Future Games

by John Shirley

  Three hefty junior wrestlers ran in carrying Gentian’s kenzo-mawashi between them.

  The last day of the January tournament always packed them in. Even the maegashira and komusubi matches, in which young boys threw each other, or tried to, drew enough of an audience to make the novices feel good.

  The call for the Ozeki class wrestlers came, and they went through the grandiose ring-entering ceremony, wearing their great kenzo-mawashi aprons of brocade, silk, and gold while their dew-sweepers and sword bearers squatted to the sides. Then they retired to their benches, east or west, to await the call by the falsetto-voiced yobidashi.

  Man-Mountain Gentian watched as the assistants helped Killer Kudzu out of his ceremonial apron, gold with silk kudzu leaves, purple flowers, yellow stars. His forehead blazed with the PRC flag. He looked directly at Gentian’s place and smiled a broad smile.

  There was a great match between Gorilla Tsunami and Typhoon Takanaka which went on for more than thirty seconds by the clock, both men straining, groaning, sweating until the gyoji made them stop, and rise, and then get on their marks again.

  Those were the worst kinds of matches for the wrestlers, each opponent alternately straining, then bending with the other, neither getting advantage. There was a legendary match five years ago which took six thirty-second tries before one wrestler bested the other.

  The referee flipped his fan. Gorilla Tsunami fell flat on his face in a heap, then wriggled backwards out of the ring.

  The crowd screamed and applauded Takanaka.

  Then the yobidashi said, “East—Man-Mountain Gentian. West—Killer Kudzu.”

  They hurried their shikiri. Each threw salt twice, rinsing once. Then Man-Mountain Gentian, moving with the grace of a dancer, lifted his right leg and stamped it, then his left, and the sound was like the double echo of a cannon throughout the stadium.

  He went immediately to his mark.

  Killer Kudzu jumped down to his mark, glaring across the meter that separated them.

  The gyoji, off guard, took a few seconds to turn sideways to them and bring his fan into position.

  In that time, Man-Mountain Gentian could hear the quiet hum of the electrical grid, hear muffled intake of breath from the other wrestlers, hear a whistle in the nostril of the north-side judge.

  “Huuu!” said the referee and his fan jerked.

  Man-Mountain Gentian felt like two freight trains had collided in his head. There was a snap as his muscles went tense all over and the momentum of the explosion in his brain began to push at him, lifting, threatening to make him give or tear through the back of his head. His feet were on a slippery sandy bottom, neck-high wave crests smashed into him, a rip tide was pushing at his shoulder, at one side, pulling his legs up, twisting his muscles. He could feel his eyes pushed back in their sockets as if by iron thumbs, ready to pop them like ripe plums. His ligaments were iron wires stretched tight on the turnbuckles of his bones. His arms ended in strands of noodles, his face was soft cheese.

  The sand under him was soft, so soft, and he knew that all he had to do was to sink in it, let go, cease to resist.

  And through all that haze and blindness he knew what he was not supposed to think about.

  Everything quit: He reached out one mental hand, as big as the sun, as fast as light, as long as time, and he pushed against his opponent’s chest.

  The lights were back, he was in the stadium, in the arena, and the dull pounding was applause, screams.

  Killer Kudzu lay blinking among the ring-bales.

  “Hooves?” Man-Mountian Gentian heard him ask in bewilderment before he picked himself up.

  Man-Mountain Gentian took the envelope from the referee with the three quick chopping motions, then made a fourth to the audience, and they knew then and only then that they would never see him in the ring again.

  The official clock said .9981 seconds.

  “How did you do it, Man-Mountain?” asked the Tokyo paparazzi as he showered out his chonmage and put on his clothes. He said nothing.

  He met his wife outside the stadium. A lone newsman was with her, “Scoop” Hakimoto.

  “For old times’ sake,” begged Hakimoto. “How did you do it?”

  Man-Mountain Gentian turned to Melissa. “Tell him how I did it,” he said.

  “He didn’t think about the white horse,” she said. They left the newsman standing, staring.

  Killer Kudzu, tired and pale, was getting in his vehicle. Hakimoto came running up. “What’s all this I hear about Gentian and a white horse?” he asked.

  Kudzu’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

  “No comment,” he said.

  That night, to celebrate, Man-Mountain Gentian took Melissa to the Beef Bowl.

  He had seventeen orders and helped Melissa finish her second one.

  They went back home, climbed onto their futons and turned on the TV.

  Gilligan was on his island. All was right with the world.

  He had been trained in nothing but the game all his life, but now the game began to consume him . . . Ender Wiggins is one of the best-known young characters in science fiction and with the major motion picture, Ender’s Game, to be released later this year, he may well become the best known. This is the story in which young Ender was first introduced. It earned Orson Scott Card the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer before being expanded into the Nebula and Hugo Award-winning novel of the same title. As for the relevance of “Ender’s Game”: “Militainment” video games are now used to recruit and train U.S. soldiers. We already use weapons that are controlled remotely by pilots who are on the other side of the world.

  Ender’s Game

  Orson Scott Card

  “Whatever your gravity is when you get to the door, remember—the enemy’s gate is down. If you step through your own door like you’re out for a stroll, you’re a big target and you deserve to get hit. With more than a flasher.” Ender Wiggins paused and looked over the group. Most were just watching him nervously. A few understanding. A few sullen and resisting.

  First day with this army, all fresh from the teacher squads, and Ender had forgotten how young new kids could be. He’d been in it for three years, they’d had six months—nobody over nine years old in the whole bunch. But they were his. At eleven, he was half a year early to be a commander. He’d had a toon of his own and knew a few tricks, but there were forty in his new army. Green. All marksmen with a flasher, all in top shape, or they wouldn’t be here—but they were all just as likely as not to get wiped out first time into battle.

  “Remember,” he went on, “they can’t see you till you get through that door. But the second you’re out, they’ll be on you. So hit that door the way you want to be when they shoot at you. Legs up under you, going straight down.” He pointed at a sullen kid who looked like he was only seven, the smallest of them all. “Which way is down, greenoh!”

  “Toward the enemy door.” The answer was quick. It was also surly, as if to say, Yeah, yeah, now get on with the important stuff.

  “Name, kid?”

  “Bean.”

  “Get that for size or for brains?”

  Bean didn’t answer. The rest laughed a little. Ender had chosen right. This kid was younger than the rest, must have been advanced because he was sharp. The others didn’t like him much, they were happy to see him taken down a little. Like Ender’s first commander had taken him down.

  “Well, Bean, you’re right onto things. Now I tell you this, nobody’s gonna get through that door without a good chance of getting hit. A lot of you are going to be turned into cement somewhere. Make sure it’s your legs. Right? If only your legs get hit, then only your legs get frozen, and in nullo that’s no sweat.” Ender turned to one of the dazed ones. “What’re legs for? Hmmm?”

  Blank stare. Confusion. Stammer.

  “Forget it. Guess I’ll have to ask Bean here.”

  “Legs are for pushing off walls.” Still bored.

  “Thanks, Bean. Get that, everybo
dy?” They all got it, and didn’t like getting it from Bean. “Right. You can’t see with legs, you can’t shoot with legs, and most of the time they just get in the way. If they get frozen sticking straight out you’ve turned yourself into a blimp. No way to hide. So how do legs go?”

  A few answered this time, to prove that Bean wasn’t the only one who knew anything. “Under you. Tucked up under.”

  “Right. A shield. You’re kneeling on a shield, and the shield is your own legs. And there’s a trick to the suits. Even when your legs are flashed you can still kick off. I’ve never seen anybody do it but me—but you’re all gonna learn it.”

  Ender Wiggins turned on his flasher. It glowed faintly green in his hand. Then he let himself rise in the weightless workout room, pulled his legs under him as though he were kneeling, and flashed both of them. Immediately his suit stiffened at the knees and ankles, so that he couldn’t bend at all.

  “Okay, I’m frozen, see?”

  He was floating a meter above them. They all looked up at him, puzzled. He leaned back and caught one of the handholds on the wall behind him, and pulled himself flush against the wall.

  “I’m stuck at a wall. If I had legs, I’d use legs, and string myself out like a string bean, right?”

  They laughed.

  “But I don’t have legs, and that’s better, got it? Because of this.” Ender jackknifed at the waist, then straightened out violently, He was across the workout room in only a moment. From the other side he called to them. “Got that? I didn’t use hands, so I still had use of my flasher. And I didn’t have my legs floating five feet behind me. Now watch it again.”

  He repeated the jackknife, and caught a handhold on the wall near them. “Now, I don’t just want you to do that when they’ve flashed your legs. I want you to do that when you’ve still got legs, because it’s better. And because they’ll never be expecting it. All right now, everybody up in the air and kneeling.”

  Most were up in a few seconds. Ender flashed the stragglers, and they dangled, helplessly frozen, while the others laughed. “When I give an order, you move. Got it? When we’re at the door and they clear it, I’ll be giving you orders in two seconds, as soon as I see the setup. And when I give the order you better be out there, because whoever’s out there first is going to win, unless he’s a fool. I’m not. And you better not be, or I’ll have you back in the teacher squads.” He saw more than a few of them gulp, and the frozen ones looked at him with fear. “You guys who are hanging there. You watch. You’ll thaw out in about fifteen minutes, and let’s see if you can catch up to the others.”

  For the next half hour Ender had them jackknifing off walls. He called a stop when he saw that they all had the basic idea. They were a good group, maybe. They’d get better.

  “Now you’re warmed up,” he said to them, “we’ll start working.”

  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 like all armies they were uneven, and some of them could be a real drawback in battle. Their first battle might be weeks away. It might be tomorrow. A schedule was never posted. The commander just woke up and found a note by his bunk, giving him the time of his battle and the name of his opponent. So for the first while he was going to drive his boys until they were in top shape—all of them. Ready for anything, at any time. Strategy was nice, but it was worth nothing if the soldiers couldn’t hold up under the strain.

  He turned the corner into the residence wing and found himself face to face with Bean, the seven-year-old he had picked on all through practice that day. Problems. Ender didn’t want problems right now.

  “Ho, Bean.”

  “Ho, Ender.”

  Pause.

  “Sir,” Ender said softly.

  “We’re not on duty.”

  “In my army, Bean, we’re always on duty.” Ender brushed past him.

  Bean’s high voice piped up behind him. “I know what you’re doing, Ender, sir, and I’m warning you.”

  Ender turned slowly and looked at him. “Warning me?”

  “I’m the best man you’ve got. But I’d better be treated like it.”

  “Or what?” Ender smiled menacingly.

  “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 was unworried. “I want a toon.”

  Ender walked back to him and stood looking down into his eyes. “I’ll give a toon,” he said, “to the boys who prove they’re worth something. They’ve got to be good soldiers, they’ve got to know how to take orders, they’ve got to be able to think for themselves in a pinch, and they’ve got to be able to keep respect. That’s how I got to be a commander. That’s how you’ll get to be a toon leader. Got it?”

  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, and didn’t look back. He was sure, without looking, that Bean was still watching, still smiling, still just a little contemptuous. He might make a good toon leader at that. Ender would keep an eye on him.

  Captain Graff, six foot two and a little chubby, stroked his belly as he leaned back in his chair. Across his desk sat Lieutenant Anderson, who was earnestly pointing out high points on a chart.

  “Here it is, Captain,” Anderson said. “Ender’s already got them doing a tactic that’s going to throw off everyone who meets it. Doubled their speed.”

  Graff nodded.

  “And you know his test scores. He thinks well, too.”

  Graff smiled. “All true, all true, Anderson, he’s a fine student, shows real promise.”

  They waited.

  Graff sighed. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Ender’s the one. He’s got to be.”

  “He’ll never be ready in time, Lieutenant. He’s eleven, for heaven’s sake, man, what do you want, a miracle?”

  “I want him into battles, every day starting tomorrow. I want him to have a year’s worth of battles in a month.”

  Graff shook his head. “That would be his army in the hospital.”

  “No, sir. He’s getting them into form. And we need Ender.”

  “Correction, Lieutenant. We need somebody. You think it’s Ender.”

  “All right, I think it’s Ender. Which of the commanders if it isn’t him?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant.” Graff ran his hands over his slightly fuzzy bald head. “These are children, Anderson. Do you realize that? Ender’s army is nine years old. Are we going to put them against the older kids? Are we going to put them through hell for a month like that?”

  Lieutenant Anderson leaned even farther over Graff’s desk.

  “Ender’s test scores, Captain!”

  “I’ve seen his bloody test scores! I’ve watched him in battle, I’ve listened to tapes of his training sessions, I’ve watched his sleep patterns, I’ve heard tapes of his conversations in the corridors and in the bathrooms, I’m more aware of Ender Wiggins that you could possibly imagine! And against all the arguments, against his obvious qualities, I’m weighing one thing. I have this picture of Ender a year from now, if you have your way. I see him completely useless, worn down, a failure, because he was pushed farther than he or any living person could go. But it doesn’t weigh enough, does it, Lieutenant, because there’s a war on, and our best talent is gone, and the biggest battles are ahead. So give Ender a battle every day this week. And then bring me a report.”

  Anderson stood and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”

  He had almost reached the door when Graff called his name. He turned and faced the captain.

  “Anderson,” Captain Graff said. “Have you been outside, lately I mean?”
>
  “Not since last leave, six months ago.”

  “I didn’t think so. Not that it makes any difference. But have you ever been to Beaman Park, there in the city? Hmm? Beautiful park. Trees. Grass. No mallo, no battles, no worries. Do you know what else there is in Beaman Park?”

  “What, sir?” Lieutenant Anderson asked.

  “Children,” Graff answered.

  “Of course children,” said Anderson.

  “I mean children. I mean kids who get up in the morning when their mothers call them and they go to school and then in the afternoons they go to Beaman Park and play. They’re happy, they smile a lot, they laugh, they have fun. Hmmm?”

  “I’m sure they do, sir.”

  “Is that all you can say, Anderson?”

  Anderson cleared his throat. “It’s good for children to have fun, I think, sir. I know I did when I was a boy. But right now the world needs soldiers. And this is the way to get them.”

  Graff nodded and closed his eyes. “Oh, indeed, you’re right, by statistical proof and by all the important theories, and dammit they work and the system is right but all the same Ender’s older than I am. He’s not a child. He’s barely a person.”

  “If that’s true, sir, then at least we all know that Ender is making it possible for the others of his age to be playing in the park.”

  “And Jesus died to save all men, of course.” Graff sat up and looked at Anderson almost sadly. “But we’re the ones,” Graff said, “we’re the ones who are driving in the nails.”

  Ender Wiggins lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. He never slept more than five hours a night—but the lights went off at 2200 and didn’t come on again until 0600. So he stared at the ceiling and thought.

  He’d had his army for three and a half weeks. Dragon Army. The name was assigned, and it wasn’t a lucky one. Oh, the charts said that about nine years ago a Dragon Army had done fairly well. But for the next six years the name had been attached to inferior armies, and finally, because of the superstition that was beginning to play about the name, Dragon Army was retired. Until now. And now, Ender thought, smiling, Dragon Army was going to take them by surprise.