Date: June 6, 2440 Time: 5:30 PM
“I did not expect that last question.”
“How did she find out?” T’Mari asked in V’ren, knowing Matt’s earpiece would translate, if he hadn’t picked up enough vocabulary yet through the neural interface.
“That was cleverly asked. Let’s wait until we’re in private. The walls have ears.”
“That same phrase exists in V’ren,” she laughed, stepping into the afternoon sun. She gave a casual wave—something she’d picked up from old game shows—as Matt led her forward.
“Hey, boss man—will you and the princess hop in?” Robert called, his Jeep crunching over sidewalk gravel like it belonged there.
Matt stepped onto the tire and swung into the back, offering T’Mari a hand up.
“T’Mari, this is Robert—an old college friend. I’ve brought him and a few others on board to help us out,” he said, and turned to Robert. “We’re staying at the Maddy.”
“I thought the plan was to stay at the Tiger,” Robert said, clearly proud of his family’s long-standing ties to the historic hotel.
“That’s what we leaked to the press. There’ll be V’ren guests arriving soon, but we need the breathing room. I’ll introduce T’Mari to your wife, your mom, and the kids once the media frenzy dies down. Your mom will understand.”
“She’ll be fucking relieved. It is a madhouse over there,” Robert said, swerving off a footpath onto the quad proper, ignoring a growing number of violations. “What about your truck?”
“That’s been seen too. Missy had it towed about 30 minutes ago,” Matt said, referring to another mutual friend who was now Chief of Campus Police. “I did park illegally for show. She thinks we’re staying at the Claymore. If she’s feeling kind, she’ll tow it there instead of impound.”
“That’d be embarrassing for a big shot like you.”
“When you’re rich, paying fines is just part of your duty to keep society running,” Matt replied, knowing both the truth and how it destroyed the old world, leading to the collapse of America.
“Must be nice,” Robert grinned, checking mirrors and accelerating as two overweight campus cops broke into a half-hearted chase. “Hold on!”
He clipped the curb, took a tight corner, and ran a red light—relying on the onboard computer’s all-clear. “Figure you’d better cover the tickets I am getting for you, too.”
Matt just smiled as Robert ducked into a back alley, slowing the vehicle to a crawl.
“This is our stop,” Matt said, nodding toward two of the MPs in civilian clothes doing a poor job of pretending to be casual while holding assault rifles in an alcove.
“Evening, boys,” he called, pleased that Leonard had managed to get so many he thought could be trusted with T’mari’s safety.
“Captain,” the one on the right said reflexively, trying not to salute.
“I’m a civvie now,” Matt replied, clapping the young man on the shoulder.
“You’ll always be the Captain to me, sir. My mother is Sergeant First Class Angel Magsaysay.”
“No shit,” Matt said, with a rare, genuine smile for strangers, though the son of Angel Magsaysay would make him kin in all ways but blood. “How is your Mother?”
“She retired six years ago—Command Sergeant Major by then. She spends her time on the family farm in Michigan now, trying to make the cats and goats obey her.”
Matt laughed softly. “Tell her good luck—and give her my best. If anyone can manage to herd cats, it’s her. We’re headed in to relax for a bit—maybe grab some pizza, later.”
“We’ve been briefed,” the MP said. “Martinez here just had some. He says it’s damn good—which means something, coming from a guy born in Chicago Proper.”
“Do I know your family, Martinez?” Matt asked.
“No, sir. But if it’s not too much, could I get a picture of your friend for my daughters? They’d love it.”
“Of course,” T’Mari said with a gracious smile. “Later.”
The MPs opened the door.
Inside, the space opened to exposed rafters—wide, spare, and half-converted from its past life. T’Mari inhaled deeply.
“It smells like memories… and garlic,” she said.
“That’s the pizza downstairs,” Matt replied. “Sorry you missed the party. We had one the night before you landed—just locals, and too much wine.”
She stepped inside slowly, eyes on the scattered furniture. “So who are Maggy, Missy, and Angel? I’ve decided I need to know the names of the women in your life.”
Matt dropped into a well-worn chair with a sigh, opened a drink fridge, cracked a beer, and gestured for her to sit. She chose the edge of the coffee table. He said nothing—just took another drink, this one deeper than the last.
“This building’s nickname is the Maggy. Officially, it’s the Margaret Carlisle Building. She was a business titan in the 1800s. The place was once on the National Register of Historic Places—back when we had a government to maintain such lists. My family owns the building and the block. The Columbia Collective owns the land. We split the rents—Carlisle Pizza’s just downstairs.”
“You lived here?”
“Used it as a dorm in college. Started the office conversion a few years ago. Missy’s an old friend—Chief of Campus Police now, but she’s been on my payroll since everything started going sideways.”
He finished the bottle, reached for a second, and looked at her. “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about the last uprising.”
She shook her head slightly.
“That’ll make this harder.”
He opened the second bottle. Then a third. Somewhere in the telling, he lost track of which was which.
“The place was called Florida, but the rebels named it the Divine Republic. Their leader—Ezekiel Sanders—called himself a prophet. In truth, he was a pedophile with a god complex and a pirate radio signal that pulled every lunatic who wanted a harem of little girls.”
T’Mari stilled.
“I was stationed at a forward supply depot. We were in a cleared zone. The insurgency was nearly dead after nineteen years of swamp-fighting. We were just there to deliver aid after a hurricane.”
He exhaled. His hands trembled, but he kept talking.
“They hit us at night—mortars out of the trees. Twenty-six dead in minutes. Forty-three more were bleeding out. We had no way out. One of the wounded was Angel Magsaysay. You met her son outside.”
He paused.
“She was screaming for her boy while holding her guts in. Four soldiers died trying to drag her to cover.”
His voice cracked.
“I couldn’t take it. I grabbed every sidearm I could carry and ran into the trees, firing blind. Four others followed. None made it back. But I got to her. Dragged her a hundred meters through muck, patched her up the best I could. We pulled back under darkness—ten klicks through water and blood. Command ordered me to leave her. I didn’t.”
He stared at the floor, no longer seeing it.
“Ninety-seven more died during the retreat. Ninety-seven lives—for one. And I’d do it again.”
He let the bottle slip from his fingers. It thudded softly onto the rug. His head dropped into his hands. Silence followed.
After a long moment, T’Mari spoke, her voice low.
“What happened to Ezekiel Sanders?”
Her translator had caught up with the word pedophile. Her face had changed.
Matt didn’t look up.
“Officially? One of his child brides killed him.”
“And the truth?”
Matt leaned back. His eyes were flat.
“They call it the night of terror. The Prophet’s people shot down a medevac. The pilot radioed their location before the crash. The crew was executed. One of the soldiers who found them… his sister was the pilot.”
Matt’s jaw locked.
“He lost himself. Slipped into the dark. That night, he killed sixty-seven people—with a knife and a tomahawk.”
T’Mari’s breath caught.
“He took their scalps,” Matt continued, voice like steel. “Said it was to shame them in death. An old tribal belief. His people—the Oglala Sioux—believed if you entered the afterlife bald, you carried dishonor forever.”
He looked at her now. Hollow. Calm.
“He handed the scalps to his commanding officer. The man tried to have him court-martialed.”
Matt gave a bitter, almost-smile.
“But you don’t convict a war hero. Even if some of the ones he killed were armed child brides.”
T’Mari held his gaze.
“My people,” she said, “would have carved statues of you. And sung your story into our history.”
Matt let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Or something darker.
“I need a shower if we’re going to get pizza,” he said. He rose, tossed the bottle into the trash, and paused long enough to place his palm gently against her cheek.
The gesture was jarringly tender—like a memory interrupting violence.
Then came the practiced smile. Public Matt. Composed. Tidy.
“I’ll be a few minutes.”
He disappeared down the hall.
T’Mari didn’t move. She watched the shadows where he’d gone, then reached for her comm. She needed to talk to Angelina.
She had just been handed something sacred. And it was heavier than she expected.
