“That seems like a lot of trouble to go to.”

  “Look, we’ve had a lot of time to work on these simulators,” said the technician. “They’re exactly like combat.”

  “Except,” said Bean, “the time-lag.”

  The technician looked blank for a moment. “Oh, right. The time-lag. Well, that just wasn’t worth programming in.” And then he was gone.

  It was that moment of blankness that was bothering Bean. These simulators were as perfect as they could make them, exactly like combat, and yet they didn’t include the time-lag that came from lightspeed communications. The distances being simulated were large enough that most of the time there should be at least a slight delay between a command and its execution, and sometimes it should be several seconds. But no such delay was programmed in. All communications were being treated as instantaneous. And when Bean asked about it, his question was blown off by the teacher who first trained them on the simulators. “It’s a simulation. Plenty of time to get used to the lightspeed delay when you train with the real thing.”

  That sounded like typically stupid military thinking even at the time, but now Bean realized it was simply a lie. If they programmed in the behavior of pilots and captains when communications were cut off, they could very easily have included the time-lag. The reason these ships were simulated with instantaneous response was because that was an accurate simulation of conditions they would meet in combat.

  Lying awake in the darkness, Bean finally made the connection. It was so obvious, once he thought of it. It wasn’t just gravity control they got from the Buggers. It was faster-than-light communication. It’s a big secret from people on Earth, but our ships can talk to each other instantaneously.

  And if the ships can, why not FleetCom here on Eros? What was the range of communication? Was it truly instantaneous regardless of distance, or was it merely faster than light, so that at truly great distances it began to have its own time-lag?

  His mind raced through the possibilities, and the implications of those possibilities. Our patrol ships will be able to warn us of the approaching enemy fleet long before it reaches us. They’ve probably known for years that it was coming, and how fast. That’s why we’ve been rushed through our training like this—they’ve known for years when the Third Invasion would begin.

  And then another thought. If this instantaneous communication works regardless of distance, then we could even be talking to the invasion fleet we sent against the Formic home planet right after the Second Invasion. If our starships were going near lightspeed, the relative time differential would complicate communication, but as long as we’re imagining miracles, that would be easy enough to solve. We’ll know whether our invasion of their world succeeded or not, moments afterward. Why, if the communication is really powerful, with plenty of bandwidth, FleetCom could even watch the battle unfold, or at least watch a simulation of the battle, and . . .

  A simulation of the battle. Each ship in the expeditionary force sending back its position at all times. The communications device receives that data and feeds it into a computer and what comes out is . . . the simulation we’ve been practicing with.

  We are training to command ships in combat, not here in the solar system, but lightyears away. They sent the pilots and the captains, but the admirals who will command them are still back here. At FleetCom. They had generations to find the right commanders, and we’re the ones.

  It left him gasping, this realization. He hardly dared to believe it, and yet it made far better sense than any of the other more plausible scenarios. For one thing, it explained perfectly why the kids had been trained on older ships. The fleet they would be commanding had launched decades ago, when those older designs were the newest and the best.

  They didn’t rip us through Battle School and Tactical School because the Bugger fleet is about to reach our solar system. They’re in a hurry because our fleet is about to reach the Buggers’ world.

  It was like Nikolai said. You can’t rule out the impossible, because you never know which of your assumptions about what was possible might turn out, in the real universe, to be false. Bean hadn’t been able to think of this simple, rational explanation because he had been locked in the box of thinking that lightspeed limited both travel and communication. But the technician let down just the tiniest part of the veil they had covering the truth, and because Bean finally found a way to open his mind to the possibility, he now knew the secret.

  Sometime during their training, anytime at all, without the slightest warning, without ever even telling us they’re doing it, they can switch over and we’ll be commanding real ships in a real battle. We’ll think it’s a game, but we’ll be fighting a war.

  And they don’t tell us because we’re children. They think we can’t handle it. Knowing that our decisions will cause death and destruction. That when we lose a ship, real men die. They’re keeping it a secret to protect us from our own compassion.

  Except me. Because now I know.

  The weight of it suddenly came upon him and he could hardly breathe, except shallowly. Now I know. How will it change the way I play? I can’t let it, that’s all. I was already doing my best—knowing this won’t make me work harder or play better. It might make me do worse. Might make me hesitate, might make me lose concentration. Through their training, they had all learned that winning depended on being able to forget everything but what you were doing at that moment. You could hold all your ships in your mind at once—but only if any ship that no longer matters could be blocked out completely. Thinking about dead men, about torn bodies having the air sucked out of their lungs by the cold vacuum of space, who could still play the game knowing that this was what it really meant?

  The teachers were right to keep this secret from us. That technician should be court-martialed for letting me see behind the curtain.

  I can’t tell anyone. The other kids shouldn’t know this. And if the teachers know that I know it, they’ll take me out of the game.

  So I have to fake it.

  No. I have to disbelieve it. I have to forget that it’s true. It isn’t true. The truth is what they’ve been telling us. The simulation is simply ignoring lightspeed. They trained us on old ships because the new ones are all deployed and can’t be wasted. The fight we’re preparing for is to repel invading Formics, not to invade their solar system. This was just a crazy dream, pure self-delusion. Nothing goes faster than light, and therefore information can’t be transmitted faster than light.

  Besides, if we really did send an invasion fleet that long ago, they don’t need little kids to command them. Mazer Rackham must be with that fleet, no way would it have launched without him. Mazer Rackham is still alive, preserved by the relativistic changes of near-lightspeed travel. Maybe it’s only been a few years to him. And he’s ready. We aren’t needed.

  Bean calmed his breathing. His heartrate slowed. I can’t let myself get carried away with fantasies like that. I would be so embarrassed if anyone knew the stupid theory I came up with in my sleep. I can’t even tell this as a dream. The game is as it always was.

  Reveille sounded over the intercom. Bean got out of bed—a bottom bunk, this time—and joined in as normally as possible with the banter of Crazy Tom and Hot Soup, while Fly Molo kept his morning surliness to himself and Alai did his prayers. Bean went to mess and ate as he normally ate. Everything was normal. It didn’t mean a thing that he couldn’t get his bowels to unclench at the normal time. That his belly gnawed at him all day, and at mealtime he was faintly nauseated. That was just lack of sleep.

  Near the end of three months on Eros, their work on the simulators changed. There would be ships directly under their control, but they also had others under them to whom they had to give commands out loud, besides using the controls to enter them manually. “Like combat,” said their supervisor.

  “In combat,” said Alai, “we’d know who the officers serving under us were.”

  “That would matter if you depended on them to give you information. But you do not. All the information you need is conveyed to your simulator and appears in the display. So you give your orders orally as well as manually. Just assume that you will be obeyed. Your teachers will be monitoring the orders you give to help you learn to be explicit and immediate. You will also have to master the technique of switching back and forth between crosstalk among yourselves and giving orders to individual ships. It’s quite simple, you see. Turn your heads to the left or right to speak to each other, whichever is more comfortable for you. But when your face is pointing straight at the display, your voice will be carried to whatever ship or squadron you have selected with your controls. And to address all the ships under your control at once, head straight forward and duck your chin, like this.”

  “What happens if we raise our heads?” asked Shen.

  Alai answered before the teacher could. “Then you’re talking to God.”

  After the laughter died down, the teacher said, “Almost right, Alai. When you raise your chin to speak, you’ll be talking to your commander.”

  Several spoke at once. “Our commander?”

  “You did not think we were training all of you to be supreme commander at once, did you? No no. For the moment, we will assign one of you at random to be that commander, just for practice. Let’s say . . . the little one. You. Bean.”

  “I’m supposed to be commander?”

  “Just for the practices. Or is he not competent? You others will not obey him in battle?”

  The others answered the teacher with scorn. Of course Bean was competent. Of course they’d follow him.

  “But then, he never did win a battle when he commanded Rabbit Army,” said Fly Molo.

  “Excellent. That means that you will all have the challenge of making this little one a winner in spite of himself. If you do not think that is a realistic military situation, you have not been reading history carefully enough.”

  So it was that Bean found himself in command of the ten other kids from Battle School. It was exhilarating, of course, for neither he nor the others believed for one moment that the teacher’s choice had been random. They knew that Bean was better at the simulator than anybody. Petra was the one who said it after practice one day. “Hell, Bean, I think you have this all in your head so clear you could close your eyes and still play.” It was almost true. He did not have to keep checking to see where everyone was. It was all in his head at once.

  It took a couple of days for them to handle it smoothly, taking orders from Bean and giving their own orders orally along with the physical controls. There were constant mistakes at first, heads in the wrong position so that comments and questions and orders went to the wrong destination. But soon enough it became instinctive.

  Bean then insisted that others take turns being in the command position. “I need practice taking orders just like they do,” he said. “And learning how to change my head position to speak up and sideways.” The teacher agreed, and after another day, Bean had mastered the technique as well as any of the others.

  Having other kids in the master seat had another good effect as well. Even though no one did so badly as to embarrass himself, it was clear that Bean was sharper and faster than anyone else, with a keener grasp of developing situations and a better ability to sort out what he was hearing and remember what everybody had said.

  “You’re not human,” said Petra. “Nobody can do what you do!”

  “Am so human,” said Bean mildly. “And I know somebody who can do it better than me.”

  “Who’s that?” she demanded.

  “Ender.”

  They all fell silent for a moment.

  “Yeah, well, he ain’t here,” said Vlad.

  “How do you know?” said Bean. “For all we know, he’s been here all along.”

  “That’s stupid,” said Dink. “Why wouldn’t they have him practice with us? Why would they keep it a secret?”

  “Because they like secrets,” said Bean. “And maybe because they’re giving him different training. And maybe because it’s like Sinterklaas. They’re going to bring him to us as a present.”

  “And maybe you’re full of merda,” said Dumper.

  Bean just laughed. Of course it would be Ender. This group was assembled for Ender. Ender was the one all their hopes were resting on. The reason they put Bean in that master position was because Bean was the substitute. If Ender got appendicitis in the middle of the war, it was Bean they’d switch the controls to. Bean who’d start giving commands, deciding which ships would be sacrificed, which men would die. But until then, it would be Ender’s choice, and for Ender, it would only be a game. No deaths, no suffering, no fear, no guilt. Just . . . a game.

  Definitely it’s Ender. And the sooner the better.

  The next day, their supervisor told them that Ender Wiggin was going to be their commander starting that afternoon. When they didn’t act surprised, he asked why. “Because Bean already told us.”

  “They want me to find out how you’ve been getting your inside information, Bean.” Graff looked across the table at the painfully small child who sat there looking at him without expression.

  “I don’t have any inside information,” said Bean.

  “You knew that Ender was going to be the commander.”

  “I guessed,” said Bean. “Not that it was hard. Look at who we are. Ender’s closest friends. Ender’s toon leaders. He’s the common thread. There were plenty of other kids you could have brought here, probably about as good as us. But these are the ones who’d follow Ender straight into space without a suit, if he told us he needed us to do it.”

  “Nice speech, but you have a history of sneaking.”

  “Right. When would I be doing this sneaking? When are any of us alone? Our desks are just dumb terminals and we never get to see anybody else log on so it’s not like I can capture another identity. I just do what I’m told all day every day. You guys keep assuming that we kids are stupid, even though you chose us because we’re really, really smart. And now you sit there and accuse me of having to steal information that any idiot could guess.”

  “Not any idiot.”

  “That was just an expression.”

  “Bean,” said Graff, “I think you’re feeding me a line of complete bullshit.”

  “Colonel Graff, even if that were true, which it isn’t, so what? So I found out Ender was coming. I’m secretly monitoring your dreams. So what? He’ll still come, he’ll be in command, he’ll be brilliant, and then we’ll all graduate and I’ll sit in a booster seat in a ship somewhere and give commands to grownups in my little-boy voice until they get sick of hearing me and throw me out into space.”

  “I don’t care about the fact that you knew about Ender. I don’t care that it was a guess.”

  “I know you don’t care about those things.”

  “I need to know what else you’ve figured out.”

  “Colonel,” said Bean, sounding very tired, “doesn’t it occur to you that the very fact that you’re asking me this question tells me there’s something else for me to figure out, and therefore greatly increases the chance that I will figure it out?”

  Graff’s smile grew even broader. “That’s just what I told the . . . officer who assigned me to talk to you and ask these questions. I told him that we would end up telling you more, just by having the interview, than you would ever tell us, but he said, ‘The kid is six, Colonel Graff.’ ”

  “I think I’m seven.”

  “He was working from an old report and hadn’t done the math.”

  “Just tell me what secret you want to make sure I don’t know, and I’ll tell you if I already knew it.”

  “Very helpful.”

  “Colonel Graff, am I doing a good job?”

  “Absurd question. Of course you are.”

  “If I do know anything that you don’t want us kids to know, have I talked about it? Have I told any of the other kids? Has it affected my performance in any way?”

  “No.”

  “To me that sounds like a tree falling in the forest where no one can hear. If I do know something, because I figured it out, but I’m not telling anybody else, and it’s not affecting my work, then why would you waste time finding out whether I know it? Because after this conversation, you may be sure that I’ll be looking very hard for any secret that might be lying around where a seven-year-old might find it. Even if I do find such a secret, though, I still won’t tell the other kids, so it still won’t make a difference. So why don’t we just drop it?”

  Graff reached under the table and pressed something.

  “All right,” said Graff. “They’ve got the recording of our conversation and if that doesn’t reassure them, nothing will.”

  “Reassure them of what? And who is ‘them’?”

  “Bean, this part is not being recorded.”

  “Yes it is,” said Bean.

  “I turned it off.”

  “Puh-leeze.”

  In fact, Graff was not altogether sure that the recording was off. Even if the machine he controlled was off, that didn’t mean there wasn’t another.

  “Let’s walk,” said Graff.

  “I hope not outside.”

  Graff got up from the table—laboriously, because he’d put on a lot of weight and they kept Eros at full gravity—and led the way out into the tunnels.

  As they walked, Graff talked softly. “Let’s at least make them work for it,” he said.

  “Fine,” said Bean.

  “I thought you’d want to know that the I.F. is going crazy because of an apparent security leak. It seems that someone with access to the most secret archives wrote letters to a couple of net pundits who then started agitating for the children of Battle School to be sent home to their native countries.”

  “What’s a pundit?” asked Bean.

  “My turn to say puh-leeze, I think. Look, I’m not accusing you. I just happen to have seen a text of the letters sent to Locke and Demosthenes—they’re both being closely watched, as I’m sure you would expect—and when I read those letters—interesting the differences between them, by the way, very cleverly done—I realized that there was not really any top secret information in there, beyond what any child in Battle School knows. No, the thing that’s really making them crazy is that the political analysis is dead on, even though it’s based on insufficient information. From what is publicly known, in other words, the writer of those letters couldn’t have figured out what he figured out. The Russians are claiming that somebody’s been spying on them—and lying about what they found, of course. But I accessed the library on the destroyer Condor and found out what you were reading. And then I checked your library use on the ISL while you were in Tactical School. You’ve been a busy boy.”