What with the weather and all, you'd expect a demand for soups or thick, comforting stews, if only to have something nice and hot to hold and heat up our bloodless, stiff hands. But, nope: the only thing people at the base ever asked for was their regular dose of protein shakes and salad. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, mind you. The simple demands of the Rebellion's belly made my job as head chef significantly easier – and, here on the iceball planet Hawth, the day-to-day was tough enough that anything easier was much appreciated.
Believe it or not, this frostbitten misery was not only where I wanted to be, but where I was doing what I wanted to be doing: I was fighting on the front lines of the Rebellion! After witnessing and experiencing first-hand the oppression, the suffering, and the injustice that came with the domination of the Empire, I could no longer I stand idly on the sidelines, inactive and completely irresponsible. No! I had to take action. I had to fight! I'd been radicalized! After being freed from slavery, it didn't take much suggesting to light a torch up our collective asses to get us rip-roaring to join the Good Fight. Now, we were fighting the nightmare of the Empire, the nightmare of oppression... and the nightmares I often had of Greido's smashed skull and the screams of dying people. Hahahaha...
As for my maniacal giggling, they remained a struggle to control, but they did eventually recede, only coming back when I lacked the strength to repress my memories. Fortunately, when they started to slip out of control, I was relieved to discover that a sure-fire way to make them go away would be to summon my anger at the Empire and get hungry for some more fight. The bastards! The fuckers! The bastard fuckers! Let me at them! Indeed, the desire to fight seemed to be healing, and, even if it wan't, it filled the gaping, traumatic hole in our souls with focused hatred and violence.
Emaciated husks that we were though, it took weeks of nourishing meals and Powaah-mantra chanting to get us back into a suitable condition to undergo basic training – and ultimately a much-contested posting on the front where the action was. With our previous training in the Empire, Mike and I were lucky enough not to have to been the complete wimpy-ass pacifists many others from the Center were, so we didn't have to be taught all the military-type stuff and jargon from scratch. As a result, we were placed on the fast track to Powaah-sanctified violence, and, when the time came, we were offered our pick of postings.
Our decision was dead-easy to make: we had no hesitations when we chose to go to the furthest, most dangerous of Rebel bases – where Leah and Haan (and Louke) happened to be as well. Naturally, we wanted to be with them, they were our saviors! We had to be with them, even though the base was located on an arctic, under-populated, pre-industrial planet, where it was still unclear what exactly we were doing. Even after having been on Hawth for a few months and spending a good chunk of that time listening to the same morning reminders about vigilance, zero messaging with the outside, and life-or-death secrecy, we still had no idea why we were stationed there. Anyway, it wasn't my place to ask, and there had to be something critical and strategic about being stationed on a frozen planet.
I was very very grateful to be on the base. Finally, I was doing something useful with my life and contributing to a real cause that I could sense real tangible benefits to. In fact, the everyday difficulties of the base validated my experience: I relished the sense of righteous sacrifice that came with the omnipresence of the cold that followed me even fully clothed and deep under several layers of therma-covers; or with the distant memories of how my nose felt when it wasn't frozen or numb; or with the inevitable loss of my pinky toes from frostbite that was celebrated as a rite of passage in crossing the threshold from a base-newbie to respected old hand. Surely, with the daily, inescapable discomforts, there was no other possibility for it to be anything less than meaningful and important. Surely, perhaps, it also atoned for my past wrongs.
What I really wanted, of course, was a piece of the action – not a damned lame cooking post. I'd put in my transfer request into one of the combat units, but the only thing I got in return were kind smiles and a bottom-rung place on a waiting list galactic parsecs long. Oh, well. I guess we're all serving the Powaah (and, no, saying that has never been satisfying). Sure, I knew I was playing an important and crucial role feeding and providing nourishment to everyone, but I wanted to do something exciting like, y'know, shoot something or make something go boom. Like Mike. The lucky bastard had been assigned to one of the field platoons, and he'd often be away for days at a time, patrolling, scouting, or taking part in secret missions that he couldn't tell me anything about except throw in a number of extremely tantalizing wink-winks and nudge-nudges that he'd been sworn to secrecy about. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen the guy for about a week now, and rumor was he was gallivanting off-planet on a thrilling raid with Haan and Louke.
Speaking of thrills, as I glanced at the clock, it looked like what passed for my daily excitement was about to hit. Pretty soon, the dining area was going to be swarming with hungry soldiers wanting to fill their mugs with our protein-blend concoction du jour and mound up their plates with salad slathered with dressing. To mix things up a little, the kitchen crew and I prepared a selection of three protein shakes instead of the usual two: the standard green blend with an extra dose of ground-up foliage; a lumpy dark brown dessert blend that was supposedly the result of an “all-natural” ingredient (riiiiight); and, lastly, a vividly pink “berry” blend that the package claimed to come from a specially cultivated pre-sentient bush that was hand-harvested by charming native fuzzballs whose unique biology required them to mate with the bush (it was best not to think too much about the details).
Much less exciting, however, was that today was a dreaded Low Salad Day. Always the salad. Considering the ruckus that arose when we were running low on the regular mix of flavorless baby green this or “fresh-cut” tender-leaf whatever, you'd think it the galaxy was collapsing into a singularity. No one was ever happy with the nice slaws we made out of the thicker-leaved veggies to bulk up the salad. In an effort to minimize blow-back though, I got the kitchen crew to spend extra time shredding our always ample supply of brassicas super thin, and even pre-soaked them in a salty sauce to get them to be nice, moist and tender. But, despite our efforts, I knew we were going to get annoying belly-aching like,
“The salad isn't as fluffy as usual.”
“What's with all the weird stuff in the salad, Tim?”
“Oh, man. Not those tough leaves again.”
“I wish we didn't have to have all those bitter things in the salad.”
“Isn't there anything fresh and soft left that I can have?”
Sheesh. Honestly, the sheer volume of salad these people ate was phenomenal. At first, I tried to keep up by bringing in more and more salad (blowing away my weekly budget in a scant few days), but, instead of reaching a theoretical equilibrium where the quantity matched the demand, people reacted to the increase in availability by thinking, “Look, there's more there, so therefore I can take more,” and Low Salad Days still occurred – and therefore much complaining. Really? What's their problem with the brassicas anyway? They taste bloody fine and the fiber is good for you. Truly, I doubt they'd be happy unless I'd fill the whole room with salad and they had to eat their way out of it.
In fairness, as far as challenges go, it was pretty minor, considering that the salad-whine was the only complaint I got: I only had to keep a steady supply of the two regulars, while throwing in some steamed greens or my famous “smoked” simuli-animal-product logs once in a while, and I'd be considered a veritable culinary genius – which was a far far cry from my Empire days of constant cursing and demeaning comments about pretty much anything. In the end, we were all working for the Powaah and fighting for the Greater Good, so all bad feelings would end up being wiped away with the ever-reliable camaraderie, regular thanks and long hugs...
...Ahhh. Shades of flaky, lovey-dovey Center life, huh? The thing I'd wanted nothing to do with when I got shot and mauled
and thrown into slavery, right? Yeah, hahahaha... I guess so. There were, however, a number of notable differences that made it very different. Very different.
The most obvious difference was the conspicuous absence of people – kids, really – pantomiming Powaah fantasies and wandering around with flowing robes and clinking crystals from their ears, belts and hair. Instead, the omnipresence of flake-head was replaced with the omnipresence of heavily muscled, active and seasoned men and women equipped with blasters, grenades and war-like items of all kinds. We were, after all, in the middle of a war, and under the constant threat of being found and killed.
No, this was a serious place with serious Men (and Women) doing serious things. Surrounded by scars and mechanical limbs, I had the distinct feeling I had graduated to the adults' table, where I was fighting alongside people who truly worked for the Powaah. Call me a born-again Powaah-nut if you like, but I was in for the Cause, heart and soul. I was a Rebel! A Powaah-Fighter! I was fighting for Freedom!
Nevertheless, some less pleasant aspects of the Center lingered, such as,
“So, Tim. I see you're still having difficulty getting the right amount of food for us.”
I looked up from my work to Alice's smirking face, expressing, without fail, the annoyingly insensitive “truth,” which, no matter how tactless or passive aggressive, was acceptable, since it was the truth; and you can't possibly have a problem with the truth in all its truthy truthiness, right?
“Hey, Al,” I smiled at her grimace, knowing how much she hated being called anything less than her whole, unadulturated name, as it lacked the proper gravitas she craved to legitimize her new position as the base's Commissar. “Getting the right amount salad is a weekly challenge. Powaah willing, Al, I'll get it right some day.”
“You know that I prefer to be called Alice or Commissar,” Alice crisped, her grip tightening on her brimming protein-shake mug, which I noted she had bravely chosen the pink berry mix.
“Do you? Sorry, Al... oh, Commissar Alice... I didn't realize. Would you like any of this salad?” Of course, I couldn't resist needling her. She'd ballooned with obnoxious self-importance ever since Louke condoned Greido's killing and anointed her as his most ardent devotee to maintain Powaah orthodoxy in his absence. Frankly, seeing as we all served the Powaah and suffered equally for it, none of us took her too seriously.
“Thank you, but no, this salad has leaves that are too tough for me,” Alice disdained, and, before I could pop in a suitably flippant comment, she narrowed her eyes and said: “I'm sure I told you these things before, Tim. Your review is coming up this month, isn't it? As Louke is away, I will be presiding over those reviews. Perhaps we can discuss more about this then, in addition to your not being able to meet the demands of managing the kitchen.”
Shit. Looked like Alice had decided to choose me as a soft target to redress her feelings of Commissar inadequacy. This was another thing that was different from the Center: instead of the singular laughy-happy focus on loving each other and pish-poshing work, what you did or didn't do at the base had consequences – like being booted out of the base, which was bad enough, but being kicked out also meant having our experiences surgically mind-wiped from us, as if all our work fighting for the Powaah never happened. A touch on the draconian side, for sure, but it was all in the name of security and the many lives that worked at the base. As Alice helpfully reminded me, my monthly performance review to keep me from being lobotomized was coming up next week, and, if I wanted to stay and keep my memories intact, I needed to get a good report from all my managers – including Commissar Alice.
I summoned considerable strength to wring the appropriate words out of my mouth, “Hahahaha... I'm very sorry, Alice. Here let me get this for you. Hahahaha...” I groveled. I didn't have to act as my hands shook involuntarily, as I laboriously sorted through the salad mix and fished out a pile of soft, pliant leaves for Alice. “You'll have to forgive my memory, Commissar. My time in Jubba's pits has affected me, and sometimes things just don't stick. I'll work on it much harder. Hahahaha...”
Alice smiled generously, easily accepting my explanation; it was always a safe bet to bring up trauma and victimhood with Alice to allow her to play her favorite role as motherly savior. “I understand, Tim. Those were difficult days. I was glad that we were there together, or else we may not have come out of it. Please come to quarters any time, if you would like to practice mantras with me.”
I would rather have a swarm of sarlack larvae gnaw off my testicles, but I instead continued emoting in the same vein, as Alice walked away with my salad offering, “Hahahaha... Thank you, Commissar Alice. I may take you up on the offer.”
Damn, that was a too close and far more than my recommended dose of sniveling. It was easy enough to remind myself to avoid Alice in the future, but, unfortunately, Alice was right: the salad issue was something I had to resolve. I wasn't willing to let flavorless, limp greenery be my downfall. I wasn't entirely sure how to go about it, but perhaps my suppliers might have a few ideas – or a few extra stashes of salad hidden somewhere. In any case, our pantry was running on the low side, and it was pretty much close to the time for me to stock up again.
A supply run! Of course! That was going to cheer me up. Supply runs were my version of “missions,” as they were the one time I could legitimately requisition a blaster and kit myself up with gear. In fact, I could rather satisfyingly be recorded into the quatermaster's log book as “Tim: Supply mission.”
Feeling significantly better now, I started cleaning up after the lunch rush, and organizing the dinner-prep as quickly as possible so I could get my lists together and my tonton readied for travel. There was lots to do before I went to visit the Wompas.
CHAPTER 12