Ender's Game

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.

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 be 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 out 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 foot, took a step, and then knelt on Ender, his knee pressing into Ender's belly just below the