Negotiations

“So, where do you want to eat?”

“What do you mean where? There’s only one option.”

Jack pointed a matter of fact finger around the commissary’s perimeter. “Pizza joint. Phở place. Mongolian barbecue. Boba tea. Something vaguely french…”

“Yeah. Okay, it’s there.” Taru kept her arms folded. “But too expensive.”

“Okay, the french-adjacent place, sure. But the others are in the 10-20 credit range.”

“But I can get a box of ammo for 20. Here, just come with me.”

Taru dragged him over to a set of beige and plexiglass serving counters. For the entirety of her 2 weeks on the station thus far, Taru had gone breakfast-lunch-dinner at this free buffet. Here hunchbacked robots served the sort of hamburger whose patty smelled like burnt rubber, on deflated re-enriched buns, with the saddest excuse for a pickle genetic engineering could provide. Being a buffet, they had other options besides, but none sat so well on tongue or stomach as that burger. The vitamin and mineral levels though, were off the chart.

“See? Free for all surface agents.” Jack’s eyebrows crystallized in the amber of incredulity, so Taru sought some defense in one of the buffet’s more acceptable items: “The salad is…it’s salad.”

“Paaaaaass. Tell you what, I’ll treat you.”

“No. Spend on gear.”

A few minutes’ light arguing ended in stalemate. They reconvened, Taru with her free—and flavor-free—buffet burger, Jack with a plate of pollo asado con chimichurri that smelled like heaven. But where to sit, where to sit?

The commissary’s tables lined up orderly beneath an array of monitors. While the station’s other screens encouraged surface agents and orbital staff to spend spend spend, the curved panels lording over the dining area committed every pixel to a cycling projection of the leaderboard. Key Performance Indices and other numbers ticker-taped around flattering photos of the best operatives, with info boxes to the side detailing their preferred kit. Every few minutes the leaderboard would fade into the background to show handpicked footage of one of the top agents or some new rising star in combat—best moments only. Some ignored the display, choosing to concentrate on their food or companions. But most payed attention some of the time, at least while the leaders’ loadouts where displayed. Might learn which weapon to take next, which equipment they had overlooked. Whenever a leader’s kit info was visible, so too were their recent earnings.

Taru didn’t care and didn’t look, normally. But today she was trying not to stare longingly at Jack’s food. So she chanced the monitors a glance. And what name should she find in the number 2 position? Selene Nieuport.

No. It can’t be…not THAT Selene Nieuport, Taru thought, as if the universe were full to the gills with Selene Nieuports of every flavor. What the hell would she be doing here?

Meanwhile Jack was watching Taru not watch him. He had chosen his lunch partly because he genuinely liked it, but more to punch through Taru’s armor. Not an authentic dish—the space station had neither room nor ventilation for an asador belching wood smoke, and the chicken had been grown as a lump of meat from cell-cultures in a lab—but close enough to retain most of the real deal’s flavor and charm. Well, that was Jack’s opinion anwyay, which he thought was a good enough opinion for everyone else. He made busy with knife and fork, cutting off a generous bite, which he trailed through the chimichurri and then held Taru’s way.

“Here, try a bite.”

“What?” Taru glanced down from the monitors to the loaded fork.

“Say ‘ahhhh~n.’”

She shoved the food away. “Stop it. What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Jack put his chin on his free hand and gazed into Taru’s eyes. “Just fell in love at first sight, that’s all.”

Taru blue screened. What the? Seriously? No way. How can he say something so embarrassing so calmly? Blood rushed to her cheeks just imagining trying to choke out the same words in a private setting. At age 23, this was the second time Taru had been confessed to. The first time had been in high school, and started as such things usually do in the conventional roundabout way: a shoe locker note that asked if she would come to the grand old tree after school. Taru went with her heart bouncing around her throat, wondering which of the boys she’d find in the sakura’s shade. Would it be the soccer team’s injured star Reizo-san, who had practiced with Taru back in middle school? Or maybe the tall transfer student, Masutaro-kun. Or class-president Yuki-kun? Ichiyou-san of the art club, perhaps? Taru jogged up to the shedding sakura tree, knees aflutter, and had found…the quiet girl from the back row of her class.

“Uranishi-chan, I lo… I lov…” A full minute of struggling, and she gave up and mumble-asked Taru: “Would you go out with me?”

“But we’re both girls.”

“That’s not important.”

“But you’ve never spoken to me till now. I know nothing about you.”

“That’s…” Selene had hung her head. “That’s important.”

Taru looked at Jack and grumbled: “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Nope, just you.” Including Taru, Jack had said that to 11 girls.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t handsome, but confessing love a day after meeting? Too pushy for her tastes. And she didn’t believe him for a second. He hadn’t blushed or looked away or fidgeted or anything! Confessions had to be nervous!

“Look, buster. I’m stuck with you for three missions. Three, maybe five days.”

A silky, slanting smile spread across Jack’s face. “A lot can happen in five days.”

“I’m not the type to fall in love quick.” Taru wolfed down here now-cold burger and slammed the plastic tray through the buffet’s return slot. “Don’t talk to me unless it involves the mission objective, got that?”

“Okay, but, are you sure you wouldn’t like some pollo asado?”

Taru eyed his plate. He had neatly cut the chicken meat in half and eaten one portion. It wafted divine, begging to thrill her tongue. “No, it’s your lunch.”

“To the trash it goes.” Jack stood and started toward the cans.

“What? No.” Taru ran him down and seized his shoulder. “You can’t. I won’t let you sin against that poor chicken who died for your lunch.”

“But it’s too much food. I can’t eat the rest.”

Jack pushed the plate into her hands and walked out of the commissary. After a moment’s tortured hesitation, she grabbed a fresh knife and fork and sat down.

It was the best thing she could remember tasting.