The first time the President opened his mouth about the idea, every single person in the room surely thought the exact same thing: Oh god, not again.
Heinlein, currently in his sixth month at Rising Sun, sat with his mouth agape. He was one of thirty employees who had been summoned to the conference room of their industrial station office in the Katsushika Star System. The office was brand new—the kind of pristine, clinical space that hadn't yet been graced by a single smudge or coffee stain.
"——And that’s the long and short of it," Taro announced cheerfully. "I want us to find a way to get natural foods onto the market. Now, 'Sergeant,' if I recall correctly, you’ve got a Ph.D. in biochemistry, right?"
At the sound of his old Imperial Military rank, Heinlein snapped to attention, the air hitching in his throat.
"Sir! That is correct, Commander! I conducted biological research at the Beta Star System Imperial Academy. During my time in the service, however, I specialized in the Land Combat Education Course!"
Taro blinked, looking slightly overwhelmed by Heinlein’s sharp, military-grade enthusiasm. He hesitated for a second, then gave a firm, "pulling-myself-together" nod.
"Right. Well, in that case, I’m putting you in charge of the development team. I mean, if you absolutely loathe the idea, you can back out, but I’d really prefer it if you took the lead."
Taro’s voice had grown uncharacteristically reserved, likely having noticed the "deer in the headlights" expression plastered across Heinlein’s face.
"No, sir! If it is an order, I shall obey! However, my expertise lies in the theater of war, not the laboratory. I must question whether I can truly be of use in this endeavor."
"Yeah, look, I get that. But frankly, Sergeant, there’s nobody else. You’re the most qualified guy in the room. All you really need to do is lead the team. As for the actual science... well, I’m currently scrambling because I don’t have any actual experts, but you can delegate the heavy lifting to the nearest equivalents. Dr. Aljimov is pulling some strings to find me a few biochemists as we speak."
"I see... If that is the case, will you be sharing the specifics with us today?"
"Of course," Taro chirped. He gestured for the standing employees to sit before flopping unceremoniously into a high-end, ergonomic system chair.
"The gist of it is exactly what I just said: we’re researching and commercializing natural food ingredients. I’ve got zero clue how any of this works, so if you have any ideas, feel free to blurt 'em out."
The room fell into a silence so heavy it could have had its own gravity well. Heinlein watched the silence stretch, thinking, Well, of course they’re quiet. Who wouldn't be after a bombshell like that? It took him a full five seconds to realize the silence was lingering because he was the one supposed to speak. Panicked, he scrambled to organize his thoughts. If the President said it was so, he was already the team lead.
"Very well... You mentioned natural foods, sir, but have any specific targets been identified? In terms of variety, we are talking about a selection as vast as the stars themselves."
It was a basic question, but Heinlein figured they had to start somewhere. Taro just gave him a mischievous smirk.
"These are our targets. Everyone, feast your eyes on the lists I just sent to your terminals."
Taro reached down, hoisted a twenty-centimeter-wide box from the floor, and slid it carelessly across the conference table. Heinlein caught it with practiced ease, though his eyebrows shot up at the biting cold radiating from the surface.
"A cooler box? May I?"
Taro nodded, grinning. Heinlein double-checked that the latch was a simple mechanical one and slowly lifted the lid. A thick plume of frost rolled out, dancing across his face.
Inside were ampoules, each about five centimeters long, nestled in a neat grid. The sight sparked a wave of nostalgia; he hadn't seen samples like these since his university days. Then he looked at the labels.
"Biological genetic samples... and quite a lot of them. These... are read as 'Cow,' 'Chicken,' and 'Pig,' I assume? I’ve never heard of these species. What planet do they hail from?"
Heinlein stared at the list on his terminal with a look of utter bafflement.
"That’s a trade secret," Taro said, waving a hand dismissively. "And honestly? I don't even know if they're actually chickens, pigs, and cows. Genetically, they’re supposed to be close, but you could say that about half the lifeforms in the galaxy if you squint hard enough. I'm guessing the final sizes will be roughly two kilos, a hundred kilos, and five hundred kilos. One bird, two mammals. Probably."
"Five hundred kilograms?" Heinlein gasped. "That is a massive organism."
"Tell me about it. They might grow horns, so you’ll want to watch out for that. I think it was okay even if they snapped off, but don't quote me on that. I’ve included some 'best guess' rearing methods in the list, but if they don't work, just wing it and try something else. Like I said, there’s a solid chance these turn out to be completely different animals anyway."
"Horns? Rearing?" Heinlein sputtered. "Wait just a moment. Are you suggesting we raise them? As in, live livestock? Rather than simply vat-growing the protein?"
"Well, yeah. If we just churn out artificial meat, where's the 'natural' in that? It’d be pointless. Though... I wonder how genetic cloning factors in? I mean, twins are basically clones, so that’s still 'natural' enough, right?"
Taro’s logic hit the room like a physical shock, bringing the flow of time to a grinding halt. Heinlein fought to maintain his composure, took a long, stabilizing breath, and returned to the data.
"Expected environment for 'Cow'... diet consists of anything from fodder to grain to fruit. Ambient temperature: twenty-four degrees Celsius. Respiration: within standard human range. Gravity and survival requirements: identical to humans... President, what on earth are these things? Logically speaking, a natural animal this 'convenient' simply cannot exist."
He spoke with the conviction of a man backed by a university degree and common sense. His expression soured, as if he were being told a particularly bad joke.
"Are you telling me they require no temperature regulation? No respiratory assistance? You’re making it sound as if we could just dump them in any spare room and they’ll grow as long as they have water and food! Please, sir, be serious. These must have been subjected to extreme genetic terraforming."
"Actually, no. I don't think they have. I’m pretty sure they just grow like that."
"...That’s absurd."
The words escaped before he could stop them. Heinlein looked around for backup, but he found only a sea of equally bewildered faces.
"As for the plants, I’ve got some seedlings, seeds, and genetic sequences. About two thousand species in total. Check the lists for those, too."
Heinlein’s eyes flicked back to his terminal. Sure enough, there was an exhaustive list labeled 'Grains.'
"These also match the human survival environment... I cannot fathom the existence of flora and fauna this perfectly suited to us..."
His face twitched. Like most Imperial citizens, he lived in a world where "nature" was something you survived with high-tech gear and atmospheric stabilizers.
But, much to his chagrin, Taro turned out to be right.
Granted, the first month was an absolute train wreck. They spent thirty days flailing in the dark, having no clue how to actually start. They were biochemists and soldiers trying to be farmers in a galaxy that had forgotten what dirt was for.
The turning point came when Taro went to Dean for a "little favor."
"Very well," the high-ranking officer had said. "I’ll see who I can rattle. The weapons you provided me are likely to earn me another star on my shoulder, after all. This is a small price to pay."
With that, the "Natural Food Project" exploded. It became the largest endeavor in Rising Sun's history, dragging in everyone from the Imperial Planet Development Organization’s [TERRAFORM CENTER] to the Imperial Genetic Manipulation Research Institute.
Heinlein panicked as the project spiraled into a galactic-scale operation, but he threw himself into the chaos with a desperate sort of courage. When the first biological "mother" was successfully born, the entire team—hardened researchers and ex-soldiers alike—wept tears of pure joy.
Of course, "success" was a relative term. The failures were far more spectacular.
"I-IT'S COMING THIS WAY! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"
One of the "chickens," which was supposed to weigh two kilos, somehow became a two-hundred-kilo feathered monstrosity that treated its high-security cage like wet tissue paper.
"EVACUATE THE FLOOR! JETTISON THE DOCKING MODULE!"
A certain species of plant began venting toxic spores and pathogens, nearly triggering a station-wide biohazard alert. The contaminated floors had to be sterilized with extreme prejudice; the ones that couldn't be saved were incinerated and dumped into the local sun.
Out of 3,552 test samples, only five species made it to practical application: two animals and three plants.
Heinlein was certain he’d be fired. He had spent an astronomical amount of company credit for a return of five species. He was ready to fall on his sword, but to his shock, the President was ecstatic. It was a "roaring success," apparently. Heinlein’s salary was tripled, and he was officially named the Head of the Food Department.
You really never can tell which way the wind will blow, Heinlein thought, reflecting on his strange journey.
He used to hate himself for choosing the Land Combat Education Course. In the modern era of orbital strikes and ship-to-ship boarding, "ground pounding" was a dead-end career. His classmates had all gone into the Space Fleet Education Course, becoming the glamorous pilots and officers who zipped across the galaxy. They got the girls, the glory, and the fat bonuses. Nobody cared about the infantry. Even the girl he’d been dating since college had eventually dumped him to chase after some hotshot spaceship pilot.
He’d quit the military out of sheer bitterness, only to find that nobody wanted to hire a man whose primary skill was "fighting on a planet's surface." He’d been rotting away in his apartment until the day the President of Rising Sun had practically kicked his door down.
"Mr. Heinlein! Is it true you’re an army vet? Come work for me! We love soldiers! Wait, Land Combat? Even better! We might need that eventually! Man, infantry is so cool. It’s like, once we find a mystery planet, that’s when the 'Boots on the Ground' guy gets his big hero moment, right?"
Looking back, Taro was probably just so short-staffed he would have hired a trained monkey, but Heinlein was still grateful. Taro had taught him how to fly a ship and given him a respectable spot in the Security Department’s VIP Protection Detail.
And now, here he was: The Director of Food Development.
"Chicken, pig, sesame, potato, and rice," Heinlein muttered, plucking a single stalk of rice from his desk. One of his subordinates walked over.
"Do you really think these will sell, Director? I mean, they’re delicious—outstanding, even, if you eat them right after they're cooked. But they’re a nightmare to preserve, and most households don't even own basic cooking utensils."
"That’s a fair point. I’ve never even seen a modern apartment with a kitchen. But the President doesn't intend to sell these to the masses."
The subordinate blinked, confused. Heinlein continued, staring out into the void of space.
"The general food market is a battlefield. The big corporations have it locked down. If we tried to compete there, our prices would be a joke, and the conglomerates would declare war on us before we sold a single potato. No, we aren't fighting them."
He smiled, remembering Taro’s explanation.
"These are for the Natural Food Faction. Yes, I know—they only make up about one in every fifty thousand citizens. I told the President the same thing. I told him the market was too small."
Heinlein let out a short, dry laugh.
"And do you know what he told me? He said, 'If there’s one in fifty thousand, that means there are 1.2 billion of them in the galaxy. That’s not a niche, Sergeant—that’s a gold mine.'"