the colony wasn't founded by any particular human government, but rather by a group of people concerned for humanity as a whole, and for humanity's future." He paused, allowing his listeners to take in his words, before adopting an even firmer expression. "In co-operation with our treaty partners — most especially the United States, the United Kingdom, India and the Anzac Federation — we are heightening our level of military preparedness. In Canada's case in particular, twenty 'Colony'-class cruisers now in reserve are going to be refurbished for active duty. In addition, I have asked the Cabinet to approve funds to accelerate the construction of the new 'Town'-class destroyers, the first of which is expected to join the fleet later this year. I understand the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is preparing a response of its own, but you would have to speak to—"
Elan touched a button, and the screen went blank. He sighed, staring at the empty rectangle on the wall. Another flake of snow, he thought, tumbling down the mountainside. Down toward the valley below, end over end, bouncing other tiny flakes as it went. And those tiny flakes would begin to tumble down the mountain as well. No one flake ever considered itself responsible for the devastating avalanche.
In front of him, on the low table — they called it a 'coffee' table — sat his empty bowl. Blaine had made them both lunch. An odd concoction of worm-like, fleshy tubes of starch, covered in a protein-rich yellow sauce. Apparently, it represented the summit of Blaine's capabilities in food preparation. Elan had read the box; it seemed easy enough. Not the complex tastes and textures of Palani ritual dishes, but filling. He hadn't said a word when Blaine had helpfully doused the bowlful in some red sauce from a bottle. It was viscous goo with a revolting, overpowering taste. But now the bowl sat empty, and Elan realised that there was no one to take it away. He'd been observing everything the humans did, trying to mimic their domestic behaviours, but the one thing he kept coming up against was their expectation of autonomy. There were no acolytes here, no servants of any kind. Each of the house-mates took care of their own food and their own personal hygiene, and expected the others to do the same. Even after repeated demonstrations by an increasingly frustrated Heather, it had taken Elan several tries before the bathing facilities would produce water that wasn't unbearably hot on his skin. Washing his own body was a novelty, but one he'd expected when he left the Temple. There were no attendants here to carefully maintain the holy vessel of the Divines. The idea of smearing a foamy goo all over himself with a piece of cloth seemed… primitive.
Rising quietly from the couch, Elan picked up the dirty bowl and took it to the kitchen. He'd seen them put their dirty cookware into a machine, and he tried to do the same. He poked at the beeping machine for several minutes before it relented, opening its door and letting him put the bowl and spoon inside with the others.
Behind him, he heard Blaine's bedroom door open; it sounded different from the rest. More mechanical, and not as smooth. Elan saw Blaine walk into the shared bathroom, his hands holding stylus-like objects. After mere moments in the bathroom, Blaine returned to his own room, only to emerge a moment later to return to the bathroom again. As the curious Elan approached, Blaine repeated his circuit. His face was different somehow. "Hey," he said to Elan.
"Hello. What are you doing?"
"Got an audition shoot today," said Blaine, walking past him. "I'm doing my makeup, but the lighting's better in the bathroom."
"You use ritual face painting?"
Blaine paused in the middle of drawing a careful black line under his left eye. "What? I guess so, yeah." He reached up one hand to tease a few individual
Elan touched a button, and the screen went blank. He sighed, staring at the empty rectangle on the wall. Another flake of snow, he thought, tumbling down the mountainside. Down toward the valley below, end over end, bouncing other tiny flakes as it went. And those tiny flakes would begin to tumble down the mountain as well. No one flake ever considered itself responsible for the devastating avalanche.
In front of him, on the low table — they called it a 'coffee' table — sat his empty bowl. Blaine had made them both lunch. An odd concoction of worm-like, fleshy tubes of starch, covered in a protein-rich yellow sauce. Apparently, it represented the summit of Blaine's capabilities in food preparation. Elan had read the box; it seemed easy enough. Not the complex tastes and textures of Palani ritual dishes, but filling. He hadn't said a word when Blaine had helpfully doused the bowlful in some red sauce from a bottle. It was viscous goo with a revolting, overpowering taste. But now the bowl sat empty, and Elan realised that there was no one to take it away. He'd been observing everything the humans did, trying to mimic their domestic behaviours, but the one thing he kept coming up against was their expectation of autonomy. There were no acolytes here, no servants of any kind. Each of the house-mates took care of their own food and their own personal hygiene, and expected the others to do the same. Even after repeated demonstrations by an increasingly frustrated Heather, it had taken Elan several tries before the bathing facilities would produce water that wasn't unbearably hot on his skin. Washing his own body was a novelty, but one he'd expected when he left the Temple. There were no attendants here to carefully maintain the holy vessel of the Divines. The idea of smearing a foamy goo all over himself with a piece of cloth seemed… primitive.
Rising quietly from the couch, Elan picked up the dirty bowl and took it to the kitchen. He'd seen them put their dirty cookware into a machine, and he tried to do the same. He poked at the beeping machine for several minutes before it relented, opening its door and letting him put the bowl and spoon inside with the others.
Behind him, he heard Blaine's bedroom door open; it sounded different from the rest. More mechanical, and not as smooth. Elan saw Blaine walk into the shared bathroom, his hands holding stylus-like objects. After mere moments in the bathroom, Blaine returned to his own room, only to emerge a moment later to return to the bathroom again. As the curious Elan approached, Blaine repeated his circuit. His face was different somehow. "Hey," he said to Elan.
"Hello. What are you doing?"
"Got an audition shoot today," said Blaine, walking past him. "I'm doing my makeup, but the lighting's better in the bathroom."
"You use ritual face painting?"
Blaine paused in the middle of drawing a careful black line under his left eye. "What? I guess so, yeah." He reached up one hand to tease a few individual
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