The orbital habitat groaned beneath the bulkheads as the transmission cut through the air. “Thirty minutes until orbital purge.” The words hung heavy, a death knell in the Rust-Market, yet Mei-Ying’s focus remained on the lingering taste of pork belly, a faint frown creasing her brow at the sudden disruption. “Purge?” Ambassador Vur-Tash shrieked, his segmented faceplates quivering. He scrabbled backward, away from the monitor, his earlier composure shattered into a million pieces. “This is madness! The High Council cannot truly—” “They can, and they will,” Jaxen’s voice was flat, devoid of his usual jocularity. He scanned the digital timer now superimposed over the broadcast image: 29:48. “Unless…” His gaze flickered to Vur-Tash, then to Mei-Ying. Commander Raelar, hand still on the collar of a now-whimpering Vexel, stepped forward. “Unless what, Skarn? Your fleet is already charging. What loophole could possibly exist?” Vur-Tash wrung his four-fingered hands, his arrogance replaced by raw terror. “The… the Rite of Hospitality!” he stammered, his antennae twitching frantically. “An ancient Skarn tradition. So old, most have forgotten it. If a host, facing an existential threat from an arriving party, can provide a feast worthy of the… the Prime Weavers, a mandatory truce is invoked. Orbital fire is halted. Negotiations must commence.” Mei-Ying tilted her head, a thoughtful expression replacing her annoyance. “A feast, you say?” Her eyes lit up, the concept of a truce secondary to the challenge of culinary perfection. “For how many?” “The Grand Commander will bring his honor guard,” Vur-Tash gulped, pointing a shaky digit at the monitor where Zarkon’s stern face still resided. “At least a dozen elite generals. Skarn, all of them. Each accustomed to the finest nutrient synthesizers the armada offers. Your… your peasant fare will not suffice.” “Peasant fare?” Mei-Ying’s voice dropped, dangerously quiet. She wiped her hands on her apron again, her eyes narrowing. “My ‘peasant fare’ stopped a gang war and brought a Skarn ambassador to his knees, begging.” She fixed Vur-Tash with a stare that made him visibly recoil. “The question is, can I scale it up to impress a dozen war-hardened palates in under half an hour?” She glanced around her small, ramshackle stall. “I don’t have the woks, and more importantly, I don’t have the high-grade fuel to properly heat them.” Jaxen stepped away from the wall, his usual slouch gone, replaced by a rigid posture Raelar recognized from military briefings. “High-grade thermal output… for a sustained period…” He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, his eyes distant, calculating. “I have it.” Mei-Ying looked at him, surprised. “Jaxen, darling, where would you get such a thing? The whole deck runs on low-grade synth-power.” Jaxen didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he met Raelar’s gaze, a silent, grim understanding passing between the former soldier and the current enforcer. “It’s… internal.” He turned his back to them, facing a secluded corner of the stall. His fingers, usually nimble and quick, hesitated for a moment, hovering over the base of his neck. Then, with a sharp, decisive movement, he plunged his thumb and forefinger into the gap between his cybernetic neck-brace and his spine. A low, guttural groan escaped him, quickly suppressed. “Jaxen, what are you doing?” Mei-Ying took a step towards him, concern etched onto her face. Raelar, however, understood. He had seen the medical files. He knew what was buried there. With a wet *clunk*, Jaxen wrenched something free. He stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a counter. In his hand, a sleek, obsidian drive pulsed with an internal, contained heat, its surface radiating a subtle tremor of raw power. A thin trail of crimson ran down his neck, quickly coagulating against his synth-skin. “This,” he panted, holding up the device, “is the core. It powers… everything. And it contains… the homeworld defense codes for the Skarn armada, stolen during my… deployment.” Raelar stiffened, his fingers twitching toward his holster. “You carried their planetary defense schematics? That’s what Zeta-001 means? You walked off base as a strategic weapon.” “No longer,” Jaxen said, his voice strained but firm. He slammed the drive onto Mei-Ying’s largest wok, which sat unused on a cold burner. The wok instantly began to glow, a furious red bloom spreading across its metal surface. Steam hissed as residual cooking oil vaporized. “This core will provide enough thermal energy to cook a feast for a hundred Skarn, if necessary. But the data… it’s fried. Irretrievable. The Ascendancy’s intelligence on our enemies just… evaporated.” Mei-Ying ignored the devastating geopolitical ramifications. She simply touched the wok, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Perfect. Now, ingredients!” She whirled, her gaze sweeping across the chaos of her stall. “Jaxen, get me the fermented bean paste from the cool-lock. And the dried shiitake. Raelar!” Commander Raelar, still reeling from Jaxen’s sacrifice, snapped to attention. “Yes, Chef?” The title felt alien on his tongue. “Those carrots aren’t going to chop themselves!” Mei-Ying pointed a ladle at a pile of fresh, vibrant root vegetables, a true rarity on the station. “And for the love of the ancestors, dice them finely! Uniformity is key for a proper presentation.” Raelar hesitated, his hand hovering over his blaster. Chopping vegetables felt absurd, demeaning, given the circumstances. But Mei-Ying’s expression was unyielding. With a sigh, he unclipped his Commander’s coat, letting it fall to the grimy floor. He rolled up the sleeves of his black undershirt, revealing corded forearms scarred from countless skirmishes. He picked up a broad knife. It felt light and oddly balanced in his combat-calloused palm. He began to chop, awkwardly at first, the blade clanking against the cutting board. Mei-Ying leaned over, snatched the heavy blade, and demonstrated with rhythmic chops that squared a carrot into neat dice. “Like this, Commander. Precision. Efficiency. These generals, they will appreciate the discipline in the cut.” She shoved the tool back into his palm. Raelar, a flush rising on his neck, mimicked her movements. His first few attempts were crude, but then the inherent military training, the discipline of a soldier, kicked in. His movements grew more fluid, more controlled. The carrots began to pile up, small orange cubes, uniform and pristine. The rhythmic *thwack-thwack-thwack* of steel against synthetic wood answered the wailing klaxons. “Jaxen, get the wild-root ginger cleaned,” Mei-Ying commanded, gesturing to a gnarled clump. “And Vur-Tash, stop quivering and fetch me those Ghor-nut pods! They’re for the aromatic broth!” Vur-Tash, still pale but now driven by a desperate hope, scrambled to obey. Even the recently arrested Vexel, now tied to a pipe and muttering about childhood memories, found himself pressed into service, peeling the tougher outer layers of exotic, purple-skinned tubers. Mei-Ying moved with a furious grace, a whirlwind of motion. Spices flew, ingredients transformed. The air filled with the rich, complex perfumes of simmering broth, roasting meat, and fragrant herbs. The countdown timer, now flashing 05:47, seemed to mock their frantic pace, yet Mei-Ying merely hummed, orchestrating her impromptu kitchen cabinet with the ruthless efficiency of a general on the battlefield. 00:30. The Rust-Market lurched again, a violent, final shudder. The klaxons shrieked one last time before dying into a deafening silence. On the monitor, the transmission feed flickered and died, replaced by surveillance footage of the main docking gates cycling open. A frigid gust of vacuum-chilled air rushed into the bazaar, carrying with it the metallic tang of alien armor. The cooking scents, for a moment, were almost swept away. Jaxen, his neck still bleeding, gripped a long-handled ladle. Raelar stood, cleaver in hand, covered in vegetable flecks. Mei-Ying, her face streaked with flour and sweat, stood before her steaming woks, an expectant smile on her lips. From the gaping maw of the airlock, a towering, armored figure stepped through, its multi-faceted eyes scanning the scene. The fleet commander himself, flanked by a dozen heavily armed execution troopers, crossed the threshold.

The Kitchen Cabinet