The General rose from his desk, dropping his expensive solid-asskickium pen. A pointless writing implement, since it had no ink, being made of a singular, solid material. A gift from the Jammin, barbarians, sword-wielding diplomats, never giving any quarter. The pen was both the greatest gift ever given by them, made up of their rarest, most valued precious resource. It was also a sharp slap in the face, as the Jammin considered writing to be an act of utter blasphemy. The General liked to spin it between his rough and calloused fingers when he was busy thinking. Apparently the time for thinking was over. “Are you quite certain?” he asked her in a matching monotone. Like a sympathetic co-robot, or a co-bot.

She shook her head, fervently, like a five year-old would. But she was seven. “I have,” she said, and finally lifted her head, looking at him with liquid blue eyes. “I will marry the Jammin heir!” She flung herself at him, hugging him tightly. He couldn't feel the tears coursing down her cheeks, but he knew they must be there. “It is the only way we can avoid war. And I want peace.” She pulled away, tore the door open, and ran out of the room.

The general heaved a heavy sigh, watching her go, waiting for the door to close of its own gravity and accord. When it did, he reached a hand to his shoulder, to feel for the wet spot. There it was. He could cry himself, but he willed it to be not so. He had not cried since he was four. And now he was eight. Age, such a burden.

He collected himself, took in a stout breath to inflate his chest, and spun to his desk. He picked up the Kickassium pen, and twirled it. “Phone,” he shouted, and a mechanized voice replied “Ready.” “Professor Albright,” he said. “On the video.” On one wall a picture a square of light appeared, crackled into staticy snow, then a sharp blue. The word “Dialing” appeared, and the General had a moment to wonder where the hell the word "phone" came from, or, for that matter, "dialing." Then the face of the professor appeared, white haired, bespectacled, ancient, all of his 11 years etched in wrinkles across his brow. “General,” he said. “Has she decided.”

The General peered at the professor, boring into his skin, looking for the secret of his longevity. “She has,” he said at last. “She'll marry Kriken, although she's none too happy about it.” He scowled, making his emotions obvious.

“And neither are you,” the professor said, a sour smile on his tiny little face.

“Neither am I what.”

“None too happy about it.”

The general scowled deeper, and turned to gaze out the window, at the grounds below, where October Sunday walked, a tattered book clutched to her chest. He knew what that book would be, why she clutched it. A gift from their mother, a hoary tome written in her own grandmother's tongue, now long lost. The book was indecipherable, but like the general with his pen, October would spend hours leafing through the pages, lost in thought. Although the General's windows were tinted and she could not see him, she turned now, gazing up, as if he knew she was watching, and wanted him to see that she damned him for his mortality.

On cue, the Professor cleared his throat. “I can't say that I blame your unease. Still. A little girl's discomfort is a small price to pay for peace. One girls cries...”

“So that a million won't die, yes. I know of the prophecy, Professor Albright.” The General turned back to the screen, leaning forward slightly so as to appear intimidating. “We'll have peace, then, but we will not have happiness. The people will not have their Virgin Queen.”

The professor shrugged. “They'll have their televisions and candies made by Jammin factories. October will find a way to happiness. Maybe Kriken will treat her kindly.”

The General's sadness was turning to anger. “Not likely, you old fool. But enough. You have her answer. Prepare an official missive, send it to the Jammin, and let us hope this peace is worth it.”