May 5, 2440 9:00 PM
Private recording, sent via Kalnareth shipline (secure internal comms)
Recording begins
Uncle W’ren,
I hope this message finds you with calm breath and clear mind. I do not know what hour it is aboard your ships, but here the sun is sliding down over fields so green it makes the heart ache. Missouri is quiet. Quiet does not mean idle, though. These humans move like current under ice, still above, swift below.
I made a mistake in first contact.
I prioritized the ship’s security. I thought like a second officer, not like a guest. Matt, Freeholder Marmaduke, was offering ritual, invitation, and grace. I answered with formality and a guarded tone. The first bridge was half-burned before we even stepped across it.
And yet, he extended his hand. Literally. He also said I was pretty. I’m telling you this because it gives me hope that we can fit in here, if one such as I can be thought of as pretty by humans. I know I am not ugly, no need to scold, but I have never been called pretty before.
I have also noticed how quickly humans attach desire to novelty. More than one human girl, still a child by our measure, watched our crew with open interest. Even K’rem noticed. I still do not know what they will think of men who prefer the company of other men. Their archived media offers mixed messages, changing by era, region, and audience. I will watch carefully before I assume anything.
Matthew gave me his trust. Not blindly, but deliberately. In front of his people, with his voice, and later, with his silence. He allowed me to recover and regain my footing without making a display of it.
He has a strange gravity, W’ren. Not the kind you fight against. The kind you settle into, like old soil or a well-worn harness. It is easy to misjudge him because he doesn’t demand authority. He simply holds it, and people align.
I have learned more about diplomacy from three hours in his presence than in fifteen years of language studies.
Practical note for scheduling and planning: their year is 365 of their days, and our year is 285 of theirs. The computers will provide an exact conversion table, but it helps to begin thinking in their scale.
L’tani has not spoken much. I know she is grieving, not only the loss of our world, but the loss of her m’yani, and her m’yani’s m’yani. The line is broken, and she carries that pain alone right now. I ache for her. I want to pull her into my arms and promise her that Earth will be kind, but I do not yet know whether that is truth or only hope. I am watching carefully, for both of us.
Preliminary markers strongly suggest genetic compatibility. Their genomes match Progenitor-pattern baselines, or are close enough to be functionally identical. This has implications and may explain why Earth was a banned world among the Nayali and others. I don’t know what to do with that knowledge yet, but you should have it as soon as possible.
One more observation: human men do not react to our pheromones the way V’ren men do. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition when I watched Matthew’s face, and others report the same, including Mother. But there was no follow-through on his part, and no loss of control among the other men present.
As for me, I am not sleeping yet. I tried to rest, but the day has been too full, and my mind will not quiet. I took stim tabs to stay functional until the humans call it a day. I keep dreaming of old stations, artificial light, and familiar voices. Then I wake under sunlight that smells of heat and living water. They call it wet heat, humidity, or summer in Missouri. So many words to say the same thing.
I spent more hours with the neural interface today. I am speaking their language better now. Each hour makes it easier to think in their shapes.
I don’t know if I miss the dark of space, or if I am ashamed that I do not.
I will do better tomorrow. For L’tani. For you. And for Earth.
Yours in respect and truth,
T’mari
Recording ends
