“Good morning,” T’mari purred, to the man who had been hugging her leg with his face buried into her hip for the last three hours. “Or should I say good afternoon?” she said with a smile, booping his nose with her finger.
“Oh shit! We have a tight schedule,” he said, starting to scramble.
“I am lying, it’s not yet nine,” she laughed, snaking an arm around him. “I’m hungry though,” she said, biting her lip the way a Cosmopolitan article once claimed men found irresistible. Judging by the twitch under the sheets, it might’ve been right. “You owe me food.”
“Shower first, then late breakfast,” he said, sliding out of bed. He thought better of biting her again—considering what that had triggered earlier.
“I like the smell of this on you,” she said, taking the bar of cedar oil soap, rubbing it over his chest as she hugged him from behind. “I don’t think it is the right scent for me though.”
“We will find you one that works for you,” he said, turning to face her. “Do you know what I like about V’ren women?”
“All V’ren women or just some of us?”
“Most of you,” he said, kissing her. “You are mostly my height, letting me do this,” he said, kissing her lips again and letting his hands slide off her hips onto her butt, without bending or fumbling.
“I did notice that earth girls are rather short,” she said, a bit breathless, trying not to burp up the garlic fried rice she’d eaten in bed while he slept..
Dressed in his usual business casual, Matt led T’mari through the back of a closet she hadn’t noticed. The hidden door opened into what could only be described as a control room—sleek, clean, and radiating quiet authority.
“I built this as a safe room,” he said casually. “Hardwired coms only. I want you to redesign it using V’ren tech. In here, all standard wireless signals are rendered inert—no surveillance, no remote interference. Anyone at my level of business learns to stop trusting the air.”
T’mari glanced around, impressed. The room felt like a war bunker disguised as an IT closet—completely off-grid, thoroughly prepared.
Matt walked her through another secure door that opened into yet another unassuming closet. “This is the building next door. Officially, it’s the Randolph Becker Building. Unofficially… the Randy Pecker, named after the gay nightclub that once dominated its basement.. This part here?” he added, guiding her through yet another hidden panel, “was once a brothel.”
Beyond the panel lay stairs and an industrial elevator. “This goes down to the garage,” he said, placing his palm on the reader and tapping out a short code. “Used to be a speakeasy during Prohibition—drinking, cards, and several discreet exits.”
He gestured. “Place your hand on the pad.”
“T’mari Th’ron, House of Marmaduke,” the system announced. “Access granted.”
She watched the lights and realized they were at least two levels below the aforementioned basement level. The door slid open with a clean hiss, revealing a brightly lit, climate-controlled garage packed with gleaming machines.
“We travel in style today,” Matt said, stepping into what amounted to a private showroom of anachronistic vehicles. “The originals burned gasoline—loud, thirsty american V8s that growled, exotic European engines that purred like distilled sex, or screaming Japanese turbo charge dragons. These are electric reproductions. These are all handbuilt by a company based in Korea. For 125 years, they have produced one model per year, with exactly one hundred and twenty vehicles produced per year. My great-grandfather bought the model a replica Aston Martin DB5,” he said, waving a hand at the Silver Birch locked in a mechanical cradle at the other end, but showed it to her on a tablet he had taken from the wall. Matt’s collection was almost complete. Those his predecessors hadn’t acquired were slowly being bought. Matt was only nine shy of a complete set. He had been forty-two shy when he inherited the Freehold almost thirty years ago. “Pick your ride.”
T’mari took a slow steps forward, awe settling into her posture. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Works of art. V’ren vehicles are strictly functional—bland, like our food. I am almost too afraid to breath on them,” she said feeling something that could not be explained, but knew she would never forget.
She pointed to a purple Road Runner convertible. “This one.”
Matt grinned and gently pulled her back by the waist. With a few taps on his handheld, he sent commands to the automated garage system. Pneumatics fully pressurized the tires. Hydraulic locks broke free. Mechanical plates rotated on groaning gears The Road Runner rolled onto the central launch lane with more pomp and showmanship than anything simply made to go from one place to another really deserved. This however, was a royal coach, picked by an alien princess.
“Your carriage awaits,” he said, opening the door. The click-clunk of the handle was deliberate—mechanically satisfying. It was part of the charm.
The seats were supple, perfectly restored. He locked the recently updated handheld into the dock. The HUD came to life across the windshield. The car slid forward in autoguide mode, AI sensors guiding it along the tunnel. One more mechanical floor rotated them, letting them pull out of street-level garage four blocks away.
Matt flipped through a few HUD displays, then glanced sideways at her with a half-smile, as he started up the music.
He wondered if anyone was waiting at the far end of the “bat cave,” ready to catch a shot of the alien princess emerging from a vintage purple muscle car like a debutante from another timeline.
