Chapter 1 part 4

The Gourmet Space Butcher (Still Needs Sauce)

The food in this part of the galaxy? It’s an affront to my senses. If I were to sum up the culinary offerings of this sector in one word, it would be *gross.* No exaggeration. It’s a universal truth that the dietary staples here are nutrient paste or synthetic protein blocks, both of which taste like they were made by malfunctioning replicators.

The protein blocks, more algae composite than meat, are chewy, like a mixture of multi-strain yeast and unrefined bio-mass. They don’t even come close to the juicy, fluffy synthesized meat I’m used to back home. Then there’s the nutrient paste, made from processed space kelp—everything about it screams ‘tacky survival food.’ The texture alone is jarring, like chewing through the hull of an old mining rig.

The hydroponic broths? Barely worth the name. They lack the rich, complex flavors one expects from a proper meal. The savory umami is nowhere to be found. I suspect they’re trying to bring depth to the broth with vat-grown protein and fermented beans, but it’s all flat. I miss MSG crystals—*real* flavor. All they’re scraping by with are mineral salts.

The station-grown vegetables are no better—some are edible, sure, but since they’re not bothering with gene-modified varieties, they might as well be "space weeds" for all the flavor they bring.

You could accuse me of having a refined palate, and I wouldn’t argue. I’m from a civilization that knows how to indulge the senses. So yes, my tongue protests. Even though I’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to the blandness of this place, I can still taste the difference, and I haven’t forgotten the old, richer flavors of home.

But there *is* good food in this sector. Xenofauna meat.

Adjusting the oxygen regulator on my helmet, I shouted, 

"Gimme the meat!"

“SCREEEEE!”

Donning my spacesuit, I braced for the space boar’s charge, its tusks glinting like dark iron through my visor. The unnamed planet’s weak gravity made my movements sluggish, but with a powerful thrust of my suit’s leg boosters, I sidestepped the charging beast, my half-spec blaster already in hand, and with one swift blast, its throat bursts open in a spray of purple ichor. 

The space boar—known for its maddened charge that has taken down countless naïve rookies—fell, the thud a dull vibration through my suit’s boots. The moment I hear of a request for this beast, I can’t help but fist-pump in silent victory. Because this mutant boar? Its meat is *delicious.*

“Got to drain the ichor. Gotta remove the organs!”

The nearby space outpost has recycling tanks installed in several sections. With ease, I haul the space boar’s nearly 100-kilo carcass over to a decontamination chamber. As I cut open its belly with my blaster’s vibro-blade, the smell of raw meat fills the air. Some of its organs will be my meal, while others I discard. The liver analogue and the heart are the best parts. The rest? Too much of a hassle to sterilize and honestly, they don’t taste as good.

I’ve become accustomed to this life, one that would make a *civilized* person hesitate. But when hunger strikes, people find strength they didn’t know they had. For food like this? I’ll carve through every inch of meat with determination.

“There we go, that’ll do, that’ll do…”

I carve out the flank, the back, and the neural tissue. That plump, brain-like organ is too irresistible to pass up. Sure, I’ve heard rumors about tentacle meat and other exotic xenofauna cuts, but I’m not quite sure how to prepare those, so I haven’t dared. Plus, there’s something unsettling about eating actual brains.

But when it comes to grilled xenofauna meat, well, if it tastes good vacuum-sealed and plasma-grilled, I consider it a success. With nothing more than mineral salts and a quick grilling, the meat becomes incredible—far better than any synthetic protein block or bland nutrient paste.

That’s why I always take on requests for xenofauna elimination. The battles are straightforward, like missions designed specifically for feasting.

“Mmm, yum.”

I divide the meat into portions: some to eat here, some to preserve in vacuum-sealed bags, and some to bring back to the station. The organs? A hunter’s bonus. The liver analogue, rich in nutrients, makes up for some of the vitamin deficiencies from station food.

The neural tissue, though, I keep to myself. There’s something special about that. The back meat is a perfect cut—tender, flavorful, and irresistible. The leg meat, however, is small and travel-friendly, ideal for trading or selling. A few credits in my pocket and a meal for later.

I’ll admit it: my butchering skills leave much to be desired. But that’s why I do this work out in the outer dwarf planets, where the space holds no judgment. Sure, there are xeno beast roaming the dark, but when there’s meat to be had, I’ll put my life on the line.

…I just wish I had sauce. I crave sauce, something to complement this meat. But I don’t even know how to synthesize sauce, so I’m left with nothing but herb-infused mineral salts. It’ll do, but it’s not *perfect.* I miss demi-glace—the rich, velvety depth of flavor. I don’t care about synthetic carbs; just give me *sauce!*

“Oh, Narwhal? Took down something big again, huh?”

Returning from my hunt, the airlock controller greets me with a bored tone. I roll my hover-sled toward the docking area, the meat containers piled high—proud of my haul.

“Deliveryyyy, want some meeeeat?” I shouted, my voice booming through my helmet's speakers.

“A space butcher! Gahaha!”

I chuckle, offering the usual routine. “We make deliveries like this, sir. Can I dock?”

Back on the station, the airlock hissed open, and I stepped inside. As my suit cycled into standby mode, the airlock controller looked over my gear, glancing at my tag. “Narwhal the butcher, back from your hunt? Yeah, I see your credentials. But next time, dock through the cargo bay.”

“No way. I’ll handle the butchering myself, rather than sending it to the processors.”

The cargo bay is convenient, sure, with a processing station that handles xenofauna corpses. Rather than do the messy work yourself, you can pay them to handle it. But I can’t stand the endless questioning about *what about the hide?* When I tell them I spaced it, they always give me those looks. So, unless I’m bringing in a mountain of bodies I can’t process myself, I don’t bother with that place.

“I want the meat for myself,” I say firmly. “I’ll do my own processing, no objections allowed.”

“You’re one odd spacer. Gonna switch to being a meat processor?”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Oh really?”

“Well, work using my brawn suits me more.”

“You’re not wrong. If you can take down a space boar solo, being a merc is probably the best gig for you.”

I could be a processor, sure, but I’ve got these powers—why not make moderate use of them for fun?

I unsealed the outer pouch on my leg, retrieving a vacuum-sealed packet of meat. 

“Oh, I vacuum-preserved some meat in the field. Here’s a little something for you.”

“Nice! I’ll take it. Cheers as always!”

“Make sure to share it with the others. Don’t want any fights breaking out over who gets what.”

It’s important to keep the airlock controllers on my side. Not that I’m bribing them for anything shady—it just pays to be friendly with the folks who control access. If they know me, I’ll slip through busy airlocks with ease, or even squeeze in right before they seal up for maintenance. It’s also convenient if I’m seen as just an average brawny mercenary.

“Off to the station bar again, huh?”

“Yo! Let’s drink again sometime!”

And with that, my job’s done. Time to turn this fresh xenofauna meat into a proper feast, because even the worst nutrient paste and synthetic protein blocks can be elevated with a little meat from the hunt.