Captain's Log: 94904.3
As my landing craft came to a halt, it was very clear that I was nowhere near my final destination. The coordinates listed in the on board computers had me on the outskirts of this particular meeting place.
It was best that we didn't raise any alarm as we walked down the street. Unlike most of my voyages, it appeared that we were walking through a culture that was 150 years behind that of our own.
Wearing dark colors, I blended in and found that they did expect me. My seeking of an audience was approved by the councilor's gatekeeper. The disguise worked perfectly. Mind tricks were unnecessary and thankful we were. As my ingress preceded the ceremonial dances, I requested a local beverage from the host.
It was served to me in a tall green can, a bit different than what we are used to. I am still not certain if my libation was a mind altering substance, but things felt different than they did before. As the feeling was delightful, our delegation continued to imbibe these fizzy, amber beverages in tall cans.
This particular culture was rather ceremonial. Before the hopeful came to the main floor of the audience chamber, a quorum had to be taken. Once that was satisfied, the lights dimmed and they were announced. Like many primitive planets the Federation has visited, these representative groups were from all over what they call their countries.
This particular group was known as Spacetrucker. Unlike the other bands of petitioners, they were from the same prefecture as the assemblage took place. The sounds of their prayers were not dissimilar how my shuttlecraft sounds upon take off.
They were able to convey their messages with aplomb, though they appeared to be the slightest bit nervous in speaking before the far away delegations with whom their timekeeper saw as respected elders.
The second long form petition was made by a band that hailed from far to the east of our meeting place. They referred to themselves as Karma To Burn, but they chose to speak very little. In fact, not a single one of their prayers contained any words.
Presumably, they had the ability to beam their messages through their instruments to the Members of Parliament attending their memorial. Their message resonated soundly, both in my ears and my soul. Still, I heard no words. I only heard images. Their method of communication was adroit and succinct.
Per standard civilized mores, the suitors were led to the chamber in reverse order of their particular importance on that evening and were given differing amounts of time in which to appeal to the assemblage.
The next suitors were Fatso Jetson. This band of brothers intrigued me greatly. In my experience with gatherings of this sort, the aspirants tend to have a sort of uniform, at least in style. These men all seemed to have been plucked from different parts of the state and formed.
Their brand of benedictions was different from the previous. Much like the men themselves, their chants were assembled with many different kinds of prayer devices. Their ability to cobble together such mismatched pieces into powerful litanies was neither lost on myself nor the rest of Parliamentary members.
Their low frequency specialist was moved both spiritually and quite literally by their messages. He was an inspiration to all.
As is typical, the breaks between supplications is the perfect time for sensing the mood of the MPs to see how they will rule upon each request. Naturally, this is done outside with guarded language. As I listened to them, always a few steps behind listening, choosing to avoid engagement in order to maintain the Prime Directive, they roared in approval.
Their language was rather unguarded.
During my forays into the makeshift juries outside of the capitol building, a distinct odor permeated the air. The only other time I can recall this pungent smell being so prevalent out of doors was during a mission to the large bay on the Western Side of this continent, San Francisco I believe it was called.
Many spoke of an increased importance of the day, but I could find nothing in my files to buttress this.
After an appropriate time, the final claimants came to the stage. Their name, The Obsessed, was rather synonymous to the timbre of their application of suit. In times, they sounded more primitive than the others.
There were no spectacular devices employed like the previous suitors in order to create a modern sound. They chose to root the tonality of their music to sound, somewhat angry and distorted.
Even though they were dealing with some technical difficulties, including the speaker's sacred instrument having it's strings destroyed by their gods, or presumably by unseen lasers. If this was based upon anyone's displeasure, The Obsessed seemed to not let on.
They prayed for the longest and in the end, the MPs save their most raucous approvals these men. It was impossible for me to stay on the outside looking in. During their invocations, I had to move towards the middle the chamber in order to feel the full force of their power, which they had in spades.
It's impossible to say for certain but I'm certain....