It was about time I published something Ender's-Game-related seeing as I talk about little else these days. This is the product of staying up too late rereading scraps of Hegemon out of sequence. Hope you enjoy it.
They think Peter is stupid just because he is little, but they are wrong. They think he doesn't know the meaning of the furtive conversations which cut off just as he enters a room, that he's too small to realise what the glances between his parents mean, the ones they think are so secret but don't even try to hide.
They think that just because he isn't sure how to spell 'violent' that he doesn't know what it means, but Peter knows, Peter knows as he punches the wall until his knuckles are raw and his eyes water, Peter knows when he pulls Valentine's hair until she squeals, Peter knows when he pulls off the heads of his toy soldiers because they aren't standing straight enough.
Peter knows far more than they suspect, and he is used to hiding what he knows. But he knows the meaning of the sounds coming from the bathroom in the morning, and he knows why Mommy doesn't eat tomatoes or chicken or fish any more, and he knows why Dad asks her how she is feeling more softly and more often nowadays. They think that just because he was only two years old last time it happened, he doesn't recognise the signs this time.
They think he doesn't know that they don't love him, that they've never loved him and that when they tell him 'I love you' at bedtime what they really mean is 'we are having a Third, because you are no good.'
And that is why he almost does what he almost does, on the first day he can spot a slight bump, the subtle curve of Mommy's jumper that smiles at Peter sideways and says, 'she is mine now'.
Mommy is standing at the top of the stairs, holding a pile of pastel-coloured sheets under one arm. She is calling to Dad, who is downstairs, and she doesn't know Peter is behind her (of course she doesn't; she doesn't care where Peter is most of the time) and all he would have to do is give one sharp push in the square of her back and it would all be over. No more secrets. No more little socks and hats. No more early nights without a story because 'Mommy is tired'. No more Third. Everything could go back to how it was. How it should be.
Three. Two. One.
Just as he prepares to push, a little hand tugs on Peter's sleeve and a whispery, sticky voice says in his ear, "Play wiv me, Peter?"
"No," says Peter, waspish, but it is too late. Mommy has moved from the top of the stairs, heading towards her bedroom, and Peter's chance is gone.
"Please," Valentine adds, and he pinches her hard, because he can, before stalking back to his own room.
She toddles after him, unperturbed.
Peter thinks Valentine is stupid just because she is little, but he is wrong. Valentine sees. Valentine knows.