(Stories are the property of Kirsten Lincoln.
Please do not reprint without my permission)
Dreaming Illicit Ginger Dumplings
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Elder brother elbowed one of the younger ones in the ribs to move over. There was no space in the airless, colorless prison to which they had been banished. Only the very eldest, primal ones, bodies whirling and changing into nightmare shapes had escaped to freedom among the warm humans, where they fed on terror and sin. Now Elder brother was the last of the old ones yet to find a way out of confinement. He schemed and dreamed though, sending tendrils of desire and temptation out to torment the ones who slept unaware as dying stars and swirling clouds of space gas passed by at light speedc
Masamune Aurelius Bunter was dreaming of ginger dumplings. He was caressing the perfectly steamed rice dough with his tongue, and savoring the sharp bite of ginger as it burned down his throat. His long-dead mother stood over the stove, smiling, a bottomless vat of dumplings at the ready. Masamune almost scared his wife by crying out in pleasure in his sleep. That patient, and more importantly, almost deaf woman surfaced briefly out of her own dreams, then lay back on the cotton futon she shared with her life-long partner and continued snoring.
"Dearest one," said Masamune at breakfast, "when are the nonessential herbs going to be broken out of cold storage?" As usual, Masamune had spent the first fifteen minutes pushing square and oval blobs of ship's rations around his plate before putting one of the synthesized pastels to his lips.
"I'm sorry?" replied his wife. Her deaf side faced him.
"Nothing" said Masamune, with an unhappy smile. He knew there was really no hope. Yet his dumpling dream remained like a chorus under his consciousness. Every thought was followed by a rousing rendition of sticky dough and succulent pork. His wife paid no attention to his low appetite. As usual, she was dressed and out the door before Masamune could finish cleaning their plates.
Her supervisor, Helene Sweet, was the head of Agriculture, one of the most powerful and easily offended of the elite section commanders aboard the colony ship Eden. Masamune worked in Records, hardly the most influential among vital sections. He often consoled himself with thoughts of how, once they reached their destination, there would be no more teasing, no more waiting at the end of rations lines as more "important' workers from Hydroponics and Navigation stepped to the front. Then Records would be very important, indeed, that is if people wanted to be able to build houses again.
"Ah, Mr. Bunter," said his supervisor when Masamune reached Records. "Just the man I was looking for. There seems to be some undesignated baggage in Architecture." The Records supervisor's moustache twitched whenever he had to speak more than ten words at a time. Masamune could see it trembling, faintly, over the man's upper lip. "Could you take care of it?"
Images of the moustache, stained with ruby-red chili shrimp sauce and sesame seeds jigged themselves across Masamune's brain for a moment before he was able to nod his answer. Resignedly, Masamune made his way between teetering stacks of outdated books and cumbersome hand-held microfiche readers.
In the United Terran Academy of Science's unbounded wisdom, important information had been packed into Eden not only in electronic form, but also more concretely, in case something happened en route. Of course, nobody had considered how space dust accumulates on microfiche readouts, nor assigned any personnel to wipe the omnipresent ship-mildew from leather bound books. A sigh issued from his lips as he rounded the last curving and darkened passageway to Architecture.
A large, cardboard box lay in the middle of the gloomy room, challenging him with its obvious misplacement. Who could have moved this here? Masamune shook his head and then promptly forgot his temporary wonderment in a delicious daydream of his mother's ginger dumplings. After a few minutes, Masamune realized the box was still there.
He sighed aloud and tried to make the troublesome box disappear by squinting at it. When the box did not oblige him, he took out his anniversary pocketknife and set to at the binding tape. With a loud tearing noise, and an explosion of ship mold pollen, the box revealed its contents. Masamune sneezed, than reached in to withdraw an oversize, glossy paperback book. Reality pirouetted across the room, then came back and settled down in front of him. How could he be holding a "Beginner's Guide to Chinese Homecooking" in his hands? Was this a coincidence? What was the United Terran Academy of Sciences thinking when they put this book in with "Dirt and Grass: Food for Survival" and "Edible Tree Parts"? Was it just chance that the book should just happen to fall open to a page entitled "Chinese Dumplings -ginger and otherwise"?
No, Masamune told himself sternly, it was a sign from Fate or God or whatever. Actually, it didn't matter who it was a sign from, just that an omen had appeared. A blatant omen that provided him with new impetus to follow the very uncharacteristically devious plans beginning to form in his mind.
That night, Masamune dreamed not only of ginger dumplings, but also of his mother's special garlic vegetable curry. In the morning, no doubt remained in his mind what he had to do.
It was surprisingly easy to follow his wife to her section. His only worry was if Supervisor Sweet caught him, she'd surely send him to the brig for months. Nobody would have sympathy for a lowly Records clerk. He watched his wife's quick fingers glide over the keypad from behind a coverall dispenser, then nodded to himself. Tonight he should have no trouble getting in.
Masamune whispered to the dumplings hovering just beyond his eyesight, "soon, my darlings, soon."
A month later, Masamune's wife confronted him at breakfast. "Dearest Heart, I want to apologize. I seem to have tracked sod in from the gardens again last night. I'm afraid our futon is quite filthy," she said. Masamune grunted ambiguously around a purple vitamin cube, waving her comment away. His wife gave a little self-deprecating sigh and smiled, grateful she married a tolerant man, even if he were nonessential personnel.
"I'll take care of it," said Masamune loud enough for his wife to understand. He scolded himself firmly for leaving evidence of his now nightly treks to a fallow section of Agriculture. Carelessness just wouldn't do. Underneath the cover of tall pampas grass, the snaky roots of the ginger plant were taking root. Inside the "Beginner's Guide to Chinese Homecooking", a hoard of fresh food coupons accumulated in secret. Soon there should be enough to exchange for pork and a few mushrooms.
Saliva dribbled down the right corner of his mouth. Masamune hastily covered the embarrassing lapse with his coffee as his wife turned around to gather their dirty plates.
"Supervisor Sweet is sending me over to the Aft Gardens for a few days. She wants me to check on the weightless tomato experiments they're doing over there," she said to him.
Masamune looked up in surprise, than hastily checked the glee shining from his eyes.
"Will you be gone long?"
"No Dear Heart. But I am worried about you. Recently you have so little appetite. Should I have my friend Eva make sure you get your dinner?" His wife studied Masamune's plate, then frowned to see so many mauve calcium trapezoids left over. Really, she didn't know what to do with such a contrary husband. Her former affection was lost in a flurry of irritation at his picky food habits. She didn't really want to bother Eva with his contrary attitude.
"I will be fine," said the object of her irritation. "Don't you worry about me."
In fact, Masamune's wife didn't worry about him on her trip to Aft Gardens. She didn't even think about him, even when all Aft Hydroponics personnel were given fresh tomatoes, a particular favorite of his, at lunch the last day. Even on the way home to their little apartment she hardly wasted a moment worrying about his appetite. It was only when she arrived that he became current in her thoughts again.
"Dear Heart, I am home---" she began to say as she stepped through the door. The sight before her would have struck her deaf and dumb, if she hadn't already been a little deaf. As it was, she couldn't find any words to express her horror. Their small kitchen was a mess. Bits of mashed rice were strewn across every surface, flour streaked the walls, and synthesized soy sauce had stained the carpet dark brown.
In the middle of this mess sat her husband, glasses askew and face covered in the evidence of his crime. And how terrible the crime was, Masamune's wife could only guess. But the worst thing was, Masamune's wife could smell ginger. That could only mean one thing-but no, how could he have gotten his hands on illicit herbs?. Supervisor Sweet was going to kill her. Masamune smiled at her with an infuriatingly blank expression.
Inside his head the demanding visions of ginger dumplings had finally vanished. Utter satisfaction vibrated along his entire body. His wife's agitated movements caught his eye. What was she carrying? Was that a bag of tomatoes?
Suddenly, saliva filled his mouth as the memory of his Uncle Rufus' fried green tomatoes wafted through his nostrilsc
The younger ones jostled for new positions. Elder brother had just let out a wail of pure joy, then heaved his massive and drooping body from the prison. Now all the older ones were gone, free to create havoc among the ones that had denied them so long. The younger ones knew they would soon be called to spread their dark shadows over the pitifully few human lives they could taste outside. Each one whispered to their neighbor in manic glee. With the return of Gluttony to starship Eden, there was no holding any of them for long.
THE END