Date: May 30, 2440 Time: 10:20 PM CST
“Your medical facilities are not what I was expecting,” Doctor T’Monn Th’ron said as she settled into the passenger seat of Matt’s pickup, still brushing burrs from her tunic.
“You mean more primitive than you expected,” Matt replied with a dry chuckle, turning the key.
“I did not mean to offend.”
“I’m not offended,” he said, easing onto the gravel. “My population’s small and spread out. I can’t staff the facilities with my own people, so I rely on contract workers, mostly from other countries, which means I don’t have all the specialists I’d like. We’ve got better facilities on the other side of the quarantine walls, just not out here. I’m hoping those come down tomorrow. If by ‘primitive’ you mean lacking innovation or technique, you might be right. We’d be further along medically if centuries of breakthroughs hadn’t gone into warfare. Making life better for the survivors came as an afterthought.”
T’Monn nodded slowly. “Technologically, we may be ahead, but that’s a small thing. What impressed me was the care your people showed ours. It felt sincere. In our culture, family does much of what your skilled nurses do. That kind of compassion for strangers, it felt like love.”
She paused before adding, “And not all your medicine is behind ours. Your pharmacological database is remarkable. Some of your theories, and a few of your drugs, are better. Your rehabilitation protocols especially impressed me.”
“That’s surprising, about the pharmaceutical compatibility,” Matt said, steering around a pothole. “My background’s in botany. I know how rare biological compatibility should be across worlds.”
“It’s a common belief. Logical, but wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Every planet seeded by the Progenitors shares baseline biological compatibility.”
Matt’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Our top geneticists never found evidence Earth was seeded.”
“Nor did ours, at first. The process began during planetary formation, expertly masked. Once you unlock more Progenitor tech, you’ll find the same markers. Earth matches.”
He let the silence stretch. A squirrel darted across the road and barely survived. He didn’t look relieved.
“That’ll stir up a storm,” he said at last.
“It will. Which is why I was told to ask your opinion before we disclose anything publicly.”
“Who told you to ask?”
“My brother, W’ren Th’ron.”
“I know he leads your fleet. But what does that mean in practice?”
“W’ren is the socially senior male in our convoy, Keeper of Culture, Speaker for Tradition. ‘Chief archivist’ might be your best translation. Our family owns the ships. We’re high-born. W’ren has both military and merchant credentials. He earned the governorship.”
Her voice lowered. “We transported over a million. The fleet is ours now. But we too are exiles. Stripped of homeworld rights.”
Matt adjusted the rearview mirror, the weight of it all settling in. “How did that happen?”
“Population control. Colonization by expulsion. We were to settle a new world, numbers chosen for survival and governance.”
“Can the rest of the fleet continue?”
“Maybe. We lost our fuel tanker, repair ship, and two supply vessels. The Calnareth will never fly again. What you’ve done for us already… it means more than you know. If the rest of the fleet can resume the journey, they will. But if you want them to leave, you’ll have to make them.”
Matt drove in silence, running numbers, fields, labor, housing, food systems, public opinion. Tourist revenue wouldn’t cover this.
“They wouldn’t want to leave, would they?”
“If you tell them to go, they will,” T’Monn replied. “But we can’t carry them on what remains. That’s the truth.”
He thought about the generations of refugees his family had taken in, war, climate collapse, genocide, trafficking. Just last week he’d resettled eleven girls smuggled through Memphis and two more who’d fled the religious enclaves near Ames.
Turn them away now, because it was easier?
Fuck that.
It didn’t matter if it was one or a million. He’d figure it out.
“That’s not what I asked,” he said finally. “I asked if they’d want to go. Would you?”
T’Monn watched the trees slide past in moonlight. “No,” she said softly. “I would stay.”
“Then you’ll always have a place here,” he said, reaching out to pat her leg, only to think better of it when a whitetail doe bolted across the road. Both hands went back to the wheel. He scanned for more wildlife chancing their lives with the red demon called Pickup.
“I’ve had quarters prepared for Officer T’mari,” he said after a moment. “Anything I should know to help her settle in, or avoid cultural missteps?”
“She’s proud of your hospitality. So am I. She’s admired Earth since childhood. Most of our younger generation does. We’ve been watching your media for decades.”
Matt blinked. “How?”
“We cracked your language about sixty-five years ago. The beacon net carries a constant signal from your world. We receive it all. Most of what your people call Netflix has been archived and… discussed.”
Matt coughed, then laughed, barely making the turn as gravel sprayed the grass. He made a mental note to fix that corner before the next mowing.
He pulled alongside the Calnareth’s battered hull and rolled to a stop. Climbing out, he rounded the front of the truck and extended his hand.
Doctor Th’ron hesitated, then took it. A simple gesture of trust.
As their hands parted, she watched him walk away and wondered, just for a moment, if human men would ever find her beautiful.
