.

There

were

enough

of

them,

and

in

forward

enough

positions,

that

they

were

worth

going

for.

"Spread

to

the

near

stars,"

Ender

said.

"C

try

to

slide

the

wall.

If

it

works,

A

and

F

will

follow.

If

it

doesn't,

I'll

decide

from

there.

I'll

be

with

D.

Move."

All

the

soldiers

knew

what

was

happening,

but

tactical

decisions

were

entirely

up

to

the

toon

leaders.

Even

with

Ender's

instructions,

they

were

only

ten

seconds

late

getting

through

the

gate.

Rabbit

Army

was

already

doing

some

elaborate

dance

down

at

their

end

of

the

room.

In

all

the

other

armies

Ender

had

fought

in,

he

would

have

been

worrying

right

now

about

making

sure

he

and

his

toon

were

in

their

proper

place

in

their

own

formation.

Instead,

he

and

all

his

men

were

only

thinking

of

ways

to

slip

around

past

the

formation,

control

the

stars

and

the

corners

of

the

room,

and

then

break

the

enemy

formation

into

meaningless

chunks

that

didn't

know

what

they

were

doing.

Even

with

less

than

four

weeks

together,

the

way

they

fought

already

seemed

like

the

only

intelligent

way,

the

only

possible

way.

Ender

was

almost

surprised

that

Rabbit

Army

didn't

know

already

that

they

were

hopelessly

out

of

date.

C

toon

slipped

along

the

wall,

coasting

with

their

bent

knees

facing

the

enemy.

Crazy

Tom,

the

leader

of

C

toon,

had

apparently

ordered

his

men

to

flash

their

own

legs

already.

It

was

a

pretty

good

idea

in

this

dim

light,

since

the

lighted

flash

suits

went

dark

wherever

they

were

frozen.

It

made

them

less

easily

visible.

Ender

would

commend

him

for

that.

Rabbit

Army

was

able

to

drive

back

C

toon's

attack,

but

not

until

Crazy

Tom

and

his

boys

had

carved

them

up,

freezing

a

dozen

Rabbits

before

they

retreated

to

the

safety

of

a

star.

But

it

was

a

star

behind

the

Rabbit

formation,

which

meant

they

were

going

to

be

easy

pickings

now.

Han

Tzu,

commonly

called

Hot

Soup,

was

the

leader

of

D

toon.

He

slid

quickly

along

the

lip

of

the

star

to

where

Ender

knelt.

"How

about

flipping

off

the

north

wall

and

kneeling

on

their

faces?"

"Do

it."

Ender

said.

"I'll

take

B

south

to

get

behind

them."

Then

he

shouted,

"A

and

E

slow

on

the

rvalls!"

He

slid

footward

along

the

star,

hooked

his

feet

on

the

lip,

and

flipped

himself

up

to

the

top

wall,

then

rebounded

down

to

E

toon's

star.

In

a

moment

he

was

leading

them

down

against

the

south

wall.

They

rebounded

in

near

perfect

unison

and

came

up

behind

the

two

stars

that

Carn

Carby's

soldiers

were

defending.

It

was

like

cutting

butter

with

a

hot

knife.

Rabbit

Army

was

gone,

just

a

little

cleanup

left

to

do.

Ender

broke

his

toons

up

into

half-toons

to

scour

the

corners

for

any

enemy

soldiers

who

were

whole

or

merely

damaged.

In

three

minutes

his

toon

leaders

reported

the

room

clean.

Only

one

of

Ender's

boys

was

completely

frozen

--

one

of

C

toon,

which

had

borne

the

brunt

of

the

assault

--

and

only

five

were

disabled.

Most

were

damaged,

but

those

were

leg

shots

and

many

of

them

were

self-inflicted.

All

in

all,

it

had

gone

even

better

than

Ender

expected.

Ender

had

his

toon

leaders

do

the

honors

at

the

gate

--

four

helmets

at

the

corners,

and

Crazy

Tom

to

pass

through

the

gate.

Most

eommanders

took

whoever

was

left

alive

to

pass

the

gate;

Ender

could

have

picked

practically

anyone.

A

good

battle.

The

lights

went

full,

and

Major

Anderson

himself

came

through

the

teachergate

at

the

south

end

of

the

battleroom.

He

looked

very

solemn

as

he

offered

Ender

the

teacher

hook

that

was

ritually

given

to

the

victor

in

the

game.

Ender

used

it

to

thaw

his

own

army's

flash

suits,

of

course,

and

he

assembled

them

in

toons

before

thawing

the

enemy.

Crisp,

military

appearance,

that's

what

he

wanted

when

Carby

and

Rabbit

Army

got

their

bodies

under

control

again.

They

may

curse

us

and

lie

about

us,

but

they'll

remember

that

we

destroyed

them,

and

no

matter

what

they

say

other

soldiers

and

other

commanders

will

see

that

in

their

eyes;

in

those

Rabbit

eyes,

they'll

see

us

in

neat

formation,

victorious

and

almost

undamaged

in

our

first

battle.

Dragon

Army

isn't

going

to

be

an

obscure

name

for

long.

Carn

Carby

came

to

Ender

as

soon

as

he

was

unfrozen.

He

was

a

twelve-year-old,

who

had

apparently

made

commander

only

in

his

last

year

at

the

school.

So

he

wasn't

cocky,

like

the

ones

who

made

it

at

eleven.

I

will

remember

this,

thought

Ender,

when

I

am

defeated.

To

keep

dignity,

and

give

honor

where

it's

due,

so

that

defeat

is

not

disgrace.

And

I

hope

I

don't

have

to

do

it

often.

Anderson

dismissed

Dragon

Army

last,

after

Rabbit

Army

had

straggled

through

the

door

that

Ender's

boy's

had

come

through.

Then

Ender

led

his

army

through

the

enemy's

door.

The

light

along

the

bottom

of

the

door

reminded

them

of

which

way

was

down

once

they

got

back

to

gravity.

They

all

landed

lightly

on

their

feet,

running.

They

assembled

in

the

corridor.

"It's

0715,"

Ender

said,

"and

that

means

you

have

fifteen

minutes

for

breakfast

before

I

see

you

all

in

the

battleroom

for

the

morning

practice."

He

could

hear

them

silently

saying,

Come

on,

we

won,

let

us

celebrate.

All

right,

Ender

answered,

you

may.

"And

you

have

your

commander's

permission

to

throw

food

at

each

other

during

breakfast."

They

laughed,

they

cheered,

and

then

he

dismissed

them

and

sent

them

jogging

on

to

the

barracks.

He

caught

his

toon

leaders

on

the

way

out

and

told

them

he

wouldn't

expect

anyone

to

come

to

practice

till

0745,

and

that

practice

would

be

over

early

so

the

boys

could

shower.

Half

an

hour

for

breakfast,

and

no

shower

after

a

battle

--

it

was

still

stingy,

but

it

would

look

lenient

compared

to

fifteen

minutes.

And

Ender

liked

having

the

announcement

of

the

extra

fifteen

minutes

come

from

the

toon

leaders.

Let

the

boys

learn

that

leniency

comes

from

their

toon

leaders,

and

harshness

from

their

commander

--

it

will

bind

them

better

in

the

small,

tight

knots

of

this

fabric.

Ender

ate

no

breakfast.

He

wasn't

hungryy.

Instead

he

went

to

the

bathroom

and

showered,

putting

his

flash

suit

in

the

cleaner

so

it

would

be

ready

when

he

was

dried

off.

He

washed

himself

twice

and

let

the

water

run

and

run

on

him.

It

would

all

be

reycled.

Let

everybody

drink

some

of

my

sweat

today.

They

had

given

him

an

untrained

army,

and

he

had

won,

and

not

just

nip

and

tuck,

either.

He

had

won

with

only

six

frozen

or

disabled.

Let's

see

how

long

other

commanders

keep

using

their

formations

now

that

they've

seen

what

a

flexible

strategy

can

do.

He

was

floating

in

the

middle

of

the

battleroom

when

his

soldiers

began

to

arrive.

No

one

spoke

to

him,

of

course.

He

would

speak,

they

knew,

when

he

was

ready,

and

not

before.

When

all

were

there,

Ender

hooked

himself

near

them

and

looked

at

them,

one

by

one.

"Good

first

battle,"

he

said,

which

was

excuse

enough

for

a

cheer,

and

an

attempt

to

start

a

chant

of

Dragon,

Dragon,

which

he

quickly

stopped.

"Dragon

Army

did

all

right

against

the

Rabbits.

But

the

enemy

isn't

always

going

to

be

that

bad.

If

that

had

been

a

good

army,

C

toon,

your

approach

was

so

slow

they

would

have

had

you

from

the

flanks

before

you

got

into

good

position.

You

should

have

split

and

angled

in

from

two

directions,

so

they

couldn't

flank

you.

A

and

E,

your

aim

was

wretched.

The

tallies

show

that

you

averaged

only

one

hit

for

every

two

soldiers.

That

means

most

of

the

hits

were

made

by

attacking

soldiers

close

in.

That

can't

go

on

--

a

competent

enemy

would

cut

up

the

assault

force

unless

they

have

much

better

cover

from

the

soldiers

at

a

distance.

I

want

every

toon

to

work

on

distance

marksmanship

at

moving

and

unmoving

targets.

HaIf-toons

take

turns

being

targets.

I'll

thaw

the

flash

suits

every

three

minutes.

Now

move."

"Will

we

have

any

stars

to

work

with?"

asked

Hot

Soup.

"To

steady

our

aim?"

"I

don't

want

you

to

get

used

to

having

something

to

steady

your

arms.

If

your

arm

isn't

steady,

freeze

your

elbows!

Now

move!"

The

toon

leaders

quickly

got

things

going,

and

Ender

moved

from

group

to

group

to

make

suggestions

and

help

soldiers

who

were

having

particular

trouble.

The

soldiers

knew

by

now

that

Ender

could

be

brutal

in

the

way

he

talked

to

groups,

but

when

he

worked

with

an

individual

he

was

always

patient,

explaining

as

often

as

necessary,

making

suggestions

quietly,

listening

to

questions

and

problems

and

explanations.

But

he

never

laughed

when

they

tried

to

banter

with

him,

and

they

soon

stopped

trying.

He

was

commander

every

moment

they

were

together.

He

never

had

to

remind

them

of

it;

he

simply

was.

They

worked

all

day

with

the

taste

of

victory

in

their

mouths,

and

cheered

again

when

they

broke

half

an

hour

early

for

lunch.

Ender

held

the

toon

leaders

until

the

regular

lunch

hour,

to

talk

about

the

tactics

they

had

used

and

evaluate

the

work

of

their

individual

soldiers.

Then

he

went

to

his

own

room

and

methodicaily

changed

into

his

uniform

for

lunch.

He

would

enter

the

commanders'

mess

about

ten

minutes

late.

Exactly

the

timing

that

he

wanted.

Since

this

was

his

first

victory,

he

had

never

seen

the

inside

of

the

commanders'

mess

hall

and

had

no

idea

what

new

commanders

were

expected

to

do,

but

he

did

know

that

he

wanted

to

enter

last

today,

when

the

scores

of

the

morning's

battles

were

already

posted.

Dragon

Army

will

not

be

an

obscure

name

now.

There

was

no

great

stir

when

he

came

in.

But

when

some

of

them

noticed

how

small

he

was,

and

saw

the

Dragons

on

the

sleeves

of

the

uniform,

they

stared

at

him

openly,

and

by

the

time

he

got

his

food

and

sat

at

at

a

table,

the

room

was

silent.

Ender

began

to

eat,

slowly

and

carefully,

pretending

not

to

notice

that

he

was

the

center

of

attention.

Gradually

conversation

and

noise

started

up

again,

and

Ender

could

relax

enough

to

look

around.

One

entire

wall

of

the

room

was

a

scoreboard.

Soldiers

were

kept

aware

of

an

army's

overall

record

for

the

past

two

years;

in

here,

however,

records

were

kept

for

each

commander.

A

new

commander

couldn't

inherit

a

good

standing

from

his

predecessor

--

he

was

ranked

according

to

what

he

had

done.

Ender

had

the

best

ranking.

A

perfect

won-lost

record,

of

course,

but

in

the

other

categories

he

was

far

ahead.

Average

soldiers-disabled,

average

enemy-disabled,

average

time-elapsed-before-victory

--

in

every

category

he

was

ranked

first.

When

he

was

nearly

through

eating,

someone

came

up

behind

him

and

touched

his

shoulder.

"Mind

if

I

sit?"

Ender

didn't

have

to

turn

around

to

know

it

was

Dink

Meeker.

"Ho

Dink,"

said

Ender.

"Sit."

"You

gold-plated

fart,"

said

Dink

cheerfully,

"We're

all

trying

to

decide

whether

your

scores

up

there

are

a

miracle

or

a

mistake."

"A

habit,"

said

Ender.

"One

victory

is

not

a

habit,"

Dink

said.

"Don't

get

cocky.

When

you're

new

they

seed

you

against

weak

commanders."

"Carn

Carby

isn't

exactly

on

the

bottom

of

the

rankings."

It

was

true,

Carby

was

just

about

in

the

middle.

"He's

OK,"

Dink

said,

"considering

that

he

only

just

started.

Shows

some

promise.

You

don't

show

promise.

You

show

threat."

"Threat

to

what?

Do

they

feed

you

less

if

I

win?

I

thought

you

told

me

this

was

all

a

stupid

game

and

none

of

it

mattered."

Dink

didn't

like

having

his

words

thrown

back

at

him,

not

under

these

circumstances.

"You

were

the

one

who

got

me

playing

along

with

them.

But

I'm

not

playing

games

with

you,

Ender.

You

won't

beat

me."

"Probably

not,"

Ender

said.

"I

taught

you,"

Dink

said.

"Everything

I

know,"

said

Ender.

"I'm

just

playing

it

by

ear

right

now.

"Congratulations,"

said

Dink.

"It's

good

to

know

I

have

a

friend

here."

But

Ender

wasn't

sure

Dink

was

his

friend

anymore.

Neither

was

Dink.

After

a

few

empty

sentences,

Dink

went

back

to

his

table.

Ender

looked

around

when

he

was

through

with

his

meal.

There

were

quite

a

few

small

conversations

going

on.

Ender

spotted

Bonzo,

who

was

now

one

of

the

oldest

commanders.

Rose

the

Nose

had

graduated.

Petra

was

with

a

group

in

a

far

corner,

and

she

didn't

look

at

him

once.

Since

most

of

the

others

stole

glances

at

him

from

time

to

time,

including

the

ones

Petra

was

talking

with,

Ender

was

pretty

sure

she

was

deliberately

avoiding

his

glance.

That's

the

problem

with

winning

right

from

the

start,

thought

Ender.

You

lose

friends.

Give

them

a

few

weeks

to

get

used

to

it.

By

the

time

I

have

my

next

battle,

things

will

have

calmed

down

in

here.

Carn

Carby

made

a

point

of

coming

to

greet

Ender

before

the

lunch

period

ended.

It

was,

again,

a

gracious

gesture,

and,

unlike

Dink,

Carby

did

not

seem

wary.

"Right

now

I'm

in

disgrace,"

he

said

frankly.

"They

won't

believe

me

when

I

tell

them

you

did

things

that

nobody's

ever

seen

before.

So

I

hope

you

beat

the

snot

out

of

the

next

army

you

fight.

As

a

favor

to

me."

"As

a

favor

to

you,"

Ender

said.

"And

thanks

for

talking

to

me."

"I

think

they're

treating

you

pretty

badly.

Usually

new

commanders

are

cheered

when

they

first

join

the

mess.

But

then,

usually

a

new

commander

has

had

a

few

defeats

under

his

belt

before

he

first

makes

it

in

here.

I

only

got

in

here

a

month

ago.

If

anybody

deserves

a

cheer,

it's

you.

But

that's

life.

Make

them

eat

dust."

"I'll

try."

Carn

Carby

left,

and

Ender

mentally

added

him

to

his

private

list

of

people

who

also

qualified

as

human

beings.

That

night,

Ender

slept

better

than

he

had

in

a

long

time.

Slept

so

well,

in

fact,

that

he

didn't

wake

up

until

the

lights

came

on.

He

woke

up

feeling

good,

jogged

on

out

to

take

his

shower,

and

did

not

notice

the

piece

of

paper

on

his

floor

until

he

came

back

and

started

dressing

in

his

uniform.

He

only

saw

the

paper

because

it

moved

in

the

wind

as

he

snapped

out

the

uniform

to

put

it

on.

He

picked

up

the

paper

and

read

it.

PETRA

ARKANIAN,

PHOENIX

ARMY,

0700

It

was

his

old

army,

the

one

he

had

left

less

than

four

weeks

before,

and

he

knew

their

formations

backward

and

forward.

Partly

because

of

Ender's

influence,

they

were

the

most

flexible

of

armies,

responding

relativeiy

quickly

to

new

situations.

Phoenix

Army

would

be

the

best

able

to

cope

with

Ender's

fluid,

unpatterned

attack.

The

teachers

were

determined

to

make

life

interesting

for

him.

0700,

said

the

paper,

and

it

was

already

0630.

Some

of

his

boys

might

already

be

heading

for

breakfast.

Ender

tossed

his

uniform

aside,

grabbed

his

flash

suit,

and

in

a

moment

stood

in

the

doorway

of

his

army's

barracks.

"Gentlemen,

I

hope

you

learned

something

yesterday,

because

today

we're

doing

it

again."

It

took

a

moment

for

them

to

realize

that

he

meant

a

battle,

not

a

practice.

It

had

to

be

a

mistake,

they

said.

Nobody

ever

had

battles

two

days

in

a

row.

He

handed

the

paper

to

Fly

Molo,

the

leader

of

A

toon,

who

immediateiy

shouted

"Flash

suits"

and

started

changing

clothes.

"Why

didn't

you

tell

us

earlier?"

demanded

Hot

Soup.

Hot

had

a

way

of

asking

Ender

questions

that

nobody

else

dared

ask.

"I

thought

you

needed

the

shower,"

Ender

said.

"Yesterday

Rabbit

Army

claimed

we

only

won

because

the

stink

knocked

them

out."

The

soldiers

who

heard

him

laughed.

"Didn't

find

the

paper

till

you

got

back

from

the

showers,

right?"

Ender

looked

for

the

source

of

the

voice.

It

was

Bean,

already

in

his

flash

suit,

looking

insolent.

Time

to

repay

old

humiliations,

is

that

it,

Bean?

"Of

course,"

Ender

said,

contemptuously.

"I'm

not

as

close

to

the

floor

as

you

are.

More

laughter.

Bean

flushed

with

anger.

"It's

plain

we

can't

count

on

old

ways

of

doing

things."

Ender

said.

"So

you'd

better

plan

on

battles

anytime.

And

often.

I

can't

pretend

I

like

the

way

they're

screwing

around

with

us,

but

I

do

like

one

thing

--

that

I've

got

an

army

that

can

handle

it."

After

that,

if

he

had

asked

them

to

follow

him

to

the

moon

without

space

suits,

they

would

have

done

it.

Petra

was

not

Carn

Carby;

shc

had

more

flexible

patterns

and

responded

much

more

quickly

to

Ender's

darting,

improvised,

unpredictable

attack.

As

a

result,

Ender

had

three

boys

flashed

and

nine

disabied

at

the

end

of

the

battle.

Petra

was

not

gracious

about

bowing

over

his

hand

at

the

end,

either.

The

anger

in

her

eyes

seemed

to

say,

I

was

your

friend,

and

you

humiliate

me

like

this?

Ender

pretended

not

to

notice

her

fury.

He

figured

that

after

a

few

more

battles,

she'd

realize

that

in

fact

she

had

scored

more

hits

against

him

than

he

expected

anyone

ever

would

again.

And

he

was

still

learning

from

her.

In

practice

today

he

would

teach

his

toon

leaders

how

to

counter

the

tricks

Petra

had

played

on

them.

Soon

they

would

be

friends

again.

He

hoped.

***

At

the

end

of

the

week

Dragon

Army

had

fought

seven

battles

in

seven

days.

The

score

stood

7

wins

and

0

losses.

Ender

had

never

had

more

losses

than

in

the

battle

with

Phoenix

Army,

and

in

two

battles

he

had

suffered

not

one

soldier

frozen

or

disabled.

No

one

believed

anymore

that

it

was

a

fluke

that

put

him

first

in

the

standings.

He

had

beaten

top

armies

by

unheard-of

margins.

It

was

no

longer

possible

for

the

other

commanders

to

ignore

him.

A

few

of

them

sat

with

him

at

every

meal,

carefully

trying

to

learn

from

him

how

he

had

defeated

his

most

recent

opponents.

He

told

them

freely,

confident

that

few

of

them

would

know

how

to

train

their

soldiers

and

their

toon

leaders

to

duplicate

what

his

could

do.

And

while

Ender

talked

with

a

few

commanders,

much

larger

groups

gathered

around

the

opponents

Ender

had

defeated,

trying

to

find

out

how

Ender

might

be

beaten.

There

were

many

who

who

hated

him.

Hated

him

for

being

young,

for

being

excellent,

for

having

made

their

victories

look

paltry

and

weak.

Ender

saw

it

first

in

their

faces

when

he

passed

them

in

the

corridors;

then

he

began

to

notice

that

some

boys

would

get

up

in

a

group

and

move

to

another

table

if

he

sat

near

them

in

the

commanders'

mess;

and

there

began

to

be

elbows

that

aecidently

jostled

him

in

the

game

room,

feet

that

got

entangled

with

his

when

he

walked

into

and

out

of

the

gym,

spittle

and

wads

of

wet

paper

that

struck

him

from

behind

as

he

jogged

through

the

corridors.

They

couldn't

beat

him

in

the

battleroom,

and

knew

it

--

so

instead

they

would

attack

him

where

it

was

safe,

where

he

was

not

a

giant

but

just

a

little

boy.

Ender

despised

them,

but

secretly,

so

secretly

that

he

didn't

even

know

it

himself,

he

feared

them.

It

was

just

such

little

torments

that

Peter

had

always

used,

and

Ender

was

beginning

to

feel

far

too

much

at

home.

These

annoyances

were

petty,

though,

and

Ender

persuaded

himself

to

accept

them

as

another

form

of

praise.

Already

the

other

armies

were

beginning

to

imitate

Ender.

Now

most

soldiers

attacked

with

knees

tucked

under

them;

formations

were

breaking

up

now,

and

more

commanders

were

sending

out

toons

to

slip

along

the

walls.

None

had

caught

on

yet

to

Ender's

five-toon

organization

--

it

gave

him

the

slight

advantage

that

when

they

had

accounted

for

the

movements

of

four

units,

they

wouldn't

be

looking

for

a

fifth.

Ender

was

teaching

them

all

about

null

gravity

tactics.

But

where

could

Ender

go

to

learn

new

things?

He

began

to

use

the

video

room,

filled

vsith

propaganda

vids

about

Mazer

Rackham

and

other

great

commanders

of

the

forces

of

humanity

in

the

First

and

Second

Invasion.

Ender

stopped

the

general

practice

an

hour

early,

and

allowed

his

toon

leaders

to

conduct

their

own

practice

in

his

absence.

Usually

they

staged

skirmishes,

toon

against

toon.

Ender

stayed

long

enough

to

see

that

things

were

going

well,

then

left

to

watch

the

old

battles.

Most

of

the

vids

were

a

waste

ot

time.

Heroic

music,

closeups

of

commanders

and

medal-winning

soldiers,

confused

shots

of

marines

invading

bugger

installations.

But

here

and

there

he

found

useful

sequences:

ships,

like

points

of

light,

maneuvering

in

the

dark

of

space,

or,

better

still,

the

lights

on

shipboard

plotting

screens,

showing

the

whole

of

a

battle.

It

was

hard,

from

the

videos,

to

see

all

three

dimensions,

and

the

scenes

were

often

short

and

unexplained.

But

Ender

began

to

see

how

well

the

buggers

used

seemingly

random

flight

paths

to

create

confusion,

how

they

used

decoys

and

false

retreats

to

draw

the

IF

ships

into

traps.

Some

battles

had

been

cut

into

many

scenes,

which

were

scattered

through

the

various

videos;

by

watching

them

in

sequence,

Ender

was

able

to

reconstruct

whole

battles.

He

began

to

see

things

that

the

official

commentators

never

mentioned.

They

were

always

trying

to

arouse

pride

in

human

accomplishments

and

loathing

of

the

buggers,

but

Ender

began

to

wonder

how

humanity

had

won

at

all.

Human

ships

were

sluggish;

fleets

responded

to

new

circumstances

unbearably

slowly,

while

the

bugger

fleet

seemed

to

act

in

perfect

unity,

responding

to

each

challenge

instantly.

Of

course,

in

the

First

Invasion

the

human

ships

were

completely

unsuited

to

fast

combat,

but

then

so

were

the

bugger

ships;

it

was

only

in

the

Second

Invasion

that

the

ships

and

weapons

were

swift

and

deadly.

So

it

was

from

the

buggers,

not

the

humans,

that

Ender

learned

strategy.

He

felt

ashamed

and

afraid

of

learning

from

them,

since

they

were

the

most

terrible

enemy,

ugly

and

murderous

and

loathsome.

But

they

were

also

very

good

at

what

they

did.

To

a

point.

They

always

seemed

to

follow

one

basic

strategy

only

--

gather

the

greatest

number

of

ships

at

the

key

point

of

conflict.

They

never

did

anything

surprising,

anything

that

seemed

to

show

either

brilliance

or

stupidity

in

a

subordinate

officer.

Discipline

was

apparently

very

tight.

And

there

was

one

oddity.

There

was

plenty

of

talk

about

Mazer

Rackham

but

precious

little

video

of

his

actual

battle.

Some

scenes

from

early

in

the

battle,

Rackham's

tiny

force

looking

pathetic

against

the

vast

power

of

the

main

bugger

fleet.

The

buggers

had

already

beaten

the

main

human

fleet

out

in

the

comet

shield,

wiping

out

the

earliest

starships

and

making

a

mockery

of

human

attempts

at

high

strategy

--

that

film

was

often

shown,

to

arouse

again

and

again

the

agony

and

terror

of

bugger

victory.

Then

the

fleet

coming

to

Mazer

Rackham's

little

force

near

Saturn,

the

hopeless

odds,

and

then--

Then

one

shot

from

Mazer

Rackham's

little

cruiser,

one

enemy

ship

blowing

up.

That's

all

that

was

ever

shown.

Lots

of

film

showing

marines

carving

their

way

into

bugger

ships.

Lots

of

bugger

corpses

lying

around

inside.

But

no

film

of

buggers

killing

in

personal

combat,

unless

it

was

spliced

in

from

the

First

Invasion.

It

frustrated

Ender

that

Maser

Rackham's

victory

was

so

obviously

censored.

Students

in

the

Battle

School

had

much

to

learn

trom

Mazer

Rackham,

and

everything

about

his

victory

was

concealed

from

view.

The

passion

for

secrecy

was

not

very

helpful

to

the

children

who

had

to

learn

to

accomplish

again

what

Mazer

Rackham

had

done.

Of

course,

as

soon

as

word

got

around

that

Ender

Wiggin

was

watching

the

war

vids

over

and

over

again,

the

video

room

began

to

draw

a

crowd.

Almost

all

were

commanders,

watching

the

same

vids

Ender

watched,

pretending

they

understood

why

he

was

watching

and

what

he

was

getting

out

of

it.

Ender

never

explained

anything.

Even

when

he

showed

seven

scenes

from

the

same

battle,

but

from

different

vids,

only

one

boy

asked,

tentatively,

"Are

some

of

those

from

the

same

battle?"

Ender

only

shrugged,

as

if

it

didn't

matter.

It

was

during

the

last

hour

of

practice

on

the

seventh

day,

only

a

few

hours

after

Ender's

army

had

won

its

seventh

battle,

that

Major

Anderson

himself

came

into

the

video

room.

He

handed

a

slip

of

paper

to

one

of

the

commanders

sitting

there,

and

then

spoke

to

Ender.

"Colonel

Graff

wishes

to

see

you

in

his

office

immediately."

Ender

got

up

and

followed

Anderson

through

the

corridors.

Anderson

palmed

the

locks

that

kept

students

out

of

the

officers'

quarters;

finally

they

came

to

where

Graff

had

taken

root

on

a

swivel

chair

bolted

to

the

steel

floor.

His

belly

spilled

over

both

armrests

now,

even

when

he

sat

upright.

Ender

tried

to

remember.

Graff

hadn't

seemed

particularly

fat

at

when

Ender

first

met

him,

only

four

years

ago.

Time

and

tension

were

not

being

kind

to

the

administrator

of

the

Battle

School.

"Seven

days

since

your

first

battle,

Ender,"

said

Graff.

Ender

did

not

reply.

"And

you've

won

seven

battles,

once

a

day."

Ender

nodded.

"Your

scores

are

unusually

high,

too."

Ender

blinked.

"To

what,

commander,

do

you

attribute

your

remarkable

success?"

"You

gave

me

an

army

that

does

whatever

I

can

think

for

it

to

do."

"And

what

have

you

thought

for

it

to

do?"

"We

orient

downward

toward

the

enemy

gate

and

use

our

lower

legs

as

a

shield.

We

avoid

formations

and

keep

our

mobility.

It

helps

that

I've

got

five

toons

of

eight

instead

of

four

of

ten.

Also,

our

enemies

haven't

had

time

to

respond

effectively

to

our

new

techniques,

so

we

keep

beating

them

with

the

same

tricks.

That

won't

hold

up

for

long."

"So

you

don't

expect

to

keep

winning."

"Not

with

the

same

tricks."

Graff

nodded.

"Sit

down,

Ender."

Ender

and

Anderson

both

sat.

Graff

looked

at

Anderson,

and

Anderson

spoke

next.

"What

condition

is

your

army

in,

fighting

so

often?"

"They're

all

veterans

now."

"But

how

are

they

doing?

Are

they

tired?"

"If

they

are,

they

won't

admit

it."

"Are

they

still

alert?"

"You're

the

ones

with

the

computer

games

that

play

with

people's

minds.

You

tell

me."

"We

know

what

we

know.

We

want

to

know

what

you

know."

"These

are

very

good

soldiers,

Major

Anderson.

I'm

sure

they

have

limits,

but

we

haven't

reached

them

yet.

Some

of

the

newer

ones

are

having

trouble

because

they

never

really

mastered

some

basic

techniques,

but

they're

working

hard

and

improving.

What

do

you

want

me

to

say,

that

they

need

to

rest?

Of

course

they

need

to

rest.

They

need

a

couple

of

weeks

off.

Their

studies

are

shot

to

hell,

none

of

us

are

doing

any

good

in

our

classes.

But

you

know

that,

and

apparently

you

don't

care,

so

why

should

I?"

Graff

and

Anderson

exchanged

glances.

"Ender,

why

are

you

studying

the

videos

of

the

bugger

wars?"

"To

learn

strategy,

of

course."

"Those

videos

were

created

for

propaganda

purposes.

All

our

strategies

have

been

edited

out."

"I

know."

Graff

and

Anderson

exchanged

glances

again.

Graff

drummed

on

his

table.

"You

don't

play

the

fantasy

game

anymore,"

he

said.

Erider

didn't

answer.

"Tell

me

why

you

don't

play

it."

"Because

I

won."

"You

never

win

everything

in

that

game.

There's

always

more."

"I

won

everything."

"Ender,

we

want

to

help

you

be

as

happy

as

possible,

but

if

you--"

"You

want

to

make

me

the

best

soldier

possible.

Go

down

and

look

at

the

standings.

Look

at

the

all-time

standings.

So

far

you're

doing

an

excellent

job

with

me.

Congratulations.

Now

when

are

you

going

to

put

me

up

against

a

good

army?"

Graff's

set

lips

turned

to

a

smile,

and

he

shook

a

little

with

silent

laughter.

Anderson

handed

Ender

a

slip

of

paper.

"Now,"

he

said.

BONZO

MADRID,

SALAMANDER

ARMY,

1200

"That's

ten

minutes

from

now,"

said

Ender.

"My

army

will

be

in

the

middle

of

showering

up

after

practice."

Graff

smiled.

"Better

hurry,

then,

boy."

***

He

got

to

his

army's

barracks

five

minutes

later.

Most

were

dressing

after

their

showers;

some

had

already

gone

to

the

game

room

or

the

video

room

to

wait

for

lunch.

He

sent

three

younger

boys

to

call

everyone

in,

and

made

everyone

else

dress

for

battle

as

quickly

as

they

could.

"This

one's

hot

and

there's

no

time,"

Ender

said.

"They

gave

Bonzo

notice

about

twenty

minutes

ago,

and

by

the

time

we

get

to

the

door

they'll

have

been

inside

for

a

good

five

minutes

at

least."

The

boys

were

outraged,

complaining

loudly

in

the

slang

that

they

usually

avoided

around

the

commander.

What

they

doing

to

us?

They

be

crazy,

neh?

"Forget

why,

we'll

worry

about

that

tonight.

Are

you

tired?"

Fly

Molo

answered.

"We

worked

our

butts

off

in

practice

today.

Not

to

mention

beating

the

crap

out

of

Ferret

Army

this

morning."

"Same

day

nobody

ever

do

two

batties!"

said

Crazy

Tom.

Ender

answered

in

the

same

tone.

"Nobody

ever

beat

Dragon

Army,

either.

This

be

your

big

chance

to

lose?"

Ender's

taunting

question

was

the

answer

to

their

complaints.

Win

first,

ask

questions

later.

All

of

them

were

back

in

the

room,

and

most

of

them

were

dressed.

"Move!"

shouted

Ender,

and

they

ran

along

behind

him,

some

of

them

still

dressing

when

they

reached

the

corridor

outside

the

battleroom.

Many

of

them

were

panting,

a

bad

sign;

they

were

too

tired

for

this

battle.

The

door

was

already

open.

There

were

no

stars

at

all.

Just

empty,

empty

space

in

a

dazzlingly

bright

room.

Nowhere

to

hide,

not

even

in

darkness.

"My

heart,"

said

Crazy

Tom,

"they

haven't

come

out

yet,

either."

Ender

put

his

hand

across

his

own

mouth,

to

tell

them

to

be

silent.

With

the

door

open,

of

course

the

enemy

could

hear

every

word

they

said.

Ender

pointed

all

around

the

door,

to

tell

them

that

Salamander

Army

was

undoubtedly

deployed

against

the

wall

all

around

the

door,

where

they

couldn't

be

seen

but

could

easily

flash

anyone

who

came

out.

Ender

motioned

for

them

all

to

back

away

from

the

door.

Then

he

pulled

forward

a

few

of

the

taller

boys,

including

Crazy

Tom,

and

made

them

kneel,

not

squatting

back

to

sit

on

their

heels,

but

fully

upright,

so

they

formed

an

L

with

their

bodies.

He

flashed

them.

In

silence

the

army

watched

him.

He

selected

tne

smallest

boy,

Bean,

handed

him

Tom's

gun,

and

made

Bean

kneel

on

Tom's

frozen

legs.

Then

pulled

Bean's

hands,

each

holding

a

gun,

through

Tom's

armpits.

Now

the

boys

understood.

Tom

was

a

shield,

an

armored

spacecraft,

and

Bean

was

hiding

inside.

He

was

certainly

not

invulnerable,

but

he

would

have

time.

Ender

assigned

two

more

boys

to

throw

Tom

and

Bean

through

the

door

and

signalled

them

to

wait.

He

went

on

through

the

army

quickly

assigning

groups

of

four

--

a

shield,

a

shooter,

and

two

throwers.

Then,

when

all

were

frozen

or

armed

or

ready

to

throw,

he

signalled

the

throwers

to

pick

up

their

burdens,

throw

them

through

the

door,

and

then

jump

through

themselves.

"Move!"

shouted

Ender.

They

moved.

Two

at

a

time

the

shield-pairs

went

through

the

door,

backwards

so

that

the

shield

would

be

between

the

shooter

and

the

enemy.

The

enemy

opened

fire

at

once,

but

they

mostly

hit

the

frozen

boy

in

front.

In

the

meantime,

with

two

guns

to

work

with

and

their

targets

neatly

lined

up

and

spread

flat

along

the

wall,

the

Dragons

had

an

easy

time

of

it.

It

was

almost

impossible

to

miss.

And

as

thc

throwers

also

jumped

through

the

door,

they

got

handholds

on

the

same

wall

with

the

enemy,

shooting

at

a

deadly

angle

so

that

the

Salamanders

couldn't

figure

out

whether

to

shoot

at

the

shield-pairs

slaughtering

them

from

above

or

the

throwers

shooting

at

them

from

their

own

level.

By

the

time

Ender

himself

came

through

the

door,

the

battle

was

over.

It

hadn't

taken

a

full

minute

from

the

time

the

first

Dragon

passed

through

the

door

until

the

shooting

stopped.

Dragon

had

lost

twenty

frozen

or

disabled,

and

only

twelve

boys

were

undamaged.

It

was

their

worst

score

yet,

but

they

had

won.

When

Major

Anderson

came

out

and

gave

Ender

the

hook,

Ender

could

not

contain

his

anger.

"I

thought

you

were

going

to

put

us

against

an

army

that

could

match

us

in

a

fair

fight."

"Congratulations

on

the

victory,

commander."

"Bean!"

shouted

Ender.

"If

you

had

commanded

Salamander

Army,

what

would

you

have

done?"

Bean,

disabled

but

not

completely

frozen,

called

out

from

where

he

drifted

near

the

enemy

door.

"Keep

a

shifting

pattern

of

movement

going

in

front

of

the

door.

You

never

hold

still

when

the

enemy

knows

exactly

where

you

are.

"As

long

as

you're

cheating,"

Ender

said

to

Anderson,

"why

don't

you

train

the

other

army

to

cheat

intelligently!"

"I

suggest

that

you

remobilize

your

army,"

said

Anderson.

Ender

pressed

the

buttons

to

thaw

both

armies

at

once.

"Dragon

Army

dismissed!"

he

shouted

immediately.

There

would

be

no

elaborate

formation

to

accept

the

surrender

of

the

other

army.

This

had

not

been

a

fair

fight,

even

though

they

had

won

--

the

teachers

had

meant

them

to

lose,

and

it

was

only

Bonzo's

ineptitude

that

had

saved

them.

There

was

no

glory

in

that.

Only

as

Ender

himself

was

leaving

the

battleroom

did

he

realize

that

Bonzo

would

not

realize

that

Ender

was

angry

at

the

teachers.

Spanish

honor.

Bonzo

would

only

know

that

he

had

byen

defeated

even

when

the

odds

were

stacked

in

his

favor;

that

Ender

had

had

the

youngest

child

in

his

army

puolicly

state

what

Bonzo

should

have

done

to

win;

and

that

Ender

had

not

even

stayed

to

receive

Bonzo's

dignified

surrender.

If

Bonzo

had

not

already

hated

Ender

he

would

surely

have

begun;

and

hating

him

as

he

did,

this

would

surely

turn

his

rage

murderous.

Bonzo

was

the

last

person

to

strike

me,

thought

Ender.

I'm

sure

he

has

not

forgotten

that.

Nor

had

he

forgotten

the

bloody

affair

in

the

battleroom

when

the

older

boys

tried

to

break

up

Ender's

practice

session.

Nor

had

many

others.

They

were

hungry

for

blood

then;

Bonzo

will

be

thirsting

for

it

now.

Ender

toyed

with

the

idea

of

going

back

to

take

advanced

personal

defense;

but

with

battles

now

possible

not

only

every

day,

but

twice

in

the

same

day,

Ender

knew

he

could

not

spare

the

time.

I'll

have

to

take

my

chances.

The

teachers

got

me

into

this

--

they

can

keep

me

safe.

***

Bean

flopped

down

on

his

bunk

in

utter

exhaustion

--

half

the

boys

in

the

barracks

were

already

asleep,

and

it

was

still

fifteen

minutes

before

lights

out.

Wearily

he

pulled

his

desk

from

its

locker

and

signed

on.

There

was

a

test

tomorrow

in

geometry

and

Bean

was

woefully

unprepared.

He

could

always

reason

things

out

if

he

had

enough

time,

and

he

had

read

Euclid

when

he

was

five,

but

the

test

had

a

time

limit

so

there

wouldn't

be

a

chance

to

think.

He

had

to

know.

And

he

didn't

know.

And

he

would

probably

do

badly

on

the

test.

But

they

had

won

twice

today,

and

so

he

felt

good.

As

soon

as

he

signed

on,

however,

all

thoughts

of

geometry

were

banished.

A

message

paraded

around

the

desk:

SEE

ME

AT

ONCE

--

ENDER

The

time

was

2150,

only

ten

minutes

before

lights

out.

How

long

ago

had

Ender

sent

it?

Still,

he'd

better

not

ignore

it.

There

might

be

another

battle

in

the

morning

--

the

thought

made

him

weary

--

and

whatever

Ender

wanted

to

talk

to

him

about,

there

wouldn't

be

time

then.

So

Bean

rolled

off

the

bunk

and

walked

emptily

through

the

corridor

to

Ender's

room.

He

knocked.

"Come

in,"

said

Ender.

"Just

saw

your

message."

"Fine,"

said

Ender.

"It's

near

lights

out."

"I'll

help

you

find

your

way

in

the

dark."

"I

just

didn't

know

if

you

knew

what

time

it

was--"

"I

always

know

what

time

it

is."

Bean

sighed

inwardly.

It

never

failed.

Whenever

he

had

any

conversation

with

Ender,

it

turned

into

an

argument.

Bean

hated

it.

He

recognized

Ender's

genius

and

honored

him

for

it.

Why

couldn't

Ender

ever

see

anything

good

in

him?

"Remember

four

weeks

ago,

Bean?

When

you

told

me

to

make

you

a

toon

leader?"

"Eh."

"I've

made

five

toon

leaders

and

five

assistants

since

then.

And

none

of

them

was

you."

Ender

raised

his

eyebrows.

"Was

I

right?"

"Yes,

sir."

"So

tell

me

how

you've

done

in

these

eight

battles."

"Today

was

the

first

time

they

disabled

me,

but

the

computer

listed

me

as

getting

eleven

hits,

before

I

had

to

stop.

I've

never

had

less

than

five

hits

in

a

battle.

l've

also

completed

every

assignment

I've

been

given."

"Why

did

they

make

you

a

soldier

so

young,

Bean?"

"No

younger

than

you

were."

"But

why?"

"I

don't

know."

"Yes

you

do,

and

so

do

I."

"I've

tried

to

guess,

but

they're

just

guesses.

You're--

very

good.

They

knew

that,

they

pushed

you

ahead--"

"Tell

me

why,

Bean."

"Because

they

need

us,

that's

why."

Bean

sat

down

on

the

floor

and

stared

at

Enders

feet.

"Because

they

need

somebody

to

beat

the

buggers.

That's

the

only

thing

they

care

about."

"It's

important

that

you

know

that,

Bean.

Because

most

boys

in

this

school

think

the

game

is

important

for

itself--

but

it

isn't.

It's

only

important

because

it

helps

them

find

kids

who

might

grow

up

to

be

real

commanders,

in

the

real

war.

But

as

for

the

game,

screw

that.

That's

what

they're

doing.

Screwing

up

the

game."

"Funny.

I

thought

they

were

just

doing

it

to

us."

"A

game

nine

weeks

earlier

than

it

should

have

come.

A

game

every

day.

And

now

two

games

in

the

same

day.

Bean,

I

don't

know

what

the

teachers

are

doing,

but

my

army

is

getting

tired,

and

l'm

getting

tired,

and

they

don't

care

at

all

about

the

rules

of

the

game.

I've

pulled

the

old

charts

up

from

the

computer.

No

one

has

ever

destroyed

so

many

enemies

and

kept

so

many

of

his

own

soldiers

whole

in

the

history

of

the

game."

"You're

the

best,

Ender."

Ender

shook

his

head.

"Maybe.

But

it

was

no

accident

that

I

got

the

soldiers

I

got.

Launchies,

rejects

from

other

armies,

but

put

them

together

and

my

worst

soldier

could

be

a

toon

leader

in

another

army.

They've

loaded

things

my

way,

but

now

they're

loading

it

all

against

me.

Bean,

they

want

to

break

us

down."

"They

can't

break

you."

"You'd

be

surprised."

Ender

breathed

sharply,

suddenly,

as

if

there

were

a

stab

of

pain,

or

he

had

to

catch

a

sudden

breath

in

a

wind;

Bean

looked

at

him

and

realized

that

the

impossible

was

happening.

Far

from

baiting

him,

Ender

Wiggin

was

actually

confiding

in

him.

Not

much.

But

a

little.

Ender

was

human

and

Bean

had

been

allowed

to

see.

"Maybe

you'll

be

surprised,"

said

Bean.

"There's

a

limit

to

how

many

clever

new

ideas

I

can

come

up

with

every

day.

Somebody's

going

to

come

up

with

something

to

throw

at

me

that

I

haven't

thought

of

before,

and

I

won't

be

ready."

"What's

the

worst

that

could

happen?

You

lose

one

game."

"Yes.

That's

the

worst

that

could

happen.

I

can't

lose

any

games.

Because

if

I

lose

any--"

He

didn't

explain

himself,

and

Bean

didn't

ask.

"I

need

you

to

be

clever,

Bean.

I

need

you

to

think

of

solutions

to

problems

we

haven't

seen

yet.

I

want

you

to

try

things

that

no

one

has

ever

tried

because

they're

absolutely

stupid."

"Why

me?"

"Because

even

though

there

are

some

better

soldiers

than

you

in

Dragon

Army

--

not

many,

but

some

--

there's

nobody

who

can

think

better

and

faster

than

you."

Bean

said

nothing.

They

both

knew

it

was

true.

Ender

showed

him

his

desk.

On

it

were

twelve

names.

Two

or

three

from

each

toon.

"Choose

five

of

these,"

said

Ender.

"One

from

each

toon.

They're

a

special

squad,

and

you'll

train

them.

Only

during

the

extra

practice

sessions.

Talk

to

me

about

what

you're

training

them

to

do.

Don't

spend

too

long

on

any

one

thing.

Most

of

the

time

you

and

your

squad

will

be

part

of

the

whole

army,

part

of

your

regular

toons.

But

when

I

need

you.

When

there's

something

to

be

done

that

only

you

can

do."

"These

are

all

new,"

said

Bean.

"No

veterans."

"After

last

week,

Bean,

all

our

soldiers

are

veterans.

Don't

you

realize

that

on

the

individual

soldier

standings,

all

forty

of

our

soldiers

are

in

the

top

fifty?

That

you

have

to

go

down

seventeen

places

to

find

a

soldier

who

isn't

a

Dragon?"

"What

if

I

can't

think

of

anything?"

"Then

I

was

wrong

about

you."

Bean

grinned.

"You

weren't

wrong."

The

lights

went

out.

"Can

you

find

your

way

back,

Bean?"

"Probably

not."

"Then

stay

here.

If

you

listen

very

carefully

you

can

hear

the

good

fairy

come

in

the

night

and

leave

our

assignment

for

tomorrow."

"They

won't

give

us

another

battle

tomorrow,

will

they?"

Ender

didn't

answer.

Bean

heard

him

climb

into

bed.

He

got

up

from

the

floor

and

did

likewise.

He

thought

of

a

half

dozen

ideas

betore

he

went

to

sleep.

Ender

would

be

pleased

--

every

one

of

them

was

stupid.

Chapter

12

--

Bonzo

"General

Pace,

please

sit

down.

I

understand

you

have

come

to

me

about

a

matter

of

some

urgency."

"Ordinarily,

Colonel

Graff,

I

would

not

presume

to

interfere

in

the

internal

workings

of

the

Battle

School.

Your

autonomy

is

guaranteed,

and

despite

our

dfference

in

ranks

I

am

quite

aware

that

it

is

my

authority

only

to

advise,

not

to

order,

you

to

take

action."

"Action?"

"Do

not

be

disingenuous

with

me,

Colonel

Graff.

Americans

are

quite

apt

at

playing

stupid

when

they

choose

to,

but

I

am

not

to

be

deceived.

You

know

why

I

am

here."

"Ah.

I

guess

this

means

Dap

filed

a

report?"

"He

feels

paternal

toward

the

students

here.

He

feels

your

neglect

of

a

potentially

lethal

situation

is

more

than

negligence

--

that

it

borders

on

conspiracy

to

cause

the

death

or

serious

injury

of

one

of

the

students

here."

"This

is

a

school

for

children,

General

Pace.

Hardly

a

matter

to

bring

the

chief

of

IF

military

police

here

for."

"Colonel

Graff,

the

name

of

Ender

Wiggin

has

percolated

through

the

high

command.

It

has

even

reached

my

ears

--

I

have

heard

him

described

modestly

as

our

only

hope

of

victory

in

the

upcoming

invasion.

When

it

is

his

life

or

health

that

is

in

danger,

I

do

not

think

it

untoward

that

the

military

police

take

some

interest

in

preserving

and

protecting

the

boy.

Do

you?"

"Damn

Dap

and

damn

you

too,

sir,

I

know

what

I'm

doing."

"Do

you?"

"Better

than

anyone

else."

"Oh,

that

is

obvious,

since

nobody

else

has

the

faintest

idea

what

you're

doing.

You

have

known

for

eight

days

that

there

is

a

conspiracy

among

some

of

the

more

vicious

of

these

'children'

to

cause

the

beating

of

Ender

Wiggin,

if

they

can.

And

that

some

members

of

this

conspiracy,

notably

the

boy

named

Bonito

de

Madrid,

commonly

called

Bonzo,

are

quite

likely

to

exhibit

no

self-restraint

when

this

punishment

takes

place,

so

that

Ender

Wiggin,

an

inestimably

important

international

resource,

will

be

placed

in

serious

danger

of

having

his

brains

pasted

on

the

walls

of

your

simple

orbiting

schoolhouse.

And

you,

fully

warned

of

this

danger,

propose

to

do

exactly--"

"Nothing."

"You

can

see

how

this

excites

our

puzzlement."

"Ender

Wiggin

has

been

in

this

situation

before.

Bock

on

Earth,

the

day

he

lost

his

monitor,

and

again

when

a

large

group

of

older

boys--"

"I

did

not

came

here

ignorant

of

the

past.

Ender

Wiggin

has

provoked

Bonzo

Madrid

beyond

human

endurance.

And

you

have

no

military

police

standing

by

to

break

up

disturbances.

It

is

unconscionable."

"When

Ender

Wiggin

holds

our

fleets

in

his

control,

when

he

must

make

the

decisions

that

bring

us

victory

or

destruction,

will

there

be

military

police

to

came

save

him

if

things

get

out

of

hand?"

"I

fail

to

see

the

connection."

"Obviously.

But

the

connection

is

there

Ender

Wiggin

must

believe

that

no

matter

what

happens,

no

adult

will

ever,

ever

step

in

to

help

him

in

any

way.

He

must

believe,

to

the

core

of

his

soul,

that

he

can

only

do

what

he

and

the

other

children

work

out

for

themselves.

If

he

does

not

believe

that,

then

he

will

never

reach

the

peak

of

his

abilities."

"He

will

also

not

reach

the

peak

of

his

abilities

if

he

is

dead

or

permanently

crippled."

"He

won't

be."

"Why

don't

you

simply

graduate

Bonzo?

He's

old

enough."

"Because

Ender

knows

that

Bonzo

plans

to

kill

him.

If

we

transfer

Bonzo

ahead

of

schedule,

he'll

know

that

we

saved

him.

Heaven

knows

Bonzo

isn't

a

good

enough

commander

to

be

promoted

on

merit."

"What

about

the

other

children?

Getting

them

to

help

him?"

"We'll

see

what

happens.

That

is

my

first,

final,

and

only

decision."

"God

help

you

if

you're

wrong."

"God

help

us

all

if

I'm

wrong."

"I'll

have

you

before

a

capital

court

martial.

I'll

have

your

name

disgraced

throughout

the

world

if

you're

wrong."

"Fair

enough.

But

do

remember

if

I

happen

to

be

right

to

make

sure

I

get

a

few

dozen

medals."

"For

what?"

"For

keeping

you

from

meddling."

***

Ender

sat

in

a

corner

of

the

battleroom,

his

arm

hooked

through

a

handhold

watching

Bean

practice

with

his

squad.

Yesterday

they

had

worked

on

attacks

without

guns,

disarming

enemies

with

their

feet.

Ender

had

helped

them

with

some

techniques

from

gravity

personal

combat

--

many

things

had

to

be

changed,

but

inertia

in

flight

was

a

tool

that

could

be

used

against

the

enemy

as

easily

in

nullo

as

in

Earth

gravity.

Today,

though,

Bean

had

a

new

toy.

It

was

a

deadline,

one

of

the

thin,

almost

invisible

twines

used

during

construction

in

space

to

hold

two

objects

together.

Deadlines

were

sometimes

kilometers

long.

This

one

was

just

a

bit

longer

than

a

wall

of

the

battleroom

and

yet

it

looped

easily,

almost

invisibly,

around

Bean's

wrist.

He

pulled

it

off

like

an

article

of

clothing

and

handed

one

end

to

one

of

his

soldiers.

"Hook

it

to

a

handhold

and

wind

it

around

a

few

times."

Bean

carried

the

other

end

across

the

battle

oom.

As

a

tripwire

it

wasn't

too

useful,

Bean

decided.

It

was

invisible

enough,

but

one

strand

of

twine

wouldn't

have

much

chance

of

stopping

an

enemy

that

could

easily

go

above

or

below

it.

Then

he

got

the

idea

of

using

it

to

change

his

direction

of

movement

in

midair.

He

fastened

it

around

his

waist,

the

other

end

still

fastened

to

a

handhold,

slipped

a

few

meters

away,

and

launched

himself

straight

out.

The

twine

caught

him,

changed

his

direction

abruptly,

and

swung

him

in

an

arc

that

crashed

him

brutally

against

the

wall.

He

screamed

and

screamed.

It

took

Ender

a

moment

to

realize

that

he

wasn't

screaming

in

pain.

"Did

you

see

how

fast

I

went!

Did

you

see

how

I

changed

direction!"

Soon

all

of

Dragon

Army

stopped

work

to

watch

Bean

practice

with

the

twine.

The

changes

in

direction

were

stunning,

especially

when

you

didn't

know

where

to

look

for

the

twine,

When

he

used

the

twine

to

wrap

himself

around

a

star,

he

attained

speeds

no

one

had

ever

seen

before,

It

was

2140

when

Ender

dismissed

the

evening

practice.

Weary

but

delighted

at

having

seen

something

new,

his

army

walked

through

the

corridors

back

to

the

barracks.

Ender

walked

among

them,

not

talking,

but

listening

to

their

talk.

They

were

tired,

yes

--

a

battle

every

day

for

more

than

four

weeks,

often

in

situations

that

tested

their

abilities

to

the

utmost.

But

they

were

proud,

happy,

close

--

they

had

never

lost,

and

they

had

learned

to

trust

each

other.

Trust

their

fellow

soldiers

to

fight

hard

and

well;

trust

their

leaders

to

use

them

rather

than

waste

their

efforts;

above

all

trust

Ender

to

prepare

them

for

anything

and

everything

that

might

happen.

As

they

walked

the

corridor,

Ender

noticed

several

older

boys

seemingly

engaged

in

conversations

in

branching

corridors

and

ladderways;

some

were

in

their

corridor,

walking

slowly

in

the

other

direction.

It

became

too

much

of

a

coincidence,

however,

that

so

many

of

them

were

wearing

Salamander

uniforms,

and

that

those

who

weren't

were

often

older

boys

belonging

to

armies

whose

commanders

most

hated

Ender

Wiggin.

A

few

of

them

looked

at

him,

and

looked

away

too

quickly;

others

were

too

tense,

too

nervous

as

they

pretended

to

be

relaxed.

What

will

I

do

if

they

attack

my

army

here

in

the

corridor?

My

boys

are

all

young,

all

small,

and

completely

untrained

in

gravity

combat.

When

would

they

learn?

"Ho,

Ender!"

someone

called.

Ender

stopped

and

looked

back,

It

was

Petra.

"Ender,

can

I

talk

to

you?"

Ender

saw

in

a

moment

that

if

he

stopped

and

talked,

his

army

would

quickly

pass

him

by

and

he

would

be

alone

with

Petra

in

the

hallway.

"Walk

with

me,"

Ender

said.

"It's

just

for

a

moment."

Ender

turned

around

and

walked

on

with

his

army.

He

heard

Petra

running

to

catch

up.

"All

right,

I'll

walk

with

you."

Ender

tensed

when

she

came

near.

Was

she

one

of

them,

one

of

the

ones

who

hated

him

enough

to

hurt

him?

"A

friend

of

yours

wanted

me

to

warn

you.

There

are

some

boys

who

want

to

kill

you."

"Surprise,"

said

Ender.

Some

of

his

soldiers

seemed

to

perk

up

at

this.

Plots

against

their

commander

were

interesting

news,

it

seemed.

"Ender,

they

can

do

it.

He

said

they've

been

planning

it

ever

since

you

went

commander."

"Ever

since

I

beat

Salamander,

you

mean."

"I

hated

you

after

you

beat

Phoenix

Army,

too,

Ender."

"I

didn't

say

I

blamed

anybody."

"It's

true.

He

told

me

to

take

you

aside

today

and

warn

you,

on

the

way

back

from

the

battleroom,

to

be

careful

tomorrow

because--"

"Petra,

if

you

had

actually

taken

me

aside

just

now,

there

are

about

a

dozen

boys

following

along

who

would

have

taken

me

in

the

corridor.

Can

you

tell

me

you

didn't

notice

them?"

Suddenly

her

face

flushed.

"No.

I

didn't.

How

can

you

think

I

did?

Don't

you

know

who

your

friends

are?"

She

pushed

her

way

through

Dragon

Army,

got

ahead

of

him,

and

scrambled

up

a

ladderway

to

a

higher

deck.

"Is

it

true?"

asked

Crazy

Tom.

"Is

what

true?"

Ender

scanned

the

room

and

shouted

for

two

roughhousing

boys

to

get

to

bed.

"That

some

of

the

older

boys

want

to

kill

you?"

"All

talk,"

said

Ender.

But

be

knew

that

it

wasn't.

Petra

had

known

something,

and

what

he

saw

on

the

way

here

tonight

wasn't

imagination.

"It

may

be

all

talk,

but

I

hope

you'll

understand

when

I

say

you've

got

five

toon

leaders

who

are

going

to

escort

you

to

your

room

tonight."

"Completely

unnecessary."

"Humor

us.

You

owe

us

a

favor."

"I

owe

you

nothing."

He'd

be

a

fool

to

turn

them

down.

"Do

as

you

want."

He

turned

and

left.

The

toon

leaders

trotted

along

with

him.

One

ran

ahead

and

opened

his

door.

They

checked

the

room,

made

Ender

promise

to

lock

it,

and

left

him

just

before

lights

out.

There

was

a

message

on

his

desk.

DON'T

BE

ALONE.

EVER.

--

DINK

Ender

grinned.

So

Dink

was

still

his

friend.

Don't

worry.

They

won't

do

anything

to

me.

I

have

my

army.

But

in

the

darkness

he

did

not

have

his

army.

He

dreamed

that

night

of

Stilson,

only

he

saw

now

how

small

Stilson

was,

only

six

years

old,

how

ridiculous

his

tough-guy

posturing

was;

and

yet

in

the

dream

Stilson

and

his

friends

tied

Ender

so

he

couldn't

fight

back,

and

then

everything

that

Ender

had

done

to

Stilson

in

life,

they

did

to

Ender

in

the

dream.

And

afterward

Ender

saw

himself

babbling

like

an

idiot,

trying

hard

to

give

orders

to

his

army,

but

all

his

words

came

out

as

nonsense.

He

awoke

in

darkness,

and

he

was

afraid.

Then

he

calmed

himself

by

remembering

that

the

teachers

obviously

valued

him,

or

they

wouldn't

be

putting

so

much

pressure

on

him;

they

wouldn't

let

anything

happen

to

him,

nothing

bad,

anyway.

Probably

when

the

older

kids

attacked

him

in

the

battleroom

years

ago,

there

were

teachers

just

outside

the

room,

waiting

to

see

what

would

happen;

if

things

had

got

out

of

hand,

they

would

have

stepped

in

and

stopped

it.

I

probably

could

have

sat

here

and

done

nothing,

and

they

would

have

seen

to

it

I

came

through

all

right.

They'll

push

me

as

hard

as

they

can

in

the

game,

but

outside

the

game

they'll

keep

me

safe.

With

that

assurance,

he

slept

again,

until

the

door

opened

softly

and

the

morning's

war

was

left

on

the

floor

for

him

to

find.

***

They

won,

of

course,

but

it

was

a

grueling

affair,

with

the

battleroom

so

filled

with

a

labyrinth

of

stars

that

hunting

down

the

enemy

during

mop-up

took

forty-five

minutes.

It

was

Pol

Slattery's

Badger

Army,

and

they

refused

to

give

up.

There

was

a

new

wrinkle

in

the

game,

too

--

when

they

disabled

or

damaged

an

enemy,

he

thawed

in

about

five

minutes,

the

way

it

worked

in

practice.

Only

when

the

enemy

was

completely

frozen

did

he

stay

out

of

action

the

whole

time.

But

the

gradual

thawing

did

not

work

for

Dragon

Army.

Crazy

Tom

was

the

one

who

realized

what

was

happening,

when

they

started

getting

hit

from

behind

by

people

they

thought

were

safely

out

of

the

way.

And

at

the

end

of

the

battle,

Slattery

shook

Ender's

hand

and

said,

"I'm

glad

you

won.

If

I

ever

beat

you,

Ender,

I

want

to

do

it

fair."

"Use

what

they

give

you,"

Ender

said.

"If

you've

ever

got

an

advantage

over

the

enemy,

use

it."

"Oh,

I

did,"

said

Slattery.

He

grinned.

"I'm

only

fair-minded

before

and

after

battles."

The

battle

took

so

long

that

breakfast

was

over.

Ender

looked

at

his

hot,

sweating,

tired

soldiers

waiting

in

the

corridor

and

said,

"Today

you

know

everything.

No

practice.

Get

some

rest.

Have

some

fun.

Pass

a

test."

It

was

a

measure

of

their

weariness

that

they

didn't

even

cheer

or

laugh

or

smile,

just

walked

into

the

barracks

and

stripped

off

their

clothes.

They

would

have

practiced

if

he

had

asked

them

to,

but

they

were

reaching

the

end

of

their

strength,

and

going

without

breakfast

was

one

unfairness

too

many.

Ender

meant

to

shower

right

away,

but

he

was

also

tired.

He

lay

down

on

his

bed

in

his

flash

suit,

just

for

a

moment,

and

woke

up

at

the

beginning

of

lunchtime.

So

much

for

his

idea

of

studying

more

about

the

buggers

this

morning.

Just

time

to

clean

up,

go

eat,

and

head

for

class.

He

peeled

off

his

flash

suit,

which

stank

from

his

sweat.

His

body

felt

cold,

his

joints

oddly

weak.

Shouldn't

have

slept

in

the

middle

of

the

day.

I'm

beginning

to

slack

off.

I'm

beginning

to

wear

down.

Can't

let

it

get

to

me.

So

he

jogged

to

the

gym

and

forced

himself

to

climb

the

rope

three

times

before

going

to

the

bathroom

to

shower.

It

didn't

occur

to

him

that

his

absence

in

the

commanders'

mess

would

be

noticed,

that

showering

during

the

noon

hour,

when

his

own

army

would

be

wolfing

down

their

first

meal

of

the

day,

he

would

he

completely,

helplessly

alone.

Even

when

he

heard

them

come

into

the

bathroom

he

paid

no

attention.

He

was

letting

the

water

pour

over

his

head,

over

his

body;

the

muffled

sound

of

footsteps

was

hardly

noticeable.

Maybe

lunch

was

over,

he

thought.

He

started

to

soap

himself

again.

Maybe

somebody

finished

practice

late.

And

maybe

not.

He

turned

around,

There

were

seven

of

them,

leaning

back

against

the

metal

sinks

or

standing

closer

to

the

showers,

watching

him.

Bonzo

stood

in

front

of

them,

Many

were

smiling,

the

condescending

leer

of

the

hunter

for

his

cornered

victim.

Bonzo

was

not

smiling,

however.

"Ho,"

Ender

said,

Nobody

answered.

So

Ender

turned

off

the

shower

even

though

there

was

still

soap

on

him,

and

reached

for

his

towel.

It

wasn't

there.

One

of

the

boys

was

holding

it.

It

was

Bernard.

All

it

would

take

for

the

picture

to

be

complete

was

for

Stilson

and

Peter

to

be

there,

too.

They

needed

Peter's

smile;

they

needed

Stilson's

obvious

stupidity.

Ender

recognized

the

towel

as

their

opening

point.

Nothing

would

make

him

look

weaker

than

to

chase

naked

after

the

towel.

That

was

what

they

wanted,

to

humiliate

him,

to

break

him

down.

He

wasn't

going

to

play.

He

refused

to

feel

weak

because

he

was

wet

and

cold

and

unclothed.

He

stood

strongly,

facing

them,

his

arms

at

his

sides.

He

fastened

his

gaze

on

Bnnzo.

"Your

move,"

Ender

said,

"This

is

no

game,"

said

Bernard.

"We're

tired

of

you,

Ender.

You

graduate

today.

On

ice."

Ender

did

not

look

at

Bernard.

It

was

Bonzo

who

hungered

for

his

death,

even

though

he

was

silent.

The

others

were

along

for

the

ride,

daring

themselves

to

see

how

far

they

might

go.

Bonzo

knew

how

far

he

would

go.

"Bonzo,"

Ender

said

softly.

"Your

father

would

be

proud

of

you."

Bonzo

stifiened.

"He

would

love

to

see

you

now,

come

to

fight

a

naked

boy

in

a

shower,

smaller

than

you,

and

you

brought

six

friends.

He

would

say,

Oh,

what

honor."

"Nobody

came

to

fight

you,"

said

Bernard,

"We

just

came

to

talk

you

into

playing

fair

with

the

games.

Maybe

lose

a

couple

now

and

then."

The

others

laughed,

but

Bonzo

didn't

laugh,

and

neither

did

Ender.

"Be

proud,

Bonito,

pretty

boy.

You

can

go

home

and

tell

your

father,

Yes,

I

beat

up

Ender

Wiggin,

who

was

barely

ten

years

old,

and

I

was

thirteen.

And

I

had

only

six

of

my

friends

to

help

me,

and

somehow

we

managed

to

defeat

him,

even

though

he

was

naked

and

wet

and

alone

--

Ender

Wiggin

is

so

dangerous

and

terrifying

it

was

all

we

could

do

not

to

bring

two

hundred."

"Shut

your

mouth,

Wiggin,"

said

one

of

the

boys.

"We

didn't

come

to

hear

the

little

bastard

talk,"

said

another.

"You

shut

up,"

said

Bonzo.

"Shut

up

and

stand

out

of

the

way."

He

began

to

take

off

his

uniform.

"Naked

and

wet

and

alone,

Ender,

so

we're

even.

I

can't

help

that

I'm

bigger

than

you.

You're

such

a

genius,

you

figure

out

how

to

handle

me."

He

turned

to

the

others.

"Watch

the

door.

Don't

let

anyone

else

in."

The

bathroom

wasn't

large,

and

plumbing

fixtures

protruded

everywhere,

It

had

been

launched

in

one

piece,

as

a

low-orbit

satellite,

packed

full

of

the

water

reclamation

equipment;

it

was

designed

to

have

no

wasted

space.

It

was

obvious

what

their

tactics

would

have

to

be.

Throw

the

other

boy

against

fixtures

until

one

of

them

does

enough

damage

that

he

stops.

When

Ender

saw

Bonzo's

stance,

his

heart

sank.

Bonzo

had

also

taken

classes.

And

probably

more

recently

than

Ender.

His

reach

was

better,

he

was

stronger,

and

he

was

full

of

hate.

He

would

not

be

gentle.

He

will

go

for

my

head,

thonght

Ender.

He

will

try

above

all

to

damage

my

brain.

And

if

this

fight

is

long,

he's

bound

to

win.

His

strength

can

control

me.

If

I'm

to

walk

away

from

here,

I

have

to

win

quckly,

and

permanently.

He

could

feel

agan

he

sickening

way

that

Stilson's

bones

had

given

way.

But

this

time

it

will

be

my

body

that

breaks,

unless

I

can

break

him

first.

Ender

stepped

back,

flipped

the

showerhead

so

it

turned

outward,

and

torned

on

pure

hot

water.

Almost

at

once

the

steam

began

to

rise.

He

turned

on

the

next

and

the

next.

"I'm

not

afraid

of

hot

water,"

said

Bonzo.

His

voice

was

soft.

But

it

wasn't

the

hot

water

that

Ender

wanted.

It

was

the

heat.

His

body

still

had

soap

on

it,

and

his

sweat

moistened

it,

made

his

skin

more

slippery

than

Bonzo

would

expect.

Suddenly

there

was

a

voice

from

the

door.

"Stop

it!"

For

a

moment

Ender

thought

it

was

a

teacher,

come

to

stop

the

fight,

but

it

was

only

Dink

Meeker.

Bonzo's

friends

caught

him

at

the

door

held

him.

"Stop

it,

Bonzo!"

Dink

cried.

"Don't

hurt

him!"

"Why

not?"

asked

Boozo,

and

for

the

first

time

he

smiled.

Ah,

thought

Ender,

he

loves

to

have

someone

recognize

that

he

is

the

one

in

control,

that

he

has

power.

"Because

he's

the

best,

that's

why!

Who

else

can

fight

the

buggers!

That's

what

matters,

you

fool,

the

buggers!"

Bonzo

stopped

smiling.

It

was

the

thing

he

hated

most

about

Ender,

that

Ender

really

mattered

to

other

people,

and

in

the

end,

Bonzo

did

not.

You've

killed

me

with

those

words,

Dink.

Bonzo

doesn't

want

to

hear

that

I

might

save

the

world.

Where

are

the

teachers?

thought

Ender.

Don't

they

realize

that

the

first

contact

between

us

in

this

fight

might

be

the

end

of

it?

This

isn't

like

the

fight

in

the

battleroom,

where

no

one

had

the

leverage

to

do

any

terrible

damage.

There's

gravity

in

here,

and

the

floor

and

walls

are

hard

and

jutted

with

metal.

Stop

this

now

or

not

at

all.

"If

you

touch

him

you're

a

buggerlover!"

cried

Dink.

"You're

a

traitor,

if

you

touch

him

you

deserve

to

die!"

They

jammed

Dink's

face

backward

into

the

door

and

he

was

silent.

The

mist

from

the

showers

dimmed

the

room,

and

the

sweat

was

streaming

down

Ender's

body.

Now,

before

the

soap

is

carried

off

me.

Now,

while

I'm

still

too

slippery

to

hold.

Ender

stepped

back,

letting

the

fear

he

felt

show

in

his

face.

"Bonzo,

don't

hurt

me,"

he

said.

"Please."

It

was

what

Bonzo

was

waiting

for,

the

confession

that

he

was

in

power.

For

other

boys

it

might

have

been

enough

that

Ender

had

submitted;

for

Bonzo,

it

was

only

a

sign

that

his

victory

was

sure.

He

swung

his

leg

as

if

to

kick,

but

changed

it

to

a

leap

at

the

last

moment.

Ender

noticed

the

shifting

weight

and

stooped

lower,

so

that

Bonzo

would

be

more

off-balance

when

he

tried

to

grab

Ender

and

throw

him.

Bonzo's

tight,

hard

ribs

came

against

Under's

face,

and

his

hands

slapped

against

his

back,

trying

to

grip

him.

But

Ender

twisted,

and

Bonzo's

hands

slipped.

In

an

instant

Ender

was

completely

turned,

yet

still

inside

Bonzo's

grasp.

The

classic

move

at

this

moment

would

be

to

bring

up

his

heel

into

Bonzo's

crotch,

but

for

that

move

to

be

effective

required

too

much

accuracy,

and

Bonzo

expected

it.

He

was

already

rising

onto

his

toes,

thrusting

his

hips

backward

to

keep

Ender

from

reaching

his

groin.

Without

seeing

him,

Ender

knew

it

would

bring

his

face

closer,

almost

in

Ender's

hair;

so

instead

of

kicking

he

lunged

upward

off

the

floor,

with

the

powerful

lunge

of

the

soldier

bounding

from

the

wall,

and

jammed

his

head

into

Bonzo's

face.

Ender

whirled

in

time

to

see

Bonzo

stagger

backward,

his

nose

bleeding,

gasping

from

surprise

and

pain.

Ender

knew

that

at

this

moment

he

might

be

able

to

walk

out

of

the

room

and

end

the

battle.

The

way

he

had

escaped

from

the

battleroom

after

drawing

blood.

But

the

battle

would

only

be

fought

again.

Again

and

again

until

the

will

to

fight

was

finished.

The

only

way

to

end

things

completely

was

to

hurt

Bonzo

enough

that

his

fear

was

stronger

than

his

hate.

So

Ender

leaned

back

against

the

wall

behind

him,

then

jumped

up

and

pushed

off

with

his

arms.

His

feet

landed

in

Bonzo's

belly

and

chest.

Ender

spun

in

the

air

and

landed

on

his

toes

and

hands;

he

flipped

over,

scooted

under

Bonzo,

and

this

time

when

he

kicked

upward

into

Bonzo's

crotch,

he

connected,

hard

and

sure.

Bonzo

did

not

cry

out

in

pain.

He

did

not

react

at

all,

except

that

his

body

rose

a

little

in

the

air.

It

was

as

if

Ender

had

kicked

a

piece

of

furniture.

Bonzo

collapsed,

fell

to

the

side,

and

sprawled

directly

under

the

spray

of

streaming

water

from

a

shower.

He

made

no

movement

whatever

to

escape

the

murderous

heat.

"My

God!"

someone

shouted.

Bonzo's

friends

leaped

to

turn

off

the

water.

Ender

slowly

rose

to

his

feet.

Someone

thrust

his

towel

at

him.

It

was

Dink.

"Come

on

out

of

here,"

Dink

said.

He

led

Ender

away.

Behind

them

they

heard

the

heavy

clatter

of

adults

running

down

a

ladderway.

Now

the

teachers

would

come.

The

medical

staff.

To

dress

the

wounds

of

Ender's

enemy.

Where

were

they

before

the

fight,

when

there

might

have

been

no

wounds

at

all?

There

was

no

doubt

now

in

Ender's

mind.

There

was

no

help

for

him.

Whatever

he

faced,

now

and

forever,

no

one

would

save

him

from

it.

Peter

might

be

scum,

but

Peter

had

been

right,

always

right;

the

power

to

cause

pain

is

the

only

power

that

matters,

the

power

to

kill

and

destroy,

because

if

you

can't

kill

then

you

are

always

subject

to

those

who

can,

and

nothing

and

no

one

will

ever

save

you.

Dink

led

him

to

his

room,

made

him

lie

on

the

bed.

"Are

you

hurt

anywhere?"

he

asked,

Ender

shook

his

head.

"You

took

him

apart.

I

thought

you

were

dead

meat,

the

way

he

grabbed

you.

But

you

took

him

apart.

If

he'd

stood

up

longer,

you

would've

killed

him."

"He

meant

to

kill

me."

"I

know

it.

I

know

him.

Nobody

hates

like

Bonzo.

But

not

anymore.

If

they

don't

ice

him

for

this

and

send

him

home,

he'll

never

look

you

in

the

eye

again.

You

or

anybody.

He

had

twenty

centimeters

on

you,

and

you

made

him

look

like

a

crippled

cow

standing

there

chewing

her

cud."

All

Ender

could

see,

though,

was

the

way

Bonzo

looked

as

Ender

kicked

upward

into

his

groin.

The

empty,

dead

look

in

his

eyes.

He

was

already

finished

then.

Already

unconscious.

His

eyes

were

open,

but

he

wasn't

thinking

or

moving

anymore,

just

that

dead,

stupid

look

on

his

lace,

that

terrible

look,

the

way

Stilson

looked

when

I

finished

with

him.

"They'll

ice

him,

though,"

Dink

said.

"Everybody

knows

he

started

it.

I

saw

them

get

up

and

leave

the

commanders'

mess.

Took

me

a

couple

of

seconds

to

realize

you

weren't

there,

either,

and

then

a

minute

more

to

find

out

where

you

had

gone.

I

told

you

not

to

be

alone."

"Sorry."

"They're

bound

to

ice

him.

Troublemaker.

Him

and

his

stinking

honor."

Then,

to

Dink's

surprise,

Ender

began

to

cry.

Lying

on

his

back,

still

soaking

wet

with

sweat

and

water,

he

gasped

his

sobs,

tears

seeping

out

of

his

closed

eyelids

and

disappearing

in

the

water

on

his

face.

"Are

you

all

right?"

"I

didn't

want

to

hurt

him!"

Ender

cried.

"Why

didn't

he

just

leave

me

alone!"

***

He

heard

his

door

open

softly,

then

close.

He

knew

at

once

that

it

was

his

battle

instructions,

He

opened

his

eyes,

expecting

to

find

the

darkness

of

early

morning,

before

0600.

Instead,

the

lights

were

on,

He

was

naked

and

when

he

moved

the

bed

was

soaking

wet,

His

eyes

were

puffy

and

painful

from

crying.

He

looked

at

the

clock

on

his

desk.

1820,

it

said.

It's

the

same

day.

I

already

had

a

battle

today,

I

had

two

battles

today

--

the

bastards

know

what

I've

been

through,

and

they're

doing

this

to

me.

WILLIAM

BEE,

GRIFFIN

ARMY,

TALO

MOMOE,

TIGER

ARMY,

1900

He

sat

on

the

edge

of

the

bed.

The

note

trembled

in

his

hand.

I

can't

do

this,

he

said

silently.

And

then

not

silently.

"I

can't

do

this."

He

got

up,

bleary,

and

looked

for

his

flash

suit.

Then

he

remembered

--

he

had

put

it

in

the

cleaner

while

he

showered.

It

was

still

there.

Holding

the

paper,

he

walked

out

of

his

room.

Dinner

was

nearly

over,

and

there

were

a

few

people

in

the

corridor,

but

no

one

spoke

to

him,

just

watched

him,

perhaps

in

awe

of

what

had

happened

at

noon

in

the

bathroom,

perhaps

because

of

the

forbidding,

terrible

look

on

his

face.

Most

of

his

boys

were

in

the

barracks.

Ho,

Ender.

There

gonna

be

a

practice

tonight?

Ender

handed

the

paper

to

Hot

Soup.

"Those

sons

of

bitches,"

he

said.

"Two

at

once?"

"Two

armies!"

shouted

Crazy

Tom.

"They'll

just

trip

over

each

other,"

said

Bean.

"I've

got

to

clean

up,"

Ender

said.

"Get

them

ready,

get

everybody

together,

I'll

meet

you

there,

at

the

gate."

He

walked

out

of

the

barracks.

A

tumult

of

conversation

rose

behind

him.

He

heard

Crazy

Tom

scream,

"Two

farteating

armies!

We'll

whip

their

butts!"

The

bathroom

was

empty.

All

cleaned

up.

None

of

the

blood

that

poured

from

Bonzo's

nose

into

the

shower

water.

All

gone.

Nothing

bad

ever

happened

here.

Ender

stepped

under

the

water

and

rinsed

himself,

took

the

sweat

of

combat

and

let

it

run

down

the

drain.

All

gone,

except

they

recycled

it

and

we'll

be

drinking

Bonzo's

bloodwater

in

the

morning.

All

the

life

gone

out

of

it,

but

his

blood

just

the

same,

his

blood

and

my

sweat,

washed

down

in

their

stupidity

or

cruelty

or

whatever

it

was

that

made

them

let

it

happen.

He

dried

himself,

dressed

in

his

flash

suit,

and

walked

to

the

battleroom.

His

army

was

waiting

in

the

corridor,

the

door

still

not

opened.

They

watched

him

in

silence

as

he

walked

to

the

front

to

stand

by

the

blank

grey

forcefield.

Of

course

they

all

knew

about

his

fight

in

the

bathroom

today;

that

and

their

own

weariness

from

the

battle

that

morning

kept

them

quiet,

while

the

knowledge

that

they

would

be

facing

two

armies

filled

them

with

dread.

Everything

they

can

do

to

beat

me,

thought

Ender.

Everything

they

can

think

of,

change

all

the

rules,

they

don't

care,

just

so

they

beat

me.

Well,

I'm

sick

of

the

game.

No

game

is

worth

Bonzo's

blood

pinking

the

water

on

the

bathroom

floor.

Ice

me,

send

me

home,

I

don't

want

to

play

anymore.

The

door

disappeared.

Only

three

meters

out

there

were

four

stars

together,

completely

blocking

the

view

from

the

door.

Two

armies

weren't

enough.

They

had

to

make

Ender

deploy

his

forces

blind.

"Bean,"

said

Ender.

"Take

your

boys

and

tell

me

what's

on

the

other

side

of

this

star."

Bean

pulled

the

coil

of

twine

from

his

waist,

tied

one

end

around

him,

handed

the

other

end

to

a

boy

in

his

squad,

and

stepped

gently

through

the

door.

His

squad

quickly

followed.

They

had

practiced

this

several

times,

and

it

took

only

a

moment

before

they

were

braced

on

the

star,

holding

the

end

of

the

twine.

Bean

pushed

off

at

great

speed,

in

a

line

almost

parallel

to

the

door;

when

he

reached

the

corner

of

the

room,

he

pushed

off

again

and

rocketed

straight

out

toward

the

enemy.

The

spots

of

light

on

the

wall

showed

that

the

enemy

was

shooting

at

him.

As

the

rope

was

stopped

by

each

edge

of

the

star

in

turn,

his

arc

became

tighter,

his

direction

changed,

and

he

became

an

impossible

target

to

hit.

His

squad

caught

him

neatly

as

he

came

around

the

star

from

the

other

side.

He

moved

all

his

arms

and

legs

so

those

waiting

inside

the

door

would

know

that

the

enems

hadn't

flashed

him

anywhere.

Ender

dropped

through

the

gate.

"It's

really

dim,"

said

Bean,

"but

light

enough

you

can't

follow

people

easily

by

the

lights

on

their

suits.

Worst

possible

for

seeing.

It's

all

open

space

from

this

star

to

the

enemy

side

of

the

room.

They've

got

eight

stars

making

a

square

around

their

door.

I

didn't

see

anybody

except

the

ones

peeking

around

the

boxes.

They're

just

sitting

there

waiting

for

us."

As

if

to

corroborate

Bean's

statement,

the

enemy

began

to

call

out

to

them.

"Hey!

We

be

hungry,

come

and

feed

us!

Your

ass

is

draggin'!

Your

ass

is

Dragon!"

Ender's

mind

felt

dead.

This

was

stupid.

He

didn't

have

a

chance,

outnumbered

two

to

one

and

forced

to

attack

a

protected

enemy.

"In

a

real

war,

any

commander

with

brains

at

all

would

retreat

and

save

his

army."

"What

the

hell,"

said

Bean.

"It's

only

a

game."

"It

stopped

being

a

game

when

they

threw

away

the

rules."

"So,

you

throw

'em

away,

too."

Ender

grinned.

"OK.

Why

not,

Let's

see

how

they

react

to

a

formation."

Bean

was

appalled.

"A

formation!

We've

never

done

a

formation

in

the

whole

time

we've

been

an

army!"

"We've

still

got

a

month

to

go

before

our

training

period

is

normally

supposed

to

end.

About

time

we

started

doing

formations.

Always

have

to

know

formations,"

He

formed

an

A

with

his

fingers,

showed

it

to

the

blank

door,

and

beckoned,

A

toon

quickly

emerged

and

Ender

began

arranging

them

behind

the

star.

Three

meters

wasn't

enough

room

to

work

in,

the

boys

were

frightened

and

confused,

and

it

took

nearly

five

minutes

just

to

get

them

to

understand

what

they

were

doing.

Tiger

and

Griffin

soldiers

were

reduced

to

chanting

catcalls,

while

their

commanders

argued

about

whether

to

try

to

use

their

overwhelming

force

to

attack

Dragon

Army

while

they

were

still

behind

the

star.

Momoe

was

all

for

attacking

--

"We

outnumber

him

two

to

one"

--

while

Bee

said,

"Sit

tight

and

we

can't

lose,

move

out

and

he

can

figure

out

a

way

to

beat

us."

So

they

sat

tight,

until

finally

in

the

dusky

light

they

saw

a

large

mass

slip

out

from

behind

Ender's

star.

It

held

its

shape,

even

when

it

abruptly

stopped

moving

sideways

and

launched

itself

toward

the

dead

center

of

the

eight

stars

where

eighty-two

soldiers

waited.

"Doobie

doe,"

said

a

Griffin.

"They're

doing

a

formation."

"They

must

have

been

putting

that

together

for

all

five

minutes,"

said

Momoe.

"If

we'd

attacked

while

they

were

doing

it,

we

could've

destroyed

them."

"Eat

it,

Momoe,"

whispered

Bee.

"You

saw

the

way

that

little

kid

flew.

He

went

all

the

way

around

the

star

and

back

behind

without

ever

touching

a

wall.

Maybe

they've

all

got

hooks,

did

you

think

of

that?

They've

got

something

new

there."

The

formation

was

a

strange

one.

A

square

formation

of

tightly-packed

bodies

in

front,

making

a

wall.

Behind

it,

a

cylinder,

six

boys

in

circumference

and

two

boys

deep,

their

limbs

outstretched

and

frozen

so

they

couldn't

possibly

be

holding

on

to

each

other.

Yet

they

held

together

as

tightly

as

if

they

had

been

tied

--

which,

in

fact,

they

were.

From

inside

the

formation,

Dragon

Army

was

firing

with

deadly

accuracy,

forcing

Griffins

and

Tigers

to

stay

tightly

packed

on

their

stars.

"The

back

of

that

sucker

is

open,"said

Bee.

"As

soon

as

they

get

between

the

stars,

we

can

get

around

behind--"

"Don't

talk

about

it,

do

it!"

said

Momoe.

Then

he

took

his

own

advice

and

ordered

his

boys

to

launch

against

the

wall

and

rebound

out

behind

the

Dragon

formation.

In

the

chaos

of

their

takeoff,

while

Griffin

Army

held

tight

to

their

stars,

the

Dragon

formation

abruptly

changed.

Both

the

cylinder

and

the

front

wall

split

in

two,

as

boys

inside

it

pushed

off;

almost

at

once,

the

formations

also

reversed

direction,

heading

back

toward

the

Dragon

gate.

Most

of

the

Griffins

fired

at

the

formations

and

the

boys

moving

backward

with

them;

and

the

Tigers

took

the

survivors

of

Dragon

Army

from

behind.

But

there

was

something

wrong.

William

Bee

thought

for

a

moment

and

realized

what

it

was.

Those

formations

couldn't

have

reversed

direction

in

midflight

unless

someone

pushed

off

in

the

opposite

direction,

and

if

they

took

off

with

enough

force

to

make

that

twenty-man

formation

move

backward,

they

must

be

going

fast.

There

they

were,

six

small

Dragon

soldiers

down

near

William

Bee's

own

door.

From

the

number

of

lights

showing

on

their

flash

suits,

Bee

could

see

that

three

of

them

were

disabled

and

two

of

them

damaged;

only

one

was

whole.

Nothing

to

be

frightened

of.

Bee

casually

aimed

at

them,

pressed

the

button,

and--

Nothing

happened.

The

lights

went

on.

The

game

was

over.

Even

though

he

was

looking

right

at

them,

it

took

Bee

a

moment

to

realize

what

had

just

happened.

Four

of

the

Dragon

soldiers

had

their

helmets

pressed

on

the

corners

of

the

door.

And

one

of

them

had

just

passed

through.

They

had

just

carried

out

the

victory

ritual.

They

were

getting

destroyed,

they

had

hardly

inflicted

any

casualties,

and

they

had

the

gall

to

perform

the

victory

ritual

and

end

the

game

right

under

their

noses.

Only

then

did

it

occur

to

William

Bee

that

not

only

had

Dragon

Army

ended

the

game,

it

was

possihie

that,

under

the

rules,

they

had

won

it.

After

all,

no

matter

what

happened,

you

were

not

certified

as

the

winner

unless

you

had

enough

unfrozen

soldiers

to

touch

the

corners

of

the

gate

and

pass

someone

through

into

the

enemy's

corridor.

Therefore,

by

one

way

of

thinking.

you

could

argue

that

the

ending

ritual

was

victory.

The

battleroom

certainly

recognized

it

as

the

end

of

the

game.

The

teachergate

opetied

and

Major

Anderson

came

into

the

room.

"Ender,"

he

called,

looking

around.

One

of

the

frozen

Dragon

soldiers

tried

to

answer

him

through

jaws

that

were

clamped

shut

by

the

flash

suit.

Anderson

hooked

over

to

him

and

thawed

him.

Ender

was

smiling.

"I

beat

you

again,

sir,"

he

said.

"Nonsense,

Ender,"

Anderson

said

softly.

"Yout

battle

was

with

Griffin

and

Tiger."

"How

stupid

do

you

think

I

am?"

said

Ender.

Loudly,

Anderson

said,

"After

that

little

maneuver,

the

rules

are

being

revised

to

require

that

all

of

the

enemy's

soldiers

must

be

frozen

or

disabled

before

the

gate

can

be

reversed."

"It

could

only

work

once

anyway,"

Ender

said.

Anderson

handed

him

the

hook.

Ender

unfroze

everyone

at

once.

To

hell

with

protocol.

To

hell

with

everything.

"Hey!"

he

shouted

as

Anderson

moved

away.

"What

is

it

next

time?

My

army

in

a

cage

without

guns,

with

the

rest

of

the

Battle

School

against

them?

How

about

a

little

equality?"

There

was

a

loud

murmur

of

agreement

from

the

other

boys,

and

not

all

of

it

came

from

Dragon

Army.

Anderson

did

not

so

much

as

turn

around

to

acknowledge

Ender's

challenge.

Finally,

it

was

William

Bee

who

answered.

"Ender,

if

you're

on

one

side

of

the

battle,

it

won't

be

equal

no

matter

what

the

conditions

are."

Right!

called

the

boys.

Many

of

them

laughed.

Talo

Momoe

began

clapping

his

hands.

"Ender

Wiggin!"

he

shouted.

The

other

boys

also

clapped

and

shouted

Ender's

name.

Ender

passed

through

the

enemy

gate.

His

soldiers

followed

him.

The

sound

of

them

shouting

his

name

followed

him

through

the

corridors.

"Practice

tonight?"

asked

Craty

Tom.

Ender

shook

his

head.

"Tomorrow

morning

then?"

"No."

"Well,

when?"

"Never

again,

as

far

as

I'm

concerned."

He

could

hear

the

murmurs

behind

him.

"Hey,

that's

not

fair,"

said

one

of

the

boys.

"It's

not

our

fault

the

teachers

are

screwing

up

the

game.

You

can't

just

stop

teaching

us

stuff

because--"

Ender

slammed

his

open

hand

against

the

wall

and

shouted

at

the

boy.

"I

don't

care

about

the

game

anymore!"

His

voice

echoed

through

the

corridor.

Boys

from

other

armies

came

to

their

doors.

He

spoke

quietly

into

the

silence

--

"Do

you

understand

that?"

And

he

whispered.

"The

game

is

over."

He

walked

back

to

his

room

alone.

He

wanted

to

lie

down,

but

he

couldn't

because

the

bed

was

wet.

It

reminded

him

of

all

that

had

happened

today,

and

in

fury

he

tore

the

mattress

and

blankets

from

the

bedframe

and

shoved

them

out

into

the

corridor.

Then

he

wadded

up

a

unifortn

to

serve

as

a

pillow

and

lay

on

the

fabric

of

wires

strung

across

the

frame.

It

was

uncomfortable,

but

Ender

didn't

care

enough

to

get

up.

He

had

only

been

there

a

few

minutes

when

someone

knocked

on

his

door.

"Go

away,"

he

said

softly.

Whoever

was

knockine

didn't

hear

him

or

didn't

care.

Finally,

Ender

said

to

come

in.

It

was

Bean.

"Go

away,

Bean."

Bean

nodded

but

didn't

leave.

Instead

he

looked

at

his

shoes.

Ender

almost

yelled

at

him,

cursed

at

him,

screamed

at

him

to

leave.

Instead

he

noticed

how

very

tired

Bean

looked,

his

whole

body

bent

with

weariness,

his

eyes

dark

from

lack

of

sleep;

and

yet

his

skin

was

still

soft

and

translucent,

the

skin

of

a

child,

the

soft

curved

cheek,

the

slender

limbs

of

a

little

boy.

He

wasn't

eight

years

old

yet.

It

didn't

matter

he

was

brilliant

und

dedicated

and

good.

He

was

a

child.

He

was

*young*.

No

he

isn't,

thought

Ender.

Small,

yes.

But

Bean

has

been

through

a

battle

with

a

whole

army

depending

on

him

and

on

the

soldiers

that

he

led,

and

he

performed

splendidly,

and

they

won.

There's

no

youth

in

that.

No

childhood.

Taking

Ender's

silence

and

softening

expression

as

permission

to

stay,

Bean

took

another

step

into

the

room.

Only

then

did

Ender

see

the

small

slip

of

paper

in

his

hand.

"You're

transferred?"

asked

Ender.

He

was

incredulous,

but

his

voice

came

out

sounding

uninterested,

dead.

"To

Rabbit

Army."

Ender

nodded.

Of

course.

It

was

obvious.

If

I

can't

be

defeated

with

my

army,

they'll

take

my

army

away.

"Carn

Carby's

a

good

man,"

said

Ender.

"I

hope

he

recognizes

what

you're

worth."

"Carn

Carby

was

graduated

today.

He

got

his

notice

while

we

were

fighting

our

battle."

"Well,

who's

commanding

Rabbit

then?"

Bean

held

his

hands

out

helplessly.

"Me."

Ender

looked

at

the

ceiling

and

nodded.

"Of

course.

After

all,

you're

only

four

years

younger

than

the

regular

age."

"It

isn't

funny.

I

don't

know

what's

going

on

here.

All

the

changes

in

the

game.

And

now

this.

I

wasn't

the

only

one

transferred,

you

know.

They

graduated

half

the

commanders,

and

transferred

a

lot

of

our

guys

to

command

their

armies."

"Which

guys?"

"It

looks

like

--

every

toon

leader

and

every

assistant."

"Of

course.

If

they

decide

to

wreck

my

army,

they'll

cut

it

to

the

ground.

Whatever

they're

doing,

they're

thorough.""

"You'll

still

win,

Ender.

We

all

know

that.

Crazy

Tom,

he

said,

'You

mean

I'm

supposed

to

figure

out

how

to

beat

Dragon

Army?'

Everybody

knows

you're

the

best.

They

can't

break

you

down,

no

matter

what

they--"

"They

already

have."

"No,

Ender,

they

can't--"

"I

don't

care

about

their

game

anymore,

Bean.

I'm

not

going

to

play

it

anymore.

No

more

practices.

No

more

battles.

They

can

put

their

little

slips

of

paper

on

the

floor

all

they

want,

but

I

won't

go.

I

decided

that

before

I

went

through

the

door

today.

That's

why

I

had

you

go

for

the

gate.

I

didn't

think

it

would

work,

but

I

didn't

care.

I

just

wanted

to

go

out

in

style."

"You

should've

seen

William

Bee's

face.

He

just

stood

there

trying

to

figure

out

how

he

had

lost

when

you

only

had

seven

boys

who

could

wiggle

their

toes

and

he

only

had

three

who

couldn't."

"Why

should

I

want

to

see

William

Bee's

face?

Why

should

I

want

to

beat

anybody?"

Ender

pressed

his

palms

against

his

eyes.

"I

hurt

Bonzo

really

bad

today,

Bean.

I

really

hurt

him

bad."

"He

had

it

coming."

"I

knocked

him

out

standing

up.

It

was

like

he

was

dead,

standing

there.

And

I

kept

hurting

him."

Bean

said

nothing.

"I

just

wanted

to

make

sure

he

never

hurt

me

again."

"He

won't,"

said

Bean.

"They

sent

him

home."

"Already?"

"The

teachers

didn't

say

much,

they

never

do.

The

official

notice

says

he

was

graduated,

but

where

they

put

the

assignment

--

you

know,

tactical

schoot,

support,

precommand,

navigation,

that

kind

of

thing

--

it

just

said

Cartagena,

Spain.

That's

his

home."

"I'm

glad

they

graduated

him."

"Hell,

Ender,

we're

just

glad

he's

gone.

If

we'd

known

what

he

was

doing

to

you,

we

would've

killed

him

on

the

spot.

Was

it

true

he

had

a

whole

bunch

of

guys

gang

up

on

you?"

"No.

It

was

just

him

and

me.

He

fought

with

honor."

If

it

weren't

for

his

honor,

he

and

the

others

would

have

beaten

me

together.

They

might

have

killed

me,

then.

His

sense

of

honor

saved

my

life.

"I

didn't

fight

with

honor,"

Ender

added."I

fought

to

win."

Bean

laughed.

"And

you

did.

Kicked

him

right

out

of

orbit."

A

knock

on

the

door,

Before

Ender

could

answer,

the

door

opened.

Ender

had

been

expecting

more

of

his

soldiers.

Instead

it

was

Major

Anderson.

And

behind

him

came

Colonel

Graff.

"Ender

Wiggin,"

said

Graff.

Ender

got

to

his

feet.

"Yes

sir."

"Your

display

of

temper

in

the

battleroom

today

was

insubordinate

and

is

not

to

be

repeated."

"Yes

sir,"

said

Ender,

Bean

was

still

feeling

insubordinate,

and

he

didn't

think

Ender

deserved

the

rebuke.

"I

think

it

was

about

time

somebody

told

a

teacher

how

we

felt

about

what

you've

been

doing."

The

adults

ignored

him.

Anderson

handed

Ender

a

sheet

of

paper.

A

full-sized

sheet.

Not

one

of

the

little

slips

of

paper

that

served

for

internal

orders

within

the

Battle

School;

it

was

a

full-fledged

set

of

orders.

Bean

knew

what

it

meant.

Ender

was

being

transferred

out

of

the

school.

"Graduated?"

asked

Bean.

Ender

nodded.

"What

took

them

so

long?

You're

only

two

or

three

years

early.

You've

already

learned

how

to

walk

and

talk

and

dress

yourself.

What

will

they

have

left

to

teach

you?"

Ender

shook

his

head,

"All

I

know

is,

the

game's

over."

He

folded

up

the

paper.

"None

too

soon.

Can

I

tell

my

army?"

"There

isn't

time,"

said

Graff.

"Your

shuttle

leaves

in

twenty

minutes.

Besides,

it's

better

not

to

talk

to

them

after

you

get

your

orders.

It

makes

it

easier."

"For

them

or

for

you?"

Ender

asked.

He

didn't

wait

for

an

answer.

He

turned

quickly

to

Bean,

took

his

hand

for

a

moment,

and

then

headed

for

the

door.

"Wait,"

said

Bean.

"Where

are

you

going?

Tactical?

Navigational?

Support?"

"Command

School,"

Ender

answered.

"Pre-command?"

"Command,"

said

Ender,

and

then

he

was

out

the

door,

Anderson

followed

him

closely.

Bean

grabbed

Colonel

Graff

by

the

sleeve.

"Nobody

goes

to

Command

School

until

they're

sixteen!"

Graff

shook

off

Bean's

hand

and

left,

closing

the

door

behind

him.

Bean

stood

alone

in

the

room,

trying

to

grasp

what

this

might

mean.

Nobody

went

to

Command

School

without

three

years

of

Pre-command

in

either

Tactical

or

Support.

But

then,

nobody

left

Battle

School

without

at

least

six

years,

and

Ender

had

had

only

four.

The

system

is

breaking

up.

No

doubt

about

it.

Either

somebody

at

the

top

is

going

crazy,

or

something's

gone

wrong

with

the

war,

the

real

war,

the

bugger

war.

Why

else

would

they

break

down

the

training

system

like

this,

wreck

tne

game

the

way

they

did?

Why

else

woud

they

put

a

little

kid

like

me

in

command

of

an

army?

Bean

wondered

about

it

as

he

walked

back

down

the

corridor

to

his

own

bed.

The

lights

went

out

just

as

he

reached

his

bunk.

He

undressed

in

darkness,

fumbling

to

put

his

clothing

in

a

locker

he

couldn't

see.

He

felt

terrible.

At

first

he

thought

he

felt

bad

because

he

was

afraid

of

leading

an

army,

but

it

wasn't

true.

He

knew

he'd

make

a

good

commander.

He

felt

himself

wanting

to

cry.

He

hadn't

cried

since

the

first

few

days

of

homesickness

after

he

got

here.

He

tried

to

put

a

name

on

the

feeling

that

put

a

lump

in

his

throat

and

made

him

sob

silently,

however

much

he

tried

to

hold

it

down.

He

bit

down

on

his

hand

ta

stop

the

feeling,

to

replace

it

with

pain.

It

didn't

heip.

He

would

never

sec

Ender

again.

Once

he

named

the

feeling,

he

could

control

it.

He

lay

back

and

forced

himself

to

go

through

tne

relaxing

routine

until

he

didn't

feel

like

crying

anymore.

Then

he

drifted

off

to

sleep.

His

hand

was

near

his

mouth.

It

lay

on

his

pillow

hesitantly,

as

if

Bean

couldn't

decide

whether

to

bite

his

nails

or

suck

on

his

fingertips.

His

forehead

was

creased

and

furrowed.

His

breathing

was

quick

and

light.

He

was

a

soldier,

and

if

anyone

had

asked

him

what

he

wanted

to

be

when

he

grew

up,

he

wouldn't

have

known

what

they

meant.

***

When

he

was

crossing

into

the

shuttle,

Ender

noticed

for

the

lirst

time

that

the

insignia

on

Major

Anderson's

uniform

had

changed.

"Yes,

he's

a

colonel

now,"

said

Graff.

"In

fact,

Major

Anderson

has

been

placed

in

command

of

the

Battle

School,

as

of

this

afternoon.

I

have

been

reassigned

to

other

duties."

Ender

did

not

ask

him

what

they

were.

Graff

strapped

himself

into

a

seat

across

the

aisle

from

him.

There

was

only

one

other

passenger,

a

quiet

man

in

civilian

clothes

who

was

introduced

as

General

Pace.

Pace

was

carrying

a

briefcase,

but

carried

no

more

luggage

than

Ender

did.

Somehow

that

was

comforting

to

Ender,

that

Graff

also

came

away

empty.

Ender

spoke

only

once

on

the

voyage

home.

"Why

are

we

going

home?"

he

asked.

"I

thought

Command

School

was

in

the

asteroids

somewhere."

"It

is,"

said

Graff.

"But

the

Battle

School

has

no

facilities

for

docking

long-range

ships.

So

you

get

a

short

landside

leave."

Ender

wanted

to

ask

if

that

meant

he

could

see

his

family.

But

suddenly,

at

the

thought

that

it

might

be

possible,

he

was

afraid,

and

so

he

didn't

ask.

Just

closed

his

eyes

and

tried

to

sleep.

Behind

him,

General

Pace

was

studying

him;

for

what

purpose,

Ender

could

not

guess.

It

was

a

hot

summer

afternoon

in

Florida

when

they

landed.

Ender

had

been

so

long

without

sunlight

that

the

light

nearly

blinded

him,

He

squinted

and

sneezed

and

wanted

to

get

back

indoors.

Everything

was

far

away

and

flat;

the

ground,

lacking

the

upward

curve

of

Battle

School

floors,

seemed

instead

to

fall

away,

so

that

on

level

ground

Ender

felt

as

though

he

were

on

a

pinnacle.

The

pull

of

real

gravity

felt

different

and

he

scuffed

his

feet

when

he

walked.

He

hated

it.

He

wanted

to

go

back

home,

back

to

the

Battle

School,

the

only

place

in

the

universe

where

he

belonged.

***

"Arrested?"

"Well,

it's

a

natural

thought.

General

Pace

is

the

head

of

the

military

police.

There

*was*

a

death

in

the

Battle

School."

"They

didn't

tell

me

whether

Colonel

Graff

was

being

promoted

or

court-martialed.

Just

transferred,

with

orders

to

report

to

the

Polemarch."

"Is

that

a

good

sign

or

bad?"

"Who

knows?

On

the

one

hand,

Ender

Wiggin

not

only

survived,

he

passed

a

threshold,

he

graduated

in

dazzlingly

good

shape,

you

have

to

give

old

Graff

credit

for

that.

On

the

other

hand,

there's

the

fourth

passenger

on

the

shuttle.

The

one

travelina

in

a

bag."

"Only

the

second

death

in

the

history

of

the

school.

At

least

it

wasn't

a

suicide

this

time."

"How

is

murder

better,

Major

Imbu?"

"It

wasn't

murder,

Colonel.

We

have

it

on

video

from

two

angles.

No

one

can

blame

Ender."

"But

they

might

blame

Graff.

After

all

this

is

over,

the

civilians

can

rake

over

our

files

and

decide

what

was

right

and

what

was

not.

Give

us

medals

where

they

think

we

were

rignt,

take

away

our

pensions

and

put

us

in

jail

where

they

decide

we

were

wrong.

At

leatt

they

had

the

good

sense

not

to

tell

Ender

that

the

boy

died."

"Its

the

second

time,

too."

"They

didn't

tell

him

about

Stilson,

either."

"The

kid

is

scary."

"Ender

Wiggin

isn't

a

killer.

He

just

wins

--

thoroughly.

If

anybody's

going

to

be

scared,

let

it

be

the

buggers"

"Makes

you

almost

feel

sorry

for

them,

knowing

Ender's

going

to

be

coming

after

them."

"The

only

one

I

feel

sorry

for

is

Ender.

But

not

sorry

enough

to

suggest

they

ought

to

let

up

on

him.

I

just

got

access

to

the

material

that

Graff's

been

geffing

all

this

time.

About

fleet

movements,

that

sort

of

thing.

I

used

to

sleep

easy

at

night."

"Time's

getting

short?"

"I

shouldn't

have

mentioned

it.

I

can't

tell

you

secured

information."

"I

know."

"Let's

leave

it

at

this:

they

didn't

get

him

to

Command

School

a

day

too

soon.

And

maybe

a

couple

of

years

too

late."

Chapter

13

--

Valentine

"Children?"

"Brother

and

sister.

They

had

layered

themselves

five

times

through

the

nets

--

writing

for

companies

that

paid

for

their

memberships,

that

sort

of

thing.

Devil

of

a

time

tracking

them

down."

"What

are

they

hiding?"

"Could

be

anything.

The

most

obvious

thing

to

hide,

though,

is

their

ages.

The

boy

is

fourteen,

the

girl

is

twelve."

"Which

one

is

Demosthenes?"

"The

girl.

The

twelve-year-old."

"Pardon

me.

I

don't

really

think

it's

funny,

but

I

can't

help

but

laugh.

All

this

time

we've

been

worried,

all

the

time

we've

been

trying

to

persuade

the

Russians

not

to

take

Demosthenes

too

seriously,

we

held

up

Locke

as

proof

that

Americans

weren't

all

crazy

warmongers.

Brother

and

sister,

prepubescent--"

"And

their

last

name

is

Wiggin."

"Ah.

Coincidence?"

"*The*

Wiggin

is

a

third.

They

are

one

and

two."

"Oh,

excellent.

The

Russians

will

never

believe--"

"That

Demosthenes

and

Locke

aren't

as

much

under

our

control

as

*the*

Wiggin."

"Is

there

a

conspiracy?

Is

someone

controlling

them?"

"We

have

been

able

to

detect

no

contact

between

these

two

children

and

any

adutl

who

might

be

directing

them."

"That

is

not

to

say

that

someone

might

not

have

invented

some

method

you

can't

detect.

It's

hard

to

believe

that

two

children--"

"I

interviewed

Colonel

Graff

when

he

arrived

from

the

Battle

School.

It

is

his

best

judgment

that

nothing

these

children

have

done

is

out

of

their

reach.

Their

abilities

are

virtually

identical

with

--

*the*

Wiggin.

Only

their

temperaments

are

different.

What

surprised

him,

however,

was

the

orientation

of

the

two

personas.

Demosthenes

is

definitely

the

girl,

but

Graff

says

the

girl

was

rejected

for

Battle

School

because

she

was

too

pacific,

too

conciliatory,

and

above

all,

too

empathic."

"Definitely

not

Demosthenes."

"And

the

boy

has

the

soul

of

a

jackal."

"Wasn't

it

Locke

that

was

recently

praised

as

'The

only

truly

open

mind

in

America'?"

"It's

hard

to

know

what's

really

happening.

But

Graff

recommended,

and

I

agree,

that

we

should

leave

them

alone.

Not

expose

them.

Make

no

report

at

this

time

except

that

we

have

determined

that

Locke

and

Dernosthenes

have

no

foreign

connections

and

have

no

connections

with

any

domestic

group,

either,

except

those

pubiicly

declared

on

the

nets."

"In

other

words,

give

them

a

clean

bill

of

health,"

"I

know

Demosthenes

seems

dangerous,

in

part

because

he

or

she

has

such

a

wide

following.

But

I

think

it's

significant

that

the

one

of

the

two

of

them

who

is

most

ambitious

has

chosen

the

moderate,

wise

persona.

And

they're

still

just

talking.

They

have

influence,

but

no

power."

"In

my

experience,

influence

is

power."

"If

we

ever

find

them

getting

out

of

line,

we

can

easily

expose

them."

"Only

in

the

next

few

years.

The

longer

we

wait,

the

older

they

get,

and

the

less

shocking

it

is

to

discover

who

they

are."

"You

know

what

the

Russian

troop

movements

have

been.

There's

always

the

chance

that

Demosthene

is

right.

In

which

case--"

"We'd

better

have

Demosthones

around.

All

right.

We'll

show

them

clean,

for

now.

But

watch

them.

And

I,

of

course,

have

to

find

ways

of

keeping

the

Russians

calm."

***

In

spite

of

all

her

misgivings,

Valentine

was

having

fun

being

Demosthenes.

Her

column

was

now

being

carried

on

practically

every

newsnet

in

the

country,

and

it

was

fun

to

watch

the

money

pile

up

in

her

attorney's

accounts.

Every

now

and

then

she

and

Peter

would,

in

Demosthenes'

name,

donate

a

carefully

calculated

sum

to

a

particular

candidate

or

cause:

enough

money

that

the

donation

would

be

noticed,

but

not

so

much

that

the

candidate

would

feel

she

was

trying

to

buy

a

vote.

She

was

getting

so

many

letters

now

that

her

newsnet

had

hired

a

secretary

to

answer

certain

classes

of

routine

correspondence

for

her.

The

fun

fetters,

from

national

and

international

leaders,

sometimes

hostile,

sometimes

friendly,

always

diplomatically

trying

to

pry

into

Demosthenes'

mind

--

those

she

and

Peter

read

together,

laughing

in

delight

sometimes

that

people

like

*this*

were

writing

to

children,

and

didn't

know

it.

Sometimes,

though,

she

was

ashamed.

Father

was

reading

Demosthenes

regularly;

he

never

read

Locke,

or

if

he

did,

he

said

nothing

about

it.

At

dinner,

though,

he

would

often

regale

them

with

some

telling

point

Demosthenes

had

made

in

that

day's

column.

Peter

loved

it

when

Father

did

that

--

"See,

it

shows

that

the

common

man

is

paying

attention"

-

-

but

it

made

Valentine

feel

humiliated

for

Father.

If

he

ever

found

out

that

all

this

time

*I*

was

writine

the

columns

he

told

us

about,

and

that

I

didn't

even

believe

half

the

things

I

wrote,

he

would

be

angry

and

ashamed.

At

school,

she

once

nearly

got

them

in

trouble,

when

her

history

teacher

assigned

the

class

to

write

a

paper

contrasting

the

views

of

Demosthenes

and

Locke

as

expressed

in

two

of

their

early

columns.

Valentine

was

careless,

and

did

a

brirrliant

job

of

analysis.

As

a

result,

she

had

to

work

hard

to

talk

the

principal

out

of

having

her

essay

published

on

the

very

newsnet

that

carried

Demosthenes'

column.

Peter

was

savage

about

it.

"You

write

too

much

like

Demosthenes,

you

can't

get

published,

I

should

kill

Demosthenes

now,

you're

getting

out

of

control."

If

he

raged

about

that

blunder,

Peter

frightened

her

still

more

when

he

went

silent.

It

happened

when

Demosthenes

was

invited

to

take

part

in

the

President's

Council

on

Education

for

the

Future,

a

blue-ribbon

panel

that

was

designed

to

do

nothing,

but

do

it

splendidly.

Valentine

thought

Peter

would

take

it

as

a

triumph,

but

he

did

not.

"Turn

it

down,"

he

said,

"Why

should

I?"

she

asked,

"It's

no

work

at

all,

and

they

even

said

that

because

of

Demosthenes'

well-known

desire

for

privacy,

they

would

net

all

the

meetings.

It

makes

Demosthenes

into

a

respectable

person,

and--"

"And

you

love

it

that

you

got

that

before

I

did."

"Peter,

it

isn't

you

and

me,

it's

Demosthenes

and

Locke.

We

made

them

up.

They

aren't

real.

Besides,

this

appointment

doesn't

mean

they

like

Demosthenes

better

than

Locke,

it

just

means

that

Demosthenes

has

a

much

stronger

base

of

support.

You

knew

he

would.

Appointing

him

pleases

a

large

number

of

Russian-haters

and

chauvinists."

"It

wasn't

supposed

to

work

this

way.

Locke

was

supposed

to

be

the

respected

one."

"He

is!

Real

respect

takes

longer

than

official

respect.

Peter,

don't

be

angry

at

me

because

I've

done

well

with

the

things

you

told

me

to

do."

But

he

was

angry,

for

days,

and

ever

since

then

he

had

left

her

to

think

through

all

her

own

columns,

instead

of

telling

her

what

to

write.

He

probably

assumed

that

this

would

make

the

quality

of

Demosthenes'

columns

deteriorate,

but

if

it

did

no

one

noticed.

Perhaps

it

made

him

even

angrier

that

she

never

came

to

him

weeping

tor

help.

She

had

been

Demosthenes

too

long

now

to

need

anyone

to

tell

her

what

Demosthenes

would

think

about

things.

And

as

her

correspondence

with

other

politically

active

citizens

grew,

she

began

to

learn

things,

information

that

simply

wasn't

available

to

the

general

public.

Certain

military

people

who

corresponded

with

her

dropped

hints

about

things

without

meaning

to,

and

she

and

Peter

put

them

together

to

build

up

a

fascinating

and

frightening

picture

of

Warsaw

Pact

activity.

They

were

indeed

preparing

for

war,

a

vicious

and

bloods

earthbound

war.

Demosthenes

wasn't

wrong

to

suspect

that

the

Warsaw

Pact

was

not

abiding

by

the

terms

of

the

League.

And

the

character

of

Demosthenes

gradually

took

on

a

life

of

his

own.

At

times

she

found

herself

thinking

like

Demosthenes

at

the

end

of

a

writing

session,

agreeing

with

ideas

that

were

supposed

to

be

calculated

poses.

And

sometimes

she

read

Peter's

Locke

essays

and

found

herself

annoyed

at

his

obvious

blindness

to

what

was

really

going

on.

Perhaps

it's

impossible

to

wear

an

identity

without

becoming

what

you

pretend

to

be.

She

thought

of

that,

worried

about

it

for

a

few

days,

and

then

wrote

a

column

using

that

as

a

premise,

to

show

that

politicians

who

toadied

to

the

Russians

in

order

to

keep

the

peace

would

inevitably

end

up

subservient

to

them

in

everything.

It

was

a

lovely

bite

at

the

party

in

power,

and

she

got

a

lot

of

good

mail

about

it.

She

also

stopped

being

frightened

of

the

idea

of

becoming,

to

a

degree,

Demosthenes.

He's

smarter

than

Peter

and

I

ever

gave

him

credit

for,

she

thought.

Graff

was

waiting

for

her

after

school.

He

stood

leaning

on

his

car.

He

was

in

civilian

clothes,

and

he

had

gained

weight,

so

she

didn't

recognize

him

at

first.

But

he

beckoned

to

her,

and

before

he

could

introduce

himself

she

remembered

his

name.

"I

won't

write

another

letter,"

she

said.

"I

never

should

have

written

that

one.

"You

don't

like

medals,

then,

I

guess."

"Not

much."

"Come

for

a

ride

with

me,

Valentine."

"I

don't

ride

with

strangers."

He

handed

her

a

paper.

It

was

a

release

form,

and

her

parents

had

signed

it.

"I

guess

you're

not

a

stranger.

Where

are

we

going?"

"To

see

a

young

soldier

who

is

in

Greensboro

on

leave."

She

got

in

the

car.

"Ender's

only

ten

years

old,"

she

said.

"I

thought

you

told

us

the

first

time

he'd

be

eligible

for

a

leave

was

when

he

was

twelve."

"He

skipped

a

few

grades."

"So

he's

doing

well?"

"Ask

him

when

you

see

him."

"Why

me?

Why

not

the

whole

family?"

Graff

sighed.

"Ender

sees

the

world

his

own

way.

We

had

to

persuade

him

to

see

you.

As

for

Peter

and

your

parents,

he

was

not

interested.

Life

at

the

Battle

School

was

--

intense."

"What

do

you

mean,

he's

gone

crazy?"

"On

the

contrary,

he's

the

sanest

person

I

know.

He's

sane

enough

to

know

that

his

parents

are

not

particularly

eager

to

reopen

a

book

of

affection

that

was

closed

quite

tightly

four

years

ago.

As

for

Peter

--

we

didn't

even

suggest

a

meeting,

and

so

he

didn't

have

a

chance

to

tell

us

to

go

to

hell."

They

went

out

Lake

Brandt

Road

and

turned

offjust

past

the

lake,

following

a

road

that

wound

down

and

up

until

they

came

to

a

white

clapboard

mansion

that

sprawled

along

the

top

of

a

hill.

It

looked

over

Lake

Brandt

on

one

side

and

a

five-acre

private

lake

on

the

other.

"This

is

the

house

that

Medly's

Mist-E-Rub

built,"

said

Graff.

"The

IF

picked

it

up

in

a

tax

sale

about

twenty

years

ago.

Ender

insisted

that

his

conversation

with

you

should

not

be

bugged.

I

promised

him

it

wouldn't

be,

and

to

help

inspire

confidence,

the

two

of

you

are

going

out

on

a

raft

he

built

himself.

I

should

warn

you,

though.

I

intend

to

ask

you

questions

about

your

conversation

when

it

is

finished.

You

don't

have

to

answer,

but

I

hope

you

will."

"I

didn't

bring

a

swimming

suit."

"We

can

provide

one."

"One

that

isn't

bugged?"

"At

some

point,

there

must

be

trust.

For

insance,

I

know

who

Demosthenes

really

is."

She

felt

a

thrill

of

fear

run

through

her,

hut

said

nothing.

"I've

known

since

I

landed

from

the

Battle

School,

There

are,

perhaps,

six

of

us

in

the

world

who

know

his

identity.

Not

counting

the

Russians

--

God

only

knows

what

they

know.

But

Demosthenes

has

nothing

to

fear

from

us.

Demosthenes

can

trust

our

discretion.

Just

as

I

trust

Demosthenes

not

to

tell

Locke

what's

going

on

here

today.

Mutual

trust.

We

tell

each

other

things."

Valentine

couldn't

decide

whether

it

was

Demosthenes

they

approved

of,

or

Valentine

Wiggin.

If

the

former,

she

would

not

trust

them;

if

the

latter,

the

perhaps

she

could.

The

fact

that

they

did

not

want

her

to

discuss

this

with

Peter

suggested

that

perhaps

they

knew

the

difference

between

them.

She

did

not

stop

to

wonder

whether

she

herself

knew

the

difference

any

more.

"You

said

he

built

the

raft.

How

long

has

be

been

here?"

"Two

months.

We

meant

his

leave

to

last

only

a

few

days.

But

you

see,

he

doesn't

seem

interested

in

going

on

with

his

education."

"Oh.

So

I'm

therapy

again."

"This

time

we

can't

censor

your

letter,

We're

just

taking

our

chances.

We

need

your

brother

badly.

Humanity

is

on

the

cusp."

This

time

Val

had

grown

up

enough

to

know

just

how

much

danger

the

world

was

in.

And

she

had

been

Demosthenes

long

enough

that

she

didn't

hesitate

to

do

her

duty.

"Where

is

he?"

"Down

at

the

boat

slip."

"Where's

the

swimming

suit?"

Ender

didn't

wave

when

she

walked

down

the

hill

toward

him,

didn't

smile

when

she

stepped

onto

the

floating

boat

slip.

But

she

knew

that

he

was

glad

to

see

her,

knew

it

because

of

the

way

his

eyes

never

left

her

face.

"You're

bigger

than

I

remembered,"

she

said

stupidly.

"You

too,"

he

said.

"I

also

remembered

that

you

were

beautiful."

"Memory

does

play

tricks

on

us."

"No.

Your

face

is

the

same,

but

I

don't

remember

what

beautiful

means

anymore.

Come

on.

Let's

go

out

into

the

lake."

She

looked

at

the

small

raft

with

misgivings.

"Don't

stand

up

on

it,

that's

all,"

he

said.

He

got

on

by

crawling,

spiderlike,

on

toes

and

fingers.

"It's

the

first

thing

I

built

with

my

own

hands

since

you

and

I

used

to

build

with

blocks.

Peter-proof

buildings."

She

laughed.

They

used

to

take

pleasure

in

building

things

that

would

stand

up

even

when

a

lot

of

the

obvious

supports

had

been

removed.

Peter,

in

turn,

liked

to

remove

a

block

here

or

there,

so

the

structure

would

be

fragile

enough

that

the

next

person

to

touch

it

would

knock

it

down.

Peter

was

an

ass,

but

he

did

provide

some

focus

to

their

childhood.

"Peter's

changed,"

she

said.

"Let's

not

talk

about

him,"

said

Ender.

"All

right."

She

crawled

onto

the

boat,

not

as

deftly

as

Ender.

He

used

a

paddle

to

maneuver

them

slowly

toward

the

center

of

the

private

lake.

She

noticed

aloud

that

he

was

sunbrowned

and

strong.

"The

strong

part

comes

from

Battle

School.

The

sunbrowning

comes

from

this

lake.

I

spend

a

lot

of

time

on

the

water.

When

I'm

swimming,

it's

like

being

weightless.

I

miss

being

weightless.

Also,

when

I'm

here

on

the

lake,

the

land

slopes

up

in

every

direction."

"Like

living

in

a

bowl."

"I've

lived

in

a

bowl

for

four

years."

"So

we're

strangers

now?"

"Aren't

we,

Valentine?"

"No,"

she

said.

She

reached

out

and

touched

his

leg.

Then,

suddenly,

she

squeezed

his

knee,

right

where

he

had

always

been

most

ticklish.

But

almost

at

the

same

moment,

he

caught

her

wrist

in

his

hand.

His

grip

was

very

strong,

even

though

hts

hands

were

smaller

than

hers

and

his

own

arms

were

slender

and

tight.

For

a

moment

he

looked

dangerous;

then

he

relaxed.

"Oh,

yes,"

he

said.

"You

used

to

tickle

me."

In

answer,

she

dropped

herself

over

the

side

of

the

raft.

The

water

was

clear

and

clean,

and

there

was

no

chlorine

in

it.

She

swam

for

a

while,

then

returned

to

the

raft

and

lay

on

it

in

the

hazy

sunlight.

A

wasp

circled

her,

then

landed

on

the

raft

beside

her

head.

She

knew

it

was

there,

and

ordinarily

would

have

been

afraid

of

it.

But

not

today.

Let

it

walk

on

this

raft,

let

it

bake

in

the

sun

as

I'm

doing.

Then

the

raft

rocked,

and

she

turned

to

see

Ender

calmly

crushing

the

life

out

of

the

wasp

with

one

finger.

"These

are

a

nasty

breed,"

Ender

said.

"They

sting

you

without

waiting

to

be

insulted

first,"

He

smiled.

"I've

been

learning

about

preemptive

strategies.

I'm

very

good.

No

one

ever

beat

me.

I'm

the

best

soldier

they

ever

had."

"Who

would

expect

less?"

she

said.

"You're

a

Wiggin."

"Whatever

that

means,"

he

said.

"It

means

that

you

are

going

to

make

a

difference

in

the

world."

And

she

told

him

what

she

and

Peter

were

doing.

"How

old

is

Peter,

fourteen?

Already

planning

to

take

over

the

world?"

"He

thinks

he's

Alexander

the

Great.

And

why

shouldn't

he

be?

Why

shouldn't

you

be,

too?"

"We

can't

both

be

Alexander."

"Two

faces

of

the

same

coin.

And

I

am

the

metal

in

between."

Even

as

she

said

it,

she

wondered

if

it

was

true.

She

had

shared

so

much

with

Peter

these

last

few

years

that

even

when

she

thought

she

despised

him,

she

understood

him.

While

Ender

had

been

only

a

memory

till

now.

A

very

small,

fragile

boy

who

needed

her

protection.

Not

this

coldeyed,

dark-skinned

manling

who

kills

wasps

with

his

fingers.

Maybe

he

and

Peter

and

I

are

all

the

same,

and

have

been

all

along.

Maybe

we

only

thought

we

were

different

from

each

other

out

of

jealousy.

"The

trouble

with

coins

is,

when

one

face

is

up,

the

other

face

is

down."

And

right

now

you

think

you're

down.

"They

want

me

to

encourage

you

to

go

on

with

your

studies."

"They

aren't

studies,

they're

games.

All

games,

from

beginning

to

end,

only

they

change

the

rules

whenever

they

feel

like

it."

He

held

up

a

limp

hand.

"See

the

strings?"

"But

you

can

use

them,

too."

"Only

if

they

want

to

be

used.

Only

if

they

think

they're

using

you.

No,

it's

too

hard,

I

don't

want

to

play

anymore.

Just

when

I

start

to

be

happy,

just

when

I

think

I

can

handle

things,

they

stick

in

anothet

knife.

I

keep

having

nightmares,

now

that

I'm

here.

I

dream

I'm

in

the

battleroom,

only

instead

of

being

weightless,

they're

playing

games

with

gravity.

They

keep

changing

its

direction.

So

I

never

end

up

on

the

wall

I

launched

for.

I

never

end

up

where

I

meant

to

go.

And

I

keep

pleading

with

them

just

to

let

me

get

to

the

door,

and

they

won't

let

me

out,

they

keep

sucking

me

back

in."

She

heard

the

anger

in

his

voice

and

assumed

it

was

directed

at

her.

"I

suppose

that's

what

I'm

here

for.

To

suck

you

back

in."

"I

didn't

want

to

see

you."

"They

told

me."

"I

was

afraid

that

I'd

still

love

you."

"I

hoped

that

you

would."

"My

fear,

your

wish

--

both

granted."

"Ender,

it

really

is

true.

We

may

be

young,

but

we're

not

powerless.

We

play

by

their

rules

long

enough,

and

it

becomes

our

game."

She

giggled.

"I'm

on

a

presidential

commission.

Peter

is

so

angry."

"They

don't

let

me

use

the

nets.

There

isn't

a

computer

in

the

place,

except

the

household

machines

that

run

the

security

system

and

the

lighting.

Ancient

things.

Installed

back

a

century

ago,

when

they

made

computers

that

didn't

hook

up

with

anything.

They

took

away

my

army,

they

took

away

my

desk,

and

you

know

something?

I

don't

really

mind."

"You

must

be

good

company

for

yourself."

"Not

me.

My

memories."

"Maybe

that's

who

you

are,

what

you

remember."

"No.

My

memories

of

strangers.

My

memories

of

the

buggers."

Valentine

shivered,

as

if

a

cold

breeze

had

suddenly

passed.

"I

refuse

to

watch

the

bugger

vids

anymore.

They're

always

the

same.

"I

used

to

study

them

for

hours.

The

way

their

ships

move

through

space.

And

something

funny,

that

only

occurred

to

me

lying

out

here

on

the

lake.

I

realized

that

all

the

battles

in

which

buggers

and

humans

fought

hand

to

hand,

all

those

are

from

the

First

Invasion.

All

the

scenes

from

the

Second

Invasion,

when

our

soldiers

are

in

IF

uniforms,

in

those

scenes

the

buggers

are

always

already

dead.

Lying

there,

slumped

over

their

controls.

Not

a

sign

of

struggle

or

anything.

And

Mazer

Rackham's

battle

--

they

never

show

us

any

footage

from

that

battle."

"Maybe

it's

a

secret

weapon."

"No,

no,

I

don't

care

about

how

we

killed

them.

It's

the

buggers

themselves.

I

don't

know

anything

about

them,

and

yet

someday

I'm

supposed

to

fight

them.

I've

been

through

a

lot

of

fights

in

my

life,

sometimes

games,

sometimes

--

not

games.

Every

time,

I've

won

because

I

could

understand

the

way

my

enemy

thought.

From

what

they

*did*.

I

could

tell

what

they

thought

I

was

doing,

how

they

wanted

the

battle

to

take

shape.

And

I

played

off

of

that.

I'm

very

good

at

that.

Understanding

how

other

people

think."

"The

curse

of

the

Wiggin

children."

She

joked,

but

it

frightened

her,

that

Ender

might

understand

her

as

completely

as

he

did

his

enemies.

Peter

always

understood

her,

or

at

least

thought

he

did,

but

he

was

such

a

moral

sinkhole

that

she

never

had

to

feel

embarrassed

when

he

guessed

even

her

worst

thoughts.

But

Ender

--

she

did

not

want

him

to

understand

her.

It

would

make

her

naked

before

him.

She

would

be

ashamed.

"You

don't

think

you

can

beat

the

buggers

unless

you

know

them."

"It

goes

deeper

than

that.

Being

here

alone

with

nothing

to

do,

I've

been

thinking

about

myself,

too.

Trying

to

understand

why

I

hate

myself

so

badly."

"No,

Ender."

"Don't

tell

me

'No,

Ender.'

It

took

me

a

long

time

to

realize

that

I

did,

but

believe

me,

I

did.

Do.

And

it

came

down

to

this:

In

the

moment

when

I

truly

understand

my

enemy,

understand

him

well

enough

to

defeat

him,

then

in

that

very

moment

I

also

love

him.

I

think

it's

impossible

to

really

understand

somebody,

what

they

want,

what

they

believe,

and

not

love

them

the

way

they

love

themselves.

And

then,

in

that

very

moment

when

I

love

them--"

"You

beat

them."

For

a

moment

she

was

not

afraid

of

his

understanding.

"No,

you

don't

understand.

I

destroy

them.

I

make

it

impossible

for

them

to

ever

hurt

me

again.

I

grind

them

and

grind

them

until

they

don't

exist."

"Of

course

you

don't."

And

now

the

fear

came

again,

worse

than

before.

Peter

has

mellowed,

but

you,

they've

made

you

into

a

killer.

Two

sides

of

the

same

coin,

but

which

side

is

which?

"I've

really

hurt

some

people,

Val.

I'm

not

making

this

up."

"I

know,

Ender."

How

will

you

hurt

me?

"See

what

I'm

becoming,

Val?"

he

said

softly.

"Even

you

are

afraid

of

me."

And

he

touched

her

cheek

so

gently

that

she

wanted

to

cry.

Like

the

touch

of

his

soft

baby

hand

when

he

was

still

an

infant.

She

remembered

that,

the

touch

of

his

soft

and

innocent

hand

on

her

cheek.

"I'm

not,"

she

said,

and

in

that

moment

it

was

true.

"You

should

be."

No.

I

shouldn't.

"You're

going

to

shrivel

up

if

you

stay

in

the

water.

Also,

the

sharks

might

get

you.

He

smiled.

"The

sharks

learned

to

leave

me

alone

a

long

time

ago."

But

he

pulled

himself

onto

the

raft,

bringing

a

wash

of

water

across

it

as

it

tipped.

It

was

cold

on

Valentine's

back.

"Ender,

Peter's

going

to

do

it.

He's

smart

enough

to

take

the

time

it

takes,

but

he's

going

to

win

his

way

into

power

--

if

not

right

now,

then

later.

I'm

not

sure

yet

whether

that'll

be

a

good

thing

or

a

bad

thing.

Peter

can

be

cruel,

but

he

knows

the

getting

and

keeping

of

power,

and

there

are

signs

that

once

the

bugger

war

is

over,

and

maybe

even

before

it

ends,

the

world

will

collapse

into

chaos

again.

The

Warsaw

Pact

was

on

its

way

to

hegemony

before

the

First

Invasion.

If

they

try

for

it

afterward--"

"So

even

Peter

might

be

a

better

alternative."

"You've

been

discovering

some

of

the

destroyer

in

yourself,

Ender.

Well,

so

have

I.

Peter

didn't

have

a

monopoly

on

that,

whatever

the

testers

thought.

And

Peter

has

some

of

the

builder

in

him.

He

isn't

kind,

but

he

doesn't

break

every

good

thing

he

sees

anymore.

Once

you

realize

that

power

will

always

end

up

with

the

sort

of

people

who

crave

it,

I

think

that

there

are

worse

people

who

could

have

it

than

Peter."

"With

that

strong

a

recommendation,

I

could

vote

for

him

myself."

"Sometimes

it

seems

absolutely

silly.

A

fourteen-year-old

boy

and

his

kid

sister

plotting

to

take

over

the

world."

She

tried

to

laugh.

It

wasn't

funny.

"We

aren't

just

ordinary

children,

are

we.

None

of

us."

"Don't

you

sometimes

wish

we

were?"

She

tried

to

imagine

herself

being

like

the

other

girls

at

school.

Tried

to

imagine

life

if

she

didn't

feel

responsible

for

the

future

of

the

world.

"It

would

be

so

dull."

"I

don't

think

so."

And

he

stretched

out

on

the

raft,

as

if

he

could

lie

on

the

water

forever.

It

was

true.

Whatever

they

did

to

Ender

in

the

Battle

School,

they

had

spent

his

ambition.

He

really

did

not

want

to

leave

the

sun-warmed

waters

of

this

bowl.

No,

she

realized.

No,

he

*believes*

that

he

doesn't

want

to

leave

here,

but

there

is

still

too

much

of

Peter

in

him.

Or

too

much

of

me.

None

of

us

could

be

happy

for

long,

doing

nothing.

Or

perhaps

it's

just

that

none

of

us

could

be

happy

living

with

no

other

company

than

ourself.

So

she

began

to

prod

again.

"What

is

the

one

name

that

everyone

in

the

world

knows?"

"Mazer

Rackham."

"And

what

if

you

win

the

next

war,

the

way

Mazer

did?"

"Mazer

Rackham

was

a

fluke.

A

reserve.

Nobody

believed

in

him.

He

just

happened

to

be

in

the

right

place

at

the

right

time."

"But

suppose

you

do

it.

Suppose

you

beat

the

buggers

and

your

name

is

known

the

way

Mazer

Rackham's

name

is

known."

"Let

somebody

else

be

famous.

Peter

wants

to

be

famous.

Let

him

save

the

world."

"I'm

not

talking

about

fame,

Ender.

I'm

not

talking

about

power,

either.

I'm

talking

about

accidents,

just

like

the

accident

that

Mazer

Rackham

happened

to

be

the

one

who

was

there

when

somebody

had

to

stop

the

buggers."

"If

I'm

here,"

said

Ender,

"then

I

won't

be

there.

Somebody

else

will.

Let

them

have

the

accident."

His

tone

of

weary

unconcern

infuriated

her.

"I'm

talking

about

my

life,

you

self-centered

little

bastard."

If

her

words

bothered

him,

he

didn't

show

it.

Just

lay

there,

eyes

closed.

"When

you

were

little

and

Peter

tortured

you,

it's

a

good

thing

I

didn't

lie

back

and

wait

for

Mom

and

Dad

to

save

you.

They

never

understood

how

dangerous

Peter

was.

I

knew

you

had

the

monitor,

but

I

didn't

wait

for

them,

either.

Do

you

know

what

Peter

used

to

do

to

me

because

I

stopped

him

from

hurting

you?"

"Shut

up,"

Ender

whispered.

Because

she

saw

that

his

chest

was

trembling,

because

she

knew

that

she

had

indeed

hurt

him,

because

she

knew

that

just

like

Peter,

she

had

found

his

weakest

place

and

stabbed

him

there,

she

fell

silent.

"I

can't

beat

them,"

Ender

said

softly,

"I'll

be

out

there

like

Mazer

Rackham

one

day,

and

everybody

will

be

depending

on

me,

and

I

won't

be

able

to

do

it."

"If

you

can't,

Ender,

then

nobody

could.

If

you

can't

beat

them,

then

they

deserve

to

win

because

they're

stronger

and

better

than

us.

It

won't

be

your

fault."

"Tell

it

to

the

dead."

"If

not

you,

then

who?"

"Anybody."

"Nobody,

Ender.

I'll

tell

you

something.

If

you

try

and

lose

then

it

isn't

your

fault.

But

if

you

don't

try

and

we

lose,

then

it's

all

your

fault.

You

killed

us

all."

"I'm

a

killer

no

matter

what."

"What

else

should

you

be?

Human

beings

didn't

evolve

brains

in

order

to

lie

around

on

lakes.

Killing's

the

first

thing

we

learned.

And

a

good

thing

we

did,

or

we'd

be

dead,

and

the

tigers

would

own

the

earth."

"I

could

never

beat

Peter.

No

matter

what

I

said

or

did.

I

never

could."

So

it

came

back

to

Peter.

"He

was

years

older

than

you.

And

stronger."

"So

are

the

buggers."

She

could

see

his

reasoning.

Or

rather,

his

unreasoning.

He

could

win

all

he

wanted,

but

he

knew

in

his

heart

that

there

was

always

someone

who

could

destroy

him,

He

always

knew

that

he

had

not

really

won,

because

there

was

Peter,

undefeated

champion.

"You

want

to

beat

Peter?"

she

asked.

"No,"

he

answered.

"Beat

the

buggers.

Then

come

home

and

see

who

notices

Peter

Wiggin

anymore.

Look

him

in

the

eye

when

all

the

world

loves

and

reveres

you.

That'll

be

defeat

in

his

eyes,

Ender.

That's

how

you

win."

"You

don't

understand,"

he

said.

"Yes

I

do."

"No

you

don't.

I

don't

want

to

beat

Peter."

"Then

what

do

you

want?"

"I

want

him

to

love

me."

She

had

no

answer.

As

far

as

she

knew,

Peter

didn't

love

anybody.

Ender

said

nothing

more.

Just

lay

there.

And

lay

there.

Finally

Valentine,

the

sweat

dripping

off

her,

the

mosquitos

beginning

to

hover

as

the

dusk

came

on,

took

one

final

dip

in

the

water

and

then

began

to

push

the

raft

in

to

shore.

Ender

showed

no

sign

that

he

knew

what

she

was

doing,

but

his

irregular

breathing

told

her

that

he

was

not

asleep.

When

they

got

to

shore,

she

climbed

onto

the

dock

and

said,

"I

love

you,

Ender.

More

than

ever.

No

matter

what

you

decide."

He

didn't

answer.

She

doubted

that

he

believed

her.

She

walked

back

up

the

hill,

savagely

angry

at

them

for

making

her

come

to

Ender

like

this.

For

she

had,

after

all,

done

just

what

they

wanted.

She

had

talked

Ender

into

going

back

into

his

training,

and

he

wouldn't

soon

forgive

her

for

that.

***

Ender

came

in

the

door,

still

wet

from

his

last

dip

in

the

lake.

It

was

dark

outside,

and

dark

in

the

room

where

Graff

waited

for

him.

"Are

we

going

now?"

asked

Ender.

"If

you

want

to,"

Graff

said.

"When?"

"When

you're

ready."

Ender

showered

and

dressed.

He

was

finally

used

to

the

way

civilian

clothes

fit

together,

but

he

still

didn't

feel

right

without

a

uniform

or

a

flash

suit.

I'll

never

wear

a

flash

suit

again,

he

thought.

That

was

the

Battle

School

game,

and

I'm

through

with

that.

He

heard

the

crickets

chirping

madly

in

the

woods;

in

the

near

distance

he

heard

the

crackling

sound

of

a

car

driving

slowly

on

gravel.

What

else

should

he

take

with

him?

He

had

read

several

of

the

books

in

the

library.

but

they

belonged

to

the

house

and

he

couldn't

take

them.

The

only

thing

he

owned

was

the

raft

he

had

made

with

his

own

hands.

That

would

stay

here,

too.

The

lights

were

on

now

in

the

room

where

Graff

waited.

He,

too,

had

changed

clothing.

He

was

back

to

uniform.

They

sat

in

the

back

seat

of

the

car

together,

driving

along

country

roads

to

come

at

the

airport

from

the

back.

"Back

when

the

population

was

growing,"

said

Graff,

"they

kept

this

area

in

woods

and

farms.

Watershed

land.

The

rainfall

here

starts

a

lot

of

rivers

flowing,

a

lot

of

underground

water

moving

around.

The

Earth

is

deep,

and

right

to

the

heart

it's

alive,

Ender.

We

people

only

live

on

the

top,

like

the

bugs

that

live

on

the

scum

of

the

still

water

near

the

shore."

Ender

said

nothing.

"We

train

our

commanders

the

way

we

do

because

that's

what

it

takes

--

they

have

to

think

in

certain

ways.

They

can't

be

distracted

by

a

lot

of

things,

so

we

isolate

them.

You.

Keep

you

separate.

And

it

works.

But

it's

so

easy,

when

you

never

meet

people,

when

you

never

know

the

Earth

itself,

when

you

live

with

metal

walls

keeping

out

the

cold

of

space,

it's

easy

to

forget

why

Earth

is

worth

saving.

Why

the

world

of

people

might

be

worth

the

price

you

pay."

So

that's

why

you

brought

me

here,

thought

Ender.

With

all

your

hurry,

that's

why

you

took

three

months,

to

make

me

love

Earth.

Well,

it

worked.

All

your

tricks

worked.

Valentine,

too;

she

was

another

one

of

your

tricks,

to

make

me

remember

that

I'm

not

going

to

school

for

myself.

Well,

I

remember.

"I

may

have

used

Valenrine,"

said

Graff,

"and

you

may

hate

me

for

it,

Ender,

but

keep

this

in

mind

--

it

only

works

because

what's

between

you,

that's

real,

that's

what

matters.

Billions

of

those

connections

between

human

beings.

That's

what

you're

fighting

to

keep

alive."

Ender

turned

his

face

to

the

window

and

watched

the

helicopters

and

dirigibles

rise

and

fall.

They

took

a

helicopter

to

the

IF

spaceport

at

Stumpy

Point.

lt

was

officially

named

for

a

dead

Hegemon,

but

everybody

called

it

Stumpy

Point,

after

the

pitiful

little

town

that

had

been

paved

over

when

they

made

the

approaches

to

the

vast

islands

of

steel

and

concrete

that

dotted

Pamlico

Sound.

There

were

still

waterbirds

taking

their

fastidious

little

steps

in

the

saltwater,

where

mossy

trees

dipped

down

as

if

to

drink.

It

began

to

rain

lightly,

and

the

concrete

was

black

and

slick;

it

was

hard

to

tell

where

it

left

off

and

the

Sound

began.

Graif

led

him

through

a

maze

of

clearances.

Authority

was

a

little

plastic

ball

that

Graff

carried.

He

dropped

it

into

chutes,

and

doors

opened

and

people

stood

up

and

saluted

and

the

chutes

spat

out

the

ball

and

Graff

went

on.

Ender

noticed

that

at

first

everyone

watched

Graff,

but

as

they

penetrated

deeper

into

the

spaceport,

people

began

watching

Ender.

At

first

it

was

the

man

of

real

authority

they

noticed,

but

later,

where

everyone

had

authority,

it

was

his

cargo

they

cared

to

see.

Only

when

Graff

strapped

himself

into

the

shuttle

seat

beside

him

hid

Ender

realize

Graff

was

going

to

launch

with

him.

"How

far?"

asked

Ender.

"How

far

are

you

going

with

me?"

Graff

smiled

thinly.

"All

the

way,

Ender."

"Are

they

making

you

administrator

of

Command

School?"

"No."

So

they

had

removed

Graff

from

his

post

at

Battle

School

solely

to

accompnany

Ender

to

his

next

assignment.

How

important

am

I,

he

wondered.

And

like

a

whisper

of

Peter'svoice

inside

his

mind,

he

heard

the

question,

How

can

I

use

this?

He

shuddered

and

tried

to

think

of

something

else.

Peter

could

have

fantasies

about

ruling

the

world,

but

Ender

didn't

have

them.

Still,

thinking

back

on

his

life

in

Battle

School,

it

occurred

to

him

that

although

he

bad

never

sought

power,

he

had

always

had

it.

But

he

decided

that

it

was

a

power

born

of

excellence,

not

manipulation.

He

had

no

reason

to

be

ashamed

of

it.

He

had

never,

except

perhaps

with

Bean,

used

his

power

to

hurt

someone.

And

with

Bean,

things

had

worked

well

after

all.

Bean

had

become

a

friend,

finally,

to

take

the

place

of

the

lost

Alai,

who

in

turn

took

the

place

of

Valentine.

Valentine,

who

was

helping

Peter

in

his

plotting.

Valentine,

who

still

loved

Ender

no

matter

what

happened.

And

following

that

train

of

thought

led

him

back

to

Earth,

back

to

the

quiet

hours

in

the

center

of

the

clear

water

ringed

by

a

bowl

of

tree-covered

hills.

That

is

Earth,

he

thought.

Not

a

globe

thousands

of

kilometers

around,

but

a

forest

with

a

shining

lake,

a

house

hidden

at

the

crest

of

the

hill,

high

in

the

trees,

a

grassy

slope

leading

upward

from

the

water,

fish

leaping

and

birds

strafing

to

take

the

bugs

that

lived

at

the

border

between

water

and

sky.

Earth

was

the

constant

noise

of

crickets

and

winds

and

birds.

And

the

voice

of

one

girl,

who

spoke

to

him

out

of

his

far-off

childhood.

The

same

voice

that

had

once

protected

him

from

terror.

The

same

voice

that

he

would

do

anything

to

keep

alive,

even

return

to

school,

even

leave

Earth

behind

again

for

another

four

or

forty

or

four

thousand

years.

Even

if

she

loved

Peter

more.

His

eyes

were

closed,

and

he

had

not

made

any

sound

but

breathing;

still,

Graff

reached

out

and

touched

his

hand

across

the

aisle.

Ender

stiffened

in

surprise,

and

Graff

soon

withdrew,

but

for

a

moment

Ender

was

struck

with

the

startling

thought

that

perhaps

Graff

felt

some

affection

for

him.

But

no,

it

was

just

another

calculated

gesture.

Graff

was

creating

a

commander

out

of

a

little

boy.

No

doubt

Unit

17

in

the

course

of

studies

included

an

affectionate

gesture

from

the

teacher.

The

shuttle

reached

the

IPL

satellite

in

only

a

few

hours.

Inter-Planetary

Launch

was

a

city

of

three

thousand

inhabitants,

breathing

oxygen

from

the

plants

that

also

fed

them,

drinking

water

that

had

already

passed

through

their

bodies

ten

thousand

times,

living

only

to

service

the

tugs

that

did

all

the

oxwork

in

the

solar

system

and

the

shuttles

that

took

their

cargos

and

passengers

back

to

the

Earth

or

the

Moon.

It

was

a

world

where,

briefly,

Ender

felt

at

home,

since

its

floors

sloped

upward

as

they

did

in

the

Battle

School.

Their

tug

was

fairly

new;

the

IF

was

constantly

casting

off

its

old

vehicles

and

purchasing

the

latest

models.

It

had

just

brought

a

vast

load

of

drawn

steel

processed

by

a

factory

ship

that

was

taking

apart

minor

planets

in

the

asteroid

belt.

The

steel

would

be

dropped

to

the

Moon,

and

now

the

tug

was

linked

to

fourteen

barges.

Graff

dropped

his

ball

into

the

reader

again,

however,

and

the

barges

were

uncoupled

from

the

tug.

It

would

be

making

a

fast

run

this

time,

to

a

destination

of

Graff's

specification,

not

to

be

stated

until

the

tug

had

cut

loose

from

IPL.

"It's

no

great

secret,"

said

the

tug's

captain.

"Whenever

the

destination

is

unknown,

it's

for

ISL."

By

analogy

with

IPL,

Ender

decided

the

letters

meant

Inter-Stellar

Launch.

"This

time

it

isn't,"

said

Graff.

"Where

then?"

"IF.

Command."

"I

don't

have

security

clearance

even

to

know

where

that

is,

sir."

"Your

ship

knows,"

said

Graff.

"Just

let

the

computer

have

a

look

at

this,

and

follow

the

course

it

plots."

He

handed

the

captain

the

plastic

ball.

"And

I'm

supposed

to

close

my

eyes

during

the

whole

voyage,

so

I

don't

figure

out

where

we

are?"

"Oh,

no,

of

course

not.

I.E.

Command

is

on

the

minor

planet

Eros,

which

should

be

about

three

months

away

from

here

at

the

highest

possible

speed.

Which

is

the

speed

you'll

use,

of

course."

"Eros?

But

I

thought

that

the

buggers

burned

that

to

a

radioactive

--

ah.

When

did

I

receive

security

clearance

to

know

this?"

"You

didn't.

So

when

we

arrive

at

Eros,

you

will

undoubtedly

be

assigned

to

permanent

duty

there."

The

captain

understood

immediately,

and

didn't

like

it.

"I'm

a

pilot,

you

son

of

a

bitch,

and

you

got

no

right

to

lock

me

up

on

a

rock!"

"I

will

overlook

your

derisive

language

to

a

superior

officer.

I

do

apologize,

but

my

orders

were

to

take

the

fastest

available

military

tug.

At

the

moment

I

arrived,

that

was

you.

It

isn't

as

though

anyone

were

out

to

get

you.

Cheer

up.

The

war

may

be

over

in

another

fifteen

years,

and

then

the

location

of

IF

Command

won't

have

to

be

a

secret

anymore.

By

the

way,

you

should

be

aware,

in

case

you're

one

of

those

who

relies

on

visuals

for

docking,

that

Eros

has

been

blacked

out.

Its

albedo

is

only

slightly

brighter

than

a

black

hole.

You

won't

see

it."

"Thanks,"

said

the

captain.

It

was

nearly

a

month

into

the

voyage

before

he

managed

to

speak

civilly

to

Colonel

Graff.

The

shipboard

computer

had

a

limited

library

--

it

was

geared

primarily

to

entertainment

rather

than

education.

So

during

the

voyage,

after

breakfast

and

morning

exercises,

Ender

and

Graff

would

usually

talk.

About

Command

School,

About

Earth.

About

astronomy

and

physics

and

whatever

Ender

wanted

to

know.

And

above

all,

he

wanted

to

know

about

the

buggers.

"We

don't

know

much,"

said

Graff.

"We've

never

had

a

live

one

in

custody.

Even

when

we

caught

one

unarmed

and

alive,

he

died

the

moment

it

became

obvious

he

was

captured.

Even

the

he

is

uncertain

--

the

most

likely

thing,

in

fact,

is

that

most

bugger

soldiers

are

females,

but

with

atrophied

or

vestigial

sexual

organs.

We

can't

tell.

It's

their

psychology

that

would

be

most

useful

to

you,

and

we

haven't

exactly

had

a

chance

to

interview

them."

"Tell

me

what

you

know,

and

maybe

I'll

learn

something

that

I

need."

So

Graff

told

him.

The

buggers

were

organisms

that

enuld

conceivably

have

evolved

on

Earth,

if

things

had

gone

a

different

way

a

billion

years

ago.

At

the

molecular

level,

there

were

no

surprises.

Even

the

genetic

material

was

the

same.

It

was

no

accident

that

they

looked

insectlike

to

human

beings.

Though

their

internal

organs

were

now

much

more

complex

and

specialized

than

any

insects,

and

they

had

evolved

an

internal

skeleton

and

shed

most

of

the

exoskeleton,

their

physical

structure

still

echoed

their

ancestors,

who

could

easily

have

been

very

much

like

Earth's

ants.

"But

don't

be

fooled

by

that,"

said

Graff.

"It's

just

as

meaningful

to

say

that

our

ancestors

could

easily

have

been

very

much

like

squirrels."

"If

that's

all

we

have

to

go

on,

that's

somethig,"

said

Ender.

"Squirrels

never

built

starships,"

said

Graff.

"There

are

usually

a

few

changes

on

the

way

from

gathering

nuts

and

seeds

to

harvesting

asteroids

and

putting

permanent

research

stations

on

the

moons

of

Saturn."

The

buggers

could

probably

see

about

the

same

spectrum

of

light

as

human

beings,

and

there

was

artificial

lighting

in

their

ships

and

ground

installations.

However,

their

antennae

seemed

airnost

vestigial.

There

was

no

evidence

from

their

bodies

that

smelling,

tasting,

or

hearing

were

particularly

important

to

them.

"Of

course,

we

can't

be

sure.

But

we

can't

see

any

way

that

they

could

have

used

sound

for

communication.

The

oddest

thing

of

all

was

that

they

also

don't

have

any

communication

devices

on

their

ships.

No

radios,

nothing

that

could

transimit

or

receive

any

kind

of

signal."

"They

communicate

ship

to

ship.

I've

seen

the

videos,

they

talk

to

each

other."

"True.

But

body

to

body,

mind

to

mind.

It's

the

most

important

thing

we

learned

from

them.

Their

communication,

however

they

do

it,

is

instantaneous.

Lightspeed

is

no

barrier.

When

Mazer

Rackham

defeated

their

invasion

fleet,

they

all

closed

up

shop.

At

once.

There

was

no

time

for

a

signal.

Everything

just

stopped."

Ender

remembered

the

videos

of

uninjured

buggers

lying

dead

at

their

posts.

"We

knew

then

that

it

was

possible

to

communicate

faster

than

light.

That

was

seventy

years

ago,

and

once

we

knew

it

could

be

done,

we

did

it.

Not

me,

mind

you,

I

wasn't

born

then."

"How

is

it

possible?"

"I

can't

explain

philotic

physics

to

you.

Half

of

it

nobody

understands

anyway.

What

matters

is

we

built

the

ansible.

The

official

name

is

Philotic

Parallax

Instantaneous

Communicator,

but

somebody

dredged

the

name

ansible

out

of

an

old

book

somewhere

and

it

caught

on.

Not

that

most

people

even

know

the

machine

exists."

"That

means

that

ships

could

talk

to

each

other

even

when

they're

across

the

solar

system,"

said

Ender.

"It

means,"

said

Graff,

"that

ships

could

talk

to

each

other

even

when

they're

across

the

galaxy.

And

the

buggers

can

do

it

without

machines."

"So

they

knew

about

their

defeat

the

moment

it

happened,"

said

Ender.

"I

always

figured

--

everybody

always

said

that

they

probably

only

found

out

they

lost

the

battle

twenty

five

years

ago."

"It

keeps

people

from

panicking,"

said

Graff.

"I'm

telling

you

things

that

you

can't

know,

by

the

way,

if

you're

ever

going

to

leave

IF

Command.

Before

the

war's

over."

Ender

was

angry.

"If

you

know

me

at

all,

you

know

I

can

keep

a

secret."

"It's

a

regulation.

People

under

twenty-five

are

assumed

to

be

a

security

risk.

It's

very

unjust

to

a

good

many

responsible

children,

but

it

helps

narrow

the

number

of

people

who

might

let

something

slip."

"What's

all

the

secrecy

for,

anyway?"

"Because

we've

taken

some

terrible

risks,

Ender,

and

we

don't

want

to

have

every

net

on

earth

second-guessing

those

decisions.

You

see,

as

soon

as

we

had

a

working

ansible,

we

tucked

it

into

our

best

starships

and

launched

them

to

attack

the

buggers

home

systems."

"Do

we

know

where

they

are?"

"Yes."

"So

we're

not

waiting

for

the

Third

Invasion."

"We

*are*

the

Third

Invasion."

"We're

attacking

them.

Nobody

says

that.

Everybody

thinks

we

have

a

huge

fleet

of

warships

waiting

in

the

comet

shield--"

"Not

one.

We're

quite

defenseless

here."

"What

if

they've

sent

a

fleet

to

attack

us?"

"Then

we're

dead.

But

our

ships

haven't

seen

such

a

fleet,

not

a

sign

of

one."

"Maybe

they

gave

up

and

they're

planning

to

leave

us

alone."

"Maybe.

You've

seen

the

videos.

Would

you

bet

the

human

race

on

the

chance

of

them

giving

up

and

leaving

us

alone?"

Ender

tried

to

grasp

the

amounts

of

time

that

had

gone

by.

"And

the

ships

have

been

traveling

for

seventy

years--"

"Some

of

them.

And

some

for

thirty

years,

and

some

for

twenty.

We

make

better

ships

now.

We're

learning

how

to

play

with

space

a

lttle

better.

But

every

starship

that

is

not

still

under

construction

is

on

its

way

to

a

bugger

world

or

outpost.

Every

starship,

with

cruisers

and

fighters

tucked

into

its

belly,

is

out

there

approaching

the

buggers.

Decelerating.

Because

they're

almost

there.

The

first

ships

we

sent

to

the

most

distant

objectives,

the

more

recent

ships

to

the

closer

ones.

Our

timing

was

pretty

good.

They'll

all

be

arriving

in

combat

range

within

a

few

months

of

each

other.

Unfortunately,

our

most

primitive,

outdated

equipment

will

be

attacking

their

homeworld.

Still,

they're

armed

well

enough

--

we

have

some

weapons

the

buggers

never

saw

before."

"When

will

they

arrive?"

"Within

the

next

five

years.

Ender.

Everything

is

ready

at

IF

Command.

The

master

ansible

is

there,

in

contact

with

all

our

invasion

fleet;

the

ships

are

all

working,

ready

to

fight.

All

we

lack,

Ender,

is

the

battle

commander.

Someone

who

knows

what

the

hell

to

do

with

those

ships

when

they

get

there."

"And

what

if

no

one

knows

what

to

do

with

them?"

"We'll

just

do

our

best,

with

the

best

commander

we

can

get."

Me,

thought

Ender,

they

want

me

to

be

ready

in

five

years.

"Colonel

Graff,

there

isn't

a

chance

I'll

be

ready

to

command

a

fleet

in

time."

Graff

shrugged.

"So.

Do

your

best.

If

you

aren't

ready,

we'll

make

do

with

what

we've

got."

That

eased

Ender's

mind,

But

only

for

a

moment,

"Of

course,

Ender,

what

we've

got

right

now

is

nobody."

Ender

knew

that

this

was

another

of

Graff's

games.

Make

me

believe

that

it

all

depends

on

me,

so

I

can't

slack

off,

so

I

push

myself

as

hard

as

possible.

Game

or

not,

though,

it

might

also

be

true.

And

so

he

would

work

as

hard

as

possible.

It

was

what

Val

had

wanted

of

him.

Five

years.

Only

five

years

until

the

fleet

arrives,

and

I

don't

know

anything

yet,

"I'll

only

be

fifteen

in

five

years,"

Ender

said.

"Going

on

sixteen,"

said

Graff.

"It

all

depends

on

what

you

know."

"Colonel

Graff,"

he

said.

"I

just

want

to

go

back

and

swim

in

the

lake."

"After

we

win

the

war,"

said

Graff,

"Or

lose

it.

We'll

have

a

few

decades

before

they

get

back

here

to

finish

us

off.

The

house

will

be

there,

and

I

promise

you

can

swim

to

your

heart's

content."

"But

I'll

still

be

too

young

for

security

clearance."

"We'll

keep

you

under

armed

guard

at

all

times.

The

military

knows

how

to

handle

these

things."

They

both

laughed,

and

Ender

had

to

remind

himself

that

Graff

was

only

acting

like

a

friend,

that

everything

he

did

was

a

lie

or

a

cheat

calculated

to

turn

Ender

into

an

efficient

fighting

machine.

I'll

become

exactly

the

tool

you

want

me

to

be,

said

Ender

silently,

but

at

least

I

won't

be

*fooled*

into

it.

I'll

do

it

because

I

choose

to,

not

because

you

tricked

me,

you

sly

bastard.

The

tug

reached

Eros

before

they

could

see

it.

The

captain

showed

them

the

visual

scan,

then

superimposed

the

heat

scan

on

the

same

screen.

They

were

practically

on

top

of

it

--

only

four

thousand

kilometers

out

--

but

Eros,

only

twenty-four

kilometers

long,

was

invisible

if

it

didn't

shine

with

reflected

sunlight.

The

captain

docked

the

ship

on

one

of

the

three

landing

platforms

that

circled

Eros.

It

could

not

land

directly

because

Eros

had

enhanced

gravity,

and

the

tug,

designed

for

towing

eargos,

could

never

escape

the

gravity

well.

He

bade

them

an

irritable

goodbye,

but

Ender

and

Graff

remained

cheerful.

The

captains

was

bitter

at

having

to

leave

his

tug;

Ender

and

Graff

felt

like

prisoners

finally

paroled

from

jail.

When

they

boarded

the

shuttle

that

would

take

them

to

the

surface

of

Eros

they

repeated

perverse

misquotations

of

lines

from

the

videos

that

the

captain

had

endlessly

watched,

and

laughed

like

madmen.

The

captain

grew

surly

and

withdrew

by

pretending

to

go

to

sleep.

Then,

almost

as

an

afterthought,

Ender

asked

Graff

one

last

question.

"Why

are

we

fighting

the

buggers?"

"I've

heard

all

kinds

of

reasons,"

said

Graff.

"Because

they

have

an

overcrowded

system

and

they've

got

to

colonize.

Because

they

can't

stand

the

thought

of

other

intelligent

life

in

the

universe.

Because

they

don't

think

we

are

intelligent

life.

Because

they

have

some

weird

religion.

Because

they

watched

our

old

video

broadcasts

and

decided

we

were

hopelessly

violent.

All

kinds

of

reasons."

"What

do

you

believe?"

"It

doesn't

matter

what

I

believe."

"I

want

to

know

anyway."

"They

must

talk

to

each

other

directly,

Ender,

mind

to

mind.

What

one

thinks,

another

can

also

think;

what

one

remembers,

another

can

also

remember.

Why

would

they

ever

develop

language?

Why

would

they

ever

learn

to

read

and

write?

How

would

they

know

what

reading

and

writing

were

if

they

saw

them?

Or

signals?

Or

numbers?

Or

anything

that

we

use

to

communicate?

This

isn't

just

a

matter

of

translating

from

one

language

to

another.

They

don't

have

a

language

at

all.

We

used

every

means

we

could

think

of

to

communicate

with

them,

but

they

don't

even

have

the

machinery

to

know

we're

signaling.

And

maybe

they've

been

trying

to

think

to

us,

and

they

can't

understand

why

we

don't

respond."

"So

the

whole

war

is

because

we

can't

talk

to

each

other."

"If

the

other

fellow

can't

tell

you

his

story,

you

can

never

be

sure

he

isn't

trying

to

kill

you."

"What

if

we

just

left

them

alone?"

"Ender,

we

didn't

go

to

them

first,

they

came

to

us.

If

they

were

going

to

leave

us

alone,

they

could

have

done

it

a

hundred

years

ago,

before

the

First

Invasion."

"Maybe

they

didn't

know

we

were

intelligent

life.

Maybe--"

"Ender,

believe

me,

there's

a

century

of

discussion

on

this

very

subject.

Nobody

knows

the

answer.

When

it

comes

down

to

it,

though,

the

real

decision

is

inevitable:

if

one

of

us

has

to

be

destroyed,

let's

make

damn

sure

we're

the

ones

alive

at

the

end.

Our

genes

won't

let

us

decide

any

other

way.

Nature

can't

evolve

a

species

that

hasn't

a

will

to

survive.

Individuals

might

be

bred

to

sacrifice

themselves,

but

the

race

as

a

whole

can

never

decide

to

cease

to

exist.

So

if

we

can,

we'll

kill

every

last

one

of

the

buggers,

and

if

they

can

they'll

kill

every

last

one

of

us."

"As

for

me,"

said

Ender,

"I'm

in

favor

of

surviving."

"I

know,"

sail

Graff.

"That's

why

you're

here."

Chapter

14

--

Ender's

Teacher

"Took

your

time,

didn't

you,

Graff?

The

voyage

isn't

short,

but

the

three

month

vacation

seems

excessive."

"I

prefer

not

to

deliver

damaged

merchandise."

"Some

men

simply

have

no

sense

of

hurry.

Oh

well,

it's

only

the

fate

of

the

world.

Never

mind

me,

You

must

understand

our

anxiety.

We're

here

with

the

ansible,

receiving

constant

reports

of

the

progress

of

our

starships.

We

have

to

face

the

coming

war

every

day.

If

you

can

call

them

days.

He's

such

a

very

*little*

boy."

"There's

greatness

in

him.

A

magnitude

of

spirit."

"A

killer

instinct,

too,

I

hope."

"Yes."

"We've

planned

out

an

impromptu

course

of

study

for

him.

All

subject

to

your

approval,

of

course."

"I'll

look

at

it.

I

don't

pretend

to

know

the

subject

matter,

Admiral

Chamrajnagar.

I'm

only

here

because

I

know

Ender.

So

don't

be

afraid

that

I'll

try

to

second

guess

the

order

of

your

presentation.

Only

the

pace."

"How

much

can

we

tell

him?"

"Don't

waste

his

time

on

the

physics

of

interstellar

travel."

"What

about

the

ansible?"

"I

already

told

him

about

that,

and

the

fleets.

I

said

they

would

arrive

at

their

destination

within

five

years."

"It

seems

there's

very

little

left

for

us

to

tell

him."

"You

can

tell

him

about

the

weapons

systems.

He

has

to

know

enough

to

make

intelligent

decisions."

"Ah.

We

can

be

useful

after

all,

how

very

kind,

We've

devoted

one

of

the

five

simulators

to

his

exclusive

use."

"What

about

the

others?"

"The

other

simulators?"

"The

other

children."

"You

were

brought

here

to

take

care

of

Ender

Wiggin."

"Just

curious.

Remember,

they

were

all

my

students

at

one

time

or

another."

"And

now

they

are

all

mine.

They

are

entering

into

the

mysteries

of

the

fleet,

Colonel

Graff,

to

which

you,

as

a

soldier,

have

never

been

introduced."

"You

make

it

sound

like

a

priesthood."

"And

a

god.

And

a

religion.

Even

those

of

us

who

command

by

ansible

know

the

majesty

of

flight

among

the

stars.

I

can

see

you

find

my

mysticism

distasteful.

I

assure

you

that

your

distaste

only

reveals

your

ignorance.

Soon

enough

Ender

Wiggin

will

also

know

what

I

know;

he

will

dance

the

graceful

ghost

dance

through

the

stars,

and

whatever

greatness

there

is

within

him

will

be

unlocked,

revealed,

set

forth

before

the

universe

far

all

to

see.

You

have

the

soul

of

a

stone,

Colonel

Graff,

but

I

sing

to

a

stone

as

easily

as

to

another

singer.

You

may

go

to

your

quarters

and

establish

yourself."

"I

have

nothing

to

establish

except

the

clothing

I'm

wearing."

"You

own

nothing?"

"They

keep

my

salary

in

an

account

somewhere

on

Earth.

I've

never

needed

it.

Except

to

buy

civilian

clothes

on

my

vacation."

"A

non-materialist.

And

yet

you

are

unpleasantly

fat.

A

gluttonous

ascetic?

Such

a

contradiction."

"When

I'm

tense,

I

eat.

Whereas

when

you're

tense,

you

spout

solid

waste."

"I

like

you,

Colonel

Graff.

I

think

we

shall

get

along."

"I

don't

much

care,

Admiral

Chamrajnagar.

I

came

here

for

Ender.

And

neither

of

us

came

here

for

you."

***

Ender

hated

Eros

from

the

moment

he

shuttled

down

from

the

tug.

He

had

been

uncomfortable

enough

on

Earth,

where

floors

were

flat;

Eros

was

hopeless.

It

was

a

roughly

spindle-shaped

rock

only

six

and

a

half

kilometers

thick

at

its

narrowest

point.

Since

the

surface

of

the

planet

was

entirely

devoted

to

absorbing

sunlight

and

converting

it

to

energy,

everyone

lived

in

the

smooth-walled

rooms

linked

by

tunnels

that

laced

the

interior

of

the

asteroid.

The

closed-in

space

was

no

problem

for

Ender

--

what

bothered

him

was

that

all

the

tunnel

floors

noticeably

sloped

downward.

From

the

start,

Ender

was

plagued

by

vertigo

as

he

walked

through

the

tunnels,

especially

the

ones

that

girldled

Eros's

narrow

circumference.

It

did

not

help

that

gravity

was

only

half

of

Earth-normal

--

the

illusion

of

being

on

the

verge

of

falling

was

almost

complete.

There

was

also

something

disturbing

about

the

proportions

of

the

rooms

--

the

ceilings

were

too

low

for

the

width,

the

tunnels

too

narrow.

It

was

not

a

comfortable

place.

Worst

of

all,

though,

was

the

number

of

people.

Ender

had

no

important

memories

of

cities

of

Earth.

His

idea

of

a

comfortable

number

of

people

was

the

Battle

School,

where

he

had

known

by

sight

every

person

who

dwelt

there.

Here,

though,

ten

thousand

people

lived

within

the

rock.

There

was

no

crowding,

despite

the

amount

of

space

devoted

to

iife

support

and

other

machinery.

What

bothered

Ender

was

that

he

was

constantly

surrounded

hy

strangers.

They

never

let

him

come

to

know

anyone.

He

saw

the

other

Command

School

students

often,

but

since

be

never

attended

any

class

regularly,

they

remained

only

faces.

He

would

attend

a

lecture

here

or

there,

but

usually

he

was

tutored

y

one

teacher

after

another,

or

occassionally

helped

to

learn

a

process

by

another

student,

whom

he

met

once

and

never

saw

again.

He

ate

alone

or

with

Colonel

Graff.

His

recreation

was

in

a

gym,

but

he

rarely

saw

the

same

people

in

it

twice.

He

recognized

that

they

were

isolating

him

again,

this

time

not

by

setting

the

other

students

to

hating

him,

but

rather

by

giving

them

no

opportunity

to

become

friends.

He

could

hardly

have

been

close

to

most

of

them

anyway

--

except

for

Ender,

the

other

students

were

all

well

into

adolescence.

So

Ender

withdrew

into

his

studies

and

learned

quickly

and

well.

Astrogation

and

military

history

he

absorbed

like

water;

abstract

mathematics

was

more

difficult,

but

whenever

he

was

given

a

problem

that

involved

patterns

in

space

and

time,

he

found

that

his

intuition

was

more

reliable

than

his

calculation

--

he

often

saw

at

once

a

solution

that

he

could

only

prove

after

minutes

or

hours

of

manipulating

numbers.

And

for

pleasure,

there

was

the

simulator,

the

most

perfect

videogame

he

had

ever

played.

Teachers

and

students

trained

him,

step

by

step,

in

its

use.

At

first,

not

knowing

the

awesome

power

of

the

game,

he

had

played

only

at

the

tactical

level,

controlling

a

single

fighter

in

continuous

maneuvers

to

find

and

destroy

an

enemy.

The

computercontrolled

enemy

was

devious

and

powerful,

and

whenever

Ender

tried

a

tactic

he

found

the

computer

using

it

against

him

within

minutes.

The

game

was

a

holographic

display,

and

his

fighter

was

represented

only

by

a

tiny

light.

The

enemy

was

another

light

of

a

different

color,

and

they

danced

and

spun

and

maneuvered

through

a

cube

of

space

that

must

have

been

ten

meters

to

a

side.

The

controls

were

powerful.

He

could

rotate

the

display

in

any

direction,

so

he

could

watch

from

any

angle,

and

he

could

move

the

center

so

that

the

duel

took

place

nearer

or

farther

from

him.

Gradually,

as

he

became

more

adept

at

controlling

the

fighter's

speed,

direction

of

movement,

orientation,

and

weapons,

the

game

was

made

more

complex.

He

might

have

two

enemy

ships

at

once;

there

might

be

obstacles,

the

debris

of

space;

he

began

to

have

to

worry

about

fuel

and

limited

weapons;

the

computer

began

to

assign

him

particular

things

to

destroy

or

accomplish,

so

that

he

had

to

avoid

distractions

and

achieve

an

objective

in

order

to

win.

When

he

had

mastered

the

one-fighter

game,

they

allowed

him

to

step

back

into

the

four-fighter

squadron.

He

spoke

commands

to

simulated

pilots

of

four

fighters,

and

instead

of

merely

carrying

out

the

computer's

instructions,

he

was

allowed

to

determine

tactics

himself,

deciding

which

of

several

objectives

was

the

most

valuable

and

directing

his

squadron

accordingly.

At

any

time

he

could

take

personal

command

of

one

of

the

fighters

for

a

short

time,

and

at

first

he

did

this

often;

when

he

did,

however,

the

other

three

fighters

in

his

squadron

were

soon

destroyed,

and

as

the

games

became

harder

and

harder

he

had

to

spend

more

and

more

of

his

time

commanding

the

squadron.

When

he

did,

he

won

more

and

more

often.

By

the

time

he

had

been

at

Command

School

for

year,

he

was

adept

at

running

the

simulator

at

any

of

fifteen

levels,

from

controlling

an

individual

fighter

to

commanding

a

fleet.

He

had

long

since

realized

that

as

the

battleroom

was

to

Battle

School,

so

the

simulator

was

to

Command

School.

The

classes

were

valuable,

but

the

real

education

was

the

game.

People

dropped

in

from

time

to

time

to

watch

him

play.

They

never

spoke

--

hardly

anyone

ever

did,

unless

they

had

something

specific

to

teach

him.

The

watchers

would

stay,

silently,

watching

him

run

through

a

difficult

simulation,

and

then

leave

just

as

he

finished.

What

are

you

doing,

he

wanted

to

ask.

Judging

me?

Determining

whether

you

want

to

trust

the

fleet

to

me?

Just

remember

that

I

didn't

ask

for

it.

He

found

that

a

great

deal

of

what

he

learned

at

Battle

School

transferred

to

the

simulator.

He

would

routinely

reorient

the

simulator

every

few

minutes,

rotating

it

so

that

he

didn't

get

trapped

into

an

up-down

orientation,

constantly

reviewing

his

positoon

from

the

enemy

point

of

view.

It

was

exhilarating

at

last

to

have

such

control

over

the

battle,

to

be

able

to

see

every

point

of

it.

It

was

also

frustrating

to

have

so

little

control,

too,

for

the

computer-controlled

fighters

were

only

as

good

as

the

computer

allowed.

They

took

no

initiative.

They

had

no

intelligence.

He

began

to

wish

for

his

toon

leaders,

so

that

he

could

count

on

some

of

the

squadrons

doing

well

without

having

his

constant

supervision.

At

the

end

of

his

first

year

he

was

winning

every

battle

on

the

simulator,

and

played

the

game

as

if

the

machine

were

a

natural

part

of

his

body.

One

day,

eating

a

meal

with

Graff,

he

asked,

"Is

that

all

the

simulator

does?"

"Is

what

all?"

"The

way

it

plays

now,

It's

easy,

and

it

hasn't

got

any

harder

for

a

while."

"Oh."

Graff

seemed

unconcerned.

But

then,

Graff

always

seemed

unconcerned.

The

next

day

everything

changed.

Graff

went

away,

and

in

his

place

they

gave

Ender

a

companion.

***

He

was

in

the

room

when

Ender

awoke

in

the

morning.

He

was

an

old

man,

sitting

cross-legged

on

the

floor.

Ender

looked

at

him

expectantly,

waiting

for

the

man

to

speak.

He

said

nothing.

Ender

got

up

and

showered

and

dressed,

content

to

let

the

man

keep

his

silence

if

he

wanted.

He

had

long

since

learned

that

when

something

unusual

was

going

on,

something

that

was

part

of

someone

else's

plan

and

not

his

own,

he

would

find

out

more

information

by

waiting

than

by

asking.

Adults

almost

always

lost

their

patience

before

Ender

did.

The

man

still

hadn't

spoken

when

Ender

was

ready

and

went

to

the

door

to

leave

the

room.

The

door

didn't

open.

Ender

turned

to

face

the

man

sitting

on

the

floor.

He

looked

to

be

about

sixty,

by

far

the

oldest

man

Ender

had

seen

on

Eros.

He

had

a

day's

growth

of

white

whiskers

that

grizzled

his

face

only

slightly

less

than

his

close-cut

hair.

His

face

sagged

a

little

and

his

eyes

were

surrounded

by

creases

and

lines.

He

looked

at

Ender

with

an

expression

that

bespoke

only

apathy.

Ender

turned

back

to

the

door

and

tried

again

to

open

it.

"All

right,"

he

said,

giving

up.

"Why's

the

door

locked?"

The

old

man

continued

to

look

at

him

blankly.

So

this

is

a

game,

thought

Ender.

Well,

if

they

want

me

to

go

to

class,

they'll

unlock

the

door.

If

they

don't,

they

won't.

I

don't

care.

Ender

didn't

like

games

where

the

rules

could

be

anything

and

the

objective

was

known

to

them

alone.

So

he

wouldn't

play.

He

also

refused

to

get

angry.

He

went

through

a

relaxing

exercise

as

he

leaned

on

the

door,

and

soon

he

was

calm

again.

The

old

man

continued

to

watch

him

impassively.

It

seemed

to

go

on

for

hours,

Ender

refusing

to

speak,

the

old

man

seeming

to

be

a

mindless

mute.

Sometimes

Ender

wondered

if

he

were

mentally

ill,

escaped

from

some

medical

ward

somewhere

in

Eros,

living

out

some

insane

fantasy

here

in

Ender's

room.

But

the

longer

it

went

on,

with

no

one

coming

to

the

door,

no

one

looking

for

him,

the

more

certain

he

became

that

this

was

something

deliberate,

meant

to

disconcert

him.

Ender

did

not

want

to

give

the

old

man

the

victory.

To

pass

the

time

he

began

to

do

exercises.

Some

were

impossible

without

the

gym

equipment,

but

others,

especially

from

his

personal

defense

class,

he

could

do

without

any

aids.

The

exercises

moved

him

around

the

room.

He

was

practicing

lunges

and

kicks.

One

move

took

him

near

the

old

man,

as

he

had

come

near

him

before,

but

this

time

the

old

claw

shot

out

and

seized

Ender's

left

leg

in

the

middle

of

a

kick.

It

pulled

Ender

off

his

feet

and

landed

him

heavily

on

the

floor.

Ender

leapt

to

his

feet

immediately,

furious.

He

found

the

old

man

sitting

calmly,

crosslegged,

not

breathing

heavily,

as

if

he

had

never

moved.

Ender

stood

poised

to

fight,

but

the

other's

immobility

made

it

impossible

for

Ender

to

attack.

What,

kick

the

old

man's

head

off?

And

then

explain

it

to

Graff

--

oh,

the

old

man

kicked

me,

and

I

had

to

get

even.

He

went

back

to

his

exercises;

the

old

man

kept

watching.

Finally,

tired

and

angry

at

this

wasted

day,

a

prisoner

in

his

room,

Ender

went

back

to

his

bed

to

get

his

desk.

As

he

leaned

over

to

pick

up

the

desk,

he

felt

a

hand

jab

roughly

between

his

thighs

and

another

hand

grab

his

hair.

In

a

moment

he

had

been

turned

upside

down.

His

face

and

shoulders

were

being

pressed

into

the

floor

by

the

old

man's

knee,

while

his

back

was

excruciatingly

bent

and

his

legs

were

pinioned

by

the

old

man's

arm.

Ender

was

helpless

to

use

his

arms,

he

couldn't

bend

his

back

to

gain

slack

so

he

could

use

his

legs.

In

less

than

two

seconds

the

old

man

had

completely

defeated

Ender

Wiggin.

"All

right,"

Ender

gasped.

"You

win."

The

man's

knee

thrust

painfully

downward.

"Since

when,"

asked

the

man,

his

voice

soft

and

rasping,

"do

you

have

to

tell

the

enemy

when

be

has

won?"

Ender

remained

silent.

"I

surprised

you

once,

Ender

Wiggin.

Why

didn't

you

destroy

tne

immediately

afterward?

Just

because

I

looked

peaceful?

You

turned

your

back

on

me.

Stupid.

You

have

learned

nothing.

You

have

never

had

a

teacher."

Ender

was

angry

now,

and

made

no

attempt

to

control

or

conceal

it.

"I've

had

too

many

teachers,

how

was

I

supposed

to

know

you'd

turn

out

to

be

a--"

"Au

enemy,

Ender

Wiggin,"

whispered

the

old

man.

"I

am

your

enemy,

the

first

one

you've

ever

had

who

was

smarter

than

you.

There

is

no

teacher

but

the

enemy.

No

one

but

the

enemy

will

ever

tell

you

what

the

enemy

is

going

tu

do.

No

one

but

the

enemy

will

ever

teach

you

how

to

destroy

and

conquer.

Only

the

enemy

shows

you

where

you

are

weak.

Only

the

enemy

tells

you

where

he

is

strong.

And

the

only

rules

of

the

game

are

what

you

can

do

to

him

and

what

you

can

stop

him

from

doing

to

you.

I

am

your

enemy

from

now

on.

From

now

on

I

am

your

teacher."

Then

the

old

man

let

Ender's

legs

fall.

Because

he

still

held

Ender's

head

to

the

floor,

the

boy

couldn't

use

his

arms

to

compensate,

and

his

legs

hit

the

surface

with

a

loud

crack

and

a

sickening

pain.

Then

the

old

man

stood

and

let

Ender

rise.

Slowly

Ender

pulled

his

legs

under

him,

with

a

faint

groan

of

pain.

He

knelt

on

all

fours

for

a

moment,

recovering.

Then

his

right

arm

flashed

out,

reaching

for

his

enemy.

The

old

man

quickly

danced

back,

and

Ender's

hand

closed

on

air

as

his

teacher's

foot

shot

forward

to

catch

Ender

on

the

chin.

Ender's

chin

wasn't

there.

He

was

lying

flat

on

his

back,

spinning

on

the

floor,

and

during

the

moment

that

his

teacher

was

off

balance

from

his

kick,

Ender's

feet

smashed

into

the

old

man's

other

leg.

He

fell

in

a

heap

--

but

close

enough

to

strike

out

and

hit

Ender

in

the

face.

Ender

couldn't

find

an

arm

or

a

leg

that

held

still

long

enough

to

be

grabbed,

and

in

the

meantime

blows

were

landing

on

his

back

and

arms.

Ender

was

smaller

--

he

couldn't

reach

past

the

old

man's

flailing

limbs.

Finally

he

managed

to

pull

away

and

scramble

back

near

the

door.

The

old

man

was

sitting

cross-leged

again,

but

now

the

apathy

was

gone.

He

was

smiling.

"Better,

this

time,

boy.

But

slow.

You

will

have

to

be

better

with

a

fleet

than

you

are

with

your

body

or

no

one

will

be

safe

with

you

in

command.

Lesson

learned?"

Ender

nodded

slowly.

He

ached

in

a

hundred

places.

"Good,"

said

the

old

man.

"Then

we'll

never

have

to

have

such

a

battle

again.

All

the

rest

with

the

simulator.

I

will

program

your

battles

now,

not

the

computer;

I

will

devise

the

strategy

of

your

enemy,

and

you

will

learn

to

be

quick

and

discover

what

tricks

the

enemy

has

for

you.

Remember,

boy.

From

now

on

the

enemy

is

more

clever

than

you.

From

now

on

the

enemy

is

stronger

than

you.

From

now

on

you

are

always

about

to

lose."

The

old

man's

face

grew

serious

again.

"You

will

be

about

to

lose,

Ender,

but

you

will

win.

You

will

learn

to

defeat

the

enemy.

He

will

teach

you

how."

The

teacher

got

up.

"In

this

school,

it

has

always

been

the

practice

for

a

young

student

to

be

chosen

by

an

older

student.

The

two

become

companions,

and

the

older

boy

teaches

the

younger

one

everything

he

knows.

Always

they

fight,

always

they

compete,

always

they

are

together.

I

have

chosen

you."

Ender

spoke

as

the

old

man

walked

to

the

door.

"You're

too

old

to

be

a

student."

"One

is

never

too

old

to

be

a

student

of

the

enemy.

I

have

learned

from

the

buggers.

You

will

learn

from

me."

As

the

old

man

palmed

the

door

open,

Ender

leaped

into

the

air

and

kicked

him

in

the

small

of

the

back

with

both

feet.

He

hit

hard

enough

that

he

rebounded

onto

his

feet,

as

the

old

man

cried

out

and

collapsed

on

the

floor.

The

old

man

got

up

slowly,

holding

onto

the

door

handle,

his

face

contorted

with

pain.

He

seemed

disabled,

but

Ender

didn't

trust

him.

Yet

in

spite

of

his

suspicion,

he

was

caught

off

guard

by

the

old

man's

speed.

In

a

moment

he

found

himself

on

the

floor

near

the

opposite

wall,

his

nose

and

lip

bleeding

where

his

face

had

hit

the

bed.

He

was

able

to

turn

enough

to

see

the

old

man

standing

in

the

doorway,

wincing

and

holding

his

back.

The

old

man

grinned.

Ender

grinned

back.

"Teacher,"

he

said.

"Do

you

have

a

name?"

"Mazer

Rackham,"

said

the

old

man.

Then

he

was

gone.

***

From

then

on,

Ender

was

either

with

Mazer

Rackham

or

alone.

The

old

man

rarely

spoke,

but

he

was

there;

at

meals,

at

tutorials,

at

the

simulator,

in

his

room

at

night.

Sometimes

Mazer

would

leave,

but

always,

when

Mazer

wasn't

there,

the

door

was

locked,

and

no

one

came

until

Mazer

returned.

Ender

went

through

a

week

in

which

he

called

him

Jailor

Rackham,

Mazer

answered

to

the

name

as

readily

as

to

his

own,

and

showed

no

sign

that

it

bothered

him

at

all.

Ender

soon

gave

it

up.

There

were

compensations

--

Mazer

took

Ender

through

the

videos

of

the

old

batties

from

the

First

Invasion

and

the

disastrous

defeats

of

the

IF

in

the

Second

Invasion.

These

were

not

pieced

together

from

the

censored

public

videos,

but

whole

and

continuous.

Since

many

videos

were

working

in

the

major

battles,

they

studied

bugger

tactics

and

strategies

from

many

angles.

For

the

first

time

in

his

life,

a

teacher

was

pointing

out

things

that

Ender

had

not

already

seen

for

himself.

For

the

first

time,

Ender

had

found

a

living

mind

he

could

admire.

"Why

aren't

you

dead?"

Ender

asked

him.

"You

fought

your

battle

seventy

years

ago.

I

don't

think

you're

even

sixty

years

old."

"The

miracles

of

relativity,"

said

Mazer.

"They

kept

me

here

for

twenty

years

after

the

battle,

even

though

I

begged

them

to

let

me

command

one

of

the

starships

they

launched

against

the

bugger

home

planet

and

the

bugger

colonies.

Then

they

--

came

to

understand

some

things

about

the

way

soldiers

behave

in

the

stress

of

battle."

"What

things?"

"You've

never

been

taught

enough

psyholgy

to

understand.

Enough

to

say

that

they

realized

that

even

though

I

would

never

be

able

to

command

the

fleet

--

I'd

be

dead

before

the

fleet

even

arrived

--

I

was

still

the

only

person

able

to

understand

the

things

I

understood

about

the

buggers.

I

was,

they

realized,

the

only

person

who

had

ever

defeated

the

bugeers

by

intelligence

rather

than

luck.

They

needed

me

here

to

teach

the

person

who

*could*

command

the

fleet."

"So

they

sent

you

out

in

a

starship,

got

you

up

to

a

relativistic

speed--"

"And

then

I

turned

around

and

came

home.

A

very

dull

voyage,

Ender.

Fifty

years

in

space.

Officially,

only

eight

years

passed

for

me,

but

it

felt

like

five

hundred.

All

so

I

could

teach

the

next

commander

everything

I

knew."

"Am

I

to

be

the

commander,

then?"

"Let's

say

that

you're

our

best

bet

at

present."

"There

are

others

being

prepared,

too?"

"No."

"That

makes

me

the

only

choice,

then,

doesn't

it'?"

Mazer

shrugged.

"Except

you.

You're

still

alive,

aren't

you?

Why

not

you?"

Mazer

shook

his

head.

"Why

not?

You

won

before."

"I

cannot

be

the

commander

for

good

and

sufficient

reasons."

"Show

me

how

you

beat

the

buggers,

Mazer."

Mayer's

face

went

inscruta

ble.

"You've

shown

me

every

other

battle

seven

times

at

least.

I

think

I've

seen

ways

to

beat

what

the

buggers

did

before,

but

you've

never

shown

me

how

you

actually

did

beat

them."

"The

video

is

a

very

tightly

kept

secret,

Ender."

"I

know.

I've

pieced

it

together,

partly.

You,

with

your

tiny

reserve

force,

and

their

armada,

those

great

big

heavy-bellied

starships

launching

their

swarms

of

fighters.

You

dart

in

at

one

ship,

fire

at

it,

an

explosion.

That's

where

they

always

stop

the

clips.

After

that,

it's

just

soldiers

going

into

bugger

ships

and

already

finding

them

dead

inside."

Mazer

grinned.

"So

much

for

tightly

kept

secrets.

Come

on,

let's

watch

the

video."

They

were

alone

in

the

video

room,

and

Ender

palmed

the

door

locked.

"All

right,

let's

watch."

The

video

showed

exactly

what

Ender

had

pieced

together.

Mazer's

suicidal

plunge

into

the

heart

of

the

enemy

formation,

the

single

explosion,

and

then--

Nothing.

Mazer's

ship

went

on,

dodged

the

shock

wave,

and

wove

his

way

among

tOe

other

bugger

ships.

They

did

not

fire

on

him.

They

did

not

change

course.

Two

of

them

crashed

into

each

other

and

exploded

a

needless

collision

that

either

pilot

could

have

avoided.

Neither

made

the

slightest

movement.

Mazer

sped

up

the

action.

Skipped

ahead.

"We

waited

for

three

hours,"

he

said.

"Nobody

could

believe

it."

Then

the

IF

ships

began

approaching

the

bugger

starships.

Marines

began

their

cutting

and

boarding

operations.

The

videos

showed

the

buggers

already

dead

at

their

posts.

"So

you

see,"

said

Mazer,

"you

already

knew

all

there

was

to

see."

"Why

did

it

happen?"

"Nobody

knows.

I

have

my

personal

opinions.

But

there

are

plenty

of

scientists

who

tell

me

I'm

less

than

qualified

to

have

opinions."

"You're

the

one

who

won

the

battle."

"I

thought

that

qualified

me

to

comment,

too,

but

you

know

how

it

is.

Xenobiologists

and

xenopsychologists

can't

accept

the

idea

that

a

starpilot

scooped

them

by

sheer

guesswork.

I

think

they

all

hate

me

because,

after

they

saw

these

videos,

they

had

to

live

out

the

rest

of

their

natural

lives

here

on

Eros.

Security,

you

know.

They

weren't

happy."

"Tell

me."

"The

buggers

don't

talk.

They

think

to

each

other,

and

it's

instantaneous

like

the

philotic

effect.

Like

the

ansible.

But

most

people

always

thought

that

meant

a

controlled

comunication

like

language

--

I

think

you

a

thought

and

then

you

answer

me.

I

never

believed

that.

It's

too

immediate,

the

way

they

respond

together

to

things.

You've

seen

the

videos.

They

aren't

conversing

and

deciding

among

possible

courses

of

action.

Every

ship

acts

like

part

of

a

single

organism.

It

responds

the

way

your

body

responds

during

combat,

different

parts

automatically,

thoughtlessly

doing

everything

they're

supposed

to

do.

They

aren't

having

a

mental

conversation

between

peopie

with

different

thought

processes.

All

their

thoughts

are

present,

together,

at

once."

"A

single

person,

and

each

bugger

is

like

a

hand

or

a

foot?"

"Yes.

I

wasn't

the

first

person

to

suggest

it,

but

I

was

the

first

person

to

believe

it.

And

something

else.

Something

so

childish

and

stupid

that

the

xenobiologists

laughed

me

to

silence

when

I

said

it

after

the

battle.

The

buggers

are

bugs.

They're

like

ants

and

bees.

A

queen,

the

workers.

That

was

maybe

a

hundred

million

years

ago,

but

that's

how

they

started,

that

kind

of

pattern.

It's

a

sure

thing

none

of

the

buggers

we

saw

had

any

way

of

making

more

little

buggers.

So

when

they

evolved

this

ability

to

think

together,

wouldn't

they

still

keep

the

queen?

Wouldn't

the

queen

still

be

the

center

of

the

group?

Why

would

that

ever

change?"

"So

it's

the

queen

who

controls

the

whole

group."

"I

had

evidence,

too.

Not

evidence

that

any

of

them

could

see.

lt

wasn't

there

in

the

First

Invasion,

because

that

was

exploratory.

But

the

Second

Invasion

was

a

colony.

To

set

up

a

new

hive,

or

whatever."

"And

so

they

brought

a

queen."

"The

videos

of

the

Second

Invasion,

when

they

were

destroying

our

fleets

out

in

the

comet

shell."

He

began

to

call

them

up

and

display

the

buggers'

patterns.

"Show

me

the

queen's

ship."

It

was

subtle.

Ender

couldn't

see

it

for

a

long

time.

The

bugger

ships

kept

moving,

all

of

them.

There

was

no

obvious

flagship,

no

apparent

nerve

center.

But

gradually,

as

Mazer

played

the

videos

over

and

over

again,

Ender

began

to

see

the

way

that

all

the

movements

focused

on,

radiated

from

a

center

point.

The

center

point

shifted,

but

it

was

obvious,

after

he

looked

long

enough,

that

the

eyes

of

the

fleet,

the

*I*

of

the

fleet,

the

perspective

from

which

all

decisions

were

being

made,

was

one

particular

ship.

He

pointed

it

out.

"You

see

it.

I

see

it.

That

makes

two

people

out

of

all

of

those

who

have

seen

this

video.

But

it's

true,

isn't

it."

"They

make

that

ship

move

just

like

any

other

ship."

"They

know

it's

their

weak

point."

"But

you're

right.

That's

the

queen.

But

then

you'd

think

that

when

you

went

for

it,

they

would

have

immediately

focused

all

their

power

on

you.

They

could

have

blown

you

out

of

the

sky."

"I

know.

That

part

I

don't

understand.

Not

that

they

didn't

try

to

stop

me

--

they

were

firing

at

me.

But

it's

as

if

they

really

couldn't

believe,

until

it

was

too

late,

that

I

would

actually

kill

the

queen.

Maybe

in

their

world,

queens

are

never

killed,

only

captured,

only

checkmated.

I

did

something

they

didn't

think

an

enemy

would

ever

do."

"And

when

she

died

vhe

others

all

died,"

"No,

they

just

went

stupid.

The

first

ships

we

boarded,

the

buggers

were

still

alive.

Organically.

But

they

didn't

move,

didn't

respond

to

anything,

even

when

our

scientists

vivisected

some

of

them

to

see

if

we

could

learn

a

few

more

things

about

buggers.

After

a

while

they

all

died.

No

will.

There's

nothing

in

those

little

bodies

when

the

queen

is

gone."

"Why

don't

they

believe

you?"

"Because

we

didn't

find

a

queen."

"She

got

blown

to

pieces."

"Fortunes

of

war.

Biology

takes

second

place

to

survival.

But

some

of

them

are

coming

around

to

my

way

of

thinking.

You

can't

live

in

this

place

without

the

evidence

staring

you

in

the

face."

"What

evidence

is

there

in

Eros?"

"Ender,

look

around

you.

Human

beings

didn't

carve

this

place.

We

like

taller

ceilings,

for

one

thing.

This

was

the

buggers'

advance

post

in

the

First

Invasion.

They

carved

this

place

out

before

we

even

knew

they

were

here.

We're

living

in

a

bugger

hive.

But

we

already

paid

our

rent.

lt

cost

the

marines

a

thousand

lives

to

clear

them

out

of

these

honeycombs,

room

by

room.

The

buggers

fought

for

every

meter

of

it."

Now

Ender

understood

why

the

rooms

had

always

felt

wrong

to

him.

"I

knew

this

wasn't

a

human

place."

"This

was

the

treasure

trove.

If

they

had

known

we

would

win

that

first

war,

they

probably'

would

never

have

built

this

place.

We

learned

gravity

manipulation

because

they

enhanced

the

gravity

here.

We

learned

efficient

use

of

stellar

energy

because

they

blacked

out

this

planet.

In

fact,

that's

how

we

discovered

them.

In

a

period

of

three

days,

Eros

gradually

disappeared

from

telescopes.

We

sent

a

tug

to

find

out

why.

It

found

out.

The

tug

transmitted

its

videos,

including

the

buggers

boarding

and

slaughtering

the

crew.

It

kept

right

on

transmitting

through

the

entire

bugger

examination

of

the

boat.

Not

until

they

finally

dismantled

the

entire

tug

did

the

transmissions

stop.

It

was

their

blindness

--

they

never

had

to

transmit

anything

by

machine,

and

so

with

the

crew

dead,

it

didn't

occur

to

them

that

anybody

could

be

watching."

"Why

did

they

kill

the

crew?"

"Why

not?

To

them,

losing

a

few

crew

members

would

be

like

clipping

your

nails.

Nothing

to

get

upset

about.

They

probably

thought

they

were

routinely

shutting

down

our

communications

by

turning

off

the

workers

running

the

tug.

Not

murdering

living,

sentient

beings

with

an

independent

genetic

future.

Murder's

no

big

deal

to

them.

Only

queen-killing,

really,

is

murder,

because

only

queen-killing

closes

off

a

genetic

path."

"So

they

didn't

know

what

they

were

doing."

"Don't

start

apologizing

for

them,

Ender.

Just

because

they

didn't

know

they

were

killing

human

beings

doesn't

mean

they

weren't

killing

human

beings.

We

do

have

a

right

to

defend

ourselves

as

best

we

can,

and

the

only

way

we

found

that

works

is

killing

the

buggers

before

they

kill

us.

Think

of

it

this

way.

In

all

the

bugger

wars

so

far,

they've

killed

thousands

and

thousands

of

living,

thinking

beings.

And

in

all

those

wars,

we've

killed

only

one."

"If

you

hadn't

killed

the

queen,

Mazer,

would

we

have

lost

the

war?"

"I'd

say

the

odds

would

have

been

three

to

two

against

us.

I

still

think

I

could

have

trashed

their

fleet

pretty

badly

before

they

burned

us

out.

They

have

great

response

time

and

a

lot

of

firepower,

but

we

have

a

few

advantages,

too.

Every

single

one

of

our

ships

contains

an

intelligent

human

being

who's

thinking

on

his

own.

Every

one

of

us

is

capable

of

coming

up

with

a

brilliant

solution

to

a

problem.

They

can

only

come

up

with

one

brilliant

solution

at

a

time.

The

buggers

think

fast,

but

they

aren't

smart

all

over.

Even

when

some

incredibly

timid

and

stupid

commanders

lost

the

major

battles

of

the

Second

Invasion,

some

of

their

subordinates

were

able

to

do

real

damage

to

the

bugger

fleet."

"What

about

when

our

invasion

reaches

them?

Will

we

just

get

the

queen

again?"

"The

buggers

didn't

learn

interstellar

travel

by

being

dumb.

That

was

a

strategy

that

could

work

only

once.

I

suspect

that

we'll

never

get

near

a

queen

unless

we

actually

make

it

to

their

home

planet.

After

all,

the

queen

doesn't

have

to

be

with

them

to

direct

a

battle.

The

queen

only

has

to

be

present

to

have

little

baby

buggers.

The

Second

invasion

was

a

colony

--

the

queen

was

coming

to

populate

the

Earth.

But

this

time

--

no,

that

won't

work.

We'll

have

to

beat

them

fleet

by

fleet.

And

because

they

have

the

resources

of

dozens

of

star

systems

to

draw

on,

my

guess

is

they'll

outnumber

us

by

a

lot,

in

every

battle."

Ender

remembered

his

battle

against

two

armies

at

once.

And

I

thought

they

were

cheating.

When

the

real

war

begins,

it'll

be

like

that

every

time.

And

there

won't

be

any

gate

I

can

go

for.

"We've

only

got

two

things

going

for

us,

Ender.

We

don't

have

to

aim

particularly

well.

Our

weapons

have

great

spread."

"Then

we

aren't

using

the

nuclear

missiles

from

the

First

and

Second

Invasions?"

"Dr.

Device

is

much

more

powerful.

Nuclear

weapons,

after

all,

were

weak

enough

to

be

used

on

Earth

at

one

time.

The

Little

Doctor

could

never

be

used

on

a

planet.

Still,

I

wish

I'd

had

one

during

the

Second

Invasion."

"How

does

it

work?"

"I

don't

know,

not

well

enough

to

build

one.

At

the

focal

point

of

two

beams,

it

sets

up

a

field

in

which

molecules

can't

hold

together

anymore.

Electrons

can't

be

shared.

How

much

physics

do

you

know,

at

that

level?"

"We

spend

most

of

our

time

on

astrophysics,

but

I

know

enough

to

get

the

idea."

"The

field

spreads

out

in

a

sphere,

but

it

gets

weaker

the

farther

it

spreads.

Except

that

where

it

actually

runs

into

a

lot

of

molecules,

it

gets

stronger

and

starts

over.

The

bigger

the

ship,

the

stronger

the

new

field."

"So

each

time

the

field

hits

a

ship,

it

sends

out

a

new

sphere--"

"And

if

their

ships

are

too

close

together,

it

can

set

up

a

chain

that

wipes

them

all

out.

Then

the

field

dies

down,

the

molecules

come

back

together,

and

where

you

had

a

ship,

you

now

have

a

lump

of

dirt

with

a

lot

of

iron

molecules

in

it.

No

radioactivity,

no

mess.

Just

dirt.

We

may

be

able

to

trap

them

close

together

on

the

first

battle,

but

they

learn

fast.

They'll

keep

their

distance

from

each

other."

"So

Dr.

Device

isn't

a

missile

--

I

can't

shoot

around

corners.

"That's

right.

Missiles

wouldn't

do

any

good

now.

We

learned

a

lot

from

them

in

the

First

Invasion,

but

they

also

learned

from

us

--

how

to

set

up

the

Ecstatic

Shield,

for

instance."

"The

Little

Doctor

penetrates

the

shield?"

"As

if

it

weren't

there.

You

can't

see

through

the

shield

to

aim

and

focus

the

beams,

but

since

the

generator

of

the

Ecstatic

Shield

is

always

in

the

exact

center,

it

isn't

hard

to

figure

it

out."

"Why

haven't

I

ever

been

trained

with

this?"

"You

always

have.

We

just

let

the

computer

tend

to

it

for

you.

Your

job

is

to

get

into

a

superior

strategic

position

and

choose

a

target.

The

shipboard

computers

are

much

better

at

aiming

the

Doctor

than

you

are."

"Why

is

it

called

Dr.

Device?"

"When

it

was

developed,

it

was

called

a

Molecular

Detachment

Device.

M.D.

Device."

Ender

still

didn't

understand.

"M.D.

The

initials

stand

for

Medical

Doctor,

too.

M.D.

Device,

therefore

Dr.

Device.

It

was

a

joke."

Ender

didn't

see

what

was

funny

about

it.

***

They

had

changed

the

simulator.

He

could

still

control

the

perspective

and

the

degree

of

detail,

but

there

were

no

ship's

controls

anymore.

Instead,

it

was

a

new

panel

of

levers,

and

a

small

headset

with

earphones

and

a

small

microphone.

The

technician

who

was

waiting

there

quickly

explained

how

to

wear

the

headset.

"But

how

do

I

control

the

ships?"

asked

Ender.

Mazer

explained.

He

wasn't

going

to

control

ships

anymore.

"You've

reached

the

next

phase

of

your

training.

You

have

experience

in

every

level

of

strategy,

but

now

it's

time

for

you

to

concentrate

on

commanding

an

entire

fleet.

As

you

worked

with

toon

leaders

in

Battle

School,

so

now

you

will

work

with

squadron

leaders.

You

have

been

assigned

three

dozen

such

leaders

to

train.

You

must

teach

them

intelligent

tactics;

you

must

learn

their

strengths

and

limitations;

you

must

make

them

into

a

whole."

"When

will

they

come

here?"

"They're

already

in

place

in

their

own

simulators.

You

will

speak

to

them

through

the

headset.

The

new

levers

on

your

control

panel

enable

you

to

see

from

the

perspective

of

any

of

your

squadron

leaders.

This

more

closely

duplicates

the

conditions

you

might

encounter

in

a

real

battle,

where

you

will

only

know

what

your

ships

can

see."

"How

can

I

work

with

squadron

leaders

I

never

see?"

"And

why

would

you

need

to

see

them?"

"To

know

who

they

are,

how

they

think--"

"You'll

learn

who

they

are

and

how

they

think

from

the

way

they

work

with

the

simulator.

But

even

so,

I

think

you

won't

be

concerned.

They're

listening

to

you

right

now.

Put

on

the

headset

so

you

can

hear

them."

Ender

put

on

the

headset.

"Salaam,"

said

a

whisner

in

his

ears.

"Alai,"

said

Ender.

"And

me,

the

dwarf."

"Bean."

And

Petra,

and

Dink;

Crazy

Tom,

Shen,

Hot

Soup,

Fly

Molo,

all

the

best

students

Ender

had

fought

with

or

fought

against,

everyone

that

Ender

had

trusted

in

Battle

School.

"I

didn't

know

you

were

here,"

he

said,

"I

didn't

know

you

were

coming."

"They've

been

flogging

us

through

the

simulator

for

three

months

now,"

said

Dink.

"You'll

find

that

I'm

by

far

the

best

tactician,"

said

Petra.

"Dink

tries,

but

he

has

the

mind

ot

a

child."

So

they

began

working

together,

each

squadron

leader

commanding

individual

pilots,

and

Ender

commanding

the

squadron

leaders.

They

learned

many

ways

of

working

together,

as

the

simulator

forced

them

to

try

different

situations.

Sometimes

the

simulator

gave

them

a

larger

fleet

to

work

with;

Ender

set

them

up

then

in

three

or

four

toons

that

consisted

of

three

or

four

squadrons

each.

Sometimes

the

simulator

gave

them

a

single

starship

with

its

twelve

fighters,

and

he

chose

three

squadron

leaders

with

four

fighters

each.

It

was

pleasure;

it

was

play.

The

computer-controlled

enemy

was

none

too

bright,

and

they

always

won

despite

their

mistakes,

their

miscommunications.

But

in

the

three

weeks

they

practiced

together,

Ender

came

to

know

them

very

well.

Dink,

who

deftly

carried

out

instructions

but

was

slow

to

improvise;

Bean,

who

couldn't

control

large

groups

of

ships

effectively

but

could

use

only

a

few

like

a

scalpel,

reacting

beautifully

to

anything

the

computer

threw

at

him;

Alai,

who

was

almost

as

good

a

strategist

as

Ender

and

could

be

entrusted

to

do

well

with

half

a

fleet

and

only

vague

instructions.

The

better

Ender

knew

them,

the

faster

he

could

deploy

them,

the

better

he

could

use

them.

The

simulator

would

display

the

situation

on

the

screen.

In

that

moment

Ender

learned

for

the

first

time

what

his

own

fleet

would

consist

of

and

how

the

enemy

fleet

was

deployed.

It

took

him

only

a

few

minutes

now

to

call

for

the

squadron

leaders

that

he

needed,

assign

them

to

certain

ships

or

groups

of

ships,

and

give

them

their

assignments.

Then,

as

the

battle

progressed,

he

would

skip

from

one

leader's

point

of

view

to

another's,

making

suggestions

and,

occasionally,

giving

orders

as

the

need

arose.

Since

the

others

could

only

see

their

own

battle

perspective,

he

would

sometimes

give

them

orders

that

made

no

sense

to

them;

but

they,

too,

learned

to

trust

Ender.

If

he

told

them

to

withdraw,

they

withdrew,

knowing

that

either

they

were

in

an

exposed

position,

or

their

withdrawal

might

entice

the

enemy

into

a

weakened

posture.

They

also

knew

that

Ender

trusted

them

to

do

as

they

judged

best

when

he

gave

them

no

orders.

If

their

style

of

fighting

were

not

right

for

the

situation

they

were

placed

in,

Ender

would

not

have

chosen

them

for

that

assignment.

The

trust

was

complete,

the

working

of

the

fleet

quick

and

responsive.

And

at

the

end

of

three

weeks,

Mazer

showed

him

a

replay

of

their

most

recent

battle,

only

this

time

from

the

enemy's

point

of

view.

"This

is

what

he

saw

as

you

attacked.

What

does

it

remind

you

of?

The

quickness

of

response,

for

instance?"

"We

look

like

a

bugger

fleet."

"You

match

them,

Ender.

You're

as

fast

as

they

are.

And

here

--

look

at

this."

Ender

watched

as

all

his

squadrons

moved

at

once,

each

responding

to

its

own

situation,

all

guided

by

Ender's

overall

command,

but

daring,

improvising,

feinting,

attacking

with

an

independence

no

bugger

fleet

had

ever

shown.

"The

bugger

hive-mind

is

very

good,

but

it

can

only

concentrate

on

a

few

things

at

once.

All

your

squadrons

can

concentrate

a

keen

intelligence

on

what

they're

doing,

and

what

they've

been

assigned

to

do

is

also

guided

by

a

clever

mind.

So

you

see

that

you

do

have

some

advantages.

Superior,

though

not

irresistible,

weaponry;

comparable

speed

and

greater

available

intelligence.

These

are

your

advantages.

Your

disadvantage

is

that

you

will

always,

always

be

outnumbered,

and

after

each

battle

your

enemy

will

learn

more

about

you,

how

to

fight

you,

and

those

changes

will

be

put

into

effect

instantly."

Ender

waited

for

his

conclusion.

"So,

Ender,

we

will

now

begin

your

education.

We

have

programmed

the

computer

to

simulate

the

kinds

of

situations

we

might

expect

in

encounters

with

the

enemy.

We

are

using

the

movement

patterns

we

saw

in

the

Second

Invasion.

But

instead

of

mindlessly

following

these

same

patterns,

I

will

be

controlling

the

enemy

simulation.

At

first

you

will

see

easy

situations

that

you

are

expected

to

win

handily.

Learn

from

them,

because

I

will

always

be

there,

one

step

ahead

of

you,

programming

more

difficult

and

advanced

patterns

into

the

computer

so

that

your

next

battle

is

more

difficult,

so

that

you

are

pushed

to

the

limit

of

your

abilities."

"And

beyond?"

"The

time

is

short.

You

must

learn

as

quickly

as

you

can.

When

gave

myself

to

starship

travel,

just

so

I

would

still

be

alive

when

you

appeared,

my

wife

and

children

all

died,

and

my

grandchildren

were

my

own

age

when

I

came

back.

I

had

nothing

to

say

to

them.

I

was

cut

off

from

all

the

people

that

I

loved,

everything

I

knew,

living

in

this

alien

catacomb

and

forced

to

do

nothing

of

importance

but

teach

student

after

student,

each

one

so

hopeful,

each

one,

ultimately,

a

weakling,

a

failure.

I

teach,

I

teach,

but

no

one

learns.

You,

too,

have

great

promise,

like

so

many

students

before

you,

but

the

seeds

of

failure

may

be

in

you,

too.

It's

my

job

to

find

them,

to

destroy

you

if

I

can,

and

believe

me,

Ender,

if

you

can

be

destroyed

I

can

do

it."

"So

I'm

not

the

first."

"No,

of

course

you're

not.

But

you're

the

last.

If

you

don't

learn,

there'll

be

no

time

to

find

anyone

else.

So

I

have

hope

for

you,

only

because

you

are

the

only

one

left

to

hope

for."

"What

about

the

others?

My

squadron

leaders?"

"Which

of

them

is

fit

to

take

your

place?"

"Alai."

"Be

honest."

Ender

had

no

answer,

then.

"I

am

not

a

happy

man,

Ender.

Humanity

does

not

ask

us

to

be

happy.

It

merely

asks

us

to

be

brilliant

on

its

behalf.

Survival

first,

then

happiness

as

we

can

manage

it.

So,

Ender,

I

hope

you

do

not

bore

me

during

your

training

with

complaints

that

you

are

not

having

fun.

Take

what

pleasure

you

can

in

the

interstices

of

your

work,

but

your

work

is

first,

learning

is

first,

winning

is

everything

because

without

it

there

is

nothing.

When

you

can

give

me

back

my

dead

wife,

Ender,

then

you

can

complain

to

me

about

what

this

education

costs

you."

"I

wasn't

trying

to

get

out

of

anything."

"But

you

will,

Ender.

Because

I

am

going

to

grind

you

down

to

dust,

if

I

can.

I'm

going

to

hit

you

with

everything

I

can

imagine,

and

I

will

have

no

mercy,

because

when

you

face

the

buggers

they

will

think

of

things

I

can't

imagine,

and

compassion

for

human

beings

is

impossible

for

them."

"You

can't

grind

me

down,

Mazer."

"Oh,

can't

I?"

"Because

I'm

stronger

than

you."

Mazer

smiled.

"We'll

see

about

that,

Ender."

***

Mazer

wakened

him

before

morning;

the

clock

said

0340,

and

Ender

felt

groggy

as

he

padded

along

the

corridor

behind

Mazer.

"Early

to

bed

and

early

to

rise,"

Mazer

intoned,

"makes

a

man

stupid

and

blind

in

the

eyes."

He

had

been

dreaming

that

buggers

were

vivisecting

him.

Only

instead

of

cutting

open

his

body,

they

were

cutting

up

his

memories

and

displaying

them

like

holographs

and

trying

to

make

sense

of

them.

It

was

a

very

odd

dream,

and

Ender

couldn't

easily

shake

loose

of

it,

even

as

he

walked

through

the

tunnels

to

the

simulator

room.

The

buggers

tormented

him

in

his

sleep,

and

Mazer

wouldn't

leave

him

alone

when

he

was

awake.

Between

the

two

of

them

he

had

no

rest.

Ender

forced

himself

awake.

Apparently

Mazer

meant

it

when

he

said

he

meant

to

break

Ender

down

--

and

forcing

him

to

play

when

tired

and

sleepy

was

just

the

sort

of

cheap

and

easy

trick

Ender

should

have

expected.

Well,

today

it

wouldn't

work.

He

got

to

the

simulator

and

found

his

squadron

leaders

already

on

the

wire,

waiting

for

him.

There

was

no

enemy

yet,

so

he

divided

them

into

two

armies

and

began

a

mock

battle,

commanding

both

sides

so

he

could

control

the

test

that

each

of

his

leaders

was

going

through.

They

began

slowly,

but

soon

were

vigorous

and

alert.

Then

the

simulator

field

went

blank,

the

ships

disappeared,

and

everything

changed

at

once.

At

the

near

edge

of

the

simulator

field

they

could

see

the

shapes,

drawn

in

holographic

light,

of

three

starships

from

the

human

fleet.

Each

would

have

twelve

fighters.

The

enemy,

obviously

aware

of

the

human

presence,

had

formed

a

globe

with

a

single

ship

at

the

center.

Ender

was

not

fooled

--

it

would

not

be

a

queen

ship.

The

buggers

outnumbered

Ender's

fighter

force

by

two

to

one,

but

they

were

also

grouped

much

closer

together

than

they

should

have

been

--

Dr.

Device

would

be

able

to

do

much

more

damage

than

the

enemy

expected.

Ender

selected

one

starship,

made

it

blink

in

the

simulator

field,

and

spoke

into

the

microphone.

"Alai,

this

is

yours;

assign

Petra

and

Vlad

to

the

fighters

as

you

wish."

He

assigned

the

other

two

starships

with

their

fighter

forces,

except

for

one

fighter

from

each

starship

that

he

reserved

for

Bean.

"Slip

the

wall

and

get

below

them,

Bean,

unless

they

start

chasing

you

--

then

run

back

to

the

reserves

for

safety.

Otherwise,

get

in

a

place

where

I

can

call

on

you

for

quick

results.

Alai,

form

your

force

into

a

compact

assault

at

one

point

in

their

globe.

Don't

fire

until

I

tell

you.

This

is

maneuver

only."

"This

one's

easy,

Ender,"

Alai

said.

"It's

easy,

so

why

not

be

careful?

I'd

like

to

do

this

without

the

loss

of

a

single

ship."

Ender

grouped

his

reserves

in

two

forces

that

shadowed

Aiai

at

a

safe

distance;

Bean

was

already

off

the

simulator,

though

Ender

occasionally

flipped

to

Bean's

point

of

view

to

keep

track

of

where

he

was.

It

was

Alai,

however,

who

played

the

delicate

game

with

the

enemy.

He

was

in

a

bulletshaped

formation,

and

probed

the

enemy

globe.

Wherever

he

came

near,

the

bugger

ships

pulled

back,

as

if

to

draw

him

in

toward

the

ship

in

the

center,

Alai

skimmed

to

the

side;

thc

bugger

ships

kept

up

with

him,

withdrawing

wherever

he

was

close,

returning

to

the

sphere

pattern

when

he

had

passed.

Feint,

withdraw,

skim

the

globe

to

another

point,

withdraw

again,

feint

again;

and

then

Ender

said

"Go

on

in,

Alai."

His

bullet

started

in,

while

he

said

to

Ender,

"You

know

they'll

just

let

me

through

and

surround

me

and

eat

me

alive."

"Just

ignore

that

ship

in

the

middle."

"Whatever

you

say,

boss."

Sure

enough,

the

globe

began

to

contract,

Ender

brought

the

reserves

forward:

the

enemy

ships

concentrated

on

the

side

of

the

globe

nearer

the

reserves.

"Attack

them

there,

where

they're

most

concentrated,"

Ender

said.

"This

defies

four

thousand

years

of

military

history,"

said

Alai,

moving

his

fighters

forward.

"We're

supposed

to

attack

where

we

outnumber

them."

"In

this

simulation

they

obviously

don't

know

what

our

weapons

can

do.

It'll

only

work

once,

but

let's

make

it

spectacular.

Fire

at

will."

Alal

did.

The

simulation

responded

beautifully:

first

one

or

two,

then

a

dozen,

then

most

of

the

enemy

ships

exploded

in

dazzling

light

as

the

field

leapt

from

ship

to

ship

in

the

tight

formation.

"Stay

out

of

the

way,"

Ender

said.

The

ships

on

the

far

side

of

the

globe

formation

were

not

affected

by

the

chain

reaction,

but

it

was

a

simple

matter

hunting

them

down

and

destroying

them.

Bean

took

care

of

stragglers

that

tried

to

escape

toward

his

end

of

space

--

the

batle

was

over.

It

had

been

easier

than

most

of

their

recent

exercises.

Mazer

shrugged

when

Ender

told

him

so.

"This

is

a

simulation

of

a

real

invasion.

There

had

to

be

one

battle

in

which

they

didn't

know

what

we

could

do.

Now

your

work

begins.

Try

not

to

be

too

arrogant

about

the

victory.

I'll

give

you

the

real

challenges

soon

enough."

Ender

practiced

ten

hours

a

day

with

his

squadron

leaders,

but

not

all

at

once;

he

gave

them

a

few

hours

in

the

afternoon

to

rest.

Simulated

battles

under

Mazer's

supervision

came

every

two

or

three

days,

and

as

Mazer

had

promised,

they

were

never

so

easy

again.

The

enemy

quickly

abandoned

its

attempt

to

surround

Ender,

and

never

again

grouped

its

forces

closely

enough

to

allow

a

chain

reaction.

There

was

something

new

every

time,

something

harder.

Sometimes

Ender

had

only

a

single

starship

and

eight

fighters;

once

the

enemy

dodged

through

an

asteroid

belt;

sometimes

the

enemy

left

stationary

traps,

large

installations

that

blew

up

if

Ender

brought

one

of

his

squadrons

too

close,

often

crippling

or

destroying

some

of

Ender's

ships.

"You

cannot

absorb

losses!"

Mazer

shouted

at

him

after

one

battle.

"When

you

get

into

a

real

battle

you

won't

have

the

luxury

of

an

infinite

supply

of

computer-generated

fighters.

You'll

have

what

you

brought

with

you

and

nothing

more.

Now

get

used

to

fighting

without

unnecessary

waste."

"lt

wasn't

unnecessary

waste,

Ender

said.

"I

can't

win

battles

if

I'm

so

terrified

of

losing

a

ship

that

I

never

take

any

risks."

Mazer

smiled.

"Excellent,

Ender.

You're

begiioning

to

learn.

But

in

a

real

battle,

you

would

have

superior

officers

and,

worst

of

all,

civilians

shouting

those

things

at

you.

Now,

if

the

enemy

had

been

at

all

bright,

they

would

have

caught

you

here,

and

taken

Tom's

squadron."

Together

they

went

over

the

battle;

in

the

next

practice,

Ender

would

show

his

leaders

what

Mazer

had

shown

him,

and

they'd

learn

to

cope

with

it

the

next

time

they

saw

it.

They

thought

they

had

been

ready

before,

that

they

had

worked

smoothly

together

as

a

team.

Now,

though,

having

fought

through

real

challenges

together,

they

all

began

to

trust

each

other

more

than

ever,

and

battles

became

exhilarating.

They

told

Ender

that

the

ones

who

weren't

actually

playing

would

come

into

the

simulator

rooms

and

watch.

Ender

imagined

what

it

would

be

like

to

have

his

friends

there

with

him,

cheering

or

laughing

or

gasping

with

apprehension;

sometimes

he

thought

it

would

be

a

great

distraction,

but

other

times

he

wished

for

it

with

all

his

heart.

Even

when

he

had

spent

his

days

lying

out

in

the

sunlight

on

a

raft

in

a

lake,

he

had

not

been

so

lonely.

Mazer

Rackham

was

his

companion,

was

his

teacher,

but

was

not

his

friend.

He

said

nothing,

though.

Mazer

had

told

him

there

would

be

no

pity,

and

his

private

unhappiness

meant

nothing

to

anyone.

Most

of

the

time

it

meant

nothing

even

to

Ender.

He

kept

his

mind

on

the

game,

trying

to

learn

from

the

battles.

And

not

just

the

particular

lessons

of

that

battle,

but

what

the

buggers

might

have

done

if

they

had

been

more

clever,

and

how

Ender

would

react

if

they

did

it

in

the

future.

He

lived

with

past

battles

and

future

battles

both,

waking

and

sleeping,

and

he

drove

his

squadron

leaders

with

an

intensity

that

occasionally

provoked

rebelliousness.

"You're

too

kind

to

us,"

said

Alai

one

day.

"Why

don't

you

get

annoyed

with

us

for

not

being

brilliant

every

moment

of

every

practice.

If

you

keep

coddling

us

like

this

we'll

think

you

like

us."

Some

of

the

others

laughed

into

their

microphones.

Ender

recognized

the

irony,

of

course,

and

answered

with

a

long

silence.

When

he

finally

spoke,

he

ignored

Alai's

complaint.

"Again,"

he

said,

"and

this

time

without

self-pity."

They

did

it

again,

and

did

it

right.

But

as

their

trust

in

Ender

as

a

commander

grew,

their

friendship,

remembered

from

the

Battle

School

days,

gradually

disappeared.

It

was

to

each

other

that

they

became

close;

it

was

with

each

other

that

they

exchanged

confidences.

Ender

was

their

teacher

and

commander,

as

distant

from

them

as

Mazer

was

from

him,

and

as

demanding.

They

fought

all

the

better

for

it.

And

Ender

was

not

distracted

from

his

work.

At

least,

not

while

he

was

awake.

As

he

drifted

off

to

sleep

each

night,

it

was

with

thoughts

of

the

simulator

playing

through

his

mind.

But

in

the

night

he

thought

of

other

things.

Often

he

remembered

the

corpse

of

the

Giant,

decaying

steadily;

he

did

not

remember

it,

though,

in

the

pixels

of

the

picture

on

his

desk.

Instead

it

was

real,

the

faint

odor

of

death

still

lingering

near

it.

Things

were

changed

in

his

dreams.

The

little

village

that

had

grown

up

between

the

Giant's

ribs

was

composed

of

buggers

now,

and

they

saluted

him

gravely,

like

gladiators

greeting

Caesar

before

they

died

for

his

entertainment.

He

did

not

hate

the

buggers

in

his

dream;

and

even

though

he

knew

that

they

had

hidden

their

queen

from

him,

he

did

not

try

to

search

for

her.

He

always

left

the

Giant's

body

quickly,

and

when

he

got

to

the

playground.

the

children

were

always

there,

wolven

and

mocking;

they

wore

faces

that

he

knew.

Sometimes

Peter

and

sometimes

Bonzo,

sometimes

Stilson

and

Bernard;

just

as

often,

though,

the

savage

creatures

were

Alai

and

Shen,

Dink

and

Petra;

sometimes

one

of

them

would

be

Valentine,

and

in

his

dream

he

also

shoved

her

under

the

water

and

waited

for

her

to

drown.

She

writhed

in

his

hands,

fought

to

come

up,

but

at

last

was

still.

He

dragged

her

out

of

the

lake

and

onto

the

raft,

where

she

lay

with

her

face

in

the

rictus

of

death,

he

screamed

and

wept

over

her,

crying

again

and

again

that

it

was

a

game,

a

game.

he

was

only

playing!--

Then

Mazer

Rackharn

shook

him

awake.

"You

were

calling

out

in

your

sleep,"

he

said.

"Sorry,"

Ender

said.

"Never

mind.

It's

time

for

another

battle."

Steadily

the

pace

increased.

There

were

usually

two

battles

a

day

now,

and

Ender

held

practices

to

a

minimum.

He

would

use

the

time

while

the

others

rested

to

pore

over

the

replays

of

past

games,

trying

to

spot

his

own

weaknesses,

trying

to

guess

what

would

happen

next.

Sometimes

he

was

fully

prepared

for

the

enemy's

innovations;

sometimes

he

was

not.

"I

think

you're

cheating,"

Ender

told

Mazer

one

day,

"Oh?"

"You

can

observe

my

practice

sessions.

You

can

see

what

I'm

working

on.

You

seem

to

be

ready

for

everything

I

do."

"Most

of

what

you

see

is

computer

simulations,"

Mazer

said.

"The

computer

is

programmed

to

respond

to

your

innovations

only

after

you

use

them

once

in

battle."

"Then

the

computer

is

cheating."

"You

need

to

get

more

sleep,

Ender."

But

he

could

not

sleep.

He

lay

awake

longer

and

longer

each

night,

and

his

sleep

was

less

restful.

He

woke

too

often

in

the

night.

Whether

he

was

waking

up

to

think

more

about

the

game

or

to

escape

from

his

dreams,

he

wasn't

sure.

It

was

as

if

someone

rode

him

in

his

sleep,

forcing

him

to

wander

through

his

worst

memories,

to

live

in

them

again

as

if

they

were

real.

Nights

were

so

real

that

days

began

to

seem

dreamlike

to

him.

He

began

to

worry

that

he

would

not

think

clearly

enough,

that

he

would

be

too

tired

when

he

played.

Always

when

the

game

began,

the

intensity

of

it

awoke

him,

but

if

his

mental

abilities

began

to

slip,

he

wondered,

would

he

notice

it?

And

he

seemed

to

be

slipping.

He

never

had

a

battle

anymore

in

which

he

did

not

lose

at

least

a

few

fighters.

Several

times

the

enemy

was

able

to

trick

him

into

exposing

more

weakness

than

he

meant

to;

other

times

the

enemy

was

able

to

wear

him

down

by

attrition

until

his

victory

was

as

much

a

matter

of

luck

as

strategy.

Mazer

would

go

over

the

game

with

a

look

of

contempt

on

his

face.

"Look

at

this,"

he

would

say.

"You

didn't

have

to

do

this."

And

Ender

would

return

to

practice

with

his

leaders,

trying

to

keep

up

their

morale,

but

sometimes

letting

slip

his

disappointment

with

their

weaknesses,

the

fact

that

they

made

mistakes.

"Sometimes

we

make

mistakes,"

Petra

whispered

to

him

once.

It

was

a

plea

for

help.

"And

sometimes

we

don't,"

Ender

answered

her.

If

she

got

help,

it

would

not

be

from

him.

He

would

teach;

let

her

find

her

friends

among

the

others.

Then

came

a

battle

that

nearly

ended

in

disaster.

Petra

led

her

force

too

far;

they

were

exposed,

and

she

discovered

it

in

a

moment

when

Ender

wasn't

with

her.

In

only

a

few

moments

she

had

lost

all

but

two

of

her

ships.

Ender

found

her

then,

ordered

her

to

move

them

in

a

certain

direction;

she

didn't

answer.

There

was

no

movement.

And

in

a

moment

those

two

fighters,

too,

would

be

lost.

Ender

knew

at

once

that

he

had

pushed

her

too

hard

because

of

her

brilliance

--

he

had

called

on

her

to

play

far

more

often

and

under

much

more

demanding

circumstances

than

all

but

a

few

of

the

others.

But

he

had

no

time

now

to

worry

about

Petra,

or

to

feel

guilty

about

what

he

had

done

to

her.

He

called

on

Crazy

Tom

to

command

the

two

remaining

fighters,

then

went

on,

trying

to

salvage

the

battle;

Petra

had

occupied

a

key

position,

and

now

all

of

Ender's

strategy

came

apart.

If

the

enemy

had

not

been

too

eager

and

clumsy

at

exploiting

their

advantage,

Ender

would

have

lost.

But

Shen

was

able

to

catch

a

group

of

the

enemy

in

too

tight

a

formation

and

took

them

out

with

a

single

chain

reaction.

Crazy

Tom

brought

his

two

surviving

fighters

in

through

the

gap

and

caused

havoc

with

the

enemy,

and

though

his

ships

and

Shen's

as

well

were

finally

destroyed,

Fly

Molo

was

able

to

mop

up

and

complete

the

victory.

At

the

end

of

the

battle,

he

could

hear

Petra

crying

out,

trying

to

get

a

microphone,

"Tell

him

I'm

sorry,

I

was

just

so

tired,

I

couldn't

think,

that

was

all,

tell

Ender

I'm

sorry."

She

was

not

there

for

the

next

few

practices,

and

when

she

did

come

back

she

was

not

as

quick

as

she

had

been,

not

as

daring.

Much

of

what

had

made

her

a

good

commander

was

lost.

Ender

couldn't

use

her

anymore,

except

in

routine,

closely

supervised

assignments.

She

was

no

fool.

She

knew

what

had

happened.

But

she

also

knew

that

Ender

had

no

other

choice,

and

told

him

so.

The

fact

remained

that

she

had

broken,

and

she

was

far

from

being

the

weakest

of

his

squad

leaders.

It

was

a

warning

--

he

could

not

press

his

commanders

more

than

they

could

bear.

Now,

instead

of

using

his

leaders

whenever

he

needed

their

skills,

he

had

to

keep

in

mind

how

often

they

had

fought.

He

had

to

spell

them

off,

which

meant

that

sometimes

he

went

into

battle

with

commanders

he

trusted

a

little

less.

As

he

eased

the

pressure

on

them,

he

increased

the

pressure

on

himself.

Late

one

night

he

woke

up

in

pain.

There

was

blood

on

his

pillow,

the

taste

of

blood

in

his

mouth.

His

fingers

were

throbbing.

He

saw

that

in

his

sleep

he

had

been

gnawing

on

his

own

fist.

The

blood

was

still

flowing

smoothly.

"Mazer!"

he

called.

Rackham

woke

up

and

called

at

once

for

a

doctor.

As

the

doctor

treated

the

wound,

Mazer

said,

"I

don't

care

how

much

you

eat,

Ender,

self-cannibalism

won't

get

you

out

of

this

school."

"I

was

asleep,"

Ender

said.

"I

don't

want

to

get

out

of

Command

School."

"Good."

"The

others.

The

ones

who

didn't

make

it."

"What

are

you

talking

about?"

"Before

me.

Your

other

students,

who

didn't

make

it

through

the

training.

What

happened

to

them?"

"They

didn't

make

it.

That's

all.

We

don't

punish

the

ones

who

fail.

They

just

--

don't

go

on."

"Like

Bonzo."

"Bonzo?"

"He

went

home."

"Not

like

Bonzo."

"What

then?

What

happened

to

them?

When

they

failed?"

"Why

does

it

matter,

Ender?"

Ender

didn't

answer.

"None

of

them

failed

at

this

point

in

their

course,

Ender.

You

made

a

mistake

with

Petra.

She'll

recover.

But

Petra

is

Petra,

and

you

are

you."

"Part

of

what

I

am

is

her.

Is

what

she

made

me."

"You

won't

fail,

Ender.

Not

this

early

in

the

course.

You've

had

some

tight

ones,

but

you've

always

won.

You

don't

know

what

your

limits

are

yet,

but

if

you've

reached

them

already

you're

a

good

deal

feebler

than

I

thought."

"Do

they

die?"

"Who?"

"The

ones

who

fail."

"No,

they

don't

die.

Good

heavens,

boy,

you're

playing

games."

"I

think

that

Bonzo

died.

I

dreamed

about

it

last

night.

I

remembered

the

way

he

looked

after

I

jammed

his

face

with

my

head.

I

think

I

must

have

pushed

his

nose

back

into

his

brain.

The

blood

was

coming

out

of

his

eyes.

I

think

he

was

dead

right

then."

"It

was

just

a

dream."

"Mazer,

I

don't

want

to

keep

dreaming

these

things.

I'm

afraid

to

sleep.

I

keep

thinking

of

things

that

I

don't

want

to

remember.

My

whole

life

keeps

playing

out

as

if

I

were

a

recorder

and

someone

else

wanted

to

watch

the

most

terrible

parts

of

my

life."

"We

can't

drug

you

if

that's

what

you're

hoping

for.

I'm

sorry

if

you

have

bad

dreams.

Should

we

leave

the

light

on

at

night?"

"Don't

make

fun

of

me!"

Ender

said.

"I'm

afraid

I'm

going

crazy."

The

doctor

was

finished

with

the

bandage.

Mazer

told

him

he

could

go.

He

went.

"Are

you

really

afraid

of

that?"

Mazer

asked.

Ender

thought

about

it

and

wasn't

sure.

"In

my

dreams,"

said

Ender,

"I'm

never

sure

whether

I'm

really

me."

"Strange

dreams

are

a

safety

valve,

Ender.

I'm

putting

you

under

a

little

pressure

for

the

first

time

in

your

life.

Your

body

is

finding

ways

to

compensate,

that's

all.

You're

a

big

boy

now.

It's

time

to

stop

being

afraid

of

the

night."

"All

right,"

Ender

said.

He

decided

then

that

he

would

never

tell

Mazer

about

his

dreams

again.

The

days

wore

on,

with

battles

every

day,

until

at

last

Ender

settled

into

the

routine

of

the

destruction

of

himself.

He

began

to

have

pains

in

his

stomach.

They

put

him

on

a

bland

diet,

but

soon

he

didn't

have

an

appetite

for

anything

at

all.

"Eat,"

Mazer

said,

and

Ender

would

mechanically

put

food

in

his

mouth.

But

if

nobody

told

him

to

eat,

he

didn't

eat.

Two

more

of

his

squadron

leaders

collapsed

the

way

that

Petra

had;

the

pressure

on

the

rest

became

all

the

greater.

The

enemy

outnumbered

them

by

three

or

four

to

one

in

every

battle

now;

the

enemy

also

retreated

more

readily

when

things

went

badly,

regrouping

to

keep

the

battle

going

longer

and

longer.

Sometimes

battles

lasted

for

hours

before

they

finally

destroyed

the

last

enemy

ship.

Ender

began

rotating

his

squadron

leaders

within

the

same

battle,

bringing

in

fresh

and

rested

ones

to

take

the

place

of

those

who

were

beginning

to

get

sluggish.

"You

know,"

said

Bean

one

time,

as

he

took

over

command

of

Hot

Soup's

four

remaining

fighters,

"this

game

isn't

quite

as

fun

as

it

used

to

be."

Then

one

day

in

practice,

as

Ender

was

drilling

his

squadron

leaders,

the

room

went

black

and

he

woke

up

on

the

floor

with

his

face

bloody

where

he

had

hit

the

controls.

They

put

him

to

bed

then,

and

for

three

days

he

was

very

ill.

He

remembered

seeing

faces

in

his

dreams,

but

they

weren't

real

faces,

and

he

knew

it

even

while

he

thought

he

saw

them.

He

thought

he

saw

Valentine

sometimes,

and

sometimes

Peter;

sometimes

his

friends

from

the

Battle

School,

and

sometimes

the

buggers

vivisecting

him.

Once

it

seemed

very

real

when

he

saw

Colonel

Graff

bending

over

him

speaking

softly

to

him,

like

a

kind

father.

But

then

he

woke

top

and

found

only

his

enemy,

Mazer

Rackham.

"I'm

awake,"

said

Ender.

"So

I

see,"

Mazer

answered.

"Took

you

long

enough.

You

have

a

battle

today."

So

Ender

got

up

and

fought

the

battle

and

won

it.

But

there

was

no

second

battle

that

day,

and

they

let

him

go

to

bed

earlier.

His

hands

were

shaking

as

be

undressed.

During

the

night

he

thought

he

felt

hands

touching

him

gently.

Hands

with

affection

in

them,

and

gentleness.

He

dreamed

he

heard

voices.

"You

haven't

been

kind

to

him."

"That

wasn't

the

assignment."

"How

long

can

he

go

on?

He's

breaking

down."

"Long

enough.

It's

nearly

finished."

"So

soon?"

"A

few

days,

and

then

he's

through."

"How

will

he

do,

when

he's

already

like

this?"

"Fine.

Even

today,

he

fought

better

than

ever."

In

his

dream,

the

voices

sounded

like

Colonel

Graff

and

Mazer

Rackham.

But

that

was

the

way

dreams

were,

the

craziest

things

could

happen,

because

he

dreamed

he

heard

one

of

the

voices

saying,

"I

can't

bear

to

see

what

this

is

doing

to

him."

And

the

other

voice

answered,

"I

know.

I

love

him

too."

And

then

they

changed

into

Valentine

and

Alai,

and

in

his

dream

they

were

burying

him,

only

a

hill

grew

up

where

they

laid

his

body

down,

and

he

dried

out

and

became

a

home

for

buggers,

like

the

Giant

was.

All

dreams.

If

there

was

love

or

pity

for

him,

it

was

only

in

his

dreams.

He

woke

up

and

fought

another

battle

and

won.

Then

he

went

to

bed

and

slept

again

and

dreamed

again

and

then

he

woke

up

and

won

again

and

slept

again

and

he

hardly

noticed

when

waking

became

sleeping.

Nor

did

he

care.

The

next

day

was

his

last

day

in

Command

School,

though

he

didn't

know

it.

Mazer

Rackham

was

not

in

the

room

with

him

when

he

woke

up.

He

showered

and

dressed

and

waited

for

Mazer

to

come

unlock

the

door.

He

didn't

come.

Ender

tried

the

door.

It

was

open.

Was

it

an

accident

that

Mazer

had

let

him

be

free

this

morning?

No

one

with

him

to

tell

him

he

must

eat,

he

must

go

to

practice,

he

must

sleep.

Freedom.

The

trouble

was,

he

didn't

know

what

to

do.

He

thought

for

a

moment

that

he

might

find

his

squadron

leaders,

talk

to

them

face

to

face,

but

he

didn't

know

where

they

were.

They

could

be

twenty

kilometers

away,

for

all

he

knew.

So,

after

wandering

through

the

tunnels

for

a

little

while,

he

went

to

the

mess

hall

and

ate

breakfast

near

a

few

marines

who

were

telling

dirty

jokes

that

Ender

could

not

begin

to

understand.

Then

he

went

to

the

simulator

room

for

practice.

Even

though

he

was

free,

he

could

not

think

of

anything

else

to

do.

Mazer

was

waiting

for

him.

Ender

walked

slowly

into

the

room.

His

step

was

slightly

shuffling,

and

he

felt

tired

and

dull.

Mazer

frowned.

"Are

you

awake,

Ender?"

There

were

other

people

in

the

simulator

room.

Ender

wondered

why

they

were

there,

but

didn't

bother

to

ask.

It

wasn't

worth

asking;

no

one

would

tell

him

anyway.

He

walked

to

the

simulator

controls

and

sat

down,

ready

to

start.

"Ender

Wiggin,"

said

Mazer.

"Please

turn

around.

Today's

game

needs

a

little

explanation."

Ender

turned

around.

He

glanced

at

the

men

gathered

at

the

back

of

the

room.

Most

of

them

he

had

never

seen

before.

Some

were

even

dressed

in

civilian

clothes.

He

saw

Anderson

and

wondered

what

he

was

doing

there,

who

was

taking

care

of

the

Battle

School

if

he

was

gone.

He

saw

Graff

and

remembered

the

lake

in

the

woods

outside

Greensboro,

and

wanted

to

go

home.

Take

me

home,

he

said

silently

to

Graff.

In

my

dream

you

said

you

loved

me.

Take

me

home.

But

Graff

only

nodded

to

him,

a

greeting,

not

a

promise,

and

Anderson

acted

as

though

he

didn't

know

him

at

all.

"Pay

attention,

please,

Ender.

Today

is

your

final

examination

in

Command

School.

These

observers

are

here

to

evaluate

what

you

have

learned.

If

you

prefer

not

to

have

them

in

the

room,

we'll

have

them

watch

on

another

simulator."

"They

can

stay."

Final

examination.

After

today,

perhaps

he

could

rest.

"For

this

to

be

a

fair

test

of

your

ability,

not

just

to

do

what

you

have

practiced

many

times,

but

also

to

meet

challenges

you

have

never

seen

before,

today's

battle

introduces

a

new

element.

It

is

staged

around

a

planet.

This

will

affect

the

enemy's

strategy,

and

will

force

you

to

improvise.

Please

concentrate

on

the

game

today."

Ender

beckoned

Mazer

closer,

and

asked

him

quietly,

"Am

I

the

first

student

to

make

it

this

far?"

"If

you

win

today,

Ender,

you

will

be

the

first

student

to

do

so.

More

than

that

I'm

not

at

liberty

to

say."

"Well,

I'm

at

liberty

to

hear

it."

"You

can

be

as

petulant

as

you

want,

tomorrow.

Today,

though,

I'd

appreciate

it

if

you

would

keep

your

mind

on

the

examination.

Let's

not

waste

all

that

you've

already

done.

Now,

how

will

you

deal

with

the

planet?"

"I

have

to

get

someone

behind

it,

or

it's

a

blind

spot."

"True."

"And

the

gravity

is

going

to

affect

fuel

levels

--

cheaper

to

go

down

than

up."

"Yes."

"Does

the

Little

Doctor

work

against

a

planet?"

Mazer's

face

went

rigid.

"Ender,

the

buggers

never

attacked

a

civilian

population

in

either

invasion.

You

decide

whether

it

would

be

wise

to

adopt

a

strategy

that

would

invite

reprisals."

"Is

the

planet

the

only

new

thing?"

"Can

you

remember

the

last

time

I've

given

you

a

battle

with

only

one

new

thing?

Let

me

assure

you,

Ender,

that

I

will

not

be

kind

to

you

today.

I

have

a

responsibility

to

the

fleet

not

to

let

a

second-rate

student

graduate.

I

will

do

my

best

against

you,

Ender,

and

I

have

no

desire

to

coddle

you.

Just

keep

in

mind

everything

you

know

about

yourself

and

everything

you

know

about

the

buggers,

and

you

have

a

fair

chance

of

amounting

to

something."

Mazer

left

the

room.

Ender

spoke

into

the

microphone.

"Are

you

there?"

"All

of

us,"

said

Bean.

"Kind

of

late

for

practice

this

morning,

aren't

you?"

So

they

hadn't

told

the

squadron

leaders.

Ender

toyed

with

the

idea

of

telling

them

how

important

this

battle

was

to

him,

but

decided

it

would

not

help

them

to

have

an

extraneous

concern

on

their

minds.

"Sorry,"

he

said.

"I

overslept."

They

laughed.

They

didn't

believe

him.

He

led

them

through

maneuvers,

warming

up

for

the

battle

ahead.

It

took

him

longer

than

usual

to

clear

his

mind,

to

concentrate

on

command,

but

soon

enough

he

was

up

to

speed,

responding

quickly,

thinking

well.

Or

at

least,

he

told

himself,

thinking

that

I'm

thinking

well.

The

simulator

field

cleared.

Ender

waited

for

the

game

to

appear.

What

will

happen

if

I

pass

the

test

today?

Is

there

another

school?

Another

year

or

two

of

grueling

training,

another

year

of

isoiation,

another

year

of

people

pushing

me

this

way

and

that

way,

another

year

without

any

control

over

my

own

life?

He

tried

to

remember

how

old

he

was.

Eleven.

How

many

years

ago

did

he

turn

eleven?

How

many

days?

It

must

have

happened

here

at

the

Command

School,

but

he

couldn't

remember

the

day.

Maybe

he

didn't

even

notice

it

at

the

time.

Nobody

noticed

it,

except

perhaps

Valentine.

And

as

he

waited

for

the

game

to

appear,

he

wished

he

could

simply

lose

it,

lose

the

battle

badly

and

completely

so

that

they

would

remove

him

from

training,

like

Bonzo,

and

let

him

go

home.

Bonzo

had

been

assigned

to

Cartagena.

He

wanted

to

see

travel

orders

that

said

Greensboro.

Success

meant

it

would

go

on.

Failure

meant

he

could

go

home.

No,

that

isn't

true,

he

told

himself.

They

need

me,

and

if

I

fail

there

might

not

be

any

home

to

return

to.

But

he

did

not

believe

it.

In

his

conscious

mind

he

knew

it

was

true,

but

in

other

places,

deeper

places,

he

doubted

that

they

needed

him.

Mazer's

urgency

was

just

another

trick.

Just

another

way

to

make

me

do

what

they

want

me

to

do.

Another

way

to

keep

him

from

resting.

From

doing

nothing,

for

a

long,

long

time.

Then

the

enemy

formation

appeared,

and

Ender's

weariness

turned

to

despair.

The

enemy

outnumbered

him

a

thousand

to

one,

the

simulator

glowed

green

with

them.

They

were

grouped

in

a

dozen

different

formations

shifting

positions,

changing

shapes,

moving

in

seemingly

random

patterns

through

the

simulator

field.

He

could

not

find

a

path

through

them

--

a

space

that

seemed

open

would

close

suddenly,

and

another

appear,

and

a

formation

that

seemed

penetrable

would

suddenly

change

and

be

forbidding.

The

planet

was

at

the

far

edge

of

the

field,

and

for

all

Ender

knew

there

were

just

as

many

enemy

ships

beyond

it,

out

of

the

simulator's

range.

As

for

his

own

fleet,

it

consisted

of

twenty

starships,

each

with

only

four

fighters.

He

knew

the

four-fighter

starships

they

were

old-fashioned,

sluggish,

and

the

range

of

their

Little

Doctors

was

half

that

of

the

newer

ones.

Eighty

fighters,

against

at

least

five

thousand,

perhaps

ten

thousand

enemy

ships.

He

heard

his

squadron

leaders

breathing

heavily;

he

could

also

hear,

from

the

observers

behind

him,

a

quiet

curse.

It

was

nice

to

know

that

one

of

the

adults

noticed

that

it

wasn't

a

fair

test.

Not

that

it

made

any

difference.

Fairness

wasn't

part

of

the

game,

that

was

plain.

There

was

no

attempt

to

give

him

even

a

remote

chance

at

success.

All

that

I've

been

through,

and

they

never

meant

to

let

me

pass

at

all.

He

saw

in

his

mind

Bonzo

and

his

vicious

little

knot

of

friends,

confronting

him,

threatening

him;

he

had

been

able

to

shame

Bonzo

into

fighting

him

alone.

That

would

hardly

work

here.

And

he

could

not

surprise

the

enemy

with

his

ability

as

he

had

done

with

the

older

boys

in

the

battleroom.

Mazer

knew

Ender's

abilities

inside

and

out.

The

observers

behind

him

began

to

cough,

to

move

nervously.

They

were

beginning

to

realize

that

Ender

didn't

know

what

to

do.

I

don't

care

anymore,

thought

Ender.

You

can

keep

your

game.

If

you

won't

even

give

me

a

chance,

why

should

I

play?

Like

his

last

game

in

Battle

School,

when

they

put

two

armies

against

him.

And

just

as

he

remembered

that

game,

apparently

Bean

remembered

it,

too,

for

his

voice

came

over

the

headset,

saying,

"Remember,

the

enemy's

gate

is

*down*."

Molo,

Soup,

Vlad,

Dumper,

and

Crazy

Tom

all

laughed.

They

remembered,

too.

And

Ender

also

laughed.

It

was

funny.

The

adults

taking

all

this

so

seriously,

and

the

children

playing

along,

playing

along,

believing

it

too

until

suddenly

the

adults

went

too

far,

tried

too

hard,

and

the

children

could

see

through

their

game.

Forget

it,

Mazer.

I

don't

care

if

I

pass

your

test,

I

don't

care

if

I

follow

your

rules,

if

you

can

cheat,

so

can

I.

I

won't

let

you

beat

me

unfairly

--

I'll

beat

you

unfairly

first.

In

that

final

battle

in

Battle

School,

he

had

won

by

ignoring

the

enemy,

ignoring

his

own

losses;

he

had

moved

against

the

enemy's

gate.

And

the

enemy's

gate

was

down.

If

I

break

this

rule,

they'll

never

let

me

be

a

commander.

It

would

be

too

dangerous.

I'll

never

have

to

play

a

game

again.

And

that

is

victory.

He

whispered

quickly

into

the

microphone.

His

commanders

took

their

parts

of

the

fleet

and

grouped

themselves

into

a

thick

projectile,

a

cylinder

aimed

at

the

nearest

of

the

enemy

formations.

The

enemy,

far

from

trying

to

repel

him,

welcomed

him

in,

so

he

could

be

thoroughly

entrapped

before

they

destroyed

him.

Mazer

is

at

least

taking

into

account

the

fact

that

by

now

they

would

have

learned

to

respect

me.

thought

Ender.

And

that

does

buy

me

time.

Ender

dodged

downward,

north,

east,

and

down

again,

not

seeming

to

follow

any

plan,

but

always

ending

up

a

little

closer

to

the

enemy

planet.

Finally

the

enemy

began

to

close

in

on

him

too

tightly.

Then,

suddenly,

Ender's

formation

burst.

His

fleet

seemed

to

melt

into

chaos.

The

eighty

fighters

seemed

to

follow

no

plan

at

all,

firing

at

enemy

ships

at

random,

working

their

way

into

hopeless

individual

paths

among

the

bugger

craft.

After

a

few

minutes

of

battle,

however,

Ender

whispered

to

his

squadron

leaders

once

more,

and

suddenly

a

dozen

of

the

remaining

fighters

formed

again

into

a

formation.

But

now

they

were

on

the

far

side

of

one

of

the

enemy's

most

formidable

groups;

they

had,

with

terrible

losses,

passed

through

and

now

they

had

covered

more

than

half

the

distance

to

the

enemy's

planet.

The

enemy

sees

now,

thought

Ender.

Surely

Mazer

sees

what

I'm

doing.

Or

perhaps

Mazer

cannot

believe

that

I

would

do

it.

Well

so

much

the

better

for

me.

Ender's

tiny

fleet

darted

this

way

and

that,

sending

two

or

three

fighters

out

as

if

to

attack,

then

bringing

them

back.

The

enemy

closed

in,

drawing

in

ships

and

formations

that

had

been

widely

scattered,

bringing

them

in

for

the

kill.

The

enemy

was

most

concentrated

beyond

Ender,

so

he

could

not

escape

back

into

open

space,

closing

him

in.

Excellent,

thought

Ender.

Closer.

Come

closer.

Then

he

whispered

a

command

and

the

ships

dropped

like

rocks

toward

the

planet's

surface.

They

were

starships

and

fighters,

completely

unequipped

to

handle

the

heat

of

passage

through

an

atmosphere.

But

Ender

never

intended

them

to

reach

the

atmosphere.

Almost

from

the

moment

they

began

to

drop,

they

were

focusing

their

Little

Doctors

on

one

thing

only.

The

planet

itself.

One,

two,

four,

seven

of

his

fighters

were

blown

away.

It

was

all

a

gamble

now,

whether

any

of

his

ships

would

survive

long

enough

to

get

in

range.

It

would

not

take

long,

once

they

could

focus

on

the

planet's

surface.

Just

a

moment

with

Dr,

Device,

that's

all

I

want.

It

occurred

to

Ender

that

perhaps

the

computer

wasn't

even

equipped

to

show

what

would

happen

to

a

planet

if

the

Little

Doctor

attacked

it.

What

will

I

do

then,

shout

Bang,

you're

dead?

Ender

took

his

hands

off

the

controls

and

leaned

in

to

watch

what

happened.

The

perspective

was

close

to

the

enemy

planet

now,

as

the

ship

hurtled

into

its

well

of

gravity.

Surely

it's

in

range

now,

thought

Ender.

It

must

be

in

range

and

the

computer

can't

handle

it.

Then

the

surface

of

the

planet,

which

filled

half

the

simulator

field

now,

began

to

bubble;

there

was

a

gout

ot

explosion,

hurling

debris

out

toward

Ender's

fighters.

Ender

tried

to

imagine

what

was

happening

inside

the

planet.

The

field

growing

and

growing,

the

molecules

bursting

apart

but

finding

nowhere

for

the

separate

atoms

to

go.

Within

three

seconds

the

entire

planet

burst

apart,

becoming

a

sphere

of

bright

dust,

hurtling

outward.

Ender's

fighters

were

among

the

first

to

go:

their

perspective

suddenly

vanished,

and

now

the

simulator

could

only

display

the

perspective

of

the

starships

waiting

beyond

the

edges

of

the

battle.

It

was

as

close

as

Ender

wanted

to

be.

The

sphere

of

the

exploding

planet

grew

outward

faster

than

the

enemy

ships

could

avoid

it.

And

it

carried

with

it

the

Little

Doctor,

not

so

little

anymore,

the

field

taking

apart

every

ship

in

its

path,

erupting

each

one

into

a

dot

of

light

before

it

went

on.

Only

at

the

very

periphery

of

the

simulator

did

the

M.D.

field

weaken.

Two

or

three

enemy

ships

were

drifting

away.

Ender's

own

starships

did

not

explode.

But

where

the

vast

enemy

fleet

had

been,

and

the

planet

they

protected,

there

was

nothing

meaningful.

A

lump

of

dirt

was

growing

as

gravity

drew

much

of

the

debris

downward

again.

It

was

glowing

hot

and

spinning

visibly;

it

was

also

much

smaller

than

the

world

had

been

before.

Much

of

its

mass

was

now

a

cloud

still

flowing

outward.

Ender

took

off

his

headphones,

filled

with

the

cheers

of

his

squadron

leaders,

and

only

then

realized

that

there

was

just

as

much

noise

in

the

room

with

him.

Men

in

uniform

were

hugging

each

other,

laughing,

shouting;

others

were

weeping;

some

knelt

or

lay

prostrate,

and

Ender

knew

they

were

caught

up

in

prayer.

Ender

didn't

understand.

It

seemed

all

wrong.

They

were

supposed

to

be

angry.

Colonel

Graff

detached

himself

from

the

others

and

came

to

Ender.

Tears

streamed

down

his

face,

but

he

was

smiling.

He

bent

over,

reached

out

his

arms,

and

to

Ender's

surprise

he

embraced

him,

held

him

tightly,

and

whispered,

"Thank

you,

thank

you

Ender.

Thank

God

for

you,

Ender."

The

others

soon

came,

too,

shaking

his

hand,

congratulating

him.

He

tried

to

make

sense

of

this.

Had

he

passed

the

test

after

all?

It

was

his

victory,

not

theirs,

and

a

hollow

one

at

that,

a

cheat;

why

did

they

act

as

if

he

had

won

with

honor?

The

crowd

parted

and

Mazer

Rackham

walked

through.

He

came

straight

to

Ender

and

held

out

his

hand.

"You

made

the

hard

choice,

boy.

All

or

nothing.

End

them

or

end

us.

But

heaven

knows

there

was

no

other

way

you

could

have

done

it.

Congratulations.

You

beat

them,

and

it's

all

over."

All

over.

Beat

them.

Ender

didn't

understand.

"I

beat

*you*."

Mazer

laughed,

a

loud

laugh

that

filled

the

room.

"Ender,

you

never

played

*me*.

You

never

played

a

*game*

since

I

became

your

enemy."

Ender

didn't

get

the

joke.

He

had

played

a

great

many

games,

at

a

terrible

cost

to

himself.

He

began

to

get

angry.

Mazer

reached

out

and

touched

his

shoulder.

Ender

shrugged

him

off.

Mazer

then

grew

serious

and

said,

"Ender,

for

the

past

few

months

you

have

been

the

battle

commander

of

our

fleets.

This

was

the

Third

Invasion.

There

were

no

games,

the

battles

were

real,

and

the

only

enemy

you

fought

was

the

buggers.

You

won

every

battle,

and

today

you

finally

fought

them

at

their

home

world,

where

the

queen

was,

all

the

queens

from

all

their

colonies,

they

all

were

there

and

you

destroyed

them

completely.

They'll

never

attack

us

again.

You

did

it.

You."

Real.

Not

a

game.

Ender's

mind

was

too

tired

to

cope

with

it

all.

They

weren't

just

points

of

light

in

the

air,

they

were

real

ships

that

he

had

fought

with

and

real

ships

he

had

destroyed.

And

a

real

world

that

he

had

blasted

into

oblivion.

He

walked

through

the

crowd,

dodging

their

congratulations,

ignoring

their

hands,

their

words,

their

rejoicing.

When

he

got

to

his

own

room

he

stripped

off

his

clothes,

climbed

into

bed,

and

slept.

***

Ender

awoke

when

they

shook

him.

It

took

a

moment

to

recognize

them.

Graff

and

Rackham.

He

turned

his

back

on

them.

Let

me

sleep.

"Ender,

we

need

to

talk

to

you,"

said

Graff.

Ender

rolled

back

to

face

them.

"They've

been

playing

out

the

videos

on

Earth

all

day,

all

night

since

the

battle

yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

He

had

slept

through

until

the

next

day.

"You're

a

hero.

Ender.

They've

seen

what

you

did.

You

and

the

others.

I

don't

think

there's

a

government

on

Earth

that

hasn't

voted

you

their

highest

medal."

"I

killed

them

all,

didn't

I?"

Ender

asked.

"All

who?"

asked

Graff.

"The

buggers?

That

was

the

idea."

Mazer

leaned

in

close.

"That's

what

the

war

was

for."

"All

their

queens.

So

I

killed

all

their

children,

all

of

everything."

"They

decided

that

when

they

attacked

us.

It

wasn't

your

fault.

It's

what

had

to

happen."

Ender

grabbed

Mazer's

uniform

and

hung

onto

it,

pulling

him

down

so

they

were

face

to

face.

"I

didn't

want

to

kill

them

all.

I

didn't

want

to

kill

anybody!

I'm

not

a

killer!

You

didn't

want

me,

you

bastards,

you

wanted

Peter,

but

you

made

me

do

it,

you

tricked

me

into

it!"

He

was

crying.

He

was

out

of

control.

"Of

course

we

tricked

you

into

it.

That's

the

whole

point,"

said

Graff.

"It

had

to

be

a

trick

or

you

couldn't

have

done

it.

It's

the

bind

we

were

in.

We

had

to

have

a

commander

with

so

much

empathy

that

he

would

think

like

the

buggers,

understand

them

and

anticipate

them.

So

much

compassion

that

he

could

win

the

love

of

his

underlings

and

work

with

them

like

a

perfect

machine,

as

perfect

as

the

buggers.

But

somebody

with

that

much

compassion

could

never

be

the

killer

we

needed.

Could

never

go

into

battle

willing

to

win

at

all

costs.

If

you

knew,

you

couldn't

do

it.

If

you

were

the

kind

of

person

who

would

do

it

even

if

you

knew,

you

could

never

have

understood

the

buggers

well

enough."

"And

it

had

to

be

a

child,

Ender,"

said

Mazer.

"You

were

faster

than

me.

Better

than

me.

I

was

too

old

and

cautious.

Any

decent

person

who

knows

what

warfare

is

can

never

go

into

battle

with

a

whole

heart.

But

you

didn't

know.

We

made

sure

you

didn't

know.

You

were

reckless

and

brilliant

and

young.

It's

what

you

were

born

for."

"We

had

pilots

with

our

ships,

didn't

we."

"Yes."

"I

was

ordering

pilots

to

go

in

and

die

and

I

didn't

even

know

it."

"*They*

knew

it,

Ender,

and

they

went

anyway.

They

knew

what

it

was

for."

"You

never

asked

me!

You

never

told

me

the

truth

about

anything!"

"You

had

to

be

a

weapon,

Ender.

Like

a

gun,

like

the

Little

Doctor,

functioning

perfectly

but

not

knowing

what

you

were

aimed

at.

We

aimed

you.

We're

responsible.

If

there

was

something

wrong,

we

did

it."

"Tell

me

later,"

Ender

said.

His

eyes

closed.

Mazer

Rackham

shook

him.

"Don't

go

to

sleep,

Ender,"

he

said.

"It's

very

important."

"You're

finished

with

me,"

Ender

said.

"Now

leave

me

alone."

"That's

why

we're

here."

Mazer

said,

"We're

trying

to

tell

you.

They're

not

through

with

you,

not

at

all,

it's

crazy

down

there.

They're

going

to

start

a

war,

Americans

claiming

the

Warsaw

Pact

is

about

to

attack,

and

the

Pact

saying

the

same

thing

about

the

Hegemon.

The

bugger

war

isn't

twenty-four

hours

dead

and

the

world

down

there

is

back

to

fighting

again,

as

bad

as

ever.

And

all

of

them

are

worried

about

you.

And

all

of

them

want

you.

The

greatest

military

leader

in

history,

they

want

you

to

lead

their

armies.

The

Americans.

The

Hegemon.

Everybody

but

the

Warsaw

Pact,

and

they

want

you

dead."

"Fine

with

me,"

said

Ender.

"We

have

to

take

you

away

from

here.

There

are

Russian

marines

all

over

Eros,

and

the

Polemarch

is

Russian.

It

could

turn

to

bloodshed

at

any

time."

Ender

turned

his

back

on

them

again.

This

time

they

let

him.

He

did

not

sleep,

though.

He

listened

to

them.

"I

was

afraid

of

this,

Rackham.

You

pushed

him

too

hard.

Some

of

those

lesser

outposts

could

have

waited

until

after.

You

could

have

given

him

some

days

to

rest."

"Are

you

doing

it,

too,

Graff?

Trying

to

decide

how

I

could

have

done

it

better?

You

don't

know

what

would

have

happened

if

I

hadn't

pushed.

Nobody

knows.

I

did

it

the

way

I

did

it,

and

it

worked.

Above

all,

it

worked.

Memorize

that

defense,

Graff.

You

may

have

to

use

it,

too."

"Sorry."

"I

can

see

what

it's

done

to

him.

Colonel

Liki

says

there's

a

good

chance

he'll

be

permanently

damaged,

but

I

don't

believe

it.

He's

too

strong.

Winning

meant

a

lot

to

him,

and

he

won."

"Don't

tell

me

about

strong.

The

kid's

eleven.

Give

him

some

rest,

Rackham.

Things

haven't

exploded

yet.

We

can

post

a

guard

outside

his

door."

"Or

post

a

guard

outside

another

door

and

pretend

that

it's

his."

"Whatever."

They

went

away.

Ender

slept

again.

***

Time

passed

without

touching

Ender,

except

with

glancing

blows.

Once

he

awoke

for

a

few

minutes

with

something

pressing

his

hand,

pushing

downward

on

it,

with

a

dull,

insistent

pain.

He

reached

over

and

touched

it;

it

was

a

needle

passing

into

a

vein.

He

tried

to

pull

it

out,

but

it

was

taped

on

and

he

was

too

weak.

Another

time

he

awoke

in

darkness

to

hear

people

near

him

murmuring

and

cursing.

His

ears

were

ringing

with

the

loud

noise

that

had

awakened

him;

he

did

not

remember

the

noise.

"Get

the

lights

on,"

someone

said.

And

another

time

he

thought

he

heard

someone

crying

softly

near

him.

It

might

have

been

a

single

day;

it

might

have

been

a

week;

from

his

dreams,

it

could

have

been

months.

He

seemed

to

pass

through

lifetimes

in

his

dreams.

Through

the

Giant's

Drink

again,

past

the

wolf-children,

reliving

the

terrible

deaths,

the

constant

murders;

he

heard

a

voice

whispering

in

the

forest,

You

had

to

kill

the

children

to

get

to

the

End

of

the

World.

And

he

tried

to

answer.

I

never

wanted

to

kill

anybody.

Nobody

ever

asked

me

if

I

wanted

to

kill

anybody.

But

the

forest

laughed

at

him.

And

when

he

leapt

from

the

cliff

at

the

End

of

the

World,

sometimes

it

was

not

clouds

that

caught

him,

but

a

fighter

that

carried

him

to

a

vantage

point

near

the

surface

of

the

buggers'

world,

so

he

could

watch,

over

and

over,

the

eruption

of

death

when

Dr.

Device

set

off

a

reaction

on

the

planet's

face;

then

closer

and

closer,

until

he

could

watch

individual

buggers

explode,

turn

to

light,

then

collapse

into

a

pile

of

dirt

before

his

eyes.

And

the

queen,

surrounded

by

infants;

only

the

queen

was

Mother,

and

the

infants

were

Valentine

and

all

the

children

he

had

known

in

Battle

School.

One

of

them

had

Bonzo's

face,

and

he

lay

there

bleeding

through

the

eyes

and

nose,

saying,

You

have

no

honor.

And

always

the

dream

ended

with

a

mirror

or

a

pool

of

water

or

the

metal

surface

of

ship,

something

that

would

reflect

his

face

back

to

him.

At

first

it

was

always

Peter's

face,

with

blood

and

a

snake's

tail

coming

from

the

mouth.

After

a

while,

though,

it

began

to

be

his

own

face,

old

and

sad,

with

eyes

that

grieved

for

a

billion,

billion

murders

--

but

they

were

his

own

eyes,

and

he

was

content

to

wear

them.

That

was

the

world

Ender

lived

in

for

many

lifetimes

during

the

five

days

of

the

League

War.

When

he

awoke

again

he

was

lying

in

darkness.

In

the

distance

he

could

hear

the

thump,

thump

of

explosions.

He

listened

for

a

while.

Then

he

heard

a

soft

footstep.

He

turned

over

and

flung

out

a

hand,

to

grasp

whoever

was

sneaking

up

on

him.

Sure

enough,

he

caught

someone's

clothing

and

pulled

him

down

toward

his

knees,

ready

to

kill

him

if

need

be.

"Ender,

it's

me,

it's

me!"

He

knew

the

voice.

It

came

out

of

his

memory

as

if

it

were

a

million

years

ago.

"Alai."

"Salaam,

pinprick.

What

were

you

trying

to

do,

kill

me?"

"Yes.

I

thought

you

were

trying

to

kill

*me*."

"I

was

trying

not

to

wake

you

up.

Well,

at

least

you

have

some

survival

instinct

left.

The

way

Mazer

talks

about

it,

you

were

becoming

a

vegetable."

"I

was

trying

to.

What's

the

thumping."

"There's

a

war

going

on

here.

Our

section

is

blacked

out

to

keep

us

safe."

Ender

swung

his

legs

out

to

sit

up.

He

couldn't

do

it,

though.

His

head

hurt

too

bad.

He

winced

in

pain."

"Don't

sit

up,

Ender.

It's

all

right.

It

looks

like

we

might

win

it.

Not

all

the

Warsaw

Pact

people

went

with

the

Polemarch.

A

lot

of

them

came

over

when

the

Strategos

told

them

you

were

loyal

to

the

IF."

"I

was

asleep."

"So

he

lied.

You

weren't

plotting

treason

in

your

dreams,

were

you?

Some

of

the

Russians

who

came

in

told

us

that

when

the

Polemarch

ordered

them

to

find

you

and

kill

you,

they

almost

killed

him.

Whatever

they

may

feel

about

other

people,

Ender,

they

love

you.

The

whole

world

watched

our

battles.

Videos,

day

and

night.

I've

seen

some.

Complete

with

your

voice

giving

the

orders.

It's

all

there,

nothing

censored.

Good

stuff.

You've

got

a

career

in

the

vids."

"I

don't

think

so,"

said

Ender.

"I

was

joking.

Hey,

can

you

believe

it?

We

won

the

war.

We

were

so

eager

to

grow

up

so

we

could

fight

in

it,

and

it

was

us

all

the

time.

I

mean,

we're

kids.

Ender.

And

it

was

us."

AIai

laughed.

"It

was

you,

anyway.

You

were

good,

bosh.

I

didn't

know

how

you'd

get

us

out

of

that

last

one.

But

you

did.

You

were

good."

Ender

noticed

the

way

he

spoke

in

the

past

good.

"What

am

I

now,

Alai?"

"Still

good."

"At

what?"

"At

--

anything.

There's

a

million

soldiers

who'd

follow

you

to

the

end

of

the

universe."

"I

don't

want

to

go

to

the

end

of

the

universe."

"So

where

do

you

want

to

go?

They'll

follow

you."

I

want

to

go

home,

thought

Ender,

but

I

don't

know

where

it

is.

The

thumping

went

silent.

"Listen

to

that,"

said

Alai.

They

listened.

The

door

opened.

Someone

stood

there.

Someone

small.

"It's

over,"

he

said.

It

was

Bean.

As

if

to

prove

it,

the

lights

went

on.

"Ho,

Bean,"

Ender

said.

"Ho,

Ender."

Petra

followed

him

in,

with

Dink

holding

her

hand.

They

came

to

Ender's

bed.

"Hey,

the

hero's

awake,"

said

Dink.

"Who

won?"

asked

Ender.

"We

did,

Ender,"

said

Bean.

"You

were

there."

"He's

not

*that*

crazy,

Bean.

He

meant

who

won

just

now."

Petra

took

Ender's

hand.

"There

was

a

truce

on

Earth.

They've

been

negotiating

for

days.

They

finally

agreed

to

accept

the

Locke

Proposal."

"He

doesn't

know

about

the

Locke

Proposal--"

"It's

very

complicated,

but

what

it

means

here

is

that

the

IF.

will

stay

in

existence,

but

without

the

Warsaw

Pact

in

it.

So

the

Warsaw

Pact

marines

are

going

home.

I

think

Russia

agreed

to

it

because

they're

having

a

revolt

of

the

Slavic

helots.

Everybody's

got

troubles.

About

five

hundred

died

here,

but

it

was

worse

on

Earth."

"The

Hegemon

resigned,"

said

Dink.

"It's

crazy

down

there.

Who

cares."

"You

OK?"

Petra

asked

him,

touching

his

head.

"You

scared

us.

They

said

you

were

crazy,

and

we

said

*they*

were

crazy."

"I'm

crazy,"

said

Ender.

"But

I

think

I'm

OK."

"When

did

you

decide

that?"

asked

Alai.

"When

I

thought

you

were

about

to

kill

me,

and

I

decided

to

kill

you

first.

I

guess

I'm

just

a

killer

to

the

core.

But

I'd

rather

be

alive

than

dead."

They

laughed

and

agreed

with

him.

Then

Ender

began

to

cry

and

embraced

Bean

and

Petra,

who

were

closest.

"I

missed

you,"

he

said.

"I

wanted

to

see

you

so

bad."

"You

saw

us

pretty

bad,"

Petra

answered.

She

kissed

his

cheek.

"I

saw

you

magnificent,"

said

Ender.

"The

ones

I

needed

most,

I

used

up

soonest.

Bad

planning

on

my

part."

"Everybody's

OK

now,"

said

Dink.

"Nothing

was

wrong

with

any

of

us

that

five

days

of

cowering

in

blacked-out

rooms

in

the

middle

of

a

war

couldn't

cure."

"I

don't

have

to

be

your

commander

anymore,

do

I?"

asked

Ender.

"I

don't

want

to

command

anybody

again."

"You

don't

have

to

command

anybody,"

said

Dink,

"but

you're

always

our

commander."

Then

they

were

silent

for

a

while.

"So

what

do

we

do

now?"

asked

Alai.

"The

bugger

war's

over,

and

so's

the

war

down

there

on

Earth,

and

even

the

war

here.

What

do

we

do

now?"

"We're

kids,"

said

Petra.

"They'll

probably

make

us

go

to

school.

It's

a

law.

You

have

to

go

to

school

till

you're

seventeen."

They

all

laughed

at

that.

Laughed

until

tears

streamed

down

their

faces.

Chapter

15

--

Speaker

for

the

Dead

The

lake

was

still;

there

was

no

breeze.

The

two

men

sat

together

in

chairs

on

the

floating

dock.

A

small

wooden

raft

was

tied

up

at

the

dock;

Graff

hooked

his

foot

in

the

rope

and

pulled

the

raft

in,

then

let

it

drift

out,

then

pulled

it

in

again.

"You've

lost

weight."

"One

kind

of

stress

puts

it

on,

another

takes

it

off.

I

m

a

creature

of

chemicals."

"It

must

have

heen

hard."

Graff

shrugged.

"Not

really.

I

knew

I'd

be

acquitted."

"Some

of

us

weren't

so

sure.

People

were

crazy

for

a

while

there.

Mistreatment

of

children,

negligent

homicide

--

those

videos

of

Bonzo's

and

Stilson's

deaths

were

pretty

gruesome.

To

watch

one

child

do

that

to

another."

"As

much

as

anything,

I

think

the

videos

saved

me.

The

prosecution

edited

them,

but

we

showed

the

whole

thing.

It

was

plain

that

Ender

was

not

the

provocateur.

After

that,

it

was

just

a

second-guessing

game.

I

said

I

did

what

I

believed

was

necessary

for

the

preservation

of

the

human

race,

and

it

worked;

we

got

the

judges

to

agree

that

the

prosecution

had

to

prove

beyond

doubt

that

Ender

would

have

won

the

war

without

the

training

we

gave

him.

After

that,

it

was

simple.

The

exigencies

of

war."

"Anyway,

Graff,

it

was

a

great

relief

to

us.

I

know

we

quarreled,

and

I

know

the

prosecution

used

tapes

of

our

conversations

against

you.

But

by

then

I

knew

that

you

were

right,

and

I

offered

to

testify

for

you."

"I

know,

Anderson.

My

lawyers

told

me."

"So

what

will

you

do

now?"

"I

don't

know.

Still

relaxing.

I

have

a

few

years

of

leave

accrued.

Enough

to

take

me

to

retirement,

and

I

have

plenty

of

salary

that

I

never

used,

sitting

around

in

banks.

I

could

live

on

the

interest.

Maybe

I'll

do

nothing."

"It

sounds

nice.

But

I

couldn't

stand

it.

I've

been

offered

the

presidency

of

three

different

universities,

on

the

theory

that

I'm

an

educator.

They

don't

believe

me

when

I

say

that

all

I

ever

cared

about

at

the

Battle

School

was

the

game.

I

think

I'll

go

with

the

other

offer."

"Commissioner?"

"Now

that

the

wars

are

over,

it's

time

to

play

games

again.

It'll

be

almost

like

vacation,

anyway.

Only

twenty-eight

teams

in

the

league.

Though

after

years

of

watching

those

children

flying,

football

is

like

watching

slugs

bash

into

each

other."

They

laughed.

Graff

sighed

and

pusned

the

raft

with

his

foot.

"That

raft.

Surely

you

can't

float

on

it."

Graff

shook

his

head.

"Ender

built

it."

"That's

right.

This

is

where

you

took

him."

"It's

even

been

deeded

over

to

him.

I

saw

to

it

that

he

was

amply

rewarded.

He'll

have

all

the

money

he

ever

needs."

"If

they

ever

let

him

come

back

to

use

it."

"They

never

will."

"With

Demosthenes

agitating

for

him

to

come

home?"

"Demosthenes

isn't

on

the

nets

anymore."

Anderson

raised

an

eyebrow.

"What

does

that

mean?"

"Demosthenes

has

retired.

Permanently."

"You

know

something,

you

old

farteater.

You

know

who

Demosthenes

is."

"Was."

"Well,

tell

me!"

"No."

"You're

no

fun

anymore,

Graff."

"I

never

was."

"At

least

you

can

tell

me

why.

There

were

a

lot

of

us

who

thought

Demosthenes

would

be

Hegemon

someday."

"There

was

never

a

chance

of

that.

No,

even

Demosthenes'

mob

of

political

cretins

couldn't

persuade

the

Hegemon

to

bring

Ender

back

to

Earth.

Ender

is

far

too

dangerous."

"He's

only

eleven.

Twelve,

now."

"All

the

more

dangerous

because

he

could

so

easily

be

controlled.

In

all

the

world,

the

name

of

Ender

is

one

to

conjure

with.

The

child-god,

the

miracle

worker,

with

life

and

death

in

his

hands.

Every

petty

tyrant-to-be

would

like

to

have

the

boy,

to

set

him

in

front

of

an

army

and

watch

the

world

either

flock

to

join

or

cower

in

fear.

If

Ender

came

to

Earth,

he'd

want

to

come

here,

to

rest,

to

salvage

what

he

can

of

his

childhood.

But

they'd

never

let

him

rest."

"I

see.

Someone

explained

that

to

Demosthenes?"

Graff

smiled.

"Demosthenes

explained

it

to

someone

else.

Someone

who

could

have

used

Ender

as

no

one

else

could

have,

to

rule

the

world

and

make

the

world

like

it."

"Who?"

"Locke."

"Locke

is

the

one

who

argued

for

Ender

to

stay

on

Eros."

"All

is

not

always

as

it

seems."

"It's

too

deep

for

me,

Graff.

Give

me

the

game.

Nice,

neat

rules.

Referees.

Beginnings

and

endings.

Winners

and

losers

and

then

everybody

goes

home

to

their

wives."

"Get

me

tickets

to

some

games

now

and

then,

all

right?"

"You

won't

really

stay

here

and

retire,

will

you?"

"No."

"You're

going

into

the

Hegemony,

aren't

you?"

"I'm

the

new

Minister

of

Colonization."

"So

they're

doing

it."

"As

soon

as

we

get

the

reports

back

on

the

bugger

colony

worlds.

I

mean,

there

they

are,

already

fertile,

with

housing

and

industry

in

place,

and

all

the

buggers

dead.

Very

convenient.

We'll

repeal

the

population

limitation

laws--"

"Which

everybody

hates--"

"And

all

those

thirds

and

fourths

and

fifths

get

on

starships

and

head

out

for

worlds

known

and

unknown."

"Will

people

really

go?"

"People

always

go.

Always.

They

always

believe

they

can

make

a

better

life

than

in

the

old

world."

"What

the

hell,

maybe

they

can."

***

At

first

Ender

believed

that

they

would

bring

him

back

to

Earth

as

soon

as

things

quieted

down.

But

things

were

quiet

now,

had

been

quiet

for

a

year,

and

it

was

plain

to

him

now

that

they

would

not

bring

him

back

at

all,

that

he

was

much

more

useful

as

a

name

and

a

story

than

he

would

ever

be

as

an

inconvenient

flesh-and-blood

person.

And

there

was

the

matter

of

the

court

martial

on

the

crimes

of

Colonel

Graff.

Admiral

Chamrajnagar

tried

to

keep

Ender

from

watching

it,

but

failed

--

Ender

had

been

awarded

the

rank

of

admiral,

too,

and

this

was

one

of

the

few

times

he

asserted

the

privileges

the

rank

implied.

So

he

watched

the

videos

of

the

fights

with

Stilson

and

Bonzo,

watched

as

the

photographs

of

the

corpses

were

displayed,

listened

as

the

psychologists

and

lawyers

argued

whether

murder

had

been

committed

or

the

killing

was

in

self-defense.

Ender

had

his

own

opinion,

but

no

one

asked

him,

Throughout

the

trial,

it

was

really

Ender

himself

under

attack.

The

prosecution

was

too

clever

to

charge

him

directly,

but

there

were

attempts

to

make

him

look

sick,

perverted,

criminally

insane.

"Never

mind,"

said

Mazer

Rackham.

"The

politicians

are

afraid

of

you,

but

they

can't

destroy

your

reputation

yet.

That

won't

be

done

until

the

historians

get

at

you

in

thirty

years."

Ender

didn't

care

about

his

reputation.

He

watched

the

videos

impassively,

but

in

fact

he

was

amused.

In

battle

I

killed

ten

billion

buggers,

who

were

as

alive

and

wise

as

any

man,

who

had

not

even

launched

a

third

attack

against

us,

and

no

one

thinks

to

call

it

a

crime.

All

his

crimes

weighed

heavy

on

him,

the

deaths

of

Stilson

and

Bonzo

no

heavier

and

no

lighter

than

the

rest.

And

so,

with

that

burden,

he

waited

through

the

empty

months

until

the

world

that

he

had

saved

decided

he

could

come

home.

One

by

one,

his

friends

reluctantly

left

him,

called

home

to

their

families,

to

be

received

with

heroes'

welcomes

in

their

towns.

Ender

watched

the

videos

of

their

homecomings,

and

was

touched

when

they'

spent

much

of

their

time

praising

Ender

Wiggin,

who

taught

them

everything,

they

said,

who

taught

them

and

led

them

into

victory.

But

if

they

called

for

him

to

be

brought

home,

the

words

were

censored

from

the

videos

and

no

one

heard

the

plea.

For

a

time,

the

only

work

in

Eros

was

cleaning

up

after

the

bloody

League

War

and

receiving

the

reports

of

the

starships,

once

warships,

that

were

now

exploring

the

bugger

colony

worlds.

But

now

Eros

was

busier

than

ever,

more

crowded

than

it

bad

ever

been

during

the

war,

as

colonists

were

brought

here

to

prepare

for

their

voyages

to

the

empty

bugger

worlds.

Ender

took

part

in

the

work,

as

much

as

they

would

let

him,

but

it

did

not

occur

to

them

that

this

twelve-year-old

boy

might

be

as

gifted

at

peace

as

he

was

at

war.

But

he

was

patient

with

their

tendency

to

ignore

him,

and

learned

to

make

his

proposals

and

suggest

his

plans

through

the

few

adults

who

listened

to

him,

and

let

them

present

them

as

their

own.

He

was

concerned,

not

about

getting

credit,

but

about

getting

the

job

done.

The

one

thing

he

could

not

bear

was

the

worship

of

the

colonists.

He

learned

to

avoid

the

tunnels

where

they

lived,

because

they

would

always

recognize

him

--

the

world

had

memorized

his

face

--

and

the

they

would

scream

and

shout

and

embrace

him

and

congratulate

him

and

show

him

the

children

they

had

named

after

him

and

tell

him

how

he

was

so

young

it

broke

their

hearts

and

*they*

didn't

blame

him

for

any

of

his

murders

because

it

wasn't

his

fault

he

was

just

a

*child*--

He

hid

from

them

as

best

he

could.

There

was

one

colonist,

though,

he

couldn't

hide

from.

He

wasn't

inside

Eros

that

day.

He

had

gone

up

with

the

shuttle

to

the

new

ISL,

where

he

had

been

learning

to

do

surface

work

on

the

starships;

it

was

unbecoming

to

an

officer

to

do

mechanical

labor,

Chamrajnagar

told

him,

but

Ender

answered

that

since

the

trade

he

had

mastered

wasn't

much

called

for

now,

it

was

about

time

he

learned

another

skill.

They

spoke

to

him

through

his

helmet

radio

and

told

him

that

someone

was

waiting

to

see

him

as

soon

as

he

could

come

in.

Ender

couldn't

think

of

anyone

he

wanted

to

see,

and

so

he

didn't

hurry.

He

finished

installing

the

shield

for

the

ship's

ansible

and

then

hooked

his

way

across

the

face

of

the

ship

and

pulled

himself

up

into

the

airlock.

She

was

waiting

for

him

outside

the

changing

room.

For

a

moment

he

was

annoyed

that

they

would

let

a

colonist

come

to

bother

him

here,

where

he

came

to

be

alone;

then

he

looked

again,

and

realized

that

if

the

young

woman

were

a

little

girl,

he

would

know

her.

"Valentine,"

he

said.

"Hi,

Ender."

"What

are

you

doing

here?"

"Demosthenes

retired.

Now

I'm

going

with

the

first

colony."

"It's

fifty

years

to

get

there--"

"Only

two

years

if

you're

aboard

the

ship."

"But

if

you

ever

came

back,

everybody

you

knew

on

Earth

would

be

dead--"

"That

was

what

I

had

in

mind.

I

was

hoping,

though,

that

someone

I

knew

on

Eros

might

come

with

me.

"I

don't

want

to

go

to

a

world

we

stole

from

the

buggers.

I

just

want

to

go

home."

"Ender,

you're

never

going

back

to

Earth.

I

saw

to

that

before

I

left."

He

looked

at

her

in

silence.

"I

tell

you

that

now,

so

that

if

you

want

to

hate

me,

you

can

hate

me

from

the

beginning."

They

went

to

Ender's

tiny

compartment

in

the

ISL

and

she

explained.

Peter

wanted

Ender

back

on

Earth,

under

the

protection

of

the

Hegemon's

Council.

"The

way

things

are

right

now,

Ender,

that

would

put

you

effectively

under

Peter's

control,

since

half

the

council

now

does

just

what

Peter

wants.

The

ones

that

aren't

Locke's

lapdogs

are

under

his

thumb

in

other

ways."

"Do

they

know

who

he

really

is?"

"Yes.

He

isn't

publicly

known,.

but

people

in

high

places

know

him.

It

doesn't

matter

any

more.

He

has

too

much

power

for

them

to

worry

about

his

age.

He's

done

incredible

things,

Ender."

"I

noticed

the

treaty

a

year

ago

was

named

for

Locke."

"That

was

his

breakthrough.

He

proposed

it

through

his

friends

from

the

public

policy

nets,

and

then

Demosthenes

got

behind

it,

too.

It

was

the

moment

he

had

been

waiting

for,

to

use

Demosthenes'

influence

with

the

mob

and

Locke's

influence

with

the

intelligentsia

to

accomplish

something

noteworthy.

It

forestalled

a

really

vicious

war

that

could

have

lasted

for

decades."

"He

decided

to

be

a

statesman?"

"I

think

so.

But

in

his

cynical

moments,

of

which

there

are

many,

he

pointed

out

to

me

that

if

he

had

allowed

the

League

to

fall

apart

completely,

he'd

have

to

conquer

the

world

piece

by

piece.

As

long

as

the

Hegemony

exists,

he

can

do

it

in

one

lump."

Ender

nodded.

"That's

the

Peter

that

I

knew."

"Funny,

isn't

it?

That

Peter

would

save

millions

of

lives."

"While

I

killed

billions."

"I

wasn't

going

to

say

that."

"So

he

wanted

to

use

me?"

"He

had

plans

for

you,

Ender.

He

would

publicly

reveal

himself

when

you

arrived,

going

to

meet

you

in

front

of

all

the

videos.

Ender

Wiggin's

older

brother,

who

also

happened

to

be

the

great

Locke,

the

architect

of

peace.

Standing

next

to

you,

he

would

look

quite

mature.

And

the

physical

resemblance

between

you

is

stronger

than

ever.

It

would

be

quite

simple

for

him,

then,

to

take

over."

"Why

did

you

stop

him?"

"Ender,

you

wouldn't

be

happy

spending

the

rest

of

your

life

as

Peter's

pawn."

"Why

not?

I've

spent

my

life

as

someone's

pawn."

"Me

too.

I

showed

Peter

all

the

evidence

that

I

had

assembled,

enough

to

prove

in

the

eyes

of

the

public

that

he

was

a

psychotic

killer.

It

included

full-color

pictures

of

tortured

squirrels

and

some

of

the

monitor

videos

of

the

way

he

treated

you.

It

took

some

work

to

get

it

all

together,

but

by

the

time

he

saw

it,

he

was

willing

to

give

me

what

I

wanted.

What

I

wanted

was

your

freedom

and

mine."

"It's

not

my

idea

of

freedom

to

go

live

in

the

house

of

the

people

that

I

killed."

"Ender,

what's

done

is

done.

Their

worlds

are

empty

now,

and

ours

is

full.

And

we

can

take

with

us

what

their

worlds

have

never

known

--

cities

full

of

people

who

live

private,

individual

lives,

who

love

and

hate

each

other

for

their

own

reasons.

In

all

the

bugger

worlds,

there

was

never

more

than

a

single

story

to

be

told;

when

we're

there,

the

world

will

be

full

of

stories,

and

we'll

improvise

their

endings

day

by

day.

Ender,

Earth

belongs

to

Peter.

And

if

you

don't

go

with

me

now,

he'll

have

you

there,

and

use

you

up

until

you

wish

you'd

never

been

born.

Now

is

the

only

chance

you'll

get

to

get

away."

Ender

said

nothing.

"I

know

what

you're

thinking,

Ender.

You're

thinking

that

I'm

trying

to

control

you

just

as

much

as

Peter

or

Graff

or

any

of

the

others."

"It

crossed

my

mind."

"Welcome

to

the

human

race.

Nobody

controls

his

own

life,

Ender.

The

best

you

can

do

is

choose

to

be

controlled

by

good

people,

by

people

who

love

you.

I

didn't

come

here

because

I

wanted

to

be

a

colonist.

I

came

because

I've

spent

my

whole

life

in

the

company

of

the

brother

that

I

hated.

Now

I

want

a

chance

to

know

the

brother

that

I

loved,

before

it's

too

late,

before

we're

not

children

anymore."

"It's

already

too

late

for

that."

"You're

wrong,

Ender.

You

think

you're

grown

up

and

tired

and

jaded

with

everything,

but

in

your

heart

you're

just

as

much

a

kid

as

I

am.

We

can

keep

it

secret

from

everybody

else.

While

you're

governing

the

colony

and

I'm

writing

political

philosophy,

they'll

never

guess

that

in

the

darkness

of

night

we

sneak

into

each

other's

room

and

play

checkers

and

have

pillowfights."

Ender

laughed,

but

he

had

noticed

some

things

she

dropped

too

casually

for

them

to

be

accidental.

"Governing?"

"I'm

Demosthenes,

Ender,

I

went

out

with

a

bang.

A

public

announcement

that

I

believed

so

much

in

the

colonization

movement

that

I

was

going

in

the

first

ship

myself.

At

the

same

time,

the

Minister

of

Colonization,

a

former

colonel

named

Graff,

announced

that

the

pilot

of

the

colony

ship

would

be

the

great

Mazer

Rackham,

and

the

governor

of

the

colony

would

be

Ender

Wiggin."

"They

might

have

asked

me."

"I

wanted

to

ask

you

myself."

"But

it's

already

announced."

"No.

They'll

be

announcing

it

tomorrow,

if

you

accept.

Mazer

accepted

a

few

hours

ago,

back

in

Eros."

"You're

telling

everyone

that

you're

Demosthenes?

A

fourteen-year-old

girl?"

"We're

only

telling

them

that

Demosthenes

is

going

with

the

colony.

Let

them

spend

the

next

fifty

years

poring

over

the

passenger

list,

trying

to

figure

out

which

one

of

them

is

the

great

demagogue

of

the

Age

of

Locke."

Ender

laughed

and

shook

his

head.

"You're

actually

having

fun,

Val."

"I

can't

think

why

I

shouldn't."

"All

right,"

said

Ender.

"I'll

go.

Maybe

even

as

governor,

as

long

as

you

and

Mazer

are

there

to

help

me.

My

abilities

are

a

little

underused

at

present."

She

squealed

and

hugged

him,

for

all

the

world

like

a

typical

teenage

girl

who

just

got

the

present

that

she

wanted

from

her

little

brother.

"Val,"

he

said,

"I

just

want

one

thing

clear.

I'm

not

going

for

you.

I'm

not

going

in

order

to

be

governor,

or

because

I'm

bored

here.

I'm

going

because

I

know

the

buggers

better

than

any

other

living

soul,

and

maybe

if

I

go

there

I

can

understand

them

better.

I

stole

their

future

from

them;

I

can

only

begin

to

repay

by

seeing

what

I

can

learn

from

their

past."

***

The

voyage

was

long.

By

the

end

of

it,

Val

had

finished

the

first

volume

of

her

history

of

the

bugger

wars

and

transmitted

it

by

ansible,

under

Demosthenes'

name,

back

to

Earth,

and

Ender

had

won

something

better

than

the

adulation

of

the

passengers.

They

knew

him

now,

and

he

had

won

their

love

and

their

respect.

He

worked

hard

on

the

new

world,

governing

by

persuasion

rather

than

fiat,

and

working

as

hard

as

anyone

at

the

tasks

involved

in

setting

up

a

self-sustaining

economy.

But

his

most

important

work,

as

everyone

agreed,

was

exploring

what

the

buggers

had

left

behind,

trying

to

find

among

structures,

machinery,

and

fields

long

untended

some

things

that

human

beings

could

use,

could

learn

from.

There

were

no

books

to

read

--

the

buggers

never

needed

them.

With

all

things

present

in

their

memories,

all

things

spoken

as

they

were

thought,

when

the

buggers

died

their

knowledge

died

with

them.

And

yet.

From

the

sturdiness

of

the

roofs

that

covered

their

animal

sheds

and

their

food

supplies,

Ender

learned

that

winter

would

be

hard,

with

heavy

snows.

From

fences

with

sharpened

stakes

that

pointed

outward

he

learned

that

there

were

marauding

animals

that

were

a

danger

to

the

crops

or

the

herds.

From

the

mill

he

learned

that

the

long,

foultasting

fruits

that

grew

in

the

overgrown

orchards

were

dried

and

ground

into

meal.

And

from

the

slings

that

once

were

used

to

carry

infants

along

with

adults

into

the

fields,

he

learned

that

even

thougn

the

buggers

were

not

much

for

individuality,

they

did

love

their

children.

Life

settled

down,

and

years

passed.

The

colony

lived

in

wooden

houses

and

used

the

tunnels

of

the

bugger

city

for

storage

and

manufactories.

They

were

governed

by

a

council

now,

and

administrators

were

elected,

so

that

Ender,

though

they

still

called

him

govertior,

was

in

fact

only

a

judge.

There

were

crimes

and

quarrels

alongside

kindness

and

cooperation;

there

were

people

who

loved

each

other

and

people

who

did

not;

it

was

a

human

world.

They

did

not

wait

so

eagerly

for

each

new

transmission

from

the

ansible;

the

names

that

were

famous

on

Earth

meant

little

to

them

now.

The

only

name

they

knew

was

that

of

Peter

Wiggin,

the

Hegemon

of

Earth;

the

only

news

that

came

was

news

of

peace,

of

prosperity,

of

great

ships

leaving

the

littoral

of

Earth's

solar

system,

passing

the

comet

shield

and

filling

up

the

bugger

worlds.

Soon

there

would

be

other

colonies

on

this

world,

Ender's

World;

soon

there

would

be

neighbors;

already

they

were

halfway

here;

but

no

one

cared.

They

would

help

the

newcomers

when

they

came,

teach

them

what

they

had

learned,

but

what

mattered

in

life

now

was

who

would

marry

whom,

and

who

was

sick,

and

when

was

planting

time,

and

why

should

I

pay

him

when

the

calf

died

three

weeks

after

I

got

it.

"They've

become

people

of

the

land,"

said

Valentine.

"No

one

cares

now

that

Demosthenes

is

sending

the

seventh

volume

of

his

history

today.

No

one

here

will

read

it."

Ender

pressed

a

button

and

his

desk

showed

him

the

next

page.

"Very

insightful,

Valentine.

How

many

more

volumes

until

you're

through?"

"Just

one.

The

story

of

Ender

Wiggin."

"What

will

you

do,

wait

to

write

it

until

I'm

dead?"

"No.

Just

write

it,

and

when

I've

brought

it

up

to

the

present

day,

I'll

stop."

"I

have

a

better

idea.

Take

it

up

to

the

day

we

won

the

final

battle.

Stop

it

there.

Nothing

that

I've

done

since

then

is

worth

writing

down."

"Maybe,"

said

Valentine.

"And

maybe

not."

***

The

ansible

had

brought

them

word

that

the

new

colony

ship

was

only

a

year

away.

They

asked

Ender

to

find

a

place

for

them

to

settle

in,

near

enough

to

Ender's

colony

that

the

two

colonies

could

trade,

but

far

enough

apart

that

they

could

be

governed

separately.

Ender

used

the

helicopter

and

began

to

explore.

He

took

one

of

the

children

along,

an

eleven-year-old

boy

named

Abra;

he

had

been

only

three

when

the

colony

was

founded,

and

he

remembered

no

other

world

than

this.

He

and

Ender

flew

as

far

as

the

copter

would

carry

them,

then

camped

for

the

night

and

got

a

feel

for

the

land

on

foot

the

next

morning.

It

was

on

the

third

morning

that

Ender

suddenly

began

to

feel

an

uneasy

sense

that

he

had

been

in

this

place

before.

He

looked

around;

it

was

new

land,

he

had

never

seen

it.

He

called

out

to

Abra.

"Ho,

Ender!"

Abra

called.

He

was

on

top

of

a

steep

low

hill.

"Come

up!"

Ender

scrambled

up,

the

turves

coming

away

from

his

feet

in

the

soft

ground.

Abra

was

pointing

downward.

"Can

you

believe

this?"

he

asked.

The

hill

was

hollow.

A

deep

depression

in

the

middle,

partially

filled

with

water,

was

ringed

by

concave

slopes

that

cantilevered

dangerously

over

the

water.

In

one

direction

the

hill

gave

way

to

two

long

ridges

that

made

a

V-shaped

valley:

in

the

other

direction

the

rose

to

a

piece

of

white

rock,

grinning

like

a

skull

with

a

tree

growing

out

of

its

mouth.

"It's

like

a

giant

died

here,"

said

Abra,

"and

the

Earth

grew

up

to

cover

his

carcass,"

Now

Ender

knew

why

it

had

looked

familiar.

The

Giant's

corpse.

He

had

played

here

too

many

times

as

a

child

not

to

know

this

place.

But

it

was

not

possible.

The

computer

in

the

Battle

School

could

not

possibly

have

seen

this

place.

He

looked

through

his

binoculars

in

a

direction

he

knew

well,

fearing

and

hoping

that

he

would

see

what

belonged

in

that

place.

Swings

and

slides.

Monkey

bars.

Now

overgrown,

but

the

shapes

still

unmistakable.

"Somebody

had

to

have

built

this,"

Abra

said,

"Look,

this

skull

place,

it's

not

rock,

look

at

it.

This

is

concrete."

"I

know,"

said

Ender.

"They

built

it

for

me."

"What?"

"I

know

this

place,

Abra.

The

buggers

built

it

for

me."

"The

buggers

were

all

dead

fifty

years

before

we

got

here."

"You're

right,

it's

impossible,

but

I

know

what

I

know.

Abra,

I

shouldn't

take

you

with

me.

It

might

be

dangerous.

If

they

knew

me

well

enough

to

build

this

place,

they

might

be

planning

to--"

"To

get

even

with

you."

"For

killing

them."

"So

don't

go,

Ender.

Don't

do

what

they

want

you

to

do."

"lf

they

want

to

get

revenge,

Abra,

I

don't

mind.

But

perhaps

they

don't.

Perhaps

this

is

the

closest

they

could

come

to

talking.

To

writing

me

a

note."

"They

didn't

know

how

to

read

and

write."

"Maybe

they

were

learning

when

they

died."

"Well,

I'm

sure

as

hell

not

sticking

around

here

if

you're

taking

off

somewhere.

I'm

going

with

you."

"No.

You're

too

young

to

take

the

risk

of--"

"Come

on!

You're

Ender

Wiggin.

Don't

tell

me

what

eleven-year-old

kids

can

do!"

Together

they

flew

in

the

copter,

over

the

playground,

over

the

woods,

over

the

well

in

the

forest

clearing.

Then

out

to

where

there

was,

indeed,

a

cliff,

with

a

cave

in

the

cliff

wall

and

a

ledge

right

where

the

End

of

the

World

should

be.

And

there

in

the

distance,

just

where

it

should

be

in

the

fantasy

game,

was

the

castle

tower.

He

left

Abra

with

the

copter.

"Don't

come

after

me,

and

go

home

in

an

hour

if

I

don't

come

back."

"Eat

it,

Ender,

I'm

coming

with

you."

"Eat

it

yourself,

Abra,

or

I'll

stuff

you

with

mud."

Abra

could

tell,

despite

Ender's

joking

tone,

that

he

meant

it,

and

so

he

stayed.

The

walls

of

the

tower

were

notched

and

ledged

for

easy

climbing.

They

meant

him

to

get

in.

The

room

was

as

it

had

always

been.

Ender

remembered

well

enough

to

look

for

a

snake

on

the

floor,

but

there

was

only

a

rug

with

a

carved

snake's

head

at

one

corner.

Imitation,

not

duplication;

for

a

people

who

made

no

art,

they

had

done

well.

They

must

have

dragged

these

images

from

Ender's

own

mind,

finding

him

and

learning

his

darkest

dreams

across

the

lightyears.

But

why?

To

bring

him

to

this

room,

of

course.

To

leave

a

message

for

him.

But

where

was

the

message,

and

how

would

he

understand

it?

The

mirror

was

waiting

for

him

on

the

wall.

It

was

a

dull

sheet

of

metal,

in

which

the

rough

shape

of

a

human

face

had

been

scratched.

They

tried

to

draw

the

image

I

should

see

in

the

picture.

And

looking

at

the

mirror

he

could

remember

breaking

it,

pulling

it

from

the

wall,

and

snakes

leaping

out

of

the

hidden

place,

attacking

him,

biting

him

wherever

their

poisonous

fangs

could

find

purchase.

How

well

do

they

know

me,

wondered

Ender.

Well

enough

to

know

how

often

I

have

thought

of

death,

to

know

that

I

am

not

afraid

of

it?

Well

enough

to

know

that

even

if

I

feared

death,

it

would

not

stop

me

from

taking

that

mirror

from

the

wall.

He

walked

to

the

mirror,

lifted,

pulled

away.

Nothing

jumped

from

the

space

behind

it.

Instead,

in

a

hollowed-out

place,

there

was

a

white

ball

of

silk

with

a

few

frayed

strands

sticking

out

here

and

there.

An

egg?

No.

The

pupa

of

a

queen

bugger,

already

fertilized

by

the

larval

males,

ready,

out

of

her

own

body,

to

hatch

a

hundred

thousand

buggers,

including

a

few

queens

and

males.

Ender

could

see

the

slug-like

males

clinging

to

the

walls

of

a

dark

tunnel,

and

the

large

adults

carrying

the

infant

queen

to

the

mating

room;

each

male

in

turn

penetrated

the

larval

queen,

shuddered

in

ecstasy,

and

died,

dropping

to

the

tunnel

floor

and

shriveling.

Then

the

new

queen

was

laid

before

the

old,

a

magnificent

creature

clad

in

soft

and

shimmering

wings,

which

had

long

since

lost

the

power

of

flight

but

still

contained

the

power

of

majesty.

The

old

queen

kissed

her

to

sleep

with

the

gentle

poison

in

her

lips,

then

wrapped

her

in

threads

from

her

belly,

and

commanded

her

to

become

herself,

to

become

a

new

city,

a

new

world,

to

give

birth

to

many

queens

and

many

worlds.

How

do

I

know

this,

thought

Ender.

How

can

I

see

these

things,

like

memories

in

my

own

mind.

As

if

in

answer,

he

saw

the

first

of

all

his

battles

with

e

bugger

fleets.

He

had

seen

it

before

on

the

simulator;

now

he

saw

it

as

the

hive-queen

saw

it,

through

many

different

eyes.

The

buggers

formed

their

globe

of

ships,

and

then

the

terrible

fighters

came

out

of

the

darkness

and

the

Little

Doctor

destroyed

them

in

a

blaze

of

light.

He

felt

then

what

the

hive-queen

felt,

watching

through

her

workers'

eyes

as

death

came

to

them

too

quickly

to

avoid,

but

not

too

quickly

to

be

anticipated.

There

was

no

memory

of

pain

or

fear,

though.

What

the

hive-queen

felt

was

sadness,

a

sense

of

resignation.

She

had

not

thought

these

words

as

she

saw

the

humans

coming

to

kill,

but

it

was

in

words

that

Ender

understood

her:

They

did

not

forgive

us,

she

thought.

We

will

surely

die.

"How

can

you

live

again?"

he

asked.

The

queen

in

her

silken

cocoon

had

no

words

to

give

back;

but

when

he

closed

his

eyes

and

tried

to

remember,

instead

of

memory

came

new

images.

Putting

the

cocoon

in

a

cool

place,

a

dark

place,

but

with

water,

so

she

wasn't

dry;

no,

not

just

water,

but

water

mixed

with

the

sap

of

a

certain

tree,

and

kept

tepid

so

that

certain

reactions

could

take

place

in

the

cocoon.

Then

time.

Days

and

weeks,

for

the

pupa

inside

to

change.

And

then,

when

the

cocoon

had

changed

to

a

dusty

brown

color,

Ender

saw

himself

splitting

open

the

cocoon,

and

helping

the

small

and

fragile

queen

emerge.

He

saw

himself

taking

her

by

the

forelimb

and

helping

her

walk

from

her

birthwater

to

a

nesting

place,

soft

with

dried

leaves

on

sand.

Then

I

am

alive,

came

the

thought

in

his

mind.

Then

I

am

awake.

Then

I

make

my

ten

thousand

children.

"No,"

said

Ender.

"I

can't."

Anguish.

"Your

children

are

the

monsters

of

our

nightmares

now.

If

I

awoke

you,

we

would

only

kill

you

again."

There

flashed

through

his

mind

a

dozen

images

of

human

beings

being

killed

by

buggers,

but

with

the

image

came

a

grief

so

powerful

he

could

not

bear

it,

and

he

wept

their

tears

for

them.

"If

you

could

make

them

feel

as

you

can

make

me

feel,

then

perhaps

they

could

forgive

you."

Only

me,

he

realized.

They

found

me

through

the

ansible,

followed

it

and

dwelt

in

my

mind.

In

the

agony

of

my

tortured

dreams

they

came

to

know

me,

even

as

I

spent

my

days

destroying

them;

they

found

my

fear

of

them,

and

found

also

that

I

had

no

knowledge

I

was

killing

them.

In

the

few

weeks

they

had,

they

built

this

place

for

me,

and

the

Giant's

corpse

and

the

playground

and

the

ledge

at

the

End

of

the

World,

so

I

would

find

this

place

by

the

evidence

of

my

eyes.

I

am

the

only

one

they

know,

and

so

they

can

only

talk

to

me,

and

through

me.

We

are

like

you;

the

thought

pressed

into

his

mind.

We

did

not

mean

to

murder,

and

when

we

understood,

we

never

came

again.

We

thought

we

were

the

only

thinking

beings

in

the

universe,

until

we

met

you,

but

never

did

we

dream

that

thought

could

arise

from

the

lonely

animals

who

cannot

dream

each

other's

dreams.

How

were

we

to

know?

We

could

live

with

you

in

peace.

Believe

us,

believe

us,

believe

us.

He

reached

into

the

cavity

and

took

out

the

cocoon.

It

was

astonishingly

light,

to

hold

all

the

hope

and

future

of

a

great

race

within

it.

"I'll

carry

you,"

said

Ender,

"I'll

go

from

world

to

world

until

I

find

a

time

and

a

place

where

you

can

come

awake

in

safety.

And

I'll

tell

your

story

to

my

people,

so

that

perhaps

in

time

they

can

forgive

you,

too.

The

way

that

you've

forgiven

me."

He

wrapped

the

queen's

cocoon

in

his

jacket

and

carried

her

from

the

tower.

"What

was

in

there?"

asked

Abra.

"The

answer,"

said

Ender.

"To

what?"

"My

question."

And

that

was

all

he

said

of

the

matter;

they

searched

for

five

more

days

and

chose

a

site

for

the

new

colony

far

to

the

east

and

south

of

the

tower.

Weeks

later

he

came

to

Valentine

and

told

her

to

read

something

he

had

written;

she

pulled

the

file

he

named

from

the

ship's

computer,

and

read

it.

It

was

written

as

if

the

hive-queen

spoke,

telling

all

that

they

had

meant

to

do,

and

all

that

they

had

done.

Here

are

our

failures,

and

here

is

our

greatness;

we

did

not

mean

to

hurt

you,

and

we

forgive

you

for

our

death.

From

their

earliest

awareness

to

the

great

wars

that

swept

across

their

home

world,

Ender

told

the

story

quickly,

as

if

it

were

an

ancient

memory.

When

he

came

to

the

tale

of

the

great

mother,

the

queen

of

all,

who

first

learned

to

keep

and

teach

the

new

queen

instead

of

killing

her

or

driving

her

away,

then

he

lingered,

telling

how

many

times

she

had

finally

to

destroy

the

child

of

her

body,

the

new

self

that

was

not

herself,

until

she

bore

one

who

understood

her

quest

for

harmony.

This

was

a

new

thing

in

the

world,

two

queens

that

loved

and

helped

each

other

instead

of

battling,

and

together

they

were

stronger

than

any

other

hive.

They

prospered;

they

had

more

daughters

who

joined

them

in

peace;

it

was

the

beginning

of

wisdom.

If

only

we

could

have

talked

to

you,

the

hive-queen

said

in

Ender's

words.

But

since

it

could

not

be,

we

ask

only

this:

that

you

remember

us,

not

as

enemies,

but

as

tragic

sisters,

changed

into

a

foul

shape

by

Fate

or

God

or

Evolution.

If

we

had

kissed,

it

would

have

been

the

miracle

to

make

us

human

in

each

other's

eyes.

Instead

we

killed

each

other.

But

still

we

welcome

you

now

as

guestfriends.

Come

into

our

home,

daughters

of

Earth;

dwell

in

our

tunnels,

harvest

our

fields;

what

we

cannot

do,

you

are

now

our

hands

to

do

for

us.

Blossom,

trees;

ripen,

fields;

be

warm

for

them,

suns;

be

fertile

for

them,

planets:

they

are

our

adopted

daughters,

and

they

have

come

home.

The

book

that

Ender

wrote

was

not

long,

but

in

it

was

all

the

good

and

all

the

evil

that

the

hive-queen

knew.

And

he

signed

it,

not

with

his

name,

but

with

a

title:

SPEAKER

FOR

THE

DEAD

On

Earth,

the

book

was

published

quietly,

and

quietly

it

was

passed

from

hand

to

hand,

until

it

was

hard

to

believe

that

anyone

on

Earth

might

not

have

read

it.

Most

who

read

it

found

it

interesting

--

some

who

read

it

refused

to

set

it

aside.

They

began

to

live

by

it

as

best

they

could,

and

when

their

loved

ones

died,

a

believer

would

arise

beside

the

grave

to

be

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead,

and

say

what

the

dead

one

would

have

said,

but

with

full

candor,

hiding

no

faults

and

pretending

no

virtues.

Those

who

came

to

such

services

sometimes

found

them

painful

and

disturbing,

but

there

were

many

who

decided

that

their

life

was

worthwhile

enough,

despite

their

errors,

that

when

they

died

a

Speaker

should

tell

the

truth

for

them.

On

Earth

it

remained

a

religion

among

many

religions.

But

for

those

who

traveled

the

great

cave

of

space

and

lived

their

lives

in

the

hive-queen's

tunnels

and

harvested

the

hive-queen's

fields,

it

was

the

only

religion.

There

was

no

colony

without

its

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

No

one

knew

and

no

one

really

wanted

to

know

who

was

the

original

Speaker.

Ender

was

not

inclined

to

tell

them.

When

Valentine

was

twenty-five

years

old,

she

finished

the

last

volume

of

her

history

of

the

bugger

wars.

She

included

at

the

end

the

complete

text

of

Ender's

little

book,

but

did

not

say

that

Ender

wrote

it.

By

ansible

she

got

an

answer

from

the

ancient

Hegemon,

Peter

Wiggin,

seventy-seven

years

old

with

a

failing

heart.

"I

know

who

wrote

it,"

he

said.

"If

he

can

speak

for

the

buggers,

surely

he

can

speak

for

me."

Back

and

forth

across

the

ansible

Ender

and

Peter

spoke,

with

Peter

pouring

out

the

story

of

his

days

and

years,

his

crimes

and

his

kindnesses.

And

when

he

died,

Ender

wrote

a

second

volume,

again

signed

by

the

Speaker

for

the

Dead.

Together,

his

two

books

were

called

the

Hive-Queen

and

the

Hegemon,

and

they

were

holy

writ.

"Come

on,"

he

said

to

Valentine

one

day.

"Let's

fly

away

and

live

forever."

"We

can't,"

she

said.

"There

are

miracles

even

relativity

can't

pull

off,

Ender."

"We

have

to

go.

I'm

almost

happy

here."

"So,

stay."

"I've

lived

too

long

with

pain.

I

won't

know

who

I

am

without

it."

So

they

boarded

a

starship

and

went

from

world

to

world.

Wherever

they

stopped,

he

was

always

Andrew

Wiggin,

itinerant

speaker

for

the

dead,

and

she

was

always

Valentine,

historian

errant,

writing

down

the

stories

of

the

living

while

Ender

spoke

the

stories

of

the

dead.

And

always

Ender

carried

with

him

a

dry

white

cocoon,

looking

for

the

world

where

the

hive-queen

could

awaken

and

thrive

in

peace.

He

looked

a

long

time.