Ender's Shadow

display of temper in the battleroom today was insubordinate and is not to be repeated.”
      Bean couldn't believe the stupidity of it. After what Ender had been through -- what the teachers had put him through -- and they have to keep playing this oppressive game with him? Making him feel utterly alone even now? These guys were relentless.
      Ender's only answer was another lifeless "Yes sir." But Bean was fed up. "I think it was about time somebody told a teacher how we felt about what you've been doing.”
      Anderson and Graff didn't show a sign they'd even heard him. Instead, Anderson handed Ender a full sheet of paper. Not a transfer slip. A full-fledged set of orders. Ender was being transferred out of the school.
      "Graduated?" Bean asked.
      Ender nodded.
      "What took them so long?" asked Bean. "You're only two or three years early. You've already learned how to walk and talk and dress yourself. What will they have left to teach you?" The whole thing was such a joke. Did they really think anybody was fooled? You reprimand Ender for insubordination, but then you graduate him because you've got a war coming and you don't have a lot of time to get him ready. He's your hope of victory, and you treat him like something you scrape off your shoe.
      "All I know is, the game's over," said Ender. He folded the paper. "None too soon. Can I tell my army?”
      "There isn't time," said Graff. "Your shuttle leaves in twenty minutes. Besides, it's better not to talk to them after you get your orders. It makes it easier.”
      "For them or for you?" Ender asked.
      He turned to Bean, took his hand. To Bean, it was like the touch of the finger of God. It sent light all through him. Maybe I am his friend. Maybe he feels toward me some small part of the ... feeling I have for him.
      And then it was over. Ender let go of his hand. He turned toward the door.
      "Wait," said Bean. "Where are you going? Tactical? Navigational? Support?”
      "Command School," said Ender.
      " Pre -command?”
      "Command." Ender was out the door.
      Straight to Command School. The elite school whose location was even a secret. Adults went to Command School. The battle must be coming very soon, to skip right past all the things they were supposed to learn in Tactical and Pre-Command.
      He caught Graff by the sleeve. "Nobody goes to Command School until they're sixteen!" he said.
      Graff shook off Bean's hand and left. If he caught Bean's sarcasm, he gave no sign of it.
      The door closed. Bean was alone in Ender's quarters.
      He looked around. Without Ender in it, the room was nothing. Being here meant nothing. Yet it was only a few days ago, not even a week, when Bean had stood here and Ender told him he was getting a toon after all.
      For some reason what came into Bean's mind was the moment when Poke handed him six peanuts. It was life that she handed to him then.
      Was it life that Ender gave to Bean? Was it the same thing?
      No. Poke gave him life. Ender gave it meaning.
      When Ender was here, this was the most important room in Battle School. Now it was no more than a broom closet.
      Bean walked back down the corridor to the room that had been Carn Carby's until today. Until an hour ago. He palmed it -- it opened. Already programmed in.
      The room was empty. Nothing in it.
      This room is mine, thought Bean.
      Mine, and yet still empty.
      He felt powerful emotions welling up inside him. He should be excited, proud to have his own command. But he didn't really care about it. As Ender said, the game was nothing. Bean would do a decent job, but the reason he'd have the respect of his soldiers was because he would carry some of Ender's reflected glory with him, a shrimpy little Napoleon flumping around wearing a man's shoes while he barked commands in a little tiny child's voice. Cute little Caligula, "Little Boot," the pride of Germanicus's army. But when he was wearing his father's boots, those boots were empty, and Caligula knew it, and nothing he ever did could change that. Was that his madness?
      It won't drive me mad, thought Bean. Because I don't covet what Ender has or what he is. It's enough that he is Ender Wiggin. I don't have to be.
      He understood what this feeling was, welling up in him, filling his throat, making tears stand out in his eyes, making his face burn, forcing a gasp, a silent sob. He bit on his lip, trying to let pain force the emotion away. It didn't help. Ender was