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,