A War of Gifts Read Online Free PDF Page B

by the North Sea. Watching it pound against the shore, trying to wash over and sweep away the dikes, the islands, and cover the land with ocean, as it used to be, before humans started their foolish terraforming experiment.
    Dink remembered reading—back on Earth, when he could read what he wanted—the silly claim that the Great Wall of China was the only human artifact that could be seen from space. In fact the claim wasn’t even true—at least not from geosynchronous orbit or higher. The wall didn’t even cast enough of a shadow to be seen.
    No, the human artifact that could be seen from space, that showed up in picture after picture without exciting any comment at all, was Holland. It should have been nothing but barrier islands with wide saltwater sounds behind them. Instead, because the Dutch built their dikes and pumped out the salt water and purified the soil, it was land. Lush, green land—visible from space.
    But nobody recognized it as a human artifact. It was just land. It grew plants and fed dairy cattle and held houses and highways, just like any other land. But we did it. We Dutch. And when the sea levels rose, we raised our dikes higher and made them thicker and stronger, and nobody thought, Wow, look at the Dutch, they created the largest human artifact on Earth, and they’re still making it, a thousand years later.
    I could have been home in Holland until they were actually ready to have me do something real. As real as the land behind the dikes.
    Free time was over. Dink went to practice. Then he ate with the rest of Rat Army—complete with the ritual of pretending that all their food was rat food. Dink noticed how Wiggin observed and seemed to enjoy the game—but didn’t take part. He stayed aloof, watching.
    That’s something else we have in common.
    Something else ? Why had he thought of it that way? What was the first thing they had in common, that made it so standing aloof was something else?
    Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. We’re the smartest kids in the room.
    Dink silently laughed at himself with perfect scorn. Right, I’m not competitive. I know I’m not the best—but without even thinking about it, I assume that I’m therefore second best. What an eemo.
    Dink went to the library and studied awhile. He hoped that Petra would come by, but she didn’t. Instead of talking to her—the only other kid he knew who shared his contempt for the system—he actually finished his assignments. It was history, so it mattered that he do well.
    He got back to the barracks a little early. Maybe he’d sleep. Maybe play some game on his desk. Maybe there’d be somebody in a talkative mood and Dink would have a conversation. No plans. He refused to care.
    Flip was there, too. Already getting undressed for bed. But instead of putting his shoes in his locker with the rest of his uniform and his flash suit and the few other possessions a kid could have in Battle School, he had set his shoes down on the floor near the foot of his bed, toes out.
    There was something familiar about it.
    Flip looked at him and smiled wanly and rolled his eyes. Then he swung up onto his bed and started reading something on his desk, scrolling through what must be homework, because now and then he’d run his finger across some section of the text to highlight it.
    The shoes. This was December fifth. It was Sinterklaas Eve. Flip was Dutch, so of course he had set out his shoes.
    Tonight, Sinterklaas—Sint Nikolaas, patron saint of children—would come from his home in Spain, with Black Peter carrying his bag of presents, and listen through the chimneys of the houses throughout Holland, checking to see if children were quarreling or disobedient. If the children were good, then they would knock on the door and, when it was opened, fling candy into the house. Children would rush out the door and find presents left in baskets—or in their