Date: June 1, 2440 Time: 8:30 PM CST
“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, took a drink. “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 trip to Chicago 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. 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 it—didn’t have the language, didn’t trust himself to get the cultural cues right. So he reached for a piece of broccoli, just to bump hands over the dip.
