May 30, 2440 6:30 PM
“I liked most of the people I met the last few day. Your family is interesting,” T’mari said with a soft laugh as they changed for the evening. “Even Ashton, but not his brother Ben.”
“I like Ashton, normally,” Matt said, brushing his hair. “His side of the family is a little bitter that his great-grandfather and my Great-great grandfather was Freeholder Morgan Boone Marmaduke. He named his second son, my grandfather, Dale Wallace, as Freeholder instead of his elder son Benjamin Clarke. The truth is, Dale Wallace wanted to farm and had the management skills to run the Freehold. Ben Clarke didn’t have the skills or temperment. Ben given another nice property on the other side of Columbia. It is managed by the family trust and runs under Trust Law. Ashton’s older brother Ben inherited that from his father and still lives there. Ashton and most of his siblings got nothing when their father died.” He glanced at her. “Ashton served as my trust regent until I was eightteen. He just needs the occasional reminder I am no longer eigteen not to take me lightly. You’ll meet his wife tonight—she’s a university professor and on the guest list. You will really like her.”
She noticed the way he didn’t mention Ben and wondered if he was was writing him the way he wrote off Memphis off or planning to kill him. From what she had heard if the man she would be fine with the second.
“Should I have taken Marie’s advice and gone with different jewelry?” T’mari asked, turning to display her modest but beautifully cut yellow topaz pieces.
“No. Yes, yellow topaz is common here—lab-created even—but on V’ren, it’s rare and precious. You’re wearing sunstones for your first formal party. It’s right. And it looks amazing against your skin.” He kissed her bare shoulder and zipped up her dress.
The dress had been a compromise. Marie had pushed for slinky little black numbers—perfect “party accessories,” as she put it—but brown was the formal color in V’ren culture. The designer sided with T’mari on the color; it flattered her green skin far better. Marie won on silhouette, commissioning earth-styled dresses tailored to V’ren color palettes.
Marie and her stylist mostly lost where he was concerned. He could have gone with a tux—he owned two and looked damn good in both—but this wasn’t tuxedo weather. Tonight in Columbia was hot enough to poach trout on the hood of the Road Runner. It was barong weather.
So he wore a hand-loomed piña cloth Barong Tagalog, custom-tailored, its embroidery so fine it shimmered with silk and gold thread under the event lights. Imported, heat-appropriate pina cloth, made by a family of Filipinos right here in Columbia who had been making them for 250 years out of the same shop—it wasn’t just about comfort. It was a nod to Missouri’s deeply rooted Filipino community, to the titas who knew real status wasn’t found in European tailoring but in fabric that could survive both July humidity and community scrutiny.
It was also a reminder: he chose everything he wore as a reminder to his people who he was. His Filipino roots were always on display as 20 generations of Marmaduke boys raised to manhood by seven lolas. He wore them in his genes as plainly as the jeans he’d rather be in. He might have also chosen to honor his Bangladeshi grandmother. Or his Japanese great-grandmother, through his grandfather’s line.”
He would wear nothing military, ever again. No medals. No rank pins. Not even a uniform tee. He’d earned every right to wear them—and refused to. Permanently.
The only exception, he liked to say, was if someone put on a revival of The Pirates of Penzance and begged him to play the Major-General. In that case, he’d go full Gilbert and Sullivan—plumed hat, faux medals, sabre and all. Because if he was going to wear a uniform, it was going to be for a joke. One that everyone could laugh at, including him.
But tonight wasn’t theater. It was politics. Optics. Money. And this barong was the right kind of power play. It said: I’m wealthy, I’m local, and I didn’t forget who built the roads that brought us here.
Heels had been another battle. T’mari refused them as torture devices. The designer pointed out that she was almost Matt’s height, so heels would make her too tall in pictures. The compromise: low, heeled flats for her, and a slight gel lift for him. They maintained the inches in visual height difference. He liked that the V’ren foot was broken down into twelve parts, which were called toes. That made much more sense than inches.
“Angelina suggested I pierce my ears,” T’mari said, eyeing herself in the mirror.
“I haven’t seen many V’ren women with pierced ears.”
“It’s something mature women do. I could’ve had it done once I passed physical womanhood, but I crawl through access tubes and play with electrical sparks. Dangling bits of metal never seemed wise.”
“Try clip-ons first,” Matt offered, flipping open a tablet to an old photo. He showed her the dragon-shaped ear cuff a local girl had made him back in his teenage years. “I still have this one somewhere. The dragon. Not the mullet.”
“You were cute,” she said, wondering what other pictures might be in there.
They arrived in style. The valet practically drooled over the pearlescent purple Road Runner and looked shocked at the tip. Matt believed in tipping heavily when he wanted to be remembered as rich. Tonight’s crowd leaned academic—many eager to impress wealthy patrons. Matt openly funded the underappreciated history department and quietly paid the full salaries for three professors and nine graduate students in other social science departments.
“You two look lovely,” Marie said, gliding toward them. “I was wrong—the brown and topaz look stunning on you.”
“Thank you. And I’m glad you convinced me on the cut. Back home, everyone has legs as long as mine. Here?” She grinned. “It’s more of an advantage.”
“If you’ll excuse us,” Matt said, steering General Leonard away. “I need to borrow him for a moment.”
Leonard followed without question. The elevator didn’t move for anyone else—Matt’s keycard took them straight to the roof.
“Welcome to the club,” Matt said, stepping out under the stars. The group waiting there—scarred, silent, solemn—were veterans. Leonard recognized the look instantly. He also recognized the beverage carts with exactly the right number of glasses
“We gather tonight for a toast of remembrance,” Matt said, pouring out 80-year-old Duke’s Bourbon. “To absent friends… and fuck the fucking fuckers who start senseless wars!” He hurled the empty bottle into the night.
“Fucking the fucking fuckers!” the group echoed, ritual complete.
“For those who knew Angel Magsaysay—I met her son yesterday. She’s in Michigan, still herding cats, and I bet they obey.” Laughter followed.
“I’ve got rich people to swindle and a party to get back to,” Matt said, clasping hands, leaving two bottles of 20-year-old Duke’s behind and guiding Leonard and several others back down. Not everyone was ready for polite society even if the war had officially been over for twenty-years.
Marie leaned in conspiratorially as they passed a rotating display of archival architecture prints. “You’re doing beautifully. Everyone’s watching, and not one of them can look away.”
“I’d rather not be watched,” T’mari said softly.
“Oh, sweetheart. Too late for that. You’re tall, green, and smarter than most of the men here. Wear it like diamonds.”
Two men approached from the buffet end of the annex—gray hair, measured steps, and just enough posture to indicate tenure.
“T’mari,” Marie said without missing a beat, “allow me to abandon you just long enough to refill my drink. Dean Callahan, Dean Tran—do be kind.” And she slipped away like vapor.
Dean Callahan extended a hand. “Ms. T’mari, it’s an honor. I’ve read your documentation on the data merging project you began on your first day here. That was an excellent bit of engineering.”
T’mari took his hand with a polite nod, then turned to Dean Tran. “Thank you, I am actually quite proud of how things turned out.”
Tran blinked. “Are you working on any other special projects at the moment?”
“Mm.” T’mari smiled. “It is more of a social engineering. I am working on first contact protocols for humanity to use as you meet new races. I believe you will need that more quickly than you are going to be ready for it.”
“How soon??” Tran asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It will take between 130 and 140 Earth days before news reaches V’ren of our arrival,” T’mari said. “I suspect the bureaucrats to take some time to act on it, but not a lot. You could see more V’ren ships by late April. We deal with more than a hundred other people and many of them could be here much sooner.”
Callahan caught the implication first, his eyes widening just slightly. “Write those protocols, and I would back your doctorate. I will assume that is part of why you wanted to see me with that cryptic message.”
“Please don’t mention this to Matt,” she added quickly. “I want to show him and the people of earth that we can hold our own at your universities. When it’s real.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Tran said.
“call my office next week,” Callahan said with a nod.
As they walked off, T’mari let herself exhale.
Marie reappeared with two flutes of champagne. “So, did I miss anything?”
“Only everything,” T’mari said, taking the glass. “But I’ll tell you later.”
Back inside, Marie was already guiding T’mari through introductions. Matt would review the video later—funding the entire party came with perks, including campus police cooperation and quiet surveillance.
“Tammy!” Matt opened his arms for a hug. “Ashton,” he added, shaking his cousin’s hand.
“Uncle Matt!” squealed Rebeccah, Ashton’s sixteen, year, old daughter.
“Beks!” Matt said, scooping her up in a hug. He meant it earlier—he loved Ashton’s kids. On paper, Beks was even his heir if he had none, not that she would ever find out in his lifetime. “You look great!” He gave her a twirl to resettle her peach dress and nodded a thank you at Tammy for bringing her.
“I want you to meet someone,” he said, taking Beks by the hand. “This is T’mari.”
Before he could stop her, Beks curtsied. “My lady—”
“Get up. She’s not a fucking princess,” Matt chuckled. “Unless I dress her up like Leia.”
“You’d totally put her in that gold bikini.”
Matt looked away sheepishly. Across the room, Ashton did the same.
“If you ever dress me in chains, you’d better expect me to use them,” T’mari muttered.
“Kinky,” Matt burst out laughing.
“Does he always act like this in public?” she asked, mastering an eyeroll she’d picked up from Angelina.
Tammy stepped in smoothly. “All Marmaduke men do—when they’re not being worse. I’m Tammy—short for Tamara. Let’s stick to informality. We don’t want anyone confusing us.”
T’mari shook both their hands formally. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And nice to see you again, Ashton.”
“Dad, you didn’t tell me you’d already met the alien princess!” Beks whined.
Matt gave Ashton a sympathetic glance.
Hours later, Matt collapsed into the couch, one leg stretched along the cushions, a heavy wine goblet in hand. T’mari curled up against him.
“What did you think of tonight?” he asked.
“I’m very disappointed.”
“Oh?”
“Angelina said social events like this would have cheese. There was not nearly enough cheese,” she said, opening the pizza box.
“I’ll hire a better caterer next time.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shoving pizza crust in his mouth before he could elaborate.
He chewed, swallowed, then replied. “The university needs events like this. They fund lesser departments—like social sciences and the arts. Important fields, but not always practical or profitable. Tammy teaches anthropology. If her department had to survive on student tuition alone, it would’ve closed centuries ago.”
T’mari nodded. “Lack of funding for the arts is not a uniquely human problem.”
Matt nearly dropped his wine from smiling so hard.
“So… did you pay for just the caterer?” she asked.
“Everything. But we pulled in new donations. I also own half the catering company. And thank you for coming—you being here made people want to come. I believe in keeping those disciplines alive.”
“There’s more to it than that,” she guessed, watching his face.
“Of course there is,” Matt admitted. “Tomorrow we begin the real work of this trip.”
“Which is?”
He pointed at a nearby closet. “We go in there and start analyzing security footage of the party—and reviewing everything said at the company meetings before we arrived.”
She raised a newly shaped and tweezed Vulcanesque eyebrow. “That’s tomorrow. And tonight?”
“Tonight?” He grinned. “Shut up and kiss me so I can properly introduce you to The Godfather.” He flicked the remote toward the screen.
Light’s dimmed and blinked out completely.
Everything faded to black and the words “I believe in America” sounded hollow in this post collapse world.
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