How to Play Eschaton

October, 476 IC, Odin

Mittermeyer found Yang the next night, knocking on his dorm door at around ten. Yang was in bed, in his pajamas, reading a book. Thinking it might be Reuenthal, he said, “Come in; it’s not locked.”

Mittermeyer opened the door and politely ignored Yang’s mess and state of undress. “Oh, hi, Mittermeyer,” Yang said when he saw who it was. “Er, you can just put that stuff on the floor if you want to sit down,” he said, motioning to a stack of papers intermixed with garbage that were taking up his desk chair.

Mittermeyer shut the door and did as Yang said. “Sorry for bothering you so late.”

“No, it’s fine, I was just getting some homework done.”

“You should probably keep your door locked,” Mittermeyer said.

“I usually remember to lock it before I go to sleep. And I always do when I go out.”

“Usually.”

Yang sat up and made a face. “Locking doors on your mind, recently?” Mittermeyer flushed visibly. “I assume Reuenthal talked to you, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Mind telling me what he said?”

“What is there to say? He told me that you walked in on us, but that you’re going to be discreet about it.” Mittermeyer sounded mildly annoyed.

“Is something the matter?” Yang asked.

“I wish he had told me right away.”

“It probably wouldn’t have done you any good. He was just trying to save you from anxiety.”

“You could have told me right away.”

“To be fair to me, I thought you knew. I wasn’t exactly being stealthy when I walked in. You were just, uh, occupied.”

“You’re not going to tell anyone, right?”

“Why would I?” This conversation was less awkward than the one he had had with Reuenthal, but Yang still didn’t enjoy prolonging the discussion. Still, he had known the conversation was coming, so he had had time to get his thoughts and emotions under control enough to present a reasonable front to Mittermeyer. “Besides the fact that you’re both my friends, and it would be a poor way to treat a friend, having a scandal in which the freshman and sophomore number ones were reported to be engaging in illicit behavior…” Yang shrugged. “Even if I did report it, which I won’t, people would look at the situation and ask the question: cui bono? It would look very bad for me, wouldn’t it?”

Mittermeyer frowned. “It’s not funny.”

Yang had been trying to keep his voice light, but seeing that Mittermeyer was unhappy with that tactic, he changed his tone to a more serious and compassionate one. “No, it’s not. Look, Mittermeyer, you’re my friend. I want you to be happy. If being with Reuenthal makes you happy, it’s not my business to stop it. Just be careful, okay?”

“You don’t think it’s wrong?”

Yang rubbed his temple. “I can’t even begin to form a cogent response to that question. No. I guess.” He sighed. “It’s illegal. But that doesn’t mean anything. What I think about it doesn’t really matter.” He was getting disgruntled, but maybe he would rather Mittermeyer think that he was confused about the whole subject, rather than having complicated personal feelings about the participants in this particular tryst.

“Can I say something?” Mittermeyer asked. “And please don’t take it the wrong way.”

“Of course. I’m not your superior officer.”

“I do trust you, but I hate being in the position of needing to trust you.”

“I understand,” Yang said. “Reuenthal was arguing with me about the same premise, for a while.”

“And what conclusion did you reach?”

Yang leaned back against the wall, putting his arms behind his head. “If it makes you feel any better, Reuenthal also has some kompromat on me.”

“Really? How?”

“Very sweet of you to not ask ‘what’,” Yang said. “Last year, in a very drunk moment and in a feeling of friendship, I shared with him some information about my past. He’s been a gentleman about it. Anyway, if it would make you feel any better, I could burden you with the same information, and then we’d be even. You wouldn’t have to trust me.”

Mittermeyer shook his head. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

Yang smiled. “You’re an honest man, Wolfgang Mittermeyer. I’m sure I’ll get drunk and tell you unprompted someday, anyway. I trust you.”

“Honest is a bit of a strong word.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to have to lie about this until I die,” he said, and sounded so dejected that Yang leaned forward and stared at him.

“That bothers you?”

“How could it not? I’ve never lied to my parents in my life.”

Yang thought about that for a second. He didn’t want to just dump a platitude on Mittermeyer’s lap, because he didn’t think it would help, and he also couldn’t say anything about his own situation (because his parents were dead, and he didn’t want to drag himself into it anyway), but he needed to say something. “Listen, Mittermeyer,” he began. “I think-- there’s different types of lies in this world. There’s lies that are meant to harm, and lies that are meant to save. It’s the same thing with violence: there’s some that’s oppressive, and some that’s liberatory. It’s a tool.”

Mittermeyer seemed nonplussed by this. “But--”

“You’re about to tell me that since I like history I should care about the truth, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Reuenthal said something similar, in a different context.”

“Oh.”

“Do you actually want my thoughts on that? I don’t want to lecture you. I can really get going if I’m let loose.”

“Er. I’m not particularly good at history,” Mittermeyer admitted. “Can you give me the thirty second version?”

“Sure.” Yang thought for a second. “Every time you look at a piece of history, it’s been written down by someone. There’s no book that appeared out of thin air filled with something called ‘truth’-- it’s all a story that people are telling each other because it gives what we’re doing meaning. And when someone tells a story that has meaning, they always have a purpose. Even if everything that someone says is strictly ‘true’, you have to also look at what isn’t being said, and you have to decide if their message is ‘right’.” Yang scratched the back of his head.

“I think there are truths in life: we’re on a planet that turns, so the sun rises in the morning and sets at night, we get hungry if we don’t eat, we get tired and then we sleep. But I don’t think that something being true has moral weight, and I don’t think something being written down and called history makes it either ‘true’ or ‘right’ necessarily.” He shrugged.

“If you tell a lie to save yourself-- so what? Is it a moral right for you to tell this thing called ‘truth’ and then end up suffering? Or is it a moral right to be happy?”

Mittermeyer didn’t say anything for a second. “Are you actually asking me?”

“I don’t know,” Yang said, then leaned back. “Maybe it’s not a question with an actual answer. But I’d say that feeling bad about it isn’t going to earn you anything other than bad feelings, and telling the truth isn’t going to earn you anything other than animosity, so you might as well try to feel good about it.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“Maybe it is,” Yang said, though it certainly wasn’t. “But I’m not sure what else there is to say. I don’t want you to turn yourself in to the authorities, and I don’t want you to beat yourself up over not doing so.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“It’s selfish for me to want to keep my friends in school and out of jail.”

Mittermeyer laughed at that. “If that’s what selfishness is, I’ve been misunderstanding the world.”

“Selfishness is that, and a lot of other things besides. I’m a selfish man, Mittermeyer.”

“I thought you were a lazy one.”

“I have many foul qualities,” Yang said. “Not the least of which being that I love to lecture my mentee on my opinions.”

“I don’t mind. And, thank you.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I don’t think that there’s many other people who would be willing to keep this secret,” Mittermeyer said.

Yang closed his eyes, his head tilted back against the wall. “If the roles were reversed, you would.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“I do,” Yang said. “You have a low opinion of yourself, and I don’t know why.”

Mittermeyer shrugged, not quite looking at Yang. “If you say so.”

“I think it would be difficult for us to be friends if you weren’t the type of person I know you to be. Whatever you want to call that type of person, if you think that me calling it ‘good’ is a step too far.”

“Yeah,” Mittermeyer said, though Yang didn’t know what he was referring to. He stood. “Thank you, anyway.”

“You’re welcome.” Mittermeyer walked to the door. When he had his hand on the handle, Yang cracked his eyes open and looked at him. “Oh, and Mittermeyer,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Not that I mind your company, but maybe you should avoid being seen going to other mens’ rooms alone at night, okay?”

Mittermeyer cringed, then nodded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yang said with a smile. “Have a nice night.”

November, 476 IC, Odin

By the time the next Saturday rolled around, life was re-approaching some semblance of normality. Yang did his best to foster within himself an emotion he deemed “casual benevolence” towards Reuenthal and Mittermeyer, and he felt like it was almost working. It made him happy to see Reuenthal smile and look less burdened than he had in a long while. And when they met in their larger group to play their games, he could pretend like nothing had changed. He was required to pretend that, in fact.

When they gathered in their usual practice room, Reuenthal brought the group to attention, drawing the ire of Bittenfeld, who wanted to get playing immediately.

“The other day, Leigh had an idea that I believe is worth serious consideration,” Reuenthal said. “Let him explain it for a minute.”

“Thanks,” Yang said. He rather awkwardly stood from his chair to address the group, his hand finding its way into his hair, his perpetual nervous habit. “I was thinking-- if you’re all willing to try this-- maybe we should change the way we’re playing.”

“What do you mean?” Wahlen asked.

“We’re not playing for points right now,” Yang said. “Mostly just for fun, right?” There were nods all around. “That’s good. And that’s fine. I was just imagining that, since we’re not constrained by needing to match up with different people every week, and we’re not fighting over rankings, we could try to make our matches a little more realistic.”

“Realistic to what?” Bittenfeld asked.

“Life,” Yang said. “Reuenthal suggested that we play a long term campaign, so that wins and losses mean something. That way we’ll have to take into account the whole scope of the battle: choosing a time and place for the engagement, how many troops or ships we’re going to commit, what’s an acceptable loss and what’s an acceptable retreat, and how we’d be able to meet back up with the main body of the force, that kind of thing.”

Eisenach was nodding and Wahlen looked contemplative.

“What kind of long term campaign are we talking about?” Wahlen asked.

Reuenthal cut in. “We’re training to fight only one kind of war, aren’t we?” he asked. “We should simulate that one.”

That made Bittenfeld grin. “You know, I do like the sound of that. No more messing around with ancient Earth garbage.”

“So I think we should split up into teams, and those can be permanent, at least until we decide we don’t want to play like this anymore. And then we’ll be able to do long term strategy.”

“All in favor of this proposal?” Reuenthal asked. Everyone’s hand went in the air immediately, which surprised Yang.

“I want to be on Reuenthal’s team,” Bittenfeld said.

“I’ll GM the whole game,” Yang said immediately.

“No,” Wahlen said. “You can’t.”

“What? Why?” Yang asked. He wanted to be the GM.

“Think about it: if Reuenthal leads one team, unless you’re on the other, that side stands no chance.”

Yang frowned. “The whole point is to improve your abilities. You can’t just give up like that immediately.”

“You know it’s true, though,” Wahlen said.

Reuenthal was smirking at Yang, who continued to scowl. “But I like to GM.”

“We’re going to need more people,” Mittermeyer said, also frowning a little. “I don’t know how effective this will be if we don’t. I mean we only have six right now. If we have two GMs, that’s teams of two.”

Yang tapped his chin. “You’re not wrong.” He wasn’t strictly opposed to bringing in more people, but he liked his close knit group of friends. “Can we find more people we trust? I mean trust, trust,” he said. He still wasn’t entirely sure if this little group was technically allowed under the IOA rules, and he had no desire to bring in people who would be hard to deal with.

“If we bring in someone we don’t like, we can always just kick them out,” Wahlen said. “I think there’s a few people we could invite, at least.”

“There’s a couple freshmen that I know who might enjoy this,” Mittermeyer said.

“Freshmen,” Bittenfeld said with a mild look of disgust. Yang rolled his eyes.

“Eisenach, are there any upperclassmen who would want in?”

Eisenach looked pensive for a second, then nodded. That was about the most response Yang was going to get, so he smiled and moved on.

“I would really prefer to GM,” Yang said again.

“I don’t know if you’ll find many people who will be willing to GM every match and never play,” Mittermeyer said. “Aside from Leigh, anyway. Maybe when matches happen, one representative from each team should be the GM for each engagement.”

“Then we have the problem of information that each side won’t want the other to have access to. We’ll still need at least one impartial moderator, who will be in charge of the overall game, and resolving disputes.”

Eisenach raised his hand, then pointed at himself.

Yang was still frowning. “You want the job?”

Eisenach nodded.

“Perhaps that’s the best result we’re going to get,” Reuenthal said. “Wahlen’s right that you shouldn’t do it. And if we’re bringing in other students, it might be best to have our technically most senior person run the game. Just to make sure things run smoothly.”

Yang could see the logic in that, though he still was unhappy that he wasn’t getting the job.

Bittenfeld snorted. “At least we won’t have to worry about him saying anything secret.”

Eisenach just smiled languidly.

“Fine,” Yang said. “If there are no objections?” There were none. He took out his thermos from his bag and poured himself a cup of tea before speaking again. “Then I suppose we should probably hash out teams and starting conditions now, before we bring other people in.”

Reuenthal turned on the projector at the front of the room. “We’re playing the Empire versus the rebel fleet, aren’t we?”

There was a prolonged moment of silence. “Yes,” Yang said. “We might as well.”

“Are there objections to me appointing myself supreme commander of the Imperial Fleet?” Reuenthal asked, leaning against the wall, the projector sending rippling waves of light across him. He looked impressive in that light-- Yang couldn’t stop himself from looking.

“That would make Leigh…” Wahlen said, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s not a good look,” Mittermeyer agreed.

“It’s fine,” Yang said. “Staden puts me in the rebel fleet role every time it comes up. This is hardly any different. Besides, Reuenthal has his pride to worry about.”

“So, no objections?” Reuenthal asked, looking at Yang, who waved his hand.

“Go ahead.”

Reuenthal typed into the computer, and the projector screen changed to display two columns-- the first one entitled “Imperial Fleet” and the second, “Rebel Fleet”. Under ‘Imperial Fleet’ was written ‘Supreme Fleet Admiral Oskar von Reuenthal’. It seemed a little pretentious, but then on the other side, Reuenthal typed ‘Space Fleet Commander, Fleet Admiral Hank von Leigh’, which made Yang roll his eyes.

“Wahlen,” Yang said, “Want to be on my team?”

Wahlen considered it for a second. Yang figured that to most of the students, there would be more prestige in being on the Imperial side of things, but he did need players. And he figured that Wahlen both respected his capabilities and respected the fact that he had been Yang’s first choice. He wasn’t Yang’s first choice, really-- Yang would have preferred Mittermeyer or Eisenach, but it would be stupid not to let Reuenthal have Mittermeyer, and Eisenach wasn’t playing, so Wahlen it was. He was steady and competent, which were both good traits.

“Sure,” Wahlen said after a moment.

“What rank are you giving him?” Reuenthal asked.

“Admiral,” Yang said.

Reuenthal wrote ‘Admiral August Samuel Wahlen’ on the board.

“I’ll take Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal said. “No objections?”

“Go ahead,” Yang said.

“Welcome to the team, High Admiral Mittermeyer.”

“You won’t let me be a Fleet Admiral?” Mittermeyer asked.

“You’ll have to earn your promotion,” Reuenthal said. Mittermeyer gave him a look.

“I said I wanted to be on Reuenthal’s team,” Bittenfeld said.

Reuenthal looked across at Yang, who shrugged. “I can survive without you, Bittenfeld.” And so, in short order, Bittenfeld was marked down as another High Admiral on the board.

“That will leave you with the first pick from anyone we bring in,” Reuenthal said. “I trust that you all will exercise good judgement.”

From there, they moved on to hashing out the starting equipment and positions that each side would have available. It wasn’t as though they had detailed knowledge of the real strengths of each side, but they could make rough guesses. They didn’t even have accurate navigational charts of anywhere, but Reuenthal clapped Eisenach on the back and told him that that would be his headache as the campaign GM.

April, 476 IC, Odin

Yang’s informal club expanded in number to about fifteen people. It remained an exclusive group, comprised of high ranking students across all different school years. Some of the most notable among their number were Bayerlein, the freshman number three; Farenheight, the senior number five; and Ferner, the junior number one.

Most of the newcomers flocked to Reuenthal’s side, which Yang didn’t particularly mind. Reuenthal had an easier time wrangling all their personalities than Yang would have. It was easy to set himself up as the heel, and every time the subject came up in conversation, Reuenthal expressed that he was glad that Yang was willing to take the role.

He also said, however, that Yang should be more proactive.

“You can’t just wait until I invade through Iserlohn,” Reuenthal said as they sat in the dining hall one Friday night, leaning across the table to talk to each other quietly. “You should do something.”

“Why? We’ve seen exactly what happens when the rebel fleet has thrown themselves at Iserlohn in the past: absolutely nothing. I have no desire to waste resources.”

“So I’m forced to invade in order to make this game worthwhile.”

“And then I can pick you down bit by bit, every time you cross the line,” Yang said with a shrug. “That’s the way war goes, isn’t it?”

“The fact that you’re not trying to win is quite infuriating.”

“I’ve always enjoyed simply not-losing,” Yang said.

Mittermeyer appeared, then, placing his tray down and sitting next to Reuenthal. “What are you talking about?”

“Von Leigh’s chronic lack of ambition, and how it’s ruining our game.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s ruined,” Mittermeyer said. “I’m having a great time.”

“Besides,” Yang said. “I’m not a man with no ambition.” He said this with a wide smile. “Just the wrong kind.”

Reuenthal raised an eyebrow. “Then you should use that wrong kind of ambition to make the game more interesting.”

“I’ll think about it,” Yang said. “I don’t want to end up cornering myself.”

“I feel like you do better when you are cornered,” Mittermeyer said. “When you’re forced to take action, that’s when you’re most exciting.”

“Excitement isn’t everything,” Yang said. “And if you want to force me to do anything, you’ll have to work for it.”

Reuenthal and Mittermeyer shared a look, then, and Yang looked away. “I suppose we can’t discuss our strategy here with you,” Reuenthal said.

Yang tried not to interfere with the other side’s strategy meetings, since it crossed several personal and professional boundaries, but Yang’s subordinates (Ferner, mostly) weren’t above glancing through any notes that Eisenach left uncovered, and Wahlen felt free to share any information that Bittenfeld blurted out in unguarded moments. When this sort of espionage was discovered, Eisenach started writing all his personal notes in an elaborate code, and Reuenthal started feeding Bittenfeld false information. It had been a nice advantage while Yang had kept it, but it didn’t last long.

He wasn’t exactly jealous of Mittermeyer getting to play with Reuenthal, since playing against him had its own rewards, but he would have liked the opportunity to switch roles, at some point. He was considering bringing up the idea of resetting the game at the beginning of the next school year, and trying again with different team setups. He wasn’t sure how well that idea would go over-- he was planning to bring it up with Eisenach eventually, since it would probably be his call.

Since he was intending to do that, Yang decided to humor Reuenthal by doing something risky before the end of the school year, and he began plans to launch a full scale invasion of the Empire through the Phezzan corridor. Eisenach was annoyed at him when he put these plans into motion, because since no one was playing “as Phezzan”, he as the GM had to be responsible for organizing Phezzan’s merchant fleet into a defense. The whole thing made Yang cringe internally-- after all, his father had been a merchant operating between the FPA and Phezzan, and he couldn’t really imagine Boris Konev and his family getting their ship marshalled into a defensive formation by the Landesherr. Reuenthal’s fleet had to come to their defense, and it turned into a massive, prolonged struggle.

This was all well and good, or it would have been, had Staden, who ran the SW practicum, not pulled Yang aside one day as he was finishing up a rather tedious class match. “Von Leigh, I would like to speak with you in my office,” Staden said.

“Of course, sir,” Yang said. He felt like he usually had a handle on how to deal with Staden, so he wasn’t nervous, but he was slightly confused. “Now?”

“At four.”

Since Yang’s match had finished early into class, that meant that Yang had a little bit of time to stew before he actually had to meet with Staden. As he headed out onto the green, wondering if Reuenthal was done with his own match, Yang checked his phone and discovered that Eisenach had been texting him while he had been busy.

Eisenach attached a screenshot of an email that just read:

I see. Thank you for the information.

V/r

Capt. Theodore Staden

Imperial Officers’ Academy, Strategic Warfare Program Coordinator

> thanks for the warning

> unfortunately, staden emphatically doesn’t like me

> so I guess we shall see how miserable this is

Yang sat down on the grass outside, getting his pants a little wet, then leaned back onto his bookbag, staring up into the cloudless blue spring sky. They weren’t technically breaking any rules. No one ever said it was illegal to do what was essentially extra schoolwork, in a room that Eisenach had somehow gotten permission from someone to use. Was it weird? Maybe.

Well. He couldn’t do anything about it now. If he had thought that they were likely to get in trouble for it, he probably would have gone to greater lengths to keep it secret. Which was to say, they would have just met somewhere else, rather than in the practice room.

Reuenthal eventually exited the building, saw Yang half-napping on the green, and came over to sit next to him. Yang recognized the sound of his footsteps approaching, and without opening his eyes, asked, “Did Staden ask to see you?”

“What?” Reuenthal asked.

Yang wordlessly passed him his phone with the text messages from Eisenach, which Reuenthal read.

“And Staden wants to see me at four,” Yang said when it seemed like Reuenthal had finished reading.

“That’s in ten minutes. Do you want me to go with you?”

“Thanks for the offer, but if there’s some sort of fall to be taken, I think that it’s less injurious for us all if I simply take it.”

“You don’t need to be the martyr of the sophomore class.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Yang said. “I’m just saying that it’s probably the cleanest thing to do. Staden already doesn’t like me.”

Reuenthal frowned. “Good luck, then.”

“I think the worst I’ll get is yelled at,” Yang said. He laid on the grass for a bit longer, then stood, stretching. “Dinner later?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll let you know how this goes. Don’t bother waiting for me, since I have no idea how long this will take.” He gathered his belongings and then headed back inside towards Staden’s office, leaving Reuenthal on the green.

Yang knocked on the door to Staden’s office. “Come in,” Staden called from inside. Yang pulled the door open and entered, saluting his teacher. “Shut the door behind you, von Leigh,” Staden said. Yang did so.

“And take a seat, cadet. Or, maybe, I should say, Fleet Admiral?”

Yang took the offered chair, trying to keep a steady face despite Staden’s rather scathing tone. He didn’t say anything, which forced Staden to address him again.

“So, Eisenach told me that you’ve been running a little club,” Staden said. “Care to explain?”

“It’s not really a club,” Yang said. “It’s more like a study group.”

“A study group.” Staden’s tone was incredulous and flat.

“At the beginning of the year, my mentee, uh, you have him, Wolfgang Mittermeyer, he said he wanted extra practice outside of class, so I offered to set up games for him to play against people. Eisenach booked the room for us.”

“I looked at the room logs. You’ve been in there almost every Saturday afternoon since August.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I find it hard to believe that Mittermeyer could need that much practice. He’s the top freshman.”

“Perhaps that is because of the amount of practice that he has, sir,” Yang said, unable to stop himself.

“Practice is one thing, von Leigh,” Staden said. “This is another.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

Staden turned his computer around. It was displaying a random assortment of files that Eisenach had left on the practice room computers— a map from a previous battle showing troop movements, a spreadsheet that calculated supply estimates, a note that Yang had typed to Wahlen asking about his thoughts on Reuenthal’s movements (that one in particular made Yang cringe a little, because it was addressed to ‘Admiral’ Wahlen, and signed by ‘Fleet Admiral’ von Leigh). “What is all this, Leigh?”

“It’s a game, sir,” Yang said. Dryly, he added, “You’ve criticized me before for getting too deep into a fantasy to amuse Reuenthal. I haven’t learned my lesson.”

Staden looked as though Yang were giving him a headache. “Explain, if you would, ‘Fleet Admiral’.”

Yang shrugged. “We got bored of playing one-off games against each other, so we decided it would be interesting to set up a whole campaign. Take sides and play a continuing thing. We thought it was funny.”

“And you fancied yourself as the leader of the rebel fleet?”

Yang laughed a little. “I wanted to GM,” he said. “I like that role much better. But I was forced into it. No different than class, really.”

“Forced?”

“Reuenthal wanted to play the Empire, and no one wanted to play against him unless I was the other team leader.”

“You’re that charismatic?”

“At the risk of sounding conceited, sir, my win/loss record speaks for itself better than I could.”

“I’m aware, von Leigh.” Staden paused. “In a different world, you would be number one.”

“That’s not the world we live in, sir,” Yang said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yes. And in the world that we’re in, I’m required to sit here and deal with this before it gets out of hand.”

“Out of hand, sir? If it’s the titles that are the problem, I can tell everyone to stop. That part was just for fun. I didn’t think the rest was against the rules.”

“The titles make you look like idiots, Leigh,” Staden said. “That’s worthy of derision, and I would prefer if you stopped, but not the actual issue.”

“I’m confused as to what the problem is, sir.”

“Where did Eisenach get this data?” Staden asked, pulling up a file on his computer entitled ‘imp troop strength supply rte Iserlohn corridor jan’. He showed it to Yang, who shrugged.

“I don’t play the Imperial side, so you’d have to ask Reuenthal or Eisenach, but I’d assume they do it the same way that I do: I sit down with my team and run through what a reasonable supply chain or whatever looks like, then I’d send it to Eisenach to get him to approve it for use in the game. It’s made up. I think Reuenthal has me at a bit of an advantage, though, because he can listen to people talk, read economic forecasts to see what supplies are being purchased, and watch ships launch from Odin-- stuff like that-- and make assumptions based on what he knows.” Granted, Yang could and did do the same thing to contra-analyze Reuenthal’s side, but Staden didn’t need that detail at this moment.

“Did you know that for several years, before I came to teach here, I was a staff officer on Iserlohn?”

“No, sir,” Yang said.

“I was responsible for all requisition requests to the front lines—taking in incoming supplies, sending out ships according to the orders of the day.” Yang stayed silent, even though Staden paused. “That experience gave me a very, very good sense of what a normal supply chain through Iserlohn looks like.”

Yang nodded, hesitantly.

“This is a little too close to reality for comfort, von Leigh,” Staden said finally. “Right down to the ‘acceptable losses’ of frontline grift.” He shook his head. He pulled up another file, ‘patrol sched iserlohn corridor exit feb-mar’ and tapped on the screen. “I believe you when you say it’s prescience, because I have no idea how a bunch of cadets playing a game would come to have classified information about troop movements, and, if they did come to have such a thing, they wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave it on an unsecured computer that anyone with a school administrator account can simply look at.”

“What are you saying, sir?”

“I’m saying that you and your friends are perhaps a bit too clever for your own good.” He looked at Yang. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that at all.”

“Do you want me to thank you, or apologize, sir?” Yang asked. He was aware that he was coming right up to the edge of Staden’s finite patience with him, but he was compelled to make comments regardless.

“Neither,” Staden said. He rubbed his temples. “You’ve been a terrible influence on everyone, you know.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“It used to be that I would only want to start drinking when I had to grade your postmortems,” Staden said dryly. “Then your infection spread to Reuenthal, then Wahlen, and you’ve even started to corrupt some of the upper and lower classmen. You give me a headache, Leigh.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Yang said, but smiled.

Staden steepled his fingers on his desk. “I’m not going to stop you from playing,” he said. “I don’t think I could. I imagine you’d just take your little group elsewhere and continue to do as you like. Am I wrong?”

“I would hate to think of myself as someone who deliberately flouts school rules.”

Staden actually laughed at that. “Of course not.”

“If you’re not going to stop us,” Yang said, “I’m not sure what the issue is.”

“The issue is that you have what looks very much like detailed information about the Imperial Fleet’s strengths and weaknesses, and you’re playing with it like a toddler might play with an amusing toy,” Staden said. “So, here’s what’s going to happen. You can keep playing, with the following conditions: you play only on secure computers, you encrypt all your messages and data, you don’t speak of this game to anyone who isn’t already part of it, and Eisenach will securely transmit to me all of your game data and activity logs. I mean all of it, both from the past and going forward. And if I see something in there that causes alarm, or if I want you to change the direction that your game is going, you will do it, no questions asked. Do you understand?”

“I understand the conditions, but I don’t understand why. Either it’s too dangerous for us to have this kind of information and you should just ban us from playing, or it’s a game that has no bearing on reality—we really are just making things up. I guess I’m just not sure why you care, sir?”

“What’s the best way to put this? Yes, you’re making things up. Yes, it’s a game. If you were just playing a game and putting on airs, I’d put a demerit on your record for boastfulness and move on with my life. But the fact is that to an outsider, it might not look like a game, and remarkably accurate information is remarkably accurate information, regardless of its source. If this were to have been found by someone else, perhaps—” Staden paused, looked at Yang. “Are you a trustworthy man, von Leigh?”

“How could I possibly answer that question to your satisfaction, sir?”

“Fine. If this were to have been found by someone other than myself, it might appear to my superiors that I was supplying my students with classified information that I once had access to, for some purpose.”

“Oh.” Yang’s thoughts were tumbling around in his head. Didn’t it always come back to false battles, with him?

“So this is covering my own back, as much as it is yours,” Staden admitted.

“You could just tell us to play a different game,” Yang said. “Or ban us.”

Staden studied him for a moment. Yang felt rather like a bug under a microscope. “On the other hand, Leigh, it’s rare that so many talented students are gathered together and taking initiative. I’ve been teaching here for five years, and I’ve yet to see anything like it. So, against my better judgement, I’m curious to see what you do. Perhaps it’s better to let this fire burn carefully, under my watch, rather than spreading or smoldering out of sight.”

“I understand.”

“Another thing,” Staden said. “You’re playing the rebel fleet. You say you haven’t learned your lesson about indulging in a fantasy for Reuenthal’s amusement. Perhaps you should learn that lesson, in case your fantasies start becoming part of your personal life. You may need to put yourself in the devil’s shoes to play this game, but if you start talking like the devil, or dancing to the devil’s tune, we are going to have problems. Understood?”

Yang nodded.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Yang said. “Am I free to go? I should go make sure everyone else understands.”

“One last thing. I see from this game log that your fleet attempted an invasion through the Phezzan corridor.”

Yang looked up. “Yes.”

“In your personal opinion, is that likely to happen in reality?”

“My personal opinion as a player of the game…?”

“Your personal opinion as a clearly astute SW student.”

Yang thought for a second. “Probably not.”

“Why do you say so?”

“The rebel fleet has a far better chance of success if it doesn’t overstretch itself. It would be pretty hard for it to get a real foothold on Phezzan, and even if it did, if it overextended into the Empire’s territory, it would be very easy to crush.” Yang shrugged.

“Then may I ask why you decided to make that maneuver?”

“Reuenthal wanted me to be more aggressive, and I was hoping we’d reset the game at the end of the year. It was mostly for fun.” Yang paused for a second. “I don’t think that you have to worry about the Phezzan corridor right now, but all it takes is one person in the rebel fleet to be charismatic and ambitious for it to become a problem.”

Staden nodded. “I see.”

“I guess if I were actually in the Imperial high command, and I noticed that there were suddenly fewer rebel patrol units on the other side of Iserlohn, I’d maybe start to get worried about Phezzan. But that’s just speculation.”

“Thank you for indulging me with your speculation,” Staden said.

“Thank you for not putting a demerit on my record for boastfulness, sir.”

Staden’s smile was grim. “Don’t let it get out of hand, von Leigh.”

“Of course not, sir.”