“Hey, if it’s good enough for Lando Calrissian, it’s good enough for me. Just don’t tell anyone I’m giving away freebies, okay? Some of us are trying to run a business around here.”
“Tumperakki Haulage?”
Jaxxon took one last look at the kids. “Ah, that can wait. In the meantime, hey, being a smuggler ain’t so bad, as long as you choose the right cargo.”
BUT WHAT DOES HE EAT?
S. A. Chakraborty
Torro cursed as she braided her hair, pinning it into a dark-purple crown above the twin bumps on her brow. Bleary-eyed, she rifled through her closet in search of something—anything—clean. Her head was pounding, protesting the swiftness with which it had been removed from her pillow.
There was an impatient beep from the other end of the room. The administrative droid’s photoreceptor had to stretch high to peek over the lush ferns, delicate orchids, and artificial waterfalls that made Torro’s lavish apartment look more like the jungles on her homeworld of Devaron than the sterile gas giant that was Bespin.
“Executive Chef Torro Sbazzle.” The droid’s droning voice was a deep baritone, at odds with its small size. “The baron administrator has requested your immediate—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” From the depths of her closet, Torro pulled out a pair of high-waisted, fabulously patterned gold-and-purple pants. A stylishly cropped top trimmed with moonstones and swooping black embroidery followed. No matter the summons, Torro had a certain appearance to keep up. “You can tell Lando that if this was such an emergency, he should have come here himself, instead of ordering a droid to fetch me like I’m some small-time fry cook in CoCo Town.”
But the snapped words didn’t make her feel much better. Why was Calrissian summoning her to the kitchens in the middle of the day? She loved her profession, but not even Torro could think of many emergencies that involved high cuisine.
Those bastards from Kuat better not have complained about their meal. A bunch of brash shipping barons with more credits than taste, they’d rented out the main banquet room last night and proceeded to ruin her evening, harassing the staff, complaining about the “heat” of the food, and sending back dishes. Who sought out a Devaronian celebrity chef and then complained about heat? Already half drunk when they arrived, the shipping barons had gone through a dozen casks of sunberry ale, giggling as they mocked the “peculiar” menu and ordering dishes haphazardly, ignoring her wait staff’s delicate suggestions.
Still grumbling, Torro shoved on a pair of boots and straightened up, squinting at the beams of sunlight sneaking past her heavy curtains. Like all proper chefs, Torro was a creature of the night. Cloud City was usually a smoldering crimson when she woke up, its stark white halls glowing with dying light. The bustling gas colony played to an equally nocturnal crowd, and its parties rarely wound down before dawn, which is when she typically hung up her apron after rounds of applause, enjoyed a glass of Alderaanian white, and then slept everything off. It was a routine she savored: nights of admiration and excitement—not to mention money—in a corner of the galaxy on the edge of danger and independence. Though Torro had trained with a dozen master chefs across twice that many star systems and been offered her pick of plum assignments, she loved Cloud City. It was one of the few places left where you could still breathe. Where a slip of the tongue about the Empire or a muttered comment about its violent expansion wouldn’t end up with you mining rocks.
That didn’t mean she liked being dragged out of bed by Lando Calrissian. Her body still not on board with the concept of being upright, Torro flipped open a black silica glass box on her console and plucked out two sulfur tabs, letting them dissolve beneath her tongue. The jolt hit her a moment later, and she was instantly more alert, the fresh scent of the plants more aromatic and the colors of the room more vivid.
The beeping of the droid more irritating. Torro gave it a solid kick as she left the room and then wound her way through the bustling corridors. Cloud City was lively day and night, though she wasn’t used to seeing it so bright, filled with fresh-faced technocrats and chatting gas traders. The harshness of the white walls and cold metal furnishings threw her for a moment. This jagged industrial landscape speared against blossoming candy-pink clouds was about as far from the green forests and vine-swathed cities of Devaron as anything could be. And for a moment, she missed her birth planet terribly.
You chose this life, remember? Torro’s ambitious travels had scandalized her family back home, her wanderlust more appropriate for the men of her species, who tended toward such frivolity. The eldest daughter, Torro had been expected to take over the reins of her family’s pharmaceutical business and had dutifully studied botany for years, earning high marks. Applying that education to cooking across the stars instead of discovering new medicines to improve her family’s bottom line had not gone over well with her mother and aunts. But even though her visits home were full of disappointed sighs and lectures about family duty, part of Torro never stopped longing for Devaron.
Ah, well, fighting with Calrissian would provide a distraction. She marched into her kitchen to find it had been cleaned during the morning, and its metal counters and cooking surfaces sparkled. Where Torro would normally see a small army—a dozen assistant cooks, hosts, tasters, bartenders, and wait staff—there were only two people: Gersolik, her Ugnaught sous-chef, and the grand baron himself, Lando Calrissian, impeccably turned out as always in his sky-colored cape and perfectly coiffed hair.
“Torro!” If Lando had been waiting on her, there was no sign of annoyance in his dazzling grin. “How is the most brilliant, stunning chef in a hundred thousand parsecs?”
Torro slammed an elbow into the control panel, and the door behind her crashed shut. “Tired. Do you know what time it is, Calrissian? Because I was very clear about my work hours when we negotiated my contract, and this is not one of them.”
Lando raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “My most sincere apologies. I hope you know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t a matter of grave importance.”
Grave importance? Torro glanced at her sous-chef. Gersolik didn’t just look nervous; she looked scared, her pink skin pale and her whiskers trembling.
“Is this about the shipping barons from Kuat?” Torro demanded. “Because let me tell you, they were the ones who insisted on ordering the cuttle-tick. My people warned them that the carapace was venomous and just part of the presentation.”
“It’s not about the shipping barons.”
Torro crossed her arms. “Then why did you call me here?”
For the first time, she noticed a faint sheen of sweat on Calrissian’s brow. “We have some unexpected guests. I was hoping you could prepare refreshments.”
She stared at him, certain this was a joke. “Do you know who I am? How long I’ve trained and toiled in backwater kitchens and cantinas in places that even you, Lando, wouldn’t think about visiting? I didn’t come here to make snacks for every random—”
“Please.” The word cut through her, even more unlike Lando. “They’re bad news, Torro. I could really use your help.” Torro frowned. This wasn’t the first time Lando had hosted suspicious guests. “Then I want the rest of my staff,” she insisted.
Lando was already shaking his head. “Only the two of you. Our guests don’t want anyone else learning that they’re here.”
“Well then your guests can come in here and chop chak-roots. I don’t work with less than half staff.”
“Show her.” It was Gersolik. Her sous-chef didn’t appear any less frightened, but her voice was laced with determination. “She needs to understand.”
Lando exhaled noisily. “You know, if people would just trust me, we’d all save a lot of time.” He crossed to the master access desk set against the wall that divided the kitchen from the banquet room. The wall’s upper portion was made from a reflective material that acted like a mirror, allow
ing people to see everything going on from any part of the room. With a simple touch, the mirrored surface could also turn transparent—at least on this side. It was designed to give the kitchen, particularly its executive chef, a way to observe her diners without needing to set foot in the banquet room.
Calrissian tapped the panel. Set against the scalloped ivory walls of the sumptuous, luxurious banquet chamber was a single figure. He was broadly built and so close that had a barrier not been between them, Torro might have been able to touch the gleaming black helmet that fanned out around his neck. He was shrouded in black, an ebony as dark and cold as the void of space. Black cape, black expressionless mask set over a harsh metal grille.
Lando seemed to be waiting for her to say something. “What?” she asked blankly. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Are you supposed to—Torro—that’s Darth Vader!” Lando hissed in an incredulous whisper.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Lando. You’re far too clever to fall for a bunch of rumors about some Imperial bogeyman who—” And then she jumped, sending a canister of cooking utensils clattering across the floor, as a contingent of soldiers in instantly recognizable, white armor swarmed behind the man Lando claimed was Darth Vader. “Are those stormtroopers?”
“A whole ship’s worth,” Calrissian confirmed grimly. “Now do you believe me?”
Torro’s mind spun. The Empire. Lord Vader. She’d heard the stories, of course, about the shadowy menace said to be the Emperor’s right hand; each more gruesome and unbelievable than the last. He could choke people just by looking at them. He fought with a mysterious energy blade that carved through bodies and metal with equal ease.
Then a far worse realization landed. “Wait…Darth Vader is your guest? That’s who you want me to cook for?”
“That’s who I want you to cook for.” Lando tapped the access panel again. The Imperial troops and their infamous commander vanished, replaced by Torro’s reflection in the mirror wall. Her skin had paled to lavender, her green eyes still fixed and dilated from the sulfur tabs.
Oh, to hell with this. “Absolutely not,” she declared. “You don’t pay me enough. Haven’t you heard the things they say about him?”
Lando brought his fingers together in a pleading motion. “I need your help. They’ll be expecting something fancy, and we have to pull out all the stops for this visit. Make sure we’ve left no room for any offense.”
“Offense?” Torro shivered, failing to control her panic. The knowledge that the infamous Lord Vader was real was dwarfed only by the prospect of offending him. “He’s got a metal plate instead of a mouth, and you want me to cook for him? He might not even eat! He might have some olfactory sensor I’ve never heard of that goes haywire at the presence of seasoning!”
“Please,” Lando said again, pressing on when she let out a long string of Devaronian curses. “You’ve been in Cloud City for five years now, Torro, and I’m no fool. People spill blood to land a reservation for your dinners. I know you could make more money someplace more glamorous. But you like it here. It’s your home. It’s our home, and those Imperials out there?” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the banquet room. “They’re looking for any reason to tear it down.”
Torro glared at him, baring her fangs. But the gesture was forced. Because this place was home now. Torro was fiercely protective of her kitchen staff. She liked the people who had rooted themselves in this wild, dodgy little city floating on the edge of nowhere. Cloud City was a nest of merchants and artists, gamblers and the hardworking sort who supported families across a dozen star systems.
“What would you even have me cook?” she asked. “We don’t know if he eats.”
“It doesn’t matter if he eats. It’s about appearance.” Calrissian ignored the offended noise she made at that—her food was not just about appearance. “It’s a show. A lie to make them feel important. And it’s only this one time, I swear.”
She frowned. “You really think they’ll leave Cloud City that quickly?”
Lando bit his lip, a fleeting expression she couldn’t read twisting across his face. “If everything goes according to plan, yes. So please…some refreshments. I’ll pay double your dinner rate. Just make it look fancy.”
“Fancy?”
He offered her a weak smile. “Come on. You saw his mask. No one dresses like that unless they’ve got something to prove.”
“Says the man also in a cape.”
“Mine’s prettier.”
At that, Torro could not help a nervous laugh. “All right, fine. You get one meal out of me for these people. That’s it. If they’re here any longer, you’re making them dinner.” She reached for her apron. “How long do I have?”
“An hour.”
“An hour?” She swore again. “Then why are you wasting my time with jokes? Get out of my kitchen!”
Lando spun neatly away and was gone in a flutter of blue fabric.
Gersolik stepped forward to take his place. “What can I do?”
A meal to stroke the heinous Vader’s ego. Food he might not be able to eat. Torro drummed her claws on the counter, thinking fast. Refreshments. Things that were light and bite-sized and could be neatly consumed.
Start with drinks. “Roast ten cans of denta beans. Once that’s done, steep them with some boiled whilk milk and a good amount of thalassa seeds.” It was a popular drink back on Coruscant, wondrously bitter and guaranteed to put a little pep in one’s step, but it took time and care to brew a properly smooth finish. “Then start peeling and chopping some jogan fruit. Three should do, but make it a fine dice. They’ll be going into dumplings.”
“Dumplings?”
“Everyone in the galaxy likes dumplings, Gers. It might truly be the only thing we have in common.”
With that settled, Torro tried to fall into the familiar rhythm of work. But her hands were shaking as she measured out midnight-hued pastry flour for the dumplings’ cases. She’d normally cut the flour with zaffa oil, which gave it a fresh citrusy kick, but maybe today she’d use the more common bantha butter, which had a mellow flavor and was less apt to burn. It was probably best to play it safe, no? Imperials were almost all humans—the kind of humans who had snobbish if not downright bigoted views about the culture and cuisines of other species. If Torro were wise, she’d serve up something bland but pretty and get out of this kitchen as soon as possible.
She reached for the bantha butter. Then she stopped. Lando was right to be nervous; the Empire was capricious and cruel and took open pride in crushing any opposition. Places like Cloud City—little pockets of independence—were hot spots to be smothered. They could put on a perfect show of obedience, and the Empire might still blow them out of the sky. Vader might have the kitchen staff dragged into the banquet room and murdered just to prove he could. This might be the last meal she ever cooked.
Torro Sbazzle would be damned if the last meal she cooked was mediocre. There was a reason she was in the kitchen instead of some newfangled, eight-digit personal chef droid with a gleaming modern synthesizer, and she was not dying for bland dumplings. Torro knocked the bantha butter aside and reached for the zaffa oil.
She returned to her work with a relish, mixing ground khadi nuts with fiery pepper syrup before shaping them into miniature globes and garnishing them with silver dust. Muja fruit was simmered with a dozen bac eggs until the red pulp paled to a warm amber curd, perfect for the moon-shaped dessert tarts she was preparing to accompany the dumplings.
More than halfway done now. Torro opened the oven, and reached through the flames to pull out the metal sheet pan, her skin impervious to the heat. She inspected the bake, finding it satisfactory, and set the crusts to cool. She spooned out plump pillows of jogan and cheese, frying them until the pastry sizzled and dunking them in sticky honey-wine. She plated the dumplings carefully, garnishing the tops with
curls of candied rind.
She called to Gersolik over her shoulder. “Have you finished whipping the roe? I want to fold the meringue into the curd just before the tarts go back in the oven.”
“Yes. But I…” Gersolik trailed off.
Torro glanced back, surprised to find the Ugnaught woman staring intently at the glass dish of pale meringue, whipped into perfect, cloudlike peaks.
“What’s wrong?” Torro asked. “Did you taste too much?” When properly whipped, frella-fish roe made a wondrously creamy, dreamlike meringue. “Dreamlike” because consuming too much of it dulled the senses, putting most species into a happy, dazed state.
“No. I was just thinking between the effects of the roe and the flavor of the meringue: It would mask almost anything, yes?”
“Is that your way of saying you added too much sugar?”
“It’s my way of saying you come from a family of pharmacists.” Gersolik met Torro’s gaze. “You must know how to mix up all sorts of things. What you were worried about with the cuttle-tick carapace and the shipping barons from Kuat, could we not…create a similar situation?”
It took a moment to untangle Gersolik’s careful words. And then every bit of confidence Torro had regained vanished.
She dashed to her assistant’s side, ready to clap a hand over the other woman’s snout if necessary. “Are you insane?” she hissed under her breath. “You want to—” Torro couldn’t even bring herself to say the word. “Do you know what they’d do to us?”
Gersolik was shaking, but it was clearly anger that moved her sous-chef now, not fear. “What more could they do, Torro? They blew up Alderaan. They’re monsters. They need to be stopped.” She gestured around the kitchen. “Do you know why we’re the only ones here? Because that’s how little they think of anyone who isn’t human. We’re mindless animals to the Empire. Unthinking drones who obey without question.”
“Yes,” Torro said acidly. “Drones that those troopers will probably make personally test all this food before it leaves the kitchen.”
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