'Firefly meets Battlestar Galactica'.
A merchant's daughter is captured and sold into slavery.
A genetically modified survivor of an alien attack scours the galaxy for her taken brother before he is 'disassembled'.
An alien scientist u...
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The sun cast a blood orange glow over the velvety carpet of flowers under her bare feet. She lifted her gaze from her pink toes, and followed the deep red blossoms to the figure seated among them. The light played over the woman's dark curls like bronze fire as they cascaded over her shoulders, complimented by the forest green gown she wore. Macbeth let out a contented sigh. Her dream wrapped around her, a warm blanket against her cold heart.
She eased down beside the beautiful lady, trying not to crush too many blooms beneath her. It may be a dream, but old habits are hard to forget. Sparkling green eyes slanted in her direction followed by a chiming laugh that made her chest ache.
"Always careful of the flowers, Mac? I swear you like plants more than people." Lulubelle's features blurred when she smiled. Macbeth looked away, a twinge behind her eyes. I've already forgotten her smile, she mused as she hugged her knees.
"Why are we here today, Lu?"
The woman sighed and gazed with her at the scenery stretched out before them. The field abruptly cut off a dozen yards away, shifting into an endless expanse of pale stars in a midnight blue sky. Looming above them was a massive blue planet, coated in swirls of bright white and thunderous gray clouds. A world of water dotted by strips of land, long and thin like scars on the smooth liquid skin, both familiar and foreign. She recognized it now, since it appeared to her every time she closed her eyes.
"Seems closer than last time," said Lulubelle. She shaded her eyes to look at it.
"Yes," said Macbeth. Her companion pursed her lips at the complacent answer.
"That's it, huh? Her influence is everywhere in your head, creeping into your dreams and you're doing nothing to separate yourself?" Lulubelle's slender dark brows drew into a frown.
"What would you have me do?"
A small brown fist hit the ground between them. "Fight it! Where are those walls Jules taught you to reinforce? Your inner workings were untouchable. Where is the sharp organized mind of the reluctant Pembrook Matron?"
"Long gone, lover, nothing left by frayed edges and spare bits." Macbeth cupped one of the fragile red blossoms in her palm, the waxy petals warm from the sun.
Lulubelle shifted and crouched in her long skirts in front of Macbeth, not touching. They never touched, not here, too painful. Her beautiful eyes brimmed with a deep reaching sadness, the echo knocked around inside Macbeth's chest.
"What do you hope to achieve by losing yourself?" Her voice was soft, coaxing, trying to draw the words out, but Macbeth shut her down with a sharp shake of her head. She crushed the flower in her fist. The plant's nectar bled between her fingers, pulsed with a feeble heartbeat as red tracked down her pale skin. Drops fell on her naked feet. Drip, drip go the flowers, my hands are stained again.
"You know why," said Macbeth, her expression vacant, but she saw the tears spill over Lulubelle's cheeks, two identical streaks painting lines down her perfect face.
