The journey was so uneventful it was almost anticlimactic. Lucia and I simply killed time in the vast emptiness of the ship until, before I knew it, we had arrived in the Asteria System.
“It’s so peaceful it’s actually making me anxious.”
The Asteria System.
Centered around the massive gas giant Asteria, this sector was the region’s premier food production zone, its satellite orbits crowded with countless agricultural plants and bio-domes.
Outside the viewport, massive greenhouse blocks leaked a faint green light, drifting alongside stations that looked like clusters of giant storage silos. It was a functional beauty entirely devoid of aesthetics, yet the place pulsed with a certain biological vitality.
I secured the Sperm Whale in a dock and cycled the hatch.
A thick cocktail of air rushed in—smelling of oil, exhaust fumes, and the sharp, grassy scent of fertilizer and vegetation.
I took a deep breath.
“...It stinks.”
“That is the scent of organic fertilizer derived from the bio-plants,” Lucia explained. “I am reading the data through the ship’s filters; the pollution level is within standard safety margins.”
“Still, it’s the smell of a place where people actually live.”
We walked down the ramp.
I’d left the unloading of our thirty-two cargo lots to the ship’s drones. The manifest consisted of mineral-refined substances destined for use as fertilizer. Trying to haul that many pallets by hand would have done more than just break my back; it would have been a disaster. Without the drones, unloading would have cost us an enormous amount of time and labor. God bless the wonders of civilization.
My first destination wasn’t customs or the trade exchange. Instead, I headed for a grimy corner of the port district where the dockworkers tended to congregate.
I stopped in my tracks the moment the scent hit me.
It wasn’t fertilizer.
It was burnt oil. Pungent spices. The rhythmic, mouth-watering sizzle of something on a grill.
It was unmistakably the smell of an eatery.
Men in stained work clothes rubbed their bellies as they stepped through tattered noren curtains. Seeing that sight filled me with a profound sense of relief. There were people here who sought actual food. This wasn't just a place to refuel; it was a place where a culture of flavor and satisfaction still lived.
“Let us go, Master. Your pace is quickening.”
“You noticed? Well, of course it is.”
“Coming right up! One special!”
The counter was slick with grease. Above us, a ceiling fan spun unreliably, stirring the whirlpool of clamor and heat. As soon as I’d sat down, I pointed to the menu on the wall.
“One set meal. And that yellow booze... give me a lager, too.”
“You got it!”
A steaming plate was thumped down in front of me alongside a silver cylindrical container labeled Puhari Lager. Condensation clung to the can's surface, a silent promise that it was ice-cold.
The main dish was a synthetic meat fry. The side was a pile of stir-fried vegetables with deep, dark colors, served with a mountain of yellowish synthetic rice.
This was it. This was exactly what I’d been looking for.
“Down the hatch,” I muttered, snapping my plastic chopsticks and biting into the fry.
The breading gave way with a sharp crunch. What followed was the texture of meat that was far too elastic—somewhere between a sponge and a rubber ball. As I chewed, concentrated umami seasonings and hot oil squelched out in place of actual meat juices.
To be honest, it didn't taste like meat at all. It was a violent, overwhelming flavor—as if "something that tasted meat-ish" had been forcibly subdued by high-temperature oil.
I immediately shoveled in a mouthful of synthetic rice to compensate.
...The rice was a miss. It was dry, and no matter how much I chewed, not a hint of sweetness emerged. It had a hollow, void-like taste, reminiscent of old cardboard that had been reconstituted with water and pressed together. Its only purpose was to physically occupy space in the stomach.
However, compared to the "Rice-style Carbohydrate Gel" in that Space Curry, at least this had individual grains. That other stuff had been a glorified eraser; this at least looked like food. I used the heavy seasoning of the main dish to mask the taste and forced it down.
“...It’s hot.”
It was so hot it nearly scalded my mouth. That alone made it so delicious I could have cried.
“Good appetite you’ve got there, kid.”
The man in work clothes sitting next to me exhaled a long breath after a deep pull from his own silver can. He flashed me a grin.
“Just come down from ‘Above’? All you sailors eat like starving beasts when you hit port.”
“Yeah... I was sick to death of cold rations and ‘bait’ that’s just been soaked in water.”
“Ain’t that the truth. Cooking with an actual flame is a damn luxury on a ship.” The man poked at the stir-fry on his plate with a fork. “In a production colony like this, we’re plugged right into the agricultural plants. I won’t call it ‘fresh,’ but we can get our hands on the ‘ingredients’ before they’re processed into cubes. Then we fry ’em up over high heat. It’s the one privilege us workers down here have.”
“A privilege, huh? I like the sound of that.”
I tried the stir-fry. There was no crunch to the vegetables; they had that limp, slightly mushy texture that came from being frozen and thawed too many times. The seasoning was so aggressive it made my tongue tingle.
It was, without a doubt, terrible for my health. Pure junk.
And yet, my body welcomed the "poison" with open arms. My stomach felt warm, and my brain was screaming for more.
“Lucia, you want a bite?”
“No. I do not require organic energy replenishment.”
Sitting across from me, Lucia watched me bolt my food as if she were observing a rare experimental animal.
“...Pupil dilation confirmed. Rise in body temperature detected. Master, you look incredibly ‘happy.’”
“There’s a kind of deliciousness that data just can't capture.”
“Even if the nutritional balance is significantly below recommended values?” Lucia narrowed her eyes slightly. “The concept of ‘satisfaction’ is quite intriguing.”
I swallowed the last bite and washed it all down with the yellow lager. The searing carbonation and cheap bitterness scrubbed the grease from my palate. I let out a loud, unrefined burp.
Half of me was bewildered by the unnatural nature of the meal. But the other half was filled with a pure, simple sense of happiness. I’m glad I’m alive.
Now that my stomach was full, it was time to go find some decent clothes.