“Absolutely not. This smells like burnt toast.” My nostrils flare as I turn my head, trying to see where in Port the scent is coming from. It’s an old sort of charred smell, like it happened a few hours ago, but it’s bad enough that it’s lingering in the air. With how clean the air is on Risda III, it’s easy to pick up new scents. A lot of the time it just smells like fresh grass and the occasional whiff of cow dung, but today it smells like burnt flour and cow dung. Not my favorite combination.
My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I veer off from the group.
“Hey,” Zaemen calls after me, an oversized box in his arms. “We’re supposed to be bringing supplies to the new cantina.”
“And I will,” I promise, even as I head down the street away from him. The box in my hands is much smaller and lightweight, so it’s easy to tote about. “I just want to see something first. It’s not like I can get lost.”
Risda’s settlement—unadventurously named “Port”—consists of one thoroughfare surrounded by a cluster of buildings that meet the needs of the settlers here. Other than that, there’s a spaceport that’s being expanded, a lot of farms, and one gigantic estate off in the hills that belongs to the guy that owns this entire planet. I doubt I could get lost if I tried.
Port doesn’t have a lot of shopping or a nightlife. It wasn’t considered, as the primary concern was giving humans a safe place to settle, since Earth is off-limits (and rumor has it, destroyed, but I suspect that’s just a rumor so we won’t ask to return). But as more humans have arrived, there’s been a need for basic supplies and community services. There’s a general store that sells basics and some locally made stuff. There’s a boarding house that has rooms to rent, and some of the women that live in town offer services on the side, like tailoring. There’s a bar that offers greasy alien food, which is why the crew decided to set up a “human” cantina here.
And apparently there is now a cookie stand at the end of the street.
I head over, the box of decor tucked under my arm. My curiosity is getting the better of me. When I was in high school, I spent summers working at a bakery and so I know my way around a baked good or two. The cart has a cloth sign draped over the front of it and an umbrella shoved onto one side. It looks very slapdash, but if the food is good, I’ll forgive it.
There’s a pretty woman about my age behind the cart. She’s got dark, thick hair with a hint of a wave to it and expressive dark eyes. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun atop her head, which only adds to how statuesque and shapely she looks despite the plain, serviceable clothing that all the colonists wear. At her feet, a juvenile carinoux licks one of his many paws. It’s a deceptively idle pose, but I’m not fooled. I know how protective carinoux are and I know it’s watching me.
The woman with the cart gives me a brilliant, customer-service-like smile as I approach. “Hi there! Can I interest you in some delicious baked goods?”
I cross my arms over my chest and slowly walk around the cart, eyeing everything. There are flat, puddle-like cookies. The saddest-looking tiny pies with even sadder crusts. A set of discson a stick that I don’t know what they’re supposed to be. Muffins that look like rocks.
“You made all this?” I ask.
Her sunny smile remains. “I did.”
“Wow.”
“What would you like?” she prompts, picking up a pair of tongs.
“None of it.”
Her face falls, the cheerful smile disappearing under something hard and defensive. “If you don’t have something nice to say, then go away.” At her side, the carinoux tenses, sensing her distress. She flicks the tongs at me in a shooing motion. “Let me spend my time with paying customers.”
“Whatever they’re paying, it’s too much,” I retort as I walk away.
The nerve of some people, making a quick buck off of the nostalgia of others.
CHAPTER
TWO
RUTH-ANN
The baker continuesto bother me every time I see her. And since I go off-ship and into Port on a daily basis, her presence bothers me every morning, noon, and night. The moment I see that shitty cart of hers, a low, burning anger takes over my brain.
She has a carinoux, so she obviously has money. But it’s clear that she’s not sinking that cash into her business. Her cart looks like it’s on its last legs. The umbrella? Limp. Her branding? Even limper than the umbrella.
She has customers every day. Every flipping day, her cart sells out of baked goods. I know there are other people in town that bake. I know that anyone can start a business and the locals will support it. I’ve bought hand-made soaps and hand-poured candles in every scent this planet makes. I’ve bought jams out the ass. I buy green vegetables and local milk every time it’s in the shop. I buy butter. I support a cottage industry, damn it.
Just not a shitty, low-effort one.
“You’re glaring again,” Zaemen says as we head toward the cantina.
“I’m not,” I protest, but I totally am. I can feel my face tightening the moment the baker’s laughter floats down the street. And since she seems to be happy all the time, I hear her laughing a lot. It grates on my nerves, because her smile fools everyone into buying her terrible cookies and the burned monstrosities she calls brownies.
I slow my steps as the bakery cart comes into sight. She has a line. A freaking line. It’s like people can’t wait to get their hands on the world’s worst muffins.
“You are,” Zaemen says. “Come on. I need to get this saw over to the cantina and it’s heavy. I’m not a clone built for heavy lifting.”
