“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 nothing. 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 smartmouth? 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 be 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. Then 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 be sure he was all right. He could hear Father laughing at the video. It was all so clear, and it would never be 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, a forehead there. 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.
This 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 the 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 was 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 be 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. Shen 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. See ya, 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 laugh 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 boys 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-year-old 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 for a moment. “Do I wiggle my butt when I walk?”
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 7
