Background information: The story of Jack Perry takes place several years
before Ender's arrival to battle school.
****************************************************************
"I'm telling you, the kid's remarkable."
"I've seen the scores."
"But the scores don't tell everything. He has a mind for strategy. Give him a puzzle and he'll solve it, doesn't matter how difficult."
"So what? That's not a trait we need for our future commanders."
"But have you seen his paintings?"
"Yes, I've studied them. Looks like we have ourselves a little Monet."
"More like a Da Vinci. A renaissance man. He's has the logic and reasoning of a scientist, and yet the eye of an artist."
"Major, we need Napoleons, Alexanders, not Da Vincis. And the last thing we want is a kid who has prior resentment towards the fleet."
"But sir-"
"But nothing. I know why your doing this, and I must tell you, there's no sense in trying to change the past."
"We're Soldiers, sir, we try to better the future, not the past."
"We're not soldiers, we've never served in wartime. Our job is to manipulate children."
"And that's what I'll do. I'll make him perfect. Just give me the chance."
"Fine, if you really believe this'll work. But remember, if you screw up, I'll have you court marshaled."
*******************************************************************
Jack massaged his temples slightly as he leaned over his desk. The headaches were coming back, though not because of illness. Today was the anniversary of Emma's departure into space, and now, more than ever, he felt that old emptiness within the pit of his stomach.
All he had left of his beloved older sister was the photo from the town's data file, which the staff had conveniently left for him to find. Now he stared at it blankly as Mr. Wellsburg rambled on at the front of the classroom.
He squinted down at the screen, trying to imagine what she must look like now. Five years changed a person, though Jack couldn't imagine his sister appearing any different than she had looked to the eyes of a two year old.
But appearance wasn't the only thing that changed... Jack had heard stories, most of them probably exaggerated, about people breaking under the pressure; way up they're in space. Even if he saw Emma ever again, would she be the same sweet seven year old she had been before they snatched her away?
Jack shook off the thought. His sister was strong, that's why the IF picked her. She wouldn't break. She'd keep her humanity.
"Mr. Wellsburg?" Jack's head snapped up as the voice sounded through the intercom. "Mr. Wellsburg, please send Jack Perry to my office immediately."
He stood up slowly, reaching for the tattered nap sack that sat underneath his chair.
"Don't bother kiddo." The teacher said, indicating with a nod of his head to the bag, "You won't be needing it."
Jack frowned slightly. He always brought it with him, out of habit, and now it seemed difficult to leave it behind. After all, it contained on of his most valuable possessions; a small black sketchbook riddled with small figure drawings and notes on composition and structure. He didn't want anything to happen to it in his absence.
Not that anyone would actually dare to harm it, of course. His fellow students were frightened of him, not because he threatened them with physical violence, but because he was simply taller than all the other boys, towering over even the biggest of them by a whole foot.
More so than that though, was the fact that he represented everything that their parent's told them to hate in kids their age. He was outspoken and opinionated, with a strong sense of rebellion.
Nothing would happen to his sketchbook, but still it troubled him to part with it, even for a short moment.
In fact, it was all he could think about as he traveled down the long deserted hallway, hardly caring what Principal Peterson wanted from him. He was used to getting called down, that's what happened when you never did your assignments. Often teachers would complain about Jack's lack of motivation, to which he replied, 'motivate me, and I'll be motivated.' They hated when he said that. Grown ups despise kids who outsmart them...as if intelligence depended solely on age.
As Jack had proved time and time again, the laws of adulthood knowledge and logic can just as well reside in the mind of a seven year old. Few adults realized this and therefore didn't believed it when they saw something he had painted, as if he'd actually be spineless enough to disguise someone else's work as his own. Then again, he never tried to disprove their misgivings, only because it was better for him if they thought he was foolish, than if they thought he had talent. When people notice that someone has a gift, the first thing they wish to do is exploit it. He could just imagine one of his teachers flashing one of those toothy smiles at the cameras, and saying some completely predictable falsehood like:
'Oh yes. I was indeed the first to discover him, he really does owe all of his success to me. I've always been there for him...as if he were my own son.'
Just the thought of it made Jack want to expel what he had eaten earlier in the day. Instead he took several deep, relaxing breaths and knocked on the door to Principal Peterson's office.
"Come in, Mr. Perry."
Jack cringed on the inside. Mr. Perry. That was his father's name, not his.
Yet on the outside he was perfectly composed, opening the door without hesitation.
His sense of control, however, vanished as he stepped into the room.
In the corner, standing stoically still, was a tall dark figure...
Wearing an IF uniform.
Could there be word from his sister, after all these years? Or had something happened to her up there in the stark confines of the battle school?
Jack tried to relax as a small smirk lit up on the officer's face. He bit down severely on his tongue, the physical pain bringing him into a harsh sense of familiarity.
"Jack," Dr. Peterson said, sounding remarkably uncertain, "I'd like to introduce you to Major Brant. He's here on behalf of the IF."
As if he hadn't figured that out by now.
"Take a seat."
Jack realized, with slight surprise, that he was still standing by the door, completely unaware of how nervous he looked.
Slowly he walked to one of the small arm chairs that were placed facing the desk at the head of the room. Jack sat down, hardly noticing the large gap of exposed skin between the bottom of his pant leg and the top of his shoe. Jack grew quite rapidly; so often the clothing that had seemed to fit only a few weeks ago became small and awkward looking.
The Principal seemed to notice it, however, and frowned at the untidiness of Jack's appearance. St. Crispin's academy for boys had a strict dress code, one that the seven year old had never bothered to follow. Instead of wearing the clean pressed, deep blue shirt and tie, Jack sat before them in jeans and a T-shirt, his very posture reeking of defiance.
Just as Dr. Peterson began to open his mouth to comment on his choice of apparel, Major Brant spoke up.
"Thank you, Arnold. You may leave now."
Arnold?
The Principle frowned even deeper than before. Jack contained his smirk, knowing full well that Dr. Peterson hated to be reminded of the minimal amount of authority he actually contained.
Arnold. Jack stored that fun little fact about his beloved principal in the back of his mind.
As Peterson left the room, Major Brant placed himself behind the desk, looking sharp and calculative.
Jack remained silent, not knowing what the man could possible want from him.
As if he had heard the boy's unasked question, the military man began to speak.
"What do remember of your sister?"
Jack held back the impulse to say, 'depends on how much you want to know.'
"I remember that she was kind and good natured. She had a sweet voice and often made witty remarks...usually about politics." He didn't even want to guess where this was leading, or why he had just told this officer how much he admired Emma.
"You do realize that you were two when she left, don't you?"
Jack's placid expression turned to ice. He should have expected this. Adults never believed him to be as perceptive as he actually was, and coming from someone who presumably worked with gifted children, it was slightly more insulting than usual.
"Are you calling me a liar, sir?"
"Quite the contrary. It's just that your test results didn't show any signs of a strong sense of long term memory."
Jack was taken aback.
"What tests?"
He thought about the last couple of months, trying to remember if it was possible that he had answered any unusual questions, without realizing it. But no. He never did anything that felt suspicious. He knew that often his instincts were far more in tune than any other form of knowledge, and would not take a test if he had any misgivings.
"I had those puzzle games installed on all of the student desks. I know you never pay attention in class, so I figured you'd try to solve them eventually."
Jack looked at the ground. How much could they figure out from a game? Could it serve as some sort of psychological profile, figuring out his strengths and weaknesses? Jack finally smiled, realizing that yes, of course it could. He shouldn't be surprised that they had picked this, out of every method of evaluation, to test him.
Once again, Major Brant picked up on his body language.
"Indeed, the name Perry is quite popular to us officers. After all, it was your grandmother that created the Situational Analysis Program-"
"The Mind Game." Jack interjected. He knew full well of the 'entertainment' that the battle school placed on everyone of the children's desks. Like Brant stated, his own grandmother had developed it, five years before her son Mark Perry, was born.
The IF officer flinched slightly at his words, as if they brought him great discomfort.
No. No, he had let Jack see him flinch. The guy was still as composed as ever as he tried to fool the boy into thinking that he was a normal person. This was a game in itself...one that Jack did not intend to loose.
"You asked about my sister..."
It was more of a statement than a question. He didn't let any concern shine through his voice.
And yet at the same time he was examining the lines and contours of Brant's face, the way the light hit certain features to illuminate some and soften others. Already Jack was painting in his mind the picture of the hardened African American man in front of him. He could almost feel the way the brush glided easily within his grasp, running over the cool surface of the canvas.
And once again, he found himself relaxing slightly.
"I didn't come here to talk about your sister."
"You're lying. If that were true, you wouldn't have been so eager to bring her up in conversation."
"Don't you remember me?"
Jack paused, uncertain where he could have met this man before. And then it dawned on him. The face had so easily slipped away from him, because it seemed unimportant at the time. To the infant, he had simply embodied the will of the IF, which Jack hated now with a passion.
"You were the one who came for Emma." Jack said slowly, not knowing how he was supposed to react.
"She's no longer the innocent child we sent up there 5 years back. Your sister has recently turned 12, and is now in command of her own army."
He didn't know much about the inner workings of the battle school, but knew somehow that this position must mean something.
He almost breathed out a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad she's doing well." He said offhandedly, not really prepared for what Brant was about to say.
"I never said that she was doing well, Jack."
Silence filled the room. What had happened to her up there? Why did Brant seem so wary to tell him? Well, the game was over. Jack wouldn't have anymore of this.
"What did you bastards do to her?"
"We didn't do it, and I'm not at liberty to say. But I can tell you that she's become irrational, quick to anger, and aggressive. Yet at the same time she has given up all ambition to move ahead with her learning. I'm afraid that the school will decide to send her back."
Jack remained silent, knowing exactly what that implied.
"But I hesitate to send someone I watched over so closely in the last five years back to an abusive home."
Cold rage filled within him. How did Brant even dare to say such a thing about his dad? He was a tough man, but never abusive.
"My father never beat his children, sir."
"No? Then what would you call it?"
"He does what he has to."
But even as Jack said it, he knew it was a lie. He hated, loved, feared, and admired his father all at once...but habit told him to lie.
By the look on the officer's face, Jack could tell that he had decided to put the subject behind them.
But Jack knew now what this was all about. They wanted him to go up into space in order to help his sister regain sanity. Well, it wasn't going to happen.
"Look, you're test scores are quite promising..."
"No."
If Brant was taken aback, he didn't show it.
"You can't convince me to go to battle school, even if it's solely for the purpose of helping my sister."
"But you wouldn't be helping her."
Jack frowned now, not troubling to hide his confusion.
"It is my belief that you're presence there will force her to remain competitive, therefore giving her back the drive she needs to progress. By doing this, you'd be serving two purposes. Her advancement, and your own."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was this guy insane?
"Why would I want to put myself through hell just to help a bunch of scum bags further their cause? Besides, it's obvious that it's her you want, not me. Why should I waist my time when you're more interested in what Emma can do?"
"Wrong again. That makes four misconceptions doesn't it?"
"Five if you count the part where I accused 'you bastards' of ruining my sister. But since you didn't count that one, I'm assuming my original statement wasn't a misconception at all."
"The fact is that we are interested in you, Jack. Very interested. Your test scores are high up there, as well as your physical stamina and strength. You'd make a perfect little soldier, you only have one draw back."
Jack rolled his eyes. He really didn't like where this was going. Brant noted his change in expression with a raised eyebrow.
"That, young man, is exactly what I mean. You're more likely to start a revolution than to follow orders. You've topped you're sister on intelligence, yet you lack the ability to withstand authority."
The military man let out a short laugh, as if he found this all to be pleasantly delightful. Jack wasn't as easily amused.
"You still haven't convinced me to go." Jack said as he sighed out loud.
Brant stayed silent for a moment, considering.
"Think about it Jack. You'd be far away from your father, far away from the narrow-minded religious types that encompass this school, and best of all, being up there will be like the greatest puzzle you've ever encountered...a whole system of games for you to master. You'll never be bored again."
Jack raised his eyebrows.
"Will I still be able to continue with art?"
Brant shrugged.
"They might allow you you're sketch book, but most personal items are forbidden. Then again, rules never meant much to you anyway."
So that was it. He would go.
Jack wasn't sure if he wanted to smile, or throw up.
before Ender's arrival to battle school.
****************************************************************
"I'm telling you, the kid's remarkable."
"I've seen the scores."
"But the scores don't tell everything. He has a mind for strategy. Give him a puzzle and he'll solve it, doesn't matter how difficult."
"So what? That's not a trait we need for our future commanders."
"But have you seen his paintings?"
"Yes, I've studied them. Looks like we have ourselves a little Monet."
"More like a Da Vinci. A renaissance man. He's has the logic and reasoning of a scientist, and yet the eye of an artist."
"Major, we need Napoleons, Alexanders, not Da Vincis. And the last thing we want is a kid who has prior resentment towards the fleet."
"But sir-"
"But nothing. I know why your doing this, and I must tell you, there's no sense in trying to change the past."
"We're Soldiers, sir, we try to better the future, not the past."
"We're not soldiers, we've never served in wartime. Our job is to manipulate children."
"And that's what I'll do. I'll make him perfect. Just give me the chance."
"Fine, if you really believe this'll work. But remember, if you screw up, I'll have you court marshaled."
*******************************************************************
Jack massaged his temples slightly as he leaned over his desk. The headaches were coming back, though not because of illness. Today was the anniversary of Emma's departure into space, and now, more than ever, he felt that old emptiness within the pit of his stomach.
All he had left of his beloved older sister was the photo from the town's data file, which the staff had conveniently left for him to find. Now he stared at it blankly as Mr. Wellsburg rambled on at the front of the classroom.
He squinted down at the screen, trying to imagine what she must look like now. Five years changed a person, though Jack couldn't imagine his sister appearing any different than she had looked to the eyes of a two year old.
But appearance wasn't the only thing that changed... Jack had heard stories, most of them probably exaggerated, about people breaking under the pressure; way up they're in space. Even if he saw Emma ever again, would she be the same sweet seven year old she had been before they snatched her away?
Jack shook off the thought. His sister was strong, that's why the IF picked her. She wouldn't break. She'd keep her humanity.
"Mr. Wellsburg?" Jack's head snapped up as the voice sounded through the intercom. "Mr. Wellsburg, please send Jack Perry to my office immediately."
He stood up slowly, reaching for the tattered nap sack that sat underneath his chair.
"Don't bother kiddo." The teacher said, indicating with a nod of his head to the bag, "You won't be needing it."
Jack frowned slightly. He always brought it with him, out of habit, and now it seemed difficult to leave it behind. After all, it contained on of his most valuable possessions; a small black sketchbook riddled with small figure drawings and notes on composition and structure. He didn't want anything to happen to it in his absence.
Not that anyone would actually dare to harm it, of course. His fellow students were frightened of him, not because he threatened them with physical violence, but because he was simply taller than all the other boys, towering over even the biggest of them by a whole foot.
More so than that though, was the fact that he represented everything that their parent's told them to hate in kids their age. He was outspoken and opinionated, with a strong sense of rebellion.
Nothing would happen to his sketchbook, but still it troubled him to part with it, even for a short moment.
In fact, it was all he could think about as he traveled down the long deserted hallway, hardly caring what Principal Peterson wanted from him. He was used to getting called down, that's what happened when you never did your assignments. Often teachers would complain about Jack's lack of motivation, to which he replied, 'motivate me, and I'll be motivated.' They hated when he said that. Grown ups despise kids who outsmart them...as if intelligence depended solely on age.
As Jack had proved time and time again, the laws of adulthood knowledge and logic can just as well reside in the mind of a seven year old. Few adults realized this and therefore didn't believed it when they saw something he had painted, as if he'd actually be spineless enough to disguise someone else's work as his own. Then again, he never tried to disprove their misgivings, only because it was better for him if they thought he was foolish, than if they thought he had talent. When people notice that someone has a gift, the first thing they wish to do is exploit it. He could just imagine one of his teachers flashing one of those toothy smiles at the cameras, and saying some completely predictable falsehood like:
'Oh yes. I was indeed the first to discover him, he really does owe all of his success to me. I've always been there for him...as if he were my own son.'
Just the thought of it made Jack want to expel what he had eaten earlier in the day. Instead he took several deep, relaxing breaths and knocked on the door to Principal Peterson's office.
"Come in, Mr. Perry."
Jack cringed on the inside. Mr. Perry. That was his father's name, not his.
Yet on the outside he was perfectly composed, opening the door without hesitation.
His sense of control, however, vanished as he stepped into the room.
In the corner, standing stoically still, was a tall dark figure...
Wearing an IF uniform.
Could there be word from his sister, after all these years? Or had something happened to her up there in the stark confines of the battle school?
Jack tried to relax as a small smirk lit up on the officer's face. He bit down severely on his tongue, the physical pain bringing him into a harsh sense of familiarity.
"Jack," Dr. Peterson said, sounding remarkably uncertain, "I'd like to introduce you to Major Brant. He's here on behalf of the IF."
As if he hadn't figured that out by now.
"Take a seat."
Jack realized, with slight surprise, that he was still standing by the door, completely unaware of how nervous he looked.
Slowly he walked to one of the small arm chairs that were placed facing the desk at the head of the room. Jack sat down, hardly noticing the large gap of exposed skin between the bottom of his pant leg and the top of his shoe. Jack grew quite rapidly; so often the clothing that had seemed to fit only a few weeks ago became small and awkward looking.
The Principal seemed to notice it, however, and frowned at the untidiness of Jack's appearance. St. Crispin's academy for boys had a strict dress code, one that the seven year old had never bothered to follow. Instead of wearing the clean pressed, deep blue shirt and tie, Jack sat before them in jeans and a T-shirt, his very posture reeking of defiance.
Just as Dr. Peterson began to open his mouth to comment on his choice of apparel, Major Brant spoke up.
"Thank you, Arnold. You may leave now."
Arnold?
The Principle frowned even deeper than before. Jack contained his smirk, knowing full well that Dr. Peterson hated to be reminded of the minimal amount of authority he actually contained.
Arnold. Jack stored that fun little fact about his beloved principal in the back of his mind.
As Peterson left the room, Major Brant placed himself behind the desk, looking sharp and calculative.
Jack remained silent, not knowing what the man could possible want from him.
As if he had heard the boy's unasked question, the military man began to speak.
"What do remember of your sister?"
Jack held back the impulse to say, 'depends on how much you want to know.'
"I remember that she was kind and good natured. She had a sweet voice and often made witty remarks...usually about politics." He didn't even want to guess where this was leading, or why he had just told this officer how much he admired Emma.
"You do realize that you were two when she left, don't you?"
Jack's placid expression turned to ice. He should have expected this. Adults never believed him to be as perceptive as he actually was, and coming from someone who presumably worked with gifted children, it was slightly more insulting than usual.
"Are you calling me a liar, sir?"
"Quite the contrary. It's just that your test results didn't show any signs of a strong sense of long term memory."
Jack was taken aback.
"What tests?"
He thought about the last couple of months, trying to remember if it was possible that he had answered any unusual questions, without realizing it. But no. He never did anything that felt suspicious. He knew that often his instincts were far more in tune than any other form of knowledge, and would not take a test if he had any misgivings.
"I had those puzzle games installed on all of the student desks. I know you never pay attention in class, so I figured you'd try to solve them eventually."
Jack looked at the ground. How much could they figure out from a game? Could it serve as some sort of psychological profile, figuring out his strengths and weaknesses? Jack finally smiled, realizing that yes, of course it could. He shouldn't be surprised that they had picked this, out of every method of evaluation, to test him.
Once again, Major Brant picked up on his body language.
"Indeed, the name Perry is quite popular to us officers. After all, it was your grandmother that created the Situational Analysis Program-"
"The Mind Game." Jack interjected. He knew full well of the 'entertainment' that the battle school placed on everyone of the children's desks. Like Brant stated, his own grandmother had developed it, five years before her son Mark Perry, was born.
The IF officer flinched slightly at his words, as if they brought him great discomfort.
No. No, he had let Jack see him flinch. The guy was still as composed as ever as he tried to fool the boy into thinking that he was a normal person. This was a game in itself...one that Jack did not intend to loose.
"You asked about my sister..."
It was more of a statement than a question. He didn't let any concern shine through his voice.
And yet at the same time he was examining the lines and contours of Brant's face, the way the light hit certain features to illuminate some and soften others. Already Jack was painting in his mind the picture of the hardened African American man in front of him. He could almost feel the way the brush glided easily within his grasp, running over the cool surface of the canvas.
And once again, he found himself relaxing slightly.
"I didn't come here to talk about your sister."
"You're lying. If that were true, you wouldn't have been so eager to bring her up in conversation."
"Don't you remember me?"
Jack paused, uncertain where he could have met this man before. And then it dawned on him. The face had so easily slipped away from him, because it seemed unimportant at the time. To the infant, he had simply embodied the will of the IF, which Jack hated now with a passion.
"You were the one who came for Emma." Jack said slowly, not knowing how he was supposed to react.
"She's no longer the innocent child we sent up there 5 years back. Your sister has recently turned 12, and is now in command of her own army."
He didn't know much about the inner workings of the battle school, but knew somehow that this position must mean something.
He almost breathed out a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad she's doing well." He said offhandedly, not really prepared for what Brant was about to say.
"I never said that she was doing well, Jack."
Silence filled the room. What had happened to her up there? Why did Brant seem so wary to tell him? Well, the game was over. Jack wouldn't have anymore of this.
"What did you bastards do to her?"
"We didn't do it, and I'm not at liberty to say. But I can tell you that she's become irrational, quick to anger, and aggressive. Yet at the same time she has given up all ambition to move ahead with her learning. I'm afraid that the school will decide to send her back."
Jack remained silent, knowing exactly what that implied.
"But I hesitate to send someone I watched over so closely in the last five years back to an abusive home."
Cold rage filled within him. How did Brant even dare to say such a thing about his dad? He was a tough man, but never abusive.
"My father never beat his children, sir."
"No? Then what would you call it?"
"He does what he has to."
But even as Jack said it, he knew it was a lie. He hated, loved, feared, and admired his father all at once...but habit told him to lie.
By the look on the officer's face, Jack could tell that he had decided to put the subject behind them.
But Jack knew now what this was all about. They wanted him to go up into space in order to help his sister regain sanity. Well, it wasn't going to happen.
"Look, you're test scores are quite promising..."
"No."
If Brant was taken aback, he didn't show it.
"You can't convince me to go to battle school, even if it's solely for the purpose of helping my sister."
"But you wouldn't be helping her."
Jack frowned now, not troubling to hide his confusion.
"It is my belief that you're presence there will force her to remain competitive, therefore giving her back the drive she needs to progress. By doing this, you'd be serving two purposes. Her advancement, and your own."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was this guy insane?
"Why would I want to put myself through hell just to help a bunch of scum bags further their cause? Besides, it's obvious that it's her you want, not me. Why should I waist my time when you're more interested in what Emma can do?"
"Wrong again. That makes four misconceptions doesn't it?"
"Five if you count the part where I accused 'you bastards' of ruining my sister. But since you didn't count that one, I'm assuming my original statement wasn't a misconception at all."
"The fact is that we are interested in you, Jack. Very interested. Your test scores are high up there, as well as your physical stamina and strength. You'd make a perfect little soldier, you only have one draw back."
Jack rolled his eyes. He really didn't like where this was going. Brant noted his change in expression with a raised eyebrow.
"That, young man, is exactly what I mean. You're more likely to start a revolution than to follow orders. You've topped you're sister on intelligence, yet you lack the ability to withstand authority."
The military man let out a short laugh, as if he found this all to be pleasantly delightful. Jack wasn't as easily amused.
"You still haven't convinced me to go." Jack said as he sighed out loud.
Brant stayed silent for a moment, considering.
"Think about it Jack. You'd be far away from your father, far away from the narrow-minded religious types that encompass this school, and best of all, being up there will be like the greatest puzzle you've ever encountered...a whole system of games for you to master. You'll never be bored again."
Jack raised his eyebrows.
"Will I still be able to continue with art?"
Brant shrugged.
"They might allow you you're sketch book, but most personal items are forbidden. Then again, rules never meant much to you anyway."
So that was it. He would go.
Jack wasn't sure if he wanted to smile, or throw up.