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’Zamamee made his way into the makeshift holding area and discovered that a number of other beings had been forced to wait as well. Most sat hunched over, kept to themselves, and stared at the deck.
Making matters even worse was the fact that, rather than first come, first served, it seemed as though rank definitely had its privileges, and the most senior penitents were seen first.
Not that the Elite could complain. Had it not been forhis rank the Council would never have agreed to see him atall . But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, ’Zamamee was ushered into the chamber where the Command Council had convened.
A minor Prophet sat, legs folded, at the center of a table which curved around a podium at which the Elite was clearly expected to stand. Whenever a gust of air hit the exalted one he seemed to bob slightly, suggesting that rather than sit on a chair, he preferred to let his antigrav belt support him, either as a matter of habit, or as a stratagem designed to remind others of who and what he was. Something ’Zamamee not only understood, but admired.
The Prophet wore a complex headpiece. It was set with gemstones and wired for communications. A silver mantle rested on his shoulders and supported a fancifully woven cluster of gold wires which extended forward to place a microphone in front of his bony lips. Richly embroidered red robes cascaded down over his lap and fell to the deck. Obsidian black eyes tracked the Elite all the way to the podium while an assistant whispered in his ear.
The other Elite, an aristocrat named Soha ’Rolamee, raised a hand palm outward. “I greet you ’Zamamee. How is your wound? Healing nicely, I hope.”
’Rolamee outranked ’Zamamee by two full levels. The junior officer gloried in the respectful manner with which the other Elite had greeted him. “Thank you, Excellency. I will heal.”
“Enough,” the Prophet said officiously, “we’re running late, so let’s get on with it. Zuka ’Zamamee comes before the Council seeking special dispensation to take leave of the unit he commands, in order to locate and kill one particular human. A rather strange notion, since all of them look alike and are equally annoying. However, according to our records, this particular human is responsible for hundreds of Covenant casualties.
“The Council notes that Officer ’Zamamee was wounded during an encounter with this human, and reminds Officer ’Zamamee that the Covenant has no tolerance for personal vendettas. Please keep that in mind as you make your case, and be mindful of the time. A measure of brevity will serve you well.”
’Zamamee lowered his eyes as a signal of respect. “Thank you, Excellency. Our spies suspect that the individual in question was raised to be a warrior from a very young age, surgically altered to enhance his abilities, and furnished with armor which may be superior to our own.”
“Better than our own?” the Prophet inquired, his tone making it clear that he considered such a possibility extremely unlikely. “Mind your words, Officer ’Zamamee. The technology underlying the armor you wear came straight from the Forerunners. To say that it is in any way inferior verges on sacrilege.”