Bean crept over the ducting to get a better look. The man kept bustling about, always blocking the monitor, but Bean had learned how to be patient in the streets of Rotterdam. Impatient boys died. Bean was a survivor.
Finally he got a clear shot and watched as a password was entered. Bean memorized it easily and began backing up, inch by inch, to return to his barracks before anyone noticed. It took him nearly a half hour before he emerged, naked and filthy, from the vent grill.
After he climbed into bed and let his breathing patterns follow their natural rhythm into what would appear to be deep sleep, he slid his desk out and, curled around it to keep it invisible from prying eyes, logged in.
“CLAUS,” he typed. “PASSWORD: KRING01.” Amateur.
Long lists of Battle School students streamed past, each one with a “naughty” or “nice” designation. Obviously chosen arbitrarily, he noticed, as the labels had little to do with actual student performance and everything to do with how charming or personally ingratiating the students were. Such was the way of the world, even when you were no longer in the world.
Bean called up the list again and started changing some of the labels. Not all of them, just a few, here and there, to make sure that Ender’s jeesh would get the recognition they deserved. Such largesse might be wasted on Bean himself, having never experienced the heady anticipation and family joys of Christmas, but it would help bond the others into a closer unit. That would be important, Bean knew. Soldiers without presents would feel less than the others, inadequate, left out.
He had finished — after a quick mental struggle he decided to change his own listing to “nice” as well so as not to stand out — and moved to sign off when he noticed another list. One keystroke and he was looking at the staff records.
In the darkness, Bean smiled. Oh, you’ve been a naughty boy, Graff…
(with apologies to Orson Scott Card…)