The Last Embassy Is a Food Truck

How it begins

The customer asked for a dish that had been illegal for eighty years.

Mara checked the menu.

It was mostly soup.

"I'm new," she said through the serving window.

The customer lowered its translucent hood. Inside was a face arranged around three patient eyes.

"So were we, once."

Oru appeared beside the grill with a translation tablet.

"Close the green window," he said.

"Why?"

"Because the blue customer is breathing through it."

Mara closed the green window.

A warning light stopped flashing.

She had inherited the truck on Monday. On Tuesday, she had learned it was an embassy. By Wednesday, she understood that the difference mostly involved insurance and whether she could refuse service to a moon.

Now it was Thursday.

The customer placed a small packet on the counter.

Inside lay six dark seeds.

"My grandmother kept these."

Oru stopped moving.

Mara had not yet seen him stop moving.

"What are they?"

He adjusted the tablet, though no translation appeared to be needed.

"An ingredient from a place officially declared never inhabited."

The customer looked at him.

"Not declared," it said. "Decided."

Outside, a line of ships hung above the market dome. Mara had assumed they were waiting for fuel.

Every one bore the same mark as the packet.

A message arrived on the truck's civic terminal.

INSPECTION NOTICE. DO NOT ACCEPT UNSCHEDULED CULTURAL CLAIMS.

Mara looked from the message to the seeds.

"I'm a cook," she said.

The customer nodded.

"Then you understand that a recipe can outlive a kitchen."

Oru opened the embassy register.

For the first time, Mara saw how many pages were blank.

She moved the soup pot to a lower heat.

"I can't promise to make it correctly," she said.

"That isn't the promise we're asking for."

Above them, the nearest ship dimmed its running lights and waited.