Ender's Game (Ender Wiggins Saga)

in the game. So of course, of course I am given such a useless, untrained, hopeless specimen of underdevelopment as yourself.”
      Petra said, quietly, "He isn't glad to meet you.”
      "Shut up, Arkanian," Madrid said. "To one trial we now add another. But whatever obstacles our officers choose to fling in our path, we are still--”
      "Salamander!" cried the soldiers, in one voice. Instinctively, Ender's perception of these events changed. It was a pattern, a ritual. Madrid was not trying to hurt him, merely taking control of a surprising event and using it to strengthen his control of his army.
      "We are the fire that will consume them, belly and bowel, head and heart, many flames of us, but one fire.”
      "Salamander!" they cried again.
      "Even this one will not weaken us.”
      For a moment, Ender allowed himself to hope. "I'll work hard and learn quickly," he said.
      "I didn't give you permission to speak," Madrid answered. "I intend to trade you away as quickly as I can. I'll probably have to give up someone valuable along with you, but as small as you are you are worse than useless. One more frozen, inevitably, in every battle, that's all you are, and we're now at a point where every frozen soldier makes a difference in the standings. Nothing personal, Wiggin, but I'm sure you can get your training at someone else's expense.”
      "He's all heart," Petra said.
      Madrid stepped closer to the girl and slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. It made little sound, for only his fingernails had hit her. But there were bright red marks, four of them, on her cheek, and little pricks of blood marked where the tips of his fingernails had struck.
      "Here are your instructions, Wiggin. I expect that it is the last time I'll need to speak to you. You will stay out of the way when we're training in the battleroom. You have to be there, of course, but you will not belong to any toon and you will not take part in any maneuvers. When we're called to battle, you will dress quickly and present yourself at the gate with everyone else. But you will not pass through the gate until four full minutes after the beginning of the game, and then you will remain at the gate, with your weapon undrawn and unfired, until such time as the game ends.”
      Ender nodded. So he was to be a nothing. He hoped the trade happened soon.
      He also noticed that Petra did not so much as cry out in pain, or touch her cheek, though one spot of blood had beaded and run, making a streak down to her jaw. Outcast she may be, but since Bonzo Madrid was not going to be Ender's friend, no matter what, he might as well make friends with Petra.
      He was assigned a bunk at the far end of the room. The upper bunk, so that when he lay on his bed he couldn't even seen the door; the curve of the ceiling blocked it. There were other boys near him, tired-looking boys, sullen, the ones least valued. They had nothing of welcome to say to Ender.
      Ender tried to palm his locker open, but nothing happened. Then he realized the lockers were not secured. All four of them had rings on them, to pull them open. Nothing would be private, then, now that he was in an army.
      There was a uniform in the locker. Not the pale green of the Launchies, but the orange-trimmed dark green uniform of Salamander Army. It did not fit well. But then, they had probably never had to provide such a uniform for a boy so young.
      He was starting to take it off when he noticed Petra walking down the aisle toward his bed. He slid off the bunk and stood on the floor to greet her.
      "Relax," she said. "I'm not an officer.”
      "You're a toon leader, aren't you?”
      Someone nearby snickered.
      "Whatever gave you that idea, Wiggin?”
      "You have a bunk in the front.”
      "I bunk in the front because I'm the best sharpshooter in Salamander Army, and because Bonzo is afraid I'll start a revolution if the toon leaders don't keep an eye on me. As if I could start anything with boys like these ." She indicated the sullen-faced boys on the nearby bunks.
      What was she trying to do, make it worse than it already was?
      "Everybody's better than I am," Ender said, trying to dissociate himself from her contempt for the boys who would, after all, be his near bunkmates.
      "I'm a girl," she said, "and you're a pissant of a six-year-old. We have so much in common, why don't we be friends?”
      "I won't do your deskwork for you," he said.
      In a moment