Battles blurred into practices, which blurred into days, which blurred into nights, which blurred into days . . .
The battles on the simulator were coming more frequently now, once daily, twice daily, three times a day. When they weren't battling, they were practicing; when they weren't practicing, they were asleep. All other activities ceased to have meaning. Forget the old days, when they volunteered for regularly-scheduled voluntary practices—now, they barely remembered to show up for regularly-scheduled meals. Once, Petra realized that she had forgotten to brush her hair for three days. Another time, Bean awoke in an uncomfortable position on his bunk, wearing his clothes, with no memory of returning from practice the night before. Children were forgetting to brush their teeth, turn up for meals, arrive at practices, stay hydrated. They were just too tired to concentrate on anything but battles and battles and battles. They even began taking turns going to the mess hall, sending two or three kids to bring back huge trays of food for everyone to share, so the rest could lie in their bunks and just rest. That was all they could think about—just resting, for a few moments, a few minutes, a few hours, a few days. Just resting, and not thinking about Buggers, and strategy, and Buggers, and battles, and Buggers. Just resting. Just resting. Not worrying about when the next fight would come, when soldiers would begin to rely on them for their lives, when the Buggers would arrive.
Just resting.
Strange accidents kept happening to Ender.
Arms accidentally tipped his food tray to the ground. Elbows accidentally jostled him in the hallways. Shoulders accidentally knocked him to the ground in the shower.
Ender knew the older boys were simply resentful of his army's success, but the bruises still stung. Still, his reputation in the battleroom protected him from all but the worst of the bullies. His legend was so great that soldiers seemed to think it would protect him outside the battleroom as well. So it was far more worrisome, in Ender's mind what was happening to the other soldiers in Dragon Army—they were all younger and mostly smaller than Ender, and they had no such legends yet. It was becoming far too common for soldiers to come to practice with light scrapes or bruises, from more "accidents." When this began, Ender asked if he should interfere, but his soldiers steadfastly refused to allow him.
"We're fine," they insisted, "save your energy for winning battles," and so he did. The incidents escalated, though. Bean showed up one day with finger shaped bruises around his neck, and a firm refusal to explain why. Vlad was out for two days with a broken leg when he was "accidentally" shoved one of the vertical passages between decks. Crazy Tom and two Salamanders ended up in the infirmary when the Salamanders picked a fight and Crazy Tom blew up.
Accidents.
Right.
"So," said Alai, breaking the silence. "What do we do now? The Bugger War's over, and so's the war down on Earth, and even the war here. So what do we do now?"
"We're kids," said Petra. "They'll probably make us go to school. It's a law. You have to go to school till you're seventeen."
They all laughed until they cried again.
Then they cried until they were no longer able to stop crying. They wept until tears had been shed for every hidden pain, every suppressed sob, every ache they had pushed away and concealed for a greater good. Until tears had been shed for every soldier they could have saved, and those they couldn't have. For the childhood they never had, and the future that seemed uncertain. For the Buggers their soldiers had died to kill, and the soldiers who had died to kill them. They cried for each other, because in the deepest recesses of their hearts they knew that eventually they would be separated, shipped away, returned as unwilling heroes to be paraded around countries they barely remembered and didn't love.
They wept until their desperate sobs crossed some unseen border into hysteria, until medics were summoned to sedate these soldiers, these generals, these heroes, these broken down children who were clearly confused, clearly deranged, because they were crying, but the war was over, they had won, they had won, and the Buggers were dead, dead, dead . . .