The Sol Majestic

by Ferrett Steinmetz

  Kenna’s stomach contracts again, driven mad by food’s proximity. “I fear I have no currency to spare.”

  The man pats Kenna’s chest, smoothing Kenna’s robe down, keeping his fingers straight as if to demonstrate to Kenna there’s no thievery at work—an oddly submissive, yet tender, gesture. Kenna stiffens, suspecting sales techniques—Mother and Father have warned him how shameless traders mold themselves to your desires.

  “No coinage necessary, my friend,” says the Colpuran. “I merely have sympathy.”

  He reaches into a worn-out pushcart brightly decorated with Day-Glo knotted ropes to match the braids in his hair, and brings out a wax paper boat filled with a vinegary salad. It’s a work of art, a tiny medallion of puffed rice heaped with finely cut carrot curls and chutney blobs. The hot smell of spices and fresh onion fills Kenna’s mouth with thick drool. Kenna gulps the saliva back, cringing—no normal boy would have such a full-body reaction to a small bowl of food.

  Instead, the merchant beams, proud to inspire such a reaction. He pats his cart, as if telling his best friend, Can you believe this?

  The merchant looks down at the bhelpuri cupped in Kenna’s hands as if he has presented Kenna with a fine sculpture. This salad is the merchant’s dream, Kenna realizes. Like Benzo, the merchant has sacrificed everything in the pursuit of one perfect dish—nestled by Savor Station, where he labors for pennies in the hopes of finding the stray Sol Majestic client who truly appreciates the genius he assembles in small wax paper cups.

  The hairs on Kenna’s neck prickle. Mother has always tugged him past the sales carts, jerking his robe so he couldn’t peer into the stalls, informing him he shouldn’t watch merchants debase themselves for dinari.

  Yet Kenna feels honored to hold this dish. This merchant has been nurtured by The Sol Majestic’s radiance, drawn here by Paulius’s mad dream. The Sol Majestic is aptly named, as Savor Station sits in a planetless solar system that’s composed entirely of rubble belts and gas clouds—all that’s here is the warmth of a single sun, and a supply post conveniently stationed to serve as a stopping point between impossibly empty stellar journeys.

  Without the Majestic to draw tourists, Savor Station would be nothing more than another grubby trading spot where ships docked to refuel and let weary travelers stretch their legs.

  Kenna has avoided knowing traders’ lives too well, but he’s seen enough on transport ships to understand the life this merchant has condemned himself to by coming here—dozing off after a long day with his cart chained to an overpriced sleeping tube, paying too much for fresh ingredients shipped here across solar systems, endlessly refining the same tiny salad to perfection.

  Mother and Father travel across the galaxy to sell their Philosophy—and so, in its own bizarre way, has this man.

  The bhelpuri’s scent is sharp, rising up from the soaked rice, plunging a pleasant knife into Kenna’s tastebuds. Kenna’s palms tremble as he realizes the merchant wants to spread the joy of salad. The dinari is what he charges to survive.

  Dumbfounded, Kenna asks, “… you said you had sympathy?”

  “You are the Prince, are you not?”

  The trembling stops.

  The merchant pulls his pushcart closer, as though he wishes to bring it in on the conversation. “Forgive me, but I saw you on Paulius’s broadcasts.” He senses Kenna’s discomfort, directs Kenna’s gaze to the other food merchants. “We all watch his videos, you see. And I thought … well, perhaps I should know about these Inevitable Philosophies. Not that I’m proffering food for trade—I just wished to express support in your journey, perhaps learn what kept you going through such hardship…”

  If the merchant wasn’t so kind, this wouldn’t be so cruel.

  All I must do is tell him how the Inevitable Philosophy is the light that wakes you from troubled dreams, the shining beacon that removes worry, Kenna thinks. And if he still frets after he has come into the faith, I can tell him his Philosophy is not strong enough, that he must meditate more, and he will feed me for giving him such wise advice …

  He shoves the bhelpuri back into the merchant’s hands; the merchant looks so wounded that Kenna’s heart aches.

  He wants Kenna to tell him that finding an Inevitable Philosophy would somehow make all this sacrifice not hurt.

  Tell him he hurts because he’s unworthy, Kenna thinks. Lie to him and a thousand others, and you’ll spend your days with your belly full.

  Kenna pushes his way past the merchant, lurching past the endless restaurants embedded in the curve of Savor Station’s walls—a Gineer brasserie where inhumanly handsome attendants take blood samples before printing out protein-rolls tailored to your genetic preferences, an Intraconnected cafeteria where hunched women in shawls slop out buttered noodles into cracked dishes. This is a culinary paradise; most space stations have just a row of vending machines spritzing artificial food-odors at passerby.

  These multitudinous chefs were drawn to The Sol Majestic’s tidal pull, like coral huddling around a hydrothermal vent at the bottom of a cold ocean. They subsist off of Paulius’s leftovers, the tourists who’ve come searching Paulius’s dream and will eat well while they wait for him. If The Sol Majestic goes bankrupt, all this dries up.

  Kenna must become either a tawdry salesman pushing a false Philosophy or an executioner.

  And he is stumbling blind, pushing through the slow-moving procession of those waiting to get their shot at The Sol Majestic’s confessional booth. The station fuzzes out as he retreats, headed back to where he feels comfortable …

  “Hey,” Benzo says. “You okay?”

  It’s as if Benzo’s cautious voice allows him to think again.

  Kenna finds himself curled up against the pitted metal walls of a transport-ship crawl space, neck aching from being jammed at an angle; these were the places Mother suborned as their meditation chambers, slanted leftover space crammed in beneath the engine blocks. Benzo does not yet clamber into the tiny space with Kenna, awaiting permission—but he takes in the drifts of rust-flakes showering down as servicemen tromp up the stairs above them.

  Benzo’s presence feels like a spotlight, thrusting Kenna onto Paulius’s stage again.

  Still, Benzo must have spent some time tracking him down. He’s been through so much effort that Kenna cannot bear to send him away. But he can’t quite welcome him, either.

  “My status is acceptable.” Kenna tries to sound like he normally lounges in a starship’s piss-stained hollows.

  “Okay.” Benzo’s brow furrows as he tries to find something in this isolated prison cell to make pleasant conversation with, fails, then sunnily reaches for something in a satchel.

  He brings out a grilled cheese sandwich in a plastic ziplock baggie. The baggie is fogged from the heat, gooey with melted cheese. He extends it toward Kenna, luring him.

  “I thought you might be hungry. And, you know, I know you like this, at least.”

  Kenna’s unsure whether to feel unworthy or relieved that he has such a good friend. “… would you, perhaps, do me the honor of your company?”

  “Sure.” Benzo gets down on his hands and knees to crawl in through the triangular opening, and for an instant Kenna thinks Benzo might cross the tiny space to embrace Kenna, cuddling him in his moment of need. He imagines Benzo’s firm stomach pressed against his, Benzo’s muscular thigh pushing his legs apart—no kissing, just holding Kenna tight and feeling that desire vibrating like a plucked guitar string …

  But Benzo respectfully sits as far across the crawlspace as he can, hugging his knees to conserve space, though his sneaker-tips brush coyly against Kenna’s feet. Kenna recoils. Kenna is stained, leprous, doomed to be a charlatan or the man who slaughters the dreams of Savor Station. Nobody should touch him.

  Benzo offers the sandwich. Kenna’s belly groans.

  “I could use some repast,” he admits, blushing. “Thank you.”

  The baggie is filled with gloppy cheese and mushy bread, having steamed itself
into one delicious goo Kenna will have to scoop out with his fingers.

  “Hold a moment,” Kenna says. “Weren’t you brewing broth?”

  Benzo laughs, smooths out his shaggy hair. “I mean—yeah. Sure.”

  “But you were going to fashion a flawless broth.”

  He shrugs, pulling his feet back. “It’s cool. It’s my day off. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  It is a big deal, Kenna realizes. Kenna feels certain nothing had gone wrong with Benzo’s broth yet; Benzo had abandoned an as-yet-unblemished shot at perfection to help his friend.

  Benzo’s sacrifice sucks the air from the room. Kenna can’t make a big deal about it; this friendship feels so comfortable because they don’t have to talk about how it works, it just does.

  He tugs open the bag, slides his fingers inside. The rich scent of Gruyère smothers the crawl space’s industrial metal tang. He thinks of Benzo leaving a chicken congealing in the pot to grill this up for him. The thought is warmer than any sandwich.

  You’ll cost Benzo his job.

  That shouldn’t matter. Jobs don’t matter. Nothing should matter except for the search for truth.

  Still, Kenna sucks the cheese off his fingertips.

  Benzo studies a crease in his pockets, trying to give Kenna a semblance of privacy, despite the fact that he has to hug his knees so as not to touch Kenna’s legs. His feet tap in erratic patterns, as if his whole body is allergic to this silence.

  “I get sick, too,” Benzo declares. “Thinking of the day I go.”

  “You shan’t leave.” Kenna hates to lie to his friend. “You’ll devise the perfect broth, and then Paulius shall make you one of his line cooks.”

  “Ooof.” Benzo blows a half-whistle through pursed lips. “No.” He rubs his neck, forehead almost touching his knees. “No, no, no.”

  “No?”

  Benzo’s lip twitches. “I thought everyone in the kitchen knew.”

  “I fear I’m new here.”

  “I guess—well, yeah.” He exhales through his nostrils, the energy leaking from his body. “That’s right.”

  Kenna almost laughs, thinking Benzo had a brainfart—but the way Benzo now focuses on the exit, mapping out escape routes, tells Kenna that Benzo remembers exactly when Kenna arrived. He’s swollen with such hidden shame that he imagines this buried secret is the first order of business whenever his name comes up, even though no one in The Sol Majestic has said a word to Kenna.

  Perhaps they haven’t spoken because they are ashamed for Benzo. Kenna doesn’t know. But he does know he loves Benzo, so he leans over to ruffle Benzo’s blond curls.

  “Will you be … all right?” Kenna braces himself for terminal news, wondering if Benzo also has some degenerative disease.

  “I’m gonna make broth.” Benzo spits the words as if he expects Kenna to contradict him. “Perfect broth. Way better than any slave could make.”

  … slave? Kenna wonders.

  As Benzo flinches, Kenna realizes he accidentally spoke the word out loud.

  “Indentured servant,” Benzo corrects Kenna, uncurling in this cramped space, forcing Kenna to retreat into the corner. “Slaves are illegal. Technically. But … She buys the endebted by the boatload off of credit-ships.”

  Benzo lowers his voice to whisper “She,” unused to speaking his Mistress’s name out loud.

  “And She said the reason I had been born into debt was because my kind did not know how to strive for perfection. So I made Her a bet. I bet Her an endebted boy could make one flawless dish. And if I do…”

  Kenna nods, knowingly. “You’ll be free.”

  Benzo’s easygoing face contorts into a scowl so bitter that Kenna winces. “No. If I pull this off, She’ll have the best chef in all Her houses. I’ll never be free, even if I win the bet.” His eyes go flinty. “My children will be, though.”

  You’re too young to think about having children, Kenna thinks. You’re only a year older than I am. But to a slave, Kenna realizes, children are a sign of hope.

  Benzo’s quivering now, a frustration so deep that he forgets Kenna’s existence. Kenna should move to help, but despair slows his reaction—Benzo wants children. What if Kenna’s misreading the affectionate way Benzo grasps his shoulders? There’s no romance on the transport ships—merely crude offers and flat innuendo, bolstered by a crowd of bored passengers who cheer on their favorite couplings with the zealousness of an audience watching a live-action soap opera. People catcalled whenever anyone made a move upon the Desolate Prince, sending suitors scurrying for cover, leaving Kenna to know every flavor of rejection, yet not one flavor of adoration. And there’s no good way to ask if Benzo is bisexual, not now. It wouldn’t matter anyway. They’re friends. Even if they never kiss, they’re friends.

  “You must have mustered quite the reputation for bravery,” Kenna whispers. “Making a wager like that.”

  Benzo’s anger melts when he sees Kenna is serious. “Most people—they get sad. At least they do at The Sol Majestic. They think I sold my family for generations now—I took out a loan to bet myself here. Scrimshaw says I should have at least tested my palate before I confronted Her. They don’t…” He swallows, lost in concern.

  “Hey.” Kenna squeezes Benzo’s kneecap to distract him. “You forged a path to The Sol Majestic. You already possess prodigious skills.”

  “I don’t, actually.” Benzo’s rueful grin is the most kissable thing Kenna has ever seen. “She brought me to the one place where I couldn’t charm other people into cheating Her. Paulius would never serve my dishes to customers unless they were impeccable.”

  Kenna’s disconcerted to think Paulius wouldn’t compromise The Sol Majestic’s quality to save a man’s life, and even more disconcerted to find he agrees with Paulius. The service is the service. The dishes must not be bent to human foibles. The meals are set to inhuman standards, so that mere men must shatter and regrow themselves to reach its perfection.

  He ignores what that revelation says about what Paulius should do to him if he cannot provide Paulius with a ceremony worthy of his skills. Paulius is kind, and loving, and righteously brutal.

  “Well, you shall show Her.” Kenna shakes Benzo’s kneecap harder. “You shall perfect the broth. And every night, you shall place a dish of that broth next to every meal you serve Her, to demonstrate how wrong She is about the endebted.”

  “That’s my dream!” Benzo leans over to hug Kenna, bangs his forehead on a corner, pats Kenna on the thigh instead. “You get me, buddy. You get me.”

  Except Kenna is certain that if The Sol Majestic closes prematurely, She will not consider the bet a draw. Closing The Sol Majestic will condemn generations of little Benzos to slavery.

  “That’s a good sandwich.” Benzo nudges the bag toward Kenna. “You should totally eat it.”

  Kenna chews, the cheese so delicious he cannot help but lose himself in the rich taste of friendship. He may be a monster. But Paulius has been his friend far more than his parents, Benzo has been kinder to him than the fallen diplomats who once followed the Inevitable Philosophies. His mother fights for the starving millions, yet never the starving son.

  He will lie, he realizes. He will lie for The Sol Majestic.

  * * *

  Now Kenna waits before the Escargone’s metal hatchway, waiting to give Paulius his gift. The Sol Majestic will continue to exist, if Scrimshaw can leverage this publicity into sales.

  He supposes he should tell Scrimshaw first—but though he is fond of Scrimshaw he does not love her. He loves Paulius. And the first time he speaks these words of betrayal, agreeing to dismantle the principles his family holds dear, he wants it to be to someone who will understand how much that means to him.

  The oval window flickers and blurs as Paulius and his chefs move at hummingbird speeds. Kenna sits on a stool; is he a dog, waiting for his master?

  The high-pitched whir dims, the movements in the Escargone slowing to human speeds. The door cracks, hissing greasy steam laden wi
th body odor out into the kitchen’s fresh air; overhead recyclers click on, sucking up the fumes before they can taint the food.

  The chefs tumble out, thrusting fine crystal champagne flutes into the air, the fizzing drinks slopping over before they whirl upon each other, toast again, and guzzle the champagne in exultant gulps.

  “Make way!” Paulius bellows. “Make way for the meal!”

  Paulius strides behind them, carrying a glistening, golden-brown duck on a tray. He holds it with the reverence of a man carrying the king’s crown.

  Then he sees Kenna, seated patiently, and sobs.

  “Of course.” He sets the duck down and grabs Kenna’s cheeks to kiss Kenna’s head, fingertips smearing honey across Kenna’s lips. “You knew, my dear boy. You knew we’d succeed for you. And you wanted to see it!”

  He whirls upon the other chefs, who are pouring themselves a fresh round of triumph. “You see? This is why we work! Because”—he sucks in a ragged breath, almost choking on his sentiment—“the boy appreciates what we do!

  “Oh, Kenna.” Paulius slices a piece off the duck, a firm pink meat encrusted with sauce, guides it to Kenna’s mouth. “You deserve this. You deserve the best duck we can give you.”

  Kenna pushes the duck away with his fingertips. “Paulius.” He swallows, his rehearsed speeches falling away under Paulius’s rapt gaze. The other chefs storm into the kitchen, wanting to watch Kenna’s reaction.

  Thank God Paulius is so close. He can whisper. “I—I’ve agreed, Paulius. I’ll do the task. For you.”

  Paulius blinks owlishly. “… do what?”

  And Kenna realizes: Paulius doesn’t know.

  Then: Of course Paulius doesn’t know.

  Paulius styles himself as a savior of foods and people alike, at least until they prove themselves unworthy. Once Paulius understood the distress he was placing Kenna in, he would be obliged to leave the meal behind. Paulius is a man of wild passions—yes, he would condemn Benzo to slavery if the broth was imperfect, but he also allowed a novice boy to fumble around his kitchen because he thought an endebted child deserved a chance to be free.