Sushi - Off the Grid!

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Kenji thought that would be hard to prove. Gazing out from his rickety atmocraft, he wondered who’d be silly enough to open a window to listen. The engine’s lone thruster idled as the ship floated in queue – he could hear that, so why not a scream?

A long line of luxury cruisers stretched out beyond the moon. They cycled in the opposite direction, toward Earth, which permitted them access to the Grid. Raceway exits spiraled down into a honeycomb of space stations. Entertainment districts and residential plazas blended to make a network so stylish that Kenji only dreamed of the lifestyle. The Grid was a permanent vacation between the Earth and the moon.

The queue before Kenji led to Off the Grid Transit. No luxury ships flew in this line, instead composed of cargo freighters and cartel lightwings. The Grid operated under heavy law and surveillance, but OTG zones were out of bounds for most agents. Kenji’s atmocraft drifted toward total darkness.

His ship was small and square, wrapped in a bright paint job that read SUSHI in sharp white letters. Black fish scales studded the pink, green, and orange swirls of paint. It was the only food truck bound for the farside. As an atmospheric craft it didn’t have a deep space rating, but Kenji and his uncles modified it for higher pressure environments. This made it uninsurable.

Getting on the Grid required a permit, and a permit required insurance. This impregnable heaven held floating food courts and cosmic theaters – culinary fortunes for the taking! Alas, Kenji and his family only offered their recipes on the other side of the moon.

The Higasa clan maintained their own supply chain that started at the ocean and ended in space. Kenji’s children ran the fish turbines and decided which ones to harvest. His brothers broke down all the tuna and his wife, Kikoro, packed it in the icebox with razor precision. The whole process ended on Kenji Higasa’s cutting board.

Everyone within the clan played a role in the business. They hoarded food pairings and recipe ideas, funneled them to the aunts and mothers who masterminded the menu, and waited to see what survived the chopping block. Kenji wasn’t the best cook in the family, but he was the fastest and most consistent under pressure. This made him the last itamae.

Kenji was the last because there weren’t any real chefs left. The cultural dishes of past generations were replaced with nutritional pastes and powders. No spaghetti, tikka masala, kebabs, nor even corndogs. Kenji couldn’t even find an empanada anymore! He shook his head and cursed at memories long gone.

The food truck came to a stop in its usual spot. Kenji slowly killed the engine and activated the anchoring system that kept the ship parked. Without the craft level and stable, rolling sushi was impossible. The atmocraft stood rigid before the black face of the moon.

Kenji clicked off his seatbelt and floated into the kitchen area. Every surface was polished stainless steel, and everything stayed stationary with bolts and straps. Atmocrafts didn’t have a way to maintain gravity. This made food preparation difficult as the key to a good sushi roll was making sure it all stuck together. Kenji often wondered if it turned people off from trying to make it anymore.

He found his coffee thermos cartwheeling along the ceiling and took a practiced sip – spilling hot fluids without gravity became a real crisis. Kenji thought back to the paradox of unheard screams in space and how many of them were from fresh espresso. He smiled as he went about his work.

The first task was simple – turn the lights on. Kenji rearranged the ceiling fixtures, so they washed the shadows away from each station. Next he checked the temperature gauges and power levels to ensure that everything was fit for sale. The surest way to end business for the day was to find a locker full of spoiled tuna. The smell also made for a long trip home.

All the food and equipment were up to par. Kenji released his clipboard checklist and let it float out of reach. He moved over to the dishrack and filled his arms with the tools necessary for each station; a steel bowl to hold ice, a basin to clean his knives, a series of bamboo rolling sheets, and long, ornate spoons to portion different ingredients.

Most of Kenji’s tools were magnetized. This helped alleviate the antigravity dilemma. Each item he set out on the prep tables came to rest after a loud clang! The hollow sound proved annoying, but it let him know everything was secure and in the right place. He hummed a children’s rhyme as he got ready.

The final step was Kenji’s favorite. A sealed crate stood above the fridges. He fished it down and popped it open with a paring knife and dumped the contents onto his cutting board. Little metallic spiders, no bigger than his palm, filled its confines. They clattered on the wood like checker pieces.

Kenji turned on the power transmitter inside the crate. The robotic spiders whirred to life and scrambled into place. The spiders, also magnetized, were programmed to be his kitchen assistants. He used them to hold down the bamboo rolling mats and carry clumps of sticky rice. Task bots were typically used by mechanics and outfitters, but Kenji’s uncles had turned them into prep cooks.

A sleek blue ship pulled up alongside the food truck. Kenji looked out the panel window and saw a pair of men looking back at him. He smiled and offered a wave. The strangers didn’t respond. The serial number across the front of their craft indicated they were law enforcement.

“Out here again?” One of them asked. His voice dribbled through the commlink speaker like liquid static.

Kenji nodded. “Of course! All my favorite customers are out here!” He smiled so wide it made his eyes water.

The policemen looked around the desolate space sector. There wasn’t a single lane of traffic this far out. They exchanged a look before laughing at Kenji and his food truck.

“Well, just remember,” the driver said as he began to accelerate. “If anything happens, don’t bother calling us.”

The ship zipped off into the darkness.

Kenji sighed and reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Agents from the Grid were more than just mean spirited. They were downright evil. His food truck had been robbed six times, and Kenji knew the bandits had been cops in disguise at least once. He rattled the cigarette box but left it in his trousers. It was too early to smoke.

The atmocraft had two windows; the windshield in the cockpit, and a long serving window that allowed customers to see into the kitchen. A small neon sign hung from one corner, and Kenji reached out to pull the chain that toggled it on.

OPEN

Sushi - Off the Grid!

That completed the opening chores. Kenji laced his fingers behind his head and floated around the kitchen compartment. Waiting for customers was a lot like waiting for a fish to strike – it could be a boring affair.

After some time, a voice inquired through the speakers, “Do you really make food here?”

Kenji cracked his eyes open and squinted out into the void. He didn’t see a ship or anything on the other side of the glass.

“Hello?” The person asked again.

A black reaper dropped down into view. It had a dull finish that dissolved light rather than reflect it.

It was the kind of ship criminals and warlords used.

One of the tinted windows wavered and became translucent. The pilot was a young man with pale skin. His head was bald and covered in a crown of tattoos.

Kenji flashed his familiar smile and spread his arms out. “I am the last sushi maker.”

“Where do you get your fish?” The young man asked. Everything about him screamed cartel affiliate, but his demeanor was genuinely curious.

“The Pacific Ocean!” Kenji hawked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Earth. “I have yellowfin, bigeye, maguro too! Fresh saltwater fish from my home island.”

The stranger looked over the blocks of tuna laid out on display. They rested on mounds of clear crushed ice. Kenji’s lip twitched while he waited.

“I’ll take two rolls. Chef’s choice.” The gangster said. He fiddled with a hand computer for a moment. The transaction screen inside the food truck came to life and showed that Kenji received $350 from the customer. This was four times the menu price, and the reason he made his business in space at all – people up here had money.

Kenji donned his chef hat and bowed. “Of course! One moment, sir.”

Not everyone knew this, but it was always the chef’s choice. It didn’t matter what was ordered, the chef always dictated whether it would be enjoyed or not. When a customer relinquished all decisions, however, it showed clear respect and admiration for food. That respect was always mutual.

Kenji prepared two of his bestsellers. The first roll, a simple combination of sticky rice, yellowfin tuna, pickled ginger and wasabi rolled up in a seaweed wrap, was his wife’s favorite. The second roll happened to be her least favorite – instead of seaweed it called for soybean paper. It used shrimp instead of tuna. Spicy cream cheese instead of wasabi. It was the kind of new age thing the kids ordered.

The robotic spiders held all of Kenji’s loose tools and ingredients in place. They even helped him roll up the bamboo sheet and shape the sushi. He uncurled the sheet from around the sushi roll and handed it to the nearest spiderbot. Another spiderbot passed Kenji his favorite slicing knife.

“My boss is gonna love this.” The gangster quipped from inside his reaper. Energy cannons punctuated the tip of each wing.

Kenji ran the razor-sharp knife through the tip of his thumb. He got distracted when the customer spoke and tried to look up while he was slicing. Warm blood started to leak from the wound.

“Excuse me for the secret ingredient.” Kenji explained through the window. He jammed his thumb inside his fist to hide the blood. Without gravity, the cut would leak and fill the kitchen with a visible mess of gore.

Kenji pulled himself over to the back corner so he had some privacy. He carefully transferred his thumb from his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away. The cut was shallow, which ensured it would bleed far more than necessary. His free hand fumbled a box of band aids open to seal it for good.

“Everything okay in there? I’ve got shit to do.” The customer complained.

One of the spiderbots came over to help Kenji. It used its pointy legs to open the bandage, peel back the film, and delicately wrap it around the chef’s thumb. The rest of the spider units continued to cut the sushi rolls and package them for transfer.

“Yes! Putting final touches!” Kenji cheered through the speaker. He clapped and hoisted the spiderbot up onto his shoulder. “Thank you, my little friend!”

Kenji reappeared in the window and pulled a black nitrile glove over his wounded hand. He took a pinch of panko flakes and sprinkled them over both sushi rolls. The spiderbots picked the slices up and deposited them into separate plastic dishes.

“These are family recipes,” Kenji said. He inserted the containers into the vactube and sealed the hatch. The sushi dishes shot out from the food truck and arched toward the reaper.

The gangster guided his ship closer to the food and used a receiver funnel to accept the payload. He popped one of the containers open and sniffed the contents. “No joke, this is the real deal! Thanks a million, spud!” The translucent window returned to the impenetrable tint and the ship screamed off into the dark.

Kenji laughed and shrugged. “See? You can hear a scream.”

The spiderbots danced in agreement.

More inbound traffic appeared on the horizon. The majority were destined for the Grid, but others drifted toward more dangerous zones. All of them slowed down to get a look at the food truck. Kenji believed it looked like a mirage to many of the travelers coming out of the deep sectors.

No one stopped as every ship rocketed for the entry processing queues. It was only after the lines swelled to a standstill that stragglers found their way to Kenji’s food truck. One craft pulled up to the window and that was all it took; a dozen ships and a cargo freighter lined up right behind it.

Each customer ordered different styles of sushi. Kenji and his robots produced each roll with quick, delicate movements. One asked for avocado and cold crab, topped with slivered peppers and eel sauce. The transaction screen racked up fifty dollars with each order. The register closed in on two thousand.

But the line didn’t stop nor hint at slowing down. Kenji felt sweat beading along his brow and back, but there wasn’t any time to break focus. He dabbed his face with one sleeve and sold another roll through the vactube. It rocketed over to the customer, who caught it with a huge claw extension on the roof of his spacecraft.

After an hour of steady sales, Kenji turned to find he was out of seaweed wraps. He knew there was a reserve in the pantry, but that was only enough for twenty or thirty more orders. The line snaked back for over a hundred spaceships.

He took a quick inventory of his available stock; plenty of tuna and other proteins, ten pounds of cold rice, a variety of produce, and maybe one hundred soybean paper wraps. Kenji bit his lip and slapped the cigarette pack in his pocket.

“Aye!” He shouted at the glass. The cut through his thumb ached from the constant pressure.

The menu changed from sushi rolls to temaki. All the ingredients were the same, but Kenji shaped it into a handheld cone to save on nori and soybean paper. Even the rice went a little further with the menu adjustment. The food truck queue dissolved after another hour of business.

Kenji collapsed into the empty space behind him and floated away from the cutting board. He watched the last customer fly off toward the edge of the moon. The skin under his clothes felt sticky and feverish now that the commotion was over. Sweat beads turned to little bits of frost in the frigid food truck.

Cleaning the kitchen proved easier than making it dirty. Bits of rice and stringy fish fat littered the cutting board, and creamy wasabi ran down to the floor. It looked like a military mess hall, or so Kenji thought. He recalled his favorite rerun of M*A*S*H while he wiped the table surfaces.

When he finished picking up the big chunks of food, and the spiderbots were done rinsing the dishes, Kenji returned them to their storage crate. They offered the chef a final salute before climbing inside and powering down.

The spiderbot that bandaged Kenji’s hand lingered by the icebox display. They reminded him of a litter of cats. Most of them were docile, but others ran amok and kept a unique personality.

“Would you like to stay with me?” Kenji asked.

The spiderbot danced back and forth.

Kenji smiled. “As you wish! You are the hero today!”

The little machine scuttled across the steel table and climbed into Kenji’s breast pocket. Its shiny domed head poked out from the fabric.

The chef gathered up his towels, personal belongings and brought them all to the back of the ship. A small tube compartment jutted out, in which Kenji climbed in and latched closed. His finger hovered over a large red button.

“Last call!” Kenji and the spiderbot scanned the room back and forth.

His finger went stiff but still didn’t hit the button. “Offloading!”

The ship was silent. Nothing moved in the kitchen. Kenji double-checked the latch for his tube, found it secure, and punched the button.

The vactube on the other side of the food truck opened and breached the entire vessel. Every scrap of rice and dust shot across the room and was sucked into the mouth of the hose. The only secure area on the ship was the holding tube.

Kenji watched a fountain of refuse spray out the side of his atmocraft. Strips of crab and seaweed danced together into the void. Clouds of rice bloomed like wedding confetti. Pressurizing the ship was the equivalent of using a broom and mop – albeit far more effective. The vactube sputtered shut and the oxygen levels returned to normal.

He opened the cigarette pack and pressed a filter to his lips. Just the paper sticking to his mouth was a familiar relief. Kenji unlatched the airtube and pulled himself toward the cockpit. It was the best place to smoke because of the air filtration.

The commlink system fizzed for a moment. Kenji looked through the windows but didn’t see anything.

“Did I time it right? Are you closed?” Someone asked through the speaker.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I’ve been busy all day!” Kenji explained.

The black reaper from earlier pulled into view. It was the same tattooed cartel character. “I was hoping you’d be closed. I have an invitation for you.”

Kenji’s stomach collapsed into a snakepit. Serving outlaws brought about a certain anxiety. He did his best to smile and be easy.

“Oh, it’s you!” Kenji exclaimed. “My friend! How did you like my sushi?”

The gangster nodded from behind his window. “Good stuff. It’s so good, my boss wants to meet you. Maybe we can all cut a deal?”

Kenji pursed his lips. “Where is he? I only serve sushi a few days a week, and I have already run out of fish for the day.”

“She’s on the Grid. We’re all on the Grid.”

“I don’t have a permit to go there.” Kenji threw his arms up in defeat. “I can’t help you today.”

“We forged you one.” The gangster confessed. “You’re already in the system.”

Kenji’s mind started to wander. They forged him a permit? It wasn’t legal, but it was access to the Grid. Real access. How could he say no?

“I’m sorry,” Kenji reasoned. “My wife is expecting me.”

“Call her and let her know you have business on the Grid. You’ll be back before morning.”

The chef sighed and looked around the food truck for another excuse. The spiderbot quivered in his pocket.

“This might help make up your mind.” The gangster tapped the screen on his computer and transferred another two thousand dollars to Kenji’s wallet.

“You are too generous!” Kenji hollered into the speaker.

“That’s for my own self preservation,” he explained. “My boss said if I can’t coax you in, she’ll kill us both. Understand?”

Kenji swallowed. “Yes.”

The stranger grinned. “She’s waiting. Let’s go.”