[FFML] A little story of mine...

[Chris Nasipak]

This one just sort of popped into my head and demanded to be written down.

---
Oscar Saint-Just's office was two-thirds of the way across the city 
from the Octagon, and the office itself lay at the very heart of its 
own tower. Not even the eye-tearing brilliance of a nuclear 
detonation could penetrate that much alloy and ceramacrete, but the 
entire stupendous edifice trembled as if in terror as the shockwave 
rolled over it. The deeply buried landlines of the government's 
secure communications system were fully hardened against the EMP of 
the explosion, and Rachel Speer's image on his com display didn't even flicker.

Nor did her gaze, as she looked out of the display into his eyes.

"Detonation confirmed . . . Citizen Chairman," she said softly.

(From "Nightfall", by David Weber, published in the anthology Changer 
of Worlds by Baen Books.)

* * * * * * *

Esther McQueen, once Admiral of the People's Navy and Secretary of 
War for the Committee of Public Safety, sat casually on a pile of 
rubble. She would have picked up rocks and tossed them at one of the 
other piles of rubble, but she couldn't: her fingers passed right 
through them, unless she concentrated on what she was doing. Which 
made it a poor choice of cure for boredom. What she really wanted to 
do was to go and throttle Oscar Saint-Just, but for some reason, she 
couldn't seem to get beyond the edge of the crater that used to be 
the Octagon. She thought it might have something to do with the piece 
of chain hanging from her chest, but she couldn't prove anything yet.

"Wow, they really did a number on this place." She didn't turn 
around, just yet. The voice was young, male, probably a teenager to 
judge by the sound, but that didn't mean much in a society with 
access to prolong therapies. Rocks ground against each other 
underfoot as he walked up to the hill, and then asked her, "Excuse 
me, miss... er," he paused, for some reason, then continued "Er, Admiral?"

Esther looked up and over at him at last. He looked just as young as 
his voice sounded, with slightly shaggy brown hair and dark eyes. The 
black robe was a particularly nice touch, she thought, and fit with 
the sword belted to his waist. "Can I help you, young man?"

"Ah, well, er," he said, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of 
his neck, laughing nervously. "Actually, I'm supposed to be here to 
help you, ma'am. Sorry, let me introduce myself. Keigo Asano, 
shinigami, eighth seat, fifth division." He bowed, one of the formal, 
archaic Oriental bows like she'd seen martial artists use.

"Admiral Esther McQueen, People's Navy," she offered in return. 
"Although I get the feeling that the rank is kind of meaningless now."

"Well," the 'shinigami' (whatever that was) mused, "It's not like we 
have a lot of space fleets... and I think your old boss kind of fired you."

"That's one way to put it," she agreed. "So what happens now?"

"Mmn. You can't stay here forever... you'd turn into a Hollow, or get 
eaten by one. That's what we shinigami do, primarily... escort souls 
like you to the Soul Society."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "I'm not exactly expecting to go on 
to Heaven, kid..."

He shook his head quickly. "No, no, it isn't really like that... at 
least, not right away. Not even we know if there's really a Heaven 
like you mean... Soul Society is mostly a place for people to live 
while they wait to be reborn. Of course, it might take a century or 
two... or longer... hehhe..."

That same nervous laugh again, McQueen wondered, What is he hiding?

"Are you, ah, ready to go on, then, ma'am?" he asked, slipping his 
sword easily from its sheathe. She eyed it for a moment, warily, then 
shrugged.

"I'd like to give Saint-Just his due," she muttered, "But I don't 
think that's going to be very easy in this state." She stood up, 
dusted off her uniform trousers - another meaningless gesture - and 
climbed carefully down from her perch.

"Don't worry, ma'am. Everything's going to be alright." And with 
that, the boy took his sword, and - did not, as McQueen had feared, 
slice the blade down through her ghostly body. Instead he simply 
touched the hilt, ever so gently, to her forehead, and whispered a 
single word, "Konso."

And then the world went dark, and she saw no more.




-- 
"Here is the price of freedom: Your every drop of courage,
ounce of pain, pint of blood. Paid in advance."  -- Andromeda