“Course I brush my teeth.”

  They were right at the front of the building now. Bean was waiting to slip in after them.

  Then he realized that he didn’t have to wait. The man was the janitor from all those years before.

  Bean stepped out of the shadows. “Thanks for bringing him home,” he said to the woman.

  They both looked at him in surprise.

  “Who are you?” asked the janitor.

  Bean looked at the woman and rolled his eyes. “He’s not that drunk, I hope,” said Bean. To the janitor he said, “Mama will not be happy to see you come home like this again.”

  “Mama!” said the janitor. “Who the hell are you talking about?”

  The woman gave the janitor a shove. He was so off balance that he lurched against the wall, then slid down it to land on his buttocks on the sidewalk. “I should have known,” she said. “You bring me home to your wife?”

  “I’m not married,” said the janitor. “This kid isn’t mine.”

  “I’m sure you’re telling the truth on both points,” said the woman. “But you better let him help you up the stairs anyway. Mama’s waiting.” She started to walk away.

  “What about my forty gilders?” he asked plaintively, knowing the answer even as he asked.

  She made an obscene gesture and walked on into the night.

  “You little bastard,” said the janitor.

  “I had to talk to you alone,” said Bean.

  “Who the hell are you? Who’s your mama?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out,” said Bean. “I’m the baby you found and brought home. Three years ago.”

  The man looked at him in stupefaction.

  Suddenly a light went on, then another. Bean and the janitor were bathed in overlapping flashlight beams. Four policemen converged on them.

  “Don’t bother running, kid,” said a cop. “Nor you, Mr. Fun Time.”

  Bean recognized Sister Carlotta’s voice. “They aren’t criminals,” she said. “I just need to talk to them. Up in his apartment.”

  “You followed me?” Bean asked her.

  “I knew you were searching for him,” she said. “I didn’t want to interfere until you found him. Just in case you think you were really smart, young man, we intercepted four street thugs and two known sex offenders who were after you.”

  Bean rolled his eyes. “You think I’ve forgotten how to deal with them?”

  Sister Carlotta shrugged. “I didn’t want this to be the first time you ever made a mistake in your life.” She did have a sarcastic streak.

  “So as I told you, there was nothing to learn from this Pablo de Noches. He’s an immigrant who lives to pay for prostitutes. Just another of the worthless people who have gravitated here ever since the Netherlands became international territory.”

  Sister Carlotta had sat patiently, waiting for the inspector to wind down his I-told-you-so speech. But when he spoke of a man’s worthlessness, she could not let the remark go unchallenged. “He took in that baby,” she said. “And fed the child and cared for him.”

  The inspector waved off the objection. “We needed one more street urchin? Because that’s all that people like this ever produce.”

  “You didn’t learn nothing from him,” Sister Carlotta said. “You learned the location where the boy was found.”

  “And the people renting the building during that time are untraceable. A company name that never existed. Nothing to go on. No way to track them down.”

  “But that nothing is something,” said Sister Carlotta. “I tell you that these people had many children in this place, which they closed down in a hurry, with all the children but one taken away. You tell me that the company was a false name and can’t be traced. So now, in your experience, doesn’t that tell you a great deal about what was going on in that building?”

  The inspector shrugged. “Of course. It was obviously an organ farm.”

  Tears came to Sister Carlotta’s eyes. “And that is the only possibility?”

  “A lot of defective babies are born to rich families,” said the inspector. “There is an illegal market in infant and toddler organs. We close down the organ farms whenever we find out where they are. Perhaps we were getting close to this organ farm and they got wind of it and closed up shop. But there is no paper in the department on any organ farm that we actually found at that time. So perhaps they closed down for another reason. Still, nothing.”

  Patiently, Sister Carlotta ignored his inability to realize how valuable this information was. “Where do the babies come from?”

  The inspector looked at her blankly. As if he thought she was asking him to explain the facts of life.

  “The organ farm,” she said. “Where do they get the babies?”

  The inspector shrugged. “Late-term abortions, usually. Some arrangement with the clinics, a kickback. That sort of thing.”

  “And that’s the only source?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Kidnappings? I don’t think that could be much of a factor, there aren’t that many babies leaking through the security systems in the hospitals. People selling babies? It’s been heard of, yes. Poor refugees arrive with eight children, and then a few years later they have only six, and they cry about the ones who died but who can prove anything? But nothing you can trace.”

  “The reason I’m asking,” said Sister Carlotta, “is that this child is unusual. Extremely unusual.”

  “Three arms?” asked the inspector.

  “Brilliant. Precocious. He escaped from this place before he was a year old. Before he could walk.”

  The inspector thought about that for a few moments. “He crawled away?”

  “He hid in a toilet tank.”

  “He got the lid up before he was a year old?”

  “He said it was hard to lift.”

  “No, it was probably cheap plastic, not porcelain. You know how these institutional plumbing fixtures are.”

  “You can see, though, why I want to know about the child’s parentage. Some miraculous combination of parents.”

  The inspector shrugged. “Some children are born smart.”

  “But there is a hereditary component in this, inspector. A child like this must have . . . remarkable parents. Parents likely to be prominent because of the brilliance of their own minds.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” said the inspector. “I mean, some of these refugees, they might be brilliant, but they’re caught up in desperate times. To save the other children, maybe they sell a baby. That’s even a smart thing to do. It doesn’t rule out refugees as the parents of this brilliant boy you have.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” said Sister Carlotta.

  “It’s the most information you’ll ever have. Because this Pablo de Noches, he knows nothing. He barely could tell me the name of the town he came from in Spain.”

  “He was drunk when he was questioned,” said Sister Carlotta.

  “We’ll question him again when he’s sober,” said the inspector. “We’ll let you know if we learn anything more. In the meantime, though, you’ll have to make do with what I’ve already told you, because there isn’t anything more.”

  “I know all I need to know for now,” said Sister Carlotta. “Enough to know that this child truly is a miracle, raised up by God for some great purpose.”

  “I’m not Catholic,” said the inspector.

  “God loves you all the same,” said Sister Carlotta cheerfully.

  Part Two

  LAUNCHY

  5

  READY OR NOT

  “Why are you giving me a five-year-old street urchin to tend?”

  “You’ve seen the scores.”

  “Am I supposed to take those seriously?”

  “Since the whole Battle School program is based on the reliability of our juvenile testing program, yes, I think you should take his scores seriously. I did a little research. No child has ever done better. Not even your star pupil.”

  “It’s not the validity of the tests that I doubt. It’s the tester.”

  “Sister Carlotta is a nun. You’ll never find a more honest person.”

  “Honest people have been known to deceive themselves. To want so desperately, after all these years of searching, to find one—just one—child whose value will be worth all that work.”

  “And she’s found him.”

  “Look at the way she found him. Her first report touts this Achilles child, and this—this Bean, this Legume—he’s just an afterthought. Then Achilles is gone, not another mention of him—did he die? Wasn’t she trying to get a leg operation for him?—and it’s Haricot Vert who is now her candidate.”

  “ ‘Bean’ is the name he calls himself. Rather as your Andrew Wiggin calls himself ‘Ender.’ ”

  “He’s not my Andrew Wiggin.”

  “And Bean is not Sister Carlotta’s child, either. If she were inclined to fudge the scores or administer tests unfairly, she would have pushed other students into the program long before now, and we’d already know how unreliable she was. She has never done that. She washes out her most hopeful children herself, then finds some place for them on Earth or in a non-command program. I think you’re merely annoyed because you’ve already decided to focus all your attention and energy on the Wiggin boy, and you don’t want any distraction.”

  “When did I lie down on your couch?”

  “If my analysis is wrong, do forgive me.”

  “Of course I’ll give this little one a chance. Even if I don’t for one second believe these scores.”

  “Not just a chance. Advance him. Test him. Challenge him. Don’t let him languish.”

  “You underestimate our program. We advance and test and challenge all our students.”

  “But some are more equal than others.”

  “Some take better advantage of the program than others.”

  “I’ll look forward to telling Sister Carlotta about your enthusiasm.”

  Sister Carlotta shed tears when she told Bean that it was time for him to leave. Bean shed none.

  “I understand that you’re afraid, Bean, but don’t be,” she said. “You’ll be safe there, and there’s so much to learn. The way you drink down knowledge, you’ll be very happy there in no time. So you won’t really miss me at all.”

  Bean blinked. What sign had he given that made her think he was afraid? Or that he would miss her?

  He felt none of those things. When he first met her, he might have been prepared to feel something for her. She was kind. She fed him. She was keeping him safe, giving him a life.

  But then he found Pablo the janitor, and there was Sister Carlotta, stopping Bean from talking to the man who had saved him long before she did. Nor would she tell him anything that Pablo had said, or anything she had learned about the clean place.

  From that moment, trust was gone. Bean knew that whatever Sister Carlotta was doing, it wasn’t for him. She was using him. He didn’t know what for. It might even be something he would have chosen to do himself. But she wasn’t telling him the truth. She had secrets from him. The way Achilles kept secrets.

  So during the months that she was his teacher, he had grown more and more distant from her. Everything she taught, he learned—and much that she didn’t teach as well. He took every test she gave him, and did well; but he showed her nothing he had learned that she hadn’t taught him.

  Of course life with Sister Carlotta was better than life on the street—he had no intention of going back. But he did not trust her. He was on guard all the time. He was as careful as he had ever been back in Achilles’ family. Those brief days at the beginning, when he wept in front of her, when he let go of himself and spoke freely—that had been a mistake that he would not repeat. Life was better, but he wasn’t safe, and this wasn’t home.

  Her tears were real enough, he knew. She really did love him, and would really miss him when he left. After all, he had been a perfect child, compliant, quick, obedient. To her, that meant he was “good.” To him, it was only a way of keeping his access to food and learning. He wasn’t stupid.

  Why did she assume he was afraid? Because she was afraid for him. Therefore there might indeed be something to fear. He would be careful.

  And why did she assume that he would miss her? Because she would miss him, and she could not imagine that what she was feeling, he might not feel as well. She had created an imaginary version of him. Like the games of Let’s Pretend that she tried to play with him a couple of times. Harking back to her own childhood, no doubt, growing up in a house where there was always enough food. Bean didn’t have to pretend things in order to exercise his imagination when he was on the street. Instead he had to imagine his plans for how to get food, for how to insinuate himself into a crew, for how to survive when he knew he seemed useless to everyone. He had to imagine how and when Achilles would decide to act against him for having advocated that Poke kill him. He had to imagine danger around every corner, a bully ready to seize every scrap of food. Oh, he had plenty of imagination. But he had no interest at all in playing Let’s Pretend.

  That was her game. She played it all the time. Let’s pretend that Bean is a good little boy. Let’s pretend that Bean is the son that this nun can never have for real. Let’s pretend that when Bean leaves, he’ll cry—that he’s not crying now because he’s too afraid of this new school, this journey into space, to let his emotions show. Let’s pretend that Bean loves me.

  And when he understood this, he made a decision: It will do no harm to me if she believes all this. And she wants very much to believe it. So why not give it to her? After all, Poke let me stay with the crew even though she didn’t need me, because it would do no harm. It’s the kind of thing Poke would do.

  So Bean slid off his chair, walked around the table to Sister Carlotta, and put his arms as far around her as they would reach. She gathered him up onto her lap and held him tight, her tears flowing into his hair. He hoped her nose wasn’t running. But he clung to her as long as she clung to him, letting go only when she let go of him. It was what she wanted from him, the only payment that she had ever asked of him. For all the meals, the lessons, the books, the language, for his future, he owed her no less than to join her in this game of Let’s Pretend.

  Then the moment passed. He slid off her lap. She dabbed at her eyes. Then she rose, took his hand, and led him out to the waiting soldiers, to the waiting car.

  As he approached the car, the uniformed men loomed over him. It was not the grey uniform of the I.T. police, those kickers of children, those wielders of sticks. Rather it was the sky blue of the International Fleet that they wore, a cleaner look, and the people who gathered around to watch showed no fear, but rather admiration. This was the uniform of distant power, of safety for humanity, the uniform on which all hope depended. This was the service he was about to join.

  But he was so small, and as they looked down at him he was afraid after all, and clung more tightly to Sister Carlotta’s hand. Was he going to become one of them? Was he going to be a man in such a uniform, with such admiration directed at him? Then why was he afraid?

  I’m afraid, Bean thought, because I don’t see how I can ever be so tall.

  One of the soldiers bent down to him, to lift him into the car. Bean glared up at him, defying him to dare such a thing. “I can do it,” he said.

  The soldier nodded slightly, and stood upright again. Bean hooked his leg up onto the running board of the car and hoisted himself in. It was high off the ground, and the seat he held to was slick and offered scant purchase to his hands. But he made it, and positioned himself in the middle of the back seat, the only position where he could see between the front seats and have some idea of where the car would be going.

  One of the soldiers got into the driver’s seat. Bean expected the other to get into the back seat beside Bean, and anticipated an argument about whether Bean could sit in the middle or not. Instead, he got into the front on the other side. Bean was alone in back.

  He looked out the side window at Sister Carlotta. She was still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She gave him a little wave. He waved back. She sobbed a little. The car glided forward along the magnetic track in the road. Soon they were outside the city, gliding through the countryside at a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour. Ahead was the Amsterdam airport, one of only three in Europe that could launch one of the shuttles that could fly into orbit. Bean was through with Rotterdam. For the time being, at least, he was through with Earth.

  Since Bean had never flown on an airplane, he did not understand how different the shuttle was, though that seemed to be all that the other boys could talk about at first. I thought it would be bigger. Doesn’t it take off straight up? That was the old shuttle, stupid. There aren’t any tray tables! That’s cause in null-G you can’t set anything down anyway, bonehead.

  To Bean, the sky was the sky, and all he’d ever cared about was whether it was going to rain or snow or blow or burn. Going up into space did not seem any more strange to him than going up to the clouds.

  What fascinated him were the other children. Boys, most of them, and all older than him. Definitely all larger. Some of them looked at him oddly, and behind him he heard one whisper, “Is he a kid or a doll?” But snide remarks about his size and his age were nothing new to him. In fact, what surprised him was that there was only the one remark, and it was whispered.

  The kids themselves fascinated him. They were all so fat, so soft. Their bodies were like pillows, their cheeks full, their hair thick, their clothes well fitted. Bean knew, of course, that he had more fat on him now than at any time since he left the clean place, but he didn’t see himself, he only saw them, and couldn’t help comparing them to the kids on the street. Sergeant could take any of them apart. Achilles could . . . well, no use thinking about Achilles.

  Bean tried to imagine them lining up outside a charity kitchen. Or scrounging for candy wrappers to lick. What a joke. They had never missed a meal in their lives. Bean wanted to punch them all so hard in the stomach that they would puke up everything they ate that day. Let them feel some pain there in their gut, that gnawing hunger. And then let them feel it again the next day, and the next hour, morning and night, waking and sleeping, the constant weakness fluttering just inside your throat, the faintness behind your eyes, the headache, the dizziness, the swelling of your joints, the distension of your belly, the thinning of your muscles until you barely have strength to stand. These children had never looked death in the face and then chosen to live anyway. They were confident. They were unwary.