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6/11/2012 12:54:32 PM
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James Regner didn't particularly like sangheili. It wasn't an animosity fueled by vengeance because of the war. Nor was it hatred due to fanaticism of human supremacy. He didn't think himself a racist. He wasn't against cultures. But he couldn't help it. An upbringing of aggression shown against and by aliens wasn't the best method of making him get along with the species that had been trying to purge his own race for the past thirty years. It's not all his fault. But besides the banal excuses and explanations, the simple, sensitive answer was that he was a damn racist. Not like a cultist, mind, bawling for sangheili blood on an altar. Not an extremist. But that's what he was telling himself. What he was doing now was probably bordering on the [i]extreme[/i] side of things. Strangely, at the moment, with an uncomfortable edge, he was feeling a bit grateful to them. It wasn't against protocol, but what he was ordered to do was putting his new swaying opinion on ramming ends. Cause trouble. See what you can do. Gauge their reactions. Everything must be recorded. [i]Cause trouble.[/i] He sighed. He couldn't do much at the moment. They had just been ferried up in a lavish little shuttle, heaters and lounges all, and now being taken through an umbilical into the cruiser's belly, entering into a classy hall of dark purple metal and orange embellishments. Keep an eye on Yuri Bowden and Karen Bowden. And cause trouble. He could do that. Not the latter, but the former, yes, he could do that. The old bugger was a tempered bastard, and an ugly one at that two. Two eyes and a mouth suffocated between rugged creases. Karen, his daughter-in-law, and one of the survivors from the Harvest Incident, wasn't too far behind in the aging process either. He wasn't sure why they were targets of suspicion, but he didn't question. Their footsteps echoed throughout the chamber. He bumped into someone. "Sorry," He steadied the lady. "It's okay, dear." Their leather soles clacked on the deck. The ship smelled like iron, soap, and stale air that had been recycling for months. There was dissipating water along the floor and walls. People had been scrubbing. It was a good, ship smell. Wouldn't compare it to cologne but. "Please seat yourselves. Food will be served in a moment." The sangheili waitress gestured at the stools. On the far end a glass oculus took up the entire wall, a square of dotted blackness showing through. He took his place on the far end, with a good view of the whole area. The Bowden couple sat in the middle. The hard seat was cold on his butt. He checked the studs on his blazer. It couldn't be too tight, or people might be able to discern a familiar lump strapped to his side. He shook the composite grip, making sure it was secured, and then poked the leather holster lower down his ribcage. It was a defensive option if things got really ugly... and a useful tool for causing some trouble. -- Lekat glanced ruefully at the broken arum. It was a tough mechanism, a cluster of concentric orbs and circles nestled in tight formation. How mother had managed to crumble the entire ornament with a single, precise jab of her finger was beyond him. It was showering into the waste chute before he could blink. Buruiu tipped the final mixture into the shell, under the cook's guidance. She nodded approvingly as he emptied the pan, and directed him to the door. It was a customary dish, and an accustomed meal to many Roliem. The basic principles were widespread, but how it was presented and treated, made the delicacy an anomalous rush of zesty goodness, a solitaire among many competitive compeers. It was a glutinous paste of rice, congee, sweet potato and maize, spiced and then while cooling, coated in spun yolk and pasted fats, resting snugly in a blossom of sliced meat, and then heated again. All this was displayed in the former shell-home of an abalone. The oceanic piquancy was a pleasurable enhancement; all in tribute to Roliem's familiarity with the coast. The cook placed the final shell onto the tray. "Matron," she announced. Alaiya waved Lekat and Buruiu forward. "Huraii is outside. Not a word." The pair lifted too shells each, and then filed out the entrance. The doors closed as they padded into the chamber. The cook switched on a holographic panel from the table. Ventilators sucked out the smoke and grease and fanned the kitchen until it was somewhat breathable. Alaiya sat down beside the table. The cook handed her a bowlful of the food, the viscous rice wobbling like jelly. She stabbed a spoon into the mix. "The children were attentive?" Alaiya asked, scooping at the maize. Karquier laughed. "Very attentive, matron. They have a knack for this. Perhaps one day they will be the teachers, hm?" "One day. Qaetha is stubborn, and rages when he sees the men cook." Karquier shut the hologram. "Husbands are hard to change. I find it no surprise with Qaetha. But the original one, is he still an aching?" Alaiya nearly bit the spoon off. "I do not know why I married him." "I daresay you weren't as smart as you are now." Alaiya puffed her mandibles. "Rising from servant to matron does tend to make you use your brain." "What does he do now?" "He drinks." Karquier shrugged. "War leaves a potent aftereffect, matron." "Let him sour in his drink." She took a mouthful of the rice. "Your husbands are still fine from the war. Mine is still in care, wondering if dying is preferable to getting a synthetic." Karquier shook her head. Lekat and Buruiu trundled in, nodding a positive report, and then left again with a fresh batch. Alaiya chewed thoughtfully. "I should go and help him decide." "Maybe that will work." She rummaged through the shelves, picking out plastic satchels. "What did he lose?" "His leg. The medicals have been keeping him out with narcotics for weeks. He still doesn't know if his leg is worth his life." Alaiya nodded. "I will definitely go and see him. Some men," she said, nibbling an elusive grain. "Need to review their ways." Karquier laughed again, opening the satchels. A sharp, dry smell of preserved tea leaves invaded the air. "Enough about him. How is -" she paused as the boys entered and left again. "How is governing going, hm?" "Once your ears manage to filter out the nonsense, you'll find out your eardrums have ruptured. It will take a while for Sangheilios to return to a single global entity. Kaidons are still bickering, but Vadam State, as foreseen, is emerging as the new head of power." Alaiya scratched her neck. "But, as you can also foresee, that has left thousands furious." "Ontom must have burst a vein," Karquier said. "And a few others too. The Wattinr Lineage?" "Hasn't said a word. The Sroam Family accepted the new ways," Alaiya admitted. "Their kaidons have already publicly sided with Vadam. And the Chavam, they were quick to join as well." She tossed her hair. "They finally spoke up. Their family had kept in the shadows since their Arbiter disgraced the rank." "A long while, yes." Karquier spaced out a number of glazed mugs, the thick ceramic glossy in the light. The sculpted clay was like sand licked into form. She evenly distributed herbs into each. "And what of us, matron? Who do the Roliem side with?" she said carefully. There it was. No one had posed that dilemma to her yet. The question had been asked to the First Matron countless times, as she was associated with statecraft activities, and how Roliem operated as a whole. Alaiya, the Second, dealt with the foreign; any problems or relations with an outside species. But she knew the predicament was coming to her, no matter what position she held. A spike lodged in the back of her head, tunneling further to the forefront with each passing cycle. Alaiya, after ascending to the matron status, had been shoveling away any signs of hesitation in her character a gaping flaw to see a matron indecisive. But then all that excess material came rolling back down, and her doubt sat squarely on her shoulders.
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