Inheritance is a funny thing.
One moment you’re wandering the universe—a transient worker unfulfilled by life, taking on every new job you come across to avoid going back home again—and the next… you wind up the captain of a ship that’s not yours on a path directly home.
New Atlantis hasn’t changed much. Not in the way it matters, anyway.
And the ship is mine, or so I’ve been told. A ship, some lodgings, all thanks to an organization that I feel I shouldn’t name, and apparently can’t say no to.
While I knew this ship came with strings, I didn’t realize they’d be tuned to the key of freedom. My freedom. A chance to guide my own path, forge a new fate between the stars. The opportunity to reinvent myself, reinvest in gastronomy, in my foodie aspirations. I now have the means to chase down rumors of the best food, and to try every meal I encounter.
An honest dream. My deepest dream.
Inheritance.
Not from my family, but from a stranger. It’s been a long time since someone has trusted me so completely. Barrett. I never even caught his last name! Yet he left me his ship and his robot, and now I’m back home.
(With a place to stay that’s not under my parents’ roof. I love them, but never again.)
They say to know a man you must eat his sandwich. Well, Barrett: This salami and cheese ‘wich you left on the galley table won’t eat itself. Guess I inherited that too.
The bread looks soft, with a nice open crumb. Red Harvest White, I presume. The salt-forward layers of salami have a good meaty texture. A surprise: the cheese practically melts on my tongue. From the laboratories of Bostaurus, if I had to guess. A nice, sharp cheddar; tangy, as though it has a sense of humor. The lettuce is both crisp and wilted, bringing some green to the balance. Just one leaf, though for my taste I would have preferred two.
Presumably Barrett made the sandwich himself. Which says to me that he’s okay. A good guy.
One note for Barrett: next time, add a pickle to elevate the experience. Though for all I know, he ate the pickle first.
And for dessert, a lovely Chunks Apple. Tough, leathery skin but sweet, firm flesh. All within that satisfyingly smooth cube shape. Don’t tell anyone, but… nothing tastes like home to me so much as a good Chunks.
Now because of Barrett, this ship, this unnamed organization, I’ll never be unfulfilled again. Eh, at least my stomach won’t be.
If anyone meets the enigmatic Barrett, please do pass on my thanks to him. For everything, plus the sandwich.
I suppose I ought to name her. My ship, I mean. Not the sandwich. Any suggestions?
Did Barrett make a sandwich, take a bite out of it, and then leave it behind? Didn’t even grab it on his way out? Sounds fishy – unless he *was* leaving it for his new “best bud.” But then why take a bite out of it? Maybe a little passive aggressive?
I’m not very good at the whole “naming” thing; what do you think of the name, “Boundless?” Sounds a little like those post-apocalypse novels a couple hundred years ago with the factions, by .. Ross? Ruth? The books were always kind of full of themselves, but they told a good story. I remember discovering them in the “free” section, and getting engrossed in the characters as a young lad.