Rigel steps into the sleek, metallic elevator, exchanging a subtle glance with Nysari as they pass each other. The doors close with a soft exhale, sealing her within a cocoon of polished steel and dark glass. Dim, ambient lighting casts an ethereal glow upon the reflective surfaces as if she’s ascending through a luminescent nebula. She presses the button for the top floor, “Verilia 4,” and feels the gentle hum of the elevator as it begins its ascent.
Her mind is a whirlwind, still reeling from the heated exchange with Messer. Frustration simmers just below the surface, her jaw tight as she replays the conversation. The Canopy, the biodome housing the elite and admirals, is the last place she wants to be, but duty beckons.
Then, she feels it—a subtle shift, like a sieve sifting through her thoughts, bringing the largest and most anxious to the surface. An unseen observer accesses and assesses her memories. Most would dismiss it as errant thoughts drifting up, but Rigel knows better. The Legion is evaluating her.
At first, it’s almost imperceptible, like the faintest breeze stirring fallen leaves. But as she focuses, she becomes acutely aware of the gentle shifting within her mind. The process is insidious in its subtlety, a telepathic probing that would go unnoticed by the untrained.
“You could have asked,” she whispers to herself, her breath fogging up the cool glass of the elevator.
“Asking is so impersonal,” he thinks, his mental voice like silk brushing against her consciousness. “Time-wasting formalities between lesser beings. Telepathy transcends such primitiveness. We exist on another level, you and I.”
A shiver rolls up her spine as if he’s caressing her. The probing is done, her memories experienced in mere moments. The intrusion remains, but the focus shifts from information to affection. Rigel reacts to the change in Legion’s presence, his thoughts enveloping her consciousness in an intimate embrace. The transition is jarring, from clinical observation to something far more personal. It’s overwhelming, revolting, yet intoxicating. She sways in the elevator, trying to remain present.
Beneath it all, a spark of rebellion ignites. This part of her recognizes the inequality, the power imbalance that allows Legion to probe and experience at will while she can only receive.
The elevator doors hiss open, and Rigel’s senses are immediately awash with the living essence of Verilia. The rich, earthy scent of soil and vegetation embraces her, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the military decks she’s left behind. Stepping onto the path, her boots sinking slightly into the soft, moss-covered ground. The simulated twilight bathes everything in a warm, golden glow, and for a moment, she allows herself to be transported back to the real Verilian sunsets she misses so dearly.
A light breeze -perfectly calibrated, she knows, but no less soothing- rustles through the leaves of a nearby blue-leaf tree. The familiar sound tugs at her heart, a bittersweet reminder of home. She inhales deeply, letting the clean air fill her lungs, momentarily easing the weight of command that sits heavy on her shoulders. As she walks, the path winds past a bubbling stream. A gentle sound of water over stones usually adds to the calming effect, but today it only serves to amplify the turbulent thoughts she can’t seem to quiet. Her eyes drift upward, catching sight of her penthouse through the canopy. It looms above, a sanctuary and a prison all at once.
Rigel’s steps slowly as she approaches the base of her building. The prospect of solitude appeals to her exhausted body, but her mind recoils at the thought of being alone with her thoughts. The neural interface pulses again, as if in sympathy with her indecision.
She pauses, caught between the inviting natural beauty around her and the isolating comfort that awaits above. The biodome’s harmony feels almost mocking in the face of her internal conflict. Rigel takes another deep breath, steeling herself for the ascend.
The sleek, transparent tube of the elevator rises before her, a clear indication of the technological marvels that coexist with the natural beauty of the biodome. Rigel steps inside, her reflection ghostly in the glass. As the doors close, the sounds of the biodome fade, replaced by a soft, almost imperceptible hum. Swift is the ascent. Rigel’s stomach lurches slightly, more from anticipation than motion. Through the glass, she watches the biodome shrink beneath her. Trees become dots of green, streams thin silver threads. The vastness of the perfect yet false space gradually comes into view above, stars punctuating the darkness like distant beacons.
Once more, her neural interface throbs, this time synchronous with her pulse. Fatigue threatens to overwhelm. Yet, as the elevator climbs, a part of her feels lighter, as if shedding the burdens of command with each passing floor.
The ride ends with a gentle chime, and the doors slide open silently. Rigel steps out into her penthouse, and despite her exhaustion, she can’t help but marvel at the space:
The penthouse unfolds before her, a seamless blend of Verilian aesthetics and cutting-edge technology. Living walls pulse with bioluminescent flora, casting a soft, ever-changing glow across the room. The floor, seemingly solid, ripples subtly beneath her feet, adjusting its texture for optimal comfort as she walks. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate one wall, but they’re more than mere glass. With a thought through her neural interface, Rigel can transform them into high-resolution displays, showing any view from across known space or overlaying them with tactical data. In the center of the main room, a holographic tree sprouts from the floor, its leaves shimmering with data - messages, reports, and updates that can wait until morning. Rigel absently waves a hand through its branches, watching the information scatter like startled birds.
Yet even as the penthouse’s comforts beckon, a part of Rigel feels disconnected. This space, for all its wonders, is a simulation of a home, a beautiful cage hovering above the artifice of the biodome.
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“You’re in conflict.” His voice greets her from the lounge, classical piano music underscoring his words. A melancholic melody meets her ears, echoing her tumultuous emotions. As the first notes emerge, they drift through the air, each sound a tender whisper of longing and nostalgia. “Mission fatigue. Messer. Your crew. Your control is slipping.”
She stands motionless, the weight of his words pressing down on her. After a pregnant pause, she speaks, her voice a mixture of frustration and resignation. “I’m only doing what you ask. Wasn’t you who made me an Admiral against my wishes?”
The piano continues insistently, drawing her attention. With a sigh, she steps out of her thoughts, her movements deliberate. “It’s your fault for giving Messer such a high position. You always knew how much he hated me.”
Her eyes dart around the corridor, seeking familiar faces. Her thoughts, usually guarded, now broadcast loud and clear. The absence of their toddler son gnaws at her, a constant worry. For all she tries to call to him, Legion blocks her. She can’t feel Keir. If he were in this biodome, she should be able to touch his mind, know he’s well. All she feels is absence.
“You’re agitated,” he says, fingers dancing over the piano keys, coaxing a dramatic crescendo from the instrument. His left hand provides a haunting bassline, resonating deeply, while the right hand dances gracefully, weaving intricate, sorrowful motifs. Each note is played with exquisite precision, yet imbued with an piercing and almost threatening assertion of a dangling of danger above the calm. “I wish to speak to you alone. Petra has taken the children to one of the parks you say they so enjoy.”
Rigel’s jaw clenches, her fingers whitening at her hips. She takes a deep breath, maintaining composure. “Agitated doesn’t begin to cover it.”
She approaches the piano, her eyes never leaving Legion’s face. Though inert in its passion due to focus lent the piano, his chiseled face is stunning. Perfection meant to be carved into marble. “Is this about the promotion? About Messer? Or some cosmic chess moves I’m not seeing?” Her hand on the piano’s polished surface, feeling the vibrations of the music through her fingertips, grounding her.
“Reality is always a game to those who know how to play,” he muses, the piano notes shifting into a dramatic arch reminiscent of Wagner. With each poignant pause and delicate trill, the atmosphere thickens, time stretching as if the world outside has faded away around them. He finally looks upon Rigel, his face expressionless. “You lament your position. I have told you, stagnation is decay. Perpetual motion leads to growth. I allowed you the gift of the children. I do not allow complacency.”
“It would be easier to believe you if not for your continuous efforts to sabotage Keir and Kieran’s growth on purpose.”
“They are distractions and playthings to you,” he says, returning the focus of chromomorphic eyes to the piano. “I’ll remind you, immortality has no need of an heir. Much less two.”
His words cut through her mind, probing, invasive. But as the initial shock subsides, Rigel’s eyes narrow. A new strategy forms in her mind.
She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, letting her mind flood with memories and emotions. Keir’s first steps, his laughter echoing through their quarters. The overwhelming love she felt when she first saw him, tiny and perfect. Then her thoughts shift to Kieran, still growing within the pod. She focuses on her anticipation; the dreams she has for this child she hasn’t yet met. The love she already feels, fierce and protective.
Projecting these thoughts outward, amplifying them, she lets them wash over Legion in waves of pure, unadulterated emotion. Each memory -each emotion- is a declaration: These are not playthings. This is love in its purest form.
Rigel opens her eyes, meeting Legion’s gaze unflinchingly. “Immortality has made you forget what it means to truly appreciate, to be willing to move the galaxy for someone other than yourself.”
The deluge of thought does not stop his impeccable play upon the piano. It does change the tone and depth. Harsh superior suites of Wagner slow and give way to pained notes. Every note feels intentional, as though it carries a secret, an untold story from the past. His eyes stare ahead, lost in the depths of the offered emotion, his face passionless. His melody anything but. “Your proclivity for manipulation has improved.”
As the mental block dissolves, Rigel senses Keir. He is delightfully at play under Petra’s watchful eye. Relief washes over her like a soothing tide. “You must be truly bored to play with me like you do.”
“For whatever reason, neurochemical or psychological, I find you entertaining.” The piano stops, and still, he does not look upon her. “This curious manifestation of time, evolution, or my own failing has transpired much to your benefit. Not merely in financial, erotic, or reproductive ends; but to your own meager advancement. You’re perpetually on the precipice of your own elevation yet fear letting go of what is to see what is within.”
She moves to slam the piano’s lid, not caring if his fingers are still hovering over the keys. “Is this why you wanted me alone? To asphyxiate me with your philosophy? We’ve danced around these ideas for too long. Spare me the riddles and the condescension.”
Finally, she has his full attention, rising from his seat. “Assertive. Excellent. Then speak. Tell me ‘what it means to truly evolve.’ Quantify this for me. What does your limited experience suggest is the pinnacle of evolution?”
“There is no such thing as pinnacle of evolution. There’s no ‘best’ creature out there. Every living thing is just trying to survive in its own little corner of the galaxy, doing what works for it. It’s not about being the strongest or the smartest overall, it’s about being the right fit for where you are.”
He rises, standing over her in stature. “No perfect creature? Is that what you would have our progeny be: mere creatures? Is that how you would qualify the perfect organism?” He challenges.
She stands tall, unfazed by his towering height, and crosses her arms as she leans against the silent piano. “You inquired about my ‘limited’ experience, not about our children. If that’s the case, Kano will not surpass you or any of the girls. But Keir? He will. I’m certain of it.”
She reads his microexpressions—the minute dilation of his iris, the movement of his lips. This hypothesis intrigues him, perhaps even pleases him. Yet, all he says in response is: “We’ll see.”
“Is this your game? Just stare at me until I expire? Or will you at least kiss me and get this over with? You know you want it.” She approaches, tugging his belt.