a giant flightless bat. Its hind legs are small and bowed, but its front legs are long and powerful, supported by thick thumbs. The digits that used to support the wings have been repurposed into four-fingered hands. [https://64.media.tumblr.com/68a7495db7b8849aeb07e17eb1ea2445/53b3782ac7f689b1-48/s640x960/8821e7485e67ebed96fa119f8204a290d07f7f2c.pnj]

Picture by Timothy Morris

The Quotidians did not waterproof their cities.

The Zogreion looked like a one structure, but the tangle of pods and girders kept out no more rain than a jungle canopy. Braided streams ran down the windows and actinic streetlights shone like frozen lightning.

Koen's apartment suite was warm and dark, lit only by candles, and full of the smell of food.

The wick of the candle un-knotted itself as Koen lit it, and some tension he didn't know he'd been feeling relaxed.

The candle cast an island of light. Around it, plates of food, and Koen's guests.

He wanted to apologize for the ingredients. The Quotidians didn't have red meat (myoglobin had never evolved here) and "mix Laundry-Hole's Multiversal Muscle-Tissue Supplies" had sold him something that was less a "cut" of meat and more of a "growth." He'd cut the lumps as well as he might and rendered out the fat that nonhuman technicians had worked so hard to cultivate between the muscle fibers.

Vegetables were a bit more reliable. The Greaves cultivated tubers, fruits, leafy greens, and corms that probably wouldn't poison a human. No potatoes, apples, red cabbage, or onions but there was a long, hairy, ropy thing with regular swellings like beads on a string.1 These tasted almost like potatoes—that is, nothing. Instead of apples, Koen had ordered the giant rose-hips he'd used at the Pick residence, he'd replaced the mighty Brassica with a purplish, crispy succulent.2 A handful of little crocus-bulb-things tasted like onions and hazelnut milk.3

He voiced no apologies, however. He made no excuses. They were honest ingredients, and he cooked them honestly. The roots weren't trying to be potatoes and the crunchy, purple purslane wasn't pretending to be red cabbage. Koen cut the giant rose-hips so they were obviously not apples, and braised them with the purple purselane into the local equivalent of appeltjes.

The parts were all different, but somehow they came together into the same old sum. The sound the meat made when it was ready, the smell of the cloves, juniper berries, and peppercorns blooming in the rendered fat. He remembered the way his mother's family's townhouse filled up with this stew. Hachee.

Koen said nothing. He breathed through his mouth, and excused himself to go blow his nose.

Laura watched him go and come back, thinking about what a softy he was. But it was normal for an artist to be sentimental. Laura, of course, had no childhood memories to be triggered by the smell of hachee. The only time she'd eaten the stew was when Koen served it to her. Back in Brasília, when the world was opening up and she had so much progress to make. She had kept the man at arm's length back then, to preserve her chance to get Ambassador Li into the UN embassy. Now, she was here.

Mark hadn't had this stew before, but he liked it. If you pressed him, of course Mark would be able to string words together on the theme of "deep," "complex" and "traditional," but these would be only reflexes of his habits of speech. Most of his brain was currently calculating political advantages, and what expressions and noises would most likely bring those about. Below the calculation, though, ran a pattern of neuron excitation. Mark found himself thinking of his mother, watching a cooking show on her iPhone in the kitchen.

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"What's this flavor?" he asked. "It tastes…Christmassy."

"That's probably the cloves." Koen returned from blowing his nose and seated himself with his guests. "It also has juniper berries in it."

Koen took a bite, stopped himself from crying any more, and felt a bit guilty. Koen realized he'd been selfish, cooking his own comfort-food without reference to his guests. Cooking for someone should be like drawing a picture of their grandmother's face.

He knew Laura's favorites of course: xiàn bǐng, málà tàng, keema curry, and of course scones. But what about Mark? "Next time I'll make something for you. What's it to be, Mark?"

Lasagna, Mark thought, but bit the inside of his tongue before the word escaped. In school, one kid had called him "Garfield."

Mark had made everyone think his enemy had painted a swastika on the side of the school, but still, he never used the L-word outside of his family. Now, he couldn't use his usual "food is just fuel for me" because that would just get him a lecture from Koen. The other standby was, "we Italians are very particular about our food, and it's very complicated." Koen would probably take that as a challenge. What was the most unobjectionable food Mark could name? "Roast chicken."

Koen smirked. This was because he was thinking about General Graa, but Mark didn't know that. Enemy? asked a module of Mark's mind, and Mark told it to wait and see.

"This all reminds me," he said. "We've spent so much time dealing with nonhumans and politics, I don't actually know much about you, Koen. I mean, aside from the fact that you come from Rotterdam and like Dutch comfort food." He indicated his stew.

"Well," said Koen. "You know I lived in Brazil before I came here. That was where I met Laura and the ambassador." He glanced at Laura who took a sip of wine to hide her blush. "Um. Before that, I worked in the Natural History Museum Rotterdam."

"What about your family?"

"My mother and sister still live there." Some tension there.

"Have you talked to them recently?" Laura asked, and at Koen's expression. "Call them soon."

Mark watched Koen rub his chest. That was a tell, but what of, exactly? Some kind of guilt?

"Are your mother and sister okay?" He probed

Koen shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

So, not that.

"What about your dad?"

There went Koen's hand again. Bingo.

"He died." Koen cleared his throat. "It was about ten years ago."

"Ah," said Mark, "Covid."

"A heart attack." Koen's tension ratcheted up another notch. People asked about his father as if it mattered whether he had been infected. It obviously didn't matter. The man had died all the same.

Koen sighed out a breath, telling himself not to be angry at Mark. He was scared for himself, of course. Like everyone else, Mark wanted to know if he was safe.

"Have some more stew," said Koen.

Mark was willing to let the subject drop. He'd gotten what he wanted. "Yes please," he said. "This stuff is amazing."

Laura was also eager to move the conversation off the rocks. "It takes all day to prepare, doesn't it?"

"Not all day. Just an hour or two to cook." Koen swallowed, although he hadn't yet put anything in his mouth. He was glad Mark was here so he could ask both of them. "Next time, will you come over and help me prepare?"

The three humans smiled at each other, feeling something unfolding within their chests.

"Let's make this a regular thing!" said Mark. "Like once a month potluck. The Human Help Club."

Laura's ears pricked. "The Human what? What," she asked, "do you mean?"

1 Genus Apios

2 Genus Portulaca

3 In fact, genus Crocus