Schooling One’s Enemies

“Keep the pressure on,” Meg screamed into the microphone. “Don’t give ’em a chance to regroup!” The stutter of gunfire pounded through the walls of the cramped command center, screens and aides flinging data and commands every which way. “Chad!” Her voice somehow cut through the bursting rockets and screams of the wounded. “Find out what the hell happened to our air support!” The boy saluted with the wrong arm—forgiven only because the right arm was bound and useless after the Battle of Morely Field—and ran off.

“General!” The cry was so full of terror it tore Meg’s attention from her tactical screens. She looked up just in time to see her aide-de-camp Cassie fall beneath the primitive weapons of their foes. In a flash, she and her operations crew were surrounded and disarmed.

The apparent leader of the small savages had his spear leveled at Meg’s sternum. “You go,” he said. “We have base now!” The other primitives cheered.

“Yes,” Meg said. “I go. But I’ll be damned if I leave this base in the hands of KINDERGARTENERS!” Her fist slammed down on the self-destruct.

“Man,” said the principal,” these war games are the best idea I ever had.”

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