May 16, 2440, 8:30 PM
“You wanted to see me?” T’mari asked, knocking lightly on the wooden doorframe. She paused to touch it—warm, worn, imperfect in a way that only came from centuries of human hands. She wondered if she was the first V’ren to leave her fingerprint on it.
“Please, come in,” Matt said, switching to her language, testing himself. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“No. I’ve been looking for an excuse to slip away for the past hour, but I didn’t want to leave my sister alone with the girls. They’re very kind—just overly curious. Right now, they’re tailoring some of the clothes that came in and enjoying themselves. Thank you for sending them. She needs that kind of company more than I do.”
“It’s a small thing, but I’m glad they could find something that fits so quickly. In a big city, it would’ve been easy, but I don’t know many human women with legs as long as yours. I thought it might be a challenge. Are you hungry? I was about to have a snack. They tend to overfeed me.” He gestured toward the tray and rolled a chair over for her.
“I didn’t realize standing around without pants while someone hemmed them would be such hungry work,” she said, settling in. The denim felt good. The cotton underneath felt better.
Matt smiled faintly, assuming she meant the tailoring process was tiring. “I know W’ren asked you to report back in person when the ships are closer. I want to show you more before then—give you more to take back.” He slid half a ham sandwich toward her, speared a carrot stick through dressing, and kept to himself the simpler truth: because I just want to spend time with you.
“I could change the time, but I’m scheduled for an interface session at four in the afternoon,” she said, pleased the human clocks aligned neatly with base-12 time. Foreign, but not foreign to her.
“Ship or firehouse?”
“Ship,” she said, sampling a small black orb from the tray and nearly spitting it out before masking the reaction.
“So olives aren’t your thing,” he said, handing her a napkin.
“Not if I can avoid them,” she replied, disposing of it discreetly and taking the half-finished can of Dr Pepper he offered. She set it back down in just the right place, wondering if he’d drink from it again. If he did, she’d have her answer—not that he’d know the question.
“I’ll introduce you to kilar berries someday, if I’m mad at you.”
He reached for the can without a second thought and took a drink.
“I’ll have you back to the ship before your session,” he said, like it was nothing—like planning around her mattered.
“That’s… delightful,” she said after biting into the sandwich. “Tell me about tomorrow.”
“It’s time the neighbors meet the V’ren. I’m hearing some pushback.”
“I thought we had met your neighbors. I like Angelina and MJ, the Harts, the people in Arrow Rock.”
“I’m glad—especially about Angelina and MJ. But I mean the wider community. I’ve got a trip to Columbia next week. If you’re back from space, I’d like you to come. There’s also pressure to introduce you to the rest of the world, but I’m undecided on timing. And I’m inviting you, along with a few others, to join me for a few more trips next month.”
“Why me? There are more senior people. More socially important.”
“Would you believe me if I said I enjoy your company?”
“It’s because I’m available again, isn’t it?” she said, already knowing the real reason.
“No. That plays into it, sure—but you also represent humanity well. Before the plague in 2073, the U.S. average age was 46.9. Globally, it was 35.9. The U.S. is a ghost now. The current average is barely 26 north of Mexico, about 34 worldwide. It would be higher, but too many in the huge overcrowded cities choose to self-terminate.”
“Self-terminate?” She asked with food halfway to her mouth when she parsed the meaning.
“Exactly what you think. They get to a point where the call of life no longer appeals to them and they go in, pay a fee, and have a line put into a vein. They’re given two syringes. One you inject and it puts you to sleep. The other uses a safety switch that injects a combination of drugs to stop your heart and scramble your brain. I don’t judge them, but I do judge a system so horrible that 65% of the people who self-terminate are between 38 and 48.”
Matt didn’t want to mention another 10% were under the age of 30 and half came from within the CCA, chasing dreams of corporate largess only to find life not worth living after just a few years of it.
“You’re young, educated, attractive, and making an effort to integrate. People—especially the neighbors—need to see that.”
Every word was true. But really, he just wanted a day to drive around and show her off.
He wouldn’t say that—wouldn’t risk putting it the wrong way, wouldn’t trust himself to read the moment right. But part of him hoped that seeing her beside him—elegant, articulate, visibly curious about this world—might quiet the rising murmur. The one from family, allies, even a few V’ren elders, all hinting that it was time. Time to marry again. Time to choose. Time to produce a proper heir.
Maybe if they saw T’mari, they’d back off. Maybe they’d understand there was someone he wanted to share that future with, even if he hadn’t admitted it out loud. Or maybe—he admitted with a tired flicker of doubt—it would only make things worse. Because once the old families realized T’monn had been telling him the truth about genetic compatibility, the pressure wouldn’t ease. It would double. And they’d stop asking when he’d choose a partner, and start asking why he hadn’t already claimed the obvious one.
So he didn’t say any of that. He just reached for a piece of broccoli, bumping hands over the dip like it was nothing. Like planning around her mattered.
