Dressed in our new gear, we made our exit from the Commercial District.
Our next destination was the heart of the colony—the Agricultural Plant Sector.
"To conquer your enemy, you must first know them," I muttered.
"Master, the public order in this system is stable. Security in the Agricultural Plant Sector is particularly stringent."
"It’s a figure of speech, Lucia. That disgusting food we ate? That’s the enemy. Definitely the enemy."
We made our way through the maintenance walkways.
The workers we passed did double and triple takes at Lucia in her maid uniform. As expected, the outfit was a magnet for attention. However, most seemed to interpret her presence as some kind of official inspection, so no one moved to challenge us. It wasn't exactly what I’d intended, but it seemed the expensive clothes were already paying for themselves.
Eventually, the view opened up behind a wall of thick glass.
"...It’s spectacular. Or maybe 'bizarre' is the better word."
Before us lay a vast expanse of green—or rather, a sickly, pale shade of it.
Cultivation units were arranged in perfect rows along the inner walls of a gargantuan cylindrical space. Growing under the intense glare of artificial sunlamps were plants that looked like twisted parodies of the vegetables I knew.
Enormous grain-like fruits, each the size of a child’s head, hung from stalks that towered over us. They were a lifeless, blanched yellow. The stalks themselves looked unable to support their own weight; they were lashed to metal frames, with thick tubes plunged into their bases like veins, pumping them full of nutrients.
In the adjacent lane, vines crawled along the floor, laden with clusters of faded red, softball-sized fruits. They bore a passing resemblance to tomatoes, but they were bloated and discolored.
"Biomass production efficiency is extremely high," Lucia noted. "They are genetically modified strains that prioritize growth speed and edible volume above all else. A single sector can provide enough calories for three hundred thousand standard colony citizens."
"So taste and appearance are bottom of the list, huh?"
"Correct. Genetic resources typically used for pigment production and sugar content have been redirected entirely toward growth speed."
We moved to the observation gallery of the processing factory attached to the plant.
What I witnessed there was a form of "slaughter."
The massive fruits and grains were carried by conveyor belts into a gargantuan pulverizer. With a series of wet, rhythmic crunches, they were ground down into an unrecognizable, gooey paste.
The process continued: dehydration, sterilization, chemical adjustment, and coloring. What finally emerged at the end of the line were blocks molded into uniform shapes or tubes filled with gel.
"...I see."
I leaned my hand against the glass and groaned.
"They aren't even 'ingredients' as we know them by the time they're harvested. They turn everything into paste just to make the stuff edible."
I’d seen enough of the vegetables. It was time to find out what the "main dish" really was. We left the walkway and entered the neighboring Synthetic Protein Cultivation Plant.
If the agricultural plant was a "green netherworld," this place was a "meat factory."
However, there wasn't a single animal in sight. There were only rows of towering cultivation tanks and a labyrinth of sterile, inorganic pipes.
"Whoa..."
I couldn't help the sound of disgust that escaped me when I saw the contents of the tanks.
Inside a pale pink solution, countless things were writhing.
They were massive lumps of flesh. They had no bones, no skin—just bundles of muscle fibers tangled together like grotesque, wet sponges. The solution bubbled eerily as growth hormones and oxygen were pumped in. Every few seconds, as if hit by a high-voltage pulse, the meat masses would twitch and contract in unison. They didn't look alive so much as they looked like organic machines running a program.
"These are muscle fiber cultivation vats," Lucia said matter-of-factly. "By bypassing the need to raise livestock and directly growing only the muscle tissue, the energy conversion efficiency is approximately twenty times that of traditional ranching. These are pure masses of protein, stripped of the 'wasteful' costs of growing skeletons or internal organs."
Mechanical arms plucked the meat masses from the tanks and dropped them onto a processing line. From there, they were fed into a giant grinder and reduced to a slurry, just like the vegetables.
"...More paste?"
"It allows for the homogenization of the fiber direction and the addition of binding agents and flavorings. This process creates a 'meat material' that can be molded into any desired shape."
The pink clay was squeezed through nozzles and shaped into cubes or faux steaks. Only then were the dyes for "meaty red" and the chemicals for "meaty flavor" added.
"What are your orders, Master? There appears to be a wholesale outlet nearby."
Lucia pointed toward a commercial sales window. There, they sold the paste in bulk, as well as the raw muscle blocks before they reached the grinder.
Cultured Meat Paste (Unprocessed, Unseasoned) – 10kg / 50 Credits Cultured Muscle Fiber Block (Unshredded) – 10kg / 5 Credits
The unshredded blocks. In other words, the pulsating sponges I’d seen in the tanks. Because they required zero processing, they were even cheaper than the paste.
Actually, "cheap" didn't cover it. Five credits for ten kilograms? That was half a credit per kilo. In terms of Japanese Yen, that was maybe fifty yen. It wasn't just cheaper than snacks—it was cheaper than water. It was practically being treated as industrial waste.
"...Right. Mystery solved." I stared at the blocks and muttered. "That 'fried meat' I had at the diner? It was like chewing on a rubber band. Ten to one, it was just a slice of this block, breaded and fried."
It was a hundred percent pure, unadulterated muscle. That explained the violent, springy texture. It all made sense now.
"Will you not be purchasing any? As a 'raw ingredient,' I suspect these would be more to your liking than the paste," Lucia asked.
I hesitated for a long moment before shaking my head.
"...No, let's skip it."
"Oh? How curious. I was certain you would jump at the chance."
"Look, I’m a cook of sorts. I’ll admit I have the urge to see if I can make something out of it. But..." I gave a wry smile. "With the Sperm Whale's current equipment, I can’t do anything but grill it. I don't have salt, pepper, or even oil."
It was a tasteless lump of muscle. Grilling it without seasoning would just result in the miserable experience of chewing on "warm rubber." To make it actually taste good, I’d need to prep it, use spices to mask the smell, and develop a sauce. Right now, I didn't have the gear, the ingredients, or the mental energy to play scientist with ten kilos of mystery meat.
"Besides, today was just 'enemy reconnaissance.' Knowing what the stuff actually is is enough for now."
I looked up at the pulsating meat in the tanks one last time.
Maybe one day, when the ship’s kitchen was finished and the spice rack was full, I’d come back here and figure out how to turn this stuff into a decent steak. But that day wasn't today.
"Let's go, Lucia. Finding out the truth just made me hungrier."
"A wise decision. Based on the subtle tension in your facial muscles, I have determined that your mental stress levels are rising. I recommend consuming something sweet."
"Yeah, you're right. I'll grab a 'Sugar-Flavored Carbohydrate Bar' from a stall on the way out."
We made our exit, almost as if we were fleeing the factory.