gaalmapat.site › en-cz › ender-s-game › orson-scott-card. Ender's Game (The Ender Quintet series) by Orson Scott Card. Orson Scott Card brings us back to the very beginning of his brilliant Ender Quartet, with the novel that begins The Shadow Series and allows us to reenter.
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If Bean has learned anything on the streets, it's how to survive. And not with fists. He is way too small for that. But with brains.
The War is over, won by Ender Wiggin and his team of brilliant child-warriors.
The enemy is destroyed, the human race is saved. Ender himself refuses to return to the planet, but his crew has gone home to their families, scattered across the globe. The Battle School is no more. Nations are rising again, seeking territory and influence, and most of all, seeking to control the skills and loyalty of the children from the Battle School.
Bean, once the smallest student at the Battle School, and Ender Wiggin's right hand, has grown to be a power on Earth. He served the Hegemon as strategist and general in the terrible wars that followed Ender's defeat of the alien empire attacking Earth. Orson Scott Card is best known for his science fiction novel Ender's Game and it's many sequels that expand the Ender Universe into the far future and the near past. Those books are organized into the Ender Quintet, the five books that chronicle the life of Ender Wiggin; the Shadow Series, that follows on the novel Ender's Shadow and are set on Earth; and the Formic Wars series, written with co-author Aaron Johnston, that tells of the terrible first contact between humans and the alien "Buggers".
Card has been a working writer since the s. Card was born in Washington state, and grew up in California, Arizona, and Utah. Besides his writing, he runs occasional writers' workshops and directs plays. He frequently teaches writing and literature courses at Southern Virginia University. He is the author many sf and fantasy novels, including the American frontier fantasy series "The Tales of Alvin Maker" beginning with Seventh SonThere are also stand-alone science fiction and fantasy novels like Pastwatch and Hart's Hope.
He has collaborated with his daughter Emily Card on a manga series, Laddertop. He has also written contemporary thrillers like Empire and historical novels like the monumental Saints and the religious novels Sarah and Rachel and Leah. Card's recent work includes the Mithermages books Lost GateGate Thiefcontemporary magical fantasy for readers both young and old.
Card lives in Greensboro, North Carolina, with his wife, Kristine Allen Card, He and Kristine are the parents of five children and several grandchildren. It's about the low quality of what you've been finding. But the kids I'm working with are actually fighting a war just to stay alive. Most of them haven't formed any normal human bonds, they're so messed up they can't get through a day without finding something they can steal, break, or disrupt.
The younger children were supposed to be on watch, too, and sometimes they could be quite observant, but they just didn't notice all the things they needed to notice, and that meant that Poke could only depend on herself to see danger. There was plenty of danger to watch for.
The cops, for instance. They didn't show up often, but when they did, they seemed especially bent on clearing the streets of children.
They would flail about them with their magnetic whips, landing cruel stinging blows on even the smallest children, haranguing them as vermin, thieves, pestilence, a plague on the fair city of Rotterdam. It was Poke's job to notice when adisturbance in the distance suggested that the cops might be running a sweep.
Then she would give the alarm whistle and the little ones would rush to their hiding places till the danger was past. But the cops didn't come by that often. Poke, at age nine, was the matriarch of her little crew not that any of them knew for sure that she was a girlbut that cut no ice with the eleven- and twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys and girls who bullied their way around the streets.
The adult-size beggars and thieves and whores of the street paid no attention to the little kids except to kick them out of the way. But the older children, who were among the kicked, turned around and preyed on the younger ones. Stealing from younger children was much safer than stealing from shops or passersby. And they enjoyed it, Poke could see that. They liked how the little kids cowered and obeyed and whimpered and gave them whatever they demanded.
So when the scrawny little two-year-old took up a perch on a garbage can across the street, Poke, being observant, saw him at once. The kid was on the edge of starvation. No, the kid was starving. Thin arms and legs, joints that looked ridiculously oversized, a distended belly. And if hunger didn't kill him soon, the onset of autumn would, because his clothing was thin and there wasn't much of it even at that. Normally she wouldn't have paid him more than passing attention.
But this one had eyes. He was still looking around with intelligence. None of that stupor of the walking dead, no longer searching for food or even caring to find a comfortable place to lie while breathing their last taste of the stinking air of Rotterdam.
After all, death would not be such a change for them. Everyone knew that Rotterdam was, if not the capital, then the main seaport of Hell. The only difference between Rotterdam and death was that with Rotterdam, the damnation wasn't eternal. Not looking for food. He wasn't eyeing the pedestrians.
Anything he might get would be taken away by any other child, so why should he bother? If he wanted to survive, he should be following older scavengers and licking food wrappers behind them, getting the last sheen of sugar or dusting of flour clinging to the packaging, whatever the first comer hadn't licked off. There was nothing for this child out here on the street, not unless he got taken in by a crew, and Poke wouldn't have him. He'd be nothing but a drain, and her kids were already having a hard enough time without adding another useless mouth.
He's going to ask, she thought. He's going to whine and beg. But that only works on the rich people. I've got my crew to think of.
He's not one of them, so I don't care about him. Even if he is small. He's nothing to me. A couple of twelve-year-old hookers who didn't usually work this strip rounded a corner, heading toward Poke's base. She gave a low whistle.
Folklore, Myths, Legends, Fables
The kids immediately drifted apart, staying on the street but trying not to look like a crew. It didn't help. The hookers knew already that Poke was a crew boss, and sure enough, they caught her by the arms and slammed her against a wall and demanded their "permission" fee.
These hookers, Poke could see why they were hungry. They didn't look like what the pedophiles wanted, when they came cruising through.
They were too gaunt, too old-looking. So until they grew bodies and started attracting the slightly-less-perverted trade, they had to resort to scavenging. It made Poke's blood boil, to have them steal from her and her crew, but it was smarter to pay them off. If they beat her up, she couldn't look out for her crew now, could she? So she took them to one of her stashes and came up with a little bakery bag that still had half a pastry in it.
It was stale, since she'd been holding it for a couple of days for just such an occasion, but the two hookers grabbed it, tore open the bag, and one of them bit off more than half before offering the remainder to her friend. Or rather, her former friend, for of such predatory acts are feuds born.
The two of them started fighting, screaming at each other, slapping, raking at each other with clawed hands. Poke watched closely, hoping that they'd drop the remaining fragment of pastry, but no such luck. Poke turned around, and there was the little boy right behind her. She nearly tripped over him. Angry as she was at having had to give up food to those street-whores, she gave him a knee and knocked him to the ground. He simply got up and looked at her, expectant, demanding.
She raised her voice, so her crew could hear her. You being so big, you got no trouble keeping the food. Maybe you ought to remember and shut up. But the little boy didn't. She didn't like the way he kept talking, standing up to her. In a minute she was going to have to hurt him. Give that to one bully and get him to keep the others away from you.