Local Date: May 30, 2440 – Time: 20:45 CST
Private recording, sent via secure V’ren commlink aboard ship
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 the ship, but here the sun is sliding down over fields so green it makes the heart ache. It’s a quiet place, this Missouri. The 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 guarded tone. The first bridge was half-burned before we even stepped across it.
And yet, he extended his hand. Literally. Not to boast, but he also said I was pretty. I say this because it gives me hope that we can fit in here if one such as I can be thought of as pretty. I know I am not ugly, no need to scold, but I have never been called pretty before. Other women have caught some of their men giving them appreciative stares. It was also very obvious that one young human female, a girl still by their standard, had eyes for a few of our men, including K’rem. I still do not know what they will think of men who prefer the company of other men. Their media has given us so many mixed messages about this.
He 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. 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 ship harness. It’s easy to misjudge him because he doesn’t demand authority. He just… holds it, and people align.
I have learned more about diplomacy from three hours in his presence than in fifteen years of language studies. For the record, their year is 365 of their days and our year is 285 of theirs. No doubt the computers will make a more exact conversion, but it is good to start thinking about that difference.
L’tani… she hasn’t spoken much. I know she is grieving, not just the loss of our world, but 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 if that’s a truth or just a hope. I’m watching carefully. For both of us.
It is confirmed we are genetically compatible. They are the progenitors of old, or at least their genetic duplicates. This has implications and explains much of why earth had been a banned world by the the Nayali and others. I don’t know what to do with that knowledge yet. I think you should know, human men do not react to our pheromones the same way V’ren men do. I thought I saw a flash of recognition as I checked his rection to myself, and others say the same, including Mother, but there was no follow-through on his or other men’s part.
As for me… I’m not sleeping yet. I tried to rest, but with so much chaos and trying to adjust to the day here, I have taken some stim tabs to keep going until they call it a day. I keep dreaming of the old stations, the artificial light, the familiar voices. But then I find myself in sunlight that smells of rain caught on the wind. They call it wet heat, or humidity, or summer in Missouri. So many words to say the same thing. I spent a few more hours with the neural interface and am now speaking the language better. I don’t know if I miss the dark of space or am ashamed I don’t.
I’ll do better tomorrow. For L’tani. For you. And, for Earth.
Yours in respect and truth,
T’mari
