The worst thing about knowing you shouldn't want something is that it doesn't work. Desire runs on different pathways than thought--bypasses the brain, the hands, and goes straight for the stomach. Tell yourself you don't want something all you like, tell yourself all the reasons it's a terrible idea, but the stomach knows the hunger pangs, the mouth knows the saliva, the nose knows the wafts of smell.

She's pressed to the glass as if she could open her mouth and devour it all in a bite.

Capitas! She's…

She's always wanted to come, you know? This is the heart of the empire, the heart of the grand encivilizing of the galaxy. This is the culmination of the project, its fullest expression, the fruits of all the labor of everyone in it.

She stares out the window, and in a glorious moment of clarity, she understands the Endless Azure Skies. 

The thought of not being able to experience it fully--of willfully shutting her eyes, or nose, or mouth--is a knife to the gut, twisting the more she takes in.

It has to be smell, right? Smell or taste? They're basically the same thing, anyway. She can still see, and touch, and hear any of a thousand vistas.

Gods, she could step out of the ship right now and [i]jump[/i] to the closest one. Swim lazily through space, and never, in a million years, run out of things to see. Never run out of things to do.

Everyone in their place. Every person contributing perfectly. Endless satisfaction in endless beauty. Bliss. Perfection.

Millions of planets, arranged for a perfection they will never see.

Arranged for a perfection that--

No, no, cut that thought off. It [i]could[/i] work, given time and effort. Everyone [i]could[/i] be happy. It could spread, could achieve this level of perfection across the galaxy.

Arranged for a perfection, she decides, that they will never be [i]placed[/i] to see. Never see how the black hole scatters the light, see how the three planets align, see how the binary system twirls through the sky like a firework, because they will never be in Capitas.

Everyone happy in someone else's art project.

Perfection, she thinks, even for the Ceronians. No need for actually holding territory, or bulky supply lines, or anything but the rush of the moment of conquest, the acclaim, the victory, and then on to a new planet.

Maybe touch. She'd hate to be blind to smell at a moment like this.