Xylanthia

Prologue

They say the older you get, the faster time flies. Of course, it just seems that way. To Mackenzie, it was as though life had just begun: a dream job, a move to the city, training sessions, new friends. Within a week, home and hearth was far away and insignificant. She didn't miss it at all.

There was good reason for the easy adaptation. Like the other initiates, Mackenzie was given an all-expenses paid, company-sponsored, neuro treatment that smoothed out the rough places in her memories. Mac was all for it, not that she had an inordinate number of traumatic experiences, but it was all the social rage among everybody who was anybody. The procedure was part of the program for all traveling company initiates. Traveling being an insider's reference to the class of Braithwaite employees who volunteered for deep space operations.

It was Mackenzie's life ambition to travel to other worlds. Trained in chemistry and biophysics and laboratory procedures, she proudly called herself a scientist; a junior scientist, to be sure, but a woman of science, rationale, and reason. Her parents, never once thinking their daughter would actually be hired by one of the mega-corps, encouraged her dreams and their support was revealed in Mackenzie's good marks in school and, other than one small incident, a sparkling conduct record.

To their utter consternation, Mac was selected by Braithwaite from the yearly field of recruits. Everyone wanted to work for one of the mega-corps and why not? A job with one of the big boys and one was set for life. Which was fine, but Mackenzie wanted to travel off-planet, which meant Faster-Than-Light travel over long distances. Neither of Mackenzie's parents were physicists but they knew if Mackenzie went out there, by the time she returned they would likely be dead and gone. They would never see their daughter again.

Mackenzie loved her parents but, in all honesty, they were victims of modern society and had divorced, re-married, divorced again until the whole idea of family came to be a hassle. Early on, Mac knew she could leave it all behind.

Her neuro-scan revealed nuances about Mac's psychology and provided a map for enhancement. Space voyagers had to be calm, steady, and physically fit. Removing traumatic memory helped to attain the desired state of mind. Afterwards, Mackenzie felt wonderful, but she could no longer remember what her brother looked like. She had a relationship with a boy her first year in college, but she could not remember his face either or his name. The neurologists also took away the memory of a broken arm from falling out of a tree when Mackenzie was six. Things like that. The memories turned out to be just like her thoughts of home: she did not miss them at all.

She loved the city, but an accelerated training schedule called for her transfer to one of the great orbital platforms where she acclimated to zero gravity and attended classes. She was told she was selected specifically to support the survey mission to Sirius, to a moon in orbit around the great gas giant Xylanthia where her talents as a bio-surveyor were required. Turns out the place was crazy with wildlife.

The mission was already established and needed more personnel to help catalog all the new species. And so, it was to be Mackenzie and another young woman, Tyra Yasmin, who would be put into suspended animation and sent the eight light years to the binary system via a fully automated starship.

Tyra's background was similar to Mackenzie's. She was a new company employee and the rumor mill claimed she was brilliant and destined for big things. Tyra made Mackenzie uncomfortable on the shuttle ride into orbit by staring so long that Mackenzie finally asked, Can I help you?

Tyra shook her head, said no, and turned away.

Well, thought Mackenzie, women were like that. We size up one another according to strengths and weaknesses. Tyra was fit, larger than Mac, and had a brilliant resume. It was likely she was looking to become the dominant female on this trip. Mac sighed. There’s one in every crowd.

*

The edge of the scraper slid over the scorched metal, shearing off a layer of carbon build-up and herding the shavings into a pile. Shmo strained as he leaned over the grill. The grease and ash built up quickly and, if not cleaned daily, would affect the next meal and eventually pose a fire hazard. Part of the problem was that people felt they could come in any time they pleased and light up the grill unsupervised to make themselves a melted cheese or a soy burger or to help themselves willy-nilly to whatever was in the cooler. The microwave ovens were over-used to the point where Shmo had to lock them up through the week. The thing was, they weren’t on vacation. They were eight light years from home with no weekly supply trucks. The food had to come from somewhere; the cook didn’t just make it magically appear. Shmo even hung signs around the kitchen and above the grill and on the cooler door that said Stay Out! That was as much of an explanation that was required. He had reported the situation to Dr. Ananda a number of times, but the bottom line was that if the mercs and the techies ran out of food, they’d have to eat whatever they pulled from the swamp.

Actually, Shmo didn’t mind the idea of eating wild flora and fauna. He was originally from bayou country in Louisiana, North America, circa 2292, and knew how to prepare everything from boiled crawdads to soft-shell turtles. Some of the techies were squeamish about eating from the swamp but they loved their manufactured non-foods of ready snacks and artificial flavoring. The security guys didn’t care what they ate as long as it tasted good and there was plenty of it.

As Shmo finished putting things away, one of the mercs sauntered in and asked for a hot sandwich. With a sigh, Shmo fired up the grill. It never failed. Once the place was clean, it was time to mess it up again.

After Shmo fed the guy, the kitchen was officially closed for a few hours. Shmo had a sign for that too: Cook Not On Duty. It was after dinner and time to relax. Later, he would shower, get some shut eye, and then rouse himself and do it all over again. But first, a little distraction.

He left the kitchen, crossed the dining room, through the open double doors into the outside corridor to a closed door which he opened to expose a stairwell leading down. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused before a large circular hatch. Spinning the handle, the latches released and Shmo pulled open the heavy door until it rested against its folded hinges. Hot, humid air enveloped him. The calm waters of the swamp were visible beneath a rusted lattice grillwork. Shmo stepped through the hatchway to the steel platform suspended beneath the base. A sheet metal locker was welded to a metal strut and Shmo opened it. Inside was an assortment of fishing gear and nets. He pulled out a hand-net and went to a part of the platform where several lines already trailed from the middle rail into the water. One by one, he checked each. With satisfaction, Shmo found that every line had a fair-sized fish hanging from it.

He removed the first fish, placed it in a clean plastic bag retrieved from the locker, and moved to the next line. Shmo loved fishing, especially when the fishing was good, and it was always good under the base. Most days, the fish looked like any old regular fish he used to pull from the swamps back home. Sometimes, there were creatures that were more like salamanders and sometimes there were amphibians like frogs and small gators and web-footed lizards. And there were the crustaceans, with and without pincers. He never knew what he was going to pull out of the water, but it was always something interesting. The boss men upstairs ran tests before allowing Shmo to cook anything. Some of the techies complained but even they couldn’t argue with the positive results and the abundance of a readily available food source. By all accounts, the end result was delicious.

He was checking the last lure when the line suddenly jerked free of his hand. It hung tautly from the rail for a moment before slacking off. As he reached a second time, it went taut again. Shmo tugged and felt the power of his catch. The cook wanted to see what he had and leaned out over the water between the top and middle rails, peering into the murky water where the line entered. Concentric circles emanated from the spot as Shmo’s prey struggled to remove itself from the hook.

A form appeared beneath the surface and Shmo pulled harder, hard enough to roll the creature over and feel the great weight associated with it. By then, Shmo had a firm grip with a gloved right hand. The line was looped around Shmo’s closed fist and he felt confident he would eventually win the struggle.

The form came closer yet and Shmo realized the creature was too large to pull up onto the catwalk. It rolled lazily just beneath the surface. As it did so, Shmo saw its eye. It looked at him. Shmo would have released the line at that moment had it not been wrapped around his fist. He jerked back in reaction but only succeeded in bumping his head on the top steel rail. The blow staggered him and another fierce downward jerk dragged him nearly into the water.

There was a great commotion and the fish suddenly rose up in a rush. Shmo felt it clamp onto his extended right arm just below the shoulder. There was a stinging sensation, an intense burning, pressure, and then a crunch followed by a release. It had let go.

Shmo hung dazed between the rails, his upper arm throbbing. However, when he looked, the entire limb was gone from the shoulder down. All that remained was a bloody stump. Everything happened as if in a dream. In his shock, Shmo observed the unfolding events but did not react. Not thinking clearly, he figured his arm must have fallen into the water and so he looked for the appendage hoping to find it so the doctors could reattach it. That, however, was not to happen. As Shmo hung on the middle rail searching the dark water, another upheaval of water exploded beneath him and a large, slick body came up from the below, taking Shmo in its jaws and dragging him down.

Part 1 – The Cook

"Love nothing but that which comes to you woven in the pattern of your destiny. For what could more aptly fit your needs?" -- Marcus Aurelius

The Alcubierre Drive was realized in the mid-22nd Century although the space-folding technology was not fully utilized as a means of travel until early in the 23rd Century. By that time, the teeming billions on Earth, its orbital platforms, and the growing bases on the moon and Mars were full urbanites, accustomed to living in beehive-like apartment high-rises and working at terminals that carried their remote commands. Life was actually quite good for most citizens if not highly regulated. Unfortunately, as has always been the case, the poor, the unwanted, and the forgotten comprised a class all to themselves that slipped through the cracks of established social convention. The underclass does, however, have the wherewithal to fend for themselves and often take up occupations and challenges no one else wants. Thus, they were the servant class, the groundskeepers, maintenance workers, what the state referred to as unskilled labor; but the truth is, they weren’t unskilled at all. They knew how to do things no one else wanted to do. That essential fact did not always translate into higher wages, but it did ensure certain classes of individuals, if they wanted to work and were healthy, could find employment where there seemingly was no employment to be found.

Chapter 1

At heart, Chef Dawson was not an adventurous man. He did like a challenge, although that was not why he took the job that took him to Sirius. He took the job because he needed the money and oh boy, did it pay well, better than he’d ever been paid before. As he discovered, as with most other well-paying jobs, there was a catch or two.

Not that he'd had a lot of well-paying jobs prior to the Braithwaite gig. The truth was, Dawson didn't have much schooling or proper training in anything besides working in a kitchen. What he knew, he had picked up by working in the orphanage where he had been dumped as an infant and subsequently raised. When he turned seventeen, he was released from the Boys’ Home, and he snagged his first job as a dishwasher and second-line fry cook at the diner just up the street.

He slept in an abandoned car that first year until he saved enough to move downtown where he bluffed himself into a number of menial positions from high-rise window washer to commercial painter to harbor tug deckhand. Yet, he always ended up working as a cook. He didn't mind. Kitchens were warm and the work was regular. Best of all, he never went hungry.

Dawson was twenty-eight years old and cooking breakfast and lunch for the Braithwaite high tech crowd at the diner on Twentieth Street and Fifth Avenue when the job revealed itself.

It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, said the Braithwaite guy -- a tall fellow named Howard Johnson who always wore a bow tie and looked more like a stockbroker than a human resources recruiter.

What about when the job's over? Dawson asked. A free return ticket and no job again? No thanks. I've got a job right here and I like it just fine.

No way, said Johnson. Braithwaite takes care of its own. Come on, you know that.

How would I know that?

You've heard of Braithwaite, right? Johnson leaned on the countertop with his elbows, his soy burger plate special resting between them.

Sure, Dawson had heard of Braithwaite. He knew exactly who they were. They were the largest off-planet operation in the world and Johnson was right: they had a reputation for taking care of their own. But they didn't hire guys like Frankie Dawson. They hired guys with college degrees, engineers, and educated people. They didn't hire fry cooks who only stood five feet four inches tall in their stocking feet.

Order up, said Marlene the waitress as she punched in a customer lunch request.

Dawson shook his head and turned away. I've got work to do.

The company man reached across the counter and tugged on Dawson's sleeve. Dawson stopped and took the proffered business card before returning to work. He stopped short of throwing it into the trash and instead slipped it into his top pocket.

Later, as Chef rode home on the crowded subway, he was pushed aside by a larger rider, a woman nearly twice his size. To keep from being trampled, he had to wait at his stop for the larger passengers to exit first. It was a common occurrence, a part of daily life. He hated it, but that's the way it was. The short end of the stick always went to the short guy. Get used to it, that's what they always told him at the orphanage, and Dawson had gotten used to it. He'd taken what he was given, which wasn't much, but it was enough, and he had a job, a one room apartment in a building in a bad neighborhood, and little hope for anything better.

Naturally, Chef wondered why the Braithwaite recruiter would even speak to him. The company man came to the diner every day and he brought friends with him. He was friendly to Chef. It was his job to look for talent, so he said. Furthermore, he had an immediate need for a cook, a dependable worker, someone young and strong. Howard Johnson had grinned at Chef and asked Chef to let me change your life forever.

While sirens wailed from the street outside and a television blared through the thin wall separating him from his neighbor, Frankie lay atop a bed that took up a third of the space in the tiny room. In the dim light of a single lamp, he held up the business card and stared at the Braithwaite logo. Johnson's name was neatly printed underneath, along with a title -- the single word 'Recruiter' -- and a phone number with a local exchange prefix.

Why had this guy offered to help anyway? After all, Frankie was just a sawed-off, short-order cook in a busy New York City diner. The Braithwaite building was just up the street and Johnson was a regular. He liked the fries. Could he really help Dawson get a better job? What was the catch?

For one thing, as Johnson had told him, it was off planet. Johnson had asked if Dawson was fit. Any medical problems?

Why? Do I look sick?

No, you look healthy. Just asking.

Dawson was healthy. He was just small, that's all. He stared at the card a little longer before finally placing it face up on the table that held the single lamp at the head of his bed. He yawned, reached up, and switched off the light.

*

It was Chef's normal routine to get up early so he could be at the diner an hour prior to opening. He needed that much time for the prep work. Grills to heat, onions to chop, potatoes to peel, biscuits to cook. Sy, the manager, wouldn't make his appearance until five minutes prior to opening at six o'clock. One of the four waitresses would come in too, but Dawson didn't keep up with their schedule. The girls liked him and everybody called him Chef, which he liked, but none wanted to go to the movies with him because he was too short. Also, there was that thing about dating people from work. It wasn't a good idea. At least, that's what Frankie told himself. And that was how his day had started out for most of the past three years.

The front door opened with a soft tinkle from a suspended bell on an attached spring and Dawson heard Sy mumble a hello toward the kitchen. Chef was spreading a thin layer of oil over the top of the grill and didn't look up. Even if he had, he would have had to use a chair to see through the kitchen window into the dining room. However, when the bell jangled a second time, Chef did look up. He still could not see through the window, but he distinctly heard a low voice ordering Sy to keep his hands in sight.

There wasn’t any cash or vouchers in the register yet because Sy had just arrived and he hadn’t enough time to load it. That wasn’t good, either, Chef thought, because it meant Sy had the daily cash on him, in his pocket.

Still holding the large, grease-covered spatula, Chef stepped to the kitchen door and peeped out. Sy explained to the thief that the register was empty and the robber, standing on the other side of Sy, listened. He was a big guy, but other than that, Chef couldn’t see any other details. He could, however, clearly see the pistol the man held. It looked enormous and the barrel was directed at Sy’s head.

Sy kept trying to duck away as he spoke to the thief, but the larger man had him by the lapel. Where is he? he questioned Sy.

I just got here. I haven’t had time to go to the bank.

I don’t want your money! The big guy pressed the gun to Sy’s forehead. Chef, still watching from the kitchen door, wondered where he’d gotten the weapon. Guns were illegal in the city.

Sy drew out the wad of cash from his pocket and held it up. Here, he said, it’s all I’ve got.

The admission seemed to make the thief angry and he pressed the barrel to Sy’s head. Sy winced and Chef could see the pain on the café manager’s face. Chef liked Sy and hated to see someone doing that to him. Why didn’t the thug just take the money and leave? Chef pushed gently on the kitchen door and stepped into the open. Ten feet away, the robber looked up.

There you are. Stand still. he commanded, and Chef did as he was told.

You’ve got what you wanted, said Frankie. Why don’t you just leave?

Erase the video first. The man looked at the ceiling in search of cameras.

Sy cowered under the gunman and seemed to welcome the interruption – anything to divert the man’s attention.

What video?

The surveillance recording, you nitwit.

Chef shook his head. Look, mister, we don’t have anything like that here. Just take the money and leave. Chef could see the guy clearly now and vaguely recognized him but could not remember from where. Frankie shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other and remembered that he still gripped the industrial-sized spatula.

Eying the spatula, the gunman threw the roll of bills to the floor and edged toward the front door, keeping Sy between him and the cook. He was larger than either Sy or Chef. Sy was about three inches taller than Chef and the intruder was taller than both of them.

Don’t shoot me, Sy said suddenly. I have a wife and three daughters. They need me.

Sy was lying. His wife had divorced the restaurant manager ten years ago and his one grown son hated him. Sy played the horses when he had extra money, which wasn’t often.

Shut up, the man with the gun barked.

They were almost to the front door when Sy began to make another appeal. Please, he started, Let me…

Sy’s final words were caught short in the thundering blast of the pistol going off. Frankie winced and ducked in reaction to the noise. Sy fell backwards, landing on his back while staring with blank eyes at the ceiling, a wholly surprised expression on his face. The top of Sy’s head had transformed into a bloody trench and a pool of crimson spread quickly over the black and white checkerboard tiled floor. The man lifted his eyes from the horrifying sight to point his pistol at Chef. A siren started up in the distance and Chef wondered if the man would shoot him too.

As if reading his thoughts, the gun suddenly went off again and a bullet whizzed past Chef’s head, striking the kitchen door. He shot again but Chef ducked behind the counter. The sound of the siren grew, and Frankie realized help was on its way. Apparently, so did the shooter because he turned and ran from the diner.

Chef went to Sy but there was nothing to do, the café manager was dead. Dawn was breaking over the city and a police cruiser with siren wailing pulled up in front.

The police came in and Chef explained who he was and what had happened. As he spoke, Chef retrieved a mop and bucket from the kitchen to clean up the mess, but they reminded him it was a crime scene and so the body of Sy and the puddle of blood remained. When Brenda the waitress arrived, the police refused to let her enter, but allowed Chef to speak with her. All he could think of to say was to tell her to go home. Take the day off, he said. Chef didn’t know Brenda very well. She was new but she seemed happy to get a day off despite what had happened to Sy.

After it was all over and Sy’s body was loaded up and taken away in an ambulance, the police completed their job and Sy finally got to use the mop. He wiped up Sy’s blood, bone fragments, and brain tissue, and then poured scalding hot water mixed with disinfectant over the surfaces. When that was done, he put everything away, locked up, and returned to his shitty little apartment where he went to the tiny bathroom and vomited into the tiny shower.

Chapter 2

It’s not unusual to feel unsettled after such an experience. It would have been unusual if Chef did not. Not that he was obsessed with the level of violence or the gross aspects of Sy’s shattered skull, because he wasn’t. As an orphan and a city kid, Chef had seen his share of mayhem and madness and discovered early that the best way to get over a traumatic experience was to move on, don’t think so much about. The blood and guts? Well, Chef had learned to butcher meat while working in the orphanage kitchen before he was ten years old.

No, the thing that bothered him was the realization that the same thing could happen to him and if it did, he’d have nothing to show for his short, miserable life. He hadn’t been anywhere, he hadn’t accomplished anything, and he had nothing to show for his time on Earth. No money, no friends, and certainly no significant memories to speak of. Chef felt terrible about Sy, but he felt even worse about being such an empty person.

The killer said he was looking for Chef. How could that be? Maybe he had Chef confused with somebody else.

In the semi-darkness of his apartment, Chef looked at the Braithwaite recruiter’s business card and decided to pay Mr. Johnson a visit the next day.

*

Unlike most young man in the 24th century, Chef Dawson had never dreamed of going into space or even becoming a hero. He was too grounded in reality for that, too busy surviving. All the same, as he stood before the astronaut’s statue at the entrance to Braithwaite’s downtown offices, Chef was impressed. The statue was done up in shiny aluminum and stood over ten feet tall, showing an early Braithwaite space explorer. Frankie leaned toward the explanatory plaque located at the base and viewed the name. Harry Irons, it read. Never heard of him, Chef muttered.

Beyond the statue and near the elevators was an information desk manned by three middle-aged women and a large, swarthy uniformed man standing behind with his bulky arms crossed. He frowned at Chef as the cook approached. Chef ignored him and spoke to the nearest woman, the one in the middle. Excuse me.

She looked up from a hidden computer display. Yes? May I help you?

Chef pulled the card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the lady. I’d like to see this guy.

She looked at the card while the other two women ignored the interaction completely. Do you have an appointment?

Well, no. He just said to contact him, you know, if… Chef’s voice trailed off as his confidence began to fade.

Where did you get this card?

He gave it to me. At the diner. I mean, where I work.

I see. She kept the card and pointed across the enormous lobby at a bench against the far wall. Have a seat and I’ll see if I can find Mister, uh, she looked at the card, Johnson.

Okay, said Chef and he strolled to the empty bench and took a seat. The place was crawling with people coming and going. Chef noted everyone was dressed to the nines and looked down at his own shabby coat and his best blue pants with the shiny knees. He lamented the fact he should have worn a tie but what can you do when you don’t have one? He’d never needed one before.

He sat on the bench for a long time and the sun shone through the great plate glass windows and warmed him and made him sleepy. His eyes drooped and he day-dreamed, imagining a job in a great lunchroom hidden somewhere in the very building in which he now sat. It was a good job, and in his daydream, he had new clothes and new, comfortable shoes and all the waitresses looked at him whenever they placed a food order.

Someone touched his shoulder and Chef looked up to see the security guard. Hey, he said, the receptionist is calling you. The guard motioned toward the desk. The lady in the middle waved at him. Chef got up and walked stiffly to where she sat behind the countertop.

"I’ve located Mr. Johnson and he’ll be down in a moment. Please sign in and wait to the side. Chef did as he was asked and, under the guard’s scrutiny, loitered next to the reception area until Johnson emerged from one of the elevators.

The recruiter smiled and shook Chef’s hand. So, you thought it over, eh?

Chef shrugged. Well…

You understand, of course, it’s not a done deal yet, right? I mean, we still have forms to fill out, a background check, tests to run, a medical…

You said that stuff would just be a formality.

As long as you’re stable, healthy, and you can cook.

Sure, that’s me. I’ve been cooking breakfast for you the past year and a half.

Johnson slapped Chef on the back as he led him to an open elevator. I’m sure everything will be just fine.

I hope so.

As it turned out, everything went like clockwork. Chef’s records were simple to look up because he’d been a ward of the state for more than half of his life. His health was excellent, and Johnson was amazed Chef had no bad habits.

Not even a little weed? Johnson asked.

No. I tried it and it made me cough.

Yes, it’ll do that, but it’s best to stay away from drugs altogether, unless, you know, you have some kind of condition. You don’t have a condition, do you?

Not that I know of.

The paperwork was completed in half a day and the other half was spent doing Chef’s background check and medical once-over by a med-bot. He was finally told to go home and that they would be in touch. How they planned to contact him was anybody’s guess because Chef didn’t have a phone or a data port, but they had his address and Chef supposed that was good enough.

The diner did not re-open. Dawson was informed his services were no longer required and the place was to be demolished in order to build a car wash. Days passed. A week passed and still he did not hear from Braithwaite. Chef began to be concerned about how he would pay his rent for the next month, which was only days away. By then, he was eating canned food heated on a hot plate in his apartment. During the days, he spent time at the public library reading about Braithwaite and space colonization and the different kinds of research going on off-planet. He went to the zoo one day but couldn’t afford the admission price. Another day, he went to the docks and watched the ships passing and the cars driving over the New Brooklyn Bridge. When the first of the month came around and he had not heard from Braithwaite, he went out looking for work.

Chef visited half a dozen cafes and restaurants and filled out employment forms at three of them. When he returned to his apartment, he was locked out. A notice on the door informed him of his imminent departure from the premises due to nonpayment of rent.

With only the clothes on his back, Chef returned to Sy’s diner and let himself inside with the key the owner had never asked for. The electricity and water were off, but Chef pushed towels and rags together into a nest and crashed out on the floor for the night.

*

Frankie opened his eyes in the dark and wondered what time it was. He stretched and got up, slipping into his shoes before climbing on a chair and looking through the kitchen opening into the dining room. The avenue was quiet with streetlights illuminating the asphalt and sidewalk. There was nothing but multi-storied professional buildings in the surrounding blocks; no late-night escapes or open restaurants or all-night convenience stores and so there was little pedestrian traffic, even for the city that never sleeps. A cab passed. A minute later, a street sweeper. Chef left the darkened kitchen and went behind the lunch counter looking for an unopened juice container or perhaps water. He discovered a few warm bottles of root beer and popped the top of one as he sat in the shadows of a booth and stared out the front windows.

Out of money and with the Braithwaite deal vanishing, Chef pondered his circumstance. The few things he left at the apartment were no big loss. Some old clothes, a cheap wristwatch, various toiletries. Nothing he couldn’t easily replace once he found another job. Chef shook his head. Talk about bad luck.

Someone walked past the diner on the opposite side of the street, head down, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets. It was the same guy who had murdered Sy.

Chef tensed in sudden anger and his instincts told him to do something, to get up, to give chase, to somehow alert the police that a murderer was walking around free as you please. But, what could he do? Chase him down, wrestle him to the ground, putting his own life at risk? Perhaps the man would kill him too.

The familiar stranger stopped and gazed at the front of the place. Chef knew he was hidden in the shadows, but it was unnerving anyway. The guy stared at the diner as if he knew Frankie was there. After a while, he moved on. Chef relaxed and thought about what he had to do.

Chapter 3

Dawson slipped out early, looking up and down the street to insure no one was watching, and began walking uptown. The plan was to find work immediately. Anything would do, but preferably as a cook. There were a handful of greasy spoons he wanted to check out. Waitresses, busboys, and cooks came and went in the city’s diners. Somewhere there was a job – besides, restaurants were always looking for someone who knew how to cook an egg.

The first place was already open and had a sizeable breakfast crowd already. Unfortunately, the manager was too busy to speak with Chef. Chef considered hanging around and having a cup of coffee, but after checking his funds he decided he’d rather have lunch than breakfast.

The next place, called the City Stop, was just up the street and Chef fared better. The lady running the counter used to work as a waitress at Sy’s and she recognized him. She didn’t think the City Stop was hiring but promised to put in a good word with the manager. When Chef told her what had happened, she had pity and passed him a free coffee and donut. Chef took up space at the counter for the next thirty minutes until they started to get busy with the lunch crowd. The lady waved and reminded him she would remember to speak to the manager.

I can cook, Chef reminded her.

I know, she said and waved again.

Back on the sidewalk, Frankie took a deep breath and looked both ways, trying to remember where the next closest diner was located. There was an upscale restaurant a little farther up, but it was a long shot for a cook’s position. They’d hire him for sure as a busboy, but a busboy didn’t earn squat. On second thought, in his current situation, anything was better than nothing and so Chef decided to give it a try. He walked two blocks north, stopping at a news-stand to scan the headlines and kill a little time. He picked up a magazine with a cover story about the Braithwaite Corporation, but the proprietor of the stand asked him, Are you going to buy that or what?

Chef shook his head, placed the periodical back on the display shelf, and returned to the sidewalk.

The restaurant was called Lite Shades – Chef couldn’t imagine why – and had a small crowd waiting for tables. It was a good sign. A busy establishment was more likely to be hiring. Chef worked his way up to the young woman playing hostess and she asked if he was alone. Table for one?

Actually, said Chef, I wanted to inquire about work. I’m a cook and I need…

Stay over there, she interrupted, motioning with her chin to a vacant corner, and I’ll find the manager for you in a moment. She turned to the next two patrons in line and asked if they needed a table for two. Chef took a position behind a chalkboard propped up on an easel that displayed the day’s specials, which was halibut steak, fries, steamed veggies, and a drink. All for $123.99.

Someone called his name. Chef! He looked, but at five-four he was lost in the crowd. He stood on his toes and his name was called again. A hand waved above the tops of the heads and someone stepped through.

Chef! exclaimed Mr. Howard Johnson. Where have you been? Without waiting for an answer, Johnson continued. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. The diner is closed…

Yes, I know. There was a…

A messenger was sent to your apartment; you weren’t there. I thought you’d disappeared. What’s the matter? Did you get cold feet?

Cold feet? Me? No, not at all.

Johnson pulled Chef out from behind the sign. Come, he said, I have a table with two other recruiters. Have you had lunch?

Chef shook his head. Uh, no.

Well, come on. We’ll have something to eat. On me. On Braithwaite, actually. Johnson chuckled as he led Chef to the table. Well, he said as they took a seat, the job is yours, if you want it, but you need to make a move quickly because the billet is open and they want to fill it A-S-A-P, if you know what I mean. It’s a hush-hush, hurry-up sort of deal that will change your life.

Without pause, Johnson introduced his friends and kept up a constant stream of chatter and yet Chef barely heard a word. He was astonished at his stroke of luck.

He did manage to ask in the midst of the meal why Braithwaite would take someone like him. Chef spread his hands. They were calloused and strong. Why me? Really. There must be thousands of healthy, vertically-challenged cooks out there.

Not as many as you think, Frank. But you have other appealing attributes.

Such as?

No family. No dependents. In case something goes wrong out there, your life insurance is capped at the standard rate which means the less the family can claim, the better off Braithwaite will be.

That is, assuming I don’t survive the trip to Sirius and back.

Correct. Johnson leaned forward. But we mustn’t assume the worst. Instead, think about the bonus at the end of the mission. Think about your new career with Braithwaite!

*

Braithwaite paid for Chef’s hotel room for the remainder of the week and the following week too while Chef was ushered through a whirlwind course on Braithwaite company policies, a basic course on surviving FTL space travel, and a video course featuring preparation instructions for approved Braithwaite menu items. There was a dental appointment, wardrobe fittings and new clothes, regulation haircut, inoculations, a two day jungle survival course (accomplished at the Braithwaite facility – not in an actual jungle), a visit to the legal department to fashion and initial a last will and testament (standard operating procedure, nothing to worry about) and a quick lecture the day before transfer to orbit that revealed a little about the research team Chef was being sent to support.

The Sirius Exploratory Effort (SEE) manned a remote station on a moon of a planet orbiting a sub-spectral that in turn orbited Sirius B, a white dwarf held in place by the larger Sirius A. Eight light years from Earth.

In total, there were seventeen members of the research team. Chef would make eighteen. Nine were scientists and/or technicians and the remaining were security and/or construction workers. All were considered maintenance.

That means, said the woman giving the lecture, that you’ve got to make your own bed. She smiled as if she’d said something funny. Everyone takes care of their assigned areas.

What are they researching? Chef asked.

Why, the planet, of course. They say the place has some unusual features. I’m sure you’ll see for yourself when you arrive. The main thing to remember is that you are in support of the other members. A proper diet is essential for the health and well-being of all personnel. Your contract stipulates a one-year tour, is that correct?

Yes, ma’am.

Then you’ll have to learn how to cook and present the local flora and fauna.

Seriously?

Yes, Mr. Dawson. The amount of food supplies required to feed eighteen adults for a year is a substantial quantity, too much to transport by starship. It’s just not feasible. I see by your expression you have some concerns. Don’t worry. They’ve already figured out what is edible and what is not on Xylanthia. The transport that will take you to the Sirius system will also contain food stores – treats, if you will – certainly not enough to last beyond a few weeks. Among the lading are sweets, chocolates, a few meats for special occasions, and selected herbs and spices, salt and pepper, to be sure, and various flavoring assistants, or so I’ve been told. I’m not much of a cook myself.

Chef frowned at the last admission. People who didn’t, or wouldn’t, or couldn’t cook, were simply incapable of taking care of their basic needs. It said a lot about a person.

Chef cleared his throat.

Yes?

I was wondering how long the trip will take? I mean, it’s a long way away, isn’t it? I’ve never been off planet before…

Oh, I see, you’re concerned about the effects of space travel, aren’t you? You passed all the medical exams with flying colors. You’re quite fit, Mr. Dawson. I expect you’ll do just fine.

Chef shrugged.

The trip will take six weeks, give or take. You’re among a privileged few, Mr. Dawson, that have ever journeyed to Xylanthia.

Why is that?

Why is what?

Well, I understand that this place, this planet…

Xylanthia.

Yes. I understand Xylanthia is relatively close to Earth…

Eight light years is still an enormous distance.

So how can I be there in a few weeks?

Braithwaite has spacecraft that are capable of traveling extremely fast.

But how?

I am sure I don’t know, Mr. Dawson. In any case, if I did, I couldn’t talk about it because those are Braithwaite engineering secrets. Proprietary information.

Well, it’s my understanding the ship to…

Xylanthia.

Yes, thank you. The ship to Xylanthia is docked in orbit.

Yes, that is correct.

How am I going to get there?

Haven’t you been briefed?

Not all the details.

The lady listened to her earpiece as more information about Mr. Dawson