Siegfried Idyll

November 481 I.C., Odin

Siegfried Kircheis was, unfailingly, two things while at school: respectful to his teachers and bored out of his mind. He was the type of fifteen year old who would have been able to do any coursework assigned to him while blindfolded, and any from the years above, as well. But he still did all the assigned work cheerfully, well, and without complaint, and would always help the person sitting next to him complete his. Kircheis was therefore almost universally well liked, and easily the top student in the class at his high school. He was soft-spoken and kind, which might have been used against him if he had not also been two meters tall and the star of the fencing team.

Today, Kircheis was sitting outside the principal’s office of his high school, having no idea why he had been summoned there. He wasn’t alone, as several other boys in his year were also sitting waiting, and were being called in one by one. In particular, Martin Bufholtz was in the office speaking to the principal now. Some of the other boys had come back out wearing interested or amused expressions, but when Martin emerged, he was scowling. Kircheis caught his eye, and Martin made a gesture that Kircheis interpreted as ‘later’, and then walked out of the waiting area. The principal stepped out.

“Kircheis,” he said. Kircheis stood and went in.

Inside the principal’s office was a man that Kircheis had never seen before-- a man wearing the uniform of an imperial fleet officer. Kircheis wasn’t well versed enough in such things to identify what his rank was, though the mystery was solved when the principal spoke.

“Kircheis, this is Ensign Weber. Ensign, this is the top student in the sophomore class, Siegfried Kircheis.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Kircheis said, shaking hands with the ensign.

“Please, take a seat,” the principal said. Kircheis sat stiffly on the offered chair.

“Now, Kircheis, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’ve been called here. You’re not in any sort of trouble, of course,” the principal said with a laugh. “It’s school policy to counsel all students on their options for their future, and for some especially promising students, we have a few career paths to particularly recommend.”

Kircheis nodded silently. Ensign Weber took over the well-practiced spiel. “By law, all schools which receive public funding report student records,” he said. Kircheis had to wonder which records were being reported, and to who, exactly. But he just nodded again. “Your scores both in class and on imperial standardized tests indicate that you show extreme promise. Have you given much thought to what you want to do with your future?”

“Some,” Kircheis said.

“Do you mind if I ask what you are considering doing after you graduate from here? University, a trade, something else?”

“I would like to attend university,” Kircheis said. “And after that, I might take over my father’s business.”

“Oh, what does your father do?”

“He sells rare plants,” Kircheis said.

“How interesting,” the ensign said, though he didn’t sound interested at all. “You are aware that all men without extenuating circumstances are required to serve in the imperial fleet for two years starting at age twenty, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Kircheis said. “I am aware.”

“The profile that I have received for you indicates that you would be very successful in a career in the fleet,” Weber said. “Have you ever thought about that?”

“I think everyone thinks about it at some point,” Kircheis said.

Weber smiled slightly. “Of course. The fleet is a very rewarding career for talented young men such as yourself.”

Kircheis wore a polite expression, but he was not swayed by the flattery. He just nodded, which forced Weber to continue.

“Your scores on the Odin Planetary Exam indicate that, if you wished, you could gain entrance to the Imperial Officer’s Academy, or any of the other smaller military schools. That would pay for your higher education in its entirety, and guarantee you a prestigious posting when you graduate. Do you have any interest in this?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’d have to talk to my father.”

The principal spoke up. “Remember, Kircheis, you are responsible for making the best choices for your own life. Part of becoming an adult is learning what is best for yourself, and not relying on your parents to make your choices for you.”

“I understand why you might want to speak with your parents about such a thing,” the ensign said. “But Mr. Creuzburg is correct that it is your decision.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I took the liberty of signing you up for the entrance exam,” he said. “Your test-taking fee has been waived in its entirety.” He held the envelope out to Kircheis, who hesitated for a moment before taking it. “I highly recommend that you take the test.”

“I will consider it, sir,” Kircheis said.

“You sound hesitant.”

“It’s very abrupt, to be asked to decide my future right now,” Kircheis said. “I wasn’t expecting to think about it for some time.”

“That is understandable,” the principal said. “But it is worth thinking about early, so that you can seize opportunities as they come.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, can we expect to see you for the test?”

“Do I need to study beforehand?” This was a way to dodge answering the question.

“Brush up on your math,” the ensign said. “I’ve been told that most people find that section both challenging and easy to prepare for.”

Kircheis nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course,” Ensign Weber said. “I look forward to having you as my peer, someday.”

“Was that all?” Kircheis asked.

“Yes,” the principal said. “You can return to class now.”

Kircheis nodded and left. The rest of the school day, he spent fiddling with the envelope in his pocket, not sure what to do with it. He had complicated thoughts about joining the fleet, and he couldn’t help but picture the disgusted look on Martin’s face when Martin had walked out of the meeting. He caught Martin’s eye a couple times during literature class, the one class they shared. When they walked out of class together, Martin leaned over to him and said, “Can I come over and study at your house this afternoon?”

Kircheis agreed. “You’ll have to leave before my parents get back from work, though.”

“Of course. I’ll find you after last period.”

During his last period, which happened to be gym, Kircheis turned off his thoughts about both Martin and the letter in his uniform pocket as he played several vigorous matches of tennis against his classmates. When he complimented his peers on their hard-fought losses and good games, it was the kind of thing that only he, with his genuine and calm nature, could do without coming off as condescending. He was still damp from his post-gym shower when walked outside, and his wet hair began to freeze in the frigid November air, though there was no snow on the ground at the moment.

He met Martin outside the gates. Martin was short and slender, having not yet finished growing, with long, straight brown hair that fell into his eyes. He and Kircheis had been close for several years. He could be abrasive, but he was intelligent, and his abrasiveness was generally in service of ideals that Kircheis couldn’t help but respect. They had a lot in common, and so their closeness was a natural one.

Martin and Kircheis walked to Kircheis’s house together quickly. As was his custom, when they past the house that had once belonged to the Müsel family, Kircheis glanced up at it, contemplating its empty windows. Martin looked over at it, as well, but didn’t say anything. Kircheis unlocked his own house with the key from underneath the mat. His parents were both out working, and wouldn’t be back for several hours, which was for the best, since neither of them liked Martin very much.

“Want a snack?” Kircheis asked as they stood in the kitchen and took off their winter coats.

“Sure,” Martin said. Kircheis rummaged around in the cupboards for the pack of cookies that he knew his mother always hid in the back, and he brought that with them as they headed up to his attic bedroom. Somehow, it felt more secure to speak to each other in there, rather than in the rest of the house, despite the rest of the house being empty. Kircheis sat down on the bed, but Martin paced around the small bedroom for a second. He had been here many times before, and, as usual, he looked with a little bit of annoyance at the photograph on Kircheis’s desk, the one of Kircheis and the von Müsel siblings, with a lock of blond hair tucked into the bottom of the frame. Martin turned it around before sitting down next to Kircheis on the bed. Kircheis watched this ritual play out with his usual patience.

“Are you still annoyed about your meeting in Creuzburg’s office?” Kircheis asked.

“Are you not?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Kircheis said. “Does it really upset you that much?”

“Why do they think that I want to work for them?” Martin asked and sat down on the bed next to Kircheis.

“Did they give you one of these too?” Kircheis pulled out the envelope from his pocket and began opening its seal. Martin reached over and tried to tug it out of Kircheis’s hands, but he didn’t let go, and instead continued to open the envelope until he held the test invitation in his hands.

“Yes, and I threw it out immediately. Like you also should.”

“Does it hurt to take the test?” he asked.

“It legitimizes it. And it makes them think that their recruitment scheme is working. That means they’ll send more people into schools to recruit.”

“Even if they did do that, the same number of people would still be in the fleet,” Kircheis pointed out. “Service is compulsory.”

“Not if you’re studying in a university.”

“You have to apply for the exemption, though.”

“I will.”

“Okay,” Kircheis said. He didn’t really want to argue with Martin about it now. He laid back on the bed, his hands underneath his head.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it.”

“I might take the test,” Kircheis said.

“Why?” Although Kircheis had his eyes closed, he could hear the disapproval in Martin’s voice.

“You have money to study at a university without a scholarship,” Kircheis said. “I won’t pretend that my family has money to send me to school.”

“So you’ll take their blood money?”

“My mother’s cousin said that her friend’s son was able to use his admission to the officers’ school to negotiate for a scholarship from another university.”

Martin placed his hand on Kircheis’s chest. “Sieg, do you really think that’s true?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t believe things like that unless I see them for myself.”

“Yeah.” Kircheis didn’t entirely believe the story himself, but it had been worth a try as an excuse. “But it really doesn’t hurt to try. It’s free, and even besides that, I probably won’t get in.”

“I don’t know why you think that.”

“How many thousands of people take that test every year?” Kircheis asked. “The school is only so big. It would be conceited of me to believe that I must get in.”

Martin’s hand traced over Kirches’s shoulder. “I don’t think it would be conceited.”

Kircheis wanted to switch the subject. “You said you wanted to study?”

“Have you finished your lit essay?”

“Yeah,” Kircheis said.

“Can we trade? It’d be nice if you could look mine over.”

“Of course,” Kircheis said, and sat up to retrieve his backpack front he floor. He opened his computer, found his essay, and traded with Martin. He read through quickly, making a couple notes in the document as he went. “You’re being pretty bold here,” Kircheis said. “Is that wise?”

“I don’t care if Stevenson gives me a bad grade. I’m not going to give an opinion that I don’t think is correct.”

“Okay,” Kircheis said. “Your choice.”

“Yours is fine,” Martin said. “But you have the opposite problem from me. I don’t think anyone’s going to report me to the police for my opinions about Beowulf . You could stand to be a little more outspoken.”

“You have an interpretation that’s barely supported by the text,” Kircheis said. “Is there any evidence that the slave stole the cup specifically to anger the dragon into destroying the country?”

“I can make whatever arguments I like,” Martin said. “But if you were a slave, why would you risk sneaking into the dragon’s lair? A single cup wouldn’t improve your station in life any. But if you knew you could anger the dragon into possibly destroying the whole system that kept you enslaved, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Kircheis said. “But it didn’t work.”

“He killed the king.”

Kircheis smiled a little. “True.”

Martin leaned towards him. “We still live in an era of kings, but without great beasts to slay them for us.”

“Dangerous talk,” Kircheis said. “You should be careful.”

“Are you going to report me?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Kircheis said with a smile. “But wouldn’t I be implicated as well?”

“Hmm,” Martin said. “What a conundrum.” He put his hand on Kircheis’s face and the two leaned together to kiss.

February 482 I.C., Odin

His mother was making dinner in the kitchen, but she had called him in to help out. Kircheis was more than willing to set the table, but, as it turned out, his mother had been attempting to corner him in a conversation. Although he was much taller than she was, he was a little shy and deferent around her, never wanting to upset her if he could help it.

He was pulling the plates out of the cupboard when she said, “You got a letter in the mail today.”

“Really?” Kircheis asked.

“You should open it.” She pulled the letter in question from her pocket. Kircheis could see the imperial fleet markings on it. He quickly went to put the plates on the table before taking it from her. “Do you know what this is about?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“What?”

“I took the entrance exam to the Imperial Officers’ Academy a few months ago. I was given a test fee waiver.”

“You didn’t tell me about that.”

“I didn’t think anything would come of it. This is probably a rejection letter.” Kircheis wasn’t sure that was true. He had felt confident walking out of the exam; it had gone well, he thought.

“Why did you take it?”

“You said that you had heard that people could leverage admission into the officers’ school as a way to get a scholarship elsewhere.”

His mother sighed. “Sieg, please don’t worry about money.”

“Mom, don’t worry about me worrying.” He smiled.

“Well, open that envelope, see what it says.” She wiped her hands on her apron.

Kircheis gently opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper that was inside. He read it with a growing feeling of tension within his gut.

“Well?” she asked.

“I got in,” he said, then folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket.

His mother’s face twisted a little bit, in what Kircheis interpreted as fear disguised as unhappiness. “Congratulations,” she said. “Was that all it said?”

Kircheis hesitated. “It also said how I had done compared to the other test-takers.”

“Did you do well?”

“I suppose,” Kircheis said. “It doesn’t matter. I told you that I only took it to use as a bargaining chip.”

“How well, exactly?” his mother asked. “I at least want to know, so that I can brag to my friends.”

Kircheis smiled a little. “Mom…”

“Come on, tell me. I only have one son, that’s only one chance to brag about all your accomplishments.”

“First,” he said after a second. “I got first.”

She was washing her hands in the sink when he said this, and there was a long moment where the only sound in the kitchen was the running water. When she turned around to look at him, she was smiling, but it was a tight smile. “You ‘suppose’ you did well,” she said.

“Mom, please, I don’t want--”

“I know, Sieg,” she said. “You should tell your father when he comes back in.” His father was out working in the greenhouse. “He’ll be very proud of you.”

Kircheis smiled a little, which was a deflection more than anything. He went to finish setting the table.

When his father did come back in to the house, all three of them sat down to eat dinner. It was a quiet meal, and Kircheis found himself unusually captivated by the flower-patterned tablecloth, the same one that had been on the table all throughout his childhood. He stared down at it, looking at the faded places where stains hadn’t quite been scrubbed out, feeling weirdly melancholy. He didn’t look at his father, and though his mother kept trying to catch his eye to get him to mention the letter in his pocket, Kircheis said nothing. His father didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong, making easy chatter about new plants he had imported for his store, and if Kircheis was excited for the upcoming district fencing championship. His father thought that their high school team had a good chance of doing well enough in the district to make it to the regional level competition, as they had come close the year before, but Kircheis wasn’t so sure.

After dinner, he silently helped put away the leftovers and clear the table. His father was watching television in the next room, so his mother didn’t bring the subject of his admission letter back up, even though she clearly wanted to talk about it. Kircheis wasn’t sure why exactly he hadn’t mentioned it at dinner. It was the same complex feeling that had caused him to take the test and not mention that he had taken the test, the one that sent him back upstairs to his bedroom, to lay on his too-short bed and stare up at the beams of the ceiling, tugging the blanket over himself as he listened to the winter wind buffet the building.

Why had he taken the test? Because he knew he would regret it if he didn’t.

Why would he regret it? Because it would feel like throwing something away.

Throwing what away? An opportunity? Of a kind.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Kircheis took it out and looked at his message-- it was from Martin, of course. He was the only person who ever texted him, aside from his mother. The message was mundane, just Martin inquiring about what Kircheis was planning to do over the weekend, and if they could take a trip into the city, but Kircheis didn’t want to respond at the moment. He couldn’t tell Martin about the letter, either. Martin had known he had taken the test, and had expressed his disapproval about it vociferously, but after it was done had never brought it up again. Kircheis didn’t want to say anything about it and restart that argument.

Kircheis rolled onto his side, finding himself staring at the photograph that had a permanent position on his desk. It had been several years since had last seen the other subjects of the photograph, Reinhard and Annerose von Müsel, but they occupied an overly large space in his memory. There were many reasons for this: the intense bond they had shared over the brief years that they had known each other, the tender secret of his first true love, and the shock of their sudden parting had all worked together to cement the image of the ten-year-old Reinhard firmly in Kircheis’s brain, more than most people would remember their childhood best friend.

Every moment that the two had spent alone together seemed to occupy a dreamlike place in Kircheis’s memory. When Reinhard had vanished from his life as suddenly has he had come, his absence had felt like a gaping wound, physical in the way that Kircheis would glance at his empty chair during class, hoping that the other boy would be there and finding it empty. For some time, he had hated to walk through town and see the places where he had sometimes stood with Reinhard: the bench at the train station where they had sat with their backpacks under their feet, the park where they had laid in the grass and read, the turgid section of the creek where they had gone swimming in the summers. He had been afraid to look at the empty house next door. Slowly, those feelings had faded, and now it was only the most potent memories that commanded such respect-of-place. He knew he would never go to the waterfall in the protected forest again, because he hated the thought of it existing outside of the memory of that last time they had gone camping together.

If he closed his eyes, he could vividly picture the last few things that Reinhard had said to him. He had demanded that Kircheis join the imperial fleet, in order to gain enough power to overthrow the kaiser. At the time, Kircheis had taken it deadly seriously, but as years passed, he realized that Reinhard was not coming back, and the “plan” that they had constructed there in the woods was nothing more than a childish fantasy born out of panic and desperation. They had both wanted to feel in control of lives that were so totally out of their control, as Reinhard was being whisked away across the galaxy. It had just been something to say.

But, even still, Kircheis hated the thought of breaking a promise, and the idea of abandoning that future that had shone so brightly, even if for just a moment.

He was still staring at the photograph when his mother knocked on his bedroom door. Kircheis got up and let her in. She had come up with the pretense of giving him his clean laundry, but when she shut the door behind herself, Kircheis knew she was here to fuss.

“Why didn’t you tell your father about your test result?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Kircheis said. “I didn’t want to upset anybody.”

“Why would your father be upset?”

“You are.”

She sighed a little and put the laundry basket down on the ground. “I’m very proud of you.”

“I know you would prefer if I didn’t join the fleet,” Kircheis said. Before he was born, he knew his uncle Markus had died during his compulsory service.

His mother shook her head. “I don’t have much of a choice, even if I did have a preference. I want you to have the brightest future you can.”

Kircheis glanced out the window, saw the moon rising over the old von Müsel house. “Is that in the fleet?”

“I don’t know. But I know that I will love and support you, whatever you decide to do with your life. I don’t want you to think that I don’t approve of you making your own choices.”

“I know, mom,” Kircheis said with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to tell your father for you?”

“I can do it. I just need some time to think about what I am going to do.”

“I understand.” She patted his arm, then hugged him. “I am proud of you.”

Kircheis returned the hug. She released him and turned to go, but Kircheis saw an opportunity. “Oh, mom,” he said.

She stopped and looked at him.

“Can I go into the city with Martin this weekend?”

Her face twisted again. “To do what?”

“I think he wants to see a play.” Actually, Kircheis had no idea what Martin wanted to do in the city, but that was what they usually did when they went to the city, so it was a safe enough lie.

“Fine,” his mother said. “You have money?”

“Yes, ma’m.”

She smiled a little. “Then I suppose I don’t have a problem with you going.”

“Why don’t you like Martin?” Kircheis asked, feeling bold for a second.

“Did I ever say that I didn’t? He’s a very smart boy. Probably will make a fine scholar.”

“But you don’t like him.”

She pursed her lips. “It just surprises me that you are friends with him, is all. He doesn’t seem like the type of person that you would like.”

Kircheis had no idea what she meant by that. “Just because he’s not athletic?”

She laughed a little. “Bookish is one thing. He’s nothing like the Müsel boy you used to hang out with.”

“They’re more similar than you might think,” he said. “Martin is a good person. I wish you did like him.”

“You’re very sweet,” she said after a second. “It’s kind of you.”

“I’m not friends with him out of charity.”

“I know. If you were, I’d almost understand that better.”

“He doesn’t need charity. He has more friends than I do.”

“That can’t be true,” his mother protested. “All of your classmates speak very highly of you.”

Kircheis hated the direction this conversation had gone in, and he wished he had never broached the topic. “I’m good at making pleasant acquaintances, mom. I have very few close friends. That’s why I wish you would be nicer to Martin.”

“Alright, alright,” she said. “I simply don’t understand what you see in him.”

“He’s a good person, and a good friend,” Kircheis said. “That’s all.”

“What did you want to go into the city for?” Kircheis asked, sitting with Martin on the train, wedged up against the cold window. Martin had his backpack on his lap, and when Kircheis had offered to carry it, he had discovered that it was quite heavy. He had asked what was in it, and Martin had declined to respond.

“I need to bring this stuff to some friends of mine, and I figured you might want to meet them.”

“You have friends in the city?”

“Of course,” Martin said. “I met them online.”

“Oh, makes sense. Have you seen them in person before?”

Martin gave him a look. “Would I be bringing you with me if I hadn’t?”

“Maybe you are bringing me along for protection.”

Martin laughed a little. “I don’t need you to fight for me, Sieg.”

Kircheis just smiled and looked out the window as the train rattled along. They made it to the city eventually. It was raining outside, so both of them pulled the hoods of their raincoats up over their heads, and Kircheis followed Martin down the city streets. All the lights were on, even though it was the middle of the day, and the usual people who would be out on the streets were all taking shelter from the cold and the rain indoors, so the whole scene had an eerie feeling to it, one that made Kircheis walk closely behind Martin’s shoulder.

Martin seemed to know where he was going, though, and they walked about three-quarters of a mile away from the train station, away from the commercial district and towards a more residential area, where brown brick buildings a few stories high lined the streets, interspersed with narrow alleyways and a few planted trees near the road, all bare now. They walked up to one of the houses, entered the alleyway to the side, wandered around the back, and walked down a couple steps where he walked on a nondescript door leading to a basement.

There was a long silence. Martin leaned on the side of the entryway while Kircheis stood awkwardly at the top of the steps.

“Who’s there?” someone finally asked from inside the building, a woman’s voice.

“It’s Martin, and the friend I told you I was bringing,” he said. “You gonna let me in, or do we have to stand out in the rain all day?”

The door swung open. There was a girl with frizzy brown hair inside, probably older than Kircheis by five or six years. Kircheis, whose main exposure to women was through his mother’s social circle and the brief interactions with the students at the girls’ high school next door, wasn’t sure what to make of this creature. She was wearing pants and a vest, which was unusual, and she had what looked like splashes of paint all over her hands and face. “Hey, Martin, good to see you again.” She stepped aside so that they could come in. “Who’s the beanstalk you’ve brought with you?”

“This is Siegfried,” Martin said. “He’s good.”

The room that they entered smelled bad, like mold, mostly, but was well lit. Battered furniture of various types littered a bare concrete floor, and the walls were plastered with posters and scribbly looking paintings. Kircheis looked around as he shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“I’m Leisel,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

“Is anybody else around?” Martin asked.

“Nah,” Leisel said. “They’re out.”

“Doing?”

“You know. Stuff.”

“You don’t have to keep secrets from me,” Martin protested. Leisel raised an eyebrow and looked at Kircheis. “I told you, he’s good.”

“Look, Martin, that’s great. But the fact of the matter is, I’m not gonna tell you shit. You’re like, twelve.”

“Fifteen.”

“Whoo.” She fished around in her pocket, pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. She stood at the side of the room, where a big industrial fan was, and she kicked it on with her toe. Kircheis wasn’t sure what the point of smoking next to the fan was, since it didn’t vent to outside in any way, but it seemed to be Leisel’s ritual.

Martin tossed his coat onto the back of a chair, then sat down on one of the couches. “Any idea when they’ll be back?”

“Not a clue,” she said, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Are you planning on waiting around?”

Martin glanced at Kircheis. “When do you need to get home?”

“I told my mom we were seeing a play,” he said. “Late.”

“Sure, we can wait around,” Martin said. He pulled his backpack onto his lap and opened it. Kircheis stood behind him to look at what was inside. “I brought those copies you wanted.” From his bag, he pulled out several full reams of paper, each wrapped in a plastic bag to protect them from moisture and rubber banded together to keep the pages from flying loose.

“Lemme see,” Leisel said. She came over and examined the sheets of paper. Kircheis only could somewhat read what they said, since the print was small and sideways, like each page was meant to be folded in half to form part of a book. “You couldn’t even fold them for us?”

“They wouldn’t fit in my bag if I did,” Martin said. “Besides, Mikhail told me not to bother trying to assemble them.”

“You shouldn’t listen to a single thing he says,” Leisel said, walking away. She went to the side of the room where a rickety looking desk stood and rifled through one of the drawers for a stapler. “If you’re going to be here all afternoon, you might as well make yourself useful.” She threw the stapler across the room underhanded. Martin saw it coming, tried to reach up to catch it, but didn’t quite manage. While he was reaching for it, all his papers fell off his lap and to the floor. Kircheis managed to catch the stapler before it hit Martin’s head, and he held it out silently as he waited for Martin to gather up all the fallen things.

“You staple,” Leisel said, pointing at Martin. “You fold.” She pointed at Kircheis. “I’ll assemble.”

They sat themselves down on the couch, with the giant stacks of paper on the coffee table in front of them, and got to work. As Kircheis folded, he read snippets of the pamphlet they were putting together. “What is this about?” he asked.

“Generally, or in specifics?” Leisel asked.

“Either,” Kircheis said.

“Didn’t Martin tell you anything?”

“No.”

“Good boy, Martin,” Leisel said, then patted Martin on the head as though he were an unruly puppy. Martin looked somewhat chagrined. “But to answer your question, we do some creative writing around here. We distribute information about how one could hypothetically avoid getting conscripted into the fleet, or how allegedly certain individuals are responsible for horrific war crimes, and theoretically where those people are stationed, and possibly what could be done about them.”

“Oh,” Kircheis said, and looked down at the pamphlet in his hand.

“This is an example of the former,” Leisel said, holding up a packet that Martin had just finished stapling together. “Here. Avoid conscription in ten easy steps.” She tucked the little booklet into the front pocket of Kircheis’s shirt, and he looked down at it, his own hands still busy folding other sheets of paper.

“Er, thanks,” he said.

They put together pamphlets for several hours, talking a little bit as they did. Kircheis didn’t say much, but he listened to Leisel and Martin. Martin seemed happier here than he usually was while at school, and he kept glancing at Kircheis, as though looking for some kind of approval. Kircheis smiled when he did. He thought Leisel was interesting, from the way she spoke, but he didn’t think he was getting the full picture of her. He learned a little bit more about what they were doing here. All the people who lived or worked out of this basement commune were anarchists, or something close to it, who had a little club. Mostly, they seemed to be interested in vandalizing fleet property, but Leisel described her proudest moment, which had been saving a woman from being apprehended by the Imperial Military Police, where Leisel said she might have died.

As time passed, Martin kept glancing at his watch. “When is everybody else getting back?”

“If I knew the answer, I would tell you,” Leisel said. She got up to make some coffee. Kircheis just kept steadily folding papers until all the reams of paper seemed to diminish into nothing.

It was growing late when “everybody else” returned. They came in in a dramatic fashion, a group of four young men, all probably in their twenties, one supported on the shoulders of two others, bleeding from his face-- Kircheis couldn’t tell if it was a nosebleed or a wound elsewhere, the blood was just pouring and dribbling in such a stream that covered the man’s front almost completely. Kircheis stood up when the door pounded open, and his first instinct was to help, but Leisel practically shoved him aside in her haste to get to them.

“What happened?” she asked.

The one who had free hands answered, while the other two dragged the third over to one of the couches and laid him down. “We got jumped.”

“By?”

“Too dark to tell.”

“Were you followed back?”

“I think we lost them.”

“You think?” Leisel’s voice was somewhat hysterical. “You know you’re not-- if you’re followed you can’t come back here!”

“And what else were we supposed to do with him?” He pointed at the injured man, who was rolling onto his side and half coughing, half spitting great gobs of blood onto the concrete floor. Kircheis found some paper towels in the kitchenette and brought them over, handing them to one of the men, who took them without really processing who Kircheis was.

“If it’s bad, drop him at the hospital,” Leisel said. “I don’t know what you think that I can do for him.”

“You’re a nurse, aren’t you?”

She shook her head, clearly frustrated.

Martin was watching the scene with a kind of horror dawning on his face. “Is Mikhail alright?” he asked one of the others.

“He’ll be fine.” This was one of the two who had dragged him in, and he was wiping off the bleeding Mikhail’s face, revealing that the blood was coming from mouth and nose simultaneously.

“Hey, Martin,” the only one who hadn’t spoken yet said. “You should probably clear out of here.”

“I want to help,” Martin protested. “And so does my friend, Sieg.” Kircheis was frozen for a second at the mention of his name, then nodded a little. The three unwounded men glanced at him, as if noticing his presence as a stranger for the first time.

“Johan’s right,” Leisel said, returning to the room with a first aid kit in hand. “You should scram. These idiots might have been followed, and I don’t want you to get arrested if the house gets--” She broke off and shook her head. Leisel passed the first aid kit to Johan and grabbed Martin’s shoulder, shoving him towards a door in the back of the room. He stumbled forward. Kircheis followed after him. “Take the upstairs exit. Go home. Don’t come back until I contact you, not the other way around.”

“But--”

“Don’t argue with me,” Leisel said. “You’re not useful if you get yourself trapped. Out.” She didn’t wait for Martin to protest more, and yanked open the door, leading to a dark set of stairs. Martin tried to say something else, but Leisel was pushing him forward, and then Kircheis followed after him, and Leisel slammed the door shut behind, trapping them in the stairway with no way to go but out.

“Let’s just go back to the train station,” Kircheis said.

Martin was frowning, barely visible in the gloom of the stairway. Kircheis prodded him forward. “You’re going to say we have to leave too?”

“She’s not going to let you back in. Come on. I’m sure it will be fine, but we should go home.”

Martin took a few steps up the creaking stairs, then paused, then continued, hesitation clear in every move he made. They got to the top of the steps and arrived in a hallway, with a more solid staircase leading upwards towards other apartments in the building, and then the front door. Kircheis peeked through the blinds on the door, which revealed nothing but the near pitch-blackness of the rainy night outside. But he didn’t see any people, so he felt fine about walking out, after he and Martin had fastened their raincoats as securely as possible.

The rain beat down on them, freezing cold, as soon as they left the building, and their shoes were soaked through with the first huge puddle at the bottom of the steps. Kircheis continued to look around warily. This was not the first time he had felt this on edge in the city, and it reminded him strongly of that last trip he had taken with Reinhard, the one where they had been followed by someone after Annerose. Kircheis kept glancing behind him as they walked, but didn’t see anything in the darkness, and couldn’t hear any footsteps over the splashing of the rain. He relaxed a little after they had gone about a quarter of a mile, feeling like anybody who was going to be following them would have shown themselves already. They ducked into a corner store for a second, welcoming the warmth and the bright lights. Kircheis bought them both candy bars and cups of bad coffee, which they lingered under the shop’s awning and consumed. Martin looked grim.

“You okay?” Kircheis asked.

“Obviously not,” Martin said. He crumpled the wrapper from his candy bar and stuck it in his pocket.

“I think Mikhail will be okay,” Kircheis said. “It looked unpleasant but not dangerous.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Martin said. “I feel like I should go back.”

“Martin.” He put his hand on Martin’s skinny arm. “There’s nothing that you could do if you did. I’m sure Leisel wouldn’t even let you in the door.”

“I just want to look.”

“Look?”

“To see if they were followed.”

“I don’t think that would help.”

“I won’t be able to sleep at night if I don’t--” Martin began. He cut himself off, then started walking down the street, back the way they came. “You can go back to the train station if you want.”

“You think I would leave you behind?”

“Why shouldn’t you? You don’t owe them anything.”

“Martin,” Kircheis said again, then followed after him, somewhat reluctantly. He felt like they were making a mistake, but he wasn’t going to abandon Martin, and Martin couldn’t let go of the idea of going back to the little safehouse, so back they were headed. Kircheis checked his own watch several times, mentally consulting the train schedule to see when they would be able to get back home, if all of this went smoothly.

They walked slowly and carefully back, Martin always a few steps ahead, despite Kircheis’s longer legs. They stopped a block away from the house, looking down the street cautiously. As soon as they turned the corner, Kircheis felt immediately that something was wrong. He grabbed Martin’s shoulder. “Look,” he said under his breath. Down the street, there was a van waiting. Its engine was on, as evidenced by the occasional flick of the windshield wipers across the window, but all its lights were off. Whoever was sitting in the driver’s seat was hidden behind the fog in the windows.

Martin nodded. “They’re watching the building?”

“I don’t know.”

“What should we do?”

“Do you have your friends’ number? Can you call them?”

“No, we don’t-- I was told not to phone them.”

“Any way to contact them?”

Martin shook his head. “Not quickly.”

“We can’t just stand here,” Kircheis said, and then pulled Martin back around the corner. He didn’t resist, but he did try to crane his neck to peek back around at the van and the house. “They probably know they’re being watched. They’re probably looking out the windows right now,” he said, partly trying to reassure Martin, partly trying to work through the situation himself. “It might make it worse for us to do anything.”

“What if they don’t know they’re being watched?” Martin asked.

“Then…” Kircheis trailed off. He wanted to warn them, but walking up to the building seemed almost suicidal.

“I want to at least find out who that is.”

“Is there any question?”

“Who do you think it is?”

Kircheis stuck his head around the corner again, taking another look at the van, still idling on the side of the road. “I’ve only seen that make of car in a few places,” he said. “I think it’s government issue. It’s got-- the front grill looks weird-- you can see the reinforcement.”

Martin nodded again, his sodden hair flopping into his eyes. “Okay. I want to warn them.” His voice was firm, and Kircheis didn’t think he could dissuade Martin from this idea.

“Okay,” Kircheis said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He leaned around the corner again, though he thought that he should probably stop doing that, as they were probably visible from the parked car. “I’m going to go up to the house, through the back, and try to tell them that they’re being watched. They might have an escape plan in place already. They probably do.” Kircheis suspected that they would probably use the roof-- the buildings in this area were close enough that a reasonably athletic person could take a running jump from one to the next with little danger, and every building had a little hutch for roof access. In the summer, Kircheis had often seen people hanging their laundry out to dry up on the roofs, or planting little box gardens.

“You’re going to go?” Martin asked.

“I’m faster than you are, in case I need to run.”

“They’re my friends,” Martin said. “What if they don’t trust you?”

“One of us needs to stay away, just in case the other is arrested. You need to be able to get my parents--”

“I want to do it.”

“Flip a coin,” Kircheis said. “I don’t think we have time to argue.”

Martin fished through his pocket for a coin, came up with one, flipped it in the air, and said, “Swords.” He lifted his other hand to reveal the coin on the back of his right hand. “Damn. Scales.”

“Okay, I’m going,” Kircheis said. “If anything happens, take the train home, call my parents. Don’t follow me. Got it?” Martin looked like he was about to argue. “Martin, promise me.”

“Fine,” Martin said. Kircheis nodded and smiled, a small, reassuring expression. “Stay safe.”

“I will,” Kircheis said. “You too.”

He walked around the corner, leaving Martin behind, suddenly feeling very alone. He strode quickly down the street, took a turn into the alley, then took the few steps down towards the basement apartment and knocked on the door. There was no response. He waited a second, tension growing in his stomach, then knocked again. There was still no answer from inside the door. He tried the door. The handle turned, but the door wouldn’t open; it must have been deadbolted shut. Kircheis knocked again, then tried to softly call out, “Leisel, open the door.”

Still, there was no answer.

The best case scenario was that they had already left, of their own volition, before whoever was watching them came.

The next scenario was that they were all hiding inside, refusing to open the door to anyone.

The worst scenario was that they had already been taken, and the people watching the house were just trying to see if anyone else would show up. If that was the case, Kircheis knew he had just walked himself into a trap.

He turned to go, making his way up the few steps, clinging to the rail to stop himself from slipping on the wet steps. When he was most of the way up, he saw the thing that he most dreaded in the entry to the alleyway, several figures, all coming directly towards him. Some of them were clearly armed.

Kircheis made a split second decision. He tried to run, leaping up the last few steps, splashing through the puddles, knocking heavily past the trash cans, and trying to escape behind the building. He was fast, but he couldn’t outrun someone who was already ahead of him, another person appearing from what felt like out of nowhere and blocking his path. Kircheis looked around and thought about leaping for the fire escape, but it was too far away, so instead he tried to run past the solitary man in this alleyway, throwing his arm out to knock him sideways as he tried to run past.

He heard the whine of a blaster, but his movements were erratic enough that the shot missed him. His ducking and weaving slowed him down, though, and someone tackled him from behind, landing heavily on his back. Kircheis was knocked off balance and his knees hit the alley ground, and then there was someone forcing his head to the ground, the disgusting and wet asphalt digging into his cheek. He was not treated gently, and got a boot in his side for his trouble, but at least no one was trying outright to kill him, at least not after that missed blaster shot. He stopped struggling, because he was sure there was no way of getting out of this. Someone handcuffed him. Someone dragged him roughly to his feet and shoved him out of the alley. He couldn’t see the faces of the police in the dark.

When they led him to the van and forced him roughly into the back, Kircheis resisted the urge to look down the street for Martin. He didn’t want to accidentally give him away, though he was sure Martin was watching. He hoped that he was keeping his promise, to run back to the train station, to go home, to alert Kircheis’s parents.

He was the only prisoner in the back of the van. He couldn’t check his watch for the time, but he sat in the back of the van for what felt like hours, hands cuffed behind his back, alone, in the dark, just waiting for something else to happen. The only thing that changed about his surroundings was that the drumming of rain on the roof eventually quieted from a roar to a patter. Finally, it must have been time for a shift change or something, because the van started to move.

He tried to make a mental map of where the van was headed, based on the feeling of it starting and stopping, and the taking of turns that wrenched his body away from his hands, hooked to the side of the van. His shoulders ached, and several times his head slammed into the metal wall of the vehicle, on particularly nasty starts. He had to wonder if it was on purpose. Was it a technique to get him to talk later, keeping him in this brief period of solitary confinement? He couldn’t help but think about where the others were-- Leisel and Mikhail and Johan and the others whose names he didn’t even know.

When someone finally opened the back doors of the van and hauled Kircheis out, he was surprised to find that an eerie dawn was breaking, and the air was cold and clear. He didn’t have long to appreciate it, though, because he was marched inside a brick building, surrounded on all sides by tall barbed-wire fence. He couldn’t even see the buildings of the city; they must be a decent distance away from the city limits, or the bare trees outside the fences were just particularly thick.

Inside, uniformed man after uniformed man seemed to want to have something to do with him. He was asked his name and other identifying information, which he provided, and he was searched. One man found the pamphlet that Leisel had tucked into his shirt pocket, and Kircheis tried not to grimace as the guard looked it over, then filed it away in a plastic bag with a look of cruel amusement.

They took away his clothes and gave him a grey jumpsuit. He hadn’t been allowed to use the bathroom, and he hadn’t eaten, drank, or slept.

Someone interrogated him, in a cold, too-bright room, with his hands chained to his chair.

“State your name for the record,” the man said in a flat voice.

“Siegfried Kircheis.”

“Date of birth?”

“April 12, 467.”

They went through other standard questions, such as his address, occupation, family members, et cetera, and then moved on to the real meat of the interview, the man leaning forward over the table.

“What was your business at 622 42nd St?”

“I was visiting some acquaintances,” Kircheis said.

“Who, in particular?”

“I don’t actually know their names.”

“I find that hard to believe.” The man wrote something down on the clipboard he had in front of him. Or, perhaps he didn’t, and that was maybe there to intimidate Kircheis. He wasn’t exactly intimidated, but he was concerned. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him. He could very well be tortured for information that he didn’t have, or sent to a prison colony, or simply killed outright. He had heard rumors of all of these things happening, though as with all such rumors, it was impossible to actually know if they were true. He suspected he was about to find out.

He hoped Martin was alright.

“Are you listening to me?” the man asked.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Are you aware that several of the residents of that building have been charged with treason against the crown?”

“No, sir,” Kircheis said.

“Are you saying that you are unaware that they were charged?”

“I was unaware that they were treasonous, sir.”

“And yet you were found holding written material that was also found within their property, written material which encourages desertion from His Majesty's armed forces.”

Kircheis stayed silent. There was no point in protesting this.

“Do you deny it?”

“I don’t deny that I was carrying a paper, sir.”

“And for what purpose were you carrying such propaganda?”

“It was just given to me,” Kircheis said. “I hadn’t read it.”

“I see. So, it was given to you by the residents there, who you didn’t know, but you must have met beforehand in order to receive it from them, and then you went to their residence? For a chat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you meet them?”

“Online.”

“Where online?”

“On anonymous message boards. We talked.” He wanted to avoid bringing up Martin.

“The specific addresses, if you would.”

Kircheis named a couple websites, popular ones. They kept asking him questions. Kircheis wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that he had no real information to give them. When they asked for things that might have implicated Martin, he lied to cover up, but in other areas, he just told the truth, which was that he knew basically nothing. He wasn’t sure if the man believed it, but he did have the fact that he was only fifteen on his side. Even though he was tall, he still had a young face, and his ID, which had been in his pocket and confiscated when he had been searched, corroborated his birthdate. He was hoping that would let him off easy.

Eventually, the man who was questioning him seemed to get bored, though Kircheis suspected this was just a front, perhaps to catch him off guard, and he was sent into a tiny holding cell, one with just a cot and a toilet and sink. It was a miserable little place, and he was reluctant to sleep. He lay on the cot and stared up at the grey concrete ceiling above him, trying to listen down the hallway for sounds of anyone coming.

At one point, he was given food, which he ate because he was hungry. No one told him what was going on. There was no way to mark the passage of time. He wondered if Martin had contacted his parents. They were probably worried about him by now.

He couldn’t help but fall asleep eventually. He woke up and paced his cell. Someone brought more food.

How long was he going to be kept? He hated the lack of sense of time. He somehow doubted he would be making it back to school on Monday. He was going to miss his physics exam.

It might have been a full day later by the time that anyone came to see him. Two guards came and cuffed him and escorted him out of his cell through the hallways, past unmarked room after unmarked room. The whole experience felt like the scenery had been intentionally designed to be reminiscent of the twisting, unending corridors of nightmares, but his escort seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Finally, they made it to a set of double doors, wooden ones, that looked strangely out of place with the concrete and metal decor of the rest of the building. Kircheis was alternately pushed and pulled inside, though he wasn’t resisting.

The room was some kind of small courtroom, with a chair for him to sit on as the accused, and then, above him, behind a desk on a raised platform, the judge’s seat. There were small sections for the audience (none), and the guards stood at the back of the room. The judge wasn’t there yet. Kircheis’s handcuffs were attached to his chair, though there was some length of chain that at least allowed him to stand or sit.

“Rise for the Honorable Judge Elsner!” one of the guards at the forward door said as the judge walked in. He was wearing a fleet uniform, an MP’s uniform. Kircheis rose, his hands catching on the chain that kept him tied down. A court transcriptionist and various other officials followed the judge in and took their seats at the front of the room.

The judge was probably in his forties, and he seemed bored, not really even looking at Kircheis as he took his seat.

“This session of the Odin 53rd District Imperial Court of Internal Inquiry is now in session,” he said. “Please be seated.”

Kircheis sat.

“Siegfried Kircheis, you are hereby accused of the following: two counts of conspiracy to commit treason, one count of criminal association, one count of possession of treasonous materials, one count of untruthfulness towards the crown, and one count of resisting arrest. How do you plead?”

Kircheis stood to answer. “Not guilty, sir.”

The judge didn’t seem shocked by this, but he did seem annoyed. “Do you have a defense prepared?”

“I haven’t had the charges explained to me, sir,” Kircheis said.

“It was a yes or no question.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you wish to speak on behalf of your own defense, or would you prefer that I consider existing evidence only?”

“I would like to speak,” Kircheis said. It probably went without saying that he would not be afforded any lawyer or other defense.

“Very well. We will proceed down the list of charges. Bailiff, please read the text of count one.”

The bailiff did so. “Siegfried Kircheis, you are charged with conspiracy to commit treason. On the eighth of February, His Majesty's year 482, you were apprehended at the residence of criminals implicated in a treasonous plot to wound His Majesty’s armed forces. When apprehended, you were carrying materials that indicated you were involved in this plot. Evidence one.” The bailiff pointed to a table, where the pamphlet that had been taken from Kircheis was sealed inside a bag.

“What do you say in your defense?”

“I had only just met the group there,” Kircheis said. “Do you have a transcript of my interview?”

“Bailiff?”

“Evidence six.”

“That’s what I said then, and it’s still true,” Kircheis said. “I wasn’t involved in anything that they were doing.”

“But you did know them,” the judge said.

“May I plea this down to guilty on the count of criminal association?” The two charges sounded similar, but Kircheis definitely wanted to avoid being charged with anything related to ‘treason’ in its name.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

The judge considered him for a second. “Fine. I pronounce you not guilty on the first charge of conspiracy to commit treason, guilty on one count of criminal association. Bailiff, read the second charge.”

“Siegfried Kircheis, you are charged with conspiracy to commit treason. On the eighth of February, His Majesty's year 482, treasonous written material was found inside the building at 622 42nd St. Fingerprints on that material were identified as belonging to Siegfried Kircheis. Evidence two and three.”

“What do you say in your defense?”

“I was just helping to assemble them,” Kircheis said. “I didn’t write the text, and I didn’t know any of it was treasonous.”

“I have a character witness sitting outside this courtroom who claims to know that you are not a stupid man,” the judge said. “Try that one again.”

“I hadn’t read it closely at the time,” Kircheis said. His heart beat a little faster at the thought that a character witness had appeared to vouch for him. He desperately hoped that it wasn’t Martin. It might have been his parents. “I know that dodging conscription is illegal, depending on how you do it, but I didn’t know it was treason.”

“And were you planning to dodge mandatory service?”

“No, sir.”

“Really?”

“I was planning to apply for an exemption at university,” Kircheis said. “But that is legal.”

“I see,” the judge said. “But you are sympathetic to their cause.”

“Sir, my feelings seem to be less important than the material evidence of my fingerprints.”

“Herr Kircheis, I advise you to answer this question seriously. Are you sympathetic to their cause?”

He didn’t like to lie, but there was something in the judge’s tone, the way that he had so readily agreed to Kircheis’s offer to plea, perhaps he was trying to let Kircheis off easily. Maybe it was because Kircheis was only fifteen, not even a legal adult until the following year. “No, sir,” he said.

“Good. What did you do to assemble the booklets? How much responsibility for them did you have?”

“I folded the paper, sir.”

“And why did you do that?”

“It was in exchange for a cup of coffee, sir.” This was almost true. They had drank coffee while assembling the booklets.

“Do you know what the intended purpose of the material was?”

He was tempted to say that they were books, obviously they were going to be passed out, but then he remembered that this man was attempting to let him off the hook. “No, sir. It was described to me as simply a creative writing exercise.”

“I see.” The judge drummed his fingers. “So, you folded papers without reading them, because you were bribed into it with a cup of coffee, believing them to be part of someone’s art project. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you never intended to distribute them?”

“No, sir. If I had, I would have taken more than one copy with me, when I left.”

“Hm, good point. Why did you keep that one copy?”

“Because it was given to me as a gift. I couldn’t throw it away.”

“I see,” the judge said. “It’s a fascinating story here, Herr Kircheis. Do you have anything else to say for yourself before I pronounce judgement on this charge?”

“The charge is conspiracy to commit treason. I didn’t believe the pamphlets were treasonous, so it would be impossible for me to conspire to something I didn’t realize was happening.”

“Hmmm.” The judge glanced at his watch. “Fine. Then I pronounce you not guilty on the second charge of conspiracy to commit treason.”

Kircheis relaxed fractionally.

“We already covered criminal association… Possession of treasonous materials. Bailiff, read the charge, if you would.”

“Siegfried Kircheis, you are charged with possession of treasonous materials. On the eighth of February, His Majesty's year 482, treasonous written material was found on your person. Evidence one.”

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“I did not believe the material to be treasonous, at the time.”

“But you see the error of your ways?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You pled not guilty earlier, would you like to revise that plea?”

“If ignorance of the law and ignorance of the charges laid against me is no excuse, then I would like to plead guilty. If it is sufficient excuse, then I would be grateful for Your Honor to consider me not guilty.”

“Can I tell you something, Herr Kircheis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have already decided what your sentence will be.”

Kircheis wasn’t surprised by this at all. This whole thing was a series of hoops to jump through, he suspected. Maybe in other cases, this would be more involved, but Kircheis bet that the other members of the group who had been arrested did say that they had no idea who Kircheis was, and he really hadn’t done anything. It was the association, more than anything, that was likely to earn him a trip to a prison colony. At least no one seemed like they were about to sentence him to death. He might be lucky that he had just gotten a judge who was in a good mood. “I understand, sir,” Kircheis said.

“Then I pronounce you not guilty on the charge of possession of treasonous material.”

That was something of a relief. All the ‘treason’ charges had been dropped, though Kircheis suspected the lesser ones would stick. “Thank you, sir.”

“Bailiff, read the charge of untruthfulness.”

“Siegfried Kircheis, you are charged with untruthfulness towards the crown. On the ninth of February, His Majesty's year 482, you claimed to have no knowledge of the names of the members of the group residing at 622 42nd Street. However, on the eighth of February, His Majesty’s year 482, you wer heard to name one of the residents of that house.”

“Do you have a defense?”

“I didn’t know their family names. And I also thought that Leisel might be a code name.”

“Fine. Not guilty on untruthfulness towards the crown. Bailiff, read the charge for resisting arrest.”

“Siegfried Kircheis, you are charged with resisting arrest. On the eighth of February, His Majesty's year 482, you were stopped by members of the Imperial Military Police. One was wounded during the altercation.”

“Do you have a defense?”

“No, sir,” Kircheis said.

“Guilty on the count of resisting arrest, then.” The judge looked up at one of the guards. “Let the character witness in to hear the sentencing.”

Kircheis craned his neck to look behind him when the door opened. It was his mother coming in, dressed in her most austere dress, her eyes red with tears, her hands clasped before her. The guard let her sit down in one of the benches.

“Your mother presented quite the strong case for leniency for you,” the judge said. “It was unusual that she knew where to find you, since Internal Inquiry procedures are not public at all.” He shook his head a little bit, then cleared his throat. “Siegfried Kircheis, the court finds you not guilty on two charges of conspiracy to commit treason, one charge of possession of treasonous materials, and one count of untruthfulness towards the crown. The court finds you guilty on one count of criminal association, and one count of resisting arrest. Do you have any final statements you wish to make before sentencing?”

“No, sir,” Kircheis said. He resisted the urge to look behind him at his mother, but he could hear her stifled breathing, as though she was holding her hand over her mouth.

“Siegfried Kircheis,” the judge said, sounding very bored. “As punishment for one count of criminal association, and one count of resisting arrest, this court sentences you to ten years of labor.”

His mother let out a choked cry behind him.

Kircheis stood very still.

“This sentence will be commuted until August of His Majesty’s year 482, at which time, the sentence will be served out as four years of attendance at the Imperial Officer’s Academy, followed by six years of service within the imperial fleet. Is this understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As these charges were laid against you as a minor, they shall be wiped from your record upon the conclusion of your sentence. If, at any time during your sentence, you break the terms of your your sentence, or are found guilty of any other crime, you shall serve out the remainder of your sentence in imprisonment. Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge nodded once, sharply. “I sincerely hope that I do not see you again, Herr Kircheis.” The judge stood. “This session of the Odin 53rd District Imperial Court of Internal Inquiry is concluded.”

“All rise!” one of the guards yelled as the judge left the room.