He led the way to a broad round table outfitted with three rotating tiers and a space across from him left open for the servers to replenish dishes smoothly. At one point, he’d wanted to make it a boodle fight—no plates, no chairs, just banana leaves, bare hands, and a mountain of food shared communally. But Angelina had shut that down with a single glance at the press gallery.
“They’re not ready,” she’d said. “Half of them still think barbecue means ribs and hot dogs.”
He knew she was right. For all their credentials and curated global feeds, most of the human reporters circling the event had never strayed far from their cultural cul-de-sacs. In Missouri, a fifteen-minute walk from his homestead covered two dozen languages, three kinds of dumplings, and four schools of prayer. In their cities, it took a map and a special occasion to do the same.
So instead, he sat with practiced diplomacy.
Young Chem took the seat to his left, bracketed by MJ and Alex, who guided her like seasoned cousins. K’rem settled on his right with dignified ease, and T’monn dropped in beside him—ready, as always, to prevent any social misfire, though Matt suspected the only breaches tonight would be the ones he made on purpose.
The utensils were simple: chopsticks and spoons. Familiar to the V’ren, sufficient for anything the kitchens had dreamed up. No one here would be asking about forks—except maybe the foreign press. He’d made sure they got theirs.
His eyes scanned the other tables.
Angelina and Floyd anchored the one with the American press. Leonard and Marie had been seated with high-ranking V’ren and a handful of select international correspondents. Julia and L’tani were glued together again—he wasn’t sure if their friendship had outgrown mutual disdain for the Sorority Seven, but they were a tight front either way. The Seven had been split between the final two upper tables, carefully scattered among media reps who needed impressing.
Down on the lower tiers, the right people were doing what they did best. Lola Rhea caught his eye, lifting a tall glass banded with blue, red, and green—bourbon-laced sweet tea, and probably her third. At 137, she’d earned the right.
Matt glanced at his own drink—just blue and red—and welcomed the water glasses circulating his way.
Two reporters had been placed at his table, not too close to him or each other.
Soo-Jung Pi of Korea Speaks, a sharp-eyed food editor, was flanked by L’tani and Annie. On the opposite arc sat Josepha Menendez—a Singaporean-Filipina based in London, writing for the Times—bracketed by MJ and Srang, with Dave as quiet backup.
It wasn’t the most relaxed table.
But it was perfectly balanced.
And Matt wouldn’t have it any other way, listening as the band shifted once more—his own cover of Into the Mystic drifting through the twilight—while musicians and other guests alike began to find food at the periphery and at their own tables.
“Floyd, When you’re preparing invasive species like alligator,” Carmen Vasquez of Buzzfeed asked, “what goes into making it approachable for guests who’ve never had it before?”
“Matt has a gift for picking the right people,” Floyd laughed appreciably as he mounds of chilis and chunks of gator slid into his bowl. “I don’t know what his recruitment strategy is, but it seems like every teacher, engineer, or nurse who shows up is either a master of some regional cuisine or married to one.”
“I’m what’s up with the recruitment,” Angelina cut in, laughing. “I like to eat well. Officially I’m head of Freehold HR and love to double up on skill sets.”
“And how do you walk the line between nostalgia and innovation when curating a menu like this?” Miles Tierney of NYT Style asked around while spooning Szechuan Gator over rice.
“I don’t,” she said, stopping halfway to her mouth with a chunk of tail between her chopsticks. “I use what and who is available. The yearly migration of the alligators up the river starts in early March, as soon as the days hit eighty. They’re dangerous. They’ll devastate a fish pond or tear through the aquaculture fields like it’s nothing. By the end of summer, we’ve eaten a lot of them. If we hadn’t caught these invaders two days ago, you might have been eating kangaroo or camel. A few dozen of either can wipe out hundreds of acres of grain in a matter of hours.”
“Marie, what message do you hope Earth’s elites take away from a dinner like this—especially those used to white linen and silver service?” Fatima Sayegh of Al Jazeera Food & Culture asked.
“As I was reminded earlier,” Marie said with a smile, “Missouri does have culture.”
“General,” Ryo Nakatani from the Tokyo Journal chimed in, “do you think this level of hospitality will become tradition at the Freehold, or is this just a one-night show?”
“I’m sure events like this strain even his budget,” Leonard admitted, sipping from a pint jar of the local IPA as his mouth burned wonderfully from the mix of ginger and chilis. “But from what I’ve heard—and what I saw last night when I took over some of his hosting duties after the medical emergency—community events are pretty common out here.”
“I understand there’s another event, or maybe an extension of this one, happening at their farm?” Fatima asked followed up after she delighted in the spicy sauce over the perfect rice. “Any updates on the couple?”
“I was there earlier today,” Marie said, her mouth already needing a rest. “Their eldest son also has a broken leg, but he’s home now. His girlfriend’s a young paramedic—she’s with him, which allowed a few of the other staff to make it here tonight. Our youngest daughter is over there too, and has made fast friends with several of the local girls, including some of the V’ren. The feast there is a little more kid-friendly. From what I hear, they’re serving fish fingers and custard a local favorite along with gator nuggets and ranch which is something that happens when one swims this far west.”
“As for the parents,” she added, “last I heard they’re doing fine, but I haven’t had a detailed medical update.”
“L’tani, what’s the first dish that made you fall in love with human food—and why?” Heidi Lacroix of Montréal Nouvelle Cuisine asked, tilting her phone to catch L’tani’s answer over the sound of clinking forks.
“The first few meals I had were in the staff dining room while I was managing patient relocations,” L’tani said. “I got in line not knowing what to order and barely able to speak English. I felt a little embarrassed—I’d taken way more than I needed, but I couldn’t help myself. I just pointed to what other people were eating. I ended up with pancakes covered in berries and whipped cream on one plate, and an overstuffed omelet on another. I came back at lunch and somehow found myself holding a tenderloin sandwich and fries with hot sauce and vinegar—sprayed on with a little bottle. I learned real fast you’re supposed to close your eyes when they do that.”
She glanced down at her plate and smiled. “What made me fall in love with human food wasn’t just the taste—it was the diversity, the creativity. This is my fourth day outside the ship and I’ve already had burgers six different ways. I’ve also fallen in love with Twizzlers.”
“Julia,” Rei Okada of Nihon Gastronaut asked next, “you’ve bridged cultural divides before—what makes food so uniquely powerful in that process?”
“I’ve never eaten this well in my life,” Julia said, still working through a bite of something spicy and unfamiliar. “Growing up on the fringe of New York and then going to Columbia, I assumed Missouri—and everything west of Pennsylvania, honestly—was the culinary wasteland everyone back east says it is. Some of my sorority sisters are still struggling to believe it isn’t.” Her mouth was already going numb from the Szechuan peppercorns—those she recognized. She let two glasses of water pass by on the rotating ring and grabbed what she hoped was a dark amber beer.
“Meghan, what do you think alien teens are learning from human ‘party food’ culture?” Bri Delgado of FusionNext LA asked, leaning forward as the next tray of skewers circled the table.
“I’m sure there’s much to be learned,” Meghan said, delicately nudging a shrimp toast off its spoon. “Though I’m not entirely sure what provincials are supposed to teach a star-crossing alien race. Maybe portion control?”
“Sloane, as the granddaughter of a fashion magnate, how did you approach coordination tonight given the cultural mash-up theme?” Kai Carter from StyleSync NYC asked, eyes on the shimmer of her shoulder wrap.
“I went with elegance and timelessness,” Sloane said, adjusting her bracelet just enough to catch the light. “I wanted to show that a little black dress and diamonds can work—even in the wasteland.”
“Brittany, you’ve been taking notes all night—what’s caught your attention?” asked Teagan Moss from Edible Ethos.
“That food, when made with care, is activism,” Brittany said. “This is solidarity in sauce. The way they paired those dumplings with pickled melon—it’s not just flavor, it’s a conversation.”
“Kaitlyn,” asked Renée Tran from Planet Plated, “how does this event shift your understanding of sustainability in rural settings?”
“I mean, I didn’t expect a composting lecture with my cocktail,” Kaitlyn said, half-laughing as she reached for a rice cracker topped with wild mushroom pâté. “But honestly? Everything here came from within fifty miles, and I’m rethinking everything I thought I knew about food systems. Also—goat cheese can be sexy.”
“Peter, Missouri’s climate has changed drastically in the last 400 years,” Thandi Ncube of GreenLife Africa began, glancing past the rotating bowls of native greens and pickled okra. “What does that mean for agriculture and food systems going forward?”
“We adapt to what’s possible,” Peter Owusu said, watching a small dish of fried heartburn pass him for the second time and hoped he would not be forced to take it before the next load of beers came around. “Not always what we want to grow. My parents came from Kuala Lumpur and Ghana, but I grew up here—most of it under Lola Rhea’s watch. I learned early that making do with what the land offers isn’t settling. It’s a kind of reverence.”
He paused, then added, “That’s what I wrote my master’s thesis on—not that I needed the degree. The further I went in my studies, the deeper my love for this place grew. Matt always said, despite what my education cost, he’d have paid twice as much just to help me find my way home.”
He squeezed Chel Twen’s hand under the table. He didn’t have to look—he knew Lola Rhea had seen.
“Lola Rhea,” asked Lucas Benet from Spain’s EcoMesa, “you’ve lived through the old world and into this one. What’s the most hopeful thing on your plate tonight?”
“My rice,” she said without hesitation. “And the fact that we can keep it there. During Matt’s grandfather’s time, it became a rarity. That’s a hardship for any Filipino. But now we grow it ourselves. I’m told the V’ren hydroponics tech might even let us cultivate some of the special varieties year-round.”
She reached for a spoonful, her hand steady. “That’d be a boost to the local economy, no question. But more than that—it would gladden the hearts of every Filipino here. Matt included.”
“Jessica, how do you blend family recipes with the new realities of regional sourcing in this climate zone?” Tariq Bashir of Cairo World Table asked, pausing as a serving tray rotated past with caramelized okra and something unmistakably fishy.
“My mom’s a Marmaduke,” Jessica Nguyễn said, laughing as she reached for a plate of mulberry cobbler. “So our family recipes are as much cobbler and fried green tomatoes as they are bò lá lốt. We use whatever’s in season or what the butcher has. Last Sunday at Mom’s? Roo roast. Week before that, Dad used local catfish for chả cá lã vọng. It’s not about perfect authenticity—it’s about making it work and keeping it good.”
Thanh Lê of Saigon Culinary Frontier turned to the younger woman beside her. “Xuân Vũ Hàn, what dish tonight speaks to your journey settling here—and why?”
“Matthew is very fond of my chả cá lã vọng,” she said, folding her hands respectfully in her lap before accepting a plate of gator with turmeric and dill. “The chance to make it with alligator instead of fish—for him and his guests—felt like the right way to repay the many kindnesses he’s shown my family since we arrived. It’s not just a meal. It’s thanks.”
“Matthew,” began Soo-Jung Pi of Korea Speaks, “you chose to keep the entire menu human. Was that political, cultural… or emotional?”
“The team I assembled was human,” Matt said simply, glancing toward the next round of dishes moving into rotation. “And they know how to get the best out of what they’re working with. We’re only just beginning to experiment with V’ren ingredients. This wasn’t a statement. It was logistics.”
Josepha Menendez of the Times of London turned toward T’monn, who had been studying the evening’s flow with quiet interest. “T’monn, how do the V’ren define hospitality—and what parts of that are challenged or preserved in this setting?”
“Among the V’ren,” she said evenly, “the sharing of a meal is a highly formal act. Especially across castes, it is rare—and done only for significant occasions. Food is not cheap. A feast even a tenth the size of this one would require a lord’s personal treasury. So yes—this gathering is both unusual and sacred, even by our standards.”
Nils van Aerden of Amsterdam Gastronomy leaned forward, addressing K’rem directly. “If you had to pick one dish tonight that captured the taste of loyalty—what would it be?”
“The beer,” K’rem answered, almost without thinking. “My first day here, I’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours. I wasn’t sure I could manage what was in front of me. I went looking for Angelina—she was at the local aid station, helping coordinate tents so families could spread out. She looked as tired as I felt.”
He paused, the memory taking full shape before he continued.
“I started to speak. We were still using the translators. She put a hand up to stop me, pointed to a tree, and we sat beneath it with a beer. In silence. Letting the breeze blow through. After the second one, we finally talked. She didn’t ask about my assignment or what I needed. She just asked how I was holding up.”
He glanced at Matt, then back at his glass.
“She told me Matt had been hauling the injured, ferrying medics, pulling in locals to do the same. The last time he’d been to the house, he’d driven a Jeepney full of our children into town to be with their parents. I knew then—without doubt—that these two people were worthy of my personal loyalty. And I knew it while drinking Matt’s own beer stash with his second in command.”
