“Of course, follow me.”
Starcroft zips in front of me and bumps up against the door lock panel a few times before whatever key fob is inside him activates. It slides open.
I file away the information that this little droid can unlock doors. I wonder if he could fly a ship too.
“Follow me!” he says enthusiastically.
I do, careful with my footing, as the red lights that illuminated everything before are now barely on.
We go straight for a long time before making a hard right through a doorway that is only just large enough for me.
“How does Mekkra squeeze through this?” Igrumble as I duck my head. It’s gotta be comical to see that seven-foot-tall alien hunch into the kitchen.
“Warlord Mekkra doesn’t come in here,” Starcroft says. “The doorway is sized for his droid attendants. They prepare his meals.”
“Checks out.” I snort. “Not only is he a dick, he’s apparently incapable of doing a single thing for himself.” I pause, my brow knitting as I search for a version of the question that won’t offend the machine standing three feet away. “Does Warlord Mekkra have anyone on this station who isn’t… you know…” I gesture vaguely. “Synthetic?”
“No, of course not—aside from you.” Starcroft pivots toward the kitchen. “Though you’re not really crew, are you?”
The droid reaches the far wall and taps a precise sequence into a hidden panel. The room answers immediately. Like a conductor raising a baton, Starcroft summons an orchestra of tiny droids from unseen compartments. They buzz and beep in a choreographed routine, each knowing its predetermined path.
One ignites a broad steel cooktop with a high pitched trill. Another—a polished metal sphere sporting a single oversized blade—rolls forward and begins carving a kelp-like alien vegetable into perfect slices. A third arrives to shepherd the pieces onto the griddle, where they sizzle and curl as they cook.
No voices. No hesitation. Just machines, executing their niche purposes with unsettling grace.
“That smells pretty good.” The aroma filling the air is surprisingly spicy. Though I fear anything might seem spicy compared to the slop I’ve been eating with the Deenz.
“I’ve had our chefs prepare the food to matchwhat we know about human palates.” Starcroft gleams as he looks down on his little army as they work.
Once the bot switches off the griddle, Starcroft plates the stir-fry and brings me a shallow bowl.
“Should we head back to my room?” I nod toward the doorway.
“Unfortunately, I have direct orders you are never to eat in your room. So if you could eat here, I’d appreciate that greatly!” He hands me a two-pronged fork that seems like it would fit in Mekkra’s hands much easier than my own.
The food almost looks like short green noodles in a vaguely threatening orange sauce, which would suggest poison on Earth.
“If this kills me, I want it on the record that I didn’t consent to death by alien grub, okay?”
Starcroft buffers for a moment.
“Your consent isn’t required for nourishment,” he tells me flatly.
“Comforting.”
Bringing it to my nose, I smell its briny, slightly metallic scent that reminds me of having a bloody nose. I twirl the long, chopped pieces of the kelp-like veggie around the twin twines. I hesitate long enough for my stomach to grumble. Victim to the hunger pangs, I put the loaded utensil into my mouth and chew with gusto.
There’s a wave of initial heat that melts to a nutty sweetness. I test the texture with my teeth. The exterior gives way to the soft, chewy pulp just under the seared skin. It’s unexpectedly tender inside. Not bad, not bad at all.
“That reaction indicates satisfaction, correct?” he asks.
I take another bite, this one unguarded.
“Okay, it’s pretty good,” I say, mouth muffled by my meal.
“Excellent, I’ll catalog this recipe as approved for human consumption.” His eyes light up.
I frown, wondering if he wasn’t all that sure what humans could eat.
