#01 RETRO COSMOS
426Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU8u769jb9G
No one knew what the nutrigel was made from. The official version advocated a mixture based on tholin harvested in the Outer System and gelled deposits from protein farms. A more fanciful explanation suggested the involvement of cockroach juice or seniors recycled for the common good.
Shaping food from this compote became an art. A craft so difficult to master that most stellar canteens offered the radiation-free nutrigel and its derivatives directly in raw form; usually an emerald-colored gum cobble with an indeterminate taste and a consistency customers couldn’t place on any chart. That said, the chefs of the lost stations on the space highway, stretching from Earth to Saturn, managed to make dishes worthy of their name. Sushi, burgers and tartiflettes—everything remained imaginable with the nutrigel because it could be shaped as desired. Thanks to a few spices and black-market condiments, it was even possible to recover the flavors of yesteryear, when humans crammed into our native world.
It was nevertheless with deep sadness that I reveled in such refined meals as, that day, a multi-cheese pineapple pizza. Because, alas, my cat stomach wouldn’t allow me to eat them entirely.
“What an injustice! What misery! What suffering!”
In this outmoded diner, my last slice lay immaculate before me on the chipped Formica table; within paw’s reach and yet so far away.
“Are you monologuing alone in your head again, Lee?”
I had apparently let the conclusion of my lament slip away. But what could Ali understand about my agony?
Slumped on the peeled and cracked mauve wall bench, my partner was gluttonously munching enough toppings to feed a supercargo crew alongside their lot lizards. Golden crumbs covered her black suit, and she even had hot sauce on the blond locks falling over her narrow shoulders. This girl’s digestive system appeared to be a bottomless wormhole.
I, meanwhile, was overcome by a few counterfeit pieces of tropical fruit on a slice of fake bread despite a real appetite. I was morose. The imperial roundness of my overfilled belly reflecting through the empty Coke glass was more to blame than my usual existential depression. I always had the blues when I had eaten too much. “My life is nothing but pain,” I heaved, rolling over the greasy table; only to rehash my sad failure.
My partner finally pitied me. Or was I decidedly too cute to leave her indifferent? She washed her hands with a wipe that smelled like gasoline and stroked my silky gray coat. After scratching my white-haired chin, it was time, according to her, to pack up.
“But Ali… there are two slices left!” Here we were again. Wasting food while only a few days ago, we were starving in Phobos’s orbit.
We browsed the colonized system for weeks, looking for a former pirate on the run. According to some information that we’d collected when we passed through Ceres—in the belt, our target wandered near the Red Planet—the capital world. Alas, it turned out that he’d never set foot there. We’d been scammed.
Frustration added to exhaustion, and patience wasn’t my partner’s forte. “Don’t make a big deal out of it…” she grunted, looking daggers at me with her blue eyes.
Once standing, my human had trouble fastening her Velcro belt, loosened as a safety precaution before eating like an ogre. She ultimately left it open, revealing, gracelessly, white boxer shorts and navel showing through the gap. That night, the legendary black hole had reached its limits. There was finally justice in this cold universe.
After adjusting the sleeves of her pink plastic jacket, Ali nonchalantly threw a few wrinkled bills on the table where they got stuck on a sauce stain. With my usual elegance, I positioned myself on her right shoulder; always covering our back when we left a public place. I had been doing this since we first teamed up years before.
My partner took a bubble gum, and we departed. The restaurant of the cargo center was almost empty. The flickering VFD clock upon the main condiment bar indicated 3:00 a.m. Martian Time. But this wasn’t of much help because outside—beyond the aligned rectangular windows, the night was eternal.
Nancy Sinatra sang through the radio over the muted info-ads on the blurry color TV set. The chorus of Bang Bang barely covered the heated discussion of a few pilots in a cubicle near the toilets. Farther on, behind the cigarette smoke, a robot salesman in a poor-fitting suit with a piano tie tried to sell his electronic trinkets to a group of gullible tourists.
Of the staff, only one waitress with medium curly hair and orange gloss remained in the room; busy cleaning the brass knobs of the antique Mr. Coffee machine improved to work in reduced gravity. She bid us farewell with a nod, bouncing her wrinkled jowls and dentures that held a rolled cigarette firmly in place. It was no wonder her skin was so white as she had never seen real sunlight.
Here, on the road to the asteroid belt, the Sun’s rays had been lost in the void. A bit like us. And we liked it that way.
“She looks like a Diet Betty White,” Ali snickered.
“You’re a scandalmonger. And a very mean one.”
“I know.”
Following the long row of tufted counter stools, we finally reached the plexiglass gates. Tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear, Ali pushed the right door with the shoulder I wasn’t sitting on. Despite her efforts, it refused to move. After my partner tried the other panel in vain, we realized we were locked in.
“Bogus! The waitress already bolted the doors?” my human asked. “What time is it?”
Ridiculous. Those diners never closed. Through the glass, I glanced at the outside handle. It had recently been tampered with using some acidified resin. The yellow viscous substance blistered around the magnetic lock.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t warn Ali because someone immediately shouted behind us: “Alright, folks! Everyone stay at their table and keep it shut! This is a hold-up! Y’all know the drill.”
The criminal was standing on the counter with bowed legs to avoid collecting his share of cobwebs with his greasy brown mane. His faux leather jacket gave off a strong smell of perspiration perceptible through the room. Various unstitched veteran badges from the corpo-campaigns around Uranus adorned the sleeves. I supposed this bandit had previously entered by the other exit leading to the motel, or via the pantry.
As we slowly returned to our cubicle, zigzagging between the tables, the man continued his plea punctuated by violent coughing fits. Clapping his boots, he was threatening the waitress with a blade sticking out of his palm.
This wasn’t her first armed robbery as there were no signs of panic from her; or maybe they were just imperceptible under the thick Tinkerbell makeup barely covering her wrinkles. On the other hand, the customers reacted differently and started to get agitated. The tourists began filming the scene with their newly acquired camcorders.
“Don’t anyone start fussing or I’ll cool it down! No hesitation!” the robber shouted. The bar’s red neon over his skull lighted up his sweaty face, threatening to ignite the poor-quality hairspray. He looked like a maniac, and nobody moved after his final warning: “I’m a wanted man on all the moons of the Outer System, to tell you how much you must not provoke me!”
“Well… that’s interesting,” I whispered to Ali as we came back to our table close to the wall.
426Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9mEUkVRF5i
ns 15.158.61.23da2Bang Bang by Nancy Sinatra (Imperial, 1966)
