He met their gaze for a second then quickly looked away, doing his best to ignore them. He was in a foul mood tonight, but he wasn’t about to try and revive the First Contact War. Instead, he turned his
attention to the asari dancer on the stage in the center of the bar.
Of all the species in Council space, the asari were the most widespread… and the ones who most closely resembled humans. Human women, anyway: tall and slender, with well-proportioned figures. The asari were an asexual species — the concept of gender didn’t really apply. But to Anderson’s eye they were clearly female. Even their facial features were human… although they had an angelic, almost ethereal quality to them. Their complexion was tinged with a blue or greenish hue, but pigment modification was a simple enough procedure that it was possible to see humans of similar skin color, too. Only the backs of their heads betrayed their alien origins. Instead of hair, they had wavy folds of sculpted skin… not entirely unattractive, but a disconcertingly alien feature on a species that was otherwise so human in appearance.
The asari were something of a paradox for Anderson. On the one hand they were an aesthetically captivating species. They seemed to embrace this aspect of themselves, and often took to the openly alluring or sensually provocative professions. Asari frequently performed as dancers or served as consorts for hire. On the other hand, they were the most respected, admired, and powerful species in the galaxy.
Renowned for their wisdom and foresight, the asari, by all accepted accounts, were the first species after
the Prothean extinction to achieve interstellar flight. They were also the first to discover the Citadel, and they were a founding member species of the Council. The asari controlled more territory and wielded more influence than any other race.
Anderson knew all these facts, yet he often found it difficult to reconcile their dominant role in galactic politics with the enthralling performance of an asari on the stage. He knew the failure was his: a product of his human biases and ill-conceived expectations. It was stupid to judge an entire species on the basis of an individual. But it went deeper than an impression formed by watching a few dancers: the asari looked female, so they were victims of stereotypical human anti-matriarchal tendencies.
At least he was aware of his prejudice, and he did his best to fight against it. Unfortunately he knew there were plenty of other humans who felt the same way and were more than willing to give in to their biases. Just further proof that they still had a lot to learn about the rest of the galaxy.
As he continued to watch the dancer performing on stage, Anderson found the subtle differences in their physiology easy to ignore. He’d heard plenty of graphic tales of interspecies sexual relations, he’d even seen a few vids. He prided himself on keeping an open mind, but that kind of thing normally repulsed him. With the asari, however, he could understand the attraction. And from everything he’d heard, they were highly skilled lovers as well.
But that wasn’t why he was here, either.
He turned away from the stage just as the volus bartender waddled up to serve him. The volus home world had a gravity nearly one and a half times that of Earth, and because of this the volus were shorter than humans, their bodies so thick and heavy they almost appeared to be spherical. While the turians evoked hawks or falcons, the volus reminded Anderson of the manatees he had seen at the marine preserve during his last visit to Earth: slow, lumbering, and almost comical.
The atmosphere on the Citadel was thinner than they were used to, so they tended to wear rebreather masks, obscuring their faces. But Anderson had been in Chora’s Den enough times to recognize this particular volus.
“I need a drink, Maawda.”
“Of course, Lieutenant,” the bartender replied, his voice wheezing through the rebreather and the folds of skin at his throat. “What type of beverage do you desire?”
“Surprise me. Something new. Make it strong.”
Maawda pulled a blue bottle from the shelves behind the bar and a glass from beneath the counter. “This is elasa,” he explained as he filled the glass with a pale green liquid. “From Thessia.”
The asari home world. Anderson nodded, then took a tentative sip. The drink was sharp and cold, but it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. The lingering aftertaste was particularly strong, and markedly different from the first sip. It was a bitter flavor, with an undertone of tangy sweetness. If he had to use one word to describe it, he would have said “poignant.”
“Not bad,” he said approvingly, taking another sip.
“Some call it Sorrow’s Companion,” Maawda noted, settling himself and leaning in on the counter across from his customer. “A melancholy drink for a melancholy man.”
The lieutenant couldn’t help but smile at the situation: a volus bartender spotting depression in his human customer, and feeling enough compassion to ask what was wrong. Further proof of what Anderson truly believed: despite all the obvious physical and cultural differences, at their core nearly every species shared the same basic needs, wants, and values.
“I got some bad news today,” he answered, running a finger around the rim of his drink. He didn’t know a lot about volus culture, so he wasn’t quite sure how to explain his situation. “Do you know what marriage is?”
The bartender nodded. “It is a formalized union between partners, yes? An institutionalized recognition of the mating process. My people have a similar tradition.”
“Well, I just got divorced. My wife and I are no longer together. My marriage is officially over as of today.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Maawda wheezed. “But I am also surprised. In all the times you have come in before you have never mentioned any kind of partner.”
Therein lay the problem. Cynthia was back on Earth, and Anderson wasn’t. He was either here on the Citadel or out patrolling the Verge. He was a soldier first, and a husband second… and Cynthia deserved better.
He downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp, then slammed the glass back down on the bar. “Hit me again, Maawda.”
The bartender did as instructed. “Perhaps this situation is only temporary, yes?” he asked as he refilled
Anderson’s cup. “Maybe in time you will resume this partnership?” Anderson shook his head. “No chance of that. It’s over. Time to move on.”
“Easy to say, not so easy to do,” the volus replied knowingly.
Anderson took another drink, but he was back to sipping. It wasn’t wise to overdo it on a new drink; every concoction had its own unique effects. He could already feel an unusual sensation spreading through him. A numbing warmth crawled its way up from his stomach and out along his arms and legs, making his toes tingle and his fingers itch. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar.
“Just how strong is this stuff?” he asked the bartender.
Maawda shrugged. “Depends on how much you drink. I can leave the bottle if you wish to crawl out of here.”
The volus’s offer sounded like a hell of an idea. Anderson wanted nothing more than to drink until everything went away: the dull, aching pain of the divorce; the gruesome images of the dead bodies at Sidon; the lingering, indefinable stress that always dogged him in those first few days after he came off patrol. But he had a meeting in the morning with the human ambassador to the Citadel, and it wouldn’t be professional to show up with a hangover.
“Sorry, Maawda. I better go. Early meeting tomorrow.” He polished off his drink and stood up, relieved to see the room wasn’t spinning around him. “Put it on my account.”