“There is absolutely nothing to worry about,” Omni assured me. “All my units boast extreme precision of movements.
“Is dinner ready?” the Colonel barked, holding a short wide glass in his hand. He had snagged a drink from somewhere.
“Yes. Follow me to the dining room, please.” Omni rolled back to the glass doors he’d come from. The Colonel and I followed.
“Do you drink alcohol?” the Colonel asked me on the way.
I couldn’t tell by his tone whether he was simply enquiring before offering me a drink or was getting ready to judge my choices.
Once again, I decided to go with the truth. “Yes, I do.”
“Which drink do you prefer?” His tone was gruff as usual but didn’t appear judgmental.
“Wine,” I said, and added, “If you have something like it on Neron?”
We entered an oval space with a large, glass table in the middle. Just like the room before, this one had a tall clear dome for a ceiling. The entire space also burst with plants and colors everywhere. Even the ornate chandelier hanging over the table served as a lattice for climbing vines. Their red and orange flowers were nearly as bright as its lights.
A drone flew my way with a tall glass of purple liquid clasped in one of its chrome pincers.
“Tell me what you think about this one.” The Colonel gestured at the glass as I carefully took it from the drone. “It was gifted to me for a special occasion last year.”
“Thank you.” I took a small sip and gasped as the purple liquid burned my tongue. The burn, however, was quickly soothed by a fresh, mildly sweet aftertaste. “It’s a little strong, I think...”
My knowledge about wine was limited mostly to its color—red or white. I liked drinking it sometimes and didn’t need to know much about it to enjoy it.
I glanced up at the Colonel, who watched me intently with unreadable expression.
“It’s lovely,” I added, just in case.
He nodded, setting his drink down to pull the chair from the table for me. His gallant gesture came as a surprise. Until now, the Colonel hadn’t done as much as opening a door for me. But then again, the doors had opened on their own everywhere around here.
“Thank you.” I sat down.
A cart rolled in from yet another door to the side as the Colonel took his seat across from me, on the other end of the table. Two drones placed two trays in front of us. They looked like chess boards; small amounts of different foods filled the square indentations.
No matter how nervous the Colonel made me feel, I was starving.
“This looks so good.” I ventured another burning sip of wine then lifted a narrow utensil from the table. “Have the children eaten already?”
I wondered where the twins could be, hoping to meet them sooner rather than later. Besides, the presence of children always helped me relax in most awkward of situations.
“The children?” He glanced up at me from his plate.
“Yes. The boys.” I popped a small cluster of yellow balls in my mouth. They melted on my tongue with a creamy taste of butter and cheese. “What are their names? I couldn’t find that anywhere on the information provided to me.”
“My sons’ names are Olvar Shula Kyradus and Zun Shula Kyradus,” he said with obvious pride.
“Olvar and Zun? Those are beautiful names.”
“I chose them.” He tossed a piece of food from his plate into his mouth, bypassing the use of the utensil. “Olvar means ‘fierce’ in Voranian, and Zun stands for ‘the victorious one.’ I hope they will grow into men who do those names justice.”
“I hope they do...” With the hook-like utensil, I fished out a round piece of something else from my plate and took a tentative bite. It had the crisp texture of a watermelon with a tart, savoury taste. “Where are the boys now?”
“In school.”
It seemed to be a little too late in the day for five-year-olds to still be in school. But then, this wasn’t Earth. I had to expect things to be different.
I tried a small cube from another square indentation. This one turned out to be a piece of cured meat.
“When will they come home?” I asked as soon as I chewed and swallowed the meat.
The Colonel was polishing his food off the tray rather quickly.
“In about three years and four months,” he said.
The utensil dropped out of my hand, clinking against the tray on its way down to the table.
“Three years?” I gaped at him, hoping I’d heard him wrong.
“Yes. They are at the Military Academy. The term for full-time studies there is nine years,” he explained calmly.
“Military Academy for five-year-olds?” I tried to keep judgment out of my voice. After all, I was on a different planet in a different culture...
It proved too hard, though, to force a neutral expression. I was certain the shock I felt was now splattered all over my face.
“Yes,” the Colonel confirmed. “A military focused education has been selected as the most suitable direction for my children.”
“Selected by whom?”
“Myself, with the assistance of aptitude testing conducted by The Ministry of Children’s Education and Wellbeing.”
“How do you determine aptitude in a five-year-old?” I left the utensil where it lay, no longer feeling that hungry.
He stared at me.
“Why a five-year-old? My sons have been at the Academy from birth.”
My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline as I stared at him in astonishment. All my thoughts came to a complete stop for a moment.
“How could you possibly teach military tactics to a newborn? I assume that’s what’s taught at the Military Academy?”
“Right,” he confirmed. “Military tactics are a part of the curriculum. Of course, the lessons don’t start until later. Newborns don’t sit in classes.”
“Well, that’s good. Since, you know, sitting would be difficult for someone who can’t even hold up his own head.”
He peered at me for a moment, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind my tone. There had definitely been a hefty dose of sarcasm in my voice. My resolve to be open-minded and accepting of the other culture had been proving increasingly difficult to maintain the more he spoke.
“Have your children ever been here, in their family home?”
“On a few occasions,” he replied flatly, his expression guarded.
“So, you don’t get to see them, at all, then?” I pressed on.
He shifted in his seat, leaning all the way back.
“I see them once or twice a month,” he said slowly, “but I track their academic progress daily. I also check their health reports every morning.”
“Well, tracking their blood pressure and progress in math doesn’t exactly substitute for actually seeing them, does it?”
He narrowed his eyes at me then suddenly shoved his plate aside with force.
“Are you criticizing the way I’m raising my children?”
The fading glimmer of the sunset, aided by the soft light from the chandelier, made his red eyes appear to glow against the dark gray of his face. I sensed his displeasure hanging in the air, thick and smothering like a wool blanket. It was terrifying.
I sucked in a breath. My problem was that I could never keep my mouth shut even when it was obviously to my benefit. My tongue often ran faster than my thoughts.