May 5, 2440 3:00 PM
The work never stopped. Martin, seated behind his control board on the flatbed he converted for doing local DJ work. He pinged the network and watched the reply. He was connected to Marmaduke Media in Marshall for their own archival use and the ad hoc relay stations between here and Boonville where more than 30 reporters were already on the ground and had tried to cross the bridge. He gave Matt a thumbs up. A dozen drones rose silently from the perimeter, their feeds syncing in real time to his command board. He adjusted the cameras. “Audio confirmed. Mics hot. Let’s rock and roll.”
T’mari stepped forward first, calm and composed, her presence radiating quiet authority. She spoke in melodic V’ren, while her translator rendered the words into fluent, neutral-accented English.
“Good afternoon. My name is T’mari of House Th’ron. I serve as a diplomatic and cultural liaison for my people. The voice you are hearing is that of my translator, which renders my words faithfully for clarity and understanding.
Our arrival here was not intentional, but your response was measured, generous, and wise. We are grateful for aid given, for lives saved, and for the welcome extended to those who now stand with you. We come in peace and in friendship.”
She gave a short, practiced bow of the head, the gesture both respectful and dignified.
Matt followed with his usual grounded delivery, the kind of voice that made people lean in without realizing it.
“We’re working to integrate critical services. The V’ren crew are here under peaceful terms. I’ve taken their vaccine myself. They’re not just my guests, they’re Marmaduke Freehold responsibility now.”
Martin stepped in briefly over comms to clarify logistics: all further access to V’ren delegates or human coordinators must be arranged through the joint Earth–V’ren Embedded Media Committee. He did not elaborate further.
Matt answered the first three questions they had okayed with the standard diplomatic bullshit about the need for patience. The next question was one he had anticipated.
“Can you confirm whether the hot green woman who walked down the ramp is your new girlfriend?”
Matt sighed, the long, slow exhale of a man who’d been expecting this. “T’mari is not my girlfriend. She’s my cultural liaison.
Also, welcome to Earth diplomacy, where we’re apparently now grading first contact events on an internet hotness scale.”
The translator caught every syllable. T’mari blinked slowly, then arched one brow in amused resignation.
Matt glanced at his watch, already thinking about the next meeting on his schedule. There were systems to integrate, crews to coordinate, and land-use questions to resolve. Let Martin and the comms team handle the memes that would be flooding out in minutes.
The video briefing ended at 3:11 PM.
The memes started by 3:14.
The work never stopped.
