I didn’t freeze once we got into action. I did what I was trained to do, and I stayed alert, and I thought of things. I can probably do better, move faster, see more. But for a first battle, I did fine. I can do this.

  Because C toon was crucial to the victory, Wiggin used the other four toon leaders to press their helmets to the corners of the enemy gate, and gave Crazy Tom the honor of passing through the gate, which is what formally ended the game, bringing the lights on bright.

  Major Anderson himself came in to congratulate the winning commander and supervise cleanup. Wiggin quickly unfroze the casualties. Bean was relieved when his suit could move again. Using his hook, Wiggin drew them all together and formed his soldiers into their five toons before he began unfreezing Rabbit Army. They stood at attention in the air, their feet pointed down, their heads up—and as Rabbit unfroze, they gradually oriented themselves in the same direction. They had no way of knowing it, but to Dragon, that was when victory became complete—for the enemy was now oriented as if their own gate was down.

  Bean and Nikolai were already eating breakfast when Crazy Tom came to their table. “Ender says instead of fifteen minutes for breakfast, we have till 0745. And he’ll let us out of practice in time to shower.”

  That was good news. They could slow down their eating.

  Not that it mattered to Bean. His tray had little food on it, and he finished it immediately. Once he was in Dragon Army, Crazy Tom had caught him giving away food. Bean told him that he was always given too much, and Tom took the matter to Ender, and Ender got the nutritionists to stop overfeeding Bean. Today was the first time Bean ever wished for more. And that was only because he was so up from the battle.

  “Smart,” said Nikolai.

  “What?”

  “Ender tells us we’ve got fifteen minutes to eat, which feels rushed and we don’t like it. Then right away he sends around the toon leaders, telling us we have till 0745. That’s only ten minutes longer, but now it feels like forever. And a shower—we’re supposed to be able to shower right after the game, but now we’re grateful.”

  “And he gave the toon leaders the chance to bring good news,” said Bean.

  “Is that important?” asked Nikolai. “We know it was Ender’s choice.”

  “Most commanders make sure all good news comes from them,” said Bean, “and bad news from the toon leaders. But Wiggin’s whole technique is building up his toon leaders. Crazy Tom went in there with nothing more than his training and his brains and a single objective—strike first from the wall and get behind them. All the rest was up to him.”

  “Yeah, but if his toon leaders screw up, it looks bad on Ender’s record,” said Nikolai.

  Bean shook his head. “The point is that in his very first battle, Wiggin divided his force for tactical effect, and C toon was able to continue attacking even after we ran out of plans, because Crazy Tom was really, truly in charge of us. We didn’t sit around wondering what Wiggin wanted us to do.”

  Nikolai got it, and nodded. “Bacana. That’s right.”

  “Completely right,” said Bean. By now everybody at the table was listening. “And that’s because Wiggin isn’t just thinking about Battle School and standings and merda like that. He keeps watching vids of the Second Invasion, did you know that? He’s thinking about how to beat the Buggers. And he knows that the way you do that is to have as many commanders ready to fight them as you can get. Wiggin doesn’t want to come out of this with Wiggin as the only commander ready to fight the Buggers. He wants to come out of this with him and the toon leaders and the seconds and if he can do it every single one of his soldiers ready to command a fleet against the Buggers if we have to.”

  Bean knew his enthusiasm was probably giving Wiggin credit for more than he had actually planned, but he was still full of the glow of victory. And besides, what he was saying was true—Wiggin was no Napoleon, holding on to the reins of control so tightly that none of his commanders was capable of brilliant independent command. Crazy Tom had performed well under pressure. He had made the right decisions—including the decision to listen to his smallest, most useless-looking soldier. And Crazy Tom had done that because Wiggin had set the example by listening to his toon leaders. You learn, you analyze, you choose, you act.

  After breakfast, as they headed for practice, Nikolai asked him, “Why do you call him Wiggin?”

  “Cause we’re not friends,” said Bean.

  “Oh, so it’s Mr. Wiggin and Mr. Bean, is that it?”

  “No. Bean is my first name.”

  “Oh. So it’s Mr. Wiggin and Who The Hell Are You.”

  “Got it.”

  Everybody expected to have at least a week to strut around and brag about their perfect won-lost record. Instead, the next morning at 0630, Wiggin appeared in the barracks, again brandishing battle orders. “Gentlemen, I hope you learned something yesterday, because today we’re going to do it again.”

  All were surprised, and some were angry—it wasn’t fair, they weren’t ready. Wiggin just handed the orders to Fly Molo, who had just been heading out for breakfast. “Flash suits!” cried Fly, who clearly thought it was a cool thing to be the first army ever to fight two in a row like this.

  But Hot Soup, the leader of D toon, had another attitude. “Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

  “I thought you needed the shower,” said Wiggin. “Yesterday Rabbit Army claimed we only won because the stink knocked them out.”

  Everybody within earshot laughed. But Bean was not amused. He knew that the paper hadn’t been there first thing, when Wiggin woke up. The teachers planted it late. “Didn’t find the paper till you got back from the showers, right?”

  Wiggin gave him a blank look. “Of course. I’m not as close to the floor as you.”

  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 herself 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?”