War Games

It had started innocently enough.

Maltz had been bored. This was never a good thing. A bored Vargr was the universe’s way of saying, “Things are too quiet. Let’s fix that.”

And so, after one too many uneventful jumps with no new systems to poke at or engines to tweak, Maltz had decided that what the crew of the Morrigan truly needed... was culture.

“Miniatures wargame,” he had said, with that wide grin that usually preceded small explosions or spontaneous system malfunctions. “Bit of strategy! Bit of history! Builds teamwork!”

“So does not shootin’ each other in the face,” Caitlin had said drily, but curiosity had already been piqued.

Scarred-Snout, predictably, was intrigued. “I shall command the noble armies of my ancestors,” he rumbled, eyes narrowing with Aslan pride. “Victory shall be... inevitable.”

Quinn had tilted his head at a 12-degree angle, optics glowing faintly. “Tactical simulation of historical combat scenarios? Acceptable.”

Morwen had merely raised an eyebrow, her expression suggesting that she was already calculating just how much of this was going to devolve into chaos.

And so, it had begun.

Maltz, of course, had not opted for the traditional basic wooden and metal figures. No, that would be too easy. Too predictable. Instead, he had traded – and Caitlin was fairly certain that the term “trade” had involved more than a little fast-talking and sleight of paw – for Enhanced Animatronic Miniatures.

Because why settle for little plastic soldiers when you could have miniature death machines that moved, strategised, and occasionally shot sparks at anyone who questioned their tactics?

He began setting up a miniatures wargame on the galley table, already knee-deep in terrain tiles, rubble markers, and something labeled Ruined Zhodani Farmstead.

The others largely ignored him.

Morwen, however, wandered over, eyeing the array of miniature factions with quiet interest. She didn’t say much. Just picked through the boxes, pulled out a handful of cloaked, ancient-looking warriors with glowing blades, and casually scooped up the rulebook. “Just going to study the system,” she murmured, disappearing toward her stateroom before anyone could ask questions.

Six hours later, Maltz had cobbled together a battlefield worthy of a regimental campaign, complete with miniature cities, forests, and a disturbingly accurate recreation of a Sword Worlder outpost.

The crew reluctantly assembled around the galley table. The game began. Chaos followed.

Scarred-Snout had chosen a proud Aslan warband. Maltz had, naturally, gone for a fleet of piratical Vargr corsairs. Quinn had opted for a perfectly balanced Imperial battlegroup, because of course he had. Caitlin selected a clan of masked Zhodani assassins with stealth cloaks and far too many knives for a balanced ruleset.

The Aslan warband was valiantly defending the remains of the outpost, but they were surrounded by Vargr corsairs who had somehow commandeered a miniature orbital station and were bombarding the battlefield with tiny but surprisingly accurate kinetic strikes.

Quinn’s Imperial battlegroup was locked in a perfect formation, holding a defensive line with machine-like precision – but one of the miniatures had apparently gone rogue and was now reciting regulations on acceptable battlefield conduct.

And Morwen?

Morwen’s army had overrun half the field, and two enemy factions now fought under her banner.

“They’re not even supposed to be able to do that!” Maltz was gesturing wildly at the battlefield, eyes wide as Morwen’s miniatures glided ominously across the table.

“Aye, well, maybe they just persuaded them,” Morwen said innocently, chin resting on her hand.

“With... diplomacy?” Caitlin arched an eyebrow.

“I like to think of it as... inspired negotiation,” Morwen said, as another of her miniatures raised its tiny, glowing sword and annihilated a squad of Vargr corsairs.

“This is dishonourable,” Scarred-Snout growled, tail lashing irritably as his Aslan forces retreated under a hail of tiny green energy blasts. “Victory should be achieved through honourable combat, not... whatever this is.”

“War is about strategy,” Morwen said, shrugging. “And sometimes strategy looks an awful lot like taking advantage of some...” she tapped her temple, “unexpected variables.”

“Those variables are violating at least six Imperial treaties on acceptable combat practices,” Quinn murmured, observing as one of Morwen’s miniatures casually sliced one of his grav tanks in half.

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not the bloody Imperium, isn’t it?”

Maltz’s expression was torn between outrage and awe. “I don’t even know how you did this.”

“Oh, I just gave them a little... nudge.” Morwen leaned back, arms behind her head, eyes twinkling with plausible deniability. “Turns out, even miniatures appreciate a good leader.”

“You reprogrammed them, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morwen said, inspecting her nails.

“She absolutely did,” Caitlin deadpanned.

“Twice,” Quinn added helpfully.

“I’m not saying yes...” Morwen said, her tone somewhere between smug and unrepentant. “But I’m not saying no, either.”

“I hate this game,” Maltz grumbled.

“That’s probably ‘cause you’re losin’,” Caitlin said.

Scarred-Snout, meanwhile, was eyeing his remaining miniatures with the grim resolve of a warrior who had realised his honour would not be salvaged this day.

“Perhaps... I should invest in holographic miniatures next time,” he rumbled.

“Oh aye,” Morwen said, watching as her last miniature converted another of the opposition. “That’ll make all the difference.”

Maltz sighed. “Next game... I’m playin’ pirates again.”

“You’re always playin’ pirates, Maltz,” Caitlin observed.

“Go ahead,” Morwen said. “But next time... they’ll work for me.”

Maltz groaned.

Quinn calmly began calculating odds for future encounters.

And Scarred-Snout, in a rare moment of clarity, muttered under his breath, “This... is going to get out of hand.”