Sourdough

by Robin Sloan

  I resolved to orient myself. The concourse was the spine of the Marrow Fair, and the lemon grove, with the skylight above, its central chakra. Beyond that, portals opened not into pink light but darkness, and long corridors. Exploring them, I discovered:

  • A mushroom grotto where dense clusters of broad-brimmed fungi protruded from transparent plastic sacks bulging with dark dirt.

  • The cricket farm! I did not see the bugs, but I heard them, chittering enormously in the darkness. I turned and retreated.

  • A single lemon, forlorn and desiccated.

  • A ladder that rose to a hatch. When I poked my head through, I found myself nearly nose to nose with one of the goats grazing on the airfield. It regarded me with flat skepticism. (Goats only ever give side-eye.)

  • An enormous vehicle ramp, wide enough for whatever kind of truck carries (nuclear?) missiles. I hiked its gentle rise to find myself at the back of the Algebra hangar with its gleaming vats. Brewers rolled kegs on dollies and bantered about the recent performance of the Golden State Warriors. I wandered out through the brewery onto the airfield and saw the goats again in the distance.

  I went back down and followed the concourse to its terminus, a blank concrete wall with another gray door marked with a stencil and unlocked by the bone key: STILL—TOO—SKINNY. This door opened onto the glittering water and the night sky and a tiny concrete pier at which a wide-bellied boat waited with a few passengers, familiar from inside, already seated in her stern. I returned to San Francisco on that slow, easygoing craft, and learned from its pilot that he operated a daily ferry service for the Marrow Fair. He gave me a slip of paper on which his schedule was printed alongside his name, Carl, as well as the name of his boat, the Omebushi.

  His schedule started at six a.m. “Is that the earliest?” I asked.

  “You need me to go earlier?”

  I told him I might.

  He nodded gravely. “Just means more hours for me and the ’Bushi. I’ll tell Belasco.”

  * * *

  LATER, I FOUND MY ROUND-CHEEKED NEIGHBOR from the picnic table. His full name was Horace Portacio and he was the Marrow Fair’s librarian. He also compiled the weekly e-newsletter.

  In a prime spot just across the yellow-tape road from the lemon trees, he tended his own dark grove of bookshelves, and beside them a field of legal boxes, which held thousands of menus from restaurants famous and obscure. Whenever I passed Horace’s collection, there was someone flipping through the menus with the furious intensity of a DJ digging in the crates.

  When I introduced myself again and explained I’d officially joined the market, Horace raised a finger—Just a moment!—then disappeared into his shelves. He emerged again with a teetering armload of books. It seemed impossible that he had gathered them so quickly. Did he have thematic stacks presorted, awaiting the right recipient? He sat to enumerate the volumes.

  “Here we have a reproduction of a pamphlet printed by the bakers guild in London, around, let’s see, 1600, very nice. And A History of Food, it’s quite contemporary”—he said that with palpable regret—“but there’s a good bit on baking. And here, oh yes, these”—he plopped a folder onto the table—“are Edward Brown’s notes toward The Tassajara Bread Book. Lovely handwriting, don’t you think? Keep those pages together. And of course you must read Ibn Butlan. Here is his classic Tacuinum Sanitatis, an edition printed around 1500. There’s a section where he strongly recommends whole wheat, and I, for one, am inclined to obey. And of course…” He flipped through Tacuinum Sanitatis, searching for a page, and when he found it, he spun the book around to show me. “That,” Horace said, “is the first identifiable published illustration of a carrot.” He was beaming.

  The book looked very old. I didn’t want to take it.

  “Oh, you must, you must!” he said. “It is an absolutely foundational document.”

  I squinted at the text below the illustration. “I can’t read Latin.”

  Horace sobered. “All right. I’ll keep this one. But take the rest.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, I rode the Omebushi from San Francisco to Alameda, used my bone-key token to enter through the bay door, loaded the master development branch of ArmOS into my refurbished Vitruvian 3, and spent the next six hours teaching it to stir.

  With my fingers on its elbows, I led it through the motion. This was Task Segmentation. Whenever I paused and said, “Like that,” the Vitruvian emitted a whispering beep of acknowledgment, recording not only the motion but also its understanding of the context—what it saw through its cameras (visible and thermal) and felt through its pressure sensors. After finishing the sequence, I stepped back and spoke again. “Now you try.”

  And so it came to pass that a late-model Vitruvian, loaded with the master development branch of ArmOS, reenacted all the horrors of my first attempts at baking.

  Except this arm was five feet long, with strength commensurate, and every error was multiplied. It sent the bowl clanging across the concrete, leaving a powdery trail of unmixed flour.

  I did, in time, teach it to stir, and so we progressed, briefly, to kneading and shaping, but then it was launching disks of dough through the air like gooey artillery. The arm was strong; they went a long way. One of the disks missed the coffee bar by inches. One of them, I never found.

  For now, we would stick to stirring.

  * * *

  THE FLUX OF PREVIEW CUSTOMERS in the Marrow Fair when the doors opened the following Wednesday morning was immense. Had these people all been waiting out on the airfield, jostling with the goats? Between eight and nine a.m., the depot transformed from a spaceship into … a farmers market on a spaceship. The customers looked, for the most part, very rich. I saw the toothsome plaids of tech wealth, and I saw the supple leather handbags of something older.

  The customers came gliding through the control tower door, none in any rush, some walking alone, others in pairs or small groups whispering among themselves. I hadn’t yet taught the Vitruvian to do anything of value, so my workstation stood quiet and dark while they passed.

  Horace approached me. “Shall we wander?” he asked. “It’s always interesting to see what everyone is offering.”

  There was Gracie with her Chernobyl honey; the cave-dwelling mushroom monger; a man and a woman decanting smoothies that appeared to have … things swimming inside them. Orli, the elf, presided over a table piled with cheeses, some ghostly pale, some brown like leather, and some veined not only with blue but also bright green and hot pink. The larger wheels she had carved into pieces at irregular angles, so the resulting hunks looked like soft, fat jewels.

  There was a workstation selling algorithmically optimized bagels, their outsides perfectly smooth like computer renderings. A printed banner said NEWBAGEL; it was surprisingly well designed.

  There was a man selling barramundi that lived their whole lives in watery tubes extending deep into the depot’s corridors. Next to him, another man cleaned those fish and fried them into tacos on the spot, filling tortillas made from cricket flour and topping them with slaw made from cabbage grown in the pink-light rooms. Horace and I requested two tacos each and agreed that the collaboration was impeccable.

  We came to the cricket bakery and Horace greeted its proprietor. “Anita! This is Lois, a baker of great skill. She employs a robot.” To me, Horace said, “You must try one of Anita’s cookies.” It was light brown, threaded with darker grains. “There are cave paintings in Spain, thirty thousand years old, that depict the collection and consumption of insects.” He popped a cookie into his mouth.

  When we moved on, I asked him, “So who are these customers? If one of them says, ‘Sure, Anita, I’ll take a dozen boxes of bug cookies…’?”

  Horace leaned closer, clearly delighted to be conspiring. “I believe we have here representatives of many of the greatest restaurants in the world—from San Francisco, New York, London, and Tokyo. Who better to assess the market’s progress? They bring their findings to their
diners. Perhaps they report back to Mr. Marrow, as well.”

  We approached the lemon grove. Just ahead, a young woman held court before several of the customers. She was the one I’d seen the first night, walking the quiet concourse carrying a mug of coffee and an inward look.

  “—a nutritionally complete food product,” she was saying. The stitching on her lab coat named her DR. JAINA MITRA.

  The woman was passing around a platter stacked with blocks of apparently edible matter. Each was wrapped in silvery-green paper, but the matter itself was as white as a grub. The blocks resembled ghostly Rice Krispies Treats.

  The customers moved along, one whispering to another. Jaina Mitra’s gaze followed them. She chewed her lip a little.

  “Hello, Dr. Mitra,” Horace said. “This is Lois. She has a robot.”

  Jaina Mitra said hello, her eyes still following the customers, and absently offered the platter to us.

  I lifted a slab and gave it an exploratory sniff. It smelled like dirt. Not in a bad way. “You said it’s nutritionally complete. Is this anything like Slurry?”

  Jaina Mitra’s gaze snapped around. “No,” she said, her face taut. “This is Lembas. It’s much better. Have you tried Slurry?”

  When I told her that I had, in fact, subsisted on it, she looked surprised. “Lembas is a very different concept. I’ll explain, but please, taste it first.”

  I took a bite, expecting the slippery, chemical tang that I knew from Slurry. Instead, the taste was warm and definite. The closest comparison was an immense tater tot, but it went beyond tot; in this substance, the balance of sponge to crisp was perfected.

  I ate the whole piece.

  Jaina Mitra smiled. “You like it?”

  It tasted great, and the initial texture was top-notch, but once inside my mouth it seemed to surrender to my saliva too easily. I could feel it adhering to my molars.

  “Itsh good,” I said, “but”—swallowing—“itsh a bit shticky.”

  “Mmf,” Horace mumbled in agreement. He was struggling to unstick his jaws.

  “That’s the new enzymes,” Jaina Mitra said darkly. “I should make a note.” She scrambled back to her workstation, typed something into her laptop, then turned back.

  “Whatsh it shupposed—” I started. “Wait.” I squeegeed my teeth with my tongue. “What’s it supposed to taste like?”

  Jaina Mitra’s gaze sharpened. “Nothing. It’s not intended to be a simulation. I think food should taste like what it is, don’t you? And what this is, is a super-nutritious cellulosic suspension manufactured in situ by a community of microbes.”

  Jaina Mitra was, I decided, very impressive.

  “It’s got all the vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients you need,” she said, “all in the right ratios. Plenty of protein. Tons of fiber. Tons.”

  Horace had regained his powers of speech. “Dr. Mitra, you are the heir to Pasteur!” he exclaimed. “Mistress of microbes. I believe Bruno Latour would be tickled by this. I have a book of his you should read…”

  Jaina Mitra turned to the machine that stood behind her, occupying most of the workstation: an enormous steel cylinder with a bright, swirly logo on its breast, from which burst a tangle of pipes and cables. One large pipe connected the cylinder to a wide beige box with the plain Who, me? look that all biotech gear seemed to share.

  “This is my bioreactor,” she said, accents of pride evident on both my and bioreactor. She looked at me, ready to make a point. “As you might know, Slurry is assembled from various organic precursors. Basically thrown together in a blender.” Her voice made it clear she did not respect mere blending. “My Lembas cakes are manufactured whole by living microorganisms.”

  I pointed to the shiny cylinder. “Right there in that tank?”

  “Bioreactor. Yes. I grow the cultures here, and they assemble the cakes here.”

  She opened one of her huge cabinets, which was populated by racks that looked like shallow muffin trays. In each one, a Lembas cake was blooming: the light, airy structure rising like scaffolding. Around their edges, they glistened wetly.

  “The form recalls a Breton cake,” Horace mused. “It almost has the finesse of a kouign-amann.”

  “I think of them as microbial cathedrals,” Jaina Mitra said.

  I wondered if that comparison made her the architect or the deity.

  “Why not just leave it liquid like Slurry?” I asked.

  Jaina Mitra ticked off the reasons: “Mouthfeel. Dental health. Market research indicates people associate liquid superfood with pessimistic science fiction.” That was a good point. “And, I should clarify, I don’t want people to eat Lembas all day, every day,” she said. “It’s your quick lunch. It’s what you eat in the car. It solves food security, because once I get the microbial community stabilized, we’ll be able to produce it literally anywhere. Trust me, I have no desire to replace all of this.” She lifted her hands to encompass the Marrow Fair. “It’s fast food I want to replace, and all the other terrible stuff people eat when they get impatient.”

  “Starbucks breakfast sandwiches,” I said ruefully.

  “Curse those breakfast sandwiches,” Horace muttered.

  Jaina Mitra offered the platter again. “Another one?”

  I ran my tongue around my teeth, found bits of cathedral still stuck there. “I’m fine for now.”

  “Come back for the next batch,” she said. “I’m going to get those enzymes dialed in. It’s almost ready. Almost, almost, almost ready.”

 

  RIGHT NOW, I’M MAKING SPICY SOUP, the kind you like. Chaiman brought his laptop into the kitchen (Shehrieh told him he was being a weird hermit) and he’s hunched over the table, composing. I can hear the oonce-oonce in his headphones. As for my mother, she’s rolling noodles on the countertop, humming while she does it.

  It always begins with the humming. Chaiman and I joke about this. It sneaks up on her. In another minute, she’ll be singing with her full voice. She can’t help herself. Right now, she’s humming her favorite song, which is about leaving places behind, and how it’s sad but also happy.

  It’s very Mazg.

  Lois, the picture you sent—the robot with the mixing bowl—it inspired me. I think I’ve gotten complacent with my cooking. I need to experiment more! This morning I separated a bit of my starter and mixed some Fresno chili into its food.

  It died instantly.

  But I’m not giving up! If you want to experiment, too, we could compare notes. For one thing, I recommend feeding your starter better flour. It’s hard to get good flour in the U.S., but it makes a big difference.

  My stockpile of Fresno chilies is dwindling, by the way.

  THIS NEW DARKNESS

  THE NEXT WEDNESDAY, I was ready. When the preview customers streamed in, their eyes snapped onto the Vitruvian, and they murmured appreciative sounds to one another. Not many stopped; there were stranger delights than sourdough bread waiting within. But this is what they wanted to see. This is where they wanted to be.

  I understood Belasco’s objective now. I was a mascot. I was the pizzazz.

  I saw faces I vaguely recognized from the world of General Dexterity. A young tech CEO; several well-known investors; a programmer with a wine blog.

  Two men stopped to assess the Vitruvian. It was, in fact, a pair of the cold-eyed wraiths I worked with at General Dexterity. I knew them by their sneakers.

  “Oh, sweet,” hooted one. “Didn’t expect to see a V3 here.”

  “Look at that beast,” said the other.

  “It’s so clunky, dude! The old motors were super slow.”

  “Actually,” I said—oh, it felt good—“the Vitruvian 3’s motors are exactly the same as the V4’s. They’re all PKD 2891s. It’s just that the V4’s chassis is lighter.”

  The wraiths noticed me for the first time. “Wait,” said the first. “I know you, right? You’re … one of our marketing people?”

  My face burned hot, but through force of will,
I cooled my gaze to absolute zero kelvin. “Actually.” Yes. It felt very good. “I work on Control.”

  The wraiths pulled knives from their waistbands and committed ritual suicide.

  Actually, they backed slowly away, and I never saw them again.

  A pear-shaped, plaid-shirted customer stopped to admire first the Vitruvian and then the loaves with their merry faces. “What’s, uh, going on with these, exactly?” he asked.

  I explained to the pear-shaped man in plaid that I was offering sourdough bread made from a starter strange and potent that had come into my possession unexpectedly. I explained that I found the bread delicious and also mood-stabilizing. I explained that the faces were a trade secret.

  Oh, and a robot mixed the dough.

  He lifted a loaf, tapped it on its back with his finger, listened to the sound, and for a moment, his expression matched the loaf’s. He dug for his wallet. I was officially in business.

  By nine a.m., the loaves were gone. I had to turn away a customer, and in her eyes I saw a glint of covetousness. She would be back next Wednesday, I understood suddenly. She would be here earlier.

  I darkened my workstation and walked, buzzed on commerce. Did I need another Faustofen? How much bread could one morning market absorb? Could this grow into a real business, a real bakery? Would I have my nineteen million dollars?

  Up and down the concourse, the Marrow Fair had been sucked dry. Orli’s table was bare, her gemlike cheeses all claimed for various hoards. The pink-light farmers had retreated into their grow rooms to tend their crops. The fishmonger’s cooler was empty, and only crumbs remained at the bug bakery. Even Naz’s stock was depleted. He’d run out of milk and could offer only unadulterated espresso.

  The only person with anything left was Jaina Mitra. She stood beside the yellow-tape road with her platter of Lembas cakes, smiling at the last straggling customers as they skirted her lab on their way toward the exit. Her cathedrals were fascinating … but not yet appealing.

  After that, my days were cleaved in two.