But disobeying the captain didn’t come easily. Niko wasn’t the sort of person who tolerated someone doing something for the captain’s own good. Skidoo equivocated. She’d do the canceling in just a little while. It could wait, while she did more pressing things, and there was certainly so much to do, in the face of the oncoming critic. Why, Skidoo realized, no one had checked to make sure that the glow lights were all at full charge. Perhaps she’d do that first.

The machines of the kitchen were in full swing, the ancient dishwasher chugging along, the sterilizing station humming to itself. Dabry and Niko passed through the kitchens. Serving food for a variety of species would have created any number of problems had they been trying to do so without the replicators. They would have had to stock dozens of types of food, not to mention questions of cross-contamination.

But the Last Chance followed a standard pattern for restaurants aboard this station. When an unusual patron entered, their species requirements were noted, and the food given them was usually replicated and then tailored to provide the illusion of a home-cooked meal. When necessary, Gio’s expert chemistry stepped in, adapting and tweaking molecules, rendering poisons into benign flavors, allowing beings to ingest anything they desired—within reason.

Situated as it was within ship distance of not one but three of the ancient gates that tied together the Known Universe, TwiceFar was one of the most diverse waypoints possible. This place had become a favorite establishment among humans, but many of the more populous species ate here as well, enough that the storerooms were usually stocked with nonreplicated spices and flavorings for them, which Dabry swore was the real secret to their success. Not a living soul in the universe claimed to prefer replicated food to real, with the sole exception of the Karnaki—and they lied about everything, so they might be lying about that as well.

Gio’s hairy shoulders were visible in a corner, his back turned, shoulders twitching in time with the staccato chop of greenery. Milly was in a corner, sheltered from most of the kitchen’s activity by the rack of shelves in front of her. She was glazing tiny fan-shaped cakes. Blue and silver sugar crystals glinted as she sprinkled them over the still-wet glaze to be caught, tipping each at a precise forty-five-degree angle to shake off the excess sugar. Niko had hired her less than a month ago, and she was still pleased with the level of artistry the new hire brought to the task.

“Are those for the critic?” Niko said.