Chapter 2: Andrew Wiggin, a.k.a. "Ender"

My eyes blurred. Afterimages from our flash guns appeared every time I blinked. After a day of climbing and pushing off the "stars" in the Battleroom, lactic acid was burning from my rotator cuffs to my adductors, and everything in between. My flash suit reeked of sweat.

"Ho, Ender."

I forced myself to straighten.

"Ho, Bean."

The boy's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at me. About my age, supposedly, though his spindly body suggested otherwise. My second-in-command. So to speak.

"Are you...?" he said.

Energy. Pep.

…Right.

"Get some rest, Bean," I said.

I tensed the muscles in my cheeks until they produced a smile.

"You're sure you're—"

"Go to sleep," I said. "At the rate they're going, they'll probably wake us up in an hour to fight three armies at the same time."

Bean snorted. He gave me another look, but nodded and headed for bed.

Seventeen steps. I heard his feet slap the floor ever so lightly as he propelled his forty-odd pounds of body weight into the bunk. If the past was any guide, he'd fall asleep in the next ten minutes.

I waited fifteen, and then slumped. The armrests met the Battle School's artificial gravity with equal-and-opposite force. The metal jabbed into my shoulders. The cursor flashed on the screen, drawing me toward Bean's latest ideas. He'd written them out in excruciating detail, along with diagrams. Tactical variants on tactical variants…


Three figures crunch through the snow in a courtyard. They seem like shadows; the wind's screech drowns their voices, and the snowfall blots their faces. They flit through a maze of boulders. The foremost figure moves on two legs, but his gait seems off, like an ostrich's walk except for the way that his upper body pitches from side to side when he steps. He falls forward onto his hands. Or legs...he moves faster now. On four legs.


"Huh?"

I blinked.

The computer bleeped happily as it reminded me that another hour had passed. The monitor's white glow bathed my eyes with a fuzzy, dry sensation, like a shower in reverse.

I let my head loll backward for just a moment longer. Just a little…


Closer. The figures move into view. The leader pads through the courtyard silently; a tail swishes behind him as he walks. He looks back…a dog of some kind? No, too big. A wolf. A very large wolf. The figure that trails behind him only exaggerates the effect; he's small, and walks on two legs, with a head slightly too large for his body. Not a child, but not an adult yet, either. Younger teen, probably. A woman completes the trio. Her curves answer the question that her height evokes: Yes, she is a woman; and yes, she is over six feet tall. Offwhite fur lines the sleeves of her robe.

As my vision descends and approaches them through the field of boulders, I see a face. It appears suddenly, carved into black stone. Its eyes are wide. Curly tufts of hair wreathe it, and two horns poke out from the curls. It screams, but sound does not emerge. The face keeps screaming. It does not move. I know "it". Him. Or at least, I knew the statute's model.

"Work quickly if you want to live."

The woman has spoken. Two moons illuminate her face, painting pale skin blue. I realize that I do not know her, although I know this place. The snow fears to touch her when it falls. It swirls around her like a white veil.

The smaller figure nods. He stands in her shadow, and I cannot see him well. A sharp noise echoes through the courtyard, bounces against the walls. I laugh at the false similarity, the feeling of something vaguely familiar in this alien place.

It sounds like a firearm being cocked.

The woman points to a stone lion. The sculptor, whoever he was, must have been a master. The whiskers that hang from its lips cannot be more than a micron's breadth wider than their real-life counterparts.

I try to lean forward, but the vision does not oblige. Maddening. What made that noise? The boy, obviously. Something the boy holds. I squint, looking for the source. A toy? Something clockwork, maybe, like the porcelain dwarves in yellow silk that moved around in Mr. Tumnus' windup box. Or—

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM- BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM- BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!

Stone pieces fly from the lion's head like splinters from a wood chipper. The whiskers snap off. Deep gouges appear in the stone eyes. Teeth fracture. An ear cracks. Detaches.

The wind carries the tang of spent ammunition. Copper casings melt holes the snow.

For a moment, the woman and the wolf say nothing. They are frozen – as frozen as the statues that populate the courtyard. The wolf's breaths form clouds. He is breathing rapidly, every muscle arched and tense. The woman does not breathe at all.

"How…" she says.

A loaded beginning. I hear a dozen unspoken conclusions to that sentence. She settles for one. Like the tone she assumes, it is businesslike. I am not convinced.

"…how many can you provide?"

The smaller figure speaks. His voice confirms the obvious. It is higher than usual, but descends occasionally into the deeper modulations of adolescence.

"For now?" he says. "Not many. Couple'a squads worth, complete with ammunition. Wait till we get a better transshipment point."

Her arm shoots out. I can barely see the movement until it finishes. She moves faster than the cadets at hand-to-hand training. Faster than the instructors. She snaps up the weapon and cradles it in her hands. Her fingers curl around the grip…and it does look like a toy. But for the bones, her fingers could probably wrap around the boy's neck more than once. But then, those fingers are longer than any I've ever seen. They are thin and spindly, and terminate in sharp nails.

She clicks her tongue.

"It's not a crossbow," the boy says quickly.

The woman raises her eyebrows.

"Don't take me for a fool—"

"I mean that you'll need new tactics."

The wolf snarls. He pads around the boy like a lion stalking its tamer, yet he keeps his eyes on the woman.

"Highness, we don't need these—"

"-and hands," the boy adds. "You'll need hands, too."

Deftly done – like something Bean would think of saying, but lack the charisma to pull off. Objections silenced. The woman laughs. The wolf comes to heel at her feet when she snaps her fingers. She scratches behind the wolf's ears.

"My poor, valiant Maugrim," she says. "Worried about losing your place on the battle-line, hmm?"

She blows gently on his muzzle. His ears go back, and he dips his head.

"Shhh," she whispers. "You won't be replaced. Not my loyal huntsman…"

A moment passes, and she turns to the boy.

"You understand how to use these things?" she says.

"Theoretically, yes. Give me troops and a month to practice, and I'll figure the rest-"

"We ford Beruna in two weeks," she says. "I'll give you fewer than fifty of servants and a free hand."

"On the front lines, naturally."

His tone is not eager. Sarcasm drips from it. She smirks and replies in kind.

"Why my dear young man," she says. "I wouldn't dream of spoiling your little experiment with anything less than a challenge. Especially now that we…understand each other."

The boy steps into the light, and I nearly choke on my tongue. I see once again the face from the mirror in the Room At The End Of The World. The face that a wolf-child wore in a nightmare I've never forgotten. It is thinner now, and most of the baby fat is gone. Fine-featured. It doesn't matter.

…'I'm your brother, Ender. I love you'…

"And with whom have I struck this bargain, hmm?" the woman says. "Is it Hyrum? Or Ender? Or…?"

"Locke," he says. "But you can call me Peter."

She chuckles at this.

"Someday," she says, "I might tell you my other names."

My brother holds out his hand. A moment's hesitation, and the woman's spidery fingers curl around his. Brown eyes meet blue. They smile at each other.

The cobra and the mongoose.


BLEEP.

BLEEP.

BLEEP.

I opened my eyes, and saw white.

BLEEP.

BLEEP.

Focus. Fluorescent lights hummed above me. The left side of my neck ached.

BLEEP.

I shivered. My feet rested on cold metal. Blood flowed through my arms again, bringing needles.

BLEEP.

BLE—

Click.

Alarm off. Eyes open.

Strange...the clock read 2:34 A.M. in red neon script. Or whatever passed for 2:34 A.M. in Earth's orbit. The alarm didn't seem to have woken anyone. Stranger still, I knew I hadn't set it. Bean's breath gently wafted in and out on the cot next to me.

Something blinked. My attention snapped there immediately: a cursor on my computer. A message winked in and out of existence alongside it.

PLAY "WAR IN FANTASYLAND": Y/N?

The image blinked inquisitively.

I scratched my cheek and felt the fuzzy sensations that come after a nap.

Blink?

Blink?

Well, at least it was honest this time, unlike the last exercise in sadism that had called itself a "fantasy game".

The first fantasy game had been philosophical, in its own twisted way. Behind every challenge - the wolf-children, the Giant's poisonous drink, the mirror with Peter's face - it had always hinted at an unspoken question.

Are you a killer, Ender?

And maybe I'd answered it. In any case, the philosopher had apparently yielded his place to the technician. The question had become a command.

Kill better.

I clicked "Yes". The game began.