May 25, 2440
Denver
There are moments when you realize the news cycle has gotten away from the people supposedly creating it.
Matthew Marmaduke had just spent ninety minutes inside a Denver studio announcing that he had married an alien, discussing the existence of hundreds of Progenitor species, talking about rebuilding American agriculture, and casually reminding everyone that he is now High Lord to more than a million V’ren.
Then he walked outside and discovered Denver was more interested in four teenagers.
To be fair, they are alien teenagers.
They are also apparently pages.
That is a real job.
The four have been attached to Marmaduke and his new wife, T’mari, for the last several days: thirteen-year-old Z’lur X’ex, fourteen-year-old P’ola R’ter, twelve-year-old T’rem T’all, and fifteen-year-old S’wera Y’eslin.
Nobody outside the V’ren cultural studies crowd seems entirely certain what a page does in 2440, much less what a V’ren page does for a human sovereign who seems constitutionally incapable of carrying himself with the dignity his titles suggest.
Denver, however, has already decided what pages are for.
Photographs.
Lots and lots of photographs.
By the time Marmaduke and T’mari came through the front doors, the four young V’ren had accumulated their own little knot of people with cameras, phones, autograph requests, and questions.
T’mari noticed immediately.
So did Marmaduke.
Her expression suggested she was reconsidering several recent personnel decisions.
“You are the one who insisted we needed aides and pages,” he reminded her.
T’mari corrected him with the weary precision of someone who had clearly made this argument before.
She had not demanded servants.
She had warned Marmaduke that if he and the senior Freehold staff refused to accept pages and aides, they would insult highborn families whose children were being passed over for desirable assignments.
There is apparently a social problem among the V’ren where abolishing caste is considerably easier than persuading aristocratic parents that their children should not get the good internships.
Humanity may have finally encountered extraterrestrial life, but we remain united across the stars by parental networking.
Marmaduke listened to his wife explain that she had never personally requested an entourage.
Then he informed her that she was now senior Freehold staff.
“Mistress of my Hearth and Heart,” was the phrase he used.
That should probably have been the clip.
It was not the clip.
Marmaduke looked toward the cameras, whistled until people turned back toward him, waited until they were paying attention, and smacked his wife on the ass.
Not subtly.
Not accidentally.
Not in a moment he could later pretend was private.
He actively summoned the cameras first.
T’mari’s expression immediately suggested that Earth marriage customs were still producing educational surprises.
Somewhere, presumably, half the human internet began editing the footage before his hand had finished moving.
This is worth remembering the next time someone claims every affectionate image from the Marmaduke marriage is carefully manufactured by a professional media operation.
Sometimes the professional media operation is apparently Matthew Marmaduke seeing cameras and deciding to make their afternoon worse.
The four pages barely seemed impressed.
They had a more pressing matter.
Lunch.
And shirts.
All four were wearing newly acquired Denver vacation merchandise advertising the fact that they had put Big Ed’s balls in their mouths.
Yes, those balls.
No, not those balls.
Rocky Mountain oysters.
Marmaduke stared at the shirts with the expression of a man realizing that four alien children had been allowed unsupervised access to Denver novelty merchandising.
“I can’t believe your first vacation merch was from there,” he told them.
Then he asked the question every responsible adult would ask after discovering four visiting extraterrestrial teenagers dressed like walking testicle jokes.
Had they at least eaten the food first?
P’ola R’ter, fourteen years old and already demonstrating the facial composure necessary for a successful diplomatic career, explained that Rocky Mountain oysters were not like the oysters served in the Freehold.
“Not even close.”
That was Marmaduke’s verdict.
Here’s a new Denver-based blogger piece built around the sidewalk scene, with the pages as the real local hook and Matt and T’mari almost becoming supporting characters in their own departure.
