All the Stars we Cannot See

"Death bows his head and weeps."

The chapter title is the last line of the poem Death by Rainer Maria Rilke. Warning: there will be hella poetry in this story--be advised :P

Aisling will be pronounces Ash-ling in this story

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Aisling's POV

I was born in space. My father refused to abandon his work to return to Earth only to witness the birth of his daughter. I stress the word only. My insignificance in his eyes before and after my birth cannot be overstated.

My mother had thought it romantic that her first would be born amongst the stars, the writer in her found whimsy and wonder in everything. I always wondered how she felt as she lay dying on the hard infirmary cot. Despite the presence of the many doctors and nurses did she feel alone, abandoned, perhaps resentful? Did she spend her last minutes alive gazing at me clutched in her arms with malice and hate or was she pacified by the thought a piece of her would carry on?

Father takes great care in reminding me that from the moment I was conceived I became my mothers executioner. That my divine purpose had been shown immediately. He said it was my curse, to kill all I touched, to destroy all light in my path and pave the road to Hell as I went. I can't say I disagree, although I prefer to believe I was born good and then made a monster. Father certainly put enough time and effort into training me, breaking me down and building back from the rubble until he had an almost perfect child--if only I possessed a penis but we can't have it all I suppose.

"You're food Aisling." Greta places a plate of perfectly grilled chicken paired with roasted baby potatoes and carrots in front of me, her hand trembles lightly as always. "Enjoy dear."

Although space food has drastically improved in quality and quantity over the years, cures for human diseases such as Parkinson's are still only given to people for astronomical sums that most cannot afford. Greta is only 46, and in a few scant years I doubt she will be able to serve me my food without spilling it.

"Thank you Greta." I smooth the pristine white napkin across my lap to avoid clenching my fists.

Greta than presents father with his dish. A prime cut of beef, cooked to medium rare perfection and all the fixings. "Enjoy Commander." She bows slightly waiting for his approval.

His mood today is passible, only one fit so far and it's already dinner time. Although, he did shoot a lieutenant in the head rather publicly after hearing news of a recent uprising on some colony planet. The lieutenant was lucky, had father been in a worse mood he would have ordered the man stripped of his title and cast out of Dominion. It's almost impossible to find livelihood outside of Dominion's Army, completely impossible if you've been cast out of the army.

"You may leave." Father's voice fills the room, reverberating off the walls and bouncing into my head.

At his command Greta hurries away, fleeing the dining room so fast she could probably run clear through the aluminum alloy walls.

We eat in silence, the only sound forks and knives clashing against porcelain and mechanical chewing. I barely taste the food. Sometimes I wonder if I'm defective or if I've been conditioned to not notice the taste. We eat only to live, father says. It was a lesson he reinforced during my childhood and one I would rather forget.

"Prisoners will be arriving tomorrow from Leonii." The words are jarring. Father always insists dinner is to be had in silence but I suppose he is free to break his own rule. "I've acquired a gift for you."

If not for my quick reflexes my fork would currently be on the floor, "a gift?" I cannot keep the shock out of my voice. In all my 17 years of life I have never received a gift and I certainly never expected one, especially from father.

He continues cutting his steak, focused on the task at hand instead of me, "You will be pleased, I am sure."

"Of course father, I thank you for your thoughtfulness."

He grunts.

I feel as if a certain level of excitement or anticipation should immediately ensue after his announcement but nothing happens. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel something.

"General Kaine has informed me you have surpassed everyone in your class." His face remains as blank as a piece of paper. "He's recommended you begin training for a command position."

"He is--"

"Delusional," father intercedes, "there are no female Commanders in all of Dominions history. A General perhaps, though even that is a stretch but never a Commander. You will decline his recommendation, I will be promoting Severin in your place."

"Of course father."

His comments no longer sting, the sharpened words stopped digging into my heart long ago. Everything seems to be said from a distance now, as if the words are not even directed towards me. I've successfully disconnected myself from life.

And if I could, I would fear that reconnection is impossible.