“Another ceremony done, and still I’m required to do the whole damned thing again.” Simora slides into the chair behind his desk. Comfort provided by the most advanced floater tech, the leather and wooly stuffing from a mazer chimera, and a flexing body to shape to his needs. Something befitting the busy schedule and stressful lifestyle of the ruler of a planet.

“At least Finel is,” Thomat sits with his eyes rolling about in their orbits. “Well, I’d say ‘friendly,’ but that’s not quite right, is it?”

Simora taps across his table as the memory plays out.

A fanned approach of several squadrons of forces in black and green. The emblem of a sword and pickaxe before a glistening emerald, all outlined in white, set against a black background rests upon their breasts. How they moved. A flooding wave of black, like a pack of wild beasts, spreading over the Prints-a-Ment and steel platform.

Similar to the arrival of the other two Dark Stars, the welcome was a meeting of two forces in the harsh sun of a clear Icarus Alpha day. Rain, while somewhat frequent, was shunned away by chemical agents.

Planetist Finel Dornish, the Dark Star of Black and Green, strode out as the predator of predators. A General and a Church-head had less confidence in their well-aged powers than this youthful embodiment of the Green. Beneath a capped uniform of black sprouts the perfectly tanned skin of the head of House Dornish.

Eyes, splendidly cut amethysts, dazzled as she took in the forces standing out in the open air. Flags flapping. Winds blowing. Weapons down.

A sight to behold for the woman that had visited Icarus Alpha several times prior.

Blonde hair, a single strip of black flowing from above her left eye, tightens in a single ponytail that flutters in the wind like an actual horse’s tail. One arm, both seemingly longer than the average human’s, slips over her forehead to remove the instantly gathered sweat. The skin, gradually darkening to that perfect tone for the time of day, stands blemished only by three red bars tattooed into her forehead; wrapping from hairline to hairline.

Sniffing the air confirmed it all for her. No threats here. No threats to concern herself with.

She’d strode through Hell before, and now she was welcomed into its embrace by unarmed men in plain view of every soaring beast. What a transformation! Bewildered and overjoyed, the woman had ignored most formalities and walked toward the dais of the Nor-Noctlin and Deep Roots.

“‘Friendly’ might be the most accurate word.” Simora’s eyes dart about the shards of possibility. “She’ll be here soon. Ensure Donatello isn’t late. Patience was never her strongest attribute, nor is her ability to allow me to work.”

“Oh.” Thomat nods with pursed lips. “Perhaps I do recall the meeting of Green and Blue. How long since those precious days?”

“Do you forget so easily the days gone by?” Simora meets the man’s gaze. “Hand and Gavel shouldn’t slip so easily into darkness.”

“I do not forget,” Thomat waves off the annoyance. “I merely recall with surprise. It does an aging man’s heart good to see eyes fixated upon you. Now, if it were returned…”

“I’ve work to do.” Simora’s eyes begin to scan over prismaslate screens. “Perhaps the future holds more relaxed hobbies and frivolities.”

“Of course, sir.” Thomat grins as he slaps his knee and stands. “I’ll ensure the good ‘Lover’ is on his way.” Waiting for a moment, he grunts in good humor before turning toward the door.

Simora’s hand pauses over a prismaslate. “Don’t smile as if you’d discerned some secret.”

“Of course, sir.” Thomat closes the door behind him—leaving the Dominax to his thoughts.

“Didn’t show up.” Simora clicks his tongue and waves the projection screen of his computers to life. “Why? Damned.” He begins to motion through the systems, reports, and information.

Glancing through all comms, no update has been provided.

“He makes me wait without even the good manners of notifying me!” Swiping out, his hand goes through the projection. “Where are you Remiran?”

A knock on the door silences all emotional outburst. As if every such piece of humanity were a weary rodent, they skitter back into the Dominax to hide beneath his mask. He swipes over his desk. All screens and prismaslate fall silent and dark for the meeting.

“Enter.”

As the first sound escapes his lips, he notes how the doors already break their seals. Three people stand across the threshold, but only one enters.

Long strides in tightened shapes of black, the figure of Finel Dornish moves as flawlessly as an epol through the sky. Her figure is one that can break a man in many ways, and yet somehow she retains an aura of femininity. As if the moon blessed her through ancient rituals, her movements are a graceful whirlwind. The huntress known throughout the Far-Reach clicks her boots and bows before her fellow Dark Star.

“Good morning, Dominax Simora Nor-Noctlin.” A quivering smile spreads up the left cheek. A smile to be painted yet hated for wrinkling such skin.

“Afternoon, Planetist.”

“That’s it?” Her accent, heavy from her teachings from School (the Black’s prestigious center of learning), catches the Dominax’s full attention. “All these years. All my help. I don’t recall Icarus being so cold.”

“It’s never been cold.” Meeting her eyes, the golden sands meet the dazzling amethysts.

“Gold lenses? Oh, right. Your comms. No Sign.” She wiggles her fingers, and, if one were paying close attention, one might notice how her arms seem to shorten. “Am I to be shackled, too?”

“You were all called by Remiran for business.”

“Stern as always, Simmy.”

“Simora.” He corrects.

“Simmy,” she proceeds, “I’ve been adrift in space for days! Come now! I’d hoped we could catch-up.” While drawing a finger over the mound in her uniform, she scratches at the emblem of her family. When his eyes do not leave hers, she sighs. “At least let some light in here.”

“System.” The wall of deep browns behind him dissolves into a thick panel of invisible glass.

A wondrous scene of mixed colors, like a painter’s pallet, stretches out in a blissfully lit paradise. Caught by the sudden vision and the proximity to it, she exhales gently and rushes to the Dominax’s side. She presses her fingers to the windows as she scans the scene.

Flowing fronds, vines, and trunks span the area like extended limbs of the planet piercing through a thick layer of grasses. The edges of a twisted river in the distance sparkle with the occasional slaps of sunlight. Purple eyes blink as if answering in code to the irregular glimpses of the river.

Of the paradise, only the singular stain of red, paints the edge of the forest with reality. Still, she speaks as if she’d been given the keys to a kingdom. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

“Of course it is.” Simora nods as he keeps his eyes on her face; avoiding all that might distract a lesser man. “I guess I should thank you for the early stages of my work.”

“Oh?” She turns her head, but her eyes remain on the sights beyond the glass. Birds flutter by, plants twist and move, and she sees one vine pluck a songbird from the air. “Do tell.”

“What you’d shown me.”

“There were many things I showed you.”

“The Green.”

“Oh? We showed each other.”

“It has been a solid foundation for my work.”

“Has it?” Finel turns to face the seated man. “And since then you’ve been a hermit. Busy busy, little Simmy.”

“Simora.”

“Simmy.” She corrects.

Sighing, he locks eyes with her as he stands. Now, after all the years, he’s met her height; though the slight elevation to her boots does grant an even field. Warmth rises between them as it reflects through the glass wall. A dimmed, muted sanctuary of a scientist fills itself with the brutish light of an angry star. Better to illuminate those sharing a silent moment.

“Just recently, Wal Fier suddenly received an impressive shipment of mazer wool. I can’t imagine you’d convinced the entirety of these Ravagers to deal with you, eh? There must be more to it.” Her head tilts to the side as she smiles. When his face neither twists nor responds, she huffs and rolls her eyes. “Must you always be guarded?”

“I do not slip from the teachings of the Umbra.”

“Oh! The Umbra, is it?” She steps away as she bites her tongue; visible for him. “You always were a bore. The perfect student.”

“As you’d always made perfectly clear.”

“Not like Remiran.” She leans away so the shapes of her form slither through the air. Her movements, like dancing, do not peel Simora’s eyes from hers. More stillness. No response to blush her cheeks or sate her playful desires. “Come now. Even now! So droll.”

“That’s why I’ve arranged for your entertainment.”

“Oh?” The woman’s eyes widen.

A knock on the door cuts through her numerous expressions. Simora’s lips open just enough, “Enter.”

Doors swing wide as the two Wildlings, the Planetist’s forces, step aside. “Apologies, ladies.” The confident voice of Donetello precedes him into the drifting light of the office. “Thank you. Ah! My Dark Stars! Oh, lovely lady Finel Dornish.” The long-armed man bows with a flourish to his step. A quiet, quick sniff draws in the atmosphere of the room. As his mesmerizing eyes rise up, the creamy caramels slipping into a starry night of blues, he glances from Dark Star to Dark Star. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Perfect timing.” Simora motions to the bowing man. “Finel. My personal escort for you.”

“Simmy.”

“Simmy?”

Ignoring Donatello’s input, Simora nods. “He’s my finest pilot. A member of my Deep Roots.”

“You still have cutesy names for your advisors? I thought Black didn’t keep names. It causes schisms, eh?” Her playful banter draws a few clicks from the Dominax.

“He will show you the continents from aerial views, provide information on the planet for your adventuring nature, and keep you entertained. All within acceptable safety parameters.”

“Entertained?” Finel glances back to the man of tanned skin and charming smiles. His straightened posture is both dignified and relaxed. The pheromones in the air… they both smell them. “I’m not sure he can keep up.”

“I’m more than capable.” As he stares into the woman’s eyes, she witnesses the change begin. A metamorphosis. All the most notable of the Green know this well. Branching, the skill of Adapt, is now expressed as the sudden extension of an upper lip. More precisely, the extension of the jawline and nostrils.

Within a minute, a short beak, still fleshy along the edges, begins to form. Reddish tints along the breaks in skin rise in the notches where feathers might protrude. As the face slims to a piercing edge, the predator manifests.

“Oh?” Stepping forward with surprise, Finel begins to examine the man from a safe distance—as any animal would. “A fair enough specimen. You caught yourself a Green?”

“Fair?” Concern squeaks in the voice of the birdman.

“What creature have you taken?”

Feelings the rush of chilled air at the edge of the sun’s reflected light, Donatello seeks confirmation from his superior. Receiving the nearly unperceivable nod, the Deep Root turns his full attention on the woman. His eyes still high, but they skitter about—weighed by the faults of his gender. “Devihawk, Dark Star Dornish.”

“Please, call me Finel.” Her eyes peer back over her shoulder to Simora before falling back on the pilot. “A bit sloppy around the expression. Sign visible in the tenderness of your skin. Do you Adapt often?”

“The bird allows me to press our Darts to their limits.” The eyes narrow playfully in an attempt to act upon the pheromones in the air. Pungent as potpourri placed out to mask the scent of disinfectants and chemical reagents. “I Adapt quite frequently. Always at the ready.”

Their voices slipping lower and deeper as Finel steps closer arouses no response from Simora. Instead, he simply watches from behind the mask of Umbra—Eclipsing all that is to be perceived. Only the quiet click of the tongue sounds out his acknowledgement of the passing, agonizing seconds.

“Always ready?” Finel bites at her tongue again as she examines further. “Yet there are so many things to teach you.”

“Yes?” Donatello’s expression rises like the sun from the horizon.

Closing the gap between them, she steps in close enough for her breath to warm the cold skin of his neck. “Would you like that?”

Donatello nods. Once and with force. The way the omega might when faced with the command of the alpha. There is command even in inquiry. Those of the lowest rank are expected to answer, and he does so with great anticipation of the lessons that might be shared.

With a sudden rise in her voice, “Then we’ll teach you proper Branching!” As the general may call to the troops, the wrathful voice reminds all of the proper order. “Is this how I’m expected to pass my time?” Her body spins with enough force the Deep Root’s feet seem to glide with her. “Passing me off to your subordinates?”

Reacting to the pouting voice with only the soft click of his tongue, Simora nods. Instead, to the conversation, he responds with an even tone, “For today. Since my cousin’s failure to arrive has pushed back my plans, I have more work to attend to.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Noting her prying, Simora envisions the woman with long claws like some mutated mole. “One of many, Finel. Another of my Deep Roots will be arriving shortly, and I have matters to discuss with them. I believe Donatello will be a preferred guide for you. As a fellow seeker of adventure, practitioner of the Green, and lover of music, I chose him to stand in my stead. This does not preclude us of future interactions.”

Attempting to read the expression of the man standing against a backdrop of golden sun and blooming woods, Finel narrows her eyes. The sparkling purple, like specters hidden in the mouths of blackened caves, attempts to dig where the claws cannot. “Always with Eclipse.”

Digging deeper into the repertoire of practiced skills of bloodline and talent, Simora leans on the Umbra aspect of Abstruse. A wobbling to his voice, perhaps perceived as a chink in his emotional armor to most, provides a distinct set of separate sounds. A message within a message. The movements of the body. The shape of the mouth. The extension of sounds or shortening of them.

In these warping aspects of language, body and voice, the Dominax says, “Donatello will escort you today. Tomorrow, I shall accompany you myself.”

Yet, under these blatant words Donatello and the distant Wildlings heard, is another message. “Don’t loose secrets.” To which the body adds with the voice, “We shall comm.”

Allowing (more so forcing) himself to smile, Simora’s face shines as the world behind him. “Donatello, please keep our guest well entertained. As always, keep to protocol. I’d not have you lost with my Darts to a dark storm or traveling beyond the protected zones.”

“Aye, sir.” Donatello says with renewed confidence. His face has already begun to return to normal. He extends an elbow for the lady to take. “If I may.”

A quiet sigh still shocks the room with a dryness that creates static between the furniture and living beings. Arms up in surrender, Finel accepts her current fate. One finger falls to point at the Dominax of Icarus Alpha. “Fine! Today, I will allow your man to entertain me. Tomorrow, I’ll refuse your refusal, Simmy.” She takes Donatello’s arm with an infectious smile. “You’re a musician?”

“Only in my free-time, Dark Star.”

“Finel.” She corrects. Swaying her body purposefully and elegantly, she nudges the man, “Tell me what instrument.”

“The vio.”

“Vio! Astounding! My father was a vio man. Never caught with me, but I do love the sound.” She holds tightly to him as they round the corner. Her eyes glance back to Simora who remains unmoved behind his desk. The Wildlings follow the adventurous duo toward the hangars. “You know the Black’s ‘Quiet, Here and Now?’You’ll have to play us a s—”

Silence at the finalized rest of the doors. A moment of respite before more work and greater schemes.

They kept the door open while Donatello was with us. So, I’m no threat. Simora considers the data. She would have said as much. Finel. An ally of the past and likely one of the future. This will work, and I know where her heart lies.

Shards of possibilities soar up from the right and fall to the left. Like celestial bodies to ancient men, created anew each day and sent to nothingness at the end of their arc. Newly placed pieces of the puzzle begin to formulate what may, and very likely, will be.

She’s still enamored. A childish fantasy created in youth and recalled fondly now. School did her little favor. Though, considering her expressions, or was it Eclipse? She’d let herself be heard with every step and every intention. Forgoing Elliptical, were these authentic responses? I’ll require more data.

Her interactions and memories make her an important asset. Once confirmed, I believe I know the first step in realizing my plans.

Suddenly caught in the stream of shards reflecting a more sinister Finel, Simora struggles to resist the urge. Glancing forward at the possibilities, where all outcomes present themselves, he dives farther into the Born.

A broken Simora slumps behind his desk as she removes the smear of lipstick from her bottom lip. Removing herself from the room, the same playful smile of an apex predator guides her through any and all doorways. The lights above the door indicate the systems have removed all surveillance.

Personal vendetta. Unlikely. I’d not scorned her. Merely a mouse unwilling to play a cat’s game.

Another line of shards speeds by. This Finel sipping wine with Donatello within the study. Neither wear the emblem of the tree against the darkness. Instead, her Green Emblem Black Shield stands brightly on each’s breast. The statue of Morikal Noctlin, the first Nor-Noctlin of the line, has been removed. A rainy day beyond the glass wall provides the lovers a fairly uneventful day to remain within and fully explore all within the sanctum.

They are as one and bound together. Nothing remains of the Nor-Noctlin youth that conquered a planet. Without guidance, the plants beyond the windowed wall have grown with extended limbs to claw at the wall like starving hordes of shambling corpses. Even as the world beyond their structure threatens them, they find peace in their quiet embrace within the protected sanctum of a greater mind.

She’ll break him before that happens. He clicks his tongue and forces deeper into the Born toward the larger, sharper pieces of the possible outcomes. Something so specific it must fit into place for the whole to become visible… to be understood.

Another series of moments pass. More defined and brighter to the inner eye of Spark.

This chills the bones. Four slits beneath the Balan scarf quiver as the events unfurl. Simora’s projected self hurries toward the statue of his late father. Reaching behind the back as a son may to his father as they embrace for the crowd’s joyous photography, he reaches up from the emptiness of the cloak and finds nothing but an opened cavity of metal.

The seal is broken. What should remain fixed and protected by personalized systems has been decoded and bypassed. The device…

Turning toward the door, Matheem Nephire calls out to him. “Bow!”

Before he can try to resist, his knees are already touching the tiled floor. Finel, holding a black bag tightly to her side, aims a pulser toward him. Calling for her Wildlings, they move into position to begin the process of creating a scene. One that will show the world what’s occurred but retain their anonymity.

A true plot of the Black.

Disgust, plain as the sun of Icarus Alpha, morphs the changling’s face. With all the power of Green and Black, she allows this expression to sear itself into his mind. Forever in the dying moments where the brain attempts to slow time and find some manner of survival, he will be plagued by that ghastly face like an overexposed image of the past. Printed like fog atop the recollection of personal history, she will watch him with eyes filled with disdain.

For the first time in a long while, Simora steps back from the shards.

Enough.

They continue to flow onward; as time so often does. Forever in the march from right to left. Left to right, if that is how you may envision it. Whatever the route, they travel all the same. Beyond the sands or mentally manifested world of the user’s Spark, the world marches on…

Even as he attempts to regain control… the manifestation mingles with truest reality. Marching on. Right to left.

Enough!

Right to left. The future coming. Finel standing over him with her pulser pressed to his forehead. The disconnected longing replaced with hatred. A sorrow for what she knows will come for her as the moment comes to a climax.

Enough!

The gradual tightening of her fingers. Pheromones thickening the air; redolent of decay and poison. There is a hatred that seeps from their bodies as the plagues across a rotting field. The finger twitches back, and the cranking of the device becomes deafening.

“I said enough!” Yelling aloud in his own study, Simora stares at the empty room in disbelief. Sweat drips from his forehead. His lungs struggle to catch acceptable air. “Enough.” He winces as the expressionless mask slips away from him.

Human, through and through, the Dominax reveals himself to the void within his sanctum and the creatures which might be spying from beyond the wall of glass. Exhausted, he forces his feet to move. Around the desk and across the room. A short distance feels like a journey across the city.

The sands of time and all the shards of possibility have taken their toll. Marching on and on, the days might slip into months which bleed into years. The mind attempts to understand and withstand, yet even the practiced are human. Simora, having only stood motionless for a few seconds had failed in his lessons.

Curiosity, while necessary, is the often the tool of one’s own demise. Curiosity breeds possibility. By creativity. By opportunity. By vulnerability. Life changes when the mind opens. The lessons of the Blue repeat in his head. Over and over, he reminds himself of his failure. To delve into possibility is to welcome the unknown. Brace yourself for all that can be. Born opens many windows of which to view the future. The view may be more lovely than the reality of life, or draw you from unknown heights through the alluring portal. Know your limits and remember the truth… you are here. Now, and forever, you are here.

Catching his breath, the man extends his hand behind the statue of his fallen father. Beneath the cape, there’s a thin groove. He slides his finger from the left to the right, pokes two edges, and then pokes with two fingers which separate slowly. A click is heard, and the small door opens wide.

Once the cold metal within is touched and confirmed still present, Simora sighs relief and closes the compartment. Still there. He cannot forget this time and place. Still here. Here. He anchors himself to the present and to the location. The Spark power of Born slips back into dormancy as the Dominax slides into a chair beside his father.

I’ll complete it. I’ve come this far… I won’t die by plants or fall into the sea. I won’t abandon them. His eyes rise to his father.

“Drink.”

A small servant, a delightfully delicate automaton, rolls across the floor with outstretched clamps holding a glass of water. Taking the drink, Simora pats the robot on the white square that guards the facial display.

“Good. Good. Something stronger next.” He motions for the little robot to hurry off. Clicking his tongue frantically between gulps of the water, Simora settles himself back into the seat of his sanctum. My sanctum, he assures himself.

Wallace will arrive soon. Inhales taken and held. Exhales drawn-out with mindful obedience. We have work to do. So much work.