# 0 — The Simmer and the Clack

Vat Four breathed with a heavy, golden *plup-glug*. 

A cloud of warm steam, smelling richly of toasted sesame and cracked coriander, lifted off the bubbling fermented kernel-lipids and condensed into tiny amber beads along the iron railing of the _Slumping Shelf_. Below the grating, three hundred feet of violet twilight hung motionless over _The Sump_.

Ollie leaned both elbows on the cross-handle of the three-meter drift-alder skim-spade. The bottle-green flax-waxed smock, stiff as dried bark from three seasons of lipid splash, creaked against Ollie's ribs. Under the left collarbone, the gadget in their velvet-lined heart pocket began to buzz with a sharp, dry vibration that felt like an angry bumblebee trapped in a matchbox.

A small plastic hinge flew open with a decisive *THWAP-CLACK*.

"Three bars," a tinny, indignant voice piped through the speaker grille. "Three miserable, shivering bars of signal, Ollie, and you haven't even wiped the coriander dew off my screen."

Ollie reached into the fifth pocket, pulled out the frayed red handkerchief, and gently fondly patted the pastel-lilac plastic of the nostalgic yet trendy Tele-Spindle 90. Its monochrome LCD screen flickered, clearing away two tiny grease droplets to reveal a blocky, green-lit pixelated face whose mouth was drawn as a jagged, disapproving zigzag.

"Good morning, Clack," Ollie said. Their voice was quiet and round, bland, barely louder than a simmering broth. "The vents opened four minutes early today. Today's lipid-broth is sweet."

"Damn that broth is humid," Clack snapped, its telescoping brass wire antenna extending two notches with an oily *snick*. "Humidity rusts my speaker coil. And look at my battery indicator! The second bar is blinking. If I am forced to watch you culture yeast without proper voltage, my capacitor will simply drop into emergency hibernation, and then who will tell you when the pressure drops?"

Ollie, sighing, compliant, did not argue. Arguments, as the old tender had once explained, made the plant-emulsion separate into sour grey water. Instead, Ollie reached into their third depleted nourishment pocket, a tiny wisp of froth at its lip, withdrew a curled ribbon of candied lemon peel wrapped in wax paper, curled it like a spiral tail, and tucked it into heart pocket right beside Clack's charging pins.

Clack gave a tiny, contented static crackle. Gratified. On the green screen, the zigzag mouth smoothed into a small, smug square.

"Acceptable," the phone murmured. "The citric acid tingles on my cathode. Now, lift the spade. Something is bunching near the western heating coil."

Ollie took two steps along the slick catwalk. The left boot, bright duckling-yellow, went *sqwip*. The right boot, matte battleship-grey, came down with a flat, hollow *thud*. *Thud-sqwip. Thud-sqwip.*

At the edge of the vat, the golden oil parted. Breaking through the foam came four pale, pillowy shapes, bobbing like sleepy ducklings in the spiced broth. They were the babbies: young vegan protein cutlets, barely an inch thick, their surfaces still porous and tender before the enzymatic heat could bake them into commercial firmness. Gooey good.

Ollie slid the flat of the drift-alder paddle beneath the first cutlet, squoosh sinuous. Seven teardrop holes in the scoop hissing as hot lipid drained. Quivering the velvety fermented cutlet rested on the wood's caress-grain, trembling slightly, fawn-colored with tiny specks of crushed thyme embedded in its soft crust.

"Softly," Ollie whispered to the broth. "Don't tighten up. Not yet."

Ollie turned the paddle with a practiced gentle flick of the wrist. The cutlet flipped over without a splash, settling into the golden lipid with a soft *shhh-hiss* that sent a ripple across the surface of the vat.

"It lacks tensile rigidity," Clack noted from the heart pocket, its screen peering out over the rim of the waxed flax. "If you package that for the Upper Concourse, the mastication index will register below sixty. The auditors will say it tastes like a cloud that gave up."

"Clouds don't taste like thyme," Ollie said, sliding the paddle beneath the second babbie. "And food shouldn't fight you back while you're eating it."

"Tell that to the District Council," said Clack.

Before Ollie could flip the third babbie, a thin, high-pitched screech scraped across the iron girders of the trestle. It was not the whistle of the steam vents. It was the sound of a dry brass wheel grinding against a rusted rail.

Clack's antenna suddenly vibrated, buzzing against Ollie's collarbone like a plucked banjo string.

"Incoming admina-friction," the phone squeaked, snapping its clamshell shut with a panicked *CLACK*. Through the plastic casing, its muffled voice hissed: "Monowheel on the east spur! Hide the thyme! Caliper is coming!"