Ender's Shadow

The contempt in his voice struck Bean like a blow. Only then did he realize that Wiggin had taken his question as a criticism--that Wiggin had been inattentive and hadn't noticed the orders. So now there was one more mark against Bean in Wiggin's mental dossier. But Bean couldn't let that upset him. It's not as if Wiggin didn't have him tagged as a coward. Maybe Crazy Tom told Wiggin about how Bean contributed to the victory yesterday, and maybe not. It wouldn't change what Wiggin had seen with his own eyes--Bean malingering in the shower. And now Bean apparently taunting him for making them all have to rush for their second battle. Maybe I'll be made toon leader on my thirtieth birthday. And then only if everybody else is drowned in a boat accident.

  Wiggin was still talking, of course, explaining how they should expect battles any time, the old rules were coming apart. "I can't pretend I like the way they're screwing around with us, but I do like one thing--that I've got an army that can handle it."

  As he put on his flash suit, Bean thought through the implications of what the teachers were doing. They were pushing Wiggin faster and also making it harder for him. And this was only the beginning. Just the first few sprinkles of a snotstorm.

  Why? Not because Wiggin was so good he needed the testing. On the contrary--Wiggin was training his army well, and the Battle School would only benefit from giving him plenty of time to do it. So it had to be something outside Battle School.

  Only one possibility, really. The Bugger invaders were getting close. Only a few years away. They had to get Wiggin through training.

  Wiggin. Not all of us, just Wiggin. Because if it were everybody, then everybody's schedule would be stepped up like this. Not just ours.

  So it's already too late for me. Wiggin's the one they've chosen to rest their hopes on. Whether I'm toon leader or not will never matter. All that matters is: Will Wiggin be ready?

  If Wiggin succeeds, there'll still be room for me to achieve greatness in the aftermath. The League will come apart. There'll be war among humans. Either I'll be used by the I.F. to help keep the peace, or maybe I can get into some army on Earth. I've got plenty of life ahead of me. Unless Wiggin commands our fleet against the invading Buggers and loses. Then none of us has any life at all.

  All I can do right now is my best to help Wiggin learn everything he can learn here. The trouble is, I'm not close enough to him for me to have any effect on him at all.

  The battle was with Petra Arkanian, commander of Phoenix Army. Petra was sharper than Carn Carby had been; she also had the advantage of hearing how Wiggin worked entirely without formations and used little raiding parties to disrupt formations ahead of the main combat. Still, Dragon finished with only three soldiers flashed and nine partially disabled. A crushing defeat. Bean could see that Petra didn't like it, either. She probably felt like Wiggin had poured it on, deliberately setting her up for humiliation. But she'd get it, soon enough--Wiggin simply turned his toon leaders loose, and each of them pursued total victory, as he had trained them. Their system worked better, that's all, and the old way of doing battle was doomed.

  Soon enough, all the other commanders would start adapting, learning from what Wiggin did. Soon enough, Dragon Army would be facing armies that were divided into five toons, not four, and that moved in a free-ranging style with a lot more discretion given to the toon leaders. The kids didn't get to Battle School because they were idiots. The only reason the techniques worked a second time was because there'd only been a day since the first battle, and nobody expected to have to face Wiggin again so soon. Now they'd know that changes would have to be made fast. Bean guessed that they'd probably never see another formation.

  What then? Had Wiggin emptied his magazine, or would he have new tricks up his sleeve? The trouble was, innovation never resulted in victory over the long term. It was too easy for the enemy to imitate and improve on your innovations. The real test for Wiggin would be what he did when he was faced with slugfests between armies using similar tactics.

  And the real test for me will be seeing if I can stand it when Wiggin makes some stupid mistake and I have to sit here as an ordinary soldier and watch him do it.

  The third day, another battle. The fourth day, another. Victory. Victory. But each time, the score was closer. Each time, Bean gained more confidence as a soldier--and became more frustrated that the most he could contribute, beyond his own good aim, was occasionally making a suggestion to Crazy Tom, or reminding him of something Bean had noticed and remembered.

  Bean wrote to Dimak about it, explaining how he was being underused and suggesting that he would be getting better trained by working with a worse commander, where he'd have a better chance of getting his own toon.

  The answer was short. "Who else would want you? Learn from Ender."

  Brutal but true. No doubt even Wiggin didn't really want him. Either he was forbidden to transfer any of his soldiers, or he had tried to trade Bean away and no one would take him.

  It was free time of the evening after their fourth battle. Most of the others were trying to keep up with their classwork--the battles were really taking it out of them, especially because they could all see that they needed to practice hard to stay ahead. Bean, though, coasted through classwork like always, and when Nikolai told him he didn't need any more damned help with his assignments, Bean decided that he should take a walk.

  Passing Wiggin's quarters--a space even smaller than the cramped quarters the teachers had, just space for a bunk, one chair, and a tiny table--Bean was tempted to knock on the door and sit down and have it out with Wiggin once and for all. Then common sense prevailed over frustration and vanity, and Bean wandered until he came to the arcade.

  It wasn't as full as it used to be. Bean figured that was because everyone was holding extra practices now, trying to implement whatever they thought it was Wiggin was doing before they actually had to face him in battle. Still, a few were still willing to fiddle with the controllers and make things move on screens or in holodisplays.

  Bean found a flat-screen game that had, as its hero, a mouse. No one was using it, so Bean started maneuvering it through a maze. Quickly the maze gave way to the wallspaces and crawlspaces of an old house, with traps set here and there, easy stuff. Cats chased him--ho hum. He jumped up onto a table and found himself face to face with a giant.

  A giant who offered him a drink.

  This was the fantasy game. This was the psychological game that everybody else played on their desks all the time. No wonder no one was playing it here. They all recognized it and that wasn't the game they came here to play.

  Bean was well aware that he was the only kid in the school who had never played the fantasy game. They had tricked him into playing this once, but he doubted that anything important could be learned from what he had done so far. So screw 'em. They could trick him into playing up to a point, but he didn't have to go further.

  Except that the giant's face had changed. It was Achilles.

  Bean stood there in shock for a moment. Frozen, frightened. How did they know? Why did they do it? To put him face-to-face with Achilles, by surprise like that. Those bastards.

  He walked away from the game.

  Moments later, he turned around and came back. The giant was no longer on the screen. The mouse was running around again, trying to get out of the maze.

  No, I won't play. Achilles is far away and he does not have the power to hurt me. Or Poke either, not anymore. I don't have to think about him and I sure as hell don't have to drink anything he offers me.

  Bean walked away again, and this time did not come back.

  He found himself down by the mess. It had just closed, but Bean had nothing better to do, so he sat down in the corridor beside the mess hall door and rested his forehead on his knees and thought about Rotterdam and sitting on top of a garbage can watching Poke working with her crew and how she was the most decent crew boss he'd seen, the way she listened to the little kids and gave them a fair share and kept them alive even if it meant not eating so much hersel
f and that's why he chose her, because she had mercy--mercy enough that she just might listen to a child.

  Her mercy killed her.

  I killed her when I chose her.

  There better be a God. So he can damn Achilles to hell forever.

  Someone kicked at his foot.

  "Go away," said Bean, "I'm not bothering you."

  Whoever it was kicked again, knocking Bean's feet out from under him. With his hands he caught himself from falling over. He looked up. Bonzo Madrid loomed over him.

  "I understand you're the littlest dingleberry clinging to the butt hairs of Dragon Army," said Bonzo.

  He had three other guys with him. Big guys. They all had bully faces.

  "Hi, Bonzo."

  "We need to talk, pinprick."

  "What is this, espionage?" asked Bean. "You're not supposed to talk to soldiers in other armies."

  "I don't need espionage to find out how to beat Dragon Army," said Bonzo.

  "So you're just looking for the littlest Dragon soldiers wherever you can find them, and then you'll push them around a little till they cry?"

  Bonzo's face showed his anger. Not that it didn't always show anger.

  "Are you begging to eat out of your own asshole, pinprick?"

  Bean didn't like bullies right now. And since, at the moment, he felt guilty of murdering Poke, he didn't really care if Bonzo Madrid ended up being the one to administer the death penalty. It was time to speak his mind.

  "You're at least three times my weight," said Bean, "except inside your skull. You're a second-rater who somehow got an army and never could figure out what to do with it. Wiggin is going to grind you into the ground and he isn't even going to have to try. So does it really matter what you do to me? I'm the smallest and weakest soldier in the whole school. Naturally I'm the one you choose to kick around."

  "Yeah, the smallest and weakest," said one of the other kids.

  Bonzo didn't say anything, though. Bean's words had stung. Bonzo had his pride, and he knew now that if he harmed Bean it would be a humiliation, not a pleasure.

  "Ender Wiggin isn't going to beat me with that collection of launchies and rejects that he calls an army. He may have psyched out a bunch of dorks like Carn and . . . Petra." He spat her name. "But whenever we find crap my army can pound it flat."

  Bean affixed him with his most withering glare. "Don't you get it, Bonzo? The teachers have picked Wiggin. He's the best. The best ever. They didn't give him the worst army. They gave him the best army. Those veterans you call rejects--they were soldiers so good that the stupid commanders couldn't get along with them and tried to transfer them away. Wiggin knows how to use good soldiers, even if you don't. That's why Wiggin is winning. He's smarter than you. And his soldiers are all smarter than your soldiers. The deck is stacked against you, Bonzo. You might as well give up now. When your pathetic little Salamander Army faces us, you'll be so whipped you'll have to pee sitting down."

  Bean might have said more--it's not like he had a plan, and there was certainly a lot more he could have said--but he was interrupted. Two of Bonzo's friends scooped him up and held him high against the wall, higher than their own heads. Bonzo put one hand around his throat, just under his jaw, and pressed back. The others let go. Bean was hanging by his neck, and he couldn't breathe. Reflexively he kicked, struggling to get some purchase with his feet. But long-armed Bonzo was too far away for any of Bean's kicking to land on him.

  "The game is one thing," Bonzo said quietly. "The teachers can rig that and give it to their little Wiggin catamite. But there'll come a time when it isn't a game. And when that time comes, it won't be a frozen flash suit that makes it so Wiggin can't move. Comprendes?"

  What answer was he hoping for? It was a sure thing Bean couldn't nod or speak.

  Bonzo just stood there, smiling maliciously, as Bean struggled.

  Everything started turning black around the edges of Bean's vision before Bonzo finally let him drop to the floor. He lay there, coughing and gasping.

  What have I done? I goaded Bonzo Madrid. A bully with none of Achilles' subtlety. When Wiggin beats him, Bonzo isn't going to take it. He won't stop with a demonstration, either. His hatred for Wiggin runs deep.

  As soon as he could breathe again, Bean headed back to the barracks. Nikolai noticed the marks on his neck at once. "Who was choking you?"

  "I don't know," said Bean.

  "Don't give me that," said Nikolai. "He was facing you, look at the fingermarks."

  "I don't remember."

  "You remember the pattern of arteries on your own placenta."

  "I'm not going to tell you," said Bean. To that, Nikolai had no answer, though he didn't like it.

  Bean signed on as Graff and wrote a note to Dimak, even though he knew it would do no good.

  "Bonzo is insane. He could kill somebody, and Wiggin's the one he hates the most."

  The answer came back quickly, almost as if Dimak had been waiting for the message. "Clean up your own messes. Don't go crying to mama."

  The words stung. It wasn't Bean's mess, it was Wiggin's. And, ultimately, the teachers', for having put Wiggin in Bonzo's army to begin with. And then to taunt him because he didn't have a mother--when did the teachers become the enemy here? They were supposed to protect us from crazy kids like Bonzo Madrid. How do they think I'm going to clean this mess up?

  The only thing that will stop Bonzo Madrid is to kill him.

  And then Bean remembered standing there looking down at Achilles, saying, "You got to kill him."

  Why couldn't I have kept my mouth shut? Why did I have to goad Bonzo Madrid? Wiggin is going to end up like Poke. And it will be my fault again.

  16

  COMPANION

  "So you see, Anton, the key you found has been turned, and it may be the salvation of the human race."

  "But the poor boy. To live his life so small, and then die as a giant."

  "Perhaps he'll be . . . amused at the irony."

  "How strange to think that my little key might turn out to be the salvation of the human race. From the invading beasts, anyway. Who will save us when we become our own enemy again?"

  "We are not enemies, you and I."

  "Not many people are enemies to anyone. But the ones full of greed or hate, pride or fear--their passion is strong enough to lever all the world into war."

  "If God can raise up a great soul to save us from one menace, might he not answer our prayers by raising up another when we need him?"

  "But Sister Carlotta, you know the boy you speak of was not raised up by God. He was created by a kidnapper, a baby-killer, an outlaw scientist."

  "Do you know why Satan is so angry all the time? Because whenever he works a particularly clever bit of mischief, God uses it to serve his own righteous purposes."

  "So God uses wicked people as his tools."

  "God gives us the freedom to do great evil, if we choose. Then he uses his own freedom to create goodness out of that evil, for that is what he chooses."

  "So in the long run, God always wins."

  "Yes."

  "In the short run, though, it can be uncomfortable."

  "And when, in the past, would you have preferred to die, instead of being alive here today?"

  "There it is. We get used to everything. We find hope in anything."

  "That's why I've never understood suicide. Even those suffering from great depression or guilt--don't they feel Christ the Comforter in their hearts, giving them hope?"

  "You're asking me?"

  "God not being convenient, I ask a fellow mortal."

  "In my view, suicide is not really the wish for life to end."

  "What is it, then?"

  "It is the only way a powerless person can find to make everybody else look away from his shame. The wish is not to die, but to hide."

  "As Adam and Eve hid from the Lord."

  "Because they were naked."

  "If only such sad people could remember: Everyone is naked. Everyo
ne wants to hide. But life is still sweet. Let it go on."

  "You don't believe that the Formics are the beast of the Apocalypse, then, Sister?"

  "No, Anton. I believe they are also children of God."

  "And yet you found this boy specifically so he could grow up to destroy them."

  "Defeat them. Besides, if God does not want them to die, they will not die."

  "And if God wants us to die, we will. Why do you work so hard, then?"

  "Because these hands of mine, I gave them to God, and I serve him as best I can. If he had not wanted me to find Bean, I would not have found him."

  "And if God wants the Formics to prevail?"

  "He'll find some other hands to do it. For that job, he can't have mine."

  Lately, while the toon leaders drilled the soldiers, Wiggin had taken to disappearing. Bean used his Graff log-on to find what he was doing. He'd gone back to studying the vids of Mazer Rackham's victory, much more intensely and single-mindedly than ever before. And this time, because Wiggin's army was playing games daily and winning them all, the other commanders and many toon leaders and common soldiers as well began to go to the library and watch the same vids, trying to make sense of them, trying to see what Wiggin saw.

  Stupid, thought Bean. Wiggin isn't looking for anything to use here in Battle School--he's created a powerful, versatile army and he'll figure out what to do with them on the spot. He's studying those vids in order to figure out how to beat the Buggers. Because he knows now: He will face them someday. The teachers would not be wrecking the whole system here in Battle School if they were not nearing the crisis, if they did not need Ender Wiggin to save us from the invading Buggers. So Wiggin studies the Buggers, desperate for some idea of what they want, how they fight, how they die.

  Why don't the teachers see that Wiggin is done? He's not even thinking about Battle School anymore. They should take him out of here and move him into Tactical School, or whatever the next stage of his training will be. Instead, they're pushing him, making him tired.

  Us too. We're tired.

  Bean saw it especially in Nikolai, who was working harder than the others just to keep up. If we were an ordinary army, thought Bean, most of us would be like Nikolai. As it is, many of us are--Nikolai was not the first to show his weariness. Soldiers drop silverware or food trays at mealtimes. At least one has wet his bed. We argue more at practice. Our classwork is suffering. Everyone has limits. Even me, even genetically-altered Bean the thinking machine, I need time to relubricate and refuel, and I'm not getting it.