A War of Gifts by Orson Scott Card

“Every time you don’t fire your weapon in the Battle Room, you’re doing it. So if you oppose our little Santa Claus revolution, eemo, then we want to see you firing that gun and taking people out. Otherwise you’re a flaming hypocrite. A fraud. A pious fake. A liar.” Dink was in his face now. Close enough to make some of the other kids uncomfortable.
    â€œBack off, Dink,” one of them muttered. Who? Wiggin, of course. Great, a peacemaker. Again, Dink felt defiance swell up inside him.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” said Zeck softly. “Hit me? I’m three years younger than you.”
    â€œNo,” said Dink. “I’m going to bless you.”
    He set his hand in the air just over Zeck’s head. As Dink expected, Zeck stood there without flinching. That was what Zeck was best at: taking whatever anybody dished out without even trying to get away.
    â€œI bless you with the spirit of Santa Claus,” said Dink. “I bless you with compassion and generosity. With the irresistible impulse to make other people happy. And you know what else? I bless you with the humility to realize that you aren’t any better than the rest of us in the eyes of God.”
    â€œYou know nothing about God,” said Zeck.
    â€œI know more than you do,” said Dink. “Because I’m not filled with hate.”
    â€œNeither am I,” said Zeck.
    â€œNo,” murmured another boy. “You’re filled with kuso.”
    â€œToguro,” said another, laughing.
    â€œI bless you,” said Dink, “with love. Believe me, Zeck, it’ll be such a shock to you, when you finally feel it, that it might just kill you. Then you can go talk to God yourself and find out where you screwed up.”
    Dink turned around and faced the bulk of Rat Army. “I don’t know about you, but I’m playing Santa Claus this year. We don’t own anything up here, so gift-giving isn’t exactly easy. Can’t get on the nets and order stuff to be shipped up here, all gift-wrapped. But gifts don’t have to be toys and stuff. What I gave Flip here, the gift that got us in so much trouble, was a poem.”
    â€œOh how sweet,” said the Brit. “A love poem?”
    In answer, Flip recited it. Blushing, of course, because the joke was on him. But also loving it—because the joke was on him.
    Dink could see that a lot of them thought it was cool to have a toon leader write a satirical poem about one of his soldiers. It really was a gift.
    â€œAnd just to prove that we aren’t celebrating actual Christmas,” said Dink, “let’s just give each other whatever gifts we think of on any day at all in December. It can be Hanukkah. It can be…hell, it can be Sinterklaas Day, can’t it? The day is still young.”
    â€œIf Dink would give us all a gift,” intoned the Jamaican kid, “that would give our hearts a lift.”
    â€œOh how sweet,” said the Brit.
    â€œCrazy Tom thinks everything’s sweet,” said the Canadian, “except for Tom’s own mold-covered feet.”
    Most of them laughed.
    â€œWas that supposed to be a present ?” said Crazy Tom. “Father Christmas is doing a substandard job this year.”
    â€œIt would be pleasant to get a present,” said Wiggin. Everybody laughed a little. Wiggin went on, “It would be better to get a letter.”
    Only a few people chuckled at that. Then they were all quiet.
    â€œThat’s the only gift I want,” said Wiggin softly. “A letter from home. If you can give me that, I’m with you.”
    â€œI can’t,” said Dink, now just as serious as Wiggin. “They’ve cut us off from everything. The best I can do is this: At home you know your family’s doing Santa stuff. Hanging up stockings, right? You’re American, right?”
    Wiggin nodded.
    â€œHang up your stocking this year, Wiggin, and