The Donkamins were next, and I’d confirmed my suspicions. The Donkamins didn’t only freak out the Earth-born humans. They freaked out everyone. When their candidate strode into the open to deliver their message of scientific exploration and harmony, every humanoid in the room made valiant efforts to look elsewhere.
One of the Dominion’s delegations was next. I’d started calling them Team Smiles and Team Frowns based on their expressions, and this one was the Smile one. Their candidate was an enthusiastic young woman, a typical Dominion citizen - taupe skin, big gray eyes, and soft, dark-gray hair, which she had styled in an asymmetric wave. From her looks alone, she could’ve been Resven’s niece, and she gazed upon Kosandion with worshipful adoration. She mentioned unity and harmony twice in four sentences.
The Murder Beaks were next. Their candidate was a remarkably handsome stocky man with lemon yellow skin and brilliant green eyes. His wavy brown hair was sideswept in an artful curve. His name was Pivor. He smiled a lot, delivered his speech about cooperation between species and harmony, and returned to his place, obviously pleased with a job well done.
Humanoid skin came in many different variations, but there was usually a limit to how brightness of its pigment. Pivor stood out like a dandelion on a green lawn. It had to be the result of a dye, although why he would dye himself was anyone’s guess.
The Frowns Dominion delegation presented an unusual candidate. She was tall and muscled like a gymnast, and she moved with a natural grace. Her skin was the deepest indigo verging on cosmos-black, her eyes were the color of coal, and her glossy dark hair, braided into a complex arrangement, rode on her head like a crown. An Uma, same as Kosandion’s mother.
Seeing an Uma outside their world was extremely rare.
The Uma had been discovered a thousand years ago by Earth’s time by one of the slimier galactic nations. The newcomers arrived bearing gifts and sweet promises, and it took almost twenty years before the Uma realized they were not being helped, they were being colonized. The invaders severely underestimated the Uma spirit. In less than a century, the Uma purged them from their planet and shut their doors to most galactic visitors. The lucky few who had been invited told a story of a beautiful world populated by fierce people.
The candidate, whose name was Ellenda, glared at the gathering. Her speech hit the talking points, but her tone seemed almost defiant. She mentioned progress and harmony and strode back to Team Frown with her head held high.
It was the oombole turn now. Their candidate, a fish that looked like someone had painted it with fire, treated us to a frenzied display of jazz fins, and their translation software was clearly having issues.
“… raised the offspring to seek safety and to swim in a way that doesn’t shower those behind them in body fluids.”
Right. Don’t pee on your fellow citizens.
“Thank you, candidate Oond for this refreshing definition of harmony,” Kosandion said. “I believe we have only one candidate left.”
Lady Wexyn glided into the open and smiled. There was something so infectious about that smile. It made you want to smile back.
She leaned forward slightly, making the delicate birds on the golden branches of her headpiece tilt. “Do I say it now, Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” Kosandion said.
Resven clenched his hands together, probably to keep from slapping one of them over his own face.
“I am Lady Wexyn of the Temple of Desire!” she announced.
We waited. Seconds ticked by.
“Lady Wexyn, would you like to tell us how you would raise our child?” Kosandion prompted.
She smiled wider, her eyes innocent and clear, like a night sky lit up by starlight. “Of course. I will love them most of all, Your Majesty. They would be my favorite.”
It took Kosandion another five seconds to realize it was all he was going to get. “Thank you, Lady Wexyn.”
She sashayed back to her people who swarmed her with whispered congratulations.
“On that note, we shall conclude the introductions,” Kosandion announced. “Tomorrow we shall convene for the first of the final challenges. Rest well.”
I glanced at Gaston.
He stepped forward. “We humbly beg you to join us for the evening meal.”
I flicked my hand. The Dushegubs fell through the floor into their pit, where they would find six pig carcasses floating in a foot of dark water. We had asked the delegations in advance if they preferred to dine in public or in private. The Dushegubs didn’t get a choice.
About half of the delegations chose private dining. The rest we divided between the three dining halls. I ended up in the Ocean Dining Hall, mainly because Kosandion took one look at the balcony facing the sea and determined that this would be his preferred view. Of the other dining halls, one offered a vista of our orchard, where Sean currently had his hands full with the otrokars and the Temple, and the third, overseen by Tony, presented a beautiful view of Saturn.
After this was over, I would have to think of the way to thank Tony. Without him, this whole thing would be a lot harder.
The Sovereign wanted to dine in privacy but still be seen, so I sectioned off a portion of the balcony with a see-through soundproof barrier and keyed it to Resven so a request from him would adjust the barrier’s transparency. Besides him, five other groups were in the dining hall: the Holy Ecclesiarch with his party, House Meer, Team Smiles, the Gaheas, and the observers.
Everyone seemed focused on their meal, which was as expected considering who cooked it. I strode between the tables a couple of times to make sure everything was going smoothly and parked myself by the wall.
Team Smiles laughed, their faces and posture relaxed. Their candidate, the one who stared worshipfully at Kosandion during the ceremony, kept sneaking glances at the partition, probably hoping he would look her way. House Meer ate like they were in enemy territory, watching everyone around them. At some point they calmed down enough to talk, which I considered progress. The Gaheas were performing incredible fits of dexterity at their table. They ate with four utensils, holding them two per hand, and they sliced tiny pieces from their food like a team of superstar surgeons.
The Holy Ecclesiarch had barely touched his plate. He was looking a bit mournful.
I drifted over to his table and murmured softly. “Is the food not to your liking, Your Holiness?”
“Your hospitality is beyond reproach,” he said.
“But?”
He looked at his plate of lean fish and vegetables arranged with such artistic flair, it should’ve been photographed for posterity. “It is beautiful. Alas, I have grown older.”
The members of the Dominion’s most numerous species experienced a diminished sense of taste in the final decade of life. It never went away completely, but for them the flavors became muted. The profiles of their meals grew spicier and bolder to stimulate their tired tastebuds. Any galactic chef knew this, let alone a Red Cleaver one.
“No worries,” I told him. “I will be back.”
I walked away to the wall, snapped up a transparent soundproof barrier around myself, and pulled up a screen to the kitchen.
“Orro?”
He appeared on the screen, a looming dark mass of quills. Things must’ve been hectic.
“What’s going on with the Holy Ecclesiarch’s food?”
His spikes trembled. “I was given specific dietary requirements due to health restrictions. Mild food only, to avoid ‘unnecessary strain’ on digestive system.” His voice told me exactly what he thought of that.