Star Bakers

“We baked you a cake,” the alien said. “We understand from our observations that your species consume cake to mark special occasions.”

The cake was enormous. Remarkably enormous, in fact. It was at least three stories high (each story separated by several feet of icing) and topped with Himalayan peaks of frosting.

“Chocolate cake,” the alien continued. “We understand from our observations that your species is particularly fond of chocolate cake.”

Dr Ben Rosewinter stared up at the leviathan piece of baking. Major General Sir Thomas Ratcliffe stood beside him, the iced behemoth reflected in his raybans. A few hundred yards behind them, senior army officers and politicians talked frantically, gesticulating at the gigantic gateau that now hovered above several football pitches on the outskirts of Sheffield.

The hover device was even more remarkable than the cake itself. Perfectly circular, its rim spotted by twinkling lights at regular intervals, it levitated several feet above the grass. Judging by the device’s size, Dr Rosewinter hypothesised that it had been purpose built for carrying the enormous cake.

Even more remarkable than the monolithic chocolate cake and the extra-terrestrial floating cake tray – in fact, even more remarkable than both of those things combined – was the small alien that stood before them, its three feet of slightly-luminescent green flesh utterly dwarfed by the gigantic dessert. It was roughly leaf-shaped, with a pair of short legs that ended at rounded tips sprouting from a wide, pear-like abdomen whose pointed tip house three eyes and a wide, toothless mouth. A pair of arms, which also ended in rounded tips, sprouted from either side of the creature’s torso. Various metallic accessories, made of the same material as the cake tray, hovered around the alien, as if held in some kind of orbital field. It smiled up at the doctor and Major General expectantly.

“Were our observations incorrect?” it asked. Or rather, Dr Rosewater observed, one of the metal gadgets, this one fitted with a speaker and a small flashing light to indicate transmission, asked. It seemed to be rapidly translating and transmitting the alien’s speech, which must have been inaudible to human ears, for the flapping of the creature’s toothless mouth was unaccompanied by any sound. “Is your species not fond of chocolate cake?”

“Oh no, we’re very fond of it. Yes, very fond.” Dr Rosewinter found himself blurting out the reply. Sir Thomas grunted his assent in typically military fashion. “This just isn’t how we… how I ever imagined first contact.”

“We are sorry if we have…” the robotic speaker paused momentarily, its light flashing rapidly in a ‘please hold’ pattern. It seemed to be searching for the correct word or phrase. “…offended. Our observations of human culture have led to many… uncertainties. Having analysed countless fictional portrayals of human interaction with interstellar life, our scientists concluded that cake was the best way to ensure a… harmonious introduction.”

“It’s just that it’s…” Dr Rosewinter stared up at the tower block of a cake as he tried to find the words that were both appropriate and unlikely to cause an inter-galactic conflict through mistranslation. “It’s…”

“Bloody gigantic!” Sir Thomas barked, snatching his sunglasses off his face in order to better fix the alien with his best drill square stare. “I’ve seen countries smaller than that cake!”

“We understand from our observations that, the bigger the occasion, the bigger the cake. We…” the gadget flashed again, translating: “hypothesised that meeting a species from another world would merit a cake of significant proportions.”

Dr Rosewinter rubbed his eyes. The whole thing seemed totally mad. How had he, a professor of anthropology and part-time sci fi geek, been put front and centre of humanity’s first interaction with an alien species? How many other experts had failed to answer their phones before they rang his number? Surely someone from NASA ought to have been here instead. The only plausible explanation was that NASA couldn’t get to Sheffield in time.

“Would you like to try some of the cake?” The alien looked up expectantly, its three eyes unblinking.

“Uhh.” Dr Rosewinter glanced sideways at the Major General, who was frowning behind his sunglasses. “Okay.”

“Excellent!” The alien motioned with its strange, sausage-like arms and an enormous cracking sound, like a mountain range splitting in half, heralded the sudden arrival of a UFO. It hovered above the cake before firing a narrow green laser at it. The onlookers all flinched, aside from Sir Thomas, who stared up impassively. The laser beam worked its way around a small portion of the top of cake with utmost precision, carving out a perfect wedge-shaped slice. Once done, the UFO ceased firing and instead fixed the tiny piece of cake with a translucent blue beam, which lifted it up and gently lowered it down to float within arm’s reach of Dr Rosewinter.

“Please,” the alien implored, “help yourself.”

Dr Rosewinter reached out and took the piece of cake. He could smell caramelised sugar from where the laser beam had cut through the sponge. It was almost impossibly soft and the icing felt warm and succulent to the touch.

“Would you like a slice?” the alien asked the Major General.

“I’m off sugar,” came the clipped reply.

“What about the others?” the alien said, its three eyes focusing on the growing crowd of politicians, military personnel, and scientists. “There is enough to go around.”

“I’ll ask,” Dr Rosewinter said. He was still holding his slice of cake. It had suddenly occurred to him that it might not be safe to eat: how had the aliens even made it, and with what ingredients? Could the human digestive system even cope with alien food? He regretted accepting the offer, but what else could he have done - single-handedly made himself responsible for humanity getting a galactic reputation for rudeness?

He briskly walked over to the growing crowd. He recognised the Home Secretary and Prime Minister, both of whom wore looks of exhausted concern. Several high-ranking military officers muttered at a hundred words a minute into walkie talkies, whilst teams of astronomers, anthropologists, physicists, and other experts galore all scribbled observations onto notepads.

“Well, what does it want?” a young aide to the Prime Minister asked, having spotted Dr Rosewinter approach.

“It wants to know if we would like some cake.”

“Some cake?”

“Yes. They baked it for us. They… they seem to have been observing us and have ascertained that humanity is quite fond of baked goods.”

“And what did you say?” All of the other conversations had paused, and the small, disparate huddles had coalesced into a singular audience, all listening to what Dr Rosewinter had to say.

“Well, I said that I would like some cake.” He held his slice aloft, as if at show-and-tell. “But I said that I would have to ask everyone else if they would like some.”

“What type of cake is it?” the Home Secretary asked, peering over the shoulder of several burly generals.

“Chocolate.”

“And how does it taste?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried it yet. Should I?” He looked from the Home Secretary to the Prime Minister to the group of scientists. Nobody offered an answer. “I mean, do you think it’s safe?”

“Question is, is it safe not to try the cake,” one of the generals said gruffly. “Did you see that flying saucer? And the laser beam that it fired! Imagine that slicing through Big Ben or a division of armoured tanks!”

“But what if it’s poisonous? What if they live off a diet of polonium, or it’s laced with nanobots?”

“Does the alien seem hostile or deceitful?” Now it was one of the scientists who asked. Dr Rosewinter felt like everyone desperately wanted him to eat the cake. He wondered how keen they would be if they were the ones holding the cosmic slice.

“No. He… it… seems very friendly. It is very keen for everyone to have some cake, though.”

“Well that seems reasonable; they did go to the effort of baking the damned thing!” Now the Prime Minister was chipping in. “I say go for it, son! If all’s well after ten minutes or so then we’ll all tuck in too.”

Not everyone looked so pleased with the Prime Minister’s suggestion, but there were enough murmurs of approval that Dr Rosewinter felt socially and morally compelled to eat his slice of cake. He raised it up towards his lips. He could smell the sugar in the icing as he bit into it.

It was delicious. Meltingly soft, intensely rich: the taste flooded the doctor’s mouth. He did not know whether he should slowly savour every mouthful or devour the whole thing in one go. The sensation was almost narcotic.

“Well, how is it?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Delicious,” Dr Rosewinter said, his mouth half full. He wiped a trail of crumbs and icing from his top lip. “The best cake I have ever tasted.”

“Splendid! And no sign of poisoning yet either.” The Prime Minister clapped him on the back. “Tell the little three-eyed fellow that we’ll all have a slice; I reckon that if you haven’t dropped dead by the time they’re done cutting four dozen or so then we’re in the clear.”

“And if I do drop dead?”

“Best not to think too much about that.”

“We’ve got fifteen nuclear warheads and the entire Royal Air Force on standby just in case you do,” one of the generals interjected, in what Dr Rosewinter assumed was a tone that passed for reassuring in the military. Feeling distinctly un-reassured, he turned to make his way back to the alien and its gigantic levitating cake.

“See if you can find out what they call themselves too!” the Prime Minister called after him.

Dr Rosewinter was surprised to find Major General Sir Thomas Ratcliffe and the alien talking to each other. The exchange resembled what could only be described as a gruff interrogation, with the Major General barking a series of clipped questions at the creature, which it seemed only too happy to answer.

“…we have no concept of baking ourselves since we…” another pause as the translator searched for the correct term, “photosynthesise our energy. We produced the cake by tapping into your World Wide Web and using our atomic replicators to create the necessary… ingredients. Ah, you have returned! Have the others decided if they would like some cake?”

“Yes, they would love to.”

The alien repeated its flapping gesticulation and summoned the UFO, which immediately began to extract more slices.

“While we wait,” the alien continued, “may I ask what you will be giving us in return for the cake?”

“In return?” Dr Rosewinter was glad for Sir Thomas’s irate interjection.

“We understand from our observations that it is customary to receive something in return for cake. You call them ‘birthday presents’ or ‘wedding gifts’ or various other names, depending on the occasion.”

“Well, we weren’t really expecting this occasion at all, you see.”

“If you have no gift in mind, allow me to make a proposal.” A new gadget detached itself from the translator and beamed a hologram into the air. “In exchange for the cake, we would like… Wales.” The border of the country flashed red on the hologram.

“Wales?” Sir Thomas spluttered. “That’s part of our country!”

“Its mountains contain vast resources of rare earths that are necessary for the safe running of our… armada.”

“Armada?”

“Yes, is that not the human word for a fleet of battleships? Perhaps the translator is yet to fully process your vocabulary.” The alien smiled up, its three eyes staring unblinkingly.

“And if we refuse?” Dr Rosewinter had hoped that Sir Thomas would not ask such a question.

“From our observations, we understand that humans can’t have their cake and eat it too. Refusing is incompatible with your survival as a species. You have to accept.”

“Then why ask at all?”

“We understand from our observations that humans are very fond of manners.”