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The Pax Way: One- The Diner Cook |
| Written by Rai | |
| Thursday, 03 April 2008 | |
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Share it:       The diner called Rosie's was modeled after those long ago diners on Terra Prime. It had the well worn linoleum who's color had long ago turned that bland cream that comes with age and high traffic. It's walls were a strange butter yellow and the rustic lights and ceiling fans did more than the holo screens on the windows to convince patrons that they were really eating on a planet. That was why Rosie's was the major draw at Orbital Station SJ-4. And the little diner couldn't have had a better location or more loyal clientele. SJ-4 was situated in a fixed orbit around a planetoid that was smack in the middle of one of the busiest Transit Point Hubs in the Regaliance. Transit Points, or Dots as they were lovingly called, were points of folded space that connected otherwise far flung edges of the universe together. Rosie's was a favored lunch stop for all Haulers, Freighters, Tankers, Merchants, and even the occasional Fleet ship. And it had a wonderful word of mouth rep for food that wasn't just delicious but hand made. That was where the problems had originated for Donovan Rosietto. Called Pops Donovan, he was well into his seventies by now and not getting any younger. Some years ago he'd hired a young man and taught him to cook the food the deep-space greasy spoon served. Six months ago that young man had turned in notice and gone off to get married. Since then Pops had had any number of 'cooks' not one of them worth the time it took to put on the apron. One of them had even stormed out right in the middle of rush time, leaving Pops with a diner full of hungry customers. That's when he'd shown up. He'd vaulted the counter, dropped his duffel in an empty space under the counter, tied on an apron and set to work. At first Pops had been skeptical, sure the kid meant well but where had a youth not even into his first real beard learned to cook real food. But after the first round of meals had hit the table Pops, and the patrons, were sold. The food was good and the cook had flair, a wink, and witty banter for anyone willing to give him an ear. Pax, as the young man was called, was a few inches over six feet tall and a moving wall of muscle. He looked like he should have been cracking the heads of unruly drunks in the bar across the station but his easy nature was such that everyone discounted the bulk offhand. His strawberry blond hair was cut in the favored style of young men these days, slightly long on top and in front, short on the back and sides.
His mischievous green eyes sparkled out of a face spattered with freckles and a small scar that bisected his right eyebrow into two unequal pieces. His mouth was generous and his cheekbones high but subtle. His shoulders had trouble with standard doorways and his fit form seemed torn right out of a Fleet recruiting holo. But Pax preferred flipping burgers to patrolling space and Pops wasn't about to question that. Not when he had an excellent cook with good manners and wonderful social graces. Things were going swimmingly. Pops had noticed that Pax seemed a little off today. He wasn't moving with nearly as much speed as normal nor was he pulling off any of his 'stunts'. Little things like balancing three full plates on each arm and setting them gently on their respective tables, or grabbing several full glasses at once and redistributing them without spilling a single drop. When things slowed down a bit, as they were wont to do at this time, Pops pulled him aside. "What's eatin' you boy?" Pax glanced around a bit before guiding him into a small alcove hidden from the main dining room. "We're going to have trouble soon. Table Twelve is going to cause hell sir." Pops raised a bushy eyebrow. "How do you know that." Pax shrugged. "Call it a hunch sir." "Or we could call it..." Pax stared him right in the eye. "When I handed him his menu I got a good look at the tattoo on his left wrist...his Dogma tattoo." Pops's mouth fell open. Dogma, those radicals from neighboring space, they were the very antithesis of what the Regaliance stood for. Pops was no softie. Squaring his shoulders and putting the shock away he glanced around the corner. "I want you to watch him Pax...what's so funny?" Pax's grin vanished. "No need sir. He's keeping a close eye on me." "What for?" "Probably to see if I'm going to start something sir. Which I have no intention of doing." Pops put his hands on Pax's shoulders, preparing a small speech about sacrifices that must be made for the greater good. Pax beat him to the punch. "However, if he starts something sir, I would like permission to finish it." Pops's mouth opened and shut like a cold fish. Never, ever, before had Pax even so much as hinted toward violence. In fact he'd always taken the rode of pacifism to the point where Pops had been almost convinced something was wrong. Now as he stared at his cook, he realized that there was something else he'd missed entirely. Or, more likely, something Pax had kept well hidden. "You're not a normal cook are you." Pax chuckled. "You might say that sir. My looks are mighty deceiving." "I'll bet they are." A bell went off, the call for service. Pops, wanting to keep Table Twelve as unaware as possible, worked up a beet red face and said in a loud voice. "Dammit! Why didn't you tell me this before Pax! If that damned thing had blown we be scrubbing grease of the ceiling months from now!" Taking the hint Pax put on the blandest face ever seen in human space. "I'm sorry sir but what with everything else that's happened I didn't want to tell you about the trap."
"Dammit Pax..." he sighed as if frustrated. "Well we'll chalk this up to experience." The bell rang again and they both hustled out to serve several more hungry customers. Table Twelve had been sitting there, staring covertly over his menu, for nearly a half hour. Pops had finally walked over and asked the man if he was going to order sometime this orbit. "I'll have the spiced fries and a nova burger." "Coming up." And Pax had added that order to his growing list. He swore to himself. Table Twelve was still watching him, had already identified him as a threat, although Pax was more than sure it was simply because of his build rather than because the man knew anything else. Pax was willing to be an Upgrade the man at Table Twelve had no idea Pax was one of the Ship-Born...a Star Child no less. Setting down the plate of food the man pulled up his sleeves to start eating and realized his mistake. Pax couldn't pretend not to see the distinctive tattoo now, nor could he feign ignorance. The man met his eyes and Pax felt his spine moving into that steel rod position that always proceeded violent action on his part. The man gripped his wrist. "Keep quiet and act normal and no one will get hurt." Pax felt his expression hardening into his mask, that emotionless shape that could have been molded from hull steel. His eyes were colder than a hard vacuum as he stared at the man. "No body except maybe the kid at table two." The slight widening of the man's eyes told him he'd hit the mark. The man grinned nastily. "What are you going to do about it tough guy?" Several ideas flashed through Pax's mind. With his inborn strength and inherent structural density honed by a birth and many following years in five gravs of pressure, and the liquid grace that came from living on a grav-flux ship, Pax could do many many things. But if he'd learned one thing in his hundred and fifty years of life it was that your obvious strengths are not always the best to use. And obvious answers were not always the best either. "Well?" the man repeated, thinking he'd struck Pax to silence. Pax didn't move, his brain racing along. The question remained, the gauntlet had been thrown. What was he going to do? Copyright 2008 Rai |
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