Ender's Game (Ender's Saga, #1) - Orson Scott Card Page 0,3

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. 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 us? 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 to 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 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,