Chapter Two: The Ramen Stand

 

Hank Lewis stepped off of his ship, whistling an old, half-forgotten tune. Two technicians in beige jumpsuits approached the 'Belle carrying a large nozzle, followed by the attached hose that snaked through the docking port into the fuel tanks. He waved at them politely.

With the supplies he was looking to sell still secured in the hold, Hank thought to lock up before going to check in with the customs office at the Port Authority. He hadn’t brought his sidearm for this stop; that would mean more paperwork, and frankly, he was hoping to keep to his scheduled run.

The Port Authority, and over a third of the Freeport colony, for that matter, was owned and operated by TerraVent Systems. Hank remembered watching holo-ads for the corporation as a kid, featuring a cartoon planet going from a barren iceball to a luscious paradise with oceans of azure blue. He could still hear the infectious jingle ringing in his ears:

"When your world looks heaven-sent, That’s not God, that’s TerraVent.

So whether your moon is big or small, Call TerraVent, we bake ‘em all."

He shrugged away the memory as he approached two security officers standing guard over the airlock that led into the Port Authority office. They were distinguished from the technicians by the color of their jumpsuits (security wore blue), and the addition of light body armor. They stood at ease, and Hank could see that they were arguing with each other about the finer points of Boxerball.

Boxerball, for those who aren’t fans, is an interesting high-contact sport that was extremely popular within the Allied Planets and Colonies. Nine players per team were allowed on the court at any one time, which included the guardsman. Players must punch a hovering ball past the guardsman into a moving box to score a point. After nine innings, the team with the most points wins the game.  Hank was a fan, but good ol’ baseball had his heart.

"Nah, I’m telling you, man, Jenkins has it this season. Ever since he was picked up by the Apex Sharks, he’s got a full ride to winning the Celestial Cup," the guard to Hank’s left said, barely acknowledging him as he stepped into the conversation.

The guard on the right, a burly individual with a noticeable cybernetic arm, shook his head. "No way, Rodriguez is the real powerhouse in the league. That guy's got fists like gravity anchors. Jenkins may be fast, but speed won't save you from a solid punch."

Hank, not one to pass up on a conversation, chimed in, "You guys into Boxerball, huh? I catch a game whenever I can. Always good for some entertainment during the long hauls."

The guards turned their attention to him, sizing him up. The one with the cybernetic arm smirked, "Lewis, I didn’t know you were a fan! Who's your pick for the championship?"

Hank scratched his head, thinking for a moment. "I don't know about the championship, but I've got a soft spot for the Mercury Corp Mavericks. That striker they picked up last season, Marlowe, is a real game-changer."

The guards exchanged glances before the one with the cybernetic arm laughed, "Hah!  The Mavericks geeked their chances at the championship when they traded out Max Ramone for Jiu Lee Quan. Good to see ya, Lewis. Hey, you got that thing for me we talked about last time?”

Hank nodded and retrieved a hip flask from his cargo pants pocket. He sloshed it around in his hand for a moment, as if to measure the volume of the liquid inside it.

“Junmai Sake, straight from Neo_Tokyo. Vintage 2414. I got a full eight ounces this time. You want, Sam?”  Hank smiled at the guard to his left.

“Come on, man, you know I do,” Sam replied. “How much is this going to set me back?”

“A full eight. I gotta say fifty credits is a steal,” Hank smiled. It was a steal.

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff, let alone pay good cred for it,” said Ralph, rolling his eyes at his co-worker.

Sam waved Ralph off. He looked back at Hank pleadingly. “Sorry, man. All I got is thirty-five in my account. Been a rough few days.”

“I know you’re good for it, bagger. Just get me the other fifteen when you can,” Hank said as his heart sank. He was really looking forward to fifty, but it pays to keep security happy. “Just need your thumbprint scan.”

Hank had his holo-tablet at the ready after handing off the sake to Sam. Sam pulled off his right glove with his teeth, and placed his thumb on the screen. A red light flicked three times, then turned a solid green, indicating that their transaction was done. With that, the security officer put the flask in his left breast pocket and opened the airlock for Hank.

“I appreciate you, Lewis.  Have fun in there,” Sam replied.

As Hank stepped through, he couldn't help but feel a mix of satisfaction and disappointment. He'd managed to make a deal, but it wasn't as lucrative as he'd hoped. This was the nature of his side businesses. You win some, you lose some, and sometimes, you gotta compromise. Sam's rough days meant a little less profit for Hank, but keeping the security officers happy was crucial for his frequent stops on Titan.

The airlock hissed closed behind him, and Hank continued on his way to the Port Authority office, teeth-clenchingly aware that the security officers' enjoyment of top-shelf sake came at the cost of a smaller profit for him.

He stood in a large, dingy room, fifteen feet long by fifteen feet wide, with a ceiling fifteen feet from the floor. Other than the door he came in, there was another large airlock door on the opposite wall, and a check-in window with a computer screen below it to his right.

Hank approached the check-in window and began typing in his credentials on the touchscreen monitor. When he finished, an AI hologram glittered to life behind the window.

Welcome. Henry. Allen. Lewis: Captain. What is your. Purpose. For. Visit?

“Trade, mostly. I have a shipment from Dimitri Mishkin that Doc Rivers’ll want to sign for.”

Do you have. Any. Items. To. Declare?

“Just Doc River’s package and the various sundries I got for sale,” Hank replied, then flashed his ignition chip in front of the scanner. After a moment of processing, the AI displayed an inventory of his cargo on the screen, scrolling downward toward the bottom of the list.

Initiating. Weapon scan.  Please. Remain still while. The scan completes. 

On cue, a green ray of light descended from the ceiling to where Hank was standing.  He nonchalantly put his hands out as the light enveloped him.  After a moment, the light abruptly stopped without an alarm, meaning Hank was safe to step forward to the AI controls once more.

Thank you. The processing time on your cargo will be: One. Hour. And. Thirteen. Minutes.

“Thanks. Can I just go in, then?”

You may. You will be. Notified. When your items. Are available to take. Past the gate. Thank you for. Your patience.

The large airlock doors ahead screeched open, a cacophony of metal scraping against metal. Hank wondered when the last time they had a technician service the hydraulics in the doors.

On the other side of the door was the Freeport Square, a marketplace teeming with life and bustling with activity. Cargo-containers-turned-residences stacked five high with ladders and stairs leading to each loomed over the bazaar-like kiosks that sold their wares. Hank’s nostrils immediately filled with the scents of cooking foodstuffs mingling with engine grease and livestock. The scent lodged in his throat and he coughed. The busy square had a tendency to trigger his anxiety sometimes, given that he sat alone in his ship for most of his time.

This time, not so much. He was in a good mood, and as he stepped in something squishy on the ramp down to the first level of this stacked township, he simply decided to wipe off his boot on the corrugated metal floor rather than sweat it.

“Haha, gross,” he said to no one in particular.

The Square had a dirty charm to it, to be sure. The low-income laborers and their families that traveled to Titan huddled in these crates continued to live in squalor while the eggheads and techies had the better deal. Actual crew and family quarters would be found in the upper levels of what was once the ship the terraformers arrived in, closer to the core-drilling laser’s mainframe. Hank preferred the stink of the Square to the snobbery of the upper deck.

Walking through the varied cultural food vendor crates, Hank’s stomach ached for a taco. Or some ramen. Perhaps a Danger dog or two. He wasn’t sure. He just knew whatever he was going to get would be delicious. Or at least better than the freeze-dried, just-add-water rations and Zap-It meals that he usually lived off of. He loved the food from the street vendors here, even though their nutritional value could sometimes be suspect.

“Europan saltfish for sale! Available by the pound!” shouted a street vendor within ten feet of Hank. A technician in a dirty jumpsuit, which was stained with oil and grease, approached the cargo container that the vendor beckoned from.

It sounded good, but Hank decided against the sodium-filled, dried fish jerky. Ultimately, his journey through the prepared food vending stations led him to his favorite stall on the first level.

Kume Ramen.

As Hank approached Kume Ramen, the vibrant neon sign hanging above the small establishment caught his attention. The sign, though modest in size, emitted a kaleidoscope of colors that illuminated the dimly lit surroundings of the Freeport Square. The word "Kume" shimmered in a brilliant shade of bright blue, drawing the eye, while the steady red glow of "Ramen" hinted at the culinary delights within.

The exterior of the ramen joint was unassuming, with a simple yet inviting entrance. The first time he came to Freeport, Hank was immediately struck by the contrasting ambiance created by the neon sign against the backdrop of Titan's utilitarian cargo-container architecture. It was a beacon of warmth and flavor in the midst of the industrial hustle.  The atmosphere was what kept Hank coming back again and again while in Freeport.

Upon entering, Hank was greeted by a cozy interior adorned with a circular bar surrounded by six oil drum barstools. The restaurant itself was made out of two shipping containers welded together, and allowed for four tables in addition to the bar. The flickering neon lights cast a soft glow over the modest space, creating an atmosphere that felt simultaneously nostalgic and contemporary.

A small, industrious robot zipped around the bar, balancing two serving trays loaded with steaming bowls of ramen and bottles of soda. The air was filled with the sizzling sounds of ingredients meeting hot broth and the clinking of ceramic against the makeshift tabletops.  The waiter bot started to approach Hank after delivering the order to Table 3, but he sidestepped it in favor of approaching the bar.

The ambience of Kume Ramen reflected the spirit of Titan's Freeport Square—eclectic, resilient, and rich in cultural diversity. Eager to join the ranks of satisfied patrons, Hank found an empty stool at the bar, ready to indulge in the flavors promised by the vibrant neon sign that had beckoned him in the first place.

As Hank approached the bar, he took a deep breath.  He knew he was about to experience some damn good eatin’. A holographic display showcased the menu, featuring a variety of ramen bowls with different noodle types, broth bases, and toppings. The vibrant images on the display made his stomach growl with anticipation.

Hank exchanged greetings with Kume, the elderly proprietor of the ramen stall. Kume had a wrinkled face that spoke of decades of culinary expertise. He wore a stained apron, and frequently wiped his hands on the fabric. The small framed man darted from boiling pot to boiling pot, shouting at his waiter bot in Japanese. He was good people, by Hank’s assessment.

"Ah, Henry-san! Back for more, I see. What'll it be today?" Kume grinned, revealing a few missing teeth.

"The usual, Kume. Extra synthpork belly, please," Hank replied with a grin of his own.

Kume nodded and skillfully started preparing the bowl. The rhythmic clatter of ladles and the sizzle of ingredients filled the air as he worked his culinary magic. If he was being honest, Hank hadn’t had anything nicer than rations for the last few days of his trip, and he was eagerly awaiting this old favorite.

Soon enough, Hank held a steaming bowl of ramen in his hands, the rich broth inviting him to take the first slurp. The noodles were perfectly cooked, the synthpork belly melt-in-your-mouth tender, and the vegetables added a delightful crunch. 

Gotta treasure the little things, thought Hank as hes sipped at his broth.

Real pork belly would be better, of course, but Hank didn’t have THAT kind of cred.

As he savored each mouthful, Hank felt a sense of contentment. The chaotic energy of the Freeport Square faded into the background, replaced by the comforting familiarity of Kume's ramen. It was a small indulgence in the vastness of space, a moment of simple joy that made the challenges of his long-haul journeys worthwhile.

Suddenly, a clatter echoed from the back of the cargo container, the source of the commotion became evident—the kitchen of Kume Ramen was a bustling hive of culinary activity. The space, though compact, buzzed with energy. Steam billowed from the makeshift windows, carrying with it the fragrant notes of the ramen stand throughout the Square.

The clatter that had initially piqued Hank's curiosity was likely the sound of pots and pans. The chef's occasional outbursts in Japanese, conveyed the dedication he poured into his craft. The language barrier only heightened the mystique of Kume's kitchen.

Amidst the steam-filled atmosphere, Kume's silhouette moved hurriedly, surrounded by shelves stocked with a myriad of ingredients—fresh vegetables, various cuts of meat, and noodles neatly arranged in containers.

Tension escalated in Kume Ramen, the rhythmic clatter of kitchen utensils abruptly ceased, replaced by the jarring sound of a scuffle. Hank, engrossed in his bowl of noodles, looked up with concern as Kume was unceremoniously shoved out of the kitchen and into the bar area by a young man in a synthleather jacket. The neon glow from the restaurant's sign cast an eerie light on the unfolding scene.

Ah, feth.  Here we go again.

Hank could tell by the jacket that the little punk had a connection to one of the local gangs.  The kid wore an insolent grin as he shouted in Japanese. Kume huddled in fear, his eyes betraying a mixture of vulnerability and distress. The bustling atmosphere of the ramen joint was abruptly replaced by an uncomfortable silence.

You could hear a mouse fart in here all of a sudden, Hank thought to himself.

Hank, recognizing the probability of escalation, sighed and set down his empty bowl. With a calm yet purposeful demeanor, he rose from his seat and approached Kume, casting a discerning gaze at the young man in the gang jacket. The air in the small cargo container seemed to thicken.

"Everything alright, Kume?" Hank asked, trying his best to exude subtle authority. His eyes remained fixed on the thug, assessing the situation. He slipped into his Ersan drawl. Kume, visibly shaken but finding solace in Hank's presence, managed a nod. 

The patrons seated at the bar exchanged uneasy glances. A few customers left out the side entrance, leaving their steaming meals behind.

Ersan English, or Hank’s version of it, is less “ignorant hick,” and is more charismatic or authoritarian, depending on the delivery. The kind of tone where you’d imagine the speaker to have reckless fun and were willing to back up what they were saying.  Hank spoke volumes in few words, letting lazy speech emphasize how little he gave a frikk.

He figured it was time to put up or shut up. With a measured tone, he addressed the young man, "I think you've had your fun. Why don't you take a walk and leave Kume to his business?" The unspoken understanding between the two men hung in the air. 

The gang member, perhaps underestimating the captain of the Hell’s Belle, sneered at Hank. "Stay out of this, old man. Me and the noodle guy got some business to settle."

Hank Lewis, unfazed by the derogatory remark, maintained his calm demeanor. He tilted his head slightly, eyeing the youth with a mix of amusement and subtle warning. An uneasy silence lingered in the air as the other patrons sensed a confrontation brewing.

The term "old man" hung in the air like a challenge.  Hank huffed it off, not breaking eye contact.  He’d be damned if he’d let this little punk under his skin.

The kid began to throw a punch, but Hank evaded it and used the kid’s mementum against him.  Hank grabbed his opponent’s arm and pulled him forward, throwing the gang member off balance.  With his other hand, Hank quickly guided the kid’s head on to the bar.  A loud thud echoed through the restaurant, and Hank’s opponent reeled to the floor, gripping his forehead in pain. 

“Walking away right now now could be the smartest decision you'll make today," said Hank, who stood over the youth.

The young gang member stood, getting in Hank’s face with adamant defiance.  Hank smiled, ready for the next attack.

Just give me a reason, boy, Hank thought.

Suddenly, the doors of the ramen joint swung open, drawing the attention of everyone present. Two security officers, attracted by the disturbance, entered the scene. The youth's bravado wavered for a moment, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

Hank, seizing the opportunity to defuse the situation without resorting to further confrontation, addressed the officers with a smile. "Just a little disagreement, officers. We're sorting it out."

The security officers, clad in their distinctive blue jumpsuits, assessed the situation. The youth, realizing the odds were now against him, shot Hank a final resentful glance before reluctantly stepping back. The tense atmosphere slowly dissipated as the security officers ensured order was restored.

“Good choice,” Hank said quietly, not to let the guards hear, as the kid moved quickly out of the establishment.

Hank, nodding appreciatively at the officers, turned back to Kume with a reassuring smile. "'Noodle guy,' looks like business as usual now. Keep the broth warm for me, will ya?"

The ramen joint returned to its former state of casual camaraderie, and Hank, with a subtle acknowledgment of the crowd that had begun to form, headed for the door.

"I'm thirty-four. I'm not old," Hank muttered under his breath, a bemused smile playing on his lips.