“I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of rumors and scary talk about the Game. All true, no doubt, but the premise of the Game is simple: Scientists have discovered a panacea called the Blaireric. The Blaireric comes from a plant on the Blaireric Islands, and from it you can derive everything man needs. Endless power, endless wealth, and ultimately a potion for world peace.”

“Question, sir?” Liam Plimmer was suffering major indigestion from grade insecurity.

“I didn’t ask for questions, Mr. Plimmer. Put your hand down and listen. The Game will decide which form of government should be in charge of the Blaireric.”

Oglesby reached back to the teacher’s desk to retrieve his grade book. He opened to the class roster.

“Okay, first I have to assign heads of state. Mr. Dowlearn?”

“Yes, sir,” Rick replied with a confidence that first pick was a good thing. It was not.

“You will now be King Richard. Your country will be run as a monarchy.”

Rick stood up and feigned a courtly bow. “God save me.”

“Settle down, my liege. Flanagan?”

“Yes?”

“Your Excellency Bishop Flanagan now—you are in charge of a country run by a theocracy.”

The transformation into Richelieu was immediate as Flanagan grinned with delight at his perceived power. “What’s my country called?”

“That’s up to you.”

“The Holy Empire of Flanagan?”

“If you think that name is going to impress the judges, then yes.”

Plimmer was about to lose his mind. “Wait, who are the judges?”

“At this time, the identities of the tribunal are secret.” Oglesby slammed the business end of Ptolemy on Plimmer’s desk. No further questions.

“Mr. O’Donnell, you are now Comrade O’Donnell and in charge of a communist country.”

“What?” Sticky tapped the metal cubby below his seat with a blue Bic. “That’s the sucky one!”

“Talk to your proletariat about what sucks. Mr. Boudreaux?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied meekly. Like Plimmer, Boudreaux was a gradehounding worrywart.

“You are philosopher-king of your own meritocracy. Everyone in your country is selected by their special abilities and skills. Mr. McGhee? Are you going to read Mr. Orwell and work hard as a head of state to argue for the Blaireric?”

“Sir, you can—”

“You are in charge of an oligarchy.” Oglesby shook his head—Rob always had a wind-up and delivery, and he had to cut him off. “Do you know what an oligarchy is?”

Rob imagined a good answer but then safely retreated to: “No, sir.”

“It’s where power is held by a few elites. So let’s call you Robber Baron McGhee, and you and the other captains of industry in your country—”

“Uh, sir . . . can I switch with Flanagan and do theocracy?”

Oglesby balked out of reflex but remembered Rob was a preacher’s son.

“Mr. Flanagan, any objection?”

“Am I God in this theocracy? Or just like a Pope?”