Becky Chambers: The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet

“That it is!” said the sapient. “Silence doesn’t suit us.” A sound exploded from his mouth—a warbling, rumbling coo.

Rosemary glanced at Sissix as discordant bursts continued to flow from the sapient’s strange mouth. “He’s laughing,” Sissix whispered.

The noise cut off, and the sapient tapped his chest. “I’m Dr. Chef.”

“I’m Rosemary,” she said. “You have an interesting name.”

“Well, it’s not my actual name, but I cook the food and I work in the med bay when the need arises. I am what I do.”

“What species are you?”

“I am a Grum, and I’m currently male.”

Rosemary had never heard of a Grum. Had to be a non-GC species. “Currently?” she asked.

“Biological sex is a transitional state of being for my species. We begin life as female, become male once our egg-laying years are over, then end our lives as something neither here nor there.” Dr. Chef reached over the counter and placed a cup of juice and a small plate of thick, grainy crackers in front of Rosemary. “Here you go. Sugar, salt, vitamins, calories. Dinner will be soon, but you look ready to faint.” He shook his head at Sissix. “I hate deepods.”

“Oh, stars, thank you.” Rosemary fell upon the crackers. In some distant part of her head, she knew that they were nothing special, but in that moment, they were the best thing that she had ever eaten. “May I ask your given name?” she said, once her mouth was less full.

“You won’t be able to say it.”

“Can I try?”

Again, the warbling laugh. “Okay, get ready.” Dr. Chef’s mouth opened, and a cacophony fell out, layers upon layers of baffling sounds. It lasted a full minute. His cheeks puffed three times once it ended. “That’s me,” he said. He pointed at his throat. “Branching windpipes, six sets of vocal cords. There’s not one word in my language that doesn’t have several sounds blended together.”

Rosemary felt a little stunned. “Learning Klip cannot have been easy for you.”

“Oh, it wasn’t,” said Dr. Chef. “And I won’t lie, it’s still tiring at times. Synchronizing my vocal cords takes a lot of effort.”

“Why not just use a talkbox?”

Dr. Chef shook his head, the skin on his cheeks shivering. “I don’t like implants that aren’t medically necessary. Besides, what’s the point of talking to different species if you don’t take the time to learn their words? Seems like cheating to simply think things and let a little box do the talking for you.”

Rosemary took another sip of juice. Her head was already feeling better. “Does your name mean something in your language?”

“It does. I am ‘A Grove of Trees Where Friends Meet To Watch The Moons Align During A Sunset in Mid’… I’d guess you’d say ‘autumn.’ Mind you, that’s just the first bit. It also includes my mother’s name and the town in which I was born, but I think I’ll leave it there, or else you’ll be listening to me translate all night.” He laughed again. “And you? I know most Humans don’t put much stock in names, but does yours have any meaning?”

“Er, well, I don’t think my parents meant anything by it, but rosemary is a kind of plant.”

Dr. Chef leaned forward, resting his weight against his upper arms. “A plant? What kind of plant?”

“Nothing special. Just an herb.”

“Just an herb!” said Dr. Chef, his whiskers trembling. “Just an herb, she says!”

“Uh oh,” said Sissix. “You said the magic word.”

“Rosemary, Rosemary,” said Dr. Chef, taking her hand. “Herbs are my very favorite thing. They combine both the medicinal and the gastronomical, which, as you may have guessed, are my two best subjects. I am an avid collector of herbs. I pick up new specimens wherever I go.” He paused, grumbling and whistling to himself. “I don’t think I’ve heard of your namesake herb. Is it for eating or healing?”

“Eating,” said Rosemary. “I think it goes in soups. Breads, too, I guess.”

“Soups! Oh, I like soups,” said Dr. Chef. His solid black eyes shifted to Sissix. “We’re making a stop at Port Coriol soon, right?”

“Yep,” said Sissix.

“Someone there will have it for sure. I’ll send a message to my old friend Drave, he’ll know where to look. He’s good at finding food-related things.” His mouth curved up as he looked back to Rosemary. “See? You’ve got a proper name after all. Now, you finish those crackers, I’m going to check on the bugs.” He bustled back into the kitchen, growling and sighing as he bent over the grill. Rosemary wondered if he might be humming.

Sissix leaned close to Rosemary and whispered, her voice shielded by Dr. Chef’s vocalizations and the general sounds of cooking. “Don’t ask about his homeworld.”

“Oh,” Rosemary said. “Okay.”

“Trust me on this. And don’t ask about his family, either. It’s… not good dinner talk. I’ll explain later.”

Dr. Chef proudly lifted a large arthropod from the grill with a pair of tongs. Its shell was blackened, and its legs curled under in even rows. It was about the size of Rosemary’s hand, wrist to fingertip. “I hope you like red coast bugs. Fresh, too, not from the stasie. I have a few breeding tanks in the back.”

Sissix gave Rosemary a friendly nudge. “We only get fresh ones for special occasions.”

“I’ve never had them, but they smell wonderful,” Rosemary said.

“Wait,” Sissix said. “You’ve never had red coast bugs? I’ve never met a Human who’s never had red coast bugs.”

“I’ve always lived planetside,” Rosemary said. “We don’t eat many bugs on Mars.” She felt guilty just saying it. Insects were cheap, rich in protein, and easy to cultivate in cramped rooms, which made them an ideal food for spacers. Bugs had been part of the Exodus Fleet’s diet for so long that even extrasolar colonies still used them as a main staple. Rosemary had, of course, at least heard of red coast bugs. The old story went that a short while after the Exodus Fleet had been granted refugee status within the Galactic Commons, a few Human representatives had been brought to some Aeluon colony to discuss their needs. One of the more entrepreneurial Humans had noticed clusters of large insects skittering over the red sand dunes near the coastline. The insects were a mild nuisance to the Aeluons, but the Humans saw food, and lots of it. Red coast bugs were swiftly adopted into the Exodans’ diet, and nowadays, you could find plenty of Aeluons and extrasolar Humans who had become wealthy from their trade. Rosemary’s admission that she’d never eaten red coast bugs meant that she was not only poorly traveled, but that she belonged to a separate chapter of Human history. She was a descendant of the wealthy meat-eaters who had first settled Mars, the cowards who had shipped livestock through space while nations starved back on Earth. Even though Exodans and Solans had long ago put their old grudges behind them (mostly), her privileged ancestry was something she had become ashamed of. It reminded her all too well of why she had left home.

Sissix eyed her with suspicion. “Have you eaten mammals? I mean the real thing, not vat-grown.”

“Sure. There are a few cattle ranches on Mars.”

Sissix recoiled, making sounds of amusement and disgust. “Oh, no, yuck .” She looked apologetic. “Sorry, Rosemary, that’s just so… blech .”

“ Psh . They’re just big sandwiches on hooves,” said Jenks, walking in with a grin. “I’ve had planetside beef too, y’know. It’s awesome .”

“Oh, gross. You’re all gross,” Sissix said, laughing.

“I’ll stick with bugs, thanks,” said a male Human voice. Rosemary turned, and stood up. “Welcome aboard,” Captain Santoso said, shaking her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”