NationStates Jolt Archive

Haig County High School, Liberty-City, September 1st, 20??

It would be a great exaggeration to say that the ninth-grade pupils that were seated in front of Frederick Bates wore uniforms. Rather, they wore various T-shirts embossed with the Haig County High School logo – the school rules allowed a T-shirt of any kind to be worn, as long as it had the school logo on it and no other markings. Of course, this resulted in some pupils wearing poisonous-green or glowing orange T-shirts, but generally, different shades of blue seemed to dominate the field. At least, out of the seventeen pupils in Bates' class, eleven children wore different shades of blue, one wore a black t-shirt and matching pants, two wore white. One particular pupil was wearing a brilliant yellow shirt – and it was already making Bates' eyes hurt.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ninth-grade history. As you know, History is a mandatory course in all Demented Schooling Corporation high schools. Does anybody know why?”

There were a few seconds of silence, and then a girl in the back row – slightly overweight and wearing a thin golden chain with a cross on it – raised her hand.

“There is no need for that. You're high school students. As long as you're all polite and respectful to each other, I am sure we can all have a normal conversation without stretching our hands like first-graders.”

Everybody laughed.

“So... what's your name, young lady?”

“Gloria, Sir.”

“So, why do you think History is a mandatory course?”

“Well, Sir, I think it's because we need to understand what happened in the past.”

“So. And what is History, Gloria?”

“It's the study of events that took place in the past.”

“I see. So we're learning about the past because we need to learn about the past?”

“Well, Sir...” - Gloria paused for a second.

“Go ahead, Gloria. Don't worry.”

“Sir, I think it's because we need to understand how different people in the past solved all sorts of problems that they had, and what came out of it. Then, if we have the same problems again in the future, we'll know how to deal with them and what things we shouldn't try because they tried them in the past and they, umm, didn't work, Sir.”

“That's right, Gloria.”

He walked back to the whiteboard and wrote: “Learning from the mistakes and successes of the past.”

“Now the second question is: How are we going to learn this?”

He saw the boy in the black shirt take his feet off the table and lean forward. Clearly he thought he had some form of answer. “What's your name?”

“James, Sir.”

“Very well, James. How are we going to learn high-school history?”

“Learn about the different events of the past, Sir. Learn the facts.”

“Well, that's qutie true. We're going to learn the facts. And, just like in Grade Eight, Seven, Six, and so forth, you're going to be writing lots of essays. Does anybody here know why you write lots of essays this subject?”

That was not a smart way to phrase the question. Suddenly, the class erupted.

“Because it teaches structured-!”

“Structured writing and structured thinking!”

“If you practice a lot of writing, it also helps your reading!”

Bates blushed a little bit – it was his first lesson as a high-school teacher, after all. He raised his hand. “Excuse me? Can I say something, please?”

The class laughed, but fell quiet. He walked between the seats.

“First of all, all of you are right. If one practices structured writing – separating the process of thoughts into steps, and making the steps into sentences, paragraphs, and chapters – then one structures the process of thought, sharpening the mind itself.”

He stopped. “Who was it that spoke about reading? Oh, you? What is your name?”

“Jean-Paul Legrand, Sir.”

“Oh. So, reading?”

“Yes, Sir. My father says that if you learn to use language well enough to write well, you can learn critical reading – understand how authors put their bias into the language.”

“That is correct, Jean-Paul. Have your parents been born in Allanea?”

“No, Sir. They moved in from Arriddia five years after I was born. Did you know by my name?”

“No – just, the headmaster told me there'd be a kid called Jean-Paul. He said it's your first day in a school. Do you like it so far, Jean-Paul?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now, I was told that when your parents signed you up for this school at the beginnign of summer, you were given a copy of the assignment everybody else got at the end of their school year. Did you do it?”


“Yes, Sir.” - Jean-Paul waved a sheaf of paper enthusiastically. “I chose the Gift of Constantine to write about, Sir.”

“Woah.” - Bates seemed genuinely impressed. “Perhaps you would like to give a class a presentation on this, for extra credit?”

“Sure!” - it almost seemed Jean-Paul would jump over the table. Wants to prove himself to a new crowd. That's a mentality I can live with.

“So.. tell us about the Gift of Constantine.”

Jean-Paul started. “The Gift of Constantine was a Church document – a forged church document, Sir...”

“No-no, I'm sorry. Stand up. You're not talking to me. You're talking to your classmates. I'm not here. Imagine you're the teacher for a few minutes, Jean-Paul.”

And so Jean-Paul got up, and started speaking.

Towards the end of the lesson.

“Brilliant. So – Jean-Paul, don't answer this, I know you know – what was the difference between Lorenzo Valla and the previous, medieval readers?”

Only three pupils seemed to know anything.

“Mmm. I'm disappointed. What's your name?”

“Mike.”

“So, Mike, what was it?”

“I think it was because the medieval readers didn't think that the Ancient Romans were different from them – they really thoght the Romans were basically feudals with fancy clothes on, Sir. So it didn't seem strange to them that the Romans used words like 'feodum' and stuff'. Valla realized that people in different eras have different mindsets.”

“That's right. Which is what we're going to be dealing a lot with, this year. And now, hand in your assignments. For the next lesson, I have an easy piece of homework for you – I want each of you to find, on the internet, two pieces of newspaper coverage on the same topic – from Allanea, and from, say, Xirnium. I want you to compare the two and explain what the language of the articles tells us about the mindset of the writers. A thousand words. Furthermore – I want you to read up on the four topics we're going to choose from for our curriculum – 18th and 19th Century Old America, Allanea During the Four Edolian Wars, History of the Second World War, and The Great CACE Standoff. You will then explain to me – two hundred words, please – why we need to choose your favoric topic for this semester's study.”

“That is all for today. Good luck.”

Haig County High School, Liberty-City, September 1st, 20??

Their literature was Miss Amanda Ferrington – a lady that looked about twenty-six, but was probably much older. She wore dark-blue high-heeled shoes, a matching skirt that ended just above her knees, and a matching t-shirt stamped with the school logo – essentially identical to the ones worn by her students. Like all adult Allaneans, she was armed – with a Webley .455 pistol at her hip and a 'Deathdealer-3000' subgun that was now hanging off a hook at the entrance to the class.

“Hello alll.” - said the Literature teacher. - “So how many of you have actually read the plays that you had to read in the summer?”

There was an awkward silence, and then five pupils raised their hands. The teacher raised her eyebrows in respons, blinking at the display. It took her several seconds to regain speech.

“Very, very bad. I'm disappointed in you. Usually, I expect at least half of the class to read the plays by the summer. I mean, you had two and a half months to do it!”

Another student raised her hand. It was Gloria. “Umm, Miss Ferrington? I read only one play, does that count?”

“Well, at least you read one. Which one did you read?”

“Romeo and Juliet”, Miss Ferrington.”

“Ah. I'd expect that. Did you people at least read the handout?”

Everybody, it seemed, had read the handout.

“And did you watch the films?”

Everybody did. In fact, there was a considerable enthusiasm when the films were mentioned. Amanda errington sighed at this. It's the same every year. Shakespeare bores them, buit give them the Star Wars films, and they're all excited. Bet they even watched both trilogies several times.

“Very well. Mira?” - she pointed at a red-haired girl that was sitting right in front of Jean-Paul.

Mira nodded, smiling politely at Miss Ferrington.

“You read the handout, yes?”

“Yes.” The handout in question was rather short – several pages out of Aristotle's “On Poetry”, translated into English by someone or other at Concord University. “And I see you read the play, as well. Very nice of you – now, do you think you can explain to the class, based of what you read during the summer, why I assigned you to watch the Star Wars films?”

There wasn't even a pause. “I think it's because, well, if you watch the films in the order of events, rather then in the order of, you know, them being filmed, then they follow the pattern of a tragedy as explained by Aristotle.”

“Can you elaborate on this?”

“Well, Aristotle defined tragedy as a story of a hero – a person endowed with multiple noble qualities – who suffers from a flaw, and that flaw condemns him to a doom. Which, is the case with Anakin Skywalker. By giving in to his emotions, he isn't just corrupted by the Dark Side, he allows himself to be corrupted. And eventually he turns on Kenobi and is defeated by him, and so forth. Everything which happens in the films afterwards, actually, can be seen as a direct and inevitable result of this one thing.”

“Brilliant, Mira. And my final question about the summer's homework is – did anybody even make an attempt to memorize the poem?”

Five hands were raised.

“Oh for the love of God, it was only five stanzas! Put your hand Mira, I know you did it.” - she paused. “Okay. Clearly you haven't prepared for the start of the year. So here's what we're going to do: you're all going to have to just do the boring thing and listen to me explain how this school year is going to work.”

“Now, this year, we are going to take two Shakespeare plays – the ones, incidentally, that you were all supposed to read in the summer – and read them in class. But what we actually will learn from this will apply to any work of literature you may encounter in the future, even if you're an elf.”

The Noldo girl in the corner beamed proudly at the teacher.

“What we are to deal with, if you're to become sensible adults – which I have grave suspicions some of us here will not, Howard Niggle-Longbottom!”

“I wasn't... doing anything.”

“That's precisely the problem. Anyway, if you are to become sensible adults, you must learn not merely to understand what is written, but how it is written. You are to become closely acquianted with the tools authors use to impart meaning to text – and not just the obvious ones. You are, in effect, to learn critical reading.”

She pointed to a framed quote hanging from one of the classroom's walls.

To learn to evaluate what you read is a self-defense skill as crucial as knowing to center the sights on the target and pull, rather then jerk, the trigger.

“Critical reading, ladies and gentlemen, is the most important skill any school can impart. It is all very well to know that a falling object accelerates at so-and-so meters per second or that the Old American Bill of Rights was added to the Constitution on the 15th of December – but it's completely useless if you cannot continue the learning process on your own. Not only that, but those who will not learn to read critically will fall victim to any peddler of untruth, from the common fraud to the political fanatic, from the conman selling fake watches to the conman peddling socialism. In this school – like in all schools of the Demented Schooling Corporation – we don't just teach you that men have rights, that freedom is better then communism. We do not merely impart moral truths upon you to parrot them. We give you the tools to read and evaluate for yourself. What is your name? I have not seen you here last year.”


Jean-Paul started for a second. “Jean-Paul Legrand. My parents had me homeschooled until the last year.”

“Wow.” - Amanda Ferrington seemed genuinely impressed. -”I bet you know half our year's curriculum already, don't you, young man?”

Jean-Paul blushed a bit. “I'll try and do my best.”

“Well, Jean-Paul. Did you spot any evidence of bias in what I said?”

“You don't like socialism. Or communism. You said that socialists were like people who sell fake watches and that communism was the direct opposite of freedom. You also implied that communism being the direct opposite to freedom was as true as people having rights.”

“Great, Jean-Paul. How do you know to spot these things?”

“My father taught me – he ordered a ninth-grade School-in-A-Box kit last year and started me on it in April. Also sometimes he gives me news articles and asks me to spot keywords in them and figure out which way the newspaper is leaning.”

“Good. Now, Jean-Paul, do you think there's anybody who is completely unbiased?”

“No.”

“So, does this mean you can't trust anybody?”

“Not until you get to know them.”

She laughed. “A most excellent answer. So... - Lirelle!”

The elven girl blinked in surprise.

“Lirelle, does being biased necessarily make you wrong?”

“No.”

“That's right – so some people you can trust – after you get to know them, as Jean-Paul said. And learning critical reading is about how you get to know people's writing. So here's what we'll do in this class. For three lessons out of four, we will read the plays – Romeo and Juliet in the first semester, and Much Ado About Nothing in the second. They're lots of fun – they have sex, violence, and lots of kinky jokes in between, you'll be sorry that you haven't read them earliler. We'll take our time and look at all the tiny mind-games Shakespeare plays with the reader and dissect every tiny bit of them – and there'll be fifteen-page assignments due towards the end of each semester, and lots of homework in between. Speaking of which – during the fourth lesson of the week, we'll deal with poem. Remember me teaching you basic poetic structure last year, about rhymes and rhythm and hexameters and pentameters? Well, now it's all going to come back at you big time. You will also have to learn a short poem a week, or a fragment of a bigger one, just like last year.”

There was a collective groan.

“Oh, cheer up. It's just one poem, and you have a whole week to do it. Besides, this week you don't have a new poem to learn.”

There was a happy, expectant silence.

“Just the one you were supposed to learn in the summer. Which means five of you don't have any homework at all. By the way” - she looked at a tall, bespectacled boy, one of the five who had memorized the poem. You memorized the right poem, did you?”

It had indeed happened to this boy once, last year – Josh had memorized a poem, did so perfectly, but, it seemed, he had looked at the wrong page of the book and memorized the wrong poem. He smiled shily and said: “Only one way to find out.”

“Go for it, then. Get up and read “The Reeds of Runnymede for us.”

“Okay, Miss Ferrington.”

And he started.

At Runnymede, at Runnymede,
What say the reeds ar Runnymede?

* * *

Jean-Paul was thoroughly bored by the declamation. He was looking at something that most people – or at least most fifteen-year-olds – would find infinitely more interesting. Namely, it was Mira Rosenbaum. She had dazzling red hair, a face that could be on the cover of a magazine if not for the array of freckles (Jean-Paul decided it made her more cute, not less), a set of blue-framed glasses, a blue school shirt, and a pair of worn levis cut down so short that they could just as well be panties (he didn't yet know these were called 'Dixies'). The shorts made her legs look like they were really long.

Yes, far more interesting then the poem. I know that by heart, anyway.

And besides, she was smart. In Advanced Latin, she rattled off bits of Catullus. In Biology, she explained at length about desert turtles and buffaloes. And in the last period – Sports – it turned out that she knew how to hit things with a rifle, too – the teacher decided not to have them do anything complex and new on the first day, and just had the class 'refresh their hand-eye coordination' with old-looking M16A1s from the school armory.

Mind, the sight of Mira Rosenbaum lying face-down, with her long and almost completely naked legs spread on the shooting mat introduced in Jean-Paul's mind thoughts rather detached from the suibject of marksmanship.

They did involve the shooting mat, however.

* * *

When Pierre and Josephine Legrand immigrated into Allanea, they decided they would do their best to adapt to the life of the place, the local customs and culture. As it often happens in such cases, they ended up being quite a bit more papal then the Pope.

Take Pierre Legrand's car, for example. It was an Allanean Arms Howler SUV, made off the chassis of a light military truck, and was over two yards wide and really tall. It also had a hatch next to the driver's seat, and an ancient PKM in a pintle mount. It also packed (among other things) three portable DVD players to be used to show films to people in the back seat, a rifle mounted in a special mount between the two front seats, and immense loudspeakers which Jean-Paul's father never really dared to crank up higher then a tenth of full volume. Maybe one day I can borrow this car, and find out just how loud they can go.

It was even painted black with an elaborate flame designs – and had six bumper stickers on it – 'Earth: My Surveillance-Free Zone', 'From My Cold, Dead, Hands', 'If You Can Read This, You're In Range', Honk If You've Never Seen an Uzi Fired From A Car Window', 'Nuke Marxburg', and, finally, 'Sniper Bar & Grill: All You Need Is One Shot'. As far as Jean-Paul knew, his father never went to bars.

The car moved out of the school parking lot, and then down Douglas Haig Street. Jean-Paul smiled as the houses with the multi-colored slanted roofs moved by in the window. They approached a small square, the very center of Haig County. In the center of the square stood a statue of Haig himself, looking proudly down at passers-by. As he drove past the statue, Pierre asked of his son:

“So, how did you like your first day in school?”

Jean-Paul smiled. He knew that if something had gone wrong, his parents would have yanked him out of the school within the day, even if they would have to forfeit the tuition money. But there would be no need for that.

“Wonderful, Dad.”

Liberty-City, Wednesday, September 2, 20??

The Economics teacher was tall – perhaps even over six feet tall. He towered over the class, wielding a long, slim steel pointer, with which he jesticulated wildly as he talked. “The guiding principle of liberal economic doctrine is an optimistic view of human nature. I know that some people like to talk about thinkers like Herbert Spencer or Ludwig von Mises or Milton Friedman and say that they had a 'pessimistic view of mankind'. But as a matter of fact – at the heart of all market economics is a single assumption. I would like you all to open your Basic Economics Textbook on the beginning of Chapter Six: Marxist and Socialist Economics.”

There was a rustle of pages as the class opened their books. On the relevant page there was a variety of quotes from different important thinkers – Marx, Kautski, Lenin, Weber – from rabid Maoists to moderate welfare-statists.

“Right now, we're not going to deal with every single error of communism – because it's just an eighty-minute class and it's just the first economics lesson you've ever had – even though “Why communism is a failed economic doctrine?” is a common question in the O-Level exams, we'll come to that later. Nevertheless, there is a Marx quote there that just about defines the first and most important difference between the socialist and communist mindset, and the mindset on which liberal economics – and, as a matter of fact, the economic system of this country – is based. Let's see if you can find it.”

There was a brief pause.

Then a young child that looked like he had some Khristian blood in him – long black eyelashes, black hair, and pointed elf-like ears – raised his hand. “I think it's the one at the bottom of the page.”

“Oh?”

“'In the capitalist world, a legal fiction exists, according to which all consumers are equpped with knowledge about the qualities of goods they purchase.' It says it comes from something called 'Das Kapital', Sir.”

“Indeed. Now, Marx has a salient point here – in the capitalist world, we operate on the assumption that people know what's good for them – and, horror of horrors, it works. This is the most important axiom of liberal economics – the idea that sapient beings are qualified to know what's best for them. Each sapient is uniquely informed about his own needs and capacities, and it is based on our knowledge of these needs that we purchase goods. Let me give you an example. Does anybody here know anything about cars?”

“I do, Sir.”

“What's your name, young man?”

“Josh. Josh Benning.”

“Very well, Josh. Can you explain to the class the difference between an SUV and a subcompact?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get up and do it, then.”

Josh got up, and began his explanation. “SUV's are family cars that also have four-wheel drive, Sir. They are usually bigger then conventional family cars which people drive abroad, and they spend more fuel, but they're much safer. They have better traction on roads, and their size protects them againt ramming into things like walls and trees, so you'll make it, and if you were in a smaller car, you'd be smashed right flat. Also if they get turned over, they have roll bars and stuff, and so if you're strapped in, you won't get squished by the roof or something like can happen with other cars. Also...”

“Okay, what about a subcompact?”

“Subcompacts are tiny cars like the Swatchmobile or like those tiny cars the Rejistani use – basically glorified golf carts, Sir. But they have their advantages, too. They're smaller, and they save fuel, and... and...”

“Well. So I take it you want an SUV when you can drive, Josh?”

“Yeah.” - Josh seemed genuinely enthusiastic about that one.

“Would you say that everybody should choose an SUV for his car?”

“No, Sir.”

“Can you explain that to the class, Josh?” - the teacher smiled. Clearly he had come to the point of his demonstration.

“Well, let's say you don't drive much, or maybe you work in the city center in some place like Deriksburg, where there isn't much free parking space. Then you'd want the smallest car you can possibly get. Also if you use it for something indoors-”

“A car indoors?”

“Yeah, like tiny cars they have on big cargo ships so the Captain can get around on the decks or the golf carts that the security people have up at the Liberty Mall, or maybe inside the big Kriegzimmer factories – I saw on Youtube that they use Swatchmobiles indoors, Sir. They showed a clip about their Nakil assembly line, and...”

“I see. So Josh. You know lots of stuff about cars, but you don't feel you're qualified to choose other people's cars for them, right?”

“I could advise someone. I mean if they told me what kind of car they need, and then I could maybe say what's the best car that'll be like that.”

“But ultimately?”

“It's their call – it would depend on how much money they have and how many children they have and whether they live on a farm or in a city, and such. So no. I don't think I would want to do that.”

“And this precisely is why you, Josh, are not a communist. Okay. Now, everybody, turn to page one. We're going to learn about the two guys that invented modern economics – that' Adam Smith and Herbert Spencer. You've had to read 'Wealth of Nations' in the summer as preparation for the course. How many of you did?”

* * *

The Bible Studies lesson – the seventh that day - had ended. The Grade Nines left their classroom, and made way through the arched hallways and towards the school range. It was there that the new lesson was supposed to take place.

The self-defense instructor was the strangest teacher Jean-Paul had ever encountered – then again it was only his second day in school, he pondered. They could yet get weirder.

First of all, the man was as tiny as the Economics teacher had been tall – about five feet tall. He was wearing a 'flectar'-patterned set of BDU's, and more weapons than Jean-Paul had ever seen on a single person – three large knives, eight pistols – four on his belt, two in underarm holsters, two on shoulder holsters – a carbine, several grenades, a sword and two submachineguns, one slung behind his back, the other on his hip. For some reason, Jean-Paul had more then a fleeting suspicion that there were other weapons there that they could not see.

He motioned the class to sit down on the ground, and then spoke. “Good afternoon. My name is Alexander Smith. You do not know me, because I mostly teach the secondary kids. I teach them an O-Level Personal and Common Defense, which some of you may elect to take next year. If you do that, bear in mind that this opens a way to an A-Level in Advanced Tactics and Security, which, in turns, allows you to seek employment in command positions within either the Hery Majesty's Armed Forces, or various private organizations. But today we're not going to deal with anything that advanced, so relax and stay calm.”

There was laughter.

“What's your name, young lady?” - he pointed at one of the girls

“Niniel, Sir.”

“Come over here, Niniel.” - Smith said, smiling kindly.

The girl got up, shaked the sand off her pants, and walked over to the small man.

Suddenly – they didn't quite see how it happened – his hand moved upwards like the arms of a praying mantis, grabbing Niniel and pulling her off-balance, close to Smith's body. His oher hand reached for a knife, and, with a lightning-fast motion, pressed it's flat side to her neck. He hissed through his teeth:

“One sound and you die, bitch!”

The class jerked backwards. Niniel grew pale. And then Smith smiled and let Niniel go.

She was almost about to collapse and cry.

“Now now. I want you to go to the locker rooms and wash your face. I will talk to you after class.”

After she left, Alexander Smith addressed the class:

“See there. This is the sort of thing that can happen to you if you're not prepared. This is the sort of thing that happens all the time. Now, of course, I am going to teach you a lot, and a lot of technical skills – how to use a gun, a knife, a baseball bat, how to choose a proper rifle position and repel group attacks. Did you see how Niniel froze up when I grabbed her? Does anybody know why that happened?”

“Because she was scared?” - someone volunteered.

“No. Scared people do lots of things – normally, they do what they've previously learned is a response to such a situation. If there's no learned response, nine times out of ten the victim will either run or freeze up. And nine times out of ten, these are the wrong responses. I hope I don't need to explain why freezing up is the wrong response. Now, does anybody know why running is a wrong response to an emergency like that?”

“It is?” - Josh's lips moved almost involuntarily. - “I mean, running away seems pretty safe to me.”

“Can your grandmother catch up with you as you run, Josh?””

“No, she can't. What does that have to do with anything, Sir? My grandma isn't going to be attacking me with a knife.”

“Yes, but if you're attacked with a knife and your grandmother is there, are you going to just run away and leave her?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“But that is not even the most important thing. When you run away, you have chosen to cut off all your other defensive options. If your back is to your attacker, you don't know what he's doing. He could shoot you with a gun, or even plain catch up with you – and you could stumble and fall. If anything goes wrong with your escape, you're screwed. That's why the military insists on orderly retreats rather then just having people run for it. Only run if you are sure you can escape, or if the attacker is so completely overwhelming you there's no way in hell you can fight him. And fighting, statistically, is a much safer option.”

“But Sir...” - asked a girl named Muriel - “Why not just give the other guy the money or whatever else he wants? Seems better to me then having a fight to the death over some money or whatever.”

“I always have someone ask this question. I never figure out why it's only girls – after all it's girls that should have more sense about it. After all... consider all the things that the bad guy might want from you.”

There was a pause, and then Muriel gulped as she understood what the teacher was talking about.

“But let's forget about that element. You may or may not know, but there was a point in the past that rape has been seen as a comparatively minor crime – not the horrible obscenity that it truly is. It took a lot of work for women's rights activists until society realized rape wasn't about sex, it was about a woman's – or a man's – dignity. And then it took a lot of people's effort for society to realize that armed burglary, robbery, and so forth, aren't about money either.They're about your dignity and your privacy – is your home your castle, a place where you can rest from all the stuff you did during the day? Or is it some place where anybody can just bust in and rummage through your stuff, your diary, your dirty underwear, your love letters, whatever? Do you deserve to keep your pay, or can it be ripped away from you by any retard with a kitchen knife?”

“This is the most important thing you have to learn from this lesson, and I will be happy if that'll be the only thing you ever learn. You know the phrase “as easy as taking candy from a baby”? Well, you also surely know it's rather difficult to actually take candy from a baby – the little bastards grab on real hard.”

Everybody chuckled.

“This is because babies know, instinctively, something a lot of adults forget – it's their candy and they have the moral right to grab on to it. This is your life and you have the moral right to grab on to it. If a person tries to use force to take your personal property, or to make you perform various services – sexual or not – then it is your right to meet force with force. You - deserve – to live.”

“What about the other guy? Doesn't he deserve to live?” - someone asked.

“It's his life, isn't it? He made the choice of threatening you – invading your home – trying to kill or molest you. He started it. Whatever happens to him is his fault, not yours. You know how little kids say “It's not my fault, he started it”? Well, the little kids have a huge point there.”

“I want you to know this and memorize it. Burn it onto your every brain cell: You deserve to live. Every single one of you has an inherent, God-given, right to remain alive. You have the right to liberty – to make choices about who you have sex with, whom you let into your home, and so forth, without being coerced by the threat of violence. If someone tries to break into your home or force his sexual desires on you, he is violating this principle – just like a Nazi stormtrooper would. You have the right to the products of your life and liberty – that is, your property. Those who try and coerce you into giving them away are trying to take away a fraction of your life and liberty. And you have the right – inherent, God-given, natural, whatever - to fight against your attackers. Which means you have the right to kill them.”

“Now, in most cases you will not have to do so – about ninety-seven percent of all armed self-defense encounters end with a weapon being displayed or a warning shot fired, and nobody dies. But I will repeat it again – this works only if the bad guy thinks you're really ready to kill him – and the best way to persuade him about that is to really be ready. You need to know that human life – yours, and your loved ones', and so forth – is infinitely valuable. Those who try and commit aggression on it are monsters. If you have to do so, kill them. With a gun, if you have one. If you don't, strangle them with your bare hands.”

“In this class, you will be taught lots of fancy tricks – how to draw and fire in under four seconds, how to fight with a knife and rifle, how to identify possible threats – but those are just fancy tricks. What you must learn, first of all, is that your life and the lives of your loved ones is worth fighting – and killing – for.”

“In one year, you will be legally able to carry guns, drive cars, vote, join the Army, get married or start a business. You will be legally adults. By that time, it is my ambition and duty to make sure you have learned this lesson – even if you learn absolutely nothing else in this school whatsoever.”

“You – deserve – to live free. Remember these five words, if you forget every single other word I have ever said. You deserve to live free.”

* * *

Mira Rosenbaum heaved her schoolbag to her back, and walked towards the exit. She was stunned slightly by Smith's delivery, and had, at first, thought she needed to walk home to think it all over. She didn't pace more then thirty meters away from the school gates to determine that the bag was too heavy for walking with it. I should come back and take the bus.

And then she heard someone's steps coming up behind her. It was Jean-Paul, of course, carrying his own bag as if it had nothing in it (this was precisely the case. Jean-Paul's parents decided to have him as spoiled as was humanly possible, and he had all his textbooks as e-books stored in a laptop. That laptop was the only item the bag contained apart from a single binder and a stack of pens.

“Hey Mira!” - he smiled, stopping next to her. His thin-framed spectacles glinted in the sun as he spoke: “Can I fetch your bag for you?”

“My house is a goddamn mile away. Are you sure you want to carry my stuff? It weighs like two dozen pounds or something crazy like that.”

“That's exactly why I should carry it, no?”

She had her doubts about this, but the bag was really heavy.

After a few minutes of walking, she spoke first. “You know, this defense instructor is a pretty sick fellow. Scaring Niniel like that.”

He pondered it for a second. “I don't know. I mean, she was scared and all, but maybe it's better if she's scared now when there's no real danger then her not knowing what to do if someone does this sort of thing for real.”

“I don't know. It's just all so... rough. I mean, we're fifteen. Are we supposed to be hearing this sort of stuff?”

“It's a class about killing people. I mean... that's what they mean when they say 'mature content'.”

“Mmm.”

“I'm sorry...”

“You're sorry?”

“You're probably good friends with Niniel. I should have realized that and not said anything.”

“Me? I can't stand her. It's just... it could have been me there.”

“But it wasn't – and she did look pretty funny there, right after he let her go.”

Mira suddenly laughed, beside herself. “You wanted to say this all along, didn't you?”

“Yeah. Just didn't know how you would react.”

She laughed even harder. “You know, you're quite something, Jean-Paul.”

“Uh?”

But she didn't elaborate.

Her house was rather large – three stories tall, with the roof painted in a brilliant deep blue, and a garage that looked almost the size of Jean-Paul's own home.

“What the hell do you keep there, a battleship?”

“Dad's car, Mom's car, Cynthia's car, and Dad's Panhard.”

“Who's Cynthia? And what's a Panhard?”

“Cynthia is my sister. And a Panhard is Dad's baby. It's like a tank, but it got wheels. It's really old and he can't affort to fire the cannon on it, but he gets it out once a month and drives it.”

“Cool.” - Jean-Paul said with feeling.

“You'll say that again when you see Mom's computer. She's a programmer, so she has this really fancy Cray thing.”

A Cray! Jean-Paul had wanted a Cray since he was eight. Her parents must be really rich.

“So Jean-Paul?”

“Yes, Mira?”

“I need to go and help Mom with her shopping, so I can't invite you in right now.” Do you want to come tomorrow and I'll show you Dad's Panhard?” Don't tell him it's because you need to ask Dad for permission to show people his toy. “I know you want to see it – for some reason all the boys do.”

“I suspect really it's not about the tank.”

She laughed. “You're a real something, Jean-Paul. See you tomorrow.”

And she grabbed her schoolbag and darted off towards the house.

Haig County High School, Liberty-City, September 19th, 20??

Sometimes it so happens in life that even though two people both want to do something, it just doesn't quite work out. This was the case with Jean-Paul's scheduled visit to Mira's – there was schoolwork to write, stuff to hand in – sometimes for him and sometimes for her – and so the unscheduled inspection of Haim Rosenbaum's Panhard AML had to be postponed (Mira also didn't want it to be known that it took more time then she had expected to persuade her father to actually let Jean-Paul into the same garage with the AML unsupervised.

By this time it appeared that schoolwork divided itself into two types - subjects like History and Literature, Bible Studies and (to a lesser extent) Economiccs, which hinged greatly on them doing a lot of reading and work outside class, reading their own books, writing essays, and merely contemplating the subject matter on their own. In comparison, the Latin, the Quenya, and the Self-Defense Training required precious little thought and lots of hard work – you memorised declination tables and trained in pistol draws until you could use them without much thought and effort.

Puer, socer, vesper, tener, liber, miser, asper, tener... puer, socer, vesper, tener, liber, miser, asper, tener...

“The Bible. Statistically, only about one out of four Allaneans is a Christian There should be, at a maximum, three Christians and a Jew in this classroom. Why, then, are we even bothering with the Bible, much less dedicating two hours a week to it's study?”

Someone spoke. “Because, uh, the Bible is one of the main foundations of Western Civilisation?”

“A nice answer, Mr. Lovegood. But the question is – do you really understand that answer? Or are you just saying it because you heard someone say it, and you don't really know what it means?”

There was a pause. “I guess I just heard it somewhere, Sir.”

“Good. Now, I'll be distributing a hand-out here. It's the first chapter of a book by a sociologist called Weber – a welfare-statist bastard from the 20th century, but he knew his stuff. He talks about how Protestant Christianity begot modern capitalist society as we know it – and is thus indirectly responsible for the birth of the Allanean Republic.”

They sighed as they pocketed the handouts.

“But right now, I would like to make a small demonstration. Please open your bibles on the First Book of Samuel. Chapter Eight, Verse Eleven. Mira, I believe you're the one Jew we were talking about – care to read it for us and check if there's any mistranslation involved?”

“Sure. 'And he said: this will be the manner of Kings that Shall reign over you.: he will take your sons, and appoint them for himself, for his chariots and to be his horsement; and some will run before his chariots. And he will appoint him captains over thousands and captains over fifties; and will set them to ear his ground and to reap his harvest, and to make his instruments of war and instruments of his chariots. And he will take your daughters...'”

“Enough. You've read the Hebrew before?”

“I was little.”

“Okay then. Let me just say that in the original, the daughters are taken to be 'concubines', not just 'confectionaries'.”

“”Ew.”

“Ew indeed. Now, Jean-Paul, what seems to be going on in this segment?”

“There's a list of bad things the future Kings will do.”

“Yes. As matter of fact, researchers at the University of Concord are pretty sure that previous to the rule of Kings, the Jews had practiced a theocratic anarchy – thus making them perhaps the first recorded nation to practice a form of capital-anarchism. Now... there's a list here of crimes the Kings will commit in the future. There has been – later in history - a list of crimes committed by a certain King, which imitates this in style, and partially in content. Does anybody know what it is?”

There was silence.

“'He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass the people and eat out their substance. He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies, without the consent of our legislatures'... that's the Old American Declaration of Independence. The list of crimes is slightly different, but the spirit is the same – though the documents are separated by over two thousand years. I understand from what your History teacher had told me, that you chose 18th and 19th Century Old American History as your course for the first semester of this school year. I suggest you all make more effort at it.”

“I trust the principle of what I am saying is now clear to you. Now back to our Bibles.”

* * *

“Jean-Paul!” - he turned. Sure enough, Mira was standing there. She was wearing a white school shirt, one that was very tight – he could not only see the clear outline of her breasts, but also the outline of her bra. That was making him, under these circumstances, rather uncomfortable.

“Do you remember I promised to show you Mom's Cray Gaming Special?”

“Oh. Well, yes.” - it wasn't precisely the CGS that he had in mind. “Wait a second, though. Let me call my Dad.”

He fished out the cellphone. “Hi, Dad.” - even though the Legrands knew French, Jean-Paul's father insisted on speaking English all the time – even though his accent has been atrocious. - “I am going to come over to a friend's house for a few hours, so you don't have to come and pick me up. I'll get home by bus, okay?”

Before Legrand the elder could actually say anything about it, Jean-Paul had already snapped the device shut.

“You were talking to a voicemail box, right?” - smiled Mira.

“No, it was my Dad. I just didn't want to give him the time to say anything about it.”

“Woah. I know I couldn't speak to my Dad like this.”

“Yeah, but I've never seen a Cray Gaming Special before.”

* * *

The Panhard was almost disappointgly small. It was almost smaller then the regular cars parked in the Rosenbaums' family garage. However, Mira's father's enthusiasm for the machine was almost contagious – and Jean-Paul spent a dozen minutes climbing into the machine and out of it and looking at all the different devices, buttons, and such inside it (Haim would of couse not let him touch any levers).

The Cray Gaming Special was much more interesting. For one, Mira's mother had just left, smiling at Mira and saying, simply: “Just don't break my computer, okay? The new game I'm working on is in the table – it's the beta of the new Kay-Kay-Dee-Kay, so it'd be nice if the boy here would play it some – Mira is a lousy playtester.”

And she slammed the door shut.

Seconds later, Mira was already typing and clicking away on the Cray Gaming Special.

It was likely the most amazing computer Jean-Luc had ever seen in his entire life. With an immense fifty-inch flat screen that filled the entire desk, a set of various joystics and controllers, and an array of USB ports on every side, the Gaming Special was the stuff of dreams.

The words: Krush, Kill, and Destroy Kommunism, II appeared on the screen. Jean-Luc gasped. Even the last version did only barely run on his PC, and he had a rather good one (or so he liked to tell himself). He shuddered to think what the new one would be like.

“It actually comes on three RVD's” - grinned Mira - “Takes up about a terabyte of hard drive space, but Mom's computer handles it, no sweat. “

“Were you good at the old Kay-Kay-Dee-Kay?”

Was Jean-Paul good at Krush, Kill, and Destroy Communism? Damn right he was. Even after he downloaded a custom AI from the Internet, the game just couldn't beat him.

“Why do you ask, Mira?”

“Umm, I don't want to tell Mom, but I can't get past level one in her game – I thought maybe you show me how it's done.”

“You're joking.”

“What?”

“The last KKDK was easy. Let me see how this one works.”

The screen lit up. There was the usual introductory movie, and a simple phrase appeared:

The Red Scare: The First Battle For Aperin

The game was amazing. It appeared that they didn't just waste that terabyte of hard drive space – it was just... cool. Within a second Jean-Paul discovered that you could zoom out all the way to Orbital View, where beautiful semi-transparent clouds would hover over the surface of the Alcaerin Ocean. You could zoom in to view the superdreadnaughts moving gently, almost quietly, through the water, and in to see the fighter-bombers resting on the aircraft carriers' flight decks, and even to the point of seein individual flight crew manning the decks.

“Wow. Your mom made this?”

“My Mom made the last KKDK too.”

“Your... Mom... wins. I don't believe I just said this.”

“I can't believe I just heard this. Now get out of the Sarah Rosenbaum fanclub and play the game.”

For the first few minutes it did appear to be hard But then he switched into first-person-mode on one of the fighters and took it straight between the prepared ranks of Bethgellert air-defense vessels, pulling on the joystick hard as the aircraft climbed. When it was over Fort Sacco, he pushed one of the fire buttons – and then two B-61's detached and dove screaming towards the enemy base. The explosions came a second later.

Fifteen minutes of play later, the enemy defenses collapsed utterly. Seventeen minutes – and several large Allanean bomber squadrons had penetrated the defenses of the eastern continent. Jean-Paul pushed his chair away from the Gaming Special and zoomed out to Orbital View, grinning triumphantly at Mira as the entire East Aperinian shore was enveloped in fire, a chain of ultra-realistic nuclear mushrooms growing through the athmosphere.

MISSION SUCCESSFUL: 346,000,335 ENEMY KILLS.

“Wow. You know, my Mom is going to love you.”

“What about you?” - grinned Jean-Paul.

“Aww. You can be such a baby sometimes, you know that?” - suddenly, she lunged towards him, pinching his cheek. “Jean-Paul the Baby! Itty-bitty-cuddly-Jean-Paul! Come-here-baby!”

Douglas Haig County High School, October 6th, 20??

“So, here’s the last one before we end this lesson.” – the Latin teacher smiled at the class. By this time, the pupils knew that her smile meant nothing good. With lightning speed, she drew another table on the whiteboard. “Let’s fill this one up and you can all go on to your next classes. Mira dearest, what’s first person plural of the subjunctive perfect of laudo?”

“Laudaverimus, Missis Neumann.”

“Beautiful.” – she wrote that in the upper right corner of the table. “Now let’s see what your main competitor has to say. Jean-Paul – what’s the third person singular?”

“Laudaverit, Missis Neumann.”

“Wonderful, Jean-Paul. Fiona, what’s the second person plural?”

They went on like this until the table was filled up completely – at which point the teacher announced the homework. “You can all go. Jean-Paul, Mira, I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

They walked up to her. They haven’t met outside of school since Jean-Paul had gone to see the Cray Gaming Special – it wasn’t that Jean-Paul was somehow openly angry with Mira, but he always managed to leave the school gate a minute earlier or later then her – which wasn’t really hard. He knew that eventually she’d confront him about it, but right now, he had just avoided facing up to that – and to her.

“Miss Rosenbaum, mister Legrand, there’s something I need to talk to you about – not in my capacity as the Latin teacher, but in my capacity as head of the Humanities Department at the Douglas Haig County High School. You may or may not know I also teach A-Level History. And… I have reviewed your marks in the subjects I am responsible for.”

They both gazed at her in incomprehension.

“You two are the best students in your grade. Young mister Legrand here maintains a solid A+ average in History, an A- average in Literature, an A average in his Economics – so far not special for a former homeschooler, but Mr. Legrand also has a B+ average in his Quenya, an A- in my own class, and an A+ in French – not surprising, given the Arriddian heritage of his parents.”

“As for you, Miss Rosenbaum – I see your History marks are equal to mister Legrand’s, but your literature average is higher – an A+. In economics you have a B, and a full A in Latin. Finally, you have a B+ in your French and an A- in Quenya.”

“Normally, when a student of your level appears, it is the policy of the school to advise him to participate in some form of contest – an essay contest, normally – to earn money for himself and credit for the school. However… with you, we have a slight problem.”

“You can’t send us both to one contest. We’d be competing against each other.”

“That’s right. Out of the eighty students of Douglas Haig County High school, normally we have at least one in each grade participating in some special contest. However, it happens that there is more than one A-average humanities student in the class - we have three such students in our thirteenth grade. Normally in such cases we demonstrate to these pupils the choice as to which studentsh students in our thirteenth grade. Normally in such cases we demonstrate to these pupils the choice as to which contests which one of them shall take.”

“Missis Neumann…” – asked Jean-Paul – “I thought anybody could participate in a contest?”

“That’s correct. However only our brightest students are actively encouraged by the school to compete in such extra-curricular circles – for reasons a young man of your intelligence will doubtlessly find obvious.”

“Because you only invest the effort in students who ae most likely to win – even though you don’t mind if every Dick and Joe tries a hand in it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, then. So what choice do we have?”

“I fired up my laptop yesterday, and as you know, there are thousands of contests for both college and high school students going on around the country. I’ve narrowed it down some, but my favorite idea is that you, Mr. Legrand, will take up the Douglas Haig Society essay contest for ninth-graders. After all wouldn’t it be a shame if their prise – a one-thousand menelmacari credit prize, I might add – is not won by a Douglas Haig Country School student?”

“What’s the contest on?”

“One needs to hand in two thousand words, written to academic standard, on the topic… let me check… “Was the Deployment of the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium a strategic success or failure, and who, if anyone, was responsible for the results?” That’s due in by April 25th. Can you manage it?”

Jean-Paul nodded. He had very little clue of who the British Expeditionary Force were – beyond the obvious fact of them being British troops that fought in Belgium, and also of Haig having been involved with them at some point. However, he had lots of time to study them, and it was History, and military history to boot – just the type he really liked. Even if he didn’t win the prize, he was going to have fun.

“Sure, Missis Neumann.”

“Now, Mira…remember you once told your Literature teacher that you had enjoyed ‘Fountainhead’ when you were twelve? Well, the Ayn Rand Association is holding a ‘Fountainhead’ essay competition for children aged fourteen to sixteen. The prize is one thousand menelmacari credits.”

Mira smiled. It was as though she already felt the credchip making a bulge in her pocket.

“Okay, here are the essay guidelines for you. Obviously only original work is allowed, but you are allowed to receive advice on your essays – everybody else does, too. So do come to me before your Christmas holidays begin, and talk to me about your plans for the essays… and of course, you’re free to use each other’s help.”

It was almost as though Missis Neumann had winked when she said that.

* * * *

Jean-Paul walked briskly away from the school entrance, his bag light as usual on his shoulders. A few yards down the street his friends were already waiting for him – Josh from his own grade, and Mike “Pearl Beach” Trenton from Grade Eleven. Mike was called “Pearl Beach” for his eyebrows. Rumour had it that he had stockpiled some simple body modification equipment in his parents’ basement, and, using a mirror, implanted a bunch of fake pearls in his eyebrows on the day he turned sixteen. Whatever was the truth about their origin, the pearls were definitely there – as was the strange set of tattoos on his forehead. That, together with an array of steel earrings, made Mike Trenton positively intimidating. Girls appeared to like it though – like Mike’s girlfriend Fatima, for instance, who was right there, hanging on Mike’s forearm.

A few more steps…

Mira’s hand clasped over his elbow.

“Mmm, Jean-Paul?”

“Oh, hi.” - he caught himself blushing for some silly reason.

Fiona and an older girl he didn’t know stood a few yards behind Mira, as if for moral support.

“You know, about this essay… you will advise me about it, will you? I mean, I am surely going to need your help with the styling and stuff. Just, I don’t know, proof-read it for me, okay?”

“Eh…” – before he could come up with any answer on this one, she went straight on like a hurtling train.

“Okay, baby Jean-Paul?”

He felt his ears burn.

“No.” – he cut her off brusquely and paced on, to be swallowed up between his friends, as if protected by his conversation with them.

“Yo dude!” – said Mike. – “I finally got me a car! You have to see it, it’s like, end of the road cool. It’s green like an Army truck, except it’s not a truck, it’s actually a third-hand of so old Uaz Hunter, and it runs like a dream. I had the roof cut off though – only kept the roll bars.”

“Woah. You, a new car? Haven’t you crashed one already?”

“Well, yes. But that was the one my Dad bought me. This one is from my Aunt, and some of my own money – Dad doesn’t want to cash out for one more car until I turn eighteen.”

Jean-Paul thought he had heard Mira’s friends in the distance, giggling.

“I can’t wait to see it, dude.”

Blizzard County, Friday, October 17th

Cynthia Rosenbaum shifted her car into a lower gear and took it off Madison Avenue. As the highway onramp took her down towards the urban roofs of Blizzard County, she, again, marveled at the neglect everything here was in. If she hadn’t know better, she’d think everybody in Blizzard County was hopelessly poor – but of course they weren’t.

The lawns of the houses were overgrown with knee-tall grass, and their roofs had lost their bright paint ages ago, and yet – she knew – the people in Blizzard County were not poor. Her girlfriend – a bartender in Blizzard County – had explained it to her once. “People down here are not poor,” she said. “They’re just Internet addicts. Get themselves jobs they can work online – programming, Web Design, tech support, anything like that. Then they can live like that as long as they want – you can order anything online.”

There were, of course, some people in the County that were not like that – and sometimes the locals crawled out of their basements and made way towards the county’s three big restaurants – Uncle Joe’s Domain (styled like some place from World of Warcraft), Zergling Rush – decked out with multiple stiffed zerglngs - and a Cute Bunny Burger fast food joint. The latter also did online orders, and as such was Blizzard County’s main food supply. Cynthia’s girlfriend worked in Zergling Rush.

It was to Zergling Rush that Cynthia Rosenbaum was taking her younger sister and her friends – Fiona Pratt and Muriel Jorgensen. It was Friday night, and when you’re almost sixteen, thought Cynthia, being able to hang out on Friday night is really – but really – important. Ergo, Zergling Rush, with it’s sizzling Bacardis and booming music.

Behind her, in the back seat, the younger girls were debating some finer points of their love life.

“Oh, come on, Mira! We all know you’ve got it for him, and I can’t blame you, he’s damn cute, too.”

“That’s dumb and you know it, what even makes you say things like that?”

“Look at her! Look at her!” – Muriel crowed – “Does she really think we’re that stupid? She stares at him like he’s one of those statues in Liberty Harbour or something, she’s plain and transparent about it.”

“Oh but Muriel, don’t you remember when she’s had it for Ben Finson?”

“Oh, I do, that was the guy she dated two years ago. The one she slept with first…”

“SHUT UP!” – screamed Mira, turning a new shade of pink previously not encountered in humans.

Cynthia smiled. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed by in having lost your virginity, Mira. I suspect this is more about that video?”

Mira’s expression was unbelievable. “You…”

“Yes, I know about that.” – she winked at the younger girls. “See my sister here made a video of her, err, first time. And of course she kept the copy. So did I, so I could taunt her.”

The girls laughed, and then chanted. “You-tube! You-tube! You-tube!”

“Speaking of Youtube”, - Cynthia said, imperturbable - “Here’s our spot.”

Cynthia’s girlfriend set aside the glass she was cleaning when Cynthia entered, and rushed to hug her. She was wearing a pair of leather pants, two revolvers, permanent corset piercings, and nothing else. Her hair was orange and stood up at weird angles.

“Martha!” – Cynthia almost lifted her petite girlfriend off the ground as they kissed. “Look, I want you to use your cab order service for me and order a cab when me and the girls here are done hanging out and stuff.”

“More of your seduction of the innocent, Cynthia?” – everybody knew that Merkaz, as most of Allanea, did not have an extensive apparatus to prevent underage drinking – bartenders generally would not serve a six-year-old, but Mira and her friends, who were less then a year away from majority, could get a drink with little problems – especially if Cynthia was with them

Same day, in Douglas Haig County

“What we need here is a Cray Gaming Special.” – said Howard Niggle-Longbottom.

“What we need is more caffeine.” – shrugged Jean Paul as he tapped away at his keyboard. In front of him, Josh’s avatar tried clumsily to dodge, but of course was caught almost immediately in the sights of his FN-FAL. Seconds later, the phrase TERRORISTS WIN glowed on the screen.

Jean-Paul’s team cheered.

In the meanwhile, Longbottom raced up from the basement, and returned minutes later with two bottles of cold Pink Bunny Cola. “These Cray Gaming Specials are not really all that cool anyway.” – Jean-Paul said as he dumped copious amounts of ice into his cola.

“What makes you say that?” – asked Gloria Ronson. The plump, bespectacled girl was sitting on Josh’s lap – something the boy didn’t seem to begrudge – and explaining to him the finer points of Counterstrike.

So far there were eight people in Longbottom’s basement – Howard, Josh, Gloria, Cassandra, Jean-Paul, Simon, Xavier and Howard’s brother Matt.

It was Matt who raised his head from the LCD screen, downed a glass of cola, and said: “Mira’s mom has a Gaming Special, doesn’t she?”

“I think you’re the last person to find out.” – grinned Cassandra. “I remember how her parents bought it, we were in Grade Seven. She was bragging to everyone. Horrible stuck-up witch, Mira is. Loves bragging better then anything.”

There was a howl from Cassandra’s computer as Jean-Paul caught her avatar in the crosshairs, and pushed down his left mouse button. “Speaking of bragging, Cassie, didn’t you tell me you were much better then be at this? I think you’ve just been PWNed.”

“You’re just trying to change the subject!” – Cassie said in a mock-accusatory tone.

“Why am I trying to change the subject?” – blinked Jean-Paul.

“Why, obviously because you fancy Mira!”

“Hey, that’s complete and utter nonsense!” – Jean-Paul’s ears felt as if they were on fire. Why, he didn’t know. After all... he didn’t actually fancy Mira, did he?”

“Oh look at his face!” – Gloria hooted. “It’s fucking priceless, that’s what is!”

Something flashed, and Jean-Paul realized it was Gloria’s cellphone. “This oughta be on the school forums, you know that.”

“Hey! Give me that phone!”

Elsewhere, Saturday, October 18th

Mira woke up. She was outstretched across her bed, still in her clothes. Her head felt like a church being rung, and the surroundings swam slightly around her. “Remind me… to… never do this again…” – she muttered.

She swallowed some pill that made the headache recede slowly, and took a long, warm shower, smiling at the happy feeling of the pain going away, her mind becoming sharper and more cogent again. The shower was followed by a really long warm bath.

Forty minutes later, refreshed and cheerful, she stepped out of the bathroom, wearing her usual green bathrobe and thick-framed black glasses. Drops of water glinted on the lenses as she walked towards her room.

“CYNTHIA ROSENBAUM!” – she barked, unwillingly imitating her mother’s tone. – “THAT’S MY ROOM AND YOU KNOW IT!”

Her sister was indeed there, already dressed, her legs up on Mira’s desk.

“Mira Rosenbaum.” – she mocked Mira’s tone, obviously unfazed. – “Remember that little conversation we had yesterday?”

She didn’t.

“The one we had when we were getting into the Rush. It got me curious.” – Cythia smiled mischievously.

“Who is this Jean-Paul fellow, anyway?”

Jefferson County, Liberty-City, Liberty Cathedral, Sunday, November 2, 20??

Miranda Neumann whispered the words of prayer, her own voice disappearing in the ocean of thousands of other voices. All around her, people were saying the same text – an experience she, despite all her beliefs, found rather disturbing. Somewhere in the back of her mind lingered always the childish fear that her own voice would somehow get lost in the multitudes, never reaching it's actual Addressee. Praying alone, thought the Head of Humanities, was far more preferable – but at least once a month she came here regardless, to hear the sermon.

“Let us now pray for those imprisoned without cause, abroad and at home, those persecuted for their faith and suffering for Christ. Remember – however great the suffering and humiliation of these people may be, there is still hope. For so says Scripture: though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I have no fear, for You are with me.”

And all prayed, and so did Miranda. In her simple, long beige skirt and short hair, the woman merged almost completely into the crowd of worshipers, and her voice seemed now to disappear completely in the hum of the crowd – as she herself grew even more intimidated by the process. This is disgusting. I cannot even concentrate on my prayer like this, much less on the sermon. Next week, I will just download the podcast or something – at least that way I will be able to focus properly.

The service was over. The tall, thin lady paced slowly towards the exit.

It had been the policy of the unseen caretakers that had kept the Cathedral running for years – despite multiple civil wars, and outright armored combat in the city center – that those who sought to worship the Lord in its walls should be removed as far as possible from earthly discomforts when doing so. As such, the immense building was air-conditioned, and there was a vast automatic parking storage under the building. A single motion – and hydraulics would move your car deep underground, to be retrieved at the end of the service. In a city where car theft was the most common crime, that was valuable – and valued.

Miranda’s light grey car, an ancient Praetonian model, was hefted to the surface, and she drove away. Only when she was several miles away from the church did her thoughts turn towards the issues of the day.

She glanced at her phone.

“Voicedial Holmes.” – she said as clearly as she could. The cell phone, affixed to the dashboard, began dialing.

Douglas Haig County, Liberty-City

Randall Holmes, Sr., headmaster of the Douglas Haig County High School, woke up sprawled across his bed, with his head and most of his torso veering uncomfortably off the bed. There was also a strange lady lying in his bed whom he did not recognize.

Speaking of his head: it hurt.

The phone was ringing – probably for the last thirty seconds.

Holmes decided that he would not reach it in time – and indeed, the phone rang just once and then died out. He got out of bed – the woman muttered something in her sleep – and walked towards the bathroom. There, he shaved, had a long, comfortable shower – the phone rang again, but Holmes didn’t hear it – and then made himself a toast with smoked cheese and glass of tea and wolfed down two caffeine pills. Breakfast of champions.

Only then did he call back.

“Miranda, for the love of everlasting God, how many times did I tell you not to call me on Sunday mornings?”

“I think you started at this when you were still Head of Humanities and I was just a lowly History teacher.”

There was no such thing as a lowly History teacher in a Demented Schooling Corporation high school. They both knew that.

“So by this time you should know already – I get drunk on Saturday evening. It’s the only day of the week I have opportunity to get drunk. So what’s the excuse this time?”

“Yeah. We both know you only call because you want me.”

“Riiight.”

“The only good reason to call me when I’m hung over like that is because you want to cheer me up with some random sex.”

“Randall Holmes!” – her voice now had a ring of indignation in it.

“Listening.” – he grinned.

“Look, I’ve glanced over the contestant situation – twelve of them, and a Hashi boy competing for the Walker-Arnott Award in the tenth grade. All proceeding happily, and the Grade Thirteen kids have already handed in their essays – but I’m not sure about the Grade Nine kids.”

“So? Do you have to have every single kid in the school to win an award before you’re happy?”

“You don’t understand. Jean-Paul has not even come to talk to me about his essay plan yet.”

“You mean, he’s likely not even started work on the essay? Oh jeeze. A thirteen-year-old being lazy. What a surprise.”

“He’s not being lazy – it’s Jean-Paul we’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah. Our Great French Hope.”

“He’s not French! He’s Arridian.”

“Brilliant. So his parents are refugees from Commieland. Is that a good enough reason to disrupt my Sunday morning? Look here, Miranda. I’m a headmaster, not a goddamn feel-good self-esteem machine. You don’t have to call me in the early morning –“

“It’s not early, it’s one-“

“One o’clock is early if you have a hangover. Now listen. If it’s a problem you can deal with, deal with it yourself. Use your people skills or whatever. If you can’t, wait for Monday. As for me, I have rather urgent things to attend to right now. Like my hangover.”

Waterford County Hunting Grounds

Liberty-City is not quite a 'city' in conventional terms – it has a population density of slightly under eight people per square furlong, and is slightly under the size of Xirnium entire. But of course, it's density is not uniform – there are, on one hand, multi-story apartment buildings, where the urban poor live, packed at an abominable thirty people per square furlong, and on the other – various parks, private or public, used for hunting a variety of game.

The Waterford County hunting grounds were actually bigger then all of Waterford County – a giant reserve stretching out through three counties, fenced in so as to protect the animals from poaching. But the license fees for hunting big game were sensible, and there was no fee for hunting the rabbits.

Which was what Jean-Paul's father normally took him here for on the weekends. Normally, they would pace through the bush with their Sapinian Arms shotguns ( http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12499546&postcount=9) painted in camo green, wearing bright orange armbands for the deer hunters to see. Sometimes, Legrand the elder would swing his shotgun and pull the trigger, and a white or grey shape would cease moving. Sometimes it was Jean-Paul who saw the rabbit first and swung on him, but this was rare. Sometimes they would lie down with their battle rifles instead, trying to hit their quarry at five hundred yards or more – here, prairie dogs would be more often the target, as they wouldn't let humans in shotgun range that easily.

Jean-Paul's mother did not like going hunting with them – she claimed hunting rabbits made Legrand, Sr. look like Bernard Desqueyroux at worst, and like Elmer Fudd at best. Jean-Paul secretly agreed – but that was also because he was not old enough hunting with his mother. Segolene Legrand preferred machete hunting – of which need only be said it involved a female deer and a machete.

At any rate, today's hunting would be different.

"Today, Jean-Paul, is a great day for you." – smiled Nicola Legrand as they unpacked the hunting gear from the truck – "Today, you notice I didn't bring the rifle scopes. Do you know why?"

"Mmm." – Jean-Paul smiled – "Papa, you were telling me to reread the Bram section on deer three days ago, and yesterday at dinner, you were talking to mama about how when a boy or a girl approach sixteen, they ought to hunt their first big animal. So, I am guessing we're going to hunt a big animal, right? Like a deer or something?"

"That is right, Jean-Paul. J'ai achete? – I bought – I bought, yes, two or three tags for deer for you and me. Come, the blind is over there."

The deer blind was rather large and comfortable – almost as big as the guest room in Jean-Paul's house, and it had large fake-leather seats – although Jean-Paul found them a bit confusing, as one could easily fall asleep on them- he almost did, in fact. The blind was standing on long, spindly legs.

"Hunting from a blind is the simplest." – grinned Jean-Paul's father. – "All you need is choosing the right place – in this case, it isn't necessary because I already know it's a good place – and you need patience and good aim. From this, you can graduate to other kinds of hunting. Even to machete hunting, like your maman does."

They waited.

"So, Jean-Paul. Do you fancy any of the girls at that school of yours?"

"No." – Jean-Paul replied abruptly, and immediately thought of Mira. But he didn't fancy her. Not at all. Really. He repeated himself, with somewhat less conviction.

"You're lying." – Nicola grinned. – "I can see it ".

Jean-Paul blushed, but did not answer.

And then the deer came.

It was a magnificent buck, possibly over fifteen points and 160-score. It stood for a second, looking in the very direction of the blind – and yet not seeing it. The people at WCHH were just that damned good at making concealed hunting blinds.

Jean-Paul's rifle roared, twice, hitting the deer on it's side. The two shots were within half a second from each other. The first shot shattered both of the deer's front shoulders, making it collapse on it's front legs. The second broke it's spine near the head, killing it instantly.

"Let's go! Now!" – Nicola's Arridian accent returned with a vengeance with the excitement.

Three seconds later, the boy was sprinting towards the deer, battle rifle in hand. In his camouflage outfit, he looked like a living screenshot from a war movie. His father followed in his footsteps.

"You know how to skin a deer?" – he asked as he drew the knife.

"Yes, yes. I've read about it and I practiced on the rabbits."

"Good. You'll do it when we bring it home – it's not far away,. But first we need to make sure you're not too squeamish for this all."

"Dad, I do it with the rabbits…"

"That's different." – suddenly, the father had a large military-looking steel cup in his hands. "You know what happens now?"

"Yes, dad. Do it now – its heart is still kind of beating."

"Which is why you need to do it yourself."

He received the knife from his father – a large, heavy hunting knife – and accurately sliced the buck's carotid artery. He hoped his hands weren't shaking too much as he did so. Nicola Legrande collected the blood in the cup…

"Come now… is it bad?"

"Nah." - Jean-Paul decided not to mention he prepared himself for this, too, by trying the taste of rabbit-blood – "Actually, that's pretty awesome."

* * *

Some time later, in the Legrand basement

Jean-Paul's hands were now covered with blood up to his shoulders. He had already hanged the deer with his father's help – that required cutting the skin on it's front legs and hanging it from them. Then, his father left and left him to work alone with the knife.

The main thing, of course, was to use the large Bowie to slit the deer from the throat and down to it's groin, and then to use his bare hands to pull the skin off the body. If done right - and Jean-Paul had done it right – it would require almost no use of the knife until he got to the deer's hind parts and tail.

Of course, he clearly didn't do it all right – he forgot to change into some old clothes, and he'd done some of the pulling quite clumsily, but now he was all done, and soaked with blood. He was dead tired, too – his fingers were so weak as to nearly be unable to hold the knife.

His father poked his head into the room. "You're almost done! Brilliant! Look, let's get you rested. Have a shower, eat dinner, and then we'll be done butchering it together. Oh, and… I decided that on the spring holidays, we'll go on a hunting trip to San Nereiana together – me, you, and your mother, and I'll teach you all kind of hunting, and we'll shoot us some deer, and hogs, and maybe even a wolf or two."

"Awesome." - Jean-Paul felt a sudden surge of pride. He's done it! His own deer! Killed, drunk its blood, skinned, did it all himself! This was awesome, far more then any trips or gifts his father could buy him as he approached 16. This was the real 'awesome' he was thinking of.

As they went up to dinner, Jean-Paul's father asked.

"Say, are you sure about you not fancying any girls at school?"

"Sure, Dad."