The Stars Do Not Dream
by Amanda Sun
SALT, HE DECIDED. It needed more salt.
L’inarx Hoch rummaged through the cupboards in the galley. It was nearly lunchtime by deck hours, but the hall was surprisingly quiet, except for the repeating announcement on the voicecom. Most of the Turrneds were on the observation deck now, swarming against the large viewing windows. It wasn’t long until they would be within docking range, and except for the motley crew who were taller, multi-limbed, and better suited to navigation, it would be the first time most of them had laid eyes on it.
L’inarx slid the vials aside, reaching his short arms as far into the shadows of the cabinets as he could. It needed salt, but which kind? He found a bottle of nyx tears, the pearly grains spilled and half-melted into the shelf. Beyond that, some ancient seasonings, likely too far gone to use. With the servos, there was little need for cooking on this shuttle. But, small as it was, the kitchen was better equipped than anything on the homeworld, and L’inarx wasn’t going to let it go to waste.
The voicecom chirped as the same message repeated. “Destination approaching. Please proceed to the observation deck for viewing.” There was no one left to proceed except L’inarx—the others had eagerly rushed to glimpse the awaited port as it careened slowly through the darkness. It was finally at the extent of its trajectory, close to the Turrned homeworld.
Plexis Supermarket. Their first missionary appointment.
Not all Turrned were first deployed at Plexis, but it was a common and fairly risk-free position. When it was time, eligible missionaries applied to the various posts they hoped to attain. Some were only available to experienced evangelists—a novice was more likely to be consumed than to convert on Jhabin IV, for example. But Plexis was the safest post for those who weren’t inclined to missionary success—L’inarx included.
As a Hoch, he should have been an adept missionary. But there was a key factor to the Turrned’s success across the galaxies, and it was this: they were masters at being harmless, nonthreatening, and nearly invisible. While other species had evolved to use superior intellect, or aggression, or even rumored telepathic transference, the Turrned had survived by the blinking of their adorable disklike eyes, better suited to the dim conditions of their homeworld than the bright lights of Plexis. They were even cute, as Turrned reported from missionary assignments on humanoid worlds. The evolutionary traits that caused parents to care for their young worked to the Turrned’s advantage.
Which was a problem for L’inarx Hoch. He had come into the world misshapen, his eyes half the size of the others, the color more gray than brown, one leg shorter, and his appearance more startling than cute. Other species noticed L’inarx. Even Turrned noticed him. He was a distraction to the uniformity of the sermons, even on his homeworld.
L’inarx blinked into the cupboard, his paw closing around a reddish vial of salt from the dried-up sea on Garastis 17. A bit smoky in flavor, but he didn’t have much choice. He shook the crystals into the pot; they sank into the stew like droplets of rust.
It had been no question that L’inarx would wind up on Plexis, where abnormality was expected. He could blend in amid the chaos of biodiversity. Mostly he was glad for a post where he was the least likely to be eaten, and where he might have access to more spices and seasonings than he’d ever seen in his quadrant of the galaxy.
The voicecom went silent, the crew and passengers now gathered on the observation deck. L’inarx stirred the dense stew. The bubbles trapped under thick slices of fungi suddenly heaved toward the surface with loud, slapping pops.
A gasp of air signaled the opening of the galley door. A towering frame of sapphire-and-crimson feathers bent down and through the metal doorway. The figure clicked his tongue against his beak, folding his hands neatly behind his back.
“Smells intriguing,” First Mate W’harton squawked, his message translated by the com implant buried under the rows of feathers overlapping his neck.
“Your deceitful kindness is a blessing,” L’inarx purred back, lowering a lid onto the pot. The glass clouded with ruby-colored droplets.
W’harton snorted. “‘Deceitful’? What do you mean?”
L’inarx blinked his gray eyes. “Tolians have a terrible sense of smell.”
The first mate held a feathered fist to his beak and coughed. “Yes, well,” he said. “I didn’t know you knew that.”
“As missionaries, we study all species,” L’inarx said. “But your charity is recognized. Please allow me to serve and pray for you.”
W’harton reclined in a crimson chair next to the small row of windows that looked out over the stars. “So, it’s not true what they say.”
“What do they say?” L’inarx removed the glass lid from the pot and dipped in a deep ladle.
“That you feel a warmth when the Turrned talk,” W’harton said. “That they draw you in like the pull of gravity on a ship’s hull.” He sniffed as L’inarx hobbled over, bowl in hand. “I don’t feel any such draw.”
Tolians could be terse, but it didn’t bother L’inarx. Turrned were trained for every manner of reaction from skepticism to enthusiasm. In truth, it mattered little what the Tolian thought of his missionary abilities. He was far more concerned with what he would think of the stew. “I’m . . . a bit different than the others.”
“Hmph.” The first mate reached for the bowl, tipping the thick, steaming contents into his beak. The salt from Garastis 17 clung to his feathers like tiny gleaming embers. He tilted his head to the side, his crest flaring as he considered the taste.
“I’ve had a great deal worse,” he said finally. “Turrned aren’t known for their cuisine, but . . .” He gave a tiny squawk. “Not bad at all.”
A purr escaped L’inarx in response.
“So,” W’harton said between sips, “why aren’t you on the observation deck with the rest of them?”
L’inarx attempted a shrug, pinching his tiny shoulders together as though he were trying to squeeze through a servo vent. Every light-year closer to Plexis was a light-year closer to his mission. Most Turrneds looked forward to it, but L’inarx . . .
The Tolian’s crest lifted. “I thought all Turrned were devoted missionaries.”
“Every Turrned serves,” L’inarx answered, looking at the pot. A thick bubble popped in response.
There was a saying on the homeworld. The stars do not dream; they shine. Turrned were born to serve, to shine the light of the Prelude on others. It was their role; no more, no less.
W’harton paused. “I think I parse your meaning. My kin had plans for me, too. But Plexis is a mix of strange and familiar.” He tipped his head back, his rounded tongue licking the last droplets of stew from the bowl. “You might find a home there yet.”
L’inarx took the bowl in his hands as W’harton stretched to his full height. “I’ll pray for you,” the Tolian said, ducking under the metal arch. The door slid shut.
It took several moments before L’inarx realized he was supposed to have said that.
Hesitantly, he padded toward the window, empty bowl clutched to his chest. Not bad at all. He peered into space, pinpricks of light swirling past as the ship hurtled toward the future.
The voicecom crackled to life once again. “All passengers proceed to their quarters. Upon arrival at Plexis Supermarket, you will be escorted to a tag point.”
L’inarx pressed his nose against the cold glass, his gray eyes blinking as he looked toward the prow.
Plexis gleamed in the distance.
His new home.
L’inarx trudged along the length of the altar, igniter in hand. Every few feet he paused, lifting the digital torch to the tapers set in the niches of the wooden frame. He hesitated—these weren’t the usual black candles, inset with clipwing shells that caught the light and shimmered like stars. This one was red, the last one green and orange. Farther along was a transparent candle with obnoxious neon rainbows spiraling down the sides in alien script.
A veteran Turrned slowed to blink his comforting eyes. “Not as easy to source candles here as the homeworld,” he offered. “Archaic devices, shopkeeper said. Don’t want to burn down Plexis.”
“Archaic? Candles?” L’inarx let out a gurgling puff in his throat. You might as well call the stars archaic, the planets, the universe. Ancient, yes, but to label them archaic, as though their meaning were lost, irrelevant. There was nothing closer to the beginning of things than the combustion of elements. The universe ignited in a spark, and the Prelude before it collapsed into embers. When you thought about it, candles were more central to Turrned worship than feeding the hungry.
Archaic. L’inarx sniffed as he lifted his igniter to the wick. The flame crackled to life, the darkness of the converted cargo room just a little brighter.
Normally he disliked this sort of menial task, reserved for lower initiates. But after the overwhelming crowds, he didn’t mind as much. This tiny, Turrned-sized room was snug and familiar after the expanse of the supermarket. Stifling, a little. Claustrophobic, yes.
But safe. Mundane.
Even the docking bay had been shocking, with its soaring ceilings and floor-to-rafters windows. A giant posting board announced arrivals, departures, crew listings, cargo sought or found or loaded, scrolling in every color and curling script. Most were in Comspeak, but despite L’inarx’s vast training of other species, there were many he didn’t remotely recognize.
The Turrneds had come to greet them with Prelude bells, intended to draw interest and curiosity. The veteran leader hesitated when he saw L’inarx but, of course, didn’t say anything. Turrned are nothing if not polite.
They had proceeded in rows of four, waves of warmth radiating from the tiny missionaries. It was working, L’inarx had thought. He kept his head down, his eyes away from the crowd. Perhaps he could go mostly unnoticed after all.
Now, in this stuffy cargo hold, he wasn’t so sure. It was dim, but he was at the front of the altar lighting candles. Not exactly invisible. He’d volunteered immediately for cooking duty, but had been told all positions were filled.
He lit the last of the tapers as the first of the spacers arrived, guided to rows of chairs crammed tightly around long aluminum tables. It was nearly time. He tried to look pious as he waited.
“You’re a Hoch, aren’t you?”
L’inarx turned. The veteran missionary who had explained the candles stood beside him. “I’d heard one was among the newest arrivals.”
“How did you know?”
He leaned closer. “It has to be you. It couldn’t be any of the others.”
L’inarx stifled the purr rolling into his throat. Hoch was a rare title, given only to the descendants of at least three generations of outstanding missionaries. The gifts were said to pass down genetically from one Hoch to the next. To outsiders, all Turrned appeared the same, but to the missionaries, it was easy to spot a Hoch. They walked with more grace; they blinked with more warmth. They gave more generously, an extra ladleful on every plate. They fit their missionary lives as smoothly as the grooves of the altar notched into each other.
It was what made L’inarx as rough as raw lumber.
“The rest of the new recruits lurch like orbiting planets,” the veteran said. “You’re the only one who doesn’t. So you must be the Star.”
I was supposed to be, L’inarx thought. But then he was born like this, with his uneven legs and his cold, gray eyes. No one said anything cruel, ever. But they didn’t have to. L’inarx heard it all himself, the rush of cold water in the whispers of overwrought kindness poured upon him his entire life.
“Don’t be nervous,” the veteran said. “I’ll pray for you.”
“You’re very kind,” L’inarx answered.
More of the hungry entered the room. They walked, slithered, scuttled in, and the Turrneds seated them, purring gentle words, filling the room with stifling warmth.
A scent caught in L’inarx’s nose. He must have made a face, for the missionary beside him whispered, “Is it the Gentek? They take getting used to, I’ll admit.”
“That smell,” he said. “The wine.” What were they called again? “Flimberries?”
The veteran’s eyes darted to the saucer of dark red on the altar. “Ah,” he said. “Impressive nose you have there, flickering Star.”
“But—”
The Turrned nodded with empathy. “I know. It isn’t the same. Not even close. But it’s too hard to source the right ingredients so far from the homeworld.”
“But doesn’t Plexis have everything? If You Want It, It’s Here?” The script outside the giant station had shouted as much.
“I’m sure there’s a seller somewhere onboard. But the price would be beyond our means. Not much demand for our homeworld goods, it seems. Our only export is the truth.”
And a free lunch, thought L’inarx, but he didn’t say it. It sounded possibly heretical, and certainly rude.
At least they should have fermented the flimberries with a dash of crane vinegar. That would have dampened the fishiness of it.
It didn’t matter now. The Mission was in service, and the leader nodded his head for it to begin. “Good luck, Hoch,” the veteran purred.
L’inarx reached for the decanter and poured wine for the spacers at the first table. He concentrated on exuding empathetic warmth. He could feel waves of it radiating from the others, and he knew he was the only one who struggled to produce it. But as long as there was so much kindness emanating, it didn’t matter if so little was coming from him.
He poured for the Gentek, the sulfurous smell of him flooding his nose. The veteran had been right; it took getting used to. But the Gentek nodded warmly, the attractive dappling along its neck lighting with pleasant colors. L’inarx wondered if other humanoid species found them adorable, too.
He shuffled to the next table and poured just a sip for a small child, who tugged on her caretaker’s arm and said, “Gram, why’s that one have weird eyes?” She shushed her, but L’inarx didn’t mind. It was truth without malice, and truth was the fabric of the universe; whether you believed in it or not, the entire structure was entangled in absolutes.
“You look weary,” he said to them. “We will pray for you.”
He moved to the next table. He poured for a harried-looking shopkeeper, and for a spacer complaining about his unfair contract with a trade ship. He poured for a Tolian, who reminded him of First Mate W’harton and the way he’d gobbled down the stew. I’ve had a great deal worse.
It was that rusty salt, he thought. He should’ve added the nyx tears. A bit sweet, yes, but the aftertaste would have combined more smoothly with the lingering rubber texture of the fungi . . .
“Hey! Watch it!”
The Tolian rose to his feet, his chair pushing back with an awful screech. The alien towered over him, red wine dripping off the quills of his emerald feathers and pooling on the floor beneath.
The whole room was looking now, the service disrupted. The Turrneds blinked in unison, staring at L’inarx.
His heart pounded. “I . . . I’m so sorry. Let me get you a towel.” He turned, but as he limped away, his robe snagged on the edge of the table and sent him tumbling, paws over eyes. The rest of the decanter splashed all over the next table before shattering on the floor.
The veteran Turrned hurried over, a towel draped over his arm. “You are troubled,” he said smoothly. “Let us help you.”
“Of course I’m troubled!” the Tolian’s com squawked. “This runt poured wine all over me! I smell like rotting creteng!” But his angry voice lost its edge as the veteran missionary blinked his warm eyes.
“Let us help you,” he said.
The Tolian lowered slowly, conversation resuming. L’inarx unhooked his robe from the table as his ears folded tight with embarrassment. The missionaries moved like cogs in a vintage watch, whirling around each other in perfect synchronization as they resumed service.
Only one other Turrned didn’t move with them—the Mission leader, standing with a bundle of prayer vistapes clutched to his chest. He was looking at L’inarx with excessive kindness and sympathy, which only meant one thing.
L’inarx was in big trouble.
“A free lunch for the weary-hearted,” L’inarx said, passing a visbrochure to a nearby spacer. “We will pray for you.”
This was what it had come to. He had feared he’d be scrubbing every last inch of the altar for the next three years, scouring the sleeping quarters, and mending the scruffy robes. He’d be doing all of those, too, the leader had assured him, but he’d start by handing out the stacks of thousands of visbrochures. “A chance for one-on-one service,” he’d purred. L’inarx had shuddered.
How long had he stood here? Half a station day? More? This particular corner of Plexis had quickly lost its novelty—nothing but a blur of potential converts, and L’inarx without the warmth to even charm them into taking a digital leaflet.
Perhaps if he changed locations.
He rode the ramp up to the next level, limping under the weight of the visbrochures. The bench? Not enough traffic. Beside the ramp? Too easy for his targets to get away.
A cacophony of spices and seasonings flooded the air around him.
Was that . . . clipwings? And sour dolm leaves? He turned the corner and saw the booth—small compared to those selling refurbished ship parts, but stocked to every corner with barrels and boxes and tubs. Spices in every color imaginable burst out of the tops of them, pyramids of azure and gold and luminescent green, each a different and intoxicating scent. L’inarx stared.
“Looking for something in particular?”
A Human sat among the spices—or some type of humanoid. Swirling patterns had been tattooed over every visible stretch of skin.
“You’re one of them Turrneds, aren’t you?”
L’inarx blinked his gray disks down at his robe, his hands full of prayer leaflets. “What gave you that idea?”
He shouldn’t have said that. It was bordering on rude.
But the shopkeeper laughed. He hooked a thumb behind him. “I’ve got some flimberries in the back.”
L’inarx shuddered. “Only if you have enough crane vinegar to drown a clipwing nest.”
The shopkeeper looked at him carefully. “Crane vinegar, you say?”
“Gets rid of the fishy—”
“—the fishy aftertaste,” the patterned Human finished for him. “Hmph. First Turrned worth your salt. Why’d they wait so long to send you?”
L’inarx ran his hand along the rim of a barrel of bright blue seroling. It was so fresh he could smell the citrus tones from here. “I’m a new arrival.”
“’bout damn time,” the shopkeeper said. “Er. Sorry. Interested in that seroling? Nice and sour. It’ll curl your eye disks right inward.”
He wanted to try it—and everything else. He stumbled for words. “How much?”
“Two credits a pound.”
If Turrned cursed, now would be the time. His ears drooped. “Two credits?”
“Didn’t the Mission give you enough?”
The shopkeeper thought he was an envoy, even with an armful of visbrochures and no shopping list. He didn’t even have a grav cart. Turrneds didn’t carry credits; there was no need. The Mission provided your robe, your quarters, your food. L’inarx had blurred the lines of truth a little in the past when buying ingredients for his recipes. At least cooking was a service for others, but so luxurious a dish? Time after time, it was explained away as enhanced Hoch abilities.
“Ah,” the Human said. “This isn’t for them, is it?”
L’inarx felt as transparent as that obnoxious altar candle. “How can you tell? Are you an empath?”
The shopkeeper laughed. “I’m a salesbeing on Plexis. I’ve seen it all. Here.” He reached into his pocket and flicked a small crystal into the air. L’inarx nearly dropped the visbrochures as he caught it. “That’s a five-credit cluster,” the Human nodded. “You take the next two ramps up, hang a right, walk down the hallway until you hit the biggest sign you’ve ever seen. Go see how flimberries and seroling should be handled, hmm?”
L’inarx stared at the credit cluster. It caught the light, gleaming as it magnified the visbrochures underneath. “You are very kind,” he said. “I will pray for you.”
“Just make sure the Mission buys their flimberries here, okay?” The shopkeeper grinned. “And crane vinegar, if you can convince them. Half a credit a flask.”
L’inarx knew how vast the universe was, how slowly everything had burned and cooled and drifted to become what it was. He knew how slowly the Prelude had composed and decomposed, how many billions of years stretched behind and ahead until the first gleam of the collapse would finally appear on the universe’s multifaceted rim. And yet no moment had ever felt so long as passing out those visbrochures while the credits weighed heavily in the pocket of his robe.
When a spacer finally took the last one, L’inarx hobbled toward the ramp, nearly tripping over his hem. The buzz of conversation was everywhere, coms crackling and aliens manipulating all types of mandibles into the fricatives and affricates of the communal Comspeak. The Mission always necessitated hushed, reverent exchanges. How loud Plexis was in comparison. It bubbled like an overcooked stew, a bit of this and a dash of that, an intoxicating blend that filled the Hoch with newfound hope that there was more to the universe than his disappointing missionary post.
At the end of the alleyway, he found the promised sign. It hung high above a set of doors, opening constantly with the flow of customers. Claws & Jaws: Complete Interspecies Cuisine. The waft of delicious smells curled around L’inarx’s nostrils.
Interspecies cuisine? His heart pounded. The most exotic thing he’d ever eaten was the gruel on the shuttle from the homeworld. He limped into line, ignoring the strange looks from the others. After a moment’s thought he turned and bowed politely, sending as much warmth their way as he could.
Imagining the delights within, it was an easy feat to manage.
At last he made it through the doors and to the counter. The server looked to be a humanoid of some type, though pale lavender, and she smiled warmly at him. She must think him cute.
“Table for one?” He nodded, reaching a paw into his pocket to curl around the credit cluster.
It was strange not to be the server for once. The Fem led him to a table next to an indoor fountain and a handful of fake bushes, arranged to amuse customers into thinking they were at an outdoor plaza. Some marine species had apparently allowed their children to splash around in the fountain. They swam laps and leaped with shimmering fins, to the aggressive eye-rolling of the other patrons.
L’inarx didn’t mind. He liked children, and all the activity only added to the buzz of his excitement. No one ever splashed around in a fountain at the Mission.
“Welcome to Claws & Jaws,” a voice said, and it took L’inarx a moment to see who was talking. It was a shelled alien, about the same height as a Turrned. Only the eyes on the ends of his antennae wobbled above the edge of the table, a digital ordering device poised in his claw. He lifted it to the table and used his eyeball to push it toward L’inarx. “May I take your order?”
L’inarx clicked on his chosen script. There were a variety of ways to order—by species, by quadrant, by digestive system, by ingredient type. The world was his prawly—but looking at his waiter, he decided it might be rude to order shellfish. “What would you recommend?”
The alien blinked its eye antennae one at a time. “Well, to be honest, we don’t get many Turrneds in here.”
“Oh?”
“In fact, just you. Ever.”
“Oh.”
“But we do pride ourselves on the completeness of our interspecies cuisine. I’m sure we can find something that tastes like home.”
“Oh, no,” L’inarx purred. “I don’t want anything that tastes like home. I want . . . anything else.”
The eyes blinked again, individually. “Ah,” he said. “A gourmet. We do get lots of those. I’d recommend the Sunset Bisque from the beaches of Abalania V. Very nice flavor; seaweed a touch bitter, but with a bite you won’t soon forget.”
“Great,” L’inarx said. “And maybe some . . . Mixed Forest Fungi Stew, Suitable for All Manner of Gastrointestinal Systems?”
“Certainly,” the waiter said, looping his antenna around the device. “You’ll find the Tork mushrooms are particularly smoky today.”
L’inarx stared around the room as he waited. There were arguments at some tables, laughter at others. Everything was alive and vibrant. He’d always been taught to move purposefully, that the pace of the stars and the expanding galaxy was to be modeled in every way. But this burst of lifespans, eons shorter than star lives . . . his mentors had never told him what kind of energy they held, what kind of excitement he could find in all the hustle and bustle of life.
They hadn’t told him how brightly dreams could shine.
No one was staring at his small, gray eyes in here. In his differences, he was the same as the rest. For once, L’inarx didn’t wish he was one of many, orbiting. He was pleased to be his own star.
The return of his server was signaled by the clunk of a tray onto the table, antennae straining as they pushed it toward him. L’inarx said his thanks, prayed over the food, and took a bite of the soup. The blend of flavors burst on his tongue—the spice of the seaweed, evolved over millions of years on a distant planet, suddenly fizzing against his taste buds while he twirled around the universe on a repurposed asteroid refinery.
It felt like the end of his own prelude, like the melody had finally begun.
He took another taste of soup, then tried the stew, then called his server back and ordered a side of mellowroot fries. His world broke open, the possibilities for his own dishes swirling in his mind. If only that shuttle kitchen was still his to explore. He had so many new ideas, so many tastes to combine.
“Anything else?” the waiter asked, but L’inarx was so stuffed he could barely tilt his head no. He passed the credit cluster to the waiter.
“May I greet the chef?” he said. “It’s rude in our culture to accept service without reciprocation.”
The waiter’s antennae nodded up and down like reeds in a marsh wind. “We are familiar with a few species that have such requirements. This way.”
The kitchen offered even more intoxicating aromas than the restaurant. Unlike the quiet, orderly Mission, every station here whirred with action. Stew pots bubbled, pans flared with fire and oils and sautéed delicacies. Something was burning in an oven, and L’inarx fought the urge to grab a towel and pull the dish out.
“He’s in there, somewhere,” the waiter said. “Not sure exactly which one to thank, but . . . please, don’t take long. This is our busiest night of the week.”
“Of course,” L’inarx said. He bowed to the waiter and began to pray, but when he looked up, the alien was already rushing out the door, his antennae wrapped tightly around four different dishes.
L’inarx observed the chaos and rhythm of the kitchen—the boiling, the braising, the cooling, the freezing. A microcosm of everything the Turrned believed, he thought. Maybe his longing never had been at odds with his missionary inheritance.
“Are you the one?” said a gruff, tentacled chef, not even looking up from his stewpot.
“Um,” said L’inarx. “Yes. I’m here to offer up my vow of returned service.”
“Yes, fine, just get me the mellowroot, would you?”
“The . . .” L’inarx hadn’t even started his prayer of gratitude yet. But Turrneds served, first of all. “Of course.” He scanned the room, noticing a large stasis unit through a flap next to the sinks. He shuffled in, eyeing all sorts of sacks and boxes and bins. Mellowroot. There were a lot of root vegetables, but he remembered the yellow tone. How many to take? He loaded up the pockets of his robe and returned to the chef.
The chef harrumphed, studied the roots sticking out of L’inarx’s pockets. “These’ll do.”
L’inarx nodded. “I wish to offer up my gratitude. May the Prelude forever rest your—”
“Now peel them.”
“P . . . peel them?”
The chef turned, his eyebrows knit over his glistening, tired face. “I haven’t got all night, missionary. You stay and cook, or you get out those doors and they’ll send me someone who can. Can you do it or not?”
L’inarx peeled the mellowroot.
And after they were peeled, he took a paring knife and chopped them into fries, and then he sliced ten Tork mushrooms for a stew, careful not to touch his paws to his eyes. The rest of his night passed in a flurry of ingredients, rushing back and forth to the dry pantry and the stasis unit, slicing and peeling and occasionally rescuing a burning hank of shorlam from the ovens. He knew there must have been some misunderstanding—the chef had been expecting a new recruit, he was certain—but he lost himself in the joy, in the stress and the effort and the meaning of it all. This was the type of service he was meant for. This was the giving of himself to the universe. The kitchen flooded with warmth, whether from stews or roasts or from L’inarx himself as he finally delighted in the genetic gifts of a Hoch.
“What’s this Turrned doing in my kitchen?” boomed a voice that snapped L’inarx out of his haze. A massive alien shuffled toward L’inarx on a flurry of bulbous pads, its four arms dodging around the constantly moving chefs. Its metallic head separated in a swarm of eyes that put L’inarx’s waiter to shame.
“He’s the new assistant, Hom Huido,” the chef informed him, never looking up from his sizzling saucepan.
“The ‘new assistant’ informed me he’s taken a job on the Silas Queen,” Huido bellowed. His eyes clustered like a wave to gaze at L’inarx. “Any reason you’re here peeling fungi in my establishment without a contract or even an invitation?”
Turrned were trained to respond to situations of stress with grace and assurance, but both left L’inarx in his moment of need. “I . . . I came to say my prayers of gratitude for the meal. There was a misunderstanding. I meant no harm. I have never tasted anything so wonderful.”
Huido chortled with delight, his eyes rattling back and forth on their stems in the cacophony. “I’d like to answer humbly, but we both know it’s true.” He clacked his claws together with pleasure. “We find ourselves unable to keep up with the demand, and we appreciate your mistaken help. A pleasure to have met you.”
L’inarx shook Huido’s claw, the rim of his universe pulling in to collapse. The glimmer of light was fading. “Oh. Yes, of course. I’m grateful to have served. I . . . I will pray for you.”
The doors to the dining area burst open. “It’s been sent back!” wailed L’inarx’s waiter.
Huido let out a hiss of breath. “Impossible,” he said. “Who made this dish? Unacceptable!”
The chefs crowded around to stare at the returned dinner. It was a cut of the shorlam L’inarx had rescued from the oven. It looked all right, a single bite carved from the side of the pale white meat.
“The hom said it was . . . off,” the waiter said. “Not the flavor of Garastis 17 at all.”
The Turrned leaned in to sniff the meat. He wondered. . . .
“Bah!” boomed Huido. “He lacks refined taste. Who asks for such a style of meat?”
L’inarx took the paring knife in his hand and sliced a tiny sliver off the roast. He popped the bite into his mouth.
“What are you doing?” asked the waiter.
L’inarx swallowed.
“Salt,” he said.
“Salt?” Huido echoed.
“It has the wrong salt. Try the smoky red salt from the dried-up sea. Scorch Salt, they call it. And do you have any clipwings? They’d enhance the flavor.”
The chefs stared at each other. They stared at Huido.
“Maybe a dash of moonberry curd, too,” L’inarx added. “Infused with blue saffron.” His gray disks blinked back at Huido’s swarm.
“Don’t just stand there,” Huido boomed. “Go and get them for him!” The chefs dispersed in a flurry.
L’inarx thought carefully about his training in other species as he mixed the ingredients, about the cuisine of Garastis 17. He spread the paste onto the roast and burned it into a golden crust with a sugar torch. He watched the waiter in silence as he returned the meal to the table. Seamfish and mellowroot alike burned in their pans as the kitchen held a collective breath, peering out the sides of the doors for the sign.
The waiter waggled his antennae up and down wildly. Huido laughed, L’inarx collapsing against the counter as relief flooded through him.
“Not bad, little one,” Huido said, his eyes clustering as they looked the missionary up and down. “I’d never thought the Turrneds to have a gourmet among them. Perhaps we’ve found our new assistant. What do you think?”
Not bad at all, he thought, remembering First Mate W’harton on the shuttle. It felt so long ago, the empty bowl in L’inarx’s paws, his nose pressed against the cold glass as Plexis hovered as bright as a star. “That . . . that would be my dream, sir.”
L’inarx was a Hoch. And Hochs didn’t just dream; they shone.
“Tell me,” Huido said, reaching a kind claw around L’inarx’s back. The pads of his feet squelched pleasantly as they walked. “Do you have any experience in service?”